outspoken essays by william ralph inge, c.v.o., d.d. dean of st. paul's fifth impression longmans, green, and co paternoster row, london fourth avenue & th street, new york bombay, calcutta, and madras preface all the essays in this volume, except the first, have appeared in the _edinburgh review_, the _quarterly review_, or the _hibbert journal_. i have to thank the publishers and editors of those reviews for their courtesy in permitting me to reprint them. the articles on _the birth-rate, the future of the english race, bishop gore and the church of england_, and _cardinal newman_ are from the _edinburgh review_; those on _patriotism, catholic modernism, st. paul_, and _the indictment against christianity_ are from the _quarterly review_; those on _institutionalism and mysticism_ and _survival and immortality_ from the _hibbert journal_. i have not attempted to remove all traces of overlapping, which i hope may be pardoned in essays written independently of each other; but a few repetitions have been excised. contents page i. our present discontents ii. patriotism iii. the birth-rate iv. the future of the english race v. bishop gore and the church of england vi. roman catholic modernism vii. cardinal newman viii. st. paul ix. institutionalism and mysticism x. the indictment against christianity xi. survival and immortality photera theleist soi malthaka pseydhê lhegô, hê sklhêr' alêthhê; phrhaze, shê gar hê krhisist. _euripides_. the case of historical writers is hard; for if they tell the truth they provoke man, and if they write what is false they offend god.--_matthew paris_. quattuor sunt maxime comprehendendae veritatis offendicula; videlicet, fragilis et indignae auctoritatis exemplum, consuetudinis diuturnitas, vulgi sensus imperiti, et propriae ignorantiae occultatio cum ostentatione sapientiae superioris.--_roger bacon_. iudicio perpende; et si tibi vera videntur, dede manus; aut si falsum est, accingere contra. _lucretius_. eventu rerum stolidi didicere magistro. _claudian_. 'all' hê toi men tahyta thehôn en gohynasi kehitai. _homer_. i our present discontents (august, ) the essays in this volume were written at various times before and during the great war. in reading them through for republication, i have to ask myself whether my opinions on social science and on the state of religion, the two subjects which are mainly dealt with in this collection, have been modified by the greatest calamity which has ever befallen the civilised world, or by the issue of the struggle. i find very little that i should now wish to alter. the war has caused events to move faster, but in the same direction as before. the social revolution has been hurried on; the inevitable counter-revolution has equally been brought nearer. for if there is one safe generalisation in human affairs, it is that revolutions always destroy themselves. how often have fanatics proclaimed 'the year one'! but no revolutionary era has yet reached 'year twenty-five.' as regards the national character, there is no sign, i fear, that much wisdom has been learnt. we are more wasteful and reckless than ever. the doctrinaire democrat still vapours about democracy, though representative government has obviously lost both its power and its prestige. the labour party still hugs its comprehensive assortment of economic heresies. organised religion remains as impotent as it was before the war. but one fact has emerged with startling clearness. human nature has not been changed by civilisation. it has neither been levelled up nor levelled down to an average mediocrity. beneath the dingy uniformity of international fashions in dress, man remains what he has always been--a splendid fighting animal, a self-sacrificing hero, and a bloodthirsty savage. human nature is at once sublime and horrible, holy and satanic. apart from the accumulation of knowledge and experience, which are external and precarious acquisitions, there is no proof that we have changed much since the first stone age. the war itself, as we shall soon be compelled to recognise, had its roots deep in the political and social structure of europe. the growth of wealth and population, and the law of diminishing returns, led to a scramble for unappropriated lands producing the raw materials of industry. it was, in a sense, a war of capital; but capitalism is no accretion upon the body politic; it is the creator of the modern world and an essential part of a living organism. the germans unquestionably made a deep-laid plot to capture all markets and cripple or ruin all competitors. their aims and methods were very like those of the standard oil trust on a still larger scale. the other nations had not followed the logic of competition in the same ruthless manner; there were several things which they were not willing to do. but war to the knife cannot be confined to one of the combatants; the alternative, _weltmacht oder niedergang_, was thrust by germany upon the allies when she chose that motto for herself. if the modern man were as much dominated by economic motives as is sometimes supposed, the suicidal results of such a conflict would have been apparent to all; but the poetry and idealism of human nature, no longer centred, as formerly, in religion, had gathered round a romantic patriotism, for which the belligerents were willing to sacrifice their all without counting the cost. like other idealisms, patriotism varies from a noble devotion to a moral lunacy. but there was another cause which led to the war. germany was a curious combination of seventeenth century theory and very modern practice. an emperor ruling by divine right was the head of the most scientific state that the world has seen. in many ways germany, with an intelligent, economical, and uncorrupt government, was a model to the rest of the world. but the whole structure was menaced by that form of individualistic materialism which calls itself social democracy, and which in practice is at once the copy of organic materialism and the reaction against it. the motives for drilling a whole nation in the pursuit of purely national and purely materialistic aims are not strong enough to prevent disintegration. the german _kriegsstaat_ was falling to pieces through internal fissures. a successful war might give the empire a new lease of life; otherwise, the rising tide of revolution was certain to sweep it away. as sir charles walston has shown, it was for some years doubtful whether the democratic movement would obtain control before the bureaucracy and army chiefs succeeded in precipitating a war. there was a kind of race between the two forces. this was the situation which lord haldane found still existing in his famous visit to germany. in the event, the conservative powers were able to strike and to rush public opinion. perhaps the bureaucracy was carried along by its own momentum. two or three years before the war a german publicist, replying to an eminent englishman, who asked him who really directed the policy of germany, answered: 'it is a difficult question. nominally, of course, the emperor is responsible; but he is a man of moods, not a strong man. in reality, the machine runs itself. whither it is carrying us we none of us know; i fear towards some great disaster.' this seems to be the truth of the matter. no doubt, a romantic imperialism, with dreams of restoring the empire of charlemagne, was a factor in the criminal enterprise. no doubt the natural ambitions of officers, and the greed of contractors and speculators, played their part in promoting it. but when we consider that germany held all the winning cards in a game of peaceful penetration and economic competition, we should attribute to the imperial government a strange recklessness if we did not conclude that the political condition of germany itself, and the automatic working of the machine, were the main causes why the attack was made. there is, in fact, abundant evidence that it was so. the scheme failed only because germany was foolish enough to threaten england before settling accounts with russia. but this, again, was the result of internal pressure. hamburg, and all the interests which the name stands for, cared less for expansion in the east than for the capture of markets overseas. for this important section of conservative germany, england was the enemy. so the gauntlet was thrown down to the whole civilised world at once, and the odds against germany were too great. for the time being, the world has no example of a strong monarchy. the three great european empires are, at the time of writing, in a state of septic dissolution. the victors have sprung to the welcome conclusion that democracy is everywhere triumphant, and that before long no other type of civilised state will exist. the amazing provincialism of american political thought accepts this conclusion without demur; and our public men, some of whom doubtless know better, have served the needs of the moment by effusions of political nonsense which almost surpass the orations delivered every year on the fourth of july. but no historian can suppose that one of the most widespread and successful forms of human association has been permanently extinguished because the central empires were not quite strong enough to conquer europe, an attempt which has always failed, and probably will always fail. the issue is not fully decided, even for our own generation. the ascendancy will belong to that nation which is the best organised, the most strenuous, the most intelligent, the most united. before the war none would have hesitated to name germany as holding this position; and until the downfall of the empire the nation seemed to possess those qualities unimpaired. the three empires collapsed in hideous chaos as soon as they deposed their monarchs. in the case of russia, it is difficult to imagine any recovery until the monarchy is restored; and germany would probably be well-advised to choose some member of the imperial family as a constitutional sovereign. a monarch frequently represents his subjects better than an elected assembly; and if he is a good judge of character he is likely to have more capable and loyal advisers. president wilson's declaration that 'a steadfast concert for peace can never be maintained except by a partnership of democratic nations; for no autocratic government could ever be trusted to keep faith within it,' is one of the most childish exhibitions of doctrinaire _naïveté_ which ever proceeded from the mouth of a public man. history gives no countenance to the theory that popular governments are either more moral or more pacific than strong monarchies. the late lord salisbury, in one of his articles in the _quarterly review_, spoke the truth on this subject. 'moderation, especially in the matter of territory, has never been a characteristic of democracy. wherever it has had free play, in the ancient world or the modern, in the old hemisphere or the new, a thirst for empire and a readiness for aggressive war has always marked it. though governments may have an appearance and even a reality of pacific intent, their action is always liable to be superseded by the violent and vehement operations of mere ignorance.' the united states are no exception to this rule. they have extended their dominion by much the same means as the empire of the tsars or our own. texas and upper california, the philippines and porto rico, were annexed forcibly; new mexico, alaska, and louisiana were bought; florida was acquired by treaty; maine filched from canada. in no case were the wishes of the inhabitants consulted. our own experience of republicanism is the same. it was during the short period when great britain had no king that cromwell's court-poet, andrew marvell, urged him to complete his glorious career by demolishing our present allies: a cæsar he, ere long, to gaul, to italy an hannibal. on the other hand, none of the 'autocrats' wanted this war. the kaiser was certainly pushed into it. democracy is a form of government which may be rationally defended, not as being good, but as being less bad than any other. its strongest merits seem to be: first, that the citizens of a democracy have a sense of proprietorship and responsibility in public affairs, which in times of crisis may add to their tenacity and endurance. the determination of the federals in the american civil war, and of the french and british in the four years' struggle against germany, may be legitimately adduced as arguments for democracy. when de tocqueville says that 'it is hard for a democracy to begin or to end a war,' the second is truer than the first. and, secondly, the educational value of democracy is so great that it may be held to counterbalance many defects. mill decides in favour of democracy mainly on the ground that 'it promotes a better and higher form of national character than any other polity,' since government by authority stunts the intellect, narrows the sympathies, and destroys the power of initiative. 'the perfect commonwealth,' says mr. zimmern,' is a society of free men and women, each at once ruling and being ruled,' it is also fair to argue that monarchies do not escape the worst evils of democracies. an autocracy is often obliged to oppress the educated classes and to propitiate the mob. domitian massacred senators with impunity, and only fell '_postquam cerdonibus esse timendus coeperat_.' if an autocracy does not rest on the army, which leads to the chaos of praetorianism, it must rely on '_panem et circenses_.' hence it has some of the worst faults of democracy, without its advantages. as mr. graham wallas says: 'when a tsar or a bureaucracy finds itself forced to govern in opposition to a vague national feeling which may at any moment create an overwhelming national purpose, the autocrat becomes the most unscrupulous of demagogues, and stirs up racial or religious or social hatred, or the lust for foreign war, with less scruple than a newspaper proprietor under a democracy,' the autocrat, in fact, is often a slave, as the demagogue is often a tyrant. lastly, the democrat may urge that one of the commonest accusations against democracy--that the populace chooses its rulers badly--is not true in times of great national danger. on the contrary, it often shows a sound instinct in finding the strongest man to carry it through a crisis. at such times the parrots and monkeys are discarded, and a napoleon or a kitchener is given a free hand, though he may have despised all the demagogic arts. in other words, a democracy sometimes knows when to abdicate. the excesses of revolutionists are not an argument against democracy, since revolutions are anything rather than democratic. nevertheless, the indictment against democracy is a very heavy one, and it is worth while to state the main items in the charge. . whatever may be truly said about the good sense of a democracy during a great crisis, at ordinary times it does not bring the best men to the top. professor hearnshaw, in his admirable 'democracy at the crossroads,' collects a number of weighty opinions confirming this judgment. carlyle, who proclaimed the merits of silence in some thirty volumes, blames democracy for ignoring the 'noble, silent men' who could serve it best, and placing power in the hands of windbags. ruskin, matthew arnold, sir james stephen, sir henry maine, and lecky, all agree that 'the people have for the most part neither the will nor the power to find out the best men to lead them.' in france the denunciations of democratic politicians are so general that it would be tedious to enumerate the writers who have uttered them. one example will suffice; the words are the words of anatole beaulieu in : the wider the circle from which politicians and state-functionaries are recruited, the lower seems their intellectual level to have sunk. this deterioration in the personnel of government has been yet more striking from the moral point of view. politics have tended to become more corrupt, more debased, and to soil the hands of those who take part in them and the men who get their living by them. political battles have become too bitter and too vulgar not to have inspired aversion in the noblest and most upright natures by their violence and their intrigues. the élite of the nation in more than one country are showing a tendency to have nothing to do with them. politics is an industry in which a man, to prosper, requires less intelligence and knowledge than boldness and capacity for intrigue. it has already become in some states the most ignominious of careers. parties are syndicates for exploitation, and its forms become ever more shameless. a later account of french politics, drawn from inside knowledge and experience, is the remarkable novel, 'les morts qui parlent,' by the vicomte le vogué. readers of this book will not forget the description of the _bain de haine_ in which a new deputy at once finds himself plunged, and the canker of corruption which eats into the whole system. it is no wonder that the majority of frenchmen do not care to record their votes. in , , , votes were given, , , electors did not go to the poll. the record of democracy in the new countries is no better. we must regretfully admit that louis simond was right when he said, 'few people take the trouble to persuade the people, except those who see their interest in deceiving them.' . the democracy is a ready victim to shibboleths and catchwords, as all demagogues know too well. 'the abstract idea,' as schérer says, 'is the national aliment of popular rhetoric, the fatal form of thought which, for want of solid knowledge, operates in a vacuum.' the politician has only to find a fascinating formula; facts and arguments are powerless against it. the art of the demagogue is the art of the parrot; he must utter some senseless catchword again and again, working on the suggestibility of the crowd. archbishop trench, 'on the study of words,' notices this fact of psychology and the use which is commonly made of it. if i wanted any further evidence of the moral atmosphere which words diffuse, i would ask you to observe how the first thing men do, when engaged in controversy with others, is ever to assume some honourable name to themselves, such as, if possible, shall beg the whole subject in dispute, and at the same time to affix on their adversaries a name which shall place them in a ridiculous or contemptible or odious light. a deep instinct, deeper perhaps than men give any account of to themselves, tells them how far this will go; that multitudes, utterly unable to weigh the arguments on one side or the other, will yet be receptive of the influences which these words are evermore, however imperceptibly, diffusing. by argument they might hope to gain over the reason of a few, but by help of these nicknames the prejudices and passions of the many. the chief instrument of this base art is no longer the public speech but the newspaper. the psychology of the crowd has been much studied lately, by le bon and other writers in france, by mr. graham wallas in england. i think that le bon is in danger of making the crowd a mystical, superhuman entity. of course, a crowd is made up of individuals, who remain individuals still. we must not accept the stuffed idol of rousseau and the socialists, 'the general will,' and turn it into an evil spirit. there is no general will. all we have a right to say is that individuals are occasionally guided by reason, crowds never. . several critics of democracy have accused it not only of rash iconoclasm, but of obstinate conservatism and obstructiveness. it seems unreasonable to charge the same persons with two opposite faults; but it is true that where the popular emotions are not touched, the masses will cling to old abuses from mere force of habit. as maine says, universal suffrage would have prohibited the spinning-jenny and the power-loom, the threshing-machine and the gregorian calendar; and it would have restored the stuarts. the theory of democracy--_vox populi vox dei_--is a pure superstition, a belief in a divine or natural sanction which does not exist. and superstition is usually obstructive. 'we erect the temporary watchwords of evanescent politics into eternal truths; and having accepted as platitudes the paradoxes of our fathers, we perpetuate them as obstacles to the progress of our children.'[ ] . a more serious danger is that of vexatious and inquisitive tyranny. this is exercised partly through public opinion, a vulgar, impertinent, anonymous tyrant who deliberately makes life unpleasant for anyone who is not content to be the average man. but partly it is seen in constant interference with the legislature and the executive. no one can govern who cannot afford to be unpopular, and no democratic official can afford to be unpopular. sometimes he has to wink at flagrant injustice and oppression; at other times a fanatical agitation compels him to pass laws which forbid the citizen to indulge perfectly harmless tastes, or tax him to contribute to the pleasures of the majority. in many ways a russian under the tsars was far less interfered with than an englishman or american or australian. . but the two diseases which are likely to be fatal to democracy are anarchy and corruption. a democratic government is almost necessarily weak and timid. a democracy cannot tolerate a strong executive for fear of seeing the control pass out of the hands of the mob. the executive must be unarmed and defenceless. the result is that it is at the mercy of any violent and anti-social faction. no civilised government has ever given a more ludicrous and humiliating object-lesson than the cabinet and house of commons in the years before the war, in face of the outrages committed by a small gang of female anarchists. the legalisation of terrorism by the trade-unions was too tragic a surrender to be ludicrous, but it was even more disgraceful. none could be surprised when, during the war, the government shrank from dealing with treasonable conspiracy in the same quarter. the _times_ for may , , contained a noteworthy example of justice influenced by pressure, and therefore applied with flagrant inequality. in parallel columns appeared reports of 'sugar-sellers fined' and 'strike leaders released.' the former paid the full penalty of their misdeeds because no body of outside opinion maintained them. the latter, who were stated to have committed offences for which the maximum penalty was penal servitude for life, got off scot-free because they were members of a powerful organisation which was able to bring immense weight to bear on the government.[ ] the 'immense weight' was, of course, the threat of virtually betraying the country to the germans. the country is at this moment at the mercy of any lawless faction which may choose either to hold the community to ransom by paralysing our trade and channels of supply, or by organised violence against life and property. democracy is powerless against sectional anarchism; and when such movements break out there is no remedy except by substituting for democracy a government of a very different type. democracy is, in fact, a disintegrating force. it is strong in destruction, and tends to fall to pieces when the work of demolition (which may of course be a necessary task) is over. democracy dissolves communities into individuals and collects them again into mobs. it pulls up by the roots the social order which civilisation has gradually evolved, and leaves men _déracinés_, as bourget says in one of his best novels, homeless and friendless, with no place ready for them to fill. it is the opposite extreme to the caste system of india, which, with all its faults, does not seem to breed the european type of _enragé_, the enemy of society as such. . the corruption of democracies proceeds directly from the fact that one class imposes the taxes and another class pays them. the constitutional principle, 'no taxation without representation,' is utterly set at nought under a system which leaves certain classes without any effective representation at all. at the present time it is said that one-tenth of the population pays five-sixths of the taxes. the class which imposes the taxes has refused to touch the burden of the war with one of its fingers; and every month new doles at the public expense are distributed under the camouflage of 'social reform.' at every election the worldly goods of the minority are put up to auction. this is far more immoral than the old-fashioned election bribery, which was a comparatively honest deal between two persons; and in its effects it is far more ruinous. democracy is likely to perish, like the monarchy of louis xvi, through national bankruptcy. besides these defects, the democracy has ethical standards of its own, which differ widely from those of the educated classes. among the poor, 'generosity ranks far before justice, sympathy before truth, love before chastity, a pliant and obliging disposition before a rigidly honest one. in brief, the less admixture of intellect required for the practice of any virtue, the higher it stands in popular estimation.[ ] in this country, at any rate, democracy means a victory of sentiment over reason. some may prefer the softer type of character, and may hope that it will make civilisation more humane and compassionate than it has been in the past. unfortunately, experience shows that none is so cruel as the disillusioned sentimentalist. he thinks that he can break or ignore nature's laws with impunity; and then, when he finds that nature has no sentiment, he rages like a mad dog, and combines with his theoretical objection to capital punishment a lust to murder all who disagree with him. this is the genesis of jacobinism and bolshevism. but whether we think that the bad in democracy predominates over the good, or the good over the bad, a question which i shall not attempt to decide, the popular balderdash about it corresponds to no real conviction. the upper class has never believed in it; the middle class has the strongest reasons to hate and fear it. but how about the lower class, in whose interests the whole machine is supposed to have been set going? the working man has no respect for either democracy or liberty. his whole interest is in transferring the wealth of the minority to his own pocket. there was a time when he thought that universal suffrage would get for him what he desires; but he has lost all faith in constitutional methods. to levy blackmail on the community, under threats of civil war, seems to him a more expeditious way of gaining his object. monopolies are to be established by pitiless coercion of those who wish to keep their freedom. the trade unions are large capitalists; they are well able to start factories for themselves and work them for their own exclusive profit. but they find it more profitable to hold the nation to ransom by blockading the supply of the necessaries of life. the new labourer despises productivity for the same reason that the old robber barons did: it is less trouble to take money than to make it. the most outspoken popular leaders no longer conceal their contempt for and rejection of democracy. the socialists perceive the irreconcilable contradiction between the two ideas,[ ] and they are right. democracy postulates community of interest or loyal patriotism. when these are absent it cannot long exist. syndicalism, which seems to be growing, is the antipodes of socialism, but, like socialism, it can make no terms with democracy. 'if syndicalism triumphs,' says its chief prophet sorel, 'the parliamentary régime, so dear to the intellectuals, will be at an end.' 'the syndicalist has a contempt for the vulgar idea of democracy; the vast unconscious mass is not to be taken into account when the minority wishes to act so as to benefit it.'[ ] 'the effect of political majorities,' says mr. levine, 'is to hinder advance,' accordingly, political methods are rejected with contempt. the anarchists go one step further. bakunin proclaims that 'we reject all legislation, all authority, and all influence, even when it has proceeded from universal suffrage.' these powerful movements, opposed as they are to each other, agree in spurning the very idea of democracy, which lord morley defines as government by public opinion, and which may be defined with more precision as direct government by the votes of the majority among the adult members of a nation. even a political philosopher like mr. lowes dickinson says, 'for my part, i am no democrat.' who then are the friends of this _curieux fétiche_, as quinet called democracy? it appears to have none, though it has been the subject of fatuous laudation ever since the time of rousseau. the americans burn incense before it, but they are themselves ruled by the boss and the trust. the attempt to justify the labour movement as a legitimate development of the old democratic liberalism is futile. freedom to form combinations is no doubt a logical application of _laisser faire_; and the anarchic possibilities latent in _laisser faire_ have been made plain in the anti-democratic movements of labour. but liberalism rested on a too favourable estimate of human nature and on a belief in the law of progress. as there is no law of progress, and as civilised society is being destroyed by the evil passions of men, liberalism is, for the time, quite discredited. it would also be true to say that there is a fundamental contradiction between the two dogmas of liberalism. these were, that unlimited competition is stimulating to the competitors and good for the country, and that every individual is an end, not a means. both are anarchical; but the first logically issues in individualistic anarchy, the last in communistic anarchy. the economic and the ethical theory of liberalism cannot be harmonised. the result--cruel competition tempered by an artificial process of counter-selection in favour of the unfittest--was by no means satisfactory. but it was better than what we are now threatened with. that the labour movement is economically rotten it is easy to prove. in the words of professor hearnshaw, 'the government has ceased to govern in the world of labour, and has been compelled, instead of governing, to bribe, to cajole, to beg, to grovel. it has purchased brief truces at the cost of increasing levies of danegeld drawn from the diminishing resources of the patient community. it has embarked on a course of payment of blackmail which must end either in national bankruptcy or in the social revolution which the anarchists seek.' the powerful trade-unions are now plundering both the owners of their 'plant,' and the general public. it is easy to show that their members already get much more than their share of the national wealth. professor bowley[ ] has estimated that an equal division of the national income would give about £ a year to each family, free of taxes. but even this estimate, discouraging as it is, seems not to allow sufficiently for the fact that under the present system much of the income of the richer classes is counted twice or three times over. abolish large incomes, and jewels, pictures, wines, furs, special and rare skill like that of the operating surgeon and fashionable portrait painter, lose all or most of their money value. all the large professional incomes, except those of the low comedian and his like, are made out of the rich, and are counted at least twice for income-tax. it is certain that a large part of the national income could not be 'redistributed,' and that in the attempt to do so credit would be destroyed and wealth would melt like a snow man. the miners, therefore, are not seeking justice; they are blackmailing rich and poor alike by their monopoly of one of the necessaries of life. and now they strike against paying income-tax! it is not necessary or just to bring railing accusations against any class as a body. power is always abused, and in this case there is much honest ignorance, stimulated by agitators who are seldom honest. in a recent number of the _edinburgh review_ sir lynden macassey speaks of the widespread, almost universal, fallacies to which the hand-worker has fallen a victim. they believe that all their aspirations can be satisfied out of present-day profits and production. they believe that in restricting output they are performing a moral duty to their class. they do not believe that the prosperity of the country depends upon its production, and are opposed to all labour-saving devices. they refuse co-operation because they desire the continuance of the class-war. such perversity would seem hardly credible if it were not attested by overwhelming evidence. the government remedy is first to create unemployment and then to endow it--the shortest and maddest road to ruin since the downfall of the roman empire. we may have a faint hope that some of these fallacies will be abandoned by the workmen when their destructive results can no longer be concealed. but sentimentalism seems to be incurable. it erects irrationality into an act of religious faith, gives free rein to the emotion of pity, and thinks that it is imitating the good samaritan by robbing the priest and levite for the benefit of the man by the road-side. the sentimentalist shows a bitter hatred against those who wish to cure an evil by removing its causes. a good example is the language of writers like mr. chesterton about eugenics and population. if social maladies were treated scientifically, the trade of the emotional rhetorician would be gone. we have seen that democracy--the rule of majorities--has been discredited and abandoned in action, though officially we all bow down before it. another popular delusion is that the chief change in the last fifty years has been a conversion of the world from individualism to socialism. in the language of the christian socialists, who wish to combine the militant spirit and organisation of medieval catholicism with a bid for the popular vote, we have 'rediscovered the corporate idea.' but if we take socialism, not in the narrower sense of collectivism, which would be an economic experiment, but in the wider sense of a keen consciousness of the solidarity of the community as an organic whole, there is very little truth in the commonly held notion that we have become more socialistic. it is easy to see how the idea has arisen. it became necessary to find some theoretical justification for raising taxes, no longer for national needs, but for the benefit of the class which imposed them; and this justification was found in the theory that all wealth belongs to 'the state,' and may be justly divided up as 'the state'--that is to say, the majority of the voters--may determine. whenever the question arises of voting new doles to the dominant section of the people at the expense of the minority, our new political philosophers profess themselves fervent socialists. but true socialism, which is almost synonymous with patriotism, is as conspicuously absent in those who call themselves socialists as it is strong in those who repudiate the title. this paradox can be easily proved. the most socialistic enterprise in which a nation ever engages is a great war. a nation at war is conscious of its corporate unity and its common interests, as it is at no other time. the nation then calls upon every citizen to surrender all his personal rights and to offer his life and limbs in the service of the community. and what has been the record of the 'socialists' in the struggle for national existence in which we have been engaged? in the years preceding the war they ridiculed the idea that the country was in danger of being attacked, and used all their power to prevent us from preparing against attack. they steadily opposed the teaching of patriotism in the schools. when the war began, they prevented the government from introducing compulsory service until our french allies, who were left to bear the brunt, were on the point of collapse; they, in very many cases, refused to serve themselves, thereby avowing that, as far as they were concerned, they were willing to see their country conquered by a horde of cruel barbarians; and they nearly handed over our armies to destruction by fomenting strikes at the most critical periods of the war. this attitude cannot be accounted for by any conscientious objection to violence, which is in fact their favourite weapon, except against the enemies of their country. their socialism is, in truth, individualism run mad; it is the very antithesis to the consciousness of organic unity in a nation, which is the spiritual basis of socialism. in this sense, the nation as a whole has shown a fine socialistic temper; but the disgraceful exception has been the socialist party. the intense and perverted individualism of the so-called socialist is shown in another way. whatever liberties a state may permit to its citizens, it is certain that no nation can be in a healthy condition unless the government keeps in its own hands the keys of birth and of death. the state has the right of the farmer to decide how many cows should be allowed to graze upon ten acres of grass; the right of the forester to decide how many square feet are required for each tree in a wood. it has also the right and the duty of the gardener to pull up noxious weeds in his flower-beds. but the socialist vehemently repudiates both these rights. being an ultra-individualist, he is in favour of _laisser faire_, where _laisser faire_ is most indefensible and most disastrous. it would be easy to maintain that the organic idea was more potent, both under medieval feudalism and under nineteenth-century industrialism, than it is now. in former days, economic and social equality were not even aimed at, because it was thought inevitable that in a social organism there must be subordination and a hierarchy of functions. essentially, and in the sight of god, all are equal, or, rather, the essential differences between man and man are absolutely independent of social status. in a few years lazarus may be in heaven and dives in hell. beside this equality of moral opportunity and tremendous inequality in self-chosen destiny, the status of master and servant seemed of small importance; it was a temporary and trivial accident. accordingly, in feudal times, as to-day in really catholic communities, feelings of injustice and social bitterness were seldom aroused and class differences take on a more genial colour. in spite of the lawlessness and brutality of the middle ages it is probable that men were happier then than they are now. the french revolution, which was a disintegrating solvent, pulverised society, and was impotent to reconstruct it. yet under the industrial régime which followed it in this country, the nation was conscious of its unity. the system was the best that could have been devised for increasing the population and aggregate wealth of the country; and even those who suffered most under it were not without pride in its results. the ill-paid workman of the last century would have thought it a poor thing to do a deliberately bad day's work. i am not praising either the age of feudalism or the 'hungry forties' of the nineteenth century. in the latter case especially the sacrifice exacted from the poor was too great for the rather vulgar success of which it was the condition. but to call that age the period of individualism, and our own generation the period of socialism, is in my opinion a profound mistake. in germany, too, the real socialists are not the 'spartacist' scoundrels who have betrayed and ruined their country, but the bureaucracy with their _deutschland über alles_. if i were a little more of a socialist, i could almost admire them, in spite of all their crimes. the landed gentry (and in honesty i must add the endowed clergy) are a survival of feudalism, as the capitalist is a survival of industrialism. both have to a large extent survived their functions. the mailclad baron, round whose fortified castle the peasants and others gathered for protection, has become the country gentleman, against whom the indictment is not so much that his only pursuit is pleasure, as that his only pleasure is pursuit. 'the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate' were intelligible while the rich man protected the poor man from being plundered and killed by marauders; but in our times nobody wants a castle or to live under the shadow of a castle. the clerical profession was a necessity when most people could neither read nor write. but to-day our best prophets and preachers are laymen. as at ancient athens, in the time of aristophanes, 'the young learn from the schoolmaster, the mature from the poets.' similarly, the captain of industry cannot hold the same autocratic position as formerly, in view of the growing intelligence and capacity of the workmen; and the capitalist who is not a captain of industry is a debtor to the community to an extent which he does not always realise. this class is becoming painfully conscious of its vulnerability. there are, therefore, irrational survivals in our social order; and though it may be proved that they are not a severe burden on the community, it is natural that popular bitterness and discontent should fasten upon them and exaggerate their evil results. it cannot be disputed that this bitterness and discontent were becoming very acute in the years before the war. an increasing number of persons saw no meaning and no value in our civilisation. this feeling was common in all classes, including the so-called leisured class; and was so strong that many welcomed with joy the clear call to a plain duty, though it was the duty of facing all the horrors of war. what is the cause of this discontent? there are few more important questions for us to answer. those who find the cause in the existence of the survivals which we have mentioned are certainly mistaken. it is no new thing that there should be a small class more or less parasitic on the community. the whole number of persons who pay income-tax on £ a year and upwards is only , out of millions, and their wealth, if it could be divided up, would make no appreciable difference to the working man. the wage-earners are better off than they have ever been before in our history, and the danger of revolution comes not from the poor, but from the privileged artisans who already have incomes above the family average. we must look elsewhere for an explanation of social unrest. if we consider what are the chief centres of discontent throughout the civilised world, we shall find that they are the great aggregations of population in wealthy industrial countries. social unrest is a disease of town-life. wherever the conditions which create the great modern city exist, we find revolutionary agitation. it has spread to barcelona, to buenos ayres, and to osaka, in the wake of the factory. the inhabitants of the large town do not envy the countryman and would not change with him. but, unknown to themselves, they are leading an unnatural life, cut off from the kindly and wholesome influences of nature, surrounded by vulgarity and ugliness, with no traditions, no loyalties, no culture, and no religion. we seldom reflect on the strangeness of the fact that the modern working-man has few or no superstitions. at other times the masses have evolved for themselves some picturesque nature-religion, some pious ancestor-worship, some cult of saints or heroes, some stories of fairies, ghosts, or demons, and a mass of quaint superstitions, genial or frightening. the modern town-dweller has no god and no devil; he lives without awe, without admiration, without fear. whatever we may think about these beliefs, it is not natural for men and women to be without them. the life of the town artisan who works in a factory is a life to which the human organism has not adapted itself; it is an unwholesome and unnatural condition. hence, probably, comes the _malaise_ which makes him think that any radical change must be for the better. whatever the cause of the disease may be (and i do not pretend that the conditions of urban life are an adequate explanation) the malady is there, and will probably prove fatal to our civilisation. i have given my views on this subject in the essay called _the future of the english race._ and yet there is a remedy within the reach of all if we would only try it. the essence of the christian revelation is the proclamation of a standard of absolute values, which contradicts at every point the estimates of good and evil current in 'the world.' it is not necessary, in such an essay as this, to write out the beatitudes, or the very numerous passages in the gospels and epistles in which the same lessons are enforced. it is not necessary to remind the reader that in christianity all the paraphernalia of life are valued very lightly; that all the good and all the evil which exalt or defile a man have their seat within him, in his own character; that we are sent into the world to suffer and to conquer suffering; that it is more blessed to give than to receive; that love is the great revealer of the mysteries of life; that we have here no continuing city, and must therefore set our affections and lay up our treasures in heaven; that the things that are seen are temporal, and the things that are not seen are eternal. this is the christian religion. it is a form of idealism; and idealism means a belief in absolute or spiritual values. when applied to human life, it introduces, as it were, a new currency, which demonetises the old; or gives us a new scale of prices, in which the cheapest things are the dearest, and the dearest the cheapest. the world's standards are quantitative; those of christianity are qualitative. and being qualitative, spiritual goods are unlimited in amount; they are increased by being shared; and we rob nobody by taking them. secularists ask impatiently what christianity has done or proposes to do to make mankind happier, by which they mean more comfortable. the answer is (to put it in a form intelligible to the questioner) that christianity increases the wealth of the world by creating new values. wealth depends on human valuation. for example, if women were sufficiently well educated not to care about diamonds, the kimberley mines would pay no dividends, and the rents in park lane would go down. the prices of paintings by old masters would decline if millionaires preferred to collect another kind of scalps to decorate their wigwams. bookmakers and company-promoters live on the widespread passion for acquiring money without working for it. it is hardly possible to estimate the increase of real wealth, and the stoppage of waste, which would result from the adoption of a rational, still more of a christian, valuation of the good things of life. i have dealt with this subject in the essay on _the indictment against christianity_, and have emphasised the importance of taking into consideration, in all economic questions, the _human costs_ of production, the factors which make work pleasant or irksome, and especially the moral condition of the worker. good-will diminishes the toll which labour takes of the labourer; envy and hatred vastly increase it while they diminish its product. it is, of course, impossible that the worker should not resent having to devote his life to making what is useless or mischievous, and to ministering to the irrational wastefulness of luxury. christianity, in condemning the selfish and irresponsible use of money, seeks to remove one of the chief causes of social bitterness. senseless extravagance is the best friend of revolution. the abuse poured upon 'the old political economy,' as it is called, is only half deserved. as compared with the insane doctrines now in favour with the working-man, the old political economy was sound and sensible. hard work, thrift, and economy in production are, in truth, as we used to be told, the only ways to increase the national wealth, and the contrary practices can only lead to economic ruin. there is not much fault to find with the old economists so long as they recognised that their science was an abstract science, which for its own purposes dealt with an unreal abstraction--the 'economic man.' every science is obliged to isolate one aspect of reality in this way. but when political economy was treated as a philosophy of life it began to be mischievous. a book on 'the science of the stomach,' without knowledge of physiology or the working of other organs, would not be of much use. man has never been a merely acquisitive being; for example, he is also a fighting and a praying being. if our dominant motives were changed, the whole conditions dealt with by political economy would change with them. there have been civilisations in which the passion for accumulation was comparatively weak; and notoriously there are many persons in whom it is wholly absent. devotion to art, to scientific investigation, and to religion is strong enough, where it exists, to kill 'the economic man' in human nature. a civilised nation honours its idealists, and recognises the immense benefit which they confer on the community by creating or revealing new and inexhaustible values; in an uncivilised country they can hardly live. ruskin and william morris saw, and doubtless exaggerated, the danger to which spiritual values were exposed at the hands of the dominant economism. our danger now is that neglect of the simplest economic laws may plunge the nation into such misery that the people will no longer be willing to support art, science, learning, and philosophy. a large section of the labour party has the same standard of values as the hated 'capitalist,' and detests those whom it calls intellectuals and sky-pilots because they depreciate the currency which their class, no less than the capitalist, believes to be the only sound money. it may be asked whether there is any reason to think that there is now less regard for the higher, the qualitative values of life, than at other periods. my opinion is that ever since the time of rousseau and his contemporaries, we have been led astray by a will-of-the-wisp akin to the apocalyptic dreams of the jews in the last two centuries before christ, dreams which also filled the minds of the first generation of christians. the greeks never made the mistake of throwing their ideals into the future, a practice which, as dr. bosanquet has said, 'is the death of all sane idealism.' the belief in 'a good time coming' is a jewish delusion. it nourished the jews in their amazing obstinacy, and led to the annihilation of their state which, to the very end, they saw in their dreams bruising all other nations with a rod of iron, and breaking them in pieces like a potter's vessel. but, as any idealism is better than none, the hebrew race has won remarkable triumphs, though of a kind which it never desired. the myth of progress is our form of apocalyptism. in france it began with sentimentalism, developing normally into homicidal mania. in england it took the form of a kind of deuteronomic religion. as a reward for our national virtues, our population expanded, our exports and imports went up by leaps and bounds, and our empire received additions every decade. it was plain that when christ said 'blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,' he was thinking of the british empire. the whole structure of our social order encouraged the measurement of everything by quantitative standards. everyone could understand that a generation which travels sixty miles an hour must be five times as civilised as one which only travelled twelve. thus the beneficent 'law of progress' was exemplified in that nation which had best deserved to be its exponent. the myth in question is that there is a natural law of improvement, manifested by greater complexity of structure, by increase of wants and the means to satisfy them. a nation advances in civilisation by increasing in wealth and population, and by multiplying the accessories and paraphernalia of life. belief in this alleged law has vitiated our natural science, our political science, our history, our philosophy, and even our religion. science declared that 'the survival of the fittest' was a law of nature, though nature has condemned to extinction the majestic animals of the saurian era, and has carefully preserved the bug, the louse, and the spirochaeta pallida. we dined as a rule on each other; what matter? the toughest survived, is a fair parody of this doctrine. in political science, by a portentous snobbery, the actual evolution of european government was assumed to be in the line of upward progress. our histories contrasted the benighted condition of past ages with the high morality and general enlightenment of the present. in philosophy, the problem of evil was met by the theory that though the deity is not omnipotent yet, he is on his way to become so. he means well, and if we give him time, he will make a real success of his creation. human beings, too, commonly make a very poor thing of their lives here. but continue their training after they are dead and they will all come to perfection. we have been living on this secularised idealism for a hundred and fifty years. it has driven out the true idealism, of which it is a caricature, and has made the deeper and higher kind of religious faith abnormally difficult. even the hope of immortality has degenerated into a belief in apparitions and voices from the dead. nature knows nothing of this precious law. her figure is not the vertical line, nor even the spiral, but the circle--the vicious circle, according to samuel butler. 'men eat birds, birds eat worms, worms eat men again.' some stars are getting hotter, others cooler. life appears at a certain temperature and is extinguished at another temperature. evolution and involution balance each other and go on concurrently. the normal condition of every species on this planet is not progress but stationariness. 'progress,' so-called, is an incident of adaptation to new conditions. bees and ants must have spent millennia in perfecting their organisation; now that they have reached a stable equilibrium, no more changes are perceptible. the 'progress' of humanity has consisted almost entirely in the transformation of the wild man of the woods, not into _homo sapiens_ but into _homo faber_, man the tool-maker, a process of which nature expresses her partial disapproval by plaguing us with diverse diseases and taking away our teeth and claws. it is not certain that there has been much change in our intellectual and moral endowments since pithecanthropus dropped the first half of his name. i should be sorry to have to maintain that the germans of to-day are morally superior to the army which defeated quintilius varus, or that the modern turks are more humane than the hordes of timour the tartar. if there is to be any improvement in human nature itself we must look to the infant science of eugenics to help us. it is not easy to say how this myth of progress came to take hold of the imagination, in the teeth of science and experience. quinet speaks of the 'fatalistic optimism' of historians, of which there have certainly been some strange examples. we can only say that secularism, like other religions, needs an eschatology, and has produced one. a more energetic generation than ours looked forward to a gradual extension of busy industrialism over the whole planet; the present ideal of the masses seems to be the greatest idleness of the greatest number, or a fabian farm-yard of tame fowls, or (in america) an ice-water-drinking gynæcocracy. but the superstition cannot flourish much longer. the period of expansion is over, and we must adjust our view of earthly providence to a state of decline. for no nation can flourish when it is the ambition of the large majority to put in fourpence and take out ninepence. the middle-class will be the first victims; then the privileged aristocracy of labour will exploit the poor. but trade will take wings and migrate to some other country where labour is good and comparatively cheap. the dethronement of a fetish may give a sounder faith its chance. in the time of decay and disintegration which lies before us, more persons will seek consolation where it can be found. 'happiness and unhappiness,' says spinoza, 'depend on the nature of the object which we love. when a thing is not loved, no quarrels will arise concerning it, no sadness will be felt if it perishes, no envy if it is possessed by another; no fear, no hatred, no disturbance of the mind. all these things arise from the love of the perishable. but love for a thing eternal and infinite feeds the mind wholly with joy, and is itself untainted with any sadness; wherefore it is greatly to be desired and sought for with our whole strength.' it is well known that these noble words were not only sincere, but the expression of the working faith of the philosopher; and we may hope that many who are doomed to suffer hardship and spoliation in the evil days that are coming will find the same path to a happiness which cannot be taken from them. spinoza's words, of course, do not point only to religious exercises and meditation. the spiritual world includes art and science in all their branches, when these are studied with a genuine devotion to the good, the true, and the beautiful for their own sakes. we shall need 'a remnant' to save europe from relapsing into barbarism; for the new forces are almost wholly cut off from the precious traditions which link our civilisation with the great eras of the past. the possibility of another dark age is not remote; but there must be enough who value our best traditions to preserve them till the next spring-time of civilisation. we must take long views, and think of our great-grandchildren. it is tempting to dream of a new renaissance, under which the life of reason will at last be the life of mankind. though there is little sign of improvement in human nature, a favourable conjunction of circumstances may bring about a civilisation very much better than ours to-day. for a time, at any rate, war may be practically abolished, and the military qualities may find another and a less pernicious outlet. 'sport,' as santayana says, 'is a liberal form of war stripped of its compulsions and malignity; a rational art and the expression of a civilised instinct.' the art of living may be taken in hand seriously. some of the ingenuity which has lately been lavished on engines of destruction may be devoted to improvements in our houses, which should be easily and cheaply put together and able to be carried about in sections; on labour-saving devices which would make servants unnecessary; and on international campaigns against diseases, some of the worst of which could be extinguished for ever by twenty years of concerted effort. a scientific civilisation is not impossible, though we are not likely to live to see it. and, if science and humanism can work together, it will be a great age for mankind. such hopes as these must be allowed to float before our minds: they are not unreasonable, and they will help us to get through the twentieth century, which is not likely to be a pleasant time to live in. some writers, like mr. h.g. wells, recognising the danger which threatens civilisation, have suggested the formation of a society for mutual encouragement in the higher life. mr. wells developed this idea in his 'modern utopia.' he contemplated a brotherhood, like the japanese samurai, living by a rule, a kind of lay monastic order, who should endeavour to live in a perfectly rational and wholesome manner, so as to be the nucleus of whatever was best in the society of the time. the scheme is interesting to a platonist, because of its resemblance to the order of guardians in the 'republic.' a very good case may be made out for having an ascetic order of moral and physical aristocrats, and entrusting them with the government of the country. plato forbade his guardians to own wealth, and thus secured an uncorrupt administration, one of the rarest and best of virtues in a government. but political events are not moving in this direction at present; and the question for us is whether those who believe in science and humanism should attempt to form a society, not to rule the country, but to protect themselves and the ideas which they wish to preserve. but i agree with mr. wells' second thoughts, that the time is not ripe for such a scheme.[ ] christianity, 'the greatest new beginning in the world's history,' appeared, as he says, in an age of disintegration, and 'we are in a synthetic rather than a disintegrating phase.... _only a very vast and terrible war-explosion can, i think, change this state of affairs.'_ the vast explosion has occurred, and the stage of disintegration, which mr. wells ought perhaps to have seen approaching even eleven years ago, has clearly begun. but it will have to go further before the need of such a society is felt. the time may come when the educated classes, and those who desire freedom to live as they think right, will find themselves oppressed, not only in their home-life by the tyranny of the trade-unions, but in their souls by the pulpy and mawkish emotionalism of herd-morality. then a league for mutual protection may be formed. if such a society ever comes into being, the following principles are, i think, necessary for its success. first, it must be on a religious basis, since religion has a cohesive force greater than any other bond. the religious basis will be a blend of christian platonism and christian stoicism, since it must be founded on that faith in absolute spiritual values which is common to christianity and platonism, with that sturdy defiance of tyranny and popular folly which was the strength of stoicism. next, it must not be affiliated to any religious organisation; otherwise it will certainly be exploited in denominational interests. thirdly, it must include some purely disciplinary asceticism, such as abstinence from alcohol and tobacco for men, and from costly dresses and jewellery for women. this is necessary, because it is more important to keep out the half-hearted than to increase the number of members. fourthly, it must prescribe a simple life of duty and discipline, since frugality will be a condition of enjoying self-respect and freedom. fifthly, it will enjoin the choice of an open-air life in the country, where possible. a whole group of french writers, such as proudhon, delacroix, leconte de lisle, flaubert, leblond, and faguet agree in attributing our social _malaise_ to life in great towns. the lower death-rates of country districts are a hint from nature that they are right. sixthly, every member must pledge himself to give his best work. as dr. jacks says, 'producers of good articles respect each other; producers of bad despise each other and hate their work.' it may be necessary for those who recognise the right of the labourer to preserve his self-respect, to combine in order to satisfy each other's needs in resistance to the trade-unions. seventhly, there must be provision for community-life, like that of the old monasteries, for both sexes. the members of the society should be encouraged to spend some part of their lives in these institutions, without retiring from the world altogether. temporary 'retreats' might be of great value. intellectual work, including scientific research, could be carried on under very favourable conditions in these lay monasteries and convents, which should contain good libraries and laboratories. lastly, a distinctive dress, not merely a badge, would probably be essential for members of both sexes. this last provision tempts me to add that the government would do well to appoint at once a royal commission, or, rather, two commissions, to decide on a compulsory national uniform for both sexes. experts should recommend the most comfortable, becoming, and economical dress that could be devised, with considerable variety for the different trades and professions. such a law would do more for social equality than any readjustment of taxation. it has been often noticed that every man looks a gentleman in khaki; and it is to be feared that many war brides have suffered a painful surprise on seeing their husbands for the first time in civilian garb. there need be no suggestion of militarism about the new costume; but a man's calling might be recorded, like the name of his regiment, on his shoulder-straps, and the absence of such a badge would be regarded as a disgrace, whether the subject was a tramp or one of the idle rich. this suggestion may seem trivial, or even ludicrous; and i may be reminded of my dislike of meddling legislation; but the importance of the philosophy of clothes has not diminished since 'sartor resartus.' clerical dignitaries might be trusted to vote for this mitigation of their lot. some may wonder why i have not expressed a hope that the guardianship of our intellectual and spiritual birthright may pass into the hands of the national church. i heartily wish that i could cherish this hope. but organised religion has been a failure ever since the first concordat between church and state under constantine the great. the church of england in its corporate capacity has never seemed to respect anything but organised force. in the sixteenth century it proclaimed henry viii the supreme head of the church; in the seventeenth century it passionately upheld the 'right divine of kings to govern wrong'; in the eighteenth and nineteenth it was the obsequious supporter of the squirearchy and plutocracy; and now it grovels before the working-man, and supports every scheme of plundering the minority. in fact, we must distinguish sharply between ecclesiasticism, theology, and religion. the future of ecclesiasticism is a political question. in the opinion of some good judges, the acute nationalism now dominant in europe will quickly pass away, and a duel will supervene between the 'black international' and the 'red.' catholicism, it is supposed, will shelter all who dread revolution and all who value traditional civilisation; its unrivalled organisation will make it the one possible centre of resistance to anarchy and barbarism, and the conflict will go on till one side or the other is overthrown. this prediction, which opens a truly appalling prospect for civilisation, might be less terrible if the church were to open its arms to a new renaissance, and become once more, as in the beginning of the modern period, the home of learning and the patroness of the arts. but we must not overlook the new and growing power of science; and science can no more make terms with catholic ecclesiasticism than with the revolution. the jacobins guillotined lavoisier, 'having no need of chemists'; but the church burnt bruno and imprisoned galileo. science, too strong to be victimised again, may come between the two enemies of civilisation, the bolshevik and the ultramontane; it is, i think, our best hope. i am conscious that i have spoken with too little sympathy in one or two of these essays about the ritualist party. i was more afraid of it a few years ago than i am now. the oxford movement began as a late wave of the romantic movement, with wistful eyes bent upon the past. but romanticism, which dotes on ruins, shrinks from real restoration. medievalism is attractive only when seen from a short distance. so the movement is ceasing to be either medieval or catholic or anglican; it is becoming definitely latin. but a latin church in england which disowns the pope is an absurdity. many of the shrewder high churchmen are, as i have said in this volume, throwing themselves into political agitation and intrigue, for which catholics always have a great aptitude; but this involves them in another inconsistency. for catholicism is essentially hierarchical and undemocratic, though it keeps a 'career open to the talents.' the spirit of catholicism breathes in the third canto of the 'paradiso,' where dante asks the soul of a friend whom he finds in the lowest circle of paradise, whether he does not desire to go higher. the friend replies: 'brother, the force of charity quiets our will, making us wish only for what we have and thirst for nothing more. if we desired to be in a sublimer sphere, our desires would be discordant with the will of him who here allots us our diverse stations.... the manner in which we are ranged from step to step in this kingdom pleases the whole kingdom, as it does the king who gives us the power to will as he wills.' accordingly, these ecclesiastical votaries of democracy cut a strange figure when they seek to legislate for the church. the high church scheme (defeated the other day by a small majority) for drawing up a constitution for the church, consisted in disfranchising the large majority of the electorate and reserving the initiative and veto for the house of lords (the bishops). in fact, the constitution which our catholic democrats would like best for the church closely resembles that of great britain before the first reform bill. in the same way the ritualistic clergy, while professing a superstitious reverence for the episcopal office, make a point of flouting the authority of their own bishop. the movement, in my opinion, is beginning to break up, and rome will be the chief gainer. but many of its leaders have been among the glories of the church of england, and i could never speak of them with disrespect. catholicism, whether roman or anglican, stands to lose heavily by the decay of institutionalism as an article of faith. it is becoming impossible for those who mix at all with their fellow-men to believe that the grace of god is distributed denominationally. the christian virtues, so far as we can see, flower impartially in the souls of catholic and protestant, of churchman and schismatic, of orthodox and heretic. and the test, 'by their fruits ye shall know them,' cannot be openly rejected by any christian. but fanatical institutionalism has been the driving force of catholicism as a power in the world, from the very first. the church has lived by its monopolies and conquered by its intolerance. the war has given a further impetus to the fall of this belief, which, with its dogma, _extra ecclesiam nulla salus_, was tottering before the crisis came. the prospects of christian theology are very difficult to estimate; and i am so convinced myself of the superiority of the catholic theology based on neoplatonism, that i cannot view the matter with impartial detachment. we all tend to predict the triumph of our own opinions. but miracles must, i am convinced, be relegated to the sphere of pious opinion. it is not likely, perhaps, that the progress of science will increase the difficulty of believing them; but it can never again be possible to make the truths of religion depend on physical portents having taken place as recorded. the christian revelation can stand without them, and the rulers of the church will soon have to recognise that in very many minds it does stand without them. i have already indicated what i believe to be the essential parts of that revelation. whether it will be believed by a larger number of persons a hundred years hence than to-day depends, i suppose, on whether the nation will be in a more healthy condition than it is now. the chief rival to christianity is secularism; and this creed has some bitter disappointments in store for its worshippers. i cannot help hoping that the human race, having taken in succession every path except the right one, may pay more attention to the narrow way that leadeth unto life. in morals, the church will undoubtedly have a hard battle to fight. the younger generation has discarded all _tabus_, and in matters of sex we must be prepared for a period of unbridled license. but such lawlessness brings about its own cure by arousing disgust and shame; and the institution of marriage is far too deeply rooted to be in any danger from the revolution. i have, i suppose, made it clear that i do not consider myself specially fortunate in having been born in , and that i look forward with great anxiety to the journey through life which my children will have to make. but, after all, we judge our generation mainly by its surface currents. there may be in progress a storage of beneficent forces which we cannot see. there are ages of sowing and ages of reaping: the brilliant epochs may be those in which spiritual wealth is squandered, the epochs of apparent decline may be those in which the race is recuperating after an exhausting effort. to all appearance, man has still a great part of his long lease before him, and there is no reason to suppose that the future will be less productive of moral and spiritual triumphs than the past. the source of all good is like an inexhaustible river; the creator pours forth new treasures of goodness, truth, and beauty for all who will love them and take them. 'nothing that truly _is_ can ever perish,' as plotinus says; whatever has value in god's sight is safe for evermore. our half-real world is the factory of souls, in which we are tried, as in a furnace. we are not to set our hopes upon it, but to learn such wisdom as it can teach us while we pass through it. i will therefore end these thoughts on our present discontents with two messages of courage and confidence, one from chaucer, the other from blake. that thee is sent, receyve in buxomnesse, the wrastling for this worlde axeth a fall. her is non hoom, her nis but wildernesse: forth, pilgrim, forth! forth, beste, out of thy stall! know thy contree, look up, thank god of all: weyve thy lust, and let thy gost thee lede; and trouthe shall delivere, it is no drede. and this:-- joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine; under every grief and pine runs a joy with silken twine. it is right it should be so; man was made for joy and woe; and when this we rightly know safely through the world we go. footnotes: [ ] _times literary supplement_, july , . [ ] hearnshaw, _democracy at the crossroads_, p. . [ ] miss m. loane. mr. stephen reynolds has said the same. [ ] professor hearnshaw quotes: 'il y a opposition évidente et irréductible entre les principes socialistes et les principes démocratiques. il n'y a pas de conceptions politiques qui soient séparées par des abîmes plus profonds que la démocratie et le socialisme' (le bon). 'socialism must be built on ideas and institutions totally different from the ideas and institutions of democracy' (levine). 'la democratic tend à la conciliation des classes, tandis que le socialisme organise la lutte de classe' (lagardelle). [ ] a.d. lewis, _syndicalism and the general strike_. [ ] _the division of the product of industry_. [ ] _first and last things_ (pp. - . published in ). patriotism ( ) the sentiment of patriotism has seemed to many to mark an arrest of development in the psychical expansion of the individual, a half-way house between mere self-centredness and full human sympathy. some moralists have condemned it as pure egoism, magnified and disguised. 'patriotism,' says ruskin, 'is an absurd prejudice founded on an extended selfishness.' mr. grant allen calls it 'a vulgar vice--the national or collective form of the monopolist instinct.' mr. havelock ellis allows it to be 'a virtue--among barbarians.' for herbert spencer it is 'reflex egoism--extended selfishness.' these critics have made the very common mistake of judging human emotions and sentiments by their roots instead of by their fruits. they have forgotten the aristotelian canon that the 'nature' of anything is its completed development (hê phusis telos estin). the human self, as we know it, is a transitional form. it had a humble origin, and is capable of indefinite enhancement. ultimately, we are what we love and care for, and no limit has been set to what we may become without ceasing to be ourselves. the case is the same with our love of country. no limit has been set to what our country may come to mean for us, without ceasing to be our country. marcus aurelius exhorted himself--'the poet says, dear city of cecrops; shall not i pay, dear city of god?' but the city of god in which he wished to be was a city in which he would still live as 'a roman and an antonine.' the citizen of heaven knew that it was his duty to 'hunt sarmatians' on earth, though he was not obliged to imbrue his hands with 'cæsarism.' patriotism has two roots, the love of clan and the love of home. in migratory tribes the former alone counts; in settled communities diversities of origin are often forgotten. but the love of home, as we know it, is a gentler and more spiritual bond than clanship. the word home is associated with all that makes life beautiful and sacred, with tender memories of joy and sorrow, and especially with the first eager outlook of the young mind upon a wonderful world. a man does not as a rule feel much sentiment about his london house, still less about his office or factory. it is for the home of his childhood, or of his ancestors, that a man will fight most readily, because he is bound to it by a spiritual and poetic tie. expanding from this centre, the sentiment of patriotism embraces one's country as a whole. both forms of patriotism--the local and the racial, are frequently alloyed with absurd, unworthy or barbarous motives. the local patriot thinks that peebles, and not paris, is the place for pleasure, or asks whether any good thing can come out of nazareth. to the chinaman all aliens are 'outer barbarians' or 'foreign devils.' admiration for ourselves and our institutions is too often measured by our contempt and dislike for foreigners. our own nation has a peculiarly bad record in this respect. in the reign of james i the spanish ambassador was frequently insulted by the london crowd, as was the russian ambassador in ; not, apparently, because we had a burning grievance against either of those nations, but because spaniards and russians are very unlike englishmen. that at least is the opinion of the sagacious pepys on the later of these incidents. 'lord! to see the absurd nature of englishmen, that cannot forbear laughing and jeering at anything that looks strange.' defoe says that the english are 'the most churlish people alive' to foreigners, with the result that 'all men think an englishman the devil.' in the th and th centuries scotland seems to have ranked as a foreign country, and the presence of scots in london was much resented. cleveland thought it witty to write:-- had cain been scot, god would have changed his doom; not forced him wander, but confined him home. and we all remember dr. johnson's gibes. british patriotic arrogance culminated in the th and in the first half of the th century; in lord palmerston it found a champion at the head of the government. goldsmith describes the bearing of the englishman of his day:-- pride in their port, defiance in their eye, i see the lords of human kind pass by. michelet found in england 'human pride personified in a people,' at a time when the characteristic of germany was 'a profound impersonality.' it may be doubted whether even the arrogant brutality of the modern prussian is more offensive to foreigners than was the calm and haughty assumption of superiority by our countrymen at this time. our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were quite of milton's opinion, that, when the almighty wishes something unusually great and difficult to be done, he entrusts it to his englishmen. this unamiable characteristic was probably much more the result of insular ignorance than of a deep-seated pride. 'a generation or two ago,' said mr. asquith lately, 'patriotism was largely fed and fostered upon reciprocal ignorance and contempt.' the englishman seriously believed that the french subsisted mainly upon frogs, while the frenchman was equally convinced that the sale of wives at smithfield was one of our national institutions. this fruitful source of international misunderstanding has become less dangerous since the facilities of foreign travel have been increased. but in the relations of europe with alien and independent civilisations, such as that of china, we still see brutal arrogance and vulgar ignorance producing their natural results. another cause of perverted patriotism is the inborn pugnacity of the _bête humaine_. our species is the most cruel and destructive of all that inhabit this planet. if the lower animals, as we call them, were able to formulate a religion, they might differ greatly as to the shape of the beneficent creator, but they would nearly all agree that the devil must be very like a big white man. mr. mcdougall[ ] has lately raised the question whether civilised man is less pugnacious than the savage; and he answers it in the negative. the europeans, he thinks, are among the most combative of the human race. we are not allowed to knock each other on the head during peace; but our civilisation is based on cut-throat competition; our favourite games are mimic battles, which i suppose effect for us a 'purgation of the emotions' similar to that which aristotle attributed to witnessing the performance of a tragedy: and, when the fit seizes us, we are ready to engage in wars which cannot fail to be disastrous to both combatants. mr. mcdougall does not regret this disposition, irrational though it is. he thinks that it tends to the survival of the fittest, and that, if we substitute emulation for pugnacity, which on other grounds might seem an unmixed advantage, we shall have to call in the science of eugenics to save us from becoming as sheeplike as the chinese. there is, however, another side to this question, as we shall see presently. another instinct which has supplied fuel to patriotism of the baser sort is that of acquisitiveness. this tendency, without which even the most rudimentary civilisation would be impossible, began when the female of the species, instead of carrying her baby on her back and following the male to his hunting-grounds, made some sort of a lair for herself and her family, where primitive implements and stores of food could be kept. there are still tribes in brazil which have not reached this first step towards humanisation. but the instinct of hoarding, like all other instincts, tends to become hypertrophied and perverted; and with the institution of private property comes another institution--that of plunder and brigandage. in private life, no motive of action is at present so powerful and so persistent as acquisitiveness, which, unlike most other desires, knows no satiety. the average man is rich enough when he has a little more than he has got, and not till then. the acquisition and possession of land satisfies this desire in a high degree, since land is a visible and indestructible form of property. consequently, as soon as the instincts of the individual are transferred to the group, territorial aggrandisement becomes a main preoccupation of the state. this desire was the chief cause of wars, while kings and nobles regarded the territories over which they ruled as their private estates. wherever despotic or feudal conditions survive, such ideas are likely still to be found, and to cause dangers to other states. the greatest ambition of a modern emperor is still to be commemorated as a 'mehrer des reichs.' capitalism, by separating the idea of property from any necessary connection with landed estate, and democracy, by denying the whole theory on which dynastic wars of conquest are based, have both contributed to check this, perhaps the worst kind of war. it would, however, be a great error to suppose that the instinct of acquisitiveness, in its old and barbarous form, has lost its hold upon even the most civilised nations. when an old-fashioned brigand appears, and puts himself at the head of his nation, he becomes at once a popular hero. by any rational standard of morality, few greater scoundrels have lived than frederick the great and napoleon i. but they are still names to conjure with. both were men of singularly lucid intellect and entirely medieval ambitions. their great achievement was to show how under modern conditions aggressive war may be carried on without much loss (except in human life) to the aggressor. they tore up all the conventions which regulated the conduct of warfare, and reduced it to sheer brigandage and terrorism. and now, after a hundred years, we see these methods deliberately revived by the greatest military power in the world, and applied with the same ruthlessness and with an added pedantry which makes them more inhuman. the perpetrators of the crime calculated quite correctly that they need fear no reluctance on the part of the nation, no qualms of conscience, no compassionate shrinking, no remorse. it must, indeed, be a bad cause that cannot count on the support of the large majority of the people at the _beginning_ of a war. pugnacity, greed, mere excitement, the contagion of a crowd, will fill the streets of almost any capital with a shouting and jubilant mob on the day after a war has been declared. and yet the motives which we have enumerated are plainly atavistic and pathological. they belong to a mental condition which would conduct an individual to the prison or the gallows. we do not argue seriously whether the career of the highwayman or burglar is legitimate and desirable; and it is impossible to maintain that what is disgraceful for the individual is creditable for the state. and apart from the consideration that predatory patriotism deforms its own idol and makes it hateful in the eyes of the world, subsequent history has fully confirmed the moral instinct of the ancient greeks, that national insolence or injustice (hybrist) brings its own severe punishment. the imaginary dialogue which thucydides puts into the mouth of the athenian and melian envoys, and the debate in the athenian assembly about the punishment of revolted mitylene, are intended to prepare the reader for the tragic fate of the sicilian expedition. the same writer describes the break-up of all social morality during the civil war in words which seem to herald the destruction not only of athens but of greek freedom. machiavelli's 'prince' shows how history can repeat itself, reiterating its lesson that a nation which gives itself to immoral aggrandisement is far on the road to disintegration. seneca's rebuke to his slave-holding countrymen, 'can you complain that you have been robbed of the liberty which you have yourselves abolished in your own homes?' applies equally to nations which have enslaved or exploited the inhabitants of subject lands. if the roman empire had a long and glorious life, it was because its methods were liberal, by the standard of ancient times. in so far as rome abused her power, she suffered the doom of all tyrants. the illusions of imperialism have been made clearer than ever by the course of modern history. attempts to destroy a nationality by overthrowing its government, proscribing its language, and maltreating its citizens, are never successful. the experiment has been tried with great thoroughness in poland; and the poles are now more of a nation than they were under the oppressive feudal system which existed before the partitions. our own empire would be a ludicrous failure if it were any part of our ambition to anglicise other races. the only english parts of the empire were waste lands which we have peopled with our own emigrants. we hauled down the french flag in canada, with the result that eastern canada is now the only flourishing french colony, and the only part of the world where the french race increases rapidly. we have helped the dutch to multiply with almost equal rapidity in south africa. we have added several millions to the native population of egypt, and over a hundred millions to the population of india. similarly, the americans have made cuba for the first time a really spanish island, by driving out its incompetent spanish governors and so attracting immigrants from spain. on the whole, in imperialism nothing fails like success. if the conqueror oppresses his subjects, they will become fanatical patriots, and sooner or later have their revenge; if he treats them well, and 'governs them for their good,' they will multiply faster than their rulers, till they claim their independence. the englishman now says, 'i am quite content to have it so'; but that is not the old imperialism. the notion that frequent war is a healthy tonic for a nation is scarcely tenable. its dysgenic effect, by eliminating the strongest and healthiest of the population, while leaving the weaklings at home to be the fathers of the next generation, is no new discovery. it has been supported by a succession of men, such as tenon, dufau, foissac, de lapouge, and richet in france; tiedemann and seeck in germany; guerrini in italy; kellogg and starr jordan in america. the case is indeed overwhelming. the lives destroyed in war are nearly all males, thus disturbing the sex equilibrium of the population; they are in the prime of life, at the age of greatest fecundity; and they are picked from a list out of which from to per cent. have been rejected for physical unfitness. it seems to be proved that the children born in france during the napoleonic wars were poor and undersized-- millimetres below the normal height. war combined with religious celibacy to ruin spain. 'castile makes men and wastes them,' said a spanish writer. 'this sublime and terrible phrase sums up the whole of spanish history.' schiller was right; 'immer der krieg verschlingt die besten.' we in england have suffered from this drain in the past; we shall suffer much more in the next generation. we have fed our sea for a thousand years, and she calls us, still unfed, though there's never a wave of all her waves but marks our english dead. we have strawed our best to the weed's unrest, to the shark and the sheering gull, if blood be the price of admiralty, lord god, we ha' paid in full. aggressive patriotism is thus condemned by common sense and the verdict of history no less than by morality. we are entitled to say to the militarists what socrates said to polus: this doctrine of yours has now been examined and found wanting. and this doctrine alone has stood the test--that we ought to be more afraid of doing than of suffering wrong; and that the prime business of every man [and nation] is not to seem good, but to be good, in all private and public dealings. if the nations would render something more than lip-service to this principle, the abolition of war would be within sight; for, as ruskin says, echoing the judgment of the epistle of st. james, 'the first reason for all wars, and for the necessity of national defences, is that the majority of persons, high and low, in all european countries, are thieves.' but it must be remembered that, in spite of the proverb, it takes in reality only one to make a quarrel. it is useless for the sheep to pass resolutions in favour of vegetarianism, while the wolf remains of a different opinion. our own conversion to pacificism, though sincere, is somewhat recent. our literature does not reflect it. bacon is frankly militarist: above all, for empire and greatness, it importeth most, that a nation do profess arms, as their principal honour, study, and occupation. for the things which we formerly have spoken of are but habilitations towards arms; and what is habitation without intention and act?... it is so plain that a man profiteth in that he most intendeth, that it needeth not to be stood upon. it is enough to point at it; that no nation, which doth not directly profess arms, may look to have greatness fall into their mouths. a state, therefore, 'ought to have those laws or customs, which may reach forth unto them just occasions of war.' shakespeare's 'henry v' has been not unreasonably recommended by the germans as 'good war-reading.' it would be easy to compile a _catena_ of bellicose maxims from our literature, reaching down to the end of the th century. the change is perhaps due less to progress in morality than to that political good sense which has again and again steered our ship through dangerous rocks. but there has been some real advance, in all civilised countries. we do not find that men talked about the 'bankruptcy of christianity' during the napoleonic campaigns. even the germans think it necessary to tell each other that it was belgium who began this war. but, though pugnacity and acquisitiveness have been the real foundation of much miscalled patriotism, better motives are generally mingled with these primitive instincts. it is the subtle blend of noble and ignoble sentiment which makes patriotism such a difficult problem for the moralist. the patriot nearly always believes, or thinks he believes, that he desires the greatness of his country because his country stands for something intrinsically great and valuable. where this conviction is absent we cannot speak of patriotism, but only of the cohesion of a wolf-pack. the greeks, who at last perished because they could not combine, had nevertheless a consciousness that they were the trustees of civilisation against barbarism; and in their day of triumph over the persians they were filled, for a time, with an almost jewish awe in presence of the righteous judgment of god. the 'persæ' of Æschylus is one of the noblest of patriotic poems. the romans, a harder and coarser race, had their ideal of _virtus_ and _gravitas_, which included simplicity of life, dignity and self-restraint, honesty and industry, and devotion to the state. they rightly felt that these qualities constituted a vocation to empire. there was much harshness and injustice in roman imperialism; but what nobler epitaph could even the british empire desire than the tribute of claudian, when the weary titan was at last stricken and dying: hæc est, in gremium victos quæ sola recepit, humanumque genus communi nomine fovit matris non dominæ ritu, civesque vocavit quos domuit, nexuque pio longinqua revinxit? jewish patriotism was of a different kind. a federation of fierce bedouin tribes, encamped amid hostile populations, and set in the cockpit of rival empires against which it was impossible to stand, the israelites were hammered by misfortune into the most indestructible of all organisms, a theocracy. their religion was to them what, in a minor degree, roman catholicism has been to ireland and poland, a consecration of patriotic faith and hope. westphal says the jews failed because they hated foreigners more than they loved god. they have had good reason to hate foreigners. but undoubtedly the effect of their hatred has been that the great gifts which their nation had to give to humanity have come through other hands, and so have evoked no gratitude. in the first century of our era they were called to an almost superhuman abnegation of their inveterate nationalism, and they could not rise to it. as almost every other nation would have done, they chose the lower patriotism instead of the higher; and it was against their will that the religion of civilised humanity grew out of hebrew soil. but they gained this by their choice, tragic though it was, that they have stood by the graves of all the empires that oppressed them, and have preserved their racial integrity and traditions in the most adverse circumstances. the history of the jews also shows that oppression and persecution are far more efficacious in binding a nation together than community of interest and national prosperity. increase of wealth divides rather than unites a people; but suffering shared in common binds it together with hoops of steel. the jews were the only race whose spiritual independence was not crushed by the roman steam-roller. it would be unfair to say that rome destroyed nations; for her subjects in the west were barbarous tribes, and in the east she displaced monarchies no less alien to their subjects than her own rule. but she prevented the growth of nationalities, as it is to be feared we have done in india; and the absence of sturdy independence in the countries round the mediterranean, especially in the greek-speaking provinces, made the final downfall inevitable. the lesson has its warning for modern theorists who wish to obliterate the sentiment of nationality, the revival of which, after a long eclipse, has been one of the achievements of modern civilisation. for it was not till long after the destruction of the western roman empire that nationality began to assume its present importance in europe. the transition from medieval to modern history is most strongly marked by the emergence of this principle, with all that it involves. at the end of the middle ages europe was at last compelled to admit that the grand idea of an universal state and an universal church had definitely broken down. hitherto it had been assumed that behind all national disputes lay a _ius gentium_ by which all were bound, and that behind all religious questions lay the authority of the roman catholic church, from which there was no appeal. the modern period which certainly does not represent the last word of civilisation, has witnessed the abandonment of these ideas. the change took place gradually. france became a nation when the english raids ceased in the middle of the th century. spain achieved unity a generation later by the union of castile and aragon and the expulsion of the moors from the peninsula. holland found herself in the heroic struggle against spain in the th century. but the practice of conducting wars by hiring foreign mercenaries, a sure sign that the nationalist spirit is weak, continued till much later. and the dynastic principle, which is the very negation of nationalism, actually culminated in the th century; and this is the true explanation of the feeble resistance which europe offered to the french revolutionary armies, until napoleon stirred up the dormant spirit of nationalism in the peoples whom he plundered. 'in the old european system,' says lord acton, 'the rights of nationalities were neither recognised by governments nor asserted by the people. the interests of the reigning families, not those of the nations, regulated the frontiers; and the administration was conducted generally without any reference to popular desires.' marriage or conquest might unite the most diverse nations under one sovereign, such as charles v. while such ideas prevailed, the suppression of a nation did not seem hateful; the partition of poland evoked few protests at the time, though perhaps few acts of injustice have recoiled with greater force on the heads of their perpetrators than this is likely to do. poles have been and are among the bitterest enemies of autocracy, and the strongest advocates of republicanism and racialism, in all parts of the world. the french revolution opened a new era for nationalism, both directly and indirectly. the deposition of the bourbons was a national act which might be a precedent for other oppressed peoples. and when the revolution itself began to trample on the rights of other nations, an uprising took place, first in spain and then in prussia, which proved too strong for the tyrant. the apostasy of france from her own ideals of liberty proved the futility of mere doctrines, like those of rousseau, and compelled the peoples to arm themselves and win their freedom by the sword. the national militarism of prussia was the direct consequence of her humiliation at jena and auerstädt, and of the harsh terms imposed upon her at tilsit. it is true that the congress of vienna attempted to revive the old dynastic system. but for the steady opposition of england, the clique of despots might have reimposed the old yoke upon their subjects. the settlement of also left the entire centre of europe in a state of chaos; and it was only by slow degrees that italy and germany attained national unity. poland, the austrian empire, and the balkan states still remain in a condition to trouble the peace of the world. in austria-hungary the clash of the dynastic and the nationalist ideas is strident; and every citizen of that empire has to choose between a wider and a narrower allegiance. europeans are, in fact, far from having made up their minds as to what is the organic whole towards which patriotic sentiment ought to be directed. socialism agrees with despotism in saying, 'it is the political aggregate, the state,' however much they may differ as to how the state should be administered. for this reason militarism and state-socialism might at any time come to terms. they are at one in exaggerating the 'organic' unity of a political or geographical _enclave_; and they are at one in depreciating the value of individual liberty. loyalty to 'the state' instead of to 'king and country' is not an easy or a natural emotion. the state is a bloodless abstraction, which as a rule only materialises as a drill-sergeant or a tax-collector. enthusiasm for it, and not only for what can be got out of it, does not extend much beyond the fabian society. cæsarism has the great advantage of a visible head, as well as of its appeal to very old and strong thought-habits; and accordingly, in any national crisis, loyalty to the war-lord is likely to show unexpected strength, and doctrinaire socialism unexpected weakness. but devotion to the head of the state in his representative capacity is a different thing from the old feudal loyalty. it is far more impersonal; the ruler, whether an individual or a council, is reverenced as a non-human and non-moral embodiment of the national power, a sort of platonic idea of coercive authority. this kind of loyalty may very easily be carried too far. in reality, we are members of a great many 'social organisms,' each of which has indefeasible claims upon us. our family, our circle of acquaintance, our business or profession, our church, our country, the comity of civilised nations, humanity at large, are all social organisms; and some of the chief problems of ethics are concerned with the adjustment of their conflicting claims. to make any one of these absolute is destructive of morality. but militarism and socialism deliberately make the state absolute. in internal affairs this may lead to the ruthless oppression of individuals or whole classes; in external relations it produces wars waged with 'methods of barbarism.' the whole idea of the state as an organism, which has been emphasised by social reformers as a theoretical refutation of selfish individualism, rests on the abuse of a metaphor. the bond between the dwellers in the same political area is far less close than that between the organs of a living body. every man has a life of his own, and some purely personal rights; he has, moreover, moral links with other human associations, outside his own country, and important moral duties towards them. no one who reflects on the solidarity of interests among capitalists, among hand-workers, or, in a different way, among scholars and artists, all over the world, can fail to see that the apotheosis of the state, whether in the interest of war or of revolution, is an anachronism and an absurdity. a very different basis for patriotic sentiment is furnished by the scientific or pseudo-scientific theories about race, which have become very popular in our time. when the history of ideas in the th century comes to be written, it is certain that among the causes of this great war will be named the belief of the germans in the superiority of their own race, based on certain historical and ethnological theories which have acted like a heady wine in stimulating the spirit of aggression among them. the theory, stated briefly, is that the shores of the baltic are the home of the finest human type that has yet existed, a type distinguished by blond hair, great physical strength, unequalled mental vigour and ability, superior morality, and an innate aptitude for governing and improving inferior races. unfortunately for the world, this noble stock cannot flourish for very long in climates unlike its own; but from the earliest historical times it has 'swarmed' periodically, subjugating the feebler peoples of the south, and elevating them for a time above the level which they were naturally fitted to reach. wherever we find marked energy and nobleness of character, we may suspect aryan blood; and history will usually support our surmise. among the great men who were certainly or probably germans were agamemnon, julius cæsar, the founder of christianity, dante, and shakespeare. the blond nordic giant is fulfilling his mission by conquering and imposing his culture upon other races. they ought to be grateful to him for the service, especially as it has a sacrificial aspect, the lower types having, at least in their own climates, greater power of survival. this fantastic theory has been defended in a large number of german books, of which the 'foundations of the nineteenth century,' by the renegade englishman houston chamberlain, is the most widely known. the objections to it are numerous. it is notorious that until the invention of gunpowder the settled and civilised peoples of europe were in frequent danger from bands of hardier mountaineers, forest-dwellers, or pastoral nomads, who generally came from the north. but the formidable fighting powers of these marauders were no proof of intrinsic superiority. in fact, the most successful of these conquerors, if success is measured by the amount of territory overrun and subdued, were not the 'great blond beasts' of nietzsche, but yellow monsters with black hair, the huns and tartars.[ ] the causes of tartar ascendancy had not the remotest connection with any moral or intellectual qualities which we can be expected to admire. nor can the nordic race, well endowed by nature as it undoubtedly is, prove such a superiority as this theory claims for it. some of the largest brains yet measured have been those of japanese; and the jews have probably a higher average of ability than the teutons. again, the germans are not descended from a pure nordic stock. the northern type can be best studied in scandinavia, where the people share with the irish the distinction of being the handsomest race in the world. the german is a mixture of various anatomical types, including, in some parts, distinct traces of mongolian blood, which indicate that the raiding huns meddled, according to their custom, with the german women, and bequeathed to a section of the nation the turanian cheek-bones, as well as certain moral characteristics. lastly, the german race has never shown much aptitude for governing and assimilating other peoples. the french, by virtue of their greater sympathy, are far more successful. the french have their own form of this pseudo-science in their doctrine of the persistence of national characteristics. each nation may be summed up in a formula: england, for example, is 'the country of will.' a few instances may, no doubt, be quoted in support of this theory. julius cæsar said: 'duas res plerasque gallia industriosissime prosequitur, rem militarem et argute loqui'; and these are still the characteristics of our gallant allies. and madame de staël may be thought to have hit off the german character very cleverly about the time when bismarck first saw the light. 'the germans are vigorously submissive. they employ philosophical reasonings to explain what is the least philosophic thing in the world, respect for force and the fear which transforms that respect into admiration.' but the fact remains that the characters of nations frequently change, or rather that what we call national character is usually only the policy of the governing class, forced upon it by circumstances, or the manner of living which climate, geographical position, and other external causes have made necessary for the inhabitants of a country. to found patriotism on homogeneity of race is no wiser than to bound it by frontier lines. as the abbé noël has lately written about his own country, belgium, the race is not the nation. the nation is not a physiological fact; it is a moral fact. what constitutes a nation is the community of sentiments and ideals which results from a common history and education. the variations of the cephalic index are here of no great importance. the essential factor of the national consciousness resides in a certain common mode of conceiving the conditions of the social life. belgium, the abbé maintains, has found this national consciousness amid her sufferings; there are no longer any distinctions between french-speaking belgians and walloons or flemings. this is in truth the real base of patriotism. it is the basis of our own love for our country. what britain stands for is what britain is. we have long known in our hearts what britain stands for; but we have now been driven to search our thoughts and make our ideals explicit to ourselves and others. the englishman has become a philosopher _malgré lui_, 'whatever the world thinks,' writes bishop berkeley. 'he who hath not much meditated upon god, the human soul, and the _summum bonum_, may possibly make a thriving earthworm, but will most indubitably make a sorry patriot and a sorry statesman.' these words, which were quoted by mr. arthur balfour a few years ago, may seem to make a large demand on the average citizen; but in our quiet way we have all been meditating on these things since last august, and we know pretty well what our _summum bonum_ is for our country. we believe in chivalry and fair play and kindliness--these things first and foremost; and we believe, if not exactly in democracy, yet in a government under which a man may think and speak the thing he wills. we do not believe in war, and we do not believe in bullying. we do not flatter ourselves that we are the supermen; but we are convinced that the ideas which we stand for, and which we have on the whole tried to carry out, are essential to the peaceful progress and happiness of humanity; and for these ideas we have drawn the sword. the great words of abraham lincoln have been on the lips of many and in the hearts of all since the beginning of the great contest: 'with malice towards none; with charity for all: with firmness in the right as god gives us to see the right--let us strive on to finish the work we are in.' patriotism thus spiritualised and moralised is the true patriotism. when the emotion is once set in its right relations to the whole of human life and to all that makes human life worth living, it cannot become an immoral obsession. it is certain to become an immoral obsession if it is isolated and made absolute. we have seen the appalling perversion--the methodical diabolism--which this obsession has produced in germany. it has startled us because we thought that the civilised world had got beyond such insanity; but it is of course no new thing. machiavelli said, 'i prefer my country to the salvation of my soul'--a sentiment which sounds noble but is not; it has only a superficial resemblance to st. paul's willingness to be 'accursed' for the sake of his countrymen. devil-worship remains what it was, even when the idol is draped in the national flag. this obsession may be in part a survival from savage conditions, when all was at stake in every feud; but chiefly it is an example of the idealising and universalising power of the imagination, which turns every unchecked passion into a monomania. the only remedy is, as lowell's hosea biglow reminds us, to bear in mind that our true country is that ideal realm which we represent to ourselves under the names of religion, duty, and the like. our terrestrial organisations are but far-off approaches to so fair a model; and all they are verily traitors who resist not any attempt to divert them from this their original intendment. our true country is bounded on the north and the south, on the east and west, by justice, and when she oversteps that invisible boundary-line by so much as a hair's breadth, she ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather to be looked upon _quasi noverca_. so socrates said that the wise man will be a citizen of his true city, of which the type is laid up in heaven, and only conditionally of his earthly country. the obsession of patriotism is not the only evil which we have to consider. we may err by defect as well as by excess. herbert spencer speaks of an 'anti-patriotic bias'; and it can hardly be disputed that many englishmen who pride themselves on their lofty morality are suffering from this mental twist. the malady seems to belong to the anglo-saxon constitution, for it is rarely encountered in other countries, while we had a noisy pro-napoleonic faction a hundred years ago, and the americans had their 'copperheads' in the northern states during the civil war. in our own day, every enemy of england, from the mad mullah to the mad kaiser, has had his advocates at home; and the champions of boer and boxer, of afridi and afrikander, of the mahdi and the matabele, have been usually the same persons. the english, it would appear, differ from other misguided rascals in never being right even by accident. but the idiosyncrasy of a few persons is far less important than the comparative insensibility of whole classes to the patriotic appeal, except when war is actually raging. this is not specially characteristic of our own country. the german emperor has complained of his social democrats as 'people without a fatherland'; and the cry 'À bas la patrie' has been heard in france. it is usual to explain this attitude by the fact that the manual workers 'have no stake in the country,' and might not find their condition altered for the worse by subjection to a foreign power. a few of our working-men have given colour to this charge by exclaiming petulantly that they could not be worse off under the germans; but in this they have done themselves and their class less than justice. the anti-militarism and cosmopolitanism of the masses in every country is a profoundly interesting fact, a problem which demands no superficial investigation. it is one result of that emancipation from traditional ideas, which makes the most important difference between the upper and middle classes on the one side and the lower on the other. we lament that the working-man takes but little interest in christianity, and rack our brains to discover what we have done to discredit our religion in his eyes. the truth is that christianity, as a dogmatic and ecclesiastical system, is unintelligible without a very considerable knowledge of the conditions under which it took shape. but what are the ancient hebrews, and the greeks and romans, to the working-man? he is simply cut off from the means of reading intelligently any book of the bible, or of understanding how the institution called the catholic church, and its offshoots, came to exist. as our staple education becomes more 'modern' and less literary, the custodians of organised religion will find their difficulties increasing. but the same is true about patriotism. love of country means pride in the past and ambition for the future. those who live only in the present are incapable of it. but our working-man knows next to nothing about the past history of england; he has scarcely heard of our great men, and has read few of our great books. it is not surprising that the appeal to patriotism leaves him cold. this is an evil that has its proper remedy. there is no reason why a sane and elevated love of country should not be stimulated by appropriate teaching in our schools. in america this is done--rather hysterically; and in germany--rather brutally. the jews have always made their national history a large part of their education, and even of their religion. nothing has helped them more to retain their self-consciousness as a nation. ignorance of the past and indifference to the future usually go together. those who most value our historical heritage will be most desirous to transmit it unimpaired. but the absence of traditional ideas is by no means an unmixed evil. the working-man sees more clearly than the majority of educated persons the absurdity of international hatred and jealousy. he is conscious of greater solidarity with his own class in other european countries than with the wealthier class in his own; and as he approaches the whole question without prejudice, he cannot fail to realise how large a part of the product of labour is diverted from useful purposes by modern militarism. international rivalry is in his eyes one of the most serious obstacles to the abolition of want and misery. tolstoy hardly exaggerates when he says: 'patriotism to the peoples represents only a frightful future; the fraternity of nations seems an ideal more and more accessible to humanity, and one which humanity desires.' military glory has very little attraction for the working-man. his humanitarian instincts appear to be actually stronger than those of the sheltered classes. to take life in any circumstances seems to him a shocking thing; and the harsh procedure of martial law and military custom is abhorrent to him. he sees no advantage and no credit in territorial aggrandisement, which he suspects to be prompted mainly by the desire to make money unjustly. he is therefore a convinced pacificist; though his doctrine of human brotherhood breaks down ignominiously when he finds his economic position threatened by the competition of cheap foreign labour. if an armed struggle ever takes place between the nations of europe (or their colonists) and the yellow races, it will be a working-man's war. but on the whole, the best hope of getting rid of militarism may lie in the growing power of the working class. the poor, being intensely gregarious and very susceptible to all collective emotions, are still liable to fits of warlike excitement. but their real minds are at present set against an aggressive foreign policy, without being shut against the appeals of a higher patriotism. and yet the irritation which is felt against preachers of the brotherhood of man is not without justification. some persons who condemn patriotism are simply lacking in public spirit, or their loyalty is monopolised by some fad or 'cause,' which is a poor substitute for love of country. the man who has no prejudices in favour of his own family and his own country is generally an unamiable creature. so we need not condemn molière for saying, 'l'ami du genre humain n'est pas du tout mon fait,' nor brunetière for declaring that 'ni la nature ni l'histoire n'ont en effet voulu que les hommes fussent tous frères.' but french neo-catholicism, a bourgeois movement directed against all the 'ideas of ,' seems to have adopted the most ferocious kind of chauvinism. m. paul bourget wrote the other day in the _Écho de paris_, 'this war must be the first of many, since we cannot exterminate sixty-five million germans in a single campaign!' the women and children too! this is not the way to revive the religion of christ in france. the practical question for the future is whether there is any prospect of returning, under more favourable auspices, to the unrealised ideal of the middle ages--an agreement among the nations of europe to live amicably under one system of international law and right, binding upon all, and with the consciousness of an intellectual and spiritual unity deeper than political divisions. 'the nations are the citizens of humanity,' said mazzini; and so they ought to be. some of the omens are favourable. militarism has dug its own grave. the great powers increased their armaments till the burden became insupportable, and have now rushed into bankruptcy in the hope of shaking it off. in prehistoric times the lords of creation were certain gigantic lizards, protected by massive armour-plates which could only be carried by a creature thirty to sixty feet long. then they died, when neither earth, air, nor water could support them any longer. such must be the end of the european nations, unless they learn wisdom. the lesson will be brought home to them by transatlantic competition. the united states of america had already, before this war, an initial advantage over the disunited states of europe, amounting to at least per cent. on every contract; after the war this advantage will be doubled. it remains to be seen whether the next generation will honour the debts which we are piling up. disraeli used to complain of what he called 'dutch finance,' which consists in 'mortgaging the industry of the future to protect property in the present.' pitt paid for the great war of a hundred years ago in this manner; after a century we are still groaning under the burden of his loans. we may hear more of the iniquity of 'dutch finance' when the democracies of the next generation have a chance of repudiating obligations which, as they will say, they did not contract. however that may be, international rivalry is plainly very bad business; and there are great possibilities in the hague tribunal, if, and only if, the signatories to the conference bind themselves to use force against a recalcitrant member. the conduct of germany in this war has shown that public opinion is powerless to restrain a nation which feels strong enough to defy it. another cause which may give patriots leisure to turn their thoughts away from war's alarms is that the 'swarming' period of the european races is coming to an end. the unparalleled increase of population in the first three quarters of the th century has been followed by a progressive decrease in the birth-rate, which will begin to tell upon social conditions when the reduction in the death-rate, which has hitherto kept pace with it, shall have reached its natural limit. europe with a stationary population will be in a much happier condition; and problems of social reform can then be tackled with some hope of success. honourable emulation in the arts of life may then take the place of desperate competition and antagonism. human lives will begin to have a positive value, and we may even think it fair to honour our saviours more than our destroyers. the effects of past follies will then soon be effaced; for nations recover much more quickly from wars than from internal disorders. external injuries are rapidly cured; but 'those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves.' the greatest obstacle to progress is not man's inherited pugnacity, but his incorrigible tendency to parasitism. the true patriot will keep his eye fixed on this, and will dread as the state's worst enemies those citizens who at the top and bottom of the social scale have no other ambition than to hang on and suck the life-blood of the nation. great things may be hoped from the new science of eugenics, when it has passed out of its tentative and experimental stage. in the distant future we may reasonably hope that patriotism will be a sentiment like the loyalty which binds a man to his public school and university, an affection purged of all rancour and jealousy, a stimulus to all honourable conduct and noble effort, a part of the poetry of life. it is so already to many of us, and has been so to the noblest englishmen since we have had a literature. if henry v's speech at agincourt is the splendid gasconade of a royal freebooter, there is no false ring in the scene where john of gaunt takes leave of his banished son; nor in sir walter scott's 'breathes there a man with soul so dead,' etc. 'if i forget thee, o jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.' we cannot quite manage to substitute london for zion in singing psalms, though there are some in england--eton, winchester, oxford, cambridge--which do evoke these feelings. these emotions of loyalty and devotion are by no means to be checked or despised. they have an infinite potency for good. in spiritual things there is no conflict between intensity and expansion. the deepest sympathy is, potentially, also the widest. he who loves not his home and country which he has seen, how shall he love humanity in general which he has not seen? there are, after all, few emotions of which one has less reason to be ashamed than the little lump in the throat which the englishman feels when he first catches sight of the white cliffs of dover. footnotes: [ ] in his _introduction to social psychology_. [ ] the reasons of their irresistible strength have been explained in a most brilliant manner by dr. peisker in the first volume of the 'cambridge medieval history.' the birth-rate ( ) the numbers of every species are determined, not by the procreative power of its members, which always greatly exceeds the capacity of the earth to support a progeny increasing in geometrical progression, but by two factors, the activity of its enemies and the available supply of food. those species which survive owe their success in the struggle for existence mainly to one of two qualities, enormous fertility or parental care. the female cod spawns about , , eggs at a time, of which at most one-third--perhaps much less--are afterwards fertilised. an infinitesimal proportion of these escapes being devoured by fish or fowl. an insect-eating bird is said to require for its support about , insects a year, and the number of such birds must amount to thousands of millions. as a rule there is a kind of equilibrium between the forces of destruction and of reproduction. if a species is nearly exterminated by its enemies, those enemies lose their food-supply and perish themselves. in some sheltered spot the survivors of the victims remain and increase till they begin to send out colonies again. in some species, such as the mice in la plata, and the beasts and birds which devour them, there is an alternation of increase and decrease, to be accounted for in this way. but permanent disturbances of equilibrium sometimes occur. the rabbit in australia, having found a virgin soil, multiplied for some time almost up to the limit of its natural fertility and is firmly established on that continent. the brown rat (some say) has exterminated our black rat and the maori rat in new zealand. the microbe of the terrible disease which the crews of columbus brought back to europe, after causing a devastating epidemic at the end of the fifteenth century, established a kind of _modus vivendi_ with its hosts, and has remained as a permanent scourge in europe. other microbes, like those of cholera and plague, emigrate from the lands where they are endemic, like a horde of tartars, and after slaying all who are susceptible disappear from inanition. the draining of the fens has driven the anopheles mosquito from england, and our countrymen no longer suffer from 'ague.' cleanlier habits are banishing the louse and its accompaniment typhus fever. fertility and care for offspring seem as a rule to vary inversely. the latter is the path of biological progress, and is characteristic of all viviparous animals. that any degree of parental attention is incompatible with the immense fecundity of the lower organisms needs no demonstration. such fertility is not necessary to keep up the numbers of the higher species, which find abundant food in the swarming progeny of the lower types, and are not themselves exposed to wholesale slaughter. speaking of fishes, sutherland says: of species that exhibit no sort of parental care, the average of forty-nine gives , , eggs to a female each year; while among those which make nests or any apology for nests the number is only about , . among those which have any protective tricks, such as carrying the eggs in pouches or attached to the body, or in the mouth, the average number is under ; while among those whose care takes the form of uterine or quasi-uterine gestation which brings the young into the world alive, an average of eggs is quite sufficient. man is no exception to these laws. his evolution has been steadily in the direction of diminishing fertility and increasing parental care. this does not necessarily imply that the modern european loves his children better than the savage loves his. it is grim necessity, not want of affection, which determines the treatment of children by their parents over a great part of the world, and through the greater part of human history. the homeless hunters, who represent the lowest stage of savagery, are now almost extinct. in these tribes the woman has to follow the man carrying her baby. under such conditions the chances of rearing a large family are small indeed. very different is the life of the grassland nomads, who roam over the arabian plateau and the steppes of central asia. these tribes, who really live as the parasites of their flocks and herds, depending on them entirely for subsistence, often multiply rapidly. their typical unit is the great patriarchal family, in which the _sheikh_ may have scores of children by different mothers. these children soon begin to earn their keep, and are taken care of. if, however, the patriarch so chooses, hagar with her child is cast adrift, to find her way back to her own people, if she can. the grasslands are usually almost as full as they can hold. a period of drought, or pressure by rivals, in former times sent a horde of these hardy shepherds on a raid into the nearest settled province; and if, like the tartars, they were mounted, they usually killed, plundered, and conquered wherever they went, until the discovery of gunpowder saved civilisation from the recurrent peril of barbarian inroads. barbarians of another type, hunters with fixed homes, seldom increase rapidly, partly because the dangers of forest-life for young children are much greater than on the steppe. in the primitive river-valley civilisations, such as egypt and babylonia, the conditions of increase were so favourable that a dense population soon began to press upon the means of subsistence. in egypt the remedy was a centralised government which could undertake great irrigation works and intensive cultivation. in babylonia, for the first time in history, foreign trade was made to support a larger population than the land itself could maintain. there was little or no infanticide in babylonia, but the death-rate in these steaming alluvial plains has always been very high. when we turn to poor and mountainous countries like greece, the conditions are very different. it was an old belief among the hellenes that in the days before the trojan war 'the world was too full of people.' the increase was doubtless made possible by the trade which developed in the minoan period, but the sources of food-supply were liable to be interfered with. hence came the necessity for active colonisation, which lasted from the eighth to the sixth century b.c. this period of expansion came to an end when all the available sites were occupied. in the sixth century the greeks found themselves headed off, in the west by phoenicians and etruscans, in the east by the persian empire. the problem of over-population was again pressing upon them. incessant civil wars between hellenes kept the numbers down to some extent; but greek battles were not as a rule very bloody, and every healthy nation has a surprising capacity of making good the losses caused by war. the first effect of the check to emigration was that the old ideal of the 'self-sufficient life,' which meant the practice of mixed farming, had to be partially abandoned. the most flourishing states, and especially athens, had to take to manufactures, which they exchanged for the food-products of the balkan states and south russia. the result was an increasing urbanisation, and a new population of free 'resident aliens.' conservatives hated this change and wished to revive the old ideal of a small self-supporting state, with a maximum of , or , citizens. plato, in his latest work, the 'laws,' wishes his model city to be not too near the sea, the proximity of which 'fills the streets with merchants and shopkeepers, and begets dishonesty in the souls of men.' on the other side isocrates, the most far-seeing of athenian politicians, realised that the day of small city-states was over, and that the limited, 'self-sufficient' community would not long maintain its independence. he urged his countrymen to pursue a policy of peaceful penetration in western asia, as the greeks were soon to do under the successors of alexander. but the prejudice against industrialism was very strong. greece in the fifth century remained a poor country; her exports were not more than enough to pay for the food of her existing population; and that population had to be artificially restricted. the greeks were an exceptionally healthy and long-lived race; their great men for the most part lived to ages which have no parallel until the nineteenth century. the infant death-rate from natural causes may have been rather high, as it is in modern greece, but it was augmented by systematic infanticide. the greek father had an absolute right to decide whether a new-comer was to be admitted to the family. in ephesus alone of greek cities a parent was compelled to prove that he was too poor to rear a child before he was allowed to get rid of it.[ ] even hesiod, centuries earlier, advises a father not to bring up more than one son, and daughters were sacrificed more frequently than sons. the usual practice was to expose the infant in a jar; anyone who thought it worth while might rescue the baby and bring it up as a slave. but this was not often done. at gela, in sicily, there are 'potted' burials in an excavated graveyard, out of a total of .[ ] the proportion of female infants exposed must have been very large. the evidence of literature is supported by such letters as this from a husband at oxyrhynchus: 'when--good luck to you--your child is born, if it is a male, let it live; if a female, expose it.'[ ] besides infanticide, abortion was freely practised, and without blame.[ ] the greek citizen married rather late; but as his bride was usually in her 'teens this would not affect the birth-rate. nor need we attach much importance, as a factor in checking population, to the characteristic greek vice, nor to prostitution, which throughout antiquity was incredibly cheap and visited by no physical penalty. as for slaves, xenophon recommends that they should be allowed to have children as a reward for good conduct.[ ] a rapid decline in population set in under the successors of alexander. polybius ascribes it to selfishness and a high standard of comfort, which is doubtless true of the upper and middle classes;[ ] but the depopulation of rural greece can hardly be so accounted for. perhaps the forests were cut down, and the rainfall diminished. it was the general impression that the soil was far less productive than formerly. the decay of the hellenic race was accelerated after the roman conquest, until the old stock became almost extinct. this disappearance of the most gifted race that ever inhabited our planet is one of the strangest catastrophes of history, and is full of warnings for the modern sociologist. industrial slavery, indifference to parenthood, and addiction to club-life were certainly three of the main causes, unless we prefer to regard the two last as symptoms of hopelessness about the future. the same disease fell upon italy, and was coincident not with the murderous war against hannibal and the subsequent campaigns, costly though they were, in spain, syria, and macedonia, but with the hellenisation of social life. lucan, under nero, complains that the towns have lost more than half their inhabitants, and that the country-side lies waste. under titus it was estimated that, whereas italy under the republic could raise nearly , soldiers, that number was now reduced by one-half. marcus aurelius planted a large tribe of marcomanni on unoccupied land in italy. in the fourth century bologna, modena, piacenza, and many other towns in north italy were in ruins. the land of the volscians and aequians, once densely populated, was a desert even in livy's time. samnium remained the wilderness that sulla had left it; and apulia was a lonely sheep-walk. the causes of this depopulation have been often discussed, both in antiquity and in our own day. slavery, infanticide, celibacy, wars and massacres, large estates, and pestilence have all been named as causes; but i am inclined to think that all these influences together are insufficient to account for so rapid a decline. the toll of war was lighter by far than in periods when the population was rising; infectious disease (unless we suppose, as some have suggested, that malaria became for the first time endemic under the roman domination) invaded the empire in occasional and destructive epidemics, but a healthy population recovers from pestilence, as from war, with great rapidity. the large grazing ranches displaced farms because corn-growing in italy was unprofitable, but there was a large supply of grain from sicily, africa, and other districts. slavery undoubtedly accounts for a great deal. this institution is excessively wasteful of human life; it is never possible to keep up the numbers of slaves without slave-hunting in the countries from which they come. and we must remember that ancient civilisation was almost entirely urban. the barbarians found ample waste lands between the towns, which they did not as a rule care to visit, probably because those who did so soon fell victims to microbic diseases. the sanitary condition of ancient cities was better than in the middle ages; but the death-rate was probably too high to permit of any increase in the population. but after admitting that all these causes were operative, it may be that we shall be obliged to acknowledge also a psychological factor. if a nation has no hopes for the future, if it is even doubtful whether life is worth living, if it is disposed to withdraw from the struggle for existence and to meet the problems of life in a temper of passive resignation, it will not regard children as a heritage and gift that cometh from the lord, but rather as an encumbrance. that such was the temper of the later roman empire may be gathered not only from the literature, which is singularly devoid of hopefulness and enterprise, but from the rapid spread of monasticism and eremitism in this period. the prevalence of this world-weariness of course needs explanation, and the cause is rather obscure. it does not seem to be connected with unfavourable external conditions, but rather with a racial exhaustion akin to senile decay in the individual. but there is no real analogy between the life of an individual and that of a nation, and it would be very rash to insist on the hypothesis of racial decay, which perhaps has no biological basis. the influence of christianity on population is very difficult to estimate. nothing is more unscientific than to collect the ethical precepts and practices of nations which profess the christian religion, and to label them as 'the results of christianity.' the historian of religion would indeed be faced by a strange task if he were compelled to trace the moral ideals of simeon stylites and of howard the philanthropist, of francis of assisi and oliver cromwell, of thomas aquinas and thomas à becket, to a common source. the only ethical and social principles which can properly be called christian are those which can be proved to have their root in the teaching and example of the founder of christianity. but the gospel of christ was a product of jewish soil. it is historically connected with the jewish prophetic tradition, which it carried to its fullest development and presented in an universalised and spiritualised form. its social teaching consists chiefly of general principles which have to be applied to conditions unlike those contemplated by its first disciples, who were under the influence of the apocalyptic expectations prevalent at the time. jewish morality was in its origin the morality of a tribe of nomad bedouins; and we have seen that infant life is held sacred by these peoples. marriage is regarded as a duty, and childlessness as a misfortune or a disgrace. the forward look, characteristic of the hebrews from the first, made every jew desirous to leave descendants who might witness happier times, and one of whom might even be the promised deliverer of his people. no hebrew of either sex was allowed to be a servant of vice; abnormal practices, though screened by canaanite religion, were far less common than in greece or italy. to this wholesome morality christianity added the doctrines of the value, in the sight of god, of every human life, and of the sanctity of the body as the 'temple of god.' to the pagans, the continence of the christians was, next to their affection for each other, their most remarkable characteristic. from the first, the new religion set itself firmly against infanticide and abortion, and won one of its most signal moral triumphs in driving underground and greatly diminishing homosexual vice. its encouragement of celibacy, especially for those who followed the 'religious' vocation, was an offset to its healthy influence on family life, and ultimately, as galton has shown, worked great mischief by sterilising for centuries many of the gentlest and noblest in each generation; but this tendency was adventitious to christianity, and would never have taken root on palestinian soil. the cult of virginity has lasted on, with much else that belongs to the later hellenistic age, in catholicism. in the middle ages the population question slumbered. the miserable chaos into which the old civilisation sank after the barbarian invasions, the orgies of massacre and plunder, the almost total oblivion of medical science, and the pestiferous condition of the medieval walled town, which could be smelt miles away, averted any risk of over-population. families were very large, but the majority of the children died. millions were swept away by the black death; millions more by the crusades. such books as that of luchaire, on france in the reign of philip augustus, bring vividly before us the horrible condition of society in feudal times, and explain amply the sparsity of the population. the early modern period contains another notable example of a sudden and unaccountable decline in population. the scene is spain, which, after playing an active and very prominent part in the world's history, sank quickly into the lethargy from which it has never recovered. it may be noted that here, as in the case of rome, the decay of population and energy followed a great influx of plundered wealth. on the other hand, the increase of population in our newly-planted north american colonies must have been extremely rapid for two or three generations. the enormous multiplication of the european races since the middle of the eighteenth century is a phenomenon quite unique in history, and never likely to be repeated.[ ] it was rendered possible by the new labour-saving inventions which immensely increased the exports which could be exchanged for food, and by the opening up of vast new food-producing areas. the chief method by which the increase was effected, especially in the later period, has been the lengthening of human life by improved sanitation and medical science.[ ] since the average duration of life in england and wales has been raised by a little more than one-third. other european countries show the same ratio of improvement. this astonishing result, so little known and so seldom referred to, was bound to have a great effect on the birth-rate. so long as the swarming period continued at its height, a net annual increase of or even per thousand could be sustained; but the expansion of the european peoples has now passed its zenith, and a tendency to revert to more normal conditions is almost everywhere observable. one of the most advanced nations, france, has already reached the equilibrium towards which other civilised nations are moving. the old-established families in the united states are believed to be actually dwindling. the student of international vital statistics will be struck first by the very wide differences in the birth-rate of different countries. he will then notice that the more backward countries have on the whole a considerably higher birth-rate than the more advanced. thirdly, he will observe the parallelism between the birth-rate and death-rate, which makes the net increase in countries with a high birth-rate very little larger than that of countries with a low birth-rate. the following figures will illustrate these points; they are taken from the registrar-general's blue book for . birth-rate death-rate net rate of increase united kingdom . . . australia . . . austria . . . belgium . . . france . . . germany . . . italy . . . new zealand . . . norway . . . roumania . . . russia . . . it will be seen that australia and new zealand, with low birth-rates and the lowest death-rates in the world increase more rapidly than russia with an enormous birth-rate and proportionately high death-rate. no one can doubt that our colonies achieve their increase with far less friction and misery than the prolific but short-lived slavs. civilisation in a high form is incompatible with such conditions as these figures disclose in russia. the figures for egypt and india are similar to the russian, but in india, which is overfull, the mortality is greater than even in russia, and the same is true of china, in which we are told that seven out of ten children die in infancy. it has been suggested that the fairest measure of a country's well-being, as regards its actual vitality, is the square of the death-rate divided by the birth-rate. it is well known that a decline in the birth-rate set in about forty years ago in this country, and has gone on steadily ever since, till the fall now amounts to about one-third of the total births. it thus corresponds very nearly to the fall in the death-rate during the same period. it is also well known that this decline is not evenly distributed among different classes of the people. until the decline began, large families were the rule in all classes, and the slightly larger families of the poor were compensated by their somewhat higher mortality. but since large families have become increasingly rare in the upper and middle classes, and among the skilled artisans. they are frequent in the thriftless ranks of unskilled labour, and in one section of well-paid workmen--the miners. the highest birth-rates at present are in the mining districts and in the slums. the lowest are in some of the learned professions. in the rhondda valley the birth-rate is still about forty, which is double the rate in the prosperous residential suburbs of london. in the seats of the textile industry the decline has been very severe, although wages are fairly good; among the agricultural labourers the rate is also low. it will be found that in all trades where the women work for wages the birth-rate has fallen sharply; the miner's wife does not earn money, and has therefore less inducement to restrict her family. in agricultural districts the housing difficulty is mainly responsible; in the upper and middle classes the heavy expense of education and the burden of rates and taxes are probably the main reasons why larger families are not desired. we may add that in almost all the professions old men are overpaid and young men under-paid. mr. and mrs. whetham[ ] have found that, before , marriages of men whose names appear in 'who's who' resulted in children, an average of . each; after the average is only . . celibacy also is commoner among the educated. 'from the reports issued by two women's colleges, it appears that, excluding those who have left college within three years or less, out of women only per cent. have married, and the number of children born to each marriage is undoubtedly very small.' the writers consider that this state of things is extremely dangerous for the country, inasmuch as we are now breeding mainly from our worst stocks (the feeble-minded are very prolific), while our best families are stationary or dwindling. without denying the general truth of this pessimistic conclusion,[ ] it may be pointed out that the miners are, physically at least, above the average of the whole population, and that the very low birth-rate of residential districts is partly due to the presence in large numbers of unmarried domestic servants. the death-rate of the slums is also very high. the fears of the eugenist about the quality of the population are far more reasonable than the invectives of the fanatic about its defective quantity. of the latter class we may say with havelock ellis that 'those who seek to restore the birth-rate of half a century ago are engaged in a task which would be criminal if it were not based on ignorance, and which is in any case fatuous.' and yet i hope to show before the close of this article that for two or three generations the british empire could absorb a considerable increase, and that the government might with advantage stimulate this by schemes of colonisation. the lament of the eugenist resounds in all countries alike. the german complains that the poles, whom he considers an inferior race, breed like rabbits, while the gifted exponents of _kultur_ only breed like hares. the american is nervous about the numbers of the negro; he has more reason to be nervous about the fecundity of the slav and south italian immigrant. everywhere the tendency is for the superior stock to dwindle till it becomes a small aristocracy. the americans of british descent are threatened with this fate. pride and a high standard of living are not biological virtues. the man who needs and spends little is the ultimate inheritor of the earth. i know of no instance in history in which a ruling race has not ultimately been ousted or absorbed by its subjects. complete extermination or expropriation is the only successful method of conquest. the anglo-saxon race has thus established itself in the greater part of britain, and in australasia. in north america it has destroyed the indian hunter, who could not be used for industrial purposes; but the temptation to exploit the negro and the cheaper european races was too strong to be resisted, and nature's heaviest penalty is now being exacted against the descendants of our sturdy colonists. we did not lose america in the eighteenth century; we are losing it now. as for south africa, the kaffir can live like a gentleman (according to his own ideas) on six months' ill-paid work every year; the englishman finds an income of £ too small. there is only one end to this kind of colonisation. the danger at home is that the larger part of the population is now beginning to insist upon a scale of remuneration and a standard of comfort which are incompatible with any survival-value. we all wish to be privileged aristocrats, with no serfs to work for us. dame nature cares nothing for the babble of politicians and trade-union regulations. she says to us what plotinus, in a remarkable passage, makes her say: 'you should not ask questions; you should try to understand. _i am not in the habit of talking._' in nature's school it is a word and a blow, and the blow first. before the close of this article i will return to the eugenic problem, and will consider whether anything can be done to solve it. at the present time, when an apparently internecine conflict is raging between the british empire and germany, a more detailed comparison of the vital statistics of the two countries will be read with interest. in england and wales the birth-rate culminated in at a little over , after slowly rising from in . from the line of decline is almost straight, down to the ante-war figure of about . in prussia, owing partly to wars, the fluctuations have been violent. in the figure (omitting decimals) was ; in , ; in , ; in , ; in , nearly . from this date, as in england, the steady decline began. in the rate had fallen to ; in (german empire) to . . here we may notice the abnormally high rate in the years following the great war of , a phenomenon which was marked also throughout europe after the napoleonic wars. we may also notice that the decline has been of late slightly more rapid in germany, falling from a high birth-rate, than in england, where the maximum was never so high. another fact which comes out when the german figures are more carefully examined is that urbanisation in germany has a sterilising effect which is not operative in england. prinzing gives the comparative figures of _legitimate_ fertility for prussia as follows: - - berlin . . [ ] other great towns . . towns of , to , . . small towns . . country districts . . now urbanisation is going on even more rapidly in germany than in england. the death-rate in england and wales rose from in to . in ; after sharp fluctuations it reached . in ; since then it has declined to its present figure (in normal times) of . in prussia after the war of and the small-pox epidemic of , there has been a steady fall from to . (german empire in ). the net increase is only slightly larger (in proportion to the population) in germany than in england; and the increase in our great colonies, especially in australasia, is much higher than in germany. there is therefore no reason to suppose that a rapid alteration is going on to our disadvantage. it is widely believed that the roman catholic church, by sternly forbidding the artificial limitation of families, is increasing its numbers at the expense of the non-catholic populations. to some extent this is true. the prussian figures for - give the number of children per marriage as: both parents catholic both parents protestant both parents jews . an examination of the entries in 'who's who' gives about the same proportion for well-to-do families in england. the catholic birth-rate of the irish is nearly .[ ] the french-canadians are among the most prolific races in the world. on the other hand, their infant mortality is very high, and it is said that french-canadian parents take these losses philosophically. it is quite a different question whether it is ultimately to the advantage of a nation which desires to increase its numbers to profess the roman catholic religion. the high birth-rates are all in unprogressive catholic populations. when a catholic people begins to be educated, the priests apparently lose their influence upon the habits of the laity, and a rapid decline in the births at once sets in. the most advanced countries which did not accept the reformation, france and belgium, are precisely those in which parental prudence has been carried almost to excess. we must also remember that the dutch boers, who are protestants, but who live under simple conditions not unlike those of the french-canadians, are equally prolific, as were our own colonists in the united states before that country was industrialised. the advantages in numbers gained by roman catholicism are likely to be confined to half-empty countries, where there is really room for more citizens, and where social ambition and the love of comfort are the chief motives for restricting the family. the population of a settled country cannot be increased at will; it depends on the supply of food. the choice is between a high birth-rate combined with a high death-rate, and a low birth-rate with a low death-rate. the great saving of life which has been effected during the last fifty years carries with it the necessity of restricting the births. the next question to be considered is how this restriction is to be brought about. the oldest methods are deliberate neglect and infanticide. in china, where authorities differ as to the extent to which female infants are exposed, the practice certainly prevails of feeding infants whom their mothers are unable to suckle on rice and water, which soon terminates their existence. such methods would happily find no advocates in europe. the very ancient art of procuring miscarriage is a criminal act in most civilised countries, but it is practised to an appalling extent. hirsch, who quotes his authorities, estimates that , , births are so prevented annually in the united states, , in germany, , in paris, and , in lyons. in our own country it is exceedingly common in the northern towns, and attempts are now being made to prohibit the sale of certain preparations of lead which are used for this purpose. alike on grounds of public health and of morality, it is most desirable that this mischievous practice should be checked. its great prevalence in the united states is to be attributed mainly to the drastic legislation in that country against the sale and use of preventives, to which many persons take objection on moral or æsthetic grounds, but which is surely on an entirely different level from the destruction of life that has already begun. the 'comstock' legislation in america has done unmixed harm. it is worse than useless to try to put down by law a practice which a very large number of people believes to be innocent, and which must be left to the taste and conscience of the individual. to the present writer it seems a _pis aller_ which high-minded married persons should avoid if they can practise self-restraint. whatever injures the feeling of 'sanctification and honour' with which st. paul bids us to regard these intimacies of life, whatever tends to profane or degrade the sacraments of wedded love, is so far an evil. but this is emphatically a matter in which every man and woman must judge for themselves, and must refrain from judging others. in every modern civilised country population is restricted partly by the deliberate postponement of marriage. in many cases this does no harm whatever; but in many others it gravely diminishes the happiness of young people, and may even cause minor disturbances of health. moreover, it would not be so widely adopted but for the tolerance, on the part of society, of the 'great social evil,' the opprobrium of our civilisation. in spite of the failure hitherto of priests, moralists, and legislators to root it out, and in spite of the acceptance of it as inevitable by the majority of continental opinion, i believe that this abomination will not long be tolerated by the conscience of the free and progressive nations. it is notorious that the whole body of women deeply resents the wrong and contumely done by it to their sex, and that, if democracy is to be a reality, the immolation of a considerable section of women drawn from the poorer classes cannot be suffered to continue. it is also plain to all who have examined the subject that the campaign against certain diseases, the malignity and wide diffusion of which are being more fully realised every year, cannot be successful through medical methods alone. if the institution in question were abolished, medical science would soon reduce these scourges to manageable limits, and might at last exterminate them altogether; but while it continues there is no hope of doing this. i believe then that the time will come when the trade in vice will cease; and if i am right, early marriages will become the rule in all classes. this will render the population question more acute, especially as the diseases which we hope to extirpate are the commonest cause both of sterility and of infant mortality. under this pressure, we must expect to see preventive methods widely accepted as the least of unavoidable evils. when we reflect on the whole problem in its widest aspects, we see that civilised humanity is confronted by a choice of hercules. on the one side, biological law seems to urge us forward to the struggle for existence and expansion. the nation in that case will have to be organised on the lines of greatest efficiency. a strong centralised government will occupy itself largely in preventing waste. all the resources of the nation must be used to the uttermost. parks must be cut up into allotments; the unproductive labours of the scholar and thinker must be jealously controlled and limited. inefficient citizens must be weeded out; wages must be low and hours of work long. moreover, the state must be organised for war; for its neighbours, we must suppose, are following the same policy. then the fierce extra-group competition must come to its logical arbitrament in a life and death struggle. and war between two over-peopled countries, for both of which more elbow-room is a vital necessity, must be a war of complete expropriation or extermination. it must be so, for no other kind of war can achieve its object. the horrors of the present conflict will be as nothing compared with a struggle between two highly-organised state socialisms, each of which knows that it must either colonise the territory of the other or starve. it is idle to pretend that such a necessity will never arise. another century of increase in europe like that of the nineteenth century would bring it very near. if this policy is adopted, we shall see all the principal states organising themselves with a perfection far greater than that of germany to-day, but taking german methods as their model; and the end will be the extermination of the smaller or looser organisations. such a prospect may well fill us with horror; and it is terrible to find some of the ablest thinkers of germany, such as ernst troeltsch, writing calm elegies over 'the death of liberalism' and predicting the advent of an era of cut-throat international competition. juvenal speaks of the folly of _propter vitam vivendi perdere causas_; and who would care to live in such a world? but does nature care whether we enjoy our lives or not? the other choice is that which france has made for herself; it is on the lines of plato's ideal state. each country is to be, as far as possible, self-sufficing. if it cannot grow sufficient food for itself, it must of course export its coal or its gold, or the products of its industry and ingenuity. but it must know approximately what 'the number of the state' (as plato said) should be. it must limit its population to that number, and the limit will be fixed, not at the maximum number who can live there anyhow, but at the maximum number who can 'live well.' the object aimed at will not be constant expansion, but well-being. the energies liberated from the pitiless struggle for existence will be devoted to making social life wiser, happier, more harmonious and more beautiful. have we any reason to hope that this policy is not contrary to the hard laws which nature imposes on every species in the world? in the first place, would such a state escape being devoured by some brutal 'expanding' neighbour? what would have happened to france if she had stood alone in this war? the danger is real; but we may answer that france, as a matter of fact, did not stand alone, because other nations thought her too precious to be sacrificed. and the completely organised competitive state which i have imagined would be a far more unlovely place than germany, and more unpleasant to live in. the spectacle of a saner and happier polity next door would break up the purely competitive state from within; the strain would be too great for human nature. we cannot argue confidently from the struggle for existence among the lower animals to our own species. for a long time past, human evolution has been directed, not to living anyhow, but to living in a certain way. we are guided by ideals for the future, by purposes winch we clearly set before ourselves, in a way which is impossible to the brutes. these purposes are common to the large majority of men. no state can long maintain a rigid and oppressive organisation, except under the threat of danger; and a nation which aims only at perfecting its own culture is not dangerous to its neighbours. it is probable that without the supposed menace of another military power on its eastern flank german militarism would have begun to crumble. in the second place, would the absence of sharp competition within the group lead to racial degeneration? this is a difficult question to answer. perhaps a diminution of pugnacity and of the means to gratify this instinct would not be a misfortune. but it is certainly true that, if the operation of natural selection is suspended, rational selection must take its place. failing this, reversion to a lower type is inevitable. the infant science of eugenics will have much to say on this subject hereafter; at present we are only discovering how complex and obscure the laws of heredity are. the state of the future will have to step in to prevent the propagation of undesirable variations, whether physical or mental, and will doubtless find means to encourage the increase of families that are well endowed by nature. assuming that a nation as a whole prefers a policy of this kind, and aims at such an equilibrium of births and deaths as will set free the energies of the people for the higher objects of civilised life, how will it escape the cacogenic effects of family restriction in the better classes combined with reckless multiplication among the refuse which always exists in a large community? this is a problem which has not yet been solved. public opinion is not ready for legislation against the multiplication of the unfit, and it is not easy to see what form such legislation could take. many of the very poor are not undesirable parents; we must not confound economic prosperity with biological fitness. the 'submerged tenth' should be raised, where it is possible, into a condition of self-respect and responsibility; but they must not be allowed to be a burden upon the efficient; and the upper and middle classes should simplify their habits so far as to make marriage and parenthood possible for the young professional man. special care should be taken that taxation is so adjusted as not to penalise parenthood in the socially valuable middle class. for some time to come we are likely to see, in all the leading nations, a restricted birth-rate, prompted by desire for social betterment, combined, however, with concessions to the rival policy of commercial expansion, growing numbers, and military preparation. the nations will not cease to fear and suspect each other in the twentieth century, and any one nation which chooses to be a nuisance to europe will keep back the progress and happiness of the rest. the prospect is not very bright; a too generous confidence might betray some nation into irretrievable disaster. but the bracing influence of national danger may perhaps be beneficial. for we have to remember the pitiable decay of the ancient classical civilisation, which was partly due, as we have found, to a desire for comfortable and easy living. there have been signs that many of our countrymen no longer think the strenuous life worth while; part of our resentment against germany resembles the annoyance of an old-fashioned firm, disturbed in its comfortable security by the competition of a young and more vigorous rival. it is even suggested that after the war we should protect ourselves against german competition by tariff walls. this abandonment of the free trade policy on which our prosperity is built would soon bring our over-populated island to ruin. in conclusion, if we leave the distant future to fend for itself when the time comes, what should be our policy with regard to population for the next fifty years? i am led to an opinion which may seem to run counter to the general purport of this article. for though the british isles are even dangerously full, so that we are liable to be starved out if we lose the command of the sea, the british empire is very far from being over-populated. in canada and australasia there is probably room for nearly , , people. these countries are remarkably healthy for northern europeans; there is no reason why they should not be as rich and powerful as the united states are now. we hope that we have saved the empire from german cupidity--for the time; but we cannot tell how long we may be undisturbed. it would be criminal folly not to make the most of the respite granted us, by peopling our dominions with our own stock, while yet there is time. this, however, cannot be done by casual and undirected emigration of the old kind. we need an imperial board of emigration, the officials of which will work in co-operation with the governments of our dominions. these governments, it may be presumed, will be anxious, after the war, to strengthen the colonies by increasing their population and developing their resources. they, like ourselves, have had a severe fright, and know that prompt action is necessary. systematic plans of colonisation should be worked out, and emigrants drafted off to the dominions as work can be found for them. young women should be sent out in sufficient numbers to keep the sexes equal. we know now that our young people who emigrate are by no means lost to the empire. the dominions have shown that in time of need they are able and willing to defend the mother country with their full strength. indeed, a young couple who emigrate are likely to be of more value to the empire than if they had stayed at home; and their chances of happiness are much increased if they find a home in a part of the world where more human beings are wanted. but without official advice and help emigration is difficult. parents do not know where to send their sons, nor what training to give them. mistakes are made, money is wasted, and bitter disappointment caused. all this may be obviated if the government will take the matter up seriously. the real issue of this war is whether our great colonies are to continue british; and the question will be decided not only on the field of battle, but by the action of our government and people after peace is declared. the next fifty years will decide for all time whether those magnificent and still empty countries are to be the home of great nations speaking our language, carrying on our institutions, and valuing our traditions. when the future of our dominions is secure, the part of england as a world-power will have been played to a successful issue, and we may be content with a position more consonant with the small area of these islands. i believe, then, that if facilities for migration are given by government action, it will be not only possible but desirable for the increase in the population of the empire, taken as a whole, to be maintained during the twentieth century. it is, of course, possible that chemical discoveries and other scientific improvements may greatly increase the yield of food from the soil, and that in this way the final limit to the population of the earth may be further off than now seems probable. but within a few centuries, at most, this limit must be reached; and after that we may hope that the world will agree to maintain an equilibrium between births and deaths, that being the most stable and the happiest condition in which human beings can live together.[ ] footnotes: [ ] myres, _eugenics review_, april, . [ ] wilamowitz-moellendorff, _kultur der gegenwart_, , , . [ ] cimon, pericles, and socrates all had three sons, and apparently no daughters.--zimmern, _the greek commonwealth_, p. . [ ] _cf. (e.g.)_ plato, _theaetetus_, . [ ] we may suppose that the disproportion of the sexes, caused by female infanticide, was about rectified by the deaths of males in battle and civic strife. we do not hear that the greek had any difficulty in finding a wife. [ ] families, he says, were limited to one or two 'in order to leave these rich.' [ ] the population of england and wales is said to have been , , in , and , , in . it was , , in , , , in , and approximately , , in . [ ] statistics are wanting for the early part of the industrial revolution, but my study of pedigrees leads me to think that the average duration of life was considerably increased in the eighteenth century. [ ] _the family and the nation_, p. . [ ] the births per married men under fifty-five in the different classes are:--upper and middle class, ; intermediate, ; skilled workmen, ; intermediate, ; unskilled workmen, . [ ] it must be remembered that the illegitimate birth-rate in berlin is scandalously high. [ ] the crude birth-rate of ireland is wholly misleading, because so many young couples emigrate before the birth of their first child. [ ] the possible effect of the labour movement in diminishing the population is considered in the next essay. the last two years have, in my opinion, made the outlook less favourable. the future of the english race (the galton lecture, ) in the year sir charles dilke ended his survey of 'greater britain' and its problems with the prediction that 'the world's future belongs to the anglo-saxon, the russian, and the chinese races.' this was in the heyday of british imperialism, which was inaugurated by seeley's 'expansion of england' and froude's 'oceana,' and which inspired mr. chamberlain to proclaim at toronto in that the 'anglo-saxon stock is infallibly destined to be the predominant force in the history and civilisation of the world.' it was an arrogant, but not truculent, mood, which reached its climax at the jubilee, and rapidly declined during and after the boer war. these writers and statesmen were utterly blind to the german peril, though the disciples of treitschke were already working out a theory about the future destinies of the world, in which neither great britain nor russia nor china counted for very much. there were illusions on both sides of the north sea, which had to be paid for in blood. in both countries imperialism was a sentiment curiously compounded of idealism and bombast, and supported by very doubtful science. in the case of germany the distortion of facts was deliberate and monstrous. not only was every schoolboy brought up on cooked population statistics and falsified geography, but the thick-set, brachycephalous central european persuaded himself that he belonged to the pure nordic race, the great blond beasts of nietzsche, which, as he was taught, had already produced nearly all the great men in history, and was now about to claim its proper place as master of the world. political anthropology is no genuine science. race and nationality are catchwords for which rulers find that their subjects are willing to fight, as they fought for what they called religion four hundred years ago. in reality, if we want to find a pure race, we must visit the esquimaux, or the fuegians, or the pygmies; we shall certainly not find one in europe. our own imperialists had their illusions too, and we are not rid of them yet, because we do not realise that the fate of races is decided, not in the council-chamber or on the battle-field, but by the same laws of nature which determine the distribution of the various plants and animals of the world. it may be that by approaching our subject from this side we shall arrive at a more scientific, if a more chastened, anticipation of our national future than was acceptable to the enthusiasts of expansion in the last twenty years of queen victoria's reign. the history of the world shows us that there have been three great human reservoirs which from time to time have burst their banks and flooded neighbouring countries. these are the arabian peninsula, the steppes of central asia, and the lands round the baltic, the original home of the germanic and anglo-saxon peoples. the invaders in each case were pastoral folk, who were driven from their homes by over-population, or drought and famine, or the pressure of enemies behind them. it is easy for nomads to 'trek,' even for great distances; and till the discovery of gunpowder they were the most formidable of foes. the arabs and northern europeans have founded great civilisations; the mongol hordes have been an unmitigated curse to humanity. the invaders never kept their blood pure. the famous jewish nose is probably hittite, and certainly not bedouin. there are no pure turks in europe, and the hungarians have lost all resemblance to mongols. the modern germans seem to belong mainly to the round-headed alpine race, which migrated into europe in early times from the asiatic highlands. in england there is a larger proportion of nordic blood, because the anglo-saxons partially exterminated the natives; but the old mediterranean race, which had made its way up the warm western coasts, still holds its own in cornwall, wales, ireland, and the western highlands; and within the last hundred years, owing to frequent migrations, has mixed so thoroughly with the anglo-saxon stock that the english are becoming darker in each generation. this is not the result of a racial decay of the blonds, as the american, dr. charles woodruff, supposes, but is to be accounted for by the fact that dark eyes seem to be a mendelian dominant, and dark hair a more potent character than light. the inhabitants of these islands are nearly all long-headed, this being a characteristic of both the nordic and mediterranean races. the round-headed invaders, who perhaps brought with them the so-called celtic languages at a remote period, and imposed them upon the inhabitants, seem to have left no other mark upon the population, though their type of head is prevalent over a great part of france. the ability of races to flourish in climates other than their own is a question of supreme importance to historians and statesmen, and, it need not be said, to emigrants. but it is only lately that it has been studied scientifically, and the results are still tentative. german ethnologists, of what we may call the _ædicephalous_ school, already referred to, regard it as one of the tragedies of nature that the noble nordic race, to which they think they belong, dies out when it penetrates southwards. in accordance with this law, the yellow-haired achæans decayed in greece, the lombards in north italy, the vandals in spain and africa. after a few generations of life in a warm climate the aryan stock invariably disappears. we shall show reasons for thinking that this theory is much exaggerated; but there is undoubtedly some truth in it. it has been found to be impossible for white men to colonise india, burma, tropical america, and west africa. it has been said that 'there is in india no third generation of pure english blood.' it is notoriously difficult to bring up even one generation of white children in india. the french cannot maintain themselves without race admixture in martinique and guadaloupe, nor the dutch in java, though it is said that the expectation of life for a european in java is as good as in his own country. it seems to be also true that the blond race suffers most in a hot climate. in the philippines it was observed that the fair-haired soldiers in the american army succumbed most readily to disease. in queensland the italian colonists are said to stand the heat better than the english, and mr. roosevelt, among other items of good advice which he bestowed so liberally on the european nations, advised us to populate the torrid parts of australia with immigrants from the latin races. in natal the english families who are settled in the country are said to be enervated by the climate; and on the high plateaux of the interior our countrymen find it necessary to pay periodical visits to the coast, to be unbraced. the early deaths and not infrequent suicides of rand magnates may indicate that the air of the transvaal is too stimulating for a life of high tension and excitement. there are even signs that the same may be true in a minor degree of the united states of america. both the capitalist and the working man, if they come of english stock, seem to wear out more quickly than at home; and the sterility of marriages among the long settled american families is so pronounced that it can hardly be due entirely to voluntary restriction of parentage. the effects of an unsuitable climate are especially shown in nervous disorders, and are therefore likely to tell most heavily on those who engage in intellectual pursuits, and perhaps on women rather more than on men. the sterilising effects of women's higher education in america are incontrovertible, though this inference is hotly denied in england. at holyoake college it was found that only half the lady graduates afterwards married, and the average family of those who did marry was less than two children. at bryn mawr only per cent, married, and had . children each; the average family per graduate was therefore . . if it be objected that new immigrants and their children are healthy and vigorous in america, it may be truly answered that the effects of an unfavourable climate are manifested fully only in the third and later generations. the argument may be further supported by the fate of black men who try to settle in europe. their strongly pigmented skin, which seems to protect them from the actinic rays of the tropical sun, so noxious to europeans, and their broad nostrils, which inhale a larger number of tubercle bacilli than the narrow nose-slits of the northerner, are disadvantages in a temperate climate. in any case, of the many thousands of negro servants who lived in england in the eighteenth century, it would be difficult to find a single descendant. but there are other factors in the problem which should make us beware of hasty generalisations. it is obvious that since the american republic contains many climates in its vast area, there may be parts of it which are perfectly healthy for anglo-saxons, and other parts where they cannot live without degenerating. very few athletes, we are told, come from south of the fortieth parallel of latitude. but the decline in the birth-rate is most marked in the older colonies, the new england states, where for a long period the english colonists, living mainly on the land, not only throve and developed a singularly virile type of humanity, but multiplied with almost unexampled rapidity. the same is true not only of the french canadian farmers, but of the south african boers, who rear enormous families in a climate very different from that of holland. the inference is that europeans living on the land may flourish in any tolerably healthy climate which is not tropical. there are, in fact, two other causes besides climate which may prevent immigrants from multiplying in a new country. the first of these is the presence of microbic diseases to which the old inhabitants are wholly or partially immune, but which find a virgin soil in the bodies of the newcomers. the strongest example is the west coast of africa, of which miss mary kingsley writes: 'yet remember, before you elect to cast your lot with the west coasters, that per cent, of them die of fever, or return home with their health permanently wrecked. also remember that there is no getting acclimatised to the coast. there are, it is true, a few men out there who, although they have been resident in west africa for years, have never had fever, but you can count them on the fingers of one hand.' there can be no acclimatisation where the weeding out is as drastic as this. either the anopheles mosquito or the european must quit. there are parts of tropical america where the natives have actually been protected by the malaria, which keeps the white man at arm's length. but more often the microbe is on the side of the civilised race, killing off the natives who have not run the gauntlet of town-life. the extreme reluctance of the barbarians who overran the roman empire to settle in the towns is easily accounted for if, as is probable, the towns killed them off whenever they attempted to live in them. the difference is remarkable between the fate of a conquered race which has become accustomed to town-life, and that of one which has not. there are no 'native quarters' in the towns of any country where the aborigines were nomads or tillers of the soil. to the north american indian, residence in a town is a sentence of death. the american indians were accustomed to none of our zymotic diseases except malaria. in the north they were destroyed wholesale by tuberculosis; in mexico and peru, where large towns existed before the conquest, they fared better. fiji was devastated by measles; other barbarians by small-pox. negroes have acquired, through severe natural selection, a certain degree of immunisation in america; but even now it is said that 'every other negro dies of consumption.' there are, however, two races, both long accustomed to town-life under horribly insanitary conditions, which have shown that they can live in almost any climate. these are the jews and the chinese. the medieval ghetto exterminated all who were not naturally resistant to every form of microbic disease; the modern jew, though often of poor physique, is hard to kill. the same may be said of the chinaman, who, when at home, lives under conditions which would kill most europeans. the other factor, which is really promoting the gradual disappearance of the anglo-saxons from the united states, is of a very different character. the descendants of the old immigrants are on the whole the aristocracy of the country. now it is a law which hardly admits of exceptions, that aristocracies do not maintain their numbers. the ruling race rules itself out; nothing fails like success. gibbon has called attention to the extreme respect paid to long descent in the roman empire, and to the strange fact that, in the fourth century, no ingenuity of pedigree makers could deny that all the great families of the republic were extinct, so that the second-rate plebeian family of the anicii, whose name did appear in the fasti, enjoyed a prestige far greater than that of the howards and stanleys in this country. our own peerage consists chiefly of parvenus. only six of our noble families, it is said, can trace their descent in the male line without a break to the fifteenth century. the peerage of sweden tells the same tale. according to gallon, the custom or law of primogeniture, combined with the habit of marrying heiresses who, as the last representatives of dwindling families, tend to be barren, is mainly responsible for this. additional causes may be the greater danger which the officer-class incurs in war, and, in former times, the executioner's axe. in our own day the reluctance of rich and self-indulgent women to bear children is undoubtedly a factor in the infertility of the leisured class. this brings us naturally to the second part of our discussion--the consideration of the causes which lead to the increase or decrease of population. it is the most important part of our inquiry; for it is usually assumed that the british isles will continue to send out colonists in large numbers, as it did in the last century, and the hopes of the imperialist that a large part of the world will speak english for all time depend on the untested assurance that the swarming-time of our race is not yet over. our starting-point must be that the pressure of population upon the means of subsistence is a constant fact in the human race, as in every other species of animals and plants. there is no species in which the numbers are not kept down, far below the natural capacity for increase, by the limitation of available food. it may not always be easy to trace the connection between the appearance of new lives and the passing away of old, nor to say whether it is the birth-rate which determines the death-rate, or the death-rate the birth-rate. but it is well known that, wherever statistics are kept, the numbers of births and of deaths rise and fall in nearly parallel lines, so that the net rate of increase hardly alters at all, unless some change, which can easily be traced, occurs in the habits of the people or in the amount of the food supply. in civilised countries the greater care taken of human life, and its consequent prolongation, has reduced the birth-rate, just as in the higher mammals we find a greatly diminished fertility as compared with the lower, and a much higher survival-rate among the offspring born. the average duration of life in this country has increased by about one-third in the last sixty years, and the birth-rate has fallen in almost exactly the same proportion. the position of a nation in the scale of civilisation may almost be gauged by its births and deaths. the order in europe, beginning with the lowest birth-rate, is france, belgium, sweden, the united kingdom, switzerland, norway, denmark, holland, germany, spain, austria, italy, hungary, the balkan states, russia. the order of death-rates, again beginning at the bottom, is holland, denmark, norway, sweden, switzerland, the united kingdom, belgium, germany, france, italy, austria, serbia, spain, bulgaria, hungary, roumania, russia. these two lists, as will be seen, correspond very nearly with the scale of descending civilisation, the only notable exception being the low position of france in the second list. this anomaly is explained by the fact that france having a stationary population, the death-rate in that country corresponds nearly with the mean expectation of life, whereas in countries where the population is increasing rapidly, either by excess of births over deaths or by immigration, the preponderance of young lives brings the death-rate down. we must, therefore, be on our guard against supposing that countries with the lowest death-rates are necessarily the most healthy. in new zealand, for example, the death-rate is under per , the lowest in the world; and though that country is undoubtedly healthy, no one supposes that the average duration of life in new zealand is a hundred years. to ascertain whether a nation is long-lived, we must correct the crude death-rate by taking into account the average age of the population. when this correction has been made, a low death-rate, and the low birth-rate which necessarily accompanies it, is a sign that the doctors are doing their duty by keeping their patients alive. if our physicians desire more maternity cases, they must make more work for the undertaker. large families almost always mean a high infant mortality; and it is significant that a twelfth child has a very much poorer chance of survival than a first or second. the agitation for the endowment of motherhood and the reduction of infant mortality is therefore futile, because, while other conditions remain the same, every baby 'saved' sends another baby out of the world or prevents him from coming into it. the number of the people is not determined by philanthropists or even by parents. children will come somehow whenever there is room for them, and go when there is none. but other conditions do not remain the same, and it is in these other conditions that we must seek the causes of expansion or contraction in the numbers of a community. at the end of the sixteenth century the population of england and wales amounted to about five millions, and a hundred years later to about six. there is no reason to think that under the conditions then existing the country could have supported a larger number. the birth-rate was kept high by the pestilential state of the towns, and thus the pressure of numbers was less felt than it is now, since it was possible to have, though not to rear, unlimited families. occasionally, from accidental circumstances, england was for a short time under-populated, and these were the periods when, according to professor thorold rogers, archdeacon cunningham, and other authorities, the labourer was well off. the most striking example was in the half-century after the black death, which carried off nearly half the population. wages increased threefold, and the government tried in vain to protect employers by enforcing pre-plague rates. not only were wages high, but food was so abundant that farmers often gave their men a square meal which was not in the contract. the other period of prosperity for the working man, according to our authorities, was the second quarter of the eighteenth century. it has not, we think, been noticed that this also followed a temporary set-back in the population. in the population of england and wales was , , ; in it was more than a quarter of a million less. the cause of this decline is obscure, but its effects soon showed themselves in easier conditions of life, especially for the poor. such periods of under-saturation, which some new countries are still enjoying, are necessarily short. population flows in as naturally as water finds its level. it was not till the accession of george iii that the increase in our numbers became rapid. no one until then would have thought of singling out the englishman as the embodiment of the good apprentice. meteren, in the sixteenth century, found our countrymen 'as lazy as spaniards'; most foreigners were struck by our fondness for solid food and strong drink. the industrial revolution came upon us suddenly; it changed the whole face of the country and the apparent character of the people. in the far future our descendants may look back upon the period in which we are living as a strange episode which disturbed the natural habits of our race. the first impetus was given by the plunder of bengal, which, after the victories of clive, flowed into the country in a broad stream for about thirty years. this ill-gotten wealth played the same part in stimulating english industries as the 'five milliards,' extorted from france, did for germany after . the half-century which followed was marked by a series of inventions, which made england the workshop of the world. but the basis of our industrial supremacy was, and is, our coal. those who are in the habit of comparing the progressiveness of the north-western european with the stagnation or decadence of the latin races, forget the fact, which is obvious when it has once been pointed out, that the progressive nations are those which happen to have valuable coal fields. countries which have no coal are obliged to import it paying the freight, or to smelt their iron with charcoal this process makes excellent steel--the superiority of swedish razors is due to wood-smelting--but it is so wasteful of wood that the mediterranean peoples very early in history injured their climate by cutting down their scanty forests, thereby diminishing their rainfall, and allowing the soil to be washed off the hillsides. the coasts of the mediterranean are, in consequence, far less productive than they were two thousand years ago. but in england, when the start was once made, all circumstances conspired to turn our once beautiful island into a chaos of factories and mean streets, reeking of smoke, millionaires, and paupers. we were no longer able to grow our own food; but we made masses of goods which the manufacturers ware eager to exchange for it; and the population grew like crops on a newly-irrigated desert. during the nineteenth century the numbers were nearly quadrupled. let those who think that the population of a country can be increased at will, reflect whether it is likely that any physical, moral, or psychological change came over the nation coincidently with the inventions of the spinning-jenny and the steam-engine. it is too obvious for dispute that it was the possession of capital wanting employment, and of natural advantages for using it, that called these multitudes of human beings into existence, to eat the food which they paid for by their labour. and it should be equally obvious that the existence of forty-six millions of people upon , square miles of territory depends entirely upon our finding a market for our manufactures abroad, for so only are we able to pay for the food of the people. it is most unfortunate that these exports must, with our present population, include coal, which, if we had any thought for posterity, we should guard jealously and use sparingly; for in five hundred years at the outside our stock will be gone, and we shall sink to a third-rate power at once. we are sacrificing the future in order to provide for an excessive and discontented population in the present. during the present century we have begun to be conscious that our foreign trade is threatened; and so sensitive is the birth-rate to economic conditions that it has begun to curve very slightly downward in relation to the death-rate, instead of descending with it in parallel lines.[ ] this may be partly due to the curtailment of facilities for emigration, owing to the filling up of the new countries. for emigration does not diminish the population of the country which the emigrants leave; it only increases its birth-rate. we are now in a position to enumerate the causes which actually lead to an increase in the population of a country. the first is an increase in the amount of food produced in the country itself. if the parks and gardens of the gentry were ploughed up or turned into allotments, a few hundred thousands would be added to the population of the united kingdom, at the cost of one of the few remaining beauties which make our country attractive to the eye. the introduction of the potato into ireland added several millions of squalid inhabitants to that ill-conditioned island, and when the crop failed, large numbers of them inflicted themselves on the united states, to the detriment of that country. the richest countries to-day are those which produce more food than they require, such as the united states, canada, australia, roumania, and the argentine. (we need hardly say that throughout this survey we are using the statistics of the years immediately before the war.) but this state of things cannot last long, for the net increase in such countries is invariably high, either by reason of a very high birth-rate, as in roumania, or because newcomers flock in to enjoy a land of plenty. another condition which leads to abnormally rapid increase is found when a civilised nation conquers and administers a backward country, introducing better methods of agriculture, and especially irrigation and the reclamation of waste lands. the alien government also gives greater security, without raising the standard of living among the natives, since the dominant race usually monopolises the lucrative careers. in this way we are directly responsible for increasing the population of egypt from seven millions in to nine and three-quarter millions in , an augmentation which, in the absence of immigration, illustrates the great natural fertility of the human race in the rare circumstances when unchecked increase is possible. still more remarkable is the rise in the population of java from five millions in to twenty-eight and a half millions in the first decade of this century. the cause of this increase is the augmented supply of food combined with a very low standard of living, a combination which is specially characteristic of asia, where extreme supersaturation exists in india and china. a third cause is production of goods which can be exchanged for food grown abroad. this exchange, as we have seen, is stimulated by the presence of capital seeking employment. our large towns are the creation of the capitalist, much more than if he had populated their depressing streets with his own children. fourthly, a reduction in the standard of living of course makes a larger population possible. the misery of the working class in the generation after the napoleonic wars was a condition of the prosperity of our export trade at this period; and conversely, the prosperity of our export trade was necessary to the existence of the new inhabitants. capitalism is the cause of our dense population; and the proletariat would infallibly cut their own throats by destroying it. it is an important question whether a crowded population adds to the security of a nation or not. numbers are undoubtedly of great importance in modern warfare. the french would have been less able to resist the germans without allies in than they were in . but we must not suppose that france could support a much larger population without reducing her standard of living to the point of under-deeding; and an under-fed nation is incapable of the endurance required of first-class soldiers. a nation may be so much weakened in physique by under-feeding as to be impotent from a military point of view, in spite of great numbers; this is the case in india and china. deficient nourishment also diminishes the day's work. if european and american capital goes to china, and provides proper food for the workmen, we may have an early opportunity of discovering whether the supporters of the league of nations have any real conscientious objection to violence and bloodshed. we may surmise that the european man, the fiercest of all beasts of prey, is not likely to abandon the weapons which have made him the lord and the bully of the planet. he has no other superiority to the races which he arrogantly despises. under a régime of peace the asiatic would probably be his master. to return from a short digression, we must note further that a nation with a low standard has no reserve to fall back upon; it lives on the margin of subsistence, which may easily fail in war-time, especially if much food is imported when conditions are normal. it can hardly be an accident that in this war the nations with a high birth-rate broke up in the order of their fecundity, while france stood like a rock. the sacrifice of comfort to numbers, which we have seen to be possible by maintaining a low standard of living, not only diminishes the happiness of a nation, and keeps it low in the scale of civilisation; it may easily prove to be a source of weakness in war. the expedients often advocated to encourage denser population--which those who urge them thoughtlessly assume to be a good thing--such as endowment of parenthood, and better housing at the expense of the taxpayer--have no effect except to penalise and sterilise those who pay the doles, for the benefit of those who receive them. they are intensely dysgenic in their operation, for they cripple and at last eliminate just those stocks which have shown themselves to be above the average in ability. the process has already advanced a long way, even without the reckless legislation which is now advocated. the lowest birth-rates, less than half that of the unskilled labourers, are those of the doctors, the teaching profession, and ministers of religion. the position of this class, intellectually and often physically the finest in the kingdom, is rapidly becoming intolerable, and it is the wastrels who mainly benefit by their spoliation. the causes of shrinkage in population are the opposites of those which we have found to promote its increase. the production of food may be diminished by the exhaustion of the soil, or by the progressive aridity caused by cutting down woods. the manufacture of goods to be exchanged for food may fall off owing to foreign competition, a result which is likely to follow from a rise in the standard of living, for the labourer then demands higher wages, and consumes more food per head, which of itself must check fertility, since the same amount of food will now support a smaller number. the delusion shared by the whole working class that they can make work for each other, at wages fixed by themselves, is ludicrous; a community cannot subsist 'by taking in each other's washing.' or the supply of importable food may fail by the peopling up of the countries which grow it. any conditions which make it no longer worth while to invest capital in business, or which destroy credit, have the same effect. one of the causes of the decay of the roman empire was the drain of specie to the east in exchange for perishable commodities. when trade is declining a general listlessness comes over the industrial world, and the output falls still further. there have been alleged instances of peoples which have dwindled and even disappeared from _taedium vitae_. this is said to have been the cause of the extinction of the guanches of the canary islands; but the symptoms described rather suggest an outbreak of sleeping-sickness. paradoxical as it may seem, neither voluntary restriction of births, nor famine, nor pestilence, nor war, has much effect in reducing numbers. birth-control instead of diminishing the population, may only lower the death-rate. france in , with a birth-rate of , had much the same net increase as in the years before the war with a birth-rate of . the parallel lines of the births and deaths in this country have already been mentioned. famine and pestilence are followed at once by an increased number of births. india and china, though frequently ravaged by both these scourges, remain super-saturated. of course, if the famine is chronic, the population must fall to the point where the food is sufficient; and a zymotic disease which has become endemic may be too strong for the natural fertility of the nation attacked, as has happened to several barbarous races; but an invasion of plague, cholera, or influenza has no permanent effect on the numbers of europeans. war resembles plague in its action upon population. when, as in the late war, nearly the whole of the able-bodied men are on active service, the loss of population caused by cessation of births is greater than all the fatal casualties of the battle-field. a rough calculation gives the result that twelve million lives have been lost to the belligerent nations by the separation of husbands and wives during the war. and yet it may be predicted that these losses, added to the eight millions or so who have been killed, would be made good in a very few years but for the destruction of capital and credit which the war has caused. if we study the vital statistics of a country like germany, which has engaged in several severe wars since births and deaths began to be registered, we shall find that the contour-line representing the fluctuations of the birth-rate indicates a steep ravine in the year or years while the war lasted, followed by a hump or high table-land for several years after. in a short time, as far as numbers are concerned, the war is as if it had never been. when we remember that the number of possible fathers is much reduced by casualties, this rise in the birth-rate after a war offers a strong confirmation of the thesis which we have been maintaining, that the ebb and flow of population are not affected by conscious intention, but by increased or diminished pressure of numbers upon subsistence. if the german people, who before the war consumed more food than was good for them, have been habituated by our blockade to a reasonable abstemiousness, we shall have contributed to the eventual increase of the german people, in spite of all their soldiers whom we killed in france, and the civilians whom we starved in germany. and if our success leads to a greater consumption by our working class, our population will show a corresponding decline. emigration, as we have seen, does not diminish the home population by a single unit; and so, while there are empty lands available for colonisation, it is by far the best method of adding to the numbers of our race. it should now be possible to form a judgment on the prospects of the anglo-saxon race in various parts of the world. in india, burma, new guinea, the west indian islands, and tropical africa there is no possibility of ever planting a healthy european population. these dependencies may grow food for us, or send us articles which we can exchange for food, but they are not, and never can be, colonies of anglo-saxons. the prospects of south africa are very dubious. the white man is there an aristocrat, directing semi-servile labour. the white population of the gold and diamond fields will stay there till the mines give out, and no longer. large tracts of the country may at last be occupied only by kaffirs. the united states of america are becoming less anglo-saxon every year, and this process is likely to continue, since in unskilled labour the italian and the pole seem to give better value for their wages than the englishman or born american, with his high standard of comfort. in canada, the temperate part of australia, new zealand, and tasmania the chances for a large and flourishing english-speaking population seem to be very favourable, though in these dominions the high standard of living is a check to population, and in the case of australasia the possibility of foreign conquest, while these priceless lands are still half empty, cannot be altogether excluded. even more interesting to most of us is the future of our race at home. as regards quality, the outlook for the present is bad. we have seen that the destruction of the upper and professional classes by taxation directed expressly against them has already begun, and this victimisation is certain to become more and more acute, till these classes are practically extinguished. the old aristocracy showed a tendency to decay even when they were unduly favoured by legislation, and a little more pressure will drive them to voluntary sterility and extermination. even more to be regretted is the doom of the professional aristocracy, a caste almost peculiar to our country. these families can often show longer, and usually much better pedigrees than the peerage; the persistence of marked ability in many of them, for several generations, is the delight of the eugenist. they are perhaps the best specimens of humanity to be found in any country of the world. yet they have no prospects except to be gradually harassed out of existence, like the _curiales_ of the later roman empire. the power will apparently be grasped by a new highly privileged class, the aristocracy of labour. this class, being intelligent, energetic, and intensely selfish, may retain its domination for a considerable time. it is a matter of course that, having won its privilege of exploiting the community, it will use all its efforts to preserve that privilege and to prevent others from sharing it. in other words, it will become an exclusive and strongly conservative class, on a broader basis than the territorial and commercial aristocracies which preceded it. it will probably be strong enough to discontinue the system of state doles which encourages the wastrel to multiply, as he does multiply, much faster than the valuable part of the population. we are at present breeding a large parasitic class subsisting on the taxes and hampering the government. the comparative fertility of the lowest class as compared with the better stocks has greatly increased, and is still increasing. the competent working-class families, as well as the rich, are far less fertile than the waste products of our civilisation. dr. tredgold found that couples of the parasitic class averaged . children per family, while respectable couples from the working class averaged only . per family. mr. sidney webb examined the statistics of the hearts of oak benefit society, which is patronised by the best type of mechanic, and found that the birth-rate among its members has fallen per cent, between and ; or, taking the whole period between and , the falling off is per cent. this decline proves that the period of industrial expansion in england is nearly over. it would be far better if our birth-rate were as low as that of france, as it would be but for the reckless propagation of the 'submerged tenth,' england being now a paradise for human refuse, the offscourings of europe ( , in ) take the place of the better stocks, whose position is made artificially unfavourable. these doles are at present paid by the minority, and this method may be expected to continue until the looting of the propertied classes comes to an enforced end. this will not take long, for it is certain that the amount of wealth available for plunder is very much smaller than is usually supposed. it is easy to destroy capital values, but very difficult to distribute them. the time will soon arrive when the patient sheep will be found to have lost not only his fleece but his skin, and the privileged workman will then have to choose between taxing himself and abandoning socialism. there is little doubt which he will prefer. the result will be that the festering sore of our slum-population will dry up, and the gradual disappearance of this element will be some compensation, from the eugenic point of view, for the destruction of the intellectual class. this process will considerably, and beneficially, diminish the population: and there are several other factors which will operate in the same direction. high wage industry can only maintain itself against the competition of cheaper labour abroad by introducing every kind of labour-saving device. the number of hands employed in a factory must progressively diminish. and as, in spite of all that ingenuity can do, the competition of the cheaper races is certain to cripple our foreign trade, the trade unions will be obliged to provide for a shrinkage in their numbers. we may expect that every unionist will be allowed to place one son, and only one, in the privileged corporation. a man will become a miner or a railwayman 'by patrimony,' and it will be difficult to gain admission to a union in any other way. the position of those who cannot find a place within the privileged circle will be so unhappy that most unionists will take care to have one son only. another change which will tend to discourage families will be the increased employment of women as bread-winners. nothing is more remarkable in the study of vital statistics than the comparative birth-rates of those districts in which women earn wages, and of those in which they do not. the rate of increase among the miners is as great as that of the reckless casual labourers, and the obvious reason is that the miner's wife loses nothing by having children, since she does not earn wages. contrast with these high figures (running up to per thousand) the very low birth-rates of towns like bradford, where the women are engaged in the textile industry and earn regular wages in support of the family budget. if the time comes when the majority of women are wage-earners, we may even see the pressure of population entirely withdrawn. thus in every class of the nation influences are at work tending to a progressive decrease in our national fertility. it must be remembered, however, that at present the annual increase, in peace time, is or per thousand, so that it may be some time before an equilibrium is reached. but if our predictions are sound, a positive decrease, and probably a rapid one, is likely to follow. for our ability to exchange our manufactures for food will grow steadily less, as the self-indulgent and 'work-shy' labourer succeeds in gaining his wishes. if the coal begins to give out, the retreat will become a rout. we are witnessing the decline and fall of the social order which began with the industrial revolution years ago. the cancer of industrialism has begun to mortify, and the end is in sight. within years, it may be--for we must allow for backwashes and cross-currents which will retard the flow of the stream--the hideous new towns which disfigure our landscape may have disappeared, and their sites may have been reclaimed for the plough. humanitarian legislation, so far from arresting this movement, is more likely to accelerate it, and the same may be said of the insatiate greed of our new masters. it is indeed instructive to observe how cupidity and sentiment, which (with pugnacity) are the only passions which the practical politician needs to consider, usually defeat their own ends. the working man is sawing at the branch on which he is seated. he may benefit for a time a minority of his own class, but only by sealing the doom of the rest. a densely populated country, which is unable to feed itself, can never be a working-man's paradise, a land of short hours and high wages. and the sentimentalist, kind only to be cruel, unwittingly promotes precisely the results which he most deprecates, though they are often much more beneficial than his own aims. the evil that he would he does not; and the good that he would not, that he sometimes does. for, much as we must regret the apparently inevitable ruin of the upper and upper middle classes, to which england in the past has owed the major part of her greatness, we cannot regard the trend of events as an unmixed misfortune. the industrial revolution has no doubt had some beneficial results. it has founded the british empire, the most interesting and perhaps the most successful experiment in government on a large scale that the world has yet seen. it has foiled two formidable attempts to place europe under the heel of military monarchies. it has brought order and material civilisation to many parts of the world which before were barbarous. but these achievements have been counterbalanced by many evils, and in any case they have done their work. the aggregation of mankind in large towns is itself a misfortune; the life of great cities is wholesome neither for body nor for mind. the separation of classes has become more complete; the country may even be divided into the picturesque counties where money is spent, and the ugly counties where it is made. except london and the sea-ports, the whole of the south of england is more or less parasitic. we must add that in the early days of the movement the workman and his children were exploited ruthlessly. it is true that if they had not been exploited they would not have existed; but a root of bitterness was planted which, according to what seems to be the law in such cases, sprang up and bore its poisonous fruit about two generations later. it is a sinister fact that the worst trouble is now made by the youngest men. the large fortunes which were made by the manufacturers were not, on the whole, well spent. their luxury was not of a refined type; literature and art were not intelligently encouraged; and even science was most inadequately supported. the great achievements of the nineteenth century in science and letters, and to a less degree in art, were independent of the industrial world, and were chiefly the work of that class which is now sinking helplessly under the blows of predatory taxation. capitalism itself has degenerated; the typical millionaire is no longer the captain of industry, but the international banker and company promoter. it is more difficult than ever to find any rational justification for the accumulations which are in the hands of a few persons. it is not to be expected that the working class should be less greedy and unscrupulous than the educated; indeed it is plain that, now that it realises its power, it will be even more so. in some ways the national character has stood the strain of these unnatural conditions very well. those who feared that the modern englishman would make a poor soldier have had to own that they were entirely wrong. but as long as industrialism continues, we shall be in a state of thinly disguised civil war. there can be no industrial peace while our urban population remains, because the large towns are the creation of the system which their inhabitants now want to destroy. they can and will destroy it, but only by destroying themselves. when the suicidal war is over we shall have a comparatively small population, living mainly in the country and cultivating the fruits of the earth. it will be more like the england of the eighteenth century than the england which we know. there will be no very rich men; and if the birth-rate is regulated there should be no paupers. it will be a far pleasanter age to live in than the present, and more favourable to the production of great intellectual work, for life will be more leisurely, and social conditions more stable. we may hope that some of our best families will determine to survive, _coûte que coûte_, until these better times arrive. we shall not attempt to prophesy what the political constitution will be. every existing form of government is bad; and our democracy can hardly survive the two diseases which generally kill democracies--reckless plunder of the national wealth, and the impotence of the central government in face of revolutionary and predatory sectionalism. meanwhile, we must understand that although the consideration of mankind in the mass, and the calculation of tendencies based on figures and averages, must lead us to somewhat pessimistic and cynical views of human nature, there is no reason why individuals, unless they wish to make a career out of politics (since it is the sad fate of politicians always to deal with human nature at its worst), should conform themselves to the low standards of the world around them. it is only 'in the loomp' that humanity, whether poor or rich, 'is bad.' there are materials, though far less abundant than we could wish, for a spiritual reformation, which would smooth the transition to a new social order, and open to us unfailing sources of happiness and inspiration, which would not only enable us to tide over the period of dissolution, but might make the whole world our debtor. no nation is better endowed by nature with a faculty for sane idealism than the english. we were never intended to be a nation of shopkeepers, if a shopkeeper is doomed to be merely a shopkeeper, which of course he is not. our brutal commercialism has been a temporary aberration; the quintessential englishman is not the hero of smiles' 'self-help'; he is raleigh, drake, shakespeare, milton, johnson, or wordsworth, with a pleasant spice of dickens. he is, in a word, an idealist who has not quite forgotten that he is descended from an independent race of sea-rovers, accustomed to think and act for themselves. mr. havelock ellis, one of the wisest and most fearless of our prophets to-day, quotes from an anonymous journalist a prediction which may come true: 'london may yet be the spiritual capital of the world; while asia--rich in all that gold can buy and guns can give, lord of lands and bodies, builder of railways and promulgator of police regulations, glorious in all material glories--postures, complacent and obtuse, before a europe content in the possession of all that matters.' for, as the greek poet says, 'the soul's wealth is the only real wealth.' the spirit creates values, while the demagogue shrieks to transfer the dead symbols of them. 'all that matters' is what the world can neither give nor take away. the spiritual integration of society which we desire and behold afar off must be illuminated by the dry light of science, and warmed by the rays of idealism, a white light but not cold. and idealism must be compacted as a religion, for it is the function of religion to prevent the fruits of the flowering-times of the spirit from being lost. science has not yet come to its own in forming the beliefs and practice of mankind, because it has been so much excluded from higher education, and so much repressed by sentimentalism under the wing of religion. the nation that first finds a practical reconciliation between science and idealism is likely to take the front place among the peoples of the world. in england we have to struggle not only against ignorance, but against a deep-rooted intellectual insincerity, which is our worst national fault. the englishman hates an idea which he has never met before, as he hates the disturber of his privacy in a steam-ship cabin; and he takes opportunities of making things unpleasant for those who utter indiscreet truths. as samuel butler says: 'we hold it useful to have a certain number of melancholy examples whose notorious failure shall serve as a warning to those who do not cultivate a power of immoral self-control which shall prevent them from saying, or even thinking, anything that shall not be to their immediate and palpable advantage.' to do our countrymen justice, it is often not self-interest, but a tendency to deal with the concrete instance, in disregard of the general law, that blinds them to the larger aspects of great problems. those who are able to trace causes and effects further than the majority must expect to be unpopular, but they will not mind it, if they can do good by speaking. the logic of events will justify them, and science has a new weapon in official statistics which will register at once the disastrous effects upon wealth and trade which the insane theories of the demagogue will bring about. no agitator can explain away ascertained figures; if we go down hill, we shall do it with our eyes open. it may be that reactions will be set up which will render the anticipations in this article erroneous. things never turn out either so well or so badly as they logically ought to do. prophecy is only an amusement; what does concern us all deeply is that we should see in what direction we are now moving. footnotes: [ ] in the small islands round our coast increase has ceased for some decades. the vital statistics of these islands furnish an excellent illustration of automatic adjustment to a state of supersaturation. bishop gore and the church of england ( ) the strength and the weakness of the anglican church lie in the fact that it is not the best representative of any well-defined type of christianity. it is not strictly a protestant body; for protestantism is the democracy of religion, and the church of england retains a hierarchical organisation, with an order of priests who claim a divine commission not conferred upon them by the congregation. it is not a state church as the russian empire has[ ] a state church. that is a position which it has neither the will nor the power to regain. still less could it ever justify a claim to separate existence as a purely catholic church, independent of the church of rome. a community of catholics whose claim to be a catholic and not a protestant church is denied by all other catholics, by all protestants, and by all who are neither catholics nor protestants, could not long retain sufficient prestige to keep its adherents together. the destiny of such a body is written in the history of the 'old catholics,' who seceded from rome because they would not accept the dogma of papal infallibility. the seceders included many men of high character and intellect, but in numbers and influence they are quite insignificant. the church of england has only one title to exist, and it is a strong one. it may claim to represent the religion of the english people as no other body can represent it. 'no church,' döllinger wrote in , 'is so national, so deeply rooted in popular affection, so bound up with the institutions and manners of the country, or so powerful in its influence on national character.' these words are still partly true, though it is not possible to make the assertion with so much confidence as when döllinger wrote. the english church represents, on the religious side, the convictions, tastes, and prejudices of the english gentleman, that truly national ideal of character, which has long since lost its adventitious connexion with heraldry and property in land. a love of order, seemliness, and good taste has led the anglican church along a middle path between what a seventeenth-century divine called 'the meretricious gaudiness of the church of rome and the squalid sluttery of fanatic conventicles.' a keen sense of honour and respect for personal uprightness, a hatred of cruelty and treachery, created and long maintained in the english church an intense repugnance against the priestcraft of the roman hierarchy, feelings which have only died down because the bitter memories of the sixteenth century have at last become dim. a jealous love of liberty, combined with contempt for theories of equality, produced a system of graduated ranks in church government which left a large measure of freedom, both in speech and thought, even to the clergy, and encouraged no respect for what catholics mean by authority. the anglican church is also characteristically english in its dislike for logic and intellectual consistency and in its distrust of undisciplined emotionalism, which in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was known and dreaded under the name of 'enthusiasm.' this type is not essentially aristocratic. it does not traverse the higher ideals of the working class, which respects and admires the qualities of the 'gentleman,' though it resents the privileges long connected with the name. but it has no attraction for what may be impolitely called the vulgar class, whose religious feelings find a natural vent in an unctuous emotionalism and sentimental humanitarianism. this class, which forms the backbone of dissent and liberalism, is instinctively antipathetic to anglicanism. nor does the anglican type of christianity appeal at all to the 'celtic fringe,' whose temperament is curiously opposite to that of the english, not only in religion but in most other matters. the irish and the welsh are no more likely to become anglicans than the lowland scotch are to adopt roman catholicism. whether dissent is a permanent necessity in england is a more difficult question, in spite of the class differences of temperament above mentioned. if the anglican organisation were elastic enough to permit the order of lay-readers to be developed on strongly evangelical lines, the lower middle class might find within the church the mental food which it now seeks in nonconformist chapels, and might gain in breadth and dignity by belonging once more to a great historic body. the church of england, then, can justify its existence as english christianity, and in no other way. it began its separate career with a series of (doubtless) illogical compromises, in the belief that there is an underlying unity, though not uniformity, in the religion as well as in the character of the english people, which would be strong enough to hold a national church together. the dissenters from the reformation settlement were numerically insignificant, and their existence was not regarded as a peril to the church, for it was recognised that in a free country absolute agreement cannot be secured. the roman catholics, after some futile persecution, were allowed to remain loyal to their old allegiance in spiritual matters, while the independents and similar bodies were anarchical on principle, and upheld the 'dissidence of dissent' as a thing desirable in itself. but the defection of the wesleyan methodists was another matter. this was a blow to the church of england as irreparable as the loss of northern europe to the papacy. it finally upset the balance of parties in the church, by detaching from it the larger number of the evangelicals, particularly in the tradesman class. it gave a great stimulus to nonconformity, which now became for the first time an important factor in the national life. till the wesleyan secession, the nonconformists in england had been a feeble folk. from a return made to the crown in , it appeared that the dissenters numbered about one in twenty of the population. now they are as numerous as the anglicans. their prestige has also been largely augmented by their dominating position in the united states, where the episcopal church, long viewed with disfavour as tainted with british sympathies, has never recovered its lost ground, and is a comparatively small, though wealthy and influential sect. within the anglican communion, the inevitable religious revival of the nineteenth century began on evangelical lines, but soon took a form determined by other influences than those which covered england with the ostentatiously hideous chapels of the wesleyans. the extent of the revival has indeed been much exaggerated by the numerous apologists of the catholic movement. the undoubted increase of professional zeal, activity, and efficiency among the clergy has been taken as proof of a corresponding access of enthusiasm among the laity, for which there is not much evidence. in spite of slovenly services and an easy standard of clerical duty, the observances of religion held a larger place in the average english home before the oxford movement than is often supposed, larger, indeed, than they do now, when family prayers and bible reading have been abandoned in most households. the oxford movement claimed to be, and was, a revival of the principles of anglo-catholicism, which had not been left without witness for any long period since the reformation. the continuity is certain, as is the continuity of the ritualism of our day with the tractarianism of seventy years ago; but the development has been rapid, especially in the last thirty years. those who can remember the high churchmen of pusey's generation, or their disciples who in many country parsonages preserved the faith of their tractarian teachers whole and undefiled, must be struck by the divergence between the principles which they then heard passionately maintained, and those which the younger generation, who use their name and enjoy their credit, avow to be their own. in the tractarians the nonjurors seemed to have come to life again, and one might easily find enthusiastic jacobites among them. unlike their successors, they showed no sympathy with political radicalism. their love for and loyalty to the english church, which found melodious expression in keble's poetry, were intense. they were not hostile to evangelicalism within the church, until the ultra-protestant party declared war against them; but they viewed dissent with scorn and abhorrence. they would gladly have excluded nonconformists from any status in the universities, and opposed any measures intended to conciliate their prejudices or remove their disabilities. archdeacon denison, in his sturdy opposition to the 'conscience clause' in church schools, was a typical representative of the old high church party. but still more bitter was their animosity against religious liberalism. even after the feud with the evangelicals had developed into open war, pusey was ready to join with lord shaftesbury and his party in united anathemas against the authors of 'essays and reviews.' the beginnings of old testament criticism evoked an outburst of fury almost unparalleled. when bishop gray, of cape town, solemnly 'excommunicated' bishop colenso, of natal, and enjoined the faithful to 'treat him as a heathen man and a publican,' for exposing the unhistorical character of portions of the pentateuch, he became a hero with the whole high church party, and even the more liberal among the bishops were cowed by the tempest of feeling which the case aroused. in the same period, many oxford men can remember bishop wilberforce's attack upon darwinism, and, somewhat later, dean burgon's university sermon which ended with the stirring peroration: leave me my ancestors in paradise, and i leave you yours in the zoological gardens!' from the same pulpit liddon, a little before his death, uttered a pathetic remonstrance against the course which his younger disciples were taking about inspiration and tradition. reverence for tradition was a very prominent feature in the theology of the older generation. they spent an immense amount of time, learning, and ingenuity in establishing a _catena_ of patristic and orthodox authority for their principles, reaching back to the earliest times, and handed down in this country by a series of anglo-catholic divines. this unbroken tradition was conceived of as purely static, a 'mechanical unpacking,' as father tyrrell puts it, of the doctrine once delivered to the apostles. the church, according to their theory, was supernaturally guided by the holy ghost, and its decisions were consequently infallible, as long as the church remained undivided. thus the earlier general councils, before the schism between east and west, may not be appealed against, and the creeds drawn up by them can never be revised. since the great schism, the infallible inspiration of the church has been in abeyance, like an old english peerage when a peer leaves two or more daughters and no sons. this fantastic theory condemns all later developments, and leaves the church under the weight of the dead hand. on the question of the establishment the party was divided, some of its members attaching great value to the union of church and state, while others made claims for the church, in the matter of self-government, which were hardly compatible with establishment. their bond of union was their conviction of 'the necessity of impressing on people that the church was more than a merely human institution; that it had privileges, sacraments, a ministry, ordained by christ himself; that it was a matter of highest obligation to remain united to the church.'[ ] as compared with their successors, the tractarians were academic and learned; they preached thoughtful and carefully prepared sermons; they cared little for ecclesiastical millinery, and often acquiesced in very simple and 'backward' ceremonial. their theory of the church, their personal piety and self-discipline, were of a thoroughly medieval type, as may be seen from certain chapters in the life of pusey. they fought the battle of anglo-catholicism, at oxford and elsewhere, with a whole-hearted conviction that knew no misgivings or scruples. oxford has not forgotten the election, as late as , of an orthodox naval officer to a chair of history for which freeman was a candidate. a change of tone was already noticeable, according to dean church, soon after newman's secession. many high churchmen, in speaking of the english church, became apologetic or patronising or lukewarm. progressive members of the party professed a distaste for the name anglican, and wished to be styled catholics pure and simple. the same men began to speak of their opponents in the church as protestants; no longer as ultra-protestants. other changes soon manifested themselves. the archaeological side of the movement lost its interest; the appeal to antiquity became only a convenient argument to defend practices adopted on quite other grounds. the _epigoni_ of the catholic revival are not learned; they know even less of the fathers than of their bibles. their chief literature consists of a weekly penny newspaper, which reflects only too well their prejudices and aspirations. on the other hand, they are far busier than the older generation. the movement has become democratic; it has passed from the quadrangles of oxford to the streets and lanes of our great cities, where hundreds of devoted clergymen are working zealously, without care for remuneration or thought of recognition, among the poorest of the populace. of late years, the more energetic section of the party has not only abandoned the 'church and king' toryism of the old high church party, but has plunged into socialism. the mirfield community is said to be strongly imbued with collectivist ideas; and the christian social union, which is chiefly supported by high churchmen, tends to become more and more a union of christian socialists, instead of being, as was intended by its founders, a non-political association for the study of social duties and problems in the light of the sermon on the mount. this attitude is partly the result of a close acquaintance with the sufferings of the urban proletariat, which moves the priests who minister among them to a generous sympathy with their lot; and, partly, it may be, to an unavowed calculation that an alliance with the most rapidly growing political party may in time to come be useful to the church. their methods of teaching are also more democratic, though many of them make the fatal mistake of despising preaching. they rely partly on what they call 'definite catholic teaching,' including frequent exhortations to the practice of confession; and partly on appeals to the eye, by symbolic ritual and elaborate ceremonial. their more ornate services are often admirably performed from a spectacular point of view, and are far superior to most roman catholic functions in reverence, beauty, and good taste. the extreme section of the party is contemptuously lawless, not only repudiating the authority of the judicial committee of the privy council, but flouting the bishops with studied insolence. a glaring instance is to be found in the correspondence between mr. athelstan riley and the bishop of oxford, which followed the report of the royal commission on ritual practices. doctrinally, the modern ritualist is prepared to surrender the old theory of inspiration. he takes, indeed, but little interest in the bible; his oracle is not the book, but 'the church.' what he means by the church it is not easy to say. the old anglican theory of the infallible undivided church is not repudiated by him, but does not appeal to minds which look forward much more than backward; he is not yet, except in a few instances, disposed to accept the modern roman church as the arbiter of doctrine; and the english church has no living voice to which he pays the slightest respect. the 'tradition of western catholicism' is a phrase which has a meaning for him, and he probably hopes for a reunion, at some distant date, of the anglican church with a reformed rome. it is therefore essential, in his opinion, that no alteration shall take place in the formularies which we share with rome; the bible may be thrown to the critics, but the creeds are inviolable. the thirty-nine articles he passes by with silent disdain. they are, he thinks not unjustly, a document to which no one, high, low, or broad, can now subscribe without mental reservations. the theory of development in doctrine, which, in its latest application by 'modernists' like loisy and tyrell, is now agitating the roman church, is exciting interest in a few of the more thoughtful anglo-catholics; but the majority are blind to the difficulties for which the theory of two kinds of truth is a desperate remedy. nor is it likely, perhaps, that the plain englishman will ever allow that an ostensibly historical proposition may be false as a matter of fact, but true for faith. this party in the church has a lay pope, who represents the opinions of the more enterprising among the rank and file, and is president of their society, the english church union. it has the ably conducted weekly newspaper above referred to, and it has the general sympathy and support of the strongest man in the english church, charles gore, bishop of birmingham. this prelate, partly by his personal qualities--his eloquence, high-minded disinterestedness, and splendid generosity, and partly by knowing exactly what he wants, and having full courage of his opinions, has at present an influence in the anglican church which is probably far greater than that of any other man. it is therefore a matter of public interest to ascertain what his views and intentions are, as an ecclesiastical statesman and reformer, and as a theologian. bishop gore exercised a strong influence over the younger men at oxford before the publication of 'lux mundi.' but it was his editorship of this book, and his contribution to it, which first brought his name into prominence as a leader of religious thought. the religious public, with rather more penetration than usual, fastened on the pages about inspiration, and the limitations of christ's human knowledge, which are from the editor's own pen, as the most significant part of the book. the authors are believed to have been annoyed by the disproportionate attention paid to this short section. but in truth these pages indicated a new departure among the high church party, a change more important than the acceptance of the doctrine of evolution, which was being made smoother for the religious public by the brilliant writings of aubrey moore. the acceptance of the verdict of modern criticism as to the authorship of the th psalm, in the face of the recorded testimony of christ that it was written by david, was a concession to 'modernism' which staggered the old-fashioned high churchman. liddon did not conceal his distress that such doctrine should have come out of the pusey house. but the manifesto was well timed; it enabled the younger men to go forward more freely, and sacrificed nothing that was in any way essential to the anglo-catholic position. since the appearance of 'lux mundi,' the high church clergy have been able without fear to avow their belief in the scientific theories associated with darwin's name, and their rejection of the rigid doctrine of verbal inspiration, while the evangelicals, who have not been emancipated by their leaders, labour under the reproach of extreme obscurantism in their attitude towards biblical studies. as canon of westminster, and then as bishop of worcester, and of birmingham, dr. gore has written and spoken much, and has defined his position more closely in relation to anglo-catholicism, to church reform, and to the social question. it will be convenient to take these three heads separately. this bishop regards the excesses of the ritualists as a deplorable but probably inevitable incident in a great movement. he quotes newman's remonstrance against some hot-headed members of his adopted church, who, 'having done their best to set the house on fire, leave to others the task of extinguishing the flames.'[ ] but he reminds us that there has always been 'intemperate zeal' in the church, from the time of st. paul's letters to the church at corinth to our own day. 'it must needs be that offences come,' wherever persons of limited wisdom are very much in earnest. the remedy for extravagance is to give fair scope for the legitimate principle. in the case of the so-called ritualist movement, the inspiring principle or motive is easily found. it is the idea of a visible church, exercising lawful authority over its members. this is the key to bishop gore's whole position. it rests on the conviction that jesus christ founded, and meant to found, a visible church, an organised society. it is reasonable, the bishop says, to suppose that he did intend this, for it is only by becoming embodied in the convictions of a society, and informing its actions, that ideas have reality and power. christianity could never have lived if there had been no christian church. and, from the first, christians believed that this society, the catholic church, was not left to organise itself on any model which from time to time might seem to promise the best results, but was instituted from above, as a divine ordinance, by the authority of christ himself.[ ] the witness of the early christian writers is unanimous that the conception of a visible church was a prominent feature in the christianity of the sub-apostolic age, and it is plain that the civil power suspected the christians just because they were so well organised. the roman empire was accustomed to tolerate superstitions, but it was part of her policy to repress _collegia illicita_. the witness of the new testament points in the same direction. jesus christ committed his message, not to writing, but to a 'little flock' of devoted adherents. he instituted the two great sacraments (bishop gore will admit no uncertainty on this point) to be a token of membership and a bond of brotherhood. he instituted a _civitas dei_ which was to be wide enough to embrace all, but which makes for itself an exclusive claim. the 'heaven' of the first century was a city, a new jerusalem; christians are spoken of by st. paul as citizens of a heavenly commonwealth. the distinction between the universal invisible church and particular visible churches is 'utterly unscriptural,' and was overthrown long ago by william law in his controversy with hoadly. as for the 'apostolical succession,' dr. gore thinks that its principle is more important than the form in which it is embodied. the succession would not be broken if all the presbyters in the church governed as a college of bishops; and if something of this kind actually happened for a time in the early church no argument against the apostolical succession can be based thereon.[ ] the principle is that no ministry is valid which is assumed, which a man takes upon himself, or which is delegated to him from below. that this theory is sacerdotalism in a sense may be admitted. but it does not imply a _vicarious_ priesthood, only a representative one. it does not deny the priesthood which belongs to the church as a whole. the true sacerdotalism means that christianity is the life of an organised society, in which a graduated body of ordained ministers is made the instrument of unity. it is no doubt true that in such a church unspiritual men are made to mediate spiritual gifts, but happily we may distinguish character and office. nor must we be deterred from asserting our convictions by the indignant protests which we are sure to hear, that we are 'unchurching' the non-episcopal bodies,[ ] we do not assert that god is tied to his covenant, but only that we are so. dr. gore has no difficulty in proving that the sacerdotal theory of the christian ministry took shape at an early date, and has been consistently maintained in the catholic church from ancient times to our own day. it is much more difficult to trace it back to the apostolic age, even if, with dr. gore, we accept as certain the pauline authorship of the pastoral epistles, which is still _sub judice_. the 'didache' is a stumbling-block to those who wish to find catholic practice in the century after our lord's death; but that document is dismissed as composed by a jewish christian for a jewish christian community. after the second century, the apologists for the priesthood are in smooth waters. the conclusion is that 'the various presbyterian and congregationalist organisations, in dispensing with the episcopal succession, violated a fundamental law of the church's life.'[ ] 'a ministry not episcopally received is invalid, that is to say, it falls outside the conditions of covenanted security, and cannot justify its existence in terms of the covenant.'[ ] the anglican church is not asking for the cause to be decided all her own way; for she has much to do to recall herself to her true principles. 'god's promise to judah was that she should remember her ways and should be ashamed, when she should receive her sisters samaria and sodom, and that he would give them to her for daughters, but not by her covenant.'[ ] the 'covenant' which the church is to be content to forgo in order to recover samaria and _sodom_ (the 'free churches' can hardly be expected to relish this method of opening negotiations) is apparently the covenant between church and state. 'in the future the anglican church must be content to act as, first of all, part and parcel of the catholic church, ruled by her laws, empowered by her spirit.' the bishops are to be ready to maintain, at all cost, the inherent spiritual independence which belongs to their office. such a theory of the essentials of a true church necessarily requires, as a corollary, a refutation of the roman catholic theory of orders, which reduces the anglican clergy to the same level as the ministers of schismatical sects. bishop gore answers the objection that the roman church is the logical expression of his theory of the ministry, by saying that roman catholicism is not the development of the whole of the church, but only of a part of it; and moreover, that spiritually it does not represent the whole of christianity as it finds expression in the first christian age or in the new testament.[ ] the roman church is a one-sided outgrowth of the religion of christ--a development of those qualities in christianity with which the latin genius has special affinity. it has committed itself to unhistorical doctrines, involving a deficient appreciation of the intellectual and moral claim of truth to be valued for its own sake no less than for its results. much of its teaching can only be explained as the result of an 'over-reckless accommodation to the unregenerate natural instincts in religion.'[ ] the fact that the largest section of christendom has become what rome now is, is no proof that theirs is the line of true development. we can see this clearly enough if we consider the case of buddhism. the main existing developments of buddhism are a mere travesty of the spirit of sakya muni.[ ] in this way dr. gore anticipates and rejects the argument since then put forward by loisy, and other liberal catholic apologists, that history has proved roman catholicism to be the proper development of christ's religion. in short, the anglican church, which indisputably possesses the apostolic succession, has no reason to go humbly to borne to obtain recognition of her orders. so far, in reviewing bishop gore's published opinions, we are on familiar high anglican ground. but what is the bishop's seat of authority in doctrine? he has shown himself willing, within limits, to apply critical methods to holy scripture. he has very little respect for the infallible pope. and he would be the last to trust to private judgment--the _testimonium spiritus sancti_ as understood by some protestants. where, then, is the ultimate court of appeal? bishop gore finds it in the two earliest of the three creeds, 'in which catholic consent is especially expressed;' and in a half apologetic manner he adds that this catholic basis has been 'generally understood' to imply 'an unrealisable but not therefore unreal appeal to a general council.'[ ] no revision, therefore, of the church's doctrinal formularies can be made except by the authority of a court which can never, by any possibility, be summoned! the unique sanctity and obligation which bishop gore considers to attach to the creeds have been asserted by him again and again with a vehemence which proves that he regards the matter as of vital importance. 'there must be no compromise as regards the creeds.... if those who live in an atmosphere of intellectual criticism become incapable of such sincere public profession of belief as the creed contains, the church must look to recruit her ministry from classes still capable of a more simple and unhesitating faith.'[ ] and, again, in his most recent book: 'i have taken occasion before now to make it evident that, as far as i can secure it, i will admit no one into this diocese, or into holy orders, to minister for the congregation, who does not _ex animo_ believe the creeds.'[ ] dr. gore has not spared to stigmatise as morally dishonest those who desire to serve the church as its ministers while harbouring doubts about the physical miracle known as the virgin birth, and one of his clergy was a few years ago induced to resign his living by an aspersion of this kind, to which the bishop gave publicity in the daily press. now it has been generally supposed that the anglican clergy are bound to declare their adhesion not only to the creeds, but to the thirty-nine articles, and to the infallible truth of holy scripture. bishop gore, however, holds that when a new deacon, on the day of his ordination, solemnly declares that he 'assents to the thirty-nine articles,' and that he 'believes the doctrine therein set forth to be agreeable to the word of god,' he 'can no longer fairly be regarded as bound to particular phrases or expressions in the articles.'[ ] and further, when the same new deacon expresses his 'unfeigned belief in all the canonical scriptures of the old and new testaments,' 'that expression of belief can be fairly and justly made by anyone who believes heartily that the bible, as a whole, records and contains the message of god to man in all its stages of delivery and that each one of the books contains some element or aspect of this revelation.'[ ] the bishop himself has affirmed his personal belief that some narratives in the old testament are probably not historical. it may fairly be asked on what principle he is prepared to evade the plain sense and intention of a doctrinal test in two cases while stigmatising as morally flagitious any attempts to do the same in a third. for it is unquestionable that a general assent to the articles does not mean that the man who gives that assent is free to repudiate any 'particular phrases or expressions' which do not please him. a witness who admitted having signed an affidavit with this intention would cut a poor figure in a law court. and it is difficult to see how adhesion to the antiquated theory of inspiration could be demanded more stringently than by the form of words which was drawn up, as none can doubt, to secure it. these things being so, either the accusation of bad faith applies to the treatment which the bishop justifies in the case of the articles and the bible, or it should not be brought against those who apply to one clause in their vows the principle which is admitted and used in two others. there are some honourable men who have abstained from entering the service of the church on account of these requirements. but there are many others who recognise that knowledge grows and opinions change, while formularies for the most part remain unaltered; and who consider that, so long as their general position is understood by those among whom they work, it would be overscrupulous to refuse an inward call to the ministry because they know that they will be asked to give a formal assent to unsuitably worded tests drawn up three centuries ago. dr. gore himself would probably have been refused ordination fifty years ago on the ground of his lax views on inspiration; and the bishops who approved of the condemnation of colenso, who condemned 'essays and reviews,' and who would have condemned 'lux mundi,' were more 'honest' to the tests than their successors. but an obstinate persistence in that kind of honesty would have excluded from the ministry all except fools, liars, and bigots. again, it might have been supposed that the laity also, who at their baptism and confirmation made the same declaration of belief in 'all the articles' of the apostles' creed, and who are bidden by the church to repeat the same creed every week, are in the same position as the clergy. but the bishop again attempts to draw a distinction. 'the responsibility of joining in the creed is left to the conscience of the layman,' but not to the conscience of the clergyman, nor, we suppose, of the choir.[ ] this plea seems to us a very lame one. the church of england has never thought of imposing severer doctrinal tests on the clergy than on the laity, and assent to the creeds is as integral a part of the baptismal as of the ordination vows. no loyal christian wishes to impugn a doctrine which touches so closely the life of the redeemer as the account of his miraculous conception, which appears, in our texts, in two books of the new testament. if the tradition is as old as the church, which is very doubtful, it must, from the nature of the case, rest on the unsupported assertion of mary, the mother of jesus; for joseph could only testify that the child was not his. it is therefore useless to reinforce the gospel narrative by appealing to 'catholic tradition,'[ ] as if it could add anything to the evidence. it is significant, however, of the bishop's own feelings about tradition, that he quietly sets aside the plain statement of the synoptic gospels that joseph and mary had a large family of four sons and more than one daughter by their marriage. this statement, which is doubtless historical, became intolerable to the conscience of the church during the long frenzy of asceticism, when marital relations were regarded as impure and degrading; and in consequence the perpetual virginity of mary, though contradicted in the new testament, became as much an article of faith as her conception of jesus by the holy ghost. we have no wish to criticise the arguments for the virgin birth which dr. gore has collected in his 'dissertations.' but when a strenuous effort is made to exclude from the ministry of the church all who cannot declare _ex animo_ that they believe it to be a certain historical fact, it becomes a duty to point out that, on ordinary principles of evidence, the story must share the uncertainty which hangs over other strange and unsupported narratives. the bishop expresses his doubt whether those who regard this miracle as unproven can be convinced of the divinity of christ. this only shows how difficult it is for an ecclesiastic in his high position to induce either clergy or laity to talk frankly to him. to most educated men there would be no difficulty in believing that the son of god became incarnate through the agency of two earthly parents. the analogy of hybrids in the animal world is not felt to apply to the union of the human and divine natures, except by persons of very low intelligence. we should have preferred to be silent on this delicate subject, but for the fact that some men whom the church can ill spare have been advised officially not to apply for ordination, on account of their views about this miracle. fortunately, the practice of demanding more specific declarations than the law requires has not been adopted in most dioceses. the question of the miraculous element in religious truth has indeed reached an acute stage. the catholic doctrine is and always has been that there are two 'orders'--the natural and the supernatural--on the same plane, and distinguishable from each other. the catholic theologian is prepared to define what occurrences in the lives of the saints are natural, and what supernatural. miracles are of frequent occurrence, and are established by ordinary evidence. three miracles have to be placed to the credit of each candidate for canonisation before he or she is entitled to bear the title of saint, and the evidence for these miracles is sifted by a commission. this theory has been practically abandoned in the english church. there are few among our ecclesiastics and theologians who would spend five minutes in investigating any alleged supernatural occurrence in our own time. it would be assumed that, if true, it must be ascribed to some obscure natural cause. the result is that the miracles in the creeds, or in the new testament, are isolated as they have never been before. they seem to form an order by themselves, a class of fact belonging neither to the world of phenomena as we know it, nor to the world of spirit as we know it. from this situation has arisen the tendency, increasingly prevalent both in the roman church and in protestant germany, to distinguish 'truths of faith' from 'truths of fact,' the former, it is said, have a representative, symbolic character, and are only degraded by being placed in the same category as physical phenomena. this contention is open to very serious objections, but it at least indicates the actual state of the problem, viz. that to most educated men the miraculous element in christianity seems to float between earth and heaven, no longer essentially connected with either, while on the other hand the majority of religious people, including a few men of high intelligence, find it difficult to realise their faith without the help of the miraculous. supernaturalism, which from the scientific point of view is the most unsatisfactory of all theories, traversing as it does the first article in the creed of science--the uniformity of nature--gives, after all, a kind of crude synthesis of the natural and the spiritual, by which it is possible to live; it is, for many persons, an indispensable bridge between the world of phenomena and the world of spirit. but when the heavy-handed dogmatist requires a categorical assent to the literal truth of the miraculous, in exactly the same sense in which physical facts are true, a tension between faith and reason cannot be avoided. and it is in this literal sense that bishop gore requires all his clergy to assent to the miracles in the creeds. the fact is that the catholic party in the church are in a hopeless _impasse_ with regard to dogma. they cannot take any step which would divide them from 'the whole church,' and the whole church no longer exists except as an ideal--it has long ago been shivered into fragments. the roman church is in a much better position. the pope may at any time 'interpret' tradition in such a manner as to change it completely--there is no appeal from his authoritative pronouncements; but for the high anglican there is no living authority, only the dead hand, and a council which can never meet. it is much as if no important legislation could be passed in this country without a joint session of our parliament and the american congress. it is difficult to see any way of escape, except by accepting the principle of development in a sense which would repudiate the time-honoured 'appeal to antiquity.' we have next to consider bishop gore as a church reformer. we have seen that he desires an autonomous church, which can legislate for itself. the dead hand, which weighs so lightly upon him when it forbids any attempt to revise the formularies of the faith, seems to him intolerably heavy when it obliges the church to conform to 'the laws, canons, and rubrics of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which it cannot alter or add to.'[ ] the only remedy, he thinks, is a really representative assembly, of bishops, presbyters, and laymen. in the early church, as he points out, the laity were always recognised as constituent members of the government of the church. in a democratic age, the laity as a body should exercise the powers which in the middle ages were delegated to, or usurped by, 'emperors, kings, chiefs and lords.' the parish ought to have the real control of the church buildings, except the chancel; the church servants ought to be appointed and removed by the parish meeting. it would be a step forward if these parish councils could be organised under diocesan regulation, and invested with the control of the parish finances, except the vicar's stipend; the right to object to the appointment of an unfit pastor; and some power of determining the ceremonial at the church services. the diocesan synod should become a reality; there should also be provincial synods, which could become national by fusion. but in the last resort the declaration of the mind of the church on matters of doctrine and morals ought to belong to the bishops.[ ] but who are the laity? 'by a layman,' he says, 'i mean one who fulfils the duties of church membership--one who is baptised into the church, who has been confirmed if he has reached years of discretion, and who is a communicant.' a roll of church members, he suggests, should be kept in each parish, on which should be entered the name of each confirmed person, male or female. the names of those who had passed (say) two years without communicating should be struck off the roll. further, names should be removable for any scandalous offences.[ ] it is easy to see that the 'communicant franchise' would work entirely in favour of that party in the church which attaches the greatest importance to that sacrament. it would exclude a large number of protestant laymen who subscribe to church funds, and who on any other franchise would have a share in its government. but we need not suspect dr. gore of any _arrière pensée_ of this kind. his ideal of parochial life is one which must appeal to all who wish well to the church. we will quote a few characteristic sentences: 'are we to set to work to revive st. paul's ideal of the life of a church? if so, what we need is not more christians, but better christians. we want to make the moral meaning of church membership understood and its conditions appreciated. we want to make men understand that it costs something to be a christian; that to be a christian, that is, a churchman, is to be an intelligent participator in a corporate life consecrated to god, and to concern oneself, therefore, as a matter of course, in all that touches the corporate life, its external as well as its spiritual conditions.... we christians are fellow-citizens together in the commonwealth that is consecrated to god, a commonwealth of mortal men with bodies as well as souls.'[ ] with regard to ritual, he will not allow that the disputes are unimportant. the vital question of self-government is at stake. from this point of view, a 'mere ceremony' may mean a great deal. st. paul, who said 'circumcision is nothing,' also said, 'if ye be circumcised christ shall profit you nothing,'[ ] this is quite consistent with his hearty disapproval of the introduction of purely roman ceremonial. does this ideal of a free church in a free state involve disestablishment? not necessarily, dr. gore thinks. why should not legal authority be entrusted to diocesan courts, with a right of appeal to a court of bishops, abolishing the jurisdiction of the judicial committee in spiritual cases? it is the paralysis of spiritual authority, in his opinion, which pushes into prominence all extravagances, and conceals the vast amount of agreement which exists in essentials. 'we are weary of debating societies; we want the healthy discipline of co-operative government.'[ ] the policy of this self-governing church is to be 'liberal-catholic,' a type which 'responds to the moral needs of our great race.' such is the scheme of church reform towards which the bishop is working; and he has told us, in the sentence last quoted, what kind of church he looks forward to see. but what kind of church would it actually be, if his designs were carried out? it would not be a national church; for his belief that catholicism 'responds to the moral needs of our race' is contradicted by the whole history of modern england. the laity of england may not be quite 'as protestant as ever they were, though we often hear that they are so; but they show no disposition to become catholics. catholicism as we know it is latin christianity, and even in the latin countries it is now a hothouse plant, dependent on a special education in catholic schools and seminaries, with an _index librorum prohibitorum_. such a system is impossible in england. seminaries for the early training of future clergymen may indeed be established; but beds of exotics cannot be raised by keeping the gardeners in greenhouses while the young plants are in the open air. the 'liberal catholic' church, accordingly, would shed, by degrees, the very large number of churchmen who still call themselves protestant. nor would the adjective 'liberal' secure the adhesion of the 'intellectuals.' bishop gore's liberalism would exclude most of them as effectually as the most rigid conservatism. it would also be a disestablished and disendowed church; for surely it is building castles in the air to think of episcopal courts recognised by law. the prospect of disestablishment does not alarm the bishop. some of his utterances suggest that he would almost welcome it. indeed, disestablishment is viewed with complacency by an increasing number of high church clergy. they feel that they can never carry out their plans for de-protestantising the church while the crown has the appointment of the bishops. for even if, as has lately been the case, their party gets more than its due share of preferment, there will always, under the existing system, be a sufficient number of liberal and evangelical bishops on the bench to make a consistent policy of catholicising impossible. and the catholic party are so admirably organised that they are confident in their power to carry their schemes under any form of self-government, even though the mass of the laity are untouched by their views. moreover, the town clergy, among whom are to be found advocates of disestablishment, find in many places that the parochial idea has completely broken down. the unit is the congregation, no longer the parish, and the clergy are supported by pew-rents and voluntary offerings, not by endowments. in such parishes, disestablishment might, they think, give them greater liberty, and would make little difference to them in other ways. but in the country districts the case is very different. thirty years after disestablishment, the quiet country rectory, nestling in its bower of trees and shrubs, with all that it has meant for centuries in english rural life, would in most villages be a thing of the past. for these reasons, the bishop's policy of reconstructing the church of england as a self-governing body, professing definitely catholic principles and enjoining catholic practices, seems to us an impossible one. the chief gainer by it would be the church of rome, which would gather in the most consistent and energetic of the anglo-catholics, who would be dissatisfied at the contrast between the pretensions of their own church and its isolated position. the non-episcopal bodies would also gain numerous recruits from among the ruins of the evangelical and liberal parties in the church. but, it may be said, this dismal forecast may be falsified if the anglican church can win the masses. the english populace are at present neither protestant nor catholic; they are, if we count heads, mainly heathen. may not the working man, who has no leaning to dissent, unless it be the 'corybantic christianity' of the salvation army, be brought into the church? bishop gore has always shown an earnest sympathy with the aspirations of the working class to improve their material condition. he is also profoundly impressed by the apparent discrepancy between the teachings of christ about wealth and the principles which his professed disciples wholly follow and in part avow. these anxious questionings form the subject of a fine sermon which he preached at the church congress of , on the text about the camel and the needle's eye. jesus christ chose to be born of poor and humble parents, in a land remote from the centre of political or intellectual influence, and in the circle of labouring men. he chose to belong to the class of the respectable artisan, and most of the twelve apostles came from the same social level. in his teaching he plainly associated blessedness with the lot of poverty, and extreme danger with the lot of wealth. all through the new testament the assumption is that god is on the side of the poor against the rich. as jowett once said, there is more in the new testament against being rich, and in favour of being poor, than we like to recognise. and is not this the cause of our failure to win the masses? is it not because we are the church of capital rather than of labour? the church ought to be a community in which religion works upward from below. the church of england expresses that point of view which is precisely not that which christ chose for his church. the incomes of the bishops range them with the wealthier classes; the clergy associate with the gentry and not with the artisans. we must acknowledge with deep penitence that we are on wrong lines. for himself, the bishop admits that he has 'a permanently troubled conscience' in the matter. then, with that admirable courage and practicality which is the secret of much of his influence, he proceeds to indicate four 'lines of hopeful recovery.' first, the church must get rid of the administration of poor relief. where the charity of the church is understood to mean the patronage of the rich, it can do nothing without disaster. all will be in vain till it has ceased to be a plausible taunt that a man or woman goes to church for what can be got. secondly, we must give the artisans their true place in church management, and must consult their tastes in all non-essentials. thirdly, the clergy should 'concentrate themselves upon bringing out the social meaning of the sacraments,' and giving voice to the spirit of christian brotherhood. lastly, we ought to free the clerical profession entirely from any association of class. the bishop is not a collectivist, but he has great sympathy with some of the aims of socialism. in a 'pan-anglican paper' just issued, he discusses the attitude of the church towards socialism. christianity, he says, must remain independent of state-socialism, as of other organisations of society. socialism would make a far deeper demand on character than most of its adherents realise. 'an experiment in state-socialism, based on the average level of human character as it exists at present, would be doomed to disastrous failure.' (bishop creighton said the same thing more epigrammatically. 'socialism will only be possible when we are all perfect, and then it will not be needed.') but what we have is no socialistic state, but a great body of aspiration, based on a great demand for justice in human life. the indictment of our present social organisation is indeed overwhelming, and with this indictment christianity ought to have the profoundest sympathy, for it is substantially the indictment of the old testament prophets. the prophets were on the side of the poor; and so was our lord. where is the prophetic spirit in the church to-day? we need 'a tremendous act of penitence.' our charities have been mere ambulance-work; but 'the christian church was not created to be an ambulance-corps.' we have followed the old school of political economy instead of the prophets and christ. broadly, we may contrast two ideals of society: individualism, which means in the long run the right of the strong; and socialism, which means that the society is supreme over the individual. 'on the whole, christianity is with socialism.' this 'pan-anglican paper' is a fair representation of the views which are spreading rapidly among the high church clergy. the party is in fact making a determined effort to enlist the sympathies of the working man with the church, by offering him in return its sympathy and countenance in his struggle against capitalism. this is a phase of the movement which it is very difficult to judge fairly. dr. gore's sermon was calculated to give any christian who heard it, whether conservative or liberal, 'a troubled conscience;' and his practical suggestions are as convincing as any suggestions that are not platitudes are likely to be. but in weaker hands this sympathy with the cause of labour is in great danger of becoming one of the most insidious temptations that can attack a religious body. the church of england has been freely accused of too great complaisance to the powers that be, when those powers were oligarchic. some of the clergy are now trying to repeat, rather than redress, this error, by an obsequious attitude to king working-man. but the church ought to be equally proof against the _vultus instantis tyranni_ and the _civium ardor prava iubentium_. the position of a church which should sell itself to the labour party would be truly ignominious. it would be used so long as the politicians of the party needed moral support and eloquent advocacy, and spurned as soon as its services were no longer necessary. the taunt of helen to aphrodite in the third book of the 'iliad' sounds very apposite when we read the speeches of some clerical 'christian socialists,' who find it more exciting to organise processions of the unemployed than to attend to their professional duties. hêso par' ahython hiohysa, thehôn d' haphoeike kelehythoy, mêd' heti sohisi phodessin hypostrhepseiast 'holympon, hall' ahiehi perhi kehinon hohizye kahi he phylasse, ehist ho khe s' hê halochon poihêsetai, hê ho ge dohylên.[ ] it is as a slave, not as an honoured help-mate, that the social democrats would treat any christian body that helped them to overthrow our present civilisation. and rightly; for christ's only injunction in the sphere of economics was, 'take heed and beware of all covetousness,' he refused pointedly to have anything to do with disputes about the distribution of property; and in the parable of the prodigal son the demand, 'give me the portion of goods that falleth to me,' is the prelude to a journey in that 'far country' which is forgetfulness of god (_terra longinqua est oblivio dei_). christ unquestionably meant his followers to think but little of the accessories of life. he believed that if men could be induced to adopt the true standard of values, economic relations would adjust themselves. he promised his disciples that they should not want the necessaries of subsistence, and for the rest, he held that the freedom from anxiety, covetousness, and envy, which he enjoined as a duty, would also make their life happy. this is a very different spirit from that which makes socialism a force in politics. bishop gore, we may be sure, will not willingly allow the high church party to be entangled in corrupt alliances. when he handles what may be called applied christianity, he does so in a manner which makes us rejoice at the popularity of his books. the little commentaries on the sermon on the mount, and on the epistles to the romans and ephesians, are admirable. they are simple, practical, and profound. we subjoin a short analysis of the notes on the first part of the sermon on the mount, as an illustration of the teaching which runs all through the three commentaries. the sermon on the mount is not the whole of christianity. it is the climax of law, of the letter that killeth. the divine requirement is pressed home with unequalled force upon the conscience; yet not in the form of mere laws of conduct, but as a type of character. it is promulgated not by an inaccessible god, but by the divine love manifested in manhood. the hard demand of the letter is closely connected with the promise of the spirit. we are told that many of the precepts in the sermon were anticipated by pagan and jewish writers. but this we might have expected, since all men are rational and moral through fellowship with the word, who is also the reason of god. christ is the light which in conscience and reason lightens every man throughout the history of the race. but the sermon is comprehensive where other summaries are fragmentary, it is pure where they are mixed. it is teaching for grown men, who require principles, not rules. and it is authoritative, reinforced by the mysterious person of the speaker. the beatitudes are a description of character. christ requires us, not to do such and such things, but to be such and such people. ... true blessedness consists in membership of the kingdom of heaven, which is a life of perfect relationship with man and nature based on perfect fellowship with god.... the beatitudes describe the christian character in detail; in particular, they describe it as contrasted with the character of the world, which, in the religious sense, may be defined as human society as it organises itself apart from god. the first beatitude enjoins detachment, such as his who emptied himself, as having nothing and yet possessing all things. we are all to be detached; there are some whom our lord counsels to be literally poor. 'blessed are they that mourn' means that we are not to screen ourselves from the common lot of pain. we must distinguish 'godly sorrow' from the peevish discontent and slothfulness which st. paul calls the sorrow of the world, and which in medieval casuistry is named acedia. 'blessed are the meek' means that we are not to assert ourselves unless it is our duty to do so. the true christian is a man who in his private capacity cannot be provoked. on a general view of life, though not always in particular cases, we must allow that we are not treated worse than we deserve. the fourth beatitude tells us that if we want righteousness seriously, we can have it. the fifth proclaims the reward of mercy, that is, compassion in action. pity which does nothing is only hypocrisy or emotional self-indulgence. on the whole, we can determine men's attitude to us by our attitude to them; the merciful do obtain mercy. 'purity of heart' means singleness of purpose; but in the narrower sense of purity it is worth while to say that those who profess to find it 'impossible' to lead a pure life might overcome their fault if they would try to be christlike altogether, instead of struggling with that one fault separately. 'sincerum est nisi vas, quodcunque infundis acescit.' on the seventh--there are many kinds of false peace, which christ came to break up; but fierce, relentless competition is an offence in a christian nation. the last shows what our reward is likely to be in this world, if we follow these counsels. where the christ-character is not welcomed, it is hated. from the later sections a few characteristic comments may be given in an abridged form. we are apt to have rather free and easy notions of the divine fatherhood. to call god our father, we must ourselves be sons; and it is only those who are led by the spirit of god who are the sons of god.... ask for great things, and small things will be given to you. this is exactly the spirit of the lord's prayer.... act for god. direct your thoughts and intentions godward, and your intelligence and affections will gradually follow along the line of your action.... you must put god first, or nowhere.... it is a perilous error to say that we have only to follow our conscience; we have to enlighten our conscience and keep it enlightened.... there is no greater plague of our generation than the nervous anxiety which characterises all its efforts. we ought to be reasonably careful, and then go boldly forward in the peace of god.... our lord did not mean to make of his disciples a new kind of pharisee. ....'judge not,' means, do not be critical. the condemnation of one who is always finding fault carries no moral weight. it is those who have the lowest and vaguest standards of what is right who are often the most critical in judgment of other people.... we ought so to limit our desires that what we want for ourselves we can reasonably expect also for others.... a man who wants to do his duty must always be prepared to stand alone.... christianity is not so much a statement of the true end or ideal of human life, as a great spiritual instrument for realising the end. these extracts will be sufficient to show what are the characteristics of these little commentaries. they exhibit extreme honesty of purpose, fearless acceptance of christ's teaching honestly interpreted, scorn of unreality and empty words, and a determination never to allow preaching to be divorced from practice. no more stimulating christian teaching has been given in our generation. the valuable treatise on the holy communion, called 'the body of christ,' is too theological for detailed discussion in these pages. the points in which the roman church has perverted and degraded the really catholic sacramental doctrine are forcibly exposed, and the true nature of the sacrament is unfolded in a masterly and beautiful manner. a study of the whole body of theological writings from the pen of this remarkable man leaves us with the conviction that he is one of the most powerful spiritual forces in our generation. it is the more to be regretted that in certain points he seems to be hampered by false presuppositions and misled by unattainable ideals. his loyalty to 'catholic truth,' as understood by the party in the church to which he consents to belong, prevents him from understanding where the shoe really pinches among those of the younger generation who are both thoughtful and devout. he makes a fetish of the creeds, documents which only represent the opinions of a majority at a meeting; and what manner of meetings church councils sometimes were, is known to history. he is still impressed with the grandeur of the catholic idea, as embodied in the roman church, and will do nothing to preclude reunion, should a more enlightened policy ever prevail at the vatican. but this country has done with the roman empire, in its spiritual as well as its temporal form. the dimensions of that proud dominion have shrunk with the expansion of knowledge; new worlds have been opened out, geographical and mental, which never owned its sway; the _caput orbis_ has become provincial, and her authority is spurned even within her own borders. there is no likelihood of the english people ever again accepting 'catholicism,' if catholicism is the thing which history calls by that name. the movement which the bishop hopes to lead to victory will remain, as it has been hitherto, a theory of the ministry rather than of the church, and its strength will be confined, as it is now, mainly to clerical circles. catholicism and protestantism (in so far as they are more than names for institutionalism and mysticism, which are permanent types) are both obsolescent phases in the evolution of the christian religion. 'the time cometh when neither in this mountain nor yet at jerusalem shall men worship the father.' a profound reconstruction is demanded, and for those who have eyes to see has been already for some time in progress. the new type of christianity will be more christian than the old, because it will be more moral. a number of unworthy beliefs about god are being tacitly dropped, and they are so treated because they are unworthy of him. the realm of nature is being claimed for him once more; the distinction between natural and supernatural is repudiated; we hear less frequent complaints that god 'does nothing' because he does not assert himself by breaking one of his own laws. the divinity of christ implies--one might almost say it means--the eternal supremacy of those moral qualities which he exhibited in their perfection. 'conversio fit ad dominum ut spiritum,' as bengel said. the visible or catholic church is not the name of an institution which has the privilege of being governed by bishops. it is 'dispersed throughout the whole world,' under many banners and many disguises. its political reunion is (plato would say) an hen mhythô ehychê, and is at present neither to be expected nor desired. among those who are by right citizens of the spiritual kingdom, those only are in danger of exclusion from it who entrench themselves in a little fort of their own and erect barriers, which may make them their own prisoners, but which will not hinder the great commonwealth of seekers after truth from working out modern problems by modern lights, until the whole of our new and rich inheritance, intellectual, moral, and æsthetic, shall be brought again under the obedience of christ. footnotes: [ ] in . [ ] palmer's _narrative_, p . [ ] _contemporary review_, april . [ ] _the church and the ministry_, pp. , . [ ] _ibid_., p. . [ ] _the church and the ministry_, p. . [ ] _ibid_., p. . [ ] _ibid_., p. . [ ] _ibid_., p. . [ ] _the mission of the church_, p. . [ ] _church congress report_, , p. . [ ] _ibid_., p. . [ ] _church congress report_, , p. . [ ] _ibid_., p. . [ ] _the new theology and the old religion_, p. . [ ] _church congress report_, , p. . [ ] _ibid_. [ ] _the new theology and the old religion_, p. . [ ] _dissertations_, pp. - . [ ] _church congress report_, , p. . [ ] _church congress report_, , pp. - . [ ] _ibid_., , pp. - . [ ] _epistle to the ephesians_, pp. , . [ ] _contemporary review_, april . [ ] _ibid_. [ ] 'go and sit thou by his side, and depart from the way of the gods; neither let thy feet ever bear thee back to olympus; but still be vexed for his sake and guard him, till he make thee his wife--or rather his slave.' roman catholic modernism ( ) the liberal movement in the roman church is viewed by most protestants with much the same mixture of sympathy and misgiving with which englishmen regard the ambition of russian reformers to establish a constitutional government in their country. freedom of thought and freedom of speech are almost always desirable; but how, without a violent revolution, can they be established in a state which exists only as a centralised autocracy, held together by authority and obedience? this sympathy, and these fears, are likely to be strongest in those who have studied the history of western catholicism with most intelligence. from the edict of milan to the encyclical of pius x, the evolution which ended in papal absolutism has proceeded in accordance with what looks like an inner necessity of growth and decay. the task of predicting the policy of the vatican is surely not so difficult as m. renan suggested, when he remarked to a friend of the present writer, 'the church is a woman; it is impossible to say what she will do next.' for where is the evidence of caprice in the history of the roman church? if any state has been guided by a fixed policy, which has imposed itself inexorably on its successive rulers, in spite of the utmost divergences in their personal characters and aims, that state is the papacy. beneath all the eddies which have broken the surface, the great stream has flowed on, and has flowed in one direction. the same logic of events which transformed the constitutional principate of augustus into the sultanate of diocletian and valentinian, has brought about a parallel development in the church which inherited the traditions, the policy, and the territorial sphere of the dead empire. the second world-state which had its seat on the seven hills has followed closely in the footsteps of the first. it is not too fanciful to trace, as harnack has done, the resemblance in detail--peter and paul in the place of romulus and remus; the bishops and arch-bishops instead of the proconsuls; the troops of priests and monks as the legionaries; while the jesuits are the imperial bodyguard, the protectors and sometimes the masters of the sovereign. one might carry the parallel further by comparing the schism between the eastern and western churches, and the later defection of northern europe, with the disruption of the roman empire in the fourth century; and in the sphere of thought, by comparing the scholastic philosophy and casuistry with the _summa_ of roman law in the digest.[ ] the fundamental principles of such a government are imposed upon it by necessity. in the first place, progressive centralisation, and the substitution of a graduated hierarchy for popular government, came about as inevitably in the catholic church as in the mediterranean empire of the caesars. the primitive colleges of presbyters soon fell under the rule of the bishops, the bishops under the patriarchs; and then rome suffered her first great defeat in losing the eastern patriarchates, which she could not subjugate. the truncated church, no longer 'universal,' found itself obliged to continue the same policy of centralisation, and with such success that, under innocent iii, the triumph of the theocracy seemed complete. the papacy dominated europe _de facto_, and claimed to rule the world _de jure_. boniface viii, when the clouds were already gathering, issued the famous bull 'unam sanctam,' in which he said: 'subesse romano pontifici omnes humanas creaturas declaramus, definimus, et pronuntiamus omnino esse de necessitate salutis.' the claim is logical. a theocracy (when religion is truly monotheistic)[ ] must claim to be universal _de jure_; and its ruler must be the infallibly inspired and autocratic vicegerent of the almighty. he is the rightful lord of the world, whether he gives a continent to the king of spain by a stroke of the pen, or whether his secular jurisdiction is limited by the walls of his palace. in the fourteenth century the pope is already called 'dominus deus noster'--precisely the style in which martial adulates domitian. in the bull of pius v ( ) the claim of universal dominion is reiterated; it is asserted that the almighty, 'cui data est omnis in caelo et in terra potestas, unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam, extra quam nulla est salus, uni soli in terris, videlicet apostolorum principi petro petrique successori romano pontifici in potestatis plenitudine tradidit gubernandam.' but the final victory of infallibilism was the achievement of the nineteenth-century jesuits, who completed the dogmatic apotheosis of the pope at the moment when the last vestiges of his temporal power were being snatched from him. now a government of this type is always in want of money. the spiritual roman empire was as costly an institution as the court and the bureaucracy of diocletian and his successors. the same necessity which suppressed democracy in the church drove it to elaborate an oppressive system of taxation, in which every weakness of human nature was systematically exploited for gain, and every morsel of divine grace placed on a tariff. but this method of raising revenue is only possible while the priests can persuade the people that they really control a treasury of grace, from which they can make or withhold grants at their pleasure. it stands or falls with a non-ethical and magical view of the divine economy which is hardly compatible with a high level of culture or morality. the catholic church has thus been obliged, for purely fiscal reasons, to discourage secular education, particularly of a scientific kind, and to keep the people, so far as possible, in the mental and moral condition most favourable to such transactions as the purchase of indulgences and the payment of various insurances against hell and purgatory. another necessity of absolute government is the repression of free criticism directed against itself. heresy and schism in an autocratic church take the place of treason against the sovereign. cyprian, in the third century, had already laid down the principles by which alone the central authority could be maintained. 'ab arbore frange ramum; fractus germinare non poterit. a fonte praecide rivum; praecisus arescit.... quisquis ab ecclesia separatus adulterae iungitur, a promissis ecclesiae separatur. alienus est, hostis est. habere non potest deum patrem, qui ecclesiam non habet matrem.' schismatics are therefore rebels, whose lives are forfeit under the laws of treason. heretics are in no better case; for the church is the only infallible interpreter both of scripture and of tradition; and to differ from her teaching is as disloyal as to secede from her jurisdiction. even augustine could say, 'i should not believe the gospel, if the authority of the church did not determine me to do so'; a statement which a modern ultra-montane has capped by saying, 'without the authority of the pope, i should not place the bible higher than the koran.' bellarmine claims an absolute monopoly of inspiration for the roman church on the ground that rome alone has preserved the apostolic succession beyond dispute.[ ] as for the treatment which heretics deserve, the same authority is very explicit. 'in the first place, heretics do more mischief than any pirate or brigand, because they slay souls; nay more, they subvert the foundations of all good and fill the commonwealth with the disturbances which necessarily follow religious differences. in the second place, capital punishment inflicted on them has a good effect on very many persons. many whom impunity was making indifferent are roused by these executions to consider what is the nature of the heresy which attracts them, and to take care not to end their earthly lives in misery and lose their future happiness. thirdly, it is a kindness to obstinate heretics to remove them from this life. for the longer they live, the more errors they devise, the more men they pervert, and the greater damnation they acquire for themselves.'[ ] in all matters which are not essential for the safety of the autocracy, an absolutist church will consult the average tastes of its subjects. if the populace are at heart pagan, and hanker after sensuous ritual, dramatic magic, and a rich mythology, these must be provided. the 'intellectuals,' being few and weak, may be safely rebuffed or disregarded until their discoveries are thoroughly popularised. the pronouncements of the roman inquisition in the case of galileo are typical. 'the theory that the sun is in the centre of the world, and stationary, is absurd, false in philosophy, and formally heretical, because it is contrary to the express language of holy scripture. the theory that the earth is not the centre of the world, nor stationary, but that it moves with a daily motion, is also absurd and false in philosophy, and, theologically considered, it is, to say the least, erroneous in faith.' the exigencies of despotic government thus supply the key to the whole policy and history of the papacy. 'the worst form of state' can only be bolstered up by the worst form of government. there should therefore be no difficulty in distinguishing between the official policy of the roman see--which has been almost uniformly odious--and the history of the christian religion in the latin countries, which has added new lustre to human nature. the catholic saints did not fly through the air, nor were their hearts pierced with supernatural darts, as the mendacious hagiology of their church would have us believe; but they have a better title to be remembered by mankind, as the best examples of a beautiful and precious kind of human excellence. the papal autocracy has now reached its byzantine period of decadence. during the middle ages catholicism suited the latin races very well on the whole. their ancestral paganism was allowed to remain substantially unchanged--the _nomina_, but not the _numina_ were altered; their awe and reverence for the _caput orbis_, ingrained in the populations of europe by the history of a thousand years, made submission to rome natural and easy; a host of myths 'abounding in points of attachment to human experience and in genial interpretations of life, yet lifted beyond visible nature and filling a reported world believed in on faith,'[ ] adorned religion with an artistic and poetical embroidery very congenial to the nations of the south. but a monarchy essentially oriental in its constitution is unsuited to modern europe. its whole scheme is based on keeping the laity in contented ignorance and subservience; and the laity have emancipated themselves the teutonic nations broke the yoke as soon as they attained a national self-consciousness. they escaped from a system which had educated, but never suited them. nor has the shrinkage been merely territorial. the pyrrhic victories over gallicanism, jansenism, catholic democracy (lamennais), historical theology (döllinger and the old catholics), each alienated a section of thinking men in the catholic countries. the roman church can no longer be called catholic, except in the sense in which the kingdom of francis ii remained the holy roman empire. it is an exclusive sect, which preserves much more political power than its numbers entitle it to exert, by means of its excellent discipline, and by the sinister policy of fomenting political disaffection. examples of this last are furnished by the contemporary history of ireland, of france, and of poland. these considerations are of primary importance when we try to answer the questions: to what extent is the roman church fettered by her own past? is there any insuperable obstacle to a modification of policy which might give her a new lease of life? we have seen how much importance is attached to the church's title-deeds. is tradition a fatal obstacle to reform? theoretically, the tradition which she traces back to the apostles gives her a fixed constitution. so the catholic church has always maintained. 'regula quidem fidei una omnino est, sola immobilis et irreformabilis.'[ ] the rule of faith may be better understood by a later age than an earlier, but there can be no additions, only a sort of unpacking of a treasure which was given whole and entire in the first century. in reality, of course, there has been a steady evolution in conformity to type, the type being not the 'little flock' of christ or the church of the apostles, but the absolute monarchy above described. it has long been the _crux_ of catholic apologetics to reconcile the theoretical immobility of dogma with the actual facts. the older method was to rewrite history. it was convenient, for example, to forget that pope honorius i had been anathematised by three ecumenical councils. the forged decretals gave a more positive sanction to absolutist claims; and interpolations in the greek fathers deceived st. thomas aquinas into giving his powerful authority to infallibilism. this method cannot be called obsolete, for the present pope recently informed the faithful that 'the hebrew patriarchs were familiar with the doctrine of the immaculate conception, and found consolation in the thought of mary in the solemn moments of their life.'[ ] but such simple devices are hardly practicable in an age when history is scientifically studied. moreover, other considerations, besides controversial straits, have suggested a new theory of tradition. a cæsar who, like the kings of the medes and persians, is bound by the laws of his predecessors, is not absolute. acceptance of the theory of development in dogma would relieve the pope from the weight of the dead hand. the new apologetic is generally said to have been inaugurated by cardinal newman. his work 'the development of christian doctrine,' is no doubt an epoch-making book, though the idea of tradition as the product of the living spirit of a religious society, preserving its moral identity while expressing itself, from time to time, in new forms, was already familiar to readers of schleiermacher. newman gives us several 'tests' of true development. these are--preservation of type; continuity of principles; power of assimilation; logical sequence; anticipation of results; tendency to conserve the old; chronic vigour. these tests, he considered, differentiate the roman church from all other christian bodies, and prove its superiority. the church has its own genius, which yes and works in it. this is indeed the holy spirit of god, promised by jesus christ. through the operation of this spirit, old things become new, and fresh light is shed from the sacred pages of scripture. catholic tradition is, in fact, the glorified but ever-present christ himself, reincarnating himself, generation after generation, in the historical church. it is unnecessary to enquire whether there is apostolic authority for every new dogma, for the church is the mouthpiece of the living christ. this theory marks, on one side, the complete and final apotheosis of the pope and the hierarchy, who are thereby made independent even of the past history of the church. pius ix was not slow to realise that the only court of appeal against his decisions was closed in . 'la tradizione sono io,' he said, in the manner of louis xiv. the pope is henceforth not the interpreter of a closed cycle of tradition, but the pilot who guides its course always in the direction of the truth. this is to destroy the old doctrine of tradition. the church becomes the source of revelation instead of its custodian. on the other side, it is a perilous concession to modern ideas. there is an obvious danger that, as the result of this doctrine, the dogmas of the church may seem to have only a relative and provisional truth; for, if each pronouncement were absolutely true, there would be no real development, and the appearance of it in history would become inexplicable. this new and, in appearance, more liberal attitude towards modern ideas of progress has raised the hopes of many in the roman church whose minds and consciences are troubled by the ever-widening chasm which separates traditional dogma from secular knowledge. while dogma was stationary--_immobilis et irreformabilis_--there seemed to be no prospect except that the progress of human knowledge would leave theology further and further behind, till the rupture between catholicism and civilisation became absolute. the idea that the church would ever modify her teaching to bring it into harmony with modern science seemed utterly chimerical. but if the static theory of revelation is abandoned, and a dynamic theory substituted for it; if the divine part of christianity resides, not in the theoretical formulations of revealed fact, but in the living and energising spirit of the church; why should not dogmatic theology become elastic, changing periodically in correspondence with the development of human knowledge, and no longer stand in irreconcilable contradiction with the ascertained laws of nature? thus the dethronement of tradition by the pope contributed to make the modernist movement possible. the modernists have even claimed newman as on their side. this appeal cannot be sustained. 'the development of christian doctrine' is mainly a polemic against the high anglican position, and an answer to attacks upon roman catholicism from this side. anglicanism at that time had committed itself to a thoroughly stationary view of revelation. its 'appeal to antiquity'--a period which, in accordance with a convenient theory, it limited to the councils of the 'undivided church'--was intended to prove the catholicity and orthodoxy of the english church, as the faithful guardian of apostolic tradition, and to condemn the medieval and modern accretions sanctioned by the church of rome. the earlier theory of tradition left the roman church open to damaging criticism on this side; no ingenuity could prove that all her doctrines were 'primitive.' even in those early days of historical criticism, it must have been plain to any candid student of christian 'origins' that the pauline churches were far more protestant than catholic in type. but newman had set himself to prove that 'the christianity of history is not protestantism; if ever there were a safe truth, it is this,' accordingly, he argues that 'christianity came into the world as an idea rather than an institution, and had to fit itself with armour of its own providing.' such expressions sound very like the arguments of the modernists; but newman assuredly never contemplated that they would be turned against the policy of his own church, in the interests of the critical rationalism which he abhorred. his attitude towards dogma is after all not very different from that of the older school. 'time was needed' (he says) 'for the elucidation of doctrines communicated once for all through inspired persons'; his examples are purgatory and the papal supremacy. he insists that his 'tests' of true development are only controversial, 'instruments rather than warrants of right decisions.' the only real 'warrant' is the authority of the infallible church. it is highly significant that one of the features in roman catholicism to which he appeals as proving its unblemished descent from antiquity is its exclusiveness and intolerance. 'the fathers (he says complacently) anathematised doctrines, not because they were old, but because they were new; for the very characteristic of heresy is novelty and originality of manifestation. such was the exclusiveness of the christianity of old. i need not insist on the steadiness with which that principle has been maintained ever since.' the cardinal is right; it is quite unnecessary to insist upon it; but, when the modernists claim newman as their prophet, it is fair to reply that, if we may judge from his writings, he would gladly have sent some of them to the stake. the modernist movement, properly so called, belongs to the last twenty years, and most of the literature dates from the present century. it began in the region of ecclesiastical history, and soon passed to biblical exegesis, where the new heresy was at first called 'concessionism,' the scope of the debate was enlarged with the stir produced by loisy's 'l'Évangile et l'Église' and 'autour d'un petit livre'; it spread over the field of christian origins generally, and problems connected with them, such as the growth of ecclesiastical power and the evolution of dogma. for a few years the orthodox in france generally spoke of the new tendency as _loisysme_. it was not till that edouard le roy published his 'qu'est-ce qu'un dogme?' which carried the discussion into the domain of pure philosophy, though the studies of blondel and laberthonnière in the psychology of religion may be said to involve a metaphysic closely resembling that of le roy. mr. tyrrell's able works have a very similar philosophical basis, which is also assumed by the group of italian priests who have remonstrated with the pope.[ ] m. loisy protests against the classification made in the papal encyclical which connects biblical critics, metaphysicians, psychologists, and church reformers, as if they were all partners in the same enterprise. but in reality the same presuppositions, the same philosophical principles, are found in all the writers named; and the differences which may easily be detected in their writings are comparatively superficial. the movement appears to be strongest in france, where the policy of the vatican has been uniformly unfortunate of recent years, and has brought many humiliations upon french catholics. italy has also been moved, though from slightly different causes. in the protests from that country we find a tone of disgust at the constitution of the roman hierarchy and the character of the papal _entourage_, about which italians are in a position to know more than other catholics. catholic germany has been almost silent; and mr. tyrrell is the only englishman whose name has come prominently forward. it will be convenient to consider the position of the modernists under three heads: their attitude towards new testament criticism, especially in relation to the life of christ; their philosophy; and their position in the roman catholic church. the modernists themselves desire, for the most part, that criticism rather than philosophy should be regarded as the starting-point of the movement. 'so far from our philosophy dictating our critical method, it is the critical method that has of its own accord forced us to a very tentative and uncertain formulation of various philosophical conclusions.... this independence of our criticism is evident in many ways.'[ ] the writers of this manifesto, and m. loisy himself, appear not to perceive that their critical position rests on certain very important philosophical presuppositions; nor indeed is any criticism of religious origins possible without presuppositions which involve metaphysics. the results of their critical studies, as bearing on the life of christ, we shall proceed to summarise, departing as little as possible from the actual language of the writers, and giving references in all cases. it must, however, be remembered that some of the group, such as mr. tyrrell, have not committed themselves to the more extreme critical views, while others, such as the abbé laberthonnière, the most brilliant and attractive writer of them all, hold a moderate position on the historical side. it is perhaps significant that those who are specialists in biblical criticism are the most radical members of the school. the gospels, says m. loisy, are for christianity what the pentateuch is for judaism. like the pentateuch, they are a patchwork and a compound of history and legend. the differences between them amount in many cases to unmistakable contradictions. in mark the life of jesus follows a progressive development. the first to infer his messiahship is simon peter at cæsarea philippi; and jesus himself first declares it openly in his trial before the sanhedrin. in matthew and luke, on the contrary, jesus is presented to the public as the son of god from the beginning of his ministry; he comes forward at once as the supreme lawgiver, the judge, the anointed of god. the fourth gospel goes much further still. his heavenly origin, his priority to the world, his co-operation in the work of creation and salvation, are ideas which are foreign to the other gospels, but which the author of the fourth gospel has set forth in his prologue, and, in part, put into the mouth of john the baptist.[ ] the difference between the christ of the synoptic gospels and the christ of john may be summed up by saying that 'the christ of the synoptics is historical, but is not god; the johannine christ is divine, but not historical.'[ ] but even mark (according to m. loisy) probably only incorporates the document of an eye-witness; his gospel betrays pauline influence.[ ] the gospel which bears his name is later than the destruction of jerusalem, and was issued, probably about a.d. , by an unknown christian, not a native of palestine, who wished to write a book of evangelical instruction in conformity with the ideas of the hellenic-christian community to which he belonged.[ ] the tradition connecting it with peter may indicate that it was composed at rome, but has no other historical value.[ ] the gospel of matthew was probably written about the beginning of the second century by a non-palestinian jew residing in asia minor or syria. he is before all things a catholic ecclesiastic, and may well have been one of the presbyters or bishops of the churches in which the institution of a monarchical episcopate took root.[ ] the narratives peculiar to matthew have the character rather of legendary developments than of genuine reminiscences. the historical value of these additions is _nil_. as a witness to fact, matthew ranks below mark, and even below luke.[ ] in particular, the chapters about the birth of christ seem not to have the slightest historical foundation. the fictitious character of the genealogy is proved by the fact that jesus seems not to have known of his descent [from david]. the story of the virgin birth turns on a text from isaiah. of this part of the gospel, loisy says, 'rien n'est plus arbitraire comme exégèse, ni plus faible comme narration fictive.'[ ] luke has taken more pains to compose a literary treatise than mark or matthew. the authorities which he follows seem to be--the source of our mark, the so-called matthew _logia_, and some other source or sources. but he treats his material more freely than matthew. 'the lament of christ over the holy city, his words to the women of jerusalem, his prayer for his executioners, his promise to the penitent thief, his last words, are very touching traits, which may be in conformity with the spirit of jesus, but which have no traditional basis.'[ ] 'the fictitious character of the narratives of the infancy is less apparent in the third gospel than in the first, because the stories are much better constructed as legend, and do not resemble a _midrash_ upon messianic prophecies. "le merveilleux en est moins banal et moins enfantin. ii paraît cependant impossible de leur reconnaître une plus grande valeur de fond."'[ ] the gospel of luke was probably written (not by a disciple of st. paul) between and a.d.; but the earliest redaction, which traced the descent of jesus from david through joseph, has been interpolated in the interests of the later idea of a virgin birth. the first two chapters are interesting for the history of christian beliefs, not for the history of christ. as for the fourth gospel, it is enough to say that the author had nothing to do with the son of zebedee, and that he is in no sense a biographer of christ, but the first and greatest of the christian mystics.[ ] the result of this drastic treatment of the sources may be realised by perusing chapter vii of loisy's 'les Évangiles synoptiques,' the following is a brief analysis of this chapter, entitled 'la carrière de jésus.' jesus was born at nazareth about four years before the christian era. his family were certainly pious, but none of his relatives seems to have accepted the gospel during his lifetime. like many others, the young jesus was attracted by the terrifying preaching of john the baptist, from whom he received baptism. when john was imprisoned he at once attempted to take his place. he began to preach round the lake of galilee, and was compelled by the persistent demands of the crowd to 'work miracles.' this mission only lasted a few months; but it was long enough for jesus to enrol twelve auxiliaries, who prepared the villages of galilee for his coming, travelling two and two through the north of palestine. jesus found his audience rather among the _déclassés_ of judaism than among the puritans. the staple of his teaching was the advent of the 'kingdom of god'--the sudden and speedy coming of the promised messiah. this teaching was acceptable neither to herod antipas nor to the pharisees; and their hostility obliged jesus to fly for a short time to the phoenician territory north of galilee. but a conference between the master and his disciples at cæsarea philippi ended in a determination to visit the capital and there proclaim jesus as the promised messiah. as they approached jerusalem, even the ignorant disciples were frightened at the risks they were running, but jesus calmed their fears by promising that they should soon be set on twelve thrones judging the twelve tribes of israel. 'jésus n'allait pas à jérusalem pour y mourir.'[ ] the doomed prophet made his public entry into jerusalem as messiah, and, as a first act of authority, cleared the temple courts by an act of violence, in which he was doubtless assisted by his disciples. for some days after this he preached daily about the coming of the kingdom, and foiled with great dexterity the traps which his enemies laid for him. 'but the situation could only end in a miracle or a catastrophe, and it was the catastrophe which happened.'[ ] jesus was arrested, after a brief scuffle between the satellites of the high priest and the disciples; and the latter, without waiting to see the end, fled northwards towards their homes. when brought before pilate, jesus probably answered 'yes' to the question whether he claimed to be a king; but 'la parole du christ johannique, mon royaume n'est pas de ce monde, n'aurait jamais pu être dite par le christ d'histoire.' this confession led naturally to his immediate execution; after which 'on peut supposer que les soldats détachèrent le corps de la croix avant le soir et le mirent dans quelque fosse commune, où l'on jetait pêle-mêle les restes des suppliciés. les conditions de sépulture furent telles qu'au bout de quelques jours il aurait été impossible de reconnaître la dépouille du sauveur, quand même on l'aurait cherchée.'[ ] the disciples, however, had been too profoundly stirred by hope to accept defeat. none of them had seen jesus die; and though they knew that he was dead, they hardly realised it. besides, they were fellow-countrymen of those who had asked whether jesus was not elijah, or even john the baptist, come to life again. what more natural than that peter should see the master one day while fishing on the lake? 'the impulse once given, this belief grew by the very need which it had to strengthen itself.' christ 'appeared also to the eleven,' so it was that their faith brought them back to jerusalem, and christianity was born. 'the supernatural life of christ in the faithful and in the church has been clothed in an historical form, which has given birth to what we might somewhat loosely call the christ of legend.' so the italian manifesto sums up the result of this reconstruction or denudation of the gospel history.[ ] 'such a criticism,' say the authors not less frankly than truly, 'does away with the possibility of finding in christ's teaching even the embryonic form of the church's later theological teaching.'[ ] readers unfamiliar with modernist literature will probably have read the foregoing extracts with utter amazement. it seems hardly credible that such views should be propounded by catholic priests, who claim to remain in the catholic church, to repeat her creeds, minister at her altars, and share her faith. what more, it may well be asked, have rationalist opponents of christianity ever said, in their efforts to tear up the christian religion by the roots, than we find here admitted by catholic apologists? what is left of the object of the church's worship if the christ of history was but an enthusiastic jewish peasant whose pathetic ignorance of the forces opposed to him led him to the absurd enterprise of attempting a _coup d'état_ at jerusalem? is not jesus reduced by this criticism to the same level as theudas or judas of galilee? and, if this is the true account, what sentiment can we feel, when we read his tragic story, but compassion tinged with contempt? and on what principles are such liberties taken with our authorities? what is the criterion by which it is decided that christ said, 'i am a king,' but not 'my kingdom is not of this world'? why must the resurrection have been only a subjective hallucination in the minds of the disciples? to these questions there is a plain answer. the non-intervention of god in history is an axiom with the modernists. 'l'historien,' says m. loisy, 'n'a pas à s'inspirer de l'agnosticisme pour écarter dieu de l'histoire; il ne l'y rencontre jamais.'[ ] it would be more accurate to say that, whenever the meeting takes place, 'the historian' gives the other the cut direct. but now comes in the peculiar philosophy by which the modernists claim to rehabilitate themselves as loyal and orthodox catholics, and to turn the flank of the rationalist position, which they have seemed to occupy themselves. the reaction against absolutism in philosophy has long since established itself in germany and france. in england and scotland the battle still rages; in america the rebound has been so violent that an extreme form of anti-intellectualism is now the dominant fashion in philosophy. it would have been easy to predict--and in fact the prediction was made--that the new world-construction in terms of will and action, which disparages speculative or theoretical truth and gives the primacy to what kant called the practical reason, would be eagerly welcomed by christian apologists, hard-pressed by the discoveries of science and biblical criticism. protestants, in fact, had recourse to this method of apologetic before the modernist movement arose. the ritschlian theology in germany (in spite of its 'static' view of revelation), and the _symbolo-fidéisme_ of sabatier and ménégoz, have many affinities with the position of tyrrell, laberthonnière, and le roy. it is exceedingly difficult to compress into a few pages a fair and intelligible statement of a _weltansicht_ which affects the whole conception of reality, and which has many ramifications. there is an additional difficulty in the fact that few of the modernists are more than amateurs in philosophy. they are quick to see the strategic possibilities of a theory which separates faith and knowledge, and declares that truths of faith can never come into collision with truths of fact, because they 'belong to different orders.' it suits them to follow the pragmatists in talking about 'freely chosen beliefs,' and 'voluntary certainty '; mr. tyrrell even maintains that 'the great mass of our beliefs are reversible, and depend for their stability on the action or permission of the will.' but philosophy is for them mainly a controversial weapon. it gives them the means of justifying their position as catholics who wish to remain loyal to their church and her formularies, but no longer believe in the miracles which the church has always regarded as matters of fact. nevertheless, an attempt must be made to explain a point of view which, to the plain man, is very strange and unfamiliar. two words are constantly in the mouth of modernist controversialists in speaking of their opponents. the adherents of the traditional theology are 'intellectualists,' and their conception of reality is 'static.' the meaning of the latter charge may perhaps be best explained from laberthonnière's brilliantly written essay, 'le réalisme chrétien et l'idéalisme grec.' the greeks, he says, were insatiable in their desire to _see_, like children. blessedness, for them, consisted in a complete vision of reality; and, since thought is the highest kind of vision, salvation was conceived of by them as the unbroken contemplation of the perfectly true, good, and beautiful. hence arose the philosophy of 'concepts'; they idealised nature by considering it _sub specie æternitatis_. reality resided in the unchanging ideas; the mutable, the particular, the individual was for them an embarrassment, a 'scandal of thought.' the sage always tries to escape from the moving world of becoming into the static world of being. but an ideal world, so conceived, can only be an abstraction, an impoverishment of reality. such an idealism gives us neither a science of origins nor a science of ends. greek wisdom sought eternity and forgot time; it sought that which never dies, and found that which never lives. 'an abstract doctrine, like that of greek philosophy or of spinoza, consists always in substituting for reality, by simplification, ideas or concepts which they think statically in their logical relations, regarding them at the same time as adequate representations and as essences immovably defined.'[ ] hellenised christianity, proceeds our critic, regarded the incarnation statically, as a fact in past history. but the real christ is an object of faith. 'he introduces into us the principles of that which we ought to be. that which he reveals, he makes in revealing it.' in other words, christ, and the god whom he reveals, are a power or force rather than a fact. 'a god who has nothing to become has nothing to do.' god is not the idea of ideas, but the being of beings and the life of our life. he is not a supreme notion, but a supreme life and an immanent action. he is not the 'unmoved mover,' but he is in the movement itself as its principle and end. while the greeks conceived the world _sub specie æternitatis_, god is conceived by modern thought _sub specie temporis_. god's eternity is not a sort of arrested time in which there is no more life; it is, on the contrary, the maximum of life. it is plain that we have here a one-sided emphasis on the dynamic aspect of reality no less fatal to sound philosophy than the exclusively static view which has been falsely attributed to the greeks. a little clear thinking ought to be enough to convince anyone that the two aspects of reality which the greeks called sthasist and khinêsist are correlative and necessary to each other. a god who is merely the principle of movement and change is an absurdity. time is always hurling its own products into nothingness. unless there is a being who can say, 'i am the lord, i change not,' the 'sons of jacob' cannot flatter themselves that they are 'not consumed.'[ ] but laberthonnière and his friends are not much concerned with the ultimate problems of metaphysics; what they desire is to shake themselves free from 'brute facts' in the past, to be at liberty to deny them as facts, while retaining them as representative ideas of faith. if reality is defined to consist only in life and action, it is a meaningless abstraction to snip off a moment in the process, and ask, 'did it ever really take place?' this awkward question may therefore be ignored as meaningless and irrelevant, except from the 'abstract' standpoint of physical science. the crusade against 'intellectualism' serves the same end. m. le roy and the other christian pragmatists have returned to the nominalism of duns scotus. the following words of frassen, one of scotus' disciples, might serve as a motto for the whole school: 'theologia nostra non est scientia. nullatenus speculativa est, sed simpliciter practica. theologiae obiectum non est speculabile, sed operabile. quidquid in deo est practicum est respectu nostri.' m. le roy also seems to know only these two categories. whatever is not 'practical'--having an immediate and obvious bearing on conduct--is stigmatised as 'theoretical' or 'speculative.' but the whole field of scientific study lies outside this classification, which pretends to be exhaustive. science has no 'practical' aim, in the narrow sense of that which may serve as a guide to moral action; nor does it deal with 'theoretical' or 'speculative' ideas, except provisionally, until they can be verified. the aim of science is to determine the laws which prevail in the physical universe; and its motive is that purely disinterested curiosity which is such an embarrassing phenomenon to pragmatists. and since the faith which lies behind natural science is at least as strong as any other faith now active in the world, it is useless to frame categories in such a way as to exclude the question, 'did this or that occurrence, which is presented as an event in the physical order, actually happen, or not?' the question has a very definite meaning for the man of science, as it has for the man in the street. to call it 'theoretical' is ridiculous. what m. le roy means by 'interpreting dogmas in the language of practical action' may be gathered from his own illustrations. the dogma, 'god is our father,' does not define a 'theoretical relation' between him and us. it signifies that we are to behave to him as sons behave to their father. 'god is personal' means that we are to behave to him as if he were a human person. 'jesus is risen' means that we are to think of him as if he were our contemporary. the dogma of the real presence means that we ought to have, in the presence of the consecrated host, the same feelings which we should have had in the presence of the visible christ. 'let the dogmas be interpreted in this way, and no one will dispute them.'[ ] the same treatment of dogma is advocated in mr. tyrrell's very able book 'lex orandi.' the test of truth for a dogma is not its correspondence with phenomenal fact, but its 'prayer-value.' this writer, at any rate before his suspension by the society of jesus, to which he belonged, is less subversive in his treatment of history than the french critics whom we have quoted. although in apologetics the criterion for the acceptance of dogmas must, he thinks, be a moral and practical one, he sometimes speaks as if the 'prayer-value' of an ostensibly historical proposition carried with it the necessity of its truth as matter of fact. 'between the inward and the outward, the world of reality and the world of appearances, the relation is not merely one of symbolic correspondence. the distinction that is demanded by the dualism of our mind implies and presupposes a causal and dynamic unity of the two. we should look upon the outward world as being an effectual symbol of the inward, in consequence of its natural and causal connection therewith.'[ ] but mr. tyrrell does not seem to mean all that these sentences might imply. he speaks repeatedly, in the 'lex orandi,' of the 'will-world' as the only real world. 'the will (he says) cannot make that true which in itself is not true. but it can make that a fact relatively to our mind and action which is not a fact relative to our understanding.... it rests with each of us by an act of will to create the sort of world to which we shall accommodate our thought and action. ....it does not follow that harmony of faith with the truths of reason and facts of experience is the best or essential condition of its credibility.... abstractions (he refers to the world as known to science) are simple only because they are barren forms created by the mind itself. faith and doubt have a common element in the deep sense of the insufficiency of the human mind to grasp ultimate truths.... the world given to our outward senses is shadowy and dreamy, except so far as we ascribe to it some of the characteristics of will and spirit.... the world of appearance is simply subordinate to the real world of our will and affections.' because the 'abstract' sciences cannot and do not attempt to reach ultimate truth, it is assumed that they are altogether 'barren forms,' this is the error of much oriental mysticism, which denies all value to what it regards as the lower categories. in his later writings mr. tyrrell objects to being classed with the american and english pragmatists--the school of mr. william james. but the doctrine of these passages is ultra-pragmatist. the will, which is illegitimately stretched to include feeling,[ ] is treated as the creator as well as the discerner of reality. the 'world of appearance' is plastic in its grasp. it is this metaphysical pragmatism which is really serviceable to modernism. if the categories of the understanding can be so disparaged as to be allowed no independent truth, value, or importance, all collisions between faith and fact may be avoided by discrediting in advance any conclusions at which science may arrive. assertions about 'brute fact' which are scientifically false may thus not be untrue when taken out of the scientific plane, because outside that plane they are harmless word-pictures, soap-bubbles blown off by the poetical creativeness of faith any assertion about fact which commends itself to the will and affections and which is proved by experience to furnish nutriment to the spiritual life, may be adhered to without scruple. it is not only useful, but true, in the only sense in which truth can be predicated of anything in the higher sphere. the obvious criticism on this notion of religious truth as purely moral and practical is that it is itself abstract and one-sided. the universe as it appears to discursive thought, with its vast system of seemingly uniform laws, which operate without much consideration for our wishes or feelings, must be at least an image of the real universe. we cannot accept the irreconcilable dualism between the will-world and the world of phenomena which the philosophical modernists assume. the dualism, or rather the contradiction, is not in the nature of things, nor in the constitution of our minds, but in the consciousness of the unhappy men who are trying to combine two wholly incompatible theories. on the critical side they are pure rationalists, much as they dislike the name. they claim, as we have seen, to have advanced to philosophy through criticism. but the modernist critics start with very well-defined presuppositions. they ridicule the notion that 'god is a personage in history'; they assume that for the historian 'he cannot be found anywhere'; that he is as though he did not exist. on the strength of this presupposition, and for no other reason, they proceed to rule out, without further investigation, all alleged instances of divine intervention in history. unhampered by any of the misgivings which predispose the ordinary believer to conservatism, they follow the rationalist argument to its logical conclusions with startling ruthlessness. and then, when the whole edifice of historical religion seems to have been overthrown to the very foundations, they turn round suddenly and say that all their critical labours mean nothing for faith, and that we may go on repeating the old formulas as if nothing had happened. the modernists pour scorn on the scholastic 'faculty-psychology,' which resolves human personality into a syndicate of partially independent agents; but, in truth, their attempt to blow hot and cold with the same mouth seems to have involved them in a more disastrous self-disruption than has been witnessed in the history of thought since the fall of the nominalists. in a sceptical and disillusioned age their disparagement of 'intellectualism' or rather of discursive thought in all its operations, might find a response. but in the twentieth century the science which, as critics, they follow so unswervingly will not submit to be bowed out of the room as soon as matters of faith come into question. our contemporaries believe that matters of fact are important, and they insist, with ever-increasing emphasis, that they shall not be called upon to believe, as part of their religious faith, anything which as a matter of fact, is not true. the modernist critic, when pressed on this side, says that it is natural for faith to represent its ideas in the form of historical facts, and that it is this inevitable tendency which causes the difficulties between religion and science. a sane criticism will allow that this is very largely true, but will not, we are convinced, be constrained to believe with m. loisy that the historical original of the christian redeemer was the poor deluded enthusiast whom he portrays in 'les Évangiles synoptiques.' however this may be--and it must remain a matter of opinion--the very serious question arises, whether it is really natural for faith to represent its ideas in the form of historical facts when it knows that these facts have no historical basis. the writers with whom we are dealing evidently think it is natural and inevitable, and we must assume that they speak from their own spiritual experience. but this state of mind does not seem to be a very common one. those who believe in the divinity of christ, but not in his supernatural birth and bodily resurrection, do not, as a rule, make those miracles the subject of their meditations, but find their spiritual sustenance in communion with the 'christ who is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. those who regard jesus only as a prophet sent by god to reveal the father, generally pray only to the god whom he revealed, and cherish the memory of jesus with no other feelings than supreme gratitude and veneration. those, lastly, who worship in god only the great unknown who makes for righteousness, find myths and anthropomorphic symbols merely disturbing in such devotions as they are still able to practise. in dealing with convinced voluntarists it is perhaps not disrespectful to suggest that the difficult position in which they find themselves has produced a peculiar activity of the will, such as is seldom found under normal conditions. we pass to the position of the modernists in the roman catholic church. it is well known that the advisers of pius x have committed the papacy to a wholesale condemnation of the new movement. the reasons for this condemnation are thus summed up by a distinguished ecclesiastic of that church[ ]: 'why has the pope condemned the modernists? ( ) because the modernists have denied that the divine facts related in the gospel are historically true. ( ) because they have denied that christ for most of his life knew that he was god, and that he ever knew that he was the saviour of the world. ( ) because they have denied the divine sanction and the perpetuity of the great dogmas which enter into the christian creed. ( ) because they have denied that christ himself personally ever founded the church or instituted the sacraments. ( ) because they deny and subvert the divine constitution of the church, by teaching that the pope and the bishops derive their powers, not directly from christ and his apostles, but from the christian people.' the official condemnation is contained in two documents--the decree of the holy inquisition, 'lamentabili sane exitu,' july , , and the encyclical, 'pascendi dominici gregis,' september , . these pronouncements are intended for catholics; and their tone is that of authoritative denunciation rather than of argument. in the main, the summary which they give of modernist doctrines is as fair as could be expected from a judge who is passing sentence; but the papal theologians have not always resisted the temptation to arouse prejudice by misrepresenting the views which they condemn. we have not space to analyse these documents, nor is it necessary to do so. it will be more to the purpose to consider whether, in spite of their official condemnation, the modernists are likely in the future to make good their footing in the roman church. even before the encyclical the modernists had used very bold language about the authority of the church. 'the visible church (writes mr. tyrrell in his "much-abused letter") is but a means, a way, a creature, to be used where it helps, to be left where it hinders.... who have taught us that the consensus of theologians cannot err, but the theologians themselves? mortal, fallible, ignorant men like ourselves! ... their present domination is but a passing episode in the church's history.... may not history repeat itself? [as in the transition from judaism to christianity]. is god's arm shortened that he should not again out of the very stones raise up seed to abraham? may not catholicism, like judaism, have to die in order that it may live again in a greater and grander form? has not every organism got its limits of development, after which it must decay and be content to survive in its progeny? wine-skins stretch, but only within measure; for there comes at last a bursting-point when new ones must be provided.' in a note he explains: 'the church of the catacombs became the church of the vatican; who can tell what the church of the vatican may not turn into?' it is thus on a very elastic theory of development that the modernists rely. 'the differences between the larval and final stages of many an insect are often far greater than those which separate kind from kind.' and so this proteus of a church, which has changed its form so completely since the gospel was first preached in the subterranean galleries of rome, may undergo another equally startling metamorphosis and come to believe in a god who never intervenes in history. we may here remind our readers of newman's tests of true development, and mark the enormous difference. mr. tyrrell's 'much-abused letter' reaches, perhaps, the high-water mark of modernist claims. not all the writers whom we have quoted would view with complacency the prospect of the catholic church dying to live again, or being content to live only in its progeny. the proverb about the new wine-skins is one of sinister augury in such a connection. if the catholic church is really in such an advanced stage of decay that it must die before it can live, why do those who grasp the situation wish to keep it alive? are they not precisely pouring their new wine into old bottles? mr. tyrrell himself draws the parallel with judaism in the first century. paul, he says, 'did not feel that he had broken with judaism,' but the synagogue did feel that he had done so, and history proved that the synagogue was right. development, however great the changes which it exhibits, can only follow certain laws; and the development of the church of rome has steadily followed a direction opposite to that which the modernists demand that it shall take. newman might plausibly claim that the doctrines of purgatory and of the papal supremacy are logically involved in the early claims of the roman church. the claim is true at least in this sense, that, given a political church organised as an autocracy, these useful doctrines were sure, in the interests of the government, to be promulgated sooner or later. but there is not the slightest reason to suppose that the next development will be in the direction of that peculiar kind of liberalism favoured by the modernists. it is difficult to see how the vatican could even meet the reformers half-way without making ruinous concessions.' this supernatural mechanism,' m. loisy says in his last book, 'modernism tends to ruin completely,' just so; but the roman church lives entirely on the faith in supernatural mechanism. her sacramental and sacerdotal system is based on supernatural mechanism--on divine interventions in the physical world conditioned by human agency; her theology and books of devotion are full of supernatural mechanism; the lives of her saints, her relics and holy places, the whole literature of catholic mysticism, the living piety and devotion of the faithful, wherever it is still to be found, are based entirely on that very theory of supernaturalistic dualism which the modernist, when he acts as critic, begins by ruling out as devoid of any historical or scientific actuality. the attractiveness of catholicism as a cult depends almost wholly on its frank admission of the miraculous as a matter of daily occurrence. to rationalise even contemporary history as m. loisy has rationalised the gospels would be suicide for catholicism. it is tempting to give a concrete instance by way of illustrating the impassable chasm which divides catholicism as a working system from the academic scheme of transformation which we have been considering. 'the french catholics (writes the _times_ correspondent in paris on june , ) are awaiting with concern the report of a special commission on a mysterious affair known as the miraculous hailstones of remiremont. on sunday, may , , during a violent storm that swept over that region of the vosges, among the great quantity of hailstones that fell at the time a certain number were found split in two. on the inner face of each of the halves, according to the local papers that appeared the next day, was the image of the madonna venerated at remiremont and known as notre dame du trésor. the local catholics regarded it as a reply to the municipal council's veto of the procession in honour of the virgin. so many people testified to having seen the miraculous hailstones that the bishop of saint-dié instituted an inquiry; men, women, and children were heard by the parish priest, and certain well-known men of science [names given] were consulted. the report has just been published in the _semaine religieuse_, and concludes in favour of the absolute authenticity of the fact under inquiry. ....the last word rests with the bishop, who will decide according to the conclusions of the report of the special commission.' this is catholicism in practice. those who think to reform it by their contention that supernatural interventions can never be matters of fact, are liable to the reproach which they most dislike--that of scholastic intellectualism, and neglect of concrete experience. this denial of the supernatural as a factor in the physical world seems to us alone sufficient to make the position of the modernists in the roman church untenable. that form of christianity stands or falls with belief in miracles. it has always sought to bring the divine into human life by intercalating acts of god among facts of nature. its whole sacred literature, as we have said, is penetrated through and through by the belief that god continually intervenes to change the course of events. what would become of the cult of mary and the saints if it were recognised that god does not so interfere, and that the saints, if criticism allows that they ever existed, can do nothing by their intercessions to avert calamity or bring blessing? the modernist priest, it appears, can still say 'ora pro nobis' to a mary whose biography he believes to be purely mythical. at any rate, he can tell his consultants with a good conscience that if they pray to mary for grace they will receive it. but what is the good of this make-believe? and, if it is part of a transaction in which the worshipper pays money for assistance which he believes to be miraculous and only obtainable through the good offices of the church, is it even morally honest? the worshipper may be helped by his subjective conviction that his cheque on the treasury of merit has been honoured; but if, apart from the natural effects of suggestion, nothing has been given him but a mere _placebo_, is the sacerdotal office one which an honourable man would wish to fill? we have no wish whatever to make any imputation against the motives of the brave men who have withstood the thunders of the vatican, and who in some cases have been professionally ruined by their courageous avowal of their opinions. perhaps none but a catholic priest can understand how great the sacrifice is when one in his position breaks away from the authority of those who speak in the name of the church, and deliberately incurs the charge, still so terrible in catholic ears, of being a heretic and a teacher of heresy. not one man in twenty would dare to face the storm of obloquy, hatred, and calumny which is always ready to fall on the head of a heretical priest. the encyclical indicates the measures which are to be taken officially against modernists. pius x ordains that all the young professors suspected of modernism are to be driven from their chairs in the seminaries; that infected books are to be condemned indiscriminately, even though they may have received an _imprimatur_; that a committee of censors is to be established in every diocese for the revision of books; that meetings of liberal priests or laymen are to be forbidden; that every diocese is to have a vigilance committee to discover and inform against modernists; and that young clerical modernists are to be put 'in the lowest places,' and held up to the contempt of their more orthodox or obsequious comrades. but this persecution is as nothing compared with the crushing condemnation with which the religious world, which is his only world, visits this kind of contumacy; the loss of friendships, the grief and shame of loved relatives, and the haunting dread that an authority so august as that which has condemned him cannot have spoken in vain. assuredly all lovers of truth must do homage to the courage and self-sacrifice of these men. the doubt which may be reasonably felt and expressed as to the consistency of their attitude reflects no discredit on them personally. nevertheless, the alternative must be faced, that a 'modernised' catholicism must either descend to deliberate quackery, or proclaim that the bank from which the main part of her revenues is derived has stopped payment. what will be the end of the struggle, and in what condition will it leave the greatest church in christendom? there are some who think that the church will grow tired of the attitude of canute, and will retreat to the chair which modernism proffers, well above high-water mark. but the policy of rome has never been concession, but repression, even at the cost of alienating large bodies of her supporters; and we believe that in the present instance, as on former occasions, the vatican will continue to proscribe modernism until the movement within her body is crushed. she can hardly do otherwise, for the alternative offered is not a gradual reform of her dogmas, but a sweeping revolution. this we have made abundantly clear by quotations from the modernists themselves. if the vatican once proclaimed that such views about supernaturalism as those which we have quoted are permissible, a deadly wound would be inflicted on the faith of simple catholics all over the world. the vicar of christ would seem to them to have apostatised. the whole machinery of piety, as practised in catholic countries, would be thrown out of gear. nor is there any strong body of educated laymen, such as exists in the protestant churches, who could influence the papacy in the direction of liberalism. not only are the laity taught that their province is to obey, and never to call in question the decisions of ecclesiastics, but the large majority of thoughtful laymen have already severed their connection with the church, and take no interest in projects for its reform. everything points to a complete victory for the jesuits and the orthodox party; and, much as we may regret the stifling of free discussion, and the expulsion of earnest and conscientious thinkers from the church which they love, it is difficult to see how any other policy could be adopted. of the modernists, a few will secede, others will remain in the church, though in open revolt against the vatican; but the majority will be silenced, and will make a lip-submission to authority. the disastrous results of the rebellion, and of the means taken to crush it, will be apparent in the deterioration of the priesthood. modern thought, it will be said, has now been definitely condemned by the church; war has been openly declared against progress. many who, before the crisis of the last few years, believed it possible to enter the roman catholic priesthood without any sacrifice of intellectual honesty, will in the future find it impossible to do so. we may expect to see this result most palpable in france, where men think logically, and are but little influenced by custom and prejudice. unless the republican government blows the dying embers into a blaze by unjust persecution, it is to be feared that catholicism in that country may soon become 'une quantité négligeable.' the prospects of the church in italy and spain do not seem very much better. in fact the only comfort which we can suggest to those who regret the decline of an august institution, is that decadent autocracies have often shown an astonishing toughness. but as head of the universal church, in any true sense of the word, rome has finished her life. a more vital question, for those at least who are christians, but not roman catholics, is in what shape the christian religion will emerge from the assaults upon traditional beliefs which science and historical criticism are pressing home. we have given our reasons for rejecting the modernist attempt at reconstruction. in the first place, we do not feel that we are required by sane criticism to surrender nearly all that m. loisy has surrendered. we believe that the kingdom of god which christ preached was something much more than a patriotic dream. we believe that he did speak as never man spake, so that those who heard him were convinced that he was more than man. we believe, in short, that the object of our worship was a historical figure. nothing has yet come to light, or is likely to come to light, which prevents us from identifying the christ of history with the christ of faith, or the christ of experience. but, if too much is surrendered on one side, too much is taken back on the other. the contention that the progress of knowledge has left the traditional beliefs and cultus of catholics untouched is untenable. it is not too much to say that the whole edifice of supernaturalistic dualism under which catholic piety has sheltered itself for fifteen hundred years has fallen in ruins to the ground. there is still enough superstition left to win a certain vogue for miraculous cures at lourdes, and split hailstones at remiremont. but that kind of religion is doomed, and will not survive three generations of sound secular education given equally to both sexes. the craving for signs and wonders--that broad road which attracts so many converts and wins so rapid a success--leads religion at last to its destruction, as christ seems to have warned his own disciples. science has been the slowly advancing nemesis which has overtaken a barbarised and paganised christianity. she has come with a winnowing fan in her hand, and she will not stop till she has thoroughly purged her floor. she has left us the divine christ, whatever may be the truth about certain mysterious events in his human life. but assuredly she has not left us the right to offer wheedling prayers to a mythical queen of heaven; she has not left us the right to believe in such puerile stories as the madonna-stamp on hailstones, in order to induce a comfortably pious state of mind. the dualism alleged to exist between faith and knowledge will not serve. man is one, and reality is one; there can no more be two 'orders of reality' not affecting each other than there can be two faculties in the human mind working independently of each other. the universe which is interpreted to us by our understanding is not unreal, nor are its laws pliant to our wills, as the pragmatists do vainly talk. it is a divinely ordered system, which includes man, the roof and crown of things, and christ, in whom is revealed to us its inner character and meaning. it is not the province of faith either to flout scientific knowledge, or to contaminate the material on which science works by intercalating what m. le roy calls 'transhistorical symbols'--myths in fact--which do not become true by being recognised as false, as the new apologetic seems to suggest. faith is not the born storyteller of modernist theology. faith is, on the practical side, just the resolution to stand or fall by the noblest hypothesis; and, on the intellectual side, it is a progressive initiation, by experiment which ends in experience, into the unity of the good, the true, and the beautiful, founded on the inner assurance that these three attributes of the divine nature have one source and conduct to one goal. the modernists are right in finding the primary principle of faith in the depths of our undivided personality. they are right in teaching that faith develops and comes into its own only through the activity of the whole man. they are right in denying the name of faith to correct opinion, which may leave the character untouched. as hartley coleridge says: 'think not the faith by which the just shall live is a dead creed, a map correct of heaven, far less a feeling fond and fugitive, a thoughtless gift, withdrawn as soon as given. it is an affirmation and an act that bids eternal truth be present fact.' for all this we are grateful to them. but we maintain that the future of christianity is in the hands of those who insist that faith and knowledge must be confronted with each other till they have made up their quarrel. the crisis of faith cannot be dealt with by establishing a _modus vivendi_ between scepticism and superstition. that is all that modernism offers us; and it will not do. rather we will believe, with clement of alexandria, that pistê hê gnhôsist, gnôsthê de hê phistist. if this confidence in the reality of things hoped for and the hopefulness of things real be well-founded, we must wait in patience for the coming of the wise master-builders who will construct a more truly catholic church out of the fragments of the old, with the help of the material now being collected by philosophers, psychologists, historians, and scientists of all creeds and countries. when the time comes for this building to rise, the contributions of the modernists will not be described as wood, hay, or stubble. they have done valuable service to biblical criticism, and in other branches, which will be always recognised. but the building will not (we venture to prophesy) be erected on their plan, nor by their church. history shows few examples of the rejuvenescence of decayed autocracies. nor is our generation likely to see much of the reconstruction. the churches, as institutions, will continue for some time to show apparent weakness; and other moralising and civilising agencies will do much of their work. but, since there never has been a time when the character of christ and the ethics which he taught have been held in higher honour than the present, there is every reason to expect that the next 'age of faith,' when it comes, will be of a more genuinely christian type than the last. footnotes: [ ] bishop creighton always emphasised this view of roman catholicism. 'the roman church,' he wrote, 'is the most complete expression of erastianism, for it is not a church at all, but a state in its organisation; and the worst form of state--an autocracy.' (_life and letters_, ii. .) [ ] in contrast with 'henotheism' or 'monolatry,' such as the worship of the early hebrews. [ ] 'nunc defecit certa successio in omnibus ecclesiis apostolicis, praeterquam in romana, et ideo ex testimonio huius solius ecclesiae sumi potest certum argumentum ad probandas apostolicas traditiones.' bellarmine, _de verbo dei scripto et non scripto_, iv, ix, . [ ] bellarmine, _de laicis_, iii, xxi, . [ ]: santayana, _return in religion_, p. . [ ] tertullian, _de virg. vel_., . [ ] encyclical of october , . [ ] in _the programme of modernism_, and _quello che vogliamo_. [ ] _the programme of modernism_, p. . [ ] _the programme of modernism_, pp. - . [ ] loisy, _simples réflexions_, p. . [ ] _ibid. l'Évangile et l'Église_, pp. - . [ ] _ibid. les Évangiles synoptiques_, p. . [ ] _ibid_. [ ] _ibid_. p. . [ ] _ibid_. pp. , . [ ] _ibid_. p. . [ ] loisy, _les Évangiles synoptiques_, p. . [ ] _ibid_. p. . [ ] _ibid. le quatrième Évangile_, passim. [ ] loisy, _les Évangiles synoptiques_, p. . [ ] _ibid_. p. . [ ] loisy, _les Évangiles synoptiques_, p. . [ ] _the programme of modernism_, pp. , . [ ] _ibid_. p. . [ ] loisy, _simples réflexions_, p. . [ ] laberthonnière, _le réalisme chrétien et l'idéalisme grec,_ pp. , . [ ] _malachi_, ii. . [ ] le roy, _dogme et critique_, p. . [ ] _lex orandi_, p. (abridged). [ ] this is not carelessness on the part of the writer. paulsen also says (_introduction to philosophy_, p. ), it is impossible to separate feeling and willing from each other.... only in the highest stage of psychical life, in man, does a partial separation of feeling from willing occur.' but it is the highest stage of psychical life, the human, with which we are alone concerned; and in this stage it is both possible and necessary to distinguish between feeling and willing. some voluntarists, hard pressed by facts, try to make 'will' cover the whole of conscious and subconscious life, with the exception of logical reasoning, which is excluded as a sort of pariah! [ ] mgr. moyes, in _the nineteenth century_, december, . cardinal newman ( ) the life of newman was divided into two nearly equal portions by his change of religion in october . for the earlier half of his career we have long had his own narrative; and newman is a prince of autobiographers. it was his wish that the 'apologia' should be the final and authoritative account of his life in the church of england, and of the steps by which he was led to transfer his allegiance to another communion. the voluminous literature of the tractarian movement, which includes large collections of newman's own letters, has confirmed the accuracy of his narrative, and has made any further description of that strange episode in english university life superfluous. with the 'apologia' and dean church's 'oxford movement' before him, the reader needs no more. mr. wilfrid ward has therefore been well advised to adhere loyally to the cardinal's wishes, by confining himself to the last half of newman's life, after a brief summary of his childhood, youth, and middle age till . nevertheless, it is misleading to give the title 'the life of cardinal newman' to a work which is only, as it were, the second volume of a biography. there are very few men, however long-lived, who have not done much of their best work before the age of forty-five, and newman was certainly not one of the exceptions. from every point of view, except that of the roman catholic ecclesiastical historian, newman's anglican career was far more interesting and important than his residence at birmingham. he will live in history, not as the recluse of edgbaston, nor as the wearer of the cardinal's hat which fell to his lot, almost too late to save the credit of the vatican, when he had passed the normal limit of human life, but as the real founder and leader of nineteenth century anglo-catholicism, the movement which he created and then tried in vain to destroy. the projects and failures and successes of his later life seem very pale and almost petty when compared with the activities of the years while he was making a chapter of english history. his greatest book, though it was written many years after his secession, is the record of a drama which ended in the interview with father dominic the passionist. it is 'the history of my religious opinions'; and after his religious opinions had, as he says himself, no further history. the incomparable style which will give him a permanent place among the masters of english prose was the product of his life at oxford, where he lived in a society of highly cultivated men, whose writings show many of the same excellences as his own. newman's english is only the oriel manner at its best. such an instrument could hardly have been forged at the birmingham oratory, where his associates, who had followed him from littlemore, were of such an inferior type that mark pattison, who knew them, was surprised that he could be satisfied with their company. his best sermons and his best poetry belong to his anglican period. 'the dream of gerontius,' with all its tender grace, is far less virile than 'lead, kindly light,' and other short poems of his youth. moreover, his record as a roman ecclesiastic is one of almost unrelieved failure. if he had died eighteen years after his secession, when he already looked upon himself as an old man whose course was nearly run, he would have been regarded as one who had sacrificed a great career in the church of england for neglect and obscurity. from the first he was distrusted by the 'old catholics' (the old roman catholic families in england), and suspected at the vatican, where talbot assiduously represented him as 'the most dangerous man in england.' when manning, archdeacon of chichester, followed his example and joined the roman church, newman was confronted with a still more subtle and relentless opponent, whose hostility was never relaxed till the accession of a liberal pope made it no longer possible to resist the bestowal of tardy honours upon a feeble octogenarian. the recognition came in time to soothe his decline, but too late to enable him to leave his mark upon the administration of the roman church. the main events in a very uneventful career are narrated at length in mr. ward's volumes. after his 'conversion' newman first resided in a small community at maryvale (oscott) but soon left it on a journey to rome, where he spent some time at the collegio di propaganda, and had a foretaste of the distrust with which pius ix and his advisers always regarded him. his plan at this time was to found a theological seminary at maryvale; and in this scheme he had the support of wiseman, the ablest roman ecclesiastic in the united kingdom. but the 'essay on development,' with its unscholastic language and unfamiliar line of apologetic, seriously alarmed the theologians at rome; and newman, accepting the first of many rebuffs, abandoned this project in favour of another. he resolved to join the oratorians, an order founded by st. philip neri, and obtained permission to modify, in his projected establishment, the rules of the order, which, among other things, prescribed frequent floggings in public. he visited naples, and came back a believer in the liquefaction of the saint's blood. the amazing letter to henry wilberforce, writter from santa croce, shows that he was the most docile and credulous of converts. even the holy house at loreto caused him no difficulty. 'he who floated the ark on the surges of a world-wide sea, and inclosed in it all living things, who has hidden the terrestrial paradise, who said that faith might remove mountains ... could do this wonder also.' it 'may have been'; 'everybody believes it in rome'; therefore newman 'has no doubt'! the new oratory was placed by papal brief at birmingham. the first members of it were his friends who had left the english church with him. recruits soon came in, and branch houses were talked of. but for many years newman had reason to complain of neglect and want of sympathy. he even found empty churches when he preached in london. in conjunction with faber, he next started a series of 'lives of the saints,' in which the most absurd 'miracles' were accepted without question as true. the 'old catholics,' who had no stomach for such food, protested; and newman, this time thoroughly irritated, had to admit another failure. the oratory, however, and its london offshoot under faber were prosperous, and the churches where newman preached were not long empty. in we find him in better spirits. he employed his energies in a series of clever lectures on 'anglican difficulties,' in which he ridiculed the church of his earlier vows with all the refined cruelty of which he was a master. but he was soon in trouble again. one dr. giacinto achilli, formerly a dominican friar, gave lectures in london upon the scandals of the roman inquisition, which had imprisoned him for attacking the catholic faith and fomenting sedition. the temper of the british public at this time made it ready to believe anything to the discredit of the roman church, and achilli became a popular hero. wiseman published a libellous article upon him in the _dublin review_, which passed unnoticed. but when newman repeated the charges of profligacy in a public lecture, achilli brought an action for libel, which in costs and expenses cost newman £ , . the money however was paid, and much more than paid, by his co-religionists. this trial was quickly followed by the inauguration of a scheme for founding a catholic university in ireland, the avowed object of which was to withdraw young catholics from the liberalising influences of mixed education. this scheme was sure to appeal strongly to newman. liberalism had come in with a rush at oxford, after the dissipation of the 'long nightmare' (as mark pattison calls it) while the university was dominated by religious medievalism. the oxford of newman had become the oxford of jowett. the ablest of newman's young friends and disciples, such as mark pattison and j.a. froude, were now in the opposite camp, full of anger and disgust at the seductive influences from which they had just escaped. newman, as might be expected, was anxious to protect catholic students from similar dangers, and accepted the post of rector of the proposed catholic university. he intended it to provide 'philosophical defences of catholicity and revelation, and create a catholic literature.' the lectures in which he expounded his ideals at dublin were a great success, and he returned to england full of hope. with a curious inability to read the character of one who was to be his worst enemy, he offered manning the post of vice-rector. manning's refusal was followed by his failure to obtain the support of ward, henry wilberforce, and others; and catholic opinion in ireland was much divided. for three or four years newman was engaged in ineffectual efforts to push his scheme forward. at last, in , he was installed as rector, and began his work at dublin. a fine church was built at st. stephen's green with the surplus of the achilli subscriptions, and newman produced some excellent literary work in the form of university lectures and sermons. but the whole movement was viewed with distrust by the irish ecclesiastics, who, as he said in a moment of impatience, 'regard any intellectual man as being on the road to perdition.' there was a cloud over his work from first to last. he had been promised a bishopric, without which he was made to feel himself in an inferior position by the irish prelates; but the promise was not fulfilled. the irish objected to one or two english professors on his staff, because they were english. dr. cullen, the ruling spirit in the irish hierarchy, was a narrow conservative, who wished to use newman merely as an instrument against progressive tendencies in church and state. in he resigned an impossible task, and returned to birmingham. new undertakings followed, no more successful than the abortive university scheme. there was to be a new translation of the bible, and a new catholic magazine called the _rambler_. the former enterprise was already well advanced when the general indifference of the catholic public caused it to be abandoned. the _rambler_, the contributors to which used a freedom of discussion unpalatable to roman ecclesiastics, struggled on amid a storm of criticism till , when newman, who was then himself editor, resigned, and one more humiliating failure was registered. the management of the magazine passed into other hands. the oratory school at birmingham, a much less contentious undertaking, was successfully launched in the same year. in came the emancipation of the states of the church by cavour and victor emmanuel. newman referred to the piedmontese as 'sacrilegious robbers,' but his advocacy of the temporal power was not strong enough to please the vatican, while the strength of manning's language left nothing to be desired. newman became more unpopular than ever. his reputation suffered by his former connection with the _rambler_ and his supposed connection with the _home and foreign review_, which acton intended to represent the views of progressive catholics, till it also was snuffed out by the hierarchy. the five years from to are considered by mr. ward to have been the saddest in newman's life. he felt, truly enough, that the dominant party had no sympathy with his aims, and that he was treated as 'some wild incomprehensible beast, a spectacle for dr. wiseman to exhibit to strangers, as himself being the hunter who captured it.' 'all through my life i have been plucked,' he writes to an old oxford friend. there was even in his mind at this time a wistful yearning after the friends and the church that he had left--a feeling, doubtless transient, but significant, which his biographer has allowed to show itself in a few pages of his book. after reminding himself, in his diary, of the warning against those who, after putting their hand to the plough, 'look back,' he proceeds to look back, because he cannot help it. 'i live more and more in the past, and in hopes that the past may revive in the future.... i think, as death comes on, his cold breath is felt on soul as on body, and that, viewed naturally, my soul is half dead now, whereas then [in his protestant days] it was in the freshness and fervour of youth.... i say the same of my state of mind from to , when i became a catholic. it is a time past and gone--it relates to a work done and over. "quis mihi tribuat, ut sim iuxta menses pristinos, secundum dies, quibus deus custodiebat me? quando splendebat lucerna eius super caput meum, et ad lumen eius ambulabam in tenebris?" ... i have no friend at rome; i have laboured in england, to be misrepresented, backbitten and scorned. i have laboured in ireland, with a door ever shut in my face.... contemporaneously with this neglect on the part of those for whom i laboured, there has been a drawing towards me on the part of protestants. those very books and labours which catholics did not understand, protestants did. i am under the temptation of looking out for, if not courting, protestant praise.... what i wrote as a protestant has had far greater power, force, meaning, success, than my catholic works.' such reflections might seem to indicate a disposition to return to the anglican fold. but a man must have vanquished pride in its most insidious form before he can leave the church of rome for any other. the aristocratic _hauteur_ of the _civis romanus_ among barbarians lives on in the sentiment of the roman catholic towards protestants. when newman was publicly charged with intending to return to anglicanism, this spirit broke out in a disagreeable and insulting manner. the bitterness of these five years of neglect, in which he had been eating his heart in silence, must be remembered in connexion with the famous kingsley controversy, which in roused him to put on his armour and fight for his reputation. there had always been an element of combativeness in newman's disposition. '_nescio quo pacto_, my spirits most happily rise at the prospect of danger,' he wrote early in life. and when he could persuade himself that not only his honour but that of the church was at stake, he could feel and show the true catholic ferocity, the cruellest spirit on earth. 'a heresiarch,' he had written even in his anglican days, 'should meet with no mercy. he must be dealt with by the competent authority as if he were embodied evil. to spare him is a false and dangerous pity. it is to endanger the souls of thousands, and it is uncharitable towards himself'! this was the temper, soured by defeat and not mellowed by age, which charles kingsley in an evil moment for himself chose wantonly to provoke. at christmas there appeared in _macmillan's magazine_ a review of froude's 'history of england,' in which kingsley wrote 'truth for its own sake has never been a virtue with the roman clergy. father newman informs us that it need not be, and on the whole ought not to be--that cunning is the weapon which heaven has given to the saints wherewith to withstand the brute male force of the wicked world.' this charge was in fact based on a careless reading, or an imperfect recollection, of the twentieth discourse in 'sermons on subjects of the day.' the discourse in question is a somewhat nauseous glorification of the servile temper, but it only says that the meekness of the saints is (by divine providence) so successful that it is always mistaken for craft. the _imputation_ of cunning is therefore a note of sanctity in its victim. kingsley ought to have read the sermon again, and withdrawn unreservedly from an untenable position. but he thought that something less than a complete apology would serve; and so gave newman the opportunity of his life. when the withdrawal which he offered was rejected, kingsley made matters ten times worse for himself by an ill-considered pamphlet called 'what then does dr. newman mean?' in this effusion he vents all his scorn and hatred for catholicism--for its tortuous tactics, its monstrous credulity and appetite for miracles, which must proceed, according to him, either from infantile folly or from deliberate imposture. forgetting altogether that he has to defend himself against a specific charge of slander, he offers his great opponent the choice between writing himself down a knave or a fool--a knave if he pretends to believe in the holy coat and the blood of st. januarius, a fool if he does believe in them. the coarseness of this attack upon an elderly man of saintly character and acknowledged intellectual eminence, who had to all appearance blighted a great career by honestly obeying his conscience, offended the british public, which was now fully disposed to give a respectful and favourable hearing to whatever newman might care to say in reply. in a catholic country it would have been useless for a protestant, however falsely attacked, to appeal to catholic public opinion for justice; but newman understood the english character, and saw his splendid chance. the famous defence was, from every point of view except the highest, a complete triumph. and although hort was strictly accurate in describing the treatment of kingsley as 'horribly unchristian,' it is demanding too much of human nature to expect a master of fence, when wantonly attacked with a bludgeon, to abstain from the pleasure of pricking his adversary scientifically in the tender parts of his body. the bitterest passages were excised in later editions; and the 'apologia' remains a masterpiece of autobiography, and a powerful defence of catholicism. to newman this appeared to be the turning-point in his fortunes. he felt strong enough to administer a severe snub to monsignor talbot, his old enemy, who, hearing of the success the 'apologia,' invited him to preach at rome. then at once he threw himself into a great scheme for founding an oratory at oxford. eight and a half acres were bought between worcester college, the clarendon press, the observatory, and beaumont street, a magnificent site, which the oratorians acquired for only £ . but here again he was thwarted. w.g. ward opposed the scheme with all his might, insisting on the necessity of 'preserving the purity of a catholic atmosphere throughout the whole course of education.' the whole tendency of the ultramontane movement was to secure, before all other things, a body of militant young catholics to fight the battles of the church. newman was willing to support the english church in its warfare against unbelief; to the ultramontane a protestant is as certainly damned as an atheist, and is more mischievous as being less amenable to catholic influence. manning and talbot seem to have given the project its _coup de grâce_ at rome, and newman sold the land which he had bought. he was bitterly disappointed; but the growth of public esteem had given him self-confidence, and he did not again fall into despondency, though he had a strange presentiment of approaching death, which prompted his last famous poem, 'the dream of gerontius.' a second attempt to go to oxford was thwarted by enemies at home and in england in - . the extreme party, with manning, now archbishop, at their head, seemed to be victorious all along the line. they were able to proceed to their supreme triumph in the vatican council which issued the dogma of papal infallibility. newman, while others were intriguing and haranguing, was quietly engaged in preparing his subtlest and (on one side) his most characteristic work, 'the grammar of assent,' an attempt at a catholic apologetic on a 'personalist,' as opposed to an 'intellectualist' basis. he declined to take an active part in the theological conferences about infallibility, being by this time well aware how little weight such arguments as he could bring were likely to have at rome. he was disgusted at the insolent aggressiveness of the ultramontanes, but he had no wish to combat it. the situation was hopeless, and he knew it. the death of several friends increased the sense of isolation, and during the years to his silence and depression were very noticeable to those who lived with him. his dearest friend, ambrose st. john, was one of several who died about this time. but trinity college, oxford, made him an honorary fellow in , an honour which seemed to prognosticate the far higher distinction which was soon to be conferred upon him. the death of pius ix in brought to an end the long reign of obscurantism at the vatican, and with the election of leo xiii newman emerged from the cloud under which he had remained for more than a generation. the new pope lost no time in making him a cardinal, though even now the prize seemed to be on the point of slipping through his fingers. he valued the honour immensely as setting the official seal of approbation on his life's work, and the last ten years of his life were quietly happy. he was able to mingle actively in affairs of public interest, and to write long letters, till near the end. he died on august , , in his ninetieth year, and was buried, by his own request, in the same grave with his friend ambrose st. john. why is it that this sad, isolated, broken life, in which the young man renounces the creed of the boy, and the elder man pours scorn upon the loyalties of his prime; which found its last haven in a society which wished to make a tool of him but distrusted him too much for even this pitiful service, has still an absorbing interest for our generation? for it is not only in england that newman's fame lives and grows. in france there is a cult of newman, which has produced biographies by bremond and faure, as well as a history of the catholic revival in england by thureau-dangin. in england, besides dean church's 'oxford movement,' we have biographies by r.h. hutton and w. barry, and appreciations or depreciations by e. abbott, leslie stephen, froude, mark pattison, and several others. the interest is mainly personal and psychological. newman's writings, and his life, are a 'human document' in a very peculiar degree. bremond is right in calling attention to the _autocentrism_ of newman. 'although (he says) the words "i" and "me" are relatively rare in newman's writings, whether as preacher, novelist, controversialist, philosopher, or poet, he always reveals and always describes himself.' even his historical portraits are reconstructed from his inner consciousness; hence their historical falsity--all ages are mixed in his histories--and their philosophical truth. in a sense he was the most reserved of men. we do not know whether he had any ordinary temptations; we do not know whether he ever fell in love. but the texture of his mind and the growth of his opinions have been laid bare to us with the candour of a saint and the accuracy of a dissector or analyst. he reminds us of de quincey, who also could tell the story of his own life, but no other, and whose style, like his own, was modelled on the literary traditions of the eighteenth century. he has left us, in the 'apologia,' a picture of his precocious and dreamy boyhood, when he lived in a world of his own, peopled by angels and spirits, a world in which the supernatural was the only nature. he was lonely and reserved, then as always. it is not for nothing that in his sermons he expatiates so often on the impenetrability of the human soul. a nature so self-centred has always something hard and inhuman about it; he was loved, but loved little in return. and yet he craved for more affection than he could reciprocate. 'i cannot ever realise to myself,' he wrote once, 'that anyone loves me.' it is a common feeling in imaginative, withdrawn characters. deepseated in his nature was a reverence for the hidden springs of thought, action, and belief. when he spoke of 'conscience,' as he did continually, he meant, not the faculty which decides ethical problems, but the undivided soul-nature which underlies the separate activities of thought, will, and feeling. in this sense the epigrammatist was right who said that 'to newman his own nature was a revelation which he called conscience.' he 'followed the gleam,' uncertain whither it would lead him. the poem 'lead, kindly light' is the most intimate self-revelation that he ever made. this mental attitude, which he took early in life, became the foundation of his 'personalist' philosophy, and of the anti-intellectualism which was the negative side of it. but this reliance on the inner light, which nearly made a mystic of him, was clouded by a haunting fear of god's wrath, which imparts a gloomy tinge to his anglican sermons, and which, while he was halting between the english church and rome, plied him with the very unmystical question 'where shall i be most _safe_?' an argument which he had used repeatedly and without scruple in his parochial sermons.[ ] it is nevertheless true that this self-centred spirit was, at least in early life, impressionable and open to the influence of others. his friendship with hurrell froude and keble affected his opinions considerably: and still more potent was the pervading intangible influence of oxford--the academic atmosphere. it cannot indeed be said that the university was at this time in a healthy condition. mark pattison has described with caustic contempt the intellectual lethargy of the place, and the miserable quality of the lectures. oxford was still _de facto_ a close clerical corporation, and in most colleges 'clubbable men' rather than scholars were chosen for the fellowships. oriel won its unique position by breaking through this tradition, and also by making originality rather than success in the university examinations the main qualification for election. but even at oriel, and among the ablest men, there was great ignorance of much that was being thought and written elsewhere. knowledge of german was rare. even the classics were not read in a humanistic spirit. 'of the world of wisdom and sentiment--of poetry and philosophy, of social and political experience, contained in the latin and greek classics, and of the true relation of the degenerate and semi-barbarous christian writers of the fourth century to that world--oxford, in , had never dreamt.[ ] theological prejudice in fact distorted the whole outlook of the resident fellows, and confounded all estimation of relative values. newman never, all through his life, took a step towards overcoming this early prejudice. he imagined a golden age of the church, or several golden ages, and found them in 'the first three centuries,' in the time of alfred the great or of edward the confessor, or in the seventeenth century. he was only sure that the sixteenth century was made of much baser metal. this unhistorical idealisation of the past, even of a barbarous past, was very characteristic of newman and his friends. they bequeathed to the anglican church the strange legend of an age of pure doctrine and heroic practice, to which it should be our aim to 'return.' the real strength of this legend lies in the fact that it has no historical foundation. the ideal which is presented as a return or a revival is nothing of the kind, but a creation of our own time, projected by the imagination into the past, from which it comes back with a halo of authority. newman had his full share of these illusions. in his youth and prime he was more of an englishman than an anglican. he despised foreigners, unless they were catholic saints, could not bear the sight of the _tricolor_, and hated all the 'ideas of the revolution.' his dictum, 'luther is dead, but hildebrand and loyola are alive,' throws a flood of light upon the contents of his mind, as does the truly british prejudice which caused him to be horrified at the sight of ships coaling at malta 'on a holy day.' his range of ideas was so much restricted that bremond, a sincere admirer, says that his imagination lived on 'une poignée de souvenirs d'enfant.' how tragic was the fate which caught this loyal englishman and more than loyal oxonian in the meshes of a cosmopolitan institution in which england counted for little and oxford for nothing at all! the reform of seemed to threaten the english church with destruction. arnold in this year wrote 'the church, as it now stands, no human power can save.' the bishops were stunned and bewildered by the unexpected outbreak of popular hostility. old methods of defence were plainly useless; some new plan of campaign must be devised against the double assault of political radicalism and theological liberalism. to newman both alike were of the devil; theological liberalism especially was only specious infidelity. he never had the slightest inkling that a deep religious earnestness and love of truth underlay the revolt against orthodox tradition. his fighting instincts were aroused. when keble attributed the scheme for suppressing some irish bishopries to 'national apostasy,' he rushed to arms in defence of church privileges and property. in the first tract ( ) he says: 'a notion has gone abroad that the people can take away your power. they think they have given it and can take it away. they have been deluded into a notion that present palpable usefulness, produceable results, acceptableness to your flocks--that these and such-like are the tests of your divine commission. enlighten them in this matter. exalt our holy fathers the bishops, as the representatives of the apostles, and the angels of the churches, and magnify your office, as being ordained by them to take part in their ministry.' that was the keynote of the whole tractarian movement. a weapon was needed to smite liberalism. nothing but a compact and powerful organisation could repel the foe. god must have provided such an organisation: a divine society, certain of ultimate victory, must exist somewhere. newman and his friends hoped to find it in the anglican church; and such was the power of their contagious zeal and confident enthusiasm, that the immediate danger was actually staved off, and the establishment was allowed a new lease of life. but the national church of england was not constituted to resist the national will, and the attempt to reorganise it on catholic lines was fore-doomed to failure. and so, since the assumption that a great institutional fighting church _must_ exist was never even questioned, when anglicanism failed him there was no other refuge but rome. he was certainly more logical than his friends who remained behind. anglo-catholicism has its theoretical basis in a definition of catholicity which is repudiated by all other catholics; its traditions are largely legendary. but it is an eclectic system well suited to the english character, and the distorted view of history which newman bequeathed to the party has enabled it to borrow much that is good from different sides, without any sense of inconsistency. the idea of a divine society has been and is the inspiration of thousands of ardent workers in the anglican church. it lifted the religion of many englishmen from the somewhat gross and bourgeois condition in which the movement found it, to a pure and unworldly idealism. and, unlike most other religious revivals, especially in this country, it has remained remarkably free from unhealthy emotionalism and hysterics. the social atmosphere of oxford, always alien to mawkish sentiment, penetrated the whole movement, and maintained in it for many years a certain sanity and dignity which, while they doubtless prevented it from spreading widely in the middle class, made the tractarians respected by men of taste and education. but these influences could not be permanent. the goodwill of the tractarian firm (if we may so express it) has now been acquired by men with very different aims and methods. the ablest members of the party are plunging violently into social politics, while the rank and file in increasing numbers are fluttering round the roman candle, into which many of them must ultimately fall. the progress of the movement between and was almost entirely in the direction of teaching the clergy to 'magnify their office.' the other part of the scheme, the combat against theological liberalism, fell quite into the background. the main reason for this was that during those strange years the theologians so completely dominated oxford that liberalism could hardly raise its head, and was despised as well as hated. only after newman's secession could the regeneration of the university begin. then indeed liberalism came in like a flood, though it was a very shallow flood in some cases. this was the day of the self-satisfied young rationalist, 'ecarté par une plaisanterie des croyances dont la raison d'un pascal ne réussit pas à se dégager,' as renan says--an orgy of facile free thought which after a generation was chastised by another clerical reaction. if newman could have foreseen the victory of his party in the english church, he might perhaps have been content to remain in it. we cannot tell. but it is doubtful whether he would have taken pusey's place as leader of the party. newman's influence was disturbing and subtly disintegrating to every cause for which he laboured. his startling candour often seemed like treachery. he could not work with others, and broke with nearly all his friends, retaining only his disciples. he confessed himself a bad judge of character. it is doubtful, after all, whether he was much injured by the jealousy and almost instinctive fear which he inspired among the roman catholic hierarchy. if he had been allowed to take the place due to his abilities, his character, and his reputation, what could he have done that he was unable to do at edgbaston? we cannot fancy him plunged in crooked ecclesiastical intrigue, like that _inglese italianato_, cardinal manning. still less can we fancy him haranguing strikers, and stealing the credit of composing a trade dispute. no doubt he suffered under the sense of injury; but probably he did what was in him to do. if the roman church would not use him as a tool, it was probably because he would not have been a good tool. there are some mistakes which that church seldom makes; it knows how to choose its men. what will be the verdict of history on the type of catholicism which newman represented? he was kept out in the cold by a conservative pope, and honoured by a liberal pope. which was right, from the point of view of catholic interests and policy? this is perhaps the most important question which the life of newman raises; for it affects our anticipations of the future even more than our judgments of the past. is newman a safe or a possible guide for catholics in the twentieth century? newman was no metaphysician; he confesses it himself. 'my turn of mind,' he says, 'has never led me towards metaphysics; rather it has been logical, ethical, practical.'[ ] for metaphysics requires an initial act of faith in human reason, and newman had not this faith. even in his anglican days he uttered many astonishing things in contempt of reason. 'what is intellect itself (he asks) but a fruit of the fall, not found in paradise or in heaven, more than in little children, and at the utmost but tolerated by the church, and only not incompatible with the regenerate mind?... reason is god's gift, but so are the passions.... eve was tempted to follow passion and reason, and she fell.'[ ] 'faith does not regard degrees of evidence.'[ ] 'faith and humility consist, not in going about to prove, but in the outset confiding in the testimony of others.' 'the more you set yourself to argue and prove, in order to discover truth, the less likely you are to reason correctly.'[ ] the amazing crudity of this avowed obscurantism is likely to make the orthodox apologist writhe, and to move the rationalist to contemptuous laughter. in this and many other cases, newman seems to love to caricature himself, and to put his beliefs in that form in which they outrage common sense most completely. we can imagine nothing more calculated to drive a young and ingenuous mind into flippant scepticism than a course of newman's sermons. the _reductio ad absurdum_ of his arguments is not left to the reader to make; it is innocently provided by the preacher. and yet newman's central position is not absurd, or only becomes absurd when it is applied to justify belief in gross superstition. he holds that what he calls 'reasoning' deals only with abstractions, and is not the faculty on which we rely in forming 'judgments.' these judgments, to which we give our 'assent,' and by which we regulate our conduct, are affirmations of the basal personality. and these have an authority far greater than can ever arise out of the logical manipulation of concepts. 'there is no ultimate test of truth besides the testimony borne to the truth by the mind itself.' the 'mind itself,' the concrete personality, is concerned with realities, while the intellect, which for him corresponds very nearly with the discursive reason (dihanoia) of the greek philosophers, is at home only in mathematics and, up to a certain point, in logic. the concepts of the intellect have no existence outside it. 'the mind has the gift, by an act of creation, of bringing before it abstractions and generalisations which have no counterpart, no existence, out of it.'[ ] parenthetically, we may remark that passages like this show how wide of the truth mr. barry is when he speaks of newman as a 'thorough alexandrine.' to deny the existence of universals, to regard them as mere creations of the mind, is rank blasphemy to a platonist; and the alexandrines were christian platonists. no more misleading statement could be made about newman's philosophy than to associate him with platonism of any kind, whether pagan or christian. newman adopts the sensationalist (lockian) theory of knowledge. ideas are copies or modifications of the data presented by the senses; 'first principles are abstractions from facts, not elementary truths prior to reasoning.' this is pure nominalism, in its crudest form. it makes all arguments in favour of the great truths of religion valueless; for if there are no universals, rational theism is impossible. it follows that the famous scholastic 'proofs of god's existence' have for newman no cogency whatever; indeed it is difficult to see how he can have escaped condemning the whole philosophy of st. thomas aquinas as a juggling with bloodless concepts. newman himself pleaded that he had no wish to oppose the official dogmatics of his church. but protestations are of no avail where the facts are so clear. 'the natural theology of our schools,' says a writer in the _tablet_, quoted by dr. caldecott in his 'philosophy of religion,' 'is based frankly and wholly on the appeal to reason.' this is notoriously true; and what newman thought of reason we have already seen. his extreme disparagement of the intellect seems to preclude what he calls 'real assent' to the creeds and dogmas of catholicism; for these clearly consist of 'notional' propositions. but newman would answer that the church is a concrete fact, to which 'real assent' can be given; and the church has guaranteed the truth of the notional propositions in question. but since reason is put out of court as a witness to truth, on what faculty, or on what evidence, does newman rely? feeling he distrusts; that side of mysticism, at any rate, finds no sympathy from him. nor does he, like many kantians and others, make the will supreme over the other faculties. rather, as we have seen, he bases his reliance on the verdicts of the undivided personality, which he often calls conscience. this line of apologetic was at this very time being ably developed by julius hare. it is in itself an argument which has no necessary connexion with obscurantism. 'personalism,' as it is technically called, reminds us that we do actually base our judgments on grounds which are nob purely rational; that the intellect, in forming concepts, has to be content with an approximate resemblance to concrete reality; and that the will and feelings have their rights and claims which cannot be ignored in a philosophy of religion. but while it is compatible with a robust faith in the powers of the constructive intellect, personalism is beyond question a self-sufficient, independent, individualistic doctrine. when it is combined with a nominalist theory of knowledge, it naturally suggests that every man may and should live by the creed which bests suits his idiosyncrasies. now there was much in newman's temperament which made him turn in this direction. 'lead, kindly light' has been the favourite hymn of many an independent thinker, to whom the authority of the church is less than nothing. but on another side newman was all his life a fierce upholder of the principle of authority. his reason for accepting the dogmas of the church, and for wishing to destroy heresiarchs like wild beasts, was certainly not that his basal personality testified to the truth and value of all ecclesiastical dogmas. he believed them 'by confiding in the testimony of others'--in other words, on the authority of the catholic church. if we push back the enquiry one step further, and ask on what grounds he chooses to prefer the authority of the catholic church to other authorities, such as natural science or philosophy, we are driven again to lay great stress on the almost political necessity which he felt that such a divine society should exist. in accepting the authority of the church, he accepted the authority of all that the church teaches, in complete independence of human reason. but the roman church never professes to be independent of human reason. the official scholastic philosophy claims to be a demonstrative proof of theism. newman, then, was only half a catholic. he accepted with all the fervour of a neophyte the principle of submission to holy church. but in place of the official intellectualist apologetic, which an englishman may study to great advantage in the remarkably able series of manuals issued by the jesuits of stonyhurst, he substituted a philosophy of experience which is certainly not catholic. the authority claimed by the roman church rests on one side upon revelation, on the other upon an elaborate structure of demonstrative reasoning, which the simple folk are allowed to 'take as read,' only because they cannot be expected to understand it, but which is declared to be of irresistible cogency to any properly instructed mind. to deny the validity of reasoning upon divine things is to withdraw one of the supports on which catholicism rests. subjectivism, based on vital experience, mixes no better with this system than oil with water. scholasticism prides itself on clear-cut definitions, on irrefragable logic, on using words always in the same sense. for newman, as for his disciples the modernists, theological terms are only symbols for varying values, and he holds that the moment they are treated as having any fixed connotation, error begins. it is no wonder if learned catholics thought that newman did not play the game. father perrone, in spite of his friendship for the object of his criticism, declared that 'newman miscet et confundit omnia.' the accusation of scepticism, which was not unnaturally brought against him, was hotly resented by newman, and with some justice. of the intensity of his personal conviction there can be no doubt whatever. indeed, it was just because his faith was in no danger that he cared so little for any intellectual defence of it. he might have made his own the lines of wordsworth: 'here then we rest; not fearing for our creed the worst that human reasoning can achieve to unsettle or perplex it.' wordsworth too, it may be remembered, speaks of 'reason' with hardly more respect than newman himself as: 'the inferior faculty that moulds with her minute and speculative pains opinion, ever changing.' robert browning also, especially in his later years, uses anti-intellectualist language equally uncompromising. 'wholly distrust thy reason,' he says in 'la saisiaz.' coleridge's distinction between 'understanding' and 'reason,' or westcott's distinction between 'reason' and 'reasoning,' might have saved these great writers from the appearance, and perhaps more than the appearance, of blaspheming against the highest and most divine faculty of human nature. for the reason is something much higher than logic-chopping; it can provide, from its own resources, a remedy for the intellectual error which is just now miscalled intellectualism; it is the activity of the whole personality under the guidance of its highest part; and because it is a real unification of our disordered nature, it can bring us into real contact with the higher world of spirit. newman's scepticism was not doubtfulness about matters of faith; it was only a wholly unjustifiable contempt and distrust for the unaided activity of the human mind. this activity, as far as he could see, produced only various forms of 'liberalism,' which he strangely enough regarded as a kind of scepticism. thus he retorted, with equal injustice, the unjust charge brought against himself. newman has often been suspected or accused of quibbling and intellectual dishonesty. kingsley, whose healthy but somewhat rough english morality and common sense were revolted by newman's whole attitude to life and conduct, was unable to conceive how any educated man could believe in winking virgins and liquefying blood, and thought that newman must be dishonest. more recently dr. abbott has accused him of being a _philomythus_. judged by ordinary standards, newman's criteria of belief do seem incompatible with intellectual honesty. locke, whom newman resembles in his theory of knowledge, lays down a canon which condemns absolutely the cardinal's doctrine of assent. 'there is one unerring mark,' he says, 'by which a man may know whether he is a lover of truth in earnest, namely, the not entertaining any proposition with greater assurance than the proofs it is built on will warrant.' newman himself quotes this dictum, and argues against it that men do, as a matter of fact, form their judgments in a very different fashion. to most people, however, the fact that opinions _are_ so manufactured is no proof that they _ought_ to be so. to most people it seems plain that the practical necessity of making unverified assumptions, and the habit of clinging to them because we have made them, even after their falsity has been exposed, is a satisfactory explanation of the prevalence of error, but not a reason for acquiescing in it. it is useful, they hold, to point out how assumption has a perilous tendency to pass for proof, not that we may contentedly confuse assumption with proof, but that we may be on our guard against doing so. but such is newman's dislike of 'reason' that he rejoices to find that the majority of mankind are, in fact, not guided by it. and then, having made this discovery, he is quite ready to 'reason' himself, but not in the manner of an earnest seeker after truth. reason, for him, is a serviceable weapon of attack or defence, but he is like a man fighting with magic impenetrable armour. he enjoys a bout of logical fence; but it will decide nothing for him: his 'certitude' is independent of it. it is easy to see that such an attitude must appear profoundly dishonest to any man who accepts locke's maxim about truth-seeking. it is equally easy to see that newman would spurn the charge of dishonesty as hotly as the charge of scepticism. his principles made it easy for him to adopt the characteristic catholic habit of 'believing' anything that is pleasing to the religious imagination. his sermons are full of such phrases as 'scripture _seems_ to show us'; 'why should we not believe ...'; 'who knows whether ...,' and the like, all introducing some fantastic superstition. he deliberately accepts the insidious and deadly doctrine that 'no man is convinced of a thing who can endure the thought of its contradictory being true.' to which we may rejoin that, on the contrary, no man has a right to be convinced of anything until he has fairly faced the hypothesis of its contradictory being true. so long as newman's method prevailed in europe, every branch of practical knowledge was condemned to barrenness. for what kind of knowledge is it which is acquired, not by the exercise of the discursive intellect, or by the evidence of our senses, but by the affirmations of our basal personality? surely the legitimate province of 'personalism' lies in the region of general ideas, or rather in the _weltanschauung_ as a whole. our undivided personality protests against any philosophy which makes life irrational, or base, or incurably evil. it claims that those pictures of reality which are provided by the intellect, by the æsthetic sense, and by the moral sense, shall all have justice done to them in any attempted synthesis. it rejects materialism, metaphysical dualism, solipsism, and pessimism, on one or other of these grounds. such a final interpretation of existence as any of these offers, leaves out some fundamental and essential factor of experience, and is therefore untenable. if no metaphysical scheme can be constructed which is at once comprehensive and inwardly consistent, personalism insists that we must acknowledge defeat for the time, rather than take refuge in a logical system which may be free from inner contradictions but which does not satisfy the whole man as a living and active spiritual being. this is a sound argument. but it is absurd to suppose that our personality, acting as an undivided whole, can decide whether the institutional church, or one branch of it, is the body of christ and the receptacle of infallible revelation; whether christ was born at bethlehem or nazareth; or whether nestorius was a heretic. we have no magical sword for cutting these knots, and no miraculous guide to tell us that authority a is to be believed implicitly, while the possibility of authority b being right is not to be entertained even in thought. newman as usual supplies us with the best weapons against himself. it startles us to find, even in , such a sentence as this: 'revealed religion furnishes facts to other sciences, which those sciences, left to themselves, would never reach. thus, in the science of history, the preservation of our race in noah's ark is an historical fact, which history never would arrive at without revelation.' the transition from belief on the purely internal ground of personal assent to belief on the purely external ground of church authority is certainly abrupt and hard to explain; but newman makes it habitually, without any consciousness of a _salto mortale_. in the 'apologia' he even says that the argument from personality is 'one form of the argument from authority.' the argument seems to be--'there is no third alternative besides catholicism or rationalism. but "personality" will not accept the dictation of reason; therefore it must accept the authority of the church.' it is a strange argument. all through his life he enormously exaggerated the moral and intellectual weight which should be attached to church tradition. 'securus judicat orbis terrarum' were the words which rang in his ears at the supreme moment of his great decision. his 'orbis terrarum' was the latin empire. and when even in those countries the authority of the pope is rejected, he condemns modern civilisation as an aberration. this however is a complete abandonment of his own test. he first says 'the judgment of the great world is final'; and then 'if the world decides against rome, so much the worse for the world.' after all, newman had no right to complain if his opponents found his reasoning disingenuous. to make up our minds first, and to argue in favour of the decision afterwards, is in truth to make the reason a hewer of wood and drawer of water to the irrational part of our nature. it is precisely his sympathy with catholicism on the religious side, and his alienation from its intellectual method, which makes newman's apologetic such a two-edged weapon. in attempting to defend catholicism, he has gone far to explain it. to the historian, there is no great mystery about the growth and success of the western catholic church. christianity was already a syncretistic religion in the second century. like the other forms of worship with which it competed for the popular favour, it contained the necessary elements of mystery-cult, of ethical rule, of social brotherhood, and of personal devotion. but besides many genuine points of superiority, it had a decisive advantage over the religions of isis and mithra in the exclusiveness and intolerance which it derived from the jewish tradition. when the failure of the last persecution forced the empire to make a concordat with the church, the transformation of the federated but autonomous christian communities into a centralised theocratic despotism, claiming secular as well as spiritual sovereignty, was only a matter of time. it was inevitable, just as the principate of augustus and the sultanate of diocletian were inevitable; but there is nothing specially divine or glorious about any of these phases of human evolution. the revolt of northern europe in the sixteenth century was equally inevitable; and so is the alienation of enlightened minds from the roman church at the present day. newman shows with great force and ingenuity that all the developments in the roman system which protestantism rejects as later accretions were natural and necessary. but this only means that the catholic church, in order to live, was compelled to adapt itself to the prevailing conditions of human culture in the countries where it desired to be supreme. the argument, so far as it goes, tells against rather than in favour of any special supernatural character belonging to that institution. and if the 'orbis terrarum,' which once gave its verdict in favour of latin catholicism, is now disposed to reverse its decision, how, on newman's principle, can its right to do so be denied? the true reasons for the strength and vitality which the roman church still retains are not difficult to find. its system possesses an inner consistency, which is dearly purchased by neglecting much that should enter into a large and true view of the world, but which guarantees to those who have once accepted it an untroubled calm and assurance very acceptable to those who have been tossed upon a sea of doubt. it surrounds itself with an impenetrable armour by persuading its adherents that all moral and intellectual scruples, in matters where holy church has pronounced its verdict, are suggestions of the evil one, to be spurned like the prickings of sensuality. it has succeeded, by long experience, in providing satisfaction for nearly all the needs of the average man, and for all the needs of the average woman. in particular, the æsthetic tastes which, in southern europe at any rate, are closely connected with religious feeling, are fully catered for; and those superstitions which the majority of mankind still love in their hearts, though they are somewhat ashamed of them, are allowed to luxuriate unchecked. further, catholicism encourages and blesses that _esprit de corps_ which has produced the brightest triumphs of self-abnegation as well as the darkest crimes of cruel bigotry in human history. a church which unites these advantages is in no danger of falling into insignificance, even if the best intellect and morality of the age are estranged from it. it may even have a great future as the nucleus of a conservative resistance to the social revolution. it is doubtful whether those who wish to preserve the traditions and civilisation of the past will be able to find anywhere, except in the latin church, an organisation sufficiently coherent and universal to provide a rallying ground for defence against the new barbarian invasion--proceeding this time not from the rude nations of the north, but from the crowded alleys of our great towns--which threatens to plunge us into a new dark age. the menace of the red peril will secure, for a long time to come, the survival of the black. but the roman catholicism which has a future is probably that of manning, and not that of newman. a church which depends for its strength and prestige on the iron discipline of a centralised autocracy, and on the fanatical devotion of soldiers who know no duty except obedience, no cause except the interests of their society, can make no terms with the disintegrating nominalism, the uncertain subjectivism, of a mind like newman's. it has been the strange fate of this great man, after driving a wedge deep into the anglican church, which at this day is threatened with disruption through the movement which he helped to originate, to have nearly succeeded in doing the same to the far more compact structure of roman catholicism. the modernist movement has from the first appealed to newman as its founder, and has sought to protect itself under his authority. it is necessary to consider, as the last topic of this article, whether this affiliation can be allowed to be true. no one who has read any of newman's works can doubt that he would have recoiled with horror from the destructive criticism of loisy, the contempt for scholastic authority of tyrrell, and the defiance hurled at the papacy in the manifesto of the italian modernists. newman's doctrine of development was far removed from that of bergson's 'l'Évolution créatrice.' he defended the fact of development against the staticism of contemporary anglicanism; but his notion of development was more like the unrolling of a scroll than the growth of a tree or the expansion and change of a human character. 'every catholic holds,' he says, 'that the christian dogmas were in the church from the time of the apostles; that they were ever in their substance what they are now.' compare this with the following words from the italian manifesto: 'the supernatural life of christ in the faithful and in the church has been clothed in an historical form, which has given birth to what we might somewhat loosely call the christ of legend.... such a criticism does away with the possibility of finding in christ's ministry even the embryonic form of the church's later theological teaching.' 'a dogma,' says le roy, one of the ablest philosophers of the school, 'proclaims, above all, a prescription of practical order; it is the formula of a rule of practical conduct. why then should we not bring theory into harmony with practice?' these extracts mark a much later phase of the revolt against catholic dogma and scholastic theology than can be found in newman's writings. they are contemporary with the pragmatism of james and schiller, and the activism of bergson. so bold a defiance of tradition would have been impossible thirty years earlier. and yet, when newman pours scorn upon human reason, and when he enthrones the 'conscience' as the supreme arbiter of truth, is he not, in fact, preparing the way for these startling declarations, which imply a complete rupture with catholic authority? dogmas are indisputably 'notional' propositions; that is to say, they belong to that class of truths to which newman ascribes only a very subordinate importance. we cannot, in his sense,'assent' to an historical proposition as such, but only to the authority which has ordered us to believe it. and is there any justification for newman's confidence that this authority may make apparent innovations, such as he admits to have been made throughout the history of the church, but no real changes? if he had been able to think out the implications of his doctrine of development with the help of such arguments as those of bergson, would he not have seen that without change and real innovation there can be no true evolution? do not the fluidity and pragmatic character of dogma, so much insisted on by sabatier and le roy, follow from the anti-intellectualist personalism which we have seen to be the foundation of newman's philosophy of religion? the modernist might argue that he is only extending to the history of the church the doctrine of education by experience which newman found to be true in the life-history of the individual. life itself, with its experiences and its needs, is the revealer of truth. we cannot anticipate the wisdom of the future. 'i do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me.' the kindly light leads a man on step by step; it conducts him from experience to experience, not without lapses into error; it reproves him if he desires to 'choose and see his path.' if this is true in the history of the individual, is it not probably also true in the history of the church? and if it is true in the history of the church, are not the dogmatists wrong who have tried to legislate not only for the present but the future, and to bind the church for all time to the formulations which appeared satisfactory to themselves? if providence is leading the church through varied experiences in order to teach it greater wisdom, is it not clear that we must not rashly preclude the possibility of future revelation by stereotyping the results of some earlier stage of experience? thus the empiricism of newman leads logically to consequences which he would have been among the first to reject. some rather shallow thinkers in this country have expressed their surprise and regret that the vatican has refused to make any terms with modernism. they have supposed that the fault lies with an ignorant and reactionary pope. but there are many reasons why this dangerous and disintegrating tendency must be rigorously excluded from roman catholicism. in the first place, modernism destroys the historical basis of christianity, and converts the incarnation and atonement into myths like those of other dying and rising saviour-gods, which hardly pretend to be historical. but it was this foundation in history which helped largely to secure the triumph of christianity over its rivals. in the place of the historical god-man, modernism gives us the history of the church as an object of reverence. we are bidden to contemplate an institution of amazingly tough vitality but great adaptability, which in its determination to survive has not only changed colour like a chameleon but has from time to time put forth new organs and discovered new weapons of offence and defence. we ask for evidence that the church has regenerated the world; and we are shown how, by hook or by crook, it has succeeded in safeguarding its own interests. ecclesiastical historians are ingenious and unscrupulous; but it is impossible even for them to exhibit church history as the record of a continuous intervention of the spirit of christ in human affairs. if any spirit has presided over the councils of popes, cardinals, and inquisitors it is not that of the founder of christianity. further, the religious philosophy of modernism is bad, much worse than the scholasticism which it derides. it is in essentials a revival of the sophistry of protagoras. and if it were metaphysically more respectable than it is, it is so widely opposed to the whole system of catholic apologetics, that if it were accepted, it would necessitate a complete reconstruction of catholic dogma. let any man read the stonyhurst manuals, and say whether the radical empiricism of the modernists could find a lodgment anywhere in such a system without disturbing the stability of the whole. catholicism is one of the most compact structures in the world, and it rests on presuppositions which are far removed from those of modernism. it is one thing to admit that dogmas in many cases have a pragmatic origin, and quite another to say that they may be invented or rejected with a pragmatic purpose. the healthy human intellect will never believe that the same proposition may be true for faith and untrue in fact; but this is the modernist contention. lastly, the subjectivism of newman and the modernists is fatal to that exclusiveness which is the corner-stone of catholic policy. the analogy between the individual and the church suggests that god may 'fulfil himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.' as there are many individuals, each of whom is being guided separately by the 'kindly light,' so there may be many churches. the pragmatic proof of the truth of a religion, from the fact of its survival and successful working, does not justify the roman claim to monopoly. the protestant churches also display vitality, and their members seem to exhibit the fruits of the spirit. the condemnations of modernism published by the vatican show that the papal court is quite alive to this danger. to the outsider, indeed, it might seem a happy solution of a long controversy if the roman church would be content to claim the gifts of grace which are really hers, without denying the validity of the orders and sacraments of other bodies, and the genuineness of the christian graces which they exhibit. it would then be admitted on all hands that some temperaments are more suited to catholicism, others to protestantism, and that the character of each man develops most satisfactorily under the discipline which suits his nature. but we must not expect any such concession from rome; and in truth such an admission would be the beginning of the end for catholicism in its present form. our conclusion then is that although newman was not a modernist, but an exceedingly stiff conservative, he did introduce into the roman church a very dangerous and essentially alien habit of thought, which has since developed into modernism. perhaps monsignor talbot was not far wrong, from his own point of view, when he called him 'the most dangerous man in england.' one side of his religion was based on principles which, when logically drawn out, must lead away from catholicism in the direction of an individualistic religion of experience, and a substitution of history for dogma which makes all truth relative and all values fluid. newman's writings have always made genuine catholics uneasy, though they hardly know why. it is probable that here is the solution. the character of newman--for with this we must end--may seem to have been more admirable than lovable. he was more apt to make disciples than friends. yet he was loved and honoured by men whose love is an honour, and he is admired by all who can appreciate a consistently unworldly life. the roman church has been less unpopular in england since newman received from it the highest honour which it can bestow. throughout his career he was a steadfast witness against tepid and insincere professions of religion, and against any compromise with the shifting currents of popular opinion. all cultivated readers, who have formed their tastes on the masterpieces of good literature, are attracted, sometimes against their will, by the dignity and reserve of his style, qualities which belong to the man, and not only to the writer. like goethe, he disdains the facile arts which make the commonplace reader laugh and weep. 'ach die zärtlichen herzen! ein pfuscher vermag sie zu rühren!' like wordsworth, he might say 'to stir the blood i have no cunning art.' there are no cheap effects in any of newman's writings. he is the most undemocratic of teachers. such men do what can be done to save a nation from itself, its natural enemy. they are not indifferent to fame, because they desire influence; but they will do nothing to advertise themselves. the public must come to them; they will not go to the public. there have been other great men who have been as indifferent as newman to the applause of the vulgar. but they have been generally either pure intellectualists or pure artists, in whom 'the intellectual power through words and things went sounding on a dim and perilous way.' newman's 'confidence towards god' was of a still nobler kind. it rested on an unclouded faith in the divine guidance, and on a very just estimate of the worthlessness of contemporary praise and blame. there have been very few men who have been able to combine so strong a faith with a thorough distrust of both logic-chopping and emotional excitement, and who, while denying themselves these aids to conviction, have been able to say, calmly and without petulance, that with them it is a very small thing to be judged of man's judgment. 'what (he asks) can increase their peace who believe and trust in the son of god? shall we add a drop to the ocean, or grains to the sand of the sea? we pay indeed our superiors full reverence, and with cheerfulness as unto the lord; and we honour eminent talents as deserving admiration and reward; and the more readily act we thus, because these are little things to pay.'[ ] such unworldliness as this, in the well-chosen words of r.h. hutton, 'stands out in strange and almost majestic contrast to the eager turmoil of confused passions, hesitating ideals, tentative virtues, and groping philanthropies, amidst which it was lived.' another mark of greatness is unbroken consistency and unity of aim in a long life. there are few parallels to the neglect of his own literary reputation by newman. higher interests, he thought, were at stake; and so he had no dream of building for himself 'a monument more durable than brass,' and of claiming a pedestal among the great writers of english prose and verse. he accepted long years of literary barrenness; he wrote historical essays for which he had no special aptitude, and dogmatic disquisitions which even his genius could not save from dulness; he even descended into mere journalism. the 'apologia' would probably not have been written but for the accident of kingsley's attack. it has, no doubt, been said with truth that newman showed great dexterity in choosing opponents with whom to cross swords--kingsley, pusey, gladstone, and his old anglican self. but this does not alter the fact that a man who must have been conscious of rare literary gifts made no attempt to immortalise himself by them. it was for the church, and not for himself, that he wrote as well as lived. that his life is for the most part a record of sadness and failure is no indication that he was not one of the great men of his time. independence is no passport to success in a world where, as swift said, climbing and crawling are performed in much the same attitude. and if we are right in our view that there was something in the composition of his mind which prevented him from being either a complete catholic or a complete protestant, this too is no obstacle to our recognition of his greatness. he has left an indelible mark upon two great religious bodies. he has stirred movements which still agitate the church of england and the church of rome, and the end of which is not yet in sight. anglo-catholicism and modernism are alien growths, perhaps, in the institutions where they have found a place; but the man who beyond all others is responsible for grafting them upon the old stems is secure of his place in history. footnotes: [ ] cf. e. _parochial and plain sermons_, vi. . [ ] mark pattison, _memoirs_, p. . [ ] _stray essays_, p. . [ ] _parochial and plain sermons_, v. . [ ] _ibid_. vi. . [ ] _ibid_. vi. . [ ] _grammar of assent_, part i. c. and . [ ] _parochial and plain sermons_, vii. . st. paul ( ) among all the great men of antiquity there is none, with the exception of cicero, whom we may know so intimately as saul of tarsus. the main facts of his career have been recorded by a contemporary, who was probably his friend and travelling companion. a collection of letters, addressed to the little religious communities which he founded, reveals the character of the writer no less than the nature of his work. alone among the first preachers of christianity, he stands before us as a living man. ohiost phepnytai, toi de skiai hahissoysi. we know very little in reality of peter and james and john, of apollos and barnabas. and of our divine master no biography can ever be written. with st. paul it is quite different. he is a saint without a luminous halo. his personal characteristics are too distinct and too human to make idealisation easy. for this reason he has never been the object of popular devotion. shadowy figures like st. joseph and st. anne have been divinised and surrounded with picturesque legends; but st. paul has been spared the honour or the ignominy of being coaxed and wheedled by the piety of paganised christianity. no tender fairy-tales are attached to his cult; he remains for us what he was in the flesh. it is even possible to feel an active dislike for him. lagarde ('deutsche schriften,' p. ) abuses him as a politician might vilify an opponent. 'it is monstrous' (says he) 'that men of any historical training should attach any importance to this paul. this outsider was a pharisee from top to toe even after he became a christian'--and much more to the same effect. nietzsche describes him as 'one of the most ambitious of men, whose superstition was only equalled by his cunning. a much tortured, much to be pitied man, an exceedingly unpleasant person both to himself and to others.... he had a great deal on his conscience. he alludes to enmity, murder, sorcery, idolatry, impurity, drunkenness, and the love of carousing.' renan, who could never have made himself ridiculous by such ebullitions as these, does not disguise his repugnance for the 'ugly little jew' whose character he can neither understand nor admire. these outbursts of personal animosity, so strange in modern critics dealing with a personage of ancient history, show how vividly his figure stands out from the canvas. there are very few historical characters who are alive enough to be hated. it is, however, only in our own day that the personal characteristics of st. paul have been intelligently studied; and the most valuable books about him are later than the unbalanced tirades of lagarde and nietzsche, and the carping estimate of renan. in the nineteenth century, paul was obscured behind paulinism. his letters were studied as treatises on systematic theology. elaborate theories of atonement, justification, and grace were expounded on his authority, as if he had been a religious philosopher or theological professor like origen and thomas aquinas. the name of the apostle came to be associated with angular and frigid disquisitions which were rapidly losing their connexion with vital religion. it has been left for the scholars of the present century to give us a picture of st. paul as he really was--a man much nearer to george fox or john wesley than to origen or calvin; the greatest of missionaries and pioneers, and only incidentally a great theologian. the critical study of the new testament has opened our eyes to see this and many other things. much new light has also been thrown by studies in the historical geography of asia minor, a work in which british scholars have characteristically taken a prominent part. the delightful books of sir w.m. ramsay have now been supplemented by the equally attractive volume of another travelling scholar, professor deissmann. a third source of new information is the mass of inscriptions and papyri which have been discovered in the last twenty years. the social life of the middle and lower classes in the levant, their religious beliefs and practices, and the language which they spoke, are now partially known to us, as they never were before. the human interest of the pauline epistles, and of the acts, is largely increased by these accessions to knowledge. the epistles are real letters, not treatises by a theological professor, nor literary productions like the epistles of seneca. each was written with reference to a definite situation; they are messages which would have been delivered orally had the apostle been present. several letters have certainly been lost; and st. paul would probably not have cared much to preserve them. there is no evidence that he ever thought of adding to the canon of scripture by his correspondence. the author of acts seems not to have read any of the letters. this view of the epistles has rehabilitated some of them, which were regarded as spurious by the tübingen school and their successors. the question which we now ask when the authenticity of an epistle is doubted is, do we find the same man? not, do we find the same system? there is, properly speaking, no system in st. paul's theology, and there is a singularly rapid development of thought. the 'pastoral epistles' are probably not genuine, though the defence of them is not quite a desperate undertaking. of the rest, the weight of evidence is slightly against the pauline authorship of ephesians, the vocabulary of which differs considerably from that of the undoubted epistles; and the short letter called thessalonians is open to some suspicion. the genuineness of ephesians is not of great importance to the student of pauline theology, unless the closely allied epistle to the colossians is also rejected; and there has been a remarkable return of confidence in the pauline authorship of this letter. all the other epistles seem to be firmly established. the other source of information about st. paul's life is the acts of the apostles, the value of which as a historical document is very variously estimated. the doubts refer mainly to the earlier chapters, before st. paul appears on the scene. sane criticism can hardly dispute that the 'we-passages,' in which the writer speaks of st. paul and himself in the first person plural, are the work of an eye-witness, and that most of the important facts in the later chapters are from the same source. the difficult problem is concerned with the relation of this writer to the editor, who is responsible for the 'petrine' part of the book. there is very much to be said in favour of the tradition that this editor, who also compiled the third gospel, was lucas or lucanus, the physician and friend of st. paul. it does not necessarily follow that he was the fellow-traveller who in a few places speaks of himself in the first person. luke (if we may decide the question for ourselves by giving him this name) must have been a man of very attractive character; full of kindness, loyalty, and christian charity. he is the most feminine (not effeminate) writer in the new testament, and shows a marked partiality for the tender aspects of christianity. he is attracted by miracles, and by all that makes history picturesque and romantic. his social sympathies are so keen that his gospel furnishes the christian socialist with nearly all his favourite texts. above all, he is a greek man of letters, dominated by the conventions of greek historical composition. for the greek, history was a work of art, written for edification, and not merely a bald record of facts. the greek historian invented speeches for his principal characters; this was a conventional way of elucidating the situation for the benefit of his readers. everyone knows how thucydides, the most conscientious historian in antiquity, habitually uses this device, and how candidly he explains his method. we can hardly doubt that the author of acts has used a similar freedom, though the report of the address to the elders of ephesus reads like a summary of an actual speech. the narrative is coloured in places by the historian's love for the miraculous. critics have also suspected an eirenical purpose in his treatment of the relations between st. paul and the jerusalem church. saul of tarsus was a benjamite of pure israelite descent, but also a roman citizen by birth. his famous old jewish name was latinised or graecised as paulos (sahylost means 'waddling,' and would have been a ridiculous name); he doubtless bore both names from boyhood. tarsus is situated in the plain of cilicia, and is now about ten miles from the sea. it is backed by a range of hills, on which the wealthier residents had villas, while the high glens of taurus, nine or ten miles further inland, provided a summer residence for those who could afford it, and a fortified acropolis in time of war. the town on the plain must have been almost intolerable in the fierce anatolian summer-heat. the harbour was a lake formed by the cydnus, five or six miles below tarsus; but light ships could sail up the river into the heart of the city. thus tarsus had the advantages of a maritime town, though far enough from the sea to be safe from pirates. the famous pass called the 'cilician gates' was traversed by a high-road through the gorge into cappadocia. ionian colonists came to tarsus in very early times; and ramsay is confident that tarshish, 'the son of javan,' in gen. x. , is none other than tarsus. the greek settlers, of course, mixed with the natives, and the oriental element gradually swamped the hellenic. the coins of tarsus show greek figures and aramaic lettering. the principal deity was baal-tarz, whose effigy appears on most of the coins. under the successors of alexander, greek influence revived, but the administration continued to be of the oriental type; and tarsus never became a greek city, until in the first half of the second century b.c. it proclaimed its own autonomy, and renamed itself antioch-on-cydnus. great privileges were granted it by antiochus epiphanes, and it rapidly grew in wealth and importance. besides the greeks, there was a large colony of jews, who always established themselves on the highways of the world's commerce. since st. paul was a 'citizen' of tarsus, i.e. a member of one of the 'tribes' into which the citizens were divided, it is probable (so ramsay argues) that there was a large 'tribe' of jews at tarsus; for no jew would have been admitted into, or would have consented to join, a greek tribe, with its pagan cult. so matters stood when cilicia became a roman province in b.c. the city fell into the hands of the barbarian tigranes twenty years later, but gnaeus pompeius re-established the roman power, and with it the dominance of hellenism, in . augustus turned cilicia into a mere adjunct of syria; and the pride of tarsus received a check. nevertheless, the emperor showed great favour to the tarsians, who had sided with julius and himself in the civil wars. tarsus was made a 'libera civitas,' with the right to live under its own laws. the leading citizens were doubtless given the roman citizenship, or allowed to purchase it. among these would naturally be a number of jews, for that nation loved julius cæsar and detested pompeius. but hellenism could not retain its hold on tarsus. dion chrysostom, who visited it at the beginning of the second century a.d., found it a thoroughly oriental town, and notes that the women were closely veiled in eastern fashion. possibly this accounts for st. paul's prejudice against unveiled women in church. one greek institution, however, survived and flourished--a university under municipal patronage. strabo speaks with high admiration of the zeal for learning displayed by the tarsians, who formed the entire audience at the professors' lectures, since no students came from outside. this last fact shows, perhaps, that the lecturers were not men of wide reputation; indeed, it is not likely that tarsus was able to compete with athens and alexandria in attracting famous teachers. the most eminent tarsians, such as antipater the stoic, went to europe and taught there. what distinguished tarsus was its love of learning, widely diffused in all classes of the population. st. paul did not belong to the upper class. he was a working artisan, a 'tent-maker,' who followed one of the regular trades of the place. perhaps, as deissmann thinks, the 'large letters' of gal. vi. imply that he wrote clumsily, like a working man and not like a scribe. the words indicate that he usually dictated his letters. the 'acts of paul and thekla' describe him as short and bald, with a hook-nose and beetling brows; there is nothing improbable in this description. but he was far better educated than the modern artisan. not that a single quotation from menander ( cor. xv. ) shows him to be a good greek scholar; an englishman may quote 'one touch of nature makes the whole world kin' without being a shakespearean. but he was well educated because he was the son of a strict jew. a child in such a home would learn by heart large pieces of the old testament, and, at the synagogue school, all the _minutiæ_ of the jewish law. the pupil was not allowed to write anything down; all was committed to the memory, which in consequence became extremely retentive. the perfect pupil 'lost not a drop from his teacher's cistern.' at the age of about fourteen the boy would be sent to jerusalem, to study under one of the great rabbis; in st. paul's case it was gamaliel. under his tuition the young pharisee would learn to be a 'strong churchman.' the rabbis viewed everything from an ecclesiastical standpoint. the interests of the priesthood, the altar, and the temple overshadowed everything else. the priestly code, says mr. cohu, practically resolves itself into one idea: everything in israel belongs to god; all places, all times, all persons, and all property are his. but god accepts a part of his due; and, if this part is scrupulously paid, he will send his blessing upon the remainder. besides the written law, the pharisee had to take on himself the still heavier burden of the oral law, which was equally binding. it was a seminary education of the most rigorous kind. st paul cannot reproach himself with any slackness during his novitiate. he threw himself into the system with characteristic ardour. probably he meant to be a jerusalem rabbi himself, still practising his trade, as the rabbis usually did. for he was unmarried; and every jew except a rabbi was expected to marry at or before the age of twenty-one. he suffered from some obscure physical trouble, the nature of which we can only guess. it was probably epilepsy, a disease which is compatible with great powers of endurance and great mental energy, as is proved by the cases of julius cæsar and napoleon. he was liable to mystical trances, in which some have found a confirmation of the supposition that he was epileptic. but these abnormal states were rare with him; in writing to the galatians he has to go back fourteen years to the date when he was 'caught up into the third heaven,' the visions and voices which attended his active ministry prove nothing about his health. at that time anyone who underwent a psychical experience for which he could not account believed that he was possessed by a spirit, good or bad. it is significant that tertullian, at the end of the second century, says that 'almost the majority of mankind derive their knowledge of god from visions.' the impression that st. paul makes upon us is that of a man full of nervous energy and able to endure an exceptional amount of privation and hardship. a curious indication, which has not been noticed, is that, as he tells us himself, he five times received the maximum number of lashes from jewish tribunals. these floggings in the synagogues were very severe, the operator being required to lay on with his full strength. there is evidence that in most cases a much smaller number of strokes than the full thirty-nine was inflicted, so as not to endanger the life of the culprit. the other trials which he mentions--three roman scourgings, one stoning, a day and night spent in battling with the waves after shipwreck, would have worn out any constitution not exceptionally tough. we must bear in mind this terrible record of suffering if we wish to estimate fairly the character of the man. during his whole life after his conversion he was exposed not only to the hardships of travel, sometimes in half-civilised districts, but to 'all the cruelty of the fanaticism which rages like a consuming fire through the religious history of the east from the slaughter of baal's priests to the slaughter of st. stephen, and from the butcheries of jews at alexandria under caligula to the massacres of christians at adana, tarsus, and antioch in the year '--(deissmann). it is one evil result of such furious bigotry that it kindles hatred and resentment in its victims, and tempts them to reprisals. st. paul does speak bitterly of his opponents, though chiefly when he finds that they have injured his converts, as in the letter to the galatians. modern critics have exaggerated this element in a character which does not seem to have been fierce or implacable. he writes like a man engaged in a stern conflict against enemies who will give no quarter, and who shrink from no treachery. but the sharpest expression that can be laid to his charge is the impatient, perhaps half humorous wish that the judaisers who want to circumcise the galatians might be subjected to a severer operation themselves (gal. v. ). the dominant impression that he makes upon us is that he was cast in a heroic mould. he is serenely indifferent to criticism and calumny; no power on earth can turn him from his purpose. he has made once for all a complete sacrifice of all earthly joys and all earthly ties; he has broken (he, the devout jewish catholic) with his church and braved her thunders; he has faced the opprobrium of being called traitor, heretic, and apostate; he has 'withstood to the face' the palestinian apostles who were chosen by jesus and held his commission; he has set his face to achieve, almost single-handed, the conquest of the roman empire, a thing never dreamed of by the jerusalem church; he is absolutely indifferent whether his mission will cost him his life, or only involve a continuation of almost intolerable hardship. it is this indomitable courage, complete self-sacrifice, and single-minded devotion to a magnificently audacious but not impracticable idea, which constitute the greatness of st. paul's character. he was, with all this, a warm-hearted and affectionate man, as he proves abundantly by the tone of his letters. his personal religion was, in essence, a pure mysticism; one worships a christ whom he has experienced as a living presence in his soul. the mystic who is also a man of action, and a man of action because he is a mystic, wields a tremendous power over other men. he is like an invulnerable knight, fighting in magic armour. it is an interesting and difficult question whether we should regard the intense moral dualism of the epistle to the romans as a confession that the writer has had an unusually severe personal battle with temptation. the moral struggle certainly assumes a more tragic aspect in these passages than in the experience of many saintly characters. we find something like it in augustine, and again in luther; it may even be suggested that these great men have stamped upon the christian tradition the idea of a harsher 'clash of yes and no' than the normal experience of the moral life can justify. but it is not certain that the first person singular in such verses as 'o wretched man that i am! who shall deliver me from this body of death?' is a personal confession at all. it may be for human nature generally that he is speaking, when he gives utterance to that consciousness of sin which was one of the most distinctive parts of the christian religion from the first. it does not seem likely that a man of so lofty and heroic a character was ever seriously troubled with ignominious temptations. that he yielded to them, as nietzsche and others have suggested, is in the highest degree improbable. even if the self-reproaches were uttered in his own person, we have many other instances of saints who have blamed themselves passionately for what ordinary men would consider slight transgressions. of all the epistles, the second to the corinthians is the one which contains the most intimate self-revelations, and few can read it without loving as well as honouring its author. we know nothing of the apostle's residence at jerusalem except the name of his teacher. but it was at this time that he became steeped in the pharisaic doctrines which loamed the framework in which his earlier christian beliefs were set. it is now recognised that pharisaism, far from being the antipodes of christianity, was rather the quarter where the gospel found its best recruits. the pharisaic school contained the greater part of whatever faith, loyalty and piety remained among the jewish people; and its dogmatic system passed almost entire into the earliest christian church, with the momentous addition that jesus was the messiah. a few words on the pharisaic teaching which st. paul must have imbibed from gamaliel are indispensable even in an article which deals with paul, and not with paulinism. the distinctive feature of the jewish religion is not, as is often supposed, its monotheism, hebrew religion in its golden age was monolatry rather than monotheism; and when jahveh became more strictly 'the only god,' the cult of intermediate beings came in, and restored a quasi-polytheism. the distinctive feature in jewish faith is its historical and teleological character. the god of the jew is not natural law. if the idea of necessary causation ever forced itself upon his mind, he at once gave it the form of predestination. the whole of history is an unfolding of the divine purpose; and so history as a whole has for the jew an importance which it never had for a greek thinker, nor for the hellenised jew philo. the hebrew idea of god is dynamic and ethical; it is therefore rooted in the idea of time. the pharisaic school modified this prophetic teaching in two ways. it became more spiritual; anthropomorphisms were removed, and the transcendence of god above the world was more strictly maintained. on the other hand, the religious relationship became in their hands narrower and more external. the notion of a covenant was defined more rigorously; the law was practically exalted above god, so that the rabbis even represent the deity as studying the law. with this legalism went a spirit of intense exclusiveness and narrow ecclesiasticism. as god was raised above direct contact with men, the old animistic belief in angels and demons, which had lasted on in the popular mind by the side of the worship of jahveh, was extended in a new way. a celestial hierarchy was invented, with names, and an infernal hierarchy too; the malevolent ghosts of animism became fallen angels. satan, who in job is the crown-prosecutor, one of god's retinue, becomes god's adversary; and the angels, formerly manifestations of god himself, are now quite separated from him. a supramundane physics or cosmology was evolved at the same time. above zion, the centre of the earth, rise seven heavens, in the highest of which the deity has his throne. the underworld is now first divided into paradise and gehenna. the doctrine of the fall of man, through his participation in the representative guilt of his first parents, is pharisaic; as is the strange legend, which st. paul seems to have believed ( cor. xi. ), that the serpent carnally seduced eve, and so infected the race with spiritual poison. justification, in pharisaism as for st. paul, means the verdict of acquittal. the bad receive in this life the reward for any small merits which they may possess; the sins of the good must be atoned for; but merits, as in roman catholicism, may be stored and transferred. martyrdoms especially augment the spiritual bank-balance of the whole nation. there was no official messianic doctrine, only a mass of vague fancies and beliefs, grouped round the central idea of the appearance on earth of a supernatural being, who should establish a theocracy of some kind at jerusalem. the righteous dead will be raised to take part in this kingdom. the course of the world is thus divided into two epochs--'this age' and 'the age to come.' a catastrophe will end the former and inaugurate the latter. the promised deliverer is now waiting in heaven with god, until his hour comes; and it will come very soon. all this st. paul must have learned from gamaliel. it formed the framework of his theology as a christian for many years after his conversion, and was only partially thrown off, under the influence of mystical experience and of greek ideas, during the period covered by the letters. the lore of good and bad spirits (the latter are 'the princes of this world' in i cor. ii. , ) pervades the epistles more than modern readers are willing to admit. it is part of the heritage of the pharisaic school. it is very unlikely (in spite of johannes weiss) that st. paul ever saw jesus in the flesh. but he did come in contact with the little christian community at jerusalem. these disciples at first attempted to live as strict members of the jewish church. they knew that the coming messiah was their crucified master, but this belief involved no rupture with judaism. so at least they thought themselves; the sanhedrin saw more clearly what the new movement meant. the crisis came when numerous 'hellenists' attached themselves to the church--jews of the dispersion, from syria, egypt, and elsewhere. a threatened rupture between these and the palestinian christians was averted by the appointment of seven deacons or charity commissioners, among whom stephen soon became prominent by the dangerously 'liberal' character of his teaching. philo gives important testimony to the existence of a 'liberal' school among the jews of the dispersion, who, under pretext of spiritualising the traditional law, left off keeping the sabbath and the great festivals, and even dispensed with the rite of circumcision. thus the admission of gentiles on very easy terms into the church was no new idea to the palestinian jews; it was known to them as part of the shocking laxity which prevailed among their brethren of the dispersion. with stephen, this kind of liberalism seemed to have entered the group of 'disciples.' he was accused of saying that jesus was to destroy the temple and change the customs of moses. in his bold defence he admitted that in his view the law was valid only for a limited period, which would expire so soon as jesus returned as messiah. this was quite enough for the sanhedrin. they stoned stephen, and compelled the 'disciples' to disperse and fly for their lives. only the apostles, whose devotion to the law was well known, were allowed to remain. this last fact, briefly recorded in acts, is important as an indication that the persecution was directed only against the liberalising christians, and that these were the great majority. saul, it seems, had no quarrel with the twelve; his hatred and fanaticism were aroused against a sect of hellenist jews who openly proclaimed that the law had been abrogated in advance by their master, who, as saul observed with horror, had incurred the curse of the law by dying on a gibbet. all the pharisee in him was revolted; and he led the savage heretic-hunt which followed the execution of stephen. what caused the sudden change which so astonished the survivors among his victims? to suppose that nothing prepared for the vision near damascus, that the apparition in the sky was a mere 'bolt from the blue,' is an impossible theory. the best explanation is furnished by a study of the apostle's character, which we really know very well. the author of the epistles was certainly not a man who could watch a young saint being battered to death by howling fanatics, and feel no emotion. stephen's speech may have made him indignant; his heroic death, the very ideal of a martyrdom, must have awakened very different feelings. an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, almost of disgust, at the arid and unspiritual seminary teaching of the pharisees now surged up and came very near the surface. his bigotry sustained him as a persecutor for a few weeks more; but how if he could himself see what the dying stephen said that he saw? would not that be a welcome liberation? the vision came in the desert, where men see visions and hear voices to this day. they were very common in the desert of gobi when marco polo traversed it. 'the spirit of jesus,' as he came to call it, spoke to his heart, and the form of jesus flashed before his eyes. stephen had been right; the crucified was indeed the lord from heaven. so saul became a christian; and it was to the christianity of stephen, not to that of james the lord's brother, that he was converted. the pharisee in him was killed. the travelling missionary was as familiar a figure in the levant as the travelling lecturer on philosophy. the greek language brought all nationalities together. the hellenising of the east had gone on steadily since the conquests of alexander; and greek was already as useful as latin in many parts of the west. a century later, marcus aurelius wrote his confessions in greek; and even in the middle of the third century, when the tide was beginning to turn in favour of latin, plotinus lectured in greek at rome. christianity, within a few years after the crucifixion, had allied itself definitely with the speech, and therefore inevitably with the spirit, of hellenism. at no time since have travel and trade been so free between the west of europe and the west of asia. a phrygian merchant (according to the inscription on his tomb) made seventy-two journeys to rome in the course of his business-life. the decomposition of nationalities, and the destruction of civic exclusiveness, led naturally to the formation of voluntary associations of all kinds, from religious sects to trade unions; sometimes a single association combined these two functions. the oriental religions appealed strongly to the unprivileged classes, among which genuine religious faith was growing, while the official cults of the roman empire were unsatisfying in themselves and associated with tyranny. the attempt of augustus to resuscitate the old religion was artificial and unfruitful. the living movement was towards a syncretism of religious ideas and practices, all of which came from the eastern provinces and beyond them. the prominent features in this new devotion were the removal of the supreme godhead from the world to a transcendental sphere; contempt for the world and ascetic abnegation of 'the flesh'; a longing for healing and redemption, and a close identification of salvation with individual immortality; and, finally, trust in sacraments ('mysteries,' in greek) as indispensable means of grace or redemption. this was the paganism with which christianity had to reckon, as well as with the official cult and its guardians. the established church it conquered and destroyed; the living syncretistic beliefs it cleansed, simplified, and disciplined, but only absorbed by becoming itself a syncretistic religion. but besides christians and pagans, there were the jews, dispersed over the whole empire. there were at least a million in egypt, a country which st. paul, for reasons unknown to us, left severely alone; there were still more in syria, and perhaps five millions in the whole empire. in spite of the fecundity of jewish women, so much emphasised by seeck in his history of the downfall of the ancient world, it is impossible that the hebrew stock should have multiplied to this extent. there must have been a very large number of converts, who were admitted, sometimes without circumcision, on their profession of monotheism and acceptance of the jewish moral code. the majority of these remained in the class technically called 'god-fearers,' who never took upon themselves the whole yoke of the law. these half-jews were the most promising field for christian missionaries; and nothing exasperated the jews more than to see st. paul fishing so successfully in their waters. the spirit of propagandism almost disappeared from judaism after the middle of the second century. judaism shrank again into a purely eastern religion, and renounced the dangerous compromise with western ideas. the labours of st. paul made an all-important parting of the ways. their result was that christianity became a european religion, while judaism fell back upon its old traditions. it is very unfortunate that we have no thoroughly trustworthy records of the apostle's earlier mission preaching. the epistles only cover a period of about ten years; and the rapid development of thought which can be traced during this short time prevents us from assuming that his earlier teaching closely resembled that which we find in the letters. but if, during the earlier period, he devoted his attention mainly to those who were already under jewish influence, we may be sure that he spoke much of the messiahship of jesus, and of his approaching return, these being the chief articles of faith in judaic christianity. this was, however, only the framework. what attracted converts was really the historical picture of the life of jesus; his message of love and brotherhood, which they found realised in the little communities of believers; and the abolition of all external barriers between human beings, such as social position, race, and sex, which had undoubtedly been proclaimed by the founder, and contained implicitly the promise of an universal religion. we can infer what the manner of his preaching was from the style of the letters, which were probably dictated like extempore addresses, without much preparation. he was no trained orator, and he thoroughly disdained the arts of the rhetorician. his greek, though vigorous and effective, is neither correct nor elegant. his eloquence is of the kind which proceeds from intense conviction, and from a thorough knowledge of old testament prophecy and psalmody--no bad preparation for a religious teacher. if at times he argued like a rabbi, these frigid debates were as acceptable to ancient jews as they are to modern scotsmen. and when he takes fire, as he deals with some vital truth which he has lived as well as learned and taught, he establishes his right to be called what he never aimed at being--a writer of genius. such passages as cor. xiii., phil, ii., rom. viii., rank among the finest compositions in later greek literature. regarded merely as a piece of poetical prose, cor. xiii. is finer than anything that had been written in the greek language since the great attic prose-writers. and if this was dictated impromptu, similar outbursts of splendid eloquence were probably frequent in his mission-preaching. their effect must have been overwhelming, when reinforced by the flashing eye of the speaker, and by the absolute sincerity which none could doubt who saw his face and figure, furrowed by toil and scarred by torture. in addressing the gentiles, we may assume that he followed the customary jewish line of apologetic, denouncing the folly of idolatry--an aid to worship which is quite innocent and natural in some peoples, but which the jews never understood; that he spoke much of judgment to come; and especially that he contrasted the pure and affectionate social life of the christian brotherhood with the licentiousness, cruelty, injustice, oppression, and mutual suspicion of pagan society. this argument probably struck home in very many 'gentile' hearts. the old civilisation, with all the brilliant qualities which make many moderns regret its destruction, rested on too narrow a base. the woman and the slave were left out, the woman especially by the greeks, and the slave by the romans. acute social inequalities always create pride, brutality, and widespread sexual immorality. and when the structure which maintained these inequalities is itself tottering, the oppressed classes begin to feel that they are unnecessary, and to hope for emancipation. when st. paul drew his lurid pictures of pagan society steeped in unnatural abominations, without hope for the future, 'hateful and hating one another,' and then pointed to the little flock of christians--among whom no one was allowed to be idle and no one to starve, and where family life was pure and mutual confidence full, frank and seldom abused--the woman and the slave, of whom aristotle had spoken so contemptuously, flocked into his congregations, and began to organise themselves for that victory which nietzsche thought so deplorable. it is not necessary in this essay to traverse again the familiar field of st. paul's missionary journeys. the first epoch, which embraces about fourteen years, had its scene in syria and cilicia, with the short tour in cyprus and other parts of asia minor. the second period, which ends with the imprisonment in a.d. or , is far more important. st. paul crosses into europe; he works in macedonia and greece. churches are founded in two of the great towns of the ancient world, corinth and ephesus. according to his letters, we must assume that he only once returned to jerusalem from the great tour in the west, undertaken after the controversy with peter; and that the object of this visit was to deliver the money which he had promised to collect for the poor 'saints' at jerusalem. he intended after this to go to rome, and thence to spain--a scheme worthy of the restless genius of an alexander. he saw rome indeed, but as a prisoner. the rest of his life is lost in obscurity. the writer of the acts does not say that the two years' imprisonment ended in his execution; and if it was so, it is difficult to see why such a fact should be suppressed. if the charge against him was at last dismissed, because the accusers did not think it worth while to come to rome to prosecute it, st. luke's silence is more explicable. in any case, we may regard it as almost certain that st. paul ended his life under a roman axe during the reign of nero. 'there is hardly any fact' (says harnack) 'which deserves to be turned over and pondered so much as this, that the religion of jesus has never been able to root itself in jewish or even upon semitic soil.' this extraordinary result is the judgment of history upon the life and work of st. paul. jewish christianity rapidly withered and died. according to justin, who must have known the facts, jesus was rejected by the whole jewish nation 'with a few exceptions.' in galilee especially, few, if any, christian churches existed. there are other examples, of which buddhism is the most notable, of a religion gaining its widest acceptance outside the borders of the country which gave it birth. but history oilers no parallel to the complete vindication of st. paul's policy in carrying christianity over into the græco-roman world, where alone, as the event proved, it could live. this is a complete answer to those who maintain that christ made no break with judaism. such a statement is only tenable if it is made in the sense of harnack's words, that 'what gentile christianity did was to carry out a process which had in fact commenced long before in judaism itself, viz. the process by which the jewish religion was inwardly emancipated and turned into a religion for the world.' but the true account would be that judaism, like other great ideas, had to 'die to live,' it died in its old form, in giving birth to the religion of civilised humanity, as the greek nation perished in giving birth to hellenism, and the roman in creating the mediterranean empire of the caesars and the catholic church of the popes. the jewish people were unable to make so great a sacrifice of their national hopes. with the matchless tenacity which characterises their race they clung to their tribal god and their temporal and local millennium. the disasters of a.d. and of the revolt under hadrian destroyed a great part of the race, and at last uprooted it from the soil of palestine. but conservatism, as usual, has had its partial justification. judaism has refused to acknowledge the religion of the civilised world as her legitimate child; but the nation has refused also to surrender its life. there are no more greeks and romans; but the jews we have always with us. st. paul saw that the gospel was a far greater and more revolutionary scheme than the galilean apostles had dreamed of. in principle he committed himself from the first to the complete emancipation of christianity from judaism. but it was inevitable that he did not at first realise all that he had undertaken. and, fortunately for us, the most rapid evolution in his thought took place daring the ten years to which his extant letters belong. it is exceedingly interesting to trace his gradual progress away from apocalyptic messianism to a position very near that of the fourth gospel. the evangelist whom we call st. john is the best commentator on paulinism. this is one of the most important discoveries of recent new testament criticism. in the earliest epistles--those to the thessalonians--we have the naïve picture of messiah coming on the clouds, which, as we now know, was part of the pharisaic tradition. in the central group the christology is far more complex. besides the pharisaic messiah, and the records of the historical jesus of nazareth, we have now to reckon with the jewish-alexandrian idea of the generic, archetypal man, which is unintelligible without reference to the platonic philosophy. philo is here a great help towards understanding one of the most difficult parts of the apostle's teaching. we have also, fully developed, the mystical doctrine of the spirit of christ immanent in the soul of the believer, a conception which was the core of st. paul's personal religion, and more than anything else emancipated him from apocalyptic dreams of the future. we have also a fourth conception, quite distinct from the three which have been mentioned--that of christ as a cosmic principle, the instrument in creation and the sustainer of all his in the universe. we must again have recourse to philo and his doctrine of the logos, to understand the genesis of this idea, and to the fourth gospel to find it stated in clear philosophical form. in this second period, these theories about the person of christ are held concurrently, without any attempt to reconcile or systematise them. the eschatology is being seriously modified by the conception of a 'spiritual body,' which is prepared for us so soon as our 'outward man' decays in death. the resurrection of the flesh is explicitly denied ( cor. xv. ); but a new and incorruptible 'clothing' will be given to the soul in the future state. already the fundamental pharisaic doctrine of the two ages--the present age and that which is to come--is in danger. st. paul can now, like a true greek, contrast the things that are seen, which are temporal, with the things that are not seen, which are eternal. the doctrine of the spirit as a present possession of christians brings down heaven to earth and exalts earth to heaven; the 'parousia' is now only the end of the existing world-order, and has but little significance for the individual. these ideas have not displaced the earlier apocalyptic language; but it is easy to see that the one or the other must recede into the background, and that the pharisaic tradition will be the one to fade. the third group of epistles--philippians, colossians, and ephesians--are steeped in ideas which belong to greek philosophy and the greek mystery-religions. it would be impossible to translate them into any eastern language. the rabbinical disputes with the jews about justification and election have disappeared; the danger ahead is now from theosophy and the barbarised platonism which was afterwards matured in gnosticism. the teaching is even more christocentric than before; and the catholic doctrine of the church as the body of christ is more prominent than individualistic mysticism. the cosmology is thoroughly johannine, and only awaits the name of the logos. this receptiveness to new ideas is one of the most remarkable features in st. paul's mind. few indeed are the religious prophets and preachers whose convictions are still malleable after they have begun to govern the minds of others. st. paul had already proved that he was a man who would 'follow the gleam,' even when it called him to a complete breach with his past. and the further development of his thought was made much easier by the fact that he was no systematic philosopher, but a great missionary who was willing to be all things to all men, while his own faith was unified by his strength of purpose, and by the steady glow of the light within. it is difficult for us to realise the life of his little communities without importing into the picture features which belong to a later time. the organisation, such as it was, was democratic. the congregation as a whole exercised a censorship over the morals of its members, and penalties were inflicted 'by vote of the majority' ( cor. ii. ). the family formed a group for religious purposes, and remained the recognised unit till the second century. in ignatius and hermas we find the campaign against family churches in full swing. the meetings were like those of modern revivalists, and sometimes became disorderly. but of the moral beauty which pervaded the whole life of the brotherhoods there can be no doubt. many of the converts had formerly led disreputable lives; but these were the most likely to appreciate the gain of being no longer outlaws, but members of a true family. the heathen were amazed at the kind of people whom the christians admitted and treated like brethren; but in the first century scandals do not seem to have been frequent. women, who were probably always the majority, enjoyed a consideration unknown by them before. the extreme importance attached by the early church to sexual purity made it possible for them to mix freely with christian men; indeed, the strange and perilous practice of a 'brother' and a virgin sharing the same house seems to have already begun, if this is the meaning of the obscure passage in i cor. vii. . chastity and indifference to death were the two qualities in christians which made the greatest impression on their neighbours. galen is especially interesting on the former topic. but we must add a third characteristic--the cheerfulness and happiness which marked the early christian communities. 'joy' as a moral quality is a christian invention, as a study of the usage of charha in greek will show. even in augustine's time the temper of the christians, 'serena et non dissolute hilaris' was one of the things which attracted him to the church. the secret of this happy social life was an intense realisation of corporate unity among the members of the confraternity, which they represented to themselves as a 'mystery'--a mystical union between the head and members of a 'body.' it is in this conception, and not in ritual details, that we are justified in finding a real and deep influence of the mystery-cults upon christianity. the catholic conception of sacraments as bonds uniting religious communities, and as channels of grace flowing from a corporate treasury, was as certainly part of the greek mystery-religion as it was foreign to judaism. the mysteries had their bad side, as might be expected in private and half-secret societies; but their influence as a whole was certainly good. the three chief characteristics of mystery-religion were, first, rites of purification, both moral and ceremonial; second, the promise of spiritual communion with some deity, who through them enters into his worshippers; third, the hope of immortality, which the greeks often called 'deification,' and which was secured to those who were initiated. it is useless to deny that st. paul regarded christianity as, at least on one side, a mystery-religion. why else should he have used a number of technical terms which his readers would recognise at once as belonging to the mysteries? why else should he repeatedly use the word 'mystery' itself, applying it to doctrines distinctive of christianity, such as the resurrection with a 'spiritual body,' the relation of the jewish people to god, and, above all, the mystical union between christ and christians? the great' mystery' is 'christ in you, the hope of glory' (col i. ). it was as a mystery-religion that europe accepted christianity. just as the jewish christians took with them the whole framework of apocalyptic messianism, and set the figure of jesus within it, so the greeks took with them the whole scheme of the mysteries, with their sacraments, their purifications and fasts, their idea of a mystical brotherhood, and their doctrine of 'salvation' (sôtêrhia is essentially a mystery word) through membership in a divine society, worshipping christ as the patronal deity of their mysteries. historically, this type of christianity was the origin of catholicism, both western and eastern; though it is only recently that this character of the pauline churches has been recognised. and students of the new testament have not yet realised the importance of the fact that st. paul, who was ready to fight to the death against the judaising of christianity, was willing to take the first step, and a long one, towards the paganising of it. it does not appear that his personal religion was of this type. he speaks with contempt of some doctrines and practices of the pagan mysteries, and will allow no _rapprochement_ with what he regards as devil-worship. in this he remains a pure hebrew. but he does not appear to see any danger in allowing his hellenistic churches to assimilate the worship of christ to the honours paid to the gods of the mysteries, and to set their whole religion in this framework, provided only that they have no part nor lot with those who sit at 'the table of demons'--the sacramental love-feasts of the heathen mysteries. the dangers which he does see, and against which he issues warnings, are, besides judaism, antinomianism and disorder on the one hand, and dualistic asceticism on the other. he dislikes or mistrusts 'the speaking with tongues' (glôssolalhia), which was the favourite exhibition of religious enthusiasm at corinth. (on this subject prof. lake's excursus is the most instructive discussion that has yet appeared. the 'testament of job' and the magical papyri show that gibberish uttered in a state of spiritual excitement was supposed to be the language of angels and spirits, understood by them and acting upon them as a charm.) he urges his converts to do all things 'decently and in order.' he is alarmed at signs of moral laxity on the part of self-styled 'spiritual persons'--a great danger in all times of ecstatic enthusiasm. he is also alive to the dangers connected with that kind of asceticism which is based on theories of the impurity of the body--the typical oriental form of world-renunciation. but he does not appear to have foreseen the unethical and polytheistic developments of sacramental institutionalism. in this particular his judaising opponents had a little more justification than he is willing to allow them. st. paul there is something transitional about all st. paul's teaching. we cannot take him out of his historical setting, as so many of his commentators in the nineteenth century tried to do. this is only another way of saying that he was, to use his own expression, a wise master-builder, not a detached thinker, an arm-chair philosopher. to the historian, there must always be something astounding in the magnitude of the task which he set himself, and in his enormous success. the future history of the civilised world for two thousand years, perhaps for all time, was determined by his missionary journeys and hurried writings. it is impossible to guess what would have become of christianity if he had never lived; we cannot even be sure that the religion of europe would be called by the name of christ. this stupendous achievement seems to have been due to an almost unique practical insight into the essential factors of a very difficult and complex situation. we watch him, with breathless interest, steering the vessel which carried the christian church and its fortunes through a narrow channel full of sunken rocks and shoals. with unerring instinct he avoids them all, and brings the ship, not into smooth water, but into the open sea, out of that perilous strait. and so far was his masterly policy from mere opportunism, that his correspondence has been 'holy scripture' for fifty generations of christians, and there has been no religious revival within christianity that has not been, on one side at least, a return to st. paul. protestants have always felt their affinity with this institutionalist, mystics with this disciplinarian. the reason, put shortly, is that st. paul understood what most christians never realise, namely, that the gospel of christ is not _a_ religion, but religion itself, in its most universal and deepest significance. institutionalism and mysticism ( ) it happens sometimes that two opposite tendencies flourish together, deriving strength from a sense of the danger with which each is threatened by the popularity of the other. where the antagonism is not absolute, each may gain by being compelled to recognise the strong points in the rival position. in a serious controversy the right is seldom or never all on one side; and in the normal course of events both theories undergo some modification through the influence of their opponents, until a compromise, not always logically defensible, brings to an end the acute stage of the controversy. such a tension of rival movements is very apparent in the religious thought of our day. the quickening of spiritual life in our generation has taken two forms, which appear to be, and to a large extent are, sharply opposed to each other. on the one side, there has been a great revival of mysticism. mysticism means an immediate communion, real or supposed, between the human soul and the soul of the world or the divine spirit. the hypothesis on which it rests is that there is a real affinity between the individual soul and the great immanent spirit, who in christian theology is identified with the logos-christ. he was the instrument in creation, and through the incarnation and the gift of the holy spirit, in which the incarnation is continued, has entered into the most intimate relation with the inner life of the believer. this revived belief in the inspiration of the individual has immensely strengthened the position of christian apologists, who find their old fortifications no longer tenable against the assaults of natural science and historical criticism. it has given to faith a new independence, and has vindicated for the spiritual life the right to stand on its own feet and rest on its own evidence. spiritual things, we now realise, are spiritually discerned. the enlightened soul can see the invisible, and live its true life in the suprasensible sphere. the primary evidence for the truth of religion is religious experience, which in persons of religious genius--those whom the church calls saints and prophets--includes a clear perception of an eternal world of truth, beauty, and goodness, surrounding us and penetrating us at every point. it is the unanimous testimony of these favoured spirits that the obstacles in the way of realising this transcendental world are purely subjective and to a large extent removable by the appropriate training and discipline. nor is there any serious discrepancy among them either as to the nature of the vision which is the highest reward of human effort, or as to the course of preparation which makes us able to receive it. the christian mystic must begin with the punctual and conscientious discharge of his duties to society; he must next purify his desires from all worldly and carnal lusts, for only the pure in heart can see god; and he may thus fit himself for 'illumination'--the stage in which the glory and beauty of the spiritual life, now clearly discerned, are themselves the motive of action and the incentive to contemplation; while the possibility of a yet more immediate and ineffable vision of the godhead is not denied, even in this life. there is reason to think that this conception of religion appeals more and more strongly to the younger generation to-day. it brings an intense feeling of relief to many who have been distressed by being told that religion is bound up with certain events in antiquity, the historicity of which it is in some cases difficult to establish; with a cosmology which has been definitely disproved; and with a philosophy which they cannot make their own. it allows us what george meredith calls 'the rapture of the forward view.' it brings home to us the meaning of the promise made by the johannine christ that there are many things as yet hid from humanity which will in the future be revealed by the spirit of truth. it encourages us to hope that for each individual who is trying to live the right life the venture of faith will be progressively justified in experience. it breaks down the denominational barriers which divide men and women who worship the father in spirit and in truth--barriers which become more senseless in each generation, since they no longer correspond even approximately with real differences of belief or of religious temperament. it makes the whole world kin by offering a pure religion which is substantially the same in all climates and in all ages--a religion too divine to be fettered by any man-made formulas, too nobly human to be readily acceptable to men in whom the ape and tiger are still alive, but which finds a congenial home in the purified spirit which is the 'throne of the godhead.' such is the type of faith which is astir among us. it makes no imposing show in church conferences; it does not fill our churches and chapels; it has no organisation, no propaganda; it is for the most part passively loyal, without much enthusiasm, to the institutions among which it finds itself. but in reality it has overleapt all barriers; it knows its true spiritual kin; and amid the strifes and perplexities of a sad and troublous time it can always recover its hope and confidence by ascending in heart and mind to the heaven which is closer to it than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. but on the other side we see a tendency, even more manifest if we look for external signs, to emphasise the institutional side of religion, that which prompts men and women to combine in sacred societies, to cherish enthusiastic loyalties for the church of their early education or of their later choice, to find their chief satisfaction in acts of corporate worship, and to subordinate their individual tastes and beliefs to the common tradition and discipline of a historical body. it is now about eighty years since this tendency began to manifest itself as a new phenomenon in the anglican church. since then, it has spread to other organisations. it has prompted a new degree of denominational loyalty in several protestant bodies on the continent, in america, and in our own country; and it has arrested the decline of the roman catholic church in countries where the outlook seemed least hopeful from the ecclesiastical point of view. such a movement, so widespread and so powerful in its results, is clearly a thing to be reckoned with by all who desire to estimate rightly the signs of the times. it is a current running in the opposite direction to the mystical tendency, which regards unity as a spiritual, not a political ideal. fortunately, the theory of institutionalism has lately been defended and expounded by several able writers belonging to different denominations; so that we may hope, by comparing their utterances, to understand the attractions of the theory and its meaning for those who so highly value it. aubrey moore, writing in , connected the catholic revival with the abandonment of atomism in natural philosophy and of baconian metaphysics. these were, he thought, the counterpart of individualism in politics and calvinism in religion. the adherents of mid-victorian science and philosophy were bewildered by the phenomenon of 'men in the nineteenth century actually expressing a belief in a divine society and a supernatural presence in our midst, a brotherhood in which men become members of an organic whole by sharing in a common life, a service of man which is the natural and spontaneous outcome of the service of god.'[ ] in the view of this learned and acute thinker, catholicism, or institutionalism, is destined to supplant protestantism, as the organic theory is destined to displace the atomic. more recently troeltsch, writing as a protestant, has emphasised the institutional side of religion in the most uncompromising way. 'one of the clearest results of all religious history and religious psychology is that the essence of all religion is not dogma and idea, but cultus and communion, the living intercourse with the deity--an intercourse of the entire community, having its vital roots in religion and deriving its ultimate power of thus uniting individuals, from its faith in god.... whatever the future may bring us, we cannot expect a certainty and force of the knowledge of god and of his redemptive power to subsist without communion and cultus. and so long as a christianity of any kind shall subsist at all, it will be united with a cultus, and with christ holding a central position in the cultus.'[ ] from america, the last refuge of individualism, there has come a pronouncement not less drastic. professor royce, the author of the admirable metaphysical treatise entitled 'the world and the individual,' has recently published a double series of hibbert lectures on 'the problem of christianity,' in which he affirms the institutionalist theory with a surprising absence of qualification. the whole book is dominated by one idea, advocated with a _naïveté_ which would hardly have been possible to a theologian--the idea that churchmanship is the essential part of the christian religion. 'the salvation of the individual man is determined by some sort of membership in a certain spiritual community--a religious community, and in its inmost nature a divine community, in whose life the christian virtues are to reach their highest expression and the spirit of the master is to obtain its earthly fulfilment. in other words, there is a certain universal and divine spiritual community. membership in that community is necessary to the salvation of man.... such a community exists, is needed, and is an indispensable means of salvation for the individual man, and is the fitting realm wherein alone the kingdom of heaven which the master preached can find its expression, and wherein alone the christian virtues can be effectively preached.'[ ] these statements, which in vigour and rigour would satisfy the most extreme curialist in the society of jesus, are not a little startling in an american philosopher, who, as far as the present writer knows, does not belong to any 'catholic' church. the thesis thus enunciated is the argument of the whole book, in which 'loyalty to the beloved community' is declared to be the characteristic christian virtue. it is true that the satisfaction of professor royce's catholic readers is destined to be damped in the second volume, where he forbids us to look for the ideal divine community in any existing church, and expresses his conviction that great changes must come over the dogmatic teaching of christianity. but for our purpose the significant fact is that throughout the book he insists that christianity is essentially an institutional religion, the most completely institutional of all religions. for professor royce to be a christian is to be a churchman. our last witness shall be the learned roman catholic layman, baron friedrich von hügel, the deepest thinker, perhaps, of all living theologians in this country. 'it is now ever increasingly clear to all deep impartial students that religion has ever primarily expressed and formed itself in cultus, in social organisation, social worship, intercourse between soul and soul and between soul and god; and in symbols and sacraments, in contacts between spirit and matter.' he proceeds to discuss the strength and weakness of institutionalism in a perfectly candid spirit, but with too particular reference to the present conditions within the roman church to help us much in our more general survey. he mentions the drawbacks of an official philosophy, prescribed by authority; 'only in did the congregation of the index withdraw heliocentric books from its list.' he emphasises the necessity of historical dogmas, but admits that orthodoxy cherishes, along with them, 'fact-like historical pictures' which 'cannot be taken as directly, simply factual.' he vindicates the orthodoxy of religious toleration, and refuses to consign all non-catholics to perdition, lamenting the tendency to identify absolutely the visible and invisible church, which prevails among 'some of the (now dominant) italian and german jesuit canonists.' lastly, he boldly recommends the frank abandonment of the papal claim to exercise temporal power in italy. this is not so much a critique of institutionalism as the plea of a liberal catholic that the logic of institutionalism should not be allowed to override all other considerations. the baron is, indeed, himself a mystic, though also a strong believer in the necessity of institutional religion. we have then a considerable body of very competent opinion, that a man cannot be a christian unless he is a churchman. to the mystic pure and simple, such a statement seems monstrous. did not even augustine say, 'i want to know god and my own soul; these two things, and no third whatever'? what intermediary can there be, he will ask, between the soul and god? what sacredness is there in an organisation? is it not a matter of common experience that the morality of an institution, a society, a state, is inferior to that of the individuals who compose it? and is organised catholicism an exception to this rule? and yet we must admit the glamour of the idea of a divine society. it arouses that _esprit de corps_ which is the strongest appeal that can be made to some noble minds. it calls for self-sacrifice and devoted labour in a cause which is higher than private interest. it demands discipline and co-operation, through which alone great things can be done on the field of history. it holds out a prospect of really influencing the course of events. and if there has been a historical incarnation, it follows that god has actually intervened on the stage of history, and that it is his will to carry out some great and divine purpose in and by means of the course of history. with this object, as the catholic believes, he established an institutional church, pledged to the highest of all causes; and what greater privilege can there be than to take part in this work, as a soldier in the army of god in his long campaign against the spiritual powers of evil? the christian institutionalist is the servant of a grand idea. there are, however, a few questions which we are bound to ask him. first, is his idea of the church christian? did the founder of christianity contemplate or even implicitly sanction the establishment of a semi-political international society, such as the catholic church has actually been? orthodox catholicism maintains that he did. modernism admits that he did not, but adds that if he had known that the messianic expectation was illusory, and that the existing world-order was to continue for thousands of years, he would certainly have wished that a catholic church should exist. and, argues the modernist, if it is a good thing that a catholic church should exist, it is useless to quarrel with the conditions under which alone it can maintain its existence. the philosophical historian must admit that all the changes which the catholic church has undergone--its concessions to pagan superstition, its secular power, its ruthless extirpation of rebels against its authority, its steadily growing centralisation and autocracy--were forced upon it in the struggle for existence. those who wish that church history had been different are wishing the impossible, or wishing that the church had perished. but this argument is not valid as a defence of a divine institution. it is rather a merciless exposure of what happens, and must happen, to a great idea when it is enslaved by an institution of its own creation. the political organisation which has grown up round the idea ends by strangling it, and continues to fight for its own preservation by the methods which govern the policy of all other political organisations--force, fraud, and accommodation. there is nothing in the political history of catholicism which suggests in the slightest degree that the spirit of christ has been the guiding principle in its councils. its methods have, on the contrary, been more cruel, more fraudulent, more unscrupulous, than those of most secular powers. if the founder of christianity had appeared again on earth during the so-called ages of faith, it is hardly possible to doubt that he would, have been burnt alive or crucified again. what the latin church preserved was not the religion of christ, which lived on by its inherent indestructibility, but parts of the aristotelian and platonic philosophies, distorted and petrified by scholasticism, a vast quantity of purely pagan superstitions, and the _arcana imperii_ of roman cæsarism. the normal end of scholasticism is a mummified philosophy of authority, in which there are no problems to solve, but a great many dead pundits to consult. the normal end of a policy which exploits the superstitions of the peasant is a desperate warfare against education. the normal end of roman imperialism is a sultanate like that of diocletian. it is difficult to find a proof of infallible and supernatural wisdom in the evolution of which these are the last terms. we read with the utmost sympathy and admiration baron von hügel's loyal and reverent appeals to the authorities of his church, that they may draw out the strong and beneficent powers of institutionalism, and avoid its insidious dangers. but it may be doubted whether such a policy is possible. the future of roman catholicism is, i fear, with the ultramontanes. they, and not the modernists, are in the line of development which catholicism as an institution has consistently followed, and must continue to follow to the end. i can see no other fate in store for the _soma_ of catholicism; the germ-cells of true christianity live their own life within it, and are transmitted without taint to those who are born of the spirit. we must further ask the institutionalist what are his grounds for identifying the church of god with the particular institution to which he belongs. on the institutionalist hypothesis, it might have been expected either that there would have been no divisions in christendom, or that all seceding bodies would have shown such manifest inferiority in wisdom, morality, and sanctity, that the exclusive claims of the great church would have been ratified at the bar of history. this is, in fact, the claim which roman catholics make. but it can only be upheld by writing history in the spirit of an advocate, or by giving a preference, not in accordance with modern ethical views, to certain types of character which are produced by the monastic life of the catholic 'religious,' it is increasingly difficult to find, in the lives of those who belong to any one denomination, proofs of marked superiority over other christians. of course, we know little of the real character of our neighbours as they appear in the eyes of god; but in considering a theory which lays so much stress on history as catholic institutionalism does, we are bound to make use of such evidence as we have. and the evidence does not support the theory that we cannot be christians unless we are catholics. nor does it even countenance the view that we cannot be christians unless we are enthusiastic members of _some_ religious corporation. professor royce seems to have been carried away by the idea which prompted him to write his book; but a little thought about the characters of his acquaintances might have given him pause. the mechanical theory of devolution which assumes so much importance in some fashionable anglican teaching about the church need not detain us long. the logical choice must ultimately be between the great international catholic church and what auguste sabatier called the religion of the spirit. the religion of all protestants, when it is not secularised, as it too often is, belongs to this latter type, even when they lay most stress on the idea of brotherhood and corporate action. for with them institutions are never much more than associations for mutual help and edification. the protestant always hopes to be saved _qua_ christian, not _qua_ churchman. a third question which must be asked is whether institutionalism in practice makes for unity among christians, or for division. too often the chief visible sign of the 'corporate idea' of which so much is said, is the rigidity of the spikes which it erects round its own particular fold. the obstacles to acts of reunion (which in no way carry with them the necessity of formal amalgamation) are raised almost exclusively by stiff institutionalists. the much-discussed kikuyu case has brought this home to everybody. but for these uncompromising churchmen, christians of all denominations would be glad enough to meet together at the lord's table on special occasions like the service which gave rise to this controversy. anglicans are well aware that the differences of opinion within their body are far greater than those which separate some of them from protestant nonconformity, and others of them from home. allegiance to this or that denomination is generally an accident of early surroundings. to make these external classifications into barriers which cannot be crossed is either an absurdity or a confession that a church is a political aggregate. a roman monsignor explained, _à propos_ of the kikuyu service, that no roman catholic could ever communicate in a protestant church, because in so doing he would be guilty of an act of apostasy, and would be no longer a roman catholic. the attitude is consistent with the roman claim to universal jurisdiction; for any other body it would be absurd. the stiff institutionalist is debarred by his theory from fraternising with many who should be his friends, while he is bound to others with whom he has no sympathy. his theory is once more found to conflict with the facts. lastly, we must ask whether institutionalism is really a spiritual and moral force. of the advantages of _esprit de corps_ i have spoken already. no one can doubt that unity is strength, or that catholicism has an immense advantage over its rivals in the efficiency of its organisation. but is not this advantage dearly purchased? party loyalty is notoriously unscrupulous. the idealised institution becomes itself the object of worship, and it is entirely forgotten that a christian church ought to have no 'interests' except the highest welfare of humanity. the substitution of military for civil ethics has worked disastrously on the conduct of churchmen. theoretically it is admitted by roman casuists that an immoral order ought not to be obeyed; but it is not for a layman to pronounce immoral any order received from a priest; if the order is really immoral, 'obedience' exonerates him who executes it; in all other cases disobedience is a deadly sin. the result of this submission of private judgment is that the voice of conscience is often stifled, and unscrupulous policies are carried through by churchmen, which secular public opinion would have condemned decisively and rejected. the persecution of dreyfus is a recent and strong instance. if all france had been catholic, the victim of this shocking injustice would certainly have died in prison. it is extremely doubtful whether the presence of a highly organised church is conducive to moral and social reform in a country. the temptation to play a political game seems to be always too strong. in ireland the priesthood has probably helped to maintain a comparatively high standard of sexual morality, but it cannot be said that the irish catholic population is in other respects a model of civilisation and good citizenship. in education especially the influence of ecclesiasticism has been almost uniformly pernicious, so that it seems impossible for any country where the children are left under priestly influence to rise above a certain rather low level of civilisation. the strongest claim of institutionalism to our respect is probably the beneficial restraint which it exercises upon many persons who need moral and intellectual guidance. it is the fashion to disparage the scholastic theology, and it has certainly suffered by being congealed, like everything else that rome touches, into a hard system; but it is immeasurably superior to the theosophies and fancy religions which run riot in the superficially cultivated classes of protestant countries. the undisciplined mystic, in his reliance on the inner light, may fall into various kinds of _schwärmerei_ and superstition. in some cases he may even lose his sanity for want of a wise restraining influence. it is not an accident that america, where institutionalism is weakest, is the happy hunting-ground of religious quacks and cranks. individualists are too prone to undervalue the steadying influence of ancient and consecrated tradition, which is kept up mainly by ecclesiastical institutions. these probably prevent many rash experiments from being tried, especially in the field of morals. even writers like dr. frazer insist on the immense services which consecrated tradition still renders to humanity. these claims may be admitted; but they come very far short of the glorification of institutionalism which we found in the authors quoted a few pages back. the institutionalist, however, may reply that he by no means admits the validity of sabatier's antithesis between religions of authority and the religion of the spirit. his own religion, he believes, is quite as spiritual as that of the protestant individualist. he may quote the fine saying of a medieval mystic that he who can see the inward in the outward is more spiritual than he who can only see the inward in the inward. we may, indeed, be thankful that we have not to choose between two mutually exclusive types of religion. the quaker, whom we may take as the type of anti-institutional mysticism, has a brotherhood to which he is proud to belong, and for which he feels loyalty and affection. and catholicism has been rich in contemplative saints who have lived in the light of the divine presence. the question raised in this essay is rather of the relative importance of these two elements in the religious life, than of choosing one and rejecting the other. i will conclude by saying that our preference of one of these types to the other will be largely determined by our attitude towards history. i am glad to see that professor bosanquet, in his fine gifford lectures, has the courage to expose the limitations of the 'historical method,' now so popular. he protests against professor ward's dictum that 'the actual is wholly historical,' as a view little better than naïve realism. history, he says, is a hybrid form of experience, incapable of any considerable degree of being or trueness. it is a fragmentary diorama of finite life-processes seen from the outside, and very imperfectly known. it consists largely of assigning parts in some great world-experience to particular actors--a highly speculative enterprise. to set these contingent and dubious constructions above the operations of pure thought and pure insight is indeed a return to the philosophy of the man in the street. 'social morality, art, philosophy, and religion take us far beyond the spatio-temporal externality of history; these are concrete and necessary living worlds, and in them the finite mind begins to experience something of what individuality must ultimately mean.' our inquiry has thus led us to the threshold of one of the fundamental problems of philosophy--the value and reality of time. for the institutionalist, happenings in time have a meaning and importance far greater than the mystic is willing to allow to them. like most other great philosophical problems, this question is largely one of temperament. christianity has found room for both types. i believe, however, that the aberrations or exaggerations of institutionalism have been, and are, more dangerous, and further removed from the spirit of christianity than those of mysticism, and that we must look to the latter type, rather than to the former, to give life to the next religious revival. footnotes: [ ] moore, _science and the faith_, introduction. [ ] troeltsch, _die bedeutung der geschichtlichkeit jesu für den glauben,_ pp. _sq_. [ ] royce, _the problem of christianity_, vol. i. . the indictment against christianity ( ) no thinking man can deny that this war has grievously stained the reputation of europe. even if the verdict of history confirms the opinion that the conspiracy which threw the torch into the powder-magazine was laid by a few persons in one or two countries, and that the unparalleled outrages which have accompanied the conflict were ordered by a small coterie of brutal officers, we cannot forget that these crimes have been committed by the responsible representatives of a civilised european power, and that the nation which they represent has shown no qualms of conscience. that such a calamity, the permanent results of which include a holocaust of european wealth and credit, accumulated during a century of unprecedented industry and ingenuity, the loss of innumerable lives, and the destruction of all the old and honourable conventions which have hitherto regulated the intercourse of civilised nations with each other, in war as well as in peace, should have been possible, is justly felt to be a reproach to the whole continent, and especially to the nations which have taken the lead in its civilisation and culture. the ancient races of asia, which have never admitted the moral superiority of the west, are keenly interested spectators of our suicidal frenzy. a japanese is reported to have said, 'we have only to wait a little longer, till europe has completed her _hara kiri_.' this is, indeed, what any intelligent observer must think about the present struggle. just as the feudal barons of england destroyed each other and brought the feudal system to an end in the wars of the roses, so the great industrial nations are rending to pieces the whole fabric of modern industrialism, which can never be reconstructed. mr. norman angell was perfectly right in his argument that a european war would be ruinous to both sides. the material objects at stake, such as the control of the turkish empire and the african continent, are not worth more than an insignificant fraction of the war-bill. we are witnessing the suicide of a social order, and our descendants will marvel at our madness, as we marvel at the senseless wars of the past. there has, it is plain, been something fundamentally wrong with european civilisation, and the disease appears to be a moral one. with this conviction it is natural that men should turn upon the official custodians of religion and morality, and ask them whether they have been unfaithful to their trust, or whether it is not rather proved that the faith which they profess is itself bankrupt and incapable of exerting any salutary influence upon human character and action. christianity stands arraigned at the bar of public opinion. but it is not without significance that the indictment should now be urged with a vehemence which we do not find in the records of former convulsions. it was not generally felt to be a scandal to christianity that england was at war for years out of the which preceded the battle of waterloo. either our generation expected more from christianity, or it was far more shocked by the sudden outbreak of this fierce war than our ancestors were by the almost chronic condition of desultory campaigning to which they were accustomed. the latter is probably the true reason. the belief in progress, which at the beginning of the industrial revolution was an article of faith, had become a tacitly accepted presupposition of all serious thought; and even those who were dubious about the moral improvement of mankind in other directions, seldom denied that we were more humane and peaceable than our forefathers. the disillusion has struck our self-complacency in its most vital spot. nothing in our own experience had prepared us for the hideous savagery and vandalism of german warfare, the first accounts of which we received with blank amazement and incredulity. then, when disbelief was no longer possible, there awoke within us a sense of fear for our homes and women and children--feeling to which modern civilised man had long been a stranger. we had not supposed that the non-combatant population of any european country would ever again be exposed to the horrors of savage warfare. this, much more than the war itself, has made thousands feel that the house of civilisation is built upon the sand, and that christianity has failed to subdue the most barbarous instincts of human nature. christians cannot regret that the flagrant contradiction between the principles of their creed and the scenes that have been enacted during the last three years is fully recognised. but the often repeated statement that 'christianity has failed' needs more examination than it usually receives from those who utter it. history acquaints us with two kinds of religion, which, though they are not entirely separate from each other, differ very widely in their effects upon conduct and morality. the _religio_ which lucretius hated, and from which he strangely hoped that the atomistic materialism of epicurus had finally delivered mankind, has its roots in the sombre and confused superstitions of the savage. fear, as statius and petronius tell us, created the gods of this religion. these deities are mysterious and capricious powers, who exact vengeance for the transgression of arbitrary laws which they have not revealed, and who must be propitiated by public sacrifice, lest some collective punishment fall on the tribe, blighting its crops and smiting its herds with murrain, or giving it over into the hand of its enemies. this religion makes very little attempt to correct the current standard of values. its rewards are wealth and prosperity; its punishments are calamity in this world and perhaps torture in the next. it is not, however, incapable of moralisation. the wrath of heaven may visit not the innocent violation of some _tabu_, but cruelty and injustice. in the historical books of the old testament, though uzzah is stricken dead for touching the ark, and the subjects of king david afflicted with pestilence because their ruler took a census of his people, jehovah is above all things a righteous god, who punishes bloodshed, adultery, and social oppression. so in greece the furies pursue the homicide and the perjurer, till the name of his family is clean put out. herodotus tells us how the family of glaucus was extinguished because he consulted the oracle of delphi about an act of embezzlement which he was meditating. international law was protected by the same fear of divine vengeance. the murder of heralds must by all means be expiated. when the romans repudiate their 'scrap of paper' with the samnites, they deliver up to the enemy the officers who signed it, though (with characteristic 'slimness') not the army which the mountaineers had captured and liberated under the agreement. to destroy the temples in an enemy's country was an act of wanton impiety; herodotus cannot understand the religious intolerance which led the persians to burn the shrines of greek gods. thus religion had a restraining influence in war throughout antiquity, and in the middle ages. the pope, who was believed to hold the keys of future bliss and torment, was frequently, though by no means always, obeyed by the turbulent feudal lords, and often enforced the sanctity of a contract by the threat or the imposition of excommunication and interdict. in order to make these penalties more terrible, the torments of those who died under the displeasure of the church were painted in the most vivid colours. but in the official and popular christian eschatology, as in the terrestrial theodicy of the old testament, there is little or no moral idealism. the joys or pains of the future life are made to depend, in part at least, on the observance or violation of the moral law, but they are themselves of a kind which the natural man would desire or dread. they are an enhanced, because a deferred, retribution of the same kind which in more primitive religions promises earthly prosperity to the righteous, and earthly calamities to the wicked. values, positive and negative, are taken nearly as they stand in the estimation of the average man. but there is another religious tradition, which in greece was almost separated from the official and national cults, and among the hebrews was often in opposition to them. the hebrew prophets certainly proclaimed that 'the history of the world is the judgment of the world,' and often assumed, too crudely as it seems to us, that national calamities are a proof of national transgression; but the whole course of development in prophecy was towards an autonomous morality based on a spiritual valuation of life. its quarrel with sacerdotalism was mainly directed against the unethical _tabu_-morality of the priesthood; the revolt was grounded in a lofty moral idealism, which found expression in a half-symbolic vision of a coming state in which might and right should coincide. the apocalyptic prophecies of post-exilic judaism, which were not based, like some political predictions of the earlier prophets, on a statesmanlike view of the international situation, but on hopes of supernatural intervention, had their roots in visions of a new and better world-order. this aspiration, which had to disentangle itself by degrees from the patriotic dreams of a stubborn and unfortunate race, was projected into the near future, and was mixed with less worthy political ambitions which had a different origin. the prophet always foreshortens his revelation, and generally blends the city of god with a vision of his own country transfigured. we see him doing this even to-day, in his utopian dreams of social reconstruction. and so it has always been. we remember condorcet foretelling a reign of truth and peace just before he was compelled to flee from the storm of calumny to die in a damp cell at bourg la reine; and kant hailing the approach of a peaceful international republic while napoleon was preparing to drown europe in blood. apocalyptism is a compromise between the religion of rewards and punishments and the religion of spiritual deliverance. it calls a new world into existence to redress the balance of the old; but its discontent with the old is mainly the result of a moral and spiritual valuation of life. greek philosophy has really much in common with hebrew prophecy, though the greek envisaged his ideal world as the eternal background of reality, and not under the form of history. in its maturest form, it is a transvaluation of all values in accordance with an absolute ideal standard--that of the good, the true, and the beautiful. this idealism appears in a still more drastic form in the religions of asia, which preach deliverance by demonetising at a stroke all the world's currency. spiritual values are alone accepted; man wins peace and freedom by renouncing in advance all of which fortune may deprive him. we are apt to assume, in deference to our theories of human progress, that the evolution of religion is normally from a lower to a higher type. it would, indeed, be absurd to question that the religion of a civilised people is usually more spiritual and more rational than that of barbarians. but none the less, the history of religions is generally a history of decline. in judaism the prophets came before the scribes and the pharisees. brahmanism and buddhism were both degraded by superstitions and unethical rites. christianity, which began as a republication of the purest prophetic teaching, has suffered the same fate. in each case, when the revelation has lost its freshness, and the enthusiasm which it evoked has begun to cool, a reversion to older habits of thought and customs takes place; and sometimes it may be said that the old religion has really conquered the new. christianity, as taught by its founder, is based on a transvaluation of values even more complete than that of stoicism and the later platonism, because, while it regards the objects of ordinary ambition as a positive hindrance to the higher life, it accepts and gives value to those pains of sympathy which greek thought dreaded, as detracting from the calm enjoyment of the philosophic life. this acceptance of the world's suffering, from which every other spiritual religion and philosophy promise a way of escape, is perhaps the most distinctive feature of christian ethics. in practice, it thus achieves a more complete conquest of evil than any other system; and by bringing sorrow and sympathy into the divine life, it not only presents the character and nature of the deity in a new light, but opens out a new ideal of moral perfection. this is not the place for a discussion of the main characteristics of the gospel of christ, and they are familiar to us all. but, since we are now considering the charge of failure brought against christianity in connexion with the present world-war, it seems necessary to emphasise two points which are not always remembered. the first is that there is no evidence that the historical christ ever intended to found a new institutional religion. he neither attempted to make a schism in the jewish church nor to substitute a new system for it. he placed himself deliberately in the prophetic line, only claiming to sum up the series in himself. the whole manner of his life and teaching was prophetic. the differences which undoubtedly may be found between his style and that of the older prophets do not remove him from the company in which he clearly wished to stand. he treated the institutional religion of his people with the independence and indifference of the prophet and mystic; and the hierarchy, which, like other hierarchies, had a sure instinct in discerning a dangerous enemy, was not slow to declare war to the knife against him. such, he reminded his enemies, was the treatment which all the prophets had met with from the class to which those enemies belonged. this, then, is the first fact to remember. institutional christianity may be a legitimate and necessary historical development from the original gospel, but it is something alien to the gospel itself. the first disciples believed that they had the master's authority for expecting the end of the existing world-order in their own lifetime. they believed that he had come forward with the cry of 'hora novissima!' whether they misunderstood him or not, they clearly could not have held this opinion if they had received instructions for the constitution of a church. the second point on which it is necessary to insist is that christ never expected, or taught his disciples to expect, that his teaching would meet with wide acceptance, or exercise political influence. 'the world'--organised human society--was the enemy and was to continue the enemy. his message, he foresaw, would be scorned and rejected by the majority; and those who preached it were to expect persecution. this warning is repeated so often in the gospels that it would be superfluous to give quotations. he made it quite plain that the big battalions are never likely to be gathered before the narrow gate. he declared that only false prophets are well spoken of by the majority. when we consider the revolutionary character of the christian idealism, its indifference to nearly all that passes for 'religion' with the vulgar, and its reversal of all current valuations, it is plain that it is never likely to be a popular creed. as surely as the presence of high spiritual instincts in the human mind guarantees its indestructibility, so surely the deeply-rooted prejudices which keep the majority on a lower level must prevent the gospel of christ from dominating mundane politics or social life. moreover, the actual extent of its influence cannot be estimated. the inwardness and individualism of its teaching make its apparent effectiveness smaller than its real power, which works secretly and unobserved. the vices which christ regarded with abhorrence are perversions of character--hypocrisy, hard-heartedness, and worldliness or secularity; and who can say what degree of success the gospel has achieved in combating these? the method of christianity is alien to all externalism and machinery; it does not lend itself to those accommodations and compromises without which nothing can be done in politics. as harnack says, the gospel is not one of social improvement, but of spiritual redemption. its influence upon social and political life is indirect and obscure, operating through a subtle modification of current valuations, and curbing the competitive and acquisitive instincts, which nearly correspond with what christ called 'mammon' and st. paul 'the flesh.' christianity is a spiritual dynamic, which has very little to do directly with the mechanism of social life. it is, therefore, certain that when we speak of christianity as a factor in human life, we must not identify it with the opinions or actions of the multitudes who are nominally christians. we must not even identify it, without qualification, with the types of character exhibited by those who try to frame their lives in accordance with its precepts. for these types are very largely determined by the ideals which belong to the stage through which the life of the race is passing; and these differ so widely in different ages and countries that the historian of religion might well despair if he was compelled to regard them all as typical manifestations of the same idea. there are times when the disciple of christ seems to turn his back upon society; he is occupied solely with the relation of the individual soul to god. these are periods when the opportunities for social service are much restricted by a faulty structure of the body politic; periods when secular civilisation is so brutal, or so servile, that the religious life can only be led in seclusion from it. at another time the typical christian seems to be the active and valiant soldier of a militant corporation. at another, again, he is a philanthropist, who devotes his life to the redress of some great wrong, such as slavery, or the promotion of a more righteous system of production and distribution. in all these types we can trace the operation of the genius of christianity, but they are partial manifestations of it, with much alien admixture. the spirit of the age, as well as the spirit of christ, has moulded the various types of christian piety. if there has ever been a time when organised christianity was a concrete embodiment of the pure principles of the gospel, we must look for it in the era of the persecutions, when the church had already gained coherence and discipline and a corporate self-consciousness, and was still preserved from the corrupting influence of secularity by the danger which attended the profession of an illicit creed. a vivid picture of the christian communities at this period has been given by dobschütz, whose learning and impartiality are unimpeachable. the church at this time demanded from its followers an unreserved confession, even when this meant death. it was a brotherhood within which there was no privileged class. men and women, the free and the slave, had an equal share in it. it abolished the fundamental greek distinction of civilised and barbarian. it looked with contempt on none. its great organisation was spread by purely voluntary means, till it gained a firm footing throughout the empire and beyond it. to a large extent it was an association for mutual aid. wherever anyone was in need, help was at hand. the tangible advantages of belonging to such a guild were so great that the church had to enforce labour on all who could work, as a condition of sharing in the benefits of membership. social distinctions, such as those of rich and poor, master and slave, were not abolished, but they had lost their sting, because genuine affection, loyalty and sympathy neutralised these inequalities. great importance was laid on truth, integrity in business, and sexual purity. a complete rupture with pagan standards of morality was insisted on from new members. the human body must be kept holy, as the temple of god. revenge was forbidden, and injustice was endured with meekness and pardon. this is no imaginary picture. in that brief golden age of the church, such were indeed the characteristics of the christian society. in the opinion of dobschütz the moral condition of the church in the second century was much higher than among st. paul's converts in the first. the paucity of references to sins of the flesh, and to fraud, is to be accounted for by the actual rarity of such offences. for a short time, then, the artificial selection effected by the persecutions kept the church pure; and from the happy pictures which we can reconstruct of this period we can judge what a really christian society would be like. the history of institutional catholicism must be approached from a different side. troeltsch argues with much cogency that the catholic church must be regarded rather as the last creative achievement of classical antiquity than as the beginning of the middle ages. its growth belongs mainly to the political history of europe; the strictly religious element in it is quite subordinate. there is, as modernist critics have seen, a real break between the palestinian gospel and the elaborate mystery-religion, with its graded hierarchy, its roman organisation, its hellenistic speculative theology, which achieved the conquest of the empire in the fourth century. the church, as loisy says, determined to survive and to conquer, and adapted itself to the demands of the time. it has travelled far from the simple teaching of the earthly christ; though we may, if we choose, hold that his spirit continued to direct the growing and changing institution which, as a matter of history, had its source in the galilean ministry. in truth, however, the extremely efficient organisation of the roman church began in self-defence and was continued for conquest. it is one of the strongest of all human institutions, so that it was said before the war that it is one of the 'three invincibles,' the other two being the german army and the standard oil trust. but our admiration for the subtle and tenacious power of this corporation must not blind us to its essentially political character. its policy has been always directed to self-preservation and aggrandisement; it is an _imperium in imperio_, which has only checked fanatical nationalism by the competing influence of a still more fanatical partisanship. in the present war, the problem before the pope's councillors was whether the friendship of the central powers or that of the entente was best worth cultivating; and the unshaken loyalty of austria to the church, together with a natural preference for german methods of governing as compared with democracy, turned the scale against us. in ireland, in canada and in spain the catholic priests have been formidable enemies of our cause. as for the other churches, they have not the same power of arbitrating in national quarrels. the russian church has never been independent of the secular government; and the anglican and lutheran churches can hardly be expected to be impartial when the vital interests of england or germany are at stake. lovers of peace have not much to hope for from organised religion. national christianity, as mr. bernard shaw says, will only be possible when we have a nation of christs. the downfall of the medieval european system, though in truth it was a theory rather than a fact, has removed some of the restraints upon war. the determining principle of the medieval political theory was the conception of a 'lex dei,' which included the 'lex mosis,' the 'lex christi,' and the 'lex ecclesiae,' but which also, as 'lex naturæ,' comprised the law, science, and ethics of antiquity. these laws were super-national, and no nation dared explicitly to repudiate them. they formed the basis of a real system of international law, resting, like everything else in the middle ages, on supposed divine authority. this theory, with its sanctions, was shattered at the renaissance; and the machiavellian doctrine of the absolute state, accepted by bacon and put into practice by frederick the great, has prevailed ever since, though not without frequent protests. the rise of nationalities, each with an intense self-consciousness, has facilitated the adoption of a theory too grossly immoral to have found favour except in the peculiar circumstances of modern civilisation. the emergence of nationalities was often connected with a legitimate struggle for freedom; and at such times _esprit de corps_ seems to be almost the sum of morality, the substitute for all other virtues. loyalty is one of the most attractive of moral qualities, and it necessarily inhibits criticism of its own objects, which has the appearance of treason. but, unless the aims of the corporate body which claims our absolute allegiance are right and reasonable, loyalty may be, and often has been, the parent of hideous crimes, and a social evil of the first magnitude. the perversion of _esprit de corps_ does incalculable harm in every direction, destroying all sense of honour and justice, of chivalry and generosity, of sympathy and humanity. it involves a complete repudiation of christianity, which breaks down all barriers by ignoring them, and insists on love and justice towards all mankind without distinction. the worship of the state has during the last half-century been sedulously and artificially fostered in germany, until it has produced a kind of moral insanity. even philosophical historians like troeltsch seem unable to see the monstrosity of a political doctrine which has caused his country to be justly regarded as the enemy of the whole human race. eucken, writing some years before the war, in a rather gingerly manner deprecates _politismus_ as a national danger; but he does not dare to grasp the nettle firmly. it is possible that this deification of the state in germany may be in part due to an unsatisfied instinct of worship. in roman catholic countries, where there must be a divided allegiance, patriotism never, perhaps, assumes such sinister and fanatical forms. but we shall not understand the attraction which this naked immoralism in international affairs exercises over the minds of many who are not otherwise ignoble, if we do not remember that the repudiation of the christian ethical standard has been equally thorough in commercial competition. the german officer believes himself to have chosen a morally nobler profession than that of the business-man; he serves (he thinks) a larger cause, and he is content with much less personal reward. socialist assailants of our industrial system, much as they dislike war, would probably agree with him. it is not necessary to condemn all competition. the desire to excel others is not reprehensible, when the rivalry is in rendering useful social service. but it cannot be denied that the present condition of industry is such that a heavy premium is offered to mere cupidity; that the fraternal social life which christianity enjoins is often literally impossible, except at the cost of economic suicide; and that in a competitive system a business man is, by the very force of circumstances, a warrior, though war is an enemy of love and destructive of christian society. when the object of bargaining is to give as little and gain as much as possible, the christian standard of values has been rejected as completely as it was by machiavelli himself. the competition between two parties to a bargain is often a competition in unserviceableness. money is very frequently made by creating a local and temporary monopoly, which enables the vendor to squeeze the purchaser. in all such transactions one man's gain is another man's loss. this state of things, the evils of which are almost universally recognised and deplored, marks the end of the glorification of productive industry which was one result of the reformation. hardly anything distinguishes modern from medieval ethics more sharply than the emphasis laid by protestant morality on the duty of making and producing something tangible. theoretically the protestant may hold that 'doing ends in death,' and he may sing these words on sunday; but his whole life on week days is occupied in strenuous 'doing.' we find in calvinism and quakerism the genuinely religious basis of the modern business life, which, however, has degenerated sadly, now that the largest fortunes are made by dealing in money rather than in commodities. in the books of samuel smiles, and in clough's poem beginning 'hope ever more and believe, o man,' we find the gospel of productive work preached with fervour. it is out of favour now in england; but in america we still see quaint attempts to make business a religion, as in the middle ages religion was a business. in these circles, it is productive activity as such to which value is attached, without much enquiry as to the utility of the product. the result has been an immense accumulation of the apparatus of life, without any corresponding elevation in moral standards. the mischiefs wrought by modern commercialism are largely the fruit of the purely irrational production which it encourages. there are, says professor santayana, nibelungen who toil underground over a gold which they will never use, and in their obsession with production begrudge themselves all inclinations to recreation, to merriment, to fancy. visible signs of such unreason appear in the relentless and hideous aspect which life puts on; for those instruments which emancipate themselves from their uses soon become hateful. 'a barbaric civilisation, built on blind impulse and ambition, should fear to awaken a deeper detestation than could ever be aroused by those more beautiful tyrannies, chivalrous or religious, against which past revolutions have been directed.' we cannot, indeed, be surprised that this ideal of productive work as a means of grace, precious for its own sake, has no attraction for the masses, and that independent thinkers like edward carpenter should write books on 'civilisation, its cause and cure.' this puritan ideal is not so much unchristian as narrow and unintelligent; but the money-making life has of late become more and more frankly predatory and anti-social. the great trusts, and the arts of the company-promoter, can hardly be said to perform any social service; they exist to levy tribute on the public. we may say therefore that, though war between the leading nations of the world had become a strange idea and a far-off memory, we had by no means risen above the principles and practices of war in our internal life. the immunity from militarism hitherto enjoyed by britain and the united states was a fortunate accident, not a proof of higher morality. our fleet protected both ourselves and the americans from the necessity of maintaining a conscript army; but we had drifted into a condition in which civil war seemed not to be far off, and in which violence and lawlessness were increasing. by a strange inconsistency, many who on moral or religious grounds condemned wars between nations were found to condone or justify acts of war against the state, organised by discontented factions of its citizens. revolutionary strikes, prepared long in advance by forced levies of money which were candidly called war-funds, had as their avowed aim the paralysis of the industries of the country and the reduction of the population to distress by withholding the necessaries of life. these acts of civil war, and disgraceful outbreaks of criminal anarchism, were justified by persons who professed a conscientious objection to defending their homes and families against a foreign invader. this state of mind proves how little essential connexion there is between democracy and peace. it discloses a confusion of ideas even greater than the antithesis between industrialism and militarism in the writings of herbert spencer. on this latter fallacy it is enough to quote the words of admiral mahan; 'as far as the advocacy of peace rests on material motives like economy and prosperity, it is the service of mammon; and the bottom of the platform will drop out when mammon thinks that war will pay better.' this is notoriously what has happened in germany. a short war, with huge indemnities, seemed to german financiers a promising speculation. if such were the rotten foundations upon which anti-militarism in this country was based, the churches cannot be blamed for giving the peace-movement a rather lukewarm support. in germany there was no internal anarchy, such as prevailed in england; there was also no illusion about the imminence of war. our politicians ought to have read the signs of the times better; but they were too intent on feeling the pulse of the electorate at home to attend to disturbing and unwelcome symptoms abroad. the causes of the war are not difficult to determine. war has long been a national industry of germany, and the idea of it evoked no moral repugnance. the military virtues were extolled; the military profession enjoyed an astonishing social prestige; the learned class proclaimed the biological necessity of international conflicts. the army believed itself to be invincible, and it had begun to control the policy of the country; where these two conditions exist, no diplomacy can avert war. professionalism always has a selfish and anti-social element in its code, and the professionalism of the soldier is always prone to override the rights and disdain the scruples of civilians. the dominant classes in germany also found that their power was being undermined by the growing industrialisation. the steady increase in the social-democratic vote was a portent not to be disregarded. a letter from a german officer to a friend in roumania, which found its way into the newspapers, tells a great deal of truth in a few words. 'you cannot conceive,' he wrote, 'what difficulty we had in persuading our emperor that it was necessary to let loose this war. but it has been done; and i hope that for a long time to come we shall hear no more in germany of pacifism, internationalism, democracy, and similar pestilent doctrines.' sir charles walston, in his thoughtful book 'aristodemocracy,' lays great stress on this. 'it appeared to me,' he says, 'ever since , that in the immediate future it was all a question as to whether the labour-men, the practical pacifists, would arrive at the realisation of their power before the militarists had forced a war upon us, or whether the military powers would anticipate this result, and within the next few years force a war upon the world.' to the influence of the military was added the cupidity of the commercial and financial class. the law of diminishing returns was driving capital further and further afield; and large profits, it was hoped, might be made by the exploitation of backward countries and the reduction of their inhabitants to serfdom. to a predatory and parasitic class war seems only a logical extension of the principles upon which it habitually acts; and for this reason privileged orders seldom feel much moral compunction about a war-policy. lastly, among the causes of the war must be reckoned one which has received far too little attention from social and political philosophers--the tenacious and half-unconscious memories of a race. injustice comes home to roost, sometimes after an astonishingly long interval. the disaffection of catholic ireland would be quite unintelligible without the massacres of the sixteenth century and the unjust trade-legislation of the seventeenth and eighteenth. the bitterness of the working class in england has its roots in the earlier period of the industrial revolution (about - ), when the labourer, with his wife and children, was treated as the 'cannon-fodder' of industry. similarly, the seeds of prussian brutality and aggressiveness were sown at jena and in the raiding of prussia for recruits before the moscow expedition. if such were the causes of the great world-war, how little can be hoped from courts of international arbitration! these considerations have, perhaps, made it clear that the main causes of international conflicts are what the epistle of st. james declares them to be--'the lusts that war in your members,' the pugnacious and acquisitive instincts which pervade our social life in times of peace, and not least in those nations which pride themselves on having advanced beyond the militant stage. there are some who accept this state of things as natural and necessary, and who blame christianity for carrying on a futile campaign against human nature. this is a very different indictment from that which condemns christianity for tolerating a preventible evil; and it is, in our opinion, even less justified. the argument that, because war has always existed, it must always continue to exist, is justly ridiculed by mr. norman angell. 'it is commonly asserted that old habits of thought can never be shaken; that, as men have been, so they will be. that, of course, is why we now eat our enemies, enslave their children, examine witnesses with the thumbscrew, and burn those who do not attend the same church.' the long history of war as a racial habit explains why a ruinous and insane anachronism shows such tenacity; for the conditions which established the habit among primitive tribes demonstrably no longer exist. it is probably true, as william james says, that 'militarist writers without exception regard war as a biological or sociological necessity'; lawyers might say the same about litigation. but laws of nature 'are not efficient causes, and it is open to any one to prove that they are not laws, if he can break them with impunity. it would be the height of pessimistic fatalism to hold that men must always go on doing that which they hate, and which brings them to misery and ruin. man is not bound for ever by habits contracted during his racial nonage; his moral, rational, and spiritual instincts are as natural as his physical appetites; and against them, as st. paul says, 'there is no law,' huxley's romanes lecture gave an unfortunate support to the mischievous notion that the 'cosmic process' is the enemy of morality. the truth seems to be that nature presents to us not a categorical imperative, but a choice. do we prefer to pay our way in the world, or to be parasites? war, with very few exceptions, is a mode of parasitism. its object is to exploit the labour of other nations, to make them pay tribute, or to plunder them openly, as the germans have plundered the cities of belgium. war is a parasitic industry; and christianity forbids parasitism. nature has her own penalties for the lower animals which make this choice, and they strike with equal severity 'the peoples that delight in war,' the bellicose nations have nearly all perished. there remains, however, a class of wars which escapes this condemnation; and about them difficult moral problems may be raised. we can hardly deny to a growing and civilised nation the right to expand at the expense of barbarous hunters and nomads. no one would suggest that the americans ought to give back their country to the indians, or that australia should be abandoned to the aborigines. but were the anglo-saxons justified in expropriating the britons, and the spaniards the aztecs? there is room for differences of opinion in these cases; and a very serious problem may arise in the future, as to whether the european races are morally justified in using armed force to restrict asiatic competition. as a general principle, we must condemn the expropriation of any nation which is in effective occupation of the soil. the popular estimate of superior and inferior races is thoroughly unchristian and unscientific, as is the prejudice against a dark skin. the opinion that a nation which is increasing in population has a right to expel the inhabitants of another country to make room for its own emigrants is surely untenable. if it justifies war at all, it sanctions a war of extermination, which would attain its objects most completely by massacring girls and young women. the pressure of population is a real cause of war; but the moral is, not that war is right, but that a nation must cut its coat according to its cloth, and limit its numbers. unless we justify wars of extermination, war has no biological sanction, and christianity is not flying in the face of nature by condemning it. on the contrary, by condemning every form of parasitism, it indicates the true path of evolution. it is equally right in rejecting the purely economic valuation of human goods. the 'economic man' does not exist in nature; he is a fictitious creature who is responsible for a great deal of social injustice. some modern economists, like mr. hobson, would substitute for the old monetary standards of production and distribution an attempt to estimate the 'human costs' of labour. creative work involving ingenuity and artistic qualities is not 'costly' at all, unless the hours of labour, or the nervous strain, exceed the powers of the worker. more monotonous work is not costly to the worker if the day's labour is fairly short, or if some variety can be introduced. the human cost is greatly increased if the worker thinks that his labour is useless, or that it will only benefit those who do not deserve the enjoyment of its fruits. work which only produces frivolous luxuries is and ought to be unwelcome to the producer, even if he is well paid. it must also be emphasised that worry and anxiety take the heart out of a man more than anything else. security of employment greatly reduces the 'human cost' of labour. these considerations are comparatively new in political economy. they change it from a highly abstract science into a study of the conditions of human welfare as affected by social organisation. the change is a victory for the ideas of buskin and morris, though not necessarily for the practical remedies for social maladjustments which they propounded. it brings political economy into close relations with ethics and religion, and should induce economists to consider carefully the contribution which christianity makes to the solution of the whole problem. for christianity has its remedy to propose, and it is a solution of the problem of war, not less than of industrial evils. christianity gives the world a new and characteristic standard of values. it diminishes greatly the values which can accrue from competition, and enhances immeasurably the non-competitive values. 'a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.' 'is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?' 'the kingdom of god is not meat and drink, but righteousness and peace and joy in the holy ghost.' passages like these are found in every part of the new testament. this christian idealism has a direct bearing on the doctrine of 'human costs.' work is irksome, not only when it is excessive or ill-paid, but when the worker is lazy, selfish, envious or discontented. there is one thing which can make almost any work welcome. if it is done from love or unselfish affection, the human cost is almost _nil_, because it is not counted or consciously felt. this is no exaggeration when it is applied to the devoted labour of the mother and the nurse, or to that of the evangelist conscious of a divine vocation. but in all useful work the keen desire to render social service, or to do god's will, diminishes to an incalculable extent the 'human cost' of labour. this principle introduces a deep cleavage between the christian remedy and that of political socialism, which fosters discontent and indignation as a lever for social amelioration. men are made unhappy in order that they may be urged to claim a larger share of the world's wealth. christianity considers that, measured by human costs, the remedy is worse than the disease. the adoption of a truer standard of value would tear up the lust of accumulation by the roots, and would thus effect a real cure. it would also stop the grudging and deliberately bad work which at present seriously diminishes the national wealth. the christian cure is the only real cure. it is the fashion to assume that militarism and cupidity are vices of the privileged classes, and that democracies may be trusted neither to plunder the minority at home nor to seek foreign adventures by unjust wars. there is not the slightest reason to accept either of these views. political power is always abused; an unrepresented class is always plundered. nor are democracies pacific, except by accident. at present they do not wish to see the capital which they regard as their prospective prey dissipated in war; and for this reason their influence in our time will probably be on the side of peace. but, as soon as the competition of cheap asiatic labour becomes acute, we may expect to see the democracies bellicose and the employing class pacific. this is not guess-work; we already see how the democracies of california and australia behave towards immigrants from asia. readers of anatole france will remember his description of the economic wars decreed by the senate of the great republic, at the end of 'l'Île des pingouins.' it would, indeed, be difficult to prove that the expansion of the united states has differed much, in methods and morals, from that of the european monarchies; and the methods of trade-unions are the methods of pitiless belligerency. democracy and socialism are broken reeds for the lover of peace to lean upon. in conclusion, our answer to the indictment against christianity is that institutional religion does not represent the gospel of christ, but the opinions of a mass of nominal christians. it cannot be expected to do much more than look after its own interests and reflect the moral ideas of its supporters. the real gospel, if it were accepted, would pull up by the roots not only militarism but its analogue in civil life, the desire to exploit other people for private gain. but it is not accepted. we have seen that the founder of christianity had no illusions as to the reception which his message of redemption would meet with. the 'prince of this world' is not christ, but the devil. nevertheless, he did speak of the 'whole lump' being gradually leavened, and we shall not exceed the limits of a reasonable and justifiable optimism if we hope that the accumulated experience of humanity, and perhaps a real though very slow modification for the better of human nature itself, may at last eliminate the wickedest and most insane of our maleficent institutions. the human race has probably hundreds of thousands of years to live, whereas our so-called civilisation cannot be traced back for more than a few thousand years. the time when 'nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more,' will probably come at last, though no one can predict what the conditions will be which will make such a change possible. the signs are not very favourable at present for internationalism. the great nations, bankrupt and honey-combed with social unrest, will be obliged after the war to organise themselves as units, with governments strong enough to put down revolutions, and directed by men of the highest mercantile ability, whose main function will be to increase productiveness and stop waste. we may even see germany mobilised as one gigantic trust for capturing markets and regulating prices. a combination so formidable would compel other nations, and our own certainly among the number, to adopt a similar organisation. this would, of course, mean a complete victory for bureaucratic state-socialism, and the defeat of democracy and trade-union syndicalism. such a change, which few would just now welcome, will occur if no other form of state is able to survive; and this is what we may live to see. but there is no finality about any experiments in government. a period of internationalism may follow the intense nationalism which historical critics foresee for the twentieth century. or perhaps the international labour-organisations may be too strong for the centralising forces. it is just possible that labour, by a concerted movement during the violent reaction against militarism which will probably follow the war, will forbid any further military or naval preparations to be made. whatever forms reconstruction may take, christianity will have its part to play in making the new europe. it will be able to point to the terrible vindication of its doctrines in the misery and ruin which have overtaken a world which has rejected its valuations and scorned its precepts. it is not christianity which has been judged and condemned at the bar of civilisation; it is civilisation which has destroyed itself because it has honoured christ with its lips, while its heart has been far from him. but a spiritual religion can win a victory only within its own sphere. it can promise no deuteronomic catalogue of blessings and cursings to those who obey or disobey its principles. social happiness and peace would certainly follow a whole-hearted acceptance of christian principles; but they would not certainly bring wealth or empire. 'philosophy,' said hegel, 'will bake no man's bread'; and it is only in a spiritual sense that the meek-spirited can expect to possess the earth. nevertheless, it is a mistake to suppose that a christian nation would be unable to hold its own in the struggle for existence. a nation in which every citizen endeavoured to pay his way and to help his neighbour would be in no danger of servitude or extinction. the mills of god grind slowly, but the future does not belong to lawless violence. in the long run, the wisdom that is from above will be justified in her children. survival and immortality ( ) the recrudescence of superstition in england was plain to all observers many years before the war; it was perhaps most noticeable among the half-educated rich. several causes contributed to this phenomenon. the craving for the supernatural, a very ancient and deeply rooted thought-habit, had been suppressed and driven underground by the arrogant dominance of a materialistic philosophy, and by the absorption of society in the pursuit of gain and pleasure. modern miracles were laughed out of court. but materialism has supernaturalism for its nemesis. an abstract science, erecting itself into a false philosophy, leaves half our nature unsatisfied, and becomes morally bankrupt before its intellectual errors are exposed. supernaturalism is the refuge of the materialist who wishes to make room for ideal values without abandoning the presuppositions of materialism. by dovetailing acts of god into the order of nature, he materialises the spiritual, but brings the divine will into the world of experience, from which it had been expelled, and produces a rough scheme of providential government, by which he can live. the revolt against scientific materialism was made much easier by the disintegration of the mechanical theory itself. biology found itself cramped by the categories of inorganic science, and claimed its autonomy. the result was a fatal breach in the defences of materialism, for biology is being driven to accept final causes, and would be glad to adopt some theory of vitalism, if it could do so without falling back into the old error of a mysterious 'vital force.' biological truth, it is plain, cannot be reduced to the purely quantitative categories of mathematics and physics. then psychology aspired to be a philosophy of real existence, and attacked both absolutism and materialism. the pretensions of psychology rehabilitated subjectivism and founded pragmatism, till reactionary theology took heart of grace and defended crude supernaturalism, with the whole apparatus of sacerdotal magic, as the 'gospel for human needs.' all protection against the grossest superstitions was thus swept away. with no fixed standard of reference to distinguish fact from fiction, it was possible to argue that 'whatever suits souls is true.' in this atmosphere many old habits of thought reasserted themselves. while we enjoyed peace and prosperity, the credulity of the public found its chief outlet in various systems of faith-healing and in the time-honoured pretensions of priest-craft. but the devastation which the war has brought into countless loving families has turned the current of superstition strongly towards necromancy. the 'will to believe,' no longer inhibited and suspected as a reason for doubt, has been allowed to create its own logic. a few highly educated men, who have long been playing with occultism and gratifying their intellectual curiosity by exploring the dark places of perverted mysticism, have been swept off their feet by it, and their authority, as 'men of science,' has dispelled the hesitation of many more to accept what they dearly wished to believe. the longing of the bereaved has created for itself a spurious and dreary satisfaction. one cause of this strange movement cannot be emphasised too strongly. it proves that the christian hope of immortality burns very dimly among us. those who study the utterances of our religious guides must admit that it is so. references to the future life had, before the war, become rare even in the pulpit. the topic was mainly reserved for letters of condolence, and was then handled gingerly, as if it would not bear much pressure. working-class audiences and congregations listened eagerly to the wildest promises of an earthly utopia the day after tomorrow, but cooled down at once when they were reminded that 'if in this life only we have hope in christ, we are of all men most miserable.' accordingly, the clerical demagogue showed more interest in the unemployed than in the unconverted. christianity, which began as a revolutionary idealism, had sunk into heralding materialistic revolution. such teachers have no message of hope and comfort for those who have lost their dearest. and they have, in fact, been deserted. their secularised christianity was received with half-contemptuous approval by trade unions, but far deeper hopes, fears, and longings have now been stirred, which concern all men and women alike, and on the answers to which the whole value of existence is now seen to depend. christianity can answer them, but not the churches through the mouths of their accredited representatives. and so, instead of 'the blessed hope of everlasting life,' the bereaved have been driven to this pathetic and miserable substitute, the barbaric belief in ghosts and dæmons, which was old before christianity was young. and what a starveling hope it is that necromancy offers us! an existence as poor and unsubstantial as that of homer's hades, which the shade of achilles would have been glad to exchange for serfdom to the poorest farmer, and with no guarantee of permanence, even if the power of comforting or terrifying surviving relations is supposed to persist for a few years. such a prospect would add a new terror to death; and none would desire it for himself. it is plainly the dream of an aching heart, which cannot bear to be left alone. but, it will be said, there is scientific evidence for survival. this claim is now made. cases are reported, with much parade of scientific language and method, and those who reject the stories with contemptuous incredulity are accused of mere prejudice. nevertheless, i cannot help being convinced that if communications between the dead and the living were part of the nature of things, they would have been established long ago beyond cavil. for there are few things which men have wished more eagerly to believe. it is no doubt just possible that among the vibrations of the fundamental ingredients of our world--those attenuated forms of matter which are said to be not even 'material,' there may be some which act as vehicles for psychical interchange. if such psychic waves exist, the discovery is wholly in favour of materialism. it would tend to rehabilitate those notions of spirit as the most rarefied form of matter--an ultra-gaseous condition of it--which stoicism and the christian stoic tertullian postulated. the meaning of 'god is spirit' could not be understood till this insidious residue of materialism had been got rid of. it is a retrograde theory which we are asked to re-examine and perhaps accept. the moment we are asked to accept 'scientific evidence' for spiritual truth, the alleged spiritual truth becomes for us neither spiritual nor true. it is degraded into an event in the phenomenal world, and when so degraded it cannot be substantiated. psychical research is trying to prove that eternal values are temporal facts, which they can never be. the case for necromancy is no better if we leave 'scientific proof' alone, and appeal to the relativist metaphysics of the psychological school. intercourse with the dead is, we are told, a real psychical experience, and we need not worry ourselves with the question whether it has any 'objective truth.' but we cannot allow psychology to have the last word in determining the truth or falsehood of religious or spiritual experience. the extravagant claims of this science to take the place of philosophy must be abated. psychology is the science which describes mental states, as physical science describes the behaviour of matter in motion. both are abstract sciences. physical science treats nature as the totality of things conceived of as independent of any subject; psychology treats inner experience as independent of any object. both are outside any idea of value, though it is needless to say that the votaries of both sciences trespass habitually, and often unconsciously. both are dualisms with one side ignored or suppressed. when psychology meddles with ontological problems--when, for instance it denies the existence of an absolute, or says that reality cannot be known--it is taking too much upon itself, and has fallen into the same error as the materialism of the last century. on such questions as the immortality of the soul it must remain silent. faith in human immortality stands or falls with the belief in _absolute values_. the interest of consciousness, as professor pringle-pattison has said in his admirable gifford lectures, lies in the ideal values of which it is the bearer, not in its mere existence as a more refined kind of fact. idealism is most satisfactorily defined as the interpretation of the world according to a scale of value, or, in plato's phrase, by the idea of the good. the highest values in this scale are absolute, eternal, and super-individual, and lower values are assigned their place in virtue of their correspondence to or participation in these absolute values. i agree with münsterberg that the conditional and subjective values of the pragmatist have no meaning unless we have acknowledged beforehand the independent value of truth. if the proof of the merely individual significance of truth has itself only individual importance, it cannot claim any general meaning. if, on the other hand, it demands to be taken as generally valid, the possibility of a general truth is acknowledged from the start. if this one exception is granted, the whole illusory universe of relativism is overthrown. to deny any thought which is more than relative is to deprive even scepticism itself of the presuppositions on which it rests. the logical sceptic has no _ego_ to doubt with. 'every doubt of absolute values destroys itself. as thought it contradicts itself; as doubt it denies itself; as belief it despairs of itself.' it is not necessary or desirable to follow münsterberg in identifying valuation with will. he talks of the will judging; but the will cannot judge. in contemplating existence we use our will to fix our attention, and then try conscientiously to prevent it from influencing the verdict. but this illegitimate use of the word 'will' does not impair the force of the argument for absolute values. now, valuation arranges experience in a different manner from natural science. the attributes of reality, in our world of values, are goodness, truth, and beauty. and we assert that we have as good reason to claim objective reality for these ideas as for anything in the world revealed to our senses. 'all claims on man's behalf,' says professor pringle-pattison, 'must be based on the objectivity of the values revealed in his experience, and brokenly realised there. man does not make values any more than he makes reality.' our contention is that the world of values, which forms the content of idealistic thought and aspiration, is the real world; and in this world we find our own immortality. but there could be no greater error than to leave the two worlds, or the two 'judgments,' that of existence and that of value, contrasted with each other, or treated as unrelated in our experience. a value-judgment which is not also a judgment of existence is in the air; it is the baseless fabric of a vision. existence is itself a value, and an ingredient in every valuation; that which has no existence has no value. and, on the other side, it is a delusion to suppose that any science can dispense with valuation. even mathematics admits that there is a right and a wrong way of solving a problem, though by confining itself to quantitative measurements it can assert no more than a hypothetical reality for its world. it is quite certain that we can think of no existing world without valuation. 'the ultimate identity of existence and value is the venture of faith to which mysticism and speculative idealism are committed.'[ ] it is indeed the presupposition of all philosophy and all religion; without this faith there can, properly speaking, be no belief in god. but the difference between naturalism and idealism may, i think, be better stated otherwise than by emphasising the contrast between existence and value, which it is impossible for either side to maintain. naturalism seeks to interpret the world by investigation of origins; idealism by investigation of ends. the one finds the explanation of evolution in that from which it started, the other in that to which it tends. the one explains the higher by the lower; the other the lower by the higher. this is a plain issue; either the world shows a teleology or it does not. if it does, the philosophy based on the inorganic sciences is wrong. and the attempt to explain the higher by the lower becomes mischievous or impossible when we pass from one _order_ to another. in speaking of different 'orders,' we do not commit ourselves to any sudden breaks or leaps in evolution. the organic may be linked to the inorganic, soul to the lower forms of life, spirit to soul. but whether the 'scale of perfection' is a ladder or an inclined plane, new categories are necessary as we ascend it. and unless we admit an inner teleology as a determining factor in growth, many facts even in physiology are hard to explain. if the basis of our faith in the world-order is the conviction that the ideas of the good, the true, and the beautiful are fully real and fully operative, we must try to form some clear notion of what these ideas mean, and how they are related to each other. the goal of truth, as an absolute value, is unity, which in the outer world means harmony, in the intercourse of spirit with spirit, love; and in the inner world, peace or happiness. the goal of goodness as an absolute value is the realisation of the ought-to-be in victorious moral effort. beauty is the self-recognition of creative spirit in its own works; it is the expression of nature's own deepest character. beauty gives neither information nor advice; but it satisfies a part of our nature which is not less divine than that which pays homage to truth and goodness. now, these absolute values are supra-temporal. if the soul were in time, no value could arise; for time is always hurling its own products into nothingness, and the present is an unextended point, dividing an unreal past from an unreal future. the soul is not in time; time is rather in the soul. values are eternal and indestructible. when plotinus says that 'nothing that really _is_ can ever perish' (hapolehitai ohyden thôn hontôn), and when höffding says that 'no value perishes out of the world,' they are saying the same thing. in so far as we can identify ourselves in thought and mind with the absolute values, we are sure of our immortality. but it will be said that in the first place this promise of immortality carries with it no guarantee of survival in time, and in the second place that it offers us, at last, only an impersonal immortality. let us take these two objections in turn, though they are in reality closely connected. we must not regard time as an external, inhuman, unconscious process. time is the frame of soul-life; outside this it has no existence. the entire cosmic process is the life-frame of the universal soul, the divine logos. with this life we are vitally connected, however brief and unimportant the span and the task of an individual career may seem to us. if my particular life-meaning passes out of activity, it will be because the larger life, to which i belong, no longer needs that form of expression. my death, like my birth, will have a teleological justification, to which my supra-temporal self will consent. when a good man's work in this world is done, when he is able to say, without forgetting his many failures, 'i have finished the work that thou gavest me to do,' surely his last word will be, 'lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace'; not, 'grant that i may flit for a while over my former home, and hear what is happening to my country and my family.' we may leave it to our misguided necromancers to describe the adventures of the disembodied ghost-- 'quo cursu deserta petiverit, et quibus ante infelix sua tecta supervolitaverit alis.' the most respectable motive which leads men to desire a continuance of active participation in the affairs of time is that which tennyson expresses in the often-quoted line, 'give her the wages of going on, and not to die.' we may feel that we have it in us to do more for god and our fellow-men than we shall be able to accomplish in this life, even if it be prolonged to old age. is not this a desire which we may prefer as a claim? and in any case, it is admitted that time is the form of the will. are we to have no more will after death? further, is our probation over when we die? what is to be the fate of that large majority who, so far as we can see, are equally undeserving of heaven and of hell? to these questions no answer is possible, because we are confronted with a blank wall of ignorance. we do not know whether there will be any future probation. we do not know whether robert browning's expectation of 'other tasks in other lives, god willing,' will be fulfilled. 'and i shall thereupon take rest, ere i be gone once more on my adventure brave and new.' the question here raised is whether there is such a thing as reincarnation. this belief, so widely held at all times by eminent thinkers, and sanctioned by some of the higher religions, cannot be dismissed as obsolete or impossible. but if it is put in the form, 'will the same self live again on earth under different conditions?' it may be that no answer can be given, not only because we do not know, but because the question itself is meaningless. the psycho-physical organism which was born at a certain date and which will die on another date is compacted of idiosyncrasies, inherited and acquired, which seem to be inseparable from its history as born of certain parents and living under certain conditions. it is not easy to say what part of such an organism could be said to maintain its identity, if it were housed in another body and set down in another time and place, when all recollection of a previous state has been (as we must admit) cut off. the only continuity, it seems to me, would be that of the racial self, if there is such a thing, or of the directing intelligence and will of the higher power which sends human beings into the world to perform their allotted tasks. the second objection, which, as i have said, is closely connected with the first, is that idealism offers us a merely impersonal immortality. but what is personality? the notion of a world of spiritual atoms, '_solida pollentia simplicitate_,' as lucretius says, seems to be attractive to some minds. there are thinkers of repute who even picture the deity as the constitutional president of a _collegium_ of souls. this kind of pluralism is of course fundamentally incompatible with the presuppositions of my paper. the idea of the 'self' seems to me to be an arbitrary fixation of our average state of mind, a half-way house which belongs to no order of real existence. the conception of an abstract ego seems to involve three assumptions, none of which is true. the first is that there is a sharp line separating subject from object and from other subjects. the second is that the subject, thus sundered from the object, remains identical through time. the third is that this indiscerptible entity is in some mysterious way both myself and my property. in opposition to the first, i maintain that the foci of consciousness flow freely into each other even on the psychical plane, while in the eternal world there are probably no barriers at all. in opposition to the second, it is certain that the empirical self is by no means identical throughout, and that the spiritual life, in which we may be said to attain real personality for the first time, is only 'ours' potentially. in opposition to the third, i repeat that the question whether it is 'my' soul that will live in the eternal world seems to have no meaning at all. in philosophy as in religion, we had better follow the advice of the theologia germanica and banish, as far as possible, the words 'me and mine' from our vocabulary. for personality is not something given to start with. it does not belong to the world of claims and counter-claims in which we chiefly live. we must be willing to lose our soul on this level of experience, before we can find it unto life eternal. personality is a teleological fact; it is here in the making, elsewhere in fact and power. so in the case of our friends. the man whom we love is not the changing psycho-physical organism; it is the christ in him that we love, the perfect man who is struggling into existence in his life and growth. if we ask what a man is, the answer may be either, 'he is what he loves,' or 'he is what he is worth.' the two are not very different. thus i cannot agree with keyserling, who in criticising this type of thought (with which, none the less, he has great sympathy) says that 'mysticism, whether it likes it or not, ends in an impersonal immortality.' for impersonality is a purely negative conception, like timelessness. what is negated in 'timelessness' is not the reality of the present, but the unreality of the past and future. so the 'impersonality' which is here (not without warrant from the mystics themselves) said to belong to eternal life is really the liberation of the idea of personality. personality is allowed to expand as far as it can, and only so can it come into its own. when keyserling adds, 'the instinct of immortality really affirms that the individual is not ultimate,' i entirely agree with him. the question, however, is not whether in heaven the circumference of the soul's life is indefinitely enlarged, but whether the centre remains. these centres are centres of consciousness; and consciousness apparently belongs to the world of will. it comes into existence when the will has some work to do. it is not conterminous with life; there is a life which is below consciousness, and there may be a life above consciousness, or what we mean by consciousness. we must remind ourselves that we are using a spatial metaphor when we speak of a centre of consciousness, and a temporal one when we ask about a continuing state of consciousness; and space and time do not belong to the eternal world. the question therefore needs to be transformed before any answer can be given to it. spiritual life, we are justified in saying, must have a richness of content; it is, potentially at least, all embracing. but this enhancement of life is exhibited not only in extension but in intensity. eternal life is no diffusion or dilution of personality, but its consummation. it seems certain that in such a state of existence individuality must be maintained. if every life in this world represents an unique purpose in the divine mind, and if the end or meaning of soul-life, though striven for in time, has both its source and its achievement in eternity, this, the value and reality of the individual life, must remain as a distinct fact in the spiritual world. we are sometimes inclined to think, with a natural regret, that the conditions of life in the eternal world are so utterly unlike those of the world which we know, that we must either leave our mental picture of that life in the barest outline, or fill it in with the colours which we know on earth, but which, as we are well aware, cannot portray truly the life of blessed spirits. to some extent this is true; and whereas a bare and colourless sketch of the richest of all facts is as far from the truth as possible, we may allow ourselves to fill in the picture as best we can, if we remember the risks which we run in doing so. there are, it seems to me, two chief risks in allowing our imagination to create images of the bliss of heaven. one is that the eternal world, thus drawn and painted with the forms and colours of earth, takes substance in our minds as a second physical world, either supposed to exist somewhere in space, or expected to come into existence somewhen in time. this is the heaven of popular religion; and being a geographical or historical expression, it is open to attacks which cannot be met. hence in the minds of many persons the whole fact of human immortality seems to belong to dreamland. the other danger is that, since a geographical and historical heaven is found to have no actuality, the hope of eternal life, with all that the spiritual world contains, should be relegated to the sphere of the 'ideal.' this seems to be the position of höffding, and is quite clearly the view of thinkers like santayana. they accept the dualism of value and existence, and place the highest hopes of humanity in a world which has value only and no existence. this seems to me to be offering mankind a stone for bread. martineau's protest against this philosophy is surely justified: 'amid all the sickly talk about "ideals," it is well to remember that as long as they are a mere self-painting of the yearning spirit, they have no more solidity than floating air-bubbles, gay in the sunshine and broken by the passing wind. you do not so much as touch the threshold of religion, so long as you are detained by the phantoms of your thought; the very gate of entrance to religion, the moment of its new birth, is the discovery that your gleaming ideal is the everlasting real.'[ ] but though our knowledge of the eternal world is much less than we could desire, it is much greater than many thinkers allow. we are by no means shut off from realisation and possession of the eternal values while we live here. we are not confined to local and temporal experience. we know what truth and beauty mean, not only for ourselves but for all souls throughout the universe, and for god himself. above all, we know what love means. now love, which is the realisation in experience of spiritual existence, has an unique value as a hierophant of the highest mysteries. and love guarantees personality, for it needs what has been called _otherness_. in all love there must be a subject and an object, and a bond between them which transcends without annulling their separateness. what this means for personal immortality has been seen by many great minds. as an example i will quote from plotinus' picture of life in the spiritual world. this writer is certainly not inclined to overestimate the claims of separate individuality, and he is under no obligation to make his doctrine conform to the dogmas of any creed. 'spirits yonder see themselves in others. for there all things are transparent, and there is nothing dark or resisting, but everyone is manifest to everyone internally, and all things are manifest; for light is manifest to light. for everyone has all things in himself and sees all things in another, so that all things are everywhere and all is all and each is all, and infinite the glory.'[ ] this eternal world is about us and within us while we live here. 'heaven is nearer to our souls than the earth is to our bodies.' the world which we ordinarily think of as real is an arbitrary selection from experience, corresponding roughly to the average reaction of life upon the average man. some values, such as existence, persistence, and rationality, are assumed to be 'real'; others are relegated to the 'ideal' under the influence of natural science, special emphasis is laid on those values with which that science is engaged. but our world changes with us. it rises as we rise, and falls as we fall. it puts on immortality as we do. 'such as men themselves are, such will god appear to them to be.'[ ] spinoza rightly says that all true knowledge takes place _sub specie æternitatis_. for the pneymatikost the whole of life is spiritual, and, as eucken says, he recognises the whole of the spiritual life as his own life-being. he learns, as plotinus declares in a profound sentence, that 'all things that are yonder are also here below.' is it then the conclusion of the whole matter that eternal life is merely the true reading of temporal life? is earth, when seen with purged vision, not merely the shadow of heaven, but heaven itself? if we could fuse past, present, and future into a _totum simul_, an 'eternal now,' would that be eternity? this i do not believe. a full understanding of the values of our life in time would indeed give us a good _picture_ of the eternal world; but that world itself, the abode of god and of blessed spirits, is a state higher and purer than can be fully expressed in the order of nature. the _perpetuity_ of natural laws as they operate through endless ages is only a platonic 'image' of eternity. that all values are perpetual is true; but they are something more than perpetual: they are eternal. these laws are the creative forces which shape our lives from within; but all the creatures, as st. augustine says in a well-known passage, declare their inferiority to their creator. 'we are lower than he, for he made us.' scholastic theologians interposed an intermediary which they called _ævum_ between time and eternity. _Ævum_ is perpetuity, which they rightly distinguished from true eternity. christianity is philosophically right in insisting that our true home, our _patria_, is 'not here.' nor is it in any place: it is with god,'whose centre is everywhere and his circumference nowhere.' there remaineth a rest for the people of god, when their warfare on earth is accomplished. a christian must feel that the absence of any clear revelation about a _future_ state is an indication that we are not meant to make it a principal subject of our thoughts. on the other hand, the more we think about the eternal values the happier we shall be. as spinoza says, 'love directed towards the eternal and infinite fills the mind with pure joy, and is free from all sadness. wherefore it is greatly to be desired, and sought after with our whole might.' but he also says, and i think wisely, that there are few subjects on which the 'free' man will ponder less often, than on death. the end of life is as right and natural as its beginning; we must not rebel against the common lot, either for ourselves or for our friends. we are to live in the present though not for the present. the two lines of goethe which lewis nettleship was so fond of quoting convey a valuable lesson: 'nur we du bist, sei alles, immer kindlich: so bist du alles, bist unüberwindlich.' 'death does not count,' as nettleship used to say; and he met his own fate on the alps with a cheerfulness which showed that he believed it. the craving for mere survival, no matter under what conditions, is natural to some persons, and those who have it not must not claim any superiority over those who shudder at the idea of resigning this 'pleasing, anxious being.' some brave and loyal men, like samuel johnson, have feared death all their lives long; while others, even when fortune smiles upon them, 'have a desire to depart and to be with christ, which is far better.' but the longing for survival, and the anxious search for evidence which may satisfy it, have undoubtedly the effect of binding us to earth and earthly conditions; they come between us and faith in true immortality. they cannot restore to us what death takes away. they cannot lay the spectre which made claudio a craven. 'ay, but to die and go we know not where; to lie in cold obstruction and to rot; this sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit to bathe in fiery floods, or to reside in thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; to be imprisoned in the viewless winds, and blown with restless violence round about the pendent world; or to be worse than worst of those that lawless and uncertain thoughts imagine howling! 'tis too horrible! the weariest and most loathed earthly life that age, ache, penury, and imprisonment can lay on nature, is a paradise to what we fear of death.' we know now, if we did not know it three years ago, that the average man can face death, and does face it in the majority of cases, with a serenity which would be incomprehensible if he did not know in his heart of hearts that it does not matter much. he may have no articulated faith in immortality, but, like spinoza, he has 'felt and experienced that he is eternal.' perhaps he only says to himself, 'who dies if england lives?' but the england that lives is his own larger self, the life that is more his own life than the beating of his heart, which a bullet may still for ever. and if the exaltation of noble patriotism can 'abolish death, and bring life and immortality to light' for almost any unthinking lad from our factories and hedgerows, should not religion be able to do as much for us all? and may it not be that some touch of heroic self-abnegation is necessary before we can have a soul which death cannot touch? when christ said that those who are willing to lose their souls shall save them, is not this what he meant? we must accustom ourselves to breathe the air of the eternal values, if we desire to live for ever. and a strong faith is not curious about details. 'beloved, now are we sons of god; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be. but we know that when he is made manifest we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.' footnotes: [ ] quoted by professor pringle-pattison from an article by me in the _times_ literary supplement. [ ] _study of religion_, vol. i. . [ ] _ennead_, v. , . [ ] from john smith, the cambridge platonist. the end mountain meditations and some subjects of the day and the war _by_ l. lind-af-hageby author of "august strindberg: the spirit of revolt" [illustration: publisher's device] london: george allen & unwin ltd. ruskin house museum street, w.c. _first published in _ (_all rights reserved_) contents page mountain-tops the borderland reformers nationality religion in transition mountain-tops frères de l'aigle! aimez la montagne sauvage! surtout à ces moments où vient un vent d'orage. victor hugo. i belong to the great and mystic brotherhood of mountain worshippers. we are a motley crowd drawn from all lands and all ages, and we are certainly a peculiar people. the sight and smell of the mountain affect us like nothing else on earth. in some of us they arouse excessive physical energy and lust of conquest in a manner not unlike that which suggests itself to the terrier at the sight of a rat. we must master the heights above, and we become slaves to the climbing impulse, itinerant purveyors of untold energy, marking the events of our lives on peaks and passes. we may merit to the full ruskin's scathing indictment of those who look upon the alps as soaped poles in a bear-garden which we set ourselves "to climb and slide down again with shrieks of delight," we may become top-fanatics and record-breakers, "red with cutaneous eruption of conceit," but we are happy with a happiness which passeth the understanding of the poor people in the plains. others experience no acceleration of physical energy, but a strange rousing of all their mental faculties. prosaic, they become poetical--the poetry may be unutterable, but it is there; commonplace, they become eccentric; severely practical, they become dreamers and loiterers upon the hillside. the sea, the wood, the meadow cannot compete with the mountain in egging on the mind of man to incredible efforts of expression. the songs, the rhapsodies, the poems, the æsthetic ravings of mountain worshippers have a dionysian flavour which no other scenery can impart. yesterday i left the turmoil of a conference in geneva and reached home amongst my delectable mountains. i took train for the foot of the hills and climbed for many hours through drifts of snow. this morning i have been deliciously mad. first i greeted the sun from my open chalet window as it rose over the range on my left and lit up the great glacier before me, throwing the distant hills into a glorious dream-world of blue and purple. then i plunged into the huge drifts of clean snow which the wind had piled up outside my door. i laughed with joy as i breathed the pure air, laden with the scent of pines and the diamond-dust of snow. i never was more alive, the earth was never more beautiful, the heavens were never nearer than they are to-day. who says we are prisoners of darkness? who says we are puppets of the devil? who says god must only be worshipped in creeds and churches? here are the glories of the mountains, beauty divine, peace perfect, power unfathomable, love inexhaustible, a never failing source of hope and light for our struggling human race. i am vaguely aware of the unreasonableness of my delirium of mountain joy, but i revel in it. and i sing with sir lewis morris-- more it is than ease, palace and pomp, honours and luxuries, to have seen white presences upon the hills, to have heard the voices of the eternal gods. the emotions engendered by mountain scenery defy analysis. they may be classified and labelled, but not explained. i turn to my library of books by mountain-lovers--climbers, artists, poets, scientists. though we are solitaries in our communion with the deity, though we worship in great spaces of solitude and silence and seek rejuvenescence in utter human loneliness, we do not despise counsels of sympathy and approval. the strife rewarded, the ascent accomplished, we are profoundly grateful for the yodel of human fellowship. and--let me whisper it in confidence--we do not despise the cooking-pots. for the mountains have a curious way of lifting you up to the uttermost confines of the spirit and then letting you down to the lowest dominions of the flesh. "examine the nature of your own emotion (if you feel it) at the sight of the alps," says ruskin, "and you find all the brightness of that emotion hanging like dew on a gossamer, on a curious web of subtle fancy and imperfect knowledge." such a result of our examination would but add to our confusion. ruskin's mind was so permeated with adoration of mountain scenery that his attempts at cool analysis of his own sensations failed, as would those of a priest who, worshipping before the altar, tried at the same time to give an analytical account of his state of mind. ruskin is the stern high priest of the worshippers of mountains; to him they are cathedrals designed by their glory and their gloom to lift humanity out of its baser self into the realization of high destinies. the fourth volume of _modern painters_ was the fount of inspiration from which leslie stephen and the early members of the alpine club drank their first draughts of mountaineering enthusiasm. but the disciples never reached the heights of the teacher. listen to the exposition by the master of the services appointed to the hills: "to fill the thirst of the human heart for the beauty of god's working--to startle its lethargy with a deep and pure agitation of astonishment--are their higher missions. they are as a great and noble architecture, first giving shelter, comfort, and rest; and covered also with mighty sculpture and painted legend." there is a solemn stateliness about ruskin's descriptions of the mountains, which in the last passage of the chapter on _the mountain gloom_ rises to the impassioned cadences of the prophet. he could tolerate no irreverent spirits in the sanctuary of the mountain. leslie stephen's remark that the alps were improved by tobacco smoke became a profanity. one shudders at the thought of the reprimand which stevenson would have drawn down upon himself had his flippant messages from the alps come before that austere critic. in a letter to charles baxter, stevenson complained of how "rotten" he had been feeling "alone with my weasel-dog and my german maid, on the top of a hill here, heavy mist and thin snow all about me and the devil to pay in general." and worse still are the lines sent to a friend-- figure me to yourself, i pray-- a man of my peculiar cut-- apart from dancing and deray, into an alpine valley shut; shut in a kind of damned hotel, discountenanced by god and man; the food?--sir, you would do as well to cram your belly full of bran. the soul of ruskin was born and fashioned for the mountains. his first visit to switzerland in brought him to "the gates of the hills--opening for me a new life--to cease no more except at the gates of the hills whence one returns not. it is not possible to imagine," he adds of his first sight of the alps, "in any time of the world a more blessed entrance into life for a child of such temperament as mine.... i went down that evening from the garden terrace of schaffhausen with my devotion fixed in all of it that was to be sacred and useful."[ ] [footnote : _life of ruskin_, by sir edward cooke (george allen and unwin ltd.).] that profound stirring of the depths of the soul which ruskin avowed as the impetus to his life's work is only possible when the mind is fired by a devotion to the mountains which brooks no rival. "for, to myself, mountains are the beginning and the end of all natural scenery," he wrote in _the mountain glory_; "in them, and in the forms of inferior landscape that lead to them, my affections are wholly bound up." and he completely and forever reversed dante's dismal conception of scenery befitting souls in purgatory by saying that "the best image which the world can give of paradise is in the slope of the meadows, orchards, and cornfields on the sides of a great alp, with its purple rocks and eternal snows above." no lover of mountains has approached ruskin in intensity of veneration. emile javelle is not far away. javelle climbed as by a religious impulse; his imagination was filled by alpine shapes; he, like ruskin, had forfeited his heart to the invisible snow-maiden that dwells above the clouds. when javelle was a child his uncle showed him a collection of plants, and amongst them the "androsace ... rochers du mont blanc." this roused the desire to climb; the faded bit of moss with the portion of earth still clinging to the roots became a sacred relic beckoning him to the shrine of the white mountain. in the same way ruskin, mature and didactic, yet withal so beautifully childlike, tells us "that a wild bit of ferny ground under a fir or two, looking as if possibly one might see a hill if one got to the other side, will instantly give me intense delight because the shadow, the hope of the hills is in them." both lovers showed the same disdain of the mere climber. javelle's alpine memories record his sense of aloofness from the general type of member of the alpine club. whilst ruskin's communion with the mountains found an outlet in prolific literary output, and a system of art and ethics destined to leaven the mass of human thought, the infinitude and grandeur of mountain scenery had a dispersive effect on javelle's mind. i can so well understand him. he wandered over the chain of valais--my mountains (each worshipper has his special idols)--the dent du midi, the vaudois alps, and the bernese oberland in search of beauty, more and more beauty. he ascended peak after peak, attracted by an irresistible force, permeated by a desire for new points of view, forgetful of the haunts of men. and when, between times, javelle tried to write a book, a great and learned book on rhetoric, he could never finish it. for seven years he laboured at preparing it, collecting notes, seeking corroborative evidence. his alpine climbing had taught him the elusiveness of isolated peaks of knowledge. he saw that rhetoric is dependent on æsthetics and æsthetics on psychology and sociology and philosophy, and all on anthropology; that there are no frontiers and no finality and no knowledge which is not relative and imperfect. it was all a question of different tops and points of view, and so the book was not finished when he died, still in search of the super-mountain of the widest and largest view, still crying out his motto, "onward, higher and higher still! you must reach the top!" beware, o fellow mountaineers, of such ambitions. for that way madness lies. i know the lure and the shock. as i write this i sit gazing across the valley upon the mountain on my right. it is known by the name of the black head; it has a sombre shape, it has never been known to smile. it towers above me with a cone-shaped top, a figure of might and dominion. for a dozen years it has checked my tendency to idealistic flights by reminding me of the inexorable laws of nature. it is true it does not conceal the smiling glacier in front of me, with its ceaseless play of light and shadow, colour and form, but it arrests the fancy by its massive immovability. and yet, when i leave my little abode of bliss and wander forth into the heights above (ah, humiliation that there should be heights above), i find my black top subjected to a process of shrinking. as i reach the top it ignominiously permits itself to be flattened out to a mere ridge without a head, a lilliputian hill bemoaning its own insignificance. such are the illusions of the mountain play. yet the climb and the heights have ever served man as a symbol of the search for certainty. lecky invokes the heights as the only safe place from which to view history and discover the great permanent forces through which nations are moved to improvement or decay. schopenhauer compares philosophy to an alpine road, often bringing the wanderer to the edge of the chasm, but rewarding him as he ascends with oblivion of the discords and irregularities of the world. nietzsche's wisdom becomes pregnant upon lonely mountains; he claims that whosoever seeks to enter into this wisdom "must be accustomed to live on mountain-tops and see beneath him the wretched ephemeral gossip of politics and national egoism." but the mountain-tops make sport of the certainties of philosophers as well as of those of fools. the safest plan is to ascend them without too heavy an encumbrance of theories. you may then meet fairies and goblins who beckon you to the caves of mystery, you may stray into the hills of arcadia and meet pan himself. "sweet the piping of him who sat upon the rocks and fluted to the morning sea." you may even find yourself on olympus, the mount of a thousand folds, listening to the everlasting assault upon the gods by the titans, sons of strife. and if you are very patient you may witness zeus, the lightning-gatherer, pierce the black clouds and rend the sky, illuminating hill and vale with the fierce light which makes even the battle of troy intelligible. you may bathe your soul in that natura maligna which only reveals its blessings to pagans and poets. byron is the chosen bard of the destructive might of the mountains-- ye toppling crags of ice! ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down in mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me! . . . . . the mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell, whose every wave breaks on a living shore, heaped with the damned like pebbles. he had the nature-mystic's thirst for a touch of the untamed power of nature, for communion with the magnificence of death, shaking the mountain with wind and falling snow, with leaping rock and earth-eating torrent. such would fain die that they may experience the joys of being possessed by nature. for they have entered on the marriage of life and death, heaven and hell, and out of the roaring cataclysm of destruction they rise winged with a new life. whilst the poets chant the awful power of the distant mountain, byron comes to us out of the mountain, fashioned by its force, intoxicated by the wine of its wild life. mountain climbers meet with strange and unexpected bedfellows in the course of their wanderings. in his cry for the baptism of the wild winds of the mountain, matthew arnold approaches byron closely-- ye storm-winds of autumn . . . . . ye are bound for the mountains-- ah, with you let me go . . . . . hark! fast by the window the rushing winds go, to the ice-cumber'd gorges, the vast seas of snow. there the torrents drive upward their rock-strangled hum, there the avalanche thunders the hoarse torrent dumb. --i come, o ye mountains! ye torrents, i come! shelley sings exquisitely of its grandeur, its ceaseless motion; he voices the wonderment of man before the complex problem of mont blanc. but his mind has never participated in the revels on the mountain, he has not lost and barely recovered his soul in adventurous crevasses. he retains something of the old horror of the desolate heights-- a desert peopled by the storms alone, save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, and the wolf tracks her there. how hideously, its shapes are heaped around! rude, bare, and high, ghastly, and scarred, and riven.--is this the scene where the old earthquake-dæmon taught her young ruin? there is a trace of the same awe in coleridge's deathless hymn to mont blanc-- on thy bald, awful head, o sovran blanc, . . . . . o dread and silent mount! nearly all the poets have been moved by the primitive sense of their awe-commanding power. wordsworth never forgets the blackness, though he is, above all, the bard of mountain light and sweetness, of warbling birds and maiden's haycocks. the poet does not lose the blessed gift of wonder possessed by children and savages. and nothing in nature can startle the mind like the sight of a mighty range of mountains. they recall primitive feelings of fear before the great unknown, they tower above the human form with a colossal imperturbability which withers our importance and confuses our standards of value. victor hugo never quite freed himself from the mediæval dread of the mountains or the mediæval speculation on their meaning. his letters to his wife from the alps and pyrenees record his impressions with a painstaking and detailed accuracy which does not forget the black-and-yellow spider performing somersaults on an imperceptible thread hung from one brier to another. the emotion after an hour on the rigi-kulm "is immense." "the tourist comes here to get a point of view; the thinker finds here an immense book in which each rock is a letter, each lake is a phrase, each village is an accent; from it arise, like a smoke, two thousand years of memories." here speaks the true panoramic man, the man whose mind attains to fulness of expression on mountain-tops from which the whole landscape of life may be contemplated. and yet he notes the "ominous configuration of mount pilatus" and its terrible form, and writes of adjoining mountains as "these hump-backed, goitred giants crouching around me in the darkness." the rigi appears as "a dark and monstrous perpendicular wall." his mind is occupied with the presence of idiots in the alps. he finds an explanation: "it is not granted to all intelligences to co-habit with such marvels and to keep from morning till evening without intoxication and without stupor, turning a visual radius of fifty leagues across the earth around a circumference of three hundred." on the rigi his musings on the magnificence of the view are checked by the presence of a cretin. behold the contrast! an idiot with a goitre and an enormous face, a blank stare, and a stupid laugh is sole participator with victor hugo in this "marvellous festival of the mountains." "oh! abysm!" he cries; "the alps were the spectacle, the spectator was an idiot! i forgot myself in this frightful antithesis: man face to face with nature; nature in her superbest aspect, man in his most miserable debasement. what could be the significance of this mysterious contrast? what was the sense of this irony in a solitude? have i the right to believe that the landscape was designed for him--the cretin, and the irony for me--the chance visitor?" the idiot and the mountain shared, no doubt, a supreme indifference to the commotion which their proximity had set up in the poet's mind. with his love of antithesis hugo had seized the picture of the glories of the mountain wasting themselves before the gaze of the senseless idiot. apart from geographical conditions and hygienic defects there is an interesting æsthetic problem connected with the presence of idiots in the mountains. it is not only the idiot who is indifferent to the beauties of the alps; the sane and healthy peasant whose eyes wander over the glaciers and snow-fields as he rests for a few minutes from hoeing his potatoes is not moved by the sight to ecstatic delight. i have many dear friends amongst peasants. they are richly endowed with common sense and kindness of heart; their brains can compete favourably with those of the folk of any other country. their hard struggle with a rebellious soil has given them a quiet determination and tenacity of purpose which are the root of alpine enterprise and resourcefulness. they possess character and independence in a high degree--mental reflexes of the peaks of freedom, ever before their eyes. but they, children of the mountain, born and bred amidst its beauties, are surprisingly insensitive to beauty. i remember one exquisite sunset--one of those superlative sunsets that burn themselves into the consciousness with a joy akin to pain, and of which only a few are allotted to each human life. i stood watching the sinking sun throw a crimson net over the snow mountains as the shadow of night crept slowly up the hillside. the sky took on an opal light in which were merged and transcended all the colours of the day. every pinnacle and rock was lit up as by a heavenly fire, the pines were outlined like black sentinels against the sky, guardians of that merciful green life from which we spring and to which we return. my old friend the goat-herd and daily messenger from the highest pastures stood beside me. "beautiful, pierre," i said, "and in this you have lived all your life." "yes," he said, slowly shifting the pipe from the left side of his mouth to the right; "the cheese is fat and good in the mountains, and the milk is not poisonous as it is in the plains, but it is hard work for the back to carry it down twice a day." he looked at me as if searching for better understanding. "but i will tell you something nice," he added, by way of stirring up my sluggish imagination; "the little brown cow has calved, and this autumn we are going to kill the old cow, and we shall have good meat all the winter." far be it from me to join in the thoughtless generalizations about the obtuseness of the alpine peasant which have disfigured some of the literature of climbing. these climbers have shown infinitely greater obtuseness before alpine realities than the peasants derided by them. true, a star may compete in vain with a cheese in suggesting visions of joy, but our supercilious climbers forget that their admiration of nature's marvels is generally built up on a substratum of cheese--or the equivalent of cheese--plentifully supplied by the labour of others. there is another class of climbers who idealize the peasant and the guide, and who write of alpine peasant-life as if it were nothing but a series of perilous ascents nobly undertaken for the advancement of humanity. i can understand the indifference of the peasant to the visions around him. after a hard day's scything or woodcutting on slopes so steep that the resistance of one's hob-nailed boots seems like that of soft soap, i have felt profoundly healthy and ready to go to bed without listening to any lyrics on the alps. and even the thought of tennyson's "awful rose of dawn" would not have roused me before the labour of the next day. but we--how proud i am of that "we"!--who have chosen hard labour on the mountain know something which the mere visitors (though they be members of many alpine clubs) know not. we have a sense of home which no other habitation can impart--a passionate love of the soil, a unity with the little patch that is our own, bringing joys undimmed by any descriptions of other-worldly possessions. our trees may be wrecked by an avalanche, our garden plot may be obliterated by a land slip; the stone walls we build up in defiance of the snow are always pulled down by mountain sprites. our agriculture is precarious, and every carrot is bought by the sweat of our brow. the struggle keeps pace with our love--there is a tenfold sweetness in the fruit we reap. and when fate compels us to leave our mountains we are pursued by restlessness. we know no peace, no home elsewhere. we do assume the airs of victor hugo's cretin when we are placed face to face with the riches of croesus or the splendours of pharaoh. we must reluctantly admit that the phenomenon of cold indifference to mountain scenery may occur without any corresponding degree of idiocy. in the _playground of europe_, leslie stephen told us that a man who preserves a stolid indifference in face of mountain beauty must be of the "essentially pachydermatous order." he commented at length on the peculiar temperament of those who have expressed dislike of his perfect playground--chateaubriand, johnson, addison, bishop berkeley. bishop berkeley, who crossed mont cenis on new year's day , complained that he was "put out of humour by the most horrible precipices." there is huge comfort to be drawn from stephen's pages descriptive of the "simple-minded abhorrence of mountains," and from his categorical declaration that love of the sublime shapes of the alps springs from "a delicate and cultivated taste." but we are puzzled by the presence outside the pale of some who cannot rightly be called "pachydermatous." i am turning over the pages of sarah bernhardt's autobiographical revelations. "i adore the sea and the plain," she writes, "but i neither care for mountains nor for forests. mountains seem to crush me, and forests to stifle me." strange that the high priestess of expression, the interpreter of every phase of human passion and sorrow, she who dies terribly twice a day, and mercilessly conducts us to the attenuated air and dizzy heights of intense emotion, should feel no kinship with the mountains. it may be that they are antagonistic to the fine arts of simulation and will brook no companionship of feeling that is not real. and her stage-worn heart is certainly not in alliance with fiona macleod's _lonely hunter_. but my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill. we might assume that the traditional wildness of the great tragedienne would have found a chord of sympathy in the avalanche or in the fierce torrent breaking over the rocks. rousseau's hysteria and wild assaults on the conventions of society and literature have been traced to the mountains. lord morley emphasizes that rousseau "required torrents, rocks, dark forests, mountains, and precipices," and that no plains, however beautiful, ever seemed so in his eyes. there is naturally a complete divergence of opinion between lovers and haters of mountains as to their effect on the literary mind. we like to associate peaks of genius with peaks of granite. ruskin found fault with shakespeare's lack of impression from a more sublime country as shown by the sacrilegious lines-- rush on his host, as doth the melted snow upon the valleys whose low vassal seat the alps doth spit, and void his rheum upon. there are anomalies in the capacity for æsthetic enjoyment of mountain scenery which exclude some minds which we should expect to find amongst the devotees and include others for whom we might look amongst the scoffers. dickens was profoundly affected by the mountain-presence. his letters show the true rapture. of the scenery of the st. gothard he writes: "oh god! what a beautiful country it is. how poor and shrunken, beside it, is italy in its brightest aspect!" he sees "places of terrible grandeur unsurpassable, i should imagine, in the world." going up the col de balme, he finds the wonders "above and beyond one's wildest expectations." he cannot imagine anything in nature "more stupendous or sublime." his impressions are so prodigious that he would rave were he to write about them. at the hospice of the great st. bernard he awakes, believing for a moment that he had "died in the night and passed into the unknown world." tyndall's scientific ballast cannot keep him from soaring in a similar manner. his _glaciers of the alps_ contains some highly strung sentences of delight. "surely," he writes of sunset seen near the jungfrau, "if beauty be an object of worship, these glorious mountains with rounded shoulders of the purest white, snow-crested, and star-gemmed, were well calculated to excite sentiments of adoration." his wealth of words increases with the splendour of the views in which he revels; he becomes a poet in prose, he calls up symbol and simile, he strains language to express the inexpressible. the sky of the mountain is "rosy violet," which blends with "the deep zenithal blue"; it wears "a strange and supernatural air"; he sees clear spaces of amber and ethereal green; the blue light in the cave of the glacier presents an aspect of "magical beauty." there is true worship of the idol in the following lines descriptive of sunrise on mont blanc: the mountain rose for a time cold and grand, with no apparent stain upon his snows. suddenly the sunbeams struck his crown and converted it into a boss of gold. for some time it remained the only gilded summit in view, holding communion with the dawn, while all the others waited in silence. these, in the order of their heights, came afterwards, relaxing, as the sunbeams struck each in succession, into a blush and smile. tyndall holds the mastership of polychromatic description of the beauties of the mountain; he makes us feel his own response to their call to the depths of æsthetic perception in the human soul. words gush forth from him in a fervour of gratitude for the pleasures of the eye. he may measure and weigh, he may set out as an emissary of cold scientific investigation: he returns hot with admiration and raving of the marvels of god upon the hills. but even he reaches a point where the realization of the utter inadequacy of expression paralyses the desire to convey the emotion to others. "i was absolutely struck dumb by the extraordinary majesty of this scene," he writes of one evening, "and watched it silently till the red light faded from the highest summits." verestchagin astonished his wife by painting his studies of snow in the himalayas at an altitude of , feet, tormented by hunger and thirst and supported by two coolies, who held him on each side. she had the pluck and the endurance to follow him on his long climbs, but being a less exalted mortal, her sense of fitness was unduly strained by the intensity of verestchagin's devotion to clouds and mountain-tops. "his face is so frightfully swollen," she tells us, "that his eyes look merely like two wrinkles, the sun scorches his head, his hand can scarcely hold the palette, and yet he insists on finishing his sketches. i cannot imagine," she reflects, "how verestchagin could make such studies." there were, nevertheless, occasions when the inaction, following on intense æsthetic emotion, stayed verestchagin's busy brush. one day, relates madame verestchagin, he went out to sketch the sunset: he prepared his palette, but the sight was so beautiful that he waited in order to examine it better. several thousand feet below us all was wrapped in a pure blue shadow; the summits of the peaks were resplendent in purple flames. verestchagin waited and waited and would not begin his sketch. "by and by, by and by," said he; "i want to look at it still; it is splendid!" he continued to wait, he waited until the end of the evening--until the sun was set and the mountains were enveloped in dark shadows. then he shut up his paint-box and returned home. as i read these lines i find myself wondering how many paint-boxes have been shut up by the sight of the mountains. i know many have been opened, and, amongst these, not a few which might have served humanity better by remaining shut. but we may safely assume that despite the general tendency of mountain worshippers to attempt to paint--in colours strong and language divine--the effect on their minds, there are exceptional instances of noble and self-imposed dumbness. not the dumbness which is practising the old device of-- reculer pour mieux sauter, but a genuine silence of humility before the mysteries of nature. we sigh in vain for a glimpse of these exceptional souls. they resist our best climbing qualifications and are as inaccessible as the mists above our highest tops. and we prefer, naturally, our talking companions, those who shrink not from the task of ready interpretation. "the alps form a book of nature as wide and mysterious as life," says frederic harrison in his _alpine jubilee_, in one of those clear-cut and well-measured passages of mountain homage, which are balm to the tormented hearts of those who feel themselves afloat on the clouds of mystery. "to know, to feel, to understand the alps is to know, to feel, to understand humanity." i am not at all sure this is true; it is probably entirely untrue. humanity--in the abstract--is apt to suffer an enforced reduction in magnitude and importance when seen from alpine heights. but it is one of those phrases which we hug instinctively as the bearers of food for hungry hearts. we do not want leslie stephen's reminder of metaphysical riddles, "where does mont blanc end and where do i begin?" we do not want to be paralysed by philosophic doubt for the rest of our mortal lives on the hills. we prefer to be stirred to emotional life by those who are transported by love of beauty to the realms of unreason. in the autobiography of princess hélène racowitza--the tragically beloved of ferdinand lassalle--there is evidence of such transport. she has but reached one of the commonplaces of tourist ventures. from the wengern alp she watches the play of night and dawn on the jungfrau: again and again the glory of god drew me to the window. in the immense stillness of the loneliness of the mountains, the thundering of the avalanches that crashed from time to time from the opposite heights was the only sound. it was as if one heard the breath of god, and in deepest reverence one's heart stood almost still. she beholds the moon pale and the summit of the jungfrau glitter in "a thousand prismatic colours" from the rising sun: once more i was shaken to the depths of my soul, thankful that i was allowed to witness this and to enjoy it thus. a great joy leapt up in my heart, which more surely than the most fervent prayer of thanks penetrated to the infinite goodness of the great almighty. the sincerity of the religious feeling is enhanced by its simplicity. the more complex experiences of the true mystical nature retain the same intensity of devotional fervour. anna kingsford, whose interpretations of the inner meaning of christianity place her in the foremost rank of modern mystics, was caught up to god by the beauty of the mountains. her friend and biographer, edward maitland, describes their effect on one in whom a fiercely artistic soul did combat with a frail and suffering body. it was whilst near the mountains that she conceived her beautiful utterance on the poet: but the personality of the poet is divine: and being divine, it hath no limits. he is supreme and ubiquitous in consciousness: his heart beats in every element. the pulses of all the infinite deep of heaven vibrate in his own: and responding to their strength and their plenitude, he feels more intensely than other men. not merely he sees and examines these rocks and trees: these variable waters, and these glittering peaks. not merely he hears this plaintive wind, these rolling peals: but he is all these: and with them--nay, in them--he rejoices and weeps, he shines and aspires, he sighs and thunders. and when he sings, it is not he--the man--whose voice is heard: it is the voice of all the manifold nature herself. in his verse the sunshine laughs; the mountains give forth their sonorous echoes; the swift lightnings flash. the great continual cadence of universal life moves and becomes articulate in human language. o joy profound! o boundless selfhood! o godlike personality! all the gold of the sunset is thine; the pillars of chrysolite; and the purple vault of immensity! anna kingsford did not consciously seek the mountains to find there the release of imprisoned powers of utterance. the mountains sought her by their beauty and called forth the true mystic's ecstasy of communion. mystics of all times and all religions have found inspiration and strength of spirit on the hilltops; they have forsaken the haunts of men for the silence of the heights, preparing themselves by meditation and self-purification to receive the beatific vision. they have gone up alone in anguish and uncertainty, they have come down inspired bearers of transcendental tidings to men. these messengers of the spirit have known the joys of illumination and the secret of the strength of the hills. others have sought in agony and mortification of mind the vision which was denied them. for in chasing away the images of sin they forgot to make room for the images of beauty. with simeon stylites, they point to their barren sojourn on the hills: three winters that my soul might grow to thee, i lived up there on yonder mountain-side, my right leg chained into the crag, i lay pent in a roofless close of ragged stones. it is to the rarefied perception of beauty that we may trace the quickening of spirit which artists and poets experience on the mountains. heine, going to the alps with winter in his soul, "withered and dead," finds new hope and a new spring. the melodies of poetry return, he feels once again his valour as a soldier in the war of liberation of humanity. the process of unburdening hearts has been continuous since we discovered the boundless capacity of the hills to hide our shame and discharge our thunder. petrarch set the example on the top of mont ventoux when he deliberately recollected and wept over his past uncleanness and the carnal corruptions of his soul. i never tire of that dearly sentimental mixture of world-weariness and nature-study which elisée reclus called the _history of a mountain_. "i was sad, downcast, weary of my life. fate had dealt hardly with me: it had robbed me of all who were dear to me, had ruined my plans, frustrated all my hopes. people whom i called my friends had turned against me when they beheld me assailed by misfortune; all mankind with its conflicting interests and its unrestrained passions appeared repulsive in my eyes." thus he invites us to follow him towards the lofty blue peaks. in the course of his wanderings he finds nature's peace and freedom, and as his love of the mountains expands, kind tolerance returns to his heart. he takes geological and meteorological notes, he studies men and beasts on the peaks, and never forgets to draw moralizing comparisons. the climb is to him the symbol of "the toilsome path of virtue," the difficult passes, the treacherous crevasses reminders of temptations to be overcome by a sanctified will. i am afraid modern climbers show scant regard for elisée reclus' rules for moral exercises. many are moved by an exuberance of physical energy which rejoices in battle with nature. they love the struggle and the danger, the exercise and the excitement. they find health and good temper, jollity and good-fellowship, through their exertions. they glory shamelessly in useless scrambles which demand the sweat of their brow and the concentrated attention of their minds. they seek to emulate the chamois and the monkey in hanging on to rocks and insecure footholds. when they do not climb, they fill libraries with descriptions of their achievements, dull and unintelligible to the uninitiated, bloodstirring and excellent to the members of the brotherhood. they write in a jargon of their own of chimneys and buttresses and basins and ribs, of boulders and saddles and moraine-hopping. they become rampant at the thought of the stout, unworthy people who are now dragged to the tops by the help of rope-chains and railings. they sarcastically remark that they may have to abandon certain over-exploited peaks through the danger of falling sardine-tins. they issue directions for climbing calculated to chase away the poet from the snow-fields, as when sir martin conway says that a certain glacier must be "struck at the right corner of its snout," and "its drainage stream flows from the left corner." they do not hesitate to admit that they would continue to climb even if there were no views to be enjoyed from the tops. "i am free to confess," wrote a. f. mummery, "that i would still climb, even though there were no scenery to look at." and mrs. aubrey le blond echoes this sentiment in a defiant challenge to their uncomprehending critics. "to further confound the enemy," she writes, "we do not hide the fact that were no view obtainable from the summit a true climber would still continue to climb." why do they climb? the motives are many--the result joy. yes, joy, even in the providential escapes and the "bad five minutes," beloved by our naïve scribes of the ice-axe, in the perils and death which they court for the sake of adventure and exploration. sir martin conway speaks of the systematic climber as the man for whom climbing takes the place of fishing and shooting. how depressingly banal! yet sir martin conway has written some of the finest tributes to the glories of the alps, and has shown himself a master of artistic interpretation of their wealth of beauty. whymper excels in matter-of-fact history of climbs, yet there is an undercurrent of reverence for the mysteries of nature's beauty. the expert cragsman climbs to attain acrobatic efficiency, and may aim at nothing higher than inspired legs. mrs. peck climbed to establish the equality of the sexes. mr. and mrs. bullock workman climbed in the himalayas with strong determination to name a mountain mount bullock workman. they did, and the mountain, which attains , feet, is none the worse. climbers are exceedingly human in their love of getting to the top before fellow-climbers. here they follow the ordinary rules for human conduct in commerce, politics, and literature. there have been some loud and unseemly quarrels as to honours and fame attendant on the first successful conquest of a desirable peak. it has been generally held that if you cannot get a mountain to yourself you can at any rate devise a new route. but i cannot bring myself to speak harshly of such failings. the utmost i will say is that it were better if such enthusiasm were tempered with a little humour. mark twain saw through that deadly seriousness of the pure climber. he saw the fatuity of mere peak-hunting. it impressed him strongly even on the rigi-kulm. "we climbed and climbed," he writes in _a tramp abroad_, "and we kept on climbing; we reached about forty summits: there was always another one just ahead." but the pure climber is always a fountain of delight, even though he does not see himself as others see him. the pages of conway, mummery, sir claud schuster, and bruce abound in gems of nature-lore, ever fresh and ever alluring. as i search for more self-revelation in my books by mountain-lovers, i find myself observed through the window. it is only a cow on her way to the hollow tree into which the water courses out of the earth. but the cow brings me back to the strenuous alpine life, and i find myself concluding, as i replace the books on their shelves, that i do not care why men climb so long as they climb in spirit and body. the borderland this evening the blind man came up the path from the village. i was sitting on a stump of pine listening to the merry peal of the bells of the little village church below. he carried a milk-can, and felt his way with a long staff, with which he tapped the stones in front of him. he hesitated for a moment as he passed me, as if vaguely conscious of a disturbing presence. we have been good friends, the blind man and i, and have had many a talk on this, our common path. but to-night i sat silent, wondering. for a message had reached me that a friend had been killed in battle. a man strong and active in body, intensely alive and sensitive in soul. one of those whom we can never think of as dead, so wholly do they belong to life. the blind man stopped at a little distance. he chose a place where the trees have been cleared and the snow mountains spread themselves for the feast of the eyes of those who can see. he put his milk-can and his staff on the ground, and stood for a moment with head bowed as if crushed by his infirmity. then he threw up his hands and raised his head, as though a sudden vision had come to him--his whole body tense and expectant, like that of a man who strains every nerve to catch a message from the hills across the valley. for a minute he remained still, as if receiving something in his hands borne by the silence. then he picked up his staff and his can. he turned round and faced me for a moment before resuming his journey. there was a smile on his lips and a strange radiance in his sightless eyes, and i wished that i, too, might see what he had seen. for the darkness with which we are afflicted lay heavily around me, and seemed greater even than the blindness of the eyes. the war has brought the mystery of death to our hearts with pitiless insistence. every bullet that finds its mark kills more than the soldier who falls. ties of love and friendship are shattered hour by hour and day by day, as the guns of war roar out their message of destruction. we are all partners in a gigantic dance of death such as holbein never imagined. to him death was the wily and insistent enemy of human activity and hope, a spy watching in the doorway for an opportunity to snap the thread of life. we have cajoled and magnified death until he has outgrown all natural proportions; through centuries of war and preparation for war we have appealed to him to settle our national differences. we have outdone the earthquake and the cyclone in valid claims upon his power and presence; we have outwitted pestilence and famine in our efforts to hold his attention. we, of the twentieth century, have attained mastery in the art of killing. we kill by fire and bursting shell, we kill by mine and gas. we dive under the surface of the water to surprise our enemy, we fly in the air and sow fire and devastation upon the earth. we have chained science to our chariot of death, we have made giant tools of killing which mow down regiments of men at great distances. we send out fumes of poison which envelop groups of human beings, killing them gently, and emphasizing the triumph of art by leaving them in attitudes simulating life. we project shells so powerful that men disappear in the explosion, melted, disintegrated by its destructive force. and when long-distance scientific methods of man-killing fall short of the passions of the fray or the exigencies of the fight, we return to the primitive ways of savages, and kill by dagger and knife, by bayonet and fist. thus millions of men are slain in this war, which has achieved superiority over all other wars in history by the number of its dead and its gigantic destructiveness. and other millions of men and women are plunged into sorrow and mourning for the dead, and to them the meaning of life is hidden behind a veil of tears and blood. there is an incongruity about death on the battlefield which assails the mind. the incongruity is there notwithstanding the probability that the soldier who faces the fire of the enemy will be killed. it defies the mathematical calculation of chances. it rises naturally as a protest against the sudden termination of life at its fullest. death after a long illness, at the eventide of life, partakes of the order of falling leaves and autumnal oblivion. it may come softly as sleep when the day's work is done; it may come mercifully to end bodily pain and wretchedness. there are moments in every life when the ebb of physical force is so low that death seems but a step across the border--a change by which we desire to cure the weariness of thought. the soldier goes into battle charged with youth and life, buoyant with energy of muscle and nerve. death seizes him at the noontide of life and leaves us blindly groping for other-worldly compensation. the present war is being fought against a background of questions which cannot be suppressed by discipline or the mere fulfilment of patriotic duty. the old acceptance of the social order is passing away. the old acceptance of religious nescience is passing away; there is a new impatience to reach the foundation of things, a popular clamour for explanation of the riddles of life. out of the decivilizing forces of war, its tumult and wreckage, there emerges a new quest for truth. simple souls are troubled with a warlike desire for evidence of immortality. the parson's exhortations to live by faith and unreasoning acceptance of ecclesiastical doctrine fall on inattentive ears. "there is a shocking recrudescence of superstition and devil-worship," said a clergyman to me the other day; "people consult fraudulent mediums and fortune-tellers." i listened to him and remembered an afternoon's visit to a bereaved mother. she is a charwoman endowed with the scientific mind. her son had been killed by an exploding shell. only a fragment or two had been necessary for the task. jimmy had no chance. courage and energy had never failed him. the spirit that dwelt within his thin and somewhat stunted body would have rejoiced in battle with a lion. but shells are no respecters of spirit. jimmy had successfully fought poverty and ill-health; he had risen from a newspaper-boy's existence to the dizzy heights of a milkman's cart. his pale face with its prominent eyes and rich, chestnut forelock bore an expression of indomitable cockney confidence in the ultimate decency of things. he had always been kind to his mother. "more like a girl than a boy," she said, "in the way he cared for his home and looked after me." and now jimmy was dead: the message had come that he would not return. "and why is he dead," said the mother to me, "and where is he?" she was sitting in her kitchen, which bore its usual aspect of order and cleanliness. but her face looked as if some disordering power had passed over her. "i asked our curate to explain where jimmy is," she continued, "and he told me that doubt is a sin, and that we shall meet again on the day of resurrection. and when i told him that i felt jimmy quite close to me in this kitchen, a week after his death, and that i thought i heard his voice calling me, the curate said i ought not to think of such things. faith and hard work were the best cure for such fancies, he said." "but do you know what i did?" she added in a whisper, intended to deceive the curate, "i went to one of those mediums that mrs. jones knows about. i paid a shilling, and we all sat in a ring, and the medium saw jimmy and described him, just as he is in his uniform and cap, a little over the right ear, and the scar across his nose--you know, the scar from the fall down the front steps when he was nine--and all smiling, and showing the missing tooth. 'jimmy wants you to know that he is happy, very happy,' she said, and then jimmy came and spoke through the medium. 'mother,' he said to me, 'i want you to give my pipe with the silver band to charlie, and don't make no bones about it.' then i knew it was jimmy, for jimmy always used to say 'don't make no bones about it.' and now i feel he is alive somewhere, and i shall go again to the medium and find out more." i thought of this when the clergyman complained of the prevalence of superstition and visits to mediums. i suggested that he should investigate the subject of spiritualism and the reasons for its appeal to sorrow-stricken relatives and friends of soldiers. the suggestion was indignantly rejected. religion was to him a theory based on revelation vouchsafed thousands of years ago; it was now a system of stereotyped belief and conduct, strangely removed from the perplexities and anguish of the individual soul. his academic mind recoiled from the grotesque and trivial messages associated with séances and the performances of professional psychics. we are wont to contemplate immortality in much the same manner as we contemplate the moon. it is something remote and incapable of active interference in our daily life and tasks. it sheds a pale and pleasant light on our earthly pilgrimage, and we in our turn render homage to the mellow beauty which it imparts to our poetic imagination. only children cry for the moon. we know it is unattainable. the rejection of the crude theories of spiritualism is not altogether the result of wilful blindness. in our innermost minds, in the region beyond the grasp of the brain and its ready generalizations, we hunger for inexpressible reality, for life beyond the stars. we have eaten of the tree of sense-knowledge: we have seen, heard, felt, tasted. we want a reality above the traffic and deception of the senses. vaguely, but insistently we feel the call to the life of the spirit, and when its definition eludes us, we prefer silence and faith. it is then that the familiar prattle of the séance-room offends us. we sought freedom, light, absolution from the trammels of personality, and we are told that the dead appear in bodies and clothes, that they toil and fret, that they inhabit houses and cities. our plains elysian suffer an invasion of lawyers and physicians, of merchants and moneylenders. the weariness of repetition pursues us. and yet we may be more completely the victims of illusion than our vendor of spiritualistic revelation. we who cherish the belief in immortality forget that death can be naught but the shedding of a form. the substance is unchanged. the fabric of the mind is woven day by day by impressions and ideas, by experience and action. nobody questions the commonplace phenomena of the shaping of individuality and character. habits, occupation, tastes, and desires mould a distinct personality out of the common clay. the experience of death cannot dissolve the personality. the death-process can neither whitewash a man's sin nor exalt him beyond his virtue. and thus it is that he who dearly loved a joke may joke still, and he who thought he was collecting fine old pictures may still indulge his taste. delusions! not impossible or even unlikely. kant demonstrated once for all our complete enslavement by phenomena and our inability to approach things-in-themselves. spiritualistic interpretation of post-mortem conditions offers no exception. imagination continues to master our souls. spiritualism offends us by offering bread-and-butter when we expect moonshine. we are loath to part with the belief that death transforms the character by one great stroke of spiritual lightning. vanity, envy, meanness, greed, the foibles and frailties of human nature, repel us when we imagine their persistence in others after death. we infinitely prefer the thought that they should be purged and radiant with spiritual effulgence. we are not so sure about ourselves, for the objective classification of the qualities which go to form our own character is a difficult achievement. and the idea of dispensing with essential parts of our mental equipment does not commend itself to us. there is a point in all our philosophy where speculation seeks the natural repose of the unknowable. it is quickly reached when we attempt to probe the mystery of selfhood. the plain question whether the dead can communicate with the living persists in spite of the imperfections of the answer. the war has made it paramount, and only second in importance to the crucial query: do they live? there is a clamour for evidence, signs, messages, testimony. the human heart cries out for comfort. "yesterday he breathed the same air, felt and thought as i do. to-day he lies dead, his body shattered, his hopes wrecked, his happy laughter silent. does he know? does he feel and remember? is there an eternal gulf of silence between us?" o! for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still. the church tries vainly to ban the new inquisitiveness. the intercourse with familiar spirits is condemned as a theological offence, a vainglorious and futile storming of the citadel of god. the secret of the tomb must be preserved, though the masses of christendom have ceased to believe in the long and mouldering sleep of the centuries before the summons to the judgment. they are no longer scorched by the threat of eternal fire, nor soothed by the hope of clouds and harps. the love that is in them would not tolerate the infliction of an eternity of torture on a fellow-soul, and their conception of the love of god cannot place him below the promptings of human mercy. the reason that is in them is not attracted by the promise of a heaven of rosy inaction and strifeless rest. the contrast of heaven and hell, so powerful a corrective of human waywardness in mediæval times, fails to impress the modern mind. the windows of experience and knowledge have been opened too widely, the powers and manifold possibilities of the earth lie open and tempt to the search for a super-mundane world, not poorer and more complex, but richer and more lavish in creative force. the law supports the opposition of the church and frowns on the practice of mediumship and clairvoyance. the law denies the possibility of spirit intercourse and forbids the exercise of supernormal faculties in exploring the untrodden realms of the future. prosecutions are instituted under the old witchcraft and vagrancy acts, and psychic practitioners are fined or sent to prison in the hope of stemming the tide of inquiry. the law and the spirit were ever at variance. but it is difficult to understand why those who mourn, and who ask questions, should be deprived of the comfort which they may find through visits to professional mediums. the risk of deception and false pretences is there, it is true, but that risk exists everywhere. there are lawyers, politicians, and physicians who tell "fortunes" and practise "witchcraft" of their own brand, decidedly more harmful and disruptive than the visions of the unlettered clairvoyant. the magistrate, who sends a clairvoyant to prison because he is convinced that all claims to psychic gifts and to communion with discarnate spirits are fraudulent, is not troubled by his ignorance, and the evidence of psychic research is not acceptable in his court. he typifies the perpetual official, ever ready to suppress new and evolutionary thought. after all, psychic science fares no worse than the physical sciences in the judgment of respectable mediocrity. the progress of science in the nineteenth century was one long conquest of territory in the land of the impossible. inventors and inventions have met with incredulity and mockery. railways, steamships, aeroplanes, telegraphy, telephony and cinematographs have all emerged from the region of "impossibilities." röntgen-rays and radium have descended from the sphere of miracles. experience should endow us with cautiousness in proclaiming impossibilities of the future. the study of psychic science has imposed no greater strain on my reason than the attempt to explain the mysteries of biology and astronomy. observation and classification do not necessarily imply elucidation. the miracle of the foetus taking human shape and soul, or of the oak rising out of the acorn and the brown earth is to me as baffling as the materialization of a spirit. the marvels of the cell-life and the daily chemistry which maintain the body charm my attention as much as the mysterious clouds of light with which spirits are wont to signalize their presence in the séance-room. i have sat for hours on a summer night by the mediterranean watching the phosphorescent waves throw a luminous spray over the shore, and meditating on the inexhaustible fertility of the sea. and i have watched with the same intense wonder the phenomena of the soul illuminated by the _daimon_ of inner vision and the infinite manifestations of the power of spirit over matter. from the point of view of science there is no clearly defined frontier between the natural and the supernatural, the commonplace and the miraculous. all is soil for the plough, all defies our designs for complete explanation. from the point of view of religious emotion, there is the greatest possible difference between the sciences of psychic force and those that seek to probe the mysteries of the physical world. the question of the immortality of the human soul is infinitely more engrossing than that of the formation of the skull of neolithic man. the strictly evidential demonstration of communion between the living and the dead might be almost negligible in quantity, and yet the importance of one rap from the world of discarnate spirits, scientifically demonstrated, would outweigh tomes of theories in physics. true, those who live in the spirit need no demonstrations provided by scientific investigators of psychic problems. the mystic consciousness with its intuition of immortality, its sensitiveness to the vibration of life on all planes and in all forms _knows_, and in knowledge transcends alike the boundaries of religionists and scientists. the mystic may smile at the labour expended during the last fifty years on establishing a strictly evidential basis for the study of transcendental facts. he has conquered the inherited blindness of our race, and sees spirit not as a supernatural demonstration, vouchsafed now and then to doubting humanity, but as the living presence of which he is joyously a part. he does not fall into the common error of forgetting that we are spirits sheathed in flesh, but bearing within ourselves the power over matter which is destined to achieve the miraculous. he can dispense with a medium, being himself a fountain of light, and experiencing the wondrous self-illumination of which thomas treherne sang-- o joy! o wonder and delight! o sacred mystery! my soul a spirit infinite! an image of the deity! a pure substantial light! that being greatest which doth nothing seem! . . . . . o wondrous self! o sphere of light, o sphere of joy most fair; o act, o power infinite; o subtile and unbounded air! o living orb of sight! thou which within me art, yet me! thou eye and temple of his whole infinity! but the spiritual raptures of the mystics of all ages have not moved souls struggling in the outer darkness for tangible proofs of immortality. to them the application of the methods approved by reason and tested by scientific application will ever be welcome. they know that the mind of man has wrested secret after secret from the earth by observation, by experiment, by deduction. they know that the great generalizations of science--the theories of the indestructibility of matter, of gravitation, of the conservation of energy--are but counters of mind exchanged in default of elusive realities. they know that the pressure of research has reduced many of the lesser generalizations and theories to a fluid and amorphous state. "immutable" laws have been turned into faulty conclusions, hastily drawn and readily abandoned before the advance of new facts. the fixity of the elements in chemistry, the undulatory movement of light, the stability of the planetary orbits, the indestructibility of the atom, are all abstractions which have been subjected to the reforming processes of new thought. progress in physics has been marked by bold hypotheses dealing with imponderable forces, and by experiments disclosing hidden properties of matter. the hypothetical ether has been as fruitful in the liberation of thought as the demonstration of the existence of the x-rays. the application of methods of scientific accuracy to the physical phenomena of spiritualism involves no revolution in mental processes or reversal of the laws of logic. the publication of the results of the classical experiments in materialization undertaken in by sir william crookes with the medium florence cooke caused incredulous amazement, for the simple reason that the custodians of science had not applied themselves to the lessons afforded by the continuous shifting of their frontiers. crookes' report that katie king, the spirit who took material form during the séances, was a perfect, though mysterious replica of the natural-born human being, roused no general scientific interest. he asserted that katie was physiologically complete. that she walked, talked, expressed intelligence and feeling, that she had a regularly beating heart and sound lungs. he further pointed out that the personality of katie in appearance and character differed considerably from that of the medium, and that it was impossible to regard the materialized form as but a phantasm of the living. a stupendous discovery or a pitiful figment of a lunatic brain! but no flash of lightning rent the halls of learning; sir william crookes' researches into radiant matter could safely be accepted as workable intellectual ground, but not his researches into spiritual dynamics. and yet there was no unorthodoxy in his methods of research; he imposed strict conditions of experimental control. there is a strange reluctance in accepting the necessity for "mediums" in psychic manifestations. if these things are possible, we are told, why not here, now, anywhere, in broad daylight? why mystifying circles, cabinets, and subdued light? our scoffers forget that scientific investigation always requires a medium and method. the need of the telescope and the microscope is not questioned, but the thought of the planchette evokes ridicule. the practical success of wireless telegraphy depends on the use of an adequate medium for the transmission of electricity. the most meagre training suffices to prevent the declaration that if wireless messages cannot be sent without apparatus they cannot be sent at all. notwithstanding the indifference of the majority of scientists, the problems of spirit intercourse have proved sufficiently attractive to stimulate a vast amount of experimentation and theorizing. the study of mediumship has necessarily become the study of consciousness and the occult powers of the human mind. in the centre a handful of fearless scientists: crookes, wallace, richet, flammarion, morselli, baraduc, myers, lombroso, lodge, and barrett; in the inner circle a number of academic investigators, disdaining alike the premature proclamation of phenomenal results and the obstinate denial of facts; in the outer circle an ever-growing mass of souls clamouring for the crumbs of evidence, hungry for something personal and soul-warming in our dealings with the divine dispensation. the annals of psychic science--in different tongues and of different continents--are largely devoted to the investigation of trance, clairvoyance, clairaudience, telepathy, hypnotism, dreams, premonitions, automatic writing, visions, and messages from the dying, multiple personality, and all the phenomena associated with the subconscious self. many students have dispensed with the spirit hypothesis as an unnecessary and embarrassing complication in a subject already overburdened with difficulties. spirit messages are to them examples of the activity of the subliminal self, and a medium is a person gifted--or cursed--with extraordinary subconscious force and lucidity. materializations, they argue, are produced through the effluvia of the living and controlled by the subliminal forces of the participators in the séance. spirits are nothing but thought-forms. the painstaking investigation recorded in the _proceedings_ and _journal of the society for psychical research_ has to a great extent been carried on by inquirers unencumbered by any bias towards "spookery." but the theories in elaboration of psycho-pathological vagaries and dissociation of personality which have been substituted for the spirit hypothesis certainly do not err on the side of intelligible explication. they have but deepened the mystery and show the vista of new and unexplored paths in psychic science. others, again, who are not unwilling to believe that the phenomena are produced by the action of intelligences other than that of the medium, abandon further study because of the meagreness of the intellectual results. they have waited on the visitors from another world, notebook in hand, plying them with careful questions intended to increase our modest store of knowledge. the replies were unsatisfactory, commonplace, sometimes ludicrous. attempts to write a passable textbook on life in the spirit world have failed lamentably. the indignation of the sorely disappointed scientist was voiced by the late professor hugo münsterberg, of harvard, in his _psychology of life_: thousands and thousands of spirits have appeared; the ghosts of the greatest men have said their say, and yet the substance of it has always been the absurdest silliness. not one inspiring thought has yet been transmitted by this mystical way; only the most vulgar trivialities. it has never helped to find the truth; it has never brought forth anything but nervous fear and superstition. his denunciation embraces the whole subject of spiritualistic evidence and ends in utter pessimism-- our belief in immortality must rest on the gossip which departed spirits utter in dark rooms through the mouths of hypnotized business mediums, and our deepest personality comes to light when we scribble disconnected phrases in automatic writing. is life then really still worth living? i have every sympathy with the complaint. but our psychologist forgot that life is largely made up of trivialities, and that the spirits of the dead, if they really wish to make themselves known to us, can do so with greater certainty of being recognized by reminding us of events and objects with which they are associated in our memory than by presenting us with a corrected version of the nebular theory. the average medium and the average gathering of inquirers are not distinguished by any great intellectual achievement. the general educational level may be low and the total capacity to sift and weigh evidence may fall short of that of an undergraduates' debating society. yet the evidence produced may not only be entirely soul-satisfying to the participants, but perfectly acceptable to a critic contented with the average quality of evidence current in a court of law. it may even be true that the evidential value rises with the number of trivialities recorded. and "the truth" which professor münsterberg sought in vain is demonstrated to others through the same trivial evidence, as is shown by the verdict of alfred russel wallace: spiritualism demonstrates by direct evidence, as conclusive as the nature of the case admits, that the so-called dead are still alive; that our friends are often with us, though unseen, and give direct proof of a future life--proof which so many crave, but for want of which so many live and die in anxious doubt. how valuable the certainty to be gained from spiritual communications! a clergyman, a friend of mine, who witnessed the phenomena, and who before was in a state of the greatest depression, caused by the death of his son, said to me, "i am now full of confidence and cheerfulness. i am a changed man." it is not unnatural that the answers given to those who ask for admittance to the closed door of the mysteries of the human soul should be pitched in the same key as the inquiry. disappointment is not uncommon. i have taken part in séances of every kind, with cautious investigators devoid of all spiritualistic bias, with unsophisticated believers in a supernatural source of all psychic phenomena, with scoffers convinced that every medium is an impostor, and that nothing but a little common sense is needed for the exposure. the results have been largely dependent on the mentality of the investigators. failure to understand this is responsible for much of the disappointment and contempt with which otherwise intelligent critics have dismissed the subject. the accumulated thought-power, the collective mind of those who participate, profoundly influence the medium and the quality of the communications received. one stubborn soul may wreck the meeting. i remember an evening at the house of mr. w. t. stead. there had been a series of highly successful demonstrations of "spirit voices," distinctly audible and perfectly intelligible. a well-known minister of the church visible joined the circle--a man clothed in all the outward signs of spirituality, uniting clerical decorum with an emotional fervour in preaching which had made him a popular favourite. though feeling has now and then led him into unconventional paths of theological thought, fate has surely marked him for the adornment of a bishopric. he came to study the alleged powers of the medium. he doubted everything and everybody. the easy faith and unquestioning acceptance of miraculous events of which he was not ashamed whilst in the pulpit had now been exchanged for vigilant suspicion and impatient analysis. he plied the medium with questions, bludgeoned her with requests for evidence that she was not deluded or deluding. he turned himself into cross-examining counsel, proud of his discrimination and his immunity against the insidious appeal of the supernatural. he succeeded. the medium was confounded, she lost her power; the phenomena did not occur. the atmosphere was chilled. some of us felt we would rather have been visited by the village blacksmith than by this priestly exponent of sweet-faced materialism. i do not deny that i have often been struck with the intellectual poverty of messages from the spirit world. they are often silly, and not seldom untruthful. the silliness and the untruthfulness are faithful reflections of common human failings, and only show that heavenly wisdom is as unattainable through the average spiritualistic channels as it is in the houses of parliament or the courts of law. i can imagine a radiant and purely spiritual being attempting to convey a true description of the state of spiritual bliss to a circle of men and women representative of cultured thought, and practical efficiency in the affairs of the world. let the circle include a few university professors, some successful men of business, a couple of judges, a sprinkling of journalists, an archdeacon or two, and some authors of repute. let them all be actuated by a strong desire to obtain reliable information and to give a fair and unprejudiced hearing to the visitor. the visitor is necessarily hampered by the necessity for a medium. it may be that the senior judge is gifted with psychic powers and that the method of communication chosen is that of trance. the learned brain-cells would transmit the message up to a certain point, but when an effort was made to depict unfathomed depths and heights of transcendental experience, the judicial mind would rebel. the sense of logic would be strained. the conception of the possible would be violated. a fearful consciousness of being guilty of uttering lies would persist, in spite of efforts to subdue reason. language would break in the attempt to find words for the inexpressible, the message would be blurred and incoherent. the judge might pull himself together, feeling that the turbulent thought-waves of contending counsel form a much safer ground on which to pronounce truth than the fourth-dimensional hurricane with which he had just battled. and the audience might turn with relief to the thought of dinner outside bedlam. by some wild flights of imagination we may picture another kind of circle. let a poet be the medium; swedenborg, dante, blake, socrates, jacob böhme, tasso, milton, eckart, ruysbroek, st. teresa, joan of arc, emerson, shelley, and a few more visionaries, and dreamers be of the circle. let our radiant being try again. the vibrations of the combined psychic force would respond more readily to the world-strangeness of the visitor. there would be fewer mental obstacles raised by the sense of the impossible. the restraints of logic would be more easily overcome. the avenues of supersensual impressions would be open. the medium would transmit the message to a point far beyond that possible to our psychic judge, and the audience would encourage him by their readiness to grasp the revelations made. the language of mysticism, philosophy, and poetry would be strained to its utmost capacity. then a sense of incompleteness, of deficiency, of hopeless relativity would overcome the audience. the medium had exerted every spiritual faculty to receive the truth. but the visitor could not convey celestial realities to terrene minds. every true artist in words, or colour, or sound is always haunted by the inexpressible--by spiritual impotence to overcome the laws of imprisonment in the flesh. he clutches at symbol and suggestion, at parable and fable, conscious of the truth that the unreal is the most real. the goats have gathered round me as i sit musing in the gloaming. the leading goat is a handsome animal, generally respected and feared by the rest of the herd. he has excellent knowledge, inherited and acquired, of the uses of mountains, and his venerable beard adorns a head of undisputed male ascendancy in the tribe. i bear him a grudge. he is in the habit of eating my sapling pines, carefully planted by me and carelessly nipped in the bud by him. i have expostulated with him in a variety of ways--some gentle, others forceful, but he is incorrigible. he will not understand that my young pines are beautiful, and that they are expected to grow into fine trees. he has no sense of beauty, of symmetry, of fitness. he is only a beast. he has no soul--i pause, remembering the ineffectual attempts of my radiant being to inspire human souls with a greater vision. are we not all goats before the gaze of more finely organized creatures? the evolutionist need not be disheartened by the thought. nature is unexhausted. desire and experience are ever creating new forms, new organs. a child's book of beasts will supply the requisite suggestion: the neck of the giraffe, the stripes of the tiger, the tail of the beaver may, without offence, provide analogies for the faith in organic human perfectibility. the processes of natural selection and variation cannot have been brought to a standstill; they must be at work now and may yet--should surroundings and necessity create the demand--halve the neck of the giraffe, give snow-white lamb's clothing to the tiger, and turn the rudder of the beaver into the prehensile tail of the monkey. there is no biological completion, no finitude. it is only a matter of time--sufficient time--and our bodies may become as strangely interesting to posterity as are to us the dinosaurs and mammoths of the remote past. mind is not arrested by formal obstacles. it builds, destroys, and rebuilds. it may take a million years to fashion a useful organ. slowness is no deterrent. the powers that shaped the genius of michelangelo and shakespeare out of the rude brain of savage man needed time, but the achievement was worthy of the labour. to-day there are signs and portents that psychic faculties once possessed by the very few are in process of development in the many, that new senses are awakened which will find contact with realities hitherto unperceived. the imperfections of mediumship and the remoteness of a psychic super-humanity, godlike in wisdom and ethereal in constitution, do not conceal the trend of mental evolution. the medium is often a strange blend of spiritual and carnal tendencies, of knowledge and ignorance, of delicate perception and denseness. those who expect saintliness as the first attribute of psychic advancement will certainly be disillusioned. these gifts and graces may appear, not only without any corresponding degree of culture and learning, but associated with a certain vulgarity of thought and conduct. the psychic is essentially impressionable, liable to mental contagion, easily stirred by suggestion. the tendency to instability, to emotional excess, is part of this receptivity which culminates in the state of being "controlled." an untrained psychic who is mastered by his impressions, instead of being their master, may easily be induced to tell lies and give false messages by a visitor who is determined to discover fraud. the same psychic may rise to unaccustomed levels of spiritual clearsight in the presence of a visitor who demands the truth only. the ladder of psychic development is long and arduous to mount. the number of the climbers steadily diminishes as the top is reached. here, as elsewhere, there is a common crowd, content with the steps nearest the earth, in morals a faithful reflection of average humanity. they are neither better nor worse, they are merely different. they are the masons of the mind, a race of builders, addicted to a workmanship of their own. to a discerning psychologist they are profoundly interesting, heralds of a new race and a new age; to an unsophisticated alienist they are merely insane, dangerous victims of sick brains. the whole fabric of evidence relating to lunacy would be broken up by the admission that these strange people who fall into trance and speak unknown tongues or convey messages from the dead are sane. current theories of psycho-pathology would be hopelessly disturbed by the admission that there may be a super-sanity in which clairvoyance and clairaudience are normal and healthy manifestations of life. a person who professes to be an exponent of psychometry, who recalls circumstances and events from the "aura" of inanimate objects, such as a letter or a glove, is naturally classed with the insane. hallucinations _en masse_ are proffered as explanation of the physical phenomena which take place. thus only can orthodox psychiatry remain unperturbed when heavy objects are lifted without any apparent cause, when unearthly sounds and voices are produced, when human forms take shape, are seen, and disappear. the study of psychic faculties is above all a study of consciousness. maeterlinck speaks of "the gravest problem that can thrill mankind, the knowledge of the future." the knowledge of the present, of the hidden powers and graces within our souls, is even more thrilling. i can imagine no science of greater importance, no investigation more worthy of devotion. the profundity of the problems is but an incitement. we have not hesitated to tabulate the stars, to weave precious conjectures as to their courses and destinies. is the human soul more remote and inscrutable? we are assured that it has five windows and no more, that it is useless to look for others. but when an increasing number of explorers in the house of life tell us that there are six or seven or more, we may at any rate listen and follow their directions. obscurantism is revelling in proclaiming prohibited areas of investigation. i recognize that the problem is complicated by the mixture of truth and falsehood, of genuine psychic powers and counterfeit practices. there are impostors and parasites who by dint of glib tongues and nimble wit deceive the foolish and the credulous. browning's sludge is not entirely extinct. honest workers who turn their gifts to professional uses and who depend on the patronage of the public are subject to peculiar temptations. they are visited by the worldly and the covetous, they are exploited by sensation-mongers and fraud-hunters, they are subjected to conditions entirely inimical to spiritual poise and lucidity. some resort to fraud. the report that the medium failed to satisfy the client is apt to interfere with business, and failure is, therefore, shunned. but the law does not trouble to distinguish between the honest and the dishonest person who claims psychic gifts. from the legal point of view it is all pretence. it is imperatively necessary that genuine psychic gifts should be protected from the depredations of frivolity as well as from the interference of an obsolete law. we have some idea of protecting great and uncommon gifts in music, mathematics, and poetry, but we leave psychic gifts without help or training. an institute for the study of psychic science in all its branches, with facilities for training and assisting individual gifts, would remove some of the worst features of the present system. a genuine psychic should be the holder of some form of certificate or licence entitling him to use his gifts for the benefit of others. of course, the subject bristles with difficulties, but i do not see that they are more insuperable than those which presented themselves when first the idea of registering and licensing the medical and legal professions presented itself. and those who are indignant at the thought of the clairvoyant charging a fee may profitably reflect on the general assumption that the labourer is worthy of his hire. the deans and bishops who discourse so eloquently on the sins of the necromancers are not, i believe, renouncing the material benefits and emoluments of their priestly calling. i do not look to visits to professional mediums for initiation into the higher mysteries of the human spirit. they may show the casket--precious as an indication of the contents, but of little value to those who are bent on finding the jewel within. and i agree that no advanced soul is "controlled" by a discarnate spirit, but rises through aspiration and self-restraint to union with higher intelligences. i can see no light or love in the attitude of those professors of christianity who denounce all spiritualistic tendencies as anti-christian. it seems to me that the whole christian faith is spiritualistic in the widest sense of the word. the old and the new testaments are permeated with the belief in the reality of communication between the living and the dead. the injunction in the old testament against sorcerers and wizards was intended to check tendencies to unreasonable and dangerous superstition. moses may have had excellent reasons for forbidding occult practices amongst the jews. saul, who had put away those that had familiar spirits and the wizards out of the land, was not unlike some modern adversaries of spiritualism when in the day of his trouble and fear he consulted the medium of endor. the accepted prophets of israel were, after all, typical of mediumship. "and the spirit of the lord will come upon thee, and thou shalt prophesy with them, and shalt be turned into another man." they practised bold fortune-telling in matters large and small, national and cosmic. to-day they would surely be imprisoned as rogues and vagabonds under the vagrancy act. the new testament contains no direct prohibition of the use of psychic powers and many stories of dreams, visions, and premonitions. "now there are diversities of gifts, but the same spirit," wrote st. paul in the first epistle to the corinthians. "for to one is given, by the spirit, the word of wisdom; to another the word of knowledge, by the same spirit.... to another the working of miracles; to another prophecy; to another discerning of spirits; to another divers kinds of tongues; to another the interpretation of tongues.... and god hath set some in the church; first, apostles, secondarily prophets, thirdly teachers, after that miracles, then gifts of healings, helps, governments, diversities of tongues." the praises of charity and prophecy are sung by the apostle--a strange combination in harmony to those who now seek to separate the christian faith from its supernatural origins. christianity exhorts us not to believe every spirit, but to "try the spirits whether they are of god," whilst the ecclesiastic bids us chase away the spirits, which he assumes to be of satan. the dull materialism which smothers all signs of independent spiritual experience is the negation of all the forces which animated the master. the earthly life of christ, with its supernatural manifestations, its miracles, and its wonders, was the supreme demonstration of the spiritualistic conception of the power of transcending matter. the appearance of moses and elias on the mount of transfiguration, whether regarded as a vision or as a materialization, was of the order of the phenomena which are now banned as anti-christian. no; those who, having wandered in the darkness of death and blindness, find a ray of light within their own being need not fear the judgment of the mediator. here in the freedom of the mountains i feel something of the inscrutable certainty, the joy of a secret conviction, that wisdom waits on our tortuous paths in the borderland. reformers of all generalizations--false and semi-false--the one dividing human beings into those who are content with the world as it is and those who wish to reform it is the most comforting to me. no division of sheep and goats was ever more blatantly simple. some are born dull-witted, conservative, insensitive, unimaginative--they cling passive to the old planet, content to be whirled round in the purposeless dance of the heavenly bodies. others are chronic sufferers from divine discontent--they open their eyes with critical intent, they are always conscious of the oblique, the unrighteous, the worthless in their surroundings. they have a sense of power, a will to change things. to them the world is a lump of dough, to be shaped and trimmed into good, serviceable bread. i know the division is unreal and that reformatory ardour in one direction is not seldom combined with flint-hearted indifference in another. but the proposition is good and sufficient for everyday purposes, and acts as an admirable stimulus in the camp of the challengers. who can deny that reformers are more interesting than preservers? they vibrate with life and creative energy, they defy impossibilities, they carry enthusiasm aloft on their banners of assault on the existing order of things. our preservers seem tame and stale indeed. they hobble about the borders of the well-cultivated garden of custom and propriety, they find admirable shelter against the fierce winds of revolt in the offices of bureaucracy. officialdom is their divinity and respectability their key to life. they may be necessary--as buffers--but they depress us by their dulness. reformers can be dull too, but they are redeemed by the homage which they pay to spiritual adventures. they are narrow-minded, but their narrow-mindedness is relieved by intensity of purpose. they are not seldom aggressive, argumentative, unpleasant, but they refresh the dry world by being thoroughly alive. it seems, indeed, as if life were only made tolerable through the ferment of the desire to reform. even the most stagnant pools of the human soul are sometimes stirred by the breeze of change. we all hope, we all look forward, we all grope for a future which will be better than the present. in some the hope is firmly rooted to earth and man-made conventions, in others it soars to other-worldly perfection. the world teems with causes and movements that rouse the imagination and press human lives into the service of the future. the genesis and development of causes show similar features wherever and whenever they appear. a soul is astir with an idea, a resentment, a call for change. others heed the message, respond to the cry for action, feel that this idea, this one idea, is the most important in the world. societies and leagues are formed, opposition is encountered, and the leader becomes sanctified through abuse and resentment. the idea is embraced by hundreds and thousands; it becomes a doctrine, a creed, a mental atmosphere in which men live and have their being. fierce battles take place between the adherents of the idea and the opponents. blind prejudice and hatred are encountered. martyrs are made. the crusade is hallowed by suffering and sacrifice. it becomes an impelling spiritual necessity, an expression of religion. gradually the forces of the opposition are weakened. concessions and compromises are offered. there are signs of the contagiousness of the idea even in the house of the adversaries. the triumph comes with time, and the turbulent waves of controversy recede into gentle ripples of approval. and for many a cause for which men have suffered and died, posterity has but a yawn. "just think of it--all that fuss and all that turmoil over something so obvious." seen superficially, this is a fairly accurate account of the fate of movements for the reform of some glaring injustice, some hoary cruelty of the past. but is it true? is the world slowly but surely getting better--are the monsters of ignorance and tyranny slain one by one by our great reformers and laid to rest for ever in a grave of ignominy? we accept the axiom that slavery has been abolished. of all causes that commanded devotion, struggle, persistency, the anti-slavery movement stands forth as a moral protest of supreme import. wilberforce and lincoln, harriet beecher stowe, and clarkson fought for a principle which may well be regarded as the very soul of civilization. the civil war brought the ideals of human rights and equality into bloody conflict with the forces of oppression and commercial exploitation. the new consciousness of human fellowship made white men lay down their lives for the freedom of black men. a worthy cause, a sublime offering, a task to which we would like to say "done, done, once and for all time!" but is it done? slavery is not only inherent in every savage and barbaric race, it is not only paramount in the mind of the arab trader. once the social bulwark of the ancient civilizations of babylon, egypt, and india, of greece and rome, it persisted in europe throughout the middle ages, and survived as serfdom of one kind or another through centuries of advancing culture. the desire for power over fellow-beings, for opportunities to control their lives and exploit their labour, is apparently irradicable. slavery is still amongst us in a hundred forms and under new names. all military conquest involves the ancient practices of serfdom. the conquered nations become slaves of the invader; by obedience they live, by disobedience they die. the persistence of slavery seems, then, to be a demonstration of the unchangeability of human nature and of the ultimate hopelessness of idealist causes. in every reform accomplished the practical application is local, transitory, dependent on racial and geographical conditions. there is obviously a great change in our penal methods. we do not mutilate our criminals or scalp them for the preservation of their souls, and we have lost confidence in the rack and the thumb-screw. but we need only transport ourselves to other lands and study other people's views of judicial necessities, and we shall find that the punitive systems of the thirteenth or the eighteenth centuries are still with us. theoretically the blood of the black and the white man is of the same good quality, and yet very little provocation is needed for the outbreak of race riots. negroes and negresses who have given offence to white people need harbour no illusions concerning the restraining influences of our western civilization. like a mountain in eruption the war has thrown up the sordid passions, the hidden reserves of destructive hate and cruelty in our common human soul. in war all things are permissible. to murder, to maim, to destroy, to deceive, to make hideous waste of fertile land, to cause weeping and wailing amongst the innocent--these are the necessities of warfare. they are the commonplace incidents of war. there are others. it brings to the surface strata of human nature to which culture has never descended. it explodes our humanitarian theories by a series of well-directed mines. the ancient horrors of devices for the punishment of the enemy are feeble competitors with our modern inventions. our poison gas, our burning oil, our metallic monsters that spit death on the enemy and crush his fine defences, our flying bomb-throwers, all show that we have not as yet succumbed to humanitarian or christian ethics. there have been some startling illustrations of the folly of assuming that we have safely and irrevocably traversed certain stages of human indifference. we shuddered at the revelations which called florence nightingale to the crimea; we now shudder at the heartless carelessness revealed by commissions and reports. the triumph of red cross organization, the mass of charitable and voluntary effort to relieve suffering, the heroism and splendour of individual sacrifice, soften, but do not reverse, the impression of a general humanitarian débâcle. we may, of course, take shelter behind the jejune explanation that there are two worlds with two moralities. one is war and the other is peace. we may affectionately survey the hospitals and orphanages, the institutions for the blind and the mute, the asylums and the charities with which each belligerent country pays tribute to the virtues of the merciful life. whatever we do, we cannot dispel the darkness by a frenzied denunciation of war. the monster is not outside ourselves; it is created and sustained by the hardness of our hearts and the obtuseness of our brains. the responsibility is ours in war as well as in peace. reformers of all ages have battled with the wickedness of the world, they have stormed stronghold after stronghold of social iniquity. their failures are no less conspicuous than their successes. human nature is infinitely pliable and infinitely resistant. is it, then, all a matter of change and recurrence? do culture and morality grow like flowers in a garden, obedient to the will and taste of the gardener, but destined to fade and die with the turn of the season? do not the civilizations of the past with their perfection of knowledge and art mock our faith in the permanency of human achievement? babylon and egypt, athens and rome carried the seed of corruption within their husk of glory. they had elaborate systems of social organization, of laws, of elucidation of the mysteries of life. they saw beauty and pursued it, in colour and sound, by word and chisel. the gods were kind to them, and now and then dispensed with altar and temple. divine presences revealed themselves in brook and cornfield, on mountain-tops and in the faces of animals. reformers of all kinds were amongst them: men of the sword with dreams of empire and conquest for the good of the nation, priests who demanded sacrifice in the name of a god, orators who by skilful laying of words taught the art of philosophic calm. problems faced them, social iniquities troubled them; they grappled with morals and strove to build up a better and happier future. i was sinking into a reverie over the fall of babylon and the problems of recurrence when marie-joseph arrived. marie-joseph is my oldest and dearest peasant friend. she is over seventy and devoted to hard work. her face is rosy and wrinkled, and when she laughs it becomes a mass of merry furrows. her body gives one the impression of an animated board. it is strikingly flat and stiff, and proudly erect. she works in the fields and tends the cows, and when she bends down to hoe the potatoes or cut the grass, she just folds herself in two. the stiff straight back in the neat black dress is different from all the other toiling backs on the slopes. when i look down from the mountain-tops to the pastures and plots below, i can always distinguish the back of marie-joseph from the others. to-day she brought me a present of milk and potatoes, and we sat down to chat over a cup of coffee--nay, four cups of coffee, for marie-joseph has no cranky ideas about abstinence from food and drink, and i must, perforce, pretend i have none. i love her and her ways, though she always manages to disturb me when i wish to work or think. writing and thinking are not work to marie-joseph. she is wholly innocent of the former dissipation and carries out the latter function without any trouble or fuss. she is, therefore, justified in disposing of my painful efforts with a contemptuous shrug of her wooden shoulders. "marie-joseph," i said cautiously, when i had watched the third cup of coffee disappear, and duly discussed butter and cheese, wine and cows, "do you think the world is getting better?" she was slicing a chunk of bread with her capacious pocket-knife, and stopped short. her small bright blue eyes peered at me curiously. "i mean, do you believe there is real progress--that we are better than we used to be?" the knife came dancing down on the plate. "better?" she said; "not at all; we are worse. why, when i was young we used constantly to have processions and carry le bon dieu, and i tell you the harvest was different from what it is now. and the young girls were modest then; they all wore aprons, and our curé used to insist on them wearing aprons, for, said he, all women should wear aprons." "all women should wear aprons," i repeated mechanically, as my thoughts flitted back to babylon. marie-joseph saw and misinterpreted my disappointment. "did you grasp what i said?" she asked; "there is no modesty nowadays. and you people who come from england," she added sternly, "with your short skirts and your peculiar ways, don't improve matters." i felt duly rebuked, and during the rest of the hour which marie-joseph wasted on me, i sought to re-establish myself in her opinion by discoursing on the merits of _soupe au fromage_. we all have our chosen test of moral worth, and perhaps our judgment of the decline and rise of social virtue is as easily swayed by personal predilection as was that of marie-joseph. to me the persistence of the same cruel and stupid customs throughout the centuries is a source of perplexed pessimism. i cannot brush aside the problem by a facile reference to reincarnation. if john the brigand was a cut-throat and a robber in his twentieth appearance on this planet, why should he persist in these idiosyncrasies in his twenty-third return as george the politician and successful captain of industry? this is not at all a fair representation of the theory of reincarnation, i shall be told. it is not, but it is one of those to which we are driven in the desperation of impatience. a friend of mine, a high authority on matters theosophical, knows of a potent explanation and anodyne for moral impatience. humanity, he tells me, is always being recruited from mars. mars, in spite of its canals, is a low and wicked planet, with a reptilian population. when the martians advance a little beyond the moral status of their fellow-creatures and close their bloodthirsty eyes in death, their spirits are wafted to our planet, there to take on new garments of flesh. the influx of brutal souls is perennial. this explains why, churches and missionary effort notwithstanding, we have always savages, cannibals, and barbarians (and prussian militarists?) with us. but there is comfort in the other side of the picture. when we in our turn have learnt all the lessons of this miserable globe of folly, when we have mastered all the virtues and shed all the vices, when we long to be free from the trammels of sense and appetite and sickness and ambition, we are transferred to mercury. mercury is a highly evolved planet, a spiritualized existence, free from the obsessions of sex and greed, an abode of love and freedom. oh, how i sigh for mercury! supposing this sinful earth is only a school for reformed martians; supposing human nature and history always repeat themselves, and the end is as the beginning and the beginning as the end? the first steps in education accomplished, the scholars would be removed to better premises, and to a more advanced course of instruction. but the old school would receive new pupils and go on in the same humdrum way. there would be the same harsh teachers, the same ignorance and obstinacy, the same punishment and suffering. the worst of it is that mercury does not seem exempt from the general curse of nothingness which seems to brood over all physical existence. there is no stability even in solar systems. even we puny creatures can divine something of their birth and death. out of whirling nebulæ suns and planets are born; souls slowly evolve on worlds which were once balls of fire. there are endless diversity and specialization, myriads of creatures rise out of the furnace of life. some gain ascendancy and lay claim to mental supremacy, to science and religion and the overlordship of the universe. i am sure mars, mercury, and tellus are equally prone to this weakness. one day--in the uncountably many of solar mornings--there is a collision, a breaking up of all the old forms through contact with some mysterious roving mass of burning matter. the planets with their kings and prophets disappear in fire and gas, the perturbation in the vast cosmos of change is probably not greater than that caused by the fall of an old and rotten tree before the cleansing winds of spring. all mankind clings to the hope that something escapes destruction and rises unchangeable and eternal above the domain of nothingness. in that hope we strive for better things and go forth to reform life, and in the striving we find our spirit. we know we are shortsighted and sometimes blind, and that the fight is often hopeless. but the joy, the imperishable joy, lies in the struggle. don quixote is inexpressibly dear to us because he personifies the ridiculous tasks which we attempt, though we know them to be ridiculous. there is a human need which is always paramount, yet surprisingly little recognized. it is the need of an enemy. life is a perpetual looking forward to a time when we shall have conquered. we are happiest when we see the enemy in all his ugliness and wickedness, and can draw our swords without any doubt as to his presence. we prefer solid dragons of evil to flitting butterflies of sin. we are ever in search of the enemy in our schemes of reform, our political wrangles, our moral crusades. the growth of individuality is indissolubly bound up with cognizance of the enemy. he may be hiding in the bowels of the earth, defying the attempt to tame the soil to our advantage; he may be mocking our efforts to find scientific solutions to the riddles of nature; he may be encamped in our own souls, confounding our goodness and demolishing our moral defences. but he must be there. without him life would be stagnant, energy and virtue purposeless. war satisfies the human hunger for a sight of the enemy. all the vague sense of evil which in peace-time makes the morality of our next-door neighbour a matter of anxious concern to us is now solidified in hatred of the foe of the country. smaller enmities are patched, national brotherhood is recognized. the country at war with us becomes the target of all our moral bullets. tyranny, cruelty, lust, greed, and all manner of abomination dwell there; its people are the servants of antichrist. the evil seen in the enemy stimulates unseen good in the masses, to whom the sacrifices of war would be impossible but for the conviction that the nations have been sharply divided into sheep and goats. the abolition of war will come about when we have learnt to eliminate sham enemies and to recognize the real one within our own hearts. in our present stage of cosmic education, the idea of a negative peace is entirely repellent. now and then, after a bout of too much talking or too much doing, we may dwell tenderly on the thought of complete inaction and stillness. a nightmare is an excellent means of inducing a desire for dreamless sleep. but normal, natural humanity shuns complete rest. hence the notorious failure--mental and physical--of complete holidays. we must attack something, and if there is no work to attack, we attack the inanimate stupidity of our surroundings. it is strange that the laborious task once achieved should so often become the thing abhorred. scales fall from our eyes, perspective is restored, and we see what a trumpery affair held us enthralled. i have often thought with dismay of the effect on scores of reformers, whom i know, if the reform to which they have sworn allegiance should be accomplished. to many this would be a personal disaster of the gravest kind. for years they have poured their mental energy and their devotion into one channel. the enemy was always there, to be beaten at sunrise and cursed at sunset. the cause inspired high ideals and hard work; self and selfish matters were neglected in the pursuit of victory. life eventually became identified with the cause and its vicissitudes, and, like the picture in olive schreiner's story, the work took on brighter and more wonderful colour, whilst the painter became paler and paler. narrowness of vision and purpose became essential conditions of efficiency, and gradually human attributes became sharpened into fanatical weapons of assault. few reformers live to see the triumph of their cause, and fewer still succeed in preserving equilibrium of judgment. there is, verily, every excuse for the pointed energy of reformers. the world is full of horrors that cry aloud for extirpation; one head cannot easily harbour knowledge of all the strongholds of wickedness. true, those who are called by the spirit to become missionaries of mercy can harbour a greater measure of sympathy than the average man. the average man suffers through incapacity to reach the fountain of spiritual replenishment at which the saints refresh their parched throats. an acute sensitiveness to the suffering of others, without a corresponding power to reach the sources of comfort, leads to the abyss of madness. nature imposes limits to sympathy in most minds, barriers of forgetfulness without which healthy thought is impossible. the danger to the mind of indulging in unlimited sympathy has been emphasized by the most divergent students of psychological law. herbert spencer analysed it with characteristic thoroughness. nietzsche went farther. he reacted violently against the onslaughts of pity in his own soul, and in philosophical self-defence inverted the promptings of compassion. the war has shown the human need of self-defence against excessive sympathy. we are surfeited with horrors on land and sea; the ghastly truth of a carnage which exceeds anything known in history, of maimed and broken lives, of starving and homeless people, is shunned lest we lose our reason in impotent and disruptive pity. the man of bayonet and bomb, who a short time ago spent mildly exciting days over his desk in the city, and who was anxiously concerned over the indisposition of his neighbour's cat, has made himself a heart of steel for the purposes of the war. if sympathy interfered with the issue of every bullet and the thrust of every bayonet, there would be an end to military efficiency. the civilian has not seldom gone far beyond the needs of emotional self-defence and equipped himself with a heart of stone. the perfect man of sympathy--controlling his sympathy, yet radiating it to all the world and its sins--was jesus christ. his compassion had none of the corrosive qualities which drove nietzsche to distraction. he could retain the consciousness of all the suffering which men inflict on fellow-creatures and yet keep ever abundant the measure of his pity and the regenerating power of his love. he saw the root of our evil, the one cause and the one remedy. he is the catholic and consistent reformer, whilst we--we of the smaller measure--flounder in the web of a hundred causes. each cause can be endowed with an importance which outdoes all the others. education--can any one deny the overwhelming need of proper concentration on its possibilities? "here we have a generation of ignorant, selfish, immoral creatures, devoid of a sense of social responsibility," says our first reformer; "why, the remedy is obvious: let us begin with the children in the schools. is any one so dense as not to perceive the all-pervading importance of the guidance we give to the young?" "it is no use beginning with the children whilst those who teach them are so hopelessly sunk in materialism and stupidity," says our second reformer. "look at the education laws; they are all ill-conceived and ill-administered. education is not only a failure; it is a dead-weight of falsehood and class tyranny which hampers progress. let us go straight for socialism and equal human rights and opportunities. your education is only used to perpetuate industrial slavery and to keep the children of the working classes ignorant of the blood-sucking system into whose meshes they will be thrown unless we combine and make our influence felt now." "you are neglecting the most obvious duties which should come first," says the quiet and motherly voice of the third reformer; "infants die by the hundred thousand owing to neglect. there will soon be no babies for you to instruct either in materialism or socialism. the race will die out whilst you talk. look at the slums and the careless, ignorant mothers; we want infant-welfare work, we want a new baby cult, we want to teach people parental responsibility." "nonsense," breaks in the virile voice of the fourth reformer; "what you want is to take people away from the slums, to bring them back to the country. land nationalization is what we need--a free, healthy life, far removed from the factories that kill soul and body by the grinding monotony of existence. man was made for life on the soil, for contact with sun and wind, flowers and trees. they will give health and life to your babies." "your schemes have only a secondary importance"--the voice of a prominent suffragist is now heard. "give women the vote and these reforms will follow. men have made all these abominable laws and customs; women will bring in just and human laws and change all social life. as for the suggestion that country life will improve the standard of living, i can only say that it is made in ignorance of the real conditions. look at the farm labourer's wife and her home-life. she is often the most miserable, worn-out creature, who tries in vain to keep the children and herself properly fed and clothed. her life is a long travesty of the laws of health." "naturally," comments the temperance reformer, "whilst you allow the labourer to soak himself in drink and to spend his money at the public-house. drink is the root of all our social troubles: it ruins the body and corrupts the mind, it poisons the unborn children, fills our prisons and asylums. you may legislate and equalize opportunities as much as you please; so long as you allow the cursed liberty of drink there can be no health and no human decency. prohibition is the most urgent of all our needs." an athletic-looking young man, rosy-cheeked and clear-eyed, who had been listening with a somewhat supercilious smile, now joins in the debate. "there would be no need for you to bother about drink if you could persuade people to give up flesh-eating. vegetarianism is the cure of all ills. it drives away disease and the craving for stimulants, it gives you pure blood and a desire for the really simple life. i live in a tent on ninepence a day and sleep in the open. i grow my own fruit and vegetables and do my own cooking. thoreau is my master and carpenter my friend. i hate smoky cities with their slums and their shambles and your whole sickly civilization." "sickly!" repeats a christian scientist, with reproachful emphasis on the word. the speaker is a woman of sixty, whose face bears the stamp of successful self-discipline and a sound physique. "i have seen vegetarians who looked extremely sickly. before i became a christian scientist i, too, sought health by various systems of diet. now i know that all disease is but an error of mortal mind, and in _science and health_, by mrs. eddy, we are told----" she was not allowed to finish her sentence, for a congregational minister, famous for his pulpit denunciations of sin, has risen and gravely waves his hand to ensure a respectful hearing. "all you people," he says, in a voice vibrating with solemn indignation, "are pursuing fleeting shadows. the kingdom of god is within. this false cult of health by self-hypnotism, or health by living like the beasts in the field, gives undue weight to things which, after all, relate to the body. it is the _soul_ of man that is important, not where he lives or what he eats. we need the fear of god and the thirst for his mercy; we need the divine guidance which will transform and sanctify our social relations." "and pray how has the church dealt with the war?" cries the pacifist who has now risen, his eyes ablaze with denunciation of the minister. "the christian church--established or unestablished--is nothing but the handmaid of the politician and the state, the servile echo of capitalists and diplomatists. you talk of divine guidance and the sanctification of life. how do you respect life and the teaching of jesus christ? jesus said, 'love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you.' you, his professed followers, bless war and its orgies of hate. you stand by hypocritically thanking god for your own sanctity, whilst christians drench battlefields with the blood of christians. the abolition of war is the reform to which you should all bend your lives and direct your prayers. even now you have not learnt your lesson. your social order, your laws, your constitution, your personal liberties, your lives and those of your children, are thrown to the juggernaut of war, and yet you continue your futile pursuit of shadows. without peace there can be no reform." i have joined in the debate, i have heard all these voices. they are familiar to me with the familiarity of the songs of our childhood. their sentiment is true, oh so true! yet so sadly inadequate. the reformers are valiant and true, and every one has hitched his waggon to his pet star. happiest are those who do not encounter the cross-influence of rival stars or see the irony of our human limitation of sight and achievement. the blood-red cross of the crusader will stand no admixture of colour. the soul dominated by one idea gains ground. henri dunant, florence nightingale, elizabeth fry, general booth, josephine butler--these succeed by dint of their singleness of purpose. the narrowness serves to concentrate the strength and accelerate the work. the reformer may be bigoted and unreasonable, but he must be an optimist whilst pursuing his object. he must believe in life and in the inherent goodness of the earth. he must be a stranger to the dyspeptic melancholy through which carlyle saw the world as a "noisy inanity" and life as an incomprehensible monstrosity. macbeth is called to denounce life as "a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury," and "signifying nothing." macbeth must be shunned by the reformer as the monk repels the visits of satan in the desert. he must share the hopefulness of sir thomas more. utopia is possible here, now, and everywhere, though execution is likely to be the penalty of too close application to principles. he must not fear the companionship of the crank. he had better recognize that he is one. what is a crank? the dictionary is somewhat vague as to the meaning. i find that the verb is unravelled as "bend, wind, turn, twist, wind in and out, crankle, crinkle." the last two appeal to me strongly. how i have crankled and crinkled over wrongs and horrors which i have discovered on my little path! no crank can see his crankiness at the time of crankling, though sometimes he sees it afterwards. the crank is a person who holds views which to us seem ridiculous. the man who first objected to cannibalism was a crank. the man who first thought lunatics should not be chained to walls or left naked on unsavoury beds of straw was a crank. galileo was an intellectual crank of the shameless type. shelley is the beautiful crank of all times, champion of forlorn causes, the inspired rebel of the spirit. there are small and noisy and irritating cranks. i have met scores of them. they are intense, but shortsighted. some are delightfully ingenuous, with the lovable simplicity of the child. others are of a morbid and carping disposition, with an inordinate sense of their own importance. i have for many years been the privileged though unworthy recipient of confidences and schemes for the elimination of all manner of cruelty and wickedness from the world. my office in piccadilly has received within its sympathetic walls a procession of born cranks, of souls charged with high missions for the betterment of the world. faddists, eccentrics, dreamers, mystics, workers chained to lifelong slavery by their dominant idea, have poured out their plans to me. sometimes visitors came who clearly had crossed the unguarded frontier between sanity and insanity, interesting and pathetic and clever, yet of the great order of god's fools. they were not unhappy, for their path was brilliantly lit by an idea, whilst the rest of the world was plunged in darkness. they would scold me and pity me because i refused to follow their light, but they were never unkind. there is an old blue easy-chair in the office, dilapidated and springless, in which i have deposited my cranks. i always choose a hard, uncomfortable seat opposite, from which i conduct my defence against the insidious appeal of the visitors. their faces do not fade from my memory. they haunt me with a gentle refrain of the world-as-it-might-be. the world as they would like it to be is certainly not always habitable, but it is generally one of exuberant imaginative verdure. here is the man who wants to abolish sex. he believes in spirit. he is timid and womanly, his mind is pure and inexpressibly shocked at the carnal desires which disfigure the otherwise fair picture of humanity. love, marriage, procreation, cannot these be purged from the base and degrading obsessions of sex? by abstinence, by concentration, we may eliminate them. surely the story of the fall makes it quite clear that we were never meant to perpetuate such gross mistakes.... here is the woman who believes sex to be the source of all good, all life, all joy. she holds a medical degree and is passionately opposed to the emancipation of womanhood. she is unmarried, and dresses with old-fashioned emphasis of the eternal feminine. with a soft and languid smile she deprecates the fate which sent her to the medical school instead of the nursery. "why," she tells me, with radiant eyes, "everything is sex; poetry, painting, sculpture, religion are sex. women who suppress their sexual nature by pursuing the chimerical advantages of votes and professions are guilty of race-suicide. race-suicide must be stopped." there is the believer in the immediate return of jesus christ and the approaching end of the world. he comes as a convert with a message, and laden with books of prophecy. a year ago he was still a successful man of business, and a gay soul with no inclination towards the holy life. the merry twinkle in his eye has disappeared, and in its place i see the dull glow of an obsessing idea. "what is the good of all your struggle and your agitation?" he says; "everything will come right and the wicked will be punished. join me in proclaiming the coming of the lord. let people be warned and repent in time." there is the lively, mercurial lady in green who deals in statesmanship and high politics, who knows everybody of importance, and who controls the fate of nations through her magic influence behind the scenes. to-day she has been to the war office, yesterday the home office trembled at her approach, to-morrow certain officials in high diplomatic circles will know to their cost what she thinks of them. there is the pompous lady of a hundred committees. she has a passion for committees, and no sooner has she formed one or sat on one than she discovers the general unworthiness of the assembly. she comes to expose people, to prove how utterly incapable they are of managing affairs. the priestess of some system of new thought arrives. she is pleasant and unruffled. "can you deny," she asks, "that nothing exists for you but that which you allow to enter your mind?" no, i cannot. "very well, then, you can control the universe by thought. you can gain happiness, health, peace of mind, and long life. by thought and meditation you can make for yourself a world of harmony, a consciousness which excludes everything that is ugly and painful and jarring." i murmur that this is no doubt possible, but it seems a trifle selfish whilst so many human souls are struggling in the sea of trouble. i am sharply pulled up. "i thought you would be too immersed in the wretched folly of agitation to understand," she says; "i came to show you the better way." she is followed by the clothes enthusiast. he wears sandals and has discarded the abomination of starched linen. "we are forming a society for the revival of greek clothing," he announces. "from the æsthetic and the hygienic points of view, nothing is more important than the clothes we wear." i venture on a feeble teufelsdröckh joke. he does not condescend to listen. "we must get rid of hideous trousers and feet-strangling skirts [i am lost in admiration over the indictment of the skirt, for i remember a certain reception in washington in the days of the snake-skirt when i stumbled and fell at a moment when a little dignity would have been my most precious possession]; we must wear loose white draperies amenable to the air and the washtub." i quite agree, but raise some practical obstacles and a few conventional pegs of delay. they prove intolerable, and my visitor departs convinced that i am not one of the elect. missionaries of dietetics come in a motley procession. there is the man who believes we can eat anything provided we masticate everything with bovine thoroughness; there is the man who believes that we ought to eat nothing during long bouts of purgative fasting, and who lives cheerfully and inexpensively on hot water during two yearly periods of twenty days. there is the woman who has found the nearest approach to nectar and ambrosia in the uncooked fruits and vegetables of the earth, which, properly pounded, are digested, and make of our sluggish bodies fit receptacles for olympian wisdom. there are the people who have discovered the one cause of all disease. it may be uric acid or cell proliferation or hard water--there is always a complementary cure. i listened one day with much interest to an exposition of the evils of salt. salted food, i was told, is the cause of our troubles. we are salted and dried until all power of recuperation is driven out of our nerves and muscles. i was asked to study the subject. the theory was well supported by scientific reasoning and evidence, and on the following evening i had thoroughly entered into the saltless ideal. a vision of the dispirited haddock had materially assisted my conclusion when a visitor was announced. he was preceded by a card showing impressively that he was a man of learning in theories of disease. "i have come," he said, "in the hope that you will take an interest in my experiments and conclusions with regard to disease in general. i have discovered that the one cure for rheumatism, consumption, and cancer is salt, plenty of common salt." the trouble with all these people is not that they are all wrong. they are probably all right. it is a question of angles and quality of the grey matter of the brain. the trouble is the limitation of experience and outlook imposed by fate upon each individual. a league or society is theoretically the one human institution which is akin to heaven. you have an object and a programme. you know you are occupied with the most important task in the world. but you feel powerless alone. you send out your appeal for support and kindred souls flock to your banner. can anything be more soul-satisfying than a community of those who think alike, who feel alike, and who work for the same end? anarchy is impossible, and you decide on a constitution and rules for the management of your spiritual brotherhood. a committee is appointed to control the affairs of the union, and officials to carry out its wishes. now you have the ideal of which you dreamt, the pure collective force which should prove irresistible. friends within and enemies without. but you have not excluded the canker of human differences. your kindred souls discover that, though they think alike on the one point which drew you together, they differ strongly on others. there are other opinions, religious and political, than those which come within the purview of your little organization. you surprise some of your friends in the act of discussing your denseness in matters of which they have a firm and clear grasp. you begin to wonder how it is possible for people who have such a perfect vision of certain necessary lines of reform to manifest such unmitigated stupidity in regard to others. if you are wise, you resign yourself to the inevitable divergence of mind; if they are wise, they agree to pardon your shortcomings. fanatics flower in a society like poppies in a wheat-field. they have lost sight of everything but the urgency of the cause. they are intolerant because they have no knowledge of human nature and no self-criticism wherewith to check the wild ideas that sprout beneath their immense self-confidence. they turn withering scorn on committees and officials who refuse to give effect to their suggestions to burn the house of commons, or stop the traffic of london, or commit combined suicide in hyde park as a protest against the continuance of the iniquity which they denounce. they would do things in a different manner. they intend to show the world and politicians that their views cannot be ignored with impunity. for you and your lukewarm followers they have nothing but contempt--the contempt which is earned by the coward. the fanatic is troublesome, but comparatively easy to deal with. there is another product of organized reform on which you cannot so easily shut the door. it is the ideologue who rides the scheme to death. it is the doctrinaire who must form systems within systems and policies within policies. it is not enough that you have set out to suppress something or to encourage something. you must follow his particular way. he is in terror of compromise and sees profligacy in sweet reasonableness. he knows the tragic failure of other movements with vacillating policies. this one must be saved at all costs. 'twere better to smash the whole movement than proceed along undesirable lines. he would scorn victory that came through avenues not recognized by him. certain words and phrases have completely captivated his imagination. with them he fences heroically and causes a sufficiency of clatter and noise. he is in deadly earnest and will brook no rivals. parties within parties are formed, and the energies which should be directed towards fighting opponents are absorbed in combat within the society. there is another element of disaster which now and then gains ascendancy in the community of reformers. it is the professional agitator, the parasite who will speak for or against a principle according to the economic advantage which one side or the other may offer. you may hold that such a man is not altogether undesirable, provided he can "organize" and persuade people that the society is worthy of support. you may think that he is no more blameworthy than the lawyer who pleads your views so eloquently and who handles the jury with such consummate skill, though his sole incentive is your fee and not your case. if you act on such a belief and allow your professional agitator to manage your society, you will certainly one day find your ideals turned to ashes and your organization for moral action turned into money-making machinery. whilst life teaches you that societies are frail human institutions and that conferences and congresses do not bring about the millennium, you are saved from despair if you keep ever fresh your sense of humour. there are problems in the life of the reformer which the mountains never fail to put before me. i have so often come to them from the heat and turmoil of controversy. i have come like a soldier from battle, covered with mud and slightly wounded, yet exultant in the spirit of the fray. the mountains speak to me, and lo! another self appears. they speak to me of beauty, of peace, of the infinite mystery of life; they give me broad effects of light and shade, and obliterate the small pictures which pursue me on the plains. yesterday, in the stillness of alpine midwinter, the moon shone clear and full on the glacier. i sat gazing at the outlines of the peaks trembling in the pale light of a perfect evening. the noisy mountain torrents were held captive in prisons of ice, but here and there the sound of an irrepressible rivulet threading its underground way through stones and earth brought to my ears a song of spring. i love the trees, the sky, the snow--all my senses respond to the call of the solitude of nature. i felt free and happy; i sank into the state of bliss in which the soul is conscious of no desire. surely this is better than the strife and the sordid cares of the camp; surely one may walk apart and enjoy the fruits of tranquillity? our consciousness can admit but an infinitesimal part of that which is: let us then fill it to the brim with the joy of beauty, with the harmony of being at rest. then i remembered the things which lay beyond my peaks and my moonlight: a vision of prisons and shambles, of battlefields and slums, passed before my eyes. how can one forget! how can one enjoy peace and beauty! duty bids us to descend, love bids us to share the suffering. and yet are there not two ways of seeking perfection, two paths clearly defined and well trodden throughout the ages--reform of self and reform of others? what may at first sight appear as æsthetic or mystic egoism is perhaps the better way. the hermit who forsakes the world and renounces the social ties and burdens which most men count of value is bent on the purification of his own soul. monasticism--with all its faults--recognized the essential need of self-examination and self-discipline. it bade us cleanse our souls, conquer our own temptations, by a rigid system of religious exercise. our modern reformer is not always conscious of any need for self-reform. he lustily attacks the misdoings of others and remains happily ignorant of the socratic rule, _know thyself_. "every unordered spirit is its own punishment," says st. augustine, and the disorder is not removed by assaulting the faults of others. we have, first and last, to be captains of our own souls. there is an element of absurdity in the thought that the aim and purpose of human life is for each soul to hunt for the sins and imperfections in others. the enjoinment of self-criticism and self-culture seems a simpler and less circumstantial rule of life. asceticism, abnegation, prayer, remoteness from the passions that rend the worldly, bring peace and content. but they limit experience and give a false simplicity to the problems of life. early christian monasticism held that as this world is the domain of the devil, the only safety lies in flight from it. such a view precludes the possibility of social reform on a general and lasting basis. it has a radical consistency and a scientific precision which are only disturbed by the course of actual events. supposing all humanity could be withdrawn, every precious brand snatched from the burning and the whole made into a vast monastery? the devil would be sure to slip in and cause a disturbance. the social reformer assumes that the world is worthy of his care, and that we are here to make it as habitable as we can. he lives in the midst of sinful humanity and accepts the inheritance of earthly conventions. he may choose to live in the slums whilst his spirit clamours for a hermitage amongst the blue hills. his ways may be crotchety and his temper irritable--what does it matter so long as he is carrying out his appointed task in the cosmic order? to the true nature-lover there is no renunciation in forsaking the things prized by most men. his virtue may be vice concealed; he gathers bliss where others find boredom. give me a tree, a perfect tree, and you may keep your palaces. give me the green fields with a hundred thousand flowers, and you may keep your streets and your piles of gold. give me the wild wind and the breath of the torrent, and i have no wish to hear your hymns. there is a brazen self-sufficiency about the nature-lover which baffles and offends the mind of the crowd. the most amazing thing about him is that he turns hardship and deprivation into pleasure. take away his house and he shelters in a cave. deprive him of your company and he laughs to himself. take away his possessions and he tells you he is rich because he wants so little, whilst you are poor, for you have surrounded yourself with a hundred unnecessary wants. like antæus, the mythical giant, he derives his strength and his power to overcome enemies from contact with the earth. he discovers a mode of being, behind and beyond ordinary existence. he says to the busy crowds of industry and commerce, to the men and women who wear out their lives in the joyless chase of success: "you will die before you know satisfaction and rest. come and be human, come and grow in the sunshine and the rain." he finds that two-thirds of the reforms for which men labour would not be needed if the artificialities of society were abandoned. he is, of course, unpractical and self-centred. listen to thoreau, the arch-enemy of the social treadmill, and to his scorn of reformers: who is that intemperate and brutal man whom we would redeem? if anything ail a man so that he does not perform his functions, if he have a pain in his bowels even--for that is the seat of sympathy--he forthwith sets about reforming--the world. being a microcosm himself, he discovers--and it is a true discovery, and he is the man to make it--that the world has been eating green apples; to his eyes, in fact, the globe itself is a great green apple, which there is danger awful to think of that the children of men will nibble before it is ripe; and straightway his drastic philanthropy seeks out the esquimaux and the patagonian, and embraces the populous indian and chinese villages; and thus by a few years of philanthropic activity, the powers in the meanwhile using him for their own ends, no doubt, he cures himself of his dyspepsia, the globe acquires a faint blush on one or both of its cheeks, as if it were beginning to be ripe, and life loses its crudity and is once more sweet and wholesome to live. and whilst thus branding those who set out to reform others, he shows his adherence to the great order of self-reformers by the following conclusion: i never dreamed of any enormity greater than i have committed. i never knew, and never shall know, a worse man than myself. thoreau cultivates simplicity with an intense regard for the effect on himself. he is--in spite of his seclusion--above all a prophet amongst men. he made great discoveries in the realm of the mind--the mind attending closely to nature, but he is too much the naturalist and the land-surveyor to lose himself in the raptures of nature love. he is a stranger to the ethereal touch with which fiona macleod opens the magic door of that which is felt but not seen in earth and sky. he misses the mystic hour when ghosts of the green life are about. that hour has been seized by algernon blackwood, who makes us feel the fascination, the vague dread of the elemental powers. there is a dream-wood in which the souls of all things intermingle, and once imprisoned there, the nature-lover may not escape until he has paid toll to the pixies. there is, after all, nothing incompatible in the life of self-enrichment and the life of self-expenditure. they are interdependent, and rule the ancient order of gnosis and praxis. whether we go to nature or religion or science for replenishment, we must be filled. and the ironic power which presides over our feasts compels the most inveterate egoist amongst us to share his treasures. mind is for ever craving to give to mind. if we want nothing better than to boast of our superiority, the boasting imparts a lesson to others and is therefore a gift. but the reforming spirit spares few who think. it is generally believed that the purely literary mind scorns the idea of reforming: that art is above moral purpose. i have yet to discover the purely literary mind. homer and shakespeare, goethe and dante are clearly not of it. shakespeare, so say the wiseacres, is the strictly impartial dramatist. he depicts the good and the bad, the great and the small, with complete detachment. naturally, the art is the detachment and the lesson is in the perfect representation. the literary man may indignantly repudiate the idea of "preaching." "to go preach to the first passer by," wrote montaigne, "to become tutor to the ignorance of the first i meet, is a thing i abhor." he may have abhorred the idea, but through his essays he made himself tutor to innocence and the model of subjective moralizing. however widely we roam the republic of letters, we meet no citizen without a badge of consecrated service. pretenders, perhaps, usurpers of the titles of others, men to whom literature is nothing but merchandise. these may be totally free from the impulse. tolstoy, ibsen, hauptmann, hugo are reformers of the first order, whose words are charged with revolt. the transcendentalism of emerson, the naturalism of zola, the cynicism of la rochefoucauld are all convergent streams in the torrent of reforming words which make the soul fertile. no; the tame and vapid acquiescents are not to be found in literature. sometimes they furnish material for literature. their principal use in life is to kindle the souls of reformers with the resentment of which great deeds are born. nationality i can remember no time in my life when i was not addicted to the study of humanity. the marvels of faces, types, and characteristics were, i feel sure, with me in my cradle. at the age of ten i had evolved a kind of astrological chart of my own, according to which all human beings, including uncles and aunts, grandmothers and children, could be placed in twelve categories. there were the long-nosed, thin-lipped, sandy-haired, over-principled people, who always knew right from wrong and who grudged me an extra chocolate because it was not the hour to have one. there were the snub-nosed, full-lipped, dark-eyed people, whose manners were jolly and who positively encouraged illicit consumption of fruit in the thin-lipped aunt's garden. there were the shortsighted, solemn people with bulging foreheads and studious habits who saw print and nothing else. they bored me and belonged to my eleventh category. as far as i can see now, my categories were a florid elaboration of the four temperaments of hippocrates, though i have no idea of the cause of my childish absorption in the subject. it was certainly altogether spontaneous and not encouraged, for i have a vivid recollection of how an eager and eloquent description of my categories (profusely illustrated by mimicry) brought me a sharp reprimand and a very nasty tonic. the tonic was taken under compulsion, but the cure is still unaccomplished. and now for many years i have sat at my chalet window and seen the world go by. the path from the village below to the peaks and pastures above runs past my nest. on it, in the summer months, there was a straggling procession of tourists and climbers, peasants and townsfolk. they were of all nationalities, and their loud voices proclaimed the immutability of the curse of babel. i used to be annoyed at the close proximity of the path, until, one day, i discovered its marvellous opportunities for anthropological research. then i settled down, content to limit my wooing of the solitude to the early morning and the late evening, or the time when the wild autumnal gales brush the mountains clear of trippers and paint the surrounding foliage in glorious tints of red and gold. for i assure you the proper study of man is man, and the proper study of woman is both man and woman. here comes the parisian youth with his charming young mamma of forty. his face is pale and _distingué_, and the black down on his upper lip has been trained with infinite care. though his grey mountain suit is fashioned for great feats of daring, it has the rounded waist and martial shoulder-lines with which the parisian tailor pacifies his conscience when he supplies english fashions. his stockings look ferocious. his dark eyes sparkle with inquisitiveness behind the pince-nez. he is vivacity incarnate, he is urbanity on a holiday. mamma takes his arm and they trip past me. she is pretty, and would be plump if the art of the _corsetière_ had not abolished plumpness. her hat conveys a greeting from the rue lafayette, her little high-heeled boots show faultless ankles and the latest way of lacing up superfluous fat above them. a hole and two uneven stones maliciously intercept the progress of that little foot. mamma stumbles, and is promptly and chivalrously replaced in an upright position by the son. "mon dieu!" she cries; "what a path!" and through my open window there floats the odour of _poudre-de-riz_ disturbed by nervous excitement. papa follows. he is fat. no one can deny it, and i do not think he would like any one to try. honesty is writ large on his rotund countenance. now he is hot and somewhat weary with the climb. he carries his hat under his arm and large pearls of moisture shine on the puckered forehead. his hair is thick and closely cropped, and strives upward with the even aspiration of a doormat. his cheeks are a little sallow and pendulous. he smiles under his thin moustache, the contented smile of an honest, hardworking, successful man. i know him well; i seem to have met him in a hundred editions in the offices of municipalities and prefectures, behind the counters of banks and shops. he is generally amiable, but he can lose his temper, and when he loses it, it is worth your while to help him to find it. here comes the heidelberg professor, accompanied by two fair daughters. he is tall, of commanding presence, and walks with patriarchal gravity under a green umbrella. a large pocket, embroidered and ingeniously designed with numerous compartments, is strapped to his waist. he strokes his long, well-trimmed beard as he admonishes the girls to pay serious attention to the natural beauty of the scenery. he rummages the pocket for his field-glasses. "this, dear children, is mont blanc. i do not say that our schwarzwald is not just as lovely in its way. this mountain was first climbed by paccard and balmat. it stretches from the col de balme to the col du bonhomme and the col de la seigne. [a book is now extracted from the fourth division of the pocket.] there are the following passes: the col d'argentière, the col...." his eye-glasses slip downwards on his nose. the girls are not listening. gretchen is entirely absorbed in the fascinating appearance of an italian who has just passed, and who by unmistakable signs conveyed to her that she is adorable. his flashing eyes, his jet-black hair, his lithe figure, his pointed toes, the nimble way in which he managed to press her hand behind the very back of her father, have stirred her imagination. hedvig is shocked. the elder daughter is permeated with respect for her father's professorial dignity. every gesture betrays the capable housekeeper. she seems to be made of squares--good, proper, solid squares. she tells the smiling gretchen, whose cheeks suggest strawberries and cream, that she must never encourage dark italians by looking at them. she should look at the ground when such men pass. she should be more attentive to father. the sound of their footsteps dies, and the green umbrella is but a dream. hedvig has filled my window with visions of a well-ordered german home, of sausages and _sauerkraut_, of beer and pickled fruit, of embroideries and coffee-parties. here comes a hatless representative of young russia. his clothes are shabby and neglected; he walks with a shuffling, tired movement. but his face is startling. it seems to light up the path with some kind of spiritual fervour. his hair is long and golden, his beard suggests an aureole of virtue, his large blue eyes are penetrating but mild. a confused series of faces flash through my mind--abraham, tolstoy, jesus christ? yes, it may seem sacrilegious, but the man is like jesus christ. i see now that the likeness is studied, cultivated, impressive. this is one of the _intelligentsia_ who has lingered for a while in geneva or lausanne _en route_ for the haunts of spiritual revolution. a din of dear familiar voices now fills the path and seems to shake the tops of the pines. "i guess you won't try that again. i did munich in one day, dresden in one and a half, berlin in two, and europe in twenty." three women and a man stop opposite the chalet. the ladies are charmingly dressed in summer frocks of white and pink and blue, and carry nothing heavier than a parasol. the man is laden with cloaks, rugs, and bags. they peer into my window and try to catch a glimpse of the interior. i hastily draw the curtains and leave one peep-hole for myself. "quaint houses these swiss live in," says one. "it isn't a bad shanty," says the man. "let's have a glass of milk," says another. "dew lait," they shout through the window. i callously observe them through my peep-hole. the man is of a fine american type, sinewy, resolute, hawk-eyed. the mountain sunshine provides me with röntgen rays, and i see wall street inside his brow. "dew lait," they yell. as there is no answer, they hammer at the door. the door is adamant. they leave reluctantly. "i think i saw the face of one of those swiss idiots through the curtains," says the lady in pink; "of course he would not understand what we said." there is a delightful readiness to jump to conclusions on the part of visitors. sometimes they are the reverse of flattering, but they are always a source of delighted interest to me. i remember one day, years ago, when i had gone to draw water at the source, which emerges as a thousand diamonds from the rock and then descends into the hollow trunk of a tree and becomes tame and inclined to domesticity. the cows had come for a drink at the same hour, and we had just exchanged a few polite remarks when i found myself observed by an english clergyman. yes, unmistakably english. his face was prim and clean-shaven, his collar straight and stiff, upon his lips there played a sweet and devout smile. he lifted up the tail of his coat ceremoniously and, selecting a clean stone, seated himself upon it. he radiated condescending kindness. "lor a bun," said he. i asked the cows to excuse me for a moment and turned to him. "lor a bun," he repeated, this time with a query. i stared uncomprehendingly. the sweet smile became sweeter. "lor a bun, ma pettit fille, eh?" at last i understood. "oh, yes, the water is excellent here," i replied, "and freezingly cold if you put your fingers in it." he departed in unceremonious haste. for some years i have watched the procession of nations on my path. french, german, english, russian, austrian, american, italian--they all brought me a picture of their tribal characteristics, trivial, thumbnail sketches, but nevertheless true to life. it may be urged that holiday-makers do not constitute reliable material for the observation of national peculiarities. i am not so sure. a man on a holiday generally takes his goodwill with him, and endeavours, at least, to restrain his temper and his prejudices. he may fail in the attempt, and be a peevish thing at play, but the attempt will show him at his best. from the hotels below, where the crowds of cosmopolis stayed _en pension_ at reasonable and unreasonable terms, the sound of music and songs visited me in the evening. the nations were waltzing. international peace reigned under the auspices of the swiss hotel keeper. forgotten were the ancient feuds of dynasty and religion. common humanity was uppermost. and now the nations are at war. the concourse of friendly strangers who used to meet in the hotels is sharply divided into hostile groups. travel is suspended or severely restricted. the frenchman who a short time ago raised his glass in friendly salute to the german at the opposite table, who had guided him across the moraine, is now convulsed at the thought that he could ever forget the essentially brutal and inhuman character of all germans. the german wishes he had dropped the frenchman into the crevasse. there would then, he argues, have been one less of these treacherous, mean people, whose love of military conquest is only checked by impotence. he remembers napoleon and the fact that any insignificant-looking chip of the latin block may one day threaten the heart of germany. the easy and good-humoured internationalism of tourist-life is at an end. i do not know to what extent modern facilities for inexpensive travel have helped to establish friendship and understanding between the nations. but i do know that a person who claims to be educated, and who has never travelled abroad, is insufferably boresome. i prefer the society of a mole. the mole does not lecture me on the incalculable advantages of remaining in one's dark passages. i do not shut my eyes to the fact that some people go abroad and come home with their stupidity unmodified by experience. but they have been made uncomfortable, and that is something. a series of pricks of discomfort might dislodge the obstacles to mental circulation. a swiss hotel may serve to check the contempt which the philistines of all nations (there is a truly international bond between them) feel at the thought of a foreigner, though the shock of finding oneself amongst such peculiarities of clothes, or frisure, or table-manners may be almost unbearable. "can you tell me," said a charming but agitated old lady from bath one day, "of a hotel where there are no foreigners?" "i am afraid i cannot," i answered. "the hotel you have in mind would be full of foreigners in switzerland, and you would but add to their number." even the most cosmopolitan habitués of nice, or monte carlo, or homburg feel the mildly stimulating effect of being in the presence of foreigners. you are interested or disgusted, you are attracted or repelled; your curiosity is aroused; you guess, you weave romances, you make conscious use of the rich material for comparison which lies before you. in europe, apparently, the nations meet but do not merge. america achieves the miracle. i remember one evening in new york. i had addressed a meeting of good americans and was coming home in the train. i was tired and unobservant and kept my eyes closed. suddenly a loud remark in danish attracted my attention. i looked up at the row of humanity in the long carriage. sitting opposite me, standing at my side, hanging by the straps, were the nations of the world. the racial types were there: slavonic, latin, teutonic; the skull dolichocephalic and the skull brachycephalic rested side by side without any attempt at mutual evacuation. i could distinguish the faces of frenchmen, jews, englishmen, japanese, germans, poles, negroes, italians. they did not study one another. they were journeying home from the day's work. a strange homogeneity brooded over the company. america had put her super-stamp on their brows. they were citizens of an all-human country. what, then, is this mysterious power which seems to master the old world, whilst it is mastered by the new world? nationality is clearly a mundane thing. it is not generally suggested that heaven is mapped out into national frontiers; the christian religion and other faiths are bent on roping in all the nations. the missionaries who are sent out to africa and china go with the conviction that there is room in heaven for the black and the yellow sinner. true, the black and the yellow man will first have to shed their somewhat irregular appearance and come forth white and radiant, but the belief in the possibility of such a feat is proof positive that we regard the nationality of a man as a transient business. nationality is local, spirituality universal. nationality is a form, a mould, a means; spirituality is the essence, the force, the object. the problems of nationality are wrapped up in the problems of personality. a personality is an amalgam of likes and dislikes, of habit and prejudice, the product of circumstances and a will. there is such a thing as multiple personality, and there is also multiple nationality. but the simple measure of nationality is severely natural and elemental. it is rooted in the need of understanding and being understood. it begins with love of self (we do love ourselves, in spite of all assurances to the contrary), family, and tribe. in a world of diversity and uncertainty it envelops us with a comforting assurance that there are creatures who feel and think as we do. it endows us with a group-soul, without which we, like ants and bees, cannot face life. the sense of nationality is but an enlarged sense of personality. it is a realization of unity which comprises many lesser units. our household, our village, our country, our constituency, are all independent unities which we deliberately (though not always successfully) press into the service of the greater unity. the lesser unities always run the danger of being superseded by the greater unities. the conditions of soil and climate in a hamlet produce a crop of personalities similar in content and range, a type which we may distinguish by the shape of the nose or the trend of the remarks. ten neighbouring little hamlets may have their little ways of distinction which separate one from the other, and yet one day--to their dismay--discover that they have greater generalities in common. once the discovery is made, prudence and common sense demand co-operation. the great nations are built up on the discovery. italy, germany, and great britain have taken it to heart after endless trials of the smaller unities. america had one severe trial, and then settled down to circumvent and undo the curse of babel. the sense of separateness, once so precious to florence, genoa, and pisa, could not resist the larger conception of italy. there is no reason, historical or logical, why this expansion of the consciousness of unity should not proceed until there is nothing further to include. the recognition of an all-human brotherhood is followed by the realization of an all-animal brotherhood in which the essential likeness of all that breathes and feels is paramount. personally, i have never found the slightest difficulty in accepting our near relationship to the apes. on the contrary, every monkey i meet--and i have specially cultivated their acquaintance--reminds me sharply of the simian origin of our dearest traditions. the consciousness of unity and the consequent sense of separateness from some other body or bodies are subject to constant change and surprisingly erratic in their application. a bare hint to the welshman, the scotsman, the breton, the provençal, or the bavarian that his national idiosyncrasies do not exist, and you will speedily see a demonstration of them. and yet, a moment ago, they felt entirely british or french or german. swedes, danes, and norwegians have each a keen sense of national separateness (and superiority), but let the tongue of slander touch their common nature, and scandinavia rises in indignant unity. i have attended many international congresses, and have observed how easily the party is on the verge of grave national crises. each alliance musters a good-humoured tolerance of the deficiencies of others. but let an opponent of the whole scheme, for which they have assembled, attack the principle which is sacred to all, and there is an immediate truce and concerted action against the intruder. russian and german troops have found it necessary to suspend their fighting in order to defend themselves against the attacks of wolves. the hungry pack of wolves, waiting by the trenches at night, presented a force which called for united opposition, and the european war had to wait whilst the men of the opposite armies joined in killing them. when the slaughter of wolves was happily over, the human battle was resumed. supposing, instead of wolves, an airship of super-terrestrial proportions had brought an army of ten-armed, four-headed, and six-legged creatures, bent on dealing out death to the occupants of the trenches, what would have happened? supposing the inhabitants of a more cruel and vicious planet than ours (cosmological specialists assure us such exist) developed powers of warfare before which the exploits of hannibal or attila paled into insignificance, and learnt the art of destroying life not only in their own world but in others as well? they might come armed with new atmospheric weapons, trailing clouds of suffocating fumes to which resistance with guns and bombs would be utterly ineffectual. the horror of the unknown danger would paralyse the war, batteries would be deserted and the trenches would quickly be internationalized. the sense of our common humanity, outraged at the sight and the smell of the monsters, would assert itself. generals and statesmen of the belligerent peoples--if any were left to direct the defensive--would hold subterranean meetings, and, forgetting the cause for which they sent men to die nobly but a few days ago, would discuss how they could save the united remnants of humanity by strategy and simulation. the sense of unity is, after all, dependent on innumerable conditions and circumstances over which we have little control. there is the unity of tradition and education, of eton and harrow, of oxford and cambridge. it moulds opinion and imposes certain restrictions of conduct and prejudices in outlook. rivalry is an indispensable and normal adjunct of such unity. races and the honour and glory of one's school and team can stir the group-soul to incredible heights of enthusiasm and effort. there is the instinctive unity of seafarers. who has not, when crossing the ocean, felt that he was part of a small world independent and isolated from others, but bound together by special ties of adventure? an encounter with an iceberg will bring the common responsibilities and dangers to the notice of the most inveterate individualist, but even while the ship moves uneventfully forward, he, perforce, shares the feeling of oneness. there is the humorous unity which will seize the opposing parties in a court of law and make them join in laughter at some feeble judicial joke just to experience the relief of forgetting that they are there to be contentious. the advocates of the theory that nations and nationalities are eternally distinct and separate can see no analogy of unity in the simple examples of everyday life. they tell us conclusively that england is england and france is france, and our humble retort that we know as much and something besides is silenced by the further information that each nation has a soul that will tolerate no interference from other souls. they forget, our apostles of the creed of separateness, that the states of to-day are built up on a vast mixture of races and nationalities. they forget, also, that nationality is not a fixed and immovable quantity. like personality, it is alive and changing, susceptible to influence and experience, liable to psychic contagion from the thoughts and emotions of others. there is no pure nationality. hybrids are regarded as inferior creatures, as biological outlaws. the truth is, we are all hybrids. our bluest blood has all the shades of common colour in it when examined ethnically. great britain--and ireland--contains a mixture of romans, angles, jutes, saxons, danes, normans, and celts. to-day, scotch, welsh, and irish are mixtures within mixtures. and what is the british empire? a conglomeration of races and languages, a pan-national product of conquest and colonization, in which the forces of racial modification are always at work obliterating old divisions and creating new claims to national recognition. the russian empire, sown by vikings, slavs, and mongols, has a rich racial flora, including germans, poles, jews, lithuanians, letts, roumanians, afghans, tartars, finns, and scores of others. the great russians, the white russians, and the little russians may each claim to have sprung from the purest russian stock, but no one has as yet been able to settle satisfactorily the meaning of that claim. the russians have successively been proved to be of mongol, slav, teutonic, aryan, tartar, celto-slav, and slav-norman origin. italy, believed to be the home of pure latin blood, has sheltered and mingled a great number of races, such as egyptians, greeks, spaniards, slavs, germans, jews, and normans. the republics of central and south america are to a large extent peopled by half-breeds. here the commingling is flagrant and offensive to the partisan of the superiority of the white race. spain in mexico and portugal in brazil have produced a wild-garden crop which is the despair of the custodian of racial law and order. the search for national purity brings many unexpected discoveries and destroys various theories. it reveals the fact that america has no monopoly of racial amalgamation. france and germany appear to us as opposites and irreconcilables. yet, if you pursue germany to the hour of her birth you will find that her mother was france. examine france physiologically and you will find that her muscles and arteries have a german consistency. a thorough investigation of the origins of germany may prove that she is more gaulish than gaul. the germanic invasions of france are matters of elementary history. originally a mixture of ligurians, celts, phoenicians, greeks, and romans, she is only latin in part. cæsar conquered gaul, but the roman mixture has not obliterated previous or subsequent additions. the latin blood of france was thoroughly diluted by visigoths, burgundians, franks, vandals, normans, and other peoples of germanic stamp. when gaul was partitioned into the burgundian kingdom, austrasia, and neustria, there were already present the selective processes which, centuries later, shaped the french and the german souls. neustria clung to roman culture, whilst austrasia nurtured the seeds of the specific _kultur_ which attained its full bloom in the twentieth century. through rivalry and war the two types persisted. charlemagne crushed the rebellious saxon spirit and conquered bavaria. he unified the divergent tendencies, but only for a time. in his empire was partitioned. france grew out of the western portion, germany out of the eastern. lotharingia or lorraine was established as a middle kingdom. did kind fates design it as a guarantee of peace and stability? the germans are apt to claim for themselves a pure and valhallic origin, an exceptionally unmixed descent of the highest attributes. the primogenial origin may be hidden in obscurity, but the german people have absorbed gauls, serbs, poles, wends, and a medley of slav and celtic races which confound all claims to racial purity. slavs settled in teutonic countries and teutons settled in slavonic countries. the german colonists who invaded russia at the invitation of catherine ii were imported to strengthen russia, just as the great elector helped thousands of huguenots fleeing from france to settle in brandenburg, and gave them the rights of citizenship for the sake of the vitality which they would impart to his depopulated country. the belief in the unalloyed purity of races and the consequent battles for national exclusiveness seem to be founded on one of those gigantic illusions which hold humanity captive for centuries. here, as elsewhere, knowledge will spell freedom. when we realize that here and now nations are in course of transformation, that the divisions of the past are not the divisions of to-day, and that we, despite conservatism and resistance, are made to serve as ingredients in some great mixture of to-morrow, momentous questions arise. are nations made by war and conquest? are peoples amalgamated by oppressive legislation? do political alliances between states create international unities? such alliances have not in the past caused any organic union. the nations have met like partners at a ball and danced to the tune of the dynastic or religious quarrel which happened to be paramount at the time. the grouping of nations in alliances has simply been a means of more effective prosecution of military campaigns, a temporary convenience to be discarded when no longer needed. if the example of the past is to be followed, then great britain, france, russia, italy, and america, though holding hands now, will separate when the war is over, and may find it necessary to use the same hands for chastizing each other. alliances have been political games and devices, useful or useless according to the shrewdness of their instigators, but of no value in promoting love between nations. old-time enemies become friends, and old-time friends become enemies at the command of the political drill-sergeant. england was the hereditary enemy of france. prussia was the ally of england. in the war of the austrian succession, france in alliance with prussia fought england and austria. during the seven years war prussia, allied to england, fought austria allied to france. england, allied to france and turkey, fought russia in the crimea. turn the kaleidoscope of history and you see the english driven out of normandy, napoleon defiling moscow, the russians attacking montmartre. any schoolboy, can trace the changing partners in the grand alliances of the past, or refuse to commit them to memory on account of the bewildering fluctuations in international friendship. a fiery common hate, though acting as a powerful cement for a time, is no guarantee of durability. napoleon and the french were hated by the nations, as wilhelm and the germans are hated to-day. rapacious designs for hegemony have always brought about a corresponding amount of defensive unity on the part of those whose independence was threatened. whether it is spain or france or germany that dreams of world-supremacy, the result is international combination. richelieu and bismarck rouse the same resentment. a great hatred cannot by itself create a lasting unity, for hatred is apt to grow out of bonds, and, having settled its legitimate prey outside the circle, generally ends by turning on its neighbours within it. who can deny that nations have been made by conquest? heroic self-defence, anger, bitter opposition to the violation of liberty, are of little avail if the psychological factors are favourable to amalgamation. a few decades, a few centuries, and there is fusion between oppressor and oppressed. hence the loyalty of conquered nations to their foreign masters, at times, when rivals vainly hope for trouble. hence the indisputable fact that many a nation which but a short time ago fought valiantly for liberty now manifests not only passive resignation, but positive contentment. if, on the other hand, the psychological factors do not favour amalgamation, the legacy of resentment and opposition is handed on from generation to generation and the injury is never forgiven. cases of contented acceptance are quoted as evidence of the ultimate blessings of war by the adherents of the theory that efficient military measures constitute right. to me they are rather evidence of the strength and endurance of the pacifying forces in human life, and of the sovereignty of the greater unities which draw nations together. if, in spite of the injuries and devastations of war, it is possible for men to forgive and to labour for the same social ends, that is surely proof that the peoples erect no barrier to brotherhood. the truth is, war sometimes achieves that which pacific settlement and free intercourse always achieve. history has a cavalier way of recording the benefits of conquest. the feelings of the great conquered receive scant consideration. it is enough that after the passage of some centuries we contemplate the matter and declare the conquest to have been beneficial. was not france invigorated by the wild northmen who overran her territories and settled wherever they found settlement advantageous? the normans, originally pirates and plunderers, intermingled with the gentler inhabitants of france. when they turned their eyes to england they were already guardians of civilization. and we blandly record the norman conquest of england as an unqualified benefit, as an impetus to social amenity, art, learning, architecture, and religion. protests are useless. the earth abounds in instances of the spread of knowledge, inventions, culture, through war and subjugation. the "rude" peoples who cried out at the outrage, and who fain would have kept their rudeness, receive no sympathy from posterity. this, i repeat, is no argument for the perpetuation of the old ways of aggression. we have reached a new consciousness and a new responsibility. we see better ways of spreading the fruits of civilization. in the past ambition and brute force, hatred and suspicion, fear and deceit, have had full play. in spite of barbaric warfare and machiavellian politics the human desire for unity and co-operation has not been uprooted. the principle of nationality is emerging from the tortuous confusion of the ages. we see that it follows no arbitrary rules of state or empire. it is a law unto itself: the law of mental attraction and community. the centres of passionate nationhood--poland, finland, ireland--withstand all attempts at suppression. you cannot break a strong will to national independence by sledge-hammer blows. in all the wars of the past nations have been treated with contemptuous indifference to the wishes of the people. they were there to be seized and used, invaded and evacuated at a price, to be bought and sold for some empirical or commercial consideration. in the treaties of peace, princes and statesmen tossed countries and populations to each other as if they had been balls in a game of chance. a new conception of human dignity and of the inviolability of natural rights now demands a revaluation of all the motives and objects for which governments send subjects to battle. democracy is finding her international unity. a great many wars of the past are recognized as having been, not only unnecessary, but positively foolish. the force of an idea is threatening to dispel the force of arms. the idea which rises dominant out of the european war is the conviction that nations have a right to choose their own allegiance or independence; that there must be freedom instead of compulsion; that real nationality is a psychological state, a tribute of sympathy, a voluntary service to which the mind is drawn by affection. to some who lightly praised the idea, treating it as an admirable prop to war, the consequences and application will bring dismay. for here you have the pivot of a social revolution such as the world has never yet seen. it cannot only remain a question of belgium, or serbia, or alsace-lorraine. it will inevitably be retrospective and prospective. it cannot be limited to the possessions of germany or austria or turkey. it will not pass over india, south africa, and egypt. all empires have been extended by conquest of unwilling nationalities. bitter wars have been fought in europe for colonial supremacy in other continents. the unwilling tribes of africa, asia, and america who have been suppressed or exterminated to make room for the expanding nations of europe knew little of the liberty of choice which has now become the beacon of militant morality. the principle--if triumphant--will be destructive of empire based on military force. it will be destructive of war, for war is national compulsion in its most logical and uncompromising form. if there is nothing and nobody to conquer, if you may not use armies to widen your national frontiers, or to procure valuable land for economical exploitation, the incentive to war will be removed. the principle will be constructive of a commonwealth of nations, and empires which have achieved a spiritual unity will survive the change of form. nationality may be merely instinctive. it is characterized by the my-country-right-or-wrong attitude, and knows not the difference between beelzebub and michael. it is primitive and unreasoning. nationality may be compulsory--a sore grievance and a bitter reproach to existence. it may be a matter of choice, free and deliberate, a source of joy and social energy. such nationality--whether inborn or acquired--is the best and safest asset which a state can possess. it is generally supposed that the naturalized subject must be disloyal in a case of conflict between his country of adoption and his country of birth. such a view assumes that all sense of nationality is of the primitive and unreasoning kind. it precludes all the psychological factors of attraction, education, friendship, adoption, amalgamation. it is ignorant of the fact that some of the bitterest enemies of germany are germans, who have left germany because they could stand her no longer. these men have a much keener knowledge of her weak spots than the visitors who give romantic accounts in newspapers of her internal state. the whole process of naturalization may be rendered unnecessary and undesirable by future developments in international co-operation. as things are, it is a formal and legal confirmation of an allegiance which must exist before the certificate of citizenship is sought. once given, the certificate should be honoured and the oath respected. to treat it as a scrap of paper is unworthy of a state which upholds constitutional rights. there are doubtless scoundrels amongst naturalized people. it would be strange if there were not. but to proclaim that a naturalized subject cannot love the country of his choice as much as the country of his birth is as rational as the statement that a man cannot love his wife as much as he loves his mother. now i have touched on a delicate point. he may love his wife, but he must repudiate his mother, curse her, abuse her, disown her. in time of war some do, and some do not. i am not sure that the deepest loyalty is accompanied by the loudest curses. there is a class of people--i have met them in every country--who are devotees of the simple creed that you should stay at home and not interfere in the affairs of others. travel you may, with a baedeker or a cook's guide, and stay you may in hotels provided for the purpose, but you must do it in a proper way and at proper times, and preserve a strict regard for your national prerogatives. but you should not go and live in countries which are not your own. to such people there is something almost indecent in the thought that any one should deliberately wish to shed his own nationality and clothe himself in another. they form the unintelligent background against which the wild and lurid nationalists of every tribe disport themselves in frenzied movements of hate and antagonism. an irate old colonel (very gouty) said to me the other day: "a man who forgets his duties to his own country and settles in another is a damnable cur. so much for these dirty foreigners who overrun england." i ventured to remind him that the english have settled in a good many places: in america, in australia, in spots fair and foul, friendly and unfriendly; that they have brought afternoon tea and sport and anglican services to the pleasure resorts of europe and the deserts of africa. meeting with no response, i embarked on a short account of the past travels and achievements of the dutch, the spaniards, and the french in the art of settlement in foreign lands. i ended up by prophesying that the aeroplane of the future will transport us swiftly from continent to continent and make mincemeat of the last remnants of our national exclusiveness. he was not in the least perturbed. "that is all rubbish," he said; "people ought to stick to their own country." i am afraid neither he nor anybody else can check the wanderings of individuals and peoples which have gone on ever since man discovered that he has two legs with which he can move about. and naturalization, after all, is an easy way of acquiring new and possibly useful citizens. the subjects come willingly, whilst the millions who are made subjects by war and subjugation are sometimes exceedingly troublesome. after all, the aim of all the great kingdoms has been to increase and strengthen the population, and differences of nationality have been treated as but trifling obstacles in the way. if the principle of free nationality which is now stirring the world and inspiring a war of liberation is to triumph, then the liberty won must include the individuals who prefer a chosen to a compulsory political allegiance. sometimes the forces of attraction and repulsion create strong ties of sympathy or lead to acts of repudiation which cross frontiers irrespectively of the indications on the barometer of foreign politics. a man may find his spiritual home in the most unexpected place. he may irresistibly be drawn by the currents of philosophy and art to a foreign country. the customs in his own may drive him to bitter denunciation. no one has said harder things of germany than nietzsche. schopenhauer wished it to be known that he despised the german nation on account of its infinite stupidity, and that he blushed to belong to it. heine fled from germany in intellectual despair. "if i were a german," he wrote, "and i am no german...." his heart was captured by the french. goethe and frederick the great were both profoundly influenced by the french spirit. voltaire was most useful at the prussian court, for he corrected the voluminous literary and political output which his prussian majesty penned--in french. but there was something more than mere utility in the tie between the philosopher and the monarch. frederick was not only trying to handle heavy german artillery with light french esprit; his mind craved for the spices of gallic wit, his thought was ever striving to clothe itself in the form of france. another "great" german, catherine ii of russia, also moved within the orbit of the french philosophers. admiration of germany and german ways has found the strongest expression in foreigners, and the megalomania from which her sons suffer to-day may be traced to such outbursts of adulation. carlyle, the most representative of pro-german men of letters in the victorian era, wrote in : alone of nations, prussia seems still to understand something of the art of governing, and of fighting enemies to said art. germany from of old, has been the peaceablest, most pious, and in the end most valiant and terriblest of nations. germany ought to be the president of europe, and will again, it seems, be tried with that office for another five centuries or so.... this is her _first_ lesson poor france is getting. it is probable she will require many such. this is blasphemy indeed at the present time. charles kingsley was no less emphatic in his admiration of germany. writing on the franco-prussian war to professor max müller, he said: accept my loving congratulations, my dear max, to you and your people. the day which dear bunsen used to pray, with tears in his eyes, might not come till the german people were ready, has come, and the german people are ready. verily god is just and rules too; whatever the press may think to the contrary. my only fear is lest the germans should think of paris, which cannot concern them, and turn their eyes away from that which does concern them, the retaking of alsace (which is their own), and leaving the frenchman no foot of the rhine-bank. to make the rhine a word not to be mentioned by the french henceforth ought to be the one object of wise germans, and that alone.... i am full of delight and hope for germany. and to sir charles bunbury: i confess to you that were i a german i should feel it my duty to my country to send my last son, my last shilling, and after all my own self, to the war, to get that done which must be done, done so that it will never need doing again. i trust that i should be able to put vengeance out of my heart, to forget all that germany has suffered for two hundred years past from that vain, greedy, restless nation, all even which she suffered, women as well as men, in the late french war. the attraction of germany is not only paramount in literature, in walter scott and mill and matthew arnold; the superiority of german blood and constitution was an article of faith of the victorians. the sins of prussia were forgiven with amazing alacrity. the base attacks on austria and denmark evoked no moral indignation. german influence on english life was not only welcomed; historians went so far as to proclaim the identity of england and germany. thus freeman, in a lecture in , stated that "what is teutonic in us is not merely one element among others, but that it is the very life and essence of our national being...." houston chamberlain, in his reverent unravelling of the greatness of the germanic peoples, is merely carrying on the tradition of the victorian age. in the application of theories he is a disciple of gobineau, a frenchman, who after a profound study of the inequality of the human race became convinced of the superiority and high destiny of germany. gobineau and chamberlain have told the germans that they are mighty and unconquerable, and the germans have listened with undisguised pleasure. gobineau may be set aside as a professor of a fixed idea. there are other frenchmen who have paid glowing tribute to germany. taine excelled in praise of her intellectual vigour and productivity. victor hugo expressed his love and admiration for her people, and confessed to an almost filial feeling for the noble and holy fatherland of thinkers. if he had not been french he would have liked to have been german. ernest renan studied germany, and found her like a temple--so pure, so moral, so touching in her beauty. this reminds us of the many who during the present war, though ostensibly enemies of germany, spend half their time in proclaiming her perfection and the necessity for immediate imitation of all her ways. madame de staël and michelet expressed high regard for german character and institutions. there are degrees and qualities of attraction and absorption, varying from the amorous surrender with which lafcadio hearn took on japanese form to the bootlicking flattery which sven hedin heaps on the germans. (it is quite futile to seek for an explanation of hedin's conduct in his jewish-prussian descent. he would lackey anywhere. strindberg dealt faithfully with hedin's pretensions. strindberg, alas! is dead, but his exposure of hedin has been strangely justified.) heine is an example of the curious and insistent fascination with which the mind may be drawn to one nationality whilst it is repelled by another. his judgment on england is painful in the extreme: "it is eight years since i went to london," he writes in the memoirs, "to make the acquaintance of the language and the people. the devil take the people and their language! they take a dozen words of one syllable into their mouth, chew them, gnaw them, spit them out again, and they call that talking. fortunately they are by nature rather silent, and although they look at us with gaping mouths, yet they spare us long conversations." can anything be more sweeping? can anything be more untrue? "fortunately they are by nature rather silent"--imagine the reversed verdict had heine attended a general election campaign! the unattractiveness of england is softened by the women. "if i can leave england alive, it will not be the fault of the women; they do their best." this is praise indeed, when placed side by side with his dismissal of the women of hamburg. they are plump, we are told, "but the little god cupid is to blame, who often sets the sharpest of love's darts to his bow, but from naughtiness or clumsiness shoots too low, and hits the women of hamburg not in the heart but in the stomach." france was as delightful as england was doleful: "my poor sensitive soul," he cries, "that often recoiled in shyness from german coarseness, opened out to the flattering sounds of french urbanity. god gave us our tongues so that we might say pleasant things to our fellow-men.... sorrows are strangely softened. in the air of paris wounds are healed quicker than anywhere else; there is something so noble, so gentle, so sweet in the air as in the people themselves." i suppose the only analogy to such superlative contentment is provided by the phenomenon known as falling in love. happily we do not all choose the same object of affection. england has a curious way of inspiring either great and lasting love or irritation and positive dislike. there seems to be little or no indifference. i believe love predominates. from exiled kings to humble refugees, from peripatetic philosophers to indolent aborigines, the testimony of her charm can be gathered. i speak as a victim. i love england with a fervour born of admiration (without admiration no one ever falls in love). i love her ways and her mind, i love her chilly dampness and her hot, glowing fires (attempts to analyse and classify love are always silly). in her thinkers and workers, in her schemes and efforts for social improvement, in her freedom of thought and speech i found my mental _milieu_. to me england is inexpressibly dear, not because a whole conspiracy of influences--educational, conventional, patriotic--were at work persuading me that she is worthy of affection. i myself discovered her lovableness. your chauvinist is always a mere repeater. he is but a member of the bandar-log, shouting greatness of which he knows nothing. true love does not need the trumpets of jingoism. i have no room for lies about england: the truth is sufficient for me. though i love england, i have affection to spare for other countries. i feel at home in france, in sweden, in america, in switzerland. your chauvinist will excuse the former affections on account of "blood." swedish-french by ties of ancestry, such a sense of familiarity is natural when set against my preternatural love of england. chauvinism flourishes exceedingly on the soil of national conceit. that conceit is prodigious and universal. the germans are past-masters in the art of self-glorification, and their pan-german literature is certainly not only bold but ingenious in this respect. is any one great outside germany? very well, let us trace his german origin. it may be remote, it may be hidden by centuries of illusory nationality, but it must be there. france has her apostles of superiority. their style is more flexible, their pretensions less clumsy, but they neglect no opportunity of seducing us into a belief that france, and france only, is mistress of the human mind. russia has her fervid declaimers of holy excellence and the superior quality of the slav character. it does not matter whether the country is great or small, whether it be montenegro or cambodia, it always contains souls who feel constrained to give the world a demonstration of their overflowing superiority. pan-germanism, pan-slavism, pan-magyarism, pan-anglosaxism, pan-americanism grow out of such conceit, systematized by professors and sanctified by bishops. the conceit of nationality often fosters great deeds, and generally finds expression that is more aggressive than intelligent. it takes hold of the most unlikely subjects. it is a potent destroyer of balanced judgment, and will pitilessly make the most solemn men ridiculous. the outbursts of emerson when under its influence are truly amazing. "if a temperate wise man should look over our american society," he said in a lecture, "i think the first danger which would excite his alarm would be the european influences on this country.... see the secondariness and aping of foreign and english life that runs through this country, in building, in dress, in eating, in books." this rejection savours of the contempt with which some young men turn their backs on the fathers who fashioned them. "let the passion for america," he cried, "cast out the passion for europe. here let there be what the earth waits for--exalted manhood." he gives a picture of the finished man, the gentleman who will be born in america. he defines the superiority of such a man to the englishman: freer swing his arms; farther pierce his eyes, more forward and forthright his whole build and rig than the englishman's, who, we see, is much imprisoned in his backbone. it is difficult to surmise the exact meaning of being imprisoned in one's backbone. the possession of plenty of backbone is generally held to be a decided advantage. emerson may have had special and transcendental prejudices against strongly fashioned vertebræ. the freaks of nationalism are as remarkable as the freaks of internationalism. there is a constant interplay between the two, and the ascendancy of the one or the other often seems strangely capricious. nationalism is weak where it should be strong, and rigid where common sense would make it fluid. the painful position of most royal families in time of war is an example of the readiness with which nations submit to foreign rulership and influence. thrones, one would think, should represent the purely national spirit in its more intimate and sacred aspect. yet the abundance of crowned rulers, past and present, attached by solemn selection or marriage, who are not by blood and tradition of the people, shows the fallacy of this supposition. napoleon was an italian who learnt french with some difficulty, and who was at first hostile to the french and somewhat contemptuous of their ways. maréchal bernadotte--french to his finger-tips--became king of sweden. pierre loti, interviewing the charming and beloved queen of the belgians during the present war, remembers that the martyred lady before him is a bavarian princess. the delicate and painful subject is mentioned. "it is at an end," says the queen; "between _them_ and me has fallen a curtain of iron which will never again be lifted." prominent statesmen, who, one would also think, should be bone of the bone of the nations for which they speak, have often been of alien birth or of mixed racial composition. bismarck was of slav origin; beaconsfield was a jew. the most picturesque example of such irregularities of the national consciousness is perhaps the presence of general smuts in the war cabinet. once the alert and brave enemy in arms against this country, he is now its trusted guide, philosopher, and friend. writers whom posterity classes as typical representatives of the national genius have often been of mixed racial strain, as were tennyson, browning, ibsen, kant, victor hugo, dumas, longfellow, and whitman. the "bastards" of internationalism, so offensive to some nationalist fire-eaters, are not produced by the simple and natural processes by which races are mixed. they are self-created, their minds are set on gathering the varied fruit of all the nations. genealogically they may be as uninteresting as the snail in the cabbage-patch, spiritually they are provocative and arresting. romain rolland and george brandes challenge and outrage the champions of nationalism by the very texture of their minds. joseph conrad, a pole, stands side by side with thomas hardy in his mastership of contemporary english fiction. conrad in his consummate interpretation of sea-life is, if anything, more english than hardy. the future of internationalism is possibly fraught with greater wonders than has been the past. the path will certainly not be laid out with the smoothness which some enthusiasts imagine. the idea and the hope are old as the hills. cicero proclaimed a universal society of the human race. seneca declared the world to be his country. epictetus and marcus aurelius declared themselves citizens of the world. st. paul explained that there is neither jew nor greek. john wesley looked upon the world as his parish. "the world is my country, mankind are my brothers," said thomas paine. "the whole world being only one city," said goldsmith, "i do not care in which of the streets i happen to reside." such complete impartiality is a little too detached for the make-up of present humanity. it may suit an etherialized and mobile race of the future. we are dependent on conditions of space and surroundings, we are the creatures of association and love. the master-problem in internationalism is the elimination of the forces of prejudice and ignorance that foster hostility, and the preservation of the precious characteristics which are the riches of the soul of the world. religion in transition the general destructiveness of war is patent to everybody. the destruction of life, of property, of trade, strikes the most superficial observer as inevitable consequences of a state of war. at the outbreak of hostilities most of us foresaw that the uprooting would not stop short at the sacrifices of livelihood and occupation which were demanded by military necessities. we expected a sweeping revision of our habits, our prejudices, our conventions. we have got infinitely more than we expected. not only have we made acquaintance with the state--the state as a relentless master of human fate and service; not only have we learnt that individualism--philosophic or commercial--is borne like a bubble on the waters of national tribulation and counts for nothing in the mass of collective effort demanded from us. industry, commerce, art, learning, science, energy, enthusiasm, every gift and power within the range of human capacity, is requisitioned for the efficient pursuit of war. liberty of action, of speech, ancient rights which were won by centuries of struggle, are taken away because we are more useful and less troublesome without them. we are made parts of the machinery of state, and we have to be drilled and welded into the proper shape. the changes imposed on us from without are thorough and have been surprisingly many, but the changes taking place within our own souls are deeper and likely to surprise us more in the end. everything has been found untenable. theories and systems are shaken by the great upheaval. civilization has become a question instead of a postulate. all human thought is undergoing a process of retrospection, drawn by a desire to find a new and stable beginning. take down spencer and comte or lecky and kidd from your bookshelf and try to settle down to a contented contemplation of the sociological tenets of the past. you will fail, for you will feel that this is a new world with burning problems and compelling facts which cannot be covered by the old systems. take down the old books of religious comfort--thomas à kempis, or bunyan, or st. augustine, and you feel their remoteness from the new agonies of soul. but it is not only the old books of piety which fail to satisfy the hunger of to-day; the mass of devotional writings, especially produced to meet the needs of the war, are painfully inadequate. rightly or wrongly, there is a sense of the inadequacy of the thought of the past to meet the need of the present. it invades every recess of the mind, it interposes itself in science as well as in religion; it leaves us no peace. there can be no doubt about it: we are blighted by the great destructiveness. all attempts to keep the war from our thoughts are destined to fail. without being struck in an air-raid or torpedoed on the high seas, there is a sufficiency of destructive force in the daily events and in our accommodation to live on for them or in spite of them. hence the universal demand for reconstruction. it is a blessed word: we cling to it, we live by it. so many buildings have tumbled about our ears, so many foundations were nothing but running sand; a whole galaxy of truths turned out to be lies. now we must prepare that which is solid and indestructible. perhaps some great and wise spirit brooding over our world, learned with the experience of æons, of human attempts and mistakes, smiles at the deadly earnestness of the intention to reconstruct. i do not care. we have reached a pass when all life and all hope are centred in this faith: the faith that we can make anew and good and beautiful the distorted web of human existence. the war has not taught us what civilization is. but it has taught us what it is not. we know now that it is not mechanical ingenuity or clever inventions or commercialism carried to its utmost perfection. civilization is not railways or telephones or vast cities or material prosperity. a satisfactory definition of civilization is well-nigh impossible. the past has born a bewildering number of different types, and it is a matter of personal taste where we place the line of demarcation between barbarism and culture. our christian civilization is passing through catastrophic changes, and it is again a matter of opinion whether it is in its death-throes or in the pangs of a new birth. but we feel vaguely, yet insistently, that civilization is a state of the soul; it is the gentle life towards which we aspire. it is based on the gradual substitution of moral and spiritual forces for simple brute force. what is the exact relation of religion to civilization? the answer has been as variable as the purpose of the questioners. to some religion is civilization, to others it is merely a temporary weakness of the human mind, to which it will always be prone from fear of the unknown and the wish to live for ever. comparative studies of the great religions of the world, their past and present forms, do not support the view that civilization is identical with religion. religions have on many occasions ranged themselves on the side of brute force to the suppression of gentleness and sympathetic tolerance. it is really all a question of the meaning which we attach to the word "religion." do we mean the church, set forms of worship and ceremonial, or do we mean the human craving for spiritual truth with the consequent strife to reach certainty, and, in certainty, peace of soul? there is a gulf between the two conceptions of religion. religion is questioned as never heretofore. the great destructiveness is passing over the old beliefs. in the clamour for reconstruction we must clearly distinguish between the wider religious life and mere denominationalism. the vast host of rationalists are busy proclaiming the downfall of religion. the war serves them as material for demonstration. the failure of christianity to avert bloodshed, and the horrors under which christendom is now submerged, are naturally used as a proof that the ethic of christianity is lamentably feeble. the difference between theoretical christianity and the social practices which the church condones is held to be damning evidence of hypocrisy and falsehood. the quarrels between sects and divisions, the petty subjects which rouse the ire of the orthodox mind, the persistent quibbling over insignificant details of faith and service, have strained rationalistic patience to the breaking-point. the church has been found fiddling whilst rome burns. our little rationalists are right, perfectly right, when they point to the shortcomings of the churches. but they confuse the form with the substance, the frailties of human nature with the irrepressible desire to find god. they have their small idols and their conventional forms of worship, which, if put to the great social test, would prove as ineffective in building the city of light as the churchgoing of the past. their prime deity is science. we are on the point of developing intelligence, they tell us; we at last see through the silly theories about god and the universe, which deluded the childish and the ignorant of past ages. assisted by the sound of guns and the sight of general misery, we must at last realize that there is no god to interfere in the troubles of man, and that churches and creeds are hopeless failures. science, we are assured, will take the place of religion. i am a patient and sympathetic student of the propagandist literature of rationalism. i have the greatest admiration for the moral and social idealism which is advocated. i agree that the atheological moral idea is superior to the mere performance of religious ceremonial. but i cannot admire the reasoning or the intelligence of those who use a smattering of science as evidence of the decay of religion. there is something almost comical in the solemnity with which they contrast the commonplaces of scientific observation with the vast mysteries of religion, to the detriment of the latter. "these marvellous researches of the human eye," writes sir harry johnston in a collection of articles entitled _a generation of religious progress_, presumably intended to portray our rationalistic progress, "so far, though they have sounded the depths of the universe, have found no god." he is speaking of astronomical investigation, and he has just emphasized the reliability of our five senses. one wonders whether he is simply echoing the well-known phrase of laplace, or whether he seriously believes that the non-existence of god is proved by the inability of the human eye to see him! nothing could be more unscientific--one hates using that hackneyed expression, but there is no other--than this confidence in the reliability of the senses. it reminds one of the young man who said he could not believe in god because he had not seen him. he could only believe in things which he could see. "do you believe you have a brain?" some one asked. the young man did. "and have you seen it?" was the next question. i shall be told that though the young man could not--fortunately--see his own brain, others might by opening his skull, and that no dissection of brains or examination of stars has ever shown us god. this is exactly the point where our easygoing rationalist misses the mark. brains and stars do show god to those who have developed the faculties wherewith to perceive him. the senses are, after all, very fallible and very variable. a little opium, a little alcohol, a blow on the head, or some great emotion will modify their judgment to an incredible degree. sir harry johnston may not be very representative as an exponent of scientific conclusions about the existence of god, but he is interesting and typical of much of the rough-and-ready opposition to formulated religion. i quote the upshot of his admiration for the feats of the human eye: religion, as the conception of a heavenly being, or heavenly beings, hovering about the earth and concerning themselves greatly with the affairs of man, has been abolished for all thoughtful and educated people by the discoveries of science. perhaps, however, i should not say "abolished" as being too final; i should prefer to say that such theories have been put entirely in the background as unimportant compared with the awful problems which affect the welfare and progress of humanity on this planet. the honesty of the conviction is not marred by the fact that it is entirely mistaken. "god is infinitely more remote now (in ) from the thoughts of the educated few than he was prior to ," writes sir harry. this statement is not true. speculation about god, the meaning of life, the social import of christianity, was never more rife amongst educated people. here i must check myself: what does "educated" mean? to be able to read and write, and say "hear, hear" at public meetings? to have a pretty idea of the positions of huxley and haeckel by which to confound the poor old bible? if by education we mean the exposition of some special branch of the physical sciences, the statement may be true. if we mean men and women with a general knowledge of life and letters, with a social consciousness and humanitarian sympathies, it is ridiculously wide of the truth. there is everywhere a hunger for a satisfying explanation of life. there are restlessness and impatience with dogma and creed, there is a growing indifference to the old sectarian exclusiveness, but there is above all a new interest in god. we need not go to mr. bernard shaw or mr. wells for testimony to this interest. they reflect the religious renaissance which is the essence of the reconstruction for which men crave. the symptoms are accessible to the observation of all. neither priestly intolerance nor rationalistic prejudice can suppress them. in _the bankruptcy of religion_, mr. joseph mccabe develops the case against religion with the skill of a trained controversialist. like the converted sinner in the ranks of the salvation army, mr. mccabe carries special weight to the lines of rationalists and ethicists. for he was once a priest and lived in a monastery, and he left the priesthood and the monastery convinced of the worthlessness of both. he is, therefore, _persona gratissima_ at the high court of reason. "the era of religious influence closes in bankruptcy," he informs us. he has no patience with attempts at religious reconstruction; he asks us to shake ourselves free of the vanishing dream of heaven and to leave the barren tracts of religion. he exhorts us to abandon the "last illusions of the childhood of the race": linger no longer in the "reconstruction" of fables which once beguiled the arabs of the desert and the syrian slaves of corinth, but set your hearts and minds to the making of a new earth! sweep these ancient legends out of your schools and colleges, your army and navy, your code of law, your legislative houses, and substitute for them a spirit of progress, efficiency, boldness, and candour! fine words, brave words, honest words, but hollow within. mr. mccabe is no psychologist. the fables and legends of old times may be abandoned, the desire for the realities round which fable and legend grow remains and cannot be extirpated by a rationalistic operation. supernaturalism--in the widest sense--is ineradicable. religion will not be suspended by the discovery that it is possible to formulate excellent theories of social equity without the assistance of priests. the hunger of the human heart for knowledge of god persists though all the old religious systems may prove illusions. our little rationalists imagine that they are hitting the foundations of religion when they successfully assail the crumbling walls of dogmas. religious life escapes their fire. faith and hope rise above disillusionment. love knows instinctively that it is not made of dust. through the darkness and the wilderness it calls to god, and lo! god responds with light and guidance which outlast earthquakes and massacres. reject every creed that has been offered as an explanation of the mysteries of life, forsake all the humiliating, joy-killing penances for sin, and god will reveal himself in the beauty of nature. he will speak through the impulses of creative art, through music and poetry and painting. he will attract our thought through philosophy and our emotion through the impetus to improve the social order. and science--the greater science, which rejects dogmatism and lies of self-sufficiency as it rejects the crudities of the creed--takes us by circuitous paths to new temples for the worship of god. the tenet that science and religion are incompatible and antagonistic, so dear to the hearts of the scientists in the middle of the nineteenth century, and still repeated with mechanical certainty in every secularist mission-hall, is likely to undergo a complete revision in the near future. the antagonism between dogmatic religion and materialistic science will never be removed. but the signs are apparent everywhere that religion is shedding its adherence to outer forms and entering into the freedom of the living spirit, whilst science is turning to problems which used to lie within the domain of unexplored religion. religion will become scientific and science will become religious. the principles laid down by darwin and huxley have lost their power of stifling religious aspiration; the startling pronouncements in defiant materialism of büchner and haeckel now startle none but the ignorant. the anxiety to exclude scientific facts disappears with the realization that all truth, all knowledge, all reason, are subservient to the search for god. the struggle between the wish to believe and the temptation to think caused real distress of mind to many thinkers of the nineteenth century. the choice seemed to lie between atheism and blind submission to authority. "let us humbly take anything the bible says without trying to understand it, and not torment ourselves with arguments," said charles kingsley. "one word of scripture is more than a hundred words of man's explaining." the modern mind does not dread the meeting of science and religion. it does not labour to reconcile them. it is conscious of their ultimate identity and their present insufficiency. hence a new tolerance which is mistaken for indifference by the zealots on both sides. hence the absence of actuality in the fierce denunciations of bradlaugh and holyoake and ingersoll. they did valiant battle against religious formalism of the past; they were champions of reason and science at a time when religionists fought to exclude both. it is not science which is undermining the future of institutional religion. there is a new enemy, more subtle and more powerful. it is the growing consciousness of an intolerable inconsistency between religious theory and practice. the war thus becomes a stumbling-block to faithfulness to conventional christianity, and the glee of the rationalist is pardonable. i again quote mr. mccabe: what did the clergy do to prevent the conflict? in which country did they denounce the preparations for the conflict, or the incentives of the conflict? what have they done since it began to confine the conflict within civilized limits? have they had, or used, a particle of moral influence throughout the whole bloody business? and, if not, is it not time we found other guardians and promoters of high conduct? apart from the fact that the pope and some lesser religious leaders have denounced and deplored the conflict, and that a comprehensive answer to mr. mccabe's question would somewhat modify the implied moral impotence of the clergy, we might ask the same questions of the leaders of secularist morality. what have they done to prevent the conflict? why have their intellectual giants failed to impress upon mankind the folly of war? they have had freedom of speech and action, they have wielded incisive criticism and strength of invective. they have had many decades in which to put into practice the theory of the greatest happiness of the greatest number. but the problem of the persistence of war has somehow escaped atheists and rationalists, just as it has eluded theologians and revivalists. we may admit that the clergy are more blameworthy than the orators of rationalism. if the teachings of jesus christ are to be applied to the art of war, then the art of war is doomed to extinction. if the church be an international society, based on mutual love and peace, then the perpetration of war on members of the church is clearly wrong. if the ideals of the christian life be charity, gentleness, forgiveness, non-resistance to evil, then all war is a violation of the faith. the question is not unimportant. it is not a subject which you can toy with, or put aside as having no immediate bearing on life and duty. if the literal application of the teaching of christ to social and political life be impossible, then the rationalists are right when they urge us to drop a religion which we profess on sunday and repudiate on monday. if the fault lies not in the teaching itself but in the feebleness of the church, then the church must clearly be counted a failure. if the cause of the discrepancy is to be found merely in the slowness and obstinacy of the human soul in following the path of righteousness, the practical realization of the christian ideal will be but a question of time and effort. the attitude of christianity towards war may at best be described as a chapter of inconsistencies. "can it be lawful to handle the sword," asked tertullian, "when the lord himself has declared that he who uses the sword shall perish by it?" by disarming peter, he stated, the lord "disarmed every soldier from that time forward." to origen, christians were children of peace who, for the sake of jesus, shunned the temptations of war, and whose only weapon was prayer. the difficulty of reconciling the profession of christianity with the practice of war constantly exercised the minds of the early christians. st. basil advocated a compromise in the form of temporary exclusion from the sacrament after military service. st. augustine came to the conclusion that the qualities of a good christian and a good warrior were not incompatible. gradually the dilemma ceased to trouble the minds of christians as the needs of the state and citizenship of this world were recognized. after some centuries the church not only approved of war, but herself became one of the most powerful instigators to military conquest. the crusades and the ceaseless wars of religious intolerance became "holy" as the spiritual objection to bloodshed receded before the triumphant demands of primitive passions. now, as heretofore, we have episcopal reminders of the blessings of war. "may it not be," wrote the bishop of london soon after the outbreak of the war in , "that this cup of hardship which we drink together will turn out to be the very draught which we need? has there not crept a softness over the nation, a passion for amusement, a love of luxury among the rich, and of mere physical comfort among the middle class?" he leaves the questions unanswered, and incidentally omits to dwell on the shortcomings of the poor in the direction of softness and luxury. he continues: not such was the nation which made the empire, which crushed the armada, which braved hardships of old, and drove english hearts of oak seaward round the world. we believe the old spirit is here just the same, but it needed a purifying, cleansing draught to bring it back to its old strength and purity again, and for that second reason the cup which our father has given us, shall we not drink it? much has been said in justification of this view of war from the biological point of view. prussian militarists are experts in the exposition of similar theories. but from the christian point of view the complacency with which the world-tragedy is put down as a "purifying, cleansing draught" is somewhat disconcerting. dean inge, writing in the _quest_ in the autumn of , shows himself to be a disciple of the same school: we see the fruits of secularism or materialism in social disintegration, in the voluntary sterility and timorous acquisitiveness of the prosperous, and in the recklessness and bitterness of the lower strata. a godless civilization is a disease of which nations die by inches. i hope that this visitation has come just in time to save us. experience is a good school, but its fees are terribly high! were we, then, really so bad that "this visitation" was needed to save us from voluntary sterility (by imposing compulsory?) and the other delinquencies enumerated by the dean? the nature of the punishment hardly fits the crime. moreover, such a conception of war as a wholesome corrective is practically indistinguishable from the panegyrics of the extreme militarists whom we are out utterly to destroy. "god will see to it," wrote treitschke, "that war always recurs as a drastic medicine for the human race." "war," wrote general von bernhardi, "is a biological necessity of the first importance, a regulative element in the life of mankind which cannot be dispensed with, since without it an unhealthy development will follow which excludes every advancement of the race, and, therefore, all real civilization." "a perpetual peace," said field-marshal von moltke, "is a dream, and not even a beautiful dream. war is one of the elements of order in the world established by god. the noblest virtues of men are developed therein. without war the world would degenerate and disappear in a morass of materialism." many perplexed souls have turned to the church for guidance during this time of destruction and sorrow, and the directions given have often increased the perplexity. the bishop of carlisle expressed the opinion that if we were really christians the war would not have happened. archdeacon wilberforce and father bernard vaughan stated that killing germans was doing service to god. many who have suffered at the hands of the germans will be inclined to agree, but the trouble from the point of view of the christian ethic is not removed by such a simple solution. we cannot but suspect that german prelates have been found who have seen in the killing of women and children by air-raids on london a service to the german god. dr. forsyth, in _the christian ethic of war_, tells us that "war is not essentially killing, and killing is here no murder. and no recusancy to bear arms can here justify itself on the plea that christianity forbids all bloodshed or even violence." he reminds us that christ used a scourge of small cords, and that he called the pharisees "you vipers," and herod "you fox." "if the christian man live in society," he tells us, "it is quite impossible for him to live upon the _precepts_ of the sermon on the mount. but also it is not possible at a half-developed stage to live in actual relations of life and duty on its _principle_ except as an _ideal_." the roman form of internationalism he regards "as not only useless to humanity (which the present attitude of the pope to the war shows) but as mischievous to it." it is strange that whilst the war has caused a number of ordained representatives of the christian church to declare that practical christianity is an impossibility and the sermon on the mount a beautiful but ineffective ideal, it has brought agnostics and heathen to a conviction that socialized christianity is the sovereign remedy for the national and international disease. they have reached the conclusion that the ethic of the sermon on the mount is the revolutionary leaven for which the world is waiting. in his preface on _the prospects of christianity_, mr. bernard shaw tells us that he is "as sceptical and scientific and modern a thinker as you will find anywhere." this assurance is intended to help us to regain breath after the preceding pronouncement: i am no more a christian than pilate was, or you, gentle reader; and yet, like pilate, i greatly prefer jesus to annas and caiaphas; and i am ready to admit that after contemplating the world and human nature for nearly sixty years, i see no way out of the world's misery but the way which would have been found by christ's will if he had undertaken the work of a modern practical statesman. this is one of the outstanding mental phenomena of the war: sceptics and thinkers have begun to examine christianity as a practical way of social salvation. there is a tendency to re-examine the gospel, not with intent to lay stress on historical weakness or points of similarity with other religions, but with the poignant interest which men lost in the desert display towards possible sources of water. it may appear as a coldly intellectual interest in some who are wont to deal with the tragedies of life as mildly amusing scenes in a drama of endless fatuity. but the coldness is a little assumed. there are others who do not attempt to disguise that their whole emotional life is stirred to passionate protest and inquiry, who, though christians by profession and duly appointed ministers of god, call for a recommendation of christianity and the establishment of a social order based on the principles of life laid down by jesus christ. in _the outlook for religion_, dr. w. e. orchard condemns the way of war as the complete antithesis of the way of the cross. "how can people be so blind?" he cries. "has all the ethical awakening of the past century been of so little depth that this bloody slaughter, this hellish torture, this treacherous game of war can still secure ethical approval?" perhaps the great majority of the clergy deserve the indictment of rationalists. mr. mccabe can prove his case by citing the exceptions. after all, the accusation is neither new nor original. voltaire set the tune. "miserable physicians of souls," he exclaimed, "you declaim for five quarters of an hour against the mere pricks of a pin, and say no word on the curse which tears us into a thousand pieces." voltaire's powers of satire were roused by the spectacle of the different factions of christians praying to the same god to bless their arms. the element of comicality in this aspect of war is greatly outweighed by that of pathos. those who earnestly pray to god to lead them to victory must at any rate be firmly convinced that their cause is one of which god can approve. no believer would dare to invoke the blessing of god upon a cause which his conscience tells him is a mean and sordid enterprise. voltaire's quarrel was really with the faith in war as a means of determining the intentions of the divine will. success in war has been held, and is held, by christians to be a sign of the favour of the almighty. bacon expounded this view to the satisfaction of coming generations when he referred to wars as "the highest trials of right" when princes and states "shall put themselves on the justice of god for the deciding of their controversies, by such success as it shall please him to give on either side." the germans have nauseated the world by their incessant proclamations that they are the favoured and chosen of god. the good old german god has vied with jehovah of the israelites in stimulating and sustaining the will to war. those atheists to whom all war is an abomination and entirely irreconcilable with the highest human attributes have found complete unanimity in their repudiation of the idea of a presiding god of battles in the dissenting objections to war expressed by quakers, christadelphians, plymouth brethren, and other sects of christianity. there can be no doubt that the faith in war, and in the divine guidance of war, is receding. the new conception of god, for which humanity is struggling, will be one entirely different from the jealous and cruel master of bloodshed to whom man has paid homage in the dark ages of the past. the truth is that the spiritual objection to war, the realization of its antisocial and inhuman qualities, is becoming a religious purpose which unites christians and non-christians, atheists and agnostics, and which carries with it at once a mordant condemnation of the interpretations of the past, and an irrepressible demand for a future free from the old menace and the old mistakes. all sane men and women want to abolish war. general smuts believes that a passion for peace has been born which will prove stronger than all the passion for war which has overwhelmed us in the past. president wilson seeks a peace identical with the freedom of life in which every people will be left free to determine its own polity and its own way of development, "unhindered, unthreatened, unafraid, the little along with the great and powerful." statesmen see the ultimate hope for a free humanity in a change of heart. mr. asquith outlines the slow and gradual process by which a real european partnership, based on the recognition of equal right and established and enforced by a common will, will be substituted for force, for the clash of competing ambition, for groupings and alliances, and a precarious equipoise. mr. lloyd george insists that there must be "no next time." viscount grey warns us that if the world cannot organize against war, if war must go on, "then nations can protect themselves henceforth only by using whatever destructive agencies they can invent, till the resources and inventions of science end by destroying the humanity they were meant to serve." leagues of nations are proposed, organization for peace on a scale commensurate with the past organization for war is recognized as the principal task of international co-operation. this new revolt against war is inseparable from the religious revival of the time. the word "revival" conjures up memories of less strenuous times, when men were concerned with smaller problems, and uninspired by the bitter experience of the present--spurgeon thundering in his tabernacle, salvation army meetings, small gatherings in wayside villages, at which howling sinners were converted and revivalists counted their game by the dozen. the present revival is something for which the past provides no analogy. it is not concerned so much with individual salvation as with the salvation of the race and the world. the petty sins and shortcomings which brought men to the confessional and to the stool of repentance lose importance when compared with the awful omissions which we now recognize as the cause of the calamities which have befallen us. it is not only the existence of war that is rousing the conscience. war is seen to be but a symptom, a horrible outbreak of malignant forces, which we have nurtured and harboured in times of peace. these forces permeate the very structure of society. a new and fierce light beats on our slums, our industrialism, on the old divisions of class and quality, on the standards of comfort and success. poverty, sickness, and child mortality--the whole hideous war of mammon through which millions of our fellow-creatures are condemned to the perpetual service of want--can no longer conveniently be left outside the operations of our religious consciousness. one thing is certain: we can no longer be satisfied with a religion which pays lip-service to god, and offers propitiating incense to his wrath, whilst it ignores the misery and the suffering of those who have no reason to offer thanksgiving. religious profession and religious action will have to be unified. the sense of social responsibility is slowly but surely taking the place of the anxiety to assure one's own salvation. some churches are empty, dead; they have no message for the people, no vision wherewith to inspire the young. they might with advantage close, and their clergy be employed upon some useful national service. ritual and incantations are doubtless useful aids to religious worship and the necessary quietude of mind, but they are losing their hold over souls to whom religious life has become a matter of social service. these are of the order spoken of by ernest crosby: none could tell me where my soul might be. i searched for god, but god eluded me. i sought my brother out--and found all three. the number of "unbelievers" is growing. there are certain doctrines which we cannot believe because they violate our reason, or our sense of justice and fair play. centuries ago it may have been possible to believe them: that is no concern of ours. to each age its own mind and its own enlightenment. what is more disquieting to the rulers of orthodoxy is that we do not care, that we cannot believe in certain doctrines. doctrines are at a discount just now. the church may quarrel over kikuyu, or the apostolic succession, or the virgin birth, or marvel at the new possibility of a canon of the church of england preaching a sermon in the city temple. we feel that it is infinitely more important that a few experiments in practical christianity should be imposed on the world. religion in the past has been conceived as essentially a matter of suppressing the intellect, submitting to oppression and injustice, learning to bear patiently the inflictions of providence. religion in the future will demand all the attention which our feeble intellect can offer it, and the conscious and willing co-operation of mankind in the realization of god's plans for a regenerated world. whilst the churches addicted to ritualism and literalism decline, the brotherhood movement gains in force and influence. men meet to give united expression to their religious impulses. they meet for prayer and worship, but never without immediate bearing on some great social question or object. opinions are freely expressed. heterodoxy in details of faith is rampant, and is no obstacle to christian fellowship. to the sunday afternoon and evening gatherings of the brotherhood flock the many to whom the bible is still a source of spiritual food, and who demand a plain and practical interpretation of its teachings. an impromptu prayer, in which the keynote is the loving fatherhood of god, and its bearing on the brotherhood of man, precedes a homely address or sermon, closely packed with allusions to social and political questions. or the address is entirely secular; a downright unbeliever has been invited to give the audience the benefit of his knowledge or experience, in connection with some great movement for the betterment of the world. there is a disinclination to criticize anybody's religious views, provided he shows by his acts and life that he is part of the new ministry of humanity. here we have the pivot of the change which is overtaking the forms of religious expression. men are no longer content to regard this world as a hopeless place of squalor and sin, as intrinsically and incurably wicked, as an abode which cannot be mended and which must, therefore, be despised and forsaken in spirit, even before the time when it has to be forsaken in body. the possible flawlessness of an other-worldly state no longer compensates for the glaring faults of this. this is no sign of the weakening of the spiritual hold on reality. it is a sign of the spiritualization of the values of life. it is a sign that we begin to understand that we _are_ spirits here, now, and everywhere, that we see that time in this world and the way we employ it have a profound bearing on eternity. there is no reason, in the name of god or man, why we should be content to let this world remain a place of torment and foolishness, if we have reached a point when we can see the better way. there is a certain type of religious mind which dreads the idea of social reconstruction, on the assumption that we shall not long for heaven if conditions here below are made less hellish. there is also a type of churchman whose finer sensibilities are sorely tried by the secular occupations of nonconformity in general. if once or twice in their lives they should stray amongst congregationalists, baptists, or methodists, they come away disgusted at the brutal directness with which social evils are exposed in the light of the word of the lord. they complain of the general lack of finesse and latin; the licence of the pulpit has usurped the reverence of the altar. it is perfectly true that statements are sometimes made in nonconformist pulpits which are bald and offensive to the ear of scholarly accomplishment. but the complaint of secularization is singularly inept. nothing could be more secular in the way of complacent acceptance of the worldly reasons for leaving awkward questions alone than the attitude of this type of critic. the future life of christianity is safely vested in the _free_ churches. the freedom will be progressive, and may possibly embrace a vista of unfettered interpretation and application of christian knowledge which will be as remote from the dogmatism of to-day as is our present attitude from the intolerance which kindled the inquisition and made possible the night of st. bartholomew. religious intolerance has already lost three-fourths of its hold on faith. catholic will now slaughter catholic without the stimulus to hostility afforded by heretical opinions. protestants are not restrained from injuring each other by the common bond of detestation of the adherents to papacy. the decline of intolerance is a direct consequence of the externalization of the religious life. rationalists constantly mistake this process for the degeneration of religion. they fail to see the simple fact that men can afford to dispense with the paraphernalia of elaborate and artificial aids to the worship of god when they feel his presence within their own souls and unmistakably hear his call to action. some will see in the decay of intolerance an indication of the general evaporation of christian articles of faith, and the possible loss of identity in some new form of religion. there is no danger. no religion can live in opposition to the evolution of the human spirit. it must be sufficiently deep to meet the most exacting need of individual religious experience, and it must be sufficiently broad and elastic to correspond to the ever-changing phenomena of social evolution. christianity has this depth and this breadth. two parallel lines of its development are clearly discernible at the present time. one is the transubstantiation of faith in social service; the other is a demand for individualized experience of spiritual realities. it is becoming more and more difficult to believe a thing simply because you are told you ought to believe it, or because your father and grandfather believed it. authority in matters religious is being superseded by exploration. he who feels with swinburne that save his own soul he has no star, and he for whom space is peopled with living souls mounting the ladder to the throne of god, share the desire to experience the truth. mysticism is passing through strange phases of resurrection. its modern garb is made up of all the hues of the past, and, in addition, contains some up-to-date threads of severely utilitarian composition. the number of those who claim direct experience of spiritual verity as against mere hearsay is greater than ever. the discovery of the soul is attracting students of every description. the powers of suggestion, and the creative possibilities of the subconscious mind, have opened up new fields of religious experiment and adventure. the art of controlling the mind, so as to make it immune against the depredations of evil thought, or fear, or worry, is pursued by crowds of amateur psychologists who delight in the happy results. they are learning to live in tune with the infinite or cultivating optimism with complete success. to the objection that they live in an artificial paradise they reply that thought is the essence of things, and that they are but carrying into practice the oft-repeated belief that we _are_ such stuff as dreams are made of. "religion," says professor william james in _the varieties of religious experience_, "in short, is a monumental chapter in the history of human egoism. the gods believed in--whether by crude savages or by men disciplined intellectually--agree with each other in recognizing a personal call." how could it be otherwise? the solitariness of each human soul is the first fact in religious consciousness. altruism and communion with other souls are perforce attained through concern with the state of the ego. the spiritual egoism which demands pure thought, peace wherein to gather impressions of goodness, beauty, and truth, time for the analysis of psychic law, direct knowledge which is proof against the disease of doubt, is, after all, the most valuable contribution which the individual can make to society. the people who are now greatly concerned with the exact temperature of their own minds are, at any rate, to be congratulated on having made the discovery, which is centuries overdue, that hygiene of the soul is more important than hygiene of the body. placid contentment with the religious systems of the past is greatly disturbed by this assertiveness. there is a demand for a new message, couched in terms suited to the mental level of the twentieth century. a message delivered two thousand years ago to a small pastoral people, altogether innocent of the complicated economic, and industrial conditions of our times, must necessarily appear incomplete to minds which can only reproduce the simplicity by an effort of the imagination. jesus, they maintain, was a jew who spoke to jews, and who had to deal with simple fishermen and agriculturists, with eastern merchants and narrow-minded scribes. he never met great financiers to whose chariots of gold whole populations are chained, or great masters of industry who profitably run a thousand mills where human flesh and bone are ground in the production of wealth. he knew naught, they feel, of the history of philosophy, or the psychology of religion, or the researches of physiology and chemistry. his language, coming to us as it does through the medium of interpreters of a bygone age, and through the simple symbols of less sophisticated minds, has poetic beauty, but lacks our modern comprehensiveness. there is a feeling that it is unreasonable to believe that god spoke once or twice, thousands of years ago, and that he cannot or will not speak now. revelation cannot have been final; it must surely be progressive, gradual, fitted to the needs and the receptivity of souls. the written word is not the only word. the living word must be spoken now, and will be spoken with greater effectiveness in the future. hence the expectation that a new world-teacher will appear, that a master will be born who will gather up the truth and the inspiration of the creeds of the past and present them, together with a new message, suited to the hunger of to-day. theosophists have lately made the idea of the coming of such a teacher the central hope of social regeneration. they assume that when the teacher comes all the world will listen and obey. it seems to me that teacher after teacher has uttered the truth--hermes, zoroaster, buddha, confucius, orpheus, jesus--and that the trouble is not lack of teachers but lack of disciples. in the teachings of jesus christ, the world has a model wherewith to mould the old order of hate and selfishness into a new rule of love and brotherhood. the model has never been used; no serious and far-reaching attempt has as yet been made to give christianity a politico-social trial. why should a new world-teacher be more successful? what guarantee is there that his voice would not be drowned in the general clamour of the truth-mongers of the marketplace? and the tendency of the modern religious consciousness is to seek reality personally, to develop the latent faculties by which experience can be won, and to delve fearlessly into the hidden depth of the soul in search of truth. the great religions of the past have given the bread of life to countless souls. they have all provided ways and means for our ethical evolution. religious eclecticism is natural to the cultured mind, which can no longer be held back by any threats of excommunication. the essence of religion, and the way of salvation, have been found along widely divergent paths and under many names. one thing is certain amidst innumerable uncertainties: the secret of finding god can only be unravelled when we find our own souls. _printed in great britain by_ unwin brothers, limited, woking and london. problems of the peace by william harbutt dawson author of "the evolution of modern germany" _demy vo._ _ s. d. net._ the author discusses in fourteen chapters, among other questions, the territorial adjustments which seem necessary to the permanent peace of europe, the problem of german autocracy and militarism, and the proposals of retaliation; and makes, in the spirit of an optimist tempered by experience, practical suggestions for the future organization of peace. a feature of the book is the historical parallelism which runs through it. after-war problems by the late earl of cromer, viscount haldane, the bishop of exeter, prof. alfred marshall, and others edited by william harbutt dawson _demy vo._ second impression. _ s. d. net._ _postage d._ "valuable, clear, sober, and judicial."--_the times._ "will be very helpful to thoughtful persons."--_morning post._ "a book of real national importance, and of which the value may very well prove to be incalculable."--_daily telegraph._ the choice before us by g. lowes dickinson _demy vo._ second impression. _ s. net._ _postage d._ "there are many pages in this volume which express admirably the opinions of calm, clear-thinking men."--_the times._ "a noble book which everyone should read."--_daily news._ america and freedom being the statements of president wilson on the war with a preface by the rt. hon. viscount grey. _demy vo._ _paper covers, s. net._ _postage d._ "we would like to see this little book printed in millions of copies at the national expense and carried into every household in this country."--_spectator._ democracy after the war by j. a. hobson _crown vo._ _ s. d. net._ it is the writer's object to indicate the nature of the struggle which will confront the public of this country for the achievement of political and industrial democracy when the war is over. the economic roots of militarism and of the confederacy of reactionary influences which are found supporting it--imperialism, protectionism, conservatism, bureaucracy, capitalism--are subjected to a critical analysis. the safeguarding and furtherance of the interests of improperty and profiteering are exhibited as the directing and moulding influences of domestic and foreign policy, and their exploitation of other more disinterested motives is traced in the conduct of parties, church, press, and various educational and other social institutions. the latter portion of the book discusses the policy by which these hostile forces may be overcome and democracy may be achieved, and contains a vigorous plea for a new free policy of popular education. the conscience of europe--the war and the future by prof. alexander w. rimington _crown vo._ _ s. d. net._ deals with some of the great questions raised by the war from ethical and religious standpoints. endeavours to show the necessity for considering them if there is to be hope for the future peace and civilization of europe. analyses some of the causes of the decay of the international conscience, and discusses means for its reinvigoration. 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( ) it is not without hesitation that i have taken upon myself the editorship of a work left avowedly imperfect by the author, and, from its miscellaneous and discursive character, difficult of completion with due regard to editorial limitations by a less able hand. had the author lived to carry out his purpose he would have looked through his budget again, amplifying and probably rearranging some of its contents. he had collected materials for further illustration of paradox of the kind treated of in this book; and he meant to write a second part, in which the contradictions and inconsistencies of orthodox learning would have been subjected to the same scrutiny and castigation as heterodox ignorance had already received. it will be seen that the present volume contains more than the _athenæum_ budget. some of the additions formed a supplement to the original articles. these supplementary paragraphs were, by the author, placed after those to which they respectively referred, being distinguished from the rest of the text by brackets. i have omitted these brackets as useless, except where they were needed to indicate subsequent writing. another and a larger portion of the work consists of discussion of matters of contemporary interest, for the budget was in some degree a receptacle for the author's thoughts on any literary, scientific, or social question. having grown thus gradually to its present size, the book as it was left was not quite in a fit condition for publication, but the alterations which have been made are slight and few, being in most cases verbal, and such as the sense absolutely required, or transpositions of sentences to secure coherence with the rest, in places where the author, in his more recent insertion of them, had overlooked the connection in which they stood. in no case has the meaning been in any degree modified or interfered with. one rather large omission must be mentioned here. it is an account of the quarrel between sir james south and mr. troughton on the mounting, etc. of the equatorial telescope at campden hill. at some future time when the affair has passed entirely out of the memory of living astronomers, the appreciative sketch, which is omitted in this edition of the budget, will be an interesting piece of history and study of character.[ ] a very small portion of mr. james smith's circle-squaring has been left out, with a still smaller portion of mr. de morgan's answers to that cyclometrical paradoxer. in more than one place repetitions, which would have disappeared under the author's revision, have been allowed to remain, because they could not have been taken away without leaving a hiatus, not easy to fill up without damage to the author's meaning. i give these explanations in obedience to the rules laid down for the guidance of editors at page .[ ] if any apology for the fragmentary character of the book be thought necessary, it may be found in the author's own words at page of the second volume.[ ] the publication of the budget could not have been delayed without lessening the interest attaching to the writer's thoughts upon questions of our own day. i trust that, incomplete as the work is compared with what it might have been, i shall not be held mistaken in giving it to the world. rather let me hope that it will be welcomed as an old friend returning under great disadvantages, but bringing a pleasant remembrance of the amusement which its weekly appearance in the _athenæum_ gave to both writer and reader. the paradoxes are dealt with in chronological order. this will be a guide to the reader, and with the alphabetical index of names, etc., will, i trust, obviate all difficulty of reference. sophia de morgan. merton road, primrose hill. * * * * * preface to the second edition. if mrs. de morgan felt called upon to confess her hesitation at taking upon herself the labor of editing these paradoxes, much more should one who was born two generations later, who lives in another land and who was reared amid different influences, confess to the same feeling when undertaking to revise this curious medley. but when we consider the nature of the work, the fact that its present rarity deprives so many readers of the enjoyment of its delicious satire, and the further fact that allusions that were commonplace a half century ago are now forgotten, it is evident that some one should take up the work and perform it _con amore_. having long been an admirer of de morgan, having continued his work in the bibliography of early arithmetics, and having worked in his library among the books of which he was so fond, it is possible that the present editor, whatever may be his other shortcomings, may undertake the labor with as much of sympathy as any one who is in a position to perform it. with this thought in mind, two definite rules were laid down at the beginning of the task: ( ) that no alteration in the text should be made, save in slightly modernizing spelling and punctuation and in the case of manifest typographical errors; ( ) that whenever a note appeared it should show at once its authorship, to the end that the material of the original edition might appear intact. in considering, however, the unbroken sequence of items that form the budget, it seems clear that readers would be greatly aided if the various leading topics were separated in some convenient manner. after considerable thought it was decided to insert brief captions from time to time that might aid the eye in selecting the larger subjects of the text. in some parts of the work these could easily be taken from the original folio heads, but usually they had to be written anew. while, therefore, the present editor accepts the responsibility for the captions of the various subdivisions, he has endeavored to insert them in harmony with the original text. as to the footnotes, the first edition had only a few, some due to de morgan himself and others to mrs. de morgan. in the present edition those due to the former are signed a. de m., and those due to mrs. de morgan appear with her initials, s. e. de m. for all other footnotes the present editor is responsible. in preparing them the effort has been made to elucidate the text by supplying such information as the casual reader might wish as he passes over the pages. hundreds of names are referred to in the text that were more or less known in england half a century ago, but are now forgotten there and were never familiar elsewhere. many books that were then current have now passed out of memory, and much that agitated england in de morgan's prime seems now like ancient history. even with respect to well-known names, a little information as to dates and publications will often be welcome, although the editor recognizes that it will quite as often be superfluous. in order, therefore, to derive the pleasure that should come from reading the budget, the reader should have easy access to the information that the notes are intended to supply. that they furnish too much here and too little there is to be expected. they are a human product, and if they fail to serve their purpose in all respects it is hoped that this failure will not seriously interfere with the reader's pleasure. in general the present editor has refrained from expressing any opinions that would strike a discordant note in the reading of the text as de morgan left it. the temptation is great to add to the discussion at various points, but it is a temptation to be resisted. to furnish such information as shall make the reading more pleasant, rather than to attempt to improve upon one of the most delicious bits of satire of the nineteenth century, has been the editor's wish. it would have been an agreeable task to review the history of circle squaring, of the trisection problem, and of the duplication of the cube. this, however, would be to go too far afield. for the benefit of those who wish to investigate the subject the editor can only refer to such works and articles as the following: f. rudio, _archimedes, huygens, lambert, legendre,--mit einer uebersicht über die geschichte des problemes von der quadratur des zirkels_, leipsic, ; thomas muir, "circle," in the eleventh edition of the _encyclopædia britannica_; the various histories of mathematics; and to his own article on "the incommensurability of [pi]" in prof. j. w. a. young's _monographs on topics of modern mathematics_, new york, . the editor wishes to express his appreciation and thanks to dr. paul carus, editor of _the monist_ and _the open court_ for the opportunity of undertaking this work; to james earl russell, ll.d., dean of teachers college, columbia university, for his encouragement in its prosecution; to miss caroline eustis seely for her intelligent and painstaking assistance in securing material for the notes; and to miss lydia g. robinson and miss anna a. kugler for their aid and helpful suggestions in connection with the proof-sheets. without the generous help of all five this work would have been impossible. david eugene smith. teachers college, columbia university. * * * * * a budget of paradoxes { } introductory. if i had before me a fly and an elephant, having never seen more than one such magnitude of either kind; and if the fly were to endeavor to persuade me that he was larger than the elephant, i might by possibility be placed in a difficulty. the apparently little creature might use such arguments about the effect of distance, and might appeal to such laws of sight and hearing as i, if unlearned in those things, might be unable wholly to reject. but if there were a thousand flies, all buzzing, to appearance, about the great creature; and, to a fly, declaring, each one for himself, that he was bigger than the quadruped; and all giving different and frequently contradictory reasons; and each one despising and opposing the reasons of the others--i should feel quite at my ease. i should certainly say, my little friends, the case of each one of you is destroyed by the rest. i intend to show flies in the swarm, with a few larger animals, for reasons to be given. in every age of the world there has been an established system, which has been opposed from time to time by isolated and dissentient reformers. the established system has sometimes fallen, slowly and gradually: it has either been upset by the rising influence of some one man, or it has been sapped by gradual change of opinion in the many. i have insisted on the isolated character of the dissentients, as an element of the _a priori_ probabilities of the case. show me a schism, especially a growing schism, and it is another thing. the homeopathists, for instance, shall be, if any one so think, as wrong as st. john long; but an { } organized opposition, supported by the efforts of many acting in concert, appealing to common arguments and experience, with perpetual succession and a common seal, as the queen says in the charter, is, be the merit of the schism what it may, a thing wholly different from the case of the isolated opponent in the mode of opposition to it which reason points out. during the last two centuries and a half, physical knowledge has been gradually made to rest upon a basis which it had not before. it has become _mathematical_. the question now is, not whether this or that hypothesis is better or worse to the pure thought, but whether it accords with observed phenomena in those consequences which can be shown necessarily to follow from it, if it be true. even in those sciences which are not yet under the dominion of mathematics, and perhaps never will be, a working copy of the mathematical process has been made. this is not known to the followers of those sciences who are not themselves mathematicians and who very often exalt their horns against the mathematics in consequence. they might as well be squaring the circle, for any sense they show in this particular. a great many individuals, ever since the rise of the mathematical method, have, each for himself, attacked its direct and indirect consequences. i shall not here stop to point out how the very accuracy of exact science gives better aim than the preceding state of things could give. i shall call each of these persons a _paradoxer_, and his system a _paradox_. i use the word in the old sense: a paradox is something which is apart from general opinion, either in subject-matter, method, or conclusion. many of the things brought forward would now be called _crotchets_, which is the nearest word we have to old _paradox_. but there is this difference, that by calling a thing a _crotchet_ we mean to speak lightly of it; which was not the necessary sense of _paradox_. thus in the sixteenth century many spoke of the earth's motion as the _paradox of { } copernicus_, who held the ingenuity of that theory in very high esteem, and some, i think, who even inclined towards it. in the seventeenth century, the depravation of meaning took place, in england at least. phillips says _paradox_ is "a thing which seemeth strange"--here is the old meaning: after a colon he proceeds--"and absurd, and is contrary to common opinion," which is an addition due to his own time. some of my readers are hardly inclined to think that the word _paradox_ could once have had no disparagement in its meaning; still less that persons could have applied it to themselves. i chance to have met with a case in point against them. it is spinoza's _philosophia scripturæ interpres, exercitatio paradoxa_, printed anonymously at eleutheropolis, in . this place was one of several cities in the clouds, to which the cuckoos resorted who were driven away by the other birds; that is, a feigned place of printing, adopted by those who would have caught it if orthodoxy could have caught them. thus, in , the works of socinus could only be printed at irenopolis. the author deserves his self-imposed title, as in the following:[ ] "quanto sane satius fuisset illam [trinitatem] pro mysterio non habuisse, et philosophiæ ope, antequam quod esset statuerent, secundum veræ logices præcepta quid esset cum cl. kleckermanno investigasse; tanto fervore ac labore in profundissimas speluncas et obscurissimos metaphysicarum speculationum atque fictionum recessus se recipere ut ab adversariorum telis sententiam suam in tuto collocarent. { } profecto magnus ille vir ... dogma illud, quamvis apud theologos eo nomine non multum gratiæ iniverit, ita ex immotis philosophiæ fundamentis explicat ac demonstrat, ut paucis tantum immutatis, atque additis, nihil amplius animus veritate sincere deditus desiderare possit." this is properly paradox, though also heterodox. it supposes, contrary to all opinion, orthodox and heterodox, that philosophy can, with slight changes, explain the athanasian doctrine so as to be at least compatible with orthodoxy. the author would stand almost alone, if not quite; and this is what he meant. i have met with the counter-paradox. i have heard it maintained that the doctrine as it stands, in all its mystery is _a priori_ more likely than any other to have been revelation, if such a thing were to be; and that it might almost have been predicted. after looking into books of paradoxes for more than thirty years, and holding conversation with many persons who have written them, and many who might have done so, there is one point on which my mind is fully made up. the manner in which a paradoxer will show himself, as to sense or nonsense, will not depend upon what he maintains, but upon whether he has or has not made a sufficient knowledge of what has been done by others, _especially as to the mode of doing it_, a preliminary to inventing knowledge for himself. that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing is one of the most fallacious of proverbs. a person of small knowledge is in danger of trying to make his _little_ do the work of _more_; but a person without any is in more danger of making his _no_ knowledge do the work of _some_. take the speculations on the tides as an instance. persons with nothing but a little geometry have certainly exposed themselves in their modes of objecting to results which require the higher mathematics to be known before an independent opinion can be formed on sufficient grounds. but persons with no geometry at all have done the same thing much more completely. { } there is a line to be drawn which is constantly put aside in the arguments held by paradoxers in favor of their right to instruct the world. most persons must, or at least will, like the lady in cadogan place,[ ] form and express an immense variety of opinions on an immense variety of subjects; and all persons must be their own guides in many things. so far all is well. but there are many who, in carrying the expression of their own opinions beyond the usual tone of private conversation, whether they go no further than attempts at oral proselytism, or whether they commit themselves to the press, do not reflect that they have ceased to stand upon the ground on which their process is defensible. aspiring to lead _others_, they have never given themselves the fair chance of being first led by _other_ others into something better than they can start for themselves; and that they should first do this is what both those classes of others have a fair right to expect. new knowledge, when to any purpose, must come by contemplation of old knowledge in every matter which concerns thought; mechanical contrivance sometimes, not very often, escapes this rule. all the men who are now called discoverers, in every matter ruled by thought, have been men versed in the minds of their predecessors, and learned in what had been before them. there is not one exception. i do not say that every man has made direct acquaintance with the whole of his mental ancestry; many have, as i may say, only known their grandfathers by the report of their fathers. but even on this point it is remarkable how many of the greatest names in all departments of knowledge have been real antiquaries in their several subjects. i may cite, among those who have wrought strongly upon opinion or practice in science, aristotle, plato, ptolemy, euclid, archimedes, roger bacon, copernicus, francis bacon, ramus, tycho brahé, galileo, napier, descartes, leibnitz, newton, locke. i take none but names known out of their { } fields of work; and all were learned as well as sagacious. i have chosen my instances: if any one will undertake to show a person of little or no knowledge who has established himself in a great matter of pure thought, let him bring forward his man, and we shall see. this is the true way of putting off those who plague others with their great discoveries. the first demand made should be--mr. moses, before i allow you to lead me over the red sea, i must have you show that you are learned in all the wisdom of the egyptians upon your own subject. the plea that it is unlikely that this or that unknown person should succeed where newton, etc. have failed, or should show newton, etc. to be wrong, is utterly null and void. it was worthily versified by sylvanus morgan (the great herald who in his _sphere of gentry_ gave coat armor to "gentleman jesus," as he said), who sang of copernicus as follows ( ): "if tellus winged be, the earth a motion round; then much deceived are they who nere before it found. solomon was the wisest, his wit nere this attained; cease, then, copernicus, thy hypothesis is vain." newton, etc. were once unknown; but they made themselves known by what they knew, and then brought forward what they could do; which i see is as good verse as that of herald sylvanus. the demand for previous knowledge disposes of twenty-nine cases out of thirty, and the thirtieth is worth listening to. i have not set down copernicus, galileo, etc. among the paradoxers, merely because everybody knows them; if my list were quite complete, they would have been in it. but the reader will find gilbert, the great precursor of sound magnetical theory; and several others on whom no censure can be cast, though some of their paradoxes are inadmissible, { } some unprovoked, and some capital jokes, true or false: the author of _vestiges of creation_ is an instance. i expect that my old correspondent, general perronet thompson, will admit that his geometry is part and parcel of my plan; and also that, if that plan embraced politics, he would claim a place for his _catechism on the corn laws_, a work at one time paradoxical, but which had more to do with the abolition of the bread-tax than sir robert peel. my intention in publishing this budget in the _athenæum_ is _to enable those who have been puzzled by one or two discoverers to see how they look in a lump_. the only question is, has the selection been fairly made? to this my answer is, that no selection at all has been made. the books are, without exception, those which i have in my own library; and i have taken _all_--i mean all of the kind: heaven forbid that i should be supposed to have no other books! but i may have been a collector, influenced in choice by bias? i answer that i never have collected books of this sort--that is, i have never searched for them, never made up my mind to look out for this book or that. i have bought what happened to come in my way at show or auction; i have retained what came in as part of the _undescribed_ portion of miscellaneous auction lots; i have received a few from friends who found them among what they called their rubbish; and i have preserved books sent to me for review. in not a few instances the books have been bound up with others, unmentioned at the back; and for years i knew no more i had them than i knew i had lord macclesfield's speech on moving the change of style, which, after i had searched shops, etc. for it in vain, i found had been reposing on my own shelves for many years, at the end of a summary of leibnitz's philosophy. consequently, i may positively affirm that the following list is formed by accident and circumstance alone, and that it truly represents the casualties of about a third of a century. for instance, the large proportion of works { } on the quadrature of the circle is not my doing: it is the natural share of this subject in the actual run of events. [i keep to my plan of inserting only such books as i possessed in , except by casual notice in aid of my remarks. i have found several books on my shelves which ought to have been inserted. these have their titles set out at the commencement of their articles, in leading paragraphs; the casuals are without this formality.[ ]] before proceeding to open the budget, i say something on my personal knowledge of the class of discoverers who square the circle, upset newton, etc. i suspect i know more of the english class than any man in britain. i never kept any reckoning; but i know that one year with another--and less of late years than in earlier time--i have talked to more than five in each year, giving more than a hundred and fifty specimens. of this i am sure, that it is my own fault if they have not been a thousand. nobody knows how they swarm, except those to whom they naturally resort. they are in all ranks and occupations, of all ages and characters. they are very earnest people, and their purpose is _bona fide_ the dissemination of their paradoxes. a great many--the mass, indeed--are illiterate, and a great many waste their means, and are in or approaching penury. but i must say that never, in any one instance, has the quadrature of the circle, or the like, been made a pretext for begging; even to be asked to purchase a book is of the very rarest occurrence--it has happened, and that is all. these discoverers despise one another: if there were the concert among them which there is among foreign mendicants, a man who admitted one to a conference would be plagued to death. i once gave something to a very genteel french applicant, who overtook me in the street, at my own door, saying he had picked up my handkerchief: whether he picked it up in my pocket for an introduction, i know not. { } but that day week came another frenchman to my house, and that day fortnight a french lady; both failed, and i had no more trouble. the same thing happened with poles. it is not so with circle-squarers, etc.: they know nothing of each other. some will read this list, and will say i am right enough, generally speaking, but that there _is_ an exception, if i could but see it. i do not mean, by my confession of the manner in which i have sinned against the twenty-four hours, to hold myself out as accessible to personal explanation of new plans. quite the contrary: i consider myself as having made my report, and being discharged from further attendance on the subject. i will not, from henceforward, talk to any squarer of the circle, trisector of the angle, duplicator of the cube, constructor of perpetual motion, subverter of gravitation, stagnator of the earth, builder of the universe, etc. i will receive any writings or books which require no answer, and read them when i please: i will certainly preserve them--this list may be enlarged at some future time. there are three subjects which i have hardly anything upon; astrology, mechanism, and the infallible way of winning at play. i have never cared to preserve astrology. the mechanists make models, and not books. the infallible winners--though i have seen a few--think their secret too valuable, and prefer _mutare quadrata rotundis_--to turn dice into coin--at the gaming-house: verily they have their reward. i shall now select, to the mystic number seven, instances of my personal knowledge of those who think they have discovered, in illustration of as many misconceptions. . _attempt by help of the old philosophy, the discoverer not being in possession of modern knowledge._ a poor schoolmaster, in rags, introduced himself to a scientific friend with whom i was talking, and announced that he had found out the composition of the sun. "how was that done?"--"by consideration of the four elements."--"what are { } they?"--"of course, fire, air, earth, and water."--"did you not know that air, earth, and water, have long been known to be no elements at all, but compounds?"--"what do you mean, sir? who ever heard of such a thing?" . _the notion that difficulties are enigmas, to be overcome in a moment by a lucky thought._ a nobleman of very high rank, now long dead, read an article by me on the quadrature, in an early number of the _penny magazine_. he had, i suppose, school recollections of geometry. he put pencil to paper, drew a circle, and constructed what seemed likely to answer, and, indeed, was--as he said--certain, if only this bit were equal to that; which of course it was not. he forwarded his diagram to the secretary of the diffusion society, to be handed to the author of the article, in case the difficulty should happen to be therein overcome. . _discovery at all hazards, to get on in the world._ thirty years ago, an officer of rank, just come from foreign service, and trying for a decoration from the crown, found that his claims were of doubtful amount, and was told by a friend that so and so, who had got the order, had the additional claim of scientific distinction. now this officer, while abroad, had bethought himself one day, that there really could be no difficulty in finding the circumference of a circle: if a circle were rolled upon a straight line until the undermost point came undermost again, there would be the straight line equal to the circle. he came to me, saying that he did not feel equal to the statement of his claim in this respect, but that if some clever fellow would put the thing in a proper light, he thought his affair might be managed. i was clever enough to put the thing in a proper light to himself, to this extent at least, that, though perhaps they were wrong, the advisers of the crown would never put the letters k.c.b. to such a circle as his. . _the notion that mathematicians cannot find the circle for common purposes._ a working man measured the altitude of a cylinder accurately, and--i think the process of { } archimedes was one of his proceedings--found its bulk. he then calculated the ratio of the circumference to the diameter, and found it answered very well on other modes of trial. his result was about . . he came to london, and somebody sent him to me. like many others of his pursuit, he seemed to have turned the whole force of his mind upon one of his points, on which alone he would be open to refutation. he had read some of kater's experiments, and had got the act of on weights and measures. say what i would, he had for a long time but one answer--"sir! i go upon captain kater and the act of parliament." but i fixed him at last. i happened to have on the table a proof-sheet of the _astronomical memoirs_, in which were a large number of observed places of the planets compared with prediction, and asked him whether it could be possible that persons who did not know the circle better than he had found it could make the calculations, of which i gave him a notion, so accurately? he was perfectly astonished, and took the titles of some books which he said he would read. . _application for the reward from abroad._ many years ago, about twenty-eight, i think, a jesuit came from south america, with a quadrature, and a cutting from a newspaper announcing that a reward was ready for the discovery in england. on this evidence he came over. after satisfying him that nothing had ever been offered here, i discussed his quadrature, which was of no use. i succeeded better when i told him of richard white, also a jesuit, and author of a quadrature published before , under the name of _chrysæspis_, of which i can give no account, having never seen it. this white (_albius_) is the only quadrator who was ever convinced of his error. my jesuit was struck by the instance, and promised to read more geometry--he was no clavius--before he published his book. he relapsed, however, for i saw his book advertised in a few days. i may say, as sufficient proof of my being no collector, that i had not the curiosity to buy his book; and my friend the { } jesuit did not send me a copy, which he ought to have done, after the hour i had given him. . _application for the reward at home._ an agricultural laborer squared the circle, and brought the proceeds to london. he left his papers with me, one of which was the copy of a letter to the lord chancellor, desiring his lordship to hand over forthwith , pounds, the amount of the alleged offer of reward. he did not go quite so far as m. de vausenville, who, i think in , brought an action against the academy of sciences to recover a reward to which he held himself entitled. i returned the papers, with a note, stating that he had not the knowledge requisite to see in what the problem consisted. i got for answer a letter in which i was told that a person who could not see that he had done the thing should "change his business, and appropriate his time and attention to a sunday-school, to learn what he could, and keep the _litle_ children from _durting_ their _close_." i also received a letter from a friend of the quadrator, informing me that i knew his friend had succeeded, and had been heard to say so. these letters were printed--without the names of the writers--for the amusement of the readers of _notes and queries_, first series, xii. , and they will appear again in the sequel. [there are many who have such a deep respect for any attempt at thought that they are shocked at ridicule even of those who have made themselves conspicuous by pretending to lead the world in matters which they have not studied. among my anonyms is a gentleman who is angry at my treatment of the "poor but thoughtful" man who is described in my introduction as recommending me to go to a sunday-school because i informed him that he did not know in what the difficulty of quadrature consisted. my impugner quite forgets that this man's "thoughtfulness" chiefly consisted in his demanding a hundred thousand pounds from the lord chancellor for his discovery; and i may add, that his greatest stretch of invention was finding out that "the clergy" { } were the means of his modest request being unnoticed. i mention this letter because it affords occasion to note a very common error, namely, that men unread in their subjects have, by natural wisdom, been great benefactors of mankind. my critic says, "shakspeare, whom the pro^r (_sic_) may admit to be a wisish man, though an object of contempt as to learning ..." shakespeare an object of contempt as to learning! though not myself a thoroughgoing shakespearean--and adopting the first half of the opinion given by george iii, "what! is there not sad stuff? only one must not say so"--i am strongly of opinion that he throws out the masonic signs of learning in almost every scene, to all who know what they are. and this over and above every kind of direct evidence. first, foremost, and enough, the evidence of ben jonson that he had "little latin and less greek"; then shakespeare had as much greek as jonson would call _some_, even when he was depreciating. to have any greek at all was in those days exceptional. in shakespeare's youth st. paul's and merchant taylor's schools were to have masters learned in good and clean latin literature, _and also in greek if such may be gotten_. when jonson spoke as above, he intended to put shakespeare low among the learned, but not out of their pale; and he spoke as a rival dramatist, who was proud of his own learned sock; and it may be a subject of inquiry how much latin _he_ would call _little_. if shakespeare's learning on certain points be very much less visible than jonson's, it is partly because shakespeare's writings hold it in chemical combination, jonson's in mechanical aggregation.] . an elderly man came to me to show me how the universe was created. there was one molecule, which by vibration became--heaven knows how!--the sun. further vibration produced mercury, and so on. i suspect the nebular hypothesis had got into the poor man's head by reading, in some singular mixture with what it found there. some modifications of vibration gave heat, electricity, etc. i { } listened until my informant ceased to vibrate--which is always the shortest way--and then said, "our knowledge of elastic fluids is imperfect." "sir!" said he, "i see you perceive the truth of what i have said, and i will reward your attention by telling you what i seldom disclose, never, except to those who can receive my theory--the little molecule whose vibrations have given rise to our solar system is the logos of st. john's gospel!" he went away to dr. lardner, who would not go into the solar system at all--the first molecule settled the question. so hard upon poor discoverers are men of science who are not antiquaries in their subject! on leaving, he said, "sir, mr. de morgan received me in a very different way! he heard me attentively, and i left him perfectly satisfied of the truth of my system." i have had much reason to think that many discoverers, of all classes, believe they have convinced every one who is not peremptory to the verge of incivility. my list is given in chronological order. my readers will understand that my general expressions, where slighting or contemptuous, refer to the ignorant, who teach before they have learned. in every instance, those of whom i am able to speak with respect, whether as right or wrong, have sought knowledge in the subject they were to handle before they completed their speculations. i shall further illustrate this at the conclusion of my list. before i begin the list, i give prominence to the following letter, addressed by me to the _correspondent_ of october , . some of my paradoxers attribute to me articles in this or that journal; and others may think--i know some do think--they know me as the writer of reviews of some of the very books noticed here. the following remarks will explain the way in which they may be right, and in which they may be wrong. { } * * * * * the editorial system. "sir,--i have reason to think that many persons have a very inaccurate notion of the _editorial system_. what i call by this name has grown up in the last _centenary_--a word i may use to signify the hundred years now ending, and to avoid the ambiguity of _century_. it cannot conveniently be explained by editors themselves, and _edited_ journals generally do not like to say much about it. in _your_ paper perhaps, in which editorial duties differ somewhat from those of ordinary journals, the common system may be freely spoken of. "when a reviewed author, as very often happens, writes to the editor of the reviewing journal to complain of what has been said of him, he frequently--even more often than not--complains of 'your reviewer.' he sometimes presumes that 'you' have, 'through inadvertence' in this instance, 'allowed some incompetent person to lower the character of your usually accurate pages.' sometimes he talks of 'your scribe,' and, in extreme cases, even of 'your hack.' all this shows perfect ignorance of the journal system, except where it is done under the notion of letting the editor down easy. but the editor never accepts the mercy. "all that is in a journal, except what is marked as from a correspondent, either by the editor himself or by the correspondent's real or fictitious signature, is published entirely on editorial responsibility, as much as if the editor had written it himself. the editor, therefore, may claim, and does claim and exercise, unlimited right of omission, addition, and alteration. this is so well understood that the editor performs his last function on the last revise without the 'contributor' knowing what is done. the word _contributor_ is the proper one; it implies that he furnishes materials without stating what he furnishes or how much of it is accepted, or whether he be the only contributor. all this applies both to political and literary journals. no editor acknowledges { } the right of a contributor to withdraw an article, if he should find alterations in the proof sent to him for correction which would make him wish that the article should not appear. if the _demand_ for suppression were made--i say nothing about what might be granted to _request_--the answer would be, 'it is not your article, but mine; i have all the responsibility; if it should contain a libel, i could not give you up, even at your own desire. you have furnished me with materials, on the known and common understanding that i was to use them at my discretion, and you have no right to impede my operations by making the appearance of the article depend on your approbation of my use of your materials.' "there is something to be said for this system, and something against it--i mean simply on its own merits. but the all-conquering argument in its favor is, that the only practicable alternative is the modern french plan of no articles without the signature of the writers. i need not discuss this plan; there is no collective party in favor of it. some may think it is not the only alternative; they have not produced any intermediate proposal in which any dozen of persons have concurred. many will say, is not all this, though perfectly correct, well known to be matter of form? is it not practically the course of events that an engaged contributor writes the article, and sends it to the editor, who admits it as written--substantially, at least? and is it not often very well known, by style and in other ways, who it was wrote the article? this system is matter of form just as much as loaded pistols are matter of form so long as the wearer is not assailed; but matter of form takes the form of matter in the pulling of a trigger, so soon as the need arises. editors and contributors who can work together find each other out by elective affinity, so that the common run of events settles down into most articles appearing much as they are written. and there are two safety-valves; that is, when judicious persons come together. in the first place, the editor himself, when he has selected his contributor, feels that { } the contributor is likely to know his business better than an editor can teach him; in fact, it is on that principle that the selection is made. but he feels that he is more competent than the writer to judge questions of strength and of tone, especially when the general purpose of the journal is considered, of which the editor is the judge without appeal. an editor who meddles with substantive matter is likely to be wrong, even when he knows the subject; but one who prunes what he deems excess, is likely to be right, even when he does not know the subject. in the second place, a contributor knows that he is supplying an editor, and learns, without suppressing truth or suggesting falsehood, to make the tone of his communications suit the periodical in which they are to appear. hence it very often arises that a reviewed author, who thinks he knows the name of his reviewer, and proclaims it with expressions of dissatisfaction, is only wrong in supposing that his critic has given all his mind. it has happened to myself more than once, to be announced as the author of articles which i could not have signed, because they did not go far enough to warrant my affixing my name to them as to a sufficient expression of my own opinion. "there are two other ways in which a reviewed author may be wrong about his critic. an editor frequently makes slight insertions or omissions--i mean slight in quantity of type--as he goes over the last proof; this he does in a comparative hurry, and it may chance that he does not know the full sting of his little alteration. the very bit which the writer of the book most complains of may not have been seen by the person who is called the writer of the article until after the appearance of the journal; nay, if he be one of those--few, i daresay--who do not read their own articles, may never have been seen by him at all. possibly, the insertion or omission would not have been made if the editor could have had one minute's conversation with his contributor. sometimes it actually contradicts something which is { } allowed to remain in another part of the article; and sometimes, especially in the case of omission, it renders other parts of the article unintelligible. these are disadvantages of the system, and a judicious editor is not very free with his _unus et alter pannus_. next, readers in general, when they see the pages of a journal with the articles so nicely fitting, and so many ending with the page or column, have very little notion of the cutting and carving which goes to the process. at the very last moment arises the necessity of some trimming of this kind; and the editor, who would gladly call the writer to counsel if he could, is obliged to strike out ten or twelve lines. he must do his best, but it may chance that the omission selected would take from the writer the power of owning the article. a few years ago, an able opponent of mine wrote to a journal some criticisms upon an article which he expressly attributed to me. i replied as if i were the writer, which, in a sense, i was. but if any one had required of me an unmodified 'yes' or 'no' to the question whether i wrote the article, i must, of two falsehoods, have chosen 'no': for certain omissions, dictated by the necessities of space and time, would have amounted, had my signature been affixed, to a silent surrender of points which, in my own character, i must have strongly insisted on, unless i had chosen to admit certain inferences against what i had previously published in my own name. i may here add that the forms of journalism obliged me in this case to remind my opponent that it could not be permitted to me, _in that journal_, either to acknowledge or deny the authorship of the articles. the cautions derived from the above remarks are particularly wanted with reference to the editorial comments upon letters of complaint. there is often no time to send these letters to the contributor, and even when this can be done, an editor is--and very properly--never of so editorial a mind as when he is revising the comments of a contributor upon an assailant of the article. he is then in a better position as to information, and a more { } critical position as to responsibility. of course, an editor never meddles, except under notice, with the letter of a correspondent, whether of a complainant, of a casual informant, or of a contributor who sees reason to become a correspondent. omissions must sometimes be made when a grievance is too highly spiced. it did once happen to me that a waggish editor made an insertion without notice in a letter signed by me with some fiction, which insertion contained the name of a friend of mine, with a satire which i did not believe, and should not have written if i had. to my strong rebuke, he replied--'i know it was very wrong; but human nature could not resist.' but this was the only occasion on which such a thing ever happened to me. "i daresay what i have written may give some of your readers to understand some of the _pericula et commoda_ of modern journalism. i have known men of deep learning and science as ignorant of the prevailing system as any uneducated reader of a newspaper in a country town. i may perhaps induce some writers not to be too sure about this, that, or the other person. they may detect their reviewer, and they may be safe in attributing to him the general matter and tone of the article. but about one and another point, especially if it be a short and stinging point, they may very easily chance to be wrong. it has happened to myself, and within a few weeks to publication, to be wrong in two ways in reading a past article--to attribute to editorial insertion what was really my own, and to attribute to myself what was really editorial insertion." what is a man to do who is asked whether he wrote an article? he may, of course, refuse to answer; which is regarded as an admission. he may say, as swift did to serjeant bettesworth, "sir, when i was a young man, a friend of mine advised me, whenever i was asked whether i had written a certain paper, to deny it; and i accordingly tell that i did _not_ write it." he may say, as i often do, { } when charged with having invented a joke, story, or epigram, "i want all the credit i can get, and therefore i always acknowledge all that is attributed to me, truly or not; the story, etc. _is_ mine." but for serious earnest, in the matter of imputed criticism, the answer may be, "the article was of my material, but the editor has not let it stand as i gave it; i cannot own it as a whole." he may then refuse to be particular as to the amount of the editor's interference. of this there are two extreme cases. the editor may have expunged nothing but a qualifying adverb. or he may have done as follows. we all remember the account of adam which satirizes woman, but eulogizes her if every second and third line be transposed. as in: "adam could find no solid peace when eve was given him for a mate, till he beheld a woman's face, adam was in a happy state." if this had been the article, and a gallant editor had made the transpositions, the author could not with truth acknowledge. if the alteration were only an omitted adverb, or a few things of the sort, the author could not with truth deny. in all that comes between, every man must be his own casuist. i stared, when i was a boy, to hear grave persons approve of sir walter scott's downright denial that he was the author of waverley, in answer to the prince regent's downright question. if i remember rightly, samuel johnson would have approved of the same course. it is known that, whatever the law gives, it also gives all that is necessary to full possession; thus a man whose land is environed by land of others has a right of way over the land of these others. by analogy, it is argued that when a man has a right to his secret, he has a right to all that is necessary to keep it, and that is not unlawful. if, then, he can only keep his secret by denial, he has a right to denial. this i admit to be an answer against all men except the denier himself; if conscience and self-respect will allow { } it, no one can impeach it. but the question cannot be solved on a case. that question is, a lie, is it _malum in se_, without reference to meaning and circumstances? this is a question with two sides to it. cases may be invented in which a lie is the only way of preventing a murder, or in which a lie may otherwise save a life. in these cases it is difficult to acquit, and almost impossible to blame; discretion introduced, the line becomes very hard to draw. i know but one work which has precisely--as at first appears--the character and object of my budget. it is the _review of the works of the royal society of london_, by sir john hill, m.d. ( and , to.). this man offended many: the royal society, by his work, the medical profession, by inventing and selling extra-pharmacopoeian doses; garrick, by resenting the rejection of a play. so garrick wrote: "for physic and farces his equal there scarce is; his farces are physic; his physic a farce is." i have fired at the royal society and at the medical profession, but i have given a wide berth to the drama and its wits; so there is no epigram out against me, as yet. he was very able and very eccentric. dr. thomson (_hist. roy. soc._) says he has no humor, but dr. thomson was a man who never would have discovered humor. mr. weld (_hist. roy. soc._) backs dr. thomson, but with a remarkable addition. having followed his predecessor in observing that the _transactions_ in martin folkes's time have an unusual proportion of trifling and puerile papers, he says that hill's book is a poor attempt at humor, and glaringly exhibits the feelings of a disappointed man. it is probable, he adds, that the points told with some effect on the society; for shortly after its publication the _transactions_ possess a much higher scientific value. i copy an account which i gave elsewhere. when the royal society was founded, the fellows set { } to work to prove all things, that they might hold fast that which was good. they bent themselves to the question whether sprats were young herrings. they made a circle of the powder of a unicorn's horn, and set a spider in the middle of it; "but it immediately ran out." they tried several times, and the spider "once made some stay in the powder." they inquired into kenelm digby's sympathetic powder. "magnetic cures being discoursed of, sir gilbert talbot promised to communicate what he knew of sympathetical cures; and those members who had any of the powder of sympathy, were desired to bring some of it at the next meeting." june , , certain gentlemen were appointed "curators of the proposal of tormenting a man with the sympathetic powder"; i cannot find any record of the result. and so they went on until the time of sir john hill's satire, in . this once well-known work is, in my judgment, the greatest compliment the royal society ever received. it brought forward a number of what are now feeble and childish researches in the philosophical transactions. it showed that the inquirers had actually been inquiring; and that they did not pronounce decision about "natural _knowledge_" by help of "_natural_ knowledge." but for this, hill would neither have known what to assail, nor how. matters are now entirely changed. the scientific bodies are far too well established to risk themselves. _ibit qui zonam perdidit:_ "let him take castles who has ne'er a groat." these great institutions are now without any collective purpose, except that of promoting individual energy; they print for their contributors, and guard themselves by a general declaration that they will not be answerable for the things they print. of course they will not put forward anything for everybody; but a writer of a certain reputation, or matter of a certain look of plausibility and safety, { } will find admission. this is as it should be; the pasturer of flocks and herds and the hunters of wild beasts are two very different bodies, with very different policies. the scientific academies are what a spiritualist might call "publishing mediums," and _their_ spirits fall occasionally into writing which looks as if minds in the higher state were not always impervious to nonsense. the following joke is attributed to sir john hill. i cannot honestly say i believe it; but it shows that his contemporaries did not believe he had no humor. good stories are always in some sort of keeping with the characters on which they are fastened. sir john hill contrived a communication to the royal society from portsmouth, to the effect that a sailor had broken his leg in a fall from the mast-head; that bandages and a plentiful application of tarwater had made him, in three days, able to use his leg as well as ever. while this communication was under grave discussion--it must be remembered that many then thought tarwater had extraordinary remedial properties--the joker contrived that a second letter should be delivered, which stated that the writer had forgotten, in his previous communication, to mention that the leg was a wooden leg! horace walpole told this story, i suppose for the first time; he is good authority for the fact of circulation, but for nothing more. sir john hill's book is droll and cutting satire. dr. maty, (sec. royal society) wrote thus of it in the _journal britannique_ (feb. ), of which he was editor: "il est fâcheux que cet ingénieux naturaliste, qui nous a déjà donné et qui nous prépare encore des ouvrages plus utiles, emploie à cette odieuse tâche une plume qu'il trempe dans le fiel et dans l'absinthe. il est vrai que plusieurs de ses remarques sont fondées, et qu'à l'erreur qu'il indique, il joint en même tems la correction. mais il n'est pas toujours équitable, et ne manque jamais d'insulter. que peut { } après tout prouver son livre, si ce n'est que la quarante-cinquième partie d'un très-ample et très-utile recueil n'est pas exempte d'erreurs? devoit-il confondre avec des ecrivains superficiels, dont la liberté du corps ne permet pas de restreindre la fertilité, cette foule de savans du premier ordre, dont les ecrits ont orné et ornent encore les transactions? a-t-il oublié qu'on y a vu fréquemment les noms des boyle, des newton, des halley, des de moivres, des hans sloane, etc.? et qu'on y trouve encore ceux des ward, des bradley, des graham, des ellicot, des watson, et d'un auteur que mr. hill préfère à tous les autres, je veux dire de mr. hill lui-même?"[ ] this was the only answer; but it was no answer at all. hill's object was to expose the absurdities; he therefore collected the absurdities. i feel sure that hill was a benefactor of the royal society; and much more than he would have been if he had softened their errors and enhanced their praises. no reviewer will object to me that i have omitted young, laplace, etc. but then my book has a true title. hill should not have called his a review of the "works." it was charged against sir john hill that he had tried to become a fellow of the royal society and had failed. this he denied, and challenged the production of the certificate which a candidate always sends in, and which is preserved. { } but perhaps he could not get so far as a certificate--that is, could not find any one to recommend him; he was a likely man to be in such a predicament. as i have myself run foul of the society on some little points, i conceive it possible that i may fall under a like suspicion. whether i could have been a fellow, i cannot know; as the gentleman said who was asked if he could play the violin, i never tried. i have always had a high opinion of the society upon its whole history. a person used to historical inquiry learns to look at wholes; the universities of oxford and cambridge, the college of physicians, etc. are taken in all their duration. but those who are not historians--i mean not possessed of the habit of history--hold a mass of opinions about current things which lead them into all kinds of confusion when they try to look back. not to give an instance which will offend any set of existing men--this merely because i can do without it--let us take the country at large. magna charta for ever! glorious safeguard of our liberties! _nullus liber homo capiatur aut imprisonetur ... aut aliquo modo destruatur, nisi per judicium parium_ ....[ ] _liber homo: frank home_; a capital thing for him--but how about the _villeins_? oh, there are none _now_! but there were. who cares for villains, or barbarians, or helots? and so england, and athens, and sparta, were free states; all the freemen in them were free. long after magna charta, villains were sold with their "chattels and offspring," named in that order. long after magna charta, it was law that "le seigniour poit rob, naufrer, et chastiser son villein a son volunt, salve que il ne poit luy maim."[ ] the royal society was founded as a co-operative body, and co-operation was its purpose. the early charters, etc. do not contain a trace of the intention to create a _scientific distinction_, a kind of legion of honor. it is clear that the { } qualification was ability and willingness to do good work for the promotion of natural knowledge, no matter in how many persons, nor of what position in society. charles ii gave a smart rebuke for exclusiveness, as elsewhere mentioned. in time arose, almost of course, the idea of distinction attaching to the title; and when i first began to know the society, it was in this state. gentlemen of good social position were freely elected if they were really educated men; but the moment a claimant was announced as resting on his science, there was a disposition to inquire whether he was scientific enough. the maxim of the poet was adopted; and the fellows were practically divided into _drink-deeps_ and _taste-nots_. i was, in early life, much repelled by the tone taken by the fellows of the society with respect to their very mixed body. a man high in science--some thirty-seven years ago (about )--gave me some encouragement, as he thought. "we shall have you a fellow of the royal society in time," said he. umph! thought i: for i had that day heard of some recent elections, the united science of which would not have demonstrated i. , nor explained the action of a pump. truly an elevation to look up at! it came, further, to my knowledge that the royal society--if i might judge by the claims made by very influential fellows--considered itself as entitled to the best of everything: second-best being left for the newer bodies. a secretary, in returning thanks for the royal at an anniversary of the astronomical, gave rather a lecture to the company on the positive duty of all present to send the very best to the old body, and the absolute right of the old body to expect it. an old friend of mine, on a similar occasion, stated as a fact that the thing was always done, as well as that it ought to be done. of late years this pretension has been made by a president of the society. in , lord rosse presented a confidential memorandum to the council on the expediency of enlarging their number. he says, "in a council so small it { } is impossible to secure a satisfactory representation of the leading scientific societies, and it is scarcely to be expected that, under such circumstances, they will continue to publish inferior papers while they send the best to our _transactions_." and, again, with all the societies represented on the council, "even if every science had its society, and if they published everything, withholding their best papers [i.e., from the royal society], which they would not be likely to do, still there would remain to the royal society ...." lord rosse seems to imagine that the minor societies themselves transfer their best papers to the royal society; that if, for instance, the astronomical society were to receive from a.b. a paper of unusual merit, the society would transfer it to the royal society. this is quite wrong: any preference of the royal to another society is the work of the contributor himself. but it shows how well hafted is the royal society's claim, that a president should acquire the notion that it is acknowledged and acted upon by the other societies, in their joint and corporate capacities. to the pretension thus made i never could give any sympathy. when i first heard mr. christie, sec. r. s., set it forth at the anniversary dinner of the astronomical society, i remembered the baron in walter scott: "of gilbert the galliard a heriot he sought, saying, give thy best steed as a vassal ought." and i remembered the answer: "lord and earl though thou be, i trow i can rein buck's-foot better than thou." fully conceding that the royal society is entitled to preeminent rank and all the respect due to age and services, i could not, nor can i now, see any more obligation in a contributor to send his best to that society than he can make out to be due to himself. this pretension, in my mind, was hooked on, by my historical mode of viewing things already mentioned, to my knowledge of the fact that the royal { } society--the chief fault, perhaps, lying with its president, sir joseph banks--had sternly set itself against the formation of other societies; the geological and astronomical, for instance, though it must be added that the chief rebels came out of the society itself. and so a certain not very defined dislike was generated in my mind--an anti-aristocratic affair--to the body which seemed to me a little too uplifted. this would, i daresay, have worn off; but a more formidable objection arose. my views of physical science gradually arranged themselves into a form which would have rendered f.r.s., as attached to my name, a false representation symbol. the royal society is the great fortress of general physics: and in the philosophy of our day, as to general physics, there is something which makes the banner of the r.s. one under which i cannot march. everybody who saw the three letters after my name would infer certain things as to my mode of thought which would not be true inference. it would take much space to explain this in full. i may hereafter, perhaps, write a budget of collected results of the _a priori philosophy_, the nibbling at the small end of omniscience, and the effect it has had on common life, from the family parlor to the jury-box, from the girls'-school to the vestry-meeting. there are in the society those who would, were there no others, prevent my criticism, be its conclusions true or false, from having any basis; but they are in the minority. there is no objection to be made to the principles of philosophy in vogue at the society, when they are stated as principles; but there is an omniscience in daily practice which the principles repudiate. in like manner, the most retaliatory christians have a perfect form of round words about behavior to those who injure them; none of them are as candid as a little boy i knew, who, to his mother's admonition, you should love your enemies, answered--catch me at it! years ago, a change took place which would alone have { } put a sufficient difficulty in the way. the co-operative body got tired of getting funds from and lending name to persons who had little or no science, and wanted f.r.s. to be in every case a fellow really scientific. accordingly, the number of yearly elections was limited to fifteen recommended by the council, unless the general body should choose to elect more; which it does not do. the election is now a competitive examination: it is no longer--are you able and willing to promote natural knowledge; it is--are you one of the upper fifteen of those who make such claim. in the list of candidates--a list rapidly growing in number--each year shows from thirty to forty of those whom newton and boyle would have gladly welcomed as fellow-laborers. and though the rejected of one year may be the accepted of the next--or of the next but one, or but two, if self-respect will permit the candidate to hang on--yet the time is clearly coming when many of those who ought to be welcomed will be excluded for life, or else shelved at last, when past work, with a scientific peerage. coupled with this attempt to create a kind of order of knighthood is an absurdity so glaring that it should always be kept before the general eye. this distinction, this mark set by science upon successful investigation, is of necessity a class-distinction. rowan hamilton, one of the greatest names of our day in mathematical science, never could attach f.r.s. to his name--_he could not afford it_. there is a condition precedent--four red sovereigns. it is four pounds a year, or--to those who have contributed to the transactions--forty pounds down. this is as it should be: the society must be supported. but it is not as it should be that a kind of title of honor should be forged, that a body should take upon itself to confer distinctions _for science_, when it is in the background--and kept there when the distinction is trumpeted--that the wearer is a man who can spare four pounds a year. i am well aware that in england a person who is not gifted either by nature or art, with this amount of money power, { } is, with the mass, a very second-rate sort of newton, whatever he may be in the field of investigation. even men of science, so called, have this feeling. i know that the _scientific advisers_ of the admiralty, who, years ago, received pounds a year each for his trouble, were sneered at by a wealthy pretender as "fellows to whom a hundred a year is an object." dr. thomas young was one of them. to a bookish man--i mean a man who can manage to collect books--there is no tax. to myself, for example, pounds worth of books deducted from my shelves, and the life-use of the society's splendid library instead, would have been a capital exchange. but there may be, and are, men who want books, and cannot pay the society's price. the council would be very liberal in allowing books to be consulted. i have no doubt that if a known investigator were to call and ask to look at certain books, the assistant-secretary would forthwith seat him with the books before him, absence of f.r.s. not in any wise withstanding. but this is not like having the right to consult any book on any day, and to take it away, if farther wanted. so much for the royal society as concerns myself. i must add that there is not a spark of party feeling against those who wilfully remain outside. the better minds of course know better; and the smaller _savants_ look complacently on the idea of an outer world which makes _élite_ of them. i have done such a thing as serve on a committee of the society, and report on a paper: they had the sense to ask, and i had the sense to see that none of my opinions were compromised by compliance. and i will be of any use which does not involve the status of _homo trium literarum_; as i have elsewhere explained, i would gladly be _fautor realis scientiæ_, but i would not be taken for _falsæ rationis sacerdos_. nothing worse will ever happen to me than the smile which individuals bestow on a man who does not _groove_. wisdom, like religion, belongs to majorities; who can { } wonder that it should be so thought, when it is so clearly pictured in the new testament from one end to the other? the counterpart of _paradox_, the isolated opinion of one or of few, is the general opinion held by all the rest; and the counterpart of false and absurd paradox is what is called the "vulgar error," the _pseudodox_. there is one great work on this last subject, the _pseudodoxia epidemica_ of sir thomas browne, the famous author of the _religio medici_; it usually goes by the name of browne "on vulgar errors" ( st ed. ; th, ). a careful analysis of this work would show that vulgar errors are frequently opposed by scientific errors; but good sense is always good sense, and browne's book has a vast quantity of it. as an example of bad philosophy brought against bad observation. the amphisbæna serpent was supposed to have two heads, one at each end; partly from its shape, partly because it runs backwards as well as forwards. on this sir thomas browne makes the following remarks: "and were there any such species or natural kind of animal, it would be hard to make good those six positions of body which, according to the three dimensions, are ascribed unto every animal; that is, _infra_, _supra_, _ante_, _retro_, _dextrosum_, _sinistrosum_: for if (as it is determined) that be the anterior and upper part wherein the senses are placed, and that the posterior and lower part which is opposite thereunto, there is no inferior or former part in this animal; for the senses, being placed at both extreams, doth make both ends anterior, which is impossible; the terms being relative, which mutually subsist, and are not without each other. and therefore this duplicity was ill contrived to place one head at both extreams, and had been more tolerable to have settled three or four at one. and therefore also poets have been more reasonable than philosophers, and _geryon_ or _cerberus_ less monstrous than _amphisbæna_." { } there may be paradox upon paradox: and there is a good instance in the eighth century in the case of virgil, an irishman, bishop of salzburg and afterwards saint, and his quarrels with boniface, an englishman, archbishop of mentz, also afterwards saint. all we know about the matter is, that there exists a letter of from pope zachary, citing virgil--then, it seems, at most a simple priest, though the pope was not sure even of that--to rome to answer the charge of maintaining that there is another world (_mundus_) under our earth (_terra_), with another sun and another moon. nothing more is known: the letter contains threats in the event of the charge being true; and there history drops the matter. since virgil was afterwards a bishop and a saint, we may fairly conclude that he died in the full flower of his orthodox reputation. it has been supposed--and it seems probable--that virgil maintained that the earth is peopled all the way round, so that under some spots there are antipodes; that his contemporaries, with very dim ideas about the roundness of the earth, and most of them with none at all, interpreted him as putting another earth under ours--turned the other way, probably, like the second piece of bread-and-butter in a sandwich, with a sun and moon of its own. in the eighth century this would infallibly have led to an underground gospel, an underground pope, and an underground avignon for him to live in. when, in later times, the idea of inhabitants for the planets was started, it was immediately asked whether they had sinned, whether jesus christ died for _them_, whether their wine and their water could be lawfully used in the sacraments, etc. on so small a basis as the above has been constructed a companion case to the persecution of galileo. on one side the positive assertion, with indignant comment, that virgil was deposed for antipodal heresy, on the other, serious attempts at justification, palliation, or mystification. some writers say that virgil was found guilty; others that he gave satisfactory explanation, and became very good friends with { } boniface: for all which see bayle. some have maintained that the antipodist was a different person from the canonized bishop: there is a second virgil, made to order. when your shoes pinch, and will not stretch, always throw them away and get another pair: the same with your facts. baronius was not up to the plan of a substitute: his commentator pagi (probably writing about ) argues for it in a manner which i think baronius would not have approved. this virgil was perhaps a slippery fellow. the pope says he hears that virgil pretended licence from him to claim one of some new bishoprics: this he declares is totally false. it is part of the argument that such a man as this could not have been created a bishop and a saint: on this point there will be opinions and opinions.[ ] lactantius, four centuries before, had laughed at the antipodes in a manner which seems to be ridicule thrown on the idea of the earth's roundness. ptolemy, without reference to the antipodes, describes the extent of the inhabited part of the globe in a way which shows that he could have had no objection to men turned opposite ways. probably, in the eighth century, the roundness of the earth was matter of thought only to astronomers. it should always be remembered, especially by those who affirm persecution of a true opinion, that but for our knowing from lactantius that the antipodal notion had been matter of assertion and denial among theologians, we could never have had any great confidence in virgil really having maintained the simple theory of the existence of antipodes. and even now we are not entitled to affirm it as having historical proof: the evidence { } goes to virgil having been charged with very absurd notions, which it seems more likely than not were the absurd constructions which ignorant contemporaries put upon sensible opinions of his. one curious part of this discussion is that neither side has allowed pope zachary to produce evidence to character. he shall have been an urban, say the astronomers; an urban he ought to have been, say the theologians. what sort of man was zachary? he was eminently sensible and conciliatory; he contrived to make northern barbarians hear reason in a way which puts him high among that section of the early popes who had the knack of managing uneducated swordsmen. he kept the peace in italy to an extent which historians mention with admiration. even bale, that maharajah of pope-haters, allows himself to quote in favor of zachary, that "multa papalem dignitatem decentia, eademque præclara (scilicet) opera confecit."[ ] and this, though so willing to find fault that, speaking of zachary putting a little geographical description of the earth on the portico of the lateran church, he insinuates that it was intended to affirm that the pope was lord of the whole. nor can he say how long zachary held the see, except by announcing his death in , "cum decem annis pestilentiæ sedi præfuisset."[ ] there was another quarrel between virgil and boniface which is an illustration. an ignorant priest had baptized "in nomine patri_a_, et fili_a_ et spiritu_a_ sancta." boniface declared the rite null and void: virgil maintained the contrary; and zachary decided in favor of virgil, on the ground that the absurd form was only ignorance of latin, and not heresy. it is hard to believe that this man deposed a priest for asserting the whole globe to be inhabited. to me the little information that we have seems { } to indicate--but not with certainty--that virgil maintained the antipodes: that his ignorant contemporaries travestied his theory into that of an underground cosmos; that the pope cited him to rome to explain his system, which, as reported, looked like what all would then have affirmed to be heresy; that he gave satisfactory explanations, and was dismissed with honor. it may be that the educated greek monk, zachary, knew his ptolemy well enough to guess what the asserted heretic would say; we have seen that he seems to have patronized geography. the _description_ of the earth, according to historians, was a _map_; this pope may have been more ready than another to prick up his ears at any rumor of geographical heresy, from hope of information. and virgil, who may have entered the sacred presence as frightened as jacquard, when napoleon i sent for him and said, with a stern voice and threatening gesture, "you are the man who can tie a knot in a stretched string," may have departed as well pleased as jacquard with the riband and pension which the interview was worth to him. a word more about baronius. if he had been pope, as he would have been but for the opposition of the spaniards, and if he had lived ten years longer than he did, and if clavius, who would have been his astronomical adviser, had lived five years longer than he did, it is probable, nay almost certain, that the great exhibition, the proceeding against galileo, would not have furnished a joke against theology in all time to come. for baronius was sensible and witty enough to say that in the scriptures the holy spirit intended to teach how to go to heaven, not how heaven goes; and clavius, in his last years, confessed that the whole system of the heavens had broken down, and must be mended. the manner in which the galileo case, a reality, and the virgil case, a fiction, have been hawked against the roman see are enough to show that the pope and his adherents have not cared much about physical philosophy. in truth, orthodoxy has always had other fish to fry. physics, which { } in modern times has almost usurped the name _philosophy_, in england at least, has felt a little disposed to clothe herself with all the honors of persecution which belong to the real owner of the name. but the bishops, etc. of the middle ages knew that the contest between nominalism and realism, for instance, had a hundred times more bearing upon orthodoxy than anything in astronomy, etc. a wrong notion about _substance_ might play the mischief with _transubstantiation_. the question of the earth's motion was the single point in which orthodoxy came into real contact with science. many students of physics were suspected of magic, many of atheism: but, stupid as the mistake may have been, it was _bona fide_ the magic or the atheism, not the physics, which was assailed. in the astronomical case it was the very doctrine, as a doctrine, independently of consequences, which was the _corpus delicti_: and this because it contradicted the bible. and so it did; for the stability of the earth is as clearly assumed from one end of the old testament to the other as the solidity of iron. those who take the bible to be _totidem verbis_ dictated by the god of truth can refuse to believe it; and they make strange reasons. they undertake, _a priori_, to settle divine intentions. the holy spirit did not _mean_ to teach natural philosophy: this they know beforehand; or else they infer it from finding that the earth does move, and the bible says it does not. of course, ignorance apart, every word is truth, or the writer did not mean truth. but this puts the whole book on its trial: for we never can find out what the writer meant, until we otherwise find out what is true. those who like may, of course, declare for an inspiration over which they are to be viceroys; but common sense will either accept verbal meaning or deny verbal inspiration. * * * * * { } a budget of paradoxes. volume i. the story of buridan's ass. questiones morales, folio, [paris]. by t. buridan. this is the title from the hartwell catalogue of law books. i suppose it is what is elsewhere called the "commentary on the ethics of aristotle," printed in .[ ] buridan[ ] (died about ) is the creator of the famous ass which, as _burdin's_[ ] ass, was current in burgundy, perhaps is, as a vulgar proverb. spinoza[ ] says it was a jenny ass, and that a man would not have been so foolish; but whether the compliment is paid to human or to masculine character does not appear--perhaps to both in one. the story _told_ about the famous paradox is very curious. the queen of france, joanna or jeanne, was in the habit of sewing her lovers up in sacks, and throwing them into the seine; not for blabbing, but that they might not blab--certainly the safer plan. buridan was exempted, and, in gratitude, invented the sophism. what it has to do with the matter { } has never been explained. assuredly _qui facit per alium facit per se_ will convict buridan of prating. the argument is as follows, and is seldom told in full. buridan was for free-will--that is, will which determines conduct, let motives be ever so evenly balanced. an ass is _equally_ pressed by hunger and by thirst; a bundle of hay is on one side, a pail of water on the other. surely, you will say, he will not be ass enough to die for want of food or drink; he will then make a choice--that is, will choose between alternatives of equal force. the problem became famous in the schools; some allowed the poor donkey to die of indecision; some denied the possibility of the balance, which was no answer at all. michael scott's devils. the following question is more difficult, and involves free-will to all who answer--"which you please." if the northern hemisphere were land, and all the southern hemisphere water, ought we to call the northern hemisphere an island, or the southern hemisphere a lake? both the questions would be good exercises for paradoxers who must be kept employed, like michael scott's[ ] devils. the wizard { } knew nothing about squaring the circle, etc., so he set them to make ropes out of sea sand, which puzzled them. stupid devils; much of our glass is sea sand, and it makes beautiful thread. had michael set them to square the circle or to find a perpetual motion, he would have done his work much better. but all this is conjecture: who knows that i have not hit on the very plan he adopted? perhaps the whole race of paradoxers on hopeless subjects are michael's subordinates, condemned to transmigration after transmigration, until their task is done. the above was not a bad guess. a little after the time when the famous pascal papers[ ] were produced, i came into possession of a correspondence which, but for these papers, i should have held too incredible to be put before the world. but when one sheep leaps the ditch, another will follow: so i gave the following account in the _athenæum_ of october , : "the recorded story is that michael scott, being bound by contract to produce perpetual employment for a number of young demons, was worried out of his life in inventing jobs for them, until at last he set them to make ropes out of sea sand, which they never could do. we have obtained a very curious correspondence between the wizard michael and his demon-slaves; but we do not feel at liberty to say how it came into our hands. we much regret that we did not receive it in time for the british association. it appears that the story, true as far as it goes, was never finished. the demons easily conquered the rope difficulty, by the simple process of making the sand into glass, and spinning the glass into thread, which they twisted. michael, thoroughly disconcerted, hit upon the plan of setting some to { } square the circle, others to find the perpetual motion, etc. he commanded each of them to transmigrate from one human body into another, until their tasks were done. this explains the whole succession of cyclometers, and all the heroes of the budget. some of this correspondence is very recent; it is much blotted, and we are not quite sure of its meaning: it is full of figurative allusions to driving something illegible down a steep into the sea. it looks like a humble petition to be allowed some diversion in the intervals of transmigration; and the answer is-- rumpat et serpens iter institutum,[ ] --a line of horace, which the demons interpret as a direction to come athwart the proceedings of the institute by a sly trick. until we saw this, we were suspicious of m. libri,[ ] the unvarying blunders of the correspondence look like knowledge. to be always out of the road requires a map: genuine ignorance occasionally lapses into truth. we thought it possible m. libri might have played the trick to show how easily the french are deceived; but with our present information, our minds are at rest on the subject. we see m. chasles does not like to avow the real source of information: he will not confess himself a spiritualist." philo of gadara. philo of gadara[ ] is asserted by montucla,[ ] on the { } authority of eutocius,[ ] the commentator on archimedes, to have squared the circle within the _ten-thousandth_ part of a unit, that is, to _four_ places of decimals. a modern classical dictionary represents it as done by philo to _ten thousand_ places of decimals. lacroix comments on montucla to the effect that _myriad_ (in greek _ten thousand_) is here used as we use it, vaguely, for an immense number. on looking into eutocius, i find that not one definite word is said about the extent to which philo carried the matter. i give a translation of the passage: "we ought to know that apollonius pergæus, in his ocytocium [this work is lost], demonstrated the same by other numbers, and came nearer, which seems more accurate, but has nothing to do with archimedes; for, as before said, he aimed only at going near enough for the wants of life. neither is porus of nicæa fair when he takes archimedes to task for not giving a line accurately equal to the circumference. he says in his cerii that his teacher, philo of gadara, had given a more accurate approximation ([greek: eis akribesterous arithmous agagein]) than that of archimedes, or than to . but all these [the rest as well as philo] miss the intention. they multiply and divide by _tens of thousands_, which no one can easily do, unless he be versed in the logistics [fractional computation] of magnus [now unknown]." montucla, or his source, ought not to have made this mistake. he had been at the greek to correct philo _gadetanus_, as he had often been called, and he had brought away { } and quoted [greek: apo gadarôn]. had he read two sentences further, he would have found the mistake. we here detect a person quite unnoticed hitherto by the moderns, magnus the arithmetician. the phrase is ironical; it is as if we should say, "to do this a man must be deep in cocker."[ ] accordingly, magnus, baveme,[ ] and cocker, are three personifications of arithmetic; and there may be more. on squaring the circle. aristotle, treating of the category of relation, denies that the quadrature has been found, but appears to assume that it can be done. boethius,[ ] in his comment on the passage, says that it has been done since aristotle, but that the demonstration is too long for him to give. those who have no notion of the quadrature question may look at the _english cyclopædia_, art. "quadrature of the circle." tetragonismus. id est circuli quadratura per campanum, archimedem syracusanum, atque boetium mathematicæ perspicacissimos adinventa.--at the end, impressum venetiis per ioan. bapti. sessa. anno ab incarnatione domini, . die augusti. { } this book has never been noticed in the history of the subject, and i cannot find any mention of it. the quadrature of campanus[ ] takes the ratio of archimedes,[ ] to to be absolutely correct; the account given of archimedes is not a translation of his book; and that of boetius has more than is in boet_h_ius. this book must stand, with the next, as the earliest in print on the subject, until further showing: murhard[ ] and kastner[ ] have nothing so early. it is edited by lucas gauricus,[ ] who has given a short preface. luca gaurico, bishop of civita ducale, an astrologer of astrologers, published this work at about thirty years of age, and lived to eighty-two. his works are collected in folios, but i do not know whether they contain this production. the poor fellow could never tell his own fortune, because his father neglected to note the hour and minute of his birth. but if there had been anything in astrology, he could have worked back, as adams[ ] and leverrier[ ] did when they caught { } neptune: at sixty he could have examined every minute of his day of birth, by the events of his life, and so would have found the right minute. he could then have gone on, by rules of prophecy. gauricus was the mathematical teacher of joseph scaliger,[ ] who did him no credit, as we shall see. bovillus on the quadrature problem. in hoc opere contenta epitome.... liber de quadratura circuli.... paris, , folio. the quadrator is charles bovillus,[ ] who adopted the views of cardinal cusa,[ ] presently mentioned. montucla is hard on his compatriot, who, he says, was only saved from the laughter of geometers by his obscurity. persons must guard against most historians of mathematics in one point: they frequently attribute to _his own_ age the obscurity which a writer has in _their own_ time. this tract was printed by henry stephens,[ ] at the instigation of faber stapulensis,[ ] { } and is recorded by dechales,[ ] etc. it was also introduced into the _margarita philosophica_ of ,[ ] in the same appendix with the new perspective from viator. this is not extreme obscurity, by any means. the quadrature deserved it; but that is another point. it is stated by montucla that bovillus makes [pi] = [root] . but montucla cites a work of , _introductorium geometricum_, which i have never seen.[ ] he finds in it an account which bovillus gives of the quadrature of the peasant laborer, and describes it as agreeing with his own. but the description makes [pi] = - / , which it thus appears bovillus could not distinguish from [root] . it seems also that this - / , about which we shall see so much in the sequel, takes its rise in the thoughtful head of a poor laborer. it does him great honor, being so near the truth, and he having no means of instruction. in our day, when an ignorant person chooses to bring his fancy forward in opposition to demonstration which he will not study, he is deservedly laughed at. { } the story of lacomme's attempt at quadrature. mr. james smith,[ ] of liverpool--hereinafter notorified--attributes the first announcement of - / to m. joseph lacomme, a french well-sinker, of whom he gives the following account: "in the year , at which time lacomme could neither read nor write, he had constructed a circular reservoir and wished to know the quantity of stone that would be required to pave the bottom, and for this purpose called on a professor of mathematics. on putting his question and giving the diameter, he was surprised at getting the following answer from the professor: _'qu'il lui était impossible de le lui dire au juste, attendu que personne n'avait encore pu trouver d'une manière exacte le rapport de la circonférence au diametre.'_[ ] from this he was led to attempt the solution of the problem. his first process was purely mechanical, and he was so far convinced he had made the discovery that he took to educating himself, and became an expert arithmetician, and then found that arithmetical results agreed with his mechanical experiments. he appears to have eked out a bare existence for many years by teaching arithmetic, all the time struggling to get a hearing from some of the learned societies, but without success. in the year he found his way to paris, where, as if by accident, he made the acquaintance of a young gentleman, son of m. winter, a commissioner of police, and taught him his peculiar methods of calculation. the young man was so enchanted that he strongly recommended lacomme to his father, and { } subsequently through m. winter he obtained an introduction to the president of the society of arts and sciences of paris. a committee of the society was appointed to examine and report upon his discovery, and the society at its _séance_ of march , , awarded a silver medal of the first class to m. joseph lacomme for his discovery of the true ratio of diameter to circumference in a circle. he subsequently received three other medals from other societies. while writing this i have his likeness before me, with his medals on his breast, which stands as a frontispiece to a short biography of this extraordinary man, for which i am indebted to the gentleman who did me the honor to publish a french translation of the pamphlet i distributed at the meeting of the british association for the advancement of science, at oxford, in ."--_correspondent_, may , . my inquiries show that the story of the medals is not incredible. there are at paris little private societies which have not so much claim to be exponents of scientific opinion as our own mechanics' institutes. some of them were intended to give a false lustre: as the "institut historique," the members of which are "membre de l'institut historique." that m. lacomme should have got four medals from societies of this class is very possible: that he should have received one from any society at paris which has the least claim to give one is as yet simply incredible. nicolaus of cusa's attempt. nicolai de cusa opera omnia. venice, . vols. folio. the real title is "hæc accurata recognitio trium voluminum operum clariss. p. nicolai cusæ ... proxime sequens pagina monstrat."[ ] cardinal cusa, who died in , is one of the earliest modern attempters. his quadrature is found in the second volume, and is now quite unreadable. { } in these early days every quadrator found a geometrical opponent, who finished him. regimontanus[ ] did this office for the cardinal. henry cornelius agrippa. de occulta philosophia libri iii. by henry cornelius agrippa. lyons, , vo. de incertitudine et vanitate scientiarum. by the same. cologne, , vo. the first editions of these works were of , as well as i can make out; but the first was in progress in .[ ] in the second work agrippa repents of having wasted time on the magic of the first; but all those who actually deal with demons are destined to eternal fire with jamnes and mambres and simon magus. this means, as is the fact, that his occult philosophy did not actually enter upon _black_ magic, but confined itself to the power of the stars, of numbers, etc. the fourth book, which appeared after the death of agrippa, and really concerns dealing with evil spirits, is undoubtedly spurious. it is very difficult to make out what agrippa really believed on the subject. i have introduced his books as the most marked specimens of treatises on magic, a paradox of our day, though not far from orthodoxy in his; and here i should have ended my notice, if i had not casually found something more interesting to the reader of our day. { } which leads to walter scott. walter scott, it is well known, was curious on all matters connected with magic, and has used them very widely. but it is hardly known how much pains he has taken to be correct, and to give the real thing. the most decided detail of a magical process which is found in his writings is that of dousterswivel in _the antiquary_; and it is obvious, by his accuracy of process, that he does not intend the adept for a mere impostor, but for one who had a lurking belief in the efficacy of his own processes, coupled with intent to make a fraudulent use of them. the materials for the process are taken from agrippa. i first quote mr. dousterswivel: "... i take a silver plate when she [the moon] is in her fifteenth mansion, which mansion is in de head of _libra_, and i engrave upon one side de worts _schedbarschemoth scharta_ch_an_ [_ch_ should be _t_]--dat is, de intelligence of de intelligence of de moon--and i make his picture like a flying serpent with a turkey-cock's head--vary well--then upon this side i make de table of de moon, which is a square of nine, multiplied into itself, with eighty-one numbers [nine] on every side and diameter nine...." in the _de occulta philosophia_, p. , we find that the fifteenth mansion of the moon _incipit capite libræ_, and is good _pro extrahendis thesauris_, the object being to discover hidden treasure. in p. , we learn that a _silver_ plate must be used with the moon. in p. , we have the words which denote the intelligence, etc. but, owing to the falling of a number into a wrong line, or the misplacement of a line, one or other--which takes place in all the editions i have examined--scott has, sad to say, got hold of the wrong words; he has written down the _demon of the demons_ of the moon. instead of the gibberish above, it should have been _malcha betarsisim hed beruah schenhakim_. in p. , we have the magic square of the moon, with eighty-one numbers, and the symbol for the intelligence, which scott likens to a flying { } serpent with a turkey-cock's head. he was obliged to say something; but i will stake my character--and so save a woodcut--on the scratches being more like a pair of legs, one shorter than the other, without a body, jumping over a six-barred gate placed side uppermost. those who thought that scott forged his own nonsense, will henceforth stand corrected. as to the spirit peolphan, etc., no doubt scott got it from the authors he elsewhere mentions, nicolaus remigius[ ] and petrus thyracus; but this last word should be thyræus. the tendency of scott's mind towards prophecy is very marked, and it is always fulfilled. hyder, in his disguise, calls out to tippoo: "cursed is the prince who barters justice for lust; he shall die in the gate by the sword of the stranger." tippoo was killed in a gateway at seringapatam.[ ] finaeus on circle squaring. orontii finaei ... quadratura circuli. paris, , to. orontius[ ] squared the circle out of all comprehension; but he was killed by a feather from his own wing. his { } former pupil, john buteo,[ ] the same who--i believe for the first time--calculated the question of noah's ark, as to its power to hold all the animals and stores, unsquared him completely. orontius was the author of very many works, and died in . among the laudatory verses which, as was usual, precede this work, there is one of a rare character: a congratulatory ode to the wife of the author. the french now call this writer oronce finée; but there is much difficulty about delatinization. is this more correct than oronce fine, which the translator of de thou uses? or than horonce phine, which older writers give? i cannot understand why m. de viette[ ] should be called viète, because his latin name is vieta. it is difficult to restore buteo; for not only now is _butor_ a blockhead as well as a bird, but we really cannot know what kind of bird buteo stood for. we may be sure that madame fine was denise blanche; for dionysia candida can mean nothing else. let her shade rejoice in the fame which hubertus sussannæus has given her. i ought to add that the quadrature of orontius, and solutions of all the other difficulties, were first published in _de rebus mathematicis hactenus desideratis_,[ ] of which i have not the date. { } duchesne, and a disquisition on etymology. nicolai raymari ursi dithmarsi fundamentum astronomicum, id est, nova doctrina sinuum et triangulorum.... strasburg, , to.[ ] people choose the name of this astronomer for themselves: i take _ursus_, because he _was_ a bear. this book gave the quadrature of simon duchesne,[ ] or à quercu, which excited peter metius,[ ] as presently noticed. it also gave that unintelligible reference to justus byrgius which has been used in the discussion about the invention of logarithms.[ ] the real name of duchesne is van der eycke. i have met with a tract in dutch, _letterkundige aanteekeningen_, upon van eycke, van ceulen,[ ] etc., by j. j. dodt van flensburg,[ ] which i make out to be since in date. i should { } much like a translation of this tract to be printed, say in the _phil. mag._ dutch would be clear english if it were properly spelt. for example, _learn-master_ would be seen at once to be _teacher_; but they will spell it _leermeester_. _of these_ they write as _van deze_; _widow_ they make _weduwe_. all this is plain to me, who never saw a dutch dictionary in my life; but many of their misspellings are quite unconquerable. falco's rare tract. jacobus falco valentinus, miles ordinis montesiani, hanc circuli quadraturam invenit. antwerp, , to.[ ] the attempt is more than commonly worthless; but as montucla and others have referred to the verses at the end, and as the tract is of the rarest, i will quote them: _circulus loquitur._ vocabar ante circulus eramque curvus undique ut alta solis orbita et arcus ille nubium. eram figura nobilis carensque sola origine carensque sola termino. modo indecora prodeo novisque foedor angulis. nec hoc peregit archytas[ ] neque icari pater neque tuus, iapete, filius. quis ergo casus aut deus meam quadravit aream? _respondet auctor._ ad alta turiæ ostia lacumque limpidissimum sita est beata civitas { } parum saguntus abfuit abestque sucro plusculum. hic est poeta quispiam libenter astra consulens sibique semper arrogans negata doctioribus, senex ubique cogitans sui frequenter immemor nec explicare circinum nec exarare lineas sciens ut ipse prædicat. hic ergo bellus artifex tuam quadravit aream.[ ] falco's verses are pretty, if the u-mysteries be correct; but of these things i have forgotten--what i knew. [one mistake has been pointed out to me: it is arch[=y]tas]. as a specimen of the way in which history is written, i copy the account which montucla--who is accurate when he writes about what he has seen--gives of these verses. he gives the date ; he places the verses at the beginning instead of the end; he says the circle thanks its quadrator affectionately; and he says the good and modest chevalier gives all the glory to the patron saint of his order. all of little consequence, as it happens; but writing at second-hand makes as complete mistakes about more important matters. { } bungus on the mystery of number. petri bungi bergomatis numerorum mysteria. bergomi [bergamo], , to. second edition. the first edition is said to be of ;[ ] the third, paris, . bungus is not for my purpose on his own score, but those who gave the numbers their mysterious characters: he is but a collector. he quotes or uses authors, as we are informed by his list; this just beats warburton,[ ] whom some eulogist or satirist, i forget which, holds up as having used authors in some one work. bungus goes through , , , etc., and gives the account of everything remarkable in which each number occurs; his accounts not being always mysterious. the numbers which have nothing to say for themselves are omitted: thus there is a gap between and . in treating , bungus, a good catholic, could not compliment the pope with it, but he fixes it on martin luther with a little forcing. if from a to i represent - , from k to s - , and from t to z - , we see: m a r t i n l u t e r a which gives . again, in hebrew, _lulter_ does the same: [hebrew: r t l w l] and thus two can play at any game. the second is better than the first: to latinize the surname and not the christian { } name is very unscholarlike. the last number mentioned is a thousand millions; all greater numbers are dismissed in half a page. then follows an accurate distinction between _number_ and _multitude_--a thing much wanted both in arithmetic and logic. which leads to a story about the royal society. what may be the use of such a book as this? the last occasion on which it was used was the following. fifteen or sixteen years ago the royal society determined to restrict the number of yearly admissions to fifteen men of science, and noblemen _ad libitum_; the men of science being selected and recommended by the council, with a power, since practically surrendered, to the society to elect more. this plan appears to me to be directly against the spirit of their charter, the true intent of which is, that all who are fit should be allowed to promote natural knowledge in association, from and after the time at which they are both fit and willing. it is also working more absurdly from year to year; the tariff of fifteen per annum will soon amount to the practical exclusion of many who would be very useful. this begins to be felt already, i suspect. but, as appears above, the body of the society has the remedy in its own hands. when the alteration was discussed by the council, my friend the late mr. galloway,[ ] then one of the body, opposed it strongly, and inquired particularly into the reason why _fifteen_, of all numbers, was the one to be selected. was it because fifteen is seven and eight, typifying the old testament sabbath, and the new testament day of the resurrection following? was it because paul strove fifteen days against peter, proving that he was a doctor both of the old and new testament? was it because the prophet hosea bought a lady { } for fifteen pieces of silver? was it because, according to micah, seven shepherds and eight chiefs should waste the assyrians? was it because ecclesiastes commands equal reverence to be given to both testaments--such was the interpretation--in the words "give a portion to seven, and also to eight"? was it because the waters of the deluge rose fifteen cubits above the mountains?--or because they lasted fifteen decades of days? was it because ezekiel's temple had fifteen steps? was it because jacob's ladder has been supposed to have had fifteen steps? was it because fifteen years were added to the life of hezekiah? was it because the feast of unleavened bread was on the fifteenth day of the month? was it because the scene of the ascension was fifteen stadia from jerusalem? was it because the stone-masons and porters employed in solomon's temple amounted to fifteen myriads? etc. the council were amused and astounded by the volley of fifteens which was fired at them; they knowing nothing about bungus, of which mr. galloway--who did not, as the french say, indicate his sources--possessed the copy now before me. in giving this anecdote i give a specimen of the book, which is exceedingly rare. should another edition ever appear, which is not very probable, he would be but a bungling bungus who should forget the _fifteen_ of the royal society. and also to a question of evidence. [i make a remark on the different colors which the same person gives to one story, according to the bias under which he tells it. my friend galloway told me how he had quizzed the council of the royal society, to my great amusement. whenever i am struck by the words of any one, i carry away a vivid recollection of position, gestures, tones, etc. i do not know whether this be common or uncommon. i never recall this joke without seeing before me my friend, leaning against his bookcase, with bungus open in his hand, and a certain half-depreciatory tone which he often used { } when speaking of himself. long after his death, an f.r.s. who was present at the discussion, told me the story. i did not say i had heard it, but i watched him, with galloway at the bookcase before me. i wanted to see whether the two would agree as to the fact of an enormous budget of fifteens having been fired at the council, and they did agree perfectly. but when the paragraph of the budget appeared in the _athenæum_, my friend, who seemed rather to object to the _showing-up_, assured me that the thing was grossly exaggerated; there was indeed a fifteen or two, but nothing like the number i had given. i had, however, taken sharp note of the previous narration. and to another question of evidence. i will give another instance. an indian officer gave me an account of an elephant, as follows. a detachment was on the march, and one of the gun-carriages got a wheel off the track, so that it was also off the ground, and hanging over a precipice. if the bullocks had moved a step, carriages, bullocks, and all must have been precipitated. no one knew what could be done until some one proposed to bring up an elephant, and let him manage it his own way. the elephant took a moment's survey of the fix, put his trunk under the axle of the free wheel, and waited. the surrounders, who saw what he meant, moved the bullocks gently forward, the elephant followed, supporting the axle, until there was ground under the wheel, when he let it quietly down. from all i had heard of the elephant, this was not too much to believe. but when, years afterwards, i reminded my friend of his story, he assured me that i had misunderstood him, that the elephant was _directed_ to put his trunk under the wheel, and saw in a moment why. this is reasonable sagacity, and very likely the correct account; but i am quite sure that, in the fit of elephant-worship under which the story was first told, it was told as i have first stated it.] { } giordano bruno and his paradoxes. [jordani bruni nolani de monade, numero et figura ... item de innumerabilibus, immenso, et infigurabili ... frankfort, , vo.[ ] i cannot imagine how i came to omit a writer whom i have known so many years, unless the following story will explain it. the officer reproved the boatswain for perpetual swearing; the boatswain answered that he heard the officers swear. "only in an emergency," said the officer. "that's just it," replied the other; "a boatswain's life is a life of 'mergency." giordano bruno was all paradox; and my mind was not alive to his paradoxes, just as my ears might have become dead to the boatswain's oaths. he was, as has been said, a vorticist before descartes,[ ] an optimist before leibnitz, a copernican before galileo. it would be easy to collect a hundred strange opinions of his. he was born about , and was roasted alive at rome, february , , for the maintenance and defence of the holy church, and the rights and liberties of the same. these last words are from the writ of our own good james i, under which leggatt[ ] was roasted at smithfield, in march ; and if i had a copy of the instrument under which wightman[ ] was roasted at lichfield, a month afterwards, i daresay i should { } find something quite as edifying. i extract an account which i gave of bruno in the _comp. alm._ for : "he was first a dominican priest, then a calvinist; and was roasted alive at rome, in , for as many heresies of opinion, religious and philosophical, as ever lit one fire. some defenders of the papal cause have at least worded their accusations so to be understood as imputing to him villainous actions. but it is positively certain that his death was due to opinions alone, and that retractation, even after sentence, would have saved him. there exists a remarkable letter, written from rome on the very day of the murder, by scioppius[ ] (the celebrated scholar, a waspish convert from lutheranism, known by his hatred to protestants and jesuits) to rittershusius,[ ] a well-known lutheran writer on civil and canon law, whose works are in the index of prohibited books. this letter has been reprinted by libri (vol. iv. p. ). the writer informs his friend (whom he wished to convince that even a lutheran would have burnt bruno) that all rome would tell him that bruno died for lutheranism; but this is because the italians do not know the difference between one heresy and another, in which simplicity (says the writer) may god preserve them. that is to say, they knew the difference between a live heretic and a roasted one by actual inspection, but had no idea of the difference between a lutheran and a calvinist. the countrymen of boccaccio would have smiled at the idea which the german scholar entertained of them. they said bruno was burnt for lutheranism, a name under which they classed all protestants: and they are better witnesses than schopp, or scioppius. he then proceeds to describe to his protestant friend (to whom he would certainly not have omitted any act which both their churches would have condemned) the mass of opinions with which bruno was charged; as that there { } are innumerable worlds, that souls migrate, that moses was a magician, that the scriptures are a dream, that only the hebrews descended from adam and eve, that the devils would be saved, that christ was a magician and deservedly put to death, etc. in fact, says he, bruno has advanced all that was ever brought forward by all heathen philosophers, and by all heretics, ancient and modern. a time for retractation was given, both before sentence and after, which should be noted, as well for the wretched palliation which it may afford, as for the additional proof it gives that opinions, and opinions only, brought him to the stake. in this medley of charges the scriptures are a dream, while adam, eve, devils, and salvation are truths, and the saviour a deceiver. we have examined no work of bruno except the _de monade_, etc., mentioned in the text. a strong though strange _theism_ runs through the whole, and moses, christ, the fathers, etc., are cited in a manner which excites no remark either way. among the versions of the cause of bruno's death is _atheism_: but this word was very often used to denote rejection of revelation, not merely in the common course of dispute, but by such writers, for instance, as brucker[ ] and morhof.[ ] thus morhof says of the _de monade, etc._, that it exhibits no manifest signs of atheism. what he means by the word is clear enough, when he thus speaks of a work which acknowledges god in hundreds of places, and rejects opinions as blasphemous in several. the work of bruno in which his astronomical opinions are contained is _de monade, etc._ (frankfort, , vo). he is the most thorough-going copernican possible, and throws out almost every opinion, true or false, which has ever been discussed by astronomers, from the theory of innumerable inhabited worlds and systems to that { } of the planetary nature of comets. libri (vol. iv)[ ] has reprinted the most striking part of his expressions of copernican opinion." this leads to the church question. the satanic doctrine that a church may employ force in aid of its dogma is supposed to be obsolete in england, except as an individual paradox; but this is difficult to settle. opinions are much divided as to what the roman church would do in england, if she could: any one who doubts that she claims the right does not deserve an answer. when the hopes of the tractarian section of the high church were in bloom, before the most conspicuous intellects among them had _transgressed_ their ministry, that they might go to their own place, i had the curiosity to see how far it could be ascertained whether they held the only doctrine which makes me the personal enemy of a sect. i found in one of their tracts the assumption of a right to persecute, modified by an asserted conviction that force was not efficient. i cannot now say that this tract was one of the celebrated ninety; and on looking at the collection i find it so poorly furnished with contents, etc., that nothing but searching through three thick volumes would decide. in these volumes i find, augmenting as we go on, declarations about the character and power of "the church" which have a suspicious appearance. the suspicion is increased by that curious piece of sophistry, no. , on religious reserve. the queer paradoxes of that tract leave us in doubt as to everything but this, that the church(man) is not bound to give his whole counsel in all things, and not bound to say what the things are in which he does not give it. it is likely enough that some of the "rights and liberties" are but scantily described. there is now no fear; but the time was when, if not fear, there might be a looking for of fear to come; nobody could then be so { } sure as we now are that the lion was only asleep. there was every appearance of a harder fight at hand than was really found needful. among other exquisite quirks of interpretation in the no. above mentioned is the following. god himself employs reserve; he is said to be decked with light as with a garment (the old or prayer-book version of psalm civ. ). to an ordinary apprehension this would be a strong image of display, manifestation, revelation; but there is something more. "does not a garment veil in some measure that which it clothes? is not that very light concealment?" this no. , admitted into a series, fixes upon the managers of the series, who permitted its introduction, a strong presumption of that underhand intent with which they were charged. at the same time it is honorable to our liberty that this series could be published: though its promoters were greatly shocked when the essayists and bishop colenso[ ] took a swing on the other side. when no. was under discussion, dr. maitland,[ ] the librarian at lambeth, asked archbishop howley[ ] a question about no. . "i did not so much as know there _was_ a no. ," was the answer. i am almost sure i have seen this in print, and quite sure that dr. maitland told it to me. it is creditable that there was so much freedom; but no. was _too bad_, and was stopped. the tractarian mania has now (october ) settled down into a chronic vestment disease, complicated with fits of transubstantiation, which has taken the name of { } _ritualism_. the common sense of our national character will not put up with a continuance of this grotesque folly; millinery in all its branches will at last be advertised only over the proper shops. i am told that the ritualists give short and practical sermons; if so, they may do good in the end. the english establishment has always contained those who want an excitement; the new testament, in its plain meaning, can do little for them. since the revolution, jacobitism, wesleyanism, evangelicism, puseyism,[ ] and ritualism, have come on in turn, and have furnished hot water for those who could not wash without it. if the ritualists should succeed in substituting short and practical teaching for the high-spiced lectures of the doctrinalists, they will be remembered with praise. john the baptist would perhaps not have brought all jerusalem out into the wilderness by his plain and good sermons: it was the camel's hair and the locusts which got him a congregation, and which, perhaps, added force to his precepts. when at school i heard a dialogue, between an usher and the man who cleaned the shoes, about mr. ----, a minister, a very corporate body with due area of waistcoat. "he is a man of great erudition," said the first. "ah, yes sir," said joe; "any one can see that who looks at that silk waistcoat."] of thomas gephyrander salicetus. [when i said at the outset that i had only taken books from my own store, i should have added that i did not make any search for information given as _part_ of a work. had i looked _through_ all my books, i might have made some curious additions. for instance, in schott's _magia naturalis_[ ] { } (vol. iii. pp. - ) is an account of the quadrature of gephyra_u_der, as he is misprinted in montucla. he was thomas gephyrander salicetus; and he published two editions, in and .[ ] i never even heard of a copy of either. his work is of the extreme of absurdity: he makes a distinction between geometrical and arithmetical fractions, and evolves theorems from it. more curious than his quadrature is his name; what are we to make of it? if a german, he is probably a german form of _bridgeman_. and salicetus refers him to _weiden_. but _thomas_ was hardly a german christian name of his time; of german philosophers, physicians, lawyers, and theologians who were biographed by melchior adam,[ ] only two are of this name. of these one is thomas erastus,[ ] the physician whose theological writings against the church as a separate power have given the name of erastians to those who follow his doctrine, whether they have heard of him or not. erastus is little known; accordingly, some have supposed that he must be erastus, the friend of st. paul and timothy (acts xix. ; tim. iv. ; rom. xvi. ), but what this gentleman did to earn the character is not hinted at. few words would have done: gaius (rom. xvi. ) has an immortality which many more noted men have missed, given by john bunyan, out of seven words of st. paul. i was once told that the erastians got their name from _blastus_, and i could not solve _bl = er_: at last i remembered that blastus was a _chamberlain_[ ] as well as erastus; hence the association which { } caused the mistake. the real heresiarch was a physician who died in ; his heresy was promulgated in a work, published immediately after his death by his widow, _de excommunicatione ecclesiastica_. he denied the power of excommunication on the principle above stated; and was answered by besa.[ ] the work was translated by dr. r. lee[ ] (edinb. , vo). the other is thomas grynæus,[ ] a theologian, nephew of simon, who first printed euclid in greek; of him adam says that of works he published none, of learned sons four. if gephyrander were a frenchman, his name is not so easily guessed at; but he must have been of la saussaye. the account given by schott is taken from a certain father philip colbinus, who wrote against him. in some manuscripts lately given to the royal society, david gregory,[ ] who seems to have seen gephyrander's work, calls him salicetus _westphalus_, which is probably on the title-page. but the only weiden i can find is in bavaria. murhard has both editions in his catalogue, but had plainly never seen the books: he gives the author as thomas gep. hyandrus, salicettus westphalus. murhard is a very old referee of mine; but who the _non nominandus_ was to see montucla's _gephyrander_ in murhard's _gep. hyandrus_, both writers being usually accurate?] napier on revelations. a plain discoverie of the whole revelation of st. john ... whereunto are annexed certain oracles of sibylla.... set foorth by john napeir l. of marchiston. london, , to.[ ] { } the first edition was edinburgh, ,[ ] to. napier[ ] always believed that his great mission was to upset the pope, and that logarithms, and such things, were merely episodes and relaxations. it is a pity that so many books have been written about this matter, while napier, as good as any, is forgotten and unread. he is one of the first who gave us the six thousand years. "there is a sentence of the house of elias reserved in all ages, bearing these words: the world shall stand six thousand years, and then it shall be consumed by fire: two thousand yeares voide or without lawe, two thousand yeares under the law, and two thousand yeares shall be the daies of the messias...." i give napier's parting salute: it is a killing dilemma: "in summar conclusion, if thou o _rome_ aledges thyselfe reformed, and to beleeue true christianisme, then beleeue saint _john_ the disciple, whome christ loued, publikely here in this reuelation proclaiming thy wracke, but if thou remain ethnick in thy priuate thoghts, beleeuing[ ] the old oracles of the _sibyls_ reuerently keeped somtime in thy _capitol_: then doth here this _sibyll_ proclame also thy wracke. repent therefore alwayes, in this thy latter breath, as thou louest thine eternall salvation. _amen_." --strange that napier should not have seen that this appeal could not succeed, unless the prophecies of the apocalypse were no true prophecies at all. { } of gilbert's de magnete. de magnete magneticisque corporibus, et de magno magnete tellure. by william gilbert. london, , folio.--there is a second edition; and a third, according to watt.[ ] of the great work on the magnet there is no need to speak, though it was a paradox in its day. the posthumous work of gilbert, "de mundo nostro sublunari philosophia nova" (amsterdam, , to)[ ] is, as the title indicates, confined to the physics of the globe and its atmosphere. it has never excited attention: i should hope it would be examined with our present lights. of giovanni batista porta. elementorum curvilineorium libri tres. by john baptista porta. rome, , to.[ ] this is a ridiculous attempt, which defies description, except that it is all about lunules. porta was a voluminous writer. his printer announces fourteen works printed, and four to come, besides thirteen plays printed, and eleven waiting. his name is, and will be, current in treatises on physics for more reasons than one. { } cataldi on the quadrature. trattato della quadratura del cerchio. di pietro antonio cataldi. bologna, , folio.[ ] rheticus,[ ] vieta, and cataldi are the three untiring computers of germany, france, and italy; napier in scotland, and briggs[ ] in england, come just after them. this work claims a place as beginning with the quadrature of pellegrino borello[ ] of reggio, who will have the circle to be exactly diameters and / of a diameter. cataldi, taking van ceulen's approximation, works hard at the finding of integers which nearly represent the ratio. he had not then the _continued fraction_, a mode of representation which he gave the next year in his work on the square root. he has but twenty of van ceulen's thirty places, which he takes from clavius[ ]: and any one might be puzzled to know whence the italians got the result; van ceulen, in , not having been translated from dutch. but clavius names his comrade gruenberger, and attributes the approximation to them { } jointly; "lud. a collen et chr. gruenbergerus[ ] invenerunt," which he had no right to do, unless, to his private knowledge, gruenberger had verified van ceulen. and gruenberger only handed over twenty of the places. but here is one instance, out of many, of the polyglot character of the jesuit body, and its advantages in literature. of lansbergius. philippi lausbergii cyclometriæ novæ libri duo. middleburg, , to.[ ] this is one of the legitimate quadratures, on which i shall here only remark that by candlelight it is quadrature under difficulties, for all the diagrams are in red ink. a text leading to remarks on prester john. recherches curieuses des mesures du monde. by s. c. de v. paris, , vo (pp. ).[ ] it is written by some count for his son; and if all the french nobility would have given their sons the same kind of instruction about rank, the old french aristocracy would have been as prosperous at this moment as the english peerage and squireage. i sent the tract to capt. speke,[ ] shortly after his arrival in england, thinking he might like { } to see the old names of the ethiopian provinces. but i first made a copy of all that relates to prester john,[ ] himself a paradox. the tract contains, _inter alia_, an account of the four empires; of the great turk, the great tartar, the great sophy, and the great prester john. this word _great_ (_grand_), which was long used in the phrase "the great turk," is a generic adjunct to an emperor. of the tartars it is said that "c'est vne nation prophane et barbaresque, sale et vilaine, qui mangent la chair demie cruë, qui boiuent du laict de jument, et qui n'vsent de nappes et seruiettes que pour essuyer leurs bouches et leurs mains."[ ] many persons have heard of prester john, and have a very indistinct idea of him. i give all that is said about him, since the recent discussions about the nile may give an interest to the old notions of geography. "le grand prestre jean qui est le quatriesme en rang, est empereur d'ethiopie, et des abyssins, et se vante d'estre issu de la race de dauid, comme estant descendu de la royne de saba, royne d'ethiopie, laquelle estant venuë en hierusalem pour voir la sagesse de salomon, enuiron l'an du monde , s'en retourna grosse d'vn fils qu'ils nomment moylech, duquel ils disent estre descendus en ligne directe. et ainsi il se glorifie d'estre le plus ancien monarque de la terre, disant que son empire a duré plus de trois mil ans, ce que nul autre empire ne peut dire. aussi met-il en ses tiltres ce qui s'ensuit: nous, n. souuerain en mes royaumes, vniquement aymé de dieu, colomne de la foy, sorty de la race de inda, etc. les limites de cet empire touchent à la mer rouge, et aux montagnes d'azuma vers { } l'orient, et du costé de l'occident, il est borné du fleuue du nil, qui le separe de la nubie, vers le septentrion il a l'Ægypte, et au midy les royaumes de congo, et de mozambique, sa longueur contenant quarante degré, qui font mille vingt cinq lieuës, et ce depuis congo ou mozambique qui sont au midy, iusqu'en Ægypte qui est au septentrion, et sa largeur contenant depuis le nil qui est à l'occident, iusqu'aux montagnes d'azuma, qui sont à l'orient, sept cens vingt cinq lieues, qui font vingt neuf degrez. cét empire a sous soy trente grandes prouinces, sçavoir, medra, gaga, alchy, cedalon, mantro, finazam, barnaquez, ambiam, fungy, angoté, cigremaon, gorga, cafatez, zastanla, zeth, barly, belangana, tygra, gorgany, barganaza, d'ancut, dargaly, ambiacatina, caracogly, amara, maon (_sic_), guegiera, bally, dobora et macheda. toutes ces prouinces cy dessus sont situées iustement sous la ligne equinoxiale, entres les tropiques de capricorne, et de cancer. mais elles s'approchent de nostre tropique, de deux cens cinquante lieuës plus qu'elles ne font de l'autre tropique. ce mot de prestre jean signifie grand seigneur, et n'est pas prestre comme plusieurs pense, il a esté tousiours chrestien, mais souuent schismatique: maintenant il est catholique, et reconnaist le pape pour souuerain pontife. i'ay veu quelqu'vn des ses euesques, estant en hierusalem, auec lequel i'ay conferé souuent par le moyen de nostre trucheman: il estoit d'vn port graue et serieux, succiur (_sic_) en son parler, mais subtil à merueilles en tout ce qu'il disoit. il prenoit grand plaisir au recit que je luy faisais de nos belles ceremonies, et de la grauité de nos prelats en leurs habits pontificaux, et autres choses que je laisse pour dire, que l'ethiopien est ioyoux et gaillard, ne ressemblant en rien a la saleté du tartare, ny à l'affreux regard du miserable arabe, mais ils sont fins et cauteleux, et ne se fient en personne, soupçonneux à merueilles, et fort devotieux, ils ne sont du tout noirs comme l'on croit, i'entens parler de ceux qui ne sont pas sous la ligne equinoxiale, ny trop proches { } d'icelle, car ceux qui sont dessous sont les mores que nous voyons."[ ] it will be observed that the author speaks of his conversation with an ethiopian bishop, about that bishop's sovereign. something must have passed between the two which satisfied the writer that the bishop acknowledged his own sovereign under some title answering to prester john. { } concerning a tract by fienus. de cometa anni dissertationes thomæ fieni[ ] et liberti fromondi[ ] ... equidem thomæ fieni epistolica quæstio, an verum sit coelum moveri et terram quiescere? london, , vo. this tract of fienus against the motion of the earth is a reprint of one published in .[ ] i have given an account of it as a good summary of arguments of the time, in the _companion to the almanac_ for . { } on snell's work. willebrordi snellii. r. f. cyclometricus. leyden, , to. this is a celebrated work on the approximative quadrature, which, having the suspicious word _cyclometricus_, must be noticed here for distinction.[ ] on bacon's novum organum. . in this year, francis bacon[ ] published his _novum organum_,[ ] which was long held in england--but not until the last century--to be the work which taught newton and all his successors how to philosophize. that newton never mentions bacon, nor alludes in any way to his works, passed for nothing. here and there a paradoxer ventured not to find all this teaching in bacon, but he was pronounced blind. in our day it begins to be seen that, great as bacon was, and great as his book really is, he is not the philosophical father of modern discovery. but old prepossession will find reason for anything. a learned friend of mine wrote to me that he had discovered proof that newton owned bacon for his master: the proof was that newton, in some of his earlier writings, used the { } phrase _experimentum crucis_, which is bacon's. newton may have read some of bacon, though no proof of it appears. i have a dim idea that i once saw the two words attributed to the alchemists: if so, there is another explanation; for newton was deeply read in the alchemists. i subjoin a review which i wrote of the splendid edition of bacon by spedding,[ ] ellis,[ ] and heath.[ ] all the opinions therein expressed had been formed by me long before: most of the materials were collected for another purpose. the works of francis bacon. edited by james spedding, r. leslie ellis, and douglas d. heath. vols.[ ] no knowledge of nature without experiment and observation: so said aristotle, so said bacon, so acted copernicus, tycho brahé,[ ] gilbert, kepler, galileo, harvey, etc., before bacon wrote.[ ] no derived knowledge _until_ experiment and observation are concluded: so said bacon, and no one else. we do not mean to say that he laid down his principle in these words, or that he carried it to the utmost extreme: we mean that bacon's ruling idea was the { } collection of enormous masses of facts, and then digested processes of arrangement and elimination, so artistically contrived, that a man of common intelligence, without any unusual sagacity, should be able to announce the truth sought for. let bacon speak for himself, in his editor's english: "but the course i propose for the discovery of sciences is such as leaves but little to the acuteness and strength of wits, but places all wits and understandings nearly on a level. for, as in the drawing of a straight line or a perfect circle, much depends on the steadiness and practice of the hand, if it be done by aim of hand only, but if with the aid of rule or compass little or nothing, so it is exactly with my plan.... for my way of discovering sciences goes far to level men's wits, and leaves but little to individual excellence; because it performs everything by the surest rules and demonstrations." to show that we do not strain bacon's meaning, we add what is said by hooke,[ ] whom we have already mentioned as his professed disciple, and, we believe, his only disciple of the day of newton. we must, however, remind the reader that hooke was very little of a mathematician, and spoke of algebra from his own idea of what others had told him: "the intellect is not to be suffered to act without its helps, but is continually to be assisted by some method or engine, which shall be as a guide to regulate its actions, so as that it shall not be able to act amiss. of this engine, no man except the incomparable verulam hath had any thoughts and he indeed hath promoted it to a very good pitch; but there is yet somewhat more to be added, which he seemed to want time to complete. by this, as by that { } art of algebra in geometry, 'twill be very easy to proceed in any natural inquiry, regularly and certainly.... for as 'tis very hard for the most acute wit to find out any difficult problem in geometry without the help of algebra ... and altogether as easy for the meanest capacity acting by that method to complete and perfect it, so will it be in the inquiry after natural knowledge." bacon did not live to mature the whole of this plan. are we really to believe that if he had completed the _instauratio_ we who write this--and who feel ourselves growing bigger as we write it--should have been on a level with newton in physical discovery? bacon asks this belief of us, and does not get it. but it may be said, your business is with what he _did_ leave, and with its consequences. be it so. mr. ellis says: "that his method is impracticable cannot, i think, be denied, if we reflect not only that it never has produced any result, but also that the process by which scientific truths have been established cannot be so presented as even to appear to be in accordance with it." that this is very true is well known to all who have studied the history of discovery: those who deny it are bound to establish either that some great discovery has been made by bacon's method--we mean by the part peculiar to bacon--or, better still, to show that some new discovery can be made, by actually making it. no general talk about _induction_: no reliance upon the mere fact that certain experiments or observations have been made; let us see where _bacon's induction_ has been actually used or can be used. mere induction, _enumeratio simplex_, is spoken of by himself with contempt, as utterly incompetent. for bacon knew well that a thousand instances may be contradicted by the thousand and first: so that no enumeration of instances, however large, is "sure demonstration," so long any are left. the immortal harvey, who was _inventing_--we use the word in its old sense--the circulation of the blood, while { } bacon was in the full flow of thought upon his system, may be trusted to say whether, when the system appeared, he found any likeness in it to his own processes, or what would have been any help to him, if he had waited for the _novum organum_. he said of bacon, "he writes philosophy like a lord chancellor." this has been generally supposed to be only a sneer at the _sutor ultra crepidam_; but we cannot help suspecting that there was more intended by it. to us, bacon is eminently the philosopher of _error prevented_, not of _progress facilitated_. when we throw off the idea of being _led right_, and betake ourselves to that of being _kept from going wrong_, we read his writings with a sense of their usefulness, his genius, and their probable effect upon purely experimental science, which we can be conscious of upon no other supposition. it amuses us to have to add that the part of aristotle's logic of which he saw the value was the book on _refutation of fallacies_. now is this not the notion of things to which the bias of a practised lawyer might lead him? in the case which is before the court, generally speaking, truth lurks somewhere about the facts, and the elimination of all error will show it in the residuum. the two senses of the word _law_ come in so as to look almost like a play upon words. the judge can apply the law so soon as the facts are settled: the physical philosopher has to deduce the law from the facts. wait, says the judge, until the facts are determined: did the prisoner take the goods with felonious intent? did the defendant give what amounts to a warranty? or the like. wait, says bacon, until all the facts, or all the obtainable facts, are brought in: apply my rules of separation to the facts, and the result shall come out as easily as by ruler and compasses. we think it possible that harvey might allude to the legal character of bacon's notions: we can hardly conceive so acute a man, after seeing what manner of writer bacon was, meaning only that he was a lawyer and had better stick to his business. we do ourselves believe that bacon's philosophy { } more resembles the action of mind of a common-law judge--not a chancellor--than that of the physical inquirers who have been supposed to follow in his steps. it seems to us that bacon's argument is, there can be nothing of law but what must be either perceptible, or mechanically deducible, when all the results of law, as exhibited in phenomena, are before us. now the truth is, that the physical philosopher has frequently to conceive law which never was in his previous thought--to educe the unknown, not to choose among the known. physical discovery would be very easy work if the inquirer could lay down his this, his that, and his t'other, and say, "now, one of these it must be; let us proceed to try which." often has he done this, and failed; often has the truth turned out to be neither this, that, nor t'other. bacon seems to us to think that the philosopher is a judge who has to choose, upon ascertained facts, which of known statutes is to rule the decision: he appears to us more like a person who is to write the statute-book, with no guide except the cases and decisions presented in all their confusion and all their conflict. let us take the well-known first aphorism of the _novum organum_: "man being the servant and interpreter of nature, can do and understand so much, and so much only, as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything." this aphorism is placed by sir john herschel[ ] at the head of his _discourse on the study of natural philosophy_: a book containing notions of discovery far beyond any of which bacon ever dreamed; and this because it was written { } after discovery, instead of before. sir john herschel, in his version, has avoided the translation of _re vel mente observaverit_, and gives us only "by his observation of the order of nature." in making this the opening of an excellent sermon, he has imitated the theologians, who often employ the whole time of the discourse in stuffing matter into the text, instead of drawing matter out of it. by _observation_ he (herschel) means the whole course of discovery, observation, hypothesis, deduction, comparison, etc. the type of the baconian philosopher as it stood in his mind, had been derived from a noble example, his own father, william herschel,[ ] an inquirer whose processes would have been held by bacon to have been vague, insufficient, compounded of chance work and sagacity, and too meagre of facts to deserve the name of induction. in another work, his treatise on astronomy,[ ] sir john herschel, after noting that a popular account can only place the reader on the threshold, proceeds to speak as follows of all the higher departments of science. the italics are his own: "admission to its sanctuary, and to the privileges and feelings of a votary, is only to be gained by one means--_sound and sufficient knowledge of mathematics, the great instrument of all exact inquiry, without which no man can ever make such advances in this or any other of the higher departments of science as can entitle him to form an independent opinion on any subject of discussion within their range_." how is this? man can know no more than he gets from observation, and yet mathematics is the great instrument of all exact inquiry. are the results of mathematical deduction results of observation? we think it likely that { } sir john herschel would reply that bacon, in coupling together _observare re_ and _observare mente_, has done what some wags said newton afterwards did in his study-door--cut a large hole of exit for the large cat, and a little hole for the little cat.[ ] but bacon did no such thing: he never included any deduction under observation. to mathematics he had a dislike. he averred that logic and mathematics should be the handmaids, not the mistresses, of philosophy. he meant that they should play a subordinate and subsequent part in the dressing of the vast mass of facts by which discovery was to be rendered equally accessible to newton and to us. bacon himself was very ignorant of all that had been done by mathematics; and, strange to say, he especially objected to astronomy being handed over to the mathematicians. leverrier and adams, calculating an unknown planet into visible existence by enormous heaps of algebra, furnish the last comment of note on this specimen of the goodness of bacon's views. the following account of his knowledge of what had been done in his own day or before it, is mr. spedding's collection of casual remarks in mr. ellis's several prefaces: "though he paid great attention to astronomy, discussed carefully the methods in which it ought to be studied, constructed for the satisfaction of his own mind an elaborate theory of the heavens, and listened eagerly for the news from the stars brought by galileo's telescope, he appears to have been utterly ignorant of the discoveries which had just been made by kepler's calculations. though he complained in of the want of compendious methods for facilitating arithmetical computations, especially with regard to the doctrine of series, and fully recognized the importance of them as an aid to physical inquiries--he does not say a word about napier's logarithms, which had been published only nine years before and reprinted more than once in the { } interval. he complained that no considerable advance had made in geometry beyond euclid, without taking any notice of what had been done by archimedes and apollonius. he saw the importance of determining accurately the specific gravity of different substances, and himself attempted to form a table of them by a rude process of his own, without knowing of the more scientific though still imperfect methods previously employed by archimedes, ghetaldus,[ ] and porta. he speaks of the [greek: heurêka] of archimedes in a manner which implies that he did not clearly apprehend either the nature of the problem to be solved or the principles upon which the solution depended. in reviewing the progress of mechanics, he makes no mention of archimedes himself, or of stevinus,[ ] galileo, guldinus,[ ] or ghetaldus. he makes no allusion to the theory of equilibrium. he observes that a ball of one pound weight will fall nearly as fast through the air as a ball of two, without alluding to the theory of the acceleration of falling bodies, which had been made known by galileo more than thirty years before. he proposes an inquiry with regard to the lever--namely, whether in a balance with arms of different length but equal weight the distance from the fulcrum has any effect upon the inclination,--though the theory of the lever was as well understood in his own time as it is now. in making an experiment { } of his own to ascertain the cause of the motion of a windmill, he overlooks an obvious circumstance which makes the experiment inconclusive, and an equally obvious variation of the same experiment which would have shown him that his theory was false. he speaks of the poles of the earth as fixed, in a manner which seems to imply that he was not acquainted with the precession of the equinoxes; and in another place, of the north pole being above and the south pole below, as a reason why in our hemisphere the north winds predominate over the south." much of this was known before, but such a summary of bacon's want of knowledge of the science of his own time was never yet collected in one place. we may add, that bacon seems to have been as ignorant of wright's[ ] memorable addition to the resources of navigation as of napier's addition to the means of calculation. mathematics was beginning to be the great instrument of exact inquiry: bacon threw the science aside, from ignorance, just at the time when his enormous sagacity, applied to knowledge, would have made him see the part it was to play. if newton had taken bacon for his master, not he, but somebody else, would have been newton.[ ] on meteorological observatories. there is an attempt at induction going on, which has yielded little or no fruit, the observations made in the meteorological observatories. this attempt is carried on in a manner which would have caused bacon to dance for joy; for he lived in times when chancellors did dance. { } russia, says m. biot,[ ] is covered by an army of meteorographs, with generals, high officers, subalterns, and privates with fixed and defined duties of observation. other countries have also their systematic observations. and what has come of it? nothing, says m. biot, and nothing will ever come of it; the veteran mathematician and experimental philosopher declares, as does mr. ellis, that no single branch of science has ever been fruitfully explored in this way. there is no _special object_, he says. any one would suppose that m. biot's opinion, given to the french government upon the proposal to construct meteorological observatories in algeria (_comptes rendus_, vol. xli, dec. , ), was written to support the mythical bacon, modern physics, against the real bacon of the _novum organum_. there is no _special object_. in these words lies the difference between the two methods. [in the report to the greenwich board of visitors for mr. airy,[ ] speaking of the increase of meteorological observatories, remarks, "whether the effect of this movement will be that millions of useless observations will be added to the millions that already exist, or whether something may be expected to result which will lead to a meteorological theory, i cannot hazard a conjecture." this _is_ a conjecture, and a very obvious one: if mr. airy would have given - / d. for the chance of a meteorological theory formed by masses of observations, he would never have said what i have quoted.] basis of modern discovery. modern discoveries have not been made by large collections of facts, with subsequent discussion, separation, and { } resulting deduction of a truth thus rendered perceptible. a few facts have suggested an _hypothesis_, which means a _supposition_, proper to explain them. the necessary results of this supposition are worked out, and then, and not till then, other facts are examined to see if these ulterior results are found in nature. the trial of the hypothesis is the _special object_: prior to which, hypothesis must have been started, not by rule, but by that sagacity of which no description can be given, precisely because the very owners of it do not act under laws perceptible to themselves.[ ] the inventor of hypothesis, if pressed to explain his method, must answer as did zerah colburn,[ ] when asked for his mode of instantaneous calculation. when the poor boy had been bothered for some time in this manner, he cried out in a huff, "god put it into my head, and i can't put it into yours."[ ] { } wrong hypotheses, rightly worked from, have produced more useful results than unguided observation. but this is not the baconian plan. charles the second, when informed of the state of navigation, founded a baconian observatory at greenwich, to observe, observe, observe away at the moon, until her motions were known sufficiently well to render her useful in guiding the seaman. and no doubt flamsteed's[ ] observations, twenty or thirty of them at least, were of signal use. but how? a somewhat fanciful thinker, one kepler, had hit upon the approximate orbits of the planets by trying one hypothesis after another: he found the _ellipse_, which the platonists, well despised of bacon, and who would have despised him as heartily if they had known him, had investigated and put ready to hand nearly years before.[ ] the sun in the focus, the motions of the planet more and more rapid as they approach the sun, led kepler--and bacon would have reproved him for his rashness--to imagine that a force residing in the sun might move the planets, a force inversely as the distance. bouillaud,[ ] upon a fanciful analogy, rejected the inverse distance, { } and, rejecting the force altogether, declared that if such a thing there were, it would be as the inverse _square_ of the distance. newton, ready prepared with the mathematics of the subject, tried the fall of the moon towards the earth, away from her tangent, and found that, as compared with the fall of a stone, the law of the inverse square did hold for the moon. he deduced the ellipse, he proceeded to deduce the effect of the disturbance of the sun upon the moon, upon the assumed theory of _universal_ gravitation. he found result after result of his theory in conformity with observed fact: and, by aid of flamsteed's observations, which amended what mathematicians call his _constants_, he constructed his lunar theory. had it not been for newton, the whole dynasty of greenwich astronomers, from flamsteed of happy memory, to airy whom heaven preserve,[ ] might have worked away at nightly observation and daily reduction, without any remarkable result: looking forward, as to a millennium, to the time when any man of moderate intelligence was to see the whole explanation. what are large collections of facts for? to make theories _from_, says bacon: to try ready-made theories _by_, says the history of discovery: it's all the same, says the idolater: nonsense, say we! time and space run short: how odd it is that of the three leading ideas of mechanics, time, space, and matter, the first two should always fail a reviewer before the third. we might dwell upon many points, especially if we attempted a more descriptive account of the valuable edition before us. no one need imagine that the editors, by their uncompromising attack upon the notion of bacon's influence common even among mathematicians and experimental philosophers, have lowered the glory of the great man whom it was, many will think, their business to defend through thick and thin. they have given a clearer notion of his { } excellencies, and a better idea of the power of his mind, than ever we saw given before. such a correction as theirs must have come, and soon, for as hallam says--after noting that the _novum organum_ was _never published separately in england_, bacon has probably been more read in the last thirty years--now forty--than in the two hundred years which preceded. he will now be more read than ever he was. the history of the intellectual world is the history of the worship of one idol after another. no sooner is it clear that a hercules has appeared among men, than all that imagination can conceive of strength is attributed to him, and his labors are recorded in the heavens. the time arrives when, as in the case of aristotle, a new deity is found, and the old one is consigned to shame and reproach. a reaction may afterwards take place, and this is now happening in the case of the greek philosopher. the end of the process is, that the opposing deities take their places, side by side, in a pantheon dedicated not to gods, but to heroes. the real value of bacon's works. passing over the success of bacon's own endeavors to improve the details of physical science, which was next to nothing, and of his method as a whole, which has never been practised, we might say much of the good influence of his writings. sound wisdom, set in sparkling wit, must instruct and amuse to the end of time: and, as against error, we repeat that bacon is soundly wise, so far as he goes. there is hardly a form of human error within his scope which he did not detect, expose, and attach to a satirical metaphor which never ceases to sting. he is largely indebted to a very extensive reading; but the thoughts of others fall into his text with such a close-fitting compactness that he can make even the words of the sacred writers pass for his own. a saying of the prophet daniel, rather a hackneyed quotation in our day, _multi pertransibunt, et augebitur scientia_, stands in the title-page of the first edition { } of montucla's _history of mathematics_ as a quotation from bacon--and it is not the only place in which this mistake occurs. when the truth of the matter, as to bacon's system, is fully recognized, we have little fear that there will be a reaction against the man. first, because bacon will always live to speak for himself, for he will not cease to be read: secondly, because those who seek the truth will find it in the best edition of his works, and will be most ably led to know what bacon was, in the very books which first showed at large what he _was not_. the congregation of the index, on copernicus. in this year ( ) appeared the corrections under which the congregation of the index--i.e., the committee of cardinals which superintended the _index_ of forbidden books--proposed to allow the work of copernicus to be read. i insert these conditions in full, because they are often alluded to, and i know of no source of reference accessible to a twentieth part of those who take interest in the question. by a decree of the congregation of the index, dated march , , the work of copernicus, and another of didacus astunica,[ ] are suspended _donec corrigantur_, as teaching: "falsam illam doctrinam pythagoricam, divinæ que scripturæ omnino adversantem, de mobilitate terræ et immobilitate solis."[ ] but a work of the carmelite foscarini[ ] is: { } "omnino prohibendum atque damnandum," because "ostendere conatur præfatam doctrinam ... consonam esse veritati et non adversari sacræ scripturæ."[ ] works which teach the false doctrine of the earth's motion are to be corrected; those which declare the doctrine conformable to scripture are to be utterly prohibited. in a "monitum ad nicolai copernici lectorem, ejusque emendatio, permissio, et correctio," dated without the month or day, permission is given to reprint the work of copernicus with certain alterations; and, by implication, to read existing copies after correction in writing. in the preamble the author is called _nobilis astrologus_; not a compliment to his birth, which was humble, but to his fame. the suspension was because: "sacræ scripturæ, ejusque veræ et catholicæ interpretationi repugnantia (quod in homine christiano minime tolerandum) non _per hypothesin_ tractare, sed _ut verissima_ adstruere non dubitat!"[ ] and the corrections relate: "locis in quibus non _ex hypothesi_, sed _asserendo_ de situ et motu terræ disputat."[ ] that is, the earth's motion may be an hypothesis for elucidation of the heavenly motions, but must not be asserted as a fact. (in pref. circa finem.) "_copernicus._ si fortasse erunt [greek: mataiologoi], qui cum omnium mathematum ignari sint, tamen de illis judicium sibi summunt, propter aliquem locum scripturæ, male ad suum propositum detortum, ausi fuerint meum { } hoc institutum reprehendere ac insectari: illos nihil moror adeo ut etiam illorum judicium tanquam temerarium contemnam. non enim obscurum est lactantium, celebrem alioqui scriptorem, sed mathematicum parum, admodum pueriliter de forma terræ loqui, cum deridet eos, qui terram globi formam habere prodiderunt. itaque non debet mirum videri studiosis, si qui tales nos etiam videbunt. mathemata mathematicis scribuntur, quibus et hi nostri labores, si me non fallit opinio, videbuntur etiam reipub. ecclesiasticæ conducere aliquid.... _emend._ ibi _si fortasse_ dele omnia, usque ad verbum _hi nostri labores_ et sic accommoda--_coeterum hi nostri labores_."[ ] all the allusion to lactantius, who laughed at the notion of the earth being round, which was afterwards found true, is to be struck out. (cap. . lib. i. p. ) "_copernicus._ si tamen attentius rem consideremus, videbitur hæc quæstio nondum absoluta, et ideireo minime contemnenda. _emend._ si tamen attentius rem consideremus, nihil refert an terram in medio mundi, an extra medium existere, quoad solvendas coelestium motuum apparentias existimemus."[ ] { } we must not say the question is not yet settled, but only that it may be settled either way, so far as mere explanation of the celestial motions is concerned. (cap. . lib. i.) "totum hoc caput potest expungi, quia ex professo tractat de veritate motus terræ, dum solvit veterum rationes probantes ejus quietem. cum tamen problematice videatur loqui; ut studiosis satisfiat, seriesque et ordo libri integer maneat; emendetur ut infra."[ ] a chapter which seems to assert the motion should perhaps be expunged; but it may perhaps be problematical; and, not to break up the book, must be amended as below. (p. .) "_copernicus._ cur ergo hesitamus adhuc, mobilitatem illi formæ suæ a natura congruentem concedere, magisquam quod totus labatur mundus, cujus finis ignoratur, scirique nequit, neque fateamur ipsius cotidianæ revolutionis in coelo apparentiam esse, et in terra veritatem? et hæc perinde se habere, ac si diceret virgilianus Æneas: provehimur portu ... _emend._ cur ergo non possum mobilitatem illi formæ suæ concedere, magisque quod totus labatur mundus, cujus finis ignoratur scirique nequit, et quæ apparent in coelo, perinde se habere ac si ..."[ ] { } "why should we hesitate to allow the earth's motion," must be altered into "i cannot concede the earth's motion." (p. .) "_copernicus._ addo etiam, quod satis absurdum videretur, continenti sive locanti motum adscribi, et non potius contento et locato, quod est terra. _emend._ addo etiam difficilius non esse contento et locato, quod est terra, motum adscribere, quam continenti."[ ] we must not say it is absurd to refuse motion to the _contained_ and _located_, and to give it to the containing and locating; say that neither is more difficult than the other. (p. .) "_copernicus._ vides ergo quod ex his omnibus probabilior sit mobilitas terræ, quam ejus quies, præsertim in cotidiana revolutione, tanquam terræ maxime propria. _emend._ _vides_ ... delendus est usque ad finem capitis."[ ] strike out the whole of the chapter from this to the end; it says that the motion of the earth is the most probable hypothesis. (cap. . lib. i. p. .) "_copernicus._ cum igitur nihil prohibeat mobilitatem terræ, videndum nunc arbitror, an etiam plures illi motus conveniant, ut possit una errantium syderum existimari. _emend._ cum igitur terram moveri assumpserim, videndum nunc arbitror, an etiam illi plures possint convenire motus."[ ] { } we must not say that nothing prohibits the motion of the earth, only that having _assumed_ it, we may inquire whether our explanations require several motions. (cap. . lib. i. p. .) "_copernicus._ non pudet nos fateri ... hoc potius in mobilitate terræ verificari. _emend._ non pudet nos assumere ... hoc consequenter in mobilitate verificari."[ ] (cap. . lib. i. p. .) "_copernicus._ tanta nimirum est divina hæc. opt. max. fabrica. _emend._ dele illa verba postrema."[ ] (cap. ii. lib. i.[ ]) "_copernicus._ de triplici motu telluris demonstratio. _emend._ de hypothesi triplicis motus terræ, ejusque demonstratione."[ ] (cap. . lib. iv. p. .[ ]) "_copernicus._ de magnitudine horum trium siderum, solis, lunæ, et terræ. _emend._ dele verba _horum trium siderum_, quia terra non est sidus, ut facit eam copernicus."[ ] we must not say we are not ashamed to _acknowledge_; _assume_ is the word. we must not call this assumption a _divine work_. a chapter must not be headed _demonstration_, but _hypothesis_. the earth must not be called a _star_; the word implies motion. it will be seen that it does not take much to reduce copernicus to pure hypothesis. no personal injury being done to the author--who indeed had been years out of { } reach--the treatment of his book is now an excellent joke. it is obvious that the cardinals of the index were a little ashamed of their position, and made a mere excuse of a few corrections. their mode of dealing with chap. , this _problematice videtur loqui, ut studiosis satisfiat_,[ ] is an excuse to avoid corrections. but they struck out the stinging allusion to lactantius[ ] in the preface, little thinking, honest men, for they really believed what they said--that the light of lactantius would grow dark before the brightness of their own. the convocation at oxford equally at fault. . i make no reference to the case of galileo, except this. i have pointed out (_penny cycl. suppl._ "galileo"; _engl. cycl._ "motion of the earth") that it is clear the absurdity was the act of the _italian_ inquisition--for the private and personal pleasure of the pope, who _knew_ that the course he took would not commit him as _pope_--and not of the body which calls itself the _church_. let the dirty proceeding have its right name. the jesuit riccioli,[ ] the stoutest and most learned anti-copernican in europe, and the puritan wilkins, a strong copernican and pope-hater, are equally positive that the roman _church_ never pronounced any decision: and this in the time immediately following the ridiculous proceeding of the inquisition. in like manner a decision of the convocation of oxford is not a law of the _english_ church; which is fortunate, for that convocation, in , came to a decision quite as absurd, and a great deal { } more wicked than the declaration against the motion of the earth. the second was a foolish mistake; the first was a disgusting surrender of right feeling. the story is told without disapprobation by anthony wood, who never exaggerated anything against the university of which he is writing eulogistic history. in , one william knight[ ] put forward in a sermon preached before the university certain theses which, looking at the state of the times, may have been improper and possibly of seditious intent. one of them was that the bishop might excommunicate the civil magistrate: this proposition the clerical body could not approve, and designated it by the term _erronea_,[ ] the mildest going. but knight also declared as follows: "subditis mere privatis, si tyrannus tanquam latro aut stuprator in ipsos faciat impetum, et ipsi nec potestatem ordinariam implorare, nec alia ratione effugere periculum possint, in presenti periculo se et suos contra tyrannum, sicut contra privatum grassatorem, defendere licet."[ ] that is, a man may defend his purse or a woman her honor, against the personal attack of a king, as against that of a private person, if no other means of safety can be found. the convocation sent knight to prison, declared the proposition _"falsa_, periculosa, et _impia_," and enacted that all applicants for degrees should subscribe this censure, and make oath that they would neither hold, teach, nor defend knight's opinions. the thesis, in the form given, was unnecessary and improper. though strong opinions of the king's rights were advanced at the time, yet no one ventured to say that, { } ministers and advisers apart, the king might _personally_ break the law; and we know that the first and only attempt which his successor made brought on the crisis which cost him his throne and his head. but the declaration that the proposition was _false_ far exceeds in all that is disreputable the decision of the inquisition against the earth's motion. we do not mention this little matter in england. knight was a puritan, and neal[ ] gives a short account of his sermon. from comparison with wood,[ ] i judge that the theses, as given, were not knight's words, but the digest which it was customary to make in criminal proceedings against opinion. this heightens the joke, for it appears that the qualifiers of the convocation took pains to present their condemnation of knight in the terms which would most unequivocally make their censure condemn themselves. this proceeding took place in the interval between the two proceedings against galileo: it is left undetermined whether we must say pot-kettle-pot or kettle-pot-kettle. liberti fromondi.... ant-aristarchus, sive orbis terræ immobilis. antwerp, , vo.[ ] this book contains the evidence of an ardent opponent of galileo to the fact, that roman catholics of the day did not consider the decree of the _index_ or of the _inquisition_ as a declaration of their _church_. fromond would have been glad to say as much, and tries to come near it, but confesses he must abstain. see _penny cyclop. suppl._ "galileo," and _eng. cycl._ "motion of the earth." the author of a celebrated article in the _dublin review_, in defence of the { } church of rome, seeing that drinkwater bethune[ ] makes use of the authority of fromondus, but for another purpose, sneers at him for bringing up a "musty old professor." if he had known fromondus, and used him he would have helped his own case, which is very meagre for want of knowledge.[ ] advis à monseigneur l'eminentissime cardinal duc de richelieu, sur la proposition faicte par le sieur morin pour l'invention des longitudes. paris, , vo.[ ] this is the official report of the commissioners appointed by the cardinal, of whom pascal is the one now best known, to consider morin's plan. see the full account in delambre, _hist. astr. mod._ ii. , etc. the metius approximation. arithmetica et geometria practica. by adrian metius. leyden, , to.[ ] this book contains the celebrated approximation _guessed at_ by his father, peter metius,[ ] namely that the diameter is { } to the circumference as to . the error is at the rate of about a foot in , miles. peter metius, having his attention called to the subject by the false quadrature of duchesne, found that the ratio lay between / and / . he then took the liberty of taking the mean of both numerators and denominators, giving / . he had no right to presume that this mean was better than either of the extremes; nor does it appear positively that he did so. he published nothing; but his son adrian,[ ] when van ceulen's work showed how near his father's result came to the truth, first made it known in the work above. (see _eng. cyclop._, art. "quadrature.") on inhabitable planets. a discourse concerning a new world and another planet, in two books. london, , vo.[ ] cosmotheoros: or conjectures concerning the planetary worlds and their inhabitants. written in latin, by christianus huyghens. this translation was first published in . glasgow, , vo. [the original is also of .][ ] the first work is by bishop wilkins, being the third edition, [first in ] of the first book, "that the moon may be a planet"; and the first edition of the second work, { } "that the earth may be a planet." [see more under the reprint of .] whether other planets be inhabited or not, that is, crowded with organisations some of them having consciousness, is not for me to decide; but i should be much surprised if, on going to one of them, i should find it otherwise. the whole dispute tacitly assumes that, if the stars and planets be inhabited, it must be by things of which we can form some idea. but for aught we know, what number of such bodies there are, so many organisms may there be, of which we have no way of thinking nor of speaking. this is seldom remembered. in like manner it is usually forgotten that the _matter_ of other planets may be of different chemistry from ours. there may be no oxygen and hydrogen in jupiter, which may have _gens_ of its own.[ ] but this must not be said: it would limit the omniscience of the _a priori_ school of physical inquirers, the larger half of the whole, and would be very _unphilosophical_. nine-tenths of my best paradoxers come out from among this larger half, because they are just a little more than of it at their entrance. there was a discussion on the subject some years ago, which began with the plurality of worlds: an essay. london, , vo. [by dr. wm. whewell, master of trinity college, cambridge]. a dialogue on the plurality of worlds, being a supplement to the essay on that subject. [first found in the second edition, ; removed to the end in subsequent editions, and separate copies issued.][ ] a work of skeptical character, insisting on analogies which prohibit the positive conclusion that the planets, stars, etc., are what we should call _inhabited_ worlds. it produced { } several works and a large amount of controversy in reviews. the last predecessor of whom i know was plurality of worlds.... by alexander maxwell. second edition. london, , vo. this work is directed against the plurality by an author who does not admit modern astronomy. it was occasioned by dr. chalmers's[ ] celebrated discourses on religion in connection with astronomy. the notes contain many citations on the gravity controversy, from authors now very little read: and this is its present value. i find no mention of maxwell, not even in watt.[ ] he communicated with mankind without the medium of a publisher; and, from vieta till now, this method has always been favorable to loss of books. a correspondent informs me that alex. maxwell, who wrote on the plurality of worlds, in , was a law-bookseller and publisher (probably his own publisher) in bell yard. he had peculiar notions, which he was fond of discussing with his customers. he was a bit of a swedenborgian. inhabited planets in fiction. there is a class of hypothetical creations which do not belong to my subject, because they are _acknowledged_ to be fictions, as those of lucian,[ ] rabelais,[ ] swift, francis { } godwin,[ ] voltaire, etc. all who have more positive notions as to either the composition or organization of other worlds, than the reasonable conclusion that our architect must be quite able to construct millions of other buildings on millions of other plans, ought to rank with the writers just mentioned, in all but self-knowledge. of every one of their systems i say, as the irish bishop said of gulliver's book,--i don't believe half of it. huyghens had been preceded by fontenelle,[ ] who attracted more attention. huyghens is very fanciful and very positive; but he gives a true account of his method. "but since there's no hopes of a mercury to carry us such a journey, we shall e'en be contented with what's in our power: we shall suppose ourselves there...." and yet he says, "we have proved that they live in societies, have hands and feet...." kircher[ ] had gone to the stars before him, but would not find any life in them, either animal or vegetable. the question of the inhabitants of a particular planet is one which has truth on one side or the other: either there are some inhabitants, or there are none. fortunately, it is of no consequence which is true. but there are many cases where the balance is equally one of truth and falsehood, in which the choice is a matter of importance. my work selects, for the most part, sins against demonstration: but the world is full of questions of fact or opinion, in which a struggling minority will become a majority, or else will { } be gradually annihilated: and each of the cases subdivides into results of good, and results of evil. what is to be done? "periculosum est credere et non credere; hippolitus obiit quia novercæ creditum est; cassandræ quia non creditum ruit ilium: ergo exploranda est veritas multum prius quam stulta prove judicet sententia."[ ] nova demonstratio immobilitatis terræ petita ex virtute magnetica. by jacobus grandamicus. flexiae (la flèche), , to.[ ] no magnetic body can move about its poles: the earth is a magnetic body, therefore, etc. the iron and its magnetism are typical of two natures in one person; so it is said, "si exaltatus fuero à terra, omnia traham ad me ipsum."[ ] a venetian budget of paradoxes. le glorie degli incogniti, o vero gli huomini illustri dell' accademia de' signori incogniti di venetia. venice, , to. this work is somewhat like a part of my own: it is a budget of venetian nobodies who wished to be somebodies; but paradox is not the only means employed. it is of a serio-comic character, gives genuine portraits in copperplate, and grave lists of works; but satirical accounts. the astrologer andrew argoli[ ] is there, and his son; both of whom, with some of the others, have place in modern works { } on biography. argoli's discovery that logarithms facilitate easy processes, but increase the labor of difficult ones, is worth recording. controversiæ de vera circuli mensura ... inter ... c. s. longomontanum et jo. pellium.[ ] amsterdam, , to. longomontanus,[ ] a danish astronomer of merit, squared the circle in : he found out that the diameter gives the square root of for the circumference; which gives . ... for the ratio. pell answered him, and being a kind of circulating medium, managed to engage in the controversy names known and unknown, as roberval, hobbes, carcavi, lord charles cavendish, pallieur, mersenne, tassius, baron wolzogen, descartes, cavalieri and golius.[ ] among them, of course, longomontanus was made { } mincemeat: but he is said to have insisted on the discovery of his epitaph.[ ] { } the circulating media of mathematics. the great circulating mediums, who wrote to everybody, heard from everybody, and sent extracts to everybody else, have been father mersenne, john collins, and the late professor schumacher: all "late" no doubt, but only the last recent enough to be so styled. if m.c.s. should ever again stand for "member of the corresponding society," it should raise an acrostic thought of the three. there is an allusion to mersenne's occupation in hobbes's reply to him. he wanted to give hobbes, who was very ill at paris, the roman eucharist: but hobbes said, "i have settled all that long ago; when did you hear from gassendi?" we are reminded of william's answer to burnet. john collins disseminated newton, among others. schumacher ought to have been called the postmaster-general of astronomy, as collins was called the attorney-general of mathematics.[ ] { } the sympathetic powder. a late discourse ... by sir kenelme digby.... rendered into english by r. white. london, , mo. on this work see _notes and queries_, d series, vii. , , , viii. . it contains the celebrated sympathetic powder. i am still in much doubt as to the connection of digby with this tract.[ ] without entering on the subject here, i observe that in birch's _history of the royal society_,[ ] to which both digby and white belonged, digby, though he brought many things before the society, never mentioned the powder, which is connected only with the names of evelyn[ ] and sir gilbert talbot.[ ] the sympathetic powder was that which cured by anointing the weapon with its salve instead of the wound. i have long been convinced that it was efficacious. the directions were to keep the { } wound clean and cool, and to take care of diet, rubbing the salve on the knife or sword.[ ] if we remember the dreadful notions upon drugs which prevailed, both as to quantity and quality, we shall readily see that any way of _not_ dressing the wound would have been useful. if the physicians had taken the hint, had been careful of diet etc., and had poured the little barrels of medicine down the throat of a practicable doll, _they_ would have had their magical cures as well as the surgeons.[ ] matters are much improved now; the quantity of medicine given, even by orthodox physicians, would have been called infinitesimal by their professional ancestors. accordingly, the college of physicians has a right to abandon its motto, which is _ars longa, vita brevis_, meaning _practice is long, so life is short_. hobbes as a mathematician. examinatio et emendatio mathematicæ hodiernæ. by thomas hobbes. london, , to. in six dialogues: the sixth contains a quadrature of the circle.[ ] but there is another edition of this work, without place or date on the title-page, in which the quadrature is omitted. this seems to be connected with the publication { } of another quadrature, without date, but about , as may be judged from its professing to answer a tract of wallis, printed in .[ ] the title is "quadratura circuli, cubatio sphæræ, duplicatio cubi," to.[ ] hobbes, who began in , was very wrong in his quadrature; but, though not a gregory st. vincent,[ ] he was not the ignoramus in geometry that he is sometimes supposed. his writings, erroneous as they are in many things, contain acute remarks on points of principle. he is wronged by being coupled with joseph scaliger, as the two great instances of men of letters who have come into geometry to help the mathematicians out of their difficulty. i have never seen scaliger's quadrature,[ ] except in the answers of adrianus romanus,[ ] vieta and clavius, and in the extracts of kastner.[ ] scaliger had no right to such strong opponents: erasmus or bentley might just as well have tried the problem, and either would have done much better in any twenty minutes of his life.[ ] an estimate of scaliger. scaliger inspired some mathematicians with great respect for his geometrical knowledge. vieta, the first man of his time, who answered him, had such regard for his opponent { } as made him conceal scaliger's name. not that he is very respectful in his manner of proceeding: the following dry quiz on his opponent's logic must have been very cutting, being true. "in grammaticis, dare navibus austros, et dare naves austris, sunt æque significantia. sed in geometricis, aliud est adsumpsisse circulum bcd non esse majorem triginta sex segmentis bcdf, aliud circulo bcd non esse majora triginta sex segmenta bcdf. illa adsumptiuncula vera est, hæc falsa."[ ] isaac casaubon,[ ] in one of his letters to de thou,[ ] relates that, he and another paying a visit to vieta, the conversation fell upon scaliger, of whom the host said that he believed scaliger was the only man who perfectly understood mathematical writers, especially the greek ones: and that he thought more of scaliger when wrong than of many others when right; "pluris se scaligerum vel errantem facere quam multos [greek: katorthountas]."[ ] this must have been before scaliger's quadrature ( ). there is an old story of some one saying, "mallem cum scaligero errare, quam cum clavio recte sapere."[ ] this i cannot help suspecting to have been a version of vieta's speech with clavius satirically inserted, on account of the great hostility which vieta showed towards clavius in the latter years of his life. montucla could not have read with care either scaliger's quadrature or clavius's refutation. he gives the first a wrong date: he assures the world that there is no question about scaliger's quadrature being wrong, in the eyes of geometers at least: and he states that clavius mortified him { } extremely by showing that it made the circle less than its inscribed dodecagon, which is, of course, equivalent to asserting that a straight line is not always the shortest distance between two points. did _clavius_ show this? no, it was scaliger himself who showed it, boasted of it, and declared it to be a "noble paradox" that a theorem false in geometry is true in arithmetic; a thing, he says with great triumph, not noticed by archimedes himself! he says in so many words that the periphery of the dodecagon is greater than that of the circle; and that the more sides there are to the inscribed figure, the more does it exceed the circle in which it is. and here _are_ the words, on the independent testimonies of clavius and kastner: "ambitus dodecagoni circulo inscribendi plus potest quam circuli ambitus. et quanto deinceps plurium laterum fuerit polygonum circulo inscribendum, tanto plus poterit ambitus polygoni quam ambitus circuli."[ ] there is much resemblance between joseph scaliger and william hamilton,[ ] in a certain impetuousity of character, and inaptitude to think of quantity. scaliger maintained that the arc of a circle is less than its chord in arithmetic, though greater in geometry; hamilton arrived at two quantities which are identical, but the greater the one the less the other. but, on the whole, i liken hamilton rather to julius than to joseph. on this last hero of literature i repeat thomas edwards,[ ] who says that a man is unlearned who, be his other knowledge what it may, does not { } understand the subject he writes about. and now one of many instances in which literature gives to literature character in science. anthony teissier,[ ] the learned annotator of de thou's biographies, says of finæus, "il se vanta sans raison avoir trouvé la quadrature du cercle; la gloire de cette admirable découverte était réservée à joseph scalinger, comme l'a écrit scévole de st. marthe."[ ] john graunt as a paradoxer. natural and political observations ... upon the bills of mortality. by john graunt, citizen of london. london, , to.[ ] this is a celebrated book, the first great work upon mortality. but the author, going _ultra crepidam_, has attributed to the motion of the moon in her orbit all the tremors which she gets from a shaky telescope.[ ] but there is another paradox about this book: the above absurd opinion is attributed to that excellent mechanist, sir william petty, who passed his days among the astronomers. graunt did not write his own book! anthony wood[ ] hints that petty "assisted, or put into a way" his old benefactor: no doubt the two friends talked the matter over many a time. burnet and pepys[ ] state that petty wrote the book. it is enough for me that { } graunt, whose honesty was never impeached, uses the plainest incidental professions of authorship throughout; that he was elected into the royal society because he was the author; that petty refers to him as author in scores of places, and published an edition, as editor, after graunt's death, with graunt's name of course. the note on graunt in the _biographia britannica_ may be consulted; it seems to me decisive. mr. c. b. hodge, an able actuary, has done the best that can be done on the other side in the _assurance magazine_, viii. . if i may say what is in my mind, without imputation of disrespect, i suspect some actuaries have a bias: they would rather have petty the greater for their coryphæus than graunt the less.[ ] pepys is an ordinary gossip: but burnet's account has an animus which is of a worse kind. he talks of "one graunt, a papist, under whose name sir william petty[ ] published his observations on the bills of mortality." he then gives the cock without a bull story of graunt being a trustee of the new river company, and shutting up the cocks and carrying off their keys, just before the fire of london, by which a supply of water was delayed.[ ] it was one of the first objections made to burnet's work, that graunt was _not_ a trustee at the time; and maitland, the historian of london, ascertained from the books of the company that he was not admitted until twenty-three days after the breaking out of the fire. graunt's first admission { } to the company took place on the very day on which a committee was appointed to inquire into the cause of the fire. so much for burnet. i incline to the view that graunt's setting london on fire strongly corroborates his having written on the bills of mortality: every practical man takes stock before he commences a grand operation in business. mankind a gullible lot. de cometis: or a discourse of the natures and effects of comets, as they are philosophically, historically, and astrologically considered. with a brief (yet full) account of the iii late comets, or blazing stars, visible to all europe. and what (in a natural way of judicature) they portend. together with some observations on the nativity of the grand seignior. by john gadbury, [greek: philomathêmatikos]. london, , to. gadbury, though his name descends only in astrology, was a well-informed astronomer.[ ] d'israeli[ ] sets down gadbury, lilly, wharton, booker, etc., as rank rogues: i think him quite wrong. the easy belief in roguery and intentional imposture which prevails in educated society is, to my mind, a greater presumption against the honesty of mankind than all the roguery and imposture itself. putting aside mere swindling for the sake of gain, and looking at speculation and paradox, i find very little reason to suspect wilful deceit.[ ] my opinion of mankind is founded upon the { } mournful fact that, so far as i can see, they find within themselves the means of believing in a thousand times as much as there is to believe in, judging by experience. i do not say anything against isaac d'israeli for talking his time. we are all in the team, and we all go the road, but we do not all draw. a forerunner of a written esperanto. an essay towards a real character and a philosophical language. by john wilkins [dean of ripon, afterwards bishop of chester].[ ] london, , folio. this work is celebrated, but little known. its object gives it a right to a place among paradoxes. it proposes a language--if that be the proper name--in which _things_ and their relations shall be denoted by signs, not _words_: so that any person, whatever may be his mother tongue, may read it in his own words. this is an obvious possibility, and, i am afraid, an obvious impracticability. one man may construct such a system--bishop wilkins has done it--but where is the man who will learn it? the second tongue makes a language, as the second blow makes a fray. there has been very little curiosity about his performance, the work is scarce; and i do not know where to refer the reader for any account of its details, except, to the partial reprint of wilkins presently mentioned under , in which there is an unsatisfactory abstract. there is nothing in the _biographia britannica_, except discussion of anthony wood's statement that the hint was derived from dalgarno's book, { } _de signis_, .[ ] hamilton (_discussions_, art. , "dalgarno") does not say a word on this point, beyond quoting wood; and hamilton, though he did now and then write about his countrymen with a rough-nibbed pen, knew perfectly well how to protect their priorities. gregoire de st. vincent. problema austriacum. plus ultra quadratura circuli. auctore p. gregorio a sancto vincentio soc. jesu., antwerp, , folio.--opus geometricum posthumum ad mesolabium. by the same. gandavi [ghent], , folio.[ ] the first book has more than pages, on all kinds of geometry. gregory st. vincent is the greatest of circle-squarers, and his investigations led him into many truths: he found the property of the area of the hyperbola[ ] which led to napier's logarithms being called _hyperbolic_. montucla says of him, with sly truth, that no one has ever squared the circle with so much genius, or, excepting his principal object, with so much success.[ ] his reputation, and the many merits of his work, led to a sharp controversy on his quadrature, which ended in its complete exposure by huyghens and others. he had a small school of followers, who defended him in print. { } rene de sluse. renati francisci slusii mesolabum. leodii eburonum [liège], , to.[ ] the mesolabum is the solution of the problem of finding two mean proportionals, which euclid's geometry does not attain. slusius is a true geometer, and uses the ellipse, etc.: but he is sometimes ranked with the trisecters, for which reason i place him here, with this explanation. the finding of two mean proportionals is the preliminary to the famous old problem of the duplication of the cube, proposed by apollo (not apollonius) himself. d'israeli speaks of the "six follies of science,"--the quadrature, the duplication, the perpetual motion, the philosopher's stone, magic, and astrology. he might as well have added the trisection, to make the mystic number seven: but had he done so, he would still have been very lenient; only seven follies in all science, from mathematics to chemistry! science might have said to such a judge--as convicts used to say who got seven years, expecting it for life, "thank you, my lord, and may you sit there till they are over,"--may the curiosities of literature outlive the follies of science! james gregory. . in this year james gregory, in his _vera circuli et hyperbolæ quadratura_,[ ] held himself to have proved that { } the _geometrical_ quadrature of the circle is impossible. few mathematicians read this very abstruse speculation, and opinion is somewhat divided. the regular circle-squarers attempt the _arithmetical_ quadrature, which has long been proved to be impossible. very few attempt the geometrical quadrature. one of the last is malacarne, an italian, who published his _solution géométrique_, at paris, in . his method would make the circumference less than three times the diameter. beaulieu's quadrature. la géométrie françoise, ou la pratique aisée.... la quadracture du cercle. par le sieur de beaulieu, ingénieur, géographe du roi ... paris, , vo. [not pontault de beaulieu, the celebrated topographer; he died in ].[ ] if this book had been a fair specimen, i might have pointed to it in connection with contemporary english works, and made a scornful comparison. but it is not a fair specimen. beaulieu was attached to the royal household, and throughout the century it may be suspected that the household forced a royal road to geometry. fifty years before, beaugrand, the king's secretary, made a fool of himself, and [so?] contrived to pass for a geometer. he had interest enough to get desargues, the most powerful geometer of his time,[ ] the teacher and friend of pascal, prohibited from { } lecturing. see some letters on the history of perspective, which i wrote in the _athenæum_, in october and november, . montucla, who does not seem to know the true secret of beaugrand's greatness, describes him as "un certain m. de beaugrand, mathématicien, fort mal traité par descartes, et à ce qu'il paroit avec justice."[ ] beaulieu's quadrature amounts to a geometrical construction[ ] which gives [pi] = [root] . his depth may be ascertained from the following extracts. first on copernicus: "copernic, allemand, ne s'est pas moins rendu illustre par ses doctes écrits; et nous pourrions dire de luy, qu'il seroit le seul et unique en la force de ses problèmes, si sa trop grande présomption ne l'avoit porté à avancer en cette science une proposition aussi absurde, qu'elle est contre la foy et raison, en faisant la circonférence d'un cercle fixe, immobile, et le centre mobile, sur lequel principe géométrique, il a avancé en son traitté astrologique le soleil fixe, et la terre mobile."[ ] i digress here to point out that though our quadrators, etc., very often, and our historians sometimes, assert that men of the character of copernicus, etc., were treated with contempt and abuse until their day of ascendancy came, nothing can be more incorrect. from tycho brahé[ ] to beaulieu, there is but one expression of admiration for the genius of copernicus. there is an exception, which, i { } believe, has been quite misunderstood. maurolycus,[ ] in his _de sphæra_, written many years before its posthumous publication in , and which it is not certain he would have published, speaking of the safety with which various authors may be read after his cautions, says, "toleratur et nicolaus copernicus qui solem fixum et terram _in girum circumverti_ posuit: et scutica potius, aut flagello, quam reprehensione dignus est."[ ] maurolycus was a mild and somewhat contemptuous satirist, when expressing disapproval: as we should now say, he pooh-poohed his opponents; but, unless the above be an instance, he was never savage nor impetuous. i am fully satisfied that the meaning of the sentence is, that copernicus, who turned the earth like a boy's top, ought rather to have a whip given him wherewith to keep up his plaything than a serious refutation. to speak of _tolerating_ a person _as being_ more worthy of a flogging than an argument, is almost a contradiction. i will now extract beaulieu's treatise on algebra, entire. "l'algebre est la science curieuse des sçavans et specialement d'un general d'armée ou capitaine, pour promptement ranger une armée en bataille, et nombre de mousquetaires et piquiers qui composent les bataillons d'icelle, outre les figures de l'arithmetique. cette science a figures particulieres en cette sorte. p signifie _plus_ au commerce, et à l'armée _piquiers_. m signifie _moins_, et _mousquetaire_ en l'art des bataillons. [it is quite true that p and m were used for _plus_ and _minus_ in a great many old works.] r signifie _racine_ en la mesure du cube, et en l'armée _rang_. q signifie _quaré_ en l'un et l'autre usage. c signifie _cube_ en la mesure, et _cavallerie_ en la composition des bataillons et escadrons. quant à l'operation de cette science, c'est { } d'additionner un _plus_ d'avec _plus_, la somme sera _plus_, et _moins_ d'avec _plus_, on soustrait le moindre du _plus_, et la reste est la somme requise ou nombre trouvé. je dis seulement cecy en passant pour ceux qui n'en sçavent rien du tout."[ ] this is the algebra of the royal household, seventy-three years after the death of vieta. quære, is it possible that the fame of vieta, who himself held very high stations in the household all his life, could have given people the notion that when such an officer chose to declare himself an algebraist, he must be one indeed? this would explain beaugrand, beaulieu, and all the _beaux_. beaugrand--not only secretary to the king, but "mathematician" to the duke of orleans--i wonder what his "fool" could have been like, if indeed he kept the offices separate,--would have been in my list if i had possessed his _geostatique_, published about .[ ] he makes bodies diminish in weight as they approach the earth, because the effect of a weight on a lever is less as it approaches the fulcrum. { } sir matthew hale. remarks upon two late ingenious discourses.... by dr. henry more.[ ] london, , vo. in and , matthew hale,[ ] then chief justice, published two tracts, an "essay touching gravitation," and "difficiles nugæ" on the torricellian experiment. here are the answers by the learned and voluminous henry more. the whole would be useful to any one engaged in research about ante-newtonian notions of gravitation. observations touching the principles of natural motions; and especially touching rarefaction and condensation.... by the author of _difficiles nugæ_. london, , vo. this is another tract of chief justice hale, published the year after his death. the reader will remember that _motion_, in old philosophy, meant any change from state to state: what we now describe as _motion_ was _local motion_. this is a very philosophical book, about _flux_ and _materia prima_, _virtus activa_ and _essentialis_, and other fundamentals. i think stephen hales, the author of the "vegetable statics," has the writings of the chief justice sometimes attributed to him, which is very puny justice indeed.[ ] matthew hale died in , and from his devotion to science it probably arose that his famous _pleas of the crown_[ ] and other law works did not appear until after his death. one of his { } contemporaries was the astronomer thomas street, whose _caroline tables_[ ] were several times printed: another contemporary was his brother judge, sir thomas street.[ ] but of the astronomer absolutely nothing is known: it is very unlikely that he and the judge were the same person, but there is not a bit of positive evidence either for or against, so far as can be ascertained. halley[ ]--no less a person--published two editions of the _caroline tables_, no doubt after the death of the author: strange indeed that neither halley nor any one else should leave evidence that street was born or died. matthew hale gave rise to an instance of the lengths a lawyer will go when before a jury who cannot detect him. sir samuel shepherd,[ ] the attorney general, in opening hone's[ ] first trial, calls him "one who was the most learned man that ever adorned the bench, the most even man that ever blessed domestic life, the _most eminent man that ever advanced the progress of science_, and one of the [very moderate] best and most purely religious men that ever lived." { } on the discovery of antimony. basil valentine his triumphant chariot of antimony, with annotations of theodore kirkringius, m.d. with the true book of the learned synesius, a greek abbot, taken out of the emperour's library, concerning the philosopher's stone. london, , vo.[ ] there are said to be three hamburg editions of the collected works of valentine, who discovered the common antimony, and is said to have given the name _antimoine_, in a curious way. finding that the pigs of his convent throve upon it, he gave it to his brethren, who died of it.[ ] the impulse given to chemistry by r. boyle[ ] seems to have brought out a vast number of translations, as in the following tract: on alchemy. _collectanea chymica_: a collection of ten several treatises in chymistry, concerning the liquor alkehest, the mercury of philosophers, and other curiosities worthy the perusal. written by eir. philaletha,[ ] anonymus, j. b. van-helmont,[ ] dr. fr. { } antonie,[ ] bernhard earl of trevisan,[ ] sir geo. ripley,[ ] rog. bacon,[ ] geo. starkie,[ ] sir hugh platt,[ ] and the tomb of semiramis. see more in the contents. london, , vo. in the advertisements at the ends of these tracts there are upwards of a hundred english tracts, nearly all of the period, and most of them translations. alchemy looks up since the chemists have found perfectly different substances composed of the same elements and proportions. it is true the chemists cannot yet _transmute_; but they may in time: they poke about most assiduously. it seems, then, that the conviction that alchemy _must_ be impossible was a delusion: but we do not mention it. { } the astrologers and the alchemists caught it in company in the following, of which i have an unreferenced note. "mendacem et futilem hominem nominare qui volunt, calendariographum dicunt; at qui sceleratum simul ac impostorem, chimicum.[ ] "crede ratem ventis corpus ne crede chimistis; est quævis chimica tutior aura fide."[ ] among the smaller paradoxes of the day is that of the _times_ newspaper, which always spells it _chymistry_: but so, i believe, do johnson, walker, and others. the arabic work is very likely formed from the greek: but it may be connected either with [greek: chêmeia] or with [greek: chumeia]. lettre d'un gentil-homme de province à une dame de qualité, sur le sujet de la comète. paris, , to. an opponent of astrology, whom i strongly suspect to have been one of the members of the academy of sciences under the name of a country gentleman,[ ] writes very good sense on the tremors excited by comets. the petitioning-comet: or a brief chronology of all the famous comets and their events, that have happened from the birth of christ to this very day. together with a modest enquiry into this present comet, london, , to. a satirical tract against the cometic prophecy: "this present comet (it's true) is of a menacing aspect, but if the _new parliament_ (for whose convention so many good men pray) continue long to sit, i fear not but the star will lose its virulence and malignancy, or at least its portent be averted from this our nation; which being the humble request to god of all good men, makes me thus entitle it, a petitioning-comet." { } the following anecdote is new to me: "queen elizabeth ( ) being then at richmond, and being disswaded from looking on a comet which did then appear, made answer, _jacta est alea_, the dice are thrown; thereby intimating that the pre-order'd providence of god was above the influence of any star or comet." the argument was worth nothing: for the comet might have been _on the dice_ with the event; the astrologers said no more, at least the more rational ones, who were about half of the whole. an astrological and theological discourse upon this present great conjunction (the like whereof hath not (likely) been in some ages) ushered in by a great comet. london, , to. by c. n.[ ] the author foretells the approaching "sabbatical jubilee," but will not fix the date: he recounts the failures of his predecessors. a judgment of the comet which became first generally visible to us in dublin, december , about minutes before in the evening, a.d. . by a person of quality. dublin, , to. the author argues against cometic astrology with great ability. a prophecy on the conjunction of saturn and jupiter in this present year . with some prophetical predictions of what is likely to ensue therefrom in the year . by john case, student in physic and astrology.[ ] london, , to. { } according to this writer, great conjunctions of jupiter and saturn occur "in the fiery trigon," about once in years. of these there are to be seven: six happened in the several times of enoch, noah, moses, solomon, christ, charlemagne. the seventh, which is to happen at "the lamb's marriage with the bride," seems to be that of ; but this is only vaguely hinted. de quadrature van de circkel. by jacob marcelis. amsterdam, , to. ampliatie en demonstratie wegens de quadrature ... by jacob marcelis. amsterdam, , to. eenvoudig vertoog briev-wys geschrevem am j. marcelis ... amsterdam, , to. de sleutel en openinge van de quadrature ... amsterdam, , to. who shall contradict jacob marcelis?[ ] he says the circumference contains the diameter exactly times -------------------------------- but he does not come very near, as the young arithmetician will find. mathematical theology. theologiæ christianæ principia mathematica. auctore johanne craig.[ ] london, , to. this is a celebrated speculation, and has been reprinted abroad, and seriously answered. craig is known in the early history of fluxions, and was a good mathematician. { } he professed to calculate, on the hypothesis that the suspicions against historical evidence increase with the square of the time, how long it will take the evidence of christianity to die out. he finds, by formulæ, that had it been oral only, it would have gone out a.d. ; but, by aid of the written evidence, it will last till a.d. . at this period he places the second coming, which is deferred until the extinction of evidence, on the authority of the question "when the son of man cometh, shall he find faith on the earth?" it is a pity that craig's theory was not adopted: it would have spared a hundred treatises on the end of the world, founded on no better knowledge than his, and many of them falsified by the event. the most recent (october, ) is a tract in proof of louis napoleon being antichrist, the beast, the eighth head, etc.; and the present dispensation is to close soon after . in order rightly to judge craig, who added speculations on the variations of pleasure and pain treated as functions of time, it is necessary to remember that in newton's day the idea of force, as a quantity to be measured, and as following a law of variation, was very new: so likewise was that of probability, or belief, as an object of measurement.[ ] the success of the _principia_ of newton put it into many heads to speculate about applying notions of quantity to other things not then brought under measurement. craig imitated newton's title, and evidently thought he was making a step in advance: but it is not every one who can plough with samson's heifer. it is likely enough that craig took a hint, directly or indirectly, from mohammedan writers, who make a reply to the argument that the koran has not the evidence derived { } from miracles. they say that, as evidence of christian miracles is daily becoming weaker, a time must at last arrive when it will fail of affording assurance that they were miracles at all: whence would arise the necessity of another prophet and other miracles. lee,[ ] the cambridge orientalist, from whom the above words are taken, almost certainly never heard of craig or his theory. the aristocrat as a scientist. copernicans of all sorts convicted ... to which is added a treatise of the magnet. by the hon. edw. howard, of berks. london, , vo. not all the blood of all the howards will gain respect for a writer who maintains that eclipses admit no possible explanation under the copernican hypothesis, and who asks how a man can "go yards to any place if the moving superficies of the earth does carry it from him?" horace walpole, at the beginning of his _royal and noble authors_, has mottoed his book with the cardinal's address to ariosto, "dove diavolo, messer ludovico, avete pigliato tante coglionerie?"[ ] walter scott says you could hardly pick out, on any principle of selection--except badness itself, he means of course--the same number of plebeian authors whose works are so bad. but his implied satire on aristocratic writing forgets two points. first, during a large period of our history, when persons of rank condescended to write, they veiled themselves under "a person of honor," "a person of quality," and the like, when not wholly undescribed. not one of these has walpole got; he omits, { } for instance, lord brounker's[ ] translation of descartes on music. secondly, walpole only takes the heads of houses: this cuts both ways; he equally eliminates the hon. robert boyle and the precious edward howard. the last writer is hardly out of the time in which aristocracy suppressed its names; the avowal was then usually meant to make the author's greatness useful to the book. in our day, literary peers and honorables are very favorably known, and contain an eminent class.[ ] they rough it like others, and if such a specimen as edw. howard were now to appear, he would be greeted with "hereditary noodle! knowest thou not who would be wise, himself must make him so?" the longitude problem. a new and easy method to find the longitude at land or sea. london, , to. this tract is a little earlier than the great epoch of such publications ( ), and professes to find the longitude by the observed altitudes of the moon and two stars.[ ] { } a new method for discovering the longitude both at sea and land, humbly proposed to the consideration of the public.[ ] by wm. whiston[ ] and humphry ditton.[ ] london, , vo. this is the celebrated tract, written by the two arian heretics. swift, whose orthodoxy was as undoubted as his meekness, wrote upon it the epigram--if, indeed, that be epigram of which the point is pious wish--which has been so often recited for the purity of its style, a purity which transcends modern printing. perhaps some readers may think that swift cared little for whiston and ditton, except as a chance hearing of their plan pointed them out as good marks. but it was not so: the clique had their eye on the guilty pair before the publication of the tract. the preface is dated july ; and ten days afterwards arbuthnot[ ] writes as follows to swift: "whiston has at last published his project of the longitude; the most ridiculous thing that ever was thought on. but a pox on him! he has spoiled one of my papers of scriblerus, which was a proposition for the longitude not very unlike his, to this purpose; that since there was no pole for east and west, that all the princes of europe should join and build two prodigious poles, upon high mountains, { } with a vast lighthouse to serve for a polestar. i was thinking of a calculation of the time, charges, and dimensions. now you must understand his project is by lighthouses, and explosion of bombs at a certain hour." the plan was certainly impracticable; but whiston and ditton might have retorted that they were nearer to the longitude than their satirist to the kingdom of heaven, or even to a bishopric. arbuthnot, i think, here and elsewhere, reveals himself as the calculator who kept swift right in his proportions in the matter of the lilliputians, brobdingnagians, etc. swift was very ignorant about things connected with number. he writes to stella that he has discovered that leap-year comes every four years, and that all his life he had thought it came every three years. did he begin with the mistake of cæsar's priests? whether or no, when i find the person who did not understand leap-year inventing satellites of mars in correct accordance with kepler's third law, i feel sure he must have had help. the aurora borealis. an essay concerning the late apparition in the heavens on the th of march. proving by mathematical, logical, and moral arguments, that it cou'd not have been produced meerly by the ordinary course of nature, but must of necessity be a prodigy. humbly offered to the consideration of the royal society. london, , vo. the prodigy, as described, was what we should call a very decided and unusual aurora borealis. the inference was, that men's sins were bringing on the end of the world. the author thinks that if one of the old "threatening prophets" were then alive, he would give "something like the following." i quote a few sentences of the notion which the author had of the way in which ezekiel, for instance, would have addressed his maker in the reign of george the first: "begin! begin! o sovereign, for once, with an { } effectual clap of thunder.... o deity! either thunder to us no more, or when you thunder, do it home, and strike with vengeance to the mark.... 'tis not enough to raise a storm, unless you follow it with a blow, and the thunder without the bolt, signifies just nothing at all.... are then your lightnings of so short a sight, that they don't know how to hit, unless a mountain stands like a barrier in their way? or perhaps so many eyes open in the firmament make you lose your aim when you shoot the arrow? is it this? no! but, my dear lord, it is your custom never to take hold of your arms till you have first bound round your majestic countenance with gathered mists and clouds." the principles of the philosophy of the expansive and contractive forces ... by robert greene,[ ] m.a., fellow of clare hall. cambridge, , folio. sanderson[ ] writes to jones,[ ] "the gentleman has been reputed mad for these two years last past, but never gave the world such ample testimony of it before." this was said of a former work of greene's, on solid geometry, published in , in which he gives a quadrature.[ ] he gives the same or another, i do not know which, in the present work, in which the circle is - / diameters. this volume is of good folio pages, and treats of all things, mental and material. the author is not at all mad, only wrong on { } many points. it is the weakness of the orthodox follower of any received system to impute insanity to the solitary dissentient: which is voted (in due time) a very wrong opinion about copernicus, columbus, or galileo, but quite right about robert greene. if misconceptions, acted on by too much self-opinion, be sufficient evidence of madness, it would be a curious inquiry what is the least per-centage of the reigning school which has been insane at any one time. greene is one of the sources for newton being led to think of gravitation by the fall of an apple: his authority is the gossip of martin folkes.[ ] probably folkes had it from newton's niece, mrs. conduitt, whom voltaire acknowledges as _his authority_.[ ] it is in the draft found among conduitt's papers of memoranda to be sent to fontenelle. but fontenelle, though a great retailer of anecdote, does not mention it in his _éloge_ of newton; whence it may be suspected that it was left out in the copy forwarded to france. d'israeli has got an improvement on the story: the apple "struck him a smart blow on the head": no doubt taking him just on the organ of causality. he was "surprised at the force of the stroke" from so small an apple: but then the apple had a mission; homer would have said { } it was minerva in the form of an apple. "this led him to consider the accelerating motion of falling bodies," which galileo had settled long before: "from whence he deduced the principle of gravity," which many had considered before him, but no one had _deduced anything from it_. i cannot imagine whence d'israeli got the rap on the head, i mean got it for newton: this is very unlike his usual accounts of things. the story is pleasant and possible: its only defect is that various writings, well known to newton, a very _learned_ mathematician, had given more suggestion than a whole sack of apples could have done, if they had tumbled on that mighty head all at once. and pemberton, speaking from newton himself, says nothing more than that the idea of the moon being retained by the same force which causes the fall of bodies struck him for the first time while meditating in a garden. one particular tree at woolsthorpe has been selected as the gallows of the appleshaped goddess: it died in , and mr. turnor[ ] kept the wood; but sir d. brewster[ ] brought away a bit of root in , and must have had it on his conscience for years that he may have killed the tree. kepler's suggestion of gravitation with the inverse distance, and bouillaud's proposed substitution of the inverse square of the distance, are things which newton knew better than his modern readers. i discovered two anagrams on his name, which are quite conclusive; the notion of gravitation was _not new_; but newton _went on_. some wandering spirit, probably whose business it was to resent any liberty taken with newton's name, put into the head of a friend of mine _eighty-one_ anagrams on my own pair, some of which hit harder than any apple. { } de morgan anagrams. this friend, whom i must not name, has since made it up to about anagrams on my name, of which i have seen about . two of them i have joined in the title-page: the reader may find the sense. a few of the others are personal remarks. "great gun! do us a sum!" is a sneer at my pursuits: but, "go! great sum! [integral]a u^{n} du" is more dignified. "sunt agro! gaudemus,"[ ] is happy as applied to one of whom it may be said: "ne'er out of town; 'tis such a horrid life; but duly sends his family and wife." "adsum, nugator, suge!"[ ] is addressed to a student who continues talking after the lecture has commenced: oh! the rascal! "graduatus sum! nego"[ ] applies to one who declined to subscribe for an m.a. degree. "usage mounts guard" symbolizes a person of very fixed habits. "gus! gus! a mature don! august man! sure, god! and gus must argue, o! snug as mud to argue, must argue on gauds. a mad rogue stung us. gag a numerous stud go! turn us! damage us! tug us! o drag us! amen. grudge us! moan at us! { } daunt us! gag us more! dog-ear us, man! gut us! d---- us! a rogue tugs!" are addressed to me by the circle-squarers; and, "o! gus! tug a mean surd!" is smart upon my preference of an incommensurable value of [pi] to - / , or some such simple substitute. while, "gus! gus! at 'em a' round!" ought to be the backing of the scientific world to the author of the _budget of paradoxes_. the whole collection commenced existence in the head of a powerful mathematician during some sleepless nights. seeing how large a number was practicable, he amused himself by inventing a digested plan of finding more. is there any one whose name cannot be twisted into either praise or satire? i have had given to me, "thomas babington macaulay mouths big: a cantab anomaly." newton's de mundi systemate liber. a treatise of the system of the world. by sir isaac newton. translated into english. london, , vo. i think i have a right to one little paradox of my own: i greatly doubt that newton wrote this book. castiglione,[ ] in his _newtoni opuscula_,[ ] gives it in the latin which appeared in ,[ ] not for the first time; he says _angli omnes newtono tribuunt_.[ ] it appeared just after newton's death, without the name of any editor, or any allusion to newton's { } recent departure, purporting to be that popular treatise which newton, at the beginning of the third book of the _principia_, says he wrote, intending it to be the third book. it is very possible that some observant turnpenny might construct such a treatise as this from the third book, that it might be ready for publication the moment newton could not disown it. it has been treated with singular silence: the name of the editor has never been given. rigaud[ ] mentions it without a word: i cannot find it in brewster's _newton_, nor in the _biographia britannica_. there is no copy in the catalogue of the royal society's library, either in english or latin, except in castiglione. i am open to correction; but i think nothing from newton's acknowledged works will prove--as laid down in the suspected work--that he took numa's temple of vesta, with a central fire, to be intended to symbolize the sun as the center of our system, in the copernican sense.[ ] mr. edleston[ ] gives an account of the _lectures_ "de motu corporum," and gives the corresponding pages of the _latin_ "de systemate mundi" of . but no one mentions the _english_ of . this english seems to agree with the latin; but there is a mystery about it. the preface says, "that this work as here published is genuine will so clearly appear by the intrinsic marks it bears, that it will be but losing words and the reader's time to take pains in giving him any other satisfaction." surely fewer words would have been lost if the prefator had said at once that the work was from the manuscript preserved at cambridge. perhaps it was a mangled copy clandestinely taken and interpreted. { } a baconian controversy. lord bacon not the author of "the christian paradoxes," being a reprint of "memorials of godliness and christianity," by herbert palmer, b.d.[ ] with introduction, memoir, and notes, by the rev. alexander b. grosart,[ ] kenross. (private circulation, ). i insert the above in this place on account of a slight connection with the last. bacon's paradoxes,--so attributed--were first published as his in some asserted "remains," .[ ] they were admitted into his works in , and remain there to this day. the title is "the character of a believing christian, set forth in paradoxes and seeming contradictions." the following is a specimen: "he believes three to be one and one to be three; a father not to be older than his son; a son to be equal with his father; and one proceeding from both to be equal with both: he believes three persons in one nature, and two natures in one person.... he believes the god of all grace to have been angry with one that never offended him; and that god that hates sin to be reconciled to himself though sinning continually, and never making or being able to make him any satisfaction. he believes a most just god to have punished a most just person, and to have justified himself, though a most ungodly sinner. he believes himself freely pardoned, and yet a sufficient satisfaction was made for him." who can doubt that if bacon had written this it must have been wrong? many writers, especially on the { } continent, have taken him as sneering at (athanasian) christianity right and left. many englishmen have taken him to be quite in earnest, and to have produced a body of edifying doctrine. more than a century ago the paradoxes were published as a penny tract; and, again, at the same price, in the _penny sunday reader_, vol. vi, no. , a few passages were omitted, as _too strong_. but all did not agree: in my copy of peter shaw's [ ] edition (vol. ii, p. ) the paradoxes have been cut out by the binder, who has left the backs of the leaves. i never had the curiosity to see whether other copies of the edition have been served in the same way. the religious tract society republished them recently in _selections from the writings of lord bacon_, (no date; bad plan; about , i suppose). no omissions were made, so far as i find. i never believed that bacon wrote this paper; it has neither his _sparkle_ nor his idiom. i stated my doubts even before i heard that mr. spedding, one of bacon's editors, was of the same mind. (_athenæum_, july , ). i was little moved by the wide consent of orthodox men: for i knew how bacon, milton, newton, locke, etc., were always claimed as orthodox until almost the present day. of this there is a remarkable instance. locke and socinianism. among the books which in my younger day were in some orthodox publication lists--i think in the list of the christian knowledge society, but i am not sure--was locke's [ ] "reasonableness of christianity." it seems to have come down from the eighteenth century, when the battle was belief in christ against unbelief, _simpliciter_, as the { } logicians say. now, if ever there was a socinian[ ] book in the world, it is this work of locke. "these two," says locke, "faith and repentance, i.e., believing jesus to be the messiah, and a good life, are the indispensable conditions of the new covenant, to be performed by all those who would obtain eternal life." all the book is amplification of this doctrine. locke, in this and many other things, followed hobbes, whose doctrine, in the leviathan, is _fidem, quanta ad salutem necessaria est, contineri in hoc articulo, jesus est christus_.[ ] for this hobbes was called an atheist, which { } many still believe him to have been: some of his contemporaries called him, rightly, a socinian. locke was known for a socinian as soon as his work appeared: dr. john edwards,[ ] his assailant, says he is "socinianized all over." locke, in his reply, says "there is not one word of socinianism in it:" and he was right: the positive socinian doctrine has _not one word of socinianism in it_; socinianism consists in omissions. locke and hobbes did not dare _deny_ the trinity: for such a thing hobbes might have been roasted, and locke might have been strangled. accordingly, the well-known way of teaching unitarian doctrine was the collection of the asserted essentials of christianity, without naming the trinity, etc. this is the plan newton followed, in the papers which have at last been published.[ ] so i, for one, thought little about the general tendency of orthodox writers to claim bacon by means of the paradoxes. i knew that, in his "confession of faith"[ ] he is a trinitarian of a heterodox stamp. his second person takes human nature before he took flesh, not for redemption, but as a condition precedent of creation. "god is so holy, pure, and jealous, that it is impossible for him to be pleased in any creature, though the work of his own hands.... [gen. i. , , , , , , freely rendered]. but--purposing to become a creator, and to communicate to his creatures, he ordained in his eternal counsel that one person of the godhead should be united to one nature, and to one particular of his creatures; that so, in the person of the mediator, the true ladder might be fixed, whereby god might { } descend to his creatures and his creatures might ascend to god...." this is republished by the religious tract society, and seems to suit their theology, for they confess to having omitted some things of which they disapprove. in , mr. grosart published his discovery that the paradoxes are by herbert palmer; that they were first published surreptitiously, and immediately afterwards by himself, both in ; that the "remains" of bacon did not appear until ; that from to , thirteen editions of the "memorials" were published, all containing the paradoxes. in spite of this, the paradoxes were introduced into bacon's works in , where they have remained. herbert palmer was of good descent, and educated as a puritan. he was an accomplished man, one of the few of his day who could speak french as well as english. he went into the church, and was beneficed by laud,[ ] in spite of his puritanism; he sat in the assembly of divines, and was finally president of queens' college, cambridge, in which post he died, august , , in the th year of his age. mr. grosart says, speaking of bacon's "remains," "all who have had occasion to examine our early literature are aware that it was a common trick to issue imperfect, false, and unauthorized writings under any recently deceased name that might be expected to take. the puritans, down to john bunyan, were perpetually expostulating and protesting against such procedure." i have met with instances of all this; but i did not know that there was so much of it: a good collection would be very useful. the work of , attributed to newton, is likely enough to be one of the class. { } demonstration de l'immobilitez de la terre.... par m. de la jonchere,[ ] ingénieur français. londres, , vo. a synopsis which is of a line of argument belonging to the beginning of the preceding century. two forgotten circle squarers. the circle squared; together with the ellipsis and several reflections on it. the finding two geometrical mean proportionals, or doubling the cube geometrically. by richard locke[ ].... london, no date, probably about , vo. according to mr. locke, the circumference is three diameters, three-fourths the difference of the diameter and the side of the inscribed equilateral triangle, and three-fourths the difference between seven-eighths of the diameter and the side of the same triangle. this gives, he says, . . there is an addition to this tract, being an appendix to a book on the longitude. the circle squar'd. by thos. baxter, crathorn, cleaveland, yorkshire. london, , vo. here [pi] = . . no proof is offered.[ ] the longitude discovered by the eclipses, occultations, and conjunctions of jupiter's planets. by william whiston. london, . this tract has, in some copies, the celebrated preface containing the account of newton's appearance before the parliamentary committee on the longitude question, in { } (brewster, ii. - ). this "historical preface," is an insertion and is dated april , , with four additional pages dated august , . the short "preface" is by the publisher, john whiston,[ ] the author's son. the steamship suggested. a description and draught of a new-invented machine for carrying vessels or ships out of, or into any harbour, port, or river, against wind and tide, or in a calm. for which, his majesty has granted letters patent, for the sole benefit of the author, for the space of fourteen years. by jonathan hulls.[ ] london: printed for the author, . price sixpence (folding plate and pp. , beginning from title). (i ought to have entered this tract in its place. it is so rare that its existence was once doubted. it is the earliest description of steam-power applied to navigation. the plate shows a barge, with smoking funnel, and paddles at the stem, towing a ship of war. the engine, as described, is newcomen's.[ ] in , john sheepshanks,[ ] so well known as a friend of art and a public donor, reprinted this tract, in fac-simile, from his own copy; twenty-seven copies of the original mo size, and twelve on old paper, small to. i have an original copy, wanting the plate, and with "price sixpence" carefully erased, to the honor of the book.[ ] { } it is not known whether hulls actually constructed a boat.[ ] in all probability his tract suggested to symington, as symington[ ] did to fulton.) the newtonians attacked. le vrai système de physique générale de m. isaac newton exposé et analysé en parallèle avec celui de descartes. by louis castel[ ] [jesuit and f.r.s.] paris, , to. this is an elaborate correction of newton's followers, and of newton himself, who it seems did not give his own views with perfect fidelity. father castel, for instance, assures us that newton placed the sun _at rest_ in the center of the system. newton left the sun to arrange that matter with the planets and the rest of the universe. in this volume of pages there is right and wrong, both clever. a dissertation on the Æther of sir isaac newton. by bryan robinson,[ ] m.d. dublin, , vo.[ ] { } a mathematical work professing to prove that the assumed ether causes gravitation. mathematical theology. mathematical principles of theology, or the existence of god geometrically demonstrated. by richard jack, teacher of mathematics. london, , vo.[ ] propositions arranged after the manner of euclid, with beings represented by circles and squares. but these circles and squares are logical symbols, not geometrical ones. i brought this book forward to the royal commission on the british museum as an instance of the absurdity of attempting a _classed_ catalogue from the _titles_ of books. the title of this book sends it either to theology or geometry: when, in fact, it is a logical vagary. some of the houses which jack built were destroyed by the fortune of war in , at edinburgh: who will say the rebels did no good whatever? i suspect that jack copied the ideas of j.b. morinus, "quod deus sit," paris, ,[ ] to, containing an attempt of the same kind, but not stultified with diagrams. two model indorsements. dissertation, découverte, et démonstrations de la quadrature mathématique du cercle. par m. de fauré, géomètre. [_s. l._, probably geneva] , vo. analyse de la quadrature du cercle. par m. de fauré, gentilhomme suisse. hague, ,[ ] to. according to this octavo geometer and quarto gentleman, a diameter of gives a circumference of . there is an amusing circumstance about the quarto which has been overlooked, if indeed the book has ever been { } examined. john bernoulli (the one of the day)[ ] and koenig[ ] have both given an attestation: my mathematical readers may stare as they please, such is the fact. but, on examination, there will be reason to think the two sly swiss played their countryman the same trick as the medical man played miss pickle, in the novel of that name. the lady only wanted to get his authority against sousing her little nephew, and said, "pray, doctor, is it not both dangerous and cruel to be the means of letting a poor tender infant perish by sousing it in water as cold as ice?"--"downright murder, i affirm," said the doctor; and certified accordingly. de fauré had built a tremendous scaffolding of equations, quite out of place, and feeling cock-sure that his solutions, if correct, would square the circle, applied to bernoulli and koenig--who after his tract of two years before, must have known what he was at--for their approbation of the solutions. and he got it, as follows, well guarded: "suivant les suppositions posées dans ce mémoire, il est si évident que t doit être = , y = , et z = , que cela n'a besoin ni de preuve ni d'autorité pour être reconnu par tout le monde.[ ] "à basle le e mai . jean bernoulli." "je souscris au jugement de mr. bernoulli, en conséquence de ces suppositions.[ ] "à la haye le juin . s. koenig." on which de fauré remarks with triumph--as i have no doubt it was intended he should do--"il conste clairement par ma présente analyse et démonstration, qu'ils y ont déja { } reconnu et approuvé parfaitement que la quadrature du cercle est mathématiquement démontrée."[ ] it should seem that it is easier to square the circle than to get round a mathematician. an attempt to demonstrate that all the phenomena in nature may be explained by two simple active principles, attraction and repulsion, wherein the attraction of cohesion, gravity and magnetism are shown to be one the same. by gowin knight. london, , to. dr. knight[ ] was mr. panizzi's[ ] archetype, the first principal librarian of the british museum. he was celebrated for his magnetical experiments. this work was long neglected; but is now recognized as of remarkable resemblance to modern speculations. thomas wright of durham. an original theory or hypothesis of the universe. by thomas wright[ ] of durham. london, to, . wright is a speculator whose thoughts are now part of our current astronomy. he took that view--or most of it--of the milky way which afterwards suggested itself to william herschel. i have given an account of him and his work in the _philosophical magazine_ for april, . wright was mathematical instrument maker to the king, { } and kept a shop in fleet street. is the celebrated business of troughton & simms, also in fleet street, a lineal descendant of that of wright? it is likely enough, more likely that that--as i find him reported to have affirmed--prester john was the descendant of solomon and the queen of sheba. having settled it thus, it struck me that i might apply to mr. simms, and he informs me that it is as i thought, the line of descent being wright, cole, john troughton, edward troughton,[ ] troughton & simms.[ ] bishop horne on newton. the theology and philosophy in cicero's _somnium scipionis_ explained. or, a brief attempt to demonstrate, that the newtonian system is perfectly agreeable to the notions of the wisest ancients: and that mathematical principles are the only sure ones. [by bishop horne,[ ] at the age of nineteen.] london, , vo. this tract, which was not printed in the collected works, and is now excessively rare, is mentioned in _notes and queries_, st s., v, , ; d s., ix, . the boyish satire on newton is amusing. speaking of old benjamin martin,[ ] he goes on as follows: { } "but the most elegant account of the matter [attraction] is by that hominiform animal, mr. benjamin martin, who having attended dr. desaguliers'[ ] fine, raree, gallanty shew for some years [desaguliers was one of the first who gave public experimental lectures, before the saucy boy was born] in the capacity of a turnspit, has, it seems, taken it into his head to set up for a philosopher." thus is preserved the fact, unknown to his biographers, that benj. martin was an assistant to desaguliers in his lectures. hutton[ ] says of him, that "he was well skilled in the whole circle of the mathematical and philosophical sciences, and wrote useful books on every one of them": this is quite true; and even at this day he is read by twenty where horne is read by one; see the stalls, _passim_. all that i say of him, indeed my knowledge of the tract, is due to this contemptuous mention of a more durable man than himself. my assistant secretary at the astronomical society, the late mr. epps,[ ] bought the copy at a stall because his eye was caught by the notice of "old ben martin," of whom he was a great reader. old ben could not be a fellow of the royal society, because he kept a shop: even though the shop sold nothing but philosophical instruments. thomas wright, similarly situated as to shop and goods, never was a fellow. the society of our day has greatly degenerated: those of the old time would be pleased, no doubt, that the glories of their day { } should be commemorated. in the early days of the society, there was a similar difficulty about graunt, the author of the celebrated work on mortality. but their royal patron, "who never said a foolish thing," sent them a sharp message, and charged them if they found any more such tradesmen, they should "elect them without more ado." horne's first pamphlet was published when he was but twenty-one years old. two years afterwards, being then a fellow of his college, and having seen more of the world, he seems to have felt that his manner was a little too pert. he endeavored, it is said, to suppress his first tract: and copies are certainly of extreme rarity. he published the following as his maturer view: a fair, candid, and impartial state of the case between sir isaac newton and mr. hutchinson.[ ] in which is shown how far a system of physics is capable of mathematical demonstration; how far sir isaac's, as such a system, has that demonstration; and consequently, what regard mr. hutchinson's claim may deserve to have paid to it. by george horne, m.a. oxford, , vo. it must be remembered that the successors of newton were very apt to declare that newton had demonstrated attraction as a _physical_ cause: he had taken reasonable pains to show that he did not pretend to this. if any one had said to newton, i hold that every particle of matter is a responsible being of vast intellect, ordered by the creator to move as it would do if every other particle attracted it, and gifted with power to make its way in true accordance with that law, as easily as a lady picks her way across the street; what have you to say against it?--newton must have replied, sir! if you really undertake to maintain this as _demonstrable_, your soul had better borrow a little power { } from the particles of which your body is made: if you merely ask me to refute it, i tell you that i neither can nor need do it; for whether attraction comes in this way or in any other, _it comes_, and that is all i have to do with it. the reader should remember that the word attraction, as used by newton and the best of his followers, only meant a _drawing towards_, without any implication as to the cause. thus whether they said that matter attracts matter, or that young lady attracts young gentleman, they were using one word in one sense. newton found that the law of the first is the inverse square of the distance: i am not aware that the law of the second has been discovered; if there be any chance, we shall see it at the year in this list. in this point young horne made a hit. he justly censures those who fixed upon newton a more positive knowledge of what attraction is than he pretended to have. "he has owned over and over he did not know what he meant by it--it might be this, or it might be that, or it might be anything, or it might be nothing." with the exception of the _nothing_ clause, this is true, though newton might have answered horne by "thou hast said it." (i thought everybody knew the meaning of "thou hast said it": but i was mistaken. in three of the evangelists [greek: su legeis] is the answer to "art thou a king?" the force of this answer, as always understood, is "that is your way of putting it." the puritans, who lived in bible phrases, so understood it: and walter scott, who caught all peculiarities of language with great effect, makes a marked instance, "were you armed?--i was not--i went in my calling, as a preacher of god's word, to encourage them that drew the sword in his cause. in other words, to aid and abet the rebels, said the duke. _thou hast spoken it_, replied the prisoner.") again, horne quotes rowning[ ] as follows: { } "mr. rowning, pt. , p. in a note, has a very pretty conceit upon this same subject of attraction, about every particle of a fluid being intrenched in three spheres of attraction and repulsion, one within another, 'the innermost of which (he says) is a sphere of repulsion, which keeps them from approaching into contact; the next, a sphere of attraction, diffused around this of repulsion, by which the particles are disposed to run together into drops; and the outermost of all, a sphere of repulsion, whereby they repel each other, when removed out of the attraction.' so that between the _urgings_, and _solicitations_, of one and t'other, a poor unhappy particle must ever be at his wit's end, not knowing which way to turn, or whom to obey first." rowning has here started the notion which boscovich[ ] afterwards developed. i may add to what precedes that it cannot be settled that, as granger[ ] says, desaguliers was the first who gave experimental lectures in london. william whiston gave some, and francis hauksbee[ ] made the experiments. the prospectus, as we should now call it, is extant, a quarto tract of plates and descriptions, without date. whiston, in his life, { } gives as the first date of publication, and therefore, no doubt, of the lectures. desaguliers removed to london soon after , and commenced his lectures soon after that. it will be rather a nice point to settle which lectured first; probabilities seem to go in favor of whiston. fallacies in a theory of annuities. an essay to ascertain the value of leases, and annuities for years and lives. by w[eyman] l[ee]. london, , vo. a valuation of annuities and leases certain, for a single life. by weyman lee, esq. of the inner temple. london, , vo. third edition, . every branch of exact science has its paradoxer. the world at large cannot tell with certainty who is right in such questions as squaring the circle, etc. mr. weyman lee[ ] was the assailant of what all who had studied called demonstration in the question of annuities. he can be exposed to the world: for his error arose out of his not being able to see that the whole is the sum of all its parts. by an annuity, say of £ , now bought, is meant that the buyer is to have for his money £ in a year, if he be then alive, £ at the end of two years, if then alive, and so on. it is clear that he would buy a life annuity if he should buy the first £ in one office, the second in another, and so on. all the difference between buying the whole from one office and buying all the separate contingent payments at different offices, is immaterial to calculation. mr. lee would have agreed with the rest of the world about the payments to be made to the several different offices, in consideration of their several contracts: but he differed from every one else about the sum to be paid to _one_ office. he contended that the way to value an annuity is to find out the term of years which the individual has an even chance of surviving, and to charge for the life annuity the value of an annuity certain for that term. { } it is very common to say that lee took the average life, or expectation, as it is wrongly called, for his term: and this i have done myself, taking the common story. having exposed the absurdity of this second supposition, taking it for lee's, in my _formal logic_,[ ] i will now do the same with the first. a mathematical truth is true in its extreme cases. lee's principle is that an annuity on a life is the annuity made certain for the term within which it is an even chance the life drops. if, then, of a thousand persons, be sure to die within a year, and the other be immortal, lee's price of an annuity to any one of these persons is the present value of one payment: for one year is the term which each one has an even chance of surviving and not surviving. but the true value is obviously half that of a perpetual annuity: so that at percent lee's rule would give less than the tenth of the true value. it must be said for the poor circle-squarers, that they never err so much as this. lee would have said, if alive, that i have put an _extreme case_: but any _universal_ truth is true in its extreme cases. it is not fair to bring forward an extreme case against a person who is speaking as of usual occurrences: but it is quite fair when, as frequently happens, the proposer insists upon a perfectly general acceptance of his assertion. and yet many who go the whole hog protest against being tickled with the tail. counsel in court are good instances: they are paradoxers by trade. june , , at hertford, there was an action about a ship, insured against a _total_ loss: some planks were saved, and the underwriters refused to pay. mr. z. (for deft.) "there can be no degrees of totality; and some timbers were saved."--l. c. b. "then if the vessel were burned to the water's edge, and some rope saved in the boat, there would be no total loss."--mr. z. "this is putting a very extreme case."--l. c. b. "the argument { } would go that length." what would _judge_ z.--as he now is--say to the extreme case beginning somewhere between six planks and a bit of rope? montucla's work on the quadrature. histoire des recherches sur la quadrature du cercle ... avec une addition concernant les problèmes de la duplication du cube et de la trisection de l'angle. paris, , mo. [by montucla.] this is _the_ history of the subject.[ ] it was a little episode to the great history of mathematics by montucla, of which the first edition appeared in . there was much addition at the end of the fourth volume of the second edition; this is clearly by montucla, though the bulk of the volume is put together, with help from montucla's papers, by lalande.[ ] there is also a second edition of the history of the quadrature, paris, , vo, edited, i think, by lacroix; of which it is the great fault that it makes hardly any use of the additional matter just mentioned. montucla is an admirable historian when he is writing from his own direct knowledge: it is a sad pity that he did not tell us when he was depending on others. we are not to trust a quarter of his book, and we must read many other books to know which quarter. the fault is common enough, but montucla's good three-quarters is so good that the fault is greater in him than in most others: i mean the fault of not acknowledging; for an historian cannot read everything. but it must be said that mankind give little encouragement to candor on this point. hallam, in his { } _history of literature_, states with his own usual instinct of honesty every case in which he depends upon others: montucla does not. and what is the consequence?--montucla is trusted, and believed in, and cried up in the bulk; while the smallest talker can lament that hallam should be so unequal and apt to depend on others, without remembering to mention that hallam himself gives the information. as to a universal history of any great subject being written entirely upon primary knowledge, it is a thing of which the possibility is not yet proved by an example. delambre attempted it with astronomy, and was removed by death before it was finished,[ ] to say nothing of the gaps he left. montucla was nothing of a bibliographer, and his descriptions of books in the first edition were insufficient. the abbé rive[ ] fell foul of him, and as the phrase is, gave it him. montucla took it with great good humor, tried to mend, and, in his second edition, wished his critic had lived to see the _vernis de bibliographe_ which he had given himself. i have seen montucla set down as an _esprit fort_, more than once: wrongly, i think. when he mentions barrow's[ ] address to the almighty, he adds, "on voit, au reste, par là, que barrow étoit un pauvre philosophe; car il croyait en l'immortalité de l'âme, et en une divinité autre que la nature { } universelle."[ ] this is irony, not an expression of opinion. in the book of mathematical recreations which montucla constructed upon that of ozanam,[ ] and ozanam upon that of van etten,[ ] now best known in england by hutton's similar treatment of montucla, there is an amusing chapter on the quadrators. montucla refers to his own anonymous book of as a curious book published by jombert.[ ] he seems to have been a little ashamed of writing about circle-squarers: what a slap on the face for an unborn budgeteer! montucla says, speaking of france, that he finds three notions prevalent among the cyclometers: ( ) that there is a large reward offered for success; ( ) that the longitude problem depends on that success; ( ) that the solution is the great end and object of geometry. the same three { } notions are equally prevalent among the same class in england. no reward has ever been offered by the government of either country. the longitude problem in no way depends upon perfect solution; existing approximations are sufficient to a point of accuracy far beyond what can be wanted.[ ] and geometry, content with what exists, has long passed on to other matters. sometimes a cyclometer persuades a skipper who has made land in the wrong place that the astronomers are in fault, for using a wrong measure of the circle; and the skipper thinks it a very comfortable solution! and this is the utmost that the problem ever has to do with longitude. antinewtonianismus. antinewtonianismus.[ ] by cælestino cominale,[ ] m.d. naples, and , vols. to. the first volume upsets the theory of light; the second vacuum, vis inertiæ, gravitation, and attraction. i confess i never attempted these big latin volumes, numbering closely-printed quarto pages. the man who slays newton in a pamphlet is the man for me. but i will lend them to anybody who will give security, himself in £ , and two sureties in £ each, that he will read them through, and give a full abstract; and i will not exact security for their return. i have never seen any mention of this book: it has a printer, but not a publisher, as happens with so many unrecorded books. { } official blow to circle squarers. . the french academy of sciences came to the determination not to examine any more quadratures or kindred problems. this was the consequence, no doubt, of the publication of montucla's book: the time was well chosen; for that book was a full justification of the resolution. the royal society followed the same course, i believe, a few years afterwards. when our board of longitude was in existence, most of its time was consumed in listening to schemes, many of which included the quadrature of the circle. it is certain that many quadrators have imagined the longitude problem to be connected with theirs: and no doubt the notion of a reward offered by government for a true quadrature is a result of the reward offered for the longitude. let it also be noted that this longitude reward was not a premium upon excogitation of a mysterious difficulty. the legislature was made to know that the rational hopes of the problem were centered in the improvement of the lunar tables and the improvement of chronometers. to these objects alone, and by name, the offer was directed: several persons gained rewards for both; and the offer was finally repealed. an interesting hoax. fundamentalis figura geometrica, primas tantum lineas circuli quadraturæ possibilitatis ostendens. by niels erichsen (nicolaus ericius), shipbuilder, of copenhagen. copenhagen, , mo. this was a gift from my oldest friend who was not a relative, dr. samuel maitland of the "dark ages."[ ] he found it among his books, and could not imagine how he came by it: i could have told him. he once collected interpretations of the apocalypse: and auction lots of such { } books often contain quadratures. the wonder is he never found more than one. the quadrature is not worth notice. erichsen is the only squarer i have met with who has distinctly asserted the particulars of that reward which has been so frequently thought to have been offered in england. he says that in the royal society on the d of june, offered to give a large reward for the quadrature of the circle and a true explanation of magnetism, in addition to £ , previously promised for the same. i need hardly say that the royal society had not £ , at that time, and would not, if it had had such a sum, have spent it on the circle, nor on magnetic theory; nor would it have coupled the two things. on this book, see _notes and queries_, st s., xii, . perhaps erichsen meant that the £ , had been promised by the government, and the addition by the royal society. october , . i receive a letter from a cyclometer who understands that a reward is offered to any one who will square the circle, and that all competitors are to send their plans to me. the hoaxers have not yet failed out of the land. two jesuit contributions. theoria philosophiæ naturalis redacta ad unicam legem virium in natura existentium. editio _veneta_ prima. by roger joseph boscovich. venice, , to. the first edition is said to be of vienna, .[ ] this is a celebrated work on the molecular theory of matter, grounded on the hypothesis of spheres of alternate attraction and repulsion. boscovich was a jesuit of varied pursuit. during his measurement of a degree of the meridian, while on horseback or waiting for his observations, he composed a latin poem of about five thousand verses on eclipses, { } with notes, which he dedicated to the royal society: _de solis et lunæ defectibus_,[ ] london, millar and dodsley, , to. traité de paix entre des cartes et newton, _précédé_ des vies littéraires de ces deux chefs de la physique moderne.... by aimé henri paulian.[ ] avignon, , mo. i have had these books for many years without feeling the least desire to see how a lettered jesuit would atone descartes and newton. on looking at my two volumes, i find that one contains nothing but the literary life of descartes; the other nothing but the literary life of newton. the preface indicates more: and watt mentions _three_ volumes.[ ] i dare say the first two contain all that is valuable. on looking more attentively at the two volumes, i find them both readable and instructive; the account of newton is far above that of voltaire, but not so popular. but he should not have said that newton's family came from newton in ireland. sir rowland hill gives fourteen _newtons_ in ireland;[ ] twice the number of the cities that contended for the birth of homer may now contend for the origin of newton, on the word of father paulian. philosophical essays, in three parts. by r. lovett, lay clerk of the cathedral church of worcester. worcester, , vo. the electrical philosopher: containing a new system of physics { } founded upon the principle of an universal plenum of elementary fire.... by r. lovett, worcester, , vo. mr. lovett[ ] was one of those ether philosophers who bring in elastic fluid as an explanation by imposition of words, without deducing any one phenomenon from what we know of it. and yet he says that attraction has received no support from geometry; though geometry, applied to a particular law of attraction, had shown how to predict the motions of the bodies of the solar system. he, and many of his stamp, have not the least idea of the confirmation of a theory by accordance of deduced results with observation posterior to the theory. bailly's exaggerated view of astronomy. lettres sur l'atlantide de platon, et sur l'ancien histoire de l'asie, pour servir de suite aux lettres sur l'origine des sciences, adressées à m. de voltaire, par m. bailly.[ ] london and paris, , vo. i might enter here all bailly's histories of astronomy.[ ] the paradox which runs through them all more or less, is the doctrine that astronomy is of immense antiquity, coming from some forgotten source, probably the drowned island of plato, peopled by a race whom bailly makes, as has { } been said, to teach us everything except their existence and their name. these books, the first scientific histories which belong to readable literature, made a great impression by power of style: delambre created a strong reaction, of injurious amount, in favor of history founded on contemporary documents, which early astronomy cannot furnish. these letters are addressed to voltaire, and continue the discussion. there is one letter of voltaire, being the fourth, dated feb. , , and signed "le vieux malade de ferney, v. puer centum annorum."[ ] then begin bailly's letters, from january to may , . from some ambiguous expressions in the preface, it would seem that these are fictitious letters, supposed to be addressed to voltaire at their dates. voltaire went to paris february , , and died there may . nearly all this interval was his closing scene, and it is very unlikely that bailly would have troubled him with these letters.[ ] an inquiry into the cause of motion, or a general theory of physics. by s. miller. london, , to newton all wrong: matter consists of two kinds of particles, one inert, the other elastic and capable of expanding themselves _ad infinitum_. saint-martin on errors and truth. des erreurs et de la vérité, ou les hommes rappelés au principe universel de la science; ouvrage dans lequel, en faisant remarquer aux observateurs l'incertitude de leurs recherches, et leurs méprises continuelles, on leur indique la route qu'ils auroient dû suivre, pour acquérir l'évidence physique sur l'origine du bien et du mal, sur l'homme, sur la nature matérielle, et la nature sacrée; sur la base des gouvernements { } politiques, sur l'autorité des souverains, sur la justice civile et criminelle, sur les sciences, les langues, et les arts. par un ph.... inc.... a edimbourg. .[ ] two vols. vo. this is the famous work of louis claude de saint-martin[ ] ( - ), for whose other works, vagaries included, the reader must look elsewhere: among other things, he was a translator of jacob behmen.[ ] the title promises much, and the writer has smart thoughts now and then; but the whole is the wearisome omniscience of the author's day and country, which no reader of our time can tolerate. not that we dislike omniscience; but we have it of our own country, both home-made and imported; and fashions vary. but surely there can be but one omniscience? must a man have but one wife? nay, may not a man have a new wife while the old one is living? there was a famous instrumental professor forty years ago, who presented a friend to madame ----. the friend started, and looked surprised; for, not many weeks before, he had been presented to another lady, with the same title, at paris. the musician observed his surprise, and quietly said, "celle-ci est madame ---- de londres." in like manner we have a london omniscience now current, which would make any one start who only knew the old french article. the book was printed at lyons, but it was a trick of french authors to pretend to be afraid of prosecution: it { } made a book look wicked-like to have a feigned place of printing, and stimulated readers. a government which had undergone voltaire would never have drawn its sword upon quiet saint-martin. to make himself look still worse, he was only ph[ilosophe] inc...., which is generally read _inconnu_[ ] but sometimes _incrédule_; [ ] most likely the ambiguity was intended. there is an awful paradox about the book, which explains, in part, its leaden sameness. it is all about _l'homme_, _l'homme_, _l'homme_,[ ] except as much as treats of _les hommes_, _les hommes_, _les hommes_;[ ] but not one single man is mentioned by name in its pages. it reminds one of "water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink." not one opinion of any other man is referred to, in the way of agreement or of opposition. not even a town is mentioned: there is nothing which brings a capital letter into the middle of a sentence, except, by the rarest accident, such a personification as _justice_. a likely book to want an _edimbourg_ godfather! saint-martin is great in mathematics. the number _four_ essentially belongs to straight lines, and _nine_ to curves. the object of a straight line is to perpetuate _ad infinitum_ the production of a point from which it emanates. a circle [circle] bounds the production of all its radii, tends to destroy them, and is in some sort their enemy. how is it possible that things so distinct should not be distinguished in their _number_ as well as in their action? if this important observation had been made earlier, immense trouble would have been saved to the mathematicians, who would have been prevented from searching for a common measure to lines which have nothing in common. but, though all straight lines have the number _four_, it must not be supposed that they are all equal, for a line is the result of its law and { } its number; but though both are the same for all lines of a sort, they act differently, as to force, energy, and duration, in different individuals; which explains all differences of length, etc. i congratulate the reader who understands this; and i do not pity the one who does not. saint-martin and his works are now as completely forgotten as if they had never been born, except so far as this, that some one may take up one of the works as of heretical character, and lay it down in disappointment, with the reflection that it is as dull as orthodoxy. for a person who was once in some vogue, it would be difficult to pick out a more fossil writer, from aa to zypoeus, except,--though it is unusual for (,--) to represent an interval of more than a year--his unknown opponent. this opponent, in the very year of the _des erreurs_ ... published a book in two parts with the same fictitious place of printing; tableau naturel des rapports qui existent entre dieu, l'homme, et l'univers. a edimbourg, , vo.[ ] there is a motto from the _des erreurs_ itself, "expliquer les choses par l'homme, et non l'homme par les choses. _des erreurs et de la vérité_, par un ph.... inc...., p. ."[ ] this work is set down in various catalogues and biographies as written by the ph.... inc.... himself. but it is not usual for a writer to publish two works in the same year, one of which takes a motto from the other. and the second work is profuse in capitals and italics, and uses hebrew learning: its style differs much from the first work. the first work sets out from man, and has nothing to do with god: the second is religious and raps the knuckles of the first as follows: "si nous voulons nous préserver de toutes { } les illusions, et surtout des amorces de l'orgueil par lesquelles l'homme est si souvent séduit, ne prenons jamais les hommes, mais toujours _dieu_ pour notre terme de comparaison."[ ] the first uses _four_ and _nine_ in various ways, of which i have quoted one: the second says, "et ici se trouve déjà une explication des nombres _quatre_ et _neuf_, qui ont peu embarrassé dans l'ouvrage déjà cité. l'homme s'est égaré en allant de _quatre_ à _neuf_...."[ ] the work cited is the _erreurs_, etc., and the citation is in the motto, which is the text of the opposition sermon. a forerunner of the metric system. method to discover the difference of the earth's diameters; proving its true ratio to be not less variable than as is to , and shortest in its pole's axis miles.... likewise a method for fixing an universal standard for weights and measures. by thomas williams.[ ] london, , vo. mr. williams was a paradoxer in his day, and proposed what was, no doubt, laughed at by some. he proposed the sort of plan which the french--independently of course--carried into effect a few years after. he would have the d degree of latitude divided into , parts and each part a geographical yard. the geographical ton was to be the cube of a geographical yard filled with sea-water taken some leagues from land. all multiples and sub-divisions were to be decimal. i was beginning to look up those who had made similar proposals, when a learned article on the proposal of a { } metrical system came under my eye in the _times_ of sept. , . the author cites mouton,[ ] who would have the minute of a degree divided into , _virgulæ_; james cassini,[ ] whose foot was to be six thousandths of a minute; and paucton,[ ] whose foot was the , th of a degree. i have verified the first and third statements; surely the second ought to be the _six-thousandth_. an inquiry into the copernican system ... wherein it is proved, in the clearest manner, that the earth has only her diurnal motion ... with an attempt to point out the only true way whereby mankind can receive any real benefit from the study of the heavenly bodies. by john cunningham.[ ] london, , vo. the "true way" appears to be the treatment of heaven and earth as emblematical of the trinity. cosmology. an inquiry into the cause of what is called gravitation or attraction, in which the motions of the heavenly bodies, and the preservation and operations of all nature, are deduced from an universal principle of efflux and reflux. by t. vivian,[ ] vicar of cornwood, devon. bath, , mo. { } attraction, an influx of matter to the sun; centrifugal force, the solar rays; cohesion, the pressure of the atmosphere. the confusion about centrifugal _force_, so called, as demanding an external agent, is very common. thomas paine's rights of man. the rights of man, being an answer to mr. burke's attack on the french revolution.[ ] by thomas paine.[ ] in two parts. - . vo. (various editions.)[ ] a vindication of the rights of woman, with strictures on political and moral subjects. by mary wollstonecraft.[ ] . vo. a sketch of the rights of boys and girls. by launcelot light, of westminster school; and lætitia lookabout, of queen's square, bloomsbury. [by the rev. samuel parr,[ ] ll.d.] . vo. (pp. ). when did we three meet before? the first work has sunk into oblivion: had it merited its title, it might have { } lived. it is what the french call a _pièce de circonstance_; it belongs in time to the french revolution, and in matter to burke's opinion of that movement. those who only know its name think it was really an attempt to write a philosophical treatise on what we now call socialism. silly government prosecutions gave it what it never could have got for itself. mary wollstonecraft seldom has her name spelled right. i suppose the o! o! character she got made her w_oo_lstonecraft. watt gives double insinuation, for his cross-reference sends us to g_oo_dwin.[ ] no doubt the title of the book was an act of discipleship to paine's _rights of man_; but this title is very badly chosen. the book was marred by it, especially when the authoress and her husband assumed the right of dispensing with legal sanction until the approach of offspring brought them to a sense of their child's interest.[ ] not a hint of such a claim is found in the book, which is mostly about female education. the right claimed for woman is to have the education of a rational human being, and not to be considered as nothing but woman throughout youthful training. the maxims of mary wollstonecraft are now, though not derived from her, largely followed in the education of girls, especially in home education: just as many of the political principles of tom paine, again not derived from him, are the guides of our actual legislation. i remember, forty years ago, an old lady used to declare that she disliked girls from the age of sixteen to five-and-twenty. "they are full," said she, "of _femalities_." she spoke of their behavior to women as well as to men. she { } would have been shocked to know that she was a follower of mary wollstonecraft, and had packed half her book into one sentence. the third work is a satirical attack on mary wollstonecraft and tom paine. the details of the attack would convince any one that neither has anything which would now excite reprobation. it is utterly unworthy of dr. parr, and has quite disappeared from lists of his works, if it were ever there. that it was written by him i take to be evident, as follows. nichols,[ ] who could not fail to know, says (_anecd._, vol. ix, p. ): "this is a playful essay by a first-rate scholar, who is elsewhere noticed in this volume, but whose name i shall not bring forward on so trifling an occasion." who the scholar was is made obvious by master launcelot being made to talk of bellendenus.[ ] further, the same boy is made to say, "let dr. parr lay his hand upon his heart, if his conscience will let him, and ask himself how many thousands of wagon-loads of this article [birch] he has cruelly misapplied." how could this apply to parr, with his handful of private pupils,[ ] and no reputation for severity? any one except himself would have called on the head-master of westminster or eton. i doubt whether the name of parr could be connected with the rod by anything in print, except the above and an anecdote of his pupil, tom sheridan.[ ] the doctor had dressed for a dinner visit, and { } was ready a quarter of an hour too soon to set off. "tom," said he, "i think i had better whip you now; you are sure to do something while i am out."--"i wish you would, sir!" said the boy; "it would be a letter of licence for the whole evening." the doctor saw the force of the retort: my two tutelaries will see it by this time. they paid in advance; and i have given liberal interpretation to the order. the following story of dr. parr was told me and others, about , by the late leonard horner,[ ] who knew him intimately. parr was staying in a house full of company, i think in the north of england. some gentlemen from america were among the guests, and after dinner they disputed some of parr's assertions or arguments. so the doctor broke out with "do you know what country you come from? you come from the place to which we used to send our thieves!" this made the host angry, and he gave parr such a severe rebuke as sent him from the room in ill-humor. the rest walked on the lawn, amusing the americans with sketches of the doctor. there was a dark cloud overhead, and from that cloud presently came a voice which called _tham_ (parr-lisp for _sam_). the company were astonished for a moment, but thought the doctor was calling his servant in the house, and that the apparent direction was an illusion arising out of inattention. but presently the sound was repeated, certainly from the cloud, "and nearer, clearer, deadlier than before." there was now a little alarm: where could the doctor have got to? they ran to his bedroom, and there they discovered a sufficient rather than satisfactory explanation. the doctor had taken his pipe into his bedroom, and had seated himself, in sulky mood, upon the higher bar of a large and deep old-fashioned grate with a high mantelshelf. here he had { } tumbled backwards, and doubled himself up between the bars and the back of the grate. he was fixed tight, and when he called for help, he could only throw his voice up the chimney. the echo from the cloud was the warning which brought his friends to the rescue. attacks on religious customs. days of political paradox were coming, at which we now stare. cobbett[ ] said, about , in earnest, that in the country every man who did not take off his hat to the clergyman was suspected, and ran a fair chance of having something brought against him. i heard this assertion canvassed, when it was made, in a party of elderly persons. the radicals backed it, the old tories rather denied it, but in a way which satisfied me they ought to have denied it less if they could not deny it more. but it must be said that the governments stopped far short of what their partisans would have had them do. all who know robert robinson's[ ] very quiet assault on church-made festivals in his _history and mystery of good friday_ ( )[ ] will hear or remember with surprise that the _british critic_ pronounced it a direct, unprovoked, and malicious libel on the most { } sacred institutions of the national church. it was reprinted again and again: in it was in a cheap form at s. d. a hundred. when the jacobin day came, the state was really in a fright: people thought twice before they published what would now be quite disregarded. i examined a quantity of letters addressed to george dyer[ ] (charles lamb's g.d.) and what between the autographs of thelwall, hardy, horne tooke, and all the rebels,[ ] put together a packet which produced five guineas, or thereabouts, for the widow. among them were the following verses, sent by the author--who would not put his name, even in a private letter, for fear of accidents--for consultation whether they could safely be sent to an editor: and they were _not_ sent. the occasion was the public thanksgiving at st. paul's for the naval victories, december , . "god bless me! what a thing! have you heard that the king goes to st. paul's? { } good lord! and when he's there, he'll roll his eyes in prayer, to make poor johnny stare at this fine thing. "no doubt the plan is wise to blind poor johnny's eyes by this grand show; for should he once suppose that he's led by the nose, down the whole fabric goes, church, lords, and king. "as he shouts duncan's[ ] praise, mind how supplies they'll raise in wondrous haste. for while upon the sea we gain one victory, john still a dupe will be and taxes pay. "till from his little store three-fourths or even more goes to the crown. ah, john! you little think how fast we downward sink and touch the fatal brink at which we're slaves." i would have indicted the author for not making his thirds and sevenths rhyme. as to the rhythm, it is not much better than what the french sang in the calais theater when the duke of clarence[ ] took over louis xviii in . "god save noble clarence, who brings our king to france; god save clarence! he maintains the glory of the british navy, etc., etc." { } perhaps had this been published, the government would have assailed it as a libel on the church service. they got into the way of defending themselves by making libels on the church, of what were libels, if on anything, on the rulers of the state; until the celebrated trials of hone settled the point for ever, and established that juries will not convict for one offence, even though it have been committed, when they know the prosecution is directed at another offence and another intent. hone's famous trials. the results of hone's trials (william hone, - ) are among the important constitutional victories of our century. he published parodies on the creeds, the lord's prayer, the catechism, etc., with intent to bring the ministry into contempt: everybody knew that was his _purpose_. the government indicted him for impious, profane, blasphemous intent, but not for seditious intent. they hoped to wear him out by proceeding day by day. december , , they hid themselves under the lord's prayer, the creed, and the commandments; december , under the litany; december , under the athanasian creed, an odd place for shelter when they could not find it in the previous places. hone defended himself for six, seven, and eight hours on the several days: and the jury acquitted him in , , and minutes. in the second trial the offense was laid both as profanity and as sedition, which seems to have made the jury hesitate. and they probably came to think that the second count was false pretence: but the length of their deliberation is a satisfactory addition to the value of the whole. in the first trial the attorney-general (shepherd) had the impudence to say that the libel had nothing of a political tendency about it, but was _avowedly_ set off against the religion and worship of the church of england. the whole { } is political in every sentence; neither more nor less political than the following, which is part of the parody on the catechism: "what is thy duty towards the minister? my duty towards the minister is, to trust him as much as i can; to honor him with all my words, with all my bows, with all my scrapes, and with all my cringes; to flatter him; to give him thanks; to give up my whole soul to him; to idolize his name, and obey his word, and serve him blindly all the days of his political life." and the parody on the creed begins, "i believe in george, the regent almighty, maker of new streets and knights of the bath." this is what the attorney-general said had nothing of a political tendency about it. but this was _on the first trial_: hone was not known. the first day's trial was under justice abbott (afterwards c. j. tenterden).[ ] it was perfectly understood, when chief justice ellenborough[ ] appeared in court on the second day, that he was very angry at the first result, and put his junior aside to try his own rougher dealing. but hone tamed the lion. an eye-witness told me that when he implored of hone not to detail his own father bishop law's[ ] views on the athanasian creed, which humble petition hone kindly granted, he held by the desk for support. and the same when--which is not reported--the attorney-general appealed to the court for protection against a { } stinging attack which hone made on the bar: he _held on_, and said, "mr. attorney, what _can_ i do!" i was a boy of twelve years old, but so strong was the feeling of exultation at the verdicts that boys at school were not prohibited from seeing the parodies, which would have been held at any other time quite unfit to meet their eyes. i was not able to comprehend all about the lord chief justice until i read and heard again in after years. in the meantime, joe miller had given me the story of the leopard which was sent home on board a ship of war, and was in two days made as docile as a cat by the sailors.[ ] "you have got that fellow well under," said an officer. "lord bless your honor!" said jack, "if the emperor of marocky would send us a cock rhinoceros, we'd bring him to his bearings in no time!" when i came to the subject again, it pleased me to entertain the question whether, if the emperor had sent a cock rhinoceros to preside on the third day in the king's bench, hone would have mastered _him_: i forget how i settled it. there grew up a story that hone caused lord ellenborough's death, but this could not have been true. lord ellenborough resigned his seat in a few months, and died just a year after the trials; but sixty-eight years may have had more to do with it than his defeat. a large subscription was raised for hone, headed by the duke of bedford[ ] for £ . many of the leading anti-ministerialists joined: but there were many of the other side who avowed their disapprobation of the false pretense. many could not venture their names. in the list i find: { } a member of the house of lords, an enemy to persecution, and especially to religious persecution employed for political purposes--no parodist, but an enemy to persecution--a juryman on the third day's trial--ellen borough--my name would ruin me--oh! minions of pitt--oil for the hone--the ghosts of jeffries[ ] and sir william roy [ghosts of jeffries in abundance]--a conscientious jury and a conscientious attorney, £ s. d.--to mr. hone, for defending in his own person the freedom of the press, attacked for a political object, under the old pretense of supporting religion--a cut at corruption--an earldom for myself and a translation for my brother--one who disapproves of parodies, but abhors persecution--from a schoolboy who wishes mr. hone to have a very grand subscription--"for delicacy's sake forbear," and "felix trembled"--"i will go myself to-morrow"--judge jeffries' works rebound in calf by law--keep us from law, and from the shepherd's paw--i must not give you my name, but god bless you!--as much like judge jeffries as the present times will permit--may jeffries' fame and jeffries' fate on every modern jeffries wait--no parodist, but an admirer of the man who has proved the fallacy of the lawyer's law, that when a man is his own advocate he has a fool for his client--a mussulman who thinks it would not be an impious libel to parody the koran--may the suspenders of the habeas corpus act be speedily suspended--three times twelve for thrice-tried hone, who cleared the cases himself alone, and won three heats by twelve to one, £ s.--a conscientious attorney, £ s. d.--rev. t. b. morris, rector of shelfanger, who disapproves of the parodies, but abhors the making an affected zeal for religion the pretext for political persecution--a lawyer opposed in principle to { } law--for the hone that set the razor that shaved the rats--rev. dr. samuel parr, who most seriously disapproves of all parodies upon the hallowed language of scripture and the contents of the prayer-book, but acquits mr. hone of intentional impiety, admires his talents and fortitude, and applauds the good sense and integrity of his juries--religion without hypocrisy, and law without impartiality--o law! o law! o law! these are specimens of a great many allusive mottoes. the subscription was very large, and would have bought a handsome annuity, but hone employed it in the bookselling trade, and did not thrive. his _everyday book_[ ] and his _apocryphal new testament_,[ ] are useful books. on an annuity he would have thriven as an antiquarian writer and collector. it is well that the attack upon the right to ridicule ministers roused a dormant power which was equal to the occasion. hone declared, on his honor, that he had never addressed a meeting in his life, nor spoken a word before more than twelve persons. had he--which however could not then be done--employed counsel and had a _guilty defense_ made for him, he would very likely have been convicted, and the work would have been left to be done by another. no question that the parodies disgusted all who reverenced christianity, and who could not separate the serious and the ludicrous, and prevent their existence in combination. my extracts, etc., are from the nineteenth, seventeenth, and sixteenth editions of the three trials, which seem to have been contemporaneous (all in ) as they are made up into one book, with additional title over all, and the motto "thrice the brindled cat hath mew'd." they are published by hone himself, who i should have said was a publisher { } as well as was to be. and though the trials only ended dec. , , the preface attached to this common title is dated jan. , .[ ] the spirit which was roused against the false dealing of the government, i.e., the pretense of prosecuting for impiety when all the world knew the real offense was, if anything, sedition--was not got up at the moment: there had been previous exhibitions of it. for example, in the spring of mr. russell, a little printer in birmingham, was indicted for publishing the political litany[ ] on which hone was afterwards tried. he took his witnesses to the summer warwick assizes, and was told that the indictment had been removed by certiorari into the king's bench. he had notice of trial for the spring assizes at warwick: he took his witnesses there, and the trial was postponed by the crown. he then had notice for the summer assizes at warwick; and so on. the policy seems to have been to wear out the obnoxious parties, either by delays or by heaping on trials. the government was odious, and knew it could _not_ get verdicts against ridicule, and _could_ get verdicts against impiety. no difficulty was found in convicting the sellers of paine's works, and the like. when hone was held to bail it was seen that a crisis was at hand. all parties in politics furnished him with parodies in proof of religious persons having made instruments of them. the parodies by addison and luther were contributed by a tory lawyer, who was afterwards a judge. hone had published, in , tracts of purely political ridicule: _official account of the noble lord's bite,_[ ] _trial of the dog for biting the noble lord_, etc. these were not touched. after the trials, it is manifest that hone was { } to be unassailed, do what he might. _the political house that jack built_, in ; _the man in the moon_, ; _the queen's matrimonial ladder_, _non mi ricordo_, _the r--l fowls_, ; _the political showman at home_, with plates by g. cruickshank,[ ] [he did all the plates]; _the spirit of despotism_, --would have been legitimate marks for prosecution in previous years. the biting caricature of several of these works are remembered to this day. _the spirit of despotism_ was a tract of , of which a few copies had been privately circulated with great secrecy. hone reprinted it, and prefixed the following address to "robert stewart, _alias_ lord castlereagh"[ ]: "it appears to me that if, unhappily, your counsels are allowed much longer to prevail in the brunswick cabinet, they will bring on a crisis, in which the king may be dethroned or the people enslaved. experience has shown that the people will not be enslaved--the alternative is the affair of your employers." hone might say this without notice. in mr. murray[ ] published lord byron's _don juan_,[ ] and hone followed it with _don john, or don juan unmasked_, a little account of what the publisher to the admiralty was allowed to issue without prosecution. the parody on the commandments was a case very much in point: and hone makes a stinging allusion to the use of the "_unutterable name_, with a profane levity unsurpassed by { } any other two lines in the english language." the lines are "'tis strange--the hebrew noun which means 'i am,' the english always use to govern d----n." hone ends with: "lord byron's dedication of 'don juan' to lord castlereagh was suppressed by mr. murray from delicacy to ministers. q. why did not mr. murray suppress lord byron's _parody_ on the ten commandments? _a._ because it contains nothing in ridicule of ministers, and therefore nothing that _they_ could suppose would lead to the displeasure of almighty god." the little matters on which i have dwelt will never appear in history from their political importance, except in a few words of result. as a mode of thought, silly evasions of all kinds belong to such a work as the present. ignorance, which seats itself in the chair of knowledge, is a mother of revolutions in politics, and of unread pamphlets in circle-squaring. from to the question of revolution or no revolution lurked in all our english discussions. the high classes must govern; the high classes shall not govern; and thereupon issue was to be joined. in - the question came to issue; and it was, revolution with or without civil war; choose. the choice was wisely made; and the reform bill started a new system so well dovetailed into the old that the joinings are hardly visible. and now, in , the thing is repeated with a marked subsidence of symptoms; and the party which has taken the place of the extinct tories is carrying through parliament a wider extension of the franchise than their opponents would have ventured. napoleon used to say that a decided nose was a sign of power: on which it has been remarked that he had good reason to say so before the play was done. and so had our country; it was saved from a religious war, and from a civil war, by the power of that nose over its colleagues. { } thomas taylor, the platonist. the commentaries of proclus.[ ] translated by thomas taylor.[ ] london, , vols. to.[ ] the reputation of "the platonist" begins to grow, and will continue to grow. the most authentic account is in the _penny cyclopædia_, written by one of the few persons who knew him well, and one of the fewer who possess all his works. at page lvi of the introduction is taylor's notion of the way to find the circumference. it is not geometrical, for it proceeds on the motion of a point: the words "on account of the simplicity of the impulsive motion, such a line must be either straight or circular" will suffice to show how platonic it is. taylor certainly professed a kind of heathenism. d'lsraeli said, "mr. t. taylor, the platonic philosopher and the modern plethon,[ ] consonant to that philosophy, professes polytheism." taylor printed this in large type, in a page by itself after the dedication, without any disavowal. i have seen the following, greek and translation both, in his handwriting: "[greek: pas agathos hêi agathos ethnikos; kai pas christianos hêi christianos kakos.] every good man, so far as he is a good man, is a heathen; and every christian, so far as he is a christian, is a bad man." whether taylor had in his head the christian of the new testament, or whether he drew from those members of the "religious world" who make manifest the religious flesh and the religious devil, { } cannot be decided by us, and perhaps was not known to himself. if a heathen, he was a virtuous one. a new era in fiction. ( .) this is the date of a very remarkable paradox. the religious world--to use a name claimed by a doctrinal sect--had long set its face against amusing literature, and all works of imagination. bunyan, milton, and a few others were irresistible; but a long face was pulled at every attempt to produce something readable for poor people and _poor children_. in , a benevolent association began to circulate the works of a lady who had been herself a dramatist, and had nourished a pleasant vein of satire in the society of garrick and his friends; all which is carefully suppressed in some biographies. hannah more's[ ] _cheap repository tracts_,[ ] which were bought by millions of copies, destroyed the vicious publications with which the hawkers deluged the country, by the simple process of furnishing the hawkers with something more saleable. _dramatic fiction_, in which the _characters_ are drawn by themselves, was, at the middle of the last century, the monopoly of writers who required indecorum, such as fielding and smollett. all, or nearly all, which could be permitted to the young, was dry narrative, written by people who could not make their personages _talk character_; they all spoke { } alike. the author of the _rambler_[ ] is ridiculed, because his young ladies talk johnsonese; but the satirists forget that all the presentable novel-writers were equally incompetent; even the author of _zeluco_ ( )[ ] is the strongest possible case in point. dr. moore,[ ] the father of the hero of corunna,[ ] with good narrative power, some sly humor, and much observation of character, would have been, in our day, a writer of the _peacock_[ ] family. nevertheless, to one who is accustomed to our style of things, it is comic to read the dialogue of a jealous husband, a suspected wife, a faithless maid-servant, a tool of a nurse, a wrong-headed pomposity of a priest, and a sensible physician, all talking dr. moore through their masks. certainly an irish soldier does say "by jasus," and a cockney footman "this here" and "that there"; and this and the like is all the painting of characters which is effected out of the mouths of the bearers by a narrator of great power. i suspect that some novelists repressed their power under a rule that a narrative should narrate, and that the dramatic should be confined to the drama. i make no exception in favor of miss burney;[ ] though she was the forerunner of a new era. suppose a country { } in which dress is always of one color; suppose an importer who brings in cargoes of blue stuff, red stuff, green stuff, etc., and exhibits dresses of these several colors, that person is the similitude of miss burney. it would be a delightful change from a universal dull brown, to see one person all red, another all blue, etc.; but the real inventor of pleasant dress would be the one who could mix his colors and keep down the bright and gaudy. miss burney's introduction was so charming, by contrast, that she nailed such men as johnson, burke, garrick, etc., to her books. but when a person who has read them with keen pleasure in boyhood, as i did, comes back to them after a long period, during which he has made acquaintance with the great novelists of our century, three-quarters of the pleasure is replaced by wonder that he had not seen he was at a puppet-show, not at a drama. take some _labeled_ characters out of our humorists, let them be put together into one piece, to speak only as labeled: let there be a dominie with nothing but "prodigious!" a dick swiveller with nothing but adapted quotations; a dr. folliott with nothing but sneers at lord brougham;[ ] and the whole will pack up into one of miss burney's novels. maria edgeworth,[ ] sydney owenson (lady morgan),[ ] jane austen,[ ] walter scott,[ ] etc., are all of our century; as { } are, i believe, all the minerva press novels, as they were called, which show some of the power in question. perhaps dramatic talent found its best encouragement in the drama itself. but i cannot ascertain that any such power was directed at the multitude, whether educated or uneducated, with natural mixture of character, under the restraints of decorum, until the use of it by two religious writers of the school called "evangelical," hannah more and rowland hill.[ ] the _village dialogues_, though not equal to the _repository tracts_, are in many parts an approach, and perhaps a copy; there is frequently humorous satire, in that most effective form, self-display. they were published in , and, partly at least, by the religious tract society, the lineal successor of the _repository_ association, though knowing nothing about its predecessor. i think it right to add that rowland hill here mentioned is not the regenerator of the post office.[ ] some do not distinguish accurately; i have heard of more than one who took me to have had a logical controversy with a diplomatist who died some years before i was born. the religious tract society. a few years ago, an attempt was made by myself and others to collect some information about the _cheap repository_ (see _notes and queries_, d series, vi. , , ; _christian observer_, dec. , pp. - ). it appeared that after the religious tract society had existed more than fifty years, a friend presented it with a copy of the original prospectus of the _repository_, a thing the existence of which was not known. in this prospectus it is announced that from the plan "will be carefully excluded whatever is enthusiastic, absurd, or superstitious." the "evangelical" { } party had, from the foundation of the religious tract society, regretted that the _repository tracts_ "did not contain a fuller statement of the great evangelical principles"; while in the prospectus it is also stated that "no cause of any particular party is intended to be served by it, but general christianity will be promoted upon practical principles." this explains what has often been noticed, that the tracts contain a mild form of "evangelical" doctrine, free from that more fervid dogmatism which appears in the _village dialogues_; and such as h. more's friend, bishop porteus[ ]--a great promoter of the scheme--might approve. the religious tract society (in ) republished some of h. more's tracts, with alterations, additions, and omissions _ad libitum_. this is an improper way of dealing with the works of the dead; especially when the reprints are of popular works. a small type addition to the preface contains: "some alterations and abridgements have been made to adapt them to the present times and the aim of the religious tract society." i think every publicity ought to be given to the existence of such a practice; and i reprint what i said on the subject in _notes and queries_. alterations in works which the society republishes are a necessary part of their plan, though such notes as they should judge to be corrective would be the best way of proceeding. but the fact of alteration should be very distinctly announced on the title of the work itself, not left to a little bit of small type at the end of the preface, in the place where trade advertisements, or directions to the binder, are often found. and the places in which alteration has been made should be pointed out, either by marks of omission, when omission is the alteration, or by putting the altered sentences in brackets, when change has been made. may any one alter the works of the dead at his own discretion? { } we all know that readers in general will take each sentence to be that of the author whose name is on the title; so that a correcting republisher _makes use of his author's name to teach his own variation_. the tortuous logic of "the trade," which is content when "the world" is satisfied, is not easily answered, any more than an eel is easily caught; but the religious tract society may be _convinced_ [in the old sense] in a sentence. on which course would they feel most safe in giving their account to the god of truth? "in your own conscience, now?" i have tracked out a good many of the variations made by the religious tract society in the recently published volume of _repository tracts_. most of them are doctrinal insertions or amplifications, to the matter of which hannah more would not have objected--all that can be brought against them is the want of notice. but i have found two which the respect i have for the religious tract society, in spite of much difference on various points, must not prevent my designating as paltry. in the story of mary wood, a kind-hearted clergyman converses with the poor girl who has ruined herself by lying. in the original, he "assisted her in the great work of repentance;" in the reprint it is to be shown in some detail how he did this. he is to begin by pointing out that "the heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked." now the clergyman's name is _heartwell_: so to prevent his name from contradicting his doctrine, he is actually cut down to _harwell_. hannah moore meant this good man for one of those described in acts xv. , , and his name was appropriate. again, mr. flatterwell, in persuasion of parley the porter to let him into the castle, declares that the worst he will do is to "play an innocent game of cards just to keep you awake, or sing a cheerful song with the maids." oh fie! miss hannah more! and you a single lady too, and a contemporary of the virtuous bowdler![ ] though flatterwell be an { } allegory of the devil, this is really too indecorous, even for him. out with the three last words! and out it is. the society cuts a poor figure before a literary tribunal. nothing was wanted except an admission that the remarks made by me were unanswerable, and this was immediately furnished by the secretary (_n. and q._, d s., vi. ). in a reply of which six parts out of seven are a very amplified statement that the society did not intend to reprint _all_ hannah more's tracts, the remaining seventh is as follows: "i am not careful [perhaps this should be _careful not_] to notice professor de morgan's objections to the changes in 'mary wood' or 'parley the porter,' but would merely reiterate that the tracts were neither designed nor announced to be 'reprints' of the originals [design is only known to the designers; as to announcement, the title is ''tis all for the best, the shepherd of salisbury plain, and other narratives by hannah more']; and much less [this must be _careful not_; further removed from answer than _not careful_] can i occupy your space by a treatise on the professor's question: 'may any one alter the works of the dead at his own discretion?'" to which i say: thanks for help! i predict that hannah more's _cheap repository tracts_ will somewhat resemble the _pilgrim's progress_ in their fate. written for the cottage, and long remaining in their original position, they will become classical works of their kind. most assuredly this will happen if my assertion cannot be upset, namely, that they contain the first specimens of fiction addressed to the world at large, and widely circulated, in which dramatic--as distinguished from puppet--power is shown, and without indecorum. { } according to some statements i have seen, but which i have not verified, other publishing bodies, such as the christian knowledge society, have taken the same liberty with the names of the dead as the religious tract society. if it be so, the impropriety is the work of the smaller spirits who have not been sufficiently overlooked. there must be an overwhelming majority in the higher councils to feel that, whenever _altered_ works are published, _the fact of alteration should be made as prominent as the name of the author_. everything short of this is suppression of truth, and will ultimately destroy the credit of the society. equally necessary is it that the alterations should be noted. when it comes to be known that the author before him is altered, he knows not where nor how nor by whom, the lowest reader will lose his interest. a tribute to william frend. the principles of algebra. by william frend.[ ] london, , vo. second part, . this algebra, says dr. peacock,[ ] shows "great distrust { } of the results of algebraical science which were in existence at the time when it was written." truly it does; for, as dr. peacock had shown by full citation, it makes war of extermination upon all that distinguishes algebra from arithmetic. robert simson[ ] and baron maseres[ ] were mr. frend's predecessors in this opinion. the genuine respect which i entertained for my father-in-law did not prevent my canvassing with perfect freedom his anti-algebraical and anti-newtonian opinions, in a long obituary memoir read at the astronomical society in february , which was written by me. it was copied into the _athenæum_ of march . it must be said that if the manner in which algebra _was_ presented to the learner had been true algebra, he would have been right: and if he had confined himself to protesting against the imposition of attraction as a fundamental part of the existence of matter, he would have been in unity with a great many, including newton himself. i wish he had preferred amendment to rejection when he was a college tutor: he wrote and spoke english with a clearness which is seldom equaled. his anti-newtonian discussions are confined to the preliminary chapters of his _evening amusements_,[ ] a series of astronomical lessons in nineteen volumes, following the moon through a period of the golden numbers. there is a mistake about him which can never be destroyed. it is constantly said that, at his celebrated trial in , for sedition and opposition to the liturgy, etc., he was _expelled_ from the university. he was _banished_. people cannot see the difference; but it made all the difference to { } mr. frend. he held his fellowship and its profits till his marriage in , and was a member of the university and of its senate till his death in , as any cambridge calendar up to will show. that they would have expelled him if they could, is perfectly true; and there is a funny story--also perfectly true--about their first proceedings being under a statute which would have given the power, had it not been discovered during the proceedings that the statute did not exist. it had come so near to existence as to be entered into the vice-chancellor's book for his signature, which it wanted, as was not seen till mr. frend exposed it: in fact, the statute had never actually passed. there is an absurd mistake in gunning's[ ] _reminiscences of cambridge_. in quoting a passage of mr. frend's pamphlet, which was very obnoxious to the existing government, it is printed that the poor market-women complained that they were to be _scotched_ a quarter of their wages by taxation; and attention is called to the word by its being three times printed in italics. in the pamphlet it is "sconced"; that very common old word for fined or mulcted. lord lyndhurst,[ ] who has [ ] just passed away under a load of years and honors, was mr. frend's private pupil at cambridge. at the time of the celebrated trial, he and two others amused themselves, and vented the feeling which was very strong among the undergraduates, by chalking the walls of cambridge with "frend for ever!" while thus engaged in what, using the term legally, we are probably to call his first publication, he and his friends were surprised by the proctors. flight and chase followed of course: copley and one of the others, serjeant rough,[ ] escaped: the { } third, whose name i forget, but who afterwards, i have been told was a bishop,[ ] being lame, was captured and impositioned. looking at the cambridge calendar to verify the fact that copley was an undergraduate at the time, i find that there are but two other men in the list of honors of his year whose names are now widely remembered. and they were both celebrated schoolmasters; butler[ ] of harrow, and tate[ ] of richmond. but mr. frend had another noted pupil. i once had a conversation with a very remarkable man, who was generally called "place,[ ] the tailor," but who was politician, political economist, etc., etc. he sat in the room above his shop--he was then a thriving master tailor at charing cross--surrounded by books enough for nine, to shame a proverb. the blue books alone, cut up into strips, would have measured great britain for oh-no-we-never-mention-'ems, the highlands included. i cannot find a biography of this worthy and able man. i happened to mention william frend, and he said, "ah! my old master, as i always call him. many and many a time, and year after year, did he come in every { } now and then to give me instruction, while i was sitting on the board, working for my living, you know." place, who really was a sound economist, is joined with cobbett, because they were together at one time, and because he was, in , etc., a great radical. but for cobbett he had a great contempt. he told me the following story. he and others were advising with cobbett about the defense he was to make on a trial for seditious libel which was coming on. said place, "you must put in the letters you have received from ministers, members of the commons from the speaker downwards, etc., about your register, and their wish to have subjects noted. you must then ask the jury whether a person so addressed must be considered as a common sower of sedition, etc. you will be acquitted; nay, if your intention should get about, very likely they will manage to stop proceedings." cobbett was too much disturbed to listen; he walked about the room ejaculating "d---- the prison!" and the like. he had not the sense to follow the advice, and was convicted. cobbett, to go on with the chain, was a political acrobat, ready for any kind of posture. a friend of mine gave me several times an account of a mission to him. a tory member--those who know the old tory world may look for his initials in initials of two consecutive words of "pay his money with interest"--who was, of course, a political opponent, thought cobbett had been hardly used, and determined to subscribe handsomely towards the expenses he was incurring as a candidate. my friend was commissioned to hand over the money--a bag of sovereigns, that notes might not be traced. he went into cobbett's committee-room, told the patriot his errand, and put the money on the table. "and to whom, sir, am i indebted?" said cobbett. "the donor," was the answer, "is mr. andrew theophilus smith," or some such unlikely pair of baptismals. "ah!" said cobbett, "i have known mr. a. t. s. a long time! he was always a true friend of his country!" { } to return to place. he is a noted instance of the advantage of our jury system, which never asks a man's politics, etc. the late king of hanover, when duke of cumberland, being unpopular, was brought under unjust suspicions by the suicide of his valet: he must have seduced the wife and murdered the husband. the charges were as absurd as those brought against the englishman in the frenchman's attempt at satirical verses upon him: "the englishman is a very bad man; he drink the beer and he steal the can: he kiss the wife and he beat the man; and the englishman is a very g---- d----." the charges were revived in a much later day, and the defense might have given some trouble. but place, who had been the foreman at the inquest, came forward, and settled the question in a few lines. every one knew that the old radical was quite free of all disposition to suppress truth from wish to curry favor with royalty. john speed,[ ] the author of the _english history_,[ ] ( ) which bishop nicolson[ ] calls the best chronicle extant, was a man, like place, of no education, but what he gave himself. the bishop says he would have done better if he had a better training: but what, he adds, could have been expected from a tailor! this speed was, as well as place. but he was { } released from manual labor by sir fulk grevil,[ ] who enabled him to study. a story on simson. i have elsewhere noticed that those who oppose the mysteries of algebra do not ridicule them; this i want the cyclometers to do. of the three who wrote against the great point, the negative quantity, and the uses of which are connected with it, only one could fire a squib. that robert simson[ ] should do such a thing will be judged impossible by all who admit tradition. i do not vouch for the following; i give it as a proof of the impression which prevailed about him: he used to sit at his open window on the ground floor, as deep in geometry as a robert simson ought to be. here he would be accosted by beggars, to whom he generally gave a trifle, he roused himself to hear a few words of the story, made his donation, and instantly dropped down into his depths. some wags one day stopped a mendicant who was on his way to the window with "now, my man, do as we tell you, and you will get something from that gentleman, and a shilling from us besides. you will go and say you are in distress, he will ask you who you are, and you will say you are robert simson, son of john simson of kirktonhill." the man did as he was told; simson quietly gave him a coin, and dropped off. the wags watched a little, and saw him rouse himself again, and exclaim "robert simson, son of john simson of kirktonhill! why, that is myself. that man must be an impostor." lord brougham tells the same story, with some difference of details. { } baron maseres. baron maseres[ ] was, as a writer, dry; those who knew his writings will feel that he seldom could have taken in a joke or issued a pun. maseres was the fourth wrangler of , and first chancellor's medallist (or highest in classics); his second was porteus[ ] (afterward bishop of london). waring[ ] came five years after him: he could not get maseres through the second page of his first book on algebra; a negative quantity stood like a lion in the way. in he published his _dissertation on the use of the negative sign_,[ ] to. there are some who care little about + and -, who would give it house-room for the sake of the four words "printed by samuel richardson." maseres speaks as follows: "a single quantity can never be marked with either of those signs, or considered as either affirmative or negative; for if any single quantity, as b, is marked either with the sign + or with the sign - without assigning some other quantity, as a, to which it is to be added, or from which it is to be subtracted, the mark will have no meaning or signification: thus if it be said that the square of - , or the product of - into - , is equal to + , such an assertion must either signify no more than that times is equal to without any regard to the signs, or it must be mere nonsense and unintelligible jargon. i speak according to the foregoing definition, by which the affirmativeness or negativeness of any quantity implies a relation to another quantity of the same kind to which it { } is added, or from which it is subtracted; for it may perhaps be very clear and intelligible to those who have formed to themselves some other idea of affirmative and negative quantities different from that above defined." nothing can be more correct, or more identically logical: + and - , standing alone, are jargon if + and - are to be understood as without reference to another quantity. but those who have "formed to themselves some other idea" see meaning enough. the great difficulty of the opponents of algebra lay in want of power or will to see extension of terms. maseres is right when he implies that extension, accompanied by its refusal, makes jargon. one of my paradoxers was present at a meeting of the royal society (in , i think) and asked permission to make some remarks upon a paper. he rambled into other things, and, naming me, said that i had written a book in which two sides of a triangle are pronounced _equal_ to the third.[ ] so they are, in the sense in which the word is used in complete algebra; in which a + b = c makes a, b, c, three sides of a triangle, and declares that going over a and b, one after the other, is equivalent, in change of place, to going over c at once. my critic, who might, if he pleased, have objected to extension, insisted upon reading me in unextended meaning. on the other hand, it must be said that those who wrote on the other idea wrote very obscurely about it and justified des cartes (_de methodo_)[ ] when he said: "algebram vero, ut solet doceri, animadverti certis regulis et numerandi formulis ita esse contentam, ut videatur potius ars quædam confusa, cujus usu ingenium quodam modo turbatur et obscuratur, quam scientia qua excolatur et perspicacius { } reddatur."[ ] maseres wrote this sentence on the title of his own work, now before me; he would have made it his motto if he had found it earlier. there is, i believe, in cobbett's _annual register_,[ ] an account of an interview between maseres and cobbett when in prison. the conversation of maseres was lively, and full of serious anecdote: but only one attempt at humorous satire is recorded of him; it is an instructive one. he was born in (dec. ), and his father was a refugee. french was the language of the house, with the pronunciation of the time of louis xiv. he lived until (may ), and saw the race of refugees who were driven out by the first revolution. their pronunciation differed greatly from his own; and he used to amuse himself by mimicking them. those who heard him and them had the two schools of pronunciation before them at once; a thing which seldom happens. it might even yet be worth while to examine the canadian pronunciation. maseres went as attorney-general to quebec; and was appointed cursitor baron of our exchequer in . there is a curious story about his mission to canada, which i have heard as good tradition, but have never seen in print. the reader shall have it as cheap as i; and i confess i rather believe it. maseres was inveterately honest; he could not, at the bar, bear to see his own client victorious, when he knew his cause was a bad one. on a certain occasion he was in a cause which he knew would go against him if a certain case were quoted. neither the judge nor the opposite counsel seemed to remember this case, and maseres could not help dropping an allusion which brought it out. { } his business as a barrister fell off, of course. some time after, mr. pitt (chatham) wanted a lawyer to send to canada on a private mission, and wanted a _very honest man_. some one mentioned maseres, and told the above story: pitt saw that he had got the man he wanted. the mission was satisfactorily performed, and maseres remained as attorney-general. the _doctrine of life annuities_[ ] ( to, pages, ) is a strange paradox. its size, the heavy dissertations on the national debt, and the depth of algebra supposed known, put it out of the question as an elementary work, and it is unfitted for the higher student by its elaborate attempt at elementary character, shown in its rejection of forms derived from chances in favor of _the average_, and its exhibition of the separate values of the years of an annuity, as arithmetical illustrations. it is a climax of unsaleability, unreadability, and inutility. for intrinsic nullity of interest, and dilution of little matter with much ink, i can compare this book to nothing but that of claude de st. martin, elsewhere mentioned, or the lectures _on the nature and properties of logarithms_, by james little,[ ] dublin, , vo. ( heavy pages of many words and few symbols), a wonderful weight of weariness. the stock of this work on annuities, very little diminished, was given by the author to william frend, who paid warehouse room for it until about , when he consulted me as to its disposal. as no publisher could be found who would take it as a gift, for any purpose of sale, it was consigned, all but a few copies, to a buyer of waste paper. baron maseres's republications are well known: the _scriptores logarithmici_[ ] is a set of valuable reprints, mixed { } with much which might better have entered into another collection. it is not so well known that there is a volume of optical reprints, _scriptores optici_, london, , to, edited for the veteran of ninety-two by mr. babbage[ ] at twenty-nine. this excellent volume contains james gregory, des cartes, halley, barrow, and the optical writings of huyghens, the _principia_ of the undulatory theory. it also contains, by the sort of whim in which such men as maseres, myself, and some others are apt to indulge, a reprint of "the great new art of weighing vanity,"[ ] by m. patrick mathers, arch-bedel to the university of st. andrews, glasgow, . professor sinclair,[ ] of glasgow, a good man at clearing mines of the water which they did not want, and furnishing cities with water which they did want, seems to have written absurdly about hydrostatics, and to have attacked a certain sanders,[ ] m.a. so sanders, assisted by james gregory, published a heavy bit of jocosity about him. this story of the authorship rested on a note made in his { } copy by robert gray, m.d.; but it has since been fully confirmed by a letter of james gregory to collins, in the macclesfield correspondence. "there is one master sinclair, who did write the _ars magna et nova_,[ ] a pitiful ignorant fellow, who hath lately written horrid nonsense in the hydrostatics, and hath abused a master in the university, one mr. sanders, in print. this mr. sanders ... is resolved to cause the bedel of the university to write against him.... we resolve to make excellent sport with him." on this i make two remarks: first, i have learned from experience that old notes, made in books by their possessors, are statements of high authority: they are almost always confirmed. i do not receive them without hesitation; but i believe that of all the statements about books which rest on one authority, there is a larger percentage of truth in the written word than in the printed word. secondly, i mourn to think that when the new zealander picks up his old copy of this book, and reads it by the associations of his own day, he may, in spite of the many assurances i have received that my _athenæum budget_ was amusing, feel me to be as heavy as i feel james gregory and sanders. but he will see that i knew what was coming, which gregory did not. mr. frend's burlesque. it was left for mr. frend to prove that an impugner of algebra could attempt ridicule. he was, in , editor of a periodical _the gentleman's monthly miscellany_, which lasted a few months.[ ] to this, among other things, he contributed the following, in burlesque of the use made of , to which he objected.[ ] the imitation of rabelais, a writer { } in whom he delighted, is good: to those who have never dipped, it may give such a notion as they would not easily get elsewhere. the point of the satire is not so good. but in truth it is not easy to make pungent scoffs upon what is common sense to all mankind. who can laugh with effect at six times nothing is nothing, as false or unintelligible? in an article intended for that undistinguishing know- the "general reader," there would have been no force of satire, if _division_ by had been separated from multiplication by the same. i have followed the above by another squib, by the same author, on the english language. the satire is covertly aimed at theological phraseology; and any one who watches this subject will see that it is a very just observation that the greek words are not boiled enough. pantagruel's decision _of the_ question _about_ nothing. "pantagruel determined to have a snug afternoon with epistemon and panurge. dinner was ordered to be set in a small parlor, and a particular batch of hermitage with some choice burgundy to be drawn from a remote corner of the cellar upon the occasion. by way of lunch, about an hour before dinner, pantagruel was composing his stomach with german sausages, reindeer's tongues, oysters, brawn, and half a dozen different sorts of english beer just come into fashion, when a most thundering knocking was heard at the great gate, and from the noise they expected it to announce the arrival at least of the first consul, or king gargantua. panurge was sent to reconnoiter, and after a quarter of an hour's absence, returned with the news that the university of pontemaca was waiting his highness's leisure in the great hall, to propound a question which { } had turned the brains of thirty-nine students, and had flung twenty-seven more into a high fever. with all my heart, says pantagruel, and swallowed down three quarts of burton ale; but remember, it wants but an hour of dinner time, and the question must be asked in as few words as possible; for i cannot deprive myself of the pleasure i expected to enjoy in the company of my good friends for a set of mad-headed masters. i wish brother john was here to settle these matters with the black gentry. "having said or rather growled this, he proceeded to the hall of ceremony, and mounted his throne; epistemon and panurge standing on each side, but two steps below him. then advanced to the throne the three beadles of the university of pontemaca with their silver staves on their shoulders, and velvet caps on their heads, and they were followed by three times three doctors, and thrice three times three masters of art; for everything was done in pontemaca by the number three, and on this account the address was written on parchment, one foot in breadth, and thrice three times thrice three feet in length. the beadles struck the ground with their heads and their staves three times in approaching the throne; the doctors struck the ground with their heads thrice three times, and the masters did the same thrice each time, beating the ground with their heads thrice three times. this was the accustomed form of approaching the throne, time out of mind, and it was said to be emblematic of the usual prostration of science to the throne of greatness. "the mathematical professor, after having spit, and hawked, and cleared his throat, and blown his nose on a handkerchief lent to him, for he had forgotten to bring his own, began to read the address. in this he was assisted by three masters of arts, one of whom, with a silver pen, pointed out the stops; the second with a small stick rapped his knuckles when he was to raise or lower his voice; and a third pulled his hair behind when he was to look pantagruel in the face. pantagruel began to chafe like a lion: { } he turned first on one side, then on the other: he listened and groaned, and groaned and listened, and was in the utmost cogitabundity of cogitation. his countenance began to brighten, when, at the end of an hour, the reader stammered out these words: "'it has therefore been most clearly proved that as all matter may be divided into parts infinitely smaller than the infinitely smallest part of the infinitesimal of nothing, so nothing has all the properties of something, and may become, by just and lawful right, susceptible of addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, squaring, and cubing: that it is to all intents and purposes as good as anything that has been, is, or can be taught in the nine universities of the land, and to deprive it of its rights is a most cruel innovation and usurpation, tending to destroy all just subordination in the world, making all universities superfluous, leveling vice-chancellors, doctors, and proctors, masters, bachelors, and scholars, to the mean and contemptible state of butchers and tallow-chandlers, bricklayers and chimney-sweepers, who, if it were not for these learned mysteries, might think that they knew as much as their betters. every one then, who has the good of science at heart, must pray for the interference of his highness to put a stop to all the disputes about nothing, and by his decision to convince all gainsayers that the science of nothing is taught in the best manner in the universities, to the great edification and improvement of all the youth in the land.' "here pantagruel whispered in the ear of panurge, who nodded to epistemon, and they two left the assembly, and did not return for an hour, till the orator had finished his task. the three beadles had thrice struck the ground with their heads and staves, the doctors had finished their compliments, and the masters were making their twenty-seven prostrations. epistemon and panurge went up to pantagruel, whom they found fast asleep and snoring; nor could he be roused but by as many tugs as there had been { } bowings from the corps of learning. at last he opened his eyes, gave a good stretch, made half a dozen yawns, and called for a stoup of wine. i thank you, my masters, says he; so sound a nap i have not had since i came from the island of priestfolly. have you dined, my masters? they answered the question by as many bows as at entrance; but his highness left them to the care of panurge, and retired to the little parlor with epistemon, where they burst into a fit of laughter, declaring that this learned baragouin about nothing was just as intelligible as the lawyer's galimathias. panurge conducted the learned body into a large saloon, and each in his way hearing a clattering of plates and glasses, congratulated himself on his approaching good cheer. there they were left by panurge, who took his chair by pantagruel just as the soup was removed, but he made up for the want of that part of his dinner by a pint of champagne. the learning of the university had whetted their appetites; what they each ate it is needless to recite; good wine, good stories, and hearty laughs went round, and three hours elapsed before one soul of them recollected the hungry students of pontemaca. "epistemon reminded them of the business in hand, and orders were given for a fresh dozen of hermitage to be put upon table, and the royal attendants to get ready. as soon as the dozen bottles were emptied, pantagruel rose from table, the royal trumpets sounded, and he was accompanied by the great officers of his court into the large dining hall, where was a table with forty-two covers. pantagruel sat at the head, epistemon at the bottom, and panurge in the middle, opposite an immense silver tureen, which would hold fifty gallons of soup. the wise men of pontemaca then took their seats according to seniority. every countenance glistened with delight; the music struck up; the dishes were uncovered. panurge had enough to do to handle the immense silver ladle: pantagruel and epistemon had no time for eating, they were fully employed in carving. the bill { } of fare announced the names of a hundred different dishes. from panurge's ladle came into the soup plate as much as he took every time out of the tureen; and as it was the rule of the court that every one should appear to eat, as long as he sat at table, there was the clattering of nine and thirty spoons against the silver soup-plates for a quarter of an hour. they were then removed, and knives and forks were in motion for half an hour. glasses were continually handed round in the mean time, and then everything was removed, except the great tureen of soup. the second course was now served up, in dispatching which half an hour was consumed; and at the conclusion the wise men of pontemaca had just as much in their stomachs as pantagruel in his head from their address: for nothing was cooked up for them in every possible shape that panurge could devise. "wine-glasses, large decanters, fruit dishes, and plates were now set on. pantagruel and epistemon alternately gave bumper toasts: the university of pontemaca, the eye of the world, the mother of taste and good sense and universal learning, the patroness of utility, and the second only to pantagruel in wisdom and virtue (for these were her titles), was drank standing with thrice three times three, and huzzas and clattering of glasses; but to such wine the wise men of pontemaca had not been accustomed; and though pantagruel did not suffer one to rise from table till the eighty-first glass had been emptied, not even the weakest headed master of arts felt his head in the least indisposed. the decanters indeed were often removed, but they were brought back replenished, filled always with nothing. "silence was now proclaimed, and in a trice panurge leaped into the large silver tureen. thence he made his bows to pantagruel and the whole company, and commenced an oration of signs, which lasted an hour and a half, and in which he went over all the matter contained in the pontemaca address; and though the wise men looked very serious during the whole time, pantagruel himself and his whole { } court could not help indulging in repeated bursts of laughter. it was universally acknowledged that he excelled himself, and that the arguments by which he beat the english masters of arts at paris were nothing to the exquisite selection of attitudes which he this day assumed. the greatest shouts of applause were excited when he was running thrice round the tureen on its rim, with his left hand holding his nose, and the other exercising itself nine and thirty times on his back. in this attitude he concluded with his back to the professor of mathematics; and at the instant he gave his last flap, by a sudden jump, and turning heels over head in the air, he presented himself face to face to the professor, and standing on his left leg, with his left hand holding his nose, he presented to him, in a white satin bag, pantagruel's royal decree. then advancing his right leg, he fixed it on the professor's head, and after three turns, in which he clapped his sides with both hands thrice three times, down he leaped, and pantagruel, epistemon, and himself took their leaves of the wise men of pontemaca. "the wise men now retired, and by royal orders were accompanied by a guard, and according to the etiquette of the court, no one having a royal order could stop at any public house till it was delivered. the procession arrived at pontemaca at nine o'clock the next morning, and the sound of bells from every church and college announced their arrival. the congregation was assembled; the royal decree was saluted in the same manner as if his highness had been there in person; and after the proper ceremonies had been performed, the satin bag was opened exactly at twelve o'clock. a finely emblazoned roll was drawn forth, and the public orator read to the gaping assembly the following words: "'they who can make something out of nothing shall have nothing to eat at the court of--pantagruel.'" { } origin _of the_ english language, _related by a_ swede. "some months ago in a party in holland, consisting of natives of various countries, the merit of their respective languages became a topic of conversation. a swede, who had been a great traveler, and could converse in most of the modern languages of europe, laughed very heartily at an englishman, who had ventured to speak in praise of the tongue of his dear country. i never had any trouble, says he, in learning english. to my very great surprise, the moment i sat foot on shore at gravesend, i found out, that i could understand, with very little trouble, every word that was said. it was a mere jargon, made up of german, french, and italian, with now and then a word from the spanish, latin or greek. i had only to bring my mouth to their mode of speaking, which was done with ease in less than a week, and i was everywhere taken for a true-born englishman; a privilege by the way of no small importance in a country, where each man, god knows why, thinks his foggy island superior to any other part of the world: and though his door is never free from some dun or other coming for a tax, and if he steps out of it he is sure to be knocked down or to have his pocket picked, yet he has the insolence to think every foreigner a miserable slave, and his country the seat of everything wretched. they may talk of liberty as they please, but spain or turkey for my money: barring the bowstring and the inquisition, they are the most comfortable countries under heaven, and you need not be afraid of either, if you do not talk of religion and politics. i do not see much difference too in this respect in england, for when i was there, one of their most eminent men for learning was put in prison for a couple of years, and got his death for translating one of Æsop's fables into english, which every child in spain and turkey is taught, as soon as he comes out of his leading strings. here all the company unanimously cried out against the swede, that it was { } impossible: for in england, the land of liberty, the only thing its worst enemies could say against it, was, that they paid for their liberty a much greater price than it was worth.--every man there had a fair trial according to laws, which everybody could understand; and the judges were cool, patient, discerning men, who never took the part of the crown against the prisoner, but gave him every assistance possible for his defense. "the swede was borne down, but not convinced; and he seemed determined to spit out all his venom. well, says he, at any rate you will not deny that the english have not got a language of their own, and that they came by it in a very odd way. of this at least i am certain, for the whole history was related to me by a witch in lapland, whilst i was bargaining for a wind. here the company were all in unison again for the story. "in ancient times, said the old hag, the english occupied a spot in tartary, where they lived sulkily by themselves, unknowing and unknown. by a great convulsion that took place in china, the inhabitants of that and the adjoining parts of tartary were driven from their seats, and after various wanderings took up their abode in germany. during this time nobody could understand the english, for they did not talk, but hissed like so many snakes. the poor people felt uneasy under this circumstance, and in one of their parliaments, or rather hissing meetings, it was determined to seek a remedy: and an embassy was sent to some of our sisterhood then living on mount hecla. they were put to a nonplus, and summoned the devil to their relief. to him the english presented their petitions, and explained their sad case; and he, upon certain conditions, promised to befriend them, and to give them a language. the poor devil was little aware of what he had promised; but he is, as all the world knows, a man of too much honor to break his word. up and down the world then he went in quest of this new language: visited all the universities, and all { } the schools, and all the courts of law, and all the play-houses, and all the prisons; never was poor devil so fagged. it would have made your heart bleed to see him. thrice did he go round the earth in every parallel of latitude; and at last, wearied and jaded out, back came he to hecla in despair, and would have thrown himself into the volcano, if he had been made of combustible materials. luckily at that time our sisters were engaged in settling the balance of europe; and whilst they were looking over projects, and counter-projects, and ultimatums, and post ultimatums, the poor devil, unable to assist them was groaning in a corner and ruminating over his sad condition. "on a sudden, a hellish joy overspread his countenance; up he jumped, and, like archimedes of old, ran like a madman amongst the throng, turning over tables, and papers, and witches, roaring out for a full hour together nothing else but 'tis found, 'tis found! away were sent the sisterhood in every direction, some to traverse all the corners of the earth, and others to prepare a larger caldron than had ever yet been set upon hecla. the affairs of europe were at a stand: its balance was thrown aside; prime ministers and ambassadors were everywhere in the utmost confusion; and, by the way, they have never been able to find the balance since that time, and all the fine speeches upon the subject, with which your newspapers are every now and then filled, are all mere hocus-pocus and rhodomontade. however, the caldron was soon set on, and the air was darkened by witches riding on broomsticks, bringing a couple of folios under each arm, and across each shoulder. i remember the time exactly: it was just as the council of nice had broken up, so that they got books and papers there dog cheap; but it was a bad thing for the poor english, as these were the worst materials that entered into the caldron. besides, as the devil wanted some amusement, and had not seen an account of the transactions of this famous council, he had all the books brought from it laid before him, and split his sides almost { } with laughing, whilst he was reading the speeches and decrees of so many of his old friends and acquaintances. all this while the witches were depositing their loads in the great caldron. there were books from the dalai lama, and from china: there were books from the hindoos, and tallies from the caffres: there were paintings from mexico, and rocks of hieroglyphics from egypt: the last country supplied besides the swathings of two thousand mummies, and four-fifths of the famed library of alexandria. bubble! bubble! toil and trouble! never was a day of more labor and anxiety; and if our good master had but flung in the greek books at the proper time, they would have made a complete job of it. he was a little too impatient: as the caldron frothed up, he skimmed it off with a great ladle, and filled some thousands of our wind-bags with the froth, which the english with great joy carried back to their own country. these bags were sent to every district: the chiefs first took their fill, and then the common people; hence they now speak a language which no foreigner can understand, unless he has learned half a dozen other languages; and the poor people, not one in ten, understand a third part of what is said to them. the hissing, however, they have not entirely got rid of, and every seven years, when the devil, according to agreement, pays them a visit, they entertain him at their common halls and county meetings with their original language. "the good-natured old hag told me several other circumstances, relative to this curious transaction, which, as there is an englishman in company, it will be prudent to pass over in silence: but i cannot help mentioning one thing which she told me as a very great secret. you know, says she to me, that the english have more religions among them than any other nation in europe, and that there is more teaching and sermonizing with them than in any other country. the fact is this; it matters not who gets up to teach them, the hard words of the greek were not sufficiently { } boiled, and whenever they get into a sentence, the poor people's brains are turned, and they know no more what the preacher is talking about, than if he harangued them in arabic. take my word for it if you please; but if not, when you get to england, desire the bettermost sort of people that you are acquainted with to read to you an act of parliament, which of course is written in the clearest and plainest style in which anything can be written, and you will find that not one in ten will be able to make tolerable sense of it. the language would have been an excellent language, if it had not been for the council of nice, and the words had been well boiled. "here the company burst out into a fit of laughter. the englishman got up and shook hands with the swede: _si non è vero_, said he, _è ben trovato_.[ ] but, however i may laugh at it here, i would not advise you to tell this story on the other side of the water. so here's a bumper to old england for ever, and god save the king." on youthful prodigies. the accounts given of extraordinary children and adolescents frequently defy credence.[ ] i will give two well-attested instances. the celebrated mathematician alexis claude clairault (now clairaut)[ ] was certainly born in may, . his treatise on curves of double curvature (printed in )[ ] received { } the approbation of the academy of sciences, august , . fontenelle, in his certificate of this, calls the author sixteen years of age, and does not strive to exaggerate the wonder, as he might have done, by reminding his readers that this work, of original and sustained mathematical investigation, must have been coming from the pen at the ages of fourteen and fifteen. the truth was, as attested by de molières,[ ] clairaut had given public proofs of his power at twelve years old. his age being thus publicly certified, all doubt is removed: say he had been--though great wonder would still have been left--twenty-one instead of sixteen, his appearance, and the remembrances of his friends, schoolfellows, etc., would have made it utterly hopeless to knock off five years of that age while he was on view in paris as a young lion. de molières, who examined the work officially for the _garde des sceaux_, is transported beyond the bounds of official gravity, and says that it "ne mérite pas seulement d'être imprimé, mais d'être admiré comme un prodige d'imagination, de conception, et de capacité."[ ] that blaise pascal was born in june, , is perfectly well established and uncontested.[ ] that he wrote his conic sections at the age of sixteen might be difficult to establish, though tolerably well attested, if it were not for { } one circumstance, for the book was not published. the celebrated theorem, "pascal's hexagram,"[ ] makes all the rest come very easy. now curabelle,[ ] in a work published in , sneers at desargues,[ ] whom he quotes, for having, in , deferred a discussion until "cette grande proposition nommée le pascale verra le jour."[ ] that is, by the time pascal was nineteen, the _hexagram_ was circulating under a name derived from the author. the common story about pascal, given by his sister,[ ] is an absurdity which no doubt has prejudiced many against tales of early proficiency. he is made, when quite a boy, to invent geometry _in the order of euclid's propositions_: as if that order were natural sequence of investigation. the hexagram at ten years old would be a hundred times less unlikely. the instances named are painfully astonishing: i give one which has fallen out of sight, because it will preserve an imperfect biography. john wilson[ ] is wilson of that { } ilk, that is, of "wilson's theorem." it is this: if _p_ be a prime number, the product of all the numbers up to _p_- , increased by , is divisible without remainder by _p_. all mathematicians know this as wilson's theorem, but few know who wilson was. he was born august , , at the howe in applethwaite, and he was heir to a small estate at troutbeck in westmoreland. he was sent to peterhouse, at cambridge, and while an undergraduate was considered stronger in algebra than any one in the university, except professor waring, one of the most powerful algebraists of the century.[ ] he was the senior wrangler of , and was then for some time a private tutor. when paley,[ ] then in his third year, determined to make a push for the senior wranglership, which he got, wilson was recommended to him as a tutor. both were ardent in their work, except that sometimes paley, when he came for his lesson, would find "gone a fishing" written on his tutor's outer door: which was insult added to injury, for paley was very fond of fishing. wilson soon left cambridge, and went to the bar. he practised on the northern circuit with great success; and, one day, while passing his vacation on his little property at troutbeck, he received information, to his great surprise, that lord thurlow,[ ] with whom he had { } no acquaintance, had recommended him to be a judge of the court of common pleas. he died, oct. , , with a very high reputation as a lawyer and a judge. these facts are partly from meadley's _life of paley_,[ ] no doubt from paley himself, partly from the _gentleman's magazine_, and from an epitaph written by bishop watson.[ ] wilson did not publish anything: the theorem by which he has cut his name in the theory of numbers was communicated to waring, by whom it was published. he married, in , a daughter of serjeant adair,[ ] and left issue. _had a family_, many will say: but a man and his wife are a family, even without children. an actuary may be allowed to be accurate in this matter, of which i was reminded by what an actuary wrote of another actuary. william morgan,[ ] in the life of his uncle dr. richard price,[ ] says that the doctor and his { } wife were "never blessed with an addition to their family." i never met with such accuracy elsewhere. of william morgan i add that my surname and pursuits have sometimes, to my credit be it said, made a confusion between him and me. dates are nothing to the mistaken; the last three years of morgan's life were the first three years of my actuary-life ( - ). the mistake was to my advantage as well as to my credit. i owe to it the acquaintance of one of the noblest of the human race, i mean elizabeth fry,[ ] who came to me for advice about a philanthropic design, which involved life questions, under a general impression that some morgan had attended to such things.[ ] { } newton again overthrown. a treatise on the sublime science of heliography, satisfactorily demonstrating our great orb of light, the sun, to be absolutely no other than a body of ice! overturning all the received systems of the universe hitherto extant; proving the celebrated and indefatigable sir isaac newton, in his theory of the solar system, to be as far distant from the truth, as many of the heathen authors of greece and rome. by charles palmer,[ ] gent. london, , vo. mr. palmer burned some tobacco with a burning glass, saw that a lens of ice would do as well, and then says: "if we admit that the sun could be removed, and a terrestrial body of ice placed in its stead, it would produce the same effect. the sun is a crystaline body receiving the radiance of god, and operates on this earth in a similar manner as the light of the sun does when applied to a convex mirror or glass." nov. , . the rev. thomas cormouls,[ ] minister of tettenhall, addressed a letter to sir wm. herschel, from which i extract the following: "here it may be asked, then, how came the doctrines of newton to solve all astronomic phenomina, and all problems concerning the same, both _a parte ante_ and _a parte post_.[ ] it is answered that he certainly wrought the principles he made use of into strickt analogy with the real phenomina of the heavens, and that the rules and results arizing from them { } agree with them and resolve accurately all questions concerning them. though they are not fact and true, or nature, but analogous to it, in the manner of the artificial numbers of logarithms, sines, &c. a very important question arises here, did newton mean to impose upon the world? by no means: he received and used the doctrines reddy formed; he did a little extend and contract his principles when wanted, and commit a few oversights of consequences. but when he was very much advanced in life, he suspected the fundamental nullity of them: but i have from a certain anecdote strong ground to believe that he knew it before his decease and intended to have retracted his error. but, however, somebody did deceive, if not wilfully, negligently at least. that was a man to whom the world has great obligations too. it was no less a philosopher than galileo." that newton wanted to retract before his death, is a notion not uncommon among paradoxers. nevertheless, there is no retraction in the third edition of the _principia_, published when newton was eighty-four years old! the moral of the above is, that a gentleman who prefers instructing william herschel to learning how to spell, may find a proper niche in a proper place, for warning to others. it seems that gravitation is not truth, but only the logarithm of it. bishops as paradoxers. the mathematical and philosophical works of the right rev. john wilkins[ ].... in two volumes. london, , vo. this work, or at least part of the edition--all for aught i know--is printed on wood; that is, on paper made from wood-pulp. it has a rough surface; and when held before a candle is of very unequal transparency. there is in it a reprint of the works on the earth and moon. the discourse on the possibility of going to the moon, in this and the edition of , is incorporated: but from the account in the { } life prefixed, and a mention by d'israeli, i should suppose that it had originally a separate title-page, and some circulation as a separate tract. wilkins treats this subject half seriously, half jocosely; he has evidently not quite made up his mind. he is clear that "arts are not yet come to their solstice," and that posterity will bring hidden things to light. as to the difficulty of carrying food, he thinks, scoffing puritan that he is, the papists may be trained to fast the voyage, or may find the bread of their eucharist "serve well enough for their _viaticum_."[ ] he also puts the case that the story of domingo gonsales may be realized, namely, that wild geese find their way to the moon. it will be remembered--to use the usual substitute for, it has been forgotten--that the posthumous work of bishop francis godwin[ ] of llandaff was published in , the very year of wilkins's first edition, in time for him to mention it at the end. godwin makes domingo gonsales get to the moon in a chariot drawn by wild geese, and, as old books would say, discourses fully on that head. it is not a little amusing that wilkins should have been seriously accused of plagiarizing godwin, wilkins writing in earnest, or nearly so, and godwin writing fiction. it may serve to show philosophers how very near pure speculation comes to fable. from the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step: which is the sublime, and which the ridiculous, every one must settle for himself. with me, good fiction is the sublime, and bad speculation the ridiculous. the number of bishops in my list is small. i might, had i possessed the book, have opened the list of quadrators with an archbishop of canterbury, or at least with a divine who was not wholly not archbishop. thomas bradwardine[ ] (bragvardinus, bragadinus) was elected in { } ; the pope put in another, who died unconsecrated; and bradwardine was again elected in , and lived five weeks longer, dying, i suppose, unconfirmed and unconsecrated.[ ] leland says he held the see a year, _unus tantum annulus_,[ ] which seems to be a confusion: the whole business, from the first election, took about a year. he squared the circle, and his performance was printed at paris in . i have never seen it, nor any work of the author, except a tract on proportion. as bradwardine's works are very scarce indeed, i give two titles from one of the libri catalogues. "arithmetic. brauardini (thomæ) arithmetica speculativa revisa et correcta a petro sanchez ciruelo aragonesi, black letter, _elegant woodcut title-page_, very rare, _folio. parisiis, per thomam anguelast (pro olivier senant), s. a. circa _.[ ] "this book, by thomas bradwardine, archbishop of canterbury must be exceedingly scarce as it has escaped the notice of professor de morgan, who, in his _arithmetical books_, speaks of a treatise of the same author on proportions,[ ] printed at vienna in , but does not mention the present work. { } "bradwardine (archbp. t.). brauardini (thomæ) geometria speculativa, com tractato de quadratura circuli bene revisa a petro sanchez ciruelo, scarce, _folio. parisiis, j. petit_, .[ ] "in this work we find the _polygones étoilés_,[ ] see chasles (_aperçu_, pp. , , , , &c.) on the merit of the discoveries of this english mathematician, who was archbishop of canterbury in the xivth century (_tempore_ edward iii. a.d. ); and who applied geometry to theology. m. chasles says that the present work of bradwardine contains 'une théorie nouvelle qui doit faire honneur au xive siècle.'"[ ] the titles do not make it quite sure that bradwardine is the quadrator; it may be peter sanchez after all.[ ] the question of parallels. nouvelle théorie des parallèles. par adolphe kircher[ ] [so signed at the end of the appendix]. paris, , vo. an alleged emendation of legendre.[ ] the author refers { } to attempts by hoffman,[ ] , by hauff,[ ] , and to a work of karsten,[ ] or at least a theory of karsten, contained in "tentamen novæ parallelarum theoriæ notione situs fundatæ; auctore g. c. schwal,[ ] stuttgardæ, , en volumes." surely this is a misprint; _eight_ volumes on the theory of parallels? if there be such a work, i trust i and it may never meet, though ever so far produced. { } soluzione ... della quadratura del circolo. by gaetano rossi.[ ] london, , vo. the three remarkable points of this book are, that the household of the prince of wales took ten copies, signora grassini[ ] sixteen, and that the circumference is - / diameters. that is, the appetite of grassini for quadrature exceeded that of the whole household (_loggia_) of the prince of wales in the ratio in which the semi-circumference exceeds the diameter. and these are the first two in the list of subscribers. did the author see this theorem? a patriotic paradox. britain independent of commerce; or proofs, deduced from an investigation into the true cause of the wealth of nations, that our riches, prosperity, and power are derived from sources inherent in ourselves, and would not be affected, even though our commerce were annihilated. by wm. spence.[ ] th edition, , vo. a patriotic paradox, being in alleviation of the commerce panic which the measures of napoleon i.--who _felt_ our commerce, while mr. spence only _saw_ it--had awakened. in this very month (august, ), the pres. brit. assoc. has applied a similar salve to the coal panic; it is fit that science, which rubbed the sore, should find a plaster. we ought to have an iron panic and a timber panic; and { } a solemn embassy to the americans, to beg them not to whittle, would be desirable. there was a gold panic beginning, before the new fields were discovered. for myself, i am the unknown and unpitied victim of a chronic gutta-percha panic: i never could get on without it; to me, gutta percha and rowland hill are the great discoveries of our day; and not unconnected either, gutta percha being to the submarine post what rowland hill is to the superterrene. i should be sorry to lose cow-choke--i gave up trying to spell it many years ago--but if gutta percha go, i go too. i think, that perhaps when, five hundred years hence, the people say to the brit. assoc. (if it then exist) "pray gentlemen, is it not time for the coal to be exhausted?" they will be answered out of molière (who will certainly then exist): "_cela était autrefois ainsi, mais nous avons changé tout cela._"[ ] a great many people think that if the coal be used up, it will be announced some unexpected morning by all the yards being shut up and written notice outside, "coal all gone!" just like the "please, ma'am, there ain't no more sugar," with which the maid servant damps her mistress just at breakfast-time. but these persons should be informed that there is every reason to think that there will be time, as the city gentleman said, to _venienti_ the _occurrite morbo_.[ ] some scientific paradoxes. an appeal to the republic of letters in behalf of injured science, from the opinions and proceedings of some modern authors of elements of geometry. by george douglas.[ ] edinburgh, , vo. mr. douglas was the author of a very good set of { } mathematical tables, and of other works. he criticizes simson,[ ] playfair,[ ] and others,--sometimes, i think, very justly. there is a curious phrase which occurs more than once. when he wants to say that something or other was done before simson or another was born, he says "before he existed, at least as an author." he seems to reserve the possibility of simson's _pre-existence_, but at the same time to assume that he never wrote anything in his previous state. tell me that simson pre-existed in any other way than as editor of some pre-existent euclid? tell apella![ ] . in this year jean wood, professor of mathematics in the university of virginia (richmond),[ ] addressed a printed circular to "dr. herschel, astronomer, greenwich observatory." no mistake was more common than the natural one of imagining that the _private astronomer_ of the king was the _astronomer royal_. the letter was on the { } difference of velocities of the two sides of the earth, arising from the composition of the rotation and the orbital motion. the _paradox_ is a fair one, and deserving of investigation; but, perhaps it would not be easy to deduce from it tides, trade-winds, aerolithes, &c., as mr. wood thought he had done in a work from which he gives an extract, and which he describes as published. the composition of rotations, &c., is not for the world at large: the paradox of the non-rotation of the moon about her axis is an instance. how many persons know that when a wheel rolls on the ground, the lowest point is moving upwards, the highest point forwards, and the intermediate points in all degrees of betwixt and between? this is too short an explanation, with some good difficulties. the elements of geometry. in vols. [by the rev. j. dobson,[ ] b.d.] cambridge, . to. of this unpunctuating paradoxer i shall give an account in his own way: he would not stop for any one; why should i stop for him? it is worth while to try how unpunctuated sentences will read. the reverend j dobson bd late fellow of saint johns college cambridge was rector of brandesburton in yorkshire he was seventh wrangler in and died in he was of that sort of eccentricity which permits account of his private life if we may not rather say that in such cases private life becomes public there is a tradition that he was called death dobson on account of his head and aspect of countenance being not very unlike the ordinary pictures of a human skull his mode of life is reported to have been very singular whenever he visited cambridge he was never known to go twice to the same inn he never would sleep at the rectory with another person in the house some ancient charwoman used to attend to the house but never slept in it he has been known in the time of coach travelling to have { } deferred his return to yorkshire on account of his disinclination to travel with a lady in the coach he continued his mathematical studies until his death and till his executors sold the type all his tracts to the number of five were kept in type at the university press none of these tracts had any stops except full stops at the end of paragraphs only neither had they capitals except one at the beginning of a paragraph so that a full stop was generally followed by some white as there is not a single proper name in the whole of the book i have i am not able to say whether he would have used capitals before proper names i have inserted them as usual for which i hope his spirit will forgive me if i be wrong he also published the elements of geometry in two volumes quarto cambridge this book had also no stops except when a comma was wanted between letters as in the straight lines ab, bc i should also say that though the title is unpunctuated in the author's part it seems the publishers would not stand it in their imprint this imprint is punctuated as usual and deighton and sons to prove the completeness of their allegiance have managed that comma semicolon and period shall all appear in it why could they not have contrived interrogation and exclamation this is a good precedent to establish the separate right of the publisher over the imprint it is said that only twenty of the tracts were printed and very few indeed of the book on geometry it is doubtful whether any were sold there is a copy of the geometry in the university library at cambridge and i have one myself the matter of the geometry differs entirely from euclid and is so fearfully prolix that i am sure no mortal except the author ever read it the man went on without stops and without stop save for a period at the end of a paragraph this is the unpunctuated account of the unpunctuating geometer _suum cuique tribuito_[ ] mrs thrale[ ] would have been amused { } at a dobson who managed to come to a full stop without either of the three warnings. i do not find any difficulty in reading dobson's geometry; and i have read more of it to try reading without stops than i should have done had it been printed in the usual way. those who dip into the middle of my paragraph may be surprised for a moment to see "on account of his disinclination to travel with a lady in the coach he continued his mathematical studies until his death and [further, of course] until his executors sold the type." but a person reading straight through would hardly take it so. i should add that, in order to give a fair trial, i did not compose as i wrote, but copied the words of the correspondent who gave me the facts, so far as they went. a religious paradox. _philosophia sacra, or the principles of natural philosophy. extracted from divine revelation._ by the rev. samuel pike.[ ] edited by the rev. samuel kittle.[ ] edinburgh, , vo. this is a work of modified hutchinsonianism, which i have seen cited by several. though rather dark on the subject, it seems not to contradict the motion of the earth, or the doctrine of gravitation. mr. kittle gives a list of some hutchinsonians,--as bishop horne;[ ] dr. stukeley;[ ] the rev. { } w. jones,[ ] author of _physiological disquisitions_; mr. spearman,[ ] author of _letters on the septuagint_ and editor of hutchinson; mr. barker,[ ] author of _reflexions on learning_; dr. catcott,[ ] author of a work on the creation, &c.; dr. robertson,[ ] author of a _treatise on the hebrew language_; _dr. holloway_,[ ] author of _originals, physical and theological_; dr. walter hodges,[ ] author of a work on _elohim_; lord president forbes (_ob._ ).[ ] the rev. william jones, above mentioned ( - ), the friend and biographer of bishop horne and his stout { } defender, is best known as william jones of nayland, who ( )[ ] published the _catholic doctrine of the trinity_; he was also strong for the hutchinsonian physical trinity of fire, light, and spirit. this well-known work was generally recommended, as the defence of the orthodox system, to those who could not go into the learning of the subject. there is now a work more suited to our time: _the rock of ages_, by the rev. e. h. bickersteth,[ ] now published by the religious tract society, without date, answered by the rev. dr. sadler,[ ] in a work ( ) entitled _gloria patri_, in which, says mr. bickersteth, "the author has not even attempted to grapple with my main propositions." i have read largely on the controversy, and i think i know what this means. moreover, when i see the note "there are two other passages to which unitarians sometimes refer, but the deduction they draw from them is, in each case, refuted by the context"--i think i see why the two texts are not named. nevertheless, the author is a little more disposed to yield to criticism than his foregoers; he does not insist on texts and readings which the greatest editors have rejected. and he writes with courtesy, both direct and oblique, towards his antagonists; which, on his side of this subject, is like letting in fresh air. so that i suspect the two books will together make a tolerably good introduction to the subject for those who cannot go deep. mr. bickersteth's book is well arranged and indexed, which is a point of superiority to jones of nayland. there is a point which i should gravely recommend to writers on the orthodox side. the unitarians in { } england have frequently contended that the method of proving the divinity of jesus christ from the new testament would equally prove the divinity of moses. i have not fallen in the way of any orthodox answers specially directed at the repeated tracts written by unitarians in proof of their assertion. if there be any, they should be more known; if there be none, some should be written. which ever side may be right, the treatment of this point would be indeed coming to close quarters. the heterodox assertion was first supported, it is said, by john bidle or biddle ( - ) of magdalen college, oxford, the earliest of the english unitarian writers, previously known by a translation of part of virgil and part of juvenal.[ ] but i cannot find that he wrote on it.[ ] it is the subject of "[greek: haireseôn anastasis], or a new way of deciding old controversies. by basanistes. third edition, enlarged," london, , vo.[ ] it is the appendix to the amusing, "six more letters to granville sharp, esq., ... by gregory blunt, esq." london, vo., .[ ] this much i can confidently say, that the study of these tracts would prevent orthodox writers from some curious slips, which are slips obvious to all sides of opinion. the lower defenders of orthodoxy frequently vex the spirits of the higher ones. since writing the above i have procured dr. sadler's answer. i thought i knew what the challenger meant when he said the respondent had not grappled with his main { } propositions. i should say that he is clung on to from beginning to end. but perhaps mr. b. has his own meaning of logical terms, such as "proposition": he certainly has his own meaning of "cumulative." he says his evidence is cumulative; not a catena, the strength of which is in its weakest part, but distinct and independent lines, each of which corroborates the other. this is the very opposite of _cumulative_: it is _distributive_. when different arguments are each necessary to a conclusion, the evidence is _cumulative_; when any one will do, even though they strengthen each other, it is _distributive_. the word "cumulative" is a synonym of the law word "constructive"; a whole which will do made out of parts which separately will not. lord strafford [ ] opens his defence with the use of both words: "they have invented a kind of _accumulated_ or _constructive_ evidence; by which many actions, either totally innocent in themselves, or criminal in a much inferior degree, shall, when united, _amount_ to treason." the conclusion is, that mr. b. is a cambridge man; the oxford men do not confuse the elementary terms of logic. o dear old cambridge! when the new zealander comes let him find among the relics of your later sons some proof of attention to the elementary laws of thought. a little-go of logic, please! mr. b., though apparently not a hutchinsonian, has a nibble at a physical trinity. "if, as we gaze on the sun shining in the firmament, we see any faint adumbration of the doctrine of the trinity in the fontal orb, the light ever generated, and the heat proceeding from the sun and its beams--threefold and yet one, the sun, its light, and its { } heat,--that luminous globe, and the radiance ever flowing from it, are both evident to the eye; but the vital warmth is felt, not seen, and is only manifested in the life it transfuses through creation. the proof of its real existence is self-demonstrating." we shall see how revilo[ ] illustrates orthodoxy by mathematics. it was my duty to have found one of the many illustrations from physics; but perhaps i should have forgotten it if this instance had not come in my way. it is very bad physics. the sun, apart from its light, evident to the eye! heat more self-demonstrating than light, because _felt_! heat only manifested by the life it diffuses! light implied not necessary to life! but the theology is worse than sabellianism[ ]. to adumbrate--i.e., make a picture of--the orthodox doctrine, the sun must be heavenly body, the light heavenly body, the heat heavenly body; and yet, not three heavenly bodies, but one heavenly body. the truth is, that this illustration and many others most strikingly illustrate the trinity of fundamental doctrine held by the unitarians, in all its differences from the trinity of persons held by the orthodox. be right which may, the right or wrong of the unitarians shines out in the comparison. dr. sadler confirms me--by which i mean that i wrote the above before i saw what he says--in the following words: "the sun is one object with two _properties_, and these properties have a parallel not in the second and third persons of the trinity, but in the attributes of deity." the letting light alone, as self-evident, and making heat self-demonstrating, because felt--i.e., perceptible now and then--has the character of the irishman's astronomy: { } "long life to the moon, for a dear noble cratur, which serves us for lamplight all night in the dark, while the sun only shines in the day, which by natur, wants no light at all, as ye all may remark." sir richard phillips. _sir richard phillips_[ ] (born ) was conspicuous in , when he was sentenced to a year's imprisonment[ ] for selling paine's _rights of man_; and again when, in [ ], he was knighted as sheriff of london. as a bookseller, he was able to enforce his opinions in more ways than others. for instance, in james mitchell's[ ] _dictionary of the mathematical and physical sciences_, , mo, which, though he was not technically a publisher, was printed for him--a book i should recommend to the collector of works of reference--there is a temperate description of his doctrines, which one may almost swear was one of his conditions previous to undertaking the work. phillips himself was not only an anti-newtonian, but carried to a fearful excess the notion that statesmen and newtonians were in league to deceive the world. he saw this plot in mrs. airy's[ ] pension, and in mrs. somerville's[ ]. in , he { } did me the honor to attempt my conversion. in his first letter he says: "sir richard phillips has an inveterate abhorrence of all the pretended wisdom of philosophy derived from the monks and doctors of the middle ages, and not less of those of higher name who merely sought to make the monkish philosophy more plausible, or so to disguise it as to mystify the mob of small thinkers." so little did his writings show any knowledge of antiquity, that i strongly suspect, if required to name one of the monkish doctors, he would have answered--aristotle. these schoolmen, and the "philosophical trinity of gravitating force, projectile force, and void space," were the bogies of his life. i think he began to publish speculations in the _monthly magazine_ (of which he was editor) in july : these he republished separately in . in the preface, perhaps judging the feelings of others by his own, he says that he "fully expects to be vilified, reviled, and anathematized, for many years to come." poor man! he was let alone. he appeals with confidence to the "impartial decision of posterity"; but posterity does not appoint a hearing for one per cent. of the appeals which are made; and it is much to be feared that an article in such a work of reference as this will furnish nearly all her materials fifty years hence. the following, addressed to m. arago,[ ] in , will give posterity as good a notion as she will probably need: "even the present year has afforded ever-memorable examples, paralleled only by that of the romish conclave which persecuted galileo. policy has adopted that maxim of machiavel which teaches that it is _more prudent_ to _reward_ { } partisans than to _persecute_ opponents. hence, a bigotted party had influence enough with the late short-lived administration [i think he is wrong as to the administration] of wellington, peel, &c., to confer munificent royal pensions on three writers whose sole distinction was their advocacy of the newtonian philosophy. a cambridge professor last year published an elaborate volume in illustration of _gravitation_, and on him has been conferred a pension of l. per annum. a lady has written a light popular view of the newtonian dogmas, and she has been complimented by a pension of l. per annum. and another writer, who has recently published a volume to prove that the only true philosophy is that of moses, has been endowed with a pension of l. per annum. neither of them were needy persons, and the political and ecclesiastical bearing of the whole was indicated by another pension of l. bestowed on a political writer, the advocate of all abuses and prejudices. whether the conduct of the romish conclave was more base for visiting with legal penalties the promulgation of the doctrines that the earth turns on its axis and revolves around the sun; or that of the british court, for its craft in conferring pensions on the opponents of the plain corollary, that all the motions of the earth are 'part and parcel' of these great motions, and those again and all like them consecutive displays of still greater motions in equality of action and reaction, is a question which must be reserved for the casuists of other generations.... i cannot expect that on a sudden you and your friends will come to my conclusion, that the present philosophy of the schools and universities of europe, based on faith in witchcraft, magic, &c., is a system of execrable nonsense, _by which quacks live on the faith of fools_; but i desire a free and fair examination of my aphorisms, and if a few are admitted to be true, merely as courteous concessions to arithmetic, my purpose will be effected, for men will thus be led to think; and if they think, then the fabric { } of false assumptions, and degrading superstitions will soon tumble in ruins." this for posterity. for the present time i ground the fame of sir r. phillips on his having squared the circle without knowing it, or intending to do it. in the _protest_ presently noted he discovered that "the force taken as is equal to the sum of all its fractions ... thus = / + / + / + / , &c., carried to infinity." this the mathematician instantly sees is equivalent to the theorem that the circumference of any circle is double of the diagonal of the cube on its diameter.[ ] i have examined the following works of sir r. phillips, and heard of many others: essays on the proximate mechanical causes of the general phenomena of the universe, , mo.[ ] protest against the prevailing principles of natural philosophy, with the development of a common sense system (no date, vo, pp. ).[ ] four dialogues between an oxford tutor and a disciple of the common-sense philosophy, relative to the proximate causes of material phenomena. vo, . a century of original aphorisms on the proximate causes of the phenomena of nature, , mo. sir richard phillips had four valuable qualities; honesty, zeal, ability, and courage. he applied them all to teaching { } matters about which he knew nothing; and gained himself an uncomfortable life and a ridiculous memory. astronomy made plain; or only way the true perpendicular distance of the sun, moon, or stars, from this earth, can be obtained. by wm. wood.[ ] chatham, , mo. if this theory be true, it will follow, of course, that this earth is the only one god made, and that it does not whirl round the sun, but _vice versa_, the sun round it. whately's famous paradox. historic doubts relative to napoleon buonaparte. london, , vo. this tract has since been acknowledged by archbishop whately[ ] and reprinted. it is certainly a paradox: but differs from most of those in my list as being a joke, and a satire upon the reasoning of those who cannot receive narrative, no matter what the evidence, which is to them utterly improbable _a priori_. but had it been serious earnest, it would not have been so absurd as many of those which i have brought forward. the next on the list is not a joke. the idea of the satire is not new. dr. king,[ ] in the dispute on the genuineness of phalaris, proved with humor that bentley did not write his own dissertation. an attempt has lately been made, for the honor of moses, to prove, { } without humor, that bishop colenso did not write his own book. this is intolerable: anybody who tries to use such a weapon without banter, plenty and good, and of form suited to the subject, should get the drubbing which the poor man got in the oriental tale for striking the dervishes with the wrong hand. the excellent and distinguished author of this tract has ceased to live. i call him the paley of our day: with more learning and more purpose than his predecessor; but perhaps they might have changed places if they had changed centuries. the clever satire above named is not the only work which he published without his name. the following was attributed to him, i believe rightly: "considerations on the law of libel, as relating to publications on the subject of religion, by john search." london, , vo. this tract excited little attention: for those who should have answered, could not. moreover, it wanted a prosecution to call attention to it: the fear of calling such attention may have prevented prosecutions. those who have read it will have seen why. the theological review elsewhere mentioned attributes the pamphlet of john search on blasphemous libel to lord brougham. this is quite absurd: the writer states points of law on credence where the judge must have spoken with authority. besides which, a hundred points of style are decisive between the two. i think any one who knows whately's writing will soon arrive at my conclusion. lord brougham himself informs me that he has no knowledge whatever of the pamphlet. it is stated in _notes and queries_ ( s. xi. ) that search was answered by the bishop of ferns[ ] as s. n., with { } a rejoinder by blanco white.[ ] these circumstances increase the probability that whately was written against and for. voltaire a christian. voltaire chrétien; preuves tirées de ses ouvrages. paris, , mo. if voltaire have not succeeded in proving himself a strong theist and a strong anti-revelationist, who is to succeed in proving himself one thing or the other in any matter whatsoever? by occasional confusion between theism and christianity; by taking advantage of the formal phrases of adhesion to the roman church, which very often occur, and are often the happiest bits of irony in an ironical production; by citations of his morality, which is decidedly christian, though often attributed to brahmins; and so on--the author makes a fair case for his paradox, in the eyes of those who know no more than he tells them. if he had said that voltaire was a better christian than himself knew of, towards all mankind except men of letters, i for one should have agreed with him. _christian!_ the word has degenerated into a synonym of _man_, in what are called christian countries. so we have the parrot who "swore for all the world like a christian," and the two dogs who "hated each other just like christians." when the irish duellist of the last century, whose name may be spared in consideration of its historic fame { } and the worthy people who bear it, was (june , ) about to take the consequence of his last brutal murder, the rope broke, and the criminal got up, and exclaimed, "by ---- mr. sheriff, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! this rope is not strong enough to hang a dog, far less a christian!" but such things as this are far from the worst depravations. as to a word so defiled by usage, it is well to know that there is a way of escape from it, without renouncing the new testament. i suppose any one may assume for himself what i have sometimes heard contended for, that no new testament word is to be used in religion in any sense except that of the new testament. this granted, the question is settled. the word _christian_, which occurs three times, is never recognized as anything but a term of contempt from those without the pale to those within. thus, herod agrippa, who was deep in jewish literature, and a correspondent of josephus, says to paul (acts xxvi. ), "almost thou persuadest me to be (what i and other followers of the state religion despise under the name) a christian." again (acts xi. ), "the disciples (as they called _themselves_) were called (by the surrounding heathens) christians first in antioch." thirdly ( peter iv. ), "let none of you suffer as a _murderer_.... but if as a _christian_ (as the heathen call it by whom the suffering comes), let him not be ashamed." that is to say, no _disciple_ ever called _himself_ a christian, or applied the name, as from himself, to another disciple, from one end of the new testament to the other; and no disciple need apply that name to himself in our day, if he dislike the associations with which the conduct of christians has clothed it. wronski on the longitude problem. address of m. hoene wronski to the british board of longitude, upon the actual state of the mathematics, their reform, { } and upon the new celestial mechanics, giving the definitive solution of the problem of longitude.[ ] london, , vo. m. wronski[ ] was the author of seven quartos on mathematics, showing very great power of generalization. he was also deep in the transcendental philosophy,[ ] and had the absolute at his fingers' ends. all this knowledge was rendered useless by a persuasion that he had greatly advanced beyond the whole world, with many hints that the absolute would not be forthcoming, unless prepaid. he was a man of the widest extremes. at one time he desired people to see all possible mathematics in f_x_ = a_{ }[omega]_{ } + a_{ }[omega]_{ } + a_{ }[omega]_{ } + a_{ }[omega]_{ } + &c. which he did not explain, though there is meaning to it in the quartos. at another time he was proposing the general solution of the[ ] fifth degree by help of independent equations of one form and of another. the first separate memoir from any transactions that i ever possessed was given to me when at cambridge; the refutation ( ) of this asserted solution, presented to the academy of lisbon by evangelista torriano. i cannot say i read it. the tract above is an attack on modern mathematicians in general, and on the board of longitude, and dr. young.[ ] { } dr. milner's paradoxes. . in this year died dr. isaac milner,[ ] president of queens' college, cambridge, one of the class of rational paradoxers. under this name i include all who, in private life, and in matters which concern themselves, take their own course, and suit their own notions, no matter what other people may think of them. these men will put things to uses they were never intended for, to the great distress and disgust of their gregarious friends. i am one of the class, and i could write a little book of cases in which i have incurred absolute reproach for not "doing as other people do." i will name two of my atrocities: i took one of those butter-dishes which have for a top a dome with holes in it, which is turned inward, out of reach of accident, when not in use. turning the dome inwards, i filled the dish with water, and put a sponge in the dome: the holes let it fill with water, and i had a penwiper, always moist, and worth its price five times over. "why! what do you mean? it was made to hold butter. you are always at some queer thing or other!" i bought a leaden comb, intended to dye the hair, it being supposed that the application of lead will have this effect. i did not try: but i divided the comb into two, separated the part of closed prongs from the other; and thus i had two ruling machines. the lead marks paper, and by drawing the end of one of the machines along a ruler, i could rule twenty lines at a time, quite fit to write on. i thought i should have killed a friend to whom i explained it: he could not for the life of him understand how leaden _lines_ on paper would dye the hair. but dr. milner went beyond me. he wanted a seat suited to his shape, and he defied opinion to a fearful point. { } he spread a thick block of putty over a wooden chair and sat in it until it had taken a ceroplast copy of the proper seat. this he gave to a carpenter to be imitated in wood. one of the few now living who knew him--my friend, general perronet thompson[ ]--answers for the wood, which was shown him by milner himself; but he does not vouch for the material being putty, which was in the story told me at cambridge; william frend[ ] also remembered it. perhaps the doctor took off his great seal in green wax, like the crown; but some soft material he certainly adopted; and very comfortable he found the wooden copy. [illustration] the same gentleman vouches for milner's lamp: but this had visible _science_ in it; the vulgar see no science in the construction of the chair. a hollow semi-cylinder, but not with a circular curve, revolved on pivots. the curve was calculated on the law that, whatever quantity of oil might be in the lamp, the position of equilibrium just brought the oil up to the edge of the cylinder, at which a bit of wick was placed. as the wick exhausted the oil, the cylinder slowly revolved about the pivots so as to keep the oil always touching the wick. great discoveries are always laughed at; but it is very often not the laugh of incredulity; it is a mode of distorting the sense of inferiority into a sense of superiority, or a mimicry of superiority interposed between the laugher and his feeling of inferiority. two persons in conversation { } agreed that it was often a nuisance not to be able to lay hands on a bit of paper to mark the place in a book, every bit of paper on the table was sure to contain something not to be spared. i very quietly said that i always had a stock of bookmarkers ready cut, with a proper place for them: my readers owe many of my anecdotes to this absurd practice. my two colloquials burst into a fit of laughter; about what? incredulity was out of the question; and there could be nothing foolish in my taking measures to avoid what they knew was an inconvenience. i was in this matter obviously their superior, and so they laughed at me. much more candid was the royal duke of the last century, who was noted for slow ideas. "the rain comes into my mouth," said he, while riding. "had not your royal highness better shut your mouth?" said the equerry. the prince did so, and ought, by rule, to have laughed heartily at his adviser; instead of this, he said quietly, "it doesn't come in now." herbart's mathematical psychology. de attentionis mensura causisque primariis. by j. f. herbart.[ ] koenigsberg, , to. { } this celebrated philosopher maintained that mathematics ought to be applied to psychology, in a separate tract, published also in : the one above seems, therefore, to be his challenge on the subject. it is on _attention_, and i think it will hardly support herbart's thesis. as a specimen of his formula, let _t_ be the time elapsed since the consideration began, [beta] the whole perceptive intensity of the individual, [phi] the whole of his mental force, and _z_ the force given to a notion by attention during the time _t_. then, z = [phi] ( - [epsilon]^{-[beta]t}) now for a test. there is a _jactura_, _v_, the meaning of which i do not comprehend. if there be anything in it, my mathematical readers ought to interpret it from the formula _v_ = [pi][phi][beta]/( - [beta])[epsilon]^{-[beta]t} + c[epsilon]^{-t} and to this task i leave them, wishing them better luck than mine. the time may come when other manifestations of mind, besides _belief_, shall be submitted to calculation: at that time, should it arrive, a final decision may be passed upon herbart. on the whizgig. the theory of the whizgig considered; in as much as it mechanically exemplifies the three working properties of nature; which are now set forth under the guise of this toy, for children of all ages. london, , mo (pp. , b. mcmillan, bow street, covent garden). the toy called the _whizgig_ will be remembered by many. the writer is a follower of jacob behmen,[ ] william law,[ ] { } richard clarke,[ ] and eugenius philalethes.[ ] jacob behmen first announced the three working properties of nature, which newton stole, as described in the _gentleman's magazine_, july, , p. . these laws are illustrated in the whizgig. there is the harsh astringent, attractive compression; the bitter compunction, repulsive expansion; and the stinging anguish, duplex motion. the author hints that he has written other works, to which he gives no clue. i have heard that behmen was pillaged by newton, and swedenborg[ ] by laplace,[ ] and pythagoras by copernicus,[ ] and epicurus by dalton,[ ] &c. i do not think this mention will revive behmen; but it may the whizgig, a very pretty toy, and philosophical withal, for few of those who used it could explain it. { } some mythological paradoxes. a grammar of infinite forms; or the mathematical elements of ancient philosophy and mythology. by wm. howison.[ ] edinburgh, , vo. a curius combination of geometry and mythology. perseus, for instance, is treated under the head, "the evolution of diminishing hyperbolic branches." the mythological astronomy of the ancients; part the second: or the key of urania, the words of which will unlock all the mysteries of antiquity. norwich, , mo. a companion to the mythological astronomy, &c., containing remarks on recent publications.... norwich, , mo. a new theory of the earth and of planetary motion; in which it is demonstrated that the sun is vicegerent of his own system. norwich, , mo. the analyzation of the writings of the jews, so far as they are found to have any connection with the sublime science of astronomy. [this is pp. - of some other work, being all i have seen.] these works are all by sampson arnold mackey,[ ] for whom see _notes and queries_, st s. viii. , , ix. , . had it not been for actual quotations given by one correspondent only ( st s. viii. ), that journal would have handed him down as a man of some real learning. an extraordinary man he certainly was: it is not one illiterate shoemaker in a thousand who could work upon such a singular mass of sanskrit and greek words, without showing { } evidence of being able to read a line in any language but his own, or to spell that correctly. he was an uneducated godfrey higgins.[ ] a few extracts will put this in a strong light: one for history of science, one for astronomy, and one for philology: "sir isaac newton was of opinion that 'the atmosphere of the earth was the sensory of god; by which he was enabled to see quite round the earth:' which proves that sir isaac had no idea that god could see through the earth. "sir richard [phillips] has given the most rational explanation of the cause of the earth's elliptical orbit that i have ever seen in print. it is because the earth presents its watery hemisphere to the sun at one time and that of solid land the other; but why has he made his oxonian astonished at the coincidence? it is what i taught in my attic twelve years before. "again, admitting that the eloim were powerful and intelligent beings that managed these things, we would accuse _them_ of being the authors of all the sufferings of chrisna. and as they and the constellation of leo were below the horizon, and consequently cut off from the end of the zodiac, there were but eleven constellations of the zodiac to be seen; the three at the end were wanted, but those three would be accused of bringing chrisna into the troubles which at last ended in his death. all this would be expressed in the eastern language by saying that chrisna was persecuted by those judoth ishcarioth!!!!! [the five notes of exclamation are the author's]. but the astronomy of those distant ages, when the sun was at the south pole in winter, would leave five of those decans cut off from our view, in the latitude of twenty-eight degrees; hence chrisna died of { } wounds from five decans, but the whole five may be included in judoth ishcarioth! for the phrase means 'the men that are wanted at the extreme parts.' ishcarioth is a compound of _ish_, a man, and _carat_ wanted or taken away, and oth the plural termination, more ancient than _im_...." i might show at length how michael is the sun, and the d'-ev-'l in french di-ob-al, also 'l-evi-ath-an--the evi being the radical part both of d_evi_l and l_evi_athan--is the nile, which the sun dried up for moses to pass: a battle celebrated by jude. also how _moses_, the same name as _muses_, is from _mesha_, drawn out of the water, "and hence we called our land which is saved from the water by the name of _marsh_." but it will be of more use to collect the character of s. a. m. from such correspondents of _notes and queries_ as have written after superficial examination. great astronomical and philological attainments, much ability and learning; had evidently read and studied deeply; remarkable for the originality of his views upon the very abstruse subject of mythological astronomy, in which he exhibited great sagacity. certainly his views were _original_; but their sagacity, if it be allowable to copy his own mode of etymologizing, is of an _ori-gin-ale_ cast, resembling that of a person who puts to his mouth liquors both distilled and fermented. a kantesian jeweler. principles of the kantesian, or transcendental philosophy. by thomas wirgman.[ ] london, , vo. mr. wirgman's mind was somewhat attuned to psychology; but he was cracky and vagarious. he had been a fashionable jeweler in st. james's street, no doubt the son or grandson of wirgman at "the well-known toy-shop in { } st. james's street," where sam johnson smartened himself with silver buckles. (boswell, _æt._ ). he would not have the ridiculous large ones in fashion; and he would give no more than a guinea a pair; such, says boswell, in italics, were the _principles_ of the business: and i think this may be the first place in which the philosophical word was brought down from heaven to mix with men. however this may be, _my_ wirgman sold snuff-boxes, among other things, and fifty years ago a fashionable snuff-boxer would be under inducement, if not positively obliged, to have a stock with very objectionable pictures. so it happened that wirgman--by reason of a trifle too much candor--came under the notice of the _suppression_ society, and ran considerable risk. mr. brougham was his counsel; and managed to get him acquitted. years and years after this, when mr. brougham was deep in the formation of the london university (now university college), mr. wirgman called on him. "what now?" said mr. b. with his most sarcastic look--a very perfect thing of its kind--"you're in a scrape again, i suppose!" "no! indeed!" said w., "my present object is to ask your interest for the chair of moral philosophy in the new university!" he had taken up kant! mr. wirgman, an itinerant paradoxer, called on me in : he came to convert me. "i assure you," said he, "i am nothing but an old brute of a jeweler;" and his eye and manner were of the extreme of jocosity, as good in their way, as the satire of his former counsel. i mention him as one of that class who go away quite satisfied that they have wrought conviction. "now," said he, "i'll make it clear to you! suppose a number of gold-fishes in a glass bowl,--you understand? well! i come with my cigar and go puff, puff, puff, over the bowl, until there is a little cloud of smoke: now, tell me, what will the gold-fishes say to that?" "i should imagine," said i, "that they would not know what to make of it." "by jove! you're a kantian;" said he, and with this and the like, he left me, vowing that { } it was delightful to talk to so intelligent a person. the greatest compliment wirgman ever received was from james mill, who used to say he did not _understand_ kant. that such a man as mill should think this worth saying is a feather in the cap of the jocose jeweler. some of my readers will stare at my supposing that boswell may have been the first down-bringer of the word _principles_ into common life; the best answer will be a prior instance of the word as true vernacular; it has never happened to me to notice one. many words have very common uses which are not old. take the following from nichols (_anecd._ ix. ): "lord thurlow presents his best respects to mr. and mrs. thicknesse, and assures them that he knows of no cause to complain of any part of mr. thicknesse's carriage; least of all the circumstance of sending the head to ormond street." surely mr. t. had lent lord t. a satisfactory carriage with a movable head, and the above is a polite answer to inquiries. not a bit of it! _carriage_ is here _conduct_, and the _head_ is a _bust_. the vehicles of the rich, at the time, were coaches, chariots, chaises, etc., never carriages, which were rather _carts_. gibbon has the word for baggage-wagons. in jane austen's novels the word carriage is established. walsh's delusions. _john walsh_,[ ] of cork ( - ). this discoverer has had the honor of a biography from professor boole, who, at my request, collected information about him on the scene of his labors. it is in the _philosophical magazine_ for november, , and will, i hope, be transferred to some biographical collection where it may find a larger class of readers. it is the best biography of a single hero of the kind that i know. mr. walsh introduced himself to me, { } as he did to many others, in the anterowlandian days of the post-office; his unpaid letters were double, treble, &c. they contained his pamphlets, and cost their weight in silver: all have the name of the author, and all are in octavo or in quarto letter-form: most are in four pages, and all dated from cork. i have the following by me: the geometric base, .--the theory of plane angles. .--three letters to dr. francis sadleir. .--the invention of polar geometry. by irelandus. .--the theory of partial functions. letter to lord brougham. .--on the invention of polar geometry. .--letter to the editor of the edinburgh review. .--irish manufacture. a new method of tangents. .--the normal diameter in curves. .--letter to sir r. peel. .--[hints that government should compel the introduction of walsh's geometry into universities.]--solution of equations of the higher orders. . besides these, there is a _metalogia_, and i know not how many others. mr. boole,[ ] who has taken the moral and social features of walsh's delusions from the commiserating point of view, which makes ridicule out of place, has been obliged to treat walsh as scott's alan fairford treated his client peter peebles; namely, keep the scarecrow out of court while the case was argued. my plan requires me to bring him in: and when he comes in at the door, pity and sympathy fly out at the window. let the reader remember that he was not an ignoramus in mathematics: he might have won his spurs if he could have first served as an esquire. though so illiterate that even in ireland he never picked up anything more latin than _irelandus_, he was a very pretty mathematician spoiled in the making by intense self-opinion. this is part of a private letter to me at the back of a page of print: i had never addressed a word to him: { } "there are no limits in mathematics, and those that assert there are, are infinite ruffians, ignorant, lying blackguards. there is no differential calculus, no taylor's theorem, no calculus of variations, &c. in mathematics. there is no quackery whatever in mathematics; no % equal to anything. what sheer ignorant blackguardism that! "in mechanics the parallelogram of forces is quackery, and is dangerous; for nothing is at rest, or in uniform, or in rectilinear motion, in the universe. variable motion is an essential property of matter. laplace's demonstration of the parallelogram of forces is a begging of the question; and the attempts of them all to show that the difference of twenty minutes between the sidereal and actual revolution of the earth round the sun arises from the tugging of the sun and moon at the pot-belly of the earth, without being sure even that the earth has a pot-belly at all, is perfect quackery. the said difference arising from and demonstrating the revolution of the sun itself round some distant center." in the letter to lord brougham we read as follows: "i ask the royal society of london, i ask the saxon crew of that crazy hulk, where is the dogma of their philosophic god now?... when the royal society of london, and the academy of sciences of paris, shall have read this memorandum, how will they appear? like two cur dogs in the paws of the noblest beast of the forest.... just as this note was going to press, a volume lately published by you was put into my hands, wherein you attempt to defend the fluxions and _principia_ of newton. man! what are you about? you come forward now with your special pleading, and fraught with national prejudice, to defend, like the philosopher grassi,[ ] the persecutor of galileo, principles { } and reasoning which, unless you are actually insane, or an ignorant quack in mathematics, you know are mathematically false. what a moral lesson this for the students of the university of london from its head! man! demonstrate corollary , in this note, by the lying dogma of newton, or turn your thoughts to something you understand. "walsh irelandus." mr. walsh--honor to his memory--once had the consideration to save me postage by addressing a pamphlet under cover to a member of parliament, with an explanatory letter. in that letter he gives a candid opinion of himself: ( .) "mr. walsh takes leave to send the enclosed corrected copy to mr. hutton as one of the council of the university of london, and to save postage for the professor of mathematics there. he will find in it geometry more deep and subtle, and at the same time more simple and elegant, than it was ever contemplated human genius could invent." he then proceeds to set forth that a certain "tomfoolery lemma," with its "tomfoolery" superstructure, "never had existence outside the shallow brains of its inventor," euclid. he then proceeds thus: "the same spirit that animated those philosophers who sent galileo to the inquisition animates all the philosophers of the present day without exception. if anything can free them from the yoke of error, it is the [walsh] problem of double tangence. but free them it will, how deeply soever they may be sunk into mental slavery--and god knows that is deeply enough; and they bear it with an admirable grace; for none bear slavery with a better grace than tyrants. the lads must adopt my theory.... it will be a sad reverse for all our great professors to be compelled to become schoolboys in their gray years. but the sore scratch is to be compelled, as they had before been compelled one thousand years ago, to have recourse to ireland for instruction." { } the following "impromptu" is no doubt by walsh himself: he was more of a poet than of an astronomer: "through ages unfriended, with sophistry blended, deep science in chaos had slept; its limits were fettered, its voters unlettered, its students in movements but crept. till, despite of great foes, great walsh first arose, and with logical might did unravel those mazes of knowledge, ne'er known in a college, though sought for with unceasing travail. with cheers we now hail him, may success never fail him, in polar geometrical mining; till his foes be as tamed as his works are far-famed for true philosophic refining." walsh's system is, that all mathematics and physics are wrong: there is hardly one proposition in euclid which is demonstrated. his example ought to warn all who rely on their own evidence to their own success. he was not, properly speaking, insane; he only spoke his mind more freely than many others of his class. the poor fellow died in the cork union, during the famine. he had lived a happy life, contemplating his own perfections, like brahma on the lotus-leaf.[ ] { } growth of freedom of opinion. the year brings me to about the middle of my _athenæum_ list: that is, so far as mere number of names mentioned is concerned. freedom of opinion, beyond a doubt, is gaining ground, for good or for evil, according to what the speaker happens to think: admission of authority is no longer made in the old way. if we take soul-cure and body-cure, divinity and medicine, it is manifest that a change has come over us. time was when it was enough that dose or dogma should be certified by "il a été ordonné, monsieur, il a été ordonné,"[ ] as the apothecary said when he wanted to operate upon poor de porceaugnac. very much changed: but whether for good or for evil does not now matter; the question is, whether contempt of _demonstration_ such as our paradoxers show has augmented with the rejection of _dogmatic authority_. it ought to be just the other way: for the worship of reason is the system on which, if we trust them, the deniers of guidance ground their plan of life. the following attempt at an experiment on this point is the best which i can make; and, so far as i know, the first that ever was made. say that my list of paradoxers divides in : this of itself proves nothing, because so many of the earlier books are lost, or not likely to be come at. it would be a fearful rate of increase which would make the number of paradoxes since equal to the whole number before that date. let us turn now to another collection of mine, arithmetical books, of which i have published a list. the two collections are similarly circumstanced as to new and old books; the paradoxes had no care given to the collection of either; the arithmetical books equal care to both. the list of arithmetical books, published in , divides at ; the paradoxes, up to , divide at . if we take the process which is most against the distinction, and allow every year { } from to to add a year to , we should say that the arithmetical writers divide at . this rough process may serve, with sufficient certainty, to show that the proportion of paradoxes to books of sober demonstration is on the increase; and probably, quite as much as the proportion of heterodoxes to books of orthodox adherence. so that divinity and medicine may say to geometry, don't _you_ sneer: if rationalism, homoeopathy, and their congeners are on the rise among us, your enemies are increasing quite as fast. but geometry replies--dear friends, content yourselves with the rational inference that the rise of heterodoxy within your pales is not conclusive against you, taken alone; for it rises at the same time within mine. store within your garners the precious argument that you are not proved wrong by increase of dissent; because there is increase of dissent against exact science. but do not therefore _even_ yourselves to me: remember that you, dame divinity, have inflicted every kind of penalty, from the stake to the stocks, in aid of your reasoning; remember that you, mother medicine, have not many years ago applied to parliament for increase of forcible hindrance of antipharmacopoeal drenches, pills, and powders. who ever heard of my asking the legislature to fine blundering circle-squarers? remember that the d in dogma is the d in decay; but the d in demonstration is the d in durability. the status of medicine. i have known a medical man--a young one--who was seriously of the opinion that the country ought to be divided into medical parishes, with a practitioner appointed to each, and a penalty for calling in any but the incumbent curer. how should people know how to choose? the hair-dressers once petitioned parliament for an act to compel people to wear wigs. my own opinion is of the opposite extreme, as in the following letter (_examiner_, april , ); which, to my surprise, i saw reprinted in a medical journal, as a { } plan not absolutely to be rejected. i am perfectly satisfied that it would greatly promote true medical orthodoxy, the predominance of well educated thinkers, and the development of their desirable differences. "sir. the medical bill and the medical question generally is one on which experience would teach, if people would be taught. "the great soul question took three hundred years to settle: the little body question might be settled in thirty years, if the decisions in the former question were studied. "time was when the state believed, as honestly as ever it believed anything, that it _might_, _could_, and _should_ find out the true doctrine for the poor ignorant community; to which, like a worthy honest state, it added _would_. accordingly, by the assistance of the church, which undertook the physic, the surgery, and the pharmacy of sound doctrine all by itself, it sent forth its legally qualified teachers into every parish, and woe to the man who called in any other. they burnt that man, they whipped him, they imprisoned him, they did everything but what was christian to him, all for his soul's health and the amendment of his excesses. "but men would not submit. to the argument that the state was a father to the ignorant, they replied that it was at best the ignorant father of an ignorant son, and that a blind man could find his way into a ditch without another blind man to help him. and when the state said--but here we have the church, which knows all about it, the ignorant community declared that it had a right to judge that question, and that it would judge it. it also said that the church was never one thing long, and that it progressed, on the whole, rather more slowly than the ignorant community. "the end of it was, in this country, that every one who chose taught all who chose to let him teach, on condition only of an open and true registration. the state was { } allowed to patronize one particular church, so that no one need trouble himself to choose a pastor from the mere necessity of choosing. but every church is allowed its colleges, its studies, its diplomas; and every man is allowed his choice. there is no proof that our souls are worse off than in the sixteenth century; and, judging by fruits, there is much reason to hope they are better off. "now the little body question is a perfect parallel to the great soul question in all its circumstances. the only things in which the parallel fails are the following: every one who believes in a future state sees that the soul question is incomparably more important than the body question, and every one can try the body question by experiment to a larger extent than the soul question. the proverb, which always has a spark of truth at the bottom, says that every man of forty is either a fool or a physician; but did even the proverb maker ever dare to say that every man is at any age either a fool or a fit teacher of religion? "common sense points out the following settlement of the medical question: and to this it will come sooner or later. "let every man who chooses--subject to one common law of manslaughter for all the _crass_ cases--doctor the bodies of all who choose to trust him, and recover payment according to agreement in the courts of law. provided always that every person practising should be registered at a moderate fee in a register to be republished every six months. "let the register give the name, address, and asserted qualification of each candidate--as licentiate, or doctor, or what not, of this or that college, hall, university, &c., home or foreign. let it be competent to any man to describe himself as qualified by study in public schools without a diploma, or by private study, or even by intuition or divine inspiration, if he please. but whatever he holds his qualification to be, that let him declare. let all qualification { } which of its own nature admits of proof be proved, as by the diploma or certificate, &c., leaving things which cannot be proved, as asserted private study, intuition, inspiration, &c., to work their own way. "let it be highly penal to assert to the patient any qualification which is not in the register, and let the register be sold very cheap. let the registrar give each registered practitioner a copy of the register in his own case; let any patient have the power to demand a sight of this copy; and let no money for attendance be recoverable in any case in which there has been false representation. "let any party in any suit have a right to produce what medical testimony he pleases. let the medical witness produce his register, and let his evidence be for the jury, as is that of an engineer or a practitioner of any art which is not attested by diplomas. "let any man who practises without venturing to put his name on the register be liable to fine and imprisonment. "the consequence would be that, as now, anybody who pleases might practise; for the medical world is well aware that there is no power of preventing what they call quacks from practising. but very different from what is now, every man who practises would be obliged to tell the whole world what his claim is, and would run a great risk if he dared to tell his patient in private anything different from what he had told the whole world. "the consequence would be that a real education in anatomy, physiology, chemistry, surgery, and what is known of the thing called medicine, would acquire more importance than it now has. "it is curious to see how completely the medical man of the nineteenth century squares with the priest of the sixteenth century. the clergy of all sects are now better divines and better men than they ever were. they have lost bacon's reproach that they took a smaller measure of things than any other educated men; and the physicians are now { } in this particular the rearguard of the learned world; though it may be true that the rear in our day is further on in the march than the van of bacon's day. nor will they ever recover the lost position until medicine is as free as religion. "to this it must come. to this the public, which will decide for itself, has determined it shall come. to this the public has, in fact, brought it, but on a plan which it is not desirable to make permanent. we will be as free to take care of our bodies as of our souls and of our goods. this is the profession of all who sign as i do, and the practice of most of those who would not like the name "heteropath." the motion of the sun in the ecliptic, proved to be uniform in a circular orbit ... with preliminary observations on the fallacy of the solar system. by bartholomew prescott,[ ] , vo. the author had published, in , a _defence of the divine system_, which i never saw; also, _on the inverted scheme of copernicus_. the above work is clever in its satire. the christian evidence society. manifesto of the christian evidence society, established nov. , . twenty-four plain questions to honest men. these are two broadsides of august and november, , signed by robert taylor,[ ] a.b., orator of the christian evidence society. this gentleman was a clergyman, { } and was convicted of blasphemy in , for which he suffered imprisonment, and got the name of the _devil's chaplain_. the following are quotations: "for the book of revelation, there was no original greek at all, but _erasmus_ wrote it himself in switzerland, in the year . bishop marsh,[ ] vol. i. p. ."--"is not god the author of your reason? can he then be the author of anything which is contrary to your reason? if reason be a sufficient guide, why should god give you any other? if it be not a sufficient guide, why has he given you _that_?" i remember a votary of the society being asked to substitute for _reason_ "the right leg," and for _guide_ "support," and to answer the two last questions: he said there must be a quibble, but he did not see what. it is pleasant to reflect that the _argumentum à carcere_[ ] is obsolete. one great defect of it was that it did not go far enough: there should have been laws against subscriptions for blasphemers, against dealing at their shops, and against rich widows marrying them. had i taken in theology, i must have entered books against christianity. i mention the above, and paine's _age of reason_, simply because they are the only english modern works that ever came in my way without my asking for them. the three parts of the _age of reason_ were published in paris , paris , and new york . carlile's[ ] edition is of london, , vo. it must be republished when the time comes, to show what stuff governments and clergy were afraid of at the beginning of this century. i should never have seen the book, if it { } had not been prohibited: a bookseller put it under my nose with a fearful look round him; and i could do no less, in common curiosity, than buy a work which had been so complimented by church and state. and when i had read it, i said in my mind to church and state,--confound you! you have taken me in worse than any reviewer i ever met with. i forget what i gave for the book, but i ought to have been able to claim compensation somewhere. the cabbala. cabbala algebraica. auctore gul. lud. christmann.[ ] stuttgard, , to. eighty closely printed pages of an attempt to solve equations of every degree, which has a process called by the author _cabbala_. an anonymous correspondent spells _cabbala_ as follows, [greek: chabball], and makes out of its letters. this gentleman has sent me since my budget commenced, a little heap of satirical communications, each having a or two; for instance, alluding to my remarks on the spelling of _chemistry_, he finds the fated number in [greek: chimeia]. with these are challenges to explain them, and hints about the end of the world. all these letters have different fantastic seals; one of them with the legend "keep your temper,"--another bearing "bank token five pence." the only signature is a triangle with a little circle in it, which i interpret to mean that the writer confesses himself to be the round man stuck in the three-cornered hole, to be explained as in sydney smith's joke. { } there is a kind of cabbala alphabetica which the investigators of the numerals in words would do well to take up: it is the formation of sentences which contain all the letters of the alphabet, and each only once. no one has done it with _v_ and _j_ treated as consonants; but you and i can do it. dr. whewell[ ] and i amused ourselves, some years ago, with attempts. he could not make sense, though he joined words: he gave me phiz, styx, wrong, buck, flame, quid. i gave him the following, which he agreed was "admirable sense": i certainly think the words would never have come together except in this way: i, quartz pyx, who fling muck beds. i long thought that no human being could say this under any circumstances. at last i happened to be reading a religious writer--as he thought himself--who threw aspersions on his opponents thick and threefold. heyday! came into my head, this fellow flings muck beds; he must be a quartz pyx. and then i remembered that a pyx is a sacred vessel, and quartz is a hard stone, as hard as the heart of a religious foe-curser. so that the line is the motto of the ferocious sectarian, who turns his religious vessels into mudholders, for the benefit of those who will not see what he sees. i can find no circumstances for the following, which i received from another: fritz! quick! land! hew gypsum box. from other quarters i have the following: dumpy quiz! whirl back fogs next. this might be said in time of haze to the queer little figure in the dutch weather-toy, which comes out or goes in with the change in the atmosphere. again, { } export my fund! quiz black whigs. this squire western might have said, who was always afraid of the whigs sending the sinking-fund over to hanover. but the following is the best: it is good advice to a young man, very well expressed under the circumstances: get nymph; quiz sad brow; fix luck. which in more sober english would be, marry; be cheerful; watch your business. there is more edification, more religion in this than in all the -interpretations put together. such things would make excellent writing copies, for they secure attention to every letter; _v_ and _j_ might be placed at the end. on godfrey higgins. the celtic druids. by godfrey higgins,[ ] esq. of skellow grange, near doncaster. london, , to. anacalypsis, or an attempt to draw aside the veil of the saitic isis: or an inquiry into the origin of languages, nations, and religions. by godfrey higgins, &c..., london, , vols. to. the first work had an additional preface and a new index in . possibly, in future time, will be found bound up with copies of the second work two sheets which mr. higgins circulated among his friends in : the first a "recapitulation," the second "book vi. ch. ." the system of these works is that-- "the buddhists of upper india (of whom the phenician canaanite, melchizedek, was a priest), who built the pyramids, stonehenge, carnac, &c. will be shown to have founded all the ancient mythologies of the world, which, however varied and corrupted in recent times, were originally one, and that one founded on principles sublime, beautiful, and true." { } these works contain an immense quantity of learning, very honestly put together. i presume the enormous number of facts, and the goodness of the index, to be the reasons why the _anacalypsis_ found a permanent place in the _old_ reading-room of the british museum, even before the change which greatly increased the number of books left free to the reader in that room. mr. higgins, whom i knew well in the last six years of his life, and respected as a good, learned, and (in his own way) _pious_ man, was thoroughly and completely the man of a system. he had that sort of mental connection with his theory that made his statements of his authorities trustworthy: for, besides perfect integrity, he had no bias towards alteration of facts: he saw his system in the way the fact was presented to him by his authority, be that what it might. he was very sure of a fact which he got from any of his authorities: nothing could shake him. imagine a conversation between him and an indian officer who had paid long attention to hindoo antiquities and their remains: a third person was present, _ego qui scribo_. _g. h._ "you know that in the temples of i-forget-who the ceres is always sculptured precisely as in greece." _col._ ----, "i really do not remember it, and i have seen most of these temples." _g. h._ "it is so, i assure you, especially at i-forget-where." _col._ ----, "well, i am sure! i was encamped for six weeks at the gate of that very temple, and, except a little shooting, had nothing to do but to examine its details, which i did, day after day, and i found nothing of the kind." it was of no use at all. godfrey higgins began life by exposing and conquering, at the expense of two years of his studies, some shocking abuses which existed in the york lunatic asylum. this was a proceeding which called much attention to the treatment of the insane, and produced much good effect. he was very resolute and energetic. the magistracy of his { } time had such scruples about using the severity of law to people of such station as well-to-do farmers, &c.: they would allow a great deal of resistance, and endeavor to mollify the rebels into obedience. a young farmer flatly refused to pay under an order of affiliation made upon him by godfrey higgins. he was duly warned; and persisted: he shortly found himself in gaol. he went there sure to conquer the justice, and the first thing he did was to demand to see his lawyer. he was told, to his horror, that as soon as he had been cropped and prison-dressed, he might see as many lawyers as he pleased, to be looked at, laughed at, and advised that there was but one way out of the scrape. higgins was, in his speculations, a regular counterpart of bailly; but the celebrated mayor of paris had not his nerve. it was impossible to say, if their characters had been changed, whether the unfortunate crisis in which bailly was not equal to the occasion would have led to very different results if higgins had been in his place: but assuredly constitutional liberty would have had one chance more. there are two works of his by which he was known, apart from his paradoxes. first, _an apology for the life and character of the celebrated prophet of arabia, called mohamed, or the illustrious_. london, vo. . the reader will look at this writing of our english buddhist with suspicious eye, but he will not be able to avoid confessing that the arabian prophet has some reparation to demand at the hands of christians. next, _horæ sabaticæ; or an attempt to correct certain superstitions and vulgar errors respecting the sabbath_. second edition, with a large appendix. london, mo. . this book was very heterodox at the time, but it has furnished material for some of the clergy of our day. i never could quite make out whether godfrey higgins took that system which he traced to the buddhists to have a divine origin, or to be the result of good men's meditations. himself a strong theist, and believer in a future { } state, one would suppose that he would refer a _universal_ religion, spread in different forms over the whole earth from one source, directly to the universal parent. and this i suspect he did, whether he knew it or not. the external evidence is balanced. in his preface he says: "i cannot help smiling when i consider that the priests have objected to admit my former book, _the celtic druids_, into libraries, because it was antichristian; and it has been attacked by deists, because it was superfluously religious. the learned deist, the rev. r. taylor [already mentioned], has designated me as the _religious_ mr. higgins." the time will come when some profound historian of literature will make himself much clearer on the point than i am. on pope's dipping needle. the triumphal chariot of friction: or a familiar elucidation of the origin of magnetic attraction, &c. &c. by william pope.[ ] london, , to. part of this work is on a dipping-needle of the author's construction. it must have been under the impression that a book of naval magnetism was proposed, that a great many officers, the royal naval club, etc. lent their names to the subscription list. how must they have been surprised to find, right opposite to the list of subscribers, the plate presenting "the three emphatic letters, j. a. o." and how much more when they saw it set forth that if a square be inscribed in a circle, a circle within that, then a square again, &c., it is impossible to have more than fourteen circles, let the first circle be as large as you please. from this the seven attributes of god are unfolded; and further, that all matter was _moral_, until lucifer _churned_ it into _physical_ "as far as the third circle in deity": this lucifer, called leviathan in job, being thus the moving cause of { } chaos. i shall say no more, except that the friction of the air is the cause of magnetism. remarks on the architecture, sculpture, and zodiac of palmyra; with a key to the inscriptions. by b. prescot.[ ] london, , vo. mr. prescot gives the signs of the zodiac a hebrew origin. the jacotot method. epitomé de mathématiques. par f. jacotot,[ ] avocat. ième edition, paris, , vo. (pp. ). méthode jacotot. choix de propositions mathématiques. par p. y. séprés.[ ] nde édition. paris, , vo. (pp. ). of jacotot's method, which had some vogue in paris, the principle was _tout est dans tout_,[ ] and the process _apprendre quelque chose, et à y rapporter tout le reste_.[ ] the first tract has a proposition in conic sections and its preliminaries: the second has twenty exercises, of which the first is finding the greatest common measure of two numbers, and the last is the motion of a point on a surface, acted on by given forces. this is topped up with the problem of sound in a tube, and a slice of laplace's theory of the tides. all to be studied until known by heart, and all the rest will come, or at least join on easily when it comes. there is much truth in the assertion that new knowledge { } hooks on easily to a little of the old, thoroughly mastered. the day is coming when it will be found out that crammed erudition, got up for examinations, does not cast out any hooks for more. lettre à mm. les membres de l'académie royale des sciences, contenant un développement de la réfutation du système de la gravitation universelle, qui leur a été présentée le août, . par félix passot.[ ] paris, , vo. works of this sort are less common in france than in england. in france there is only the academy of sciences to go to: in england there is a reading public out of the royal society, &c. a discourse on probability. about was published, in the _library of useful knowledge_, the tract on _probability_, the joint work of the late sir john lubbock[ ] and mr. drinkwater (bethune).[ ] it is one of the best elementary openings of the subject. a binder put my name on the outside (the work was anonymous) and the consequence was that nothing could drive out of people's heads that it was written by me. i do not know how many denials i have made, from a passage in one of my own works to a letter in the _times_: and i am not sure that i have succeeded in establishing the truth, even now. i accordingly note the fact once more. but as a book has no right here unless it contain a paradox--or thing counter to general opinion or practice--i will produce two small ones. sir john lubbock, with whom lay the executive arrangement, had a strong objection to the last word in "theory of probabilities," he maintained that the singular _probability_, should be used; and i hold him quite right. { } the second case was this: my friend sir j. l., with a large cluster of intellectual qualities, and another of social qualities, had one point of character which i will not call bad and cannot call good; he never used a slang expression. to such a length did he carry his dislike, that he could not bear _head_ and _tail_, even in a work on games of chance: so he used _obverse_ and _reverse_. i stared when i first saw this: but, to my delight, i found that the force of circumstances beat him at last. he was obliged to take an example from the race-course, and the name of one of the horses was _bessy bedlam_! and he did not put her down as _elizabeth bethlehem_, but forced himself to follow the jockeys. [almanach romain sur la loterie royale de france, ou les etrennes nécessaires aux actionnaires et receveurs de la dite loterie. par m. menut de st.-mesmin. paris, . mo. this book contains all the drawings of the french lottery (two or three, each month) from to . it is intended for those who thought they could predict the future drawings from the past: and various sets of _sympathetic_ numbers are given to help them. the principle is, that anything which has not happened for a long time must be soon to come. at _rouge et noir_, for example, when the red has won five times running, sagacious gamblers stake on the black, for they think the turn which must come at last is nearer than it was. so it is: but observation would have shown that if a large number of those cases had been registered which show a run of five for the red, the next game would just as often have made the run into six as have turned in favor of the black. but the gambling reasoner is incorrigible: if he would but take to squaring the circle, what a load of misery would be saved. a writer of , who appeared to be thoroughly acquainted with the gambling of paris and london, says that the gamesters by { } profession are haunted by a secret foreboding of their future destruction, and seem as if they said to the banker at the table, as the gladiators said to the emperor, _morituri te salutant_.[ ] in the french lottery, five numbers out of ninety were drawn at a time. any person, in any part of the country, might stake any sum upon any event he pleased, as that should be drawn; that and should be drawn; that and should be drawn, and first; and so on up to a _quine déterminé_, if he chose, which is betting on five given numbers in a given order. thus, in july, , one of the drawings was . a gambler had actually predicted the five numbers (but not their order), and won , francs on a trifling stake. m. menut seems to insinuate that the hint what numbers to choose was given at his own office. another won , francs on the quaterne, , , , , in this very drawing. these gains, of course, were widely advertised: of the multitudes who lost nothing was said. the enormous number of those who played is proved to all who have studied chances arithmetically by the numbers of simple quaternes which were gained: in , fourteen; in , six; in , sixteen; in , nine, &c. the paradoxes of what is called chance, or hazard, might themselves make a small volume. all the world understands that there is a long run, a general average; but great part of the world is surprised that this general average should be computed and predicted. there are many remarkable cases of verification; and one of them relates to the quadrature of the circle. i give some account of this and another. throw a penny time after time until _head_ arrives, which it will do before long: let this be called a _set_. accordingly, h is the smallest set, th the next smallest, then tth, &c. for abbreviation, let a set in which seven _tails_ { } occur before _head_ turns up be t^{ }h. in an immense number of trials of sets, about half will be h; about a quarter th; about an eighth, t^{ }h. buffon[ ] tried , sets; and several have followed him. it will tend to illustrate the principle if i give all the results; namely, that many trials will with moral certainty show an approach--and the greater the greater the number of trials--to that average which sober reasoning predicts. in the first column is the most likely number of the theory: the next column gives buffon's result; the three next are results obtained from trial by correspondents of mine. in each case the number of trials is , . h , , , , , th t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h t^{ }h &c. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- , , , , , { } in very many trials, then, we may depend upon something like the predicted average. conversely, from many trials we may form a guess at what the average will be. thus, in buffon's experiment the , first throws of the sets gave _head_ in , cases: we have a right to infer that in the long run something like , out of , is the proportion of heads, even before we know the reasons for the equality of chance, which tell us that , out of , is the real truth. i now come to the way in which such considerations have led to a mode in which mere pitch-and-toss has given a more accurate approach to the quadrature of the circle than has been reached by some of my paradoxers. what would my friend[ ] in no. have said to this? the method is as follows: suppose a planked floor of the usual kind, with thin visible seams between the planks. let there be a thin straight rod, or wire, not so long as the breadth of the plank. this rod, being tossed up at hazard, will either fall quite clear of the seams, or will lay across one seam. now buffon, and after him laplace, proved the following: that in the long run the fraction of the whole number of trials in which a seam is intersected will be the fraction which twice the length of the rod is of the circumference of the circle having the breadth of a plank for its diameter. in mr. _ambrose_ smith, of aberdeen, made , trials with a rod three-fifths of the distance between the planks: there were , clear intersections, and contacts on which it was difficult to decide. divide these contacts equally, and we have , ½ to , for the ratio of to [pi], presuming that the greatness of the number of trials gives something near to the final average, or result in the long run: this gives [pi] = . . if all the contacts had been treated as intersections, the result would have been { } [pi] = . , exceedingly near. a pupil of mine made trials with a rod of the length between the seams, and got [pi] = . . this method will hardly be believed until it has been repeated so often that "there never could have been any doubt about it." the first experiment strongly illustrates a truth of the theory, well confirmed by practice: whatever can happen will happen if we make trials enough. who would undertake to throw tail eight times running? nevertheless, in the , sets tail times running occurred times; times running, times; times running, twice; times and times, each once; and times twice.] on curiosities of [pi]. . the celebrated interminable fraction . ..., which the mathematician calls [pi], is the ratio of the circumference to the diameter. but it is thousands of things besides. it is constantly turning up in mathematics: and if arithmetic and algebra had been studied without geometry, [pi] must have come in somehow, though at what stage or under what name must have depended upon the casualties of algebraical invention. this will readily be seen when it is stated that [pi] is nothing but four times the series - / + / - / + / - / + ... _ad infinitum_.[ ] it would be wonderful if so simple a series { } had but one kind of occurrence. as it is, our trigonometry being founded on the circle, [pi] first appears as the ratio stated. if, for instance, a deep study of probable fluctuation from average had preceded, [pi] might have emerged as a number perfectly indispensable in such problems as: what is the chance of the number of aces lying between a million + x and a million - x, when six million of throws are made with a die? i have not gone into any detail of all those cases in which the paradoxer finds out, by his unassisted acumen, that results of mathematical investigation _cannot be_: in fact, this discovery is only an accompaniment, though a necessary one, of his paradoxical statement of that which _must be_. logicians are beginning to see that the notion of _horse_ is inseparably connected with that of _non-horse_: that the first without the second would be no notion at all. and it is clear that the positive affirmation of that which contradicts mathematical demonstration cannot but be accompanied by a declaration, mostly overtly made, that demonstration is false. if the mathematician were interested in punishing this indiscretion, he could make his denier ridiculous by inventing asserted results which would completely take him in. more than thirty years ago i had a friend, now long gone, who was a mathematician, but not of the higher branches: he was, _inter alia_, thoroughly up in all that relates to mortality, life assurance, &c. one day, explaining to him how it should be ascertained what the chance is of the survivors of a large number of persons now alive lying between given limits of number at the end of a certain time, i came, of course upon the introduction of [pi], which i could only describe as the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter. "oh, my dear friend! that must be a delusion; what can the circle have to do with the numbers alive at the end of a given time?"--"i cannot demonstrate it to you; but it is demonstrated."--"oh! stuff! i think you can prove anything with your differential calculus: figment, { } depend upon it." i said no more; but, a few days afterwards, i went to him and very gravely told him that i had discovered the law of human mortality in the carlisle table, of which he thought very highly. i told him that the law was involved in this circumstance. take the table of expectation of life, choose any age, take its expectation and make the nearest integer a new age, do the same with that, and so on; begin at what age you like, you are sure to end at the place where the age past is equal, or most nearly equal, to the expectation to come. "you don't mean that this always happens?"--"try it." he did try, again and again; and found it as i said. "this is, indeed, a curious thing; this _is_ a discovery." i might have sent him about trumpeting the law of life: but i contented myself with informing him that the same thing would happen with any table whatsoever in which the first column goes up and the second goes down; and that if a proficient in the higher mathematics chose to palm a figment upon him, he could do without the circle: _à corsaire, corsaire et demi_,[ ] the french proverb says. "oh!" it was remarked, "i see, this was milne!"[ ] it was _not_ milne: i remember well showing the formula to him some time afterwards. he raised no difficulty about [pi]; he knew the forms of laplace's results, and he was much interested. besides, milne never said stuff! and figment! and he would not have been taken in: he would have quietly tried it with the northampton and all the other tables, and would have got at the truth. { } euclid without axioms. the first book of euclid's elements. with alterations and familiar notes. being an attempt to get rid of axioms altogether; and to establish the theory of parallel lines, without the introduction of any principle not common to other parts of the elements. by a member of the university of cambridge. third edition. in usum serenissimæ filiolæ. london, . the author was lieut. col. (now general) perronet thompson,[ ] the author of the "catechism on the corn laws." i reviewed the fourth edition--which had the name of "geometry without axioms," --in the quarterly _journal of education_ for january, . col. thompson, who then was a contributor to--if not editor of--the _westminster review_, replied in an article the authorship of which could not be mistaken. some more attempts upon the problem, by the same author, will be found in the sequel. they are all of acute and legitimate speculation; but they do not conquer the difficulty in the manner demanded by the conditions of the problem. the paradox of parallels does not contribute much to my pages: its cases are to be found for the most part in geometrical systems, or in notes to them. most of them consist in the proposal of additional postulates; some are attempts to do without any new postulate. gen. perronet thompson, whose paradoxes are always constructed on much study of previous writers, has collected in the work above named, a budget of attempts, the heads of which are in the _penny_ and _english cyclopædias_, at "parallels." he has given thirty instances, selected from what he had found.[ ] { } lagrange,[ ] in one of the later years of his life, imagined that he had overcome the difficulty. he went so far as to write a paper, which he took with him to the institute, and began to read it. but in the first paragraph something struck him which he had not observed: he muttered _il faut que j'y songe encore_,[ ] and put the paper in his pocket. the lunar caustic joke. the following paragraph appeared in the _morning post_, may , : "we understand that although, owing to circumstances with which the public are not concerned, mr. goulburn[ ] declined becoming a candidate for university honors, that his scientific attainments are far from inconsiderable. he is well known to be the author of an essay in the philosophical transactions on the accurate rectification of a circular arc, and of an investigation of the equation of a lunar caustic--a problem likely to become of great use in nautical astronomy." { } this hoax--which would probably have succeeded with any journal--was palmed upon the _morning post_, which supported mr. goulburn, by some cambridge wags who supported mr. lubbock, the other candidate for the university of cambridge. putting on the usual concealment, i may say that i always suspected dr-nkw-t-r b-th-n-[ ] of having a share in the matter. the skill of the hoax lies in avoiding the words "quadrature of the circle," which all know, and speaking of "the accurate rectification of a circular arc," which all do not know for its synonyme. the _morning post_ next day gave a reproof to hoaxers in general, without referring to any particular case. it must be added, that although there are _caustics_ in mathematics, there is no _lunar_ caustic. so far as mr. goulburn was concerned, the above was poetic justice. he was the minister who, in old time, told a deputation from the astronomical society that the government "did not care twopence for all the science in the country." there may be some still alive who remember this: i heard it from more than one of those who were present, and are now gone. matters are much changed. i was thirty years in office at the astronomical society; and, to my certain knowledge, every government of that period, whig and tory, showed itself ready to help with influence when wanted, and with money whenever there was an answer for the house of commons. the following correction subsequently appeared. referring to the hoax about mr. goulburn, messrs. c. h. and thompson cooper[ ] have corrected an error, by stating that the election which gave rise to the hoax was that in which messrs. goulburn { } and yates peel[ ] defeated lord palmerston[ ] and mr. cavendish.[ ] they add that mr. gunning, the well-known esquire bedell of the university, attributed the hoax to the late rev. r. sheepshanks, to whom, they state, are also attributed certain clever fictitious biographies--of public men, as i understand it--which were palmed upon the editor of the _cambridge chronicle_, who never suspected their genuineness to the day of his death. being in most confidential intercourse with mr. sheepshanks,[ ] both at the time and all the rest of his life (twenty-five years), and never heard him allude to any such things--which were not in his line, though he had satirical power of quite another { } kind--i feel satisfied he had nothing to do with them. i may add that others, his nearest friends, and also members of his family, never heard him allude to these hoaxes as their author, and disbelieve his authorship as much as i do myself. i say this not as imputing any blame to the true author, such hoaxes being fair election jokes in all time, but merely to put the saddle off the wrong horse, and to give one more instance of the insecurity of imputed authorship. had mr. sheepshanks ever told me that he had perpetrated the hoax, i should have had no hesitation in giving it to him. i consider all clever election squibs, free from bitterness and personal imputation, as giving the multitude good channels for the vent of feelings which but for them would certainly find bad ones. [but i now suspect that mr. babbage[ ] had some hand in the hoax. he gives it in his "passages, &c." and is evidently writing from memory, for he gives the wrong year. but he has given the paragraph, though not accurately, yet with such a recollection of the points as brings suspicion of the authorship upon him, perhaps in conjunction with d. b.[ ] both were on cavendish's committee. mr. babbage adds, that "late one evening a cab drove up in hot haste to the office of the _morning post_, delivered the copy as coming from mr. goulburn's committee, and at the same time ordered fifty extra copies of the _post_ to be sent next morning to their committee-room." i think the man--the only one i ever heard of--who knew all about the cab and the extra copies must have known more.] on m. demonville. _demonville._--a frenchman's christian name is his own secret, unless there be two of the surname. m. demonville is a very good instance of the difference between a { } french and english discoverer. in england there is a public to listen to discoveries in mathematical subjects made without mathematics: a public which will hear, and wonder, and think it possible that the pretensions of the discoverer have some foundation. the unnoticed man may possibly be right: and the old country-town reputation which i once heard of, attaching to a man who "had written a book about the signs of the zodiac which all the philosophers in london could not answer," is fame as far as it goes. accordingly, we have plenty of discoverers who, even in astronomy, pronounce the learned in error because of mathematics. in france, beyond the sphere of influence of the academy of sciences, there is no one to cast a thought upon the matter: all who take the least interest repose entire faith in the institute. hence the french discoverer turns all his thoughts to the institute, and looks for his only hearing in that quarter. he therefore throws no slur upon the means of knowledge, but would say, with m. demonville: "a l'égard de m. poisson,[ ] j'envie loyalement la millième partie de ses connaissances mathématiques, pour prouver mon systême d'astronomie aux plus incrédules."[ ] this system is that the only bodies of our system are the earth, the sun, and the moon; all the others being illusions, caused by reflection of the sun and moon from the ice of the polar regions. in mathematics, addition and subtraction are for men; multiplication and division, which are in truth creation and destruction, are prerogatives of deity. but _nothing_ multiplied by _nothing_ is _one_. m. demonville obtained an introduction to william the fourth, who desired the opinion of the royal society upon his system: the { } answer was very brief. the king was quite right; so was the society: the fault lay with those who advised his majesty on a matter they knew nothing about. the writings of m. demonville in my possession are as follows.[ ] the dates--which were only on covers torn off in binding--were about - : _petit cours d'astronomie_[ ] followed by _sur l'unité mathématique._--_principes de la physique de la création implicitement admis dans la notice sur le tonnerre par m. arago._--_question de longitude sur mer._[ ]--_vrai système du monde_[ ] (pp. ). same title, four pages, small type. same title, four pages, addressed to the british association. same title, four pages, addressed to m. mathieu. same title, four pages, on m. bouvard's report.--_résumé de la physique de la création; troisième partie du vrai système du monde._[ ] parsey's paradox. the quadrature of the circle discovered, by arthur parsey,[ ] author of the 'art of miniature painting.' submitted to the consideration of the royal society, on whose protection the author humbly throws himself. london, , vo. mr. parsey was an artist, who also made himself conspicuous by a new view of perspective. seeing that the sides of a tower, for instance, would appear to meet in a point if the tower were high enough, he thought that these sides ought to slope to one another in the picture. on this { } theory he published a small work, of which i have not the title, with a grecian temple in the frontispiece, stated, if i remember rightly, to be the first picture which had ever been drawn in true perspective. of course the building looked very egyptian, with its sloping sides. the answer to his notion is easy enough. what is called the picture is not the picture from which the mind takes its perception; that picture is on the retina. the _intermediate_ picture, as it may be called--the human artist's work--is itself seen perspectively. if the tower were so high that the sides, though parallel, appeared to meet in a point, the picture must also be so high that the _picture-sides_, though parallel, would appear to meet in a point. i never saw this answer given, though i have seen and heard the remarks of artists on mr. parsey's work. i am inclined to think it is commonly supposed that the artist's picture is the representation which comes before the mind: this is not true; we might as well say the same of the object itself. in july , reading an article on squaring the circle, and finding that there was a difficulty, he set to work, got a light denied to all mathematicians in--some would say through--a crack, and advertised in the _times_ that he had done the trick. he then prepared this work, in which, those who read it will see how, he showed that . ... should be . . he might have found out his error by _stepping_ a draughtsman's circle with the compasses. perspective has not had many paradoxes. the only other one i remember is that of a writer on perspective, whose name i forget, and whose four pages i do not possess. he circulated remarks on my notes on the subject, published in the _athenæum_, in which he denies that the stereographic projection is a case of perspective, the reason being that the whole hemisphere makes too large a picture for the eye conveniently to grasp at once. that is to say, it is no perspective because there is too much perspective. { } on a couple of geometries. principles of geometry familiarly illustrated. by the rev. w. ritchie,[ ] ll.d. london, , mo. a new exposition of the system of euclid's elements, being an attempt to establish his work on a different basis. by alfred day,[ ] ll.d. london, , mo. these works belong to a small class which have the peculiarity of insisting that in the general propositions of geometry a proposition gives its converse: that "every b is a" follows from "every a is b." dr. ritchie says, "if it be proved that the equality of two of the angles of a triangle depends _essentially_ upon the equality of the opposite sides, it follows that the equality of opposite sides depends _essentially_ on the equality of the angles." dr. day puts it as follows: "that the converses of euclid, so called, where no particular limitation is specified or implied in the leading proposition, more than in the converse, must be necessarily true; for as by the nature of the reasoning the leading proposition must be universally true, should the converse be not so, it cannot be so universally, but has at least all the exceptions conveyed in the leading proposition, and the case is therefore unadapted to geometric reasoning; or, what is the same thing, by the very nature of geometric reasoning, the particular exceptions to the extended converse must be identical with some one or other of the cases under the universal affirmative proposition with which we set forth, which is absurd." { } on this i cannot help transferring to my reader the words of the pacha when he orders the bastinado,--may it do you good! a rational study of logic is much wanted to show many mathematicians, of all degrees of proficiency, that there is nothing in the _reasoning_ of mathematics which differs from other reasoning. dr. day repeated his argument in _a treatise on proportion_, london, , vo. dr. ritchie was a very clear-headed man. he published, in , a work on arithmetic, with rational explanations. this was too early for such an improvement, and nearly the whole of his excellent work was sold as waste paper. his elementary introduction to the differential calculus was drawn up while he was learning the subject late in life. books of this sort are often very effective on points of difficulty. newton again obliterated. letter to the royal astronomical society in refutation of mistaken notions held in common, by the society, and by all the newtonian philosophers. by capt. forman,[ ] r.n. shepton-mallet, , vo. capt. forman wrote against the whole system of gravitation, and got no notice. he then wrote to lord brougham, sir j. herschel, and others i suppose, desiring them to procure notice of his books in the reviews: this not being acceded to, he wrote (in print) to lord john russell[ ] to complain of their "dishonest" conduct. he then sent a manuscript letter to the astronomical society, inviting controversy: he was answered by a recommendation to study { } dynamics. the above pamphlet was the consequence, in which, calling the council of the society "craven dunghill cocks," he set them right about their doctrines. from all i can learn, the life of a worthy man and a creditable officer was completely embittered by his want of power to see that no person is bound in reason to enter into controversy with every one who chooses to invite him to the field. this mistake is not peculiar to philosophers, whether of orthodoxy or paradoxy; a majority of educated persons imply, by their modes of proceeding, that no one has a right to any opinion which he is not prepared to defend against all comers. david and goliath, or an attempt to prove that the newtonian system of astronomy is directly opposed to the scriptures. by wm. lauder,[ ] sen., mere, wilts. mere, , mo. newton is goliath; mr. lauder is david. david took five pebbles; mr. lauder takes five arguments. he expects opposition; for paul and jesus both met with it. mr. lauder, in his comparison, seems to put himself in the divinely inspired class. this would not be a fair inference in every case; but we know not what to think when we remember that a tolerable number of cyclometers have attributed their knowledge to direct revelation. the works of this class are very scarce; i can only mention one or two from montucla.[ ] alphonso cano de molina,[ ] in the last century, upset all euclid, and squared the circle upon the ruins; he found a follower, janson, who translated him from spanish into latin. he declared that he believed in euclid, until god, who humbles the proud, taught him better. one paul yvon, called from his estate de la leu, a merchant at rochelle, supported by his book-keeper, m. pujos, and a { } scotchman, john dunbar, solved the problem by divine grace, in a manner which was to convert all jews, infidels, etc. there seem to have been editions of his work in and , and a controversial "examen" in , by robert sara. there was a noted discussion, in which mydorge,[ ] hardy,[ ] and others took part against de la leu. i cannot find this name either in lipenius[ ] or murhard,[ ] and i should not have known the dates if it had not been for one of the keenest bibliographers of any time, my friend prince balthasar boncompagni,[ ] who is trying to find copies of the works, and has managed to find copies of the titles. in , henry sullamar, an englishman, squared the circle by the number of the beast: he published a pamphlet every two or three years; but i cannot find any mention of him in english works.[ ] in france, in , m. de causans,[ ] of the guards, cut a circular piece of turf, squared it, and { } deduced original sin and the trinity. he found out that the circle was equal to the square in which it is inscribed; and he offered a reward for detection of any error, and actually deposited , francs as earnest of , . but the courts would not allow any one to recover. sir john herschel. . in this year sir john herschel[ ] set up his telescope at feldhausen, cape of good hope. he did much for astronomy, but not much for the _budget of paradoxes_. he gives me, however, the following story. he showed a resident a remarkable blood-red star, and some little time after he heard of a sermon preached in those parts in which it was asserted that the statements of the bible must be true, for that sir j. h. had seen in his telescope "the very place where wicked people go." but red is not always the color. sir j. herschel has in his possession a letter written to his father, sir w. h.,[ ] dated april , , and signed "eliza cumyns," begging to know if any of the stars be _indigo_ in color, "because, if there be, i think it may be deemed a strong conjectural illustration of the expression, so often used by our saviour in the holy gospels, that 'the disobedient shall be cast into outer darkness'; for as the almighty being can doubtless confine any of his creatures, whether corporeal or spiritual, to what part of his creation he pleases, if therefore any of the stars (which are beyond all doubt so many suns to other systems) be of so dark a color as that above mentioned, they may be calculated to give the most insufferable heat to those dolorous systems dependent upon them (and to reprobate spirits placed there), without one ray of cheerful light; and may therefore be the scenes of future punishments." this letter is addressed to dr. heirschel at slow. some have placed the infernal regions inside the earth, but { } others have filled this internal cavity--for cavity they will have--with refulgent light, and made it the abode of the blessed. it is difficult to build without knowing the number to be provided for. a friend of mine heard the following (part) dialogue between two strong scotch calvinists: "noo! hoo manny d'ye thank there are of the alact on the arth at this moment?--eh! mabbee a doozen--hoot! mon! nae so mony as thot!" the nautical almanac. . from to the _nautical almanac_ was published on a plan which gradually fell behind what was wanted. in the new series began, under a new superintendent (lieut. w. s. stratford).[ ] there had been a long scientific controversy, which would not be generally intelligible. to set some of the points before the reader, i reprint a cutting which i have by me. it is from the nautical _magazine_, but i did hear that some had an idea that it was in the nautical _almanac_ itself. it certainly was not, and i feel satisfied the lords of the admiralty would not have permitted the insertion; they are never in advance of their age. the almanac for was published in july . the new nautical almanac--extract from the 'primum mobile,' and 'milky way gazette.' communicated by aerolith. a meeting of the different bodies composing the solar system was this day held at the dragon's tail, for the purpose of taking into consideration the alterations and amendments introduced into the new nautical almanac. the honorable luminaries had been individually summoned { } by fast-sailing comets, and there was a remarkably full attendance. among the visitors we _observed_ several nebulæ, and almost all the stars whose proper motions would admit of their being present. the sun was unanimously called to the focus. the small planets took the oaths, and their places, after a short discussion, in which it was decided that the places should be those of the almanac itself, with leave reserved to move for corrections. petitions were presented from [alpha] and [delta] ursæ minoris, complaining of being put on daily duty, and praying for an increase of salary.--laid on the plane of the ecliptic. the trustees of the eccentricity[ ] and inclination funds reported a balance of . in the former, and a deficit of ". in the latter. this announcement caused considerable surprise, and a committee was moved for, to ascertain which of the bodies had more or less than his share. after some discussion, in which the small planets offered to consent to a reduction, if necessary, the motion was carried. the focal body then rose to address the meeting. he remarked that the subject on which they were assembled was one of great importance to the routes and revolutions of the heavenly bodies. for himself, though a private arrangement between two of his honourable neighbours (here he looked hard at the earth and venus) had prevented his hitherto paying that close attention to the predictions of the nautical almanac which he declared he always had wished to do; yet he felt consoled by knowing that the conductors of that work had every disposition to take his peculiar circumstances into consideration. he declared that he had never passed the wires of a transit without deeply feeling his inability to adapt himself to the present state of his theory; a feeling which he was afraid had sometimes caused a slight tremor in his limb. before { } he sat down, he expressed a hope that honourable luminaries would refrain as much as possible from eclipsing each other, or causing mutual perturbations. indeed, he should be very sorry to see any interruption of the harmony of the spheres. (applause.) the several articles of the new nautical almanac were then read over without any comment; only we observed that saturn shook his ring at every novelty, and jupiter gave his belt a hitch, and winked at the satellites at page of each month. the moon rose to propose a resolution. no one, he said, would be surprised at his bringing this matter forward in the way he did, when it was considered in how complete and satisfactory a manner his motions were now represented. he must own he had trembled when the lords of the admiralty dissolved the board of longitude, but his tranquillity was more than reestablished by the adoption of the new system. he did not know but that any little assistance he could give in nautical astronomy was becoming of less and less value every day, owing to the improvement of chronometers. but there was one thing, of which nothing could deprive him--he meant the regulation of the tides. and, perhaps, when his attention was not occupied by more than the latter, he should be able to introduce a little more regularity into the phenomena. (here the honourable luminary gave a sort of modest libration, which convulsed the meeting with laughter.) they might laugh at his natural infirmity if they pleased, but he could assure them it arose only from the necessity he was under, when young, of watching the motions of his worthy primary. he then moved a resolution highly laudatory of the alterations which appeared in the new nautical almanac. the earth rose, to second the motion. his honourable satellite had fully expressed his opinions on the subject. he joined his honourable friend in the focus in wishing to pay every attention to the nautical almanac, but, { } really, when so important an alteration had taken place in his magnetic pole[ ] (hear) and there might, for aught he knew, be a successful attempt to reach his pole of rotation, he thought he could not answer for the preservation of the precession in its present state. (here the hon. luminary, scratching his side, exclaimed, as he sat down, "more steamboats--confound 'em!") an honourable satellite (whose name we could not learn) proposed that the resolution should be immediately despatched, corrected for refraction, when he was called to order by the focal body, who reminded him that it was contrary to the moving orders of the system to take cognizance of what passed inside the atmosphere of any planet. saturn and pallas rose together. (cries of "new member!" and the former gave way.) the latter, in a long and eloquent speech, praised the liberality with which he and his colleagues had at length been relieved from astronomical disqualifications. he thought that it was contrary to the spirit of the laws of gravitation to exclude any planet from office on account of the eccentricity or inclination of his orbit. honourable luminaries need not talk of the want of convergency of his series. what had they to do with any private arrangements between him and the general equations of the system? (murmurs from the opposition.) so long as he obeyed the laws of motion, to which he had that day taken a solemn oath, he would ask, were old planets, which were now so well known that nobody trusted them, to.... the focal body said he was sorry to break the continuity of the proceedings, but he thought that remarks upon character, with a negative sign, would introduce { } differences of too high an order. the honourable luminary must eliminate the expression which he had brought out, in finite terms, and use smaller inequalities in future. (hear, hear.) pallas explained, that he was far from meaning to reflect upon the orbital character of any planet present. he only meant to protest against being judged by any laws but those of gravitation, and the differential calculus: he thought it most unjust that astronomers should prevent the small planets from being observed, and then reproach them with the imperfections of the tables, which were the result of their own narrow-minded policy. (cheers.) saturn thought that, as an old planet, he had not been treated with due respect. (hear, from his satellites.) he had long foretold the wreck of the system from the friends of innovation. why, he might ask, were his satellites to be excluded, when small planets, trumpery comets, which could not keep their mean distances (cries of oh! oh!), double stars, with graphical approximations, and such obscure riff-raff of the heavens (great uproar) found room enough. so help him arithmetic, nothing could come of it, but a stoppage of all revolution. his hon. friend in the focus might smile, for he would be a gainer by such an event; but as for him (saturn), he had something to lose, and hon. luminaries well knew that, whatever they might think _under_ an atmosphere, _above_ it continual revolution was the only way of preventing perpetual anarchy. as to the hon. luminary who had risen before him, he was not surprised at his remarks, for he had invariably observed that he and his colleagues allowed themselves _too much latitude_. the stability of the system required that they should be brought down, and he, for one, would exert all his powers of attraction to accomplish that end. if other bodies would cordially unite with him, particularly his noble friend next him, than whom no luminary possessed greater weight-- jupiter rose to order. he conceived his noble friend { } had no right to allude to him in that manner, and was much surprised at his proposal, considering the matters which remained in dispute between them. in the present state of affairs, he would take care never to be in conjunction with his hon. neighbour one moment longer than he could help. (cries of "order, order, no long inequalities," during which he sat down.) saturn proceeded to say, that he did not know till then that a planet with a ring could affront one who had only a belt, by proposing mutual co-operation. he would now come to the subject under discussion. he should think meanly of his hon. colleagues if they consented to bestow their approbation upon a mere astronomical production. had they forgotten that they once were considered the arbiters of fate, and the prognosticators of man's destiny? what had lost them that proud position? was it not the infernal march of intellect, which, after having turned the earth topsy-turvy, was now disturbing the very universe? for himself (others might do as they pleased), but he stuck to the venerable partridge,[ ] and the stationers' company, and trusted that they would outlive infidels and anarchists, whether of astronomical or diffusion of knowledge societies. (cries of oh! oh!) mars said he had been told, for he must confess he had not seen the work, that the places of the planets were given for sundays. this, he must be allowed to say, was an indecorum he had not expected; and he was convinced the lords of the admiralty had given no orders to that effect. he hoped this point would be considered in the measure which had been introduced in another place, and that some { } one would move that the prohibition against travelling on sundays extend to the heavenly as well as earthly bodies. several of the stars here declared, that they had been much annoyed by being observed on sunday evenings, during the hours of divine service. the room was then cleared for a division, but we are unable to state what took place. several comets-at-arms were sent for, and we heard rumors of a personal collision having taken place between two luminaries in opposition. we were afterwards told that the resolution was carried by a majority, and the luminaries elongated at h. m. , s. sidereal time. * * * it is reported, but we hope without foundation, that saturn, and several other discontented planets, have accepted an invitation from sirius to join his system, on the most liberal appointments. we believe the report to have originated in nothing more than the discovery of the annual parallax of sirius from the orbit of saturn; but we may safely assure our readers that no steps have as yet been taken to open any communication. we are also happy to state, that there is no truth in the rumor of the laws of gravitation being about to be repealed. we have traced this report, and find it originated with a gentleman living near bath (captain forman, r.n),[ ] whose name we forbear to mention. a great excitement has been observed among the nebulæ, visible to the earth's southern hemisphere, particularly among those which have not yet been discovered from thence. we are at a loss to conjecture the cause, but we shall not fail to report to our readers the news of any movement which may take place. (sir j. herschel's visit. he could just see this before he went out.) { } woodley's divine system. a treatise on the divine system of the universe, by captain woodley, r.n.,[ ] and as demonstrated by his universal time-piece, and universal method of determining a ship's longitude by the apparent true place of the moon; with an introduction refuting the solar system of copernicus, the newtonian philosophy, and mathematics. .[ ] vo. description of the universal time-piece. ( pp. mo.) i think this divine system was published several years before, and was republished with an introduction in .[ ] capt. woodley was very sure that the earth does not move: he pointed out to me, in a conversation i had with him, something--i forget what--in the motion of the great bear, visible to any eye, which could not possibly be if the earth moved. he was exceedingly ignorant, as the following quotation from his account of the usual opinion will show: "the north pole of the earth's axis deserts, they say, the north star or pole of the heavens, at the rate of ° in ¾ years.... the fact is, nothing can be more certain than that the stars have not changed their latitudes or declinations _one degree_ in the last ¾ years." this is a strong specimen of a class of men by whom all accessible persons who have made any name in science are hunted. it is a pity that they cannot be admitted into scientific societies, and allowed fairly to state their cases, and stand quiet cross-examination, being kept in their answers very close to the questions, and the answers written down. i am perfectly satisfied that if one meeting in the year were devoted to the hearing of those who chose to come forward on such conditions, much good would be done. but i strongly suspect few would come forward { } at first, and none in a little while: and i have had some experience of the method i recommend, privately tried. capt. woodley was proposed, a little after , as a fellow of the astronomical society; and, not caring whether he moved the sun or the earth, or both--i could not have stood _neither_--i signed the proposal. i always had a sneaking kindness for paradoxers, such a one, perhaps, as petit andré had for his _lambs_, as he called them. there was so little feeling against his opinions, that he only failed by a fraction of a ball. had i myself voted, he would have been elected; but being engaged in conversation, and not having heard the slightest objection to him, i did not think it worth while to cross the room for the purpose. i regretted this at the time, but had i known how ignorant he was i should not have supported him. probably those who voted against him knew more of his book than i did. i remember no other instance of exclusion from a scientific society on the ground of opinion, even if this be one; of which it may be that ignorance had more to do with it than paradoxy. mr. frend,[ ] a strong anti-newtonian, was a fellow of the astronomical society, and for some years in the council. lieut. kerigan[ ] was elected to the royal society at a time when his proposers must have known that his immediate object was to put f.r.s. on the title-page of a work against the tides. to give all i know, i may add that the editor of some very ignorant bombast about the "forehead of the solar sky," who did not know the difference between _bailly_[ ] and _baily_,[ ] received hints which induced him to withdraw his proposal for election into the astronomical society. but this was an act of kindness; { } for if he had seen mr. baily in the chair, with his head on, he might have been political historian enough to faint away. de la formation des corps. par paul laurent.[ ] nancy, , vo. atoms, and ether, and ovules or eggs, which are planets, and their eggs, which are satellites. these speculators can create worlds, in which they cannot be refuted; but none of them dare attack the problem of a grain of wheat, and its passage from a seed to a plant, bearing scores of seeds like what it was itself. on john flamsteed. an account of the rev. john flamsteed,[ ] the first astronomer-royal.... by francis baily,[ ] esq. london, , to. supplement, london, , to. my friend francis baily was a paradoxer: he brought forward things counter to universal opinion. that newton was impeccable in every point was the national creed; and failings of temper and conduct would have been utterly disbelieved, if the paradox had not come supported by very unusual evidence. anybody who impeached newton on existing evidence might as well have been squaring the circle, for any attention he would have got. about this book i will tell a story. it was published by the admiralty for distribution; and the distribution was entrusted to mr. baily. on the eve of its appearance, rumors of its extraordinary revelations got about, and persons of influence applied to the admiralty for copies. the lords were in a difficulty: but on looking at the list they saw names, as they { } thought, which were so obscure that they had a right to assume mr. baily had included persons who had no claim to such a compliment as presentation from the admiralty. the secretary requested mr. baily to call upon him. "mr. baily, my lords are inclined to think that some of the persons in this list are perhaps not of that note which would justify their lordships in presenting this work."--"to whom does your observation apply, mr. secretary?"--"well, now, let us examine the list; let me see; now,--now,--now,--come!--here's gauss[ ]--_who's gauss_?"--"gauss, mr. secretary, is the oldest mathematician now living, and is generally thought to be the greatest."--"o-o-oh! well, mr. baily, we will see about it, and i will write you a letter." the letter expressed their lordships' perfect satisfaction with the list. there was a controversy about the revelations made in this work; but as the eccentric anomalies took no part in it, there is nothing for my purpose. the following valentine from mrs. flamsteed,[ ] which i found among baily's papers, illustrates some of the points: " astronomers' row, paradise: february , . "dear sir,--i suppose you hardly expected to receive a letter from me, dated from this place; but the truth is, a gentleman from our street was appointed guardian angel to the american treaty, in which there is some astronomical question about boundaries. he has got leave to go back to fetch some instruments which he left behind, and i take this opportunity of making your acquaintance. that america has become a wonderful place since i was down among you; you have no idea how grand the fire at new york { } looked up here. poor dear mr. flamsteed does not know i am writing a letter to a gentleman on valentine's day; he is walked out with sir isaac newton (they are pretty good friends now, though they do squabble a little sometimes) and sir william herschel, to see a new nebula. sir isaac says he can't make out at all how it is managed; and i am sure i cannot help him. i never bothered my head about those things down below, and i don't intend to begin here. "i have just received the news of your having written a book about my poor dear man. it's a chance that i heard it at all; for the truth is, the scientific gentlemen are somehow or other become so wicked, and go so little to church, that very few of them are considered fit company for this place. if it had not been for dr. brinkley,[ ] who came here of course, i should not have heard about it. he seems a nice man, but is not yet used to our ways. as to mr. halley,[ ] he is of course not here; which is lucky for him, for mr. flamsteed swore the moment he caught him in a place where there are no magistrates, he would make a sacrifice of him to heavenly truth. it was very generous in mr. f. not appearing against sir isaac when he came up, for i am told that if he had, sir isaac would not have been allowed to come in at all. i should have been sorry for that, for he is a companionable man enough, only holds his head rather higher than he should do. i met him the other day walking with mr. whiston,[ ] and disputing about the deluge. 'well, mrs. flamsteed,' says he, 'does old poke-the-stars understand gravitation yet?' now you must know that is rather a sore point with poor dear mr. flamsteed. he says that sir isaac is as crochetty about the moon as ever; and as to { } what some people say about what has been done since his time, he says he should like to see somebody who knows something about it of himself. for it is very singular that none of the people who have carried on sir isaac's notions have been allowed to come here. "i hope you have not forgotten to tell how badly sir isaac used mr. flamsteed about that book. i have never quite forgiven him; as for mr. flamsteed, he says that as long as he does not come for observations, he does not care about it, and that he will never trust him with any papers again as long as he lives. i shall never forget what a rage he came home in when sir isaac had called him a puppy. he struck the stairs all the way up with his crutch, and said puppy at every step, and all the evening, as soon as ever a star appeared in the telescope, he called it puppy. i could not think what was the matter, and when i asked, he only called me puppy. "i shall be very glad to see you if you come our way. pray keep up some appearances, and go to church a little. st. peter is always uncommonly civil to astronomers, and indeed to all scientific persons, and never bothers them with many questions. if they can make anything out of the case, he is sure to let them in. indeed, he says, it is perfectly out of the question expecting a mathematician to be as religious as an apostle, but that it is as much as his place is worth to let in the greater number of those who come. so try if you cannot manage it, for i am very curious to know whether you found all the letters. i remain, dear sir, your faithful servant, "margaret flamsteed. francis baily, esq. "p.s. mr. flamsteed has come in, and says he left sir isaac riding cockhorse upon the nebula, and poring over it as if it were a book. he has brought in his old acquaintance ozanam,[ ] who says that it was always his maxim on { } earth, that 'il appartient aux docteurs de sorbonne de disputer, au pape de prononcer, et au mathématicien d'aller en paradis en ligne perpendiculaire.'"[ ] on stevin. the secretary of the admiralty was completely extinguished. i can recall but two instances of demolition as complete, though no doubt there are many others. the first is in simon stevin[ ] and m. dumortier. nieuport, , mo. m. dumortier was a member of the academy of brussels: there was a discussion, i believe, about a national pantheon for belgium. the name of stevinus suggested itself as naturally as that of newton to an englishman; probably no belgian is better known to foreigners as illustrious in science. stevinus is great in the _mécanique analytique_ of lagrange;[ ] stevinus is great in the _tristram shandy_ of sterne. m. dumortier, who believed that not one belgian in a thousand knew stevinus, and who confesses with ironical shame that he was not the odd man, protested against placing the statue of an obscure man in the pantheon, to give foreigners the notion that belgium could show nothing greater. the work above named is a slashing retort: any one who knows the history of science ever so little may imagine what a dressing was given, by mere extract from foreign writers. the tract is a letter signed j. du fan, but this is a pseudonym of mr. van de weyer.[ ] the academician says stevinus was a man who was not { } without merit for the time at which he lived: sir! is the answer, he was as much before his own time as you are behind yours. how came a man who had never heard of stevinus to be a member of the brussels academy? the second story was told me by mr. crabb robinson,[ ] who was long connected with the _times_, and intimately acquainted with mr. w***.[ ] when w*** was an undergraduate at cambridge, taking a walk, he came to a stile, on which sat a bumpkin who did not make way for him: the gown in that day looked down on the town. "why do you not make way for a gentleman?"--"eh?"--"yes, why do you not move? you deserve a good hiding, and you shall get it if you don't take care!" the bumpkin raised his muscular figure on its feet, patted his menacer on the head, and said, very quietly,--"young man! i'm cribb."[ ] w*** seized the great pugilist's hand, and shook it warmly, got him to his own rooms in college, collected some friends, and had a symposium which lasted until the large end of the small hours. finleyson as a paradoxer. god's creation of the universe as it is, in support of the scriptures. by mr. finleyson.[ ] sixth edition, , vo. { } this writer, by his own account, succeeded in delivering the famous lieut. richard brothers[ ] from the lunatic asylum, and tending him, not as a keeper but as a disciple, till he died. brothers was, by his own account, the nephew of the almighty, and finleyson ought to have been the nephew of brothers. for napoleon came to him in a vision, with a broken sword and an arrow in his side, beseeching help: finleyson pulled out the arrow, but refused to give a new sword; whereby poor napoleon, though he got off with life, lost the battle of waterloo. this story was written to the duke of wellington, ending with "i pulled out the arrow, but left the broken sword. your grace can supply the rest, and what followed is amply recorded in history." the book contains a long account of applications to government to do three things: to pay , l. for care taken of brothers, to pay , l. for discovery of the longitude, and to prohibit the teaching of the newtonian system, which makes god a liar. the successive administrations were threatened that they would have to turn out if they refused, which, it is remarked, came to pass in every case. i have heard of a joke of lord macaulay, that the house of commons must be the beast of the revelations, since members, with the officers necessary for the action of the house, make . macaulay read most things, and the greater part of the rest: so that he might be suspected of having appropriated as a joke one of finleyson's serious points--"i wrote earl grey[ ] upon the th of july, , informing him that his reform { } bill could not be carried, as it reduced the members below the present amount of , which, with the eight principal clerks or officers of the house, make the number ." but a witness has informed me that macaulay's joke was made in his hearing a great many years before the reform bill was proposed; in fact, when both were students at cambridge. earl grey was, according to finleyson, a descendant of uriah the hittite. for a specimen of lieut. brothers, this book would be worth picking up. perhaps a specimen of the lieutenant's poetry may be acceptable: brothers _loquitur_, remember: "jerusalem ! jerusalem! shall be built again! more rich, more grand then ever; and through it shall jordan flow!(!) my people's favourite river. there i'll erect a splendid throne, and build on the wasted place; to fulfil my ancient covenant to king david and his race. * * * * * * "euphrates' stream shall flow with ships, and also my wedded nile; and on my coast shall cities rise, each one distant but a mile. * * * * * * "my friends the russians on the north with persees and arabs round, do show the limits of my land, here! here! then i mark the ground." on theological paradoxers. among the paradoxers are some of the theologians who in their own organs of the press venture to criticise science. these may hold their ground when they confine themselves to the geology of long past periods and to general cosmogony: for it is the tug of greek against greek; and both sides deal much in what is grand when called _hypothesis_, petty when called _supposition_. and very often they are not conspicuous when they venture upon things within knowledge; { } wrong, but not quite wrong enough for a budget of paradoxes. one case, however, is destined to live, as an instance of a school which finds writers, editors, and readers. the double stars have been seen from the seventeenth century, and diligently observed by many from the time of wm. herschel, who first devoted continuous attention to them. the year was that of a remarkable triumph of astronomical prediction. the theory of gravitation had been applied to the motion of binary stars about each other, in elliptic orbits, and in that year the two stars of [gamma] virginis, as had been predicted should happen within a few years of that time--for years are small quantities in such long revolutions--the two stars came to their nearest: in fact, they appeared to be one as much with the telescope as without it. this remarkable turning-point of the history of a long and widely-known branch of astronomy was followed by an article in the _church of england quarterly review_ for april , written against the useful knowledge society. the notion that there are any such things as double stars is (p. ) implied to be imposture or delusion, as in the following extract. i suspect that i myself am the _sidrophel_, and that my companion to the maps of the stars, written for the society and published in , is the work to which the writer refers: "we have forgotten the name of that sidrophel who lately discovered that the fixed stars were not single stars, but appear in the heavens like soles at billingsgate, in pairs; while a second astronomer, under the influence of that competition in trade which the political economists tell us is so advantageous to the public, professes to show us, through his superior telescope, that the apparently single stars are really three. before such wondrous mandarins of science, how continually must _homunculi_ like ourselves keep in the background, lest we come between the wind and their nobility." if the _homunculus_ who wrote this be still above ground, { } how devoutly must he hope he may be able to keep in the background! but the chief blame falls on the editor. the title of the article is: "the new school of superficial pantology; a speech intended to be delivered before a defunct mechanics' institute. by swallow swift, late m.p. for the borough of cockney-cloud, witsbury: reprinted balloon island, bubble year, month _ventose_. long live charlatan!" as a rule, orthodox theologians should avoid humor, a weapon which all history shows to be very difficult to employ in favor of establishment, and which, nine times out of ten, leaves its wielder fighting on the side of heterodoxy. theological argument, when not enlivened by bigotry, is seldom worse than narcotic: but theological fun, when not covert heresy, is almost always sialagogue. the article in question is a craze, which no editor should have admitted, except after severe inspection by qualified persons. the author of this wit committed a mistake which occurs now and then in old satire, the confusion between himself and the party aimed at. he ought to be reviewing this fictitious book, but every now and then the article becomes the book itself; not by quotation, but by the writer forgetting that _he_ is not mr. swallow swift, but his reviewer. in fact he and mr. s. swift had each had a dose of the _devil's elixir_. a novel so called, published about forty years ago, proceeds upon a legend of this kind. if two parties both drink of the elixir, their identities get curiously intermingled; each turns up in the character of the other throughout the three volumes, without having his ideas clear as to whether he be himself or the other. there is a similar confusion in the answer made to the famous _epistolæ obscurorum virorum_:[ ] it is headed _lamentationes obscurorum virorum_.[ ] { } this is not a retort of the writer, throwing back the imputation: the obscure men who had been satirized are themselves made, by name, to wince under the disapprobation which the pope had expressed at the satire upon themselves. of course the book here reviewed is a transparent forgery. but i do not know how often it may have happened that the book, in the journals which always put a title at the head, may have been written after the review. about the year a friend showed me the proof of an article of his on the malt tax, for the next number of the _edinburgh review_. nothing was wanting except the title of the book reviewed; i asked what it was. he sat down, and wrote as follows at the head, "the maltster's guide (pp. )," and said that would do as well as anything. but i myself, it will be remarked, have employed such humor as i can command "in favor of establishment." what it is worth i am not to judge; as usual in such cases, those who are of my cabal pronounce it good, but cyclometers and other paradoxers either call it very poor, or commend it as sheer buffoonery. be it one or the other, i observe that all the effective ridicule is, in this subject, on the side of establishment. this is partly due to the difficulty of quizzing plain and sober demonstration; but so much, if not more, to the ignorance of the paradoxers. for that which cannot be _ridiculed_, can be _turned into ridicule_ by those who know how. but by the time a person is deep enough in _negative_ quantities, and _impossible_ quantities, to be able to satirize them, he is caught, and being inclined to become a _user_, shrinks from being an _abuser_. imagine a person with a gift of ridicule, and knowledge enough, trying his hand on the junction of the assertions which he will find in various books of algebra. first, that a negative quantity has no logarithm; secondly, that a { } negative quantity has no square root; thirdly, that the first non-existent is to the second as the circumference of a circle to its diameter. one great reason of the allowance of such unsound modes of expression is the confidence felt by the writers that [root]- and log(- ) will make their way, however inaccurately described. i heartily wish that the cyclometers had knowledge enough to attack the weak points of algebraical diction: they would soon work a beneficial change.[ ] an early meteorologist. recueil de ma vie, mes ouvrages et mes pensées. par thomas ignace marie forster.[ ] brussels, , mo. mr. forster, an englishman settled at bruges, was an observer in many subjects, but especially in meteorology. he communicated to the astronomical society, in , the information that, in the registers kept by his grandfather, his father, and himself, beginning in , new moon on saturday was followed, nineteen times out of twenty, by twenty days of rain and wind. this statement being published in the _athenæum_, a cluster of correspondents averred that the belief is common among seamen, in all parts of the world, and among landsmen too. some one quoted a distich: "saturday's moon and sunday's full never were fine and never _wull_." { } another brought forward: "if a saturday's moon comes once in seven years it comes too soon." mr. forster did not say he was aware of the proverbial character of the phenomenon. he was a very eccentric man. he treated his dogs as friends, and buried them with ceremony. he quarrelled with the _curé_ of his parish, who remarked that he could not take his dogs to heaven with him. i will go nowhere, said he, where i cannot take my dog. he was a sincere catholic: but there is a point beyond which even churches have no influence. the following is some account of the announcement of . the _athenæum_ (feb. ), giving an account of the meeting of the astronomical society in december, , says: "dr. forster of bruges, who is well known as a meteorologist, made a communication at which our readers will stare: he declares that by journals of the weather kept by his grandfather, father, and himself, ever since , to the present time, _whenever the new moon has fallen on a saturday, the following twenty days have been wet and windy_, in nineteen cases out of twenty. in spite of our friend zadkiel[ ] and the others who declare that we would smother every truth that does not happen to agree with us, we are glad to see that the society had the sense to publish this communication, coming, as it does, from a veteran observer, and one whose love of truth is undoubted. it must be that the fact is so set down in the journals, because dr. forster says it: and whether it be only a fact of the journals, or one of the heavens, can soon be tried. the new moon of march next, falls on _saturday_ the th, at in the afternoon. we shall certainly look out." { } the following appeared in the number of march : "the first _saturday moon_ since dr. forster's announcement came off a week ago. we had previously received a number of letters from different correspondents--all to the effect that the notion of new moon on saturday bringing wet weather is one of widely extended currency. one correspondent (who gives his name) states that he has constantly heard it at sea, and among the farmers and peasantry in scotland, ireland, and the north of england. he proceeds thus: 'since , nineteen years of the time i have spent in a seafaring life. i have constantly observed, though unable to account for, the phenomenon. i have also heard the stormy qualities of a saturday's moon remarked by american, french, and spanish seamen; and, still more distant, a chinese pilot, who was once doing duty on board my vessel seemed to be perfectly cognizant of the fact.' so that it seems we have, in giving currency to what we only knew as a very curious communication from an earnest meteorologist, been repeating what is common enough among sailors and farmers. another correspondent affirms that the thing is most devoutly believed in by seamen; who would as soon sail on a friday as be in the channel after a saturday moon.--after a tolerable course of dry weather, there was some snow, accompanied by wind on saturday last, here in london; there were also heavy louring clouds. sunday was cloudy and cold, with a little rain; monday was louring, tuesday unsettled; wednesday quite overclouded, with rain in the morning. the present occasion shows only a general change of weather with a tendency towards rain. if dr. forster's theory be true, it is decidedly one of the minor instances, as far as london weather is concerned.--it will take a good deal of evidence to make us believe in the omen of a saturday moon. but, as we have said of the poughkeepsie seer, the thing is very curious whether true or false. whence comes this universal proverb--and a hundred others--while the meteorological observer { } cannot, when he puts down a long series of results, detect any weather cycles at all? one of our correspondents wrote us something of a lecture for encouraging, he said, the notion that _names_ could influence the weather. he mistakes the question. if there be any weather cycles depending on the moon, it is possible that one of them may be so related to the week cycle of seven days, as to show recurrences which are of the kind stated, or any other. for example, we know that if the new moon of march fall on a saturday in this year, it will most probably fall on a saturday nineteen years hence. this is not connected with the spelling of saturday--but with the connection between the motions of the sun and moon. nothing but the moon can settle the question--and we are willing to wait on her for further information. if the adage be true, then the philosopher has missed what lies before his eyes; if false, then the world can be led by the nose in spite of the eyes. both these things happen sometimes; and we are willing to take whichever of the two solutions is borne out by future facts. in the mean time, we announce the next saturday moon for the th of august." how many coincidences are required to establish a law of connection? it depends on the way in which the mind views the matter in question. many of the paradoxers are quite set up by a very few instances. i will now tell a story about myself, and then ask them a question. so far as instances can prove a law, the following is proved: no failure has occurred. let a clergyman be known to me, whether by personal acquaintance or correspondence, or by being frequently brought before me by those with whom i am connected in private life: that clergyman does not, except in few cases, become a bishop; but _if_ he become a bishop, he is sure, first or last, to become an arch-bishop. this has happened in every case. as follows: . my last schoolmaster, a former fellow of oriel, was { } a very intimate college friend of richard whately[ ], a younger man. struck by his friend's talents, he used to talk of him perpetually, and predict his future eminence. before i was sixteen, and before whately had even given his bampton lectures, i was very familiar with his name, and some of his sayings. i need not say that he became archbishop of dublin. . when i was a child, a first cousin of john bird sumner[ ] married a sister of my mother. i cannot remember the time when i first heard his name, but it was made very familiar to me. in time he became bishop of chester, and then, archbishop of canterbury. my reader may say that dr. c. r. sumner,[ ] bishop of winchester, has just as good a claim: but it is not so: those connected with me had more knowledge of dr. j. b. sumner;[ ] and said nothing, or next to nothing, of the other. rumor says that the bishop of winchester has _declined_ an archbishopric: if so, my rule is a rule of gradations. . thomas musgrave,[ ] fellow of trinity college, cambridge, was _dean_ of the college when i was an undergraduate: this brought me into connection with him, he giving impositions for not going to chapel, i writing them out according. we had also friendly intercourse in after life; i forgiving, he probably forgetting. honest tom { } musgrave, as he used to be called, became bishop of hereford, and archbishop of york. . about the time when i went to cambridge, i heard a great deal about mr. c. t. longley,[ ] of christchurch, from a cousin of my own of the same college, long since deceased, who spoke of him much, and most affectionately. dr. longley passed from durham to york, and thence to canterbury. i cannot quite make out the two archbishoprics; i do not remember any other private channel through which the name came to me: perhaps dr. longley, having two strings to his bow, would have been one archbishop if i had never heard of him. . when dr. wm. thomson[ ] was appointed to the see of gloucester in , he and i had been correspondents on the subject of logic--on which we had both written--for about fourteen years. on his elevation i wrote to him, giving the preceding instances, and informing him that he would certainly be an archbishop. the case was a strong one, and the law acted rapidly; for dr. thomson's elevation to the see of york took place in . here are five cases; and there is no opposing instance. i have searched the almanacs since , and can find no instance of a bishop not finally archbishop of whom i had known through private sources, direct or indirect. now what do my paradoxers say? is this a pre-established harmony, or a chain of coincidences? and how many instances will it require to establish a law?[ ] { } the herschel hoax. some account of the great astronomical discoveries lately made by sir john herschel at the cape of good hope. second edition. london, mo. . this is a curious hoax, evidently written by a person versed in astronomy and clever at introducing probable circumstances and undesigned coincidences.[ ] it first appeared in a newspaper. it makes sir j. herschel discover men, animals, etc. in the moon, of which much detail is given. there seems to have been a french edition, the original, and english editions in america, whence the work came into britain: but whether the french was published in america or at paris i do not know. there is no doubt that it was produced in the united states, by m. nicollet,[ ] an astronomer, once of paris, and a fugitive of some kind. about him i have heard two stories. first that he fled to america with funds not his own, and that this book was a mere device to raise the wind. secondly, that he was a protégé of laplace, and of the polignac party, and also an outspoken man. that after the revolution he was so obnoxious to the republican party that he judged it prudent to quit france; which he did in debt, leaving money for his creditors, but not enough, with m. bouvard. in america he connected himself with an assurance office. { } the moon-story was written, and sent to france, chiefly with the intention of entrapping m. arago, nicollet's especial foe, into the belief of it. and those who narrate this version of the story wind up by saying that m. arago _was_ entrapped, and circulated the wonders through paris, until a letter from nicollet to m. bouvard[ ] explained the hoax. i have no personal knowledge of either story: but as the poor man had to endure the first, it is but right that the second should be told with it. some more meteorology. the weather almanac for the year . by p. murphy,[ ] esq., m.n.s. by m. n. s. is meant _member of no society._. this almanac bears on the title-page two recommendations. the _morning post_ calls it one of the most important-if-true publications of our generation. the _times_ says: "if the basis of his theory prove sound, and its principles be sanctioned by a more extended experience, it is not too much to say that the importance of the discovery is equal to that of the longitude." cautious journalist! three times that of the longitude would have been too little to say. that the landsman might predict the weather of all the year, at its beginning, jack would cheerfully give up astronomical longitude--_the_ problem--altogether, and fall back on chronometers with the older ls, lead, latitude, and look-out, applied to dead-reckoning. mr. murphy attempted to give the weather day by day: thus the first seven days of march { } bore changeable; rain; rain; rain-_wind_; changeable; fair; changeable. to aim at such precision as to put a fair day between two changeable ones by weather theory was going very near the wind and weather too. murphy opened the year with cold and frost; and the weather did the same. but murphy, opposite to saturday, january , put down "fair, probable lowest degree of winter temperature." when this saturday came, it was not merely the probably coldest of , but certainly the coldest of many consecutive years. without knowing anything of murphy, i felt it prudent to cover my nose with my glove as i walked the street at eight in the morning. the fortune of the almanac was made. nobody waited to see whether the future would dement the prophecy: the shop was beset in a manner which brought the police to keep order; and it was said that the almanac for was a gain of , l. to the owners. it very soon appeared that this was only a lucky hit: the weather-prophet had a modified reputation for a few years; and is now no more heard of. a work of his will presently appear in the list. the great pyramids. letter from alexandria on the evidence of the practical application of the quadrature of the circle in the great pyramids of gizeh. by h. c. agnew,[ ] esq. london, , to. { } mr. agnew detects proportions which he thinks were suggested by those of the circumference and diameter of a circle. the mathematics of a creed. the creed of st. athanasius proved by a mathematical parallel. before you censure, condemn, or approve; read, examine, and understand. e. b. revilo.[ ] london, , vo. this author really believed himself, and was in earnest. he is not the only person who has written nonsense by confounding the mathematical infinite (of quantity) with what speculators now more correctly express by the unlimited, the unconditioned, or the absolute. this tract is worth preserving, as the extreme case of a particular kind. the following is a specimen. infinity being represented by [infinity], as usual, and f, s, g, being finite integers, the three persons are denoted by [infinity]^{f}, (m [infinity])^{s}, [infinity]^{g}, the finite fraction m representing human nature, as opposed to [infinity]. the clauses of the creed are then given with their mathematical parallels. i extract a couple: "but the godhead of the father, of the son, and of the holy ghost, is all one: the glory equal, the majesty co-eternal. "it has been shown that [infinity]^f, [infinity]^g, and (m [infinity])^s, together, are but [infinity], and that each is [infinity], and any magnitude in existence represented by [infinity] always was and always will be: for it cannot be made, or destroyed, and yet exists. { } "equal to the father, as touching his godhead: and inferior to the father, touching his manhood." "(m [infinity])^s is equal to [infinity]^f as touching [infinity], but inferior to [infinity]^f as touching m: because m is not infinite." i might have passed this over, as beneath even my present subject, but for the way in which i became acquainted with it. a bookseller, _not the publisher_, handed it to me over his counter: one who had published mathematical works. he said, with an air of important communication, have you seen _this_, sir! in reply, i recommended him to show it to my friend mr.----, for whom he had published mathematics. educated men, used to books and to the converse of learned men, look with mysterious wonder on such productions as this: for which reason i have made a quotation which many will judge had better have been omitted. but it would have been an imposition on the public if i were, omitting this and some other uses of the bible and common prayer, to pretend that i had given a true picture of my school. [since the publication of the above, it has been stated that the author is mr. oliver byrne, the author of the _dual arithmetic_ mentioned further on: e. b. revilo seems to be obviously a reversal.] logic has no paradoxers. old and new logic contrasted: being an attempt to elucidate, for ordinary comprehension, how lord bacon delivered the human mind from its , years' enslavement under aristotle. by justin brenan.[ ] london, , mo. logic, though the other exact science, has not had the sort of assailants who have clustered about mathematics. there is a sect which disputes the utility of logic, but there are no special points, like the quadrature of the circle, which { } excite dispute among those who admit other things. the old story about aristotle having one logic to trammel us, and bacon another to set us free,--always laughed at by those who really knew either aristotle or bacon,--now begins to be understood by a large section of the educated world. the author of this tract connects the old logic with the indecencies of the classical writers, and the new with moral purity: he appeals to women, who, "when they see plainly the demoralizing tendency of syllogistic logic, they will no doubt exert their powerful influence against it, and support the baconian method." this is the only work against logic which i can introduce, but it is a rare one, i mean in contents. i quote the author's idea of a syllogism: "the basis of this system is the syllogism. this is a form of couching the substance of your argument or investigation into one short line or sentence--then corroborating or supporting it in another, and drawing your conclusion or proof in a third." on this definition he gives an example, as follows: "every sin deserves death," the substance of the "argument or investigation." then comes, "every unlawful wish is a sin," which "corroborates or supports" the preceding: and, lastly, "therefore every unlawful wish deserves death," which is the "conclusion or proof." we learn, also, that "sometimes the first is called the premises (_sic_), and sometimes the first premiss"; as also that "the first is sometimes called the proposition, or subject, or affirmative, and the next the predicate, and sometimes the middle term." to which is added, with a mark of exclamation at the end, "but in analyzing the syllogism, there is a middle term, and a predicate too, in each of the lines!" it is clear that aristotle never enslaved this mind. i have said that logic has no paradoxers, but i was speaking of old time. this science has slept until our own day: hamilton[ ] says there has been "no progress made in { } the _general_ development of the syllogism since the time of aristotle; and in regard to the few _partial_ improvements, the professed historians seem altogether ignorant." but in our time, the paradoxer, the opponent of common opinion, has appeared in this field. i do not refer to prof. boole,[ ] who is not a _paradoxer_, but a _discoverer_: his system could neither oppose nor support common opinion, for its grounds were not in the conception of any one. i speak especially of two others, who fought like cat and dog: one was dogmatical, the other categorical. the first was hamilton himself--sir william hamilton of edinburgh, the metaphysician, not sir william _rowan_ hamilton[ ] of dublin, the mathematician, a combination of peculiar genius with unprecedented learning, erudite in all he could want except mathematics, for which he had no turn, and in which he had not even a schoolboy's knowledge, thanks to the oxford of his younger day. the other was the author of this work, so fully described in hamilton's writings that there is no occasion to describe him here. i shall try to say a few words in common language about the paradoxers. hamilton's great paradox was the _quantification of the predicate_; a fearful phrase, easily explained. we all know that when we say "men are animals," a form wholly unquantified in phrase, we speak of _all_ men, but not of all animals: it is _some or all_, some may be all for aught the proposition says. this some-may-be-all-for-aught-we-say, or _not-none,_ is the logician's _some_. one would suppose { } that "all men are some animals," would have been the logical phrase in all time: but the predicate never was quantified. the few who alluded to the possibility of such a thing found reasons for not adopting it over and above the great reason, that aristotle did not adopt it. for aristotle never ruled in physics or metaphysics _in the old time_ with near so much of absolute sway as he has ruled in logic _down to our own time_. the logicians knew that in the proposition "all men are animals" the "animal" is not _universal_, but _particular_ yet no one dared to say that _all_ men are _some_ animals, and to invent the phrase, "_some_ animals are _all_ men" until hamilton leaped the ditch, and not only completed a system of enunciation, but applied it to syllogism. my own case is as peculiar as his: i have proposed to introduce mathematical _thought_ into logic to an extent which makes the old stagers cry: "st. aristotle! what wild notions! serve a _ne exeat regno_[ ] on him!" hard upon twenty years ago, a friend and opponent who stands high in these matters, and who is not nearly such a sectary of aristotle and establishment as most, wrote to me as follows: "it is said that next to the man who forms the taste of the nation, the greatest genius is the man who corrupts it. i mean therefore no disrespect, but very much the reverse, when i say that i have hitherto always considered you as a great logical heresiarch." coleridge says he thinks that it was sir joshua reynolds who made the remark: which, to copy a bull i once heard, i cannot deny, because i was not there when he said it. my friend did not call me to repentance and reconciliation with the church: i think he had a guess that i was a reprobate sinner. my offences at that time were but small: i went on spinning syllogism systems, all alien from the common logic, until i had six, the initial letters of which, put together, from the { } names i gave before i saw what they would make, bar all repentance by the words rue not! leaving to the followers of the old school the comfortable option of placing the letters thus: true? no! it should however be stated that the question is not about absolute truth or falsehood. no one denies that anything i call an inference is an inference: they say that my alterations are _extra-logical_; that they are _material_, not _formal_; and that logic is a _formal_ science. the distinction between material and formal is easily made, where the usual perversions are not required. a _form_ is an empty machine, such as "every x is y"; it may be supplied with _matter_, as in "every _man_ is _animal_." the logicians will not see that their _formal_ proposition, "every x is y," is material in three points, the degree of assertion, the quantity of the proposition, and the copula. the purely formal proposition is "there is the probability [alpha] that x stands in the relation l to y." the time will come when it will be regretted that logic went without paradoxers for two thousand years: and when much that has been said on the distinction of form and matter will breed jokes. i give one instance of one mood of each of the systems, in the order of the letters first written above. _relative._--in this system the formal relation is taken, that is, the copula may be any whatever. as a material instance, in which the _relations_ are those of consanguinity (of men understood), take the following: x is the brother of y; x is not the uncle of z; therefore, z is not the child of y. the discussion of relation, and of the objections to the extension, is in the _cambridge transactions_, vol. x, part ; a crabbed conglomerate. _undecided._--in this system one premise, and want of power over another, infer want of power over a conclusion. { } as "some men are not capable of tracing consequences; we cannot be sure that there are beings responsible for consequences who are incapable of tracing consequences; therefore, we cannot be sure that all men are responsible for the consequences of their actions." _exemplar._--this, long after it suggested itself to me as a means of correcting a defect in hamilton's system, i saw to be the very system of aristotle himself, though his followers have drifted into another. it makes its subject and predicate examples, thus: any one man is an animal; any one animal is a mortal; therefore, any one man is a mortal. _numerical._--suppose ys to exist: then if xs be ys, and zs be ys, it follows that xs (at least) are zs. hamilton, whose mind could not generalize on symbols, saw that the word _most_ would come under this system, and admitted, as valid, such a syllogism as "most ys are xs; most ys are zs; therefore, some xs are zs." _onymatic._--this is the ordinary system much enlarged in propositional forms. it is fully discussed in my _syllabus of logic_. _transposed._--in this syllogism the quantity in one premise is transposed into the other. as, some xs are not ys; for every x there is a y which is z; therefore, some zs are not xs. sir william hamilton of edinburgh was one of the best friends and allies i ever had. when i first began to publish speculation on this subject, he introduced me to the logical world as having plagiarized from him. this drew their attention: a mathematician might have written about logic under forms which had something of mathematical look long enough before the aristotelians would have troubled themselves with him: as was done by john bernoulli,[ ] { } james bernoulli,[ ] lambert,[ ] and gergonne;[ ] who, when our discussion began, were not known even to omnilegent hamilton. he retracted his accusation of _wilful_ theft in a manly way when he found it untenable; but on this point he wavered a little, and was convinced to the last that i had taken his principle unconsciously. he thought i had done the same with ploucquet[ ] and lambert. it was his pet notion that i did not understand the commonest principles of logic, that i did not always know the difference between the middle term of a syllogism and its conclusion. it went against his grain to imagine that a mathematician could be a logician. so long as he took me to be riding my own hobby, he laughed consumedly: but when he thought he could make out that i was mounted behind ploucquet or lambert, the current ran thus: "it would indeed have been little short of a miracle had he, ignorant even of the common principles of logic, been able of himself to rise to generalization so lofty and so accurate as are supposed in the peculiar doctrines of both the rival logicians, lambert and ploucquet--how useless soever these may in practice prove to be." all this has been sufficiently discussed elsewhere: "but, masters, remember that i am an ass." i know that i never saw lambert's work until after all hamilton supposed me to have taken was written: he himself, who read almost everything, knew nothing about it until after i did. i cannot prove what i say about my knowledge of lambert: but the means of doing it may turn up. for, by the casual turning up of an old letter, i _have_ { } found the means of clearing myself as to ploucquet. hamilton assumed that (unconsciously) i took from ploucquet the notion of a logical notation in which the symbol of the conclusion is seen in the joint symbols of the premises. for example, in my own fashion i write down ( . ) ( . ), two symbols of premises. by these symbols i see that there is a valid conclusion, and that it may be written in symbol by striking out the two middle parentheses, which gives ( . . ) and reading the two negative dots as an affirmative. and so i see in ( . ) ( . ) that ( ) is the conclusion. this, in full, is the perception that "all are either xs or ys" and "all are either ys or zs" necessitates "some xs are zs." now in ploucquet's book of , is found, "deleatur in præmissis medius; id quod restat indicat conclusionem."[ ] in the paper in which i explain my symbols--which are altogether different from ploucquet's--there is found "erase the symbols of the middle term; the remaining symbols show the inference." there is very great likeness: and i would have excused hamilton for his notion if he had fairly given reference to the part of the book in which his quotation was found. for i had shown in my _formal logic_ what part of ploucquet's book i had used: and a fair disputant would either have strengthened his point by showing that i had been at his part of the book, or allowed me the advantage of it being apparent that i had not given evidence of having seen that part of the book. my good friend, though an honest man, was sometimes unwilling to allow due advantage to controversial opponents. but to my point. the only work of ploucquet i ever saw was lent me by my friend dr. logan,[ ] with whom i have often corresponded on logic, etc. i chanced (in ) { } to turn up the letter which he sent me (sept. , ) _with the book_. part of it runs thus: "i congratulate you on your success in your logical researches [that is, in asking for the book, i had described some results]. since the reading of your first paper i have been satisfied as to the possibility of inventing a logical notation in which the rationale of the inference is contained in the symbol, though i never attempted to verify it [what i communicated, then, satisfied the writer that i had done and communicated what he, from my previous paper, suspected to be practicable]. i send you ploucquet's dissertation....' it now being manifest that i cannot be souring grapes which have been taken from me, i will say what i never said in print before. there is not the slightest merit in making the symbols of the premises yield that of the conclusion by erasure: _the thing must do itself in every system which symbolises quantities_. for in every syllogism (except the inverted _bramantip_ of the aristotelians) the conclusion is manifest in this way without symbols. this _bramantip_ destroys system in the aristotelian lot: and circumstances which i have pointed out destroy it in hamilton's own collection. but in that enlargement of the reputed aristotelian system which i have called _onymatic_, and in that correction of hamilton's system which i have called _exemplar_, the rule of erasure is universal, and may be seen without symbols. our first controversy was in . in , in my _formal logic_, i gave him back a little satire for satire, just to show, as i stated, that i could employ ridicule if i pleased. he was so offended with the appendix in which this was contained, that he would not accept the copy of the book i sent him, but returned it. copies of controversial works, sent from opponent to opponent, are not _presents_, in the usual sense: it was a marked success to make him angry enough to forget this. it had some effect however: during the rest of his life i wished to avoid provocation; for i { } could not feel sure that excitement might not produce consequences. i allowed his slashing account of me in the _discussions_ to pass unanswered: and before that, when he proposed to open a controversy in the _athenæum_ upon my second cambridge paper, i merely deferred the dispute until the next edition of my _formal logic_. i cannot expect the account in the _discussions_ to amuse an unconcerned reader as much as it amused myself: but for a cut-and-thrust, might-and-main, tooth-and-nail, hammer-and-tongs assault, i can particularly recommend it. i never knew, until i read it, how much i should enjoy a thundering onslought on myself, done with racy insolence by a master hand, to whom my good genius had whispered _ita feri ut se sentiat emori_.[ ] since that time i have, as the irishman said, become "dry moulded for want of a bating." some of my paradoxers have done their best: but theirs is mere twopenny--"small swipes," as peter peebles said. brandy for heroes! i hope a reviewer or two will have mercy on me, and will give me as good discipline as strafford would have given hampden and his set: "much beholden," said he, "should they be to any one that should thoroughly take pains with them in that kind"--meaning _objective_ flagellation. and i shall be the same to any one who will serve me so--but in a literary and periodical sense: my corporeal cuticle is as thin as my neighbors'. sir w. h. was suffering under local paralysis before our controversy commenced: and though his mind was quite unaffected, a retort of as downright a character as the attack might have produced serious effect upon a person who had shown himself sensible of ridicule. had a second attack of his disorder followed an answer from me, i should have been held to have caused it: though, looking at hamilton's genial love of combat, i strongly suspected that a retort in kind { } "would cheer his heart, and warm his blood, and make him fight, and do him good." but i could not venture to risk it. so all i did, in reply to the article in the _discussions_, was to write to him the following note: which, as illustrating an etiquette of controversy, i insert. "i beg to acknowledge and thank you for.... it is necessary that i should say a word on my retention of this work, with reference to your return of the copy of my _formal logic_, which i presented to you on its publication: a return made on the ground of your disapproval of the account of our controversy which that work contained. according to my view of the subject, any one whose dealing with the author of a book is specially attacked in it, has a right to expect from the author that part of the book in which the attack is made, together with so much of the remaining part as is fairly context. and i hold that the acceptance by the party assailed of such work or part of a work does not imply any amount of approval of the contents, or of want of disapproval. on this principle (though i am not prepared to add the word _alone_) i forwarded to you the whole of my work on _formal logic_ and my second cambridge memoir. and on this principle i should have held you wanting in due regard to my literary rights if you had not forwarded to me your asterisked pages, with all else that was necessary to a full understanding of their scope and meaning, so far as the contents of the book would furnish it. for the remaining portion, which it would be a hundred pities to separate from the pages in which i am directly concerned, i am your debtor on another principle; and shall be glad to remain so if you will allow me to make a feint of balancing the account by the offer of two small works on subjects as little connected with our discussion as the _epistolæ obscurorum virorum_, or the lutheran dispute. i trust that by accepting my _opuscula_ you will enable me to avoid the { } use of the knife, and leave me to cut you up with the pen as occasion shall serve, i remain, etc. (april , )." i received polite thanks, but not a word about the body of the letter: my argument, i suppose, was admitted. some doggerel and counter doggerel. i find among my miscellaneous papers the following _jeu d'esprit_, or _jeu de bêtise_,[ ] whichever the reader pleases--i care not--intended, before i saw ground for abstaining, to have, as the phrase is, come in somehow. i think i could manage to bring anything into anything: certainly into a budget of paradoxes. sir w. h. rather piqued himself upon some caniculars, or doggerel verses, which he had put together _in memoriam_ [_technicam_] of the way in which a e i o are used in logic: he added u, y, for the addition of _meet_, etc., to the system. i took the liberty of concocting some counter-doggerel, just to show that a mathematician may have architectonic power as well as a metaphysician. doggerel. by sir w. hamilton. a it affirms of _this_, _these_, _all_, whilst e denies of _any_; i it affirms (whilst o denies) of some (or few, or many). thus a affirms, as e denies, and definitely either; thus i affirms, as o denies, and definitely neither. a half, left semidefinite, is worthy of its score; u, then, affirms, as y denies, this, neither less nor more. indefinito-definites, i, ui, yo, last we come; { } and this affirms, as that denies of _more_, _most_ (_half_, _plus_, _some_). counter doggerel. by prof. de morgan. ( .) great a affirms of all; sir william does so too: when the subject is "my suspicion," and the predicate "must be true." great e denies of all; sir william of all but one: when he speaks about this present time, and of those who in logic have done. great i takes up but _some_; sir william! my dear soul! why then in all your writings, does "great i" fill[ ] the whole! great o says some are not; sir william's readers catch, that some (modern) athens is not without an aristotle to match. "a half, left semi-definite, is worthy of its score:" this looked very much like balderdash, and neither less nor more. it puzzled me like anything; in fact, it puzzled me worse: isn't schoolman's logic hard enough, without being in sibyl's verse? { } at last, thinks i, 'tis german; and i'll try it with some beer! the landlord asked what bothered me so, and at once he made it clear. it's _half-and-half_, the gentleman means; don't you see he talks of _score_? that's the bit of memorandum that we chalk behind the door. _semi-definite_'s outlandish; but i see, in half a squint, that he speaks of the lubbers who call for a quart, when they can't manage more than a pint. now i'll read it into english, and then you'll answer me this: if it isn't good logic all the world round, i should like to know what is? when you call for a pot of half-and-half, if you're lost to sense of shame, you may leave it _semi-definite_, but you pay for it all just the same. * * * * * * i am unspeakably comforted when i look over the above in remembering that the question is not whether it be pindaric or horatian, but whether the copy be as good as the original. and i say it is: and will take no denial. long live--long will live--the glad memory of william hamilton, good, learned, acute, and disputatious! he fought upon principle: the motto of his book is: "truth, like a torch, the more it's shook it shines." there is something in this; but metaphors, like puddings, quarrels, rivers, and arguments, always have two sides to them. for instance, "truth, like a torch, the more it's shook it shines; but those who want to use it, hold it steady. they shake the flame who like a glare to gaze at, they keep it still who want a light to see by." { } another theory of parallels. theory of parallels. the proof of euclid's axiom looked for in the properties of the equiangular spiral. by lieut-col. g. perronet thompson.[ ] the same, second edition, revised and corrected. the same, third edition, shortened, and freed from dependence on the theory of limits. the same, fourth edition, ditto, ditto. all london, , vo. to explain these editions it should be noted that general thompson rapidly modified his notions, and republished his tracts accordingly. some primitive darwinism. vestiges of the natural history of creation.[ ] london, , mo. this is the first edition of this celebrated work. its form is a case of the theory: the book is an undeniable duodecimo, but the size of its paper gives it the look of not the smallest of octavos. does not this illustrate the law of development, the gradation of families, the transference of species, and so on? if so, i claim the discovery of this esoteric testimony of the book to its own contents; i defy any one to point out the reviewer who has mentioned it. the work itself is described by its author as "the first attempt to connect the natural sciences into a history of creation." the attempt was commenced, and has been carried on, both with marked talent, and will be continued. great advantage will result: at the worst we are but in the alchemy of some new chemistry, or the astrology of some new astronomy. perhaps it would be as well not to be too sure on the matter, until we have an antidote to possible consequences as exhibited under another theory, on which { } it is as reasonable to speculate as on that of the _vestiges_. i met long ago with a splendid player on the guitar, who assured me, and was confirmed by his friends, that he _never practised_, except in thought, and did not possess an instrument: he kept his fingers acting in his mind, until they got their habits; and thus he learnt the most difficult novelties of execution. now what if this should be a minor segment of a higher law? what if, by constantly thinking of ourselves as descended from primeval monkeys, we should--if it be true--actually _get our tails again_? what if the first man who was detected with such an appendage should be obliged to confess himself the author of the _vestiges_--a person yet unknown--who would naturally get the start of his species by having had the earliest habit of thinking on the matter? i confess i never hear a man of note talk fluently about it without a curious glance at his proportions, to see whether there may be ground to conjecture that he may have more of "mortal coil" than others, in anaxyridical concealment. i do not feel sure that even a paternal love for his theory would induce him, in the case i am supposing, to exhibit himself at the british association, with a hole behind which his tail peeped through. the first sentence of this book ( ) is a cast of the log, which shows our rate of progress. "it is familiar knowledge that the earth which we inhabit is a globe of somewhat less than , miles in diameter, being one of a series of eleven which revolve at different distances around the sun." the _eleven_! not to mention the iscariot which le verrier and adams calculated into existence, there is more than a septuagint of _new_ planetoids. on religious insurance. the constitution and rules of the ancient and universal 'benefit society' established by jesus christ, exhibited, and its advantages and claims maintained, against all modern and { } merely human institutions of the kind: a letter very respectfully addressed to the rev. james everett,[ ] and occasioned by certain remarks made by him, in a speech to the members of the 'wesleyan centenary institute' benefit society. dated york, dec. , . by thomas smith.[ ] mo, (pp. .) the wesleyan minister addressed had advocated provision against old age, etc.: the writer declares all _private_ provision un-christian. after decent maintenance and relief of family claims of indigence, he holds that all the rest is to go to the "benefit society," of which he draws up the rules, in technical form, with chapters of "officers," "contributors" etc., from the acts of the apostles, etc., and some of the early fathers. he holds that a christian may not "make a _private_ provision against the contingencies of the future": and that the great "benefit society" is the divinely-ordained recipient of all the surplus of his income; capital, beyond what is necessary for business, he is to have none. a real good speculator shuts his eyes by instinct, when opening them would not serve the purpose: he has the vizor of the irish fairy tale, which fell of itself over the eyes of the wearer the moment he turned them upon the enchanted light which would have destroyed him if he had caught sight of it. "whiles it remained, was it not thine own? and after it was sold, was it (the purchase-money) not in thine own power?" would have been awkward to quote, and accordingly nothing is stated except the well-known result, which is rule , cap. , "prevention of abuses." by putting his principles together, the author can be made, logically, to mean that the successors of the apostles should put to death all contributors who are detected in not paying their full premiums. { } i have known one or two cases in which policy-holders have surrendered their policies through having arrived at a conviction that direct provision is unlawful. so far as i could make it out, these parties did not think it unlawful to lay by out of income, except when this was done in a manner which involved calculation of death-chances. it is singular they did not see that the entrance of chance of death was the entrance of the very principle of the benefit society described in the acts of the apostles. the family of the one who died young received more in proportion to _premiums_ paid than the family of one who died old. every one who understands life assurance sees that--_bonus_ apart--the difference between an assurance office and a savings bank consists in the adoption, _pro tanto_, of the principle of community of goods. in the original constitution of the oldest assurance office, the _amicable society_, the plan with which they started was nothing but this: persons of all ages under forty-five paid one common premium, and the proceeds were divided among the representatives of those who died within the year. the two old paradoxes again. [i omitted from its proper place a manuscript quadrature ( . exactly) addressed to an eminent mathematician, dated in from the debtor's ward of a country gaol. the unfortunate speculator says, "i have labored many years to find the precise ratio." i have heard of several cases in which squaring the circle has produced an inability to square accounts. i remind those who feel a kind of inspiration to employ native genius upon difficulties, without gradual progression from elements, that the call is one which becomes stronger and stronger, and may lead, as it has led, to abandonment of the duties of life, and all the consequences.] { } . provisional prospectus of the double acting rotary engine company. also mechanic's magazine, march , . perpetual motion by a drum with one vertical half in mercury, the other in a vacuum: the drum, i suppose, working round forever to find an easy position. steam to be superseded: steam and electricity convulsions of nature never intended by providence for the use of man. the price of the present engines, as old iron, will buy new engines that will work without fuel and at no expense. guaranteed by the count de predaval,[ ] the discoverer. i was to have been a director, but my name got no further than ink, and not so far as official notification of the honor, partly owing to my having communicated to the _mechanic's magazine_ information privately given to me, which gave premature publicity, and knocked up the plan. an exposition of the nature, force, action, and other properties of gravitation on the planets. london, , mo. an investigation of the principles of the rules for determining the measures of the areas and circumferences of circular plane surfaces ... london, , vo. these are anonymous; but the author (whom i believe to be mr. denison,[ ] presently noted) is described as author of a new system of mathematics, and also of mechanics. he had need have both, for he shows that the line which has a square equal to a given circle, has a cube equal to the sphere on the same diameter: that is, in old mathematics, the diameter is to the circumference as to ! again, admitting that the velocities of planets in circular orbits are inversely as the square roots of their distances, that is, admitting kepler's law, he manages to prove that gravitation is inversely as the square _root_ of the distance: and suspects magnetism of doing the difference between this and newton's law. { } magnetism and electricity are, in physics, the member of parliament and the cabman--at every man's bidding, as henry warburton[ ] said. the above is an outrageous quadrature. in the preceding year, , was published what i suppose at first to be a maori quadrature, by maccook. but i get it from a cutting out of some french periodical, and i incline to think that it must be by a mr. m^ccook. he makes [pi] to be + [root]( [root] - ). the duplication problem. refutation of a pamphlet written by the rev. john mackey, r.c.p.,[ ] entitled "a method of making a cube double of a cube, founded on the principles of elementary geometry," wherein his principles are proved erroneous, and the required solution not yet obtained. by robert murphy.[ ] mallow, , mo. this refutation was the production of an irish boy of eighteen years old, self-educated in mathematics, the son of a shoemaker at mallow. he died in , leaving a name which is well known among mathematicians. his works on the theory of equations and on electricity, and his papers in the _cambridge transactions_, are all of high genius. the only account of him which i know of is that which i wrote for the _supplement_ of the _penny cyclopædia_. he was thrown by his talents into a good income at cambridge, with no social training except penury, and very little intellectual training except mathematics. he fell into dissipation, and his scientific career was almost arrested: but he had great good in him, to my knowledge. a sentence in { } a letter from the late dean peacock[ ] to me--giving some advice about the means of serving murphy--sets out the old case: "murphy is a man whose _special_ education is in advance of his _general_; and such men are almost always difficult subjects to manage." this article having been omitted in its proper place, i put it at , the date of murphy's death. a new value of [pi]. the invisible universe disclosed; or, the real plan and government of the universe. by henry coleman johnson, esq. london, , vo. the book opens abruptly with: "first demonstration. concerning the centre: showing that, because the centre is an innermost point at an equal distance between two extreme points of a right line, and from every two relative and opposite intermediate points, it is composed of the two extreme internal points of each half of the line; each extreme internal point attracting towards itself all parts of that half to which it belongs...." of course the circle is squared: and the circumference is - / diameters. some modern astrology. combination of the zodiacal and cometical systems. printed for the london society, exeter hall. price sixpence. (n. d. .) what this london society was, or the "combination," did not appear. there was a remarkable comet in , the tail of which was at first confounded with what is called the _zodiacal light_. this nicely-printed little tract, evidently got up with less care for expense than is usual in such works, brings together all the announcements of the astronomers, and adds a short head and tail piece, which i shall quote entire. as the announcements are very ordinary { } astronomy, the reader will be able to detect, if detection be possible, what is the meaning and force of the "combination of the zodiacal and cometical systems": "_premonition._ it has pleased the author _of_ creation to cause (to his _human and reasoning_ creatures of this generation, by a '_combined_' appearance in his _zodiacal_ and _cometical_ system) a '_warning crisis_' of universal concernment to this our globe. it is this '_crisis_' that has so generally 'roused' at this moment the '_nations throughout the earth_' that no equal interest has ever before been excited by man; unless it be in that caused by the 'pagan-temple in rome,' which is recorded by the elder pliny, '_nat. hist._' i. . iii. . hardouin." after the accounts given by the unperceiving astronomers, comes what follows: "such has been (_hitherto_) the only object discerned by the '_wise of this world_,' in this _twofold union_ of the '_zodiacal_' and '_cometical_' systems: yet it is nevertheless a most '_thrilling warning_,' to _all_ the inhabitants of this precarious and transitory earth. we have no authorized intimation or reasonable prospective contemplation, of '_current time_' beyond a year , of the present century; or rather, except '_the interval which may now remain from the present year , to a year _' ([greek: hêmeras hexÊkonta]--'_threescore or sixty days_'--'_i have appointed each_ "day" _for a_ "year,"' _ezek._ iv. ): and we know, from our '_common experience_,' how speedily such a measure of time will pass away. "no words can be '_more explicit_' than these of our blessed lord: viz. 'this gospel _of the kingdom shall be preached in_ all the earth, _for a witness to_ all nations; and then, _shall the_ end come.' the '_next years_' must therefore supply the interval of the '_special episcopal forerunners_.' (matt. xxiv. .) "see the 'jewish intelligencer' of the present month (_april_), p. , for the '_debates in parliament_,' respecting { } the bishop of jerusalem, _viz._ dr. bowring,[ ] mr. hume,[ ] sir r. inglis,[ ] sir r. peel,[ ] viscount palmerston.[ ]" i have quoted this at length, to show the awful threats which were published at a time of some little excitement about the phenomenon, under the name of the _london society_. the assumption of a corporate appearance is a very unfair trick: and there are junctures at which harm might be done by it. the number of the beast. _wealth_ the name and number of the beast, , in the book of revelation. [by john taylor.[ ]] london, , vo. whether junius or the beast be the more difficult to identify, must be referred to mr. taylor, the only person who has attempted both. his cogent argument on the political secret is not unworthily matched in his treatment of the theological riddle. he sees the solution in [greek: euporia], which occurs in the acts of the apostles as the word for wealth in one of its most disgusting forms, and makes in the most straightforward way. this explanation has as good a chance as any other. the work contains a general { } attempt at explanation of the apocalypse, and some history of opinion on the subject. it has not the prolixity which is so common a fault of apocalyptic commentators. a practical treatise on eclipses ... with remarks on the anomalies of the present theory of the tides. by t. kerigan,[ ] f.r.s. , vo. containing also a refutation of the theory of the tides, and afterwards increased by a supplement, "additional facts and arguments against the theory of the tides," in answer to a short notice in the _athenæum_ journal. mr. kerigan was a lieutenant in the navy: he obtained admission to the royal society just before the publication of his book. a new theory of gravitation. by joseph denison,[ ] esq. london, , mo. commentaries on the principia. by the author of 'a new theory of gravitation.' london, , vo. honor to the speculator who can be put in his proper place by one sentence, be that place where it may. "but we have shown that the velocities are inversely as the square roots of the mean distances from the sun; wherefore, by equality of ratios, the forces of the sun's gravitation upon them are also inversely as the square roots of their distances from the sun." easter day paradoxers. in the years and the full moon fell on easter day, having been particularly directed to fall before it in the act for the change of style and in the english missals and prayer-books of all time: perhaps it would be more correct to say that easter day was directed to fall after the full moon; "but the principle is the same." no explanation was given in , but easter was kept by the tables, { } in defiance of the rule, and of several protests. a chronological panic was beginning in december , which was stopped by the _times_ newspaper printing extracts from an article of mine in the _companion to the almanac_ for , which had then just appeared. no one had guessed the true reason, which is that the thing called the moon in the gregorian calendar is not the moon of the heavens, but a fictitious imitation put wrong on purpose, as will presently appear, partly to keep easter out of the way of the jews' passover, partly for convenience of calculation. the apparent error happens but rarely; and all the work will perhaps have to be gone over next time. i now give two bits of paradox. some theologians were angry at this explanation. a review called the _christian observer_ (of which christianity i do not know) got up a crushing article against me. i did not look at it, feeling sure that an article on such a subject which appeared on january , , against a publication made in december , must be a second-hand job. but some years afterwards (sept. , ), the reviews, etc. having been just placed at the disposal of readers in the _old_ reading-room of the museum, i made a tour of inspection, came upon my critic on his perch, and took a look at him. i was very glad to remember this, for, though expecting only second-hand, yet even of this there is good and bad; and i expected to find some hints in the good second-hand of a respectable clerical publication. i read on, therefore, attentively, but not long: i soon came to the information that some additions to delambre's[ ] statement of the rule for finding easter, belonging to distant years, had been made by sir harris nicolas![ ] now as i myself furnished my friend sir h. n. with delambre's digest of { } clavius's[ ] rule, which i translated out of algebra into common language for the purpose, i was pretty sure this was the ignorant reading of a person to whom sir h. n. was the highest _arithmetical_ authority on the subject. a person pretending to chronology, without being able to distinguish the historical points--so clearly as they stand out--in which sir h. n. speaks with authority, from the arithmetical points of pure reckoning on which he does not pretend to do more than directly repeat others, must be as fit to talk about the construction of easter tables as the spanish are to talk french. i need hardly say that the additions for distant years are as much from clavius as the rest: my reviewer was not deep enough in his subject to know that clavius made and published, from his rules, the full table up to a.d. , for all the movable feasts of every year! i gave only a glance at the rest: i found i was either knave or fool, with a leaning to the second opinion; and i came away satisfied that my critic was either ignoramus or novice, with a leaning to the first. i afterwards found an ambiguity of expression in sir h. n.'s account--whether his or mine i could not tell--which might mislead a novice or content an ignoramus, but would have been properly read or further inquired into by a competent person. the second case is this. shortly after the publication of my article, a gentleman called at my house, and, finding i was not at home, sent up his card--with a stylish west-end club on it--to my wife, begging for a few words on pressing business. with many well-expressed apologies, he stated that he had been alarmed by hearing that prof. de m. had an intention of altering easter next year. mrs. de m. kept her countenance, and assured him that i had no such intention, and further, that she greatly doubted my having the power to do it. was she quite sure? his authority was very good: fresh assurances given. he was greatly relieved, for he had some horses training for after easter, which { } would not be ready to run if it were altered the wrong way. a doubt comes over him: would mrs. de m., in the event of her being mistaken, give him the very earliest information? promise given; profusion of thanks; more apologies; and departure. now, candid reader!--or uncandid either!--which most deserves to be laughed at? a public instructor, who undertakes to settle for the world whether a reader of clavius, the constructor of the gregorian calendar, is fool or knave, upon information derived from a compiler--in this matter--of his own day; or a gentleman of horse and dog associations, who, misapprehending something which he heard about a current topic, infers that the reader of clavius had the ear of the government on a proposed alteration. i suppose the querist had heard some one say, perhaps, that the day ought to be set right, and some one else remark that i might be consulted, as the only person who had discussed the matter from the original source of the calendar. to give a better chance of the explanation being at once produced, next time the real full moon and easter day shall fall together, i insert here a summary which was printed in the irish prayer-book of the ecclesiastical society. if the amusement given by paradoxers should prevent a useless discussion some years hence, i and the paradoxers shall have done a little good between us--at any rate, i have done my best to keep the heavy weight afloat by tying bladders to it. i think the next occurrence will be in . easter day. in the years and , easter day, as given by the _rules in_ geo. ii cap. . (known as the act for the _change of style_) contradicted the _precept_ given in the preliminary explanations. the precept is as follows: "_easter day_, on which the rest" of the moveable feasts "depend, is always the first sunday after the full moon, which happens upon or next after the twenty-first day of { } _march_; and if the full moon happens upon a sunday, _easter day_ is the sunday after." but in and , the full moon fell on a sunday, and yet the rules gave _that same sunday_ for easter day. much discussion was produced by this circumstance in : but a repetition of it in was nearly altogether prevented by a timely[ ] reference to the intention of those who conducted the gregorian reformation of the calendar. nevertheless, seeing that the apparent error of the calendar is due to the precept in the act of parliament, which is both erroneous and insufficient, and that the difficulty will recur so often as easter day falls on the day of full moon, it may be advisable to select from the two articles cited in the note such of their conclusions and rules, without proof or controversy, as will enable the reader to understand the main points of the easter question, and, should he desire it, to calculate for himself the easter of the old or new style, for any given year. . in the very earliest age of christianity, a controversy arose as to the mode of keeping easter, some desiring to perpetuate the _passover_, others to keep the _festival of the resurrection_. the first afterwards obtained the name of _quartadecimans_, from their easter being always kept on the _fourteenth day_ of the moon (exod. xii. , levit. xxiii. .). but though it is unquestionable that a judaizing party existed, it is also likely that many dissented on chronological grounds. it is clear that no _perfect_ anniversary can take place, except when the fourteenth of the moon, and with it the passover, falls on a friday. suppose, for instance, it falls on a tuesday: one of three things must be { } done. either (which seems never to have been proposed) the crucifixion and resurrection must be celebrated on tuesday and sunday, with a wrong interval; or the former on tuesday, the latter on thursday, abandoning the first day of the week; or the former on friday, and the latter on sunday, abandoning the paschal commemoration of the crucifixion. the last mode has been, as every one knows, finally adopted. the disputes of the first three centuries did not turn on any _calendar_ questions. the easter question was merely the symbol of the struggle between what we may call the jewish and gentile sects of christians: and it nearly divided the christian world, the easterns, for the most part, being _quartadecimans_. it is very important to note that there is no recorded dispute about a method of predicting the new moon, that is, no general dispute leading to formation of sects: there may have been difficulties, and discussions about them. the metonic cycle, presently mentioned, must have been used by many, perhaps most, churches. . the question came before the nicene council (a.d. ) not as an astronomical, but as a doctrinal, question: it was, in fact, this, shall the _passover_[ ] be treated as a part of christianity? the council resolved this question in the negative, and the only information on its premises and conclusion, or either, which comes from itself, is contained in the following sentence of the synodical epistle, which epistle is preserved by socrates[ ] and theodoret.[ ] "we also send { } you the good news concerning the unanimous consent of all in reference to the celebration of the most solemn feast of easter, for this difference also has been made up by the assistance of your prayers: so that all the brethren in the east, who formerly celebrated this festival _at the same time as the jews_, will in future conform _to the romans and to us_, and to all who have of old observed _our manner_ of celebrating easter." this is all that can be found on the subject: none of the stories about the council ordaining the astronomical mode of finding easter, and introducing the metonic cycle into ecclesiastical reckoning, have any contemporary evidence: the canons which purport to be those of the nicene council do not contain a word about easter; and this is evidence, whether we suppose those canons to be genuine or spurious. . the astronomical dispute about a lunar cycle for the prediction of easter either commenced, or became prominent, by the extinction of greater ones, soon after the time of the nicene council. pope innocent i[ ] met with difficulty in . s. leo,[ ] in , ordained that easter of should be april ; which is right. it is useless to record details of these disputes in a summary: the result was, that in the year , pope hilarius[ ] employed victorinus[ ] of aquitaine to correct the calendar, and victorinus formed a rule which lasted until the sixteenth century. he combined the metonic cycle and the solar cycle presently described. but { } this cycle bears the name of dionysius exiguus,[ ] a scythian settled at rome, about a.d. , who adapted it to his new yearly reckoning, when he abandoned the era of diocletian as a commencement, and constructed that which is now in common use. . with dionysius, if not before, terminated all difference as to the mode of keeping easter which is of historical note: the increasing defects of the easter cycle produced in time the remonstrance of persons versed in astronomy, among whom may be mentioned roger bacon,[ ] sacrobosco,[ ] cardinal cusa,[ ] regiomontanus,[ ] etc. from the middle of the sixth to that of the sixteenth century, one rule was observed. . the mode of applying astronomy to chronology has always involved these two principles. first, the actual position of the heavenly body is not the object of consideration, but what astronomers call its _mean place_, which may be described thus. let a fictitious sun or moon move in the heavens, in such manner as to revolve among the fixed stars at an average rate, avoiding the alternate accelerations and retardations which take place in every planetary motion. thus the fictitious (say _mean_) sun and moon are always very near to the real sun and moon. the ordinary clocks show time by the mean, not the real, sun: and it was always laid down that easter depends on the opposition (or full moon) of the mean sun and moon, not of the real ones. thus we see that, were the calendar ever so correct { } as to the _mean_ moon, it would be occasionally false as to the _true_ one: if, for instance, the opposition of the mean sun and moon took place at one second before midnight, and that of the real bodies only two seconds afterwards, the calendar day of full moon would be one day before that of the common almanacs. here is a way in which the discussions of and might have arisen: the british legislature has defined _the moon_ as the regulator of the paschal calendar. but this was only a part of the mistake. . secondly, in the absence of perfectly accurate knowledge of the solar and lunar motion (and for convenience, even if such knowledge existed), cycles are, and always have been taken, which serve to represent those motions nearly. the famous metonic cycle, which is introduced into ecclesiastical chronology under the name of the cycle of the golden numbers, is a period of julian[ ] years. this period, in the old calendar, was taken to contain exactly _lunations_, or intervals between new moons, of the mean moon. now the state of the case is: average julian years make days hours. average lunations make days hours minutes. so that successive cycles of golden numbers, supposing the first to start right, amount to making the new moons fall too late, gradually, so that the mean moon _of this cycle_ gains hour minutes in years upon the mean moon of the heavens, or about a day in years. when the calendar was reformed, the calendar new moons were four days in advance of the mean moon of the heavens: so that, for instance, calendar full moon on the th usually meant real full moon on the th. . if the difference above had not existed, the moon of the heavens (the mean moon at least), would have returned { } permanently to the same days of the month in years; with an occasional slip arising from the unequal distribution of the leap years, of which a period contains sometimes five and sometimes four. as a general rule, the days of new and full moon in any one year would have been also the days of new and full moon of a year having more units in its date. again, if there had been no leap years, the days of the month would have returned to the same days of the week every seven years. the introduction of occasional ths of february disturbs this, and makes the permanent return of month days to week days occur only after years. if all had been true, the lapse of times , or years, would have restored the year in every point: that is, a.d. , for instance, and a.d. , would have had the same almanac in every matter relating to week days, month days, sun, and moon (mean sun and moon at least). and on the supposition of its truth, the old system of dionysius was framed. its errors, are, first, that the moments of mean new moon advance too much by h. m. in average julian years; secondly, that the average julian year of ¼ days is too long by m. s. . the council of trent, moved by the representations made on the state of the calendar, referred the consideration of it to the pope. in , gregory xiii[ ] submitted to the roman catholic princes and universities a plan presented to him by the representatives of aloysius lilius,[ ] then deceased. this plan being approved of, the pope nominated a commission to consider its details, the working member of which was the jesuit clavius. a short work was prepared by clavius, descriptive of the new calendar: this { } was published[ ] in , with the pope's bull (dated february , ) prefixed. a larger work was prepared by clavius, containing fuller explanation, and entitled _romani calendarii a gregorio xiii. pontifice maximo restituti explicatio_. this was published at rome in , and again in the collection of the works of clavius in . . the following extracts from clavius settle the question of the meaning of the term _moon_, as used in the calendar: "who, except a few who think they are very sharp-sighted in this matter, is so blind as not to see that the th of the moon and the full moon are not the same things in the church of god?... although the church, in finding the new moon, and from it the th day, _uses neither the true nor the mean motion of the moon_, but measures only according to the order of a cycle, it is nevertheless undeniable that the mean full moons found from astronomical tables are of the greatest use in determining the cycle which is to be preferred ... the new moons of which cycle, in order to the due celebration of easter, should be so arranged that the th days of those moons, reckoning from the day of new moon _inclusive_, should not fall two or more days before the mean full moon, but only one day, or else on the very day itself, or not long after. and even thus far the church need not take very great pains ... for it is sufficient that all should reckon by the th day of the moon in the cycle, even though sometimes it _should be more than one day before or after_ the mean full moon.... we have taken pains that in our cycle the new moons should _follow_ the real new moons, so that the th of the moon should fall either the day before the mean full moon, or on that day, or not long after; and this was done on purpose, for if the new moon of the cycle fell on the same day as the mean new moon of the { } astronomers, it might chance that we should celebrate easter on the same day as the jews or the quartadeciman heretics, which would be absurd, or else before them, which would be still more absurd." from this it appears that clavius continued the calendar of his predecessors in the choice of the _fourteenth_ day of the moon. our legislature lays down the day of the _full moon_: and this mistake appears to be rather english than protestant; for it occurs in missals published in the reign of queen mary. the calendar lunation being ½ days, the middle day is the _fifteenth_ day, and this is and was reckoned as the day of the full moon. there is every right to presume that the original passover was a feast of the _real full moon_: but it is most probable that the moons were then reckoned, not from the astronomical conjunction with the sun, which nobody sees except at an eclipse, but from the day of _first visibility_ of the new moon. in fine climates this would be the day or two days after conjunction; and the fourteenth day from that of first visibility inclusive, would very often be the day of full moon. the following is then the proper correction of the precept in the act of parliament: easter day, on which the rest depend, is always the first sunday after the _fourteenth day_ of the _calendar_ moon which happens upon or next after the twenty-first day of march, _according to the rules laid down for the construction of the calendar_; and if the _fourteenth day_ happens upon a sunday, easter day is the sunday after. . further, it appears that clavius valued the celebration of the festival after the jews, etc., more than astronomical correctness. he gives comparison tables which would startle a believer in the astronomical intention of his calendar: they are to show that a calendar in which the moon is always made a day older than by him, _represents the heavens better than he has done, or meant to do_. but it must be observed that this diminution of the real moon's age has { } a tendency to make the english explanation often practically accordant with the calendar. for the fourteenth day of clavius _is_ generally the fifteenth day of the mean moon of the heavens, and therefore most often that of the real moon. but for this, and would not have been the only instances of our day in which the english precept would have contradicted the calendar. . in the construction of the calendar, clavius adopted the ancient cycle of years, but, we may say, without ever allowing it to run out. at certain periods, a shift is made from one part of the cycle into another. this is done whenever what should be julian leap year is made a common year, as in , , , , etc. it is also done at certain times to correct the error of h. m., before referred to, in each cycle of golden numbers: clavius, to meet his view of the amount of that error, put forward the moon's age a day times in , years. as we cannot enter at full length into the explanation, we must content ourselves with giving a set of rules, independent of tables, by which the reader may find easter for himself in any year, either by the old calendar or the new. any one who has much occasion to find easters and movable feasts should procure francoeur's[ ] tables. . _rule for determining easter day of the gregorian calendar in any year of the new style._ to the several parts { } of the rule are annexed, by way of example, the results for the year . i. add to the given year. ( ). ii. take the quotient of the given year divided by , neglecting the remainder. ( ). iii. take from the centurial figures of the given year, if it can be done, and take the remainder. ( ). iv. take the quotient of iii. divided by , neglecting the remainder. ( ). v. from the sum of i, ii, and iv., subtract iii. ( ). vi. find the remainder of v. divided by . ( ). vii. subtract vi. from ; this is the number of the dominical letter ( ; dominical letter g). a b c d e f g viii. divide i. by , the remainder (or , if no remainder) is the _golden number_. ( ). ix. from the centurial figures of the year subtract , divide by , and keep the quotient. ( ). x. subtract ix. and from the centurial figures, divide by , and keep the quotient. ( ). xi. to viii. add ten times the next less number, divide by , and keep the remainder. ( ). xii. to xi. add x. and iv., and take away iii., throwing out thirties, if any. if this give , change it into . if , change it into , whenever the golden number is greater than . if , change it into . thus we have the epact, or age of the _calendar_ moon at the beginning of the year. ( ). _when the epact is , or less._ xiii. subtract xii., the epact, from . ( ). xiv. subtract the epact from , divide by , and keep the remainder, or , if there be no remainder. ( ) _when the epact is greater than ._ xiii. subtract xii., the epact, from . xiv. subtract the epact from , divide by , and keep the remainder, or , if there be no remainder. xv. to xiii. add vii., the dominical number, (and besides, if xiv. be greater than vii.,) and subtract xiv., the result is the day of march, or if more than , subtract , and { } the result is the day of april, on which easter sunday falls. ( ; easter day is april ). in the following examples, the several results leading to the final conclusion are tabulated. ======================================================== given year | | | | | | -------------------------------------------------------- i. | | | | | | ii. | | | | | | iii. | --- | | | | | iv. | --- | | | | | v. | | | | | | vi. | | | | | | vii. | | | | | | viii. | | | | | | ix. | --- | --- | | | | x. | | | | | | xi. | | | | | | xii. | | | | | | say xiii. | | | | | | xiv. | | | | | | xv. | | | | | | easter day |mar. |apr. |mar. |mar. |apr. | apr. -------------------------------------------------------- . _rule for determining easter day of the antegregorian calendar in any year of the old style._ to the several parts of the rule are annexed, by way of example, the results for the year . the steps are numbered to correspond with the steps of the gregorian rule, so that it can be seen what augmentations the latter requires. i. set down the given year. ( ). ii. take the quotient of the given year divided by , neglecting the remainder ( ). v. take more than the sum of i. and ii. ( ). vi. find the remainder of v. divided by . ( ). vii. subtract vi. from ; this is the number of the dominical letter ( ; dominical letter e). a b c d e f g viii. divide one more than the given year by , the remainder (or if no remainder) is the golden number. ( ). xii. divide less than times viii. by ; the remainder (or if there be no remainder) is the epact. ( ). { } _when the epact is , or less._ xiii. subtract xii., the epact, from . ( ). xiv. subtract the epact from , divide by , and keep the remainder, or , if there be no remainder, ( ). _when the epact is greater than ._ xiii. subtract xii., the epact, from . xiv. subtract the epact from , divide by , and keep the remainder, or , if there be no remainder. xv. to xiii. add vii., the dominical number, (and besides if xiv. be greater than vii.,) and subtract xiv., the result is the day of march, or if more than , subtract , and the result is the day of april, on which easter sunday (old style) falls. ( ; easter day is april ). these rules completely represent the old and new calendars, so far as easter is concerned. for further explanation we must refer to the articles cited at the commencement. the annexed is the table of new and full moons of the gregorian calendar, cleared of the errors made for the purpose of preventing easter from coinciding with the jewish passover. the second table (page ) contains _epacts_, or ages of the moon at the beginning of the year: thus in , the epact is , in it is . this table goes from to : should the new zealander not have arrived by that time, and should the churches of england and rome then survive, the epact table may be continued from their liturgy-books. the way of using the table is as follows: take the epact of the required year, and find it in the first or last column of the first table, in line with it are seen the calendar days of new and full moon. thus, when the epact is , the new and full moons of march fall on the th and th. the result is, for the most part, correct: but in a minority of cases there is an error of a day. when this happens, the error is almost always a fraction of a day much less than twelve hours. thus, when the table gives full moon on the th, and the real truth is the th, we may be sure it is early on the th. { } ------------------------------------------------------------------------- |jan.|feb.|mar.|apr.|may |june|july|aug.|sep.|oct.|nov.|dec.| ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | , | 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| | | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | , | -- | , | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- |jan.|feb.|mar.|apr.|may |june|july|aug.|sep.|oct.|nov.|dec.| ------------------------------------------------------------------------- { } ======================================================= | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | ======================================================= for example, the year . the epact is , and we find in the table: j. f. m. ap. m. ju. jl. au. s. o. n. d. new + + + , - full - - - + when the truth is the day after + is written after the date; when the day before, -. thus, the new moon of march is on the th; the full moon of april is on the th. { } i now introduce a small paradox of my own; and as i am not able to prove it, i am compelled to declare that any one who shall dissent must be either very foolish or very dishonest, and will make me quite uncomfortable about the state of his soul. this being settled once for all, i proceed to say that the necessity of arriving at the truth about the assertions that the nicene council laid down astronomical tests led me to look at fathers, church histories, etc. to an extent which i never dreamed of before. one conclusion which i arrived at was, that the nicene fathers had a knack of sticking to the question which many later councils could not acquire. in our own day, it is not permitted to convocation seriously to discuss any one of the points which are bearing so hard upon their resources of defence--the cursing clauses of the athanasian creed, for example. and it may be collected that the prohibition arises partly from fear that there is no saying where a beginning, if allowed, would end. there seems to be a suspicion that debate, once let loose, would play up old trent with the liturgy, and bring the whole book to book. but if any one will examine the real nicene creed, without the augmentation, he will admire the way in which the framers stuck to the point, and settled what they had to decide, according to their view of it. with such a presumption of good sense in their favor, it becomes easier to believe in any claim which may be made on their behalf to tact or sagacity in settling any other matter. and i strongly suspect such a claim may be made for them on the easter question. i collect from many little indications, both before and after the council, that the division of the christian world into judaical and gentile, though not giving rise to a sectarian distinction expressed by names, was of far greater force and meaning than historians prominently admit. i took _note_ of many indications of this, but not _notes_, as it was not to my purpose. if it were so, we must admire the discretion of the council. the easter question was the { } fighting ground of the struggle: the eastern or judaical christians, with some varieties of usage and meaning, would have the passover itself to be the great feast, but taken in a christian sense; the western or gentile christians, would have the commemoration of the resurrection, connected with the passover only by chronology. to shift the passover in time, under its name, _pascha_, without allusion to any of the force of the change, was gently cutting away the ground from under the feet of the conservatives. and it was done in a very quiet way: no allusion to the precise character of the change; no hint that the question was about two different festivals: "all the brethren in the east, who formerly celebrated this festival at the same time as the jews, will in future conform to the romans and to us." the judaizers meant to be keeping the passover _as_ a christian feast: they are gently assumed to be keeping, _not_ the passover, _but_ a christian feast; and a doctrinal decision is quietly, but efficiently, announced under the form of a chronological ordinance. had the council issued theses of doctrine, and excommunicated all dissentients, the rupture of the east and west would have taken place earlier by centuries than it did. the only place in which i ever saw any part of my paradox advanced, was in an article in the _examiner_ newspaper, towards the end of , after the above was written. a story about christopher clavius, the workman of the new calendar. i chanced to pick up "albertus pighius campensis de æquinoctiorum solsticiorumque inventione... ejusdem de ratione paschalis celebrationis, de que restitutione ecclesiastici kalendarii," paris, , folio.[ ] on the title-page were decayed words followed by ".._hristophor.. c..ii_, (or )," the last blank not entirely erased by time, but showing the lower halves of an _l_ and of an _a_, and { } rather too much room for a _v_. it looked very like _e libris christophori clavii_ . by the courtesy of some members of the jesuit body in london, i procured a tracing of the signature of clavius from rome, and the shapes of the letters, and the modes of junction and disjunction, put the matter beyond question. even the extra space was explained; he wrote himself cla_u_ius. now in , clavius was nineteen years old: it thus appears probable that the framer of the gregorian calendar was selected, not merely as a learned astronomer, but as one who had attended to the calendar, and to works on its reformation, from early youth. when on the subject i found reason to think that clavius had really read this work, and taken from it a phrase or two and a notion or two. observe the advantage of writing the baptismal name at full length. a couple of minor paradoxes. the discovery of a general resolution of all superior finite equations, of every numerical both algebraick and transcendent form. by a. p. vogel,[ ] mathematician at leipzick. leipzick and london, , vo. this work is written in the english of a german who has not mastered the idiom: but it is always intelligible. it professes to solve equations of every degree "in a more extent sense, and till to every degree of exactness." the general solution of equations of _all_ degrees is a vexed question, which cannot have the mysterious interest of the circle problem, and is of a comparatively modern date.[ ] mr. vogel { } announces a forthcoming treatise in which are resolved the "last impossibilities of pure mathematics." elective polarity the universal agent. by frances barbara burton, authoress of 'astronomy familiarized,' 'physical astronomy,' &c. london, , vo.[ ] the title gives a notion of the theory. the first sentence states, that , years ago [alpha] lyræ was the pole-star, and attributes the immense magnitude of the now fossil animals to a star of such "polaric intensity as vega pouring its magnetic streams through our planet." miss burton was a lady of property, and of very respectable acquirements, especially in hebrew; she was eccentric in all things. .--miss burton is revived by the writer of a book on meteorology which makes use of the planets: she is one of his leading minds.[ ] speculative thought in england. in the year the old _mathematical society_ was merged in the astronomical society. the circle-squarers, etc., thrive more in england than in any other country: there are most weeds where there is the largest crop. speculation, though not encouraged by our government so much as by those of the continent, has had, not indeed such forcing, but much wider diffusion: few tanks, but many rivulets. on this point i quote from the preface to the reprint of the work of ramchundra,[ ] which i superintended for the late court of directors of the east india company. { } "that sound judgment which gives men well to know what is best for them, as well as that faculty of invention which leads to development of resources and to the increase of wealth and comfort, are both materially advanced, perhaps cannot rapidly be advanced without, a great taste for pure speculation among the general mass of the people, down to the lowest of those who can read and write. england is a marked example. many persons will be surprised at this assertion. they imagine that our country is the great instance of the refusal of all _unpractical_ knowledge in favor of what is _useful_. i affirm, on the contrary, that there is no country in europe in which there has been so wide a diffusion of speculation, theory, or what other unpractical word the reader pleases. in our country, the scientific _society_ is always formed and maintained by the people; in every other, the scientific _academy_--most aptly named--has been the creation of the government, of which it has never ceased to be the nursling. in all the parts of england in which manufacturing pursuits have given the artisan some command of time, the cultivation of mathematics and other speculative studies has been, as is well known, a very frequent occupation. in no other country has the weaver at his loom bent over the _principia_ of newton; in no other country has the man of weekly wages maintained his own scientific periodical. with us, since the beginning of the last century, scores upon scores--perhaps hundreds, for i am far from knowing all--of annuals have run, some their ten years, some their half-century, some their century and a half, containing questions to be answered, from which many of our examiners in the universities have culled materials for the academical contests. and these questions have always been answered, and in cases without number by the lower order of purchasers, the mechanics, the weavers, and the printers' workmen. i cannot here digress to point out the manner in which the concentration of manufactures, and the general diffusion of education, have affected the { } state of things; i speak of the time during which the present system took its rise, and of the circumstances under which many of its most effective promoters were trained. in all this there is nothing which stands out, like the state-nourished academy, with its few great names and brilliant single achievements. this country has differed from all others in the wide diffusion of the disposition to speculate, which disposition has found its place among the ordinary habits of life, moderate in its action, healthy in its amount." the old mathematical society. among the most remarkable proofs of the diffusion of speculation was the mathematical society, which flourished from to . its habitat was spitalfields, and i think most of its existence was passed in crispin street. it was originally a plain society, belonging to the studious artisan. the members met for discussion once a week; and i believe i am correct in saying that each man had his pipe, his pot, and his problem. one of their old rules was that, "if any member shall so far forget himself and the respect due to the society as in the warmth of debate to threaten or offer personal violence to any other member, he shall be liable to immediate expulsion, or to pay such fine as the majority of the members present shall decide." but their great rule, printed large on the back of the title page of their last book of regulations, was "by the constitution of the society, it is the duty of every member, if he be asked any mathematical or philosophical question by another member, to instruct him in the plainest and easiest manner he is able." we shall presently see that, in old time, the rule had a more homely form. i have been told that de moivre[ ] was a member of this { } society. this i cannot verify: circumstances render it unlikely; even though the french refugees clustered in spitalfields; many of them were of the society, which there is some reason to think was founded by them. but dolland,[ ] thomas simpson,[ ] saunderson,[ ] crossley,[ ] and others of known name, were certainly members. the society gradually declined, and in was reduced to nineteen members. an arrangement was made by which sixteen of these members, who where not already in the astronomical society became fellows without contribution, all the books and other property of the old society being transferred to the new one. i was one of the committee which made the preliminary inquiries, and the reason of the decline was soon manifest. the only question which could arise was whether the members of the society of working men--for this repute still continued--were of that class of educated men who could associate with the fellows of the astronomical society on terms agreeable to all parties. we found that the artisan element had been extinct for many years; there was not a man but might, as to education, manners, and position, have become a fellow in the usual way. the fact was that life in spitalfields had become harder: and the weaver could { } only live from hand to mouth, and not up to the brain. the material of the old society no longer existed. in , experimental lectures were given, a small charge for admission being taken at the door: by this hangs a tale--and a song. many years ago, i found among papers of a deceased friend, who certainly never had anything to do with the society, and who passed all his life far from london, a song, headed "song sung by the mathematical society in london, at a dinner given mr. fletcher,[ ] a solicitor, who had defended the society gratis." mr. williams,[ ] the assistant secretary of the astronomical society, formerly secretary of the mathematical society, remembered that the society had had a solicitor named fletcher among the members. some years elapsed before it struck me that my old friend benjamin gompertz,[ ] who had long been a member, might have some recollection of the matter. the following is an extract of a letter from him (july , ): "as to the mathematical society, of which i was a member when only years of age, [mr. g. was born in ], having been, contrary to the rules, elected under the age of . how i came to be a member of that society--and continued so until it joined the astronomical society, and was then the president--was: i happened to pass a bookseller's small shop, of second-hand books, kept by a poor taylor, but a good mathematician, john griffiths. i was very pleased to meet a mathematician, and i asked him if he would give me some lessons; and his reply was that i was more capable to teach him, but he belonged to a society of mathematicians, and he would introduce me. i accepted the offer, and i was elected, and had many scholars then to teach, as { } one of the rules was, if a member asked for information, and applied to any one who could give it, he was obliged to give it, or fine one penny. though i might say much with respect to the society which would be interesting, i will for the present reply only to your question. i well knew mr. fletcher, who was a very clever and very scientific person. he did, as solicitor, defend an action brought by an informer against the society--i think for , l.--for giving lectures to the public in philosophical subjects [i.e., for unlicensed public exhibition with money taken at the doors]. i think the price for admission was one shilling, and we used to have, if i rightly recollect, from two to three hundred visitors. mr. fletcher was successful in his defence, and we got out of our trouble. there was a collection made to reward his services, but he did not accept of any reward: and i think we gave him a dinner, as you state, and enjoyed ourselves; no doubt with astronomical songs and other songs; but my recollection does not enable me to say if the astronomical song was a drinking song. i think the anxiety caused by that action was the cause of some of the members' death. [they had, no doubt, broken the law in ignorance; and by the sum named, the informer must have been present, and sued for a penalty on every shilling he could prove to have been taken]." i by no means guarantee that the whole song i proceed to give is what was sung at the dinner: i suspect, by the completeness of the chain, that augmentations have been made. my deceased friend was just the man to add some verses, or the addition may have been made before it came into his hands, or since his decease, for the scraps containing the verses passed through several hands before they came into mine. we may, however, be pretty sure that the original is substantially contained in what is given, and that the character is therefore preserved. i have had myself to repair damages every now and then, in the way of conjectural restoration of defects caused by ill-usage. { } the astronomer's drinking song. "whoe'er would search the starry sky, its secrets to divine, sir, should take his glass--i mean, should try a glass or two of wine, sir! true virtue lies in golden mean, and man must wet his clay, sir; join these two maxims, and 'tis seen he should drink his bottle a day, sir! "old archimedes, reverend sage! by trump of fame renowned, sir, deep problems solved in every page, and the sphere's curved surface found,[ ] sir: himself he would have far outshone, and borne a wider sway, sir, had he our modern secret known, and drank a bottle a day, sir! "when ptolemy,[ ] now long ago, believed the earth stood still, sir, he never would have blundered so, had he but drunk his fill, sir: he'd then have felt[ ] it circulate, and would have learnt to say, sir, the true way to investigate is to drink your bottle a day, sir! "copernicus,[ ] that learned wight, the glory of his nation, with draughts of wine refreshed his sight, and saw the earth's rotation; { } each planet then its orb described, the moon got under way, sir; these truths from nature he imbibed for he drank his bottle a day, sir! "the noble[ ] tycho placed the stars, each in its due location; he lost his nose[ ] by spite of mars, but that was no privation: had he but lost his mouth, i grant he would have felt dismay, sir, bless you! _he_ knew what he should want to drink his bottle a day, sir! "cold water makes no lucky hits; on mysteries the head runs: small drink let kepler[ ] time his wits on the regular polyhedrons: he took to wine, and it changed the chime, his genius swept away, sir, through area varying[ ] as the time at the rate of a bottle a day, sir! "poor galileo,[ ] forced to rat before the inquisition, _e pur si muove_[ ] was the pat he gave them in addition: { } he meant, whate'er you think you prove, the earth must go its way, sirs; spite of your teeth i'll make it move, for i'll drink my bottle a day, sirs! "great newton, who was never beat whatever fools may think, sir; though sometimes he forgot to eat, he never forgot to drink, sir: descartes[ ] took nought but lemonade, to conquer him was play, sir; the first advance that newton made was to drink his bottle a day, sir! "d'alembert,[ ] euler,[ ] and clairaut,[ ] though they increased our store, sir, much further had been seen to go had they tippled a little more, sir! lagrange[ ] gets mellow with laplace,[ ] and both are wont to say, sir, the _philosophe_ who's not an ass will drink his bottle a day, sir! "astronomers! what can avail those who calumniate us; experiment can never fail with such an apparatus: let him who'd have his merits known remember what i say, sir; fair science shines on him alone who drinks his bottle a day, sir! { } "how light we reck of those who mock by this we'll make to appear, sir, we'll dine by the sidereal[ ] clock for one more bottle a year, sir: but choose which pendulum you will, you'll never make your way, sir, unless you drink--and drink your fill,-- at least a bottle a day, sir!" old times are changed, old manners gone! there is a new mathematical society,[ ] and i am, at this present writing ( ), its first president. we are very high in the newest developments, and bid fair to take a place among the scientific establishments. benjamin gompertz, who was president of the old society when it expired, was the link between the old and new body: he was a member of _ours_ at his death. but not a drop of liquor is seen at our meetings, except a decanter of water: all our heavy is a fermentation of symbols; and we do not draw it mild. there is no penny fine for reticence or occult science; and as to a song! not the ghost of a chance. . the time may have come when the original documents connected with the discovery of neptune may be worth revising. the following are extracts from the _athenæum_ of october and october : le verrier's[ ] planet. we have received, at the last moment before making up for press, the following letter from sir john herschel,[ ] { } in reference to the matter referred to in the communication from mr. hind[ ] given below: "collingwood, oct. . "in my address to the british association assembled at southampton, on the occasion of my resigning the chair to sir r. murchison,[ ] i stated, among the remarkable astronomical events of the last twelvemonth, that it had added a new planet to our list,--adding, 'it has done more,--it has given us the probable prospect of the discovery of another. we see it as columbus saw america from the shores of spain. its movements have been felt, trembling along the far-reaching line of our analysis, with a certainty hardly inferior to that of ocular demonstration.'--these expressions are not reported in any of the papers which profess to give an account of the proceedings, but i appeal to all present whether they were not used. "give me leave to state my reasons for this confidence; and, in so doing, to call attention to some facts which deserve to be put on record in the history of this noble discovery. on july , , the late illustrious astronomer, bessel,[ ] honored me with a visit at my present residence. on the evening of that day, conversing on the great work of the planetary reductions undertaken by the astronomer royal[ ]--then in progress, and since published,[ ]--m. bessel remarked that the motions of uranus, as he had satisfied { } himself by careful examination of the recorded observations, could not be accounted for by the perturbations of the known planets; and that the deviations far exceeded any possible limits of error of observation. in reply to the question, whether the deviations in question might not be due to the action of an unknown planet?--he stated that he considered it highly probable that such was the case,--being systematic, and such as might be produced by an exterior planet. i then inquired whether he had attempted, from the indications afforded by these perturbations, to discover the position of the unknown body,--in order that 'a hue and cry' might be raised for it. from his reply, the words of which i do not call to mind, i collected that he had not then gone into that inquiry; but proposed to do so, having now completed certain works which had occupied too much of his time. and, accordingly, in a letter which i received from him after his return to königsberg, dated november , , he says,--'in reference to our conversation at collingwood, i _announce_ to you (_melde_ ich ihnen) that uranus is not forgotten.' doubtless, therefore, among his papers will be found some researches on the subject. "the remarkable calculations of m. le verrier--which have pointed out, as now appears, nearly the true situation of the new planet, by resolving the inverse problem of the perturbations--if uncorroborated by repetition of the numerical calculations by another hand, or by independent investigation from another quarter, would hardly justify so strong an assurance as that conveyed by my expressions above alluded to. but it was known to me, at that time, (i will take the liberty to cite the astronomer royal as my authority) that a similar investigation had been independently entered into, and a conclusion as to the situation of the new planet very nearly coincident with m. le verrier's arrived at (in entire ignorance of his conclusions), by a young cambridge mathematician, mr. adams;[ ]--who will, i hope, { } pardon this mention of his name (the matter being one of great historical moment),--and who will, doubtless, in his own good time and manner, place his calculations before the public. "j. f. w. herschel." _discovery of le verrier's planet._ mr. hind announces to the _times_ that he has received a letter from dr. brünnow, of the royal observatory at berlin, giving the very important information that le verrier's planet was found by m. galle, on the night of september . "in announcing this grand discovery," he says, "i think it better to copy dr. brünnow's[ ] letter." "berlin, sept. . "my dear sir--m. le verrier's planet was discovered here the d of september, by m. galle.[ ] it is a star of the th magnitude, but with a diameter of two or three seconds. here are its places: h. m. s. r. a. declination. sept. , . m.t. ° ' . " - ° ' . " sept. , . m.t. ° ' . " - ° ' . " the planet is now retrograde, its motion amounting daily to four seconds of time. "yours most respectfully, brÜnnow." "this discovery," mr. hind says, "may be justly considered one of the greatest triumphs of theoretical astronomy;" and he adds, in a postscript, that the planet was observed at mr. bishop's[ ] observatory, in the regent's park, { } on wednesday night, notwithstanding the moonlight and hazy sky. "it appears bright," he says, "and with a power of i can see the disc. the following position is the result of instrumental comparisons with aquarii: sept. , at h. m. s. greenwich mean time-- right ascension of planet h. m. . s. south declination ° ' "." the new planet. "cambridge observatory, oct. . "the allusion made by sir john herschel, in his letter contained in the _athenæum_ of october , to the theoretical researches of mr. adams, respecting the newly-discovered planet, has induced me to request that you would make the following communication public. it is right that i should first say that i have mr. adams's permission to make the statements that follow, so far as they relate to his labors. i do not propose to enter into a detail of the steps by which mr. adams was led, by his spontaneous and independent researches, to a conclusion that a planet must exist more distant than uranus. the matter is of too great historical moment not to receive a more formal record than it would be proper to give here. my immediate object is to show, while the attention of the scientific public is more particularly directed to the subject, that, with respect to this remarkable discovery, english astronomers may lay claim to some merit. "mr. adams formed the resolution of trying, by calculation, to account for the anomalies in the motion of uranus on the hypothesis of a more distant planet, when he was an undergraduate in this university, and when his exertions for the academical distinction, which he obtained in january , left him no time for pursuing the research. in the course of that year, he arrived at an approximation to the position of the supposed planet; which, however, he did not consider to be worthy of confidence, on account of his not { } having employed a sufficient number of observations of uranus. accordingly, he requested my intervention to obtain for him the early greenwich observations, then in course of reduction;--which the astronomer royal immediately supplied, in the kindest possible manner. this was in february, . in september, , mr. adams communicated to me values which he had obtained for the heliocentric longitude, excentricity of orbit, longitude of perihelion, and mass, of an assumed exterior planet,--deduced entirely from unaccounted-for perturbations of uranus. the same results, somewhat corrected, he communicated, in october, to the astronomer royal. m. le verrier, in an investigation which was published in june of , assigned very nearly the same heliocentric longitude for the probable position of the planet as mr. adams had arrived at, but gave no results respecting its mass and the form of its orbit. the coincidence as to position from two entirely independent investigations naturally inspired confidence; and the astronomer royal shortly after suggested the employing of the northumberland telescope of this observatory in a systematic search after the hypothetical planet; recommending, at the same time, a definite plan of operations. i undertook to make the search,--and commenced observing on july . the observations were directed, in the first instance, to the part of the heavens which theory had pointed out as the most probable place of the planet; in selecting which i was guided by a paper drawn up for me by mr. adams. not having hour xxi. of the berlin star-maps--of the publication of which i was not aware--i had to proceed on the principle of comparison of observations made at intervals. on july , i went over a zone ' broad, in such a manner as to include all stars to the eleventh magnitude. on august , i took a broader zone and recorded a place of the planet. my next observations were on august ; when i met with a star of the eighth magnitude in the zone which i had gone over on july ,--and which did not then { } contain this star. of course, this was the planet;--the place of which was, thus, recorded a second time in four days of observing. a comparison of the observations of july and august would, according to the principle of search which i employed, have shown me the planet. i did not make the comparison till after the detection of it at berlin--partly because i had an impression that a much more extensive search was required to give any probability of discovery--and partly from the press of other occupation. the planet, however, was _secured_, and two positions of it recorded six weeks earlier here than in any other observatory,--and in a systematic search expressly undertaken for that purpose. i give now the positions of the planet on august and august . greenwich mean time. aug. , h. m. s. {r.a. h. m. . s. {n.p.d. ° ' . " aug. , h. m. s. {r.a. h. m. . s. {n.p.d. ° ' . " "from these places compared with recent observations mr. adams has obtained the following results: distance of the planet from the sun . inclination of the orbit ° ' longitude of the descending node ° ' heliocentric longitude, aug. ° ' "the present distance from the sun is, therefore, thirty times the earth's mean distance;--which is somewhat less than the theory had indicated. the other elements of the orbit cannot be approximated to till the observations shall have been continued for a longer period. "the part taken by mr. adams in the theoretical search after this planet will, perhaps, be considered to justify the suggesting of a name. with his consent, i mention _oceanus_ as one which may possibly receive the votes of astronomers.--i { } have authority to state that mr. adams's investigations will in a short time, be published in detail. "j. challis."[ ] astronomical police report. "an ill-looking kind of a body, who declined to give any name, was brought before the academy of sciences, charged with having assaulted a gentleman of the name of uranus in the public highway. the prosecutor was a youngish looking person, wrapped up in two or three great coats; and looked chillier than anything imaginable, except the prisoner,--whose teeth absolutely shook, all the time. policeman le verrier[ ] stated that he saw the prosecutor walking along the pavement,--and sometimes turning sideways, and sometimes running up to the railings and jerking about in a strange way. calculated that somebody must be pulling his coat, or otherwise assaulting him. it was so dark that he could not see; but thought, if he watched the direction in which the next odd move was made, he might find out something. when the time came, he set brünnow, a constable in another division of the same force, to watch where he told him; and brünnow caught the prisoner lurking about in the very spot,--trying to look as if he was minding his own business. had suspected for a long time that somebody was lurking about in the neighborhood. brünnow was then called, and deposed to his catching the prisoner as described. _m. arago._--was the prosecutor sober? _le verrier._--lord, yes, your worship; no man who had a drop in him ever looks so cold as he did. _m. arago._--did you see the assault? _le verrier._--i can't say i did; but i told brünnow exactly how he'd be crouched down;--just as he was. { } _m. arago (to brünnow)._--did _you_ see the assault? _brünnow._--no, your worship; but i caught the prisoner. _m. arago._--how did you know there was any assault at all? _le verrier._--i reckoned it couldn't be otherwise, when i saw the prosecutor making those odd turns on the pavement. _m. arago._--you reckon and you calculate! why, you'll tell me, next, that you policemen may sit at home and find out all that's going on in the streets by arithmetic. did you ever bring a case of this kind before me till now? _le verrier._--why, you see, your worship, the police are growing cleverer and cleverer every day. we can't help it:--it grows upon us. _m. arago._--you're getting too clever for me. what does the prosecutor know about the matter? the prosecutor said, all he knew was that he was pulled behind by somebody several times. on being further examined, he said that he had seen the prisoner often, but did not know his name, nor how he got his living; but had understood he was called neptune. he himself had paid rates and taxes a good many years now. had a family of six,--two of whom got their own living. the prisoner being called on for his defence, said that it was a quarrel. he had pushed the prosecutor--and the prosecutor had pushed him. they had known each other a long time, and were always quarreling;--he did not know why. it was their nature, he supposed. he further said, that the prosecutor had given a false account of himself;--that he went about under different names. sometimes he was called uranus, sometimes herschel, and sometimes georgium sidus; and he had no character for regularity in the neighborhood. indeed, he was sometimes not to be seen for a long time at once. the prosecutor, on being asked, admitted, after a little hesitation, that he had pushed and pulled the prisoner too. { } in the altercation which followed, it was found very difficult to make out which began:--and the worthy magistrate seemed to think they must have begun together. _m. arago._--prisoner, have you any family? the prisoner declined answering that question at present. he said he thought the police might as well reckon it out whether he had or not. _m. arago_ said he didn't much differ from that opinion.--he then addressed both prosecutor and prisoner; and told them that if they couldn't settle their differences without quarreling in the streets, he should certainly commit them both next time. in the meantime, he called upon both to enter into their own recognizances; and directed the police to have an eye upon both,--observing that the prisoner would be likely to want it a long time, and the prosecutor would be not a hair the worse for it." this quib was written by a person who was among the astronomers: and it illustrates the fact that le verrier had sole possession of the field until mr. challis's letter appeared. sir john herschel's previous communication should have paved the way: but the wonder of the discovery drove it out of many heads. there is an excellent account of the whole matter in professor grant's[ ] _history of physical astronomy_. the squib scandalized some grave people, who wrote severe admonitions to the editor. there are formalists who spend much time in writing propriety to journals, to which they serve as foolometers. in a letter to the _athenæum_, speaking of the way in which people hawk fine terms for common things, i said that these people ought to have a new translation of the bible, which should contain the verse "gentleman and lady, created he them." the editor was handsomely fired and brimstoned! { } a new theory of tides. a new theory of the tides: in which the errors of the usual theory are demonstrated; and proof shewn that the full moon is not the cause of a concomitant spring tide, but actually the cause of the neaps.... by comm^r. debenham,[ ] r.n. london, , vo. the author replied to a criticism in the _athenæum_, and i remember how, in a very few words, he showed that he had read nothing on the subject. the reviewer spoke of the forces of the planets (i.e., the sun and moon) on the ocean, on which the author remarks, "but n.b. the sun is no planet, mr. critic." had he read any of the actual investigations on the usual theory, he would have known that to this day the sun and moon continue to be called _planets_--though the phrase is disappearing--in speaking of the tides; the sense, of course, being the old one, wandering bodies. a large class of the paradoxers, when they meet with something which taken in their sense is absurd, do not take the trouble to find out the intended meaning, but walk off with the words laden with their own first construction. such men are hardly fit to walk the streets without an interpreter. i was startled for a moment, at the time when a recent happy--and more recently happier--marriage occupied the public thoughts, by seeing in a haberdasher's window, in staring large letters, an unpunctuated sentence which read itself to me as "princess alexandra! collar and cuff!" it immediately occurred to me that had i been any one of some scores of my paradoxers, i should, no doubt, have proceeded to raise the mob against the unscrupulous person who dared to hint to a young bride such maleficent--or at least immellificent--conduct towards her new lord. but, as it was, certain material contexts in the shop window suggested a less { } savage explanation. a paradoxer should not stop at reading the advertisements of newton or laplace; he should learn to look at the stock of goods. i think i must have an eye for double readings, when presented: though i never guess riddles. on the day on which i first walked into the _panizzi_ reading room[ ]--as it ought to be called--at the museum, i began my circuit of the wall-shelves at the ladies' end: and perfectly coincided in the propriety of the bibles and theological works being placed there. but the very first book i looked on the back of had, in flaming gold letters, the following inscription--"blast the antinomians!"[ ] if a line had been drawn below the first word, dr. blast's history of the antinomians would not have been so fearfully misinterpreted. it seems that neither the binder nor the arranger of the room had caught my reading. the book was removed before the catalogue of books of reference was printed. an astronomical paradoxer. two systems of astronomy: first, the newtonian system, showing the rise and progress thereof, with a short historical account; the general theory with a variety of remarks thereon: second, the system in accordance with the holy scriptures, showing the rise and progress from enoch, the seventh from adam, the prophets, moses, and others, in the first testament; our lord jesus christ, and his apostles, in the new or second testament; reeve and muggleton, in the third and last testament; with a variety of remarks thereon. by isaac frost.[ ] london, , to. { } a very handsomely printed volume, with beautiful plates. many readers who have heard of muggletonians have never had any distinct idea of lodowick muggleton,[ ] the inspired tailor, ( - ) who about received his commission from heaven, wrote a testament, founded a sect, and descended to posterity. of reeve[ ] less is usually said; according to mr. frost, he and muggleton are the two "witnesses." i shall content myself with one specimen of mr. frost's science: "i was once invited to hear read over 'guthrie[ ] on astronomy,' and when the reading was concluded i was asked my opinion thereon; when i said, 'doctor, it appears to me that sir i. newton has only given two proofs in support of his theory of the earth revolving round the sun: all the rest is assertion without any proofs.'--'what are they?' inquired the doctor.--'well,' i said, 'they are, first, the power of { } attraction to keep the earth to the sun; the second is the power of repulsion, by virtue of the centrifugal motion of the earth: all the rest appears to me assertion without proof.' the doctor considered a short time and then said, 'it certainly did appear so.' i said, 'sir isaac has certainly obtained the credit of completing the system, but really he has only half done his work.'--'how is that,' inquired my friend the doctor. my reply was this: 'you will observe his system shows the earth traverses round the sun on an inclined plane; the consequence is, there are four powers required to make his system complete: st. the power of _attraction_. ndly. the power of _repulsion_. rdly. the power of _ascending_ the inclined plane. thly. the power of _descending_ the inclined plane. you will thus easily see the _four_ powers required, and newton has only accounted for _two_; the work is therefore only half done.' upon due reflection the doctor said, 'it certainly was necessary to have these _four_ points cleared up before the system could be said to be complete.'" i have no doubt that mr. frost, and many others on my list, have really encountered doctors who could be puzzled by such stuff as this, or nearly as bad, among the votaries of existing systems, and have been encouraged thereby to print their objections. but justice requires me to say that from the words "power of repulsion by virtue of the centrifugal motion of the earth," mr. frost may be suspected of having something more like a notion of the much-mistaken term "centrifugal force" than many paradoxers of greater fame. the muggletonian sect is not altogether friendless: over and above this handsome volume, the works of reeve and muggleton were printed, in , in three quarto volumes. see _notes and queries, st series_, v, ; d series, iii, . { } [the system laid down by mr. frost, though intended to be substantially that of lodowick muggleton, is not so vagarious. it is worthy of note how very different have been the fates of two contemporary paradoxers, muggleton and george fox.[ ] they were friends and associates,[ ] and commenced their careers about the same time, - . the followers of fox have made their sect an institution, and deserve to be called the pioneers of philanthropy. but though there must still be muggletonians, since expensive books are published by men who take the name, no sect of that name is known to the world. nevertheless, fox and muggleton are men of one type, developed by the same circumstances: it is for those who investigate such men to point out why their teachings have had fates so different. macaulay says it was because fox found followers of more sense than himself. true enough: but why did fox find such followers and not muggleton? the two were equally crazy, to all appearance: and the difference required must be sought in the doctrines themselves. fox was not a _rational_ man: but the success of his sect and doctrines entitles him to a letter of alteration of the phrase which i am surprised has not become current. when conduitt,[ ] the husband of newton's half-niece, wrote a circular to newton's friends, just after his death, inviting them to bear their parts in a proper biography, he said, "as sir i. newton was a _national_ man, i think every one ought to contribute to a work intended to do him justice." here is the very phrase which is often wanted to signify that { } celebrity which puts its mark, good or bad, on the national history, in a manner which cannot be asserted of many notorious or famous historical characters. thus george fox and newton are both _national_ men. dr. roget's[ ] _thesaurus_ gives more than fifty synonyms--_colleagues_ would be the better word--of "_celebrated_," any one of which might be applied, either in prose or poetry, to newton or to his works, no one of which comes near to the meaning which conduitt's adjective immediately suggests. the truth is, that we are too _monarchical_ to be _national_. we have the queen's army, the queen's navy, the queen's highway, the queen's english, etc.; nothing is national except the _debt_. that this remark is not new is an addition to its force; it has hardly been repeated since it was first made. it is some excuse that _nation_ is not vernacular english: the _country_ is our word, and _country man_ is appropriated.] astronomical aphorisms, or theory of nature; founded on the immutable basis of meteoric action. by p. murphy,[ ] esq. london, , mo. this is by the framer of the weather almanac, who appeals to that work as corroborative of his theory of planetary temperature, years after all the world knew by experience that this meteorological theory was just as good as the others. { } the conspiracy of the bullionists as it affects the present system of the money laws. by caleb quotem. birmingham, , vo. (pp. ). this pamphlet is one of a class of which i know very little, in which the effects of the laws relating to this or that political bone of contention are imputed to deliberate conspiracy of one class to rob another of what the one knew ought to belong to the other. the success of such writers in believing what they have a bias to believe, would, if they knew themselves, make them think it equally likely that the inculpated classes might really believe what it is _their_ interest to believe. the idea of a _guilty_ understanding existing among fundholders, or landholders, or any holders, all the country over, and never detected except by bouncing pamphleteers, is a theory which should have been left for cobbett[ ] to propose, and for apella to believe.[ ] [_august_, . a pamphlet shows how to pay the national debt. advance paper to railways, etc., receivable in payment of taxes. the railways pay interest and principal in money, with which you pay your national debt, and redeem your notes. twenty-five years of interest redeems the notes, and then the principal pays the debt. notes to be kept up to value by penalties.] theism independent of revelation. the reasoner. no. . edited by g.j. holyoake.[ ] price _ d._ is there sufficient proof of the existence of god? vo. . this acorn of the holy oak was forwarded to me with a manuscript note, signed by the editor, on the part of the { } "london society of theological utilitarians," who say, "they trust you may be induced to give this momentous subject your consideration." the supposition that a middle-aged person, known as a student of thought on more subjects than one, had that particular subject yet to begin, is a specimen of what i will call the _assumption-trick_ of controversy, a habit which pervades all sides of all subjects. the tract is a proof of the good policy of letting opinions find their level, without any assistance from the court of queen's bench. twenty years earlier the thesis would have been positive, "there is sufficient proof of the non-existence of god," and bitter in its tone. as it stands, we have a moderate and respectful treatment--wrong only in making the opponent argue absurdly, as usually happens when one side invents the other--of a question in which a great many christians have agreed with the atheist: that question being--can the existence of god be proved independently of revelation? many very religious persons answer this question in the negative, as well as mr. holyoake. and, this point being settled, all who agree in the negative separate into those who can endure scepticism, and those who cannot: the second class find their way to christianity. this very number of _the reasoner_ announces the secession of one of its correspondents, and his adoption of the christian faith. this would not have happened twenty years before: nor, had it happened, would it have been respectfully announced. there are people who are very unfortunate in the expression of their meaning. mr. holyoake, in the name of the "london society" etc., forwarded a pamphlet on the existence of god, and said that the society trusted i "may be induced to give" the subject my "consideration." how could i know the society was one person, who supposed i had arrived at a conclusion and wanted a "_guiding word_"? but so it seems it was: mr. holyoake, in the _english { } leader_ of october , , and in a private letter to me, writes as follows: "the gentleman who was the author of the argument, and who asked me to send it to mr. de morgan, never assumed that that gentleman had 'that particular subject to begin'--on the contrary, he supposed that one whom we all knew to be eminent as a thinker _had_ come to a conclusion upon it, and would perhaps vouchsafe a guiding word to one who was, as yet, seeking the solution of the great problem of theology. i told my friend that 'mr. de morgan was doubtless preoccupied, and that he must be content to wait. on some day of courtesy and leisure he might have the kindness to write.' nor was i wrong--the answer appears in your pages at the lapse of seventeen years." i suppose mr. holyoake's way of putting his request was the _stylus curiæ_ of the society. a worthy quaker who was sued for debt in the king's bench was horrified to find himself charged in the declaration with detaining his creditor's money by force and arms, contrary to the peace of our lord the king, etc. it's only the _stylus curiæ_, said a friend: i don't know _curiæ_, said the quaker, but he shouldn't style us peace-breakers. the notion that the _non_-existence of god can be _proved_, has died out under the light of discussion: had the only lights shone from the pulpit and the prison, so great a step would never have been made. the question now is as above. the dictum that christianity is "part and parcel of the law of the land" is also abrogated: at the same time, and the coincidence is not an accident, it is becoming somewhat nearer the truth that the law of the land is part and parcel of christianity. it must also be noticed that _christianity_ was part and parcel of the articles of _war_; and so was _duelling_. any officer speaking against religion was to be cashiered; and any officer receiving an affront without, in the last resort, attempting to kill his opponent, was also to be cashiered. though somewhat of a book-hunter, i { } have never been able to ascertain the date of the collected remonstrances of the prelates in the house of lords against this overt inculcation of murder, under the soft name of _satisfaction_: it is neither in watt,[ ] nor in lowndes,[ ] nor in any edition of brunet;[ ] and there is no copy in the british museum. was the collected edition really published? [the publication of the above in the _athenæum_ has not produced reference to a single copy. the collected edition seems to be doubted. i have even met one or two persons who doubt the fact of the bishops having remonstrated at all: but their doubt was founded on an absurd supposition, namely, that it was _no business of theirs_; that it was not the business of the prelates of the church in union with the state to remonstrate against the crown commanding murder! some say that the edition was published, but under an irrelevant title, which prevented people from knowing what it was about. such things have happened: for example, arranged extracts from wellington's general orders, which would have attracted attention, fell dead under the title of "principles of war." it is surmised that the book i am looking for also contains the protests of the reverend bench against other things besides the thou-shalt-do-murder of the articles (of war), and is called "first elements of religion" or some similar title. time clears up all things.] * * * * * notes [ ] see mrs. de morgan's _memoir of augustus de morgan_, london, , p . [ ] in the first edition this reference was to page . [ ] in the first edition this read "at page ," the work then appearing in a single volume. [ ] "just as it would surely have been better not to have considered it (i.e., the trinity) as a mystery, and with cl. kleckermann to have investigated by the aid of philosophy according to the teaching of true logic what it might be, before they determined what it was; just so would it have been better to withdraw zealously and industriously into the deepest caverns and darkest recesses of metaphysical speculations and suppositions in order to establish their opinion beyond danger from the weapons of their adversaries.... indeed that great man so explains and demonstrates this dogma (although to theologians the word has not much charm) from the immovable foundations of philosophy, that with but few changes and additions a mind sincerely devoted to truth can desire nothing more." [ ] mrs. wititterly, in _nicholas nickleby_.--a. de m. [ ] the brackets mean that the paragraph is substantially from some one of the _athenæum supplements_.--s. e. de m. [ ] "it is annoying that this ingenious naturalist who has already given us more useful works and has still others in preparation, uses for this odious task, a pen dipped in gall and wormwood. it is true that many of his remarks have some foundation, and that to each error that he points out he at the same time adds its correction. but he is not always just and never fails to insult. after all, what does his book prove except that a forty-fifth part of a very useful review is not free from mistakes? must we confuse him with those superficial writers whose liberty of body does not permit them to restrain their fruitfulness, that crowd of savants of the highest rank whose writings have adorned and still adorn the _transactions_? has he forgotten that the names of the boyles, newtons, halleys, de moivres, hans sloanes, etc. have been seen frequently? and that still are found those of the wards, bradleys, grahams, ellicots, watsons, and of an author whom mr. hill prefers to all others, i mean mr. hill himself?" [ ] "let no free man be seized or imprisoned or in any way harmed except by trial of his peers." [ ] "the master can rob, wreck and punish his slave according to his pleasure save only that he may not maim him." [ ] an irish antiquary informs me that virgil is mentioned in annals at a.d. , as "verghil, i.e., the geometer, abbot of achadhbo [and bishop of saltzburg] died in germany in the thirteenth year of his bishoprick." no allusion is made to his opinions; but it seems he was, by tradition, a mathematician. the abbot of aghabo (queen's county) was canonized by gregory ix, in . the story of the second, or scapegoat, virgil would be much damaged by the character given to the real bishop, if there were anything in it to dilapidate.--a. de m. [ ] "he performed many acts befitting the papal dignity, and likewise many excellent (to be sure!) works." [ ] "after having been on the throne during ten years of pestilence." [ ] the work is the _questiones joannis buridani super x libros aristotelis ad nicomachum, curante egidio delfo_ ... parisiis, , folio. it also appeared at paris in editions of , , and , and at oxford in . [ ] jean buridan was born at béthune about , and died at paris about . he was professor of philosophy at the university of paris and several times held the office of rector. as a philosopher he was classed among the nominalists. [ ] so in the original. [ ] baruch spinoza, or benedict de spinoza as he later called himself, the pantheistic philosopher, excommunicated from the jewish faith for heresy, was born at amsterdam in and died there in . [ ] michael scott, or scot, was born about , probably in fifeshire, scotland, and died about . he was one of the best known savants of the court of emperor frederick ii, and wrote upon astrology, alchemy, and the occult sciences. he was looked upon as a great magician and is mentioned among the wizards in dante's _inferno_. "that other, round the loins so slender of his shape, was michael scot, practised in every slight of magic wile." _inferno_, xx. boccaccio also speaks of him: "it is not long since there was in this city (florence) a great master in necromancy, who was called michele scotto, because he was a scot." _decameron_, dec. giorno. scott's mention of him in canto second of his _lay of the last minstrel_, is well known: "in these fair climes, it was my lot to meet the wondrous michael scott; a wizard of such dreaded fame, that when, in salamanca's cave, him listed his magic wand to wave, the bells would ring in notre dame!" sir walter's notes upon him are of interest. [ ] these were some of the forgeries which michel chasles ( - ) was duped into buying. they purported to be a correspondence between pascal and newton and to show that the former had anticipated some of the discoveries of the great english physicist and mathematician. that they were forgeries was shown by sir david brewster in . [ ] "let the serpent also break from its appointed path." [ ] guglielmo brutus icilius timoleon libri-carucci della sommaja, born at florence in ; died at fiesole in . his _histoire des sciences mathématiques_ appeared at paris in , the entire first edition of volume i, save some half dozen that he had carried home, being burned on the day that the printing was completed. he was a great collector of early printed works on mathematics, and was accused of having stolen large numbers of them from other libraries. this accusation took him to london, where he bitterly attacked his accusers. there were two auction sales of his library, and a number of his books found their way into de morgan's collection. [ ] philo of gadara lived in the second century b.c. he was a pupil of sporus, who worked on the problem of the two mean proportionals. [ ] in his _histoire des mathématiques_, the first edition of which appeared in . jean etienne montucla was born at lyons in and died at versailles in . he was therefore only thirty-three years old when his great work appeared. the second edition, with additions by d'alembert, appeared in - . he also wrote a work on the quadrature of the circle, _histoire des recherches sur la quadrature du cercle_, which appeared in . [ ] eutocius of ascalon was born in a.d. he wrote commentaries on the first four books of the conics of apollonius of perga ( - b.c.). he also wrote on the sphere and cylinder and the quadrature of the circle, and on the two books on equilibrium of archimedes ( - b.c.) [ ] edward cocker was born in and died between and . his famous arithmetic appeared in and went through many editions. it was written in a style that appealed to teachers, and was so popular that the expression "according to cocker" became a household phrase. early in the nineteenth century there was a similar saying in america, "according to daboll," whose arithmetic had some points of analogy to that of cocker. each had a well-known prototype in the ancient saying, "he reckons like nicomachus of gerasa." [ ] so in the original, for barrême. françois barrême was to france what cocker was to england. he was born at lyons in , and died at paris in . he published several arithmetics, dedicating them to his patron, colbert. one of the best known of his works is _l'arithmétique, ou le livre facile pour apprendre l'arithmétique soi-mème_, . the french word _barême_ or _barrême_, a ready-reckoner, is derived from his name. [ ] born at rome, about a.d.; died at pavia, . gibbon speaks of him as "the last of the romans whom cato or tully could have acknowledged for their countryman." his works on arithmetic, music, and geometry were classics in the medieval schools. [ ] johannes campanus, of novarra, was chaplain to pope urban iv ( - ). he was one of the early medieval translators of euclid from the arabic into latin, and the first printed edition of the _elements_ (venice, ) was from his translation. in this work he probably depended not a little upon at least two or three earlier scholars. he also wrote _de computo ecclesiastico calendarium_, and _de quadratura circuli_. [ ] archimedes gave - / , and - / as the limits of the ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle. [ ] friedrich w. a. murhard was born at cassel in and died there in . his _bibliotheca mathematica_, leipsic, - , is ill arranged and inaccurate, but it is still a helpful bibliography. de morgan speaks somewhere of his indebtedness to it. [ ] abraham gotthelf kästner was born at leipsic in , and died at göttingen in . he was professor of mathematics and physics at göttingen. his _geschichte der mathematik_ ( - ) was a work of considerable merit. in the text of the _budget of paradoxes_ the name appears throughout as kastner instead of kästner. [ ] lucas gauricus, or luca gaurico, born at giffoni, near naples, in ; died at rome in . he was an astrologer and mathematician, and was professor of mathematics at ferrara in . in he became bishop of cività ducale. [ ] john couch adams was born at lidcot, cornwall, in , and died in . he and leverrier predicted the discovery of neptune from the perturbations in uranus. [ ] urbain-jean-joseph leverrier was born at saint-lô, manche, in , and died at paris in . it was his data respecting the perturbations of uranus that were used by adams and himself in locating neptune. [ ] joseph-juste scaliger, the celebrated philologist, was born at agen in , and died at leyden in . his _cyclometrica elementa_, to which de morgan refers, appeared at leyden in . [ ] the title is: _in hoc libra contenta.... introductio i geometri[=a].... liber de quadratura circuli. liber de cubicatione sphere. perspectiva introductio_. carolus bovillus, or charles bouvelles (boüelles, bouilles, bouvel), was born at saucourt, picardy, about , and died at noyon about . he was canon and professor of theology at noyon. his _introductio_ contains considerable work on star polygons, a favorite study in the middle ages and early renaissance. his work _que hoc volumine contin[=e]tur. liber de intellectu. liber de sensu_, etc., appeared at paris in - . [ ] nicolaus cusanus, nicolaus chrypffs or krebs, was born at kues on the mosel in , and died at todi, umbria, august , . he held positions of honor in the church, including the bishopric of brescia. he was made a cardinal in . he wrote several works on mathematics, his _opuscula varia_ appearing about , probably at strasburg, but published without date or place. his _opera_ appeared at paris in and again in , and at basel in . [ ] henry stephens (born at paris about , died at lyons in ) was one of the most successful printers of his day. he was known as _typographus parisiensis_, and to his press we owe some of the best works of the period. [ ] jacobus faber stapulensis (jacques le fèvre d'estaples) was born at estaples, near amiens, in , and died at nérac in . he was a priest, vicar of the bishop of meaux, lecturer on philosophy at the collège lemoine in paris, and tutor to charles, son of francois i. he wrote on philosophy, theology, and mathematics. [ ] claude-françois milliet de challes was born at chambéry in , and died at turin in . he edited _euclidis elementorum libri octo_ in , and published a _cursus seu mundus mathematicus_, which included a short history of mathematics, in . he also wrote on mathematical geography. [ ] this date should be , if he refers to the first edition. it is well known that this is the first encyclopedia worthy the name to appear in print. it was written by gregorius reisch (born at balingen, and died at freiburg in ), prior of the cloister at freiburg and confessor to maximilian i. the first edition appeared at freiburg in , and it passed through many editions in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. the title of the edition reads: _aepitoma omnis phylosophiae. alias margarita phylosophica tractans de omni genere scibili: cum additionibus: quae in alijs non habentur_. [ ] this is the _introductio in arithmeticam divi s. boetii.... epitome rerum geometricarum ex geometrica introductio c. bovilli. de quadratura circuli demonstratio ex campano_, that appeared without date about . [ ] born at liverpool in , and died there about . he was a merchant, and in he published, at liverpool, a work entitled _the quadrature of the circle, or the true ratio between the diameter and circumference geometrically and mathematically demonstrated_. in this he gives the ratio as exactly - / . [ ] "that it would be impossible to tell him exactly, since no one had yet been able to find precisely the ratio of the circumference to the diameter." [ ] this is the paris edition: "parisiis: ex officina ascensiana anno christi ... mdxiiii," as appears by the colophon of the second volume to which de morgan refers. [ ] regiomontanus, or johann müller of königsberg (regiomontanus), was born at königsberg in franconia, june , , and died at rome july , . he studied at vienna under the great astronomer peuerbach, and was his most famous pupil. he wrote numerous works, chiefly on astronomy. he is also known by the names ioannes de monte regio, de regiomonte, ioannes germanus de regiomonte, etc. [ ] henry cornelius agrippa was born at cologne in and died either at lyons in or at grenoble in . he was professor of theology at cologne and also at turin. after the publication of his _de occulta philosophia_ he was imprisoned for sorcery. both works appeared at antwerp in , and each passed through a large number of editions. a french translation appeared in paris in , and an english one in london in . [ ] nicolaus remegius was born in lorraine in , and died at nancy in . he was a jurist and historian, and held the office of procurator general to the duke of lorraine. [ ] this was at the storming of the city by the british on may , . from his having been born in india, all this appealed strongly to the interests of de morgan. [ ] orontius finaeus, or oronce finé, was born at briançon in and died at paris, october , . he was imprisoned by françois i for refusing to recognize the concordat ( ). he was made professor of mathematics in the collège royal (later called the collège de france) in . he wrote extensively on astronomy and geometry, but was by no means a great scholar. he was a pretentious man, and his works went through several editions. his _protomathesis_ appeared at paris in - . the work referred to by de morgan is the _quadratura circuli tandem inventa & clarissime demonstrata_ ... lutetiae parisiorum, , fol. in the edition of his _de rebus mathematicis, hactenus desideratis, libri iiii_, published at paris, the subtitle is: _quibus inter cætera, circuli quadratura centum modis, & suprà, per eundem orontium recenter excogitatis, demonstratus_, so that he kept up his efforts until his death. [ ] johannes buteo (boteo, butéon, bateon) was born in dauphiné c. - , and died in a cloister in or . some writers give charpey as the place and as the date of his birth, and state that he died at canar in . he belonged to the order of st. anthony, and wrote chiefly on geometry, exposing the pretenses of finaeus. his _opera geometrica_ appeared at lyons in , and his _logistica_ and _de quadratura circuli libri duo_ at lyons in . [ ] this is the great french algebraist, françois viète (vieta), who was born at fontenay-le-comte in , and died at paris, december , . his well-known _isagoge in artem analyticam_ appeared at tours in . his _opera mathematica_ was edited by van schooten in . [ ] this is the _de rebus mathematicis hactenus desideratis, libri iiii_, that appeared in paris in . for the title page see smith, d. e., _rara arithmetica_, boston, , p. . [ ] the title is correct except for a colon after _astronomicum_. nicolaus raimarus ursus was born in henstede or hattstede, in dithmarschen, and died at prague in or . he was a pupil of tycho brahe. he also wrote _de astronomis hypothesibus_ ( ) and _arithmetica analytica vulgo cosa oder algebra_ ( ). [ ] born at dôle, franche-comté, about , died in holland about . the work to which reference is made is the _quadrature du cercle, ou manière de trouver un quarré égal au cercle donné_, which appeared at delft in . duchesne had the courage of his convictions, not only on circle-squaring but on religion as well, for he was obliged to leave france because of his conversion to calvinism. de morgan's statement that his real name is van der eycke is curious, since he was french born. the dutch may have translated his name when he became professor at delft, but we might equally well say, that his real name was quercetanus or à quercu. [ ] this was the father of adriaan metius ( - ). he was a mathematician and military engineer, and suggested the ratio / for [pi], a ratio afterwards published by his son. the ratio, then new to europe, had long been known and used in china, having been found by tsu ch'ung-chih ( - a.d.). [ ] this was jost bürgi, or justus byrgius, the swiss mathematician of whom kepler wrote in : "apices logistici justo byrgio multis annis ante editionem neperianam viam præiverunt ad hos ipsissimos logarithmos." he constructed a table of antilogarithms (_arithmetische und geometrische progress-tabulen_), but it was not published until after napier's work appeared. [ ] ludolphus van ceulen, born at hildesheim, and died at leyden in . it was he who first carried the computation of [pi] to decimal places. [ ] jens jenssen dodt, van flensburg, a dutch historian, who died in . [ ] i do not know this edition. there was one "antverpiae apud petrum bellerum sub scuto burgundiae," to, in . [ ] archytas of tarentum ( - b.c.) who wrote on proportions, irrationals, and the duplication of the cube. [ ] _the circle speaks._ "at first a circle i was called, and was a curve around about like lofty orbit of the sun or rainbow arch among the clouds. a noble figure then was i-- and lacking nothing but a start, and lacking nothing but an end. but now unlovely do i seem polluted by some angles new. this thing archytas hath not done nor noble sire of icarus nor son of thine, iapetus. what accident or god can then have quadrated mine area?" _the author replies._ "by deepest mouth of turia and lake of limpid clearness, lies a happy state not far removed from old saguntus; farther yet a little way from sucro town. in this place doth a poet dwell, who oft the stars will closely scan, and always for himself doth claim what is denied to wiser men;-- an old man musing here and there and oft forgetful of himself, not knowing how to rightly place the compasses, nor draw a line, as he doth of himself relate. this craftsman fine, in sooth it is hath quadrated thine area." [ ] pietro bongo, or petrus bungus, was born at bergamo, and died there in . his work on the mystery of numbers is one of the most exhaustive and erudite ones of the mystic writers. the first edition appeared at bergamo in - ; the second, at bergamo in - ; the third, at venice in ; the fourth, at bergamo in ; and the fifth, which de morgan calls the second, in . other editions, before the paris edition to which he refers, appeared in and ; and the colophon of the paris edition is dated . see the editor's _rara arithmetica_, pp. - . [ ] william warburton ( - ), bishop of gloucester, whose works got him into numerous literary quarrels, being the subject of frequent satire. [ ] thomas galloway ( - ), who was professor of mathematics at sandhurst for a time, and was later the actuary of the amicable life assurance company of london. in the latter capacity he naturally came to be associated with de morgan. [ ] giordano bruno was born near naples about . he left the dominican order to take up calvinism, and among his publications was _l'expulsion de la bête triomphante_. he taught philosophy at paris and wittenberg, and some of his works were published in england in - . whether or not he was roasted alive "for the maintenance and defence of the holy church," as de morgan states, depends upon one's religious point of view. at any rate, he was roasted as a heretic. [ ] referring to part of his _discours de la méthode_, leyden, . [ ] bartholomew legate, who was born in essex about . he denied the divinity of christ and was the last heretic burned at smithfield. [ ] edward wightman, born probably in staffordshire. he was anti-trinitarian, and claimed to be the messiah. he was the last man burned for heresy in england. [ ] gaspar schopp, born at neumarck in , died at padua in ; grammarian, philologist, and satirist. [ ] konrad ritterhusius, born at brunswick in ; died at altdorf in . he was a jurist of some power. [ ] johann jakob brucker, born at augsburg in , died there in . he wrote on the history of philosophy ( - , and - ). [ ] daniel georg morhof, born at wismar in , died at lübeck in . he was rector of the university of kiel, and professor of eloquence, poetry, and history. [ ] in the _histoire des sciences mathématiques_, vol. iv, note x, pp. - of the edition. [ ] colenso ( - ), missionary bishop of natal, was one of the leaders of his day in the field of higher biblical criticism. de morgan must have admired his mathematical works, which were not without merit. [ ] samuel roffey maitland, born at london in ; died at gloucester in . he was an excellent linguist and a critical student of the bible. he became librarian at lambeth in . [ ] archbishop howley ( - ) was a thorough tory. he was one of the opponents of the roman catholic relief bill, the reform bill, and the jewish civil disabilities relief bill. [ ] we have, in america at least, almost forgotten the great stir made by edward b. pusey ( - ) in the great oxford movement in the middle of the nineteenth century. he was professor of hebrew at oxford, and canon of christ church. [ ] that is, his _magia universalis naturae et artis sive recondita naturalium et artificialium rerum scientia_, würzburg, , to, with editions at bamberg in , and at frankfort in . gaspard schott (königshofen , würzburg ) was a physicist and mathematician, devoting most of his attention to the curiosities of his sciences. his type of mind must have appealed to de morgan. [ ] _salicetti quadratura circuli nova, perspicua, expedita, veraque tum naturalis, tum geometrica_, etc., .--_consideratio nova in opusculum archimedis de circuli dimensione_, etc., . [ ] melchior adam, who died at heidelberg in , wrote a collection of biographies which was published at heidelberg and frankfort from to . [ ] born at baden in ; died at basel in . the erastians were related to the zwinglians, and opposed all power of excommunication and the infliction of penalties by a church. [ ] see acts xii. . [ ] theodore de bèse, a french theologian; born at vezelay, in burgundy, in ; died at geneva, in . [ ] dr. robert lee ( - ) had some celebrity in de morgan's time through his attempt to introduce music and written prayers into the service of the scotch presbyterian church. [ ] born at veringen, hohenzollern, in ; died at röteln in . [ ] born at kinnairdie, bannfshire, in ; died at london in . his _astronomiae physicae et geometriae elementa_, oxford, , was an influential work. [ ] the title was carelessly copied by de morgan, not an unusual thing in his case. the original reads: a plaine discovery, of the whole revelation of s. iohn: set downe in two treatises ... set foorth by john napier l. of marchiston ... whereunto are annexed, certaine oracles of sibylla ... london ... . [ ] i have not seen the first edition, but it seems to have appeared in edinburgh, in , with a second edition there in . the edition was the third. [ ] it seems rather certain that napier felt his theological work of greater importance than that in logarithms. he was born at merchiston, near (now a part of) edinburgh, in , and died there in , three years after the appearance of his _mirifici logarithmorum canonis descriptio_. [ ] followed, in the third edition, from which he quotes, by a comma. [ ] there was an edition published at stettin in . an english translation by p. f. mottelay appeared at london in . gilbert ( - ) was physician to queen elizabeth and president of the college of physicians at london. his _de magnete_ was the first noteworthy treatise on physics printed in england. he treated of the earth as a spherical magnet and suggested the variation and declination of the needle as a means of finding latitude at sea. [ ] the title says "ab authoris fratre collectum," although it was edited by j. gruterus. [ ] porta was born at naples in and died there in . he studied the subject of lenses and the theory of sight, did some work in hydraulics and agriculture, and was well known as an astrologer. his _magiae naturalis libri xx_ was published at naples in . the above title should read _curvilineorum_. [ ] cataldi was born in and died at bologna in . he was professor of mathematics at perugia, florence, and bologna, and is known in mathematics chiefly for his work in continued fractions. he was one of the scholarly men of his day. [ ] georg joachim rheticus was born at feldkirch in and died at caschau, hungary, in . he was one of the most prominent pupils of copernicus, his _narratio de libris revolutionum copernici_ (dantzig, ) having done much to make the theory of his master known. [ ] henry briggs, who did so much to make logarithms known, and who used the base , was born at warley wood, in yorkshire, in , and died at oxford in . he was savilian professor of mathematics at oxford, and his grave may still be seen there. [ ] he lived at "reggio nella emilia" in the th and th centuries. his _regola e modo facilissimo di quadrare il cerchio_ was published at reggio in . [ ] christoph klau (clavius) was born at bamberg in , and died at rome in . he was a jesuit priest and taught mathematics in the jesuit college at rome. he wrote a number of works on mathematics, including excellent text-books on arithmetic and algebra. [ ] christopher gruenberger, or grienberger, was born at halle in tyrol in , and died at rome in . he was, like clavius, a jesuit and a mathematician, and he wrote a little upon the subject of projections. his _prospectiva nova coelestis_ appeared at rome in . [ ] the name should, of course, be lansbergii in the genitive, and is so in the original title. philippus lansbergius was born at ghent in , and died at middelburg in . he was a protestant theologian, and was also a physician and astronomer. he was a well-known supporter of galileo and copernicus. his _commentationes in motum terrae diurnum et annuum_ appeared at middelburg in and did much to help the new theory. [ ] i have never seen the work. it is rare. [ ] the african explorer, born in somersetshire in , died at bath in . he was the first european to cross central africa from north to south. he investigated the sources of the nile. [ ] prester (presbyter, priest) john, the legendary christian king whose realm, in the middle ages, was placed both in asia and in africa, is first mentioned in the chronicles of otto of freisingen in the th century. in the th century his kingdom was supposed to be abyssinia. [ ] "it is a profane and barbarous nation, dirty and slovenly, who eat their meat half raw and drink mare's milk, and who use table-cloths and napkins only to wipe their hands and mouths." [ ] "the great prester john, who is the fourth in rank, is emperor of ethiopia and of the abyssinians, and boasts of his descent from the race of david, as having descended from the queen of sheba, queen of ethiopia. she, having gone to jerusalem to see the wisdom of solomon, about the year of the world , returned pregnant with a son whom they called moylech, from whom they claim descent in a direct line. and so he glories in being the most ancient monarch in the world, saying that his empire has endured for more than three thousand years, which no other empire is able to assert. he also puts into his titles the following: 'we, the sovereign in my realms, uniquely beloved of god, pillar of the faith, sprung from the race of judah, etc.' the boundaries of this empire touch the red sea and the mountains of azuma on the east, and on the western side it is bordered by the river nile which separates it from nubia. to the north lies egypt, and to the south the kingdoms of congo and mozambique. it extends forty degrees in length, or one thousand twenty-five leagues, from congo or mozambique on the south to egypt on the north; and in width it reaches from the nile on the west to the mountains of azuma on the east, seven hundred twenty-five leagues, or twenty-nine degrees. this empire contains thirty large provinces, namely medra, gaga, alchy, cedalon, mantro, finazam, barnaquez, ambiam, fungy, angoté, cigremaon, gorga, cafatez, zastanla, zeth, barly, belangana, tygra, gorgany, barganaza, d'ancut, dargaly, ambiacatina, caracogly, amara, maon (_sic_), guegiera, bally, dobora, and macheda. all of these provinces are situated directly under the equinoctial line between the tropics of capricorn and cancer; but they are two hundred fifty leagues nearer our tropic than the other. the name of prester john signifies great lord, and is not priest [presbyter] as many think. he has always been a christian, but often schismatic. at the present time he is a catholic and recognizes the pope as sovereign pontiff. i met one of his bishops in jerusalem, and often conversed with him through the medium of our guide. he was of grave and serious bearing, pleasant of speech, but wonderfully subtle in everything he said. he took great delight in what i had to relate concerning our beautiful ceremonies and the dignity of our prelates in their pontifical vestments. as to other matters i will only say that the ethiopian is joyous and merry, not at all like the tartar in the matter of filth, nor like the wretched arab. they are refined and subtle, trusting no one, wonderfully suspicious, and very devout. they are not at all black as is commonly supposed, by which i refer to those who do not live under the equator or too near to it, for these are moors as we shall see." with respect to this translation it should be said that the original forms of the proper names have been preserved, although they are not those found in modern works. it should also be stated that the meaning of prester is not the one that was generally accepted by scholars at the time the work was written, nor is it the one accepted to-day. there seems to be no doubt that the word is derived from presbyter as stated in note on page , since the above-mentioned chronicles of otto, bishop of freisingen about the middle of the twelfth century, states this fact clearly. otto received his information from the bishop of gabala (the syrian jibal) who told him the story of john, _rex et sacerdos_, or presbyter john as he liked to be called. he goes on to say "should it be asked why, with all this power and splendor, he calls himself merely 'presbyter,' this is because of his humility, and because it was not fitting for one whose server was a primate and king, whose butler an archbishop and king, whose chamberlain a bishop and king, whose master of the horse an archimandrite and king, whose chief cook an abbot and king, to be called by such titles as these." [ ] thomas fienus (fyens) was born at antwerp in and died in . he was professor of medicine at louvain. besides the editions mentioned below, his _de cometis anni _ appeared at leipsic in . he also wrote a _disputatio an coelum moveatur et terra quiescat_, which appeared at antwerp in , and again at leipsic in . [ ] libertus fromondus ( -c ), a belgian theologian, dean of the college church at harcourt, and professor at louvain. the name also appears as froidmont and froimont. [ ] _l. fromondi ... meteorologicorum libri sex.... cui accessit t. fieni et l. fromondi dissertationes de cometa anni ...._ this is from the edition. the edition was published at antwerp. the _meteorologicorum libri vi_, appeared at antwerp in . he also wrote _anti-aristarchus sive orbis terrae immobilis liber unicus_ (antwerp, ); _labyrrinthus sive de compositione continui liber unus, philosophis, mathematicis, theologis utilis et jucundus_ (antwerp, ) and _vesta sive anti-aristarchi vindex adversus jac. lansbergium (philippi filium) et copernicanos_ (antwerp, ). [ ] snell was born at leyden in , and died there in . he studied under tycho brahe and kepler, and is known for snell's law of the refraction of light. he was the first to determine the size of the earth by measuring the arc of a meridian with any fair degree of accuracy. the title should read: _willebrordi snellii r. f. cyclometricus, de circuli dimensione secundum logistarum abacos, et ad mechanicem accuratissima...._ [ ] bacon was born at york house, london, in , and died near highgate, london, in . his _novum organum scientiarum or new method of employing the reasoning faculties in the pursuits of truth_ appeared at london in . he had previously published a work entitled _of the proficience and advancement of learning, divine and humane_ (london, ), which again appeared in . his _de augmentis scientiarum libri ix_ appeared at paris in , and his _historia naturalis et experimentalis de ventis_ at leyden in . he was successively solicitor general, attorney general, lord chancellor ( ), baron verulam and viscount st. albans. he was deprived of office and was imprisoned in the tower of london in , but was later pardoned. [ ] the greek form, _organon_, is sometimes used. [ ] james spedding ( - ), fellow of cambridge, who devoted his life to his edition of bacon. [ ] r. leslie ellis ( - ), editor of the _cambridge mathematical journal_. he also wrote on roman aqueducts, on boole's laws of thought, and on the formation of a chinese dictionary. [ ] douglas derion heath ( - ), a classical and mathematical scholar. [ ] there have been numerous editions of bacon's complete works, including the following: frankfort, ; london, , , , , , , , , , , - , - , . the edition to which de morgan refers is that of - , vols., of which five were apparently out at the time he wrote. there were also french editions in and . [ ] so in the original for tycho brahe. [ ] in general these men acted before baron wrote, or at any rate, before he wrote the _novum organum_, but the statement must not be taken too literally. the dates are as follows: copernicus, - ; tycho brahe, - ; gilbert, - ; kepler, - ; galileo, - ; harvey, - . for example, harvey's _exercitatio anatomica de motu cordis et sanguinis_ did not appear until , and his _exercitationes de generatione_ until . [ ] robert hooke ( - ) studied under robert boyle at oxford. he was "curator of experiments" to the royal society and its secretary, and was professor of geometry at gresham college, london. it is true that he was "very little of a mathematician" although he wrote on the motion of the earth ( ), on helioscopes and other instruments ( ), on the rotation of jupiter ( ), and on barometers and sails. [ ] the son of the sir william mentioned below. he was born in and died in . he wrote a treatise on light ( ) and one on astronomy ( ), and established an observatory at the cape of good hope where he made observations during - , publishing them in . on his return to england he was knighted, and in was made president of the royal society. the title of the work to which reference is made is: _a preliminary discourse on the study of natural philosophy_. it appeared at london in . [ ] sir william was horn at hanover in and died at slough, near windsor in . he discovered the planet uranus and six satellites, besides two satellites of saturn. he was knighted by george iii. [ ] this was the work of . he also published a work entitled _outlines of astronomy_ in . [ ] while newton does not tell the story, he refers in the _principia_ ( edition, p. ) to the accident caused by his cat. [ ] marino ghetaldi ( - ), whose _promotus archimedes_ appeared at rome in , _nonnullae propositiones de parabola_ at rome in . and _apollonius redivivus_ at venice in . he was a nobleman and was ambassador from venice to rome. [ ] simon stevin (born at bruges, ; died at the hague, ). he was an engineer and a soldier, and his _la disme_ ( ) was the first separate treatise on the decimal fraction. the contribution referred to above is probably that on the center of gravity of three bodies ( ). [ ] habakuk guldin ( - ), who took the name paul on his conversion to catholicism. he became a jesuit, and was professor of mathematics at vienna and later at gratz. in his _centrobaryca seu de centro gravitatis trium specierum quantitatis continuae_ ( ), of the edition of , appears the pappus rule for the volume of a solid formed by the revolution of a plane figure about an axis, often spoken of as guldin's theorem. [ ] edward wright was born at graveston, norfolkshire, in , and died at london in . he was a fellow of caius college, cambridge, and in his work entitled _the correction of certain errors in navigation_ ( ) he gives the principle of mercator's projection. he translated the _portuum investigandorum ratio_ of stevin in . [ ] de morgan never wrote a more suggestive sentence. its message is not for his generation alone. [ ] the eminent french physicist, jean baptiste biot ( - ), professor in the collège de france. his work _sur les observatoires météorologiques_ appeared in . [ ] george biddell airy ( - ), professor of astronomy and physics at cambridge, and afterwards director of the observatory at greenwich. [ ] de morgan would have rejoiced in the rôle played by intuition in the mathematics of to-day, notably among the followers of professor klein. [ ] colburn was the best known of the calculating boys produced in america. he was born at cabot, vermont, in , and died at norwich, vermont, in . having shown remarkable skill in numbers as early as , he was taken to london in , whence he toured through great britain and to paris. the earl of bristol placed him in westminster school ( - ). on his return to america he became a preacher, and later a teacher of languages. [ ] the history of calculating boys is interesting. mathieu le coc (about ), a boy of lorraine, could extract cube roots at sight at the age of eight. tom fuller, a virginian slave of the eighteenth century, although illiterate, gave the number of seconds in years days hours after only a minute and a half of thought. jedediah buxton, an englishman of the eighteenth century, was studied by the royal society because of his remarkable powers. ampère, the physicist, made long calculations with pebbles at the age of four. gauss, one of the few infant prodigies to become an adult prodigy, corrected his father's payroll at the age of three. one of the most remarkable of the french calculating boys was henri mondeux. he was investigated by arago, sturm, cauchy, and liouville, for the académie des sciences, and a report was written by cauchy. his specialty was the solution of algebraic problems mentally. he seems to have calculated squares and cubes by a binomial formula of his own invention. he died in obscurity, but was the subject of a _biographie_ by jacoby ( ). george p. bidder, the scotch engineer ( - ), was exhibited as an arithmetical prodigy at the age of ten, and did not attend school until he was twelve. of the recent cases two deserve special mention, inaudi and diamandi. jacques inaudi (born in ) was investigated for the académie in by a commission including poincaré, charcot, and binet. (see the _revue des deux mondes_, june , , and the laboratory bulletins of the sorbonne). he has frequently exhibited his remarkable powers in america. périclès diamandi was investigated by the same commission in . see alfred binet, _psychologie des grands calculateurs et joueurs d'echecs_, paris, . [ ] john flamsteed's ( - ) "old white house" was the first greenwich observatory. he was the astronomer royal and first head of this observatory. [ ] it seems a pity that de morgan should not have lived to lash those of our time who are demanding only the immediately practical in mathematics. his satire would have been worth the reading against those who seek to stifle the science they pretend to foster. [ ] ismael bouillaud, or boulliau, was born in and died at paris in . he was well known as an astronomer, mathematician, and jurist. he lived with de thou at paris, and accompanied him to holland. he traveled extensively, and was versed in the astronomical work of the persians and arabs. it was in his _astronomia philolaica, opus novum_ (paris, ) that he attacked kepler's laws. his tables were shown to be erroneous by the fact that the solar eclipse did not take place as predicted by him in . [ ] as it did, until , when airy had reached the ripe age of ninety-one. [ ] _didaci a stunica ... in job commentaria_ appeared at toledo in . [ ] "the false pythagorean doctrine, absolutely opposed to the holy scriptures, concerning the mobility of the earth and the immobility of the sun." [ ] paolo antonio foscarini ( - ), who taught theology and philosophy at naples and messina, was one of the first to champion the theories of copernicus. this was in his _lettera sopra l'opinione de' pittagorici e del copernico, della mobilità della terra e stabilità del sole, e il nuovo pittagorico sistema del mondo_, to, naples, . the condemnation of the congregation was published in the following spring, and in the year of foscarini's death at the early age of thirty-six. [ ] "to be wholly prohibited and condemned," because "it seeks to show that the aforesaid doctrine is consonant with truth and is not opposed to the holy scriptures." [ ] "as repugnant to the holy scriptures and to its true and catholic interpretation (which in a christian man cannot be tolerated in the least), he does not hesitate to treat (of his subject) '_by hypothesis_', but he even adds '_as most true_'!" [ ] "to the places in which he discusses not by hypothesis but by making assertions concerning the position and motion of the earth." [ ] "_copernicus._ if by chance there shall be vain talkers who, although ignorant of all mathematics, yet taking it upon themselves to sit in judgment upon the subject on account of a certain passage of scripture badly distorted for their purposes, shall have dared to criticize and censure this teaching of mine, i pay no attention to them, even to the extent of despising their judgment as rash. for it is not unknown that lactantius, a writer of prominence in other lines although but little versed in mathematics, spoke very childishly about the form of the earth when he ridiculed those who declared that it was spherical. hence it should not seem strange to the learned if some shall look upon us in the same way. mathematics is written for mathematicians, to whom these labors of ours will seem, if i mistake not, to add something even to the republic of the church.... _emend._ here strike out everything from 'if by chance' to the words 'these labors of ours,' and adapt it thus: 'but these labors of ours.'" [ ] "_copernicus._ however if we consider the matter more carefully it will be seen that the investigation is not yet completed, and therefore ought by no means to be condemned. _emend._ however, if we consider the matter more carefully it is of no consequence whether we regard the earth as existing in the center of the universe or outside of the center, so far as the solution of the phenomena of celestial movements is concerned." [ ] "the whole of this chapter may be cut out, since it avowedly treats of the earth's motion, while it refutes the reasons of the ancients proving its immobility. nevertheless, since it seems to speak problematically, in order that it may satisfy the learned and keep intact the sequence and unity of the book let it be emended as below." [ ] "_copernicus._ therefore why do we still hesitate to concede to it motion which is by nature consistent with its form, the more so because the whole universe is moving, whose end is not and cannot be known, and not confess that there is in the sky an appearance of daily revolution, while on the earth there is the truth of it? and in like manner these things are as if virgil's Æneas should say, 'we are borne from the harbor' ... _emend._ hence i cannot concede motion to this form, the more so because the universe would fall, whose end is not and cannot be known, and what appears in the heavens is just as if ..." [ ] "_copernicus_. i also add that it would seem very absurd that motion should be ascribed to that which contains and locates, and not rather to that which is contained and located, that is the earth. _emend._ i also add that it is not more difficult to ascribe motion to the contained and located, which is the earth, than to that which contains it." [ ] "_copernicus._ you see, therefore, that from all these things the motion of the earth is more probable than its immobility, especially in the daily revolution which is as it were a particular property of it. _emend._ omit from 'you see' to the end of the chapter." [ ] "_copernicus._ therefore, since there is nothing to hinder the motion of the earth, it seems to me that we should consider whether it has several motions, to the end that it may be looked upon as one of the moving stars. _emend._ therefore, since i have assumed that the earth moves, it seems to me that we should consider whether it has several motions." [ ] "_copernicus._ we are not ashamed to acknowledge ... that this is preferably verified in the motion of the earth. _emend._ we are not ashamed to assume ... that this is consequently verified in the motion." [ ] "_copernicus._ so divine is surely this work of the best and greatest. _emend._ strike out these last words." [ ] this should be cap. , lib. i, p. . [ ] "_copernicus._ demonstration of the threefold motion of the earth. _emend._ on the hypothesis of the threefold motion of the earth and its demonstration." [ ] this should be cap. , lib. iv, p. . [ ] "_copernicus._ concerning the size of these three stars, the sun, the moon and the earth. _emend._ strike out the words 'these three stars,' because the earth is not a star as copernicus would make it." [ ] he seems to speak problematically in order to satisfy the learned. [ ] one of the church fathers, born about a.d., and died about , probably at trèves. he wrote _divinarum institutionum libri vii._ and other controversial and didactic works against the learning and philosophy of the greeks. [ ] giovanni battista riccioli ( - ) taught philosophy and theology at parma and bologna, and was later professor of astronomy. his _almagestum novum_ appeared in , and his _argomento fisico-matematico contro il moto diurno della terra_ in . [ ] he was a native of arlington, sussex, and a pensioner of christ's college, cambridge. in he became a master of arts at oxford. [ ] straying, i.e., from the right way. [ ] "private subjects may, in the presence of danger, defend themselves or their families against a monarch as against any malefactor, if the monarch assaults them like a bandit or a ravisher, and provided they are unable to summon the usual protection and cannot in any way escape the danger." [ ] daniel neal ( - ), an independent minister, wrote a _history of the puritans_ that appeared in . the account may be found in the new york edition of - , vol. i, p. . [ ] anthony wood ( - ), whose _historia et antiquitates universitatis oxoniensis_ ( ) and _athenae oxoniensis_ ( ) are among the classics on oxford. [ ] part of the title, not here quoted, shows the nature of the work more clearly: "liber unicus, in quo decretum s. congregationis s. r. e. cardinal. an. , adversus pythagorico-copernicanos editum defenditur." [ ] this was john elliot drinkwater bethune ( - ), the statesman who did so much for legislative and educational reform in india. his father, john drinkwater bethune, wrote a history of the siege of gibraltar. [ ] the article referred to is about thirty years old; since it appeared another has been given (_dubl. rev._, sept. ) which is of much greater depth. in it will also be found the roman view of bishop virgil (_ante_, p. ).--a. de m. [ ] jean baptiste morin ( - ), in his younger days physician to the bishop of boulogne and the duke of luxemburg, became in professor of mathematics at the collège royale. his chief contribution to the problem of the determination of longitude is his _longitudinum terrestrium et coelestium nova et hactenus optata scientia_ ( ). he also wrote against copernicus in his _famosi problematis de telluris motu vel quiete hactenus optata solutio_ ( ), and against lansberg in his _responsio pro telluris quiete_ ( ). [ ] the work appeared at leyden in , at amsterdam in , at copenhagen in and again at leyden in . the title of the edition is _arithmeticae libri ii et geometriae libri vi_. the work on which it is based is the _arithmeticae et geometriae practica_, which appeared in . [ ] the father's name was adriaan, and lalande says that it was montucla who first made the mistake of calling him peter, thinking that the initials p. m. stood for petrus metius, when in reality they stood for _piae memoriae_! the ratio / was known in china hundreds of years before his time. see note , page . [ ] adrian metius ( - ) was professor of medicine at the university of franeker. his work was, however, in the domain of astronomy, and in this domain he published several treatises. [ ] the first edition was entitled: _the discovery of a world in the moone. or, a discourse tending to prove that 'tis probable there may be another habitable world in that planet_. , vo. the fourth edition appeared in . john wilkins ( - ) was warden of wadham college, oxford; master of trinity, cambridge; and, later, bishop of chester. he was influential in founding the royal society. [ ] the first edition was entitled: _c. hugenii_ [greek: kosmotheôros], _sive de terris coelestibus, earumque ornatu, conjecturae_, the hague, , to. there were several editions. it was also translated into french ( ), and there was another english edition ( ). huyghens ( - ) was one of the best mathematical physicists of his time. [ ] it is hardly necessary to say that science has made enormous advance in the chemistry of the universe since these words were written. [ ] william whewell ( - ) is best known through his _history of the inductive sciences_ ( ) and _philosophy of the inductive sciences_ ( ). [ ] thomas chalmers ( - ), the celebrated scotch preacher. these discourses were delivered while he was minister in a large parish in the poorest part of glasgow, and in them he attempted to bring science into harmony with the bible. he was afterwards professor of moral philosophy at st. andrew's ( - ), and professor of theology at edinburgh ( ). he became the leader of a schism from the scotch presbyterian church,--the free church. [ ] that is, in robert watt's ( - ) _bibliotheca britannica_ (posthumous, ). nor is it given in the _dictionary of national biography_. [ ] the late greek satirist and poet, c. -c. a.d. [ ] françois rabelais (c. - ) the humorist who created pantagruel ( ) and gargantua ( ). his work as a physician and as editor of the works of galen and hippocrates is less popularly known. [ ] francis godwin ( - ) bishop of llandaff and hereford. besides some valuable historical works he wrote _the man in the moone, or a discourse of a voyage thither by domingo gonsales, the speed messenger of london_, . [ ] bernard le bovier de fontenelle ( - ), historian, critic, mathematician, secretary of the académie des sciences, and member of the académie française. his _entretien sur la pluralité des mondes_ appeared at paris in . [ ] athanasius kircher ( - ), jesuit, professor of mathematics and philosophy, and later of hebrew and syriac, at wurzburg; still later professor of mathematics and hebrew at rome. he wrote several works on physics. his collection of mathematical instruments and other antiquities became the basis of the kircherian museum at rome. [ ] "both belief and non-belief are dangerous. hippolitus died because his stepmother was believed. troy fell because cassandra was not believed. therefore the truth should be investigated long before foolish opinion can properly judge." (prove = probe?). [ ] jacobus grandamicus (jacques grandami) was born at nantes in and died at paris in . he was professor of theology and philosophy in the jesuit colleges at rennes, tours, rouen, and other places. he wrote several works on astronomy. [ ] "and i, if i be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me." john xii. . [ ] andrea argoli ( - ) wrote a number of works on astronomy, and computed ephemerides from to . [ ] so in the original edition of the _budget_. it is johannem pellum in the original title. john pell ( or - ) studied at cambridge and oxford, and was professor of mathematics at amsterdam ( - ) and breda ( - ). he left many manuscripts but published little. his name attaches by accident to an interesting equation recently studied with care by dr. e. e. whitford (new york, ). [ ] christianus longomontanus (christen longberg or lumborg) was born in at longberg, jutland, and died in at copenhagen. he was an assistant of tycho brahe and accepted the diurnal while denying the orbital motion of the earth. his _cyclometria e lunulis reciproce demonstrata_ appeared in under the name of christen severin, the latter being his family name. he wrote several other works on the quadrature problem, and some treatises on astronomy. [ ] the names are really pretty well known. giles persone de roberval was born at roberval near beauvais in , and died at paris in . he was professor of philosophy at the collège gervais at paris, and later at the collège royal. he claimed to have discovered the theory of indivisibles before cavalieri, and his work is set forth in his _traité des indivisibles_ which appeared posthumously in . hobbes ( - ), the political and social philosopher, lived a good part of his time ( - ) in france where he was tutor to several young noblemen, including the cavendishes. his _leviathan_ ( ) is said to have influenced spinoza, leibnitz, and rousseau. his _quadratura circuli, cubatio sphaerae, duplicatio cubi ..._ (london, ), _rosetum geometricum ..._ (london, ), and _lux mathematica, censura doctrinae wallisianae contra rosetum hobbesii_ (london, ) are entirely forgotten to-day. (see a further note, _infra_.) pierre de carcavi, a native of lyons, died at paris in . he was a member of parliament, royal librarian, and member of the académie des sciences. his attempt to prove the impossibility of the quadrature appeared in . he was a frequent correspondent of descartes. cavendish ( - ) was sir (not lord) charles. he was, like de morgan himself, a bibliophile in the domain of mathematics. his life was one of struggle, his term as member of parliament under charles i being followed by gallant service in the royal army. after the war he sought refuge on the continent where he met most of the mathematicians of his day. he left a number of manuscripts on mathematics, which his widow promptly disposed of for waste paper. if de morgan's manuscripts had been so treated we should not have had his revision of his _budget of paradoxes_. marin mersenne ( - ), a minorite, living in the cloisters at nevers and paris, was one of the greatest franciscan scholars. he edited euclid, apollonius, archimedes, theodosius, and menelaus (paris, ), translated the mechanics of galileo into french ( ), wrote _harmonicorum libri xii_ ( ), and _cogitata physico-mathematica_ ( ), and taught theology and philosophy at nevers. johann adolph tasse (tassius) was born in and died at hamburg in . he was professor of mathematics in the gymnasium at hamburg, and wrote numerous works on astronomy, chronology, statics, and elementary mathematics. johann ludwig, baron von wolzogen, seems to have been one of the early unitarians, called _fratres polonorum_ because they took refuge in poland. some of his works appear in the _bibliotheca fratrum polonorum_ (amsterdam, ). i find no one by the name who was contributing to mathematics at this time. descartes is too well known to need mention in this connection. bonaventura cavalieri ( - ) was a jesuit, a pupil of galileo, and professor of mathematics at bologna. his greatest work, _geometria indivisibilibus continuorum nova quadam ratione promota_, in which he makes a noteworthy step towards the calculus, appeared in . jacob (jacques) golius was born at the hague in and died at leyden in . his travels in morocco and asia minor ( - ) gave him such knowledge of arabic that he became professor of that language at leyden. after snell's death he became professor of mathematics there. he translated arabic works on mathematics and astronomy into latin. [ ] it would be interesting to follow up these rumors, beginning perhaps with the tomb of archimedes. the ludolph van ceulen story is very likely a myth. the one about fagnano may be such. the bernoulli tomb does have the spiral, however (such as it is), as any one may see in the cloisters at basel to-day. [ ] collins ( - ) was secretary of the royal society, and was "a kind of register of all new improvements in mathematics." his office brought him into correspondence with all of the english scientists, and he was influential in the publication of various important works, including branker's translation of the algebra by rhonius, with notes by pell, which was the first work to contain the present english-american symbol of division. he also helped in the publication of editions of archimedes and apollonius, of kersey's algebra, and of the works of wallis. his profession was that of accountant and civil engineer, and he wrote three unimportant works on mathematics (one published posthumously, and the others in and ). heinrich christian schumacher ( - ) was professor of astronomy at copenhagen and director of the observatory at altona. his translation of carnot's _géométrie de position_ ( ) brought him into personal relations with gauss, and the friendship was helpful to schumacher. he was a member of many learned societies and had a large circle of acquaintances. he published numerous monographs and works on astronomy. gassendi ( - ) might well have been included by de morgan in the group, since he knew and was a friend of most of the important mathematicians of his day. like mersenne, he was a minorite, but he was a friend of galileo and kepler, and wrote a work under the title _institutio astronomica, juxta hypotheses copernici, tychonis-brahaei et ptolemaei_ ( ). he taught philosophy at aix, and was later professor of mathematics at the college royal at paris. burnet is the bishop gilbert burnet ( - ) who was so strongly anti-romanistic that he left england during the reign of james ii and joined the ranks of the prince of orange. william made him bishop of salisbury. [ ] there is some substantial basis for de morgan's doubts as to the connection of that _mirandula_ of his age, sir kenelm digby ( - ), with the famous _poudre de sympathie_. it is true that he was just the one to prepare such a powder. a dilletante in everything,--learning, war, diplomacy, religion, letters, and science--he was the one to exploit a fraud of this nature. he was an astrologer, an alchemist, and a fabricator of tales, and well did henry stubbes characterize him as "the very pliny of our age for lying." he first speaks of the powder in a lecture given at montpellier in , and in the same year he published the address at paris under the title: _discours fait en une célèbre assemblée par le chevalier digby .... touchant la guérison de playes par la poudre de sympathie_. the london edition referred to by de morgan also came out in , and several editions followed it in england, france and germany. but nathaniel highmore in his _history of generation_ ( ) referred to the concoction as "talbot's powder" some years before digby took it up. the basis seems to have been vitriol, and it was claimed that it would heal a wound by simply being applied to a bandage taken from it. [ ] this work by thomas birch ( - ) came out in - . birch was a voluminous writer on english history. he was a friend of dr. johnson and of walpole, and he wrote a life of robert boyle. [ ] we know so much about john evelyn ( - ) through the diary which he began at the age of eleven, that we forget his works on navigation and architecture. [ ] i suppose this was the seventh earl of shrewsbury ( - ). [ ] this is interesting in view of the modern aseptic practice of surgery and the antiseptic treatment of wounds inaugurated by the late lord lister. [ ] perhaps de morgan had not heard the _bon mot_ of dr. holmes: "i firmly believe that if the whole _materia medica_ could be sunk to the bottom of the sea, it would be all the better for mankind and all the worse for the fishes." [ ] the full title is worth giving, because it shows the mathematical interests of hobbes, and the nature of the six dialogues: _examinatio et emendatio mathematicae hodiernae qualis explicatur in libris johannis wallisii geometriae professoris saviliani in academia oxoniensi: distributa in sex dialogos ( . de mathematicae origine ...; . de principiis traditis ab euclide; . de demonstratione operationum arithmeticarum ...; . de rationibus; . de angula contactus, de sectionibus coni, et arithmetica infinitorum; . dimensio circuli tribus methodis demonstrata ... item cycloidis verae descriptio et proprietates aliquot.)_ londini, (not ). for a full discussion of the controversy over the circle, see george croom robertson's biography of hobbes in the eleventh edition of the _encyclopaedia britannica_. [ ] this is his _animadversions upon mr. hobbes' late book de principiis et ratiocinatione geometrarum_, , or his _hobbianae quadraturae circuli, cubationis sphaerae et duplicationis cubi confutatio_, also of . [ ] this is the work of referred to above. [ ] gregoire de st. vincent ( - ) published his _opus geometricum quadraturae circuli et sectionum coni_ at antwerp in . [ ] this appears in _j. scaligeri cyclometrica elementa duo_, lugduni batav., . [ ] adriaen van roomen ( - ) gave the value of [pi] to sixteen decimal places in his _ideae mathematicae pars prima_ ( ), and wrote his _in archimedis circuli dimensionem expositio & analysis_ in . [ ] kästner. see note on page . [ ] bentley ( - ) might have done it, for as the head of trinity college, cambridge, and a follower of newton, he knew some mathematics. erasmus ( - ) lived a little too early to attempt it, although his brilliant satire might have been used to good advantage against those who did try. [ ] "in grammar, to give the winds to the ships and to give the ships to the winds mean the same thing. but in geometry it is one thing to assume the circle bcd not greater than thirty-six segments bcdf, and another (to assume) the thirty-six segments bcdf not greater than the circle. the one assumption is true, the other false." [ ] the greek scholar ( - ) who edited a greek and latin edition of aristotle in . [ ] jacques auguste de thou ( - ), the historian and statesman. [ ] "to value scaliger higher even when wrong, than the multitude when right." [ ] "i would rather err with scaliger than be right with clavius." [ ] "the perimeter of the dodecagon to be inscribed in a circle is greater than the perimeter of the circle. and the more sides a polygon to be inscribed in a circle successively has, so much the greater will the perimeter of the polygon be than the perimeter of the circle." [ ] de morgan took, perhaps, the more delight in speaking thus of sir william hamilton ( - ) because of a spirited controversy that they had in over the theory of logic. possibly, too, sir william's low opinion of mathematics had its influence. [ ] edwards ( - ) wrote _the canons of criticism_ ( ) in which he gave a scathing burlesque on warburton's shakespeare. it went through six editions. [ ] antoine teissier (born in ) published his _eloges des hommes savants, tirés de l'histoire de m. de thou_ in . [ ] "he boasted without reason of having found the quadrature of the circle. the glory of this admirable discovery was reserved for joseph scaliger, as scévole de st. marthe has written." [ ] _natural and political observations mentioned in the following index, and made upon the bills of mortality.... with reference to the government, religion, trade, growth, ayre, and diseases of the said city._ london, , to. the book went through several editions. [ ] _ne sutor ultra crepidam_, "let the cobbler stick to his last," as we now say. [ ] the author ( - ) of the _historia et antiquitates universitatis oxoniensis_ ( ). see note , page . [ ] the mathematical guild owes samuel pepys ( - ) for something besides his famous diary ( - ). not only was he president of the royal society ( ), but he was interested in establishing sir william boreman's mathematical school at greenwich. [ ] john graunt ( - ) was a draper by trade, and was a member of the common council of london until he lost office by turning romanist. although a shopkeeper, he was elected to the royal society on the special recommendation of charles ii. petty edited the fifth edition of his work, adding much to its size and value, and this may be the basis of burnet's account of the authorship. [ ] petty ( - ) was a mathematician and economist, and a friend of pell and sir charles cavendish. his survey of ireland, made for cromwell, was one of the first to be made on a large scale in a scientific manner. he was one of the founders of the royal society. [ ] the story probably arose from graunt's recent conversion to the roman catholic faith. [ ] he was born in and died in . he published a series of ephemerides, beginning in . he was imprisoned in , at the time of the "popish plot," and again for treason in . his important astrological works are the _animal cornatum, or the horn'd beast_ ( ) and _the nativity of the late king charls_ ( ). [ ] isaac d'israeli ( - ), in his _curiosities of literature_ ( ), speaking of lilly, says: "i shall observe of this egregious astronomer, that there is in this work, so much artless narrative, and at the same time so much palpable imposture, that it is difficult to know when he is speaking what he really believes to be the truth." he goes on to say that lilly relates that "those adepts whose characters he has drawn were the lowest miscreants of the town. most of them had taken the air in the pillory, and others had conjured themselves up to the gallows. this seems a true statement of facts." [ ] it is difficult to estimate william lilly ( - ) fairly. his _merlini anglici ephemeris_, issued annually from to , brought him a great deal of money. sir george wharton ( - ) also published an almanac annually from to . he tried to expose john booker ( - ) by a work entitled _mercurio-coelicio-mastix; or, an anti-caveat to all such, as have (heretofore) had the misfortune to be cheated and deluded by that grand and traiterous impostor of this rebellious age, john booker_, . booker was "licenser of mathematical [astrological] publications," and as such he had quarrels with lilly, wharton, and others. [ ] see note on page . [ ] this is the _ars signorum, vulgo character universalis et lingua philosophica_, that appeared at london in , vo. george dalgarno anticipated modern methods in the teaching of the deaf and dumb. [ ] see note on page . [ ] if the hyperbola is referred to the asymptotes as axes, the area between two ordinates (x = a, x = b) is the difference of the logarithms of a and b to the base e. e.g., in the case of the hyperbola xy = , the area between x = a and x = is log a. [ ] "on ne peut lui refuser la justice de remarquer que personne avant lui ne s'est porté dans cette recherche avec autant de génie, & même, si nous en exceptons son objet principal, avec autant de succès." _quadrature du cercle_, p. . [ ] the title proceeds: _seu duae mediae proportionales inter extremas datas per circulum et per infinitas hyperbolas, vel ellipses et per quamlibet exhibitae_.... rené francois, baron de sluse ( - ) was canon and chancellor of liège, and a member of the royal society. he also published a work on tangents ( ). the word _mesolabium_ is from the greek [greek: mesolabion] or [greek: mesolabon], an instrument invented by eratosthenes for finding two mean proportionals. [ ] the full title has some interest: _vera circuli et hyperbolae quadratura cui accedit geometriae pars universalis inserviens quantitatum curvarum transmutationi et mensurae. authore jacobo gregorio abredonensi scoto ... patavii_, . that is, james gregory ( - ) of aberdeen (he was really born near but not in the city), a good scot, was publishing his work down in padua. the reason was that he had been studying in italy, and that this was a product of his youth. he had already ( ) published his _optica promota_, and it is not remarkable that his brilliancy brought him a wide circle of friends on the continent and the offer of a pension from louis xiv. he became professor of mathematics at st andrews and later at edinburgh, and invented the first successful reflecting telescope. the distinctive feature of his _vera quadratura_ is his use of an infinite converging series, a plan that archimedes used with the parabola. [ ] jean de beaulieu wrote several works on mathematics, including _la lumière de l'arithmétique_ (n.d.), _la lumière des mathématiques_ ( ), _nouvelle invention d'arithmétique_ ( ), and some mathematical tables. [ ] a just estimate. there were several works published by gérard desargues ( - ), of which the greatest was the _brouillon proiect_ (paris, ). there is an excellent edition of the _oeuvres de desargues_ by m. poudra, paris, . [ ] "a certain m. de beaugrand, a mathematician, very badly treated by descartes, and, as it appears, rightly so." [ ] this is a very old approximation for [pi]. one of the latest pretended geometric proofs resulting in this value appeared in new york in , entitled _quadrimetry_ (privately printed). [ ] "copernicus, a german, made himself no less illustrious by his learned writings; and we might say of him that he stood alone and unique in the strength of his problems, if his excessive presumption had not led him to set forth in this science a proposition so absurd that it is contrary to faith and reason, namely that the circumference of a circle is fixed and immovable while the center is movable: on which geometrical principle he has declared in his astrological treatise that the sun is fixed and the earth is in motion." [ ] so in the original. [ ] franciscus maurolycus ( - ) was really the best mathematician produced by sicily for a long period. he made latin translations of theodosius, menelaus, euclid, apollonius, and archimedes, and wrote on cosmography and other mathematical subjects. [ ] "nicolaus copernicus is also tolerated who asserted that the sun is fixed and that the earth whirls about it; and he rather deserves a whip or a lash than a reproof." [ ] "algebra is the curious science of scholars, and particularly for a general of an army, or a captain, in order quickly to draw up an army in battle array and to number the musketeers and pikemen who compose it, without the figures of arithmetic. this science has five special figures of this kind: p means _plus_ in commerce and _pikemen_ in the army; m means _minus_, and _musketeer_ in the art of war;... r signifies _root_ in the measurement of a cube, and _rank_ in _the army_; q means _square_ (french _quarè_, as then spelled) in both cases; c means _cube_ in mensuration, and _cavalry_ in arranging batallions and squadrons. as for the operations of this science, they are as follows: to add a _plus_ and a _plus_, the sum will be _plus_; to add _minus_ with _plus_, take the less from the greater and the remainder will be the sum required or the number to be found. i say this only in passing, for the benefit of those who are wholly ignorant of it." [ ] he refers to the _joannis de beaugrand ... geostatice, seu de vario pondere gravium secundum varia a terrae (centro) intervalla dissertatio mathematica_, paris, . pascal relates that de beaugrand sent all of roberval's theorems on the cycloid and fermat's on maxima and minima to galileo in , pretending that they were his own. [ ] more ( - ) was a theologian, a fellow of christ college, cambridge, and a christian platonist. [ ] matthew hale ( - ) the famous jurist, wrote a number of tracts on scientific, moral, and religious subjects. these were collected and published in . [ ] they might have been attributed to many a worse man than dr. hales ( - ), who was a member of the royal society and of the paris academy, and whose scheme for the ventilation of prisons reduced the mortality at the savoy prison from one hundred to only four a year. the book to which reference is made is _vegetable staticks or an account of some statical experiments on the sap in vegetables_, . [ ] _pleas of the crown; or a methodical summary of the principal matters relating to the subject_, . [ ] _thomae streete astronomia carolina, a new theory of the celestial motions_, . it also appeared at nuremberg in , and at london in and (halley's editions). he wrote other works on astronomy. [ ] this was the sir thomas street ( - ) who passed sentence of death on a roman catholic priest for saying mass. the priest was reprieved by the king, but in the light of the present day one would think the justice more in need of pardon. he took part in the trial of the rye house conspirators in . [ ] edmund halley ( - ), who succeeded wallis ( ) as savilian professor of mathematics at oxford, and flamsteed ( ) as head of the greenwich observatory. it is of interest to note that he was instrumental in getting newton's _principia_ printed. [ ] shepherd (born in ) was one of the most famous lawyers of his day. he was knighted in and became attorney general in . [ ] this was william hone ( - ), a book publisher, who wrote satires against the government, and who was tried three times because of his parodies on the catechism, creed, and litany (illustrated by cruikshank). he was acquitted on all of the charges. [ ] valentinus was a benedictine monk and was still living at erfurt in . his _currus triumphalis antimonii_ appeared in . synesius was bishop of ptolemaide, who died about . his works were printed at paris in . theodor kirckring ( - ) was a fellow-student of spinoza's. besides the commentary on valentine he left several works on anatomy. his commentary appeared at amsterdam in . there were several editions of the _chariot_. [ ] the chief difficulty with this curious "monk-bane" etymology is its absurdity. the real origin of the word has given etymologists a good deal of trouble. [ ] robert boyle ( - ), son of "the great earl" (of cork). perhaps his best-known discovery is the law concerning the volume of gases. [ ] the real name of eirenaeus philalethes (born in ) is unknown. it may have been childe. he claimed to have discovered the philosopher's stone in . his tract in this work is _the secret of the immortal liquor alkahest or ignis-aqua_. see note , _infra_. [ ] johann baptist van helmont, herr von merode, royenborg etc. ( - ). his chemical discoveries appeared in his _ortus medicinae_ ( ), which went through many editions. [ ] de morgan should have written up francis anthony ( - ), whose _panacea aurea sive tractatus duo de auro potabili_ (hamburg, ) described a panacea that he gave for every ill. he was repeatedly imprisoned for practicing medicine without a license from the royal college of physicians. [ ] bernardus trevisanus ( - ), who traveled even through barbary, egypt, palestine, and persia in search of the philosopher's stone. he wrote several works on alchemy,--_de chemica_ ( ), _de chemico miraculo_ ( ), _traité de la nature de l'oeuf des philosophes_ ( ), etc., all published long after his death. [ ] george ripley ( - ) was an augustinian monk, later a chamberlain of innocent viii, and still later a carmelite monk. his _liber de mercuris philosophico_ and other tracts first appeared in _opuscula quaedam chymica_ (frankfort, ). [ ] besides the _opus majus_, and other of the better known works of this celebrated franciscan ( - ), there are numerous tracts on alchemy that appeared in the _thesaurus chymicus_ (frankfort, ). [ ] george starkey ( - or ) has special interest for american readers. he seems to have been born in the bermudas and to have obtained the bachelor's degree in england. he then went to america and in obtained the master's degree at harvard, apparently under the name of stirk. he met eirenaeus philalethes (see note above) in america and learned alchemy from him. returning to england, he sold quack medicines there, and died in from the plague after dissecting a patient who had died of the disease. among his works was the _liquor alcahest, or a discourse of that immortal dissolvent of paracelsus and helmont_, which appeared ( ) some nine years after his death. [ ] platt ( - ) was the son of a london brewer. although he left a manuscript on alchemy, and wrote a book entitled _delights for ladies to adorne their persons_ ( ), he was knighted for some serious work on the chemistry of agriculture, fertilizing, brewing, and the preserving of foods, published in _the jewell house of art and nature_ ( ). [ ] "those who wish to call a man a liar and deceiver speak of him a writer of almanacs; but those who (would call him) a scoundrel and an imposter (speak of him as) a chemist." [ ] "trust your barque to the winds but not your body to a chemist; any breeze is safer than the faith of a chemist." [ ] probably the jesuit, père claude françois menestrier ( - ), a well known historian. [ ] the author was christopher nesse ( - ), a belligerent calvinist, who wrote many controversial works and succeeded in getting excommunicated four times. one of his most virulent works was _a protestant antidote against the poison of popery_. [ ] john case (c. - ) was a famous astrologer and physician. he succeeded to lilly's practice in london. in a darkened room, wherein he kept an array of mystical apparatus, he pretended to show the credulous the ghosts of their departed relatives. besides his astrological works he wrote one serious treatise, the _compendium anatomicum nova methodo institutum_ ( ), in which he defends harvey's theories of embryology. [ ] marcelis ( -after ) was a soap maker of amsterdam. it is to be hoped that he made better soap than values of [pi]. [ ] john craig (died in ) was a scotchman, but most of his life was spent at cambridge reading and writing on mathematics. he endeavored to introduce the leibnitz differential calculus into england. his mathematical works include the _methodus figurarum ... quadraturas determinandi_ ( ), _tractatus ... de figurarum curvilinearum quadraturis et locis geometricis_ ( ), and _de calculo fluentium libri duo_ ( ). [ ] as is well known, this subject owes much to the bernoullis. craig's works on the calculus brought him into controversy with them. he also wrote on other subjects in which they were interested, as in his memoir _on the curve of the quickest descent_ ( ), _on the solid of least resistance_ ( ), and the _solution of bernoulli's problem on curves_ ( ). [ ] this is samuel lee ( - ), the young prodigy in languages. he was apprenticed to a carpenter at twelve and learned greek while working at the trade. before he was twenty-five he knew hebrew, chaldee, syriac, samaritan, persian, and hindustani. he later became regius professor of hebrew at cambridge. [ ] "where the devil, master ludovico, did you pick up such a collection?" [ ] lord william brounker (c. - ), the first president of the royal society, is best known in mathematics for his contributions to continued fractions. [ ] horace walpole ( - ) published his _catalogue of the royal and noble authors of england_ in . since his time a number of worthy names in the domain of science in general and of mathematics in particular might be added from the peerage of england. [ ] it was written by charles hayes ( - ), a mathematician and scholar of no mean attainments. he travelled extensively, and was deputy governor of the royal african company. his _treatise on fluxions_ (london, ) was the first work in english to explain newton's calculus. he wrote a work entitled _the moon_ ( ) to prove that our satellite shines by its own as well as by reflected light. his _chronographia asiatica & aegyptica_ ( ) gives the results of his travels. [ ] _publick_ in the original. [ ] whiston ( - ) succeeded newton as lucasian professor of mathematics at cambridge. in he turned arian and was expelled from the university. his work on _primitive christianity_ appeared the following year. he wrote many works on astronomy and religion. [ ] ditton ( - ) was, on newton's recommendation, made head of the mathematical school at christ's hospital, london. he wrote a work on fluxions ( ). his idea for finding longitude at sea was to place stations in the atlantic to fire off bombs at regular intervals, the time between the sound and the flash giving the distance. he also corresponded with huyghens concerning the use of chronometers for the purpose. [ ] this was john arbuthnot (c. - ), the mathematician, physician and wit. he was intimate with pope and swift, and was royal physician to queen anne. besides various satires he published a translation of huyghens's work on probabilities ( ) and a well-known treatise on ancient coins, weights, and measures ( ). [ ] greene ( - ) was a very eccentric individual and was generally ridiculed by his contemporaries. in his will he directed that his body be dissected and his skeleton hung in the library of king's college, cambridge. unfortunately for his fame, this wish was never carried out. [ ] this was the historian, robert sanderson ( - ), who spent most of his life at cambridge. [ ] i presume this was william jones ( - ) the friend of newton and halley, vice-president of the royal society, in whose _synopsis palmariorum matheseos_ ( ) the symbol [pi] is first used for the circle ratio. [ ] this was the _geometrica solidorum, sive materiae, seu de varia compositione, progressione, rationeque velocitatum_, cambridge, . the work was parodied in _a taste of philosophical fanaticism ... by a gentleman of the university of gratz_. [ ] the antiquary and scientist ( - ), president of the royal society, member of the académie, friend of newton, and authority on numismatics. [ ] she was catherine barton, newton's step-niece. she married john conduitt, master of the mint, who collected materials for a life of newton. _a propos_ of mrs. conduitt's life of her illustrious uncle, sir george greenhill tells a very good story on poincaré, the well-known french mathematician. at an address given by the latter at the international congress of mathematicians held in rome in he spoke of the story of newton and the apple as a mere fable. after the address sir george asked him why he had done so, saying that the story was first published by voltaire, who had heard it from newton's niece, mrs. conduitt. poincaré looked blank and said, "newton, et la nièce de newton, et voltaire,--non! je ne vous comprends pas!" he had thought sir george meant professor volterra of rome, whose name in french is voltaire, and who could not possibly have known a niece of newton without bridging a century or so. [ ] this was the edmund turnor ( - ) who wrote the _collections for the town and soke of grantham, containing authentic memoirs of sir isaac newton, from lord portsmouth's manuscripts_, london, . [ ] it may be recalled to mind that sir david ( - ) wrote a life of newton ( ). [ ] "they are in the country. we rejoice." [ ] "i am here, chatterbox, suck!" [ ] "i have been graduated! i decline!" [ ] giovanni castiglioni (castillon, castiglione), was born at castiglione, in tuscany, in , and died at berlin in . he was professor of mathematics at utrecht and at berlin. he wrote on de moivre's equations ( ), cardan's rule ( ), and euclid's treatment of parallels ( - ). [ ] this was the _isaaci newtoni, equitis aurati, opuscula mathematica, philosophica et philologica_, lausannae & genevae, . [ ] at london, to. [ ] "all the english attribute it to newton." [ ] stephen peter rigaud ( - ), savilian professor of geometry at oxford ( - ) and later professor of astronomy and head of the radcliffe observatory. he wrote _an historical essay on first publication of sir isaac newton's principia_, oxford, , and a two-volume work entitled _correspondence of scientific men of the th century_, . [ ] it is no longer considered by scholars as the work of newton. [ ] j. edleston, the author of the _correspondence of sir isaac newton and professor cotes_, london, . [ ] palmer ( - ) was master of queen's college, cambridge, a puritan but not a separatist. his work, _the characters of a believing christian, in paradoxes and seeming contradictions_, appeared in . [ ] grosart ( - ) was a presbyterian clergyman. he was a great bibliophile, and issued numerous reprints of rare books. [ ] this was the year after palmer's death. the title was, _the remaines of ... francis lord verulam....; being essays and severall letters to severall great personages, and other pieces of various and high concernment not heretofore published_, london, , to. [ ] shaw ( - ) was physician extraordinary to george ii. he wrote on chemistry and medicine, and his edition of the _philosophical works of francis bacon_ appeared at london in . [ ] john locke ( - ), the philosopher. this particular work appeared in . there was an edition in (vol. of the _sacred classics_) and one in (vol. of the _christian library_). [ ] i use the word _socinian_ because it was so much used in locke's time: it is used in our own day by the small fry, the unlearned clergy and their immediate followers, as a term of reproach for _all_ unitarians. i suspect they have a kind of liking for the _word_; it sounds like _so sinful_. the learned clergy and the higher laity know better: they know that the bulk of the modern unitarians go farther than socinus, and are not correctly named as his followers. the unitarians themselves neither desire nor deserve a name which puts them one point nearer to orthodoxy than they put themselves. that point is the doctrine that direct prayer to jesus christ is lawful and desirable: this socinus held, and the modern unitarians do not hold. socinus, in treating the subject in his own _institutio_, an imperfect catechism which he left, lays much more stress on john xiv. than on xv. and xvi. . he is not disinclined to think that _patrem_ should be in the first citation, where some put it; but he says that to ask the father in the name of the son is nothing but praying to the son in prayer to the father. he labors the point with obvious wish to secure a conclusive sanction. in the racovian catechism, of which faustus socinus probably drew the first sketch, a clearer light is arrived at. the translation says: "but wherein consists the divine honor due to christ? in adoration likewise and invocation. for we ought at all times to adore christ, and may in our necessities address our prayers to him as often as we please; and there are many reasons to induce us to do this freely." there are some who like accuracy, even in aspersion--a. de m. socinus, or fausto paolo sozzini ( - ), was an antitrinitarian who believed in prayer and homage to christ. leaving italy after his views became known, he repaired to basel, but his opinions were too extreme even for the calvinists. he then tried transylvania, attempting to convert to his views the antitrinitarian bishop dávid. the only result of his efforts was the imprisonment of dávid and his own flight to poland, in which country he spent the rest of his life ( - ). his complete works appeared first at amsterdam in , in the _bibliotheca fratres polonorum_. the _racovian catechism_ ( ) appeared after his death, but it seems to have been planned by him. [ ] "as much of faith as is necessary to salvation is contained in this article, jesus is the christ." [ ] edwards ( - ) was a cambridge fellow, strongly calvinistic. he published many theological works, attacking the arminians and socinians. locke and whiston were special objects of attack. [ ] _sir i. newton's views on points of trinitarian doctrine; his articles of faith, and the general coincidence of his opinions with those of j. locke; a selection of authorities, with observations_, london, . [ ] _a confession of the faith_, bristol, , vo. [ ] this was really very strange, because laud ( - ), while he was archbishop of canterbury, forced a good deal of high church ritual on the puritan clergy, and even wished to compel the use of a prayer book in scotland. it was this intolerance that led to his impeachment and execution. [ ] the name is jonchère. he was a man of some merit, proposing ( ) an important canal in burgundy, and publishing a work on the _découverte des longitudes estimées généralement impossible à trouver_, (or ). [ ] locke invented a kind of an instrument for finding longitude, and it is described in the appendix, but i can find nothing about the man. there was published some years later (london, ) another work of his, _a new problem to discover the longitude at sea_. [ ] baxter, concerning whom i know merely that he was a schoolmaster, starts with the assumption of this value, and deduces from it some fourteen properties relating to the circle. [ ] john, who died in , was a well-known character in his way. he was a bookseller on fleet street, and his shop was a general rendezvous for the literary men of his time. he wrote the _memoirs of the life and writings of mr. william whiston_ ( , with another edition in ). he was one of the first to issue regular catalogues of books with prices affixed. [ ] the name appears both as hulls and as hull. he was born in gloucestershire in . in he published _the art of measuring made easy by the help of a new sliding scale_. [ ] thomas newcomen ( - ) invented the first practical steam engine about . it was of about five and a half horse power, and was used for pumping water from coal mines. savery had described such an engine in , but newcomen improved upon it and made it practical. [ ] the well-known benefactor of art ( - ). [ ] the tract was again reprinted in . [ ] hulls made his experiment on the avon, at evesham, in , having patented his machine in . he had a newcomen engine connected with six paddles. this was placed in the front of a small tow boat. the experiment was a failure. [ ] william symington ( - ). in he constructed a working model of a steam road carriage. the machinery was applied to a small boat in , and with such success as to be tried on a larger boat in . the machinery was clumsy, however, and in he took out a new patent for the style of engine still used on paddle wheel steamers. this engine was successfully used in , on the charlotte dundas. fulton ( - ) was on board, and so impressed robert livingston with the idea that the latter furnished the money to build the clermont ( ), the beginning of successful river navigation. [ ] louis bertrand castel ( - ), most of whose life was spent in trying to perfect his _clavecin oculaire_, an instrument on the order of the harpsichord, intended to produce melodies and harmonies of color. he also wrote _l'optique des couleurs_ ( ) and _sur le fond de la musique_ ( ). [ ] dr. robinson ( - ) was professor of physic at trinity college, dublin, and three times president of king and queen's college of physicians. in his _treatise on the animal economy_ ( - , with a third edition in ) he anticipated the discoveries of lavoisier and priestley on the nature of oxygen. [ ] there was another edition, published at london in , vo. [ ] the author seems to have shot his only bolt in this work. i can find nothing about him. [ ] _quod deus sit, mundusque ab ipso creatus fuerit in tempore, ejusque providentia gubernetur. selecta aliquot theoremata adversos atheos_, etc., paris, , to. [ ] the british museum catalogue mentions a copy of , but this is possibly a misprint. [ ] this was johann ii ( - ), son of johann i, who succeeded his father as professor of mathematics at basel. [ ] samuel koenig ( - ), who studied under johann bernoulli i. he became professor of mathematics at franeker ( ) and professor of philosophy at the hague ( ). [ ] "in accordance with the hypotheses laid down in this memoir it is so evident that t must = , y = , and z = , that there is no need of proof or authority for it to be recognized by every one." [ ] "i subscribe to the judgment of mr. bernoulli as a result of these hypotheses." [ ] "it clearly appears from my present analysis and demonstration that they have already recognized and perfectly agreed to the fact that the quadrature of the circle is mathematically demonstrated." [ ] dr. knight (died in ) made some worthy contributions to the literature of the mariner's compass. as de morgan states, he was librarian of the british museum. [ ] sir anthony panizzi ( - ) fled from italy under sentence of death ( ). he became assistant ( ) and chief ( ) librarian of the british museum, and was knighted in . he began the catalogue of printed books of the museum. [ ] wright ( - ) was a physicist. he was offered the professorship of mathematics at the imperial academy of st. petersburg but declined to accept it. this work is devoted chiefly to the theory of the milky way, the _via lactea_ as he calls it after the manner of the older writers. [ ] troughton ( - ) was one of the world's greatest instrument makers. he was apprenticed to his brother john, and the two succeeded ( ) wright and cole in fleet street. airy called his method of graduating circles the greatest improvement ever made in instrument making. he constructed ( ) the first modern transit circle, and his instruments were used in many of the chief observatories of the world. [ ] william simms ( - ) was taken into partnership by troughton ( ) after the death of the latter's brother. the firm manufactured some well-known instruments. [ ] this was george horne ( - ), fellow of magdalen college, oxford, vice-chancellor of the university ( ), dean of canterbury ( ), and bishop of norwich ( ). he was a great satirist, but most of his pamphlets against men like adam smith, swedenborg, and hume, were anonymous, as in the case of this one against newton. he was so liberal in his attitude towards the methodists that he would not have john wesley forbidden to preach in his diocese. he was twenty-one when this tract appeared. [ ] martin ( - ) was by no means "old benjamin martin" when horne wrote this pamphlet in . in fact he was then only forty-five. he was a physicist and a well-known writer on scientific instruments. he also wrote _philosophia britannica or a new and comprehensive system of the newtonian philosophy_ ( ). [ ] jean théophile desaguliers, or des aguliers ( - ) was the son of a protestant who left france after the revocation of the edict of nantes. he became professor of physics at oxford, and afterwards gave lectures in london. later he became chaplain to the prince of wales. he published several works on physics. [ ] charles hutton ( - ), professor of mathematics at woolwich ( - ). his _mathematical tables_ ( ) and _mathematical and philosophical dictionary_ ( - ) are well known. [ ] james epps ( - ) contributed a number of memoirs on the use and corrections of instruments. he was assistant secretary of the astronomical society. [ ] john hutchinson ( - ) was one of the first to try to reconcile the new science of geology with genesis. he denied the newtonian hypothesis as dangerous to religion, and because it necessitated a vacuum. he was a mystic in his interpretation of the scriptures, and created a sect that went under the name of hutchinsonians. [ ] john rowning, a lincolnshire rector, died in . he wrote on physics, and published a memoir on _a machine for finding the roots of equations universally_ ( ). [ ] it is always difficult to sanction this spelling of the name of this jesuit father who is so often mentioned in the analytic treatment of conics. he was born in ragusa in , and the original spelling was ru[=d]er josip bo[vs]kovi['c]. when he went to live in italy, as professor of mathematics at rome ( ) and at pavia, the name was spelled ruggiero giuseppe boscovich, although boscovicci would seem to a foreigner more natural. his astronomical work was notable, and in his _de maculis solaribus_ ( ) there is the first determination of the equator of a planet by observing the motion of spots on its surface. boscovich came near having some contact with america, for he was delegated to observe in california the transit of venus in , being prevented by the dissolution of his order just at that time. he died in , at milan. [ ] james granger ( - ) who wrote the _biographical history of england_, london, . his collection of prints was remarkable, numbering some fourteen thousand. [ ] he was curator of experiments for the royal society. he wrote a large number of books and monographs on physics. he died about . [ ] lee seems to have made no impression on biographers. [ ] this work appeared at london in . [ ] of course this is no longer true. the most scholarly work to-day is that of rudio, _archimedes, huygens, lambert, legendre, vier abhandlungen über die kreismessung ... mit einer uebersicht über die geschichte des problems von der quadratur des zirkels, von den ältesten zeiten bis auf unsere tage_, leipsic, . [ ] joseph jérome le françois de lalande ( - ), professor of astronomy in the collège de france ( ) and director of the paris observatory ( ). his writings on astronomy and his _bibliographie astronomique, avec l'histoire de l'astronomie depuis jusqu'en _ (paris, ) are well known. [ ] de morgan refers to his _histoire de l'astronomie au e siècle_, which appeared in , five years after delambre's death. jean baptiste joseph delambre ( - ) was a pupil of and a collaborator with lalande, following his master as professor of astronomy in the collège de france. his work on the measurements for the metric system is well known, and his four histories of astronomy, _ancienne_ ( ), _au moyen âge_ ( ), _moderne_ ( ), and _au e siècle_ (posthumous, ) are highly esteemed. [ ] jean-joseph rive ( - ), a priest who left his cure under grave charges, and a quarrelsome character. his attack on montucla was a case of the pot calling the kettle black; for while he was a brilliant writer he was a careless bibliographer. [ ] isaac barrow ( - ) was quite as well known as a theologian as he was from his lucasian professorship of mathematics at cambridge. [ ] "besides we can see by this that barrow was a poor philosopher; for he believed in the immortality of the soul and in a divinity other than universal nature." [ ] the _récréations mathématiques et physiques_ (paris, ) of jacques ozanam ( - ) is a work that is still highly esteemed. among various other works he wrote a _dictionnaire mathématique ou idée générale des mathématiques_ ( ) that was not without merit. the _récréations_ went through numerous editions (paris, , , , , , , and the montucla edition of ; london, , the montucla-hutton edition of and the riddle edition of ; dublin, ). [ ] hendryk van etten, the _nom de plume_ of jean leurechon ( - ), rector of the jesuit college at bar, and professor of philosophy and mathematics. he wrote on astronomy ( ) and horology ( ), and is known for his _selecta propositiones in tota sparsim mathematica pulcherrime propositae in solemni festo ss. ignatii et francesci xaverii_, . the book to which de morgan refers is his _récréation mathématicque, composée de plusieurs problèmes plaisants et facetieux_, lyons, , with an edition at pont-à-mousson, . there were english editions published at london in , , and , and dutch editions in and . i do not understand how de morgan happened to miss owning the work by claude gaspar bachet de meziriac ( - ), _problèmes plaisans et délectables_, which appeared at lyons in , vo, with a second edition in . there was a fifth edition published at paris in . [ ] his title page closes with "paris, chez ch. ant. jombert.... m dcc liv." this was charles-antoine jombert ( - ), a printer and bookseller with some taste for painting and architecture. he wrote several works and edited a number of early treatises. [ ] the late professor newcomb made the matter plain even to the non-mathematical mind, when he said that "ten decimal places are sufficient to give the circumference of the earth to the fraction of an inch, and thirty decimal places would give the circumference of the whole visible universe to a quantity imperceptible with the most powerful microscope." [ ] _antinewtonianismi pars prima, in qua newtoni de coloribus systema ex propriis principiis geometrice evertitur, et nova de coloribus theoria luculentissimis experimentis demonstrantur_.... naples, ; _pars secunda_, naples, . [ ] celestino cominale ( - ) was professor of medicine at the university of naples. [ ] the work appeared in the years from to . [ ] there was a vienna edition in , to, and another in , to. this edition is described on the title page as _editio veneta prima ipso auctore praesente, et corrigente_. [ ] the first edition was entitled _de solis ac lunae defectibus libri v. p. rogerii josephi boscovich ... cum ejusdem auctoris adnotationibus_, london, . it also appeared in venice in , and in french translation by the abbé de baruel in , and was a work of considerable influence. [ ] paulian ( - ) was professor of physics at the jesuit college at avignon. he wrote several works, the most popular of which, the _dictionnaire de physique_ (avignon, ), went through nine editions by . [ ] this is correct. [ ] probably referring to the fact that hill ( - ), who had done so much for postal reform, was secretary to the postmaster general ( ), and his name was a synonym for the post office directory. [ ] richard lovett ( - ) was a good deal of a charlatan. he claimed to have studied electrical phenomena, and in advertised that he could effect marvelous cures, especially of sore throat, by means of electricity. before publishing the works mentioned by de morgan he had issued others of similar character, including _the subtile medium proved_ (london, ) and _the reviewers reviewed_ (london, ). [ ] jean sylvain bailly ( - ), member of the _académie française_ and of the _académie des sciences_, first deputy elected to represent paris in the _etats-généraux_ ( ), president of the first national assembly, and mayor of paris ( - ). for his vigor as mayor in keeping the peace, and for his manly defence of the queen, he was guillotined. he was an astronomer of ability, but is best known for his histories of the science. [ ] these were the _histoire de l'astronomie ancienne_ ( ), _histoire de l'astronomie moderne_ ( - ), _histoire de l'astronomie indienne et orientale_ ( ), and _lettres sur l'origine des peuples de l'asie_ ( ). [ ] "the sick old man of ferney, v., a boy of a hundred years." voltaire was born in , and hence was eighty-three at this time. [ ] in palmézeaux's _vie de bailly_, in bailly's _ouvrage posthume_ ( ), m. de sales is quoted as saying that the _lettres sur l'atlantide_ were sent to voltaire and that the latter did not approve of the theory set forth. [ ] the british museum catalogue gives two editions, and . [ ] a mystic and a spiritualist. his chief work was the one mentioned here. [ ] jacob behmen, or böhme ( - ), known as "the german theosophist," was founder of the sect of boehmists, a cult allied to the swedenborgians. he was given to the study of alchemy, and brought the vocabulary of the science into his mystic writings. his sect was revived in england in the eighteenth century through the efforts of william law. saint-martin translated into french two of his latin works under the titles _l'aurore naissante, ou la racine de la philosophie_ ( ), and _les trois principes de l'essence divine_ ( ). the originals had appeared nearly two hundred years earlier,--_aurora_ in , and _de tribus principiis_ in . [ ] "unknown." [ ] "skeptical." [ ] "man, man, man." [ ] "men, men, men." [ ] it is interesting to read de morgan's argument against saint-martin's authorship of this work. it is attributed to saint-martin both by the _biographie universelle_ and by the _british museum catalogue_, and de morgan says by "various catalogues and biographies." [ ] "to explain things by man and not man by things. _on errors and truth_, by a ph.... inc...." [ ] "if we would preserve ourselves from all illusions, and above all from the allurements of pride, by which man is so often seduced, we should never take man, but always god, for our term of comparison." [ ] "and here is found already an explanation of the numbers four and nine which caused some perplexity in the work cited above. man is lost in passing from four to nine." [ ] williams also took part in the preparation of some tables for the government to assist in the determination of longitude. he had published a work two years before the one here cited, on the same subject,--_an entire new work and method to discover the variation of the earth's diameters_, london, . [ ] this is gabriel mouton ( - ), a vicar at lyons, who suggested as a basis for a natural system of measures the _mille_, a minute of a degree of the meridian. this appeared in his _observationes diametrorum solis et lunae apparentium, meridianarumque aliquot altitudinum cum tabula declinationum solis_.... lyons, . [ ] jacques cassini ( - ), one of the celebrated cassini family of astronomers. after the death of his father he became director of the observatory at paris. the basis for a metric unit was set forth by him in his _traité de la grandeur et de la figure de la terre_, paris, . he was a prolific writer on astronomy. [ ] alexis jean pierre paucton ( - ). he was, for a time, professor of mathematics at strassburg, but later ( ) held office in paris. his leading contribution to metrology was his _métrologie ou traité des mesures_, paris, . [ ] he was an obscure writer, born at deptford. [ ] he was also a writer of no scientific merit, his chief contributions being religious tracts. one of his productions, however, went through many editions, even being translated into french; _three dialogues between a minister and one of his parishioners; on the true principles of religion and salvation for sinners by jesus christ_. the twentieth edition appeared at cambridge in . [ ] this was the _reflections on the revolution in france, and on the proceedings in certain societies in london relative to that event_ (london, ) by edmund burke ( - ). eleven editions of the work appeared the first year. [ ] paine ( - ) was born in norfolkshire, of quaker parents. he went to america at the beginning of the revolution and published, in january , a violent pamphlet entitled _common sense_. he was a private soldier under washington, and on his return to england after the war he published _the rights of man_. he was indicted for treason and was outlawed to france. he was elected to represent calais at the french convention, but his plea for moderation led him perilously near the guillotine. his _age of reason_ ( ) was dedicated to washington. he returned to america in and remained there until his death. [ ] part i appeared in and was so popular that eight editions appeared in that year. it was followed in by part ii, of which nine editions appeared in that year. both parts were immediately republished in paris, and there have been several subsequent editions. [ ] mary wollstonecraft ( - ) was only thirty-three when this work came out. she had already published _an historical and moral view of the origin and progress of the french revolution_ ( ), and _original stories from real life_ ( ). she went to paris in and remained during the reign of terror. [ ] samuel parr ( - ) was for a time head assistant at harrow ( - ), afterwards headmaster in other schools. at the time this book was written he was vicar of hatton, where he took private pupils ( - ) to the strictly limited number of seven. he was a violent whig and a caustic writer. [ ] on mary wollstonecraft's return from france she married ( ) william godwin ( - ). he had started as a strong calvinistic nonconformist minister, but had become what would now be called an anarchist, at least by conservatives. he had written an _inquiry concerning political justice_ ( ) and a novel entitled _caleb williams, or things as they are_ ( ), both of which were of a nature to attract his future wife. [ ] this child was a daughter. she became shelley's wife, and godwin's influence on shelley was very marked. [ ] this was john nichols ( - ), the publisher and antiquary. he edited the _gentleman's magazine_ ( - ) and his works include the _literary anecdotes of the eighteenth century_ ( - ), to which de morgan here refers. [ ] william bellenden, a scotch professor at the university of paris, who died about . his textbooks are now forgotten, but parr edited an edition of his works in . the latin preface, _praefatio ad bellendum de statu_, was addressed to burke, north, and fox, and was a satire on their political opponents. [ ] as we have seen, he had been head-master before he began taking "his handful of private pupils." [ ] the story has evidently got mixed up in the telling, for tom sheridan ( - ), the great actor, was old enough to have been dr. parr's father. it was his son, richard brinsley sheridan ( - ), the dramatist and politician, who was the pupil of parr. he wrote _the rivals_ ( ) and _the school for scandal_ ( ) soon after parr left harrow. [ ] horner ( - ) was a geologist and social reformer. he was very influential in improving the conditions of child labor. [ ] william cobbett ( - ), the journalist, was a character not without interest to americans. born in surrey, he went to america at the age of thirty and remained there eight years. most of this time he was occupied as a bookseller in philadelphia, and while thus engaged he was fined for libel against the celebrated dr. rush. on his return to england he edited the _weekly political register_ ( - ), a popular journal among the working classes. he was fined and imprisoned for two years because of his attack ( ) on military flogging, and was also ( ) prosecuted for sedition. he further showed his paradox nature by his _history of the protestant reformation_ ( - ), an attack on the prevailing protestant opinion. he also wrote a _life of andrew jackson_ ( ). after repeated attempts he succeeded in entering parliament, a result of the reform bill. [ ] robinson ( - ) was a baptist minister who wrote several theological works and a number of hymns. his work at cambridge so offended the students that they at one time broke up the services. [ ] this work had passed through twelve editions by . [ ] dyer ( - ), the poet and reformer, edited robinson's _ecclesiastical researches_ ( ). he was a life-long friend of charles lamb, and in their boyhood they were schoolmates at christ's hospital. his _complaints of the poor people of england_ ( ) made him a worthy companion of the paradoxers above mentioned. [ ] these were john thelwall ( - ) whose _politics for the people or hogswash_ ( ) took its title from the fact that burke called the people the "swinish multitude." the book resulted in sending the author to the tower for sedition. in he gave up politics and started a school of elocution which became very famous. thomas hardy ( - ), who kept a bootmaker's shop in piccadilly, was a fellow prisoner with thelwall, being arrested for high treason. he was founder ( ) of the london corresponding society, a kind of clearing house for radical associations throughout the country. horne tooke was really john horne ( - ), he having taken the name of his friend william tooke in . he was a radical of the radicals, and organized a number of reform societies. among these was the constitutional society that voted money ( ) to assist the american revolutionists, appointing him to give the contribution to franklin. for this he was imprisoned for a year. with his fellow rebels in the tower in , however, he was acquitted. as a philologist he is known for his early advocacy of the study of anglo-saxon and gothic, and his _diversions of purley_ ( ) is still known to readers. [ ] this was the admiral, adam viscount duncan ( - ), who defeated the dutch off camperdown in . [ ] he was created duke of clarence and st. andrews in and was admiral of the fleet escorting louis xviii on his return to france in . he became lord high admiral in , and reigned as william iv from to . [ ] this was charles abbott ( - ) first lord tenterden. he succeeded lord ellenborough as chief justice ( ) and was raised to the peerage in . he was a strong tory and opposed the catholic relief bill, the reform bill, and the abolition of the death penalty for forgery. [ ] edward law ( - ), first baron ellenborough. he was chief counsel for warren hastings, and his famous speech in defense of his client is well known. he became chief justice and was raised to the peerage in . he opposed all efforts to modernize the criminal code, insisting upon the reactionary principle of new death penalties. [ ] edmund law ( - ), bishop of carlisle ( ), was a good deal more liberal than his son. his _considerations on the propriety of requiring subscription to the articles of faith_ ( ) was published anonymously. in it he asserts that not even the clergy should be required to subscribe to the thirty-nine articles. [ ] joe miller ( - ), the famous drury lane comedian, was so illiterate that he could not have written the _joe miller's jests, or the wit's vade-mecum_ that appeared the year after his death. it was often reprinted and probably contained more or less of miller's own jokes. [ ] the sixth duke ( - ) was much interested in parliamentary reform. he was a member of the society of friends of the people. he was for fourteen years a member of parliament ( - ) and was later lord lieutenant of ireland ( - ). he afterwards gave up politics and became interested in agricultural matters. [ ] george jeffreys (c. - ), the favorite of james ii, who was active in prosecuting the rye house conspirators. he was raised to the peerage in and held the famous "bloody assize" in the following year, being made lord chancellor as a result. he was imprisoned in the tower by william iii and died there. [ ] _the every day book, forming a complete history of the year, months, and seasons, and a perpetual key to the almanack_, - . [ ] the first and second editions appeared in . two others followed in . [ ] _the three trials of w. h., for publishing three parodies; viz the late john wilkes' catechism, the political litany, and the sinecurists creed; on three ex-officio informations, at guildhall, london, ... dec. , , & , _,... london, . [ ] the _political litany_ appeared in . [ ] that is, castlereagh's. [ ] the well-known caricaturist ( - ), then only twenty-nine years old. [ ] robert stewart ( - ) was second marquis of londonderry and viscount castlereagh. as chief secretary for ireland he was largely instrumental in bringing about the union of ireland and great britain. he was at the head of the war department during most of the napoleonic wars, and was to a great extent responsible for the european coalition against the emperor. he suicided in . [ ] john murray ( - ), the well-known london publisher. he refused to finish the publication of don juan, after the first five cantos, because of his tory principles. [ ] only the first two cantos appeared in . [ ] proclus ( - ), one of the greatest of the neo-platonists, studied at alexandria and taught philosophy at athens. he left commentaries on plato and on part of euclid's _elements_. [ ] thomas taylor ( - ), called "the platonist," had a liking for mathematics, and was probably led by his interest in number mysticism to a study of neo-platonism. he translated a number of works from the latin and greek, and wrote two works on theoretical arithmetic ( , ). [ ] there was an earlier edition, - . [ ] georgius gemistus, or georgius pletho (plethon), lived in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. he was a native of constantinople, but spent most of his time in greece. he devoted much time to the propagation of the platonic philosophy, but also wrote on divinity, geography, and history. [ ] hannah more ( - ), was, in her younger days, a friend of burke, reynolds, dr. johnson, and garrick. at this time she wrote a number of poems and aspired to become a dramatist. her _percy_ ( ), with a prologue and epilogue by garrick, had a long run at covent garden. somewhat later she came to believe that the playhouse was a grave public evil, and refused to attend the revival of her own play with mrs. siddons in the leading part. after she and her sisters devoted themselves to starting schools for poor children, teaching them religion and housework, but leaving them illiterate. [ ] these were issued at the rate of three each month,--a story, a ballad, and a sunday tract. they were collected and published in one volume in . it is said that two million copies were sold the first year. there were also editions in , , , and - . [ ] that is, dr. johnson ( - ). the _rambler_ was published in - , and was an imitation of addison's _spectator_. [ ] dr. moore, referred to below. [ ] dr. john moore ( - ), physician and novelist, is now best known for his _journal during a residence in france from the beginning of august to the middle of december, _, a work quoted frequently by carlyle in his _french revolution_. [ ] sir john moore ( - ), lieutenant general in the napoleonic wars. he was killed in the battle of corunna. the poem by charles wolfe ( - ), _the burial of sir john moore_ ( ), is well known. [ ] referring to the novels of thomas love peacock ( - ), who succeeded james mill as chief examiner of the east india company, and was in turn succeeded by john stuart mill. [ ] frances burney, madame d'arblay ( - ), married general d'arblay, a french officer and companion of lafayette, in . she was only twenty-five when she acquired fame by her _evelina, or a young lady's entrance into the world_. her _letters and diaries_ appeared posthumously ( - ). [ ] henry peter, baron brougham and vaux ( - ), well known in politics, science, and letters. he was one of the founders of the _edinburgh review_, became lord chancellor in , and took part with men like william frend, de morgan's father-in-law, in the establishing of london university. he was also one of the founders of the society for the diffusion of useful knowledge. he was always friendly to de morgan, who entered the faculty of london university, whose work on geometry was published by the society mentioned, and who was offered the degree of doctor of laws by the university of edinburgh while lord brougham was lord rector. the edinburgh honor was refused by de morgan who said he "did not feel like an ll.d." [ ] maria edgeworth ( - ). [ ] sydney owenson (c. - ) married sir thomas morgan, a well-known surgeon, in . her irish stories were very popular with the patriots but were attacked by the _quarterly review_. _the wild irish girl_ ( ) went through seven editions in two years. [ ] - . [ ] - . [ ] the famous preacher ( - ). he was the first chairman of the religious tract society. he is also known as one of the earliest advocates of vaccination, in his _cow-pock inoculation vindicated and recommended from matters of fact_, . [ ] sir rowland hill ( - ), the father of penny postage. [ ] beilby porteus ( - ), bishop of chester ( ) and bishop of london ( ). he encouraged the sunday-school movement and the dissemination of hannah more's tracts. he was an active opponent of slavery, but also of catholic emancipation. [ ] henrietta maria bowdler ( - ), generally known as mrs. harriet bowdler. she was the author of many religious tracts and poems. her _poems and essays_ ( ) were often reprinted. the story goes that on the appearance of her _sermons on the doctrines and duties of christianity_ (published anonymously), bishop porteus offered the author a living under the impression that it was written by a man. [ ] william frend ( - ), whose daughter sophia elizabeth became de morgan's wife ( ), was at one time a clergyman of the established church, but was converted to unitarianism ( ). he came under de morgan's definition of a true paradoxer, carrying on a zealous warfare for what he thought right. as a result of his _address to the inhabitants of cambridge_ ( ), and his efforts to have abrogated the requirement that candidates for the m.a. must subscribe to the thirty-nine articles, he was deprived of his tutorship in . a little later he was banished (see de morgan's statement in the text) from cambridge because of his denunciation of the abuses of the church and his condemnation of the liturgy. his eccentricity is seen in his declining to use negative quantities in the operations of algebra. he finally became an actuary at london and was prominent in radical associations. he was a mathematician of ability, having been second wrangler and having nearly attained the first place, and he was also an excellent scholar in latin, greek, and hebrew. [ ] george peacock ( - ), fellow of trinity college, cambridge, lowndean professor of astronomy, and dean of ely cathedral ( ). his tomb may be seen at ely where he spent the latter part of his life. he was one of the group that introduced the modern continental notation of the calculus into england, replacing the cumbersome notation of newton, passing from "the _dot_age of fluxions to the _de_ism of the calculus." [ ] robert simson ( - ); professor of mathematics at glasgow. his restoration of apollonius ( ) and his translation and restoration of euclid ( , and --posthumous) are well known. [ ] francis maseres ( - ), a prominent lawyer. his mathematical works had some merit. [ ] these appeared annually from to . [ ] henry gunning ( - ) was senior esquire bedell of cambridge. the _reminiscences_ appeared in two volumes in . [ ] john singleton copley, baron lyndhurst ( - ), the son of john singleton copley the portrait painter, was born in boston. he was educated at trinity college, cambridge, and became a lawyer. he was made lord chancellor in . [ ] sir william rough (c. - ), a lawyer and poet, became chief justice of ceylon in . he was knighted in . [ ] herbert marsh, afterwards bishop of peterborough, a relation of my father.--s. e. de m. he was born in and died in . on the trial of frend he publicly protested against testifying against a personal confidant, and was excused. he was one of the first of the english clergy to study modern higher criticism of the bible, and amid much opposition he wrote numerous works on the subject. he was professor of theology at cambridge ( ), bishop of llandaff ( ), and bishop of peterborough. [ ] george butler ( - ), headmaster of harrow ( - ), chancellor of peterborough ( ), and dean of peterborough ( ). [ ] james tate ( - ), headmaster of richmond school ( - ) and canon of st. paul's cathedral ( ). he left several works on the classics. [ ] francis place ( - ), at first a journeyman breeches maker, and later a master tailor. he was a hundred years ahead of his time as a strike leader, but was not so successful as an agitator as he was as a tailor, since his shop in charing cross made him wealthy. he was a well-known radical, and it was largely due to his efforts that the law against the combinations of workmen was repealed in . his chief work was _the principles of population_ ( ). [ ] speed ( - ) was a tailor until grevil (greville) made him independent of his trade. he was not only an historian of some merit, but a skilful cartographer. his maps of the counties were collected in the _theatre of the empire of great britaine_, . about this same time he also published _genealogies recorded in sacred scripture_, a work that had passed through thirty-two editions by . [ ] _the history of great britaine under the conquests of ye romans, saxons, danes, and normans...._ london, , folio. the second edition appeared in ; the third, to which de morgan here refers, posthumously in ; and the fourth in . [ ] william nicolson ( - ) became bishop of carlisle in , and bishop of derry in . his chief work was the _historical library_ ( - ), in the form of a collection of documents and chronicles. it was reprinted in and in . [ ] sir fulk grevil, or fulke greville ( - ), was a favorite of queen elizabeth, chancellor of the exchequer under james i, a patron of literature, and a friend of sir philip sidney. [ ] see note on page . [ ] see note on page . [ ] see note on page . [ ] edward waring ( - ) was lucasian professor of mathematics at cambridge. he published several works on analysis and curves. the work referred to was the _miscellanea analytica de aequationibus algebraicis et curvarum proprietatibus_, cambridge, . [ ] _a dissertation on the use of the negative sign in algebra...; to which is added, machin's quadrature of the circle_, london, . [ ] the paper was probably one on complex numbers, or possibly one on quaternions, in which direction as well as absolute value is involved. [ ] de morgan quotes from one of the latin editions. descartes wrote in french, the title of his first edition being: _discours de la méthode pour bien conduire sa raison et chercher la vérité dans les sciences, plus la dioptrique, les météores et la géométrie qui sont des essais de cette méthode_, leyden, , to. [ ] "i have observed that algebra indeed, as it is usually taught, is so restricted by definite rules and formulas of calculation, that it seems rather a confused kind of an art, by the practice of which the mind is in a certain manner disturbed and obscured, than a science by which it is cultivated and made acute." [ ] it appeared in volumes, from to . [ ] _the principles of the doctrine of life-annuities; explained in a familiar manner ... with a variety of new tables_ ..., london, . [ ] i suppose the one who wrote _conjectures on the physical causes of earthquakes and volcanoes_, dublin, . [ ] _scriptores logarithmici; or, a collection of several curious_ _tracts on the nature and construction of logarithms ... together with same tracts on the binomial theorem_ ..., vols., london, - . [ ] charles babbage ( - ), whose work on the calculating machine is well known. maseres was, it is true, ninety-two at this time, but babbage was thirty-one instead of twenty-nine. he had already translated lacroix's _treatise on the differential and integral calculus_ ( ), in collaboration with herschel and peacock. he was lucasian professor of mathematics at cambridge from to . [ ] _the great and new art of weighing vanity, or a discovery of the ignorance of the great and new artist in his pseudo-philosophical writings._ the "great and new artist" was sinclair. [ ] george sinclair, probably a native of east lothian, who died in . he was professor of philosophy and mathematics at glasgow, and was one of the first to use the barometer in measuring altitudes. the work to which de morgan refers is his _hydrostaticks_ ( ). he was a firm believer in evil spirits, his work on the subject going through four editions: _satan's invisible world discovered; or, a choice collection of modern relations, proving evidently against the saducees and athiests of this present age, that there are devils, spirits, witches, and apparitions_, edinburgh, . [ ] this was probably william sanders, regent of st. leonard's college, whose _theses philosophicae_ appeared in , and whose _elementa geometriae_ came out a dozen years later. [ ] _ars nova et magna gravitatis et levitatis; sive dialogorum philosophicorum libri sex de aeris vera ac reali gravitate_, rotterdam, , to. [ ] volume i, nos. and , appeared in . [ ] his daughter, mrs. de morgan, says in her _memoir_ of her husband: "my father had been second wrangler in a year in which the two highest were close together, and was, as his son-in-law afterwards described him, an exceedingly clear thinker. it is possible, as mr. de morgan said, that this mental clearness and directness may have caused his mathematical heresy, the rejection of the use of negative quantities in algebraical operations; and it is probable that he thus deprived himself of an instrument of work, the use of which might have led him to greater eminence in the higher branches." _memoir of augustus de morgan_, london, , p. . [ ] "if it is not true it is a good invention." a well-known italian proverb. [ ] see page , note . [ ] he was born at paris in , and died there in . [ ] _recherches sur les courbes à double courbure_, paris, . clairaut was then only eighteen, and was in the same year made a member of the académie des sciences. his _elémens de géométrie_ appeared in . meantime he had taken part in the measurement of a degree in lapland ( - ). his _traité de la figure de la terre_ was published in . the academy of st. petersburg awarded him a prize for his _théorie de la lune_ ( ). his various works on comets are well known, particularly his _théorie du mouvement des comètes_ ( ) in which he applied the "problem of three bodies" to halley's comet as retarded by jupiter and saturn. [ ] joseph privat, abbé de molières ( - ), was a priest of the congregation of the oratorium. in he became a professor in the collège de france. he was well known as an astronomer and a mathematician, and wrote in defense of descartes's theory of vortices ( , ). he also contributed to the methods of finding prime numbers ( ). [ ] "deserves not only to be printed, but to be admired as a marvel of imagination, of understanding, and of ability." [ ] blaise pascal ( - ), the well-known french philosopher and mathematician. he lived for some time with the port royalists, and defended them against the jesuits in his _provincial letters_. among his works are the following: _essai pour les coniques_ ( ); _recit de la grande expérience de l'équilibre des liqueurs_ ( ), describing his experiment in finding altitudes by barometric readings; _histoire de la roulette_ ( ); _traité du triangle arithmétique_ ( ); _aleae geometria_ ( ). [ ] this proposition shows that if a hexagon is inscribed in a conic (in particular a circle) and the opposite sides are produced to meet, the three points determined by their intersections will be in the same straight line. [ ] jacques curabelle, _examen des oeuvres du sr. desargues_, paris, . he also published without date a work entitled: _foiblesse pitoyable du sr. g. desargues employée contre l'examen fait de ses oeuvres_. [ ] see page , note . [ ] until "this great proposition called pascal's should see the light." [ ] the story is that his father, etienne pascal, did not wish him to study geometry until he was thoroughly grounded in latin and greek. having heard the nature of the subject, however, he began at the age of twelve to construct figures by himself, drawing them on the floor with a piece of charcoal. when his father discovered what he was doing he was attempting to demonstrate that the sum of the angles of a triangle equals two right angles. the story is given by his sister, mme. perier. [ ] sir john wilson ( - ) was knighted in and became commissioner of the great seal in . he was a lawyer and jurist of recognized merit. he stated his theorem without proof, the first demonstration having been given by lagrange in the memoirs of the berlin academy for ,--_demonstration d'un théorème nouveau concernant les nombres premiers_. euler also gave a proof in his _miscellanea analytica_ ( ). fermat's works should be consulted in connection with the early history of this theorem. [ ] he wrote, in , a tract in defense of waring, a point of whose algebra had been assailed by a dr. powell. waring wrote another tract of the same date.--a. de m. william samuel powell ( - ) was at this time a fellow of st. john's college, cambridge. in he became vice chancellor of the university. waring was a magdalene man, and while candidate for the lucasian professorship he circulated privately his _miscellanea analytica_. powell attacked this in his _observations on the first chapter of a book called miscellanea_ ( ). this attack was probably in the interest of another candidate, a man of his own college (st. john's), william ludlam. [ ] william paley ( - ) was afterwards a tutor at christ's college, cambridge. he never contributed anything to mathematics, but his _evidences of christianity_ ( ) was long considered somewhat of a classic. he also wrote _principles of morality and politics_ ( ), and _natural theology_ ( ). [ ] edward, first baron thurlow ( - ) is known to americans because of his strong support of the royal prerogative during the revolution. he was a favorite of george iii, and became lord chancellor in . [ ] george wilson meadley ( - ) published his _memoirs of ... paley_ in . he also published _memoirs of algernon sidney_ in . he was a merchant and banker, and had traveled extensively in europe and the east. he was a convert to unitarianism, to which sect paley had a strong leaning. [ ] watson ( - ) was a strange kind of man for a bishopric. he was professor of chemistry at cambridge ( ) at the age of twenty-seven. it was his experiments that led to the invention of the black-bulb thermometer. he is said to have saved the government £ , a year by his advice on the manufacture of gunpowder. even after he became professor of divinity at cambridge ( ) he published four volumes of _chemical essays_ (vol. i, ). he became bishop of llandaff in . [ ] james adair (died in ) was counsel for the defense in the trial of the publishers of the _letters of junius_ ( ). as king's serjeant he assisted in prosecuting hardy and horne tooke. [ ] morgan ( - ) was actuary of the equitable assurance society of london ( - ), and it was to his great abilities that the success of that company was due at a time when other corporations of similar kind were meeting with disaster. the royal society awarded him a medal ( ) for a paper on _probability of survivorship_. he wrote several important works on insurance and finance. [ ] dr. price ( - ) was a non-conformist minister and a writer on ethics, economics, politics, and insurance. he was a defender of the american revolution and a personal friend of franklin. in congress invited him to america to assist in the financial administration of the new republic, but he declined. his famous sermon on the french revolution is said to have inspired burke's _reflections on the revolution in france_. [ ] elizabeth gurney ( - ), a quaker, who married joseph fry ( ), a london merchant. she was the prime mover in the association for the improvement of the female prisoners in newgate, founded in . her influence in prison reform extended throughout europe, and she visited the prisons of many countries in her efforts to improve the conditions of penal servitude. the friendship of mrs. fry with the de morgans began in . her scheme for a female benefit society proved worthless from the actuarial standpoint, and would have been disastrous to all concerned if it had been carried out, and it was therefore fortunate that de morgan was consulted in time. mrs. de morgan speaks of the consultation in these words: "my husband, who was very sensitive on such points, was charmed with mrs. fry's voice and manner as much as by the simple self-forgetfulness with which she entered into this business; her own very uncomfortable share of it not being felt as an element in the question, as long as she could be useful in promoting good or preventing mischief. i can see her now as she came into our room, took off her little round quaker cap, and laying it down, went at once into the matter. 'i have followed thy advice, and i think nothing further can be done in this case; but all harm is prevented.' in the following year i had an opportunity of seeing the effect of her most musical tones. i visited her at stratford, taking my little baby and nurse with me, to consult her on some articles on prison discipline, which i had written for a periodical. the baby--three months old--was restless, and the nurse could not quiet her, neither could i entirely, until mrs. fry began to read something connected with the subject of my visit, when the infant, fixing her large eyes on the reader, lay listening till she fell asleep." _memoirs_, p. . [ ] mrs. fry certainly believed that the writer was the old actuary of the equitable, when she first consulted him upon the benevolent assurance project; but we were introduced to her by our old and dear friend lady noel byron, by whom she had been long known and venerated, and who referred her to mr. de morgan for advice. an unusual degree of confidence in, and appreciation of each other, arose on their first meeting between the two, who had so much that was externally different, and so much that was essentially alike, in their natures.--s. e. de m. anne isabella milbanke ( - ) married lord byron in , when both took the additional name of noel, her mother's name. they were separated in . [ ] an obscure writer not mentioned in the ordinary biographies. [ ] not mentioned in the ordinary biographies, and for obvious reasons. [ ] "before" and "after." [ ] on bishop wilkins see note on page . [ ] provision for a journey. [ ] see note on page . [ ] thomas bradwardine ( - ), known as _doctor profundus_, proctor and professor of theology at oxford, and afterwards chancellor of st. paul's and confessor to edward iii. the english ascribed their success at crécy to his prayers. [ ] he was consecrated archbishop of canterbury by the pope at avignon, july , , and died of the plague at london in the same year. [ ] "one paltry little year." [ ] the title is carelessly copied, as is so frequently the case in catalogues, even of the libri class. it should read: _arithmetica thome brauardini_ || _olivier senant_ || _venum exponuntur ab oliuiario senant in vico diui jacobi sub signo beate barbare sedente_. the colophon reads: _explicit arithmetica speculatiua th[=o]e brauardini b[=n] reuisa et correcta a petro sanchez ciruelo aragonensi mathematicas leg[=e]te parisius, [=i]pressa per thom[=a] anguelart_. there were paris editions of , , , s. a. (c. ), , , , s. a. (c. ), , , a valencia edition of , two wittenberg editions of and , and doubtless several others. the work is not "very rare," although of course no works of that period are common. see the editor's _rara arithmetica_, page . [ ] this is his _tractatus de proportionibus_, paris, ; venice, ; vienna, , with other editions. [ ] the colophon of the edition reads: _et sic explicit geometria thome brauardini c[=u] tractatulo de quadratura circuli bene reuisa a petro sanchez ciruelo: operaqz guidonis mercatoris dilig[=e]tissime impresse parisi^o in c[=a]po gaillardi. anno d[=n]i. . die. , maij._ this petro ciruelo was born in arragon, and died in at salamanca. he studied mathematics and philosophy at paris, and took the doctor's degree there. he taught at the university of alcalà and became canon of the cathedral at salamanca. besides his editions of bradwardine he wrote several works, among them the _liber arithmeticae practicae qui dicitur algorithmus_ (paris, ) and the _cursus quatuor mathematicarum artium liberalium_ (alcalà, ). [ ] star polygons, a subject of considerable study in the later middle ages. see note on page . [ ] "a new theory that adds lustre to the fourteenth century." [ ] there is nothing in the edition of that leads to this conclusion. [ ] the full title is: _nouvelle théorie des parallèles, avec un appendice contenant la manière de perfectionner la théorie des parallèles de a. m. legendre_. the author had no standing as a scientist. [ ] adrien marie legendre ( - ) was one of the great mathematicians of the opening of the nineteenth century. his _eléments de géométrie_ ( ) had great influence on the geometry of the united states. his _essai sur la théorie des nombres_ ( ) is one of the classics upon the subject. the work to which kircher refers is the _nouvelle théorie des parallèles_ ( ), in which the attempt is made to avoid using euclid's postulate of parallels, the result being merely the substitution of another assumption that was even more unsatisfactory. the best presentations of the general theory are w. b. frankland's _theories of parallelism_, cambridge, , and engel and stäckel's _die theorie der parallellinien von euclid bis auf gauss_, leipsic, . legendre published a second work on the theory the year of his death, _réflexions sur ... la théorie des parallèles_ ( ). his other works include the _nouvelles méthodes pour la détermination des orbites des comètes_ ( ), in which he uses the method of least squares; the _traité des fonctions elliptiques et des intégrales_ ( - ), and the _exercises de calcul intégral_ ( , , ). [ ] johann joseph ignatz von hoffmann ( - ), professor of mathematics at aschaffenburg, published his _theorie der parallellinien_ in . he supplemented this by his _kritik der parallelen-theorie_ in , and his _das eilfte axiom der elemente des euclidis neu bewiesen_ in . he wrote other works on mathematics, but none of his contributions was of any importance. [ ] johann karl friedrich hauff ( - ) was successively professor of mathematics at marburg, director of the polytechnic school at augsburg, professor at the gymnasium at cologne, and professor of mathematics and physics at ghent. the work to which kircher refers is his memoirs on the euclidean _theorie der parallelen_ in hindenburg's _archiv_, vol. iii ( ), an article of no merit in the general theory. [ ] wenceslaus johann gustav karsten ( - ) was professor of logic at rostock ( ) and butzow ( ), and later became professor of mathematics and physics at halle. his work on parallels is the _versuch einer völlig berichtigten theorie der parallellinien_ ( ). he also wrote a work entitled _anfangsgründe der mathematischen wissenschaften_ ( ), but neither of these works was more than mediocre. [ ] johann christoph schwab (not schwal) was born in and died in . he was professor at the karlsschule at stuttgart. de morgan's wish was met, for the catalogues give "c. fig. ," so that it evidently had eight illustrations instead of eight volumes. he wrote several other works on the principles of geometry, none of any importance. [ ] gaetano rossi of catanzaro. this was the libretto writer ( - ), and hence the imperfections of the work can better be condoned. de morgan should have given a little more of the title: _solusione esatta e regolare ... del ... problema della quadratura del circolo_. there was a second edition, london, . [ ] this identifies rossi, for joséphine grassini ( - ) was a well-known contralto, _prima donna_ at napoleon's court opera. [ ] william spence ( - ) was an entomologist and economist of some standing, a fellow of the royal society, and one of the founders of the entomological society of london. the work here mentioned was a popular one, the first edition appearing in , and four editions being justified in a single year. he also wrote _agriculture the source of britain's wealth_ ( ) and _objections against the corn bill refuted_ ( ), besides a work in four volumes on entomology ( - ) in collaboration with william kirby. [ ] "that used to be so, but we have changed all that." [ ] "meet the coming disease." [ ] george douglas (or douglass) was a scotch writer. he got out an edition of the _elements of euclid_ in , with an appendix on trigonometry and a set of tables. his work on _mathematical tables_ appeared in , and his _art of drawing in perspective, from mathematical principles_, in . [ ] see note , on page . [ ] john playfair ( - ) was professor of mathematics ( ) and natural philosophy ( ) at the university of edinburgh. his _elements of geometry_ went through many editions. [ ] "tell apella" was an expression current in classical rome to indicate incredulity and to show the contempt in which the jew was held. horace says: _credat judæus apella_, "let apella the jew believe it." our "tell it to the marines," is a similar phrase. [ ] as de morgan says two lines later, "no mistake is more common than the natural one of imagining that the"--university of virginia is at richmond. the fact is that it is not there, and that it did not exist in . it was not chartered until , and was not opened until , and then at charlottesville. the act establishing the central college, from which the university of virginia developed, was passed in . the jean wood to whom de morgan refers was one john wood who was born about in scotland and who emigrated to the united states in . he published a _history of the administration of j. adams_ (new york, ) that was suppressed by aaron burr. this act called forth two works, a _narrative of the suppression, by col. burr, of the 'history of the administration of john adams'_ ( ), in which wood was sustained; and the _antidote to john wood's poison_ ( ), in which he was attacked. the work referred to in the "printed circular" may have been the _new theory of the diurnal rotation of the earth_ (richmond, va., ). wood spent the last years of his life in richmond, va., making county maps. he died there in . a careful search through works relating to the university of virginia fails to show that wood had any connection with it. [ ] there seems to be nothing to add to dobson's biography beyond what de morgan has so deliciously set forth. [ ] "give to each man his due." [ ] hester lynch salusbury ( - ), the friend of dr. johnson, married henry thrale ( ), a brewer, who died in . she then married gabriel piozzi ( ), an italian musician. her _anecdotes of the late samuel johnson_ ( ) and _letters to and from samuel johnson_ ( ) are well known. she also wrote numerous essays and poems. [ ] samuel pike (c. - ) was an independent minister, with a chapel in london and a theological school in his house. he later became a disciple of robert sandeman and left the independents for the sandemanian church ( ). the _philosophia sacra_ was first published at london in . de morgan here cites the second edition. [ ] pike had been dead over forty years when kittle published this second edition. kittle had already published a couple of works: _king solomon's portraiture of old age_ (edinburgh, ), and _critical and practical lectures on the apocalyptical epistles to the seven churches of asia minor_ (london, ). [ ] see note , on page . [ ] william stukely ( - ) was a fellow of the royal society and of the college of physicians and surgeons. he afterwards ( ) entered the church. he was prominent as an antiquary, especially in the study of the roman and druidic remains of great britain. he was the author of numerous works, chiefly on paleography. [ ] william jones ( - ), who should not be confused with his namesake who is mentioned in note on page . he was a lifelong friend of bishop horne, and his vicarage at nayland was a meeting place of an influential group of high churchmen. besides the _physiological disquisitions_ ( ) he wrote _the catholic doctrine of the trinity_ ( ) and _the grand analogy_ ( ). [ ] robert spearman ( - ) was a pupil of john hutchinson, and not only edited his works but wrote his life. he wrote a work against the newtonian physics, entitled _an enquiry after philosophy and theology_ (edinburgh, ), besides the _letters to a friend concerning the septuagint translation_ (edinburgh, ) to which de morgan refers. [ ] a writer of no importance, at least in the minds of british biographers. [ ] alexander catcott ( - ), a theologian and geologist, wrote not only a work on the creation ( ) but a _treatise on the deluge_ ( , with a second edition in ). sir charles lyell considered the latter work a valuable contribution to geology. [ ] james robertson ( - ), professor of hebrew at the university of edinburgh. probably de morgan refers to his _grammatica linguae hebrææ_ (edinburgh, ; with a second edition in ). he also wrote _clavis pentateuchi_ ( ). [ ] benjamin holloway (c. - ), a geologist and theologian. he translated woodward's _naturalis historia telluris_, and was introduced by woodward to hutchinson. the work referred to by de morgan appeared at oxford in two volumes in . [ ] his work was _the christian plan exhibited in the interpretation of elohim: with observations upon a few other matters relative to the same subject_, oxford, , with a second edition in . [ ] duncan forbes ( - ) studied oriental languages and civil law at leyden. he was lord president of the court of sessions ( ). he wrote a number of theological works. [ ] should be . [ ] edward henry bickersteth ( - ), bishop of exeter ( - ); published _the rock of ages; or scripture testimony to the one eternal godhead of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost_ at hampstead in . a second edition appeared at london in . [ ] thomas sadler ( - ) took his ph.d. at erlangen in , and became a unitarian minister at hampstead, where bickersteth's work was published. besides writing the _gloria patri_ ( ), he edited crabb robinson's diaries. [ ] this was his _virgil's bucolics and the two first satyrs of juvenal_, . [ ] possibly in his _twelve questions or arguments drawn out of scripture, wherein the commonly received opinion touching the deity of the holy spirit is clearly and fully refuted_, . this was his first heretical work, and it was followed by a number of others that were written during the intervals in which the puritan parliament allowed him out of prison. it was burned by the hangman as blasphemous. biddle finally died in prison, unrepentant to the last. [ ] the first edition of the anonymous [greek: haireseôn anastasis] (by vicars?) appeared in . [ ] possibly by thomas pearne (c. - ), a fellow of st. peter's college, cambridge, and a unitarian minister. [ ] thomas wentworth, earl of strafford, was borne in london in , and was executed there in . he was privy councilor to charles i, and was lord deputy of ireland. on account of his repressive measures to uphold the absolute power of the king he was impeached by the long parliament and was executed for treason. the essence of his defence is in the sentence quoted by de morgan, to which pym replied that taken as a whole, the acts tended to show an intention to change the government, and this was in itself treason. [ ] the name assumed by a writer who professed to give a mathematical explanation of the trinity, see farther on.--s. e. de m. [ ] sabellius (fl. a.d.) was an early christian of libyan origin. he taught that father, son, and holy spirit were different names for the same person. [ ] sir richard phillips was born in london in (not as stated above), and died there in . he was a bookseller and printer in leicester, where he also edited a radical newspaper. he went to london to live in and started the _monthly magazine_ there in . besides the works mentioned by de morgan he wrote on law and economics. [ ] it was really eighteen months. [ ] while he was made sheriff in he was not knighted until the following year. [ ] james mitchell (c. - ) was a london actuary, or rather a scotch actuary living a good part of his life in london. besides the work mentioned he compiled a _dictionary of chemistry, mineralogy, and geology_ ( ), and wrote _on the plurality of worlds_ ( ) and _the elements of astronomy_ ( ). [ ] richarda smith, wife of sir george biddell airy (see note , page ) the astronomer. in sir robert peel offered a pension of £ a year to airy, who requested that it be settled on his wife. [ ] mary fairfax ( - ) married as her second husband dr. william somerville. in she presented to the royal society a paper on _the magnetic properties of the violet rays of the solar spectrum_, which attracted much attention. it was for her _mechanism of the heavens_ ( ), a popular translation of laplace's _mécanique céleste_, that she was pensioned. [ ] dominique françois jean arago ( - ) the celebrated french astronomer and physicist. [ ] for there is a well-known series + / ^ + / ^ + ... = [pi]^ / . if, therefore, the given series equals , we have = / [pi]^ or [pi]^ = , whence [pi] = [root] . but c = [pi]d, and twice the diagonal of a cube on the diameter is d [root] . [ ] there was a second edition in . [ ] london, . [ ] he was a resident of chatham, and seems to have published no other works. [ ] richard whately ( - ) was, as a child, a calculating prodigy (see note , page ), but lost the power as is usually the case with well-balanced minds. he was a fellow of oriel college, oxford, and in became principal of st. alban hall. he was a friend of newman, keble, and others who were interested in the religious questions of the day. he became archbishop of dublin in . he was for a long time known to students through his _logic_ ( ) and _rhetoric_ ( ). [ ] william king, d.c.l. ( - ), student at christ church, oxford, and celebrated as a wit and scholar. his _dialogues of the dead_ ( ) is a satirical attack on bentley. [ ] thomas ebrington ( - ) was a fellow of trinity college, dublin, and taught divinity, mathematics, and natural philosophy there. he became provost of the college in , bishop of limerick in , and bishop of leighlin and ferns in . his edition of euclid was reprinted a dozen times. the _reply to john search's considerations on the law of libel_ appeared at dublin in . [ ] joseph blanco white ( - ) was the son of an irishman living in spain. he was born at seville and studied for orders there, being ordained priest in . he lost his faith in the roman catholic church, and gave up the ministry, escaping to england at the time of the french invasion. at london he edited _español_, a patriotic journal extensively circulated in spain, and for this service he was pensioned after the expulsion of the french. he then studied at oriel college, oxford, and became intimate with men like whately, newman, and keble. in he became a unitarian. among his theological writings is his _evidences against catholicism_ ( ). the "rejoinder" to which de morgan refers consisted of two letters: _the law of anti-religious libel reconsidered_ (dublin, ) and _an answer to some friendly remarks on "the law of anti-religious libel reconsidered"_ (dublin, ). [ ] the work was translated from the french. [ ] j. hoëné wronski ( - ) served, while yet a mere boy, as an artillery officer in kosciusko's army ( - ). he was imprisoned after the battle of maciejowice. he afterwards lived in germany, and (after ) in paris. for the bibliography of his works see s. dickstein's article in the _bibliotheca mathematica_, vol. vi ( ), page . [ ] perhaps referring to his _introduction à la philosophie des mathématiques_ ( ). [ ] read "equation of the." [ ] thomas young ( - ), physician and physicist, sometimes called the founder of physiological optics. he seems to have initiated the theory of color blindness that was later developed by helmholtz. the attack referred to was because of his connection with the board of longitude, he having been made ( ) superintendent of the nautical almanac and secretary of the board. he opposed introducing into the nautical almanac anything not immediately useful to navigation, and this antagonized many scientists. [ ] isaac milner ( - ) was professor of natural philosophy at cambridge ( ) and later became, as de morgan states, president of queens' college ( ). in he became dean of carlisle, and in lucasian professor of mathematics. his chief interest was in chemistry and physics, but he contributed nothing of importance to these sciences or to mathematics. [ ] thomas perronet thompson ( - ), fellow of queens' college, cambridge, saw service in spain and india, but after lived in england. he became major general in , and general in . besides some works on economics and politics he wrote a _geometry without axioms_ ( ) that de morgan includes later on in his _budget_. in it thompson endeavored to prove the parallel postulate. [ ] de morgan's father-in-law. see note , page . [ ] johann friedrich herbart ( - ), successor of kant as professor of philosophy at königsberg ( - ), where he established a school of pedagogy. from until his death he was professor of philosophy at göttingen. the title of the pamphlet is: _de attentionis mensura causisque primariis. psychologiae principia statica et mechanica exemplo illustraturus.... regiomonti,... _. the formulas in question are given on pages and , and de morgan has omitted the preliminary steps, which are, for the first one: [beta] ([phi] - z) [delta]t = [delta]z unde [beta]t= const / ([phi] - z). pro t = etiam z = ; hinc [beta]t = log [phi]/([phi] - z). z = [phi] ( - [epsilon]^{-[beta]t}); et [delta]z/[delta]t = [beta][phi][epsilon]^{-[beta]t} these are, however, quite elementary as compared with other portions of the theory. [ ] see note , page . [ ] william law ( - ) was a clergyman, a fellow of emanuel college, cambridge, and in later life a convert to behmen's philosophy. he was so free in his charities that the village in which he lived became so infested by beggars that he was urged by the citizens to leave. he wrote _a serious call to a devout and holy life_ ( ). [ ] he was a curate at cheshunt, and wrote the _spiritual voice to the christian church and to the jews_ (london, ), _a second warning to the world by the spirit of prophecy_ (london, ), and _signs of the times; or a voice to babylon_ (london, ). [ ] his real name was thomas vaughan ( - ). he was a fellow of jesus college, oxford, taking orders, but was deprived of his living on account of drunkenness. he became a mystic philosopher and gave attention to alchemy. his works had a large circulation, particularly on the continent. he wrote _magia adamica_ (london, ), _euphrates; or the waters of the east_ (london, ), and _the chymist's key to shut, and to open; or the true doctrine of corruption and generation_ (london, ). [ ] emanuel swedenborg, or svedberg ( - ) the mystic. it is not commonly known to mathematicians that he was one of their guild, but he wrote on both mathematics and chemistry. among his works are the _regelkonst eller algebra_ (upsala, ) and the _methodus nova inveniendi longitudines locorum, terra marique, ope lunae_ (amsterdam, , , and ). after he devoted his attention to mystic philosophy. [ ] pierre simon laplace ( - ), whose _exposition du système du monde_ ( ) and _traité de mécanique celeste_ ( ) are well known. [ ] see note , page . [ ] john dalton ( - ), who taught mathematics and physics at new college, manchester ( - ) and was the first to state the law of the expansion of gases known by his name and that of gay-lussac. his _new system of chemical philosophy_ (vol. i, pt. i, ; pt. ii, ; vol. ii, ) sets forth his atomic theory. [ ] howison was a poet and philosopher. he lived in edinburgh and was a friend of sir walter scott. this work appeared in . [ ] he was a shoemaker, born about at haddiscoe, and his "astro-historical" lectures at norwich attracted a good deal of attention at one time. he traced all geologic changes to differences in the inclination of the earth's axis to the plane of its orbit. of the works mentioned by de morgan the first appeared at norwich in - , and there was a second edition in . the second appeared in - . the fourth was _urania's key to the revelation; or the analyzation of the writings of the jews..._, and was first published at norwich in , there being a second edition at london in . his books were evidently not a financial success, for mackey died in an almshouse at norwich. [ ] godfrey higgins ( - ), the archeologist, was interested in the history of religious beliefs and in practical sociology. he wrote _horae sabbaticae_ ( ), _the celtic druids_ ( and ), and _anacalypsis, an attempt to draw aside the veil of the saitic isis; or an inquiry into the origin of languages, nations, and religions_ (posthumously published, ), and other works. see also page , _infra_. [ ] the work also appeared in french. wirgman wrote, or at least began, two other works: _divarication of the new testament into doctrine and history; part i, the four gospels_ (london, ), and _mental philosophy; part i, grammar of the five senses; being the first step to infant education_ (london, ). [ ] he was born at shandrum, county limerick, and supported himself by teaching writing and arithmetic. he died in an almshouse at cork. [ ] george boole ( - ), professor of mathematics at queens' college, cork. his _laws of thought_ ( ) was the first work on the algebra of logic. [ ] oratio grassi ( - ), the jesuit who became famous for his controversy with galileo over the theory of comets. galileo ridiculed him in _il saggiatore_, although according to the modern view grassi was the more nearly right. it is said that the latter's resentment led to the persecution of galileo. [ ] de morgan might have found much else for his satire in the letters of walsh. he sought, in his _theory of partial functions_, to substitute "partial equations" for the differential calculus. in his diary there is an entry: "discovered the general solution of numerical equations of the fifth degree at evergreen street, at the cross of evergreen, cork, at nine o'clock in the forenoon of july th, ; exactly twenty-two years after the invention of the geometry of partial equations, and the expulsion of the differential calculus from mathematical science." [ ] "it has been ordered, sir, it has been ordered." [ ] bartholomew prescot was a liverpool accountant. de morgan gives this correct spelling on page . he died after . his _inverted scheme of copernicus_ appeared in liverpool in . [ ] robert taylor ( - ) had many more ups and downs than de morgan mentions. he was a priest of the church of england, but resigned his parish in after preaching against christianity. he soon recanted and took another parish, but was dismissed by the bishop almost immediately on the ground of heresy. as stated in the text, he was convicted of blasphemy in and was sentenced to a year's imprisonment, and again for two years on the same charge in . he then married a woman who was rich in money and in years, and was thereupon sued for breach of promise by another woman. to escape paying the judgment that was rendered against him he fled to tours where he took up surgery. [ ] herbert marsh, bishop of peterborough. see note on page . [ ] "argument from the prison." [ ] richard carlile ( - ), one of the leading radicals of his time. he published hone's parodies (see note , page ) after they had been suppressed, and an edition of thomas paine ( ). he was repeatedly imprisoned, serving nine years in all. his continued conflict with the authorities proved a good advertisement for his bookshop. [ ] wilhelm ludwig christmann ( - ) was a protestant clergyman and teacher of mathematics. for a while he taught under pestalozzi. disappointed in his ambition to be professor of mathematics at tubingen, he became a confirmed misanthrope and is said never to have left his house during the last ten years of his life. he wrote several works: _ein wort über pestalozzi und pestalozzismus_ ( ); _ars cossae promota_ ( ); _philosophia cossica_ ( ); _aetas argentea cossae_ ( ); _ueber tradition und schrift, logos und kabbala_ ( ), besides the one mentioned above. the word _coss_ in the above titles was a german name for algebra, from the italian _cosa_ (thing), the name for the unknown quantity. it appears in english in the early name for algebra, "the cossic art." [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] he seems to have written nothing else. [ ] see note on page . the name is here spelled correctly. [ ] joseph jacotot ( - ), the father of this fortuné jacotot, was an infant prodigy. at nineteen he was made professor of the humanities at dijon. he served in the army, and then became professor of mathematics at dijon. he continued in his chair until the restoration of the bourbons, and then fled to louvain. it was here that he developed the method with which his name is usually connected. he wrote a _mathématiques_ in , which went through four editions. the _epitomé_ is by his son, fortuné. [ ] he wrote on educational topics and a _sacred history_ that went through several editions. [ ] "all is in all." [ ] "know one thing and refer everything else to it," as it is often translated. [ ] a writer of no reputation. [ ] sir john lubbock ( - ), banker, scientist, publicist, astronomer, one of the versatile men of his time. [ ] see note , page . [ ] "those about to die salute you." [ ] georges louis leclerc buffon ( - ), the well-known biologist. he also experimented with burning mirrors, his results appearing in his _invention des miroirs ardens pour brûler à une grande distance_ ( ). the reference here may be to his _resolution des problèmes qui regardent le jeu du franc carreau_ ( ). the prominence of his _histoire naturelle_ ( volumes, - ) has overshadowed the credit due to him for his translation of newton's work on fluxions. [ ] see page . this article was a supplement to no. in the _athenæum_ budget.--a. de m. [ ] there are many similar series and products. among the more interesting are the following: [pi] · · · · · · ... ---- = ----------------, · · · · · · ... [pi]- = ------ = ----- - ----- + ----- - ..., · · · · · · [pi] ---- = sqrt - · ( - --- + ----- - ----- + ----- - ...), · ^ · ^ · ^ · [pi] ---- = ( - - ----- + ----- - ----- + ...) · ^ · ^ · ^ - ( --- - ------- + ------- - ...). · ^ · ^ [ ] "to a privateer, a privateer and a half." [ ] joshua milne ( - ) was actuary of the sun life assurance society. he wrote _a treatise on the valuation of annuities and assurances on lives and survivorships; on the construction of tables of mortality; and on the probabilities and expectations of life_, london, . upon the basis of the carlisle bills of mortality of dr. heysham he reconstructed the mortality tables then in use and which were based upon the northampton table of dr. price. his work revolutionized the actuarial science of the time. in later years he devoted his attention to natural history. [ ] see note , page . he also wrote the _theory of parallels. the proof of euclid's axiom looked for in the properties of the equiangular spiral_ (london, ), which went through four editions, and the _theory of parallels. the proof that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles looked for in the inflation of the sphere_ (london, ), of which there were three editions. [ ] for the latest summary, see w. b. frankland, _theories of parallelism, an historical critique_, cambridge, . [ ] joseph louis lagrange ( - ), author of the _mécanique analytique_ ( ), _théorie des functions analytiques_ ( ), _traité de la résolution des équations numériques de tous degrés_ ( ), _leçons sur le calcul des fonctions_ ( ), and many memoirs. although born in turin and spending twenty of his best years in germany, he is commonly looked upon as the great leader of french mathematicians. the last twenty-seven years of his life were spent in paris, and his remarkable productivity continued to the time of his death. his genius in the theory of numbers was probably never excelled except by fermat. he received very high honors at the hands of napoleon and was on the first staff of the ecole polytechnique ( ). [ ] "i shall have to think it over again." [ ] henry goulburn ( - ) held various government posts. he was under-secretary for war and the colonies ( ), commissioner to negotiate peace with america ( ), chief secretary to the lord lieutenant of ireland ( ), and several times chancellor of the exchequer. on the occasion mentioned by de morgan he was standing for parliament, and was successful. [ ] on drinkwater bethune see note , page . [ ] charles henry cooper ( - ) was a biographer and antiquary. he was town clerk of cambridge ( - ) and wrote the _annals of cambridge_ ( - ). his _memorials of cambridge_ ( ) appeared after his death. thompson cooper was his son, and the two collaborated in the _athenae cantabrigiensis_ ( ). [ ] william yates peel ( - ) was a brother of sir robert peel, he whose name degenerated into the familiar title of the london "bobby" or "peeler." yates peel was a member of parliament almost continuously from to . he represented cambridge at westminster from to . [ ] henry john temple, third viscount of palmerston ( - ), was member for cambridge in , , , (defeating goulburn), and . he failed of reelection in because of his advocacy of reform. this must have been the time when goulburn defeated him. he was foreign secretary ( ) and secretary of state for foreign affairs ( - , and - ). it is said of him that he "created belgium, saved portugal and spain from absolutism, rescued turkey from russia and the highway to india from france." he was prime minister almost continuously from to , a period covering the indian mutiny and the american civil war. [ ] william cavendish, seventh duke of devonshire ( - ). he was member for cambridge from to , but was defeated in because he had favored parliamentary reform. he became earl of burlington in , and duke of devonshire in . he was much interested in the promotion of railroads and in the iron and steel industries. [ ] richard sheepshanks ( - ) was a brother of john sheepshanks the benefactor of art. (see note , p. .) he was a fellow of trinity college, cambridge, a fellow of the royal society and secretary of the astronomical society. babbage (see note , p. ) suspected him of advising against the government support of his calculating machine and attacked him severely in his _exposition of _, in the chapter on _the intrigues of science_. babbage also showed that sheepshanks got an astronomical instrument of french make through the custom house by having troughton's (see note , page ) name engraved on it. sheepshanks admitted this second charge, but wrote a _letter in reply to the calumnies of mr. babbage_, which was published in . he had a highly controversial nature. [ ] see note , page . the work referred to is _passages from the life of a philosopher_, london, . [ ] drinkwater bethune. see note , page . [ ] siméon-denis poisson ( - ) was professor of calculus and mechanics at the ecole polytechnique. he was made a baron by napoleon, and was raised to the peerage in . his chief works are the _traité de mécanìque_ ( ) and the _traité mathématique de la chaleur_ ( ). [ ] "as to m. poisson, i really wish i had a thousandth part of his mathematical knowledge that i might prove my system to the incredulous." [ ] this list includes most of the works of antoine-louis-guénard demonville. there was also the _nouveau système du monde ... et hypothèses conformes aux expériences sur les vents, sur la lumière et sur le fluide électro-magnétique_, paris, . [ ] paris, . [ ] paris, . [ ] the second part appeared in . there were also editions in and , and one edition appeared without date. [ ] paris, . [ ] parsey also wrote _the art of miniature painting on ivory_ ( ), _perspective rectified_ ( ), and _the science of vision_ ( ), the third being a revision of the second. [ ] william ritchie ( - ) was a physicist who had studied at paris under biot and gay-lussac. he contributed several papers on electricity, heat, and elasticity, and was looked upon as a good experimenter. besides the geometry he wrote the _principles of the differential and integral calculus_ ( ). [ ] alfred day ( - ) was a man who was about fifty years ahead of his time in his attempt to get at the logical foundations of geometry. it is true that he laid himself open to criticism, but his work was by no means bad. he also wrote _a treatise on harmony_ ( , second edition ), _the rotation of the pendulum_ ( ), and several works on greek and latin grammar. [ ] walter forman wrote a number of controversial tracts. his first seems to have been _a plan for improving the revenue without adding to the burdens of the people_, a letter to canning in . he also wrote _a new theory of the tides_ ( ). his _letter to lord john russell, on lord brougham's most extraordinary conduct; and another to sir j. herschel, on the application of kepler's third law_ appeared in . [ ] lord john russell ( - ) first earl russell, was one of the strongest supporters of the reform measures of the early victorian period. he became prime minister in , and again in . [ ] lauder seems never to have written anything else. [ ] see note , page . [ ] the names of alphonso cano de molina, yvon, and robert sara have no standing in the history of the subject beyond what would be inferred from de morgan's remark. [ ] claude mydorge ( - ), an intimate friend of descartes, was a dilletante in mathematics who read much but accomplished little. his _récréations mathématiques_ is his chief work. boncompagni published the "problèmes de mydorge" in his _bulletino_. [ ] claude hardy was born towards the end of the th century and died at paris in . in he edited the _data euclidis_, publishing the greek text with a latin translation. he was a friend of mydorge and descartes, but an opponent of fermat. [ ] that is, in the _bibliotheca realis_ of martin lipen, or lipenius ( - ), which appeared in six folio volumes, at frankfort, - . [ ] see note , page . [ ] baldassare boncompagni ( - ) was the greatest general collector of mathematical works that ever lived, possibly excepting libri. his magnificent library was dispersed at his death. his _bulletino_ ( - ) is one of the greatest source books on the history of mathematics that we have. he also edited the works of leonardo of pisa. [ ] he seems to have attracted no attention since de morgan's search, for he is not mentioned in recent bibliographies. [ ] joseph-louis vincens de mouléon de causans was born about the beginning of the l th century. he was a knight of malta, colonel in the infantry, prince of conti, and governor of the principality of orange. his works on geometry are the _prospectus apologétique pour la quadrature du cercle_ ( ), and _la vraie géométrie transcendante_ ( ). [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] lieut. william samuel stratford ( - ), was in active service during the napoleonic wars but retired from the army in . he was first secretary of the astronomical society ( ) and became superintendent of the nautical almanac in . with francis baily he compiled a star catalogue, and wrote on halley's ( - ) and encke's ( ) comets. [ ] see sir j. herschel's _astronomy_, p. .--a. de m. [ ] captain ross had just stuck a bit of brass there.--a. de m. sir james clark ross ( - ) was a rear admiral in the british navy and an arctic and antarctic explorer of prominence. de morgan's reference is to ross's discovery of the magnetic pole on june , . in he was employed by the admiralty on a magnetic survey of the united kingdom. he was awarded the gold medal of the geographical societies of london and paris in . [ ] john partridge ( - ), the well-known astrologer and almanac maker. although bound to a shoemaker in his early boyhood, he had acquired enough latin at the age of eighteen to read the works of the astrologers. he then mastered greek and hebrew and studied medicine. in he began the publication of his almanac, the _merlinus liberatus_, a book that acquired literary celebrity largely through the witty comments upon it by such writers as swift and steele. [ ] see note on page . [ ] william woodley also published several almanacs ( , , ) after his rejection by the astronomical society in . [ ] it appeared at london. [ ] the first edition appeared in , also at london. [ ] see note , page . [ ] thomas kerigan wrote _the young navigator's guide to the siderial and planetary parts of nautical astronomy_ (london, , second edition ), a work on eclipses (london, ), and the work on tides (london, ) to which de morgan refers. [ ] jean sylvain bailly, who was guillotined. see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] laurent seems to have had faint glimpses of the modern theory of matter. he is, however, unknown. [ ] see note , page . [ ] francis baily ( - ) was a london stockbroker. his interest in science in general and in astronomy in particular led to his membership in the royal society and to his presidency of the astronomical society. he wrote on interest and annuities ( ), but his chief works were on astronomy. [ ] if the story is correctly told baily must have enjoyed his statement that gauss was "the oldest mathematician now living." as a matter of fact he was then only , three years the junior of baily himself. gauss was born in and died in , and baily was quite right in saying that he was "generally thought to be the greatest" mathematician then living. [ ] margaret cooke, who married flamsteed in . [ ] john brinkley ( - ), senior wrangler, first smith's prize-man ( ), andrews professor of astronomy at dublin, first astronomer royal for ireland ( ), f.r.s. ( ), copley medallist, president of the royal society and bishop of cloyne. his _elements of astronomy_ appeared in . [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] "it becomes the doctors of the sorbonne to dispute, the pope to decree, and the mathematician to go to paradise on a perpendicular line." [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] sylvain van de weyer, who was born at louvain in . he was a jurist and statesman, holding the portfolio for foreign affairs ( - ), and being at one time ambassador to england. [ ] henry crabb robinson ( - ), correspondent of the _times_ at altona and in the peninsula, and later foreign editor. he was one of the founders of the athenæum club and of university college, london. he seems to have known pretty much every one of his day, and his posthumous _diary_ attracted attention when it appeared. [ ] was this whewell, who was at trinity from to and became a fellow in ? [ ] tom cribb ( - ) the champion pugilist. he had worked as a coal porter and hence received his nickname, the black diamond. [ ] john finleyson, or finlayson, was born in scotland in and died in london in . he published a number of pamphlets that made a pretense to being scientific. among his striking phrases and sentences are the statements that the stars were made "to amuse us in observing them"; that the earth is "not shaped like a garden turnip as the newtonians make it," and that the stars are "oval-shaped immense masses of frozen water." the first edition of the work here mentioned appeared at london in . [ ] richard brothers ( - ) was a native of newfoundland. he went to london when he was about , and a little later set forth his claim to being a descendant of david, prince of the hebrews, and ruler of the world. he was confined as a criminal lunatic in but was released in . [ ] charles grey ( - ), second earl grey, viscount howick, was then prime minister. the reform bill was introduced and defeated in . the following year, with the royal guarantees to allow him to create peers, he finally carried the bill in spite of "the number of the beast." [ ] the letters of obscure men, the _epistolæ obscurorum virorum ad venerabilem virum magistrum ortuinum gratium dauentriensem_, by joannes crotus, ulrich von hutten, and others appeared at venice about . [ ] the lamentations of obscure men, the _lamentationes obscurorum virorum, non prohibete per sedem apostolicam. epistola d. erasmi roterodami: quid de obscuris sentiat_, by g. ortwinus, appeared at cologne in . [ ] the criticism was timely when de morgan wrote it. at present it would have but little force with respect to the better class of algebras. [ ] thomas ignatius maria forster ( - ) was more of a man than one would infer from this satire upon his theory. he was a naturalist, astronomer, and physiologist. in he published his _researches about atmospheric phenomena_, and seven years later (july , ) he discovered a comet. with sir richard phillips he founded a meteorological society, but it was short lived. he declined a fellowship in the royal society because he disapproved of certain of its rules, so that he had a recognized standing in his day. the work mentioned by de morgan is the second edition, the first having appeared at frankfort on the main in under the title, _recueil des ouvrages et des pensées d'un physicien et metaphysicien_. [ ] zadkiel, whose real name was richard james morrison ( - ), was in his early years an officer in the navy. in he began the publication of the _herald of astrology_, which was continued as _zadkiel's almanac_. his name became familiar throughout great britain as a result. [ ] see note , page . [ ] sumner ( - ) was an eton boy. he went to king's college, cambridge, and was elected fellow in . he took many honors, and in became m.a. he was successively canon of durham ( ), bishop of chester ( ), and archbishop of canterbury ( ). although he voted for the catholic relief bill ( ) and the reform bill ( ), he opposed the removal of jewish disabilities. [ ] charles richard sumner ( - ) was not only bishop of winchester ( ), but also bishop of llandaff and dean of st. paul's, london ( ). he lost the king's favor by voting for the catholic relief bill. [ ] john bird sumner, brother of charles richard. [ ] thomas musgrave ( - ) became fellow of trinity in , and senior proctor in . he was also dean of bristol. [ ] charles thomas longley ( - ) was educated at westminster school and at christ church, oxford. he became m.a. in and d.d. in . besides the bishoprics mentioned he was bishop of ripon ( - ), and before that was headmaster of harrow ( - ). [ ] thomson ( - ) was scholar and fellow of queen's college, oxford. he became chaplain to the queen in . [ ] this is worthy of the statistical psychologists of the present day. [ ] the famous moon hoax was written by richard adams locke, who was born in new york in and died in staten island in . he was at one time editor of the _sun_, and the hoax appeared in that journal in . it was reprinted in london ( ) and germany, and was accepted seriously by most readers. it was published in book form in new york in under the title _the moon hoax_. locke also wrote another hoax, the _lost manuscript of mungo park_, but it attracted relatively little attention. [ ] it is true that jean-nicolas nicollet ( - ) was at that time in the united states, but there does not seem to be any very tangible evidence to connect him with the story. he was secretary and librarian of the paris observatory ( ), member of the bureau of longitudes ( ), and teacher of mathematics in the lycée louis-le-grand. having lost his money through speculations he left france for the united states in and became connected with the government survey of the mississippi valley. [ ] this was alexis bouvard ( - ), who made most of the computations for laplace's _mécanique céleste_ ( ). he discovered eight new comets and calculated their orbits. in his tables of uranus ( ) he attributed certain perturbations to the presence of an undiscovered planet, but unlike leverrier and adams he did not follow up this clue and thus discover neptune. [ ] patrick murphy ( - ) awoke to find himself famous because of his natural guess that there would be very cold weather on january , although that is generally the season of lowest temperature. it turned out that his forecasts were partly right on days and very wrong on days. [ ] he seems to have written nothing else. if one wishes to enter into the subject of the mathematics of the great pyramid there is an extensive literature awaiting him. richard william howard vyse ( - ) published in his _operations carried on at the pyramids of gizeh in _, and in this he made a beginning of a scientific metrical study of the subject. charles piazzi smyth ( - ), astronomer royal for scotland ( - ) was much carried away with the number mysticism of the great pyramid, so much so that he published in a work entitled _our inheritance in the great pyramid_, in which his vagaries were set forth. although he was then a fellow of the royal society ( ), his work was so ill received that when he offered a paper on the subject it was rejected ( ) and he resigned in consequence of this action. the latest and perhaps the most scholarly of all investigators of the subject is william matthew flinders petrie (born in ), edwards professor of egyptology at university college, london, whose _pyramids and temples of gizeh_ ( ) and subsequent works are justly esteemed as authorities. [ ] as de morgan subsequently found, this name reversed becomes oliver b...e, for oliver byrne, one of the odd characters among the minor mathematical writers of the middle of the last century. one of his most curious works is _the first six books of the elements of euclid; in which coloured diagrams and symbols are used instead of letters_ ( ). there is some merit in speaking of the red triangle instead of the triangle abc, but not enough to give the method any standing. his _dual arithmetic_ ( - ) was also a curious work. [ ] brenan also wrote on english composition ( ), a work that went through fourteen editions by ; a work entitled _the foreigner's english conjugator_ ( ), and a work on the national debt. [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] sir william rowan hamilton ( - ), the discoverer of quaternions ( ), was an infant prodigy, competing with zerah colburn as a child. he was a linguist of remarkable powers, being able, at thirteen years of age, to boast that he knew as many languages as he had lived years. when only sixteen he found an error in laplace's _mécanique céleste_. when only twenty-two he was appointed andrews professor of astronomy, and he soon after became astronomer royal of ireland. he was knighted in . his earlier work was on optics, his _theory of systems of rays_ appearing in . in he published a paper on the principle of _varying action_. he also wrote on dynamics. [ ] "let him not leave the kingdom,"--a legal phrase. [ ] probably de morgan is referring to johann bernoulli iii ( - ), who edited lambert's _logische und philosophische abhandlungen_, berlin, . he was astronomer of the academy of sciences at berlin. [ ] jacob bernoulli ( - ) was one of the two brothers who founded the famous bernoulli family of mathematicians, the other being johann i. his _ars conjectandi_ ( ), published posthumously, was the first distinct treatise on probabilities. [ ] johann heinrich lambert ( - ) was one of the most learned men of his time. although interested chiefly in mathematics, he wrote also on science, logic, and philosophy. [ ] joseph diez gergonne ( - ), a soldier under napoleon, and founder of the _annales de mathématiques_ ( ). [ ] gottfried ploucquet ( - ) was at first a clergyman, but afterwards became professor of logic at tübingen. [ ] "in the premises let the middle term be omitted; what remains indicates the conclusion." [ ] probably sir william edmond logan ( - ), who became so interested in geology as to be placed at the head of the geological survey of canada ( ). the university of montreal conferred the title ll.d. upon him, and napoleon iii gave him the cross of the legion of honor. [ ] "so strike that he may think himself to die." [ ] "witticism or piece of stupidity." [ ] a very truculently unjust assertion: for sir w. was as great a setter up of some as he was a puller down of others. his writings are a congeries of praises and blames, both _cruel smart_, as they say in the states. but the combined instigation of prose, rhyme, and retort would send aristides himself to tartarus, if it were not pretty certain that minos would grant a _stet processus_ under the circumstances. the first two verses are exaggerations standing on a basis of truth. the fourth verse is quite true: sir w. h. was an edinburgh aristotle, with the difference of ancient and modern athens well marked, especially the _perfervidum ingenium scotorum_.--a. de m. [ ] see note , p. . there was also a _theory of parallels_ that differed from these, london, , second edition , third edition . [ ] the work was written by robert chambers ( - ), the edinburgh publisher, a friend of scott and of many of his contemporaries in the literary field. he published the _vestiges of the natural history of creation_ in , not . [ ] everett ( - ) was at that time a good wesleyan, but was expelled from the ministry in for having written _wesleyan takings_ and as under suspicion for having started the _fly sheets_ in . in he established the united methodist free church. [ ] smith was a primitive methodist preacher. he also wrote an _earnest address to the methodists_ ( ) and _the wealth question_ ( ?). [ ] he wrote the _nouveau traité de balistique_, paris, . [ ] joseph denison, known to fame only through de morgan. see also page . [ ] the radical ( ?- ), advocate of the founding of london university ( ), of medical reform ( - ), and of the repeal of the duties on newspapers and corn, and an ardent champion of penny postage. [ ] i. e., roman catholic priest. [ ] murphy ( - ) showed extraordinary powers in mathematics even before the age of thirteen. he became a fellow of caius college, cambridge, in , dean in , and examiner in mathematics in london university in . [ ] see note , page . [ ] sir john bowring ( - ), the linguist, writer, and traveler, member of many learned societies and a writer of high reputation in his time. his works were not, however, of genuine merit. [ ] joseph hume ( - ) served as a surgeon with the british army in india early in the nineteenth century. he returned to england in and entered parliament as a radical in . he was much interested in all reform movements. [ ] sir robert harry inglis ( - ), a strong tory, known for his numerous addresses in the house of commons rather than for any real ability. [ ] sir robert peel ( - ) began his parliamentary career in and was twice prime minister. he was prominent in most of the great reforms of his time. [ ] see note , page . [ ] john taylor ( - ) was a publisher, and published several pamphlets opposed to peel's currency measures. de morgan refers to his work on the junius question. this was done early in his career, and resulted in _a discovery of the author of the letters of junius_ ( ), and _the identity of junius with a distinguished living character established_ ( ), this being sir philip francis. [ ] see note , page . [ ] see page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] sir nicholas harris nicolas ( - ) was a reformer in various lines,--the record commission, the society of antiquaries, and the british museum,--and his work was not without good results. [ ] see note , page . [ ] in the _companion to the almanac_ for is a paper by prof. de morgan, "on the ecclesiastical calendar," the statements of which, so far as concerns the gregorian calendar, are taken direct from the work of clavius, the principal agent in the arrangement of the reformed reckoning. this was followed, in the _companion to the almanac_ for , by a second paper, by the same author, headed "on the earliest printed almanacs," much of which is written in direct supplement to the former article.--s. e. de morgan. [ ] it may be necessary to remind some english readers that in latin and its derived european languages, what we call easter is called the passover (_pascha_). the quartadecimans had the _name_ on their side: a possession which often is, in this world, nine points of the law.--a. de m. [ ] socrates scholasticus was born at constantinople c. , and died after . his _historia ecclesiastica_ (in greek) covers the period from constantine the great to about , and includes the council of nicæa. the work was printed in paris . [ ] theodoretus or theodoritus was born at antioch and died about . he was one of the greatest divines of the fifth century, a man of learning, piety, and judicial mind, and a champion of freedom of opinion in all religious matters. [ ] he died in . he was a man of great energy and of high attainments. [ ] he died in , having reigned as pope for twenty-one years. it was he who induced attila to spare rome in . [ ] he succeeded leo as pope in , and reigned for seven years. [ ] victorinus or victorius marianus seems to have been born at limoges. he was a mathematician and astronomer, and the cycle mentioned by de morgan is one of years, a combination of the metonic cycle of years with the solar cycle of years. his canon was published at antwerp in or , _de doctrina temporum sive commentarius in victorii aquitani et aliorum canones paschales_. [ ] he went to rome about , and died there in . he wrote his _liber de paschate_ in , and it was in this work that the christian era was first used for calendar purposes. [ ] see note , page . [ ] johannes de sacrobosco (holy wood), or john of holywood. the name was often written, without regard to its etymology, sacrobusto. he was educated at oxford and taught in paris until his death ( ). he did much to make the hindu-arabic numerals known to european scholars. [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] the julian year is a year of the julian calendar, in which there is leap year every fourth year. its average length is therefore days and a quarter.--a. de m. [ ] ugo buoncompagno ( - ) was elected pope in . [ ] he was a calabrian, and as early as was professor of medicine at perugia. in his manuscript on the reform of the calendar was presented to the roman curia by his brother, antonius. the manuscript was not printed and it has not been preserved. [ ] the title of this work, which is the authority on all points of the new calendar, is _kalendarium gregorianum perpetuum. cum privilegio summi pontificis et aliorum principum. romæ, ex officina dominici basæ. mdlxxxii. cum licentia superiorum_ (quarto, pp. ).--a. de m. [ ] _manuels-roret. théorie du calendrier et collection de tous les calendriers des années passées et futures_.... par l. b. francoeur,... paris, à la librairie encyclopédique de roret, rue hautefeuille, bis. . ( mo.) in this valuable manual, the possible almanacs are given at length, with such preliminary tables as will enable any one to find, by mere inspection, which almanac he is to choose for any year, whether of old or new style. [ . i may now refer to my own _book of almanacs_, for the same purpose].--a. de m. louis benjamin francoeur ( - ), after holding positions in the ecole polytechnique ( ) and the lycée charlemagne ( ), became professor of higher algebra in the university of paris ( ). his _cours complet des mathématiques pures_ was well received, and he also wrote on mechanics, astronomy, and geodesy. [ ] albertus pighius, or albert pigghe, was born at kempen c. and died at utrecht in . he was a mathematician and a firm defender of the faith, asserting the supremacy of the pope and attacking both luther and calvin. he spent some time in rome. his greatest work was his _hierarchiæ ecclesiasticæ assertio_ ( ). [ ] this was a. f. vogel. the work was his translation from the german edition which appeared at leipsic the same year, _entdeckung einer numerischen general-auflösung aller höheren endlichen gleichungen von jeder beliebigen algebraischen und transcendenten form_. [ ] the latest edition of burnside and panton's _theory of equations_ has this brief summary of the present status of the problem: "demonstrations have been given by abel and wantzel (see serret's _cours d'algèbre supérieure_, art. ) of the impossibility of resolving algebraically equations unrestricted in form, of a degree higher than the fourth. a transcendental solution, however, of the quintic has been given by m. hermite, in a form involving elliptic integrals." [ ] there was a second edition of this work in . the author's _astronomy simplified_ was published in , and the _thoughts on physical astronomy_ in , with a second edition in . [ ] this was _the science of the weather, by several authors... edited by b._, glasgow, . [ ] this was y. ramachandra, son of sundara l[=a]la. he was a teacher of science in delhi college, and the work to which de morgan refers is _a treatise on problems of maxima and minima solved by algebra_, which appeared at calcutta in . de morgan's edition was published at london nine years later. [ ] abraham de moivre ( - ), french refugee in london, poor, studying under difficulties, was a man with tastes in some respects like those of de morgan. for one thing, he was a lover of books, and he had a good deal of interest in the theory of probabilities to which de morgan also gave much thought. his introduction of imaginary quantities into trigonometry was an event of importance in the history of mathematics, and the theorem that bears his name, (cos [phi] + i sin [phi])^{n} = cos n[phi] + i sin n[phi], is one of the most important ones in all analysis. [ ] john dolland ( - ), the silk weaver who became the greatest maker of optical instruments in his time. [ ] thomas simpson ( - ), also a weaver, taking his leisure from his loom at spitalfields to teach mathematics. his _new treatise on fluxions_ ( ) was written only two years after he began working in london, and six years later he was appointed professor of mathematics at woolwich. he wrote many works on mathematics and simpson's formulas for computing trigonometric tables are still given in the text-books. [ ] nicholas saunderson ( - ), the blind mathematician. he lost his eyesight through smallpox when only a year old. at the age of he began lecturing at cambridge on the principles of the newtonian philosophy. his _algebra_, in two large volumes, was long the standard treatise on the subject. [ ] he was not in the class with the others mentioned. [ ] not known in the literature of mathematics. [ ] probably j. butler williams whose _practical geodesy_ appeared in , with a third edition in . [ ] benjamin gompertz ( - ) was debarred as a jew from a university education. he studied mathematics privately and became president of the mathematical society. de morgan knew him professionally through the fact that he was prominent in actuarial work. [ ] referring to the contributions of archimedes ( - b.c.) to the mensuration of the sphere. [ ] the famous alexandrian astronomer (c. -c. a.d.), author of the _almagest_, a treatise founded on the works of hipparchus. [ ] dr. whewell, when i communicated this song to him, started the opinion, which i had before him, that this was a very good idea, of which too little was made.--a. de m. [ ] see note , page . [ ] the common epithet of rank: _nobilis tycho_, as he was a nobleman. the writer had been at history.--a. de m. see note , page . [ ] he lost it in a duel, with manderupius pasbergius. a contemporary, t. b. laurus, insinuates that they fought to settle which was the best mathematician! this seems odd, but it must be remembered they fought in the dark, "_in tenebris densis_"; and it is a nice problem to shave off a nose in the dark, without any other harm.--a. de m. was this t. b. laurus joannes baptista laurus or giovanni battista lauro ( - ), the poet and writer? [ ] see note , page . [ ] referring to kepler's celebrated law of planetary motion. he had previously wasted his time on analogies between the planetary orbits and the polyhedrons.--a. de m. [ ] see note , page . [ ] "it does move though." [ ] as great a lie as ever was told: but in a compliment to newton without a fling at descartes would have been held a lopsided structure.--a. de m. [ ] jean-le-rond d'alembert ( - ), the foundling who was left on the steps of jean-le-rond in paris, and who became one of the greatest mathematical physicists and astronomers of his century. [ ] leonhard euler ( - ), friend of the bernoullis, the greatest of swiss mathematicians, prominent in the theory of numbers, and known for discoveries in all lines of mathematics as then studied. [ ] see notes , , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] the _siderial_ day is about four minutes short of the solar; there are sidereal days in the year.--a. de m. [ ] the founding of the london mathematical society is discussed by mrs. de morgan in her _memoir_ (p. ). the idea came from a conversation between her brilliant son, george campbell de morgan, and his friend arthur cowper ranyard in . the meeting of organization was held on nov. , , with professor de morgan in the chair, and the first regular meeting on january , . [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] john russell hind (b. ), the astronomer. between and he discovered ten planetoids. [ ] sir roderick impey murchison ( - ), the great geologist. he was knighted in and devoted the latter part of his life to the work of the royal geographical society and to the geology of scotland. [ ] friedrich wilhelm bessel ( - ), the astronomer and physicist. he was professor of astronomy at königsberg. [ ] this was the _reduction of the observations of planets made ... from to : computed ... under the superintendence of george biddell airy_ ( ). see note , page . [ ] the expense of this magnificent work was defrayed by government grants, obtained, at the instance of the british association, in --a. de m. [ ] see note , page . [ ] franz friedrich ernst brünnow ( - ) was at that time or shortly before director of the observatory at dusseldorf. he then went to berlin and thence ( ) to ann arbor, michigan. he then went to dublin and finally became royal astronomer of ireland. [ ] johann gottfried galle ( - ), at that time connected with the berlin observatory, and later professor of astronomy at breslau. [ ] george bishop ( - ), in whose observatory in regent's park important observations were made by dawes, hind, and marth. [ ] james challis ( - ), director of the cambridge observatory, and successor of airy as plumian professor of astronomy. [ ] on leverrier and arago see note , page , and note , page . [ ] robert grant's ( - ) _history of physical astronomy from the earliest ages to the middle of the nineteenth century_ appeared in . he was professor of astronomy and director of the observatory at glasgow. [ ] john debenham was more interested in religion than in astronomy. he wrote _the strait gate; or, the true scripture doctrine of salvation clearly explained_, london, , and _tractatus de magis et bethlehemæ stella et christi in deserto tentatione_, privately printed at london in . [ ] more properly the sydney smirke reading room, since it was built from his designs. [ ] the antinomians were followers of johannes agricola ( - ). they believed that christians as such were released from all obligations to the old testament. some went so far as to assert that, since all christians were sanctified, they could not lose this sanctity even though they disobeyed god. the sect was prominent in england in the seventeenth century, and was transferred to new england. here it suffered a check in the condemnation of mrs. ann hutchinson ( ) by the newton synod. [ ] aside from this work and his publications on reeve and muggleton he wrote nothing. with joseph frost he published _a list_ _of books and general index to j. reeve and l. muggleton's works_ ( ), _divine songs of the muggletonians_ ( ), and the work mentioned on page . _the works of j. reeve and l. muggleton_ ( ). [ ] about he and his cousin john reeve ( - ) began to have visions. as part of their creed they taught that astronomy was opposed by the bible. they asserted that the sun moves about the earth, and reeve figured out that heaven was exactly six miles away. both muggleton and reeve were imprisoned for their unitarian views. muggleton wrote a _transcendant spirituall treatise_ ( ). i have before me _a true interpretation of all the chief texts ... of the whole book of the revelation of st. john.... by lodowick muggleton, one of the two last commissioned witnesses & prophets of the onely high, immortal, glorious god, christ jesus_ ( ), in which the interpretation of the "number of the beast" occupies four pages without arriving anywhere. [ ] in he was, in a vision, named as the lord's "last messenger," with muggleton as his "mouth," and died six years later, probably of nervous tension resulting from his divine "illumination." he was the more spiritual of the two. [ ] william guthrie ( - ) was a historian and political writer. his _history of england_ ( - ) was the first attempt to base history on parliamentary records. he also wrote a _general history of scotland_ in volumes ( ). the work to which frost refers is the _geographical, historical, and commercial grammar_ ( ) which contained an astronomical part by j. ferguson. by it had passed through editions. [ ] george fox ( - ), founder of the society of friends; a mystic and a disciple of boehme. he was eight times imprisoned for heresy. [ ] if they were friends they were literary antagonists, for muggleton wrote against fox _the neck of the quakers broken_ ( ), and fox replied in . muggleton also wrote _a looking glass for george fox_. [ ] john conduitt ( - ), who married ( ) newton's half niece, mrs. katherine barton. see note , page . [ ] probably peter mark roget's ( - ) _thesaurus of english words_ ( ) is not much used at present, but it went through editions in his lifetime. few who use the valuable work are aware that roget was a professor of physiology at the royal institution (london), that he achieved his title of f. r. s. because of his work in perfecting the slide rule, and that he followed sir john herschel as secretary of the royal society. [ ] see note , page . this work went into a second edition in the year of its first publication. [ ] see note , page . [ ] see note , page . [ ] george jacob holyoake ( - ) entered into a controversial life at an early age. in he was imprisoned for six months for blasphemy. he founded and edited _the reasoner_ (vols. - , - ). in his later life he did much to promote cooperation among the working class. [ ] see note , page . [ ] william thomas lowndes ( - ), whose _bibliographer's manual of english literature_, vols., london, (also - , and ) is a classic in its line. [ ] jacques charles brunet ( - ), the author of the great french bibliography, the _manuel du libraire_ ( ). * * * * * corrections made to printed original. page , "direct acquaintance with the whole of his mental ancestry": 'acquantance' in original. page , "the error is at the rate": 'it' (for 'is') in original. page , "the lineal successor of the repository association": 'successsor' in original. page , "the doctors had finished their compliments": 'docters' in original. page , "causing mutual perturbations": 'peturbations' in original. page , "the work itself is described": 'decribed' in original. page , the entry for is printed as , it appears that the correct value should be . page , "sir john herschel's previous communication": 'pervious' in original. note , "he constructed a working model of a steam road carriage": 'contructed' in original. note , "the variation of the earth's diameters": 'diaameters' in original. note , "the first edition of the anonymous [greek]": 'anonynous' in original. transcribed from the w. isbister & co. edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk health and education by the rev. charles kingsley, f.l.s., f.g.s. canon of westminster w. isbister & co. , ludgate hill, london [_all rights reserved_] the science of health whether the british race is improving or degenerating? what, if it seem probably degenerating, are the causes of so great an evil? how they can be, if not destroyed, at least arrested?--these are questions worthy the attention, not of statesmen only and medical men, but of every father and mother in these isles. i shall say somewhat about them in this essay; and say it in a form which ought to be intelligible to fathers and mothers of every class, from the highest to the lowest, in hopes of convincing some of them at least that the science of health, now so utterly neglected in our curriculum of so-called education, ought to be taught--the rudiments of it at least--in every school, college, and university. we talk of our hardy forefathers; and rightly. but they were hardy, just as the savage is usually hardy, because none but the hardy lived. they may have been able to say of themselves--as they do in a state paper of , now well known through the pages of mr. froude--"what comyn folk of all the world may compare with the comyns of england, in riches, freedom, liberty, welfare, and all prosperity? what comyn folk is so mighty, and so strong in the felde, as the comyns of england?" they may have been fed on "great shins of beef," till they became, as benvenuto cellini calls them, "the english wild beasts." but they increased in numbers slowly, if at all, for centuries. those terrible laws of natural selection, which issue in "the survival of the fittest," cleared off the less fit, in every generation, principally by infantile disease, often by wholesale famine and pestilence; and left, on the whole, only those of the strongest constitutions to perpetuate a hardy, valiant, and enterprising race. at last came a sudden and unprecedented change. in the first years of the century, steam and commerce produced an enormous increase in the population. millions of fresh human beings found employment, married, brought up children who found employment in their turn, and learnt to live more or less civilised lives. an event, doubtless, for which god is to be thanked. a quite new phase of humanity, bringing with it new vices and new dangers: but bringing, also, not merely new comforts, but new noblenesses, new generosities, new conceptions of duty, and of how that duty should be done. it is childish to regret the old times, when our soot-grimed manufacturing districts were green with lonely farms. to murmur at the transformation would be, i believe, to murmur at the will of him without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground. "the old order changeth, yielding place to the new, and god fulfils himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world." our duty is, instead of longing for the good old custom, to take care of the good new custom, lest it should corrupt the world in like wise. and it may do so thus:-- the rapid increase of population during the first half of this century began at a moment when the british stock was specially exhausted; namely, about the end of the long french war. there may have been periods of exhaustion, at least in england, before that. there may have been one here, as there seems to have been on the continent, after the crusades; and another after the wars of the roses. there was certainly a period of severe exhaustion at the end of elizabeth's reign, due both to the long spanish and irish wars and to the terrible endemics introduced from abroad; an exhaustion which may have caused, in part, the national weakness which hung upon us during the reign of the stuarts. but after none of these did the survival of the less fit suddenly become more easy; or the discovery of steam power, and the acquisition of a colonial empire, create at once a fresh demand for human beings and a fresh supply of food for them. britain, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, was in an altogether new social situation. at the beginning of the great french war; and, indeed, ever since the beginning of the war with spain in --often snubbed as the "war about jenkins's ear"--but which was, as i hold, one of the most just, as it was one of the most popular, of all our wars; after, too, the once famous "forty fine harvests" of the eighteenth century, the british people, from the gentleman who led to the soldier or sailor who followed, were one of the mightiest and most capable races which the world has ever seen, comparable best to the old roman, at his mightiest and most capable period. that, at least, their works testify. they created--as far as man can be said to create anything--the british empire. they won for us our colonies, our commerce, the mastery of the seas of all the world. but at what a cost-- "their bones are scattered far and wide, by mount, and stream, and sea." year after year, till the final triumph of waterloo, not battle only, but worse destroyers than shot and shell--fatigue and disease--had been carrying off our stoutest, ablest, healthiest young men, each of whom represented, alas! a maiden left unmarried at home, or married, in default, to a less able man. the strongest went to the war; each who fell left a weaklier man to continue the race; while of those who did not fall, too many returned with tainted and weakened constitutions, to injure, it may be, generations yet unborn. the middle classes, being mostly engaged in peaceful pursuits, suffered less of this decimation of their finest young men; and to that fact i attribute much of their increasing preponderance, social, political, and intellectual, to this very day. one cannot walk the streets of any of our great commercial cities without seeing plenty of men, young and middle-aged, whose whole bearing and stature shows that the manly vigour of our middle class is anything but exhausted. in liverpool, especially, i have been much struck not only with the vigorous countenance, but with the bodily size of the mercantile men on 'change. but it must be remembered always, first, that these men are the very elite of their class; the cleverest men; the men capable of doing most work; and next, that they are, almost all of them, from the great merchant who has his villa out of town, and perhaps his moor in the highlands, down to the sturdy young volunteer who serves in the haberdasher's shop, country-bred men; and that the question is, not what they are like now, but what their children and grand-children, especially the fine young volunteer's, will be like? and a very serious question i hold that to be; and for this reason: war is, without doubt, the most hideous physical curse which fallen man inflicts upon himself; and for this simple reason, that it reverses the very laws of nature, and is more cruel even than pestilence. for instead of issuing in the survival of the fittest, it issues in the survival of the less fit: and therefore, if protracted, must deteriorate generations yet unborn. and yet a peace such as we now enjoy, prosperous, civilised, humane, is fraught, though to a less degree, with the very same ill effect. in the first place, tens of thousands--who knows it not?--lead sedentary and unwholesome lives, stooping, asphyxiated, employing as small a fraction of their bodies as of their minds. and all this in dwellings, workshops, what not?--the influences, the very atmosphere of which tend not to health, but to unhealth, and to drunkenness as a solace under the feeling of unhealth and depression. and that such a life must tell upon their offspring, and if their offspring grow up under similar circumstances, upon their offspring's offspring, till a whole population may become permanently degraded, who does not know? for who that walks through the by-streets of any great city does not see? moreover, and this is one of the most fearful problems with which modern civilisation has to deal--we interfere with natural selection by our conscientious care of life, as surely as does war itself. if war kills the most fit to live, we save alive those who--looking at them from a merely physical point of view--are most fit to die. everything which makes it more easy to live; every sanatory reform, prevention of pestilence, medical discovery, amelioration of climate, drainage of soil, improvement in dwelling-houses, workhouses, gaols; every reformatory school, every hospital, every cure of drunkenness, every influence, in short, which has--so i am told--increased the average length of life in these islands, by nearly one-third, since the first establishment of life insurances, one hundred and fifty years ago; every influence of this kind, i say, saves persons alive who would otherwise have died; and the great majority of these will be, even in surgical and zymotic cases, those of least resisting power; who are thus preserved to produce in time a still less powerful progeny. do i say that we ought not to save these people, if we can? god forbid. the weakly, the diseased, whether infant or adult, is here on earth; a british citizen; no more responsible for his own weakness than for his own existence. society, that is, in plain english, we and our ancestors, are responsible for both; and we must fulfil the duty, and keep him in life; and, if we can, heal, strengthen, develop him to the utmost; and make the best of that which "fate and our own deservings" have given us to deal with. i do not speak of higher motives still; motives which to every minister of religion must be paramount and awful. i speak merely of physical and social motives, such as appeal to the conscience of every man--the instinct which bids every human-hearted man or woman to save life, alleviate pain, like him who causes his sun to shine on the evil and on the good, and his rain to fall on the just and on the unjust. but it is palpable, that in so doing we must, year by year, preserve a large percentage of weakly persons, who, marrying freely in their own class, must produce weaklier children, and they weaklier children still. must, did i say? there are those who are of opinion--and i, after watching and comparing the histories of many families, indeed, of every one with whom i have come in contact for now five-and-thirty years, in town and country, can only fear that their opinion is but too well founded on fact--that in the great majority of cases, in all classes whatsoever, the children are not equal to their parents, nor they, again, to their grandparents of the beginning of the century; and that this degrading process goes on most surely, and most rapidly, in our large towns, and in proportion to the antiquity of those towns, and therefore in proportion to the number of generations during which the degrading influences have been at work. this and cognate dangers have been felt more and more deeply, as the years have rolled on, by students of human society. to ward them off, theory after theory has been put on paper, especially in france, which deserve high praise for their ingenuity, less for their morality, and, i fear, still less for their common-sense. for the theorist in his closet is certain to ignore, as inconvenient to the construction of his utopia, certain of those broad facts of human nature which every active parish priest, medical man, or poor-law guardian has to face every day of his life. society and british human nature are what they have become by the indirect influences of long ages, and we can no more reconstruct the one than we can change the other. we can no more mend men by theories than we can by coercion--to which, by the by, almost all these theorists look longingly as their final hope and mainstay. we must teach men to mend their own matters, of their own reason, and their own free-will. we must teach them that they are the arbiters of their own destinies; and, to a fearfully great degree, of their children's destinies after them. we must teach them not merely that they ought to be free, but that they are free, whether they know it or not, for good and for evil. and we must do that in this case, by teaching them sound practical science; the science of physiology, as applied to health. so, and so only, can we check--i do not say stop entirely--though i believe even that to be ideally possible; but at least check the process of degradation which i believe to be surely going on, not merely in these islands, but in every civilised country in the world, in proportion to its civilisation. it is still a question whether science has fully discovered those laws of hereditary health, the disregard of which causes so many marriages disastrous to generations yet unborn. but much valuable light has been thrown on this most mysterious and most important subject during the last few years. that light--and i thank god for it--is widening and deepening rapidly. and i doubt not that, in a generation or two more, enough will be known to be thrown into the shape of practical and proveable rules; and that, if not a public opinion, yet at least, what is more useful far, a wide-spread private opinion, will grow up, especially among educated women, which will prevent many a tragedy and save many a life. but, as to the laws of personal health: enough, and more than enough, is known already, to be applied safely and easily by any adults, however unlearned, to the preservation not only of their own health, but of that of their children. the value of healthy habitations, of personal cleanliness, of pure air and pure water, of various kinds of food, according as each tends to make bone, fat, or muscle, provided only--provided only--that the food be unadulterated; the value of various kinds of clothing, and physical exercise, of a free and equal development of the brain-power, without undue overstrain in any one direction; in one word, the method of producing, as far as possible, the mentem sanam in corpore sano, and the wonderful and blessed effects of such obedience to those laws of nature, which are nothing but the good will of god expressed in facts--their wonderful and blessed tendency, i say, to eliminate the germs of hereditary disease, and to actually regenerate the human system--all this is known; known as fully and clearly as any human knowledge need be known; it is written in dozens of popular books and pamphlets. and why should this divine voice, which cries to man, tending to sink into effeminate barbarism through his own hasty and partial civilisation,--"it is not too late. for your bodies, as for your spirits, there is an upward, as well as a downward path. you, or if not you, at least the children whom you have brought into the world, for whom you toil, for whom you hoard, for whom you pray, for whom you would give your lives,--they still may be healthy, strong, it may be beautiful, and have all the intellectual and social, as well as the physical advantages, which health, strength, and beauty give."--ah, why is this divine voice now, as of old, wisdom crying in the streets, and no man regarding her? i appeal to women, who are initiated, as we men can never be, into the stern mysteries of pain, and sorrow, and self-sacrifice;--they who bring forth children, weep over children, slave for children, and, if they have none of their own, then slave, with the holy instinct of the sexless bee, for the children of others--let them say, shall this thing be? let my readers pardon me if i seem to write too earnestly. that i speak neither more nor less than the truth, every medical man knows full well. not only as a very humble student of physiology, but as a parish priest of thirty years' standing, i have seen so much unnecessary misery; and i have in other cases seen similar misery so simply avoided; that the sense of the vastness of the evil is intensified by my sense of the easiness of the cure. why, then--to come to practical suggestions--should there not be opened in every great town in these realms a public school of health? it might connect itself with--i hold that it should form an integral part of--some existing educational institute. but it should at least give practical lectures, for fees small enough to put them within the reach of any respectable man or woman, however poor. i cannot but hope that such schools of health, if opened in the great manufacturing towns of england and scotland, and, indeed, in such an irish town as belfast, would obtain pupils in plenty, and pupils who would thoroughly profit by what they hear. the people of these towns are, most of them, specially accustomed by their own trades to the application of scientific laws. to them, therefore, the application of any fresh physical laws to a fresh set of facts, would have nothing strange in it. they have already something of that inductive habit of mind which is the groundwork of all rational understanding or action. they would not turn the deaf and contemptuous ear with which the savage and the superstitious receive the revelation of nature's mysteries. why should not, with so hopeful an audience, the experiment be tried far and wide, of giving lectures on health, as supplementary to those lectures on animal physiology which are, i am happy to say, becoming more and more common? why should not people be taught--they are already being taught at birmingham--something about the tissues of the body, their structure and uses, the circulation of the blood, respiration, chemical changes in the air respired, amount breathed, digestion, nature of food, absorption, secretion, structure of the nervous system,--in fact, be taught something of how their own bodies are made and how they work? teaching of this kind ought to, and will, in some more civilised age and country, be held a necessary element in the school-course of every child, just as necessary as reading, writing, and arithmetic; for it is after all the most necessary branch of that "technical education" of which we hear so much just now, namely, the technic, or art, of keeping oneself alive and well. but we can hardly stop there. after we have taught the condition of health, we must teach also the condition of disease; of those diseases specially which tend to lessen wholesale the health of townsfolk, exposed to an artificial mode of life. surely young men and women should be taught something of the causes of zymotic disease, and of scrofula, consumption, rickets, dipsomania, cerebral derangement, and such like. they should be shown the practical value of pure air, pure water, unadulterated food, sweet and dry dwellings. is there one of them, man or woman, who would not be the safer and happier, and the more useful to his or her neighbours, if they had acquired some sound notions about those questions of drainage on which their own lives and the lives of their children may every day depend? i say--women as well as men. i should have said women rather than men. for it is the women who have the ordering of the household, the bringing up of the children; the women who bide at home, while the men are away, it may be at the other end of the earth. and if any say, as they have a right to say--"but these are subjects which can hardly be taught to young women in public lectures;" i rejoin,--of course not, unless they are taught by women,--by women, of course, duly educated and legally qualified. let such teach to women, what every woman ought to know, and what her parents will very properly object to her hearing from almost any man. this is one of the main reasons why i have, for twenty years past, advocated the training of women for the medical profession; and one which countervails, in my mind, all possible objections to such a movement. and now, thank god, i am seeing the common sense of great britain, and indeed of every civilised nation, gradually coming round to that which seemed to me, when i first conceived of it, a dream too chimerical to be cherished save in secret--the restoring woman to her natural share in that sacred office of healer, which she held in the middle ages, and from which she was thrust out during the sixteenth century. i am most happy to see, for instance, that the national health society, { } which i earnestly recommend to the attention of my readers, announces a "course of lectures for ladies on elementary physiology and hygiene, by miss chessar," to which i am also most happy to see, governesses are admitted at half-fees. alas! how much misery, disease, and even death, might have been prevented, had governesses been taught such matters thirty years ago, i, for one, know too well. may the day soon come when there will be educated women enough to give such lectures throughout these realms, to rich as well as poor,--for the rich, strange to say, need them often as much as the poor do,--and that we may live to see, in every great town, health classes for women as well as for men, sending forth year by year more young women and young men taught, not only to take care of themselves and of their families, but to exercise moral influence over their fellow-citizens, as champions in the battle against dirt and drunkenness, disease and death. there may be those who would answer--or rather, there would certainly have been those who would have so answered thirty years ago, before the so-called materialism of advanced science had taught us some practical wisdom about education, and reminded people that they have bodies as well as minds and souls--"you say, we are likely to grow weaklier, unhealthier. and if it were so, what matter? mind makes the man, not body. we do not want our children to be stupid giants and bravos; but clever, able, highly educated, however weakly providence or the laws of nature may have chosen to make them. let them overstrain their brains a little; let them contract their chests, and injure their digestion and their eyesight, by sitting at desks, poring over books. intellect is what we want. intellect makes money. intellect makes the world. we would rather see our son a genius than an athlete." well: and so would i. but what if intellect alone does not even make money, save as messrs. dodson & fogg, sampson brass, and montagu tigg were wont to make it, unless backed by an able, enduring, healthy physique, such as i have seen, almost without exception, in those successful men of business whom i have had the honour and the pleasure of knowing? what if intellect, or what is now called intellect, did not make the world, or the smallest wheel or cog of it? what if, for want of obeying the laws of nature, parents bred up neither a genius nor an athlete, but only an incapable unhappy personage, with a huge upright forehead, like that of a byzantine greek, filled with some sort of pap instead of brains, and tempted alternately to fanaticism and strong drink? we must, in the great majority of cases have the corpus sanem if we want the mentem sanem; and healthy bodies are the only trustworthy organs for healthy minds. which is cause and which is effect, i shall not stay to debate here. but wherever we find a population generally weakly, stunted, scrofulous, we find in them a corresponding type of brain, which cannot be trusted to do good work; which is capable more or less of madness, whether solitary or epidemic. it may be very active; it may be very quick at catching at new and grand ideas--all the more quick, perhaps, on account of its own secret _malaise_ and self-discontent: but it will be irritable, spasmodic, hysterical. it will be apt to mistake capacity of talk for capacity of action, excitement for earnestness, virulence for force, and, too often, cruelty for justice. it will lose manful independence, individuality, originality; and when men act, they will act, from the consciousness of personal weakness, like sheep rushing over a hedge, leaning against each other, exhorting each other to be brave, and swaying about in mobs and masses. these were the intellectual weaknesses which, as i read history, followed on physical degradation in imperial rome, in alexandria, in byzantium. have we not seen them reappear, under fearful forms, in paris but the other day? i do not blame; i do not judge. my theory, which i hold, and shall hold, to be fairly founded on a wide induction, forbids me to blame and to judge: because it tells me that these defects are mainly physical; that those who exhibit them are mainly to be pitied, as victims of the sins or ignorance of their forefathers. but it tells me too, that those who, professing to be educated men, and therefore bound to know better, treat these physical phenomena as spiritual, healthy, and praiseworthy; who even exasperate them, that they may make capital out of the weaknesses of fallen man, are the most contemptible and yet the most dangerous of public enemies, let them cloak their quackery under whatsoever patriotic, or scientific, or even sacred words. there are those again honest, kindly, sensible, practical men, many of them; men whom i have no wish to offend; whom i had rather ask to teach me some of their own experience and common sense, which has learned to discern, like good statesmen, not only what ought to be done, but what can be done--there are those, i say, who would sooner see this whole question let alone. their feeling, as far as i can analyse it, seems to be, that the evils of which i have been complaining, are on the whole inevitable: or, if not, that we can mend so very little of them, that it is wisest to leave them alone altogether, lest, like certain sewers, "the more you stir them, the more they smell." they fear lest we should unsettle the minds of the many for whom these evils will never be mended; lest we make them discontented; discontented with their houses, their occupations, their food, their whole social arrangements; and all in vain. i should answer, in all courtesy and humility--for i sympathise deeply with such men and women, and respect them deeply likewise--but are not people discontented already, from the lowest to the highest? and ought a man, in such a piecemeal, foolish, greedy, sinful world as this is, and always has been, to be anything but discontented? if he thinks that things are going all right, must he not have a most beggarly conception of what going right means? and if things are not going right, can it be anything but good for him to see that they are not going right? can truth and fact harm any human being? i shall not believe so, as long as i have a bible wherein to believe. for my part, i should like to make every man, woman, and child whom i meet discontented with themselves, even as i am discontented with myself. i should like to awaken in them, about their physical, their intellectual, their moral condition, that divine discontent which is the parent, first of upward aspiration and then of self-control, thought, effort to fulfil that aspiration even in part. for to be discontented with the divine discontent, and to be ashamed with the noble shame, is the very germ and first upgrowth of all virtue. men begin at first, as boys begin when they grumble at their school and their schoolmasters, to lay the blame on others; to be discontented with their circumstances--the things which stand around them; and to cry, "oh that i had this!" "oh that i had that!" but that way no deliverance lies. that discontent only ends in revolt and rebellion, social or political; and that, again, still in the same worship of circumstances--but this time desperate--which ends, let it disguise itself under what fine names it will, in what the old greeks called a tyranny; in which--as in the spanish republics of america, and in france more than once--all have become the voluntary slaves of one man, because each man fancies that the one man can improve his circumstances for him. but the wise man will learn, like epictetus the heroic slave, the slave of epaphroditus, nero's minion--and in what baser and uglier circumstances could human being find himself?--to find out the secret of being truly free; namely, to be discontented with no man and no thing save himself. to say not--"oh that i had this and that!" but "oh that i were this and that!" then, by god's help--and that heroic slave, heathen though he was, believed and trusted in god's help--"i will make myself that which god has shown me that i ought to be and can be." ten thousand a-year, or ten million a-year, as epictetus saw full well, cannot mend that vulgar discontent with circumstances, which he had felt--and who with more right?--and conquered, and despised. for that is the discontent of children, wanting always more holidays and more sweets. but i wish my readers to have, and to cherish, the discontent of men and women. therefore i would make men and women discontented, with the divine and wholesome discontent, at their own physical frame, and at that of their children. i would accustom their eyes to those precious heirlooms of the human race, the statues of the old greeks; to their tender grandeur, their chaste healthfulness, their unconscious, because perfect, might: and say--there; these are tokens to you, and to all generations yet unborn, of what man could be once; of what he can be again if he will obey those laws of nature which are the voice of god. i would make them discontented with the ugliness and closeness of their dwellings; i would make the men discontented with the fashion of their garments, and still more just now the women, of all ranks, with the fashion of theirs; and with everything around them which they have the power of improving, if it be at all ungraceful, superfluous, tawdry, ridiculous, unwholesome. i would make them discontented with what they call their education, and say to them--you call the three royal r's education? they are not education: no more is the knowledge which would enable you to take the highest prizes given by the society of arts, or any other body. they are not education: they are only instruction; a necessary groundwork, in an age like this, for making practical use of your education: but not the education itself. and if they asked me, what then education meant? i should point them, first, i think, to noble old lilly's noble old 'euphues,' of three hundred years ago, and ask them to consider what it says about education, and especially this passage concerning that mere knowledge which is now-a- days strangely miscalled education. "there are two principal and peculiar gifts in the nature of man, knowledge and reason. the one"--that is reason--"commandeth, and the other"--that is knowledge--"obeyeth. these things neither the whirling wheel of fortune can change, nor the deceitful cavillings of worldlings separate, neither sickness abate, nor age abolish." and next i should point them to those pages in mr. gladstone's 'juventus mundi,' where he describes the ideal training of a greek youth in homer's days; and say,--there: that is an education fit for a really civilised man, even though he never saw a book in his life; the full, proportionate, harmonious educing--that is, bringing out and developing--of all the faculties of his body, mind, and heart, till he becomes at once a reverent yet a self-assured, a graceful and yet a valiant, an able and yet an eloquent personage. and if any should say to me--"but what has this to do with science? homer's greeks knew no science;" i should rejoin--but they had, pre-eminently above all ancient races which we know, the scientific instinct; the teachableness and modesty; the clear eye and quick ear; the hearty reverence for fact and nature, and for the human body, and mind, and spirit; for human nature, in a word, in its completeness, as the highest fact upon this earth. therefore they became in after years, not only the great colonisers and the great civilisers of the old world--the most practical people, i hold, which the world ever saw; but the parents of all sound physics as well as of all sound metaphysics. their very religion, in spite of its imperfections, helped forward their education, not in spite of, but by means of, that anthropomorphism which we sometimes too hastily decry. as mr. gladstone says in a passage which i must quote at length--"as regarded all other functions of our nature, outside the domain of the life to godward--all those functions which are summed up in what st. paul calls the flesh and the mind, the psychic and bodily life, the tendency of the system was to exalt the human element, by proposing a model of beauty, strength, and wisdom, in all their combinations, so elevated that the effort to attain them required a continual upward strain. it made divinity attainable; and thus it effectually directed the thought and aim of man 'along the line of limitless desires.' such a scheme of religion, though failing grossly in the government of the passions, and in upholding the standard of moral duties, tended powerfully to produce a lofty self-respect, and a large, free, and varied conception of humanity. it incorporated itself in schemes of notable discipline for mind and body, indeed of a lifelong education; and these habits of mind and action had their marked results (to omit many other greatnesses) in a philosophy, literature, and art, which remain to this day unrivalled or unsurpassed." so much those old greeks did for their own education, without science and without christianity. we who have both: what might we not do, if we would be true to our advantages, and to ourselves? the two breaths. a lecture delivered at winchester, may , . ladies,--i have been honoured by a second invitation to address you here, from the lady to whose public spirit the establishment of these lectures is due. i dare not refuse it: because it gives me an opportunity of speaking on a matter, knowledge and ignorance about which may seriously affect your health and happiness, and that of the children with whom you may have to do. i must apologize if i say many things which are well known to many persons in this room: they ought to be well known to all; and it is generally best to assume total ignorance in one's hearers, and to begin from the beginning. i shall try to be as simple as possible; to trouble you as little as possible with scientific terms; to be practical; and at the same time, if possible, interesting. i should wish to call this lecture "the two breaths:" not merely "the breath;" and for this reason: every time you breathe, you breathe two different breaths; you take in one, you give out another. the composition of those two breaths is different. their effects are different. the breath which has been breathed out must not be breathed in again. to tell you why it must not would lead me into anatomical details, not quite in place here as yet: though the day will come, i trust, when every woman entrusted with the care of children will be expected to know something about them. but this i may say--those who habitually take in fresh breath will probably grow up large, strong, ruddy, cheerful, active, clear-headed, fit for their work. those who habitually take in the breath which has been breathed out by themselves, or any other living creature, will certainly grow up, if they grow up at all, small, weak, pale, nervous, depressed, unfit for work, and tempted continually to resort to stimulants, and become drunkards. if you want to see how different the breath breathed out is from the breath taken in, you have only to try a somewhat cruel experiment, but one which people too often try upon themselves, their children, and their work-people. if you take any small animal with lungs like your own--a mouse, for instance--and force it to breathe no air but what you have breathed already; if you put it in a close box, and while you take in breath from the outer air, send out your breath through a tube, into that box, the animal will soon faint; if you go on long with this process, it will die. take a second instance, which i beg to press most seriously on the notice of mothers, governesses, and nurses: if you allow a child to get into the habit of sleeping with its head under the bed-clothes, and thereby breathing its own breath over and over again, that child will assuredly grow pale, weak, and ill. medical men have cases on record of scrofula appearing in children previously healthy, which could only be accounted for from this habit, and which ceased when the habit stopped. let me again entreat your attention to this undoubted fact. take another instance, which is only too common: if you are in a crowded room, with plenty of fire and lights and company, doors and windows all shut tight, how often you feel faint--so faint, that you may require smelling-salts or some other stimulant. the cause of your faintness is just the same as that of the mouse's fainting in the box: you and your friends, and, as i shall show you presently, the fire and the candles likewise, having been all breathing each other's breaths, over and over again, till the air has become unfit to support life. you are doing your best to enact over again the highland tragedy, of which sir james simpson tells in his lectures to the working-classes of edinburgh, when at a christmas meeting thirty-six persons danced all night in a small room with a low ceiling, keeping the doors and windows shut. the atmosphere of the room was noxious beyond description; and the effect was, that seven of the party were soon after seized with typhus fever, of which two died. you are inflicting on yourselves the torments of the poor dog, who is kept at the grotto del cane, near naples, to be stupified, for the amusement of visitors, by the carbonic acid gas of the grotto, and brought to life again by being dragged into the fresh air; nay, you are inflicting upon yourselves the torments of the famous black hole of calcutta; and, if there was no chimney in the room, by which some fresh air could enter, the candles would soon burn blue--as they do, you know, when ghosts appear; your brains become disturbed; and you yourselves run the risk of becoming ghosts, and the candles of actually going out. of this last fact there is no doubt; for if, instead of putting a mouse into the box, you will put a lighted candle, and breathe into the tube, as before, however gently, you will in a short time put the candle out. now, how is this? first, what is the difference between the breath you take in and the breath you give out? and next, why has it a similar effect on animal life and a lighted candle? the difference is this. the breath which you take in is, or ought to be, pure air, composed, on the whole, of oxygen and nitrogen, with a minute portion of carbonic acid. the breath which you give out is an impure air, to which has been added, among other matters which will not support life, an excess of carbonic acid. that this is the fact you can prove for yourselves by a simple experiment. get a little lime water at the chemist's, and breathe into it through a glass tube; your breath will at once make the lime-water milky. the carbonic acid of your breath has laid hold of the lime, and made it visible as white carbonate of lime--in plain english, as common chalk. now, i do not wish, as i said, to load your memories with scientific terms: but i beseech you to remember at least these two--oxygen gas and carbonic acid gas; and to remember that, as surely as oxygen feeds the fire of life, so surely does carbonic acid put it out. i say, "the fire of life." in that expression lies the answer to our second question: why does our breath produce a similar effect upon the mouse and the lighted candle? every one of us is, as it were, a living fire. were we not, how could we be always warmer than the air outside us? there is a process going on perpetually in each of us, similar to that by which coals are burnt in the fire, oil in a lamp, wax in a candle, and the earth itself in a volcano. to keep each of those fires alight, oxygen is needed; and the products of combustion, as they are called, are more or less the same in each case--carbonic acid and steam. these facts justify the expression i just made use of--which may have seemed to some of you fantastical--that the fire and the candles in the crowded room were breathing the same breath as you were. it is but too true. an average fire in the grate requires, to keep it burning, as much oxygen as several human beings do; each candle or lamp must have its share of oxygen likewise, and that a very considerable one; and an average gas-burner--pray attend to this, you who live in rooms lighted with gas--consumes as much oxygen as several candles. all alike are making carbonic acid. the carbonic acid of the fire happily escapes up the chimney in the smoke: but the carbonic acid from the human beings and the candles remains to poison the room, unless it be ventilated. now, i think you may understand one of the simplest, and yet most terrible, cases of want of ventilation--death by the fumes of charcoal. a human being shut up in a room, of which every crack is closed, with a pan of burning charcoal, falls asleep, never to wake again. his inward fire is competing with the fire of the charcoal for the oxygen of the room; both are making carbonic acid out of it: but the charcoal, being the stronger of the two, gets all the oxygen to itself, and leaves the human being nothing to inhale but the carbonic acid which it has made. the human being, being the weaker, dies first: but the charcoal dies also. when it has exhausted all the oxygen of the room, it cools, goes out, and is found in the morning half-consumed beside its victim. if you put a giant or an elephant, i should conceive, into that room, instead of a human being, the case would be reversed for a time: the elephant would put out the burning charcoal by the carbonic acid from his mighty lungs; and then, when he had exhausted all the air in the room, die likewise of his own carbonic acid. * * * * * now, i think, we may see what ventilation means, and why it is needed. ventilation means simply letting out the foul air, and letting in the fresh air; letting out the air which has been breathed by men or by candles, and letting in the air which has not. to understand how to do that, we must remember a most simple chemical law, that a gas as it is warmed expands, and therefore becomes lighter; as it cools, it contracts, and becomes heavier. now the carbonic acid in the breath which comes out of our mouth is warm, lighter than the air, and rises to the ceiling; and therefore in any unventilated room full of people, there is a layer of foul air along the ceiling. you might soon test that for yourselves, if you could mount a ladder and put your heads there aloft. you do test it for yourselves when you sit in the galleries of churches and theatres, where the air is palpably more foul, and therefore more injurious, than down below. where, again, work-people are employed in a crowded house of many storeys, the health of those who work on the upper floors always suffers most. in the old monkey-house of the zoological gardens, when the cages were on the old plan, tier upon tier, the poor little fellows in the uppermost tier--so i have been told--always died first of the monkey's constitutional complaint, consumption, simply from breathing the warm breath of their friends below. but since the cages have been altered, and made to range side by side from top to bottom, consumption--i understand--has vastly diminished among them. the first question in ventilation, therefore, is to get this carbonic acid safe out of the room, while it is warm and light and close to the ceiling; for if you do not, this happens--the carbonic acid gas cools and becomes heavier; for carbonic acid, at the same temperature as common air, is so much heavier than common air, that you may actually--if you are handy enough--turn it from one vessel to another, and pour out for your enemy a glass of invisible poison. so down to the floor this heavy carbonic acid comes, and lies along it, just as it lies often in the bottom of old wells, or old brewers' vats, as a stratum of poison, killing occasionally the men who descend into it. hence, as foolish a practice as i know is that of sleeping on the floor; for towards the small hours, when the room gets cold, the sleeper on the floor is breathing carbonic acid. and here one word to those ladies who interest themselves with the poor. the poor are too apt in times of distress to pawn their bedsteads and keep their beds. never, if you have influence, let that happen. keep the bedstead, whatever else may go, to save the sleeper from the carbonic acid on the floor. how, then, shall we get rid of the foul air at the top of the room? after all that has been written and tried on ventilation, i know no simpler method than putting into the chimney one of arnott's ventilators, which may be bought and fixed for a few shillings; always remembering that it must be fixed into the chimney as near the ceiling as possible. i can speak of these ventilators from twenty-five years' experience. living in a house with low ceilings, liable to become overcharged with carbonic acid, which produces sleepiness in the evening, i have found that these ventilators keep the air fresh and pure; and i consider the presence of one of these ventilators in a room more valuable than three or four feet additional height of ceiling. i have found, too, that their working proves how necessary they are, from this simple fact:--you would suppose that, as the ventilator opens freely into the chimney, the smoke would be blown down through it in high winds, and blacken the ceiling: but this is just what does not happen. if the ventilator be at all properly poised, so as to shut with a violent gust of wind, it will at all other moments keep itself permanently open; proving thereby that there is an up-draught of heated air continually escaping from the ceiling up the chimney. another very simple method of ventilation is employed in those excellent cottages which her majesty has built for her labourers round windsor. over each door a sheet of perforated zinc, some inches square, is fixed; allowing the foul air to escape into the passage; and in the ceiling of the passage a similar sheet of zinc, allowing it to escape into the roof. fresh air, meanwhile, should be obtained from outside, by piercing the windows, or otherwise. and here let me give one hint to all builders of houses. if possible, let bedroom windows open at the top as well as at the bottom. let me impress the necessity of using some such contrivances, not only on parents and educators, but on those who employ work-people, and above all on those who employ young women in shops or in work-rooms. what their condition may be in this city i know not; but most painful it has been to me in other places, when passing through warehouses or work-rooms, to see the pale, sodden, and, as the french would say "etiolated" countenances of the girls who were passing the greater part of the day in them; and painful, also, to breathe an atmosphere of which habit had, alas! made them unconscious, but which to one coming out of the open air was altogether noxious, and shocking also; for it was fostering the seeds of death, not only in the present but in future generations. why should this be? every one will agree that good ventilation is necessary in a hospital, because people cannot get well without fresh air. do they not see that by the same reasoning good ventilation is necessary everywhere, because people cannot remain well without fresh air? let me entreat those who employ women in work-rooms, if they have no time to read through such books as dr. andrew combe's 'physiology applied to health and education,' and madame de wahl's 'practical hints on the moral, mental, and physical training of girls,' to procure certain tracts published by messrs. jarrold, paternoster row, for the ladies' sanitary association; especially one which bears on this subject, 'the black-hole in our own bedrooms;' dr. lankester's 'school manual of health;' or a manual on ventilation, published by the metropolitan working classes association for the improvement of public health. i look forward--i say it openly--to some period of higher civilisation, when the acts of parliament for the ventilation of factories and workshops shall be largely extended, and made far more stringent; when officers of public health shall be empowered to enforce the ventilation of every room in which persons are employed for hire; and empowered also to demand a proper system of ventilation for every new house, whether in country or in town. to that, i believe, we must come: but i had sooner far see these improvements carried out, as befits the citizens of a free country, in the spirit of the gospel rather than in that of the law; carried out, not compulsorily and from fear of fines, but voluntarily, from a sense of duty, honour, and humanity. i appeal, therefore, to the good feeling of all whom it may concern, whether the health of those whom they employ, and therefore the supply of fresh air which they absolutely need, are not matters for which they are not, more or less, responsible to their country and their god. and if any excellent person of the old school should answer me--"why make all this fuss about ventilation? our forefathers got on very well without it"--i must answer that, begging their pardons, our ancestors did nothing of the kind. our ancestors got on usually very ill in these matters: and when they got on well, it was because they had good ventilation in spite of themselves. first. they got on very ill. to quote a few remarkable instances of longevity, or to tell me that men were larger and stronger on the average in old times, is to yield to the old fallacy of fancying that savages were peculiarly healthy, because those who were seen were active and strong. the simple answer is, that the strong alone survived, while the majority died from the severity of the training. savages do not increase in number; and our ancestors increased but very slowly for many centuries. i am not going to disgust my audience with statistics of disease: but knowing something, as i happen to do, of the social state and of the health of the middle and elizabethan ages, i have no hesitation in saying that the average of disease and death was far greater then than it is now. epidemics of many kinds, typhus, ague, plague--all diseases which were caused more or less by bad air--devastated this land and europe in those days with a horrible intensity, to which even the choleras of our times are mild. the back streets, the hospitals, the gaols, the barracks, the camps--every place in which any large number of persons congregated, were so many nests of pestilence, engendered by uncleanliness, which denied alike the water which was drunk and the air which was breathed; and as a single fact, of which the tables of insurance companies assure us, the average of human life in england has increased twenty-five per cent. since the reign of george i., owing simply to our more rational and cleanly habits of life. but secondly, i said that when our ancestors got on well, they did so because they got ventilation in spite of themselves. luckily for them, their houses were ill-built; their doors and windows would not shut. they had lattice-windowed houses, too; to live in one of which, as i can testify from long experience, is as thoroughly ventilating as living in a lantern with the horn broken out. it was because their houses were full of draughts, and still more, in the early middle age, because they had no glass, and stopped out the air only by a shutter at night, that they sought for shelter rather than for fresh air, of which they sometimes had too much; and, to escape the wind, built their houses in holes, such as that in which the old city of winchester stands. shelter, i believe, as much as the desire to be near fish in lent, and to occupy the rich alluvium of the valleys, made the monks of old england choose the river- banks for the sites of their abbeys. they made a mistake therein, which, like most mistakes, did not go unpunished. these low situations, especially while the forests were yet thick on the hills around, were the perennial haunts of fever and ague, produced by subtle vegetable poisons, carried in the carbonic acid given off by rotting vegetation. so there, again, they fell in with man's old enemy--bad air. still, as long as the doors and windows did not shut, some free circulation of air remained. but now, our doors and windows shut only too tight. we have plate-glass instead of lattices; and we have replaced the draughty and smoky, but really wholesome open chimney, with its wide corners and settles, by narrow registers, and even by stoves. we have done all we can, in fact, to seal ourselves up hermetically from the outer air, and to breathe our own breaths over and over again; and we pay the penalty of it in a thousand ways unknown to our ancestors, through whose rooms all the winds of heaven whistled, and who were glad enough to shelter themselves from draughts in the sitting-room by the high screen round the fire, and in the sleeping-room by the thick curtains of the four-post bedstead, which is now rapidly disappearing before a higher civilisation. we therefore absolutely require to make for ourselves the very ventilation from which our ancestors tried to escape. but, ladies, there is an old and true proverb, that you may bring a horse to the water, but you cannot make him drink. and in like wise it is too true, that you may bring people to the fresh air, but you cannot make them breathe it. their own folly, or the folly of their parents and educators, prevents their lungs being duly filled and duly emptied. therefore, the blood is not duly oxygenated, and the whole system goes wrong. paleness, weakness, consumption, scrofula, and too many other ailments, are the consequences of ill-filled lungs. for without well-filled lungs, robust health is impossible. and if any one shall answer--"we do not want robust health so much as intellectual attainment. the mortal body, being the lower organ, must take its chance, and be even sacrificed, if need be, to the higher organ--the immortal mind:"--to such i reply, you cannot do it. the laws of nature, which are the express will of god, laugh such attempts to scorn. every organ of the body is formed out of the blood; and if the blood be vitiated, every organ suffers in proportion to its delicacy; and the brain, being the most delicate and highly specialised of all organs, suffers most of all and soonest of all, as every one knows who has tried to work his brain when his digestion was the least out of order. nay, the very morals will suffer. from ill-filled lungs, which signify ill- repaired blood, arise year by year an amount not merely of disease, but of folly, temper, laziness, intemperance, madness, and, let me tell you fairly, crime--the sum of which will never be known till that great day when men shall be called to account for all deeds done in the body, whether they be good or evil. i must refer you on this subject again to andrew combe's 'physiology,' especially chapters iv. and vii.; and also to chapter x. of madame de wahl's excellent book. i will only say this shortly, that the three most common causes of ill-filled lungs, in children and in young ladies, are stillness, silence, and stays. first, stillness; a sedentary life, and want of exercise. a girl is kept for hours sitting on a form writing or reading, to do which she must lean forward; and if her schoolmistress cruelly attempts to make her sit upright, and thereby keep the spine in an attitude for which nature did not intend it, she is thereby doing her best to bring on that disease, so fearfully common in girls' schools, lateral curvature of the spine. but practically the girl will stoop forward. and what happens? the lower ribs are pressed into the body, thereby displacing more or less something inside. the diaphragm in the meantime, which is the very bellows of the lungs, remains loose; the lungs are never properly filled or emptied; and an excess of carbonic acid accumulates at the bottom of them. what follows? frequent sighing to get rid of it; heaviness of head; depression of the whole nervous system under the influence of the poison of the lungs; and when the poor child gets up from her weary work, what is the first thing she probably does? she lifts up her chest, stretches, yawns, and breathes deeply--nature's voice, nature's instinctive cure, which is probably regarded as ungraceful, as what is called "lolling" is. as if sitting upright was not an attitude in itself essentially ungraceful, and such as no artist would care to draw. as if "lolling," which means putting the body in the attitude of the most perfect ease compatible with a fully expanded chest, was not in itself essentially graceful, and to be seen in every reposing figure in greek bas-reliefs and vases; graceful, and like all graceful actions, healthful at the same time. the only tolerably wholesome attitude of repose, which i see allowed in average school-rooms, is lying on the back on the floor, or on a sloping board, in which case the lungs must be fully expanded. but even so, a pillow, or some equivalent, ought to be placed under the small of the back: or the spine will be strained at its very weakest point. i now go on to the second mistake--enforced silence. moderate reading aloud is good: but where there is any tendency to irritability of throat or lungs, too much moderation cannot be used. you may as well try to cure a diseased lung by working it, as to cure a lame horse by galloping him. but where the breathing organs are of average health, let it be said once and for all, that children and young people cannot make too much noise. the parents who cannot bear the noise of their children have no right to have brought them into the world. the schoolmistress who enforces silence on her pupils is committing--unintentionally no doubt, but still committing--an offence against reason, worthy only of a convent. every shout, every burst of laughter, every song--nay, in the case of infants, as physiologists well know, every moderate fit of crying--conduces to health, by rapidly filling and emptying the lung, and changing the blood more rapidly from black to red, that is, from death to life. andrew combe tells a story of a large charity school, in which the young girls were, for the sake of their health, shut up in the hall and school-room during play hours, from november till march, and no romping or noise allowed. the natural consequences were, the great majority of them fell ill; and i am afraid that a great deal of illness has been from time to time contracted in certain school-rooms, simply through this one cause of enforced silence. some cause or other there must be for the amount of ill-health and weakliness which prevails especially among girls of the middle classes in towns, who have not, poor things, the opportunities which richer girls have, of keeping themselves in strong health by riding, skating, archery--that last quite an admirable exercise for the chest and lungs, and far preferable to croquet, which involves too much unwholesome stooping.--even playing at ball, if milliners and shop-girls had room to indulge in one after their sedentary work, might bring fresh spirits to many a heart, and fresh colour to many a cheek. i spoke just now of the greeks. i suppose you will all allow that the greeks were, as far as we know, the most beautiful race which the world ever saw. every educated man knows that they were also the cleverest of all races; and, next to his bible, thanks god for greek literature. now, these people had made physical as well as intellectual education a science as well as a study. their women practised graceful, and in some cases even athletic, exercises. they developed, by a free and healthy life, those figures which remain everlasting and unapproachable models of human beauty: but--to come to my third point--they wore no stays. the first mention of stays that i have ever found is in the letters of dear old synesius, bishop of cyrene, on the greek coast of africa, about four hundred years after the christian era. he tells us how, when he was shipwrecked on a remote part of the coast, and he and the rest of the passengers were starving on cockles and limpets, there was among them a slave girl out of the far east, who had a pinched wasp-waist, such as you may see on the old hindoo sculptures, and such as you may see in any street in a british town. and when the greek ladies of the neighbourhood found her out, they sent for her from house to house, to behold, with astonishment and laughter, this new and prodigious waist, with which it seemed to them it was impossible for a human being to breathe or live; and they petted the poor girl, and fed her, as they might a dwarf or a giantess, till she got quite fat and comfortable, while her owners had not enough to eat. so strange and ridiculous seemed our present fashion to the descendants of those who, centuries before, had imagined, because they had seen living and moving, those glorious statues which we pretend to admire, but refuse to imitate. it seems to me that a few centuries hence, when mankind has learnt to fear god more, and therefore to obey more strictly those laws of nature and of science which are the will of god--it seems to me, i say, that in those days the present fashion of tight lacing will be looked back upon as a contemptible and barbarous superstition, denoting a very low level of civilisation in the peoples which have practised it. that for generations past women should have been in the habit--not to please men, who do not care about the matter as a point of beauty--but simply to vie with each other in obedience to something called fashion--that they should, i say, have been in the habit of deliberately crushing that part of the body which should be specially left free, contracting and displacing their lungs, their heart, and all the most vital and important organs, and entailing thereby disease, not only on themselves but on their children after them; that for forty years past physicians should have been telling them of the folly of what they have been doing: and that they should as yet, in the great majority of cases, not only turn a deaf ear to all warnings, but actually deny the offence, of which one glance of the physician or the sculptor, who know what shape the human body ought to be, brings them in guilty: this, i say, is an instance of--what shall i call it?--which deserves at once the lash, not merely of the satirist, but of any theologian who really believes that god made the physical universe. let me, i pray you, appeal to your common sense for a moment. when any one chooses a horse or a dog, whether for strength, for speed, or for any other useful purpose, the first thing almost to be looked at is the girth round the ribs; the room for heart and lungs. exactly in proportion to that will be the animal's general healthiness, power of endurance, and value in many other ways. if you will look at eminent lawyers and famous orators, who have attained a healthy old age, you will see that in every case they are men, like the late lord palmerston, and others whom i could mention, of remarkable size, not merely in the upper, but in the lower part of the chest; men who had, therefore, a peculiar power of using the diaphragm to fill and to clear the lungs, and therefore to oxygenate the blood of the whole body. now, it is just these lower ribs, across which the diaphragm is stretched like the head of a drum, which stays contract to a minimum. if you advised owners of horses and hounds to put their horses or their hounds into stays, and lace them up tight, in order to increase their beauty, you would receive, i doubt not, a very courteous, but certainly a very decided, refusal to do that which would spoil not merely the animals themselves, but the whole stud or the whole kennel for years to come. and if you advised an orator to put himself into tight stays, he, no doubt, again would give a courteous answer; but he would reply--if he was a really educated man--that to comply with your request would involve his giving up public work, under the probable penalty of being dead within the twelvemonth. and how much work of every kind, intellectual as well as physical, is spoiled or hindered; how many deaths occur from consumption and other complaints which are the result of this habit of tight lacing, is known partly to the medical men, who lift up their voices in vain, and known fully to him who will not interfere with the least of his own physical laws to save human beings from the consequences of their own wilful folly. and now--to end this lecture with more pleasing thoughts--what becomes of this breath which passes from your lips? is it merely harmful; merely waste? god forbid! god has forbidden that anything should be merely harmful or merely waste in this so wise and well-made world. the carbonic acid which passes from your lips at every breath--ay, even that which oozes from the volcano crater when the eruption is past--is a precious boon to thousands of things of which you have daily need. indeed there is a sort of hint at physical truth in the old fairy tale of the girl, from whose lips, as she spoke, fell pearls and diamonds; for the carbonic acid of your breath may help hereafter to make the pure carbonate of lime of a pearl, or the still purer carbon of a diamond. nay, it may go--in such a world of transformations do we live--to make atoms of coal strata, which shall lie buried for ages beneath deep seas, shall be upheaved in continents which are yet unborn, and there be burnt for the use of a future race of men, and resolved into their original elements. coal, wise men tell us, is on the whole breath and sunlight; the breath of living creatures who have lived in the vast swamps and forests of some primaeval world, and the sunlight which transmuted that breath into the leaves and stems of trees, magically locked up for ages in that black stone, to become, when it is burnt at last, light and carbonic acid, as it was at first. for though you must not breathe your breath again, you may at least eat your breath, if you will allow the sun to transmute it for you into vegetables; or you may enjoy its fragrance and its colour in the shape of a lily or a rose. when you walk in a sunlit garden, every word you speak, every breath you breathe, is feeding the plants and flowers around. the delicate surface of the green leaves absorbs the carbonic acid, and parts it into its elements, retaining the carbon to make woody fibre, and courteously returning you the oxygen to mingle with the fresh air, and be inhaled by your lungs once more. thus do you feed the plants; just as the plants feed you; while the great life- giving sun feeds both; and the geranium standing in the sick child's window does not merely rejoice his eye and mind by its beauty and freshness, but repays honestly the trouble spent on it; absorbing the breath which the child needs not, and giving to him the breath which he needs. so are the services of all things constituted according to a divine and wonderful order, and knit together in mutual dependence and mutual helpfulness.--a fact to be remembered with hope and comfort; but also with awe and fear. for as in that which is above nature, so in nature itself; he that breaks one physical law is guilty of all. the whole universe, as it were, takes up arms against him; and all nature, with her numberless and unseen powers, is ready to avenge herself on him, and on his children after him, he knows not when nor where. he, on the other hand, who obeys the laws of nature with his whole heart and mind, will find all things working together to him for good. he is at peace with the physical universe. he is helped and befriended alike by the sun above his head and the dust beneath his feet: because he is obeying the will and mind of him who made sun, and dust, and all things; and who has given them a law which cannot be broken. the tree of knowledge. the more i have contemplated that ancient story of the fall, the more it has seemed to me within the range of probability, and even of experience. it must have happened somewhere for the first time; for it has happened only too many times since. it has happened, as far as i can ascertain, in every race, and every age, and every grade of civilisation. it is happening round us now in every region of the globe. always and everywhere, it seems to me, have poor human beings been tempted to eat of some "tree of knowledge," that they may be, even for an hour, as gods; wise, but with a false wisdom; careless, but with a frantic carelessness; and happy, but with a happiness which, when the excitement is past, leaves too often--as with that hapless pair in eden--depression, shame, and fear. everywhere, and in all ages, as far as i can ascertain, has man been inventing stimulants and narcotics to supply that want of vitality of which he is so painfully aware; and has asked nature, and not god, to clear the dull brain, and comfort the weary spirit. this has been, and will be perhaps for many a century to come, almost the most fearful failing of this poor, exceptional, over-organised, diseased, and truly fallen being called man, who is in doubt daily whether he be a god or an ape; and in trying wildly to become the former, ends but too often in becoming the latter. for man, whether savage or civilised, feels, and has felt in every age, that there is something wrong with him. he usually confesses this fact--as is to be expected--of his fellow-men, rather than of himself; and shows his sense that there is something wrong with them by complaining of, hating, and killing them. but he cannot always conceal from himself the fact that he, too, is wrong, as well as they; and as he will not usually kill himself, he tries wild ways to make himself at least feel--if not to be--somewhat "better." philosophers may bid him be content; and tell him that he is what he ought to be, and what nature has made him. but he cares nothing for the philosophers. he knows, usually, that he is not what he ought to be; that he carries about with him, in most cases, a body more or less diseased and decrepit, incapable of doing all the work which he feels that he himself could do, or expressing all the emotions which he himself longs to express; a dull brain and dull senses, which cramp the eager infinity within him; as--so goethe once said with pity--the horse's single hoof cramps the fine intelligence and generosity of his nature, and forbids him even to grasp an object, like the more stupid cat, and baser monkey. and man has a self, too, within, from which he longs too often to escape, as from a household ghost; who pulls out, at unfortunately rude and unwelcome hours, the ledger of memory. and so when the tempter--be he who he may--says to him "take this, and you will 'feel better'--take this, and you shall be as gods, knowing good and evil:" then, if the temptation was, as the old story says, too much for man while healthy and unfallen, what must it be for his unhealthy and fallen children? in vain we say to man-- "'tis life, not death, for which you pant; 'tis life, whereof your nerves are scant; more life, and fuller, that you want." and your tree of knowledge is not the tree of life: it is, in every case, the tree of death; of decrepitude, madness, misery. he prefers the voice of the tempter--"thou shalt not surely die." nay, he will say at last,--"better be as gods awhile, and die: than be the crawling, insufficient thing i am; and live." he--did i say? alas! i must say she likewise. the sacred story is only too true to fact, when it represents the woman as falling, not merely at the same time as the man, but before the man. only let us remember that it represents the woman as tempted; tempted, seemingly, by a rational being, of lower race, and yet of superior cunning; who must, therefore, have fallen before the woman. who or what the being was, who is called the serpent in our translation of genesis, it is not for me to say. we have absolutely, i think, no facts from which to judge; and rabbinical traditions need trouble no man much. but i fancy that a missionary, preaching on this story to negroes; telling them plainly that the "serpent" meant the first obeah man; and then comparing the experiences of that hapless pair in eden, with their own after certain orgies not yet extinct in africa and elsewhere, would be only too well understood: so well, indeed, that he might run some risk of eating himself, not of the tree of life, but of that of death. the sorcerer or sorceress tempting the woman; and then the woman tempting the man; this seems to be, certainly among savage peoples, and, alas! too often among civilised peoples also, the usual course of the world-wide tragedy. but--paradoxical as it may seem--the woman's yielding before the man is not altogether to her dishonour, as those old monks used to allege who hated, and too often tortured, the sex whom they could not enjoy. it is not to the woman's dishonour, if she felt, before her husband, higher aspirations than those after mere animal pleasure. to be as gods, knowing good and evil, is a vain and foolish, but not a base and brutal, wish. she proved herself thereby--though at an awful cost--a woman, and not an animal. and indeed the woman's more delicate organisation, her more vivid emotions, her more voluble fancy, as well as her mere physical weakness and weariness, have been to her, in all ages, a special source of temptation which it is to her honour that she has resisted so much better than the physically stronger, and therefore more culpable, man. as for what the tree of knowledge was, there really is no need for us to waste our time in guessing. if it was not one plant, then it was another. it may have been something which has long since perished off the earth. it may have been--as some learned men have guessed--the sacred soma, or homa, of the early brahmin race; and that may have been a still existing narcotic species of asclepias. it certainly was not the vine. the language of the hebrew scripture concerning it, and the sacred use to which it is consecrated in the gospels, forbid that notion utterly; at least to those who know enough of antiquity to pass by, with a smile, the theory that the wines mentioned in scripture were not intoxicating. and yet--as a fresh corroboration of what i am trying to say--how fearfully has that noble gift to man been abused for the same end as a hundred other vegetable products, ever since those mythic days when dionusos brought the vine from the far east, amid troops of human maenads and half-human satyrs; and the bacchae tore pentheus in pieces on cithaeron, for daring to intrude upon their sacred rites; and since those historic days, too, when, less than two hundred years before the christian era, the bacchic rites spread from southern italy into etruria, and thence to the matrons of rome; and under the guidance of poenia annia, a campanian lady, took at last shapes of which no man must speak, but which had to be put down with terrible but just severity, by the consuls and the senate. but it matters little, i say, what this same tree of knowledge was. was every vine on earth destroyed to-morrow, and every vegetable also from which alcohol is now distilled, man would soon discover something else wherewith to satisfy the insatiate craving. has he not done so already? has not almost every people had its tree of knowledge, often more deadly than any distilled liquor, from the absinthe of the cultivated frenchman, and the opium of the cultivated chinese, down to the bush-poisons wherewith the tropic sorcerer initiates his dupes into the knowledge of good and evil, and the fungus from which the samoiede extracts in autumn a few days of brutal happiness, before the setting in of the long six months' night? god grant that modern science may not bring to light fresh substitutes for alcohol, opium, and the rest; and give the white races, in that state of effeminate and godless quasi-civilisation which i sometimes fear is creeping upon them, fresh means of destroying themselves delicately and pleasantly off the face of the earth. it is said by some that drunkenness is on the increase in this island. i have no trusty proof of it: but i can believe it possible; for every cause of drunkenness seems on the increase. overwork of body and mind; circumstances which depress health; temptation to drink, and drink again, at every corner of the streets; and finally, money, and ever more money, in the hands of uneducated people, who have not the desire, and too often not the means, of spending it in any save the lowest pleasures. these, it seems to me, are the true causes of drunkenness, increasing or not. and if we wish to become a more temperate nation, we must lessen them, if we cannot eradicate them. first, overwork. we all live too fast, and work too hard. "all things are full of labour, man cannot utter it." in the heavy struggle for existence which goes on all around us, each man is tasked more and more--if he be really worth buying and using--to the utmost of his powers all day long. the weak have to compete on equal terms with the strong; and crave, in consequence, for artificial strength. how we shall stop that i know not, while every man is "making haste to be rich, and piercing himself through with many sorrows, and falling into foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition." how we shall stop that, i say, i know not. the old prophet may have been right when he said, "surely it is not of the lord that the people shall labour in the very fire, and weary themselves for very vanity;" and in some juster, wiser, more sober system of society--somewhat more like the kingdom of the father come on earth--it may be that poor human beings will not need to toil so hard, and to keep themselves up to their work by stimulants, but will have time to sit down, and look around them, and think of god, and of god's quiet universe, with something of quiet in themselves; something of rational leisure, and manful sobriety of mind, as well as of body. but it seems to me also, that in such a state of society, when--as it was once well put--"every one has stopped running about like rats:"--that those who work hard, whether with muscle or with brain, would not be surrounded, as now, with every circumstance which tempts toward drink; by every circumstance which depresses the vital energies, and leaves them an easy prey to pestilence itself; by bad light, bad air, bad food, bad water, bad smells, bad occupations, which weaken the muscles, cramp the chest, disorder the digestion. let any rational man, fresh from the country--in which i presume god, having made it, meant all men, more or less, to live--go through the back streets of any city, or through whole districts of the "black countries" of england: and then ask himself--is it the will of god that his human children should live and toil in such dens, such deserts, such dark places of the earth? let him ask himself--can they live and toil there without contracting a probably diseased habit of body; without contracting a certainly dull, weary, sordid habit of mind, which craves for any pleasure, however brutal, to escape from its own stupidity and emptiness? when i run through, by rail, certain parts of the iron-producing country--streets of furnaces, collieries, slag heaps, mud, slop, brick house-rows, smoke, dirt--and that is all; and when i am told, whether truly or falsely, that the main thing which the well-paid and well-fed men of those abominable wastes care for is--good fighting-dogs: i can only answer, that i am not surprised. i say--as i have said elsewhere, and shall do my best to say again--that the craving for drink and narcotics, especially that engendered in our great cities, is not a disease, but a symptom of disease; of a far deeper disease than any which drunkenness can produce; namely, of the growing degeneracy of a population striving in vain by stimulants and narcotics to fight against those slow poisons with which our greedy barbarism, miscalled civilisation, has surrounded them from the cradle to the grave. i may be answered that the old german, angle, dane, drank heavily. i know it: but why did they drink, save for the same reason that the fenman drank, and his wife took opium, at least till the fens were drained? why but to keep off the depressing effects of the malaria of swamps and new clearings, which told on them--who always settled in the lowest grounds--in the shape of fever and ague? here it may be answered again, that stimulants have been, during the memory of man, the destruction of the red indian race in america. i reply boldly, that i do not believe it. there is evidence enough in jaques cartier's 'voyages to the rivers of canada;' and evidence more than enough in strachey's 'travaile in virginia'--to quote only two authorities out of many--to prove that the red indians, when the white man first met with them, were, in north and south alike, a diseased, decaying, and, as all their traditions confess, decreasing race. such a race would naturally crave for "the water of life," the "usque-bagh," or whisky, as we have contracted the old name now. but i should have thought that the white man, by introducing among these poor creatures iron, fire-arms, blankets, and above all horses wherewith to follow the buffalo-herds which they could never follow on foot, must have done ten times more towards keeping them alive, than he has done towards destroying them by giving them the chance of a week's drunkenness twice a year, when they came in to his forts to sell the skins which, without his gifts, they would never have got. such a race would, of course, if wanting vitality, crave for stimulants. but if the stimulants, and not the original want of vitality, combined with morals utterly detestable, and worthy only of the gallows--and here i know what i say, and dare not tell what i know, from eye-witnesses--have been the cause of the red indians' extinction: then how is it, let me ask, that the irishman and the scotsman have, often to their great harm, been drinking as much whisky--and usually very bad whisky--not merely twice a year, but as often as they could get it, during the whole "iron age;" and, for aught any one can tell, during the "bronze age," and the "stone age" before that: and yet are still the most healthy, able, valiant, and prolific races in europe? had they drunk less whisky they would, doubtless, have been more healthy, able, valiant, and perhaps even more prolific, than they are now. they show no sign, however, as yet, of going the way of the red indian. but if the craving for stimulants and narcotics is a token of deficient vitality: then the deadliest foe of that craving, and all its miserable results, is surely the sanatory reformer; the man who preaches, and--as far as ignorance and vested interests will allow him, procures--for the masses, pure air, pure sunlight, pure water, pure dwelling-houses, pure food. not merely every fresh drinking-fountain: but every fresh public bath and wash-house, every fresh open space, every fresh growing tree, every fresh open window, every fresh flower in that window--each of these is so much, as the old persians would have said, conquered for ormuzd, the god of light and life, out of the dominion of ahriman, the king of darkness and of death; so much taken from the causes of drunkenness and disease, and added to the causes of sobriety and health. meanwhile one thing is clear: that if this present barbarism and anarchy of covetousness, miscalled modern civilisation, were tamed and drilled into something more like a kingdom of god on earth: then we should not see the reckless and needless multiplication of liquor shops, which disgraces this country now. as a single instance: in one country parish of nine hundred inhabitants, in which the population has increased only one-ninth in the last fifty years, there are now practically eight public-houses, where fifty years ago there were but two. one, that is, for every hundred and ten--or rather, omitting children, farmers, shopkeepers, gentlemen, and their households, one for every fifty of the inhabitants. in the face of the allurements, often of the basest kind, which these dens offer, the clergyman and the schoolmaster struggle in vain to keep up night-schools and young men's clubs, and to inculcate habits of providence. the young labourers over a great part of the south and east, at least, of england,--though never so well off, for several generations, as they are now--are growing up thriftless, shiftless; inferior, it seems to me, to their grandfathers in everything, save that they can usually read and write, and their grandfathers could not; and that they wear smart cheap cloth clothes, instead of their grandfathers' smock-frocks. and if it be so in the country: how must it be in towns? there must come a thorough change in the present licensing system, in spite of all the "pressure" which certain powerful vested interests may bring to bear on governments. and it is the duty of every good citizen, who cares for his countrymen, and for their children after them, to help in bringing about that change as speedily as possible. again: i said just now that a probable cause of increasing drunkenness was the increasing material prosperity of thousands who knew no recreation beyond low animal pleasure. if i am right--and i believe that i am right--i must urge on those who wish drunkenness to decrease, the necessity of providing more, and more refined recreation for the people. men drink, and women too, remember, not merely to supply exhaustion; not merely to drive away care: but often simply to drive away dulness. they have nothing to do save to think over what they have done in the day, or what they expect to do to-morrow; and they escape from that dreary round of business thought, in liquor or narcotics. there are still those, by no means of the hand-working class, but absorbed all day by business, who drink heavily at night in their own comfortable homes, simply to recreate their overburdened minds. such cases, doubtless, are far less common than they were fifty years ago: but why? is not the decrease of drinking among the richer classes certainly due to the increased refinement and variety of their tastes and occupations? in cultivating the aesthetic side of man's nature; in engaging him with the beautiful, the pure, the wonderful, the truly natural; with painting, poetry, music, horticulture, physical science--in all this lies recreation, in the true and literal sense of that word, namely, the recreating and mending of the exhausted mind and feelings, such as no rational man will now neglect, either for himself, his children, or his work-people. but how little of all this is open to the masses, all should know but too well. how little opportunity the average hand-worker, or his wife, has of eating of any tree of knowledge, save of the very basest kind, is but too palpable. we are mending, thank god, in this respect. free libraries and museums have sprung up of late in other cities beside london. god's blessing rest upon them all. and the crystal palace, and still later, the bethnal green museum, have been, i believe, of far more use than many average sermons and lectures from many average orators. but are we not still far behind the old greeks, and the romans of the empire likewise, in the amount of amusement and instruction, and even of shelter, which we provide for the people? recollect the--to me--disgraceful fact; that there is not, as far as i am aware, throughout the whole of london, a single portico or other covered place, in which the people can take refuge during a shower: and this in the climate of england! where they do take refuge on a wet day the publican knows but too well; as he knows also where thousands of the lower classes, simply for want of any other place to be in, save their own sordid dwellings, spend as much as they are permitted of the sabbath day. let us put down "sunday drinking" by all means, if we can. but let us remember that by closing the public-house on sunday, we prevent no man or woman from carrying home as much poison as they choose on saturday night, to brutalise themselves therewith, perhaps for eight-and-forty hours. and let us see--in the name of him who said that he had made the sabbath for man, and not man for the sabbath--let us see, i say, if we cannot do something to prevent the townsman's sabbath being, not a day of rest, but a day of mere idleness; the day of most temptation, because of most dulness, of the whole seven. and here, perhaps, some sweet soul may look up reprovingly and say--he talks of rest. does he forget, and would he have the working man forget, that all these outward palliatives will never touch the seat of the disease, the unrest of the soul within? does he forget, and would he have the working man forget, who it was who said--who only has the right to say--"come unto me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and i will give you rest"? ah no, sweet soul. i know your words are true. i know that what we all want is inward rest; rest of heart and brain; the calm, strong, self-contained, self-denying character; which needs no stimulants, for it has no fits of depression; which needs no narcotics, for it has no fits of excitement; which needs no ascetic restraints, for it is strong enough to use god's gifts without abusing them; the character, in a word, which is truly temperate, not in drink or food merely, but in all desires, thoughts, and actions; freed from the wild lusts and ambitions to which that old adam yielded, and, seeking for light and life by means forbidden, found thereby disease and death. yes; i know that; and know, too, that that rest is found, only where you have already found it. and yet: in such a world as this; governed by a being who has made sunshine, and flowers, and green grass, and the song of birds, and happy human smiles; and who would educate by them--if we would let him--his human children from the cradle to the grave; in such a world as this, will you grudge any particle of that education, even any harmless substitute for it, to those spirits in prison, whose surroundings too often tempt them, from the cradle to the grave, to fancy that the world is composed of bricks and iron, and governed by inspectors and policemen? preach to those spirits in prison, as you know far better than we parsons how to preach: but let them have besides some glimpses of the splendid fact, that outside their prison-house is a world which god, not man, has made; wherein grows everywhere that tree of knowledge which is likewise the tree of life; and that they have a right to some small share of its beauty, and its wonder, and its rest, for their own health of soul and body, and for the health of their children after them. nausicaa in london: or, the lower education of woman. fresh from the marbles of the british museum, i went my way through london streets. my brain was still full of fair and grand forms; the forms of men and women whose every limb and attitude betokened perfect health, and grace, and power, and a self-possession and self-restraint so habitual and complete that it had become unconscious, and undistinguishable from the native freedom of the savage. for i had been up and down the corridors of those greek sculptures, which remain as a perpetual sermon to rich and poor, amid our artificial, unwholesome, and it may be decaying pseudo-civilisation; saying with looks more expressive than all words--such men and women can be; for such they have been; and such you may be yet, if you will use that science of which you too often only boast. above all, i had been pondering over the awful and yet tender beauty of the maiden figures from the parthenon and its kindred temples. and these, or such as these, i thought to myself, were the sisters of the men who fought at marathon and salamis; the mothers of many a man among the ten thousand whom xenophon led back from babylon to the black sea shore; the ancestresses of many a man who conquered the east in alexander's host, and fought with porus in the far punjab. and were these women mere dolls? these men mere gladiators? were they not the parents of philosophy, science, poetry, the plastic arts? we talk of education now. are we more educated than were the ancient greeks? do we know anything about education, physical, intellectual, or aesthetic, and i may say moral likewise--religious education, of course, in our sense of the word, they had none--but do we know anything about education of which they have not taught us at least the rudiments? are there not some branches of education which they perfected, once and for ever; leaving us northern barbarians to follow, or else not to follow, their example? to produce health, that is, harmony and sympathy, proportion and grace, in every faculty of mind and body--that was their notion of education. to produce that, the text-book of their childhood was the poetry of homer, and not of--but i am treading on dangerous ground. it was for this that the seafaring greek lad was taught to find his ideal in ulysses; while his sister at home found hers, it may be, in nausicaa. it was for this, that when perhaps the most complete and exquisite of all the greeks, sophocles the good, beloved by gods and men, represented on the athenian stage his drama of nausicaa, and, as usual, could not--for he had no voice--himself take a speaking part, he was content to do one thing in which he specially excelled; and dressed and masked as a girl, to play at ball amid the chorus of nausicaa's maidens. that drama of nausicaa is lost; and if i dare say so of any play of sophocles', i scarce regret it. it is well, perhaps, that we have no second conception of the scene, to interfere with the simplicity, so grand, and yet so tender, of homer's idyllic episode. nausicaa, it must be remembered, is the daughter of a king. but not of a king in the exclusive modern european or old eastern sense. her father, alcinous, is simply "primus inter pares" among a community of merchants, who are called "kings" likewise; and mayor for life--so to speak--of a new trading city, a nascent genoa or venice, on the shore of the mediterranean. but the girl nausicaa, as she sleeps in her "carved chamber," is "like the immortals in form and face;" and two handmaidens who sleep on each side of the polished door "have beauty from the graces." to her there enters, in the shape of some maiden friend, none less than pallas athene herself, intent on saving worthily her favourite, the shipwrecked ulysses; and bids her in a dream go forth--and wash the clothes. { } "nausicaa, wherefore doth thy mother bear child so forgetful? this long time doth rest, like lumber in the house, much raiment fair. soon must thou wed, and be thyself well-drest, and find thy bridegroom raiment of the best. these are the things whence good repute is born, and praises that make glad a parent's breast. come, let us both go washing with the morn; so shalt thou have clothes becoming to be worn. "know that thy maidenhood is not for long, whom the phoeacian chiefs already woo, lords of the land whence thou thyself art sprung. soon as the shining dawn comes forth anew, for wain and mules thy noble father sue, which to the place of washing shall convey girdles and shawls and rugs of splendid hue. this for thyself were better than essay thither to walk: the place is distant a long way." startled by her dream, nausicaa awakes, and goes to find her parents-- "one by the hearth sat, with the maids around, and on the skeins of yarn, sea-purpled, spent her morning toil. him to the council bound, called by the honoured kings, just going forth she found." and calling him, as she might now, "pappa phile," dear papa, asks for the mule waggon: but it is her father's and her five brothers' clothes she fain would wash,-- "ashamed to name her marriage to her father dear." but he understood all--and she goes forth in the mule waggon, with the clothes, after her mother has put in "a chest of all kinds of delicate food, and meat, and wine in a goatskin;" and last but not least, the indispensable cruse of oil for anointing after the bath, to which both jews, greeks, and romans owed so much health and beauty. and then we read in the simple verse of a poet too refined, like the rest of his race, to see anything mean or ridiculous in that which was not ugly and unnatural, how she and her maids got into the "polished waggon," "with good wheels," and she "took the whip and the studded reins," and "beat them till they started;" and how the mules "rattled" away, and "pulled against each other," till "when they came to the fair flowing river which feeds good lavatories all the year, fitted to cleanse all sullied robes soever, they from the wain the mules unharnessed there, and chased them free, to crop their juicy fare by the swift river, on the margin green; then to the waters dashed the clothes they bare and in the stream-filled trenches stamped them clean. "which, having washed and cleansed, they spread before the sunbeams, on the beach, where most did lie thick pebbles, by the sea-wave washed ashore. so, having left them in the heat to dry, they to the bath went down, and by-and-by, rubbed with rich oil, their midday meal essay, couched in green turf, the river rolling nigh. then, throwing off their veils, at ball they play, while the white-armed nausicaa leads the choral lay." the mere beauty of this scene all will feel, who have the sense of beauty in them. yet it is not on that aspect which i wish to dwell, but on its healthfulness. exercise is taken, in measured time, to the sound of song, as a duty almost, as well as an amusement. for this game of ball, which is here mentioned for the first time in human literature, nearly three thousand years ago, was held by the greeks and by the romans after them, to be an almost necessary part of a liberal education; principally, doubtless, from the development which it produced in the upper half of the body, not merely to the arms, but to the chest, by raising and expanding the ribs, and to all the muscles of the torso, whether perpendicular or oblique. the elasticity and grace which it was believed to give were so much prized, that a room for ball-play, and a teacher of the art, were integral parts of every gymnasium; and the athenians went so far as to bestow on one famous ballplayer, aristonicus of carystia, a statue and the rights of citizenship. the rough and hardy young spartans, when passing from boyhood into manhood, received the title of ball-players, seemingly from the game which it was then their special duty to learn. in the case of nausicaa and her maidens, the game would just bring into their right places all that is liable to be contracted and weakened in women, so many of whose occupations must needs be sedentary and stooping; while the song which accompanied the game at once filled the lungs regularly and rhythmically, and prevented violent motion, or unseemly attitude. we, the civilised, need physiologists to remind us of these simple facts, and even then do not act on them. those old half-barbarous greeks had found them out for themselves, and, moreover, acted on them. but fair nausicaa must have been--some will say--surely a mere child of nature, and an uncultivated person? so far from it, that her whole demeanour and speech show culture of the very highest sort, full of "sweetness and light."--intelligent and fearless, quick to perceive the bearings of her strange and sudden adventure, quick to perceive the character of ulysses, quick to answer his lofty and refined pleading by words as lofty and refined, and pious withal;--for it is she who speaks to her handmaids the once so famous words: "strangers and poor men all are sent from zeus; and alms, though small, are sweet" clear of intellect, prompt of action, modest of demeanour, shrinking from the slightest breath of scandal; while she is not ashamed, when ulysses, bathed and dressed, looks himself again, to whisper to her maidens her wish that the gods might send her such a spouse.--this is nausicaa as homer draws her; and as many a scholar and poet since homer has accepted her for the ideal of noble maidenhood. i ask my readers to study for themselves her interview with ulysses, in mr. worsley's translation, or rather in the grand simplicity of the original greek, { } and judge whether nausicaa is not as perfect a lady as the poet who imagined her--or, it may be, drew her from life--must have been a perfect gentleman; both complete in those "manners" which, says the old proverb, "make the man:" but which are the woman herself; because with her--who acts more by emotion than by calculation--manners are the outward and visible tokens of her inward and spiritual grace, or disgrace; and flow instinctively, whether good or bad, from the instincts of her inner nature. true, nausicaa could neither read nor write. no more, most probably, could the author of the odyssey. no more, for that matter, could abraham, isaac, and jacob, though they were plainly, both in mind and manners, most highly-cultivated men. reading and writing, of course, have now become necessaries of humanity; and are to be given to every human being, that he may start fair in the race of life. but i am not aware that greek women improved much, either in manners, morals, or happiness, by acquiring them in after centuries. a wise man would sooner see his daughter a nausicaa than a sappho, an aspasia, a cleopatra, or even an hypatia. full of such thoughts, i went through london streets, among the nausicaas of the present day; the girls of the period; the daughters and hereafter mothers of our future rulers, the great demos or commercial middle class of the greatest mercantile city in the world: and noted what i had noted with fear and sorrow, many a day, for many a year; a type, and an increasing type, of young women who certainly had not had the "advantages," "educational" and other, of that greek nausicaa of old. of course, in such a city as london, to which the best of everything, physical and other, gravitates, i could not but pass, now and then, beautiful persons, who made me proud of those "grandes anglaises aux joues rouges," whom the parisiennes ridicule--and envy. but i could not help suspecting that their looks showed them to be either country-bred, or born of country parents; and this suspicion was strengthened by the fact, that when compared with their mothers, the mother's physique was, in the majority of cases, superior to the daughters'. painful it was, to one accustomed to the ruddy well-grown peasant girl, stalwart, even when, as often, squat and plain, to remark the exceedingly small size of the average young woman; by which i do not mean mere want of height--that is a little matter--but want of breadth likewise; a general want of those large frames, which indicate usually a power of keeping strong and healthy not merely the muscles, but the brain itself. poor little things. i passed hundreds--i pass hundreds every day--trying to hide their littleness by the nasty mass of false hair--or what does duty for it; and by the ugly and useless hat which is stuck upon it, making the head thereby look ridiculously large and heavy; and by the high heels on which they totter onward, having forgotten, or never learnt, the simple art of walking; their bodies tilted forward in that ungraceful attitude which is called--why that name of all others?--a "grecian bend;" seemingly kept on their feet, and kept together at all, in that strange attitude, by tight stays which prevented all graceful and healthy motion of the hips or sides; their raiment, meanwhile, being purposely misshapen in this direction and in that, to hide--it must be presumed--deficiencies of form. if that chignon and those heels had been taken off, the figure which would have remained would have been that too often of a puny girl of sixteen. and yet there was no doubt that these women were not only full grown, but some of them, alas! wives and mothers. poor little things.--and this they have gained by so-called civilisation: the power of aping the "fashions" by which the worn-out parisienne hides her own personal defects; and of making themselves, by innate want of that taste which the parisienne possesses, only the cause of something like a sneer from many a cultivated man; and of something like a sneer, too, from yonder gipsy woman who passes by, with bold bright face, and swinging hip, and footstep stately and elastic; far better dressed, according to all true canons of taste, than most town-girls; and thanking her fate that she and her "rom" are no house-dwellers and gaslight-sightseers, but fatten on free air upon the open moor. but the face which is beneath that chignon and that hat? well--it is sometimes pretty: but how seldom handsome, which is a higher quality by far. it is not, strange to say, a well-fed face. plenty of money, and perhaps too much, is spent on those fine clothes. it had been better, to judge from the complexion, if some of that money had been spent in solid wholesome food. she looks as if she lived--as she too often does, i hear--on tea and bread-and-butter, or rather on bread with the minimum of butter. for as the want of bone indicates a deficiency of phosphatic food, so does the want of flesh about the cheeks indicate a deficiency of hydrocarbon. poor little nausicaa:--that is not her fault. our boasted civilisation has not even taught her what to eat, as it certainly has not increased her appetite; and she knows not--what every country fellow knows--that without plenty of butter and other fatty matters, she is not likely to keep even warm. better to eat nasty fat bacon now, than to supply the want of it some few years hence by nastier cod-liver oil. but there is no one yet to tell her that, and a dozen other equally simple facts, for her own sake, and for the sake of that coming demos which she is to bring into the world; a demos which, if we can only keep it healthy in body and brain, has before it so splendid a future: but which, if body and brain degrade beneath the influence of modern barbarism, is but too likely to follow the demos of ancient byzantium, or of modern paris. ay, but her intellect. she is so clever, and she reads so much, and she is going to be taught to read so much more. ah, well--there was once a science called physiognomy. the greeks, from what i can learn, knew more of it than any people since: though the italian painters and sculptors must have known much; far more than we. in a more scientific civilisation there will be such a science once more: but its laws, though still in the empiric stage, are not altogether forgotten by some. little children have often a fine and clear instinct of them. many cultivated and experienced women have a fine and clear instinct of them likewise. and some such would tell us that there is intellect in plenty in the modern nausicaa: but not of the quality which they desire for their country's future good. self-consciousness, eagerness, volubility, petulance, in countenance, in gesture, and in voice--which last is too often most harsh and artificial, the breath being sent forth through the closed teeth, and almost entirely at the corners of the mouth--and, with all this, a weariness often about the wrinkling forehead and the drooping lids;--all these, which are growing too common, not among the demos only, nor only in the towns, are signs, they think, of the unrest of unhealth, physical, intellectual, spiritual. at least they are as different as two types of physiognomy in the same race can be, from the expression both of face and gesture, in those old greek sculptures, and in the old italian painters; and, it must be said, in the portraits of reynolds, and gainsborough, copley, and romney. not such, one thinks, must have been the mothers of britain during the latter half of the last century and the beginning of the present; when their sons, at times, were holding half the world at bay. and if nausicaa has become such in town: what is she when she goes to the seaside, not to wash the clothes in fresh-water, but herself in salt--the very salt-water, laden with decaying organisms, from which, though not polluted further by a dozen sewers, ulysses had to cleanse himself, anointing, too, with oil, ere he was fit to appear in the company of nausicaa of greece? she dirties herself with the dirty salt-water; and probably chills and tires herself by walking thither and back, and staying in too long; and then flaunts on the pier, bedizened in garments which, for monstrosity of form and disharmony of colours, would have set that greek nausicaa's teeth on edge, or those of any average hindoo woman now. or, even sadder still, she sits on chairs and benches all the weary afternoon, her head drooped on her chest, over some novel from the "library;" and then returns to tea and shrimps, and lodgings of which the fragrance is not unsuggestive, sometimes not unproductive, of typhoid fever. ah, poor nausicaa of england! that is a sad sight to some who think about the present, and have read about the past. it is not a sad sight to see your old father--tradesman, or clerk, or what not--who has done good work in his day, and hopes to do some more, sitting by your old mother, who has done good work in her day--among the rest, that heaviest work of all, the bringing you into the world and keeping you in it till now--honest, kindly, cheerful folk enough, and not inefficient in their own calling; though an average northumbrian, or highlander, or irish easterling, beside carrying a brain of five times the intellectual force, could drive five such men over the cliff with his bare hands. it is not a sad sight, i say, to see them sitting about upon those seaside benches, looking out listlessly at the water, and the ships, and the sunlight, and enjoying, like so many flies upon a wall, the novel act of doing nothing. it is not the old for whom wise men are sad: but for you. where is your vitality? where is your "lebensgluckseligkeit," your enjoyment of superfluous life and power? why can you not even dance and sing, till now and then, at night, perhaps, when you ought to be safe in bed, but when the weak brain, after receiving the day's nourishment, has roused itself a second time into a false excitement of gaslight pleasure? what there is left of it is all going into that foolish book, which the womanly element in you, still healthy and alive, delights in; because it places you in fancy in situations in which you will never stand, and inspires you with emotions, some of which, it may be, you had better never feel. poor nausicaa--old, some men think, before you have been ever young. and now they are going to "develop" you; and let you have your share in "the higher education of women," by making you read more books, and do more sums, and pass examinations, and stoop over desks at night after stooping over some other employment all day; and to teach you latin, and even greek. well, we will gladly teach you greek, if you learn thereby to read the history of nausicaa of old, and what manner of maiden she was, and what was her education. you will admire her, doubtless. but do not let your admiration limit itself to drawing a meagre half-mediaevalized design of her--as she never looked. copy in your own person; and even if you do not descend as low--or rise as high--as washing the household clothes, at least learn to play at ball; and sing, in the open air and sunshine, not in theatres and concert-rooms by gaslight; and take decent care of your own health; and dress not like a "parisienne"--nor, of course, like nausicaa of old, for that is to ask too much:--but somewhat more like an average highland lassie; and try to look like her, and be like her, of whom wordsworth sang-- "a mien and face in which full plainly i can trace benignity and home-bred sense, ripening in perfect innocence. here scattered, like a random seed, remote from men, thou dost not need the embarrassed look of shy distress and maidenly shamefacedness. thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear the freedom of a mountaineer. a face with gladness overspread, soft smiles, by human kindness bred, and seemliness complete, that sways thy courtesies, about thee plays. with no restraint, save such as springs from quick and eager visitings of thoughts that lie beyond the reach of thy few words of english speech. a bondage sweetly brooked, a strife that gives thy gestures grace and life." ah, yet unspoilt nausicaa of the north; descendant of the dark tender- hearted celtic girl, and the fair deep-hearted scandinavian viking, thank god for thy heather and fresh air, and the kine thou tendest, and the wool thou spinnest; and come not to seek thy fortune, child, in wicked london town; nor import, as they tell me thou art doing fast, the ugly fashions of that london town, clumsy copies of parisian cockneydom, into thy highland home; nor give up the healthful and graceful, free and modest dress of thy mother and thy mother's mother, to disfigure the little kirk on sabbath days with crinoline and corset, high-heeled boots, and other women's hair. it is proposed, just now, to assimilate the education of girls more and more to that of boys. if that means that girls are merely to learn more lessons, and to study what their brothers are taught, in addition to what their mothers were taught; then it is to be hoped, at least by physiologists and patriots, that the scheme will sink into that limbo whither, in a free and tolerably rational country, all imperfect and ill- considered schemes are sure to gravitate. but if the proposal be a bona fide one: then it must be borne in mind that in the public schools of england, and in all private schools, i presume, which take their tone from them, cricket and football are more or less compulsory, being considered integral parts of an englishman's education; and that they are likely to remain so, in spite of all reclamations: because masters and boys alike know that games do not, in the long run, interfere with a boy's work; that the same boy will very often excel in both; that the games keep him in health for his work; that the spirit with which he takes to his games when in the lower school, is a fair test of the spirit with which he will take to his work when he rises into the higher school; and that nothing is worse for a boy than to fall into that loafing, tuck- shop-haunting set, who neither play hard nor work hard, and are usually extravagant, and often vicious. moreover, they know well that games conduce, not merely to physical, but to moral health; that in the playing- field boys acquire virtues which no books can give them; not merely daring and endurance, but, better still, temper, self-restraint, fairness, honour, unenvious approbation of another's success, and all that "give and take" of life which stand a man in such good stead when he goes forth into the world, and without which, indeed, his success is always maimed and partial. now: if the promoters of higher education for women will compel girls to any training analogous to our public school games; if, for instance, they will insist on that most natural and wholesome of all exercises, dancing, in order to develop the lower half of the body; on singing, to expand the lungs and regulate the breath; and on some games--ball or what not--which will ensure that raised chest, and upright carriage, and general strength of the upper torso, without which full oxygenation of the blood, and therefore general health, is impossible; if they will sternly forbid tight stays, high heels, and all which interferes with free growth and free motion; if they will consider carefully all which has been written on the "half-time system" by mr. chadwick and others; and accept the certain physical law that, in order to renovate the brain day by day, the growing creature must have plenty of fresh air and play, and that the child who learns for four hours and plays for four hours, will learn more, and learn it more easily, than the child who learns for the whole eight hours; if, in short, they will teach girls not merely to understand the greek tongue, but to copy somewhat of the greek physical training, of that "music and gymnastic" which helped to make the cleverest race of the old world the ablest race likewise: then they will earn the gratitude of the patriot and the physiologist, by doing their best to stay the downward tendencies of the physique, and therefore ultimately of the morale, in the coming generation of english women. i am sorry to say that, as yet, i hear of but one movement in this direction among the promoters of the "higher education of women." { } i trust that the subject will be taken up methodically by those gifted ladies; who have acquainted themselves, and are labouring to acquaint other women, with the first principles of health; and that they may avail to prevent the coming generations, under the unwholesome stimulant of competitive examinations, and so forth, from "developing" into so many chinese-dwarfs--or idiots. the air-mothers. "die natur ist die bewegung." who are these who follow us softly over the moor in the autumn eve? their wings brush and rustle in the fir-boughs, and they whisper before us and behind, as if they called gently to each other, like birds flocking homeward to their nests. the woodpecker on the pine-stems knows them, and laughs aloud for joy as they pass. the rooks above the pasture know them, and wheel round and tumble in their play. the brown leaves on the oak trees know them, and flutter faintly, and beckon as they pass. and in the chattering of the dry leaves there is a meaning, and a cry of weary things which long for rest. "take us home, take us home, you soft air-mothers, now our fathers the sunbeams are grown dull. our green summer beauty is all draggled, and our faces are grown wan and wan; and the buds, the children whom we nourished, thrust us off, ungrateful, from our seats. waft us down, you soft air-mothers, upon your wings to the quiet earth, that we may go to our home, as all things go, and become air and sunlight once again." and the bold young fir-seeds know them, and rattle impatient in their cones. "blow stronger, blow fiercer, slow air-mothers, and shake us from our prisons of dead wood, that we may fly and spin away north-eastward, each on his horny wing. help us but to touch the moorland yonder, and we will take good care of ourselves henceforth; we will dive like arrows through the heather, and drive our sharp beaks into the soil, and rise again as green trees toward the sunlight, and spread out lusty boughs." they never think, bold fools, of what is coming, to bring them low in the midst of their pride; of the reckless axe which will fell them, and the saw which will shape them into logs; and the trains which will roar and rattle over them, as they lie buried in the gravel of the way, till they are ground and rotted into powder, and dug up and flung upon the fire, that they too may return home, like all things, and become air and sunlight once again. and the air-mothers hear their prayers, and do their bidding: but faintly; for they themselves are tired and sad. tired and sad are the air-mothers, and their garments rent and wan. look at them as they stream over the black forest, before the dim south-western sun; long lines and wreaths of melancholy grey, stained with dull yellow or dead dun. they have come far across the seas, and done many a wild deed upon their way; and now that they have reached the land, like shipwrecked sailors, they will lie down and weep till they can weep no more. ah, how different were those soft air-mothers when, invisible to mortal eyes, they started on their long sky-journey, five thousand miles across the sea! out of the blazing caldron which lies between the two new worlds, they leapt up when the great sun called them, in whirls and spouts of clear hot steam; and rushed of their own passion to the northward, while the whirling earth-ball whirled them east. so north- eastward they rushed aloft, across the gay west indian isles, leaving below the glitter of the flying-fish, and the sidelong eyes of cruel sharks; above the cane-fields and the plaintain-gardens, and the cocoa- groves which fringe the shores; above the rocks which throbbed with earthquakes, and the peaks of old volcanoes, cinder-strewn; while, far beneath, the ghosts of their dead sisters hurried home upon the north- east breeze. wild deeds they did as they rushed onward, and struggled and fought among themselves, up and down, and round and backward, in the fury of their blind hot youth. they heeded not the tree as they snapped it, nor the ship as they whelmed it in the waves; nor the cry of the sinking sailor, nor the need of his little ones on shore; hasty and selfish even as children, and, like children, tamed by their own rage. for they tired themselves by struggling with each other, and by tearing the heavy water into waves; and their wings grew clogged with sea-spray, and soaked more and more with steam. but at last the sea grew cold beneath them, and their clear steam shrank to mist; and they saw themselves and each other wrapped in dull rain-laden clouds. they then drew their white cloud-garments round them, and veiled themselves for very shame; and said, "we have been wild and wayward: and, alas! our pure bright youth is gone. but we will do one good deed yet ere we die, and so we shall not have lived in vain. we will glide onward to the land, and weep there; and refresh all things with soft warm rain; and make the grass grow, the buds burst; quench the thirst of man and beast, and wash the soiled world clean." so they are wandering past us, the air-mothers, to weep the leaves into their graves; to weep the seeds into their seed-beds, and weep the soil into the plains; to get the rich earth ready for the winter, and then creep northward to the ice-world, and there die. weary, and still more weary, slowly, and more slowly still, they will journey on far northward, across fast-chilling seas. for a doom is laid upon them, never to be still again, till they rest at the north pole itself, the still axle of the spinning world; and sink in death around it, and become white snow-clad ghosts. but will they live again, those chilled air-mothers? yes, they must live again. for all things move for ever; and not even ghosts can rest. so the corpses of their sisters, piling on them from above, press them outward, press them southward toward the sun once more; across the floes and round the icebergs, weeping tears of snow and sleet, while men hate their wild harsh voices, and shrink before their bitter breath. they know not that the cold bleak snow-storms, as they hurtle from the black north-east, bear back the ghosts of the soft air-mothers, as penitents, to their father, the great sun. but as they fly southwards, warm life thrills them, and they drop their loads of sleet and snow; and meet their young live sisters from the south, and greet them with flash and thunder-peal. and, please god, before many weeks are over, as we run westward ho, we shall overtake the ghosts of these air-mothers, hurrying back toward their father, the great sun. fresh and bright under the fresh bright heaven, they will race with us toward our home, to gain new heat, new life, new power, and set forth about their work once more. men call them the south-west wind, those air- mothers; and their ghosts the north-east trade; and value them, and rightly, because they bear the traders out and home across the sea. but wise men, and little children, should look on them with more seeing eyes; and say, "may not these winds be living creatures? they, too, are thoughts of god, to whom all live." for is not our life like their life? do we not come and go as they? out of god's boundless bosom, the fount of life, we came; through selfish, stormy youth, and contrite tears--just not too late; through manhood not altogether useless; through slow and chill old age, we return from whence we came; to the bosom of god once more--to go forth again, it may be, with fresh knowledge, and fresh powers, to nobler work. amen. * * * * * such was the prophecy which i learnt, or seemed to learn, from the south- western wind off the atlantic, on a certain delectable evening. and it was fulfilled at night, as far as the gentle air-mothers could fulfil it, for foolish man. "there was a roaring in the woods all night; the rain came heavily and fell in floods; but now the sun is rising calm and bright, the birds are singing in the distant woods; over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods, the jay makes answer as the magpie chatters, and all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters" but was i a gloomy and distempered man, if, upon such a morn as that, i stood on the little bridge across a certain brook, and watched the water run, with something of a sigh? or if, when the schoolboy beside me lamented that the floods would surely be out, and his day's fishing spoiled, i said to him--"ah, my boy, that is a little matter. look at what you are seeing now, and understand what barbarism and waste mean. look at all that beautiful water which god has sent us hither off the atlantic, without trouble or expense to us. thousands, and tens of thousands, of gallons will run under this bridge to-day; and what shall we do with it? nothing. and yet: think only of the mills which that water would have turned. think how it might have kept up health and cleanliness in poor creatures packed away in the back streets of the nearest town, or even in london itself. think even how country folk, in many parts of england, in three months' time, may be crying out for rain, and afraid of short crops, and fever, and scarlatina, and cattle-plague, for want of the very water which we are now letting run back, wasted, into the sea from whence it came. and yet we call ourselves a civilised people." it is not wise, i know, to preach to boys. and yet, sometimes, a man must speak his heart; even, like midas' slave, to the reeds by the river side. and i had so often, fishing up and down full many a stream, whispered my story to those same river-reeds; and told them that my lord the sovereign demos had, like old midas, asses' ears in spite of all his gold, that i thought i might for once tell it the boy likewise, in hope that he might help his generation to mend that which my own generation does not seem like to mend. i might have said more to him: but did not. for it is not well to destroy too early the child's illusion, that people must be wise because they are grown up, and have votes, and rule--or think they rule--the world. the child will find out how true that is soon enough for himself. if the truth be forced on him by the hot words of those with whom he lives, it is apt to breed in him that contempt, stormful and therefore barren, which makes revolutions; and not that pity, calm and therefore helpful, which makes reforms. so i might have said to him, but did not-- and then men pray for rain: my boy, did you ever hear the old eastern legend about the gipsies? how they were such good musicians, that some great indian sultan sent for the whole tribe, and planted them near his palace, and gave them land, and ploughs to break it up, and seed to sow it, that they might dwell there, and play and sing to him. but when the winter arrived, the gipsies all came to the sultan, and cried that they were starving. "but what have you done with the seed- corn which i gave you?" "o light of the age, we ate it in the summer." "and what have you done with the ploughs which i gave you?" "o glory of the universe, we burnt them to bake the corn withal." then said that great sultan--"like the butterflies you have lived; and like the butterflies you shall wander." so he drove them out. and that is how the gipsies came hither from the east. now suppose that the sultan of all sultans, who sends the rain, should make a like answer to us foolish human beings, when we prayed for rain: "but what have you done with the rain which i gave you six months since?" "we have let it run into the sea." "then, ere you ask for more rain, make places wherein you can keep it when you have it." "but that would be, in most cases, too expensive. we can employ our capital more profitably in other directions." it is not for me to say what answer might be made to such an excuse. i think a child's still unsophisticated sense of right and wrong would soon supply one; and probably one--considering the complexity, and difficulty, and novelty, of the whole question--somewhat too harsh; as children's judgments are wont to be. but would it not be well if our children, without being taught to blame anyone for what is past, were taught something about what ought to be done now, what must be done soon, with the rainfall of these islands; and about other and kindred health-questions, on the solution of which depends, and will depend more and more, the life of millions? one would have thought that those public schools and colleges which desire to monopolise the education of the owners of the soil; of the great employers of labour; of the clergy; and of all, indeed, who ought to be acquainted with the duties of property, the conditions of public health, and, in a word, with the general laws of what is now called social science--one would have thought, i say, that these public schools and colleges would have taught their scholars somewhat at least about such matters, that they might go forth into life with at least some rough notions of the causes which make people healthy or unhealthy, rich or poor, comfortable or wretched, useful or dangerous to the state. but as long as our great educational institutions, safe, or fancying themselves safe, in some enchanted castle, shut out by ancient magic from the living world, put a premium on latin and greek verses: a wise father will, during the holidays, talk now and then, i hope, somewhat after this fashion:-- you must understand, my boy, that all the water in the country comes out of the sky, and from nowhere else; and that, therefore, to save and store the water when it falls is a question of life and death to crops, and man, and beast; for with or without water is life or death. if i took, for instance, the water from the moors above and turned it over yonder field, i could double, and more than double, the crops in that field henceforth. then why do i not do it? only because the field lies higher than the house; and if--now here is one thing which you and every civilised man should know--if you have water-meadows, or any "irrigated" land, as it is called, above a house, or even on a level with it, it is certain to breed not merely cold and damp, but fever or ague. our forefathers did not understand this; and they built their houses, as this is built, in the lowest places they could find: sometimes because they wished to be near ponds, from whence they could get fish in lent; but more often, i think, because they wanted to be sheltered from the wind. they had no glass, as we have, in their windows; or, at least, only latticed casements, which let in the wind and cold; and they shrank from high and exposed, and therefore really healthy, spots. but now that we have good glass, and sash windows, and doors that will shut tight, we can build warm houses where we like. and if you ever have to do with the building of cottages, remember that it is your duty to the people who will live in them, and therefore to the state, to see that they stand high and dry, where no water can drain down into their foundations, and where fog, and the poisonous gases which are given out by rotting vegetables, cannot drain down either. you will learn more about all that when you learn, as every civilised lad should in these days, something about chemistry, and the laws of fluids and gases. but you know already that flowers are cut off by frost in the low grounds sooner than in the high; and that the fog at night always lies along the brooks; and that the sour moor-smell which warns us to shut our windows at sunset, comes down from the hill, and not up from the valley. now all these things are caused by one and the same law; that cold air is heavier than warm; and, therefore, like so much water, must run down hill. but what about the rainfall? well, i have wandered a little from the rainfall: though not as far as you fancy; for fever and ague and rheumatism usually mean--rain in the wrong place. but if you knew how much illness, and torturing pain, and death, and sorrow arise, even to this very day, from ignorance of these simple laws, then you would bear them carefully in mind, and wish to know more about them. but now for water being life to the beasts. do you remember--though you are hardly old enough--the cattle-plague? how the beasts died, or had to be killed and buried, by tens of thousands; and how misery and ruin fell on hundreds of honest men and women over many of the richest counties of england: but how we in this vale had no cattle- plague; and how there was none--as far as i recollect--in the uplands of devon and cornwall, nor of wales, nor of the scotch highlands? now, do you know why that was? simply because we here, like those other uplanders, are in such a country as palestine was before the foolish jews cut down all their timber, and so destroyed their own rainfall--a "land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys and hills." there is hardly a field here that has not, thank god, its running brook, or its sweet spring, from which our cattle were drinking their health and life, while in the clay-lands of cheshire, and in the cambridgeshire fens--which were drained utterly dry--the poor things drank no water, too often, save that of the very same putrid ponds in which they had been standing all day long, to cool themselves, and to keep off the flies. i do not say, of course, that bad water caused the cattle-plague. it came by infection from the east of europe. but i say that bad water made the cattle ready to take it, and made it spread over the country; and when you are old enough i will give you plenty of proof--some from the herds of your own kinsmen--that what i say is true. and as for pure water being life to human beings: why have we never fever here, and scarcely ever diseases like fever--zymotics, as the doctors call them? or, if a case comes into our parish from outside, why does the fever never spread? for the very same reason that we had no cattle- plague. because we have more pure water close to every cottage than we need. and this i tell you: that the only two outbreaks of deadly disease which we have had here for thirty years, were both of them, as far as i could see, to be traced to filthy water having got into the poor folk's wells. water, you must remember, just as it is life when pure, is death when foul. for it can carry, unseen to the eye, and even when it looks clear and sparkling, and tastes soft and sweet, poisons which have perhaps killed more human beings than ever were killed in battle. you have read, perhaps, how the athenians, when they were dying of the plague, accused the lacedaemonians outside the walls of poisoning their wells; or how, in some of the pestilences of the middle ages, the common people used to accuse the poor harmless jews of poisoning the wells, and set upon them and murdered them horribly. they were right, i do not doubt, in their notion that the well-water was giving them the pestilence: but they had not sense to see that they were poisoning the wells themselves by their dirt and carelessness; or, in the case of poor besieged athens, probably by mere overcrowding, which has cost many a life ere now, and will cost more. and i am sorry to tell you, my little man, that even now too many people have no more sense than they had, and die in consequence. if you could see a battle-field, and men shot down, writhing and dying in hundreds by shell and bullet, would not that seem to you a horrid sight? then--i do not wish to make you sad too early, but this is a fact which everyone should know--that more people, and not strong men only, but women and little children too, are killed and wounded in great britain every year by bad water and want of water together, than were killed and wounded in any battle which has been fought since you were born. medical men know this well. and when you are older, you may see it for yourself in the registrar-general's reports, blue-books, pamphlets, and so on, without end. but why do not people stop such a horrible loss of life? well, my dear boy, the true causes of it have only been known for the last thirty or forty years; and we english are, as good king alfred found us to his sorrow a thousand years ago, very slow to move, even when we see a thing ought to be done. let us hope that in this matter--we have been so in most matters as yet--we shall be like the tortoise in the fable, and not the hare; and by moving slowly, but surely, win the race at last. but now think for yourself: and see what you would do to save these people from being poisoned by bad water. remember that the plain question is this--the rainwater comes down from heaven as water, and nothing but water. rainwater is the only pure water, after all. how would you save that for the poor people who have none? there; run away and hunt rabbits on the moor: but look, meanwhile, how you would save some of this beautiful and precious water which is roaring away into the sea. * * * * * well? what would you do? make ponds, you say, like the old monks' ponds, now all broken down. dam all the glens across their mouths, and turn them into reservoirs. "out of the mouths of babes and sucklings"--well, that will have to be done. that is being done more and more, more or less well. the good people of glasgow did it first, i think; and now the good people of manchester, and of other northern towns, have done it, and have saved many a human life thereby already. but it must be done, some day, all over england and wales, and great part of scotland. for the mountain tops and moors, my boy, by a beautiful law of nature, compensate for their own poverty by yielding a wealth which the rich lowlands cannot yield. you do not understand? then see. yon moor above can grow neither corn nor grass. but one thing it can grow, and does grow, without which we should have no corn nor grass, and that is--water. not only does far more rain fall up there than falls here down below, but even in drought the high moors condense the moisture into dew, and so yield some water, even when the lowlands are burnt up with drought. the reason of that you must learn hereafter. that it is so, you should know yourself. for on the high chalk downs, you know, where farmers make a sheep-pond, they never, if they are wise, make it in a valley or on a hill-side, but on the bleakest top of the very highest down; and there, if they can once get it filled with snow and rain in winter, the blessed dews of night will keep some water in it all the summer through, while the ponds below are utterly dried up. and even so it is, as i know, with this very moor. corn and grass it will not grow, because there is too little "staple," that is, soluble minerals, in the sandy soil. but how much water it might grow, you may judge roughly for yourself, by remembering how many brooks like this are running off it now to carry mere dirt into the river, and then into the sea. but why should we not make dams at once; and save the water? because we cannot afford it. no one would buy the water when we had stored it. the rich in town and country will always take care--and quite right they are--to have water enough for themselves, and for their servants too, whatever it may cost them. but the poorer people are--and therefore usually, alas! the more ignorant--the less water they get; and the less they care to have water; and the less they are inclined to pay for it; and the more, i am sorry to say, they waste what little they do get; and i am still more sorry to say, spoil, and even steal and sell--in london at least--the stop-cocks and lead-pipes which bring the water into their houses. so that keeping a water-shop is a very troublesome and uncertain business; and one which is not likely to pay us or any one round here. but why not let some company manage it, as they manage railways, and gas, and other things? ah--you have been overhearing a good deal about companies of late, i see. but this i will tell you; that when you grow up, and have a vote and influence, it will be your duty, if you intend to be a good citizen, not only not to put the water-supply of england into the hands of fresh companies, but to help to take out of their hands what water-supply they manage already, especially in london; and likewise the gas-supply; and the railroads; and everything else, in a word, which everybody uses, and must use. for you must understand--at least as soon as you can--that though the men who make up companies are no worse than other men, and some of them, as you ought to know, very good men; yet what they have to look to is their profits; and the less water they supply, and the worse it is, the more profit they make. for most water, i am sorry to say, is fouled before the water companies can get to it, as this water which runs past us will be, and as the thames water above london is. therefore it has to be cleansed, or partly cleansed, at a very great expense. so water companies have to be inspected--in plain english, watched--at a very heavy expense to the nation, by government officers; and compelled to do their best, and take their utmost care. and so it has come to pass that the london water is not now nearly as bad as some of it was thirty years ago, when it was no more fit to drink than that in the cattle yard tank. but still we must have more water, and better, in london; for it is growing year by year. there are more than three millions of people already in what we call london; and ere you are an old man there may be between four and five millions. now to supply all these people with water is a duty which we must not leave to any private companies. it must be done by a public authority, as is fit and proper in a free self- governing country. in this matter, as in all others, we will try to do what the royal commission told us four years ago we ought to do. i hope that you will see, though i may not, the day when what we call london, but which is really, nine-tenths of it, only a great nest of separate villages huddled together, will be divided into three great self-governing cities, london, westminster, and southwark; each with its own corporation, like that of the venerable and well-governed city of london; each managing its own water-supply, gas-supply, and sewage, and other matters besides; and managing them, like dublin, glasgow, manchester, liverpool, and other great northern towns, far more cheaply and far better than any companies can do it for them. but where shall we get water enough for all these millions of people? there are no mountains near london. but we might give them the water off our moors. no, no, my boy. "he that will not when he may, when he will, he shall have nay." some fifteen years ago the londoners might have had water from us; and i was one of those who did my best to get it for them: but the water companies did not choose to take it; and now this part of england is growing so populous and so valuable that it wants all its little rainfall for itself. so there is another leaf torn out of the sibylline books for the poor old water companies. you do not understand: you will some day. but you may comfort yourself about london. for it happens to be, i think, the luckiest city in the world; and if it had not been, we should have had pestilence on pestilence in it, as terrible as the great plague of charles ii.'s time. the old britons, without knowing in the least what they were doing, settled old london city in the very centre of the most wonderful natural reservoir in this island, or perhaps in all europe; which reaches from kent into wiltshire, and round again into suffolk; and that is, the dear old chalk downs. why, they are always dry. yes. but the turf on them never burns up, and the streams which flow through them never run dry, and seldom or never flood either. do you not know, from winchester, that that is true? then where is all the rain and snow gone, which falls on them year by year, but into the chalk itself, and into the greensands, too, below the chalk? there it is, soaked up as by a sponge, in quantity incalculable; enough, some think, to supply london, let it grow as huge as it may. i wish i too were sure of that. but the commission has shown itself so wise and fair, and brave likewise--too brave, i am sorry to say, for some who might have supported them--that it is not for me to gainsay their opinion. but if there was not water enough in the chalk, are not the londoners rich enough to bring it from any distance? my boy, in this also we will agree with the commission--that we ought not to rob peter to pay paul, and take water to a distance which other people close at hand may want. look at the map of england and southern scotland; and see for yourself what is just, according to geography and nature. there are four mountain-ranges; four great water-fields. first, the hills of the border. their rainfall ought to be stored for the lothians and the extreme north of england. then the yorkshire and derbyshire hills--the central chine of england. their rainfall is being stored already, to the honour of the shrewd northern men, for the manufacturing counties east and west of the hills. then come the lake mountains--the finest water-field of all, because more rain by far falls there than in any place in england. but they will be wanted to supply lancashire, and some day liverpool itself; for liverpool is now using rain which belongs more justly to other towns; and besides, there are plenty of counties and towns, down into cheshire, which would be glad of what water lancashire does not want. and last come the snowdon mountains, a noble water-field, which i know well; for an old dream of mine has been, that ere i died i should see all the rain of the carnedds, and the glyders, and siabod, and snowdon itself, carried across the conway river to feed the mining districts of north wales, where the streams are now all foul with oil and lead; and then on into the western coal and iron fields, to wolverhampton and birmingham itself: and if i were the engineer who got that done, i should be happier--prouder i dare not say--than if i had painted nobler pictures than raffaelle, or written nobler plays than shakespeare. i say that, boy, in most deliberate earnest. but meanwhile, do you not see that in districts where coal and iron may be found, and fresh manufactures may spring up any day in any place, each district has a right to claim the nearest rainfall for itself? and now, when we have got the water into its proper place, let us see what we shall do with it. but why do you say we? can you and i do all this? my boy, are not you and i free citizens; part of the people, the commons--as the good old word runs--of this country? and are we not--or ought we not to be in time--beside that, educated men? by the people, remember, i mean, not only the hand-working man who has just got a vote; i mean the clergy of all denominations; and the gentlemen of the press; and last, but not least, the scientific men. if those four classes together were to tell every government--"free water we will have, and as much as we reasonably choose;" and tell every candidate for the house of commons,--"unless you promise to get us as much free water as we reasonably choose, we will not return you to parliament:" then, i think, we four should put such a "pressure" on government as no water companies, or other vested interests, could long resist. and if any of those four classes should hang back, and waste their time and influence over matters far less important and less pressing, the other three must laugh at them, and more than laugh at them; and ask them--"why have you education, why have you influence, why have you votes, why are you freemen and not slaves, if not to preserve the comfort, the decency, the health, the lives of men, women, and children--most of those latter your own wives and your own children?" but what shall we do with the water? well, after all, that is a more practical matter than speculations grounded on the supposition that all classes will do their duty. but the first thing we will do will be to give to the very poorest houses a constant supply, at high pressure; so that everybody may take as much water as he likes, instead of having to keep the water in little cisterns, where it gets foul and putrid only too often. but will they not waste it then? so far from it, wherever the water has been laid on at high pressure, the waste, which is terrible now--some say that in london one-third of the water is wasted--begins to lessen; and both water and expense are saved. if you will only think, you will see one reason why. if a woman leaves a high-pressure tap running, she will flood her place and her neighbour's too. she will be like the magician's servant, who called up the demon to draw water for him; and so he did: but when he had begun he would not stop, and if the magician had not come home, man and house would have been washed away. but if it saves money, why do not the water companies do it? because--and really here there are many excuses for the poor old water companies, when so many of them swerve and gib at the very mention of constant water-supply, like a poor horse set to draw a load which he feels is too heavy for him--because, to keep everything in order among dirty, careless, and often drunken people, there must be officers with lawful authority--water-policemen we will call them--who can enter people's houses when they will, and if they find anything wrong with the water, set it to rights with a high hand, and even summon the people who have set it wrong. and that is a power which, in a free country, must never be given to the servants of any private company, but only to the officers of a corporation or of the government. and what shall we do with the rest of the water? well, we shall have, i believe, so much to spare that we may at least do this--in each district of each city, and the centre of each town, we may build public baths and lavatories, where poor men and women may get their warm baths when they will; for now they usually never bathe at all, because they will not--and ought not, if they be hard-worked folk--bathe in cold water during nine months of the year. and there they shall wash their clothes, and dry them by steam; instead of washing them as now, at home, either under back sheds, where they catch cold and rheumatism, or too often, alas! in their own living rooms, in an atmosphere of foul vapour, which drives the father to the public-house and the children into the streets; and which not only prevents the clothes from being thoroughly dried again, but is, my dear boy, as you will know when you are older, a very hot-bed of disease. and they shall have other comforts, and even luxuries, these public lavatories; and be made, in time, graceful and refining, as well as merely useful. nay, we will even, i think, have in front of each of them a real fountain; not like the drinking-fountains--though they are great and needful boons--which you see here and there about the streets, with a tiny dribble of water to a great deal of expensive stone: but real fountains, which shall leap, and sparkle, and plash, and gurgle; and fill the place with life, and light, and coolness; and sing in the people's ears the sweetest of all earthly songs--save the song of a mother over her child--the song of "the laughing water." but will not that be a waste? yes, my boy. and for that very reason, i think we, the people, will have our fountains; if it be but to make our governments, and corporations, and all public bodies and officers, remember that they all--save her majesty the queen--are our servants; and not we theirs; and that we choose to have water, not only to wash with, but to play with, if we like. and i believe--for the world, as you will find, is full not only of just but of generous souls--that if the water-supply were set really right, there would be found, in many a city, many a generous man who, over and above his compulsory water-rate, would give his poor fellow-townsmen such a real fountain as those which ennoble the great square at carcasonne and the great square at nismes; to be "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever." and now, if you want to go back to your latin and greek, you shall translate for me into latin--i do not expect you to do it into greek, though it would turn very well into greek, for the greeks knew all about the matter long before the romans--what follows here; and you shall verify the facts and the names, &c., in it from your dictionaries of antiquity and biography, that you may remember all the better what it says. and by that time, i think, you will have learnt something more useful to yourself, and, i hope, to your country hereafter, than if you had learnt to patch together the neatest greek and latin verses which have appeared since the days of mr. canning. * * * * * i have often amused myself, by fancying one question which an old roman emperor would ask, were he to rise from his grave and visit the sights of london under the guidance of some minister of state. the august shade would, doubtless, admire, our railroads and bridges, our cathedrals and our public parks, and much more of which we need not be ashamed. but after a while, i think, he would look round, whether in london or in most of our great cities, inquiringly and in vain, for one class of buildings, which in his empire were wont to be almost as conspicuous and as splendid, because, in public opinion, almost as necessary, as the basilicas and temples--"and where," he would ask, "are your public baths?" and if the minister of state who was his guide should answer--"o great caesar, i really do not know. i believe there are some somewhere at the back of that ugly building which we call the national gallery; and i think there have been some meetings lately in the east end, and an amateur concert at the albert hall, for restoring, by private subscriptions, some baths and wash-houses in bethnal green, which had fallen to decay. and there may be two or three more about the metropolis; for parish vestries have powers by act of parliament to establish such places, if they think fit, and choose to pay for them out of the rates:"--then, i think, the august shade might well make answer--"we used to call you, in old rome, northern barbarians. it seems that you have not lost all your barbarian habits. are you aware that, in every city in the roman empire, there were, as a matter of course, public baths open, not only to the poorest freeman, but to the slave, usually for the payment of the smallest current coin, and often gratuitously? are you aware that in rome itself, millionaire after millionaire, emperor after emperor, from menenius agrippa and nero down to diocletian and constantine, built baths, and yet more baths; and connected with them gymnasia for exercise, lecture-rooms, libraries, and porticos, wherein the people might have shade and shelter, and rest?--i remark, by-the-by, that i have not seen in all your london a single covered place in which the people may take shelter during a shower--are you aware that these baths were of the most magnificent architecture, decorated with marbles, paintings, sculptures, fountains, what not? and yet i had heard, in hades down below, that you prided yourselves here on the study of the learned languages; and, indeed, taught little but greek and latin at your public schools?" then, if the minister should make reply--"oh yes, we know all this. even since the revival of letters in the end of the fifteenth century a whole literature has been written--a great deal of it, i fear, by pedants who seldom washed even their hands and faces--about your greek and roman baths. we visit their colossal ruins in italy and elsewhere with awe and admiration; and the discovery of a new roman bath in any old city of our isles sets all our antiquaries buzzing with interest." "then why," the shade might ask, "do you not copy an example which you so much admire? surely england must be much in want, either of water, or of fuel to heat it with?" "on the contrary, our rainfall is almost too great; our soil so damp that we have had to invent a whole art of subsoil drainage unknown to you; while, as for fuel, our coal-mines make us the great fuel-exporting people of the world." what a quiet sneer might curl the lip of a constantine as he replied--"not in vain, as i said, did we call you, some fifteen hundred years ago, the barbarians of the north. but tell me, good barbarian, whom i know to be both brave and wise--for the fame of your young british empire has reached us even in the realms below, and we recognise in you, with all respect, a people more like us romans than any which has appeared on earth for many centuries--how is it you have forgotten that sacred duty of keeping the people clean, which you surely at one time learnt from us? when your ancestors entered our armies, and rose, some of them, to be great generals, and even emperors, like those two teuton peasants, justin and justinian, who, long after my days, reigned in my own constantinople: then, at least, you saw baths, and used them; and felt, after the bath, that you were civilised men, and not 'sordidi ac foetentes,' as we used to call you when fresh out of your bullock-waggons and cattle-pens. how is it that you have forgotten that lesson?" the minister, i fear, would have to answer that our ancestors were barbarous enough, not only to destroy the roman cities, and temples, and basilicas, and statues, but the roman baths likewise; and then retired, each man to his own freehold in the country, to live a life not much more cleanly or more graceful than that of the swine which were his favourite food. but he would have a right to plead, as an excuse, that not only in england, but throughout the whole of the conquered latin empire, the latin priesthood, who, in some respects, were--to their honour--the representatives of roman civilisation and the protectors of its remnants, were the determined enemies of its cleanliness; that they looked on personal dirt--like the old hermits of the thebaid--as a sign of sanctity; and discouraged--as they are said to do still in some of the romance countries of europe--the use of the bath, as not only luxurious, but also indecent. at which answer, it seems to me, another sneer might curl the lip of the august shade, as he said to himself--"this, at least, i did not expect, when i made christianity the state religion of my empire. but you, good barbarian, look clean enough. you do not look on dirt as a sign of sanctity?" "on the contrary, sire, the upper classes of our empire boast of being the cleanliest--perhaps the only perfectly cleanly--people in the world: except, of course, the savages of the south seas. and dirt is so far from being a thing which we admire, that our scientific men--than whom the world has never seen wiser--have proved to us, for a whole generation past, that dirt is the fertile cause of disease and drunkenness, misery and recklessness." "and, therefore," replies the shade, ere he disappears, "of discontent and revolution; followed by a tyranny endured, as in rome and many another place, by men once free; because tyranny will at least do for them what they are too lazy, and cowardly, and greedy to do for themselves. farewell, and prosper; as you seem likely to prosper, on the whole. but if you wish me to consider you a civilised nation: let me hear that you have brought a great river from the depths of the earth, be they a thousand fathoms deep, or from your nearest mountains, be they five hundred miles away; and have washed out london's dirt--and your own shame. till then, abstain from judging too harshly a constantine, or even a caracalla; for they, whatever were their sins, built baths, and kept their people clean. but do your gymnasia--your schools and universities, teach your youth nought about all this?" thrift. a lecture delivered at winchester, march , . ladies,--i have chosen for the title of this lecture a practical and prosaic word, because i intend the lecture itself to be as practical and prosaic as i can make it, without becoming altogether dull. the question of the better or worse education of women is one far too important for vague sentiment, wild aspirations, or utopian dreams. it is a practical question, on which depends not merely money or comfort, but too often health and life, as the consequences of a good education, or disease and death--i know too well of what i speak--as the consequences of a bad one. i beg you, therefore, to put out of your minds at the outset any fancy that i wish for a social revolution in the position of women; or that i wish to see them educated by exactly the same methods, and in exactly the same subjects, as men. british lads, on an average, are far too ill-taught still, in spite of all recent improvements, for me to wish that british girls should be taught in the same way. moreover, whatever defects there may have been--and defects there must be in all things human--in the past education of british women, it has been most certainly a splendid moral success. it has made, by the grace of god, british women the best wives, mothers, daughters, aunts, sisters, that the world, as far as i can discover, has yet seen. let those who will sneer at the women of england. we who have to do the work and to fight the battle of life know the inspiration which we derive from their virtue, their counsel, their tenderness, and--but too often--from their compassion and their forgiveness. there is, i doubt not, still left in england many a man with chivalry and patriotism enough to challenge the world to show so perfect a specimen of humanity as a cultivated british woman. but just because a cultivated british woman is so perfect a personage; therefore i wish to see all british women cultivated. because the womanhood of england is so precious a treasure; i wish to see none of it wasted. it is an invaluable capital, or material, out of which the greatest possible profit to the nation must be made. and that can only be done by thrift; and that, again, can only be attained by knowledge. consider that word thrift. if you will look at dr. johnson's dictionary, or if you know your shakespeare, you will see that thrift signified originally profits, gain, riches gotten--in a word, the marks of a man's thriving. how, then, did the word thrift get to mean parsimony, frugality, the opposite of waste? just in the same way as economy--which first, of course, meant the management of a household--got to mean also the opposite of waste. it was found that in commerce, in husbandry, in any process, in fact, men throve in proportion as they saved their capital, their material, their force. now this is a great law which runs through life; one of those laws of nature--call them, rather, laws of god--which apply not merely to political economy, to commerce, and to mechanics; but to physiology, to society; to the intellect, to the heart, of every person in this room. the secret of thriving is thrift; saving of force; to get as much work as possible done with the least expenditure of power, the least jar and obstruction, the least wear and tear. and the secret of thrift is knowledge. in proportion as you know the laws and nature of a subject, you will be able to work at it easily, surely, rapidly, successfully; instead of wasting your money or your energies in mistaken schemes, irregular efforts, which end in disappointment and exhaustion. the secret of thrift, i say, is knowledge. the more you know, the more you can save yourself and that which belongs to you; and can do more work with less effort. a knowledge of the laws of commercial credit, we all know, saves capital, enabling a less capital to do the work of a greater. knowledge of the electric telegraph saves time; knowledge of writing saves human speech and locomotion; knowledge of domestic economy saves income; knowledge of sanitary laws saves health and life; knowledge of the laws of the intellect saves wear and tear of brain; and knowledge of the laws of the spirit--what does it not save? a well-educated moral sense, a well-regulated character, saves from idleness and ennui, alternating with sentimentality and excitement, those tenderer emotions, those deeper passions, those nobler aspirations of humanity, which are the heritage of the woman far more than of the man; and which are potent in her, for evil or for good, in proportion as they are left to run wild and undisciplined, or are trained and developed into graceful, harmonious, self-restraining strength, beautiful in themselves, and a blessing to all who come under their influence. what, therefore, i recommend to ladies in this lecture is thrift; thrift of themselves and of their own powers: and knowledge as the parent of thrift. and because it is well to begin with the lower applications of thrift, and to work up to the higher, i am much pleased to hear that the first course of the proposed lectures to women in this place will be one on domestic economy. i presume that the learned gentleman who will deliver these lectures will be the last to mean by that term the mere saving of money; that he will tell you, as--being a german--he will have good reason to know, that the young lady who learns thrift in domestic economy is also learning thrift of the very highest faculties of her immortal spirit. he will tell you, i doubt not--for he must know--how you may see in germany young ladies living in what we more luxurious british would consider something like poverty; cooking, waiting at table, and performing many a household office which would be here considered menial; and yet finding time for a cultivation of the intellect, which is, unfortunately, too rare in great britain. the truth is, that we british are too wealthy. we make money, if not too rapidly for the good of the nation at large, yet too rapidly, i fear, for the good of the daughters of those who make it. their temptation--i do not, of course, say they all yield to it--but their temptation is, to waste of the very simplest--i had almost said, if i may be pardoned the expression, of the most barbaric--kind; to an oriental waste of money, and waste of time; to a fondness for mere finery, pardonable enough, but still a waste; and to the mistaken fancy that it is the mark of a lady to sit idle and let servants do everything for her. such women may well take a lesson by contrast from the pure and noble, useful and cultivated thrift of an average german young lady--for ladies these german women are, in every possible sense of the word. but it is not of this sort of waste of which i wish to speak to-day. i only mention the matter in passing, to show that high intellectual culture is not incompatible with the performance of homely household duties, and that the moral success of which i spoke just now need not be injured, any more than it is in germany, by intellectual success likewise. i trust that these words may reassure those parents, if any such there be here, who may fear that these lectures will withdraw women from their existing sphere of interest and activity. that they should entertain such a fear is not surprising, after the extravagant opinions and schemes which have been lately broached in various quarters. the programme to these lectures expressly disclaims any such intentions; and i, as a husband and a father, expressly disclaim any such intention likewise. "to fit women for the more enlightened performance of their special duties;" to help them towards learning how to do better what we doubt not they are already doing well; is, i honestly believe, the only object of the promoters of this scheme. let us see now how some of these special duties can be better performed by help of a little enlightenment as to the laws which regulate them. now, no man will deny--certainly no man who is past forty-five, and whose digestion is beginning to quail before the lumps of beef and mutton which are the boast of a british kitchen, and to prefer, with justice shallow, and, i presume, sir john falstaff also, "any pretty little tiny kickshaws"--no man, i say, who has reached that age, but will feel it a practical comfort to him to know that the young ladies of his family are at all events good cooks; and understand, as the french do, thrift in the matter of food. neither will any parent who wishes, naturally enough, that his daughters should cost him as little as possible; and wishes, naturally enough also, that they should be as well dressed as possible, deny that it would be a good thing for them to be practical milliners and mantua-makers; and, by making their own clothes gracefully and well, exercise thrift in clothing. but, beside this thrift in clothing, i am not alone, i believe, in wishing for some thrift in the energy which produces it. labour misapplied, you will agree, is labour wasted; and as dress, i presume, is intended to adorn the person of the wearer, the making a dress which only disfigures her may be considered as a plain case of waste. it would be impertinent in me to go into any details: but it is impossible to walk about the streets now without passing young people who must be under a deep delusion as to the success of their own toilette. instead of graceful and noble simplicity of form, instead of combinations of colour at once rich and delicate, because in accordance with the chromatic laws of nature, one meets with phenomena more and more painful to the eye, and startling to common sense, till one would be hardly more astonished, and certainly hardly more shocked, if in a year or two one should pass some one going about like a chinese lady, with pinched feet, or like a savage of the amazons, with a wooden bung through her lower lip. it is easy to complain of these monstrosities: but impossible to cure them, it seems to me, without an education of the taste, an education in those laws of nature which produce beauty in form and beauty in colour. for that the cause of these failures lies in want of education is patent. they are most common in--i had almost said they are confined to--those classes of well-to-do persons who are the least educated; who have no standard of taste of their own; and who do not acquire any from cultivated friends and relations: who, in consequence, dress themselves blindly according to what they conceive to be the paris fashions, conveyed at third-hand through an equally uneducated dressmaker; in innocent ignorance of the fact--for fact i believe it to be--that paris fashions are invented now not in the least for the sake of beauty, but for the sake of producing, through variety, increased expenditure, and thereby increased employment; according to the strange system which now prevails in france of compelling, if not prosperity, at least the signs of it; and like schoolboys before a holiday, nailing up the head of the weather glass to insure fine weather. let british ladies educate themselves in those laws of beauty which are as eternal as any other of nature's laws; which may be seen fulfilled, as mr. ruskin tells us, so eloquently in every flower and every leaf, in every sweeping down and rippling wave: and they will be able to invent graceful and economical dresses for themselves, without importing tawdry and expensive ugliness from france. let me now go a step further, and ask you to consider this.--there are in england now a vast number, and an increasing number, of young women who, from various circumstances which we all know, must in after life be either the mistresses of their own fortunes, or the earners of their own bread. and, to do that wisely and well, they must be more or less women of business; and to be women of business, they must know something of the meaning of the words capital, profit, price, value, labour, wages, and of the relation between those two last. in a word, they must know a little political economy. nay, i sometimes think that the mistress of every household might find, not only thrift of money, but thrift of brain; freedom from mistakes, anxieties, worries of many kinds, all of which eat out the health as well as the heart, by a little sound knowledge of the principles of political economy. when we consider that every mistress of a household is continually buying, if not selling; that she is continually hiring and employing labour in the form of servants; and very often, into the bargain, keeping her husband's accounts: i cannot but think that her hard-worked brain might be clearer, and her hard-tried desire to do her duty by every subject in her little kingdom, might be more easily satisfied, had she read something of what mr. john stuart mill has written, especially on the duties of employer and employed. a capitalist, a commercialist, an employer of labour, and an accountant--every mistress of a household is all these, whether she likes it or not; and it would be surely well for her, in so very complicated a state of society as this, not to trust merely to that mother-wit, that intuitive sagacity and innate power of ruling her fellow-creatures, which carries women so nobly through their work in simpler and less civilised societies. and here i stop to answer those who may say--as i have heard it said--that a woman's intellect is not fit for business; that when a woman takes to business, she is apt to do it ill, and unpleasantly likewise; to be more suspicious, more irritable, more grasping, more unreasonable, than regular men of business would be; that--as i have heard it put--"a woman does not fight fair." the answer is simple. that a woman's intellect is eminently fitted for business is proved by the enormous amount of business she gets through without any special training for it: but those faults in a woman of which some men complain are simply the results of her not having had a special training. she does not know the laws of business. she does not know the rules of the game she is playing; and therefore she is playing it in the dark, in fear and suspicion, apt to judge of questions on personal grounds, often offending those with whom she has to do, and oftener still making herself miserable over matters of law or of business, on which a little sound knowledge would set her head and her heart at rest. when i have seen widows, having the care of children, of a great household, of a great estate, of a great business, struggling heroically, and yet often mistakenly; blamed severely for selfishness and ambition, while they were really sacrificing themselves with the divine instinct of a mother for their children's interest: i have stood by with mingled admiration and pity, and said to myself--"how nobly she is doing the work without teaching! how much more nobly would she have done it had she been taught! she is now doing the work at the most enormous waste of energy and of virtue: had she had knowledge, thrift would have followed it; she would have done more work with far less trouble. she will probably kill herself if she goes on: sound knowledge would have saved her health, saved her heart, saved her friends, and helped the very loved ones for whom she labours, not always with success." a little political economy, therefore, will at least do no harm to a woman; especially if she have to take care of herself in after life; neither, i think, will she be much harmed by some sound knowledge of another subject, which i see promised in these lectures,--"natural philosophy, in its various branches, such as the chemistry of common life, light, heat, electricity, &c., &c." a little knowledge of the laws of light, for instance, would teach many women that by shutting themselves up day after day, week after week, in darkened rooms, they are as certainly committing a waste of health, destroying their vital energy, and diseasing their brains, as if they were taking so much poison the whole time. a little knowledge of the laws of heat would teach women not to clothe themselves and their children after foolish and insufficient fashions, which in this climate sow the seeds of a dozen different diseases, and have to be atoned for by perpetual anxieties, and by perpetual doctors' bills; and as for a little knowledge of the laws of electricity, one thrift i am sure it would produce--thrift to us men, of having to answer continual inquiries as to what the weather is going to be, when a slight knowledge of the barometer, or of the form of the clouds and the direction of the wind, would enable many a lady to judge for herself, and not, after inquiry on inquiry, disregard all warnings, go out on the first appearance of a strip of blue sky, and come home wet through, with what she calls "only a chill," but which really means a nail driven into her coffin--a probable shortening, though it may be a very small one, of her mortal life; because the food of the next twenty-four hours, which should have gone to keep the vital heat at its normal standard, will have to be wasted in raising it up to that standard, from which it has fallen by a chill. ladies; these are subjects on which i must beg to speak a little more at length, premising them by one statement, which may seem jest, but is solemn earnest--that, if the medical men of this or any other city were what the world now calls "alive to their own interests"--that is, to the mere making of money; instead of being, what medical men are, the most generous, disinterested, and high-minded class in these realms, then they would oppose by all means in their power the delivery of lectures on natural philosophy to women. for if women act upon what they learn in those lectures--and having women's hearts, they will act upon it--there ought to follow a decrease of sickness and an increase of health, especially among children; a thrift of life, and a thrift of expense besides, which would very seriously affect the income of medical men. for let me ask you, ladies, with all courtesy, but with all earnestness--are you aware of certain facts, of which every one of those excellent medical men is too well aware? are you aware that more human beings are killed in england every year by unnecessary and preventable diseases than were killed at waterloo or at sadowa? are you aware that the great majority of those victims are children? are you aware that the diseases which carry them off are for the most part such as ought to be specially under the control of the women who love them, pet them, educate them, and would in many cases, if need be, lay down their lives for them? are you aware, again, of the vast amount of disease which, so both wise mothers and wise doctors assure me, is engendered in the sleeping-room from simple ignorance of the laws of ventilation, and in the school-room likewise, from simple ignorance of the laws of physiology? from an ignorance of which i shall mention no other case here save one--that too often from ignorance of signs of approaching disease, a child is punished for what is called idleness, listlessness, wilfulness, sulkiness; and punished, too, in the unwisest way--by an increase of tasks and confinement to the house, thus overtasking still more a brain already overtasked, and depressing still more, by robbing it of oxygen and of exercise, a system already depressed? are you aware, i ask again, of all this? i speak earnestly upon this point, because i speak with experience. as a single instance: a medical man, a friend of mine, passing by his own school-room, heard one of his own little girls screaming and crying, and went in. the governess, an excellent woman, but wholly ignorant of the laws of physiology, complained that the child had of late become obstinate and would not learn; and that therefore she must punish her by keeping her indoors over the unlearnt lessons. the father, who knew that the child was usually a very good one, looked at her carefully for a little while; sent her out of the school-room; and then said, "that child must not open a book for a month." "if i had not acted so," he said to me, "i should have had that child dead of brain- disease within the year." now, in the face of such facts as these, is it too much to ask of mothers, sisters, aunts, nurses, governesses--all who may be occupied in the care of children, especially of girls--that they should study thrift of human health and human life, by studying somewhat the laws of life and health? there are books--i may say a whole literature of books--written by scientific doctors on these matters, which are in my mind far more important to the school-room than half the trashy accomplishments, so- called, which are expected to be known by governesses. but are they bought? are they even to be bought, from most country booksellers? ah, for a little knowledge of the laws to the neglect of which is owing so much fearful disease, which, if it does not produce immediate death, too often leaves the constitution impaired for years to come. ah the waste of health and strength in the young; the waste, too, of anxiety and misery in those who love and tend them. how much of it might be saved by a little rational education in those laws of nature which are the will of god about the welfare of our bodies, and which, therefore, we are as much bound to know and to obey, as we are bound to know and obey the spiritual laws whereon depends the welfare of our souls. pardon me, ladies, if i have given a moment's pain to any one here: but i appeal to every medical man in the room whether i have not spoken the truth; and having such an opportunity as this, i felt that i must speak for the sake of children, and of women likewise, or else for ever hereafter hold my peace. let me pass on from this painful subject--for painful it has been to me for many years--to a question of intellectual thrift--by which i mean just now thrift of words; thrift of truth; restraint of the tongue; accuracy and modesty in statement. mothers complain to me that girls are apt to be--not intentionally untruthful--but exaggerative, prejudiced, incorrect, in repeating a conversation or describing an event; and that from this fault arise, as is to be expected, misunderstandings, quarrels, rumours, slanders, scandals, and what not. now, for this waste of words there is but one cure: and if i be told that it is a natural fault of women; that they cannot take the calm judicial view of matters which men boast, and often boast most wrongly, that they can take; that under the influence of hope, fear, delicate antipathy, honest moral indignation, they will let their eyes and ears be governed by their feelings; and see and hear only what they wish to see and hear: i answer, that it is not for me as a man to start such a theory; but that if it be true, it is an additional argument for some education which will correct this supposed natural defect. and i say deliberately that there is but one sort of education which will correct it; one which will teach young women to observe facts accurately, judge them calmly, and describe them carefully, without adding or distorting: and that is, some training in natural science. i beg you not to be startled: but if you are, then test the truth of my theory by playing to-night at the game called "russian scandal;" in which a story, repeated in secret by one player to the other, comes out at the end of the game, owing to the inaccurate and--forgive me if i say it--uneducated brains through which it has passed, utterly unlike its original; not only ludicrously maimed and distorted, but often with the most fantastic additions of events, details, names, dates, places, which each player will aver that he received from the player before him. i am afraid that too much of the average gossip of every city, town, and village is little more than a game of "russian scandal;" with this difference, that while one is but a game, the other is but too mischievous earnest. but now, if among your party there shall be an average lawyer, medical man, or man of science, you will find that he, and perhaps he alone, will be able to retail accurately the story which has been told him. and why? simply because his mind has been trained to deal with facts; to ascertain exactly what he does see or hear, and to imprint its leading features strongly and clearly on his memory. now, you certainly cannot make young ladies barristers or attorneys; nor employ their brains in getting up cases, civil or criminal; and as for chemistry, they and their parents may have a reasonable antipathy to smells, blackened fingers, and occasional explosions and poisonings. but you may make them something of botanists, zoologists, geologists. i could say much on this point: allow me at least to say this: i verily believe that any young lady who would employ some of her leisure time in collecting wild flowers, carefully examining them, verifying them, and arranging them; or who would in her summer trip to the sea-coast do the same by the common objects of the shore, instead of wasting her holiday, as one sees hundreds doing, in lounging on benches on the esplanade, reading worthless novels, and criticizing dresses--that such a young lady, i say, would not only open her own mind to a world of wonder, beauty, and wisdom, which, if it did not make her a more reverent and pious soul, she cannot be the woman which i take for granted she is; but would save herself from the habit--i had almost said the necessity--of gossip; because she would have things to think of and not merely persons; facts instead of fancies; while she would acquire something of accuracy, of patience, of methodical observation and judgment, which would stand her in good stead in the events of daily life, and increase her power of bridling her tongue and her imagination. "god is in heaven, and thou upon earth; therefore let thy words be few;" is the lesson which those are learning all day long who study the works of god with reverent accuracy, lest by misrepresenting them they should be tempted to say that god has done that which he has not; and in that wholesome discipline i long that women as well as men should share. and now i come to a thrift of the highest kind, as contrasted with a waste the most deplorable and ruinous of all; thrift of those faculties which connect us with the unseen and spiritual world; with humanity, with christ, with god; thrift of the immortal spirit. i am not going now to give you a sermon on duty. you hear such, i doubt not, in church every sunday, far better than i can preach to you. i am going to speak rather of thrift of the heart, thrift of the emotions. how they are wasted in these days in reading what are called sensation novels, all know but too well; how british literature--all that the best hearts and intellects among our forefathers have bequeathed to us--is neglected for light fiction, the reading of which is, as a lady well said, "the worst form of intemperance--dram-drinking and opium-eating, intellectual and moral." i know that the young will delight--they have delighted in all ages, and will to the end of time--in fictions which deal with that "oldest tale which is for ever new." novels will be read: but that is all the more reason why women should be trained, by the perusal of a higher, broader, deeper literature, to distinguish the good novel from the bad, the moral from the immoral, the noble from the base, the true work of art from the sham which hides its shallowness and vulgarity under a tangled plot and melodramatic situations. she should learn--and that she can only learn by cultivation--to discern with joy, and drink in with reverence, the good, the beautiful, and the true; and to turn with the fine scorn of a pure and strong womanhood from the bad, the ugly, and the false. and if any parent should be inclined to reply--"why lay so much stress upon educating a girl in british literature? is it not far more important to make our daughters read religious books?" i answer--of course it is. i take for granted that that is done in a christian land. but i beg you to recollect that there are books and books; and that in these days of a free press it is impossible, in the long run, to prevent girls reading books of very different shades of opinion, and very different religious worth. it may be, therefore, of the very highest importance to a girl to have her intellect, her taste, her emotions, her moral sense, in a word, her whole womanhood, so cultivated and regulated that she shall herself be able to discern the true from the false, the orthodox from the unorthodox, the truly devout from the merely sentimental, the gospel from its counterfeits. i should have thought that there never had been in britain, since the reformation, a crisis at which young englishwomen required more careful cultivation on these matters; if at least they are to be saved from making themselves and their families miserable; and from ending--as i have known too many end--with broken hearts, broken brains, broken health, and an early grave. take warning by what you see abroad. in every country where the women are uneducated, unoccupied; where their only literature is french novels or translations of them--in every one of those countries the women, even to the highest, are the slaves of superstition, and the puppets of priests. in proportion as, in certain other countries--notably, i will say, in scotland--the women are highly educated, family life and family secrets are sacred, and the woman owns allegiance and devotion to no confessor or director, but to her own husband or to her own family. i say plainly, that if any parents wish their daughters to succumb at last to some quackery or superstition, whether calling itself scientific, or calling itself religious--and there are too many of both just now--they cannot more certainly effect their purpose than by allowing her to grow up ignorant, frivolous, luxurious, vain; with her emotions excited, but not satisfied, by the reading of foolish and even immoral novels. in such a case the more delicate and graceful the organization, the more noble and earnest the nature, which has been neglected, the more certain it is--i know too well what i am saying--to go astray. the time of depression, disappointment, vacuity, all but despair, must come. the immortal spirit, finding no healthy satisfaction for its highest aspirations, is but too likely to betake itself to an unhealthy and exciting superstition. ashamed of its own long self-indulgence, it is but too likely to flee from itself into a morbid asceticism. not having been taught its god-given and natural duties in the world, it is but too likely to betake itself, from the mere craving for action, to self-invented and unnatural duties out of the world. ignorant of true science, yet craving to understand the wonders of nature and of spirit, it is but too likely to betake itself to nonscience--nonsense as it is usually called--whether of spirit-rapping and mesmerism, or of miraculous relics and winking pictures. longing for guidance and teaching, and never having been taught to guide and teach itself, it is but too likely to deliver itself up in self-despair to the guidance and teaching of those who, whether they be quacks or fanatics, look on uneducated women as their natural prey. you will see, i am sure, from what i have said, that it is not my wish that you should become mere learned women; mere female pedants, as useless and unpleasing as male pedants are wont to be. the education which i set before you is not to be got by mere hearing lectures or reading books: for it is an education of your whole character; a self- education; which really means a committing of yourself to god, that he may educate you. hearing lectures is good, for it will teach you how much there is to be known, and how little you know. reading books is good, for it will give you habits of regular and diligent study. and therefore i urge on you strongly private study, especially in case a library should be formed here of books on those most practical subjects of which i have been speaking. but, after all, both lectures and books are good, mainly in as far as they furnish matter for reflection: while the desire to reflect and the ability to reflect must come, as i believe, from above. the honest craving after light and power, after knowledge, wisdom, active usefulness, must come--and may it come to you--by the inspiration of the spirit of god. one word more, and i have done. let me ask women to educate themselves, not for their own sakes merely, but for the sake of others. for, whether they will or not, they must educate others. i do not speak merely of those who may be engaged in the work of direct teaching; that they ought to be well taught themselves, who can doubt? i speak of those--and in so doing i speak of every woman, young and old--who exercises as wife, as mother, as aunt, as sister, or as friend, an influence, indirect it may be, and unconscious, but still potent and practical, on the minds and characters of those about them, especially of men. how potent and practical that influence is, those know best who know most of the world and most of human nature. there are those who consider--and i agree with them--that the education of boys under the age of twelve years ought to be entrusted as much as possible to women. let me ask--of what period of youth and of manhood does not the same hold true? i pity the ignorance and conceit of the man who fancies that he has nothing left to learn from cultivated women. i should have thought that the very mission of woman was to be, in the highest sense, the educator of man from infancy to old age; that that was the work towards which all the god-given capacities of women pointed; for which they were to be educated to the highest pitch. i should have thought that it was the glory of woman that she was sent into the world to live for others, rather than for herself; and therefore i should say--let her smallest rights be respected, her smallest wrongs redressed: but let her never be persuaded to forget that she is sent into the world to teach man--what, i believe, she has been teaching him all along, even in the savage state--namely, that there is something more necessary than the claiming of rights, and that is, the performing of duties; to teach him specially, in these so-called intellectual days, that there is something more than intellect, and that is--purity and virtue. let her never be persuaded to forget that her calling is not the lower and more earthly one of self-assertion, but the higher and the diviner calling of self-sacrifice; and let her never desert that higher life, which lives in others and for others, like her redeemer and her lord. and if any should answer that this doctrine would keep woman a dependant and a slave, i rejoin--not so: it would keep her what she should be--the mistress of all around her, because mistress of herself. and more, i should express a fear that those who made that answer had not yet seen into the mystery of true greatness and true strength; that they did not yet understand the true magnanimity, the true royalty of that spirit, by which the son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many. surely that is woman's calling--to teach man: and to teach him what? to teach him, after all, that his calling is the same as hers, if he will but see the things which belong to his peace. to temper his fiercer, coarser, more self-assertive nature, by the contact of her gentleness, purity, self-sacrifice. to make him see that not by blare of trumpets, not by noise, wrath, greed, ambition, intrigue, puffery, is good and lasting work to be done on earth: but by wise self-distrust, by silent labour, by lofty self-control, by that charity which hopeth all things, believeth all things, endureth all things; by such an example, in short, as women now in tens of thousands set to those around them; such as they will show more and more, the more their whole womanhood is educated to employ its powers without waste and without haste in harmonious unity. let the woman begin in girlhood, if such be her happy lot--to quote the words of a great poet, a great philosopher, and a great churchman, william wordsworth--let her begin, i say-- "with all things round about her drawn from may-time and the cheerful dawn; a dancing shape, an image gay, to haunt, to startle, and waylay." let her develop onwards-- "a spirit, yet a woman too, with household motions light and free, and steps of virgin liberty. a countenance in which shall meet sweet records, promises as sweet; a creature not too bright and good for human nature's daily food; for transient sorrows, simple wiles, praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. but let her highest and her final development be that which not nature, but self-education alone can bring--that which makes her once and for ever-- "a being breathing thoughtful breath; a traveller betwixt life and death. with reason firm, with temperate will, endurance, foresight, strength and skill. a perfect woman, nobly planned, to warn, to comfort and command. and yet a spirit still and bright with something of an angel light." the study of natural history. a lecture delivered to the officers of the royal artillery, woolwich. gentlemen:--when i accepted the honour of lecturing here, i took for granted that so select an audience would expect from me not mere amusement, but somewhat of instruction; or, if that be too ambitious a word for me to use, at least some fresh hint--if i were able to give one--as to how they should fulfil the ideal of military men in such an age as this. to touch on military matters, even had i been conversant with them, seemed to me an impertinence. i am bound to take for granted that every man knows his own business best; and i incline more and more to the opinion that military men should be left to work out the problems of their art for themselves, without the advice or criticism of civilians. but i hold--and i am sure that you will agree with me--that if the soldier is to be thus trusted by the nation, and left to himself to do his own work his own way, he must be educated in all practical matters as highly as the average of educated civilians. he must know all that they know, and his own art beside. just as a clergyman, being a man plus a priest, is bound to be a man, and a good man, over and above his priesthood, so is the soldier bound to be a civilian, and a highly-educated civilian, plus his soldierly qualities and acquirements. it seemed to me, therefore, that i might, without impertinence, ask you to consider a branch of knowledge which is becoming yearly more and more important in the eyes of well-educated civilians; of which, therefore, the soldier ought at least to know something, in order to put him on a par with the general intelligence of the nation. i do not say that he is to devote much time to it, or to follow it up into specialities: but that he ought to be well grounded in its principles and methods; that he ought to be aware of its importance and its usefulness; that so, if he comes into contact--as he will more and more--with scientific men, he may understand them, respect them, befriend them, and be befriended by them in turn; and how desirable this last result is, i shall tell you hereafter. there are those, i doubt not, among my audience who do not need the advice which i shall presume to give to-night; who belong to that fast increasing class among officers of whom i have often said--and i have found scientific men cordially agree with me--that they are the most modest and the most teachable of men. but even in their case there can be no harm in going over deliberately a question of such importance; in putting it, as it were, into shape; and insisting on arguments which may perhaps not have occurred to some of them. let me, in the first place, reassure those--if any such there be--who may suppose, from the title of my lecture, that i am only going to recommend them to collect weeds and butterflies, "rats and mice, and such small deer." far from it. the honourable title of natural history has, and unwisely, been restricted too much of late years to the mere study of plants and animals. i desire to restore the words to their original and proper meaning--the history of nature; that is, of all that is born, and grows in time; in short, of all natural objects. if anyone shall say--by that definition you make not only geology and chemistry branches of natural history, but meteorology and astronomy likewise--i cannot deny it. they deal, each of them, with realms of nature. geology is, literally, the natural history of soils and lands; chemistry the natural history of compounds, organic and inorganic; meteorology the natural history of climates; astronomy the natural history of planetary and solar bodies. and more, you cannot now study deeply any branch of what is popularly called natural history--that is, plants and animals--without finding it necessary to learn something, and more and more as you go deeper, of those very sciences. as the marvellous interdependence of all natural objects and forces unfolds itself more and more, so the once separate sciences, which treated of different classes of natural objects, are forced to interpenetrate, as it were; and to supplement themselves by knowledge borrowed from each other. thus--to give a single instance--no man can now be a first-rate botanist unless he be also no mean meteorologist, no mean geologist, and--as mr. darwin has shown in his extraordinary discoveries about the fertilisation of plants by insects--no mean entomologist likewise. it is difficult, therefore, and indeed somewhat unwise and unfair, to put any limit to the term natural history, save that it shall deal only with nature and with matter; and shall not pretend--as some would have it to do just now--to go out of its own sphere to meddle with moral and spiritual matters. but, for practical purposes, we may define the natural history of any given spot as the history of the causes which have made it what it is, and filled it with the natural objects which it holds. and if anyone would know how to study the natural history of a place, and how to write it, let him read--and if he has read its delightful pages in youth, read once again--that hitherto unrivalled little monograph, white's 'natural history of selborne;' and let him then try, by the light of improved science, to do for any district where he may be stationed, what white did for selborne nearly one hundred years ago. let him study its plants, its animals, its soils and rocks; and last, but not least, its scenery, as the total outcome of what the soils, and plants, and animals have made it. i say, have made it. how far the nature of the soils and the rocks will affect the scenery of a district may be well learnt from a very clever and interesting little book of professor geikie's, on 'the scenery of scotland, as affected by its geological structure.' how far the plants and trees affect not merely the general beauty, the richness or barrenness of a country, but also its very shape; the rate at which the hills are destroyed and washed into the lowland; the rate at which the seaboard is being removed by the action of waves--all these are branches of study which is becoming more and more important. and even in the study of animals and their effects on the vegetation, questions of really deep interest will arise. you will find that certain plants and trees cannot thrive in a district, while others can, because the former are browsed down by cattle, or their seeds eaten by birds, and the latter are not; that certain seeds are carried in the coats of animals, or wafted abroad by winds--others are not; certain trees destroyed wholesale by insects, while others are not; that in a hundred ways the animal and vegetable life of a district act and react upon each other, and that the climate, the average temperature, the maximum and minimum temperatures, the rainfall, act on them, and in the case of the vegetation, are reacted on again by them. the diminution of rainfall by the destruction of forests, its increase by replanting them, and the effect of both on the healthiness or unhealthiness of a place--as in the case of the mauritius, where a once healthy island has become pestilential, seemingly from the clearing away of the vegetation on the banks of streams--all this, though to study it deeply requires a fair knowledge of meteorology, and even of a science or two more, is surely well worth the attention of any educated man who is put in charge of the health and lives of human beings. you will surely agree with me that the habit of mind required for such a study as this, is the very same as is required for successful military study. in fact, i should say that the same intellect which would develop into a great military man, would develop also into a great naturalist. i say, intellect. the military man would require--what the naturalist would not--over and above his intellect, a special force of will, in order to translate his theories into fact, and make his campaigns in the field and not merely on paper. but i am speaking only of the habit of mind required for study; of that inductive habit of mind which works, steadily and by rule, from the known to the unknown; that habit of mind of which it has been said:--"the habit of seeing; the habit of knowing what we see; the habit of discerning differences and likenesses; the habit of classifying accordingly; the habit of searching for hypotheses which shall connect and explain those classified facts; the habit of verifying these hypotheses by applying them to fresh facts; the habit of throwing them away bravely if they will not fit; the habit of general patience, diligence, accuracy, reverence for facts for their own sake, and love of truth for its own sake; in one word, the habit of reverent and implicit obedience to the laws of nature, whatever they may be--these are not merely intellectual, but also moral habits, which will stand men in practical good stead in every affair of life, and in every question, even the most awful, which may come before them as rational and social beings." and specially valuable are they, surely, to the military man, the very essence of whose study, to be successful, lies first in continuous and accurate observation, and then in calm and judicious arrangement. therefore it is that i hold, and hold strongly, that the study of physical science, far from interfering with an officer's studies, much less unfitting for them, must assist him in them, by keeping his mind always in the very attitude and the very temper which they require. if any smile at this theory of mine, let them recollect one curious fact: that perhaps the greatest captain of the old world was trained by perhaps the greatest philosopher of the old world--the father of natural history; that aristotle was the tutor of alexander of macedon. i do not fancy, of course, that aristotle taught alexander any natural history. but this we know, that he taught him to use those very faculties by which aristotle became a natural historian, and many things beside; that he called out in his pupil somewhat of his own extraordinary powers of observation, extraordinary powers of arrangement. he helped to make him a great general: but he helped to make him more--a great politician, coloniser, discoverer. he instilled into him such a sense of the importance of natural history, that alexander helped him nobly in his researches; and, if athenaeus is to be believed, gave him talents towards perfecting his history of animals. surely it is not too much to say that this close friendship between the natural philosopher and the soldier has changed the whole course of civilisation to this very day. do not consider me utopian when i tell you, that i should like to see the study of physical science an integral part of the curriculum of every military school. i would train the mind of the lad who was to become hereafter an officer in the army--and in the navy like wise--by accustoming him to careful observation of, and sound thought about, the face of nature; of the commonest objects under his feet, just as much as of the stars above his head; provided always that he learnt, not at second-hand from books, but where alone he can really learn either war or nature--in the field; by actual observation, actual experiment. a laboratory for chemical experiment is a good thing, it is true, as far as it goes; but i should prefer to the laboratory a naturalists' field club, such as are prospering now at several of the best public schools, certain that the boys would get more of sound inductive habits of mind, as well as more health, manliness, and cheerfulness, amid scenes to remember which will be a joy for ever, than they ever can by bending over retorts and crucibles, amid smells even to remember which is a pain for ever. but i would, whether a field club existed or not, require of every young man entering the army or navy--indeed of every young man entering any liberal profession whatsoever--a fair knowledge, such as would enable him to pass an examination, in what the germans call _erd-kunde_--earth-lore--in that knowledge of the face of the earth and of its products, for which we english have as yet cared so little that we have actually no english name for it, save the clumsy and questionable one of physical geography; and, i am sorry to say, hardly any readable school books about it, save keith johnston's 'physical atlas'--an acquaintance with which last i should certainly require of young men. it does seem most strange--or rather will seem most strange years hence--that we, the nation of colonists, the nation of sailors, the nation of foreign commerce, the nation of foreign military stations, the nation of travellers for travelling's sake, the nation of which one man here and another there--as schleiden sets forth in his book, 'the plant,' in a charming ideal conversation at the travellers' club--has seen and enjoyed more of the wonders and beauties of this planet than the men of any nation, not even excepting the germans--that this nation, i say, should as yet have done nothing, or all but nothing, to teach in her schools a knowledge of that planet, of which she needs to know more, and can if she will know more, than any other nation upon it. as for the practical utility of such studies to a soldier, i only need, i trust, to hint at it to such an assembly as this. all must see of what advantage a rough knowledge of the botany of a district would be to an officer leading an exploring party, or engaged in bush warfare. to know what plants are poisonous; what plants, too, are eatable--and many more are eatable than is usually supposed; what plants yield oleaginous substances, whether for food or for other uses; what plants yield vegetable acids, as preventives of scurvy; what timbers are available for each of many different purposes; what will resist wet, salt-water, and the attacks of insects; what, again, can be used, at a pinch, for medicine or for styptics--and be sure, as a wise west indian doctor once said to me, that there is more good medicine wild in the bush than there is in all the druggists' shops--surely all this is a knowledge not beneath the notice of any enterprising officer, above all of an officer of engineers. i only ask anyone who thinks that i may be in the right, to glance through the lists of useful vegetable products given in lindley's 'vegetable kingdom'--a miracle of learning--and see the vast field open still to a thoughtful and observant man, even while on service; and not to forget that such knowledge, if he should hereafter leave the service and settle, as many do, in a distant land, may be a solid help to his future prosperity. so strongly do i feel on this matter, that i should like to see some knowledge at least of dr. oliver's excellent little 'first book of indian botany' required of all officers going to our indian empire: but as that will not be, at least for many a year to come, i recommend any gentlemen going to india to get that book, and wile away the hours of the outward voyage by acquiring knowledge which will be a continual source of interest, and it may be now and then of profit, to them during their stay abroad. and for geology, again. as i do not expect you all, or perhaps any of you, to become such botanists as general monro, whose recent 'monograph of the bamboos' is an honour to british botanists, and a proof of the scientific power which is to be found here and there among british officers: so i do not expect you to become such geologists as sir roderick murchison, or even to add such a grand chapter to the history of extinct animals as major cautley did by his discoveries in the sewalik hills. nevertheless, you can learn--and i should earnestly advise you to learn--geology and mineralogy enough to be of great use to you in your profession, and of use, too, should you relinquish your profession hereafter. it must be profitable for any man, and specially for you, to know how and where to find good limestone, building stone, road metal; it must be good to be able to distinguish ores and mineral products; it must be good to know--as a geologist will usually know, even in a country which he sees for the first time--where water is likely to be found, and at what probable depth; it must be good to know whether the water is fit for drinking or not, whether it is unwholesome or merely muddy; it must be good to know what spots are likely to be healthy, and what unhealthy, for encamping. the two last questions depend, doubtless, on meteorological as well as geological accidents: but the answers to them will be most surely found out by the scientific man, because the facts connected with them are, like all other facts, determined by natural laws. after what one has heard, in past years, of barracks built in spots plainly pestilential; of soldiers encamped in ruined cities, reeking with the dirt and poison of centuries; of--but it is not my place to find fault; all i will say is, that the wise and humane officer, when once his eyes are opened to the practical value of physical science, will surely try to acquaint himself somewhat with those laws of drainage and of climate, geological, meteorological, chemical, which influence, often with terrible suddenness and fury, the health of whole armies. he will not find it beyond his province to ascertain the amount and period of rainfalls, the maxima of heat and of cold which his troops may have to endure, and many another point on which their health and efficiency--nay, their very life may depend, but which are now too exclusively delegated to the doctor, to whose province they do not really belong. for cure, i take the liberty of believing, is the duty of the medical officer; prevention, that of the military. thus much i can say just now--and there is much more to be said--on the practical uses of the study of natural history. but let me remind you, on the other side, if natural history will help you, you in return can help her; and would, i doubt not, help her, and help scientific men at home, if once you looked fairly and steadily at the immense importance of natural history--of the knowledge of the "face of the earth." i believe that all will one day feel, more or less, that to know the earth _on_ which we live, and the laws of it _by_ which we live, is a sacred duty to ourselves, to our children after us, and to all whom we may have to command and to influence; aye, and a duty to god likewise. for is it not a duty of common reverence and faith towards him, if he has put us into a beautiful and wonderful place, and given us faculties by which we can see, and enjoy, and use that place--is it not a duty of reverence and faith towards him to use these faculties, and to learn the lessons which he has laid open for us? if you feel that, as i think you all will some day feel, then you will surely feel likewise that it will be a good deed--i do not say a necessary duty, but still a good deed and praiseworthy--to help physical science forward; and to add your contributions, however small, to our general knowledge of the earth. and how much may be done for science by british officers, especially on foreign stations, i need not point out. i know that much has been done, chivalrously and well, by officers; and that men of science owe them, and give them, hearty thanks for their labours. but i should like, i confess, to see more done still. i should like to see every foreign station, what one or two highly-educated officers might easily make it, an advanced post of physical science, in regular communication with our scientific societies at home, sending to them accurate and methodic details of the natural history of each district--details / ths of which might seem worthless in the eyes of the public, but which would all be precious in the eyes of scientific men, who know that no fact is really unimportant; and more, that while plodding patiently through seemingly unimportant facts, you may stumble on one of infinite importance, both scientific and practical. for the student of nature, gentlemen, if he will be but patient, diligent, methodical, is liable at any moment to the same good fortune as befel saul of old, when he went out to seek his father's asses, and found a kingdom. there are those, lastly, who have neither time nor taste for the technicalities, and nice distinctions, of formal natural history; who enjoy nature, but as artists or as sportsmen, and not as men of science. let them follow their bent freely: but let them not suppose that in following it they can do nothing towards enlarging our knowledge of nature, especially when on foreign stations. so far from it, drawings ought always to be valuable, whether of plants, animals, or scenery, provided only they are accurate; and the more spirited and full of genius they are, the more accurate they are certain to be; for nature being alive, a lifeless copy of her is necessarily an untrue copy. most thankful to any officer for a mere sight of sketches will be the closet botanist, who, to his own sorrow, knows three-fourths of his plants only from dried specimens; or the closet zoologist, who knows his animals from skins and bones. and if anyone answers--but i cannot draw. i rejoin, you can at least photograph. if a young officer, going out to foreign parts, and knowing nothing at all about physical science, did me the honour to ask me what he could do for science, i should tell him--learn to photograph; take photographs of every strange bit of rock-formation which strikes your fancy, and of every widely extended view which may give a notion of the general lie of the country. append, if you can, a note or two, saying whether a plain is rich or barren; whether the rock is sandstone, limestone, granitic, metamorphic, or volcanic lava; and if there be more rocks than one, which of them lies on the other; and send them to be exhibited at a meeting of the geological society. i doubt not that the learned gentlemen there will find in your photographs a valuable hint or two, for which they will be much obliged. i learnt, for instance, what seemed to me most valuable geological lessons, from mere glances at drawings--i believe from photographs--of the abyssinian ranges about magdala. or again, let a man, if he knows nothing of botany, not trouble himself with collecting and drying specimens; let him simply photograph every strange and new tree or plant he sees, to give a general notion of its species, its look; let him append, where he can, a photograph of its leafage, flower, fruit; and send them to dr. hooker, or any distinguished botanist: and he will find that, though he may know nothing of botany, he will have pretty certainly increased the knowledge of those who do know. the sportsman, again--i mean the sportsman of that type which seems peculiar to these islands, who loves toil and danger for their own sakes; he surely is a naturalist, ipso facto, though he knows it not. he has those very habits of keen observation on which all sound knowledge of nature is based; and he, if he will--as he may do without interfering with his sport--can study the habits of the animals among whom he spends wholesome and exciting days. you have only to look over such good old books as williams's 'wild sports of the east,' campbell's 'old forest ranger,' lloyd's 'scandinavian adventures,' and last, but not least, waterton's 'wanderings,' to see what valuable additions to true zoology--the knowledge of live creatures, not merely dead ones--british sportsmen have made, and still can make. and as for the employment of time, which often hangs so heavily on a soldier's hands, really i am ready to say, if you are neither men of science, nor draughtsmen, nor sportsmen, why go and collect beetles. it is not very dignified, i know, nor exciting: but it will be something to do. it cannot harm you, if you take, as beetle-hunters do, an india-rubber sheet to lie on; and it will certainly benefit science. moreover, there will be a noble humility in the act. you will confess to the public that you consider yourself only fit to catch beetles; by which very confession you will prove yourself fit for much finer things than catching beetles: and meanwhile, as i said before, you will be at least out of harm's way. at a foreign barrack once, the happiest officer i met, because the most regularly employed, was one who spent his time in collecting butterflies. he knew nothing about them scientifically--not even their names. he took them simply for their wonderful beauty and variety; and in the hope, too--in which he was really scientific--that if he carefully kept every form which he saw, his collection might be of use some day to entomologists at home. a most pleasant gentleman he was; and, i doubt not, none the worse soldier for his butterfly catching. commendable, also, in my eyes, was another officer--whom i have not the pleasure of knowing--who, on a remote foreign station, used wisely to escape from the temptations of the world into an entirely original and most pleasant hermitage. for finding--so the story went--that many of the finest insects kept to the tree-tops, and never came to ground at all, he used to settle himself among the boughs of some tree in the tropic forests, with a long-handled net and plenty of cigars, and pass his hours in that airy flower garden, making dashes every now and then at some splendid monster as it fluttered round his head. his example need not be followed by everyone; but it must be allowed that--at least as long as he was in his tree--he was neither dawdling, grumbling, spending money, nor otherwise harming himself, and perhaps his fellow creatures, from sheer want of employment. one word more, and i have done. if i was allowed to give one special piece of advice to a young officer, whether of the army or navy, i would say--respect scientific men; associate with them; learn from them; find them to be, as you will usually, the most pleasant and instructive of companions: but always respect them. allow them chivalrously, you who have an acknowledged rank, their yet unacknowledged rank; and treat them as all the world will treat them, in a higher and truer state of civilisation. they do not yet wear the queen's uniform; they are not yet accepted servants of the state; as they will be in some more perfectly organised and civilised land: but they are soldiers nevertheless, and good soldiers and chivalrous, fighting their nation's battle, often on even less pay than you,--and with still less chance of promotion and of fame, against most real and fatal enemies--against ignorance of the laws of this planet, and all the miseries which that ignorance begets. honour them for their work; sympathise in it; give them a helping hand in it whenever you have an opportunity--and what opportunities you have, i have been trying to sketch for you to-night; and more, work at it yourselves whenever and wherever you can. show them that the spirit which animates them--the hatred of ignorance and disorder, and of their bestial consequences--animates you likewise; show them that the habit of mind which they value in themselves--the habit of accurate observation and careful judgment--is your habit likewise; show them that you value science, not merely because it gives better weapons of destruction and of defence, but because it helps you to become clear-headed, large-minded, able to take a just and accurate view of any subject which comes before you, and to cast away every old prejudice and every hasty judgment in the face of truth and of duty: and it will be better for you and for them. but why? what need for the soldier and the man of science to fraternise just now? this need:--the two classes which will have an increasing, it may be a preponderating, influence on the fate of the human race for some time, will be the pupils of aristotle and those of alexander--the men of science and the soldiers. in spite of all appearances, and all declamations to the contrary, that is my firm conviction. they, and they alone, will be left to rule; because they alone, each in his own sphere, have learnt to obey. it is therefore most needful for the welfare of society that they should pull with, and not against each other; that they should understand each other, respect each other, take counsel with each other, supplement each other's defects, bring out each other's higher tendencies, counteract each other's lower ones. the scientific man has something to learn of you, gentlemen, which i doubt not that he will learn in good time. you, again, have--as i have been hinting to you to- night--something to learn of him, which you, i doubt not, will learn in good time likewise. repeat, each of you according to his powers, the old friendship between aristotle and alexander; and so, from the sympathy and co-operation of you two, a class of thinkers and actors may yet arise which can save this nation, and the other civilised nations of the world, from that of which i had rather not speak; and wish that i did not think, too often and too earnestly. i may be a dreamer: and i may consider, in my turn, as wilder dreamers than myself, certain persons who fancy that their only business in life is to make money, the scientific man's only business is to show them how to make money, and the soldier's only business to guard their money for them. be that as it may, the finest type of civilised man which we are likely to see for some generations to come, will be produced by a combination of the truly military with the truly scientific man. i say--i may be a dreamer: but you at least, as well as my scientific friends, will bear with me; for my dream is to your honour. on bio-geology. an address given to the scientific society of winchester. i am not sure that the subject of my address is rightly chosen. i am not sure that i ought not to have postponed a question of mere natural history, to speak to you, as scientific men, on the questions of life and death, which have been forced upon us by the awful warning of an illustrious personage's illness; of preventible disease, its frightful prevalency; of the , persons who are said to have died of fever alone since the prince consort's death, ten years ago; of the remedies; of drainage; of sewage disinfection and utilisation; and of the assistance which you, as a body of scientific men, can give to any effort towards saving the lives and health of our fellow-citizens from those unseen poisons which lurk like wild beasts couched in the jungle, ready to spring at any moment on the unsuspecting, the innocent, the helpless. of all this i longed to speak: but i thought it best only to hint at it, and leave the question to your common sense and your humanity; taking for granted that your minds, like the minds of all right-minded englishmen, have been of late painfully awakened to its importance. it seemed to me almost an impertinence to say more in a city of whose local circumstances i know little or nothing. as an old sanitary reformer, practical, as well as theoretical, i am but too well aware of the difficulties which beset any complete scheme of drainage, especially in an ancient city like this; where men are paying the penalty of their predecessors' ignorance; and dwelling, whether they choose or not, over fifteen centuries of accumulated dirt. and, therefore, taking for granted that there is energy and intellect enough in winchester to conquer these difficulties in due time, i go on to ask you to consider, for a time, a subject which is growing more and more important and interesting, a subject the study of which will do much towards raising the field naturalist from a mere collector of specimens--as he was twenty years ago--to a philosopher elucidating some of the grandest problems. i mean the infant science of bio-geology--the science which treats of the distribution of plants and animals over the globe, and the causes of that distribution. i doubt not that there are many here who know far more about the subject than i; who are far better read than i am in the works of forbes, darwin, wallace, hooker, moritz wagner, and the other illustrious men who have written on it. but i may, perhaps, give a few hints which will be of use to the younger members of this society, and will point out to them how to get a new relish for the pursuit of field science. bio-geology, then, begins with asking every plant or animal you meet, large or small, not merely--what is your name? that is the collector and classifier's duty; and a most necessary duty it is, and one to be performed with the most conscientious patience and accuracy, so that a sound foundation may be built for future speculations. but young naturalists should act not merely as nature's registrars and census-takers, but as her policemen and gamekeepers; and ask everything they meet--how did you get here? by what road did you come? what was your last place of abode? and now you are here, how do you get your living? are you and your children thriving, like decent people who can take care of themselves, or growing pauperised and degraded, and dying out? not that we have a fear of your becoming a dangerous class. madam nature allows no dangerous classes, in the modern sense. she has, doubtless for some wise reason, no mercy for the weak. she rewards each organism according to its works; and if anything grows too weak or stupid to take care of itself, she gives it its due deserts by letting it die and disappear. so, you plant or you animal, are you among the strong, the successful, the multiplying, the colonising? or are you among the weak, the failing, the dwindling, the doomed? these questions may seem somewhat rude: but you may comfort yourself by the thought that plants and animals, though they deserve all kindness, all admiration, deserve no courtesy--at least in this respect. for they are, one and all, wherever you find them, vagrants and landloupers, intruders and conquerors, who have got where they happen to be simply by the law of the strongest--generally not without a little robbery and murder. they have no right save that of possession; the same by which the puffin turns out the old rabbits, eats the young ones, and then lays her eggs in the rabbit burrow--simply because she can. now, you will see at once that such a course of questioning will call out a great many curious and interesting answers, if you can only get the things to tell you their story; as you always may, if you will cross-examine them long enough; and will lead you into many subjects beside mere botany or entomology. so various, indeed, are the subjects which you will thus start, that i can only hint at them now in the most cursory fashion. at the outset you will soon find yourself involved in chemical and meteorological questions: as, for instance, when you ask--how is it that i find one flora on the sea-shore, another on the sandstone, another on the chalk, and another on the peat-making gravelly strata? the usual answer would be, i presume--if we could work it out by twenty years' experiment, such as mr. lawes, of rothampsted, has been making on the growth of grasses and leguminous plants in different soils and under different manures--the usual answer, i say, would be--because we plants want such and such mineral constituents in our woody fibre; again, because we want a certain amount of moisture at a certain period of the year: or, perhaps, simply because the mechanical arrangement of the particles of a certain soil happens to suit the shape of our roots and of their stomata. sometimes you will get an answer quickly enough; sometimes not. if you ask, for instance, _asplenium viride_ how it contrives to grow plentifully in the craven of yorkshire down to or feet above the sea, while in snowdon it dislikes growing lower than feet, and is not plentiful even there?--it will reply--because in the craven i can get as much carbonic acid as i want from the decomposing limestone: while on the snowdon silurian i get very little; and i have to make it up by clinging to the mountain tops, for the sake of the greater rainfall. but if you ask _polopodium calcareum_--how is it you choose only to grow on limestone, while _polypodium dryopteris_, of which, i suspect, you are only a variety, is ready to grow anywhere?--_polypodium calcareum_ will refuse, as yet, to answer a word. again--i can only give you the merest string of hints--you will find in your questionings that many plants and animals have no reason at all to show why they should be in one place and not in another, save the very sound reason for the latter which was suggested to me once by a great naturalist. i was asking--why don't i find such and such a species in my parish, while it is plentiful a few miles off in exactly the same soil?--and he answered--for the same reason that you are not in america. because you have not got there. which answer threw to me a flood of light on this whole science. things are often where they are, simply because they happen to have got there, and not elsewhere. but they must have got there by some means: and those means i want young naturalists to discover; at least to guess at. a species, for instance--and i suspect it is a common case with insects--may abound in a single spot, simply because, long years ago, a single brood of eggs happened to hatch at a time when eggs of other species, who would have competed against them for food, did not hatch; and they may remain confined to that spot, though there is plenty of good food for them outside it, simply because they do not increase fast enough to require to spread out in search of more food. thus i should explain a case which i heard of lately of _anthocera trifolii_, abundant for years in one corner of a certain field, and only there; while there was just as much trefoil all round for its larvae as there was in the selected spot. i can, i say, only give hints: but they will suffice, i hope, to show the path of thought into which i want young naturalists to turn their minds. or, again, you will have to inquire whether the species has not been prevented from spreading by some natural barrier. mr. wallace, whom you all of course know, has shown in his 'malay archipelago' that a strait of deep sea can act as such a barrier between species. moritz wagner has shown that, in the case of insects, a moderately broad river may divide two closely allied species of beetles, or a very narrow snow-range two closely allied species of moths. again, another cause, and a most common one is: that the plants cannot spread because they find the ground beyond them already occupied by other plants, who will not tolerate a fresh mouth, having only just enough to feed themselves. take the case of _saxifraga hypnoides_ and _s. umbrosa_, "london pride." they are two especially strong species. they show that, _s. hypnoides_ especially, by their power of sporting, of diverging into varieties; they show it equally by their power of thriving anywhere, if they can only get there. they will both grow in my sandy garden, under a rainfall of only inches, more luxuriantly than in their native mountains under a rainfall of or inches. then how is it that _s. hypnoides_ cannot get down off the mountains; and that _s. umbrosa_, though in kerry it has got off the mountains and down to the sea level, exterminating, i suspect, many species in its progress, yet cannot get across county cork? the only answer is, i believe: that both species are continually trying to go ahead; but that the other plants already in front of them are too strong for them, and massacre their infants as soon as born. and this brings us to another curious question: the sudden and abundant appearance of plants, like the foxglove and _epilobium angustifolium_, in spots where they have never been seen before. are their seeds, as some think, dormant in the ground; or are the seeds which have germinated fresh ones wafted thither by wind or otherwise, and only able to germinate in that one spot, because there the soil is clear? general monro, now famous for his unequalled memoir on the bamboos, holds to the latter theory. he pointed out to me that the _epilobium_ seeds, being feathered, could travel with the wind; that the plant always made its appearance first on new banks, landslips, clearings, where it had nothing to compete against; and that the foxglove did the same. true, and most painfully true, in the case of thistles and groundsels: but foxglove seeds, though minute, would hardly be carried by the wind any more than those of the white clover, which comes up so abundantly in drained fens. adhuc sub judice lis est, and i wish some young naturalists would work carefully at the solution; by experiment, which is the most sure way to find out anything. but in researches in this direction they will find puzzles enough. i will give them one which i shall be most thankful to hear they have solved within the next seven years--how is it that we find certain plants, namely, the thrift and the scurvy grass, abundant on the sea-shore and common on certain mountain-tops, but nowhere between the two? answer me that. for i have looked at the fact for years--before, behind, sideways, upside down, and inside out--and i cannot understand it. but all these questions, and specially, i suspect, that last one, ought to lead the young student up to the great and complex question--how were these islands re-peopled with plants and animals, after the long and wholesale catastrophe of the glacial epoch? i presume you all know, and will agree, that the whole of these islands, north of the thames, save certain ice-clad mountain-tops, were buried for long ages under an icy sea. from whence did vegetable and animal life crawl back to the land, as it rose again; and cover its mantle of glacial drift with fresh life and verdure? now let me give you a few prolegomena on this matter. you must study the plants of course, species by species. take watson's 'cybele britannica,' and moore's 'cybele hibernica;' and let--as mr. matthew arnold would say--"your thought play freely about them." look carefully, too, in the case of each species, at the note on its distribution, which you will find appended in bentham's 'handbook,' and in hooker's 'student's flora.' get all the help you can, if you wish to work the subject out, from foreign botanists, both european and american; and i think that, on the whole, you will come to some such theory as this for a general starting platform. we do not owe our flora--i must keep to the flora just now--to so many different regions, or types, as mr. watson conceives, but to three, namely: an european or germanic flora, from the south-east; an atlantic flora, from the south-west; a northern flora from the north. these three invaded us after the glacial epoch; and our general flora is their result. but this will cause you much trouble. before you go a step further you will have to eliminate from all your calculations most of the plants which watson calls glareal, _i.e_. found in cultivated ground about habitations. and what their limit may be i think we never shall know. but of this we may be sure; that just as invading armies always bring with them, in forage or otherwise, some plants from their own country--just as the cossacks, in , brought more than one russian plant through germany into france--just as you have already a crop of north german plants upon the battle-fields of france--thus do conquering races bring new plants. the romans, during their or years of occupation and civilisation, must have brought more species, i believe, than i dare mention. i suspect them of having brought, not merely the common hedge elm of the south, not merely the three species of nettle, but all our red poppies, and a great number of the weeds which are common in our cornfields; and when we add to them the plants which may have been brought by returning crusaders and pilgrims; by monks from every part of europe, by flemings or other dealers in foreign wool; we have to cut a huge cantle out of our indigenous flora: only, having no records, we hardly know where and what to cut out; and can only, we elder ones, recommend the subject to the notice of the younger botanists, that they may work it out after our work is done. of course these plants introduced by man, if they are cut out, must be cut out of only one of the floras, namely, the european; for they, probably, came from the south-east, by whatever means they came. that european flora invaded us, i presume, immediately after the glacial epoch, at a time when france and england were united, and the german ocean a mere network of rivers, which emptied into the deep sea between scotland and scandinavia. and here i must add, that endless questions of interest will arise to those who will study, not merely the invasion of that truly european flora, but the invasion of reptiles, insects, and birds, especially birds of passage, which must have followed it as soon as the land was sufficiently covered with vegetation to support life. whole volumes remain to be written on this subject. i trust that some of your younger members may live to write one of them. the way to begin will be: to compare the flora and fauna of this part of england very carefully with that of the southern and eastern counties; and then to compare them again with the fauna and flora of france, belgium, and holland. as for the atlantic flora, you will have to decide for yourselves whether you accept or not the theory of a sunken atlantic continent. i confess that all objections to that theory, however astounding it may seem, are outweighed in my mind by a host of facts which i can explain by no other theory. but you must judge for yourselves; and to do so you must study carefully the distribution of heaths, both in europe and at the cape; and their non-appearance beyond the ural mountains, and in america, save in labrador, where the common ling, an older and less specialised form, exists. you must consider, too, the plants common to the azores, portugal, the west of england, ireland, and the western hebrides. in so doing young naturalists will at least find proofs of a change in the distribution of land and water, which will utterly astound them when they face it for the first time. as for the northern flora, the question whence it came is puzzling enough. it seems difficult to conceive how any plants could have survived when scotland was an archipelago in the same ice-covered condition as greenland is now; and we have no proof that there existed after the glacial epoch any northern continent from which the plants and animals could have come back to us. the species of plants and animals common to britain, scandinavia, and north america, must have spread in pre-glacial times, when a continent joining them did exist. but some light has been thrown on this question by an article, as charming as it is able, on "the physics of the arctic ice," by dr. brown, of campster. you will find it in the 'quarterly journal of the geological society' for february . he shows there that even in greenland peaks and crags are left free enough from ice to support a vegetation of between or species of flowering plants; and, therefore, he well says, we must be careful to avoid concluding that the plant and animal life on the dreary shores or mountain-tops of the old glacial scotland was poor. the same would hold good of our mountains; and, if so, we may look with respect, even with awe, on the alpine plants of wales, scotland, and the lake mountains, as organisms stunted, it may be, and even degraded, by their long battle with the elements; but venerable from their age, historic from their endurance. relics of an older temperate world, they have lived through thousands of centuries of frost and fog, to sun themselves in a temperate climate once more. i can never pick one of them without a tinge of shame; and to exterminate one of them is to destroy for the mere pleasure of collecting the last of a family which god has taken the trouble to preserve for thousands of centuries. i trust that these hints--for i can call them nothing more--will at least awaken any young naturalist who has hitherto only collected natural objects, to study the really important and interesting question--how did these things get here? now hence arise questions which may puzzle the mind of a hampshire naturalist. you have in this neighbourhood, as you well know, two, or rather three, soils, each carrying its peculiar vegetation. first, you have the clay lying on the chalk, and carrying vast woodlands, seemingly primeval. next, you have the chalk, with its peculiar, delicate, and often fragrant crop of lime-loving plants; and next you have the poor sands and clays of the new forest basin, saturated with iron, and therefore carrying a moorland or peat-loving vegetation, in many respects quite different from the others. and this moorland soil, and this vegetation, with a few singular exceptions, repeats itself, as i daresay you know, in the north of the county, in the bagshot basin, as it is called--the moors of aldershot, hartford bridge, and windsor forest. now what a variety of interesting questions are opened up by these simple facts. how did these three floras get each to its present place? where did each come from? how did it get past or through the other, till each set of plants, after long internecine competition, settled itself down in the sheet of land most congenial to it? and when did each come hither? which is the oldest? will any one tell me whether the heathy flora of the moors, or the thymy flora of the chalk downs, were the earlier inhabitants of these isles? to these questions i cannot get any answer; and they cannot be answered without first--a very careful study of the range of each species of plant on the continent of europe; and next, without careful study of those stupendous changes in the shape of this island which have taken place at a very late geological epoch. the composition of the flora of our moorlands is as yet to me an utter puzzle. we have lycopodiums--three species--enormously ancient forms which have survived the age of ice: but did they crawl downward hither from the northern mountains, or upward hither from the pyrenees? we have the beautiful bog asphodel again--an enormously ancient form; for it is, strange to say, common to north america and to northern europe, but does not enter asia--almost an unique instance. it must, surely, have come from the north; and points--as do many species of plants and animals--to the time when north europe and north america were joined. we have, sparingly, in north hampshire, though, strangely, not on the bagshot moors, the common or northern butterwort (_pinguicula vulgaris_); and also, in the south, the new forest part of the county, the delicate little _pinguicula lusitanica_, the only species now found in devon and cornwall, marking the new forest as the extreme eastern limit of the atlantic flora. we have again the heaths, which, as i have just said, are found neither in america nor in asia, and must, i believe, have come from some south-western land long since submerged beneath the sea. but more, we have in the new forest two plants which are members of the south europe, or properly, the atlantic flora; which must have come from the south and south-east; and which are found in no other spots in these islands. i mean the lovely _gladiolus_, which grows abundantly under the ferns near lyndhurst, certainly wild but it does not approach england elsewhere nearer than the loire and the rhine; and next, that delicate orchid, the _spiranthes aestivalis_, which is known only in a bog near lyndhurst and in the channel islands, while on the continent it extends from southern europe all through france. now, what do these two plants mark? they give us a point in botany, though not in time, to determine when the south of england was parted from the opposite shores of france; and whenever that was, it was just after the gladiolus and spiranthes got hither. two little colonies of these lovely flowers arrived just before their retreat was cut off. they found the country already occupied with other plants; and, not being reinforced by fresh colonists from the south, have not been able to spread farther north than lyndhurst. thus, in the new forest, and, i may say, in the bagshot moors, you find plants which you do not expect, and do not find plants which you do expect; and you are, or ought to be, puzzled, and i hope also interested, and stirred up to find out more. i spoke just now of the time when england was joined to france, as bearing on hampshire botany. it bears no less on hampshire zoology. in insects, for instance, the presence of the purple emperor and the white admiral in our hampshire woods, as well as the abundance of the great stag-beetle, point to a time when the two countries were joined, at least, as far west as hampshire; while the absence of these insects farther to the westward shows that the countries, if ever joined, were already parted; and that those insects have not yet had time to spread westward. the presence of these two butterflies, and partly of the stag- beetle, along the south-east coast of england as far as the primeval forests of south lincolnshire, points--as do a hundred other facts--to a time when the straits of dover either did not exist, or were the bed of a river running from the west; and when, as i told you just now, all the rivers which now run into the german ocean, from the humber on the west to the elbe on the east, discharged themselves into the sea between scotland and norway, after wandering through a vast lowland, covered with countless herds of mammoth, rhinoceros, gigantic ox, and other mammals now extinct; while the birds, as far as we know; the insects; the fresh- water fish; and even, as my friend mr. brady has proved, the _entomostraca_ of the rivers, were the same in what is now holland as in what is now our eastern counties. i could dwell long on this matter. i could talk long about how certain species of _lepidoptera_--moths and butterflies--like _papilio machaon_ and _p. podalirius_, swarm through france, reach up to the british channel, and have not crossed it; with the exception of one colony of _machaon_ in the cambridgeshire fens. i could talk long about a similar phenomenon in the case of our migratory and singing birds: how many exquisite species--notably those two glorious songsters, the orphean warbler and hippolais, which delight our ears everywhere on the other side of the channel--follow our nightingales, blackcaps, and warblers northward every spring almost to the straits of dover: but dare not cross, simply because they have been, as it were, created since the gulf was opened, and have never learnt from their parents how to fly over it. in the case of fishes, again, i might say much on the curious fact that the cyprinidae, or white fish--carp, &c.--and their natural enemy, the pike, are indigenous, i believe, only to the rivers, english or continental, on the eastern side of the straits of dover; while the rivers on the western side were originally tenanted, like our hampshire streams, as now, almost entirely by trout, their only cyprinoid being the minnow--if it, too, be not an interloper; and i might ask you to consider the bearing of this curious fact on the former junction of england and france. but i have only time to point out to you a few curious facts with regard to reptiles, which should be specially interesting to a hampshire bio- geologist. you know, of course, that in ireland there are no reptiles, save the little common lizard, _lacerta agilis_, and a few frogs on the mountain-tops--how they got there i cannot conceive. and you will, of course, guess, and rightly, that the reason of the absence of reptiles is: that ireland was parted off from england before the creatures, which certainly spread from southern and warmer climates, had time to get there. you know, of course, that we have a few reptiles in england. but you may not be aware that, as soon as you cross the channel, you find many more species of reptiles than here, as well as those which you find here. the magnificent green lizard which rattles about like a rabbit in a french forest, is never found here; simply because it had not worked northward till after the channel was formed. but there are three reptiles peculiar to this part of england which should be most interesting to a hampshire zoologist. the one is the sand lizard (_l. stirpium_), found on bourne-heath, and, i suspect, in the south hampshire moors likewise--a north european and french species. another, the _coronella laevis_, a harmless french and austrian snake, which has been found about me, in north hants and south berks, now about fifteen or twenty times. i have had three specimens from my own parish. i believe it not to be uncommon; and most probably to be found, by those who will look, both in the new forest and woolmer. the third is the natterjack, or running toad (_bufo rubeta_), a most beautifully spotted animal, with a yellow stripe down his back, which is common with me at eversley, and common also in many moorlands of hants and surrey; and, according to fleming, on heaths near london, and as far north-east as lincolnshire; in which case it will belong to the germanic fauna. now, here again we have cases of animals which have just been able to get hither before the severance of england and france; and which, not being reinforced from the rear, have been forced to stop, in small and probably decreasing colonies, on the spots nearest the coast which were fit for them. i trust that i have not kept you too long over these details. what i wish to impress upon you is that hampshire is a county specially fitted for the study of important bio-geological questions. to work them out, you must trace the geology of hampshire, and, indeed, of east dorset. you must try to form a conception of how the land was shaped in miocene times, before that tremendous upheaval which reared the chalk cliffs at freshwater upright, lifting the tertiary beds upon their northern slopes. you must ask--was there not land to the south of the isle of wight in those ages, and for ages after; and what was its extent and shape? you must ask--when was the gap between the isle of wight and the isle of purbeck sawn through, leaving the needles as remnants on one side, and old harry on the opposite? and was it sawn asunder merely by the age-long gnawing of the waves? you must ask--where did the great river which ran from the west, where poole harbour is now, and probably through what is now the solent, depositing brackish water-beds right and left--where, i say, did it run into the sea? where the straits of dover are now? or, if not there, where? what, too, is become of the land to the westward, composed of ancient metamorphic rocks, out of which it ran, and deposited on what are now the haggerstone moors of poole, vast beds of grit? what was the climate on its banks when it washed down the delicate leaves of broad-leaved trees, akin to our modern english ones, which are found in the fine mud-sand strata of bournemouth? when, finally, did it dwindle down to the brook which now runs through wareham town? was its bed sea, or dry land, or under an ice sheet, during the long ages of the glacial epoch? and if you say--who is sufficient for these things?--who can answer these questions? i answer--who but you, or your pupils after you, if you will but try? and if any shall reply--and what use if i do try? what use, if i do try? what use if i succeed in answering every question which you have propounded to-night? shall i be the happier for it? shall i be the wiser? my friends, whether you will be the happier for it, or for any knowledge of physical science, or for any other knowledge whatsoever, i cannot tell: that lies in the decision of a higher power than i; and, indeed, to speak honestly, i do not think that bio-geology or any other branch of physical science is likely, at first at least, to make you happy. neither is the study of your fellow-men. neither is religion itself. we were not sent into the world to be happy, but to be right; at least, poor creatures that we are, as right as we can be; and we must be content with being right, and not happy. for i fear, or rather i hope, that most of us are not capable of carrying out talleyrand's recipe for perfect happiness on earth--namely, a hard heart and a good digestion. therefore, as our hearts are, happily, not always hard, and our digestions, unhappily, not always good, we will be content to be made wise by physical science, even though we be not made happy. and we shall be made truly wise if we be made content; content, too, not only with what we can understand, but, content with what we do not understand--the habit of mind which theologians call--and rightly--faith in god; the true and solid faith, which comes often out of sadness, and out of doubt, such as bio-geology may well stir in us at first sight. for our first feeling will be--i know mine was when i began to look into these matters--one somewhat of dread and of horror. here were all these creatures, animal and vegetable, competing against each other. and their competition was so earnest and complete, that it did not mean--as it does among honest shopkeepers in a civilised country--i will make a little more money than you; but--i will crush you, enslave you, exterminate you, eat you up. "woe to the weak," seems to be nature's watchword. the psalmist says, "the righteous shall inherit the land." if you go to a tropical forest, or, indeed, if you observe carefully a square acre of any english land, cultivated or uncultivated, you will find that nature's text at first sight looks a very different one. she seems to say--not the righteous, but the strong, shall inherit the land. plant, insect, bird, what not--find a weaker plant, insect, bird, than yourself, and kill it, and take possession of its little vineyard, and no naboth's curse shall follow you: but you shall inherit, and thrive therein, you, and your children after you, if they will be only as strong and as cruel as you are. that is nature's law: and is it not at first sight a fearful law? internecine competition, ruthless selfishness, so internecine and so ruthless that, as i have wandered in tropic forests, where this temper is shown more quickly and fiercely, though not in the least more evilly, than in our slow and cold temperate one, i have said--really these trees and plants are as wicked as so many human beings. throughout the great republic of the organic world, the motto of the majority is, and always has been as far back as we can see, what it is, and always has been, with the majority of human beings, "every one for himself, and the devil take the hindmost." over-reaching tyranny; the temper which fawns, and clings, and plays the parasite as long as it is down, and when it has risen, fattens on its patron's blood and life--these, and the other works of the flesh, are the works of average plants and animals, as far as they can practise them. at least, so says at first sight the science of bio-geology; till the naturalist, if he be also human and humane, is glad to escape from the confusion and darkness of the universal battle-field of selfishness into the order and light of christmas-tide. for then there comes to him the thought--and are these all the facts? and is this all which the facts mean? that mutual competition is one law of nature, we see too plainly. but is there not, besides that law, a law of mutual help? true it is, as the wise man has said, that the very hyssop on the wall grows there because all the forces of the universe could not prevent its growing. all honour to the hyssop. a brave plant, it has fought a brave fight, and has its just deserts--as everything in nature has--and so has won. but did all the powers of the universe combine to prevent it growing? is not that a one-sided statement of facts? did not all the powers of the universe also combine to make it grow, if only it had valour and worth wherewith to grow? did not the rains feed it, the very mortar in the wall give lime to its roots? were not electricity, gravitation, and i know not what of chemical and mechanical forces, busy about the little plant, and every cell of it, kindly and patiently ready to help it, if it would only help itself? surely this is true; true of every organic thing, animal and vegetable, and mineral, too, for aught i know: and so we must soften our sadness at the sight of the universal mutual war by the sight of an equally universal mutual help. but more. it is true--too true if you will--that all things live on each other. but is it not, therefore, equally true that all things live for each other?--that self-sacrifice, and not selfishness, is at the bottom the law of nature, as it is the law of grace; and the law of bio-geology, as it is the law of all religion and virtue worthy of the name? is it not true that everything has to help something else to live, whether it knows it or not?--that not a plant or an animal can turn again to its dust without giving food and existence to other plants, other animals?--that the very tiger, seemingly the most useless tyrant of all tyrants, is still of use, when, after sending out of the world suddenly, and all but painlessly, many an animal which would without him have starved in misery through a diseased old age, he himself dies, and, in dying, gives, by his own carcase, the means of life and of enjoyment to a thousandfold more living creatures than ever his paws destroyed? and so, the longer one watches the great struggle for existence, the more charitable, the more hopeful, one becomes; as one sees that, consciously or unconsciously, the law of nature is, after all, self-sacrifice; unconscious in plants and animals, as far as we know; save always those magnificent instances of true self-sacrifice shown by the social insects, by ants, bees, and others, which put to shame by a civilization truly noble--why should i not say divine, for god ordained it?--the selfishness and barbarism of man. but be that as it may, in man the law of self-sacrifice--whether unconscious or not in the animals--rises into consciousness just as far as he is a man; and the crowning lesson of bio- geology may be, when we have worked it out, after all, the lesson of christmas-tide--of the infinite self-sacrifice of god for man; and nature as well as religion may say to us-- "ah, could you crush that ever craving lust for bliss, which kills all bliss, and lose your life, your barren unit life, to find again a thousand times in those for whom you die-- so were you men and women, and should hold your rightful rank in god's great universe, wherein, in heaven or earth, by will or nature, naught lives for self. all, all, from crown to base-- the lamb, before the world's foundation slain-- the angels, ministers to god's elect-- the sun, who only shines to light the worlds-- the clouds, whose glory is to die in showers-- the fleeting streams, who in their ocean graves flee the decay of stagnant self-content-- the oak, ennobled by the shipwright's axe-- the soil, which yields its marrow to the flower-- the flower, which feeds a thousand velvet worms born only to be prey to every bird-- all spend themselves on others: and shall man, whose two-fold being is the mystic knot which couples earth with heaven, doubly bound, as being both worm and angel, to that service by which both worms and angels hold their life, shall he, whose every breath is debt on debt, refuse, forsooth, to be what god has made him? no; let him show himself the creatures' lord by free-will gift of that self-sacrifice which they, perforce, by nature's laws endure." my friends, scientific and others, if the study of bio-geology shall help to teach you this, or anything like this; i think that though it may not make you more happy, it may yet make you more wise; and, therefore, what is better than being more happy, namely, more blessed. heroism it is an open question whether the policeman is not demoralizing us; and that in proportion as he does his duty well; whether the perfection of justice and safety, the complete "preservation of body and goods," may not reduce the educated and comfortable classes into that lap-dog condition in which not conscience, but comfort, doth make cowards of us all. our forefathers had, on the whole, to take care of themselves; we find it more convenient to hire people to take care of us. so much the better for us, in some respects: but, it may be, so much the worse in others. so much the better; because, as usually results from the division of labour, these people, having little or nothing to do save to take care of us, do so far better than we could; and so prevent a vast amount of violence and wrong, and therefore of misery, especially to the weak: for which last reason we will acquiesce in the existence of policemen and lawyers, as we do in the results of arbitration, as the lesser of two evils. the odds in war are in favour of the bigger bully; in arbitration, in favour of the bigger rogue; and it is a question whether the lion or the fox be the safer guardian of human interests. but arbitration prevents war: and that, in three cases out of four, is full reason for employing it. on the other hand, the lap-dog condition, whether in dogs or in men, is certainly unfavourable to the growth of the higher virtues. safety and comfort are good, indeed, for the good; for the brave, the self-originating, the earnest. they give to such a clear stage and no favour wherein to work unhindered for their fellow-men. but for the majority, who are neither brave, self-originating, nor earnest, but the mere puppets of circumstance, safety and comfort may, and actually do, merely make their lives mean and petty, effeminate and dull. therefore their hearts must be awakened, as often as possible, to take exercise enough for health; and they must be reminded, perpetually and importunately, of what a certain great philosopher called "whatsoever things are true, honourable, just, pure, lovely, and of good report;" "if there be any manhood, and any just praise, to think of such things." this pettiness and dulness of our modern life is just what keeps alive our stage, to which people go to see something a little less petty, a little less dull, than what they see at home. it is, too, the cause of--i had almost said the excuse for--the modern rage for sensational novels. those who read them so greedily are conscious, poor souls, of capacities in themselves of passion and action, for good and evil, for which their frivolous humdrum daily life gives no room, no vent. they know too well that human nature can be more fertile, whether in weeds and poisons, or in flowers and fruits, than it is usually in the streets and houses of a well-ordered and tolerably sober city. and because the study of human nature is, after all, that which is nearest to every one and most interesting to every one, therefore they go to fiction, since they cannot go to fact, to see what they themselves might be had they the chance; to see what fantastic tricks before high heaven men and women like themselves can play; and how they play them. well: it is not for me to judge, for me to blame. i will only say that there are those who cannot read sensational novels, or, indeed, any novels at all, just because they see so many sensational novels being enacted round them in painful facts of sinful flesh and blood. there are those, too, who have looked in the mirror too often to wish to see their own disfigured visage in it any more; who are too tired of themselves and ashamed of themselves to want to hear of people like themselves; who want to hear of people utterly unlike themselves, more noble, and able, and just, and sweet, and pure; who long to hear of heroism and to converse with heroes; and who, if by chance they meet with an heroic act, bathe their spirits in that, as in may-dew, and feel themselves thereby, if but for an hour, more fair. if any such shall chance to see these words, let me ask them to consider with me that one word hero, and what it means. hero; heroic; heroism. these words point to a phase of human nature, the capacity for which we all have in ourselves, which is as startling and as interesting in its manifestations as any, and which is always beautiful, always ennobling, and therefore always attractive to those whose hearts are not yet seared by the world or brutalized by self-indulgence. but let us first be sure what the words mean. there is no use talking about a word till we have got at its meaning. we may use it as a cant phrase, as a party cry on platforms; we may even hate and persecute our fellow-men for the sake of it: but till we have clearly settled in our own minds what a word means, it will do for fighting with, but not for working with. socrates of old used to tell the young athenians that the ground of all sound knowledge was--to understand the true meaning of the words which were in their mouths all day long; and socrates was a wiser man than we shall ever see. so, instead of beginning an oration in praise of heroism, i shall ask my readers to think with me what heroism is. now, we shall always get most surely at the meaning of a word by getting at its etymology--that is, at what it meant at first. and if heroism means behaving like a hero, we must find out, it seems to me, not merely what a hero may happen to mean just now, but what it meant in the earliest human speech in which we find it. a hero or a heroine, then, among the old homeric greeks, meant a man or woman who was like the gods; and who, from that likeness, stood superior to his or her fellow-creatures. gods, heroes, and men, is a threefold division of rational beings, with which we meet more than once or twice. those grand old greeks felt deeply the truth of the poet's saying-- "unless above himself he can exalt himself, how poor a thing is man." but more: the greeks supposed these heroes to be, in some way or other, partakers of a divine nature; akin to the gods; usually, either they, or some ancestor of theirs, descended from a god or goddess. those who have read mr. gladstone's 'juventus mundi' will remember the section (cap. ix. section ) on the modes of the approximation between the divine and the human natures; and whether or not they agree with the author altogether, all will agree, i think, that the first idea of a hero or a heroine was a godlike man or godlike woman. a godlike man. what varied, what infinite forms of nobleness that word might include, ever increasing, as men's notions of the gods became purer and loftier, or, alas! decreasing, as their notions became degraded. the old greeks, with that intense admiration of beauty which made them, in after ages, the master sculptors and draughtsmen of their own, and, indeed, of any age, would, of course, require in their hero, their godlike man, beauty and strength, manners, too, and eloquence, and all outward perfections of humanity, and neglect his moral qualities. neglect, i say, but not ignore. the hero, by virtue of his kindred with the gods, was always expected to be a better man than common men, as virtue was then understood. and how better? let us see. the hero was at least expected to be more reverent than other men to those divine beings of whose nature he partook, whose society he might enjoy even here on earth. he might be unfaithful to his own high lineage; he might misuse his gifts by selfishness and self-will; he might, like ajax, rage with mere jealousy and wounded pride till his rage ended in shameful madness and suicide. he might rebel against the very gods, and all laws of right and wrong, till he perished in his [greek text], "smitten down, blind in his pride, for a sign and a terror to mortals." but he ought to have, he must have, to be true to his name of hero, justice, self-restraint, and [greek text]--that highest form of modesty, for which we have, alas! no name in the english tongue; that perfect respect for the feelings of others which springs out of perfect self-respect. and he must have, too--if he were to be a hero of the highest type--the instinct of helpfulness; the instinct that, if he were a kinsman of the gods, he must fight on their side, through toil and danger, against all that was unlike them, and therefore hateful to them. who loves not the old legends, unsurpassed for beauty in the literature of any race, in which the hero stands out as the deliverer, the destroyer of evil? theseus ridding the land of robbers, and delivering it from the yearly tribute of boys and maidens to be devoured by the minotaur; perseus slaying the gorgon, and rescuing andromeda from the sea-beast; heracles with his twelve famous labours against giants and monsters; and all the rest-- "who dared, in the god-given might of their manhood greatly to do and to suffer, and far in the fens and the forests smite the devourers of men, heaven-hated, brood of the giants; transformed, strange, without like, who obey not the golden-haired rulers"-- these are figures whose divine moral beauty has sunk into the hearts, not merely of poets or of artists, but of men and women who suffered and who feared; the memory of them, fables though they may have been, ennobled the old greek heart; they ennobled the heart of europe in the fifteenth century, at the rediscovery of greek literature. so far from contradicting the christian ideal, they harmonised with--i had almost said they supplemented--that more tender and saintly ideal of heroism which had sprung up during the earlier middle ages. they justified, and actually gave a new life to, the old noblenesses of chivalry, which had grown up in the later middle ages as a necessary supplement of active and manly virtue to the passive and feminine virtue of the cloister. they inspired, mingling with these two other elements, a literature, both in england, france, and italy, in which the three elements, the saintly, the chivalrous, and the greek heroic, have become one and undistinguishable, because all three are human, and all three divine; a literature which developed itself in ariosto, in tasso, in the hypnerotomachia, the arcadia, the euphues, and other forms, sometimes fantastic, sometimes questionable, but which reached its perfection in our own spenser's 'fairy queen'--perhaps the most admirable poem which has ever been penned by mortal man. and why? what has made these old greek myths live, myths though they be, and fables, and fair dreams? what, though they have no body, and, perhaps, never had, has given them an immortal soul, which can speak to the immortal souls of all generations to come? what but this, that in them--dim it may be and undeveloped, but still there--lies the divine idea of self-sacrifice as the perfection of heroism; of self-sacrifice, as the highest duty and the highest joy of him who claims a kindred with the gods? let us say, then, that true heroism must involve self-sacrifice. those stories certainly involve it, whether ancient or modern, which the hearts, not of philosophers merely, or poets, but of the poorest and the most ignorant, have accepted instinctively as the highest form of moral beauty--the highest form, and yet one possible to all. grace darling rowing out into the storm toward the wreck.--the "drunken private of the buffs," who, prisoner among the chinese, and commanded to prostrate himself and kotoo, refused in the name of his country's honour--"he would not bow to any chinaman on earth:" and so was knocked on the head, and died surely a hero's death.--those soldiers of the 'birkenhead,' keeping their ranks to let the women and children escape, while they watched the sharks who in a few minutes would be tearing them limb from limb.--or, to go across the atlantic--for there are heroes in the far west--mr. bret harte's "flynn of virginia," on the central pacific railway--the place is shown to travellers--who sacrificed his life for his married comrade,-- "there, in the drift, back to the wall, he held the timbers ready to fall. then in the darkness i heard him call,-- 'run for your life, jake! run for your wife's sake! don't wait for me.' "and that was all heard in the din-- heard of tom flynn, flynn of virginia." or the engineer, again, on the mississippi, who, when the steamer caught fire, held, as he had sworn he would, her bow against the bank till every soul save he got safe on shore,-- "through the hot black breath of the burning boat jim bludso's voice was heard; and they all had trust in his cussedness, and knew he would keep his word. and sure's you're born, they all got off afore the smokestacks fell,-- and bludso's ghost went up alone in the smoke of the 'prairie belle.' "he weren't no saint--but at judgment i'd run my chance with jim 'longside of some pious gentlemen that wouldn't shake hands with him. he'd seen his duty--a dead sure thing-- and went for it there and then; and christ is not going to be too hard on a man that died for men." to which gallant poem of colonel john hay's--and he has written many gallant and beautiful poems--i have but one demurrer: jim bludso did not merely do his duty, but more than his duty. he did a voluntary deed, to which he was bound by no code or contract, civil or moral; just as he who introduced me to that poem won his victoria cross--as many a cross, victoria and other, has been won--by volunteering for a deed to which he, too, was bound by no code or contract, military or moral. and it is of the essence of self-sacrifice, and, therefore, of heroism, that it should be voluntary; a work of supererogation, at least towards society and man: an act to which the hero or heroine is not bound by duty, but which is above though not against duty. nay, on the strength of that same element of self-sacrifice, i will not grudge the epithet heroic, which my revered friend mr. darwin justly applies to the poor little monkey, who once in his life did that which was above his duty; who lived in continual terror of the great baboon, and yet, when the brute had sprung upon his friend the keeper, and was tearing out his throat, conquered his fear by love, and, at the risk of instant death, sprang in turn upon his dreaded enemy, and bit and shrieked till help arrived. some would now-a-days use that story merely to prove that the monkey's nature and the man's nature are, after all, one and the same. well: i, at least, have never denied that there is a monkey-nature in man as there is a peacock-nature, and a swine-nature, and a wolf-nature--of all which four i see every day too much. the sharp and stern distinction between men and animals, as far as their natures are concerned, is of a more modern origin than people fancy. of old the assyrian took the eagle, the ox, and the lion--and not unwisely--as the three highest types of human capacity. the horses of homer might be immortal, and weep for their master's death. the animals and monsters of greek myth--like the ananzi spider of negro fable--glide insensibly into speech and reason. birds--the most wonderful of all animals in the eyes of a man of science or a poet--are sometimes looked on as wiser, and nearer to the gods, than man. the norseman--the noblest and ablest human being, save the greek, of whom history can tell us--was not ashamed to say of the bear of his native forests that he had "ten men's strength and eleven men's wisdom." how could reinecke fuchs have gained immortality, in the middle ages and since, save by the truth of its too solid and humiliating theorem--that the actions of the world of men were, on the whole, guided by passions but too exactly like those of the lower animals? i have said, and say again, with good old vaughan-- "unless above himself he can exalt himself, how mean a thing is man." but i cannot forget that many an old greek poet or sage, and many a sixteenth and seventeenth century one, would have interpreted the monkey's heroism from quite a different point of view; and would have said that the poor little creature had been visited suddenly by some "divine afflatus"--an expression quite as philosophical and quite as intelligible as most philosophic formulas which i read now-a-days--and had been thus raised for the moment above his abject selfish monkey-nature, just as man requires to be raised above his. but that theory belongs to a philosophy which is out of date and out of fashion, and which will have to wait a century or two before it comes into fashion again. and now: if self-sacrifice and heroism be, as i believe, identical, i must protest against a use of the word sacrifice which is growing too common in newspaper-columns, in which we are told of an "enormous sacrifice of life;" an expression which means merely that a great many poor wretches have been killed, quite against their own will, and for no purpose whatsoever: no sacrifice at all, unless it be one to the demons of ignorance, cupidity or mismanagement. the stout whig undergraduate understood better the meaning of such words, who, when asked, "in what sense might charles the first be said to be a martyr?" answered, "in the same sense that a man might be said to be a martyr to the gout." and i must protest, in like wise, against a misuse of the words hero, heroism, heroic, which is becoming too common, namely, applying them to mere courage. we have borrowed the misuse, i believe, as we have more than one beside, from the french press. i trust that we shall neither accept it, nor the temper which inspires it. it may be convenient for those who flatter their nation, and especially the military part of it, into a ruinous self-conceit, to frame some such syllogism as this--"courage is heroism: every frenchman is naturally courageous: therefore every frenchman is a hero." but we, who have been trained at once in a sounder school of morals, and in a greater respect for facts, and for language as the expression of facts, shall be careful, i hope, not to trifle thus with that potent and awful engine--human speech. we shall eschew likewise, i hope, a like abuse of the word moral, which has crept from the french press now and then, not only into our own press, but into the writings of some of our military men, who, as englishmen, should have known better. we were told again and again, during the late war, that the moral effect of such a success had been great; that the morale of the troops was excellent; or again, that the morale of the troops had suffered, or even that they were somewhat demoralised. but when one came to test what was really meant by these fine words, one discovered that morals had nothing to do with the facts which they expressed; that the troops were in the one case actuated simply by the animal passion of hope, in the other simply by the animal passion of fear. this abuse of the word moral has crossed, i am sorry to say, the atlantic; and a witty american, whom we must excuse, though we must not imitate, when some one had been blazing away at him with a revolver, he being unarmed, is said to have described his very natural emotions on the occasion, by saying that he felt dreadfully demoralised. we, i hope, shall confine the word demoralisation, as our generals of the last century would have done, when applied to soldiers, to crime, including, of course, the neglect of duty or of discipline; and we shall mean by the word heroism in like manner, whether applied to a soldier or to any human being, not mere courage; not the mere doing of duty: but the doing of something beyond duty; something which is not in the bond; some spontaneous and unexpected act of self-devotion. i am glad, but not surprised, to see that miss yonge has held to this sound distinction in her golden little book of 'golden deeds;' and said, "obedience, at all costs and risks, is the very essence of a soldier's life. it has the solid material, but it has hardly the exceptional brightness, of a golden deed." i know that it is very difficult to draw the line between mere obedience to duty and express heroism. i know also that it would be both invidious and impertinent in an utterly unheroic personage like me, to try to draw that line; and to sit at home at ease, analysing and criticising deeds which i could not do myself: but--to give an instance or two of what i mean-- to defend a post as long as it is tenable is not heroic. it is simple duty. to defend it after it has become untenable, and even to die in so doing, is not heroic, but a noble madness, unless an advantage is to be gained thereby for one's own side. then, indeed, it rises towards, if not into, the heroism of self-sacrifice. who, for example, will not endorse the verdict of all ages on the conduct of those spartans at thermopylae, when they sat "combing their yellow hair for death" on the sea-shore? they devoted themselves to hopeless destruction: but why? they felt--i must believe that, for they behaved as if they felt--that on them the destinies of the western world might hang; that they were in the forefront of the battle between civilisation and barbarism, between freedom and despotism; and that they must teach that vast mob of persian slaves, whom the officers of the great king were driving with whips up to their lance-points, that the spirit of the old heroes was not dead; and that the greek, even in defeat and death, was a mightier and a nobler man than they. and they did their work. they produced, if you will, a "moral" effect, which has lasted even to this very day. they struck terror into the heart, not only of the persian host, but of the whole persian empire. they made the event of that war certain, and the victories of salamis and plataea comparatively easy. they made alexander's conquest of the east, years afterwards, not only possible at all, but permanent when it came; and thus helped to determine the future civilisation of the whole world. they did not, of course, foresee all this. no great or inspired man can foresee all the consequences of his deeds: but these men were, as i hold, inspired to see somewhat at least of the mighty stake for which they played; and to count their lives worthless, if sparta had sent them thither to help in that great game. or shall we refuse the name of heroic to those three german cavalry regiments who, in the battle of mars la tour, were bidden to hurl themselves upon the chassepots and mitrailleuses of the unbroken french infantry, and went to almost certain death, over the corpses of their comrades, on and in and through, reeling man over horse, horse over man, and clung like bull-dogs to their work, and would hardly leave, even at the bugle-call, till in one regiment thirteen officers out of nineteen were killed or wounded? and why? because the french army must be stopped, if it were but for a quarter of an hour. a respite must be gained for the exhausted third corps. and how much might be done, even in a quarter of an hour, by men who knew when, and where, and why to die. who will refuse the name of heroes to these men? and yet they, probably, would have utterly declined the honour. they had but done that which was in the bond. they were but obeying orders after all. as miss yonge well says of all heroic persons--"'i have but done that which it was my duty to do,' is the natural answer of those capable of such actions. they have been constrained to them by duty or pity; have never deemed it possible to act otherwise; and did not once think of themselves in the matter at all." these last true words bring us to another element in heroism: its simplicity. whatsoever is not simple; whatsoever is affected, boastful, wilful, covetous, tarnishes, even destroys, the heroic character of a deed; because all these faults spring out of self. on the other hand, wherever you find a perfectly simple, frank, unconscious character, there you have the possibility, at least, of heroic action. for it is nobler far to do the most commonplace duty in the household, or behind the counter, with a single eye to duty, simply because it must be done--nobler far, i say, than to go out of your way to attempt a brilliant deed, with a double mind, and saying to yourself not only--"this will be a brilliant deed," but also--"and it will pay me, or raise me, or set me off, into the bargain." heroism knows no "into the bargain." and therefore, again, i must protest against applying the word heroic to any deeds, however charitable, however toilsome, however dangerous, performed for the sake of what certain french ladies, i am told, call "faire son salut"--saving one's soul in the world to come. i do not mean to judge. other and quite unselfish motives may be, and doubtless often are, mixed up with that selfish one: womanly pity and tenderness; love for, and desire to imitate, a certain incarnate ideal of self-sacrifice, who is at once human and divine. but that motive of saving the soul, which is too often openly proposed and proffered, is utterly unheroic. the desire to escape pains and penalties hereafter by pains and penalties here; the balance of present loss against future gain--what is this but selfishness extended out of this world into eternity? "not worldliness," indeed, as a satirist once said with bitter truth, "but other-worldliness." moreover--and the young and the enthusiastic should also bear this in mind--though heroism means the going beyond the limits of strict duty, it never means the going out of the path of strict duty. if it is your duty to go to london, go thither: you may go as much further as you choose after that. but you must go to london first. do your duty first; it will be time after that to talk of being heroic. and therefore one must seriously warn the young, lest they mistake for heroism and self-sacrifice what is merely pride and self-will, discontent with the relations by which god has bound them, and the circumstances which god has appointed for them. i have known girls think they were doing a fine thing by leaving uncongenial parents or disagreeable sisters, and cutting out for themselves, as they fancied, a more useful and elevated line of life than that of mere home duties; while, after all, poor things, they were only saying, with the pharisees of old, "corban, it is a gift, by whatsoever thou mightest be profited by me;" and in the name of god, neglecting the command of god to honour their father and mother. there are men, too, who will neglect their households and leave their children unprovided for, and even uneducated, while they are spending their money on philanthropic or religious hobbies of their own. it is ill to take the children's bread and cast it to the dogs; or even to the angels. it is ill, i say, trying to make god presents, before we have tried to pay god our debts. the first duty of every man is to the wife whom he has married, and to the children whom she has brought into the world; and to neglect them is not heroism, but self-conceit; the conceit that a man is so necessary to almighty god, that god will actually allow him to do wrong, if he can only thereby secure the man's invaluable services. be sure that every motive which comes not from the single eye; every motive which springs from self; is by its very essence unheroic, let it look as gaudy or as beneficent as it may. but i cannot go so far as to say the same of the love of approbation--the desire for the love and respect of our fellow-men. that must not be excluded from the list of heroic motives. i know that it is, or may be proved to be, by victorious analysis, an emotion common to us and the lower animals. and yet no man excludes it less than that true hero, st. paul. if those brave spartans, if those brave germans, of whom i spoke just now, knew that their memories would be wept over and worshipped by brave men and fair women, and that their names would become watchwords to children in their fatherland: what is that to us, save that it should make us rejoice, if we be truly human, that they had that thought with them in their last moments to make self-devotion more easy, and death more sweet? and yet--and yet--is not the highest heroism that which is free even from the approbation of our fellow-men, even from the approbation of the best and wisest? the heroism which is known only to our father who seeth in secret? the godlike deeds alone in the lonely chamber? the godlike lives lived in obscurity?--a heroism rare among us men, who live perforce in the glare and noise of the outer world: more common among women; women of whom the world never hears; who, if the world discovered them, would only draw the veil more closely over their faces and their hearts, and entreat to be left alone with god. true, they cannot always hide. they must not always hide; or their fellow-creatures would lose the golden lesson. but, nevertheless, it is of the essence of the perfect and womanly heroism, in which, as in all spiritual forces, woman transcends the man, that it would hide if it could. and it was a pleasant thought to me, when i glanced lately at the golden deeds of woman in miss yonge's book--it was a pleasant thought to me, that i could say to myself--ah! yes. these heroines are known, and their fame flies through the mouths of men. but if so, how many thousands of heroines there must have been, how many thousands there may be now, of whom we shall never know. but still they are there. they sow in secret the seed of which we pluck the flower and eat the fruit, and know not that we pass the sower daily in the street; perhaps some humble ill-drest woman, earning painfully her own small sustenance. she who nurses a bedridden mother, instead of sending her to the workhouse. she who spends her heart and her money on a drunken father, a reckless brother, on the orphans of a kinsman or a friend. she who--but why go on with the long list of great little heroisms, with which a clergyman at least comes in contact daily--and it is one of the most ennobling privileges of a clergyman's high calling that he does come in contact with them--why go on, i say, save to commemorate one more form of great little heroism--the commonest, and yet the least remembered of all--namely, the heroism of an average mother? ah, when i think of that last broad fact, i gather hope again for poor humanity; and this dark world looks bright, this diseased world looks wholesome to me once more--because, whatever else it is or is not full of, it is at least full of mothers. while the satirist only sneers, as at a stock butt for his ridicule, at the managing mother trying to get her daughters married off her hands by chicaneries and meannesses, which every novelist knows too well how to draw--would to heaven he, or rather, alas! she, would find some more chivalrous employment for his or her pen--for were they not, too, born of woman?--i only say to myself--having had always a secret fondness for poor rebecca, though i love esau more than jacob--let the poor thing alone. with pain she brought these girls into the world. with pain she educated them according to her light. with pain she is trying to obtain for them the highest earthly blessing of which she can conceive, namely, to be well married; and if in doing that last, she manoeuvres a little, commits a few basenesses, even tells a few untruths, what does all that come to, save this--that in the confused intensity of her motherly self- sacrifice, she will sacrifice for her daughters even her own conscience and her own credit? we may sneer, if we will, at such a poor hard-driven soul when we meet her in society: our duty, both as christians and ladies and gentlemen, seems to me to be--to do for her something very different indeed. but to return. looking at the amount of great little heroisms, which are being, as i assert, enacted around us every day, no one has a right to say, what we are all tempted to say at times--"how can i be heroic? this is no heroic age, setting me heroic examples. we are growing more and more comfortable, frivolous, pleasure-seeking, money-making; more and more utilitarian; more and more mercenary in our politics, in our morals, in our religion; thinking less and less of honour and duty, and more and more of loss and gain. i am born into an unheroic time. you must not ask me to become heroic in it." i do not deny that it is more difficult to be heroic, while circumstances are unheroic round us. we are all too apt to be the puppets of circumstance; all too apt to follow the fashion; all too apt, like so many minnows, to take our colour from the ground on which we lie, in hopes, like them, of comfortable concealment, lest the new tyrant deity, called public opinion, should spy us out, and, like nebuchadnezzar of old, cast us into a burning fiery furnace--which public opinion can make very hot--for daring to worship any god or man save the will of the temporary majority. yes, it is difficult to be anything but poor, mean, insufficient, imperfect people, as like each other as so many sheep; and, like so many sheep, having no will or character of our own, but rushing altogether blindly over the same gap, in foolish fear of the same dog, who, after all, dare not bite us; and so it always was and always will be. for the third time i say,-- "unless above himself he can exalt himself, how poor a thing is man." but, nevertheless, any man or woman who will, in any age and under any circumstances, can live the heroic life and exercise heroic influences. if any ask proof of this, i shall ask them, in return, to read two novels; novels, indeed, but, in their method and their moral, partaking of that heroic and ideal element, which will make them live, i trust, long after thousands of mere novels have returned to their native dust. i mean miss muloch's 'john halifax, gentleman,' and mr. thackeray's 'esmond,' two books which no man or woman ought to read without being the nobler for them. 'john halifax, gentleman,' is simply the history of a poor young clerk, who rises to be a wealthy mill-owner in the manufacturing districts, in the early part of this century. but he contrives to be an heroic and ideal clerk, and an heroic and ideal mill-owner; and that without doing anything which the world would call heroic or ideal, or in anywise stepping out of his sphere, minding simply his own business, and doing the duty which lies nearest him. and how? by getting into his head from youth the strangest notion, that in whatever station or business he may be, he can always be what he considers a gentleman; and that if he only behaves like a gentleman, all must go right at last. a beautiful book. as i said before, somewhat of an heroic and ideal book. a book which did me good when first i read it; which ought to do any young man good who will read it, and then try to be, like john halifax, a gentleman, whether in the shop, the counting-house, the bank, or the manufactory. the other--an even more striking instance of the possibility, at least, of heroism anywhere and everywhere--is mr. thackeray's 'esmond.' on the meaning of that book i can speak with authority. for my dear and regretted friend told me himself that my interpretation of it was the true one; that this was the lesson which he meant men to learn therefrom. esmond is a man of the first half of the eighteenth century; living in a coarse, drunken, ignorant, profligate, and altogether unheroic age. he is--and here the high art and the high morality of mr. thackeray's genius is shown--altogether a man of his own age. he is not a sixteenth-century or a nineteenth-century man born out of time. his information, his politics, his religion, are no higher than of those round him. his manners, his views of human life, his very prejudices and faults, are those of his age. the temptations which he conquers are just those under which the men around him fall. but how does he conquer them? by holding fast throughout to honour, duty, virtue. thus, and thus alone, he becomes an ideal eighteenth-century gentleman, an eighteenth-century hero. this was what mr. thackeray meant--for he told me so himself, i say--that it was possible, even in england's lowest and foulest times, to be a gentleman and a hero, if a man would but be true to the light within him. but i will go further. i will go from ideal fiction to actual, and yet ideal, fact; and say that, as i read history, the most unheroic age which the civilized world ever saw was also the most heroic; that the spirit of man triumphed most utterly over his circumstances, at the very moment when those circumstances were most against him. how and why he did so is a question for philosophy in the highest sense of that word. the fact of his having done so is matter of history. shall i solve my own riddle? then, have we not heard of the early christian martyrs? is there a doubt that they, unlettered men, slaves, weak women, even children, did exhibit, under an infinite sense of duty, issuing in infinite self-sacrifice, a heroism such as the world had never seen before; did raise the ideal of human nobleness a whole stage--rather say, a whole heaven--higher than before; and that wherever the tale of their great deeds spread, men accepted, even if they did not copy, those martyrs as ideal specimens of the human race, till they were actually worshipped by succeeding generations, wrongly, it may be, but pardonably, as a choir of lesser deities? but is there, on the other hand, a doubt that the age in which they were heroic was the most unheroic of all ages; that they were bred, lived, and died, under the most debasing of materialist tyrannies, with art, literature, philosophy, family and national life dying or dead around them, and in cities the corruption of which cannot be told for very shame--cities, compared with which paris is the abode of arcadian simplicity and innocence? when i read petronius and juvenal, and recollect that they were the contemporaries of the apostles; when--to give an instance which scholars, and perhaps, happily, only scholars, can appreciate--i glance once more at trimalchio's feast, and remember that within a mile of that feast st. paul may have been preaching to a christian congregation, some of whom--for st. paul makes no secret of that strange fact--may have been, ere their conversion, partakers in just such vulgar and bestial orgies as those which were going on in the rich freedman's halls: after that, i say, i can put no limit to the possibility of man's becoming heroic, even though he be surrounded by a hell on earth; no limit to the capacities of any human being to form for himself or herself a high and pure ideal of human character; and, without "playing fantastic tricks before high heaven," to carry out that ideal in every-day life; and in the most commonplace circumstances, and the most menial occupations, to live worthy of--as i conceive--our heavenly birthright, and to imitate the heroes, who were the kinsmen of the gods. superstition. a lecture delivered at the royal institution, london. having accepted the very great honour of being allowed to deliver here two lectures, i have chosen as my subject superstition and science. it is with superstition that this first lecture will deal. the subject seems to me especially fit for a clergyman; for he should, more than other men, be able to avoid trenching on two subjects rightly excluded from this institution; namely, theology--that is, the knowledge of god; and religion--that is, the knowledge of duty. if he knows, as he should, what is theology, and what is religion, then he should best know what is not theology, and what is not religion. for my own part, i entreat you at the outset to keep in mind that these lectures treat of matters entirely physical; which have in reality, and ought to have in our minds, no more to do with theology and religion than the proposition that theft is wrong, has to do with the proposition that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles. it is necessary to premise this, because many are of opinion that superstition is a corruption of religion; and though they would agree that as such, "corruptio optimi pessima," yet they would look on religion as the state of spiritual health, and superstition as one of spiritual disease. others, again, holding the same notion, but not considering that corruptio optimi pessima, have been in all ages somewhat inclined to be merciful to superstition, as a child of reverence; as a mere accidental misdirection of one of the noblest and most wholesome faculties of man. this is not the place wherein to argue with either of these parties; and i shall simply say that superstition seems to me altogether a physical affection, as thoroughly material and corporeal as those of eating or sleeping, remembering or dreaming. after this, it will be necessary to define superstition, in order to have some tolerably clear understanding of what we are talking about. i beg leave to define it as--fear of the unknown. johnson, who was no dialectician, and, moreover, superstitious enough himself, gives eight different definitions of the word; which is equivalent to confessing his inability to define it at all:-- " . unnecessary fear or scruples in religion; observance of unnecessary and uncommanded rites or practices; religion without morality. " . false religion; reverence of beings not proper objects of reverence; false worship. " . over nicety; exactness too scrupulous." eight meanings; which, on the principle that eight eighths, or indeed , do not make one whole, may be considered as no definition. his first thought, as often happens, is the best--"unnecessary fear." but after that he wanders. the root-meaning of the word is still to seek. but, indeed, the popular meaning, thanks to popular common sense, will generally be found to contain in itself the root-meaning. let us go back to the latin word superstitio. cicero says that the superstitious element consists in "a certain empty dread of the gods"--a purely physical affection, if you will remember three things:-- . that dread is in itself a physical affection. . that the gods who were dreaded were, with the vulgar, who alone dreaded them, merely impersonations of the powers of nature. . that it was physical injury which these gods were expected to inflict. but he himself agrees with this theory of mine; for he says shortly after, that not only philosophers, but even the ancient romans, had separated superstition from religion; and that the word was first applied to those who prayed all day ut liberi sui sibi superstites essent--might survive them. on the etymology no one will depend who knows the remarkable absence of any etymological instinct in the ancients, in consequence of their weak grasp of that sound inductive method which has created modern criticism. but if it be correct, it is a natural and pathetic form for superstition to take in the minds of men who saw their children fade and die; probably the greater number of them beneath diseases which mankind could neither comprehend nor cure. the best exemplification of what the ancients meant by superstition is to be found in the lively and dramatic words of aristotle's great pupil, theophrastus. the superstitious man, according to him, after having washed his hands with lustral water--that is, water in which a torch from the altar had been quenched, goes about with a laurel-leaf in his mouth, to keep off evil influences, as the pigs in devonshire used, in my youth, to go about with a withe of mountain ash round their necks to keep off the evil eye. if a weasel crosses his path, he stops, and either throws three pebbles into the road, or, with the innate selfishness of fear, lets some one else go before him, and attract to himself the harm which may ensue. he has a similar dread of a screech-owl, whom he compliments in the name of its mistress, pallas athene. if he finds a serpent in his house, he sets up an altar to it. if he pass at a four-cross-way an anointed stone, he pours oil on it, kneels down, and adores it. if a rat has nibbled one of his sacks he takes it for a fearful portent--a superstition which cicero also mentions. he dare not sit on a tomb, because it would be assisting at his own funeral. he purifies endlessly his house, saying that hecate--that is, the moon--has exercised some malign influence on it; and many other purifications he observes, of which i shall only say that they are by their nature plainly, like the last, meant as preservatives against unseen malarias or contagions, possible or impossible. he assists every month with his children at the mysteries of the orphic priests; and finally, whenever he sees an epileptic patient, he spits in his own bosom to avert the evil omen. i have quoted, i believe, every fact given by theophrastus; and you will agree, i am sure, that the moving and inspiring element of such a character is mere bodily fear of unknown evil. the only superstition attributed to him which does not at first sight seem to have its root in dread is that of the orphic mysteries. but of them muller says that the dionusos whom they worshipped "was an infernal deity, connected with hades, and was the personification, not merely of rapturous pleasure, but of a deep sorrow for the miseries of human life." the orphic societies of greece seem to have been peculiarly ascetic, taking no animal food save raw flesh from the sacrificed ox of dionusos. and plato speaks of a lower grade of orphic priests, orpheotelestai, "who used to come before the doors of the rich, and promise, by sacrifices and expiatory songs, to release them from their own sins, and those of their forefathers;" and such would be but too likely to get a hearing from the man who was afraid of a weasel or an owl. now, this same bodily fear, i verily believe, will be found at the root of all superstition whatsoever. but be it so. fear is a natural passion, and a wholesome one. without the instinct of self-preservation, which causes the sea-anemone to contract its tentacles, or the fish to dash into its hover, species would be extermined wholesale by involuntary suicide. yes; fear is wholesome enough, like all other faculties, as long as it is controlled by reason. but what if the fear be not rational, but irrational? what if it be, in plain homely english, blind fear; fear of the unknown, simply because it is unknown? is it not likely, then, to be afraid of the wrong object? to be hurtful, ruinous to animals as well as to man? any one will confess that, who has ever seen a horse inflict on himself mortal injuries, in his frantic attempts to escape from a quite imaginary danger. i have good reasons for believing that not only animals here and there, but whole flocks and swarms of them, are often destroyed, even in the wild state, by mistaken fear; by such panics, for instance, as cause a whole herd of buffalos to rush over a bluff, and be dashed to pieces. and remark that this capacity of panic, fear--of superstition, as i should call it--is greatest in those animals, the dog and the horse for instance, which have the most rapid and vivid fancy. does not the unlettered highlander say all that i want to say, when he attributes to his dog and his horse, on the strength of these very manifestations of fear, the capacity of seeing ghosts and fairies before he can see them himself? but blind fear not only causes evil to the coward himself: it makes him a source of evil to others; for it is the cruellest of all human states. it transforms the man into the likeness of the cat, who, when she is caught in a trap, or shut up in a room, has too low an intellect to understand that you wish to release her; and, in the madness of terror, bites and tears at the hand which tries to do her good. yes; very cruel is blind fear. when a man dreads he knows not what, he will do he cares not what. when he dreads desperately, he will act desperately. when he dreads beyond all reason, he will behave beyond all reason. he has no law of guidance left, save the lowest selfishness. no law of guidance: and yet his intellect, left unguided, may be rapid and acute enough to lead him into terrible follies. infinitely more imaginative than the lowest animals, he is for that very reason capable of being infinitely more foolish, more cowardly, more superstitious. he can--what the lower animals, happily for them, cannot--organise his folly; erect his superstitions into a science; and create a whole mythology out of his blind fear of the unknown. and when he has done that--woe to the weak! for when he has reduced his superstition to a science, then he will reduce his cruelty to a science likewise, and write books like the malleus maleficarum, and the rest of the witch-literature of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries; of which mr. lecky has of late told the world so much, and told it most faithfully and most fairly. but, fear of the unknown? is not that fear of the unseen world? and is not that fear of the spiritual world? pardon me: a great deal of that fear--all of it, indeed, which is superstition--is simply not fear of the spiritual, but of the material; and of nothing else. the spiritual world--i beg you to fix this in your minds--is not merely an invisible world which may become visible, but an invisible world which is by its essence invisible; a moral world, a world of right and wrong. and spiritual fear--which is one of the noblest of all affections, as bodily fear is one of the basest--is, if properly defined, nothing less or more than the fear of doing wrong; of becoming a worse man. but what has that to do with mere fear of the unseen? the fancy which conceives the fear is physical, not spiritual. think for yourselves. what difference is there between a savage's fear of a demon, and a hunter's fear of a fall? the hunter sees a fence. he does not know what is on the other side: but he has seen fences like it with a great ditch on the other side, and suspects one here likewise. he has seen horses fall at such, and men hurt thereby. he pictures to himself his horse falling at that fence, himself rolling in the ditch, with possibly a broken limb; and he recoils from the picture he himself has made; and perhaps with very good reason. his picture may have its counterpart in fact; and he may break his leg. but his picture, like the previous pictures from which it was compounded, is simply a physical impression on the brain, just as much as those in dreams. now, does the fact of the ditch, the fall, and the broken leg, being unseen and unknown, make them a spiritual ditch, a spiritual fall, a spiritual broken leg? and does the fact of the demon and his doings, being as yet unseen and unknown, make them spiritual, or the harm that he may do, a spiritual harm? what does the savage fear? lest the demon should appear; that is, become obvious to his physical senses, and produce an unpleasant physical effect on them. he fears lest the fiend should entice him into the bog, break the hand-bridge over the brook, turn into a horse and ride away with him, or jump out from behind a tree and wring his neck--tolerably hard physical facts, all of them; the children of physical fancy, regarded with physical dread. even if the superstition proved true; even if the demon did appear; even if he wrung the traveller's neck in sound earnest, there would be no more spiritual agency or phenomenon in the whole tragedy than there is in the parlour table, when spiritual somethings make spiritual raps upon spiritual wood; and human beings, who are really spirits--and would to heaven they would remember that fact, and what it means--believe that anything has happened beyond a clumsy juggler's trick. you demur? do you not see that the demon, by the mere fact of having produced physical consequences, would have become himself a physical agent, a member of physical nature, and therefore to be explained, he and his doings, by physical laws? if you do not see that conclusion at first sight, think over it till you do. it may seem to some that i have founded my theory on a very narrow basis; that i am building up an inverted pyramid; or that, considering the numberless, complex, fantastic shapes which superstition has assumed, bodily fear is too simple to explain them all. but if those persons will think a second time, they must agree that my base is as broad as the phenomena which it explains; for every man is capable of fear. and they will see, too, that the cause of superstition must be something like fear, which is common to all men: for all, at least as children, are capable of superstition; and that it must be something which, like fear, is of a most simple, rudimentary, barbaric kind; for the lowest savage, of whatever he is not capable, is still superstitious, often to a very ugly degree. superstition seems, indeed, to be, next to the making of stone-weapons, the earliest method of asserting his superiority to the brutes which has occurred to that utterly abnormal and fantastic lusus naturae called man. now let us put ourselves awhile, as far as we can, in the place of that same savage; and try whether my theory will not justify itself; whether or not superstition, with all its vagaries, may have been, indeed must have been, the result of that ignorance and fear which he carried about with him, every time he prowled for food through the primeval forest. a savage's first division of nature would be, i should say, into things which he can eat, and things which can eat him; including, of course, his most formidable enemy, and most savoury food--his fellow-man. in finding out what he can eat, we must remember, he will have gone through much experience which will have inspired him with a serious respect for the hidden wrath of nature; like those himalayan folk, of whom hooker says, that as they know every poisonous plant, they must have tried them all--not always with impunity. so he gets at a third class of objects--things which he cannot eat, and which will not eat him; but will only do him harm, as it seems to him, out of pure malice, like poisonous plants and serpents. there are natural accidents, too, which fall into the same category, stones, floods, fires, avalanches. they hurt him or kill him, surely for ends of their own. if a rock falls from the cliff above him, what more natural than to suppose that there is some giant up there who threw it at him? if he had been up there, and strong enough, and had seen a man walking underneath, he would certainly have thrown the stone at him and killed him. for first, he might have eaten the man after; and even if he were not hungry, the man might have done him a mischief; and it was prudent to prevent that, by doing him a mischief first. besides, the man might have a wife; and if he killed the man, then the wife would, by a very ancient law common to man and animals, become the prize of the victor. such is the natural man, the carnal man, the soulish man, the [greek text] of st. paul, with five tolerably acute senses, which are ruled by five very acute animal passions--hunger, sex, rage, vanity, fear. it is with the working of the last passion, fear, that this lecture has to do. so the savage concludes that there must be a giant living in the cliff, who threw stones at him, with evil intent; and he concludes in like wise concerning most other natural phenomena. there is something in them which will hurt him, and therefore likes to hurt him: and if he cannot destroy them, and so deliver himself, his fear of them grows quite boundless. there are hundreds of natural objects on which he learns to look with the same eyes as the little boys of teneriffe look on the useless and poisonous _euphorbia canariensis_. it is to them--according to mr. piazzi smyth--a demon who would kill them, if it could only run after them; but as it cannot, they shout spanish curses at it, and pelt it with volleys of stones, "screeching with elfin joy, and using worse names than ever, when the poisonous milk spurts out from its bruised stalks." and if such be the attitude of the uneducated man towards the permanent terrors of nature, what will it be towards those which are sudden and seemingly capricious?--towards storms, earthquakes, floods, blights, pestilences? we know too well what it has been--one of blind, and therefore often cruel, fear. how could it be otherwise? was theophrastus's superstitious man so very foolish for pouring oil on every round stone? i think there was a great deal to be said for him. this worship of baetyli was rational enough. they were aerolites, fallen from heaven. was it not as well to be civil to such messengers from above?--to testify by homage to them due awe of the being who had thrown them at men, and who though he had missed his shot that time, might not miss it the next? i think if we, knowing nothing of either gunpowder, astronomy, or christianity, saw an armstrong bolt fall within five miles of london, we should be inclined to be very respectful to it indeed. so the aerolites, or glacial boulders, or polished stone weapons of an extinct race, which looked like aerolites, were the children of ouranos the heaven, and had souls in them. one, by one of those strange transformations in which the logic of unreason indulges, the image of diana of the ephesians, which fell down from jupiter; another was the ancile, the holy shield which fell from the same place in the days of numa pompilius, and was the guardian genius of rome; and several more became notable for ages. why not? the uneducated man of genius, unacquainted alike with metaphysics and with biology, sees, like a child, a personality in every strange and sharply-defined object. a cloud like an angel may be an angel; a bit of crooked root like a man may be a man turned into wood--perhaps to be turned back again at its own will. an erratic block has arrived where it is by strange unknown means. is not that an evidence of its personality? either it has flown hither itself, or some one has thrown it. in the former case, it has life, and is proportionally formidable; in the latter, he who had thrown it is formidable. i know two erratic blocks of porphyry--i believe there are three--in cornwall, lying one on serpentine, one, i think, on slate, which--so i was always informed as a boy--were the stones which st. kevern threw after st. just when the latter stole his host's chalice and paten, and ran away with them to the land's end. why not? before we knew anything about the action of icebergs and glaciers, that is, until the last eighty years, that was as good a story as any other; while how lifelike these boulders are, let a great poet testify; for the fact has not escaped the delicate eye of wordsworth: "as a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie couched on the bald top of an eminence; wonder to all who do the same espy, by what means it could thither come, and whence, so that it seems a thing endued with sense; like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself." to the civilised poet, the fancy becomes a beautiful simile; to a savage poet, it would have become a material and a very formidable fact. he stands in the valley, and looks up at the boulder on the far-off fells. he is puzzled by it. he fears it. at last he makes up his mind. it is alive. as the shadows move over it, he sees it move. may it not sleep there all day, and prowl for prey all night? he had been always afraid of going up those fells; now he will never go. there is a monster there. childish enough, no doubt. but remember that the savage is always a child. so, indeed, are millions, as well clothed, housed, and policed as ourselves--children from the cradle to the grave. but of them i do not talk; because, happily for the world, their childishness is so overlaid by the result of other men's manhood; by an atmosphere of civilisation and christianity which they have accepted at second-hand as the conclusions of minds wiser than their own, that they do all manner of reasonable things for bad reasons, or for no reason at all, save the passion of imitation. not in them, but in the savage, can we see man as he is by nature, the puppet of his senses and his passions, the natural slave of his own fears. but has the savage no other faculties, save his five senses and five passions? i do not say that. i should be most unphilosophical if i said it; for the history of mankind proves that he has infinitely more in him than that. yes: but in him that infinite more, which is not only the noblest part of humanity; but, it may be, humanity itself, is not to be counted as one of the roots of superstition. for in the savage man, in whom superstition certainly originates, that infinite more is still merely in him; inside him; a faculty: but not yet a fact. it has not come out of him into consciousness, purpose, and act; and is to be treated as non-existent: while what has come out, his passions and senses, is enough to explain all the vagaries of superstition; a vera causa for all its phenomena. and if we seem to have found a sufficient explanation already, it is unphilosophical to look further, at least till we have tried whether our explanation fits the facts. nevertheless, there is another faculty in the savage, to which i have already alluded, common to him and to at least the higher vertebrates--fancy; the power of reproducing internal images of external objects, whether in its waking form of physical memory--if, indeed, all memory be not physical--or in its sleeping form of dreaming. upon this last, which has played so very important a part in superstition in all ages, i beg you to think a moment. recollect your own dreams during childhood; and recollect again that the savage is always a child. recollect how difficult it was for you in childhood, how difficult it must be always for the savage, to decide whether dreams are phantasms or realities. to the savage, i doubt not, the food he eats, the foes he grapples with, in dreams, are as real as any waking impressions. but, moreover, these dreams will be very often, as children's dreams are wont to be, of a painful and terrible kind. perhaps they will be always painful; perhaps his dull brain will never dream, save under the influence of indigestion, or hunger, or an uncomfortable attitude. and so, in addition to his waking experience of the terrors of nature, he will have a whole dream-experience besides, of a still more terrific kind. he walks by day past a black cavern mouth, and thinks, with a shudder--something ugly may live in that ugly hole: what if it jumped out upon me? he broods over the thought with the intensity of a narrow and unoccupied mind; and a few nights after, he has eaten--but let us draw a veil before the larder of a savage--his chin is pinned down on his chest, a slight congestion of the brain comes on; and behold he finds himself again at that cavern's mouth, and something ugly does jump out upon him: and the cavern is a haunted spot henceforth to him and to all his tribe. it is in vain that his family tell him that he has been lying asleep at home all the while. he has the evidence of his senses to prove the contrary. he must have got out of himself, and gone into the woods. when we remember that certain wise greek philosophers could find no better explanation of dreaming than that the soul left the body, and wandered free, we cannot condemn the savage for his theory. now, i submit that in these simple facts we have a group of "true causes" which are the roots of all the superstitions of the world. and if any one shall complain that i am talking materialism: i shall answer, that i am doing exactly the opposite. i am trying to eliminate and get rid of that which is material, animal, and base; in order that that which is truly spiritual may stand out, distinct and clear, in its divine and eternal beauty. to explain, and at the same time, as i think, to verify my hypothesis, let me give you an example--fictitious, it is true, but probable fact nevertheless; because it is patched up of many fragments of actual fact: and let us see how, in following it out, we shall pass through almost every possible form of superstition. suppose a great hollow tree, in which the formidable wasps of the tropics have built for ages. the average savage hurries past the spot in mere bodily fear; for if they come out against him, they will sting him to death; till at last there comes by a savage wiser than the rest, with more observation, reflection, imagination, independence of will--the genius of his tribe. the awful shade of the great tree, added to his terror of the wasps, weighs on him, and excites his brain. perhaps, too, he has had a wife or a child stung to death by these same wasps. these wasps, so small, yet so wise, far wiser than he: they fly, and they sting. ah, if he could fly and sting; how he would kill and eat, and live right merrily. they build great towns; they rob far and wide; they never quarrel with each other: they must have some one to teach them, to lead them--they must have a king. and so he gets the fancy of a wasp-king; as the western irish still believe in the master otter; as the red men believe in the king of the buffalos, and find the bones of his ancestors in the mammoth remains of big-bone lick; as the philistines of ekron--to quote a notorious instance--actually worshipped baal-zebub, lord of the flies. if they have a king, he must be inside that tree, of course. if he, the savage, were a king, he would not work for his bread, but sit at home and make others feed him; and so, no doubt, does the wasp-king. and when he goes home he will brood over this wonderful discovery of the wasp-king; till, like a child, he can think of nothing else. he will go to the tree, and watch for him to come out. the wasps will get accustomed to his motionless figure, and leave him unhurt; till the new fancy will rise in his mind that he is a favourite of this wasp-king: and at last he will find himself grovelling before the tree, saying--"oh great wasp-king, pity me, and tell your children not to sting me, and i will bring you honey, and fruit, and flowers to eat, and i will flatter you, and worship you, and you shall be my king." and then he would gradually boast of his discovery; of the new mysterious bond between him and the wasp-king; and his tribe would believe him, and fear him; and fear him still more when he began to say, as he surely would, not merely--"i can ask the wasp-king, and he will tell his children not to sting you:" but--"i can ask the wasp-king, and he will send his children, and sting you all to death." vanity and ambition will have prompted the threat: but it will not be altogether a lie. the man will more than half believe his own words; he will quite believe them when he has repeated them a dozen times. and so he will become a great man, and a king, under the protection of the king of the wasps; and he will become, and it may be his children after him, priest of the wasp-king, who will be their fetish, and the fetish of their tribe. and they will prosper, under the protection of the wasp-king. the wasp will become their moral ideal, whose virtues they must copy. the new chief will preach to them wild eloquent words. they must sting like wasps, revenge like wasps, hold all together like wasps, build like wasps, work hard like wasps, rob like wasps; then, like the wasps, they will be the terror of all around, and kill and eat all their enemies. soon they will call themselves the wasps. they will boast that their king's father or grandfather, and soon that the ancestor of the whole tribe, was an actual wasp; and the wasp will become at once their eponym hero, their deity, their ideal, their civiliser; who has taught them to build a kraal of huts, as he taught his children to build a hive. now, if there should come to any thinking man of this tribe, at this epoch, the new thought--who made the world? he will be sorely puzzled. the conception of a world has never crossed his mind before. he never pictured to himself anything beyond the nearest ridge of mountains; and as for a maker, that will be a greater puzzle still. what makers or builders more cunning than those wasps of whom his foolish head is full? of course, he sees it now. a wasp made the world; which to him entirely new guess might become an integral part of his tribe's creed. that would be their cosmogony. and if, a generation or two after, another savage genius should guess that the world was a globe hanging in the heavens, he would, if he had imagination enough to take the thought in at all, put it to himself in a form suited to his previous knowledge and conceptions. it would seem to him that the wasp flew about the skies with the world in his mouth, as he carries a bluebottle fly; and that would be the astronomy of his tribe henceforth. absurd enough; but--as every man who is acquainted with old mythical cosmogonies must know--no more absurd than twenty similar guesses on record. try to imagine the gradual genesis of such myths as the egyptian scarabaeus and egg, or the hindoo theory that the world stood on an elephant, the elephant on a tortoise, the tortoise on that infinite note of interrogation which, as some one expresses it, underlies all physical speculations, and judge: must they not have arisen in some such fashion as that which i have pointed out? this, i say, would be the culminating point of the wasp-worship, which had sprung up out of bodily fear of being stung. but times might come for it in which it would go through various changes, through which every superstition in the world, i suppose, has passed or is doomed to pass. the wasp-men might be conquered, and possibly eaten, by a stronger tribe than themselves. what would be the result? they would fight valiantly at first, like wasps. but what if they began to fail? was not the wasp- king angry with them? had not he deserted them? he must be appeased; he must have his revenge. they would take a captive, and offer him to the wasps. so did a north american tribe, in their need, some forty years ago; when, because their maize-crops failed, they roasted alive a captive girl, cut her to pieces, and sowed her with their corn. i would not tell the story, for the horror of it, did it not bear with such fearful force on my argument. what were those red men thinking of? what chain of misreasoning had they in their heads when they hit on that as a device for making the crops grow? who can tell? who can make the crooked straight, or number that which is wanting? as said solomon of old, so must we--"the foolishness of fools is folly." one thing only we can say of them, that they were horribly afraid of famine, and took that means of ridding themselves of their fear. but what if the wasp-tribe had no captives? they would offer slaves. what if the agony and death of slaves did not appease the wasps? they would offer their fairest, their dearest, their sons and their daughters, to the wasps; as the carthaginians, in like strait, offered in one day noble boys to moloch, the volcano-god, whose worship they had brought out of syria; whose original meaning they had probably forgotten; of whom they only knew that he was a dark and devouring being, who must be appeased with the burning bodies of their sons and daughters. and so the veil of fancy would be lifted again, and the whole superstition stand forth revealed as the mere offspring of bodily fear. but more; the survivors of the conquest might, perhaps, escape, and carry their wasp-fetish into a new land. but if they became poor and weakly, their brains and imagination, degenerating with their bodies, would degrade their wasp-worship till they knew not what it meant. away from the sacred tree, in a country the wasps of which were not so large or formidable, they would require a remembrancer of the wasp-king; and they would make one--a wasp of wood, or what not. after a while, according to that strange law of fancy, the root of all idolatry, which you may see at work in every child who plays with a doll, the symbol would become identified with the thing symbolised; they would invest the wooden wasp with all the terrible attributes which had belonged to the live wasps of the tree; and after a few centuries, when all remembrance of the tree, the wasp-prophet and chieftain, and his descent from the divine wasp--aye, even of their defeat and flight--had vanished from their songs and legends, they would be found bowing down in fear and trembling to a little ancient wooden wasp, which came from they knew not whence, and meant they knew not what, save that it was a very "old fetish," a "great medicine," or some such other formula for expressing their own ignorance and dread. just so do the half-savage natives of thibet, and the irishwomen of kerry, by a strange coincidence--unless the ancient irish were buddhists, like the himalayans--tie just the same scraps of rag on arise, and show men that they are not the puppets of nature, but her lords; and that they are to fear god, and fear naught else. and so ends my true myth of the wasp-tree. no, it need not end there; it may develop into a yet darker and more hideous form of superstition, which europe has often seen; which is common now among the negros; { } which, we may hope, will soon be exterminated. this might happen. for it, or something like it, has happened too many times already. that to the ancient women who still kept up the irrational remnant of the wasp-worship, beneath the sacred tree, other women might resort; not merely from curiosity, or an excited imagination, but from jealousy and revenge. oppressed, as woman has always been under the reign of brute force; beaten, outraged, deserted, at best married against her will, she has too often gone for comfort and help--and those of the very darkest kind--to the works of darkness; and there never were wanting--there are not wanting, even now, in remote parts of these isles--wicked old women who would, by help of the old superstitions, do for her what she wished. soon would follow mysterious deaths of rivals, of husbands, of babes; then rumours of dark rites connected with the sacred tree, with poison, with the wasp and his sting, with human sacrifices; lies mingled with truth, more and more confused and frantic, the more they were misinvestigated by men mad with fear: till there would arise one of those witch-manias, which are too common still among the african negros, which were too common of old among the men of our race. i say, among the men. to comprehend a witch-mania, you must look at it as--what the witch-literature confesses it unblushingly to be--man's dread of nature excited to its highest form, as dread of woman. she is to the barbarous man--she should be more and more to the civilised man--not only the most beautiful and precious, but the most wonderful and mysterious of all natural objects, if it be only as the author of his physical being. she is to the savage a miracle to be alternately adored and dreaded. he dreads her more delicate nervous organisation, which often takes shapes to him demoniacal and miraculous; her quicker instincts, her readier wit, which seem to him to have in them somewhat prophetic and superhuman, which entangle him as in an invisible net, and rule him against his will. he dreads her very tongue, more crushing than his heaviest club, more keen than his poisoned arrows. he dreads those habits of secresy and falsehood, the weapons of the weak, to which savage and degraded woman always has recourse. he dreads the very medicinal skill which she has learnt to exercise, as nurse, comforter, and slave. he dreads those secret ceremonies, those mysterious initiations which no man may witness, which he has permitted to her in all ages, in so many--if not all--barbarous and semi-barbarous races, whether negro, american, syrian, greek, or roman, as a homage to the mysterious importance of her who brings him into the world. if she turn against him--she, with all her unknown powers, she who is the sharer of his deepest secrets, who prepares his very food day by day--what harm can she not, may she not do? and that she has good reason to turn against him, he knows too well. what deliverance is there from this mysterious house-fiend, save brute force? terror, torture, murder, must be the order of the day. woman must be crushed, at all price, by the blind fear of the man. i shall say no more. i shall draw a veil, for very pity and shame, over the most important and most significant facts of this, the most hideous of all human follies. i have, i think, given you hints enough to show that it, like all other superstitions, is the child--the last born and the ugliest child--of blind dread of the unknown. science: a lecture delivered at the royal institution. i said, that superstition was the child of fear, and fear the child of ignorance; and you might expect me to say antithetically, that science was the child of courage, and courage the child of knowledge. but these genealogies--like most metaphors--do not fit exactly, as you may see for yourselves. if fear be the child of ignorance, ignorance is also the child of fear; the two react on, and produce each other. the more men dread nature, the less they wish to know about her. why pry into her awful secrets? it is dangerous; perhaps impious. she says to them, as in the egyptian temple of old--"i am isis, and my veil no mortal yet hath lifted." and why should they try or wish to lift it? if she will leave them in peace, they will leave her in peace. it is enough that she does not destroy them. so as ignorance bred fear, fear breeds fresh and willing ignorance. and courage? we may say, and truly, that courage is the child of knowledge. but we may say as truly, that knowledge is the child of courage. those egyptian priests in the temple of isis would have told you that knowledge was the child of mystery, of special illumination, of reverence, and what not; hiding under grand words their purpose of keeping the masses ignorant, that they might be their slaves. reverence? i will yield to none in reverence for reverence. i will all but agree with the wise man who said that reverence is the root of all virtues. but which child reverences his father most? he who comes joyfully and trustfully to meet him, that he may learn his father's mind, and do his will: or he who at his father's coming runs away and hides, lest he should be beaten for he knows not what? there is a scientific reverence, a reverence of courage, which is surely one of the highest forms of reverence. that, namely, which so reveres every fact, that it dare not overlook or falsify it, seem it never so minute; which feels that because it is a fact, it cannot be minute, cannot be unimportant; that it must be a fact of god; a message from god; a voice of god, as bacon has it, revealed in things; and which therefore, just because it stands in solemn awe of such paltry facts as the scolopax feather in a snipe's pinion, or the jagged leaves which appear capriciously in certain honeysuckles, believes that there is likely to be some deep and wide secret underlying them, which is worth years of thought to solve. that is reverence; a reverence which is growing, thank god, more and more common; which will produce, as it grows more common still, fruit which generations yet unborn shall bless. but as for that other reverence, which shuts its eyes and ears in pious awe--what is it but cowardice decked out in state robes, putting on the sacred urim and thummim, not that men may ask counsel of the deity, but that they may not? what is it but cowardice, very pitiable when unmasked; and what is its child but ignorance as pitiable, which would be ludicrous were it not so injurious? if a man comes up to nature as to a parrot or a monkey, with this prevailing thought in his head--will it bite me?--will he not be pretty certain to make up his mind that it may bite him, and had therefore best be left alone? it is only the man of courage--few and far between--who will stand the chance of a first bite, in the hope of teaching the parrot to talk, or the monkey to fire off a gun. and it is only the man of courage--few and far between--who will stand the chance of a first bite from nature, which may kill him for aught he knows--for her teeth, though clumsy, are very strong--in order that he may tame her and break her in to his use by the very same method by which that admirable inductive philosopher, mr. rarey, used to break in his horses; first, by not being afraid of them; and next, by trying to find out what they were thinking of. but after all, as with animals, so with nature; cowardice is dangerous. the surest method of getting bitten by an animal is to be afraid of it; and the surest method of being injured by nature is to be afraid of it. only as far as we understand nature are we safe from it; and those who in any age counsel mankind not to pry into the secrets of the universe, counsel them not to provide for their own life and well-being, or for their children after them. but how few there have been in any age who have not been afraid of nature. how few have set themselves, like rarey, to tame her by finding out what she is thinking of. the mass are glad to have the results of science, as they are to buy mr. rarey's horses after they are tamed: but for want of courage or of wit, they had rather leave the taming process to some one else. and therefore we may say that what knowledge of nature we have--and we have very little--we owe to the courage of those men--and they have been very few--who have been inspired to face nature boldly; and say--or, what is better, act as if they were saying--"i find something in me which i do not find in you; which gives me the hope that i can grow to understand you, though you may not understand me; that i may become your master, and not as now, you mine. and if not, i will know: or die in the search." it is to those men, the few and far between, in a very few ages and very few countries, who have thus risen in rebellion against nature, and looked it in the face with an unquailing glance, that we owe what we call physical science. there have been four races--or rather a very few men of each four races--who have faced nature after this gallant wise. first, the old jews. i speak of them, be it remembered, exclusively from an historical, and not a religious point of view. these people, at a very remote epoch, emerged from a country highly civilised, but sunk in the superstitions of nature-worship. they invaded and mingled with tribes whose superstitions were even more debased, silly, and foul than those of the egyptians from whom they escaped. their own masses were for centuries given up to nature-worship. now among those jews arose men--a very few--sages--prophets--call them what you will, the men were inspired heroes and philosophers--who assumed towards nature an attitude utterly different from the rest of their countrymen and the rest of the then world; who denounced superstition and the dread of nature as the parent of all manner of vice and misery; who for themselves said boldly that they discerned in the universe an order, a unity, a permanence of law, which gave them courage instead of fear. they found delight and not dread in the thought that the universe obeyed a law which could not be broken; that all things continued to that day according to a certain ordinance. they took a view of nature totally new in that age; healthy, human, cheerful, loving, trustful, and yet reverent--identical with that which happily is beginning to prevail in our own day. they defied those very volcanic and meteoric phenomena of their land, to which their countrymen were slaying their own children in the clefts of the rocks, and, like theophrastus' superstitious man, pouring their drink-offerings on the smooth stones of the valley; and declared that, for their part, they would not fear, though the earth was moved, and though the hills were carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters raged and swelled, and the mountains shook at the tempest. the fact is indisputable. and you must pardon me if i express my belief that these men, if they had felt it their business to found a school of inductive physical science, would, owing to that temper of mind, have achieved a very signal success. i ground that opinion on the remarkable, but equally indisputable fact, that no nation has ever succeeded in perpetuating a school of inductive physical science, save those whose minds have been saturated with this same view of nature, which they have--as an historic fact--slowly but thoroughly learnt from the writings of these jewish sages. such is the fact. the founders of inductive physical science were not the jews: but first the chaldaeans, next the greeks, next their pupils the romans--or rather a few sages among each race. but what success had they? the chaldaean astronomers made a few discoveries concerning the motions of the heavenly bodies, which, rudimentary as they were, still prove them to have been men of rare intellect. for a great and a patient genius must he have been, who first distinguished the planets from the fixed stars, or worked out the earliest astronomical calculation. but they seem to have been crushed, as it were, by their own discoveries. they stopped short. they gave way again to the primeval fear of nature. they sank into planet-worship. they invented, it would seem, that fantastic pseudo-science of astrology, which lay for ages after as an incubus on the human intellect and conscience. they became the magicians and quacks of the old world; and mankind owed them thenceforth nothing but evil. among the greeks and romans, again, those sages who dared face nature like reasonable men, were accused by the superstitious mob as irreverent, impious, atheists. the wisest of them all, socrates, was actually put to death on that charge; and finally, they failed. school after school, in greece and rome, struggled to discover, and to get a hearing for, some theory of the universe which was founded on something like experience, reason, common sense. they were not allowed to prosecute their attempt. the mud-ocean of ignorance and fear in which they struggled so manfully was too strong for them; the mud-waves closed over their heads finally, as the age of the antonines expired; and the last effort of graeco-roman thought to explain the universe was neoplatonism--the muddiest of the muddy--an attempt to apologise for, and organise into a system, all the nature-dreading superstitions of the roman world. porphyry, plotinus, proclus, poor hypatia herself, and all her school--they may have had themselves no bodily fear of nature; for they were noble souls. yet they spent their time in justifying those who had; in apologising for the superstitions of the very mob which they despised: just as--it sometimes seems to me--some folk in these days are like to end in doing; begging that the masses might be allowed to believe in anything, however false, lest they should believe in nothing at all: as if believing in lies could do anything but harm to any human being. and so died the science of the old world, in a true second childhood, just where it began. the jewish sages, i hold, taught that science was probable; the greeks and romans proved that it was possible. it remained for our race, under the teaching of both, to bring science into act and fact. many causes contributed to give them this power. they were a personally courageous race. this earth has yet seen no braver men than the forefathers of christian europe, whether scandinavian or teuton, angle or frank. they were a practical hard-headed race, with a strong appreciation of facts, and a strong determination to act on them. their laws, their society, their commerce, their colonisation, their migrations by land and sea, proved that they were such. they were favoured, moreover, by circumstances, or--as i should rather put it--by that divine providence which determined their times, and the bounds of their habitation. they came in as the heritors of the decaying civilisation of greece and rome; they colonised territories which gave to man special fair play, but no more, in the struggle for existence, the battle with the powers of nature; tolerably fertile, tolerably temperate; with boundless means of water communication; freer than most parts of the world from those terrible natural phenomena, like the earthquake and the hurricane, before which man lies helpless and astounded, a child beneath the foot of a giant. nature was to them not so inhospitable as to starve their brains and limbs, as it has done for the esquimaux or fuegian; and not so bountiful as to crush them by its very luxuriance, as it has crushed the savages of the tropics. they saw enough of its strength to respect it; not enough to cower before it: and they and it have fought it out; and it seems to me, standing either on london bridge or on a holland fen-dyke, that they are winning at last. but they had a sore battle: a battle against their own fear of the unseen. they brought with them, out of the heart of asia, dark and sad nature-superstitions, some of which linger among our peasantry till this day, of elves, trolls, nixes, and what not. their thor and odin were at first, probably, only the thunder and the wind: but they had to be appeased in the dark marches of the forest, where hung rotting on the sacred oaks, amid carcases of goat and horse, the carcases of human victims. no one acquainted with the early legends and ballads of our race, but must perceive throughout them all the prevailing tone of fear and sadness. and to their own superstitions, they added those of the rome which they conquered. they dreaded the roman she-poisoners and witches, who, like horace's canidia, still performed horrid rites in grave-yards and dark places of the earth. they dreaded as magical the delicate images engraved on old greek gems. they dreaded the very roman cities they had destroyed. they were the work of enchanters. like the ruins of st. albans here in england, they were all full of devils, guarding the treasures which the romans had hidden. the caesars became to them magical man-gods. the poet virgil became the prince of necromancers. if the secrets of nature were to be known, they were to be known by unlawful means, by prying into the mysteries of the old heathen magicians, or of the mohammedan doctors of cordova and seville; and those who dared to do so were respected and feared, and often came to evil ends. it needed moral courage, then, to face and interpret fact. such brave men as pope gerbert, roger bacon, galileo, even kepler, did not lead happy lives; some of them found themselves in prison. all the medieval sages--even albertus magnus--were stigmatised as magicians. one wonders that more of them did not imitate poor paracelsus, who, unable to get a hearing for his coarse common sense, took--vain and sensual--to drinking the laudanum which he himself had discovered, and vaunted as a priceless boon to men; and died as the fool dieth, in spite of all his wisdom. for the "romani nominis umbra," the shadow of the mighty race whom they had conquered, lay heavy on our forefathers for centuries. and their dread of the great heathens was really a dread of nature, and of the powers thereof. for when the authority of great names has reigned unquestioned for many centuries, those names become, to the human mind, integral and necessary parts of nature itself. they are, as it were, absorbed into it; they become its laws, its canons, its demiurges, and guardian spirits; their words become regarded as actual facts; in one word, they become a superstition, and are feared as parts of the vast unknown; and to deny what they have said is, in the minds of the many, not merely to fly in the face of reverent wisdom, but to fly in the face of facts. during a great part of the middle ages, for instance, it was impossible for an educated man to think of nature itself, without thinking first of what aristotle had said of her. aristotle's dicta were nature; and when benedetti, at venice, opposed in aristotle's opinions on violent and natural motion, there were hundreds, perhaps, in the universities of europe--as there certainly were in the days of the immortal 'epistolae obscurorum virorum'--who were ready, in spite of all benedetti's professed reverence for aristotle, to accuse him of outraging not only the father of philosophy, but nature itself and its palpable and notorious facts. for the restoration of letters in the fifteenth century had not at first mended matters, so strong was the dread of nature in the minds of the masses. the minds of men had sported forth, not toward any sound investigation of facts, but toward an eclectic resuscitation of neoplatonism; which endured, not without a certain beauty and use--as let spenser's 'faery queen' bear witness--till the latter half of the seventeenth century. after that time a rapid change began. it is marked by--it has been notably assisted by--the foundation of our own royal society. its causes i will not enter into; they are so inextricably mixed, i hold, with theological questions, that they cannot be discussed here. i will only point out to you these facts: that, from the latter part of the seventeenth century, the noblest heads and the noblest hearts of europe concentrated themselves more and more on the brave and patient investigation of physical facts, as the source of priceless future blessings to mankind; that the eighteenth century, which it has been the fashion of late to depreciate, did more for the welfare of mankind, in every conceivable direction, than the whole fifteen centuries before it; that it did this good work by boldly observing and analysing facts; that this boldness toward facts increased in proportion as europe became indoctrinated with the jewish literature; and that, notably, such men as kepler, newton, berkeley, spinoza, leibnitz, descartes, in whatsoever else they differed, agreed in this, that their attitude towards nature was derived from the teaching of the jewish sages. i believe that we are not yet fully aware how much we owe to the jewish mind, in the gradual emancipation of the human intellect. the connection may not, of course, be one of cause and effect; it may be a mere coincidence. i believe it to be a cause; one of course of very many causes: but still an integral cause. at least the coincidence is too remarkable a fact not to be worthy of investigation. i said, just now--the emancipation of the human intellect. i did not say--of science, or of the scientific intellect; and for this reason: that the emancipation of science is the emancipation of the common mind of all men. all men can partake of the gains of free scientific thought, not merely by enjoying its physical results, but by becoming more scientific men themselves. therefore it was, that though i began my first lecture by defining superstition, i did not begin my second by defining its antagonist, science. for the word science defines itself. it means simply knowledge; that is, of course, right knowledge, or such an approximation as can be obtained; knowledge of any natural object, its classification, its causes, its effects; or in plain english, what it is, how it came where it is, and what can be done with it. and scientific method, likewise, needs no definition; for it is simply the exercise of common sense. it is not a peculiar, unique, professional, or mysterious process of the understanding: but the same which all men employ, from the cradle to the grave, in forming correct conclusions. every one who knows the philosophic writings of mr. john stuart mill, will be familiar with this opinion. but to those who have no leisure to study him, i should recommend the reading of professor huxley's third lecture on the origin of species. in that he shows, with great logical skill, as well as with some humour, how the man who, on rising in the morning, finds the parlour window open, the spoons and teapot gone, the mark of a dirty hand on the window-sill, and that of a hob-nailed boot outside, and comes to the conclusion that some one has broken open the window and stolen the plate, arrives at that hypothesis--for it is nothing more--by a long and complex train of inductions and deductions, of just the same kind as those which, according to the baconian philosophy, are to be used for investigating the deepest secrets of nature. this is true, even of those sciences which involve long mathematical calculations. in fact, the stating of the problem to be solved is the most important element in the calculation; and that is so thoroughly a labour of common sense that an utterly uneducated man may, and often does, state an abstruse problem clearly and correctly; seeing what ought to be proved, and perhaps how to prove it, though he may be unable to work the problem out, for want of mathematical knowledge. but that mathematical knowledge is not--as all cambridge men are surely aware--the result of any special gift. it is merely the development of those conceptions of form and number which every human being possesses; and any person of average intellect can make himself a fair mathematician if he will only pay continuous attention; in plain english, think enough about the subject. there are sciences, again, which do not involve mathematical calculation; for instance, botany, zoology, geology, which are just now passing from their old stage of classificatory sciences into the rank of organic ones. these are, without doubt, altogether within the scope of the merest common sense. any man or woman of average intellect, if they will but observe and think for themselves, freely, boldly, patiently, accurately, may judge for themselves of the conclusions of these sciences, may add to these conclusions fresh and important discoveries; and if i am asked for a proof of what i assert, i point to 'rain and rivers,' written by no professed scientific man, but by a colonel in the guards, known to fame only as one of the most perfect horsemen in the world. let me illustrate my meaning by an example. a man--i do not say a geologist, but simply a man, squire or ploughman--sees a small valley, say one of the side-glens which open into the larger valleys in the windsor forest district. he wishes to ascertain its age. he has, at first sight, a very simple measure--that of denudation. he sees that the glen is now being eaten out by a little stream, the product of innumerable springs which arise along its sides, and which are fed entirely by the rain on the moors above. he finds, on observation, that this stream brings down some ten cubic yards of sand and gravel, on an average, every year. the actual quantity of earth which has been removed to make the glen may be several million cubic yards. here is an easy sum in arithmetic. at the rate of ten cubic yards a year, the stream has taken several hundred thousand years to make the glen. you will observe that this result is obtained by mere common sense. he has a right to assume that the stream originally began the glen, because he finds it in the act of enlarging it; just as much right as he has to assume, if he finds a hole in his pocket, and his last coin in the act of falling through it, that the rest of his money has fallen through the same hole. it is a sufficient cause, and the simplest. a number of observations as to the present rate of denudation, and a sum which any railroad contractor can do in his head, to determine the solid contents of the valley, are all that are needed. the method is that of science: but it is also that of simple common sense. you will remember, therefore, that this is no mere theory or hypothesis, but a pretty fair and simple conclusion from palpable facts; that the probability lies with the belief that the glen is some hundreds of thousands of years old; that it is not the observer's business to prove it further, but other persons' to disprove it, if they can. but does the matter end here? no. and, for certain reasons, it is good that it should not end here. the observer, if he be a cautious man, begins to see if he can disprove his own conclusion; moreover, being human, he is probably somewhat awed, if not appalled, by his own conclusion. hundreds of thousands of years spent in making that little glen! common sense would say that the longer it took to make, the less wonder there was in its being made at last: but the instinctive human feeling is the opposite. there is in men, and there remains in them, even after they are civilised, and all other forms of the dread of nature have died out in them, a dread of size, of vast space, of vast time; that latter, mind, being always imagined as space, as we confess when we speak instinctively of a space of time. they will not understand that size is merely a relative, not an absolute term; that if we were a thousand times larger than we are, the universe would be a thousand times smaller than it is; that if we could think a thousand times faster than we do, time would be a thousand times longer than it is; that there is one in whom we live, and move, and have our being, to whom one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. i believe this dread of size to be merely, like all other superstitions, a result of bodily fear; a development of the instinct which makes a little dog run away from a big dog. be that as it may, every observer has it; and so the man's conclusion seems to him strange, doubtful: he will reconsider it. moreover, if he be an experienced man, he is well aware that first guesses, first hypotheses, are not always the right ones; and if he be a modest man, he will consider the fact that many thousands of thoughtful men in all ages, and many thousands still, would say, that the glen can only be a few thousand, or possibly a few hundred, years old. and he will feel bound to consider their opinion; as far as it is, like his own, drawn from facts, but no further. so he casts about for all other methods by which the glen may have been produced, to see if any one of them will account for it in a shorter time. . was it made by an earthquake? no; for the strata on both sides are identical, at the same level, and in the same plane. . or by a mighty current? if so, the flood must have run in at the upper end, before it ran out at the lower. but nothing has run in at the upper end. all round above are the undisturbed gravel beds of the horizontal moor, without channel or depression. . or by water draining off a vast flat as it was upheaved out of the sea? that is a likely guess. the valley at its upper end spreads out like the fingers of a hand, as the gullies in tide-muds do. but that hypothesis will not stand. there is no vast unbroken flat behind the glen. right and left of it are other similar glens, parted from it by long narrow ridges: these also must be explained on the same hypothesis; but they cannot. for there could not have been surface-drainage to make them all, or a tenth of them. there are no other possible hypotheses; and so he must fall back on the original theory--the rain, the springs, the brook; they have done it all, even as they are doing it this day. but is not that still a hasty assumption? may not their denuding power have been far greater in old times than now? why should it? because there was more rain then than now? that he must put out of court; there is no evidence of it whatsoever. because the land was more friable originally? well, there is a great deal to be said for that. the experience of every countryman tells him that bare or fallow land is more easily washed away than land under vegetation. and no doubt, when these gravels and sands rose from the sea, they were barren for hundreds of years. he has some measure of the time required, because he can tell roughly how long it takes for sands and shingles left by the sea to become covered with vegetation. but he must allow that the friability of the land must have been originally much greater than now, for hundreds of years. but again, does that fact really cut off any great space of time from his hundreds of thousands of years? for when the land first rose from the sea, that glen was not there. some slight bay or bend in the shore determined its site. that stream was not there. it was split up into a million little springs, oozing side by side from the shore, and having each a very minute denuding power, which kept continually increasing by combination as the glen ate its way inwards, and the rainfall drained by all these little springs was collected into the one central stream. so that when the ground being bare was most liable to be denuded, the water was least able to do it; and as the denuding power of the water increased, the land, being covered with vegetation, became more and more able to resist it. all this he has seen, going on at the present day, in the similar gullies worn in the soft strata of the south hampshire coast; especially round bournemouth. so the two disturbing elements in the calculation may be fairly set off against each other, as making a difference of only a few thousands or tens of thousands of years either way; and the age of the glen may fairly be, if not a million years, yet such a length of years as mankind still speak of with bated breath, as if forsooth it would do them some harm. i trust that every scientific man in this room will agree with me, that the imaginary squire or ploughman would have been conducting his investigation strictly according to the laws of the baconian philosophy. you will remark, meanwhile, that he has not used a single scientific term, or referred to a single scientific investigation; and has observed nothing and thought nothing which might not have been observed and thought by any one who chose to use his common sense, and not to be afraid. but because he has come round, after all this further investigation, to something very like his first conclusion, was all that further investigation useless? no--a thousand times, no. it is this very verification of hypotheses which makes the sound ones safe, and destroys the unsound. it is this struggle with all sorts of superstitions which makes science strong and sure, and her march irresistible, winning ground slowly, but never receding from it. it is this buffeting of adversity which compels her not to rest dangerously upon the shallow sand of first guesses, and single observations; but to strike her roots down, deep, wide, and interlaced into the solid ground of actual facts. it is very necessary to insist on this point. for there have been men in all past ages--i do not say whether there are any such now, but i am inclined to think that there will be hereafter--men who have tried to represent scientific method as something difficult, mysterious, peculiar, unique, not to be attained by the unscientific mass; and this not for the purpose of exalting science, but rather of discrediting her. for as long as the masses, educated or uneducated, are ignorant of what scientific method is, they will look on scientific men, as the middle age looked on necromancers, as a privileged, but awful and uncanny caste, possessed of mighty secrets; who may do them great good, but may also do them great harm. which belief on the part of the masses will enable these persons to instal themselves as the critics of science, though not scientific men themselves: and--as shakespeare has it--to talk of robin hood, though they never shot in his bow. thus they become mediators to the masses between the scientific and the unscientific worlds. they tell them--you are not to trust the conclusions of men of science at first hand. you are not fit judges of their facts or of their methods. it is we who will, by a cautious eclecticism, choose out for you such of their conclusions as are safe for you; and them we will advise you to believe. to the scientific man, on the other hand, as often as anything is discovered unpleasing to them, they will say, imperiously and e cathedra--your new theory contradicts the established facts of science. for they will know well that whatever the men of science think of their assertion, the masses will believe it; totally unaware that the speakers are by their very terms showing their ignorance of science; and that what they call established facts scientific men call merely provisional conclusions, which they would throw away to-morrow without a pang were the known facts explained better by a fresh theory, or did fresh facts require one. this has happened too often. it is in the interest of superstition that it should happen again; and the best way to prevent it surely is to tell the masses--scientific method is no peculiar mystery, requiring a peculiar initiation. it is simply common sense, combined with uncommon courage, which includes uncommon honesty and uncommon patience; and if you will be brave, honest, patient, and rational, you will need no mystagogues to tell you what in science to believe and what not to believe; for you will be just as good judges of scientific facts and theories as those who assume the right of guiding your convictions. you are men and women: and more than that you need not be. and let me say that the man of our days whose writings exemplify most thoroughly what i am going to say is the justly revered mr. thomas carlyle. as far as i know he has never written on any scientific subject. for aught i am aware of, he may know nothing of mathematics or chemistry, of comparative anatomy or geology. for aught i am aware of, he may know a great deal about them all, and, like a wise man, hold his tongue, and give the world merely the results in the form of general thought. but this i know; that his writings are instinct with the very spirit of science; that he has taught men, more than any living man, the meaning and end of science; that he has taught men moral and intellectual courage; to face facts boldly, while they confess the divineness of facts; not to be afraid of nature, and not to worship nature; to believe that man can know truth; and that only in as far as he knows truth can he live worthily on this earth. and thus he has vindicated, as no other man in our days has done, at once the dignity of nature and the dignity of spirit. that he would have made a distinguished scientific man, we may be as certain from his writings as we may be certain, when we see a fine old horse of a certain stamp, that he would have made a first-class hunter, though he has been unfortunately all his life in harness. therefore, did i try to train a young man of science to be true, devout, and earnest, accurate and daring, i should say--read what you will: but at least read carlyle. it is a small matter to me--and i doubt not to him--whether you will agree with his special conclusions: but his premises and his method are irrefragable; for they stand on the "voluntatem dei in rebus revelatam"--on fact and common sense. and mr. carlyle's writings, if i am correct in my estimate of them, will afford a very sufficient answer to those who think that the scientific habit of mind tends to irreverence. doubtless this accusation will always be brought against science by those who confound reverence with fear. for from blind fear of the unknown, science does certainly deliver man. she does by man as he does by an unbroken colt. the colt sees by the road side some quite new object--a cast-away boot, an old kettle, or what not. what a fearful monster! what unknown terrific powers may it not possess! and the colt shies across the road, runs up the bank, rears on end; putting itself thereby, as many a man does, in real danger. what cure is there? but one; experience. so science takes us, as we should take the colt, gently by the halter; and makes us simply smell at the new monster; till after a few trembling sniffs, we discover, like the colt, that it is not a monster, but a kettle. yet i think, if we sum up the loss and gain, we shall find the colt's character has gained, rather than lost, by being thus disabused. he learns to substitute a very rational reverence for the man who is breaking him in, for a totally irrational reverence for the kettle; and becomes thereby a much wiser and more useful member of society, as does the man when disabused of his superstitions. from which follows one result. that if science proposes--as she does--to make men brave, wise, and independent, she must needs excite unpleasant feelings in all who desire to keep men cowardly, ignorant, and slavish. and that too many such persons have existed in all ages is but too notorious. there have been from all time, goetai, quacks, powwow men, rain-makers, and necromancers of various sorts, who having for their own purposes set forth partial, ill-grounded, fantastic, and frightful interpretations of nature, have no love for those who search after a true, exact, brave, and hopeful one. and therefore it is to be feared, or hoped, science and superstition will to the world's end remain irreconcilable and internecine foes. conceive the feelings of an old lapland witch, who has had for the last fifty years all the winds in a sealskin bag, and has been selling fair breezes to northern skippers at so much a puff, asserting her powers so often, poor old soul, that she has got to half believe them herself,--conceive, i say, her feelings at seeing her customers watch the admiralty storm-signals, and con the weather reports in the 'times.' conceive the feelings of sir samuel baker's african friend, katchiba, the rain-making chief, who possessed a whole housefull of thunder and lightning--though he did not, he confessed, keep it in a bottle as they do in england--if sir samuel had had the means, and the will, of giving to katchiba's negros a course of lectures on electricity, with appropriate experiments, and a real bottle full of real lightning among the foremost. it is clear that only two methods of self-defence would have been open to the rain-maker: namely, either to kill sir samuel, or to buy his real secret of bottling the lightning, that he might use it for his own ends. the former method--that of killing the man of science--was found more easy in ancient times; the latter in these modern ones. and there have been always those who, too good-natured to kill the scientific man, have patronised knowledge, not for its own sake, but for the use which may be made of it; who would like to keep a tame man of science, as they would a tame poet, or a tame parrot; who say--let us have science by all means, but not too much of it. it is a dangerous thing; to be doled out to the world, like medicine, in small and cautious doses. you, the scientific man, will of course freely discover what you choose. only do not talk too loudly about it: leave that to us. we understand the world, and are meant to guide and govern it. so discover freely: and meanwhile hand over your discoveries to us, that we may instruct and edify the populace with so much of them as we think safe, while we keep our position thereby, and in many cases make much money by your science. do that, and we will patronise you, applaud you, ask you to our houses; and you shall be clothed in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously with us every day. i know not whether these latter are not the worst enemies which science has. they are often such excellent, respectable, orderly, well- meaning persons. they desire so sincerely that everyone should be wise: only not too wise. they are so utterly unaware of the mischief they are doing. they would recoil with horror if they were told they were so many iscariots, betraying truth with a kiss. but science, as yet, has withstood both terrors and blandishments. in old times, she endured being imprisoned and slain. she came to life again. perhaps it was the will of him in whom all things live, that she should live. perhaps it was his spirit which gave her life. she can endure, too, being starved. her votaries have not as yet cared much for purple and fine linen, and sumptuous fare. there are a very few among them who, joining brilliant talents to solid learning, have risen to deserved popularity, to titles, and to wealth. but even their labours, it seems to me, are never rewarded in any proportion to the time and the intellect spent on them, nor to the benefits which they bring to mankind; while the great majority, unpaid and unknown, toil on, and have to find in science her own reward. better, perhaps, that it should be so. better for science that she should be free, in holy poverty, to go where she will and say what she knows, than that she should be hired out at so much a year to say things pleasing to the many, and to those who guide the many. and so, i verily believe, the majority of scientific men think. there are those among them who have obeyed very faithfully st. paul's precept, "no man that warreth entangleth himself with the affairs of this life." for they have discovered that they are engaged in a war--a veritable war--against the rulers of darkness, against ignorance and its twin children, fear and cruelty. of that war they see neither the end nor even the plan. but they are ready to go on; ready, with socrates, "to follow reason withersoever it leads;" and content, meanwhile, like good soldiers in a campaign, if they can keep tolerably in line, and use their weapons, and see a few yards ahead of them through the smoke and the woods. they will come out somewhere at last; they know not where nor when: but they will come out at last, into the daylight and the open field; and be told then--perhaps to their own astonishment--as many a gallant soldier has been told, that by simply walking straight on, and doing the duty which lay nearest them, they have helped to win a great battle, and slay great giants, earning the thanks of their country and of mankind. and, meanwhile, if they get their shilling a day of fighting-pay, they are content. i had almost said, they ought to be content. for science is, i verily believe, like virtue, its own exceeding great reward. i can conceive few human states more enviable than that of the man to whom, panting in the foul laboratory, or watching for his life under the tropic forest, isis shall for a moment lift her sacred veil, and show him, once and for ever, the thing he dreamed not of; some law, or even mere hint of a law, explaining one fact; but explaining with it a thousand more, connecting them all with each other and with the mighty whole, till order and meaning shoots through some old chaos of scattered observations. is not that a joy, a prize, which wealth cannot give, nor poverty take away? what it may lead to, he knows not. of what use it may become, he knows not. but this he knows, that somewhere it must lead; of some use it will be. for it is a truth; and having found a truth, he has exorcised one more of the ghosts which haunt humanity. he has left one object less for man to fear; one object more for man to use. yes, the scientific man may have this comfort, that whatever he has done, he has done good; that he is following a mistress who has never yet conferred aught but benefits on the human race. what physical science may do hereafter i know not; but as yet she has done this: she has enormously increased the wealth of the human race; and has therefore given employment, food, existence, to millions who, without science, would either have starved or have never been born. she has shown that the dictum of the early political economists, that population has a tendency to increase faster than the means of subsistence, is no law of humanity, but merely a tendency of the barbaric and ignorant man, which can be counteracted by increasing manifold by scientific means his powers of producing food. she has taught men, during the last few years, to foresee and elude the most destructive storms; and there is no reason for doubting, and many reasons for hoping, that she will gradually teach men to elude other terrific forces of nature, too powerful and too seemingly capricious for them to conquer. she has discovered innumerable remedies and alleviations for pains and disease. she has thrown such light on the causes of epidemics, that we are able to say now that the presence of cholera--and probably of all zymotic diseases--in any place, is usually a sin and a shame, for which the owners and authorities of that place ought to be punishable by law, as destroyers of their fellow- men; while for the weak, for those who, in the barbarous and semi-barbarous state--and out of that last we are only just emerging--how much has she done; an earnest of much more which she will do? she has delivered the insane--i may say by the scientific insight of one man, more worthy of titles and pensions than nine-tenths of those who earn them--i mean the great and good pinel--from hopeless misery and torture into comparative peace and comfort, and at least the possibility of cure. for children, she has done much, or rather might do, would parents read and perpend such books as andrew combe's and those of other writers on physical education. we should not then see the children, even of the rich, done to death piecemeal by improper food, improper clothes, neglect of ventilation and the commonest measures for preserving health. we should not see their intellects stunted by procrustean attempts to teach them all the same accomplishments, to the neglect, most often, of any sound practical training of their faculties. we should not see slight indigestion, or temporary rushes of blood to the head, condemned and punished as sins against him who took up little children in his arms and blessed them. but we may have hope. when we compare education now with what it was even forty years ago, much more with the stupid brutality of the monastic system, we may hail for children, as well as for grown people, the advent of the reign of common sense. and for woman--what might i not say on that point? but most of it would be fitly discussed only among physicians and biologists: here i will say only this--science has exterminated, at least among civilised nations, witch-manias. women--at least white women--are no longer tortured or burnt alive from man's blind fear of the unknown. if science had done no more than that, she would deserve the perpetual thanks and the perpetual trust, not only of the women whom she has preserved from agony, but the men whom she has preserved from crime. these benefits have already accrued to civilised men, because they have lately allowed a very few of their number peaceably to imitate mr. rarey, and find out what nature--or rather, to speak at once reverently and accurately, he who made nature--is thinking of; and obey the "voluntatem dei in rebus revelatam." this science has done, while yet in her infancy. what she will do in her maturity, who dare predict? at least, in the face of such facts as these, those who bid us fear, or restrain, or mutilate science, bid us commit an act of folly, as well as of ingratitude, which can only harm ourselves. for science has as yet done nothing but good. will any one tell me what harm it has ever done? when any one will show me a single result of science, of the knowledge of and use of physical facts, which has not tended directly to the benefit of mankind, moral and spiritual, as well as physical and economic--then i shall be tempted to believe that solomon was wrong when he said that the one thing to be sought after on earth, more precious than all treasure, she who has length of days in her right hand, and in her left hand riches and honour, whose ways are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are peace, who is a tree of life to all who lay hold on her, and makes happy every one who retains her, is--as you will see if you will yourselves consult the passage--that very wisdom--by which god has founded the earth; and that very understanding--by which he has established the heavens. grots and groves i wish this lecture to be suggestive, rather that didactic; to set you thinking and inquiring for yourselves, rather than learning at second- hand from me. some among my audience, i doubt not, will neither need to be taught by me, nor to be stirred up to inquiry for themselves. they are already, probably, antiquarians; already better acquainted with the subject than i am. they come hither, therefore, as critics; i trust not as unkindly critics. they will, i hope, remember that i am trying to excite a general interest in that very architecture in which they delight, and so to make the public do justice to their labours. they will therefore, i trust, "be to my faults a little blind, be to my virtues very kind;" and if my architectural theories do not seem to them correct in all details--well-founded i believe them myself to be--remember that it is a slight matter to me, or to the audience, whether any special and pet fancy of mine should be exactly true or not: but it is not a light matter that my hearers should be awakened--and too many just now need an actual awakening--to a right, pure, and wholesome judgment on questions of art, especially when the soundness of that judgment depends, as in this case, on sound judgments about human history, as well as about natural objects. now, it befel me that, fresh from the tropic forests, and with their forms hanging always, as it were, in the background of my eye, i was impressed more and more vividly the longer i looked, with the likeness of those forest forms to the forms of our own cathedral of chester. the grand and graceful chapter-house transformed itself into one of those green bowers, which, once seen, and never to be seen again, make one at once richer and poorer for the rest of life. the fans of groining sprang from the short columns, just as do the feathered boughs of the far more beautiful maximiliana palm, and just of the same size and shape: and met overhead, as i have seen them meet, in aisles longer by far than our cathedral nave. the free upright shafts, which give such strength, and yet such lightness, to the mullions of each window, pierced upward through those curving lines, as do the stems of young trees through the fronds of palm; and, like them, carried the eye and the fancy up into the infinite, and took off a sense of oppression and captivity which the weight of the roof might have produced. in the nave, in the choir the same vision of the tropic forest haunted me. the fluted columns not only resembled, but seemed copied from the fluted stems beneath which i had ridden in the primeval woods; their bases, their capitals, seemed copied from the bulgings at the collar of the root, and at the spring of the boughs, produced by a check of the redundant sap; and were garlanded often enough like the capitals of the columns, with delicate tracery of parasite leaves and flowers; the mouldings of the arches seemed copied from the parallel bundles of the curving bamboo shoots; and even the flatter roof of the nave and transepts had its antitype in that highest level of the forest aisles, where the trees, having climbed at last to the light-food which they seek, care no longer to grow upward, but spread out in huge limbs, almost horizontal, reminding the eye of the four-centred arch which marks the period of perpendicular gothic. nay, to this day there is one point in our cathedral which, to me, keeps up the illusion still. as i enter the choir, and look upward toward the left, i cannot help seeing, in the tabernacle work of the stalls, the slender and aspiring forms of the "rastrajo;" the delicate second growth which, as it were, rushes upward from the earth wherever the forest is cleared; and above it, in the tall lines of the north-west pier of the tower--even though defaced, along the inner face of the western arch, by ugly and needless perpendicular panelling--i seem to see the stems of huge cedars, or balatas, or ceibas, curving over, as they would do, into the great beams of the transept roof, some seventy feet above the ground. nay, so far will the fancy lead, that i have seemed to see, in the stained glass between the tracery of the windows, such gorgeous sheets of colour as sometimes flash on the eye, when, far aloft, between high stems and boughs, you catch sight of some great tree ablaze with flowers, either its own or those of a parasite; yellow or crimson, white or purple; and over them again the cloudless blue. now, i know well that all these dreams are dreams; that the men who built our northern cathedrals never saw these forest forms; and that the likeness of their work to those of tropic nature is at most only a corroboration of mr. ruskin's dictum, that "the gothic did not arise out of, but developed itself into, a resemblance to vegetation. . . . it was no chance suggestion of the form of an arch from the bending of a bough, but the gradual and continual discovery of a beauty in natural forms which could be more and more transferred into those of stone, which influenced at once the hearts of the people and the form of the edifice." so true is this, that by a pure and noble copying of the vegetable beauty which they had seen in their own clime, the medieval craftsmen went so far--as i have shown you--as to anticipate forms of vegetable beauty peculiar to tropic climes, which they had not seen: a fresh proof, if proof were needed, that beauty is something absolute and independent of man; and not, as some think, only relative, and what happens to be pleasant to the eye of this man or that. but thinking over this matter, and reading over, too, that which mr. ruskin has written thereon in his 'stones of venice,' vol. ii. cap. vi., on the nature of gothic, i came to certain further conclusions--or at least surmises--which i put before you to-night, in hopes that if they have no other effect on you, they will at least stir some of you up to read mr. ruskin's works. now mr. ruskin says, "that the original conception of gothic architecture has been derived from vegetation, from the symmetry of avenues and the interlacing of branches, is a strange and vain supposition. it is a theory which never could have existed for a moment in the mind of any person acquainted with early gothic: but, however idle as a theory, it is most valuable as a testimony to the character of the perfected style." doubtless so. but you must remember always that the subject of my lecture is grots and groves; that i am speaking not of gothic architecture in general, but of gothic ecclesiastical architecture; and more, almost exclusively of the ecclesiastical architecture of the teutonic or northern nations; because in them, as i think, the resemblance between the temple and the forest reached the fullest exactness. now the original idea of a christian church was that of a grot; a cave. that is a historic fact. the christianity which was passed on to us began to worship, hidden and persecuted, in the catacombs of rome, it may be often around the martyrs' tombs, by the dim light of candle or of torch. the candles on the roman altars, whatever they have been made to symbolise since then, are the hereditary memorials of that fact. throughout the north, in these isles as much as in any land, the idea of the grot was, in like wise, the idea of a church. the saint or hermit built himself a cell; dark, massive, intended to exclude light as well as weather; or took refuge in a cave. there he prayed and worshipped, and gathered others to pray and worship round him, during his life. there he, often enough, became an object of worship, in his turn, after his death. in after ages his cave was ornamented, like that of the hermit of montmajour by arles; or his cell-chapel enlarged, as those of the scotch and irish saints have been, again and again; till at last a stately minster rose above it. still, the idea that the church was to be a grot haunted the minds of builders. but side by side with the christian grot there was throughout the north another form of temple, dedicated to very different gods; namely, the trees from whose mighty stems hung the heads of the victims of odin or of thor, the horse, the goat, and in time of calamity or pestilence, of men. trees and not grots were the temples of our forefathers. scholars know well--but they must excuse my quoting it for the sake of those who are not scholars--the famous passage of tacitus which tells how our forefathers "held it beneath the dignity of the gods to coop them within walls, or liken them to any human countenance: but consecrated groves and woods, and called by the name of gods that mystery which they held by faith alone;" and the equally famous passage of claudian, about "the vast silence of the black forest, and groves awful with ancient superstition; and oaks, barbarian deities;" and lucan's "groves inviolate from all antiquity, and altars stained with human blood." to worship in such spots was an abomination to the early christian. it was as much a test of heathendom as the eating of horse-flesh, sacred to odin, and therefore unclean to christian men. the lombard laws and others forbid expressly the lingering remnants of grove worship. st. boniface and other early missionaries hewed down in defiance the sacred oaks, and paid sometimes for their valour with their lives. it is no wonder, then, if long centuries elapsed ere the likeness of vegetable forms began to reappear in the christian churches of the north. and yet both grot and grove were equally the natural temples which the religious instinct of all deep-hearted peoples, conscious of sin, and conscious, too, of yearnings after a perfection not to be found on earth, chooses from the earliest stage of awakening civilisation. in them, alone, before he had strength and skill to build nobly for himself, could man find darkness, the mother of mystery and awe, in which he is reminded perforce of his own ignorance and weakness; in which he learns first to remember unseen powers, sometimes to his comfort and elevation, sometimes only to his terror and debasement; darkness; and with it silence and solitude, in which he can collect himself, and shut out the noise and glare, the meanness and the coarseness, of the world; and be alone a while with his own thoughts, his own fancy, his own conscience, his own soul. but for a while, as i have said, that darkness, solitude, and silence were to be sought in the grot, not in the grove. then christianity conquered the empire. it adapted, not merely its architecture, but its very buildings, to its worship. the roman basilica became the christian church; a noble form of building enough, though one in which was neither darkness, solitude, nor silence, but crowded congregations, clapping--or otherwise--the popular preacher; or fighting about the election of a bishop or a pope, till the holy place ran with christian blood. the deep-hearted northern turned away, in weariness and disgust, from those vast halls, fitted only for the feverish superstition of a profligate and worn-out civilisation; and took himself, amid his own rocks and forests, moors and shores, to a simpler and sterner architecture, which should express a creed, sterner; and at heart far simpler; though dogmatically the same. and this is, to my mind, the difference, and the noble difference, between the so-called norman architecture, which came hither about the time of the conquest; and that of romanized italy. but the normans were a conquering race; and one which conquered, be it always remembered, in england at least, in the name and by the authority of rome. their ecclesiastics, like the ecclesiastics on the continent, were the representatives of roman civilisation, of rome's right, intellectual and spiritual, to rule the world. therefore their architecture, like their creed, was roman. they took the massive towering roman forms, which expressed domination; and piled them one on the other, to express the domination of christian rome over the souls, as they had represented the domination of heathen rome over the bodies, of men. and so side by side with the towers of the norman keep rose the towers of the norman cathedral--the two signs of a double servitude. but, with the thirteenth century, there dawned an age in northern europe, which i may boldly call an heroic age; heroic in its virtues and in its crimes; an age of rich passionate youth, or rather of early manhood; full of aspirations, of chivalry, of self-sacrifice as strange and terrible as it was beautiful and noble, even when most misguided. the teutonic nations of europe--our own forefathers most of all--having absorbed all that heathen rome could teach them, at least for the time being, began to think for themselves; to have poets, philosophers, historians, architects, of their own. the thirteenth century was especially an age of aspiration; and its architects expressed, in buildings quite unlike those of the preceding centuries, the aspirations of the time. the pointed arch had been introduced half a century before. it may be that the crusaders saw it in the east and brought it home. it may be that it originated from the quadripartite vaulting of the normans, the segmental groins of which, crossing diagonally, produced to appearance the pointed arch. it may be that it was derived from that mystical figure of a pointed oval form, the vesica piscis. it may be, lastly, that it was suggested simply by the intersection of semicircular arches, so frequently found in ornamental arcades. the last cause may perhaps be the true one: but it matters little whence the pointed arch came. it matters much what it meant to those who introduced it. and at the beginning of the transition or semi-norman period, it seems to have meant nothing. it was not till the thirteenth century that it had gradually received, as it were, a soul, and had become the exponent of a great idea. as the norman architecture and its forms had signified domination, so the early english, as we call it, signified aspiration; an idea which was perfected, as far as it could be, in what we call the decorated style. there is an evident gap, i had almost said a gulf, between the architectural mind of the eleventh and that of the thirteenth century. a vertical tendency, a longing after lightness and freedom, appears; and with them a longing to reproduce the graces of nature and art. and here i ask you to look for yourselves at the buildings of this new era--there is a beautiful specimen in yonder arcade { }--and judge for yourselves whether they, and even more than they the decorated style into which they developed, do not remind you of the forest shapes? and if they remind you: must they not have reminded those who shaped them? can it have been otherwise? we know that the men who built were earnest. the carefulness, the reverence, of their work have given a subject for some of mr. ruskin's noblest chapters, a text for some of his noblest sermons. we know that they were students of vegetable form. that is proved by the flowers, the leaves, even the birds, with which they enwreathed their capitals and enriched their mouldings. look up there, and see. you cannot look at any good church-work from the thirteenth to the middle of the fifteenth century, without seeing that leaves and flowers were perpetually in the workman's mind. do you fancy that stems and boughs were never in his mind? he kept, doubtless, in remembrance the fundamental idea, that the christian church should symbolise a grot or cave. he could do no less; while he again and again saw hermits around him dwelling and worshipping in caves, as they had done ages before in egypt and syria; while he fixed, again and again, the site of his convent and his minster in some secluded valley guarded by cliffs and rocks, like vale crucis in north wales. but his minster stood often not among rocks only, but amid trees; in some clearing in the primeval forest, as vale crucis was then. at least he could not pass from minster to minster, from town to town, without journeying through long miles of forest. do you think that the awful shapes and shadows of that forest never haunted his imagination as he built? he would have cut down ruthlessly, as his predecessors the early missionaries did, the sacred trees amid which thor and odin had been worshipped by the heathen saxons; amid which still darker deities were still worshipped by the heathen tribes of eastern europe. but he was the descendant of men who had worshipped in those groves; and the glamour of them was upon him still. he peopled the wild forest with demons and fairies: but that did not surely prevent his feeling its ennobling grandeur, its chastening loneliness. his ancestors had held the oaks for trees of god, even as the jews held the cedar, and the hindoos likewise; for the deodara pine is not only, botanists tell us, the same as the cedar of lebanon: but its very name--the deodara--signifies nought else but "the tree of god." his ancestors, i say, had held the oaks for trees of god. it may be that as the monk sat beneath their shade with his bible on his knee, like good st. boniface in the fulda forest, he found that his ancestors were right. to understand what sort of trees they were from which he got his inspiration: you must look, not at an average english wood, perpetually thinned out as the trees arrive at middle age. still less must you look at the pines, oaks, beeches, of an english park, where each tree has had space to develop itself freely into a more or less rounded form. you must not even look at the tropic forests. for there, from the immense diversity of forms, twenty varieties of tree will grow beneath each other, forming a close-packed heap of boughs and leaves, from the ground to a hundred feet and more aloft. you should look at the north american forests of social trees--especially of pines and firs, where trees of one species, crowded together, and competing with equal advantages for the air and light, form themselves into one wilderness of straight smooth shafts, surmounted by a flat sheet of foliage, held up by boughs like the ribs of a groined roof; while underneath the ground is bare as a cathedral floor. you all know, surely, the hemlock spruce of america; which, while growing by itself in open ground, is the most wilful and fantastic, as well as the most graceful, of all the firs; imitating the shape, not of its kindred, but of an enormous tuft of fern. yet if you look at the same tree, when it has struggled long for life from its youth amid other trees of its own kind and its own age; you find that the lower boughs have died off from want of light, leaving not a scar behind. the upper boughs have reached at once the light, and their natural term of years. they are content to live, and little more. the central trunk no longer sends up each year a fresh perpendicular shoot to aspire above the rest: but as weary of struggling ambition as they are, is content to become more and more their equal as the years pass by. and this is a law of social forest trees, which you must bear in mind, whenever i speak of the influence of tree-forms on gothic architecture. such forms as these are rare enough in europe now. i never understood how possible, how common, they must have been in medieval europe, till i saw in the forest of fontainebleau a few oaks like the oak of charlemagne, and the bouquet du roi, at whose age i dare not guess, but whose size and shape showed them to have once formed part of a continuous wood, the like whereof remains not in these isles--perhaps not east of the carpathian mountains. in them a clear shaft of at least sixty, it may be eighty feet, carries a flat head of boughs, each in itself a tree. in such a grove, i thought, the heathen gaul, even the heathen frank, worshipped, beneath "trees of god." such trees, i thought, centuries after, inspired the genius of every builder of gothic aisles and roofs. thus, at least, we can explain that rigidity, which mr. ruskin tells us, "is a special element of gothic architecture. greek and egyptian buildings," he says--and i should have added, roman buildings also, in proportion to their age, _i.e_., to the amount of the roman elements in them--"stand for the most part, by their own weight and mass, one stone passively incumbent on another: but in the gothic vaults and traceries there is a stiffness analogous to that of the bones of a limb, or fibres of a tree; an elastic tension and communication of force from part to part; and also a studious expression of this throughout every part of the building." in a word, gothic vaulting and tracery have been studiously made like to boughs of trees. were those boughs present to the mind of the architect? or is the coincidence merely fortuitous? you know already how i should answer. the cusped arch, too, was it actually not intended to imitate vegetation? mr. ruskin seems to think so. he says that it is merely the special application to the arch of the great ornamental system of foliation, which, "whether simple as in the cusped arch, or complicated as in tracery, arose out of the love of leafage. not that the form of the arch is intended to imitate a leaf, but to be invested with the same characters of beauty which the designer had discovered in the leaf." now i differ from mr. ruskin with extreme hesitation. i agree that the cusped arch is not meant to imitate a leaf. i think with mr. ruskin, that it was probably first adopted on account of its superior strength; and that it afterwards took the form of a bough. but i cannot as yet believe that it was not at last intended to imitate a bough; a bough of a very common form, and one in which "active rigidity" is peculiarly shown. i mean a bough which has forked. if the lower fork has died off, for want of light, we obtain something like the simply cusped arch. if it be still living--but short and stunted in comparison with the higher fork--we obtain, it seems to me, something like the foliated cusp; both likenesses being near enough to those of common objects to make it possible that those objects may have suggested them. and thus, more and more boldly, the mediaeval architect learnt to copy boughs, stems, and, at last, the whole effect, as far always as stone would allow, of a combination of rock and tree, of grot and grove. so he formed his minsters, as i believe, upon the model of those leafy minsters in which he walked to meditate, amid the aisles which god, not man, has built. he sent their columns aloft like the boles of ancient trees. he wreathed their capitals, sometimes their very shafts, with flowers and creeping shoots. he threw their arches out, and interwove the groinings of their vaults, like the bough-roofage overhead. he decked with foliage and fruit the bosses above and the corbels below. he sent up out of those corbels upright shafts along the walls, in the likeness of the trees which sprang out of the rocks above his head. he raised those walls into great cliffs. he pierced them with the arches of the triforium, as with hermits' cells. he represented in the horizontal sills of his windows, and in his horizontal string-courses, the horizontal strata of the rocks. he opened the windows into high and lofty glades, broken, as in the forest, by the tracery of stems and boughs, through which was seen, not merely the outer, but the upper world. for he craved, as all true artists crave, for light and colour; and had the sky above been one perpetual blue, he might have been content with it, and left his glass transparent. but in that dark dank northern clime, rain and snowstorm, black cloud and grey mist, were all that he was like to see outside for nine months in the year. so he took such light and colour as nature gave in her few gayer moods; and set aloft his stained glass windows the hues of the noonday and the rainbow, and the sunrise and the sunset, and the purple of the heather, and the gold of the gorse, and the azure of the bugloss, and the crimson of the poppy; and among them, in gorgeous robes, the angels and the saints of heaven, and the memories of heroic virtues and heroic sufferings, that he might lift up his own eyes and heart for ever out of the dark, dank, sad world of the cold north, with all its coarsenesses and its crimes, toward a realm of perpetual holiness, amid a perpetual summer of beauty and of light; as one who--for he was true to nature, even in that--from between the black jaws of a narrow glen, or from beneath the black shade of gnarled trees, catches a glimpse of far lands gay with gardens and cottages, and purple mountain ranges, and the far off sea, and the hazy horizon melting into the hazy sky; and finds his heart carried out into an infinite at once of freedom and of repose. and so out of the cliffs and the forests he shaped the inside of his church. and how did he shape the outside? look for yourselves, and judge. but look: not at chester, but at salisbury. look at those churches which carry not mere towers, but spires, or at least pinnacled towers approaching the pyrmidal form. the outside form of every gothic cathedral must be considered imperfect if it does not culminate in something pyramidal. the especial want of all greek and roman buildings with which we are acquainted is the absence--save in a few and unimportant cases--of the pyramidal form. the egyptians knew at least the worth of the obelisk: but the greeks and romans hardly knew even that: their buildings are flat- topped. their builders were contented with the earth as it was. there was a great truth involved in that; which i am the last to deny. but religions which, like the buddhist or the christian, nurse a noble self- discontent, are sure to adopt sooner or later an upward and aspiring form of building. it is not merely that, fancying heaven to be above earth, they point towards heaven. there is a deeper natural language in the pyramidal form of a growing tree. it symbolises growth, or the desire of growth. the norman tower does nothing of the kind. it does not aspire to grow. look--i mention an instance with which i am most familiar--at the norman tower of bury st. edmund's. it is graceful--awful, if you will--but there is no aspiration in it. it is stately: but self-content. its horizontal courses; circular arches; above all, its flat sky-line, seem to have risen enough: and wish to rise no higher. for it has no touch of that unrest of soul, which is expressed by the spire, and still more by the compound spire, with its pinnacles, crockets, finials, which are finials only in name; for they do not finish, and are really terminal buds, as it were, longing to open and grow upward, even as the crockets are bracts and leaves thrown off as the shoot has grown. you feel, surely, the truth of these last words. you cannot look at the canopy work or the pinnacle work of this cathedral without seeing that they do not merely suggest buds and leaves, but that the buds and leaves are there carven before your eyes. i myself cannot look at the tabernacle work of our stalls without being reminded of the young pine forests which clothe the hampshire moors. but if the details are copied from vegetable forms, why not the whole? is not a spire like a growing tree, a tabernacle like a fir-tree, a compound spire like a group of firs? and if we can see that: do you fancy that the man who planned the spire did not see it as clearly as we do; and perhaps more clearly still? i am aware, of course, that norman architecture had sometimes its pinnacle, a mere conical or polygonal capping. i am aware that this form, only more and more slender, lasted on in england during the thirteenth and the early part of the fourteenth century; and on the continent, under many modifications, one english kind whereof is usually called a "broach," of which you have a beautiful specimen in the new church at hoole. now, no one will deny that that broach is beautiful. but it would be difficult to prove that its form was taken from a north european tree. the cypress was unknown, probably, to our northern architects. the lombardy poplar--which has wandered hither, i know not when, all the way from cashmere--had not wandered then, i believe, further than north italy. the form is rather that of mere stone; of the obelisk, or of the mountain peak; and they, in fact, may have at first suggested the spire. the grandeur of an isolated mountain, even of a dolmen or single upright stone, is evident to all. but it is the grandeur, not of aspiration, but of defiance; not of the christian; not even of the stoic: but rather of the epicurean. it says--i cannot rise. i do not care to rise. i will be contentedly and valiantly that which i am; and face circumstances, though i cannot conquer them. but it is defiance under defeat. the mountain-peak does not grow, but only decays. fretted by rains, peeled by frost, splintered by lightning, it must down at last; and crumble into earth, were it as old, as hard, as lofty as the matterhorn itself. and while it stands, it wants not only aspiration, it wants tenderness; it wants humility; it wants the unrest which tenderness and humility must breed, and which mr. ruskin so clearly recognises in the best gothic art. and, meanwhile, it wants naturalness. the mere smooth spire or broach--i had almost said, even the spire of salisbury--is like no tall or commanding object in nature. it is merely the caricature of one; it may be of the mountain-peak. the outline must be broken, must be softened, before it can express the soul of a creed which, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries far more than now, was one of penitence as well as of aspiration, of passionate emotion as well as of lofty faith. but a shape which will express that soul must be sought, not among mineral, but among vegetable, forms. and remember always, if we feel thus even now, how much more must those medieval men of genius have felt thus, whose work we now dare only copy line by line? so--as it seems to me--they sought among vegetable forms for what they needed: and they found it at once in the pine, or rather the fir,--the spruce and silver firs of their own forests. they are not, of course, indigenous to england. but they are so common through all the rest of europe, that not only would the form suggest itself to a continental architect, but to any english clerk who travelled, as all did who could, across the alps to rome. the fir-tree, not growing on level ground, like the oaks of fontainebleau, into one flat roof of foliage, but clinging to the hill-side and the crag, old above young, spire above spire, whorl above whorl--for the young shoots of each whorl of boughs point upward in the spring; and now and then a whole bough, breaking away, as it were, into free space, turns upward altogether, and forms a secondary spire on the same tree--this surely was the form which the mediaeval architect seized, to clothe with it the sides and roof of the stone mountain which he had built; piling up pinnacles and spires, each crocketed at the angles; that, like a group of firs upon an isolated rock, every point of the building might seem in act to grow toward heaven, till his idea culminated in that glorious minster of cologne, which, if it ever be completed, will be the likeness of one forest-clothed group of cliffs, surmounted by three enormous pines. one feature of the norman temple he could keep; for it was copied from the same nature which he was trying to copy--namely, the high-pitched roof and gables. mr. ruskin lays it down as a law, that the acute angle in roofs, gables, spires, is the distinguishing mark of northern gothic. it was adopted, most probably, at first from domestic buildings. a northern house or barn must have a high-pitched roof: or the snow will not slip off it. but that fact was not discovered by man; it was copied by him from the rocks around. he saw the mountain peak jut black and bare above the snows of winter; he saw those snows slip down in sheets, rush down in torrents under the sun, from the steep slabs of rock which coped the hill-side; and he copied, in his roofs, the rocks above his town. but as the love for decoration arose, he would deck his roofs as nature had decked hers, till the grey sheets of the cathedral slates should stand out amid pinnacles and turrets rich with foliage, as the grey mountain sides stood out amid knolls of feathery birch and towering pine. he failed, though he failed nobly. he never succeeded in attaining a perfectly natural style. the medieval architects were crippled to the last by the tradition of artificial roman forms. they began improving them into naturalness, without any clear notion of what they wanted; and when that notion became clear, it was too late. take, as an instance, the tracery of their windows. it is true, as mr. ruskin says, that they began by piercing holes in a wall of the form of a leaf, which developed, in the rose window, into the form of a star inside, and of a flower outside. look at such aloft there. then, by introducing mullions and traceries into the lower part of the window, they added stem and bough forms to those flower forms. but the two did not fit. look at the west window of our choir, and you will see what i mean. the upright mullions break off into bough curves graceful enough: but these are cut short--as i hold, spoiled--by circular and triangular forms of rose and trefoil resting on them as such forms never rest in nature; and the whole, though beautiful, is only half beautiful. it is fragmentary, unmeaning, barbaric, because unnatural. they failed, too, it may be, from the very paucity of the vegetable forms they could find to copy among the flora of this colder clime; and so, stopped short in drawing from nature, ran off into mere purposeless luxuriance. had they been able to add to their stock of memories a hundred forms which they would have seen in the tropics, they might have gone on for centuries copying nature without exhausting her. and yet, did they exhaust even the few forms of beauty which they saw around them? it must be confessed that they did not. i believe that they could not, because they dared not. the unnaturalness of the creed which they expressed always hampered them. it forbade them to look nature freely and lovingly in the face. it forbade them--as one glaring example--to know anything truly of the most beautiful of all natural objects--the human form. they were tempted perpetually to take nature as ornament, not as basis; and they yielded at last to the temptation; till, in the age of perpendicular architecture, their very ornament became unnatural again; because conventional, untrue, meaningless. but the creed for which they worked was dying by that time, and therefore the art which expressed it must needs die too. and even that death, or rather the approach of it, was symbolised truly in the flatter roof, the four-centred arch, the flat-topped tower of the fifteenth-century church. the creed had ceased to aspire: so did the architecture. it had ceased to grow: so did the temple. and the arch sank lower; and the rafters grew more horizontal; and the likeness to the old tree, content to grow no more, took the place of the likeness to the young tree struggling toward the sky. and now--unless you are tired of listening to me--a few practical words. we are restoring our old cathedral stone by stone after its ancient model. we are also trying to build a new church. we are building it--as most new churches in england are now built--in a pure gothic style. are we doing right? i do not mean morally right. it is always morally right to build a new church, if needed, whatever be its architecture. it is always morally right to restore an old church, if it be beautiful and noble, as an heirloom handed down to us by our ancestors, which we have no right--i say, no right--for the sake of our children, and of our children's children, to leave to ruin. but are we artistically, aesthetically right? is the best gothic fit for our worship? does it express our belief? or shall we choose some other style? i say that it is; and that it is so because it is a style which, if not founded on nature, has taken into itself more of nature, of nature beautiful and healthy, than any other style. with greater knowledge of nature, both geographical and scientific, fresh styles of architecture may and will arise, as much more beautiful, and as much more natural, than the gothic, as gothic is more beautiful and natural than the norman. till then we must take the best models which we have; use them; and, as it were, use them up and exhaust them. by that time we may have learnt to improve on them; and to build churches more gothic than gothic itself, more like grot and grove than even a northern cathedral. that is the direction in which we must work. and if any shall say to us, as it has been said ere now--"after all, your new gothic churches are but imitations, shams, borrowed symbols, which to you symbolise nothing. they are romish churches, meant to express romish doctrine, built for a protestant creed which they do not express, and for a protestant worship which they will not fit." then we shall answer--not so. the objection might be true if we built norman or romanesque churches; for we should then be returning to that very foreign and unnatural style which rome taught our forefathers, and from which they escaped gradually into the comparative freedom, the comparative naturalness of that true gothic of which mr. ruskin says so well:-- "it is gladdening to remember that, in its utmost nobleness, the very temper which has been thought most averse to it, the protestant temper of self-dependence and inquiry, were expressed in every case. faith and aspiration there were in every christian ecclesiastical building from the first century to the fifteenth: but the moral habits to which england in this age owes the kind of greatness which she has--the habits of philosophical investigation, of accurate thought, of domestic seclusion and independence, of stern self-reliance, and sincere upright searching into religious truth,--were only traceable in the features which were the distinctive creations of the gothic schools, in the varied foliage and thorny fretwork, and shadowy niche, and buttressed pier, and fearless height of subtle pinnacle and crested tower, sent 'like an unperplexed question up to heaven.'" so says mr. ruskin. i, for one, endorse his gallant words. and i think that a strong proof of their truth is to be found in two facts, which seem at first paradoxical. first, that the new roman catholic churches on the continent--i speak especially of france, which is the most highly cultivated romanist country--are, like those which the jesuits built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, less and less gothic. the former were sham-classic; the latter are rather of a new fantastic romanesque, or rather byzantinesque style, which is a real retrogression from gothic towards earlier and less natural schools. next, that the puritan communions, the kirk of scotland and the english nonconformists, as they are becoming more cultivated--and there are now many highly cultivated men among them--are introducing gothic architecture more and more into their churches. there are elements in it, it seems, which do not contradict their puritanism; elements which they can adapt to their own worship; namely, the very elements which mr. ruskin has discerned. but if they can do so, how much more can we of the church of england? as long as we go on where our medieval forefathers left off; as long as we keep to the most perfect types of their work, in waiting for the day when we shall be able to surpass them, by making our work even more naturalistic than theirs, more truly expressive of the highest aspirations of humanity: so long we are reverencing them, and that latent protestantism in them, which produced at last the reformation. and if any should say--"nevertheless, your protestant gothic church, though you made it ten times more beautiful, and more symbolic, than cologne minster itself, would still be a sham. for where would be your images? and still more, where would be your host? do you not know that in the medieval church the vistas of its arcades, the alternations of its lights and shadows, the gradations of its colouring, and all its carefully subordinated wealth of art, pointed to, were concentrated round, one sacred spot, as a curve, however vast its sweep though space, tends at every moment toward a single focus? and that spot, that focus, was, and is still, in every romish church, the body of god, present upon the altar in the form of bread? without him, what is all your building? your church is empty: your altar bare; a throne without a king; an eye- socket without an eye." my friends, if we be true children of those old worthies, whom tacitus saw worshipping beneath the german oaks; we shall have but one answer to that scoff:-- we know it; and we glory in the fact. we glory in it, as the old jews gloried in it, when the roman soldiers, bursting through the temple, and into the holy of holies itself, paused in wonder and in awe when they beheld neither god, nor image of god, but blank yet all-suggestive--the empty mercy-seat. like theirs, our altar is an empty throne. for it symbolises our worship of him who dwelleth not in temples made with hands; whom the heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain. our eye-socket holds no eye. for it symbolises our worship of that eye which is over all the earth; which is about our path, and about our bed, and spies out all our ways. we need no artificial and material presence of deity. for we believe in that one eternal and universal real presence--of which it is written "he is not far from any one of us; for in god we live, and move, and have our being;" and again, "lo, i am with you, even to the end of the world;" and again--"wheresoever two or three are gathered together in my name, there am i in the midst of them." he is the god of nature, as well as the god of grace. for ever he looks down on all things which he has made: and behold, they are very good. and, therefore, we dare offer to him, in our churches, the most perfect works of naturalistic art, and shape them into copies of whatever beauty he has shown us, in man or woman, in cave or mountain peak, in tree or flower, even in bird or butterfly. but himself?--who can see him? except the humble and the contrite heart, to whom he reveals himself as a spirit to be worshipped in spirit and in truth, and not in bread, nor wood, nor stone, nor gold, nor quintessential diamond. so we shall obey the sound instinct of our christian forefathers, when they shaped their churches into forest aisles, and decked them with the boughs of the woodland, and the flowers of the field: but we shall obey too, that sounder instinct of theirs, which made them at last cast out of their own temples, as misplaced and unnatural things, the idols which they had inherited from rome. so we shall obey the sound instinct of our heathen forefathers, when they worshipped the unknown god beneath the oaks of the primeval forest: but we shall obey, too, that sounder instinct of theirs, which taught them this, at least, concerning god--that it was beneath his dignity to coop him within walls; and that the grandest forms of nature, as well as the deepest consciousnesses of their own souls, revealed to them a mysterious being, who was to be beheld by faith alone. george buchanan, scholar the scholar, in the sixteenth century, was a far more important personage than now. the supply of learned men was very small, the demand for them very great. during the whole of the fifteenth, and a great part of the sixteenth century, the human mind turned more and more from the scholastic philosophy of the middle ages to that of the romans and the greeks; and found more and more in old pagan art an element which monastic art had not, and which was yet necessary for the full satisfaction of their craving after the beautiful. at such a crisis of thought and taste, it was natural that the classical scholar, the man who knew old rome, and still more old greece, should usurp the place of the monk, as teacher of mankind; and that scholars should form, for a while, a new and powerful aristocracy, limited and privileged, and all the more redoubtable, because its power lay in intellect, and had been won by intellect alone. those who, whether poor or rich, did not fear the monk and priest, at least feared the "scholar," who held, so the vulgar believed, the keys of that magic lore by which the old necromancers had built cities like rome, and worked marvels of mechanical and chemical skill, which the degenerate modern could never equal. if the "scholar" stopped in a town, his hostess probably begged of him a charm against toothache or rheumatism. the penniless knight discoursed with him on alchemy, and the chances of retrieving his fortune by the art of transmuting metals into gold. the queen or bishop worried him in private about casting their nativities, and finding their fates among the stars. but the statesman, who dealt with more practical matters, hired him as an advocate and rhetorician, who could fight his master's enemies with the weapons of demosthenes and cicero. wherever the scholar's steps were turned, he might be master of others, as long as he was master of himself. the complaints which he so often uttered concerning the cruelty of fortune, the fickleness of princes, and so forth, were probably no more just then than such complaints are now. then, as now, he got his deserts; and the world bought him at his own price. if he chose to sell himself to this patron and to that, he was used and thrown away: if he chose to remain in honourable independence, he was courted and feared. among the successful scholars of the sixteenth century, none surely is more notable than george buchanan. the poor scotch widow's son, by force of native wit, and, as i think, by force of native worth, fights his way upward, through poverty and severest persecution, to become the correspondent and friend of the greatest literary celebrities of the continent, comparable, in their opinion, to the best latin poets of antiquity; the preceptor of princes; the counsellor and spokesman of scotch statesmen in the most dangerous of times; and leaves behind him political treatises, which have influenced not only the history of his own country, but that of the civilised world. such a success could not be attained without making enemies, perhaps without making mistakes. but the more we study george buchanan's history, the less we shall be inclined to hunt out his failings, the more inclined to admire his worth. a shrewd, sound-hearted, affectionate man, with a strong love of right and scorn of wrong, and a humour withal which saved him--except on really great occasions--from bitterness, and helped him to laugh where narrower natures would have only snarled,--he is, in many respects, a type of those lowland scots, who long preserved his jokes, genuine or reputed, as a common household book. { } a schoolmaster by profession, and struggling for long years amid the temptations which, in those days, degraded his class into cruel and sordid pedants, he rose from the mere pedagogue to be, in the best sense of the word, a courtier; "one," says daniel heinsius, "who seemed not only born for a court, but born to amend it. he brought to his queen that at which she could not wonder enough. for, by affecting a certain liberty in censuring morals, he avoided all offence, under the cloak of simplicity." of him and his compeers, turnebus, and muretus, and their friend andrea govea, ronsard, the french court poet, said that they had nothing of the pedagogue about them but the gown and cap. "austere in face, and rustic in his looks," says david buchanan, "but most polished in style and speech; and continually, even in serious conversation, jesting most wittily." "roughhewn, slovenly, and rude," says peacham, in his 'compleat gentleman,' speaking of him, probably, as he appeared in old age, "in his person, behaviour, and fashion; seldom caring for a better outside than a rugge-gown girt close about him: yet his inside and conceipt in poesie was most rich, and his sweetness and facilitie in verse most excellent." a typical lowland scot, as i said just now, he seems to have absorbed all the best culture which france could afford him, without losing the strength, honesty, and humour which he inherited from his stirlingshire kindred. the story of his life is easily traced. when an old man, he himself wrote down the main events of it, at the request of his friends; and his sketch has been filled out by commentators, if not always favourable, at least erudite. born in , at the moss, in killearn--where an obelisk to his memory, so one reads, has been erected in this century--of a family "rather ancient than rich," his father dead in the prime of manhood, his grandfather a spendthrift, he and his seven brothers and sisters were brought up by a widowed mother, agnes heriot--of whom one wishes to know more; for the rule that great sons have great mothers probably holds good in her case. george gave signs, while at the village school, of future scholarship; and when he was only fourteen, his uncle james sent him to the university of paris. those were hard times; and the youths, or rather boys, who meant to become scholars, had a cruel life of it, cast desperately out on the wide world to beg and starve, either into self-restraint and success, or into ruin of body and soul. and a cruel life george had. within two years he was down in a severe illness, his uncle dead, his supplies stopped; and the boy of sixteen got home, he does not tell how. then he tried soldiering; and was with albany's french auxiliaries at the ineffectual attack on wark castle. marching back through deep snow, he got a fresh illness, which kept him in bed all winter. then he and his brother were sent to st. andrew's, where he got his b.a. at nineteen. the next summer he went to france once more; and "fell," he says, "into the flames of the lutheran sect, which was then spreading far and wide." two years of penury followed; and then three years of schoolmastering in the college of st. barbe, which he has immortalised--at least for the few who care to read modern latin poetry--in his elegy on 'the miseries of a parisian teacher of the humanities.' the wretched regent master, pale and suffering, sits up all night preparing his lecture, biting his nails, and thumping his desk; and falls asleep for a few minutes, to start up at the sound of the four o'clock bell, and be in school by five, his virgil in one hand, and his rod in the other, trying to do work on his own account at old manuscripts, and bawling all the while at his wretched boys, who cheat him, and pay each other to answer to truants' names. the class is all wrong. "one is barefoot, another's shoe is burst, another cries, another writes home. then comes the rod, the sound of blows and howls; and the day passes in tears." "then mass, then another lesson, then more blows; there is hardly time to eat."--i have no space to finish the picture of the stupid misery which, buchanan says, was ruining his intellect, while it starved his body. however, happier days came. gilbert kennedy, earl of cassilis, who seems to have been a noble young gentleman, took him as his tutor for the next five years; and with him he went back to scotland. but there his plain speaking got him, as it did more than once afterward, into trouble. he took it into his head to write, in imitation of dunbar, a latin poem, in which st. francis asks him in a dream to become a grey friar, and buchanan answered in language which had the unpleasant fault of being too clever, and--to judge from contemporary evidence--only too true. the friars said nothing at first: but when king james made buchanan tutor to one of his natural sons, they, "men professing meekness, took the matter somewhat more angrily than befitted men so pious in the opinion of the people." so buchanan himself puts it: but, to do the poor friars justice, they must have been angels, not men, if they did not writhe somewhat under the scourge which he had laid on them. to be told that there was hardly a place in heaven for monks, was hard to hear and bear. they accused him to the king of heresy: but not being then in favour with james, they got no answer, and buchanan was commanded to repeat the castigation. having found out that the friars were not to be touched with impunity, he wrote, he says, a short and ambiguous poem. but the king, who loved a joke, demanded something sharp and stinging, and buchanan obeyed by writing, but not publishing, the 'franciscans,' a long satire, compared to which the 'somnium' was bland and merciful. the storm rose. cardinal beaton, buchanan says, wanted to buy him of the king, and then, of course, burn him, as he had just burnt five poor souls: so, knowing james's avarice, he fled to england, through freebooters and pestilence. there he found, he says, "men of both factions being burned on the same day and in the same fire"--a pardonable exaggeration--"by henry viii., in his old age more intent on his own safety than on the purity of religion." so to his beloved france he went again, to find his enemy beaton ambassador at paris. the capital was too hot to hold him; and he fled south to bourdeaux, to andrea govea, the portuguese principal of the college of gruienne. as professor of latin at bourdeaux, we find him presenting a latin poem to charles v.; and indulging that fancy of his for latin poetry which seems to us now-a-days a childish pedantry; which was then--when latin was the vernacular tongue of all scholars--a serious, if not altogether a useful, pursuit. of his tragedies, so famous in their day--the 'baptist,' the 'medea,' the 'jephtha,' and the 'alcestis'--there is neither space nor need to speak here, save to notice the bold declamations in the 'baptist' against tyranny and priestcraft; and to notice also that these tragedies gained for the poor scotsman, in the eyes of the best scholars of europe, a credit amounting almost to veneration. when he returned to paris, he found occupation at once; and--as his scots biographers love to record--"three of the most learned men in the world taught humanity in the same college," viz., turnebus, muretus, and buchanan. then followed a strange episode in his life. a university had been founded at coimbra, in portugal, and andrea govea had been invited to bring thither what french savans he could collect. buchanan went to portugal with his brother patrick; two more scotsmen, dempster and ramsay: and a goodly company of french scholars, whose names and histories may be read in the erudite pages of dr. irving, went likewise. all prospered in the new temple of the muses for a year or so. then its high-priest, govea, died; and, by a peripeteia too common in those days and countries, buchanan and two of his friends migrated, unwillingly, from the temple of the muses for that of moloch, and found themselves in the inquisition. buchanan, it seems, had said that st. augustine was more of a lutheran than a catholic on the question of the mass. he and his friends had eaten flesh in lent; which, he says, almost everyone in spain did. but he was suspected, and with reason, as a heretic; the grey friars formed but one brotherhood throughout europe; and news among them travelled surely if not fast: so that the story of the satire written in scotland had reached portugal. the culprits were imprisoned, examined, bullied--but not tortured--for a year and a half. at the end of that time, the proofs of heresy, it seems, were insufficient; but lest--says buchanan with honest pride--"they should get the reputation of having vainly tormented a man not altogether unknown," they sent him for some months to a monastery, to be instructed by the monks. "the men," he says, "were neither inhuman nor bad, but utterly ignorant of religion;" and buchanan solaced himself during the intervals of their instructions, by beginning his latin translation of the psalms. at last he got free, and begged leave to return to france; but in vain. wearied out at last, he got on board a candian ship at lisbon, and escaped to england. but england, he says, during the anarchy of edward vi.'s reign, was not a land which suited him; and he returned to his beloved france, to fulfil the hopes which he had expressed in his charming 'desiderium lutitiae,' and the still more charming, because more simple, 'adventus in galliam,' in which he bids farewell, in most melodious verse, to "the hungry moors of wretched portugal, and her clods fertile in naught but penury." some seven years succeeded of schoolmastering and verse-writing:--the latin paraphrase of the psalms; another of the 'alcestis' of euripides; an epithalamium on the marriage of poor mary stuart, noble and sincere, however fantastic and pedantic, after the manner of the times; "pomps," too, for her wedding, and for other public ceremonies, in which all the heathen gods and goddesses figure; epigrams, panegyrics, satires, much of which latter productions he would have consigned to the dust-heap in his old age, had not his too fond friends persuaded him to republish the follies and coarsenesses of his youth. he was now one of the most famous scholars in europe, and the intimate friend of all the great literary men. was he to go on to the end, die, and no more? was he to sink into the mere pedant; or, if he could not do that, into the mere court versifier? the wars of religion saved him, as they saved many another noble soul, from that degradation. the events of - - forced buchanan, as they forced many a learned man besides, to choose whether he would be a child of light or a child of darkness; whether he would be a dilettante classicist, or a preacher--it might be a martyr--of the gospel. buchanan may have left france in "the troubles" merely to enjoy in his own country elegant and learned repose. he may have fancied that he had found it, when he saw himself, in spite of his public profession of adherence to the reformed kirk, reading livy every afternoon with his exquisite young sovereign; master, by her favour, of the temporalities of crossraguel abbey, and by the favour of murray, principal of st. leonard's college in st. andrew's. perhaps he fancied at times that "to-morrow was to be as to-day, and much more abundant;" that thenceforth he might read his folio, and write his epigram, and joke his joke, as a lazy comfortable pluralist, taking his morning stroll out to the corner where poor wishart had been burned, above the blue sea and the yellow sands, and looking up to the castle tower from whence his enemy beaton's corpse had been hung out; with the comfortable reflection that quietier times had come, and that whatever evil deeds archbishop hamilton might dare, he would not dare to put the principal of st. leonard's into the "bottle dungeon." if such hopes ever crossed geordie's keen fancy, they were disappointed suddenly and fearfully. the fire which had been kindled in france was to reach to scotland likewise. "revolutions are not made with rose-water;" and the time was at hand when all good spirits in scotland, and george buchanan among them, had to choose, once and for all, amid danger, confusion, terror, whether they would serve god or mammon; for to serve both would be soon impossible. which side, in that war of light and darkness, george buchanan took, is notorious. he saw then, as others have seen since, that the two men in scotland who were capable of being her captains in the strife were knox and murray; and to them he gave in his allegiance heart and soul. this is the critical epoch in buchanan's life. by his conduct to queen mary he must stand or fall. it is my belief that he will stand. it is not my intention to enter into the details of a matter so painful, so shocking, so prodigious; and now that that question is finally set at rest, by the writings both of mr. froude and mr. burton, there is no need to allude to it further, save where buchanan's name is concerned. one may now have every sympathy with mary stuart; one may regard with awe a figure so stately, so tragic, in one sense so heroic,--for she reminds one rather of the heroine of an old greek tragedy, swept to her doom by some irresistible fate, than of a being of our own flesh and blood, and of our modern and christian times. one may sympathise with the great womanhood which charmed so many while she was alive; which has charmed, in later years, so many noble spirits who have believed in her innocence, and have doubtless been elevated and purified by their devotion to one who seemed to them an ideal being. so far from regarding her as a hateful personage, one may feel oneself forbidden to hate a woman whom god may have loved, and may have pardoned, to judge from the punishment so swift, and yet so enduring, which he inflicted. at least, he must so believe who holds that punishment is a sign of mercy; that the most dreadful of all dooms is impunity. nay, more, those "casket" letters and sonnets may be a relief to the mind of one who believes in her guilt on other grounds; a relief when one finds in them a tenderness, a sweetness, a delicacy, a magnificent self-sacrifice, however hideously misplaced, which shows what a womanly heart was there; a heart which, joined to that queenly brain, might have made her a blessing and a glory to scotland, had not the whole character been warped and ruinate from childhood, by an education so abominable, that any one who knows what words she must have heard, what scenes she must have beheld in france, from her youth up, will wonder that she sinned so little: not that she sinned so much. one may feel, in a word, that there is every excuse for those who have asserted mary's innocence, because their own high-mindedness shrank from believing her guilty: but yet buchanan, in his own place and time, may have felt as deeply that he could do no otherwise than he did. the charges against him, as all readers of scotch literature know well, may be reduced to two heads. st. the letters and sonnets were forgeries. maitland of lethington may have forged the letters; buchanan, according to some, the sonnets. whoever forged them, buchanan made use of them in his detection, knowing them to be forged. nd. whether mary was innocent or not, buchanan acted a base and ungrateful part in putting himself in the forefront amongst her accusers. he had been her tutor, her pensioner. she had heaped him with favours; and, after all, she was his queen, and a defenceless woman: and yet he returned her kindness, in the hour of her fall, by invectives fit only for a rancorous and reckless advocate, determined to force a verdict by the basest arts of oratory. now as to the "casket" letters. i should have thought they bore in themselves the best evidence of being genuine. i can add nothing to the arguments of mr. froude and mr. burton, save this: that no one clever enough to be a forger, would have put together documents so incoherent, and so incomplete. for the evidence of guilt which they contain is, after all, slight and indirect, and, moreover, superfluous altogether; seeing that mary's guilt was open and palpable, before the supposed discovery of the letters, to every person at home and abroad who had any knowledge of the facts. as for the alleged inconsistency of the letters with proven facts: the answer is, that whosoever wrote the letters would be more likely to know facts which were taking place around them than any critic could be one hundred or three hundred years afterwards. but if these mistakes as to facts actually exist in them, they are only a fresh argument for their authenticity. mary, writing in agony and confusion, might easily make a mistake: forgers would only take too good care to make none. but the strongest evidence in favour of the letters and sonnets, in spite of the arguments of good dr. whittaker and other apologists for mary, is to be found in their tone. a forger in those coarse days would have made mary write in some semiramis or roxana vein, utterly alien to the tenderness, the delicacy, the pitiful confusion of mind, the conscious weakness, the imploring and most feminine trust which makes the letters, to those who--as i do--believe in them, more pathetic than any fictitious sorrows which poets could invent. more than one touch, indeed, of utter self-abasement, in the second letter, is so unexpected, so subtle, and yet so true to the heart of woman, that--as has been well said--if it was invented there must have existed in scotland an earlier shakespeare; who yet has died without leaving any other sign, for good or evil, of his dramatic genius. as for the theory (totally unsupported) that buchanan forged the poem usually called the sonnets; it is paying old geordie's genius, however versatile it may have been, too high a compliment to believe that he could have written both them and the detection; while it is paying his shrewdness too low a compliment to believe that he could have put into them, out of mere carelessness or stupidity, the well-known line, which seems incompatible with the theory both of the letters and of his own detection; and which has ere now been brought forward as a fresh proof of mary's innocence. and, as with the letters, so with the sonnets: their delicacy, their grace, their reticence, are so many arguments against their having been forged by any scot of the sixteenth century, and least of all by one in whose character--whatever his other virtues may have been--delicacy was by no means the strongest point. as for the complaint that buchanan was ungrateful to mary, it must be said: that even if she, and not murray, had bestowed on him the temporalities of crossraguel abbey four years before, it was merely fair pay for services fairly rendered; and i am not aware that payment, or even favours, however gracious, bind any man's soul and conscience in questions of highest morality and highest public importance. and the importance of that question cannot be exaggerated. at a moment when scotland seemed struggling in death-throes of anarchy, civil and religious, and was in danger of becoming a prey either to england or to france, if there could not be formed out of the heart of her a people, steadfast, trusty, united, strong politically because strong in the fear of god and the desire of righteousness--at such a moment as this, a crime had been committed, the like of which had not been heard in europe since the tragedy of joan of naples. all europe stood aghast. the honour of the scottish nation was at stake. more than mary or bothwell were known to be implicated in the deed; and--as buchanan puts it in the opening of his 'de jure regni'--"the fault of some few was charged upon all; and the common hatred of a particular person did redound to the whole nation; so that even such as were remote from any suspicion were inflamed by the infamy of men's crimes." { } to vindicate the national honour, and to punish the guilty, as well as to save themselves from utter anarchy, the great majority of the scotch nation had taken measures against mary which required explicit justification in the sight of europe, as buchanan frankly confesses in the opening of his "de jure regni." the chief authors of those measures had been summoned, perhaps unwisely and unjustly, to answer for their conduct to the queen of england. queen elizabeth--a fact which was notorious enough then, though it has been forgotten till the last few years--was doing her utmost to shield mary. buchanan was deputed, it seems, to speak out for the people of scotland; and certainly never people had an abler apologist. if he spoke fiercely, savagely, it must be remembered that he spoke of a fierce and savage matter; if he used--and it may be abused--all the arts of oratory, it must be remembered that he was fighting for the honour, and it may be for the national life, of his country, and striking--as men in such cases have a right to strike--as hard as he could. if he makes no secret of his indignation, and even contempt, it must be remembered that indignation and contempt may well have been real with him, while they were real with the soundest part of his countrymen; with that reforming middle class, comparatively untainted by french profligacy, comparatively undebauched by feudal subservience, which has been the leaven which has leavened the whole scottish people in the last three centuries with the elements of their greatness. if, finally, he heaps up against the unhappy queen charges which mr. burton thinks incredible, it must be remembered that, as he well says, these charges give the popular feeling about queen mary; and it must be remembered also, that that popular feeling need not have been altogether unfounded. stories which are incredible, thank god, in these milder days, were credible enough then, because, alas! they were so often true. things more ugly than any related of poor mary, were possible enough--as no one knew better than buchanan--in that very french court in which mary had been brought up; things as ugly were possible in scotland then, and for at least a century later; and while we may hope that buchanan has overstated his case, we must not blame him too severely for yielding to a temptation common to all men of genius when their creative power is roused to its highest energy by a great cause and a great indignation. and that the genius was there, no man can doubt; one cannot read that "hideously eloquent" description of kirk o' field, which mr. burton has well chosen as a specimen of buchanan's style, without seeing that we are face to face with a genius of a very lofty order: not, indeed, of the loftiest--for there is always in buchanan's work, it seems to me, a want of unconsciousness, and a want of tenderness--but still a genius worthy to be placed beside those ancient writers from whom he took his manner. whether or not we agree with his contemporaries, who say that he equalled virgil in latin poetry, we may place him fairly as a prose writer by the side of demosthenes, cicero, or tacitus. and so i pass from this painful subject; only quoting--if i may be permitted to quote--mr. burton's wise and gentle verdict on the whole. "buchanan," he says, "though a zealous protestant, had a good deal of the catholic and sceptical spirit of erasmus, and an admiring eye for everything that was great and beautiful. like the rest of his countrymen, he bowed himself in presence of the lustre that surrounded the early career of his mistress. more than once he expressed his pride and reverence in the inspiration of a genius deemed by his contemporaries to be worthy of the theme. there is not, perhaps, to be found elsewhere in literature so solemn a memorial of shipwrecked hopes, of a sunny opening and a stormy end, as one finds in turning the leaves of the volume which contains the beautiful epigram 'nympha caledoniae' in one part, the 'detectio mariae reginae' in another; and this contrast is, no doubt, a faithful parallel of the reaction in the popular mind. this reaction seems to have been general, and not limited to the protestant party; for the conditions under which it became almost a part of the creed of the church of rome to believe in her innocence had not arisen." if buchanan, as some of his detractors have thought, raised himself by subserviency to the intrigues of the regent murray, the best heads in scotland seem to have been of a different opinion. the murder of murray did not involve buchanan's fall. he had avenged it, as far as pen could do it, by that 'admonition direct to the trew lordis,' in which he showed himself as great a master of scottish, as he was of latin, prose. his satire of the 'chameleon,' though its publication was stopped by maitland, must have been read in manuscript by many of those same "true lords;" and though there were nobler instincts in maitland than any buchanan gave him credit for, the satire breathed an honest indignation against that wily turncoat's misdoings, which could not but recommend the author to all honest men. therefore it was, i presume, and not because he was a rogue, and a hired literary spadassin, that to the best heads in scotland he seemed so useful, it may be so worthy, a man, that he be provided with continually increasing employment. as tutor to james i.; as director, for a short time, of the chancery; as keeper of the privy seal, and privy councillor; as one of the commissioners for codifying the laws, and again--for in the semi-anarchic state of scotland, government had to do everything in the way of organisation--in the committee for promulgating a standard latin grammar; in the committee for reforming the university of st. andrew's: in all these buchanan's talents were again and again called for; and always ready. the value of his work, especially that for the reform of st. andrew's, must be judged by scotchmen, rather than by an englishman: but all that one knows of it justifies melville's sentence in the well-known passage in his memoirs, wherein he describes the tutors and household of the young king. "mr. george was a stoic philosopher, who looked not far before him;" in plain words, a high-minded and right-minded man, bent on doing the duty which lay nearest him. the worst that can be said against him during these times is, that his name appears with the sum of pounds against it, as one of those "who were to be entertained in scotland by pensions out of england"; and ruddiman, of course, comments on the fact by saying that buchanan "was at length to act under the threefold character of malcontent, reformer, and pensioner:" but it gives no proof whatsoever that buchanan ever received any such bribe; and in the very month, seemingly, in which that list was written-- th march, --buchanan had given a proof to the world that he was not likely to be bribed or bought, by publishing a book, as offensive probably to queen elizabeth as it was to his own royal pupil; namely, his famous 'de jure regni apud scotos,' the very primer, according to many great thinkers, of constitutional liberty. he dedicates that book to king james, "not only as his monitor, but also an importunate and bold exactor, which in these his tender and flexible years may conduct him in safety past the rocks of flattery." he has complimented james already on his abhorrence of flattery, "his inclination far above his years for undertaking all heroical and noble attempts, his promptitude in obeying his instructors and governors, and all who give him sound admonition, and his judgment and diligence in examining affairs, so that no man's authority can have much weight with him unless it be confirmed by probable reasons." buchanan may have thought that nine years of his stern rule had eradicated some of james's ill conditions; the petulance which made him kill the master of mar's sparrow, in trying to wrest it out of his hand; the carelessness with which--if the story told by chytraeus, on the authority of buchanan's nephew, be true--james signed away his crown to buchanan for fifteen days, and only discovered his mistake by seeing buchanan act in open court the character of king of scots. buchanan had at last made him a scholar; he may have fancied that he had made him likewise a manful man: yet he may have dreaded that, as james grew up, the old inclinations would return in stronger and uglier shapes, and that flattery might be, as it was after all, the cause of james's moral ruin. he at least will be no flatterer. he opens the dialogue which he sends to the king, with a calm but distinct assertion of his mother's guilt, and a justification of the conduct of men who were now most of them past helping buchanan, for they were laid in their graves; and then goes on to argue fairly, but to lay down firmly, in a sort of socratic dialogue, those very principles by loyalty to which the house of hanover has reigned, and will reign, over these realms. so with his history of scotland; later antiquarian researches have destroyed the value of the earlier portions of it: but they have surely increased the value of those later portions, in which buchanan inserted so much which he had already spoken out in his detection of mary. in that book also, "liberavit animam suam;" he spoke his mind, fearless of consequences, in the face of a king who he must have known--for buchanan was no dullard--regarded him with deep dislike, who might in a few years be able to work his ruin. but those few years were not given to buchanan. he had all but done his work, and he hastened to get it over before the night should come wherein no man can work. one must be excused for telling--one would not tell it in a book intended to be read only by scotchmen, who know or ought to know the tale already--how the two melvilles and buchanan's nephew thomas went to see him in edinburgh, in september, , hearing that he was ill, and his history still in the press; and how they found the old sage, true to his schoolmaster's instincts, teaching the hornbook to his servant-lad; and how he told them that doing that was "better than stealing sheep, or sitting idle, which was as bad," and showed them that dedication to james i., in which he holds up to his imitation as a hero whose equal was hardly to be found in history, that very king david whose liberality to the romish church provoked james's witticism that "david was a sair saint for the crown." andrew melville, so james melville says, found fault with the style. buchanan replied that he could do no more for thinking of another thing, which was to die. they then went to arbuthnot's printing-house, and inspected the history, as far as that terrible passage concerning rizzio's burial, where mary is represented as "laying the miscreant almost in the arms of maud de valois, the late queen." alarmed, and not without reason, at such plain speaking, they stopped the press, and went back to buchanan's house. buchanan was in bed. "he was going," he said, "the way of welfare." they asked him to soften the passage; the king might prohibit the whole work. "tell me, man," said buchanan, "if i have told the truth." they could not, or would not, deny it. "then i will abide his feud, and all his kin's; pray, pray to god for me, and let him direct all." "so," says melville, "by the printing of his chronicle was ended, this most learned, wise, and godly man ended his mortal life." camden has a hearsay story--written, it must be remembered, in james i.'s time--that buchanan, on his death-bed repented of his harsh words against queen mary; and an old lady rosyth is said to have said that when she was young a certain david buchanan recollected hearing some such words from george buchanan's own mouth. those who will, may read what ruddiman and love have said, and oversaid, on both sides of the question: whatever conclusion they come to, it will probably not be that to which george chalmers comes in his life of ruddiman: that "buchanan, like other liars, who by the repetition of falsehoods are induced to consider the fiction as truth, had so often dwelt with complacency on the forgeries of his detections, and the figments of his history, that he at length regarded his fictions and his forgeries as most authentic facts." at all events his fictions and his forgeries had not paid him in that coin which base men generally consider the only coin worth having, namely, the good things of this life. he left nothing behind him--if at least dr. irving has rightly construed the "testament dative" which he gives in his appendix--save arrears to the sum of _l_. of his crossraguel pension. we may believe as we choose the story in mackenzie's 'scotch writers,' that when he felt himself dying, he asked his servant young about the state of his funds, and finding he had not enough to bury himself withal, ordered what he had to be given to the poor, and said that if they did not choose to bury him they might let him lie where he was, or cast him in a ditch, the matter was very little to him. he was buried, it seems, at the expense of the city of edinburgh, in the greyfriars' churchyard--one says in a plain turf grave--among the marble monuments which covered the bones of worse or meaner men; and whether or not the "throughstone" which, "sunk under the ground in the greyfriars," was raised and cleaned by the council of edinburgh in , was really george buchanan's, the reigning powers troubled themselves little for several generations where he lay. for buchanan's politics were too advanced for his age. not only catholic scotsmen, like blackwood, winzet, and ninian, but protestants, like sir thomas craig and sir john wemyss, could not stomach the 'de jure regni.' they may have had some reason on their side. in the then anarchic state of scotland, organisation and unity under a common head may have been more important than the assertion of popular rights. be that as it may, in , only two years after his death, the scots parliament condemned his dialogue and history as untrue, and commanded all possessors of copies to deliver them up, that they might be purged of "the offensive and extraordinary matters" which they contained. the 'de jure regni' was again prohibited in scotland, in , even in manuscript; and in , the whole of buchanan's political works had the honour of being burned by the university of oxford, in company with those of milton, languet, and others, as "pernicious books, and damnable doctrines, destructive to the sacred persons of princes, their state and government, and of all human society." and thus the seed which buchanan had sown, and milton had watered--for the allegation that milton borrowed from buchanan is probably true, and equally honourable to both--lay trampled into the earth, and seemingly lifeless, till it tillered out, and blossomed, and bore fruit to a good purpose, in the revolution of . to buchanan's clear head and stout heart, scotland owes, as england owes likewise, much of her modern liberty. but scotland's debt to him, it seems to me, is even greater on the count of morality, public and private. what the morality of the scotch upper classes was like, in buchanan's early days, is too notorious; and there remains proof enough--in the writings, for instance, of sir david lindsay--that the morality of the populace which looked up to the nobles as its example and its guide, was not a whit better. as anarchy increased, immorality was likely to increase likewise; and scotland was in serious danger of falling into such a state as that into which poland fell, to its ruin, within a hundred and fifty years after; in which the savagery of feudalism, without its order or its chivalry, would be varnished over by a thin coating of french "civilisation," and, as in the case of bothwell, the vices of the court of paris should be added to those of the northern freebooter. to deliver scotland from that ruin, it was needed that she should be united into one people, strong, not in mere political, but in moral ideas; strong by the clear sense of right and wrong, by the belief in the government and the judgments of a living god. and the tone which buchanan, like knox, adopted concerning the great crimes of their day, helped notably that national salvation. it gathered together, organised, strengthened, the scattered and wavering elements of public morality. it assured the hearts of all men who loved the right and hated the wrong; and taught a whole nation to call acts by their just names, whoever might be the doers of them. it appealed to the common conscience of men. it proclaimed a universal and god-given morality, a bar at which all, from the lowest to the highest, must alike be judged. the tone was stern: but there was need of sternness. moral life and death were in the balance. if the scots people were to be told that the crimes which roused their indignation were excusable, or beyond punishment, or to be hushed up and slipped over in any way, there was an end of morality among them. every man, from the greatest to the least, would go and do likewise, according to his powers of evil. that method was being tried in france, and in spain likewise, during those very years. notorious crimes were hushed up under pretence of loyalty; excused as political necessities; smiled away as natural and pardonable weaknesses. the result was the utter demoralisation, both of france and spain. knox and buchanan, the one from the stand-point of an old hebrew prophet, the other rather from that of a juvenal or a tacitus, tried the other method, and called acts by their just names, appealing alike to conscience and to god. the result was virtue and piety, and that manly independence of soul which is thought compatible with hearty loyalty, in a country labouring under heavy disadvantages, long divided almost into two hostile camps, two rival races. and the good influence was soon manifest, not only in those who sided with buchanan and his friends, but in those who most opposed them. the roman catholic preachers, who at first asserted mary's right to impunity, while they allowed her guilt, grew silent for shame, and set themselves to assert her entire innocence; while the scots who have followed their example have, to their honour, taken up the same ground. they have fought buchanan on the ground of fact, not on the ground of morality: they have alleged--as they had a fair right to do--the probability of intrigue and forgery in an age so profligate: the improbability that a queen so gifted by nature and by fortune, and confessedly for a long while so strong and so spotless, should as it were by a sudden insanity have proved so untrue to herself. their noblest and purest sympathies have been enlisted--and who can blame them?--in loyalty to a queen, chivalry to a woman, pity for the unfortunate and--as they conceived--the innocent; but whether they have been right or wrong in their view of facts, the scotch partisans of mary have always--as far as i know--been right in their view of morals; they have never deigned to admit mary's guilt, and then to palliate it by those sentimental, or rather sensual, theories of human nature, too common in a certain school of french literature,--too common, alas! in a certain school of modern english novels. they have not said, "she did it; but after all, was the deed so very inexcusable?" they have said, "the deed was inexcusable: but she did not do it." and so the scotch admirers of mary, who have numbered among them many a pure and noble, as well as many a gifted spirit, have kept at least themselves unstained; and have shown, whether consciously or not, that they too share in that sturdy scotch moral sense which has been so much strengthened--as i believe--by the plain speech of good old george buchanan. rondelet, the huguenot naturalist { } "apollo, god of medicine, exiled from the rest of the earth, was straying once across the narbonnaise in gaul, seeking to fix his abode there. driven from asia, from africa, and from the rest of europe, he wandered through all the towns of the province in search of a place propitious for him and for his disciples. at last he perceived a new city, constructed from the ruins of maguelonne, of lattes, and of substantion. he contemplated long its site, its aspect, its neighbourhood, and resolved to establish on this hill of montpellier a temple for himself and his priests. all smiled on his desires. by the genius of the soil, by the character of the inhabitants, no town is more fit for the culture of letters, and above all of medicine. what site is more delicious and more lovely? a heaven pure and smiling; a city built with magnificence; men born for all the labours of the intellect. all around vast horizons and enchanting sites--meadows, vines, olives, green champaigns; mountains and hills, rivers, brooks, lagoons, and the sea. everywhere a luxuriant vegetation--everywhere the richest production of the land and the water. hail to thee, sweet and dear city! hail, happy abode of apollo, who spreadest afar the light of the glory of thy name!" "this fine tirade," says dr. maurice raynaud--from whose charming book on the 'doctors of the time of moliere' i quote--"is not, as one might think, the translation of a piece of poetry. it is simply part of a public oration by francois fanchon, one of the most illustrious chancellors of the faculty of medicine of montpellier in the seventeenth century." "from time immemorial," he says, "'the faculty' of montpellier had made itself remarkable by a singular mixture of the sacred and the profane. the theses which were sustained there began by an invocation to god, the blessed virgin, and st. luke, and ended by these words:--'this thesis will be sustained in the sacred temple of apollo.'" but however extravagant chancellor fanchon's praises of his native city may seem, they are really not exaggerated. the narbonnaise, or languedoc, is perhaps the most charming district of charming france. in the far north-east gleam the white alps; in the far south-west the white pyrenees; and from the purple glens and yellow downs of the cevennes on the northwest, the herault slopes gently down towards the "etangs," or great salt-water lagoons, and the vast alluvial flats of the camargue, the field of caius marius, where still run herds of half-wild horses, descended from some ancient roman stock; while beyond all glitters the blue mediterranean. the great almond orchards, each one sheet of rose- colour in spring; the mulberry orchards, the oliveyards, the vineyards, cover every foot of available upland soil: save where the rugged and arid downs are sweet with a thousand odoriferous plants, from which the bees extract the famous white honey of narbonne. the native flowers and shrubs, of a beauty and richness rather eastern than european, have made the 'flora monspeliensis,' and with it the names of rondelet and his disciples, famous among botanists; and the strange fish and shells upon its shores afforded rondelet materials for his immortal work upon the 'animals of the sea.' the innumerable wild fowl of the "bouches du rhone;" the innumerable songsters and other birds of passage, many of them unknown in these islands, and even in the north of france itself, which haunt every copse of willow and aspen along the brook sides; the gaudy and curious insects which thrive beneath that clear, fierce, and yet bracing sunlight; all these have made the district of montpellier a home prepared by nature for those who study and revere her. neither was chancellor fanchon misled by patriotism, when he said the pleasant people who inhabit that district are fit for all the labours of the intellect. they are a very mixed race, and like most mixed races, quick-witted, and handsome also. there is probably much roman blood among them, especially in the towns; for languedoc, or gallia narbonnensis, as it was called of old, was said to be more roman than rome itself. the roman remains are more perfect and more interesting--so the late dr. whewell used to say--than any to be seen now in italy; and the old capital, narbonne itself, was a complete museum of roman antiquities ere francis i. destroyed it, in order to fortify the city upon a modern system against the invading armies of charles v. there must be much visigothic blood likewise in languedoc; for the visigothic kings held their courts there from the fifth century, until the time that they were crushed by the invading moors. spanish blood, likewise, there may be; for much of languedoc was held in the early middle age by those descendants of eudes of acquitaine who established themselves as kings of majorca and arragon; and languedoc did not become entirely french till , when philip le bel bought montpellier of those potentates. the moors, too, may have left some traces of their race behind. they held the country from about a.d. to , when they were finally expelled by charles martel and eudes. one sees to this day their towers of meagre stone-work, perched on the grand roman masonry of those old amphitheatres, which they turned into fortresses. one may see, too--so tradition holds--upon those very amphitheatres the stains of the fires with which charles martel smoked them out; and one may see, too, or fancy that one sees, in the aquiline features, the bright black eyes, the lithe and graceful gestures, which are so common in languedoc, some touch of the old mahommedan race, which passed like a flood over that christian land. whether or not the moors left behind any traces of their blood, they left behind, at least, traces of their learning; for the university of montpellier claimed to have been founded by moors at a date of altogether abysmal antiquity. they looked upon the arabian physicians of the middle age, on avicenna and averrhoes, as modern innovators, and derived their parentage from certain mythic doctors of cordova, who, when the moors were expelled from spain in the eighth century, fled to montpellier, bringing with them traditions of that primeval science which had been revealed to adam while still in paradise; and founded montpellier, the mother of all the universities in europe. nay, some went further still, and told of bengessaus and ferragius, the physicians of charlemagne, and of marilephus, chief physician of king chilperic, and even--if a letter of st. bernard's was to be believed--of a certain bishop who went as early as the second century to consult the doctors of montpellier; and it would have been in vain to reply to them that in those days, and long after them, montpellier was not yet built. the facts are said to be: that as early as the beginning of the thirteenth century montpellier had its schools of law, medicine, and arts, which were erected into a university by pope nicholas iv. in . the university of montpellier, like--i believe--most foreign ones, resembled more a scotch than an english university. the students lived, for the most part, not in colleges, but in private lodgings, and constituted a republic of their own, ruled by an abbe of the scholars, one of themselves, chosen by universal suffrage. a terror they were often to the respectable burghers, for they had all the right to carry arms; and a plague likewise, for, if they ran in debt, their creditors were forbidden to seize their books, which, with their swords, were generally all the property they possessed. if, moreover, any one set up a noisy or unpleasant trade near their lodgings, the scholars could compel the town authorities to turn him out. they were most of them, probably, mere boys of from twelve to twenty, living poorly, working hard, and--those at least of them who were in the colleges--cruelly beaten daily, after the fashion of those times; but they seem to have comforted themselves under their troubles by a good deal of wild life out of school, by rambling into the country on the festivals of the saints, and now and then by acting plays; notably, that famous one which rabelais wrote for them in : "the moral comedy of the man who had a dumb wife;" which "joyous patelinage" remains unto this day in the shape of a well-known comic song. that comedy young rondelet must have seen acted. the son of a druggist, spicer, and grocer--the three trades were then combined--in montpellier, and born in , he had been destined for the cloister, being a sickly lad. his uncle, one of the canons of maguelonne, near by, had even given him the revenues of a small chapel--a job of nepotism which was common enough in those days. but his heart was in science and medicine. he set off, still a mere boy, to paris to study there; and returned to montpellier, at the age of eighteen, to study again. the next year, , while still a scholar himself, he was appointed procurator of the scholars--a post which brought him in a small fee on each matriculation--and that year he took a fee, among others, from one of the most remarkable men of that or of any age, francois rabelais himself. and what shall i say of him?--who stands alone, like shakespeare, in his generation; possessed of colossal learning--of all science which could be gathered in his days--of practical and statesmanlike wisdom--of knowledge of languages, ancient and modern, beyond all his compeers--of eloquence, which when he speaks of pure and noble things becomes heroic, and, as it were, inspired--of scorn for meanness, hypocrisy, ignorance--of esteem, genuine and earnest, for the holy scriptures, and for the more moderate of the reformers who were spreading the scriptures in europe,--and all this great light wilfully hidden, not under a bushel, but under a dunghill. he is somewhat like socrates in face, and in character likewise; in him, as in socrates, the demigod and the satyr, the man and the ape, are struggling for the mastery. in socrates, the true man conquers, and comes forth high and pure; in rabelais, alas! the victor is the ape, while the man himself sinks down in cynicism, sensuality, practical jokes, foul talk. he returns to paris, to live an idle, luxurious life; to die--says the legend--saying, "i go to seek a great perhaps," and to leave behind him little save a school of pantagruelists--careless young gentlemen, whose ideal was to laugh at everything, to believe in nothing, and to gratify their five senses like the brutes which perish. there are those who read his books to make them laugh; the wise man, when he reads them, will be far more inclined to weep. let any young man who may see these words remember, that in him, as in rabelais, the ape and the man are struggling for the mastery. let him take warning by the fate of one who was to him as a giant to a pigmy; and think of tennyson's words:-- "arise, and fly the reeling faun, the sensual feast; strive upwards, working out the beast, and let the ape and tiger die." but to return. down among them there at montpellier, like a brilliant meteor, flashed this wonderful rabelais, in the year . he had fled, some say, for his life. like erasmus, he had no mind to be a martyr, and he had been terrified at the execution of poor louis de berquin, his friend, and the friend of erasmus likewise. this louis de berquin, a man well known in those days, was a gallant young gentleman and scholar, holding a place in the court of francis i., who had translated into french the works of erasmus, luther, and melancthon, and had asserted that it was heretical to invoke the virgin mary instead of the holy spirit, or to call her our hope and our life, which titles--berquin averred--belonged alone to god. twice had the doctors of the sorbonne, with that terrible persecutor, noel beda, at their head, seized poor berquin, and tried to burn his books and him; twice had that angel in human form, marguerite d'angouleme, sister of francis i., saved him from their clutches; but when francis--taken prisoner at the battle of pavia--at last returned from his captivity in spain, the suppression of heresy and the burning of heretics seemed to him and to his mother, louise of savoy, a thank-offering so acceptable to god, that louis berquin--who would not, in spite of the entreaties of erasmus, purchase his life by silence--was burnt at last on the place de greve, being first strangled, because he was of gentle blood. montpellier received its famous guest joyfully. rabelais was now forty- two years old, and a distinguished savant; so they excused him his three years' undergraduate's career, and invested him at once with the red gown of the bachelors. that red gown--or, rather, the ragged phantom of it--is still shown at montpellier, and must be worn by each bachelor when he takes his degree. unfortunately, antiquarians assure us that the precious garment has been renewed again and again--the students having clipped bits of it away for relics, and clipped as earnestly from the new gowns as their predecessors had done from the authentic original. doubtless the coming of such a man among them to lecture on the aphorisms of hippocrates, and the ars parva of galen, not from the latin translations then in use, "but from original greek texts, with comments and corrections of his own, must have had a great influence on the minds of the montpellier students; and still more influence--and that not altogether a good one--must rabelais' lighter talk have had, as he lounged--so the story goes--in his dressing-gown upon the public place, picking up quaint stories from the cattle-drivers off the cevennes, and the villagers who came in to sell their olives and their grapes, their vinegar and their vine-twig faggots, as they do unto this day. to him may be owing much of the sound respect for natural science, and much, too, of the contempt for the superstition around them, which is notable in that group of great naturalists who were boys in montpellier at that day. rabelais seems to have liked rondelet, and no wonder: he was a cheery, lovable, honest little fellow, very fond of jokes, a great musician and player on the violin, and who, when he grew rich, liked nothing so well as to bring into his house any buffoon or strolling player to make fun for him. vivacious he was, hot-tempered, forgiving, and with a power of learning and a power of work which were prodigious, even in those hard-working days. rabelais chaffs rondelet, under the name of rondibilis; for, indeed, rondelet grew up into a very round, fat, little man; but rabelais puts excellent sense into his mouth, cynical enough, and too cynical, but both learned and humorous; and, if he laughs at him for being shocked at the offer of a fee, and taking it, nevertheless, kindly enough, rondelet is not the first doctor who has done that, neither will he be the last. rondelet, in his turn, put on the red robe of the bachelor, and received, on taking his degree, his due share of fisticuffs from his dearest friends, according to the ancient custom of the university of montpellier. he then went off to practise medicine in a village at the foot of the alps, and, half-starved, to teach little children. then he found he must learn greek; went off to paris a second time, and alleviated his poverty there somewhat by becoming tutor to a son of the viscomte de turenne. there he met gonthier of andernach, who had taught anatomy at louvain to the great vesalius, and learned from him to dissect. we next find him setting up as a medical man amid the wild volcanic hills of the auvergne, struggling still with poverty, like erasmus, like george buchanan, like almost every great scholar in those days; for students then had to wander from place to place, generally on foot, in search of new teachers, in search of books, in search of the necessaries of life; undergoing such an amount of bodily and mental toil as makes it wonderful that all of them did not--as some of them doubtless did--die under the hard training, or, at best, desert the penurious muses for the paternal shop or plough. rondelet got his doctorate in , and next year fell in love with and married a beautiful young girl called jeanne sandre, who seems to have been as poor as he. but he had gained, meanwhile, a powerful patron and the patronage of the great was then as necessary to men of letters as the patronage of the public is now. guillaume pellicier, bishop of maguelonne--or rather then of montpellier itself, whither he had persuaded paul ii. to transfer the ancient see--was a model of the literary gentleman of the sixteenth century; a savant, a diplomat, a collector of books and manuscripts, greek, hebrew, and syriac, which formed the original nucleus of the present library of the louvre; a botanist, too, who loved to wander with rondelet collecting plants and flowers. he retired from public life to peace and science at montpellier, when to the evil days of his master, francis i., succeeded the still worse days of henry ii., and diana of poitiers. that jezebel of france could conceive no more natural or easy way of atoning for her own sins than that of hunting down heretics, and feasting her wicked eyes--so it is said--upon their dying torments. bishop pellicier fell under suspicion of heresy: very probably with some justice. he fell, too, under suspicion of leading a life unworthy of a celibate churchman, a fault which--if it really existed--was, in those days, pardonable enough in an orthodox prelate, but not so in one whose orthodoxy was suspected. and for a while pellicier was in prison. after his release he gave himself up to science, with rondelet, and the school of disciples who were growing up around him. they rediscovered together the garum, that classic sauce, whose praises had been sung of old by horace, martial, and ausonius; and so childlike, superstitious if you will, was the reverence in the sixteenth century for classic antiquity, that when pellicier and rondelet discovered that the garum was made from the fish called picarel--called garon by the fishers of antibes, and giroli at venice, both these last names corruptions of the latin gerres--then did the two fashionable poets of france, etienne dolet and clement marot, think it not unworthy of their muse to sing the praises of the sauce which horace had sung of old. a proud day, too, was it for pellicier and rondelet, when wandering somewhere in the marshes of the camargue, a scent of garlic caught the nostrils of the gentle bishop, and in the lovely pink flowers of the water-germander he recognised the scordium of the ancients. "the discovery," says professor planchon, "made almost as much noise as that of the famous garum; for at that moment of naive fervour on behalf of antiquity, to rediscover a plant of dioscorides or of pliny was a good fortune and almost an event." i know not whether, after his death, the good bishop's bones reposed beneath some gorgeous tomb, bedizened with the incongruous half-pagan statues of the renaissance: but this, at least, is certain, that rondelet's disciples imagined for him a monument more enduring than of marble or of brass, more graceful and more curiously wrought than all the sculptures of torrigiano or cellini, baccio bandinelli or michael angelo himself. for they named a lovely little lilac snapdragon, _linaria domini pellicerii_,--"lord pellicier's toad-flax;" and that name it will keep, we may believe, as long as winter and summer shall endure. but to return. to this good patron--who was the ambassador at venice--the newly-married rondelet determined to apply for employment; and to venice he would have gone, leaving his bride behind, had he not been stayed by one of those angels who sometimes walk the earth in women's shape. jeanne sandre had an elder sister, catherine, who had brought her up. she was married to a wealthy man, but she had no children of her own. for four years she and her good husband had let the rondelets lodge with them, and now she was a widow, and to part with them was more than she could bear. she carried rondelet off from the students who were seeing him safe out of the city, brought him back, settled on him the same day half her fortune, and soon after settled on him the whole, on the sole condition that she should live with him and her sister. for years afterwards she watched over the pretty young wife and her two girls and three boys--the three boys, alas! all died young--and over rondelet himself, who, immersed in books and experiments, was utterly careless about money; and was to them all a mother, advising, guiding, managing, and regarded by rondelet with genuine gratitude as his guardian angel. honour and good fortune, in the worldly sense, now poured in upon the druggist's son. pellicier, his own bishop, stood godfather to his first- born daughter. montluc, bishop of valence, and that wise and learned statesman, the cardinal of tournon, stood godfathers a few years later to his twin boys; and what was of still more solid worth to him, cardinal tournon took him to antwerp, bordeaux, bayonne, and more than once to rome; and in these italian journeys of his he collected many facts for the great work of his life, that 'history of fishes' which he dedicated, naturally enough, to the cardinal. this book with its plates is, for the time, a masterpiece of accuracy. those who are best acquainted with the subject say, that it is up to the present day a key to the whole ichthyology of the mediterranean. two other men, belon and salviani, were then at work on the same subject, and published their books almost at the same time; a circumstance which caused, as was natural, a three- cornered duel between the supporters of the three naturalists, each party accusing the other of plagiarism. the simple fact seems to be that the almost simultaneous appearance of the three books in - is one of those coincidences inevitable at moments when many minds are stirred in the same direction by the same great thoughts--coincidences which have happened in our own day on questions of geology, biology, and astronomy; and which, when the facts have been carefully examined, and the first flush of natural jealousy has cooled down, have proved only that there were more wise men than one in the world at the same time. and this sixteenth century was an age in which the minds of men were suddenly and strangely turned to examine the wonders of nature with an earnestness, with a reverence, and therefore with an accuracy, with which they had never been investigated before. "nature," says professor planchon, "long veiled in mysticism and scholasticism, was opening up infinite vistas. a new superstition, the exaggerated worship of the ancients, was nearly hindering this movement of thought towards facts. nevertheless learning did her work. she rediscovered, reconstructed, purified, commented on the texts of ancient authors. then came in observation, which showed that more was to be seen in one blade of grass than in any page of pliny. rondelet was in the middle of this crisis a man of transition, while he was one of progress. he reflected the past; he opened and prepared the future. if he commented on dioscorides, if he remained faithful to the theories of galen, he founded in his 'history of fishes' a monument which our century respects. he is above all an inspirer, an initiator; and if he wants one mark of the leader of a school, the foundation of certain scientific doctrines, there is in his speech what is better than all systems, the communicative power which urges a generation of disciples along the path of independent research, with reason for guide, and faith for aim." around rondelet, in those years, sometimes indeed in his house--for professors in those days took private pupils as lodgers--worked the group of botanists whom linnaeus calls "the fathers," the authors of the descriptive botany of the sixteenth century. their names, and those of their disciples and their disciples again, are household words in the mouth of every gardener, immortalised, like good bishop pellicier, in the plants which have been named after them. the lobelia commemorates lobel, one of rondelet's most famous pupils, who wrote those 'adversaria' which contain so many curious sketches of rondelet's botanical expeditions, and who inherited his botanical (as joubert his biographer inherited his anatomical) manuscripts. the magnolia commemorates the magnols; the sarracenia, sarrasin of lyons; the bauhinia, jean bauhin; the fuchsia, bauhin's earlier german master, leonard fuchs; and the clusia--the received name of that terrible "matapalo," or "scotch attorney," of the west indies, which kills the hugest tree, to become as huge a tree itself--immortalizes the great clusius, charles de l'escluse, citizen of arras, who after studying civil law at louvain, philosophy at marburg, and theology at wittemberg under melancthon, came to montpellier in , to live in rondelet's own house, and become the greatest botanist of his age. these were rondelet's palmy days. he had got a theatre of anatomy built at montpellier, where he himself dissected publicly. he had, says tradition, a little botanic garden, such as were springing up then in several universities, specially in italy. he had a villa outside the city, whose tower, near the modern railway station, still bears the name of the "mas de rondelet." there, too, may be seen the remnants of the great tanks, fed with water brought through earthen pipes from the fountain of albe, wherein he kept the fish whose habits he observed. professor planchon thinks that he had salt-water tanks likewise; and thus he may have been the father of all "aquariums." he had a large and handsome house in the city itself, a large practice as physician in the country round; money flowed in fast to him, and flowed out fast likewise. he spent much upon building, pulling down, rebuilding, and sent the bills in seemingly to his wife and to his guardian angel catherine. he himself had never a penny in his purse: but earned the money, and let his ladies spend it; an equitable and pleasant division of labour which most married men would do well to imitate. a generous, affectionate, careless little man, he gave away, says his pupil and biographer, joubert, his valuable specimens to any savant who begged for them, or left them about to be stolen by visitors, who, like too many collectors in all ages, possessed light fingers and lighter consciences. so pacific was he meanwhile, and so brave withal, that even in the fearful years of the troubles, he would never carry sword, nor even tuck or dagger; but went about on the most lonesome journeys as one who wore a charmed life, secure in god and in his calling, which was to heal, and not to kill. these were the golden years of rondelet's life; but trouble was coming on him, and a stormy sunset after a brilliant day. he lost his sister-in- law, to whom he owed all his fortunes, and who had watched ever since over him and his wife like a mother; then he lost his wife herself under most painful circumstances; then his best-beloved daughter. then he married again, and lost the son who was born to him; and then came, as to many of the best in those days, even sorer trials, trials of the conscience, trials of faith. for in the mean time rondelet had become a protestant, like many of the wisest men round him; like, so it would seem from the event, the majority of the university and the burghers of montpellier. it is not to be wondered at. montpellier was a sort of half-way resting-place for protestant preachers, whether fugitive or not, who were passing from basle, geneva, or lyons, to marguerite of navarre's little protestant court at pau or at nerac, where all wise and good men, and now and then some foolish and fanatical ones, found shelter and hospitality. thither calvin himself had been, passing probably through montpellier, and leaving--as such a man was sure to leave--the mark of his foot behind him. at lyons, no great distance up the rhone, marguerite had helped to establish an organised protestant community; and when in she herself had passed through montpellier, to visit her brother at valence, and montmorency's camp at avignon, she took with her doubtless protestant chaplains of her own, who spoke wise words--it may be that she spoke wise words herself--to the ardent and inquiring students of montpellier. moreover, rondelet and his disciples had been for years past in constant communication with the protestant savants of switzerland and germany, among whom the knowledge of nature was progressing as it never had progressed before. for--it is a fact always to be remembered--it was only in the free air of protestant countries the natural sciences could grow and thrive. they sprung up, indeed, in italy after the restoration of greek literature in the fifteenth century; but they withered there again only too soon under the blighting upas shade of superstition. transplanted to the free air of switzerland, of germany, of britain, and of montpellier, then half protestant, they developed rapidly and surely, simply because the air was free; to be checked again in france by the return of superstition with despotism super-added, until the eve of the great french revolution. so rondelet had been for some years protestant. he had hidden in his house for a long while a monk who had left his monastery. he had himself written theological treatises: but when his bishop pellicier was imprisoned on a charge of heresy, rondelet burnt his manuscripts, and kept his opinions to himself. still he was a suspected heretic, at last seemingly a notorious one; for only the year before his death, going to visit patients at perpignan, he was waylaid by the spaniards, and had to get home through bypasses of the pyrenees, to avoid being thrown into the inquisition. and those were times in which it was necessary for a man to be careful, unless he had made up his mind to be burned. for more than thirty years of rondelet's life the burning had gone on in his neighbourhood; intermittently it is true: the spasms of superstitious fury being succeeded, one may charitably hope, by pity and remorse: but still the burnings had gone on. the benedictine monk of st. maur, who writes the history of languedoc, says, quite _en passant_, how some one was burnt at toulouse in , luckily only in effigy, for he had escaped to geneva: but he adds, "next year they burned several heretics," it being not worth while to mention their names. in they burned alive at toulouse jean escalle, a poor franciscan monk, who had found his order intolerable; while one pierre de lavaur, who dared preach calvinism in the streets of nismes, was hanged and burnt. so had the score of judicial murders been increasing year by year, till it had to be, as all evil scores have to be in this world, paid off with interest, and paid off especially against the ignorant and fanatic monks who for a whole generation, in every university and school in france, had been howling down sound science, as well as sound religion; and at montpellier in - , their debt was paid them in a very ugly way. news came down to the hot southerners of languedoc of the so-called conspiracy of amboise.--how the duc de guise and the cardinal de lorraine had butchered the best blood in france under the pretence of a treasonable plot; how the king of navarre and the prince de conde had been arrested; then how conde and coligny were ready to take up arms at the head of all the huguenots of france, and try to stop this lifelong torturing, by sharp shot and cold steel; then how in six months' time the king would assemble a general council to settle the question between catholics and huguenots. the huguenots, guessing how that would end, resolved to settle the question for themselves. they rose in one city after another, sacked the churches, destroyed the images, put down by main force superstitious processions and dances; and did many things only to be excused by the exasperation caused by thirty years of cruelty. at montpellier there was hard fighting, murders--so say the catholic historians--of priests and monks, sack of the new cathedral, destruction of the noble convents which lay in a ring round montpellier. the city and the university were in the hands of the huguenots, and montpellier became protestant on the spot. next year came the counter blow. there were heavy battles with the catholics all round the neighbourhood, destruction of the suburbs, threatened siege and sack, and years of misery and poverty for montpellier and all who were therein. horrible was the state of france in those times of the wars of religion which began in ; the times which are spoken of usually as "the troubles," as if men did not wish to allude to them too openly. then, and afterwards in the wars of the league, deeds were done for which language has no name. the population decreased. the land lay untilled. the fair face of france was blackened with burnt homesteads and ruined towns. ghastly corpses dangled in rows upon the trees, or floated down the blood-stained streams. law and order were at an end. bands of robbers prowled in open day, and bands of wolves likewise. but all through the horrors of the troubles we catch sight of the little fat doctor riding all unarmed to see his patients throughout languedoc; going vast distances, his biographers say, by means of regular relays of horses, till he too broke down. well for him, perhaps, that he broke down when he did; for capture and recapture, massacre and pestilence, were the fate of montpellier and the surrounding country, till the better times of henry iv. and the edict of nantes in , when liberty of worship was given to the protestants for a while. in the burning summer of rondeletius went a long journey to toulouse, seemingly upon an errand of charity, to settle some law affairs for his relations. the sanitary state of the southern cities is bad enough still. it must have been horrible in those days of barbarism and misrule. dysentery was epidemic at toulouse then, and rondelet took it. he knew from the first that he should die. he was worn out, it is said, by over-exertion; by sorrow for the miseries of the land; by fruitless struggles to keep the peace, and to strive for moderation in days when men were all immoderate. but he rode away a day's journey--he took two days over it, so weak he was--in the blazing july sun, to a friend's sick wife at realmont, and there took to his bed, and died a good man's death. the details of his death and last illness were written and published by his cousin claude formy; and well worth reading they are to any man who wishes to know how to die. rondelet would have no tidings of his illness sent to montpellier. he was happy, he said, in dying away from the tears of his household, and "safe from insult." he dreaded, one may suppose, lest priests and friars should force their way to his bedside, and try to extort some recantation from the great savant, the honour and glory of their city. so they sent for no priest to realmont: but round his bed a knot of calvinist gentlemen and ministers read the scriptures, and sang david's psalms, and prayed; and rondelet prayed with them through long agonies, and so went home to god. the benedictine monk-historian of languedoc, in all his voluminous folios, never mentions, as far as i can find, rondelet's existence. why should he? the man was only a druggist's son and a heretic, who healed diseases, and collected plants, and wrote a book on fish. but the learned men of montpellier, and of all europe, had a very different opinion of him. his body was buried at realmont: but before the schools of toulouse they set up a white marble slab, and an inscription thereon setting forth his learning and his virtues; and epitaphs on him were composed by the learned throughout europe, not only in french and latin, but in greek, hebrew, and even chaldee. so lived and so died a noble man; more noble--to my mind--than many a victorious warrior, or successful statesman, or canonised saint. to know facts, and to heal diseases, were the two objects of his life. for them he toiled, as few men have toiled; and he died in harness, at his work--the best death any man can die. vesalius the anatomist i cannot begin a sketch of the life of this great man better than by trying to describe a scene so picturesque, so tragic in the eyes of those who are wont to mourn over human follies, so comic in the eyes of those who prefer to laugh over them, that the reader will not be likely to forget either it or the actors in it. it is a darkened chamber in the college of alcala, in the year , where lies, probably in a huge four-post bed, shrouded in stifling hangings, the heir-apparent of the greatest empire in the then world, don carlos, only son of philip ii., and heir-apparent of spain, the netherlands, and all the indies. a short sickly boy of sixteen, with a bull head, a crooked shoulder, a short leg, and a brutal temper, he will not be missed by the world if he should die. his profligate career seems to have brought its own punishment. to the scandal of his father, who tolerated no one's vices save his own, as well as to the scandal of the university authorities of alcala, he has been scouring the streets at the head of the most profligate students, insulting women, even ladies of rank, and amenable only to his lovely young stepmother, elizabeth of valois, isabel de la paz, as the spaniards call her, the daughter of catherine de medicis, and sister of the king of france. don carlos should have married her, had not his worthy father found it more advantageous for the crown of spain, as well as more pleasant for him philip, to marry her himself. whence came heart-burnings, rage, jealousies, romances, calumnies, of which two last--in as far at least as they concern poor elizabeth--no wise man now believes a word. going on some errand on which he had no business--there are two stories, neither of them creditable nor necessary to repeat--don carlos has fallen down stairs and broken his head. he comes, by his portuguese mother's side, of a house deeply tainted with insanity; and such an injury may have serious consequences. however, for nine days the wound goes on well, and don carlos, having had a wholesome fright, is, according to doctor olivarez, the _medico de camara_, a very good lad, and lives on chicken broth and dried plums. but on the tenth day comes on numbness of the left side, acute pains in the head, and then gradually shivering, high fever, erysipelas. his head and neck swell to an enormous size; then comes raging delirium, then stupefaction, and don carlos lies as one dead. a modern surgeon would, probably, thanks to that training of which vesalius may be almost called the father, have had little difficulty in finding out what was the matter with the luckless lad, and little difficulty in removing the evil, if it had not gone too far. but the spanish physicians were then, as many of them are said to be still, as far behind the world in surgery as in other things; and indeed surgery itself was then in its infancy, because men, ever since the early greek schools of alexandria had died out, had been for centuries feeding their minds with anything rather than with facts. therefore the learned morosophs who were gathered round don carlos's sick bed had become, according to their own confession, utterly confused, terrified, and at their wits' end. it is the th of may, the eighteenth day after the accident, according to olivarez' story: he and dr. vega have been bleeding the unhappy prince, enlarging the wound twice, and torturing him seemingly on mere guesses. "i believe," says olivarez, "that all was done well: but as i have said, in wounds in the head there are strange labyrinths." so on the th they stand round the bed in despair. don garcia de toledo, the prince's faithful governor, is sitting by him, worn out with sleepless nights, and trying to supply to the poor boy that mother's tenderness which he has never known. alva too is there, stern, self-compressed, most terrible, and yet most beautiful. he has a god on earth, and that is philip his master; and though he has borne much from don carlos already, and will have to bear more, yet the wretched lad is to him as a son of god, a second deity, who will by right divine succeed to the inheritance of the first; and he watches this lesser deity struggling between life and death with an intensity of which we, in these less loyal days, can form no notion. one would be glad to have a glimpse of what passed through that mind, so subtle and so ruthless, so disciplined and so loyal withal: but alva was a man who was not given to speak his mind, but to act it. one would wish, too, for a glimpse of what was passing through the mind of another man, who has been daily in that sick chamber, according to olivarez' statement, since the first of the month: but he is one who has had, for some years past, even more reason than alva for not speaking his mind. what he looked like we know well, for titian has painted him from the life--a tall, bold, well-dressed man, with a noble brain, square and yet lofty, short curling locks and beard, an eye which looks as though it feared neither man nor fiend--and it has had good reason to fear both--and features which would be exceeding handsome, but for the defiant snub-nose. that is andreas vesalius, of brussels, dreaded and hated by the doctors of the old school--suspect, moreover, it would seem, to inquisitors and theologians, possibly to alva himself; for he has dared to dissect human bodies; he has insulted the medievalists at paris, padua, bologna, pisa, venice, in open theatre; he has turned the heads of all the young surgeons in italy and france; he has written a great book, with prints in it, designed, some say, by titian--they were actually done by another netherlander, john of calcar, near cleves--in which he has dared to prove that galen's anatomy was at fault throughout, and that he had been describing a monkey's inside when he had pretended to be describing a man's; and thus, by impudence and quackery, he has wormed himself--this netherlander, a heretic at heart, as all netherlanders are, to god as well as to galen--into the confidence of the late emperor charles v., and gone campaigning with him as one of his physicians, anatomising human bodies even on the battle-field, and defacing the likeness of deity; and worse than that, the most religious king philip is deceived by him likewise, and keeps him in madrid in wealth and honour; and now, in the prince's extreme danger, the king has actually sent for him, and bidden him try his skill--a man who knows nothing save about bones and muscles and the outside of the body, and is unworthy the name of a true physician. one can conceive the rage of the old spanish pedants at the netherlander's appearance, and still more at what followed, if we are to believe hugo bloet of delft, his countryman and contemporary. { } vesalius, he says, saw that the surgeons had bound up the wound so tight that an abscess had formed outside the skull, which could not break: he asserted that the only hope lay in opening it; and did so, philip having given leave, "by two cross-cuts. then the lad returned to himself, as if awakened from a profound sleep, affirming that he owed his restoration to life to the german doctor." dionysius daza, who was there with the other physicians and surgeons, tells a different story: "the most learned, famous, and rare baron vesalius," he says, advised that the skull should be trepanned; but his advice was not followed. olivarez' account agrees with that of daza. they had opened the wounds, he says, down to the skull before vesalius came. vesalius insisted that the injury lay inside the skull, and wished to pierce it. olivarez spends much labour in proving that vesalius had "no great foundation for his opinion:" but confesses that he never changed that opinion to the last, though all the spanish doctors were against him. then on the th, he says, the bachelor torres came from madrid, and advised that the skull should be laid bare once more; and on the th, there being still doubt whether the skull was not injured, the operation was performed--by whom it is not said--but without any good result, or, according to olivarez, any discovery, save that vesalius was wrong, and the skull uninjured. "whether this second operation of the th of may was performed by vesalius, and whether it was that of which bloet speaks, is an open question. olivarez' whole relation is apologetic, written to justify himself and his seven spanish colleagues, and to prove vesalius in the wrong. public opinion, he confesses, had been very fierce against him. the credit of spanish medicine was at stake: and we are not bound to believe implicitly a paper drawn up under such circumstances for philip's eye. this, at least, we gather: that don carlos was never trepanned, as is commonly said; and this, also, that whichever of the two stories is true, equally puts vesalius into direct, and most unpleasant, antagonism to the spanish doctors. { } but don carlos still lay senseless; and yielding to popular clamour, the doctors called in the aid of a certain moorish doctor, from valencia, named priotarete, whose unguents, it was reported, had achieved many miraculous cures. the unguent, however, to the horror of the doctors, burned the skull till the bone was as black as the colour of ink; and olivarez declares he believes it to have been a preparation of pure caustic. on the morning of the th of may, the moor and his unguents were sent away, "and went to madrid, to send to heaven hernando de vega, while the prince went back to our method of cure." considering what happened on the morning of the th of may, we should now presume that the second opening of the abscess, whether by vesalius or someone else, relieved the pressure on the brain; that a critical period of exhaustion followed, probably prolonged by the moor's premature caustic, which stopped the suppuration: but that god's good handiwork, called nature, triumphed at last; and that therefore it came to pass that the prince was out of danger within three days of the operation. but he was taught, it seems, to attribute his recovery to a very different source from that of a german knife. for on the morning of the th, when the moor was gone, and don carlos lay seemingly lifeless, there descended into his chamber a deus e machina, or rather a whole pantheon of greater or lesser deities, who were to effect that which medical skill seemed not to have effected. philip sent into the prince's chamber several of the precious relics which he usually carried about with him. the miraculous image of the virgin of atocha, in embroidering garments for whom, spanish royalty, male and female, has spent so many an hour ere now, was brought in solemn procession and placed on an altar at the foot of the prince's bed; and in the afternoon there entered, with a procession likewise, a shrine containing the bones of a holy anchorite, one fray diego, "whose life and miracles," says olivarez, "are so notorious;" and the bones of st. justus and st. pastor, the tutelar saints of the university of alcala. amid solemn litanies the relics of fray diego were laid upon the prince's pillow, and the sudarium, or mortuary cloth, which had covered his face, was placed upon the prince's forehead. modern science might object that the presence of so many personages, however pious or well intentioned, in a sick chamber on a hot spanish may day, especially as the bath had been, for some generations past, held in religious horror throughout spain, as a sign of moorish and mussulman tendencies, might have somewhat interfered with the chances of the poor boy's recovery. nevertheless the event seems to have satisfied philip's highest hopes; for that same night (so don carlos afterwards related) the holy monk diego appeared to him in a vision, wearing the habit of st. francis, and bearing in his hand a cross of reeds tied with a green band. the prince stated that he first took the apparition to be that of the blessed st. francis; but not seeing the stigmata, he exclaimed, "how? dost thou not bear the marks of the wounds?" what he replied don carlos did not recollect; save that he consoled him, and told him that he should not die of that malady. philip had returned to madrid, and shut himself up in grief in the great jeronymite monastery. elizabeth was praying for her step-son before the miraculous images of the same city. during the night of the th of may prayers went up for don carlos in all the churches of toledo, alcala, and madrid. alva stood all that night at the bed's foot. don garcia de toledo sat in the arm-chair, where he had now sat night and day for more than a fortnight. the good preceptor, honorato juan, afterwards bishop of osma, wrestled in prayer for the lad the whole night through. his prayer was answered: probably it had been answered already, without his being aware of it. be that as it may, about dawn don carlos' heavy breathing ceased; he fell into a quiet sleep; and when he awoke all perceived at once that he was saved. he did not recover his sight, seemingly on account of the erysipelas, for a week more. he then opened his eyes upon the miraculous image of atocha, and vowed that, if he recovered, he would give to the virgin, at four different shrines in spain, gold plate of four times his weight; and silver plate of seven times his weight, when he should rise from his couch. so on the th of june he rose, and was weighed in a fur coat and a robe of damask, and his weight was three arrobas and one pound--seventy- six pounds in all. on the th of june he went to visit his father at the episcopal palace; then to all the churches and shrines in alcala, and of course to that of fray diego, whose body it is said he contemplated for some time with edifying devotion. the next year saw fray diego canonised as a saint, at the intercession of philip and his son; and thus don carlos re-entered the world, to be a terror and a torment to all around him, and to die--not by philip's cruelty, as his enemies reported too hastily indeed, yet excusably, for they knew him to be capable of any wickedness--but simply of constitutional insanity. and now let us go back to the history of "that most learned, famous, and rare baron vesalius," who had stood by and seen all these things done; and try if we cannot, after we have learned the history of his early life, guess at some of his probable meditations on this celebrated clinical case; and guess also how those meditations may have affected seriously the events of his after life. vesalius (as i said) was a netherlander, born at brussels in or . his father and grandfather had been medical men of the highest standing in a profession which then, as now, was commonly hereditary. his real name was wittag, an ancient family of wesel, on the rhine, from which town either he or his father adopted the name of vesalius, according to the classicising fashion of those days. young vesalius was sent to college at louvain, where he learned rapidly. at sixteen or seventeen he knew not only latin, but greek enough to correct the proofs of galen, and arabic enough to become acquainted with the works of the mussulman physicians. he was a physicist, too, and a mathematician, according to the knowledge of those times; but his passion--the study to which he was destined to devote his life--was anatomy. little or nothing (it must be understood) had been done in anatomy since the days of galen of pergamos, in the second century after christ, and very little even by him. dissection was all but forbidden among the ancients. the egyptians, herodotus tells us, used to pursue with stones and curses the embalmers as soon as they had performed their unpleasant office; and though herophilus and erasistratus are said to have dissected many subjects under the protection of ptolemy soter in alexandria itself: yet the public feeling of the greeks as well as of the romans continued the same as that of the ancient egyptians; and galen was fain--as vesalius proved--to supplement his ignorance of the human frame by describing that of an ape. dissection was equally forbidden among the mussulmans; and the great arabic physicians could do no more than comment on galen. the same prejudice extended through the middle age. medical men were all clerks, clerici, and as such forbidden to shed blood. the only dissection, as far as i am aware, made during the middle age was one by mundinus in ; and his subsequent commentaries on galen--for he dare allow his own eyes to see no more than galen had seen before him--constituted the best anatomical manual in europe till the middle of the fifteenth century. then, in italy at least, the classic renaissance gave fresh life to anatomy as to all other sciences. especially did the improvements in painting and sculpture stir men up to a closer study of the human frame. leonardo da vinci wrote a treatise on muscular anatomy: the artist and the sculptor often worked together, and realised that sketch of michael angelo's in which he himself is assisting fallopius, vesalius' famous pupil, to dissect. vesalius soon found that his thirst for facts could not be slaked by the theories of the middle age; so in he went off to montpellier, where francis i. had just founded a medical school, and where the ancient laws of the city allowed the faculty each year the body of a criminal. from thence, after becoming the fellow-pupil and the friend of rondelet, and probably also of rabelais and those other luminaries of montpellier, of whom i spoke in my essay on rondelet, he returned to paris to study under old sylvius, whose real name was jacques dubois, _alias_ jock o' the wood; and to learn less--as he complains himself--in an anatomical theatre than a butcher might learn in his shop. were it not that the whole question of dissection is one over which it is right to draw a reverent veil, as a thing painful, however necessary and however innocent, it would be easy to raise ghastly laughter in many a reader by the stories which vesalius himself tells of his struggles to learn anatomy.--how old sylvius tried to demonstrate the human frame from a bit of a dog, fumbling in vain for muscles which he could not find, or which ought to have been there, according to galen, and were not; while young vesalius, as soon as the old pedant's back was turned, took his place, and, to the delight of the students, found for him--provided it were there--what he could not find himself;--how he went body-snatching and gibbet-robbing, often at the danger of his life, as when he and his friend were nearly torn to pieces by the cannibal dogs who haunted the butte de montfaucon, or place of public execution;--how he acquired, by a long and dangerous process, the only perfect skeleton then in the world, and the hideous story of the robber to whom it had belonged--all these horrors those who list may read for themselves elsewhere. i hasten past them with this remark--that to have gone through the toils, dangers, and disgusts which vesalius faced, argued in a superstitious and cruel age like his, no common physical and moral courage, and a deep conscience that he was doing right, and must do it at all risks in the face of a generation which, peculiarly reckless of human life and human agony, allowed that frame which it called the image of god to be tortured, maimed, desecrated in every way while alive; and yet--straining at the gnat after having swallowed the camel--forbade it to be examined when dead, though for the purpose of alleviating the miseries of mankind. the breaking out of war between francis i. and charles v. drove vesalius back to his native country and louvain; and in we hear of him as a surgeon in charles v.'s army. he saw, most probably, the emperor's invasion of provence, and the disastrous retreat from before montmorency's fortified camp at avignon, through a country in which that crafty general had destroyed every article of human food, except the half- ripe grapes. he saw, perhaps, the spanish soldiers, poisoned alike by the sour fruit and by the blazing sun, falling in hundreds along the white roads which led back into savoy, murdered by the peasantry whose homesteads had been destroyed, stifled by the weight of their own armour, or desperately putting themselves, with their own hands, out of a world which had become intolerable. half the army perished. two thousand corpses lay festering between aix and frejus alone. if young vesalius needed "subjects," the ambition and the crime of man found enough for him in those blazing september days. he went to italy, probably with the remnants of the army. where could he have rather wished to find himself? he was at last in the country where the human mind seemed to be growing young once more; the country of revived arts, revived sciences, learning, languages; and--though, alas, only for a while--of revived free thought, such as europe had not seen since the palmy days of greece. here at least he would be appreciated; here at least he would be allowed to think and speak: and he was appreciated. the italian cities, who were then, like the athenians of old, "spending their time in nothing else save to hear or to tell something new," welcomed the brave young fleming and his novelties. within two years he was professor of anatomy at padua, then the first school in the world; then at bologna and at pisa at the same time; last of all at venice, where titian painted that portrait of him which remains unto this day. these years were for him a continual triumph; everywhere, as he demonstrated on the human body, students crowded his theatre, or hung round him as he walked the streets; professors left their own chairs--their scholars having deserted them already--to go and listen humbly or enviously to the man who could give them what all brave souls throughout half europe were craving for, and craving in vain: facts. and so, year after year, was realised that scene which stands engraved in the frontispiece of his great book--where, in the little quaint cinquecento theatre, saucy scholars, reverend doctors, gay gentlemen, and even cowled monks, are crowding the floor, peeping over each other's shoulders, hanging on the balustrades; while in the centre, over his "subject"--which one of those same cowled monks knew but too well--stands young vesalius, upright, proud, almost defiant, as one who knows himself safe in the impregnable citadel of fact; and in his hand the little blade of steel, destined--because wielded in obedience to the laws of nature, which are the laws of god--to work more benefit for the human race than all the swords which were drawn in those days, or perhaps in any other, at the bidding of most catholic emperors and most christian kings. those were indeed days of triumph for vesalius; of triumph deserved, because earned by patient and accurate toil in a good cause: but vesalius, being but a mortal man, may have contracted in those same days a temper of imperiousness and self-conceit, such as he showed afterwards when his pupil fallopius dared to add fresh discoveries to those of his master. and yet, in spite of all vesalius knew, how little he knew! how humbling to his pride it would have been had he known then--perhaps he does know now--that he had actually again and again walked, as it were, round and round the true theory of the circulation of the blood, and yet never seen it; that that discovery which, once made, is intelligible, as far as any phenomenon is intelligible, to the merest peasant, was reserved for another century, and for one of those englishmen on whom vesalius would have looked as semi-barbarians. to make a long story short: three years after the publication of his famous book, 'de corporis humani fabrica,' he left venice to cure charles v., at regensburg, and became one of the great emperor's physicians. this was the crisis of vesalius' life. the medicine with which he had worked the cure was china--sarsaparilla, as we call it now--brought home from the then newly-discovered banks of the paraguay and uruguay, where its beds of tangled vine, they say, tinge the clear waters a dark brown like that of peat, and convert whole streams into a healthful and pleasant tonic. on the virtues of this china (then supposed to be a root) vesalius wrote a famous little book, into which he contrived to interweave his opinions on things in general, as good bishop berkeley did afterwards into his essay on the virtues of tar-water. into this book, however, vesalius introduced--as bishop berkeley did not--much, and perhaps too much, about himself; and much, though perhaps not too much, about poor old galen, and his substitution of an ape's inside for that of a human being. the storm which had been long gathering burst upon him. the old school, trembling for their time-honoured reign, bespattered, with all that pedantry, ignorance, and envy could suggest, the man who dared not only to revolutionise surgery, but to interfere with the privileged mysteries of medicine; and, over and above, to become a favourite at the court of the greatest of monarchs. while such as eustachius, himself an able discoverer, could join in the cry, it is no wonder if a lower soul, like that of sylvius, led it open-mouthed. he was a mean, covetous, bad man, as george buchanan well knew; and, according to his nature, he wrote a furious book, 'ad vesani calumnias depulsandas.' the punning change of vesalius into vesanus (madman) was but a fair and gentle stroke for a polemic, in days in which those who could not kill their enemies with steel or powder, held themselves justified in doing so, if possible, by vituperation, culumny, and every engine of moral torture. but a far more terrible weapon, and one which made vesalius rage, and it may be for once in his life tremble, was the charge of impiety and heresy. the inquisition was a very ugly place. it was very easy to get into it, especially for a netherlander: but not so easy to get out. indeed vesalius must have trembled, when he saw his master, charles v., himself take fright, and actually call on the theologians of salamanca to decide whether it was lawful to dissect a human body. the monks, to their honour, used their common sense, and answered yes. the deed was so plainly useful, that it must be lawful likewise. but vesalius did not feel that he had triumphed. he dreaded, possibly, lest the storm should only have blown over for a time. he fell, possibly, into hasty disgust at the folly of mankind, and despair of arousing them to use their common sense, and acknowledge their true interest and their true benefactors. at all events, he threw into the fire--so it is said--all his unpublished manuscripts, the records of long years of observation, and renounced science thenceforth. we hear of him after this at brussels, and at basle likewise--in which latter city, in the company of physicians, naturalists, and grecians, he must have breathed awhile a freer air. but he seems to have returned thence to his old master charles v., and to have finally settled at madrid as a court surgeon to philip ii., who sent him, but too late, to extract the lance splinters from the eye of the dying henry ii. he was now married to a lady of rank from brussels, anne van hamme by name; and their daughter married in time philip ii.'s grand falconer, who was doubtless a personage of no small social rank. he was well off in worldly things; somewhat fond, it is said, of good living and of luxury; inclined, it may be, to say, "let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die," and to sink more and more into the mere worldling, unless some shock awoke him from his lethargy. and the awakening shock did come. after eight years of court life, he resolved early in the year to go on pilgrimage to jerusalem. the reasons for so strange a determination are wrapped in mystery and contradiction. the common story was that he had opened a corpse to ascertain the cause of death, and that, to the horror of the bystanders, the heart was still seen to beat; that his enemies accused him to the inquisition, and that he was condemned to death, a sentence which was commuted to that of going on pilgrimage. but here, at the very outset, accounts differ. one says that the victim was a nobleman, name not given; another that it was a lady's maid, name not given. it is most improbable, if not impossible, that vesalius, of all men, should have mistaken a living body for a dead one; while it is most probable, on the other hand, that his medical enemies would gladly raise such a calumny against him, when he was no longer in spain to contradict it. meanwhile llorente, the historian of the inquisition, makes no mention of vesalius having been brought before its tribunal, while he does mention vesalius' residence at madrid. another story is, that he went abroad to escape the bad temper of his wife; another that he wanted to enrich himself. another story--and that not an unlikely one--is, that he was jealous of the rising reputation of his pupil fallopius, then professor of anatomy at venice. this distinguished surgeon, as i said before, had written a book, in which he had added to vesalius' discoveries, and corrected certain errors of his. vesalius had answered him hastily and angrily, quoting his anatomy from memory; for, as he himself complained, he could not in spain obtain a subject for dissection; not even, he said, a single skull. he had sent his book to venice to be published, and had heard, seemingly, nothing of it. he may have felt that he was falling behind in the race of science, and that it was impossible for him to carry on his studies in madrid; and so, angry with his own laziness and luxury, he may have felt the old sacred fire flash up in him, and have determined to go to italy and become a student and a worker once more. the very day that he set out, clusius of arras, then probably the best botanist in the world, arrived at madrid; and, asking the reason of vesalius' departure, was told by their fellow-countryman, charles de tisnacq, procurator for the affairs of the netherlands, that vesalius had gone of his own free will, and with all facilities which philip could grant him, in performance of a vow which he had made during a dangerous illness. here, at least, we have a drop of information, which seems taken from the stream sufficiently near to the fountain-head: but it must be recollected that de tisnacq lived in dangerous times, and may have found it necessary to walk warily in them; that through him had been sent, only the year before, that famous letter from william of orange, horn, and egmont, the fate whereof may be read in mr. motley's fourth chapter; that the crisis of the netherlands which sprung out of that letter was coming fast; and that, as de tisnacq was on friendly terms with egmont, he may have felt his head at times somewhat loose on his shoulders; especially if he had heard alva say, as he wrote, "that every time he saw the despatches of those three senors, they moved his choler so, that if he did not take much care to temper it, he would seem a frenzied man." in such times, de tisnacq may have thought good to return a diplomatic answer to a fellow-countryman concerning a third fellow-countryman, especially when that countryman, as a former pupil of melancthon at wittemberg, might himself be under suspicion of heresy, and therefore of possible treason. be this as it may, one cannot but suspect some strain of truth in the story about the inquisition; perhaps in that, also, of his wife's unkindness; for, whether or not vesalius operated on don carlos, he had seen with his own eyes that miraculous virgin of atocha at the bed's foot of the prince. he had heard his recovery attributed, not to the operation, but to the intercession of fray, now saint, diego; { } and he must have had his thoughts thereon, and may, in an unguarded moment, have spoken them. for he was, be it always remembered, a netherlander. the crisis of his country was just at hand. rebellion was inevitable, and, with rebellion, horrors unutterable; and, meanwhile, don carlos had set his mad brain on having the command of the netherlands. in his rage at not having it, as all the world knows, he nearly killed alva with his own hands, some two years after. if it be true that don carlos felt a debt of gratitude to vesalius, he may (after his wont) have poured out to him some wild confidence about the netherlands, to have even heard which would be a crime in philip's eyes. and if this be but a fancy, still vesalius was, as i just said, a netherlander, and one of a brain and a spirit to which philip's doings, and the air of the spanish court, must have been growing even more and more intolerable. hundreds of his country folk, perhaps men and women whom he had known, were being racked, burnt alive, buried alive, at the bidding of a jocular ruffian, peter titelmann, the chief inquisitor. the "day of the _mau-brulez_," and the wholesale massacre which followed it, had happened but two years before; and, by all the signs of the times, these murders and miseries were certain to increase. and why were all these poor wretches suffering the extremity of horror, but because they would not believe in miraculous images, and bones of dead friars, and the rest of that science of unreason and unfact, against which vesalius had been fighting all his life, consciously or not, by using reason and observing fact? what wonder if, in some burst of noble indignation and just contempt, he forgot a moment that he had sold his soul, and his love of science likewise, to be a luxurious, yet uneasy, hanger-on at the tyrant's court; and spoke unadvisedly some word worthy of a german man? as to the story of his unhappy quarrels with his wife, there may be a grain of truth in it likewise. vesalius' religion must have sat very lightly on him. the man who had robbed churchyards and gibbets from his youth was not likely to be much afraid of apparitions and demons. he had handled too many human bones to care much for those of saints. he was probably, like his friends of basle, montpellier, and paris, somewhat of a heretic at heart, probably somewhat of a pagan. his lady, anne van hamme, was probably a strict catholic, as her father, being a councillor and master of the exchequer at brussels, was bound to be; and freethinking in the husband, crossed by superstition in the wife, may have caused in them that wretched vie a part, that want of any true communion of soul, too common to this day in catholic countries. be these things as they may--and the exact truth of them will now be never known--vesalius set out to jerusalem in the spring of . on his way he visited his old friends at venice to see about his book against fallopius. the venetian republic received the great philosopher with open arms. fallopius was just dead; and the senate offered their guest the vacant chair of anatomy. he accepted it: but went on to the east. he never occupied that chair; wrecked upon the isle of zante, as he was sailing back from palestine, he died miserably of fever and want, as thousands of pilgrims returning from the holy land had died before him. a goldsmith recognised him; buried him in a chapel of the virgin; and put up over him a simple stone, which remained till late years; and may remain, for aught i know, even now. so perished, in the prime of life, "a martyr to his love of science," to quote the words of m. burggraeve of ghent, his able biographer and commentator, "the prodigious man, who created a science at an epoch when everything was still an obstacle to his progress; a man whose whole life was a long struggle of knowledge against ignorance, of truth against lies." plaudite: exeat: with rondelet and buchanan. and whensoever this poor foolish world needs three such men, may god of his great mercy send them. footnotes { } , adam street, adelphi, london. { } i quote from the translation of the late lamented philip stanhope worsley, of corpus christi college, oxford. { } odyssey, book vi. - ; vol. i. pp. - of mr. worsley's translation. { } since this essay was written, i have been sincerely delighted to find that my wishes had been anticipated at girton college, near cambridge, and previously at hitchin, whence the college was removed: and that the wise ladies who superintend that establishment propose also that most excellent institution--a swimming bath. a paper, moreover, read before the london association of schoolmistresses in , on "physical exercises and recreation for girls," deserves all attention. may those who promote such things prosper as they deserve. { } for an account of sorcery and fetishism among the african negros, see burton's 'lake regions of central africa,' vol. ii. pp. - . { } an arcade in the king's school, chester. { } so says dr. irving, writing in . i have, however, tried in vain to get a sight of this book. i need not tell scotch scholars how much i am indebted throughout this article to dr. david living's erudite second edition of buchanan's life. { } from the quaint old translation of , by "a person of honour of the kingdom of scotland." { } a life of rondelet, by his pupil laurent joubert, is to be found appended to his works; and with it an account of his illness and death, by his cousin, claude formy, which is well worth the perusal of any man, wise or foolish. many interesting details beside, i owe to the courtesy of professor planchon, of montpellier, author of a discourse on 'rondelet et ses disciples,' which appeared, with a learned and curious appendice, in the 'montpellier medical' for . { } i owe this account of bloet's--which appears to me the only one trustworthy--to the courtesy and erudition of professor henry morley, who finds it quoted from bloet's 'acroama,' in the 'observationum medicarum rariorum, lib. vii.,' of john theodore schenk. those who wish to know several curious passages of vesalius' life, which i have not inserted in this article, would do well to consult one by professor morley, 'anatomy in long clothes,' in 'fraser's magazine' for november, . may i express a hope, which i am sure will be shared by all who have read professor morley's biographies of jerome cardan and of cornelius agrippa, that he will find leisure to return to the study of vesalius' life; and will do for him what he has done for the two just-mentioned writers? { } olivarez' 'relacion' is to be found in the granvelle state papers. for the general account of don carlos' illness, and of the miraculous agencies by which his cure was said to have been effected, the general reader should consult miss frere's 'biography of elizabeth of valois,' vol. i. pp. - . { } in justice to poor doctor olivarez, it must be said, that while he allows all force to the intercession of the virgin and of fray diego, and of "many just persons," he cannot allow that there was any "miracle properly so called," because the prince was cured according to "natural order," and by "experimented remedies" of the physicians. critical miscellanies by john morley vol. iii. essay : on popular culture london macmillan and co., limited new york: the macmillan company on popular culture page introduction importance of provincial centres report of the midland institute success of the french classes less success of english history value of a short comprehensive course dr. arnold's saying about history 'traced backwards' value of a short course of general history value of a sound notion of evidence text-books of scientific logic not adequate for popular objects a new instrument suggested an incidental advantage of it general knowledge not necessarily superficial popular culture and academic organisation some of the great commonplaces of study conclusion on popular culture an address delivered at the town hall, birmingham (october , ), by the writer, as president of the midland institute. the proceedings which have now been brought satisfactorily to an end are of a kind which nobody who has sensibility as well as sense can take a part in without some emotion. an illustrious french philosopher who happened to be an examiner of candidates for admission to the polytechnic school, once confessed that, when a youth came before him eager to do his best, competently taught, and of an apt intelligence, he needed all his self-control to press back the tears from his eyes. well, when we think how much industry, patience, and intelligent discipline; how many hard hours of self-denying toil; how many temptations to worthless pleasures resisted; how much steadfast feeling for things that are honest and true and of good report--are all represented by the young men and young women to whom i have had the honour of giving your prizes to-night, we must all feel our hearts warmed and gladdened in generous sympathy with so much excellence, so many good hopes, and so honourable a display of those qualities which make life better worth having for ourselves, and are so likely to make the world better worth living in for those who are to come after us. if a prize-giving is always an occasion of lively satisfaction, my own satisfaction is all the greater at this moment, because your institute, which is doing such good work in the world, and is in every respect so prosperous and so flourishing, is the creation of the people of your own district, without subsidy and without direction either from london, or from oxford, or from cambridge, or from any other centre whatever. nobody in this town at any rate needs any argument of mine to persuade him that we can only be sure of advancing all kinds of knowledge, and developing our national life in all its plenitude and variety, on condition of multiplying these local centres both of secondary and higher education, and encouraging each of them to fight its own battle, and do its work in its own way. for my own part i look with the utmost dismay at the concentration, not only of population, but of the treasures of instruction, in our vast city on the banks of the thames. at birmingham, as i am informed, one has not far to look for an example of this. one of the branches of your multifarious trades in this town is the manufacture of jewellery. some of it is said commonly to be wanting in taste, elegance, skill; though some of it also--if i am not misinformed--is good enough to be passed off at rome and at paris, even to connoisseurs, as of roman or french production. now the nation possesses a most superb collection of all that is excellent and beautiful in jewellers' work. when i say that the nation possesses it, i mean that london possesses it. the university of oxford, by the way, has also purchased a portion, but that is not at present accessible. if one of your craftsmen in that kind wants to profit by these admirable models, he must go to london. what happens is that he goes to the capital and stays there. its superficial attractions are too strong for him. you lose a clever workman and a citizen, and he adds one more atom to that huge, overgrown, and unwieldy community. now, why, in the name of common sense, should not a portion of the castellani collection pass six months of the year in birmingham, the very place of all others where it is most likely to be of real service, and to make an effective mark on the national taste?[ ] to pass on to the more general remarks which you are accustomed to expect from the president of the institute on this occasion. when i consulted one of your townsmen as to the subject which he thought would be most useful and most interesting to you, he said: 'pray talk about anything you please, if it is only not education.' there is a saying that there are two kinds of foolish people in the world, those who give advice, and those who do not take it. my friend and i in this matter represent these two interesting divisions of the race, for in spite of what he said, it is upon education after all that i propose to offer you some short observations. you will believe it no affectation on my part, when i say that i shall do so with the sincerest willingness to be corrected by those of wider practical experience in teaching. i am well aware, too, that i have very little that is new to say, but education is one of those matters on which much that has already been said will long bear saying over and over again. i have been looking through the report of your classes, and two things have rather struck me, which i will mention. one of them is the very large attendance in the french classes. this appears a singularly satisfactory thing, because you could scarcely do a hard-working man of whatever class a greater service than to give him easy access to french literature. montesquieu used to say that he had never known a pain or a distress which he could not soothe by half an hour of a good book; and perhaps it is no more of an exaggeration to say that a man who can read french with comfort need never have a dull hour. our own literature has assuredly many a kingly name. in boundless riches and infinite imaginative variety, there is no rival to shakespeare in the world; in energy and height and majesty milton and burke have no masters. but besides its great men of this loftier sort, france has a long list of authors who have produced a literature whose chief mark is its agreeableness. as has been so often said, the genius of the french language is its clearness, firmness, and order; to this clearness certain circumstances in the history of french society have added the delightful qualities of liveliness in union with urbanity. now as one of the most important parts of popular education is to put people in the way of amusing and refreshing themselves in a rational rather than an irrational manner, it is a great gain to have given them the key to the most amusing and refreshing set of books in the world. and here, perhaps, i may be permitted to remark that it seems a pity that racine is so constantly used as a school-book, instead of some of the moderns who are nearer to ourselves in ideas and manners. racine is a great and admirable writer; but what you want for ordinary readers who have not much time, and whose faculties of attention are already largely exhausted by the more important industry of the day, is a book which brings literature more close to actual life than such a poet as racine does. this is exactly one of the gifts and charms of modern french. to put what i mean very shortly, i would say, by way of illustration, that a man who could read the essays of ste. beuve with moderate comfort would have in his hands--of course i am now speaking of the active and busy part of the world, not of bookmen and students--would, i say, have in his hands one of the very best instruments that i can think of; such work is exquisite and instructive in itself, it is a model of gracious writing, it is full of ideas, it breathes the happiest moods over us, and it is the most suggestive of guides, for those who have the capacity of extensive interests, to all the greater spheres of thought and history. this word brings me back to the second fact that has struck me in your report, and it is this. the subject of english history has apparently so little popularity, that the class is as near being a failure as anything connected with the midland institute can be. on the whole, whatever may be the ability and the zeal of the teacher, this is in my humble judgment neither very surprising nor particularly mortifying, if we think what history in the established conception of it means. how are we to expect workmen to make their way through constitutional antiquities, through the labyrinthine shifts of party intrigue at home, and through the entanglements of intricate diplomacy abroad--'shallow village tales,' as emerson calls them? these studies are fit enough for professed students of the special subject, but such exploration is for the ordinary run of men and women impossible, and i do not know that it would lead them into very fruitful lands even if it were easy. you know what the great duke of marlborough said: that he had learnt all the history he ever knew out of shakespeare's historical plays. i have long thought that if we persuaded those classes who have to fight their own little battles of blenheim for bread every day, to make such a beginning of history as is furnished by shakespeare's plays and scott's novels, we should have done more to imbue them with a real interest in the past of mankind, than if we had taken them through a course of hume and smollett, or hallam on the english constitution, or even the dazzling macaulay. what i for one should like to see in such an institution as this, would be an attempt to compress the whole history of england into a dozen or fifteen lectures--lectures of course accompanied by catechetical instruction. i am not so extravagant as to dream that a short general course of this kind would be enough to go over so many of the details as it is desirable for men to know, but details in popular instruction, though not in study of the writer or the university professor, are only important after you have imparted the largest general truths. it is the general truths that stir a life-like curiosity as to the particulars which they are the means of lighting up. now this short course would be quite enough to present in a bold outline--and it need not be a whit the less true and real for being both bold and rapid--the great chains of events and the decisive movements that have made of ourselves and our institutions what we and what they are--the teutonic beginnings, the conquest, the great charter, the hundred years' war, the reformation, the civil wars and the revolution, the emancipation of the american colonies from the monarchy. if this course were framed and filled in with a true social intelligence--men would find that they had at the end of it a fair idea--an idea that might be of great value, and at any rate an idea much to be preferred to that blank ignorance which is in so many cases practically the only alternative--of the large issues of our past, of the antagonistic principles that strove with one another for mastery, of the chief material forces and moral currents of successive ages, and above all of those great men and our fathers that begat us--the pyms, the hampdens, the cromwells, the chathams--yes, and shall we not say the washingtons--to whose sagacity, bravery, and unquenchable ardour for justice and order and equal laws all our english-speaking peoples owe a debt that can never be paid. another point is worth thinking of, besides the reduction of history for your purposes to a comprehensive body of rightly grouped generalities. dr. arnold says somewhere that he wishes the public might have a history of our present state of society _traced backwards_. it is the present that really interests us; it is the present that we seek to understand and to explain. i do not in the least want to know what happened in the past, except as it enables me to see my way more clearly through what is happening to-day. i want to know what men thought and did in the thirteenth century, not out of any dilettante or idle antiquarian's curiosity, but because the thirteenth century is at the root of what men think and do in the nineteenth. well then, it cannot be a bad educational rule to start from what is most interesting, and to work from that outwards and backwards. by beginning with the present we see more clearly what are the two things best worth attending to in history--not party intrigues nor battles nor dynastic affairs, nor even many acts of parliament, but the great movements of the economic forces of a society on the one hand, and on the other the forms of religious opinion and ecclesiastical organisation. all the rest are important, but their importance is subsidiary. allow me to make one more remark on this subject. if a dozen or a score of wise lectures would suffice for a general picture of the various phases through which our own society has passed, there ought to be added to the course of popular instruction as many lectures more, which should trace the history, not of england, but of the world. and the history of the world ought to go before the history of england. this is no paradox, but the deliberate opinion of many of those who have thought most deeply about the far-reaching chain of human progress. when i was on a visit to the united states some years ago--things may have improved since then--i could not help noticing that the history classes in their common schools all began their work with the year , when the american colonies formed themselves into an independent confederacy. the teaching assumed that the creation of the universe occurred about that date. what could be more absurd, more narrow and narrowing, more mischievously misleading as to the whole purport and significance of history? as if the laws, the representative institutions, the religious uses, the scientific methods, the moral ideas, which give to an american citizen his character and mental habits and social surroundings, had not all their roots in the deeds and thoughts of wise and brave men, who lived in centuries which are of course just as much the inheritance of the vast continent of the west as they are of the little island from whence its first colonisers sailed forth. well, there is something nearly as absurd, if not quite, in our common plan of taking for granted that people should begin their reading of history, not in , but in . as if this could bring into our minds what is after all the greatest lesson of history, namely, the fact of its oneness; of the interdependence of all the elements that have in the course of long ages made the european of to-day what we see him to be. it is no doubt necessary for clear and definite comprehension to isolate your phenomenon, and to follow the stream of our own history separately. but that cannot be enough. we must also see that this stream is the effluent of a far broader and mightier flood--whose springs and sources and great tributaries lay higher up in the history of mankind. 'we are learning,' says mr. freeman, whose little book on the _unity of history_ i cannot be wrong in warmly recommending even to the busiest among you, 'that european history, from its first glimmerings to our own day, is one unbroken drama, no part of which can be rightly understood without reference to the other parts which come before and after it. we are learning that of this great drama rome is the centre, the point to which all roads lead and from which all roads lead no less. the world of independent greece stands on one side of it; the world of modern europe stands on another. but the history alike of the great centre itself, and of its satellites on either side, can never be fully grasped except from a point of view wide enough to take in the whole group, and to mark the relations of each of its members to the centre and to one another.' now the counsel which our learned historian thus urges upon the scholar and the leisured student equally represents the point of view which is proper for the more numerous classes of whom we are thinking to-night. the scale will have to be reduced; all save the very broadest aspects of things will have to be left out; none save the highest ranges and the streams of most copious volume will find a place in that map. small as is the scale and many as are its omissions, yet if a man has intelligently followed the very shortest course of universal history, it will be the fault of his teacher if he has not acquired an impressive conception, which will never be effaced, of the destinies of man upon the earth; of the mighty confluence of forces working on from age to age, which have their meeting in every one of us here to-night; of the order in which each state of society has followed its foregoer, according to great and changeless laws 'embracing all things and all times;' of the thousand faithful hands that have one after another, each in their several degrees, orders, and capacities, trimmed the silver lamp of knowledge and kept its sacred flame bright from generation to generation and age to age, now in one land and now in another, from its early spark among far-off dim chaldeans down to goethe and faraday and darwin and all the other good workers of our own day. the shortest course of universal history will let him see how he owes to the greek civilisation, on the shores of the mediterranean two thousand years back, a debt extending from the architectural forms, of this very town hall to some of the most systematic operations of his own mind; will let him see the forum of rome, its roads and its gates-- what conflux issuing forth or entering in, prætors, proconsuls to their provinces hasting or on return, in robes of state-- all busily welding an empire together in a marvellous framework of citizenship, manners, and laws, that laid assured foundations for a still higher civilisation that was to come after. he will learn how when the roman empire declined, then at damascus and bagdad and seville the mahometan conquerors took up the torch of science and learning, and handed it on to western europe when the new generations were ready. he will learn how in the meantime, during ages which we both wrongly and ungratefully call dark, from rome again, that other great organisation, the mediæval church, had arisen, which amid many imperfections and some crimes did a work that no glory of physical science can equal, and no instrument of physical science can compass, in purifying men's appetites, in setting discipline and direction on their lives, and in offering to humanity new types of moral obligation and fairer ideals of saintly perfection, whose light still shines like a star to guide our own poor voyages. it is only by this contemplation of the life of our race as a whole that men see the beginnings and the ends of things; learn not to be near-sighted in history, but to look before and after; see their own part and lot in the rising up and going down of empires and faiths since first recorded time began; and what i am contending for is that even if you can take your young men and women no farther than the mere vestibule of this ancient and ever venerable temple of many marvels, you will have opened to them the way to a kind of knowledge that not only enlightens the understanding, but enriches the character--which is a higher thing than mere intellect--and makes it constantly alive with the spirit of beneficence. i know it is said that such a view of collective history is true, but that you will never get plain people to respond to it; it is a thing for intellectual dilettanti and moralising virtuosi. well, we do not know, because we have never yet honestly tried, what the commonest people will or will not respond to. when sir richard wallace's pictures were being exhibited at bethnal green, after people had said that the workers had no souls for art and would not appreciate its treasures, a story is told of a female in very poor clothes gazing intently at a picture of the infant jesus in the arms of his mother, and then exclaiming, '_who would not try to be a good woman, who had such a child as that?_' we have never yet, i say, tried the height and pitch to which our people are capable of rising. i have thought it well to take this opportunity of saying a word for history, because i cannot help thinking that one of the most narrow, and what will eventually be one of the most impoverishing, characteristics of our day is the excessive supremacy claimed for physical science. this is partly due, no doubt, to a most wholesome reaction against the excessive supremacy that has hitherto been claimed for literature, and held by literature, in our schools and universities. at the same time, it is well to remember that the historic sciences are making strides not unworthy of being compared with those of the physical sciences, and not only is there room for both, but any system is radically wrong which excludes or depresses either to the advantage of the other.[ ] and now there is another idea which i should like to throw out, if you will not think it too tedious and too special. it is an old saying that, after all, the great end and aim of the british constitution is to get twelve honest men into a box. that is really a very sensible way of putting the theory, that the first end of government is to give security to life and property, and to make people keep their contracts. but with this view it is not only important that you should get twelve honest men into a box: the twelve honest men must have in their heads some notions as to what constitutes evidence. now it is surely a striking thing that while we are so careful to teach physical science and literature; while men want to be endowed in order to have leisure to explore our spinal cords, and to observe the locomotor system of medusæ--and i have no objection against those who urge on all these studies--yet there is no systematic teaching, very often no teaching at all, in the principles of evidence and reasoning, even for the bulk of those who would be very much offended if we were to say that they are not educated. of course i use the term evidence in a wider sense than the testimony in crimes and contracts, and the other business of courts of law. questions of evidence are rising at every hour of the day. as bentham says, it is a question of evidence with the cook whether the joint of meat is roasted enough. it has been excellently said that the principal and most characteristic difference between one human intellect and another consists in their ability to judge correctly of evidence. most of us, mr. mill says, are very unsafe hands at estimating evidence, if appeal cannot be made to actual eyesight. indeed, if we think of some of the tales that have been lately diverting the british association, we might perhaps go farther, and describe many of us as very bad hands at estimating evidence, even where appeal can be made to actual eyesight. eyesight, in fact, is the least part of the matter. the senses are as often the tools as the guides of reason. one of the longest chapters in the history of vulgar error would contain the cases in which the eyes have only seen what old prepossessions inspired them to see, and were blind to all that would have been fatal to the prepossessions. 'it is beyond all question or dispute,' says voltaire, 'that magic words and ceremonies are quite capable of most effectually destroying a whole flock of sheep, if the words be accompanied by a sufficient quantity of arsenic.' sorcery has no doubt been exploded--at least we assume that it has--but the temper that made men attribute all the efficacy to the magic words, and entirely overlook the arsenic, still prevails in a great host of moral and political affairs, into which it is not convenient to enter here. the stability of a government, for instance, is constantly set down to some ornamental part of it, when in fact the ornamental part has no more to do with stability than the incantations of the soothsayer. you have heard, again, that for many generations the people of the isle of st. kilda believed that the arrival of a ship in the harbour inflicted on the islanders epidemic colds in the head, and many ingenious reasons were from time to time devised by clever men why the ship should cause colds among the population. at last it occurred to somebody that the ship might not be the cause of the colds, but that both might be the common effects of some other cause, and it was then remembered that a ship could only enter the harbour when there was a strong north-east wind blowing. however faithful the observation, as soon as ever a man uses words he may begin at that moment to go wrong. 'a village apothecary,' it has been said, 'and if possible in a still greater degree, an experienced nurse, is seldom able to describe the plainest case without employing a phraseology of which every word is a theory; the simplest narrative of the most illiterate observer involves more or less of hypothesis;'--yet both by the observer himself and by most of those who listen to him, each of these conjectural assumptions is treated as respectfully as if it were an established axiom. we are supposed to deny the possibility of a circumstance, when in truth we only deny the evidence alleged for it. we allow the excellence of reasoning from certain data to captivate our belief in the truth of the data themselves, even when they are unproved and unprovable. there is no end, in short, of the ways in which men habitually go wrong in their reasoning, tacit or expressed. the greatest boon that any benefactor could confer on the human race would be to teach men--and especially women--to quantify their propositions. it sometimes seems as if swift were right when he said that mankind were just as fit for flying as for thinking. now it is quite true that mother-wit and the common experiences of life do often furnish people with a sort of shrewd and sound judgment that carries them very creditably through the world. they come to good conclusions, though perhaps they would give bad reasons for them, if they were forced to find their reasons. but you cannot count upon mother-wit in everybody; perhaps not even in a majority. and then as for the experience of life,--there are a great many questions, and those of the deepest ultimate importance to mankind, in which the ordinary experience of life sheds no light, until it has been interrogated and interpreted by men with trained minds. 'it is far easier,' as has been said, 'to acquire facts than to judge what they prove.' what is done in our systems of training to teach people how to judge what facts prove? there is mathematics, no doubt; anybody who has done even no more than the first book of euclid's geometry, ought to have got into his head the notion of a demonstration, of the rigorously close connection between a conclusion and its premisses, of the necessity of being able to show how each link in the chain comes to be where it is, and that it has a right to be there. this, however, is a long way from the facts of real life, and a man might well be a great geometer, and still be a thoroughly bad reasoner in practical questions. again, in other of your classes, in chemistry, in astronomy, in natural history, besides acquiring groups of facts, the student has a glimpse of the method by which they were discovered, of the type of inference to which the discovery conforms, so that the discovery of a new comet, the detection of a new species, the invention of a new chemical compound, each becomes a lesson of the most beautiful and impressive kind in the art of reasoning. and it would be superfluous and impertinent for me here to point out how valuable such lessons are in the way of mental discipline, apart from the fruit they bear in other ways. but here again the relation to the judgments we have to form in the moral, political, practical sphere, is too remote and too indirect. the judgments, in this region, of the most brilliant and successful explorers in physical science, seem to be exactly as liable to every kind of fallacy as those of other people. the application of scientific method and conception to society is yet in its infancy, and the _novum organum_ or the _principia_ of moral and social phenomena will perhaps not be wholly disclosed to any of us now alive. in any case it is clear that for the purposes of such an institution as this, if the rules of evidence and proof and all the other safeguards for making your propositions true and relevant, are to be taught at all, they must be taught not only in an elementary form, but with illustrations that shall convey their own direct reference and application to practical life. if everybody could find time to master mill's _logic_ or so instructive and interesting a book as professor jevons's _principles of science_, a certain number at any rate of the bad mental habits of people would be cured; and for those of you here who have leisure enough, and want to find a worthy keystone of your culture, it would be hard to find a better thing to do for the next six months than to work through one or both of the books i have just named--pen in hand. the ordinary text-books of formal logic do not seem to meet the special aim which i am now trying to impress as desirable--namely, the habit of valuing, not merely speculative nor scientific truth, but the truth of practical life; a practising of the intellect in forming and expressing the opinions and judgments that form the staple of our daily discourse. it is now accepted that the most effective way of learning a foreign language is to begin by reading books written in it, or by conversing in it--and then after a certain empirical familiarity with vocabulary and construction has been acquired, one may proceed to master the grammar. just in the same way it would seem to be the best plan to approach the art of practical reasoning in concrete examples, in cases of actual occurrence and living interest; and then after the processes of disentangling a complex group of propositions, of dividing and shifting, of scenting a fallacy, have all become familiar, it may be worth while to find names for them all, and to set out rules for reasoning rightly, just as in the former illustration the rules of writing correctly follow a certain practice rather than precede it. now it has long seemed to me that the best way of teaching carefulness and precision in dealing with propositions might be found through the medium of the argumentation in the courts of justice. this is reasoning in real matter. there is a famous book well known to legal students--_smith's leading cases_--which contains a selection of important decisions, and sets forth the grounds on which the courts arrived at them. i have often thought that a dozen or a score of cases might be collected from this book into a small volume, that would make such a manual as no other matter could, for opening plain men's eyes to the logical pitfalls among which they go stumbling and crashing, when they think they are disputing like socrates or reasoning like newton. they would see how a proposition or an expression that looks straightforward and unmistakable, is yet on examination found to be capable of bearing several distinct interpretations and meaning several distinct things; how the same evidence may warrant different conclusions, and what kinds of evidence carry with them what degrees of validity: how certain sorts of facts can only be proved in one way, and certain other sorts of facts in some other way: how necessary it is, before you set out, to know exactly what it is you intend to show, or what it is you intend to dispute; how there may be many argumentative objections to a proposition, yet the balance be in favour of its adoption. it is from the generality of people having neglected to practise the attention on these and the like matters, that interest and prejudice find so ready an instrument of sophistry in that very art of speech which ought to be the organ of reason and truth. to bring the matter to a point, then, i submit that it might be worth while in this and all such institutions to have a class for the study of logic, reasoning, evidence, and that such a class might well find its best material in selections from leading cases, and from bentham's _rationale of judicial evidence_, elucidated by those special sections in mill's _logic_, or smaller manuals such as those of mr. fowler, the oxford professor of logic, which treat of the department of fallacies. perhaps bentham's _book of fallacies_ is too political for me to commend it to you here. but if there happens to be any one in birmingham who is fond of meeting proposed changes by saying that they are utopian; that they are good in theory, but bad in practice; that they are too good to be realised, and so forth, then i can promise him that he will in that book hear of something very much to his advantage.[ ] an incidental advantage--which is worth mentioning--of making legal instances the medium of instruction in practical logic, would be that people would--not learn law, of course, in the present state of our system, but they would have their attention called in a direct and business-like way to the lawyer's point of view, and those features of procedure in which every man and woman in the land has so immediate an interest. perhaps if people interested themselves more seriously than is implied by reading famous cases in the newspapers, we should get rid, for one thing, of the rule which makes the accused person in a criminal case incompetent to testify; and, for another, of that infamous license of cross-examination to credit, which is not only barbarous to those who have to submit to it, but leads to constant miscarriage of justice in the case of those who, rather than submit to it, will suffer wrong. it will be said, i daresay, that overmuch scruple about our propositions and the evidence for them will reduce men, especially the young, to the intellectual condition of the great philosopher, marphurius, in molière's comedy. marphurius rebukes sganarelle for saying he had come into the room;--'what you should say is, that it _seems_ i am come into the room.' instead of the downright affirmations and burly negations so becoming to britons, he would bring down all our propositions to the attenuation of a possibility or a perhaps. we need not fear such an end. the exigencies of practical affairs will not allow this endless balancing. they are always driving men to the other extreme, making us like the new judge, who first heard the counsel on one side and made up his mind on the merits of the case, until the turn of the opposing counsel came, and then the new counsel filled the judge with so many doubts and perplexities, that he suddenly vowed that nothing would induce him to pay any heed to evidence again as long as he lived. i do not doubt that i shall be blamed in what i have said about french, and about history, for encouraging a spirit of superficiality, and of contentment with worthless smatterings of things. to this i should answer that, as archbishop whately pointed out long ago, it is a fallacy to mistake general truths for superficial truths, or a knowledge of the leading propositions of a subject for a superficial knowledge. 'to have a general knowledge of a subject is to know only its leading truths, but to know these thoroughly, so as to have a true conception of the subject in its great features' (_mill_). and i need not point out that instruction may be of the most general kind, and still possess that most important quality of all instruction--namely, being _methodical_. * * * * * i think popular instruction has been made much more repulsive than it need have been, and more repulsive than it ought to have been, because those who have had the control of the movement for the last fifty years, have been too anxious to make the type of popular instruction conform to the type of academic instruction proper to learned men. the principles of instruction have been too rigorously ascetic and puritanical, and instead of making the access to knowledge as easy as possible, we have delighted in forcing every pilgrim to make his journey to the shrine of the muses with a hair-shirt on his back and peas in his shoes. nobody would say that macaulay had a superficial knowledge of the things best worth knowing in ancient literature, yet we have his own confession that when he became a busy man--as you are all busy--then he read his classics, not like a collegian, but like a man of the world; if he did not know a word, he passed it over, and if a passage refused to give up its meaning at the second reading, then he let it alone. now the aims of academic education and those of popular education are--it is obvious if you come to think of it--quite different. the end of the one is rather to increase knowledge: of the other to diffuse it, and to increase men's interest in what is already known. if, therefore, i am for making certain kinds of instruction as general as they can possibly be made in these local centres, i should give to the old seats of learning a very special function indeed. it would be absurd to attempt to discuss academic organisation here, at this hour. i only want to ask you as politicians whose representatives in parliament will ultimately settle the matter--to reflect whether the money now consumed in idle fellowships might not be more profitably employed in endowing inquirers. the favourite argument of those who support prize fellowships is that they are the only means by which a child of the working-class can raise himself to the highest positions in the land. my answer to this would be that, in the first place, it is of questionable expediency to invite the cleverest members of any class to leave it--instead of making their abilities available in it, and so raising the whole class along with, and by means of, their own rise. second, these prize fellowships will continue, and must continue, to be carried off by those who can afford time and money to educate their sons for the competition. third, i doubt the expediency--and the history of oxford within the last twenty-five years strikingly confirms this doubt--of giving to a young man of any class what is practically a premium on indolence, and the removal of a motive to self-reliant and energetic spirit of enterprise. the best thing that i can think of as happening to a young man is this: that he should have been educated at a day-school in his own town; that he should have opportunities of following also the higher education in his own town; and that at the earliest convenient time he should be taught to earn his own living. the universities might then be left to their proper business of study. knowledge for its own sake is clearly an object which only a very small portion of society can be spared to pursue; only a very few men in a generation have that devouring passion for knowing, which is the true inspirer of fruitful study and exploration. even if the passion were more common than it is, the world could not afford on any very large scale that men should indulge in it: the great business of the world has to be carried on. one of the greatest of all hindrances to making things better is the habit of taking for granted that plans or ideas, simply because they are different and approach the matter from different sides, are therefore the rivals and enemies, instead of being the friends and complements of one another. but a great and wealthy society like ours ought very well to be able to nourish one or two great seats for the augmentation of true learning, and at the same time make sure that young men--and again i say, especially young women--should have good education of the higher kind within reach of their own hearths. * * * * * it is not necessary for me here, i believe, to dwell upon any of the great commonplaces which the follower of knowledge does well to keep always before his eyes, and which represent the wisdom of many generations of studious experience. you may have often heard from others, or may have found out, how good it is to have on your shelves, however scantily furnished they may be, three or four of those books to which it is well to give ten minutes every morning, before going down into the battle and choking dust of the day. men will name these books for themselves. one will choose the bible, another goethe, one the _imitation of christ_, another wordsworth. perhaps it matters little what it be, so long as your writer has cheerful seriousness, elevation, calm, and, above all, a sense of size and strength, which shall open out the day before you and bestow gifts of fortitude and mastery. then, to turn to the intellectual side. you know as well as i or any one can tell you, that knowledge is worth little until you have made it so perfectly your own, as to be capable of reproducing it in precise and definite form. goethe said that in the end we only retain of our studies, after all, what we practically employ of them. and it is at least well that in our serious studies we should have the possibility of practically turning them to a definite destination clearly before our eyes. nobody can be sure that he has got clear ideas on a subject, unless he has tried to put them down on a piece of paper in independent words of his own. it is an excellent plan, too, when you have read a good book, to sit down and write a short abstract of what you can remember of it. it is a still better plan, if you can make up your minds to a slight extra labour, to do what lord strafford, and gibbon, and daniel webster did. after glancing over the title, subject, or design of a book, these eminent men would take a pen and write roughly what questions they expected to find answered in it, what difficulties solved, what kind of information imparted. such practices keep us from reading with the eye only, gliding vaguely over the page; and they help us to _place_ our new acquisitions in relation with what we knew before. it is almost always worth while to read a thing twice over, to make sure that nothing has been missed or dropped on the way, or wrongly conceived or interpreted. and if the subject be serious, it is often well to let an interval elapse. ideas, relations, statements of fact, are not to be taken by storm. we have to steep them in the mind, in the hope of thus extracting their inmost essence and significance. if one lets an interval pass, and then returns, it is surprising how clear and ripe that has become, which, when we left it, seemed crude, obscure, full of perplexity. all this takes trouble, no doubt, but then it will not do to deal with ideas that we find in books or elsewhere as a certain bird does with its eggs--leave them in the sand for the sun to hatch and chance to rear. people who follow this plan possess nothing better than ideas half-hatched, and convictions reared by accident. they are like a man who should pace up and down the world in the delusion that he is clad in sumptuous robes of purple and velvet, when in truth he is only half-covered by the rags and tatters of other people's cast-off clothes. apart from such mechanical devices as these i have mentioned, there are habits and customary attitudes of mind which a conscientious reader will practise, if he desires to get out of a book still greater benefits than the writer of it may have designed or thought of. for example, he should never be content with mere aggressive and negatory criticism of the page before him. the page may be open to such criticism, and in that case it is natural to indulge in it; but the reader will often find an unexpected profit by asking himself--what does this error teach me? how comes that fallacy to be here? how came the writer to fall into this defect of taste? to ask such questions gives a reader a far healthier tone of mind in the long run, more seriousness, more depth, more moderation of judgment, more insight into other men's ways of thinking as well as into his own, than any amount of impatient condemnation and hasty denial, even when both condemnation and denial may be in their place. again, let us not be too ready to detect an inconsistency in our author, but rather let us teach ourselves to distinguish between inconsistency and having two sides to an opinion. 'before i admit that two and two are four,' some one said, 'i must first know to what use you are going to put the proposition.' that is to say, even the plainest proposition needs to be stated with a view to the drift of the discussion in hand, or with a view to some special part of the discussion. when the turn of some other part of the matter comes, it will be convenient and often necessary to bring out into full light another side of your opinion, not contradictory, but complementary, and the great distinction of a candid disputant or of a reader of good faith, is his willingness to take pains to see the points of reconciliation among different aspects and different expressions of what is substantially the same judgment. then, again, nobody here needs to be reminded that the great successes of the world have been affairs of a second, a third, nay, a fiftieth trial. the history of literature, of science, of art, of industrial achievements, all testify to the truth that success is only the last term of what looked like a series of failures. what is true of the great achievements of history, is true also of the little achievements of the observant cultivator of his own understanding. if a man is despondent about his work, the best remedy that i can prescribe to him is to turn to a good biography; there he will find that other men before him have known the dreary reaction that follows long-sustained effort, and he will find that one of the differences between the first-rate man and the fifth-rate lies in the rigour with which the first-rate man recovers from this reaction, and crushes it down, and again flings himself once more upon the breach. i remember the wisest and most virtuous man i have ever known, or am ever likely to know--mr. mill--once saying to me that whenever he had written anything, he always felt profoundly dissatisfied with it, and it was only by reflecting that he had felt the same about other pieces of which the world had thought well, that he could bring himself to send the new production to the printer. the heroism of the scholar and the truth-seeker is not less admirable than the heroism of the man-at-arms. finally, you none of you need to be reminded of the most central and important of all the commonplaces of the student--that the stuff of which life is made is time; that it is better, as goethe said, to do the most trifling thing in the world than to think half an hour a trifling thing. nobody means by this that we are to have no pleasures. where time is lost and wasted is where many people lose and waste their money--in things that are neither pleasure nor business--in those random and officious sociabilities, which neither refresh nor instruct nor invigorate, but only fret and benumb and wear all edge off the mind. all these things, however, you have all of you often thought about; yet, alas, we are so ready to forget, both in these matters and in other and weightier, how irrevocable are our mistakes. the moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on; nor all your piety nor wit can lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wipe out a word of it. and now i think i cannot ask you to listen any longer. i will only add that these ceremonial anniversaries, when they are over, sometimes slightly tend to depress us, unless we are on our guard. when the prizes of the year are all distributed, and the address is at an end, we perhaps ask ourselves, well, and what then? it is not to be denied that the expectations of the first fervent promoters of popular instruction by such institutes as this--of men like lord brougham and others, a generation ago--were not fulfilled. the principal reason was that the elementary instruction of the country was not then sufficiently advanced to supply a population ready to take advantage of education in the higher subjects. well, we are in a fair way for removing that obstacle. it is true that the old world moves tardily on its arduous way, but even if the results of all our efforts in the cause of education were smaller than they are, there are still two considerations that ought to weigh with us and encourage us. for one thing, you never know what child in rags and pitiful squalor that meets you in the street, may have in him the germ of gifts that might add new treasures to the storehouse of beautiful things or noble acts. in that great storm of terror which swept over france in , a certain man who was every hour expecting to be led off to the guillotine, uttered this memorable sentiment. 'even at this incomprehensible moment'--he said--'when morality, enlightenment, love of country, all of them only make death at the prison-door or on the scaffold more certain--yes, on the fatal tumbril itself, with nothing free but my voice, i could still cry _take care_, to a child that should come too near the wheel; perhaps i may save his life, perhaps he may one day save his country.' this is a generous and inspiring thought--one to which the roughest-handed man or woman in birmingham may respond as honestly and heartily as the philosopher who wrote it. it ought to shame the listlessness with which so many of us see the great phantasmagoria of life pass before us. there is another thought to encourage us, still more direct, and still more positive. the boisterous old notion of hero-worship, which has been preached by so eloquent a voice in our age, is after all now seen to be a half-truth, and to contain the less edifying and the less profitable half of the truth. the world will never be able to spare its hero, and the man with the rare and inexplicable gift of genius will always be as commanding a figure as he has ever been. what we see every day with increasing clearness is that not only the wellbeing of the many, but the chances of exceptional genius, moral or intellectual, in the gifted few, are highest in a society where the _average_ interest, curiosity, capacity, are all highest. the moral of this for you and for me is plain. we cannot, like beethoven or handel, lift the soul by the magic of divine melody into the seventh heaven of ineffable vision and hope incommensurable; we cannot, like newton, weigh the far-off stars in a balance, and measure the heavings of the eternal flood; we cannot, like voltaire, scorch up what is cruel and false by a word as a flame, nor, like milton or burke, awaken men's hearts with the note of an organ-trumpet; we cannot, like the great saints of the churches and the great sages of the schools, add to those acquisitions of spiritual beauty and intellectual mastery which have, one by one, and little by little, raised man from being no higher than the brute to be only a little lower than the angels. but what we can do--the humblest of us in this great hall--is by diligently using our own minds and diligently seeking to extend our own opportunities to others, to help to swell that common tide, on the force and the set of whose currents depends the prosperous voyaging of humanity. when our names are blotted out, and our place knows us no more, the energy of each social service will remain, and so too, let us not forget, will each social disservice remain, like the unending stream of one of nature's forces. the thought that this is so may well lighten the poor perplexities of our daily life, and even soothe the pang of its calamities; it lifts us from our feet as on wings, opening a larger meaning to our private toil and a higher purpose to our public endeavour; it makes the morning as we awake to it welcome, and the evening like a soft garment as it wraps us about; it nerves our arm with boldness against oppression and injustice, and strengthens our voice with deeper accents against falsehood, while we are yet in the full noon of our days--yes, and perhaps it will shed some ray of consolation, when our eyes are growing dim to it all, and we go down into the valley of the dark shadow. footnotes: [ ] sir henry cole, c.b., writes to the _times_ (oct. ) on this suggestion as follows:--'in justice to the lords president of the council on education, i hope you will allow me the opportunity of stating that from the science and art department has done its very utmost to induce schools of art to receive deposits of works of art for study and popular examination, and to circulate its choicest objects useful to manufacturing industry. in corroboration of this assertion, please to turn to p. of the twenty-second report of the department, just issued. you will there find that upwards of , objects of art, besides , paintings and drawings, have been circulated since , and in some cases have been left for several months for exhibition in the localities. they have been seen by more than , , of visitors, besides having been copied by students, etc., and the localities have taken the great sum of £ , for showing them. 'the department besides has tried every efficient means to induce other public institutions, which are absolutely choked with superfluous specimens, to concur in a general principle of circulating the nation's works of art, but without success. 'the chief of our national storehouses of works of art actually repudiates the idea that its objects are collected for purposes of education, and declares that they are only 'things rare and curious,' the very reverse of what common sense says they are. 'further, the department, to tempt schools of art to acquire objects permanently for art museums attached to them, offered a grant in aid of per cent of the cost price of the objects.' [ ] a very eminent physicist writes to me on this passage: 'i cannot help smiling when i think of the place of physical science in the endowed schools,' etc. my reference was to the great prevalence of such assertions as that human progress depends upon increase of our knowledge of the conditions of material phenomena (dr. draper, for instance, lays this down as a fundamental axiom of history): as if moral advance, the progressive elevation of types of character and ethical ideals were not at least an equally important cause of improvement in civilisation. the type of saint vincent de paul is plainly as indispensable to progress as the type of newton. [ ] this suggestion has fortunately found favour in a quarter where shrewd and critical common sense is never wanting. the _economist_ (oct. ) writes:--'such a text-book commented on to a class by a man trained to estimate the value of evidence, would form a most valuable study, and not, we should imagine, at all less fascinating than valuable. of course the class suggested would not be a class in english law, but in the principles on which evidence should be estimated, and the special errors to which, in common life, average minds are most liable. we regard this suggestion as a most useful one, and as one which would not only greatly contribute to the educational worth of an institute for adults, but also to its popularity.' transcriber's notes: passages in italics indicated by underscore _italics_. additional spacing after poetic quote on page is intentional to indicate both the end of the quote and the beginning of a new paragraph as is in the original text. short studies on great subjects. london printed by spottiswoode and co. new-street square short studies on great subjects. by james anthony froude, m.a. late fellow of exeter college, oxford. _second edition._ london: longmans, green, and co. . contents. page the science of history times of erasmus and luther: lecture i lecture ii lecture iii the influence of the reformation on the scottish character the philosophy of catholicism a plea for the free discussion of theological difficulties criticism and the gospel history the book of job spinoza the dissolution of the monasteries england's forgotten worthies homer the lives of the saints representative men reynard the fox the cat's pilgrimage: part i part ii part iii part iv fables: i. the lions and the oxen ii. the farmer and the fox parable of the bread-fruit tree compensation the science of history: a lecture delivered at the royal institution february , . ladies and gentlemen,--i have undertaken to speak to you this evening on what is called the science of history. i fear it is a dry subject; and there seems, indeed, something incongruous in the very connection of such words as science and history. it is as if we were to talk of the colour of sound, or the longitude of the rule-of-three. where it is so difficult to make out the truth on the commonest disputed fact in matters passing under our very eyes, how can we talk of a science in things long past, which come to us only through books? it often seems to me as if history was like a child's box of letters, with which we can spell any word we please. we have only to pick out such letters as we want, arrange them as we like, and say nothing about those which do not suit our purpose. i will try to make the thing intelligible, and i will try not to weary you; but i am doubtful of my success either way. first, however, i wish to say a word or two about the eminent person whose name is connected with this way of looking at history, and whose premature death struck us all with such a sudden sorrow. many of you, perhaps, recollect mr. buckle as he stood not so long ago in this place. he spoke more than an hour without a note--never repeating himself, never wasting words; laying out his matter as easily and as pleasantly as if he had been talking to us at his own fireside. we might think what we pleased of mr. buckle's views, but it was plain enough that he was a man of uncommon power; and he had qualities also--qualities to which he, perhaps, himself attached little value, as rare as they were admirable. most of us, when we have hit on something which we are pleased to think important and original, feel as if we should burst with it. we come out into the book-market with our wares in hand, and ask for thanks and recognition. mr. buckle, at an early age, conceived the thought which made him famous, but he took the measure of his abilities. he knew that whenever he pleased he could command personal distinction, but he cared more for his subject than for himself. he was contented to work with patient reticence, unknown and unheard of, for twenty years; and then, at middle life, he produced a work which was translated at once into french and german, and, of all places in the world, fluttered the dovecotes of the imperial academy of st. petersburg. goethe says somewhere, that as soon as a man has done anything remarkable, there seems to be a general conspiracy to prevent him from doing it again. he is feasted, fêted, caressed; his time is stolen from him by breakfasts, dinners, societies, idle businesses of a thousand kinds. mr. buckle had his share of all this; but there are also more dangerous enemies that wait upon success like his. he had scarcely won for himself the place which he deserved, than his health was found shattered by his labours. he had but time to show us how large a man he was--time just to sketch the outlines of his philosophy, and he passed away as suddenly as he appeared. he went abroad to recover strength for his work, but his work was done with and over. he died of a fever at damascus, vexed only that he was compelled to leave it uncompleted. almost his last conscious words were, 'my book, my book! i shall never finish my book!' he went away as he had lived, nobly careless of himself, and thinking only of the thing which he had undertaken to do. but his labour had not been thrown away. disagree with him as we might, the effect which he had already produced was unmistakable, and it is not likely to pass away. what he said was not essentially new. some such interpretation of human things is as early as the beginning of thought. but mr. buckle, on the one hand, had the art which belongs to men of genius; he could present his opinions with peculiar distinctness; and, on the other hand, there is much in the mode of speculation at present current among us for which those opinions have an unusual fascination. they do not please us, but they excite and irritate us. we are angry with them; and we betray, in being so, an uneasy misgiving that there may be more truth in those opinions than we like to allow. mr. buckle's general theory was something of this kind: when human creatures began first to look about them in the world they lived in, there seemed to be no order in anything. days and nights were not the same length. the air was sometimes hot and sometimes cold. some of the stars rose and set like the sun; some were almost motionless in the sky; some described circles round a central star above the north horizon. the planets went on principles of their own; and in the elements there seemed nothing but caprice. sun and moon would at times go out in eclipse. sometimes the earth itself would shake under men's feet; and they could only suppose that earth and air and sky and water were inhabited and managed by creatures as wayward as themselves. time went on, and the disorder began to arrange itself. certain influences seemed beneficent to men, others malignant and destructive, and the world was supposed to be animated by good spirits and evil spirits, who were continually fighting against each other, in outward nature and in human creatures themselves. finally, as men observed more and imagined less, these interpretations gave way also. phenomena the most opposite in effect were seen to be the result of the same natural law. the fire did not burn the house down if the owners of it were careful, but remained on the hearth and boiled the pot; nor did it seem more inclined to burn a bad man's house down than a good man's, provided the badness did not take the form of negligence. the phenomena of nature were found for the most part to proceed in an orderly, regular way, and their variations to be such as could be counted upon. from observing the order of things, the step was easy to cause and effect. an eclipse, instead of being a sign of the anger of heaven, was found to be the necessary and innocent result of the relative position of sun, moon, and earth. the comets became bodies in space, unrelated to the beings who had imagined that all creation was watching them and their doings. by degrees, caprice, volition, all symptoms of arbitrary action, disappeared out of the universe; and almost every phenomenon in earth or heaven was found attributable to some law, either understood or perceived to exist. thus nature was reclaimed from the imagination. the first fantastic conception of things gave way before the moral; the moral in turn gave way before the natural; and at last there was left but one small tract of jungle where the theory of law had failed to penetrate--the doings and characters of human creatures themselves. there, and only there, amidst the conflicts of reason and emotion, conscience and desire, spiritual forces were still conceived to exist. cause and effect were not traceable when there was a free volition to disturb the connection. in all other things, from a given set of conditions, the consequences necessarily followed. with man, the word law changed its meaning; and instead of a fixed order, which he could not choose but follow, it became a moral precept, which he might disobey if he dared. this it was which mr. buckle disbelieved. the economy which prevailed throughout nature, he thought it very unlikely should admit of this exception. he considered that human beings acted necessarily from the impulse of outward circumstances upon their mental and bodily condition at any given moment. every man, he said, acted from a motive; and his conduct was determined by the motive which affected him most powerfully. every man naturally desires what he supposes to be good for him; but to do well, he must know well. he will eat poison, so long as he does not know that it is poison. let him see that it will kill him, and he will not touch it. the question was not of moral right and wrong. once let him be thoroughly made to feel that the thing is destructive, and he will leave it alone by the law of his nature. his virtues are the result of knowledge; his faults, the necessary consequence of the want of it. a boy desires to draw. he knows nothing about it: he draws men like trees or houses, with their centre of gravity anywhere. he makes mistakes, because he knows no better. we do not blame him. till he is better taught he cannot help it. but his instruction begins. he arrives at straight lines; then at solids; then at curves. he learns perspective, and light and shade. he observes more accurately the forms which he wishes to represent. he perceives effects, and he perceives the means by which they are produced. he has learned what to do; and, in part, he has learned how to do it. his after-progress will depend on the amount of force which his nature possesses; but all this is as natural as the growth of an acorn. you do not preach to the acorn that it is its duty to become a large tree; you do not preach to the art-pupil that it is his duty to become a holbein. you plant your acorn in favourable soil, where it can have light and air, and be sheltered from the wind; you remove the superfluous branches, you train the strength into the leading shoots. the acorn will then become as fine a tree as it has vital force to become. the difference between men and other things is only in the largeness and variety of man's capacities; and in this special capacity, that he alone has the power of observing the circumstances favourable to his own growth, and can apply them for himself. yet, again, with this condition,--that he is not, as is commonly supposed, free to choose whether he will make use of these appliances or not. when he knows what is good for him, he will choose it; and he will judge what is good for him by the circumstances which have made him what he is. and what he would do, mr. buckle supposed that he always had done. his history had been a natural growth as much as the growth of the acorn. his improvement had followed the progress of his knowledge; and, by a comparison of his outward circumstances with the condition of his mind, his whole proceedings on this planet, his creeds and constitutions, his good deeds and his bad, his arts and his sciences, his empires and his revolutions, would be found all to arrange themselves into clear relations of cause and effect. if, when mr. buckle pressed his conclusions, we objected the difficulty of finding what the truth about past times really was, he would admit it candidly as far as concerned individuals; but there was not the same difficulty, he said, with masses of men. we might disagree about the characters of julius or tiberius cæsar, but we could know well enough the romans of the empire. we had their literature to tell us how they thought; we had their laws to tell us how they governed; we had the broad face of the world, the huge mountainous outline of their general doings upon it, to tell us how they acted. he believed it was all reducible to laws, and could be made as intelligible as the growth of the chalk cliffs or the coal measures. and thus consistently mr. buckle cared little for individuals. he did not believe (as some one has said) that the history of mankind is the history of its great men. great men with him were but larger atoms, obeying the same impulses with the rest, only perhaps a trifle more erratic. with them or without them, the course of things would have been much the same. as an illustration of the truth of his view, he would point to the new science of political economy. here already was a large area of human activity in which natural laws were found to act unerringly. men had gone on for centuries trying to regulate trade on moral principles. they would fix wages according to some imaginary rule of fairness; they would fix prices by what they considered things ought to cost; they encouraged one trade or discouraged another, for moral reasons. they might as well have tried to work a steam-engine on moral reasons. the great statesmen whose names were connected with these enterprises might have as well legislated that water should run up-hill. there were natural laws, fixed in the conditions of things: and to contend against them was the old battle of the titans against the gods. as it was with political economy, so it was with all other forms of human activity; and as the true laws of political economy explained the troubles which people fell into in old times, because they were ignorant of them, so the true laws of human nature, as soon as we knew them, would explain their mistakes in more serious matters, and enable us to manage better for the future. geographical position, climate, air, soil, and the like, had their several influences. the northern nations are hardy and industrious, because they must till the earth if they would eat the fruits of it, and because the temperature is too low to make an idle life enjoyable. in the south, the soil is more productive, while less food is wanted and fewer clothes; and in the exquisite air, exertion is not needed to make the sense of existence delightful. therefore, in the south we find men lazy and indolent. true, there are difficulties in these views; the home of the languid italian was the home also of the sternest race of whom the story of mankind retains a record. and again, when we are told that the spaniards are superstitious, because spain is a country of earthquakes, we remember japan, the spot in all the world where earthquakes are most frequent, and where at the same time there is the most serene disbelief in any supernatural agency whatsoever. moreover, if men grow into what they are by natural laws, they cannot help being what they are; and if they cannot help being what they are, a good deal will have to be altered in our general view of human obligations and responsibilities. that, however, in these theories there is a great deal of truth is quite certain; were there but a hope that those who maintain them would be contented with that admission. a man born in a mahometan country grows up a mahometan; in a catholic country, a catholic; in a protestant country, a protestant. his opinions are like his language; he learns to think as he learns to speak; and it is absurd to suppose him responsible for being what nature makes him. we take pains to educate children. there is a good education and a bad education; there are rules well ascertained by which characters are influenced, and, clearly enough, it is no mere matter for a boy's free will whether he turns out well or ill. we try to train him into good habits; we keep him out of the way of temptations; we see that he is well taught; we mix kindness and strictness; we surround him with every good influence we can command. these are what are termed the advantages of a good education: and if we fail to provide those under our care with it, and if they go wrong, the responsibility we feel is as much ours as theirs. this is at once an admission of the power over us of outward circumstances. in the same way, we allow for the strength of temptations, and the like. in general, it is perfectly obvious that men do necessarily absorb, out of the influences in which they grow up, something which gives a complexion to their whole after-character. when historians have to relate great social or speculative changes, the overthrow of a monarchy or the establishment of a creed, they do but half their duty if they merely relate the events. in an account, for instance, of the rise of mahometanism, it is not enough to describe the character of the prophet, the ends which he set before him, the means which he made use of, and the effect which he produced; the historian must show what there was in the condition of the eastern races which enabled mahomet to act upon them so powerfully; their existing beliefs, their existing moral and political condition. in our estimate of the past, and in our calculations of the future--in the judgments which we pass upon one another, we measure responsibility, not by the thing done, but by the opportunities which people have had of knowing better or worse. in the efforts which we make to keep our children from bad associations or friends we admit that external circumstances have a powerful effect in making men what they are. but are circumstances everything? that is the whole question. a science of history, if it is more than a misleading name, implies that the relation between cause and effect holds in human things as completely as in all others, that the origin of human actions is not to be looked for in mysterious properties of the mind, but in influences which are palpable and ponderable. when natural causes are liable to be set aside and neutralised by what is called volition, the word science is out of place. if it is free to a man to choose what he will do or not do, there is no adequate science of him. if there is a science of him, there is no free choice, and the praise or blame with which we regard one another are impertinent and out of place. i am trespassing upon these ethical grounds because, unless i do, the subject cannot be made intelligible. mankind are but an aggregate of individuals--history is but the record of individual action; and what is true of the part, is true of the whole. we feel keenly about such things, and when the logic becomes perplexing, we are apt to grow rhetorical about them. but rhetoric is only misleading. whatever the truth may be, it is best that we should know it; and for truth of any kind we should keep our heads and hearts as cool as we can. i will say at once, that if we had the whole case before us--if we were taken, like leibnitz's tarquin, into the council chamber of nature, and were shown what we really were, where we came from, and where we were going, however unpleasant it might be for some of us to find ourselves, like tarquin, made into villains, from the subtle necessities of 'the best of all possible worlds;' nevertheless, some such theory as mr. buckle's might possibly turn out to be true. likely enough, there is some great 'equation of the universe' where the value of the unknown quantities can be determined. but we must treat things in relation to our own powers and position; and the question is, whether the sweep of those vast curves can be measured by the intellect of creatures of a day like ourselves. the 'faust' of goethe, tired of the barren round of earthly knowledge, calls magic to his aid. he desires, first, to see the spirit of the macrocosmos, but his heart fails him before he ventures that tremendous experiment, and he summons before him, instead, the spirit of his own race. there he feels himself at home. the stream of life and the storm of action, the everlasting ocean of existence, the web and the woof, and the roaring loom of time--he gazes upon them all, and in passionate exultation claims fellowship with the awful thing before him. but the majestic vision fades, and a voice comes to him--'thou art fellow with the spirits which thy mind can grasp--not with me.' had mr. buckle tried to follow his principles into detail, it might have fared no better with him than with 'faust.' what are the conditions of a science? and when may any subject be said to enter the scientific stage? i suppose when the facts of it begin to resolve themselves into groups; when phenomena are no longer isolated experiences, but appear in connection and order; when, after certain antecedents, certain consequences are uniformly seen to follow; when facts enough have been collected to furnish a basis for conjectural explanation, and when conjectures have so far ceased to be utterly vague, that it is possible in some degree to foresee the future by the help of them. till a subject has advanced as far as this, to speak of a science of it is an abuse of language. it is not enough to say that there must be a science of human things, because there is a science of all other things. this is like saying the planets must be inhabited, because the only planet of which we have any experience is inhabited. it may or may not be true, but it is not a practical question; it does not affect the practical treatment of the matter in hand. let us look at the history of astronomy. so long as sun, moon, and planets were supposed to be gods or angels; so long as the sword of orion was not a metaphor, but a fact, and the groups of stars which inlaid the floor of heaven were the glittering trophies of the loves and wars of the pantheon, so long there was no science of astronomy. there was fancy, imagination, poetry, perhaps reverence, but no science. as soon, however, as it was observed that the stars retained their relative places--that the times of their rising and setting varied with the seasons--that sun, moon, and planets moved among them in a plane, and the belt of the zodiac was marked out and divided, then a new order of things began. traces of the earlier stage remained in the names of the signs and constellations, just as the scandinavian mythology survives now in the names of the days of the week: but for all that, the understanding was now at work on the thing; science had begun, and the first triumph of it was the power of foretelling the future. eclipses were perceived to recur in cycles of nineteen years, and philosophers were able to say when an eclipse was to be looked for. the periods of the planets were determined. theories were invented to account for their eccentricities; and, false as those theories might be, the position of the planets could be calculated with moderate certainty by them. the very first result of the science, in its most imperfect stage, was a power of foresight; and this was possible before any one true astronomical law had been discovered. we should not therefore question the possibility of a science of history, because the explanations of its phenomena were rudimentary or imperfect: that they might be, and might long continue to be, and yet enough might be done to show that there was such a thing, and that it was not entirely without use. but how was it that in those rude days, with small knowledge of mathematics, and with no better instruments than flat walls and dial plates, those first astronomers made progress so considerable? because, i suppose, the phenomena which they were observing recurred, for the most part, within moderate intervals; so that they could collect large experience within the compass of their natural lives: because days and months and years were measurable periods, and within them the more simple phenomena perpetually repeated themselves. but how would it have been if, instead of turning on its axis once in twenty-four hours, the earth had taken a year about it; if the year had been nearly four hundred years; if man's life had been no longer than it is, and for the initial steps of astronomy there had been nothing to depend upon except observations recorded in history? how many ages would have passed, had this been our condition, before it would have occurred to any one, that, in what they saw night after night, there was any kind of order at all? we can see to some extent how it would have been, by the present state of those parts of the science which in fact depend on remote recorded observations. the movements of the comets are still extremely uncertain. the times of their return can be calculated only with the greatest vagueness. and yet such a hypothesis as i have suggested would but inadequately express the position in which we are in fact placed towards history. there the phenomena never repeat themselves. there we are dependent wholly on the record of things said to have happened once, but which never happen or can happen a second time. there no experiment is possible; we can watch for no recurring fact to test the worth of our conjectures. it has been suggested, fancifully, that if we consider the universe to be infinite, time is the same as eternity, and the past is perpetually present. light takes nine years to come to us from sirius; those rays which we may see to-night when we leave this place, left sirius nine years ago; and could the inhabitants of sirius see the earth at this moment, they would see the english army in the trenches before sebastopol; florence nightingale watching at scutari over the wounded at inkermann; and the peace of england undisturbed by 'essays and reviews.' as the stars recede into distance, so time recedes with them, and there may be, and probably are, stars from which noah might be seen stepping into the ark, eve listening to the temptation of the serpent, or that older race, eating the oysters and leaving the shell-heaps behind them, when the baltic was an open sea. could we but compare notes, something might be done; but of this there is no present hope, and without it there will be no science of history. eclipses, recorded in ancient books, can be verified by calculation, and lost dates can be recovered by them, and we can foresee by the laws which they follow when there will be eclipses again. will a time ever be when the lost secret of the foundation of rome can be recovered by historic laws? if not, where is our science? it may be said that this is a particular fact, that we can deal satisfactorily with general phenomena affecting eras and cycles. well, then, let us take some general phenomenon. mahometanism, for instance, or buddhism. those are large enough. can you imagine a science which would have[a] _foretold_ such movements as those? the state of things out of which they rose is obscure; but suppose it not obscure, can you conceive that, with any amount of historical insight into the old oriental beliefs, you could have seen that they were about to transform themselves into those particular forms and no other? it is not enough to say, that, after the fact, you can understand partially how mahometanism came to be. all historians worth the name have told us something about that. but when we talk of science, we mean something with more ambitious pretences, we mean something which can foresee as well as explain; and, thus looked at, to state the problem is to show its absurdity. as little could the wisest man have foreseen this mighty revolution, as thirty years ago such a thing as mormonism could have been anticipated in america; as little as it could have been foreseen that table-turning and spirit-rapping would have been an outcome of the scientific culture of england in the nineteenth century. the greatest of roman thinkers, gazing mournfully at the seething mass of moral putrefaction round him, detected and deigned to notice among its elements a certain detestable superstition, so he called it, rising up amidst the offscouring of the jews, which was named christianity. could tacitus have looked forward nine centuries to the rome of gregory vii., could he have beheld the representative of the majesty of the cæsars holding the stirrup of the pontiff of that vile and execrated sect, the spectacle would scarcely have appeared to him the fulfilment of a rational expectation, or an intelligible result of the causes in operation round him. tacitus, indeed, was born before the science of history; but would m. comte have seen any more clearly? nor is the case much better if we are less hard upon our philosophy; if we content ourselves with the past, and require only a scientific explanation of that. first, for the facts themselves. they come to us through the minds of those who recorded them, neither machines nor angels, but fallible creatures, with human passions and prejudices. tacitus and thucydides were perhaps the ablest men who ever gave themselves to writing history; the ablest, and also the most incapable of conscious falsehood. yet even now, after all these centuries, the truth of what they relate is called in question. good reasons can be given to show that neither of them can be confidently trusted. if we doubt with these, whom are we to believe? or again, let the facts be granted. to revert to my simile of the box of letters, you have but to select such facts as suit you, you have but to leave alone those which do not suit you, and let your theory of history be what it will, you can find no difficulty in providing facts to prove it. you may have your hegel's philosophy of history, or you may have your schlegel's philosophy of history; you may prove from history that the world is governed in detail by a special providence; you may prove that there is no sign of any moral agent in the universe, except man; you may believe, if you like it, in the old theory of the wisdom of antiquity; you may speak, as was the fashion in the fifteenth century, of 'our fathers, who had more wit and wisdom than we;' or you may talk of 'our barbarian ancestors,' and describe their wars as the scuffling of kites and crows. you may maintain that the evolution of humanity has been an unbroken progress towards perfection; you may maintain that there has been no progress at all, and that man remains the same poor creature that he ever was; or, lastly, you may say with the author of the 'contrat social,' that men were purest and best in primeval simplicity-- when wild in woods the noble savage ran. in all, or any of these views, history will stand your friend. history, in its passive irony, will make no objection. like jarno, in goethe's novel, it will not condescend to argue with you, and will provide you with abundant illustrations of anything which you may wish to believe. 'what is history,' said napoleon, 'but a fiction agreed upon?' 'my friend,' said faust to the student, who was growing enthusiastic about the spirit of past ages; 'my friend, the times which are gone are a book with seven seals; and what you call the spirit of past ages is but the spirit of this or that worthy gentleman in whose mind those ages are reflected.' one lesson, and only one, history may be said to repeat with distinctness; that the world is built somehow on moral foundations; that, in the long run, it is well with the good; in the long run, it is ill with the wicked. but this is no science; it is no more than the old doctrine taught long ago by the hebrew prophets. the theories of m. comte and his disciples advance us, after all, not a step beyond the trodden and familiar ground. if men are not entirely animals, they are at least half animals, and are subject in this aspect of them to the conditions of animals. so far as those parts of man's doings are concerned, which neither have, nor need have, anything moral about them, so far the laws of him are calculable. there are laws for his digestion, and laws of the means by which his digestive organs are supplied with matter. but pass beyond them, and where are we? in a world where it would be as easy to calculate men's actions by laws like those of positive philosophy as to measure the orbit of neptune with a foot-rule, or weigh sirius in a grocer's scale. and it is not difficult to see why this should be. the first principle on which the theory of a science of history can be plausibly argued, is that all actions whatsoever arise from self-interest. it may be enlightened self-interest; it may be unenlightened; but it is assumed as an axiom, that every man, in whatever he does, is aiming at something which he considers will promote his happiness. his conduct is not determined by his will; it is determined by the object of his desire. adam smith, in laying the foundations of political economy, expressly eliminates every other motive. he does not say that men never act on other motives; still less, that they never ought to act on other motives. he asserts merely that, as far as the arts of production are concerned, and of buying and selling, the action of self-interest may be counted upon as uniform. what adam smith says of political economy, mr. buckle would extend over the whole circle of human activity. now, that which especially distinguishes a high order of man from a low order of man--that which constitutes human goodness, human greatness, human nobleness--is surely not the degree of enlightenment with which men pursue their own advantage; but it is self-forgetfulness--it is self-sacrifice--it is the disregard of personal pleasure, personal indulgence, personal advantages remote or present, because some other line of conduct is more right. we are sometimes told that this is but another way of expressing the same thing; that when a man prefers doing what is right, it is only because to do right gives him a higher satisfaction. it appears to me, on the contrary, to be a difference in the very heart and nature of things. the martyr goes to the stake, the patriot to the scaffold, not with a view to any future reward to themselves, but because it is a glory to fling away their lives for truth and freedom. and so through all phases of existence, to the smallest details of common life, the beautiful character is the unselfish character. those whom we most love and admire are those to whom the thought of self seems never to occur; who do simply and with no ulterior aim--with no thought whether it will be pleasant to themselves or unpleasant--that which is good, and right, and generous. is this still selfishness, only more enlightened? i do not think so. the essence of true nobility is neglect of self. let the thought of self pass in, and the beauty of a great action is gone--like the bloom from a soiled flower. surely it is a paradox to speak of the self-interest of a martyr who dies for a cause, the triumph of which he will never enjoy; and the greatest of that great company in all ages would have done what they did, had their personal prospects closed with the grave. nay, there have been those so zealous for some glorious principle, as to wish themselves blotted out of the book of heaven if the cause of heaven could succeed. and out of this mysterious quality, whatever it be, arise the higher relations of human life, the higher modes of human obligation. kant, the philosopher, used to say that there were two things which overwhelmed him with awe as he thought of them. one was the star-sown deep of space, without limit and without end; the other was, right and wrong. right, the sacrifice of self to good; wrong, the sacrifice of good to self;--not graduated objects of desire, to which we are determined by the degrees of our knowledge, but wide asunder as pole and pole, as light and darkness--one, the object of infinite love; the other, the object of infinite detestation and scorn. it is in this marvellous power in men to do wrong (it is an old story, but none the less true for that)--it is in this power to do wrong--wrong or right, as it lies somehow with ourselves to choose--that the impossibility stands of forming scientific calculations of what men will do before the fact, or scientific explanations of what they have done after the fact. if men were consistently selfish, you might analyse their motives; if they were consistently noble, they would express in their conduct the laws of the highest perfection. but so long as two natures are mixed together, and the strange creature which results from the combination is now under one influence and now under another, so long you will make nothing of him except from the old-fashioned moral--or, if you please, imaginative--point of view. even the laws of political economy itself cease to guide us when they touch moral government. so long as labour is a chattel to be bought and sold, so long, like other commodities, it follows the condition of supply and demand. but if, for his misfortune, an employer considers that he stands in human relations towards his workmen; if he believes, rightly or wrongly, that he is responsible for them; that in return for their labour he is bound to see that their children are decently taught, and they and their families decently fed and clothed and lodged; that he ought to care for them in sickness and in old age; then political economy will no longer direct him, and the relations between himself and his dependents will have to be arranged on quite other principles. so long as he considers only his own material profit, so long supply and demand will settle every difficulty; but the introduction of a new factor spoils the equation. and it is precisely in this debatable ground of low motives and noble emotions--in the struggle, ever failing, yet ever renewed, to carry truth and justice into the administration of human society; in the establishment of states and in the overthrow of tyrannies; in the rise and fall of creeds; in the world of ideas; in the character and deeds of the great actors in the drama of life; where good and evil fight out their everlasting battle, now ranged in opposite camps, now and more often in the heart, both of them, of each living man--that the true human interest of history resides. the progress of industries, the growth of material and mechanical civilisation, are interesting, but they are not the most interesting. they have their reward in the increase of material comforts; but, unless we are mistaken about our nature, they do not highly concern us after all. once more; not only is there in men this baffling duality of principle, but there is something else in us which still more defies scientific analysis. mr. buckle would deliver himself from the eccentricities of this and that individual by a doctrine of averages. though he cannot tell whether a, b, or c will cut his throat, he may assure himself that one man in every fifty thousand, or thereabout (i forget the exact proportion), will cut his throat, and with this he consoles himself. no doubt it is a comforting discovery. unfortunately, the average of one generation need not be the average of the next. we may be converted by the japanese, for all that we know, and the japanese methods of taking leave of life may become fashionable among us. nay, did not novalis suggest that the whole race of men would at last become so disgusted with their impotence, that they would extinguish themselves by a simultaneous act of suicide, and make room for a better order of beings? anyhow, the fountain out of which the race is flowing perpetually changes--no two generations are alike. whether there is a change in the organisation itself, we cannot tell; but this is certain, that as the planet varies with the atmosphere which surrounds it, so each new generation varies from the last, because it inhales as its atmosphere the accumulated experience and knowledge of the whole past of the world. these things form the spiritual air which we breathe as we grow; and in the infinite multiplicity of elements of which that air is now composed, it is for ever matter of conjecture what the minds will be like which expand under its influence. from the england of fielding and richardson to the england of miss austen--from the england of miss austen to the england of railways and free-trade, how vast the change; yet perhaps sir charles grandison would not seem so strange to us now, as one of ourselves will seem to our great-grandchildren. the world moves faster and faster; and the difference will probably be considerably greater. the temper of each new generation is a continual surprise. the fates delight to contradict our most confident expectations. gibbon believed that the era of conquerors was at an end. had he lived out the full life of man, he would have seen europe at the feet of napoleon. but a few years ago we believed the world had grown too civilised for war, and the crystal palace in hyde park was to be the inauguration of a new era. battles, bloody as napoleon's, are now the familiar tale of every day; and the arts which have made greatest progress are the arts of destruction. what next? we may strain our eyes into the future which lies beyond this waning century; but never was conjecture more at fault. it is blank darkness, which even the imagination fails to people. what then is the use of history? and what are its lessons? if it can tell us little of the past, and nothing of the future, why waste our time over so barren a study? first, it is a voice for ever sounding across the centuries the laws of right and wrong. opinions alter, manners change, creeds rise and fall, but the moral law is written on the tablets of eternity. for every false word or unrighteous deed, for cruelty and oppression, for lust or vanity, the price has to be paid at last: not always by the chief offenders, but paid by some one. justice and truth alone endure and live. injustice and falsehood may be long-lived, but doomsday comes at last to them, in french revolutions and other terrible ways. that is one lesson of history. another is, that we should draw no horoscopes; that we should expect little, for what we expect will not come to pass. revolutions, reformations--those vast movements into which heroes and saints have flung themselves, in the belief that they were the dawn of the millennium--have not borne the fruit which they looked for. millenniums are still far away. these great convulsions leave the world changed--perhaps improved,--but not improved as the actors in them hoped it would be. luther would have gone to work with less heart, could he have foreseen the thirty years' war, and in the distance the theology of tubingen. washington might have hesitated to draw the sword against england, could he have seen the country which he made as we see it now.[b] the most reasonable anticipations fail us--antecedents the most apposite mislead us; because the conditions of human problems never repeat themselves. some new feature alters everything--some element which we detect only in its after-operation. but this, it may be said, is but a meagre outcome. can the long records of humanity, with all its joys and sorrows, its sufferings and its conquests, teach us no more than this? let us approach the subject from another side. if you were asked to point out the special features in which shakespeare's plays are so transcendently excellent, you would mention, perhaps, among others, this, that his stories are not put together, and his characters are not conceived, to illustrate any particular law or principle. they teach many lessons, but not any one prominent above another; and when we have drawn from them all the direct instruction which they contain, there remains still something unresolved--something which the artist gives, and which the philosopher cannot give. it is in this characteristic that we are accustomed to say shakespeare's supreme _truth_ lies. he represents real life. his dramas teach as life teaches--neither less nor more. he builds his fabrics as nature does, on right and wrong; but he does not struggle to make nature more systematic than she is. in the subtle interflow of good and evil--in the unmerited sufferings of innocence--in the disproportion of penalties to desert--in the seeming blindness with which justice, in attempting to assert itself, overwhelms innocent and guilty in a common ruin--shakespeare is true to real experience. the mystery of life he leaves as he finds it; and, in his most tremendous positions, he is addressing rather the intellectual emotions than the understanding,--knowing well that the understanding in such things is at fault, and the sage as ignorant as the child. only the highest order of genius can represent nature thus. an inferior artist produces either something entirely immoral, where good and evil are names, and nobility of disposition is supposed to show itself in the absolute disregard of them--or else, if he is a better kind of man, he will force on nature a didactic purpose; he composes what are called moral tales, which may edify the conscience, but only mislead the intellect. the finest work of this kind produced in modern times is lessing's play of 'nathan the wise.' the object of it is to teach religious toleration. the doctrine is admirable--the mode in which it is enforced is interesting; but it has the fatal fault, that it is not true. nature does not teach religious toleration by any such direct method; and the result is--no one knew it better than lessing himself--that the play is not poetry, but only splendid manufacture. shakespeare is eternal; lessing's 'nathan' will pass away with the mode of thought which gave it birth. one is based on fact; the other, on human theory about fact. the theory seems at first sight to contain the most immediate instruction; but it is not really so. cibber and others, as you know, wanted to alter shakespeare. the french king, in 'lear,' was to be got rid of; cordelia was to marry edgar, and lear himself was to be rewarded for his sufferings by a golden old age. they could not bear that hamlet should suffer for the sins of claudius. the wicked king was to die, and the wicked mother; and hamlet and ophelia were to make a match of it, and live happily ever after. a common novelist would have arranged it thus; and you would have had your comfortable moral that wickedness was fitly punished, and virtue had its due reward, and all would have been well. but shakespeare would not have it so. shakespeare knew that crime was not so simple in its consequences, or providence so paternal. he was contented to take the truth from life; and the effect upon the mind of the most correct theory of what life ought to be, compared to the effect of the life itself, is infinitesimal in comparison. again, let us compare the popular historical treatment of remarkable incidents with shakespeare's treatment of them. look at 'macbeth.' you may derive abundant instruction from it--instruction of many kinds. there is a moral lesson of profound interest in the steps by which a noble nature glides to perdition. in more modern fashion you may speculate, if you like, on the political conditions represented there, and the temptation presented in absolute monarchies to unscrupulous ambition; you may say, like dr. slop, these things could not have happened under a constitutional government; or, again, you may take up your parable against superstition--you may dilate on the frightful consequences of a belief in witches, and reflect on the superior advantages of an age of schools and newspapers. if the bare facts of the story had come down to us from a chronicler, and an ordinary writer of the nineteenth century had undertaken to relate them, his account, we may depend upon it, would have been put together upon one or other of these principles. yet, by the side of that unfolding of the secrets of the prison-house of the soul, what lean and shrivelled anatomies the best of such descriptions would seem! shakespeare himself, i suppose, could not have given us a theory of what he meant--he gave us the thing itself, on which we might make whatever theories we pleased. or again, look at homer. the 'iliad' is from two to three thousand years older than 'macbeth,' and yet it is as fresh as if it had been written yesterday. we have there no lessons save in the emotions which rise in us as we read. homer had no philosophy; he never struggles to impress upon us his views about this or that; you can scarcely tell indeed whether his sympathies are greek or trojan; but he represents to us faithfully the men and women among whom he lived. he sang the tale of troy, he touched his lyre, he drained the golden beaker in the halls of men like those on whom he was conferring immortality. and thus, although no agamemnon, king of men, ever led a grecian fleet to ilium; though no priam sought the midnight tent of achilles; though ulysses and diomed and nestor were but names, and helen but a dream, yet, through homer's power of representing men and women, those old greeks will still stand out from amidst the darkness of the ancient world with a sharpness of outline which belongs to no period of history except the most recent. for the mere hard purposes of history, the 'iliad' and 'odyssey' are the most effective books which ever were written. we see the hall of menelaus, we see the garden of alcinous, we see nausicaa among her maidens on the shore, we see the mellow monarch sitting with ivory sceptre in the marketplace dealing out genial justice. or again, when the wild mood is on, we can hear the crash of the spears, the rattle of the armour as the heroes fall, and the plunging of the horses among the slain. could we enter the palace of an old ionian lord, we know what we should see there; we know the words in which he would address us. we could meet hector as a friend. if we could choose a companion to spend an evening with over a fireside, it would be the man of many counsels, the husband of penelope. i am not going into the vexed question whether history or poetry is the more true. it has been sometimes said that poetry is the more true, because it can make things more like what our moral sense would prefer they should be. we hear of poetic justice and the like, as if nature and fact were not just enough. i entirely dissent from that view. so far as poetry attempts to improve on truth in that way, so far it abandons truth, and is false to itself. even literal facts, exactly as they were, a great poet will prefer whenever he can get them. shakespeare in the historical plays is studious, wherever possible, to give the very words which he finds to have been used; and it shows how wisely he was guided in this, that those magnificent speeches of wolsey are taken exactly, with no more change than the metre makes necessary, from cavendish's life. marlborough read shakespeare for english history, and read nothing else. the poet only is not bound, when it is inconvenient, to what may be called the accidents of facts. it was enough for shakespeare to know that prince hal in his youth had lived among loose companions, and the tavern in eastcheap came in to fill out his picture; although mrs. quickly and falstaff, and poins and bardolph were more likely to have been fallen in with by shakespeare himself at the mermaid, than to have been comrades of the true prince henry. it was enough for shakespeare to draw real men, and the situation, whatever it might be, would sit easy on them. in this sense only it is that poetry is truer than history, that it can make a picture more complete. it may take liberties with time and space, and give the action distinctness by throwing it into more manageable compass. but it may not alter the real conditions of things, or represent life as other than it is. the greatness of the poet depends on his being true to nature, without insisting that nature shall theorise with him, without making her more just, more philosophical, more moral than reality; and, in difficult matters, leaving much to reflection which cannot be explained. and if this be true of poetry--if homer and shakespeare are what they are, from the absence of everything didactic about them--may we not thus learn something of what history should be, and in what sense it should aspire to teach? if poetry must not theorise, much less should the historian theorise, whose obligations to be true to fact are even greater than the poet's. if the drama is grandest when the action is least explicable by laws, because then it best resembles life, then history will be grandest also under the same conditions. 'macbeth,' were it literally true, would be perfect history; and so far as the historian can approach to that kind of model, so far as he can let his story tell itself in the deeds and words of those who act it out, so far is he most successful. his work is no longer the vapour of his own brain, which a breath will scatter; it is the thing itself, which will have interest for all time. a thousand theories may be formed about it--spiritual theories, pantheistic theories, cause and effect theories; but each age will have its own philosophy of history, and all these in turn will fail and die. hegel falls out of date, schlegel falls out of date, and comte in good time will fall out of date; the thought about the thing must change as we change; but the thing itself can never change; and a history is durable or perishable as it contains more or least of the writer's own speculations. the splendid intellect of gibbon for the most part kept him true to the right course in this; yet the philosophical chapters for which he has been most admired or censured may hereafter be thought the least interesting in his work. the time has been when they would not have been comprehended: the time may come when they will seem commonplace. it may be said, that in requiring history to be written like a drama, we require an impossibility. for history to be written with the complete form of a drama, doubtless is impossible; but there are periods, and these the periods, for the most part, of greatest interest to mankind, the history of which may be so written that the actors shall reveal their characters in their own words; where mind can be seen matched against mind, and the great passions of the epoch not simply be described as existing, but be exhibited at their white heat in the souls and hearts possessed by them. there are all the elements of drama--drama of the highest order--where the huge forces of the times are as the grecian destiny, and the power of the man is seen either stemming the stream till it overwhelms him, or ruling while he seems to yield to it. it is nature's drama--not shakespeare's--but a drama none the less. so at least it seems to me. wherever possible, let us not be told _about_ this man or that. let us hear the man himself speak; let us see him act, and let us be left to form our own opinions about him. the historian, we are told, must not leave his readers to themselves. he must not only lay the facts before them--he must tell them what he himself thinks about those facts. in my opinion, this is precisely what he ought not to do. bishop butler says somewhere, that the best book which could be written would be a book consisting only of premises, from which the readers should draw conclusions for themselves. the highest poetry is the very thing which butler requires, and the highest history ought to be. we should no more ask for a theory of this or that period of history, than we should ask for a theory of 'macbeth' or 'hamlet.' philosophies of history, sciences of history--all these, there will continue to be; the fashions of them will change, as our habits of thought will change; each new philosopher will find his chief employment in showing that before him no one understood anything; but the drama of history is imperishable, and, the lessons of it will be like what we learn from homer or shakespeare--lessons for which we have no words. the address of history is less to the understanding than to the higher emotions. we learn in it to sympathise with what is great and good; we learn to hate what is base. in the anomalies of fortune we feel the mystery of our mortal existence, and in the companionship of the illustrious natures who have shaped the fortunes of the world, we escape from the littlenesses which cling to the round of common life, and our minds are tuned in a higher and nobler key. for the rest, and for those large questions which i touched in connection with mr. buckle, we live in times of disintegration, and none can tell what will be after us. what opinions--what convictions--the infant of to-day will find prevailing on the earth, if he and it live out together to the middle of another century, only a very bold man would undertake to conjecture! 'the time will come,' said lichtenberg, in scorn at the materialising tendencies of modern thought; 'the time will come when the belief in god will be as the tales with which old women frighten children; when the world will be a machine, the ether a gas, and god will be a force.' mankind, if they last long enough on the earth, may develope strange things out of themselves; and the growth of what is called the positive philosophy is a curious commentary on lichtenberg's prophecy. but whether the end be seventy years hence, or seven hundred--be the close of the mortal history of humanity as far distant in the future as its shadowy beginnings seem now to lie behind us--this only we may foretell with confidence--that the riddle of man's nature will remain unsolved. there will be that in him yet which physical laws will fail to explain--that something, whatever it be, in himself and in the world, which science cannot fathom, and which suggests the unknown possibilities of his origin and his destiny. there will remain yet those obstinate questionings of sense and outward things; falling from us, vanishings-- blank misgivings of a creature moving about in worlds not realised-- high instincts, before which our mortal nature doth tremble like a guilty thing surprised. there will remain those first affections-- those shadowy recollections-- which, be they what they may, are yet the fountain-light of all our day-- are yet the master-light of all our seeing-- uphold us, cherish, and have power to make our noisy years seem moments in the being of the eternal silence. footnotes: [a] it is objected that geology is a science: yet that geology cannot foretell the future changes of the earth's surface. geology is not a century old, and its periods are measured by millions of years. yet, if geology cannot foretell future facts, it enabled sir roderick murchison to foretell the discovery of australian gold. [b] february . times of erasmus and luther: three lectures delivered at newcastle, . lecture i. ladies and gentlemen,--i do not know whether i have made a very wise selection in the subject which i have chosen for these lectures. there was a time--a time which, measured by the years of our national life, was not so very long ago--when the serious thoughts of mankind were occupied exclusively by religion and politics. the small knowledge which they possessed of other things was tinctured by their speculative opinions on the relations of heaven and earth; and, down to the sixteenth century, art, science, scarcely even literature, existed in this country, except as, in some way or other, subordinate to theology. philosophers--such philosophers as there were--obtained and half deserved the reputation of quacks and conjurors. astronomy was confused with astrology. the physician's medicines were supposed to be powerless, unless the priests said prayers over them. the great lawyers, the ambassadors, the chief ministers of state, were generally bishops; even the fighting business was not entirely secular. half-a-dozen scotch prelates were killed at flodden; and, late in the reign of henry the eighth, no fitter person could be found than rowland lee, bishop of coventry, to take command of the welsh marches, and harry the freebooters of llangollen. every single department of intellectual or practical life was penetrated with the beliefs, or was interwoven with the interests, of the clergy; and thus it was that, when differences of religious opinion arose, they split society to its foundations. the lines of cleavage penetrated everywhere, and there were no subjects whatever in which those who disagreed in theology possessed any common concern. when men quarrelled, they quarrelled altogether. the disturbers of settled beliefs were regarded as public enemies who had placed themselves beyond the pale of humanity, and were considered fit only to be destroyed like wild beasts, or trampled out like the seed of a contagion. three centuries have passed over our heads since the time of which i am speaking, and the world is so changed that we can hardly recognise it as the same. the secrets of nature have been opened out to us on a thousand lines; and men of science of all creeds can pursue side by side their common investigations. catholics, anglicans, presbyterians, lutherans, calvinists, contend with each other in honourable rivalry in arts, and literature, and commerce, and industry. they read the same books. they study at the same academies. they have seats in the same senates. they preside together on the judicial bench, and carry on, without jar or difference, the ordinary business of the country. those who share the same pursuits are drawn in spite of themselves into sympathy and good-will. when they are in harmony in so large a part of their occupations, the points of remaining difference lose their venom. those who thought they hated each other, unconsciously find themselves friends; and as far as it affects the world at large, the acrimony of controversy has almost disappeared. imagine, if you can, a person being now put to death for a speculative theological opinion. you feel at once, that in the most bigoted country in the world such a thing has become impossible; and the impossibility is the measure of the alteration which we have all undergone. the formulas remain as they were on either side--the very same formulas which were once supposed to require these detestable murders. but we have learnt to know each other better. the cords which bind together the brotherhood of mankind are woven of a thousand strands. we do not any more fly apart or become enemies, because, here and there, in one strand out of so many, there are still unsound places. if i were asked for a distinct proof that europe was improving and not retrograding, i should find it in this phenomenon. it has not been brought about by controversy. men are fighting still over the same questions which they began to fight about at the reformation. protestant divines have not driven catholics out of the field, nor catholics, protestants. each polemic writes for his own partisans, and makes no impression on his adversary. controversy has kept alive a certain quantity of bitterness; and that, i suspect, is all that it would accomplish if it continued till the day of judgment. i sometimes, in impatient moments, wish the laity in europe would treat their controversial divines as two gentlemen once treated their seconds, when they found themselves forced into a duel without knowing what they were quarrelling about. as the principals were being led up to their places, one of them whispered to the other, 'if you will shoot your second, i will shoot mine.' the reconciliation of parties, if i may use such a word, is no tinkered-up truce, or convenient interim. it is the healthy, silent, spontaneous growth of a nobler order of conviction, which has conquered our prejudices even before we knew that they were assailed. this better spirit especially is represented in institutions like this, which acknowledge no differences of creed--which are constructed on the broadest principles of toleration--and which, therefore, as a rule, are wisely protected from the intrusion of discordant subjects. they exist, as i understand, to draw men together, not to divide them--to enable us to share together in those topics of universal interest and instruction which all can take pleasure in, and which give offence to none. if you ask me, then, why i am myself departing from a practice which i admit to be so excellent, i fear that i shall give you rather a lame answer. i might say that i know more about the history of the sixteenth century than i know about anything else. i have spent the best years of my life in reading and writing about it; and if i have anything to tell you worth your hearing, it is probably on that subject. or, again, i might say--which is indeed most true--that to the reformation we can trace, indirectly, the best of those very influences which i have been describing. the reformation broke the theological shackles in which men's minds were fettered. it set them thinking, and so gave birth to science. the reformers also, without knowing what they were about, taught the lesson of religious toleration. they attempted to supersede one set of dogmas by another. they succeeded with half the world--they failed with the other half. in a little while it became apparent that good men--without ceasing to be good--could think differently about theology, and that goodness, therefore, depended on something else than the holding orthodox opinions. it is not, however, for either of these reasons that i am going to talk to you about martin luther; nor is toleration of differences of opinion, however excellent it be, the point on which i shall dwell in these lectures. were the reformation a question merely of opinion, i for one should not have meddled with it, either here or anywhere. i hold that, on the obscure mysteries of faith, every one should be allowed to believe according to his conscience, and that arguments on such matters are either impertinent or useless. but the reformation, gentlemen, beyond the region of opinions, was a historical fact--an objective something which may be studied like any of the facts of nature. the reformers were men of note and distinction, who played a great part for good or evil on the stage of the world. if we except the apostles, no body of human beings ever printed so deep a mark into the organisation of society; and if there be any value or meaning in history at all, the lives, the actions, the characters of such men as these can be matters of indifference to none of us. we have not to do with a story which is buried in obscure antiquity. the facts admit of being learnt. the truth, whatever it was, concerns us all equally. if the divisions created by that great convulsion are ever to be obliterated, it will be when we have learnt, each of us, to see the thing as it really was, and not rather some mythical or imaginative version of the thing--such as from our own point of view we like to think it was. fiction in such matters may be convenient for our immediate theories, but it is certain to avenge itself in the end. we may make our own opinions, but facts were made for us; and if we evade or deny them, it will be the worse for us. unfortunately, the mythical version at present very largely preponderates. open a protestant history of the reformation, and you will find a picture of the world given over to a lying tyranny--the christian population of europe enslaved by a corrupt and degraded priesthood, and the reformers, with the bible in their hands, coming to the rescue like angels of light. all is black on one side--all is fair and beautiful on the other. turn to a catholic history of the same events and the same men, and we have before us the church of the saints fulfilling quietly its blessed mission in the saving of human souls. satan a second time enters into paradise, and a second time with fatal success tempts miserable man to his ruin. he disbelieves his appointed teachers, he aspires after forbidden knowledge, and at once anarchy breaks loose. the seamless robe of the saviour is rent in pieces, and the earth becomes the habitation of fiends. each side tells the story as it prefers to have it; facts, characters, circumstances, are melted in the theological crucible, and cast in moulds diametrically opposite. nothing remains the same except the names and dates. each side chooses its own witnesses. everything is credible which makes for what it calls the truth. everything is made false which will not fit into its place. 'blasphemous fables' is the usual expression in protestant controversial books for the accounts given by catholics. 'protestant tradition,' says an eminent modern catholic, 'is based on lying--bold, wholesale, unscrupulous lying.' now, depend upon it, there is some human account of the matter different from both these if we could only get at it, and it will be an excellent thing for the world when that human account can be made out. i am not so presumptuous as to suppose that i can give it to you; still less can you expect me to try to do so within the compass of two or three lectures. if i cannot do everything, however, i believe i can do a little; at any rate i can give you a sketch, such as you may place moderate confidence in, of the state of the church as it was before the reformation began. i will not expose myself more than i can help to the censure of the divine who was so hard on protestant tradition. most of what i shall have to say to you this evening will be taken from the admissions of catholics themselves, or from official records earlier than the outbreak of the controversy, when there was no temptation to pervert the truth. here, obviously, is the first point on which we require accurate information. if all was going on well, the reformers really and truly told innumerable lies, and deserve all the reprobation which we can give them. if all was not going on well--if, so far from being well, the church was so corrupt that europe could bear with it no longer--then clearly a reformation was necessary of some kind; and we have taken one step towards a fair estimate of the persons concerned in it. a fair estimate--that, and only that, is what we want. i need hardly observe to you, that opinion in england has been undergoing lately a very considerable alteration about these persons. two generations ago, the leading reformers were looked upon as little less than saints; now a party has risen up who intend, as they frankly tell us, to un-protestantise the church of england, who detest protestantism as a kind of infidelity, who desire simply to reverse everything which the reformers did. one of these gentlemen, a clergyman, writing lately of luther, called him a heretic, a heretic fit only to be ranked with--whom, do you think?--joe smith, the mormon prophet. joe smith and luther--that is the combination with which we are now presented. the book in which this remarkable statement appeared was presented by two bishops to the upper house of convocation. it was received with gracious acknowledgments by the archbishop of canterbury, and was placed solemnly in the library of reference, for that learned body to consult. so, too, a professor at oxford, the other day, spoke of luther as a philistine--a philistine meaning an oppressor of the chosen people; the enemy of men of culture, of intelligence, such as the professor himself. one notices these things, not as of much importance in themselves, but as showing which way the stream is running; and, curiously enough, in quite another direction we may see the same phenomenon. our liberal philosophers, men of high literary power and reputation, looking into the history of luther, and calvin, and john knox, and the rest, find them falling far short of the philosophic ideal--wanting sadly in many qualities which the liberal mind cannot dispense with. they are discovered to be intolerant, dogmatic, narrow-minded, inclined to persecute catholics as catholics had persecuted them; to be, in fact, little if at all better than the popes and cardinals whom they were fighting against. lord macaulay can hardly find epithets strong enough to express his contempt for archbishop cranmer. mr. buckle places cranmer by the side of bonner, and hesitates which of the two characters is the more detestable. an unfavourable estimate of the reformers, whether just or unjust, is unquestionably gaining ground among our advanced thinkers. a greater man than either macaulay or buckle--the german poet, goethe--says of luther, that he threw back the intellectual progress of mankind for centuries, by calling in the passions of the multitude to decide on subjects which ought to have been left to the learned. goethe, in saying this, was alluding especially to erasmus. goethe thought that erasmus, and men like erasmus, had struck upon the right track; and if they could have retained the direction of the mind of europe, there would have been more truth, and less falsehood, among us at this present time. the party hatreds, the theological rivalries, the persecutions, the civil wars, the religious animosities which have so long distracted us, would have been all avoided, and the mind of mankind would have expanded gradually and equably with the growth of knowledge. such an opinion, coming from so great a man, is not to be lightly passed over. it will be my endeavour to show you what kind of man erasmus was, what he was aiming at, what he was doing, and how luther spoilt his work--if spoiling is the word which we are to use for it. one caution, however, i must in fairness give you before we proceed further. it lies upon the face of the story, that the reformers imperfectly understood toleration; but you must keep before you the spirit and temper of the men with whom they had to deal. for themselves, when the movement began, they aimed at nothing but liberty to think and speak their own way. they never dreamt of interfering with others, although they were quite aware that others, when they could, were likely to interfere with them. lord macaulay might have remembered that cranmer was working all his life with the prospect of being burnt alive as his reward--and, as we all know, he actually was burnt alive. when the protestant teaching began first to spread in the netherlands--before one single catholic had been illtreated there, before a symptom of a mutinous disposition had shown itself among the people, an edict was issued by the authorities for the suppression of the new opinions. the terms of this edict i will briefly describe to you. the inhabitants of the united provinces were informed that they were to hold and believe the doctrines of the holy roman catholic church. 'men and women,' says the edict, 'who disobey this command shall be punished as disturbers of public order. women who have fallen into heresy shall be buried alive. men, if they recant, shall lose their heads. if they continue obstinate, they shall be burnt at the stake. 'if man or woman be suspected of heresy, no one shall shelter or protect him or her; and no stranger shall be admitted to lodge in any inn or dwelling-house unless he bring with him a testimonial of orthodoxy from the priest of his parish. 'the inquisition shall enquire into the private opinions of every person, of whatever degree; and all officers of all kinds shall assist the inquisition at their peril. those who know where heretics are concealed, shall denounce them, or they shall suffer as heretics themselves. heretics (observe the malignity of this paragraph)--heretics who will give up other heretics to justice, shall themselves be pardoned if they will promise to conform for the future.' under this edict, in the netherlands alone, more than fifty thousand human beings, first and last, were deliberately murdered. and, gentlemen, i must say that proceedings of this kind explain and go far to excuse the subsequent intolerance of protestants. intolerance, mr. gibbon tells us, is a greater crime in a protestant than a catholic. criminal intolerance, as i understand it, is the intolerance of such an edict as that which i have read to you--the unprovoked intolerance of difference of opinion. i conceive that the most enlightened philosopher might have grown hard and narrow-minded if he had suffered under the administration of the duke of alva. dismissing these considerations, i will now go on with my subject. never in all their history, in ancient times or modern, never that we know of, have mankind thrown out of themselves anything so grand, so useful, so beautiful, as the catholic church once was. in these times of ours, well-regulated selfishness is the recognised rule of action--every one of us is expected to look out first for himself, and take care of his own interests. at the time i speak of, the church ruled the state with the authority of a conscience; and self-interest, as a motive of action, was only named to be abhorred. the bishops and clergy were regarded freely and simply as the immediate ministers of the almighty; and they seem to me to have really deserved that high estimate of their character. it was not for the doctrines which they taught, only or chiefly, that they were held in honour. brave men do not fall down before their fellow-mortals for the words which they speak, or for the rites which they perform. wisdom, justice, self-denial, nobleness, purity, highmindedness,--these are the qualities before which the free-born races of europe have been contented to bow; and in no order of men were such qualities to be found as they were found six hundred years ago in the clergy of the catholic church. they called themselves the successors of the apostles. they claimed in their master's name universal spiritual authority, but they made good their pretensions by the holiness of their own lives. they were allowed to rule because they deserved to rule, and in the fulness of reverence kings and nobles bent before a power which was nearer to god than their own. over prince and subject, chieftain and serf, a body of unarmed defenceless men reigned supreme by the magic of sanctity. they tamed the fiery northern warriors who had broken in pieces the roman empire. they taught them--they brought them really and truly to believe--that they had immortal souls, and that they would one day stand at the awful judgment bar and give account for their lives there. with the brave, the honest, and the good--with those who had not oppressed the poor nor removed their neighbour's landmark--with those who had been just in all their dealings--with those who had fought against evil, and had tried valiantly to do their master's will,--at that great day, it would be well. for cowards, for profligates, for those who lived for luxury and pleasure and self-indulgence, there was the blackness of eternal death. an awful conviction of this tremendous kind the clergy had effectually instilled into the mind of europe. it was not a perhaps; it was a certainty. it was not a form of words repeated once a week at church; it was an assurance entertained on all days and in all places, without any particle of doubt. and the effect of such a belief on life and conscience was simply immeasurable. i do not pretend that the clergy were perfect. they were very far from perfect at the best of times, and the european nations were never completely submissive to them. it would not have been well if they had been. the business of human creatures in this planet is not summed up in the most excellent of priestly catechisms. the world and its concerns continued to interest men, though priests insisted on their nothingness. they could not prevent kings from quarrelling with each other. they could not hinder disputed successions, and civil feuds, and wars, and political conspiracies. what they did do was to shelter the weak from the strong. in the eyes of the clergy, the serf and his lord stood on the common level of sinful humanity. into their ranks high birth was no passport. they were themselves for the most part children of the people; and the son of the artisan or peasant rose to the mitre and the triple crown, just as nowadays the rail-splitter and the tailor become presidents of the republic of the west. the church was essentially democratic, while at the same time it had the monopoly of learning; and all the secular power fell to it which learning, combined with sanctity and assisted by superstition, can bestow. the privileges of the clergy were extraordinary. they were not amenable to the common laws of the land. while they governed the laity, the laity had no power over them. from the throne downwards, every secular office was dependent on the church. no king was a lawful sovereign till the church placed the crown upon his head: and what the church bestowed, the church claimed the right to take away. the disposition of property was in their hands. no will could be proved except before the bishop or his officer; and no will was held valid if the testator died out of communion. there were magistrates and courts of law for the offences of the laity. if a priest committed a crime, he was a sacred person. the civil power could not touch him; he was reserved for his ordinary. bishops' commissaries sate in town and city, taking cognizance of the moral conduct of every man and woman. offences against life and property were tried here in england, as now, by the common law; but the church courts dealt with sins--sins of word or act. if a man was a profligate or a drunkard; if he lied or swore; if he did not come to communion, or held unlawful opinions; if he was idle or unthrifty; if he was unkind to his wife or his servants; if a child was disobedient to his father, or a father cruel to his child; if a tradesman sold adulterated wares, or used false measures or dishonest weights,--the eye of the parish priest was everywhere, and the church court stood always open to examine and to punish. imagine what a tremendous power this must have been! yet it existed generally in catholic europe down to the eve of the reformation. it could never have established itself at all unless at one time it had worked beneficially--as the abuse of it was one of the most fatal causes of the church's fall. i know nothing in english history much more striking than the answer given by archbishop warham to the complaints of the english house of commons after the fall of cardinal wolsey. the house of commons complained that the clergy made laws in convocation which the laity were excommunicated if they disobeyed. yet the laws made by the clergy, the commons said, were often at variance with the laws of the realm. what did warham reply? he said he was sorry for the alleged discrepancy; but, inasmuch as the laws made by the clergy were always in conformity with the will of god, the laws of the realm had only to be altered and then the difficulty would vanish. what must have been the position of the clergy in the fulness of their power, when they could speak thus on the eve of their prostration? you have only to look from a distance at any old-fashioned cathedral city, and you will see in a moment the mediæval relations between church and state. the cathedral _is_ the city. the first object you catch sight of as you approach is the spire tapering into the sky, or the huge towers holding possession of the centre of the landscape--majestically beautiful--imposing by mere size amidst the large forms of nature herself. as you go nearer, the vastness of the building impresses you more and more. the puny dwelling-place of the citizens creep at its feet, the pinnacles are glittering in the tints of the sunset, when down below among the streets and lanes the twilight is darkening. and even now, when the towns are thrice their ancient size, and the houses have stretched upwards from two stories to five; when the great chimneys are vomiting their smoke among the clouds, and the temples of modern industry--the workshops and the factories--spread their long fronts before the eye, the cathedral is still the governing form in the picture--the one object which possesses the imagination and refuses to be eclipsed. as that cathedral was to the old town, so was the church of the middle ages to the secular institutions of the world. its very neighbourhood was sacred; and its shadow, like the shadow of the apostles, was a sanctuary. when i look at the new houses of parliament in london, i see in them a type of the change which has passed over us. the house of commons of the plantagenets sate in the chapter house of westminster abbey. the parliament of the reform bill, five-and-thirty years ago, debated in st. stephen's chapel, the abbey's small dependency. now, by the side of the enormous pile which has risen out of that chapel's ashes, the proud minster itself is dwarfed into insignificance. let us turn to another vast feature of the middle ages--i mean the monasteries. some person of especial and exceptional holiness has lived or died at a particular spot. he has been distinguished by his wisdom, by his piety, by his active benevolence; and in an age when conjurors and witches were supposed to be helped by the devil to do evil, he, on his part, has been thought to have possessed in larger measure than common men the favour and the grace of heaven. blessed influences hang about the spot which he has hallowed by his presence. his relics--his household possessions, his books, his clothes, his bones, retain the shadowy sanctity which they received in having once belonged to him. we all set a value, not wholly unreal, on anything which has been the property of a remarkable man. at worst, it is but an exaggeration of natural reverence. well, as nowadays we build monuments to great men, so in the middle ages they built shrines or chapels on the spots which saints had made holy, and communities of pious people gathered together there--beginning with the personal friends the saint had left behind him--to try to live as he had lived, to do good as he had done good, and to die as he had died. thus arose religious fraternities--companies of men who desired to devote themselves to goodness--to give up pleasure, and amusement, and self-indulgence, and to spend their lives in prayer and works of charity. these houses became centres of pious beneficence. the monks, as the brotherhoods were called, were organised in different orders, with some variety of rule, but the broad principle was the same in all. they were to live for others, not for themselves. they took vows of poverty, that they might not be entangled in the pursuit of money. they took vows of chastity, that the care of a family might not distract them from the work which they had undertaken. their efforts of charity were not limited to this world. their days were spent in hard bodily labour, in study, or in visiting the sick. at night they were on the stone-floors of their chapels, holding up their withered hands to heaven, interceding for the poor souls who were suffering in purgatory. the world, as it always will, paid honour to exceptional excellence. the system spread to the furthest limits of christendom. the religious houses became places of refuge, where men of noble birth, kings and queens and emperors, warriors and statesmen, retired to lay down their splendid cares, and end their days in peace. those with whom the world had dealt hardly, or those whom it had surfeited with its unsatisfying pleasures, those who were disappointed with earth, and those who were filled with passionate aspirations after heaven, alike found a haven of rest in the quiet cloister. and, gradually, lands came to them, and wealth, and social dignity--all gratefully extended to men who deserved so well of their fellows; while no landlords were more popular than they, for the sanctity of the monks sheltered their dependents as well as themselves. travel now through ireland, and you will see in the wildest parts of it innumerable remains of religious houses, which had grown up among a people who acknowledged no rule among themselves except the sword, and where every chief made war upon his neighbour as the humour seized him. the monks among the o's and the mac's were as defenceless as sheep among the wolves; but the wolves spared them for their character. in such a country as ireland then was, the monasteries could not have survived for a generation but for the enchanted atmosphere which surrounded them. of authority, the religious orders were practically independent. they were amenable only to the pope and to their own superiors. here in england, the king could not send a commissioner to inspect a monastery, nor even send a policeman to arrest a criminal who had taken shelter within its walls. archbishops and bishops, powerful as they were, found their authority cease when they entered the gates of a benedictine or dominican abbey. so utterly have times changed, that with your utmost exertions you will hardly be able to picture to yourselves the catholic church in the days of its greatness. our school-books tell us how the emperor of germany held the stirrup for pope gregory the seventh to mount his mule; how our own english henry plantagenet walked barefoot through the streets of canterbury, and knelt in the chapter house for the monks to flog him. the first of these incidents, i was brought up to believe, proved the pope to be the man of sin. anyhow, they are both facts, and not romances; and you may form some notion from them how high in the world's eyes the church must have stood. and be sure it did not achieve that proud position without deserving it. the teutonic and latin princes were not credulous fools; and when they submitted, it was to something stronger than themselves--stronger in limb and muscle, or stronger in intellect and character. so the church was in its vigour: so the church was _not_ at the opening of the sixteenth century. power--wealth--security--men are more than mortal if they can resist the temptations to which too much of these expose them. nor were they the only enemies which undermined the energies of the catholic clergy. churches exist in this world to remind us of the eternal laws which we are bound to obey. so far as they do this, they fulfil their end, and are honoured in fulfilling it. it would have been better for all of us--it would be better for us now, could churches keep this their peculiar function steadily and singly before them. unfortunately, they have preferred in later times the speculative side of things to the practical. they take up into their teaching opinions and theories which are merely ephemeral; which would naturally die out with the progress of knowledge; but, having received a spurious sanctity, prolong their days unseasonably, and become first unmeaning, and then occasions of superstition. it matters little whether i say a paternoster in english or latin, so that what is present to my mind is the thought which the words express, and not the words themselves. in these and all languages it is the most beautiful of prayers. but you know that people came to look on a latin paternoster as the most powerful of spells--potent in heaven, if said straightforward; if repeated backward, a charm which no spirit in hell could resist. so it is, in my opinion, with all forms--forms of words, or forms of ceremony and ritualism. while the meaning is alive in them, they are not only harmless, but pregnant and life-giving. when we come to think that they possess in themselves material and magical virtues, then the purpose which they answer is to hide god from us and make us practically into atheists. this is what i believe to have gradually fallen upon the catholic church in the generations which preceded luther. the body remained; the mind was gone away: the original thought which its symbolism represented was no longer credible to intelligent persons. the acute were conscious unbelievers. in italy, when men went to mass they spoke of it as going to a comedy. you may have heard the story of luther in his younger days saying mass at an altar in rome, and hearing his fellow-priests muttering at the consecration of the eucharist, 'bread thou art, and bread thou wilt remain.' part of the clergy were profane scoundrels like these; the rest repeated the words of the service, conceiving that they were working a charm. religion was passing through the transformation which all religions have a tendency to undergo. they cease to be aids and incentives to holy life; they become contrivances rather to enable men to sin, and escape the penalties of sin. obedience to the law is dispensed with if men will diligently profess certain opinions, or punctually perform certain external duties. however scandalous the moral life, the participation of a particular rite, or the profession of a particular belief, at the moment of death, is held to clear the score. the powers which had been given to the clergy required for their exercise the highest wisdom and the highest probity. they had fallen at last into the hands of men who possessed considerably less of these qualities than the laity whom they undertook to govern. they had degraded their conceptions of god; and, as a necessary consequence, they had degraded their conceptions of man and man's duty. the aspirations after sanctity had disappeared, and instead of them there remained the practical reality of the five senses. the high prelates, the cardinals, the great abbots, were occupied chiefly in maintaining their splendour and luxury. the friars and the secular clergy, following their superiors with shorter steps, indulged themselves in grosser pleasures; while their spiritual powers, their supposed authority in this world and the next, were turned to account to obtain from the laity the means for their self-indulgence. the church forbade the eating of meat on fast days, but the church was ready with dispensations for those who could afford to pay for them. the church forbade marriage to the fourth degree of consanguinity, but loving cousins, if they were rich and open-handed, could obtain the church's consent to their union. there were toll-gates for the priests at every halting-place on the road of life--fees at weddings, fees at funerals, fees whenever an excuse could be found to fasten them. even when a man was dead he was not safe from plunder, for a mortuary or death present was exacted of his family. and then those bishop's courts, of which i spoke just now: they were founded for the discipline of morality--they were made the instruments of the most detestable extortion. if an impatient layman spoke a disrespectful word of the clergy, he was cited before the bishop's commissary and fined. if he refused to pay, he was excommunicated, and excommunication was a poisonous disease. when a poor wretch was under the ban of the church no tradesman might sell him clothes or food--no friend might relieve him--no human voice might address him, under pain of the same sentence; and if he died unreconciled, he died like a dog, without the sacraments, and was refused christian burial. the records of some of these courts survive: a glance at their pages will show the principles on which they were worked. when a layman offended, the single object was to make him pay for it. the magistrates could not protect him. if he resisted, and his friends supported him, so much the better, for they were now all in the scrape together. the next step would be to indict them in a body for heresy; and then, of course, there was nothing for it but to give way, and compound for absolution by money. it was money--ever money. even in case of real delinquency, it was still money. money, not charity, covered the multitude of sins. i have told you that the clergy were exempt from secular jurisdiction. they claimed to be amenable only to spiritual judges, and they extended the broad fringe of their order till the word clerk was construed to mean any one who could write his name or read a sentence from a book. a robber or a murderer at the assizes had but to show that he possessed either of these qualifications, and he was allowed what was called benefit of clergy. his case was transferred to the bishops' court, to an easy judge, who allowed him at once to compound. such were the clergy in matters of this world. as religious instructors, they appear in colours if possible less attractive. practical religion throughout europe at the beginning of the sixteenth century was a very simple affair. i am not going to speak of the mysterious doctrines of the catholic church. the creed which it professed in its schools and theological treatises was the same which it professes now, and which it had professed at the time when it was most powerful for good. i do not myself consider that the formulas in which men express their belief are of much consequence. the question is rather of the thing expressed; and so long as we find a living consciousness that above the world and above human life there is a righteous god, who will judge men according to their works, whether they say their prayers in latin or english, whether they call themselves protestants or call themselves catholics, appears to me of quite secondary importance. but at the time i speak of, that consciousness no longer existed. the formulas and ceremonies were all in all; and of god it is hard to say what conceptions men had formed, when they believed that a dead man's relations could buy him out of purgatory--buy him out of purgatory,--for this was the literal truth--by hiring priests to sing masses for his soul. religion, in the minds of ordinary people, meant that the keys of the other world were held by the clergy. if a man confessed regularly to his priest, received the sacrament, and was absolved, then all was well with him. his duties consisted in going to confession and to mass. if he committed sins, he was prescribed penances, which could be commuted for money. if he was sick or ill at ease in his mind, he was recommended a pilgrimage--a pilgrimage to a shrine or a holy well, or to some wonder-working image--where, for due consideration, his case would be attended to. it was no use to go to a saint empty-handed. the rule of the church was, nothing for nothing. at a chapel in saxony there was an image of a virgin and child. if the worshipper came to it with a good handsome offering, the child bowed and was gracious: if the present was unsatisfactory, it turned away its head, and withheld its favours till the purse-strings were untied again. there was a great rood or crucifix of the same kind at boxley, in kent, where the pilgrims went in thousands. this figure used to bow, too, when it was pleased; and a good sum of money was sure to secure its good-will. when the reformation came, and the police looked into the matter, the images were found to be worked with wires and pulleys. the german lady was kept as a curiosity in the cabinet of the elector of saxony. our boxley rood was brought up and exhibited in cheapside, and was afterwards torn in pieces by the people. nor here again was death the limit of extortion: death was rather the gate of the sphere which the clergy made, peculiarly their own. when a man died, his friends were naturally anxious for the fate of his soul. if he died in communion, he was not in the worst place of all. he had not been a saint, and therefore he was not in the best. therefore he was in purgatory--purgatory pickpurse, as our english latimer called it--and a priest, if properly paid, could get him out. to be a mass priest, as it was called, was a regular profession, in which, with little trouble, a man could earn a comfortable living. he had only to be ordained and to learn by heart a certain form of words, and that was all the equipment necessary for him. the masses were paid for at so much a dozen, and for every mass that was said, so many years were struck off from the penal period. two priests were sometimes to be seen muttering away at the opposite ends of the same altar, like a couple of musical boxes playing different parts of the same tune at the same time. it made no difference. the upper powers had what they wanted. if they got the masses, and the priests got the money, all parties concerned were satisfied. i am speaking of the form which these things assumed in an age of degradation and ignorance. the truest and wisest words ever spoken by man might be abused in the same way. the sermon on the mount or the apostles' creed, if recited mechanically, and relied on to work a mechanical effort, would be no less perniciously idolatrous. you can see something of the same kind in a milder form in spain at the present day. the spaniards, all of them, high and low, are expected to buy annually a pope's bula or bull--a small pardon, or indulgence, or plenary remission of sins. the exact meaning of these things is a little obscure; the high authorities themselves do not universally agree about them, except so far as to say that they are of prodigious value of some sort. the orthodox explanation, i believe, is something of this kind. with every sin there is the moral guilt and the temporal penalty. the pardon cannot touch the guilt; but when the guilt is remitted, there is still the penalty. i may ruin my health by a dissolute life; i may repent of my dissoluteness and be forgiven; but the bad health will remain. for bad health, substitute penance in this world and purgatory in the next; and in this sphere the indulgence takes effect. such as they are, at any rate, everybody in spain has these bulls; you buy them in the shops for a shilling apiece. this is one form of the thing. again, at the door of a spanish church you will see hanging on the wall an intimation that whoever will pray so many hours before a particular image shall receive full forgiveness of his sins. having got that, one might suppose he would be satisfied; but no--if he prays so many more hours, he can get off a hundred years of purgatory, or a thousand, or ten thousand. in one place i remember observing that for a very little trouble a man could escape a hundred and fifty thousand years of purgatory. what a prospect for the ill-starred protestant, who will be lucky if he is admitted into purgatory at all! again, if you enter a sacristy, you will see a small board like the notices addressed to parishioners in our vestries. on particular days it is taken out and hung up in the church, and little would a stranger, ignorant of the language, guess the tremendous meaning of that commonplace appearance. on these boards is written 'hoy se sacan animas,'--'this day, souls are taken out of purgatory.' it is an intimation to every one with a friend in distress that now is his time. you put a shilling in a plate, you give your friend's name, and the thing is done. one wonders why, if purgatory can be sacked so easily, any poor wretch is left to suffer there. such practices nowadays are comparatively innocent, the money asked and given is trifling, and probably no one concerned in the business believes much about it. they serve to show, however, on a small scale, what once went on on an immense scale; and even such as they are, pious catholics do not much approve of them. they do not venture to say much on the subject directly, but they allow themselves a certain good-humoured ridicule. a spanish novelist of some reputation tells a story of a man coming to a priest on one of these occasions, putting a shilling in the plate, and giving in the name of his friend. 'is my friend's soul out?' he asked. the priest said it was. 'quite sure?' the man asked. 'quite sure,' the priest answered. 'very well,' said the man, 'if he is out of purgatory they will not put him in again: it is a bad shilling.' sadder than all else, even as the most beautiful things are worst in their degradation, was the condition of the monasteries. i am here on delicate ground. the accounts of those institutions, as they existed in england and germany at the time of their suppression, is so shocking that even impartial writers have hesitated to believe the reports which have come down to us. the laity, we are told, determined to appropriate the abbey lands, and maligned the monks to justify the spoliation. were the charge true, the religious orders would still be without excuse, for the whole education of the country was in the hands of the clergy; and they had allowed a whole generation to grow up, which, on this hypothesis, was utterly depraved. but no such theory can explain away the accumulated testimony which comes to us--exactly alike--from so many sides and witnesses. we are not dependent upon evidence which catholics can decline to receive. in the reign of our henry the seventh the notorious corruption of some of the great abbeys in england brought them under the notice of the catholic archbishop of canterbury, cardinal morton. the archbishop, unable to meddle with them by his own authority, obtained the necessary powers from the pope. he instituted a partial visitation in the neighbourhood of london; and the most malignant protestant never drew such a picture of profligate brutality as cardinal morton left behind him in his register, in a description of the great abbey of st. albans. i cannot, in a public lecture, give you the faintest idea of what it contains. the monks were bound to celibacy--that is to say, they were not allowed to marry. they were full-fed, idle, and sensual; of sin they thought only as something extremely pleasant, of which they could cleanse one another with a few mumbled words as easily as they could wash their faces in a basin. and there i must leave the matter. anybody who is curious for particulars may see the original account in morton's register, in the archbishop's library at lambeth. a quarter of a century after this there appeared in germany a book, now called by catholics an infamous libel, the 'epistolæ obscurorum virorum.' 'the obscure men,' supposed to be the writers of these epistles, are monks or students of theology. the letters themselves are written in dog-latin--a burlesque of the language in which ecclesiastical people then addressed each other. they are sketches, satirical, but not malignant, of the moral and intellectual character of these reverend personages. on the moral, and by far the most important, side of the matter i am still obliged to be silent; but i can give you a few specimens of the furniture of the theological minds, and of the subjects with which they were occupied. a student writes to his ghostly father in an agony of distress because he has touched his hat to a jew. he mistook him for a doctor of divinity; and on the whole, he fears he has committed mortal sin. can the father absolve him? can the bishop absolve him? can the pope absolve him? his case seems utterly desperate. another letter describes a great intellectual riddle, which was argued for four days at the school of logic at louvaine. a certain master of arts had taken out his degree at louvaine, leyden, paris, oxford, cambridge, padua, and four other universities. he was thus a member of ten universities. but how _could_ a man be a member of ten universities? a university was a body, and one body might have many members; but how one member could have many bodies, passed comprehension. in such a monstrous anomaly, the member would be the body, and the universities the member, and this would be a scandal to such grave and learned corporations. the holy doctor st. thomas himself could not make himself into the body of ten universities. the more the learned men argued, the deeper they floundered, and at length gave up the problem in despair. again: a certain professor argues that julius cæsar could not have written the book which passes under the name of 'cæsar's commentaries,' because that book is written in latin, and latin is a difficult language; and a man whose life is spent in marching and fighting has notoriously no time to learn latin. here is another fellow--a monk this one--describing to a friend the wonderful things which he has seen in rome. 'you may have heard,' he says, 'how the pope did possess a monstrous beast called an elephant. the pope did entertain for this beast a very great affection, and now behold it is dead. when it fell sick, the pope called his doctors about him in great sorrow, and said to them, "if it be possible, heal my elephant." then they gave the elephant a purge, which cost five hundred crowns, but it did not avail, and so the beast departed; and the pope grieves much for his elephant, for it was indeed a miraculous beast, with a long, long, prodigious long nose; and when it saw the pope it kneeled down before him and said, with a terrible voice, "bar, bar, bar!"' i will not tire you with any more of this nonsense, especially as i cannot give you the really characteristic parts of the book. i want you to observe, however, what sir thomas more says of it, and nobody will question that sir thomas more was a good catholic and a competent witness. 'these epistles,' he says, 'are the delight of everyone. the wise enjoy the wit; the blockheads of monks take them seriously, and believe that they have been written to do them honour. when we laugh, they think we are laughing at the style, which they admit to be comical. but they think the style is made up for by the beauty of the sentiment. the scabbard, they say, is rough, but the blade within it is divine. the deliberate idiots would not have found out the jest for themselves in a hundred years.' well might erasmus exclaim, 'what fungus could be more stupid? yet these are the atlases who are to uphold the tottering church!' 'the monks had a pleasant time of it,' says luther. 'every brother had two cans of beer and a quart of wine for his supper, with gingerbread, to make him take to his liquor kindly. thus the poor things came to look like fiery angels.' and more gravely, 'in the cloister rule the seven deadly sins--covetousness, lasciviousness, uncleanness, hate, envy, idleness, and the loathing of the service of god.' consider such men as these owning a third, a half, sometimes two-thirds of the land in every country in europe, and, in addition to their other sins, neglecting all the duties attaching to this property--the woods cut down and sold, the houses falling to ruin--unthrift, neglect, waste everywhere and in everything--the shrewd making the most of their time, which they had sense to see might be a short one--the rest dreaming on in sleepy sensuality, dividing their hours between the chapel, the pothouse, and the brothel. i do not think that, in its main features, the truth of this sketch can be impugned; and if it be just even in outline, then a reformation of some kind or other was overwhelmingly necessary. corruption beyond a certain point becomes unendurable to the coarsest nostril. the constitution of human things cannot away with it. something was to be done; but what, or how? there were three possible courses. either the ancient discipline of the church might be restored by the heads of the church themselves. or, secondly, a higher tone of feeling might gradually be introduced among clergy and laity alike, by education and literary culture. the discovery of the printing press had made possible a diffusion of knowledge which had been unattainable in earlier ages. the ecclesiastical constitution, like a sick human body, might recover its tone if a better diet were prepared for it. or, lastly, the common sense of the laity might take the matter at once into their own hands, and make free use of the pruning knife and the sweeping brush. there might be much partial injustice, much violence, much wrongheadedness; but the people would, at any rate, go direct to the point, and the question was whether any other remedy would serve. the first of these alternatives may at once be dismissed. the heads of the church were the last persons in the world to discover that anything was wrong. people of that sort always are. for them the thing as it existed answered excellently well. they had boundless wealth, and all but boundless power. what could they ask for more? no monk drowsing over his wine-pot was less disturbed by anxiety than nine out of ten of the high dignitaries who were living on the eve of the judgment day, and believed that their seat was established for them for ever. the character of the great ecclesiastics of that day you may infer from a single example. the archbishop of mayence was one of the most enlightened churchmen in germany. he was a patron of the renaissance, a friend of erasmus, a liberal, an intelligent, and, as times went, and considering his trade, an honourable, high-minded man. when the emperor maximilian died, and the imperial throne was vacant, the archbishop of mayence was one of seven electors who had to choose a new emperor. there were two competitors--francis the first and maximilian's grandson, afterwards the well-known charles the fifth. well, of the seven electors six were bribed. john frederick of saxony, luther's friend and protector, was the only one of the party who came out of the business with clean hands. but the archbishop of mayence took bribes six times alternately from both the candidates. he took money as coolly as the most rascally ten-pound householder in yarmouth or totnes, and finally drove a hard bargain for his actual vote. the grape does not grow upon the blackthorn; nor does healthy reform come from high dignitaries like the archbishop of mayence. the other aspect of the problem i shall consider in the following lectures. lecture ii. in the year --the year in which charles the bold became duke of burgundy--four years before the great battle of barnet, which established our own fourth edward on the english throne--about the time when william caxton was setting up his printing press at westminster--there was born at rotterdam, on the th of october, desiderius erasmus. his parents, who were middle-class people, were well-to-do in the world. for some reason or other they were prevented from marrying by the interference of relations. the father died soon after in a cloister; the mother was left with her illegitimate infant, whom she called first, after his father, gerard; but afterwards, from his beauty and grace, she changed his name--the words desiderius erasmus, one with a latin, the other with a greek, derivation, meaning the lovely or delightful one. not long after, the mother herself died also. the little erasmus was the heir of a moderate fortune; and his guardians, desiring to appropriate it to themselves, endeavoured to force him into a convent at brabant. the thought of living and dying in a house of religion was dreadfully unattractive; but an orphan boy's resistance was easily overcome. he was bullied into yielding, and, when about twenty, took the vows. the life of a monk, which was uninviting on the surface, was not more lovely when seen from within. 'a monk's holy obedience,' erasmus wrote afterwards, 'consists in--what? in leading an honest, chaste, and sober life? not the least. in acquiring learning, in study, and industry? still less. a monk may be a glutton, a drunkard, a whoremonger, an ignorant, stupid, malignant, envious brute, but he has broken no vow, he is within his holy obedience. he has only to be the slave of a superior as good for nothing as himself, and he is an excellent brother.' the misfortune of his position did not check erasmus's intellectual growth. he was a brilliant, witty, sarcastic, mischievous youth. he did not trouble himself to pine and mope; but, like a young thorough-bred in a drove of asses, he used his heels pretty freely. while he played practical jokes upon the unreverend fathers, he distinguished himself equally by his appetite for knowledge. it was the dawn of the renaissance--the revival of learning. the discovery of printing was reopening to modern europe the great literature of greece and rome, and the writings of the christian fathers. for studies of this kind, erasmus, notwithstanding the disadvantages of cowl and frock, displayed extraordinary aptitude. he taught himself greek when greek was the language which, in the opinion of the monks, only the devils spoke in the wrong place. his latin was as polished as cicero's; and at length the archbishop of cambray heard of him, and sent him to the university of paris. at paris he found a world where life could be sufficiently pleasant, but where his religious habit was every moment in his way. he was a priest, and so far could not help himself. that ink-spot not all the waters of the german ocean could wash away. but he did not care for the low debaucheries, where the frock and cowl were at home. his place was in the society of cultivated men, who were glad to know him and to patronise him; so he shook off his order, let his hair grow, and flung away his livery. the archbishop's patronage was probably now withdrawn. life in paris was expensive, and erasmus had for several years to struggle with poverty. we see him, however, for the most part--in his early letters--carrying a bold front to fortune; desponding one moment, and larking the next with a paris grisette; making friends, enjoying good company, enjoying especially good wine when he could get it; and, above all, satiating his literary hunger at the library of the university. in this condition, when about eight-and-twenty, he made acquaintance with two young english noblemen who were travelling on the continent, lord mountjoy and one of the greys. mountjoy, intensely attracted by his brilliance, took him for his tutor, carried him over to england, and introduced him at the court of henry the seventh. at once his fortune was made. he charmed every one, and in turn he was himself delighted with the country and the people. english character, english hospitality, english manners--everything english except the beer--equally pleased him. in the young london men--the lawyers, the noblemen, even in some of the clergy--he found his own passion for learning. sir thomas more, who was a few years younger than himself, became his dearest friend; and warham, afterwards archbishop of canterbury--fisher, afterwards bishop of rochester--colet, the famous dean of st. paul's--the great wolsey himself--recognised and welcomed the rising star of european literature. money flowed in upon him. warham gave him a benefice in kent, which was afterwards changed to a pension. prince henry, when he became king, offered him--kings in those days were not bad friends to literature--henry offered him, if he would remain in england, a house large enough to be called a palace, and a pension which, converted into our money, would be a thousand pounds a year. erasmus, however, was a restless creature, and did not like to be caged or tethered. he declined the king's terms, but mountjoy settled a pension on him instead. he had now a handsome income, and he understood the art of enjoying it. he moved about as he pleased--now to cambridge, now to oxford, and, as the humour took him, back again to paris; now staying with sir thomas more at chelsea, now going a pilgrimage with dean colet to becket's tomb at canterbury--but always studying, always gathering knowledge, and throwing it out again, steeped in his own mother wit, in shining essays or dialogues, which were the delight and the despair of his contemporaries. everywhere, in his love of pleasure, in his habits of thought, in his sarcastic scepticism, you see the healthy, clever, well-disposed, tolerant, epicurean, intellectual man of the world. he went, as i said, with dean colet to becket's tomb. at a shrine about canterbury he was shown an old shoe which tradition called the saint's. at the tomb itself, the great sight was a handkerchief which a monk took from among the relics, and offered it to the crowd to kiss. the worshippers touched it in pious adoration, with clasped hands and upturned eyes. if the thing was genuine, as erasmus observed, it had but served for the archbishop to wipe his nose with--and dean colet, a puritan before his time, looked on with eyes flashing scorn, and scarcely able to keep his hands off the exhibitors. but erasmus smiled kindly, reflecting that mankind were fools, and in some form or other would remain fools. he took notice only of the pile of gold and jewels, and concluded that so much wealth might prove dangerous to its possessors. the peculiarities of the english people interested and amused him. 'you are going to england,' he wrote afterwards to a friend; 'you will not fail to be pleased. you will find the great people there most agreeable and gracious; only be careful not to presume upon their intimacy. they will condescend to your level, but do not you therefore suppose that you stand upon theirs. the noble lords are gods in their own eyes.' 'for the other classes, be courteous, give your right hand, do not take the wall, do not push yourself. smile on whom you please, but trust no one that you do not know; above all, speak no evil of england to them. they are proud of their country above all nations in the world, as they have good reason to be.' these directions might have been written yesterday. the manners of the ladies have somewhat changed. 'english ladies,' says erasmus, 'are divinely pretty, and _too_ good-natured. they have an excellent custom among them, that wherever you go the girls kiss you. they kiss you when you come, they kiss you when you go, they kiss you at intervening opportunities, and their lips are soft, warm, and delicious.' pretty well that, for a priest! the custom, perhaps, was not quite so universal as erasmus would have us believe. his own coaxing ways may have had something to do with it. at any rate, he found england a highly agreeable place of residence. meanwhile, his reputation as a writer spread over the world. latin--the language in which he wrote--was in universal use. it was the vernacular of the best society in europe, and no living man was so perfect a master of it. his satire flashed about among all existing institutions, scathing especially his old enemies the monks; while the great secular clergy, who hated the religious orders, were delighted to see them scourged, and themselves to have the reputation of being patrons of toleration and reform. erasmus, as he felt his ground more sure under him, obtained from julius the second a distinct release from his monastic vows; and, shortly after, when the brilliant leo succeeded to the tiara, and gathered about him the magnificent cluster of artists who have made his era so illustrious, the new pope invited erasmus to visit him at rome, and become another star in the constellation which surrounded the papal throne. erasmus was at this time forty years old--the age when ambition becomes powerful in men, and takes the place of love of pleasure. he was received at rome with princely distinction, and he could have asked for nothing--bishoprics, red hats, or red stockings--which would not have been freely given to him if he would have consented to remain. but he was too considerable a man to be tempted by finery; and the pope's livery, gorgeous though it might be, was but a livery after all. nothing which leo the tenth could do for erasmus could add lustre to his coronet. more money he might have had, but of money he had already abundance, and outward dignity would have been dearly bought by gilded chains. he resisted temptation; he preferred the northern air, where he could breathe at liberty, and he returned to england, half inclined to make his home there. but his own sovereign laid claim to his services; the future emperor recalled him to the low countries, settled a handsome salary upon him, and established him at the university of louvaine. he was now in the zenith of his greatness. he had an income as large as many an english nobleman. we find him corresponding with popes, cardinals, kings, and statesmen; and as he grew older, his mind became more fixed upon serious subjects. the ignorance and brutality of the monks, the corruption of the spiritual courts, the absolute irreligion in which the church was steeped, gave him serious alarm. he had no enthusiasms, no doctrinal fanaticisms, no sectarian beliefs or superstitions. the breadth of his culture, his clear understanding, and the worldly moderation of his temper, seemed to qualify him above living men to conduct a temperate reform. he saw that the system around him was pregnant with danger, and he resolved to devote what remained to him of life to the introduction of a higher tone in the minds of the clergy. the revival of learning had by this time alarmed the religious orders. literature and education, beyond the code of the theological text-books, appeared simply devilish to them. when erasmus returned to louvaine, the battle was raging over the north of europe. the dominicans at once recognised in erasmus their most dangerous enemy. at first they tried to compel him to re-enter the order, but, strong in the pope's dispensation, he was so far able to defy them. they could bark at his heels, but dared not come to closer quarters: and with his temper slightly ruffled, but otherwise contented to despise them, he took up boldly the task which he had set himself. 'we kiss the old shoes of the saints,' he said, 'but we never read their works.' he undertook the enormous labour of editing and translating selections from the writings of the fathers. the new testament was as little known as the lost books of tacitus--all that the people knew of the gospels and the epistles were the passages on which theologians had built up the catholic formulas. erasmus published the text, and with it, and to make it intelligible, a series of paraphrases, which rent away the veil of traditional and dogmatic interpretation, and brought the teaching of christ and the apostles into their natural relation with reason and conscience. in all this, although the monks might curse, he had countenance and encouragement from the great ecclesiastics in all parts of europe--and it is highly curious to see the extreme freedom with which they allowed him to propose to them his plans for a reformation--we seem to be listening to the wisest of modern broad churchmen. to one of his correspondents, an archbishop, he writes:-- 'let us have done with theological refinements. there is an excuse for the fathers, because the heretics forced them to define particular points; but every definition is a misfortune, and for us to persevere in the same way is sheer folly. is no man to be admitted to grace who does not know how the father differs from the son, and both from the spirit? or how the nativity of the son differs from the procession of the spirit? unless i forgive my brother his sins against me, god will not forgive me my sins. unless i have a pure heart--unless i put away envy, hate, pride, avarice, lust, i shall not see god. but a man is not damned because he cannot tell whether the spirit has one principle or two. has he the fruits of the spirit? that is the question. is he patient, kind, good, gentle, modest, temperate, chaste? enquire if you will, but do not define. true religion is peace, and we cannot have peace unless we leave the conscience unshackled on obscure points on which certainty is impossible. we hear now of questions being referred to the next oecumenical council--better a great deal refer them to doomsday. time was, when a man's faith was looked for in his life, not in the articles which he professed. necessity first brought articles upon us, and ever since, we have refined and refined till christianity has become a thing of words and creeds. articles increase--sincerity vanishes away--contention grows hot, and charity grows cold. then comes in the civil power, with stake and gallows, and men are forced to profess what they do not believe, to pretend to love what in fact they hate, and to say that they understand what in fact has no meaning for them.' again, to the archbishop of mayence:-- 'reduce the dogmas necessary to be believed, to the smallest possible number; you can do it without danger to the realities of christianity. on other points, either discourage enquiry, or leave everyone free to believe what he pleases--then we shall have no more quarrels, and religion will again take hold of life. when you have done this, you can correct the abuses of which the world with good reason complains. the unjust judge heard the widow's prayer. you should not shut your ears to the cries of those for whom christ died. he did not die for the great only, but for the poor and for the lowly. there need be no tumult. do you only set human affections aside, and let kings and princes lend themselves heartily to the public good. but observe that the monks and friars be allowed no voice; with these gentlemen the world has borne too long. they care only for their own vanity, their own stomachs, their own power; and they believe that if the people are enlightened, their kingdom cannot stand.' once more to the pope himself:-- 'let each man amend first his own wicked life. when he has done that, and will amend his neighbour, let him put on christian charity, which is severe enough when severity is needed. if your holiness give power to men who neither believe in christ nor care for you, but think only of their own appetites, i fear there will be danger. we can trust your holiness, but there are bad men who will use your virtues as a cloke for their own malice.' that the spiritual rulers of europe should have allowed a man like erasmus to use language such as this to them is a fact of supreme importance. it explains the feeling of goethe, that the world would have gone on better had there been no luther, and that the revival of theological fanaticism did more harm than good. but the question of questions is, what all this latitudinarian philosophising, this cultivated epicurean gracefulness would have come to if left to itself; or rather, what was the effect which it was inevitably producing? if you wish to remove an old building without bringing it in ruins about your ears, you must begin at the top, remove the stones gradually downwards, and touch the foundation last. but latitudinarianism loosens the elementary principles of theology. it destroys the premises on which the dogmatic system rests. it would beg the question to say that this would in itself have been undesirable; but the practical effect of it, as the world then stood, would have only been to make the educated into infidels, and to leave the multitude to a convenient but debasing superstition. the monks said that erasmus laid the egg, and luther hatched a cockatrice. erasmus resented deeply such an account of his work; but it was true after all. the sceptical philosophy is the most powerful of solvents, but it has no principle of organic life in it; and what of truth there was in erasmus's teaching had to assume a far other form before it was available for the reinvigoration of religion. he himself, in his clearer moments, felt his own incapacity, and despaired of making an impression on the mass of ignorance with which he saw himself surrounded. 'the stupid monks,' he writes, 'say mass as a cobbler makes a shoe; they come to the altar reeking from their filthy pleasures. confession with the monks is a cloke to steal the people's money, to rob girls of their virtue, and commit other crimes too horrible to name! yet these people are the tyrants of europe. the pope himself is afraid of them.' 'beware!' he says to an impetuous friend, 'beware how you offend the monks. you have to do with an enemy that cannot be slain; an order never dies, and they will not rest till they have destroyed you.' the heads of the church might listen politely, but erasmus had no confidence in them. 'never,' he says, 'was there a time when divines were greater fools, or popes and prelates more worldly.' germany was about to receive a signal illustration of the improvement which it was to look for from liberalism and intellectual culture. we are now on the edge of the great conflagration. here we must leave erasmus for the present. i must carry you briefly over the history of the other great person who was preparing to play his part on the stage. you have seen something of what erasmus was; you must turn next to the companion picture of martin luther. you will observe in how many points their early experiences touch, as if to show more vividly the contrast between the two men. sixteen years after the birth of erasmus, therefore in the year , martin luther came into the world in a peasant's cottage, at eisleben, in saxony. by peasant, you need not understand a common boor. hans luther, the father, was a thrifty, well-to-do man for his station in life--adroit with his hands, and able to do many useful things, from farm work to digging in the mines. the family life was strict and stern--rather too stern, as martin thought in later life. 'be temperate with your children,' he said, long after, to a friend; 'punish them if they lie or steal, but be just in what you do. it is a lighter sin to take pears and apples than to take money. i shudder when i think of what i went through myself. my mother beat me about some nuts once till the blood came. i had a terrible time of it, but she meant well.' at school, too, he fell into rough hands, and the recollection of his sufferings made him tender ever after with young boys and girls. 'never be hard with children,' he used to say. 'many a fine character has been ruined by the stupid brutality of pedagogues. the parts of speech are a boy's pillory. i was myself flogged fifteen times in one forenoon over the conjugation of a verb. punish if you will, but be kind too, and let the sugar-plum go with the rod.' this is not the language of a demagogue or a fanatic; it is the wise thought of a tender, human-hearted man. at seventeen, he left school for the university at erfurt. it was then no shame for a poor scholar to maintain himself by alms. young martin had a rich noble voice and a fine ear, and by singing ballads in the streets he found ready friends and help. he was still uncertain with what calling he should take up, when it happened that a young friend was killed at his side by lightning. erasmus was a philosopher. a powder magazine was once blown up by lightning in a town where erasmus was staying, and a house of infamous character was destroyed. the inhabitants saw in what had happened the divine anger against sin. erasmus told them that if there was any anger in the matter, it was anger merely with the folly which had stored powder in an exposed situation. luther possessed no such premature intelligence. he was distinguished from other boys only by the greater power of his feelings and the vividness of his imagination. he saw in his friend's death the immediate hand of the great lord of the universe. his conscience was terrified. a life-long penitence seemed necessary to atone for the faults of his boyhood. he too, like erasmus, became a monk, not forced into it--for his father knew better what the holy men were like, and had no wish to have son of his among them--but because the monk of martin's imagination spent his nights and days upon the stones in prayer; and martin, in the heat of his repentance, longed to be kneeling at his side. in this mood he entered the augustine monastery at erfurt. he was full of an overwhelming sense of his own wretchedness and sinfulness. like st. paul, he was crying to be delivered from the body of death which he carried about him. he practised all possible austerities. he, if no one else, mortified his flesh with fasting. he passed nights in the chancel before the altar, or on his knees on the floor of his cell. he weakened his body till his mind wandered, and he saw ghosts and devils. above all, he saw the flaming image of his own supposed guilt. god required that he should keep the law in all points. he had not so kept the law--could not so keep the law--and therefore he believed that he was damned. one morning, he was found senseless and seemingly dead; a brother played to him on a flute, and soothed his senses back to consciousness. it was long since any such phenomenon had appeared among the rosy friars of erfurt. they could not tell what to make of him. staupitz, the prior, listened to his accusations of himself in confession. 'my good fellow,' he said, 'don't be so uneasy; you have committed no sins of the least consequence; you have not killed anybody, or committed adultery, or things of that sort. if you sin to some purpose, it is right that you should think about it, but don't make mountains out of trifles.' very curious: to the commonplace man the uncommonplace is for ever unintelligible. what was the good of all that excitement--that agony of self-reproach for little things? none at all, if the object is only to be an ordinary good sort of man--if a decent fulfilment of the round of common duties is the be-all and the end-all of human life on earth. the plague came by-and-by into the town. the commonplace clergy ran away--went to their country-houses, went to the hills, went anywhere--and they wondered in the same way why luther would not go with them. they admired him and liked him. they told him his life was too precious to be thrown away. he answered, quite simply, that his place was with the sick and dying; a monk's life was no great matter. the sun he did not doubt would continue to shine, whatever became of him. 'i am no st. paul,' he said; 'i am afraid of death; but there are things worse than death, and if i die, i die.' even a staupitz could not but feel that he had an extraordinary youth in his charge. to divert his mind from feeding upon itself, he devised a mission for him abroad, and brother martin was despatched on business of the convent to rome. luther too, like erasmus, was to see rome; but how different the figures of the two men there! erasmus goes with servants and horses, the polished, successful man of the world. martin luther trudges penniless and barefoot across the alps, helped to a meal and a night's rest at the monasteries along the road, or begging, if the convents fail him, at the farm-houses. he was still young, and too much occupied with his own sins to know much of the world outside him. erasmus had no dreams. he knew the hard truth on most things. but rome, to luther's eager hopes, was the city of the saints, and the court and palace of the pope fragrant with the odours of paradise. 'blessed rome,' he cried, as he entered the gate--'blessed rome, sanctified with the blood of martyrs!' alas! the rome of reality was very far from blessed. he remained long enough to complete his disenchantment. the cardinals, with their gilded chariots and their parasols of peacocks' plumes, were poor representatives of the apostles. the gorgeous churches and more gorgeous rituals, the pagan splendour of the paintings, the heathen gods still almost worshipped in the adoration of the art which had formed them, to luther, whose heart was heavy with thoughts of man's depravity, were utterly horrible. the name of religion was there: the thinnest veil was scarcely spread over the utter disbelief with which god and christ were at heart regarded. culture enough there was. it was the rome of raphael and michael angelo, of perugino, and benvenuto; but to the poor german monk, who had come there to find help for his suffering soul, what was culture? he fled at the first moment that he could. 'adieu! rome,' he said; 'let all who would lead a holy life depart from rome. everything is permitted in rome except to be an honest man.' he had no thought of leaving the roman church. to a poor monk like him, to talk of leaving the church was like talking of leaping off the planet. but perplexed and troubled he returned to saxony; and his friend staupitz, seeing clearly that a monastery was no place for him, recommended him to the elector as professor of philosophy at wittenberg. the senate of wittenberg gave him the pulpit of the town church, and there at once he had room to show what was in him. 'this monk,' said some one who heard him, 'is a marvellous fellow. he has strange eyes, and will give the doctors trouble by-and-by.' he had read deeply, especially he had read that rare and almost unknown book, the 'new testament.' he was not cultivated like erasmus. erasmus spoke the most polished latin. luther spoke and wrote his own vernacular german. the latitudinarian philosophy, the analytical acuteness, the sceptical toleration of erasmus were alike strange and distasteful to him. in all things he longed only to know the truth--to shake off and hurl from him lies and humbug. superstitious he was. he believed in witches and devils and fairies--a thousand things without basis in fact, which erasmus passed by in contemptuous indifference. but for things which were really true--true as nothing else in this world, or any world, is true--the justice of god, the infinite excellence of good, the infinite hatefulness of evil--these things he believed and felt with a power of passionate conviction to which the broader, feebler mind of the other was for ever a stranger. we come now to the memorable year , when luther was thirty-five years old. a new cathedral was in progress at rome. michael angelo had furnished leo the tenth with the design of st. peter's; and the question of questions was to find money to complete the grandest structure which had ever been erected by man. pope leo was the most polished and cultivated of mankind. the work to be done was to be the most splendid which art could produce. the means to which the pope had recourse will serve to show us how much all that would have done for us. you remember what i told you about indulgences. the notable device of his holiness was to send distinguished persons about europe with sacks of indulgences. indulgences and dispensations! dispensations to eat meat on fast-days--dispensations to marry one's near relation--dispensations for anything and everything which the faithful might wish to purchase who desired forbidden pleasures. the dispensations were simply scandalous. the indulgences--well, if a pious catholic is asked nowadays what they were, he will say that they were the remission of the penances which the church inflicts upon earth; but it is also certain that they would have sold cheap if the people had thought that this was all that they were to get by them. as the thing was represented by the spiritual hawkers who disposed of these wares, they were letters of credit on heaven. when the great book was opened, the people believed that these papers would be found entire on the right side of the account. debtor--so many murders, so many robberies, lies, slanders, or debaucheries. creditor--the merits of the saints placed to the account of the delinquent by the pope's letters, in consideration of value received. this is the way in which the pardon system was practically worked. this is the way in which it is worked still, where the same superstitions remain. if one had asked pope leo whether he really believed in these pardons of his, he would have said officially that the church had always held that the pope had power to grant them. had he told the truth, he would have added privately that if the people chose to be fools, it was not for him to disappoint them. the collection went on. the money of the faithful came in plentifully; and the pedlars going their rounds appeared at last in saxony. the pope had bought the support of the archbishop of mayence, erasmus's friend, by promising him half the spoil which was gathered in his province. the agent was the dominican monk tetzel, whose name has acquired a forlorn notoriety in european history. his stores were opened in town after town. he entered in state. the streets everywhere were hung with flags. bells were pealed; nuns and monks walked in procession before and after him, while he himself sate in a chariot, with the papal bull on a velvet cushion in front of him. the sale-rooms were the churches. the altars were decorated, the candles lighted, the arms of st. peter blazoned conspicuously on the roof. tetzel from the pulpit explained the efficacy of his medicines; and if any profane person doubted their power, he was threatened with excommunication. acolytes walked through the crowds, clinking their plates and crying, 'buy! buy!' the business went as merry as a marriage bell till the dominican came near to wittenberg. half a century before, such a spectacle would have excited no particular attention. the few who saw through the imposition would have kept their thoughts to themselves; the many would have paid their money, and in a month all would have been forgotten. but the fight between the men of letters and the monks, the writings of erasmus and reuchlin, the satires of ulric von hutten, had created a silent revolution in the minds of the younger laity. a generation had grown to manhood of whom the church authorities knew nothing; and the whole air of germany, unsuspected by pope or prelate, was charged with electricity. had luther stood alone, he, too, would probably have remained silent. what was he, a poor, friendless, solitary monk, that he should set himself against the majesty of the triple crown? however hateful the walls of a dungeon, a man of sense confined alone there does not dash his hands against the stones. but luther knew that his thoughts were the thoughts of thousands. many wrong things, as we all know, have to be endured in this world. authority is never very angelic; and moderate injustice, a moderate quantity of lies, is more tolerable than anarchy. but it is with human things as it is with the great icebergs which drift southward out of the frozen seas. they swim two-thirds under water, and one-third above; and so long as the equilibrium is sustained, you would think that they were as stable as the rocks. but the sea-water is warmer than the air. hundreds of fathoms down, the tepid current washes the base of the berg. silently in those far deeps the centre of gravity is changed; and then, in a moment, with one vast roll, the enormous mass heaves over, and the crystal peaks which had been glancing so proudly in the sunlight, are buried in the ocean for ever. such a process as this had been going on in germany, and luther knew it, and knew that the time was come for him to speak. fear had not kept him back. the danger to himself would be none the less because he would have the people at his side. the fiercer the thunderstorm, the greater peril to the central figure who stands out above the rest exposed to it. but he saw that there was hope at last of a change; and for himself--as he said in the plague--if he died, he died. erasmus admitted frankly for himself that he did not like danger. 'as to me,' he wrote to archbishop warham, 'i have no inclination to risk my life for truth. we have not all strength for martyrdom; and if trouble come, i shall imitate st. peter. popes and emperors must settle the creeds. if they settle them well, so much the better; if ill, i shall keep on the safe side.' that is to say, truth was not the first necessity to erasmus. he would prefer truth, if he could have it. if not, he could get on moderately well upon falsehood. luther could not. no matter what the danger to himself, if he could smite a lie upon the head and kill it, he was better pleased than by a thousand lives. we hear much of luther's doctrine about faith. stripped of theological verbiage, that doctrine means this. reason says that, on the whole, truth and justice are desirable things. they make men happier in themselves, and make society more prosperous. but there reason ends, and men will not die for principles of utility. faith says that between truth and lies, there is an infinite difference: one is of god, the other of satan; one is eternally to be loved, the other eternally to be abhorred. it cannot say why, in language intelligible to reason. it is the voice of the nobler nature in man speaking out of his heart. while tetzel, with his bull and his gilt car, was coming to wittenberg, luther, loyal still to authority while there was a hope that authority would be on the side of right, wrote to the archbishop of mayence to remonstrate. the archbishop, as we know, was to have a share of tetzel's spoils; and what were the complaints of a poor insignificant monk to a supreme archbishop who was in debt and wanted money? the archbishop of mayence flung the letter into his waste-paper basket; and luther made his solemn appeal from earthly dignitaries to the conscience of the german people. he set up his protest on the church door at wittenberg; and, in ninety-five propositions he challenged the catholic church to defend tetzel and his works. the pope's indulgences, he said, cannot take away sins. god alone remits sins; and he pardons those who are penitent, without help from man's absolutions. the church may remit penalties which the church inflicts. but the church's power is in this world only, and does not reach to purgatory. if god has thought fit to place a man in purgatory, who shall say that it is good for him to be taken out of purgatory? who shall say that he himself desires it? true repentance does not shrink from chastisement. true repentance rather loves chastisement. the bishops are asleep. it is better to give to the poor than to buy indulgences; and he who sees his neighbour in want, and instead of helping his neighbour buys a pardon for himself, is doing what is displeasing to god. who is this man who dares to say that for so many crowns the soul of a sinner can be made whole? these, and like these, were luther's propositions. little guessed the catholic prelates the dimensions of the act which had been done. the pope, when he saw the theses, smiled in good-natured contempt. 'a drunken german wrote them,' he said; 'when he has slept off his wine, he will be of another mind.' tetzel bayed defiance; the dominican friars took up the quarrel; and hochstrat of cologne, reuchlin's enemy, clamoured for fire and faggot. voice answered voice. the religious houses all germany over were like kennels of hounds howling to each other across the spiritual waste. if souls could not be sung out of purgatory, their occupation was gone. luther wrote to pope leo to defend himself; leo cited him to answer for his audacity at rome; while to the young laymen, to the noble spirits all europe over, wittenberg became a beacon of light shining in the universal darkness. it was a trying time to luther. had he been a smaller man, he would have been swept away by his sudden popularity--he would have placed himself at the head of some great democratic movement, and in a few years his name would have disappeared in the noise and smoke of anarchy. but this was not his nature. his fellow-townsmen were heartily on his side. he remained quietly at his post in the augustine church at wittenberg. if the powers of the world came down upon him and killed him, he was ready to be killed. of himself at all times he thought infinitely little; and he believed that his death would be as serviceable to truth as his life. killed undoubtedly he would have been if the clergy could have had their way. it happened, however, that saxony just then was governed by a prince of no common order. were all princes like the elector frederick, we should have no need of democracy in this world--we should never have heard of democracy. the clergy could not touch luther against the will of the wittenberg senate, unless the elector would help them; and, to the astonishment of everybody, the elector was disinclined to consent. the pope himself wrote to exhort him to his duties. the elector still hesitated. his professed creed was the creed in which the church had educated him; but he had a clear secular understanding outside his formulas. when he read the propositions, they did not seem to him the pernicious things which the monks said they were. 'there is much in the bible about christ,' he said, 'but not much about rome.' he sent for erasmus, and asked him what he thought about the matter. the elector knew to whom he was speaking. he wished for a direct answer, and looked erasmus full and broad in the face. erasmus pinched his thin lips together. 'luther,' he said at length, 'has committed two sins: he has touched the pope's crown and the monks' bellies.' he generously and strongly urged frederick not to yield for the present to pope leo's importunacy; and the pope was obliged to try less hasty and more formal methods. he had wished luther to be sent to him to rome, where his process would have had a rapid end. as this could not be, the case was transferred to augsburg, and a cardinal legate was sent from italy to look into it. there was no danger of violence at augsburg. the townspeople there and everywhere were on the side of freedom; and luther went cheerfully to defend himself. he walked from wittenberg. you can fancy him still in his monk's brown frock, with all his wardrobe on his back--an apostle of the old sort. the citizens, high and low, attended him to the gates, and followed him along the road, crying 'luther for ever!' 'nay,' he answered, 'christ for ever!' the cardinal legate, being reduced to the necessity of politeness, received him civilly. he told him, however, simply and briefly, that the pope insisted on his recantation, and would accept nothing else. luther requested the cardinal to point out to him where he was wrong. the cardinal waived discussion. 'he was come to command,' he said, 'not to argue.' and luther had to tell him that it could not be. remonstrances, threats, entreaties, even bribes were tried. hopes of high distinction and reward were held out to him if he would only be reasonable. to the amazement of the proud italian, a poor peasant's son--a miserable friar of a provincial german town--was prepared to defy the power and resist the prayers of the sovereign of christendom. 'what!' said the cardinal at last to him, 'do you think the pope cares for the opinion of a german boor? the pope's little finger is stronger than all germany. do you expect your princes to take up arms to defend _you_--_you_, a wretched worm like you? i tell you, no! and where will you be then--where will you be then?' luther answered, 'then, as now, in the hands of almighty god.' the court dissolved. the cardinal carried back his report to his master. the pope, so defied, brought out his thunders; he excommunicated luther; he wrote again to the elector, entreating him not to soil his name and lineage by becoming a protector of heretics; and he required him, without further ceremony, to render up the criminal to justice. the elector's power was limited. as yet, the quarrel was simply between luther and the pope. the elector was by no means sure that his bold subject was right--he was only not satisfied that he was wrong--and it was a serious question with him how far he ought to go. the monk might next be placed under the ban of the empire; and if he persisted in protecting him afterwards, saxony might have all the power of germany upon it. he did not venture any more to refuse absolutely. he temporised and delayed; while luther himself, probably at the elector's instigation, made overtures for peace to the pope. saving his duty to christ, he promised to be for the future an obedient son of the church, and to say no more about indulgences if tetzel ceased to defend them. 'my being such a small creature,' luther said afterwards, 'was a misfortune for the pope. he despised me too much! what, he thought, could a slave like me do to him--to him, who was the greatest man in all the world. had he accepted my proposal, he would have extinguished me.' but the infallible pope conducted himself like a proud, irascible, exceedingly fallible mortal. to make terms with the town preacher of wittenberg was too preposterous. just then the imperial throne fell vacant; and the pretty scandal i told you of, followed at the choice of his successor. frederick of saxony might have been elected if he had liked--and it would have been better for the world perhaps if frederick had been more ambitious of high dignities--but the saxon prince did not care to trouble himself with the imperial sceptre. the election fell on maximilian's grandson charles--grandson also of ferdinand the catholic--sovereign of spain; sovereign of burgundy and the low countries; sovereign of naples and sicily; sovereign, beyond the atlantic, of the new empire of the indies. no fitter man could have been found to do the business of the pope. with the empire of germany added to his inherited dominions, who could resist him? to the new emperor, unless the elector yielded, luther's case had now to be referred. the elector, if he had wished, could not interfere. germany was attentive, but motionless. the students, the artisans, the tradesmen, were at heart with the reformer; and their enthusiasm could not be wholly repressed. the press grew fertile with pamphlets; and it was noticed that all the printers and compositors went for luther. the catholics could not get their books into type without sending them to france or the low countries. yet none of the princes except the elector had as yet shown him favour. the bishops were hostile to a man. the nobles had given no sign; and their place would be naturally on the side of authority. they had no love for bishops--there was hope in that; and they looked with no favour on the huge estates of the religious orders. but no one could expect that they would peril their lands and lives for an insignificant monk. there was an interval of two years before the emperor was at leisure to take up the question. the time was spent in angry altercation, boding no good for the future. the pope issued a second bull condemning luther and his works. luther replied by burning the bull in the great square at wittenberg. at length, in april , the diet of the empire assembled at worms, and luther was called to defend himself in the presence of charles the fifth. that it should have come to this at all, in days of such high-handed authority, was sufficiently remarkable. it indicated something growing in the minds of men, that the so-called church was not to carry things any longer in the old style. popes and bishops might order, but the laity intended for the future to have opinions of their own how far such orders should be obeyed. the pope expected anyhow that the diet, by fair means or foul, would now rid him of his adversary. the elector, who knew the ecclesiastical ways of handling such matters, made it a condition of his subject appearing, that he should have a safe conduct, under the emperor's hand; that luther, if judgment went against him, should be free for the time to return to the place from which he had come; and that he, the elector, should determine afterwards what should be done with him. when the interests of the church were concerned, safe conducts, it was too well known, were poor security. pope clement the seventh, a little after, when reproached for breaking a promise, replied with a smile, 'the pope has power to bind and to loose.' good, in the eyes of ecclesiastical authorities, meant what was good for the church; evil, whatever was bad for the church; and the highest moral obligation became sin when it stood in st. peter's way. there had been an outburst of free thought in bohemia a century and a half before. john huss, luther's forerunner, came with a safe conduct to the council of constance; but the bishops ruled that safe conducts could not protect heretics. they burnt john huss for all their promises, and they hoped now that so good a catholic as charles would follow so excellent a precedent. pope leo wrote himself to beg that luther's safe conduct should not be observed. the bishops and archbishops, when charles consulted them, took the same view as the pope. 'there is something in the office of a bishop,' luther said, a year or two later, 'which is dreadfully demoralising. even good men change their natures at their consecration; satan enters into them as he entered into judas, as soon as they have taken the sop.' it was most seriously likely that, if luther trusted himself at the diet on the faith of his safe conduct, he would never return alive. rumours of intended treachery were so strong, that if he refused to go, the elector meant to stand by him at any cost. should he appear, or not appear? it was for himself to decide. if he stayed away, judgment would go against him by default. charles would call out the forces of the empire, and saxony would be invaded. civil war would follow, with insurrection all over germany, with no certain prospect except bloodshed and misery. luther was not a man to expose his country to peril that his own person might escape. he had provoked the storm; and if blood was to be shed, his blood ought at least to be the first. he went. on his way, a friend came to warn him again that foul play was intended, that he was condemned already, that his books had been burnt by the hangman, and that he was a dead man if he proceeded. luther trembled--he owned it--but he answered, 'go to worms! i will go if there are as many devils in worms as there are tiles upon the roofs of the houses.' the roofs, when he came into the city, were crowded, not with devils, but with the inhabitants, all collecting there to see him as he passed. a nobleman gave him shelter for the night; the next day he was led to the town hall. no more notable spectacle had been witnessed in this planet for many a century--not, perhaps, since a greater than luther stood before the roman procurator. there on the raised dais sate the sovereign of half the world. there on either side of him stood the archbishops, the ministers of state, the princes of the empire, gathered together to hear and judge the son of a poor miner, who had made the world ring with his name. the body of the hall was thronged with knights and nobles--stern hard men in dull gleaming armour. luther, in his brown frock, was led forward between their ranks. the looks which greeted him were not all unfriendly. the first article of a german credo was belief in _courage_. germany had had its feuds in times past with popes of rome, and they were not without pride that a poor countryman of theirs should have taken by the beard the great italian priest. they had settled among themselves that, come what would, there should be fair play; and they looked on half admiring, and half in scorn. as luther passed up the hall, a steel baron touched him on the shoulder with his gauntlet. 'pluck up thy spirit, little monk;' he said, 'some of us here have seen warm work in our time, but, by my troth, nor i nor any knight in this company ever needed a stout heart more than thou needest it now. if thou hast faith in these doctrines of thine, little monk, go on, in the name of god.' 'yes, in the name of god,' said luther, throwing back his head, 'in the name of god, forward!' as at augsburg, one only question was raised. luther had broken the laws of the church. he had taught doctrines which the pope had declared to be false. would he or would he not retract? as at augsburg, he replied briefly that he would retract when his doctrines were not declared to be false merely, but were proved to be false. then, but not till then. that was his answer, and his last word. there, as you understand, the heart of the matter indeed rested. in those words lay the whole meaning of the reformation. were men to go on for ever saying that this and that was true, because the pope affirmed it? or were popes' decrees thenceforward to be tried like the words of other men--by the ordinary laws of evidence? it required no great intellect to understand that a pope's pardon, which you could buy for five shillings, could not really get a soul out of purgatory. it required a quality much rarer than intellect to look such a doctrine in the face--sanctioned as it was by the credulity of ages, and backed by the pomp and pageantry of earthly power--and say to it openly, 'you are a lie.' cleverness and culture could have given a thousand reasons--they did then and they do now--why an indulgence should be believed in; when honesty and common sense could give but one reason for thinking otherwise. cleverness and imposture get on excellently well together--imposture and veracity, never. luther looked at those wares of tetzel's, and said, 'your pardons are no pardons at all--no letters of credit on heaven, but flash notes of the bank of humbug, and you know it.' they did know it. the conscience of every man in europe answered back, that what luther said was true. bravery, honesty, veracity, these were the qualities which were needed--which were needed then, and are needed always, as the root of all real greatness in man. the first missionaries of christianity, when they came among the heathen nations, and found them worshipping idols, did not care much to reason that an image which man had made could not be god. the priests might have been a match for them in reasoning. they walked up to the idol in the presence of its votaries. they threw stones at it, spat upon it, insulted it. 'see,' they said, 'i do this to your god. if he is god, let him avenge himself.' it was a simple argument; always effective; easy, and yet most difficult. it required merely a readiness to be killed upon the spot by the superstition which is outraged. and so, and only so, can truth make its way for us in any such matters. the form changes--the thing remains. superstition, folly, and cunning will go on to the end of time, spinning their poison webs around the consciences of mankind. courage and veracity--these qualities, and only these, avail to defeat them. from the moment that luther left the emperor's presence a free man, the spell of absolutism was broken, and the victory of the reformation secured. the ban of the pope had fallen; the secular arm had been called to interfere; the machinery of authority strained as far as it would bear. the emperor himself was an unconscious convert to the higher creed. the pope had urged him to break his word. the pope had told him that honour was nothing, and morality was nothing, where the interests of orthodoxy were compromised. the emperor had refused to be tempted into perjury; and, in refusing, had admitted that there was a spiritual power upon the earth, above the pope, and above him. the party of the church felt it so. a plot was formed to assassinate luther on his return to saxony. the insulted majesty of rome could be vindicated at least by the dagger. but this, too, failed. the elector heard what was intended. a party of horse, disguised as banditti, waylaid the reformer upon the road, and carried him off to the castle of wartburg, where he remained out of harm's way till the general rising of germany placed him beyond the reach of danger. at wartburg for the present evening we leave him. the emperor charles and luther never met again. the monks of yuste, who watched on the deathbed of charles, reported that at the last hour he repented that he had kept his word, and reproached himself for having allowed the arch-heretic to escape from his hands. it is possible that, when the candle of life was burning low, and spirit and flesh were failing together, and the air of the sick room was thick and close with the presence of the angel of death, the nobler nature of the emperor might have yielded to the influences which were around him. his confessor might have thrust into his lips the words which he so wished to hear. but charles the fifth, though a catholic always, was a catholic of the old grand type, to whom creed and dogmas were but the robe of a regal humanity. another story is told of charles--an authentic story this one--which makes me think that the monks of yuste mistook or maligned him. six and twenty years after this scene at worms, when the then dawning heresy had become broad day; when luther had gone to his rest--and there had gathered about his name the hate which mean men feel for an enemy who has proved too strong for them--a passing vicissitude in the struggle brought the emperor at the head of his army to wittenberg. the vengeance which the monks could not inflict upon him in life, they proposed to wreak upon his bones. the emperor desired to be conducted to luther's tomb; and as he stood gazing at it, full of many thoughts, some one suggested that the body should be taken up and burnt at the stake in the market place. there was nothing unusual in the proposal; it was the common practice of the catholic church with the remains of heretics who were held unworthy to be left in repose in hallowed ground. there was scarcely, perhaps, another catholic prince who would have hesitated to comply. but charles was one of nature's gentlemen; he answered, 'i war not with the dead.' lecture iii. we have now entered upon the movement which broke the power of the papacy--which swept germany, sweden, denmark, holland, england, scotland, into the stream of revolution, and gave a new direction to the spiritual history of mankind. you would not thank me if i were to take you out into that troubled ocean. i confine myself, and i wish you to confine your attention, to the two kinds of men who appear as leaders in times of change--of whom erasmus and luther are respectively the types. on one side there are the large-minded latitudinarian philosophers--men who have no confidence in the people--who have no passionate convictions; moderate men, tolerant men, who trust to education, to general progress in knowledge and civilisation, to forbearance, to endurance, to time--men who believe that all wholesome reforms proceed downwards from the educated to the multitudes; who regard with contempt, qualified by terror, appeals to the popular conscience or to popular intelligence. opposite to these are the men of faith--and by faith i do not mean belief in dogmas, but belief in goodness, belief in justice, in righteousness, above all, belief in truth. men of faith consider conscience of more importance than knowledge--or rather as a first condition--without which all the knowledge in the world is no use to a man--if he wishes to be indeed a man in any high and noble sense of the word. they are not contented with looking for what may be useful or pleasant to themselves; they look by quite other methods for what is honourable--for what is good--for what is just. they believe that if they can find out that, then at all hazards, and in spite of all present consequences to themselves, that is to be preferred. if, individually and to themselves, no visible good ever came from it, in this world or in any other, still they would say, 'let us do that and nothing else. life will be of no value to us if we are to use it only for our own gratification.' the soldier before a battle knows that if he shirks and pretends to be ill, he may escape danger and make sure of his life. there are very few men, indeed, if it comes to that, who would not sooner die ten times over than so dishonour themselves. men of high moral nature carry out the same principle into the details of their daily life; they do not care to live unless they may live nobly. like my uncle toby, they have but one fear--the fear of doing a wrong thing. i call this faith, because there is no proof, such as will satisfy the scientific enquirer, that there is any such thing as moral truth--any such thing as absolute right and wrong at all. as the scripture says, 'verily, thou art a god that hidest thyself.' the forces of nature pay no respect to what we call good and evil. prosperity does not uniformly follow virtue; nor are defeat and failure necessary consequences of vice. certain virtues--temperance, industry, and things within reasonable limits--command their reward. sensuality, idleness, and waste, commonly lead to ruin. but prosperity is consistent with intense worldliness, intense selfishness, intense hardness of heart; while the grander features of human character--self-sacrifice, disregard of pleasure, patriotism, love of knowledge, devotion to any great and good cause--these have no tendency to bring men what is called fortune. they do not even necessarily promote their happiness; for do what they will in this way, the horizon of what they desire to do perpetually flies before them. high hopes and enthusiasms are generally disappointed in results; and the wrongs, the cruelties, the wretchednesses of all kinds which for ever prevail among mankind--the shortcomings in himself of which he becomes more conscious as he becomes really better--these things, you may be sure, will prevent a noble-minded man from ever being particularly happy. if you see a man happy, as the world goes--contented with himself and contented with what is round him--such a man may be, and probably is, decent and respectable; but the highest is not in him, and the highest will not come out of him. judging merely by outward phenomena--judging merely by what we call reason--you cannot prove that there is any moral government in the world at all, except what men, for their own convenience, introduce into it. right and wrong resolve themselves into principles of utility and social convenience. enlightened selfishness prescribes a decent rule of conduct for common purposes; and virtue, by a large school of philosophy, is completely resolved into that. true, when nations go on long on the selfish hypothesis, they are apt to find at last that they have been mistaken. they find it in bankruptcy of honour and character--in social wreck and dissolution. all lies in serious matters end at last, as carlyle says, in broken heads. that is the final issue which they are sure to come to in the long run. the maker of the world does not permit a society to continue which forgets or denies the nobler principles of action. but the end is often long in coming; and these nobler principles are meanwhile _not_ provided for us by the inductive philosophy. patriotism, for instance, of which we used to think something--a readiness to devote our energies while we live, to devote our lives, if nothing else will serve, to what we call our country--what are we to say of that? i once asked a distinguished philosopher what he thought of patriotism. he said he thought it was a compound of vanity and superstition; a bad kind of prejudice, which would die out with the growth of reason. my friend believed in the progress of humanity--he could not narrow his sympathies to so small a thing as his own country. i could but say to myself, 'thank god, then, we are not yet a nation of philosophers.' a man who takes up with philosophy like that, may write fine books, and review articles and such like, but at the bottom of him he is a poor caitiff, and there is no more to be said about him. so when the air is heavy with imposture, and men live only to make money, and the service of god is become a thing of words and ceremonies, and the kingdom of heaven is bought and sold, and all that is high and pure in man is smothered by corruption--fire of the same kind bursts out in higher natures with a fierceness which cannot be controlled; and, confident in truth and right, they call fearlessly on the seven thousand in israel who have not bowed the knee to baal to rise and stand by them. they do not ask whether those whom they address have wide knowledge of history, or science, or philosophy; they ask rather that they shall be honest, that they shall be brave, that they shall be true to the common light which god has given to all his children. they know well that conscience is no exceptional privilege of the great or the cultivated, that to be generous and unselfish is no prerogative of rank or intellect. erasmus considered that, for the vulgar, a lie might be as good as truth, and often better. a lie, ascertained to be a lie, to luther was deadly poison--poison to him, and poison to all who meddled with it. in his own genuine greatness, he was too humble to draw insolent distinctions in his own favour; or to believe that any one class on earth is of more importance than another in the eyes of the great maker of them all. well, then, you know what i mean by faith, and what i mean by intellect. it was not that luther was without intellect. he was less subtle, less learned, than erasmus; but in mother wit, in elasticity, in force, and imaginative power, he was as able a man as ever lived. luther created the german language as an instrument of literature. his translation of the bible is as rich and grand as our own, and his table talk as full of matter as shakespeare's plays. again; you will mistake me if you think i represent erasmus as a man without conscience, or belief in god and goodness. but in luther that belief was a certainty; in erasmus it was only a high probability--and the difference between the two is not merely great, it is infinite. in luther, it was the root; in erasmus, it was the flower. in luther, it was the first principle of life; in erasmus, it was an inference which might be taken away, and yet leave the world a very tolerable and habitable place after all. you see the contrast in their early lives. you see erasmus--light, bright, sarcastic, fond of pleasure, fond of society, fond of wine and kisses, and intellectual talk and polished company. you see luther throwing himself into the cloister, that he might subdue his will to the will of god; prostrate in prayer, in nights of agony, and distracting his easy-going confessor with the exaggerated scruples of his conscience. you see it in the effects of their teaching. you see erasmus addressing himself with persuasive eloquence to kings, and popes, and prelates; and for answer, you see pope leo sending tetzel over germany with his carriage-load of indulgences. you see erasmus's dearest friend, our own gifted admirable sir thomas more, taking his seat beside the bishops and sending poor protestant artisans to the stake. you see luther, on the other side, standing out before the world, one lone man, with all authority against him--taking lies by the throat, and europe thrilling at his words, and saying after him, 'the reign of imposture shall end.' let us follow the course of erasmus after the tempest had broken. he knew luther to be right. luther had but said what erasmus had been all his life convinced of, and luther looked to see him come forward and take his place at his side. had erasmus done so, the course of things would have been far happier and better. his prodigious reputation would have given the reformers the influence with the educated which they had won for themselves with the multitude, and the pope would have been left without a friend to the north of the alps. but there would have been some danger--danger to the leaders, if certainty of triumph to the cause--and erasmus had no gift for martyrdom. his first impulse was generous. he encouraged the elector, as we have seen, to protect luther from the pope. 'i looked on luther,' he wrote to duke george of saxe, 'as a necessary evil in the corruption of the church; a medicine, bitter and drastic, from which sounder health would follow.' and again, more boldly: 'luther has taken up the cause of honesty and good sense against abominations which are no longer tolerable. his enemies are men under whose worthlessness the christian world has groaned too long.' so to the heads of the church he wrote, pressing them to be moderate and careful:-- 'i neither approve luther nor condemn him,' he said to the archbishop of mayence; 'if he is innocent, he ought not to be oppressed by the factions of the wicked; if he is in error, he should be answered, not destroyed. the theologians'--observe how true they remain to the universal type in all times and in all countries--'the theologians do not try to answer him. they do but raise an insane and senseless clamour, and shriek and curse. heresy, heretic, heresiarch, schismatic, antichrist--these are the words which are in the mouths of all of them; and, of course, they condemn without reading. i warned them what they were doing. i told them to scream less, and to think more. luther's life they admit to be innocent and blameless. such a tragedy i never saw. the most humane men are thirsting for his blood, and they would rather kill him than mend him. the dominicans are the worst, and are more knaves than fools. in old times, even a heretic was quietly listened to. if he recanted, he was absolved; if he persisted, he was at worst excommunicated. now they will have nothing but blood. not to agree with them is heresy. to know greek is heresy. to speak good latin is heresy. whatever they do not understand is heresy. learning, they pretend, has given birth to luther, though luther has but little of it. luther thinks more of the gospel than of scholastic divinity, and that is his crime. this is plain at least, that the best men everywhere are those who are least offended with him.' even to pope leo, in the midst of his fury, erasmus wrote bravely; separating himself from luther, yet deprecating violence. 'nothing,' he said, 'would so recommend the new teaching as the howling of fools:' while to a member of charles's council he insisted that 'severity had been often tried in such cases and had always failed; unless luther was encountered calmly and reasonably, a tremendous convulsion was inevitable.' wisely said all this, but it presumed that those whom he was addressing were reasonable men; and high officials, touched in their pride, are a class of persons of whom solomon may have been thinking when he said, 'let a bear robbed of her whelps meet a man rather than a fool in his folly.' so to luther, so to the people, erasmus preached moderation. it was like preaching to the winds in a hurricane. the typhoon itself is not wilder than human creatures when once their passions are stirred. you cannot check them; but, if you are brave, you can guide them wisely. and this, erasmus had not the heart to do. he said at the beginning, 'i will not countenance revolt against authority. a bad government is better than none.' but he said at the same time, 'you bishops, cease to be corrupt: you popes and cardinals, reform your wicked courts: you monks, leave your scandalous lives, and obey the rules of your order, so you may recover the respect of mankind, and be obeyed and loved as before.' when he found that the case was desperate; that his exhortations were but words addressed to the winds; that corruption had tainted the blood; that there was no hope except in revolution--as, indeed, in his heart he knew from the first that there was none--then his place ought to have been with luther. but erasmus, as the tempest rose, could but stand still in feeble uncertainty. the responsibilities of his reputation weighed him down. the lutherans said, 'you believe as we do.' the catholics said, 'you are a lutheran at heart; if you are not, prove it by attacking luther.' he grew impatient. he told lies. he said he had not read luther's books, and had no time to read them. what was he, he said, that he should meddle in such a quarrel. he was the vine and the fig tree of the book of judges. the trees said to them, rule over us. the vine and the fig tree answered, they would not leave their sweetness for such a thankless office. 'i am a poor actor,' he said; 'i prefer to be a spectator of the play.' but he was sore at heart, and bitter with disappointment. all had been going on so smoothly--literature was reviving, art and science were spreading, the mind of the world was being reformed in the best sense by the classics of greece and rome, and now an apple of discord had been flung out into europe. the monks who had fought against enlightenment could point to the confusion as a fulfilment of their prophecies; and he, and all that he had done, was brought to disrepute. to protect himself from the dominicans, he was forced to pretend to an orthodoxy which he did not possess. were all true which luther had written, he pretended that it ought not to have been said, or should have been addressed in a learned language to the refined and educated. he doubted whether it was not better on the whole to teach the people lies for their good, when truth was beyond their comprehension. yet he could not for all that wish the church to be successful. 'i fear for that miserable luther,' he said; 'the popes and princes are furious with him. his own destruction would be no great matter, but if the monks triumph there will be no bearing them. they will never rest till they have rooted learning out of the land. the pope expects _me_ to write against luther. the orthodox, it appears, can call him names--call him blockhead, fool, heretic, toadstool, schismatic, and antichrist--but they must come to me to answer his arguments.' 'oh! that this had never been,' he wrote to our own archbishop warham. 'now there is no hope for any good. it is all over with quiet learning, thought, piety, and progress; violence is on one side and folly on the other; and they accuse me of having caused it all. if i joined luther i could only perish with him, and i do not mean to run my neck into a halter. popes and emperors must decide matters. i will accept what is good, and do as i can with the rest. peace on any terms is better than the justest war.' erasmus never stooped to real baseness. he was too clever, too genuine--he had too great a contempt for worldly greatness. they offered him a bishopric if he would attack luther. he only laughed at them. what was a bishopric to him? he preferred a quiet life among his books at louvaine. but there was no more quiet for erasmus at louvaine or anywhere. here is a scene between him and the prior of the dominicans in the presence of the rector of the university. the dominican had preached at erasmus in the university pulpit. erasmus complained to the rector, and the rector invited the dominican to defend himself. erasmus tells the story. 'i sate on one side and the monk on the other, the rector between us to prevent our scratching. 'the monk asked what the matter was, and said he had done no harm. 'i said he had told lies of me, and that was harm. 'it was after dinner. the holy man was flushed. he turned purple. '"why do you abuse monks in your books?" he said. '"i spoke of your order," i answered. "i did not mention you. you denounced me by name as a friend of luther." 'he raged like a madman. "you are the cause of all this trouble," he said; "you are a chameleon, you can twist everything." '"you see what a fellow he is," said i, turning to the rector. "if it comes to calling names, why i can do that too; but let us be reasonable." 'he still roared and cursed; he vowed he would never rest till he had destroyed luther. 'i said he might curse luther till he burst himself if he pleased. i complained of his cursing me. 'he answered, that if i did not agree with luther, i ought to say so, and write against him. '"why should i?" urged i. "the quarrel is none of mine. why should i irritate luther against me, when he has horns and knows how to use them?" '"well, then," said he, "if you will not write, at least you can say that we dominicans have had the best of the argument." '"how can i do that?" replied i. "you have burnt his books, but i never heard that you had answered them." 'he almost spat upon me. i understand that there is to be a form of prayer for the conversion of erasmus and luther.' but erasmus was not to escape so easily. adrian the sixth, who succeeded leo, was his old schoolfellow, and implored his assistance in terms which made refusal impossible. adrian wanted erasmus to come to him to rome. he was too wary to walk into the wolf's den. but adrian required him to write, and reluctantly he felt that he must comply. what was he to say? 'if his holiness will set about reform in good earnest,' he wrote to the pope's secretary, 'and if he will not be too hard on luther, i may, perhaps, do good; but what luther writes of the tyranny, the corruption, the covetousness of the roman court, would, my friend, that it was not true.' to adrian himself, erasmus addressed a letter really remarkable. 'i cannot go to your holiness,' he said, 'king calculus will not let me. i have dreadful health, which this tornado has not improved. i, who was the favourite of everybody, am now cursed by everybody--at louvaine by the monks; in germany by the lutherans. i have fallen into trouble in my old age, like a mouse into a pot of pitch. you say, come to rome; you might as well say to the crab, fly. the crab says, give me wings; i say, give me back my health and my youth. if i write calmly against luther i shall be called lukewarm; if i write as he does, i shall stir a hornet's nest. people think he can be put down by force. the more force you try, the stronger he will grow. such disorders cannot be cured in that way. the wickliffites in england were put down, but the fire smouldered. 'if you mean to use violence you have no need of me; but mark this--if monks and theologians think only of themselves, no good will come of it. look rather into the causes of all this confusion, and apply your remedies there. send for the best and wisest men from all parts of christendom and take their advice.' tell a crab to fly. tell a pope to be reasonable. you must relieve him of his infallibility if you want him to act like a sensible man. adrian could undertake no reforms, and still besought erasmus to take arms for him. erasmus determined to gratify adrian with least danger to himself and least injury to luther. 'i remember uzzah, and am afraid,' he said, in his quizzing way; 'it is not everyone who is allowed to uphold the ark. many a wise man has attacked luther, and what has been effected? the pope curses, the emperor threatens; there are prisons, confiscations, faggots; and all is vain. what can a poor pigmy like me do? * * * * * 'the world has been besotted with ceremonies. miserable monks have ruled all, entangling men's consciences for their own benefit. dogma has been heaped on dogma. the bishops have been tyrants, the pope's commissaries have been rascals. luther has been an instrument of god's displeasure, like pharaoh or nebuchadnezzar, or the cæsars, and i shall not attack him on such grounds as these.' erasmus was too acute to defend against luther the weak point of a bad cause. he would not declare for him--but he would not go over to his enemies. yet, unless he quarrelled with adrian, he could not be absolutely silent; so he chose a subject to write upon on which all schools of theology, catholic or protestant--all philosophers, all thinkers of whatever kind, have been divided from the beginning of time: fate and free will, predestination and the liberty of man--a problem which has no solution--which may be argued even from eternity to eternity. the reason of the selection was obvious. erasmus wished to please the pope and not exasperate luther. of course he pleased neither, and offended both. luther, who did not comprehend his motive, was needlessly angry. adrian and the monks were openly contemptuous. sick of them and their quarrels, he grew weary of the world, and began to wish to be well out of it. it is characteristic of erasmus that, like many highly-gifted men, but unlike all theologians, he expressed a hope for sudden death, and declared it to be one of the greatest blessings which a human creature can receive. do not suppose that he broke down or showed the white feather to fortune's buffets. through all storms he stuck bravely to his own proper work; editing classics, editing the fathers, writing paraphrases--still doing for europe what no other man could have done. the dominicans hunted him away from louvaine. there was no living for him in germany for the protestants. he suffered dreadfully from the stone, too, and in all ways had a cruel time of it. yet he continued, for all that, to make life endurable. he moved about in switzerland and on the upper rhine. the lakes, the mountains, the waterfalls, the villas on the hill slopes, delighted erasmus when few people else cared for such things. he was particular about his wine. the vintage of burgundy was as new blood in his veins, and quickened his pen into brightness and life. the german wines he liked worse--for this point among others, which is curious to observe in those days. the great capitalist winegrowers, anti-reformers all of them, were people without conscience and humanity, and adulterated their liquors. of course they did. they believed in nothing but money, and this was the way to make money. 'the water they mix with the wine,' erasmus says, 'is the least part of the mischief. they put in lime, and alum, and resin, and sulphur, and salt--and then they say it is good enough for heretics.' observe the practical issue of religious corruption. show me a people where trade is dishonest, and i will show you a people where religion is a sham. 'we hang men that steal money,' erasmus exclaimed, writing doubtless with the remembrance of a stomach-ache. 'these wretches steal our money and our lives too, and get off scot free.' he settled at last at basle, which the storm had not yet reached, and tried to bury himself among his books. the shrieks of the conflict, however, still troubled his ears. he heard his own name still cursed, and he could not bear it or sit quiet under it. his correspondence was still enormous. the high powers still appealed to him for advice and help: of open meddling he would have no more; he did not care, he said, to make a post of himself for every dog of a theologian to defile. advice, however, he continued to give in the old style. 'put down the preachers on both sides. fill the pulpits with men who will kick controversy into the kennel, and preach piety and good manners. teach nothing in the schools but what bears upon life and duty. punish those who break the peace, and punish no one else; and when the new opinions have taken root, allow liberty of conscience.' perfection of wisdom; but a wisdom which, unfortunately, was three centuries at least out of date, which even now we have not grown big enough to profit by. the catholic princes and bishops were at work with fire and faggot. the protestants were pulling down monasteries, and turning the monks and nuns out into the world. the catholics declared that erasmus was as much to blame as luther. the protestants held him responsible for the persecutions, and insisted, not without reason, that if erasmus had been true to his conscience, the whole catholic world must have accepted the reformation. he suffered bitterly under these attacks upon him. he loved quiet--and his ears were deafened with clamour. he liked popularity--and he was the best abused person in europe. others who suffered in the same way he could advise to leave the black-coated jackdaws to their noise--but he could not follow his own counsel. when the curs were at his heels, he could not restrain himself from lashing out at them; and, from his retreat at basle, his sarcasms flashed out like jagged points of lightning. describing an emeute, and the burning of an image of a saint, 'they insulted the poor image so,' he said, 'it is a marvel there was no miracle. the saint worked so many in the good old times.' when luther married an escaped nun, the catholics exclaimed that antichrist would be born from such an incestuous intercourse. 'nay,' erasmus said, 'if monk and nun produce antichrist, there must have been legions of antichrists these many years.' more than once he was tempted to go over openly to luther--not from a noble motive, but, as he confessed, 'to make those furies feel the difference between him and them.' he was past sixty, with broken health and failing strength. he thought of going back to england, but england had by this time caught fire, and basle had caught fire. there was no peace on earth. 'the horse has his heels,' he said, when advised to be quiet, 'the dog his teeth, the hedgehog his spines, the bee his sting. i myself have my tongue and my pen, and why should i not use them?' yet to use them to any purpose now, he must take a side, and, sorely tempted as he was, he could not. with the negative part of the protestant creed he sympathised heartily; but he did not understand luther's doctrine of faith, because he had none of his own, and he disliked it as a new dogma. he regarded luther's movement as an outburst of commonplace revolution, caused by the folly and wickedness of the authorities, but with no organising vitality in itself; and his chief distress, as we gather from his later letters, was at his own treatment. he had done his best for both sides. he had failed, and was abused by everybody. thus passed away the last years of one of the most gifted men that europe has ever seen. i have quoted many of his letters. i will add one more passage, written near the end of his life, very touching and pathetic:-- 'hercules,' he said, 'could not fight two monsters at once; while i, poor wretch, have lions, cerberuses, cancers, scorpions every day at my sword's point; not to mention smaller vermin--rats, mosquitoes, bugs, and fleas. my troops of friends are turned to enemies. at dinner-tables or social gatherings, in churches and king's courts, in public carriage or public flyboat, scandal pursues me, and calumny defiles my name. every goose now hisses at erasmus; and it is worse than being stoned, once for all, like stephen, or shot with arrows like sebastian. 'they attack me now even for my latin style, and spatter me with epigrams. fame i would have parted with; but to be the sport of blackguards--to be pelted with potsherds and dirt and ordure--is not this worse than death? 'there is no rest for me in my age, unless i join luther; and i cannot, for i cannot accept his doctrines. sometimes i am stung with a desire to avenge my wrongs; but i say to myself, "will you, to gratify your spleen, raise your hand against your mother the church, who begot you at the font and fed you with the word of god?" i cannot do it. yet i understand now how arius, and tertullian, and wickliff were driven into schism. the theologians say i am their enemy. why? because i bade monks remember their vows; because i told parsons to leave their wranglings and read the bible; because i told popes and cardinals to look at the apostles, and make themselves more like to them. if this is to be their enemy, then indeed i have injured them.' this was almost the last. the stone, advancing years, and incessant toil had worn him to a shred. the clouds grew blacker. news came from england that his dear friends more and fisher had died upon the scaffold. he had long ceased to care for life; and death, almost as sudden as he had longed for, gave him peace at last. so ended desiderius erasmus, the world's idol for so many years; and dying heaped with undeserved but too intelligible anathemas, seeing all that he had laboured for swept away by the whirlwind. do not let me lead you to undervalue him. without erasmus, luther would have been impossible; and erasmus really succeeded--so much of him as deserved to succeed--in luther's victory. he was brilliantly gifted. his industry never tired. his intellect was true to itself; and no worldly motives ever tempted him into insincerity. he was even far braver than he professed to be. had he been brought to the trial, he would have borne it better than many a man who boasted louder of his courage. and yet, in his special scheme for remodelling the mind of europe, he failed hopelessly--almost absurdly. he believed, himself, that his work was spoilt by the reformation; but, in fact, under no conditions could any more have come of it. literature and cultivation will feed life when life exists already; and toleration and latitudinarianism are well enough when mind and conscience are awake and energetic of themselves. when there is no spiritual life at all; when men live only for themselves and for sensual pleasure; when religion is superstition, and conscience a name, and god an idol half feared and half despised--then, for the restoration of the higher nature in man, qualities are needed different in kind from any which erasmus possessed. and now to go back to luther. i cannot tell you all that luther did; it would be to tell you all the story of the german reformation. i want you rather to consider the kind of man that luther was, and to see in his character how he came to achieve what he did. you remember that the elector of saxony, after the diet of worms, sent him to the castle of wartburg, to prevent him from being murdered or kidnapped. he remained there many months; and during that time the old ecclesiastical institutions of germany were burning like a north american forest. the monasteries were broken up; the estates were appropriated by the nobles; the monks were sent wandering into the world. the bishops looked helplessly on while their ancient spiritual dominion was torn to pieces and trodden under foot. the elector of saxony, the landgrave of hesse, and several more of the princes, declared for the reformation. the protestants had a majority in the diet, and controlled the force of the empire. charles the fifth, busy with his french wars, and in want of money, dared not press questions to a crisis which he had not power to cope with; and he was obliged for a time to recognise what he could not prevent. you would have thought luther would have been well pleased to see the seed which he had sown bear fruit so rapidly; yet it was exactly while all this was going on that he experienced those temptations of the devil of which he has left so wonderful an account. we shall have our own opinions on the nature of these apparitions. but luther, it is quite certain, believed that satan himself attacked him in person. satan, he tells us, came often to him, and said, 'see what you have done. behold this ancient church--this mother of saints--polluted and defiled by brutal violence. and it is you--you, a poor ignorant monk, that have set the people on to their unholy work. are you so much wiser than the saints who approved the things which you have denounced? popes, bishops, clergy, kings, emperors--are none of these--are not all these together--wiser than martin luther the monk?' the devil, he says, caused him great agony by these suggestions. he fell into deep fits of doubt and humiliation and despondency. and wherever these thoughts came from, we can only say that they were very natural thoughts--natural and right. he called them temptations; yet these were temptations which would not have occurred to any but a high-minded man. he had, however, done only what duty had forced him to do. his business was to trust to god, who had begun the work and knew what he meant to make of it. his doubts and misgivings, therefore, he ascribed to satan, and his enormous imaginative vigour gave body to the voice which was speaking in him. he tells many humorous stories--not always producible--of the means with which he encountered his offensive visitor. 'the devil,' he says, 'is very proud, and what he least likes is to be laughed at.' one night he was disturbed by something rattling in his room; the modern unbeliever will suppose it was a mouse. he got up, lit a candle, searched the apartment through, and could find nothing--the evil one was indisputably there. 'oh!' he said, 'it is you, is it?' he returned to bed, and went to sleep. think as you please about the cause of the noise, but remember that luther had not the least doubt that he was alone in the room with the actual devil, who, if he could not overcome his soul, could at least twist his neck in a moment--and then think what courage there must have been in a man who could deliberately sleep in such a presence! during his retirement he translated the bible. the confusion at last became so desperate that he could no longer be spared; and, believing that he was certain to be destroyed, he left wartburg and returned to wittenberg. death was always before him as supremely imminent. he used to say that it would be a great disgrace to the pope if he died in his bed. he was wanted once at leipsic. his friends said if he went there duke george would kill him. 'duke george!' he said; 'i would go to leipsic if it rained duke georges for nine days!' no such cataclysm of duke georges happily took place. the single one there was would have gladly been mischievous if he could; but luther outlived him--lived for twenty-four years after this, in continued toil, re-shaping the german church, and giving form to its new doctrine. sacerdotalism, properly so called, was utterly abolished. the corruptions of the church had all grown out of one root--the notion that the christian priesthood possesses mystical power, conferred through episcopal ordination. religion, as luther conceived it, did not consist in certain things done to and for a man by a so-called priest. it was the devotion of each individual soul to the service of god. masses were nothing, and absolution was nothing; and a clergyman differed only from a layman in being set apart for the especial duties of teaching and preaching. i am not concerned to defend luther's view in this matter. it is a matter of fact only, that in getting rid of episcopal ordination, he dried up the fountain from which the mechanical and idolatrous conceptions of religion had sprung; and, in consequence, the religious life of germany has expanded with the progress of knowledge, while priesthoods everywhere cling to the formulas of the past, in which they live, and move, and have their being. enough of this. the peculiar doctrine which has passed into europe under luther's name is known as justification by faith. bandied about as a watchword of party, it has by this time hardened into a formula, and has become barren as the soil of a trodden footpath. as originally proclaimed by luther, it contained the deepest of moral truths. it expressed what was, and is, and must be, in one language or another, to the end of time, the conviction of every generous-minded man. the service of god, as luther learnt it from the monks, was a thing of desert and reward. so many good works done, so much to the right page in the great book; where the stock proved insufficient, there was the reserve fund of the merits of the saints, which the church dispensed for money to those who needed. 'merit!' luther thought. 'what merit can there be in such a poor caitiff as man? the better a man is--the more clearly he sees how little he is good for, the greater mockery it seems to attribute to him the notion of having deserved reward.' 'miserable creatures that we are!' he said; 'we earn our bread in sin. till we are seven years old, we do nothing but eat and drink and sleep and play; from seven to twenty-one we study four hours a day, the rest of it we run about and amuse ourselves; then we work till fifty, and then we grow again to be children. we sleep half our lives; we give god a tenth of our time: and yet we think that with our good works we can merit heaven. what have i been doing to-day? i have talked for two hours; i have been at meals three hours; i have been idle four hours! ah, enter not into judgment with thy servant, o lord!' a perpetual struggle. for ever to be falling, yet to rise again and stumble forward with eyes turned to heaven--this was the best which would ever come of man. it was accepted in its imperfection by the infinite grace of god, who pities mortal weakness, and accepts the intention for the deed--who, when there is a sincere desire to serve him, overlooks the shortcomings of infirmity. do you say such teaching leads to disregard of duty? all doctrines, when petrified into formulas, lead to that. but, as luther said, 'where real faith is, a good life follows, as light follows the sun; faint and clouded, yet ever struggling to break through the mist which envelopes it, and welcoming the roughest discipline which tends to clear and raise it. 'the barley,' he says, in a homely but effective image--'the barley which we brew, the flax of which we weave our garments, must be bruised and torn ere they come to the use for which they are grown. so must christians suffer. the natural creature must be combed and threshed. the old adam must die, for the higher life to begin. if man is to rise to nobleness, he must first be slain.' in modern language, the poet goethe tells us the same truth. 'the natural man,' he says, 'is like the ore out of the iron mine. it is smelted in the furnace; it is forged into bars upon the anvil. a new nature is at last forced upon it, and it is made steel.' it was this doctrine--it was this truth rather (the word doctrine reminds one of quack medicines)--which, quickening in luther's mind, gave europe its new life. it was the flame which, beginning with a small spark, kindled the hearth-fires in every german household. luther's own life was a model of quiet simplicity. he remained poor. he might have had money if he had wished; but he chose rather, amidst his enormous labour, to work at a turning-lathe for his livelihood. he was sociable, cheerful, fond of innocent amusements, and delighted to encourage them. his table-talk, collected by his friends, makes one of the most brilliant books in the world. he had no monkish theories about the necessity of abstinence; but he was temperate from habit and principle. a salt herring and a hunch of bread was his ordinary meal; and he was once four days without food of any sort, having emptied his larder among the poor. all kinds of people thrust themselves on luther for help. flights of nuns from the dissolved convents came to him to provide for them--naked, shivering creatures, with scarce a rag to cover them. eight florins were wanted once to provide clothes for some of them. 'eight florins!' he said; 'and where am i to get eight florins?' great people had made him presents of plate: it all went to market to be turned into clothes and food for the wretched. melancthon says that, unless provoked, he was usually very gentle and tolerant. he recognised, and was almost alone in recognising, the necessity of granting liberty of conscience. no one hated popery more than he did, yet he said:-- 'the papists must bear with us, and we with them. if they will not follow us, we have no right to force them. wherever they can, they will hang, burn, behead, and strangle us. i shall be persecuted as long as i live, and most likely killed. but it must come to this at last--every man must be allowed to believe according to his conscience, and answer for his belief to his maker.' erasmus said of luther that there were two natures in him: sometimes he wrote like an apostle--sometimes like a raving ribald. doubtless, luther could be impolite on occasions. when he was angry, invectives rushed from him like boulder rocks down a mountain torrent in flood. we need not admire all that; in quiet times it is hard to understand it. here, for instance, is a specimen. our henry the eighth, who began life as a highly orthodox sovereign, broke a lance with luther for the papacy. luther did not credit henry with a composition which was probably his own after all. he thought the king was put forward by some of the english bishops--'thomists' he calls them, as men who looked for the beginning and end of wisdom to the writings of thomas aquinas. 'courage,' he exclaimed to them, 'swine that you are! burn me then, if you can and dare. here i am; do your worst upon me. scatter my ashes to all the winds--spread them through all seas. my spirit shall pursue you still. living, i am the foe of the papacy; and dead, i will be its foe twice over. hogs of thomists! luther shall be the bear in your way--the lion in your path. go where you will, luther shall cross you. luther shall leave you neither peace nor rest till he has crushed in your brows of brass and dashed out your iron brains.' strong expressions; but the times were not gentle. the prelates whom he supposed himself to be addressing were the men who filled our smithfield with the reek of burning human flesh. men of luther's stature are like the violent forces of nature herself--terrible when roused, and in repose, majestic and beautiful. of vanity he had not a trace. 'do not call yourselves lutherans,' he said; 'call yourselves christians. who and what is luther? has luther been crucified for the world?' i mentioned his love of music. his songs and hymns were the expression of the very inmost heart of the german people. 'music' he called 'the grandest and sweetest gift of god to man.' 'satan hates music,' he said; 'he knows how it drives the evil spirit out of us.' he was extremely interested in all natural things. before the science of botany was dreamt of, luther had divined the principle of vegetable life. 'the principle of marriage runs through all creation,' he said; 'and flowers as well as animals are male and female.' a garden called out bursts of eloquence from him; beautiful sometimes as a finished piece of poetry. one april day as he was watching the swelling buds, he exclaimed:-- 'praise be to god the creator, who out of a dead world makes all alive again. see those shoots how they burgeon and swell. image of the resurrection of the dead! winter is death--summer is the resurrection. between them lie spring and autumn, as the period of uncertainty and change. the proverb says-- trust not a day ere birth of may. let us pray our father in heaven to give us this day our daily bread.' 'we are in the dawn of a new era,' he said another time; 'we are beginning to think something of the natural world which was ruined in adam's fall. we are learning to see all round us the greatness and glory of the creator. we can see the almighty hand--the infinite goodness--in the humblest flower. we praise him--we thank him--we glorify him--we recognise in creation the power of his word. he spoke and it was there. the stone of the peach is hard; but the soft kernel swells and bursts it when the time comes. an egg--what a thing is that! if an egg had never been seen in europe, and a traveller had brought one from calcutta, how would all the world have wondered!' and again:-- 'if a man could make a single rose, we should give him an empire; yet roses, and flowers no less beautiful, are scattered in profusion over the world, and no one regards them.' there are infinite other things which i should like to tell you about luther, but time wears on. i must confine what more i have to say to a single matter--for which more than any other he has been blamed--i mean his marriage. he himself, a monk and a priest, had taken a vow of celibacy. the person whom he married had been a nun, and as such had taken a vow of celibacy also. the marriage was unquestionably no affair of passion. luther had come to middle age when it was brought about, when temptations of that kind lose their power; and among the many accusations which have been brought against his early life, no one has ventured to charge him with incontinence. his taking a wife was a grave act deliberately performed; and it was either meant as a public insult to established ecclesiastical usage, or else he considered that the circumstances of the time required it of him. let us see what those circumstances were. the enforcement of celibacy on the clergy was, in luther's opinion, both iniquitous in itself, and productive of enormous immorality. the impurity of the religious orders had been the jest of satirists for a hundred years. it had been the distress and perplexity of pious and serious persons. luther himself was impressed with profound pity for the poor men, who were cut off from the natural companionship which nature had provided for them--who were thus exposed to temptations which they ought not to have been called upon to resist. the dissolution of the religious houses had enormously complicated the problem. germany was covered with friendless and homeless men and women adrift upon the world. they came to luther to tell them what to do; and advice was of little service without example. the world had grown accustomed to immorality in such persons. they might have lived together in concubinage, and no one would have thought much about it. their marriage was regarded with a superstitious terror as a kind of incest. luther, on the other hand, regarded marriage as the natural and healthy state in which clergy as well as laity were intended to live. immorality was hateful to him as a degradation of a sacrament--impious, loathsome, and dishonoured. marriage was the condition in which humanity was at once purest, best, and happiest. for himself, he had become inured to a single life. he had borne the injustice of his lot, when the burden had been really heavy. but time and custom had lightened the load; and had there been nothing at issue but his own personal happiness, he would not have given further occasion to the malice of his enemies. but tens of thousands of poor creatures were looking to him to guide them--guide them by precept, or guide them by example. he had satisfied himself that the vow of celibacy had been unlawfully imposed both on him and them--that, as he would put it, it had been a snare devised by the devil. he saw that all eyes were fixed on him--that it was no use to tell others that they might marry, unless he himself led the way, and married first. and it was characteristic of him that, having resolved to do the thing, he did it in the way most likely to show the world his full thought upon the matter. that this was his motive, there is no kind of doubt whatever. 'we may be able to live unmarried,' he said; 'but in these days we must protest in deed as well as word, against the doctrine of celibacy. it is an invention of satan. before i took my wife, i had made up my mind that i must marry some one: and had i been overtaken by illness, i should have betrothed myself to some pious maiden.' he asked nobody's advice. had he let his intention be suspected, the moderate respectable people--the people who thought like erasmus--those who wished well to what was good, but wished also to stand well with the world's opinion--such persons as these would have overwhelmed him with remonstrances. 'when you marry,' he said to a friend in a similar situation, 'be quiet about it, or mountains will rise between you and your wishes. if i had not been swift and secret, i should have had the whole world in my way.' catherine bora, the lady whom he chose for his wife, was a nun of good family, left homeless and shelterless by the breaking-up of her convent. she was an ordinary, unimaginative body--plain in person and plain in mind, in no sense whatever a heroine of romance--but a decent, sensible, commonplace haus frau. the age of romance was over with both of them; yet, for all that, never marriage brought a plainer blessing with it. they began with respect, and ended with steady affection. the happiest life on earth, luther used to say, is with a pious, good wife; in peace and quiet, contented with a little, and giving god thanks. he spoke from his own experience. his katie, as he called her, was not clever, and he had numerous stories to tell of the beginning of their adventures together. 'the first year of married life is an odd business,' he says. 'at meals, where you used to be alone, you are yourself and somebody else. when you wake in the morning, there are a pair of tails close to you on the pillow. my katie used to sit with me when i was at work. she thought she ought not to be silent. she did not know what to say, so she would ask me. '"herr doctor, is not the master of the ceremonies in prussia the brother of the margrave?"' she was an odd woman. 'doctor,' she said to him one day, 'how is it that under popery we prayed so often and so earnestly, and now our prayers are cold and seldom?' katie might have spoken for herself. luther, to the last, spent hours of every day in prayer. he advised her to read the bible a little more. she said she had read enough of it, and knew half of it by heart. 'ah!' he said, 'here begins weariness of the word of god. one day new lights will rise up, and the scriptures will be despised and be flung away into the corner.' his relations with his children were singularly beautiful. the recollection of his own boyhood made him especially gentle with them, and their fancies and imaginations delighted him. children, to him, were images of unfallen nature. 'children,' he said, 'imagine heaven a place where rivers run with cream, and trees are hung with cakes and plums. do not blame them. they are but showing their simple, natural, unquestioning, all-believing faith.' one day, after dinner, when the fruit was on the table, the children were watching it with longing eyes. 'that is the way,' he said, 'in which we grown christians ought to look for the judgment day.' his daughter magdalen died when she was fourteen. he speaks of his loss with the unaffected simplicity of natural grief, yet with the faith of a man who had not the slightest doubt into whose hands his treasure was passing. perfect nature and perfect piety. neither one emotion nor the other disguised or suppressed. you will have gathered something, i hope, from these faint sketches, of what luther was; you will be able to see how far he deserves to be called by our modern new lights, a philistine or a heretic. we will now return to the subject with which we began, and resume, in a general conclusion, the argument of these lectures. in part, but not wholly, it can be done in luther's words. one regrets that luther did not know erasmus better, or knowing him, should not have treated him with more forbearance. erasmus spoke of him for the most part with kindness. he interceded for him, defended him, and only with the utmost reluctance was driven into controversy with him. luther, on the other hand, saw in erasmus a man who was false to his convictions; who played with truth; who, in his cold, sarcastic scepticism, believed in nothing--scarcely even in god. he was unaware of his own obligations to him, for erasmus was not a person who would trumpet out his own good deeds. thus luther says:-- 'all you who honour christ, i pray you hate erasmus. he is a scoffer and a mocker. he speaks in riddles; and jests at popery and gospel, and christ and god, with his uncertain speeches. he might have served the gospel if he would, but, like judas, he has betrayed the son of man with a kiss. he is not with us, and he is not with our foes; and i say with joshua, choose whom ye will serve. he thinks we should trim to the times, and hang our cloaks to the wind. he is himself his own first object; and as he lived, he died. 'i take erasmus to be the worst enemy that christ has had for a thousand years. intellect does not understand religion, and when it comes to the things of god, it laughs at them. he scoffs like lucian, and by-and-by he will say, behold, how are these among the saints whose life we counted for folly. 'i bid you, therefore, take heed of erasmus. he treats theology as a fool's jest, and the gospel as a fable good for the ignorant to believe.' of erasmus personally, much of this was unjust and untrue. erasmus knew many things which it would have been well for luther to have known; and, as a man, he was better than his principles. but if for the name of erasmus we substitute the theory of human things which erasmus represented, between that creed and luther there is, and must be, an eternal antagonism. if to be true in heart and just in act are the first qualities necessary for the elevation of humanity--if without these all else is worthless, intellectual culture cannot give what intellectual culture does not require or imply. you cultivate the plant which has already life; you will waste your labour in cultivating a stone. the moral life is the counterpart of the natural, alike mysterious in its origin, and alike visible only in its effects. intellectual gifts are like gifts of strength, or wealth, or rank, or worldly power--splendid instruments if nobly used--but requiring qualities to use them nobler and better than themselves. the rich man may spend his wealth on vulgar luxury. the clever man may live for intellectual enjoyment--refined enjoyment it may be--but enjoyment still, and still centering in self. if the spirit of erasmus had prevailed, it would have been with modern europe as with the roman empire in its decay. the educated would have been mere sceptics; the multitude would have been sunk in superstition. in both alike all would have perished which deserves the name of manliness. and this leads me to the last observation that i have to make to you. in the sciences, the philosopher leads; the rest of us take on trust what he tells us. the spiritual progress of mankind has followed the opposite course. each forward step has been made first among the people, and the last converts have been among the learned. the explanation is not far to look for. in the sciences there is no temptation of self-interest to mislead. in matters which affect life and conduct, the interests and prejudices of the cultivated classes are enlisted on the side of the existing order of things, and their better trained faculties and larger acquirements serve only to find them arguments for believing what they wish to believe. simpler men have less to lose; they come more in contact with the realities of life, and they learn wisdom in the experience of suffering. thus it was that when the learned and the wise turned away from christianity, the fishermen of the galilean lake listened, and a new life began for mankind. a miner's son converted germany to the reformation. the london artisans and the peasants of buckinghamshire went to the stake for doctrines which were accepted afterwards as a second revelation. so it has been; so it will be to the end. when a great teacher comes again upon the earth, he will find his first disciples where christ found them and luther found them. had luther written for the learned, the words which changed the face of europe would have slumbered in impotence on the bookshelves. in appealing to the german nation, you will agree, i think, with me, that he did well and not ill; you will not sacrifice his great name to the disdain of a shallow philosophy, or to the grimacing of a dead superstition, whose ghost is struggling out of its grave. the influence of the reformation on the scottish character: a lecture delivered at edinburgh, november . i have undertaken to speak this evening on the effects of the reformation in scotland, and i consider myself a very bold person to have come here on any such undertaking. in the first place, the subject is one with which it is presumptuous for a stranger to meddle. great national movements can only be understood properly by the people whose disposition they represent. we say ourselves about our own history that only englishmen can properly comprehend it. the late chevalier bunsen once said to me of our own reformation in england, that, for his part, he could not conceive how we had managed to come by such a thing. we seemed to him to be an obdurate, impenetrable, stupid people, hide-bound by tradition and precedent, and too self-satisfied to be either willing or able to take in new ideas upon any theoretic subject whatever, especially german ideas. that is to say, he could not get inside the english mind. he did not know that some people go furthest and go fastest when they look one way and row the other. it is the same with every considerable nation. they work out their own political and spiritual lives, through tempers, humours, and passions peculiar to themselves; and the same disposition which produces the result is required to interpret it afterwards. this is one reason why i should feel diffident about what i have undertaken. another is, that i do not conceal from myself that the subject is an exceedingly delicate one. the blazing passions of those stormy sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are no longer, happily, at their old temperature. the story of those times can now be told or listened to with something like impartiality. yet, if people no longer hate each other for such matters, the traditions of the struggle survive in strong opinions and sentiments, which it is easy to wound without intending it. my own conviction with respect to all great social and religious convulsions is the extremely commonplace one that much is to be said on both sides. i believe that nowhere and at no time any such struggle can take place on a large scale unless each party is contending for something which has a great deal of truth in it. where the right is plain, honest, wise, and noble-minded men are all on one side; and only rogues and fools are on the other. where the wise and good are divided, the truth is generally found to be divided also. but this is precisely what cannot be admitted as long as the conflict continues. men begin to fight about things when reason and argument fail to convince them. they make up in passion what is wanting in logic. each side believes that all the right is theirs--that their enemies have all the bad qualities which their language contains names for; and even now, on the subject on which i have to talk to-night, one has but to take up any magazine, review, newspaper, or party organ of any kind which touches on it, to see that opinion is still whig or tory, cavalier or roundhead, protestant or catholic, as the case may be. the unfortunate person who is neither wholly one nor wholly the other is in the position of hamlet's 'baser nature,' 'between the incensed points of mighty opposites.' he is the laodicean, neither cold nor hot, whom decent people consider bad company. he pleases no one, and hurts the sensitiveness of all. here, then, are good reasons why i should have either not come here at all, or else should have chosen some other matter to talk about. in excuse for persisting, i can but say that the subject is one about which i have been led by circumstances to read and think considerably; and though, undoubtedly, each of us knows more about himself and his own affairs than anyone else can possibly know, yet a stranger's eye will sometimes see things which escape those more immediately interested; and i allow myself to hope that i may have something to say not altogether undeserving your attention. i shall touch as little as possible on questions of opinion; and if i tread by accident on any sensitive point, i must trust to your kindness to excuse my awkwardness. well, then, if we look back on scotland as it stood in the first quarter of the sixteenth century, we see a country in which the old feudal organisation continued, so far as it generally affected the people, more vigorous than in any other part of civilised europe. elsewhere, the growth of trade and of large towns had created a middle class, with an organisation of their own, independent of the lords. in scotland, the towns were still scanty and poor; such as they were, they were for the most part under the control of the great nobleman who happened to live nearest to them; and a people, as in any sense independent of lords, knights, abbots, or prelates, under whose rule they were born, had as yet no existence. the tillers of the soil (and the soil was very miserably tilled) lived under the shadow of the castle or the monastery. they followed their lord's fortunes, fought his battles, believed in his politics, and supported him loyally in his sins or his good deeds, as the case might be. there was much moral beauty in the life of those times. the loyal attachment of man to man--of liege servant to liege lord--of all forms under which human beings can live and work together, has most of grace and humanity about it. it cannot go on without mutual confidence and affection--mutual benefits given and received. the length of time which the system lasted proves that in the main there must have been a fine fidelity in the people--truth, justice, generosity in their leaders. history brings down many bad stories to us out of those times; just as in these islands nowadays you may find bad instances of the abuses of rights of property. you may find stories--too many also--of husbands ill-using their wives, and so on. yet we do not therefore lay the blame on marriage, or suppose that the institution of property on the whole does more harm than good. i do not doubt that down in that feudal system somewhere lie the roots of some of the finest qualities in the european peoples. so much for the temporal side of the matter; and the spiritual was not very unlike it. as no one lived independently, in our modern sense of the word, so no one thought independently. the minds of men were looked after by a church which, for a long time also, did, i suppose, very largely fulfil the purpose for which it was intended. it kept alive and active the belief that the world was created and governed by a just being, who hated sins and crimes, and steadily punished such things. it taught men that they had immortal souls, and that this little bit of life was an entirely insignificant portion of their real existence. it taught these truths, indeed, along with a great deal which we now consider to have been a mistake--a great many theories of earthly things which have since passed away, and special opinions clothed in outward forms and ritual observances which we here, most of us at least, do not think essential for our soul's safety. but mistakes like these are hurtful only when persisted in in the face of fuller truth, after truth has been discovered. only a very foolish man would now uphold the ptolemaic astronomy. but the ptolemaic astronomy, when first invented, was based on real if incomplete observations, and formed a groundwork without which further progress in that science would have been probably impossible. the theories and ceremonials of the catholic church suited well with an age in which little was known and much was imagined: when superstition was active and science was not yet born. when i am told here or anywhere that the middle ages were times of mere spiritual darkness and priestly oppression, with the other usual formulas, i say, as i said before, if the catholic church, for those many centuries that it reigned supreme over all men's consciences, was no better than the thing which we see in the generation which immediately preceded the reformation, it could not have existed at all. you might as well argue that the old fading tree could never have been green and young. institutions do not live on lies. they either live by the truth and usefulness which there is in them, or they do not live at all. so things went on for several hundred years. there were scandals enough, and crimes enough, and feuds, and murders, and civil wars. systems, however good, cannot prevent evil. they can but compress it within moderate and tolerable limits. i should conclude, however, that, measuring by the average happiness of the masses of the people, the mediæval institutions were very well suited for the inhabitants of these countries as they then were. adam smith and bentham themselves could hardly have mended them if they had tried. but times change, and good things as well as bad grow old and have to die. the heart of the matter which the catholic church had taught was the fear of god; but the language of it and the formulas of it were made up of human ideas and notions about things which the mere increase of human knowledge gradually made incredible. to trace the reason of this would lead us a long way. it is intelligible enough, but it would take us into subjects better avoided here. it is enough to say that, while the essence of religion remains the same, the mode in which it is expressed changes and has changed--changes as living languages change and become dead, as institutions change, as forms of government change, as opinions on all things in heaven and earth change, as half the theories held at this time among ourselves will probably change--that is, the outward and mortal parts of them. thus the catholic formulas, instead of living symbols, become dead and powerless cabalistic signs. the religion lost its hold on the conscience and the intellect, and the effect, singularly enough, appeared in the shepherds before it made itself felt among the flocks. from the see of st. peter to the far monasteries in the hebrides or the isle of arran, the laity were shocked and scandalised at the outrageous doings of high cardinals, prelates, priests, and monks. it was clear enough that these great personages themselves did not believe what they taught; so why should the people believe it? and serious men, to whom the fear of god was a living reality, began to look into the matter for themselves. the first steps everywhere were taken with extreme reluctance; and had the popes and cardinals been wise, they would have taken the lead in the enquiry, cleared their teaching of its lumber, and taken out a new lease of life both for it and for themselves. an infallible pope and an infallible council might have done something in this way, if good sense had been among the attributes of their omniscience. what they did do was something very different. it was as if, when the new astronomy began to be taught, the professors of that science in all the universities of europe had met together and decided that ptolemy's cycles and epicycles were eternal verities; that the theory of the rotation of the earth was and must be a damnable heresy; and had invited the civil authorities to help them in putting down by force all doctrines but their own. this, or something very like it, was the position taken up in theology by the council of trent. the bishops assembled there did not reason. they decided by vote that certain things were true, and were to be believed; and the only arguments which they condescended to use were fire and faggot, and so on. how it fared with them, and with this experiment of theirs, we all know tolerably well. the effect was very different in different countries. here, in scotland, the failure was most marked and complete, but the way in which it came about was in many ways peculiar. in germany, luther was supported by princes and nobles. in england, the reformation rapidly mixed itself up with politics and questions of rival jurisdiction. both in england and germany, the revolution, wherever it established itself, was accepted early by the crown or the government, and by them legally recognised. here, it was far otherwise: the protestantism of scotland was the creation of the commons, as in turn the commons may be said to have been created by protestantism. there were many young high-spirited men, belonging to the noblest families in the country, who were among the earliest to rally round the reforming preachers; but authority, both in church and state, set the other way. the congregations who gathered in the fields around wishart and john knox were, for the most part, farmers, labourers, artisans, tradesmen, or the smaller gentry; and thus, for the first time in scotland, there was created an organisation of men detached from the lords and from the church--brave, noble, resolute, daring people, bound together by a sacred cause, unrecognised by the leaders whom they had followed hitherto with undoubting allegiance. that spirit which grew in time to be the ruling power of scotland--that which formed eventually its laws and its creed, and determined its after fortunes as a nation--had its first germ in these half-outlawed wandering congregations. in this it was that the reformation in scotland differed from the reformation in any other part of europe. elsewhere it found a middle class existing--created already by trade or by other causes. it raised and elevated them, but it did not materially affect their political condition. in scotland, the commons, as an organised body, were simply created by religion. before the reformation they had no political existence; and therefore it has been that the print of their origin has gone so deeply into their social constitution. on them, and them only, the burden of the work of the reformation was eventually thrown; and when they triumphed at last, it was inevitable that both they and it should react one upon the other. how this came about i must endeavour to describe, although i can give but a brief sketch of an exceedingly complicated matter. everybody knows the part played by the aristocracy of scotland in the outward revolution, when the reformation first became the law of the land. it would seem at first sight as if it had been the work of the whole nation--as if it had been a thing on which high and low were heartily united. yet on the first glance below the surface you see that the greater part of the noble lords concerned in that business cared nothing about the reformation at all; or, if they cared, they rather disliked it than otherwise. how, then, did they come to act as they did? or, how came they to permit a change of such magnitude when they had so little sympathy with it? i must make a slight circuit to look for the explanation. the one essentially noble feature in the great families of scotland was their patriotism. they loved scotland and scotland's freedom with a passion proportioned to the difficulty with which they had defended their liberties; and yet the wisest of them had long seen that, sooner or later, union with england was inevitable; and the question was, how that union was to be brought about--how they were to make sure that, when it came, they should take their place at england's side as equals, and not as a dependency. it had been arranged that the little mary stuart should marry our english edward vi., and the difficulty was to be settled so. they would have been contented, they said, if scotland had had the 'lad' and england the 'lass.' as it stood, they broke their bargain, and married the little queen away into france, to prevent the protector somerset from getting hold of her. then, however, appeared an opposite danger; the queen would become a frenchwoman; her french mother governed scotland with french troops and french ministers; the country would become a french province, and lose its freedom equally. thus an english party began again; and as england was then in the middle of her great anti-church revolution, so the scottish nobles began to be anti-church. it was not for doctrines: neither they nor their brothers in england cared much about doctrines; but in both countries the church was rich--much richer than there seemed any occasion for it to be. harry the eighth had been sharing among the laity the spoils of the english monasteries; the scotch lords saw in a similar process the probability of a welcome addition to their own scanty incomes. mary of guise and the french stood by the church, and the church stood by them; and so it came about that the great families--even those who, like the hamiltons, were most closely connected with france--were tempted over by the bait to the other side. they did not want reformed doctrines, but they wanted the church lands; and so they came to patronise, or endure, the reformers, because the church hated them, and because they weakened the church; and thus for a time, and especially as long as mary stuart was queen of france, all classes in scotland, high and low, seemed to fraternise in favour of the revolution. and it seemed as if the union of the realms could be effected at last, at the same juncture, and in connexion with the same movement. next in succession to the scotch crown, after mary stuart, was the house of hamilton. elizabeth, who had just come to the english throne, was supposed to be in want of a husband. the heir of the hamiltons was of her own age, and in years past had been thought of for her by her father. what could be more fit than to make a match between those two? send a scot south to be king of england, find or make some pretext to shake off mary stuart, who had forsaken her native country, and so join the crowns, the 'lass' and the 'lad' being now in the right relative position. scotland would thus annex her old oppressor, and give her a new dynasty. i seem to be straying from the point; but these political schemes had so much to do with the actions of the leading men at that time, that the story of the reformation cannot be understood without them. it was thus, and with these incongruous objects, that the combination was formed which overturned the old church of scotland in - , confiscated its possessions, destroyed its religious houses, and changed its creed. the french were driven away from leith by elizabeth's troops; the reformers took possession of the churches; and the parliament of met with a clear stage to determine for themselves the future fate of the country. now, i think it certain that, if the scotch nobility, having once accepted the reformation, had continued loyal to it--especially if elizabeth had met their wishes in the important point of the marriage--the form of the scotch kirk would have been something extremely different from what it in fact became. the people were perfectly well inclined to follow their natural leaders if the matters on which their hearts were set had received tolerable consideration from them, and the democratic form of the ecclesiastical constitution would have been inevitably modified. one of the conditions of the proposed compact with england was the introduction of the english liturgy and the english church constitution. this too, at the outset, and with fair dealing, would not have been found impossible. but it soon became clear that the religious interests of scotland were the very last thing which would receive consideration from any of the high political personages concerned. john knox had dreamt of a constitution like that which he had seen working under calvin at geneva--a constitution in which the clergy as ministers of god should rule all things--rule politically at the council board, and rule in private at the fireside. it was soon made plain to knox that scotland was not geneva. 'eh, mon,' said the younger maitland to him, 'then we may all bear the barrow now to build the house of the lord.' not exactly. the churches were left to the ministers; the worldly good things and worldly power remained with the laity; and as to religion, circumstances would decide what they would do about that. again, i am not speaking of all the great men of those times. glencairn, ruthven, young argyll--above all, the earl of moray--really did in some degree interest themselves in the kirk. but what most of them felt was perhaps rather broadly expressed by maitland when he called religion 'a bogle of the nursery.' that was the expression which a scotch statesman of those days actually ventured to use. had elizabeth been conformable, no doubt they would in some sense or other have remained on the side of the reformation. but here, too, there was a serious hitch. elizabeth would not marry arran. elizabeth would be no party to any of their intrigues. she detested knox. she detested protestantism entirely, in all shapes in which knox approved of it. she affronted the nobles on one side, she affronted the people on another; and all idea of uniting the two crowns after the fashion proposed by the scotch parliament she utterly and entirely repudiated. she was right enough, perhaps, so far as this was concerned; but she left the ruling families extremely perplexed as to the course which they would follow. they had allowed the country to be revolutionised in the teeth of their own sovereign, and what to do next they did not very well know. it was at this crisis that circumstances came in to their help. francis the second died. mary stuart was left a childless widow. her connexion with the crown of france was at an end, and all danger on that side to the liberties of scotland at an end also. the arran scheme having failed, she would be a second card as good as the first to play for the english crown--as good as he, or better, for she would have the english catholics on her side. so, careless how it would affect religion, and making no condition at all about that, the same men who a year before were ready to whistle mary stuart down the wind, now invited her back to scotland; the same men who had been the loudest friends of elizabeth now encouraged mary stuart to persist in the pretension to the crown of england, which had led to all the past trouble. while in france, she had assumed the title of queen of england. she had promised to abandon it, but, finding her own people ready to support her in withdrawing her promise, she stood out, insisting that at all events the english parliament should declare her next in the succession; and it was well known that, as soon as the succession was made sure in her favour, some rascal would be found to put a knife or a bullet into elizabeth. the object of the scotch nobles was political, national, patriotic. for religion it was no great matter either way; and as they had before acted with the protestants, so now they were ready to turn about, and openly or tacitly act with the catholics. mary stuart's friends in england and on the continent were catholics, and therefore it would not do to offend them. first, she was allowed to have mass at holyrood; then there was a move for a broader toleration. that one mass, knox said, was more terrible to him than ten thousand armed men landed in the country--and he had perfectly good reason for saying so. he thoroughly understood that it was the first step towards a counter-revolution which in time would cover all scotland and england, and carry them back to popery. yet he preached to deaf ears. even murray was so bewitched with the notion of the english succession, that for a year and a half he ceased to speak to knox; and as it was with murray, so it was far more with all the rest--their zeal for religion was gone no one knew where. of course elizabeth would not give way. she might as well, she said, herself prepare her shroud; and then conspiracies came, and under-ground intrigues with the romanist english noblemen. france and spain were to invade england, scotland was to open its ports to their fleets, and its soil to their armies, giving them a safe base from which to act, and a dry road over the marches to london. and if scotland had remained unchanged from what it had been--had the direction of its fortunes remained with the prince and with the nobles, sooner or later it would have come to this. but suddenly it appeared that there was a new power in this country which no one suspected till it was felt. the commons of scotland had hitherto been the creatures of the nobles. they had neither will nor opinion of their own. they thought and acted in the spirit of their immediate allegiance. no one seems to have dreamt that there would be any difficulty in dealing with them if once the great families agreed upon a common course. yet it appeared, when the pressure came, that religion, which was the play-thing of the nobles, was to the people a clear matter of life and death. they might love their country: they might be proud of anything which would add lustre to its crown; but if it was to bring back the pope and popery--if it threatened to bring them back--if it looked that way--they would have nothing to do with it; nor would they allow it to be done. allegiance was well enough; but there was a higher allegiance suddenly discovered which superseded all earthly considerations. i know nothing finer in scottish history than the way in which the commons of the lowlands took their places by the side of knox in the great convulsions which followed. if all others forsook him, they at least would never forsake him while tongue remained to speak and hand remained to strike. broken they might have been, trampled out as the huguenots at last were trampled out in france, had mary stuart been less than the most imprudent or the most unlucky of sovereigns. but providence, or the folly of those with whom they had to deal, fought for them. i need not follow the wild story of the crimes and catastrophes in which mary stuart's short reign in scotland closed. neither is her own share, be it great or small, or none at all, in those crimes of any moment to us here. it is enough that, both before that strange business and after it, when at holyrood or across the border, in sheffield or tutbury, her ever favourite dream was still the english throne. her road towards it was through a catholic revolution and the murder of elizabeth. it is enough that, both before and after, the aristocracy of scotland, even those among them who had seemed most zealous for the reformation, were eager to support her. john knox alone, and the commons, whom knox had raised into a political power, remained true. much, indeed, is to be said for the scotch nobles. in the first shock of the business at kirk-o'-field, they forgot their politics in a sense of national disgrace. they sent the queen to loch leven. they intended to bring her to trial, and, if she was proved guilty, to expose and perhaps punish her. all parties for a time agreed in this--even the hamiltons themselves; and had they been left alone they would have done it. but they had a perverse neighbour in england, to whom crowned heads were sacred. elizabeth, it might have been thought, would have had no particular objection; but elizabeth had aims of her own which baffled calculation. elizabeth, the representative of revolution, yet detested revolutionists. the reformers in scotland, the huguenots in france, the insurgents in the united provinces, were the only friends she had in europe. for her own safety she was obliged to encourage them; yet she hated them all, and would at any moment have abandoned them all, if, in any other way, she could have secured herself. she might have conquered her personal objection to knox--she could not conquer her aversion to a church which rose out of revolt against authority, which was democratic in constitution and republican in politics. when driven into alliance with the scotch protestants, she angrily and passionately disclaimed any community of creed with them; and for subjects to sit in judgment on their prince was a precedent which she would not tolerate. thus she flung her mantle over mary stuart. she told the scotch council here in edinburgh that, if they hurt a hair of her head, she would harry their country, and hang them all on the trees round the town, if she could find any trees there for that purpose. she tempted the queen to england with her fair promises after the battle of langside, and then, to her astonishment, imprisoned her. yet she still shielded her reputation, still fostered her party in scotland, still incessantly threatened and incessantly endeavoured to restore her. she kept her safe, because, in her lucid intervals, her ministers showed her the madness of acting otherwise. yet for three years she kept her own people in a fever of apprehension. she made a settled government in scotland impossible; till, distracted and perplexed, the scottish statesmen went back to their first schemes. they assured themselves that in one way or other the queen of scots would sooner or later come again among them. they, and others besides them, believed that elizabeth was cutting her own throat, and that the best that they could do was to recover their own queen's favour, and make the most of her and her titles; and so they lent themselves again to the english catholic conspiracies. the earl of moray--the one supremely noble man then living in the country--was put out of the way by an assassin. french and spanish money poured in, and french and spanish armies were to be again invited over to scotland. this is the form in which the drama unfolds itself in the correspondence of the time. maitland, the soul and spirit of it all, said, in scorn, that 'he would make the queen of england sit upon her tail and whine like a whipped dog.' the only powerful noblemen who remained on the protestant side were lennox, morton, and mar. lord lennox was a poor creature, and was soon dispatched; mar was old and weak; and morton was an unprincipled scoundrel, who used the reformation only as a stalking-horse to cover the spoils which he had clutched in the confusion, and was ready to desert the cause at any moment if the balance of advantage shifted. even the ministers of the kirk were fooled and flattered over. maitland told mary stuart that he had gained them all except one. john knox alone defied both his threats and his persuasions. good reason has scotland to be proud of knox. he only, in this wild crisis, saved the kirk which he had founded, and saved with it scottish and english freedom. but for knox, and what he was able still to do, it is almost certain that the duke of alva's army would have been landed on the eastern coast. the conditions were drawn out and agreed upon for the reception, the support, and the stay of the spanish troops. two-thirds of the english peerage had bound themselves to rise against elizabeth, and alva waited only till scotland itself was quiet. only that quiet would not be. instead of quiet came three dreadful years of civil war. scotland was split into factions, to which the mother and son gave names. the queen's lords, as they were called, with unlimited money from france and flanders, held edinburgh and glasgow; all the border line was theirs, and all the north and west. elizabeth's council, wiser than their mistress, barely squeezed out of her reluctant parsimony enough to keep mar and morton from making terms with the rest; but there her assistance ended. she would still say nothing, promise nothing, bind herself to nothing, and, so far as she was concerned, the war would have been soon enough brought to a close. but away at st. andrews, john knox, broken in body, and scarcely able to stagger up the pulpit stairs, still thundered in the parish church; and his voice, it was said, was like ten thousand trumpets braying in the ear of scottish protestantism. all the lowlands answered to his call. our english cromwell found in the man of religion a match for the man of honour. before cromwell, all over the lothians, and across from st. andrews to stirling and glasgow--through farm, and town, and village--the words of knox had struck the inmost chords of the scottish commons' hearts. passing over knight and noble, he had touched the farmer, the peasant, the petty tradesman, and the artisan, and turned the men of clay into men of steel. the village preacher, when he left his pulpit, doffed cap and cassock, and donned morion and steel-coat. the lothian yeoman's household became for the nonce a band of troopers, who would cross swords with the night riders of buccleuch. it was a terrible time, a time rather of anarchy than of defined war, for it was without form or shape. yet the horror of it was everywhere. houses and villages were burned, and women and children tossed on pike-point into the flames. strings of poor men were dangled day after day from the walls of edinburgh castle. a word any way from elizabeth would have ended it, but that word elizabeth would never speak; and, maddened with suffering, the people half believed that she was feeding the fire for her own bad purposes, when it was only that she would not make up her mind to allow a crowned princess to be dethroned. no earthly influence could have held men true in such a trial. the noble lords--the earl of morton and such-like--would have made their own conditions, and gone with the rest; but the vital force of the scotch nation, showing itself where it was least looked for, would not have it so. a very remarkable account of the state of the scotch commons at this time is to be found in a letter of an english emissary, who had been sent by lord burleigh to see how things were going there. it was not merely a new creed that they had got; it was a new vital power. 'you would be astonished to see how men are changed here,' this writer said. 'there is little of that submission to those above them which there used to be. the poor think and act for themselves. they are growing strong, confident, independent. the farms are better cultivated; the farmers are growing rich. the merchants at leith are thriving, and, notwithstanding the pirates, they are increasing their ships and opening a brisk trade with france.' all this while civil war was raging, and the flag of queen mary was still floating over edinburgh castle. it surprised the english; still more it surprised the politicians. it was the one thing which disconcerted, baffled, and finally ruined the schemes and the dreams of maitland. when he had gained the aristocracy, he thought that he had gained everybody, and, as it turned out, he had all his work still to do. the spaniards did not come. the prudent alva would not risk invasion till scotland at least was assured. as time passed on, the english conspiracies were discovered and broken up. the duke of norfolk lost his head; the queen of scots was found to have been mixed up with the plots to murder elizabeth; and elizabeth at last took courage and recognised james. supplies of money ceased to come from abroad, and gradually the tide turned. the protestant cause once more grew towards the ascendant. the great families one by one came round again; and, as the backward movement began, the massacre of st. bartholomew gave it a fresh and tremendous impulse. even the avowed catholics--the hamiltons, the gordons, the scotts, the kers, the maxwells--quailed before the wail of rage and sorrow which at that great horror rose over their country. the queen's party dwindled away to a handful of desperate politicians, who still clung to edinburgh castle. but elizabeth's 'peace-makers,' as the big english cannon were called, came round, at the regent's request, from berwick; david's tower, as knox had long ago foretold, 'ran down over the cliff like a sandy brae;' and the cause of mary stuart in scotland was extinguished for ever. poor grange, who deserved a better end, was hanged at the market cross. secretary maitland, the cause of all the mischief--the cleverest man, as far as intellect went, in all britain--died (so later rumour said) by his own hand. a nobler version of his end is probably a truer one: he had been long ill--so ill that when the castle cannon were fired, he had been carried into the cellars as unable to bear the sound. the breaking down of his hopes finished him. 'the secretary,' wrote some one from the spot to cecil, 'is dead of grief, being unable to endure the great hatred which all this people bears towards him.' it would be well if some competent man would write a life of maitland, or at least edit his papers. they contain by far the clearest account of the inward movements of the time; and he himself is one of the most tragically interesting characters in the cycle of the reformation history. with the fall of the castle, then, but not till then, it became clear to all men that the reformation would hold its ground. it was the final trampling out of the fire which for five years had threatened both england and scotland with flames and ruin. for five years--as late certainly as the massacre of st. bartholomew--those who understood best the true state of things, felt the keenest misgivings how the event would turn. that things ended as they did was due to the spirit of the scotch commons. there was a moment when, if they had given way, all would have gone, perhaps even to elizabeth's throne. they had passed for nothing; they had proved to be everything; had proved--the ultimate test in human things--to be the power which could hit the hardest blows, and they took rank accordingly. the creed began now in good earnest to make its way into hall and castle; but it kept the form which it assumed in the first hours of its danger and trial, and never after lost it. had the aristocracy dealt sincerely with things in the earlier stages of the business, again i say the democratic element in the kirk might have been softened or modified. but the protestants had been trifled with by their own natural leaders. used and abused by elizabeth, despised by the worldly intelligence and power of the times--they triumphed after all, and, as a natural consequence, they set their own mark and stamp upon the fruits of the victory. the question now is, what has the kirk so established done for scotland? has it justified its own existence? briefly, we might say, it has continued its first function as the guardian of scottish freedom. but that is a vague phrase, and there are special accusations against the kirk and its doctrines which imply that it has cared for other things than freedom. narrow, fanatical, dictatorial, intrusive, superstitious, a spiritual despotism, the old priesthood over again with a new face--these and other such epithets and expressions we have heard often enough applied to it at more than one stage of its history. well, i suppose that neither the kirk nor anything else of man's making is altogether perfect. but let us look at the work which lay before it when it had got over its first perils. scotch patriotism succeeded at last in the object it had so passionately set its heart upon. it sent a king at last of the scotch blood to england, and a new dynasty; and it never knew peace or quiet after. the kirk had stood between james stuart and his kingcraft. he hated it as heartily as did his mother; and, when he got to england, he found people there who told him it would be easy to destroy it, and he found the strength of a fresh empire to back him in trying to do it. to have forced prelacy upon scotland would have been to destroy the life out of scotland. thrust upon them by force, it would have been no more endurable than popery. they would as soon, perhaps sooner, have had what the irish call the 'rale thing' back again. the political freedom of the country was now wrapped up in the kirk; and the stuarts were perfectly well aware of that, and for that very reason began their crusade against it. and now, suppose the kirk had been the broad, liberal, philosophical, intellectual thing which some people think it ought to have been, how would it have fared in that crusade; how altogether would it have encountered those surplices of archbishop laud or those dragoons of claverhouse? it is hard to lose one's life for a 'perhaps,' and philosophical belief at the bottom means a 'perhaps' and nothing more. for more than half the seventeenth century, the battle had to be fought out in scotland, which in reality was the battle between liberty and despotism; and where, except in an intense, burning conviction that they were maintaining god's cause against the devil, could the poor scotch people have found the strength for the unequal struggle which was forced upon them? toleration is a good thing in its place; but you cannot tolerate what will not tolerate you, and is trying to cut your throat. enlightenment you cannot have enough of, but it must be true enlightenment, which sees a thing in all its bearings. in these matters the vital questions are not always those which appear on the surface; and in the passion and resolution of brave and noble men there is often an inarticulate intelligence deeper than what can be expressed in words. action sometimes will hit the mark, when the spoken word either misses it or is but half the truth. on such subjects, and with common men, latitude of mind means weakness of mind. there is but a certain quantity of spiritual force in any man. spread it over a broad surface, the stream is shallow and languid; narrow the channel, and it becomes a driving force. each may be well at its own time. the mill-race which drives the water-wheel is dispersed in rivulets over the meadow at its foot. the covenanters fought the fight and won the victory, and then, and not till then, came the david humes with their essays on miracles, and the adam smiths with their political economies, and steam-engines, and railroads, and philosophical institutions, and all the other blessed or unblessed fruits of liberty. but we may go further. institutions exist for men, not men for institutions; and the ultimate test of any system of politics, or body of opinions, or form of belief, is the effect produced on the conduct and condition of the people who live and die under them. now, i am not here to speak of scotland of the present day. that, happily, is no business of mine. we have to do here with scotland before the march of intellect; with scotland of the last two centuries; with the three or four hundred thousand families, who for half-a-score of generations believed simply and firmly in the principles of the reformation, and walked in the ways of it. looked at broadly, one would say they had been an eminently pious people. it is part of the complaint of modern philosophers about them, that religion, or superstition, or whatever they please to call it, had too much to do with their daily lives. so far as one can look into that commonplace round of things which historians never tell us about, there have rarely been seen in this world a set of people who have thought more about right and wrong, and the judgment about them of the upper powers. long-headed, thrifty industry,--a sound hatred of waste, imprudence, idleness, extravagance,--the feet planted firmly upon the earth,--a conscientious sense that the worldly virtues are, nevertheless, very necessary virtues, that without these, honesty for one thing is not possible, and that without honesty no other excellence, religious or moral, is worth anything at all--this is the stuff of which scotch life was made, and very good stuff it is. it has been called gloomy, austere, harsh, and such other epithets. a gifted modern writer has favoured us lately with long strings of extracts from the sermons of scotch divines of the last century, taking hard views of human shortcomings and their probable consequences, and passing hard censures upon the world and its amusements. well, no doubt amusement is a very good thing; but i should rather infer from the vehemence and frequency of these denunciations that the people had not been in the habit of denying themselves too immoderately; and, after all, it is no very hard charge against those teachers that they thought more of duty than of pleasure. sermons always exaggerate the theoretic side of things; and the most austere preacher, when he is out of the pulpit, and you meet him at the dinner-table, becomes singularly like other people. we may take courage, i think, we may believe safely that in those minister-ridden days, men were not altogether so miserable; we may hope that no large body of human beings have for any length of time been too dangerously afraid of enjoyment. among other good qualities, the scots have been distinguished for humour--not for venomous wit, but for kindly, genial humour, which half loves what it laughs at--and this alone shows clearly enough that those to whom it belongs have not looked too exclusively on the gloomy side of the world. i should rather say that the scots had been an unusually happy people. intelligent industry, the honest doing of daily work, with a sense that it must be done well, under penalties; the necessaries of life moderately provided for; and a sensible content with the situation of life in which men are born--this through the week, and at the end of it the 'cottar's saturday night'--the homely family, gathered reverently and peacefully together, and irradiated with a sacred presence.--happiness! such happiness as we human creatures are likely to know upon this world, will be found there, if anywhere. the author of the 'history of civilisation' makes a naïve remark in connexion with this subject. speaking of the other country, which he censures equally with scotland for its slavery to superstition, he says of the spaniards that they are a well-natured, truthful, industrious, temperate, pious people, innocent in their habits, affectionate in their families, full of humour, vivacity, and shrewdness, yet that all this 'has availed them nothing'--'has availed them nothing,' that is his expression--because they are loyal, because they are credulous, because they are contented, because they have not apprehended the first commandment of the new covenant: 'thou shalt get on and make money, and better thy condition in life;' because, therefore, they have added nothing to the scientific knowledge, the wealth, and the progress of mankind. without these, it seems, the old-fashioned virtues avail nothing. they avail a great deal to human happiness. applied science, and steam, and railroads, and machinery, enable an ever-increasing number of people to live upon the earth; but the happiness of those people remains, so far as i know, dependent very much on the old conditions. i should be glad to believe that the new views of things will produce effects upon the character in the long run half so beautiful. there is much more to say on this subject, were there time to say it, but i will not trespass too far upon your patience; and i would gladly have ended here, had not the mention of spain suggested one other topic, which i should not leave unnoticed. the spain of cervantes and don quixote was the spain of the inquisition. the scotland of knox and melville was the scotland of the witch trials and witch burnings. the belief in witches was common to all the world. the prosecution and punishment of the poor creatures was more conspicuous in scotland when the kirk was most powerful; in england and new england, when puritan principles were also dominant there. it is easy to understand the reasons. evil of all kinds was supposed to be the work of a personal devil; and in the general horror of evil, this particular form of it, in which the devil was thought especially active, excited the most passionate detestation. thus, even the best men lent themselves unconsciously to the most detestable cruelty. knox himself is not free from reproach. a poor woman was burned at st. andrews when he was living there, and when a word from him would have saved her. it remains a lesson to all time, that goodness, though the indispensable adjunct to knowledge, is no substitute for it; that when conscience undertakes to dictate beyond its province, the result is only the more monstrous. it is well that we should look this matter in the face; and as particular stories leave more impression than general statements, i will mention one, perfectly well authenticated, which i take from the official report of the proceedings:--towards the end of there was trouble in the family of the earl of orkney. his brother laid a plot to murder him, and was said to have sought the help of a 'notorious witch' called alison balfour. when alison balfour's life was looked into, no evidence could be found connecting her either with the particular offence or with witchcraft in general; but it was enough in these matters to be accused. she swore she was innocent; but her guilt was only held to be aggravated by perjury. she was tortured again and again. her legs were put in the caschilaws--an iron frame which was gradually heated till it burned into the flesh--but no confession could be wrung from her. the caschilaws failed utterly, and something else had to be tried. she had a husband, a son, and a daughter, a child seven years old. as her own sufferings did not work upon her, she might be touched, perhaps, by the sufferings of those who were dear to her. they were brought into court, and placed at her side; and the husband first was placed in the 'lang irons'--some accursed instrument; i know not what. still the devil did not yield. she bore this; and her son was next operated on. the boy's legs were set in 'the boot,'--the iron boot you may have heard of. the wedges were driven in, which, when forced home, crushed the very bone and marrow. fifty-seven mallet strokes were delivered upon the wedges. yet this, too, failed. there was no confession yet. so, last of all, the little daughter was taken. there was a machine called the piniwinkies--a kind of thumbscrew, which brought blood from under the finger nails, with a pain successfully terrible. these things were applied to the poor child's hands, and the mother's constancy broke down, and she said she would admit anything they wished. she confessed her witchcraft--so tried, she would have confessed to the seven deadly sins--and then she was burned, recalling her confession, and with her last breath protesting her innocence. it is due to the intelligence of the time to admit that after this her guilt was doubted, and such vicarious means of extorting confession do not seem to have been tried again. yet the men who inflicted these tortures would have borne them all themselves sooner than have done any act which they consciously knew to be wrong. they did not know that the instincts of humanity were more sacred than the logic of theology, and in fighting against the devil they were themselves doing the devil's work. we should not attempt to apologise for these things, still less to forget them. no martyrs ever suffered to instil into mankind a more wholesome lesson--more wholesome, or one more hard to learn. the more conscientious men are, the more difficult it is for them to understand that in their most cherished convictions, when they pass beyond the limits where the wise and good of all sorts agree, they may be the victims of mere delusion. yet, after all, and happily, such cases were but few, and affected but lightly the general condition of the people. the student running over the records of other times finds certain salient things standing out in frightful prominence. he concludes that the substance of those times was made up of the matters most dwelt on by the annalist. he forgets that the things most noticed are not those of every-day experience, but the abnormal, the extraordinary, the monstrous. the exceptions are noted down, the common and usual is passed over in silence. the philosophic historian, studying hereafter this present age, in which we are ourselves living, may say that it was a time of unexampled prosperity, luxury, and wealth; but catching at certain horrible murders which have lately disgraced our civilisation, may call us a nation of assassins. it is to invert the pyramid and stand it on its point. the same system of belief which produced the tragedy which i have described, in its proper province as the guide of ordinary life, has been the immediate cause of all that is best and greatest in scottish character. the philosophy of catholicism.[c] not long ago i heard a living thinker of some eminence say that he considered christianity to have been a misfortune. intellectually, he said, it was absurd; and practically, it was an offence, over which he stumbled. it would have been far better for mankind, he thought, if they could have kept clear of superstition, and followed on upon the track of the grecian philosophy. so little do men care to understand the conditions which have made them what they are, and which has created for them that very wisdom in which they themselves are so contented. but it is strange, indeed, that a person who could deliberately adopt such a conclusion should trouble himself any more to look for truth. if a mere absurdity could make its way out of a little fishing village in galilee, and spread through the whole civilised world; if men are so pitiably silly, that in an age of great mental activity their strongest thinkers should have sunk under an abortion of fear and folly, should have allowed it to absorb into itself whatever of heroism, of devotion, self-sacrifice, and moral nobleness there was among them; surely there were nothing better for a wise man than to make the best of his time, and to crowd what enjoyment he can find into it, sheltering himself in a very disdainful pyrrhonism from all care for mankind or for their opinions. for what better test of truth have we than the ablest men's acceptance of it? and if the ablest men eighteen centuries ago deliberately accepted what is now too absurd to reason upon, what right have we to hope that with the same natures, the same passions, the same understandings, no better proof against deception, we, like they, are not entangled in what, at the close of another era, shall seem again ridiculous? the scoff of cicero at the divinity of liber and ceres (bread and wine) may be translated literally by the modern protestant; and the sarcasms which clement and tertullian flung at the pagan creed, the modern sceptic returns upon their own. of what use is it to destroy an idol, when another, or the same in another form, takes immediate possession of the vacant pedestal? i shall not argue with the extravagant hypothesis of my friend. in the opinion even of goethe, who was not troubled with credulity, the human race can never attain to anything higher than christianity--if we mean by christianity the religion which was revealed to the world in the teaching and the life of its founder. but even the more limited reprobation by our own reformers of the creed of mediæval europe is not more just or philosophical. ptolemy was not perfect, but newton had been a fool if he had scoffed at ptolemy. newton could not have been without ptolemy, nor ptolemy without the chaldees; and as it is with the minor sciences, so far more is it with the science of sciences--the science of life, which has grown through all the ages from the beginning of time. we speak of the errors of the past. we, with this glorious present which is opening on us, we shall never enter on it, we shall never understand it, till we have learnt to see in that past, not error, but instalment of truth, hard-fought-for truth, wrung out with painful and heroic effort. the promised land is smiling before us, but we may not pass over into the possession of it while the bones of our fathers who laboured through the wilderness lie bleaching on the sands, or a prey to the unclean birds. we must gather their relics and bury them, and sum up their labours, and inscribe the record of their actions on their tombs as an honourable epitaph. if catholicism really is passing away, if it has done its work, and if what is left of it is now holding us back from better things, it is not for our bitterness but for our affectionate acknowledgment, nor for our heaping contempt on what it is, but for our reverend and patient examination of what it has been, that it will be content to bid us farewell, and give us god speed on our further journey. in the natural history of religions, certain broad phenomena perpetually repeat themselves; they rise in the highest thought extant at the time of their origin; the conclusions of philosophy settle into a creed; art ornaments it, devotion consecrates it, time elaborates it. it grows through a long series of generations into the heart and habits of the people; and so long as no disturbing cause interferes, or so long as the idea at the centre of it survives, a healthy, vigorous, natural life shoots beautifully up out of the intellectual root. but at last the idea becomes obsolete; the numbing influence of habit petrifies the spirit in the outside ceremonial, while new questions arise among the thinkers, and ideas enter into new and unexplained relations. the old formula will not serve; but new formulæ are tardy in appearing; and habit and superstition cling to the past, and policy vindicates it, and statecraft upholds it forcibly as serviceable to order, till, from the combined action of folly, and worldliness, and ignorance, the once beautiful symbolism becomes at last no better than 'a whited sepulchre full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness.' so it is now. so it was in the era of the cæsars, out of which christianity arose; and christianity, in the form which it assumed at the close of the arian controversy, was the deliberate solution which the most powerful intellects of that day could offer of the questions which had grown with the growth of mankind, and on which paganism had suffered shipwreck. paganism, as a creed, was entirely physical. when paganism rose, men had not begun to reflect upon themselves, or the infirmities of their own nature. the bad man was a bad man--the coward, a coward--the liar, a liar--individually hateful and despicable: but in hating and despising such unfortunates, the old greeks were satisfied to have felt all that it was necessary to feel about them; and how such a phenomenon as a bad man came to exist in this world, they scarcely cared to enquire. there is no evil spirit in the mythology as an antagonist of the gods. there is the erinnys as the avenger of monstrous villanies; there is a tartarus where the darkest criminals suffer eternal tortures. but tantalus and ixion are suffering for enormous crimes, to which the small wickedness of common men offers no analogy. moreover, these and other such stories are only curiously ornamented myths, representing physical phenomena. but with socrates a change came over philosophy; a sign--perhaps a cause--of the decline of the existing religion. the study of man superseded the study of nature: a purer theism came in with the higher ideal of perfection, and sin and depravity at once assumed an importance, the intensity of which made every other question insignificant. how man could know the good and yet choose the evil; how god could be all pure and almighty, and yet evil have broken into his creation--these were the questions which thenceforth were the perplexity of philosophic speculation. whatever difficulty there might be in discovering how evil came to be, the leaders of all the sects agreed at last upon the seat of it. whether _matter_ was eternal, as aristotle thought, or created, as plato thought, both plato and aristotle were equally satisfied that the secret of all the shortcomings in this world lay in the imperfection, reluctancy, or inherent grossness of this impracticable substance. god would have everything perfect, but the nature of the element in which he worked in some way defeated his purpose. death, disease, decay, clung necessarily to everything which was created out of it; and pain, and want, and hunger, and suffering. worse than all, the spirit in its material body was opposed and borne down, its aspirations crushed, its purity tainted by the passions and appetites of its companion--the fleshly lusts which waged perpetual war against the soul. matter was the cause of evil, and thenceforth the question was how to conquer matter, or, at least, how to set free the spirit from its control. the greek language and the greek literature spread behind the march of alexander; but as his generals could only make their conquests permanent by largely accepting the eastern manners, so philosophy could only make good its ground by becoming itself orientalised. the one pure and holy god whom plato had painfully reasoned out for himself had existed from immemorial time in the traditions of the jews; while the persians, who had before taught the jews at babylon the existence of an independent evil being, now had him to offer to the greeks as their account of the difficulties which had perplexed socrates. seven centuries of struggle, and many hundred thousand folios, were the results of the remarkable fusion which followed. out of these elements, united in various proportions, rose successively the alexandrian philosophy, the hellenists, the therapeutæ, those strange essene communists, with the innumerable sects of gnostic or christian heretics. finally, the battle was limited to the two great rivals, under one or other of which the best of the remainder had ranged themselves--manicheism and catholic christianity: manicheism in which the persian--catholicism in which the jewish--element most preponderated. it did not end till the close of the fifth century, and it ended then rather by arbitration than by a decided victory which either side could claim. the church has yet to acknowledge how large a portion of its enemy's doctrines it incorporated through the mediation of augustine before the field was surrendered to it. let us trace something of the real bearings of this section of the world's oriental history, which to so many moderns seems no better than an idle fighting over words and straws. facts witnessing so clearly that the especial strength of evil lay, as the philosophers had seen, in _matter_, it was so far a conclusion which both jew and persian were ready to accept; the naked aristotelic view of it being most acceptable to the persian, the platonic to the hellenistic jew. but the purer theology of the jew forced him to look for a solution of the question which plato had left doubtful, and to explain how evil had crept into matter. he could not allow that what god had created could be of its own nature imperfect. god made it very good; some other cause had broken in to spoil it. accordingly, as before he had reduced the independent arimanes, whose existence he had learnt at babylon, into a subordinate spirit; so now, not questioning the facts of disease, of death, of pain, or of the infirmity of the flesh which the natural strength of the spirit was unable to resist, he accounted for them under the supposition that the first man had deliberately sinned, and by his sin had brought a curse upon the whole material earth, and upon all which was fashioned out of it. the earth was created pure and lovely--a garden of delight, loading itself of its own free accord with fruit and flower, and everything most exquisite and beautiful. no bird or beast of prey broke the eternal peace which reigned over its hospitable surface. in calm and quiet intercourse, the leopard lay down by the kid, the lion browsed beside the ox, and the corporeal frame of man, knowing neither decay nor death, nor unruly appetite, nor any change or infirmity, was pure as the immortal substance of the unfallen angels. but with the fatal apple all this fair scene passed away, and creation as it seemed was hopelessly and irretrievably ruined. adam sinned--no matter how, he sinned; the sin was the one terrible fact: moral evil was brought into the world by the only creature who was capable of committing it. sin entered in, and death by sin; death and disease, storm and pestilence, earthquake and famine. the imprisoned passions of the wild animals were let loose, and earth and air became full of carnage: worst of all, man's animal nature came out in gigantic strength--the carnal lusts, unruly appetites, jealousies, hatreds, rapines, and murders; and then the law, and with it, of course, breaches of the law, and sin on sin. the seed of adam was infected in the animal change which had passed over adam's person, and every child, therefore, thenceforth naturally engendered in his posterity, was infected with the curse which he had incurred. every material organisation thenceforward contained in itself the elements of its own destruction, and the philosophic conclusions of aristotle were accepted and explained by theology. already, in the popular histories, those who were infected by disease were said to be bound by satan; madness was a 'possession' by the evil spirit; and the whole creation, from adam till christ, groaned and travailed under satan's power. the nobler nature in man still made itself felt; but it was a slave when it ought to command. it might will to obey the higher law, but the law in the members was over-strong for it and bore it down. this was the body of death which philosophy detected but could not explain, and from which catholicism now came forward with its magnificent promise of deliverance. the carnal doctrine of the sacraments, which protestants are compelled to acknowledge to have been taught as fully in the early church as it is now taught by the roman catholics, has long been the stumbling-block to modern thought. it was the very essence of the original creed. unless the body could be purified, the soul could not be saved; because from the beginning, soul and flesh were one man and inseparable. without his flesh, man was not, or would cease to be. but the natural organisation of the flesh was infected with evil, and unless organisation could begin again from a new original, no pure material substance could exist at all. he, therefore, by whom god had first made the world, entered into the womb of the virgin in the form (if i may with reverence say so) of a new organic cell; and around it, through the virtue of his creative energy, a material body grew again of the substance of his mother, pure of taint and clean as the first body of the first man was clean when it passed out under his hand in the beginning of all things. in him thus wonderfully born was the virtue which was to restore the lost power of mankind. he came to redeem man; and, therefore, he took a human body, and he kept it pure through a human life, till the time came when it could be applied to its marvellous purpose. he died, and then appeared what was the nature of a material human body when freed from the limitations of sin. the grave could not hold it, neither was it possible that it should see corruption. it was real, for the disciples were allowed to feel and handle it. he ate and drank with them to assure their senses. but space had no power over it, nor any of the material obstacles which limit an ordinary power. he willed, and his body obeyed. he was here, he was there. he was visible, he was invisible. he was in the midst of his disciples and they saw him, and then he was gone whither who could tell? at last he passed away to heaven; but while in heaven, he was still on earth. his body became the body of his church on earth, not in metaphor, but in fact!--his very material body, in which and by which the faithful would be saved. his flesh and blood were thenceforth to be their food. they were to eat it as they would eat ordinary meat. they were to take it into their system, a pure material substance, to leaven the old natural substance and assimilate it to itself. as they fed upon it it would grow into them, and it would become their own real body. flesh grown in the old way was the body of death, but the flesh of christ was the life of the world, over which death had no power. circumcision availed nothing, nor uncircumcision--but a _new creature_--and this new creature, which the child first put on in baptism, was born again into christ of water and the spirit. in the eucharist he was fed and sustained, and went on from strength to strength; and ever as the nature of his body changed, being able to render a more complete obedience, he would at last pass away to god through the gate of the grave, and stand holy and perfect in the presence of christ. christ had indeed been ever present with him; but because while life lasted some particles of the old adam would necessarily cling to every man, the christian's mortal eye on earth could not see him. hedged in by 'his muddy vesture of decay,' his eyes, like the eyes of the disciples of emmaus, are holden, and only in faith he feels him. but death, which till christ had died had been the last victory of evil, in virtue of his submission to it, became its own destroyer, for it had power only over the tainted particles of the old substance, and there was nothing needed but that these should be washed away, and the elect would stand out at once pure and holy, clothed in immortal bodies, like refined gold, the redeemed of god. the being who accomplished a work so vast--a work compared to which the first creation appears but a trifling difficulty--what could he be but god? god himself! who but god could have wrested his prize from a power which half the thinking world believed to be his coequal and coeternal adversary? he was god. he was man also, for he was the second adam--the second starting-point of human growth. he was virgin born, that no original impurity might infect the substance which he assumed; and being himself sinless, he showed, in the nature of his person, after his resurrection, what the material body would have been in all of us except for sin, and what it will be when, after feeding on it in its purity, the bodies of each of us are transfigured after its likeness. here was the secret of the spirit which set st. simeon on his pillar and sent st. anthony to the tombs--of the night watches, the weary fasts, the penitential scourgings, the life-long austerities which have been alternately the glory and the reproach of the mediæval saints. they desired to overcome their animal bodies, and anticipate in life the work of death in uniting themselves more completely to christ by the destruction of the flesh, which lay as a veil between themselves and him. such i believe to have been the central idea of the beautiful creed which, for , years, tuned the heart and formed the mind of the noblest of mankind. from this centre it radiated out and spread, as time went on, into the full circle of human activity, flinging its own philosophy and its own peculiar grace over the common details of the common life of all of us. like the seven lamps before the throne of god, the seven mighty angels, and the seven stars, the seven sacraments shed over mankind a never-ceasing stream of blessed influences. the priests, a holy order set apart and endowed with mysterious power, represented christ and administered his gifts. christ, in his twelfth year, was presented in the temple, and first entered on his father's business; and the baptised child, when it has grown to an age to become conscious of its vow and of its privilege, again renews it in full knowledge of what it undertakes, and receives again sacramentally a fresh gift of grace to assist it forward on its way. in maturity it seeks a companion to share its pains and pleasures; and, again, christ is present to consecrate the union. marriage, which, outside the church, only serves to perpetuate the curse and bring fresh inheritors of misery into the world, he made holy by his presence at cana, and chose it as the symbol to represent his own mystic union with his church. even saints cannot live without at times some spot adhering to them. the atmosphere in which we breathe and move is soiled, and christ has anticipated our wants. christ did penance forty days in the wilderness, not to subdue his own flesh--for that which was already perfect did not need subduing--but to give to penance a cleansing virtue to serve for our daily or our hourly ablution. christ consecrates our birth; christ throws over us our baptismal robe of pure unsullied innocence. he strengthens us as we go forward. he raises us when we fall. he feeds us with the substance of his own most precious body. in the person of his minister he does all this for us, in virtue of that which in his own person he actually performed when a man living on this earth. last of all, when time is drawing to its close with us--when life is past, when the work is done, and the dark gate is near, beyond which the garden of an eternal home is waiting to receive us, his tender care has not forsaken us. he has taken away the sting of death, but its appearance is still terrible; and he will not leave us without special help at our last need. he tried the agony of the moment; and he sweetens the cup for us before we drink it. we are dismissed to the grave with our bodies anointed with oil, which he made holy in his last anointing before his passion, and then all is over. we lie down and seem to decay--to decay--but not all. our natural body decays, being the last remains of the infected matter which we have inherited from adam; but the spiritual body, the glorified substance which has made our life, and is our real body as we are in christ, that can never decay, but passes off into the kingdom which is prepared for it; that other world where there is no sin, and god is all and in all! footnotes: [c] from the _leader_, . a plea for the free discussion of theological difficulties.[d] in the ordinary branches of human knowledge or enquiry, the judicious questioning of received opinions has been regarded as the sign of scientific vitality, the principle of scientific advancement, the very source and root of healthy progress and growth. if medicine had been regulated three hundred years ago by act of parliament; if there had been thirty-nine articles of physic, and every licensed practitioner had been compelled, under pains and penalties, to compound his drugs by the prescriptions of henry the eighth's physician, doctor butts, it is easy to conjecture in what state of health the people of this country would at present be found. constitutions have changed with habits of life, and the treatment of disorders has changed to meet the new conditions. new diseases have shown themselves of which doctor butts had no cognizance; new continents have given us plants with medicinal virtues previously unknown; new sciences, and even the mere increase of recorded experience, have added a thousand remedies to those known to the age of the tudors. if the college of physicians had been organised into a board of orthodoxy, and every novelty of treatment had been regarded as a crime against society, which a law had been established to punish, the hundreds who die annually from preventible causes would have been thousands and tens of thousands. astronomy is the most perfect of the sciences. the accuracy of the present theory of the planetary movements is tested daily and hourly by the most delicate experiments, and the legislature, if it so pleased, might enact the first principles of these movements into a statute, without danger of committing the law of england to falsehood. yet, if the legislature were to venture on any such paternal procedure in a few years gravitation itself would be called in question, and the whole science would wither under the fatal shadow. there are many phenomena still unexplained to give plausibility to scepticism; there are others more easily formularised for working purposes in the language of hipparchus; and there would be reactionists who would invite us to return to the safe convictions of our forefathers. what the world has seen the world may see again; and were it once granted that astronomy were something to be ruled by authority, new popes would imprison new galileos; the knowledge already acquired would be strangled in the cords which were intended to keep it safe from harm, and, deprived of the free air on which its life depends, it would dwindle and die. a few years ago, an inspector of schools--a mr. jellinger symonds--opening, perhaps for the first time, an elementary book on astronomy, came on something which he conceived to be a difficulty in the theory of lunar motion. his objection was on the face of it plausible. the true motions of the heavenly bodies are universally the opposite of the apparent motions. mr. symonds conceived that the moon could not revolve on its axis, because the same side of it was continually turned towards the earth; and because if it were connected with the earth by a rigid bar--which, as he thought, would deprive it of power of rotation--the relative aspects of the two bodies would remain unchanged. he sent his views to the 'times.' he appealed to the common sense of the world, and common sense seemed to be on his side. the men of science were of course right; but a phenomenon, not entirely obvious, had been hitherto explained in language which the general reader could not readily comprehend. a few words of elucidation cleared up the confusion. we do not recollect whether mr. symonds was satisfied or not; but most of us who had before received what the men of science told us with an unintelligent and languid assent, were set thinking for ourselves, and, as a result of the discussion, exchanged a confused idea for a clear one. it was an excellent illustration of the true claims of authority and of the value of open enquiry. the ignorant man has not as good a right to his own opinion as the instructed man. the instructed man, however right he may be, must not deliver his conclusions as axioms, and merely insist that they are true. the one asks a question, the other answers it, and all of us are the better for the business. now, let us suppose the same thing to have happened when the only reply to a difficulty was an appeal to the astronomer-royal, where the rotation of the moon was an article of salvation decreed by the law of the land, and where all persons admitted to hold office under the state were required to subscribe to it. the astronomer-royal--as it was, if we remember right, he was a little cross at mr. symond's presumption--would have brought an action against him in the court of arches; mr. symonds would have been deprived of his inspectorship--for, of course, he would have been obstinate in his heresy; the world outside would have had an antecedent presumption that truth lay with the man who was making sacrifices for it, and that there was little to be said in the way of argument for what could not stand without the help of the law. everybody could understand the difficulty; not everybody would have taken the trouble to attend to the answer. mr. symonds would have been a colenso, and a good many of us would have been convinced in our secret hearts that the moon as little turned on its axis as the drawing-room table. as it is in idea essential to a reverence for truth to believe in its capacity for self-defence, so practically, in every subject except one, errors are allowed free room to express themselves, and the liberty of opinion which is the life of knowledge, as surely becomes the death of falsehood. a method--the soundness of which is so evident that to argue in favour of it is almost absurd--might be expected to have been applied, as a matter of course, to the one subject where mistake is supposed to be fatal,--where to come to wrong conclusions is held to be a crime for which the maker of the universe has neither pardon nor pity. yet many reasons, not difficult to understand, have long continued to exclude theology from the region where free discussion is supposed to be applicable. that so many persons have a personal interest in the maintenance of particular views, would of itself be fatal to fair argument. though they know themselves to be right, yet right is not enough for them unless there is might to support it, and those who talk most of faith show least that they possess it. but there are deeper and more subtle objections. the theologian requires absolute certainty, and there are no absolute certainties in science. the conclusions of science are never more than in a high degree probable; they are no more than the best explanations of phenomena which are attainable in the existing state of knowledge. the most elementary laws are called laws only in courtesy. they are generalisations which are not considered likely to require modification, but which no one pretends to be in the nature of the cause exhaustively and ultimately true. as phenomena become more complicated, and the data for the interpretation of them more inadequate, the explanations offered are put forward hypothetically, and are graduated by the nature of the evidence. such modest hesitation is altogether unsuited to the theologian, whose certainty increases with the mystery and obscurity of his matter; his convictions admit of no qualification; his truth is sure as the axioms of geometry; he knows what he believes, for he has the evidence in his heart; if he enquire, it is with a foregone conclusion, and serious doubt with him is sin. it is in vain to point out to him the thousand forms of opinions for each of which the same internal witness is affirmed. the mayo peasant crawling with bare knees over the splintered rocks on croagh patrick, the nun prostrate before the image of st. mary, the methodist in the spasmodic ecstasy of a revival, alike are conscious of emotions in themselves which correspond to their creed: the more passionate, or--as some would say--the more unreasoning the piety, the louder and more clear is the voice within. but these varieties are no embarrassment to the theologian. he finds no fault with the method which is identical in them all. whatever the party to which he himself belongs, he is equally satisfied that he alone has the truth; the rest are under illusions of satan. again, we hear--or we used to hear when the high church party were more formidable than they are at present--much about 'the right of private judgment.' 'why,' the eloquent protestant would say, 'should i pin my faith upon the church? the church is but a congregation of fallible men, no better able to judge than i am; i have a right to my own opinion.' it sounds like a paradox to say that free discussion is interfered with by a cause which, above all others, would have been expected to further it; but this in fact has been the effect, because it tends to remove the grounds of theological belief beyond the province of argument. no one talks of 'a right of private judgment' in anything but religion; no one but a fool insists on his 'right to his own opinion' with his lawyer or his doctor. able men who have given their time to special subjects, are authorities upon those subjects to be listened to with deference, and the ultimate authority at any given time is the collective general sense of the wisest men living in the department to which they belong. the utmost 'right of private judgment' which anybody claims in such cases, is the choice of the physician to whom he will trust his body, or of the counsel to whom he will commit the conduct of his cause. the expression, as it is commonly used, implies a belief that, in matters of religion, the criteria of truth are different in kind from what prevail elsewhere, and the efforts which have been made to bring such a notion into harmony with common sense and common subjects have not been the least successful. the high church party used to say, as a point against the evangelicals, that either 'the right of private judgment' meant nothing, or it meant that a man had a right to be in the wrong. 'no,' said a writer in the 'edinburgh review,' 'it means only that if a man chooses to be in the wrong, no one else has a right to interfere with him. a man has no right to get drunk in his own house, but the policeman may not force a way into his house and prevent him.' the illustration fails of its purpose. in the first place, the evangelicals never contemplated a wrong use of the thing; they meant merely that they had a right to their own opinions as against the church. they did not indeed put forward their claim quite so nakedly; they made it general, as sounding less invidious; but nobody ever heard an evangelical admit a high churchman's right to be a high churchman, or a catholic's right to be a catholic. but secondly, society has a most absolute right to prevent all manner of evil--drunkenness, and the rest of it, if it can--only in doing so, society must not use means which would create a greater evil than it would remedy. as a man can by no possibility be doing anything but most foul wrong to himself in getting drunk, society does him no wrong, but rather does him the greatest benefit, if it can possibly keep him sober; and in the same way, since a false belief in serious matters is among the greatest of misfortunes, so to drive it out of man, by the whip, if it cannot be managed by persuasion, is an act of brotherly love and affection, provided the belief really and truly is false, and you have a better to give him in the place of it. the question is not what to do, but merely 'how to do it;' although mr. mill in his love of 'liberty,' thinks otherwise. mr. mill demands for every man a right to say out his convictions in plain language, whatever they may be; and so far as he means that there should be no act of parliament to prevent him, he is perfectly just in what he says. but when mr. mill goes from parliament to public opinion--when he lays down as a general principle that the free play of thought is unwholesomely interfered with by society, he would take away the sole protection which we possess from the inroads of any kind of folly. his dread of tyranny is so great, that he thinks a man better off with a false opinion of his own than with a right opinion inflicted upon him from without; while, for our own part, we should be grateful for tyranny or for anything else which would perform so useful an office for us. public opinion may be unjust at particular times and on particular subjects; we believe it to be both unjust and unwise on the matter of which we are at present speaking: but, on the whole, it is like the ventilation of a house, which keeps the air pure. much in this world has to be taken for granted, and we cannot be for ever arguing over our first principles. if a man persists in talking of what he does not understand, he is put down; if he sports loose views on morals at a decent dinner party, the better sort of people fight shy of him, and he is not invited again; if he profess himself a buddhist or a mahometan, it is assumed that he has not adopted those beliefs on serious conviction, but rather in wilful levity and eccentricity which does not deserve to be tolerated. men have no right to make themselves bores and nuisances; and the common sense of mankind inflicts wholesome inconveniences on those who carry their 'right of private judgment' to any such extremities. it is a check, the same in kind as that which operates so wholesomely in the sciences. mere folly is extinguished in contempt; objections reasonably urged obtain a hearing and are reasonably met. new truths, after encountering sufficient opposition to test their value, make their way into general reception. a further cause which has operated to prevent theology from obtaining the benefit of free discussion is the interpretation popularly placed upon the constitution of the church establishment. for fifteen centuries of its existence, the christian church was supposed to be under the immediate guidance of the holy spirit, which miraculously controlled its decisions, and precluded the possibility of error. this theory broke down at the reformation, but it left behind it a confused sense that theological truth was in some way different from other truth; and, partly on grounds of public policy, partly because it was supposed to have succeeded to the obligations and the rights of the papacy, the state took upon itself to fix by statute the doctrines which should be taught to the people. the distractions created by divided opinions were then dangerous. individuals did not hesitate to ascribe to themselves the infallibility which they denied to the church. everybody was intolerant upon principle, and was ready to cut the throat of an opponent whom his arguments had failed to convince. the state, while it made no pretensions to divine guidance, was compelled to interfere in self-protection; and to keep the peace of the realm, and to prevent the nation from tearing itself in pieces, a body of formulas was enacted, for the time broad and comprehensive, within which opinion might be allowed convenient latitude, while forbidden to pass beyond the border. it might have been thought that in abandoning for itself, and formally denying to the church its pretensions to immunity from error, the state could not have intended to bind the conscience. when this or that law is passed, the subject is required to obey it, but he is not required to approve of the law as just. the prayer-book and the thirty-nine articles, so far as they are made obligatory by act of parliament, are as much laws as any other statute. they are a rule to conduct; it is not easy to see why they should be more; it is not easy to see why they should have been supposed to deprive clergymen of a right to their opinions, or to forbid discussion of their contents. the judge is not forbidden to ameliorate the law which he administers. if in discharge of his duty he has to pronounce a sentence which he declares at the same time that he thinks unjust, no indignant public accuses him of dishonesty, or requires him to resign his office. the soldier is asked no questions as to the legitimacy of the war on which he is sent to fight; nor need he throw up his commission if he think the quarrel a bad one. doubtless, if a law was utterly iniquitous--if a war was unmistakably wicked--honourable men might feel uncertain what to do, and would seek some other profession rather than continue instruments of evil. but within limits, and in questions of detail, where the service is generally good and honourable, we leave opinion its free play, and exaggerated scrupulousness would be folly or something worse. somehow or other, however, this wholesome freedom is not allowed to the clergyman. the idea of absolute inward belief has been substituted for that of obedience; and the man who, in taking orders, signs the articles and accepts the prayer book, does not merely undertake to use the services in the one, and abstain from contradicting to his congregation the doctrines contained in the other; but he is held to promise what no honest man, without presumption, can undertake to promise--that he will continue to think to the end of his life as he thinks when he makes his engagement. it is said that if his opinions change, he may resign, and retire into lay communion. we are not prepared to say that either the convocation of , or the parliament which afterwards endorsed its proceedings, knew exactly what they meant, or did not mean; but it is quite clear that they did not contemplate the alternative of a clergyman's retirement. if they had, they would have provided means by which he could have abandoned his orders, and not have remained committed for life to a profession from which he could not escape. if the popular theory of subscription be true, and the articles are articles of belief, a reasonable human being, when little more than a boy, pledges himself to a long series of intricate and highly-difficult propositions of abstruse divinity. he undertakes never to waver or doubt--never to allow his mind to be shaken, whatever the weight of argument or evidence brought to bear upon him. that is to say, he promises to do what no man living has a right to promise to do. he is doing, on the authority of parliament, precisely what the church of rome required him to do on the authority of a council. if a clergyman--in trouble amidst the abstruse subjects with which he has to deal, or unable to reconcile some new-discovered truth of science with the established formulas--puts forward his perplexities; if he ventures a doubt of the omniscience of the statesmen and divines of the sixteenth century, which they themselves disowned, there is an instant cry to have him stifled, silenced, or trampled down; and if no longer punished in life and limb, to have him deprived of the means on which life and limb can be supported, while with ingenious tyranny he is forbidden to maintain himself by any other occupation. so far have we gone in this direction, that when the 'essays and reviews' appeared, it was gravely said--and said by men who had no professional antipathy to them--that the writers had broken their faith. laymen were free to say what they pleased on such subjects; clergymen were the hired exponents of the established opinions, and were committed to them in thought and word. it was one more anomaly where there were enough already. to say that the clergy, who are set apart to study a particular subject, are to be the only persons unpermitted to have an independent opinion upon it, is like saying that lawyers must take no part in the amendment of the statute-book; that engineers must be silent upon mechanism; and if an improvement is wanted in the art of medicine, physicians may have nothing to say to it. these causes would, perhaps, have been insufficient to repress free enquiry, if there had been on the part of the really able men among us a determination to break the ice; in other words, if theology had preserved the same commanding interest for the more powerful minds with which it affected them three hundred years ago. but on the one hand, a sense, half serious, half languid, of the hopelessness of the subject has produced an indisposition to meddle with it; on the other, there has been a creditable reluctance to disturb by discussion the minds of the uneducated or half-educated, to whom the established religion is simply an expression of the obedience which they owe to almighty god, on the details of which they think little, and are therefore unconscious of its difficulties, while in general it is the source of all that is best and noblest in their lives and actions. this last motive no doubt deserves respect, but the force which it once possessed it possesses no longer. the uncertainty which once affected only the more instructed extends now to all classes of society. a superficial crust of agreement, wearing thinner day by day, is undermined everywhere by a vague misgiving; and there is an unrest which will be satisfied only when the sources of it are probed to the core. the church authorities repeat a series of phrases which they are pleased to call answers to objections; they treat the most serious grounds of perplexity as if they were puerile and trifling; while it is notorious that for a century past extremely able men have either not known what to say about them, or have not said what they thought. on the continent the peculiar english view has scarcely a single educated defender. even in england the laity keep their judgment in suspense, or remain warily silent. 'of what religion are you, mr. rogers?' said a lady once. 'what religion, madam? i am of the religion of all sensible men.' 'and what is that?' she asked. 'all sensible men, madam, keep that to themselves.' if mr. rogers had gone on to explain himself, he would have said, perhaps, that where the opinions of those best able to judge are divided, the questions at issue are doubtful. reasonable men who are unable to give them special attention withhold their judgment, while those who are able, form their conclusions with diffidence and modesty. but theologians will not tolerate diffidence; they demand absolute assent, and will take nothing short of it; and they affect, therefore, to drown in foolish ridicule whatever troubles or displeases them. the bishop of oxford talks in the old style of punishment. the archbishop of canterbury refers us to usher as our guide in hebrew chronology. the objections of the present generation of 'infidels,' he says, are the same which have been refuted again and again, and are such as a child might answer. the young man just entering upon the possession of his intellect, with a sense of responsibility for his belief, and more anxious for truth than for success in life, finds, when he looks into the matter, that the archbishop has altogether misrepresented it; that in fact, like other official persons, he had been using merely a stereotyped form of words, to which he attached no definite meaning. the words are repeated year after year, but the enemies refuse to be exorcised. they come and come again, from spinoza and lessing to strauss and renan. the theologians have resolved no single difficulty; they convince no one who is not convinced already; and a colenso coming fresh to the subject with no more than a year's study, throws the church of england into convulsions. if there were any real danger that christianity would cease to be believed, it would be no more than a fulfilment of prophecy. the state in which the son of man would find the world at his coming he did not say would be a state of faith. but if that dark time is ever literally to come upon the earth, there are no present signs of it. the creed of eighteen centuries is not about to fade away like an exhalation, nor are the new lights of science so exhilarating that serious persons can look with comfort to exchanging one for the other. christianity has abler advocates than its professed defenders, in those many quiet and humble men and women who in the light of it and the strength of it live holy, beautiful, and self-denying lives. the god that answers by fire is the god whom mankind will acknowledge; and so long as the fruits of the spirit continue to be visible in charity, in self-sacrifice, in those graces which raise human creatures above themselves, and invest them with that beauty of holiness which only religion confers, thoughtful persons will remain convinced that with them in some form or other is the secret of truth. the body will not thrive on poison, or the soul on falsehood; and as the vital processes of health are too subtle for science to follow; as we choose our food, not by the most careful chemical analysis, but by the experience of its effects upon the system; so when a particular belief is fruitful in nobleness of character, we need trouble ourselves very little with scientific demonstrations that it is false. the most deadly poison may be chemically undistinguishable from substances which are perfectly innocent. prussic acid, we are told, is formed of the same elements, combined in the same proportions, as gum-arabic. what that belief is for which the fruits speak thus so positively, it is less easy to define. religion from the beginning of time has expanded and changed with the growth of knowledge. the religion of the prophets was not the religion which was adapted to the hardness of heart of the israelites of the exodus. the gospel set aside the law; the creed of the early church was not the creed of the middle ages, any more than the creed of luther and cranmer was the creed of st. bernard and aquinas. old things pass away, new things come in their place; and they in their turn grow old, and give place to others; yet in each of the many forms which christianity has assumed in the world, holy men have lived and died, and have had the witness of the spirit that they were not far from the truth. it may be that the faith which saves is the something held in common by all sincere christians, and by those as well who should come from the east and the west, and sit down in the kingdom of god, when the children of the covenant would be cast out. it may be that the true teaching of our lord is overlaid with doctrines; and theology, when insisting on the reception of its huge catena of formulas, may be binding a yoke upon our necks which neither we nor our fathers were able to bear. but it is not the object of this paper to put forward either this or any other particular opinion. the writer is conscious only that he is passing fast towards the dark gate which soon will close behind him. he believes that some kind of sincere and firm conviction on these things is of infinite moment to him, and, entirely diffident of his own power to find his way towards such a conviction, he is both ready and anxious to disclaim 'all right of private judgment' in the matter. he wishes only to learn from those who are able to teach him. the learned prelates talk of the presumptuousness of human reason; they tell us that doubts arise from the consciousness of sin and the pride of the unregenerate heart. the present writer, while he believes generally that reason, however inadequate, is the best faculty to which we have to trust, yet is most painfully conscious of the weakness of his own reason; and once let the real judgment of the best and wisest men be declared--let those who are most capable of forming a sound opinion, after reviewing the whole relations of science, history, and what is now received as revelation, tell us fairly how much of the doctrines popularly taught they conceive to be adequately established, how much to be uncertain, and how much, if anything, to be mistaken; there is scarcely, perhaps, a single serious enquirer who would not submit with delight to a court which is the highest on earth. mr. mansell tells us that in the things of god reason is beyond its depth, that the wise and the unwise are on the same level of incapacity, and that we must accept what we find established, or we must believe nothing. we presume that mr. mansell's dilemma itself is a conclusion of reason. do what we will, reason is and must be our ultimate authority; and were the collective sense of mankind to declare mr. mansell right, we should submit to that opinion as readily as to another. but the collective sense of mankind is less acquiescent. he has been compared to a man sitting on the end of a plank and deliberately sawing off his seat. it seems never to have occurred to him that, if he is right, he has no business to be a protestant. what mr. mansell says to professor jowett, bishop gardiner in effect replied to frith and ridley. frith and ridley said that transubstantiation was unreasonable; gardiner answered that there was the letter of scripture for it, and that the human intellect was no measure of the power of god. yet the reformers somehow believed, and mr. mansell by his place in the church of england seems to agree with them, that the human intellect was not so wholly incompetent. it might be a weak guide, but it was better than none; and they declared on grounds of mere reason, that christ being in heaven and not on earth, 'it was contrary to the truth for a natural body to be in two places at once.' the common sense of the country was of the same opinion, and the illusion was at an end. there have been 'aids to faith' produced lately, and 'replies to the seven essayists,' 'answers to colenso,' and much else of the kind. we regret to say that they have done little for us. the very life of our souls is at issue in the questions which have been raised, and we are fed with the professional commonplaces of the members of a close guild, men holding high office in the church, or expecting to hold high office there; in either case with a strong temporal interest in the defence of the institution which they represent. we desire to know what those of the clergy think whose love of truth is unconnected with their prospects in life; we desire to know what the educated laymen, the lawyers, the historians, the men of science, the statesmen think; and these are for the most part silent, or confess themselves modestly uncertain. the professional theologians alone are loud and confident; but they speak in the old angry tone which rarely accompanies deep and wise convictions. they do not meet the real difficulties; they mistake them, misrepresent them, claim victories over adversaries with whom they have never even crossed swords, and leap to conclusions with a precipitancy at which we can only smile. it has been the unhappy manner of their class from immemorial time; they call it zeal for the lord, as if it were beyond all doubt that they were on god's side--as if serious enquiry after truth was something which they were entitled to resent. they treat intellectual difficulties as if they deserved rather to be condemned and punished than considered and weighed, and rather stop their ears and run with one accord upon anyone who disagrees with them than listen patiently to what he has to say. we do not propose to enter in detail upon the particular points which demand re-discussion. it is enough that the more exact habit of thought which science has engendered, and the closer knowledge of the value and nature of evidence, has notoriously made it necessary that the grounds should be reconsidered on which we are to believe that one country and one people was governed for sixteen centuries on principles different from those which we now find to prevail universally. one of many questions, however, shall be briefly glanced at, on which the real issue seems habitually to be evaded. much has been lately said and written on the authenticity of the pentateuch and the other historical books of the old testament. the bishop of natal has thrown out in a crude form the critical results of the enquiries of the germans, coupled with certain arithmetical calculations, for which he has a special aptitude. he supposes himself to have proved that the first five books of the bible are a compilation of uncertain date, full of inconsistencies and impossibilities. the apologists have replied that the objections are not absolutely conclusive, that the events described in the book of exodus might possibly, under certain combinations of circumstances, have actually taken place; and they then pass to the assumption that because a story is not necessarily false, therefore it is necessarily true. we have no intention of vindicating dr. colenso. his theological training makes his arguments very like those of his opponents, and he and dr. m'call may settle their differences between themselves. the question is at once wider and simpler than any which has been raised in that controversy. were it proved beyond possibility of error that the pentateuch was written by moses, that those and all the books of the old and new testaments were really the work of the writers whose names they bear; were the mosaic cosmogony in harmony with physical discoveries; and were the supposed inconsistencies and contradictions shown to have no existence except in dr. colenso's imagination--we should not have advanced a single step towards making good the claim put forward for the bible, that it is absolutely and unexceptionably true in all its parts. the 'genuineness and authenticity' argument is irrelevant and needless. the clearest demonstration of the human authorship of the pentateuch proves nothing about its immunity from errors. if there are no mistakes in it, it was not the workmanship of man; and if it was inspired by the holy spirit, there is no occasion to show that the hand of moses was the instrument made use of. to the most excellent of contemporary histories, to histories written by eye-witnesses of the facts which they describe, we accord but a limited confidence. the highest intellectual competence, the most admitted truthfulness, immunity from prejudice, and the absence of temptation to misstate the truth; these things may secure great credibility, but they are no guarantee for minute and circumstantial exactness. two historians, though with equal gifts and equal opportunities, never describe events in exactly the same way. two witnesses in a court of law, while they agree in the main, invariably differ in some particulars. it appears as if men could not relate facts precisely as they saw or as they heard them. the different parts of a story strike different imaginations unequally; and the mind, as the circumstances pass through it, alters their proportions unconsciously, or shifts the perspective. the credit which we give to the most authentic work of a man has no resemblance to that universal acceptance which is demanded for the bible. it is not a difference of degree: it is a difference in kind; and we desire to know on what ground this infallibility, which we do not question, but which is not proved, demands our belief. very likely, the bible is thus infallible. unless it is, there can be no moral obligation to accept the facts which it records; and though there may be intellectual error in denying them, there can be no moral sin. facts may be better or worse authenticated; but all the proofs in the world of the genuineness and authenticity of the human handiwork cannot establish a claim upon the conscience. it might be foolish to question thucydides' account of pericles, but no one would call it sinful. men part with all sobriety of judgment when they come on ground of this kind. when sir henry rawlinson read the name of sennacherib on the assyrian marbles, and found allusions there to the israelites in palestine, we were told that a triumphant answer had been found to the cavils of sceptics, and a convincing proof of the inspired truth of the divine oracles. bad arguments in a good cause are a sure way to bring distrust upon it. the divine oracles may be true, and may be inspired; but the discoveries at nineveh certainly do not prove them so. no one supposes that the books of kings or the prophecies of isaiah and ezekiel were the work of men who had no knowledge of assyria or the assyrian princes. it is possible that in the excavations at carthage some punic inscription may be found confirming livy's account of the battle of cannæ; but we shall not be obliged to believe therefore in the inspiration of livy, or rather (for the argument comes to that) in the inspiration of the whole latin literature. we are not questioning the fact that the bible is infallible; we desire only to be told on what evidence that great and awful fact concerning it properly rests. it would seem, indeed, as if instinct had been wiser than argument--as if it had been felt that nothing short of this literal and close inspiration could preserve the facts on which christianity depends. the history of the early world is a history everywhere of marvels. the legendary literature of every nation upon earth tells the same stories of prodigies and wonders, of the appearances of the gods upon earth, and of their intercourse with men. the lives of the saints of the catholic church, from the time of the apostles till the present day, are a complete tissue of miracles resembling and rivalling those of the gospels. some of these stories are romantic and imaginative; some clear, literal, and prosaic; some rest on mere tradition; some on the sworn testimony of eye-witnesses; some are obvious fables; some are as well authenticated as facts of such a kind can be authenticated at all. the protestant christian rejects every one of them--rejects them without enquiry--involves those for which there is good authority and those for which there is none or little in one absolute, contemptuous, and sweeping denial. the protestant christian feels it more likely, in the words of hume, that men should deceive or be deceived, than that the laws of nature should be violated. at this moment we are beset with reports of conversations with spirits, of tables miraculously lifted, of hands projected out of the world of shadows into this mortal life. an unusually able, accomplished person, accustomed to deal with common-sense facts, a celebrated political economist, and notorious for business-like habits, assured this writer that a certain mesmerist, who was my informant's intimate friend, had raised a dead girl to life. we should believe the people who tell us these things in any ordinary matter: they would be admitted in a court of justice as good witnesses in a criminal case, and a jury would hang a man on their word. the person just now alluded to is incapable of telling a wilful lie; yet our experience of the regularity of nature on one side is so uniform, and our experience of the capacities of human folly on the other is so large, that when people tell us these wonderful stories, most of us are contented to smile; and we do not care so much as to turn out of our way to examine them. the bible is equally a record of miracles; but as from other histories we reject miracles without hesitation, so of those in the bible we insist on the universal acceptance: the former are all false, the latter are all true. it is evident that, in forming conclusions so sweeping as these, we cannot even suppose that we are being guided by what is called historical evidence. were it admitted that, as a whole, the miracles of the bible are better authenticated than the miracles of the saints, we should be far removed still from any large inference, that in the one set there is no room for falsehood, in the other no room for truth. the writer or writers of the books of kings are not known. the books themselves are in fact confessedly taken from older writings which are lost; and the accounts of the great prophets of israel are a counterpart, curiously like, of those of the mediæval saints. in many instances the authors of the lives of these saints were their companions and friends. why do we feel so sure that what we are told of elijah or elisha took place exactly as we read it? why do we reject the account of st. columba or st. martin as a tissue of idle fable? why should not god give a power to the saint which he had given to the prophet? we can produce no reason from the nature of things, for we know not what the nature of things is; and if down to the death of the apostles the ministers of religion were allowed to prove their commission by working miracles, what right have we, on grounds either of history or philosophy, to draw a clear line at the death of st. john--to say that before that time all such stories were true, and after it all were false? there is no point on which protestant controversialists evade the real question more habitually than on that of miracles. they accuse those who withhold that unreserved and absolute belief which they require for all which they accept themselves, of denying that miracles are possible. they assume this to be the position taken up by the objector, and proceed easily to argue that man is no judge of the power of god. of course he is not. no sane man ever raised his narrow understanding into a measure of the possibilities of the universe; nor does any person with any pretensions to religion disbelieve in miracles of some kind. to pray is to expect a miracle. when we pray for the recovery of a sick friend, for the gift of any blessing, or the removal of any calamity, we expect that god will do something by an act of his personal will which otherwise would not have been done--that he will suspend the ordinary relations of natural cause and effect; and this is the very idea of a miracle. the thing we pray for may be given us, and no miracle may have taken place. it may be given to us by natural causes, and would have occurred whether we had prayed or not. but prayer itself in its very essence implies a belief in the possible intervention of a power which is above nature. the question about miracles is simply one of evidence--whether in any given case the proof is so strong that no room is left for mistake, exaggeration, or illusion, while more evidence is required to establish a fact antecedently improbable than is sufficient for a common occurrence. it has been said recently by 'a layman,' in a letter to mr. maurice, that the resurrection of our lord is as well authenticated as the death of julius cæsar. it is far better authenticated, unless we are mistaken in supposing the bible inspired; or if we admit as evidence that inward assurance of the christian, which would make him rather die than disbelieve a truth so dear to him. but if the layman meant that there was as much proof of it, in the sense in which proof is understood in a court of justice, he could scarcely have considered what he was saying. julius cæsar was killed in a public place, in the presence of friend and foe, in a remarkable but still perfectly natural manner. the circumstances were minutely known to all the world, and were never denied or doubted by any one. our lord, on the other hand, seems purposely to have withheld such public proof of his resurrection as would have left no room for unbelief. he showed himself, 'not to all the people'--not to his enemies, whom his appearance would have overwhelmed--but 'to witnesses chosen before;' to the circle of his own friends. there is no evidence which a jury could admit that he was ever actually dead. so unusual was it for persons crucified to die so soon, that pilate, we are told, 'marvelled.' the subsequent appearances were strange, and scarcely intelligible. those who saw him did not recognise him till he was made known to them in the breaking of bread. he was visible and invisible. he was mistaken by those who were most intimate with him for another person; nor do the accounts agree which are given by the different evangelists. of investigation in the modern sense (except in the one instance of st. thomas, and st. thomas was rather rebuked than praised) there was none, and could be none. the evidence offered was different in kind, and the blessing was not to those who satisfied themselves of the truth of the fact by a searching enquiry, but who gave their assent with the unhesitating confidence of love. st. paul's account of his own conversion is an instance of the kind of testimony which then worked the strongest conviction. st. paul, a fiery fanatic on a mission of persecution with the midday syrian sun streaming down upon his head, was struck to the ground, and saw in a vision our lord in the air. if such a thing were to occur at the present day, and if a modern physician were consulted about it, he would say, without hesitation, that it was an effect of an overheated brain and that there was nothing in it extraordinary or unusual. if the impression left by the appearance had been too strong for such an explanation to be satisfactory, the person to whom it occurred, especially if he was a man of st paul's intellectual stature, would have at once examined into the facts otherwise known, connected with the subject of what he had seen. st. paul had evidently before disbelieved our lord's resurrection--had disbelieved it fiercely and passionately; we should have expected that he would at once have sought for those who could best have told him the details of the truth. st. paul, however, did nothing of the kind. he went for a year into arabia, and when at last he returned to jerusalem, he rather held aloof from those who had been our lord's companions, and who had witnessed his ascension. he saw peter, he saw james; 'of the rest of the apostles saw he none.' to him evidently the proof of the resurrection was the vision which he had himself seen. it was to that which he always referred when called on for a defence of his faith. of evidence for the resurrection, in the common sense of the word, there may be enough to show that something extraordinary occurred; but not enough, unless we assume the fact to be true on far other grounds, to produce any absolute and unhesitating conviction; and inasmuch as the resurrection is the keystone of christianity, the belief in it must be something far different from that suspended judgment in which history alone would leave us. human testimony, we repeat, under the most favourable circumstances imaginable, knows nothing of 'absolute certainty;' and if historical facts are bound up with the creed, and if they are to be received with the same completeness as the laws of conscience, they rest, and must rest, either on the divine truth of scripture, or on the divine witness in ourselves. on human evidence the miracles of st. teresa and st. francis of assisi are as well established as those of the new testament. m. ernest renan has recently produced an account of the gospel story which, written as it is by a man of piety, intellect, and imagination, is spreading rapidly through the educated world. carrying out the principles with which protestants have swept modern history clear of miracles to their natural conclusions, he dismisses all that is miraculous from the life of our lord, and endeavours to reproduce the original galilean youth who lived and taught, and died in palestine eighteen hundred years ago. we have no intention of reviewing m. renan. he will be read soon enough by many who would better consider their peace of mind by leaving him alone. for ourselves, we are unable to see by what right, if he rejects the miraculous part of the narrative, he retains the rest; the imagination and the credulity which invent extraordinary incidents, invent ordinary incidents also; and if the divine element in the life is legendary, the human may be legendary also. but there is one lucid passage in the introduction which we commend to the perusal of controversial theologians:-- 'no miracle such as those of which early histories are full has taken place under conditions which science can accept. experience shows, without exception, that miracles occur only in times and in countries in which miracles are believed in, and in the presence of persons who are disposed to believe them. no miracle has ever been performed before an assemblage of spectators capable of testing its reality. neither uneducated people, nor even men of the world, have the requisite capacity; great precautions are needed, and a long habit of scientific research. have we not seen men of the world in our own time become the dupes of the most childish and absurd illusions? and if it be certain that no contemporary miracles will bear investigation, is it not possible that the miracles of the past, were we able to examine into them in detail, would be found equally to contain an element of error? it is not in the name of this or that philosophy, it is in the name of an experience which never varies, that we banish miracles from history. we do not say a miracle is impossible--we say only that no miracle has ever yet been proved. let a worker of miracles come forward to-morrow with pretensions serious enough to deserve examination. let us suppose him to announce that he is able to raise a dead man to life. what would be done? a committee would be appointed, composed of physiologists, physicians, chemists, and persons accustomed to exact investigation; a body would then be selected which the committee would assure itself was really dead; and a place would be chosen where the experiment was to take place. every precaution would be taken to leave no opening for uncertainty; and if, under those conditions, the restoration to life was effected, a probability would be arrived at which would be almost equal to certainty. an experiment, however, should always admit of being repeated. what a man has done once he should be able to do again; and in miracles there can be no question of ease or difficulty. the performer would be requested to repeat the operation under other circumstances upon other bodies; and if he succeeded on every occasion, two points would be established: first, that there may be in this world such things as supernatural operations; and, secondly, that the power to perform them is delegated to, or belongs to, particular persons. but who does not perceive that no miracle was ever performed under such conditions as these?' we have quoted this passage because it expresses with extreme precision and clearness the common-sense principle which we apply to all supernatural stories of our own time, which protestant theologians employ against the whole cycle of catholic miracles, and which m. renan is only carrying to its logical conclusions in applying to the history of our lord, if the gospels are tried by the mere tests of historical criticism. the gospels themselves tell us why m. renan's conditions were never satisfied. miracles were not displayed in the presence of sceptics to establish scientific truths. when the adulterous generation sought after a sign, the sign was not given; nay, it is even said that in the presence of unbelief, our lord was not able to work miracles. but science has less respect for that undoubting and submissive willingness to believe; and it is quite certain that if we attempt to establish the truth of the new testament on the principles of paley--if with professor jowett 'we interpret the bible as any other book,' the element of miracle which has evaporated from the entire surface of human history will not maintain itself in the sacred ground of the gospels, and the facts of christianity will melt in our hands like a snowball. nothing less than a miraculous history can sustain the credibility of miracles, and nothing could be more likely, if revelation be a reality and not a dream, than that the history containing it should be saved in its composition from the intermixture of human infirmity. this is the position in which instinct long ago taught protestants to entrench themselves, and where alone they can hope to hold their ground: once established in these lines, they were safe and unassailable, unless it could be demonstrated that any fact or facts related in the bible were certainly untrue. nor would it be necessary to say any more upon the subject. those who believed christianity would admit the assumption; those who disbelieved christianity would repudiate it. the argument would be narrowed to that plain and single issue, and the elaborate treatises upon external evidence would cease to bring discredit upon the cause by their feebleness. unfortunately--and this is the true secret of our present distractions--it seems certain that in some way or other this belief in inspiration itself requires to be revised. we are compelled to examine more precisely what we mean by the word. the account of the creation of man and the world which is given in genesis, and which is made by st. paul the basis of his theology, has not yet been reconciled with facts which science knows to be true. death was in the world before adam's sin, and unless adam's age be thrust back to a distance which no ingenuity can torture the letter of scripture into recognising, men and women lived and died upon the earth whole millenniums before the eve of sacred history listened to the temptation of the snake. neither has any such deluge as that from which, according to the received interpretation, the ark saved noah, swept over the globe within the human period. we are told that it was not god's purpose to anticipate the natural course of discovery: as the story of the creation was written in human language, so the details of it may have been adapted to the existing state of human knowledge. the bible, it is said, was not intended to teach men science, but to teach them what was necessary for the moral training of their souls. it may be that this is true. spiritual grace affects the moral character of men, but leaves their intellect unimproved. the most religious men are as liable as atheists to ignorance of ordinary facts, and inspiration may be only infallible when it touches on truths necessary to salvation. but if it be so, there are many things in the bible which must become as uncertain as its geology or its astronomy. there is the long secular history of the jewish people. let it be once established that there is room for error anywhere, and we have no security for the accuracy of this history. the inspiration of the bible is the foundation of our whole belief; and it is a grave matter if we are uncertain to what extent it reaches, or how much and what it guarantees to us as true. we cannot live on probabilities. the faith in which we can live bravely and die in peace must be a certainty, so far as it professes to be a faith at all, or it is nothing. it may be that all intellectual efforts to arrive at it are in vain; that it is given to those to whom it is given, and withheld from those from whom it is withheld. it may be that the existing belief is undergoing a silent modification, like those to which the dispensations of religion have been successively subjected; or, again, it may be that to the creed as it is already established there is nothing to be added, and nothing any more to be taken from it. at this moment, however, the most vigorous minds appear least to see their way to a conclusion; and notwithstanding all the school and church building, the extended episcopate, and the religious newspapers, a general doubt is coming up like a thunderstorm against the wind, and blackening the sky. those who cling most tenaciously to the faith in which they were educated, yet confess themselves perplexed. they know what they believe; but why they believe it, or why they should require others to believe, they cannot tell or cannot agree. between the authority of the church and the authority of the bible, the testimony of history and the testimony of the spirit, the ascertained facts of science and the contradictory facts which seem to be revealed, the minds of men are tossed to and fro, harassed by the changed attitude in which scientific investigation has placed us all towards accounts of supernatural occurrences. we thrust the subject aside; we take refuge in practical work; we believe, perhaps, that the situation is desperate, and hopeless of improvement; we refuse to let the question be disturbed. but we cannot escape from our shadow, and the spirit of uncertainty will haunt the world like an uneasy ghost, till we take it by the throat like men. we return then to the point from which we set out. the time is past for repression. despotism has done its work; but the day of despotism is gone, and the only remedy is a full and fair investigation. things will never right themselves if they are let alone. it is idle to say peace when there is no peace; and the concealed imposthume is more dangerous than an open wound. the law in this country has postponed our trial, but cannot save us from it; and the questions which have agitated the continent are agitating us at last. the student who twenty years ago was contented with the greek and latin fathers and the anglican divines, now reads ewald and renan. the church authorities still refuse to look their difficulties in the face: they prescribe for mental troubles the established doses of paley and pearson; they refuse dangerous questions as sinful, and tread the round of commonplace in placid comfort. but it will not avail. their pupils grow to manhood, and fight the battle for themselves, unaided by those who ought to have stood by them in their trial, and could not or would not; and the bitterness of those conflicts, and the end of most of them in heart-broken uncertainty or careless indifference, is too notorious to all who care to know about such things. we cannot afford year after year to be distracted with the tentative scepticism of essayists and reviewers. in a healthy condition of public opinion such a book as bishop colenso's would have passed unnoticed, or rather would never have been written, for the difficulties with which it deals would have been long ago met and disposed of. when questions rose in the early and middle ages of the church, they were decided by councils of the wisest: those best able to judge met together, and compared their thoughts, and conclusions were arrived at which individuals could accept and act upon. at the beginning of the english reformation, when protestant doctrine was struggling for reception, and the old belief was merging in the new, the country was deliberately held in formal suspense. protestants and catholics were set to preach on alternate sundays in the same pulpit; subjects were discussed freely in the ears of the people; and at last, when all had been said on both sides, convocation and parliament embodied the result in formulas. councils will no longer answer the purpose; the clergy have no longer a superiority of intellect or cultivation; and a conference of prelates from all parts of christendom, or even from all departments of the english church, would not present an edifying spectacle. parliament may no longer meddle with opinions unless it be to untie the chains which it forged three centuries ago. but better than councils, better than sermons, better than parliament, is that free discussion through a free press which is the best instrument for the discovery of truth, and the most effectual means for preserving it. we shall be told, perhaps, that we are beating the air--that the press is free, and that all men may and do write what they please. it is not so. discussion is not free so long as the clergy who take any side but one are liable to be prosecuted and deprived of their means of living; it is not free so long as the expression of doubt is considered as a sin by public opinion and as a crime by the law. so far are we from free discussion, that the world is not yet agreed that a free discussion is desirable; and till it be so agreed, the substantial intellect of the country will not throw itself into the question. the battle will continue to be fought by outsiders, who suffice to disturb a repose which they cannot restore; and that collective voice of the national understanding, which alone can give back to us a peaceful and assured conviction, will not be heard. footnotes: [d] _fraser's magazine_, . criticism and the gospel history.[e] the spirit of criticism is not the spirit of religion. the spirit of criticism is a questioning spirit; the spirit of religion is a spirit of faith, of humility and submission. other qualities may go to the formation of a religious character in the highest and grandest sense of the word; but the virtues which religious teachers most generally approve, which make up the ideal of a catholic saint, which the catholic and all other churches endeavour most to cultivate in their children, are those of passive and loyal obedience, a devotion without reserve or qualification; or to use the technical word, 'a spirit of teachableness.' a religious education is most successful when it has formed a mind to which difficulties are welcome as an opportunity for the triumph of faith--which regards doubts as temptations to be resisted like the suggestions of sensuality, and which alike in action or opinion follows the path prescribed to it with affectionate and unhesitating confidence. to men or women of the tender and sensitive piety which is produced by such a training, an enquiry into the grounds of its faith appears shocking and profane. to demand an explanation of ambiguities or mysteries of which they have been accustomed to think only upon their knees, is as it were to challenge the almighty to explain his ways to his creatures, and to refuse obedience unless human presumption has been first gratified. undoubtedly, not in religion only, but in any branch of human knowledge, teachableness is the condition of growth. we augur ill for the future of the youth who sets his own judgment against that of his instructors, and refuses to believe what cannot be at once made plain to him. yet again, the wise instructor will not lightly discourage questions which are prompted by an intelligent desire of knowledge. that an unenquiring submission produces characters of great and varied beauty; that it has inspired the most splendid acts of endurance which have given a lustre to humanity, no one will venture to deny. a genial faith is one of that group of qualities which commend themselves most to the young, the generous, and the enthusiastic--to those whose native and original nobleness has suffered least from contact with the world--which belong rather to the imagination than the reason, and stand related to truth through the emotions rather than through the sober calculations of probability. it is akin to loyalty, to enthusiasm, to hero-worship, to that deep affection to a person or a cause which can see no fault in what it loves. 'belief,' says mr. sewell, 'is a virtue; doubt is a sin.' iago is nothing if not critical; and the sceptical spirit--_der geist der stets verneint_--which is satisfied with nothing, which sees in everything good the seed of evil, and the weak spot in every great cause or nature, has been made the special characteristic--we all feel with justice--of the devil. and yet this devotedness or devotion, this reverence for authority, is but one element of excellence. to reverence is good; but on the one condition that the object of it be a thing which deserves reverence; and the necessary complement, the security that we are not bestowing our best affections where they should not be given, must be looked for in some quality which, if less attractive, is no less essential for our true welfare. to prove all things--to try the spirits whether they be of god--is a duty laid upon us by the highest authority; and what is called progress in human things--religious as well as material--has been due uniformly to a dissatisfaction with them as they are. every advance in science, every improvement in the command of the mechanical forces of nature, every step in political or social freedom, has risen in the first instance from an act of scepticism, from an uncertainty whether the formulas, or the opinions, or the government, or the received practical theories were absolutely perfect; or whether beyond the circle of received truths there might not lie something broader, deeper, truer, and thus better deserving the acceptance of mankind. submissiveness, humility, obedience, produce if uncorrected, in politics a nation of slaves, whose baseness becomes an incentive to tyranny; in religion, they produce the consecration of falsehood, poperies, immaculate conceptions, winking images, and the confessional. the spirit of enquiry if left to itself becomes in like manner a disease of uncertainty, and terminates in universal scepticism. it seems as if in a healthy order of things, to the willingness to believe there should be chained as its inseparable companion a jealousy of deception; and there is no lesson more important for serious persons to impress upon themselves than that each of these temperaments must learn to tolerate the other; faith accepting from reason the sanction of its service, and reason receiving in return the warm pulsations of life. the two principles exist together in the highest natures; and the man who in the best sense of the word is devout, is also the most cautious to whom or to what he pays his devotion. among the multitude, the units of which are each inadequate and incomplete, the elements are disproportionately mixed; some men are humble and diffident, some are sceptical and enquiring; yet both are filling a place in the great intellectual economy; both contribute to make up the sum and proportion of qualities which are required to hold the balance even; and neither party is entitled to say to the other, 'stand by; i am holier than thou.' and as it is with individuals, so is it also with whole periods and cycles. for centuries together the believing spirit held undisputed sovereignty; and these were what are called 'ages of faith;' ages, that is, in which the highest business of the intellect was to pray rather than to investigate; when for every unusual phenomenon a supernatural cause was instinctively assumed; when wonders were credible in proportion to their magnitude; and theologians, with easy command of belief, added miracle to miracle and piled dogma upon dogma. then the tide changed; a fresh era opened, which in the eyes of those who considered the old system the only right one, was the letting loose of the impersonated spirit of evil; when profane eyes were looking their idols in the face; when men were saying to the miraculous images, 'you are but stone and wood,' and to the piece of bread, 'you are but dust as i am dust;' and then the huge mediæval fabric crumbled down in ruin. all forms of thought, all objects of devotion, are made thus liable to perpetual revision, if only that belief shall not petrify into habit, but remain the reasonable conviction of a reasonable soul. the change of times and the change of conditions change also the appearance of things which in themselves are the same which they always were. facts supposed once to be as fixed as the stars melt into fiction. a closer acquaintance with the phenomena of experience has revealed to us the action of forces before undreamt of working throughout nature with unerring uniformity; and to the mediæval stories of magic, witchcraft, or the miracles of saints, we are thus placed in a new relation. the direct evidence on which such stories were received may remain unimpaired, but it no longer produces the same conviction. even in ordinary human things where the evidence is lost--as in some of our own state trials, and where we know only that it was such as brought conviction to judges, juries, and parliaments--historians do not hesitate to call their verdicts into question, thinking it more likely that whole masses of men should have been led away by passion or fraud or cowardice than that this or that particular crime should have been committed. that we often go beyond our office and exaggerate the value of our new criteria of truth may be possible enough; but it is no less certain that this is the tendency of modern thought. our own age, like every age which has gone before it, judges the value of testimony, not by itself merely, but by the degree to which it corresponds with our own sense of the laws of probability; and we consider events probable or improbable by the habit of mind which is the result of our general knowledge and culture. to the catholic of the middle ages a miracle was more likely than not; and when he was told that a miracle had been worked, he believed it as he would have believed had he been told that a shower of rain had fallen, or that the night frost had killed the buds upon his fruit trees. if his cattle died, he found the cause in the malice of satan or the evil eye of a witch; and if two or more witnesses could have been found to swear that they had heard an old woman curse him, she would have been burnt for a sorceress. the man of science, on the other hand, knows nothing of witches and sorcerers; when he can find a natural cause he refuses to entertain the possibility of the intervention of a cause beyond nature; and thus that very element of marvel which to the more superstitious temperament was an evidence of truth, becomes to the better informed a cause of suspicion. so it has been that throughout history, as between individuals among ourselves, we trace two habits of thought, one of which has given us churches, creeds, and the knowledge of god; the other has given us freedom and science, has pruned the luxuriance of imaginative reverence, and reminds piety of what it is too ready to forget--that god is truth. yet, essential as they are to one another, each keeps too absolutely to the circle of its own convictions, and, but half able to recognise the merit of principles which are alien to its own, regards the other as its natural enemy. to the warm and enthusiastic pietist the enquirer appears as a hater of god, an inveterate blasphemer of holy things, soiling with rude and insolent hands what ought only to be humbly adored. the saint when he has the power calls the sword to his aid, and in his zeal for what he calls the honour of god, makes war upon such people with steel and fire. the innovator, on the other hand, knowing that he is not that evil creature which his rival represents him as being, knowing that he too desires only truth--first suffers, suffers in rough times at stake and scaffold, suffers in our own later days in good name, in reputation, in worldly fortune; and as the whirligig of time brings round his turn of triumph, takes, in french revolutions and such other fits of madness, his own period of wild revenge. the service of truth is made to appear as one thing, the service of god as another; and in that fatal separation religion dishonours itself with unavailing enmity to what nevertheless it is compelled at last to accept in humiliation; and science, welcoming the character which its adversary flings upon it, turns away with answering hostility from doctrines without which its own highest achievements are but pyramids of ashes. is this antagonism a law of humanity? as mankind move upwards through the ascending circles of progress, is it for ever to be with them as with the globe which they inhabit--of which one hemisphere is perpetually dark? have the lessons of the reformation been thrown away? is knowledge always to advance under the ban of religion? is faith never to cease to dread investigation? is science chiefly to value each new discovery as a victory gained over its rival? is the spiritual world to revolve eternally upon an axis of which the two poles are materialism and superstition, to be buried in their alternate occultations in periods of utter darkness, or lifted into an icy light where there is neither life nor warmth? how it may be in the remote future it is idle to guess; for the present the signs are not hopeful. we are arrived visibly at one of those recurring times when the accounts are called in for audit; when the title-deeds are to be looked through, and established opinions again tested. it is a process which has been repeated more than once in the world's history; the last occasion and greatest being the reformation of the sixteenth century; and the experience of that matter might have satisfied the most timid that truth has nothing to fear; and that religion emerges out of such trials stronger and brighter than before. yet churchmen have not profited by the experience; the pulpits and the religious press ring again with the old shrieks of sacrilege; the machinery of the law courts is set creaking on its rusty hinges, and denunciation and anathema in the old style take the place of reasoning. it will not answer; and the worst danger to what is really true is the want of wisdom in its defenders. the language which we sometimes hear about these things seems to imply that while christianity is indisputably true, it cannot stand nevertheless without bolt and shackle, as if the author of our faith had left the evidence so weak that an honest investigation would fail to find it. inevitably, the altered relation in which modern culture places the minds of all of us towards the supernatural, will compel a reconsideration of the grounds on which the acceptance of miracles is required. if the english learned clergy had faith as a grain of mustard seed, they would be the first to take possession of the field; they would look the difficulty in the face fearlessly and frankly, and we should not be tossing as we are now in an ocean of uncertainty, ignorant whether, if things seem obscure to us, the fault is with our intellects or our hearts. it might have been that providence, anticipating the effect produced on dead testimony by time and change, had raised religion into a higher sphere, and had appointed on earth a living and visible authority which could not err--guided by the holy spirit into truth, and divinely sustained in the possession of it. such a body the roman catholic church conceives itself to be; but in breaking away from its communion, protestant christians have declared their conviction that neither the church of rome, nor they themselves, nor any other body of men on earth, are exempt from a liability to error. it is no longer competent for the anglican communion to say that a doctrine or a fact is true because it forms a part of their teaching, because it has come down to them from antiquity, and because to deny it is sin. transubstantiation came down to the fathers of the reformation from antiquity; it was received and insisted upon by the catholic church of christendom; yet nevertheless it was flung out from among us as a lie and an offence. the theory of the divine authority of the church was abandoned in the act of protestantism three centuries ago; it was the central principle of that great revolt that the establishment of particular opinions was no guarantee for their truth; and it becomes thus our duty as well as our right to examine periodically our intellectual defences, to abandon positions which the alteration of time makes untenable, and to admit and invite into the service of the sanctuary the fullest light of advancing knowledge. of all positions the most fatally suicidal for protestants to occupy is the assumption, which it is competent for roman catholics to hold, but not for them, that beliefs once sanctioned by the church are sacred, and that to impugn them is not error but crime. with a hope, then, that this reproach may be taken away from us; that, in this most wealthily-endowed church of england, where so many of the most gifted and most accomplished men among us are maintained in well-paid leisure to attend to such things, we may not be left any longer to grope our way in the dark, the present writer puts forward some few perplexities of which it would be well if english divinity contained a clearer solution than is found there. the laity, occupied in other matters, regard the clergy as the trustees of their spiritual interests; but inasmuch as the clergy tell them that the safety of their souls depends on the correctness of their opinions, they dare not close their eyes to the questions which are being asked in louder and even louder tones; and they have a right to demand that they shall not be left to their own unaided efforts to answer such questions. we go to our appointed teachers as to our physicians; we say to them, 'we feel pain here, and here, and here: we do not see our way, and we require you to help us.' most of these perplexities are not new: they were felt with the first beginnings of critical investigation; but the fact that they have been so many years before the world without being satisfactorily encountered makes the situation only the more serious. it is the more strange that as time passes on, and divine after divine is raised to honour and office for his theological services, we should find only when we turn to their writings that loud promises end in no performance; that the chief object which they set before themselves is to avoid difficult ground; and that the points on which we most cry out for satisfaction are passed over in silence, or are disposed of with ineffectual commonplaces. with a temperament constitutionally religious, and with an instinctive sense of the futility of theological controversies, the english people have long kept the enemy at bay by passive repugnance. to the well-conditioned english layman the religion in which he has been educated is part of the law of the land; the truth of it is assumed in the first principles of his personal and social existence; and attacks on the credibility of his sacred books he has regarded with the same impatience and disdain with which he treats speculations on the rights of property or the common maxims of right and wrong. thus, while the inspiration of the bible has been a subject of discussion for a century in germany, holland, and france; while even in the desolate villages in the heart of spain the priests find it necessary to placard the church walls with cautions against rationalism, england hitherto has escaped the trial; and it is only within a very few years that the note of speculation has compelled our deaf ears to listen. that it has come at last is less a matter of surprise than that it should have been so long delayed; and though slow to move, it is likely that so serious a people will not now rest till they have settled the matter for themselves in some practical way. we are assured that if the truth be, as we are told, of vital moment--vital to all alike, wise and foolish, educated and uneducated--the road to it cannot lie through any very profound enquiries. we refuse to believe that every labourer or mechanic must balance arduous historical probabilities and come to a just conclusion, under pain of damnation. we are satisfied that these poor people are not placed in so cruel a dilemma. either these abstruse historical questions are open questions, and we are not obliged under those penalties to hold a definite opinion upon them, or else there must be some general principle accessible and easily intelligible, by which the details can be summarily disposed of. we shall not be much mistaken, perhaps, if we say that the view of most educated english laymen at present is something of this kind. they are aware that many questions may be asked, difficult or impossible to answer satisfactorily, about the creation of the world, the flood, and generally on the historical portion of the old testament; but they suppose that if the authority of the gospel history can be well ascertained, the rest may and must be taken for granted. if it be true that of the miraculous birth, life, death, and resurrection of our lord, we have the evidence of two evangelists who were eye-witnesses of the facts which they relate, and of two others who wrote under the direction of, or upon the authority of, eye-witnesses, we can afford to dispense with merely curious enquiries. the subordinate parts of a divine economy which culminated in so stupendous a mystery may well be as marvellous as itself; and it may be assumed, we think, with no great want of charity, that those who doubt the truth of the old testament extend their incredulity to the new; that the point of their disbelief, towards which they are trenching their way through the weak places in the pentateuch, is the gospel narrative itself.[f] whatever difficulty there may be in proving the ancient hebrew books to be the work of the writers whose names they bear, no one would have cared to challenge their genuineness who was thoroughly convinced of the resurrection of our lord. and the real object of these speculations lies open before us in the now notorious work of m. renan, which is shooting through europe with a rapidity which recalls the era of luther. to the question of the authenticity of the gospels, therefore, the common sense of englishmen has instinctively turned. if, as english commentators confidently tell us, the gospel of st. matthew, such as we now possess it, is undoubtedly the work of the publican who followed our lord from the receipt of custom, and remained with him to be a witness of his ascension; if st. john's gospel was written by the beloved disciple who lay on jesus' breast at supper; if the other two were indeed the composition of the companions of st. peter and st. paul; if in these four gospels we have independent accounts of our lord's life and passion, mutually confirming each other, and if it can be proved that they existed and were received as authentic in the first century of the christian church, a stronger man than m. renan will fail to shake the hold of christianity in england. we put the question hypothetically, not as meaning to suggest the fact as uncertain, but being--as the matter is of infinite moment--being, as it were, the hinge on which our faith depends, we are forced beyond our office to trespass on ground which we leave usually to professional theologians, and to tell them plainly that there are difficulties which it is their business to clear up, but to which, with worse than imprudence, they close their own eyes, and deliberately endeavour to keep them from ours. some of these it is the object of this paper to point out, with an earnest hope that dean alford, or dr. ellicott, or some other competent clergyman, may earn our gratitude by telling us what to think about them. setting aside their duty to us, they will find frank dealing in the long run their wisest policy. the conservative theologians of england have carried silence to the point of indiscretion. looking, then, to the three first gospels, usually called the synoptical, we are encountered immediately with a remarkable common element which runs through them all--a resemblance too peculiar to be the result of accident, and impossible to reconcile with the theory that the writers were independent of each other. it is not that general similarity which we should expect in different accounts of the same scenes and events, but amidst many differences, a broad vein of circumstantial identity extending both to substance and expression. and the identity is of several kinds. i. although the three evangelists relate each of them some things peculiar to themselves, and although between them there are some striking divergencies--as, for instance, between the account of our lord's miraculous birth in st. matthew and st. luke, and in the absence in st. mark of any mention of the miraculous birth at all--nevertheless, the body of the story is essentially the same. out of those words and actions--so many, that if all were related the world itself could not contain the books that should be written--the three evangelists select for the most part the same; the same parables, the same miracles, and, more or less complete, the same addresses. when the material from which to select was so abundant--how abundant we have but to turn to the fourth evangelist to see--it is at least singular that three writers should have made so nearly the same choice. ii. but this is not all. not only are the things related the same, but the language in which they are expressed is the same. sometimes the resemblance is such as would have arisen had the evangelists been translating from a common document in another language. sometimes, and most frequently, there is an absolute verbal identity; sentences, paragraphs, long passages, are word for word the very same; a few expressions have been slightly varied, a particle transposed, a tense or a case altered, but the differences being no greater than would arise if a number of persons were to write from memory some common passages which they knew almost by heart. that there should have been this identity in the account of the _words_ used by our lord seems at first sight no more than we should expect. but it extends to the narrative as well; and with respect to the parables and discourses, there is this extraordinary feature, that whereas our lord is supposed to have spoken in the ordinary language of palestine, the resemblance between the evangelists is in the greek translation of them; and how unlikely it is that a number of persons in translating from one language into another should hit by accident on the same expressions, the simplest experiment will show. now, waiving for a moment the inspiration of the gospels; interpreting the bible, to use mr. jowett's canon, as any other book, what are we to conclude from phenomena of this kind? what in fact do we conclude when we encounter them elsewhere? in the lives of the saints, in the monkish histories, there are many parallel cases. a mediæval chronicler, when he found a story well told by his predecessor, seldom cared to recompose it; he transcribed the words as they stood into his own narrative, contented perhaps with making a few trifling changes to add a finish or a polish. sometimes two chroniclers borrow from a third. there is the same identity in particular expressions, the same general resemblance, the same divergence, as each improves his original from his independent knowledge by addition or omission; but the process is so transparent, that when the original is lost, the existence of it can be inferred with certainty. or to take a more modern parallel--we must entreat our readers to pardon any seeming irreverence which may appear in the comparison--if in the letters of the correspondents of three different newspapers written from america or germany, we were to read the same incidents told in the same language, surrounded it might be with much that was unlike, but nevertheless in themselves identical, and related in words which, down to unusual and remarkable terms of expression, were exactly the same, what should we infer? suppose, for instance, the description of a battle; if we were to find but a single paragraph in which two out of three correspondents agreed verbally, we should regard it as a very strange coincidence. if all three agreed verbally, we should feel certain it was more than accident. if throughout their letters there was a recurring series of such passages, no doubt would be left in the mind of any one that either the three correspondents had seen each other's letters, or that each had had before him some common narrative which he had incorporated in his own account. it might be doubtful which of these two explanations was the true one; but that one or other of them was true, unless we suppose a miracle, is as certain as any conclusion in human things can be certain at all. the sworn testimony of eye-witnesses who had seen the letters so composed would add nothing to the weight of a proof which without their evidence would be overwhelming; and were the writers themselves, with their closest friends and companions, to swear that there had been no intercommunication, and no story pre-existing of which they had made use, and that each had written _bonâ fide_ from his own original observation, an english jury would sooner believe the whole party perjured than persuade themselves that so extraordinary a coincidence would have occurred. nor would it be difficult to ascertain from internal evidence which of the two possible interpretations was the real one. if the writers were men of evident good faith; if their stories were in parts widely different; if they made no allusion to each other, nor ever referred to one another as authorities; finally, if neither of them, in giving a different account of any matter from that given by his companions, professed either to be supplying an omission or correcting a mistake, then we should have little doubt that they had themselves not communicated with each other, but were supplementing, each of them from other sources of information, a central narrative which all alike had before them. how far may we apply the parallel to the synoptical gospels? in one sense the inspiration lifts them above comparison, and disposes summarily of critical perplexities; there is no difficulty which may not be explained by a miracle; and in that aspect the points of disagreement between these accounts are more surprising than the similarities. it is on the disagreements in fact that the labours of commentators have chiefly been expended. yet it is a question whether, on the whole, inspiration does not leave unaffected the ordinary human phenomena; and it is hard to suppose that where the rules of judgment in ordinary writings are so distinct, god would have thus purposely cast a stumbling-block in our way, and contrived a snare into which our reason should mislead us. that is hard to credit; yet that and nothing else we must believe if we refuse to apply to the gospel the same canons of criticism which with other writings would be a guide so decisive. it may be assumed that the facts connected with them admit a natural explanation; and we arrive, therefore, at the same conclusion as before: that either two of the evangelists borrowed from the third, or else that there was some other gospel besides those which are now extant; existing perhaps both in hebrew and greek--existing certainly in greek--the fragments of which are scattered up and down through st. mark, st. matthew, and st. luke, in masses sufficiently large to be distinctly recognisable. that at an early period in the christian church many such gospels existed, we know certainly from the words of st. luke. st. paul alludes to words used by our lord which are not mentioned by the evangelists, which he assumed nevertheless to be well known to his hearers. he speaks, too, of an appearance of our lord after his resurrection to five hundred brethren; on which the four gospels are also silent. it is indisputable, therefore, that besides and antecedent to them there were other accounts of our lord's life in use in the christian church. and indeed, what more natural, what more necessary, than that from the day on which the apostles entered upon their public mission, some narrative should have been drawn up of the facts which they were about to make known? then as little as now could the imagination of men be trusted to relate accurately a story composed of stupendous miracles without mistake or exaggeration; and their very first step would have been to compose an account of what had passed, to which they could speak with certainty, and which they could invest with authoritative sanction. is it not possible then that the identical passages in the synoptical gospels are the remains of something of this kind, which the evangelists, in their later, fuller, and more complete histories, enlarged and expanded? the conjecture has been often made, and english commentators have for the most part dismissed it slightingly; not apparently being aware that in rejecting one hypothesis they were bound to suggest another; or at least to admit that there was something which required explanation, though this particular suggestion did not seem satisfactory. yet if it were so, the external testimony for the truth of the gospel history would be stronger than before. it would amount to the collective view of the first congregation of christians, who had all immediate and personal knowledge of our lord's miracles and death and resurrection. but perhaps the external history of the four gospels may throw some light upon the question, if indeed we can speak of light where all is a cloud of uncertainty. it would seem as if the sources of christianity, like the roots of all other living things, were purposely buried in mystery. there exist no ancient writings whatever of such vast moment to mankind of which so little can be authentically known. the four gospels, in the form and under the names which they at present bear, become visible only with distinctness towards the end of the second century of the christian era. then it was that they assumed the authoritative position which they have ever since maintained, and were selected by the church out of the many other then existing narratives as the supreme and exclusive authorities for our lord's life. irenæus is the first of the fathers in whom they are found attributed by name to st. matthew, st. mark, st. luke, and st. john. that there were four true evangelists, and that there could be neither more nor less than four, irenæus had persuaded himself because there were four winds or spirits, and four divisions of the earth, for which the church being universal required four columns; because the cherubim had four faces, to each of which an evangelist corresponded; because four covenants had been given to mankind--one before the deluge in adam, one after the deluge in noah, the third in moses, the fourth and greatest in the new testament; while again the name of adam was composed of four letters. it is not to be supposed that the intellects of those great men who converted the world to christianity were satisfied with arguments so imaginative as these; they must have had other closer and more accurate grounds for their decision; but the mere employment of such figures as evidence in any sense, shows the enormous difference between their modes of reasoning and ours, and illustrates the difficulty of deciding at our present distance from them how far their conclusions were satisfactory. of the gospels separately the history is immediately lost in legend. the first notice of a gospel of st. matthew is in the well-known words of papias, a writer who in early life might have seen st. john. the works of papias are lost--a misfortune the more to be regretted because eusebius speaks of him as a man of very limited understanding, [greek: panu smikros ton noun]. understanding and folly are words of undetermined meaning; and when language like that of irenæus could seem profound it is quite possible that papias might have possessed commonplace faculties which would have been supremely useful to us. a surviving fragment of him says that st. matthew put together the discourses of our lord in hebrew, and that every one interpreted them as he could. pantænus, said by eusebius to have been another contemporary of the apostles, was reported to have gone to india, to have found there a congregation of christians which had been established by st. bartholomew, and to have seen in use among them this hebrew gospel. origen repeats the story, which in his time had become the universal catholic tradition, that st. matthew's was the first gospel, that it was written in hebrew, and that it was intended for the use of the jewish converts. jerome adds that it was unknown when or by whom it was rendered into a greek version. that was all which the church had to say; and what had become of that hebrew original no one could tell. that there existed _a_ hebrew gospel in very early times is well authenticated; there was a gospel called the gospel of the ebionites or nazarenes, of which origen possessed a copy, and which st. jerome thought it worth while to translate; this too is lost, and jerome's translation of it also; but the negative evidence seems conclusive that it was not the lost gospel of st. matthew. had it been so it could not have failed to be recognised, although from such accounts of it as have been preserved, it possessed some affinity with st. matthew's gospel. in one instance, indeed, it gave the right reading of a text which has perplexed orthodox commentators, and has induced others to suspect that that gospel in its present form could not have existed before the destruction of jerusalem. the zachariah the son of barachiah said by st. matthew to have been slain between the temple and the altar, is unknown to old testament history, while during the siege of jerusalem a zachariah the son of barachiah actually was killed exactly in the manner described. but in the ebionite gospel the same words are found with this slight but important difference, that the zachariah in question is there called the son of jehoiadah, and is at once identified with the person whose murder is related in the second book of chronicles. the later translator of st. matthew had probably confused the names. of st. mark's gospel the history is even more profoundly obscure. papias, again the highest discoverable link of the church tradition, says that st. mark accompanied st. peter to rome as his interpreter; and that while there he wrote down what st. peter told him, or what he could remember st. peter to have said. clement of alexandria enlarges the story. according to clement, when st. peter was preaching at rome, the christian congregation there requested st. mark to write a gospel for them; st. mark complied without acquainting st. peter, and st. peter when informed of it was uncertain whether to give or withhold his sanction till his mind was set at rest by a vision. irenæus, on the other hand, says that st. mark's gospel was not written till after the death of st. peter and st. paul. st. chrysostom says that after it was written st. mark went to egypt and published it at alexandria; epiphanius again, that the egyptian expedition was undertaken at the express direction of st. peter himself. thus the church tradition is inconsistent with itself, and in all probability is nothing but a structure of air; it is bound up with the presence of st. peter at rome; and the only ground for supposing that st. peter was ever at rome at all is the passage at the close of st. peter's first epistle, where it pleased the fathers to assume that the 'babylon' there spoken of must have been the city of the cæsars. this passage alone, with the wild stories (now known to have originated in the misreading of an inscription) of st. peter's conflict with simon magus in the presence of the emperor, form together the light and airy arches on which the huge pretences of the church of rome have reared themselves. if the babylon of the epistle was babylon on the euphrates--and there is not the slightest historical reason to suppose it to have been anything else--the story of the origin of st. mark's gospel perishes with the legend to which it was inseparably attached by church tradition. of st. john's gospel we do not propose to speak in this place; it forms a subject by itself; and of that it is enough to say that the defects of external evidence which undoubtedly exist seem overborne by the overwhelming proofs of authenticity contained in the gospel itself. the faint traditionary traces which inform us that st. matthew and st. mark were supposed to have written gospels fail us with st. luke. the apostolic and the immediately post-apostolic fathers never mention luke as having written a history of our lord at all. there was indeed a gospel in use among the marcionites which resembled that of st. luke, as the gospel of the ebionites resembled that of st. matthew. in both the one and the other there was no mention of our lord's miraculous birth; and later writers accused marcion of having mutilated st. luke. but apparently their only reason for thinking so was that the two gospels were like each other; and for all that can be historically proved, the gospel of the marcionites may have been the older of the two. what is wanting externally, however, is supposed to be more than made up by the language of st. luke himself. the gospel was evidently composed in its present form by the same person who wrote the acts of the apostles. in the latter part of the acts of the apostles the writer speaks in the first person as the companion of st. paul; and the date of this gospel seems to be thus conclusively fixed at an early period in the apostolic age. there is at least a high probability that this reasoning is sound; yet it has seemed strange that a convert so eminent as 'the most excellent' theophilus, to whom st. luke addressed himself, should be found impossible to identify. 'most excellent' was a title given only to persons of high rank; and it is singular that st. paul himself should never have mentioned so considerable a name. and again, there is something peculiar in the language of the introduction to the gospel itself. though st. luke professes to be writing on the authority of eye-witnesses, he does not say he had spoken with eye-witnesses; so far from it, that the word translated in the english version 'delivered' is literally 'handed down;' it is the verb which corresponds to the technical expression for 'tradition;' and the words translated 'having had perfect understanding of all things from the first,' might be rendered more properly, 'having traced or followed up all things from the beginning.' and again, as it is humanly speaking certain that in st. luke's gospel there are passages, however they are to be explained, which were embodied in it from some other source, so, though extremely probable, it is not absolutely certain that those passages in the acts in which the writer speaks in the first person are by the same hand as the body of the narrative. if st. luke had anywhere directly introduced himself--if he had said plainly that he, the writer who was addressing theophilus, had personally joined st. paul, and in that part of his story was relating what he had seen and heard, there would be no room for uncertainty. but, so far as we know, there is no other instance in literature of a change of person introduced abruptly without explanation. the whole book is less a connected history than a series of episodes and fragments of the proceedings of the apostles; and it is to be noticed that the account of st. paul's conversion, as given in its place in the first part of the narrative, differs in one material point from the second account given later in the part which was unquestionably the work of one of st. paul's companions. there is a possibility--it amounts to no more, and the suggestion is thrown out for the consideration of those who are better able than this writer to judge of it--that in the gospel and the acts we have the work of a careful editor of the second century. towards the close of that century a prominent actor in the great movement which gave their present authority to the four gospels was theophilus, bishop of antioch; he it was who brought them together, incorporated into a single work--_in unum opus_; and it may be, after all, that in him we have the long-sought person to whom st. luke was writing; that the gospel which we now possess was compiled at his desire out of other imperfect gospels in use in the different churches; and that it formed a part of his scheme to supersede them by an account more exhaustive, complete, and satisfactory. to this hypothesis indeed there is an answer which if valid at all is absolutely fatal. we are told that although the names of the writers of the gospels may not be mentioned until a comparatively late period, yet that the gospels themselves can be shown to have existed, because they are habitually quoted in the authentic writings of the earliest of the fathers. if this be so, the slightness of the historical thread is of little moment, and we may rest safely on the solid ground of so conclusive a fact. but is it so? that the early fathers quoted some accounts of our lord's life is abundantly clear; but did they quote these? we proceed to examine this question--again tentatively only--we do but put forward certain considerations on which we ask for fuller information. if any one of the primitive christian writers was likely to have been acquainted with the authentic writings of the evangelists, that one was indisputably justin martyr. born in palestine in the year , justin martyr lived to the age of seventy-six; he travelled over the roman world as a missionary; and intellectually he was more than on a level with most educated oriental christians. he was the first distinctly controversial writer which the church produced; and the great facts of the gospel history were obviously as well known to him as they are to ourselves. there are no traces in his writings of an acquaintance with anything peculiar either to st. john or st. mark; but there are extracts in abundance often identical with and generally nearly resembling passages in st. matthew and st. luke. thus at first sight it would be difficult to doubt that with these two gospels at least he was intimately familiar. and yet in all his citations there is this peculiarity, that justin martyr never speaks of either of the evangelists by name; he quotes or seems to quote invariably from something which he calls [greek: apomnêmoneumata tôn apostolôn], or 'memoirs of the apostles.' it is no usual habit of his to describe his authorities vaguely: when he quotes the apocalypse he names st. john; when he refers to a prophet he specifies isaiah, jeremiah, or daniel. why, unless there was some particular reason for it, should he use so singular an expression whenever he alludes to the sacred history of the new testament? why, if he knew the names of the evangelists, did he never mention them even by accident? nor is this the only singularity in justin martyr's quotations. there are those slight differences between them and the text of the gospels which appear between the gospels themselves. when we compare an extract in justin with the parallel passage in st. matthew, we find often that it differs from st. matthew just as st. matthew differs from st. luke, or both from st. mark--great verbal similarity--many paragraphs agreeing word for word--and then other paragraphs where there is an alteration of expression, tense, order, or arrangement. again, just as in the midst of the general resemblance between the synoptical gospels, each evangelist has something of his own which is not to be found in the others, so in these 'memoirs of the apostles' there are facts unknown to either of the evangelists. in the account extracted by justin from 'the memoirs,' of the baptism in the jordan, the words heard from heaven are not as st. matthew gives them--'thou art my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased'--but the words of the psalm, 'thou art my son, this day have i begotten thee;' a reading which, singularly enough, was to be found in the gospel of the ebionites. another curious addition to the same scene is in the words [greek: kai pur anêphthê en iordanê], 'and a fire was kindled in jordan.' again, justin martyr speaks of our lord having promised 'to clothe us with garments made ready for us if we keep his commandments'--[greek: kai aiônion basileian pronoêsai]--whatever those words may precisely mean. these and other peculiarities in justin may be explained if we suppose him to have been quoting from memory. the evangelical text might not as yet have acquired its verbal sanctity; and as a native of palestine he might well have been acquainted with other traditions which lay outside the written word. the silence as to names, however, remains unexplained; and as the facts actually stand there is the same kind of proof, and no more, that justin martyr was acquainted with st. matthew and st. luke as there is that one of these evangelists made extracts from the other, or both from st. mark. so long as one set of commentators decline to recognise the truth of this relation between the gospels, there will be others who with as much justice will dispute the relation of justin to them. he too might have used another gospel, which, though like them, was not identical with them. after justin martyr's death, about the year , appeared tatian's 'diatessaron,' a work which, as its title implies, was a harmony of four gospels, and most likely of _the_ four; yet again not exactly as we have them. tatian's harmony, like so many others of the early evangelical histories, was silent on the miraculous birth, and commenced only with the public ministration. the text was in other places different, so much so that theodoret accuses tatian of having mutilated the gospels; but of this theodoret had probably no better means of judging than we have. the 'diatessaron' has been long lost, and the name is the only clue to its composition. of far more importance than either justin or tatian are such writings as remain of the immediate successors of the apostles--barnabas, clement of rome, polycarp, and ignatius: it is asserted confidently that in these there are quotations from the gospels so exact that they cannot be mistaken. we will examine them one by one. in an epistle of barnabas there is one passage--it is the only one of the kind to be found in him--agreeing word for word with the synoptical gospels, 'i came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.' it is one of the many passages in which the greek of the three evangelists is exactly the same; it was to be found also in justin's 'memoirs;' and there can be no doubt that barnabas either knew those gospels or else the common source--if common source there was--from which the evangelists borrowed. more than this such a quotation does not enable us to say; and till some satisfactory explanation has been offered of the agreement between the evangelists, the argument can advance no further. on the other hand, barnabas like st. paul had other sources from which he drew his knowledge of our lord's words. he too ascribes words to him which are not recorded by the evangelists, [greek: houtô phêsin iêsous; hoi thelontes me idein kai hapsasthai mou tês basileias opheilousi thlibentes kai pathontes labein me]. the thought is everywhere in the gospels, the words nowhere, nor anything like them. both ignatius and polycarp appear to quote the gospels, yet with them also there is the same uncertainty; while ignatius quotes as genuine an expression which, so far as we know, was peculiar to a translation of the gospel of the ebionites--'handle me and see, for i am not a spirit without body,' [greek: hoti ouk eimi daimonion asômaton]. clement's quotations are still more free, for clement nowhere quotes the text of the evangelists exactly as it at present stands; often he approaches it extremely close; at times the agreement is rather in meaning than words, as if he were translating from another language. but again clement more noticeably than either of the other apostolic fathers cites expressions of our lord of which the evangelists knew nothing. for instance-- 'the lord saith, "if ye be with me gathered into my bosom, and do not after my commandments, i will cast you off, and i will say unto you, depart from me, i know you not, ye workers of iniquity."' and again:-- 'the lord said, "ye shall be as sheep in the midst of wolves." peter answered and said unto him, "will the wolves then tear the sheep?" jesus said unto peter, "the sheep need not fear the wolves after they (the sheep) be dead: and fear not ye those who kill you and can do nothing to you; but fear him who after you be dead hath power over soul and body to cast them into hell-fire."' in these words we seem to have the lost link in a passage which appears in a different connection in st. matthew and st. luke. it may be said, as with justin martyr, that clement was quoting from memory in the sense rather than in the letter; although even so it is difficult to suppose that he could have invented an interlocution of st. peter. yet no hypothesis will explain the most strange words which follow:-- 'the lord being asked when his kingdom should come, said, "when two shall be one, and that which is without as that which is within, and the male with the female neither male nor female."' it is needless to say how remote are such expressions as these from any which have come down to us through the evangelists; but they were no inventions of clement. the passage reappears later in clement of alexandria, who found it in something which he called the gospel of the egyptians. it will be urged that because clement quoted other authorities beside the evangelists, it does not follow that he did not know and quote from them. if the citation of a passage which appears in almost the same words in another book is not to be accepted as a proof of an acquaintance with that book, we make it impossible, it may be said, to prove from quotations at all the fact of any book's existence. but this is not the case. if a father, in relating an event which is told variously in the synoptical gospels, had followed one of them minutely in its verbal peculiarities, it would go far to prove that he was acquainted with that one; if the same thing was observed in all his quotations, the proof would amount to demonstration. if he agreed minutely in one place with one gospel, minutely in a second with another, minutely in a third with another, there would be reason to believe that he was acquainted with them all; but when he merely relates what they also relate in language which approaches theirs and yet differs from it, as they also resemble yet differ from one another, we do not escape from the circle of uncertainty, and we conclude either that the early fathers made quotations with a looseness irreconcileable with the idea that the language of the gospels possessed any verbal sacredness to them, or that there were in their times other narratives of our lord's life standing in the same relation to the three gospels as st. matthew stands to st. mark and st. luke. thus the problem returns upon us; and it might almost seem as if the explanation was laid purposely beyond our reach. we are driven back upon internal criticism; and we have to ask again what account is to be given of that element common to the synoptical gospels, common also to those other gospels of which we find traces so distinct--those verbal resemblances, too close to be the effect of accident--those differences which forbid the supposition that the evangelists copied one another. so many are those common passages, that if all which is peculiar to each evangelist by himself were dropped, if those words and those actions only were retained which either all three or two at least share together, the figure of our lord from his baptism to his ascension would remain with scarcely impaired majesty. one hypothesis, and so far as we can see one only, would make the mystery intelligible, that immediately on the close of our lord's life some original sketch of it was drawn up by the congregation, which gradually grew and gathered round it whatever his mother, his relations, or his disciples afterwards individually might contribute. this primary history would thus not be the work of any one mind or man; it would be the joint work of the church, and thus might well be called 'memoirs of the apostles;' and would naturally be quoted without the name of either one of them being specially attached to it. as christianity spread over the world, and separate churches were founded by particular apostles, copies would be multiplied, and copies of those copies; and, unchecked by the presence (before the invention of printing impossible) of any authoritative text, changes would creep in--passages would be left out which did not suit the peculiar views of this or that sect; others would be added as this or that apostle recollected something which our lord had said that bore on questions raised in the development of the creed. two great divisions would form themselves between the jewish and the gentile churches; there would be a hebrew gospel and a greek gospel, and the hebrew would be translated into greek, as papias says st. matthew's gospel was. eventually the confusion would become intolerable; and among the conflicting stories the church would have been called on to make its formal choice. this fact at least is certain from st. luke's words, that at the time when he was writing many different narratives did actually exist. the hypothesis of a common origin for them has as yet found little favour with english theologians; yet rather perhaps because it would be inconvenient for certain peculiar forms of english thought than because it has not probability on its side. that the synoptical gospels should have been a natural growth rather than the special and independent work of three separate writers, would be unfavourable to a divinity which has built itself up upon particular texts, and has been more concerned with doctrinal polemics than with the broader basements of historic truth. yet the text theory suffers equally from the mode in which the first fathers treated the gospels, if it were these gospels indeed which they used. they at least could have attributed no importance to words and phrases; while again, as we said before, a narrative dating from the cradle of christianity, with the testimony in its favour of such broad and deep reception, would, however wanting in some details, be an evidence of the truth of the main facts of the gospel history very much stronger than that of three books composed we know not when, and the origin of which it is impossible to trace, which it is impossible to regard as independent, and the writers of which in any other view of them must be assumed to have borrowed from each other. but the object of this article is not to press either this or any other theory; it is but to ask from those who are able to give it an answer to the most serious of questions. the truth of the gospel history is now more widely doubted in europe than at any time since the conversion of constantine. every thinking person who has been brought up a christian and desires to remain a christian, yet who knows anything of what is passing in the world, is looking to be told on what evidence the new testament claims to be received. the state of opinion proves of itself that the arguments hitherto offered produce no conviction. every other miraculous history is discredited as legend, however exalted the authority on which it seems to be rested. we crave to have good reason shown us for maintaining still the one great exception. hard worked in other professions, and snatching with difficulty sufficient leisure to learn how complicated is the problem, the laity can but turn to those for assistance who are set apart and maintained as their theological trustees. we can but hope and pray that some one may be found to give us an edition of the gospels in which the difficulties will neither be slurred over with convenient neglect or noticed with affected indifference. it may or may not be a road to a bishopric; it may or may not win the favour of the religious world; but it will earn at least the respectful gratitude of those who cannot trifle with holy things, and who believe that true religion is the service of truth. the last words were scarcely written when an advertisement appeared, the importance of which can scarcely be over-estimated. a commentary is announced on the old and new testaments, to be composed with a view to what are called the 'misrepresentations' of modern criticism. it is to be brought out under the direction of the heads of the church, and is the nearest approach to an official act in these great matters which they have ventured for two hundred years. it is not for us to anticipate the result. the word 'misrepresentations' is unfortunate; we should have augured better for the work if instead of it had been written 'the sincere perplexities of honest minds.' but the execution may be better than the promise. if these perplexities are encountered honourably and successfully, the church may recover its supremacy over the intellect of the country; if otherwise, the archbishop who has taken the command will have steered the vessel direct upon the rocks. footnotes: [e] _fraser's magazine_, . [f] i do not speak of individuals; i speak of _tendency_. the book of job.[g] it will be matter some day of curious enquiry to ascertain why, notwithstanding the high reverence with which the english people regard the bible, they have done so little in comparison with their continental contemporaries towards arriving at a proper understanding of it. the books named below[h] form but a section of a long list which has appeared during the last few years in germany on the book of job alone; and this book has not received any larger share of attention than the others, either of the old or the new testament. whatever be the nature or the origin of these books (and on this point there is much difference of opinion among the germans as among ourselves) they are all agreed, orthodox and unorthodox, that at least we should endeavour to understand them; and that no efforts can be too great, either of research or criticism, to discover their history, or elucidate their meaning. we shall assent, doubtless, eagerly, perhaps noisily and indignantly, to so obvious a truism; but our own efforts in the same direction will not bear us out. able men in england employ themselves in matters of a more practical character; and while we refuse to avail ourselves of what has been done elsewhere, no book, or books, which we produce on the interpretation of scripture acquire more than a partial or an ephemeral reputation. the most important contribution to our knowledge on this subject which has been made in these recent years is the translation of the 'library of the fathers,' by which it is about as rational to suppose that the analytical criticism of modern times can be superseded, as that the place of herman and dindorf could be supplied by an edition of the old scholiasts. it is, indeed, reasonable that as long as we are persuaded that our english theory of the bible, as a whole, is the right one, we should shrink from contact with investigations which, however ingenious in themselves, are based on what we know to be a false foundation. but there are some learned germans whose orthodoxy would pass examination at exeter hall; and there are many subjects, such, for instance, as the present, on which all their able men are agreed in conclusions that cannot rationally give offence to any one. with the book of job, analytical criticism has only served to clear up the uncertainties which have hitherto always hung about it. it is now considered to be, beyond all doubt, a genuine hebrew original, completed by its writer almost in the form in which it now remains to us. the questions on the authenticity of the prologue and epilogue, which once were thought important, have given way before a more sound conception of the dramatic unity of the entire poem; and the volumes before us contain merely an enquiry into its meaning, bringing, at the same time, all the resources of modern scholarship and historical and mythological research to bear upon the obscurity of separate passages. it is the most difficult of all the hebrew compositions--many words occurring in it, and many thoughts, not to be found elsewhere in the bible. how difficult our translators found it may be seen by the number of words which they were obliged to insert in italics, and the doubtful renderings which they have suggested in the margin. one instance of this, in passing, we will notice in this place--it will be familiar to every one as the passage quoted at the opening of the english burial service, and adduced as one of the doctrinal proofs of the resurrection of the body:--'i know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter _day_ upon the earth; and _though_, after my skin _worms_ destroy this _body_, yet in my flesh i shall see god.' so this passage stands in the ordinary version. but the words in italics have nothing answering to them in the original--they were all added by the translators[i] to fill out their interpretation; and for _in my flesh_, they tell us themselves in the margin that we may read (and, in fact, we ought to read, and must read) '_out of_,' or _'without' my flesh_. it is but to write out the verses, omitting the conjectural additions, and making that one small but vital correction, to see how frail a support is there for so large a conclusion: 'i know that my redeemer liveth, and shall stand at the latter       upon the earth; and after my skin       destroy this       ; yet without my flesh i shall see god.' if there is any doctrine of a resurrection here, it is a resurrection precisely _not_ of the body, but of the spirit. and now let us only add, that the word translated redeemer is the technical expression for the 'avenger of blood;' and that the second paragraph ought to be rendered--'and one to come after me (my next of kin, to whom the avenging my injuries belongs) shall stand upon my dust,' and we shall see how much was to be done towards the mere exegesis of the text. this is an extreme instance, and no one will question the general beauty and majesty of our translation; but there are many mythical and physical allusions scattered over the poem, which, in the sixteenth century, there were positively no means of understanding; and perhaps, too, there were mental tendencies in the translators themselves which prevented them from adequately apprehending even the drift and spirit of the composition. the form of the story was too stringent to allow such tendencies any latitude; but they appear, from time to time, sufficiently to produce serious confusion. with these recent assistances, therefore, we propose to say something of the nature of this extraordinary book--a book of which it is to say little to call it unequalled of its kind, and which will one day, perhaps, when it is allowed to stand on its own merits, be seen towering up alone, far away above all the poetry of the world. how it found its way into the canon, smiting as it does through and through the most deeply-seated jewish prejudices, is the chief difficulty about it now; to be explained only by a traditional acceptance among the sacred books, dating back from the old times of the national greatness, when the minds of the people were hewn in a larger type than was to be found among the pharisees of the great synagogue. but its authorship, its date, and its history, are alike a mystery to us; it existed at the time when the canon was composed; and this is all that we know beyond what we can gather out of the language and contents of the poem itself. before going further, however, we must make room for a few remarks of a very general kind. let it have been written when it would, it marks a period in which the religious convictions of thinking men were passing through a vast crisis; and we shall not understand it without having before us clearly something of the conditions which periods of such a kind always and necessarily exhibit. the history of religious speculation appears in extreme outline to have been of the following character. we may conceive mankind to have been originally launched into the universe with no knowledge either of themselves or of the scene in which they were placed; with no actual knowledge, but distinguished from the rest of the creation by a faculty of gaining knowledge; and first unconsciously, and afterwards consciously and laboriously, to have commenced that long series of experience and observation which has accumulated in thousands of years to what we now see around us. limited on all sides by conditions which they must have felt to be none of their own imposing, and finding everywhere forces working, over which they had no control, the fear which they would naturally entertain of these invisible and mighty agents assumed, under the direction of an idea which we may perhaps call inborn and inherent in human nature, a more generous character of reverence and awe. the laws of the outer world, as they discovered them, they regarded as the decrees, or as the immediate energies of personal beings; and as knowledge grew up among them, they looked upon it, not as knowledge of nature, but of god, or the gods. all early paganism appears, on careful examination, to have arisen out of a consecration of the first rudiments of physical or speculative science. the twelve labours of hercules are the labours of the sun, of which hercules is an old name, through the twelve signs. chronos, or _time_, being measured by the apparent motion of the heavens, is figured as their child; time, the universal parent, devours its own offspring, yet is again itself, in the high faith of a human soul conscious of its power and its endurance, supposed to be baffled and dethroned by zeus, or _life_; and so on through all the elaborate theogonies of greece and egypt. they are no more than real insight into real phenomena, allegorised as time went on, elaborated by fancy, or idealised by imagination, but never losing their original character. thus paganism, in its very nature, was expansive, self-developing, and, as mr. hume observed, tolerant; a new god was welcomed to the pantheon as a new scientific discovery is welcomed by the royal society; and the various nations found no difficulty in interchanging their divinities--a new god either representing a new power not hitherto discovered, or one with which they were already familiar under a new name. with such a power of adaptation and enlargement, if there had been nothing more in it than this, such a system might have gone on accommodating itself to the change of times, and keeping pace with the growth of human character. already in its later forms, as the unity of nature was more clearly observed, and the identity of nature throughout the known world, the separate powers were subordinating themselves to a single supreme king; and, as the poets had originally personified the elemental forces, the thinkers were reversing the earlier process, and discovering the law under the person. happily or unhappily, however, what they could do for themselves they could not do for the multitude. phoebus and aphrodite had been made too human to be allegorised. humanised, and yet, we may say, only half-humanised, retaining their purely physical nature, and without any proper moral attribute at all, these gods and goddesses remained to the many examples of sensuality made beautiful; and, as soon as right and wrong came to have a meaning, it was impossible to worship any more these idealised despisers of it. the human caprices and passions which served at first to deepen the illusion, justly revenged themselves; paganism became a lie, and perished. in the meantime, the jews (and perhaps some other nations, but the jews chiefly and principally) had been moving forward along a road wholly different. breaking early away from the gods of nature, they advanced along the line of their moral consciousness; and leaving the nations to study physics, philosophy, and art, they confined themselves to man and to human life. their theology grew up round the knowledge of good and evil, and god, with them, was the supreme lord of the world, who stood towards man in the relation of a ruler and a judge. holding such a faith, to them the toleration of paganism was an impossibility; the laws of nature might be many, but the law of conduct was one; there was one law and one king; and the conditions under which he governed the world, as embodied in the decalogue or other similar code, were looked upon as iron and inflexible certainties, unalterable revelations of the will of an unalterable being. so far there was little in common between this process and the other; but it was identical with it in this one important feature, that moral knowledge, like physical, admitted of degrees; and the successive steps of it were only purchasable by experience. the dispensation of the law, in the language of modern theology, was not the dispensation of grace, and the nature of good and evil disclosed itself slowly as men were able to comprehend it. thus, no system of law or articles of belief were or could be complete and exhaustive for all time. experience accumulates; new facts are observed, new forces display themselves, and all such formulæ must necessarily be from period to period broken up and moulded afresh. and yet the steps already gained are a treasure so sacred, so liable are they at all times to be attacked by those lower and baser elements in our nature which it is their business to hold in check, that the better part of mankind have at all times practically regarded their creed as a sacred total to which nothing may be added, and from which nothing may be taken away; the suggestion of a new idea is resented as an encroachment, punished as an insidious piece of treason, and resisted by the combined forces of all common practical understandings, which know too well the value of what they have, to risk the venture upon untried change. periods of religious transition, therefore, when the advance has been a real one, always have been violent, and probably will always continue to be so. they to whom the precious gift of fresh light has been given are called upon to exhibit their credentials as teachers in suffering for it. they, and those who oppose them, have alike a sacred cause; and the fearful spectacle arises of earnest, vehement men contending against each other as for their own souls, in fiery struggle. persecutions come, and martyrdoms, and religions wars; and, at last, the old faith, like the phoenix, expires upon its altar, and the new rises out of the ashes. such, in briefest outline, has been the history of religions, natural and moral; the first, indeed, being in no proper sense a religion at all, as we understand religion; and only assuming the character of it in the minds of great men whose moral sense had raised them beyond their time and country, and who, feeling the necessity of a real creed, with an effort and with indifferent success, endeavoured to express, under the systems which they found, emotions which had no proper place in them. of the transition periods which we have described as taking place under the religion which we call moral, the first known to us is marked at its opening by the appearance of the book of job, the first fierce collision of the new fact with the formula which will not stretch to cover it. the earliest phenomenon likely to be observed connected with the moral government of the world is the general one, that on the whole, as things are constituted, good men prosper and are happy, bad men fail and are miserable. the cause of such a condition is no mystery, and lies very near the surface. as soon as men combine in society, they are forced to obey certain laws under which alone society is possible, and these laws, even in their rudest form, approach the laws of conscience. to a certain extent, every one is obliged to sacrifice his private inclinations; and those who refuse to do so are punished, or are crushed. if society were perfect, the imperfect tendency would carry itself out till the two sets of laws were identical; but perfection so far has been only in utopia, and, as far as we can judge by experience hitherto, they have approximated most nearly in the simplest and most rudimentary forms of life. under the systems which we call patriarchal, the modern distinction between sins and crimes had no existence. all gross sins were offences against society, as it then was constituted, and, wherever it was possible, were punished as being so; chicanery and those subtle advantages which the acute and unscrupulous can take over the simple, without open breach of enacted statutes, became only possible under the complications of more artificial polities; and the oppression or injury of man by man was open, violent, obvious, and therefore easily understood. doubtless, therefore, in such a state of things it would, on the whole, be true to experience that, judging merely by outward prosperity or the reverse, good and bad men would be rewarded and punished as such in this actual world; so far, that is, as the administration of such rewards and punishments was left in the power of mankind. but theology could not content itself with general tendencies. theological propositions then, as much as now, were held to be absolute, universal, admitting of no exceptions, and explaining every phenomenon. superficial generalisations were construed into immutable decrees; the god of this world was just and righteous, and temporal prosperity or wretchedness were dealt out by him immediately by his own will to his subjects according to their behaviour. thus the same disposition towards completeness which was the ruin of paganism, here, too, was found generating the same evils; the half truth rounding itself out with falsehoods. not only the consequences of ill actions which followed through themselves, but the accidents, as we call them, of nature--earthquakes, storms, and pestilences--were the ministers of god's justice, and struck sinners only with discriminating accuracy. that the sun should shine alike on the evil and the good was a creed too high for the early divines, or that the victims of a fallen tower were no greater offenders than their neighbours. the conceptions of such men could not pass beyond the outward temporal consequence; and if god's hand was not there it was nowhere. we might have expected that such a theory of things could not long resist the accumulated contradictions of experience; but the same experience shows also what a marvellous power is in us of thrusting aside phenomena which interfere with our cherished convictions; and when such convictions are consecrated into a creed which it is a sacred duty to believe, experience is but like water dropping upon a rock, which wears it away, indeed, at last, but only in thousands of years. this theory was and is the central idea of the jewish polity, the obstinate toughness of which has been the perplexity of gentiles and christians from the first dawn of its existence; it lingers among ourselves in our liturgy and in the popular belief; and in spite of the emphatic censure of him after whose name we call ourselves, is still the instant interpreter for us of any unusual calamity, a potato blight, a famine, or an epidemic: such vitality is there in a moral faith, though now, at any rate, contradicted by the experience of all mankind, and at issue even with christianity itself. at what period in the world's history misgivings about it began to show themselves it is now impossible to say; it was at the close, probably, of the patriarchal period, when men who really _thought_ must have found the ground palpably shaking under them. indications of such misgivings are to be found in the psalms, those especially passing under the name of asaph; and all through ecclesiastes there breathes a spirit of deepest and saddest scepticism. but asaph thrusts his doubts aside, and forces himself back into his old position; and the scepticism of ecclesiastes is confessedly that of a man who had gone wandering after enjoyment; searching after pleasures--pleasures of sense and pleasures of intellect--and who, at last, bears reluctant testimony that, by such methods, no pleasures can be found which will endure; that he had squandered the power which might have been used for better things, and had only strength remaining to tell his own sad tale as a warning to mankind. there is nothing in ecclesiastes like the misgivings of a noble nature. the writer's own personal happiness had been all for which he had cared; he had failed, as all men gifted as he was gifted are sure to fail, and the lights of heaven were extinguished by the disappointment with which his own spirit had been clouded. utterly different from these, both in character and in the lesson which it teaches, is the book of job. of unknown date, as we said, and unknown authorship, the language impregnated with strange idioms and strange allusions, un-jewish in form, and in fiercest hostility with judaism, it hovers like a meteor over the old hebrew literature, in it, but not of it, compelling the acknowledgment of itself by its own internal majesty, yet exerting no influence over the minds of the people, never alluded to, and scarcely ever quoted, till at last the light which it had heralded rose up full over the world in christianity. the conjectures which have been formed upon the date of this book are so various, that they show of themselves on how slight a foundation the best of them must rest. the language is no guide, for although unquestionably of hebrew origin, the poem bears no analogy to any of the other books in the bible; while of its external history nothing is known at all, except that it was received into the canon at the time of the great synagogue. ewald decides, with some confidence, that it belongs to the great prophetic period, and that the writer was a contemporary of jeremiah. ewald is a high authority in these matters, and this opinion is the one which we believe is now commonly received among biblical scholars. in the absence of proof, however (and the reasons which he brings forward are really no more than conjectures), these opposite considerations may be of moment. it is only natural that at first thought we should ascribe the grandest poem in a literature to the time at which the poetry of the nation to which it belongs was generally at its best; but, on reflection, the time when the poetry of prophecy is the richest, is not likely to be favourable to compositions of another kind. the prophets wrote in an era of decrepitude, dissolution, sin, and shame, when the glory of israel was falling round them into ruin, and their mission, glowing as they were with the ancient spirit, was to rebuke, to warn, to threaten, and to promise. finding themselves too late to save, and only, like cassandra, despised and disregarded, their voices rise up singing the swan song of a dying people, now falling away in the wild wailing of despondency over the shameful and desperate present, now swelling in triumphant hope that god will not leave them for ever, and in his own time will take his chosen to himself again. but such a period is an ill occasion for searching into the broad problems of human destiny; the present is all-important and all-absorbing; and such a book as that of job could have arisen only out of an isolation of mind, and life, and interest, which we cannot conceive of as possible under such conditions. the more it is studied, the more the conclusion forces itself upon us that, let the writer have lived when he would, in his struggle with the central falsehood of his own people's creed, he must have divorced himself from them outwardly as well as inwardly; that he travelled away into the world, and lived long, perhaps all his matured life, in exile. everything about the book speaks of a person who had broken free from the narrow littleness of 'the peculiar people.' the language, as we said, is full of strange words. the hero of the poem is of strange land and parentage--a gentile certainly, not a jew. the life, the manners, the customs are of all varieties and places--egypt, with its river and its pyramids, is there; the description of mining points to phoenicia; the settled life in cities, the nomad arabs, the wandering caravans, the heat of the tropics, and the ice of the north, all are foreign to canaan, speaking of foreign things and foreign people. no mention, or hint of mention, is there throughout the poem of jewish traditions or jewish certainties. we look to find the three friends vindicate themselves, as they so well might have done, by appeals to the fertile annals of israel, to the flood, to the cities of the plain, to the plagues of egypt, or the thunders of sinai. but of all this there is not a word; they are passed by as if they had no existence; and instead of them, when witnesses are required for the power of god, we have strange un-hebrew stories of the eastern astronomic mythology, the old wars of the giants, the imprisoned orion, the wounded dragon, 'the sweet influences of the seven stars,' and the glittering fragments of the sea-snake rahab[j] trailing across the northern sky. again, god is not the god of israel, but the father of mankind; we hear nothing of a chosen people, nothing of a special revelation, nothing of peculiar privileges; and in the court of heaven there is a satan, not the prince of this world and the enemy of god, but the angel of judgment, the accusing spirit whose mission was to walk to and fro over the earth, and carry up to heaven an account of the sins of mankind. we cannot believe that thoughts of this kind arose out of jerusalem in the days of josiah. in this book, if anywhere, we have the record of some [greek: anêr polutropos] who, like the old hero of ithaca, [greek: pollôn anthrôpôn iden astea kai noon egnô, polla d' hog' en pontô pathen algea hon kata thumon, arnumenos psuchên.... ] but the scenes, the names, and the incidents, are all contrived as if to baffle curiosity--as if, in the very form of the poem, to teach us that it is no story of a single thing which happened once, but that it belongs to humanity itself, and is the drama of the trial of man, with almighty god and the angels as the spectators of it. no reader can have failed to have been struck with the simplicity of the opening. still, calm, and most majestic, it tells us everything which is necessary to be known in the fewest possible words. the history of job was probably a tradition in the east; his name, like that of priam in greece, the symbol of fallen greatness, and his misfortunes the problem of philosophers. in keeping with the current belief, he is described as a model of excellence, the most perfect and upright man upon the earth, 'and the same was the greatest man in all the east.' so far, greatness and goodness had gone hand in hand together, as the popular theory required. the details of his character are brought out in the progress of the poem. he was 'the father of the oppressed, and of those who had none to help them.' when he sat as a judge in the market-places, 'righteousness clothed him' there, and 'his justice was a robe and a diadem.' he 'broke the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of his teeth;' and, humble in the midst of his power, he 'did not despise the cause of his manservant, or his maidservant, when they contended with him,' knowing (and amidst those old people where the multitude of mankind were regarded as the born slaves of the powerful, to be carved into eunuchs or polluted into concubines at their master's pleasure, it was no easy matter to know it)--knowing that 'he who had made him had made them,' and _one_ 'had fashioned them both in the womb.' above all, he was the friend of the poor; 'the blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon him,' and he 'made the widow's heart to sing for joy.' setting these characteristics of his daily life by the side of his unaffected piety, as it is described in the first chapter, we have a picture of the best man who could then be conceived; not a hard ascetic, living in haughty or cowardly isolation, but a warm figure of flesh and blood, a man full of all human loveliness, and to whom, that no room might be left for any possible calvinistic falsehood, god himself bears the emphatic testimony, that 'there was none like him upon the earth, a perfect and upright man, who feared god and eschewed evil.' if such a person as this, therefore, could be made miserable, necessarily the current belief of the jews was false to the root; and tradition furnished the fact that he had been visited by every worst calamity. how was it then to be accounted for? out of a thousand possible explanations, the poet introduces a single one. he admits us behind the veil which covers the ways of providence, and we hear the accusing angel charging job with an interested piety, and of being obedient because it was his policy. 'job does not serve god for nought,' he says; 'strip him of his splendour, and see if he will care for god then. humble him into poverty and wretchedness, so only we shall know what is in his heart.' the cause thus introduced is itself a rebuke to the belief which, with its 'rewards and punishments,' immediately fostered selfishness; and the poem opens with a double action, on one side to try the question whether it is possible for man to love god disinterestedly--the issue of which trial is not foreseen or even foretold, and we watch the progress of it with an anxious and fearful interest; on the other side, to bring out, in contrast to the truth which we already know, the cruel falsehood of the popular faith--to show how, instead of leading men to mercy and affection, it hardens their heart, narrows their sympathies, and enhances the trials of the sufferer, by refinements which even satan had not anticipated. the combination of evils, as blow falls on blow, suddenly, swiftly, and terribly, has all the appearance of a purposed visitation (as indeed it was); if ever outward incidents might with justice be interpreted as the immediate action of providence, those which fell on job might be so interpreted. the world turns disdainfully from the fallen in the world's way; but far worse than this, his chosen friends, wise, good, pious men, as wisdom and piety were then, without one glimpse of the true cause of his sufferings, see in them a judgment upon his secret sins. he becomes to them an illustration, and even (such are the paralogisms of men of this description) a proof of their theory that 'the prosperity of the wicked is but for a while;' and instead of the comfort and help which they might have brought him, and which in the end they were made to bring him, he is to them no more than a text for the enunciation of solemn falsehood. and even worse again, the sufferer himself had been educated in the same creed; he, too, had been taught to see the hand of god in the outward dispensation; and feeling from the bottom of his heart, that he, in his own case, was a sure contradiction of what he had learnt to believe, he himself finds his very faith in god shaken from its foundation. the worst evils which satan had devised were distanced far by those which had been created by human folly. the creed in which job had believed was tried and found wanting, and, as it ever will be when the facts of experience come in contact with the inadequate formula, the true is found so mingled with the false, that they can hardly be disentangled, and are in danger of being swept away together. a studied respect is shown, however, to orthodoxy, even while it is arraigned for judgment. it may be doubtful whether the writer purposely intended it. he probably cared only to tell the real truth; to say for the old theory the best which could be said, and to produce as its defenders the best and wisest men whom in his experience he had known to believe and defend it. at any rate, he represents the three friends, not as a weaker person would have represented them, as foolish, obstinate bigots, but as wise, humane, and almost great men, who, at the outset, at least, are animated only by the kindest feelings, and speak what they have to say with the most earnest conviction that it is true. job is vehement, desperate, reckless. his language is the wild, natural outpouring of suffering. the friends, true to the eternal nature of man, are grave, solemn, and indignant, preaching their half truth, and mistaken only in supposing that it is the whole; speaking, as all such persons would speak and still do speak, in defending what they consider sacred truth against the assaults of folly and scepticism. how beautiful is their first introduction:-- 'now when job's three friends heard of all this evil which was come upon him, they came every one from his own place; eliphaz the temanite, and bildad the shuhite, and zophar the naamathite: for they had made an appointment together to come to mourn with him and to comfort him. and when they lifted up their eyes afar off, and knew him not, they lifted up their voice and wept, and they rent every one his mantle, and sprinkled dust upon their heads towards heaven. so they sat down with him upon the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him, for they saw that his grief was very great.' what a picture is there! what majestic tenderness! his wife had scoffed at his faith, bidding him 'leave god and die.' 'his acquaintance had turned from him.' he 'had called his servant, and he had given him no answer.' even the children, in their unconscious cruelty, had gathered round and mocked him as he lay among the ashes. but 'his friends sprinkle dust towards heaven, and sit silently by him, and weep for him seven days and seven nights upon the ground.' that is, they were true-hearted, truly loving, devout, religious men; and yet they, with their religion, were to become the instruments of the most poignant sufferings, the sharpest temptations, which he had to endure. so it was, and is, and will be--of such materials is this human life of ours composed. and now, remembering the double action of the drama--the actual trial of job, the result of which is uncertain; and the delusion of these men, which is, at the outset, certain--let us go rapidly through the dialogue. satan's share in the temptation had already been overcome. lying sick in the loathsome disease which had been sent upon him, his wife, in satan's own words, had tempted job to say, 'farewell to god,'--think no more of god or goodness, since this was all which came of it; and job had told her that she spoke as one of the foolish women. he 'had received good at the hand of the lord, and should he not receive evil?' but now, when real love and real affection appear, his heart melts in him; he loses his forced self-composure, and bursts into a passionate regret that he had ever been born. in the agony of his sufferings, hope of better things had died away. he does not complain of injustice; as yet, and before his friends have stung and wounded him, he makes no questioning of providence,--but why was life given to him at all, if only for this? sick in mind, and sick in body, but one wish remains to him, that death will come quickly and end all. it is a cry from the very depths of a single and simple heart. but for such simplicity and singleness his friends could not give him credit; possessed beforehand with their idea, they see in his misery only a fatal witness against him; such calamities could not have befallen a man, the justice of god would not have permitted it, unless they had been deserved. job had sinned and he had suffered, and this wild passion was but impenitence and rebellion. being as certain that they were right in this opinion as they were that god himself existed, that they should speak what they felt was only natural and necessary; and their language at the outset is, all which would be dictated by the tenderest sympathy. eliphaz opens, the oldest and most important of the three, in a soft, subdued, suggestive strain, contriving in every way to spare the feelings of the sufferer, to the extreme to which his love will allow him. all is general, impersonal, indirect,--the rule of the world, the order of providence. he does not accuse job, but he describes his calamities, and leaves him to gather for himself the occasion which had produced them; and then passes off, as if further to soften the blow, to the mysterious vision in which the infirmity of mortal nature had been revealed to him, the universal weakness which involved both the certainty that job had shared in it, and the excuse for him, if he would confess and humble himself: the blessed virtue of repentance follows, and the promise that all shall be well. this is the note on which each of the friends strikes successively, in the first of the three divisions into which the dialogue divides itself, but each with increasing peremptoriness and confidence, as job, so far from accepting their interpretation of what had befallen him, hurls it from him in anger and disdain. let us observe (and the calvinists should consider this), he will hear as little of the charges against mankind as of charges against himself. he will not listen to the 'corruption of humanity,' because in the consciousness of his own innocency, he knows that it is not corrupt: he knows that he is himself just and good, and we know it, the divine sentence upon him having been already passed. he will not acknowledge his sin, for he knows not of what to repent. if he could have reflected calmly, he might have foreseen what they would say. he knew all that as well as they: it was the old story which he had learnt, and could repeat, if necessary, as well as anyone: and if it had been no more than a philosophical discussion, touching himself no more nearly than it touched his friends, he might have allowed for the tenacity of opinion in such matters, and listened to it and replied to it with equanimity. but, as the proverb says, 'it is ill talking between a full man and a fasting:' and in job such equanimity would have been but stoicism, or the affectation of it, and unreal as the others' theories. possessed with the certainty that he had not deserved what had befallen him, harassed with doubt, and worn out with pain and unkindness, he had assumed (and how natural that he should assume it) that those who loved him should not have been hasty to believe evil of him; he had spoken to them as he really felt, and he thought that he might have looked to them for something warmer and more sympathising than such dreary eloquence. so when the revelation comes upon him of what was passing in them, he attributes it (and now he is unjust to them) to a falsehood of heart, and not to a blindness of understanding. their sermons, so kindly intended, roll past him as a dismal mockery. they had been shocked (and how true again is this to nature) at his passionate cry for death. 'do ye reprove words?' he says, 'and the speeches of one that is desperate, which are as wind?' it was but poor friendship and narrow wisdom. he had looked to them for pity, for comfort, and love. he had longed for it as the parched caravans in the desert for the water-streams, and 'his brethren had dealt deceitfully with him.' the brooks, in the cool winter, roll in a full turbid torrent; 'what time it waxes warm they vanish, when it is hot they are consumed out of their place; the caravans of tema looked for them, the companies of sheba waited for them; they were confounded because they had hoped; they came thither, and there was nothing.' if for once these poor men could have trusted their hearts, if for once they could have believed that there might be 'more things in heaven and earth' than were dreamt of in their philosophy--but this is the one thing which they could not do, which the theologian proper never has done or will do. and thus whatever of calmness or endurance job alone, on his ash-heap, might have conquered for himself, is all scattered away; and as the strong gusts of passion sweep to and fro across his heart, he pours himself out in wild fitful music, so beautiful because so true, not answering them or their speeches, but now flinging them from him in scorn, now appealing to their mercy, or turning indignantly to god; now praying for death; now in perplexity doubting whether, in some mystic way which he cannot understand, he may not, perhaps, after all, really have sinned, and praying to be shown his fault; and then staggering further into the darkness, and breaking out into upbraidings of the power which has become so dreadful an enigma to him. 'thou enquirest after my iniquity, thou searchest after my sin, and thou knowest that i am not wicked. why didst thou bring me forth out of the womb? oh, that i had given up the ghost, and no eye had seen me. cease, let me alone. it is but a little while that i have to live. let me alone, that i may take comfort a little before i go, whence i shall not return to the land of darkness and the shadow of death.' in what other poem in the world is there pathos deep as this? with experience so stern as his, it was not for job to be calm, and self-possessed, and delicate in his words. he speaks not what he knows, but what he feels; and without fear the writer allows him to throw out his passion all genuine as it rises, not overmuch caring how nice ears might be offended, but contented to be true to the real emotion of a genuine human heart. so the poem runs on to the end of the first answer to zophar. but now, with admirable fitness, as the contest goes forward, the relative position of the speakers begins to change. hitherto, job only had been passionate; and his friends temperate and collected. now, becoming shocked at his obstinacy, and disappointed in the result of their homilies, they stray still further from the truth in an endeavour to strengthen their position, and, as a natural consequence, visibly grow angry. to them, job's vehement and desperate speeches are damning evidence of the truth of their suspicion. impiety is added to his first sin, and they begin to see in him a rebel against god. at first they had been contented to speak generally, and much which they had urged was partially true; now they step forward to a direct application, and formally and personally accuse himself. here their ground is positively false; and with delicate art it is they who are now growing violent, and wounded self-love begins to show behind their zeal for god; while in contrast to them, as there is less and less truth in what they say, job grows more and more collected. for a time it had seemed doubtful how he would endure his trial. the light of his faith was burning feebly and unsteadily; a little more, and it seemed as if it might have utterly gone out. but at last the storm was lulling; as the charges are brought personally home to him, the confidence in his own real innocence rises against them. he had before known that he was innocent; now he feels the strength which lies in innocence, as if god were beginning to reveal himself within him, to prepare the way for the after outward manifestation of himself. the friends, as before, repeat one another with but little difference; the sameness being of course intentional, as showing that they were not speaking for themselves, but as representatives of a prevailing opinion. eliphaz, again, gives the note which the others follow. hear this calvinist of the old world: 'thy own mouth condemneth thee, and thine own lips testify against thee. what is man that he should be clean, and he that is born of a woman that he should be righteous? behold, he putteth no trust in his saints; yea, the heavens are not clean in his sight; how much more abominable and filthy is man, which drinketh iniquity like water.' strange, that after all these thousands of years we should still persist in this degrading confession, as a thing which it is impious to deny and impious to attempt to render otherwise, when scripture itself, in language so emphatic, declares that it is a lie. job _is_ innocent, perfect, righteous. god himself bears witness to it. it is job who is found at last to have spoken truth, and the friends to have sinned in denying it. and he holds fast by his innocency, and with a generous confidence thrusts away the misgivings which had begun to cling to him. among his complainings he had exclaimed, that god was remembering upon him the sins of his youth--not denying them; knowing well that he, like others, had gone astray before he had learnt to control himself, but feeling that at least in an earthly father it is unjust to visit the faults of childhood on the matured man; feeling that he had long, long shaken them off from him, and they did not even impair the probity of his after-life. but now these doubts, too, pass away in the brave certainty that god is not less just than man. as the denouncings grow louder and darker, he appeals from his narrow judges to the supreme tribunal--calls on god to hear him and to try his cause--and then, in the strength of this appeal the mist rises from before his eyes. his sickness is mortal: he has no hope in life, and death is near; but the intense feeling that justice must and will be done, holds to him closer and closer. god may appear on earth for him; or if that be too bold a hope, and death finds him as he is--what is death then? god will clear his memory in the place where he lived; his injuries will be righted over his grave; while for himself, like a sudden gleam of sunlight between clouds, a clear, bright hope beams up, that he too, then, in another life, if not in this, when his skin is wasted off his bones, and the worms have done their work on the prison of his spirit, he too, at last, may then see god; may see him, and have his pleadings heard. with such a hope, or even the shadow of one, he turns back to the world again to look at it. facts against which he had before closed his eyes he allows and confronts, and he sees that his own little experience is but the reflection of a law. you tell me, he seems to say, that the good are rewarded, and that the wicked are punished; that god is just, and that this is always so. perhaps it is, or will be, but not in the way which you imagine. you have known me, you have known what my life has been; you see what i am, and it is no difficulty to you. you prefer believing that i, whom you call your friend, am a deceiver or a pretender, to admitting the possibility of the falsehood of your hypothesis. you will not listen to my assurance, and you are angry with me because i will not lie against my own soul, and acknowledge sins which i have not committed. you appeal to the course of the world in proof of your faith, and challenge me to answer you. well, then, i accept your challenge. the world is not what you say. you have told me what you have seen of it: i will tell you what i have seen. 'even while i remember i am afraid, and trembling taketh hold upon my flesh. wherefore do the wicked become old, yea, and are mighty in power? their seed is established in their sight with them, and their offspring before their eyes. their houses are safe from fear, neither is the rod of god upon them. their bull gendereth and faileth not; their cow calveth, and casteth not her calf. they send forth their little ones like a flock, and their children dance. they take the timbrel and harp, and rejoice at the sound of the organ. they spend their days in wealth, and in a moment go down into the grave. therefore they say unto god, depart from us, for we desire not the knowledge of thy ways. what is the almighty that we should serve him? and what profit should we have if we pray to him?' will you quote the weary proverb? will you say that 'god layeth up his iniquity for his children?' (our translators have wholly lost the sense of this passage, and endeavour to make job acknowledge what he is steadfastly denying.) well, and what then? what will he care? 'will his own eye see his own fall? will he drink the wrath of the almighty? what are the fortunes of his house to him if the number of his own months is fulfilled?' one man is good and another wicked, one is happy and another is miserable. in the great indifference of nature they share alike in the common lot. 'they lie down alike in the dust, and the worms cover them.' ewald, and many other critics, suppose that job was hurried away by his feelings to say all this; and that in his calmer moments he must have felt that it was untrue. it is a point on which we must decline accepting even ewald's high authority. even then, in those old times, it was beginning to be terribly true. even then the current theory was obliged to bend to large exceptions; and what job saw as exceptions we see round us everywhere. it was true then, it is infinitely more true now, that what is called virtue in the common sense of the word, still more that nobleness, godliness, or heroism of character in any form whatsoever, have nothing to do with this or that man's prosperity, or even happiness. the thoroughly vicious man is no doubt wretched enough; but the worldly, prudent, self-restraining man, with his five senses, which he understands how to gratify with tempered indulgence, with a conscience satisfied with the hack routine of what is called respectability,--such a man feels no wretchedness; no inward uneasiness disturbs him, no desires which he cannot gratify; and this though he be the basest and most contemptible slave of his own selfishness. providence will not interfere to punish him. let him obey the laws under which prosperity is obtainable, and he will obtain it, let him never fear. he will obtain it, be he base or noble. nature is indifferent; the famine and the earthquake, and the blight or the accident, will not discriminate to strike him. he may insure himself against casualties in these days of ours, with the money perhaps which a better man would have given away, and he will have his reward. he need not doubt it. and, again, it is not true, as optimists would persuade us, that such prosperity brings no real pleasure. a man with no high aspirations, who thrives, and makes money, and envelops himself in comforts, is as happy as such a nature can be. if unbroken satisfaction be the most blessed state for a man (and this certainly is the practical notion of happiness), he is the happiest of men. nor are those idle phrases any truer, that the good man's goodness is a never-ceasing sunshine; that virtue is its own reward, &c. &c. if men truly virtuous care to be rewarded for it, their virtue is but a poor investment of their moral capital. was job so happy then on that ash-heap of his, the mark of the world's scorn, and the butt for the spiritual archery of the theologian, alone in his forlorn nakedness, like some old dreary stump which the lightning has scathed, rotting away in the wind and the rain? if happiness be indeed what we men are sent into this world to seek for, those hitherto thought the noblest among us were the pitifullest and wretchedest. surely it was no error in job. it was that real insight which once was given to all the world in christianity, however we have forgotten it now. job was learning to see that it was not in the possession of enjoyment, no, nor of happiness itself, that the difference lies between the good and the bad. true, it might be that god sometimes, even generally, gives such happiness--gives it in what aristotle calls an [greek: epigignomenon telos], but it is no part of the terms on which he admits us to his service, still less is it the end which we may propose to ourselves on entering his service. happiness he gives to whom he will, or leaves to the angel of nature to distribute among those who fulfil the laws upon which _it_ depends. but to serve god and to love him is higher and better than happiness, though it be with wounded feet, and bleeding brows, and hearts loaded with sorrow. into this high faith job is rising, treading his temptations under his feet, and finding in them a ladder on which his spirit rises. thus he is passing further and even further from his friends, soaring where their imaginations cannot follow him. to them he is a blasphemer whom they gaze at with awe and terror. they had charged him with sinning on the strength of their hypothesis, and he has answered with a deliberate denial of it. losing now all mastery over themselves, they pour out a torrent of mere extravagant invective and baseless falsehood, which in the calmer outset they would have blushed to think of. they _know_ no evil of job, but they do not hesitate to convert conjecture into certainty, and specify in detail the particular crimes which he must have committed. he _ought_ to have committed them, and so he had; the old argument then as now.--'is not thy wickedness great?' says eliphaz. 'thou hast taken a pledge from thy brother for nought, and stripped the naked of their clothing; thou hast not given water to the weary, and thou hast withholden bread from the hungry;' and so on through a series of mere distracted lies. but the time was past when words like these could make job angry. bildad follows them up with an attempt to frighten him by a picture of the power of that god whom he was blaspheming; but job cuts short his harangue, and ends it for him in a spirit of loftiness which bildad could not have approached; and then proudly and calmly rebukes them all, no longer in scorn and irony, but in high, tranquil self-possession. 'god forbid that i should justify you,' he says; 'till i die i will not remove my integrity from me. my righteousness i hold fast, and will not let it go. my heart shall not reproach me so long as i live.' so far all has been clear, each party, with increasing confidence, having insisted on their own position, and denounced their adversaries. a difficulty now arises which, at first sight, appears insurmountable. as the chapters are at present printed, the entire of the twenty-seventh is assigned to job, and the paragraph from the eleventh to the twenty-third verses is in direct contradiction to all which he has maintained before--is, in fact, a concession of having been wrong from the beginning. ewald, who, as we said above, himself refuses to allow the truth of job's last and highest position, supposes that he is here receding from it, and confessing what an over-precipitate passion had betrayed him into denying. for many reasons, principally because we are satisfied that job said then no more than the real fact, we cannot think ewald right; and the concessions are too large and too inconsistent to be reconciled even with his own general theory of the poem. another solution of the difficulty is very simple, although it is to be admitted that it rather cuts the knot than unties it. eliphaz and bildad have each spoken a third time; the symmetry of the general form requires that now zophar should speak; and the suggestion, we believe, was first made by dr. kennicott, that he did speak, and that the verses in question belong to him. any one who is accustomed to mss. will understand easily how such a mistake, if it be one, might have arisen. even in shakespeare, the speeches in the early editions are in many instances wrongly divided, and assigned to the wrong persons. it might have arisen from inadvertence; it might have arisen from the foolishness of some jewish transcriber, who resolved, at all costs, to drag the book into harmony with judaism, and make job unsay his heresy. this view has the merit of fully clearing up the obscurity. another, however, has been suggested by eichorn, who originally followed kennicott, but discovered, as he supposed, a less violent hypothesis, which was equally satisfactory. eichorn imagines the verses to be a summary by job of his adversaries' opinions, as if he said--'listen now; you know what the facts are as well as i, and yet you maintain this;' and then passed on with his indirect reply to it. it is possible that eichorn may be right--at any rate, either he is right, or else dr. kennicott is. certainly, ewald is not. taken as an account of job's own conviction, the passage contradicts the burden of the whole poem. passing it by, therefore, and going to what immediately follows, we arrive at what, in a human sense, is the final climax--job's victory and triumph. he had appealed to god, and god had not appeared; he had doubted and fought against his doubts, and at last had crushed them down. he, too, had been taught to look for god in outward judgments; and when his own experience had shown him his mistake, he knew not where to turn. he had been leaning on a bruised reed, and it had run into his hand and pierced him. but as soon as in the speeches of his friend he saw it all laid down in its weakness and its false conclusions--when he saw the defenders of it wandering further and further from what he knew to be true, growing every moment, as if from a consciousness of the unsoundness of their standing ground, more violent, obstinate, and unreasonable, the scales fell more and more from his eyes--he had seen the fact that the wicked might prosper, and in learning to depend upon his innocency he had felt that the good man's support was there, if it was anywhere; and at last, with all his heart, was reconciled to the truth. the mystery of the outer world becomes deeper to him, but he does not any more try to understand it. the wisdom which can compass that mystery, he knows, is not in man, though man search for it deeper and harder than the miner searches for the hidden treasures of the earth; the wisdom which alone is attainable is resignation to god. 'where,' he cries, 'shall wisdom be found, and where is the place of understanding? man knoweth not the price thereof, neither is it found in the land of the living. the depth said it is not with me; and the sea said it is not in me. it is hid from the eyes of all living, and kept close from the fowls of the air.[k] god understandeth the way thereof, and he knoweth the place thereof [he, not man, understands the mysteries of the world which he has made]. and unto man he said, behold! the fear of the lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil, that is understanding.' here, therefore, it might seem as if all was over. there is no clearer or purer faith possible for man; and job had achieved it. his evil had turned to good; and sorrow had severed for him the last links which bound him to lower things. he had felt that he could do without happiness, that it was no longer essential, and that he could live on, and still love god, and cling to him. but he is not described as of preternatural, or at all titanic nature, but as very man, full of all human tenderness and susceptibility. his old life was still beautiful to him. he does not hate it because he can renounce it; and now that the struggle is over, the battle fought and won, and his heart has flowed over in that magnificent song of victory, the note once more changes: he turns back to earth to linger over those old departed days, with which the present is so hard a contrast; and his parable dies away in a strain of plaintive, but resigned melancholy. once more he throws himself on god, no longer in passionate expostulation, but in pleading humility.[l] and then comes (perhaps, as ewald says, it _could not_ have come before) the answer out of the whirlwind. job had called on god, and prayed that he might appear, that he might plead his cause with him; and now he comes, and what will job do? he comes not as the healing spirit in the heart of man; but, as job had at first demanded, the outward god, the almighty creator of the universe, and clad in the terrors and the glory of it. job, in his first precipitancy, had desired to reason with him on his government. the poet, in gleaming lines, describes for an answer the universe as it then was known, the majesty and awfulness of it; and then asks whether it is this which he requires to have explained to him, or which he believes himself capable of conducting. the revelation acts on job as the sign of the macrocosmos on the modern faust; but when he sinks, crushed, it is not as the rebellious upstart, struck down in his pride--for he had himself, partially at least, subdued his own presumption--but as a humble penitent, struggling to overcome his weakness. he abhors himself for his murmurs, and 'repents in dust and ashes.' it will have occurred to every one that the secret which has been revealed to the reader is not, after all, revealed to job or to his friends, and for this plain reason: the burden of the drama is, not that we do, but that we do not, and cannot, know the mystery of the government of the world--that it is not for man to seek it, or for god to reveal it. we, the readers, are, in this one instance, admitted behind the scenes--for once, in this single case--because it was necessary to meet the received theory by a positive fact which contradicted it. but the explanation of one case need not be the explanation of another; our business is to do what we know to be right, and ask no questions. the veil which in the Ægyptian legend lay before the face of isis is not to be raised; and we are not to seek to penetrate secrets which are not ours. while, however, god does not condescend to justify his ways to man, he gives judgment on the past controversy. the self-constituted pleaders for him, the acceptors of his person, were all wrong; and job--the passionate, vehement, scornful, misbelieving job--he had spoken the truth; he at least had spoken facts, and they had been defending a transient theory as an everlasting truth. 'and it was so, that after the lord had spoken these words to job, the lord said to eliphaz the temanite, my wrath is kindled against thee and against thy two friends; for ye have not spoken of me the thing that is right, as my servant job hath. therefore take unto you now seven bullocks and seven rams, and go to my servant job; and offer for yourselves a burnt-offering. and my servant job shall pray for you, and him will i accept. lest i deal with you after your folly, for that ye have not spoken of me the thing which is right, like my servant job.' one act of justice remains. knowing as we do the cause of job's misfortunes, and that as soon as his trial was over it was no longer operative, our sense of fitness could not be satisfied unless he were indemnified outwardly for his outward sufferings. satan is defeated, and job's integrity proved; and there is no reason why the general law should be interfered with, which, however large the exceptions, tends to connect goodness and prosperity; or why obvious calamities, obviously undeserved, should remain any more unremoved. perhaps, too, a deeper lesson still lies below his restoration--something perhaps of this kind. prosperity, enjoyment, happiness, comfort, peace, whatever be the name by which we designate that state in which life is to our own selves pleasant and delightful, as long as they are sought or prized as things essential, so far have a tendency to disennoble our nature, and are a sign that we are still in servitude to selfishness. only when they lie outside us, as ornaments merely to be worn or laid aside as god pleases--only then may such things be possessed with impunity. job's heart in early times had clung to them more than he knew, but now he was purged clean, and they were restored because he had ceased to need them. such in outline is this wonderful poem. with the material of which it is woven we have not here been concerned, although it is so rich and pregnant that we might with little difficulty construct out of it a complete picture of the world as then it was: its life, knowledge, arts, habits, superstitions, hopes, and fears. the subject is the problem of all mankind, and the composition embraces no less wide a range. but what we are here most interested upon is the epoch which it marks in the progress of mankind, as the first recorded struggle of a new experience with an established orthodox belief. true, for hundreds of years, perhaps for a thousand, the superstition against which it was directed continued. when christ came it was still in its vitality. nay, as we saw, it is alive, or in a sort of mock life, among us at this very day. but even those who retained their imperfect belief had received into their canon a book which treated it with contumely and scorn, so irresistible was the majesty of truth. in days like these, when we hear so much of progress, it is worth while to ask ourselves what advances we have made further in the same direction? and once more, at the risk of some repetition, let us look at the position in which this book leaves us. it had been assumed that man, if he lived a just and upright life, had a right to expect to be happy. happiness, 'his being's end and aim,' was his legitimate and covenanted reward. if god therefore was just, such a man would be happy; and inasmuch as god was just, the man who was not happy had not deserved to be. there is no flaw in this argument; and if it is unsound, the fallacy can only lie in the supposed right to happiness. it is idle to talk of inward consolations. job felt them, but they were not everything. they did not relieve the anguish of his wounds; they did not make the loss of his children, or his friends' unkindness, any the less painful to him. the poet, indeed, restores him in the book; but in life it need not have been so. he might have died upon his ash-heap, as thousands of good men have died, and will die again, in misery. happiness, therefore, is _not_ what we are to look for. our place is to be true to the best which we know, to seek that and do that; and if by 'virtue its own reward' be meant that the good man cares only to continue good, desiring nothing more, then it is a true and noble saying. but if virtue be valued because it is politic, because in pursuit of it will be found most enjoyment and fewest sufferings, then it is not noble any more, and it is turning the truth of god into a lie. let us do right, and whether happiness come or unhappiness it is no very mighty matter. if it come, life will be sweet; if it do not come, life will be bitter--bitter, not sweet, and yet to be borne. on such a theory alone is the government of this world intelligibly just. the well-being of our souls depends only on what we _are_; and nobleness of character is nothing else but steady love of good and steady scorn of evil. the government of the world is a problem while the desire of selfish enjoyment survives; and when justice is not done according to such standard (which will not be till the day after doomsday, and not then), self-loving men will still ask, why? and find no answer. only to those who have the heart to say, 'we can do without that; it is not what we ask or desire,' is there no secret. man will have what he deserves, and will find what is really best for him, exactly as he honestly seeks for it. happiness may fly away, pleasure pall or cease to be obtainable, wealth decay, friends fail or prove unkind, and fame turn to infamy; but the power to serve god never fails, and the love of him is never rejected. most of us, at one time or other of our lives, have known something of love--of that only pure love in which no _self_ is left remaining. we have loved as children, we have loved as lovers; some of us have learnt to love a cause, a faith, a country; and what love would that be which existed only with a prudent view to after-interests. surely there is a love which exults in the power of self-abandonment, and can glory in the privilege of suffering for what is good. _que mon nom soit flétri, pourvu que la france soit libre_, said danton; and those wild patriots who had trampled into scorn the faith in an immortal life in which they would be rewarded for what they were suffering, went to their graves as beds, for the dream of a people's liberty. justice is done; the balance is not deranged. it only seems deranged, as long as we have not learnt to serve without looking to be paid for it. such is the theory of life which is to be found in the book of job; a faith which has flashed up in all times and all lands, wherever high-minded men were to be found, and which passed in christianity into the acknowledged creed of half the world. the cross was the new symbol, the divine sufferer the great example; and mankind answered to the call, because the appeal was not to what was poor and selfish in them, but to whatever of best and bravest was in their nature. the law of reward and punishment was superseded by the law of love. thou shalt love god and thou shalt love man; and that was not love--men knew it once--which was bought by the prospect of reward. times are changed with us now. thou shalt love god and thou shalt love man, in the hands of a paley, are found to mean no more than, thou shalt love thyself after an enlightened manner. and the same base tone has saturated not only our common feelings, but our christian theologies and our antichristian philosophies. a prudent regard to our future interests; an abstinence from present unlawful pleasures, because they will entail the loss of greater pleasure by-and-by, or perhaps be paid for with pain,--this is called virtue now; and the belief that such beings as men can be influenced by any more elevated feelings, is smiled at as the dream of enthusiasts whose hearts have outrun their understandings. indeed, he were but a poor lover whose devotion to his mistress lay resting on the feeling that a marriage with her would conduce to his own comforts. that were a poor patriot who served his country for the hire which his country would give to him. and we should think but poorly of a son who thus addressed his earthly father: 'father, on whom my fortunes depend, teach me to do what pleases thee, that i, pleasing thee in all things, may obtain those good things which thou hast promised to give to thy obedient children.' if any of us who have lived in so meagre a faith venture, by-and-by, to put in our claims, satan will be likely to say of us (with better reason than he did of job), 'did they serve god for nought, then? take their reward from them, and they will curse him to his face.' if christianity had never borne itself more loftily than this, do we suppose that those fierce norsemen who had learnt, in the fiery war-songs of the edda, of what stuff the hearts of heroes are composed, would have fashioned their sword-hilts into crosses, and themselves into a crusading chivalry? let us not dishonour our great fathers with the dream of it. the christians, like the stoics and the epicureans, would have lived their little day among the ignoble sects of an effete civilisation, and would have passed off and been heard of no more. it was in another spirit that those first preachers of righteousness went out upon their warfare with evil. they preached, not enlightened prudence, but purity, justice, goodness; holding out no promises in this world except of suffering as their great master had suffered, and rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer for his sake. and that crown of glory which they did believe to await them in a life beyond the grave, was no enjoyment of what they had surrendered in life, was not enjoyment at all in any sense which human thought or language can attach to the words; as little like it as the crown of love is like it, which the true lover looks for when at last he obtains his mistress. it was to be with christ--to lose themselves in him. how these high feelings ebbed away, and christianity became what we know it, we are partially beginning to see. the living spirit organised for itself a body of perishable flesh: not only the real gains of real experience, but mere conjectural hypotheses, current at the day for the solution of unexplained phenomena, became formulæ and articles of faith. again, as before, the living and the dead were bound together, and the seeds of decay were already planted on the birth of a constructed polity. but there was another cause allied to this, and yet different from it, which, though a law of human nature itself, seems nowadays altogether forgotten. in the rapid and steady advance of our knowledge of material things, we are apt to believe that all our knowledge follows the same law; that it is merely generalised experience; that experience accumulates daily, and, therefore, that 'progress of the species,' _in all senses_, is an obvious and necessary fact. there is something which is true in this view, mixed with a great deal which is false. material knowledge, the physical and mechanical sciences, make their way from step to step, from experiment to experiment, and each advance is secured and made good, and cannot again be lost. one generation takes up the general sum of experience where the last laid it down, adds to it what it has the opportunity of adding, and leaves it with interest to the next. the successive positions, as they are gained, require nothing for the apprehension of them but an understanding ordinarily cultivated. prejudices have to be encountered, but prejudices of opinion merely, not prejudices of conscience or prejudices of self-love, like those which beset our progress in the science of morality. but in morals we enter upon conditions wholly different--conditions in which age differs from age, man differs from man, and even from himself, at different moments. we all have experienced times when, as we say, we should not know ourselves; some, when we fall below our average level; some, when we are lifted above, and put on, as it were, a higher nature. at such intervals as these last (unfortunately, with most of us, of rare occurrence), many things become clear to us which before were hard sayings; propositions become alive which, usually, are but dry words; our hearts seem purer, our motives loftier; our purposes, what we are proud to acknowledge to ourselves. and, as man is unequal to himself, so is man to his neighbour, and period to period. the entire method of action, the theories of human life which in one era prevail universally, to the next are unpractical and insane, as those of this next would have seemed mere baseness to the first, if the first could have anticipated them. one epoch, we may suppose, holds some 'greatest nobleness principle,' the other some 'greatest happiness principle;' and then their very systems of axioms will contradict one another; their general conceptions and their detailed interpretations, their rules, judgments, opinions, practices will be in perpetual and endless collision. our minds take shape from our hearts, and the facts of moral experience do not teach their own meaning, but submit to many readings according to the power of the eye which we bring with us. the want of a clear perception of so important a feature about us leads to many singular contradictions. a believer in popular protestantism, who is also a believer in progress, ought, if he were consistent, to regard mankind as growing every day towards a more and more advantageous position with respect to the trials of life; and yet if he were asked whether it was easier for him to 'save his soul' in the nineteenth century than it would have been in the first or second, or whether the said soul was necessarily better worth saving, he would be perplexed for an answer. there is hardly one of us who, in childhood, has not felt like the jews to whom christ spoke, that if he had 'lived in the days of the fathers,' if he had had their advantages, he would have found duty a much easier matter; and some of us in mature life have felt that in old athens, or old republican rome, in the first ages of christianity, in the crusades or at the reformation, there was a contagious atmosphere of heroism, in which we should have been less troubled with the little feelings which cling about us now. at any rate, it is at these rare epochs only that real additions are made to our moral knowledge. at such times, new truths are, indeed, sent down among us, and, for periods longer or shorter, may be seen to exercise an elevating influence on mankind. perhaps what is gained on these occasions is never entirely lost. the historical monuments of their effects are at least indestructible; and when the spirit which gave them birth reappears, their dormant energy awakens again. but it seems from our present experience of what, in some at least of its modern forms, christianity has been capable of becoming, that there is no doctrine in itself so pure, but what the meaner nature which is in us can disarm and distort it, and adapt it to its own littleness. the once living spirit dries up into formulæ, and formulæ, whether of mass-sacrifice or vicarious righteousness, or 'reward and punishment,' are contrived ever so as to escape making over-high demands upon the conscience. some aim at dispensing with obedience altogether, and those which insist on obedience rest the obligations of it on the poorest of motives. so things go on till there is no life left at all; till, from all higher aspirations, we are lowered down to the love of self after an enlightened manner; and then nothing remains but to fight the battle over again. the once beneficial truth has become, as in job's case, a cruel and mischievous deception, and the whole question of life and its obligations must again be opened. it is now some three centuries since the last of such reopenings. if we ask ourselves how much during this time has been actually added to the sum of our knowledge in these matters; what, in all the thousands upon thousands of sermons, and theologies, and philosophies with which europe has been deluged, has been gained for mankind beyond what we have found in this book of job, how far all this has advanced us in the 'progress of humanity,' it were hard, or rather it is easy, to answer. how far we have fallen below, let paley and the rest bear witness. but what moral question can be asked which admits now of a grander solution than was offered two, perhaps three, thousand years ago? the world has not been standing still; experience of man and life has increased; questions have multiplied on questions, while the answers of the established teachers to them have been growing every day more and more incredible. what other answers have there been? of all the countless books which have appeared, there has been only one of enduring importance, in which an attempt is made to carry on the solution of the great problem. job is given over into satan's hand to be tempted; and though he shakes, he does not fall. taking the temptation of job for his model, goethe has similarly exposed his faust to trial, and with him the tempter succeeds. his hero falls from sin to sin, from crime to crime; he becomes a seducer, a murderer, a betrayer, following recklessly his evil angel wherever he chooses to lead him; and yet, with all this, he never wholly forfeits our sympathy. in spite of his weakness, his heart is still true to his higher nature; sick and restless, even in the delirium of enjoyment he always longs for something better, and he never can be brought to say of evil that it is good. and therefore, after all, the devil is balked of his prey; in virtue of this one fact, that the evil in which he steeped himself remained to the last hateful to him, faust is saved by the angels.... it will be eagerly answered for the established belief, that such cases are its especial province. all men are sinners, and _it_ possesses the blessed remedy for sin. but, among the countless numbers of those characters so strangely mixed among us, in which the dark and the bright fibres cross like a meshwork; characters at one moment capable of acts of heroic greatness, at another hurried by temptation into actions which even common men may deplore, how many are there who have never availed themselves of the conditions of reconciliation as orthodoxy proffers them, and of such men what is to be said? it was said once of a sinner that to her 'much was forgiven, for she loved much.' but this is language which theology has as little appropriated as the jews could appropriate the language of job. it cannot recognise the power of the human heart. it has no balance in which to weigh the good against the evil; and when a great burns or a mirabeau comes before it, it can but tremblingly count up the offences committed, and then, looking to the end, and finding its own terms not to have been complied with, it faintly mutters its anathema. sin only it can apprehend and judge; and for the poor acts of struggling heroism, 'forasmuch as they were not done,' &c., &c., it doubts not but they have the nature of sin.[m] something of the difficulty has been met by goethe, but it cannot be said that he has resolved it; or at least that he has furnished others with a solution which may guide their judgment. in the writer of the book of job there is an awful moral earnestness before which we bend as in the presence of a superior being. the orthodoxy against which he contended is not set aside or denied; he sees what truth is in it; only he sees more than it, and over it, and through it. but in goethe, who needed it more, inasmuch as his problem was more delicate and difficult, the moral earnestness is not awful, is not even high. we cannot feel that in dealing with sin he entertains any great horror of it; he looks on it as a mistake, as undesirable, but scarcely as more. goethe's great powers are of another kind; and this particular question, though in appearance the primary subject of the poem, is really only secondary. in substance, faust is more like ecclesiastes than it is like job, and describes rather the restlessness of a largely-gifted nature which, missing the guidance of the heart, plays experiments with life, trying knowledge, pleasure, dissipation, one after another, and hating them all; and then hating life itself as a weary, stale, flat, unprofitable mockery. the temper exhibited here will probably be perennial in the world. but the remedy for it will scarcely be more clear under other circumstances than it is at present, and lies in the disposition of the emotions, and not in any propositions which can be addressed to the understanding. for that other question--how rightly to estimate a human being; what constitutes a real vitiation of character, and how to distinguish, without either denying the good or making light of the evil; how to be just to the popular theories, and yet not to blind ourselves to their shallowness and injustice--that is a problem for us, for the solution of which we are at present left to our ordinary instinct, without any recognised guidance whatsoever. nor is this the only problem which is in the same situation. there can scarcely be a more startling contrast between fact and theory than the conditions under which, practically, positions of power and influence are distributed among us--between the theory of human worth which the necessities of life oblige us to act upon, and the theory which we believe that we believe. as we look around among our leading men, our statesmen, our legislators, the judges on our bench, the commanders of our armies, the men to whom this english nation commits the conduct of its best interests, profane and sacred, what do we see to be the principles which guide our selection? how entirely do they lie beside and beyond the negative tests! and how little respect do we pay to the breach of this or that commandment in comparison with ability! so wholly impossible is it to apply the received opinions on such matters to practice--to treat men known to be guilty of what theology calls deadly sins, as really guilty of them, that it would almost seem we had fallen into a moral anarchy; that ability _alone_ is what we regard, without any reference at all, except in glaring and outrageous cases, to moral disqualifications. it is invidious to mention names of living men; it is worse than invidious to drag out of their graves men who have gone down into them with honour, to make a point for an argument. but we know, all of us, that among the best servants of our country there have been, and there are, many whose lives will not stand scrutiny by the negative tests, and who do not appear very greatly to repent, or to have repented, of their sins according to recognised methods. once more: among our daily or weekly confessions, which we are supposed to repeat as if we were all of us at all times in precisely the same moral condition, we are made to say that we have done those things which we ought not to have done, and to have left undone those things which we ought to have done. an earthly father to whom his children were day after day to make this acknowledgment would be apt to enquire whether they were trying to do better--whether, at any rate, they were endeavouring to learn; and if he were told that although they had made some faint attempts to understand the negative part of their duty, yet that of the positive part, of those things which they ought to do, they had no notions at all, and had no idea that they were under obligation to form any, he would come to rather strange conclusions about them. but, really and truly, what practical notions of duty have we beyond that of abstaining from committing sins? not to commit sin, we suppose, covers but a small part of what is expected of us. through the entire tissue of our employments there runs a good and a bad. bishop butler tells us, for instance, that even of our time there is a portion which is ours, and a portion which is our neighbour's; and if we spend more of it on personal interests than our own share, we are stealing. this sounds strange doctrine; we prefer making vague acknowledgments, and shrink from pursuing them into detail. we say vaguely, that in all we do we should consecrate ourselves to god, and our own lips condemn us; for which among us cares to learn the way to do it? the _devoir_ of a knight was understood in the courts of chivalry; the lives of heroic men, pagan and christian, were once held up before the world as patterns of detailed imitation; and now, when such ideals are wanted more than ever, protestantism stands with a drawn sword on the threshold of the enquiry, and tells us that it is impious. the law, we are told, has been fulfilled for us in condescension to our inherent worthlessness, and our business is to appropriate another's righteousness, and not, like titans, to be scaling heaven by profane efforts of our own. protestants, we know very well, will cry out in tones loud enough at such a representation of their doctrines. but we know also that unless men may feel a cheerful conviction that they can do right if they try,--that they can purify themselves, can live noble and worthy lives,--unless this is set before them as _the_ thing which they are to do, and _can_ succeed in doing, they will not waste their energies on what they know beforehand will end in failure; and if they may not live for god, they will live for themselves. and all this while the whole complex frame of society is a meshwork of duty woven of living fibre, and the condition of its remaining sound is, that every thread of it, of its own free energy, shall do what it ought. the penalties of duties neglected are to the full as terrible as those of sins committed; more terrible, perhaps, because more palpable and sure. a lord of the land, or an employer of labour, supposes that he has no duty except to keep what he calls the commandments in his own person, to go to church, and to do what he will with his own,--and irish famines follow, and trade strikes, and chartisms, and paris revolutions. we look for a remedy in impossible legislative enactments, and there is but one remedy which will avail--that the thing which we call public opinion learn something of the meaning of human obligation, and demand some approximation to it. as things are, we have no idea of what a human being ought to be. after the first rudimental conditions we pass at once into meaningless generalities; and with no knowledge to guide our judgment, we allow it to be guided by meaner principles; we respect money, we respect rank, we respect ability--character is as if it had no existence. in the midst of this loud talk of progress, therefore, in which so many of us at present are agreed to believe, which is, indeed, the common meeting point of all the thousand sects into which we are split, it is with saddened feelings that we see so little of it in so large a matter. progress there is in knowledge; and science has enabled the number of human beings capable of existing upon this earth to be indefinitely multiplied. but this is but a small triumph if the ratio of the good and bad, the wise and the foolish, the full and the hungry, remains unaffected. and we cheat ourselves with words when we conclude out of our material splendour an advance of the race. in two things there is progress--progress in knowledge of the outward world, and progress in material wealth. this last, for the present, creates, perhaps, more evils than it relieves; but suppose this difficulty solved--suppose the wealth distributed, and every peasant living like a peer--what then? if this is all, one noble soul outweighs the whole of it. let us follow knowledge to the outer circle of the universe--the eye will not be satisfied with seeing, nor the ear with hearing. let us build our streets of gold, and they will hide as many aching hearts as hovels of straw. the well-being of mankind is not advanced a single step. knowledge is power, and wealth is power; and harnessed, as in plato's fable, to the chariot of the soul, and guided by wisdom, they may bear it through the circle of the stars; but left to their own guidance, or reined by a fool's hand, the wild horses may bring the poor fool to phaeton's end, and set a world on fire. footnotes: [g] _westminster review_, . [h] . _die poetischen bücher des alten bundes._ erklärt von heinrich ewald. göttingen: bei vanderhoeck und ruprecht. . . _kurz gefasstes exegetisches handbuch zum alten testament._ zweite lieferung. _hiob._ von ludwig hirzel. zweite auflage, durchgesehen von dr. justus olshausen. leipzig. . . _quæstionum in jobeidos locos vexatos specimen._ von d. hermannus hupfeld. halis saxonum. . [i] or rather by st. jerome, whom our translators have followed. [j] see ewald on job ix. , and xxvi. . [k] an allusion, perhaps, to the old bird auguries. the birds, as the inhabitants of the air, were supposed to be the messengers between heaven and earth. [l] the speech of elihu, which lies between job's last words and god's appearance, is now decisively pronounced by hebrew scholars not to be genuine. the most superficial reader will have been perplexed by the introduction of a speaker to whom no allusion is made, either in the prologue or the epilogue; by a long dissertation, which adds nothing to the progress of the argument, proceeding evidently on the false hypothesis of the three friends, and betraying not the faintest conception of the real cause of job's sufferings. and the suspicions which such an anomaly would naturally suggest, are now made certainties by a fuller knowledge of the language, and the detection of a different hand. the interpolator has unconsciously confessed the feeling which allowed him to take so great a liberty. he, too, possessed with the old jew theory, was unable to accept in its fulness so great a contradiction to it: and, missing the spirit of the poem, he believed that god's honour could still be vindicated in the old way. 'his wrath was kindled' against the friends, because they could not answer job; and against job, because he would not be answered; and conceiving himself 'full of matter,' and 'ready to burst like new bottles,' he could not contain himself, and delivered into the text a sermon on the _theodice_, such, we suppose, as formed the current doctrine of the time in which he lived. [m] see the thirteenth article. spinoza.[n] _benedicti de spinoza tractatus de deo et homine ejusque felicitate lineamenta. atque annotationes ad tractatum theologico-politicum._ edidit et illustravit edwardus boehmer. halæ ad salam. j. f. lippert. . this little volume is one evidence among many of the interest which continues to be felt by the german students in spinoza. the actual merit of the book itself is little or nothing; but it shows the industry with which they are gleaning among the libraries of holland for any traces of him which they can recover; and the smallest fragments of his writings are acquiring that factitious importance which attaches to the most insignificant relics of acknowledged greatness. such industry cannot be otherwise than laudable, but we do not think it at present altogether wisely directed. nothing is likely to be brought to light which will further illustrate spinoza's philosophy. he himself spent the better part of his life in clearing his language of ambiguities; and such earlier sketches of his system as are supposed still to be extant in ms., and a specimen of which m. boehmer believes himself to have discovered, contribute only obscurity to what is in no need of additional difficulty. of spinoza's private history, on the contrary, rich as it must have been, and abundant traces of it as must be extant somewhere in his own and his friends' correspondence, we know only enough to feel how vast a chasm remains to be filled. it is not often that any man in this world lives a life so well worth writing as spinoza lived; not for striking incidents or large events connected with it, but because (and no sympathy with his peculiar opinions disposes us to exaggerate his merit) he was one of the very best men whom these modern times have seen. excommunicated, disinherited, and thrown upon the world when a mere boy to seek his livelihood, he resisted the inducements which on all sides were urged upon him to come forward in the world. he refused pensions, legacies, money in many forms; he maintained himself with grinding glasses for optical instruments, an art which he had been taught in early life, and in which he excelled the best workmen in holland; and when he died, which was at the early age of forty-four, the affection with which he was regarded showed itself singularly in the endorsement of a tradesman's bill which was sent in to his executors, in which he was described as m. spinoza of 'blessed memory.' the account which remains of him we owe, not to an admiring disciple, but to a clergyman to whom his theories were detestable; and his biographer allows that the most malignant scrutiny had failed to detect a blemish in his character--that, except so far as his opinions were blameable, he had lived to outward appearance free from fault. we desire, in what we are going to say of him, to avoid offensive collision with popular prejudices; still less shall we place ourselves in antagonism with the earnest convictions of serious persons: our business is to relate what spinoza was, and leave others to form their own conclusions. but one lesson there does seem to lie in such a life of such a man,--a lesson which he taught equally by example and in word,--that wherever there is genuine and thorough love for good and goodness, no speculative superstructure of opinion can be so extravagant as to forfeit those graces which are promised, not to clearness of intellect, but to purity of heart. in spinoza's own beautiful language,--'justitia et caritas unicum et certissimum veræ fidei catholicæ signum est, et veri spiritûs sancti fructus: et ubicumque hæc reperiuntur, ibi christus re verâ est, et ubicumque hæc desunt deest christus: solo namque christi spiritu duci possumus in amorem justitiæ et caritatis.' we may deny his conclusions; we may consider his system of thought preposterous and even pernicious; but we cannot refuse him the respect which is the right of all sincere and honourable men. wherever and on whatever questions good men are found ranged on opposite sides, one of three alternatives is always true:--either the points of disagreement are purely speculative and of no moral importance--or there is a misunderstanding of language, and the same thing is meant under a difference of words--or else the real truth is something different from what is held by any of the disputants, and each is representing some important element which the others ignore or forget. in either case, a certain calmness and good temper is necessary, if we would understand what we disagree with, or would oppose it with success; spinoza's influence over european thought is too great to be denied or set aside; and if his doctrines be false in part, or false altogether, we cannot do their work more surely than by calumny or misrepresentation--a most obvious truism, which no one now living will deny in words, and which a century or two hence perhaps will begin to produce some effect upon the popular judgment. bearing it in mind, then, ourselves, as far as we are able, we propose to examine the pantheistic philosophy in the first and only logical form which as yet it has assumed. whatever may have been the case with spinoza's disciples, in the author of this system there was no unwillingness to look closely at it, or to follow it out to its conclusions; and whatever other merits or demerits belong to him, at least he has done as much as with language can be done to make himself thoroughly understood. and yet, both in friend and enemy alike, there has been a reluctance to see spinoza as he really was. the herder and schleiermacher school have claimed him as a christian--a position which no little disguise was necessary to make tenable; the orthodox protestants and catholics have called him an atheist--which is still more extravagant; and even a man like novalis, who, it might have been expected, would have had something reasonable to say, could find no better name for him than a _gott trunkner mann_--a god intoxicated man: an expression which has been quoted by everybody who has since written upon the subject, and which is about as inapplicable as those laboriously pregnant sayings usually are. with due allowance for exaggeration, such a name would describe tolerably the transcendental mystics, a toler, a boehmen, or a swedenborg; but with what justice can it be applied to the cautious, methodical spinoza, who carried his thoughts about with him for twenty years, deliberately shaping them, and who gave them at last to the world in a form more severe than with such subjects had ever been so much as attempted before? with him, as with all great men, there was no effort after sublime emotions. he was a plain, practical person; his object in philosophy was only to find a rule by which to govern his own actions and his own judgment; and his treatises contain no more than the conclusions at which he arrived in this purely personal search, with the grounds on which he rested them. we cannot do better than follow his own account of himself as he has given it in the opening of his unfinished tract, 'de emendatione intellectûs.' his language is very beautiful, but it is elaborate and full; and, as we have a long journey before us, we must be content to epitomise it. looking round him on his entrance into life, and asking himself what was his place and business there, he turned for examples to his fellow-men, and found little that he could venture to imitate. he observed them all in their several ways governing themselves by their different notions of what they thought desirable; while these notions themselves were resting on no more secure foundation than a vague, inconsistent experience: the experience of one was not the experience of another, and thus men were all, so to say, rather playing experiments with life than living, and the larger portion of them miserably failing. their mistakes arose, as it seemed to spinoza, from inadequate knowledge; things which at one time looked desirable, disappointed expectation when obtained, and the wiser course concealed itself often under an uninviting exterior. he desired to substitute certainty for conjecture, and to endeavour to find, by some surer method, where the real good of man actually lay. we must remember that he had been brought up a jew, and had been driven out of the jews' communion; his mind was therefore in contact with the bare facts of life, with no creed or system lying between them and himself as the interpreter of experience. he was thrown on his own resources to find his way for himself, and the question was, how to find it. of all forms of human thought, one only, he reflected, would admit of the certainty which he required. if certain knowledge were attainable at all, it must be looked for under the mathematical or demonstrative method; by tracing from ideas clearly conceived the consequences which were formally involved in them. what, then, were these ideas--these _veræ ideæ_, as he calls them--and how were they to be obtained? if they were to serve as the axioms of his system, they must be self-evident truths, of which no proof was required; and the illustration which he gives of the character of such ideas is ingenious and platonic. in order to produce any mechanical instrument, spinoza says, we require others with which to manufacture it; and others again to manufacture those; and it would seem thus as if the process must be an infinite one, and as if nothing could ever be made at all. nature, however, has provided for the difficulty in creating of her own accord certain rude instruments, with the help of which we can make others better; and others again with the help of those. and so he thinks it must be with the mind; there must be somewhere similar original instruments provided also as the first outfit of intellectual enterprise. to discover these, he examines the various senses in which men are said to know anything, and he finds that they resolve themselves into three, or, as he elsewhere divides it, four. we know a thing-- . i. _ex mero auditu_: because we have heard it from some person or persons whose veracity we have no reason to question. ii. _ab experientiâ vagâ_: from general experience: for instance, all facts or phenomena which come to us through our senses as phenomena, but of the causes of which we are ignorant. . we know a thing as we have correctly conceived the laws of its phenomena, and see them following in their sequence in the order of nature. . finally, we know a thing, _ex scientiâ intuitivâ_, which alone is absolutely clear and certain. to illustrate these divisions, suppose it be required to find a fourth proportional which shall stand to the third of three numbers as the second does to the first. the merchant's clerk knows his rule; he multiplies the second into the third and divides by the first. he neither knows nor cares to know why the result is the number which he seeks, but he has learnt the fact that it is so, and he remembers it. a person a little wiser has tried the experiment in a variety of simple cases; he has discovered the rule by induction, but still does not understand it. a third has mastered the laws of proportion mathematically, as he has found them in euclid or other geometrical treatise. a fourth, with the plain numbers of , , and , sees for himself by simple intuitive force that : = : . of these several kinds of knowledge the third and fourth alone deserve to be called knowledge, the others being no more than opinions more or less justly founded. the last is the only real insight, although the third, being exact in its form, may be depended upon as a basis of certainty. under this last, as spinoza allows, nothing except the very simplest truths, _non nisi simplicissimæ veritates_, can be perceived; but, such as they are, they are the foundation of all after-science; and the true ideas, the _veræ ideæ_, which are apprehended by this faculty of intuition, are the primitive instruments with which nature has furnished us. if we ask for a test by which to distinguish them, he has none to give us. 'veritas,' he says to his friends, in answer to their question, 'veritas index sui est et falsi. veritas se ipsam patefacit.' all original truths are of such a kind that they cannot without absurdity even be conceived to be false; the opposites of them are contradictions in terms.--'ut sciam me scire, necessario debeo prius scire. hinc patet quod certitudo nihil est præter ipsam essentiam objectivam.... cum itaque veritas nullo egeat signo, sed sufficiat habere essentiam rerum objectivam, aut quod idem est ideas, ut omne tollatur dubium; hinc sequitur quod vera non est methodus, signum veritatis quærere post acquisitionem idearum; sed quod vera methodus est via, ut ipsa veritas, aut essentiæ objectivæ rerum, aut ideæ (omnia illa idem significant) debito ordine quærantur.' (_de emend. intell._) spinoza will scarcely carry with him the reasoner of the nineteenth century in arguments like these. when we remember the thousand conflicting opinions, the truth of which their several advocates have as little doubted as they have doubted their own existence, we require some better evidence than a mere feeling of certainty; and aristotle's less pretending canon promises a safer road. [greek: ho pasi dokei], 'what all men think,' says aristotle, [greek: touto einai phamen] 'this we say _is_,'--'and if you will not have this to be a fair ground of conviction, you will scarcely find one which will serve you better.' we are to see, however, what these _ideæ_ are which are offered to us as self-evident. of course, if they are self-evident, if they do produce conviction, nothing more is to be said; but it does, indeed, appear strange to us that spinoza was not staggered as to the validity of his canon, when his friends, everyone of them, so floundered and stumbled among what he regarded as his simplest propositions; when he found them, in spite of all that he could say, requiring endless _signa veritatis_, and unable for a long time even to understand their meaning, far less to 'recognise them as elementary certainties.' modern readers may, perhaps, be more fortunate. we produce at length the definitions and axioms of the first book of the 'ethica,' and they may judge for themselves:-- definitions. . by a thing which is _causa sui_, its own cause, i mean a thing the essence of which involves the existence of it, or a thing which cannot be conceived except as existing. . i call a thing finite, _suo genere_, when it can be limited by another (or others) of the same nature--_e.g._ a given body is called finite, because we can always conceive another body enveloping it; but body is not limited by thought, nor thought by body. . by substance i mean what exists in itself and is conceived by itself; the conception of which, that is, does not involve the conception of anything else as the cause of it. . by attribute i mean whatever the intellect perceives of substance as constituting the essence of substance. . mode is an affection of substance, or is that which is in something else, by and through which it is conceived. . god is a being absolutely infinite; a substance consisting of infinite attributes, each of which expresses his eternal and infinite essence. explanation. i say _absolutely_ infinite, not infinite _suo genere_--for of what is infinite _suo genere_ only, the attributes are not infinite but finite; whereas what is infinite absolutely contains in its own essence everything by which substance can be expressed, and which involves no impossibility. . that thing is 'free' which exists by the sole necessity of its own nature, and is determined in its operation by itself only. that is 'not free' which is called into existence by something else, and is determined in its operation according to a fixed and definite method. . eternity is existence itself, conceived as following necessarily and solely from the definition of the thing which is eternal. explanation. because existence of this kind is conceived as an eternal verity, and, therefore, cannot be explained by duration, even though the duration be without beginning or end. so far the definitions; then follow the axioms. . all things that exist, exist either of themselves or in virtue of something else. . what we cannot conceive of as existing in virtue of something else, we must conceive through and in itself. . from a given cause an effect necessarily follows, and if there be no given cause no effect can follow. . things which have nothing in common with each other cannot be understood through one another--_i.e._ the conception of one does not involve the conception of the other. . to understand an effect implies that we understand the cause of it. . a true idea is one which corresponds with its _ideate_. . the essence of anything which can be conceived as non-existent does not involve existence. such is our metaphysical outfit of simple ideas with which to start upon our enterprise of learning. the larger number of them, so far from being simple, must be absolutely without meaning to persons whose minds are undisciplined in metaphysical abstraction; they become only intelligible propositions as we look back upon them with the light of the system which they are supposed to contain. although, however, we may justly quarrel with such unlooked-for difficulties, the important question, after all, is not of the obscurity of these axioms, but of their truth. many things in all the sciences are obscure to an unpractised understanding, which are true enough and clear enough to people acquainted with the subjects, and they may be fairly made the foundations of a scientific system, although rudimentary students must be contented to accept them upon faith. of course, also, it is entirely competent to spinoza, or to any one, to define the terms which he intends to use just as he pleases, provided it be understood that any conclusions which he derives out of them apply only to the ideas so defined, and not to any supposed object existing which corresponds with them. euclid defines his triangles and circles, and discovers that to figures so described, certain properties previously unknown may be proved to belong. but as in nature there are no such things as triangles and circles exactly answering the definition, his conclusions, as applied to actually existing objects, are either not true at all or only proximately so. whether it be possible to bridge over the gulf between existing things and the abstract conception of them, as spinoza attempts to do, we shall presently see. it is a royal road to certainty if it be a practicable one; but we cannot say that we ever met any one who could say honestly spinoza's reasonings had convinced him; and power of demonstration, like all other powers, can be judged only by its effects. does it prove? does it produce conviction? if not, it is nothing. we need not detain our readers among these abstractions. the power of spinozism does not lie so remote from ordinary appreciation, or we should long ago have heard the last of it. like all other systems which have attracted followers, it addresses itself, not to the logical intellect, but to the imagination, which it affects to set aside. we refuse to submit to the demonstrations by which it thrusts itself upon our reception; but regarding it as a whole, as an attempt to explain the nature of the world of which we are a part, we can still ask ourselves how far the attempt is successful. some account of these things we know that there must be, and the curiosity which asks the question regards itself, of course, as competent in some degree to judge of the answer to it. before proceeding, however, to regard this philosophy in the aspect in which it is really powerful, we must clear our way through the fallacy of the method. the system is evolved in a series of theorems in severely demonstrative order out of the definitions and axioms which we have translated. to propositions - we have nothing to object; they will not, probably, convey any very clear ideas, but they are so far purely abstract, and seem to follow (as far as we can speak of 'following' in such subjects) by fair reasoning. 'substance is prior in nature to its affections.' 'substances with different attributes have nothing in common,' and, therefore, 'one cannot be the cause of the other.' 'things really distinct are distinguished by difference either of attribute or mode (there being nothing else by which they can be distinguished), and, therefore, because things modally distinguished do not _quâ_ substance differ from one another, there cannot be more than one substance of the same attribute. therefore (let us remind our readers that we are among what spinoza calls _notiones simplicissimas_), since there cannot be two substances of the same attribute, and substances of different attributes cannot be the cause one of the other, it follows that no substance can be produced by another substance.' the existence of substance, he then concludes, is involved in the nature of the thing itself. substance exists. it does and must. we ask, why? and we are answered, because there is nothing capable of producing it, and therefore it is self-caused--_i.e._ by the first definition the essence of it implies existence as part of the idea. it is astonishing that spinoza should not have seen that he assumes the fact that substance does exist in order to prove that it must. if it cannot be produced _and_ exists, then, of course, it exists in virtue of its own nature. but supposing it does not exist, supposing it is all a delusion, the proof falls to pieces. we have to fall back on the facts of experience, on the obscure and unscientific certainty that the thing which we call the world, and the personalities which we call ourselves, are a real substantial something, before we find ground of any kind to stand upon. conscious of the infirmity of his demonstration, spinoza winds round it and round it, adding proof to proof, but never escaping the same vicious circle: substance exists because it exists, and the ultimate experience of existence, so far from being of that clear kind which can be accepted as an axiom, is the most confused of all our sensations. what is existence? and what is that something which we say exists? things--essences--existences! these are but the vague names with which faculties, constructed only to deal with conditional phenomena, disguise their incapacity. the world in the hindoo legend was supported upon the back of the tortoise. it was a step between the world and nothingness, and served to cheat the imagination with ideas of a fictitious resting-place. if any one affirms (says spinoza) that he has a clear, distinct--that is to say, a true--idea of substance, but that nevertheless he is uncertain whether any such substance exist, it is the same as if he were to affirm that he had a true idea, but yet was uncertain whether it was not false. or if he says that substance can be created, it is like saying that a false idea can become a true idea--as absurd a thing as it is possible to conceive; and therefore the existence of substance, as well as the essence of it, must be acknowledged as an eternal verity. it is again the same story. spinoza speaks of a clear idea of substance; but he has not proved that such an idea is within the compass of the mind. a man's own notion that he sees clearly, is no proof that he really sees clearly; and the distinctness of a definition in itself is no evidence that it corresponds adequately with the object of it. no doubt a man who professes to have an idea of substance as an existing thing, cannot doubt, as long as he has it, that substance so exists. this is merely to say that as long as a man is certain of this or that fact, he has no doubt of it. but neither his certainty nor spinoza's will be of any use to a man who has no such idea, and who cannot recognise the lawfulness of the method by which it is arrived at. from the self-existing substance it is a short step to the existence of god. after a few more propositions, following one another with the same kind of coherence, we arrive successively at the conclusion that there is but one substance; that this substance being necessarily existent, it is also infinite; that it is therefore identical with the being who had been previously defined as the 'ens absolute perfectum.' demonstrations of this kind were the characteristics of the period. des cartes had set the example of constructing them, and was followed by cudworth, clarke, berkeley, and many others besides spinoza. the inconclusiveness of the method may perhaps be observed most readily in the strangely opposite conceptions formed by all these writers of the nature of that being whose existence they nevertheless agreed, by the same process, to gather each out of their ideas. it is important, however, to examine it carefully, for it is the very keystone of the pantheistic system. as stated by des cartes, the argument stands something as follows:--god is an all-perfect being,--perfection is the idea which we form of him: existence is a mode of perfection, and therefore god exists. the sophism we are told is only apparent. existence is part of the idea--as much involved in it as the equality of all lines drawn from the centre to the circumference of a circle is involved in the idea of a circle. a non-existent all-perfect being is as inconceivable as a quadrilateral triangle. it is sometimes answered that in this way we may prove the existence of anything--titans, chimæras, or the olympian gods; we have but to define them as existing, and the proof is complete. but, this objection summarily set aside; none of these beings are by hypothesis absolutely perfect, and, therefore, of their existence we can conclude nothing. with greater justice, however, we may say, that of such terms as perfection and existence we know too little to speculate. existence may be an imperfection for all we can tell; we know nothing about the matter. such arguments are but endless _petitiones principii_--like the self-devouring serpent, resolving themselves into nothing. we wander round and round them, in the hope of finding some tangible point at which we can seize their meaning; but we are presented everywhere with the same impracticable surface, from which our grasp glides off ineffectual. spinoza himself, however, obviously felt an intense conviction of the validity of his argument. his opinion is stated with sufficient distinctness in one of his letters. 'nothing is more clear,' he writes to his pupil de vries, 'than that, on the one hand, everything which exists is conceived by or under some attribute or other; that the more reality, therefore, a being or thing has, the more attributes must be assigned to it;' 'and conversely' (and this he calls his _argumentum palmarium_ in proof of the existence of god), '_the more attributes i assign to a thing, the more i am forced to conceive it as existing_.' arrange the argument how we please, we shall never get it into a form clearer than this:--the more perfect a thing is, the more it must exist (as if existence could admit of more or less); and therefore the all-perfect being must exist absolutely. there is no flaw, we are told, in the reasoning; and if we are not convinced, it is from the confused habits of our own minds. some persons may think that all arguments are good when on the right side, and that it is a gratuitous impertinence to quarrel with the proofs of a conclusion which it is so desirable that all should receive. as yet, however, we are but inadequately acquainted with the idea attached by spinoza to the word perfection; and if we commit ourselves to his logic, it may lead us out to unexpected consequences. all such reasonings presume, as a first condition, that we men possess faculties capable of dealing with absolute ideas; that we can understand the nature of things external to ourselves as they really _are_ in their absolute relation to one another, independent of our own conception. the question immediately before us is one which can never be determined. the truth which is to be proved is one which we already believe; and if, as we believe also, our conviction of god's existence is, like that of our own existence, intuitive and immediate, the grounds of it can never adequately be analysed; we cannot say exactly what they are, and therefore we cannot say what they are not. whatever we receive intuitively, we receive without proof; and stated as a naked proposition, it must involve a _petitio principii_. we have a right, however, to object at once to an argument in which the conclusion is more obvious than the premises; and if it lead on to other consequences which we disapprove in themselves, we reject it without difficulty or hesitation. we ourselves believe that god is, because we experience the control of a 'power' which is stronger than we; and our instincts teach us so much of the nature of that power as our own relation to it requires us to know. god is the being to whom our obedience is due; and the perfections which we attribute to him are those moral perfections which are the proper object of our reverence. strange to say, the perfections of spinoza, which appear so clear to him, are without any moral character whatever; and for men to speak of the justice of god, he tells us, is but to see in him a reflection of themselves; as if a triangle were to conceive of him as _eminenter triangularis_, or a circle to give him the property of circularity. having arrived at existence, we next find ourselves among ideas, which at least are intelligible, if the character of them is as far removed as before from the circle of ordinary thought. nothing exists except substance, the attributes under which substance is expressed, and the modes or affections of those attributes. there is but one substance self-existent, eternal, necessary, and that is the absolutely infinite all-perfect being. substance cannot produce substance, and therefore there is no such thing as creation; and everything which exists is either an attribute of god, or an affection of some attribute of him, modified in this manner or in that. beyond him there is nothing, and nothing like him or equal to him; he therefore alone in himself is absolutely free, uninfluenced by anything, for nothing is except himself; and from him and from his supreme power, essence, intelligence (for these words mean the same thing), all things have necessarily flowed, and will and must flow for ever, in the same manner as from the nature of a triangle it follows, and has followed, and will follow from eternity to eternity, that the angles of it are equal to two right angles. it would seem as if the analogy were but an artificial play upon words, and that it was only metaphorically that in mathematical demonstration we speak of one thing as following from another. the properties of a curve or a triangle are what they are at all times, and the sequence is merely in the order in which they are successively known to ourselves. but according to spinoza, this is the only true sequence; and what we call the universe, and all the series of incidents in earth or planet, are involved formally and mathematically in the definition of god. each attribute is infinite _suo genere_; and it is time that we should know distinctly the meaning which spinoza attaches to that important word. out of the infinite number of the attributes of god, two only, he says, are known to us--'extension,' and 'thought,' or 'mind.' duration, even though it be without beginning or end, is not an attribute; it is not even a real thing. time has no relation to being, conceived mathematically; it would be absurd to speak of circles or triangles as any older to-day than they were at the beginning of the world. these and everything of the same kind are conceived, as spinoza rightly says, _sub quâdam specie æternitatis_. but extension, or substance extended, and thought, or substance perceiving, are real, absolute, and objective. we must not confound extension with body; for though body be a mode of extension, there is extension which is not body, and it is infinite because we cannot conceive it to be limited except by itself--or, in other words, to be limited at all. and as it is with extension, so it is with mind, which is also infinite with the infinity of its object. thus there is no such thing as creation, and no beginning or end. all things of which our faculties are cognizant under one or other of these attributes are produced from god, and in him they have their being, and without him they would cease to be. proceeding by steps of rigid demonstration (and most admirably indeed is the form of the philosophy adapted to the spirit of it), we learn that god is the only _causa libera_; that no other thing or being has any power of self-determination; all moves by fixed laws of causation, motive upon motive, act upon act; there is no free will, and no contingency; and however necessary it may be for our incapacity to consider future things as in a sense contingent (see _tractat. theol. polit._ cap. iv., sec. ), this is but one of the thousand convenient deceptions which we are obliged to employ with ourselves. god is the _causa immanens omnium_; he is not a personal being existing apart from the universe; but himself in his own reality, he is expressed in the universe, which is his living garment. keeping to the philosophical language of the time, spinoza preserves the distinction between _natura naturans_ and _natura naturata_. the first is being in itself, the attributes of substance as they are conceived simply and alone; the second is the infinite series of modifications which follow out of the properties of these attributes. and thus all which _is_, is what it is by an absolute necessity, and could not have been other than it is. god is free, because no causes external to himself have power over him; and as good men are most free when most a law to themselves, so it is no infringement on god's freedom to say that he _must_ have acted as he has acted, but rather he is absolutely free because absolutely a law himself to himself. here ends the first book of spinoza's ethics--the book which contains, as we said, the _notiones simplicissimas_, and the primary and rudimental deductions from them. _his dei naturam_, he says, in his lofty confidence, _ejusque proprietates explicui_. but, as if conscious that his method will never convince, he concludes this portion of his subject with an analytical appendix; not to explain or apologise, but to show us clearly, in practical detail, the position into which he has led us. the root, we are told, of all philosophical errors lies in our notion of final causes; we invert the order of nature, and interpret god's action through our own; we speak of his intentions, as if he were a man; we assume that we are capable of measuring them, and finally erect ourselves, and our own interests, into the centre and criterion of all things. hence arises our notion of evil. if the universe be what this philosophy has described it, the perfection which it assigns to god is extended to everything, and evil is of course impossible; there is no shortcoming either in nature or in man; each person and each thing is exactly what it has the power to be, and nothing more. but men imagining that all things exist on their account, and perceiving their own interests, bodily and spiritual, capable of being variously affected, have conceived these opposite influences to result from opposite and contradictory powers, and call what contributes to their advantage good, and whatever obstructs it, evil. for our convenience we form generic conceptions of human excellence, as archetypes after which to strive; and such of us as approach nearest to such archetypes are supposed to be virtuous, and those who are most remote from them to be wicked. but such generic abstractions are but _entia imaginationis_, and have no real existence. in the eyes of god each thing is what it has the means of being. there is no rebellion against him, and no resistance of his will; in truth, therefore, there neither is nor can be such a thing as a bad action in the common sense of the word. actions are good or bad, not in themselves, but as compared with the nature of the agent; what we censure in men, we tolerate and even admire in animals; and as soon as we are aware of our mistake in assigning to man a power of free volition, our notion of evil as a positive thing will cease to exist. if i am asked (concludes spinoza) why then all mankind were not created by god, so as to be governed solely by reason? it was because, i reply, there was to god no lack of matter to create all things from the highest to the lowest grade of perfection; or, to speak more properly, because the laws of god's nature were ample enough to suffice for the production of all things which can be conceived by an infinite intelligence. it is possible that readers who have followed us so far will now turn away from a philosophy which issues in such conclusions; resentful, perhaps, that it should have been ever laid before them at all, in language so little expressive of aversion and displeasure. we must claim, however, in spinoza's name, the right which he claims for himself. his system must be judged as a whole; and whatever we may think ourselves would be the moral effect of such doctrines if they were generally received, in his hands and in his heart they are worked into maxims of the purest and loftiest morality. and at least we are bound to remember that some account of this great mystery of evil there must be; and although familiarity with commonly-received explanations may disguise from us the difficulties with which they too, as well as that of spinoza, are embarrassed, such difficulties none the less exist. the fact is the grand perplexity, and for ourselves we acknowledge that of all theories about it spinoza's would appear to us the least irrational, setting conscience, and the voice of conscience, aside. the objections, with the replies to them, are well drawn out in the correspondence with william de blyenburg. it will be seen at once with how little justice the denial of evil as a positive thing can be called equivalent to denying it relatively to man, or to confusing the moral distinctions between virtue and vice. we speak (writes spinoza, in answer to blyenburg, who had urged something of the kind), we speak of this or that man having done a wrong thing, when we compare him with a general standard of humanity; but inasmuch as god neither perceives things in such abstract manner, nor forms to himself such generic definitions, and since there is no more reality in anything than god has assigned to it, it follows, surely, that the absence of good exists only in respect of man's understanding, not in respect of god's. if this be so, then (replies blyenburg), bad men fulfil god's will as well as good. it is true (spinoza answers) they fulfil it, yet not as the good nor as well as the good, nor are they to be compared with them. the better a thing or a person be, the more there is in him of god's spirit, and the more he expresses god's will; while the bad, being without that divine love which arises from the knowledge of god, and through which alone we are called (in respect of our understandings) his servants, are but as instruments in the hand of the artificer--they serve unconsciously, and are consumed in their service. spinoza, after all, is but stating in philosophical language the extreme doctrine of grace; and st. paul, if we interpret his real belief by the one passage so often quoted, in which he compares us to 'clay in the hands of the potter, who maketh one vessel to honour and another to dishonour,' may be accused with justice of having held the same opinion. if calvinism be pressed to its logical consequences, it either becomes an intolerable falsehood, or it resolves itself into the philosophy of spinoza. it is monstrous to call evil a positive thing, and to assert, in the same breath, that god has predetermined it,--to tell us that he has ordained what he hates, and hates what he has ordained. it is incredible that we should be without power to obey him except through his free grace, and yet be held responsible for our failures when that grace has been withheld. and it is idle to call a philosopher sacrilegious who has but systematised the faith which so many believe, and cleared it of its most hideous features. spinoza flinches from nothing, and disguises no conclusions either from himself or from his readers. we believe for ourselves that logic has no business with such questions; that the answer to them lies in the conscience and not in the intellect. spinoza thinks otherwise; and he is at least true to the guide which he has chosen. blyenburg presses him with instances of monstrous crime, such as bring home to the heart the natural horror of it. he speaks of nero's murder of agrippina, and asks if god can be called the cause of such an act as that. god (replies spinoza, calmly) is the cause of all things which have reality. if you can show that evil, errors, crimes express any real things, i agree readily that god is the cause of them; but i conceive myself to have proved that what constitutes the essence of evil is not a real thing at all, and therefore that god cannot be the cause of it. nero's matricide was not a crime, in so far as it was a positive outward act. orestes also killed his mother; and we do not judge orestes as we judge nero. the crime of the latter lay in his being without pity, without obedience, without natural affection--none of which things express any positive essence, but the absence of it; and therefore god was not the cause of these, although he was the cause of the act and the intention. but once for all (he adds), this aspect of things will remain intolerable and unintelligible as long as the common notions of free will remain unremoved. and of course, and we shall all confess it, if these notions are as false as spinoza supposes them--if we have no power to be anything but what we are, there neither is nor can be such a thing as moral evil; and what we call crimes will no more involve a violation of the will of god, they will no more impair his moral attributes if we suppose him to have willed them, than the same actions, whether of lust, ferocity, or cruelty, in the inferior animals. there will be but, as spinoza says, an infinite gradation in created things, the poorest life being more than none, the meanest active disposition something better than inertia, and the smallest exercise of reason better than mere ferocity. 'the lord has made all things for himself, even the wicked for the day of evil.' the moral aspect of the matter will be more clear as we proceed. we pause, however, to notice one difficulty of a metaphysical kind, which is best disposed of in passing. whatever obscurity may lie about the thing which we call time (philosophers not being able to agree what it is, or whether properly it _is_ anything), the words past, present, future, do undoubtedly convey some definite idea with them: things will be which are not yet, and have been which are no longer. now, if everything which exists be a necessary mathematical consequence from the nature or definition of the one being, we cannot see how there can be any time but the present, or how past and future have room for a meaning. god is, and therefore all properties of him _are_, just as every property of a circle exists in it as soon as the circle exists. we may if we like, for convenience, throw our theorems into the future, and say, _e.g._ that if two lines in a circle cut each other, the rectangle under the parts of the one _will_ equal that under the parts of the other. but we only mean in reality that these rectangles _are_ equal; and the _future_ relates only to our knowledge of the fact. allowing, however, as much as we please, that the condition of england a hundred years hence lies already in embryo in existing causes, it is a paradox to say that such condition exists already in the sense in which the properties of the circle exist; and yet spinoza insists on the illustration. it is singular that he should not have noticed the difficulty; not that either it or the answer to it (which no doubt would have been ready enough) are likely to interest any person except metaphysicians, a class of thinkers, happily, which is rapidly diminishing. we proceed to more important matters--to spinoza's detailed theory of nature as exhibited in man and in man's mind. his theory for its bold ingenuity is by far the most remarkable which on this dark subject has ever been proposed. whether we can believe it or not, is another question; yet undoubtedly it provides a solution for every difficulty; it accepts with equal welcome the extremes of materialism and of spiritualism: and if it be the test of the soundness of a philosophy that it will explain phenomena and reconcile contradictions, it is hard to account for the fact that a system which bears such a test so admirably, should nevertheless be so incredible as it is. most people have heard of the 'harmonie pré-établie' of leibnitz; it is borrowed without acknowledgment from spinoza, and adapted to the leibnitzian philosophy. 'man,' says leibnitz, 'is composed of mind and body; but what is mind and what is body, and what is the nature of their union? substances so opposite in kind cannot affect one another; mind cannot act on matter, or matter upon mind; and the appearance of their reciprocal operation is an appearance only and a delusion.' a delusion so general, however, required to be accounted for; and leibnitz accounted for it by supposing that god, in creating a world composed of material and spiritual phenomena, ordained that these several phenomena should proceed from the beginning in parallel lines side by side in a constantly corresponding harmony. the sense of seeing results, it appears to us, from the formation of a picture upon the retina. the motion of the arm or the leg appears to result from an act of will; but in either case we mistake coincidence for causation. between substances so wholly alien there can be no intercommunion; and we only suppose that the object seen produces the idea, and that the desire produces the movement, because the phenomena of matter and the phenomena of spirit are so contrived as to flow always in the same order and sequence. this hypothesis, as coming from leibnitz, has been, if not accepted, at least listened to respectfully; because while taking it out of its proper place, he contrived to graft it upon christianity; and succeeded, with a sort of speculative legerdemain, in making it appear to be in harmony with revealed religion. disguised as a philosophy of predestination, and connected with the christian doctrine of retribution, it steps forward with an air of unconscious innocence, as if interfering with nothing which christians generally believe. and yet, leaving as it does no larger scope for liberty or responsibility than when in the hands of spinoza,[o] leibnitz, in our opinion, has only succeeded in making it infinitely more revolting. spinoza could not regard the bad man as an object of divine anger and a subject of retributory punishment. he was not a christian, and made no pretension to be considered such; and it did not occur to him to regard the actions of a being which, both with leibnitz and himself, is (to use his own expression) an _automaton spirituale_, as deserving a fiery indignation and everlasting vengeance. 'deus,' according to spinoza's definition, 'est ens constans infinitis attributis quorum unumquodque æternam et infinitam essentiam exprimit.' under each of these attributes _infinita sequuntur_, and everything which an infinite intelligence can conceive, and an infinite power can produce,--everything which follows as a possibility out of the divine nature,--all things which have been, and are, and will be,--find expression and actual existence, not under one attribute only, but under each and every attribute. language is so ill adapted to explain such a system, that even to state it accurately is all but impossible, and analogies can only remotely suggest what such expressions mean. but it is as if it were said that the same thought might be expressed in an infinite variety of languages; and not in words only, but in action, in painting, in sculpture, in music, in any form of any kind which can be employed as a means of spiritual embodiment. of all these infinite attributes, two only, as we said, are known to us--extension and thought. material phenomena are phenomena of extension; and to every modification of extension an idea corresponds under the attribute of thought. out of such a compound as this is formed man, composed of body and mind; two parallel and correspondent modifications eternally answering one another. and not man only, but all other beings and things are similarly formed and similarly animated; the anima or mind of each varying according to the complicity of the organism of its material counterpart. although body does not think, nor affect the mind's power of thinking, and mind does not control body, nor communicate to it either motion or rest or any influence from itself, yet body with all its properties is the object or ideate of mind: whatsoever body does, mind perceives; and the greater the energising power of the first, the greater the perceiving power of the second. and this is not because they are adapted one to the other by some inconceivable preordinating power, but because mind and body are _una et eadem res_, the one absolute being affected in one and the same manner, but expressed under several attributes; the modes and affections of each attribute having that being for their cause, as he exists under that attribute of which they are modes, and no other; idea being caused by idea, and body affected by body; the image on the retina being produced by the object reflected upon it, the idea or image in our minds by the idea of that object, &c. &c. a solution so remote from all ordinary ways of thinking on these matters is so difficult to grasp, that one can hardly speak of it as being probable, or as being improbable. probability extends only to what we can imagine as possible, and spinoza's theory seems to lie beyond the range within which our judgment can exercise itself. in our own opinion, indeed, as we have already said, the entire subject is one with which we have no business; and the explanation of our nature, if it is ever to be explained to us, is reserved till we are in some other state of existence. we do not disbelieve spinoza because what he suggests is in itself incredible. the chances may be millions to one against his being right; yet the real truth, if we knew it, would be probably at least as strange as his conception of it. but we are firmly convinced that of these questions, and of all like them, practical answers only lie within the reach of human faculties; and that in 'researches into the absolute' we are on the road which ends nowhere. among the difficulties, however, most properly akin to this philosophy itself, there is one most obvious, viz., that if the attributes of god be infinite, and each particular thing is expressed under them all, then mind and body express but an infinitesimal portion of the nature of each of ourselves; and this human nature exists (_i.e._, there exists corresponding modes of substance) in the whole infinity of the divine nature under attributes differing each from each, and all from mind and all from body. that this must be so follows from the definition of the infinite being, and the nature of the distinction between the two attributes which are known to us; and if this be so, why does not the mind perceive something of all these other attributes? the objection is well expressed by a correspondent (letter ):--'it follows from what you say,' a friend writes to spinoza, 'that the modification which constitutes my mind, and that which constitutes my body, although it be one and the same modification, yet must be expressed in an infinity of ways: one way by thought, a second way by extension, a third by some attribute unknown to me, and so on to infinity; the attributes being infinite in number, and the order and connexion of modes being the same in them all. why, then, does the mind perceive the modes of but one attribute only?' spinoza's answer is curious: unhappily, a fragment of his letter only is extant, so that it is too brief to be satisfactory:-- in reply to your difficulty (he says), although each particular thing be truly in the infinite mind, conceived in infinite modes, the infinite idea answering to all these cannot constitute one and the same mind of any single being, but must constitute infinite minds. no one of all these infinite ideas has any connexion with another. he means, we suppose, that god's mind only perceives, or can perceive, things under their infinite expression, and that the idea of each several mode, under whatever attribute, constitutes a separate mind. we do not know that we can add anything to this explanation; the difficulty lies in the audacious sweep of the speculation itself; we will, however, attempt an illustration, although we fear it will be to illustrate _obscurum per obscurius_. let a b c d be four out of the infinite number of the divine attributes. a the attribute of mind; b the attribute of extension; c and d other attributes, the nature of which is not known to us. now, a, as the attribute of mind, is that which perceives all which takes place under b c and d, but it is only as it exists in god that it forms the universal consciousness of all attributes at once. in its modifications it is combined separately with the modifications of each, constituting in combination with the modes of each attribute a separate being. as forming the mind of b, a perceives what takes place in b, but not what takes place in c or d. combined with b, it forms the soul of the human body, and generally the soul of all modifications of extended substance; combined with c, it forms the soul of some other analogous being; combined with d, again of another; but the combinations are only in pairs, in which a is constant. a and b make one being, a and c another, a and d a third; but b will not combine with c, nor c with d; each attribute being, as it were, conscious only of itself. and therefore, although to those modifications of mind and extension which we call ourselves, there are corresponding modifications under c and d, and generally under each of the infinite attributes of god, each of ourselves being in a sense infinite--nevertheless, we neither have nor can have any knowledge of ourselves in this infinite aspect; our actual consciousness being limited to the phenomena of sensible experience. english readers, however, are likely to care little for all this; they will look to the general theory, and judge of it as its aspect affects them. and first, perhaps, they will be tempted to throw aside as absurd the notion that their bodies go through the many operations which they experience them to do, undirected by their minds. it is a thing, they may say, at once preposterous and incredible. it is, however, less absurd than it seems; and, though we could not persuade ourselves to believe it, absurd in the sense of having nothing to be said for it, it certainly is not. it is far easier, for instance, to imagine the human body capable by its own virtue, and by the laws of material organisation, of building a house, than of _thinking_; and yet men are allowed to say that the body thinks, without being regarded as candidates for a lunatic asylum. we see the seed shoot up into stem and leaf and throw out flowers; we observe it fulfilling processes of chemistry more subtle than were ever executed in liebig's laboratory, and producing structures more cunning than man can imitate. the bird builds her nest, the spider shapes out its delicate web, and stretches it in the path of his prey; directed not by calculating thought, as we conceive ourselves to be, but by some motive influence, our ignorance of the nature of which we disguise from ourselves, and call it instinct, but which we believe at least to be some property residing in the organisation. we are not to suppose that the human body, the most complex of all material structures, has slighter powers in it than the bodies of a seed, a bird, or an insect. let us listen to spinoza himself:-- there can be no doubt (he says) that this hypothesis is true; but unless i can prove it from experience, men will not, i fear, be induced even to reflect upon it calmly, so persuaded are they that it is by the mind only that their bodies are set in motion. and yet what body can or cannot do no one has yet determined; body, _i.e._, by the law of its own nature, and without assistance from mind. no one has so probed the human frame as to have detected all its functions and exhausted the list of them; there are powers exhibited by animals far exceeding human sagacity; and, again, feats are performed by somnambulists on which in the waking state the same persons would never venture--itself a proof that body is able to accomplish what mind can only admire. men _say_ that mind moves body, but how it moves it they cannot tell, or what degree of motion it can impart to it; so that, in fact, they do not know what they say, and are only confessing their own ignorance in specious language. they will answer me, that whether or not they understand how it can be, yet that they are assured by plain experience that unless mind could perceive, body would be altogether inactive; they know that it depends on the mind whether the tongue speaks or is silent. but do they not equally experience that if their bodies are paralysed their minds cannot think?--that if their bodies are asleep their minds are without power?--that their minds are not at all times equally able to exert themselves even on the same subject, but depend on the state of their bodies? and as for experience proving that the members of the body can be controlled by the mind, i fear experience proves very much the reverse. but it is absurd (they rejoin) to attempt to explain from the mere laws of body such things as pictures, or palaces, or works of art; the body could not build a church unless mind directed it. i have shown, however, that we do not yet know what body can or cannot do, or what would naturally follow from the structure of it; that we experience in the feats of somnambulists something which antecedently to that experience would have seemed incredible. this fabric of the human body exceeds infinitely any contrivance of human skill, and an infinity of things, as i have already proved, ought to follow from it. we are not concerned to answer this reasoning, although if the matter were one the debating of which could be of any profit, it would undoubtedly have its weight, and would require to be patiently considered. life is too serious, however, to be wasted with impunity over speculations in which certainty is impossible, and in which we are trifling with what is inscrutable. objections of a far graver kind were anticipated by spinoza himself, when he went on to gather out of his philosophy 'that the mind of man being part of the infinite intelligence, when we say that such a mind perceives this thing or that, we are, in fact, saying that god perceives it, not as he is infinite, but as he is represented by the nature of this or that idea; and similarly, when we say that a man does this or that action, we say that god does it, not _quâ_ he is infinite, but _quâ_ he is expressed in that man's nature.' 'here,' he says, 'many readers will no doubt hesitate, and many difficulties will occur to them in the way of such a supposition.' we confess that we ourselves are among these hesitating readers. as long as the being whom spinoza so freely names remains surrounded with the associations which in this country we bring with us out of our childhood, not all the logic in the world would make us listen to language such as this. it is not so--we know it, and that is enough. we are well aware of the phalanx of difficulties which lie about our theistic conceptions. they are quite enough, if religion depended on speculative consistency, and not in obedience of life, to perplex and terrify us. what are we? what _is_ anything? if it be not divine--what is it then? if created--out of what is it created? and how created--and why? these questions, and others far more momentous which we do not enter upon here, may be asked and cannot be answered; but we cannot any the more consent to spinoza on the ground that he alone consistently provides an answer; because, as we have said again and again, we do not care to have them answered at all. conscience is the single tribunal to which we choose to be referred, and conscience declares imperatively that what he says is not true. it is painful to speak of all this, and as far as possible we designedly avoid it. pantheism is not atheism, but the infinite positive and the infinite negative are not so remote from one another in their practical bearings; only let us remember that we are far indeed from the truth if we think that god to spinoza was _nothing else_ but that world which we experience. it is but one of infinite expressions of him--a conception which makes us giddy in the effort to realise it. we have arrived at last at the outwork of the whole matter in its bearings upon life and human duty. it was in the search after this last, that spinoza, as we said, travelled over so strange a country, and we now expect his conclusions. to discover the true good of man, to direct his actions to such ends as will secure to him real and lasting felicity, and, by a comparison of his powers with the objects offered to them, to ascertain how far they are capable of arriving at these objects, and by what means they can best be trained towards them--is the aim which spinoza assigns to philosophy. 'most people,' he adds, 'deride or vilify their nature; it is a better thing to endeavour to understand it; and however extravagant my proceeding may be thought, i propose to analyse the properties of that nature as if it were a mathematical figure.' mind being, as he conceives himself to have shown, nothing else than the idea corresponding to this or that affection of body, we are not, therefore, to think of it as a faculty, but simply and merely as an act. there is no general power called intellect, any more than there is any general abstract volition, but only _hic et ille intellectus et hæc et illa volitio_. again, by the word mind is understood not merely an act or acts of will or intellect, but all forms also of consciousness of sensation or emotion. the human body being composed of many small bodies, the mind is similarly composed of many minds, and the unity of body and of mind depends on the relation which the component portions maintain towards each other. this is obviously the case with body; and if we can translate metaphysics into common experience, it is equally the case with mind. there are pleasures of sense and pleasures of intellect; a thousand tastes, tendencies, and inclinations form our mental composition; and since one contradicts another, and each has a tendency to become dominant, it is only in the harmonious equipoise of their several activities, in their due and just subordination, that any unity of action or consistency of feeling is possible. after a masterly analysis of all these tendencies (the most complete by far which has ever been made by any moral philosopher), spinoza arrives at the principles under which unity and consistency can be obtained as the condition upon which a being so composed can look for any sort of happiness; and these principles, arrived at as they are by a route so different, are the same, and are proposed by spinoza as being the same, as those of the christian religion. it might seem impossible in a system which binds together in so inexorable a sequence the relations of cause and effect, to make a place for the action of self-control; but consideration will show that, however vast the difference between those who deny and those who affirm the liberty of the will (in the sense in which the expression is usually understood), it is not a difference which affects the conduct or alters the practical bearings of it. conduct may be determined by laws--laws as absolute as those of matter; and yet the one as well as the other may be brought under control by a proper understanding of those laws. now, experience seems plainly to say, that while all our actions arise out of desire--that whatever we do, we do for the sake of something which we wish to be or to obtain--we are differently affected towards what is proposed to us as an object of desire, in proportion as we understand the nature of such object in itself and in its consequences. the better we know, the better we act; and the fallacy of all common arguments against necessitarianism lies in the assumption that it leaves no room for self-direction: it merely insists, in exact conformity with experience, on the conditions under which self-determination is possible. conduct, according to the necessitarian, depends on knowledge. let a man certainly know that there is poison in the cup of wine before him, and he will not drink it. by the law of cause and effect, his desire for the wine is overcome by the fear of the pain or the death which will follow. so with everything which comes before him. let the consequences of any action be clear, definite, and inevitable, and though spinoza would not say that the knowledge of them will be absolutely sufficient to determine the conduct (because the clearest knowledge may be overborne by violent passion), yet it is the best which we have to trust to, and will do much if it cannot do all. on this hypothesis, after a diagnosis of the various tendencies of human nature, called commonly the passions and affections, he returns upon the nature of our ordinary knowledge to derive out of it the means for their subordination. all these tendencies of themselves seek their own objects--seek them blindly and immoderately; and the mistakes and the unhappinesses of life arise from the want of due understanding of these objects, and a just moderation of the desire for them. his analysis is remarkably clear, but it is too long for us to enter upon it; the important thing being the character of the control which is to be exerted. to arrive at this, he employs a distinction of great practical utility, and which is peculiarly his own. following his tripartite division of knowledge, he finds all kinds of it arrange themselves under one of two classes, and to be either adequate or inadequate. by adequate knowledge he does not mean what is exhaustive and complete, but what, as far as it goes, is distinct and unconfused: by inadequate, he means what we know merely as fact either derived from our own sensations, or from the authority of others, while of the connexion of it with other facts, of the causes, effects, or meaning of it we know nothing. we may have an adequate idea of a circle, though we are unacquainted with all the properties which belong to it; we conceive it distinctly as a figure generated by the rotation of a line, one end of which is stationary. phenomena, on the other hand, however made known to us--phenomena of the senses, and phenomena of experience, as long as they remain phenomena merely, and unseen in any higher relation--we can never know except as inadequately. we cannot tell what outward things are by coming in contact with certain features of them. we have a very imperfect acquaintance even with our own bodies, and the sensations which we experience of various kinds rather indicate to us the nature of these bodies themselves than of the objects which affect them. now, it is obvious that the greater part of mankind act only upon knowledge of this latter kind. the amusements, even the active pursuits, of most of us remain wholly within the range of uncertainty, and, therefore, are full of hazard and precariousness: little or nothing issues as we expect. we look for pleasure and we find pain; we shun one pain and find a greater; and thus arises the ineffectual character which we so complain of in life--the disappointments, failures, mortifications which form the material of so much moral meditation on the vanity of the world. much of all this is inevitable from the constitution of our nature. the mind is too infirm to be entirely occupied with higher knowledge. the conditions of life oblige us to act in many cases which cannot be understood by us except with the utmost inadequacy; and the resignation to the higher will which has determined all things in the wisest way, is imperfect in the best of us. yet much is possible, if not all; and, although through a large tract of life 'there comes one event to all, to the wise and to the unwise,' 'yet wisdom excelleth folly as far as light excelleth darkness.' the phenomena of experience, after inductive experiment, and just and careful consideration, arrange themselves under laws uniform in their operation, and furnishing a guide to the judgment; and over all things, although the interval must remain unexplored for ever, because what we would search into is infinite, may be seen the beginning of all things, the absolute eternal god. 'mens humana,' spinoza continues, 'quædam agit, quædam vero patitur.' in so far as it is influenced by inadequate ideas--'eatenus patitur'--it is passive and in bondage, it is the sport of fortune and caprice: in so far as its ideas are adequate--'eatenus agit'--it is active, it is itself. while we are governed by outward temptations, by the casual pleasures, by the fortunes or the misfortunes of life, we are but instruments, yielding ourselves to be acted upon as the animal is acted on by its appetites, or the inanimate matter by the laws which bind it; we are slaves--instruments, it may be, of some higher purpose in the order of nature, but in ourselves nothing; instruments which are employed for a special work, and which are consumed in effecting it. so far, on the contrary, as we know clearly what we do, as we understand what we are, and direct our conduct not by the passing emotion of the moment, but by a grave, clear, and constant knowledge of what is really good, so far we are said to act--we are ourselves the spring of our own activity--we pursue the genuine well-being of our entire nature, and _that_ we can always find, and it never disappoints us when found. all things desire life; all things seek for energy, and fuller and ampler being. the component parts of man, his various appetites and passions, are seeking larger activity while pursuing each its immoderate indulgence; and it is the primary law of every single being that it so follows what will give it increased vitality. whatever will contribute to such increase is the proper good of each; and the good of man as a united being is measured and determined by the effect of it upon his collective powers. the appetites gather power from their several objects of desire; but the power of the part is the weakness of the whole; and man as a collective person gathers life, being, and self-mastery only from the absolute good,--the source of all real good, and truth, and energy,--that is, god. the love of god is the extinction of all other loves and all other desires. to know god, as far as man can know him, is power, self-government, and peace. and this is virtue, and this is blessedness. thus, by a formal process of demonstration, we are brought round to the old conclusions of theology; and spinoza protests that it is no new doctrine which he is teaching, but that it is one which in various dialects has been believed from the beginning of the world. happiness depends on the consistency and coherency of character, and that coherency can only be given by the knowledge of the one being, to know whom is to know all things adequately, and to love whom is to have conquered every other inclination. the more entirely our minds rest on him--the more distinctly we regard all things in their relation to him, the more we cease to be under the dominion of external things; we surrender ourselves consciously to do his will, and as living men and not as passive things we become the instruments of his power. when the true nature and true causes of our affections become clear to us, they have no more power to influence us. the more we understand, the less can feeling sway us; we know that all things are what they are, because they are so constituted that they could not be otherwise, and we cease to be angry with our brother, because he disappoints us; we shall not fret at calamity, nor complain of fortune, because no such thing as fortune exists; and if we fail it is better than if we had succeeded, not perhaps for ourselves, yet for the universe. we cannot fear, when nothing can befall us except what god wills, and we shall not violently hope, when the future, whatever it be, will be the best which is possible. seeing all things in their place in the everlasting order, past and future will not affect us. the temptation of present pleasure will not overcome the certainty of future pain, for the pain will be as sure as the pleasure, and we shall see all things under a rule of adamant. the foolish and the ignorant are led astray by the idea of contingency, and expect to escape the just issues of their actions; the wise man will know that each action brings with it its inevitable consequences, which even god cannot change without ceasing to be himself. in such a manner, through all the conditions of life, spinoza pursues the advantages which will accrue to man from the knowledge of god, god and man being what his philosophy has described them. his practical teaching is singularly beautiful; although much of its beauty is perhaps due to associations which have arisen out of christianity, and which in the system of pantheism have no proper abiding place. retaining, indeed, all that is beautiful in christianity, he even seems to have relieved himself of the more fearful features of the general creed. he acknowledges no hell, no devil, no positive and active agency at enmity with god; but sees in all things infinite gradations of beings, all in their way obedient, and all fulfilling the part allotted to them. doubtless a pleasant exchange and a grateful deliverance, if only we could persuade ourselves that a hundred pages of judiciously arranged demonstrations could really and indeed have worked it for us; if we could indeed believe that we could have the year without its winter, day without night, sunlight without shadow. evil is unhappily too real a thing to be so disposed of. but if we cannot believe spinoza's system taken in its entire completeness, yet we may not blind ourselves to the disinterestedness and calm nobility which pervades his theories of human life and obligation. he will not hear of a virtue which desires to be rewarded. virtue is the power of god in the human soul, and that is the exhaustive end of all human desire. 'beatitudo non est virtutis pretium, sed ipsa virtus. nihil aliud est quam ipsa animi acquiescentia, quæ ex dei intuitivâ cognitione oritur.' the same spirit of generosity exhibits itself in all his conclusions. the ordinary objects of desire, he says, are of such a kind that for one man to obtain them is for another to lose them; and this alone would suffice to prove that they are not what any man should labour after. but the fulness of god suffices for us all; and he who possesses this good desires only to communicate it to every one, and to make all mankind as happy as himself. and again:--'the wise man will not speak in society of his neighbour's faults, and sparingly of the infirmity of human nature; but he will speak largely of human virtue and human power, and of the means by which that nature can best be perfected, so to lead men to put away that fear and aversion with which they look on goodness, and learn with relieved hearts to love and desire it.' and once more:--'he who loves god will not desire that god should love him in return with any partial or particular affection, for that is to desire that god for his sake should change his everlasting nature and become lower than himself.' one grave element, indeed, of a religious faith would seem in such a system to be necessarily wanting. where individual action is resolved into the modified activity of the universal being, all absorbing and all evolving, the individuality of the personal man is but an evanescent and unreal shadow. such individuality as we now possess, whatever it be, might continue to exist in a future state as really as it exists in the present, and those to whom it belongs might be anxious naturally for its persistence. yet it would seem that if the soul be nothing except the idea of a body actually existing, when that body is decomposed into its elements, the soul corresponding to it must accompany it into an answering dissolution. and this, indeed, spinoza in one sense actually affirms, when he denies to the mind any power of retaining consciousness of what has befallen it in life, 'nisi durante corpore.' but spinozism is a philosophy full of surprises; and our calculations of what _must_ belong to it are perpetually baffled. the imagination, the memory, the senses, whatever belongs to inadequate perception, perish necessarily and eternally; and the man who has been the slave of his inclinations, who has no knowledge of god, and no active possession of himself, having in life possessed no personality, loses in death the appearance of it with the dissolution of the body. nevertheless, there is in god an idea expressing the essence of the mind, united to the mind as the mind is united to the body, and thus there is in the soul something of an everlasting nature which cannot utterly perish. and here spinoza, as he often does in many of his most solemn conclusions, deserts for a moment the thread of his demonstrations, and appeals to the consciousness. in spite of our non-recollection of what passed before our birth, in spite of all difficulties from the dissolution of the body, 'nihilominus,' he says, 'sentimus experimurque nos æternos esse. nam mens non minus res illas sentit quas intelligendo concipit, quam quas in memoriâ habet. mentis enim oculi quibus res videt observatque sunt ipsæ demonstrationes.' this perception, immediately revealed to the mind, falls into easy harmony with the rest of the system. as the mind is not a faculty, but an act or acts,--not a power of perception, but the perception itself, in its high union with the highest object (to use the metaphysical language which coleridge has made popular and partially intelligible), the object and the subject become one. if knowledge be followed as it ought to be followed, and all objects of knowledge be regarded in their relations to the one absolute being, the knowledge of particular outward things, of nature, or life, or history, becomes, in fact, knowledge of god; and the more complete or adequate such knowledge, the more the mind is raised above what is perishable in the phenomena to the idea or law which lies beyond them. it learns to dwell exclusively upon the eternal, not upon the temporary; and being thus occupied with the everlasting laws, and its activity subsisting in its perfect union with them, it contracts in itself the character of the objects which possess it. thus we are emancipated from the conditions of duration; we are liable even to death only _quatenus patimur_, as we are passive things and not active intelligences; and the more we possess such knowledge and are possessed by it, the more entirely the passive is superseded by the active--so that at last the human soul may 'become of such a nature that the portion of it which will perish with the body in comparison with that of it which shall endure, shall be insignificant and _nullius momenti_.' (eth. v. .) such are the principal features of a philosophy, the influence of which upon europe, direct and indirect, it is not easy to over-estimate. the account of it is far from being an account of the whole of spinoza's labours; his 'tractatus theologico-politicus' was the forerunner of german historical criticism; the whole of which has been but the application of principles laid down in that remarkable work. but this is not a subject on which, upon the present occasion, we have cared to enter. we have designedly confined ourselves to the system which is most associated with the name of its author. it is this which has been really powerful, which has stolen over the minds even of thinkers who imagine themselves most opposed to it. it has appeared in the absolute pantheism of schelling and hegel, in the pantheistic christianity of herder and schleiermacher. passing into practical life it has formed the strong, shrewd judgment of goethe, while again it has been able to unite with the theories of the most extreme materialism. it lies too, perhaps (and here its influence has been unmixedly good), at the bottom of that more reverent contemplation of nature which has caused the success of our modern landscape painting, which inspired wordsworth's poetry, and which, if ever physical science is to become an instrument of intellectual education, must first be infused into the lessons of nature; the sense of that 'something' interfused in the material world-- whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man;-- a motion and a spirit, which impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things. if we shrink from regarding the extended universe, with spinoza, as an actual manifestation of almighty god, we are unable to rest in the mere denial that it is this. we go on to ask what it _is_, and we are obliged to conclude thus much at least of it, that every smallest being was once a thought in his mind; and in the study of what he has made, we are really and truly studying a revelation of himself. it is not here, it is not on the physical, it is rather on the moral side, that the stumbling-block is lying; in that excuse for evil and for evil men which the necessitarian theory will furnish, disguise it in what fair-sounding words we will. so plain this is, that common-sense people, and especially english people, cannot bring themselves even to consider the question without impatience, and turn disdainfully and angrily from a theory which confuses their instincts of right and wrong. although, however, error on this side is infinitely less mischievous than on the other, no vehement error can exist in this world with impunity; and it does appear that in our common view of these matters we have closed our eyes to certain grave facts of experience, and have given the fatalist a vantage ground of real truth which we ought to have considered and allowed. at the risk of tediousness we shall enter briefly into this unpromising ground. life and the necessities of life are our best philosophers if we will only listen honestly to what they say to us; and dislike the lesson as we may, it is cowardice which refuses to hear it. the popular belief is, that right and wrong lie before every man, and that he is free to choose between them, and the responsibility of choice rests with himself. the fatalist's belief is that every man's actions are determined by causes external and internal over which he has no power, leaving no room for any moral choice whatever. the first is contradicted by facts, the second by the instinct of conscience. even spinoza allows that for practical purposes we are obliged to regard the future as contingent, and ourselves as able to influence it; and it is incredible that both our inward convictions and our outward conduct should be built together upon a falsehood. but if, as butler says, whatever be the speculative account of the matter, we are practically forced to regard ourselves as free, this is but half the truth, for it may be equally said that practically we are forced to regard each other as _not_ free; and to make allowance, every moment, for influences for which we cannot hold each other personally responsible. if not,--if every person of sound mind (in the common acceptation of the term) be equally able at all times to act right if only he _will_,--why all the care which we take of children? why the pains to keep them from bad society? why do we so anxiously watch their disposition, to determine the education which will best answer to it? why in cases of guilt do we vary our moral censure according to the opportunities of the offender? why do we find excuses for youth, for inexperience, for violent natural passion, for bad education, bad example? why, except that we feel that all these things do affect the culpability of the guilty person, and that it is folly and inhumanity to disregard them? but what we act upon in private life we cannot acknowledge in our ethical theories, and while our conduct in detail is humane and just, we have been contented to gather our speculative philosophy out of the broad and coarse generalisations of political necessity. in the swift haste of social life we must indeed treat men as we find them. we have no time to make allowances; and the graduation of punishment by the scale of guilt is a mere impossibility. a thief is a thief in the law's eye though he has been trained from his cradle in the kennels of st. giles's; and definite penalties must be attached to definite acts, the conditions of political life not admitting of any other method of dealing with them. but it is absurd to argue from such rude necessity that each act therefore, by whomsoever committed, is of specific culpability. the act is one thing, the moral guilt is another. there are many cases in which, as butler again allows, if we trace a sinner's history to the bottom, the guilt attributable to himself appears to vanish altogether. this is plain matter of fact, and as long as we continue to deny or ignore it, there will be found men (not bad men, but men who love the truth as much as ourselves) who will see only what we neglect, and will insist upon it, and build their systems upon it. and again, if less obvious, yet not less real, are those natural tendencies which each of us brings with him into the world,--which we did not make, and yet which almost as much determine what we are to be, as the properties of the seed determine the tree which shall grow from it. men are self-willed, or violent, or obstinate, or weak, or generous, or affectionate; there is as large difference in their dispositions as in the features of their faces. duties which are easy to one, another finds difficult or impossible. it is with morals as it is with art. two children are taught to draw; one learns with ease, the other hardly or never. in vain the master will show him what to do. it seems so easy: it seems as if he had only to _will_, and the thing would be done; but it is not so. between the desire and the execution lies the incapable organ which only wearily, and after long labour, imperfectly accomplishes what is required of it. and the same, _to a certain extent_, unless we will deny the patent facts of experience, holds true in moral actions. no wonder, therefore, that evaded or thrust aside as these things are in the popular beliefs, as soon as they are recognised in their full reality they should be mistaken for the whole truth, and the free-will theory be thrown aside as a chimera. it may be said, and it often is said, that such reasonings are merely sophistical--that however we entangle ourselves in logic, we are conscious that we are free; we know--we are as sure as we are of our existence--that we have power to act this way or that way, exactly as we choose. but this is less plain than it seems; and if granted, it proves less than it appears to prove. it may be true that we can act as we choose, but can we _choose_? is not our choice determined for us? we cannot determine from the fact, because we always _have chosen_ as soon as we act, and we cannot replace the conditions in such a way as to discover whether we could have chosen anything else. the stronger motive may have determined our volition without our perceiving it; and if we desire to prove our independence of motive, by showing that we _can_ choose something different from that which we should naturally have chosen, we still cannot escape from the circle, this very desire becoming, as mr. hume observes, itself a _motive_. again, consciousness of the possession of any power may easily be delusive; we can properly judge what our powers are only by what they have actually accomplished; we know what we _have_ done, and we may infer from having done it that our power was equal to what it achieved. but it is easy for us to over-rate our strength if we try to measure our abilities in themselves. a man who can leap five yards may think that he can leap six; yet he may try and fail. a man who can write prose may only learn that he cannot write poetry from the badness of the verses which he produces. to the appeal to consciousness of power there is always an answer:--that we may believe ourselves to possess it, but that experience proves that we may be deceived. there is, however, another group of feelings which cannot be set aside in this way, which do prove that, in some sense or other, in some degree or other, we are the authors of our own actions. it is one of the clearest of all inward phenomena, that, where two or more courses involving moral issues are before us, whether we have a consciousness of _power_ to choose between them or not, we have a consciousness that we _ought_ to choose between them; a sense of duty--[greek: hoti dei touto prattein]--as aristotle expresses it, which we cannot shake off. whatever this consciousness involves (and some measure of freedom it must involve or it is nonsense), the feeling exists within us, and refuses to yield before all the batteries of logic. it is not that of the two courses we know that one is in the long run the best, and the other more immediately tempting. we have a sense of obligation irrespective of consequence, the violation of which is followed again by a sense of self-disapprobation, of censure, of blame. in vain will spinoza tell us that such feelings, incompatible as they are with the theory of powerlessness, are mistakes arising out of a false philosophy. they are primary facts of sensation most vivid in minds of most vigorous sensibility; and although they may be extinguished by habitual profligacy, or possibly, perhaps, destroyed by logic, the paralysis of the conscience is no more a proof that it is not a real power of perceiving real things, than blindness is a proof that sight is not a real power. the perceptions of worth and worthlessness are not conclusions of reasoning, but immediate sensations like those of seeing and hearing; and although, like the other senses, they may be mistaken sometimes in the accounts they render to us, the fact of the existence of such feelings at all proves that there is something which corresponds to them. if there be any such things as 'true ideas,' or clear, distinct perceptions at all, this of praise and blame is one of them, and according to spinoza's own rule we must accept what it involves. and it involves that some where or other the influence of causes ceases to operate, and that some degree of power there is in men of self-determination, by the amount of which, and not by their specific actions, moral merit or demerit is to be measured. speculative difficulties remain in abundance. it will be said in a case, _e.g._ of moral trial, that there may have been _power_; but was there _power enough_ to resist the temptation? if there was, then it was resisted. if there was not, there was no responsibility. we must answer again from practical instinct. we refuse to allow men to be considered all equally guilty who have committed the same faults; and we insist that their actions must be measured against their opportunities. but a similar conviction assures us that there is somewhere a point of freedom. where that point is--where other influences terminate, and responsibility begins--will always be of intricate and often impossible solution. but if there be such a point at all, it is fatal to necessitarianism, and man is what he has been hitherto supposed to be--an exception in the order of nature, with a power not differing in degree but differing in kind from those of other creatures. moral life, like all life, is a mystery; and as to anatomise the body will not reveal the secret of animation, so with the actions of the moral man. the spiritual life, which alone gives them meaning and being, glides away before the logical dissecting knife, and leaves it but a corpse to work upon. footnotes: [n] _westminster review_, . [o] since these words were written a book has appeared in paris by an able disciple of leibnitz, which, although it does not lead us to modify the opinion expressed in them, yet obliges us to give our reasons for speaking as we do. m. de careil[p] has discovered in the library at hanover, a ms. in the hand-writing of leibnitz, containing a series of remarks on the book of a certain john wachter. it does not appear who this john wachter was, nor by what accident he came to have so distinguished a critic. if we may judge by the extracts at present before us, he seems to have been an absurd and extravagant person, who had attempted to combine the theology of the cabbala with the very little which he was able to understand of the philosophy of spinoza; and, as far as he is concerned, neither his writings nor the reflections upon them are of interest to any human being. the extravagance of spinoza's followers, however, furnished leibnitz with an opportunity of noticing the points on which he most disapproved of spinoza himself; and these few notices m. de careil has now for the first time published as _the refutation of spinoza_, by leibnitz. they are exceedingly brief and scanty; and the writer of them would assuredly have hesitated to describe an imperfect criticism by so ambitious a title. the modern editor, however, must be allowed the privilege of a worshipper, and we will not quarrel with him for an exaggerated estimate of what his master had accomplished. we are indebted to his enthusiasm for what is at least a curious discovery, and we will not qualify the gratitude which he has earned by industry and good will. at the same time, the notes themselves confirm the opinion which we have always entertained, that leibnitz did not understand spinoza. leibnitz did not understand him, and the followers of leibnitz do not understand him now. if he were no more than what he is described in the book before us--if his metaphysics were 'miserable,' if his philosophy was absurd, and he himself nothing more than a second-rate disciple of descartes--we can assure m. de careil that we should long ago have heard the last of him. there must be something else, something very different from this, to explain the position which he holds in germany, or the fascination which his writings exerted over such minds as those of lessing or of göthe; the fact of so enduring an influence is more than a sufficient answer to mere depreciating criticism. this, however, is not a point which there is any use in pressing. our present business is to justify the two assertions which we have made. first, that leibnitz borrowed his _theory of the harmonie pré-établie_ from spinoza, without acknowledgment; and, secondly, that this theory is quite as inconsistent with religion as is that of spinoza, and only differs from it in disguising its real character. first for the _harmonie pré-établie_. spinoza's _ethics_ appeared in ; and we know that they were read by leibnitz. in , leibnitz announced as a discovery of his own, a theory of _the communication of substances_, which he illustrates in the following manner:-- 'vous ne comprenez pas, dites-vous, comment je pourrois prouver ce que j'ai avancé touchant la communication, ou l'harmonie de deux substances aussi différentes que l'âme et le corps? il est vrai que je crois en avoir trouvé le moyen; et voici comment je prétends vous satisfaire. figurez-vous deux horloges ou montres qui s'accordent parfaitement. or cela se peut faire de trois manières. la ^{e} consiste dans une influence mutuelle. la ^{e} est d'y attacher un ouvrier habile qui les redresse, et les mette d'accord à tous moments. la ^{e} est de fabriquer ces deux pendules avec tant d'art et de justesse, qu'on se puisse assurer de leur accord dans la suite. mettez maintenant l'âme et le corps à la place de ces deux pendules; leur accord peut arriver par l'une de ces trois manières. la voye d'influence est celle de la philosophie vulgaire; mais comme l'on ne sauroit concevoir des particules matérielles qui puissent passer d'une de ces substances dans l'autre, il faut abandonner ce sentiment. la voye de l'assistance continuelle du créateur est celle du système des causes occasionnelles; mais je tiens que c'est faire intervenir deus ex machinâ, dans une chose naturelle et ordinaire, où selon la raison il ne doit concourir, que do la manière qu'il concourt à toutes les autres choses naturelles. ainsi il ne reste que mon hypothèse; c'est-à-dire que la voye de l'harmonie. dieu a fait dès le commencement chacune de ces deux substances de telle nature, qu'en ne suivant que ces propres loix qu'elle a reçues avec son être, elle s'accorde pourtant avec l'autre tout comme s'il y avoit une influence mutuelle, ou comme si dieu y mettoit toujours la main au-delà de son concours général. après cela je n'ai pas besoin de rien prouver à moins qu'on ne veuille exiger que je prouve que dieu est assez habile pour se servir de cette artifice,' &c.--leibnitz, _opera_, p. . berlin edition, . leibnitz, as we have said, attempts to reconcile his system with christianity, and therefore, of course, this theory of the relation of mind and body wears a very different aspect under his treatment, from what it wears under that of spinoza. but spinoza and leibnitz both agree in this one peculiar conception in which they differ from all other philosophers before or after them--that mind and body have no direct communication with each other, and that the phenomena of them merely correspond. m. de careil says they both borrowed it from descartes; but that is impossible. descartes held no such opinion; it was the precise point of disagreement at which spinoza parted from him; and therefore, since in point of date spinoza had the advantage of leibnitz, and we know that leibnitz was acquainted with his writings, we must either suppose that he was directly indebted to spinoza for an obligation which he ought to have acknowledged, or else, which is extremely improbable, that having read spinoza and forgotten him, he afterwards re-originated for himself one of the most singular and peculiar notions which was ever offered to the belief of mankind. so much for the first point, which, after all, is but of little moment. it is more important to ascertain whether, in the hands of leibnitz, this theory can be any better reconciled with what is commonly meant by religion; whether, that is, the ideas of obedience and disobedience, merit and demerit, judgment and retribution, have any proper place under it. spinoza makes no pretension to anything of the kind, and openly declares that these ideas are ideas merely, and human mistakes. leibnitz, in opposition to him, endeavours to re-establish them in the following manner. he conceives that the system of the universe has been arranged and predetermined from the moment at which it was launched into being; from the moment at which god selected it, with all its details, as the best which could exist; but that it is carried on by the action of individual creatures (monads as he calls them) which, though necessarily obeying the laws of their existence, yet obey them with a 'character of spontaneity,' which although 'automata,' are yet voluntary agents; and therefore, by the consent of their hearts to their actions, entitle themselves to moral praise or moral censure. the question is, whether by the mere assertion of the co-existence of these opposite qualities in the monad man, he has proved that such qualities can co-exist. in our opinion, it is like speaking of a circular ellipse, or of a quadrilateral triangle. there is a plain dilemma in these matters from which no philosophy can extricate itself. if men can incur guilt, their actions might be other than they are. if they cannot act otherwise than they do, they cannot incur guilt. so at least it appears to us; yet, in the darkness of our knowledge, we would not complain merely of a theory, and if our earthly life were all in all, and the grave remained the extreme horizon of our hopes and fears, the _harmonie pré-établie_ might be tolerated as credible, and admired as ingenious and beautiful. it is when forcibly attached to a creed of the future, with which it has no natural connection, that it assumes its repulsive features. the world may be in the main good; while the good, from the unknown condition of its existence, may be impossible without some intermixture of evil; and although leibnitz was at times staggered even himself by the misery and wickedness which he witnessed, and was driven to comfort himself with the reflection that this earth might be but one world in the midst of the universe, and perhaps the single chequered exception in an infinity of stainless globes, yet we would not quarrel with a hypothesis because it was imperfect; it might pass as a possible conjecture on a dark subject, when nothing better than conjecture was attainable. but as soon as we are told that the evil in these human 'automata' being a necessary condition of this world which god has called into being, is yet infinitely detestable to god; that the creatures who suffer under the accursed necessity of committing sin are infinitely guilty in god's eyes, for doing what they have no power to avoid, and may therefore be justly punished in everlasting fire; we recoil against the paradox. no disciple of leibnitz will maintain, that unless he had found this belief in an eternity of penal retribution an article of the popular creed, such a doctrine would have formed a natural appendage of his system; and if m. de careil desires to know why the influence of spinoza, whose genius he considers so insignificant, has been so deep and so enduring, while leibnitz has only secured for himself a mere admiration of his talents, it is because spinoza was not afraid to be consistent, even at the price of the world's reprobation, and refused to purchase the applause of his own age at the sacrifice of sincerity. [p] _réfutation inédite de spinoza._ par leibnitz. _précédée d'une mémoire_, par foucher de careil. paris. . the dissolution of the monasteries.[q] to be entirely just in our estimate of other ages is not difficult--it is impossible. even what is passing in our presence we see but through a glass darkly. the mind as well as the eye adds something of its own, before an image, even of the clearest object, can be painted upon it. and in historical enquiries, the most instructed thinkers have but a limited advantage over the most illiterate. those who know the most, approach least to agreement. the most careful investigations are diverging roads--the further men travel upon them, the greater the interval by which they are divided. in the eyes of david hume, the history of the saxon princes is 'the scuffling of kites and crows.' father newman would mortify the conceit of a degenerate england by pointing to the sixty saints and the hundred confessors who were trained in her royal palaces for the calendar of the blessed. how vast a chasm yawns between these two conceptions of the same era! through what common term can the student pass from one into the other? or, to take an instance yet more noticeable. the history of england scarcely interests mr. macaulay before the revolution of the seventeenth century. to lord john russell, the reformation was the first outcome from centuries of folly and ferocity; and mr. hallam's more temperate language softens, without concealing, a similar conclusion. these writers have all studied what they describe. mr. carlyle has studied the same subject with power at least equal to theirs, and to him the greatness of english character was waning with the dawn of english literature; the race of heroes was already failing. the era of action was yielding before the era of speech. all these views may seem to ourselves exaggerated; we may have settled into some moderate _via media_, or have carved out our own ground on an original pattern; but if we are wise, the differences in other men's judgments will teach us to be diffident. the more distinctly we have made history bear witness in favour of our particular opinions, the more we have multiplied the chances against the truth of our own theory. again, supposing that we have made a truce with 'opinions,' properly so called; supposing we have satisfied ourselves that it is idle to quarrel upon points on which good men differ, and that it is better to attend rather to what we certainly know; supposing that, either from superior wisdom, or from the conceit of superior wisdom, we have resolved that we will look for human perfection neither exclusively in the old world nor exclusively in the new--neither among catholics nor protestants, among whigs or tories, heathens or christians--that we have laid aside accidental differences, and determined to recognise only moral distinctions, to love moral worth, and to hate moral evil, wherever we find them;--even supposing all this, we have not much improved our position--we cannot leap from our shadow. eras, like individuals, differ from one another in the species of virtue which they encourage. in one age, we find the virtues of the warrior; in the next, of the saint. the ascetic and the soldier in their turn disappear; an industrial era succeeds, bringing with it the virtues of common sense, of grace, and refinement. there is the virtue of energy and command, there is the virtue of humility and patient suffering. all these are different, and all are, or may be, of equal moral value; yet, from the constitution of our minds, we are so framed that we cannot equally appreciate all; we sympathise instinctively with the person who most represents our own ideal--with the period when the graces which most harmonise with our own tempers have been especially cultivated. further, if we leave out of sight these refinements, and content ourselves with the most popular conceptions of morality, there is this immeasurable difficulty--so great, yet so little considered,--that goodness is positive as well as negative, and consists in the active accomplishment of certain things which we are bound to do, as well as in the abstaining from things which we are bound not to do. and here the warp and woof vary in shade and pattern. many a man, with the help of circumstances, may pick his way clear through life, never having violated one prohibitive commandment, and yet at last be fit only for the place of the unprofitable servant--he may not have committed either sin or crime, yet never have felt the pulsation of a single unselfish emotion. another, meanwhile, shall have been hurried by an impulsive nature into fault after fault--shall have been reckless, improvident, perhaps profligate, yet be fitter after all for the kingdom of heaven than the pharisee--fitter, because against the catalogue of faults there could perhaps be set a fairer list of acts of comparative generosity and self-forgetfulness--fitter, because to those who love much, much is forgiven. fielding had no occasion to make blifil, behind his decent coat, a traitor and a hypocrite. it would have been enough to have coloured him in and out alike in the steady hues of selfishness, afraid of offending the upper powers as he was afraid of offending allworthy--not from any love for what was good, but solely because it would be imprudent--because the pleasure to be gained was not worth the risk of consequences. such a blifil would have answered the novelist's purpose--for he would have remained a worse man in the estimation of some of us than tom jones. so the truth is; but unfortunately it is only where accurate knowledge is stimulated by affection, that we are able to feel it. persons who live beyond our own circle, and, still more, persons who have lived in another age, receive what is called justice, not charity; and justice is supposed to consist in due allotments of censure for each special act of misconduct, leaving merit unrecognised. there are many reasons for this harsh method of judging. we must decide of men by what we know, and it is easier to know faults than to know virtues. faults are specific, easily described, easily appreciated, easily remembered. and again, there is, or may be, hypocrisy in virtue; but no one pretends to vice who is not vicious. the bad things which can be proved of a man we know to be genuine. he was a spendthrift, he was an adulterer, he gambled, he equivocated. these are blots positive, unless untrue, and when they stand alone, tinge the whole character. this also is to be observed in historical criticism. all men feel a necessity of being on some terms with their conscience, at their own expense or at another's. if they cannot part with their faults, they will at least call them by their right name when they meet with such faults elsewhere; and thus, when they find accounts of deeds of violence or sensuality, of tyranny, of injustice of man to man, of great and extensive suffering, or any of those other misfortunes which the selfishness of men has at various times occasioned, they will vituperate the doers of such things, and the age which has permitted them to be done, with the full emphasis of virtuous indignation, while all the time they are themselves doing things which will be described, with no less justice, in the same colour, by an equally virtuous posterity. historians are fond of recording the supposed sufferings of the poor in the days of serfdom and villanage; yet the records of the strikes of the last ten years, when told by the sufferers, contain pictures no less fertile in tragedy. we speak of famines and plagues under the tudors and stuarts; but the irish famine, and the irish plague of , the last page of such horrors which has yet been turned over, is the most horrible of all. we can conceive a description of england during the year which has just closed over us ( ), true in all its details, containing no one statement which can be challenged, no single exaggeration which can be proved; and this description, if given without the correcting traits, shall make ages to come marvel why the cities of the plain were destroyed, and england was allowed to survive. the frauds of trusted men, high in power and high in supposed religion; the wholesale poisonings; the robberies; the adulteration of food--nay, of almost everything exposed for sale--the cruel usage of women--children murdered for the burial fees--life and property insecure in open day in the open streets--splendour such as the world never saw before upon earth, with vice and squalor crouching under its walls--let all this be written down by an enemy, or let it be ascertained hereafter by the investigation of a posterity which desires to judge us as we generally have judged our forefathers, and few years will show darker in the english annals than the year which we have just left behind us. yet we know, in the honesty of our hearts, how unjust such a picture would be. our future advocate, if we are so happy as to find one, may not be able to disprove a single article in the indictment; and yet we know that, as the world goes, he will be right if he marks the year with a white stroke--as one in which, on the whole, the moral harvest was better than an average. once more: our knowledge of any man is always inadequate--even of the unit which each of us calls himself; and the first condition under which we can know a man at all is, that he be in essentials something like ourselves; that our own experience be an interpreter which shall open the secrets of his experience; and it often happens, even among our contemporaries, that we are altogether baffled. the englishman and the italian may understand each other's speech, but the language of each other's ideas has still to be learnt. our long failures in ireland have risen from a radical incongruity of character which has divided the celt from the saxon. and again, in the same country, the catholic will be a mystery to the protestant, and the protestant to the catholic. their intellects have been shaped in opposite moulds; they are like instruments which cannot be played in concert. in the same way, but in a far higher degree, we are divided from the generations which have preceded us in this planet--we try to comprehend a pericles or a cæsar--an image rises before us which we seem to recognise as belonging to our common humanity. there is this feature which is familiar to us--and this--and this. we are full of hope; the lineaments, one by one, pass into clearness; when suddenly the figure becomes enveloped in a cloud--some perplexity crosses our analysis, baffling it utterly, the phantom which we have evoked dies away before our eyes, scornfully mocking our incapacity to master it. the english antecedent to the reformation are nearer to us than greeks or romans; and yet there is a large interval between the baron who fought at barnet field, and his polished descendant in a modern drawing-room. the scale of appreciation and the rule of judgment--the habits, the hopes, the fears, the emotions--have utterly changed. in perusing modern histories, the present writer has been struck dumb with wonder at the facility with which men will fill in chasms in their information with conjecture; will guess at the motives which have prompted actions; will pass their censures, as if all secrets of the past lay out on an open scroll before them. he is obliged to say for himself that, wherever he has been fortunate enough to discover authentic explanations of english historical difficulties, it is rare indeed that he has found any conjecture, either of his own or of any other modern writer, confirmed. the true motive has almost invariably been of a kind which no modern experience could have suggested. thoughts such as these form a hesitating prelude to an expression of opinion on a controverted question. they will serve, however, to indicate the limits within which the said opinion is supposed to be hazarded. and in fact, neither in this nor in any historical subject is the conclusion so clear that it can be enunciated in a definite form. the utmost which can be safely hazarded with history is to relate honestly ascertained facts, with only such indications of a judicial sentence upon them as may be suggested in the form in which the story is arranged. whether the monastic bodies of england, at the time of their dissolution, were really in that condition of moral corruption which is laid to their charge in the act of parliament by which they were dissolved, is a point which it seems hopeless to argue. roman catholic, and indeed almost all english, writers who are not committed to an unfavourable opinion by the ultra-protestantism of their doctrines, seem to have agreed of late years that the accusations, if not false, were enormously exaggerated. the dissolution, we are told, was a predetermined act of violence and rapacity; and when the reports and the letters of the visitors are quoted in justification of the government, the discussion is closed with the dismissal of every unfavourable witness from the court, as venal, corrupt, calumnious--in fact, as a suborned liar. upon these terms the argument is easily disposed of; and if it were not that truth is in all matters better than falsehood, it would be idle to reopen a question which cannot be justly dealt with. no evidence can affect convictions which have been arrived at without evidence--and why should we attempt a task which it is hopeless to accomplish? it seems necessary, however, to reassert the actual state of the surviving testimony from time to time, if it be only to sustain the links of the old traditions; and the present paper will contain one or two pictures of a peculiar kind, exhibiting the life and habits of those institutions, which have been lately met with chiefly among the unprinted records. in anticipation of any possible charge of unfairness in judging from isolated instances, we disclaim simply all desire to judge--all wish to do anything beyond relating certain ascertained stories. let it remain, to those who are perverse enough to insist upon it, an open question whether the monasteries were more corrupt under henry the eighth than they had been four hundred years earlier. the dissolution would have been equally a necessity; for no reasonable person would desire that bodies of men should have been maintained for the only business of singing masses, when the efficacy of masses was no longer believed. our present desire is merely this--to satisfy ourselves whether the government, in discharging a duty which could not be dispensed with, condescended to falsehood in seeking a vindication for themselves which they did not require; or whether they had cause really to believe the majority of the monastic bodies to be as they affirmed--whether, that is to say, there really were such cases either of flagrant immorality, neglect of discipline, or careless waste and prodigality, as to justify the general censure which was pronounced against the system by the parliament and the privy council. secure in the supposed completeness with which queen mary's agents destroyed the records of the visitation under her father, roman catholic writers have taken refuge in a disdainful denial; and the anglicans, who for the most part, while contented to enjoy the fruits of the reformation, detest the means by which it was brought about, have taken the same view. bishop latimer tells us that, when the report of the visitors of the abbeys was read in the commons house, there rose from all sides one long cry of 'down with them.' but bishop latimer, in the opinion of high churchmen, is not to be believed. do we produce letters of the visitors themselves, we are told that they are the slanders prepared to justify a preconceived purpose of spoliation. no witness, it seems, will be admitted unless it be the witness of a friend. unless some enemy of the reformation can be found to confess the crimes which made the reformation necessary, the crimes themselves are to be regarded as unproved. this is a hard condition. we appeal to wolsey. wolsey commenced the suppression. wolsey first made public the infamies which disgraced the church; while, notwithstanding, he died the devoted servant of the church. this evidence is surely admissible? but no: wolsey, too, must be put out of court. wolsey was a courtier and a time-server. wolsey was a tyrant's minion. wolsey was--in short, we know not what wolsey was, or what he was not. who can put confidence in a charlatan? behind the bulwarks of such objections, the champion of the abbeys may well believe himself secure. and yet, unreasonable though these demands may be, it happens, after all, that we are able partially to gratify them. it is strange that, of all extant accusations against any one of the abbeys, the heaviest is from a quarter which even lingard himself would scarcely call suspicious. no picture left us by henry's visitors surpasses, even if it equals, a description of the condition of the abbey of st. albans, in the last quarter of the fifteenth century, drawn by morton, henry the seventh's minister, cardinal archbishop, legate of the apostolic see, in a letter addressed by him to the abbot of st. albans himself. we must request our reader's special attention for the next two pages. in the year , pope innocent the eighth--moved with the enormous stories which reached his ear of the corruption of the houses of religion in england--granted a commission to the archbishop of canterbury to make enquiries whether these stories were true, and to proceed to correct and reform as might seem good to him. the regular clergy were exempt from episcopal visitation, except under especial directions from rome. the occasion had appeared so serious as to make extraordinary interference necessary. on the receipt of the papal commission, cardinal morton, among other letters, wrote the following letter:-- john, by divine permission, archbishop of canterbury, primate of all england, legate of the apostolic see, to william, abbot of the monastery of st. albans, greeting. we have received certain letters under lead, the copies whereof we herewith send you, from our most holy lord and father in christ, innocent, by divine providence pope, the eighth of that name. we therefore, john, the archbishop, the visitor, reformer, inquisitor, and judge therein mentioned, in reverence for the apostolic see, have taken upon ourselves the burden of enforcing the said commission; and have determined that we will proceed by, and according to, the full force, tenor, and effect of the same. and it has come to our ears, being at once publicly notorious and brought before us upon the testimony of many witnesses worthy of credit, that you, the abbot afore-mentioned, have been of long time noted and diffamed, and do yet continue so noted, of simony, of usury, of dilapidation and waste of the goods, revenues, and possessions of the said monastery, and of certain other enormous crimes and excesses hereafter written. in the rule, custody, and administration of the goods, spiritual and temporal, of the said monastery, you are so remiss, so negligent, so prodigal, that whereas the said monastery was of old times founded and endowed by the pious devotion of illustrious princes, of famous memory, heretofore kings of this land, the most noble progenitors of our most serene lord and king that now is, in order that true religion might flourish there, that the name of the most high, in whose honour and glory it was instituted, might be duly celebrated there; and whereas, in days heretofore, the regular observance of the said rule was greatly regarded, and hospitality was diligently kept; nevertheless, for no little time, during which you have presided in the same monastery, you and certain of your fellow-monks and brethren (whose blood, it is feared, through your neglect, a severe judge will require at your hand) have relaxed the measure and form of religious life; you have laid aside the pleasant yoke of contemplation, and all regular observances--hospitality, alms, and those other offices of piety which of old time were exercised and ministered therein have decreased, and by your faults, your carelessness, your neglect and deed, do daily decrease more and more, and cease to be regarded--the pious vows of the founders are defrauded of their just intent--the ancient rule of your order is deserted; and not a few of your fellow-monks and brethren, as we most deeply grieve to learn, giving themselves over to a reprobate mind, laying aside the fear of god, do lead only a life of lasciviousness--nay, as is horrible to relate, be not afraid to defile the holy places, even the very churches of god, by infamous intercourse with nuns, &c. &c. you yourself, moreover, among other grave enormities and abominable crimes whereof you are guilty, and for which you are noted and diffamed, have, in the first place, admitted a certain married woman, named elena germyn, who has separated herself without just cause from her husband, and for some time past has lived in adultery with another man, to be a nun or sister in the house or priory of bray, lying, as you pretend, within your jurisdiction. you have next appointed the same woman to be prioress of the said house, notwithstanding that her said husband was living at the time, and is still alive. and finally, father thomas sudbury, one of your brother monks, publicly, notoriously, and without interference or punishment from you, has associated, and still associates, with this woman as an adulterer with his harlot. moreover, divers other of your brethren and fellow-monks have resorted, and do resort, continually to her and other women at the same place, as to a public brothel or receiving house, and have received no correction therefor. nor is bray the only house into which you have introduced disorder. at the nunnery of sapwell, which you also contend to be under your jurisdiction, you change the prioresses and superiors again and again at your own will and caprice. here, as well as at bray, you depose those who are good and religious; you promote to the highest dignities the worthless and the vicious. the duties of the order are cast aside; virtue is neglected; and by these means so much cost and extravagance has been caused, that to provide means for your indulgence you have introduced certain of your brethren to preside in their houses under the name of guardians, when in fact they are no guardians, but thieves and notorious villains; and with their help you have caused and permitted the goods of the same priories to be dispensed, or to speak more truly to be dissipated, in the above-described corruptions and other enormous and accursed offences. those places once religious are rendered and reputed as it were profane and impious; and by your own and your creatures' conduct, are so impoverished as to be reduced to the verge of ruin. in like manner, also, you have dealt with certain other cells of monks, which you say are subject to you, even within the monastery of the glorious proto-martyr alban himself. you have dilapidated the common property; you have made away with the jewels; the copses, the woods, the underwood, almost all the oaks, and other forest trees, to the value of eight thousand marks and more, you have made to be cut down without distinction, and they have by you been sold and alienated. the brethren of the abbey, some of whom, as is reported, are given over to all the evil things of the world, neglect the service of god altogether. they live with harlots and mistresses publicly and continuously, within the precincts of the monastery and without. some of them, who are covetous of honour and promotion, and desirous therefore of pleasing your cupidity, have stolen and made away with the chalices and other jewels of the church. they have even sacrilegiously extracted the precious stones from the very shrine of st. alban; and you have not punished these men, but have rather knowingly supported and maintained them. if any of your brethren be living justly and religiously, if any be wise and virtuous, these you straightway depress and hold in hatred.... you ... but we need not transcribe further this overwhelming document. it pursues its way through mire and filth to its most lame and impotent conclusion. after all this, the abbot was not deposed; he was invited merely to reconsider his doings, and, if possible, amend them. such was church discipline, even under an extraordinary commission from rome. but the most incorrigible anglican will scarcely question the truth of a picture drawn by such a hand; and it must be added that this one unexceptionable indictment lends at once assured credibility to the reports which were presented fifty years later, on the general visitation. there is no longer room for the presumptive objection that charges so revolting could not be true. we see that in their worst form they could be true, and the evidence of legh and leghton, of rice and bedyll, as it remains in their letters to cromwell, must be shaken in detail, or else it must be accepted as correct. we cannot dream that archbishop morton was mistaken, or was misled by false information. st. albans was no obscure priory in a remote and thinly-peopled county. the abbot of st. albans was a peer of the realm, taking precedence of bishops, living in the full glare of notoriety, within a few miles of london. the archbishop had ample means of ascertaining the truth; and, we may be sure, had taken care to examine his ground before he left on record so tremendous an accusation. this story is true--as true as it is piteous. we will pause a moment over it before we pass from this, once more to ask our passionate church friends whether still they will persist that the abbeys were no worse under the tudors than they had been in their origin, under the saxons, or under the first norman and plantagenet kings. we refuse to believe it. the abbeys which towered in the midst of the english towns, the houses clustered at their feet like subjects round some majestic queen, were images indeed of the civil supremacy which the church of the middle ages had asserted for itself; but they were images also of an inner spiritual sublimity, which had won the homage of grateful and admiring nations. the heavenly graces had once descended upon the monastic orders, making them ministers of mercy, patterns of celestial life, breathing witnesses of the power of the spirit in renewing and sanctifying the heart. and then it was that art and wealth and genius poured out their treasures to raise fitting tabernacles for the dwelling of so divine a soul. alike in the village and the city, amongst the unadorned walls and lowly roofs which closed in the humble dwellings of the laity, the majestic houses of the father of mankind and of his especial servants rose up in sovereign beauty. and ever at the sacred gates sat mercy, pouring out relief from a never-failing store to the poor and the suffering; ever within the sacred aisles the voices of holy men were pealing heavenwards in intercession for the sins of mankind; and such blessed influences were thought to exhale around those mysterious precincts, that even the poor outcasts of society--the debtor, the felon, and the outlaw--gathered round the walls as the sick men sought the shadow of the apostle, and lay there sheltered from the avenging hand, till their sins were washed from off their souls. the abbeys of the middle ages floated through the storms of war and conquest, like the ark upon the waves of the flood, in the midst of violence remaining inviolate, through the awful reverence which surrounded them. the abbeys, as henry's visitors found them, were as little like what they once had been, as the living man in the pride of his growth is like the corpse which the earth makes haste to hide for ever. the official letters which reveal the condition into which the monastic establishments had degenerated, are chiefly in the cotton library, and a large number of them have been published by the camden society. besides these, however, there are in the rolls house many other documents which confirm and complete the statements of the writers of those letters. there is a part of what seems to have been a digest of the 'black book'--an epitome of iniquities, under the title of the 'compendium compertorum.' there are also reports from private persons, private entreaties for enquiry, depositions of monks in official examinations, and other similar papers, which, in many instances, are too offensive to be produced, and may rest in obscurity, unless contentious persons compel us to bring them forward. some of these, however, throw curious light on the habits of the time, and on the collateral disorders which accompanied the more gross enormities. they show us, too, that although the dark tints predominate, the picture was not wholly black; that as just lot was in the midst of sodom, yet was unable by his single presence to save the guilty city from destruction, so in the latest era of monasticism there were types yet lingering of an older and fairer age, who, nevertheless, were not delivered, like the patriarch, but perished most of them with the institution to which they belonged. the hideous exposure is not untinted with fairer lines; and we see traits here and there of true devotion, mistaken but heroic. of these documents two specimens shall be given in this place, one of either kind; and both, so far as we know, new to modern history. the first is so singular, that we print it as it is found--a genuine antique, fished up, in perfect preservation, out of the wreck of the old world. about eight miles from ludlow, in the county of herefordshire, once stood the abbey of wigmore. there was wigmore castle, a stronghold of the welsh marches, now, we believe, a modern, well-conditioned mansion; and wigmore abbey, of which we do not hear that there are any remaining traces. though now vanished, however, like so many of its kind, the house was three hundred years ago in vigorous existence; and when the stir commenced for an enquiry, the proceedings of the abbot of this place gave occasion to a memorial which stands in the rolls collection as follows:--[r] articles to be objected against john smart, abbot of the monastery of wigmore, in the county of hereford, to be exhibited to the right honourable lord thomas cromwell, the lord privy seal and vice-gerent to the king's majesty. . the said abbot is to be accused of simony, as well for taking money for advocation and putations of benefices, as for giving of orders, or more truly, selling them, and that to such persons which have been rejected elsewhere, and of little learning and light consideration. . the said abbot hath promoted to orders many scholars when all other bishops did refrain to give such orders on account of certain ordinances devised by the king's majesty and his council for the common weal of this realm. then resorted to the said abbot scholars out of all parts, whom he would promote to orders by sixty at a time, and sometimes more, and otherwhiles less. and sometimes the said abbot would give orders by night within his chamber, and otherwise in the church early in the morning, and now and then at a chapel out of the abbey. so that there be many unlearned and light priests made by the said abbot, and in the diocese of llandaff, and in the places afore named--a thousand, as it is esteemed, by the space of this seven years he hath made priests, and received not so little money of them as a thousand pounds for their orders. . item, that the said abbot now of late, when he could not be suffered to give general orders, for the most part doth give orders by pretence of dispensation; and by that colour he promoteth them to orders by two and three, and takes much money of them, both for their orders and for to purchase their dispensations after the time he hath promoted them to their orders. . item, the said abbot hath hurt and dismayed his tenants by putting them from their leases, and by enclosing their commons from them, and selling and utter wasting of the woods that were wont to relieve and succour them. . item, the said abbot hath sold corradyes, to the damage of the said monastery. . item, the said abbot hath alienate and sold the jewels and plate of the monastery, to the value of five hundred marks, _to purchase of the bishop of rome his bulls to be a bishop, and to annex the said abbey to his bishopric, to that intent that he should not for his misdeeds be punished, or deprived from his said abbey_. . item, that the said abbot, long after that other bishops had renounced the bishop of rome, and professed them to the king's majesty, did use, but more verily usurped, the office of a bishop by virtue of his first bulls purchased from rome, till now of late, as it will appear by the date of his confirmation, if he have any. . item, that he the said abbot hath lived viciously, and kept to concubines divers and many women that is openly known. . item, that the said abbot doth yet continue his vicious living, as it is known, openly. . item, that the said abbot hath spent and wasted much of the goods of the said monastery upon the foresaid women. . item, that the said abbot is malicious and very wrathful, not regarding what he saith or doeth in his fury or anger. . item, that one richard gyles bought of the abbot and convent of wigmore a corradye, and a chamber for him and his wife for term of their lives; and when the said richard gyles was aged and was very weak, he disposed his goods, and made executors to execute his will. and when the said abbot now being ---- perceived that the said richard gyles was rich, and had not bequested so much of his goods to him as he would have had, the said abbot then came to the chamber of the said richard gyles, and put out thence all his friends and kinsfolk that kept him in his sickness; and then the said abbot set his brother and other of his servants to keep the sick man; and the night next coming after the said richard gyles's coffer was broken, and thence taken all that was in the same, to the value of forty marks; and long after the said abbot confessed, before the executors of the said richard gyles, that it was his deed. . item, that the said abbot, after he had taken away the goods of the said richard gyles, used daily to reprove and check the said richard gyles, and inquire of him where was more of his coin and money; and at the last the said abbot thought he lived too long, and made the sick man, after much sorry keeping, to be taken from his feather-bed, and laid upon a cold mattress, and kept his friends from him to his death. . item, that the said abbot consented to the death and murdering of one john tichkill, that was slain at his procuring, at the said monastery, by sir richard cubley, canon and chaplain to the said abbot; which canon is and ever hath been since that time chief of the said abbot's council; and is supported to carry crossbowes, and to go whither he lusteth at any time, to fishing and hunting in the king's forests, parks, and chases; but little or nothing serving the quire, as other brethren do, neither corrected of the abbot for any trespass he doth commit. . item, that the said abbot hath been perjured oft, as is to be proved and is proved; and as it is supposed, did not make a true inventory of the goods, chattels, and jewels of his monastery to the king's majesty and his council. . item, that the said abbot hath infringed all the king's injunctions which were given him by doctor cave to observe and keep; and when he was denounced _in pleno capitulo_ to have broken the same, he would have put in prison the brother as did denounce him to have broken the same injunctions, save that he was let by the convent there. . item, that the said abbot hath openly preached against the doctrine of christ, saying he ought not to love his enemy, but as he loves the devil; and that he should love his enemy's soul, but not his body. . item, that the said abbot hath taken but small regard to the good-living of his household. . item, that the said abbot hath had and hath yet a special favour to misdoers and manquellers, thieves, deceivers of their neighbours, and by them [is] most ruled and counselled. . item, that the said abbot hath granted leases of farms and advocations first to one man, and took his fine, and also hath granted the same lease to another man for more money; and then would make to the last taker a lease or writing, with an antedate of the first lease, which hath bred great dissension among gentlemen--as master blunt and master moysey, and other takers of such leases--and that often. . item, the said abbot having the contrepaynes of leases in his keeping, hath, for money, rased out the number of years mentioned in the said leases, and writ a fresh number in the former taker's lease, and in the contrepayne thereof, to the intent to defraud the taker or buyer of the residue of such leases, of whom he hath received the money. . item, the said abbot hath not, according to the foundation of his monastery, admitted freely tenants into certain alms-houses belonging to the said monastery; but of them he hath taken large fines, and some of them he hath put away that would not give him fines: whither poor, aged, and impotent people were wont to be freely admitted, and [to] receive the founder's alms that of the old customs [were] limited to the same--which alms is also diminished by the said abbot. . item, that the said abbot did not deliver the bulls of his bishopric, that he purchased from rome, to our sovereign lord the king's council till long after the time he had delivered and exhibited the bulls of his monastery to them. . item, that the said abbot hath detained and yet doth detain servants' wages; and often when the said servants hath asked their wages, the said abbot hath put them into the stocks, and beat them. . item, the said abbot, in times past, hath had a great devotion to ride to llangarvan, in wales, upon lammas-day, to receive pardon there; and on the even he would visit one mary hawle, an old acquaintance of his, at the welsh poole, and on the morrow ride to the foresaid llangarvan, to be confessed and absolved, and the same night return to company with the said mary hawle, at the welsh poole aforesaid, and kateryn, the said mary hawle her first daughter, whom the said abbot long hath kept to concubine, and had children by her, that he lately married at ludlow. and [there be] others that have been taken out of his chamber and put in the stocks within the said abbey, and others that have complained upon him to the king's council of the marches of wales; and the woman that dashed out his teeth, that he would have had by violence, i will not name now, nor other men's wives, lest it would offend your good lordship to read or hear the same. . item, the said abbot doth daily embezzle, sell, and convey the goods and chattels, and jewels of the said monastery, having no need so to do: for it is thought that he hath a thousand marks or two thousand lying by him that he hath gotten by selling of orders, and the jewels and plate of the monastery and corradyes; and it is to be feared that he will alienate all the rest, unless your good lordship speedily make redress and provision to let the same. . item, the said abbot was accustomed yearly to preach at leynt-warden on the festival of the nativity of the virgin mary, where and when the people were wont to offer to an image there, and to the same the said abbot in his sermons would exhort them and encourage them. but now the oblations be decayed, the abbot, espying the image then to have a cote of silver plate and gilt, hath taken away of his own authority the said image, and the plate turned to his own use; and left his preaching there, saying it is no manner of profit to any man, and the plate that was about the said image was named to be worth forty pounds. . item, the said abbot hath ever nourished enmity and discord among his brethren; and hath not encouraged them to learn the laws and the mystery of christ. but he that least knew was most cherished by him; and he hath been highly displeased and [hath] disdained when his brothers would say that 'it is god's precept and doctrine that ye ought to prefer before your ceremonies and vain constitutions.' this saying was high disobedient, and should be grievously punished; when that lying, obloquy, flattery, ignorance, derision, contumely, discord, great swearing, drinking, hypocrisy, fraud, superstition, deceit, conspiracy to wrong their neighbour, and other of that kind, was had in special favour and regard. laud and praise be to god that hath sent us the true knowledge. honour and long prosperity to our sovereign lord and his noble council, that teaches to advance the same. amen. by john lee, your faithful bedeman, and canon of the said monastery of wigmore. postscript.--my good lord, there is in the said abbey a cross of fine gold and precious stones, whereof one diamond was esteemed by doctor booth, bishop of hereford, worth a hundred marks. in that cross is enclosed a piece of wood, named to be of the cross that christ died upon, and to the same hath been offering. and when it should be brought down to the church from the treasury, it was brought down with lights, and like reverence as should have been done to christ himself. i fear lest the abbot upon sunday next, when he may enter the treasury, will take away the said cross and break it, or turn it to his own use, with many other precious jewels that be there. all these articles afore written be true as to the substance and true meaning of them, though peradventure for haste and lack of counsel, some words be set amiss or out of their place. that i will be ready to prove forasmuch as lies in me, when it shall like your honourable lordship to direct your commission to men (or any man) that will be indifferent and not corrupt to sit upon the same, at the said abbey, where the witnesses and proofs be most ready and the truth is best known, or at any other place where it shall be thought most convenient by your high discretion and authority. the statutes of provisors, commonly called præmunire statutes, which, forbade all purchases of bulls from rome under penalty of outlawry, have been usually considered in the highest degree oppressive; and more particularly the public censure has fallen upon the last application of those statutes, when, on wolsey's fall, the whole body of the clergy were laid under a præmunire, and only obtained pardon on payment of a serious fine. let no one regret that he has learnt to be tolerant to roman catholics as the nineteenth century knows them. but it is a spurious charity which, to remedy a modern injustice, hastens to its opposite; and when philosophic historians indulge in loose invective against the statesmen of the reformation, they show themselves unfit to be trusted with the custody of our national annals. the acts of parliament speak plainly of the enormous abuses which had grown up under these bulls. yet even the emphatic language of the statutes scarcely prepares us to find an abbot able to purchase with jewels stolen from his own convent a faculty to confer holy orders, though he had never been consecrated bishop, and to make a thousand pounds by selling the exercise of his privileges. this is the most flagrant case which has fallen under the eyes of the present writer. yet it is but a choice specimen out of many. he was taught to believe, like other modern students of history, that the papal dispensations for immorality, of which we read in fox and other protestant writers, were calumnies, but he has been forced against his will to perceive that the supposed calumnies were but the plain truth; he has found among the records--for one thing, a list of more than twenty clergy in one diocese who had obtained licences to keep concubines.[s] after some experience, he advises all persons who are anxious to understand the english reformation to place implicit confidence in the statute book. every fresh record which is brought to light is a fresh evidence in its favour. in the fluctuations of the conflict there were parliaments, as there were princes, of opposing sentiments; and measures were passed, amended, repealed, or censured, as protestants and catholics came alternately into power. but whatever were the differences of opinion, the facts on either side which are stated in an act of parliament may be uniformly trusted. even in the attainders for treason and heresy we admire the truthfulness of the details of the indictments, although we deplore the prejudice which at times could make a crime of virtue. we pass on to the next picture. equal justice, or some attempt at it, was promised, and we shall perhaps part from the friends of the monasteries on better terms than they believe. at least, we shall add to our own history and to the catholic martyrology a story of genuine interest. we have many accounts of the abbeys at the time of their actual dissolution. the resistance or acquiescence of superiors, the dismissals of the brethren, the sale of the property, the destruction of relics, &c., are all described. we know how the windows were taken out, how the glass appropriated, how the 'melter' accompanied the visitors to run the lead upon the roofs, and the metal of the bells into portable forms. we see the pensioned regulars filing out reluctantly, or exulting in their deliverance, discharged from their vows, furnished each with his 'secular apparel,' and his purse of money, to begin the world as he might. these scenes have long been partially known, and they were rarely attended with anything remarkable. at the time of the suppression, the discipline of several years had broken down opposition, and prepared the way for the catastrophe. the end came at last, but as an issue which had been long foreseen. we have sought in vain, however, for a glimpse into the interior of the houses at the first intimation of what was coming--more especially when the great blow was struck which severed england from obedience to rome, and asserted the independence of the anglican church. then, virtually, the fate of the monasteries was decided. as soon as the supremacy was vested in the crown, enquiry into their condition could no longer be escaped or delayed; and then, through the length and breadth of the country, there must have been rare dismay. the account of the london carthusians is indeed known to us, because they chose to die rather than yield submission where their consciences forbade them; and their isolated heroism has served to distinguish their memories. the pope, as head of the universal church, claimed the power of absolving subjects from their allegiance to their king. he deposed henry. he called on foreign princes to enforce his sentence; and, on pain of excommunication, commanded the native english to rise in rebellion. the king, in self-defence, was compelled to require his subjects to disclaim all sympathy with these pretensions, and to recognise no higher authority, spiritual or secular, than himself within his own dominions. the regular clergy throughout the country were on the pope's side, secretly or openly. the charterhouse monks, however, alone of all the order, had the courage to declare their convictions, and to suffer for them. of the rest, we only perceive that they at last submitted; and since there was no uncertainty as to their real feelings, we have been disposed to judge them hardly as cowards. yet we who have never been tried, should perhaps be cautious in our censures. it is possible to hold an opinion quite honestly, and yet to hesitate about dying for it. we consider ourselves, at the present day, persuaded honestly of many things; yet which of them should we refuse to relinquish if the scaffold were the alternative--or at least seem to relinquish, under silent protest? and yet, in the details of the struggle at the charterhouse, we see the forms of mental trial which must have repeated themselves among all bodies of the clergy wherever there was seriousness of conviction. if the majority of the monks were vicious and sensual, there was still a large minority labouring to be true to their vows; and when one entire convent was capable of sustained resistance, there must have been many where there was only just too little virtue for the emergency--where the conflict between interest and conscience was equally genuine, though it ended the other way. scenes of bitter misery there must have been--of passionate emotion wrestling ineffectually with the iron resolution of the government: and the faults of the catholic party weigh so heavily against them in the course and progress of the reformation, that we cannot willingly lose the few countervailing tints which soften the darkness of their conditions. nevertheless, for any authentic account of the abbeys at this crisis, we have hitherto been left to our imagination. a stern and busy administration had little leisure to preserve records of sentimental struggles which led to nothing. the catholics did not care to keep alive the recollection of a conflict in which, even though with difficulty, the church was defeated. a rare accident only could have brought down to us any fragment of a transaction which no one had an interest in remembering. that such an accident has really occurred, we may consider as unusually fortunate. the story in question concerns the abbey of woburn, and is as follows:-- at woburn, as in many other religious houses, there were representatives of both the factions which divided the country; perhaps we should say of three--the sincere catholics, the indifferentists, and the protestants. these last, so long as wolsey was in power, had been frightened into silence, and with difficulty had been able to save themselves from extreme penalties. no sooner, however, had wolsey fallen, and the battle commenced with the papacy, than the tables turned, the persecuted became persecutors--or at least threw off their disguise--and were strengthened with the support of the large class who cared only to keep on the winning side. the mysteries of the faith came to be disputed at the public tables; the refectories rang with polemics; the sacred silence of the dormitories was broken for the first time by lawless speculation. the orthodox might have appealed to the government: heresy was still forbidden by law, and, if detected, was still punished by the stake. but the orthodox among the regular clergy adhered to the pope as well as to the faith, and abhorred the sacrilege of the parliament as deeply as the new opinions of the reformers. instead of calling in the help of the law, they muttered treason in secret; and the reformers, confident in the necessities of the times, sent reports to london of their arguments and conversations. the authorities in the abbey were accused of disaffection; and a commission of enquiry was sent down towards the end of the spring of , to investigate. the depositions taken on this occasion are still preserved; and with the help of them, we can leap over three centuries of time, and hear the last echoes of the old monastic life in woburn abbey dying away in discord. where party feeling was running so high, there were, of course, passionate arguments. the act of supremacy, the spread of protestantism, the power of the pope, the state of england--all were discussed; and the possibilities of the future, as each party painted it in the colours of his hopes. the brethren, we find, spoke their minds in plain language, sometimes condescending to a joke. brother sherborne deposes that the sub-prior, 'on candlemas-day last past (february , ), asked him whether he longed not to be at rome where all his bulls were?' brother sherborne answered that 'his bulls had made so many calves, that he had burned them. whereunto the sub-prior said he thought there were more calves now than there were then.' then there were long and furious quarrels about 'my lord privy seal' (cromwell)--who was to one party, the incarnation of satan; to the other, the delivering angel. nor did matters mend when from the minister they passed to the master. dan john croxton being in 'the shaving-house' one day with certain of the brethren having their tonsures looked to, and gossiping, as men do on such occasions, one 'friar lawrence did say that the king was dead.' then said croxton, 'thanks be to god, his grace is in good health, and i pray god so continue him;' and said further to the said lawrence, 'i advise thee to leave thy babbling.' croxton, it seems, had been among the suspected in earlier times. lawrence said to him, 'croxton, it maketh no matter what thou sayest, for thou art one of the new world;' whereupon hotter still the conversation proceeded. 'thy babbling tongue,' croxton said, 'will turn us all to displeasure at length.' 'then,' quoth lawrence, 'neither thou nor yet any of us all shall do well as long as we forsake our head of the church, the pope.' 'by the mass!' quoth croxton, 'i would thy pope roger were in thy belly, or thou in his, for thou art a false perjured knave to thy prince.' whereunto the said lawrence answered, saying, 'by the mass, thou liest! i was never sworn to forsake the pope to be our head, and never will be.' 'then,' quoth croxton, 'thou shalt be sworn spite of thine heart one day, or i will know why nay.' these and similar wranglings may be taken as specimens of the daily conversation at woburn, and we can perceive how an abbot with the best intentions would have found it difficult to keep the peace. there are instances of superiors in other houses throwing down their command in the midst of the crisis in flat despair, protesting that their subject brethren were no longer governable. abbots who were inclined to the reformation could not manage the catholics; catholic abbots could not manage the protestants; indifferent abbots could not manage either the one or the other. it would have been well for the abbot of woburn--or well as far as this world is concerned--if he, like one of these, had acknowledged his incapacity, and had fled from his charge. his name was robert hobbes. of his age and family, history is silent. we know only that he held his place when the storm rose against the pope; that, like the rest of the clergy, he bent before the blast, taking the oath to the king, and submitting to the royal supremacy, but swearing under protest, as the phrase went, with the outward, and not with the inward man--in fact, perjuring himself. though infirm, so far, however, he was too honest to be a successful counterfeit, and from the jealous eyes of the neologians of the abbey he could not conceal his tendencies. we have significant evidence of the _espionage_ which was established over all suspected quarters, in the conversations and trifling details of conduct on the part of the abbot, which were reported to the government. in the summer of , orders came that the pope's name should be rased out wherever it was mentioned in the mass books. a malcontent, by name robert salford, deposed that 'he was singing mass before the abbot at st. thomas's altar within the monastery, at which time he rased out with his knife the said name out of the canon.' the abbot told him to 'take a pen and strike or cross him out.' the saucy monk said those were not the orders. they were to rase him out. 'well, well,' the abbot said, 'it will come again one day.' 'come again, will it?' was the answer; 'if it do, then we will put him in again; but i trust i shall never see that day.' the mild abbot could remonstrate, but could not any more command; and the proofs of his malignant inclinations were remembered against him for the ear of cromwell. in the general injunctions, too, he was directed to preach against the pope, and to expose his usurpation; but he could not bring himself to obey. he shrank from the pulpit; he preached but twice after the visitation, and then on other subjects, while in the prayer before the sermon he refused, as we find, to use the prescribed form. he only said, 'you shall pray for the spirituality, the temporality, and the souls that be in the pains of purgatory; and did not name the king to be supreme head of the church in neither of the said sermons, nor speak against the pretended authority of the bishop of rome.' again, when paul the third, shortly after his election, proposed to call a general council at mantua, against which, by advice of henry the eighth, the germans protested, we have a glimpse how eagerly anxious english eyes were watching for a turning tide. 'hear you,' said the abbot one day, 'of the pope's holiness and the congregation of bishops, abbots, and princes gathered to the council at mantua? they be gathered for the reformation of the universal church; and here now we have a book of the excuse of the germans, by which we may know what heretics they be: for if they were catholics and true men as they pretend to be, they would never have refused to come to a general council.' so matters went with the abbot for some months after he had sworn obedience to the king. lulling his conscience with such opiates as the casuists could provide for him, he watched anxiously for a change, and laboured with but little reserve to hold his brethren to their old allegiance. in the summer of , however, a change came over the scene, very different from the outward reaction for which he was looking, and a better mind woke in the abbot: he learnt that in swearing what he did not mean with reservations and nice distinctions, he had lied to heaven and lied to man; that to save his miserable life he had perilled his soul. when the oath of supremacy was required of the nation, sir thomas more, bishop fisher, and the monks of the charterhouse--mistaken, as we believe, in judgment, but true to their consciences, and disdaining evasion or subterfuge--chose, with deliberate nobleness, rather to die than to perjure themselves. this is no place to enter on the great question of the justice or necessity of those executions; but the story of the so-called martyrdoms convulsed the catholic world. the pope shook upon his throne; the shuttle of diplomatic intrigue stood still; diplomatists who had lived so long in lies that the whole life of man seemed but a stage pageant, a thing of show and tinsel, stood aghast at the revelation of english sincerity, and a shudder of great awe ran through europe. the fury of party leaves little room for generous emotion, and no pity was felt for these men by the english protestants. the protestants knew well that if these same sufferers could have had their way, they would themselves have been sacrificed by hecatombs; and as they had never experienced mercy, so they were in turn without mercy. but to the english catholics, who believed as fisher believed, but who had not dared to suffer as fisher suffered, his death and the death of the rest acted as a glimpse of the judgment day. their safety became their shame and terror; and in the radiant example before them of true faithfulness, they saw their own falsehood and their own disgrace. so it was with father forest, who had taught his penitents in confession that they might perjure themselves, and who now sought a cruel death in voluntary expiation; so it was with whiting, the abbot of glastonbury; so with others whose names should be more familiar to us than they are; and here in woburn we are to see the feeble but genuine penitence of abbot hobbes. he was still unequal to immediate martyrdom, but he did what he knew might drag his death upon him if disclosed to the government, and surrounded by spies he could have had no hope of concealment. 'at the time,' deposed robert salford, 'that the monks of the charterhouse, with other traitors, did suffer death, the abbot did call us into the chapter-house, and said these words:--"brethren, this is a perilous time; such a scourge was never heard since christ's passion. ye hear how good men suffer the death. brethren, this is undoubted for our offences. ye read, so long as the children of israel kept the commandments of god, so long their enemies had no power over them, but god took vengeance of their enemies. but when they broke god's commandments, then they were subdued by their enemies, and so be we. therefore let us be sorry for our offences. undoubted he will take vengeance of our enemies; i mean those heretics that causeth so many good men to suffer thus. alas, it is a piteous case that so much christian blood should be shed. therefore, good brethren, for the reverence of god, every one of you devoutly pray, and say this psalm, 'oh god, the heathen are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple have they defiled, and made jerusalem a heap of stones. the dead bodies of thy servants have they given to be meat to the fowls of the air, and the flesh of thy saints unto the beasts of the field. their blood have they shed like water on every side of jerusalem, and there was no man to bury them. we are become an open scorn unto our enemies, a very scorn and derision unto them that are round about us. oh, remember not our old sins, but have mercy upon us, and that soon, for we are come to great misery. help us, oh god of our salvation, for the glory of thy name. oh, be merciful unto our sins for thy name's sake. wherefore do the heathen say, where is now their god?' ye shall say this psalm," repeated the abbot, "every friday, after the litany, prostrate, when ye lie upon the high altar, and undoubtedly god will cease this extreme scourge." and so,' continues salford, significantly, 'the convent did say this aforesaid psalm until there were certain that did murmur at the saying of it, and so it was left.' the abbot, it seems, either stood alone, or found but languid support; even his own familiar friends whom he trusted, those with whom he had walked in the house of god, had turned against him; the harsh air of the dawn of a new world choked him: what was there for him but to die? but his conscience still haunted him: while he lived he must fight on, and so, if possible, find pardon for his perjury. the blows in those years fell upon the church thick and fast. in february , the bill passed for the dissolution of the smaller monasteries; and now we find the sub-prior with the whole fraternity united in hostility, and the abbot without one friend remaining. 'he did again call us together,' says the next deposition, 'and lamentably mourning for the dissolving the said houses, he enjoined us to sing "salvator mundi, salva nos omnes," every day after lauds; and we murmured at it, and were not content to sing it for such cause; and so we did omit it divers days, for which the abbot came unto the chapter, and did in manner rebuke us, and said we were bound to obey his commandment by our profession, and so did command us to sing it again with the versicle "let god arise, and let his enemies be scattered. let them also that hate him flee before him." also he enjoined us at every mass that every priest did sing, to say the collect, "oh god, who despisest not the sighing of a contrite heart." and he said if we did this with good and true devotion, god would so handle the matter, that it should be to the comfort of all england, and so show us mercy as he showed unto the children of israel. and surely, brethren, there will come to us a good man that will rectify these monasteries again that be now supprest, because "god can of these stones raise up children to abraham."' 'of the stones,' perhaps, but less easily of the stony-hearted monks, who, with pitiless smiles, watched the abbot's sorrow, which should soon bring him to his ruin. time passed on, and as the world grew worse, so the abbot grew more lonely. desolate and unsupported, he was still unable to make up his mind to the course which he knew to be right; but he slowly strengthened himself for the trial, and as lent came on, the season brought with it a more special call to effort; he did not fail to recognise it. the conduct of the fraternity sorely disturbed him. they preached against all which he most loved and valued, in language purposely coarse; and the mild sweetness of the rebukes which he administered, showed plainly on which side lay, in the abbey of woburn, the larger portion of the spirit of heaven. now, when the passions of those times have died away, and we can look back with more indifferent eyes, how touching is the following scene. there was one sir william, curate of woburn chapel, whose tongue, it seems, was rough beyond the rest. the abbot met him one day, and spoke to him. 'sir william,' he said, 'i hear tell ye be a great railer. i marvel that ye rail so. i pray you teach my cure the scripture of god, and that may be to edification. i pray you leave such railing. ye call the pope a bear and a bandog. either he is a good man or an ill. _domino suo stat aut cadit._ the office of a bishop is honourable. what edifying is this to rail? let him alone.' but they would not let him alone, nor would they let the abbot alone. he grew 'somewhat acrased,' they said; vexed with feelings of which they had no experience. he fell sick, sorrow and the lent discipline weighing upon him. the brethren went to see him in his room; one brother dan woburn came among the rest, and asked him how he did; the abbot answered, 'i would that i had died with the good men that died for holding with the pope. my conscience, my conscience doth grudge me every day for it.' life was fast losing its value for him. what was life to him or any man when bought with a sin against his soul? 'if the abbot be disposed to die, for that matter,' brother croxton observed, 'he may die as soon as he will.' all lent he fasted and prayed, and his illness grew upon him; and at length in passion week he thought all was over, and that he was going away. on passion sunday he called the brethren about him, and as they stood round his bed, with their cold, hard eyes, 'he exhorted them all to charity;' he implored them 'never to consent to go out of their monastery; and if it chanced them to be put from it, they should in no wise forsake their habit.' after these words, 'being in a great agony, he rose out of his bed, and cried out and said, "i would to god, it would please him to take me out of this wretched world; and i would i had died with the good men that have suffered death heretofore, for they were quickly out of their pain."'[t] then, half wandering, he began to mutter to himself aloud the thoughts which had been working in him in his struggles; and quoting st. bernard's words about the pope, he exclaimed, 'tu quis es primatu abel, gubernatione noah, auctoritate moses, judicatu samuel, potestate petrus, unctione christus. aliæ ecclesiæ habent super se pastores. tu pastor pastorum es.' let it be remembered that this is no sentimental fiction begotten out of the brain of some ingenious novelist, but the record of the true words and sufferings of a genuine child of adam, labouring in a trial too hard for him. he prayed to die, and in good time death was to come to him; but not, after all, in the sick bed, with his expiation but half completed. a year before, he had thrown down the cross when it was offered him. he was to take it again--the very cross which he had refused. he recovered. he was brought before the council; with what result, there are no means of knowing. to admit the papal supremacy when officially questioned was high treason. whether the abbot was constant, and received some conditional pardon, or whether his heart again for the moment failed him--whichever he did, the records are silent. this only we ascertain of him: that he was not put to death under the statute of supremacy. but, two years later, when the official list was presented to the parliament of those who had suffered for their share in 'the pilgrimage of grace,' among the rest we find the name of robert hobbes, late abbot of woburn. to this solitary fact we can add nothing. the rebellion was put down, and in the punishment of the offenders there was unusual leniency; not more than thirty persons were executed, although forty thousand had been in arms. those only were selected who had been most signally implicated. but they were all leaders in the movement; the men of highest rank, and therefore greatest guilt. they died for what they believed their duty; and the king and council did their duty in enforcing the laws against armed insurgents. he for whose cause each supposed themselves to be contending, has long since judged between them; and both parties perhaps now see all things with clearer eyes than was permitted to them on earth. we also can see more distinctly. we will not refuse the abbot hobbes a brief record of his trial and passion. and although twelve generations of russells--all loyal to the protestant ascendancy--have swept woburn clear of catholic associations, they, too, in these later days, will not regret to see revived the authentic story of its last abbot. footnotes: [q] from _fraser's magazine_, . [r] rolls house ms., _miscellaneous papers_, first series. . [s] tanner ms. , bodleian library, oxford. [t] meaning, as he afterwards said, more and fisher and the carthusians. england's forgotten worthies.[u] . _the observations of sir richard hawkins, knt., in his voyage in the south sea in ._ reprinted from the edition of , and edited by r. h. major, esq., of the british museum. published by the hakluyt society. . _the discoverie of the empire of guiana._ by sir walter ralegh, knt. edited, with copious explanatory notes, and a biographical memoir, by sir robert h. schomburgk, phil. d., &c. . _narratives of early voyages undertaken for the discovery of a passage to cathaia and india by the north-west_; with selections from the records of the worshipful fellowship of the merchants of london, trading into the east indies, and from mss. in the library of the british museum, now first published, by thomas rundall, esq. the reformation, the antipodes, the american continent, the planetary system, and the infinite deep of the heavens, have now become common and familiar facts to us. globes and orreries are the playthings of our school-days; we inhale the spirit of protestantism with our earliest breath of consciousness. it is all but impossible to throw back our imagination into the time when, as new grand discoveries, they stirred every mind which they touched with awe and wonder at the revelation which god had sent down among mankind. vast spiritual and material continents lay for the first time displayed, opening fields of thought and fields of enterprise of which none could conjecture the limit. old routine was broken up. men were thrown back on their own strength and their own power, unshackled, to accomplish whatever they might dare. and although we do not speak of these discoveries as the cause of that enormous force of heart and intellect which accompanied them (for they were as much the effect as the cause, and one reacted on the other), yet at any rate they afforded scope and room for the play of powers which, without such scope, let them have been as transcendant as they would, must have passed away unproductive and blighted. an earnest faith in the supernatural, an intensely real conviction of the divine and devilish forces by which the universe was guided and misguided, was the inheritance of the elizabethan age from catholic christianity. the fiercest and most lawless men did then really and truly believe in the actual personal presence of god or the devil in every accident, or scene, or action. they brought to the contemplation of the new heaven and the new earth an imagination saturated with the spiritual convictions of the old era, which were not lost, but only infinitely expanded. the planets, whose vastness they now learnt to recognise, were, therefore, only the more powerful for evil or for good; the tides were the breathing of demogorgon; and the idolatrous american tribes were real worshippers of the real devil, and were assisted with the full power of his evil army. it is a form of thought which, however in a vague and general way we may continue to use its phraseology, has become, in its detailed application to life, utterly strange to us. we congratulate ourselves on the enlargement of our understanding when we read the decisions of grave law courts in cases of supposed witchcraft; we smile complacently over raleigh's story of the island of the amazons, and rejoice that we are not such as he--entangled in the cobwebs of effete and foolish superstition. yet the true conclusion is less flattering to our vanity. that raleigh and bacon could believe what they believed, and could be what they were notwithstanding, is to us a proof that the injury which such mistakes can inflict is unspeakably insignificant: and arising, as they arose, from a never-failing sense of the real awfulness and mystery of the world, and of the life of human souls upon it, they witness to the presence in such minds of a spirit, the loss of which not the most perfect acquaintance with every law by which the whole creation moves can compensate. we wonder at the grandeur, the moral majesty of some of shakespeare's characters, so far beyond what the noblest among ourselves can imitate, and at first thought we attribute it to the genius of the poet, who has outstripped nature in his creations. but we are misunderstanding the power and the meaning of poetry in attributing creativeness to it in any such sense. shakespeare created, but only as the spirit of nature created around him, working in him as it worked abroad in those among whom he lived. the men whom he draws were such men as he saw and knew; the words they utter were such as he heard in the ordinary conversations in which he joined. at the mermaid with raleigh and with sidney, and at a thousand unnamed english firesides, he found the living originals for his prince hals, his orlandos, his antonios, his portias, his isabellas. the closer personal acquaintance which we can form with the english of the age of elizabeth, the more we are satisfied that shakespeare's great poetry is no more than the rhythmic echo of the life which it depicts. it was, therefore, with no little interest that we heard of the formation of a society which was to employ itself, as we understood, in republishing in accessible form some, if not all, of the invaluable records compiled or composed by richard hakluyt. books, like everything else, have their appointed death-day; the souls of them, unless they be found worthy of a second birth in a new body, perish with the paper in which they lived; and the early folio hakluyts, not from their own want of merit, but from our neglect of them, were expiring of old age. the five-volume quarto edition, published in , so little people then cared for the exploits of their ancestors, consisted but of copies. it was intended for no more than for curious antiquaries, or for the great libraries, where it could be consulted as a book of reference; and among a people, the greater part of whom had never heard hakluyt's name, the editors are scarcely to be blamed if it never so much as occurred to them that general readers would care to have the book within their reach. and yet those five volumes may be called the prose epic of the modern english nation. they contain the heroic tales of the exploits of the great men in whom the new era was inaugurated; not mythic, like the iliads and the eddas, but plain broad narratives of substantial facts, which rival legend in interest and grandeur. what the old epics were to the royally or nobly born, this modern epic is to the common people. we have no longer kings or princes for chief actors, to whom the heroism like the dominion of the world had in time past been confined. but, as it was in the days of the apostles, when a few poor fishermen from an obscure lake in palestine assumed, under the divine mission, the spiritual authority over mankind, so, in the days of our own elizabeth, the seamen from the banks of the thames and the avon, the plym and the dart, self-taught and self-directed, with no impulse but what was beating in their own royal hearts, went out across the unknown seas fighting, discovering, colonising, and graved out the channels, paving them at last with their bones, through which the commerce and enterprise of england has flowed out over all the world. we can conceive nothing, not the songs of homer himself, which would be read among us with more enthusiastic interest than these plain massive tales; and a people's edition of them in these days, when the writings of ainsworth and eugène sue circulate in tens of thousands, would perhaps be the most blessed antidote which could be bestowed upon us. the heroes themselves were the men of the people--the joneses, the smiths, the davises, the drakes; and no courtly pen, with the one exception of raleigh, lent its polish or its varnish to set them off. in most cases the captain himself, or his clerk or servant, or some unknown gentleman volunteer, sat down and chronicled the voyage which he had shared; and thus inorganically arose a collection of writings which, with all their simplicity, are for nothing more striking than for the high moral beauty, warmed with natural feeling, which displays itself through all their pages. with us, the sailor is scarcely himself beyond his quarter-deck. if he is distinguished in his profession, he is professional merely; or if he is more than that, he owes it not to his work as a sailor, but to independent domestic culture. with them, their profession was the school of their nature, a high moral education which most brought out what was most nobly human in them; and the wonders of earth, and air, and sea, and sky, were a real intelligible language in which they heard almighty god speaking to them. that such hopes of what might be accomplished by the hakluyt society should in some measure be disappointed, is only what might naturally be anticipated of all very sanguine expectation. cheap editions are expensive editions to the publisher; and historical societies, from a necessity which appears to encumber all corporate english action, rarely fail to do their work expensively and infelicitously. yet, after all allowances and deductions, we cannot reconcile ourselves to the mortification of having found but one volume in the series to be even tolerably edited, and that one to be edited by a gentleman to whom england is but an adopted country--sir robert schomburgk. raleigh's 'conquest of guiana,' with sir robert's sketch of raleigh's history and character, form in everything but its cost a very model of an excellent volume. for the remaining editors,[v] we are obliged to say that they have exerted themselves successfully to paralyse whatever interest was reviving in hakluyt, and to consign their own volumes to the same obscurity to which time and accident were consigning the earlier editions. very little which was really noteworthy escaped the industry of hakluyt himself, and we looked to find reprints of the most remarkable of the stories which were to be found in his collection. the editors began unfortunately with proposing to continue the work where he had left it, and to produce narratives hitherto unpublished of other voyages of inferior interest, or not of english origin. better thoughts appear to have occurred to them in the course of the work; but their evil destiny overtook them before their thoughts could get themselves executed. we opened one volume with eagerness, bearing the title of 'voyages to the north-west,' in hope of finding our old friends davis and frobisher. we found a vast unnecessary editor's preface: and instead of the voyages themselves, which with their picturesqueness and moral beauty shine among the fairest jewels in the diamond mine of hakluyt, we encountered an analysis and digest of their results, which milton was called in to justify in an inappropriate quotation. it is much as if they had undertaken to edit 'bacon's essays,' and had retailed what they conceived to be the substance of them in their own language; strangely failing to see that the real value of the actions or the thoughts of remarkable men does not lie in the material result which can be gathered from them, but in the heart and soul of the actors or speakers themselves. consider what homer's 'odyssey' would be, reduced into an analysis. the editor of the 'letters of columbus' apologises for the rudeness of the old seaman's phraseology. columbus, he tells us, was not so great a master of the pen as of the art of navigation. we are to make excuses for him. we are put on our guard, and warned not to be offended, before we are introduced to the sublime record of sufferings under which a man of the highest order was staggering towards the end of his earthly calamities; although the inarticulate fragments in which his thought breaks out from him, are strokes of natural art by the side of which literary pathos is poor and meaningless. and even in the subjects which they select they are pursued by the same curious fatality. why is drake to be best known, or to be only known, in his last voyage? why pass over the success, and endeavour to immortalise the failure? when drake climbed the tree in panama, and saw both oceans, and vowed that he would sail a ship in the pacific; when he crawled out upon the cliffs of terra del fuego, and leaned his head over the southernmost angle of the world; when he scored a furrow round the globe with his keel, and received the homage of the barbarians of the antipodes in the name of the virgin queen, he was another man from what he had become after twenty years of court life and intrigue, and spanish fighting and gold-hunting. there is a tragic solemnity in his end, if we take it as the last act of his career; but it is his life, not his death, which we desire--not what he failed to do, but what he did. but every bad has a worse below it, and more offensive than all these is the editor of hawkins's 'voyage to the south sea.' the narrative is striking in itself; not one of the best, but very good; and, as it is republished complete, we can fortunately read it through, carefully shutting off captain bethune's notes with one hand, and we shall then find in it the same beauty which breathes in the tone of all the writings of the period. it is a record of misfortune, but of misfortune which did no dishonour to him who sunk under it; and there is a melancholy dignity in the style in which hawkins tells his story, which seems to say, that though he had been defeated, and had never again an opportunity of winning back his lost laurels, he respects himself still for the heart with which he endured a shame which would have broken a smaller man. it would have required no large exertion of editorial self-denial to have abstained from marring the pages with puns of which 'punch' would be ashamed, and with the vulgar affectation of patronage with which the sea captain of the nineteenth century condescends to criticise and approve of his half-barbarous precursor. and what excuse can we find for such an offence as this which follows. the war of freedom of the araucan indians is the most gallant episode in the history of the new world. the spaniards themselves were not behindhand in acknowledging the chivalry before which they quailed, and, after many years of ineffectual efforts, they gave up a conflict which they never afterwards resumed; leaving the araucans alone, of all the american races with which they came in contact, a liberty which they were unable to tear from them. it is a subject for an epic poem; and whatever admiration is due to the heroism of a brave people whom no inequality of strength could appal and no defeats could crush, these poor indians have a right to demand of us. the story of the war was well known in europe; hawkins, in coasting the western shores of south america, fell in with them, and the finest passage in his book is the relation of one of the incidents of the war:-- an indian captain was taken prisoner by the spaniards, and for that he was of name, and known to have done his devoir against them, they cut off his hands, thereby intending to disenable him to fight any more against them. but he, returning home, desirous to revenge this injury, to maintain his liberty, with the reputation of his nation, and to help to banish the spaniard, with his tongue intreated and incited them to persevere in their accustomed valour and reputation, abasing the enemy and advancing his nation; condemning their contraries of cowardliness, and confirming it by the cruelty used with him and other his companions in their mishaps; showing them his arms without hands, and naming his brethren whose half feet they had cut off, because they might be unable to sit on horseback; with force arguing that if they feared them not, they would not have used so great inhumanity--for fear produceth cruelty, the companion of cowardice. thus encouraged he them to fight for their lives, limbs, and liberty, choosing rather to die an honourable death fighting, than to live in servitude as fruitless members of the commonwealth. thus using the office of a sergeant-major, and having loaden his two stumps with bundles of arrows, he succoured them who, in the succeeding battle had their store wasted; and changing himself from place to place, animated and encouraged his countrymen with such comfortable persuasions, as it is reported and credibly believed, that he did more good with his words and presence, without striking a stroke, than a great part of the army did with fighting to the utmost. it is an action which may take its place by the side of the myth of mucius scævola, or the real exploit of that brother of the poet Æschylus, who, when the persians were flying from marathon, clung to a ship till both his hands were hewn away, and then seized it with his teeth, leaving his name as a portent even in the splendid calendar of athenian heroes. captain bethune, without call or need, making his notes, merely, as he tells us, from the suggestions of his own mind as he revised the proof-sheets, informs us, at the bottom of the page, that 'it reminds him of the familiar lines-- for widdrington i needs must wail, as one in doleful dumps; for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumps.' it must not avail him, that he has but quoted from the ballad of chevy chase. it is the most deformed stanza[w] of the modern deformed version which was composed in the eclipse of heart and taste, on the restoration of the stuarts; and if such verses could then pass for serious poetry, they have ceased to sound in any ear as other than a burlesque; the associations which they arouse are only absurd, and they could only have continued to ring in his memory through their ludicrous doggrel. when to these offences of the society we add, that in the long laboured appendices and introductions, which fill up valuable space, which increase the expense of the edition, and into reading which many readers are, no doubt, betrayed, we have found nothing which assists the understanding of the stories which they are supposed to illustrate--when we have declared that we have found what is most uncommon passed without notice, and what is most trite and familiar encumbered with comment--we have unpacked our hearts of the bitterness which these volumes have aroused in us, and can now take our leave of them and go on with our more grateful subject. elizabeth, whose despotism was as peremptory as that of the plantagenets, and whose ideas of the english constitution were limited in the highest degree, was, notwithstanding, more beloved by her subjects than any sovereign before or since. it was because, substantially, she was the people's sovereign; because it was given to her to conduct the outgrowth of the national life through its crisis of change, and the weight of her great mind and her great place were thrown on the people's side. she was able to paralyse the dying efforts with which, if a stuart had been on the throne, the representatives of an effete system might have made the struggle a deadly one; and the history of england is not the history of france, because the resolution of one person held the reformation firm till it had rooted itself in the heart of the nation, and could not be again overthrown. the catholic faith was no longer able to furnish standing ground on which the english or any other nation could live a manly and a godly life. feudalism, as a social organisation, was not any more a system under which their energies could have scope to move. thenceforward, not the catholic church, but any man to whom god had given a heart to feel and a voice to speak, was to be the teacher to whom men were to listen; and great actions were not to remain the privilege of the families of the norman nobles, but were to be laid within the reach of the poorest plebeian who had the stuff in him to perform them. alone, of all the sovereigns in europe, elizabeth saw the change which had passed over the world. she saw it, and saw it in faith, and accepted it. the england of the catholic hierarchy and the norman baron, was to cast its shell and to become the england of free thought and commerce and manufacture, which was to plough the ocean with its navies, and sow its colonies over the globe; and the first appearance of these enormous forces and the light of the earliest achievements of the new era shines through the forty years of the reign of elizabeth with a grandeur which, when once its history is written, will be seen to be among the most sublime phenomena which the earth as yet has witnessed. the work was not of her creation; the heart of the whole english nation was stirred to its depths; and elizabeth's place was to recognise, to love, to foster, and to guide. the government originated nothing; at such a time it was neither necessary nor desirable that it should do so; but wherever expensive enterprises were on foot which promised ultimate good, and doubtful immediate profit, we never fail to find among the lists of contributors the queen's majesty, burghley, leicester, walsingham. never chary of her presence, for elizabeth could afford to condescend, when ships were fitting for distant voyages in the river, the queen would go down in her barge and inspect. frobisher, who was but a poor sailor adventurer, sees her wave her handkerchief to him from the greenwich palace windows, and he brings her home a narwhal's horn for a present. she honoured her people, and her people loved her; and the result was that, with no cost to the government, she saw them scattering the fleets of the spaniards, planting america with colonies, and exploring the most distant seas. either for honour or for expectation of profit, or from that unconscious necessity by which a great people, like a great man, will do what is right, and must do it at the right time, whoever had the means to furnish a ship, and whoever had the talent to command one, laid their abilities together and went out to pioneer, and to conquer, and take possession, in the name of the queen of the sea. there was no nation so remote but what some one or other was found ready to undertake an expedition there, in the hope of opening a trade; and, let them go where they would, they were sure of elizabeth's countenance. we find letters written by her, for the benefit of nameless adventurers, to every potentate of whom she had ever heard--to the emperors of china, japan, and india, the grand duke of russia, the grand turk, the persian 'sofee,' and other unheard-of asiatic and african princes; whatever was to be done in england, or by englishmen, elizabeth assisted when she could, and admired when she could not. the springs of great actions are always difficult to analyse--impossible to analyse perfectly--possible to analyse only very proximately; and the force by which a man throws a good action out of himself is invisible and mystical, like that which brings out the blossom and the fruit upon the tree. the motives which we find men urging for their enterprises seem often insufficient to have prompted them to so large a daring. they did what they did from the great unrest in them which made them do it, and what it was may be best measured by the results in the present england and america. nevertheless, there was enough in the state of the world, and in the position of england, to have furnished abundance of conscious motive, and to have stirred the drowsiest minister of routine. among material occasions for exertion, the population began to outgrow the employment, and there was a necessity for plantations to serve as an outlet. men who, under happier circumstances, might have led decent lives, and done good service, were now driven by want to desperate courses--'witness,' as richard hakluyt says, 'twenty tall fellows hanged last rochester assizes for small robberies;' and there is an admirable paper addressed to the privy council by christopher carlile, walsingham's son-in-law, pointing out the possible openings to be made in or through such plantations for home produce and manufacture. far below all such prudential economics and mercantile ambitions, however, lay a chivalrous enthusiasm which in these dull days we can hardly, without an effort, realise. the life-and-death wrestle between the reformation and the old religion had settled in the last quarter of the sixteenth century into a permanent struggle between england and spain. france was disabled. all the help which elizabeth could spare barely enabled the netherlands to defend themselves. protestantism, if it conquered, must conquer on another field; and by the circumstances of the time the championship of the reformed faith fell to the english sailors. the sword of spain was forged in the gold-mines of peru; the legions of alva were only to be disarmed by intercepting the gold ships on their passage; and, inspired by an enthusiasm like that which four centuries before had precipitated the chivalry of europe upon the east, the same spirit which in its present degeneracy covers our bays and rivers with pleasure yachts, then fitted out armed privateers, to sweep the atlantic, and plunder and destroy spanish ships wherever they could meet them. thus, from a combination of causes, the whole force and energy of the age was directed towards the sea. the wide excitement, and the greatness of the interests at stake, raised even common men above themselves; and people who in ordinary times would have been no more than mere seamen, or mere money-making merchants, appear before us with a largeness and greatness of heart and mind in which their duties to god and their country are alike clearly and broadly seen and felt to be paramount to every other. ordinary english traders we find fighting spanish war ships in behalf of the protestant faith. the cruisers of the spanish main were full of generous eagerness for the conversion of the savage nations to christianity. and what is even more surprising, sites for colonisation were examined and scrutinised by such men in a lofty statesmanlike spirit, and a ready insight was displayed by them into the indirect effects of a wisely-extended commerce on every highest human interest. again, in the conflict with the spaniards, there was a further feeling, a feeling of genuine chivalry, which was spurring on the english, and one which must be well understood and well remembered, if men like drake, and hawkins, and raleigh are to be tolerably understood. one of the english reviews, a short time ago, was much amused with a story of drake having excommunicated a petty officer as a punishment for some moral offence; the reviewer not being able to see in drake, as a man, anything more than a highly brave and successful buccaneer, whose pretences to religion might rank with the devotion of an italian bandit to the madonna. and so hawkins, and even raleigh, are regarded by superficial persons, who see only such outward circumstances of their history as correspond with their own impressions. the high nature of these men, and the high objects which they pursued, will only rise out and become visible to us as we can throw ourselves back into their times and teach our hearts to feel as they felt. we do not find in the language of the voyagers themselves, or of those who lent them their help at home, any of that weak watery talk of 'protection of aborigines,' which, as soon as it is translated into fact, becomes the most active policy for their destruction, soul and body. but the stories of the dealings of the spaniards with the conquered indians, which were widely known in england, seem to have affected all classes of people, not with pious passive horror, but with a genuine human indignation. a thousand anecdotes in detail we find scattered up and down the pages of hakluyt, who, with a view to make them known, translated peter martyr's letters; and each commonest sailor-boy who had heard these stories from his childhood among the tales of his father's fireside, had longed to be a man, that he might go out and become the avenger of a gallant and suffering people. a high mission, undertaken with a generous heart, seldom fails to make those worthy of it to whom it is given; and it was a point of honour, if of nothing more, among the english sailors, to do no discredit by their conduct to the greatness of their cause. the high courtesy, the chivalry of the spanish nobles, so conspicuous in their dealings with their european rivals, either failed to touch them in their dealings with uncultivated idolators, or the high temper of the aristocracy was unable to restrain or to influence the masses of the soldiers. it would be as ungenerous as it would be untrue, to charge upon their religion the grievous actions of men who called themselves the armed missionaries of catholicism, when the catholic priests and bishops were the loudest in the indignation with which they denounced them. but we are obliged to charge upon it that slow and subtle influence so inevitably exercised by any religion which is divorced from life, and converted into a thing of form, or creed, or ceremony, or system--which could permit the same men to be extravagant in a sincere devotion to the queen of heaven, whose entire lower nature, unsubdued and unaffected, was given up to thirst of gold, and plunder, and sensuality. if religion does not make men more humane than they would be without it, it makes them fatally less so; and it is to be feared that the spirit of the pilgrim fathers, which had oscillated to the other extreme, and had again crystallised into a formal antinomian fanaticism, reproduced the same fatal results as those in which the spaniards had set them their unworthy precedent. but the elizabethan navigators, full for the most part with large kindness, wisdom, gentleness, and beauty, bear names untainted, as far as we know, with a single crime against the savages of america; and the name of england was as famous in the indian seas as that of spain was infamous. on the banks of the oronoko there was remembered for a hundred years the noble captain who had come there from the great queen beyond the seas; and raleigh speaks the language of the heart of his country, when he urges the english statesmen to colonise guiana, and exults in the glorious hope of driving the white marauder into the pacific, and restoring the incas to the throne of peru. who will not be persuaded (he says) that now at length the great judge of the world hath heard the sighs, groans, and lamentations, hath seen the tears and blood of so many millions of innocent men, women, and children, afflicted, robbed, reviled, branded with hot irons, roasted, dismembered, mangled, stabbed, whipped, racked, scalded with hot oil, put to the strapado, ripped alive, beheaded in sport, drowned, dashed against the rocks, famished, devoured by mastiffs, burned, and by infinite cruelties consumed, and purposeth to scourge and plague that cursed nation, and to take the yoke of servitude from that distressed people, as free by nature as any christian? poor raleigh! if peace and comfort in this world were of much importance to him, it was in an ill day that he provoked the revenge of spain. the strength of england was needed at the moment at its own door; the armada came, and there was no means of executing such an enterprise. and afterwards the throne of elizabeth was filled by a stuart, and guiana was to be no scene of glory for raleigh; rather, as later historians are pleased to think, it was the grave of his reputation. but the hope burned clear in him through all the weary years of unjust imprisonment; and when he was a grey-headed old man, the base son of a bad mother used it to betray him. the success of his last enterprise was made the condition under which he was to be pardoned for a crime which he had not committed; and its success depended, as he knew, on its being kept secret from the spaniards. james required of raleigh on his allegiance a detail of what he proposed, giving him at the same time his word as a king that the secret should be safe with him. the next day it was sweeping out of the port of london in the swiftest of the spanish ships, with private orders to the governor of st. thomas to provoke a collision when raleigh should arrive there, which should afterwards cost him his heart's blood. we modern readers may run rapidly over the series of epithets under which raleigh has catalogued the indian sufferings, hoping that they are exaggerated, seeing that they are horrible, and closing our eyes against them with swiftest haste; but it was not so when every epithet suggested a hundred familiar facts; and some of these (not resting on english prejudice, but on sad spanish evidence, which is too full of shame and sorrow to be suspected) shall be given in this place, however old a story it may be thought; because, as we said above, it is impossible to understand the actions of these men, unless we are familiar with the feelings of which their hearts were full. the massacres under cortez and pizarro, terrible as they were, were not the occasion which stirred the deepest indignation. they had the excuse of what might be called, for want of a better word, necessity, and of the desperate position of small bands of men in the midst of enemies who might be counted by millions. and in de soto, when he burnt his guides in florida (it was his practice, when there was danger of treachery, that those who were left alive might take warning); or in vasco nunnez, praying to the virgin on the mountains of darien, and going down from off them into the valleys to hunt the indian caciques, and fling them alive to his bloodhounds; there was, at least, with all this fierceness and cruelty, a desperate courage which we cannot refuse to admire, and which mingles with and corrects our horror. it is the refinement of the spaniard's cruelty in the settled and conquered provinces, excused by no danger and provoked by no resistance, the details of which witness to the infernal coolness with which it was perpetrated; and the great bearing of the indians themselves under an oppression which they despaired of resisting, raises the whole history to the rank of a world-wide tragedy, in which the nobler but weaker nature was crushed under a malignant force which was stronger and yet meaner than itself. gold hunting and lust were the two passions for which the spaniards cared; and the fate of the indian women was only more dreadful than that of the men, who were ganged and chained to a labour in the mines which was only to cease with their lives, in a land where but a little before they had lived a free contented people, more innocent of crime than perhaps any people upon earth. if we can conceive what our own feelings would be--if, in the 'development of the mammalia,' some baser but more powerful race than man were to appear upon this planet, and we and our wives and children at our own happy firesides were degraded from our freedom, and became to them what the lower animals are to us, we can perhaps realise the feelings of the enslaved nations of hispaniola. as a harsh justification of slavery, it is sometimes urged that men who do not deserve to be slaves will prefer death to the endurance of it; and that if they prize their liberty, it is always in their power to assert it in the old roman fashion. tried even by so hard a rule, the indians vindicated their right; and, before the close of the sixteenth century, the entire group of the western islands in the hands of the spaniards, containing, when columbus discovered them, many millions of inhabitants, were left literally desolate from suicide. of the anecdotes of this terrible self-immolation, as they were then known in england, here are a few out of many. the first is simple, and a specimen of the ordinary method. a yucatan cacique, who was forced with his old subjects to labour in the mines, at last 'calling those miners into an house, to the number of ninety-five, he thus debateth with them:'-- 'my worthy companions and friends, why desire we to live any longer under so cruel a servitude? let us now go unto the perpetual seat of our ancestors, for we shall there have rest from these intolerable cares and grievances which we endure under the subjection of the unthankful. go ye before, i will presently follow you.' having so spoken, he held out whole handfuls of those leaves which take away life, prepared for the purpose, and giving every one part thereof, being kindled to suck up the fume; who obeyed his command, the king and his chief kinsmen reserving the last place for themselves. we speak of the crime of suicide, but few persons will see a crime in this sad and stately leave-taking of a life which it was no longer possible to bear with unbroken hearts. we do not envy the indian, who, with spaniards before him as an evidence of the fruits which their creed brought forth, deliberately exchanged for it the old religion of his country, which could sustain him in an action of such melancholy grandeur. but the indians did not always reply to their oppressors with escaping passively beyond their hands. here is a story with matter in it for as rich a tragedy as oedipus or agamemnon; and in its stern and tremendous features, more nearly resembling them than any which were conceived even by shakespeare. an officer named orlando had taken the daughter of a cuban cacique to be his mistress. she was with child by him, but, suspecting her of being engaged in some other intrigue, he had her fastened to two wooden spits, not intending to kill her, but to terrify her; and setting her before the fire, he ordered that she should be turned by the servants of the kitchen. the maiden, stricken with fear through the cruelty thereof, and strange kind of torment, presently gave up the ghost. the cacique her father, understanding the matter, took thirty of his men and went to the house of the captain, who was then absent, and slew his wife, whom he had married after that wicked act committed, and the women who were companions of the wife, and her servants every one. then shutting the door of the house, and putting fire under it, he burnt himself and all his companions that assisted him, together with the captain's dead family and goods. this is no fiction or poet's romance. it is a tale of wrath and revenge, which in sober dreadful truth enacted itself upon this earth, and remains among the eternal records of the doings of mankind upon it. as some relief to its most terrible features, we follow it with a story which has a touch in it of diabolical humour. the slave-owners finding their slaves escaping thus unprosperously out of their grasp, set themselves to find a remedy for so desperate a disease, and were swift to avail themselves of any weakness, mental or bodily, through which to retain them in life. one of these proprietors being informed that a number of his people intended to kill themselves on a certain day, at a particular spot, and knowing by experience that they were too likely to do it, presented himself there at the time which had been fixed upon, and telling the indians when they arrived that he knew their intention, and that it was vain for them to attempt to keep anything a secret from him, he ended with saying, that he had come there to kill himself with them; that as he had used them ill in this world, he might use them worse in the next; 'with which he did dissuade them presently from their purpose.' with what efficacy such believers in the immortality of the soul were likely to recommend either their faith or their god; rather, how terribly all the devotion and all the earnestness with which the poor priests who followed in the wake of the conquerors laboured to recommend it were shamed and paralysed, they themselves too bitterly lament. it was idle to send out governor after governor with orders to stay such practices. they had but to arrive on the scene to become infected with the same fever; or if any remnant of castilian honour, or any faintest echoes of the faith which they professed, still flickered in a few of the best and noblest, they could but look on with folded hands in ineffectual mourning; they could do nothing without soldiers, and the soldiers were the worst offenders. hispaniola became a desert; the gold was in the mines, and there were no slaves left remaining to extract it. one means which the spaniards dared to employ to supply the vacancy, brought about an incident which in its piteous pathos exceeds any story we have ever heard. crimes and criminals are swept away by time, nature finds an antidote for their poison, and they and their ill consequences alike are blotted out and perish. if we do not for give the villain, at least we cease to hate him, as it grows more clear to us that he injures none so deeply as himself. but the [greek: thêriôdês kakia], the enormous wickedness by which humanity itself has been outraged and disgraced, we cannot forgive; we cannot cease to hate that; the years roll away, but the tints of it remain on the pages of history, deep and horrible as the day on which they were entered there. when the spaniards understood the simple opinion of the yucatan islanders concerning the souls of their departed, which, after their sins purged in the cold northern mountains should pass into the south, to the intent that, leaving their own country of their own accord, they might suffer themselves to be brought to hispaniola, they did persuade those poor wretches, that they came from those places where they should see their parents and children, and all their kindred and friends that were dead, and should enjoy all kinds of delights with the embracements and fruition of all beloved beings. and they, being infected and possessed with these crafty and subtle imaginations, singing and rejoicing left their country, and followed vain and idle hope. but when they saw that they were deceived, and neither met their parents nor any that they desired, but were compelled to undergo grievous sovereignty and command, and to endure cruel and extreme labour, they either slew themselves, or, choosing to famish, gave up their fair spirits, being persuaded by no reason or violence to take food. so these miserable yucatans came to their end. it was once more as it was in the days of the apostles. the new world was first offered to the holders of the old traditions. they were the husbandmen first chosen for the new vineyard, and blood and desolation were the only fruits which they reared upon it. in their hands it was becoming a kingdom, not of god, but of the devil, and a sentence of blight went out against them and against their works. how fatally it has worked, let modern spain and spanish america bear witness. we need not follow further the history of their dealings with the indians. for their colonies, a fatality appears to have followed all attempts at catholic colonisation. like shoots from an old decaying tree which no skill and no care can rear, they were planted, and for a while they might seem to grow; but their life was never more than a lingering death, a failure, which to a thinking person would outweigh in the arguments against catholicism whole libraries of faultless _catenas_, and a _consensus patrum_ unbroken through fifteen centuries for the supremacy of st. peter. there is no occasion to look for superstitious causes to explain the phenomenon. the catholic faith had ceased to be the faith of the large mass of earnest thinking capable persons; and to those who can best do the work, all work in this world sooner or later is committed. america was the natural home for protestants; persecuted at home, they sought a place where they might worship god in their own way, without danger of stake or gibbet, and the french huguenots, as afterwards the english puritans, early found their way there. the fate of a party of coligny's people, who had gone out as settlers, shall be the last of these stories, illustrating, as it does in the highest degree, the wrath and fury with which the passions on both sides were boiling. a certain john ribault, with about companions, had emigrated to florida. they were quiet inoffensive people, and lived in peace there several years, cultivating the soil, building villages, and on the best possible terms with the natives. spain was at the time at peace with france; we are, therefore, to suppose that it was in pursuance of the great crusade, in which they might feel secure of the secret, if not the confessed, sympathy of the guises, that a powerful spanish fleet bore down upon this settlement. the french made no resistance, and they were seized and flayed alive, and their bodies hung out upon the trees, with an inscription suspended over them, 'not as frenchmen, but as heretics.' at paris all was sweetness and silence. the settlement was tranquilly surrendered to the same men who had made it the scene of their atrocity; and two years later, of the very spaniards who had been most active in the murder were living there in peaceable possession, in two forts which their relation with the natives had obliged them to build. it was well that there were other frenchmen living, of whose consciences the court had not the keeping, and who were able on emergencies to do what was right without consulting it. a certain privateer, named dominique de gourges, secretly armed and equipped a vessel at rochelle, and, stealing across the atlantic and in two days collecting a strong party of indians, he came down suddenly upon the forts, and, taking them by storm, slew or afterwards hanged every man he found there, leaving their bodies on the trees on which they had hanged the huguenots, with their own inscription reversed against them--'not as spaniards, but as murderers.' for which exploit, well deserving of all honest men's praise, dominique de gourges had to fly his country for his life; and, coming to england, was received with honourable welcome by elizabeth. it was at such a time, and to take their part amidst such scenes as these, that the english navigators appeared along the shores of south america, as the armed soldiers of the reformation, and as the avengers of humanity. as their enterprise was grand and lofty, so for the most part was the manner in which they bore themselves worthy of it. they were no nation of saints, in the modern sentimental sense of that word; they were prompt, stern men--more ready ever to strike an enemy than to parley with him; and, private adventurers as they all were, it was natural enough that private rapacity and private badness should be found among them as among other mortals. every englishman who had the means was at liberty to fit out a ship or ships, and if he could produce tolerable vouchers for himself, received at once a commission from the court. the battles of england were fought by her children, at their own risk and cost, and they were at liberty to repay themselves the expense of their expeditions by plundering at the cost of the national enemy. thus, of course, in a mixed world, there were found mixed marauding crews of scoundrels, who played the game which a century later was played with such effect by the pirates of the tortugas. negro hunters too, there were, and a bad black slave trade--in which elizabeth herself, being hard driven for money, did not disdain to invest her capital--but on the whole, and in the war with the spaniards, as in the war with the elements, the conduct and character of the english sailors, considering what they were and the work which they were sent to do, present us all through that age with such a picture of gallantry, disinterestedness, and high heroic energy, as has never been overmatched; the more remarkable, as it was the fruit of no drill or discipline, no tradition, no system, no organised training, but was the free native growth of a noble virgin soil. before starting on an expedition, it was usual for the crew and the officers to meet and arrange among themselves a series of articles of conduct, to which they bound themselves by a formal agreement, the entire body itself undertaking to see to their observance. it is quite possible that strong religious profession, and even sincere profession, might be accompanied, as it was in the spaniards, with everything most detestable. it is not sufficient of itself to prove that their actions would correspond with it, but it is one among a number of evidences; and coming as most of these men come before us, with hands clear of any blood but of fair and open enemies, their articles may pass at least as indications of what they were. here we have a few instances:-- richard hawkins's ship's company was, as he himself informs us, an unusually loose one. nevertheless, we find them 'gathered together every morning and evening to serve god;' and a fire on board, which only hawkins's presence of mind prevented from destroying ship and crew together, was made use of by the men as an occasion to banish swearing out of the ship. with a general consent of all our company, it was ordained that there should be a palmer or ferula which should be in the keeping of him who was taken with an oath; and that he who had the palmer should give to every one that he took swearing, a palmada with it and the ferula; and whosoever at the time of evening or morning prayer was found to have the palmer, should have three blows given him by the captain or the master; and that he should still be bound to free himself by taking another, or else to run in danger of continuing the penalty, which, being executed a few days, reformed the vice, so that in three days together was not one oath heard to be sworn. the regulations for luke fox's voyage commenced thus:-- for as much as the good success and prosperity of every action doth consist in the due service and glorifying of god, knowing that not only our being and preservation, but the prosperity of all our actions and enterprises do immediately depend on his almighty goodness and mercy; it is provided-- first, that all the company, as well officers as others, shall duly repair every day twice at the call of the bell to hear public prayers to be read, such as are authorised by the church, and that in a godly and devout manner, as good christians ought. secondly, that no man shall swear by the name of god, or use any profane oath, or blaspheme his holy name. to symptoms such as these, we cannot but assign a very different value when they are the spontaneous growth of common minds, unstimulated by sense of propriety or rules of the service, or other official influence lay or ecclesiastic, from what attaches to the somewhat similar ceremonials in which, among persons whose position is conspicuous, important enterprises are now and then inaugurated. we have said as much as we intend to say of the treatment by the spaniards of the indian women. sir walter raleigh is commonly represented by historians as rather defective, if he was remarkable at all, on the moral side of his character. yet raleigh can declare proudly, that all the time he was on the oronoko, 'neither by force nor other means had any of his men intercourse with any woman there;' and the narrator of the incidents of raleigh's last voyage acquaints his correspondent 'with some particulars touching the government of the fleet, which, although other men in their voyages doubtless in some measure observed, yet in all the great volumes which have been written touching voyages, there is no precedent of so godly severe and martial government, which not only in itself is laudable and worthy of imitation, but is also fit to be written and engraven on every man's soul that coveteth to do honour to his country.' once more, the modern theory of drake is, as we said above, that he was a gentleman-like pirate on a large scale, who is indebted for the place which he fills in history to the indistinct ideas of right and wrong prevailing in the unenlightened age in which he lived, and who therefore demands all the toleration of our own enlarged humanity to allow him to remain there. let us see how the following incident can be made to coincide with this hypothesis:-- a few days after clearing the channel on his first great voyage, he fell in with a small spanish ship, which he took for a prize. he committed the care of it to a certain mr. doughtie, a person much trusted by, and personally very dear to him, and this second vessel was to follow him as a tender. in dangerous expeditions into unknown seas, a second smaller ship was often indispensable to success; but many finely intended enterprises were ruined by the cowardice of the officers to whom such ships were entrusted; who shrank as danger thickened, and again and again took advantage of darkness or heavy weather to make sail for england and forsake their commander. hawkins twice suffered in this way; so did sir humfrey gilbert; and, although drake's own kind feeling for his old friend has prevented him from leaving an exact account of his offence, we gather from the scattered hints which are let fall, that he, too, was meditating a similar piece of treason. however, it may or may not have been thus. but when at port st. julien, 'our general,' says one of the crew,-- began to inquire diligently of the actions of mr. thomas doughtie, and found them not to be such as he looked for, but tending rather to contention or mutiny, or some other disorder, whereby, without redresse, the success of the voyage might greatly have been hazarded. whereupon the company was called together and made acquainted with the particulars of the cause, which were found, partly by mr. doughtie's own confession, and partly by the evidence of the fact, to be true, which, when our general saw, although his private affection to mr. doughtie (as he then, in the presence of us all, sacredly protested) was great, yet the care which he had of the state of the voyage, of the expectation of her majesty, and of the honour of his country, did more touch him, as indeed it ought, than the private respect of one man; so that the cause being throughly heard, and all things done in good order as near as might be to the course of our law in england, it was concluded that mr. doughtie should receive punishment according to the quality of the offence. and he, seeing no remedy but patience for himself, desired before his death to receive the communion, which he did at the hands of mr. fletcher, our minister, and our general himself accompanied him in that holy action, which, being done, and the place of execution made ready, he, having embraced our general, and taken leave of all the company, with prayers for the queen's majesty and our realm, in quiet sort laid his head to the block, where he ended his life. this being done, our general made divers speeches to the whole company, persuading us to unity, obedience, love, and regard of our voyage, and for the better confirmation thereof, willed every man the next sunday following to prepare himself to receive the communion, as christian brethren and friends ought to do, which was done in very reverent sort, and so with good contentment every man went about his business. the simple majesty of this anecdote can gain nothing from any comment which we might offer upon it. the crew of a common english ship organising, of their own free motion, on that wild shore, a judgment hall more grand and awful than any most elaborate law court, is not to be reconciled with the pirate theory. drake, it is true, appropriated and brought home a million and a half of spanish treasure, while england and spain were at peace. he took that treasure because for many years the officers of the inquisition had made free at their pleasure with the lives and goods of english merchants and seamen. the king of spain, when appealed to, had replied that he had no power over the holy house; and it was necessary to make the king of spain, or the inquisition, or whoever were the parties responsible, feel that they could not play their pious pranks with impunity. when drake seized the bullion at panama, he sent word to the viceroy that he should now learn to respect the properties of english subjects; and he added, that if four english sailors, who were prisoners in mexico, were molested, he would execute , spaniards and send the viceroy their heads. spain and england were at peace, but popery and protestantism were at war--deep, deadly, and irreconcileable. wherever we find them, they are still the same. in the courts of japan or of china; fighting spaniards in the pacific, or prisoners among the algerines; founding colonies which by-and-by were to grow into enormous transatlantic republics, or exploring in crazy pinnaces the fierce latitudes of the polar seas,--they are the same indomitable god-fearing men whose life was one great liturgy. 'the ice was strong, but god was stronger,' says one of frobisher's men, after grinding a night and a day among the icebergs, not waiting for god to come down and split the ice for them, but toiling through the long hours, himself and the rest fending off the vessel with poles and planks, with death glaring at them out of the rocks. icebergs were strong, spaniards were strong, and storms, and corsairs, and rocks and reefs, which no chart had then noted--they were all strong; but god was stronger, and that was all which they cared to know. out of the vast number of illustrations it is difficult to make wise selections, but the attention floats loosely over generalities, and only individual instances can seize it and hold it fast. we shall attempt to bring our readers face to face with some of these men; not, of course, to write their biographies, but to sketch the details of a few scenes, in the hope that they may tempt those under whose eyes they may fall to look for themselves to complete the perfect figure. some two miles above the port of dartmouth, once among the most important harbours in england, on a projecting angle of land which runs out into the river at the head of one of its most beautiful reaches, there has stood for some centuries the manor house of greenaway. the water runs deep all the way to it from the sea, and the largest vessels may ride with safety within a stone's throw of the windows. in the latter half of the sixteenth century there must have met, in the hall of this mansion, a party as remarkable as could have been found anywhere in england. humfrey and adrian gilbert, with their half-brother, walter raleigh, here, when little boys, played at sailors in the reaches of long stream; in the summer evenings doubtless rowing down with the tide to the port, and wondering at the quaint figure-heads and carved prows of the ships which thronged it; or climbing on board, and listening, with hearts beating, to the mariners' tales of the new earth beyond the sunset. and here in later life, matured men, whose boyish dreams had become heroic action, they used again to meet in the intervals of quiet, and the rock is shown underneath the house where raleigh smoked the first tobacco. another remarkable man, of whom we shall presently speak more closely, could not fail to have made a fourth at these meetings. a sailor boy of sandwich, the adjoining parish, john davis, showed early a genius which could not have escaped the eye of such neighbours, and in the atmosphere of greenaway he learned to be as noble as the gilberts, and as tender and delicate as raleigh. of this party, for the present we confine ourselves to the host and owner, humfrey gilbert, knighted afterwards by elizabeth. led by the scenes of his childhood to the sea and to sea adventures, and afterwards, as his mind unfolded, to study his profession scientifically, we find him as soon as he was old enough to think for himself, or make others listen to him, 'amending the great errors of naval sea cards, whose common fault is to make the degree of longitude in every latitude of one common bigness;' inventing instruments for taking observations, studying the form of the earth, and convincing himself that there was a north-west passage, and studying the necessities of his country, and discovering the remedies for them in colonisation and extended markets for home manufactures. gilbert was examined before the queen's majesty and the privy council, and the record of his examination he has himself left to us in a paper which he afterwards drew up, and strange enough reading it is. the most admirable conclusions stand side by side with the wildest conjectures. homer and aristotle are pressed into service to prove that the ocean runs round the three old continents, and that america therefore is necessarily an island. the gulf stream, which he had carefully observed, eked out by a theory of the _primum mobile_, is made to demonstrate a channel to the north, corresponding to magellan's straits in the south, gilbert believing, in common with almost everyone of his day, that these straits were the only opening into the pacific, and the land to the south was unbroken to the pole. he prophesies a market in the east for our manufactured linen and calicoes:-- the easterns greatly prizing the same, as appeareth in hester, where the pomp is expressed of the great king of india, ahasuerus, who matched the coloured clothes wherewith his houses and tents were apparelled, with gold and silver, as part of his greatest treasure. these and other such arguments were the best analysis which sir humfrey had to offer of the spirit which he felt to be working in him. we may think what we please of them; but we can have but one thought of the great grand words with which the memorial concludes, and they alone would explain the love which elizabeth bore him:-- never, therefore, mislike with me for taking in hand any laudable and honest enterprise, for if through pleasure or idleness we purchase shame, the pleasure vanisheth, but the shame abideth for ever. give me leave, therefore, without offence, always to live and die in this mind: that he is not worthy to live at all that, for fear or danger of death, shunneth his country's service and his own honour, seeing that death is inevitable and the fame of virtue immortal, wherefore in this behalf _mutare vel timere sperno_. two voyages which he undertook at his own cost, which shattered his fortune, and failed, as they naturally might, since inefficient help or mutiny of subordinates, or other disorders, are inevitable conditions under which more or less great men must be content to see their great thoughts mutilated by the feebleness of their instruments, did not dishearten him, and in june a last fleet of five ships sailed from the port of dartmouth, with commission from the queen to discover and take possession from latitude ° to ° north--a voyage not a little noteworthy, there being planted in the course of it the first english colony west of the atlantic. elizabeth had a foreboding that she would never see him again. she sent him a jewel as a last token of her favour, and she desired raleigh to have his picture taken before he went. the history of the voyage was written by a mr. edward hayes, of dartmouth, one of the principal actors in it, and as a composition it is more remarkable for fine writing than any very commendable thought in the author. but sir humfrey's nature shines through the infirmity of his chronicler; and in the end, indeed, mr. hayes himself is subdued into a better mind. he had lost money by the voyage, and we will hope his higher nature was only under a temporary eclipse. the fleet consisted (it is well to observe the ships and the size of them) of the 'delight,' tons; the barque 'raleigh,' tons (this ship deserted off the land's end); the 'golden hinde' and the 'swallow,' tons each; and the 'squirrel,' which was called the frigate, tons. for the uninitiated in such matters, we may add, that if in a vessel the size of the last, a member of the yacht club would consider that he had earned a club-room immortality if he had ventured a run in the depth of summer from cowes to the channel islands. we were in all (says mr. hayes) men, among whom we had of every faculty good choice. besides, for solace of our own people, and allurement of the savages, we were provided of music in good variety, not omitting the least toys, as morris dancers, hobby horses, and may-like conceits to delight the savage people. the expedition reached newfoundland without accident. st. john's was taken possession of, and a colony left there; and sir humfrey then set out exploring along the american coast to the south, he himself doing all the work in his little -ton cutter, the service being too dangerous for the larger vessels to venture on. one of these had remained at st. john's. he was now accompanied only by the 'delight' and the 'golden hinde,' and these two keeping as near the shore as they dared, he spent what remained of the summer examining every creek and bay, marking the soundings, taking the bearings of the possible harbours, and risking his life, as every hour he was obliged to risk it in such a service, in thus leading, as it were, the forlorn hope in the conquest of the new world. how dangerous it was we shall presently see. it was towards the end of august. the evening was fair and pleasant, yet not without token of storm to ensue, and most part of this wednesday night, like the swan that singeth before her death, they in the 'delight' continued in sounding of drums and trumpets and fifes, also winding the cornets and hautboys, and in the end of their jollity left with the battell and ringing of doleful knells. two days after came the storm; the 'delight' struck upon a bank, and went down in sight of the other vessels, which were unable to render her any help. sir humfrey's papers, among other things, were all lost in her; at the time considered by him an irreparable misfortune. but it was little matter, he was never to need them. the 'golden hinde' and the 'squirrel' were now left alone of the five ships. the provisions were running short, and the summer season was closing. both crews were on short allowance; and with much difficulty sir humfrey was prevailed upon to be satisfied for the present with what he had done, and to lay off for england. so upon saturday, in the afternoon, the st of august, we changed our course, and returned back for england, at which very instant, even in winding about, there passed along between us and the land, which we now forsook, a very lion, to our seeming, in shape, hair, and colour; not swimming after the manner of a beast by moving of his feet, but rather sliding upon the water with his whole body, except his legs, in sight, neither yet diving under and again rising as the manner is of whales, porpoises, and other fish, but confidently showing himself without hiding, notwithstanding that we presented ourselves in open view and gesture to amaze him. thus he passed along, turning his head to and fro, yawning and gaping wide, with ougly demonstration of long teeth and glaring eyes; and to bidde us farewell, coming right against the 'hinde,' he sent forth a horrible voice, roaring and bellowing as doth a lion, which spectacle we all beheld so far as we were able to discern the same, as men prone to wonder at every strange thing. what opinion others had thereof, and chiefly the general himself, i forbear to deliver. but he took it for _bonum omen_, rejoicing that he was to war against such an enemy, if it were the devil. we have no doubt that he did think it was the devil; men in those days believing really that evil was more than a principle or a necessary accident, and that in all their labour for god and for right, they must make their account to have to fight with the devil in his proper person. but if we are to call it superstition, and if this were no devil in the form of a roaring lion, but a mere great seal or sea-lion, it is a more innocent superstition to impersonate so real a power, and it requires a bolder heart to rise up against it and defy it in its living terror, than to sublimate it away into a philosophical principle, and to forget to battle with it in speculating on its origin and nature. but to follow the brave sir humfrey, whose work of fighting with the devil was now over, and who was passing to his reward. the nd of september the general came on board the 'golden hinde' 'to make merry with us.' he greatly deplored the loss of his books and papers, but he was full of confidence from what he had seen, and talked with eagerness and warmth of the new expedition for the following spring. apocryphal gold-mines still occupying the minds of mr. hayes and others, they were persuaded that sir humfrey was keeping to himself some such discovery which he had secretly made, and they tried hard to extract it from him. they could make nothing, however, of his odd, ironical answers, and their sorrow at the catastrophe which followed is sadly blended with disappointment that such a secret should have perished. sir humfrey doubtless saw america with other eyes than theirs, and gold-mines richer than california in its huge rivers and savannahs. leaving the issue of this good hope (about the gold), (continues mr. hayes), to god, who only knoweth the truth thereof, i will hasten to the end of this tragedy, which must be knit up in the person of our general, and as it was god's ordinance upon him, even so the vehement persuasion of his friends could nothing avail to divert him from his wilful resolution of going in his frigate; and when he was entreated by the captain, master, and others, his well-wishers in the 'hinde,' not to venture, this was his answer--'i will not forsake my little company going homewards, with whom i have passed so many storms and perils.' two-thirds of the way home they met foul weather and terrible seas, 'breaking-short and pyramid-wise.' men who had all their lives 'occupied the sea' had never seen it more outrageous. 'we had also upon our mainyard an apparition of a little fier by night, which seamen do call castor and pollux.' monday the ninth of september, in the afternoon, the frigate was near cast away oppressed by waves, but at that time recovered, and giving forth signs of joy, the general, sitting abaft with a book in his hand, cried out unto us in the 'hinde' so often as we did approach within hearing, 'we are as near to heaven by sea as by land,' reiterating the same speech, well beseeming a soldier resolute in jesus christ, as i can testify that he was. the same monday night, about twelve of the clock, or not long after, the frigate being ahead of us in the 'golden hinde,' suddenly her lights were out, whereof as it were in a moment we lost the sight; and withal our watch cried, 'the general was cast away,' which was too true. thus faithfully (concludes mr. hayes, in some degree rising above himself) i have related this story, wherein some spark of the knight's virtues, though he be extinguished, may happily appear; he remaining resolute to a purpose honest and godly as was this, to discover, possess, and reduce unto the service of god and christian piety, those remote and heathen countries of america. such is the infinite bounty of god, who from every evil deriveth good, that fruit may grow in time of our travelling in these north-western lands (as has it not grown?), and the crosses, turmoils, and afflictions, both in the preparation and execution of the voyage, did correct the intemperate humours which before we noted to be in this gentleman, and made unsavoury and less delightful his other manifold virtues. thus as he was refined and made nearer unto the image of god, so it pleased the divine will to resume him unto himself, whither both his and every other high and noble mind have always aspired. such was sir humfrey gilbert; still in the prime of his years when the atlantic swallowed him. like the gleam of a landscape lit suddenly for a moment by the lightning, these few scenes flash down to us across the centuries: but what a life must that have been of which this was the conclusion! we have glimpses of him a few years earlier, when he won his spurs in ireland--won them by deeds which to us seem terrible in their ruthlessness, but which won the applause of sir henry sidney as too high for praise or even reward. chequered like all of us with lines of light and darkness, he was, nevertheless, one of a race which has ceased to be. we look round for them, and we can hardly believe that the same blood is flowing in our veins. brave we may still be, and strong perhaps as they, but the high moral grace which made bravery and strength so beautiful is departed from us for ever. our space is sadly limited for historical portrait painting; but we must find room for another of that greenaway party whose nature was as fine as that of gilbert, and who intellectually was more largely gifted. the latter was drowned in . in john davis left dartmouth on his first voyage into the polar seas; and twice subsequently he went again, venturing in small ill-equipped vessels of thirty or forty tons into the most dangerous seas. these voyages were as remarkable for their success as for the daring with which they were accomplished, and davis's epitaph is written on the map of the world, where his name still remains to commemorate his discoveries. brave as he was, he is distinguished by a peculiar and exquisite sweetness of nature, which, from many little facts of his life, seems to have affected everyone with whom he came in contact in a remarkable degree. we find men, for the love of master davis, leaving their firesides to sail with him, without other hope or motion; we find silver bullets cast to shoot him in a mutiny; the hard rude natures of the mutineers being awed by something in his carriage which was not like that of a common man. he has written the account of one of his northern voyages himself; one of those, by-the-by, which the hakluyt society have mutilated; and there is an imaginative beauty in it, and a rich delicacy of expression, which is called out in him by the first sight of strange lands and things and people. to show what he was, we should have preferred, if possible, to have taken the story of his expedition into the south seas, in which, under circumstances of singular difficulty, he was deserted by candish, under whom he had sailed; and after inconceivable trials from famine, mutiny, and storm, ultimately saved himself and his ship, and such of the crew as had chosen to submit to his orders. but it is a long history, and will not admit of being curtailed. as an instance of the stuff of which it was composed, he ran back in the black night in a gale of wind through the straits of magellan, _by a chart which he had made with the eye in passing up_. his anchors were lost or broken; the cables were parted. he could not bring up the ship; there was nothing for it but to run, and he carried her safe through along a channel often not three miles broad, sixty miles from end to end, and twisting like the reaches of a river. for the present, however, we are forced to content ourselves with a few sketches out of the north-west voyages. here is one, for instance, which shows how an englishman could deal with the indians. davis had landed at gilbert's sound, and gone up the country exploring. on his return he found his crew loud in complaints of the thievish propensities of the natives, and urgent to have an example made of some of them. on the next occasion he fired a gun at them with blank cartridge; but their nature was still too strong for them. seeing iron (he says), they could in no case forbear stealing; which, when i perceived, it did but minister to me occasion of laughter to see their simplicity, and i willed that they should not be hardly used, but that our company should be more diligent to keep their things, supposing it to be very hard in so short a time to make them know their evils. in his own way, however, he took an opportunity of administering a lesson to them of a more wholesome kind than could be given with gunpowder and bullets. like the rest his countrymen, he believed the savage indians in their idolatries to be worshippers of the devil. 'they are witches,' he says; 'they have images in great store, and use many kinds of enchantments.' and these enchantments they tried on one occasion to put in force against himself and his crew. being on shore on the th day of july, one of them made a long oration, and then kindled a fire, into which with many strange words and gestures he put divers things, which we supposed to be a sacrifice. myself and certain of my company standing by, they desired us to go into the smoke. i desired them to go into the smoke, which they would by no means do. i then took one of them and thrust him into the smoke, and willed one of my company to tread out the fire, and spurn it into the sea, which was done to show them that we did contemn their sorceries. it is a very english story--exactly what a modern englishman would do; only, perhaps, not believing that there was any real devil in the case, which makes a difference. however, real or not real, after seeing him patiently put up with such an injury, we will hope the poor greenlander had less respect for the devil than formerly. leaving gilbert's sound, davis went on to the north-west, and in lat. ° fell in with a barrier of ice, which he coasted for thirteen days without finding an opening. the very sight of an iceberg was new to all his crew; and the ropes and shrouds, though it was midsummer, becoming compassed with ice,-- the people began to fall sick and faint-hearted--whereupon, very orderly, with good discretion, they entreated me to regard the safety of mine own life, as well as the preservation of theirs; and that i should not, through overbouldness, leave their widows and fatherless children to give me bitter curses. whereupon, seeking counsel of god, it pleased his divine majesty to move my heart to prosecute that which i hope shall be to his glory, and to the contentation of every christian mind. he had two vessels--one of some burthen, the other a pinnace of thirty tons. the result of the counsel which he had sought was, that he made over his own large vessel to such as wished to return, and himself, 'thinking it better to die with honour than to return with infamy,' went on, with such volunteers as would follow him, in a poor leaky cutter, up the sea now in commemoration of that adventure called davis's straits. he ascended ° north of the furthest known point, among storms and icebergs, when the long days and twilight nights alone saved him from being destroyed, and, coasting back along the american shore, he discovered hudson's straits, supposed then to be the long-desired entrance into the pacific. this exploit drew the attention of walsingham, and by him davis was presented to burleigh, 'who was also pleased to show him great encouragement.' if either these statesmen or elizabeth had been twenty years younger, his name would have filled a larger space in history than a small corner of the map of the world; but if he was employed at all in the last years of the century, no _vates sacer_ has been found to celebrate his work, and no clue is left to guide us. he disappears; a cloud falls over him. he is known to have commanded trading vessels in the eastern seas, and to have returned five times from india. but the details are all lost, and accident has only parted the clouds for a moment to show us the mournful setting with which he, too, went down upon the sea. in taking out sir edward michellthorne to india, in , he fell in with a crew of japanese, whose ship had been burnt, drifting at sea, without provisions, in a leaky junk. he supposed them to be pirates, but he did not choose to leave them to so wretched a death, and took them on board; and in a few hours, watching their opportunity, they murdered him. as the fool dieth, so dieth the wise, and there is no difference; it was the chance of the sea, and the ill reward of a humane action--a melancholy end for such a man--like the end of a warrior, not dying epaminondas-like on the field of victory, but cut off in some poor brawl or ambuscade. but so it was with all these men. they were cut off in the flower of their days, and few of them laid their bones in the sepulchres of their fathers. they knew the service which they had chosen, and they did not ask the wages for which they had not laboured. life with them was no summer holiday, but a holy sacrifice offered up to duty, and what their master sent was welcome. beautiful is old age--beautiful as the slow-dropping mellow autumn of a rich glorious summer. in the old man, nature has fulfilled her work; she loads him with her blessings; she fills him with the fruits of a well-spent life; and, surrounded by his children and his children's children, she rocks him softly away to a grave, to which he is followed with blessings. god forbid we should not call it beautiful. it is beautiful, but not the most beautiful. there is another life, hard, rough, and thorny, trodden with bleeding feet and aching brow; the life of which the cross is the symbol; a battle which no peace follows, this side the grave; which the grave gapes to finish, before the victory is won; and--strange that it should be so--this is the highest life of man. look back along the great names of history; there is none whose life has been other than this. they to whom it has been given to do the really highest work in this earth--whoever they are, jew or gentile, pagan or christian, warriors, legislators, philosophers, priests, poets, kings, slaves--one and all, their fate has been the same--the same bitter cup has been given to them to drink. and so it was with the servants of england in the sixteenth century. their life was a long battle, either with the elements or with men; and it was enough for them to fulfil their work, and to pass away in the hour when god had nothing more to bid them do. they did not complain, and why should we complain for them? peaceful life was not what they desired, and an honourable death had no terrors for them. theirs was the old grecian spirit, and the great heart of the theban poet lived again in them:-- [greek: thanein d' hoisin ananka, ti ke tis anônumon gêras en skotô kathêmenos hepsoi matan, hapantôn kalôn ammoros?] 'seeing,' in gilbert's own brave words, 'that death is inevitable, and the fame of virtue is immortal; wherefore in this behalf _mutare vel timere sperno_.' in the conclusion of these light sketches we pass into an element different from that in which we have been lately dwelling. the scenes in which gilbert and davis played out their high natures were of the kind which we call peaceful, and the enemies with which they contended were principally the ice and the wind, and the stormy seas and the dangers of unknown and savage lands. we shall close amidst the roar of cannon, and the wrath and rage of battle. hume, who alludes to the engagement which we are going to describe, speaks of it in a tone which shows that he looked at it as something portentous and prodigious; as a thing to wonder at--but scarcely as deserving the admiration which we pay to actions properly within the scope of humanity--and as if the energy which was displayed in it was like the unnatural strength of madness. he does not say this, but he appears to feel it; and he scarcely would have felt it if he had cared more deeply to saturate himself with the temper of the age of which he was writing. at the time, all england and all the world rang with the story. it struck a deeper terror, though it was but the action of a single ship, into the hearts of the spanish people; it dealt a more deadly blow upon their fame and moral strength than the destruction of the armada itself; and in the direct results which arose from it, it was scarcely less disastrous to them. hardly, as it seems to us, if the most glorious actions which are set like jewels in the history of mankind are weighed one against the other in the balance, hardly will those spartans who in the summer morning sate 'combing their long hair for death' in the passes of thermopylæ, have earned a more lofty estimate for themselves than this one crew of modern englishmen. in august , lord thomas howard, with six english line-of-battle ships, six victuallers, and two or three pinnaces, was lying at anchor under the island of florez. light in ballast and short of water, with half his men disabled by sickness, howard was unable to pursue the aggressive purpose on which he had been sent out. several of the ships' crews were on shore: the ships themselves 'all pestered and rommaging,' with everything out of order. in this condition they were surprised by a spanish fleet consisting of men-of-war. eleven out of the twelve english ships obeyed the signal of the admiral, to cut or weigh their anchors and escape as they might. the twelfth, the 'revenge,' was unable for the moment to follow. of her crew of , ninety were sick on shore, and, from the position of the ship, there was some delay and difficulty in getting them on board. the 'revenge' was commanded by sir richard grenville, of bideford, a man well known in the spanish seas, and the terror of the spanish sailors; so fierce he was said to be, that mythic stories passed from lip to lip about him, and, like earl talbot or coeur de lion, the nurses at the azores frightened children with the sound of his name. 'he was of great revenues, of his own inheritance,' they said, 'but of unquiet mind, and greatly affected to wars;' and from his uncontrollable propensities for blood-eating, he had volunteered his services to the queen; 'of so hard a complexion was he, that i (john huighen von linschoten, who is our authority here, and who was with the spanish fleet after the action) have been told by divers credible persons who stood and beheld him, that he would carouse three or four glasses of wine, and take the glasses between his teeth and crush them in pieces and swallow them down.' such grenville was to the spaniard. to the english he was a goodly and gallant gentleman, who had never turned his back upon an enemy, and was remarkable in that remarkable time for his constancy and daring. in this surprise at florez he was in no haste to fly. he first saw all his sick on board and stowed away on the ballast; and then, with no more than men left him to fight and work the ship, he deliberately weighed, uncertain, as it seemed at first, what he intended to do. the spanish fleet were by this time on his weather bow, and he was persuaded (we here take his cousin raleigh's beautiful narrative, and follow it in raleigh's words) 'to cut his mainsail and cast about, and trust to the sailing of the ship:'-- but sir richard utterly refused to turn from the enemy, alledging that he would rather choose to die than to dishonour himself, his country, and her majesty's ship, persuading his company that he would pass through their two squadrons in spite of them, and enforce those of seville to give him way: which he performed upon diverse of the foremost, who, as the mariners term it, sprang their luff, and fell under the lee of the 'revenge.' but the other course had been the better; and might right well have been answered in so great an impossibility of prevailing: notwithstanding, out of the greatness of his mind, he could not be persuaded. the wind was light; the 'san philip,' 'a huge high-carged ship' of , tons, came up to windward of him, and, taking the wind out of his sails, ran aboard him. after the 'revenge' was entangled with the 'san philip,' four others boarded her, two on her larboard and two on her starboard. the fight thus beginning at three o'clock in the afternoon continued very terrible all that evening. but the great 'san philip,' having received the lower tier of the 'revenge,' shifted herself with all diligence from her sides, utterly misliking her first entertainment. the spanish ships were tilled with soldiers, in some , besides the mariners, in some , in others . in ours there were none at all, besides the mariners, but the servants of the commander and some few voluntary gentlemen only. after many enterchanged vollies of great ordnance and small shot, the spaniards deliberated to enter the 'revenge,' and made divers attempts, hoping to force her by the multitude of their armed soldiers and musketeers; but were still repulsed again and again, and at all times beaten back into their own ship or into the sea. in the beginning of the fight the 'george noble,' of london, having received some shot through her by the armadas, fell under the lee of the 'revenge,' and asked sir richard what he would command him; but being one of the victuallers, and of small force, sir richard bade him save himself and leave him to his fortune. this last was a little touch of gallantry, which we should be glad to remember with the honour due to the brave english sailor who commanded the 'george noble;' but his name has passed away, and his action is an _in memoriam_, on which time has effaced the writing. all that august night the fight continued, the stars rolling over in their sad majesty, but unseen through the sulphurous clouds which hung over the scene. ship after ship of the spaniards came on upon the 'revenge,' 'so that never less than two mighty galleons were at her side and aboard her,' washing up like waves upon a rock, and falling foiled and shattered back amidst the roar of the artillery. before morning fifteen several armadas had assailed her, and all in vain; some had been sunk at her side; and the rest, 'so ill approving of their entertainment, that at break of day they were far more willing to hearken to a composition, than hastily to make more assaults or entries.' 'but as the day increased,' says raleigh, 'so our men decreased; and as the light grew more and more, by so much the more grew our discomfort, for none appeared in sight but enemies, save one small ship called the "pilgrim," commanded by jacob whiddon, who hovered all night to see the success, but in the morning, bearing with the "revenge," was hunted like a hare among many ravenous hounds--but escaped.' all the powder in the 'revenge' was now spent, all her pikes were broken, out of her men killed, and a great number of the rest wounded. sir richard, though badly hurt early in the battle, never forsook the deck till an hour before midnight; and was then shot through the body while his wounds were being dressed, and again in the head. his surgeon was killed while attending on him; the masts were lying over the side, the rigging cut or broken, the upper works all shot in pieces, and the ship herself, unable to move, was settling slowly in the sea; the vast fleet of spaniards lying round her in a ring, like dogs round a dying lion, and wary of approaching him in his last agony. sir richard, seeing that it was past hope, having fought for fifteen hours, and 'having by estimation eight hundred shot of great artillery through him,' 'commanded the master gunner, whom he knew to be a most resolute man, to split and sink the ship, that thereby nothing might remain of glory or victory to the spaniards; seeing in so many hours they were not able to take her, having had above fifteen hours' time, above ten thousand men, and fifty-three men-of-war to perform it withal; and persuaded the company, or as many as he could induce, to yield themselves unto god and to the mercy of none else; but as they had, like valiant resolute men, repulsed so many enemies, they should not now shorten the honour of their nation by prolonging their own lives for a few hours or a few days.' the gunner and a few others consented. but such [greek: daimoniê aretê] was more than could be expected of ordinary seamen. they had dared do all which did become men, and they were not more than men. two spanish ships had gone down, above , of their crew were killed, and the spanish admiral could not induce any one of the rest of his fleet to board the 'revenge' again, 'doubting lest sir richard would have blown up himself and them, knowing his dangerous disposition.' sir richard lying disabled below, the captain, 'finding the spaniards as ready to entertain a composition as they could be to offer it,' gained over the majority of the surviving company; and the remainder then drawing back from the master gunner, they all, without further consulting their dying commander, surrendered on honourable terms. if unequal to the english in action, the spaniards were at least as courteous in victory. it is due to them to say, that the conditions were faithfully observed; and 'the ship being marvellous unsavourie,' alonzo de bacon, the spanish admiral, sent his boat to bring sir richard on board his own vessel. sir richard, whose life was fast ebbing away, replied that 'he might do with his body what he list, for that he esteemed it not;' and as he was carried out of the ship he swooned, and reviving again, desired the company to pray for him. the admiral used him with all humanity, 'commending his valour and worthiness, being unto them a rare spectacle, and a resolution seldom approved.' the officers of the fleet, too, john higgins tells us, crowded round to look at him; and a new fight had almost broken out between the biscayans and the 'portugals,' each claiming the honour of having boarded the 'revenge.' in a few hours sir richard, feeling his end approaching, showed not any sign of faintness, but spake these words in spanish, and said, 'here die i, richard grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind, for that i have ended my life as a true soldier ought to do that hath fought for his country, queen, religion, and honour. whereby my soul most joyfully departeth out of this body, and shall always leave behind it an everlasting fame of a valiant and true soldier that hath done his duty as he was bound to do.' when he had finished these or other such like words, he gave up the ghost with great and stout courage, and no man could perceive any sign of heaviness in him. such was the fight at florez, in that august of , without its equal in such of the annals of mankind as the thing which we call history has preserved to us; scarcely equalled by the most glorious fate which the imagination of barrère could invent for the 'vengeur.' nor did the matter end without a sequel awful as itself. sea battles have been often followed by storms, and without a miracle; but with a miracle, as the spaniards and the english alike believed, or without one, as we moderns would prefer believing, 'there ensued on this action a tempest so terrible as was never seen or heard the like before.' a fleet of merchantmen joined the armada immediately after the battle, forming in all sail; and of these , only ever saw spanish harbour. the rest foundered, or were lost on the azores. the men-of-war had been so shattered by shot as to be unable to carry sail; and the 'revenge' herself, disdaining to survive her commander, or as if to complete his own last baffled purpose, like samson, buried herself and her prize crew under the rocks of st. michael's. and it may well be thought and presumed (says john huighen) that it was no other than a just plague purposely sent upon the spaniards; and that it might be truly said, the taking of the 'revenge' was justly revenged on them; and not by the might or force of man, but by the power of god. as some of them openly said in the isle of terceira, that they believed verily god would consume them, and that he took part with the lutherans and heretics ... saying further, that so soon as they had thrown the dead body of the vice-admiral sir richard grenville overboard, they verily thought that as he had a devilish faith and religion, and therefore the devil loved him, so he presently sunk into the bottom of the sea and down into hell, where he raised up all the devils to the revenge of his death, and that they brought so great a storm and torments upon the spaniards, because they only maintained the catholic and romish religion. such and the like blasphemies against god they ceased not openly to utter. footnotes: [u] _westminster review_, . [v] this essay was written years ago. [w] here is the old stanza. let whoever is disposed to think us too hard on captain bethune compare them:-- 'for wetharrington my harte was wo, that even he slayne sholde be; for when both his leggis were hewen in to, he knyled and fought on his knee.' even percy, who, on the whole, thinks well of the modern ballad, gives up this stanza as hopeless. homer.[x] troy fell before the greeks; and in its turn the war of troy is now falling before the critics. that ten years' death-struggle, in which the immortals did not disdain to mingle--those massive warriors, with their grandeur and their chivalry, have, 'like an unsubstantial pageant, faded' before the wand of these modern enchanters; and the iliad and the odyssey, and the other early legends, are discovered to be no more than the transparent myths of an old cosmogony, the arabesques and frescoes with which the imagination of the ionian poets set off and ornamented the palace of the heavens, the struggle of the earth with the seasons, and the labours of the sun through his twelve signs. nay, with homer himself it was likely at one time to have fared no better. his works, indeed, were indestructible, yet if they could not be destroyed, they might be disorganised; and with their instinctive hatred of facts, the critics fastened on the historical existence of the poet. the origin of the poems was distributed among the clouds of pre-historic imagination; and--instead of a single inspired homer for their author, we were required to believe in some extraordinary spontaneous generation, or in some collective genius of an age which ignorance had personified. but the person of a poet has been found more difficult of elimination than a mere fact of history. facts, it was once said, were stubborn things; but in our days we have changed all that; a fact, under the knife of a critic, splits in pieces, and is dissected out of belief with incredible readiness. the helpless thing lies under his hand like a foolish witness in a law court, when browbeaten by an unscrupulous advocate, and is turned about and twisted this way and that way, till in its distraction it contradicts itself, and bears witness against itself; and to escape from torture, at last flies utterly away, itself half doubting its own existence. but it requires more cunning weapons to destroy a homer; like his own immortals, he may be wounded, but he cannot have the life carved out of him by the prosaic strokes of common men. his poems have but to be disintegrated to unite again, so strong are they in the individuality of their genius. the singleness of their structure--the unity of design--the distinctness of drawing in the characters--the inimitable peculiarities of manner in each of them, seem to place beyond serious question, after the worst onslaught of the wolfian critics, that both iliad and odyssey, whether or not the work of the same mind, are at least each of them singly the work of one. let them leave us homer, however, and on the rank and file of facts they may do their worst; we can be indifferent to, or even thankful for, what slaughter they may make. in the legends of the theogonia, in that of zeus and cronus, for instance, there is evidently a metaphysical allegory; in the legends of persephone, or of the dioscuri, a physical one; in that of athene, a profoundly philosophical one; and fused as the entire system was in the intensely poetical conception of the early thinkers, it would be impossible, even if it were desirable, at this time of day, to disentangle the fibres of all these various elements. fact and theory, the natural and the supernatural, the legendary and the philosophical, shade off so imperceptibly one into the other, in the stories of the olympians, or of their first offspring, that we can never assure ourselves that we are on historic ground, or that, antecedent to the really historic age, there is any such ground to be found anywhere. the old notion, that the heroes were deified men, is no longer tenable. with but few exceptions, we can trace their names as the names of the old gods of the hellenic or pelasgian races; and if they appeared later in human forms, they descended from olympus to assume them. diomed was the oetolian sun-god; achilles was worshipped in thessaly long before he became the hero of the tale of troy. the tragedy of the house of atreus, and the bloody bath of agamemnon, as we are now told with appearance of certainty,[y] are humanised stories of the physical struggle of the opposing principles of life and death, light and darkness, night and day, winter and summer. and let them be so; we need not be sorry to believe that there is no substantial basis for these tales of crime. the history of mankind is not so pure but that we can afford to lose a few dark pages out of the record. let it be granted that of the times which homer sung historically we know nothing literal at all--not any names of any kings, of any ministers, wars, intrigues, revolutions, crimes. they are all gone--dead--passed away; their vacant chronicles may be silent as the tombs in which their bones are buried. of such stuff as that with which historians fill their pages there is no trace; it is a blank, vacant as the annals of the hottentot or of the red indian. yet when all is said, there remain still to us in homer's verse, materials richer, perhaps, than exist for any period of the ancient world, richer than even for the brilliant days of pericles, or of the cæsars, to construct a history of another kind--a history, a picture not of the times of which he sang, but of the men among whom he lived. how they acted; how they thought, talked, and felt; what they made of this earth, and of their place in it; their private life and their public life; men and women; masters and servants; rich and poor--we have it all delineated in the marvellous verse of a poet who, be he what he may, was in this respect the greatest which the earth has ever seen. in extent, the information is little enough; but in the same sense as it has been said that an hour at an athenian supper-party would teach us more grecian life and character than all aristophanes, homer's pictures of life and manners are so living, so distinct, so palpable, that a whole prose encyclopædia of disconnected facts could give us nothing like them. it is the marvellous property of verse--one, if we rightly consider it, which would excuse any superstition on the origin of language--that the metrical and rhythmic arrangement of syllable and sound is able to catch and express back to us, not the stories of actions, but the actions themselves, with all the feelings which inspire them; to call up human action, and all other outward things in which human hearts take interest--to produce them, or to reproduce them, with a distinctness which shall produce the same emotions which they would themselves produce when really existing. the thing itself is made present before us by an exercise of creative power as genuine as that of nature herself; which, perhaps, is but the same power manifesting itself at one time in words, at another in outward phenomena. whatever be the cause, the fact is so. poetry has this life-giving power, and prose has it not; and thus the poet is the truest historian. whatever is properly valuable in history the poet gives us--not events and names, but emotion, but action, but life. he is the heart of his age, and his verse expresses his age; and what matter is it by what name he describes his places or his persons? what matter is it what his own name was, while we have himself, and while we have the originals, from which he drew? the work and the life are all for which we need care, are all which can really interest us; the names are nothing. though phoeacia was a dream-land, or a symbol of the elysian fields, yet homer drew his material, his island, his palaces, his harbour, his gardens of perennial beauty, from those fair cities which lay along the shores of his own ionia; and like his blind demodocus, homer doubtless himself sung those very hymns which now delight us so, in the halls of many a princely alcinous. the prose historian may give us facts and names; he may catalogue the successions, and tell us long stories of battles, and of factions, and of political intrigues; he may draw characters for us, of the sort which figure commonly in such features of human affairs, men of the unheroic, unpoetic kind--the cleons, the sejanuses, the tiberiuses, a philip the second or a louis quatorze, in whom the noble element died out into selfishness and vulgarity. but great men--and all men properly so called (whatever is genuine and natural in them)--lie beyond prose, and can only be really represented by the poet. this is the reason why such men as alexander, or as cæsar, or as cromwell, so perplex us in histories, because they and their actions are beyond the scope of the art through which we have looked at them. we compare the man as the historian represents him, with the track of his path through the world. the work is the work of a giant; the man, stripped of the vulgar appendages with which the stunted imagination of his biographer may have set him off, is full of meannesses and littlenesses, and is scarcely greater than one of ourselves. prose, that is, has attempted something to which it is not equal. it describes a figure which it calls cæsar; but it is not cæsar, it is a monster. for the same reason, prose fictions, novels, and the like, are worthless for more than a momentary purpose. the life which they are able to represent is not worth representing. there is no person so poor in his own eyes as not to gaze with pleasure into a looking-glass; and the prose age may value its own image in the novel. but the value of all such representations is ephemeral. it is with the poet's art as with the sculptor's--sandstone will not carve like marble, its texture is too loose to retain a sharply moulded outline. the actions of men, if they are true, noble, and genuine, are strong enough to bear the form and bear the polish of verse; if loose or feeble, they crumble away into the softer undulations of prose. what the life was whose texture bore shaping into homer's verse, we intend to spend these pages in examining. it is, of course, properly to be sought for in the poems themselves. but we shall here be concerned mainly with features which in the original are rather secondary than prominent, and which have to be collected out of fragments, here a line, and there a line, out of little hints, let fall by homer as it were by accident. things too familiar to his own hearers to require dwelling on, to us, whose object is to make out just those very things which were familiar, are of special and singular value. it is not an enquiry which will much profit us, if we come to it with any grand notions of the 'progress of the species,' for in many ways it will discourage the belief in progress. we have fallen into ways of talking of the childhood and infancy of the race, as if no beards had grown on any face before the modern reformation; and even people who know what old athens was under pericles, look commonly on earlier greece as scarcely struggling out of its cradle. it would have fared so with all early history except for the bible. the old testament has operated partially to keep us in our modest senses, and we can see something grand about the patriarchs; but this is owing to exceptional causes, which do not apply to other literature; and in spite of our admiration of homer's poetry, we regard his age, and the contemporary periods in the other people of the earth, as a kind of childhood little better than barbarism. we look upon it, at all events, as too far removed in every essential of spirit or of form from our own, to enable us to feel for it any strong interest or sympathy. more or less, we have, every one of us, felt something of this kind. homer's men are, at first sight, unlike any men that we have ever seen; and it is not without a shock of surprise that, for the first time, we fall, in reading him, across some little trait of humanity which in form as well as spirit is really identical with our own experience. then, for the moment, all is changed with us--gleams of light flash out, in which the drapery becomes transparent, and we see the human form behind it, and that entire old world in the warm glow of flesh and blood. such is the effect of those few child scenes of his, which throw us back into our old familiar childhood. with all these years between us, there is no difference between their children and ours, and child would meet child without sense of strangeness in common games and common pleasures. the little ulysses climbing on the knees of his father's guest, coaxing for a taste of the red wine, and spilling it as he starts at the unusual taste; or that other most beautiful picture of him running at laertes's side in the garden at ithaca, the father teaching the boy the names of the fruit-trees, and making presents to him of this tree and of that tree for his very own, to help him to remember what they were called; the partition wall of three thousand years melts away as we look back at scenes like these; that broad, world-experienced man was once, then, such a little creature as we remember ourselves, and laertes a calm, kind father of the nineteenth century. then, as now, the children loved to sport upon the shore, and watch the inrolling waves;--then, as now, the boy-architect would pile the moist sand into mimic town or castle, and when the work was finished, sweep it away again in wanton humour with foot and hand;--then, as now, the little tired maiden would cling to her mother's skirt, and, trotting painfully along beside her, look up wistfully and plead with moist eyes to be carried in her arms. nay, and among the grown ones, where time has not changed the occupation, and the forms of culture have little room to vary, we meet again with very familiar faces. there is melantho, the not over-modest tittering waiting-maid--saucy to her mistress and the old housekeeper, and always running after the handsome young princes. unhappy melantho, true child of universal nature! grievous work we should make with most households, if all who resemble thee were treated to as rough a destiny. and there are other old friends whom it is pleasant enough to recognise at so long a distance. 'certain smooth-haired, sleek-faced fellows--insolent where their lords would permit them; inquisitive and pert, living but to eat and drink, and pilfering the good things, to convey them stealthily to their friends outside the castle wall.' the thing that hath been, that shall be again. when homer wrote, the type had settled into its long enduring form. 'such are they,' he adds, in his good-natured irony, 'as the valet race ever love to be.' with such evidence of identity among us all, it is worth while to look closer at the old greeks, to try to find in homer something beyond fine poetry, or exciting adventures, or battle-scenes, or material for scholarship; for awhile to set all that aside, and look in him for the story of real living men--set to pilgrimise in the old way on the same old earth--men such as we are, children of one family, with the same work to do, to live the best life they could, and to save their souls--with the same trials, the same passions, the same difficulties, if with weaker means of meeting them. and first for their religion. let those who like it, lend their labour to the unravelling the secrets of the mythologies. theogonies and theologies are not religion; they are but its historic dress and outward or formal expression, which, like a language, may be intelligible to those who see the inward meaning in the sign, but no more than confused sound to us who live in another atmosphere, and have no means of transferring ourselves into the sentiment of an earlier era. it is not in these forms of a day or of an age that we should look for the real belief--the real feelings of the heart; but in the natural expressions which burst out spontaneously--expressions of opinion on providence, on the relation of man to god, on the eternal laws by which this world is governed. perhaps we misuse the word in speaking of religion; we ought rather to speak of piety: piety is always simple; the emotion is too vast, too overpowering, whenever it is genuine, to be nice or fantastic in its form; and leaving philosophies and cosmogonies to shape themselves in myth and legend, it speaks itself out with a calm and humble clearness. we may trifle with our own discoveries, and hand them over to the fancy or the imagination for elaborate decoration. we may shroud over supposed mysteries under an enigmatic veil, and adapt the degrees of initiation to the capacities of our pupils; but before the vast facts of god and providence, the difference between man and man dwarfs into nothing. they are no discoveries of our own with which we can meddle, but revelations of the infinite, which, like the sunlight, shed themselves on all alike, wise and unwise, good and evil, and they claim and they permit no other acknowledgment from us than the simple obedience of our lives, and the plainest confession of our lips. such confessions, except in david's psalms, we shall not anywhere find more natural or unaffected than in homer--most definite, yet never elaborate--as far as may be from any complimenting of providence, yet expressing the most unquestioning conviction. we shall not often remember them when we set about religion as a business; but when the occasions of life stir the feelings in us on which religion itself reposes, if we were as familiar with the iliad as with the psalms, the words of the old ionian singer would leap as naturally to our lips as those of the israelite king. zeus is not always the questionable son of cronus, nor the gods always the mythologic olympians. generally, it is true, they appear as a larger order of subject beings--beings like men, and subject to a higher control--in a position closely resembling that of milton's angels, and liable like them to passion and to error. but at times, the father of gods and men is the infinite and eternal ruler--the living providence of the world--and the lesser gods are the immortal administrators of his divine will throughout the lower creation. for ever at the head of the universe there is an awful spiritual power; when zeus appears with a distinct and positive personality, he is himself subordinate to an authority which elsewhere is one with himself. wherever either he or the other gods are made susceptible of emotion, the invisible is beyond and above them. when zeus is the personal father of sarpedon, and his private love conflicts with the law of the eternal order, though he has power to set aside the law, he dares not break it; but in the midst of his immortality, and on his own awful throne, he weeps tears of blood in ineffectual sorrow for his dying child. and again, there is a power supreme both over zeus and over poseidon, of which iris reminds the latter, when she is sent to rebuke him for his disobedience to his brother. it is a law, she says, that the younger shall obey the elder, and the erinnys will revenge its breach even on a god. but descending from the more difficult pantheon among mankind, the divine law of justice is conceived as clearly as we in this day can conceive it. the supreme power is the same immortal lover of justice and the same hater of iniquity; and justice means what we mean by justice, and iniquity what we mean by iniquity. there is no diffidence, no scepticism on this matter; the moral law is as sure as day and night, summer and winter. thus in the sixteenth iliad-- 'when in the market-place men deal unjustly, and the rulers decree crooked judgment, not regarding the fear of god,' god sends the storm, and the earthquake, and the tempest, as the executors of his vengeance. again, ulysses says-- 'god looks upon the children of men, and punishes the wrong-doer.' and eumæus-- 'the gods love not violence and wrong; but the man whose ways are righteous, him they honour.' even when as mere olympians they put off their celestial nature, and mix in earthly strife, and are thus laid open to earthly suffering, a mystery still hangs about them; diomed, even while he crosses the path of ares, feels all the while 'that they are short-lived who contend with the immortals.' ajax boasts that he will save himself in spite of heaven, and immediately the wave dashes him upon the rocks. one light word escaped ulysses in the excitement of his escape from the cyclops, which nine years of suffering hardly expiated. the same spirit which teaches christians that those who have no earthly friend have specially a friend above to care for and to avenge them, taught the ionians a proverb which appears again and again in homer, that the stranger and the poor man are the patrimony of god; and it taught them, also, that sometimes men entertained the immortals unawares. it was a faith, too, which was more than words with them; for we hear of no vagrant acts or alien acts, and it was sacrilege to turn away from the gate whoever asked its hospitality. times are changed. the world was not so crowded as it is now, and perhaps rogues were less abundant; but at any rate those antique greeks did what they said. we say what they said, while in the same breath we say, too, that it is impossible to do it. in every way, the dependence of man on a special heavenly providence was a matter of sure and certain conviction with them. telemachus appeals to the belief in the council at ithaca. he questions it at pylos, and is at once rebuked by athene. both in iliad and odyssey to live justly is the steady service which the gods require, and their favour as surely follows when that service is paid, as a nemesis sooner or later follows surely, too, on the evil-doers. but without multiplying evidence, as we easily might, from every part of both iliad and odyssey, the sceptical and the believing forms of thought and feeling on this very subject are made points of dramatic contrast, to show off the opposition of two separate characters; and this is clear proof that such thoughts and feelings must have been familiar to homer's hearers: if it were not so, his characters would have been without interest to his age--they would have been individual, and not universal; and no expenditure of intellect, or passion, would have made men care to listen to him. the two persons who throughout the iliad stand out in relief in contrast to each other are, of course, hector and achilles; and faith in god (as distinct from a mere recognition of him) is as directly the characteristic of hector as in achilles it is entirely absent. both characters are heroic, but the heroism in them springs from opposite sources. both are heroic, because both are strong; but the strength of one is in himself, and the strength of the other is in his faith. hector is a patriot; achilles does not know what patriotism means;--hector is full of tenderness and human affection; achilles is self-enveloped. even his love for patroclus is not pure, for patroclus is as the moon to the sun of achilles, and achilles sees his own glory reflected on his friend. they have both a forecast of their fate; but hector, in his great brave way, scoffs at omens; he knows that there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow, and defies augury. to do his duty is the only omen for which hector cares; and if death must be, he can welcome it like a gallant man, if it find him fighting for his country. achilles is moody, speculative, and subjective; he is too proud to attempt an ineffectual resistance to what he knows to be inevitable, but he alternately murmurs at it and scorns it. till his passion is stirred by his friend's death, he seems equally to disdain the greatness of life and the littleness of it; the glories of a hero are not worth dying for; and like solomon, and almost in solomon's words, he complains that there is one event to all-- [greek: en de iê timê ê men kakos êe kai esthlos.] to gratify his own spleen, he will accept an inglorious age in thessaly, in exchange for a hero's immortality; as again in the end it is but to gratify his own wounded pride that he goes out to brave a fate which he scorns while he knows that it will subdue him. thus, achilles is the hero of the stern human, self-sufficing spirit, which does not deny or question destiny, but seeing nothing in it except a cold, iron law, meets force with force, and holds up against it an unbroken, unbending will. human nature is at its best but a miserable business to him; death and sorrow are its inevitable lot. as a brave man, he will not fear such things, but he will not pretend to regard them as anything but detestable; and he comforts the old, weeping king of troy, whose age he was himself bringing down to the grave in sorrow, with philosophic meditations on the vanity of all things, and a picture of zeus mixing the elements of life out of the two urns of good and evil. turn to hector, and we turn from shadow into sunlight. achilles is all self, hector all self-forgetfulness; achilles all pride, hector all modesty. the confidence of achilles is in himself and in his own arm; hector knows (and the strongest expressions of the kind in all the iliad are placed pointedly in hector's mouth) that there is no strength except from above. 'god's will,' he says, 'is over all; he makes the strong man to fear, and gives the victory to the weak, if it shall please him.' and at last, when he meets achilles, he answers his bitter words, not with a defiance, but calmly saying, 'i know that thou art mighty, and that my strength is far less than thine; but these things lie in the will of the gods, and i, though weaker far than thou, may yet take thy life from thee, if the immortals choose to have it so.' so far, then, on the general fact of divine providence, the feeling of homer, and therefore of his countrymen, is distinct. both the great poems bearing his name speak in the same language. but beyond the general fact, many questions rise in the application of the creed, and on one of these (it is among several remarkable differences which seem to mark the odyssey as of a later age) there is a very singular discrepancy. in the iliad, the life of man on this side the grave is enough for the completion of his destiny--for his reward, if he lives nobly; for his punishment, if he be base or wicked. without repinings or scepticisms at the apparent successes of bad men, the poet is contented with what he finds, accepting cheerfully the facts of life as they are; it never seems to occur to him as seriously possible that a bad man could succeed or a good one fail; and as the ways of providence, therefore, require no vindicating, neither his imagination nor his curiosity tempts him into penetrating the future. the house of hades is the long home to which men go when dismissed out of their bodies; but it is a dim, shadowy place, of which we see nothing, and concerning which no conjectures are ventured. achilles, in his passion over patroclus, cries out, that although the dead forget the dead in the halls of the departed, yet that he will remember his friend; and through the iliad there is nothing clearer than these vague words to show with what hopes or fears the poet looked forward to death. so far, therefore, his faith may seem imperfect; yet, perhaps, not the less noble because imperfect; religious men in general are too well contented with the promise of a future life, as of a scene where the seeming shortcomings of the divine administration will be carried out with larger equity. but whether imperfect or not, or whatever be the account of the omission, the theory of hades in the odyssey is developed into far greater distinctness; the future is still, indeed, shadowy, but it is no longer uncertain; there is the dreadful prison-house, with the judge upon his throne--and the darker criminals are overtaken by the vengeance which was delayed in life. the thin phantoms of the great ones of the past flit to and fro, mourning wearily for their lost mortality, and feeding on its memory. and more than this, as if it were beginning to be felt that something more was wanted after all to satisfy us with the completeness of the divine rule, we have a glimpse--it is but one, but it is like a ray of sunshine falling in upon the darkness of the grave--'of the far-off elysian fields where dwells rhadamanthus with the golden hair, where life is ever sweet, and sorrow is not, nor winter, nor any rain or storm, and the never-dying zephyrs blow soft and cool from off the ocean.' however vague the filling up of such a picture, the outline is correct to the best which has been revealed even in christianity, and it speaks nobly for the people among whom, even in germ, such ideas could root themselves. but think what we will of their notions of the future, the old greek faith, considered as a practical and not a theological system, is truly admirable, clear, rational, and moral; if it does not profess to deal with the mysteries of evil in the heart, it is prompt and stern with them in their darker outward manifestations, and, as far as it goes, as a guide in the common daily business of life, it scarcely leaves anything unsaid. how far it went we shall see in the details of the life itself, the most important of which in the eyes of a modern will be the social organisation; and when he looks for organisation, he will be at once at a loss, for he will find the fact of government yet without defined form;--he will find law, but without a public sword to enforce it; and a 'social machine' moving without friction under the easy control of opinion. there are no wars of classes, no politics, no opposition of interests, a sacred feeling of the will of the gods keeping every one in his proper subordination. it was a sacred duty that the younger should obey the elder, that the servant should obey his master, that property should be respected; in war, that the leader should be obeyed without questioning; in peace, that public questions should be brought before the assembly of the people, and settled quietly as the council determined. in this assembly the prince presided, and beyond this presidency his authority at home does not seem to have extended. of course there was no millennium in ionia, and men's passions were pretty much what they are now. without any organised means of repressing crime when it did appear, the people were exposed to, and often suffered under, extreme forms of violence--violence such as that of the suitors at ithaca, or of Ægisthus at argos. on the other hand, what a state of cultivation it implies, what peace and comfort in all classes, when society could hold together for a day with no more complete defence. and, moreover, there are disadvantages in elaborate police systems. self-reliance is one of the highest virtues in which this world is intended to discipline us; and to depend upon ourselves even for our own personal safety is a large element in moral training. but not to dwell on this, and to pass to the way in which the men of those days employed themselves. our first boy's feeling with the iliad is, that homer is pre-eminently a poet of war; that battles were his own passion, and tales of battles the delight of his listeners. his heroes appear like a great fighting aristocracy, such as the after spartans were, homer himself like another tyrtæus, and the poorer occupations of life too menial for their notice or for his. they seem to live for glory--the one glory worth caring for only to be won upon the battle-field, and their exploits the one worthy theme of the poet's song. this is our boyish impression, and, like other such, it is very different from the truth. if war had been a passion with the ionians, as it was with the teutons and the norsemen, the god of battles would have been supreme in the pantheon; and zeus would scarcely have called ares the most hateful spirit in olympus--most hateful, _because_ of his delight in war and carnage. mr. carlyle looks forward to a chivalry of labour. he rather wishes than expects that a time may come when the campaign of industry against anarchic nature may gather into it those feelings of gallantry and nobleness which have found their vent hitherto in fighting only. the modern man's work, mr. carlyle says, is no longer to splinter lances or break down walls, but to break soil, to build barns and factories, and to find a high employment for himself in what hitherto has been despised as degrading. how to elevate labour--how to make it beautiful--how to enlist the _spirit_ in it (for in no other way can it be made humanly profitable), that is the problem which he looks wistfully to the future to solve for us. he may look to the past as well as to the future; in the old ionia he will find all for which he wishes. the wise ulysses built his own house, and carved his own bed. princes killed and cooked their own food. it was a holy work with them--their way of saying grace for it; for they offered the animal in his death to the gods, and they were not butchers, but sacrificing priests. even a keeper of swine is called noble, and fights like a hero; and the young princess of phoeacia--the loveliest and gracefullest of homer's women--drove the clothes-cart and washed linen with her own beautiful hands. not only was labour free--for so it was among the early romans; or honourable, so it was among the israelites,--but it was beautiful--beautiful in the artist's sense, as perhaps elsewhere it has never been. in later greece--in what we call the glorious period--toil had gathered about it its modern crust of supposed baseness--it was left to slaves; and wise men, in their philosophic lecture-rooms, spoke of it as unworthy of the higher specimens of cultivated humanity. but homer finds, in its most homely forms, fit illustrations for the most glorious achievements of his heroes; and in every page we find, in simile or metaphor some common scene of daily life worked out with elaborate beauty. what the popular poet chooses for his illustrations are as good a measure as we can have of the popular feeling, and the images which he suggests are, of course, what he knows his hearers will be pleased to dwell upon. there is much to be said about this, and we shall return to it presently; in the meantime, we must not build on indirect evidence. the designs on the shield of achilles are, together, a complete picture of homer's microcosm; homer surely never thought inglorious or ignoble what the immortal art of hephaistos condescended to imitate. the first groups of figures point a contrast which is obviously intentional; and the significance becomes sadly earnest when we remember who it was that was to bear the shield. the moral is a very modern one, and the picture might be called by the modern name of peace and war. there are two cities, embodying in their condition the two ideas. in one, a happy wedding is going forward; the pomp of the hymeneal procession is passing along the streets; the air is full of music, and the women are standing at their doors to gaze. the other is in the terrors of a siege; the hostile armies glitter under the walls, the women and children press into the defence, and crowd to the battlements. in the first city, a quarrel rises, and wrong is made right, not by violence and fresh wrong, but by the majesty of law and order. the heads of the families are sitting gravely in the market-place, the cause is heard, the compensation set, the claim awarded. under the walls of the other city an ambush lies, like a wild beast on the watch for its prey. the unsuspecting herdsmen pass on with their flocks to the waterside; the spoilers spring from their hiding-place, and all is strife, and death, and horror, and confusion. if there were other war-scenes on the shield, it might be doubted whether homer intended so strong a contrast as he executed; but fighting for its own sake was evidently held in slight respect with him. the forms of life which were really beautiful to him follow in a series of exquisite rubens-like pictures: harvest scenes and village festivals; the ploughing and the vintage, or the lion-hunt on the reedy margin of the river; and he describes them with a serene, sunny enjoyment which no other old world art or poetry gives us anything in the least resembling. even we ourselves, in our own pastorals, are struggling with but half success, after what homer entirely possessed. what a majesty he has thrown into his harvest scene! the yellow corn falling, the boys following to gather up the large arms-full as they drop behind the reapers; in the distance a banquet preparing under the trees; in the centre, in the midst of his workmen, the king sitting in mellow silence, sceptre in hand, looking on with gladdened heart. again we see the ploughmen, unlike what are to be seen in our corn-grounds, turning their teams at the end of the furrow, and attendants standing ready with the wine-cup, to hand to them as they pass. homer had seen these things, or he would not have sung of them; and princes and nobles might have shared such labour without shame, when kings took part in it, and gods designed it, and the divine achilles bore its image among his insignia in the field. analogous to this, and as part of the same feeling, is that intense enjoyment of natural scenery, so keen in homer, and of which the athenian poets show not a trace; as, for instance, in that night landscape by the sea, finished off in a few lines only, but so exquisitely perfect! the broad moon, gleaming through the mist as it parts suddenly from off the sky; the crags and headlands, and soft wooded slopes, shining out in the silver light, and earth and sea transformed into fairy land. we spoke of homer's similes as illustrative of the ionic feelings about war. war, of course, was glorious to him--but war in a glorious cause. wars there were--wars in plenty, as there have been since, and as it is like there will be for some time to come; and a just war, of all human employments, is the one which most calls out whatever nobleness there is in man. it was the thing itself, the actual fighting and killing, as apart from the heroism for which it makes opportunities, for which we said that he showed no taste. his manner shows that he felt like a cultivated man, and not like a savage. his spirit stirs in him as he goes out with his hero to the battle; but there is no drunken delight in blood; we never hear of warriors as in that grim hall of the nibelungen, quenching their thirst in the red stream; never anything of that fierce exultation in carnage with which the war poetry of so many nations, late and old, is crimsoned. everything, on the contrary, is contrived so as to soften the merely horrible, and fix our interest only on what is grand or beautiful. we are never left to dwell long together on scenes of death, and when the battle is at its fiercest, our minds are called off by the rapid introduction (either by simile or some softer turn of human feeling) of other associations, not contrived, as an inferior artist would contrive, to deepen our emotions, but to soften and relieve them. two warriors meet, and exchange their high words of defiance; we hear the grinding of the spear-head, as it pierces shield and breast-plate, and the crash of the armour, as this or that hero falls. but at once, instead of being left at his side to see him bleed, we are summoned away to the soft water meadow, the lazy river, the tall poplar, now waving its branches against the sky, now lying its length along in the grass beside the water, and the woodcutter with peaceful industry labouring and lopping at it. in the thick of the universal mêlée, when the stones and arrows are raining on the combatants, and some furious hailstorm is the slightest illustration with which we should expect him to heighten the effect of the human tempest, so sure homer is that he has painted the thing itself in its own intense reality, that his simile is the stillest phenomenon in all nature--a stillness of activity, infinitely expressive of the density of the shower of missiles, yet falling like oil on water on the ruffled picture of the battle; the snow descending in the _still_ air, covering first hills, then plains and fields and farmsteads; covering the rocks down to the very water's edge, and clogging the waves as they roll in. again, in that fearful death-wrestle at the grecian wall, when gates and battlements are sprinkled over with blood, and neither greeks nor trojans can force their way against the other, we have, first, as an image of the fight itself, two men in the field, with measuring rods, disputing over a land boundary; and for the equipoise of the two armies, the softest of all home scenes, a poor working woman weighing out her wool before weaving it, to earn a scanty subsistence for herself and for her children. of course the similes are not all of this kind; it would be monotonous if they were; but they occur often enough to mark their meaning. in the direct narrative, too, we see the same tendency. sarpedon struck through the thigh is borne off the field, the long spear trailing from the wound, and there is too much haste to draw it out. hector flies past him and has no time to speak; all is dust, hurry, and confusion. even homer can only pause for a moment, but in three lines he lays the wounded hero under a tree, he brings a dear friend to his side, and we refresh ourselves in a beautiful scene, when the lance is taken out, and sarpedon faints, and comes slowly back to life, with the cool air fanning him. we may look in vain through the nibelungen lied for anything like this. the swabian poet can be tender before the battle, but in the battle itself his barbaric nature is too strong for him, and he scents nothing but blood. in the iliad, on the contrary, the very battles of the gods, grand and awful as they are, relieve rather than increase the human horror. in the magnificent scene, where achilles, weary with slaughter, pauses on the bank of the scamander, and the angry river god, whose course is checked by the bodies of the slain, swells up to revenge them and destroy him, the natural and the supernatural are so strangely blended, that when poseidon lights the forest, and god meets god and element meets element, the convulsion is too tremendous to enhance the fierceness of achilles; it concentrates the interest on itself, and achilles and hector, flying trojan and pursuing greek, for the time melt out and are forgotten. we do not forget that there is nothing of this kind, no relief, no softening, in the great scene at the conclusion of the odyssey. all is stern enough and terrible enough there; more terrible, if possible, because more distinct, than its modern counterpart in criemhildas hall. but there is an obvious reason for this, and it does not make against what we have been saying. it is not delight in slaughter, but it is the stern justice of revenge which we have here; not, as in the iliad, hero meeting hero, but the long crime receiving at last its divine punishment; the breaking of the one storm, which from the beginning has been slowly and awfully gathering. with homer's treatment of a battle-field, and as illustrating the conclusion which we argue from it, we are tempted to draw parallels from two modern poets--one a german, who was taken away in the morning of his life; the other, the most gifted of modern englishmen. each of these two has attempted the same subject, and the treatment in each case embodies, in a similar manner, modern ways of thinking about it. the first is from the 'albigenses' of young lenau, who has since died lunatic, we have heard, as he was not unlikely to have died with such thoughts in him. it is the eve of one of those terrible struggles at toulouse, and the poet's imagination is hanging at moon-rise over the scene. 'the low broad field scattered over thick with corpses, all silent, dead,--the last sob spent,'--the priest's thanksgiving for the catholic victory having died into an echo, and only the 'vultures crying their te deum laudamus.' hat gott der herr den körperstoff erschaffen, hat ihn hervorgebracht ein böser geist, darüber stritten sie mit allen waffen und werden von den vögeln nun gespeist, die, ohne ihren ursprung nachzufragen, die körper da sich lassen wohl behagen. 'was it god the lord who formed the substance of their bodies? or did some evil spirit bring it forth? it was for this with all their might they fought, and now they are devoured there by the wild birds, who sit gorging merrily over their carrion, _without asking from whence it came_.' in homer, as we saw, the true hero is master over death--death has no terror for him. he meets it, if it is to be, calmly and proudly, and then it is over; whatever offensive may follow after it, is concealed, or at least passed lightly over. here, on the contrary, everything most offensive is dwelt upon with an agonising intensity, and the triumph of death is made to extend, not over the body only, but over the soul, whose heroism it turns to mockery. the cause in which a man dies, is what can make his death beautiful; but here nature herself, in her stern, awful way, is reading her sentence over the cause itself as a wild and frantic dream. we ought to be revolted--doubly revolted, one would think, and yet we are not so; instead of being revolted, we are affected with a sense of vast, sad magnificence. why is this? because we lose sight of the scene, or lose the sense of its horror, in the tragedy of the spirit. it is the true modern tragedy; the note which sounds through shakespeare's 'sonnets,' through 'hamlet,' through 'faust;' all the deeper trials of the modern heart might be gathered out of those few lines; the sense of wasted nobleness--nobleness spending its energies upon what time seems to be pronouncing no better than a dream--at any rate, misgivings, sceptic and distracting; yet the heart the while, in spite of the uncertainty of the issue, remaining true at least to itself. if the spirit of the albigensian warriors had really broken down, or if the poet had pointed his lesson so as to say, truth is a lie; faith is folly; eat, drink, and die,--then his picture would have been revolting; but the noble spirit remains, though it is borne down and trifled with by destiny, and therefore it is not revolting, but tragic. far different from this--as far inferior in tone to lenau's lines, as it exceeds them in beauty of workmanship--is the well-known picture of the scene under the wall in the siege of corinth:-- he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall hold o'er the dead their carnival; gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb; they were too busy to bark at him! from a tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, as ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh; and their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, as it slipp'd through their jaws when their edge grew dull, as they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, when they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed; so well had they broken a lingering fast with those who had fallen for that night's repast. and alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, the foremost of these were the best of his band: . . . . . . . . . the scalps were in the wild dog's maw, the hair was tangled round his jaw. close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, there sate a vulture flapping a wolf, who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, scared by the dogs, from the human prey; but he seized on his share of a steed that lay, pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. for a parallel to the horribleness of this wonderfully painted scene we need not go to the nibelungen, for we shall find nothing like it there: we must go back to the carved slabs which adorned the banquet halls of the assyrian kings, where the foul birds hover over the stricken fields, and trail from their talons the entrails of the slain. and for what purpose does byron introduce these frightful images? was it in contrast to the exquisite moonlight scene which tempts the renegade out of his tent? was it to bring his mind into a fit condition to be worked upon by the vision of francesca? it does but mar and untune the softening influences of nature, which might have been rendered more powerful, perhaps, by some slight touch to remind him of his past day's work, but are blotted out and paralysed by such a mass of horrors. to go back to homer. we must omit for the present any notice of the domestic pictures, of which there are so many, in the palaces of ulysses, of nestor, or of alcinous; of the games, so manly, yet, in point of refinement, so superior even to those of our own middle ages; of the supreme good of life as the greeks conceived it, and of the arts by which they endeavoured to realise that good. it is useless to notice such things briefly, and the detail would expand into a volume. but the impression which we gather from them is the same which we have gathered all along--that if the proper aim of all human culture be to combine, in the highest measure in which they are compatible, the two elements of refinement and of manliness, then homer's age was cultivated to a degree the like of which the earth has not witnessed since. there was more refinement under pericles, as there is more in modern london and paris; but there was, and there is, infinitely more vice. there was more fierceness (greater manliness there never was) in the times of feudalism. but take it for all in all, and in a mere human sense, apart from any other aspect of the world which is involved in christianity, it is difficult to point to a time when life in general was happier, and the character of man set in a more noble form. if we have drawn the picture with too little shadow, let it be allowed for. the shadow was there, doubtless, though we see it only in a few dark spots. the margites would have supplied the rest, but the margites, unhappily for us, is lost. even heroes have their littlenesses, and comedy is truer to the details of littleness than tragedy or epic. the grand is always more or less ideal, and the elevation of a moment is sublimed into the spirit of a life. comedy, therefore, is essential for the representing of men; and there were times, doubtless, when the complexion of agamemnon's greatness was discoloured, like prince henry's, by remembering, when he was weary, that poor creature--small beer--_i.e._ if the greeks had got any. a more serious discoloration, however, we are obliged to say that we find in homer himself, in the soil or taint which even he is obliged to cast over the position of women. in the iliad, where there is no sign of male slavery, women had already fallen under the chain, and though there does not seem to have been any practice of polygamy, the female prisoners fell, as a matter of course, into a more degraded position. it is painful, too, to observe that their own feelings followed the practice of the times, and that they composed themselves to bear without reluctance whatever their destiny forced upon them. when priam ventured into the grecian camp for hector's body, and stood under the roof of achilles, he endured to do what, as he says, no mortal father had ever yet endured--to give his hand to his son's destroyer. briseis, whose bed was made desolate by the hand of the same achilles, finds it her one greatest consolation, that the conqueror stoops to choose her to share his own. and when hector in his last sad parting scene anticipates a like fate for his own andromache, it is not with the revolted agony of horror with which such a possible future would be regarded by a modern husband; nor does andromache, however bitterly she feels the danger, protest, as a modern wife would do, that there was no fear for her--that death by sorrow's hand, or by her own, would preserve her to rejoin him. nor, again, was unfaithfulness, of however long duration, conclusively fatal against a wife; for we meet helen, after a twenty years' elopement, again the quiet, hospitable mistress in the spartan palace, entertaining her husband's guests with an easy matronly dignity, and not afraid even in menelaus's presence to allude to the past--in strong terms of self-reproach, indeed, but with nothing like despairing prostration. making the worst of this, however, yet even in this respect the homeric greeks were better than their contemporaries in palestine; and on the whole there was, perhaps, no time anterior to christianity when women held a higher place, or the relation between wife and husband was of a more free and honourable kind. for we have given but one side of the picture. when a woman can be the theme of a poet, her nature cannot be held in slight esteem; and there is no doubt that penelope is homer's heroine in the odyssey. one design, at least, which homer had before him was to vindicate the character of the virtuous matron against the stain which clytemnestra had inflicted on it. clytemnestra has every advantage, penelope every difficulty: the trial of the former lasted only half as long as that of the latter. agamemnon in leaving her gave herself and his house in charge to a divine [greek: aoidos], a heaven-inspired prophet, who should stand between her and temptation, and whom she had to murder before her passion could have its way. penelope had to bear up alone for twenty weary years, without a friend, without a counsellor, and with even a child whose constancy was wavering. it is obvious that homer designed this contrast. the story of the argos tragedy is told again and again. the shade of agamemnon himself forebodes a fate like his own to ulysses. it is ulysses's first thought when he wakes from his sleep to find himself in his own land; and the scene in hades, in the last book, seems only introduced that the husband of clytemnestra may meet the shades of the ithacan suitors, and learn, in their own tale of the sad issue of their wooing, how far otherwise it had fared with ulysses than with himself. women, therefore, according to homer, were as capable of heroic virtue as men were, and the ideal of this heroism is one to which we have scarcely added. for the rest, there is no trace of any oriental seraglio system. the sexes lived together in easy unaffected intercourse. the ladies appeared in society naturally and gracefully, and their chief occupations were household matters, care of clothes and linen, and other domestic arrangements. when a guest came, they prepared his dressing-room, settled the bath, and arranged the convenience of his toilet-table. in their leisure hours, they were to be found, as now, in the hall or the saloon, and their work-table contained pretty much the same materials. helen was winding worsted as she entertained telemachus, and andromache worked roses in very modern cross-stitch. a literalist like mr. mackay, who finds out that the israelites were cannibals, from such expressions as 'drinking the blood of the slain,' might discover, perhaps, a similar unpleasant propensity in an excited wish of hecuba, that she might eat the heart of achilles; but in the absence of other evidence, it is unwise in either case to press a metaphor; and the food of ladies, wherever homer lets us see it, is very innocent cake and wine, with such fruits as were in season. to judge by nausicaa, their breeding must have been exquisite. nausicaa standing still, when the uncouth figure of ulysses emerged from under the wood, all sea slime and nakedness, and only covered with a girdle of leaves--standing still to meet him when the other girls ran away tittering and terrified, is the perfect conception of true female modesty; and in the whole scene between them, homer shows the most finished understanding of the delicate and tremulous relations which occur occasionally in the accidents of intercourse between highly cultivated men and women, and which he could only have learnt by living in a society where men and women met and felt in the way which he has described. who, then, was homer? what was he? when did he live? history has absolutely nothing to answer. his poems were not written; for the art of writing (at any rate for a poet's purpose) was unknown to him. there is a vague tradition that the iliad, and the odyssey, and a comic poem called the margites, were composed by an ionian whose name was homer, about four hundred years before herodotus, or in the ninth century b.c. we know certainly that these poems were preserved by the rhapsodists, or popular reciters, who repeated them at private parties or festivals, until writing came into use, and they were fixed in a less precarious form. a later story was current, that we owe the collection to pisistratus; but an exclusive claim for him was probably only athenian conceit. it is incredible that men of genius in homer's own land--alcæus, for instance--should have left such a work to be done by a foreigner. but this is really all which is known; and the creation of the poems lies in impenetrable mystery. nothing remains to guide us, therefore, except internal evidence (strangely enough, it is the same with shakespeare), and it has led to wild conclusions: yet the wildest is not without its use; it has commonly something to rest upon; and internal evidence is only really valuable when outward testimony has been sifted to the uttermost. the present opinion seems to be, that each poem is unquestionably the work of one man; but whether both poems are the work of the same is yet _sub judice_. the greeks believed they were; and that is much. there are remarkable points of resemblance in style, yet not greater than the resemblances in the 'two noble kinsmen' and in the 'yorkshire tragedy' to 'macbeth' and 'hamlet;' and there are more remarkable points of non-resemblance, which deepen upon us the more we read. on the other hand, tradition is absolute. if the style of the odyssey is sometimes unlike the iliad, so is one part of the iliad sometimes unlike another. it is hard to conceive a genius equal to the creation of either iliad or odyssey to have existed without leaving at least a legend of his name; and the difficulty of criticising style accurately in an old language will be appreciated by those who have tried their hand in their own language with the disputed plays of shakespeare. there are heavy difficulties every way; and we shall best conclude our own subject by noting down briefly the most striking points of variation of which as yet no explanation has been attempted. we have already noticed several: the non-appearance of male slavery in the iliad which is common in the odyssey; the notion of a future state; and perhaps a fuller cultivation in the female character. andromache is as delicate as nausicaa, but she is not as grand as penelope; and in marked contrast to the feeling expressed by briseis, is the passage where the grief of ulysses over the song of demodocus is compared to the grief of a young wife flinging herself on the yet warm body of her husband, and looking forward to her impending slavery with feelings of horror and repulsion. but these are among the slightest points in which the two poems are dissimilar. not only are there slaves in the odyssey, but there are [greek: thêtes], or serfs, an order with which we are familiar in later times, but which again are not in the iliad. in the odyssey the trojans are called [greek: epibêtores hippôn], which must mean _riders_. in the iliad, horses are never ridden; they are always in harness. wherever in the odyssey the trojan war is alluded to (and it is very often), in no one case is the allusion to anything which is mentioned in the iliad. we hear of the wooden horse, the taking of troy, the death of achilles, the contention of ulysses with ajax for his arms. it might be said that the poet wished to supply afterwards indirectly what he had left in the iliad untold; but again, this is impossible, for a very curious reason. the iliad opens with the wrath of achilles, which caused such bitter woe to the achaians. in the odyssey it is still the wrath of achilles; but singularly _not with agamemnon, but with ulysses_. ulysses to the author of the odyssey was a far grander person at _troy_ than he appears in the iliad. in the latter poem he is great, but far from one of the greatest; in the other, he is evidently the next to achilles; and it seems almost certain that whoever wrote the odyssey was working from some other legend of the war. there were a thousand versions of it. the tale of ilium was set to every lyre in greece, and the relative position of the heroes was doubtless changed according to the sympathies or the patriotism of the singer. the character of ulysses is much stronger in the odyssey; and even when the same qualities are attributed to him--his soft-flowing tongue, his cunning, and his eloquence--they are held in very different estimation. the homer of the iliad has little liking for a talker. thersites is his pattern specimen of such; and it is the current scoff at unready warriors to praise their father's courage, and then to add-- [greek: alla ton huion geinato heio cherêa machê, agorê de t' ameinô.] but the phoeacian lord who ventured to reflect, in the iliad style, on the supposed unreadiness of ulysses, is taught a different notion of human excellence. ulysses tells him that he is a fool. 'the gods,' ulysses says, 'do not give all good things to all men, and often a man is made unfair to look upon, but over his ill favour they fling, like a garland, a power of lovely speech, and the people delight to _look_ on him. he speaks with modest dignity, and he shines among the multitude. as he walks through the city, men gaze on him as on a god.' differences like these, however, are far from decisive. the very slightest external evidence would weigh them all down together. perhaps the following may be of more importance:-- in both poems there are 'questionings of destiny,' as the modern phrase goes. the thing which we call human life is looked in the face--this little chequered island of lights and shadows, in the middle of an ocean of darkness; and in each we see the sort of answer which the poet finds for himself, and which might be summed up briefly in the last words of ecclesiastes, 'fear god, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.' but the world bears a different aspect, and the answer looks different in its application. in the iliad, in spite of the gloom of achilles, and his complaint of the double urn, the sense of life, on the whole, is sunny and cheerful. there is no yearning for anything beyond--nothing vague, nothing mystical. the earth, the men, the gods, have all a palpable reality about them. from first to last, we know where we are, and what we are about. in the odyssey we are breathing another atmosphere. the speculations on the moral mysteries of our being hang like a mist over us from the beginning to the end; and the cloud from time to time descends on the actors, and envelopes them with a preternatural halo. the poet evidently dislikes the expression of 'suffering being the lot of mortals,' as if it had been abused already for ungodly purposes. in the opening of the first book, zeus reproves the folly of mortal men for casting the blame upon the gods, when they themselves, in spite of all the gods can do to save them, persist in their own perverseness; and we never know as we go on, so fast we pass from one to the other, when we are among mere human beings, and when among the spiritual or the mystical. those sea-nymphs, those cannibals, those enchantresses, if intended to be real, are neither mortal nor divine--at any rate, like nothing divine which we had seen in olympus, or on the plains of ilium; and at times there is a strangeness even in the hero himself. sometimes it is ulysses painfully toiling his way home across the unknown ocean; sometimes it is we that are ulysses, and that unknown ocean is the life across which we are wandering, with too many circes, and sirens, and 'isles of error' in our path. in the same spirit death is no longer the end; and on every side long vistas seem to stretch away into the infinite, peopled with shadowy forms. but, as if this palpable initiation into the unseen were still insufficient or unconvincing, the common ground on which we are treading sometimes shakes under us, and we feel as humboldt describes himself to have felt at the first shock of an earthquake. strange pieces of mysterious wildness are let fall in our way, coming suddenly on us like spectres, and vanishing without explanation or hint of their purpose. what are those phoeacian ships meant for, which required neither sail nor oar, but of their own selves read the hearts of those they carried, and bore them wherever they would go?--or the wild end of the ship which carried ulysses home?--or that terrible piece of second sight in the hall at ithaca, for which the seer was brought from pylos?--or those islands, one of which is for ever wasting while another is born into being to complete the number?--or those mystical sheep and oxen, which knew neither age nor death, nor ever had offspring born to them, and whose flesh upon the spits began to crawl and bellow?--or helen singing round the horse inside the trojan walls, when every grecian chief's heart fainted in him as he thought he heard the voice of his own dear wife far away beyond the sea? in the far gates of the loestrygones, 'where such a narrow rim of night divided day from day, that a man who needed not sleep might earn a double hire, and the cry of the shepherd at evening driving home his flock was heard by the shepherd going out in the morning to pasture,' we have, perhaps, some tale of a phoenician mariner, who had wandered into the north seas, and seen 'the norway sun set into sunrise.' but what shall we say to that syrian isle, 'where disease is not, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where, when men grow old, apollo comes with artemis, and slays them with his silver bow?' there is nothing in the iliad like any of these stories. yet, when all is said, it matters little who wrote the poems. each is so magnificent, that to have written both could scarcely have increased the greatness of the man who had written one; and if there were two homers, the earth is richer by one more divine-gifted man than we had known. after all, it is perhaps more easy to believe that the differences which we seem to see arise from homer's own choice of the material which best suited two works so different, than that nature was so largely prodigal as to have created in one age and in one people two such men; for whether one or two, the authors of the iliad and the odyssey stand alone with shakespeare far away above mankind. footnotes: [x] _fraser's magazine_, . [y] mackay's _progress of the intellect_. the lives of the saints. . if the enormous undertaking of the bollandist editors had been completed, it would have contained the histories of , saints. so many the catholic church acknowledged and accepted as her ideals--as men who had not only done her honour by the eminence of their sanctity, but who had received while on earth an openly divine recognition of it in gifts of supernatural power. and this vast number is but a selection; the editors chose only out of the mass before them what was most noteworthy and trustworthy, and what was of catholic rather than of national interest. it is no more than a fraction of that singular mythology which for so many ages delighted the christian world, which is still held in external reverence among the romanists, and of which the modern historians, provoked by its feeble supernaturalism, and by the entire absence of critical ability among its writers to distinguish between fact and fable, have hitherto failed to speak a reasonable word. of the attempt in our own day to revive an interest in them we shall say little in this place. the 'lives' have no form or beauty to give them attraction in themselves; and for their human interest the broad atmosphere of the world suited ill with these delicate plants, which had grown up under the shadow of the convent wall; they were exotics, not from another climate, but from another age; the breath of scorn fell on them, and having no root in the hearts and beliefs of men any more, but only in the sentimentalities and make-beliefs, they withered and sank. and yet, in their place as historical phenomena, the legends of the saints are as remarkable as any of the pagan mythologies; to the full as remarkable, perhaps far more so, if the length and firmness of hold they once possessed on the convictions of mankind is to pass for anything in the estimate--and to ourselves they have a near and peculiar interest, as spiritual facts in the growth of the catholic faith. philosophy has rescued the old theogonies from ridicule; their extravagancies, even the most grotesque of them, can be now seen to have their root in an idea, often a deep one, representing features of natural history or of metaphysical speculation, and we do not laugh at them any more. in their origin, they were the consecration of the first-fruits of knowledge; the expression of a real reverential belief. then time did its work on them; knowledge grew, and they could not grow; they became monstrous and mischievous, and were driven out by christianity with scorn and indignation. but it is with human institutions as it is with men themselves; we are tender with the dead when their power to hurt us has passed away; and as paganism can never more be dangerous, we have been able to command a calmer attitude towards it, and to detect under its most repulsive features sufficient latent elements of genuine thought to satisfy us that even in their darkest aberrations men are never wholly given over to falsehood and absurdity. when philosophy has done for mediæval mythology what it has done for hesiod and for the edda, we shall find there also at least as deep a sense of the awfulness and mystery of life, and we shall find a moral element which the pagans never had. the lives of the saints are always simple, often childish, seldom beautiful; yet, as goethe observed, if without beauty, they are always good. and as a phenomenon, let us not deceive ourselves on the magnitude of the christian hagiology. the bollandists were restricted on many sides. they took only what was in latin--while every country in europe had its own home growth in its own language--and thus many of the most characteristic of the lives are not to be found at all in their collection. and again, they took but one life of each saint, composed in all cases late, and compiled out of the mass of various shorter lives which had grown up in different localities out of popular tradition; so that many of their longer productions have an elaborate literary character, with an appearance of artifice, which, till we know how they came into existence, might blind us to the vast width and variety of the traditionary sources from which they are drawn. in the twelfth century there were sixty-six lives extant of st. patrick alone; and that in a country where every parish had its own special saint and special legend of him. these sixty-six lives may have contained (mr. gibbon says _must_ have contained) at least as many thousand lies. perhaps so. to severe criticism, even the existence of a single apostle, st. patrick, appears problematical. but at least there is the historical fact, about which there can be no mistake, that the stories did grow up in some way or other, that they were repeated, sung, listened to, written, and read; that these lives in ireland, and all over europe and over the earth, wherever the catholic faith was preached, stories like these, sprang out of the heart of the people, and grew and shadowed over the entire believing mind of the catholic world. wherever church was founded, or soil was consecrated for the long resting-place of those who had died in the faith; wherever the sweet bells of convent or of monastery were heard in the evening air, charming the unquiet world to rest and remembrance of god, there dwelt the memory of some apostle who had laid the first stone, there was the sepulchre of some martyr whose relics reposed beneath the altar, of some confessor who had suffered there for his master's sake, of some holy ascetic who in silent self-chosen austerity had woven a ladder there of prayer and penance, on which the angels of god were believed to have ascended and descended. it is not a phenomenon of an age or of a century; it is characteristic of the history of christianity. from the time when the first preachers of the faith passed out from their homes by that quiet galilean lake, to go to and fro over the earth, and did their mighty work, and at last disappeared and were not any more seen, these sacred legends began to grow. those who had once known the apostles, who had drawn from their lips the blessed message of light and life, one and all would gather together what fragments they could find of their stories. rumours blew in from all the winds. they had been seen here, had been seen there, in the farthest corners of the earth, preaching, contending, suffering, prevailing. affection did not stay to scrutinise. when some member of a family among ourselves is absent in some far place from which sure news of him comes slowly and uncertainly; if he has been in the army, or on some dangerous expedition, or at sea, or anywhere where real or imaginary dangers stimulate anxiety; or when one is gone away from us altogether--fallen perhaps in battle--and when the story of his end can be collected but fitfully from strangers, who only knew his name, but had heard him nobly spoken of; the faintest threads are caught at; reports, the vagueness of which might be evident to indifference, are to love strong grounds of confidence, and 'trifles light as air' establish themselves as certainties. so, in those first christian communities, travellers came through from east and west; legions on the march, or caravans of wandering merchants; and one had been in rome, and seen peter disputing with simon magus; another in india, where he had heard st. thomas preaching to the brahmins; a third brought with him, from the wilds of britain, a staff which he had cut, as he said, from a thorn tree, the seed of which st. joseph had sown there, and which had grown to its full size in a single night, making merchandise of the precious relic out of the credulity of the believers. so the legends grew, and were treasured up, and loved, and trusted; and alas! all which we have been able to do with them is to call them lies, and to point a shallow moral on the impostures and credulities of the early catholics. an atheist could not wish us to say more. if we can really believe that the christian church was made over in its very cradle to lies and to the father of lies, and was allowed to remain in his keeping, so to say, till yesterday, he will not much trouble himself with any faith which after such an admission we may profess to entertain. for, as this spirit began in the first age in which the church began to have a history, so it continued so long as the church as an integral body retained its vitality, and only died out in the degeneracy which preceded and which brought on the reformation. for fourteen hundred years these stories held their place, and rang on from age to age, from century to century; as the new faith widened its boundaries, and numbered ever more and more great names of men and women who had fought and died for it, so long their histories, living in the hearts of those for whom they laboured, laid hold of them and filled them: and the devout imagination, possessed with what was often no more than the rumour of a name, bodied it out into life, and form, and reality. and doubtless, if we try them by any historical canon, we have to say that quite endless untruths grew in this way to be believed among men; and not believed only, but held sacred, passionately and devotedly; not filling the history books only, not only serving to amuse and edify the refectory, or to furnish matter for meditation in the cell, but claiming days for themselves of special remembrance, entering into liturgies and inspiring prayers, forming the spiritual nucleus of the hopes and fears of millions of human souls. from the hard barren standing ground of the fact idolator, what a strange sight must be that still mountain-peak on the wild west irish shore, where, for more than ten centuries, a rude old bell and a carved chip of oak have witnessed, or seemed to witness, to the presence long ago there of the irish apostle; and where, in the sharp crystals of the trap rock, a path has been worn smooth by the bare feet and bleeding knees of the pilgrims, who still, in the august weather, drag their painful way along it as they have done for a thousand years. doubtless the 'lives of the saints' are full of lies. are there none in the iliad? or in the legends of Æneas? were the stories sung in the liturgy of eleusis all so true? so true as fact? are the songs of the cid or of siegfried true? we say nothing of the lies in these; but why? oh, it will be said, but they are fictions; they were never supposed to be true. but they _were_ supposed to be true, to the full as true as the 'legenda aurea.' oh, then, they are poetry; and besides, they have nothing to do with christianity. yes, that is it; they have nothing to do with christianity. religion has grown such a solemn business with us, and we bring such long faces to it, that we cannot admit or conceive to be at all naturally admissible such a light companion as the imagination. the distinction between secular and religious has been extended even to the faculties; and we cannot tolerate in others the fulness and freedom which we have lost or rejected for ourselves. yet it has been a fatal mistake with the critics. they found themselves off the recognised ground of romance and paganism, and they failed to see the same principles at work, though at work with new materials. in the records of all human affairs, it cannot be too often insisted on that two kinds of truth run for ever side by side, or rather, crossing in and out with each other, form the warp and the woof of the coloured web which we call history: the one, the literal and external truths corresponding to the eternal and as yet undiscovered laws of fact; the other, the truths of feeling and of thought, which embody themselves either in distorted pictures of outward things, or in some entirely new creation--sometimes moulding and shaping real history; sometimes taking the form of heroic biography, of tradition, or popular legend; sometimes appearing as recognised fiction in the epic, the drama, or the novel. it is useless to tell us that this is to confuse truth and falsehood. we are stating a fact, not a theory; and if it makes truth and falsehood difficult to distinguish, that is nature's fault, not ours. fiction is only false, when it is false, not to fact, else how could it be fiction? but when it is--to _law_. to try it by its correspondence to the real is pedantry. imagination creates as nature creates, by the force which is in man, which refuses to be restrained; we cannot help it, and we are only false when we make monsters, or when we pretend that our inventions are facts, when we substitute truths of one kind for truths of another; when we substitute,--and again we must say when we _intentionally_ substitute:--whenever persons, and whenever facts seize strongly on the imagination (and of course when there is anything remarkable in them they must and will do so), invention glides into the images which form in our minds; so it must be, and so it ever has been, from the first legends of a cosmogony to the written life of the great man who died last year or century, or to the latest scientific magazine. we cannot relate facts as they are; they must first pass through ourselves, and we are more or less than mortal if they gather nothing in the transit. the great outlines alone lie around us as imperative and constraining; the detail we each fill up variously, according to the turn of our sympathies, the extent of our knowledge, or our general theories of things: and therefore it may be said that the only literally true history possible is the history which mind has left of itself in all the changes through which it has passed. suetonius is to the full as extravagant and superstitious as surius, and suetonius was most laborious and careful, and was the friend of tacitus and pliny. suetonius gives us prodigies, where surius has miracles, but that is all the difference; each follows the form of the supernatural which belonged to the genius of his age. plutarch writes a life of lycurgus, with details of his childhood, and of the trials and vicissitudes of his age; and the existence of lycurgus is now quite as questionable as that of st. patrick or of st. george of england. no rectitude of intention will save us from mistakes. sympathies and antipathies are but synonyms of prejudice, and indifference is impossible. love is blind, and so is every other passion. love believes eagerly what it desires; it excuses or passes lightly over blemishes, it dwells on what is beautiful; while dislike sees a tarnish on what is brightest, and deepens faults into vices. do we believe that all this is a disease of unenlightened times, and that in our strong sunlight only truth can get received?--then let us contrast the portrait, for instance, of sir robert peel as it is drawn in the free trade hall at manchester,[z] at the county meeting, and in the oxford common room. it is not so. faithful and literal history is possible only to an impassive spirit. man will never write it, until perfect knowledge and perfect faith in god shall enable him to see and endure every fact in its reality; until perfect love shall kindle in him under its touch the one just emotion which is in harmony with the eternal order of all things. how far we are in these days from approximating to such a combination we need not here insist. criticism in the hands of men like niebuhr seems to have accomplished great intellectual triumphs; and in germany and france, and among ourselves, we have our new schools of the philosophy of history: yet their real successes have hitherto only been destructive. when philosophy reconstructs, it does nothing but project its own idea; when it throws off tradition, it cannot work without a theory: and what is a theory but an imperfect generalisation caught up by a predisposition? what is comte's great division of the eras but a theory, and facts are but as clay in his hands, which he can mould to illustrate it, as every clever man will find facts to be, let his theory be what it will? intellect can destroy, but it cannot restore life; call in the creative faculties--call in love, idea, imagination, and we have living figures, but we cannot tell whether they are figures which ever lived before. the high faith in which love and intellect can alone unite in their fulness, has not yet found utterance in modern historians. the greatest man who has as yet given himself to the recording of human affairs is, beyond question, cornelius tacitus. alone in tacitus a serene calmness of insight was compatible with intensity of feeling. he took no side; he may have been imperialist, he may have been republican, but he has left no sign whether he was either: he appears to have sifted facts with scrupulous integrity; to administer his love, his scorn, his hatred, according only to individual merit: and his sentiments are rather felt by the reader in the life-like clearness of his portraits, than expressed in words by himself. yet such a power of seeing into things was only possible to him, because there was no party left with which he could determinedly side, and no wide spirit alive in rome through which he could feel. the spirit of rome, the spirit of life had gone away to seek other forms, and the world of tacitus was a heap of decaying institutions; a stage where men and women, as they themselves were individually base or noble, played over their little parts. life indeed was come into the world, was working in it, and silently shaping the old dead corpse into fresh and beautiful being. tacitus alludes to it once only, in one brief scornful chapter; and the most poorly gifted of those forlorn biographers whose unreasoning credulity was piling up the legends of st. mary and the apostles, which now drive the ecclesiastical historian to despair, knew more, in his divine hope and faith, of the real spirit which had gone out among mankind, than the keenest and gravest intellect which ever set itself to contemplate them. and now having in some degree cleared the ground of difficulties, let us go back to the lives of the saints. if bede tells us lies about st. cuthbert, we will disbelieve his stories; but we will not call bede a liar, even though he prefaces his life with a declaration that he has set down nothing but what he has ascertained on the clearest evidence. we are driven to no such alternative; our canons of criticism are different from bede's, and so are our notions of probability. bede would expect _à priori_, and would therefore consider as sufficiently attested by a consent of popular tradition, what the oaths of living witnesses would fail to make credible to a modern english jury. we will call bede a liar only if he put forward his picture of st. cuthbert as a picture of a life which he considered admirable and excellent, as one after which he was endeavouring to model his own, and which he held up as a pattern of imitation, when in his heart he did not consider it admirable at all, when he was making no effort at the austerities which he was lauding. the histories of the saints are written as ideals of a christian life; they have no elaborate and beautiful forms; single and straightforward as they are,--if they are not this they are nothing. for fourteen centuries the religious mind of the catholic world threw them out as its form of hero worship, as the heroic patterns of a form of human life which each christian within his own limits was endeavouring to realise. the first martyrs and confessors were to those poor monks what the first dorian conquerors were in the war songs of tyrtæus, what achilles and ajax and agamemnon and diomed were wherever homer was sung or read; or in more modern times, what the knights of the round table were in the halls of the norman castles. the catholic mind was expressing its conception of the highest human excellence; and the result is that immense and elaborate hagiology. as with the battle heroes, too, the inspiration lies in the universal idea; the varieties of character (with here and there an exception) are slight and unimportant; the object being to create examples for universal human imitation. lancelot or tristram were equally true to the spirit of chivalry; and patrick on the mountain, or antony in the desert, are equal models of patient austerity. the knights fight with giants, enchanters, robbers, unknightly nobles, or furious wild beasts; the christians fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil. the knight leaves the comforts of home in quest of adventures, the saint in quest of penance, and on the bare rocks or in desolate wildernesses subdues the devil in his flesh with prayers and penances; and so alien is it all to the whole thought and system of the modern christian, that he either rejects such stories altogether as monks' impostures, or receives them with disdainful wonder, as one more shameful form of superstition with which human nature has insulted heaven and disgraced itself. leaving, however, for the present, the meaning of monastic asceticism, it seems necessary to insist that there really was such a thing; there is no doubt about it. if the particular actions told of each saint are not literally true, as belonging to him, abundance of men did for many centuries lead the sort of life which saints are said to have led. we have got a notion that the friars were a snug, comfortable set, after all; and the life in a monastery pretty much like that in a modern university, where the old monks' language and affectation of unworldliness does somehow contrive to co-exist with as large a mass of bodily enjoyment as man's nature can well appropriate. very likely this was the state into which many of the monasteries had fallen in the fifteenth century. it was a symptom of a very rapid disorder which had set in among them, and which promptly terminated in dissolution. but long, long ages lay behind the fifteenth century, in which, wisely or foolishly, these old monks and hermits did make themselves a very hard life of it; and the legend only exceeded the reality in being a very slightly idealised portrait. we are not speaking of the miracles; that is a wholly different question. when men knew little of the order of nature, whatever came to pass without an obvious cause was at once set down to influences beyond nature and above it; and so long as there were witches and enchanters, strong with the help of the bad powers, of course the especial servants of god would not be left without graces to outmatch and overcome the devil. and there were many other reasons why the saints should work miracles. they had done so under the old dispensation, and there was no obvious reason why christians should be worse off than jews. and again, although it be true, in the modern phrase, which is beginning to savour a little of cant, that the highest natural is the highest supernatural, nevertheless natural facts permit us to be so easily familiar with them, that they have an air of commonness; and when we have a vast idea to express, there is always a disposition to the extraordinary. but the miracles are not the chief thing; nor ever were they so. men did not become saints by working miracles, but they worked miracles because they had become saints; and the instructiveness and value of their lives lay in the means which they had used to make themselves what they were: and as we said, in this part of the business there is unquestionable basis of truth--scarcely even exaggeration. we have documentary evidence, which has been filtered through the sharp ordeal of party hatred, of the way in which some men (and those, not mere ignorant fanatics, but men of vast mind and vast influence in their days) conducted themselves, where _myth_ has no room to enter. we know something of the hair-shirt of thomas à becket; and there was another poor monk, whose asceticism imagination could not easily outrun; he who, when the earth's mighty ones were banded together to crush him under their armed heels, spoke but one little word, and it fell among them like the spear of cadmus; the strong ones turned their hands against each other, and the armies melted away; and the proudest monarch of the earth lay at that monk's threshold three winter nights in the scanty clothing of penance, suing miserably for forgiveness. or again, to take a fairer figure. there is a poem extant, the genuineness of which, we believe, has not been challenged, composed by columbkill, commonly called st. columba. he was a hermit in arran, a rocky island in the atlantic, outside galway bay; from which he was summoned, we do not know how, but in a manner which appeared to him to be a divine call, to go away and be bishop of iona. the poem is a 'farewell to arran,' which he wrote on leaving it; and he lets us see something of a hermit's life there. 'farewell,' he begins (we are obliged to quote from memory), 'a long farewell to thee, arran of my heart. paradise is with thee; the garden of god within the sound of thy bells. the angels love arran. each day an angel comes there to join in its services.' and then he goes on to describe his 'dear cell,' and the holy happy hours which he had spent there, 'with the wind whistling through the loose stones, and the sea spray hanging on his hair.' arran is no better than a wild rock. it is strewed over with the ruins which may still be seen of the old hermitages; and at their best they could have been but such places as sheep would huddle under in a storm, and shiver in the cold and wet which would pierce through the chinks of the walls. or, if written evidence be too untrustworthy, there are silent witnesses which cannot lie, that tell the same touching story. whoever loiters among the ruins of a monastery will see, commonly leading out of the cloisters, rows of cellars half under-ground, low, damp, and wretched-looking; an earthen floor, bearing no trace of pavement; a roof from which the mortar and the damp keep up (and always must have kept up) a perpetual ooze; for a window a narrow slip in the wall, through which the cold and the wind find as free an access as the light. such as they are, a well-kept dog would object to accept a night's lodging in them; and if they had been prison cells, thousands of philanthropic tongues would have trumpeted out their horrors. the stranger perhaps supposes that they were the very dungeons of which he has heard such terrible things. he asks his guide, and his guide tells him they were the monks' dormitories. yes; there on that wet soil, with that dripping roof above them, was the self-chosen home of those poor men. through winter frost, through rain and storm, through summer sunshine, generation after generation of them, there they lived and prayed, and at last lay down and died. it is all gone now--gone as if it had never been; and it was as foolish as, if the attempt had succeeded, it would have been mischievous, to revive a devotional interest in the lives of the saints. it would have produced but one more unreality in an age already too full of such. no one supposes we should have set to work to live as they lived; that any man, however earnest in his religion, would have gone looking for earth floors and wet dungeons, or wild islands to live in, when he could get anything better. either we are wiser, or more humane, or more self-indulgent; at any rate we are something which divides us from mediæval christianity by an impassable gulf which this age or this epoch will not see bridged over. nevertheless, these modern hagiologists, however wrongly they went to work at it, had detected, and were endeavouring to fill, a very serious blank in our educational system; a very serious blank indeed, and one which, somehow, we must contrive to get filled if the education of character is ever to be more than a name with us. to try and teach people how to live without giving them examples in which our rules are illustrated, is like teaching them to draw by the rules of perspective, and of light and shade, without designs in which to study the effects; or to write verse by the laws of rhyme and metre, without song or poem in which rhyme and metre are exhibited. it is a principle which we have forgotten, and it is one which the old catholics did not forget. we do not mean that they set out with saying to themselves, 'we must have examples, we must have ideals;' very likely they never thought about it at all; love for their holy men, and a thirst to know about them, produced the histories; and love unconsciously working gave them the best for which they could have wished. the boy at school at the monastery, the young monk disciplining himself as yet with difficulty under the austerities to which he had devoted himself, the old one halting on toward the close of his pilgrimage,--all of them had before their eyes, in the legend of the patron saint, a personal realisation of all they were trying after; leading them on, beckoning to them, and pointing, as they stumbled among their difficulties, to the marks which his own footsteps had left, as he had trod that hard path before them. it was as if the church was for ever saying to them:--'you have doubts and fears, and trials and temptations, outward and inward; you have sinned, perhaps, and feel the burden of your sin. here was one who, like you, _in this very spot_, under the same sky, treading the same soil, among the same hills and woods and rocks and rivers, was tried like you, tempted like you, sinned like you; but here he prayed, and persevered, and did penance, and washed out his sins; he fought the fight, he vanquished the evil one, he triumphed, and now he reigns a saint with christ in heaven. the same ground which yields you your food, once supplied him; he breathed, and lived, and felt, and died _here_; and now, from his throne in the sky, he is still looking lovingly down on his children, making intercession for you that you may have grace to follow him, that by-and-by he may himself offer you at god's throne as his own.' it is impossible to measure the influence which a personal reality of this kind must have exercised on the mind, thus daily and hourly impressed upon it through a life; there is nothing vague any more, no abstract excellences to strain after; all is distinct, personal, palpable. it is no dream. the saint's bones are under the altar; nay, perhaps, his very form and features undissolved. under some late abbot the coffin may have been opened and the body seen without mark or taint of decay. such things have been, and the emaciation of a saint will account for it without a miracle. daily some incident of his story is read aloud, or spoken of, or preached upon. in quaint beautiful forms it lives in light in the long chapel windows; and in the summer matins his figure, lighted up in splendour, gleams down on the congregation as they pray, or streams in mysterious tints along the pavement, clad, as it seems, in soft celestial glory, and shining as he shines in heaven. alas, alas! where is it all gone? we are going to venture a few thoughts on the wide question, what possibly may have been the meaning of so large a portion of the human race, and so many centuries of christianity, having been surrendered and seemingly sacrificed to the working out this dreary asceticism. if right once, then it is right now; if now worthless, then it could never have been more than worthless; and the energies which spent themselves on it were like corn sown upon the rock, or substance given for that which is not bread. we supposed ourselves challenged recently for our facts. here is an enormous fact which there is no evading. it is not to be slurred over with indolent generalities, with unmeaning talk of superstition, of the twilight of the understanding, of barbarism, and of nursery credulity; it is matter for the philosophy of history, if the philosophy has yet been born which can deal with it; one of the solid, experienced facts in the story of mankind which must be accepted and considered with that respectful deference which all facts claim of their several sciences, and which will certainly not disclose its meaning (supposing it to have a meaning) except to reverence, to sympathy, to love. we must remember that the men who wrote these stories, and who practised these austerities, were the same men who composed our liturgies, who built our churches and our cathedrals--and the gothic cathedral is, perhaps, on the whole, the most magnificent creation which the mind of man has as yet thrown out of itself. if there be any such thing as a philosophy of history, real or possible, it is in virtue of there being certain progressive organising laws in which the fretful lives of each of us are gathered into and subordinated in some larger unity, through which age is linked to age, as we move forward, with an horizon expanding and advancing. and if this is true, the magnitude of any human phenomenon is a criterion of its importance, and definite forms of thought working through long historic periods imply an effect of one of these vast laws--imply a distinct step in human progress. something previously unrealised is being lived out, and rooted into the heart of mankind. nature never half does her work. she goes over it, and over it, to make assurance sure, and makes good her ground with wearying repetition. a single section of a short paper is but a small space to enter on so vast an enterprise; nevertheless, a few very general words shall be ventured as a suggestion of what this monastic or saintly spirit may possibly have meant. first, as the spirit of christianity is antagonistic to the world, whatever form the spirit of the world assumes, the ideals of christianity will of course be their opposite; as one verges into one extreme, the other will verge into the contrary. in those rough times the law was the sword; animal might of arm, and the strong animal heart which guided it, were the excellences which the world rewarded; and monasticism, therefore, in its position of protest, would be the destruction and abnegation of the animal nature. the war hero in the battle or the tourney yard might be taken as the apotheosis of the fleshly man--the saint in the desert of the spiritual. but this interpretation is slight, imperfect, and if true at all only partially so. the animal and the spiritual are not contradictories; they are the complements in the perfect character; and in the middle ages, as in all ages of genuine earnestness, they interfused and penetrated each other. there were warrior saints and saintly warriors; and those grand old figures which sleep cross-legged in the cathedral aisles were something higher than only one more form of the beast of prey. monasticism represented something more positive than a protest against the world. we believe it to have been the realisation of the infinite loveliness and beauty of personal purity. in the earlier civilisation, the greeks, however genuine their reverence for the gods, do not seem to have supposed any part of their duty to the gods to consist in keeping their bodies untainted. exquisite as was their sense of beauty, of beauty of mind as well as beauty of form, with all their loftiness and their nobleness, with their ready love of moral excellence when manifested, as fortitude, or devotion to liberty and to home, they had little or no idea of what we mean by morality. with a few rare exceptions, pollution, too detestable to be even named among ourselves, was of familiar and daily occurrence among their greatest men; was no reproach to philosopher or to statesman; and was not supposed to be incompatible, and was not, in fact, incompatible with any of those especial excellences which we so admire in the greek character. among the romans (that is, the early romans of the republic), there was a sufficiently austere morality. a public officer of state, whose business was to enquire into the private lives of the citizens, and to punish offences against morals, is a phenomenon which we have seen only once on this planet. there was never a nation before, and there has been none since, with sufficient virtue to endure it. but the roman morality was not lovely for its own sake, nor excellent in itself. it was obedience to law, practised and valued, loved for what resulted from it, for the strength and rigid endurance which it gave, but not loved for itself. the roman nature was fierce, rugged, almost brutal; and it submitted to restraint as stern as itself, as long as the energy of the old spirit endured. but as soon as that energy grew slack--when the religion was no longer believed, and taste, as it was called, came in, and there was no more danger to face, and the world was at their feet, all was swept away as before a whirlwind; there was no loveliness in virtue to make it desired, and the rome of the cæsars presents, in its later ages, a picture of enormous sensuality, of the coarsest animal desire, with means unlimited to gratify it. in latin literature, as little as in the greek, is there any sense of the beauty of purity. moral essays on temperance we may find, and praise enough of the wise man whose passions and whose appetites are trained into obedience to reason. but this is no more than the philosophy of the old roman life, which got itself expressed in words when men were tired of the reality. it involves no sense of sin. if sin could be indulged without weakening self-command, or without hurting other people, roman philosophy would have nothing to say against it. the christians stepped far out beyond philosophy. without speculating on the _why_, they felt that indulgence of animal passion did, in fact, pollute them, and so much the more, the more it was deliberate. philosophy, gliding into manicheism, divided the forces of the universe, giving the spirit to god, but declaring matter to be eternally and incurably evil; and looking forward to the time when the spirit should be emancipated from the body, as the beginning of, or as the return to, its proper existence, a man like plotinus took no especial care what became the meanwhile of its evil tenement of flesh. if the body sinned, sin was its element; it could not do other than sin; purity of conduct could not make the body clean, and no amount of bodily indulgence could shed a taint upon the spirit--a very comfortable doctrine, and one which, under various disguises, has appeared a good many times on the earth. but christianity, shaking all this off, would present the body to god as a pure and holy sacrifice, as so much of the material world conquered from the appetites and lusts, and from the devil whose abode they were. this was the meaning of the fastings and scourgings, the penances and night-watchings; it was this which sent st. anthony to the tombs and set simeon on his pillar, to conquer the devil in the flesh, and keep themselves, if possible, undefiled by so much as one corrupt thought. and they may have been absurd and extravagant. when the feeling is stronger than the judgment, men are very apt to be extravagant. if, in the recoil from manicheism, they conceived that a body of a saint thus purified had contracted supernatural virtue and could work miracles, they had not sufficiently attended to the facts, and so far are not unexceptionable witnesses to them. nevertheless they did their work, and in virtue of it we are raised to a higher stage--we are lifted forward a mighty step which we can never again retrace. personal purity is not the whole for which we have to care: it is but one feature in the ideal character of man. the monks may have thought it was all, or more nearly all than it is; and therefore their lives may seem to us poor, mean, and emasculate. yet it is with life as it is with science; generations of men have given themselves exclusively to single branches, which, when mastered, form but a little section in a cosmic philosophy; and in life, so slow is progress, it may take a thousand years to make good a single step. weary and tedious enough it seems when we cease to speak in large language, and remember the numbers of individual souls who have been at work at the process; but who knows whereabouts we are in the duration of the race? is humanity crawling out of the cradle, or tottering into the grave? is it in nursery, in schoolroom, or in opening manhood? who knows? it is enough for us to be sure of our steps when we have taken them, and thankfully to accept what has been done for us. henceforth it is impossible for us to give our unmixed admiration to any character which moral shadows overhang. henceforth we require, not greatness only, but goodness; and not that goodness only which begins and ends in conduct correctly regulated, but that love of goodness, that keen pure feeling for it, which resides in a conscience as sensitive and susceptible as woman's modesty. so much for what seems to us the philosophy of this matter. if we are right, it is no more than a first furrow in the crust of a soil which hitherto the historians have been contented to leave in its barrenness. if they are conscientious enough not to trifle with the facts, as they look back on them from the luxurious self-indulgence of modern christianity, they either revile the superstition or pity the ignorance which made such large mistakes on the nature of religion--and, loud in their denunciations of priestcraft and of lying wonders, they point their moral with pictures of the ambition of mediæval prelacy or the scandals of the annals of the papacy. for the inner life of all those millions of immortal souls who were struggling, with such good or bad success as was given them, to carry christ's cross along their journey through life, they set it by, pass it over, dismiss it out of history, with some poor commonplace simper of sorrow or of scorn. it will not do. mankind have not been so long on this planet altogether, that we can allow so large a chasm to be scooped out of their spiritual existence. we intended to leave our readers with something lighter than all this in the shape of literary criticism, and a few specimens of the biographical style: in both of these we must now, however, be necessarily brief. whoever is curious to study the lives of the saints in their originals, should rather go anywhere than to the bollandists, and universally never read a late life when he can command an early one; for the genius in them is in the ratio of their antiquity, and, like river-water, is most pure nearest to the fountain. we are lucky in possessing several specimens of the mode of their growth in late and early lives of the same saints, and the process in all is similar. out of the unnumbered lives of st. bride, three are left; out of the sixty-six of st. patrick, there are eight; the first of each belonging to the sixth century, the latest to the thirteenth. the earliest in each instance are in verse; they belong to a time when there was no one to write such things, and were popular in form and popular in their origin. the flow is easy, the style graceful and natural; but the step from poetry to prose is substantial as well as formal; the imagination is ossified, and we exchange the exuberance of legendary creativeness for the dogmatic record of fact without reality, and fiction without grace. the marvellous in the poetical lives is comparatively slight; the after-miracles being composed frequently out of a mistake of poets' metaphors for literal truth. there is often real, genial, human beauty in the old verse. the first two stanzas, for instance, of st. bride's hymn are of high merit, as may, perhaps, be imperfectly seen in a translation:-- bride the queen, she loved not the world; she floated on the waves of the world as the sea-bird floats upon the billow. such sleep she slept as the mother sleeps in the far land of her captivity, mourning for her child at home. what a picture is there of the strangeness and yearning of the poor human soul in this earthly pilgrimage! the poetical 'life of st. patrick,' too, is full of fine, wild, natural imagery. the boy is described as a shepherd on the hills of down, and there is a legend, well told, of the angel victor coming to him, and leaving a gigantic footprint on a rock from which he sprang back into heaven. the legend, of course, rose from some remarkable natural feature of the spot; as it is first told, a shadowy unreality hangs over it, and it is doubtful whether it is more than a vision of the boy; but in the later prose all is crystalline; the story is drawn out, with a barren prolixity of detail, into a series of angelic visitations. and again, when patrick is described, as the after-apostle, raising the dead celts to life, the metaphor cannot be left in its natural force, and we have a long weary list of literal deaths and literal raisings. so in many ways the freshness and individuality was lost with time. the larger saints swallowed up the smaller and appropriated their exploits; chasms were supplied by an ever ready fancy; and, like the stock of good works laid up for general use, there was a stock of miracles ever ready when any defect was to be supplied. so it was that, after the first impulse, the progressive life of a saint rolled on like a snowball down a mountain side, gathering up into itself whatever lay in its path, fact or legend, appropriate or inappropriate--sometimes real jewels of genuine old tradition, sometimes the débris of the old creeds and legends of heathenism; and on, and on, till at length it reached the bottom, and was dashed in pieces on the reformation. one more illustration shall serve as evidence of what the really greatest, most vigorous, minds in the twelfth century could accept as possible or probable, which they could relate (on what evidence we do not know) as really ascertained facts. we remember something of st. anselm: both as a statesman and as a theologian, he was unquestionably among the ablest men of his time alive in europe. here is a story which anselm tells of a certain cornish st. kieran. the saint, with thirty of his companions, was preaching within the frontiers of a lawless pagan prince; and, disregarding all orders to be quiet or to leave the country, continued to agitate, to threaten, and to thunder even in the ears of the prince himself. things took their natural course. disobedience provoked punishment. a guard of soldiers was sent, and the saint and his little band were decapitated. the scene of the execution was a wood, and the heads and trunks were left lying there for the wolves and the wild birds. but now a miracle, such as was once heard of before in the church in the person of the holy denis, was again wrought by divine providence to preserve the bodies of these saints from profanation. the trunk of kieran rose from the ground, and selecting first his own head, and carrying it to a stream, and there carefully washing it, and afterwards performing the same sacred office for each of his companions, giving each body its own head, he dug graves for them and buried them, and last of all buried himself. it is even so. so it stands written in a life claiming anselm's authorship; and there is no reason why the authorship should not be his. out of the heart come the issues of evil and of good, and not out of the intellect or the understanding. men are not good or bad, noble or base--thank god for it!--as they judge well or ill of the probabilities of nature, but as they love god and hate the devil. and yet the story is instructive. we have heard grave good men--men of intellect and influence--with all the advantages of modern science, learning, experience; men who would regard anselm with sad and serious pity; yet tell us stories, as having fallen within their own experience, of the marvels of mesmerism, to the full as ridiculous (if anything is ridiculous) as this of the poor decapitated kieran. mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur. we see our natural faces in the glass of history, and turn away and straightway forget what manner of men we are. the superstition of science scoffs at the superstition of faith. footnotes: [z] written in . representative men. . from st. anselm to mr. emerson, from the 'acta sanctorum' to the 'representative men;' so far in seven centuries we have travelled. the races of the old ideals have become extinct like the preadamite saurians; and here are our new pattern specimens on which we are to look, and take comfort and encouragement to ourselves. the philosopher, the mystic, the poet, the sceptic, the man of the world, the writer; these are the present moral categories, the _summa genera_ of human greatness as mr. emerson arranges them. from every point of view an exceptionable catalogue. they are all thinkers, to begin with, except one: and thought is but a poor business compared to action. saints did not earn canonisation by the number of their folios; and if the necessities of the times are now driving our best men out of action into philosophy and verse-making, so much the worse for them and so much the worse for the world. the one pattern actor, 'the man of the world,' is napoleon bonaparte, not in the least a person, as we are most of us at present feeling, whose example the world desires to see followed. mr. emerson would have done better if he had kept to his own side of the atlantic. he is paying his own countrymen but a poor compliment by coming exclusively to europe for his heroes; and he would be doing us in europe more real good by a great deal if he would tell us something of the backwoodsmen in kentucky and ohio. however, to let that pass; it is not our business here to quarrel either with him or his book; and the book stands at the head of our article rather because it presents a very noticeable deficiency of which its writer is either unaware or careless. these six predicables, as the logician would call them, what are they? are they _ultimate genera_ refusing to be classified farther? or is there any other larger type of greatness under which they fall? in the naturalist's catalogue, poet, sceptic, and the rest will all be classified as men--man being an intelligible entity. has mr. emerson any similar clear idea of great man or good man? if so, where is he? what is he? it is desirable that we should know. men will not get to heaven because they lie under one or other of these predicables. what is that supreme type of character which is in itself good or great, unqualified with any farther _differentia_? is there any such? and if there be, where is the representative of this? it may be said that the generic man exists nowhere in an ideal unity--that if considered at all, he must be abstracted from the various sorts of men, black and white, tame or savage. so if we would know what a great man or a good man means, we must look to some specific line in which he is good, and abstract our general idea. and that is very well, provided we know what we are about; provided we understand, in our abstracting, how to get the essential idea distinctly out before ourselves, without entangling ourselves in the accidents. human excellence, after all the teaching of the last eighteen hundred years, ought to be something palpable by this time. it is the one thing which we are all taught to seek and to aim at forming in ourselves; and if representative men are good for anything at all, it can only be, not as they represent merely curious combinations of phenomena, but as they illustrate us in a completely realised form, what we are, every single one of us, equally interested in understanding. it is not the 'great man' as 'man of the world' that we care for, but the 'man of the world' as a 'great man'--which is a very different thing. having to live in this world, how to live greatly here is the question for us; not, how, being great, we can cast our greatness in a worldly mould. there may be endless successful 'men of the world' who are mean or little enough all the while; and the emersonian attitude will confuse success with greatness, or turn our ethics into a chaos of absurdity. so it is with everything which man undertakes and works in. life has grown complicated; and for one employment in old times there are a hundred now. but it is not _they_ which are anything, but _we_. we are the end, they are but the means, the material--like the clay, or the marble, or the bronze in which the sculptor carves his statue. the _form_ is everything; and what is the form? from nursery to pulpit every teacher rings on the one note--be good, be noble, be men. what is goodness then? and what is nobleness? and where are the examples? we do not say that there are none. god forbid! that is not what we are meaning at all. if the earth had ceased to bear men pleasant in god's sight, it would have passed away like the cities in the plain. but who are they? which are they? how are we to know them? they are our leaders in this life campaign of ours. if we could see them, we would follow them, and save ourselves many and many a fall, and many an enemy whom we could have avoided, if we had known of him. it cannot be that the thing is so simple, when names of highest reputation are wrangled over, and such poor counterfeits are mobbed with applauding followers. in art and science we can detect the charlatan, but in life we do not recognise him so readily--we do not recognise the charlatan, and we do not recognise the true man. rajah brooke is alternately a hero or a pirate; and fifty of the best men among us are likely to have fifty opinions on the merits of elizabeth or cromwell. but surely, men say, the thing is simple. the commandments are simple. it is not that people do not know, but that they will not act up to what they know. we hear a great deal of this in sermons, and elsewhere; and of course, as everybody's experience will tell him, there is a great deal too much reason why we should hear of it. but there are two sorts of duty, positive and negative; what we ought to do, and what we ought not to do. to the latter of these, conscience is pretty much awake; but by cunningly concentrating its attention on one side of the matter, conscience has contrived to forget altogether that any other sort exists at all. 'doing wrong' is breaking a commandment which forbids us to do some particular thing. that is all the notion which in common language is attached to the idea. do not kill, steal, lie, swear, commit adultery, or break the lord's day--these are the commandments; very simple, doubtless, and easy to be known. but, after all, what are they? they are no more than the very first and rudimental conditions of goodness. obedience to these is not more than a small part of what is required of us; it is no more than the foundation on which the superstructure of character is to be raised. to go through life, and plead at the end of it that we have not broken any of these commandments, is but what the unprofitable servant did, who kept his talent carefully unspent, and yet was sent to outer darkness for his uselessness. suppose these commandments obeyed--what then? it is but a small portion of our time which, we will hope, is spent in resisting temptation to break them. what are we to do with the rest of it? or suppose them (and this is a high step indeed) resolved into love of god and love of our neighbour. suppose we know that it is our duty to love our neighbour as ourselves. what are we to do, then, for our neighbour, besides abstaining from doing him injury? the saints knew very well what _they_ were to do; but our duties, we suppose, lie in a different direction; and it does not appear that we have found them. 'we have duties so positive to our neighbour,' says bishop butler, 'that if we give more of our time and of our attention to ourselves and our own matters than is our just due, we are taking what is not ours, and are guilty of fraud.' what does bishop butler mean? it is easy to answer generally. in detail, it is not only difficult, it is impossible to answer at all. the modern world says--'mind your own business, and leave others to take care of theirs;' and whoever among us aspires to more than the negative abstaining from wrong, is left to his own guidance. there is no help for him, no instruction, no modern ideal which shall be to him what the heroes were to the young greek or roman, or the martyrs to the middle age christian. there is neither track nor footprint in the course which he will have to follow, while, as in the old fairy tale, the hillside which he is climbing is strewed with black stones mocking at him with their thousand voices. we have no moral criterion, no idea, no counsels of perfection; and surely this is the reason why education is so little prosperous with us; because the only education worth anything is the education of character, and we cannot educate a character unless we have some notion of what we would form. young men, as we know, are more easily led than driven. it is a very old story that to forbid this and that (so curious and contradictory is our nature) is to stimulate a desire to do it. but place before a boy a figure of a noble man; let the circumstances in which he has earned his claim to be called noble be such as the boy himself sees round himself; let him see this man rising over his temptation, and following life victoriously and beautifully forward, and, depend on it, you will kindle his heart as no threat of punishment here or anywhere will kindle it. people complain of the sameness in the 'lives of the saints.' it is that very sameness which is the secret of their excellence. there is a sameness in the heroes of the 'iliad;' there is a sameness in the historical heroes of greece and rome. a man is great as he contends best with the circumstances of his age, and those who fight best with the same circumstances, of course grow like each other. and so with our own age--if we really could have the lives of our best men written for us (and written well, by men who knew what to look for, and what it was on which they should insist), they would be just as like as each other too, and would for that reason be of such infinite usefulness. they would not be like the old ideals. times are changed; they were one thing, we have to be another--their enemies are not ours. there is a moral metempsychosis in the change of era, and probably no lineament of form or feature remains identical; yet surely not because less is demanded of us--not less, but more--more, as we are again and again told on sundays from the pulpits; if the preachers would but tell us in what that 'more' consists. the loftiest teaching we ever hear is, that we are to work in the spirit of love; but we are still left to generalities, while action divides and divides into ever smaller details. it is as if the church said to the painter or to the musician whom she was training, you must work in the spirit of love and in the spirit of truth; and then adding, that the catholic painting or the catholic music was what he was _not_ to imitate, supposed that she had sent him out into the world equipped fully for his enterprise. and what comes of this? emersonianism has come, modern hagiology has come, and ainsworth novels and bulwer novels, and a thousand more unclean spirits. we have cast out the catholic devil, and the puritan has swept the house and garnished it; but as yet we do not see any symptoms showing of a healthy incoming tenant, and there may be worse states than catholicism. if we wanted proof of the utter spiritual disintegration into which we have fallen, it would be enough that we have no biographies. we do not mean that we have no written lives of our fellow-creatures; there are enough and to spare. but not any one is there in which the ideal tendencies of this age can be discerned in their true form; not one, or hardly any one, which we could place in a young man's hands, with such warm confidence as would let us say of it--'read that; there is a man--such a man as you ought to be; read it, meditate on it; see what he was, and how he made himself what he was, and try and be yourself like him.' this, as we saw lately, is what catholicism did. it had its one broad type of perfection, which in countless thousands of instances was perpetually reproducing itself--a type of character not especially belonging to any one profession; it was a type to which priest and layman, knight or bishop, king or peasant, might equally aspire: men of all sorts aspired to it, and men of all sorts attained to it; and as fast as she had realised them (so to say), the church took them in her arms, and held them up before the world as fresh and fresh examples of victory over the devil. this is what that church was able to do, and it is what we cannot do; and yet, till we can learn to do it, no education which we can offer has any chance of prospering. perfection is not easy; it is of all things most difficult; difficult to know and difficult to practise. rules of life will not do; even if our analysis of life in all its possible forms were as complete as it is in fact rudimentary, they would still be inefficient. the philosophy of the thing might be understood, but the practice would be as far off as ever. in life, as in art, and as in mechanics, the only profitable teaching is the teaching by example. your mathematician, or your man of science, may discourse excellently on the steam engine, yet he cannot make one; he cannot make a bolt or a screw. the master workman in the engine-room does not teach his apprentice the theory of expansion, or of atmospheric pressure; he guides his hand upon the turncock, he practises his eye upon the index, and he leaves the science to follow when the practice has become mechanical. so it is with everything which man learns to do; and yet for the art of arts, the trade of trades, for _life_, we content ourselves with teaching our children the catechism and the commandments; we preach them sermons on the good of being good, and the evil of being evil; in our higher education we advance to the theory of habit and the freedom of the will; and then, when failure follows failure, _ipsa experientia reclamante_, we hug ourselves with a complacent self-satisfied reflection that the fault is not ours, that all which men could do we have done. the freedom of the will!--as if a blacksmith would ever teach a boy to make a horseshoe, by telling him he could make one if he chose. in setting out on our journey through life, we are like strangers set to find their way across a difficult and entangled country. it is not enough for us to know that others have set out as we set out, that others have faced the lions in the path and overcome them, and have arrived at last at the journey's end. such a knowledge may give us heart--but the help it gives is nothing beyond teaching us that the difficulties are not insuperable. it is the _track_, which these others, these pioneers of godliness, have beaten in, that we cry to have shown us; not a mythic 'pilgrim's progress,' but a real path trodden in by real men. here is a crag, and there is but one spot where it can be climbed; here is a morass or a river, and there is a bridge in one place, and a ford in another. there are robbers in this forest, and wild beasts in that; the tracks cross and recross, and, as in the old labyrinth, only one will bring us right. the age of the saints has passed; they are no longer any service to us; we must walk in their spirit, but not along their road; and in this sense we say, that we have no pattern great men, no biographies, no history, which are of real service to us. it is the remarkable characteristic of the present time, as far as we know--a new phenomenon since history began to be written; one more proof, if we wanted proof, that we are entering on another era. in our present efforts at educating, we are like workmen setting about to make a machine which they know is to be composed of plates and joints, and wheels and screws and springs:--they temper their springs, and smooth their plates, and carve out carefully their wheels and screws, but having no idea of the machine in its combination, they either fasten them together at random, and create some monster of disjointed undirected force, or else pile the finished materials into a heap together, and trust to some organic spirit in themselves which will shape them into unity. we do not know what we would be at--make our children into men, says one--but what sort of men? the greeks were men, so were the jews, so were the romans, so were the old saxons, the normans, the duke of alva's spaniards, and cromwell's puritans. these were all men, and strong men too; yet all different, and all differently trained. 'into christian men,' say others: but the saints were christian men; yet the modern englishmen have been offered the saints' biographies, and have with sufficient clearness expressed their opinion of them. alas! in all this confusion, only those keen-eyed children of this world find their profit; their idea does not readily forsake them. in their substantial theory of life, the business of man in it is to get on, to thrive, to prosper, to have riches in possession. they will have their little ones taught, by the law of demand, what will fetch its price in the market; and this is clear, bold, definite, straightforward--and therefore it is strong, and works its way. it works and will prevail for a time; for a time--but not for ever, unless indeed religion be all a dream, and our airy notions of ourselves a vision out of which our wise age is the long-waited-for awakening. it would be a weary and odious business to follow out all the causes which have combined to bring us into our present state. many of them lie deep down in the roots of humanity, and many belong to that large system of moral causation which works through vast masses of mankind--which, impressing peculiar and necessary features on the eras as they succeed, leaves individuals but a limited margin within which they may determine what they will be. one cause, however, may be mentioned, which lies near the surface, and which for many reasons it may be advantageous to consider. at first thought it may seem superficial and captious; but we do not think it will at the second, and still less at the third. protestantism, and even anglo-protestantism, has not been without its great men. in their first fierce struggle for existence, these creeds gave birth to thousands whose names may command any rank in history. but alone of all forms of religion, past or present, and we will add (as we devoutly hope), to come (for in her present form, at least, the church of england cannot long remain), protestantism knows not what to do with her own offspring; she is unable to give them open and honourable recognition. entangled in speculative theories of human depravity, of the worthlessness of the best which the best men can do, protestantism is unable to say heartily of any one, 'here is a good man to be loved and remembered with reverence.' there are no saints in the english church. the english church does not pretend to saints. her children may live purely, holily, and beautifully, but her gratitude for them must be silent; she may not thank god for them--she may not hold them up before her congregation. they may or they may not have been really good, but she may not commit herself to attributing a substantial value to the actions of a nature so corrupt as that of man. among protestants, the church of england is the worst, for she is not wholly protestant. in the utterness of the self-abnegation of the genuine protestant there is something approaching the heroic. but she, ambitious of being catholic as well as protestant, like that old church of evil memory which would be neither hot nor cold, will neither wholly abandon merit, nor wholly claim it; but halts on between two opinions, claiming and disclaiming, saying and in the next breath again unsaying. the oxford student being asked for the doctrine of the anglican church on good works, knew the rocks and whirlpools among which an unwary answer might involve him, and steering midway between scylla and charybdis, replied, with laudable caution, 'a few of them would not do a man any harm.' it is scarcely a caricature of the prudence of the articles. and so at last it has come to this with us. the soldier can raise a column to his successful general; the halls of the law courts are hung round with portraits of the ermined sages; newton has his statue, and harvey and watt, in the academies of the sciences; and each young aspirant after fame, entering for the first time upon the calling which he has chosen, sees high excellence highly honoured; sees the high career, and sees its noble ending, marked out each step of it in golden letters. but the church's aisles are desolate, and desolate they must remain. there is no statue for the christian. the empty niches stare out like hollow eye-sockets from the walls. good men live in the church and die in her, whose story written out or told would be of inestimable benefit, but she may not write it. she may speak of goodness, but not of the good man; as she may speak of sin, but may not censure the sinner. her position is critical; the dissenters would lay hold of it. she may not do it, but she will do what she can. she cannot tolerate an image indeed, or a picture of her own raising; she has no praise to utter at her children's graves, when their lives have witnessed to her teaching. but if others will bear the expense and will risk the sin, she will offer no objection. her walls are naked. the wealthy ones among her congregation may adorn them as they please; the splendour of a dead man's memorial shall be, not as his virtues were, but as his purse; and his epitaph may be brilliant according as there are means to pay for it. they manage things better at the museums and the institutes. let this pass, however, as the worst case. there are other causes at work besides the neglect of churches; the neglect itself being as much a result as a cause. there is a common dead level over the world, to which churches and teachers, however seemingly opposite, are alike condemned. as it is here in england, so it is with the american emerson. the fault is not in them, but in the age of which they are no more than the indicators. we are passing out of old forms of activity into others new and on their present scale untried; and how to work nobly in them is the one problem for us all. surius will not profit us, nor the 'mort d'arthur.' our calling is neither to the hermitage nor to the round table. our work lies now in those peaceful occupations which, in ages called heroic, were thought unworthy of noble souls. in those it was the slave who tilled the ground, and wove the garments. it was the ignoble burgher who covered the sea with his ships, and raised up factories and workshops; and how far such occupations influenced the character, how they could be made to minister to loftiness of heart, and high and beautiful life, was a question which could not occur while the atmosphere of the heroic was on all sides believed so alien to them. times have changed. the old hero worship has vanished with the need of it; but no other has risen in its stead, and without it we wander in the dark. the commonplaces of morality, the negative commandments, general exhortations to goodness, while neither speaker nor hearer can tell what they mean by goodness--these are all which now remain to us; and thrown into a life more complicated than any which the earth has yet experienced, we are left to wind our way through the labyrinth of its details without any clue except our own instincts, our own knowledge, our own hopes and desires. we complain of generalities; we will not leave ourselves exposed to the same charge. we will mention a few of the thousand instances in which we cry for guidance and find none; instances on which those who undertake to teach us ought to have made up their minds. on the surface at least of the prayer-book, there seems to be something left remaining of the catholic penitential system. fasting is spoken of and abstinence, and some form or other of self-inflicted self-denial is necessarily meant. this thing can by no possibility be unimportant, and we may well smile at the exclusive claims of a church to the cure of our souls, who is unable to say what she thinks about it. let us ask her living interpreters then, and what shall we get for an answer? either no answer at all, or contradictory answers; angrily, violently, passionately, contradictory. among the many voices, what is a young man to conclude? he will conclude naturally according to his inclination; and if he chooses right, it will most likely be on a wrong motive. again, _courage_ is, on all hands, considered as an essential of high character. among all fine people, old and modern, wherever we are able to get an insight into their training system, we find it a thing particularly attended to. the greeks, the romans, the old persians, our own nation till the last two hundred years, whoever of mankind have turned out good for anything anywhere, knew very well, that to exhort a boy to be brave without training him in it, would be like exhorting a young colt to submit to the bridle without breaking him in. step by step, as he could bear it, the boy was introduced to danger, till his pulse ceased to be agitated, and he became familiarised with peril as his natural element. it was a matter of carefully considered, thoroughly recognised, and organised education. but courage nowadays is not a paying virtue. courage does not help to make money, and so we have ceased to care about it; and boys are left to educate one another by their own semi-brutal instincts, in this, which is perhaps the most important of all features in the human character. schools, as far as the masters are concerned with them, are places for teaching greek and latin--that, and nothing more. at the universities, fox-hunting is, perhaps, the only discipline of the kind now to be found, and fox-hunting, by forbidding it and winking at it, the authorities have contrived to place on as demoralising a footing as ingenuity could devise.[aa] to pass from training to life. a boy has done with school and college; he has become a man, and has to choose his profession. it is the one most serious step which he has yet taken. in most cases, there is no recalling it. he believes that he is passing through life to eternity; that his chance of getting to heaven depends on what use he makes of his time; he prays every day that he may be delivered from temptation; it is his business to see that he does not throw himself into it. now, every one of the many professions has a peculiar character of its own, which, with rare exceptions, it inflicts on those who follow it. there is the shopkeeper type, the manufacturer type, the lawyer type, the medical type, the clerical type, the soldier's, the sailor's. the nature of a man is like the dyer's hand, subdued to what it works in; and we can distinguish with ease, on the slightest intercourse, to what class a grown person belongs. it is to be seen in his look, in his words, in his tone of thought, his voice, gesture, even in his hand-writing; and in everything which he does. every human employment has its especial moral characteristic, its peculiar temptations, its peculiar influences--of a subtle and not easily analysed kind, and only to be seen in their effects. here, therefore--here, if anywhere, we want mr. emerson with his representatives, or the church with her advice and warning. but, in fact, what attempt do we see to understand any of this, or even to acknowledge it; to master the moral side of the professions; to teach young men entering them what they are to expect, what to avoid, or what to seek? where are the highest types--the pattern lawyer, and shopkeeper, and merchant? are they all equally favourable to excellence of character? do they offer equal opportunities? which best suits this disposition, and which suits that? alas! character is little thought of in the choice. it is rather, which shall i best succeed in? where shall i make most money? suppose an anxious boy to go for counsel to his spiritual mother; to go to her, and ask her to guide him. shall i be a soldier? he says. what will she tell him? this and no more--you may, without sin. shall i be a lawyer, merchant, manufacturer, tradesman, engineer? still the same answer. but which is best? he demands. we do not know: we do not know. there is no guilt in either; you may take which you please, provided you go to church regularly, and are honest and good. if he is foolish enough to persist further, and ask, in what goodness and honesty consist in _his especial department_ (whichever he selects), he will receive the same answer; in other words, he will be told to give every man his due and be left to find out for himself in what 'his due' consists. it is like an artist telling his pupil to put the lights and shadows in their due places, and leaving it to the pupil's ingenuity to interpret such instructive directions. one more instance of an obviously practical kind. masters, few people will now deny, owe certain duties to their workmen beyond payment at the competition price for their labour, and the workmen owe something to their masters beyond making their own best bargain. courtesy, on the one side, and respect on the other, are at least due; and wherever human beings are brought in contact, a number of reciprocal obligations at once necessarily arise out of the conditions of their position. it is this question which at the present moment is convulsing an entire branch of english trade. it is this question which has shaken the continent like an earthquake, and yet it is one which, the more it is thought about, the more clearly seems to refuse to admit of being dealt with by legislation. it is a question for the gospel and not for the law. the duties are of the kind which it is the business, not of the state, but of the church, to look to. why is the church silent? there are duties; let her examine them, sift them, prove them, and then point them out. why not--why not? alas! she cannot, she dare not give offence, and therefore must find none. it is to be feared that we have a rough trial to pass through, before we find our way and understand our obligations. yet far off we seem to see a time when the lives, the actions of the really great, great good masters, great good landlords, great good working men, will be laid out once more before their several orders, laid out in the name of god, as once the saints' lives were; and the same sounds shall be heard in factory and in counting-house as once sounded through abbey, chapel, and cathedral aisle--'look at these men; bless god for them, and follow them.' and let no one fear that, if such happy time were come, it would result in a tame and weary sameness; that the beautiful variety of individual form would be lost, drilled away in regimental uniformity. even if it were so, it need not be any the worse for us; we are not told to develope our individualities, we are told to bear fruit. the poor vagabond, with all his individualities about him, if by luck he falls into the hands of the recruiting sergeant, finds himself, a year later, with his red coat and his twelve months' training, not a little the better for the loss of them. but such schooling as we have been speaking of will drill out only such individualities as are of the unworthy kind, and will throw the strength of the nature into the development of the healthiest features in it. far more, as things now are, we see men sinking into sameness--an inorganic, unwholesome sameness, in which the higher nature is subdued, and the _man_ is sacrificed to the profession. the circumstances of his life are his world; and he sinks under them, he does not conquer them. if he has to choose between the two, god's uniform is better than the world's. the first gives him freedom; the second takes it from him. only here, as in everything, we must understand the nature of the element in which we work; understand it; understand the laws of it. throw off the lower laws; the selfish, debasing influences of the profession; obey the higher; follow love, truthfulness, manliness; follow these first, and make the profession serve them; and that is freedom; there is none else possible for man. das gesetz soll nur uns freiheit geben; and whatever individuality is lost in the process, we may feel assured that the devil has too much to do with, to make us care to be rid of it. but how to arrive at this? so easy as it is to suggest on paper, so easy to foretell in words. raise the level of public opinion, we might say; insist on a higher standard; in the economist's language, increase the demand for goodness, and the supply will follow; or, at any rate, men will do their best. until we require more of one another, more will not be provided. but this is but to restate the problem in other words. how are we to touch the heart; how to awaken the desire? we believe that the good man, the great man, whatever he be, prince or peasant, is really lovely; that really and truly, if we can only see him, he more than anything will move us; and at least, we have a right to demand that the artificial hindrances which prevent our lifting him above the crowd, shall be swept away. he in his beautiful life is a thousand times more god's witness than any preacher in a pulpit, and his light must not be concealed any more. as we said, what lies in the way of our sacred recognition of great men is more than anything else the protestant doctrine of good works. we do not forget what it meant when the world first heard of it. it was a cry from the very sanctuary of the soul, flinging off and execrating the accursed theory of merits, the sickening parade of redundant saintly virtues, which the roman church had converted into stock, and dispensed for the benefit of the believers. this is not the place to pour out our nausea on so poor, yet so detestable a farce. but it seems with all human matters, that as soon as spiritual truths are petrified into doctrines, it is another name for their death. they die, corrupt, and breed a pestilence. the doctrine of good works was hurled away by an instinct of generous feeling, and this feeling itself has again become dead, and a fresh disease has followed upon it. nobody (or, at least, nobody good for anything) will lay a claim to merit for this or that good action which he may have done. exactly in proportion as a man is really good, will be the eagerness with which he will refuse all credit for it; he will cry out, with all his soul, 'not unto us--not unto us.' and yet, practically, we all know and feel that between man and man there is an infinite moral difference; one is good, one is bad, another hovers between the two; the whole of our conduct to each other is necessarily governed by a recognition of this fact, just as it is in the analogous question of the will. ultimately, we are nothing of ourselves; we know that we are but what god has given us grace to be--we did not make ourselves--we do not keep ourselves here--we are but what in the eternal order of providence we were designed to be--exactly that and nothing else; and yet we treat each other as responsible; we cannot help it. the most rigid calvinist cannot eliminate his instincts; his loves and hatreds seem rather to deepen in intensity of colouring as, logically, his creed should lead him to conquer them as foolish. it is useless, it is impossible, to bring down these celestial mysteries upon our earth, to try to see our way by them, or determine our feelings by them; men are good, men are bad, relatively to us and to our understandings if you will, but still really, and so they must be treated. there is no more mischievous falsehood than to persist in railing at man's nature, as if it were all vile together, as if the best and the worst which comes of it were in god's sight equally without worth. these denunciations tend too fatally to realise themselves. tell a man that no good which he can do is of any value, and depend upon it he will take you at your word--most especially will the wealthy, comfortable, luxurious man, just the man who has most means to do good, and whom of all things it is most necessary to stimulate to it. surely we should not be afraid. the instincts which god has placed in our hearts are too mighty for us to be able to extinguish them with doctrinal sophistry. we love the good man, we praise him, we admire him--we cannot help it; and surely it is mere cowardice to shrink from recognising it openly--thankfully, divinely recognising it. if true at all, there is no truth in heaven or earth of deeper practical importance to us; and protestantism must have lapsed from its once generous spirit, if it persists in imposing a dogma of its own upon our hearts, the touch of which is fatal as the touch of a torpedo to any high or noble endeavours after excellence. 'drive out nature with a fork, she ever comes running back;' and while we leave out of consideration the reality, we are filling the chasm with inventions of our own. the only novels which are popular among us are those which picture the successful battles of modern men and women with modern life, which are imperfect shadows of those real battles which every reader has seen in some form or other, or has longed to see in his own small sphere. it shows where the craving lies if we had but the courage to meet it; why need we fall back on imagination to create what god has created ready for us? in every department of human life, in the more and the less, there is always one man who is the best, and one type of man which is the best, living and working his silent way to heaven in the very middle of us. let us find this type then--let us see what it is which makes such men the best, and raise up their excellencies into an acknowledged and open standard, of which they themselves shall be the living witnesses. is there a landlord who is spending his money, not on pineries and hothouses, but on schools, and washhouses, and drains, who is less intent on the magnificence of his own grand house, than in providing cottages for his people where decency is possible; then let us not pass him by with a torpid wonder or a vanishing emotion of pleasure--rather let us seize him and raise him up upon a pinnacle, that other landlords may gaze upon him, if, perhaps, their hearts may prick them; and the world shall learn from what one man has done what they have a right to require that others shall do. so it might be through the thousand channels of life. it should not be so difficult; the machinery is ready, both to find your men and to use them. in theory, at least, every parish has its pastor, and the state of every soul is or ought to be known. we know not what turn things may take, or what silent changes are rushing on below us. even while the present organisation remains--but, alas! no--it is no use to urge a church bound hand and foot in state shackles to stretch its limbs in any wholesome activity. if the teachers of the people really were the wisest and best and noblest men among us, this and a thousand other blessed things would follow from it; till then let us be content to work and pray, and lay our hand to the wheel wherever we can find a spoke to grasp. _corruptio optimi est pessima_; the national church as it ought to be is the soul and conscience of the body politic, but a man whose body has the direction of his conscience we do not commonly consider in the most hopeful moral condition. footnotes: [aa] written . reynard the fox.[ab] lord macaulay, in his essay on machiavelli, propounds a singular theory. declining the various solutions which have been offered to explain how a man supposed to be so great could have lent his genius to the doctrine of 'the prince,' he has advanced a hypothesis of his own, which may or may not be true, as an interpretation of machiavelli's character, but which, as an exposition of a universal ethical theory, is as questionable as what it is brought forward to explain. we will not show lord macaulay the disrespect of supposing that he has attempted an elaborate piece of irony. it is possible that he may have been exercising his genius with a paradox, but the subject is not of the sort in which we can patiently permit such exercises. it is hard work with all of us to keep ourselves straight, even when we see the road with all plainness as it lies out before us; and clever men must be good enough to find something else to amuse themselves with, instead of dusting our eyes with sophistry. according to this conception of human nature, the basenesses and the excellencies of mankind are no more than accidents of circumstance, the results of national feeling and national capabilities; and cunning and treachery, and lying, and such other 'natural defences of the weak against the strong,' are in themselves neither good nor bad, except as thinking makes them so. they are the virtues of a weak people, and they will be as much admired, and are as justly admirable; they are to the full as compatible with the highest graces and most lofty features of the heart and intellect as any of those opposite so called heroisms which we are generally so unthinking as to allow to monopolise the name. cunning is the only resource of the feeble; and why may we not feel for victorious cunning as strong a sympathy as for the bold, downright, open bearing of the strong? that there may be no mistake in the essayist's meaning, that he may drive the nail home into the english understanding, he takes an illustration which shall be familiar to all of us in the characters of iago and othello. to our northern thought, the free and noble nature of the moor is wrecked through a single infirmity, by a fiend in the human form. to one of machiavelli's italians, iago's keen-edged intellect would have appeared as admirable as othello's daring appears to us, and othello himself little better than a fool and a savage. it is but a change of scene, of climate, of the animal qualities of the frame, and evil has become good, and good has become evil. now, our displeasure with lord macaulay is, not that he has advanced a novel and mischievous theory: it was elaborated long ago in the finely tempered dialectics of the schools of rhetoric at athens; and so long as such a phenomenon as a cultivated rogue remains possible among mankind, it will reappear in all languages and under any number of philosophical disguises. seldom or never, however, has it appeared with so little attempt at disguise. it has been left for questionable poets and novelists to idealise the rascal genus; philosophers have escaped into the ambiguities of general propositions, and we do not remember elsewhere to have met with a serious ethical thinker deliberately laying two whole organic characters, with their vices and virtues in full life and bloom, side by side, asking himself which is best, and answering gravely that it is a matter of taste. lord macaulay has been bolder than his predecessors; he has shrunk from no conclusion, and has looked directly into the very heart of the matter; he has struck, as we believe, the very lowest stone of our ethical convictions, and declared that the foundation quakes under it. for, ultimately, how do we know that right is right, and wrong is wrong? people in general accept it on authority; but authority itself must repose on some ulterior basis; and what is that? are we to say that in morals there is a system of primary axioms, out of which we develope our conclusions, and apply them, as they are needed, to life? it does not appear so. the analogy of morals is rather with art than with geometry. the grace of heaven gives us good men, and gives us beautiful creations; and we, perceiving by the instincts within ourselves that celestial presence in the objects on which we gaze, find out for ourselves the laws which make them what they are, not by comparing them with any antecedent theory, but by careful analysis of our own impressions, by asking ourselves what it is which we admire in them, and by calling that good, and calling that beautiful. so, then, if admiration be the first fact--if the sense of it be the ultimate ground on which the after temple of morality, as a system, upraises itself--if we can be challenged here on our own ground, and fail to make it good, what we call the life of the soul becomes a dream of a feeble enthusiast, and we moralists a mark for the sceptic's finger to point at with scorn. bold and ably-urged arguments against our own convictions, if they do not confuse us, will usually send us back over our ground to re-examine the strength of our positions: and if we are honest with ourselves, we shall very often find points of some uncertainty left unguarded, of which the show of the strength of our enemy will oblige us to see better to the defence. it was not without some shame, and much uneasiness, that, while we were ourselves engaged in this process, full of indignation with lord macaulay, we heard a clear voice ringing in our ear, 'who art thou that judgest another?' and warning us of the presence in our own heart of a sympathy, which we could not 'deny,' with the sadly questionable hero of the german epic, 'reynard the fox.' with our vulpine friend, we were on the edge of the very same abyss, if, indeed, we were not rolling in the depth of it. by what sophistry could we justify ourselves, if not by the very same which we had just been so eagerly condemning? and our conscience whispered to us that we had been swift to detect a fault in another, because it was the very fault to which, in our own heart of hearts, we had a latent leaning. was it so indeed, then? was reineke no better than iago? was the sole difference between them, that the _vates sacer_ who had sung the exploits of reineke loved the wicked rascal, and entangled us in loving him? it was a question to be asked. and yet we had faith enough in the straight-forwardness of our own sympathies to feel sure that it must admit of some sort of answer. and, indeed, we rapidly found an answer satisfactory enough to give us time to breathe, in remembering that reineke, with all his roguery, has no malice in him. it is not in his nature to hate; he could not do it if he tried. the characteristic of iago is that deep motiveless malignity which rejoices in evil as its proper element--which loves evil as good men love virtue. in calculations on the character of the moor, iago despises othello's unsuspicious trustingness as imbecility, while he hates him as a man because his nature is the perpetual opposite and perpetual reproach of his own. now, reineke would not have hurt a creature, not even scharfenebbe, the crow's wife, when she came to peck his eyes out, if he had not been hungry; and that [greek: gastros anankê], that craving of the stomach, makes a difference quite infinite. it is true that, like iago, reineke rejoices in the exercise of his intellect: the sense of his power and the scientific employment of his time are a real delight to him; but then, as we said, he does not love evil for its own sake; he is only somewhat indifferent to it. if the other animals venture to take liberties with him, he will repay them in their own coin, and get his quiet laugh at them at the same time; but the object generally for which he lives is the natural one of getting his bread for himself and his family; and, as the great moralist says, 'it is better to be bad for something than for nothing.' badness generally is undesirable; but badness in its essence, which may be called heroic badness, is gratuitous. but this first thought served merely to give us a momentary relief from our alarm, and we determined we would sift the matter to the bottom, and no more expose ourselves to be taken at such disadvantage. we went again to the poem, with our eyes open, and our moral sense as keenly awake as a genuine wish to understand our feelings could make it. we determined that we would really know what we did feel and what we did not. we would not be lightly scared away from our friend, but neither would we any more allow our judgment to be talked down by that fluent tongue of his; he should have justice from us, he and his biographer, as far as it lay with us to discern justice and to render it. and really on this deliberate perusal it did seem little less than impossible that we could find any conceivable attribute illustrated in reineke's proceedings which we could dare to enter in our catalogue of virtues, and not blush to read it there. what sin is there in the decalogue in which he has not steeped himself to the lips? to the lips, shall we say? nay, over head and ears--rolling and rollicking in sin. murder, and theft, and adultery; sacrilege, perjury, lying--his very life is made of them. on he goes to the end, heaping crime on crime, and lie on lie, and at last, when it seems that justice, which has been so long vainly halting after him, has him really in her iron grasp, there is a solemn appeal to heaven, a challenge, a battle ordeal, in which, by means we may not venture even to whisper, the villain prospers, and comes out glorious, victorious, amidst the applause of a gazing world. to crown it all, the poet tells us that under the disguise of the animal name and form the world of man is represented, and the true course of it; and the idea of the book is, that we who read it may learn therein to discern between good and evil, and choose the first and avoid the last. it seemed beyond the power of sophistry to whitewash reineke, and the interest which still continued to cling to him seemed too nearly to resemble the unwisdom of the multitude, with whom success is the one virtue, and failure the only crime. it appeared, too, that although the animal disguises were too transparent to endure a moment's reflection, yet that they were so gracefully worn that such moment's reflection was not to be come at without an effort. our imagination following the costume, did imperceptibly betray our judgment; we admired the human intellect, the ever ready prompt sagacity and presence of mind. we delighted in the satire on the foolishnesses and greedinesses of our own fellow-creatures; but in our regard for the hero we forgot his humanity wherever it was his interest that we should forget it, and while we admired him as a man we judged him only as a fox. we doubt whether it would have been possible, if he had been described as an open acknowledged biped in coat and trousers, to have retained our regard for him. something or other in us, either real rightmindedness, or humbug, or hypocrisy, would have obliged us to mix more censure with our liking than most of us do in the case as it stands. it may be that the dress of the fox throws us off our guard, and lets out a secret or two which we commonly conceal even from ourselves. when we have to pass an opinion upon bad people, who at the same time are clever and attractive, we say rather what we think that we ought to feel than what we feel in reality; while with reineke, being but an animal, we forget to make ourselves up, and for once our genuine tastes show themselves freely. some degree of truth there undoubtedly is in this. but making all allowance for it--making all and over allowance for the trick which is passed upon our senses, there still remained a feeling unresolved. the poem was not solely the apotheosis of a rascal in whom we were betrayed into taking an interest; and it was not a satire merely on the world, and on the men whom the world delight to honour. there was still something which really deserved to be liked in reineke, and what it was we had as yet failed to discover. 'two are better than one,' and we resolved in our difficulty to try what our friends might have to say about it. the appearance of the wurtemburg animals at the exhibition came fortunately _apropos_ to our assistance: a few years ago it was rare to find a person who had read the fox epic; and still more, of course, to find one whose judgment would be worth taking about it. but now the charming figures of reineke himself, and the lion king, and isegrim, and bruin, and bellyn, and hintze, and grimbart, had set all the world asking who and what they were, and the story began to get itself known. the old editions, which had long slept unbound in reams upon the shelves, began to descend and clothe themselves in green and crimson. mr. dickens sent a summary of it round the households of england. everybody began to talk of reineke; and now, at any rate, we said to ourselves, we shall see whether we are alone in our liking--whether others share in this strange sympathy, or whether it be some unique and monstrous moral obliquity in ourselves. we set to work, therefore, with all earnestness, feeling our way first with fear and delicacy, as conscious of our own delinquency, to gather judgments which should be wiser than our own, and correct ourselves, if it proved that we required correction, with whatever severity might be necessary. the result of this labour of ours was not a little surprising. we found that women invariably, with that clear moral instinct of theirs, at once utterly reprobated and detested our poor reynard; detested the hero and detested the bard who sang of him with so much sympathy; while men we found almost invariably feeling just as we felt ourselves, only with this difference, that we saw no trace of uneasiness in them about the matter. it was no little comfort to us, moreover, to find that the exceptions were rather among the half-men, the would-be extremely good, but whose goodness was of that dead and passive kind which spoke to but a small elevation of thought or activity; while just in proportion as a man was strong, and real, and energetic, was his ability to see good in reineke. it was really most strange: one near friend of ours--a man who, as far as we knew (and we knew him well), had never done a wrong thing--when we ventured to hint something about roguery, replied, 'you see, he was such a clever rogue, that he had a right.' another, whom we pressed more closely with that treacherous cannibal feast at malepartus, on the body of poor lampe, said off-hand and with much impatience of such questioning, 'such fellows were made to be eaten.' what could we do? it had come to this;--as in the exuberance of our pleasure with some dear child, no ordinary epithet will sometimes reach to express the vehemence of our affection, and borrowing language out of the opposites, we call him little rogue or little villain, so here, reversing the terms of the analogy, we bestow the fulness of our regard on reineke because of that transcendently successful roguery. when we asked our friends how they came to feel as they did, they had little to say. they were not persons who could be suspected of any latent disposition towards evil-doing; and yet though it appeared as if they were falling under the description of those unhappy ones who, if they did not such things themselves, yet 'had pleasure in those who did them,' they did not care to justify themselves. the fact was so: [greek: archê to hoti]: it was a fact--what could we want more? some few attempted feebly to maintain that the book was a satire. but this only moved the difficulty a single step; for the fact of the sympathy remained unimpaired, and if it was a satire we were ourselves the objects of it. others urged what we said above, that the story was only of poor animals that, according to descartes, not only had no souls, but scarcely had even life in any original and sufficient sense, and therefore we need not trouble ourselves. but one of two alternatives it seemed we were bound to choose, either of which was fatal to the proposed escape. either there was a man hiding under the fox's skin; or else, if real foxes have such brains as reineke was furnished withal, no honest doubt could be entertained that some sort of conscience was not forgotten in the compounding of him, and he must be held answerable according to his knowledge. what would mr. carlyle say of it, we thought, with his might and right? 'the just thing in the long run is the strong thing.' but reineke had a long run out and came in winner. does he only 'seem to succeed?' who does succeed, then, if he no more than seems? the vulpine intellect knows where the geese live, it is elsewhere said; but among reineke's victims we do not remember one goose, in the literal sense of goose; and as to geese metaphorical, the whole visible world lies down complacently at his feet. nor does mr. carlyle's expressed language on this very poem serve any better to help us--nay, it seems as if he feels uneasy in the neighbourhood of so strong a rascal, so briefly he dismisses him. 'worldly prudence is the only virtue which is certain of its reward.' nay, but there is more in it than that: no worldly prudence would command the voices which have been given in to us for reineke. three only possibilities lay now before us: either we should, on searching, find something solid in the fox's doings to justify success; or else the just thing was not always the strong thing; or it might be, that such very semblance of success was itself the most miserable failure; that the wicked man who was struck down and foiled, and foiled again, till he unlearnt his wickedness, or till he was disabled from any more attempting it, was blessed in his disappointment; that to triumph in wickedness, and to continue in it and to prosper to the end, was the last, worst penalty inflicted by the divine vengeance. [greek: hin' athanatos ê adikos ôn]--to go on with injustice through this world and through all eternity, uncleansed by any purgatorial fire, untaught by any untoward consequence to open his eyes and to see in its true accursed form the miserable demon to which he has sold himself--this, of all catastrophes which could befal an evil man, was the deepest, lowest, and most savouring of hell, which the purest of the grecian moralists could reason out for himself,--under which third hypothesis many an uneasy misgiving would vanish away, and mr. carlyle's broad aphorism might be accepted by us with thankfulness. it appeared, therefore, at any rate, to have to come to this--that if we wanted a solution for our sphinx enigma, no oedipus was likely to rise and find it for us; and that if we wanted help, we must take it for ourselves. this only we found, that if we sinned in our regard for the unworthy animal, we shared our sin with the largest number of our own sex; comforted with the sense of good fellowship, we went boldly to work upon our consciousness; and the imperfect analysis which we succeeded in accomplishing, we here lay before you, whoever you may be, who have felt, as we have felt, a regard which was a moral disturbance to you, and which you will be pleased if we enable you to justify-- si quid novisti rectius istis, candidus imperti; si non, his uttere mecum. following the clue which was thrust into our hand by the marked difference of the feelings of men upon the subject, from those of women, we were at once satisfied that reineke's goodness, if he had any, must lay rather in the active than the passive department of life. the negative obedience to prohibitory precepts, under which women are bound as well as men, as was already too clear, we were obliged to surrender as hopeless. but it seemed as if, with respect to men whose business is to do, and to labour, and to accomplish, this negative test was a seriously imperfect one; and it was quite as possible that a man who unhappily had broken many prohibitions might yet exhibit positive excellences, as that he might walk through life picking his way with the utmost assiduity, risking nothing and doing nothing, not committing a single sin, but keeping his talent carefully wrapt up in a napkin, and get sent, in the end, to outer darkness for his pains, as an unprofitable servant. and this appeared the more important to us, as it was very little dwelt upon by religions or moral teachers: at the end of six thousand years, the popular notion of virtue, as far as it could get itself expressed, had not risen beyond the mere abstinence from certain specific bad actions. the king of the beasts forgives reineke on account of the substantial services which at various times he has rendered. his counsel was always the wisest, his hand the promptest in cases of difficulty; and all that dexterity, and politeness, and courtesy, and exquisite culture had not been learnt without an effort, or without conquering many undesirable tendencies in himself. men are not born with any art in its perfection, and reineke had made himself valuable by his own sagacity and exertion. now, on the human stage, a man who has made himself valuable is certain to be valued. however we may pretend to estimate men according to the wrong things which they have done, or abstained from doing, we in fact follow the example of nobel, the king of the beasts: we give them their places among us according to the service-ableness and capability which they display. we might mention not a few eminent public servants, whom the world delights to honour--ministers, statesmen, lawyers, men of science, artists, poets, soldiers, who, if they were tried by the negative test, would show but a poor figure; yet their value is too real to be dispensed with; and we tolerate unquestionable wrong to secure the services of eminent ability. the world really does this, and it always has really done it from the beginning of the human history; and it is only indolence or cowardice which has left our ethical teaching halting so far behind the universal and necessary practice. even questionable prima donnas, in virtue of their sweet voices, have their praises hymned in drawing-room and newspaper, and applause rolls over them, and gold and bouquets shower on them from lips and hands which, except for those said voices, would treat them to a ruder reward. in real fact, we take our places in this world, not according to what we are not, but according to what we are. his holiness pope clement, when his audience-room rang with furious outcries for justice on benvenuto cellini, who, as far as half-a-dozen murders could form a title, was as fair a candidate for the gallows as ever swung from that unlucky wood, replied, 'all this is very well, gentlemen: these murders are bad things, we know that. but where am i to get another benvenuto if you hang this one for me?' or, to take an acknowledged hero, one of the old greek sort, the theme of the song of the greatest of human poets, whom it is less easy to refuse to admire than even our friend reineke. take ulysses. it cannot be said that he kept his hands from taking what was not his, or his tongue from speaking what was not true; and if frau ermelyn had to complain (as indeed there was too much reason for her complaining) of certain infirmities in her good husband reineke, penelope, too, might have urged a thing or two, if she had known as much about the matter as we know, which the modern moralist would find it hard to excuse. after all is said, the capable man is the man to be admired. the man who tries and fails, what is the use of him? we are in this world to do something--not to fail in doing it. of your bunglers--helpless, inefficient persons, 'unfit alike for good or ill,' who try one thing, and fail because they are not strong enough, and another, because they have not energy enough, and a third, because they have no talent--inconsistent, unstable, and therefore never to excel, what shall we say of them? what use is there in them? what hope is there of them? what can we wish for them? [greek: to mêpot' einai pant' ariston]. it were better for them they had never been born. to be able to do what a man tries to do, that is the first requisite; and given that, we may hope all things for him. 'hell is paved with good intentions,'the proverb says; and the enormous proportion of bad successes in this life lie between the desire and the execution. give us a man who is able to do what he settles that he desires to do, and we have the one thing indispensable. if he can succeed doing ill, much more he can succeed doing well. show him better, and, at any rate, there is a chance that he will do better. we are not concerned here with benvenuto or with ulysses further than to show, through the position which we all consent to give them, that there is much unreality in our common moral talk, against which we must be on our guard. and if we fling off an old friend, and take to affecting a hatred of him which we do not feel, we have scarcely gained by the exchange, even though originally our friendship may have been misplaced. capability no one will deny to reineke. that is the very _differentia_ of him. an 'animal capable' would be his sufficient definition. here is another very genuinely valuable feature about him--his wonderful singleness of character. lying, treacherous, cunning scoundrel as he is, there is a wholesome absence of humbug about him. cheating all the world, he never cheats himself; and while he is a hypocrite, he is always a conscious hypocrite--a form of character, however paradoxical it may seem, a great deal more accessible to good influences than the other of the unconscious sort. ask reineke for the principles of his life, and if it suited his purpose to tell you, he could do so with the greatest exactness. there would be no discrepancy between the profession and the practice. he is most truly single-minded, and therefore stable in his ways, and therefore, as the world goes, and in the world's sense, successful. whether really successful is a question we do not care here to enter on; but only to say this--that of all unsuccessful men in every sense, either divine, or human, or devilish, there is none equal to bunyan's mr. facing-both-ways--the fellow with one eye on heaven and one on earth--who sincerely preaches one thing, and sincerely does another; and from the intensity of his unreality is unable either to see or feel the contradiction. serving god with his lips, and with the half of his mind which is not bound up in the world, and serving the devil with his actions, and with the other half, he is substantially trying to cheat both god and the devil, and is, in fact, only cheating himself and his neighbours. this, of all characters upon the earth, appears to us to be the one of whom there is no hope at all--a character becoming, in these days, alarmingly abundant; and the abundance of which makes us find even in a reineke an inexpressible relief. but what we most thoroughly value in him is his capacity. he can do what he sets to work to do. that blind instinct with which the world shouts and claps its hand for the successful man, is one of those latent impulses in us which are truer than we know; it is the universal confessional to which nature leads us, and, in her intolerance of disguise and hypocrisy, compels us to be our own accusers. whoever can succeed in a given condition of society, can succeed only in virtue of fulfilling the terms which society exacts of him; and if he can fulfil them triumphantly, of course it rewards him and praises him. he is what the rest of the world would be, if their powers were equal to their desires. he has accomplished what they all are vaguely, and with imperfect consistency, struggling to accomplish; and the character of the conqueror--the means and appliances by which he has climbed up that great pinnacle on which he stands victorious, the observed of all observers, is no more than a very exact indicator of the amount of real virtue in the age, out of which he stands prominent. we are forced to acknowledge that it was not a very virtuous age in which reineke made himself a great man; but that was the fault of the age as much as the fault of him. his nature is to succeed wherever he is. if the age had required something else of him, then he would have been something else. whatever it had said to him, 'do, and i will make you my hero,' that reineke would have done. no appetite makes a slave of him--no faculty refuses obedience to his will. his entire nature is under perfect organic control to the one supreme authority. and the one object for which he lives, and for which, let his lot have been cast in whatever century it might, he would always have lived, is to rise, to thrive, to prosper, and become great. the world as he found it said to him--prey upon us; we are your oyster, let your wit open us. if you will only do it cleverly--if you will take care that we shall not close upon your fingers in the process, you may devour us at your pleasure, and we shall feel ourselves highly honoured. can we wonder at a fox of reineke's abilities taking such a world at its word? and let it not be supposed that society in this earth of ours is ever so viciously put together, is ever so totally without organic life, that a rogue, unredeemed by any merit, can prosper in it. there is no strength in rottenness; and when it comes to that, society dies and falls in pieces. success, as it is called, even worldly success, is impossible, without some exercise of what is called moral virtue, without some portion of it, infinitesimally small, perhaps, but still some. courage, for instance, steady self-confidence, self-trust, self-reliance--that only basis and foundation stone on which a strong character can rear itself--do we not see this in reineke? while he lives, he lives for himself; but if he comes to dying, he can die like his betters; and his wit is not of that effervescent sort which will fly away at the sight of death and leave him panic-stricken. it is true there is a meaning to that word courage, which was perhaps not to be found in the dictionary in which reineke studied. 'i hope i am afraid of nothing, trim,' said my uncle toby, 'except doing a wrong thing.' with reineke there was no 'except.' his digestive powers shrank from no action, good or bad, which would serve his turn. yet it required no slight measure of courage to treat his fellow-creatures with the steady disrespect with which reineke treats them. to walk along among them, regardless of any interest but his own; out of mere wantonness to hook them up like so many cock-chafers, and spin them for his pleasure; not like domitian, with an imperial army to hold them down during the operation, but with no other assistance but his own little body and large wit; it was something to venture upon. and a world which would submit to be so treated, what could he do but despise? to the animals utterly below ourselves, external to our own species, we hold ourselves bound by no law. we say to them, _vos non vobis_, without any uneasy misgivings. we rob the bees of their honey, the cattle of their lives, the horse and the ass of their liberty. we kill the wild animals that they may not interfere with our pleasures; and acknowledge ourselves bound to them by no terms except what are dictated by our own convenience. and why should reineke have acknowledged an obligation any more than we, to creatures so utterly below himself? he was so clever, as our friend said, that he had a right. that he _could_ treat them so, mr. carlyle would say, proves that he had a right. but it is a mistake to say he is without a conscience. no bold creature is ever totally without one. even iago shows some sort of conscience. respecting nothing else in heaven or earth, he respects and even reverences his own intellect. after one of those sweet interviews with roderigo, his, what we must call conscience, takes him to account for his company; and he pleads to it in his own justification-- for i mine own gained knowledge should _profane_ were i to waste myself with such a snipe but for my sport and profit. reineke, if we take the mass of his misdeeds, preyed chiefly, like our own robin hood, on rogues who were greater rogues than himself. if bruin chose to steal rusteviel's honey, if hintze trespassed in the priest's granary, they were but taken in their own evildoings. and what is isegrim, the worst of reineke's victims, but a great heavy, stupid, lawless brute?--fair type, we will suppose, of not a few front-de-boeufs and other so-called nobles of the poet's era, whose will to do mischief was happily limited by their obtuseness. we remember that french baron--gilbert de retz, we believe, was his name--who, like isegrim, had studied at the universities, and passed for learned, whose after-dinner pastime for many years, as it proved at last, was to cut children's throats for the pleasure of watching them die. we may well feel gratitude that a reineke was provided to be the scourge of such monsters as these; and we have a thorough pure, exuberant satisfaction in seeing the intellect in that little weak body triumph over them and trample them down. this, indeed, this victory of intellect over brute force, is one great secret of our pleasure in the poem, and goes far, in the carlyle direction, to satisfy us that, at any rate, it is not given to mere base physical strength to win in the battle of life, even in times when physical strength is apparently the only recognised power. we are insensibly falling from our self-assumed judicial office into that of advocacy; and sliding into what may be plausibly urged, rather than standing fast on what we can surely affirm. yet there are cases when it is fitting for the judge to become the advocate of an undefended prisoner; and advocacy is only plausible when a few words of truth are mixed with what we say, like the few drops of wine which colour and faintly flavour the large draught of water. such few grains or drops, whatever they may be, we must leave to the kindness of reynard's friends to distil for him, while we continue a little longer in the same strain. after all, it may be said, what is it in man's nature which is really admirable? it is idle for us to waste our labour in passing reineke through the moral crucible unless we shall recognise the results when we obtain them; and in these moral sciences our analytical tests can only be obtained by a study of our own internal experience. if we desire to know what we admire in reineke, we must look for what we admire in ourselves. and what is that? is it what on sundays, and on set occasions, and when we are mounted on our moral stilts, we are pleased to call goodness, probity, obedience, humility? is it? is it really? is it not rather the face and form which nature made--the strength which is ours, we know not how--our talents, our rank, our possessions? it appears to us that we most value in ourselves and most admire in our neighbour, not acquisitions, but _gifts_. a man does not praise himself for being good. if he praise himself he is not good. the first condition of goodness is forgetfulness of self; and where self has entered, under however plausible a form, the health is but skin-deep, and underneath there is corruption. and so through everything; we value, we are vain of, proud of, or whatever you please to call it, not what we have done for ourselves, but what has been done for us--what has been given to us by the upper powers. we look up to high-born men, to wealthy men, to fortunate men, to clever men. is it not so? whom do we choose for the county member, the magistrate, the officer, the minister? the good man we leave to the humble enjoyment of his goodness, and we look out for the able or the wealthy. and again of the wealthy, as if on every side to witness to the same universal law, the man who with no labour of his own has inherited a fortune, ranks higher in the world's esteem than his father who made it. we take rank by descent. such of us as have the longest pedigree, and are therefore the farthest removed from the first who made the fortune and founded the family, we are the noblest. the nearer to the fountain, the fouler the stream; and that first ancestor, who has soiled his fingers by labour, is no better than a parvenu. and as it is with what we value, so it is with what we blame. it is an old story, that there is no one who would not in his heart prefer being a knave to being a fool; and when we fail in a piece of attempted roguery, as coleridge has wisely observed, though reasoning unwisely from it, we lay the blame, not on our own moral nature, for which we are responsible, but on our intellectual, for which we are not responsible. we do not say what knaves, we say what fools, we have been; perplexing coleridge, who regards it as a phenomenon of some deep moral disorder; whereas it is but one more evidence of the universal fact that _gifts_ are the true and proper object of appreciation; and as we admire men for possessing gifts, so we blame them for their absence. the noble man is the gifted man; the ignoble is the ungifted; and therefore we have only to state a simple law in simple language to have a full solution of the enigma of reineke. he has gifts enough: of that, at least, there can be no doubt; and if he lacks the gift to use them in the way which we call good, at least he uses them successfully. his victims are less gifted than he, and therefore less noble; and therefore he has a right to use them as he pleases. * * * * * and, after all, what are these victims? among the heaviest charges which were urged against him was the killing and eating of that wretched scharfenebbe--sharpbeak--the crow's wife. it is well that there are two sides to every story. a poor weary fox, it seemed, was not to be allowed to enjoy a quiet sleep in the sunshine but what an unclean carrion bird must come down and take a peck at him. we can feel no sympathy with the outcries of the crow husband over the fate of the unfortunate sharpbeak. wofully, he says, he flew over the place where, a few moments before, in the glory of glossy plumage, a loving wife sate croaking out her passion for him, and found nothing--nothing but a little blood and a few torn feathers--all else clean gone and utterly abolished. well, and if it was so, it was a blank prospect for him, but the earth was well rid of her; and for herself, it was a higher fate to be assimilated into the body of reineke than to remain in a miserable individuality to be a layer of carrion crows' eggs. and then for bellyn, and for bruin, and for hintze, and the rest, who would needs be meddling with what was no concern of theirs--what is there in them to challenge either regret or pity? they made love to their occupation. 'tis dangerous when the baser nature falls between the pass and fell incensed points of mighty opposites: they lie not near our conscience. ah! if they were all. but there is one misdeed, one which outweighs all others whatsoever--a crime which it is useless to palliate, let our other friend say what he pleased; and reineke himself felt it so. it sate heavy, _for him_, on his soul, and alone of all the actions of his life we are certain that he wished it undone--the death and eating of that poor foolish lampe, the hare. it was a paltry revenge in reineke. lampe had told tales of him; he had complained that reineke, under pretence of teaching him his catechism, had seized him and tried to murder him; and though he provoked his fate by thrusting himself, after such a warning, into the jaws of malepartus, reineke betrays an uneasiness about it in confession; and, unlike himself, feels it necessary to make some sort of an excuse. grimbart, the badger, reineke's father confessor, had been obliged to speak severely of the seriousness of the offence. 'you see,' reineke answers:-- to help oneself out through the world is a queer sort of business: one can not keep, you know, quite altogether as pure as one can in the cloister. when we are handling honey we now and then lick at our fingers. lampe sorely provoked me; he frisked about this way and that way, up and down, under my eyes, and he looked so fat and so jolly, really i could not resist it. i entirely forgot how i loved him. and then he was so stupid. but even this acknowledgment does not satisfy reineke. his mind is evidently softened, and it was on that occasion that he poured out his pathetic lamentation over the sad condition of the world--so fluent, so musical, so touching, that grimbart listened with wide eyes, unable, till it had run to the length of a sermon, to collect himself. it is true that at last his office as ghostly father obliged him to put in a slight demurrer:-- uncle, the badger replied, why these are the sins of your neighbours; yours, i should think, were sufficient, and rather more now to the purpose. but he sighs to think what a bishop reineke would have made. and now, for the present, farewell to reineke fuchs, and to the song in which his glory is enshrined--the welt bibel, bible of this world, as goethe called it, the most exquisite moral satire, as we will call it, which has ever been composed. it is not addressed to a passing mode of folly or of profligacy, but it touches the perennial nature of mankind, laying bare our own sympathies, and tastes, and weaknesses, with as keen and true an edge as when the living world of the old swabian poet winced under its earliest utterance. humorous in the high pure sense, every laugh which it gives may have its echo in a sigh, or may glide into it as excitement subsides into thought; and yet, for those who do not care to find matter there either for thought or sadness, may remain innocently as a laugh. too strong for railing, too kindly and loving for the bitterness of irony, the poem is, as the world itself, a book where each man will find what his nature enables him to see, which gives us back each our own image, and teaches us each the lesson which each of us desires to learn. footnotes: [ab] _fraser's magazine_, . the cat's pilgrimage. . part i. 'it is all very fine,' said the cat, yawning, and stretching herself against the fender, 'but it is rather a bore; i don't see the use of it.' she raised herself, and arranging her tail into a ring, and seating herself in the middle of it, with her fore paws in a straight line from her shoulders, at right angles to the hearth-rug, she looked pensively at the fire. 'it is very odd,' she went on, 'there is my poor tom; he is gone. i saw him stretched out in the yard. i spoke to him, and he took no notice of me. he won't, i suppose, ever any more, for they put him under the earth. nice fellow he was. it is wonderful how little one cares about it. so many jolly evenings we spent together; and now i seem to get on quite as well without him. i wonder what has become of him; and my last children, too, what has become of them? what are we here for? i would ask the men, only they are so conceited and stupid they can't understand what we say. i hear them droning away, teaching their little ones every day; telling them to be good, and to do what they are bid, and all that. nobody ever tells me to do anything; if they do i don't do it, and i am very good. i wonder whether i should be any better if i minded more. i'll ask the dog.' 'dog,' said she, to a little fat spaniel coiled up on a mat like a lady's muff with a head and tail stuck on to it, 'dog, what do you make of it all?' the dog faintly opened his languid eyes, looked sleepily at the cat for a moment, and dropped them again. 'dog,' she said, 'i want to talk to you; don't go to sleep. can't you answer a civil question?' 'don't bother me,' said the dog, 'i am tired. i stood on my hind legs ten minutes this morning before i could get my breakfast, and it hasn't agreed with me.' 'who told you to do it?' said the cat. 'why, the lady i have to take care of me,' replied the dog. 'do you feel any better for it, dog, after you have been standing on your legs?' asked she. 'hav'n't i told you, you stupid cat, that it hasn't agreed with me; let me go to sleep and don't plague me.' 'but i mean,' persisted the cat, 'do you feel improved, as the men call it? they tell their children that if they do what they are told they will improve, and grow good and great. do you feel good and great?' 'what do i know?' said the dog. 'i eat my breakfast and am happy. let me alone.' 'do you never think, oh dog without a soul! do you never wonder what dogs are, and what this world is?' the dog stretched himself, and rolled his eyes lazily round the room. 'i conceive,' he said, 'that the world is for dogs, and men and women are put into it to take care of dogs; women to take care of little dogs like me, and men for the big dogs like those in the yard--and cats,' he continued, 'are to know their place, and not to be troublesome.' 'they beat you sometimes,' said the cat. 'why do they do that? they never beat me.' 'if they forget their places, and beat me,' snarled the dog, 'i bite them, and they don't do it again. i should like to bite you, too, you nasty cat; you have woke me up.' 'there may be truth in what you say,' said the cat, calmly; 'but i think your view is limited. if you listened like me you would hear the men say it was all made for them, and you and i were made to amuse them.' 'they don't dare to say so,' said the dog. 'they do, indeed,' said the cat. 'i hear many things which you lose by sleeping so much. they think i am asleep, and so they are not afraid to talk before me; but my ears are open when my eyes are shut.' 'you surprise me,' said the dog. 'i never listen to them, except when i take notice of them, and then they never talk of anything except of me.' 'i could tell you a thing or two about yourself which you don't know,' said the cat. 'you have never heard, i dare say, that once upon a time your fathers lived in a temple, and that people prayed to them.' 'prayed! what is that?' 'why, they went on their knees to you to ask you to give them good things, just as you stand on your toes to them now to ask for your breakfast. you don't know either that you have got one of those bright things we see up in the air at night called after you.' 'well, it is just what i said,' answered the dog. 'i told you it was all made for us. they never did anything of that sort for you?' 'didn't they? why, there was a whole city where the people did nothing else, and as soon as we got stiff and couldn't move about any more, instead of being put under the ground like poor tom, we used to be stuffed full of all sorts of nice things, and kept better than we were when we were alive.' 'you are a very wise cat,' answered her companion; 'but what good is it knowing all this?' 'why, don't you see,' said she, 'they don't do it any more. we are going down in the world, we are, and that is why living on in this way is such an unsatisfactory sort of thing. i don't mean to complain for myself, and you needn't, dog; we have a quiet life of it; but a quiet life is not the thing, and if there is nothing to be done except sleep and eat, and eat and sleep, why, as i said before, i don't see the use of it. there is something more in it than that; there was once, and there will be again, and i sha'n't be happy till i find it out. it is a shame, dog, i say. the men have been here only a few thousand years, and we--why, we have been here hundreds of thousands; if we are older, we ought to be wiser. i'll go and ask the creatures in the wood.' 'you'll learn more from the men,' said the dog. 'they are stupid, and they don't know what i say to them; besides, they are so conceited they care for nothing except themselves. no, i shall try what i can do in the woods. i'd as soon go after poor tom as stay living any longer like this.' 'and where is poor tom?' yawned the dog. 'that is just one of the things i want to know,' answered she. 'poor tom is lying under the yard, or the skin of him, but whether that is the whole i don't feel so sure. they didn't think so in the city i told you about. it is a beautiful day, dog; you won't take a trot out with me?' she added, wistfully. 'who? i' said the dog. 'not quite.' 'you may get so wise,' said she. 'wisdom is good,' said the dog; 'but so is the hearth-rug, thank you!' 'but you may be free,' said she. 'i shall have to hunt for my own dinner,' said he. 'but, dog, they may pray to you again,' said she. 'but i sha'n't have a softer mat to sleep upon, cat, and as i am rather delicate, that is a consideration.' part ii. so the dog wouldn't go, and the cat set off by herself to learn how to be happy, and to be all that a cat could be. it was a fine sunny morning. she determined to try the meadow first, and, after an hour or two, if she had not succeeded, then to go off to the wood. a blackbird was piping away on a thornbush as if his heart was running over with happiness. the cat had breakfasted, and so was able to listen without any mixture of feeling. she didn't sneak. she walked boldly up under the bush, and the bird, seeing she had no bad purpose, sate still and sung on. 'good morning, blackbird; you seem to be enjoying yourself this fine day.' 'good morning, cat.' 'blackbird, it is an odd question, perhaps. what ought one to do to be as happy as you?' 'do your duty, cat.' 'but what is my duty, blackbird?' 'take care of your little ones, cat.' 'i hav'n't any,' said she. 'then sing to your mate,' said the bird. 'tom is dead,' said she. 'poor cat!' said the bird. 'then sing over his grave. if your song is sad, you will find your heart grow lighter for it.' 'mercy!' thought the cat. 'i could do a little singing with a living lover, but i never heard of singing for a dead one. but you see, bird, it isn't cats' nature. when i am cross, i mew. when i am pleased, i purr; but i must be pleased first. i can't purr myself into happiness.' 'i am afraid there is something the matter with your heart, my cat. it wants warming; good-bye.' the blackbird flew away. the cat looked sadly after him. 'he thinks i am like him; and he doesn't know that a cat is a cat,' said she. 'as it happens now, i feel a great deal for a cat. if i hadn't got a heart i shouldn't be unhappy. i won't be angry. i'll try that great fat fellow.' the ox lay placidly chewing, with content beaming out of his eyes and playing on his mouth. 'ox,' she said, 'what is the way to be happy?' 'do your duty,' said the ox. 'bother,' said the cat, 'duty again! what is it, ox?' 'get your dinner,' said the ox. 'but it is got for me, ox; and i have nothing to do but to eat it.' 'well, eat it, then, like me.' 'so i do; but i am not happy for all that.' 'then you are a very wicked, ungrateful cat.' the ox munched away. a bee buzzed into a buttercup under the cat's nose. 'i beg your pardon,' said the cat, 'it isn't curiosity--what are you doing?' 'doing my duty; don't stop me, cat.' 'but, bee, what is your duty?' 'making honey,' said the bee. 'i wish i could make honey,' sighed the cat. 'do you mean to say you can't?' said the bee. 'how stupid you must be. what do you do, then?' 'i do nothing, bee. i can't get anything to do.' 'you won't get anything to do, you mean, you lazy cat! you are a good-for-nothing drone. do you know what we do to our drones? we kill them; and that is all they are fit for. good morning to you.' 'well, i am sure,' said the cat, 'they are treating me civilly; i had better have stopped at home at this rate. stroke my whiskers! heartless! wicked! good-for-nothing! stupid! and only fit to be killed! this is a pleasant beginning, anyhow. i must look for some wiser creatures than these are. what shall i do? i know. i know where i will go.' it was in the middle of the wood. the bush was very dark, but she found him by his wonderful eye. presently, as she got used to the light, she distinguished a sloping roll of feathers, a rounded breast, surmounted by a round head, set close to the body, without an inch of a neck intervening. 'how wise he looks!' she said; 'what a brain! what a forehead! his head is not long, but what an expanse! and what a depth of earnestness!' the owl sloped his head a little on one side; the cat slanted hers upon the other. the owl set it straight again, the cat did the same. they stood looking in this way for some minutes; at last, in a whispering voice, the owl said, 'what are you who presume to look into my repose? pass on upon your way, and carry elsewhere those prying eyes.' 'oh, wonderful owl,' said the cat, 'you are wise, and i want to be wise; and i am come to you to teach me.' a film floated backwards and forwards over the owl's eyes; it was his way of showing that he was pleased. 'i have heard in our schoolroom,' went on the cat, 'that you sate on the shoulder of pallas, and she told you all about it.' 'and what would you know, oh, my daughter?' said the owl. 'everything,' said the cat, 'everything. first of all, how to be happy.' 'mice content you not, my child, even as they content not me,' said the owl. 'it is good.' 'mice, indeed!' said the cat; 'no, parlour cats don't eat mice. i have better than mice, and no trouble to get it; but i want something more.' 'the body's meat is provided. you would now fill your soul.' 'i want to improve,' said the cat. 'i want something to do. i want to find out what the creatures call my duty.' 'you would learn how to employ those happy hours of your leisure--rather how to make them happy by a worthy use. meditate, oh cat! meditate! meditate!' 'that is the very thing,' said she. 'meditate! that is what i like above all things. only i want to know how: i want something to meditate about. tell me, owl, and i will bless you every hour of the day as i sit by the parlour fire.' 'i will tell you,' answered the owl, 'what i have been thinking of ever since the moon changed. you shall take it home with you and think about it too; and the next full moon you shall come again to me; we will compare our conclusions.' 'delightful! delightful!' said the cat. 'what is it? i will try this minute.' 'from the beginning,' replied the owl, 'our race have been considering which first existed, the owl or the egg. the owl comes from the egg, but likewise the egg from the owl.' 'mercy!' said the cat. 'from sunrise to sunset i ponder on it, oh cat! when i reflect on the beauty of the complete owl, i think that must have been first, as the cause is greater than the effect. when i remember my own childhood, i incline the other way.' 'well, but how are we to find out?' said the cat. 'find out!' said the owl. 'we can never find out. the beauty of the question is, that its solution is impossible. what would become of all our delightful reasonings, oh, unwise cat! if we were so unhappy as to know?' 'but what in the world is the good of thinking about it, if you can't, oh owl?' 'my child, that is a foolish question. it is good, in order that the thoughts on these things may stimulate wonder. it is in wonder that the owl is great.' 'then you don't know anything at all,' said the cat. 'what did you sit on pallas's shoulder for? you must have gone to sleep.' 'your tone is over flippant, cat, for philosophy. the highest of all knowledge is to know that we know nothing.' the cat made two great arches with her back and her tail. 'bless the mother that laid you,' said she. 'you were dropped by mistake in a goose nest. you won't do. i don't know much, but i am not such a creature as you, anyhow. a great white thing!' she straitened her body, stuck her tail up on end, and marched off with much dignity. but, though she respected herself rather more than before, she was not on the way to the end of her difficulties. she tried all the creatures she met without advancing a step. they had all the old story, 'do your duty.' but each had its own, and no one could tell her what hers was. only one point they all agreed upon--the duty of getting their dinner when they were hungry. the day wore on, and she began to think she would like hers. her meals came so regularly at home that she scarcely knew what hunger was; but now the sensation came over her very palpably, and she experienced quite new emotions as the hares and rabbits skipped about her, or as she spied a bird upon a tree. for a moment she thought she would go back and eat the owl--he was the most useless creature she had seen; but on second thought she didn't fancy he would be nice: besides that, his claws were sharp and his beak too. presently, however, as she sauntered down the path, she came on a little open patch of green, in the middle of which a fine fat rabbit was sitting. there was no escape. the path ended there, and the bushes were so thick on each side that he couldn't get away except through her paws. 'really,' said the cat, 'i don't wish to be troublesome; i wouldn't do it if i could help it; but i am very hungry, i am afraid i must eat you. it is very unpleasant, i assure you, to me as well as to you.' the poor rabbit begged for mercy. 'well,' said she, 'i think it is hard; i do really--and, if the law could be altered, i should be the first to welcome it. but what can a cat do? you eat the grass; i eat you. but, rabbit, i wish you would do me a favour.' 'anything to save my life,' said the rabbit. 'it is not exactly that,' said the cat; 'but i haven't been used to killing my own dinner, and it is disagreeable. couldn't you die? i shall hurt you dreadfully if i kill you.' 'oh!' said the rabbit, 'you are a kind cat; i see it in your eyes, and your whiskers don't curl like those of the cats in the woods. i am sure you will spare me.' 'but, rabbit, it is a question of principle. i have to do my duty; and the only duty i have, as far as i can make out, is to get my dinner.' 'if you kill me, cat, to do your duty, i sha'n't be able to do mine.' it was a doubtful point, and the cat was new to casuistry. 'what is your duty?' said she. 'i have seven little ones at home--seven little ones, and they will all die without me. pray let me go.' 'what! do you take care of your children?' said the cat. 'how interesting! i should like to see that; take me.' 'oh! you would eat them, you would,' said the rabbit. 'no! better eat me than them. no, no.' 'well, well,' said the cat, 'i don't know; i suppose i couldn't answer for myself. i don't think i am right, for duty is pleasant, and it is very unpleasant to be so hungry; but i suppose you must go. you seem a good rabbit. are you happy, rabbit?' 'happy! oh, dear beautiful cat! if you spare me to my poor babies!' 'pooh, pooh!' said the cat, peevishly; 'i don't want fine speeches; i meant whether you thought it worth while to be alive! of course you do! it don't matter. go, and keep out of my way; for, if i don't get my dinner, you may not get off another time. get along, rabbit.' part iii. it was a great day in the fox's cave. the eldest cub had the night before brought home his first goose, and they were just sitting down to it as the cat came by. 'ah, my young lady! what, you in the woods? bad feeding at home, eh? come out to hunt for yourself?' the goose smelt excellent; the cat couldn't help a wistful look. she was only come, she said, to pay her respects to her wild friends. 'just in time,' said the fox. 'sit down and take a bit of dinner; i see you want it. make room, you cubs; place a seat for the lady.' 'why, thank you,' said the cat, 'yes; i acknowledge it is not unwelcome. pray, don't disturb yourselves, young foxes. i am hungry. i met a rabbit on my way here. i was going to eat him, but he talked so prettily i let him go.' the cubs looked up from their plates, and burst out laughing. 'for shame, young rascals,' said their father. 'where are your manners? mind your dinner, and don't be rude.' 'fox,' she said, when it was over, and the cubs were gone to play, 'you are very clever. the other creatures are all stupid.' the fox bowed. 'your family were always clever,' she continued. 'i have heard about them in the books they use in our schoolroom. it is many years since your ancestor stole the crow's dinner.' 'don't say stole, cat; it is not pretty. obtained by superior ability.' 'i beg your pardon,' said the cat; 'it is all living with those men. that is not the point. well, but i want to know whether you are any wiser or any better than foxes were then?' 'really,' said the fox, 'i am what nature made me. i don't know. i am proud of my ancestors, and do my best to keep up the credit of the family.' 'well, but fox, i mean do you improve? do i? do any of you? the men are always talking about doing their duty, and that, they say, is the way to improve, and to be happy. and as i was not happy i thought that had, perhaps, something to do with it, so i came out to talk to the creatures. they also had the old chant--duty, duty, duty; but none of them could tell me what mine was, or whether i had any.' the fox smiled. 'another leaf out of your schoolroom,' said he. 'can't they tell you there?' 'indeed,' she said, 'they are very absurd. they say a great deal about themselves, but they only speak disrespectfully of us. if such creatures as they can do their duty, and improve, and be happy, why can't we?' 'they say they do, do they?' said the fox. 'what do they say of me?' the cat hesitated. 'don't be afraid of hurting my feelings, cat. out with it.' 'they do all justice to your abilities, fox,' said she; 'but your morality, they say, is not high. they say you are a rogue.' 'morality!' said the fox. 'very moral and good they are. and you really believe all that? what do they mean by calling me a rogue?' 'they mean you take whatever you can get, without caring whether it is just or not.' 'my dear cat, it is very well for a man, if he can't bear his own face, to paint a pretty one on a panel and call it a looking-glass; but you don't mean that it takes _you_ in.' 'teach me,' said the cat. 'i fear i am weak.' 'who get justice from the men unless they can force it? ask the sheep that are cut into mutton. ask the horses that draw their ploughs. i don't mean it is wrong of the men to do as they do; but they needn't lie about it.' 'you surprise me,' said the cat. 'my good cat, there is but one law in the world. the weakest goes to the wall. the men are sharper-witted than the creatures, and so they get the better of them and use them. they may call it just if they like; but when a tiger eats a man i guess he has just as much justice on his side as the man when he eats a sheep.' 'and that is the whole of it,' said the cat. 'well, it is very sad. what do you do with yourself?' 'my duty, to be sure,' said the fox; 'use my wits and enjoy myself. my dear friend, you and i are on the lucky side. we eat and are not eaten.' 'except by the hounds now and then,' said the cat. 'yes; by brutes that forget their nature, and sell their freedom to the men,' said the fox, bitterly. 'in the meantime my wits have kept my skin whole hitherto, and i bless nature for making me a fox and not a goose.' 'and are you happy, fox?' 'happy! yes, of course. so would you be if you would do like me, and use your wits. my good cat, i should be as miserable as you if i found my geese every day at the cave's mouth. i have to hunt for them, lie for them, sneak for them, fight for them; cheat those old fat farmers, and bring out what there is inside me; and then i am happy--of course i am. and then, cat, think of my feelings as a father last night, when my dear boy came home with the very young gosling which was marked for the michaelmas dinner! old reineke himself wasn't more than a match for that young fox at his years. you know our epic?' 'a little of it, fox. they don't read it in our schoolroom. they say it is not moral; but i have heard pieces of it. i hope it is not all quite true.' 'pack of stuff! it is the only true book that ever was written. if it is not, it ought to be. why, that book is the law of the world--_la carrière aux talents_--and writing it was the honestest thing ever done by a man. that fellow knew a thing or two, and wasn't ashamed of himself when he did know. they are all like him, too, if they would only say so. there never was one of them yet who wasn't more ashamed of being called ugly than of being called a rogue, and of being called stupid than of being called naughty.' 'it has a roughish end, this life of yours, if you keep clear of the hounds, fox,' said the cat. 'what! a rope in the yard! well, it must end some day; and when the farmer catches me i shall be getting old, and my brains will be taking leave of me; so the sooner i go the better, that i may disgrace myself the less. better be jolly while it lasts, than sit mewing out your life and grumbling at it as a bore.' 'well,' said the cat, 'i am very much obliged to you. i suppose i may even get home again. i shall not find a wiser friend than you, and perhaps i shall not find another good-natured enough to give me so good a dinner. but it is very sad.' 'think of what i have said,' answered the fox. 'i'll call at your house some night; you will take me a walk round the yard, and then i'll show you.' 'not quite,' thought the cat, as she trotted off; 'one good turn deserves another, that is true; and you have given me a dinner. but they have given me many at home, and i mean to take a few more of them; so i think you mustn't go round our yard.' part iv. the next morning, when the dog came down to breakfast, he found his old friend sitting in her usual place on the hearth-rug. 'oh! so you have come back,' said he. 'how d'ye do? you don't look as if you had had a very pleasant journey.' 'i have learnt something,' said the cat. 'knowledge is never pleasant.' 'then it is better to be without it,' said the dog. 'especially, better to be without knowing how to stand on one's hind legs, dog,' said the cat; 'still you see, you are proud of it; but i have learnt a great deal, dog. they won't worship you any more, and it is better for you; you wouldn't be any happier. what did you do yesterday?' 'indeed,' said the dog, 'i hardly remember. i slept after you went away. in the afternoon i took a drive in the carriage. then i had my dinner. my maid washed me and put me to bed. there is the difference between you and me; you have to wash yourself and put yourself to bed.' 'and you really don't find it a bore, living like this? wouldn't you like something to do? wouldn't you like some children to play with? the fox seemed to find it very pleasant.' 'children, indeed!' said the dog, 'when i have got men and women. children are well enough for foxes and wild creatures; refined dogs know better; and, for doing--can't i stand on my toes? can't i dance? at least, couldn't i before i was so fat?' 'ah! i see everybody likes what he was bred to,' sighed the cat. 'i was bred to do nothing, and i must like that. train the cat as the cat should go, and the cat will be happy and ask no questions. never seek for impossibilities, dog. that is the secret.' 'and you have spent a day in the woods to learn that,' said he. 'i could have taught you that. why, cat, one day when you were sitting scratching your nose before the fire, i thought you looked so pretty that i should have liked to marry you; but i knew i couldn't, so i didn't make myself miserable.' the cat looked at him with her odd green eyes. 'i never wished to marry you, dog; i shouldn't have presumed. but it was wise of you not to fret about it. but, listen to me, dog--listen. i met many creatures in the wood, all sorts of creatures, beasts and birds. they were all happy; they didn't find it a bore. they went about their work, and did it, and enjoyed it, and yet none of them had the same story to tell. some did one thing, some another; and, except the fox, each had got a sort of notion of doing its duty. the fox was a rogue; he said he was; but yet he was not unhappy. his conscience never troubled him. your work is standing on your toes, and you are happy. i have none, and that is why i am unhappy. when i came to think about it, i found every creature out in the wood had to get its own living. i tried to get mine, but i didn't like it, because i wasn't used to it; and as for knowing, the fox, who didn't care to know anything except how to cheat greater fools than himself, was the cleverest fellow i came across. oh! the owl, dog--you should have heard the owl. but i came to this, that it was no use trying to know, and the only way to be jolly was to go about one's own business like a decent cat. cats' business seems to be killing rabbits and such-like; and it is not the pleasantest possible; so the sooner one is bred to it the better. as for me, that have been bred to do nothing, why, as i said before, i must try to like that; but i consider myself an unfortunate cat.' 'so don't i consider myself an unfortunate dog,' said her companion. 'very likely you do not,' said the cat. by this time their breakfast was come in. the cat ate hers, the dog did penance for his; and if one might judge by the purring on the hearth-rug, the cat, if not the happiest of the two, at least was not exceedingly miserable. fables. i.--the lions and the oxen. once upon a time a number of cattle came out of the desert to settle in the broad meadows by a river. they were poor and wretched, and they found it a pleasant exchange; except for a number of lions, who lived in the mountains near, and who claimed a right, in consideration of permitting the cattle to remain, to eat as many as they wanted among them. the cattle submitted, partly because they were too weak to help it, partly because the lions said it was the will of jupiter; and the cattle believed them. and so they went on for many ages, till at last, from better feeding, the cattle grew larger and stronger, and multiplied into great numbers; and at the same time, from other causes, the lions had much diminished: they were fewer, smaller, and meaner-looking than they had been; and except in their own opinion of themselves, and in their appetites, which were more enormous than ever, there was nothing of the old lion left in them. one day a large ox was quietly grazing, when one of these lions came up, and desired the ox to lie down, for he wanted to eat him. the ox raised his head, and gravely protested; the lion growled; the ox was mild, yet firm. the lion insisted upon his legal right, and they agreed to refer the matter to minos. when they came into court, the lion accused the ox of having broken the laws of the beasts. the lion was king, and the others were bound to obey. prescriptive usage was clearly on the lion's side. minos called on the ox for his defence. the ox said that, without consent of his own being asked, he had been born into the meadow. he did not consider himself much of a beast, but, such as he was, he was very happy, and gave jupiter thanks. now, if the lion could show that the existence of lions was of more importance than that of oxen in the eyes of jupiter, he had nothing more to say; he was ready to sacrifice himself. but this lion had already eaten a thousand oxen. lions' appetites were so insatiable that he was forced to ask whether they were really worth what was done for them,--whether the life of one lion was so noble that the lives of thousands of oxen were not equal to it? he was ready to own that lions had always eaten oxen, but lions when they first came to the meadow were a different sort of creature, and they themselves, too (and the ox looked complacently at himself), had improved since that time. judging by appearances, though they might be fallacious, he himself was quite as good a beast as the lion. if the lions would lead lives more noble than oxen could live, once more he would not complain. as it was, he submitted that the cost was too great. then the lion put on a grand face and tried to roar; but when he opened his mouth he disclosed a jaw so drearily furnished that minos laughed, and told the ox it was his own fault if he let himself be eaten by such a beast as that. if he persisted in declining, he did not think the lion would force him. ii.--the farmer and the fox. a farmer, whose poultry-yard had suffered severely from the foxes, succeeded at last in catching one in a trap. 'ah, you rascal!' said he, as he saw him struggling, 'i'll teach you to steal my fat geese!--you shall hang on the tree yonder, and your brothers shall see what comes of thieving!' the farmer was twisting a halter to do what he threatened, when the fox, whose tongue had helped him in hard pinches before, thought there could be no harm in trying whether it might not do him one more good turn. 'you will hang me,' he said, 'to frighten my brother foxes. on the word of a fox they won't care a rabbit-skin for it; they'll come and look at me; but you may depend upon it, they will dine at your expense before they go home again!' 'then i shall hang you for yourself, as a rogue and a rascal,' said the farmer. 'i am only what nature, or whatever you call the thing, chose to make me,' the fox answered. 'i didn't make myself.' 'you stole my geese,' said the man. 'why did nature make me like geese, then?' said the fox. 'live and let live; give me my share, and i won't touch yours; but you keep them all to yourself.' 'i don't understand your fine talk,' answered the farmer; 'but i know that you are a thief, and that you deserve to be hanged.' his head is too thick to let me catch him so, thought the fox; i wonder if his heart is any softer! 'you are taking away the life of a fellow-creature,' he said; 'that's a responsibility--it is a curious thing that life, and who knows what comes after it? you say i am a rogue--i say i am not; but at any rate i ought not to be hanged--for if i am not, i don't deserve it; and if i am, you should give me time to repent!' i have him now, thought the fox; let him get out if he can. 'why, what would you have me do with you?' said the man. 'my notion is that you should let me go, and give me a lamb, or goose or two, every month, and then i could live without stealing; but perhaps you know better than me, and i am a rogue; my education may have been neglected; you should shut me up, and take care of me, and teach me. who knows but in the end i may turn into a dog?' 'very pretty,' said the farmer; 'we have dogs enough, and more, too, than we can take care of, without you. no, no, master fox, i have caught you, and you shall swing, whatever is the logic of it. there will be one rogue less in the world, anyhow.' 'it is mere hate and unchristian vengeance,' said the fox. 'no, friend,' the farmer answered, 'i don't hate you, and i don't want to revenge myself on you; but you and i can't get on together, and i think i am of more importance than you. if nettles and thistles grow in my cabbage-garden, i don't try to persuade them to grow into cabbages. i just dig them up. i don't hate them; but i feel somehow that they mustn't hinder me with my cabbages, and that i must put them away; and so, my poor friend, i am sorry for you, but i am afraid you must swing.' parable of the bread-fruit tree. it was after one of those heavy convulsions which have divided era from era, and left mankind to start again from the beginning, that a number of brave men gathered together to raise anew from the ground a fresh green home for themselves. the rest of the surviving race were sheltering themselves amidst the old ruins, or in the caves on the mountains, feeding on husks and shells; but these men with clear heads and brave hearts ploughed and harrowed the earth, and planted seeds, and watered them, and watched them; and the seeds grew and shot up with the spring, but one was larger and fairer than the rest, and the other plants seemed to know it, for they crawled along till they reached the large one; and they gathered round it, and clung to it, and grew into it; and soon they became one great stem, with branching roots feeding it as from many fountains. then the men got great heart in them when they saw that, and they laboured more bravely, digging about it in the hot sun, till at last it became great and mighty, and its roots went down into the heart of the earth, and its branches stretched over all the plain. then many others of mankind, when they saw the tree was beautiful, came down and gathered under it, and those who had raised it received them with open arms, and they all sat under its shade together, and gathered its fruits, and made their homes there, rejoicing in its loveliness. and ages passed away, and all that generation passed away, and still the tree grew stronger and fairer, and their children's children watched it age after age, as it lived on and flowered and seeded. and they said in their hearts, the tree is immortal--it will never die. they took no care of the seed; the scent of the flowers and the taste of the sweet fruit was all they thought of: and the winds of heaven, and the wild birds, and the beasts of the field caught the stray fruits and seed-dust, and bore the seed away, and scattered it in far-off soils. and by-and-by, at a great great age, the tree at last began to cease to grow, and then to faint and droop: its leaves were not so thick, its flowers were not so fragrant; and from time to time the night winds, which before had passed away, and had been never heard, came moaning and sighing among the branches. and the men for a while doubted and denied--they thought it was the accident of the seasons; and then a branch fell, and they said it was a storm, and such a storm as came but once in a thousand years. at last there could be no doubt that the leaves were thin and sere and scanty--that the sun shone through them--that the fruit was tasteless. but the generation was gone away which had known the tree in its beauty, and so men said it was always so--its fruits were never better--its foliage never was thicker. so things went on, and from time to time strangers would come among them, and would say, why are you sitting here under the old tree? there are young trees grown of the seed of this tree, far away, more beautiful than it ever was; see, we have brought you leaves and flowers to show you. but the men would not listen. they were angry, and some they drove away, and some they killed, and poured their blood round the roots of the tree, saying, they have spoken evil of our tree; let them feed it now with their blood. at last some of their own wiser ones brought out specimens of the old fruits, which had been laid up to be preserved, and compared them with the present bearing, and they saw that the tree was not as it had been; and such of them as were good men reproached themselves, and said it was their own fault. they had not watered it; they had forgotten to manure it. so, like their first fathers, they laboured with might and main, and for a while it seemed as if they might succeed, and for a few years branches, which were almost dead when the spring came round, put out some young green shoots again. but it was only for a few years; there was not enough of living energy in the tree. half the labour which was wasted on it would have raised another nobler one far away. so the men grew soon weary, and looked for a shorter way: and some gathered up the leaves and shoots which the strangers had brought, and grafted them on, if perhaps they might grow; but they could not grow on a dying stock, and they, too, soon drooped and became as the rest. and others said, come, let us tie the preserved fruits on again; perhaps they will join again to the stem, and give it back its life. but there were not enough, for only a few had been preserved; so they took painted paper and wax and clay, and cut sham leaves and fruits of the old pattern, which for a time looked bright and gay, and the world, who did not know what had been done, said--see, the tree is immortal: it is green again. then some believed, but many saw that it was a sham, and liking better to bear the sky and sun, without any shade at all, than to live in a lie, and call painted paper leaves and flowers, they passed out in search of other homes. but the larger number stayed behind; they had lived so long in falsehood that they had forgotten there was any such thing as truth at all; the tree had done very well for them--it would do very well for their children. and if their children, as they grew up, did now and then happen to open their eyes and see how it really was, they learned from their fathers to hold their tongues about it. if the little ones and the weak ones believed, it answered all purposes, and change was inconvenient. they might smile to themselves at the folly which they countenanced, but they were discreet, and they would not expose it. this is the state of the tree, and of the men who are under it at this present time:--they say it still does very well. perhaps it does--but, stem and boughs and paper leaves, it is dry for the burning, and if the lightning touches it, those who sit beneath will suffer. compensation. one day an antelope was lying with her fawn at the foot of the flowering mimosa. the weather was intensely sultry, and a dove, who had sought shelter from the heat among the leaves, was cooing above her head. 'happy bird!' said the antelope. 'happy bird! to whom the air is given for an inheritance, and whose flight is swifter than the wind. at your will you alight upon the ground, at your will you sweep into the sky, and fly races with the driving clouds; while i, poor i, am bound a prisoner to this miserable earth, and wear out my pitiable life crawling to and fro upon its surface.' then the dove answered, 'it is sweet to sail along the sky, to fly from land to land, and coo among the valleys; but, antelope, when i have sate above amidst the branches and watched your little one close its tiny lips upon your breast, and feed its life on yours, i have felt that i could strip off my wings, lay down my plumage, and remain all my life upon the ground only once to know such blessed enjoyment.' the breeze sighed among the boughs of the mimosa, and a voice came trembling out of the rustling leaves: 'if the antelope mourns her destiny, what should the mimosa do? the antelope is the swiftest among the animals. it rises in the morning; the ground flies under its feet--in the evening it is a hundred miles away. the mimosa is feeding its old age on the same soil which quickened its seed cell into activity. the seasons roll by me and leave me in the old place. the winds sway among my branches, as if they longed to bear me away with them, but they pass on and leave me behind. the wild birds come and go. the flocks move by me in the evening on their way to the pleasant waters. i can never move. my cradle must be my grave.' then from below, at the root of the tree, came a voice which neither bird, nor antelope, nor tree had ever heard, as a rock crystal from its prison in the limestone followed on the words of the mimosa. 'are ye all unhappy?' it said. 'if ye are, then what am i? ye all have life. you! o mimosa, you! whose fair flowers year by year come again to you, ever young, and fresh, and beautiful--you who can drink the rain with your leaves, who can wanton with the summer breeze, and open your breast to give a home to the wild birds, look at me and be ashamed. i only am truly wretched.' 'alas!' said the mimosa, 'we have life, which you have not, it is true. we have also what you have not, its shadow--death. my beautiful children, which year by year i bring out into being, expand in their loveliness only to die. where they are gone i too shall soon follow, while you will flash in the light of the last sun which rises upon the earth.' london printed by spottiswoode and co. new-street square transcriber's notes: page : popositions: typo for propositions. corrected. page : seventeeth: typo for seventeenth. corrected. page : assults: typo for assaults. corrected. page : reely: typo for freely. corrected. page : appal: alternate spelling for appall. page : doggrel: alternate spelling for doggerel. page : throughly: alternate spelling for thoroughly. page : ougly: alternate spelling for ugly. page : rommaging: alternate spelling for rummaging. page : carged: in 'a huge high-carged' [may mean high-charged as with many weapons, or cargo, as heavy freight?] page : enterchanged: alternate spelling for interchanged. page : befal: alternate spelling for befall. page : wanton: probably means to frolic or move freely in this context. page various: sate: alternate, archaic spelling for sat. the ghosts and other lectures. by robert g. ingersoll. new york, n. y. c. p. farrell, publisher, . entered according to act of congress in the year , by robert g. ingersoll eckler, printer, fulton st., n. y. the idea of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, with its countless waves of hope and fear, beating against the shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. it was born of human affection, and it will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long as love kisses the lips of death. contents: preface. the ghosts. the liberty of man, woman and child liberty of woman. the liberty of children. conclusion. . the declaration of independence. about farming in illinois. speech at cincinnati "the past rises before me like a dream." the grant banquet a tribute to the rev. alexander clark. a tribute to ebon c. ingersoll, preface. these lectures have been so maimed and mutilated by orthodox malice; have been made to appear so halt, crutched and decrepit by those who mistake the pleasures of calumny for the duties of religion, that in simple justice to myself i concluded to publish them. most of the clergy are, or seem to be, utterly incapable of discussing anything in a fair and catholic spirit. they appeal, not to reason, but to prejudice; not to facts, but to passages of scripture. they can conceive of no goodness, of no spiritual exaltation beyond the horizon of their creed. whoever differs with them upon what they are pleased to call "fundamental truths" is, in their opinion, a base and infamous man. to re-enact the tragedies of the sixteenth century, they lack only the power. bigotry in all ages has been the same. christianity simply transferred the brutality of the colosseum to the inquisition. for the murderous combat of the gladiators, the saints substituted the _auto de fe_. what has been called religion is, after all, but the organization of the wild beast in man. the perfumed blossom of arrogance is heaven. hell is the consummation of revenge. the chief business of the clergy has always been to destroy the joy of life, and multiply and magnify the terrors and tortures of death and perdition. they have polluted the heart and paralyzed the brain; and upon the ignorant altars of the past and the dead, they have endeavored to sacrifice the present and the living. nothing can exceed the mendacity of the religious press. i have had some little experience with political editors, and am forced to say, that until i read the religious papers, i did not know what malicious and slimy falsehoods could be constructed from ordinary words. the ingenuity with which the real and apparent meaning can be tortured out of language, is simply amazing. the average religious editor is intolerant and insolent; he knows nothing of affairs; he has the envy of failure, the malice of impotence, and always accounts for the brave and generous actions of unbelievers, by low, base and unworthy motives. by this time, even the clergy should know that the intellect of the nineteenth century needs no, guardian. they should cease to regard themselves as shepherds defending flocks of weak, silly and fearful sheep from the claws and teeth of ravening wolves. by this time they should know that the religion of the ignorant and brutal past no longer satisfies the heart and brain; that the miracles have become contemptible; that the "evidences" have ceased to convince; that the spirit of investigation cannot be stopped nor stayed; that the church is losing her power; that the young are holding in a kind of tender contempt the sacred follies of the old; that the pulpit and pews no longer represent the culture and morality of the world, and that the brand of intellectual inferiority is upon the orthodox brain. men should be liberated from the aristocracy of the air. every chain of superstition should be broken. the rights of men and women should be equal and sacred--marriage should be a perfect partnership--children should be governed by kindness,--every family should be a republic--every fireside a democracy. it seems almost impossible for religious people to really grasp the idea of intellectual freedom. they seem to think that man is responsible for his honest thoughts; that unbelief is a crime; that investigation is sinful; that credulity is a virtue, and that reason is a dangerous guide. they cannot divest themselves of the idea that in the realm of thought there must be government--authority and obedience--laws and penalties--rewards and punishments, and that somewhere in the universe there is a penitentiary for the soul. in the republic of mind, _one_ is a majority. there, all are monarchs, and all are equals. the tyranny of a majority even is unknown. each one is crowned, sceptered and throned. upon every brow is the tiara, and around every form is the imperial purple. only those are good citizens who express their honest thoughts, and those who persecute for opinion's sake, are the only traitors. there, nothing is considered infamous except an appeal to brute force, and nothing sacred but love, liberty, and joy. the church contemplates this republic with a sneer. from the teeth of hatred she draws back the lips of scorn. she is filled with the spite and spleen born of intellectual weakness. once she was egotistic; now she is envious. once she wore upon her hollow breast false gems, supposing them to be real. they have been shown to be false, but she wears them still. she has the malice of the caught, the hatred of the exposed. we are told to investigate the bible for ourselves, and at the same time informed that if we come to the conclusion that it is not the inspired word of god, we will most assuredly be damned. under such circumstances, if we believe this, investigation is impossible. whoever is held responsible for his conclusions cannot weigh the evidence with impartial scales. fear stands at the balance, and gives to falsehood the weight of its trembling hand. i oppose the church because she is the enemy of liberty; because her dogmas are infamous and cruel; because she humiliates and degrades woman; because she teaches the doctrines of eternal torment and the natural depravity of man; because she insists upon the absurd, the impossible, and the senseless; because she resorts to falsehood and slander; because she is arrogant and revengeful; because she allows men to sin on a credit; because she discourages self-reliance, and laughs at good works; because she believes in vicarious virtue and vicarious vice--vicarious punishment and vicarious reward; because she regards repentance of more importance than restitution, and because she sacrifices the world we have to one we know not of. the free and generous, the tender and affectionate, will understand me. those who have escaped from the grated cells of a creed will appreciate my motives. the sad and suffering wives, the trembling and loving children will thank me: this is enough. robert g. ingersoll. washington, d. c, april , . the ghosts. let them cover their eyeless sockets with their fleshless hands and fade forever from the imagination of men. there are three theories by which men account for all phenomena, for everything that happens: first, the supernatural; second, the supernatural and natural; third, the natural. between these theories there has been, from the dawn of civilization, a continual conflict. in this great war, nearly all the soldiers have been in the ranks of the supernatural. the believers in the supernatural insist that matter is controlled and directed entirely by powers from without; while naturalists maintain that nature acts from within; that nature is not acted upon; that the universe is all there is; that nature with infinite arms embraces everything that exists, and that all supposed powers beyond the limits of the material are simply ghosts. you say, "oh, this is materialism!" what is matter? i take in my hand some earth:--in this dust put seeds. let the arrows of light from the quiver of the sun smite upon it; let the rain fall upon it. the seeds will grow and a plant will bud and blossom. do you understand this? can you explain it better than you can the production of thought? have you the slightest conception of what it really is? and yet you speak of matter as though acquainted with its origin, as though you had torn from the clenched hands of the rocks the secrets of material existence. do you know what force is? can you account for molecular action? are you really familiar with chemistry, and can you account for the loves and hatreds of the atoms? is there not something in matter that forever eludes? after all, can you get, beyond, above or below appearances? before you cry "materialism!" had you not better ascertain what matter really is? can you think even of anything without a material basis? is it possible to imagine the annihilation of a single atom? is it possible for you to conceive of the creation of an atom? can you have a thought that was not suggested to you by what you call matter? our fathers denounced materialism, and accounted for all phenomena by the caprice of gods and devils. for thousands of years it was believed that ghosts, good and bad, benevolent and malignant, weak and powerful, in some mysterious way, produced all phenomena; that disease and health, happiness and misery, fortune and misfortune, peace and war, life and death, success and failure, were but arrows from the quivers of these ghosts; that shadowy phantoms rewarded and punished mankind; that they were pleased and displeased by the actions of men; that they sent and withheld the snow, the light, and the rain; that they blessed the earth with harvests or cursed it with famine; that they fed or starved the children of men; that they crowned and uncrowned kings; that they took sides in war; that they controlled the winds; that they gave prosperous voyages, allowing the brave mariner to meet his wife and child inside the harbor bar, or sent the storms, strewing the sad shores with wrecks of ships and the bodies of men. formerly, these ghosts were believed to be almost innumerable. earth, air, and water were filled with these phantom hosts. in modern times they have greatly decreased in number, because the second theory,--a mingling of the supernatural and natural,--has generally been adopted. the remaining ghosts, however, are supposed to per-form the same offices as the hosts of yore. it has always been believed that these ghosts could in some way be appeased; that they could be flattered by sacrifices, by prayer, by fasting, by the building of temples and cathedrals, by the blood of men and beasts, by forms and ceremonies, by chants, by kneelings and prostrations, by flagellations and maimings, by renouncing the joys of home, by living alone in the wide desert, by the practice of celibacy, by inventing instruments of torture, by destroying men, women and children, by covering the earth with dungeons, by burning unbelievers, by putting chains upon the thoughts and manacles upon the limbs of men, by believing things without evidence and against evidence, by disbelieving and denying demonstration, by despising facts, by hating reason, by denouncing liberty, by maligning heretics, by slandering the dead, by subscribing to senseless and cruel creeds, by discouraging investigation, by worshiping a book, by the cultivation of credulity, by observing certain times and days, by counting beads, by gazing at crosses, by hiring others to repeat verses and prayers, by burning candles and ringing bells, by enslaving each other and putting out the eyes of the soul. all this has been done to appease and flatter these monsters of the air. in the history of our poor world, no horror has been omitted, no infamy has been left undone by the believers in ghosts,--by the worshipers of these fleshless phantoms. and yet these shadows were born of cowardice and malignity. they were painted by the pencil of fear upon the canvas of ignorance by that artist called superstition. from, these ghosts, our fathers received information. they were the schoolmasters of our ancestors. they were the scientists and philosophers, the geologists, legislators, astronomers, physicians, metaphysicians and historians of the past. for ages these ghosts were supposed to be the only source of real knowledge. they inspired men to write books, and the books were considered sacred. if facts were found to be inconsistent with these books, so much the worse for the facts, and especially for their discoverers. it was then, and still is, believed that these books are the basis of the idea of immortality; that to give up these volumes, or rather the idea that they are inspired, is to renounce the idea of immortality. this i deny. the idea of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, with its countless waves of hope and fear, beating against the shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. it was born of human affection, and it will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long as love kisses the lips of death. it is the rainbow--hope shining upon the tears of grief. from the books written by the ghosts we, have at last ascertained that they knew nothing about the world in which we live. did they know anything about the next! upon every point where contradiction is possible, they have been contradicted. by these ghosts, by these citizens of the air, the affairs of government were administered; all authority to govern came from them. the emperors, kings and potentates all had commissions from these phantoms. man was not considered as the source of any power whatever. to rebel against the king was to rebel against the ghosts, and nothing less than the blood of the offender could appease the invisible phantom or the visible tyrant. kneeling was the proper position to be assumed by the multitude. the prostrate were the good. those who stood erect were infidels and traitors. in the name and by the authority of the ghosts, man was enslaved, crushed, and plundered. the many toiled wearily in the storm and sun that the few favorites of the ghosts might live in idleness. the many lived in huts, and caves, and dens, that the few might dwell in palaces. the many covered themselves with rags, that the few might robe themselves in purple and in gold. the many crept, and cringed, and crawled, that the few might tread upon their flesh with iron feet. from the ghosts men received, not only authority, but information of every kind. they told us the form of this earth. they informed us that eclipses were caused by the sins of man; that the universe was made in six days; that astronomy, and geology were devices of wicked men, instigated by wicked ghosts; that gazing at the sky with a telescope was a dangerous thing; that digging into the earth was sinful curiosity; that trying to be wise above what they had written was born of a rebellious and irreverent spirit. they told us there was no virtue like belief, and no crime like doubt; that investigation was pure impudence, and the punishment therefor, eternal torment. they not only told us all about this world, but about two others; and if their statements about the other worlds are as true as about this, no one can estimate the value of their information. for countless ages the world was governed by ghosts, and they spared no pains to change the eagle of the human intellect into a bat of darkness. to accomplish this infamous purpose; to drive the love of truth from the human heart; to prevent the advancement of mankind; to shut out from the world every ray of intellectual light; to pollute every mind with superstition, the power of kings, the cunning and cruelty of priests, and the wealth of nations were exhausted. during these years of persecution, ignorance, superstition and slavery, nearly all the people, the kings, lawyers, doctors, the learned and the unlearned, believed in that frightful production of ignorance, fear, and faith, called witchcraft. they believed that man was the sport and prey of devils. they really thought that the very air was thick with these enemies of man. with few exceptions, this hideous and infamous belief was universal. under these conditions, progress was almost impossible. fear paralyzes the brain. progress is born of courage. fear believes--courage doubts. fear falls upon the earth and prays--courage stands erect and thinks. fear retreats--courage advances. fear is barbarism--courage is civilization. fear believes in witchcraft, in devils and in ghosts. fear is religion--courage is science. the facts, upon which this terrible belief rested, were proved over and over again in every court of europe. thousands confessed themselves guilty--admitted that they had sold themselves to the devil. they gave the particulars of the sale; told what they said and what the devil replied. they confessed this, when they knew that confession was death; knew that their property would be confiscated, and their children left to beg their bread. this is one of the miracles of history--one of the strangest contradictions of the human mind. without doubt, they really believed themselves guilty. in the first place, they believed in witchcraft as a fact, and when charged with it, they probably became insane. in their insanity they confessed their guilt. they found themselves abhorred and deserted--charged with a crime that they could not disprove. like a man in quicksand, every effort only sunk them deeper. caught in this frightful web, at the mercy of the spiders of superstition, hope fled, and nothing remained but the insanity of confession. the whole world appeared to be insane. in the time of james the first, a man was executed for causing a storm at sea with the intention of drowning one of the royal family. how could he disprove it? how could he show that he did not cause the storm? all storms were at that time generally supposed to be caused by the devil--the prince of the power of the air--and by those whom he assisted. i implore you to remember that the believers in such impossible things were the authors of our creeds and confessions of faith. a woman was tried and convicted before sir matthew hale, one of the great judges and lawyers of england, for having caused children to vomit crooked pins. she was also charged with having nursed devils. the learned judge charged the intelligent jury that there was no doubt as to the existence of witches; that it was established by all history, and expressly taught by the bible. the woman was hanged and her body burned. sir thomas moore declared that to give up witchcraft was to throw away the sacred scriptures. in my judgment, he was right. john wesley was a firm believer in ghosts and witches, and insisted upon it, years after all laws upon the subject had been repealed in england. i beg of you to remember that john wesley was the founder of the methodist church. in new england, a woman was charged with being a witch, and with having changed herself into a fox. while in that condition she was attacked and bitten by some dogs. a committee of three men, by order of the court, examined this woman. they removed her clothing and searched for "witch spots." that is to say, spots into which needles could be thrust without giving her pain. they reported to the court that such spots were found. she denied, however, that she ever had changed herself into a fox. upon the report of the committee she was found guilty and actually executed. this was done by our puritan fathers, by the gentlemen who braved the dangers of the deep for the sake of worshiping god and persecuting their fellow men. in those days people believed in what was known as lycanthropy--that is, that persons, with the assistance of the devil, could assume the form of wolves. an instance is given where a man was attacked by a wolf. he defended himself, and succeeded in cutting off one of the animal's paws. the wolf ran away. the man picked up the paw, put it in his pocket and carried it home. there he found his wife with one of her hands gone. he took the paw from his pocket. it had changed to a human hand. he charged his wife with being a witch. she was tried. she confessed her guilt, and was burned. people were burned for causing frosts in summer--for destroying crops with hail--for causing storms--for making cows go dry, and even for souring beer. there was no impossibility for which some one was not tried and convicted. the life of no one was secure. to be charged, was to be convicted. every man was at the mercy of every other. this infamous belief was so firmly seated in the minds of the people, that to express a doubt as to its truth was to be suspected. whoever denied the existence of witches and devils was denounced as an infidel. they believed that animals were often taken possession of by devils, and that the killing of the animal would destroy the devil. they absolutely tried, convicted, and executed dumb beasts. at basle, in , a rooster was tried upon the charge of having laid an egg. rooster eggs were used only in making witch ointment,--this everybody knew. the rooster was convicted and with all due solemnity was burned in the public square. so a hog and six pigs were tried for having killed and partially eaten a child. the hog was convicted,--but the pigs, on account probably of their extreme youth, were acquitted. as late as , a cow was tried and convicted of being possessed by a devil. they used to exorcise rats, locusts, snakes and vermin. they used to go through the alleys, streets, and fields, and warn them to leave within a certain number of days. in case they disobeyed, they were threatened with pains and penalties. but let us be careful how we laugh at these things. let us not pride ourselves too much on the progress of our age. we must not forget that some of our people are yet in the same intelligent business. only a little while ago, the governor of minnesota appointed a day of fasting and prayer, to see if some power could not be induced to kill the grasshoppers, or send them into some other state. about the close of the fifteenth century, so great was the excitement with regard to the existence of witchcraft that pope innocent viii issued a bull directing the inquisitors to be vigilant in searching out and punishing all guilty of this crime. forms for the trial were regularly laid down in a book or a pamphlet called the "malleus maleficorum" (hammer of witches), which was issued by the roman see. popes alexander, leo, and adrian, issued like bulls. for two hundred and fifty years the church was busy in punishing the impossible crime of witchcraft; in burning, hanging and torturing men, women, and children. protestants were as active as catholics, and in geneva five hundred witches were burned at the stake in a period of three months. about one thousand were executed in one year in the diocese of como. at least one hundred thousand victims suffered in germany alone: the last execution (in wurtzburg ) taking place as late as . witches were burned in switzerland as late as . in england the same frightful scenes were enacted. statutes were passed from henry vi to james i, defining the crime and its punishment. the last act passed by the british parliament was when lord bacon was a member of the house of commons; and this act was not repealed until . sir william blackstone, in his commentaries on the laws of england, says: "to deny the possibility, nay, actual existence of witchcraft and sorcery, is at once flatly to contradict the word of god in various passages both of the old and new testament; and the thing itself is a truth to which every nation in the world hath in its turn borne testimony, either by examples seemingly well attested, or by prohibitory laws, which at least suppose the possibility of a commerce with evil spirits." in brown's dictionary of the bible, published at edinburgh scotland, in , it is said that: "a witch is a woman that has dealings with satan. that such persons are among men is abundantly plain from scripture, and that they ought to be put to death." this work was re-published in albany, new york, in . no wonder the clergy of that city are ignorant and bigoted even unto this day. in , mrs. hicks and her daughter, nine years of age, were hanged for selling their souls to the devil, and raising a storm by pulling off their stockings and making a lather of soap. in england it has been estimated that at least thirty thousand were hanged and burned. the last victim executed in scotland, perished in . "she was an innocent old woman, who had so little idea of her situation as to rejoice at the sight of the fire which was destined to consume her. she had a daughter, lame both of hands and of feet--a circumstance attributed to the witch having been used to transform her daughter into a pony and getting her shod by the devil." in , nineteen persons were executed and one pressed to death in salem, massachusetts, for the crime of witchcraft. it was thought in those days that men and women made compacts with the devil, orally and in writing. that they abjured god and jesus christ, and dedicated themselves wholly to the devil. the contracts were confirmed at a general meeting of witches and ghosts, over which the devil himself presided; and the persons generally signed the articles of agreement with their own blood. these contracts were, in some instances, for a few years; in others, for life. general assemblies of the witches were held at least once a year, at which they appeared entirely naked, besmeared with an ointment made from the bodies of unbaptized infants. "to these meetings they rode from great distances on broomsticks, pokers, goats, hogs, and dogs. here they did homage to the prince of hell, and offered him sacrifices of young children, and practiced all sorts of license until the break of day." "as late as , belgium was disgraced by a witch trial; and guilt was established by the water ordeal." "in , the populace of hela, near dantzic, twice plunged into the sea a woman reputed to be a sorceress; and as the miserable creature persisted in rising to the surface, she was pronounced guilty, and beaten to death." "it was believed that the bodies of devils are not like those of men and animals, cast in an unchangeable mould. it was thought they were like clouds, refined and subtle matter, capable of assuming any form and penetrating into any orifice. the horrible tortures they endured in their place of punishment rendered them extremely sensitive to suffering, and they continually sought a temperate and somewhat moist warmth in order to allay their pangs. it was for this reason they so frequently entered into men and women." the devil could transport men, at his will, through the air. he could beget children; and martin luther himself had come in contact with one of these children. he recommended the mother to throw the child into the river, in order to free their house from the presence of a devil. it was believed that the devil could transform people into any shape he pleased. whoever denied these things was denounced as an infidel. all the believers in witchcraft confidently appealed to the bible. their mouths were filled with passages demonstrating the existence of witches and their power over human beings. by the bible they proved that innumerable evil spirits were ranging over the world endeavoring to ruin mankind; that these spirits possessed a power and wisdom far transcending the limits of human faculties; that they delighted in every misfortune that could befall the world; that their malice was superhuman. that they caused tempests was proved by the action of the devil toward job; by the passage in the book of revelation describing the four angels who held the four winds, and to whom it was given to afflict the earth. they believed the devil could carry persons hundreds of miles, in a few seconds, through the air. they believed this, because they knew that christ had been carried by the devil in the same manner and placed on a pinnacle of the temple. "the prophet habakkuk had been transported by a spirit from judea to babylon; and philip, the evangelist, had been the object of a similar miracle; and in the same way saint paul had been carried in the body into the third heaven." "in those pious days, they believed that _incubi_ and _succubi_ were forever wandering among mankind, alluring, by more than human charms, the unwary to their destruction, and laying plots, which were too often successful, against the virtue of the saints. sometimes the witches kindled in the monastic priest a more terrestrial fire. people told, with bated breath, how, under the spell of a vindictive woman, four successive abbots in a german monastery had been wasted away by an unholy flame." an instance is given in which the devil not only assumed the appearance of a holy man, in order to pay his addresses to a lady, but when discovered, crept under the bed, suffered himself to be dragged out, and was impudent enough to declare that he was the veritable bishop. so perfectly had he assumed the form and features of the prelate that those who knew the bishop best were deceived. one can hardly imagine the frightful state of the human mind during these long centuries of darkness and superstition. to them, these things were awful and frightful realities. hovering above them in the air, in their houses, in the bosoms of friends, in their very bodies, in all the darkness of night, everywhere, around, above and below, were innumerable hosts of unclean and malignant devils. from the malice of those leering and vindictive vampires of the air, the church pretended to defend mankind. pursued by these phantoms, the frightened multitudes fell upon their faces and implored the aid of robed hypocrisy and sceptered theft. take from the orthodox church of to-day the threat and fear of hell, and it becomes an extinct volcano. take from the church the miraculous, the supernatural, the incomprehensible, the unreasonable, the impossible, the unknowable, and the absurd, and nothing but a vacuum remains. notwithstanding all the infamous things justly laid to the charge of the church, we are told that the civilization of to-day is the child of what we are pleased to call the superstition of the past. religion has not civilized man--man has civilized religion. god improves as man advances. let me call your attention to what we have received from the followers of the ghosts. let me give you an outline of the sciences as taught by these philosophers of the clouds. all diseases were produced, either as a punishment by the good ghosts, or out of pure malignity by the bad ones. there were, properly speaking, no diseases. the sick were possessed by ghosts. the science of medicine consisted in knowing how to persuade these ghosts to vacate the premises. for thousands of years the diseased were treated with incantations, with hideous noises, with drums and gongs. everything was done to make the visit of the ghost as unpleasant as possible, and they generally succeeded in making things so disagreeable that if the ghost did not leave, the patient did. these ghosts were supposed to be of different rank, power and dignity. now and then a man pretended to have won the favor of some powerful ghost, and that gave him power over the little ones. such a man became an eminent physician. it was found that certain kinds of smoke, such as that produced by burning the liver of a fish, the dried skin of a serpent, the eyes of a toad, or the tongue of an adder, were exceedingly offensive to the nostrils of an ordinary ghost. with this smoke, the sick room would be filled until the ghost vanished or the patient died. it was also believed that certain words,--the names of the most powerful ghosts,--when properly pronounced, were very effective weapons. it was for a long time thought that latin words were the best,--latin being a dead language, and known by the clergy. others thought that two sticks laid across each other and held before the wicked ghost would cause it instantly to flee in dread away. for thousands of years, the practice of medicine consisted in driving these evil spirits out of the bodies of men. in some instances, bargains and compromises were made with the ghosts. one case is given where a multitude of devils traded a man for a herd of swine. in this transaction the devils were the losers, as the swine immediately drowned themselves in the sea. this idea of disease appears to have been almost universal, and is by no means yet extinct. the contortions of the epileptic, the strange twitchings of those afflicted with chorea, the shakings of palsy, dreams, trances, and the numberless frightful phenomena produced by diseases of the nerves, were all seized upon as so many proofs that the bodies of men were filled with unclean and malignant ghosts. whoever endeavored to account for these things by natural causes, whoever attempted to cure diseases by natural means, was denounced by the church as an infidel. to explain anything was a crime. it was to the interest of the priest that all phenomena should be accounted for by the will and power of gods and devils. the moment it is admitted that all phenomena are within the domain of the natural, the necessity for a priest has disappeared. religion breathes the air of the supernatural. take from the mind of man the idea of the supernatural, and religion ceases to exist. for this reason, the church has always despised the man who explained the wonderful. upon this principle, nothing was left undone to stay the science of medicine. as long as plagues and pestilences could be stopped by prayer, the priest was useful. the moment the physician found a cure, the priest became an extravagance. the moment it began to be apparent that prayer could do nothing for the body, the priest shifted his ground and began praying for the soul. long after the devil idea was substantially abandoned in the practice of medicine, and when it was admitted that god had nothing to do with ordinary coughs and colds, it was still believed that all the frightful diseases were sent by him as punishments for the wickedness of the people. it was thought to be a kind of blasphemy to even try, by any natural means, to stay the ravages of pestilence. formerly, during the prevalence of plague and epidemics, the arrogance of the priest was boundless. he told the people that they had slighted the clergy, that they had refused to pay tithes, that they had doubted some of the doctrines of the church, and that god was now taking his revenge. the people for the most part, believed this infamous tissue of priestcraft. they hastened to fall upon their knees; they poured out their wealth upon the altars of hypocrisy; they abased and debased themselves; from their minds they banished all doubts, and made haste to crawl in the very dust of humility. the church never wanted disease to be under the control of man. timothy dwight, president of yale college, preached a sermon against vaccination. his idea was, that if god had decreed from all eternity that a certain man should die with the small-pox, it was a frightful sin to avoid and annul that decree by the trick of vaccination. small-pox being regarded as one of the heaviest guns in the arsenal of heaven, to spike it was the height of presumption. plagues and pestilences were instrumentalities in the hands of god with which to gain the love and worship of mankind. to find a cure for disease was to take a weapon from the church. no one tries to cure the ague with prayer. quinine has been found altogether more reliable. just as soon as a specific is found for a disease, that disease will be left out of the list of prayer. the number of diseases with which god from time to time afflicts mankind, is continually decreasing. in a few years all of them will be under the control of man, the gods will be left unarmed, and the threats of their priests will excite only a smile. the science of medicine has had but one enemy--religion. man was afraid to save his body for fear he might lose his soul. is it any wonder that the people in those days believed in and taught the infamous doctrine of eternal punishment--a doctrine that makes god a heartless monster and man a slimy hypocrite and slave? the ghosts were historians, and their histories were the grossest absurdities. "tales told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying no thing." in those days the histories were written by the monks, who, as a rule, were almost as superstitious as they were dishonest. they wrote as though they had been witnesses of every occurrence they related. they wrote the history of every country of importance. they told all the past and predicted all the future with an impudence that amounted to sublimity, "they traced the order of st. michael, in france, to the archangel himself, and alleged that he was the founder of a chivalric order in heaven itself. they said that tartars originally came from hell, and that they were called tartars because tartarus was one of the names of perdition. they declared that scotland was so named after scota, a daughter of pharaoh, who landed in ireland, invaded scotland, and took it by force of arms. this statement was made in a letter addressed to the pope in the fourteenth century, and was alluded to as a well-known fact. the letter was written by some of the highest dignitaries, and by the direction of the king himself." these gentlemen accounted for the red on the breasts of robins, from the fact that these birds carried water to unbaptized infants in hell. matthew, of paris, an eminent historian of the fourteenth century, gave the world the following piece of information: "it is well known that mohammed was once a cardinal, and became a heretic because he failed in his effort to be elected pope;" and that having drank to excess, he fell by the roadside, and in this condition was killed by swine. "and for that reason, his followers abhor pork even unto this day." another eminent historian informs us that nero was in the habit of vomiting frogs. when i read this, i said to myself: some of the croakers of the present day against progress would be the better for such a vomit. the history of charlemagne was written by turpin, of rheims. he was a bishop. he assures us that the walls of a city fell down in answer to prayer. that there were giants in those days who could take fifty ordinary men under their arms and walk away with them. "with the greatest of these, a direct descendant of goliath, one orlando had a theological discussion, and that in the heat of the debate, when the giant was overwhelmed with the argument, orlando rushed forward and inflicted a fatal stab." the history of britain, written by the arch-. deacons of monmouth and oxford, was wonderfully popular. according to them, brutus conquered england and built the city of london. during his time, it rained pure blood for three days. at another time, a monster came from the sea, and, after having devoured great multitudes of people, swallowed the king and disappeared. they tell us that king arthur was not born like other mortals, but was the result of a magical contrivance; that he had great luck in killing giants; that he killed one in france that had the cheerful habit of eating some thirty men a day. that this giant had clothes woven of the beards of the kings he had devoured. to cap the climax, one of the authors of this book was promoted for having written the only reliable history of his country. in all the histories of those days there is hardly a single truth. facts were considered unworthy of preservation. anything that really happened was not of sufficient interest or importance to be recorded. the great religious historian, eusebius, ingenuously remarks that in his history he carefully omitted whatever tended to discredit the church, and that he piously magnified all that conduced to her glory. the same glorious principle was scrupulously adhered to by all the historians of that time. they wrote, and the people believed, that the tracks of pharoah's chariots were still visible on the sands of the red sea, and that they had been miraculously preserved from the winds and waves as perpetual witnesses of the great miracle there performed. it is safe to say that every truth in the histories of those times is the result of accident or mistake. they accounted for everything as the work of good and evil spirits. with cause and effect they had nothing to do. facts were in no way related to each other. god, governed by infinite caprice, filled the world with miracles and disconnected events. from the quiver of his hatred came the arrows of famine, pestilence, and death. the moment that the idea is abandoned that all is natural; that all phenomena are the necessary links in the endless chain of being, the conception of history becomes impossible. with the ghosts, the present is not the child of the past, nor the mother of the future. in the domain of religion all is chance, accident, and caprice. do not forget, i pray you, that our creeds were written by the cotemporaries of these historians. the same idea was applied to law. it was believed by our intelligent ancestors that all law derived its sacredness and its binding force from the fact that it had been communicated to man by the ghosts. of course it was not pretended that the ghosts told everybody the law; but they told it to a few, and the few told it to the people, and the people, as a rule, paid them exceedingly well for their trouble. it was thousands of ages before the people commenced making laws for themselves, and strange as it may appear, most of these laws were vastly superior to the ghost article. through the web and woof of human legislation began to run and shine and glitter the golden thread of justice. during these years of darkness it was believed that rather than see an act of injustice done; rather than see the innocent suffer; rather than see the guilty triumph, some ghost would interfere. this belief, as a rule, gave great satisfaction to the victorious party, and as the other man was dead, no complaint was heard from him. this doctrine was the sanctification of brute force and chance. they had trials by battle, by fire, by water, and by lot. persons were made to grasp hot iron, and if it burned them their guilt was established. others, with tied hands and feet, were cast into the sea, and if they sank, the verdict of guilty was unanimous,--if they did not sink, they were in league with devils. so in england, persons charged with crime could appeal to the corsned. the corsned was a piece of the sacramental bread. if the defendant could swallow this piece he went acquit. godwin, earl of kent, in the time of edward the confessor, appealed to the corsned. he failed to swallow it and was choked to death. the ghosts and their followers always took delight in torture, in cruel and unusual punishments. for the infraction of most of their laws, death was the penalty--death produced by stoning and by fire. sometimes, when man committed only murder, he was allowed to flee to some city of refuge. murder was a crime against man. but for saying certain words, or denying certain doctrines, or for picking up sticks on certain days, or for worshiping the wrong ghost, or for failing to pray to the right one, or for laughing at a priest, or for saying that wine was not blood, or that bread was not flesh, or for failing to regard ram's horns as artillery, or for insisting that a dry bone was scarcely sufficient to take the place of water works, or that a raven, as a rule, made a poor landlord:--death, produced by all the ways that the ingenuity of hatred could devise, was the penalty. law is a growth--it is a science. right and wrong exist in the nature of things. things are not right because they are commanded, nor wrong because they are prohibited. there are real crimes enough without creating artificial ones. all progress in legislation has for centuries consisted in repealing the laws of the ghosts. the idea of right and wrong is born of man's capacity to enjoy and suffer. if man could not suffer, if he could not inflict injury upon his fellow, if he could neither feel nor inflict pain, the idea of right and wrong never would have entered his brain. but for this, the word conscience never would have passed the lips of man. there is one good--happiness. there is but one sin--selfishness. all law should be for the preservation of the one and the destruction of the other. under the regime of the ghosts, laws were not supposed to exist in the nature of things. they were supposed to be simply the irresponsible command of a ghost. these commands were not supposed to rest upon reason, they were the product of arbitrary will. the penalties for the violation of these laws were as cruel as the laws were senseless and absurd. working on the sabbath and murder were both punished with death. the tendency of such laws is to blot from the human heart the sense of justice. to show you how perfectly every department of knowledge, or ignorance rather, was saturated with superstition, i will for a moment refer to the science of language. it was thought by our fathers, that hebrew was the original language; that it was taught to adam in the garden of eden by the almighty, and that consequently all languages came from, and could be traced to, the hebrew. every fact inconsistent with that idea was discarded. according to the ghosts, the trouble at the tower of babel accounted for the fact that all people did not speak hebrew. the babel business settled all questions in the science of language. after a time, so many facts were found to be inconsistent with the hebrew idea that it began to fall into disrepute, and other languages began to compete for the honor of being the original. andre kempe, in , published a work on the language of paradise, in which he maintained that god spoke to adam in swedish; that adam answered in danish; and that the serpent--which appears to me quite probable--spoke to eve in french. erro, in a work published at madrid, took the ground that basque was the language spoken in the garden of eden; but in goropius published his celebrated work at antwerp, in which he put the whole matter at rest by showing, beyond all doubt, that the language spoken in paradise was neither more nor less than plain holland dutch. the real founder of the science of language was liebnitz, a cotemporary of sir isaac newton. he discarded the idea that all languages could be traced to one language. he maintained that language was a natural growth. experience teaches us that this must be so. words are continually dying and continually being born. words are naturally and necessarily produced. words are the garments of thought, the robes of ideas. some are as rude as the skins of wild beasts, and others glisten and glitter like silk and gold. they have been born of hatred and revenge; of love and self-sacrifice; of hope and fear, of agony and joy. these words are born of the terror and beauty of nature. the stars have fashioned them. in them mingle the darkness and the dawn. from everything they have taken something. words are the crystalizations of human history, of all that man has enjoyed and and suffered--his victories and defeats--all that he has lost and won. words are the shadows of all that has been--the mirrors of all that is. the ghosts also enlightened our fathers in astronomy and geology. according to them the earth was made out of nothing, and a little more nothing having been taken than was used in the construction of this world, the stars were made out of what was left over. cosmos, in the sixth century, taught that the stars were impelled by angels, who either carried them on their shoulders, rolled them in front of them, or drew them after. he also taught that each angel that pushed a star took great pains to observe what the other angels were doing, so that the relative distances between the stars might always remain the same. he also gave his idea as to the form of the world. he stated that the world was a vast parallelogram; that on the outside was a strip of land, like the frame of a common slate; that then there was a strip of water, and in the middle a great piece of land; that adam and eve lived on the outer strip; that their descendants, with the exception of the noah family, were drowned by a flood on this outer strip; that the ark finally rested on the middle piece of land where we now are. he accounted for night and day by saying that on the outside strip of land there was a high mountain, around which the sun and moon revolved, and that when the sun was on the other side of the mountain, it was night; and when on this side, it was day. he also declared that the earth was flat. this he proved by many passages from the bible. among other reasons for believing the earth to be flat, he brought forward the following: we are told in the new testament that christ shall come again in glory and power, and all the world shall see him. now, if the world is round, how are the people on the other side going to see christ when he comes? that settled the question, and the church not only endorsed the book, but declared that whoever believed less or more than stated by cosmos, was a heretic. in those blessed days, ignorance was a king and science an outcast. they knew the moment this earth ceased to be the centre of the universe, and became a mere speck in the starry heaven of existence, that their religion would become a childish fable of the past. in the name and by the authority of the ghosts, men enslaved their fellow men; they trampled upon the rights of women and children. in the name and by the authority of ghosts, they bought and sold and destroyed each other; they filled heaven with tyrants and earth with slaves, the present with despair and the future with horror. in the name and by the authority of the ghosts, they imprisoned the human mind, polluted the conscience, hardened the heart, subverted justice, crowned robbery, sainted hypocrisy, and extinguished for a thousand years the torch of reason. i have endeavored, in some faint degree, to show you what has happened, and what always will happen when men are governed by superstition and fear; when they desert the sublime standard of reason; when they take the words of others and do not investigate for themselves. even the great men of those days were nearly as weak in this matter as the most ignorant. kepler, one of the greatest men of the world, an astronomer second to none, although he plucked from the stars the secrets of the universe, was an astrologer, and really believed that he could predict the career of a man by finding what star was in the ascendant at his birth. this great man breathed, so to speak, the atmosphere of his time. he believed in the music of the spheres, and assigned alto, bass, tenor, and treble to certain stars. tycho brahe, another astronomer, kept an idiot, whose disconnected and meaningless words he carefully set down, and then put them together in such manner as to make prophecies, and then waited patiently to see them fulfilled. luther believed that he had actually seen the devil, and had discussed points of theology with him. the human mind was in chains. every idea almost was a monster. thought was deformed. facts were looked upon as worthless. only the wonderful was worth preserving. things that actually happened were not considered worth recording;--real occurrences were too common. everybody expected the miraculous. the ghosts were supposed to be busy; devils were thought to be the most industrious things in the universe, and with these imps, every occurrence of an unusual character was in some way connected. there was no order, no serenity, no certainty, in anything. everything depended upon ghosts and phantoms. man was, for the most part, at the mercy of malevolent spirits. he protected himself as best he could with holy water and tapers and wafers and cathedrals. he made noises and rung bells to frighten the ghosts, and he made music to charm them. he used smoke to choke them, and incense to please them. he wore beads and crosses. he said prayers, and hired others to say them. he fasted when he was hungry, and feasted when he was not. he believed everything that seemed unreasonable, just to appease the ghosts. he humbled himself. he crawled in the dust. he shut the doors and windows, and excluded every ray of light from the temple of the soul. he debauched and polluted his own mind, and toiled night and day to repair the walls of his own prison. from the garden of his heart he plucked and trampled upon the holy flowers of pity. the priests reveled in horrible descriptions of hell. concerning the wrath of god, they grew eloquent. they denounced man as totally depraved. they made reason blasphemy, and pity a crime. nothing so delighted them as painting the torments and sufferings of the lost. over the worm that never dies they grew poetic; and the second death filled them with a kind of holy delight. according to them, the smoke and cries ascending from hell were the perfume and music of heaven. at the risk of being tiresome, i have said what i have to show you the productions of the human mind, when enslaved; the effects of wide-spread ignorance--the results of fear. i want to convince you that every form of slavery is a viper, that, sooner or later, will strike its poison fangs into the bosoms of men. the first great step towards progress, is, for man to cease to be the slave of man; the second, to cease to be the slave of the monsters of his own creation--of the ghosts and phantoms of the air. for ages the human race was imprisoned. through the bars and grates came a few struggling rays of light. against these grates and bars science pressed its pale and thoughtful face, wooed by the holy dawn of human advancement. men found that the real was the useful; that what a man knows is better than what a ghost says; that an event is more valuable than a prophecy. they found that diseases were not produced by spirits, and could not be cured by frightening them away. they found that death was as natural as life. they began to study the anatomy and chemistry of the human body, and found that all was natural and within the domain of law. the conjurer and sorcerer were discarded, and the physician and surgeon employed. they found that the earth was not flat; that the stars were not mere specks. they found that being born under a particular planet had nothing to do with the fortunes of men. the astrologer was discharged and the astronomer took his place. they found that the earth had swept through the constellations for millions of ages. they found that good and evil were produced by natural causes, and not by ghosts; that man could not be good enough or bad enough to stop or cause a rain; that diseases were produced as naturally as grass, and were not sent as punishments upon man for failing to believe a certain creed. they found that man, through intelligence, could take advantage of the forces of nature--that he could make the waves, the winds, the flames, and the lightnings of heaven do his bidding and minister to his wants. they found that the ghosts knew nothing of benefit to man; that they were utterly ignorant of geology--of astronomy--of geography;--that they knew nothing of history;--that they were poor doctors and worse surgeons;--that they knew nothing of law and less of justice; that they were without brains, and utterly destitute of hearts; that they knew nothing of the rights of men; that they were despisers of women, the haters of progress, the enemies of science, and the destroyers of liberty. the condition of the world during the dark ages shows exactly the result of enslaving the bodies and souls of men. in those days there was no freedom. labor was despised, and a laborer was considered but little above a beast. ignorance, like a vast cowl, covered the brain of the world, and superstition ran riot with the imagination of man. the air was filled with angels, with demons and monsters. credulity sat upon the throne of the soul, and reason was an exiled king. a man to be distinguished must be a soldier or a monk. war and theology, that is to say, murder and hypocrisy, were the principal employments of man. industry was a slave, theft was commerce; murder was war, hypocrisy was religion. every christian country maintained that it was no robbery to take the property of mohammedans by force, and no murder to kill the owners. lord bacon was the first man of note who maintained that a christian country was bound to keep its plighted faith with an infidel nation. reading and writing were considered dangerous arts. every layman who could read and write was suspected of being a heretic. all thought was discouraged. they forged chains of superstition for the minds, and manacles of iron for the bodies of men. the earth was ruled by the cowl and sword,--by the mitre and scepter,--by the altar and throne,--by fear and force,--by ignorance and faith,--by ghouls and ghosts. in the fifteenth century the following law was in force in england: "that whosoever reads the scriptures in the mother tongue, shall forfeit land, cattle, life, and goods from their heirs forever, and so be condemned for heretics to god, enemies to the crown, and most arrant traitors to the land." during the first year this law was in force thirty-nine were hanged for its violation and their bodies burned. in the sixteenth century men were burned because they failed to kneel to a procession of monks. the slightest word uttered against the superstition of the time was punished with death. even the reformers, so called, of those days, had no idea of intellectual liberty--no idea even of toleration. luther, knox, calvin, believed in religious liberty only when they were in the minority. the moment they were clothed with power they began to exterminate with fire and sword. castellio was the first minister who advocated the liberty of the soul. he was regarded by the reformers as a criminal, and treated as though he had committed the crime of crimes. bodinus, a lawyer of france, about the same time, wrote a few words in favor of the freedom of conscience, but public opinion was overwhelmingly against him. the people were ready, anxious, and willing, with whip, and chain, and fire, to drive from the mind of man the heresy that he had a right to think. montaigne, a man blest with so much common sense that he was the most uncommon man of his time, was the first to raise a voice against torture in france. but what was the voice of one man against the terrible cry of ignorant, infatuated, superstitious and malevolent millions? it was the cry of a drowning man in the wild roar of the cruel sea. in spite of the efforts of the brave few the infamous war against the freedom of the soul was waged until at least one hundred millions of human beings--fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters--with hopes, loves, and aspirations like ourselves, were sacrificed upon the cruel altar of an ignorant faith. they perished in every way by which death can be produced. every nerve of pain was sought out and touched by the believers in ghosts. for my part i glory in the fact, that here in the new world,--in the united states,--liberty of conscience was first guaranteed to man, and that the constitution of the united states was the first great decree entered in the high court of human equity forever divorcing church and state,--the first injunction granted against the interference of the ghosts. this was one of the grandest steps ever taken by the human race in the direction of progress. you will ask what has caused this wonderful change in three hundred years. and i answer--the inventions and discoveries of the few;--the brave thoughts, the heroic utterances of the few;--the acquisition of a few facts. besides, you must remember that every wrong in some way tends to abolish itself. it is hard to make a lie stand always. a lie will not fit a fact. it will only fit another lie made for the purpose. the life of a lie is simply a question of time. nothing but truth is immortal. the nobles and kings quarreled;--the priests began to dispute;--the ideas of government began to change. in printing was discovered. at that time the past was a vast cemetery with hardly an epitaph. the ideas of men had mostly perished in the brain that produced them. the lips of the human race had been sealed. printing gave pinions to thought. it preserved ideas. it made it possible for man to bequeath to the future the riches of his brain, the wealth of his soul. at first, it was used to flood the world with the mistakes of the ancients, but since that time it has been flooding the world with light. when people read they begin to reason, and when they reason they progress. this was another grand step in the direction of progress. the discovery of powder, that put the peasant almost upon a par with the prince;--that put an end to the so-called age of chivalry;--that released a vast number of men from the armies;--that gave pluck and nerve a chance with brute strength. the discovery of america, whose shores were trod by the restless feet of adventure;--that brought people holding every shade of superstition together;--that gave the world an opportunity to compare notes, and to laugh at the follies of each other. out of this strange mingling of all creeds, and superstitions, and facts, and theories, and countless opinions, came the great republic. every fact has pushed a superstition from the brain and a ghost from the clouds. every mechanic art is an educator. every loom, every reaper and mower, every steamboat, every locomotive, every engine, every press, every telegraph, is a missionary of science and an apostle of progress. every mill, every furnace, every building with its wheels and levers, in which something is made for the convenience, for the use, and for the comfort and elevation of man, is a church, and every school house is a temple. education is the most radical thing in the world to teach the alphabet is to inaugurate a revolution. to build a school house is to construct a fort. every library is an arsenal filled with the weapons and ammunition of progress, and every fact is a monitor with sides of iron and a turret of steel. i thank the inventors, the discoverers, the thinkers. i thank columbus and magellan. i thank galileo, and copernicus, and kepler, and des cartes, and newton, and la place. i thank locke, and hume, and bacon, and shakespeare, and kant, and fichte, and liebnitz, and goethe. i thank fulton, and watts, and volta, and galvani, and franklin, and morse, who made lightning the messenger of man. i thank humboldt, the shakespeare of science. i thank crompton and arkwright, from whose brains leaped the looms and spindles that clothe the world. i thank luther for protesting against the abuses of the church, and i denounce him because he was the enemy of liberty. i thank calvin for writing a book in favor of religious freedom, and i abhor him because he burned servetus. i thank knox for resisting episcopal persecution, and i hate him because he persecuted in his turn. i thank the puritans for saying "resistance to tyrants is obedience to god," and yet i am compelled to say that they were tyrants themselves. i thank thomas paine because he was a believer in liberty, and because he did as much to make my country free as any other human being. i thank voltaire, that great man who, for half a century, was the intellectual emperor of europe, and who, from his throne at the foot of the alps, pointed the finger of scorn at every hypocrite in christendom. i thank darwin, haeckel and buchner, spencer, tyndall and huxley, draper, leckey and buckle. i thank the inventors, the discoverers, the thinkers, the scientists, the explorers. i thank the honest millions who have toiled. i thank the brave men with brave thoughts. they are the atlases upon whose broad and mighty shoulders rests the grand fabric of civilization. they are the men who have broken, and are still breaking, the chains of superstition. they are the titans who carried olympus by assault, and who will soon stand victors upon sinai's crags. we are beginning to learn that to exchange a mistake for the truth--a superstition for a fact--to ascertain the real--is to progress. happiness is the only possible good, and all that tends to the happiness of man is right, and is of value. all that tends to develop the bodies and minds of men; all that gives us better houses, better clothes, better food, better pictures, grander music, better heads, better hearts; all that renders us more intellectual and more loving, nearer just; that makes us better husbands and wives, better children, better citizens--all these things combined produce what i call progress. man advances only as he overcomes the obstructions of nature, and this can be done only by labor and by thought. labor is the foundation of all. without labor, and without great labor, progress is impossible. the progress of the world depends upon the men who walk in the fresh furrows and through the rustling corn; upon those who sow and reap; upon those whose faces are radiant with the glare of furnace fires; upon the delvers in the mines, and the workers in shops; upon those who give to the winter air the ringing music of the axe; upon those who battle with the boisterous billows of the sea; upon the inventors and discoverers; upon the brave thinkers. from the surplus produced by labor, schools and universities are built and fostered. from this surplus the painter is paid for the productions of the pencil; the sculptor for chiseling shapeless rock into forms divinely beautiful, and the poet for singing the hopes, the loves, the memories, and the aspirations of the world. this surplus has given us the books in which we converse with the dead and living kings of the human race. it has given us all there is of beauty, of elegance, and of refined happiness. i am aware that there is a vast difference of opinion as to what progress really is; that many denounce the ideas of to-day as destructive of all happiness--of all good. i know that there are many worshipers of the past. they venerate the ancient because it is ancient. they see no beauty in anything from which they do not blow the dust of ages with the breath of praise. they say, no masters like the old; no religion, no governments like the ancient; no orators, no poets, no statesmen like those who have been dust for two thousand years. others love the modern simply because it is modern. we should have gratitude enough to acknowledge the obligations we are under to the great and heroic of antiquity, and independence enough not to believe what they said simply because they said it. with the idea that labor is the basis of progress goes the truth that labor must be free. the laborer must be a free man. the free man, working for wife and child, gets his head and hands in partnership. to do the greatest amount of work in the shortest space of time, is the problem of free labor. slavery does the least work in the longest space of time. free labor will give us wealth. free thought will give us truth. slowly but surely man is freeing his imagination of these sexless phantoms, of these cruel ghosts. slowly but surely he is rising above the superstitions of the past. he is learning to rely upon himself. he is beginning to find that labor is the only prayer that ought to be answered, and that hoping, toiling, aspiring, suffering men and women are of more importance than all the ghosts that ever wandered through the fenceless fields of space. the believers in ghosts claim still, that they are the only wise and virtuous people upon the earth; claim still, that there is a difference between them and unbelievers so vast, that they will be infinitely rewarded, and the others infinitely punished. i ask you to-night, do the theories and doctrines of the theologians satisfy the heart or brain of the nineteenth century? have the churches the confidence of mankind? does the merchant give credit to a man because he belongs to a church? does the banker loan money to a man because he is a methodist or baptist? will a certificate of good standing in any church be taken as collateral security for one dollar? will you take the word of a church member, or his note, or his oath, simply because he is a church member? are the clergy, as a class, better, kinder and more generous to their families--to their fellow-men--than doctors, lawyers, merchants and farmers? does a belief in ghosts and unreasonable things necessarily make people honest? when a man loses confidence in moses, must the people lose confidence in him? does not the credit system in morals breed extravagance in sin? why send missionaries to other lands while every penitentiary in ours is filled with criminals?-- is it philosophical to say that they who do right carry a cross? is it a source of joy to think that perdition is the destination of nearly all of the children of men? is it worth while to quarrel about original sin--when there is so much copy? does it pay to dispute about baptism, and the trinity, and predestination, and apostolic succession and the infallibility of churches, of popes and of books? does all this do any good? are the theologians welcomers of new truths? are they noted for their candor? do they treat an opponent with common fairness? are they investigators? do they pull forward, or do they hold back? is science indebted to the church for a solitary fact? what church is an asylum for a persecuted truth? what great reform has been inaugurated by the church? did the church abolish slavery? has the church raised its voice against war? i used to think that there was in religion no real restraining force. upon this point my mind has changed. religion will prevent man from committing artificial crimes and offenses. a man committed murder. the evidence was so conclusive that he confessed his guilt. he was asked why he killed his fellow-man. he replied: "for money." "did you get any?" "yes." "how much?" "fifteen cents." "what did you do with this money?" "spent it!" "what for?" "liquor." "what else did you find upon the dead man?" "he had his dinner in a bucket--some meat and bread." "what did you do with that?" "i ate the bread." "what did you do with the meat?" "i threw it away." "why?" "it was friday." just to the extent that man has freed himself from the dominion of ghosts he has advanced. just to the extent that he has freed himself from the tyrants of his own creation he has progressed. just to the extent that he has investigated for himself he has lost confidence in superstition. with knowledge obedience becomes intelligent acquiescence--it is no longer degrading. acquiescence in the understood--in the known--is the act of a sovereign, not of a slave. it ennobles, it does not degrade. man has found that he must give liberty to others in order to have it himself. he has found that a master is also a slave;--that a tyrant is himself a serf. he has found that governments should be founded and administered by man and for man; that the rights of all are equal; that the powers that be are not ordained by god; that woman is at least the equal of man; that men existed before books; that religion is one of the phases of thought through which the world is passing; that all creeds were made by man; that everything is natural; that a miracle is an impossibility; that we know nothing of origin and destiny; that concerning the unknown we are all equally ignorant; that the pew has the right to contradict what the pulpit asserts; that man is responsible only to himself and those he injures, and that all have a right to think. true religion must be free. without perfect liberty of the mind there can be no true religion. without liberty the brain is a dungeon--the mind a convict. the slave may bow and cringe and crawl, but he cannot adore--he cannot love. true religion is the perfume of a free and grateful heart. true religion is a subordination of the passions to the perceptions of the intellect. true religion is not a theory--it is a practice. it is not a creed--it is a life. a theory that is afraid of investigation is undeserving a place in the human mind. i do not pretend to tell what all the truth is. i do not pretend to have fathomed the abyss, nor to have floated on outstretched wings level with the dim heights of thought. i simply plead for freedom. i denounce the cruelties and horrors of slavery. i ask for light and air for the souls of men. i say, take off those chains--break those manacles--free those limbs--release that brain! i plead for the right to think--to reason--to investigate. i ask that the future may be enriched with the honest thoughts of men. i implore every human being to be a soldier in the army of progress. i will not invade the rights of others. you have no right to erect your toll-gate upon the highways of thought. you have no right to leap from the hedges of superstition and strike down the pioneers of the human race. you have no right to sacrifice the liberties of man upon the altars of ghosts. believe what you may; preach what you desire; have all the forms and ceremonies you please; exercise your liberty in your own way but extend to all others the same right. i will not attack your doctrines nor your creeds if they accord liberty to me. if they hold thought to be dangerous--if they aver that doubt is a crime, then i attack them one and all, because they enslave the minds of men. i attack the monsters, the phantoms of imagination that have ruled the world. i attack slavery. i ask for room--room for the human mind. why should we sacrifice a real world that we have, for one we know not of? why should we enslave ourselves? why should we forge fetters for our own hands? why should we be the slaves of phantoms. the darkness of barbarism was the womb of these shadows. in the light of science they cannot cloud the sky forever. they have reddened the hands of man with innocent blood. they made the cradle a curse, and the grave a place of torment. they blinded the eyes and stopped the ears of the human race. they subverted all ideas of justice by promising infinite rewards for finite virtues, and threatening infinite punishment for finite offenses. they filled the future with heavens and with hells, with the shining peaks of selfish joy and the lurid abysses of flame. for ages they kept the world in ignorance and awe, in want and misery, in fear and chains. i plead for light, for air, for opportunity. i plead for individual independence. i plead for the rights of labor and of thought. i plead for a chainless future. let the ghosts go--justice remains. let them disappear--men and women and children are left. let the monsters fade away--the world is here with its hills and seas and plains, with its seasons of smiles and frowns, its spring of leaf and bud, its summer of shade and flower and murmuring stream; its autumn with the laden boughs, when the withered banners of the corn are still, and gathered fields are growing strangely wan; while death, poetic death, with hands that color what they touch, weaves in the autumn wood her tapestries of gold and brown. the world remains with its winters and homes and firesides, where grow and bloom the virtues of our race. all these are left; and music, with its sad and thrilling voice, and all there is of art and song and hope and love and aspiration high. all these remain. let the ghosts go--we will worship them no more. man is greater than these phantoms. humanity is grander than all the creeds, than all the books. humanity is the great sea, and these creeds, and books, and religions, are but the waves of a day. humanity is the sky, and these religions and dogmas and theories are but the mists and clouds changing continually, destined finally to melt away. that which is founded upon slavery, and fear, and ignorance, cannot endure. in the religion of the future there will be men and women and children, all the aspirations of the soul, and all the tender humanities of the heart. let the ghosts go. we will worship them no more. let them cover their eyeless sockets with their fleshless hands and fade forever from the imaginations of men. the liberty of man, woman and child liberty sustains the same relation to mind that space does to matter. there is no slavery but ignorance. liberty is the child of intelligence. the history of man is simply the history of slavery, of injustice and brutality, together with the means by which he has, through the dead and desolate years, slowly and painfully advanced. he has been the sport and prey of priest and king, the food of superstition and cruel might. crowned force has governed ignorance through fear. hypocrisy and tyranny--two vultures--have fed upon the liberties of man. from all these there has been, and is, but one means of escape--intellectual development. upon the back of industry has been the whip. upon the brain have been the fetters of superstition. nothing has been left undone by the enemies of freedom. every art and artifice, every cruelty and outrage has been practiced and perpetrated to destroy the rights of man. in this great struggle every crime has been rewarded and every virtue has been punished. reading, writing, thinking and investigating have all been crimes. every science has been an outcast. all the altars and all the thrones united to arrest the forward march of the human race. the king said that mankind must not work for themselves. the priest said that mankind must not think for themselves. one forged chains for the hands, the other for the soul. under this infamous _regime_ the eagle of the human intellect was for ages a slimy serpent of hypocrisy. the human race was imprisoned. through some of the prison bars came a few struggling rays of light. against these bars science pressed its pale and thoughtful face, wooed by the holy dawn of human advancement. bar after bar was broken away. a few grand men escaped and devoted their lives to the liberation of their fellows. only a few years ago there was a great awakening of the human mind. men began to inquire by what right a crowned robber made them work for him? the man who asked this question was called a traitor. others asked by what right does a robed hypocrite rule my thought? such men were called infidels. the priest said, and the king said, where is this spirit of investigation to stop? they said then and they say now, that it is dangerous for man to be free. i deny it. out on the intellectual sea there is room enough for every sail. in the intellectual air there is space enough for every wing. the man who does not do his own thinking is a slave, and is a traitor to himself and to his fellow-men. "every man should stand under the blue and stars, under the infinite flag of nature, the peer of every other man." standing in the presence of the unknown, all have the same right to think, and all are equally interested in the great questions of origin and destiny. all i claim, all i plead for, is liberty thought and expression. that is all. i do not pretend to tell what is absolutely true, but what i think is true. i do not pretend to tell all the truth. i do not claim that i have floated level with the heights of thought, or that i have descended to the very depths of things. i simply claim that what ideas i have, i have a right to express; and that any man who denies that right to me is an intellectual thief and robber. that is all. take those chains from the human soul. break those fetters. if i have no right to think, why have i a brain? if i have no such right, have three or four men, or any number, who may get together, and sign a creed, and build a house, and put a steeple upon it, and a bell in it--have they the right to think? the good men, the good women are tired of the whip and lash in the realm of thought. they remember the chain and fagot with a shudder. they are free, and they give liberty to others. whoever claims any right that he is unwilling to accord to his fellow-men is dishonest and infamous. in the good old times, our fathers had the idea that they could make people believe to suit them. our ancestors, in the ages that are gone, really believed that by force you could convince a man. you cannot change the conclusion of the brain by torture; nor by social ostracism. but i will tell you what you can do by these, and what you have done. you can make hypocrites by the million. you can make a man say that he has changed his mind; but he remains of the same opinion still. put fetters all over him; crush his feet in iron boots; stretch him to the last gasp upon the holy rack; burn him, if you please, but his ashes will be of the same opinion still. our fathers in the good old times--and the best thing i can say about them is, that they have passed away--had an idea that they could force men to think their way. that idea is still prevalent in many parts, even of this country. even in our day some extremely religious people say, "we will not trade with that man; we will not vote for him; we will not hire him if he is a lawyer; we will die before we will take his medicine if he is a doctor; we will not invite him to dinner; we will socially ostracise him; he must come to our church; he must believe our doctrines; he must worship our god or we will not in any way contribute to his support." in the old times of which i have spoken, they desired to make all men think exactly alike. all the mechanical ingenuity of the world cannot make two clocks run exactly alike, and how are you going to make hundreds of millions of people, differing in brain and disposition, in education and aspiration, in conditions and surroundings, each clad in a living robe of passionate flesh--how are you going to make them think and feel alike? if there is an infinite god, one who made us, and wishes us to think alike, why did he give a spoonful of brains to one, and a magnificent intellectual development to another? why is it that we have all degrees of intelligence, from orthodoxy to genius, if it was intended that all should think and feel alike? i used to read in books how our fathers persecuted mankind. but i never appreciated it. i read it, but it did not burn itself into my soul, i did not really appreciate the infamies that have been committed in the name of religion, until i saw the iron arguments that christians used. i saw the thumbscrew--two little pieces of iron, armed on the inner surfaces with protuberances, to prevent their slipping; through each end a screw uniting the two pieces. and when some man denied the efficacy of baptism, or maybe said, "i do not believe that a fish ever swallowed a man to keep him from drowning," then they put his thumb between these pieces of iron and in the name of love and universal forgiveness, began to screw these pieces together. when this was done most men said, "i will recant." probably i should have done the same. probably i would have said: "stop, i will admit anything that you wish; i will admit that there is one god or a million, one hell or a billion; suit yourselves; but stop." but there was now and then a man who would not swerve the breadth of a hair. there was now and then some sublime heart, willing to die for an intellectual conviction. had it not been for such men, we would be savages to-night. had it not been for a few brave, heroic souls in every age, we would have been cannibals, with pictures of wild beasts tattooed upon our flesh, dangling around some dried snake fetich. let us thank every good and noble man who stood so grandly, so proudly, in spite of opposition, of hatred and death, for what he believed to be the truth. heroism did not excite the respect of our fathers. the man who would not recant was not forgiven. they screwed the thumbscrews down to the last pang, and then threw their victim into some dungeon, where, in the throbbing silence and darkness, he might suffer the agonies of the fabled damned. this was done in the name of love--in the name of mercy--in the name of the compassionate christ. i saw, too, what they called the collar of torture. imagine a circle of iron, and on the inside a hundred points almost as sharp as needles. this argument was fastened about the throat of the sufferer. then he could not walk, nor sit down, nor stir without the neck being punctured by these points. in a little while the throat would begin to swell, and suffocation would end the agonies of that man. this man, it may be, had committed the crime of saying, with tears upon his cheeks, "i do not believe that god, the father of us all, will damn to eternal perdition any of the children of men." i saw another instrument, called the scavenger's daughter. think of a pair of shears with handles, not only where they now are, but at the points as well, and just above the pivot that unites the blades, a circle of iron. in the upper handles the hands would be placed; in the lower, the feet; and through the iron ring, at the centre, the head of the victim would be forced. in this condition, he would be thrown prone upon the earth, and the strain upon the muscles produced such agony that insanity would in pity end his pain. this was done by gentlemen who said: "whosoever smiteth thee upon one cheek turn to him the other also." i saw the rack. this was a box like the bed of a wagon, with a windlass at each end, with levers, and ratchets to prevent slipping; over each windlass went chains; some were fastened to the ankles of the sufferer; others to his wrists. and then priests, clergymen, divines, saints, began turning these windlasses, and kept turning, until the ankles, the knees, the hips, the shoulders, the elbows, the wrists of the victim were all dislocated, and the sufferer was wet with the sweat of agony. and they had standing by a physician to feel his pulse. what for? to save his life? yes. in mercy? no; simply that they might rack him once again. this was done, remember, in the name of civilization; in the name of law and order; in the name of mercy; in the name of religion; in the name of the most merciful christ. sometimes, when i read and think about these frightful things, it seems to me that i have suffered all these horrors myself. it seems sometimes, as though i had stood upon the shore of exile and gazed with tearful eyes toward home and native land; as though my nails had been torn from my hands, and into the bleeding quick needles had been thrust; as though my feet had been crushed in iron boots; as though i had been chained in the cell of the inquisition and listened with dying ears for the coming footsteps of release; as though i had stood upon the scaffold and had seen the glittering axe fall upon me; as though i had been upon the rack and had seen, bending above me, the white faces of hypocrite priests; as though i had been taken from my fireside, from my wife and children, taken to the public square, chained; as though fagots had been piled about me; as though the flames had climbed around my limbs and scorched my eyes to blindness, and as though my ashes had been scattered to the four winds, by all the countless hands of hate. and when i so feel, i swear that while i live i will do what little i can to preserve and to augment the liberties of man, woman, and child. it is a question of justice, of mercy, of honesty, of intellectual development. if there is a man in the world who is not willing to give to every human being every right he claims for himself, he is just so much nearer a barbarian than i am. it is a question of honesty. the man who is not willing to give to every other the same intellectual rights he claims for himself, is dishonest, selfish, and brutal. it is a question of intellectual development. whoever holds another man responsible for his honest thought, has a deformed and distorted brain. it is a question of intellectual development. a little while ago i saw models of nearly everything that man has made. i saw models of all the water craft, from the rude dug-out in which floated a naked savage--one of our ancestors--a naked savage, with teeth two inches in length, with a spoonful of brains in the back of his head--i saw models of all the water craft of the world, from that dug-out up to a man-of-war, that carries a hundred guns and miles of canvas--from that dug-out to the steamship that turns its brave prow from the port of new york, with a compass like a conscience, crossing three thousand miles of billows without missing a throb or beat of its mighty iron heart. i saw at the same time the weapons that man has made, from a club, such as was grasped by that same savage, when he crawled from his den in the ground and hunted a snake for his dinner; from that club to the boomerang, to the sword, to the cross-bow, to the blunderbuss, to the flint-lock, to the cap-lock, to the needle-gun, up to a cannon cast by krupp, capable of hurling a ball weighing two thousand pounds through eighteen inches of solid steel. i saw, too, the armor from the shell of a turtle, that one of our brave ancestors lashed upon his breast when he went to fight for his country; the skin of a porcupine, dried with the quills on, which this same savage pulled over his orthodox head, up to the shirts of mail, that were worn in the middle ages, that laughed at the edge of the sword and defied the point of the spear; up to a monitor clad in complete steel. i saw at the same time, their musical instruments, from the tom-tom--that is, a hoop with a couple of strings of raw hide drawn across it--from that tom-tom, up to the instruments we have to-day, that make the common air blossom with melody. i saw, too, their paintings, from a daub of yellow mud, to the great works which now adorn the galleries of the world. i saw also their sculpture, from the rude god with four legs, a half dozen arms, several noses, and two or three rows of ears, and one little, contemptible, brainless head, up to the figures of to-day--to the marbles that genius has clad in such a personality that it seems almost impudent to touch them without an introduction. i saw their books--books written upon skins of wild beasts--upon shoulder-blades of sheep--books written upon leaves, upon bark, up to the splendid volumes that enrich the libraries of our day. when i speak of libraries, i think of the remark of plato: "a house that has a library in it has a soul." i saw their implements of agriculture, from a crooked stick that was attached to the horn of an ox by some twisted straw, to the agricultural implements of this generation, that make it possible for a man to cultivate the soil without being an ignoramus. while looking upon these things i was forced to say that man advanced only as he mingled his thought with his labor,--only as he got into partnership with the forces of nature,--only as he learned to take advantage of his surroundings--only as he freed himself from the bondage of fear,--only as he depended upon himself--only as he lost confidence in the gods. i saw at the same time a row of human skulls, from the lowest skull that has been found, the neanderthal skull--skulls from central africa, skulls from the bushmen of australia--skulls from the farthest isles of the pacific sea--up to the best skulls of the last generation;--and i noticed that there was the same difference between those skulls that there was between the _products_ of those skulls, and i said to myself, "after all, it is a simple question of intellectual development." there was the same difference between those skulls, the lowest and highest skulls, that there was between the dugout and the man-of-war and the steamship, between the club and the krupp gun, between the yellow daub and the landscape, between the tom-tom and an opera by verdi. the first and lowest skull in this row was the den in which crawled the base and meaner instincts of mankind, and the last was a temple in which dwelt joy, liberty, and love. it is all a question of brain, of intellectual development. if we are nearer free than were our fathers, it is because we have better heads upon the average, and more brains in them. now, i ask you to be honest with me. it makes no difference to you what i believe, nor what i wish to prove. i simply ask you to be honest. divest your minds, for a moment at least, of all religious prejudice. act, for a few moments, as though you were men and women. suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, if there was one, at the time this gentleman floated in the dug-out, and charmed his ears with the music of the tom-tom, had said: "that dug-out is the best boat that ever can be built by man; the pattern of that came from on high, from the great god of storm and flood, and any man who says that he can improve it by putting a mast in it, with a sail upon it, is an infidel, and shall be burned at the stake;" what, in your judgment--honor bright--would have been the effect upon the circumnavigation of the globe? suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, if there was one--and i presume there was a priest, because it was a very ignorant age--suppose this king and priest had said: "that tom-tom is the most beautiful instrument of music of which any man can conceive; that is the kind of music they have in heaven; an angel sitting upon the edge of a fleecy cloud, golden in the setting sun, playing upon that tom-tom, became so enraptured, so entranced with her own music, that in a kind of ecstasy she dropped it--that is how we obtained it; and any man who says that it can be improved by putting a back and front to it, and four strings, and a bridge, and getting a bow of hair with rosin, is a blaspheming wretch, and shall die the death,"--i ask you, what effect would that have had upon music? if that course had been pursued, would the human ears, in your judgment, ever have been enriched with the divine symphonies of beethoven? suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, had said: "that crooked stick is the best plow that can be invented: the pattern of that plow was given to a pious farmer in a holy dream, and that twisted straw is the _ne plus ultra_ of all twisted things, and any man who says he can make an improvement upon that plow, is an atheist;" what, in your judgment, would have been the effect upon the science of agriculture? but the people said, and the king and priest said: "we want better weapons with which to kill our fellow christians; we want better plows, better music, better paintings, and whoever will give us better weapons, and better music, better houses to live in, better clothes, we will robe him in wealth, and crown him with honor." every incentive was held out to every human being to improve these things. that is the reason the club has been changed to a cannon, the dug-out to a steamship, the daub to a painting; that is the reason that the piece of rough and broken stone finally became a glorified statue. you must not, however, forget that the gentleman in the dug-out, the gentleman who was enraptured with the music of the tom-tom, and cultivated his land with a crooked stick, had a religion of his own. that gentlemen in the dugout was orthodox. he was never troubled with doubts. he lived and died settled in his mind. he believed in hell; and he thought he would be far happier in heaven, if he could just lean over and see certain people who expressed doubts as to the truth of his creed, gently but everlastingly broiled and burned. it is a very sad and unhappy fact that this man has had a great many intellectual descendants. it is also an unhappy fact in nature, that the ignorant multiply much faster than the intellectual. this fellow in the dug-out believed in a personal devil. his devil had a cloven hoof, a long tail, armed with a fiery dart; and his devil breathed brimstone. this devil was at least the equal of god; not quite so stout but a little shrewder. and do you know there has not been a patentable improvement made upon that devil for six thousand years. this gentleman in the dug-out believed that god was a tyrant; that he would eternally damn the man who lived in accordance with his highest and grandest ideal. he believed that the earth was flat. he believed in a literal, burning, seething hell of fire and sulphur. he had also his idea of politics; and his doctrine was, might makes right. and it will take thousands of years before the world will reverse this doctrine, and believingly say, "right makes might." all i ask is the same privilege to improve upon that gentleman's theology as upon his musical instrument; the same right to improve upon his politics as upon his dug-out. that is all. i ask for the human soul the same liberty in every direction. that is the only crime i have committed. i say, let us think. let each one express his thought. let us become investigators, not followers, not cringers and crawlers. if there is in heaven an infinite being, he never will be satisfied with the worship of cowards and hypocrites. honest unbelief, honest infidelity, honest atheism, will be a perfume in heaven when pious hypocrisy, no matter how religious it may be outwardly, will be a stench. this is my doctrine: give every other human being every right you claim for yourself. keep your mind open to the influences of nature. receive new thoughts with hospitality. let us advance. the religionist of to-day wants the ship of his soul to lie at the wharf of orthodoxy and rot in the sun. he delights to hear the sails of old opinions flap against the masts of old creeds. he loves to see the joints and the sides open and gape in the sun, and it is a kind of bliss for him to repeat again and again: "do not disturb my opinions. do not unsettle my mind; i have it all made up, and i want no infidelity. let me go backward rather than forward." as far as i am concerned i wish to be out on the high seas. i wish to take my chances with wind, and wave, and star. and i had rather go down in the glory and grandeur of the storm, than to rot in any orthodox harbor whatever. after all, we are improving from age to age. the most orthodox people in this country two hundred years ago would have been burned for the crime of heresy. the ministers who denounce me for expressing my thought would have been in the inquisition themselves. where once burned and blazed the bivouac fires of the army of progress, now glow the altars of the church. the religionists of our time are occupying about the same ground occupied by heretics and infidels of one hundred years ago. the church has advanced in spite, as it were, of itself. it has followed the army of progress protesting and denouncing, and had to keep within protesting and denouncing distance. if the church had not made great progress i could not express my thoughts. man, however, has advanced just exactly in the proportion with which he has mingled his thought with his labor. the sailor, without control of the wind and wave, knowing nothing or very little of the mysterious currents and pulses of the sea, is superstitious. so also is the agriculturist, whose prosperity depends upon something he cannot control. but the mechanic, when a wheel refuses to turn, never thinks of dropping on his knees and asking the assistance of some divine power. he knows there is a reason. he knows that something is too large or too small; that there is something wrong with his machine; and he goes to work and he makes it larger or smaller, here or there, until the wheel will turn. now, just in proportion as man gets away from being, as it were, the slave of his surroundings, the serf of the elements,--of the heat, the frost, the snow, and the lightning,--just to the extent that he has gotten control of his own destiny, just to the extent that he has triumphed over the obstacles of nature, he has advanced physically and intellectually. as man develops, he places a greater value upon his own rights. liberty becomes a grander and diviner thing. as he values his own rights, he begins to value the rights of others. and when all men give to all others all the rights they claim for themselves, this world will be civilized. a few years ago the people were afraid to question the king, afraid to question the priest, afraid to investigate a creed, afraid to deny a book, afraid to denounce a dogma, afraid to reason, afraid to think. before wealth they bowed to the very earth, and in the presence of titles they became abject. all this is slowly but surely changing. we no longer bow to men simply because they are rich. our fathers worshiped the golden calf. the worst you can say of an american now is, he worships the gold of the calf. even the calf is beginning to see this distinction. it no longer satisfies the ambition of a great man to be king or emperor. the last napoleon was not satisfied with being the emperor of the french. he was not satisfied with having a circlet of gold about his head. he wanted some evidence that he had something of value within his head. so he wrote the life of julius caesar, that he might become a member of the french academy. the emperors, the kings, the popes, no longer tower above their fellows. compare king william with the philosopher haeckel. the king is one of the anointed by the most high, as they claim--one upon whose head has been poured the divine petroleum of authority. compare this king with haeckel, who towers an intellectual colossus above the crowned mediocrity. compare george eliot with queen victoria. the queen is clothed in garments given her by blind fortune and unreasoning chance, while george eliot wears robes of glory woven in the loom of her own genius. the world is beginning to pay homage to intellect, to genius, to heart. we have advanced. we have reaped the benefit of every sublime and heroic self-sacrifice, of every divine and brave act; and we should endeavor to hand the torch to the next generation, having added a little to the intensity and glory of the flame. when i think of how much this world has suffered; when i think of how long our fathers were slaves, of how they cringed and crawled at the foot of the throne, and in the dust of the altar, of how they abased themselves, of how abjectly they stood in the presence of superstition robed and crowned, i am amazed. this world has not been fit for a man to live in fifty years. it was not until the year that great britain abolished the slave trade. up to that time her judges, sitting upon the bench in the name of justice, her priests, occupying her pulpits, in the name of universal love, owned stock in the slave ships, and luxuriated upon the profits of piracy and murder. it was not until the same year that the united states of america abolished the slave trade between this and other countries, but carefully preserved it as between the states. it was not until the th day of august, , that great britain abolished human slavery in her colonies; and it was not until the st day of january, , that abraham lincoln, sustained by the sublime and heroic north, rendered our flag pure as the sky in which it floats. abraham lincoln was, in my judgment, in many respects, the grandest man ever president of the united states. upon his monument these words should be written: "here sleeps the only man in the history of the world, who, having been clothed with almost absolute power, never abused it, except upon the side of mercy." think how long we clung to the institution of human slavery, how long lashes upon the naked back were a legal tender for labor performed. think of it. the pulpit of this country deliberately and willingly, for a hundred years, turned the cross of christ into a whipping post. with every drop of my blood i hate and execrate every form of tyranny, every form of slavery. i hate dictation. i love liberty. what do i mean by liberty? by physical liberty i mean the right to do anything which does not interfere with the happiness of another. by intellectual liberty i mean the right to think right and the right to think wrong. thought is the means by which we endeavor to arrive at truth. if we know the truth already, we need not think. all that can be required is honesty of purpose. you ask my opinion about anything; i examine it honestly, and when my mind is made up, what should i tell you? should i tell you my real thought? what should i do? there is a book put in my hands. i am told this is the koran; it was written by inspiration. i read it, and when i get through, suppose that i think in my heart and in my brain, that it is utterly untrue, and you then ask me, what do you think? now, admitting that i live in turkey, and have no chance to get any office unless i am on the side of the koran, what should i say? should i make a clean breast and say, that upon my honor i do not believe it? what would you think then of my fellow-citizens if they said: "that man is dangerous, he is dishonest." suppose i read the book called the bible, and when i get through i make up my mind that it was written by men. a minister asks me, "did you read the bible?" i answer that i did. "do you think it divinely inspired?" what should i reply? should i say to myself, "if i deny the inspiration of the scriptures, the people will never clothe me with power." what ought i to answer? ought i not to say like a man: "i have read it; i do not believe it." should i not give the real transcript of my mind? or should i turn hypocrite and pretend what i do not feel, and hate myself forever after for being a cringing coward. for my part i would rather a man would tell me what he honestly thinks. i would rather he would preserve his manhood. i had a thousand times rather be a manly unbeliever than an unmanly believer. and if there is a judgment day, a time when all will stand before some supreme being, i believe i will stand higher, and stand a better chance of getting my case decided in my favor, than any man sneaking through life pretending to believe what he does not. i have made up my mind to say my say. i i shall do it kindly, distinctly; but i am going to do it. i know there are thousands of men who substantially agree with me, but who are not in a condition to express their thoughts. they are poor; they are in business; and they know that should they tell their honest thought, persons will refuse to patronize them--to trade with them; they wish to get bread for their little children; they wish to take care of their wives; they wish to have homes and the comforts of life. every such person is a certificate of the meanness of the community in which he resides: and yet i do not blame these people for not expressing their thought. i say to them: "keep your ideas to yourselves; feed and clothe the ones you love; i will do your talking for you. the church can not touch, can not crush, can not starve, cannot stop or stay me; i will express your thoughts." as an excuse for tyranny, as a justification of slavery, the church has taught that man is totally depraved. of the truth of that doctrine, the church has furnished the only evidence there is. the truth is, we are both good and bad. the worst are capable of some good deeds, and the best are capable of bad. the lowest can rise, and the highest may fall. that mankind can be divided into two great classes, sinners and saints, is an utter falsehood. in times of great disaster, called it may be, by the despairing voices of women, men, denounced by the church as totally depraved, rush to death as to a festival. by such men, deeds are done so filled with self-sacrifice and generous daring, that millions pay to them the tribute, not only of admiration, but of tears. above all creeds,-above all religions, after all, is that divine thing,--humanity; and now and then in shipwreck on the wide, wild sea, or 'mid the rocks and breakers of some cruel shore, or where the serpents of flame writhe and hiss, some glorious heart, some chivalric soul does a deed that glitters like a star, and gives the lie to all the dogmas of superstition. all these frightful doctrines have been used to degrade and to enslave mankind. away, forever away with the creeds and books and forms and laws and religions that take from the soul liberty and reason. down with the idea that thought is dangerous! perish the infamous doctrine that man can have property in man. let us resent with indignation every effort to put a chain upon our minds. if there is no god, certainly we should not bow and cringe and crawl. if there is a god, there should be no slaves. liberty of woman. women have been the slaves of slaves; and in my judgment it took millions of ages for woman to come from the condition of abject slavery up to the institution of marriage. let me say right here, that i regard marriage as the holiest institution among men. without the fireside there is no human advancement; without the family relation there is no life worth living. every good government is made up of good families. the unit of good government is the family, and anything that tends to destroy the family is perfectly devilish and infamous. i believe in marriage, and i hold in utter contempt the opinions of those long-haired men and short-haired women who denounce the institution of marriage. the grandest ambition that any man can possibly have, is to so live, and so improve himself in heart and brain, as to be worthy of the love of some splendid woman; and the grandest ambition of any girl is to make herself worthy of the love and adoration of some magnificent man. that is my idea. there is no success in life without love and marriage. you had better be the emperor of one loving and tender heart, and she the empress of yours, than to be king of the world. the man who has really won the love of one good woman in this world, i do not care if he dies in the ditch a beggar, his life has been a success. i say it took millions of years to come from the condition of abject slavery up to the condition of marriage. ladies, the ornaments you wear upon your persons to-night are but the souvenirs of your mother's bondage. the chains around your necks, and the bracelets clasped upon your white arms by the thrilled hand of love, have been changed by the wand of civilization from iron to shining, glittering gold. but nearly every religion has accounted for all the devilment in this world by the crime of woman. what a gallant thing that is! and if it is true, i had rather live with the woman i love in a world full of trouble, than to live in heaven with nobody but men. i read in a book--and i will say now that i cannot give the exact language, as my memory does not retain the words, but i can give the substance--i read in a book that the supreme being concluded to make a world and one man; that he took some nothing and made a world and one man, and put this man in a garden. in a little while he noticed that the man got lonesome; that he wandered around as if he was waiting for a train. there was nothing to interest him; no news; no papers; no politics; no policy; and, as the devil had not yet made his appearance, there was no chance for reconciliation; not even for civil service reform. well, he wandered about the garden in this condition, until finally the supreme being made up his mind to make him a companion. having used up all the nothing he originally took in making the world and one man, he had to take a part of the man to start a woman with. so he caused a sleep to fall on this man--now understand me, i do not say this story is true. after the sleep fell upon this man, the supreme being took a rib, or as the french would call it, a cutlet, out of this man, and from that he made a woman. and considering the amount of raw material used, i look upon it as the most successful job ever performed. well, after he got the woman done, she was brought to the man; not to see how she liked him, but to see how he liked her. he liked her, and they started housekeeping; and they were told of certain things they might do and of one thing they could not do--and of course they did it. i would have done it in fifteen minutes, and i know it. there wouldn't have been an apple on that tree half an hour from date, and the limbs would have been full of clubs. and then they were turned out of the park and extra policemen were put on to keep them from getting back. devilment commenced. the mumps, and the measles, and the whooping-cough, and the scarlet fever started in their race for man. they began to have the toothache, roses began to have thorns, snakes began to have poisoned teeth, and people began to divide about religion and politics, and the world has been full of trouble from that day to this. nearly all of the religions of this world account for the existence of evil by such a story as that! i read in another book what appeared to be an account of the same transaction. it was written about four thousand years before the other. all commentators agree that the one that was written last was the original, and that the one that was written first was copied from the one that was written last. but i would advise you all not to allow your creed to be disturbed by a little matter of four or five thousand years. in this other story, brahma made up his mind to make the world and a man and woman. he made the world, and he made the man and then the woman, and put them on the island of ceylon. according to the account it was the most beautiful island of which man can conceive. such birds, such songs, such flowers and such verdure! and the branches of the trees were so arranged that when the wind swept through them every tree was a thousand aeolian harps. brahma, when he put them there, said: "let them have a period of courtship, for it is my desire and will that true love should forever precede marriage." when i read that, it was so much more beautiful and lofty than the other, that i said to myself, "if either one of these stories ever turns out to be true, i hope it will be this one." then they had their courtship, with the nightingale singing, and the stars shining, and the flowers blooming, and they fell in love. imagine that courtship! no prospective fathers or mothers-in-law; no prying and gossiping neighbors; nobody to say, "young man, how do you expect to support her?" nothing of that kind. they were married by the supreme brahma, and he said to them: "remain here; you must never leave this island." well, after a little while the man--and his name was adami, and the woman's name was heva--said to heva: "i believe i'll look about a little." he went to the northern extremity of the island where there was a little narrow neck of land connecting it with the mainland, and the devil, who is always playing pranks with us, produced a mirage, and when he looked over to the mainland, such hills and vales, such dells and dales, such mountains crowned with snow, such cataracts clad in bows of glory did he see there, that he went back and told heva: "the country over there is a thousand times better than this; let us migrate." she, like every other woman that ever lived, said: "let well enough alone; we have all we want; let us stay here." but he said "no, let us go;" so she followed him, and when they came to this narrow neck of land, he took her on his back like a gentleman, and carried her over. but the moment they got over they heard a crash, and looking back, discovered that this narrow neck of land had fallen into the sea. the mirage had disappeared, and there were naught but rocks and sand; and then the supreme brahma cursed them both to the lowest hell. then it was that the man spoke,--and i have liked him ever since for it--"curse me, but curse not her, it was not her fault, it was mine." that's the kind of man to start a world with. the supreme brahma said: "i will save her, but not thee." and then she spoke out of her fullness of love, out of a heart in which there was love enough to make all her daughters rich in holy affection, and said: "if thou wilt not spare him, spare neither me; i do not wish to live without him; i love him." then the supreme brahma said--and i have liked him ever since i read it--"i will spare you both and watch over you and your children forever." honor bright, is not that the better and grander story? and from that same book i want to show you what ideas some of these miserable heathen had; the heathen we are trying to convert. we send missionaries over yonder to convert heathen there, and we send soldiers out on the plains to kill heathen here. if we can convert the heathen, why not convert those nearest home? why not convert those we can get at? why not convert those who have the immense advantage of the example of the average pioneer? but to show you the men we are trying to convert: in this book it says: "man is strength, woman is beauty; man is courage, woman is love. when the one man loves the one woman and the one woman loves the one man, the very angels leave heaven and come and sit in that house and sing for joy." they are the men we are converting. think of it! i tell you, when i read these things, i say that love is not of any country; nobility does not belong exclusively to any race, and through all the ages, there have been a few great and tender souls blossoming in love and pity. in my judgment, the woman is the equal of the man. she has all the rights i have and one more, and that is the right to be protected. that is my doctrine. you are married; try and make the woman you love happy. whoever marries simply for himself will make a mistake; but whoever loves a woman so well that he says "i will make her happy," makes no mistake. and so with the woman who says, "i will make him happy." there is only one way to be happy, and that is to make somebody else so, and you cannot be happy by going cross lots; you have got to go the regular turnpike road. if there is any man i detest, it is the man who thinks he is the head of a family--the man who thinks he is "boss!" the fellow in the dug-out used that word "boss;" that was one of his favorite expressions. imagine a young man and a young woman courting, walking out in the moonlight, and the nightingale singing a song of pain and love, as though the thorn touched her heart--imagine them stopping there in the moonlight and starlight and song, and saying, "now, here, let us settle who is 'boss!'" i tell you it is an infamous word and an infamous feeling--i abhor a man who is "boss," who is going to govern in his family, and when he speaks orders all the rest to be still as some mighty idea is about to be launched from his mouth. do you know i dislike this man unspeakably? i hate above all things a cross man. what right has he to murder the sunshine of a day? what right has he to assassinate the joy of life? when you go home you ought to go like a ray of light--so that it will, even in the night, burst out of the doors and windows and illuminate the darkness. some men think their mighty brains have been in a turmoil; they have been thinking about who will be alderman from the fifth ward; they have been thinking about politics; great and mighty questions have been engaging their minds; they have bought calico at five cents or six, and want to sell it for seven. think of the intellectual strain that must have been upon that man, and when he gets home everybody else in the house must look out for his comfort. a woman who has only taken care of five or six children, and one or two of them sick, has been nursing them and singing to them, and trying to make one yard of cloth do the work of two, she, of course, is fresh and fine and ready to wait upon this gentleman--the head of the family--the boss! do you know another thing? i despise a stingy man. i do not see how it is possible for a man to die worth fifty million of dollars, or ten million of dollars, in a city full of want, when he meets almost every day the withered hand of beggary and the white lips of famine. how a man can withstand all that, and hold in the clutch of his greed twenty or thirty million of dollars, is past my comprehension. i do not see how he can do it. i should not think he could do it any more than he could keep a pile of lumber on the beach, where hundreds and thousands of men were drowning in the sea. do you know that i have known men who would trust their wives with their hearts and their honor but not with their pocketbook; not with a dollar. when i see a man of that kind, i always think he knows which of these articles is the most valuable. think of making your wife a beggar! think of her having to ask you every day for a dollar, or for two dollars or fifty cents! "what did you do with that dollar i gave you last week?" think of having a wife that is afraid of you! what kind of children do you expect to have with a beggar and a coward for their mother? oh, i tell you if you have but a dollar in the world, and you have got to spend it, spend it like a king; spend it as though it were a dry leaf and you the owner of unbounded forests! that's the way to spend it! i had rather be a beggar and spend my last dollar like a king, than be a king and spend my money like a beggar! if it has got to go, let it go! get the best you can for your family--try to look as well as you can yourself. when you used to go courting, how elegantly you looked! ah, your eye was bright, your step was light, and you looked like a prince. do you know that it is insufferable egotism in you to suppose a woman is going to love you always looking as slovenly as you can! think of it! any good woman on earth will be true to you forever when you do your level best. some people tell me, "your doctrine about loving, and wives, and all that, is splendid for the rich, but it won't do for the poor." i tell you to-night there is more love in the homes of the poor than in the palaces of the rich. the meanest hut with love in it is a palace fit for the gods, and a palace without love is a den only fit for wild beasts. that is my doctrine! you cannot be so poor that you cannot help somebody. good nature is the cheapest commodity in the world; and love is the only thing that will pay ten per cent, to borrower and lender both. do not tell me that you have got to be rich! we have a false standard of greatness in the united states. we think here that a man must be great, that he must be notorious; that he must be extremely wealthy, or that his name must be upon the putrid lips of rumor. it is all a mistake. it is not necessary to be rich or to be great, or to be powerful, to be happy. the happy, man is the successful man. happiness is the legal tender of the soul. joy is wealth. a little while ago, i stood by the grave of the old napoleon--a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity--and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. i leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world. i saw him walking upon the banks of the seine, contemplating suicide. i saw him at toulon--i saw him putting down the mob in the streets of paris--i saw him at the head of the army of italy--i saw him crossing the bridge of lodi with the tri-color in his hand--i saw him in egypt in the shadows of the pyramids--i saw him conquer the alps and mingle the eagles of france with the eagles of the crags. i saw him at marengo--at ulm and austerlitz. i saw him in russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. i saw him at leipsic in defeat and disaster--driven by a million bayonets back upon paris--clutched like a wild beast--banished to elba. i saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. i saw him upon the frightful field of waterloo, where chance and fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. and i saw him at st. helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea. i thought of the orphans and widows he had made--of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. and i said i would rather have been a french peasant and worn wooden shoes. i would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. i would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky--with my children upon my knees and their arms about me--i would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder. it is not necessary to be great to be happy; it is not necessary to be rich to be just and generous and to have a heart filled with divine affection. no matter whether you are rich or poor, treat your wife as though she were a splendid flower, and she will fill your life with perfume and with joy. and do you know, it is a splendid thing to think that the woman you really love will never grow old to you. through the wrinkles of time, through the mask of years, if you really love her, you will always see the face you loved and won. and a woman who really loves a man does not see that he grows old; he is not decrepit to her; he does not tremble; he is not old; she always sees the same gallant gentleman who won her hand and heart. i like to think of it in that way; i like to think that love is eternal. and to love in that way and then go down the hill of life together, and as you go down, hear, perhaps, the laughter of grandchildren, while the birds of joy and love sing once more in the leafless branches of the tree of age. i believe in the fireside. i believe in the democracy of home. i believe in the republicanism of the family. i believe in liberty, equality and love. the liberty of children. if women have been slaves, what shall i say of children; of the little children in alleys and sub-cellars; the little children who turn pale when they hear their fathers' footsteps; little children who run away when they only hear their names called by the lips of a mother; little children--the children of poverty, the children of crime, the children of brutality, wherever they are--flotsam and jetsam upon the wild, mad sea of life--my heart goes out to them, one and all. i tell you the children have the same rights that we have, and we ought to treat them as though they were human beings. they should be reared with love, with kindness, with tenderness, and not with brutality. that is my idea of children. when your little child tells a lie, do not rush at him as though the world were about to go into bankruptcy. be honest with him. a tyrant father will have liars for his children; do you know that? a lie is born of tyranny upon the one hand and weakness upon the other, and when you rush at a poor little boy with a club in your hand, of course he lies. i thank thee, mother nature, that thou hast put ingenuity enough in the brain of a child, when attacked by a brutal parent, to throw up a little breastwork in the shape of a lie. when one of your children tells a lie, be honest with him; tell him that you have told hundreds of them yourself. tell him it is not the best way; that you have tried it. tell him as the man did in maine when his boy left home: "john, honesty is the best policy; i have tried both." be honest with him. suppose a man as much larger than you as you are larger than a child five years old, should come at you with a liberty pole in his hand, and in a voice of thunder shout, "who broke that plate?" there is not a solitary one of you who would not swear you never saw it, or that it was cracked when you got it. why not be honest with these children? just imagine a man who deals in stocks whipping his boy for putting false rumors afloat! think of a lawyer beating his own flesh and blood for evading the truth when he makes half of his own living that way! think of a minister punishing his child for not telling all he thinks! just think of it! when your child commits a wrong, take it in your arms; let it feel your heart beat against its heart; let the child know that you really and truly and sincerely love it. yet some christians, good christians, when a child commits a fault, drive it from the door and say: "never do you darken this house again." think of that! and then these same people will get down on their knees and ask god to take care of the child they have driven from home. i will never ask god to take care of my children unless i am doing my level best in that same direction. but i will tell you what i say to my children: "go where you will; commit what crime you may; fall to what depth of degradation you may; you can never commit any crime that will shut my door, my arms, or my heart to you. as long as i live you shall have one sincere friend." do you know that i have seen some people who acted as though they thought that when the saviour said "suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven," he had a raw-hide under his mantle, and made that remark simply to get the children within striking distance? i do not believe in the government of the lash. if any one of you ever expects to whip your children again, i want you to have a photograph taken of yourself when you are in the act, with your face red with vulgar anger, and the face of the little child, with eyes swimming in tears and the little chin dimpled with fear, like a piece of water struck by a sudden cold wind. have the picture taken. if that little child should die, i cannot think of a sweeter way to spend an autumn afternoon than to go out to the cemetery, when the maples are clad in tender gold, and little scarlet runners are coming, like poems of regret, from the sad heart of the earth--and sit down upon the grave and look at that photograph, and think of the flesh now dust that you beat. i tell you it is wrong; it is no way to raise children! make your home happy. be honest with them. divide fairly with them in everything. give them a little liberty and love, and you can not drive them out of your house. they will want to stay there. make home pleasant. let them play any game they wish. do not be so foolish as to say: "you may roll balls on the ground, but you must not roll them on a green cloth. you may knock them with a mallet, but you must not push them with a cue. you may play with little pieces of paper which have 'authors' written on them, but you must not have 'cards.'" think of it! "you may go to a minstrel show where people blacken themselves and imitate humanity below them, but you must not go to a theatre and see the characters created by immortal genius put upon the stage." why? well, i can't think of any reason in the world except "minstrel" is a word of two syllables, and "theatre" has three. let children have some daylight at home if you want to keep them there, and do not commence at the cradle and shout "don't!" "don't!" "stop!" that is nearly all that is said to a child from the cradle until he is twenty-one years old, and when he comes of age other people begin saying "don't!" and the church says "don't?" and the party he belongs to says "don't!" i despise that way of going through this world. let us have liberty--just a little. call me infidel, call me atheist, call me what you will, i intend so to treat my children, that they can come to my grave and truthfully say: "he who sleeps here never gave us a moment of pain. from his lips, now dust, never came to us an unkind word." people justify all kinds of tyranny towards children upon the ground that they are totally depraved. at the bottom of ages of cruelty lies this infamous doctrine of total depravity. religion contemplates a child as a living crime--heir to an infinite curse--doomed to eternal fire. in the olden time, they thought some days were too good for a child to enjoy himself. when i was a boy sunday was considered altogether too holy to be happy in. sunday used to commence then when the sun went down on saturday night. we commenced at that time for the purpose of getting a good ready, and when the sun fell below the horizon on saturday evening, there was a darkness fell upon the house ten thousand times deeper than that of night. nobody said a pleasant word; nobody laughed; nobody smiled; the child that looked the sickest was regarded as the most pious. that night you could not even crack hickory nuts. if you were caught chewing gum it was only another evidence of the total depravity of the human heart. it was an exceedingly solemn night. dyspepsia was in the very air you breathed. everybody looked sad and mournful. i have noticed all my life that many people think they have religion when they are troubled with dyspepsia. if there could be found an absolute specific for that disease, it would be the hardest blow the church has ever received. on sunday morning the solemnity had simply increased. then we went to church. the minister was in a pulpit about twenty feet high, with a little sounding-board above him, and he commenced at "firstly" and went on and on and on to about "twenty-thirdly." then he made a few remarks by way of application; and then took a general view of the subject, and in about two hours reached the last chapter in revelations. in those days, no matter how cold the weather was, there was no fire in the church. it was thought to be a kind of sin to be comfortable while you were thanking god. the first church that ever had a stove in it in new england, divided on that account. so the first church in which they sang by note, was torn in fragments. after the sermon we had an intermission. then came the catechism with the chief end of man. we went through with that. we sat in a row with our feet coming in about six inches of the floor. the minister asked us if we knew that we all deserved to go to hell, and we all answered "yes." then we were asked if we would be willing to go hell if it was god's will, and every little liar shouted "yes." then the same sermon was preached once more, commencing at the other end and going back. after that, we started for home, sad and solemn--overpowered with the wisdom displayed in the scheme of the atonement. when we got home, if we had been good boys, and the weather was warm, sometimes they would take us out to the graveyard to cheer us up a little. it did cheer me. when i looked at the sunken tombs and the leaning stones, and read the half-effaced inscriptions through the moss of silence and forget-fulness, it was a great comfort. the reflection came to my mind that the observance of the sabbath could not last always. sometimes they would sing that beautiful hymn in which occurs these cheerful lines: "where congregations ne'er break up, and sabbaths never end." these lines, i think, prejudiced me a little against even heaven. then we had good books that we read on sundays by way of keeping us happy and contented. there were milners' "history of the waldenses," baxter's "call to the unconverted," yahn's "archaeology of the jews," and jenkyns' "on the atonement." i used to read jenkyns' "on the atonement." i have often thought that an atonement would have to be exceedingly broad in its provisions to cover the case of a man who would write a book like that for a boy. but at last the sunday wore away, and the moment the sun went down we were free. between three and four o'clock we would go out to see how the sun was coming on. sometimes it seemed to me that it was stopping from pure meanness. but finally it went down. it had to. and when the last rim of light sank below the horizon, off would go our caps, and we would give three cheers for liberty once more. sabbaths used to be prisons. every sunday was a bastile. every christian was a kind of turnkey, and every child was a prisoner,--a convict. in that dungeon, a smile was a crime. it was thought wrong for a child to laugh upon this holy day. think of that! a little child would go out into the garden, and there would be a tree laden with blossoms, and the little fellow would lean against it, and there would be a bird on one of the boughs, singing and swinging, and thinking, about four little speckled eggs, warmed by the breast of its mate,--singing and swinging, and the music in happy waves rippling out of its tiny throat, and the flowers blossoming, the air filled with perfume and the great white clouds floating in the sky, and the little boy would lean up against that tree and think about hell and the worm that never dies. i have heard them preach, when i sat in the pew and my feet did not touch the floor, about the final home of the unconverted. in order to impress upon the children the length of time they would probably stay if they settled in that country, the preacher would frequently give us the following illustration: "suppose that once in a billion years a bird should come from some far-distant planet, and carry off in its little bill a grain of sand, a time would finally come when the last atom composing this earth would be carried away; and when this last atom was taken, it would not even be sun up in hell." think of such an infamous doctrine being taught to children! the laugh of a child will make the holiest day more sacred still. strike with hand of fire, o weird musician, thy harp strung with apollo's golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until thy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonlit waves, and charm the lovers wandering 'mid the vine-clad hills. but know, your sweetest strains are discords all, compared with childhood's happy laugh--the laugh that fills the eyes with light and every heart with joy. o rippling river of laughter, thou art the blessed boundary line between the beasts and men; and every wayward wave of thine doth drown some fretful fiend of care. o laughter, rose-lipped daughter of joy, there are dimples enough in thy cheeks to catch and hold and glorify all the tears of grief. and yet the minds of children have been polluted by this infamous doctrine of eternal punishment. i denounce it to-day as a doctrine, the infamy of which no language is sufficient to express. where did that doctrine of eternal punishment for men and women and children come from? it came from the low and beastly skull of that wretch in the dug-out. where did he get it? it was a souvenir from the animals. the doctrine of eternal punishment was born in the glittering eyes of snakes--snakes that hung in fearful coils watching for their prey. it was born of the howl and bark and growl of wild beasts. it was born of the grin of hyenas and of the depraved chatter of unclean baboons. i despise it with every drop of my blood. tell me there is a god in the serene heavens that will damn his children for the expression of an honest belief! more men have died in their sins, judged by your orthodox creeds, than there are leaves on all the forests in the wide world ten thousand times over. tell me these men are in hell; that these men are in torment; that these children are in eternal pain, and that they are to be punished forever and forever! i denounce this doctrine as the most infamous of lies. when the great ship containing the hopes and aspirations of the world, when the great ship freighted with mankind goes down in the night of death, chaos and disaster, i am willing to go down with the ship. i will not be guilty of the ineffable meanness of paddling away in some orthodox canoe. i will go down with the ship, with those who love me, and with those whom i have loved. if there is a god who will damn his children forever, i would rather go to hell than to go to heaven and keep the society of such an infamous tyrant. i make my choice now. i despise that doctrine. it has covered the cheeks of this world with tears. it has polluted the hearts of children, and poisoned the imaginations of men. it has been a constant pain, a perpetual terror to every good man and woman and child. it has filled the good with horror and with fear; but it has had no effect upon the infamous and base. it has wrung the hearts of the tender: it has furrowed the cheeks of the good. this doctrine never should be preached again. what right have you, sir, mr. clergyman, you, minister of the gospel, to stand at the portals of the tomb, at the vestibule of eternity, and fill the future with horror and with fear? i do not believe this doctrine: neither do you. if you did, you could not sleep one moment. any man who believes it, and has within his breast a decent, throbbing heart, will go insane. a man who believes that doctrine and does not go insane has the heart of a snake and the conscience of a hyena. jonathan edwards, the dear old soul, who, if his doctrine is true, is now in heaven rubbing his holy hands with glee, as he hears the cries of the damned, preached this doctrine; and he said: "can the believing husband in heaven be happy with his unbelieving wife in hell? can the believing father in heaven be happy with his unbelieving children in hell? can the loving wife in heaven be happy with her unbelieving husband in hell?" and he replies: "i tell you, yea. such will be their sense of justice, that it will increase rather than diminish their bliss." there is no wild beast in the jungles of africa whose reputation would not be tarnished by the expression of such a doctrine. these doctrines have been taught in the name of religion, in the name of universal forgiveness, in the name of infinite love and charity. do not, i pray you, soil the minds of your children with this dogma. let them read for themselves; let them think for themselves. do not treat your children like orthodox posts to be set in a row. treat them like trees that need light and sun and air. be fair and honest with them; give them a chance. recollect that their rights are equal to yours. do not have it in your mind that you must govern them; that they must obey. throw away forever the idea of master and slave. in old times they used to make the children go to bed when they were not sleepy, and get up when they were sleepy. i say let them go to bed when they are sleepy, and get up when they are not sleepy. but you say, this doctrine will do for the rich but not for the poor. well, if the poor have to waken their children early in the morning it is as easy to wake them with a kiss as with a blow. give your children freedom; let them preserve their individuality. let your children eat what they desire, and commence at the end of a dinner they like. that is their business and not yours. they know what they wish to eat. if they are given their liberty from the first, they know what they want better than any doctor in the world can prescribe. do you know that all the improvement that has ever been made in the practice of medicine has been made by the recklessness of patients and not by the doctors? for thousands and thousands of years the doctors would not let a man suffering from fever have a drop of water. water they looked upon as poison. but every now and then some man got reckless and said, "i had rather die than not to slake my thirst." then he would drink two or three quarts of water and get well. and when the doctor was told of what the patient had done, he expressed great surprise that he was still alive, and complimented his constitution upon being able to bear such a frightful strain. the reckless men, however, kept on drinking the water, and persisted in getting well. and finally the doctors said: "in a fever, water is the very best thing you can take." so, i have more confidence in the voice of nature about such things than i have in the conclusions of the medical schools. let your children have freedom and they will fall into your ways; they will do substantially as you do; but if you try to make them, there is some magnificent, splendid thing in the human heart that refuses to be driven. and do you know that it is the luckiest thing that ever happened for this world, that people are that way. what would have become of the people five hundred years ago if they had followed strictly the advice of the doctors? they would have all been dead. what would the people have been, if at any age of the world they had followed implicitly the direction of the church? they would have all been idiots. it is a splendid thing that there is always some grand man who will not mind, and who will think for himself. i believe in allowing the children to think for themselves. i believe in the democracy of the family. if in this world there is anything splendid, it is a home where all are equals. you will remember that only a few years ago parents would tell their children to "let their victuals stop their mouths." they used to eat as though it were a religious ceremony--a very solemn thing. life should not be treated as a solemn matter. i like to see the children at table, and hear each one telling of the wonderful things he has seen and heard. i like to hear the clatter of knives and forks and spoons mingling with their happy voices. i had rather hear it than any opera that was ever put upon the boards. let the children have liberty. be honest and fair with them; be just; be tender, and they will make you rich in love and joy. men are oaks, women are vines, children are flowers. the human race has been guilty of almost countless crimes; but i have some excuse for mankind. this world, after all, is not very well adapted to raising good people. in the first place, nearly all of it is water. it is much better adapted to fish culture than to the production of folks. of that portion which is land not one-eighth has suitable soil and climate to produce great men and women. you cannot raise men and women of genius, without the proper soil and climate, any more than you can raise corn and wheat upon the ice fields of the arctic sea. you must have the necessary conditions and surroundings. man is a product; you must have the soil and food. the obstacles presented by nature must not be so great that man cannot, by reasonable industry and courage, overcome them. there is upon this world only a narrow belt of land, circling zigzag the globe, upon which you can produce men and women of talent. in the southern hemisphere the real climate that man needs falls mostly upon the sea, and the result is, that the southern half of our world has never produced a man or woman of great genius. in the far north there is no genius--it is too cold. in the far south there is no genius--it is too warm. there must be winter, and there must be summer. in a country where man needs no coverlet but a cloud, revolution is his normal condition. winter is the mother of industry and prudence. above all, it is the mother of the family relation. winter holds in its icy arms the husband and wife and the sweet children. if upon this earth we ever have a glimpse of heaven, it is when we pass a home in winter, at night, and through the windows, the curtains drawn aside, we see the family about the pleasant hearth; the old lady knitting; the cat playing with the yarn; the children wishing they had as many dolls or dollars or knives or somethings, as there are sparks going out to join the roaring blast; the father reading and smoking, and the clouds rising like incense from the altar of domestic joy. i never passed such a house without feeling that i had received a benediction. civilization, liberty, justice, charity, intellectual advancement, are all flowers that blossom in the drifted snow. i do not know that i can better illustrate the great truth that only part of the world is adapted to the production of great men and women than by calling your attention to the difference between vegetation in valleys and upon mountains. in the valley you find the oak and elm tossing their branches defiantly to the storm, and as you advance up the mountain side the hemlock, the pine, the birch, the spruce, the fir, and finally you come to little dwarfed trees, that look like other trees seen through a telescope reversed--every limb twisted as though in pain--getting a scanty subsistence from the miserly crevices of the rocks. you go on and on, until at last the highest crag is freckled with a kind of moss, and vegetation ends. you might as well try to raise oaks and elms where the mosses grow, as to raise great men and great women where their surroundings are unfavorable. you must have the proper climate and soil. a few years ago we were talking about the annexation of santo domingo to this country. i was in washington at the time. i was opposed to it. i was told that it was a most delicious climate; that the soil produced everything. but i said: "we do not want it; it is not the right kind of country in which to raise american citizens. such a climate would debauch us. you might go there with five thousand congregational preachers, five thousand ruling elders, five thousand professors in colleges, five thousand of the solid men of boston and their wives; settle them all in santo domingo, and you will see the second generation riding upon a mule, bareback, no shoes, a grapevine bridle, hair sticking out at the top of their sombreros, with a rooster under each arm, going to a cock fight on sunday." such is the influence of climate. science, however, is gradually widening the area within which men of genius can be produced. we are conquering the north with houses, clothing, food and fuel. we are in many ways overcoming the heat of the south. if we attend to this world instead of another, we may in time cover the land with men and women of genius. i have still another excuse. i believe that man came up from, the lower animals. i do not say this as a fact. i simply say i believe it to be a fact. upon that question i stand about eight to seven, which, for all practical purposes, is very near a certainty. when i first heard of that doctrine i did not like it. my heart was filled with sympathy for those people who have nothing to be proud of except ancestors. i thought, how terrible this will be upon the nobility of the old world. think of their being forced to trace their ancestry back to the duke orang outang, or to the princess chimpanzee. after thinking it all over, i came to the conclusion that i liked that doctrine. i became convinced in spite of myself. i read about rudimentary bones and muscles. i was told that everybody had rudimentary muscles extending from the ear into the cheek. i asked: "what are they?" i was told: "they are the remains of muscles; that they became rudimentary from lack of use; they went into bankruptcy. they are the muscles with which your ancestors used to flap their ears." i do not now so much wonder that we once had them as that we have outgrown them. after all i had rather belong to a race that started from the skulless vertebrates in the dim laurentian seas, vertebrates wiggling without knowing why they wiggled, swimming without knowing where they were going, but that in some way began to develop, and began to get a little higher and a little higher in the scale of existence; that came up by degrees through millions of ages through all the animal world, through all that crawls and swims and floats and climbs and walks, and finally produced the gentleman in the dug-out; and then from this man, getting a little grander, and each one below calling every one above him a heretic, calling every one who had made a little advance an infidel or an atheist--for in the history of this world the man who is ahead has always been called a heretic--would rather come from a race that started from that skulless vertebrate, and came up and up and up and finally produced shakespeare, the man who found the human intellect dwelling in a hut, touched it with the wand of his genius and it became a palace domed and pinnacled; shakespeare, who harvested all the fields of dramatic thought, and from whose day to this, there have been only gleaners of straw and chaff--i would rather belong to that race that commenced a skulless vertebrate and produced shakespeare, a race that has before it an infinite future, with the angel of progress leaning from the far horizon, beckoning men forward, upward and onward forever--i had rather belong to such a race, commencing there, producing this, and with that hope, than to have sprung from a perfect pair upon which the lord has lost money every moment from that day to this. conclusion. i have given you my honest thought. surely investigation is better than unthinking faith. surely reason is a better guide than fear. this world should be controlled by the living, not by the dead. the grave is not a throne, and a corpse is not a king. man should not try to live on ashes. the theologians dead, knew no more than the theologians now living. more than this cannot be said. about this world little is known,--about another world, nothing. our fathers were intellectual serfs, and their fathers were slaves. the makers of our creeds were ignorant and brutal. every dogma that we have, has upon it the mark of whip, the rust of chain, and the ashes of fagot. our fathers reasoned with instruments of torture. they believed in the logic of fire and sword. they hated reason. they despised thought. they abhorred liberty. superstition is the child of slavery. free thought will give us truth. when all have the right to think and to express their thoughts, every brain will give to all the best it has. the world will then be filled with intellectual wealth. as long as men and women are afraid of the church, as long as a minister inspires fear, as long as people reverence a thing simply because they do not understand it, as long as it is respectable to lose your self-respect, as long as the church has power, as long as mankind worship a book, just so long will the world be filled with intellectual paupers and vagrants, covered with the soiled and faded rags of superstition. as long as woman regards the bible as the charter of her rights, she will be the slave of man. the bible was not written by a woman. within its lids there is nothing but humiliation and shame for her. she is regarded as the property of man. she is made to ask forgiveness for becoming a mother. she is as much below her husband, as her husband is below christ. she is not allowed to speak. the gospel is too pure to be spoken by her polluted lips. woman should learn in silence. in the bible will be found no description of a civilized home. the free mother, surrounded by free and loving children, adored by a free man, her husband, was unknown to the inspired writers of the bible. they did not believe in the democracy of home--in the republicanism of the fireside. these inspired gentlemen knew nothing of the rights of children. they were the advocates of brute force--the disciples of the lash. they knew nothing of human rights. their doctrines have brutalized the homes of millions, and filled the eyes of infancy with tears. let us free ourselves from the tyranny of a book, from the slavery of dead ignorance, from the aristocracy of the air. there has never been upon the earth a generation of free men and women. it is not yet time to write a creed. wait until the chains are broken--until dungeons are not regarded as temples. wait until solemnity is not mistaken for wisdom--until mental cowardice ceases to be known as reverence. wait until the living are considered the equals of the dead--until the cradle takes precedence of the coffin. wait until what we know can be spoken without regard to what others may believe. wait until teachers take the place of preachers--until followers become investigators. wait until the world is free before you write a creed. in this creed there will be but one word--liberty. oh liberty, float not forever in the far horizon--remain not forever in the dream of the enthusiast, the philanthropist and poet, but come and make thy home among the children of men! i know not what discoveries, what inventions what thoughts may leap from the brain of the world. i know not what garments of glory may be woven by the years to come. i cannot dream of the victories to be won upon the fields of thought; but i do know, that coming from the infinite sea of the future, there will never touch this "bank and shoal of time" a richer gift, a rarer blessing than liberty for man, for woman, and for child. . the declaration of independence. one hundred years ago our fathers retired the gods from politics. the declaration of independence is the grandest, the bravest, and the profoundest political document that was ever signed by the representatives of a people. it is the embodiment of physical and moral courage and of political wisdom. i say of physical courage, because it was a declaration of war against the most powerful nation then on the globe; a declaration of war by thirteen weak, unorganized colonies; a declaration of war by a few people, without military stores, without wealth, without strength, against the most powerful kingdom on the earth; a declaration of war made when the british navy, at that day the mistress of every sea, was hovering along the coast of america, looking after defenseless towns and villages to ravage and destroy. it was made when thousands of english soldiers were upon our soil, and when the principal cities of america were, in the substantial possession of the enemy. and so, i say, all things considered, it was the bravest political document ever signed by man. and if it was physically brave, the moral courage of the document is almost infinitely beyond the physical. they had the courage not only, but they had the almost infinite wisdom, to declare that all men are created equal. such things had occasionally been said by some political enthusiast in the olden time, but for the first time in the history of the world, the representatives of a nation, the representatives of a real, living, breathing, hoping people, declared that all men are created equal. with one blow, with one stroke of the pen, they struck down all the cruel, heartless barriers that aristocracy, that priestcraft, that kingcraft had raised between man and man. they struck down with one immortal blow, that infamous spirit of caste that makes a god almost a beast, and a beast almost a god. with one word, with one blow, they wiped away and utterly destroyed all that had been done by centuries of war--centuries of hypocrisy--centuries of injustice. what more did they do? they then declared that each man has a right to live. and what does that mean? it means that he has the right to make his living. it means that he has the right to breathe the air, to work the land, that he stands the equal of every other human being beneath the shining stars; entitled to the product of his labor--the labor of his hand and of his brain. what more? that every man has the right to pursue his own happiness in his own way. grander words than these have never been spoken by man. and what more did these men say? they laid down the doctrine that governments were instituted among men for the purpose of preserving the rights of the people. the old idea was that people existed solely for the benefit of the state--that is to say, for kings and nobles. the old idea was that the people were the wards of king and priest--that their bodies belonged to one and their souls to the other. and what more? that the people are the source of political power. that was not only a revelation, but it was a revolution. it changed the ideas of people with regard to the source of political power. for the first time it made human beings men. what was the old idea? the old idea was that no political power came from, nor in any manner belonged to, the people. the old idea was that the political power came from the clouds; that the political power came in some miraculous way from heaven; that it came down to kings, and queens, and robbers. that was the old idea. the nobles lived upon the labor of the people; the people had no rights; the nobles stole what they had and divided with the kings, and the kings pretended to divide what they stole with god almighty. the source, then, of political power was from above. the people were responsible to the nobles, the nobles to the king, and the people had no political rights whatever, no more than the wild beasts of the forest. the kings were responsible to god; not to the people. the kings were responsible to the clouds; not to the toiling millions they robbed and plundered. and our forefathers, in this declaration of independence, reversed this thing, and said: no; the people, they are the source of political power, and their rulers, these presidents, these kings, are but the agents and servants of the great, sublime people. for the first time, really, in the history of the world, the king was made to get off the throne and the people were royally seated thereon. the people became the sovereigns, and the old sovereigns became the servants and the agents of the people. it is hard for you and me now to imagine even the immense results of that change. it is hard for you and for me, at this day, to understand how thoroughly it had been ingrained in the brain of almost every man, that the king had some wonderful right over him; that in some strange way the king owned him; that in some miraculous manner he belonged, body and soul, to somebody who rode on a horse--to somebody with epaulettes on his shoulders and a tinsel crown upon his brainless head. our forefathers had been educated in that idea, and when they first landed on american shores they believed it. they thought they belonged to somebody, and that they must be loyal to some thief, who could trace his pedigree back to antiquity's most successful robber. it took a long time for them to get that idea out of their heads and hearts. they were three thousand miles away from the despotisms of the old world, and every wave of the sea was an assistant to them. the distance helped to disenchant their minds of that infamous belief, and every mile between them and the pomp and glory of monarchy helped to put republican ideas and thoughts into their minds. besides that, when they came to this country, when the savage was in the forest and three thousand miles of waves on the other side, menaced by barbarians on the one side and famine on the other, they learned that a man who had courage, a man who had thought, was as good as any other man in the world, and they built up, as it were, in spite of themselves, little republics. and the man that had the most nerve and heart was the best man, whether he had any noble blood in his veins or not. it has been a favorite idea with me that our forefathers were educated by nature; that they grew grand as the continent upon which they landed; that the great rivers--the wide plains--the splendid lakes--the lonely forests--the sublime mountains--that all these things stole into and became a part of their being, and they grew great as the country in which they lived. they began to hate the narrow, contracted views of europe. they were educated by their surroundings, and every little colony had to be, to a certain extent, a republic. the kings of the old world endeavored to parcel out this land to their favorites. but there were too many indians. there was too much courage required for them to take and keep it, and so men had to come here who were dissatisfied with the old country--who were dissatisfied with england, dissatisfied with france, with germany, with ireland and holland. the kings' favorites stayed at home. men came here for liberty, and on account of certain principles they entertained and held dearer than life. and they were willing to work, willing to fell the forests, to fight the savages, willing to go through all the hardships, perils and dangers of a new country, of a new land; and the consequence was that our country was settled by brave and adventurous spirits, by men who had opinions of their own and were willing to live in the wild forests for the sake of expressing those opinions, even if they expressed them only to trees, rocks, and savage men. the best blood of the old world came to the new. when they first came over they did not have a great deal of political philosophy, nor the best ideas of liberty. we might as well tell the truth. when the puritans first came, they were narrow. they did not understand what liberty meant--what religious liberty, what political liberty, was; but they found out in a few years. there was one feeling among them that rises to their eternal honor like a white shaft to the clouds--they were in favor of universal education. wherever they went they built school houses, introduced books, and ideas of literature. they believed that every man should know how to read and how to write, and should find out all that his capacity allowed him to comprehend. that is the glory of the puritan fathers. they forgot in a little while what they had suffered, and they forgot to apply the principle of universal liberty--of toleration. some of the colonies did not forget it, and i want to give credit where credit should be given. the catholics of maryland were the first people on the new continent to declare universal religious toleration. let this be remembered to their eternal honor. let it be remembered to the disgrace of the protestant government of england, that it caused this grand law to be repealed. and to the honor and credit of the catholics of maryland let it be remembered, that the moment they got back into power they re-enacted the old law. the baptists of rhode island also, led by roger williams, were in favor of universal religious liberty. no american should fail to honor roger williams. he was the first grand advocate of the liberty of the soul. he was in favor of the eternal divorce of church and state. so far as i know, he was the only man at that time in this country who was in favor of real religious liberty. while the catholics of maryland declared in favor of religious _toleration_, they had no idea of religious liberty. they would not allow any one to call in question the doctrine of the trinity, or the inspiration of the scriptures. they stood ready with branding iron and gallows to burn and choke out of man the idea that he had a right to think and to express his thoughts. so many religions met in our country--so many theories and dogmas came in contact--so many follies, mistakes and stupidities became acquainted with each other, that religion began to fall somewhat into disrepute. besides this, the question of a new nation began to take precedence of all others. the people were too much interested in this world to quarrel about the next. the preacher was lost in the patriot. the bible was read to find passages against kings. everybody was discussing the rights of man. farmers and mechanics suddenly became statesmen, and in every shop and cabin nearly every question was asked and answered. during these years of political excitement, the interest in religion abated to that degree that a common purpose animated men of all sects and creeds. at last our fathers became tired of being colonists--tired of writing and reading and signing petitions, and presenting them on their bended knees to an idiot king. they began to have an aspiration to form a new nation, to be citizens of a new republic instead of subjects of an old monarchy. they had the idea--the puritans, the catholics, the episcopalians, the baptists, the quakers, and a few free thinkers, all had the idea--that they would like to form a new nation. now, do not understand that all of our fathers were in favor of independence. do not understand that they were all like jefferson; that they were all like adams or lee; that they were all like thomas paine or john hancock. there were thousands and thousands of them who were opposed to american independence. there were thousands and thousands who said: "when you say men are created equal, it is a lie; when you say the political power resides in the great body of the people, it is false." thousands and thousands of them said: "we prefer great britain." but the men who were in favor of independence, the men who knew that a new nation must be born, went on full of hope and courage, and nothing could daunt or stop or stay the heroic, fearless few. they met in philadelphia; and the resolution was moved by lee of virginia, that the colonies ought to be independent states, and ought to dissolve their political connection with great britain. they made up their minds that a new nation must be formed. all nations had been, so to speak, the wards of some church. the religious idea as to the source of power had been at the foundation of all governments, and had been the bane and curse of man. happily for us, there was no church strong enough to dictate to the rest. fortunately for us, the colonists not only, but the colonies differed widely in their religious views. there were the puritans who hated the episcopalians, and episcopalians who hated the catholics, and the catholics who hated both, while the quakers held them all in contempt. there they were, of every sort, and color, and kind, and how was it that they came together? they had a common aspiration. they wanted to form a new nation. more than that, most of them cordially hated great britain; and they pledged each other to forget these religious prejudices, for a time at least, and agreed that there should be only one religion until they got through, and that was the religion of patriotism. they solemnly agreed that the new nation should not belong to any particular church, but that it should secure the rights of all. our fathers founded the first secular government that was ever founded in this world. recollect that. the first secular government; the first government that said every church has exactly the same rights, and no more; every religion has the same rights, and no more. in other words, our fathers were the first men who had the sense, had the genius, to know that no church should be allowed to have a sword; that it should be allowed only to exert its moral influence. you might as well have a government united by force with art, or with poetry, or with oratory, as with religion. religion should have the influence upon mankind that its goodness, that its morality, its justice, its charity, its reason, and its argument give it, and no more. religion should have the effect upon mankind that it necessarily has, and no more. the religion that has to be supported by law is without value, not only, but a fraud and curse. the religious argument that has to be supported by a musket, is hardly worth making. a prayer that must have a cannon behind it, better never be uttered. forgiveness ought not to go in partnership with shot and shell. love need not carry knives and revolvers. so, our fathers said: "we will form a secular government, and under the flag with which we are going to enrich the air, we will allow every man to worship god as he thinks best." they said: "religion is an individual thing between each man and his creator, and he can worship as he pleases and as he desires." and why did they do this? the history of the world warned them that the liberty of man was not safe in the clutch and grasp of any church. they had read of and seen the thumb-screws, the racks and the dungeons of the inquisition. they knew all about the hypocrisy of the olden time. they knew that the church had stood side by side with the throne; that the high priests were hypocrites, and that the kings were robbers. they also knew that if they gave to any church power, it would corrupt the best church in the world. and so they said that power must not reside in a church nor in a sect, but power must be wherever humanity is,--in the great body of the people. and the officers and servants of the people must be responsible to them. and so i say again, as i said in the commencement, this is the wisest, the profoundest, the bravest political document that ever was written and signed by man. they turned, as i tell you, everything squarely about. they derived all their authority from the people. they did away forever with the theological idea of government. and what more did they say? they said that whenever the rulers abused this authority, this power, incapable of destruction, returned to the people. how did they come to say this? i will tell you. they were pushed into it. how? they felt that they were oppressed; and whenever a man feels that he is the subject of injustice, his perception of right and wrong is wonderfully quickened. nobody was ever in prison wrongfully who did not believe in the writ of _habeas corpus_. nobody ever suffered wrongfully without instantly having ideas of justice. and they began to inquire what rights the king of great britain had. they began to search for the charter of his authority. they began to investigate and dig down to the bed-rock upon which society must be founded, and when they got down there, forced there, too, by their oppressors, forced against their own prejudices and education, they found at the bottom of things, not lords, not nobles, not pulpits, not thrones, but humanity and the rights of men. and so they said, we are men; we are _men_. they found out they were men. and the next thing they said, was, "we will be free men; we are weary of being colonists; we are tired of being subjects; we are men; and these colonies ought to be states; and these states ought to be a nation; and that nation ought to drive the last british soldier into the sea." and so they signed that brave declaration of independence. i thank every one of them from the bottom of my heart for signing that sublime declaration. i thank them for their courage--for their patriotism--for their wisdom--for the splendid confidence in themselves and in the human race. i thank them for what they were, and for what we are--for what they did and for what we have received--for what they suffered, and for what we enjoy. what would we have been if we had remained colonists and subjects? what would we have been to-day? nobodies,--ready to get down on our knees and crawl in the very dust at the sight of somebody that was supposed to have in him some drop of blood that flowed in the veins of that mailed marauder--that royal robber, william the conqueror. they signed that declaration of independence, although they knew that it would produce a long, terrible, and bloody war. they looked forward and saw poverty, deprivation, gloom and death. but they also saw, on the wrecked clouds of war, the beautiful bow of freedom. these grand men were enthusiasts; and the world has only been raised by enthusiasts. in every country there have been a few who have given a national aspiration to the people. the enthusiasts of were the builders and framers of this great and splendid government; and they were the men who saw, although others did not, the golden fringe of the mantle of glory that will finally cover this world. they knew, they felt, they believed that they would give a new constellation to the political heavens--that they would make the americans a grand people--grand as the continent upon which they lived. the war commenced. there was little money, and less credit. the new nation had but few friends. to a great extent, each soldier of freedom had to clothe and feed himself. he was poor and pure--brave and good, and so he went to the fields of death to fight for the rights of man. what did the soldier leave when he went? he left his wife and children. did he leave them in a beautiful home, surrounded by civilization, in the repose of law, in the security of a great and powerful republic? no. he left his wife and children on the edge, on the fringe of the boundless forest, in which crouched and crept the red savage, who was at that time the ally of the still more savage briton. he left his wife to defend herself, and he left the prattling babes to be defended by their mother and by nature. the mother made the living; she planted the corn and the potatoes, and hoed them in the sun, raised the children, and in the darkness of night, told them about their brave father, and the "sacred cause." she told them that in a little while the war would be over and father would come back covered with honor and glory. think of the women, of the sweet children who listened for the footsteps of the dead--who waited through the sad and desolate years for the dear ones who never came. the soldiers of did not march away with music and banners. they went in silence, looked at and gazed after by eyes filled with tears. they went to meet, not an equal, but a superior--to fight five times their number--to make a desperate stand--to stop the advance of the enemy, and then, when their ammunition gave out, seek the protection of rocks, of rivers and of hills. let me say here: the greatest test of courage on the earth is to bear defeat without losing heart. that army is the bravest that can be whipped the greatest number of times and fight again. over the entire territory, so to speak, then settled by our forefathers, they were driven again and again. now and then they would meet the english with something like equal numbers, and then the eagle of victory would proudly perch upon the stripes and stars. and so they went on as best they could, hoping and fighting until they came to the dark and sombre gloom of valley forge. there were very few hearts then beneath that flag that did not begin to think that the struggle was useless; that all the blood and treasure had been spent and shed in vain. but there were some men gifted with that wonderful prophecy that fulfils itself, and with that wonderful magnetic power that makes heroes of everybody they come in contact with. and so our fathers went through the gloom of that terrible time, and still fought on. brave men wrote grand words, cheering the despondent, brave men did brave deeds, the rich man gave his wealth, the poor man gave his life, until at last, by the victory of yorktown, the old banner won its place in the air, and became glorious forever. seven long years of war--fighting for what? for the principle that all men are created equal--a truth that nobody ever disputed except a scoundrel; nobody, nobody in the entire history of this world. no man ever denied that truth who was not a rascal, and at heart a thief; never, never, and never will. what else were they fighting for? simply that in america every man should have a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. nobody ever denied that except a villain; never, never. it has been denied by kings--they were thieves. it has been denied by statesmen--they were liars. it has been denied by priests, by clergymen, by cardinals, by bishops and by popes--they were hypocrites. what else were they fighting for? for the idea that all political power is vested in the great body of the people. the great body of the people make all the money; do all the work. they plow the land, cut down the forests; they produce everything that is produced. then who shall say what shall be done with what is produced except the producer? is it the non-producing thief, sitting on a throne, surrounded by vermin? those were the things they were fighting for; and that is all they were fighting for. they fought to build up a new, a great nation; to establish an asylum for the oppressed of the world everywhere. they knew the history of this world. they knew the history of human slavery. the history of civilization is the history of the slow and painful enfranchisement of the human race. in the olden times the family was a monarchy, the farther being the monarch. the mother and children were the veriest slaves. the will of the father was the supreme law. he had the power of life and death. it took thousands of years to civilize this father, thousands of years to make the condition of wife and mother and child even tolerable. a few families constituted a tribe; the tribe had a chief; the chief was a tyrant; a few tribes formed a nation; the nation was governed by a king, who was also a tyrant, a strong nation robbed, plundered, and took captive the weaker ones. this was the commencement of human slavery. it is not possible for the human imagination to conceive of the horrors of slavery. it has left no possible crime uncommitted, no possible cruelty unperpetrated. it has been practised and defended by all nations in some form. it has been upheld by all religions. it has been defended by nearly every pulpit. from the profits derived from the slave trade churches have been built, cathedrals reared and priests paid. slavery has been blessed by bishop, by cardinal, and by pope. it has received the sanction of statesmen, of kings, and of queens. it has been defended by the throne, the pulpit, and the bench. monarchs have shared in the profits. clergymen have taken their part of the spoil, reciting passages of scripture in its defense at the same time, and judges have taken their portion in the name of equity and law. only a few years ago our ancestors were slaves. only a few years ago they passed with and belonged to the soil, like coal under it and rocks on it. only a few years ago they were treated like beasts of burden, worse far than we treat our animals at the present day. only a few years ago it was a crime in england for a man to have a bible in his house, a crime for which men were hanged, and their bodies afterwards burned. only a few years ago fathers could and did sell their children. only a few years ago our ancestors were not allowed to speak or write their thoughts--that being a crime. only a few years ago to be honest, at least in the expression of your ideas, was a felony. to do right was a capital offense; and in those days chains and whips were the incentives to labor, and the preventives of thought. honesty was a vagrant, justice a fugitive, and liberty in chains. only a few years ago men were denounced because they doubted the inspiration of the bible--because they denied miracles and laughed at the wonders recounted by the ancient jews. only a few years ago a man had to believe in the total depravity of the human heart in order to be respectable. only a few years ago, people who thought god too good to punish in eternal flames an unbaptized child were considered infamous. as soon as our ancestors began to get free they began to enslave others. with an inconsistency that defies explanation, they practiced upon others the same outrages that had been perpetrated upon them. as soon as white slavery began to be abolished, black slavery commenced. in this infamous traffic nearly every nation of europe embarked. fortunes were quickly realized; the avarice and cupidity of europe were excited; all ideas of justice were discarded; pity fled from the human breast; a few good, brave men recited the horrors of the trade; avarice was deaf; religion refused to hear; the trade went on; the governments of europe upheld it in the name of commerce--in the name of civilization and of religion. our fathers knew the history of caste. they knew that in the despotisms of the old world it was a disgrace to be useful. they knew that a mechanic was esteemed as hardly the equal of a hound, and far below a blooded horse. they knew that a nobleman held a son of labor in contempt--that he had no rights the royal loafers were bound to respect. the world has changed. the other day there came shoemakers, potters, workers in wood and iron from europe, and they were received in the city of new york as though they had been princes. they had been sent by the great republic of france to examine into the arts and manufactures of the great republic of america. they looked a thousand times better to me than the edward alberts and albert edwards--the royal vermin, that live on the body politic. and i would think much more of our government if it would fete and feast them, instead of wining and dining the imbeciles of a royal line. our fathers devoted their lives and fortunes to the grand work of founding a government for the protection of the rights of man. the theological idea as to the source of political power had poisoned the web and woof of every government in the world, and our fathers banished it from this continent forever. what we want to-day is what our fathers wrote down. they did not attain to their ideal; we approach it nearer, but have not reached it yet. we want, not only the independence of a state, not only the independence of a nation, but something far more glorious--the absolute independence of the individual. that is what we want. i want it so that i, one of the children of nature, can stand on an equality with the rest; that i can say this is _my_ air, _my_ sunshine, _my_ earth, and i have a right to live, and hope, and aspire, and labor, and enjoy the fruit of that labor, as much as any individual or any nation on the face of the globe. we want every american to make to-day, on this hundredth anniversary, a declaration of individual independence. let each man enjoy his liberty to the utmost--enjoy all he can; but be sure it is not at the expense of another. the french convention gave the best definition of liberty i have ever read: "the liberty of one citizen ceases only where the liberty of another citizen commences." i know of no better definition. i ask you to-day to make a declaration of individual independence. and if you are independent, be just. allow everybody else to make his declaration of individual independence. allow your wife, allow your husband, allow your children to make theirs. let everybody be absolutely free and independent, knowing only the sacred obligation of honesty and affection. let us be independent of party, independent of everybody and everything except our own consciences and our own brains. do not belong to any clique. have the clear title deeds in fee simple to yourselves, without any mortgage on the premises to anybody in the world. it is a grand thing to be the owner of yourself. it is a grand thing to protect the rights of others. it is a sublime thing to be free and just. only a few days ago i stood in independence hall--in that little room where was signed the immortal paper. a little room, like any other; and it did not seem possible that from that room went forth ideas, like cherubim and seraphim, spreading their wings over a continent, and touching, as with holy fire, the hearts of men. in a few moments i was in the park, where are gathered the accomplishments of a century. our fathers never dreamed of the things i saw. there were hundreds of locomotives, with their nerves of steel and breath of flame--every kind of machine, with whirling wheels and curious cogs and cranks, and the myriad thoughts of men that have been wrought in iron, brass and steel. and going out from one little building were wires in the air, stretching to every civilized nation, and they could send a shining messenger in a moment to any part of the world, and it would go sweeping under the waves of the sea with thoughts and words within its glowing heart. i saw all that had been achieved by this nation, and i wished that the signers of the declaration--the soldiers of the revolution--could see what a century of freedom has produced. i wished they could see the fields we cultivate--the rivers we navigate--the railroads running over the alleghanies, far into what was then the unknown forest--on over the broad prairies--on over the vast plains--away over the mountains of the west, to the golden gate of the pacific. all this is the result of a hundred years of freedom. are you not more than glad that in was announced the sublime principle that political power resides with the people? that our fathers then made up their minds nevermore to be colonists and subjects, but that they would be free and independent citizens of america? i will not name any of the grand men who fought for liberty. all should be named, or none. i feel that the unknown soldier who was shot down without even his name being remembered--who was included only in a report of "a hundred killed," or "a hundred missing," nobody knowing even the number that attached to his august corpse--is entitled to as deep and heartfelt thanks as the titled leader who fell at the head of the host. standing here amid the sacred memories of the first, on the golden threshold of the second, i ask, will the second century be as grand as the first? i believe it will, because we are growing more and more humane, i believe there is more human kindness, more real, sweet human sympathy, a greater desire to help one another, in the united states, than in all the world besides. we must progress. we are just at the commencement of invention. the steam engine--the telegraph--these are but the toys with which science has been amused. wait; there will be grander things; there will be wider and higher culture--a grander standard of character, of literature, and art. we have now half as many millions of people as we have years, and many of us will live until a hundred million stand beneath the flag. we are getting more real solid sense. the school house is the finest building in the village. we are writing and reading more books; we are painting and buying more pictures; we are struggling more and more to get at the philosophy of life, of things--trying more and more to answer the questions of the eternal sphinx. we are looking in every direction--investigating; in short, we are thinking and working. besides all this, i believe the people are nearer honest than ever before. a few years ago we were willing to live upon the labor of four million slaves. was that honest? at last, we have a national conscience. at last, we have carried out the declaration of independence. our fathers wrote it--we have accomplished it. the black man was a slave--we made him a citizen. we found four million human beings in manacles, and now the hands of a race are held up in the free air without a chain. i have had the supreme pleasure of seeing a man--once a slave--sitting in the seat of his former master in the congress of the united states. i have had that pleasure, and when i saw it my eyes were filled with tears. i felt that we had carried out the declaration of independence,--that we had given reality to it, and breathed the breath of life into its every word. i felt that our flag would float over and protect the colored man and his little children--standing straight in the sun, just the same as though he were white and worth a million. i would protect him more, because the rich white man could protect himself. all who stand beneath our banner are free. ours is the only flag that has in reality written upon it: liberty, fraternity, equality--the three grandest words in all the languages of men. liberty: give to every man the fruit of his own labor--the labor of his hands and of his brain. fraternity: every man in the right is my brother. equality: the rights of all are equal: justice, poised and balanced in eternal calm, will shake from the golden scales, in which are weighed the acts of men, the very dust of prejudice and caste: no race, no color, no previous condition, can change the rights of men. the declaration of independence has at last been carried out in letter and in spirit. the second century will be grander than the first. fifty millions of people are celebrating this day. to-day, the black man looks upon his child and says: the avenues to distinction are open to you--upon your brow may fall the civic wreath--this day belongs to you. we are celebrating the courage and wisdom of our fathers, and the glad shout of a free people, the anthem of a grand nation, commencing at the atlantic, is following the sun to the pacific, across a continent of happy homes. we are a great people. three millions have increased to fifty--thirteen states to thirty-eight. we have better homes, better clothes, better food and more of it, and more of the conveniencies of life, than any other people upon the globe. the farmers of our country live better than did the kings and princes two hundred years ago--and they have twice as much sense and heart. liberty and labor have given us all. i want every person here to believe in the dignity of labor--to know that the respectable man is the useful man--the man who produces or helps others to produce something of value, whether thought of the brain or work of the hand. i want you to go away with an eternal hatred in your breast of injustice, of aristocracy, of caste, of the idea that one man has more rights than another because he has better clothes, more land, more money, because he owns a railroad, or is famous and in high position. remember that all men have equal rights. remember that the man who acts best his part--who loves his friends the best--is most willing to help others--truest to the discharge of obligation--who has the best heart--the most feeling--the deepest sympathies--and who fiercely gives to others the rights that he claims for himself, is the best man. i am willing to swear to this. what has made this country? i say again, liberty and labor. what would we be without labor? i want every farmer, when plowing the rustling corn of june--while mowing in the perfumed fields--to feel that he is adding to the wealth and glory of the united states. i want every mechanic--every man of toil, to know and feel that he is keeping the cars running, the telegraph wires in the air; that he is making the statues and painting the pictures: that he is writing and printing the books; that he is helping to fill the world with honor, with happiness, with love and law. our country is founded upon the dignity of labor--upon the equality of man. ours is the first real republic in the history of the world. beneath our flag the people are free. we have retired the gods from politics. we have found that man is the only source of political power, and that the governed should govern. we have disfranchised the aristocrats of the air and have given one country to mankind. about farming in illinois. to plow is to pray--to plant is to prophecy, and the harvest answers and fulfills. i am not an old and experienced farmer, nor a tiller of the soil, nor one of the hard-handed sons of labor. i imagine, however, that i know something about cultivating the soil, and getting happiness out of the ground. i know enough to know that agriculture is the basis of all wealth, prosperity and luxury. i know that in a country where the tillers of the fields are free, everybody is free and ought to be prosperous. happy is that country where those who cultivate the land own it patriotism is born in the woods and fields--by lakes and streams--by crags and plains. the old way of farming was a great mistake. everything was done the wrong way. it was all work and waste, weariness and want. they used to fence a hundred and sixty acres of land with a couple of dogs. everything was left to the protection of the blessed trinity of chance, accident and mistake. when i was a farmer they used to haul wheat two hundred miles in wagons and sell it for thirty-five cents a bushel. they would bring home about three hundred feet of lumber, two bunches of shingles, a barrel of salt, and a cook-stove that never would draw and never did bake. in those blessed days the people lived on corn and bacon. cooking was an unknown art. eating was a necessity, not a pleasure. it was hard work for the cook to keep on good terms even with hunger. we had poor houses. the rain held the roofs in perfect contempt, and the snow drifted joyfully on the floors and beds. they had no barns. the horses were kept in rail pens surrounded with straw. long before spring the sides would be-eaten away and nothing but roofs would be left. food is fuel. when the cattle were exposed to all the blasts of winter, it took all the corn and oats that could be stuffed into them to prevent actual starvation. in those times most farmers thought the best place for the pig-pen was immediately in front of the house. there is nothing like sociability. women were supposed to know the art of making fires without fuel. the wood pile consisted, as a general thing, of one log upon which an axe or two had been worn out in vain. there was nothing to kindle a fire with. pickets were pulled from the garden fence, clap-boards taken from the house, and every stray plank was seized upon for kindling. everything was done in the hardest way. everything about the farm was disagreeable. nothing was kept in order. nothing was preserved. the wagons stood in the sun and rain, and the plows rusted in the fields. there was no leisure, no feeling that the work was done. it was all labor and weariness and vexation of spirit. the crops were destroyed by wandering herds, or they were put in too late, or too early, or they were blown down, or caught by the frost, or devoured by bugs, or stung by flies, or eaten by worms, or carried away by birds, or dug up by gophers, or washed away by floods, or dried up by the sun, or rotted in the stack, or heated in the crib, or they all run to vines, or tops, or straw, or smut, or cobs. and when in spite of all these accidents that lie in wait between the plow and the reaper, they did succeed in raising a good crop and a high price was offered, then the roads would be impassable. and when the roads got good, then the prices went down. everything worked together for evil. nearly every farmer's boy took an oath that he never would cultivate the soil. the moment they arrived at the age of twenty-one they left the desolate and dreary farms and rushed to the towns and cities. they wanted to be bookkeepers, doctors, merchants, railroad men, insurance agents, lawyers, even preachers, anything to avoid the drudgery of the farm. nearly every boy acquainted with the three r's--reading, writing, and arithmetic--imagined that he had altogether more education than ought to be wasted in raising potatoes and corn. they made haste to get into some other business. those who stayed upon the farm envied those who went away. a few years ago the times were prosperous, and the young men went to the cities to enjoy the fortunes that were waiting for them. they wanted to engage in something that promised quick returns. they built railways, established banks and insurance companies. they speculated in stocks in wall street, and gambled in grain at chicago. they became rich. they lived in palaces. they rode in carriages. they pitied their poor brothers on the farms, and the poor brothers envied them. but time has brought its revenge. the farmers have seen the railroad president a bankrupt, and the road in the hands of a receiver. they have seen the bank president abscond, and the insurance company a wrecked and ruined fraud. the only solvent people, as a class, the only independent people, are the tillers of the soil. farming must be made more attractive. the comforts of the town must be added to the beauty of the fields. the sociability of the city must be rendered possible in the country. farming has been made repulsive. the farmers have been unsociable and their homes have been lonely. they have been wasteful and careless. they have not been proud of their business. in the first place, farming ought to be reasonably profitable. the farmers have not attended to their own interests. they have been robbed and plundered in a hundred ways. no farmer can afford to raise corn and oats and hay to sell. he should sell horses, not oats; sheep, cattle and pork, not corn. he should make every profit possible out of what he produces. so long as the farmers of illinois ship their corn and oats, so long they will be poor,--just so long will their farms be mortgaged to the insurance companies and banks of the east,--just so long will they do the work and others reap the benefit,--just so long will they be poor, and the money lenders grow rich,--just so long will cunning avarice grasp and hold the net profits of honest toil. when the farmers of the west ship beef and pork instead of grain,--when we manufacture here,--when we cease paying tribute to others, ours will be the most prosperous country in the world. another thing--it is just as cheap to raise a good as a poor breed of cattle. scrubs will eat just as much as thoroughbreds. if you are not able to buy durhams and alderneys, you can raise the corn breed. by "corn breed" i mean the cattle that have, for several generations, had enough to eat, and have been treated with kindness. every farmer who will treat his cattle kindly, and feed them all they want, will, in a few years, have blooded stock on his farm. all blooded stock has been produced in this way. you can raise good cattle just as you can raise good people. if you wish to raise a good boy you must give him plenty to eat, and treat him with kindness. in this way, and in this way only, can good cattle or good people be produced. another thing--you must beautify your homes. when i was a farmer it was not fashionable to set out trees, nor to plant vines. when you visited the farm you were not welcomed by flowers, and greeted by trees loaded with fruit. yellow dogs came bounding over the tumbled fence like wild beasts. there is no sense--there is no profit in such a life. it is not living. the farmers ought to beautify their homes. there should be trees and grass and flowers and running vines. everything should be kept in order--gates should be on their hinges, and about all there should be the pleasant air of thrift. in every house there should be a bath-room. the bath is a civilizer, a refiner, a beautifier. when you come from the fields tired, covered with dust, nothing is so refreshing. above all things, keep clean. it is not necessary to be a pig in order to raise one. in the cool of the evening, after a day in the field, put on clean clothes, take a seat under the trees, 'mid the perfume of flowers, surrounded by your family, and you will know what it is to enjoy life like a gentleman. in no part of the globe will farming pay better than in illinois. you are in the best portion of the earth. from the atlantic to the pacific, there is no such country as yours. the east is hard and stony; the soil is stingy. the far west is a desert parched and barren, dreary and desolate as perdition would be with the fires out. it is better to dig wheat and corn from the soil than gold. only a few days ago i was where they wrench the precious metals from the miserly clutch of the rocks. when i saw the mountains, treeless, shrub-less, flowerless, without even a spire of grass, it seemed to me that gold had the same effect upon the country that holds it, as upon the man who lives and labors only for that. it affects the land as it does the man. it leaves the heart barren without a flower of kindness--without a blossom of pity. the farmer in illinois has the best soil--the greatest return for the least labor--more leisure--more time for enjoyment than any other farmer in the world. his hard work ceases with autumn. he has the long winters in which to become acquainted with his family--with his neighbors--in which to read and keep abreast with the advanced thought of his day. he has the time and means for self-culture. he has more time than the mechanic, the merchant or the professional man. if the farmer is not well informed it is his own fault. books are cheap, and every farmer can have enough to give him the outline of every science, and an idea of all that has been accomplished by man. in many respects the farmer has the advantage of the mechanic. in our time we have plenty of mechanics but no tradesmen. in the sub-division of labor we have a thousand men working upon different parts of the same thing, each taught in one particular branch, and in only one. we have, say, in a shoe factory, hundreds of men, but not one shoemaker. it takes them all, assisted by a great number of machines, to make a shoe. each does a particular part, and not one of them knows the entire trade. the result is that the moment the factory shuts down these men are out of employment. out of employment means out of bread--out of bread means famine and horror. the mechanic of to-day has but little independence. his prosperity often depends upon the good will of one man. he is liable to be discharged for a look, for a word. he lays by but little for his declining years. he is, at the best, the slave of capital. it is a thousand times better to be a whole farmer than part of a mechanic. it is better to till the ground and work for yourself than to be hired by corporations. every man should endeavor to belong to himself. about seven hundred years ago, kheyam, a persian, said: "why should a man who possesses a piece of bread securing life for two days, and who has a cup of water--why should such a man be commanded by another, and why should such a man serve another?" young men should not be satisfied with a salary. do not mortgage the possibilities of your future. have the courage to take life as it comes, feast or famine. think of hunting a gold mine for a dollar a day, and think of finding one for another man. how would you feel then? we are lacking in true courage, when, for fear of the future, we take the crusts and scraps and niggardly salaries of the present. i had a thousand times rather have a farm and be independent, than to be president of the united states without independence, filled with doubt and trembling, feeling of the popular pulse, resorting to art and artifice, enquiring about the wind of opinion, and succeeding at last in losing my self respect without gaining the respect of others. man needs more manliness, more real independence. we must take care of ourselves. this we can do by labor, and in this way we can preserve our independence. we should try and choose that business or profession the pursuit of which will give us the most happiness. happiness is wealth. we can be happy without being rich--without holding office--without being famous. i am not sure that we can be happy with wealth, with office, or with fame. there is a quiet about the life of a farmer, and the hope of a serene old age, that no other business or profession can promise. a professional man is doomed sometime to feel that his powers are waning. he is doomed to see younger and stronger men pass him in the race of life. he looks forward to an old age of intellectual mediocrity. he will be last where once he was the first. but the farmer goes, as it were, into partnership with nature--"he lives with trees and flowers--he breathes the sweet air of the fields." there is no constant and frightful strain upon his mind. his nights are filled with sleep and rest. he watches his flocks and herds as they feed upon the green and sunny slopes. he hears the pleasant rain falling upon the waving corn, and the trees he planted in youth rustle above him as he plants others for the children yet to be. our country is filled with the idle and unemployed, and the great question asking for an answer is: what shall be done with these men? what shall these men do? to this there is but one answer: they must cultivate the soil. farming must be rendered more attractive. those who work the land must have an honest pride in their business. they must educate their children to cultivate the soil. they must make farming easier, so that their children will not hate it--so that they will not hate it themselves. the boys must not be taught that tilling the ground is a curse and almost a disgrace. they must not suppose that education is thrown away upon them unless they become ministers, merchants, lawyers, doctors, or statesmen. it must be understood that education can be used to advantage on a farm. we must get rid of the idea that a little learning unfits one for work. there is no real conflict between latin and labor. there are hundreds of graduates of yale and harvard and other colleges, who are agents of sewing machines, solicitors for insurance, clerks, copyists, in short, performing a hundred varieties of menial service. they seem willing to do anything that is not regarded as work--anything that can be done in a town, in the house, in an office, but they avoid farming as they would a leprosy. nearly every young man educated in this way is simply ruined. such an education ought to be called ignorance. it is a thousand times better to have common sense without education, than education without the sense. boys and girls should be educated to help themselves. they should be taught that it is disgraceful to be idle, and dishonorable to be useless. i say again, if you want more men and women on the farms, something must be done to make farm life pleasant. one great difficulty is that the farm is lonely. people write about the pleasures of solitude, but they are found only in books. he who lives long alone becomes insane. a hermit is a madman. without friends and wife and child, there is nothing left worth living for. the unsocial are the enemies of joy. they are filled with egotism and envy, with vanity and hatred. people who live much alone become narrow and suspicious. they are apt to be the property of one idea. they begin to think there is no use in anything. they look upon the happiness of others as a kind of folly. they hate joyous folks, because, way down in their hearts, they envy them. in our country, farm-life is too lonely. the farms are large, and neighbors are too far apart. in these days, when the roads are filled with "tramps," the wives and children need protection. when the farmer leaves home and goes to some distant field to work, a shadow of fear is upon his heart all day, and a like shadow rests upon all at home. in the early settlement of our country the pioneer was forced to take his family, his axe, his dog and his gun, and go into the far wild forest and build his cabin miles and miles from any neighbor. he saw the smoke from his hearth go up alone in all the wide and lonely sky. but this necessity has passed away, and now, instead of living so far apart upon the lonely farms, you should live in villages. with the improved machinery which you have--with your generous soil--with your markets and means of transportation, you can now afford to live together. it is not necessary in this age of the world for the farmer to rise in the middle of the night and begin his work. this getting up so early in the morning is a relic of barbarism. it has made hundreds and thousands of young men curse the business. there is no need of getting up at three or four o'clock in the winter morning. the farmer who persists in doing it and persists in dragging his wife and children from their beds ought to be visited by a missionary. it is time enough to rise after the sun has set the example. for what purpose do you get up? to feed the cattle? why not feed them more the night before? it is a waste of life. in the old times they used to get up about three o'clock in the morning, and go to work long before the sun had risen with "healing upon his wings," and as a just punishment they all had the ague; and they ought to have it now. the man who cannot get a living upon illinois soil without rising before daylight ought to starve. eight hours a day is enough for any farmer to work except in harvest time. when you rise at four and work till dark what is life worth? of what use are all the improvements in farming? of what use is all the improved machinery unless it tends to give the farmer a little more leisure? what is harvesting now, compared with what it was in the old time? think of the days of reaping, of cradling, of raking and binding and mowing. think of threshing with the flail and winnowing with the wind. and now think of the reapers and mowers, the binders and threshing machines, the plows and cultivators, upon which the farmer rides protected from the sun. if, with all these advantages, you cannot get a living without rising in the middle of the night, go into some other business. you should not rob your families of sleep. sleep is the best medicine in the world. it is the best doctor upon the earth. there is no such thing as health without plenty of sleep. sleep until you are thoroughly rested and restored. when you work, work; and when you get through take a good, long, and refreshing rest. you should live in villages, so that you can have the benefits of social life. you can have a reading-room--you can take the best papers and magazines--you can have plenty of books, and each one can have the benefit of them all. some of the young men and women can cultivate music. you can have social gatherings--you can-learn from each other--you can discuss all topics of interest, and in this way you can make farming a delightful business. you must keep up with the age. the way to make farming respectable is for farmers to become really intelligent. they must live intelligent and happy lives. they must know something of books and something of what is going on in the world. they must not be satisfied with knowing something of the affairs of a neighborhood and nothing about the rest of the earth. the business must be made attractive, and it never can be until the farmer has prosperity, intelligence and leisure. another thing--i am a believer in fashion. it is the duty of every woman to make herself as beautiful and attractive as she possibly can. "handsome is as handsome does," but she is much handsomer if well dressed. every man should look his very best. i am a believer in good clothes. the time never ought to come in this country when you can tell a farmer's wife or daughter simply by the garments she wears. i say to every girl and woman, no matter what the material of your dress may be, no matter how cheap and coarse it is, cut it and make it in the fashion. i believe in jewelry. some people look upon it as barbaric, but in my judgment, wearing jewelry is the first evidence the barbarian gives of a wish to be civilized. to adorn ourselves seems to be a part of our nature, and this desire seems to be everywhere and in everything. i have sometimes thought that the desire for beauty covers the earth with flowers. it is this desire that paints the wings of moths, tints the chamber of the shell, and gives the bird its plumage and its song. oh daughters and wives, if you would be loved, adorn yourselves--if you would be adored, be beautiful! there is another fault common with the farmers of our country--they want too much land. you cannot, at present, when taxes are high, afford to own land that you do not cultivate. sell it and let others make farms and homes. in this way what you keep will be enhanced in value. farmers ought to own the land they cultivate, and cultivate what they own. renters can hardly be called farmers. there can be no such thing in the highest sense as a home unless you own it. there must be an incentive to plant trees, to beautify the grounds, to preserve and improve. it elevates a man to own a home. it gives a certain independence, a force of character that is obtained in no other way. a man without a home feels like a passenger. there is in such a man a little of the vagrant. homes make patriots. he who has sat by his own fireside with wife and children will defend it. when he hears the word country pronounced, he thinks of his home. few men have been patriotic enough to shoulder a musket in defence of a boarding house. the prosperity and glory of our country depend upon the number of our people who are the owners of homes. around the fireside cluster the private and the public virtues of our race. raise your sons to be independent through labor--to pursue some business for themselves and upon their own account--to be self-reliant--to act upon their own responsibility, and to take the consequences like men. teach them above all things to be good, true and tender husbands--winners of love and builders of homes. a great many farmers seem to think that they are the only laborers in the world. this is a very foolish thing. farmers cannot get along without the mechanic. you are not independent of the man of genius. your prosperity depends upon the inventor. the world advances by the assistance of all laborers; and all labor is under obligations to the inventions of genius. the inventor does as much for agriculture as he who tills the soil. all laboring men should be brothers. you are in partnership with the mechanics who make your reapers, your mowers and your plows; and you should take into your granges all the men who make their living by honest labor. the laboring people should unite and should protect themselves against all idlers. you can divide mankind into two classes: the laborers and the idlers, the supporters and the supported, the honest and the dishonest. every man is dishonest who lives upon the unpaid labor of others, no matter if he occupies a throne. all laborers should be brothers. the laborers should have equal rights before the world and before the law. and i want every farmer to consider every man who labors either with hand or brain as his brother. until genius and labor formed a partnership there was no such thing as prosperity among men. every reaper and mower, every agricultural implement, has elevated the work of the farmer, and his vocation grows grander with every invention. in the olden time the agriculturist was ignorant; he knew nothing of machinery, he was the slave of superstition. he was always trying to appease some imaginary power by fasting and prayer. he supposed that some being actuated by malice, sent the untimely frost, or swept away with the wild wind his rude abode. to him the seasons were mysteries. the thunder told him of an enraged god--the barren fields of the vengeance of heaven. the tiller of the soil lived in perpetual and abject fear. he knew nothing of mechanics, nothing of order, nothing of law, nothing of cause and effect. he was a superstitious savage. he invented prayers instead of plows, creeds instead of reapers and mowers. he was unable to devote all his time to the gods, and so he hired others to assist him, and for their influence with the gentlemen supposed to control the weather, he gave one-tenth of all he could produce. the farmer has been elevated through science and he should not forget the debt he owes to the mechanic, to the inventor, to the thinker. he should remember that all laborers belong to the same grand family--that they are the real kings and queens, the only true nobility. another idea entertained by most farmers is that they are in some mysterious way oppressed by every other kind of business--that they are devoured by monopolies, especially by railroads. of course, the railroads are indebted to the farmers for their prosperity, and the farmers are indebted to the railroads. without them illinois would be almost worthless. a few years ago you endeavored to regulate the charges of railroad companies. the principal complaint you had was that they charged too much for the transportation of corn and other cereals to the east. you should remember that all freights are paid by the consumer; and that it made little difference to you what the railroad charged for transportation to the east, as that transportation had to be paid by the consumers of the grain. you were really interested in transportation from the east to the west and in local freights. the result is that while you have put down through freights you have not succeeded so well in local freights. the exact opposite should be the policy of illinois. put down local freights; put them down, if you can, to the lowest possible figure, and let through rates take care of themselves. if all the corn raised in illinois could be transported to new york absolutely free, it would enhance but little the price that you would receive. what we want is the lowest possible local rate. instead of this you have simply succeeded in helping the east at the expense of the west. the railroads are your friends. they are your partners. they can prosper only where the country through which they run prospers. all intelligent railroad men know this. they know that present robbery is future bankruptcy. they know that the interest of the farmer and of the railroad is the same. we must have railroads. what can we do without them? when we had no railroads, we drew, as i said before, our grain two hundred miles to market. in those days the farmers did not stop at hotels. they slept under their wagons--took with them their food--fried their own bacon, made their coffee, and ate their meals in the snow and rain. those were the days when they received ten cents a bushel for corn--when they sold four bushels of potatoes for a quarter--thirty-three dozen eggs for a dollar, and a hundred pounds of pork for a dollar and a half. what has made the difference? the railroads came to your door and they brought with them the markets of the world. they brought new york and liverpool and london into illinois, and the state has been clothed with prosperity as with a mantle. it is the interest of the farmer to protect every great interest in the state. you should feel proud that illinois has more railroads than any other state in this union. her main tracks and side tracks would furnish iron enough to belt the globe. in illinois there are ten thousand miles of railways. in these iron highways more than three hundred million dollars have been invested--a sum equal to ten times the original cost of all the land in the state. to make war upon the railroads is a short-sighted and suicidal policy. they should be treated fairly and should be taxed by the same standard that farms are taxed, and in no other way. if we wish to prosper we must act together, and we must see to it that every form of labor is protected. there has been a long period of depression in all business. the farmers have suffered least of all. your land is just as rich and productive as ever. prices have been reasonable. the towns and cities have suffered. stocks and bonds have shrunk from par to worthless paper. princes have become paupers, and bankers, merchants and millionaires have passed into the oblivion of bankruptcy. the period of depression is slowly passing away, and we are entering upon better times. a great many people say that a scarcity of money is our only difficulty. in my opinion we have money enough, but we lack confidence in each other and in the future. there has been so much dishonesty, there have been so many failures, that the people are afraid to trust anybody. there is plenty of money, but there seems to be a scarcity of business. if you were to go to the owner of a ferry, and, upon seeing his boat lying high and dry on the shore, should say, "there is a superabundance of ferryboat," he would probably reply, "no, but there is a scarcity of water." so with us there is not a scarcity of money, but there is a scarcity of business. and this scarcity springs from lack of confidence in one another. so many presidents of savings banks, even those belonging to the young men's christian association, run off with the funds; so many railroad and insurance companies are in the hands of receivers; there is so much bankruptcy on every hand, that all capital is held in the nervous clutch of fear. slowly, but surely we are coming back to honest methods in business. confidence will return, and then enterprise will unlock the safe and money will again circulate as of yore; the dollars will leave their hiding places and every one will be seeking investment. for my part, i do not ask any interference on the part of the government except to undo the wrong it has done. i do not ask that money be made out of nothing. i do not ask for the prosperity born of paper. but i do ask for the remonetization of silver. silver was demonetized by fraud. it was an imposition upon every solvent man; a fraud upon every honest debtor in the united states. it assassinated labor. it was done in the interest of avarice and greed, and should be undone by honest men. the farmers should vote only for such men as are able and willing to guard and advance the interests of labor. we should know better than to vote for men who will deliberately put a tariff of three dollars a thousand upon canada lumber, when every farmer in illinois is a purchaser of lumber. people who live upon the prairies ought to vote for cheap lumber. we should protect ourselves. we ought to have intelligence enough to know what we want and how to get it. the real laboring men of this country can succeed if they are united. by laboring men, i do not mean only the farmers. i mean all who contribute in some way to the general welfare. they should forget prejudices and party names, and remember only the best interests of the people. let us see if we cannot, in illinois, protect every department of industry. let us see if all property cannot be protected alike and taxed alike, whether owned by individuals or corporations. where industry creates and justice protects, prosperity dwells. let me tell you something more about illinois: we have fifty-six thousand square miles of land--nearly thirty-six million acres. upon these plains we can raise enough to feed and clothe twenty million people. beneath these prairies were hidden millions of ages ago, by that old miser, the sun, thirty-six thousand square miles of coal. the aggregate thickness of these veins is at least fifteen feet. think of a column of coal one mile square and one hundred miles high! all this came from the sun. what a sunbeam such a column would be! think of the engines and machines this coal will run and turn and whirl! think of all this force, willed and left to us by the dead morning of the world! think of the firesides of the future around which will sit the fathers, mothers and children of the years to be! think of the sweet and happy faces, the loving and tender eyes that will glow and gleam in the sacred light of all these flames! we have the best country in the world, and illinois is the best state in that country. is there any reason that our farmers should not be prosperous and happy men? they have every advantage, and within their reach are all the comforts and conveniences of life. do not get the land fever and think you must buy all that joins you. get out of debt as soon as you possibly can. a mortgage casts a shadow on the sunniest field. there is no business under the sun that can pay ten per cent. ainsworth r. spofford gives the following facts about interest: "one dollar loaned for one hundred years at six per cent., with the interest collected annually and added to the principal, will amount to three hundred and forty dollars. at eight per cent, it amounts to two thousand two hundred and three dollars. at three per cent, it amounts only to nineteen dollars and twenty-five cents. at ten per cent, it is thirteen thousand eight hundred and nine dollars, or about seven hundred times as much. at twelve per cent, it amounts to eighty-four thousand and seventy-five dollars, or more than four thousand times as much. at eighteen per cent, it amounts to fifteen million one hundred and forty-five thousand and seven dollars. at twenty-four per cent, (which we sometimes hear talked of) it reaches the enormous sum of two billion five hundred and fifty-one million seven hundred and ninety-nine thousand four hundred and four dollars." one dollar at compound interest, at twenty-four per cent., for one hundred years, would produce a sum equal to our national debt. interest eats night and day, and the more it eats the hungrier it grows. the farmer in debt, lying awake at night, can, if he listens, hear it gnaw. if he owes nothing, he can hear his corn grow. get out of debt as soon as you possibly can. you have supported idle avarice and lazy economy long enough. above all let every farmer treat his wife and children with infinite kindness. give your sons and daughters every advantage within your power. in the air of kindness they will grow about you like flowers. they will fill your homes with sunshine and all your years with joy. do not try to rule by force. a blow from a parent leaves a scar on the soul. i should feel ashamed to die surrounded by children i had whipped. think of feeling upon your dying lips the kiss of a child you had struck. see to it that your wife has every convenience. make her life worth living. never allow her to become a servant. wives, weary and worn, mothers, wrinkled and bent before their time, fill homes with grief and shame. if you are not able to hire help for your wives, help them yourselves. see that they have the best utensils to work with. women cannot create things by magic. have plenty of wood and coal--good cellars and plenty in them. have cisterns, so that you can have plenty of rain water for washing.' do not rely on a barrel and a board. when the rain comes the board will be lost or the hoops will be off the barrel. farmers should live like princes. eat the best things you raise and sell the rest. have good things to cook and good things to cook with. of all people in our country, you should live the best. throw your miserable little stoves out of the window. get ranges, and have them so built that your wife need not burn her face off to get you a breakfast. do not make her cook in a kitchen hot as the orthodox perdition. the beef, not the cook, should be roasted. it is just as easy to have things convenient and right as to have them any other way. cooking is one of the fine arts. give your wives and daughters things to cook, and things to cook with, and they will soon become most excellent cooks. good cooking is the basis of civilization. the man whose arteries and veins are filled with rich blood made of good and well cooked food, has pluck, courage, endurance and and noble impulses. the inventor of a good soup did more for his race than the maker of any creed. the doctrines of total depravity and endless punishment were born of bad cooking and dyspepsia. remember that your wife should have the things to cook with. in the good old days there would be eleven children in the family and only one skillet. everything was broken or cracked or loaned or lost. there ought to be a law making it a crime, punishable by imprisonment, to fry beefsteak. broil it; it is just as easy, and when broiled it is delicious. fried beefsteak is not fit for a wild beast. you can broil even on a stove. shut the front damper--open the back one--then takeoff a griddle. there will then be a draft downwards through this opening. put on your steak, using a wire broiler, and not a particle of smoke will touch it, for the reason that the smoke goes down. if you try to broil it with the front damper open, the smoke will rise. for broiling, coal, even soft coal, makes a better fire than wood. there is no reason why farmers should not have fresh meat all the year round. there is certainly no sense in stuffing yourself full of salt meat every morning, and making a well or a cistern of your stomach for the rest of the day. every farmer should have an ice house. upon or near every farm is some stream from which plenty of ice can be obtained, and the long summer days made delightful. dr. draper, one of the world's greatest scientists, says that ice water is healthy, and that it has done away with many of the low forms of fever in the great cities. ice has become one of the necessaries of civilized life, and without it there is very little comfort. make your homes pleasant. have your houses warm and comfortable for the winter. do not build a story-and-a-half house. the half story is simply an oven in which, during the summer, you will bake every night, and feel in the morning as though only the rind of yourself was left. decorate your rooms, even if you do so with cheap engravings. the cheapest are far better than none. have books--have papers, and read them. you have more leisure than the dwellers in cities. beautify your grounds with plants and flowers and vines. have good gardens. remember that everything of beauty tends to the elevation of man. every little morning-glory whose purple bosom is thrilled with the amorous kisses of the sun, tends to put a blossom in your heart. do not judge of the value of everything by the market reports. every flower about a house certifies to the refinement of somebody. every vine climbing and blossoming, tells of love and joy. make your houses comfortable. do not huddle together in a little room around a red-hot stove, with every window fastened down. do not live in this poisoned atmosphere, and then, when one of your children dies; put a piece in the papers commencing with, "whereas, it has pleased divine providence to remove from our midst--." have plenty of air, and plenty of warmth. comfort is health. do not imagine anything is unhealthy simply because it is pleasant. that is an old and foolish idea. let your children sleep. do not drag them from their beds in the darkness of night. do not compel them to associate all that is tiresome, irksome and dreadful with cultivating the soil. in this way you bring farming into hatred and disrepute. treat your children with infinite kindness--treat them as equals. there is no happiness in a home not filled with love. where the husband hates his wife--where the wife hates the husband; where children hate their parents and each other--there is a hell upon earth. there is no reason why farmers should not be the kindest and most cultivated of men. there is nothing in plowing the fields to make men cross, cruel and crabbed. to look upon the sunny slopes covered with daisies does not tend to make men unjust. whoever labors for the happiness of those he loves, elevates himself, no matter whether he works in the dark and dreary shops, or in the perfumed fields. to work for others is, in reality, the only way in which a man can work for himself. selfishness is ignorance. speculators cannot make unless somebody loses. in the realm of speculation, every success has at least one victim. the harvest reaped by the farmer benefits all and injures none. for him to succeed, it is not necessary that some one should fail. the same is true of all producers--of all laborers. i can imagine no condition that carries with it it such a promise of joy as that of the farmer in the early winter. he has his cellar filled--he has made every preparation for the days of snow and storm--he looks forward to three months of ease and rest; to three months of fireside-content; three months with wife and children; three months of long, delightful evenings; three months of home; three months of solid comfort. when the life of the farmer is such as i have described, the cities and towns will not be filled with want--the streets will not be crowded with wrecked rogues, broken bankers, and bankrupt speculators. the fields will be tilled, and country villages, almost hidden by trees and vines and flowers, filled with industrious and happy people, will nestle in every vale and gleam like gems on every plain. the idea must be done away with that there is something intellectually degrading in cultivating the soil. nothing can be nobler than to be useful. idleness should not be respectable. if farmers will cultivate well, and without waste; if they will so build that their houses will be warm in winter and cool in summer; if they will plant trees and beautify their homes; if they will occupy their leisure in reading, in thinking, in improving their minds and in devising ways and means to make their business profitable and pleasant; if they will live nearer together and cultivate sociability; if they will come together often; if they will have reading rooms and cultivate music; if they will have bath-rooms, ice-houses and good gardens; if their wives can have an easy time; if their sons and daughters can have an opportunity to keep in line with the thoughts and discoveries of the world; if the nights can be taken for sleep and the evenings for enjoyment, everybody will be in love with the fields. happiness should be the object of life, and if life on the farm can be made really happy, the children will grow up in love with the meadows, the streams, the woods and the old home. around the farm will cling and cluster the happy memories of the delightful years. remember, i pray you, that you are in partnership with all labor--that you should join hands with all the sons and daughters of toil, and that all who work belong to the same noble family. for my part, i envy the man who has lived on the same broad acres from his boyhood, who cultivates the fields where in youth he played, and lives where his father lived and died. i can imagine no sweeter way to end one's life than in the quiet of the country, out of the mad race for money, place and power--far from the demands of business--out of the dusty highway where fools struggle and strive for the hollow praise of other fools. surrounded by pleasant fields and faithful friends, by those i have loved, i hope to end my days. and this i hope may be the lot of all who hear my voice. i hope that you, in the country, in houses covered with vines and clothed with flowers, looking from the open window upon rustling fields of corn and wheat, over which will run the sunshine and the shadow, surrounded by those whose lives you have filled with joy, will pass away serenely as the autumn dies. speech at cincinnati nominating james g. blaine for the presidency, june, . massachusetts may be satisfied with the loyalty of benjamin h. bristow; so am i; but if any man nominated by this convention can not carry the state of massachusetts, i am not satisfied with the loyalty of that state. if the nominee of this convention can not carry the grand old commonwealth of massachusetts by seventy-five thousand majority, i would advise them to sell out faneuil hall as a democratic headquarters. i would advise them to take from bunker hill that old monument of glory. the republicans of the united states demand as their leader in the great contest of a man of intelligence, a man of integrity, a man of well-known and approved political opinions. they demand a statesman; they demand a reformer after as well as before the election. they demand a politician in the highest, broadest and best sense--a man of superb moral courage. they demand a man acquainted with public affairs--with the wants of the people; with not only the requirements of the hour, but with the demands of the future. they demand a man broad enough to comprehend the relations of this government to the other nations of the earth. they demand a man well versed in the powers, duties, and prerogatives of each and every department of this government. they demand a man who will sacredly preserve the financial honor of the united states; one who knows enough to know that the national debt must be paid through the prosperity of this people; one who knows enough to know that all the financial theories in the world cannot redeem a single dollar; one who knows enough to know that all the money must be made, not by law, but by labor; one who knows enough to know that the people of the united states have the industry to make the money, and the honor to pay it over just as fast as they make it. the republicans of the united states demand a man who knows that prosperity and resumption, when they come, must come together; that when they come, they will come hand in hand through the golden harvest fields; hand in hand by the whirling spindles and the turning wheels; hand in hand past the open furnace doors; hand in hand by the flaming forges; hand in hand by the chimneys filled with eager fire, greeted and grasped by the countless sons of toil. this money has to be dug out of the earth. you can not make it by passing resolutions in a political convention. the republicans of the united states want a man who knows that this government should protect every citizen, at home and abroad; who knows that any government that will not defend its defenders, and protect its protectors, is a disgrace to the map of the world. they demand a man who believes in the eternal separation and divorcement of church and school. they demand a man whose political reputation is spotless as a star; but they do not demand that their candidate shall have a certificate of moral character signed by a confederate congress. the man who has, in full, heaped and rounded measure, all these splendid qualifications, is the present grand and gallant leader of the republican party--james g. blaine. our country, crowned with the vast and marvelous achievements of its first century, asks for a man worthy of the past, and prophetic of her future; asks for a man who has the audacity of genius; asks for a man who is the grandest combination of heart, conscience and brain beneath her flag--such a man is james g. blaine. for the republican host, led by this intrepid man, there can be no defeat. this is a grand year--a year filled with the recollections of the revolution; filled with proud and tender memories of the past; with the sacred legends of liberty--a year in which the sons of freedom will drink from the fountains of enthusiasm; a year in which the people call for a man who has preserved in congress what our soldiers won upon the field; a year in which they call for the man who has torn from the throat of treason the tongue of slander--for the man who has snatched the mask of democracy from the hideous face of rebellion; for the man who, like an intellectual athlete, has stood in the arena of debate and challenged all comers, and who is still a total stranger to defeat. like an armed warrior, like a plumed knight, james g. blaine marched down the halls of the american congress and threw his shining lance full and fair against the brazen foreheads of the defamers of his country and the maligners of his honor. for the republican party to desert this gallant leader now, is as though an army should desert their general upon the field of battle. james g. blaine is now and has been for years the bearer of the sacred standard of the republican party. i call it sacred, because no human being can stand beneath its folds without becoming and without remaining free. gentlemen of the convention, in the name of the great republic, the only republic that ever existed upon this earth; in the name of all her defenders and of all her supporters; in the name of all her soldiers living; in the name of all her soldiers dead upon the field of battle, and in the name of those who perished in the skeleton clutch of famine at andersonville and libby, whose sufferings he so vividly remembers, illinois--illinois nominates for the next president of this country, that prince of parliamentarians--that leader of leaders--james g. blaine. "the past rises before me like a dream." extract from a speech delivered at the soldiers' reunion at indianapolis, sept. , . the past rises before me like a dream. again we are in the great struggle for national life. we hear the sounds of preparation--the music of boisterous drums--the silver voices of heroic bugles. we see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators; we see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. we lose sight of them no more. we are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. we see them part with those they love. some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they adore. we hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. some are receiving the blessings of old men. some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. kisses and tears, tears and kisses--divine mingling of agony and love! and some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. we see them part. we see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms--standing in the sunlight sobbing---at the turn of the road a hand waves--she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. he is gone, and forever. we see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war--marching down the streets of the great cities--through the towns and across the prairies--down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. we go with them, one and all. we are by their side on all the gory fields--in all the hospitals of pain--on all the weary marches. we stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. we are with them in ravines running with blood--in the furrows of old fields. we are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. we see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. we are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell what they endured. we are at home when the news comes that they are dead. we see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. we see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief. the past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash--we see them bound hand and foot--we hear the strokes of cruel whips--we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps. we see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. cruelty unspeakable! outrage infinite! four million bodies in chains--four million souls in fetters. all the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child, trampled beneath the brutal feet or might. and all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. the past rises before us. we hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. the broken fetters fall. these heroes died. we look. instead of slaves we see men and women and children. the wand of progress touches the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and school-houses and books, and where all was want, and crime and cruelty, and fear we see the faces of the free. these heroes are dead. they died for liberty they died for us. they are at rest. they sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. they sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless, alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. earth may run red with other wars--they are at peace. in the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. i have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead: cheers for the living; tears for the dead. the grant banquet at the palmer house, chicago, thursday, nov. th, . twelfth toast: the volunteer soldiers of the union, whose valor and patriotism saved the world "a government of the people, by the people, and for the people." response by robert g. ingersoll. when the savagery of the lash, the barbarism of the chain, and the insanity of secession confronted the civilization of our century, the question "will the great republic defend itself?" trembled on the lips of every lover of mankind. the north, filled with intelligence and wealth--children of liberty--marshaled her hosts and asked only for a leader. from civil life a man, silent, thoughtful, poised and calm, stepped forth, and with the lips of victory voiced the nation's first and last demand: "unconditional and immediate surrender." from that moment the end was known. that utterance was the first real declaration of real war, and, in accordance with the dramatic unities of mighty events, the great soldier who made it, received the final sword of the rebellion. the soldiers of the republic were not seekers after vulgar glory. they were not animated by the hope of plunder or the love of conquest. they fought to preserve the homestead of liberty and that their children might have peace. they were the defenders of humanity, the destroyers of prejudice, the breakers of chains, and in the name of the future they slew the monster of their time. they finished what the soldiers of the revolution commenced. they re-lighted the torch that fell from their august hands and filled the world again with light. they blotted from the statute-books laws that had been passed by hypocrites at the instigation of robbers, and tore with indignant hands from the constitution that infamous clause that made men the catchers of their fellow-men. they made it possible for judges to be just, for statesmen to be humane, and for politicians to be honest. they broke the shackles from the limbs of slaves, from the souls of masters, and from the northern brain. they kept our country on the map of the world, and our flag in heaven. they rolled the stone from the sepulchre of progress, and found therein two angels clad in shining garments--nationality and liberty. the soldiers were the saviors of the nation; they were the liberators of men. in writing the proclamation of emancipation, lincoln, greatest of our mighty dead, whose memory is as gentle as the summer air when reapers sing amid the gathered sheaves, copied with the pen what grant and his brave comrades wrote with swords. grander than the greek, nobler than the roman, the soldiers of the republic, with patriotism as shoreless as the air, battled for the rights of others, for the nobility of labor, fought that mothers might own their babes, that arrogant idleness should not scar the back of patient toil, and that our country should not be a many-headed monster made of warring states, but a nation, sovereign, great, and free. blood was water, money was leaves, and life was only common air until one flag floated over a republic without a master and without a slave. and then was asked the question: "will a free people tax themselves to pay a nation's debt?" the soldiers went home to their waiting wives, to their glad children, and to the girls they loved--they went back to the fields, the shops, and mines. they had not been demoralized. they had been ennobled. they were as honest in peace as they had been brave in war. mocking at poverty, laughing at reverses, they made a friend of toil. they said: "we saved the nation's life, and what is life without honor?" they-worked and wrought with all of labor's royal sons that every pledge the nation gave might be redeemed. and their great leader, having put a shining band of friendship--a girdle of clasped and happy hands--around the globe, comes home and finds that every promise made in war has now the ring and gleam of gold. there is another question still:--will all the wounds of war be healed? i answer, yes. the southern people must submit, not to the dictation of the north, but to the nation's will and to the verdict of mankind. they were wrong, and the time will come when they will say that they are victors who have been vanquished by the right. freedom conquered them, and freedom will cultivate their fields, educate their children, weave for them the robes of wealth, execute their laws, and fill their land with happy homes. the soldiers of the union saved the south as well as north. they made us a nation. their victory made us free and rendered tyranny in every other land as insecure as snow upon volcanoes' lips. and now let us drink to the volunteers--to those who sleep in unknown, sunken graves, whose names are only in the hearts of those they loved and left--of those who only hear in happy dreams the footsteps of return. let us drink to those who died where lipless famine mocked at want--to all the maimed whose scars give modesty a tongue--to all who dared and gave to chance the care and keeping of their lives:--to all the living and to all the dead--to sherman, to sheridan, and to grant, the laureled soldiers of the world, and last, to lincoln, whose loving life, like a bow of peace, spans and arches all the clouds of war. a tribute to the rev. alexander clark. upon the grave of the reverend alexander clark i wish to place one flower. utterly destitute of cold dogmatic pride that often passes for the love of god; without the arrogance of the "elect"--simple, free, and kind--this earnest man made me his friend by being mine. i forgot that he was a christian, and he seemed to forget that i was not, while each remembered that the other was a man. frank, candid, and sincere, he practiced what he preached, and looked with the holy eyes of charity upon the failings and mistakes of men. he believed in the power of kindness, and spanned with divine sympathy the hideous gulf that separates the fallen from the pure. giving freely to others the rights that he claimed for himself, it never occurred to him that his god hated a brave and honest unbeliever. he remembered that even an infidel has rights that love respects; that hatred has no saving power, and that in order to be a christian it is not necessary to become less than a man. he knew that no one can be maligned into kindness; that epithets cannot convince; that curses are not arguments, and that the finger of scorn never points towards heaven. with the generosity of an honest man, he accorded to all the fullest liberty of thought, knowing, as he did, that in the realm of mind a chain is but a curse. for this man i entertained the profoundest respect. in spite of the taunts and jeers of his brethren, he publicly proclaimed that he would treat infidels with fairness and respect; that he would endeavor to convince them by argument and win them with love. he insisted that the god he worshipped loved the well-being even of an atheist. in this grand position he stood almost alone. tender, just, and loving where others were harsh, vindictive, and cruel, he challenged the respect and admiration of every honest man. a few more such clergymen might drive calumny from the lips of faith and render the pulpit worthy of respect. the heartiness and kindness with which this generous man treated me can never be excelled. he admitted that i had not lost, and could not lose a single right by the expression of my honest thought. neither did he believe that a servant could win the respect of a generous master by persecuting and maligning those whom the master would willingly forgive. while this good man was living, his brethren blamed him for having treated me with fairness. but, i trust, now that he has left the shore touched by the mysterious sea that never yet has borne, on any wave, the image of a homeward sail, this crime will be forgiven him by those who still remain to preach the love of god. his sympathies were not confined within the prison of a creed, but ran out and over the walls like vines, hiding the cruel rocks and rusted bars with leaf and flower. he could not echo with his heart the fiendish sentence of eternal fire. in spite of book and creed, he read "between the lines" the words of tenderness and love, with promises for all the world. above, beyond the dogmas of his church--humane even to the verge of heresy--causing some to doubt his love of god because he failed to hate his unbelieving fellow-men, he labored for the welfare of mankind, and to his work gave up his life with all his heart. robert g. ingersoll. washington, d. c, july , a tribute to ebon c. ingersoll, by his brother robert. may , the record of a generous life runs like a vine around the memory of our dead, and every sweet, unselfish act is now a perfumed flower. dear friends: i am going to do that which the dead oft promised he would do for me. the loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where manhood's morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling toward the west. he had not passed on life's highway the stone that marks the highest point; but, being weary for a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and, using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses down his eyelids still. while yet in love with life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust. yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. for whether in mid sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. and every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. this brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but in the sunshine he was vine and flower. he was the friend of all heroic souls. he climbed the heights, and left all superstitions far below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning of the grander day. he loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to tears. he sided with the weak, the poor, and wronged, and lovingly gave alms. with loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully discharged all public trusts. he was a worshipper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. a thousand times i have heard him quote these words: "for justice, all place a temple, and all season, summer." he believed that happiness was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest. he added to the sum of human joy; and were every one to whom he did some loving service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers. life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. we strive in vain to look beyond the heights. we cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. from the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. he who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath, "i am better now." let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead. and now, to you, who have been chosen, from among the many men he loved, to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust. speech cannot contain our love. there was there is, no gentler, stronger, manlier man. the works of oliver wendell holmes an index by oliver wendell holmes, sr. project gutenberg editions editor's note: 	 this is the physician and poet, not his son of the same name who was a supreme court justice and famous in his own right. very early on dr. holmes became my mentor and guide in the philosophy of medicine. though his world-wide fame was based on his prose and poetry, he was an eminent leader in medicine. many�too many years ago i would often assign holmes' "medical essays" to a medical student whose sharp edges of science needed some rounding-off with a touch of humanity. i have no longer the privilege of assigning anything to anybody, yet encourage any of you, especially any who may be physicians, to read the thoughts of a family doctor of the early 's. david widger quotes and images of dr. holmes autocrat at the breakfast table the professor at the breakfast table the poet at the breakfast table over the teacups elsie venner the guardian angel a mortal antipathy pages from and old volume of life medical essays memoir of john lothrop motley quotes and images phrases in dr. holmes works of particular interest to the editor, and accompanied by four portraits autocrat at the breakfast table the professor at the breakfast table preface to revised edition. preface to the new edition the professor at the breakfast-table. i ii iii    iv v vi    vii viii   ix x xi xii    the poet at the breakfast table preface. preface to the new edition. the poet at the breakfast-table. i ii iii   iv v vi   vii viii   ix x xi xii over the teacups preface. over the teacups. i ii iii    iv v vi    vii viii.   ix x xi xii elsie venner preface. a second preface. preface to the new edition. elsie venner. 	 chapter i. 	the brahmin caste of new england. 	 chapter ii. 	the student and his certificate. 	 chapter iii. 	mr. bernard tries his hand. 	 chapter iv. 	the moth flies into the candle. 	 chapter v. 	an old-fashioned descriptive chapter. 	 chapter vi. 	the sunbeam and the shadow. 	 chapter vii. 	the event of the season. 	 chapter viii. 	the morning after. 	 chapter ix. 	the doctor orders the best sulky. 	 chapter x. 	the doctor calls on elsie venner. 	 chapter xi. 	cousin richard's visit. 	 chapter xii. 	the apollinean institute. 	 chapter xiii. 	curiosity. 	 chapter xiv. 	family secrets. 	 chapter xv. 	physiological. 	 chapter xvi. 	epistolary. 	 chapter xvii. 	old sophy calls on the reverend doctor. 	 chapter xviii. 	the reverend doctor calls on brother fairweather. 	 chapter xix. 	the spider on his thread. 	 chapter xx. 	from without and from within. 	 chapter xxi. 	the widow rowens gives a tea-party. 	 chapter xxii. 	why doctors differ. 	 chapter xxiii. 	the wild huntsman. 	 chapter xxiv. 	on his tracks. 	 chapter xxv. 	the perilous hour. 	 chapter xxvi. 	the news reaches the dudley mansion. 	 chapter xxvii. 	a soul in distress. 	 chapter xxviii.   	the secret is whispered. 	 chapter xxix. 	the white ash. 	 chapter xxx. 	the golden cord is loosed. 	 chapter xxxi. 	mr. silas peckham renders his account. 	 chapter xxxii. 	conclusion. the guardian angel to my readers. preface to the new edition. the guardian angel 	chapter i. 	an advertisement. 	 chapter ii. 	great excitement 	 chapter iii. 	antecedents. 	 chapter iv. 	byles gridley, a. m. 	 chapter v. 	the twins. 	 chapter vi. 	the use of spectacles. 	 chapter vii. 	myrtle's letter�the young men's pursuit. 	 chapter viii. 	down the river. 	 chapter ix. 	mr. clement lindsay receives a letter, and begins his answer. 	 chapter x. 	mr. clement lindsay finishes his letter�what came of it. 	 chapter xi. 	vexed with a devil. 	 chapter xii. 	skirmishing. 	 chapter xiii. 	battle. 	 chapter xiv. 	flank movement. 	 chapter xv. 	arrival of reinforcements. 	 chapter xvi. 	victory. 	 chapter xvii. 	saint and sinner 	 chapter xviii. 	village poet. 	 chapter xix. 	susan's young man. 	 chapter xx. 	the second meeting. 	 chapter xxi. 	madness? 	 chapter xxii. 	a change of programme. 	 chapter xxiii. 	myrtle hazard at the city school. 	 chapter xxiv. 	mustering of forces. 	 chapter xxv. 	the poet and the publisher. 	 chapter xxvi. 	mrs. clymer ketchum's party. 	 chapter xxvii. 	mine and countermine. 	 chapter xxviii. 	mr. bradshaw calls on miss badlam 	 chapter xxix. 	mistress kitty fagan calls on master byles gridley. 	 chapter xxx. 	master byles gridley calls on miss cynthia badlam. 	 chapter xxxi. 	master byles gridley consults with jacob penhallow, esquire 	 chapter xxxii. 	susan posey's trial. 	 chapter xxxiii.   	just as you expected. 	 chapter xxxiv. 	murray bradshaw plays his last card. 	 chapter xxxv. 	the spotted paper. 	 chapter xxxvi. 	conclusion. a mortal antipathy preface. introduction. the new portfolio: first opening. a mortal antipathy. 	i. 	getting ready. 	 ii. 	the boat-race. 	 iii. 	the white canoe. 	 iv. 	the young solitary 	 v. 	the enigma studied. 	 vi. 	still at fault. 	 vii. 	a record of antipathies 	 viii. 	the pansophian society. 	 ix. 	the society and its new secretary. 	 x. 	a new arrival. 	 xi. 	the interviewer attacks the sphinx. 	 xii. 	miss vincent as a medical student. 	 xiii. 	dr. butts reads a paper. 	 xiv. 	miss vincent's startling discovery. 	 xv. 	dr. butts calls on euthymia. 	 xvi. 	miss vincent writes a letter. 	 xvii. 	dr. butts's patient. 	 xviii. 	maurice kirkwood's story of his life. 	 xix. 	the report of the biological committee. 	 xx. 	dr. butts reflects. 	 xxi. 	an intimate conversation. 	 xxii. 	euthymia. 	 xxiii.    	the meeting of maurice and euthymia. 	 xxiv. 	the inevitable. postscript: after-glimpses. miss lurida vincent to mrs. euthymia kirkwood. dr. butts to mrs. euthymia kirkwood. dr. butts to mrs. butts. pages from and old volume of life bread and the newspaper. my hunt after "the captain." the inevitable trial cinders from the ashes. the pulpit and the pew. medical essays preface. a second preface. preface to the new edition. homoeopathy and its kindred delusions the contagiousness of puerperal fever currents and counter-currents in medical science border lines of knowledge in some provinces of medical science. scholastic and bedside teaching. the medical profession in massachusetts. the young practitioner medical libraries. some of my early teachers appendum notes to the address on currents and counter currents in medical science. memoir of john lothrop motley 	 volume i. 	   	 i. 	 - . to aet. . 	 ii. 	 - . aet. - . 	 iii. 	 - . aet. - . 	 iv. 	 - . et. - . 	 v. 	 - . aet. - . 	 vi. 	 . aet. . 	 vii. 	 - . aet. - . 	 viii. 	 - . aet. - . 	 ix. 	 . aet. . 	 x. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xi. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xii. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xiii. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xiv. 	 . aet. . 	 xv. 	 . at. . 	 volume ii. 	   	 xvi. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xvii. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xviii. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xix. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xx. 	 - . aet. - . 	 xxi. 	 - . aet. - . 	 volume iii. 	   	 xxii. 	 . aet. . 	 xxiii.   	 - . aet. - . 	 xxiv. 	conclusion. appendix. the evil eye thanatology _and other essays_ roswell park, m. d., ll.d. (yale) [illustration: man operating fruit press "arti et veritati"] richard g. badger the gorham press boston copyright, , by richard g. badger all rights reserved the gorham press, boston, u. s. a. to sir william osler, m. d., ll.d., f. r. c. p., etc. regius professor of medicine, oxford university. ideal scholar and friend. preface responsibility for the following collection of essays and addresses (occasional papers) rests perhaps not more with their writer, who was not unwilling to see them presented in a single volume, than with those of his friends who were complimentary enough to urge their assemblage and publication in this shape. they partake of the character of studies in that borderland of anthropology, biology, philology and history which surrounds the immediate domain of medical and general science. this ever offers a standing invitation and an enduring fascination for those who will but raise their eyes from the fertile and arable soil in which they concentrate their most arduous labors. too close confinement in this field may result in greater commercial yield, but the fragrance of the clover detracts not at all from the value of the hay, nor do borderland studies result otherwise than in enlargement of the boundaries of one's storm center of work. no strictly technical nor professional papers have been reprinted herein, while several of those which appear do so for the first time. buffalo, december, . contents chapter page i the evil eye ii thanatology iii serpent-myths and serpent worship iv iatro-theurgic symbolism v the relation of the grecian mysteries to the foundation of christianity vi the knights hospitaller of st. john of jerusalem vii giordano bruno viii student life in the middle ages ix a study of medical words, deeds and men x the career of the army surgeon xi the evolution of the surgeon from the barber xii the story of the discovery of the circulation xiii history of anaesthesia and the introduction of anaesthetics in surgery i the evil eye[ ] [ ] a presidential address before the buffalo society of natural sciences. belief in magic has been called by tylor, one of the greatest authorities on the occult sciences, "one of the most pernicious delusions that ever vexed mankind." it has been at all times among credulous and superstitious people made the tool of envy, which bacon well described as the vilest and most depraved of all feelings. bacon, moreover, singled out love and envy as the only two affections which have been noted to fascinate, or bewitch, since they both have "vehement wishes, frame themselves readily into imaginations and suggestions and come easily into the eye." he also noted the fact that in the scriptures envy was called the evil eye. it is to this interesting subject in anthropological and folk-lore study, namely, the evil eye, that i wish to invite your attention for a time. belief in it is, of course, inseparable from credence in a personal devil or some personal evil and malign influence, but in modern times and among people who are supposed to be civilized has been regarded ordinarily as an attribute of the devil. consideration of the subject is inseparable, too, from a study of the expressions "to fascinate" and "to bewitch." indeed this word "fascination" has a peculiar etymological interest. it seems to be a latin form of the older greek verb "_baskanein_," or else to be descended from a common root. no matter what its modern signification, originally it meant to bewitch or to subject to an evil influence, particularly by means of eyes or tongue or by casting of spells. later it came to mean the influencing of the imagination, reason or will in an uncontrollable manner, and now, as generally used, means to captivate or to allure. its use in our language is of itself an indication of the superstition so generally prevalent centuries ago. it is, however, rather a polite term for which we have the more vulgar equivalent "to bewitch," used in a signification much more like the original meaning. belief in an evil power constantly at work has existed from absolutely prehistoric times. it has been more or less tacitly adopted and sanctioned by various creeds or religious beliefs, particularly so by the church of rome, by mediaeval writers and by writers on occult science. even now it exists not only among savage nations but everywhere among common people. we to-day may call it superstition, but there was a time when it held enormous sway over mankind, and exercised a tremendous influence. in its present form it consists often of a belief that certain individuals possess a blighting power, and the expression in england to "overlook" is not only very common, but an easily recognizable persistence of the old notion. evidently st. paul shared this prevalent belief when he rebuked the foolish galatians, saying as in our common translation, "who hath bewitched you that ye should not obey the truth?" in the vulgate the word translated "bewitch" is "_fascinare_," exactly the same word as used by virgil, and referring to the influence of the evil eye. cicero himself discussed the word "fascination," and he explained the latin verb _invidere_ and noun _invidia_ as meaning to look closely at; whence comes our word envy, or evil eye. all the ancients believed that from the eyes of envious or angry people there was projected some malign influence which could infect the air and penetrate and corrupt both living creatures and inanimate objects. woyciki, in his polish folk-lore, relates the story of a most unhappy slav, who though possessed of a most loving heart realized that he was afflicted with the evil eye, and at last blinded himself in order that he might not cast a spell over his children. even to-day, among the scotch highlanders, if a stranger look too admiringly at a cow the people believe that she will waste away of the evil eye, and they give him of her milk to drink in order to break the spell. plutarch was sure that certain men's eyes were destructive to infants and young animals, and he believed that the thebans could thus destroy not only the young but strong men. the classical writers are so full of allusions to this subject that it is easy to see where people during the middle ages got their prevalent belief in witches. thus, pliny said that those possessed of the evil eye would not sink in water, even if weighed down with clothes; hence the mediaeval ordeal by water;--which had, however, its inconveniences for the innocent, for if the reputed witch sank he evidently was not guilty, but if he floated he was counted guilty and then burned. not only was this effect supposed to be produced by the fascinating eye, but even by the voice, which, some asserted, could blast trees, kill children and destroy animals. in pliny's time special laws were enacted against injury to crops by incantation or fascination; but the romans went even farther than this, and believed that their gods were envious of each other and cast their evil eyes upon the less powerful of their own circle; hence the _caduceus_ which mercury always carried as a protection. to be the reputed possessor of an evil eye was an exceeding great misfortune. solomon lent himself to the belief when he enjoined, "eat thou not the bread of him that hath an evil eye." (prov. : ). the most inconvenient country in which to have this reputation to-day is italy, and especially in naples. the italians apply the term _jettatore_ to the individual thus suspected, and to raise the cry of "_jettatore_" in a neapolitan crowd even to-day is to cause a speedy stampede. for the italians the worst of all is the "_jettatore di bambini_," or the fascinator of infants. elworthy relates the case of a gentleman who on three occasions acted in naples in the capacity of sponsor; singularly all three children died, whereupon he at once got the reputation of having the "_malocchio_" to such an extent that mothers would take all sorts of precautions to keep their children out of his sight. the great bacon lent himself also to the belief to such an extent as to advise the carrying on one's person of certain articles, such as rue, or a wolf's tail or even an onion, by which the evil influence was supposed to be averted. a most interesting work was written by valletta and published in naples in . it was practically a treatise upon fascination and the jettatore. valletta himself was a profound believer in all this sort of thing, and finished up his work by offering rewards for answers to certain questions, among which were the following:--"which jettatore is most powerful, he who has or he who has not a wig? whether monks are more powerful than others? to what distance does the influence of the jettatore extend, and whether it operates more to the side, front or back? what words in general ought one to repeat to escape the evil eye?" in ancient times it was believed that women had greater power of fascination then men, a belief to which our sex still hold at the present day, although in modern times the evil eye proper is supposed to be possessed by men rather than by women; monks especially, ever since the establishment of religious orders, being considered to possess this fatal influence. curiously enough, the late pope, pius ix, was supposed to be a most pronounced jettatore, and the most devout catholics would point two fingers at him even while receiving his blessing. let me quote elworthy in this connection:--"ask a roman about the late pope's evil eye, and he will answer, 'they say so, and it really seems to be true. if he had not the jettatura it is very odd that everything he blessed made fiasco. we did very well in the campaign against the austrians in ' ; we were winning battle after battle and all was gayety and hope, when suddenly he blessed the cause and everything went to the bad at once. nothing succeeds with anybody or anything when he wishes well to them. when he went to s. agnese to hold a great festival down went the floor and the people were all smashed together. then he visited the column to the madonna in the piazza di spagna and blessed it and the workmen. of course one fell from the scaffold the same day and killed himself. he arranged to meet the king of naples at porto d'anzio, when up came a violent gale and storm that lasted a week. another arrangement was made and then came the fracas about the ex-queen of spain.'" the superstition of the evil eye and of witchcraft goes everywhere with the belief in the power of transformation, which at certain periods of history has been so prevalent as to account for many of the stories of ancient mythology, and will account even for such nursery stories as that of little red riding hood, as well as for the old-world belief in the _werewolf_. indeed, a common expression of to-day reminds one of this old belief, since it is a common saying to be ready to "jump out of one's skin for joy." this belief in transformation has begotten an ever-present dread of ill omens which is even now one of the most prevalent of superstitions. in somerset, to see a hare cross the path in front of one is a sign of death. in india they fear to name any sacred or dreaded animal. the black cat is everywhere an object of aversion, and in some parts of england to meet a person who squints is equal to meeting one possessing the evil eye. surely i do not need to remind this audience of the fear which many people have of taking any important action on friday. this fear goes so far in some instances as to lead people to deprecate over-praise or apologize for a too positive statement. your courteous turk will not take a compliment without "mashallah;" the italians will not receive one without "grazio a dio;" while the irishman almost always says "glory be to god," and the english peasant "lord be wi' us;" the idea in every instance being to avert the danger of fascination by these acknowledgments of a higher power. in england during the horrible times when the black death raged it was supposed that the disease was communicated by a glance from the distorted eyes of a sick man. in delrio, a jesuit, published a large six-volume folio work entitled "a disquisition on magic," in which he takes it for granted that the calamities of mortals are the work of evil spirits. he says, "fascination is a power derived by contact with the devil, who, when the so-called fascinator looks at another with evil intent, or praises by means known to himself, infects with evil the person at whom he looks." those familiar with the history of so-called animal magnetism, mesmerism or hypnotism, will see a close connection between these beliefs and the practice of this peculiar form of influence. mesmerism, in fact, as ordinarily practiced, was more or less dependent upon the influence of touch, or actual contact, whose importance has always been by the credulous rated high. in fact, it will be remembered that many of the miracles of the new testament were performed by the aid of touch, and in the old testament it is recorded how disappointed naaman was when he went to be cured of his leprosy in that the prophet did not _touch_ him. the influence of the _royal touch_ for the cure of scrofula, known for centuries as the king's evil, will also not be forgotten. in fact, our word to "bless" signifies to touch by making the sign of the cross on the diseased part, as, for instance, in the west of england, where goitre is rather common, it is believed that the best cure is that the swelling should be touched by the hand of a corpse of the opposite sex. the more we deal with the superstitions now under consideration the more evident it becomes that the principal thought among the simpler peoples, or even among some of the religious sects of to-day, has been the propitiation of angry deities, or of destructive influences, rather than the worship and exaltation of beneficent attributes. as elworthy says, "we find that fear and dread have in all human history been more potent factors in men's conduct than hope and gratitude or love." take for example the propitiatory sacrifices of abel and cain, or the sacrifice which abraham proposed to make of his own son, or the very words which have crept into our language such as _atonement_, etc. with this personification of an evil power or attribute in nature came also belief in transformation, or metamorphosis, of which the greek and roman mythology is full. how many of the christian symbols of to-day, nearly all of which are of pagan origin, convey to the initiated instances of this belief, can hardly be mentioned in this place. suffice it to say that their number is very great. but i find too many temptations to wander from my subject, which is essentially the evil eye. in mediaeval symbolism, as in ancient, the intent often was to represent either on some amulet, charm or picture a figure of the thing against which it was most desired that a protective influence should be exercised, hence the general prevalence of the eye in some pictorial representation. the ancient egyptians, as well as the etruscans, used to paint a huge eye on the bows of their vessels, which was supposed to be a charm against the evil eye. even to-day in the orient i have seen greek boats with eyes painted on either side of their prows. the eye was a common adornment of egyptian pottery, usually in combination with various other pictures, but as a symbol it seems during the past century or two to have passed out of common employ, except perhaps in malta, and among the free-masons, who simply are perpetuating its use. nevertheless, wax or silver eyes are seen hung up in some foreign churches. a curious feature of these superstitions has been this, that any feature of indecency or obscenity when attaching to these symbols, amulets, etc., has been supposed to make them much more potent. this probably was because anything strange or unusual was more likely to attract the eye, and therefore divert its influence from the individual to the inanimate object, hence the prevalence of phallic emblems in connection with these fancied protections. many objects of this kind can be to-day picked up in the jewelry stores of rome and of naples. another of the most efficacious of these amulets takes the general form of a hideous mask, often called the _gorgoneion_. in all probability this was largely for the reason given above--that it was most likely to attract attention. symbols of this kind are in very general use among people who know nothing of the reason therefore. thus, we see them on seals, coins, etc. the gargoyles of mediaeval architecture are frequently given this fantastic appearance and for this same purpose. in roman times the dolphin was a favorite device for a potent charm against the evil eye, and was pictured on many a soldier's shield. ulysses adopted it as his especial choice, both on his signet and his shield, perhaps because it was supposed to have been through the agency of the dolphin that telemachus was saved from drowning. to us in the medical profession it is of no little interest that in rome, according to varro, there stood three temples on the esquiline dedicated to the goddess of fever and one to mephitis. tacitus relates that a temple to mephitis was the only building left standing after the destruction of cremona, where there was also an altar dedicated to the evil eye. we know, also, that in the very centre of the forum there stood an altar to cloacina, the goddess of typhoid. what complete sway this goddess has held from ancient times to the present i need scarcely tell you. "when rome, after the fall of the empire, relapsed into its most insanitary condition this old worship reappeared in another shape, and a chapel arose near the vatican to the _madonna della febre_, the most popular in rome in times of sickness or epidemic." this simply shows a transfer of ideas, the attributes of diana being conveyed over to her christian successor, the virgin, whose cult became equally supreme. the principal symbol of this cult was the horned moon or crescent, and, in consequence, horns in one form or another became the most common of objects as amulets against the evil eye. so comprehensive and persistent is this belief in naples that, in the absence of a horn in some shape, the mere utterance of the name _corno_ was supposed to be an effectual protection. even more than this, the name _un corno_ became applicable to any and every charm or amulet against the evil eye. we may find many references to the horn in scripture, where it served both as an emblem of dignity and as an amulet. most curious it is that the phylactery with which the pharisees adorned their garments, and which called forth the most scathing denunciation by the master, was undoubtedly an emblem of a horn, and worn as an amulet against the evil eye. at the beginning of the christian era it had become fashionable to wear these, and how they were enlarged and made not only badges of sanctity but marks of worldly honor, we may read in the new testament. the horn has been an important feature of christian symbolism, as of pagan, and we constantly see the ram's horn, which was the successor of the bull's horn, made such from economical reasons, all over the ruins of ancient rome. the married women of lebanon wear silver horns upon their heads to distinguish them from the single women. the jewesses of northern africa wear them as a part of their regular costume, and even to-day curious spiral ornaments are worn on either side of the head by the dutch women. in naples horns in all shapes are exceedingly common upon the trappings of the cab horses. indeed the heavy trappings and harness of these overloaded animals are usually protected with a perfect battery of potent charms, so that any evil glance must be fully extinguished before it can light upon the animal itself. thus, we may frequently see upon the backs of these animals two little brazen flags, said to be typical of the flaming sword which turned every way, and which are supposed to be an unfailing attraction to the eye. the high pommel ends usually in a piece of the inevitable wolf's skin, and many colored ribbons or worsteds are wound about portions of the harness in such a way as completely to protect all that it encloses. but the most numerous of all these emblems is a _hand_ in various positions or gestures. probably every other cab horse in naples carries the hand about him in some form. in rome these things are not seen so much on horses' backs, although wolf skins, horns and crescents are common enough, but we see large numbers of silver rings for human fingers, to each of which a little pendant horn is attached. these may be seen in the shop windows strung upon rods and plainly marked _annelli contra la jettatura_. those who have seen naples thoroughly have noted how cows' horns, often painted blue, are fixed against the walls, especially at an angle, about the height of the first floor. but one of the most remarkable amulets which i have ever seen hangs outside one of the entries to the cathedral in seville, where over a door is hung by a chain the tusk of an elephant, and further out, over the same doorway, swung by another chain, an enormous crocodile, sent as a present or charm of special power to alfonso, in , by the sultan of egypt. these two strange charms hang over the doorway of a christian church of to-day, indicating the acceptance by a christian people of a moslem emblem and amulet. again, in rome it is very common to see a small cow's horn on the framework of the roman wine carts or dangling beneath the axle. much more common and better known among the anglo-saxon peoples is the horse-shoe emblem, which with us has lost all of its original signification, as an emblem of fecundity, and has become a charm against evil. it is hung up over doorways, is nailed up in houses, it guards stable doors and protects fields against malign influences. even in the paris exhibition of , where there was a representation of a street from old cairo, there hung over several of the doors a crocodile with a horse-shoe on his snout. so far i have said very little about the positions of the hand and certain gestures by which it is intended to ward off the evil eye. the mohammedans, like the neapolitans, are profound believers in the efficacy of manual signs; thus outside of many a door in tangier i have seen the imprint of a hand made by placing the outstretched hand upon some sticky black or colored material, which was then transferred as by a type or die to the doorway of the dwelling, where in the likeness of the outstretched manus it serves to guard the dwellers within. this is to me one of the most curious things to be observed in mohammedan countries. a relic of the same belief i have seen also over the great gate of the alhambra, in the tower of justice, where, in spite of the very strict moslem custom and belief against representation of any living object, over the keystone of the outer moorish arch is carved an outstretched upright hand, a powerful protection against evil. it is this position of the hand, by the way, which has been observed in all countries in the administration of the judicial oath. moreover, the hand in this position is the modern heraldic sign of baronetcy. the hand in the customary position of benediction is sometimes open and extended, while at other times only the first and second fingers are straightened. the power which the extended hand may exert is well illustrated in the biblical account (exodus : ) "and it came to pass when moses held up his hand that israel prevailed, and when he let down his hand amalek prevailed." and so it happened that when moses wearied of the constrained position his hand was supported by aaron and by hur. this is only one of numerous illustrations in the holy writings showing the talismanic influence of the human hand. there are comparatively few people who realize, to-day, that the conventional attitude of prayer as of benediction, with hands held up, is the old charm as against the evil eye. in one of the great marble columns in the mosque of st. sophia in constantinople there is a remarkable natural freak by which there seems to appear upon the dark marble the white figure of an outspread hand. this is held in the highest reverence by the superstitious populace, who all approach it to pray for protection from the evil eye. the open hand has also been stamped upon many a coin both in ancient and modern times, and the general prevalence of the hand as a form of doorknocker can be seen alike in the ruins of pompeii and the modern dwelling. the hand clenched in various forms has been used in more ways than as a mere signal or sign of defiance. in italy the _mano-fica_ implies contempt or insult rather than defiance. among all the latin races this peculiar gesture of the thumb between the first and second fingers has a significant name and a significant meaning. it is connected everywhere with the fig, and expresses in the most discourteous way that which is implied in our english phrase "don't care a fig." it is in common use as an amulet to be worn from the neck or about the body, and conveys the same meaning as that which the neapolitans frequently express when they say "may the evil eye do you no harm." another position of the hand, namely, that with the index and little fingers extended, while the middle and ring fingers are flexed and clasped by the thumb, gives also the rude imitation of the head of a horned animal, and is frequently spoken of as the _mano cornuta_. a neapolitan's right hand is frequently, in some instances almost constantly, kept in that position pointing downwards, just as hand charms are made to hang downwards, save when it is desired to use the sign against some particular individual, when the hand is pointed toward him, even at his very eyes if he appear much to be dreaded. when, however, the hand in this position is pointed toward one's chin it conveys a most insulting meaning and hints at conjugal infidelity. as the neapolitan cab-men pass each other the common sign is to wave the hand in gesture and in this position. this is true also of many other places. the sign of the cross is very often made with the hand, usually with the first two fingers extended, and seems to mean a benediction of double potency, because both the hand and the cross itself are utilized in the gesture. i have elsewhere discussed the signification of the sign of the cross, and do not care to take it up again just now. it is certainly of phallic origin and as certainly antedates the christian era by many hundred years. it is, in other words, a pagan symbol to which a newer significance has been given. talismanic power has usually been ascribed to it, and in some form, either as the greek tau or the crux ansata, has been most frequently employed. in one or the other of these forms it was the mark set upon the houses of the israelites to preserve them from the destroying angel. in the roll of the roman soldiery, after a battle, it was placed after the names of those still alive; and we read in ezekiel : of the mark which was to be set upon "the foreheads of the men that cry," which was certainly the greek tau, because the vulgate plainly states this. upon some of the old anglo-saxon coins there was placed a cross on each side, usually the handled cross, and upon various seals it has been in use until a comparatively recent period. it may be seen, also, in many illustrations from the catacombs, for instance, dating back to a time before the cross was a generally received christian emblem, showing both the use of the cross and the hand in the positions to which i have already alluded. the sign of the cross is made by many a schoolboy in his play before he shoots his marble, and i have often seen it made upon the wooden ball before a man has bowled with it. many a peasant scratches it upon his field after sowing, and many a housewife has scratched it upon her dough. the hand with the first two fingers and thumb extended in the ordinary position of sacerdotal benediction was certainly a charm against evil long before the christian era. this is not used so much by the common people, but has been appropriated rather by the priests. by a sort of general consent this has been especially the attitude permitted to the second person of the trinity, although there are numerous instances in mediaeval painting where the hand of the first person has been shown in this position. indeed, the expression "_dextera dei_," or "right hand of god," is conventionalized. in many amulets, images and pictures, other charms are combined with that supposed to be exercised by the human hand. an exceedingly common one was the egyptian scarab. the egyptians believed that there were no females of this kind of insect, hence it was considered a symbol of virility and manly force, and in connection with the _mano pantea_ just alluded to gave the amulet power to guard both the living and dead. in fact it was almost as common upon these emblems as the human eye itself. again, the serpent was a frequent emblem in this same connection. as i have elsewhere written upon the subject of serpent-worship i need scarcely more than allude to it here, save to say that to the serpent were ascribed numerous virtues and powers, and that its use upon any charm was supposed to reinforce the virtues already possessed by it. among the most curious of all the italian charms against the evil eye, and yet one which has been singularly neglected by most writers, is the sprig of rue or, as the neapolitans call it, the _cimaruta_. in its simplest form it was undoubtedly of etruscan or phoenician origin. later, however, it became curiously involved with other symbols and quite complicated. it is worn especially upon the breasts of neapolitan babies, and is considered their especial protection against the much-dreaded jettatura. in ancient times no plant had so many virtues ascribed to it as had the rue. pliny, indeed, cites it as being a remedy for different diseases. it used to be hung about the neck in primeval times to serve as an amulet against fascination. in most of these amulet forms it consists of three branches, which were supposed to be typical of diana triformis, who used often to be represented in three positions and as if having three pairs of arms. diana, by the way, was the especial protectress of women in child-birth. silver was her own metal and the moon her special emblem. therefore, the expression, "the silver moon" is not so meaningless as it would appear. this will in some measure account for the fact that corals, to which large virtues were ascribed, used always to be mounted in silver, and that the crescent, or new moon, is also almost invariably made of this same metal. of the many charms which used to be combined in the _cimaruta_ there is scarcely one which may not be more or less considered as connected with diana, the goddess of infants. frequently, also, we may see representations of the sea-horse quite like the living hippocampi of to-day, which are worn alike by cab horses and by women in naples. they are known locally as the _cavalli marini_. protection supposed to be most efficient was and is frequently afforded also by another method, namely, printed or written invocations, prayers, formulae, etc., worn somewhere about the body. sometimes these were worn concealed from view and at others they were openly displayed. even today on turkish horses and arab camels are hung little bags containing passages from the koran, while the neapolitan horses frequently carry in little canvas bags prayers to the madonna or verses from scripture,--these as a sort of last resort in case the other charms fail. the good catholic of to-day, especially if of irish descent, wears his little scapulary suspended around the neck, which is supposed to be a potent protection. frommannd's large work on magic offers us a perfect mine of written spells against fascination, which have often to be prepared with certain mystic observances. the various written charms, as against the bite of the mad dog, are only other illustrations of the same superstition. indeed, many superstitious people believe that the mere utterance of particular numbers exercises a charm. daily expression of this belief we see in the credulity about the luck of odd numbers, and the old belief that the third time will be lucky. military salutes are always in odd numbers. more value attaches in public estimation to the number seven than to any other, as we see in the miraculous powers ascribed to the seventh son of a seventh son. an appeal to luck to-day is the equivalent of the old prayer to the goddess fortuna, and is voiced in the common idea about the lucky coin and the various little observances for luck which are so popular. these observances are everywhere inclusive of the popular importance attached to expectoration, which is one of the most curious features of these many widespread beliefs. the habit of spitting on a coin, for instance, is very common, just as the schoolboy spits on his agate when playing marbles or on his baseball, or the bowler upon his wooden ball before rolling it. in fact, this whole matter of spitting has been in all ages an expression of a deep-rooted popular belief. among the ancient greeks and romans the most common remedy against an envious look was spitting, hence it was called "_despuere malum_." old women would avert the evil eye from their children by spitting three times (observe the odd number) into their bosoms. the virtues and properties attributed to saliva among various peoples have been numerous and exalted. to lick a wart on rising in the morning used to be one of its well-recognized cures, and is to-day a popular remedy for any slight wound. especially was the saliva of a fasting person peculiarly efficacious. pliny states that when a person looks upon an infant asleep the nurse should spit three times upon the ground. but the most marvellous virtues were attributed to saliva in the direction of restoration of sight. the most conspicuous illustration of this is the instance mentioned in the new testament when christ healed the blind man, for it is related that: "he spat on the ground and made clay of the spittle, and did anoint the eyes of the blind man with the clay." the practice of concealing the eyes is prevalent throughout the orient, and among the mohammedans, cannot be referred entirely to male jealousy, for the women themselves confess to the greatest reluctance to show their faces to the stranger, fearing the influence of the evil eye. again, inasmuch as from time immemorial diseases of all kinds have been considered the direct result of fascination, it was most natural that charms of varied form should be introduced as a protection. many persons even of considerable education lend themselves to this superstition. the carrying in one's pocket of a potato, a lump of camphor or an amulet is, among other alleged charms, but an everyday illustration of this belief. it would be possible to go on with an almost endless enumeration of the forms of this still generally prevalent belief in the power of the evil eye, and of the charms by which it may be averted. as has been set forth, it is but a particulate expression of a general and widespread belief in the existence of an evil being, for some vague and almost unsubstantial, for others assuming almost the proportions of the personal devil of mediaeval theology, or even of the tyrolean passion plays. a discussion in a general way of this topic i have held to be not entirely foreign to the purpose of this society, it being one of the most interesting subjects of folklore study, and it may perhaps be considered just at the present to have a more particular interest for us in that we have so recently been favored with a most delightful and scholarly essay on the "salem witchcraft" by prof. john fiske, in which he graphically set forth the mechanism and the consequences of an aggravated expression of this belief, which constitutes the most serious blot which can be found upon the history of the protestant white races in this country. ii thanatology a questionnaire and a plea for a neglected study[ ] [ ] appeared first in the journal of the american medical association, april , . is it possible to watch the "vital spark of heavenly flame," as it quits "this mortal frame" and not be overcome by the mystery of death as the termination of that even greater mystery, life? is there inspiration in the pagan emperor's address to his soul--those latin verses which pope has so beautifully translated? to the speculative philosopher death may have a different significance, and one not altogether included in that given to it by the physiologist. to the former it is a subject for transcendental speculation; to the latter it is the terminal stage of that adjustment of internal and external relations which, for spencer, constitutes life. for us its primary and immediate significance is purely mundane, yet it deserves such serious study from a practical viewpoint as it seldom receives. what is death? when does it actually occur? how can it occur when the majority of cells in the previously living organism live on for hours or for days or, under certain favoring circumstances, retain potentialities of life for indefinite periods? these and numberless related questions constitute a line of inquiry that may well call for a separate department of science. pondering in this wise, i long ago coined an expression which years later i found had been incorporated in the scientific dictionaries, though never before heard by me or encountered in my reading. "thanatology" is this word, and it may be defined as the study of the nature and causes of death. inseparable from it, however, are certain considerations regarding the nature and causes of life. yet i would not introduce a compound term such as "biothanatology," wishing so far as possible to limit the study and the meaning. let us ask ourselves a few more questions. does life inhere in any particular cell? in the leukocytes? in the neurons? both are capable of stimulated activity long after the death of their host. in fact, by suitable electric stimulation, nearly all the phenomena of life may be reproduced after death, save consciousness and mentality alone. do these then constitute life, and their suppression or abolition death? if so what about the condition of trance, or of absolute imbecility, congenital or induced? or, again, how can a decapitated frog go on living for hours? is it perhaps because the heart is _the_ vital organ that the hearts of some animals will continue to palpitate for hours after their removal from the bodies? yet the animals which have lost them certainly promptly die. suddenly stop a man's heart-action by electrocution, or the guillotine, or a bullet, and he dies, we say, instantly. let it stop equally suddenly under chloroform and there is a period of several minutes during which it may be set going. let a man apparently drown and this viable period becomes even longer--say a goodly fraction of an hour. during the interval is he alive or dead, or is there an intermediate period of absolutely suspended animation? and if so, in what does it consist? is there a vital principle? if so what is it? is such a thing conceivable? can such a concept prevail among physicists? can we consent even to entertain in this direction the notion of what is so vaguely called "the soul?" of course, those who talk most lucidly about the soul know least about it, and no man can define it in comprehensible terms; but can consideration of the soul (whatever it may be) be omitted from our thanatology? probably not, at least by many thinkers who cannot segregate their physics from their theology. sad it is that theology, which might be so consolatory had it any fixed foundation, should be utterly impotent when so much is wanted of it. theology, however, has little if aught to do with thanatology. is protoplasm alive? if so, then why may we not believe, with binet, in the psychic life of micro-organisms? he seems to have advanced good reason for assuming that we may do so, albeit such manifestations in either direction may be scarcely more than expressions of chemiotaxis. but if protoplasm be alive in any proper sense, as it would appear (else where draw the line?), just when does it so appear and whence comes its life? if it be alive, then life inheres in the nitrogen compounds composing it, or else is an adjunct of matter, imponderable, elusive, something _un_-conceivable if undeniable. the vitalists are of late perhaps attaining an ascendency which for decades they had lost, since they maintain that life is not to be explained by chemical activities alone. and yet it is possible to set going in the eggs of certain sea animals the phenomena of life, or to liberate them by certain weak solutions of alkaline cyanides, without the pressure or assistance of fructifying spermatozoa. in such cases life or death are determined by ionization and certain chemicals, or by their absence. where then, again, is the vital principle? or is it inherent in the ion, and was bion correct when he said "electricity is life?" the life of a cell is then necessarily quite distinct from the life of its host, nor can the latter be composed simply of the numerical total lives of its components. some lower animals bear semidivision, in which case each half soon becomes a complete unit by itself. others seem to bear the loss of almost any individual part without loss of life, and it is hard to say just which is the vital part. the central pumping organ is perhaps the _sine qua non_, when it exists. but when non-existent, then what? again, while a living organism may be artificially divided into viable portions, no method seems known by which a series of separate cells may be, as it were, assembled or combined into one, of which a new unit may result from assemblage or combination. the more highly specialized or complex the cell, the more easily does it part with life, and the more difficult becomes its preservation and its reproduction. we may assume that after the death of a man his most specialized cells are the first to die, or more, that their death has perhaps preceded his own. in the ante-mortem collapse seen in many diseases and poisonings, has not this very thing occurred, i. e., that the patient has outlived his most important cells? certainly when a patient dies of progressive gangrene he has outlived, perhaps, a large proportion of his millions of competent cells. viewed properly, what a strange spectacle is here presented! perhaps twenty per cent. of his cells actually dead, the rest bathed in more or less poisonous media, still their host endures yet a little while. "behold, i show you a great mystery." about which of the poisoned cells does the flame of life still flicker? the life-giving germ-and sperm-cells may exist and persist for some time after the body dies, as numerous experiences and experiments have shown. ova and spermatozoa do not die the instant the host dies. and herein appears another great mystery, that cells from the undoubtedly dead body may possess and unfold the potentialities of life when properly environed. among the lower forms of life cells but slightly differentiated go on living and even creating new organisms, though the larger organisms be dead. moreover, in what way shall we regard the division of one ameboid cell into two, equally alive and complete? here two living organisms are made out of one, without death intervening, and by permutation alone may one calculate, through how few generations cells need pass in order to be numbered by millions, without a death necessary to the process. thus far we have had in mind life and death in the animal kingdom alone. but most of what has been said, and much that has not, is equally true in the vegetable kingdom. even in the mineral kingdom--as some think--the invariable and inevitable tendency to assume definite crystalline form represents the lowest type of life. indeed it might fall in with spencer's definition as evincing a tendency to adjust internal to external relations, though exhibited only after such ruthless disturbance as liquefaction by heat or solution. but then, is not every disturbance of relations "ruthless," because it follows inexorable habits of nature? even a crystal will reform as frequently as appear certain other phenomena of life, if made to do so. were atoms alive they would suffer with every fresh chemical change, and who knows but that they do? but in the vegetable world we certainly have all the features of life and death in complete form: fructification of certain cells by certain others, development in unicellular form or in most profuse and complex form, a selection of necessary constituents of growth from apparently unpromising soil, and the production of startling results. does not the sensitive plant evince a contact sensibility almost equal to that of the conjunctiva? and who shall say that it does not suffer when rudely handled? does not the production of the complex essential oils and volatile ethers which give to certain flowers their wonderful fragrance, indicating what strange combinations of crude materials have been effected within their cells, show as wonderful a laboratory as any concealed within the animal organisms? yet death comes to these plants with equal certainty, and presents equally perplexing mysteries. when dies the flower? when plucked and separated from its natural supply or when it begins to fade (a period made more or less variable by the care given it), or when it ceases to emit its odor? and is then death a matter of hours? when the floral stem was snapped what else snapped with it? at what instant did the floral murder occur? every seed and every seedling possesses marvelous potentiality of life, and so long as it does we say it is not dead; nor yet is it alive. it resists considerable degrees of heat, will bear the lowest temperature, will remain latent for long periods, and still its cells will instantly respond to favoring stimuli. its actual life is apparently aroused by purely thermic and chemical (electrionic?) activities environing it. in what do its life and its death consist? but life and death are influenced--we say "strangely" only because it all seems strange to us--by uncommon or purely artificial conditions. radium emanations have always an injurious effect on embryonic development. under their influence, for example, the eggs of amphibia become greatly disturbed. cells that should specialize into nerve, ganglion and muscle fail to develop, and consequently there may be produced minute amphibian monsters, destitute of nerves and muscles, but otherwise nearly normal. hertwig has submitted the sperm-cells of sea urchins to these rays, without killing them, but invariably with consequent abnormal development. the effect of cathode or _x_-rays is even more widely recognized and has been more generally demonstrated. they seem to possess properties injurious to most cell-life and even fatal to some. still more puzzling, and weird in a way, are the results of experiments, now widely practiced, which have to do with juggling, as it were, with ova, larvæ and embryos, by all imaginable combinations of subdivision and reattachment of parts, so that there have resulted all kinds of monstrosities and abnormalities. to such an extent has this laboratory play been carried that almost any desired product can be furnished--living creatures with two heads, two tails, or whatever combination may be determined. among the most remarkable of these efforts have been those of vianney, of lyons, who has shown that it is possible to remove the head end of several different insect larvæ without preventing their development and metamorphosis into the butterfly stage. in _bombyx_ larvæ, for example, the butterflies arrived at the mature stage, with streaked wings and beautiful coloration, but almost headless. these anencephalous insects lived for some time. few animals survive exposures of any length to a temperature much over f., and most of them are killed by considerably less heat. freezing has always been considered equally fatal. gangrene is the common result of freezing a part of the human body, and that means local death. extraordinary pains must be taken with a frozen ear or finger if its vitality is to be restored. and so even with the hibernating, or the cold-blooded animals, a really low temperature has been generally regarded as fatal. but the recent experiments of pictet, who did so much in the production of exceedingly low temperatures, freezing of gases, etc., have shown some startling results in the failure to kill goldfish and other of the lower animals by refrigeration. for instance, goldfish were placed in a tank whose water was gradually frozen while the fish were still moving therein. the result was a cake of ice with imprisoned supposedly dead fish. this ice was then reduced to a still lower temperature, at which it was maintained for over two months. it was then very slowly thawed out, whereupon the fish came to life and moved in apparently their normal and natural ways as if nothing had happened. this confirms pictet's early experiments and convictions, that if the chemical reactions of living organisms can be suspended without causing organic lesions the phenomena of life will temporarily disappear, to return when conditions are again as usual. it is worth relating that his fish frozen in this way could be broken in small pieces just as if they were part of the ice itself. how often during these recent decades when events have seemed to move faster, when discoveries and inventions have been announced at such frequent and brief intervals that we fail to note them all for lack of time, when haste and rush characterize habits alike of life and thought, do we find that we simply must stop, as it were for breath, while we unload a large amount of accumulated mental rubbish and clear a space in our storage capacity for up-to-date knowledge! it is a decennial mental house-cleaning process. we must unlearn so much of that which ten to forty years ago we so laboriously learned. we must adopt new and improved reasoning processes. but it is hard to do all this. for instance, as a boy i learned the old chemistry quite thoroughly. during a subsequent interval, when i did not need to study it, came the new chemistry, and when i again required it i had not only to study a practically new science--which was not so bad--but to rid my brain of much that had really found firm lodgment there, and this was difficult or impossible. so it is with one who, having been brought up on euclidean geometry, finds himself confronted with the comparatively new non-euclidean, and who has then not merely to forget, but to unlearn all those fundamental axioms which seemed so plain and so indisputable, that is, if he would accept the teachings of bolyai and others. for example, that a straight line is not necessarily the shortest route between two points shocks our euclidean orthodoxy, and is at the same time, _to us_, inconceivable; as also that parallel lines indefinitely prolonged _may_ touch, and the like; likewise the concept of four-dimensional spaces, or worse yet, _n_-dimensional. and now, in somewhat like manner and to a certain degree, must we revise our previous conceptions of death, at least to this extent: not that we yet know much better than we did what it really is, but that we know more about what it is not. even save, perhaps, in its instantaneous happening it is _but a step_ toward dissolution, usually not the first, certainly not the last, but yet the most conspicuous. death is in many respects a biochemical fact. it is so intertwined with ionic changes in the arrangement of matter that we may hope for more information regarding some of its aspects as knowledge of the latter accumulates. but, evidently, we need to clarify our notions as we rearrange our facts. somatic death is, after all, a most complex process. it may be shortened by instant and complete incineration, but scarcely in any other way. even dynamite would scarcely simplify the problem. as to conscious death, that is _probably_ (though not certainly) a matter of seconds only or possibly fractions of a second. while we have no accurate appreciation of what constitutes consciousness, nor even just where it resides, the central nervous system appears to be its most probable seat. but conscious death may occur almost instantly without injury to this system, as when a bullet passes through the thorax and the heart, without injuring the spine. but what is it that suddenly checks all concerted and interdependent activity? or does something or some controlling agency suddenly leave the body? a recent theory, having features to commend it, is to the effect that life is a property or a feature of the ultimate _corpuscles_ which compose the atom. since these corpuscles bear to their containing atom a relative size comparable to that of the tiniest visible insect winging its way in a large church edifice, the intricacies of this particular theory readily appear. but it does seem as though among ourselves life has much to do with the hitherto neglected and despised nitrogen atom or molecule, since life inheres _par excellence_ in nitrogen compounds. moreover, _vitality is conspicuously a feature of those chemical elements which have the lowest atomic weight_, while at the other end of the table of atomic weights stands radium, of whose destructive emanations i have already spoken. another phase of the general subject of thanatology was suggested especially by osier, who a few years ago called attention to the fact that but few, if any patients really die of the disease from which they have been suffering. this is not a paradox, and needs only reason and observation to confirm it. his statement was a preliminary to the consideration of terminal infections and toxemias, which of itself would be sufficient to erect thanatology into a dignified special study. take, for instance, a patient who has long suffered from diabetes. the end is characterized by coma, i. e., an evidence of profound toxemia, and is in large measure due to acetonemia. a patient with chronic bright's disease dies of uremic poisoning, or one with pneumonia dies of genuine heart-failure. the terminal stage of cancer is, again, toxemia of one kind or another, according as it has interfered with digestion, with respiration, or some other vital function, or has broken down, thus saturating the patient with septic products. this aspect of the subject will bear any amount of study and elaboration, and its mention here should be sufficient for my purpose. accordingly as it is properly appreciated, it will be recognized as having an important practical bearing, since, if we may foresee the direction from which the final danger threatens, it may be the better and the longer averted. another very important and practical subject is wrapped up in this one, namely, the utilization of apparently dead, or at least of only potentially living material (tissue) in the various methods of grafting or transplantation, which are to-day a part of the surgeon's work. the methods are themselves a transplantation of experiences gained by work in the vegetable kingdom. what wonder that the marvels revealed in one department should have incited work along parallel lines in the other? that flowers and fruit of one kind may be made to grow on a tree of a very different kind excites but a small amount of the astonishment it deserves, mainly because it is now a common occurrence, though properly regarded it might seem a miracle. differing only in minor respect is, for example, the removal of thyroidal tissue from one human being and its implantation into another, with functional success. one may ask just here, how is this matter concerned with thanatology? and the reply is: if this tissue were taken from a fresh corpse it would be by most people regarded as dead tissue. if so, does the dead come to life? without violating the proper scientific use of the imagination one may fancy something like the following: let a healthy young woman meet accidental and instantaneous death. it would be possible to use no inconsiderable portion of her body for grafting or other justifiable surgical procedures. the arteries and nerves could be used, both in the fresh state, and the former even after preservation, for suitable transplantation or repair work on the vascular and nervous systems of a considerable number of other people. so also could the thyroid, the cornea, the ovaries and especially the bones. all the teeth, if healthy, could be reimplanted. with the thin bones, ribs especially, plastic operations--particularly on the noses--of fifty people could be made. and then the exterior of the body could be made to supply any amount of normal integument with which to do heterologous dermatoplastic operations, or would furnish an almost inexhaustible supply of epidermis for thiersch grafts, which latter material need not be used in the fresh state, but could be preserved and made available some days and even weeks later. a portion of the muscles might possibly be made available for checking oozing from bleeding surfaces of others, if used while still fresh and warm, and possibly portions of the ureters or some other portion of the remains might be utilized for some unusual purpose. then what extracts or extractives might be prepared from other parts of the body, pituitary, adrenals, bone-marrow, etc.? the tendons might also be prepared for sutures. every one of these procedures would give promise of success, the technic being in every respect satisfactory. but the possible limit is not yet reached, since with each kidney might be carried out experiments like those feats of physiologic jugglery such as carrel has shown us, by implanting one, say in the neck, connecting up the renal with the carotid artery, and the renal vein with the jugular, while some receptacle would have to be provided as a terminal for the ureter. this is, after all, not a fantastic dream, nor such an extreme picture as would at first appear, since every organ or tissue above-mentioned--and more--has been used as indicated, and with success. but imagine the dead body affording viable products, even indirectly life itself, to (possibly) so many others! does this complicate the study of death? and what must become of the simple credulous faith of the zealot who believes in the actual and absolute resurrection, at some later date? there is something more than mere transcendentalism in the science of thanatology; it has a plausible medico-legal and pragmatic import. right glad should i be if i might arouse a deserved interest in it. how may i more fittingly conclude than by quoting a few lines from our own bryant's "thanatopsis": "earth that nourished thee, shall claim thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, and, lost each human trace, surrendering up thine individual being, shalt thou go to mix forever with the elements." though were i minded to rehearse certain difficulties met in the preparation of this paper, which i have long had in mind, i might also add the following lines from the same poet's "hymn to death": "alas! i little thought that the stern power whose fateful praise i sung, would try me thus before the strain was ended." one may well quote, at this point, lamartine, who asked, "what is life but a series of preludes to that mystery whose initial solemn note is tolled by death?" (on this theme liszt built up that wonderful symphonic tone poem "les preludes.") even infinity is now questioned by the mathematicians. this being the case, where shall we, where can _we_ stop? note.--while writing the foregoing paper there came to my notice the recent book "death; its causes and phenomena," by carrington and meader (london, ). it is interesting, but save that it contains a helpful bibliography, is of little assistance to one wishing to pursue the study from its pragmatic aspect. one of the authors is committed to a personal theory that death is caused by cessation of the vibrations which during life maintain vital activity; the other that death is, as it were, the culmination of a bad habit of expectancy that something of the kind must occur, into which we have fallen, in spite of the fact that other living beings below man undergo the same fate, though not capable of expecting anything. iii serpent-myths and serpent-worship[ ] [ ] a presidential address before the buffalo society of natural sciences. since the dawn of written history, and from the most remote periods, the serpent has been regarded with the highest veneration as the most mysterious of living creatures. being alike an object of wonder, admiration and fear, it is not strange that it became early connected with numerous superstitions; and when we remember how imperfectly understood were its habits we shall not wonder at the extraordinary attributes with which it was invested, nor perhaps even why it obtained so general a worship. thus centuries ago horapollo referring to serpent symbolism, said: "when the egyptians were representing a universe they delineated the spectacle as a variegated snake devouring its own tail, the scales intimating the stars in the universe, the animal being extremely heavy, as is the earth, and extremely slippery like the water; moreover it every year puts off its old age with its skin as, in the universe, the recurring year effects a corresponding change, and becomes renovated, while the making use of its own body for food implies that all things whatever which are generated by divine providence in the world undergo a corruption into them again." in all probability the annual shedding of the skin and the supposed rejuvenation of the animal was that which first connected it with the idea of eternal succession of form, subsequent reproduction and dissolution. this doctrine is typified in the notion of the succession of ages which prevailed among the greeks, and the similar notion met with among nearly all primitive peoples. the ancient mysteries, with few or perhaps no exceptions, were all intended to illustrate the grand phenomena of nature. the mysteries of osiris, isis and horus in egypt; of cybele in phrygia, of ceres and proserpine at eleusis, of venus and adonis in phoenicia, of bona dea and of priapus in rome, all had this in in common, that they both mystified and typified the creation of things and the perpetuation of life. in all of them the serpent was conspicuously introduced as it symbolized and indicated the invigorating energy of nature. in the mysteries of ceres, the grand secret which was communicated to the initiates was put in this enigma,--"the bull has begotten a serpent and the serpent a bull," the bull being a prominent emblem of generative force. in ancient egypt it was usually the bull's horns which served as a symbol for the entire animal. when with the progress of centuries the bull became too expensive an animal to be commonly used for any purpose, the ram was substituted; hence the frequency of the ram's horns, as a symbol for jove, seen so frequently, for example, among roman antiquities. originally fire was taken to be one of the emblems of the sun, and thus most naturally, inevitably and universally the sun came to symbolize the active, vivifying principle of nature. that the serpent should in time typify the same principle, while the egg symbolized the more passive or feminine element, is equally certain but less easy of explanation; indeed we are to regard the serpent as the symbol of the great hermaphrodite first principle of nature. "it entered into the mythology of every nation, consecrated almost every temple, symbolized almost every deity, was imagined in the heavens, stamped on the earth and ruled in the realms of eternal sorrow." for this animal was estimated to be the most spirited of all reptiles of fiery nature, inasmuch as it exhibits an incredible celerity, moving by its spirit without hands or feet or any of the external members by which other animals effect their motion, while in its progress it assumes a variety of forms, moving in a spiral course and darting forward with whatever degree of swiftness it pleases. the close relationship if not absolute identity among the early races of man between solar, phallic and serpent worship was most striking; so marked indeed as to indicate that they are all forms of a single worship. it is with the latter that we must for a little while concern ourselves. how prominent a place serpent worship plays in our own old testament will be remarked as soon as one begins to reflect upon it. the part played by the serpent in the biblical myth concerning the origin of man is the first and most striking illustration. in the degenerated ancient mysteries of bacchus some of the persons who took part in the ceremonies used to carry serpents in their hands and with horrid screams call "eva, eva;" the attendants were in fact often crowned with serpents while still making these frantic cries. in the sabazian mysteries the snake was permitted to slip into the bosom of the person to be initiated and then to be removed from below the clothing. this ceremony was said to have originated among the magi. it has been held that the invocation "eva" related to the great mother of mankind; even so good an authority as clemens of alexandria held to this opinion, but clemens also acknowledges that the name eva, when properly aspirated is practically the same as epha, or opha, which the greeks call ophis, which is, in english, serpent. in most of the other mysteries serpent rites were introduced and many of the names were extremely suggestive. the abaddon mentioned in the book of revelation is certainly some serpent deity, since the prefix ab, signifies not only father, but serpent. by zoroaster the expanse of the heavens and even nature itself was described under the symbol of the serpent. in ancient persia temples were erected to the serpent tribe, and festivals consecrated to their honor, some relic of this being found in the word basilicus, or royal serpent, which gives rise to the term basilica applied to the christian churches of the present era. the ethiopians, even, of the present day derive their name from the greek aithiopes, meaning the serpent gods worshipped long before them; again, the island of euboea signifies the serpent island and properly spelled should be oub-aia. the greeks claimed that medusa's head was brought by perseus, by which they mean the serpent deity, as the worship was introduced into greece by a people called peresians. the head of medusa denoted divine wisdom, while the island was sacred to the serpent. the worship of the serpent being so old, many places as well as races received names indicating the prevalence of this general superstition; but this is no time to catalogue names,--though one perhaps should mention ophis, oboth, eva in macedonia, dracontia, and last but not least, the name of eve and the garden of eden. seth was, according to some, a semi-divine first ancestor of the semites; bunsen has shown that several of the antedeluvian descendants of adam were among the phoenician deities; thus carthagenians had as god, yubal or jubal who would appear to have been the sun-god of esculapius; or, spelled more correctly, ju-baal, that is beauty of baal. whether or not the serpent symbol has a distinct phallic reference has been disputed, but the more the subject is broadly studied the more it would seem that such is the case. it must certainly appear that the older races had that form of belief with which the serpent was always more or less symbolically connected, that is, adoration of the male principle of generation, one of whose principal phases was undoubtedly ancestor worship, while somewhat later the race adored the female principle which they symbolized by the sacred tree so often alluded to in scripture as the assyrian grove. whether snakes be represented singly, coupled in pairs as in the well known caduceus or rod of esculaipius, or in the crown placed upon the head of many a god and goddess, or the many headed snake drinking from the jewelled cup, or a snake twisted around a tree with another approaching it, suggesting temptation and fall,--in all these the underlying principle is always the same. symbols of this character are met with not only in the temples of ancient egypt but in ruins antedating them in persia and the east; in the antiquities belonging to the races that first peopled what is now greece and italy, in the rock markings of india and of central europe, in the cromlechs of great britain and scandinavia, in the great serpent mound which still remains in ohio, and in many other mounds left by the mound builders of this country, in the ruins of central america and yucatan, and in the traditions and relics of the aztecs and toltecs,--in fact wherever antiquarian research has penetrated or where monuments of ancient peoples remain. there never has been so widespread a superstition, and no matter what later forms it may have assumed we must admit that it, first of all, and for a long time was man's tribute to the great, all powerful and unknown regenerative principle of nature, which has been deified again and again, and which always has been and always will be the greatest mystery within the ken of mankind. brown in his "great dionysiak myth" says the serpent has these points of connection with dionysus, ( ) as a symbol of and connected with wisdom, ( ) as a solar emblem, ( ) as a symbol of time and eternity, ( ) as an emblem of the earth, life, ( ) as connected with the fertilizing mystery, ( ) as a phallic emblem. referring to the last of these he says: "the serpent being connected with the sun, the earth, life and fertility, must needs be also a phallic emblem, and was appropriate to the cult of dionysos priapos." again, sir g. w. cox says, "it is unnecessary to analyze theories which profess to see in it worship of the creeping brute or the wide-spreading tree; a religion based upon the worship of the venomous reptile must have been a religion of terror. in the earliest glimpses which we have the serpent is the symbol of life and of love, nor is the phallic cultus in any respect a cult of the full grown branching tree." again, "this religion, void of reason, condemned in the wisdom of solomon, probably survived even babylonian captivity; certainly it was adopted by the sects of christians which were known as ophites, gnostics and nicolaitans." another learned author says: "by comparing the varied legends of the east and west in conjunction we obtain a full outline of the mythology of the ancients. it recognizes as the primary element of things two independent principles of nature, the male and female, and these, in characteristic union as the soul and body, constitute the great hermaphrodite deity, the one, the universe itself, consisting still of the two separate elements of its composition, modified though combined in one individual, of which all things are regarded but as parts." in fact the characteristics of all pagan deities, male or female, gradually mold into each other and at last into one or two; for as william jones has stated, it seems a well-founded opinion that the entire list of gods and goddesses means only the powers of nature, principally those of the sun, expressed in a variety of ways with a multitude of fanciful names. the creation is, in fact, human rather than a divine product in this sense, that it was suggested to the mind of man by the existence of things, while its method was, at least at first, suggested by the operation of nature; thus man saw the living bird emerge from the egg, after a certain period of incubation, a phenomenon equivalent to actual creation as apprehended by his simple mind. incubation obviously then associated itself with creation, and this fact will explain the universality with which the egg was received as a symbol in the earlier systems of cosmogony. by a similar process creation came to be symbolized in the form of a phallus, and so egyptians in their refinement of these ideas adopted as their symbol of the great first cause a scarabaeus, indicating the great hermaphroditic unity, since they believed this insect to be both male and female. they beautifully typified a part of this idea also in the adoration which they paid to the water lily, or _lotus_, so generally regarded as sacred throughout the east. it is the sublime and beautiful symbol which perpetually occurs in oriental mythology, and, as maurice has stated, not without substantial reason, for it is its own beautiful progeny and contains a treasure of physical instruction. the lotus flower grows in the water among broad leaves, while in its center is formed a seed vessel shaped like a bell, punctured on the top with small cavities in which its seeds develop; the openings into the seed cells are too small to permit the seeds to escape when ripe, consequently they absorb moisture and develop within the same, shooting forth as new plants from the place where they originated; the bulb of the vessel serving as a matrix which shall nourish them until they are large enough to burst open and release themselves, after which they take root wherever deposited. "the plant, therefore, being itself productive of itself, vegetating from its own matrix, being fostered in the earth, was naturally adopted as a symbol of the productive power of the waters upon which the creative spirit of the creator acted, in giving life and vegetation to matter. we accordingly find it employed in every part of the northern hemisphere where symbolical religion, improperly called idolatry, existed." further exemplification of the same underlying principle is seen in the fact that most all of the ancient deities were paired; thus we have heaven and earth, sun and moon, fire and earth, father and mother, etc. faber says "the ancient pagans of almost every part of the globe were wont to symbolize the world by an egg, hence this symbol is introduced into the cosmogonies of nearly all nations, and there are few persons even among those who have made mythology their study to whom the mundane egg is not perfectly familiar; it is the emblem not only of earth and life but also of the universe in its largest extent." in the island of cyprus is still to be seen a gigantic egg-shaped vase which is supposed to represent the mundane or orphic egg. it is of stone, measuring thirty feet in circumference, and has upon it a sculptured bull, the emblem of productive energy. it is supposed to signify the constellation of taurus, whose rising was connected with the return of the mystic re-invigorating principle. the work of the mound builders in this country is generally and widely known, still it is perhaps not so generally known how common upon this continent was the general use of the serpent symbol. their remains are spread over the country from the sources of the allegheny in n. y. state westward to iowa and nebraska, to a considerable extent through the mississippi valley, and along the susquehanna as far as the valley of wyoming in pennsylvania. they are found even along the st. lawrence river; they also line the shore of the gulf from florida to texas. that they were erected for other than defensive purposes is most clear; without knowing exactly what was the government of their builders the presumption is that it combined both the priestly and civil functions, as obtained centuries ago in mexico. the great serpent mound, already alluded to, had a length of at least , feet; the outline was perfectly regular and the mouth was widely open as if in the act of swallowing or ejecting an oval figure, also formed of earth, whose longest diameter was one hundred and sixty feet. again near granville, ohio, occurs the form of an alligator in connection with which was indubitable evidence of an altar. near tarlton, ohio, is another earth work in the form of a cross. there is every reason to think that sacrifices were made upon the altars nearly always found in connection with these mounds. among the various animal effigies found in wisconsin, mounds in the form of a serpent are most frequently met with, while circles enclosing a pentagon, or a mound with eight radiating points, undoubtedly representing the sun, were also found. there would seem in all these representations to be an unmistakable reference to that form of early cosmogony in which every vivification of the mundane egg constituted a real act of creation. in japan this conceptive egg is allegorically represented by a nest-egg shown floating upon an expanse of water, against which a bulb is striking with horns. the sandwich islanders have a tradition that a bird, which with them is an emblem of deity, laid an egg upon the waters, which burst of itself and thus produced the islands. in egypt, kneph was represented as a serpent emitting from his mouth an egg, from which proceeds the divinity phtha. in the bible there is frequent reference to seraphs; se ra ph is the singular of seraphim, meaning, splendor, fire or light. it is emblematic of the fiery sun, which under the name of the serpent dragon was destroyed by the reformer hezekiah; or, it means, also, the serpent with wings and feet, as used to be represented in funeral rituals. undoubtedly abraham brought with him from chaldea into lower egypt symbols of simple phallic deities. the reference in the bible to the teraphim of jacob's family reminds us that terah was the name of abraham's father, and that he was a maker of images. undoubtedly the teraphim were the same as the seraphim; that is, were serpent images and were the household charms of the semitic worshippers of the sun-god, to whom the serpent was sacred. in numbers, , the serpent symbol of the exodus is called a seraph; moreover when the people were bitten by a fiery serpent moses prayed for them, when jehovah replied, "make them a fiery serpent, (literally seraph) and set it upon a pole, and it shall come to pass that every one who is bitten when he looketh upon it shall live." the exact significance of this healing figure of the serpent is far to seek. in this connection it must be remembered also, that among several of the semitic tongues the same root signifies both serpent and phallus, which are both in effect solar emblems. cronus of the ancient orphic theogony, probably identical with hercules, was represented under the mixed emblem of a lion and a serpent, or often as a serpent alone. he was originally considered supreme, as is shown from his being called il, which is the same as the hebrew, el, which was, according to st. jerome, one of the ten names of god. damascius in his life of isidorus mentions that cronus was worshipped under the name of el. brahm, cronus and kneph each represented the mystical union of the reciprocal or active and passive regenerative principles. the semitic deity, seth, was certainly a serpent god, and can be identified with saturn and with deities of other people. the common name of god, _eloah_, among the hebrews and other semites, goes back into the earliest times; indeed bryant goes so far as to say that el was the original name of the supreme deity among all the nations of the east. he was the same as cronus, who again was the primeval saturn. thus saturn and el were the same deity, and like seth were symbolized by the serpent. on the western continent this great unity was equally recognized; in mexico as teotl, in peru as varicocha or the soul of the universe, in central america and yucatan as stunah ku, or god of gods. the mundane egg was everywhere received as the symbol of the original, passive, unorganized formless nature, and later became associated with other symbols referring to the creative force or vitalizing influence, which was often represented in emblem by a bull. in the aztec pantheon all the other gods and goddesses were practically modified impersonations of these two principles. in the simpler mythology of peru these principles took the form of the sun, and the moon his wife. among the ruins of uxmal are two long massive walls of stone thirty feet thick, whose inner sides are embellished with sculpture containing fragments of colossal entwined serpents which run the whole length of the walls; in the center of the wall was a great stone ring. among the annals of the mexicans the woman whose name old spanish writers translated "the woman of our fish" is always represented as accompanied by a great male serpent. this serpent is the sun-god, the principal deity of the mexican pantheon, while the name which they give to the goddess mother of primitive man signifies "woman of the serpent." inseparably connected with the serpent as a phallic emblem are also the pyramids, and, as is well known, pyramids abound in mexico and central america. as humboldt years ago observed pyramids existed through mexico, in the forests of papantha at a short distance above sea-level; on the plains of cholula and of teotihuacan, and at an elevation which exceeds those of the passes of the alps. in most widely different nations, in climates most different, man seems to have adopted the same style of construction, the same ornaments, the same customs, and to have placed himself under the government of the same political institutions. mayer describing one of his trips says, "i constantly saw serpents in the city of mexico, carved in stone and in the various collections of antiquities." the symbolic feathered serpent was by no means peculiar to mexico and yucatan. squier encountered it in nicaragua on the summits of volcanic ridges; even among our historic indian tribes, for example among the lenni lenape, they called the rattlesnake "grandfather," and made offerings of tobacco to it. furthermore in most of the indian traditions of the manitou the great serpent figures most conspicuously. it has been often remarked that every feature of the religion of the new world discovered by cortez and pizarro indicates a common origin for the superstitions of both continents, for we have the same worship of the sun, the same pyramidal monuments, and the same universal veneration of the serpent. thus it will be seen that the serpent symbol had a wide acceptance upon this continent as well as the other, and among the uncivilized and semi-barbaric races; that it entered widely into all symbolic representation with an almost universal significance. perhaps the latest evidences of the persistence of this belief may be seen in the tradition ascribing to st. patrick, the credit of having driven all the serpents from irish soil; or in the perpetuation of rites, festivals and representations whose obsolete origin is now forgotten. for instance the annual may-day festival, scarcely yet discontinued, is certainly of this origin, yet few if any of those who participate in it are aware that it is only the perpetuation of the vernal solar festival of baal, and that the garlanded may-pole was anciently a phallic emblem. among men of my own craft the traditions of aesculapius are familiar. aesculapius is, however, inseparably connected with the serpent myth and in statues and pictures he is almost always represented in connection with a serpent. thus he is seen with the caduceus or the winged wand entwined by two serpents, or, sometimes with serpents' bodies wound around his own; but rarely ever without some serpent emblem. moreover the caduceus is identical with the simple figure of the cross by which its inventor, thoth, is said to have symbolized the four elements proceeding from a common center. in connection with the cross it is interesting also that in many places in the east serpent worship was not immediately destroyed by the advent of christianity. the gnostics for example, among christian sects, united it with the religion of the cross, as might be shown by many quotations from religious writers. the serpent clinging to the cross was used as a symbol of christ, and a form of christian serpent worship was for a long time in vogue among many beside the professed ophites. in the celebration of the bacchic mysteries the mystery of religion, as usual throughout the world, was concealed in a chest or box. the israelites had their sacred ark, and every nation has had some sacred receptacle for holy things and symbols. the worshippers of bacchus carried in their consecrated baskets the mystery of their god, while after their banquet it was usual to pass around the cup which was called "the cup of the good daemon," whose symbol was a serpent. this was long before the institution of the rite of the last supper. the fable of the method by which the god aesculapius was brought from epidaurus to rome, and the serpentine form in which he appeared before his arrival in rome for the purpose of checking the terrible pestilence, are well known. the serpentine column which still stands in the old race course in constantinople is certainly a relic of serpent worship, though this fact was not appreciated by constantine when he set it up. the significance of the ark is not to be overlooked. first, noah was directed to take with him into the ark animals of every kind. but this historical absurdity, read aright and in its true phallic sense, means that the ark was the sacred argha of hindoo mythology, which like the moon in zoroastrian teachings, carries in itself the germ of all things. read in this sense the thing is no longer incomprehensible. as _en arche_ (in the beginning) elohim created the heavens and the earth, so in the ark were the seeds of all things preserved that they might again repopulate the earth. thus this ark of noah, or of osiris, the primeval ship whose navigation has been ascribed to various mythological beings, was in fact the moon or the ship of the sun, in which his seed is supposed to be hidden until it bursts forth in new life and power. but the dove which figures so conspicuously in the biblical legend was consecrated to venus in all her different names, in babylon, in syria, in palestine and in greece; it even attended upon janus in his voyage of the golden fleece. and so the story of jonah going to joppa, a seaport where dagon, the fish-god was worshipped, and of the great fish, bears a suspicious relation to the same cult, for the fish was revered at joppa as was the dove at nineveh. it has been impossible to dissociate serpent and serpent worship from aesculapius. this is not because this mythological divinity is supposed to have been the founder of my profession, but because he has been given at all times a serpentine form and has been, apparently, on the most familiar terms with the animal. pausanias, indeed, assures us that he often appeared in serpentine form, and the roman citizens of two thousand years ago saw in this god "in reptilian form an object of high regard and worship." when this divinity was invited to make rome his home, in accordance with the oracle, he is represented as saying: "i come to leave my shrine; this serpent view, that with ambitious play my staff encircles; mark him every way; his form though larger, nobler, i'll assume, and, changed as god's should be, bring aid to rome." (ovid: metamorphosis xv). when in due time this salutary serpent arrived upon the island in the tiber he began to assume his natural form, whatever that may have been; "and now no more the drooping city mourns, joy is again restored and health returns." considering then the intimate relation between the founder of medicine and the serpent it will not seem strange to you that the serpent myth is a subject of keen interest to every student of the history of medicine. this devotion to serpent worship appears to have lingered a long time in italy, for so late as the year a bronze serpent on the basillica of st. ambrose was worshipped. de gubernatis speaking of it says, "some say it was the serpent aesculapius, others moses, others that it was the image of christ; for us it is enough to remark that it was a mythological serpent before which the milanese mothers offered their children when they suffered from worms, in order to relieve them," a practice which was finally suppressed by san carlo. moreover, there has persisted until recently what is called a snake festival in a little mountain church near naples, where those participating carry snakes around their persons, the purpose of the festival being to preserve the participants from poison and sudden death and bring them good fortune. (sozinskey). the power of the sun over health and disease was long ago recognized in the old chaldean hymn in which the sun is petitioned thus: "thou at thy coming cure the race of man; cause the ray of health to shine upon him; cure his disease." probably some feeling akin to that voiced in this way gave rise to the following beautiful passage in malachi ( : ): "the sun of righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings." as a purely medical symbol the serpent is meant to symbolize prudence; long ago men were enjoined to be "as wise as serpents" as well as harmless as doves. in india the serpent is still regarded as a symbol of every species of learning. it has also another medical meaning, namely, _convalescence_, for which there is afforded some ground in the remarkable change which it undergoes every spring from a state of lethargy to one of active life. according to ferguson, the experience of moses and the children of israel with brazen serpents led to the first recorded worship paid to the serpent, which is also noteworthy, since the cause of this adoration is said to have been its intrinsic healing power. the prototype of the brazen serpent of moses in latter times was the good genius, the _agathodaemon_ of the greeks, which was regarded always with the greatest favor and usually accorded considerable power over disease. the superstitious tendency to regard disease and death as the visitation of a more or less capricious act by some extra mundane power persists even to the present day. for example, in the episcopal book of common prayer, it is stated, in the order for the visitation of the sick, "wherefore, whatsoever your sickness be, know you certainly that it is god's visitation," while for relief the following sentiment is formulated in prayer, "lord look down from heaven, behold, visit and relieve these, thy servants," thus voicing the very ideas which were current among various peoples of remote antiquity and eliminating all possibility of such a thing as the regulation of disease or of sanitary medicine. iv iatro-theurgic symbolism[ ] [ ] an address before the maine medical association, portland, june nd, . so soon as had subsided the feeling of surprise, caused by a most unexpected invitation to address you to-night, i began at once to cast about for a subject with which i might endeavor so to interest you as to justify the high and appreciated compliment which this invitation mutely conveyed. and so, after considerable reflection, it appeared to me that it was perhaps just as well that medical men should be entertained, even at such a gathering as this, by something which if not _of_ the profession was at least _for_ the profession, and still not too remote from the purposes which have drawn us together. accordingly i decided to forsake the beaten path and, instead of selecting a topic in pathology or in surgery, upon which i could possibly speak with some familiarity, to invite your attention to a subject which has always been of the greatest interest to me, yet upon which it has been hard, without great labor and numerous books, to get much information. if i were to attempt to formulate this topic under a distinctive name i could perhaps call it _medico-christian_ symbolism. it is well known to scholars that practically all of the symbols and symbolism of christianity have come from pagan sources, having been carried over, as one might say, across the line of the christian era, from one to the other, in the most natural and unavoidable way, although most of these symbols and caricatures have more or less lost their original signification and have been given another of purely christian import. to acknowledge that this is so is to cast no slur upon christianity; it is simply recording an historical fact. it would take me too far from my purpose to-night were i to go into the reasons which brought about this change; i simply want to disavow all intention of making light of serious things, or of reflecting in any way upon the nobility of the christian church, its meanings or its present practices. but, accepting the historical fact that christian symbols were originally pagan caricatures, i want to ask you to study with me for a little while the original signification of these pagan symbols, feeling that i can perhaps, interest you in such a study providing that it can be shown that almost all of these emblems had originally an essentially medical significance, referring in some way or other either to questions of health and disease, or else to the deeper question of the origin of mankind and the great generative powers of nature, at which physicians to-day wonder as much as they did two thousand years ago. considering then the medical significance of such study i have been tempted to incur the charge of being pedantic and have coined the term _iatro-theurgic symbolism_, which title i shall give to the essay which i shall present to you to-night. as inman says, "moderns who have not been initiated in the sacred mysteries and only know the emblems considered sacred, have need of both anatomical knowledge and physiological lore ere they can see the meaning of many signs." the emblems or symbols then, to which i shall particularly allude, are the _cross_, the _tree_ and _grove_, the _fish_, the _dove_, and the _serpent_. and first of all the cross, about which very erroneous notions prevail. it is seen everywhere either as a matter of personal or church adornment, or as an architectural feature, and everywhere the impression prevails that it is exclusively a christian symbol. this, however, is the grossest of errors, for the world abounds in cruciform symbols and monuments which existed long before christianity was thought of. it is otherwise however with the crucifix which is, of course, an absolutely christian symbol. the image of a dead man stretched out upon the cross is a purely christian addition to a purely pagan emblem, though some of the old hindoo crosses remind one of it very powerfully. no matter upon which continent we look we see everywhere the same cruciform sign among peoples and races most distinct. there perhaps has never been so universal a symbol, with the exception of the serpent. moreover the cross is a sort of international feature, and is spoken of in its modifications as st. andrew's, st. george's, the maltese, the greek, the latin, etc. probably because of its extreme simplicity the ages have brought but little change in its shape, and the bauble of the jeweller of to-day is practically the same sign that the ancient egyptian painted upon the mummy cloth of his sacred dead. thus it will appear that the shadow of the cross was cast far back into the night of ages. the druids consecrated their sacred oak by cutting it into the shape of a cross, and when the natural shape of the tree was not sufficient it was pieced out as the case required. when the spaniards invaded this continent they were overcome with surprise at finding the sign of the cross everywhere in common use. it was by the community of this emblem between the two peoples that the spaniards enjoyed a less war-like reception than would otherwise have been accorded to them. that the cross was originally a phallic emblem is proven, among other things, by the origin of the so-called maltese cross, which originally was carved out of solid granite, and represented by four huge phalli springing from a common center, which were afterward changed by the knights of st. john of malta into four triangles meeting at a central globe; thus we see combined the symbol of eternal and the emblem of constantly renovating life. the reason why the maltese cross had so distinctly a phallic origin, and why the knights of st. john saw fit to make something more decent of it, is not clear, but a study of assyrian antiquities of the days of nineveh and babylon shows that it referred to the four great gods of the assyrian pantheon, and that with a due setting it signifies the sun ruling both the earth and heavens. schliemann discovered many examples of it on the vases which he exhumed from the ruins of troy. but probably the most remarkable of all crosses is that which is exceedingly common upon egyptian monuments and is known as the _crux-ansata_, that is the handled cross, which consisted of the ordinary greek _tau_ or cross, with a ring on the top. when the egyptian was asked what he meant by this sign he simply replied that it was a divine mystery, and such it has largely remained ever since. it was constantly seen in the hands of isis and osiris. in nearly the same shape the spaniards found it when they first came to this continent. the natives said that it meant "life to come." in the british museum one may see, in the assyrian galleries, effigies in stone of certain kings from whose necks are suspended sculptured maltese crosses, such as the catholics call the pectoral cross. in egypt, long before christ, the sacred ibis was represented with human hands and feet, holding the staff of isis in one hand and the cross in the other. the ancient egyptian astronomical signs of planets contained numerous crosses. saturn was represented by a cross surmounting a ram's horn; jupiter by a cross beneath a horn, venus by a cross beneath a circle (practically the crux-ansata), the earth by a cross within the circle, and mars by a circle beneath the cross; many of these signs are in use to-day. between the buddhist crosses of india and those of the roman church are remarkable resemblances; the former were frequently placed upon a calvary as is the catholic custom to-day. the cross is found among the hieroglyphics of china and upon chinese pagodas, and upon the lamps with which they illuminated their temples. upon the ancient phoenician medals were inscribed the cross, the rosary and the lamb. in england there has been for a long time the custom of eating the so-called hot-cross buns upon good friday:--this is no more than a reproduction of a cake marked with a cross which used to be duly offered to the serpent and the bull in heathen temples, as also to human idols. it was made of flour and milk, or oil, and was often eaten with much ceremony by priests and people. perhaps the most ancient of all forms of the cross is the cruciform hammer known sometimes as thor's battle ax. in this form it was venerated by the heroes of the north as a magical sign, which thwarted the power of death over those who bore it. even to-day it is employed by the women of india and certain parts of africa as indicating the possession of a taboo with which they protect their property. it has been stated that this was the mark which the prophet was commanded to impress upon the foreheads of the faithful in judah. (ezekiel : ). it is of interest also as being almost the last of the purely pagan symbols to be religiously preserved in europe long after the establishment of christianity, since to the close of the middle ages the cistercean monk wore it upon his stole. it may be seen upon the bells of many parish churches, where it was placed as a magical sign to subdue the vicious spirit of the tempest. the original cross, no matter what its form, had but one meaning; it represented creative power and eternity. in egypt, assyria and britain, in india, china and scandinavia, it was an emblem of life and immortality; upon this continent it was the sign of freedom from suffering, and everywhere it symbolized resurrection and life to come. moreover from its common combination with the yoni or female emblem, we may conclude, with inman, that the ancient cross was an emblem of the belief in a male creator and the method by which creation was initiated. next to the cross, the _tree of life_ of the egyptians furnishes perhaps the most ancient and universal symbol of immortality. the tree is probably the most generally received symbol of life, and has been regarded as the most appropriate. the fig tree especially has had the highest place in this regard. from it gods and holy men ascended to heaven; before it thousands of barren women have worshipped and made offerings; under it pious hermits have become enlightened, and by rubbing together fragments of its wood, holy fire has been drawn from heaven. an anonymous catholic writer has stated, "no religion is founded upon international depravity. searching back for the origin of life, men stopped at the earliest point to which they could trace it and exalted the reproductive organs in the symbols of the creator. the practice was at least calculated to procure respect for a side of nature liable, under an exclusively spiritual regime, to be relegated to undue contempt. * * * even moses himself fell back upon it when, yielding to a pressing emergency, he gave his sanction to serpent worship by his elevation of the brazen serpent upon a pole or cross, for all portions of this structure constituted the most universally accepted symbol of sex in the world." as perfectly consistent with the ancient doctrine that deity is both male and female take this thought from proclus, who quotes the following among other orphic verses: "jupiter is a man; jupiter is also an immortal maid;" while in the same commentary we read that "all things were contained in the womb of jupiter." in this connection it was quite customary to depict jupiter as a female, sometimes with three heads; often the figure was drawn with a serpent and was venerated under the symbol of fire. it was then called mythra and was worshipped in secret caverns. the rites of this worship were quite well known to the romans. the hermaphrodite element of religion is sex worship; gods are styled he-she; synesius gives an inscription on an egyptian deity, "thou art the father and thou art the mother; thou art the male and thou art the female." baal was of uncertain sex and his votaries usually invoked him thus, "hear us whether thou art god or goddess." heathens seem to have made their gods hermaphrodites in order to express both the generative and prolific virtue of their deities. i have myself heard one of the finest living hindoo scholars, a convert to christianity, invoke the god of the christian church both as father and as mother. the most significant and distinctive feature of nature worship certainly had to do with phallic emblems. this viewed in the light of ancient times simply represented allegorically that mysterious union of the male and female principle which seems necessary to the existence of animate beings. if, in the course of time, it sadly degenerated, we may lament the fact, while, nevertheless, not losing sight of the purity and exalted character of the original idea. of its extensive prevalence there is ample evidence, since monuments indicating such worship are spread over both continents and have been recognized in egypt, india, assyria, western europe, mexico, peru, hayti and the pacific islands. without doubt the generative act was originally considered as a solemn sacrament in honor of the creator. as knight has insisted, the indecent ideas later attached to it, paradoxical as it may seem, were the result of the more advanced civilization tending toward its decline, as we see in rome and pompeii. voltaire speaking of phallic worship says "our ideas of propriety lead us to suppose that a ceremony which appears to us so infamous could only be invented by licentiousness, but it is impossible to believe that depravity of manners would ever lead among any people to the establishment of religious ceremonies. it is probable, on the contrary, that this custom was first introduced in times of simplicity, and that the first thought was to honor a deity in the symbol of life which it gives us." the so-called jewish rite of circumcision was practiced among egyptians and phoenicians long before the birth of abraham. it had a marked religious significance, being a sign of the covenant, and was a patriarchal observance because it was always performed by the head of the family. indeed on the authority of the veda, we learn that this was the case also even among the primitive aryan people. later in the centuries, as patterson has observed, obscene methods became the principal feature of the popular superstition and were, in after times, even extended to and intermingled with gloomy rites and bloody sacrifices. the mysteries of ceres and bacchus celebrated at eleusis were probably the most celebrated of all the grecian observances. the addition of bacchus was comparatively a late one, and this name bacchus was first spelled iacchos; the first half, _iao_, being in all probability related to _jao_ which appears in jupiter or jovispater, and to the hebrew yahve, or jehovah. jao was the harvest god and consequently the god of the grape, hence his close relation to bacchus. how completely these eleusinian mysteries degenerated into bacchic orgies is of course a matter of written history. i have not yet alluded to the reverence paid to the fish, both as phallic emblem and as a christian symbol. the supposition that the reason why the fish played so large a part in early christian symbolism was because of the fact that each letter of the greek word _ichthus_ could be made the beginning of words which when fully spelled out, read jesus christ, the son of god, etc., is altogether too far-fetched; though it be true it is a scholastic trick to juggle with words in this way rather than to find for them a proper signification. among the egyptians and many other nations, the greatest reverence was paid to this animal. among the natives the rivers which contained them were esteemed more or less sacred; the common people did not feed upon them and the priests never tasted them, because of their reputed sanctity, while at times they were worshipped as real deities. cities were named after them and temples built to them. in different parts of egypt different fish were worshipped individually; the greek comedians even made fun of the egyptians because of this fact. dagon figures as the fish-god, and the female deity known as athor, in egypt, is undoubtedly the same as aphrodite of the greeks and venus of the romans, who were believed to have sprung from the sea. lucian tells us that this worship was of great antiquity; strange as this idolatry may appear, it was yet most wide-spread and included also the veneration which the egyptians, before moses, paid to the river nile. it is important to remember that nun, the name of the father of joshua, is the semitic word for fish, while the phallic character of the fish in chaldean mythology cannot be gainsaid. nim, the planet saturn, was the fish-god of berosus, and the same as the assyrian god asshur, whose name and office are strikingly similar to those of the hebrew leader joshua. corresponding to the ancient phallus or lingam, which was the masculine phallic symbol, we have the kteis or yoni as the symbol of the female principle; but an emblem of similar import is often to be met with in the shape of the shell, the fig leaf or the letter delta, as may be frequently seen from ancient coins and monuments. similar attributes were at other times expressed by a bird, using the dove or sparrow, which will at once make one think of the prominence given to the dove in the fable of noah and the ark. referring again to the fish symbol let me say that the head of proserpine is very often represented surrounded by dolphins; sometimes by pomegranates which also have a phallic significance. in fact, inman in his work on ancient faiths says of the pomegranate, "the shape of this fruit much resembles that of the gravid uterus in the female, and the abundance of seeds which it contains makes it a fitting emblem of the prolific womb of the celestial mother. its use was largely adopted in various forms of worship; it was united with bells in the adornment of the robes of the jewish high priest; it was introduced as an ornament into solomon's temple, where it was united with lilies and with the lotus." its arcane meaning is undoubtedly phallic. in fact, as inman has stated, the idea of virility was most closely interwoven with religion, though the english egyptologists have suppressed a portion of the facts in the history which they have given the world; but the practice which still obtains among certain negroes of northern africa of mutilating every male captive and slain enemy is but a continuance of the practice alluded to in the nd book of kings, : , isaiah, : , and st samuel : . frequently in sacred scripture we find allusions to the pillar as a most sacred emblem, as for example in isaiah : , "in that day there shall be an altar to the lord in the midst of the land of egypt and a pillar to the border thereof to jehovah," etc. moreover god was supposed to have appeared to his chosen people as a _pillar of fire_. nevertheless when among idolatrous nations _pillars_ were set up as a part of their rites we find them noticed in scripture as an _abomination_, as for example, deut. : , "ye shall overthrow their altars and break their pillars;" levit. : , "neither rear ye up a standing image." among the jews the pillar had much the same significance as the pyramid among the egyptians or the triangle or cone among votaries of other worships. the tower of babel must have been purely a mythical creation but in the same direction. although abraham is regarded as having emigrated from chaldea in the character of a dissenter from the religion of his country (see joshua : - ), his immediate descendants apparently had recourse to the symbols to which i have alluded. thus he erected altars and planted pillars wherever he resided, and conducted his son to the land of moriah to sacrifice him to the deity, as was done among the phoenicians. jeptha in like manner sacrificed his own daughter mizpeh, and the temple of solomon was supposed to have been built upon the site of abraham's ancient altar. jacob not only set up a pillar at the place which he called bethel but made libations; samuel worshipped at the high places at ramah, and solomon at the great stone in gibeon. it remained for hezekiah to change the entire hebrew cult. he removed the dionysiac statues and phallic pillars as well as the conical and omphallic symbols of venus and ashtaroth, broke in pieces the brazen serpent of moses and overthrew the mounds and altars. after him josiah removed the paraphernalia of sun worship and destroyed the statues and emblems of venus and adonis, ( nd kings, : - ). the greek hermes was identical with the egyptian khem, as well as with mercury and with priapus, also with the hebrew eloah; thus when jacob entered into a covenant with laban his father-in-law, a pillar was set up and a heap of stones made and a certain compact entered into; similar land marks were usual with the greeks and placed by them upon public roads. as mrs. childs has beautifully said, "other emblems deemed sacred by hindoos and worshipped in their temples have brought upon them the charge of gross indecencies. * * * if light with its grand revealings, and heat, making the earth fruitful with beauty, excited wonder and worship among the first inhabitants of our world, is it strange that they likewise regarded with reverence the great mystery of human birth? were they impure thus to regard it? or are _we_ impure that we do _not_ so regard it?" constant, in his work on roman polytheism says, "indecent rites may be practiced by religious people with the greatest purity of heart, but when incredulity has gained a footing among these peoples then those rites become the cause and pretext of the most revolting corruption." the phallic symbol was always found in temples of siva, who corresponds to baal, and was usually placed as are the most precious emblems of our christian temples to-day, in some inmost recess of the sanctuary. moreover lamps with seven branches were kept burning before it, these seven branched lamps long antedating the golden candlestick of the mosaic tabernacle. the jews by no means escaped the objective evidence of phallic worship; in ezekiel : , is a very marked allusion to the manufacture by jewish women of gold and silver phalli. as a purely phallic symbol and custom mark the significance of certain superstitions and practices even now prevalent in great britain. thus in boylase's _history of cornwall_ it is stated that there is a stone in the parish of mardon, with a hole in it fourteen inches in diameter, through which many persons creep for the relief of pains in the back and limbs, and through which children are drawn to cure them of rickets, this being a practical application of the doctrine of regeneration. in there was printed in the _london standard_ a considerable reference to passing children through clefts in trees as a curative measure for certain physical ailments. the same practice prevails in brazil and in many other places, and within the present generation it has been customary to split a young ash tree and, opening this, pass through it a child for the purpose of curing rupture or some other bodily ailment. the phallic element most certainly cannot be denied in christianity itself, since in it are many references which to the initiated are unmistakable. from the fall of man with its serpent myth and its phallic foundation to the peculiar position assigned to the virgin mary as a mother, phallic references abound. however, it should not be forgotten that whatever were the primitive ideas on which these dogmas were based, they had been lost sight of or had been received in a fresh aspect by the founders of christianity. the fish and the cross originally typified the idea of generation and later that of life, in which sense they were applied to christ. the most plainly phallic representation used in early christian iconography, is undoubtedly the _aureole_ or elliptical frame work, containing usually the figure of christ, sometimes that of mary. the nimbus also, generally circular but sometimes triangular, is of positive phallic significance, even though it contain within it the name of jehovah. the sun flowers which sometimes are made to surround the figure of st. john the evangelist are the lotus flowers of the egyptians. the divine hand with the thumb and two fingers outstretched, even though it rests on a cruciform nimbus, is a phallic emblem, and is used by the neapolitans of to-day to avert the evil eye, although it was originally a symbol of isis. indeed the virgin mary is the ancient isis, as can be most easily established, since the virgin "succeeded to her form, titles, symbols, rites and ceremonies." (king). the great image still moves in procession as when juvenal laughed at it, and her proper title is the exact translation of the sanskrit and the equivalent of the modern madonna, the lotus of isis, and the lily of the modern mary. indeed, as king has written, "it is astonishing how much of the egyptian symbolism passed over into usages of the following times." the high cap and hooked staff of the god became the bishop's mitre and crozier. the term nun is purely egyptian and bore its present meaning. the crux ansata, testifying the union of the male and female principle in the most obvious manner, and denoting fecundity and abundance, is transformed by a simple inversion into an orb surmounted by a cross, the ensign of royalty. the teaching of the church of rome regarding the virgin mary shows a remarkable resemblance to the teachings of the ancients concerning the female associate of the triune deity. in ancient times she has passed under many and diverse names; she was the virgin, conceiving and bringing forth from her own inherent power; she was the wife of nimrod; she has been known as athor, artemis, aphrodite, venus, isis, cybele, etc. as anaitis she is mother and child, appearing again as isis and horus; even in ancient mexico mother and child were worshipped. in modern times she reappears as the virgin mary and her son; she was queen of fecundity, queen of the gods, goddess of war, virgin of the zodiac, the mysterious virgin "time" from whose womb all things were born. although variously represented she has been usually pictured as a more or less nude figure carrying an infant in her arms. (inman, "ancient faiths"). inman declares without hesitation that the trinity of the ancients is unquestionably of phallic origin, and others have strenuously contended and apparently proven that the male emblem of generation in divine creation was three in one, and that the female emblem has always been the triangle or accepted symbol of trinity. sometimes two triangles have been combined forming a six-rayed star, the two together being emblematical of the union of the male and female principles producing a new figure; the triangle by itself with the point down typifies the delta or yoni through which all things come into the world. another symbol of deity among the indians was the trident, and this marks the belief in the trinity which very generally prevailed in india among the hindoos. as maurice says, "it was indeed highly proper and strictly characteristic that a three-fold deity should wield a triple scepter." upon the top of the immense pyramids of deoghur, which were truncated, and upon whose upper surface rested the circular cone--that ancient emblem of the phallus and of the sun, was found the trident scepter of the greek neptune. it is said that in india is to be found the most ancient form of trinitarian worship. in egypt it later prevailed widely, but scarcely any two states worshipped the same triad, though all triads had this in common at least that they were father, mother and son, or male and female with their progeny. in the course of time, however, the worship of the first person was lost or absorbed in the second and the same thing is prevalent among the christians of today, for many churches and institutions are dedicated to the second or third persons of the trinity but none to the first. the transition from the old to the new could not be effected in a short time and must have been an exceedingly slow process, therefore we need not be surprised to be told of the ancient worship that after its exclusion from larger places it was maintained for a long time by the inhabitants of humbler localities; hence its subsequent designation, since from being kept up in the villages, the _pagi_, its votaries, were designated _pagani_, or pagans. even now some of these ancient superstitions remain in recognizable form. the moon is supposed to exert a baneful or lucky influence according as it is first viewed; the mystic horse-shoe, which is a purely uterine symbol, is still widely employed; lucky and unlucky days are still regarded; our playing cards are indicated by phallic symbols, the spade, the triadic club, the omphallic distaff and eminence disguised as the heart and the diamonds. dionysius reappears as st. denys, or in france as st. bacchus; satan is revered as st. satur or st. swithin; the holy virgin, astraea, whose return was heralded by virgil as introducing the golden age, is now designated as the blessed virgin, queen of heaven. the mother and child are to-day in catholic countries adored as much as were ceres and bacchus, or isis and the infant horus, centuries ago. the nuns of christian to-day are the nuns of the buddhists or of the egyptian worshippers of isis, and the phallic import is not lost even in their case since they are the "brides of the savior." the libations of human blood which were formerly offered to bacchus found most tragic imitation in the sacrifices of later days. the screechings of the ancient prophets of baal, and of the egyptian worshippers, preceded the flagellations of the penitentes. even recently, during holy week in rome, devotees lash themselves until the blood runs, as did the young men in ancient rome during the lupercalia. and even yet in new mexico the indian _penitentes_ repeat the cruel flagellations and cross-bearing taught by the spanish priest, to the extent--sometimes--of an actual crucifixion. in the ancient roman catacombs are found portraits of the utensils and furniture of the ancient mysteries, and one drawing shows a woman standing before an altar offering buns to a certain god. in fact we may say there is no christian fast nor festival, procession nor sacrament, custom nor example, that do not come quite naturally from previous paganism. the creation is in fact a _human rather than a divine product_, in this sense that it was suggested to the mind of man by the existence of things, while its method was, at least at first, suggested by the operations of nature; thus man saw the living bird emerge from the egg, after a certain period of incubation, a phenomenon equivalent to actual creation as apprehended by his simple mind. incubation obviously then associated itself with creation, and this fact will explain the universality with which the egg was received as a symbol in the earlier systems of cosmogony. by a similar process creation came to be symbolized in the form of a phallus, and so the egyptians, in their refinement of these ideas, adopted as their symbol of the first great cause, a scarabaeus, indicating the great hermaphroditic unity since they believed this insect to be both male and female. further exemplification of the same underlying principle is seen in the fact that most all of the ancient deities were paired, thus we have heaven and earth, sun and moon, fire and earth, father and mother, etc. faber says,--"the ancient pagans of almost every part of the globe were wont to symbolize the world by an egg; hence this symbol is introduced into the cosmogonies of nearly all nations, and there are few persons even among those who have made mythology their study to whom the mundane egg is not perfectly familiar; it is the emblem not only of earth and life but also of the universe in its largest extent." i began this essay with the intention of demonstrating the recondite but positive connection between the symbolism of the church of to-day and the phallic and iatric cults of pre-christian centuries. (much of the subject matter contained in the previous essay (iii) may be profitably read in this connection). as a humble disciple of that aesculapius who was the reputed founder of our craft, i have felt that every genuine scholar in medicine should be familiar with these relations between the past and the present. v the relation of the grecian mysteries to the foundation of christianity ever since mentality has been an attribute of mankind, man has appreciated that he is surrounded by a vast incomprehensible mystery which ever closes in upon him, and from whose environment he may never free himself. the endeavor to solve this mystery has on one hand stimulated his reasoning power, and on the other nearly paralyzed it. having no better guidance he has in all time attributed to a great first cause powers and faculties, even shape and form, more or less human; thus from time immemorial god or the gods have been given a kingdom, a throne, some definite form, and even offspring. to him or them have been given purely human attributes, and they have been supposed to possess human passions and to be capable of love, wrath, strength, etc. in nearly all ages lightning, for instance, has been regarded as an expression of divine fury. as intelligence advanced the number of gods was reduced and their manifestations classified and studied more or less imaginatively; and so while men have always acknowledged the impossibility of explaining the great mysteries of creation and of space, they have seemed to find it necessary to create other equally inscrutable mysteries of purely human invention, such as the incarnation, the trinity, the resurrection, vicarious salvation, metempsychosis, and the like. history shows the love of mystery to be contagious as well as productive of its kind, and the origin of mystic teachings as well as of most secret societies bears out these statements. secrets, guarded by fearful oaths, personified by meaningless emblems, concealed either in language unintelligible to others, or else hidden in terms whose special meaning is known only to the initiated, made attractive by special signs, symbols, innocent rites, or barbarous observances,--all of these means were designed solely to keep men banded together for the purpose of forming a propaganda intended to perpetuate yet other mysteries in which the initiates were especially interested. since history began such associations of men have existed for most diverse ends, all having this in common, that only by this means could they secure and maintain influence and power. and so the series of pictures which represent man in this role may be regarded as a panorama, led by garlanded priests carrying images of isis or droning hymns to demeter of eleusis, or druids preparing for their human sacrifices; followed by gay and voluptuous bacchantes, succeeded by white-robed pythagoreans; next may come the suffering essenes bearing crosses, then the latin brotherhoods, followed by the german and english guilds, the stone masons with their implements, the crusader knights, those coming first having an appearance of actual humility and devotion, while those who follow are haughty and contemptuous to a degree. then would follow the black-robed penitentes and the members of the society of jesus, sanctimonious, with eyes cast down, human machines, mere tools in the hands of their superiors; the panorama continuing with a widely assorted lot of scholars, artisans and men of all conditions in various regalia, and terminated with an indistinguishable multitude of variously adorned men, some sleek and fat, others ill-conditioned, some devout and sincere, others mere jesters and knaves from every walk of life. it was most natural and to be expected that primitive man should be most profoundly impressed with the forces of nature, often terrifying and frightful, often winsome and attractive, and that he should bow himself down to the unknown cause of these manifestations. with his extremely finite mind he necessarily personified them; after having done this he proceeded to propitiate them by worship with certain forms of ritual. perhaps fire first and most of all attracted him in this way, and drew from him the earliest acts of worship, for in spite of the general views to the contrary fire is often of natural origin, and must have been known to men before they became able to produce it by their own efforts. from practical to generalized concepts was a natural step, and thus mythology had its beginnings; the earliest distinctions were as between that which is overhead, i. e. heaven, and that which is beneath, namely, the earth; these are the beginnings of all cosmogonies. next the gods were given the attributes of sex; heaven was represented as masculine, fructifying, powerful; earth as conceptive, female and gentle. by the union of these two were produced sun, moon and their progeny--the stars. later the sun became poseidon or neptune, because he appeared from and disappeared into the sea. then the imagination began to run riot, and gave rise to many individual divinities, gods and goddesses, all with human passions and attributes, mingling and propagating after human fashion, and begetting dynasties and half human races, whose doings were the subject of countless epics, dramas, myths and romances. thus time passed on and the original sense or meaning of these myths, descending slowly by oral tradition, became lost, while the myths themselves were for a long time accepted as historical facts. nevertheless in all ages there have been men who, like aristotle, cicero and plutarch, have questioned the accuracy of these statements and shown themselves intelligent and active sceptics. during all these times, however, a wily priest-craft had lived and thrived on the superstitions of the common people and the practices in which they have indulged; by these men, thus conditioned, any active doubt was regarded as subversive of the system by which they were supported, and as one not to be tolerated;--this condition pertaining not only to antiquity, since it is too significant a feature even of the early years of this twentieth century. a more or less honest though misinformed priesthood has, in all times, been in favor of the purification of the theology in vogue in their times and among their inner circles, and has in the main given the most rationalistic interpretation to the obscure things which they taught, and practised what their education and environment would permit. but in order to preserve the mysteries, to maintain them as such, and save themselves from becoming superfluous, not to say intolerable, these same mysteries have been tricked out with mysticism, symbolism of the most fantastic character, and allegory of the most bewildering kind; moreover this has often been accomplished by dramatic representations and by moralizing or demoralizing ceremonies. the countries in which these "mysteries," as they have since been known, were most commonly practised and most widely believed were egypt, chaldea and greece. the sources of the egyptian mysteries, like those of egyptian civilization, are the most difficult to discover. the nile is necessarily the basis of egyptian history, geography, activity and habits, and consequently must be also of the egyptian cult. the people who were known as egyptians invaded the land of the nile from the direction of asia, and found there a race of negro type whom they subdued and with whom they later mingled. the semites called the land misraim; the greeks finally changed the name of its great river to neilos. the country is a land of enigmas. who built those pyramids, and why? who originated the system of pictorial writing which we call the hieroglyphic? who planned those wonderful temples now either in ruins, as in upper egypt, or buried beneath the desert sands, as in lower egypt? who brought and erected those mighty blocks of stone or massive slabs from enormous distances, and handled them as we could scarcely do to-day with the best of modern machinery? in course of time two hereditary classes were formed, the priests who dominated the minds, and the warriors who controlled the bodies of the conquered people and the lower classes. the latter kept the throne of egypt occupied, while the former, having a monopoly of the knowledge of the time, prescribed for the people what they must believe, yet were very far from accepting these precepts for themselves, and in their inner circles made light of that which they preached to the despised classes without. the egyptians named their sun god re, but assigned the various attributes of the sun to different personalities; they had moreover not only gods for the whole land, but ptah was god of memphis, ammon god of thebes, etc. local deities were often constructed out of inspiring objects or from animals inhabited by spirits, and thus the fetichism of the original negro race exerted no little influence upon the higher cult of their lighter colored conquerors. worship was paid to animals not for their own sake but because of the gods who were supposed to reside within them; thus their prominent gods were represented with the head of some animal. this honor belonged not to any individual animal but of necessity to the entire species, certain representatives of which were maintained at public expense in the temples, where they were carefully guarded and waited upon by the faithful. to harm one of these animals was to be severely punished, to kill one of them was to die. conversely when a god failed in responding to the prayers of the faithful his fetich had to suffer, and the priests first threatened the animal, and if menaces were unavailing they killed the sacred beast, albeit in secret, lest the people should learn of it. as time went on there was less of zoölatry, and the sun-gods and their associates figured more largely among the cult of the people. the sun's course was not represented as that of a chariot, as among the persians and greeks, but rather as the voyage of a nile boat, upon which the god re navigated the heavens; from which it will appear that the priestly religion was making slow progress to monotheism by means of oligotheism. the secret teaching of the priests was now more and more to the effect that the gods stood not so much for themselves as for something else. during the fourth dynasty the lower egyptian city anu was known as the city of the sun, hence the greek name for the place, heliopolis. still more characteristic was the giving of the name of osiris, who figured as god of abdu, which the greeks called abydos, in upper egypt, to the god of the sunset, who was king of the lower domains and of death, brother and at the same time husband of isis, brother also of set, who slew him, and father of horus, i. e. god of the new sun, who figures after each sunset. horus fought with set, but being unable to completely destroy him left him the desert as his kingdom, while himself holding to the nile valley. this story of the gods was publicly represented in various scenes on certain holidays, but only the priests, i. e., the initiated, knew the real meaning of the representations. even the name of osiris and his abode were kept secret, and outsiders heard only of the "great god" dwelling somewhere in "the west." these were the most famous of all the old egyptian mysteries, though to them were added many others, including that of apis, the sacred bull of memphis, who served also as the symbol of the sun and of the fructifying nile; beneath his tongue was to be seen the sacred beetle, and the behavior of the great animal was supposed to be prophetic and his actions to mean oracular sayings. the sphinx again was a sun-god, his image being repeated throughout the nile region, and was always thought of as a male; the head was represented as that of some king, while the whole figure stood for the sun-god harmachis; although the sphinx later introduced into greece was always female. while the egyptians did not attribute to their numerous gods divine perfection, they nevertheless regarded religious practices as a means of currying favor with their divinities, a custom apparently still in favor. the priests believed in a sun-god as the only true deity, but not so the people; thus the priests in the various cities praised their local and tutelary god as supreme and made him identical with re, whose name they appended to the original, as for instance _amon-re_. the king, no matter where he was, prayed always to the local deity as lord of heaven and earth, yet in words always the same. at last during the eighteenth dynasty, about b. c., amenhotep iv realized that the power of the priesthood was a menace to the crown and therefore proclaimed the sun as the sole god, not in human shape, but in that of a disk. he ordered all other images of other gods associated with the sun to be destroyed; the priests of these deposed gods lost their places and estates, which latter were confiscated. but his sons-in-law who succeeded him restored the deposed monarchs. nevertheless they were marked as heretics by those priests who were reinstated in their former power. in consequence of this conflict, which was violent and prolonged, the intellectual life of egypt was paralyzed and the mystic teachings of the priests were henceforth not disturbed by any wave of progress or advance. the people again sank into a stupid and unredeemable formalism, demonism and sorcery. with the purpose of amusing them the priests furnished gorgeous sacrificial processions and festivals, while at the same time drawing them away from the true god by teaching them a worship of deceased kings and queens. they also built temples, to only the outer portion of which were the people generally admitted, while the innermost portions were guarded by these priests lest the mysteries thus protected be such no longer. they also procured the building of the ancient labyrinth, near lake moeris, of which herodotus tells us that there were fifteen hundred chambers above ground and as many more under ground, which latter were never shown except to the initiated, and which contained the remains of sacred crocodiles and of the pharaohs. the egyptian priests taught that man was made up of _body_, a material essence or the _soul_, which in the shape of a bird left the body at death, and an _immaterial spirit_ which held to the man the same relation which a god held to the animal in which he dwelt, and which at death departed from the body like the image of a dream. they taught also that, if the soul and spirit were to live on, the body should be embalmed and laid in a rock chamber, and that then the relatives must supply meat, drink, and clothing for its use. the spirit took its way to osiris and by means of a magic formula the dead would be made one with osiris; hence in the egyptian "book of the dead" the deceased was addressed as osiris with his own name added, and could now lead a happy life in the other world, which life was portrayed on the walls of the sepulchres in pictures which are still to be seen, showing how the creature comforts of this world were to be enhanced in the next. having reached the outer world, and having escaped the host of demons that threatened him on his passage, he could then revisit this earth at will in any form. the egyptian priests also taught that there was a judgment of the dead, and that new comers had to appear before osiris, with his forty-two assessors, and disclaim the commission of each one of forty-two sins; all of which was a magic formula for obtaining bliss according to their notion rather than anything intended as a true statement. the hippopotamus figured as an active agent in the book of the dead, appearing always as the accuser, when the sins and the good deeds were being weighed in the balance, while the god thot was the "attorney for the defense." all these secret doctrines of a priestcraft necessitated secret associations, at least of the higher priests, to which the king was always admitted, the only egyptian outside of the priesthood to be thus taught their secrets. this was purely for protection; having less fear of foreigners these priests often initiated distinguished men from foreign lands, greeks especially. thus orpheus, homer, lycurgus, solon, herodotus, pythagoras, plato, archimedes, and many others, received the secret doctrine. the ritual was a long and tedious but significant ceremony, taught by degrees like the masonry of to-day, and necessitated in some cases the right of circumcision; all who passed it were pledged to the most strict silence. according to diodorus the orphic mysteries were in large degree a repetition of the egyptian, while the greek legislators, philosophers and mathematicians whom i have named drew their knowledge from the same source; all of which is probably a very gross exaggeration. nevertheless it would appear from the hieroglyphic remains that high grade schools were conducted by the egyptian priests, and that foreign scholars could obtain for themselves instruction in the exact sciences of the day. only the priests, however, were able to write the hieroglyphics, at least in the earlier centuries of egyptian history. there can be no doubt but that the secret doctrine of the egyptian priests was both philosophic and religious, and was sharply distinguished from the popular belief which mistook tradition for truth; that it was monotheistic, that it rejected polytheism and zoölatry, and that the true signification of egyptian mythology was expounded in private. moreover an essential part of this mystery concerned the interpretation of myths as allegorical accounts of personified natural phenomena. for instance plutarch ("isis and osiris") writes--"when we hear of the egyptian myths of the gods, their wanderings, their dismemberment and other like incidents, we must recall the remarks already made, so as to understand that the stories told are not to be taken literally as recounting actual occurrences." without now going into the subject of the relative age of the egyptian and chaldean cults, i will remind you that the secret wisdom of one race was not excelled by that of the other. the chaldean races are undoubtedly of turanian origin, and their form of religion was peculiar to the ural-altaic stock and the turkic races, who originated the cuneiform writing. their most ancient writings represented evil spirits as coming from the desert in groups of seven, and contained formulas for exorcising them; they were presided over by the heavens, while from the higher spirits evolved gods and goddesses in countless number. upon the original ground work of chaldean ideas a semitic race built a superstructure, and the first traces of the babylonians and assyrians appeared some four thousand years b. c. their highest god was an individual whom they named baal, while the sun and moon were his images. as in egypt the priests were held in great reverence, standing next after the king, who was _ex officio_ high priest; they too had a secret doctrine withheld from the vulgar. although the chaldeans were astrologers rather than astronomers, they were yet familiar enough with the heavens to estimate astral phenomena for what they really were, instead of holding them to be gods, though they may have represented them as such to the common people. their literature contained numerous mythological poems, so obscure that to understand them a key was required, which key was only in the possession of the priests. inasmuch as abraham came from ur in chaldea, with him crept into biblical literature much of the chaldean tradition and folklore. the chaldeans had also their noah, and their deluge, in which the dove figured as in the biblical account. when the proprietor of the ark finally freed the animals he erected an altar and offered sacrifice, to which the gods gathered "like masses of flies." this story contributes but one section of the great chaldean epic in which are recounted the exploits of a hero corresponding with the nimrod of the hebrew bible, dating from the twenty-third century b. c., and reminding one forcibly of the herculean and many other myths recounted in other ancient languages. an off-shoot of the chaldean culture was that of persia, whose priestly class were far removed above the warriors and farmers that constituted the other two classes. priests married only among their own race, possessed all the knowledge, made their king _ex officio_ one of themselves, and practised itinerant teaching, but solely among their own caste. in the holy city, ragha, the priests alone held rule and no secular power prevailed; zoroaster was their founder; they were the physicians, astrologers, interpreters of dreams, scribes and officers of justice, while they impressed upon the minds of the people their exclusive duties;--to reverence the holy fire, which was their greatest mystery, to listen to the teaching of passages from the sacred book, and to perform numerous ceremonies of purification. only the initiated were taught the meaning of the strife between the good ormuzd and the evil ahriman, which was probably the alternation of day and night, and of summer and winter. in india the intense feeling with regard to caste but little altered the condition of things from that obtaining as above described, though the brahmins were further away from the other castes than in other countries where the priests came from the common people; by the latter the brahmins used to be regarded as gods and did all they could to perpetuate this feeling. by this fact alone they became a self-constituted mystic organization, being themselves pantheists while the people were idolators. though they taught pantheism in their sacred books, the second and third castes, namely the warriors and farmers, did not understand the teaching, and the fourth caste dared not read them at all. in this pantheism penitents and hermits were esteemed as above kings and heroes; but even the life of a hermit was not exacting enough for them, so they organized the idea of a soul of the universe so incomprehensible that, as they themselves acknowledged, no man could comprehend it or instruct another in it. despairing of solving the problem they finally fancied that the universe was a phantasm, and that the earth and all things earthly were nothing. they taught that through countless aeons of time men grew always worse, and were born only to suffer and die, or to do penance in the torments of an indescribable hell. naturally of all these things the people could only understand the teachings pertaining to hell and future punishment, and so the brahmins contrived for them a supreme deity, having the same name as their soul of the universe, namely brahma, whom they made the creator but playing a passive part. the people were not content, however, with an absentee passive god, but paid much more attention to vishnu the preserver, and the dreaded siva, the destroyer. after a while these three gods were united in a sort of trinity, represented by a three headed figure, but without temples or sacrifices. the brahmins continued their subtleties and divided the people into parties, like the scholiasts and disputants of the middle centuries of our present christian era, and so the hindoo religion became more and more debased. however, in the sixth century b. c., buddha, that great figure in early history, endeavored to save it by a reform which found much more encouragement in the west, and to the far east of india, than in india itself, and which has since assumed a more composite character by fusion with the religions of the surrounding countries. buddha formed first a monastic society based upon ethical doctrines, whose underlying principle was that only by a renunciation of everything can man find safety, peace and comfort. buddha's first teachings were mystic and for the initiated only; his followers believed also in reincarnation. after his death and that of those who were supposed to have lived before him, and who were expected to appear again, and who had been raised to the dignity of gods, (and after their number had been added to that of the popular hindoo gods and to the gods of the other people), then buddhism became a polytheism, and because of the variety of possible explanations and the necessary exegesis, assumed in the end the dimensions of a secret mystic doctrine. the hellenes undoubtedly did, in the beginning, worship natural forces under the form of animals, especially of serpents; later human and animal forms were united, and so they had deities with heads of animals, or with the bodies of horses like the centaurs, or with the hoofs of goats like the satyrs. but the natural greek taste for the beautiful early asserted itself; the figures of gods came by degrees to express the ideal of physical perfection, that is the human shape, and the grecian religion became essentially a worship of the beautiful, and not as among oriental religions a worship of the unnatural or hideous. they forgot the astronomic and cosmic significance of the early myths and held rather to personifications of the normal forces, of which their poets sang as of mortal heroes. they never dreamt of dogma, creed or revelation, demanded only that man honor the gods, but left it to the taste of each one how he should suitably perform his acts of reverence. it must be confessed, however, that in candor and chastity they left much to be desired; but this may be explained when we remember that their own gods set them a very poor example in these respects. still history will forgive them much because they loved much. the greeks were exceedingly liberal in their interpretations concerning the gods, while the various peoples constituting the greek race were not at all agreed as to the number and respective rank of the gods whom they worshiped. thus one would be disowned here, another there; while in one place greater honor would be paid to one, or elsewhere to another; exactly as in the case of the saints among the catholic people of to-day. they went so far in their worship of the beautiful as to divide the gods among the localities which possessed statues of them, which gods came to be regarded as distinct individuals; so that even socrates doubted whether aphrodite of the sky and aphrodite of the people were or were not the same person. furthermore in their liberality they made gods to hand for every emergency, and even worshiped the unknown gods, as st. paul long ago recorded. for the greeks these gods were neither monsters like those of egypt, india and chaldea, nor incorporeal spirits like the gods of persia and of israel, but human beings with all the human attributes. for the greeks neither jehovah existed, nor a personal devil in any form. like the greeks themselves their gods had many human failings, though in them religion survived many mythological creations like the centaurs, the satyrs, etc. these were merely folklore beings enacting parts ranging from terror to farce, and never receiving divine honors. grecian religion was, so to speak, the established church of the greek states, but came to be in time a cloak for the designs of the politicians; in which respect history has many times repeated itself. for instance socrates was made to drink his cup of hemlock on the pretext that he had apostatized from the state religion. still even in his day heresy played no part except among politicians. every one could plainly state his convictions, and aristophanes in his comedies introduced gods in the most ridiculous and compromising situations. so long as the public worship of the gods went on the state cared little for the upholding of positive or suppressing of negative beliefs. the gods were entitled to sacrifices and the people to divine aid, but they could regulate the interchange to suit themselves. the greatest public crimes were violation of temples and profanation of sacred things; one must leave the images alone even if he did not believe in the gods they represented. punishment of blasphemy was only inflicted when complaint was made. foreign gods could be introduced and worshiped at will, providing only that the customary honors were rendered to those at home. such religious freedom could naturally only exist during the minority or the absence of a priestly class. anyone could transact business with the gods or conduct sacrifices; priests were employed only in the temples, and outside of them they had neither business, influence nor privileges. their pantheism was comprehensive; the gods were everywhere, and the honor done to them consisted in invocations, votive offerings and sacrifices. the grecian religion recognized no official revelation which all were required to believe, though it did not deny the possibility of revelations at any time. their oracles were obtainable only in particular places and through duly qualified individuals. at one time in ancient greece conjuration was in vogue, but the gods and demons who indulged in it were all borrowed from foreign sources, and in time it degenerated into pure magic. the greeks, however, could not get away from the sentimental notion that belief in the gods must have an ethical side and must be subordinate to their faith; in other words that human nature was something entirely different from the divine to which it was subject. alienation from the god in which they believed led necessarily to the impulse to seek him, which was the leading motive in the institution of the grecian mysteries,--gods who were man's equals were not sufficient for the greeks. in the beginning of these mysteries they borrowed the art of the popular religion, disregarded the science of the day as well as the philosophic doctrines of their great men, held in contempt both human power and human knowledge, and devoted themselves almost entirely to self-introspection, meditation on revelation, incarnation and resurrection, and presented these things in dramatic forms and ceremonies, by which illusions they hoped to make more or less impression upon the senses. the grecian mysteries were the opposite of genuine hellenism. the true greek was cheerful, happy, clear in perception, and his gods appeared to him as do their statues to us to-day. but greek mysticism was full of gloom, symbolism and fantastic interpretations; in every way it was unhellenic and abnormal, having no fit place in their soil nor in their age. it always has been the case that sentimental, romantic or mystical dispositions find delight in the mysterious, while logical minds are unmoved by it. from the mysteries no man was excluded, save those who had shown themselves unworthy of initiation. they had their origin in the early rites of purification and atonement; the former being at first only bodily cleansing, which later took on a moral significance; while the atonement was a sort of expiation which came with the consciousness of sin and desire for forgiveness. atonement was most called for in case of blood guiltiness, and consisted largely in the sacrifices of animals, burning of incense, etc. in all the ancient mysteries these two features of purification and expiation played a great part. of them all the oldest and most celebrated were those instituted at eleusis, in attica, in honor of the goddess demeter (latin ceres), and her daughter persephone (latin proserpina). to these were added later a masculine deity, known at first as iacchos, whose name is probably related to jao, which appears in jovispater or jupiter, and to the hebrew yahve or jehovah. later, however, b was substituted for i and iacchos was made to read bacchus. jao was the harvest god, and consequently god of the grape, hence the close relation to bacchus. the greek word eleusis means _advent_, and commemorates the visit of demeter while wandering in search of her daughter,--which reminds one of the egyptian story of isis. moved by gratitude, demeter bestowed upon the people of eleusis the bread-grain and the mysteries. from this city the cult of these two deities spread over all greece and most of asia minor, passed into italy in modified form, and thus became widely accepted. the people built at eleusis a temple in pure doric style and a mystic house in which the secret festivals were held. the city was connected with athens by a sacred way, which was flanked with temples and sanctuaries, while in athens itself was a building, the eleusinion, in which a portion of the mysteries were celebrated. the buildings at eleusis were in good preservation until the fourth century a. d., when they were destroyed by the goths under alaric, and at the instigation of monkish fanatics. you will see, then, that the mysteries were widely observed in asia minor, and at a time when they must have deeply tinged the religious views and habits of a large portion of the population prior to the beginning of the christian era. the eleusinian mysteries were always under the direction of the athenian government, and the report of their celebration was always rendered to the grand council of athens. the function of the priests was an hereditary and exclusive privilege and the mysteries as a whole were under the immediate care of a sacred council. the people contented themselves mainly with honoring the gods, while in these mysteries the original endeavor was to emphasize the preëminence of the divine over the human, hence their careful guardianship by the authorities of the state. both were offshoots of pantheism, one seeing the divine in all earthly things, the other constantly searching for it there, and striving to unite with it. monotheism, that is absolute separation of the human from the divine without hope of union, is a purely oriental conception, quite incomprehensible to the greek mind. no ancient greek ever conceived of a creative deity in the egyptians' sense, nor of a vengeful jehovah like that of the hebrews. the eleusinian mysteries were most highly venerated among the greeks; so much so that during their celebration hostilities were suspended between opposing armies, while those who witnessed them uninvited or betrayed the secret teaching, or ridiculed them, were executed or banished. so late even as the period of the roman supremacy the roman emperors took an interest in maintaining these mysteries, and some of the early christian emperors, like constantius ii. and jovian, while forbidding nocturnal festivals made an exception of these. the sum of the original eleusinian doctrine is a myth based upon the rape of demeter's daughter persephone by pluto, all of which is the old story of the seasons and the changes brought about in their regular succession; and as persephone was ultimately united with bacchus but returned to the lower world for the winter, we see typified first, the fruitfulness of the sun god; secondly, the fecundity of the soil, and, thirdly, the resurrection of the body, which having been dropped like the grain into the earth was supposed to rise from it again after a similar fashion. how much this may have to do with present christian beliefs concerning the resurrection may not be easily decided. nevertheless it is of interest that the doctrine of the resurrection is of pre-christian origin and is traceable through heathen teachings, even if having no greater support than the analogy above cited. the central teaching of the mysteries was probably that of a personal immortality analogous to the return of bloom and blossom to plants in the spring. there were two festivals held at eleusis, the _lesser_ in march, when the ravished persephone came up out of the nether world into the sunlight; and the _greater_ in october when she had to follow her sullen spouse into hades again. the preliminary celebration was held at athens, and lasted six days, from october th to th. they all assembled upon that day and went down to the seashore for the rite of purification, the other days being spent in sacrificing and marching in solemn procession. on the last of them came the grand bacchic procession, when thousands of both sexes wended their way along the sacred road to eleusis; the distance to be traveled was fourteen miles, but many stops were made. arrived at eleusis the first evening was devoted to drinking the decoction called _kykeon_, by which demeter was originally comforted during her wanderings. during the first days the initiated feasted and performed their mystic rites, consisting largely of torch light processions at night. after these were over the festival became a scene of merriment and athletic competition. the fasting and solemn cup, along with others of their rites, remind one of certain christian observations perpetuated to the present day, while the severe tests to which those desiring initiation were subject have been more or less imitated by the free masons and other secret societies of mediaeval or modern times. the mystic house must have been furnished with all the resources of the stage and the most ingenious stage carpentry of that day, and makes one think of scottish rite masonry of this. the initiates regarded their chances in the next world as much better than those of the common people, as all the ancient greek writers acknowledge. in age and renown the mysteries of the cabiri, in the island of samothrace, rank next to those of eleusis. they date back to a time preceding the evolution of several of the grecian deities. these mysteries implied originally an astro-mythology, losing in time its astral meaning. in these samothracian mysteries the reproductive forces of nature figured most prominently, and through them the phallic worship of the orientals was transmitted to the greeks. into these mysteries women and even children were initiated. there were also cabirian mysteries in several other islands in the grecian archipelago, as well as on the continent. mysteries were also celebrated in the island of crete, in honor of zeus. we know but little concerning them save that in the spring time the birth of the god was commemorated in one place, and his death at another, and that amid loud noises the story of the childhood of zeus was enacted by the young. as already remarked the worship of bacchus was imported and in him was personified the influence of the sun upon the growth of the vine, while the ultimate tendency was to the glorification of life and force; in other words, it was eminently materialistic and appealed to the grosser senses. the dionysian mysteries originated in thrace, and among a people of pelasgian stock, who were naturally gloomy save when aroused, when their enthusiasm became exaggerated into transports of frenzy. in time a distinction obtained between the dionysian mysteries and the festivals. at least seven different non-mystic festivals occurred in attica during the year, which were of popular character, during which the phallic worship, if any, predominated. the fabled adventures of bacchus were enacted and the dramatic stage originated at this time and from this beginning. on the other hand, a triennial festival of dionysos was held in which women participated who, saturated with wine, lost all restraint and humility and were called _maenades_ or mad women, while their festivals were spoken of as _orgia_, whence our modern term orgies. these were conducted at night, upon the mountains, by torch-light, in mid-winter, while the women, who were clothed in skins, shunned all association with men, and drank, danced, sang and committed all sorts of excesses, finally sacrificing a bull, in honor of the god, whose flesh they devoured raw. they then raved about the death of their god and how he must be found again; all hope in rediscovering him centering in the quickening springtime. bacchus worship, bad as it was in greece, was surpassed in rome, livy even comparing the introduction of the bacchic cult into rome to a visitation of the plague. in its etruscan and roman form it became simple debauchery with a thin veneering of religion. so abominable did it become in time that in b. c., the consul albinus was compelled to suppress it. seven thousand persons were implicated at that time, and the ringleaders and a multitude of their accomplices were condemned to death or exile. the senate decreed that the bacchanalia should never again be held in rome or italy, and the places sacred to bacchic worship were to be destroyed. these orgies continued unchecked outside of italy, and in time reappeared again even upon italian soil, until the days of the roman emperors, when they reached a pitch of absolute shamelessness, as in the case of the notorious messalina. time fails in which to mention all of the other debased mysteries which were met with in the various parts of greece and italy. among them, however, must be recorded those of the mother of rhea, those of sebazios, and those of mithras, all of which were finally collected by the sect of orpheans. among the persians mithras was the light, and his worship was perhaps the purest cult that could be imagined. later it was combined with sun worship, and mithras became a sun god, and as such generally recognized among the different peoples. to the early greeks mithras was unknown, but in the later days of the roman empire his mysteries made their appearance and gained great prominence. the monuments represented a young man in the act of slaying a bull with a dagger, while all around are human and animal figures, the youth standing for the sun god who, on subduing taurus in may, begins to develop his highest power. the original beautiful rites later degenerated and became orgies. among the original rites was a form of baptism and the drinking of a potion made of meal and water. human sacrifices were in some places a part of the cult. the most disreputable of all these mysteries appear to have been the sabazian, which were made up of several earlier forms, and were mere excuses for gluttony and lewdness, while the priests of the cult were most impudent beggars. thus in time the mysteries were stripped of all the beauties of a heavenly origin and became of earth exceedingly earthy, while their initiates, lost to all shame and decency, persisted nevertheless in their sacred hypocrisy, until the hideous night of the gods disappeared before the glow of a brighter morning. after this rather long preliminary portion, we are now prepared, as otherwise we could not be, to consider the relation between the christian religion and these ancient mysteries. granting that jesus was the founder of the christian religion, we must remember, nevertheless, that he was distinctly a jew, spent his life in judea, and based his teachings upon judaism; also that long before his day judaism was thoroughly indoctrinated with greek elements, and that after his crucification the propaganda was carried on not so much by jews as by greeks and men of grecian education. between the greeks and the jews there were then, as now, the greatest differences; differences which have already been epitomized, but which may be thus summarized. on one side the closest union between god or the gods and man, most lofty sentiments and finest sense of art-form, a priesthood making no pretentions and exerting little influence, a nation sustaining active commercial relations with the world, and all imbued with eagerness to adopt whatever was novel; on the other side, the widest separation between jehovah and man, a substitution of theology and religious poetry for a study of nature, a nation ruled by priests and protected against all access from without, either by sea or caravan, adhering determinedly to the old and distrusting whatever was new. after the jews were liberated from babylon, by cyrus, they dispersed widely, living largely under persian rule, and subjected after alexander's conquest to greek influences. later they were scattered still more widely, becoming in time a mercantile race. in egypt they enjoyed greater privileges than elsewhere, and in alexandria saw the acme of grecian art and teaching. while retaining their reverence for their scriptures and for the temple at jerusalem, they quite generally adopted the language of the country, and particularly was this true of the jews living in alexandria in the third century, b. c., during which the pentateuch was translated into the septuagint, the remainder of the hebrew bible being translated about b. c. thus the greeks gained an introduction to jewish theology, while the hellenist jews learned for the first time a grecian philosophy; thus, too, among the scholars of one race was begotten a high esteem for the sages and philosophers of the other, while from the polytheism of one and the monotheism of the other was constructed a new mysticism. in this alexandrian mysticism appeared in particular and for the first time the new idea of divine revelation, which was applied by enthusiasts alike to the old testament and to the grecian writings. the jew aristobulus devised a most ingenious allegorical interpretation of the old testament, and traced to it all the wisdom of the greeks, who until recently had never heard of it; and philo, another hebrew philosopher, contemporary with christ, yet of whom he knew nothing, so construed the traditions of his race as to see in the four rivers of eden the four cardinal virtues, in the trees of paradise the lesser virtues, and in the great figures of jewish history personifications of various moral conceptions, all of which was out-doing the manner in which his grecian friends had developed their own mysteries. moreover, and this is very important, philo taught that god had made a world of ideas and according to this model had subsequently made a corporeal world; the former having for its central point the word. this statement that the _word_ was the first and the _world_ his second deed passed later into the gospel of st. john, which opens "in the beginning was the _word_, and the _word_ was god." philo founded a sect based upon the doctrine that the soul's union with the body is to be regarded as a punishment from which man should free himself, for his soul's sake. this sect was known as the essenes, who in spite of claims to the highest antiquity really were founded during the first century b. c., and who constituted in effect a secret society. they were the true socialists of their day, and held things in common. they invented a peculiar nomenclature for the angels and imposed upon their new members to keep these names secret. as a society they did not long survive the beginning of the christian era, being made superfluous by christian asceticism. the essenes, however, were of importance in this regard that they constituted the middle terms between the grecian mysteries and christianity, as they did between grecian philosophy and judaism. they were, in effect, a jewish imitation of the pythagorean league. _when with grecian mysticism were associated the nobility of socrates, the philosophy of plato, the science of aristotle and the jewish belief in one god, it is not strange that out of these elements, combined with the teachings of simple humanity enunciated by christ, there resulted a power which transformed the world._ the view that all mankind are brothers, originally jewish, was also of independent greek origin and came especially from the stoics, who had to lie dormant until some tie stronger than mere political association held men together. this tie subsequently became a religious one. polytheism had nothing more to give up; all the forces had been worked over in the god-making process, the pantheon was full, and men ridiculed alike the gods, their oracles and their priests. these same priests smiled at each other when they met, and forfeited all public respect by the lives they led. olympic wantoning and derision of the gods must necessarily have ended so soon as anything better could be substituted therefor. the long felt want was for a god of definite character, of approved prowess, with human feelings, human wrath, and human love, made after man's own likeness, who should stand for a doctrine of personal immortality, and give some promise of a hereafter. the jews, the only monotheists of the time, were prepared to furnish such a god, but he was too spiritual, and was worshiped by altogether too indefinite rites and peculiar usages. nevertheless the god of the jews was utilized for this purpose while the mystic elements with which he was to be surrounded were furnished by the ancient grecian mysteries and the doctrines of the pythagoreans and essenes. so completely did the jews and greeks mingle in egypt and in judea, that the idea prevailed among both races that the time had come for something new in the desired direction. the various secret leagues demanded a separation of the divine from the human and their subsequent reconciliation, all of which was subsequently furnished to their satisfaction in the accounts of the origin and death of christ. even during the early years of the roman empire men looked for a new kingdom in the east, and both jews and heathen awaited some divine intervention. this took more definite form in the jewish expectation of a messiah who should restore the kingdom of israel, and in their worship of jehovah, while the greeks yearned for something to take the place of their degenerate polytheism. the times were thus ready for the appearance of jesus, who lived for most of his life in obscurity, and of whose career no mention is made by contemporary greek and roman writers. this was perhaps fortunate for his followers, for none could contradict what any other might choose to say of him who rose above the bigotry of his day and people, who was executed because of his independence of the priests and scribes, and who was thus regarded as the longed for messiah. on the jewish branch of his real origin were grafted grecian mystical off-shoots of superhuman origin;--an immaculate conception, a vicarious sacrifice, a resurrection and an assumption of a portion of the god-head. thus, in what has come down to us concerning the founder of the christian church, truth and fiction mingle; the former being that which is consistent with highest laws and natural phenomena; and the latter that which conflicts with these. jesus himself never made pretentions to being more than a man. when he spoke of his father he spoke of him as equally the father of all mankind; he was the greatest moral reformer that ever lived, and he differed widely from the essenes in that he sought to save man, not by essenism and withdrawing him from the world, but by living with him and setting him a beautiful example. the ancients were firm believers in signs and portents from the heavens which were supposed to serve both for the instruction and warning of mankind. stars, meteors, the aurora, comets and sudden lights of any kind were regarded as presaging events like the birth of gods, heroes, etc. great lights were supposed to have appeared both at the conception and birth of buddha, and of crishna. the sacred writings of china tell of like events in the history of the founder of her first dynasty, yu, and of her inspired sages. the greeks and romans had similar traditions regarding the birth of aesculapius and several of the caesars. in jewish history we read that a star appeared at the birth of moses, and of abraham--for whom an unusual one appeared in the east. the prominence which a similar star in the east played in the legends of the founder of christianity and the effect which, as also in the case of moses it had upon magi, needs here no rehearsing. a very different significance was attached to eclipse or to any phenomena by which unexpected darkness is produced. the greeks held that at the deaths of prometheus, hercules, aesculapius and alexander, a great darkness overspread the earth. in roman history the earth was shadowed in darkness for six hours when romulus died. much the same thing is reported to have occurred when julius caesar died. so also one of the most conspicuous features attending the crucifixion of jesus was a similar phenomenon which is made to play a most conspicuous part, for we read in three of the gospels that "darkness spread over the earth from the sixth to the ninth hour;" although the only evangelist who claims to have been present says nothing about it, nor do historians of that time, like seneca and pliny, make note of any such event in judea. in view of all this, however, to deny the star in the east, and the hours of darkness following the crucifixion, is regarded by many pious people as rank blasphemy or heresy of the deepest dye. the parables in which jesus taught so unmistakably were similes adapted to the simple comprehension of his people, who likewise often made use of such figurative language. those who followed him used this form of speech much more freely, and quickly erected his personality into the dignity of a god, magnified him and his mission, and soon saw him generally accepted as the equivalent of the messiah, for whom greeks and jews alike had longed. his alleged miracles were unnecessary, in addition to being contradictory to all known natural sequences, because the simple and sublime truths which he preached could not be made more expressive by any such help. in the light of to-day they seem unnecessary juggleries, quite unworthy of so grand a character. they probably represent the effort of his followers, who portrayed his life and personality in colors which would make them more generally acceptable. of such transformations as that by which the son of a carpenter was made to appear of divine origin history has no lack. the grecian polytheism furnished numerous illustrations; apollo appeared on earth as a shepherd, herakles, the son of zeus, and romulus (who was also the son of a _virgin_ and of _mars_), were founders of cities, states and nations. the jewish accounts of creation stated that god walked the earth, and why not in human form? why also should not the founder of a religion be the son of god and of a virgin? the rest of the beautiful story upon which we were all brought up must be regarded as fanciful embellishment, beautiful in its imagery, but having no foundation in fact or scientific possibility. the annunciation, the star in the east, the slaughter of the innocents, etc., can only be regarded in this light. the stories of the miracles are probably distinctively purposive. in the grecian mysteries demeter and dionysos figured as givers of bread and wine; jesus, too, was made lord and giver of these two sacred viands, all of which appears in his changing water into wine, multiplying the loaves, and later in the institution of the last supper, at which bread and wine became a part of these christian mysteries which are still widely perpetuated. in his quieting the storm, walking upon the water, finding the penny in the fishes' mouth, and the draught of fishes, are portrayed his power over the forces of nature and lower forms of life. his power over disease was personified by stories of healing paralytics, lepers, blind, deaf and dumb people, casting out devils, and even by restoring the dead to life. apparitions were common according to the history of his life, as of the holy spirit in form of a dove, his encounter with satan, the appearance of moses and elias, etc. the ancient tendency to personify appears again in the form of satan or a personal devil, namely the power of evil, while in the transfiguration is personified the superiority of the new law over the old. finally the miracles attending his last days, the darkening of the sun, the rending of the veil and the resurrection, were all occurrences which it would be impossible to omit from the closing scenes in the life of anyone who has figured as a god. they betoken the mourning of nature, while the ascension personified the belief in an everlasting redeemer and the individual immortality of those who believed in him. in thus epitomizing the events in the life of jesus upon which, from his day until now, men have laid such fearful stress, and upon whose acceptance the present life as well as the future of all men has been conditioned, i should be far from doing justice to myself should i fail to point out my own attitude in the matter. i hold it true that the self-evident truth, as well as the wonderful sublimity of christ's teachings, become apparent upon the study of the same, and are weakened rather than strengthened by insistence upon all that is supernatural, mysterious and inconceivable in the generally accepted account of his life and labor. my mind is freed from the necessity for the mysterious which the graeco-jewish people demanded, and which the superstitious people of to-day still demand, and i prefer to let him stand for what he seems to me to be,--_the greatest moralist and teacher of all time_, rather than to surround him with a veil of imagery and with statements so impossible of belief as to make it impossible to accept one part without accepting them all. the jews already had doctrines of unity of god and love for others; the grecian philosophy antedated him in insisting upon elevation of life to a higher plane than that of mere gratification of the senses, and everywhere his predecessors and contemporaries could furnish miracles by the hundred, but in force, grandeur and simplicity of his teachings, in his comprehensive humanity, in his directness of appeal, in his condemnations of those who departed from the model which he set, he never has had and probably never will have an equal. in his self-abasement and love for others he was as irresistible as have been these principles in civilizing and, in this sense, christianizing the world. in jesus' own day there was no hair-splitting theology; devotion, love of fellow-men, charity, repentance, these were all that were needed. but the beautiful simplicity of his teaching was lost with the death of his first disciples. the system was esteemed too simple, too unadorned to appeal to the people used to something quite the contrary. and so stephen the martyr, who was of grecian education, was stoned because he demanded a repudiation of certain jewish teachings, although the congregation at antioch adopted his views. paul the great leader was an epileptic and had frequent fits and visions, and these made a strong impression, not only on himself but on his followers. on the creations of his imagination the doctrine of the resurrection is largely based. he set up the god-man jesus as the counterpart of the first man adam, who represented sin and death, and who was to be crucified and born anew in christ. between paul, the great gentile christian, and peter, the jewish christian, the church was quickly split into two parties; these two soon subdividing into others, and among them all arose the new testament literature, whose alexandrine dialect establishes the influence of greek education. thus did christianity develop out of the secret associations of the ancient world. the early christians themselves constituted, at least while under persecution, a sort of secret society. their worship was mystical, but not because jesus so taught;--rather because of their environment and traditions. the practice of baptism, the last supper and the doctrines of incarnation and resurrection have been as certainly added to the nazarene's sublime code of ethics as to them in turn, in the centuries to follow, were added every conceivable notion, mystery and stupid absurdity which the diseased minds of men could imagine, and which have been the cause of more departure from christ's original teachings, and of more strife and bloodshed than any other feature in the history of mankind. indeed it is one of the greatest inconsistencies of history that the doctrines of love, unity and peace, taught by the founder of christianity, should have been the greatest of all factors to rend mankind apart, beget feelings of hatred, and result in the death, from this cause, of millions of men such as jesus himself most loved. vi the knights hospitaller of st. john of jerusalem the three great militant, mendicant and monastic orders of the middle ages were the knights hospitaller of st. john, the knights templar, and the teutonic order. in addition were numerous others, smaller, shorter lived, less important in every respect, scarcely mentioned in even the larger histories, like the knights of calatrava, alcantara, santiago de compostella, and the english knights of the holy sepulchre. these orders were the immediate as well as the indirect outgrowth of mediaeval conditions for which both the church and the state were responsible. the secret tenets of the christians had been made public, and those who held to them had for some time ceased to be a secret society; their faith was now a part of that church which was essentially the state, and which occupied a goodly part of europe. sad to say the church was rent, and the state suffered accordingly from constant strife between sects and parties, who contested, even to the death, over interpretations to be given to the scriptures, and the matter of creeds. thus while discussing at point of the sword whether the soul is to be saved by good works, or by grace of god, they disregarded the very essence of the simple teachings of jesus, and brought upon theology, even in those days, the contempt and ridicule of the liberal minded and the non-believer, so that even to-day it suffers because of the unfortunate light in which it was made to appear. that theology should lead to war is the antithesis of the christian doctrine, yet no wars have been so fierce and bloody as those waged in "spreading the cross" and propagating a misinterpreted gospel. and so theology suffered doubly from the monks who perverted it, and from the knights and the state that inculcated it with fire and sword. for a thousand years nothing of importance was added to human knowledge, and mental confusion reigned supreme. at the end of this period all the original teachings of christ were forgotten, and after passing through the hands and tongues of fanatics or deluded and ignorant men, christianity was left with the semblance of a monotheistic basis on which had been crudely built up certain doctrines borrowed from egyptian and grecian sources, among which may be mentioned the trinity, immaculate conception, resurrection and ascension, as well as certain practices like that of the lord's supper, plainly borrowed from pagan customs. there was in all this so much to challenge belief, and so much at first unacceptable to minds not trained to believe it, that, in order to be effective their propaganda had to be carried on with the sword. moreover to the christian mystic, anxious to unify himself with the hidden, unknown deity the idea of moslem unbelievers in possession of the high places which they regarded with such reverence, was simply intolerable and repugnant beyond description. hence the crusades undertaken in order to regain the sepulchre; in which by papal decree the monks joined the knights, and under command of emperors and the greatest generals of their day, made temporary conquest of the holy land, founding the kingdom of jerusalem. the immediate outcome of the general movement was that alliance, made wise and even necessary, when theology and chivalry joined hands, from which resulted the foundation of such orders as those mentioned at the beginning of this paper. these allies of which they were composed, all took the monastic vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, and for a time kept them, until the possession of power and the acquisition of wealth brought their inevitably accompanying temptations. each of these orders and many of the others passed through the successive stages of poverty, with meekness and constant benefaction, succeeded sooner or later by temporal aggrandizement, selfishness, greed, and rapacity, with all the crimes in the calendar, and the inevitable ultimate downfall. of them all the hospital knights bore by all means the least smirched record, on which account, partly, as well as because of their most prominent purpose, i. e., their work among the sick, wounded and distressed, i deem their careers worthy of more particular study. for this purpose we may quickly dismiss the teutonic knights from present consideration, simply reminding you that they were really the founders of modern prussia. they had their own origin in the commendable public spirit of the merchants of lübeck and bremen, who during the siege of acre made tents out of the sails of their ships, in which their wounded countrymen might be nursed and attended. most of their active service against the saracens was in spain. of the knights templar a little must be said here. about two knights, hugo (or hugh) of payens, and godfrey of st. omers, associated with themselves six other french knights in a league of military character, styling themselves "poor knights of christ," and pledged themselves to keep safe for pilgrims the highways of the holy land. they prospered and grew, and came into the favor of baldwin i, king of that kingdom of jerusalem already mentioned. inasmuch as their monastery occupied a part of the site of solomon's temple of old they were known as _templars_. at the synod of troyes, in , they were recognized as a regular order, and received monastic rules and habits, with a special banner. they were also known as "poor companions of the temple of jerusalem," a name which did not very long befit them. at first, like the hospital knights, they begged their food, fasted, kept vows, worshipped diligently, and cared for the poor and infirm. beard and hair were cropped short, the chase was forbidden, and they took the usual vows of chastity. but as they acquired property they forgot the simple life and habit, as well as their vows of obedience and chastity, while their pledge to protect the pilgrim on his way became in time a farce, not alone through their indifference and negligence, but through their treasonable dealings with the saracens, and even treacherous surrender of their strongholds. thus, whatever their pristine purpose, lucre and power became the later objects of their strife and the impelling motives of their lives. by the accession of so-called "affiliated members" they avoided the rule of celibacy, and admitted married knights and those engaged to be married. their grand masters in time ranked next after popes and monarchs. while the former favored them it was mainly because they feared them. they were exempt from all episcopal jurisdiction, and subject only to the pope. so rich and powerful did they become that at the time of their suppression they controlled an empire of five provinces in the east and sixteen in the west, while the order possessed some , houses. they aimed to make all christendom dependent upon themselves, with only the pope as their nominal head. of their personal bravery, which was usually impeccable, of their affluence and intolerable effrontery, and of many of their traits and characteristics, one may form an excellent idea by reading _ivanhoe_, where these seem to be quite faithfully depicted. it is, to me i confess, just a little amusing as well as saddening to see the men, who name their secret masonic associations after the founders of the order, displaying and imitating, at least in public where alone they can be judged by outsiders, only those features of templar knighthood which marked the period of their decadence or their downfall. as imitations they may be historically accurate, but as worthy of emulation, or even of imitation such displays are matters of questionable taste, at least, to those who read medieval history. the templars in their days of splendor and later downfall, were neither pious, nor learned, nor good christians. many of their secret doctrines were of heretical origin, taken from the waldenses or the albigenses, and they cared far more for their own possessions than for the holy land. they promulgated the shameful excuse that god evidently willed that the saracen should win; that the defects of the crusaders were evidently according to his decision, and that therefore they were released from their vows, and could return to europe, where indeed they rested--after their fashion,--from their labors, and passed their time in doing everything their founders had vowed not to do. but this is not intended to be an epitome of templar history; rather a brief statement of the reasons why they went proudly and sometimes stoically to their final downfall, and why the hospital order, though not always keeping up to its earlier standards, nevertheless so far eclipsed them, as to become the recipients of very much of the templars' enormous resources and wealth, being thought worthy to be thus entrusted. and so it happened that, in , philip of france had all the templars in france arrested and their property sequestrated. this led to a tripartite dispute in which were involved the templars, the pope and the king. in fifty-four templar knights were burned alive in paris. at last the pope, to prevent their property from falling into secular hands, made over to the hospitallers most of the templar estates, excepting however those in spain. the grand master molay and another templar were burned to death on an island in the seine. so much then in brief, for purposes of contrast. now to the avowed subject of this paper. during the seventeenth century there rose a controversy as to the foundation of a hospital already in existence in jerusalem, named after the asmorean prince john hyrcanus, (the son and successor of simon maccabaeus, who restored the independence of judea and founded a monarchy over which his descendants reigned till the accession of herod. he died b. c.). this was at a time when the pious merchants of amalfi planned a refuge for their pilgrims. it was this john whom many suppose to have been the patron of the order, though it seems now clearly established that the first sponsor or the first st. john, in this connection, was the greek patriarch john surnamed eleëmon, or the charitable, because of his practical philanthropy. (see "st. john the almsgiver," rev. h. t. f. duckworth, ). but by the time the crusaders, under godfrey of bouillon, had taken jerusalem from the saracens, st. john baptist seems to have become the acknowledged patron saint of the hospital, his image being worn by epileptic patients, and being later adopted as the regular badge for those engaged in hospital work. but this term _hospital_ must not be regarded in its present acceptance; it was used in a broader sense to imply any house of refuge, even from wild animals; in fact a _hospice_. this particular hospice seems to have been erected on the ruins of one founded by st. gregory in , where it is known that the french benedictines worked. two centuries later charlemagne had claimed the title of protector of the pilgrims. ("de prime origine hospitaliorum," by la roulx. paris. ). this institution was naturally located in close proximity to the most sacred places, which early christian traditions made such to the pilgrims who came from all over western europe. it was in existence in . it was made doubly necessary by not only the hardships of travel, but by the ill usage of the natives, at a time when the holy city was in the hands of the moslems, who demanded an entrance fee often beyond the pilgrims' means. thus subjected to indignities indescribable, robbed often before their arrival, these misguided pilgrims often died of want, or returned with their primary pious object unattained. had it not been for one gerard, the first administrator of the hospice, their hardships had been even greater. the buildings of the order, at first meagre, were finally enlarged to cover a square, nearly ft. on each side, with one side on the via dolorosa and another fronting the bazaar, and all a little south of the church of the holy sepulchre. nearby were other churches and hospices. this was the arrangement before the establishment of the kingdom of jerusalem in . during the next century the order, under raymond du puy, had enlarged the church of st. john eleëmon into the conventual church of st. john baptist, while along the south of the square above mentioned ran an excellent building, the hospital of st. john. when saladin recaptured jerusalem, in , this church was converted by the turks into a mad-house, known as the "muristan," this being finally ceded to germany in . from the new kingdom of jerusalem the hospitallers obtained a constitution, and the gerard above mentioned was made their first "master." he was succeeded in by du puy, while baldwin ii was the latin king of jerusalem. the hospital had been recognized by the archbishop of caesarea in , and had widely extended its sphere of usefulness. it was king baldwin who was anxious to stamp upon the order a military character, similar to that conferred upon the order of the temple in . this was natural since the kingdom was isolated, surrounded by fanatic enemies and always beset by and in danger from them. thus the necessities of the times and the environment made it requisite that all who were able should bear arms, and coöperate for mutual defence. thus it came about that the order was divided into three divisions, the first in rank being the knights of justice, each of whom must be of noble rank or birth, and have received the accolade of knighthood from secular authority. the second division comprised the ecclesiastics, who were later divided into two grades, the conventual chaplains, who were assigned to duty at headquarters, and the priests of obedience who served other priories and commanderies in various parts of europe. the third grade were the serving brothers, also divided into the servants at arms or esquires, and the servants at office. the servants at arms attended the knights of justice as their esquires, and might eventually become eligible to the first division. the servants at office were little if anything more than menials or domestics. even these latter, however, possessed certain privileges and emoluments which made admission to this grade advantageous to men of humble origin and faculties. the dress of the order was a black robe with cowl, having a white linen cross of eight points over the left breast, and was at first worn by all. later, under pope alexander iv, the fighting knights wore their white crosses upon a ground gules. the first recorded appearance of a body of hospitaller knights in actual war was at antioch, in , while the complete military constitution of the order of st. john was achieved in . during the balance of the existence of the kingdom of jerusalem then, two colleges or companies of military monastic knights existed, side by side, in the holy land, the "chief props of a tottering throne." (bedford). between these rival bodies arose in time such jealousy, and within them such intrigues,--aggravated always by the animosities of the ordinary clergy, who took offense at the patronage bestowed upon the orders by the popes, aggravated also by similar difficulties on the part of the knights of the teutonic order and that of st. lazarus,--that the best interests of the kingdom and of the church suffered as much from intestine dangers as from those arising from the moslems surrounding them. nevertheless it may be said that the order of the hospital never lost sight of its primary purposes, and never disgraced itself by the treasonable and treacherous dealings, and correspondence with enemies which disgraced not a few members of other and rival christian organizations. the result of such disreputable actions lead--as ever--to disunion and final disruption, and this to final capitulation and surrender of jerusalem, in . this meant the abandonment not only of their old home, but of their usefulness there. the saracens occupied their buildings and premises from that time till ruin overtook them. thus rudely compelled to emigrate the order moved the same year ( ) to the town of margat, where was also a castle of the same name. but the work in jerusalem had not been abruptly discontinued, since sultan saladin, in evidence of his esteem, allowed them possession of their hospital for another year, in order that their charitable work should not be abruptly interrupted, and even made them liberal donations. when during the third crusade, in which richard coeur de lion bore so valiant a part, ptolemais was captured, it was then and there that the order established its headquarters, in , wherefore the town became named st. jean d'acre. here they abode nearly a century. various other towns in palestine held out for a time against the turks, e. g., carac, margat, castel blanco and antioch, and in spite of the intense rivalry between the orders, thierry, the grand master of the templars, reported in a letter to king henry ii, that the hospitallers bore themselves even with fervor and the greatest bravery, and praised the aid they gave in the capture of the turkish fleet, at tyre, when seventeen christian galleys manned by friars, and ten sicilian vessels commanded by general margarit, a catalan, defeated the infidels, and captured their admiral and eight emirs, with eleven ships, the rest being run aground, where saladin later burned them, to keep them from falling into christian hands. (bedford). notwithstanding all this, however, the joint occupation of acre with the templars had a bad effect on both orders, who turned not only to luxury and license, but their swords against each other. acre was at this time a most cosmopolitan city; here mingled at least seventeen different nationalities and languages, each occupying its own part of the city, so that in time extravagance and lust flourished to the last degree of demoralization. the hospitallers were at this time far more wealthy than the templars, who were exceedingly jealous thereof, and both at margat and still worse at acre this jealousy was exhibited in many bloody affairs. weakened thus by this intestine strife they were in reverse proportion strengthened. the pope who had defended them as against the scathing censure of emperor frederick, found need, in , to accuse the knights--alike of both orders--of sheltering loose women within their precincts, of owning individual property, both of these in violation of their vows of chastity and poverty, and of treacherously assisting the enemy. yet many bore witness to the actual good they accomplished, even at this time. in pope alexander, bewailing the lack of a more distinctive dress, permitted the decree that the fighting knights might wear black mantles, while in war they were permitted to wear red surcoats, with a white cross. later it was permitted to women to join the order, and many ladies of high degree took advantage of the permission, rivalling in religious zeal and in charitable deeds the most sanctified of the brethren. as the king of hungary wrote, at one time, after visiting some of their houses, "in a word the knights of st. john are employed, sometimes like mary in contemplation, and sometimes like martha in action, and this noble militia consecrate their days either in their infirmaries or else in engagements against the enemies of the cross." the deterioration of acre was not so great as to make cowards of our knights, however, and with the continued and aggressive siege laid by the saracens against that city the hospitallers and the templars finally made common cause, each endeavoring to outdo the other in deeds of bravery and daring. though defeated again and again, the moslem ranks were renewed by fresh soldiers, while the militant and other monks imprisoned within the city saw their combined members steadily diminish. at last it remained for john villiers, grand master, with his few surviving fighters, to carve their way to their boats, leaving no combatants behind them, and then to embark in their galleys to seek a harbor of refuge in the island of cyprus. _cyprus and rhodes._ settled in cyprus, the knights renewed their zeal and their resources. here they began to build that fleet of galleys which, increased later in rhodes, became most formidable. when they and the templars left forever the holy land the templars took the position that their vow to protect the holy places was now either fulfilled or at least at an end, and they distributed themselves among their numerous preceptories all over europe, where they made themselves _personae non gratae_ to their civil rulers, because of their own real power, their oriental ostentation, and their secularization and distasteful entrance into and interference with the social and political life and customs of their new environment. things went from bad to worse, public feeling was more and more aroused, and their extermination was only a matter of time. finally pope clement v and king phillip le bel undertook this task with barbarous ruthlessness. kings, nobility and the people joined hands in the common task. the templars had acquired various properties, by capture, by bequest, and in every lawful and unlawful manner, which yielded in the aggregate relatively enormous revenues, too strong a temptation for needy secular rulers to resist. the pope had at last to intervene in order to prevent the total secularization of all this great spoil, and thus it happened that no small proportion of it was, after its sequestration, allotted to the order of st. john, whose grand masters and knights had not forgotten nor abandoned their original vows and purposes, and who held that the inviolacy of their obligations required their continuous residence in some such oriental city as rhodes. and here we may part company, as did they, only quite peacefully, with the templar knights. driven from europe they made their last stand in great britain, and of their lives and deeds there we have no more readable nor interesting historical account than scott has given us in ivanhoe. any further allusion to them here will be most casual. they offer the conventional picture, only _in extenso_, of original poverty and self-abnegation, coupled with devotion and valor, changed to arrogance, treason, abandonment of purpose, unbridled lawlessness leading to crime and cruelty, all brought about because of affluence, acquired power, selfishness, cupidity and every debasing human weakness. small wonder then, that they could be no longer tolerated in christendom. so turn we again to the hospitallers, now made rich and powerful at the expense of their old rivals and at last enemies. it had soon been made evident that cyprus did not meet their wants and necessities. its king was not over friendly, and they sought further. their gaze fixed on the island of rhodes, which possessed a fertile soil, a city with an excellent harbor, not too far from the main land, i. e. not too isolated, which was under the--by that time merely nominal--suzerainty of the emperor of the eastern or greek empire. after several futile efforts they at last, in , under the twenty-fourth grand master villaret, captured the island, where under their ceaseless energy both hospitals and forts were built. to rhodes were brought also christian refugees from the various turkish provinces, and thus their numbers were rapidly strengthened. their fleet, already begun (_vide supra_) was greatly increased, and with it they had many a conflict with the turkish corsairs, whose inroads they practically checked. about the beginning of the fourteenth century changes had been made in the order, which was now divided into langues, or arranged according to nationalities, yet without materially altering the original division into the three classes (knights, chaplains and serving brothers). in this way the order was apportioned between seven nations or languages, provence, auvergne, france, italy, aragon, england and germany. finally under pressure from spain the langue of aragon was divided into two, aragon and castile, the latter including portugal. the various dignities and offices were divided among these langues, whose principals became a kind of privy council to the grand master, and were known as conventual bailiffs. they were given different names in each country; thus the grand commander of the english langue was known as the turcopolier, of france the grand hospitaller, of italy the admiral, etc. as the new fortifications arose around the city of rhodes, each was placed in charge of one of these langues or divisions, while each erected quarters for its own men. it did not follow, however, that every member of each langue came from the country which it represented. while scotland was an independent kingdom it contributed to the turcopolier, while many scotchmen belonged to the french or even the other langues. at this time the inhabitants of the city of rhodes consisted largely of christian refugees, who owed their security, even their lives, to the fact that the knights hospitaller still adhered to their primary objects, the liberation of the captive and giving assistance to the sick and distressed. this they afforded through their fleet and their hospices. when smyrna nearly fell into the hands of timour the tartar, about the middle of the fourteenth century, the order strengthened their harbor by erecting a new fort, which they named budrum (corrupted from petros-a rock), where any christian escaping from slavery found shelter. here was also kept a remarkable breed of dogs, who were trained not only as watch dogs but to render services similar to those afforded by the alpine dogs of st. bernard. as time went on the sultans became more and more jealous of the naval power possessed by the order. with the fall of the eastern empire and the final retaking of constantinople by mahomet ii, in (see "prince of india"), it was made evident that danger to the order from this direction was rapidly increasing. this became so urgent that in , after mahomet had taken the island of negropont, the grand master commanded that all members of the order should repair at once to rhodes. in d'aubusson began the most active measures for the defense of the place, and thus was ready for the attack, in may, , when , men in ships, landed on the island coast. in this siege no small part was played by renegade traitors, the most prominent being one george frapant, a german, whom the grand master finally hung in july. in the last sorties which terminated this siege deeds of the greatest bravery were performed; yet here we can only commemorate the fact that the turks were summarily defeated, leaving , corpses on the ground after the last decisive attack. the losses of the besieged were small as compared with those suffered by the turks. later in the same year the island suffered from a severe earthquake. mahomet died not long after this, was succeeded by his son bo-jazet who made truce with the order, presenting them with a relic of supposedly inestimable value, namely the hand of st. john, which the turks had taken at constantinople. years of comparative quietude succeeded until in the following century, in , solyman the magnificent landed upon the island in july, with , soldiers and , pioneers. again ensued all the horrors of a siege. the defenders did their part so bravely that the sultan publicly disgraced his generals. but the inevitable famine wrought consequent disaffection on the part of the native population, who clamored for capitulation, and sought treasonable terms therefor, because of which one of the most prominent of them was tried, found guilty and executed. finally under stress of circumstances no longer endurable grand master adam agreed to honorable surrender, and on the first of january, , the hospitaller knights relinquished the island, the sultan himself speaking in terms of extravagant praise of their heroism, while at the same time he scathingly censured the christian monarchs of europe who had failed to come to their relief. thus after two hundred and twenty years of occupation and rule of the island of rhodes, some , knights and other members of the order, and natives, left it to take abode for a short time in their priory at messina. driven from here by plague, they moved on to viterbo, while their grand master travelled in search of a new home. _malta._ malta had been early proposed for this purpose, and offered by charles v, while many wishes turned to the city of modon, in greece. after seven years of wandering and indecision grand master l'isle adam accepted malta as the best solution of the difficulty. thither the order now removed, and there adam died in the castle of st. angelo, erected by the norman count roger of sicily, still active in improving its existing defences. in the order lost nearly all of its fleet in consequence of a violent hurricane, which accident for a while laid the island open to piratical attacks, especially of a corsair named dragut; but he did little damage, save that with the knowledge of the island and its defences thus gained he persuaded solyman to undertake another attempt to crush the order, the latter being justly furious because some galleys belonging to the order had captured a ship that happened to be loaded with rich valuables belonging to the ladies of his harem. therefore war was again declared in . the turkish fleet was made up of galleys with smaller boats, and carried the janissaries and , other soldiers, against whom the grand master could only oppose some , men, of whom, however, were desperate men, released from the galleys of the enemy, and eager for vengeance. on may twenty-fourth the siege of st. elmo was in reality begun by a fierce bombardment, the walls being soon battered, and the garrison forced to take shelter in excavations made in the solid rock. and now the besiegers' force was augmented by the arrival of dragut, in those days the dreaded corsair of the sea, who came with thirteen more ships and , more men. june thirteenth saw a desperate conflict when, after six hours of fierce fighting and the loss of only men, the besiegers were repulsed. soon after this dragut was killed. again on june twenty-third another general attack was repulsed, though the garrison was thereby reduced to men. even this small force, many crippled and maimed, repulsed the first onslaught of the turks, but had later to sell their lives as dearly as they could. the turkish general mustapha took barbarous revenge, even on the corpses of the knights which he decapitated and then tied to planks that they might float past st. angelo. la vallette retaliated by beheading some of his captives and firing their heads at the turks from his cannon. at this juncture the garrison was reinforced by the arrival of men and knights from sicily. refusing all opportunities to surrender and all parley under flags of truce, grand master la vallette built new defences and strengthened the old, in spite of a fierce july sun. meanwhile the turks, also reinforced, prepared for still more desperate sorties, selecting for the land attack men who knew not how to swim, in order that they might fight the more fiercely, and drawing off the boats as soon as their loads were emptied, so that no retreat could be possible. one thousand janissaries were embarked in ten large barges, but nine of these were sunk by the artillery fire from the forts. on the other side of the defences a large attacking column was completely routed. the loss to the turks this day was , men, that of the garrison . and so the siege went on; attack after attack, with but small success to the investing army. but the heroic defenders suffered increasingly under the constant strain, and both armies were exhausted, the turks losing men from dysentery alone. to such an extent was this true that when the turkish officers drove their soldiers to the charge by blows of their own swords, it was but necessary to cut down those who led the charges, when the rest would turn and fly. and now came other long expected reinforcements from sicily, when a fleet landed , men and returned for , more. being now quite unequal to the continuation of the siege the turks evacuated all the ground they had gained, and finally made a hasty and complete flight, harassed in every way, in their endeavors to escape, by the now victorious garrison. the losses during the period of siege, with its numerous engagements, were estimated at some , turks, and , men and knights of the order. is it strange that by contributions from all over christian europe there was soon built up a town bearing the name of valetta, thus commemorating the heroism and military prowess of the order's grand master la valette, as well as the "glorious issue" of the struggle for malta, and the confirmation of the order as a sovereign independent community? thus secured from further probable struggle this city of valetta acquired a certain degree of glory, later even of magnificence. from all parts of europe, wherever any commandery of the order was maintained, was paid tribute to the grand master, as may be adjudged even to-day, long after french rapacity had robbed the city of many of its treasures. individual knights vied with each other in their gifts, and palaces arose wherein were received the envoys and even ambassadors of foreign courts. the fleet was constantly busied in clearing the mediterranean of moslem and other pirates, and many christians were released from the galleys in which they had been chained to the oars. in this restoration the english langue took a rather small part, and their officers and members had often to be rebuked or punished for insubordination or worse crimes. the reformation in england interfered, and furnished some reason for their diminishing zeal. the galleys of the order became more and more like pleasure boats, and many of their cruises were in effect pleasure excursions. later in their decadence their adventures became more like piratical incursions, until, under letters of marque issued by a decadent admiralty, the malta privateer was equivalent to the pirate. (maroyat). these facts were scarcely offset by that other, that the last fleet of the order, which left valetta in , was sent to the relief of earthquake sufferers in sicily. with regard to their activities in the matter of succoring the sick let it be noted that the knights found on their arrival at malta a hospital or hospice already existing. in the buildings of a nunnery still standing may be seen the gateway of their own first hospital. in they erected one much larger, which had a passageway connected with the waterfront, so that patients could be brought directly from the ships. this building in some part still remains in use as a military hospital. its great ward is feet in length, and feet high, divided by partitions feet in height. in its best days patients were served from silver utensils. it was under the charge of the regent of the french knights, who had as his staff five doctors and three apothecaries. other knights and servants acted as male nurses. the knights were luxuriously cared for, and beds were always in reserve for those returning from expeditions who might need them. in , only a year before the disintegration of the order began, the patients numbered from to . there existed also a hospital for women, with beds, and a foundling hospital where some fifty waifs were sheltered. a curious bit of history connecting the middle ages with the more recent past relates to the hospital interests of the order. the nobles of dauphigny had founded a fraternity of hospitallers for the relief of sufferers from st. anthony's fire (erysipelas), which was erected into the regular antoine order in . about years later, or to be exact in , a compact was made by which the order of st. john took over their property, under certain conditions, which involved, among other considerations, a larger expenditure. the antonine estates, in france and savoy, were confiscated in , thus entailing a tremendous loss to the order, so great, in fact that the valetta treasury became insolvent. (bedford). from this time we may date the rapid downfall of the order. malcontents and traitors gained the supremacy, and in , after treacherous negotiations, napoleon landed part of his army in malta, and valetta surrendered. thus, as bartlett says, "ignominiously came to a close, on june th, , the once illustrious order of st. john of jerusalem, having subsisted for more than years." at this time it consisted of enrolled knights, and a military force of some , men. napoleon expressed his surprise at the strength of the fortifications, furnished them with one thousand cannon, left a garrison of , men, took with him the disciplined soldiers he found there, rifled the island of its treasures, its art work and its bullion, and sailed for egypt. several of the traitor knights were put to death by the infuriated populace, whose anger was not appeased by nelson's victory at aboukir--the battle of the nile--but took form in open insurrection. the french garrison finally took refuge in the old fortifications, where they withstood for two years a siege by the combined insurgents and an english fleet. finally reduced by famine and disease they capitulated to the english forces under gen. pigot. the latter then selected capt. sir alexander ball, nelson's representative, governor of the island. at the peace of amiens the effort was made to restore the order as ruling authority, under the protectorate of the great powers, but the maltese themselves objected so vehemently that after no small amount of trouble and dispute the inhabitants of the island elected to place themselves under the sovereignty of great britain, an arrangement finally and definitely confirmed at the congress of vienna in . thus disappeared from history one of the most interesting and longest enduring institutions recorded in its pages, and certainly the most long-lived of any of its kind. i say disappeared, meaning thereby only to indicate its disruption, as it were into fragments, its primary purpose, i. e. aid to the needy, being kept ever in view by some, while others preferring the life of a soldier, took service under various rulers or military leaders. the traitors who were responsible for surrender to napoleon fared badly according to their deserts, though it does not appear that any of them were hung. in the migration england seemed to attract many, perhaps the majority of those who were still inclined to good deeds. the title of grand master was still continued, under some pretension to perpetuation of the order. in russia the czar alexander, in , upon the death of his predecessor paul, announced himself a protector of the order, and designated count soltikoff to exercise the functions of the grand master. thus dismembered, disunited and scattered, the fragmentary langues of the order underwent, on their way to final dissolution, various vicissitudes, through which they cannot here be followed. complete extinguishment was the eventual fate of most of them. i shall only concern myself now with that of the english langue, and its partial revival in . rev. dr. peat, chaplain to george iv, was one of those to whom the remnants of the english langue appealed, with the result that in certain notable english gentry, of eminent attainments, undertook to revive the order in england, only under quite different conditions from those previously obtaining. in dr. peat was invested with the authority and functions of grand prior. it will be at once seen how the matter of religious belief now separated the english order from all the survivors of the previous regime, and why the last ties were severed. under the new regime members of the order dropped all pretense of playing a military role; one may read thereafter of real hospital activity. the life boat movement and ambulance work were gradually incorporated into their plans and scope. when first aid to the injured began to be publicly taught public and general interest was quickly aroused, and the energetic cooperation of eminent men was assured. in other words the order gradually took up just that class of work which is now done under the red cross. sir edward lechmere established, in , a commandery of the order in one of his castles, and in was instrumental in the acquisition of the st. john gate, which still stands, an example of tudor architecture as also a well preserved monumental relic of the time, beginning about , when the order had founded a hospital in clerkenwell, while the ladies of the order were housed in bucland, in somersetshire. the old priory of the order in clerkenwell was practically destroyed in , by the mob led by jack straw, in an insurrection which had, along with other results, as an incident, the beheading of sir robert hales, the prior of the order. in the slow process of rebuilding the present gate was not completed till . on the north and south fronts remain projecting towers, while in the western tower a spiral stair case is still in use. bedford's work, from which i have drawn heavily, gives excellent pictures of the gate as it appears to-day, and of the old priory restored. colonel duncan, also, deserves honorable mention in this connection; he became director of the ambulance movement in . finally we have to record here that under a new charter, granted in , the then prince of wales, later king edward, became the grand prior. therefore the order of the hospital, in england of st. john of jerusalem is, in fact, the legitimate successor--one might say the lineal descendant--of the old order of knights hospitaller, though it is to-day a secular and voluntary society, keeping to the traditions of the past, no longer military nor militant, save as it fights disease and best of all teaches others how to do the same. to follow it further is no longer necessary. its work is essentially that of the red cross. it has, for instance, a depot at old st. john's gate, whence all the material required in teaching and illustrating as well as rendering first aid is issued. its work was begun with a two-wheeled litter, an old esmarch triangular bandage from germany, and a stretcher from france. now it distributes all these things throughout the british empire. now, too, it maintains ambulances all over the city of london, which do for their own hospitals just what each of our hospitals at home has to do for itself. the german "samariter-verein" is virtually a chapter of the english order in its revivified form. in a branch of the order was organized in india, where among others the native police are instructed in "first aid." in , by a firman of the turkish sultan, an ophthalmic hospital was opened, under the auspices of the order, in jerusalem. only those who have travelled in the east can appreciate what this means to the poor, where squalor vies with ignorance, and, as in egypt though not so universally, both conspire to the ruin of that greatest of all blessings--eyesight. but i will not delay to write further of what the ambulance brigade of london, and its affiliated corps, have accomplished in many parts of the world; in south africa, for example, it works under the general supervision of the order of st. john, as it now exists in london. it does everything that in our country is accomplished by the red cross for the general public, and by the hospital corps and their medical officers for our army and navy. over the graves of eleven members of the brigade, who died at their posts in south africa, in st. paul's, london, not far from the crypts where lie the remains of nelson and wellington, has been erected a monument to their memory. another bearing among other inscriptions this beautiful scriptural quotation:--"greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends," was unveiled by his royal highness, acting as grand prior, in st. john's church, clerkenwell, june th, . fifteen hundred men enrolled in the order had left that church before their departure for the front, and of these about seventy sacrificed their lives to this sort of duty. do not the dead deserve all praise and respect, and the survivors all commendation? a few years ago my friend sir george beatson, surgeon to the royal infirmary in glasgow, published a little monograph--"the knights hospitallers in scotland and their priory at torphichen" (printed by hedderwick and sons, glasgow,)--which aroused my interest sufficiently to prompt a visit to this, the last home of the old order in that part of the world. the little village torphichen lies about midway between glasgow and edinburgh, and three miles south from the town of llinlithgow. here had been founded, in , one of the great priories or preceptories under control of the english _langue_. here they settled in a magnificent and fertile area, the grampian hills to their north; to their west could be seen the snow-capped top of what is now known as ben lomond. by donation, by cultivation of the arable soil, and by wise management of their resources, they prospered greatly, from the worldly point of view. here they erected that building, a part of which still exists, and which makes a picturesque ruin which is not yet a scene of desolation. the members of the order took, here as elsewhere, the view that the best way to serve god was by _remaining in it_ and working, not by _fleeing from it_ into lazy, selfish and profitless solitude as did too many of the monks. in common with other monasteries the torphichen preceptory possessed the right of sanctuary, and in its churchyard still stands the short stone pillar, carved with a maltese cross on its upper surface, which meant that within a mile in every direction therefrom all those charged with any crime, save murder only, might find temporary protection. here for four hundred years, and until the reformation upset everything, the hospitallers carried on their affairs. in their last preceptor or grand prior made over to the crown all their properties and effects. the crown in return made these possessions a temporal barony, carrying with it the title of lord of torphichen. from this time the property began to suffer--from time, storm, vandalism of the people and neglect. still the present lord torphichen has proven himself a better guardian than did some of his predecessors. a parish church has been built, partly upon the sight of the old structure, partly into it. dr. beatson has urged that a combination between the present order of st. john, in london, and the st. andrew's ambulance association might be effected which might work to the benefit of both, by reviving some of the work done here in days gone by. i have ventured this brief reference to torphichen, partly because of my interest in the place itself, associated with my visit there, and partly because every such visit to the monuments of past grandeur and usefulness should strengthen our interest and zeal in what man is accomplishing to-day, and should help link together the past and the present in a manner not merely fascinating but inspirational, and keep us from forgetting that motto of the order, "pro utilitate hominum" for the welfare of mankind. vii giordano bruno the renaissance was the fourth of the great events in the history of the christian era; the first being the decline of rome, the second the introduction of the christian cult, and the third, the intrusion into southern europe of the teutonic and slavonic tribes. with none of these however, save the fourth, is this paper primarily concerned, and not even with the fourth save indirectly, though it deals with a special feature of it. protestants and catholics alike impeded progress and the self-evolution of reason in every possible way. italy gave the world the roman republic, then the roman empire and finally the roman church; after that arose a new storm centre in the north which swept toward the mediterranean. the teutons effaced the western empire, adopted christianity, and completely modified what remained of latin civilization. then the roman bishops separated the latin from the greek church, and under the captious title of the holy roman empire bound western europe into what has been called a "cohesive whole." while romans and teutons never actually blended homogeneously, they had yet a common bond of union. when this coalition was for a time freed from both papacy and empire--then began intellectual activity and independence of thought, taking form in italy as the renaissance; in germany as the reformation. in the south it was known as the revival of learning. it furnished a _lux a non lucendo_. italy gave freedom rather to the mind, germany rather to the soul. toward the south men still took refuge behind that form of modified paganism which became catholicism. in the north they attained a more complete emancipation because of their violent opposition to the papacy and all that went with it. in the long run both attained the same result, i. e., liberation of the mind from artificial impediments and fetters, though they of the north achieved it in its full extent far earlier. (i am speaking of course, relatively; men's minds are far from free even today, but the state we have reached is a great advance upon that of bruno's time). the reformation led men to be far more outspoken than they dared be in the south; the free thinkers of italy were still content to do homage to a thoroughly corrupt papal hierarchy. as critics and warriors luther and calvin rank as liberators of the human mind, but later, as founders of mutually hostile sects, they only retarded civilization, and the churches they founded are today as stagnant pools. in , in the midst of this stormy period in italian history bruno was born, in the little village of nola, not far from naples, whence vesuvius was visible in the picturesque distance. his father was a soldier, his mother of very humble origin. of his family history nothing is known; little explanation is thus afforded, by the doctrine of heredity, for the marvelous mental faculties which he subsequently displayed. nevertheless his father was a man of some culture, at least, for he was a friend of tansillo, a poet, under whose influence the growing boy subsequently came. bruno has told us himself how one savolino (probably an uncle) annually confessed his sins to his curé, of which "though many and great" his boon companion readily absolved him. but only once was full confession necessary; each subsequent year savolino would say: "padre mio, the sins of a year--to-day,--you may know them;" to which the curé would reply "son, thou knowest the absolution of one year ago;--go in peace, and sin no more." in those days as in many others superstition was everywhere rife and effective. its influence must not be disregarded as one studies the formation of bruno's character. when he was about eleven years old bruno was sent to naples to be taught logic, dialectics and humanities. when fifteen he entered the dominican monastery in naples, and assumed the clerical habit of that order. here he gave up his baptismal name of filippo and assumed that of giordano, according to the monastic custom. in he was ordained priest. his reasons for thus entering the church are scarcely far to seek. of intellectual bent, and studious rather than martial in his habits and inclinations, there was but one career open to him. to be sure the dominican order was the most narrow and most bigoted of all, as the current punning expression "_domini canes_" will indicate. still it was at that time the most powerful, especially in the kingdom of naples, which was then ruled by spain. the old cloister had been once the home of st. thomas aquinas, whose works bruno claimed at his trial he had always by him, "continually reading, studying and restudying them, and holding them dear." this was the age when efforts to put down every heresy had been redoubled. the fanaticism of loyola, and the decision of the council of trent "to erase with fire and sword the slightest traces of heresy," made a poor frame work in which to place the picture of a liberal minded scholar. bruno soon learned this at his cost. even during his novitiate he was accused of giving away images of the saints, and of giving bad advice to his associates. in he was accused of apologizing for the heresy of arius, that the son was begotten of the father, and so not consubstantial nor coeternal with him, but created by him and subordinate to him; (which was condemned by the council of nice, , and contradicted in the nicene creed;) admiring its scholastic form, rather than its abstract truth. disgusted with his treatment he left naples and went to rome. even here he was molested in the cloister of minerva (note the pagan name), and was met with an accusation of specifications. he then abandoned his garb and his cloister and escaped from rome, beginning thus the nomadic life which he continued until immured in the dungeons of the inquisition at venice, sixteen years later. through these wanderings one must follow him, if one would become familiar with his life and traits. he now resumed for a time his baptismal name, and traveled to a town on the gulf of genoa, where he taught youth and young gentlemen. then he passed on to turin and venice, where he spent weeks in futile attempts to find work. but the schools and the printing houses were closed because of the plague. in venice however he managed to print his first book on "the signs of the times;" or rather this was his first book to appear in print. it seems that before he left naples he wrote "the ark of noah," a satirical allegory. in this he represented that the animals held a formal meeting in the ark, to settle questions of precedence and rank, and that the presiding officer, the ass, was in danger of losing his position and his influence, because his power lay rather in hoofs than horns. throughout most of his life bruno constantly scored and criticised asinity; it was frequently the topic of his invective, and those who read between his lines were probably quite justified in regarding these frequent allusions as references to the ignorance, bigotry and credulity of the monks. from venice bruno went to padua, where some of the dominican friars persuaded him to resume monastic costume, since it made travel easier and safer. thence by way of brescia and milan he may be followed to bergamo. at milan he first heard of his future friend sir philip sydney. from bergamo he resolved to go to lyons, but learning that he would find anything but welcome there he turned aside and crossed the alps, arriving in geneva in the spring of . here he was visited by a distinguished neapolitan exile, the marquis de vico, who persuaded him again to lay aside his clerical garb, and who gave him the dress of a gentleman, including a sword. here is raised the great question,--did bruno adopt calvinism? before the inquisition fifteen years later he practically denied this, yet acknowledged attending the lectures of balbani, of lucca, as well as of others who taught and preached in geneva. under the regulations of the academy (university), where he had already registered, certain regulations must be complied with, and bruno appears to have obeyed them in at least a certain degree. but the immediate cause for his departure from geneva appears to have been one of his outbreaks of cynicism and accurate scholarship, since in he was called before the council for having caused to be printed a document enumerating twenty errors made by the professor of philosophy (de la faye) in one of his lectures. the latter was incensed and outraged at this criticism and disparagement of his views and learning, and the quarrel assumed unexpected magnitude, since bruno, on his second appearance before the consistory or supreme tribunal of the church, denied the charges and called the ministers "pedagogues." these gentlemen decided to refuse him communion unless he should confess and repent of his faults and make due apology. his acceptance of these conditions not being hearty enough to suit his judges, he was admonished and excluded from the communion. these steps lead to greater contrition on his part, and the ban of excommunication was withdrawn. this sentence of exclusion was the only one within the power of the consistory to pass, but does not prove that bruno had accepted the protestant faith, nor partaken of its communion. in fact at his trial he steadfastly denied this. it seemed however, to disgust him with calvinism, against which thereafter he never ceased to inveigh. later he contrasted it with lutheranism which was far more tolerant, and still later gave him a heartier welcome. calvin, it must be remembered, had written a polemic against servetus, "in which it is shown to be lawful to coerce heretics by the sword." as between the council of trent and calvin it certainly must have been hard, in those days, to select either a faith, or an abiding place where that faith might be peaceably practised. doubtless bruno's views concerning the philosophy of aristotle conflicted with those of the church authorities, for beza (calvin's follower), had stated that they did not propose to swerve one particle from the opinions of that greek philosopher, to whom, though of pagan origin, the church, both roman and protestant, was for centuries so firmly bound. and so shaking the dust of geneva from his feet he journeyed to lyons, where he failed utterly to find occupation, and then on to toulouse, where he remained about two years. here he took a doctorate in theology in order to compete for a vacant chair. to this he was elected by the students, as the custom then was in most of the _scholia_ or universities. for two sessions he lectured on aristotle. had this university required of him that he should attend mass, as did some others, he could not have done so, owing to his excommunication; though just why exclusion from a calvinistic academy should debar him from catholic mass does not appear. toulouse was a _warm_ place for heretics; the burning of , of them at its capture will prove this. a few years ( ) after he left it vanini was burned for heretic notions. it is hardly to be believed that bruno could pass two years or more here without controversies arising from his teaching. but his nominal reason for leaving, in , and going to paris, was the war then raging in southern france, under henry of navarre. before leaving toulouse he completed his "_clavis magna_" or "great key," the last word--as he seemed to think--on the art of memory. only one volume of this great work, which, in his peculiarly egotistical way, he said is "superlatively pregnant," was ever published, and that in england, the "_sigillus sigillorum_." it must not be forgotten that it was on both teaching and practising this art of memory that bruno, throughout his career, prided himself. he was even not averse, at least at certain periods of his career, to the belief that he had some secret system for this purpose, or even received occult aid. but when summoned before henry iii, to whose ears had come his fame, and asked whether the memory he had and the art he professed were natural or due to magic, he proved that a good memory was a cultivated natural product. he then dedicated to the king a book on "_the art of memory_." but this was shortly after his arrival in paris, in , where he quickly became famous. a course of thirty lectures on "_the thirty divine attributes_" of st. thomas aquinas would have given him a chair, could he have attended mass. his residence in paris was marked by an extraordinary literary activity. he published in succession _de umbris idearum_ (shadow of ideas), dedicated to henry iii, (this included the art of memory just mentioned) _cantus circaeus_ (incantation of circe) dedicated to prince henry; _de compendiosa architectura et complemento artis lulli_ (compendious architecture); _il candelaio_ (the torchbearer); these all appeared in . these varied greatly in character. the first was devoted to the metaphysics of the art of remembering, with an analysis of that faculty, and these second was given up to the same general topic. it was all obscure, hence perhaps its popularity. brunnhofer says that it was "a convenient means of introducing bruno to strange universities, gaining him favor with the great, or helping him out of pressing need of money. it was his exoteric philosophy with which he could carefully drape the philosophy of a religion hostile to the church, and ride as a hobby horse in his unfruitful humors." nevertheless we must believe in his sincerity. the "compendious architecture" is the first of his works in which bruno deals with the views of raymond lully, a "logical calculus and mnemonic scheme in one" (mcintyre) that had many imitators. for lully bruno seems to have the greatest regard, this appearing in many ways. lully, by the way, was a spanish scholastic and alchemist, who was born on one of the balearic islands in . he went as a missionary to the mahommedans, and spent much time in asia and africa. he figures largely in the history of the alchemists and as a practitioner of the occult. the "torchbearer" was a work of very different character. it was described as a "comedy" by one who described himself as "academico di nulla academia, ditto il fastidito: in tristitia hilaris, hilaritate tristis." it is essentially a satire on the predominant vices of pedantry, superstition and selfishness or sordid love. though lacking in dramatic power it is regarded as second to nothing of its kind and time. its _dramatis personae_ are personified types, not individuals. it was realistic even in its vulgarity, for obscenity was prevalent in the literature of those days. but in it bruno struck at what seemed to him his greatest enemy, i. e. pedantry. there were at this time in paris two great universities, one the college de france, with liberal tendencies, and opposed to the jesuits and all pedantry; the other the sorbonne, for centuries the guardian of the catholic faith, endowed with the right of censorship, which must have been exercised over bruno's works. in which of these, though surely in one of them, bruno was made an extraordinary lecturer history has failed to record. he must have offended both, since he was anxious to be taken back into the church, yet was revolutionary in his teaching. more than thirty years later nostitz, one of his pupils, paid tribute to his versatility and skill, saying "he was able to discourse impromptu on any suggested subject, to speak extensively and elaborately without preparation, so that he attracted many pupils and admirers in paris." (mcintyre). but bruno belonged to the literally peripatetic school, and in he forsook paris for london, because as he says of "tumults," leaving it to the imagination whether these were civil or scholastic. elizabeth reigned at this time; her influence made england a harbor of safety for religious and other mental suspects. she had a penchant for italians and their language; two of her physicians were italians, and florio was ever welcome at her court. to this court bruno also was welcomed, and, basking for sometime in the sunshine of her regard and patronage, passed there the happiest portion of his unhappy life. oxford was at that time the stronghold of aristotelianism. one of its statutes ordained that "bachelors and masters who did not follow aristotle faithfully were liable to a fine of five shillings for every point of divergence, and for every fault committed against the logic of the organon." (mcintyre). in oxford at this time, unfortunately, theology was the only live issue; of science as of real scholarship there was little or none. (its predominant trait of those days is still, perhaps, its dominant feature to-day). to this university bruno addressed a letter, couched in vainglorious and egotistical terms, craving permission to lecture there. this was not received with favor, while his doctrines met with small encouragement at this ancient seat of learning, which bruno later stigmatized as the "widow of true science." but opportunity was afforded him to dispute publicly before a noble visitor in june, , a polish prince; one alasco, for whom great public entertainment had been provided. his opponent, defeated by fifteen unanswerable syllogisms, resorted to scurrility and abuse. this public exhibition put an end to the lectures on the immortality of the soul which bruno had been allowed to give, and he returned to london. shortly after this he published his _cena_ (ash wednesday supper) in which he ridiculed the oxford doctors, saying among other things that they were much better acquainted with beer than with greek. but he criticised too cynically and lost thereby in popularity. this led to the appearance of the _causa_, a dialogue, in which he was less vindictive. he admitted in this that there was much in the old institution which was admirable; that it was even the first in europe, that speculative philosophy first flourished there, and that thence, "the splendor of one of the noblest and rarest spheres of philosophy, in our times almost extinct, was diffused to all other academies in civilized lands." what he most condemned was the too great attention given to language and words while the realistics for which words stand were neglected. doctors were easily made and doctorates too cheaply bought. his charge in brief was that they mistook the shadow for the substance; a charge even yet too commonly justified among the strongholds of theology and other speculative dogmas. returning to london after this experience bruno went to live with mauvissiere, the french ambassador. while the english records make no mention of his presence it is yet quite certain that he was frequently at court, and that men like sydney, greville, temple and others were his frequent associates. but as the ambassador's influence was on the wane, he was not equal to his great trust. at this time our philosopher spoke of himself as one "whom the foolish hate, the ignoble despise, whom the wise love, the learned admire," etc. (mcintyre). of queen elizabeth he wrote in most fulsome phrases, such as she too dearly loved. before his judges, a few years later, bruno apologized for his exaggerated expressions concerning a protestant ruler, claiming that when he spoke of her as "divine" he meant it not as a term of worship, but as an epithet like those which the ancients bestowed upon their rulers; claiming further that he knew he erred in thus praising a heretic. bruno published seven works in england. the first was "_explicatio triginta sigillorum_," the thirty seals thus explained being hints for acquiring, arranging and remembering all arts and sciences. to it was added his _sigillus sigillorum_ for comparing and explaining all mental operations. then came an italian dialogue "_la cena de le ceneri_" or ash wednesday supper. this was written in praise and extension of the copernican theory, indeed quite exceeding it in teaching the identity of matter, the infinity of the universe, the possibility of life on other spheres, with a painstaking attempt to show that these notions do not conflict with those of mother church. next came "_de causa, principio et uno_." (cause, principle and unity). this treated of the immanence of spirit, the eternity of matter, the potential divinity of life, the origin of sin and death, and many other similar abstruse topics. it was followed by _de l'infinito universo ed mondi_, with numerous reasons for believing the universe to be infinite and full of innumerable worlds, with the divine essence everywhere pervading. all these works appeared in . in appeared his "_spacio de la bestia triofante_" or expulsion of the triumphant beast. in this prose poem jupiter, repenting his errors, resolves to expel the many beasts that occupy his heavenly sphere--the constellations--and to substitute for them the virtues. in the council of the gods convened by him many subjects are discussed, among them the history of religions, the contrasts between natural and revealed religions and the fundamental forms of morality. in this allegory jupiter represents of course the human spirit; the bear, the scorpion, etc., are the vices to be expelled. unfortunately the book was quite generally regarded as attack upon the church or the pope, though what he really struck at was the credulity of mankind. it was dedicated to sir philip sydney. then came his "_cabala del cavallo pegasio_" or cabal, dedicated to a suppositious bishop who was made to impersonate the spirit of ignorance and sloth. it is a mordant satire on asinity, including credulity and unquestioning faith. after this he dedicated another work to sidney. "_degl' heroici furori_" (enthusiasms of the noble), a collection of sonnets with prose commentaries, like dante's _vita nuova_, touching on the love for spiritual beauty arising from that for physical beauty attaining a climax in a sort of ecstasy by union with the divine. these sonnets possess a very high literary value aside from their other interest. when his ambassadorial patron was recalled bruno probably returned to paris with him, during the latter part of . here he spent a year amidst constant turmoil and excitement, and at his own expense. though he attempted reconciliation with the church he was regarded as an apostate. he held one more public disputation in which he advanced one hundred and twenty theses against the teaching of the sorbonne, his side being taken by its rival, the college de france. the outcome cannot have been brilliantly favorable, since he soon after left paris, in june, . the collection of charges above alluded to was published in paris after bruno's departure, and again in wittenberg, under the title "_excubitor_" (the ambassador). it was an arraignment of the aristotelians, based on the words of that great master himself. bruno claimed the same right to criticise aristotle that the latter claimed to criticise his predecessors. in it bruno says, "it is a poor mind that will think with the multitude because it is a multitude; truth is not altered by the opinions of the vulgar or the confirmation of the many;"--and again--"it is more blessed to be wise in truth in face of opinion than to be wise in opinion in face of truth." (mcintyre, p. ). in addition to this bruno had also published, before leaving paris, a commentary on the physics of aristotle. tarrying somewhat by the wayside bruno reached wittenberg, where, in , he matriculated at its university, marburg having curtly rejected him. describing him here mcintyre styles him the "knight errant of philosophy." here lutheranism dominated the theological faculty, while the philosophical faculty was dominated by calvinism; views concerning the person of christ, the "real presence," and the doctrine of predestination keeping them apart in spite of melancthon's attempt to reunite the two factions. from the lutheran party bruno obtained permission to lecture, and so for two years he taught from the organon of aristotle, as well as the writings of raymond lulli. to the university senate he dedicated a work on lulli, "_de lampade combinatoria lulliana_," whose chief purpose was to teach one how to find "an indefinite number of propositions and middle terms for speaking and arguing." he regarded it as the only key to the lullian writings, as well as a clue to a great many of the mysteries of the pythagoreans and cabalists. it was soon followed by "_de progressu et lampade venatoria logicorum_," intended to enable one to "dispute promptly and copiously on any subject." but again fate compelled a change of residence, for the calvanistic and ducal party gained in political ascendancy, to which party bruno, as a copernican, would have appeared as a heretic. after delivering an eloquent address of farewell he moved on, his next abiding place being prague, where rudolph ii, of bohemia, was posing as the friend of all learned men. here he already had friends at court, and here he introduced himself with another lullian work. to the emperor he next dedicated a work of iconoclastic type, "one hundred and sixty articles against the mathematicians and philosophers of the day." for this the emperor granted him the sum of three hundred dollars, and in january, , he shifted again to helmstadt, in brunswick, where he matriculated again in the then youngest of the german universities. this had been founded only twelve years before by duke julius, who was extremely liberal in his views, and intended to found a model institution, in which theology should not play too dominant a part. but while he received here a certain recognition fate again sported with him, for the duke died four months after his arrival. bruno obtained permission to pronounce a funeral oration, desiring to express his gratitude to the memory of one who had opened such an institution, so free to all lovers of the muses and to exiles like himself, who were here protected from the greedy maw of the roman wolf, whereas in italy he had been chained to a superstitious cult. it was full of allusions to the papal tyranny which was infecting the world with the rankest poison of ignorance and vice. the fatuous simplicity and the worldly blindness which bruno displayed, in ever setting foot inside of italian or papal territory after the delivery of this _oratio consolatoria_, may in one way be appreciated but never understood or explained. moreover he had made himself _persona non grata_ as well to the protestants, who were scarcely more liberal than the catholics. it appears that the great boethius, superintendent of the church at helmstadt, had acted both as judge and executioner, and publicly excommunicated bruno without a hearing, since there is extant a letter appealing from his arbitrary judgment and malice. the grounds for this judgment were never made clear, since no attention was ever paid to the appeal; but inasmuch as bruno never really joined the protestant profession it must have been meant to inflict some species of social ostracism. boethius had himself to be suppressed later. but bruno, finding too many enemies, left for frankfort in , "in order to get two books printed." these were his two great latin works, "de minimo" and "de immenso," the introduction to the latter being the "de monade." he worked at these with his own hands. in the introduction to the former his publisher stated that before its final revision bruno had been hurriedly called away by an unforseen chance. this sudden departure may have been due to a refusal of the town council to permit his residence there, or it may have been a call to zürich, where he spent a few months with one hainzel, who had a leaning toward the black arts. bruno wrote for him "_de imaginum compositione_," a manual of his art of memory. in this swiss city he also dictated a work "_summa terminorum metaphysicorum_," which was not published until , and then in marburg. but bruno returned to frankfort in , where he obtained permission to publish his _de minimo_. this work was on the "three fold minimum and measurement, being the elements of three speculative and several practical sciences." this like the two next mentioned was a latin poem, after the fashion of lucretius. the _de monade, numero et figura_ dealt with the monad, and with the elements of a more esoteric science, while in the _de immenso et innumerabilibus_, the immeasurable and innumerable, he dealt with the universe and the worlds. these three poems contain bruno's complete philosophy of god and nature. while thus staying in frankfort for the second time bruno was invited by a young venetian patrician to pay him a visit, and become his tutor in those arts in which the philosopher excelled. it was the most unfortunate event in bruno's unhappy life when he accepted this apparently tempting invitation. mocenigo, his host, was of good family, but shallow, vain, weak-minded and dishonest, with the fashionable taste of his day for the black arts. it is quite possible that he was moreover the tool of the inquisition, which had long desired to entrap bruno. it is probable moreover that the latter quite failed to appreciate how unenviably he was regarded by that church to which he still felt that he belonged. furthermore venice was then a republic and free, and he longed for his beloved italy again. en route to venice he spent three months in padua, teaching there and gathering around himself pupils, even in that short time. he had barely left it when galileo was invited there to teach; as riehl has said, "the creator of modern science following in the steps of its prophet." early in bruno went to live in mocenigo's house. trouble soon began. entirely apart in temperament and characteristics, they soon disagreed. the pupil was deeply disappointed at not acquiring that mastery over the secrets of nature for which he had hoped, and found that there was no quick way to acquire a retentive and replete memory. and so mocenigo announced to his friend ciotto, the bookseller, his intent to gain from bruno all he could and then denounce him to the holy office. while others were thus conspiring against him bruno was writing a work on "the seven liberal arts" and on "seven other inventive arts," intending to present it to the pope, hoping thus to obtain absolution and be released from the ban of excommunication. when bruno at last appreciated the dangers by which he was surrounded he announced his intent to go again to frankfort to have some of his books printed, and so took his leave of mocenigo. on the following day, in may, , bruno was seized by six men, using force, who locked him in an upper story of mocenigo's house. the next day he was transferred to an underground cellar, and the following night to the prison of the inquisition. may rd his former host denounced him, with a cunning and lying statement concerning some of his views and teachings. thus he was reported as stating that christ's miracles were only apparent, that he and the apostles were magicians, that the catholic faith was full of blasphemies against god, that the friars befouled the world and should not be allowed to preach, that they were asses, and the doctrines of the church were asses' beliefs, etc. (mcintyre). this was followed two days later by a second denunciation in which mocenigo went to a diabolical extreme of deceit and hypocrisy; stating that all the time he was entertaining bruno he was promising himself to bring him before the holy office. within forty-eight hours the holy tribunal met to consider the matter; before them appeared the book-sellers who had known bruno in zürich and frankfort, and before them came bruno in his own behalf, professing his entire willingness to tell the whole truth. within a few days mocenigo made yet another deposition, denouncing bruno's statements about the infallible church. on the following day bruno was again heard in his own defense, and appealed to the famous and fallacious doctrine of two-fold truth, acknowledging that he had taught too much as a philosopher rather than as an honest man and christian, and that he had based his teachings too much on sense and reason and not enough on faith;--so specious had become his argument with the terrors of the inquisition before him. he further claimed that his intent had been not to impugn the faith but to exalt philosophy. he then beautifully epitomized his own views, claiming that he believed in an infinite universe, in an infinite divine potency, holding it unworthy of an infinite power to create a finite world, when he could produce so vast an infinity; with pythagoras he regarded this world as one of many stars,--innumerable worlds. this universe he held to be governed by a universal providence, existent in two forms;--one nature, the shadow or footprint of deity, the other the ineffable essence of god, always inexplicable. concerning the triune godhead he confessed certain philosophic doubts as well as concerning the use of the term "_persons_" in these distinctions, while he quoted st. augustine to the same effect. the miracles he had always believed to be divine and genuine; concerning the holy mass and the transubstantiation he agreed with the church. as the days went by he became the more insistent upon his orthodoxy. he condemned the heretic writings of melancthon, luther and calvin, expressed respect for the writings of lulli because of their philosophical bearings, while for st. thomas aquinas he had the most profound regard. other counts in the indictment which he had to face were his doubts concerning the miracles, the sacraments and the incarnation, his praise of heretics and heretic princes and his familiarity with the magic arts. he finally made a formal solemn abjuration of all the errors he had ever committed, and the heresies he had ever uttered, or doubts expressed or believed, praying only that the holy office would receive him back into the church where he might rest in peace. further examinations were held and the earlier processes against him in naples and rome recalled. after this there was a period of apparent quiet save that he remained in prison. it is not known to what tortures he may have been subjected, but it is recorded that he knelt before his judges asking their pardon, and god's, for all his faults, and professed himself ready for any penance, apparently not yet realizing the fate in store for him. a little later it transpired that the sacred congregation of the supreme tribunal of the holy office, in rome, desired to assume all further responsibility for the process against so distinguished a heretic. accordingly the machinery of the church was put in motion to this end. negotiations with the venetian republic, somewhat tedious and complicated, which need not detain us now, were at last concluded. january , , the venetian procurator reported of bruno that "his faults were exceedingly grave in respect of heresies, though in other respects he was one of the most excellent and rarest natures, and of exquisite learning and knowledge," (mcintyre) but that the case was of unusual gravity, bruno not a venetian subject, the pope most anxious, etc. it was then decided to remit him to the tribunal of the inquisition at rome; whereat it is duly reported, the pope was deeply gratified. to rome then he went and here he was lost, so far as documentary records go, for a period of six years. how to explain this fact and this apparent clemency has bothered the biographers not a little. whether this time was spent in an examination of his voluminous writings, which would seem incredible, or whether the dominicans labored so long to procure his more absolute recantation in order to prevent scandal in and reflection on their order, or whether pope clement himself regarded kindly--in some degree-- the great scholar who was so anxious to dedicate to him a _magnum opus_;--to these queries history answereth not. the dominicans pretended--years later--to doubt if he ever had been put to death, or whether he had ever really belonged to their order. these statements are too characteristic to provoke more than a sad smile. finally matters were hastened to an end by the efforts of fathers commisario and bellarmino; the latter being the zealous bigot who decided that copernicanism was a heresy, who later laid the indictment against galileo. through their machinations bruno was, in february, , decreed on eight counts as a dangerous heretic, who might still admit his heresies, and he was to be granted forty days in which to recant and repent. but this period was stretched out some ten months, until december, when it was reported that bruno refused to recant, having nothing to take back. among the tribunal at this time was san severino, fanatical, bitter because of his failure to secure the papacy, who had declared that st. bartholomew's was "a glorious day, a day of joy for catholics." it was decided that the high officers of the dominicans should make one last effort to compel or coax bruno to abjure. this he declined to do, whereupon, january th, , it was decreed that "further measures be proceeded to, _servatis servandis_, that sentence be passed, and that the said friar giordano be handed over to the secular authority." a few days later bruno was degraded, excommunicated and handed over to the governor of rome, with the usual hypocritical recommendation to "mercy," and that he be punished "without effusion of blood," which meant of course burning at the stake. bruno's reply to his judges deserves to be printed in letters of gold whenever it can be recorded;--"_greater perhaps is your fear in pronouncing my sentence than mine in hearing it._" let us spare ourselves a too minute account of his execution. some reports are to the effect that his tongue was tied, because he refused to listen to the exhortations of those members of the company of st. john the beheaded, better known as the brothers of the misericordia, who accompanied the condemned to the scaffold or the stake, resorting to the most cruel methods in order to provoke at least some appearance of recantation or repentance during the last moments of life. right here let it be said of bruno that whatever may have been his weaknesses before the inquisition at venice, he stood firmly by his creed when put to the final test, and died an ideal martyr's death because his creed did not agree with that of his persecutors. and so terminated the life of one of italy's greatest ornaments and scholars. the occasion had not then the importance we assign it now. the burning of a heretic was a frequent spectacle, and the year was the year of jubilee, in which the death of one unbeliever more was but the incident of a day. he had himself foreseen it, saying, "torches, fifty or a hundred, will not fail me, even though the march past be at mid-day, should it be my fate to die in roman catholic country." there remains yet to comment on his character and to analyze his views. the greatest blot upon the former is his attitude before the venetian tribunal. here he was at first defiant, even polemical, strong in his asserted right to use the natural light of sense and reason. under greater stress he modified this to one of absolute and indignant denial, and finally became submissive to the last degree, cringing and finally begging for pardon on bended knees. that this attitude changed with his better realization of his predicament is undeniable. moreover what keen and sensitive natures may do under the influence of torture is never to be predicated. how many of us could resist the persuasiveness of the rack when it came to modifying our beliefs? but whatever may have been his weakness at that time, he completely rehabilitated himself before his end, for were not his ashes scattered to the winds as a token that he completely failed to recant? surely no martyr to science or dogma ever died a more dignified death, for the edification or example of others. what shall be said of his persecutors and prosecutors? let us here be charitable; let us be just. have we yet that absolute knowledge of right and wrong which can enable us to pass final judgment on men of the past, their motives and actions? moral perceptions are the product of the race, the age and the environment; they vary greatly with the times. there is no crime in or out of the decalogue which has at all times and by all peoples been regarded as such. the church during several centuries enjoyed a monopoly of wisdom or learning as well as of opportunities for acquiring them. zealotry, bigotry, intolerance, fanaticism, were the natural products of such conditions. so were cruelty and disregard of human life. join the mind of a bigot to the body of one who knows not fear, and the result will be a loyola, or a st. louis of france, who held that the only argument a layman should engage in with a heretic should be a sword thrust through the body. if then heresy was a crime, punishable by a cruel death in all the capitals of europe, let us blame less the men who were trained and grew up with these notions, but rather more the church which preached them, whether catholic or protestant. only if one of these really were, as it still claims to be, _infallible_, then what has become of its infallibility? or if heresy be held still a crime then what shall we say of the church's ethics? if one were god-given the other is un-christ-like. but no free thinker can engage in theological polemics, or with jesuitical sophistries, without letting his reason excite his emotions; and when the emotions enter the door logic flies out of the window. let us say then that bruno was in some respects so far ahead of his day and generation that they understood him not. and yet he was a _torch bearer_, save at his own last funeral pyre, shedding forth a light which illumed the centuries to come, and helping to make the period of the italian renaissance one of the most important and glorious in the world's history. if better known and more widely studied, he would be by english and american students placed on that pinnacle which he deserves in the hall of fame. what shall be said of bruno as a philosopher? he, first of all men in the middle ages, taught that nature was lovable and worthy of study. loving her, trusting, confiding in her, he found himself at outs with all the mental processes of his fellow scholars. in this way the natural method was brought into direct opposition with the ponderously artificial and strained methods of his day. he held that our eyes were given us that we might open and look upward. "seeing, i do not pretend not to see, nor fear to profess it openly," he says. his philosophy was rather a product of intuition than of ratiocination, which became his real religion, for which catholicism was a cloak, because in those days one was compelled to wear a cloak or live but a short life, and that within prison walls. what the medieval church, catholic and even protestant, has to answer for, as to the suppression of truth and provocation of hypocrisy, is beyond the mensuration of man. for the argument from authority he had the greatest contempt, and herein he set the world of thinkers a valuable lesson. "to believe with the many because they were many, was the mark of a slave," (mcintyre). before bacon, before descrates, he saw the necessity of "first clearing the mind of all prejudice, all traditional beliefs that rest on authority." he thus begins one of his sonnets:-- "oh, holy assinity! oh, holy ignorance, holy folly and pious devotion; which alone makest souls so good that human wit and zeal can go no further," etc. by the independence of his mental processes he was thrown quite upon his own resources, and his nature, already dignified and reserved, was made more introspective and self-conscious. in this way he developed strains of vanity and egotism which led him at times to the bombastic self-laudation of a paracelsus. he had nothing but disgust for the common people and the sort of scholars (pedants) whom they admired. the vulgar mind was more influenced by sophisms, by appearance, by failure to distinguish between the shadow and the substance. take but two or three of bruno's conceptions:-- he perhaps first during the middle ages taught the transformation of lower into higher organisms, following the greeks who first enunciated the doctrine of evolution, which it remained for darwin and wallace to edit and illustrate as that law of the organic continuity of life, which we call _evolution_. he further wrote of the human hand as a factor in the evolution of the human race, in a way which should have commended him to the author of the bridgewater treatise. he wrote of the changes on the earth's surface brought about by natural processes, which have changed not only the external configuration of the same but the fate and destiny of nations; of the identity of matter throughout the universe; of the universal movement of matter. long before lessing he showed how myths may contain the germs of great truths, and should be regarded as indications thereof. in this way, he told us, the bible was to be regarded, holding its more or less historical statements to be quite subordinate to its moral teachings. when we realize how to such highly developed reasoning powers as bruno possessed, were added a phenomenal memory, a tremendous power of assimilation, a developed imagination, a poetic nature, the gift of easy and accurate speech and a temperament easily excited to fervor in attack or defense, we may the better appreciate his dominating greatness as well as his trifling weakness; the former being entirely to his own credit while the latter are ascribed largely to the faults of his time, and the fact that he was really living far ahead of his day and generation. he was not only the forerunner of modern science, he was the prototype of the modern biblical critic, foreshadowing the modern higher criticism, albeit in veiled terms, and as a matter of esoteric teaching; because the biblical critic of those days was burned at the stake, while to-day he is barely ostracized by the shallow and narrow minded, with whom he has at best nothing mentally in common. so much have four centuries of labor and vicarious suffering accomplished for the emancipation of the human mind. bruno _had_ a creed, but it was too simple for his times. he rejected certain orthodox dogmas, (e. g. the trinity, the immaculate conception) which commend themselves still less to the emancipated and cultivated minds of to-day. he absolutely rejected authority, which was a step toward reason comparable to the freeing of the slaves or serfs. he evolved a theory of evolution from _a priori_ concepts, which it remained for darwin to complete and demonstrate. he believed in the natural history of religions. his motives were of the loftiest, though his methods were not always those of to-day. he believed that the essence of truth inhered in those differences which kept men apart, and still sever them. he believed the _law of love_ and that it sprang from god, which is the father of all, that it was in harmony with nature, and that by love we may be transformed into something of his likeness. as bruno himself says:--"this is the religion, above controversy or dispute, which i observe from the belief of my own mind, and from the custom of my fatherland and my race." (mcintyre, p. ). and yet this sublime man was burned as a heretic! let us stop when we hereafter pass through the campo dei fiori, as i have done many a time, and take off our hats to the memory of this great man, who, while small in some human traits, yet was the greatest thinker in italy during the sixteenth century, whose memory may help us to forget some of the hypocrisies and cant so generally prevalent during the age which and among the men who condemned him. let us also thank god that there is no tribunal of the inquisition to-day, to pass misguided judgment upon us for having gone further than bruno ever dreamed, though along the same lines, and to condemn us therefore to the flames. this paper has already been prolonged, perhaps tiresomely, nevertheless i cannot refrain from quoting a few paragraphs from that most versatile student of this period, symonds, whose estimate of bruno is as follows:--(renaissance in italy; catholic reaction, ii chap. ix). "bruno appears before us as the man who most vitally and comprehensively grasped the leading tendencies of his age in their intellectual essence. he left behind him the mediaeval conception of an extra-mundane god, creating a finite world, of which this globe is the center, and the principal episode in the history of which is the series of events from the fall, through the incarnation and crucifixion, to the last judgment. he substituted the conception of an ever-living, ever-acting, ever-self-effectuating god, immanent in an infinite universe, to the contemplation of whose attributes the mind of man ascends by the study of nature and interrogation of his conscience. "bolder even than copernicus, and nearer in his intuition to the truth, he denied that the universe had "flaming walls" or any walls at all. that "immaginata circonferenza," "quella margine immaginata del cielo," on which antique science and christian theology alike reposed, was the object of his ceaseless satire, his oft-repeated polemic. what, then, rendered bruno the precursor of modern thought in its various manifestations, was that he grasped the fundamental truth upon which modern science rests, and foresaw the conclusions which must be drawn from it. he speculated boldly, incoherently, vehemently; but he speculated with a clear conception of the universe, as we still apprehend it. through the course of three centuries we have been engaged in verifying the guesses, deepening, broadening and solidifying the hypotheses, which bruno's extension of the copernican theory, and his application of it to pure thought suggested to his penetrating and audacious intellect." bruno was convinced that religion in its higher essence would not sufferer from the new philosophy. larger horizons extended before the human intellect. the soul expanded in more exhilarating regions than the old theologies had offered. "lift up thy light on us and on thine own, o soul whose spirit on earth was as a rod to scourge off priests, a sword to pierce their god, a staff for man's free thought to walk alone, a lamp to lead him far from shrine and throne on ways untrodden where his fathers trod ere earth's heart withered at a high priest's nod, and all men's mouths that made not prayer made moan. from bonds and torments, and the ravening flame, surely thy spirit of sense rose up to greet lucretius, where such only spirits meet, and walk with him apart till shelley came to make the heaven of heavens more heavenly sweet, and mix with yours a third incorporate name." viii student life in the middle ages[ ] [ ] an address given before the chas. k. mills society of students of the university of pennsylvania, february , . [reprinted from the _univ. of penna. medical bulletin_, march, .] i assume that every university student of today realizes that his possibilities and his opportunities are better in every way than were those enjoyed by students of bygone times. i take it, also, that you would not be averse to listening to an account of the habits, the surroundings, the privileges, and the disadvantages which surrounded students at a time when universities were young and when customs in general, as well as manners, were very different from those of to-day. with all this in view, i shall ask your attention to a brief account of student life in the middle ages, with especial reference to that of the medical student. measured by its results, the most priceless legacy of mediæval times to mankind was the university system, which began in crude form and with an almost mythical origin, but which gradually took form and shape in consequence of many external forces. it represented an effort to "realize in concrete form an ideal of life in one of its aspects." such ideals "pass into great historic forces by embodying themselves in institutions," as witness, for instance, the case of the church of rome. the use of words in our language has undergone many curious perversions. take our word "bombast," for instance. originally it was a name applied to the cotton plant. then it was applied to any padding for garments which was made of cotton. later it was used as describing literary padding, as it were, as when one filled out an empty speech with unnecessary and long words, and, at last, it came to have the meaning which we now give it. so with the word "university." "universitas" in the original latin meant simply a collection, a plurality, or an aggregation. it was almost synonymous with "collegium." by the beginning of the thirteenth century it was applied to corporations of masters or students and to other associated bodies, and implied an association of individuals, not a place of meeting, nor even a collection of schools. if we were to be literal and consistent in our use of terms, for the place where such collections of men exercise scholastic functions the term should be "_studium generale_," meaning thereby a place, not where all things are studied, but where students come together from all directions. very few of the mediæval studia possessed all the faculties of a modern university. even paris, in its palmiest days, had no faculty of law. the name _universitas_ implies a general invitation to students from all over the world to seek there a place for higher education from numerous masters or teachers. the three great _studia_ of the thirteenth century were paris, transcendent in theology and the arts; bologna, where legal lore prevailed; and salernum, where existed the greatest medical school of the world's history. in spite of the fact that these, like all the other _studia_ of the middle ages, were under the influence of the church, from them sprang most of the inspiration that constituted the mainspring of mediæval intellectual activity, although how baneful such influence could be may be illustrated by the spanish--that is, the ultra-catholic university of salamanca, where not until one hundred years ago were they allowed to teach the copernican system of astronomy. under the conditions existing during the middle ages, with relatively few institutions of advanced learning, and in the presence of that spirit which led men to travel long distances, and very widely out of the provinces, to the cities of the great scholia, or, as we call them now, universities, the most imperative common want was that of a common language; and so it happened that not only were the lectures all given in latin, but that it was very commonly used for conversational purposes, and appears to have been almost a necessity of university life. early in the history of the university of paris a statute made the ability of the petitioner to state his case before the rector in latin a test of his bona-fide studentship. this may perhaps, in some measure account for the barbarity of mediæval latin. still, as the listener said about wagner's music, "it may not have been as bad as it sounded," since the period of greatest ignorance of construction and rhetoric had passed away before the university era began. john stuart mill even praised the schoolmen of the middle ages for their inventive capacity in the matter of technical terms. the latin language, which was originally stiff and poor in vocabulary, became, in its employment by these mediæval thinkers, much more flexible and expressive. it was the ciceronian pedantry of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries which killed off latin as a living language. felicity in latin counted, then as now, as a mark of scholarship, and six hundred years ago a schoolmaster could come up to the university and, after performing some exercises and passing such an examination as the doctors of music do to-day, could write one hundred verses in latin in praise of the university, and take his degree. the boys who went to the universities learned their latin at inferior grammar schools, often in university towns. these schools were mainly connected with cathedrals or churches, although, in the later middle ages, even the smallest towns had schools where a boy might learn to read and write at least the rudiments of ecclesiastical latin. in those days not only were the clergy latin scholars, but the bailiff of every manor kept his accounts in latin, and a tutor even formed part of the establishment of a great noble or prelate who had either a family or pages in his care. in those good old days boys were accustomed to seek the university at the ages of thirteen to fifteen. a paris statute required them to be at least fourteen, and naturally many were older. many of these students were beneficed, and boys were canons or even rectors of parish churches. in this capacity they obtained leave of absence to study in the universities, and so it was quite common at one time for rectors and ecclesiastics of all ages to appear in the rôle of university students. at the close of the fourteenth century, in the university of prague, in the law school alone there appeared on the list of students one bishop, one abbot, nine archdeacons, canons, rectors, and still other minor ecclesiastics. at one time in the university of bologna, in the registry of german corps, more than half the students were church dignitaries. sad to relate, many of these clerical students were among the most disorderly and troublesome of the academic population, the statutes vainly prescribing that they should sit "as quiet as girls;" while, as rashdall says, "even spiritual thunders had at times to be invoked to prevent them from shouting, playing, and interrupting." considering the youthfulness of what we may call the freshmen, as many of them went up to the universities at the early age already mentioned, it is not strange that we hear of "fetchers" or "carriers" or "bryngers," who were detailed to escort them home; but we must remember that the roads were dangerous in those days, and that protection of some kind was necessary even for men. proclamations against bearing arms usually made exceptions in favor of students travelling to or from the university. students, many of them, lived in halls, or, as we would say now, dormitories, and one of them assumed the rôle of principal, or was delegated to exercise certain authority. quite often this was the man who made himself responsible for the rent, whose authority came only from the voluntary consent of his fellow-students, or who was elected by them. when it came to the matter of discipline, the good old-fashioned birchen rod was not an unknown factor in university government. there seems to have been always a certain relationship between classic studies and corporal punishment. in mediæval university records allusions to this relationship began about the fifteenth century. in paris, about this time, when there were so many disgraceful factional fights, the rectors and proctors had occasionally to go to the colleges and halls and personally superintend the chastisement of the young rioters. we find also in the history of the university of louvain that flogging was at one time ordered by the faculty of arts for homicide or other grave outrages. it is worth while to recall for a moment how grave offences were dealt with in those days. at the university of ingolstadt one student killed another in a drunken quarrel, and was punished by the university by the confiscation of his scholastic effects and garments, but he was not even expelled. at prague a certain master of arts assisted in cutting the throat of a friar bishop, and was actually expelled for the deed. in those days drunkenness was rarely treated as a university offence. the penalties which were inflicted for the gravest outrages and immoralities were for the greater part puerile in the extreme. in most serious cases excommunication or imprisonment were the penalties, while lesser offences were punished by postponement of degree, expulsion from the college, temporary banishment from a university town, or by fines. in leipzig, in , the fine of ten new groschen was provided for the offense of lifting a stone or missile with a view of throwing it at a master, but not actually throwing it; whereas the act of throwing and missing increased the penalty to eight florins, while successful marksmanship was still more expensive. later statutes made distinction between hitting without wounding and wounding without mutilation, expulsion being the penalty for actual mutilation. with the beginning of the sixteenth century the practice of flogging the very poorest students appears to have been introduced. during these middle ages they had a peculiar fashion of expiating even grave offences. for example, at the sorbonne, if a fellow should assault or cruelly beat a servant he was fined a measure of good wine--not for the benefit of the servant, but for all the culprit's fellow-students. those were the days, too, when trifling lapses incurred each its own penalty. a doctor of divinity was fined a quart of wine for picking a pear off a tree in the college garden or forgetting to shut the chapel door. clerks were fined for being very drunk and committing insolences when in that condition. the head cook was fined for not putting salt in the soup. most of these fines being in the shape of liquors or wines, i imagine that the practice was more general because the penalty was shared in by all who were near. with lapse of time the statutes of the german universities gradually grew stricter until they became very minute and restrictive in the matter of unacademical pleasures. a visit to the tavern, or even to the kitchen of the college or hall, became a university offence. there were statutes against swearing, against games of chance, walking abroad without a companion, being out after eight in the winter or nine in the summer, making odious comparisons of country to country, etc. this was particularly true of the english universities, where a definite penalty was imposed for every offence, ranging from a quarter of a penny for not speaking latin to six shillings eight pence for assault with effusion of blood. the matter of constantly speaking latin led to a system of espionage, by which a secret system of spies, called "_lupi_" or wolves, was arranged; these were to inform against the "_vulgarisantes_," or those offenders who persisted in speaking in their mother tongue. it was the students of those days who set the example and the fashion of initiating, or, as we would say now, of hazing the newcomers. this custom of initiation, in one form or another, seems to have an almost hoary antiquity. as rashdall puts it, three deeply rooted instincts of human nature combine to put the custom almost beyond suppression. it satisfies alike the bullying instinct, the social instinct, and the desire to find at once the excuse and the means for a carouse. in the days of which we are speaking the _bejaunus_, which is a corruption of the old french _bec-jaune_ (or yellow bill), as the academic fledgling was called, had to be bullied and coaxed and teased in order to be welcomed as a comrade, and finally his "jocund advent" had to be celebrated by a feast furnished at his own expense. a history of the process of initiating would furnish one of the most singular chapters in university records. at first there were several prohibitions against all _bejaunia_, for the unfortunate youth's limited purse ill afforded even the first year's expenses. as the years went by certain restrictions were imposed, and by the sixteenth century the _depositio cornuum_ had become in the german universities a ceremony almost equal in importance to matriculation. the callow country youth was supposed to be a wild beast who must be deprived of his horns before he could be received into refined society in his new home. this constituted the _depositio_ for which he was supposed to arrange with his new masters, at the same time begging them to keep expenses as low as possible. soon after he matriculated he was visited in his room by two of the students, who would pretend to be investigating the source of an abominable odor. this would be subsequently discovered to be due to the newcomer himself, whom they would take at first to be a wild boar, but later discovery to be that rare creature known as a _bejaunus_, a creature of whom they had heard, but which they had never seen. after chaffing comments about his general ferocious aspect it would be suggested, with marked sympathy, that his horns might be removed by operation, the so-called _depositio_. the victim's face would then be smeared with some preparation, and certain formalities would be gone through with--clipping his ears, removal of his tusks, etc. finally, in fear lest the mock operation should be fatal, the patient would be shriven; one of the students, feigning himself a priest, would put his ear to the dying man's mouth and then repeat his confession. the boy was made to accuse himself of all sorts of enormities, and finally it was exacted as penance that he should provide a sumptuous banquet for his new masters and comrades. this latter ceremony consisted of a procession headed by a master in academic dress, followed by students in masquerading costume. certain further operative procedures were then gone through with, the beast was finally dehorned and his nose held to the grindstone, while a little later his chin was adorned with a beard made of burnt cork, and his wounded sensibilities assuaged by a dose of salt and wine. all this constituted a peculiar german custom, although some means of extorting money or bothering those who were initiated was practically universal. in germany this ceremony of _depositio_ seems to have led later to the bullying and fagging of juniors by seniors, that gave rise to indignities while at the same time it more than exceeded in brutality anything of which we have read in the english grammar schools. these excesses reached their highest in the seventeenth century, and for a long time defied all efforts of both government and university authorities to suppress them. in southern france this initiation assumed somewhat different form. here the freshman was treated as a criminal, and had to be tried for and released by purgation from the consequences of his original sin. at avignon this purgation of freshmen was made the primary purpose of a religious fraternity formed under ecclesiastical sanction, and with a chapel in the dominican church. (rashdall). the preamble of its constitution piously boasted that its object was to put a stop to enormities, drunkenness and immorality, but its practices were at extreme variance with its avowed purposes. the matter of academical dress may interest for a moment. during the middle ages there was for the undergraduate nothing which could be properly called academic dress. in the italian universities the students wore a long black garment known as a "cappa." in the parisian universities every student was required by custom or statute to wear a tonsure and a clerical habit, such "indecent, dissolute, or secular" apparel as puffed sleeves, pointed shoes, colored boots, etc., being positively forbidden; and so the clothes of uniform color and material, like those worn in some of the english charitable schools, have been the result of the uniform dress of a particular color which mediæval students were supposed to wear, and which indicated that at the time they were supposed to be clerks. at one time the so-called queen's men in oxford university were required to wear bright red garments, and differences of color and ornament still survive in the undergraduate gowns of cambridge. while the students usually wore dark-hued material, the higher officials of the universities wore more and more elaborate garments, until the rector appeared in violet or purple, perhaps with fur trimmings. the hoods, which are still worn to-day, were at one time made of lamb's wool or rabbit's fur, silk, such as those which we wear, coming in as a summer alternative at the end of the fourteenth century. the birretta, or square cap, with a tuft on the top, in lieu of the modern tassel on top of the square cap, was a distinctive badge of membership, while doctors and superior officers were distinguished by the red or violet color of their birrettas. this so-called "philosophy of clothes" throws much light upon the relation of the church to the universities, as well as on the use and misuse of the term "clericus." that a man was a _clericus_ in the middle ages did not necessarily imply that he had taken even the lowest grade of clerical orders. it simply implied that he was a clerk, i. e., a student. even the wearing of a so-called clerical dress was rather in order that the wearer might enjoy exemption from secular courts and the privileges of the clerical order. the lowest of the people even took the clerical tonsure simply in order to get the benefit of clergy; and to become a clerk was at one time almost equivalent to taking out a license for the commission of murder or outrage with comparative immunity. nevertheless, the relation between clerkship and minor orders is still quite obscure. it is quite evident that students of those days were not worked as hard as those of the present day. three lectures a day constituted a maximum of work of this kind, beside which there were disputations and "resumpciones," which seem to have corresponded very much to the quizzes of to-day, scholars being examined or catechised, sometimes even by the lecturer himself. gradually supplementary lectures were introduced, but there was a period during which the university seemed to decline and decay rather than the reverse, when intellectual life was not nearly as active and studies not nearly as closely pursued. in the days of thomas aquinas intellectual vigor was at its highest, but in the fifteenth century there was a distinct falling off. during these centuries, too, it was not unusual that students attended mass or religious services before going to lectures. this practice grew during the latter portion of the middle ages. attendance was not, however, compulsory. even at oxford the statutes of the new college were the first which required daily attendance at mass. in those days lectures began at six in the morning in summer, and sometimes as late as seven in the winter mornings. there is every reason to think that often lectures were given in the darkness preceding dawn, and even without artificial light. it should be said that these lectures were sometimes three hours in duration, and hence it might appear that three such lectures a day were about all that could be expected of a student. the standard of living for the mediæval student was not always so bad as has been sometimes represented. university students then, as now, were recruited from the highest as well as the poorest social classes, and the young sons of princely families often had about them quite an establishment. at the lower end of the university social ladder was the poor scholar who was reduced to begging for his living or becoming a servant in one of the colleges. in vienna and elsewhere there were halls whose inmates were regularly sent out to beg, the proceeds of their mendicancy being placed in a common chest. very poor scholars were often granted licenses to beg by the chancellor. this was not regarded as a particular degradation, however, because the example of the friars had made begging comparatively respectable. those who would have been ashamed to work hard were not ashamed to beg. this custom, for that matter, is by no means yet abandoned. when i was first studying in vienna, in , i remember a young german nobleman who was reduced to such an extent that he lived absolutely on the charity of others. he kept a little book in which he had it set down that on such a day such a person had promised to give him so much toward his support, and he called regularly on his list of supporters, and almost daily, in order that the gulden which they had promised him might be forthcoming. there is the good old story you know, also, of the three students who were so poor that they had but one cappa or gown between them, in which they took turns to go to lectures. in the small university towns, where thousands of students gathered together during a part of the year--where means of carrying food were scanty, and food itself not abundant--it is not strange that student fare was often of the most meagre sort. the matter of food was not the only hardship of student life in those days about which we are talking. at that time such a thing as a fire in a lecture-room was unknown, there being no source of warmth or comfort, save, perhaps, straw or rushes upon the floor. the winter in the northern university towns must have been severe, but it is not likely that either in the lecture-room or in his own apartments did the student have any comfort from heat. this was true to such an extent that they often sought the kitchens for comfort. in germany it was even one of the duties of the head of the college to inspect the college-rooms lest the occupants should have supplied themselves with some source of heat. in some places, however, there was a common hall or combination room in which a fire was built in cold weather. you must remember, also, that glass windows were an exceptional luxury until toward the close of the period under discussion. in padua the windows of the schools were made of linen. in a glass window was for the first time introduced into the theological school at prague. in the rooms inhabited by some of the junior fellows at cambridge were still unprovided with glass windows. add to these hardships the relative expense of lights, when the average price of candles was nearly two pence per pound, and you will see that the poorest student could not afford to study by artificial light. some of the senior students may have had bedsteads, but the younger students slept mostly upon the floor. in some places there were cisterns or troughs of lead, or occasionally pitchers and bowls were provided, but usually the student had to resort to the public lavatory in the hall. along with these hardships consider the amusements of this period, which were for the greater part conspicuous by their absence. statutes concerning amusements were often more stringent than those concerning crime or vice. these were essentially military times, and tournaments, hunting, and hawking, which were enjoyed by the upper social classes, were considered too expensive and distracting for university students, and were consequently forbidden. "mortification of the flesh" was the cry of those days, as even now among some religious fanatics. even playing with a ball or bat was at times forbidden, along with other "insolent games." a statute of the sixteenth century speaks of tennis and fives as among "indecent games" whose introduction would create scandal in and against the college. games of chance and playing for money were also forbidden; nevertheless, they were more or less practised. even chess enjoyed a bad reputation among the mediæval moralists, and was characterized by a certain bishop of winchester as a "noxious, inordinate, and unhonest game." dancing was rather a favorite amusement, but was repressed as far as possible, since the celebrated william of wykeham found it necessary to prohibit dancing and jumping in the chapel. apparently, then, in those days a good student amused himself little, if at all, and had to find his relaxation in the frequent interruptions caused by church holidays. at st. andrew's, in scotland, however, two days' holiday was allowed at carnival time expressly for cock-fighting. on the evenings of festival days entertainments were occasionally provided by strolling players, jesters, or mountebanks, who were largely patronized by students. altogether, it is not strange that students in those days fell into dissolute habits, many having to be expelled or punished. we can even understand how some of them actually turned highwaymen and waylaid their more peaceful brothers as they approached the universities with money for the ensuing season. in the archives of the university of leipzig there are standard forms of proclamation against even such boyish follies as pea-shooting, destruction of trees and crops, throwing water out of the window upon passers-by, shouting at night, wearing of disguises, interfering with a hangman in the execution of his duty, or attending exhibitions of wrestling, boxing, and the like. evidently, then, university life had its exceedingly wild side. one needs only to recall the history of the famous latin quarter in paris to be convinced of this. this was the students' quarter in the old city of paris as extended by philip augustus across the river. paris then was surrounded by a cordon of monasteries, whose abbots exercised jurisdiction over their surrounding districts. just to the west of the student quarter stood the great abbey of st. germain. between the monks of this monastery and the students there were frequent conflicts, and it is recorded that in , for instance, a pitched battle occurred between the monks, under their provost, on one side, and the unarmed and defenceless boys and masters, on the other, during which many were badly wounded, and some mortally. the matter was finally carried to court, and the monks were required to perform certain penances and to pay certain fines. their brutality, however, was not effectually suppressed. in the provost of paris hanged and gibbetted a student, and was punished therefor by the king; while the subsequent history of paris is one of constant conflict between students and the clerical orders. on the other hand, the clerical tonsure in which the parisian scholar clothed himself enabled him to indulge in all kinds of crime, without fear of that summary execution which would have been his fate had he been merely an ordinary beggar. bibulousness was another striking characteristic of mediæval university life. in those days they knew not tea nor coffee nor tobacco, but spirituous liquors in some form were far from unknown to them. no important event of life could be transacted without its drinking accompaniment. at all exercises, public or private, wine was freely provided, and many of the feasts and festivals which began with mass were concluded with a drunken orgie. you have observed that so far i have made frequent mention of clerical matters. in truth, in northern europe the church included practically all the learned professions, including the civil servants of the government, the physicians, architects, secular lawyers, diplomatists, and secretaries, who were all ecclesiastics. it is true that in order to be a "clerk" it was not really necessary to take even minor orders, but it was so easy for a king or bishop to reward his physician, his lawyer, or his secretary by a monastic office rather than by a large salary, that the average student, at least in the larger places, looked to holy orders as his eventual destination. how much of insincerity and hypocrisy there were among those reverend gentlemen thus constituted you may imagine better than i can picture. the reformation, as well as the increasing corruption of the monastic orders, brought about changes which were not rapid, but which became almost complete, and led finally to the partial restoration of the ancient dignity of the early church. without pursuing this part of the subject further, it may be imagined what a general alteration and reformation in all branches of study, as well as in the general intellectual life of the people, the founding of the universities accomplished. for the greater part designed for the confirmation of the faith, they often brought about a reaction against it. like the other integral portions of the university, the medical departments of nearly all the mediæval institutions came into existence through voluntary associations of physicians and would-be teachers. for a long time medicine was included under the general head of philosophy, whose standard-bearers were aristotle and the arabians. at tübingen, in , the medical student's days were divided about as follows: in the morning he studied galen's _ars medici_, and in the afternoon avicenna on _fever_. during the second year, in the forenoon he studied avicenna's _anatomy and physiology_, and in the afternoon the ninth book of rhazes on _local pathology_. the forenoons of his third year were spent with the _aphorisms_ of hippocrates, and in the afternoon he studied galen. if any text-book on surgery at all were used it was usually that of avicenna. some time was also given to the writings of some of the other arabian physicians. at that time any man who had studied medicine for three years and attained the age of twenty-one might assume the rôle of teacher if he saw fit, being compelled only, at first, to lecture upon the preparatory branches. he was at that time called a _baccalaureus_. after three years' further study he became a _magister_ or _doctor_, although for the latter title a still further course of study was usually prescribed. the courses of medical instruction were quite stereotyped in form, and were carefully watched over by the church. nevertheless, it came about that the study of medicine once more was taken up by thinkers, although, unfortunately, not logical thinkers, whereas previously it had been almost entirely confined within the ranks of the clerics or clergy. the most celebrated of all these mediæval philosophers in science and medicine was albert von bollstaedt, usually known as albertus magnus, who died in . his works which remain to us fill twenty-one quarto volumes, in which he discussed both anatomical and physiological questions. it is exceedingly illustrative of the foolishly speculative vein in which many of these discussions were carried on, that they seriously discussed such questions as whether the removal of the rib from adam's side, out of which eve was formed, really caused adam severe pain, and whether at the judgment day that loss of rib would be compensated by the insertion of another. those were the days, also, when it was seriously discussed whether adam or eve ever had a navel. in spite of such follies, however, albertus magnus left an impression upon scholarship in science, in a general way, which long outlasted him. these were the days when the students organized themselves into so-called "nations," whence arose that conspicuous features of german university life of today of so-called students' corps. these nations--each composed, for the main part, of men of one nationality--had their own meeting-places, their own property, etc. one of the principal means of instruction in those days was disputations, or, as we would say, debates, held between students, often of different nations, in which they were expected to prove their knowledge and mental alertness. when it is recalled that universities were larger--i. e., better attended--in those days than now, it will be seen to what an extent these nations were developed. oxford, in , is said to have had no less than , students; paris about the same time had , ; and bologna had some , students, the majority of whom were studying law. the title of doctor came into vogue about the twelfth century. at first it was confined to teachers proper, and was bestowed upon the learned--i. e., those who had almost solely studied internal medicine, and who were required to take an oath to maintain the methods which had been taught them. for the title of doctor certain fees were paid, partly in money and partly in merchandise. the so-called presents consisted of gloves, clothes, hats, caps, etc. at salernum it cost about $ to graduate in this way, while at paris the cost was sometimes as high as $ , , and this at a time when money had much more purchasing value than it has to-day. it was then, as now, a peculiar feature of the english universities that but little systematic instruction in medical science was given. just as the majority of english students at present study in london rather than at one of the great universities, so in those days did they go to paris or montpellier. this will be perhaps as good a place as any to emphasize the fact that the clergy, having so long monopolized all learning and teaching, and having, at the same time, an abhorrence for the shedding of blood, which indeed had been prohibited by many papal bulls and royal edicts, permitted the practice of the operative part of medicine--i. e., surgery--to fall into the hands of the most illiterate and incompetent men. inasmuch as the church prohibited the wearing of beards, and as many of the religious orders also shaved their heads, there were attached to every monastery and to every religious order a number of barbers, whose duty was to take care of the clergy in these respects. thus into their hands was gradually committed the performance of any minor operation which involved the letting of blood, and from this, as a beginning, it came about that no really educated man concerned himself with the operations of surgery, but left them entirely to the illiterate servants of the church. this is really the reason that the barbers for many centuries did nearly all the surgery, and why, at the same time, surgery fell into such general and wide-spread disrepute. from this it was only revived about one hundred years ago. did time permit, this would be a most appropriate place to digress from the subject of this paper and rehearse to you the various stages in the evolution of the surgeon from the barber; but time does not permit it, and it constitutes a chapter in history by itself, which must be relegated to some other occasion. (see p. ). it was about the beginning of the fifteenth century that the better class of physicians began to belong to the laity, and were called "physici" in contrast to the "clerici." later they were known as "doctores." until the fourteenth century most of them studied in italian or french universities, the germans even being compelled to go to these foreign institutions. in paris they were required to take an oath that they would not join the surgeons. this regulation was founded as much upon spite and envy as upon any other motive. many of the clerical physicians belonged to the lower class, and were so ignorant that even the church itself was forced to declare many of their successes miracles. although monks and the clergy in general had been frequently forbidden to practice medicine, the decrees to this effect were quite generally disregarded, except in the matter of surgical operations. in the ranks of the higher clergy it must be said that well-educated physicians were occasionally found. there is, for instance, the record of a certain bishop of basel, who was deputed to seek from pope clement v. an archbishopric for another person, but finding the pope seriously ill, cured him, and received for himself in return the electorate of mayence, which was perhaps one of the largest honorariums ever given to a physician. these were the days when magic, mingled with mystery, played no small rôle in the practice of medicine, and when disgusting and curious remedies were quite in vogue. superstition and ignorance everywhere played a most prominent part. for instance, it was, in those days, an excellent remedy to creep under the coffin of a saint. when a person was poisoned it was considered wise to hang him up by the feet and perhaps to gouge out one of his eyes, in order that the poison might run out. it should be noted that putting out the eyes was frightfully common in the middle ages, mainly as a matter of punishment. it is said, for instance, that the emperor basil ii. on one occasion put out the eyes of , bulgarians, leaving one eye to one of every thousand, in order that he might lead his more unfortunate fellow-sufferers back to their ruler, who, it is said, at the sight of this outrage swooned and died in two days. it is said, too, that this is the reason why the emperor albrecht was one-eyed. what the revival of learning could thus and did accomplish under these conditions as above portrayed may be readily appreciated. the restoration of greek literature, the revival of anatomy, the habit of independent observation--all told materially in this renaissance of medicine. the italian universities became the objective point of all who desired a thorough medical education. the students chose the lecturers and officers of the university and had a large voice in the construction of the curriculum. the officers of their selection negotiated with those of the state, at least until the close of the sixteenth century. in spite of this general renaissance of medical learning and the impetus felt by the inspired few during the sixteenth century, it must be said that the general condition of medical science and of those who practised it was not greatly improved. the superstition of the common people and the timidity and indolence of all concerned were about as marked as they have ever been in the history of human error, and the practice of medicine was at least a century behind the applied knowledge of the other arts and sciences. at that time the best physicians and doctors were to be found in the italian universities, the french coming next, and, last of all, the german. the italian universities were the mecca sought by those who desired the best education of the day, and of all the italian medical faculties those of bologna, pisa, and padua ranked highest. those were the days, also, of the travelling scholars--a very marked feature of mediæval life. they migrated from one of the latin schools to another, and from one famous teacher to another, sometimes travelling alone, at other times in groups or bands, and practising often the worst barbarities while _en route_, supporting themselves by begging and stealing. on their marches they stole almost everything which was not tightly fastened down, and prepared their food even in the open fields. the result was that most of them fell into dissolute habits of life. a somewhat better class of vagrant students sang hymns before doors and received food as pay. some earned money singing in the churches. they apparently both drank more beer and at less cost than at present. at that time the cost of beer was about one cent for a large glass. the younger students were called "schutzen," and, like apprentices in trades, were obliged to perform the most menial duties. the older students were known as the "bacchanten," and each bacchant was honored in proportion to the number of "schutzen" who waited upon him. when, however, this bacchant himself reached the university he was compelled to lay aside his rough clothing and rude manners and take an oath to behave himself. not only the students, however, wandered from place to place, but even the professors of the sixteenth century were nomadic, wandering from one university to another; for example, vesalius, the great teacher of anatomy, taught in padua, in pisa, in louvain, in basel, in augsburg, and in spain. these habits may be partly accounted for by the fact that the students elected at least some of their teachers, and the professors who failed of re-election certainly may be considered to have had a motive for moving on. salaries were certainly not large in those days. melanchthon, the great theologian, received during his first eight years a salary of $ per annum, and by strict economy was able during this period to buy his wife a new dress. during his later years his salary attained the sum of $ , which would be equivalent to $ to-day. when vesalius died his salary was $ , per annum, to which certain fees were added. it is not strange, therefore, that many of the professors pursued reputable occupations during their odd hours or that they took students to board. we hear to-day of frequent illustrations of the pursuit of knowledge under difficulty, but certainly during the ages to which i have referred the ardent student, were he undergraduate or professor, put up with an amount of hardship, meagre fare, and trouble of all kinds which would stagger most of the young men of to-day. men were human then as now, and the universities were not above disputes and quarrels, which sometimes became very bitter and dishonorable, but were the indirect instrument of good, since they led in not a few instances to the founding of other universities. thus, about the beginning of the sixteenth century, pistorius and pollich were both teachers in leipzig, but holding antagonistic views regarding the nature of syphilis, became so embittered that they could not bear each other's presence, and each resolved to seek another home. the former influenced the elector to select frankfort-on-the-oder as the site of a new university, while the latter was the means of founding another at wittenberg. it is pretty hard to keep away from the relation of the barber to the anatomist and surgeon when discussing this subject. in another place i have dealt with the evolution of the surgeon from the barber, (see page ) and have endeavored to show that the principal factor which operated to keep back the progress of surgery during the eighteen centuries previous to the last was the influence of the church, which opposed the study of anatomy and degraded the practice of surgery. in the times to which i am referring now, an operation which caused the shedding of blood was considered beneath the dignity of an educated physician, and, in some circles, was regarded even as disreputable. it was, therefore, left to the only class of men who were supposed to know how to handle a knife or sharp instrument, i. e., the barbers. when operations were done in universities papal indulgences were often required, and these cost money, since in those days the pope gave nothing for nothing. public dissection required also papal indulgences, although in strasburg, in , permission to dissect the body of an executed criminal was granted by the magistrates in spite of papal prohibition. the ceremonies attending demonstrations of this kind were both fantastic and amusing. a corpse was ordinarily regarded as disreputable, and had first to be made reputable by reading a decree to that effect from the chief magistrate or lord of the land, and then, by order of the university, stamping the body with the seal of the corporation. it was carried upon the cover of the box in which it had been transported into the anatomical hall, which cover, upon which it rested through the ceremonies, was taken back afterward to the executioner, who remained at some distance with his vehicle. if the corpse was that of one who had been beheaded, the head during the performance of these solemn ceremonies lay between its legs. after the completion of the ceremonies the occasion was graced with music by the city fifers, trumpeters, etc., or an entertainment was given by itinerant actors (baas). in time, however, this folly was given up, and by the latter half of the sixteenth century public anatomical theatres were established. the most celebrated was built by fabricus ab aquapendente, in padua. it was so high, however, and so dark that dissections even in broad daylight could only be made visible by torchlight. the zeal with which gradually the better class of physicians pursued their scientific studies became more and more conspicuous, evidenced in many ways by the hardships with which some of them had to deal, as witness the struggles of many of the great anatomists of those days. and so in time the clergy disappeared almost entirely from the ranks of public physicians, and after the thirty years' war completely lost their supremacy even in literary matters, this being gradually usurped by the nobility and the more educated laymen; but even then knowledge was pursued under difficulties, especially the study of anatomy. it was not until that a mounted skeleton could be found in vienna. strasburg obtained one in . the handling of the dead body, which we regard as so necessary, was in those days avoided as much as possible. the professor of anatomy rarely, if ever, touched it himself, but he lectured or read a lecture while the actual dissection was done with a razor by a barber, under his supervision. practical instruction in obstetrics, which would seem almost as important as that in anatomy, was not given in those days; male students only studied it theoretically. in the hôtel dieu, in paris, that part which was devoted to instruction in midwifery was closed against men. it was the midwives in those days who enjoyed the monopoly of this teaching, and upon whom the greatest dependence for obstetrical ability was placed. the physicians proper, or _medici puri_ of the seventeenth century, were individuals of greatest dignity and profoundest gravity, who wore fur-trimmed robes, perukes, and carried swords, who considered it beneath them to do anything more than write prescriptions in the old galenic fashion. some continuation of this is seen in the distinction made even to-day in england between the physicians who enjoy the title of doctor and the surgeons who affect to disdain it. these old physicians knowing nothing of surgery, nevertheless demanded to be always consulted in surgical cases, claiming that only by this course could things go right. still when elements of danger were introduced, as in treating the plague, they were glad enough to send the barber surgeons into the presence of the sick, whom they merely inspected through panes of glass. very entertaining pictures could be furnished you illustrating the habits of the physicians of two or three hundred years ago in dealing with these contagious cases. the masks and armor which they wore and the precautions which they took would seem to indicate protection rather against the weapons of mediæval warfare. at one time they were advised that if they must go into actual contact with these patients they should first repeat the twenty-second psalm. you may find in the old books, if you will hunt for them, curious pictures illustrating the precautions taken a few hundred years ago against the pestilence, of whose nature they knew nothing, and seeing them you may imagine the vague dread and even the abject fear which led the _physici puri_ or physicians to send the barbers in to minister to plague-stricken patients, while they contented themselves with ministering at long range to their needs. but gentlemen, i fear lest i weary you with a longer rehearsal of mediæval customs and student follies. while they have all passed away some of them have survived either in tradition or in modified form, as will surely have occurred to you while they were rehearsed. you will not fail to note the steady progress of an ethical evolution which has toned down the barbarities and the asperities of the past, and which has substituted a far more ennobling life-purpose and method of its accomplishment than seemed to actuate your predecessors of long ago. it is small wonder that the students of those days bore an ill-repute with their surrounding neighbors. you may see better now, perhaps, why the medical student even of to-day has to contend with a prejudice against both his calling and himself, a prejudice begotten of the many debaucheries and misdeeds of his predecessors, and, i am sorry to say, even certain excesses of to-day. i do not know how i may more fittingly terminate these remarks than by reminding you that the profession which you students hope to enter has suffered most seriously in time past from the character of the men who have entered it, and that even to-day certain of its members fail to have a proper regard for its dignity. it is axiomatic that those slights and indignities from which we often suffer, and the neglect and indifference of which we often complain, are in effect the result of our own shortcomings, and that we are ourselves largely to blame because of that which does not suit us. i beg you then to remember that even at the outset of student life there should be ever before you such an ideal of intellectual force and dignity, of power, of co-ordination of mind and body, as may keep you ever in the right way, so that when you at last attain your goal you may deserve that sort of benediction which i find in one of beaumont and fletcher's plays (_custom of the country_, v. iv.): "so may you ever be styled the 'hands of heaven,' nature's restorers; get wealth and honors, and, by your success in all your undertakings, propagate a great opinion in the world." ix a study of medical words, deeds and men[ ] [ ] address in medicine, delivered june , , at yale university commencement. [reprinted from the _yale medical journal_, july, .] _study nature for facts; study lives of great men for inspiration how to use them_ never have i more earnestly craved the gift of eloquence than on occasions like this, when young men are about to leave the halls in which and the men with whom they have grown into man's estate, in order to assume the solemn and weighty responsibilities not only of their own lives but those as well of others. the day upon which you are thus released from duties of one kind to assume those of another, welcome and joyous though it may be, should nevertheless be interspersed with some serious and earnest thoughts and resolutions. old yale sets now her stamp upon you. it will prove a passport to many homes, but must never be abused. it will entitle you to the society of the cultivated and to the respect of scholars everywhere. it will admit you to the ranks of the learned and cause you to be treated with respect and equality by some of the profoundest and most scholarly thinkers the world has even known. yale has now furnished you with that which her ripe experience has shown to be requisite for young men commencing professional careers. as contrasted with the total of human knowledge its aggregate is not large, but it has not for centuries been the custom for men to grow gray in studies before undertaking to practice medicine, and when your own qualifications are compared with those which we of the passing generation possessed at the corresponding period of our lives, the comparison will furnish at the same time the most startling illustration of the rapid advance of medicine in the past twenty-five years. yale has always been eminent for the versatility and originality of her teachers. her medical history has been so well told during the past year by one of her most honored sons, dr. welch, that it is not necessary nor wise to go now into such historical details. the trend of science to-day is along the lines of comparative investigation, and the bible is by no means the only literary collection which to-day is being subjected to the "higher criticism." the inspiration claimed for the contributors to that great ancient collection is denied to the writers of great modern works, where, nevertheless, fundamental truth is as requisite for the welfare of the body as in the other for that of the soul. only by painstaking research, laboriously repeated, do we clear the old paths of the rubbish of centuries or discover totally new ones. pathfinders of this description have always abounded in this great institution, drawn by common impulses or attracted by some centripetal force. and though it were perhaps invidious to mention names, i nevertheless must select two of yale's great teachers whose names are still green in the memory of all men, and ask you to note how the examples they have set and the work they have done may furnish the line of thought in which i wish you to follow me for a little while. the science of comparative philology would seem to be far removed from that of medicine. still, it is based upon an ultimate analysis of parts of speech, and men like professor whitney were, not only the comparative anatomists, but even the histologists--if i may use the phrase--of words. comparative philology then is to medical terminology what embryology and comparative anatomy are to a study of the structure of the human body. the philologist loves to dissect words and trace them back through rudimentary stages and roots to their earliest forms. he loves also to study the evolution of an idea as conveyed by a word, and trace atavism or reversion in human speech. again you have here at yale a wonderful collection of extinct animal remains restored with marvellous accuracy to semblance of their original form and appearance. the indefatigable industry and wonderful ability of professor marsh and his co-workers have enabled us to form ideographs of the living forms of earlier geologic ages upon this earth, which could not have been furnished had it not been for their remarkable knowledge of morphology and skill in synthesis. indeed, where have powers of analysis and synthesis been more brilliantly displayed than by these men. it used to be said of cuvier, the great french comparative anatomist, that if given a tooth from any beast, past or present, he could describe the animal and its habits as well as reconstruct his skeleton, so wonderfully are minute differences perpetuated, and so familiar was he with them. let us see, then, if it be possible to take some of our common medical words and by applying to them the methods of whitney and of marsh follow them back to their early forms and significances, and then construct from them ideographs of the customs, habits and superstitions of the men who used them. such a plan systematically carried out might furnish both a fitting and a novel introduction to the history of medicine. coleridge, you know, said we might often derive more useful knowledge from the history of a word than from the history of a campaign. take, for instance, our word _idiocy_. the greeks, especially the athenians, were a race of politicians. private citizens who cared little or naught for office were the _idiotai_, as distinguished from the public officials and office holders. it came about in time that men of such retiring habits and modest tastes were regarded as persons of degraded intellect and taste. and so the _iviwrai_ were considered of inferior intellectual capacity. in other words, the idiot of those days was the man content with private life. how different from the present day when conditions seem so nearly reversed. our kindred word _imbecile_ has also present reference to those of feeble, dwarfed or perverted intellect, and refers rather to mental than physical defects, though both must often be associated. but originally the lame and the deformed who were obliged to use artificial support, walked as it was said, _in bacillum_, upon a stick or crutch, and from this expression we derive our word imbecile. let us trace, for instance, again, the etymology of our word _palate_. the latin _palatum_ is the same as _balatum_, that is, the bleating part. the ancient shepherds of the region of the campagna watched the sheep as they went bleating (_balatans_) over those hills, one of which subsequently became the _palatine_. or take again our word _mania_. it is derived from _unv_ the moon, meaning the moon-sickness, and corresponds to lunacy from _luna_. you see the ancient superstition concerning the influence of the moon abides in the name. this brings up again the old ideas concerning the metal silver which was sacred alike to diana and the moon, and consequently feminine in sex and attributes. hence comes the mediæval alchemistic term _lunar caustic_, and hence, too, comes its use in the treatment of epilepsy for which it was formerly much in use, since epilepsy was regarded as a form of mania caused by the evil influence of the moon. by the way, this may also remind us of the peculiar views of the alchemists of the middle ages, who believed that the property of sex inhered in the metals. they believed, for example, that arsenic was masculine in sex, and so named it from _arsen_, male, and _arsenikos_, masculine. medical, like comparative philology, is the more or less direct outcome of the earth's physical features as they have influenced the commingling of races and the conquest of nations. medicine seems a science of aryan parentage; in the sanscrit the literature of medicine is rich; it was cultivated by the greeks, but it lost much of its original significance by virtue of roman supremacy, as the latin races took it over. under the arabians it flourished after a fashion. with the revival of greek learning there was a restoration of much that had been lost, but the supremacy of the church kept it within extremely narrow limits, though the clericals could not eliminate all the arabian words which had crept into its terminology. greek is to-day the language to which we turn for aid when it becomes necessary to invent new terms by which to indicate fresh discoveries or concepts. the debt of medicine to our aryan forefathers is great. surgery was then a dignified branch of the science. their autoplastic methods were conceived with great ingenuity and carried out with much, albeit with crude skill. the so-called indian method of reconstructing a nose bears witness to their ability in plastic art. their itinerant surgeons performed many capital operations; i. e., lithotomy and coeliotomy. there is good reason to believe that hippocrates knew nothing of practical anatomy, whereas, long before him susruta urged that all physician priests should dissect the human body in order that they might know its structure; and gave, moreover, directions for the selection of suitable subjects. the sanscrit writers knew the properties of many plants and of at least five of the metals. many greek names of drugs are derived from the sanscrit, or else they had a common aryan origin. thus the greek equivalents for our words castor, musk, cardamon, chestnut, hemp, mace, pepper, sandal-wood, ginger, nerve, marrow, bone, heart, and head, are unmistakably of much older, i. e., sanscrit or aryan stock, several of them coming down in romanized form, but almost unchanged--e. g., os, cor, moschus, cannabis, castorion. although many of the ancient greeks visited india, it appears that but relatively few words have come to us from this ancient source. our word sulphur, though, is of sanscrit origin, the greek word _theion_ indicating its divine or god-given purifying power, with possible allusion to its utility in that lower world with which the theologians most often associate it. the greek word appears in our chemical nomenclature as dithionic, trithionic, etc. we note also an almost complete absence of egyptian words, though many cultured greeks visited egypt. nevertheless, the latter looked with small favor on barbarisms of speech, and our word pyramid is one of the very few which they thus adopted. the term surgery is of very distinct greek origin, and meant handwork as distinguished from the action of internal remedies. medicine seems to be derived from _medeo_ to take care of, to provide, and physic and physician from _phusis_, i. e., nature. the physici were originally naturalists, or scientists, like aristotle, medical science being but a part of their study. campbell in his book ("the language of medicine") gives a list of at least two dozen common terms of to-day which were employed by homer. in addition to these, many other homeric terms are still in use, but with more or less altered or perverted meanings; for example, æther, when used in the sense of its being a narcotic agency; astragalus, which originally meant a die, since the analogous bones of the sheep were used for dice; amoeba, from _amoibe_, change or alteration, alluding to constant change of shape. ammon originally meant a young lamb, iris a halo, meconium has reference to the juice of the poppy, from _mekon_, opium; molybdenum was so named from its resemblance to lead, narcosis originally meant numbness; the pleura was the side; the original phial was a saucer; the phalanges were so called because they were arranged side by side as it were in a phalanx; our troche was at first a wheel; and our tympanum was the original greek drum, the word still persisting in musical terminology. the arteries were so named because they were supposed to contain air, while the veins were the gushers, from _phleo_, to gush or flow. the original confusion of nerves and tendons appears in the term aponeurosis. long ago there were two rival medical factions among the greeks, the empirics, from _empeirikos_, meaning experimental--who believed there were no philosophic underlying principles of medical science, and that experience alone was the safe guide,--and the methodists, from _methodos_, who believed it better to follow the _hodos_, or "middle of the road." the present use of the word empiric shows the contempt with which the former came to be regarded. as cure (_curo_) meant to care for, so did medicus have the same meaning, as already remarked, while the greek slave, _therapon_, who waited on his master, became later the therapeutist who cared for his ailments. our word to heal has also a somewhat similar dislocated meaning, since originally it meant protection, i. e., covering. the same root persists in hell, i. e., hades, referring to a certain supposititious locality so well covered that from it there is no escape. note, too, the influence of ancient mythology in medical phraseology. jupiter ammon, the horned god, is recognized in hartshorn or ammonia. mars, the god of war, whose symbol is iron, persists in the so-called martial preparations or ferruginous tonics. venus and aphrodite naturally appear in venereal and aphrodisiac, while vulcan's rôle is indicated in the heat to which caoutchouc is subjected in vulcanizing rubber. mercury appears not only in roman form as a metal, but in his greek rôle as hermes, not to be forgotten when receptacles are hermetically sealed. let us cut short a longer list by simply noting in passing how the greek cupid eros and his mate psyche are perpetuated in our terms erotic and psychiatry, while morpheus, the god of sleep, can never be forgotten so long as morphine is in use. that the wrath of the gods was to be dreaded is indicated in our word plague, from _plege_, meaning a _blow_ from that source, that is their vengeance. you thus see the antiquity of the notion that epidemics were a divine visitation, and not due to bad sanitation. melancholia, _melas_ and _chole_, meant originally black bile. in ancient physiology the bile played a very important part, and the results of hepatic insufficiency were not only indicated by this name, but the advantages of the use of calomel were amply emphasized by its name, _kalos_ and _melas_, for it was a beautiful remedy for this blackness. another condition indicating trouble with the liver, which we call jaundice to-day (from the french _jaunisse_), was known as icterus from _ikteros_, a yellow bird. the poultice which the average housewife of to-day is so fond of using, was originally a _poltos_, or pudding, or perhaps a bean porridge. in the days of ancient sacrifices one part of the animal was not placed upon the altar as an offering to delight the gods. it was that now known as the _sacrum_, which is usually defined to have been considered the sacred bone. the adjective _sacer_ (sacrum), had not only the meaning generally ascribed to it, but meant also execrable, detestable, accursed. the sacrum meant then rather the part that was not acceptable to those to whom it was offered. the word _calculus_, like the term to calculate, must remind us of the presence of pebbles and their early use in facilitating reckoning, while our common terms testimony, testify, must necessarily recall the ancient sacred but phallic methods of oath-taking. another superstition connected with deity is perpetuated in the term _iliac passion_, formerly applied to volvulus, or one form of acute bowel obstruction with its violent pain, which has been compared to that produced by the spear-point as part of the suffering upon the cross. a keen analysis of the situation at the beginning of the christian era reveals the subtlety of the greek character. the names of those organs which called for deep investigation or dissection are taken directly from the greek, e. g., hepatic, sphenoid, ethmoid, the aorta, while many of the superficial parts have latin names, e. g., temporal, frontal. it is to the greek that all nations almost invariably turn when they seek to fashion new terms with which to characterize or name new discoveries. the romans showed their appreciation of that which was good when they so readily adopted the science and learning of the greeks, and were willing to take over even their gods. the latin races have always been good imitators but poor originators, save perhaps in war and politics. had they been willing to imitate the greeks in these their history might have been very different. when the latin translators of greek medical literature lacked for a word they cheerfully took the original, sometimes giving it a latin dress. for instance, that which we now call the duodenum, meaning only twelve, was originally the dodekadaktulon, meaning that it was of a length equal to the width of twelve fingers, while they twisted the name _eileon_, the twisted intestine, into _ileum_. but the names of most diseases, like those of the more concealed parts, they copied almost exactly. while in later ages the church completely dominated, then subordinated, and then finally almost terminated the study of the natural sciences, it is yet of no small interest to note the effect of the rise of christianity upon the study of medicine. it has been well said that the same "cross which brought light to religion cast a gloom over philosophy" (campbell). certain it is that the creed and the tenets which were for centuries the mainstay of christianity, and which did so much for the uplifting of mankind, were made the excuse for the gradual suppression of all tendency toward investigation of natural phenomena, and the monasteries, where scholars congregated, became the graves of scientific thought and study. and so in time knowledge was exiled from christian domiciles and transplanted to a mohammedan environment. with christian mythology and mysticism soon came also christian demonology, and disease was generally regarded as an evidence of diabolical possession. this gave rise then, as even now, to the imposters who pretended to cure it by exorcism of evil spirits or invocation of divine or superhuman aid. it has always been a sorry time for rational medicine when superstition is rife. even under the arabians science flourished to but a limited extent. their religion forbade the portrayal of any living object, animal or vegetable, consequently their works contained mere descriptions, never any illustration of any kind. this, by the way, is the explanation of their fondness for geometric tracery and of the richness of their ornamental designs. they professed the same horror of the dead body that was later inculcated by the church and most of them scorned dissection. what wonder then that under christianity and islam alike our profession fared badly. but very little now remains in our terminology to remind us of the period of arabian supremacy. the arabic words naphtha, sumach, alkali, alcohol, elixir and _nucha_ (neck) are almost the only ones which have survived the renaissance. how different the monkish latin sometimes is from the classic may appear in the use of the two words os and bucca for mouth, or os frontis and glabella for the frontal bone. but this enumeration must not be prolonged unduly. let us select three or four more examples almost at random and then pass on. but few will associate christianity with cretinism. the early christian inhabitants of the pyrenees were known as _christaas_, or in french, as to-day, as chretiens. a mountainous region did for them what it has done in switzerland for the races of to-day, and dwarfed the intellects of many while their thyroids underwent great enlargement. such degenerates are known everywhere to-day as cretins, i. e., christians. tarentum was the old calabrian city later known as tarento, where during the middle ages the dancing mania appeared in aggravated form. the frenzy was known in consequence as _tarantism_, while the spider whose bite was supposed to cause it was called _tarantula_, and a rapid dance music which alone would suit such rapid movements is still known as the _tarantella_. nightmare has reference to the old norse deity or demigod mara, who was supposed to strangle people during sleep. the sardonic grin has reference to a tradition that in sardinia was found a plant which when eaten caused people to laugh so violently that they died. but turn we now from words to those deeds which are reputed to proclaim yet more loudly the manner and the worth of their authors. where may one look for a profession which shall afford greater opportunities? and where may he find one in which incentives are so small? the world's great rewards have been paid to the great destroyers of our race rather than to its saviors. do you suppose that if napoleon had saved as many lives as he lost he would have figured in history with his present lustre? it is true that lister's discovery has saved many more lives than napoleon took. if so, the hôtel des invalides should, when the time comes, contain lister's monument and not that of a great murderer. personal courage is one of the noblest characteristics which any man can display, particularly so when it combines the moral and the physical type. public bravery brings nearly always its meed of public recognition. in fact, publicity is often the stimulus to a kind of bravery which without it would hardly respond to the tests. but your really courageous man is he who cares not for a search-light to reveal his deeds, one who dares and does within the quietude of his own environment that from which his weaker brothers would shrink. the soldier stirred to frenzy by the intensity of his passion will accomplish with but little dread that which might easily baffle the resolution of a reasoning man in a calm mood. the religious fanatic, be he mussulman or christian, may permit himself to be rent asunder rather than recant; but his motives are essentially selfish, since he looks forward to the mohammedan's or the christian's paradise, and so they are far from altruistic. but for that quiet heroism which shuns publicity, which calls for the highest quality of both mental and physical courage, which looks forward neither to the golden present nor the mystical yet sensuous future, commend me daily, yes hourly, to the sick rooms of patients suffering from diseases which menace the welfare of others, the infectious, the dangerous, the loathsome. one may read of late many stories of army surgeons doing heroic deeds under fire, and one's heart naturally thrills with emotion as he imagines the scenes and wonders what manner of daring may lead a man to risk his life after this fashion. but i submit to you, that brave as is such a deed and worthy of all possible honor, it has been hundreds of times for one exceeded in the actual devotion to duty and the resolution required to brave the elements, or to face death elsewhere than on the battlefield, or to surrender strength or mayhap life itself, or to invite disaster by infection, or to wear out and work out life in the constant grinding altruistic work of doing for others, who perhaps have violated every known sanitary law and forfeited their every right to live. here is a theme that might well stir the most eloquent poet or orator that ever lived. how then shall i do it justice? joanna bailie has well put it: "the brave man is not he who feels no fear, for that were stupid and irrational; but he whose nobler soul its fear subdues, and bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from." this recognition of our profession was accorded much more unstintingly nearly two thousand years ago, at a time when it was much less deserved, when cicero wrote (_de natura deorum_) "_homines ad deos nulla re propius accedunt, quam salutem hominibus dando._" (men are never more godlike than when giving health to mankind). but we can hardly delay longer here and at this time with the subject of heroism in medicine. i shall not have completed the matters which i wish to present to you to-day until i invite your attention to a short sketch of the careers of four or five of the men who, during the past two or three hundred years have set the example for men of all times and most climes, whose lives are so replete with that which is interesting, instructive or important that they may be well held up before a graduating class as illustrations of everything which may be advantageously imitated. they belong to that class of whom longfellow wrote: "lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime." one of those was jean fernel, who was born in france about and died in . i do not know that his life history offers anything so very startling, although he came to be regarded as the most memorable physiologist of his generation, but he adopted a motto which i think we all might well select for our own, and it was because of this motto that i have mentioned his name at this point. it was this: "_destiny reserves for us repose enough._" if each of you will take this individually to himself he will find in it stimulus enough for all kinds of hard work. the first of the eminently great men now to be mentioned in this connection was herman boerhaave, born in and died in . he enjoyed the reputation of being perhaps the most eminent physician who ever lived. the eldest son of a poor clergyman with a large family, he was originally intended for theology, and with this in view studied philosophy, history, logic, metaphysics, philology and mathematics, as well as theology. a mere accident, resulting from intense party spirit and doctrinal differences, prevented his devoting his life to theology, and he turned next to mathematics and then to chemistry and botany, subsequently studying anatomy and medicine. he graduated in and began at once to practice in leyden, with such success that he was early offered the position of ordinary surgeon to the king, which, however, he had the moral courage to decline. subsequently he taught medicine and botany, to which chairs was also added later that of chemistry. this fact of itself will show to you something of the condition of medical science of that day, when one man could teach chemistry, botany and medicine. his rarest talents, however, were developed in the direction of clinical instruction, and in this particular field he won such repute that hearers were attracted to leyden from all quarters of the world and in such numbers that no university lecture-room was large enough to contain them. his practice grew in extent and remunerativeness in pace with his reputation, and when he died he left an estate of two millions. so famous was he that it is said of him that a chinese official once sent to him a letter addressed simply "to the most famous physician in europe." that he had fixed convictions and practices may be better understood from the fact that so little difference did he make between his patients that he kept peter the great waiting over one night to see him, declining to regulate his visiting list by the means or position of his patients. boerhaave was universally regarded as a great student and a great physician, but it was probably his qualities as a man which led to the astonishing extent of his reputation. essentially modest, not disputatious nor belligerent, he had a remarkable influence over the young men who came near him, while he had a habit of speaking oracularly or in aphorisms, which are not always so profound as they sound and yet often make a man's dicta celebrated. save that he introduced the use of the thermometer and the ordinary lens in the examinations of his patients, his teachings do not form any really new system. in the classification of men he would be regarded as a great eclectic, in the purer sense of the term. probably his greatest service to medicine was in the permanent establishment of the clinical method of instruction, and perhaps his next greatest real claim to glory is the character of the instruction and the inspiration which he gave to two of his greatest scholars, viz.: haller and van swieten. he was not the founder of a school. he left no great nor memorable doctrines for which others should contend, but he left a name for studiousness, honest and logical thinking, which was a priceless heritage for the university with which he was connected. the next great scholar to whose life and works i would invite your attention for a moment, is morgagni, born in italy in , died in . he was a pupil of valsalva, whose assistant he became at the age of nineteen. brought up in this way, as it were in the domain of anatomy, it is not strange that he devoted his attention throughout his life especially to the anatomical products of disease. it matters little to us now that he was wont to regard these products as the causes of disease and thus neglected their remote causes. he it was who taught us to apply to pathological anatomy the same scrupulous attention to tissue alterations and changes which the ordinary anatomist would note in dissecting a new animal form. he was scarcely the founder of the science of pathological anatomy, for this credit belongs to benivieni, but he did very much to popularize the study and to show its importance. more than this, he wrote a work which for his day and generation was colossal. it bore the title "_de sedibus et causis morborum per anatomen indagatis._" it consisted of five books. the first appeared in venice in . this proved a perfect mine of information to which one may often turn even to-day, and read with wonder the observations published one hundred and fifty years ago. they stamp morgagni as a great scientist as well as anatomist. his industry will be indicated by the fact that even after he became blind he did not cease to work. perhaps the most wonderful figure in the whole history of modern medicine is that of albrecht von haller, of berne, born , died , and often known as the great. no more versatile genius than his has ever adorned our profession. a most precocious child, he developed remarkable abilities in the direction of poetry and music, as well as medicine, and the only wonder is that he lived to such a ripe old age, enjoying the fruits of his labors, having displayed throughout his entire life an industry and productiveness which were most remarkable. before he reached the age of ten he had written a chaldee grammar, a greek and hebrew vocabulary, and a large collection of latin verses and biographies. during the next few years he translated many of the latin authors, and wrote an original epic poem of some four thousand verses on the swiss confederacy. all of this work he had completed by the age of twenty-one. it is not strange that among those who knew of his precocity he was generally known and regarded as a "wonder child." it will thus be seen, too, that medicine was but one of the many subjects of his study. he studied a year in tübingen, where the riotous living of his fellow students repelled him; then he went to leyden, falling there under the influence of the illustrious boerhaave. how much he drew from this source no man may accurately say at present, but a more brilliant example he certainly could not have had. he finished his studies in leyden before he was twenty and then traveled through england and france, but was compelled to flee from paris to escape arrest for hiding cadavers in his room for purposes of dissection. this will prove an evidence of taste for study if not of taste in other directions. suddenly developing a passion for mathematics, he went to basle and worked so hard as to almost ruin his health. this necessitated a trip to the mountains and here his interest in botany was aroused and indirectly that in medicine continued. soon after he returned to berne to take up the practice of medicine. here he studied and worked so hard as to arouse a suspicion of his sanity, but he kept up his health by frequent trips to the alps in search of flowers. his fondness for botany and his taste for poetry seemed to grow with equal pace and he seems to have been among the first of modern students to appreciate the beauty and grandeur of swiss mountain scenery. when he was twenty-five years of age appeared the first edition of his poems, many editions appearing later. here in berne also he published so many essays on botany, anatomy and physiology that widespread attention was attracted to his eminent learning, and he was called to fill the chair of anatomy and botany in the new university of göttingen, where he spent seventeen years of extraordinary mental activity, publishing countless papers and at the same time continuing his poetic and his nomadic habits. he established in göttingen a great botanic garden, founded scientific societies, published five books on anatomy, all elaborately illustrated, printed a series of commentaries on boerhaave's lectures, and is said to have contributed altogether thirteen thousand articles relating to almost every branch of human knowledge. it is not strange that the fame of the university of göttingen depended largely upon haller's reputation. but haller developed a clear case of nostalgia, and after being fêted by the nobility, honored by almost every monarch in europe, and receiving every honor that universities and philosophic societies confer, he resigned from his chair in göttingen and returned to berne, to his _fatherland_. here, amid his old home surroundings, he worked for twenty years more at the same tremendous rate, discharging diverse duties of state and private citizenship, founding and promoting industries and asylums, and serving constantly upon commissions of all kinds. while thus engaged appeared that phenomenal work, his great treatise on physiology, so full of original observations that it has been stated that should discoveries which have been re-discovered since haller be collected they would fill several quarto volumes. the physiological institute of berne is to-day known as the _hallerianum_, as it should be, for it is distinctly the product of his genius. he died at a ripe age, after having performed an incredible amount of work, the greatest scholar of his own or perhaps of any century, revered and honored, faithful to the last and exhibiting in his last moments that "philosophic calmness of the cultivated intellect" of which cicero loved to write. it is related of him that on his deathbed he kept his fingers on his own wrist, watching the ebbing away of his own existence and waiting for the last pulsation from his radial artery. finally he exclaimed, "i no longer feel it," and then joined the great majority. perhaps haller's greatest contribution to physiological lore was his doctrine of irritability of tissues. it took the place of much that had caused previous discussion and is accepted to-day as explaining, as nearly as we can explain, numerous phenomena. in this same great wonder-century lived also john hunter, the greatest of england's medical students, the most famous surgeon of his day and the most indefatigable collector in natural history and natural science that ever lived. he was born in and died in . he was led to study medicine by the fame of his illustrious brother william, and began his studies by acting as prosector for him. he soon became a pupil of cheselden, perhaps the most famous english surgeon of his generation. hunter developed very early those extraordinary powers of observation and that originality in investigation which later made him so famous. early in his medical career he came for a time under the influence of percival pott. this was at a time when surgery had emerged from barbarism and when the french academy of surgery had erected it into the dignity of a science. he entered st. george's hospital in as a surgeon's pupil. later he became a partner with his brother in the latter's private school of anatomy, but john, being a poor lecturer, was distinguished by his services in the dissecting-room rather than in the amphitheater. the customs of his time and the jealousies of the various medical factions then existing in london led to numerous acrimonious disputes, in the literary part of which william hunter, who was much the more cultured student, took the lead, while john, who lacked in scholastic ability and had much less education, was relied on to supply the anatomical data. john was painfully aware of his deficiencies in literary culture and is said once to have replied to the disparaging remarks of an opponent: "he accuses me of not understanding the dead languages, but i could tell him that on the dead body which he never knew in any language living or dead." it was in this way that he was led into unseemly encounters with the munros, of edinburgh, and with his late teacher, pott. the same sort of dispute finally separated the two brothers, and they parted company after a very unseemly exhibition of jealousy and fraternal discord. after studying human anatomy for several years, john hunter became profoundly impressed with the need for much larger knowledge of comparative anatomy, but about this time ill health compelled a temporary change and so he went into the army as a staff surgeon. this was at the time when europe was engaged in the sanguinary seven years' war, and so it happened that hunter had ample opportunity for studies and observations in military surgery--at the siege of belleisle and later in the war in the peninsula. here he made many of those observations on gunshot wounds which he published at various periods later and which helped to make him famous. he resumed his work in london in , and here again he had to undergo a long trial of those qualities of passive fortitude and active perseverance under difficulties which were his prominent characteristics. his personal needs were small but his scientific requirements were large, and to these latter he devoted every guinea which he could earn in his small but slowly growing practice. his own manners were so brusque, and he was so lacking in the refinement of many of his colleagues and competitors, that it took rare mental qualities to force him to the front, to which he nevertheless rapidly advanced. bacon has said, "he that is only real had need of exceeding great parts of virtue, as the stone had need be rich that is set without foil," and this was never more true than in john hunter's case. his leisure hours were never unemployed. he obtained the bodies of all animals dying in the public collections in london and so began to form that enormous collection which became known later as the hunterian museum. as his means afforded it he built and added to his accommodations and carried on those vast researches into animal anatomy and physiology to which the balance of his life was devoted. although his practice gradually increased and he became in time the most famous surgeon and consultant in london, he used, nevertheless, to spend three or four hours every morning before breakfast in dissection of animals, and as much of the rest of the day as he could spare. pupils and students who wished to consult him had to come early in the morning, often as early as four o'clock, in order to find him disengaged. he had that rare ability to do a maximum of work with a minimum of sleep which has been so conspicuous in the case of virchow. before he died, hunter attained to a large competence, and his anatomical collection, consisting of some ten thousand preparations, made largely with his own hands, was purchased after his death by the government, for seventy-five thousand dollars, and presented to the college of surgeons where it forms the chief part of the so-called hunterian museum. hunter's principal claims to greatness obtain in this, that he not only brought the light of physiology to bear upon the practice of our art, but by his writings and teachings and especially by his example led men to follow along the paths he cleared for them. it is no small claim to glory to be known by such pupils as hunter had. by these, by his colossal industry in building up his museum, and by his writings, he will ever be known as the most prominent figure in the medical history of great britain. the fifth man in this quintette of geniuses which i am presenting to you to-day was francis xavier bichat, who was born in france in , and died in . although he was thirty-one years old at his death, his career was so phenomenal, almost meteoric, that it deserves to be held up as showing what one can do in the early period of his life, if he will but work. as one reads of his originality and talent one is led almost insensibly to compare them with those of some of the world's famous musicians who, also, have died in early manhood after giving to the world their immortal works, e. g., schubert, mozart and mendelssohn. bichat was the son of a physician and applied himself early to medical studies in nantes, lyons, montpellier and finally in paris, where he became the pupil and trusted friend of desault, then the greatest parisian surgeon. when desault died, in , this young man began lecturing for him, at the age of twenty-four. he displayed a wonderful, almost feverish scientific activity, more particularly in the direction of general and pathological anatomy. he was the originator of the phrase which he made famous: "take away some fevers and nervous troubles, and all else belongs in the domain of pathological anatomy." coming upon the stage shortly after morgagni left it, he was able by his genius, his logical acumen and his graces of speech and manner, to give an attractiveness and importance to this subject which it had hitherto lacked. it was his great service to more clearly differentiate closely related diseased conditions and to insist upon a study of post-mortem appearances in connection with previously observed clinical phenomena. he also established the tendency of similar tissues to similar anatomical lesions. in fact our view of what we call general tissue systems we in reality owe to him, since without use of the microscope he distinguished twenty-one kinds of tissue, which he studied under the head of general anatomy, while he held that descriptive anatomy had to do with their various combinations. to bichat was largely due the overthrow of purely speculative medicine because he placed facts far in advance of theories and ideas. books he said are or should be merely "memoranda of facts." that he made many such memoranda will appear from the fact that before his untimely death he had published nine volumes of essays and treatises, nearly all bearing on the general subject of anatomy, normal and morbid. he also had not only his limitations but his faults. he strangely denied the applicability of so-called physical laws to body processes, he minimized the importance of therapeutics, and he sought to place the vitalistic system upon a realistic basis. nevertheless he set an example not only for the young men of france, but of all times and climes, which should be often held up before them. and so i have thus placed before you five bright and shining illustrations of what brains and application can accomplish, selected from different lands in order to show that medicine has no country, and from a previous century in order that you may the better realize how meagre was their environment in those days as compared with that which you enjoy. perhaps you will say, "there were giants in those days." true, but the race has not entirely died out. while spencer and virchow live one may not call the race extinct, nor can the times which have produced such men as helmholtz, dubois-reymond, darwin, huxley, leidy or marsh, fail to still produce an occasional worthy successor. but it is time now to draw this rather rambling discourse to an end. the effort has been partly to attract your attention to some of the side lights by which the vista of your futures may be the more pleasantly illumined, and partly, by placing before you brief accounts of the careers of some of your illustrious predecessors, to show that eminence in medical science inheres in no particular nationality nor race, neither comes it of heredity nor by request. like salvation it is available to all who fulfill the prerequisites. it is a composite product of application, direction, fervor in study, logical powers of mind, honesty of purpose, capability of observation, alertness to improve opportunities, all combined with that somewhat rare gift of tact, which last constitutes the so-called personal equation by which many humanitarian problems are solved. _study nature for facts; study lives of great men for inspiration how to use them._ "were a star quenched on high for ages would its light, still traveling downward from the sky, shine on our mortal sight. so when a great man dies for years beyond our ken, the light he leaves behind him lies upon the paths of men." if then you regulate your mental habits by such a code other habits will of necessity fall into the proper line. the only other admonition i would give you in parting is summed up in these beautiful lines of our own bryant: "so live that when thy summons comes to join the innumerable caravan which moves to that mysterious realm where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death, thou go not like the quarry slave at night, scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." that the sentiment is not new, however, will appear in this other and ancient version which sir william jones has thus rendered from the persian: "on parent knees, a naked newborn child, weeping thou satst while all around thee smiled, so live that, sinking to thy last long sleep, calm mayst thou smile while all around thee weep." x the career of the army surgeon[ ] [ ] commencement address at the army medical school, washington, d. c., may , .--from "_the military surgeon_," july, . the experience of listening to a so-called commencement address under these peculiar circumstances is doubtless as novel to you as is to me its preparation. so different is this occasion from that usually spoken of as commencement day, that it taxed my judgment as much as it did my ability to--as it were--"meet the indication," and to try to say the appropriate thing. it behooves me to remember that this is in effect not an address to a class of students just entering a learned profession, but an effort on the part of one on the borderland of experiences gathered from a civil surgeon's work, yet enjoying a quasi military title, with strong ties and leanings--to some extent inherited--toward the course of the army surgeon and the fascinations of the soldier's life. self-evident it is that you need no admonition which i could give, for the very fact of your presence here indicates that your selection by your superior officers stamps their approval of your ability as well as your character. time has wrought vast changes in the personnel of the army medical corps, as in every other branch of the service. from the days of xenophon, with his selection of the best material afforded, to the dark middle ages with practically no provision, then to the later centuries with their menial barbers and barber surgeons, and then the very gradually improved conditions which bettered the service, down to the present time, when the best is none too good, there has been that same evolution which has characterized all the rest of mankind's surroundings and man's realization of his public and private duties. from the days when the first duty of the so-called army surgeon was to minister to his commanding general, and when the private soldier received but the scantiest if any attention, we have arrived at that time when the good health of the entire army is the aim and pride of the medical corps, and when public opinion demands for every enlisted man a degree of watchful care greater than many parents bestow upon their own families. the line officer of to-day can no longer afford to disregard the advice of his medical officers, and camp sanitation is now of even greater importance than operative technique, because preventable sickness and the incapacity caused by disease are recognized as far more to be dreaded than the bullets of the enemy. public estimate of our duties to the sick and wounded has varied largely during different epochs. thus homer makes nestor say: "a surgeon skilled our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal." homer also lauded the services of the two sons of aesculapius, whom he deified as the grandest of heroes and the wisest of surgeons, and thus wrote of them at the siege of troy, twelve hundred years before the birth of christ: "of two great surgeons, podalirius stands this hour surrounded by the trojan bands, and great machaon, wounded, in his tent now wants the succor which so oft he lent." again he thus describes an operation: "patroclus cut the forky steel away; while in his hand a bitter root he pressed, the wound he washed and styptic juice infused; the closing flesh that instant ceased to glow, the wound to torture, and the blood to flow." contrast the tender mercies thus described with an incident occurring during one of the exciting experiences of ambroise paré, who one day, during a battle, saw three desperately wounded soldiers placed with their backs against a wall. an old campaigner inquired, "can those fellows get well?" "no," answered ambroise. thereupon the old campaigner went up to them and cut all their throats, "sweetly and without wrath." note, if you will, the expression, "sweetly and without wrath," since it implies a primitive form of humanity in providing euthanasia for the hopelessly wounded. while it has been from time immemorial the custom to attach surgeons to various armies, some idea of prevailing notions of antiquity may be gained from the statement that xenophon had but eight field surgeons with his , troops. in his army the sick and wounded were cared for in adjoining villages, or, when on the march, were carried in the rear of the troops, being cared for by women from "the baggage." whether these women were the "vivandieres" of those days i do not quite make out, nevertheless they must have been much the same thing. in the days of rome's greatest glory each cohort of men had four surgeons, while each legion of ten cohorts had one legionary physician. in the navy there was also one physician to each trireme; nevertheless the wounded on land or sea received scant attention, although it is interesting to read that each soldier carried with him the most necessary bandages ready for use, an emergency packet supposed to be quite modern. a few hundred years later, in the eastern empire, the emperor maurice ordered that throughout every division of from two hundred to four hundred cavalry eight or ten of the strongest men be selected, in order to bring to the rear those who were severely wounded, to supply them with water, and to collect the weapons lying upon the field. these mounted cavalrymen received a small reward for each person rescued. three hundred years later this arrangement was continued in operation by leo vi. wherever it was possible the sick and wounded soldiers were cared for by monks or by sisters, in the numerous hospices and institutions which abounded throughout the east, and although the care was often of the worst the efforts made were in the right direction. holy oil, laying on of hands, supplication, and the use of holy relics constituted a large part of the treatment in vogue; nevertheless these remedies were not quite so injurious as some of the other and more disgusting ones whose use prevailed in those days. without doubt the two army surgeons who during the last years achieved more fame than any of their colleagues were ambroise paré, and baron larrey. such commanding figures were they, not only in their professional work, but in the general influence which they wielded alike upon sovereign and common soldier, that they will ever be regarded as among the most memorable characters of common history. paré died in , larrey in . each was passed along from one ruler or commander to his successor, and each was regarded as about the most priceless legacy which could be thus transmitted. paré's name has always been most conspicuously mentioned in connection with the history of the introduction of the ligature as a substitute for the cautery iron or boiling oil, previously in use for the checking of hemorrhage, and for his teaching concerning the nature of gun-shot wounds, which had been previously and universally considered as necessarily poisoned wounds; but his new practice and his new views in these respects were but a small part of the general services which he rendered. it is not worth while to try to even epitomize here to-day the history of the ligature; though while its introduction has been widely credited to paré, you must not forget that it was in use many centuries before his time, and was frequently mentioned by the early writers. what paré really did was, first, to abolish a barbarous and unscientific method of dealing with hemorrhage, and then to re-introduce or promote the employment of the ligature as a far preferable substitute, more humane, more clean, and more desirable. and so rather than do scant justice by incomplete reference to paré's actual contributions to knowledge i prefer rather to speak of the other side of this great man's character, and to remind you of some of the many ways by which he secured such marvellous influence over those around him, and made his remarkable personality of the greatest use. as he passed through one campaign after another his reputation became more and more firmly established, and inspired surgeons the world over with the desire to visit him. in almost his every act his sagacity was conspicuously displayed, while, whenever they were called for, his personal courage and absolute lack of fear were equally apparent. deprived of the benefits of early and liberal training he probably, on that very account, developed his power of thought, his memory and his analytical powers all the more keenly, inasmuch as these were made to take the place of what he might have learned from books. the following anecdote will serve to illustrate, for instance, the general esteem in which he was held. in october, , the army of charles v. was besieging the city of metz, and charles himself came to take command. in the beleaguered city were gathered the nobility and the bluest blood of france, while at the head of the defending forces was the duke of guise. the imprisoned soldiers and civilians suffered alike from the onslaughts of the enemy, the rigors of a frightful winter, the lack of food, and the presence of disease. the duke had established two hospitals for the soldiers, which he put in charge of the barber surgeons of the city, and furnished them with money with which to procure supplies, but owing to the wretched incompetence of these same barber surgeons nearly all the wounded perished, and the horrible suspicion arose that the soldiers were being poisoned. the duke sent word to the king of france that the place could hold out for ten months, but that they needed more medicines. the king then sent for paré, gave him money, ordered him to take all the medicines and other supplies he deemed necessary, and further aided him by bribing an italian captain to permit the celebrated surgeon, in some way, to enter the besieged city. braving all dangers, and being finally successful, paré entered metz two months later. he had at this time been with the armies for at least sixteen years, and was known by sight to officers and soldiers alike. on the day after his arrival the duke of guise dramatically presented him, on the ramparts, to all his officers, who embraced him, and hailed him with loud acclaim, while by the soldiers he was received with shouts of triumph. "we shall not die," they exclaimed, "even though wounded, for paré is among us." the effect of this great surgeon's appearance was to give new vigor to the defenders, and to it was due the fact that the city was saved. in his time paré met with success such as to-day would be pronounced most extraordinary. he inspired the wounded with utmost confidence, and displayed, always and everywhere, remarkable firmness. not the least notable feature in his personal history is it that he should have so long retained favor at court with such outspoken independence of character. equally reputable among army surgeons of the past, and one of the most commanding figures in history, medical or other, was baron larrey. for more than fifty years he was an army surgeon, and for a great part of that period he stood really closer to napoleon than almost any of the men whom the latter attached to his person by one or another of those traits that made him such a remarkable figure. that one of the greatest murderers and one of the greatest life-savers of all time should have been so closely drawn to each other, constitutes one of the most noteworthy incidents of history. alike in many respects, so unlike in so many others, it is one of the most creditable features of napoleon's career that he should have accorded to larrey that recognition which he early gave and never withdrew. never was such tribute more signally deserved nor worthily bestowed. though he passed through twenty-six campaigns, "from syria to portugal, and from moscow to madrid," and though his wonderful courage never failed him under the most trying surroundings of carnage and conflict, it may still be questioned whether it did not take a higher degree or order of courage to face napoleon in his tent, or tell him plain truths in the tuilleries. the history of campaigning affords innumerable incidents illustrating heroism under fire, or equally trying circumstances, and it is difficult and perhaps unjust to single out a few for individual mention. bravery is confined to no epoch and to no race; it is simply a god-given trait, not by any means possessed by all men. take, for instance, one incident in the career of larrey. during the landing of the english on the shores of aboukir bay, when general silly had his knee crushed by a bullet, larrey appreciated that immediate amputation was imperative, and gaining consent performed it, in three minutes, under the enemy's fire. just as he was finished the english cavalry charged upon them; in his own words, "i had scarcely time," he said, "to take the wounded officer on my shoulders and carry him rapidly toward our army which was in full retreat. i spied a series of ditches across which i passed, while the enemy had to go around by a more circuitous route. thus i had the happiness to reach the rear guard of our army before this corps of dragoons reached us. i arrived at alexandria with this honorable, wounded officer, where i completed his cure." perhaps under no circumstance did larrey's courage and zeal show to better advantage than in the awful retreat from moscow. for example, after the terrible battle of borodino, larrey made two hundred amputations, practically with his own hands, where there were neither couches nor coverings of any kind, when the cold was so intense that the instruments often fell from the benumbed fingers of the surgeons, and when food consisted of horse flesh, cabbage stalks and a few potatoes. and all this while the savage cossacks were hovering around equally ready to kill both surgeons and patients. soon after came the passage of the beresina, with its attendant horrors. general zayonchek, over sixty years of age, had his knee crushed, and was in need of immediate amputation, which larrey performed under the enemy's fire, amid the falling snow, with no shelter except a cloak, held by two officers over the patient while the operation was being performed. the general recovered, and died fourteen years later as viceroy of poland. it was after this passage of the beresina by the imperial guard that it was discovered that all the requisites for the sick and wounded had been left behind and on the other side. larrey at once recrossed the river, and found himself amidst a furious, struggling crowd, in danger of being crushed to death, when suddenly the soldiers recognized him. immediately they took him up in their arms, crossed the river with him, crying, "let us save him who saved us," and forgot their own safety in their regard for him whose merciful kindness they had so often experienced. another incident in larrey's career: ever faithful to napoleon, his adored master, through victory or reverse, larrey stood one night with a small group of medical men gazing over the field of waterloo, and upon the wounded and dying who lay groaning around him. suddenly they were charged by a squadron of prussian lancers, at whom larrey fired his pistols and galloped away, but was overtaken by the prussians, who shot his horse, sabred him, and left him for dead. after a while he recovered his senses, and tried to make his way across lots to france, but was again captured by another detachment of cavalry, who robbed him of everything, and then took him to headquarters, where it was ordered that he be shot. think of such a fate for one who had saved so many lives! but the order would have been carried out promptly had not one of the prussian surgeons recognized larrey, having attended his lectures several years previously. accordingly he was brought before bülow, and finally before marshall blücher, whose son had been wounded and captured by the french in the austrian campaign, and whose life had been saved by larrey's exertions. you may imagine that it did not take long to reverse that order for execution. praise from napoleon was most rare, but of larrey he made this remark in his will, along with a bequest of , francs, "he is the most virtuous man i have ever known." let us mention a few other instances. for example, surgeon thomson, who during the crimean war, after the battle of the alma, volunteered, with his servant, john mcgrath, to remain behind on the open, unsheltered field, with five hundred russians so wounded as to be disabled or even at the point of death. for three days and nights these two englishmen remained practically alone upon that field, covered only with dead and dying, among foreign foes, none of them able to help themselves, or even to speak in a language that could be understood. at the battle of inkerman assistant surgeon wolesley had established his field hospital in that awful place of slaughter, the sandbag battery. when its defenders were reduced to men, and were forced to leave it, most of them retreated in one direction to find, only thirty paces away, a russian battalion blocking their path. there was not one competent officer left, so this surgeon took command. seizing a bayonet because he had no sword, he spoke hurriedly to the men, and explained that their next fight was not merely for victory, but for their own lives; then he led them in a charge that tore so fiercely through the russian detachment that but half of them reached the other side alive. during the south african campaign the papers recorded (but how few read of it?) the fate of surgeon landon, who was shot through the spine while ministering to the wounded on majuba hill. paralyzed below the waist, he had himself propped up, and continued his work as best he could until his strength failed, when he said, "i am dying; do what you can for the wounded." it may be of interest to devote here a few minutes to the consideration of conditions obtaining at the time of our revolutionary war. in the barber surgeon still had a place in the armies of the world and was even then regarded as scarcely more than a menial. never was he accorded the respect or the honors of a gentleman, nor was he allowed to carry a sword. on the other hand, he was subjected to corporal punishment, and could be caned by his colonel, or almost anyone else, whenever such an act was provoked. it may be said that the english troops were somewhat better equipped than were the hired hessians, while the french, who came to our aid, brought with them some far better men, who were in many respects a revelation during our revolution and an inspiration to our own so-called surgeons. but our colonial and general governments dealt very stingily with our army medical department, and their professional equipments were of the most meagre; in fact, the history of surgery of those days, either in the army or in civil life, is practically the history of a few prominent individuals, most of whom had spent the time and money required for study abroad, and who had come home bringing back with them the best of their day, such as it was. for instance, there were the warren brothers, in boston, of whom the elder, joseph, started paul revere on his famous ride. he was elected president of the provincial congress, and just before the battle of bunker hill was made major general of the continental forces, a position which he preferred to that of physician general, which he had been offered. during the battle he fought with a musket, as though a private, and was shot down just as the conflict ended. the younger brother, john, lived to achieve fame and reputation, and transmitted them to his posterity. during the war some colonial regiments even came into camp without any surgeon, or the slightest provision for disease or injury. in congress ordered that there should be one surgeon and five assistants to each , enlisted men, the former being paid $ . per day, the latter $ a day. imagine the attention that could be bestowed upon , soldiers by six men whose services were thus compensated. camp hygiene, hospital corps, and ambulance service were undreamed of; nevertheless john warren, then only twenty-three years of age, accomplished a great deal in building up a medical corps, while as much more was done by benjamin church, of boston, who was styled director general and chief physician, and who was paid $ a day. unfortunately church was detected in traitorous correspondence with the enemy, was court-martialed, imprisoned for a year, then allowed to leave the country, and was probably lost at sea. he was succeeded by john morgan, of philadelphia, who had to fight the politicians as well as the foreign enemy and, failing to satisfy them, was dismissed from the service, though acquitted from all blame. thus you see that even in those days the politicians made it hard to secure adequate and proper care for our sick and wounded soldiers. everywhere at that time were unrest, excitement, and suspicion, and their demoralizing effects showed in every department of military as of civil government. after morgan came shippen, who held office from to , under whose guidance affairs in the medical department improved very much. smallpox had been perhaps the greatest scourge of the soldiers, as well as of the people in general, but this was kept in subjection by the practice of inoculation, which had been generally accepted in this country by nearly all men from washington down. a word or two must also be said about that remarkable man, benjamin rush, with his many-sided, versatile, erratic, obstinate and querulous character, who nevertheless constituted in his day the most prominent figure in the profession; who served two years in congress; who signed the declaration of independence; and who, in the same year, got his first army medical experience. it was perhaps not strange that, with his peculiar temperament, he failed to come under the influence of washington's peculiar personal magnetism, and that their personal relations were not at all to rush's credit, since he endeavored in many ways to belittle his commander-in-chief, and suffered therefor a rather ignominious exposure. the temptation is always to place most stress upon accounts of heroism which happens to be most publicly performed. while this is not unnatural it is often an injustice, since an act of courage may be performed in the lime-light of publicity, with a regard for notoriety, that would be lost were it done in private. it perhaps is not kind to think that anyone would ever be more courageous in public than in private, and yet it is to be feared that human nature is not always free from temptation of this kind. but the real silent heroes of military or civil medical life are those who engage in duties which nevertheless have even more of danger about them than spectacular performances upon the battle field. take for instance, the work done by major reed and dr. carroll, who devoted themselves for months to the study of yellow fever. many a man will stand upon the field of battle permitting himself to be fired upon, but how many will deliberately submit to being bitten by insects believed to be carriers of the germs of yellow fever. dr. carroll had this quiet kind of bravery, and allowed himself to be bitten by a mosquito that twelve days previously had filled himself with the blood of a yellow fever patient, and in consequence suffered from a severe attack, barely escaping with his life. dr. lazear permitted the same experiment upon himself, but was not at that time infected; but some days later while in the yellow fever ward he was bitten by a mosquito, made careful note of the fact, acquired the disease in its most hideous form, and died a martyr to science, as true a hero as ever died upon fortress or man-of-war. others, too, willingly exposed themselves, but there was at that time no other fatality to record. but realizing the value of the service rendered, the indisputable proof of the nature of the disease, and the method by which it is carried, the value of the demonstration becomes inestimable, since a true prophylaxis was demonstrated, and a means furnished of ridding the community of this fearful pestilence. moreover, it was shown how unnecessary it is to destroy valuable property, it being only necessary to kill the mosquitoes, and do away with their breeding places. major reed died a few years after he had led in this fight against the dread disease, but no monument, or other testimonial which can be erected to the memory of reed, carroll and lazear can adequately express the value of the service which they have rendered to the world. "peace hath her victories no less than war." this epigram is as true of the conflicts in which the medical profession engage as of any other. this same sentiment has been put in other words. it is said, "that peace hath higher tests of manhood than battle ever knew." for instance, in new york there is a simple tablet commemorating, in loving remembrance, the death of eighteen young physicians who, one after another, attended a ship load of emigrants sick of typhus fever on quarantine island. they fought their good fight and were buried without martial music, adding eighteen names to the innumerable list of victims who have fought the silent battle of dealing with disease, public gainers only in this, that someone has been thoughtful enough to record their names in this semi-public fashion. taken again the case of dr. franz muller, of vienna, who contracted the bubonic plague while working in the laboratory with its germs. just so soon as he realized that he himself was infected he locked himself in an isolated room, and pasted upon the window pane a sheet of paper containing this message, "i am suffering from plague. do not send a doctor to me, as in any event my end will come in four or five days." he refused to admit those who were anxious to do for him, wrote a letter to his parents which he placed against the window, so that it could be copied from the outside, then burned the original, fearing that if sent through the mail it might carry the elusive germ. was not this equal to any instance of valor under the excitement or the stress of battle and cannonade? could anyone more worthily win a victorian cross, or any other emblem of courage and heroism? many of you have been in, or will go to havana. it will be worth your while to make a pilgrimage to the cemetery there, where were buried sixteen young medical students who lost their lives under peculiar circumstances, which afford as well an illustration of spanish tyranny and injustice. in one of the professors in the medical school died, and was followed to his grave by the students whom he had taught, and who loved him. unfortunately they committed an indiscretion by scribbling with a pencil in a public place some criticism on the government; in consequence they were reported, arrested and court-martialed. the written paragraphs were evidence sufficient, and the governor general ordered the ranks of students to be decimated. there were students all told, and in accordance with this sentence sixteen of them were next day shot without any further ceremony. of these the youngest was not quite sixteen years old, and his father offered his entire fortune for his life, but without avail. later the citizens of havana erected a monument of white marble, at no small cost, to commemorate this sacrifice. there comes over me, as i prepare these words to read to you, a feeling of their inadequacy, and of lack of personal justice to many of my auditors. brought up in civil life, with but a smattering of military training, i am rehearsing incidents of which you may read as easily as i, while at the same time i do not forget that from the lives of many of my auditors there might be drawn just as many illustrations of courage, fortitude, endurance and personal valor as any that the surgeon general's library records. unfortunately i am not familiar with them. they are, happily in one respect, too numerous to mention, and again are not yet public property, because modesty is ever the accompaniment of these other traits which we all admire so much. hence, gentlemen, if i seem to you to disregard or forget many an incident in your lives or the careers of your friends, ascribe it to my ignorance rather than to my intent, and to the fact that i have never seen a battle, and that my fights with disease have not been fought in camps, but within the walls of the quiet sick room or hospital ward. nevertheless i am never happier than when i can try to compel a wider public recognition of what you are constantly doing and of your valorous deeds. next to those general improvements in the service which have come about through natural causes, and as results of a better appreciation of its needs, and of a generally improved state of the profession, nothing has come from outside during the past fifty years which has been so helpful and advantageous as the support afforded by the red cross, and the introduction of skilled nurses; in fact the greatest help which the medical service of the army and navy can enjoy is that which comes from this volunteer and outside source. by the way, i wonder how many of you recall, or are familiar with, the beginnings of the red cross movement? so important has it become that its history should be well known to all. in june, , was fought the bloody battle of solferino, at the conclusion of which some , french, sardinian and austrian soldiers lay dead or dying on the field. the medical corps was, of course, absolutely inadequate to the work thrown upon them, and as usual thousands of wounded men had to care for themselves as best they could. a swiss traveler, henri dunant, viewing the scenes, and being profoundly impressed by them, not only assisted in the work of relief, but wrote a book entitled, "a souvenir of solferino," in which he urged more humane, widespread and speedy aid to the wounded. m. moynier, president of the society of public utility, of geneva, a man of independent means; dr. appia, a wise physician, and m. ador, an eminent lawyer of geneva, also became interested in the movement. the attention of the general of the swiss army was called to it and his co-operation enlisted. in this way came about, in , the formation of a permanent society for the relief of wounded soldiers. at a meeting held in october in the same year men from many countries joined in discussing the subject, and an international conference was held, which resulted in calling an international convention, to be held at geneva in the autumn of . such was the beginning of the red cross movement, which has now extended all over the world, and has afforded an opportunity for all races, creeds and nationalities to care for those who are made victims of war or pestilence, or who suffer from any other great disaster with which private charity is unable to cope. it marks a step in the evolution of mankind, and has now achieved such universal recognition that national governments and individual potentates are glad to join hands in the great work. a more concrete application of the same idea has been the comparatively recent formation of ambulance corps and later of nursing bureaus, within our own service, and the employment of trained nurses. this has not been in all respects an easy matter to bring about, nevertheless it has redounded to the credit and to the welfare of all concerned. never at any time were the sick and injured, either in private or in military practice, so well cared for as now, and america should lead the world to-day, as ever, in the adequacy of its provisions and the perfection of its methods. in private this is notably the case in ordinary hospital work, as seen by all travelers, upon the continent and in great britain, who take pains to make comparisons with the way in which things are done there and in our own country. although florence nightingale immortalized herself by showing what woman could do on the battle field and in military camps, it has remained for americans to improve upon the lessons which she taught, while at the same time revering her for her wonderful devotion to her self-imposed duty and her enthusiasm. in its performance the lessons of the crimean and the civil war, for instance, have left their impressions upon history in such a way as may never be erased, and certainly no one was ever more entitled to the designation of "angel of the sick room" than was miss nightingale. wars of conquest bring about curious results and in unexpected ways. while greed, lust and fanaticism have been the three great impelling and underlying motives for most of the wars which man thrusts upon his fellow-men, one far nobler motive has been the occasional and the only just cause of strife, namely, the desire for liberty; still this is always secondary and the product of some other man's or people's greed. as only by the cataclysms of the natural world has it been prepared for man's habitation, so by some wars have come benefits unforeseen, with an amelioration of the condition of mankind in general, which could not have been secured by any less drastic measures. it is, however, a sad commentary on man's intelligence that most honor is paid to those who have taken the most lives rather than to those who have saved them. no school boy in the remotest districts but is brought up with some trifling knowledge of the world's heroes, so-called, though they were in reality the world's wholesale murderers. yet you may find many persons, credited with higher education, who are still densely ignorant of the benefits conferred by those two greatest discoveries in the world's history (both of anglo-saxon origin), _anaesthesia_ and _antisepsis_, who will talk entertainingly and at length of darius, caesar, hannibal and the more modern military lights, yet who never heard of morton nor of lister. yet if to-day you inquire what is doing in the various parliaments of the world you learn that the talk is ever of more numerous and more powerful engines of destruction, and that those in power have no time to devote to improvements in the army or navy medical service, and that it is even now impossible to secure anything like adequate attention to our needs in this direction. means of taking human life must be constantly at hand; means of saving it are of small importance until the emergency has arisen; and then the blame for inadequate provision of both means and men falls not where it belongs, on the politicians who would not look ahead, but upon the administration of the medical department, who work to the point of desperation and despair in times of peace, who keep perpetual vigil, with scant recognition of the sacredness of their purpose, and scant aid in its accomplishment. are the lessons of the south african, the spanish-american and the russo-japanese wars to be forgotten almost before they have been recited? are we prepared to-day to give adequate care and attention to our soldiers and sailors were war in sight? you well know that we are not; every military or naval surgeon knows we are not; the medical profession generally knows it; and our legislators have been told it until we are tired of repeating it. yet, what is the result? the same indifference on their part, the same ignorance of what it all means; and on the part of the public the same blindness and fatuous confidence that "everything is all right." for instance, if an adequate medical service is to be built up for war there should be one officer to every of enlisted men. estimating that an army of at least , men would be required were we engaged with a first-class power--and what other would dare to engage with us?--this means , army surgeons. of these at least one-fourth should be regular and experienced medical officers. in other words, there should be for such an army at least , medical officers in the regular service, and also at least , volunteer surgeons, professionally and physically equipped for such work. should anyone object that this exceeds all the provisions of time past, the reply is ready and all sufficient, namely, that in time past all such provisions have been utterly inadequate; that the conditions of modern warfare have undergone an entire change, that a sick, wounded or disabled man is an encumbrance, and that it behooves us to prevent sickness, and to cure the disabled man as quickly as possible. furthermore, advances in medicine and surgery have been so great that far more is now expected of the medical corps than ever before, and it is a duty which we owe to those who incur the dangers of fighting for us that we should care for them. we are, therefore, under the very highest moral obligation to give them our best, and enough of it. it must be a small inducement that we offer to men to fight our battles if we permit them to feel that they are not objects of our solicitude when sick or wounded. there is another feature which we cannot disregard. so long as army regulations require that a man educated in advanced science spend much of his valuable time in acting as bookkeeper or clerk, there will be less inducement to enter the service, and it will consequently not attract men of highest proficiency. that which is required of you is complicated and exacting. you must be good bookkeepers, good sanitarians, and equally good surgeons, physicians and even obstetricians. above all, you are expected to be able to keep all the men under your supervision ready for the "firing line" at a moment's notice. you have received the highest compliment which the state can pay when you have been adjudged versatile and competent enough to fill all these rôles and do all these things. moreover, as you gain promotion other things will be expected of you, even, i hope, the filling of the chairs in this modern military medical school. it is in a way the west point of the medical corps, and it would seem as though there should not be the slightest difficulty in replenishing vacancies in its faculty by detail from your ranks. the collections and the literary labors of your corps constitute to-day treasures exceeded in value by but few if any in this, the nation's capital. the library, the museum and the archives of the medical department have been models from which all the nations of the earth have copied. in this connection there occurs to me, by way of contrast, the story of a french surgeon's experiences when he undertook to teach anatomy in a conquered and reconstructed country. after the french occupation of egypt, mehemet ali took it into his head to introduce european civilization into africa, and imported all sorts of artists, scientists and medical men, among them a practitioner of marseilles, a true bohemian in the modern acceptance of the expression, who presented himself in most seedy apparel, saying, "i am a doctor of medicine, with plenty of courage, but no clothes; i want to try my fortune." this man was dr. clot, who rapidly became a favorite of the viceroy. he soon learned arabic so as to speak it fluently, and in six months not only received an army commission, and became a bey, but took the chair of anatomy in the newly organized school of medicine. conditions were all against him. mussulman fanaticism and the prohibitions of the koran opposed all anatomical pursuits, and so soon as he proposed a dissection there was a general explosion. by mohammedan ceremonial one who even touches a dead body is thereby rendered "unclean" for seven days. the ulemas, the muftis, and all of the other fanatics, demanded of the viceroy the closure of the school, and declared dissection a sacrilegious profanation. mehemet refused this, and ordered clot bey to commence his demonstrations. then one day happened the following incident: the professor, scalpel in hand, standing alongside the cadaver, began to open the thorax, when one of the students, either from sheer fanaticism, or more bold than the others, jumped upon him and stabbed him with a poignard. the blade slid over the ribs, and clot bey, perceiving that he was not seriously hurt, applied a piece of plaster to the wound, observing as he did so, "we were speaking of the disposition of the sternum and the ribs, and i now can illustrate to you why a blow directed from above has so little chance of penetrating the cavity of the thorax." he continued his lectures, and turned out some skilful practitioners. he became an officer of almost every order in the world, and acquired more than sixty decorations, although he never wore but one, the red rosette of his own country. (_med. times and gazette_, september , .) while just such an experience may never be duplicated again, the philippines, or some other country yet to fall under our rule, may afford an opportunity for a similar display of _sang froid_. while no one may see far into the future, the maxim, "in time of peace prepare for war," is as true of the medical department as of any. were it a state secret no one would breathe it here, but it is lamentably true and publicly known that even now we are not prepared as we should be. the awful lessons of the spanish war have been forgotten. west point officers have until comparatively recently received no instruction in camp sanitation. some of us worked hard a while ago to have at least elementary instruction in it introduced into their curriculum. as an illustration i believe that to-day they are taught more about horse's feet and how to keep them in good condition, than about those of their men. line officers, especially volunteer, have never been too ready to locate their camps where water and drainage were the best, and the awful mortality of the spanish war was mainly due to preventable disease, while this was due to stupid and inexcusable disregard, on the part of officers of the line (mainly volunteer) of the advice of their medical officers. but, after all, gentlemen, the discouragements you will meet with will be far fewer than those with which your predecessors had to contend, while the pleasant side of your lives will be far pleasanter than was theirs. in fact, i think your lives have in many respects fallen in pleasanter places than have ours. discipline and order protect you to a large extent from quackery and idiocy. the fads of the day disappear before the appearance of the flag and the sound of the drum. so-called christian science finds no place in your curriculum, and it will be long, i trust, before the army chaplain tinctures the military hospital with sectarian therapeutics or an emanuel church cult. if by entering the army one may escape disgusting influences of this character, then it may become such a refuge that it shall thereby be made both inviting and invincible. it is pleasing to those of us who co-operated in the movement, to have the assurances of the surgeon general that the establishment of the medical reserve corps has been of actual benefit to the regular army medical department. while the military rank to which its members found themselves suddenly elevated was not so lofty as to cause any attacks of vertigo, none having been up to the present day reported, it at least gives us satisfaction to realize that help may thus be afforded from private life, and that a closer rapport has been effected. and now it is well nigh as difficult a task to appropriately conclude these remarks as to begin them. men come and go; a few leave imprints of their footsteps; the vast majority make no impression that lingers. "some when they die, die all; their mouldering clay is but an emblem of their memories; the space quite closes up through which they passed." fain would i believe that many of you would make enduring records. yet each can do his best, and i doubt not each will do it. you have so much to encourage you, so comparatively little to hamper or hold back. glorious is your work, glorious may be your fulfillment of it. we have lived in a goodly time; you will enjoy one still more goodly. with scientific progress, whose like the world has never known, and with an altruism which makes the world constantly better, you will be able to do things never done by your predecessors. "'tis coming up the steeps of time, and this old world is growing brighter! we may not see its dawn sublime, yet high hopes make the heart throb lighter! our dust may slumber underground when it awakens the world in wonder; but we have felt it gathering 'round! we have heard its voice of distant thunder. 'tis coming! yes, 'tis coming! "'tis coming now, that glorious time foretold by seers and sung in story, for which, when thinking was a crime, souls leaped to heaven from scaffolds gory! they passed. but lo! the work they wrought! now the crowned hopes of centuries blossom, the lightning of their living thought is flashing through us, brain and bosom; 'tis coming! yes, 'tis coming." xi the evolution of the surgeon from the barber if one attempt to scan the field of the history of medicine, to take note of all the fallacies and superstitions which have befogged men's minds, and brought about what _now_ seem to be the most absurd and revolting views and practices of times gone by, and if one search deliberately for that which is of curious nature, or calculated to serve as a riddle difficult of solution, he will scarcely in the tomes which he may consult find anything stranger than the close connection, nay, even the identity maintained for centuries, between the trade of the barber and the craft of the surgeon. even after having studied history and the various laws passed at different times, he will still miss the predominant yet concealed reason for this state of affairs. this will be found to be, in the words of paget, the "maintenance of vested rights as if they were better than the promotion of knowledge." he will wonder also why women were licensed to practise surgery in the fourteenth century and prevented in the nineteenth, or why specialties were legally recognized in the sixteenth century only to lose their dignity and identity a little later. in thus attempting to consider the relations which have existed in time past between barbers and surgeons i must ask you to remember that there was a time when bleeding was deemed necessary for the cure of almost all ailments, and that after the church had condemned the shedding of blood by any of her officials it was most natural to turn for assistance to the barbers, who were supposed to be dexterous with sharp instruments, with basins and with towels. thus it happened that when the barbers found themselves permitted to perform this sole act they naturally ventured further and practised many parts of minor surgery independently of the ecclesiastics. moreover there persist to-day in europe many relics of the old customs, and the barber surgeon is still a common figure in germany, and particularly in russia, where the really educated surgeons are still too few for a vast and widespread population. it must be remembered also that the church gradually imbued men's minds with a horror of a dead body, and of the profanation which followed having anything to do with it, and surrounded the study of anatomy with every possible obstacle and obloquy; even to such an extent that to be known as having dissected a human body was to be exposed to indignity, assault and even death. it was, therefore only intense yearning for knowledge, on the part of earnest men, which then permitted anatomical instruction to be given or encouraged. during the middle ages the greatest medical school in the world was situated at salernum (or salerno), but a short distance from naples. this is not the place in which to discuss its history, although it became famous above almost every other institution of learning of any kind, and though, by one of the freaks of history, even the site of the buildings is now lost and no one seems to know just where they stood. in his time, namely, in , the emperor frederick ii was the great patron of this college; his decrees concerning the regulation of the study and practice of medicine deserve attention to-day. a part of one of his enactments reads as follows: "since it is possible for a man to understand medical science only if he has previously learned something of logic, we ordain that no one shall be permitted to study medicine until he has given his attention to logic for three years. after these three years he may if he wishes proceed to the study of medicine." and again: "no surgeon shall be allowed to practise until he has submitted certificates in writing, of the teachers of the faculty of medicine, that he has spent at least one year in that part of medical science which gives skill in the practice of surgery, that in the college he has diligently and especially studied the anatomy of the human body, and is also thoroughly experienced in the way in which operations are successfully performed and healing afterwards brought about." when first we hear of medical men in great britain they were commonly spoken of as _leeches_, as among the danes and saxons; later the clergy introduced books from rome, and almost every monastery had some brother possessed of more or less knowledge of the medicine of the day. the college of salernum later gave great impetus to the study of medicine, even before the days of william the conqueror, which was strengthened by the influence emanating from naples, and particularly from montpellier. for centuries the catholic clergy were almost the only persons with sufficient education to study and practise physic; which profession became in time so lucrative that many of the monks abandoned their monasteries, neglecting their religious duties, and applied themselves to the study of medicine. to such an extent was this true that in the council of tours forbade monks staying out of the monastery for more than two months at a time, or teaching or practising physic. in taking this action the council only repeated what had been ordained by decree of henry iii in , and by the second council of lateran in . no restraint was at first placed upon the secular clergy, and many of the bishops and other church dignitaries gained both money and honor by acting as physicians to kings and princesses. next to the clergy the jews possessed the largest share of learning. their nomadic life permitted an intercourse with the different nations of the world, which was denied to most others, and there were many who studied medicine and practised, not only among those of their own race but amongst moors and christians alike. the priests became extremely jealous of jewish physicians and of lay surgeons, and endeavored to secure through rome a formal excommunication of all who committed themselves to the care of a jew, while by canon law no jew might give medicine to a christian. but so celebrated were the jewish physicians, and so superior to everything else was men's desire for life and strength, that even the power of rome could not exclude them from practice. still less could the clergy restrain the lay surgeons from the performance of their craft, and though it would appear that at first, in england, the priests were not disposed to separate surgery from medicine, the pope became jealous of so much interruption to the duties of the clergy and looked upon the manual part of surgery as detracting from clerical dignity. accordingly were made numerous attempts to debar priests from the performance of surgical operations. in the ecclesiastics were prohibited by pope innocent iii from undertaking any operation involving the shedding of blood, while by boniface viii at the close of the thirteenth century, and clement v, about the beginning of the fourteenth century, surgery was formally separated from physic and the priests positively forbidden to practice it. it is to the church then that we owe this absolute abandonment of surgery to an illiterate and grasping laity. for some time, however, the priests kept their hold upon surgery by instructing their servants, the barbers, who were employed to shave their own priestly beards, in the performance of minor operations. it was these men, who were in some degree qualified by the instruction of the clergy, who first assumed the title of barber surgeons, and who gradually formed a great fraternity. in france it was in the reign of louis xiv that the hairdressers were formally separated from the barber-surgeons, the latter being incorporated as a distinct medical body. in london it was in that the company of barbers were practically divided into two sections, containing respectively those who practiced shaving, and those who practiced surgery. in the surgeons were finally incorporated by themselves as the guild of surgeons and took their place as one of the liveried companies of the city of london. similar separation occurred in the original great guild of weavers, who divided into the woollen drapers and linen armourers, the latter afterwards becoming the wealthy and powerful company of merchant tailors. to trace the history of the london company of barbers a little more fully, it was first formed in and incorporated in by a charter. in one of the statutes of henry viii it was enacted that: "no person using any shaving or barbery in london shall occult (i. e. practise) any surgery, letting of blood or other matter except only drawing of teeth." in parliament passed an act allowing the united companies of barbers and surgeons each to have yearly the bodies of four criminals for dissection. in the barbers and surgeons were united in one company; the former being restricted from all operations except tooth drawing, and the latter having to abandon shaving and hair dressing. it is interesting also to note that in oxford, for instance, the barbers, surgeons, waferers and makers of "singing bread" were all of the same fellowship, from to ; when, at last, the cappers, or knitters of caps, were united to them, in , the barbers and waferers abrogated their charter and took one in the name of the city, until , when they received a charter from the university. the london guild of surgeons appears to have been first a mere fraternity which had incorporated itself, and to have originated from an association of the military barber surgeons who had been trained in the hundred years war with france, to . its membership, however, was select, and when the physicians declined an alliance with it, it amalgamated with the barber companies in . the united company of barbers and surgeons was peculiar in that strangers and those who were not free men were admitted, while the journeymen of the craft formed a subordinate body within the company. in the surgeons separated from the barbers and formed a surgeon's company which rapidly acquired influence. by a foolish blunder it forfeited its charter in but was subsequently incorporated by george iii, in , as the royal college of surgeons in london; a body which has since maintained its identity, grown tremendously in wealth and strength, and having become one of the licensing bodies of england, has acquired the finest collection of books and specimens in the world and has numbered the brightest intellects which the english surgical profession has contained. in dublin the barber surgeons were incorporated as a guild by charter granted by henry vi, in . in they were amalgamated with the independent surgeons, and by queen elizabeth with the barber surgeons and wig-makers. this confraternity was dissolved in and the college of surgeons founded immediately afterwards. in edinburgh the barbers and surgeons were united in , to be separated at about the same time as elsewhere in great britain. during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries on the continent medicine and surgery were abruptly separated, and the latter was almost entirely in the hands of the barbers. for hundreds of years the dissection of corpses and the embalming of those who could afford it, were in the hands of first the butchers and later of the barbers. the greatest contempt was everywhere shown for one who attempted any surgery. if for instance a nobleman while being bled by a barber received the slightest harm the poor barber was heavily fined, while, should the gentleman die, the culprit was given into the hands of the dead man's relatives to be dealt with as they desired. throughout the monasteries and whenever the influence of the church was felt it was forbidden to the monks, who had the monopoly of knowledge, to perform any surgical operation since the church abhorred the shedding of blood.[ ] [ ] i leave it to defenders of the faith to reconcile this abhorrence with the persecutions of heretics and the tortures of the inquisition permitted by the same church. for hundreds of years the monks were not allowed to wear a beard; this necessitated the employment of tonsors ("tonsorial-artists" they call themselves to-day) to whom was left also the performance of anything that partook of the nature of an operation, such as bleeding, bandaging, etc. this calling, was however, recognized as a most inferior one, and the barbers, like the bathkeeper, the shepherd and the hangman, were not considered of good repute. consequently, such an one was not eligible for membership in any other guilds or fraternities. in the emperor wenzel was rescued from prison, in prague, by the daughter of a bathkeeper; in gratitude he made her his mistress, and declared both barbers and bathkeepers to be respectable; but having lost his position his decree had no weight, and not until , in augsburg, were they really made eligible to the guilds. at this time their most dignified labor was the sharpening of instruments. in leopold i. decreed their profession to be an art, and gave it a position above that of the apothecary so that in their most dignified occupation they were elevated to the making of ointments and plasters. as surgery has for the profession of barber surgery to thank the existence upon man of a beard, so the european continent may thank the crusaders of the eleventh century for having necessitated the existence of the bathkeeper, because of the leprosy which they brought home from the east. during the crusades, as is well known, there were founded numerous orders having for their original purpose the care and protection of pilgrims and injured soldiers. the three most celebrated orders were the knights of st. john, the knights templar and the teutonic order. were this the place it would be most interesting to go into a history of these religio-medico-military orders, and show how from most devout purposes and humble origin they grew into despotic and tyrannical associations of great power, which it finally took all the force of church and state to suppress. as the then humble and enthusiastic members of these orders returned from the holy land they established hospitals for the care of lepers, who became very numerous in europe. for instance it is stated that in france, in , there were two thousand hospitals for this purpose, while the king louis the great founded, in , a special hospital for those made blind by egyptian ophthalmia. it is well known also that during the middle ages there was the greatest neglect of the ordinary canons of cleanliness both among the upper and lower classes. the number of hospitals and cloisters dedicated to the lepers being insufficient, bath houses were built and bathkeepers were engaged in order, so far as possible, to prevent the spread of leprosy. at this time the bathkeeper was permitted to bathe and cup, later also to bleed, although the bleeding was required to be done in the bathkeepers' own house, since he was not usually permitted to enter a patient's house. as bathing became less necessary for purposes already mentioned the bathkeeper took to imitating the barber, though much later, and not until about in some countries, were they permitted to do this publicly, and only after having passed the examinations to which the barber was also subjected. in prussia they were only allowed to treat wounds and chronic diseases, and so it came about that by the beginning of the eighteenth century a really conscientious and efficient barber surgeon was supposed to have served an apprenticeship in large hospitals, to have witnessed the work of noted surgeons and to have served in the army or navy. he was also supposed to be something of a linguist and to know a little botany; particularly was he expected to be conversant with anatomy, although there was a sad lack of cadavers--which was atoned for by the use of carcasses of animals, for the main part swine. eckardt, writing at this time of the sixteen different virtues of a barber, enumerated, first of all, fear of god; then that he should be careful, prudent, temperate, and ready to use both hands with equal dexterity; he claimed that "arrogance seems most prevalent among barbers, as a common saying would imply 'barbers are proud animals.'" he expressed his surprise also at the envy and malice between bathkeepers and barbers, and advised them both to consult physicians and other masters. the customs of the time must be blamed for this lamentable condition of affairs. the boy who was destined to become a barber was apprenticed at a time when he had scarcely learned to write. if he could write legibly and read a little latin no one dared refuse him. he learned to shave and went from house to house for this purpose, spending the little time remaining in sharpening knives, spreading plasters, picking lint, taking care of children, doing all menial duties, and using the same light as the housemaid because it would have been disrespectful to his master's wife to use any other. after years of this work he was gradually taken to visit patients and then was taught how to bleed, cup, apply leeches, extract teeth and clysters. his master knowing nothing of anatomy could give him no instruction, though by the laws of apprenticeship he was bound to do so. before concluding this apprenticeship he was supposed to pass an examination, which his master's laziness usually permitted him to escape. he then presented the master with some silver instruments and was dismissed with an injunction to be thankful that such a miserable specimen of god's creatures had ever been taught to shave a beard or spread a plaster. he now became a journeyman, still living at the house of his master, and was not allowed to marry; after a while he received a paltry sum as wages, got his dinners free and began to dabble on his own account. study was out of the question; these men could not understand what little they did read and served the community mainly as bearers of tales. after some years of activity as journeyman they could become masters by applying to the authorities, presenting certificates, and passing an examination before the physicians of the district. prussia was the first country to appreciate the necessity of regulating medical practice, and the barbers and bathkeepers were placed under the control of the medical college founded, in , by prince frederick william. in this institution attained its greatest activity, having a subordinate school in each province. in king frederick william issued a famous edict which did much to regulate medical affairs throughout the kingdom, and directed among other things that barbers and bathkeepers should "lead a religious, temperate, retired and sober life, in order to be at their best whenever their services were required." when their business was not sufficiently good they assumed other cares, as, for instance, one man was surgeon, municipal judge and post-master all at once. they were extremely envious of each other and often dabbled in medicine without permission. it was not until that the bathkeepers were permitted to rank in prussia with the barbers, and were allowed to use more than four basins, the bathkeepers' guild being incorporated with that of the barber. there being no temptation to enter these ranks it is not strange that so late even as good surgeons were rare in germany; not one in fifty of the barbers really knowing the first principles of the work they were supposed to perform. it came to such a pass that surgeons were compelled to shave and perform other duties of the hairdresser, for no surgeon, however skilled, was allowed to practice as such, unless he was the proprietor of a head-shaving and bathing establishment, with assistants and apprentices, and belonged to the barbers' guild, or unless he was favored by royal exemption. it was the general lament in germany, all through the th century, that german surgeons were educated in barber shops. even by the middle of that century the practice of surgery was not considered an honorable business, and those who practiced it were not permitted to carry a sword, neither was a surgeon admitted into society nor tolerated among physicians; moreover when unsuccessful he was bitterly and relentlessly pursued. under existing conditions the reichstag either could or would do nothing to alleviate the distressing condition. the physician boasted of his education and treated the surgeon and his craft with disdain, holding that surgery sustained the same relation to medicine that geometry does to higher mathematics and physics. all this time, however, while the physician contented himself with disdaining surgeons he made no attempt to elevate the craft nor to himself study and adorn it. even by the beginning of the nineteenth century there were scarcely any physicians in europe who could diagnose a surgical case, while dentistry they claimed called for no more skill than that sufficient for tooth extraction. it was even claimed that so long as the people generally were neglectful of their teeth the physician, or even the surgeon, should be ashamed to concern himself with dentistry. von siebold, in his day, deplored the position of the surgeon; his large military experience had shown him the difficulties with which he had to contend before he could enter society, while his ambitions and high motives were scorned. even the peasantry were bitterly opposed to all operations. so intense were their feelings that he repeatedly removed his patients to other towns before performing operations. nevertheless it was true that there were the best of reasons for lack of confidence in any barber who dropped his razor for the purpose of treating a fracture, a hernia or an obstetric case. the state required a barber surgeon to call in a physician in all complicated surgical cases. in such a case the physician demanded the control of the case and reserved to himself the right to judge of what was required. he would not even consider a surgeon who had obtained the doctorate as his equal. such consultations resulted in little but quarrels and disagreeable scenes. if a village contained no physician the surgeon treated also internal diseases, though he was not allowed to use strong medicines. every district had its special surgeon who, alone, had charge of several villages where he had the right to keep journeymen and apprentices and to do shaving and cupping. in the prussian capital city only twenty german and six french surgeons were allowed to practice in , besides the court and private surgeons. until every german surgeon carried on a medico-legal business which was later separated from his surgery. in there were three classes of surgeons; from the lower one might be promoted to a higher after an examination. in austria, in , there were doctors of surgery who were required to show a general knowledge of medicine and who had the same rights as the physicians; there were also medical surgeons who could practice under restrictions, and bathkeepers for minor surgery. after the year barbers and bathkeepers were both spoken of in austria as surgeons; this was to break up the disputes between them. according to an official feebill holding good in prussia in , the highest fee that could be charged for an operation was for lithotomy in adults, the maximum limit being about m. ($ ), while the majority of operations ranged from m. to m. ($ . to $ . expressed in u. s. money). of course this was at a time when the value of money was much greater than now. as already made plain, it was the church which by its decrees brought about the separation of surgery from medicine, a condition not existing during the palmy days of greece and rome. even the university of paris at one time refused to admit a student who had not foresworn the study of surgery, while the denouncement of anatomy and surgery alike was promulgated by both papal bulls and clerical decrees. while many of the physicians considered surgery too burdensome a study, and many others had a severe prejudice against it, the principal cause operating to keep them apart was probably the fact that for surgeons there was absolutely no social position. in mederer was made professor of surgery in freiburg, in breisgau; he delivered his opening address on the wisdom and necessity of combining medicine and surgery. as a result he was persecuted by the public, insulted by students, abused by surgeons and constantly threatened with personal assault. he maintained his position, however, and fought against the prejudice. twenty-two years later, when he left freiburg, he referred in his last lecture to his early experience. by this time public opinion had been so changed that the students serenaded him and humbly apologized for what their predecessors had done. mederer could then see the success of his efforts in that the constitution of france contained a clause combining medicine and surgery, and the royal sanitary commissioners of vienna had unanimously resolved in favor of such union. the movement begun by mederer was continued by men like richter, von siebold, loder and others. in , or over a hundred years ago, the electoral academy of erfurt offered a prize for the best essay on the subject "is it necessary and possible to combine medicine and surgery theoretically as well as practically?" fourteen papers were submitted, of which twelve were in favor of union. nevertheless the academy awarded the prize to the only writer who had opposed such union. his reasons for such opposition were most puerile, as were all the arguments subsequently advanced against it. nevertheless a great step was taken in advance, when the guilds and fraternities of barbers and bathkeepers were abolished, in which good work vienna, in , took the lead. it was then declared that shaving was the business of the hair-dresser, and that barber surgeons must attend lectures in surgery and anatomy. bavaria followed in , and four years later, in prussia, no one was permitted to practice surgery without having studied medicine. the rules of regulating the respective positions and duties between physicians and surgeons were annulled in , and by the barber license was no longer essential for the practice of surgery, the privileges of the barber, as such, being abolished, while for his trade only a common license was needed. xii the story of the discovery of the circulation a study of the times and labors of william harvey[ ] [ ] address delivered at the annual commencement of the medical department of the university of chicago, (rush medical college), june , . history in general is but a record of the succession of great events or epochs which have moulded the world's affairs. that which is of the greatest import in the life of the individual may count for little in the lives of his contemporaries, and yet it must be said that in the events of to-day there has occurred a great epoch in the life of each of you, presumably the most important as yet in your personal records. this day is then in your personal histories one of the greatest importance. it is desirable, therefore, that your lives be so moulded and influenced by it that you may long hence look back to it and recall its significance. i do not know what advice i can give you which will be more fruitful of results, than that among your studies you include that of the lives of the great men who have moulded destiny and made the world's history. their lives were modified by little things, as have been and will be yours, and yet out of small matters grew for them and for us some of the most far reaching effects. select the really great men of whom you best happen to know and analyze their characters that you may appreciate how they have become great; while if they have, as all great men have, traits of smallness, study even wherein they are small, and how such faults may be avoided. history runs as does a fairly steady stream, save that every now and then some event abruptly diverts its course or influences its current. it has been so, for instance, with the history of medicine. for the first sixteen hundred years of the christian era men engaged in the crude practices of our profession, utterly ignorant of the course of the blood, as well as of its purposes. then appeared upon the scene a man who did his own thinking, who was willing to free himself from the shackles of the past, to observe nature and to reason therefrom. in this way came suddenly upon the world, as it were, an appreciation of the circulation of the blood, than which perhaps no event in medical history has been of greater importance or reflected more credit upon its demonstrator. it is my purpose, then, to-day to try to tell you, in a semipopular way, how william harvey came to make this great discovery, as well as to give you some idea of the difficulties under which he worked, and of the men and influences that surrounded him, believing that rather than spend a half hour in humorous platitudes which may provoke a smile, but which are quickly forgotten, it is much better to try to implant something which may linger a while in your memories, and sufficiently impress you with the value of observation and inductive reasoning, since if you become thus fully impressed you will be spared in the future many sad errors of speech and even of thought. before telling the story of harvey's life and work let us study for a few moments the general condition of affairs in europe, in order that we may better understand the men whose influence surrounded him, as well as the spirit of the times and men's habits of thought. among the monarchs reigning in various parts of europe during harvey's time there were, for instance, in that part of the empire of the west which was called germany, rudolph ii, matthias and ferdinand. in sweden reigned king sigismund, charles ix, the great monarch gustavus adolphus, and queen christine. in prussia the throne had been occupied by joachim, george william and frederick william, as electors, this being before the days of the prussian kings. in russia the czars boris godunow, michael theodore and alexis had occupied the throne. france had but recently passed through the inhuman butchery of the massacre of st. bartholomew and its accompanying persecution of the huguenots, under charles ix, who expressed the hope that not a single huguenot would be left alive to reproach him with the deed, but who died himself soon after the massacre, which is said to have caused him bitter remorse. charles had been succeeded by his brother henry iii, a weak, fickle and vicious monarch, whose weakness caused him to be embroiled in civil strife, which was only concluded by his own assassination at the hands of a dominican friar. then came henry iv, he of navarre, afterwards surnamed the great, who fought the famous battle of ivry in , and who reigned for twenty-one years, the greatest and most popular sovereign who ever occupied the throne of france. notwithstanding his noble qualities he did not succeed in preserving his court from many of the contaminations of the age, and in his reign it is said that no less than , french gentlemen were killed in duels, chiefly arising out of quarrels about women. he was succeeded by louis xiii, who was still on the throne when harvey died. in harvey's own country james i was occupying the throne when harvey appeared upon the scene. he was that royal pedant whom the duke of sully pronounced "the wisest fool in europe." after his death, and when charles i ascended the throne during his twenty-fifth year, in , harvey was preparing to publish his great work. it was this charles i who retained as a favorite the worthless scoundrel buckingham, whose misconduct in spain prevented the proposed marriage of the king with the spanish infanta and brought about the civil war. it was because of the cost of this war, and of the king's disputes with parliament regarding the matter, that england was rent between the conflicts of the cavaliers and the roundheads, two of the consequences of this intestine strife being the execution of the earl of strafford and of archbishop laud. the troubles thus engendered finally cost the life of the king himself, who was beheaded in . harvey even lived to see the first half of the short tenure of office of cromwell as the great protector, and was perhaps fortunate in dying before began the reign of that odious profligate charles ii. it is worth while to enquire for a moment what was doing on this side of the ocean at this period which we have now under consideration. in virginia was settled by the english, in new york, by the dutch, in massachusetts and, three years later, new hampshire, by the english puritans; in new jersey, by the dutch, in delaware by swedes and finns, in maine, by the english, in maryland, by irish catholics, in connecticut, by english puritans. thus it will be seen that the active period of harvey's life was synchronous with the beginnings of our colonial activities. very little knowledge of what was going on in the then world of science was brought to this country at this period of its existence, however, and it was many years before in these colonies there were any exhibitions of scientific interest save in extremely scattered and sporadic cases. among harvey's literary associates were a number of celebrated english poets, for example,--marlowe ( ), spenser ( ), beaumont ( ), shakespeare ( ), herbert ( ), ben jonson ( ), massinger ( ). lord bacon died a year or two after the appearance of harvey's book, while baron napier, the inventor of logarithms, had passed away. his contemporaries in italy, where he had studied, included tasso ( ) and galileo ( ). rubens had died in , michael angelo in and titian in . in france, calvin, the practical murderer of servetus, had passed away in , beza died in , descartes in , pascal in and gassendi in . portugal had produced but one great figure in the th century, namely camoens, who died in . in spain, loyola, the ascetic and fanatic founder of the jesuits, had joined the great majority in ; but cervantes did not die until , lope de vega in , velasquez in and calderon in . in germany some great figures had but recently disappeared. paracelsus died in , copernicus in , luther in , hans holbein in , and melancthon in . mercator, who introduced a new method of cartography, died in , tycho brahe in , keppler in , van dyck in , grotius, the great scholar, in , rembrandt in and spinoza in . in philosophy, scepticism was the prevailing doctrine in the time of harvey. it had been founded a hundred years previously by montaigne, and continued by charron, the chaplain of queen margaret of navarre, who died in , and who declared all religion to be opposed to human reason;--a remarkable attitude for a chaplain to assume. opposed to the scepticism of harvey's day was the mystic, cabalistic or supernatural philosophy especially represented by böhme, a peasant shoemaker, uneducated and yet wonderfully gifted. he had been the philosophical colleague of that great meistersinger, hans sachs. later philosophers and thinkers, yet belonging to harvey's time, were pascal, the great jansenist, who discovered the variations of atmospheric pressure at different levels, and malebranche, who figures prominently in the history of philosophy. descartes, who died in , held the pineal gland to be the seat of the soul. he was the discoverer of the laws of refraction of light and furnished the explanation for the rainbow. he attained greatest eminence in mathematics, physics and philosophy, and was one of the inventors of modern algebra. one of his greatest opponents was that noble jew, spinoza, whose colleagues had expelled him from the sanhedrim to the sound of the trombone. the italian dominican campanella, who died in , considered the foundation of knowledge to be supernatural revelation and its perception by the senses. in spite of these views he came before the inquisition on a charge of heresy and of cooperation with the turks, was tortured by the rack, and imprisoned for thirty years. the mystic or cabalistic notions of harvey's day have just been mentioned. under them we may recognize many degenerate products and amalgamations of the real doctrines of paracelsus. the doctrines of the rosicrucians, as well as of zoroaster and the cabala, were revived and made to do strange work. there was, for instance, that sir kenelm digby, who died in , a king's chamberlain, who posed among the english as a so-called rosicrucian. it was he who suggested the famous "_sympathetic powder_," which was to be applied to the weapon by which a wound had been inflicted, after which the _weapon_ was anointed and dressed two or three times a day, while the wound itself was carefully bound up with dressings and left alone for a week. this was perhaps much the better course, but it will show what strange notions prevailed in those days. what it meant to run counter to ecclesiastical policy and theological dogma appears not only in such tragedies as terminated the lives of bruno and many other martyrs to science, but in such facts as these; for instance, when in , just when harvey was preparing to publish his work, some young chemists in paris, seeing the benefit of the experimental method, broke away from aristotle and the canons of theological reasoning, the faculty of theology appealed to the parliament of paris, which latter prohibited all such researches, under the severest penalties. this was the time too when such exhibitions as the following were altogether too frequent;--one quaresimo, of lodi, came out with a ponderous work entitled "a historical, theological and moral explanation of the holy land," in which he devoted great space to the question of the dead sea and the salt pillar supposed to represent lot's wife, dividing a long chapter upon the subject into three parts, dealing with the method and the locality of this transformation and the question of the existence at that time of her saline remains. thus, with his peculiar powers of reasoning, he was able to decide the exact point where the saline change took place, and finally showed that the statue _was still in existence_. lord bacon was also an older contemporary of harvey, having been born in and dying in , shortly after the appearance of harvey's great work. his services to analytic science need no description here, but it is worth while to remember that harvey, like many others, must have come under his influence and have profited by his teachings in logic and analysis. at about the time when harvey made known his discovery bacon was publishing his views of the laws of transmission and reflection of sound. great man as he was, with a keen foresight into the value of the recent inventions of the compass, gun-powder and printing, he nevertheless was himself so narrow, in some respects, that he placed but little value upon the discovery of copernicus. he, however, paved the way for one in some respects still greater, namely isaac newton, who, however, had scarcely attained man's stature when harvey died. how much we owe to the two great bacons of history one cannot indicate in this short résumé. roger bacon ( - ) seems to have been the first great thinker along truly scientific lines. he was more than a mere chemist while, as white says, more than three centuries before francis bacon _advocated_ the experimental method roger bacon had _practised_ it, and in many directions. he did more than anyone else in the middle ages to direct thought into fruitful paths, and only now are we finding out how nearly he reached some of the principal doctrines of modern philosophy and chemistry. most important of all, his methods were even greater than his results, and this at a time when "theological subtilizing" was the only passport to reputation for scholarship. it was avicenna, the arabian, who perhaps first announced substantially the modern theory of geology, accounting for changes in the earth's surface by suggesting a stone-making force, but the presence of fossils in the rocks had been always a thorn in the sides of the theologians. it was leonardo da vinci, that versatile genius in science and art, who, previous to harvey's generation, suggested true notions as to the origin of fossils, while, in harvey's time, bernard palissy, another artist, vehemently contended for their correctness. still, even at harvey's death, neither geology nor paleontology had come anywhere near scientific accuracy. the _academia dei lyncei_, so-called from its seal, which bore the image of a fox, was founded in rome in . in france the academy of science was not founded until , in germany the society of naturalists and physicians in , and the british royal society in . in matters of general interest it may be worth while to say that in architecture the general style of the renaissance was changed for the more substantial barocco, while the more formal and limited style of church music had given away to musical drama, i. e., opera, albeit in very crude form. the first newspaper had appeared at antwerp in , the first german paper being published in frankfort in , and the london weekly news making its first appearance in . tobacco, which had been brought over by raleigh in , had come into quite general use, while coffee, tea and chocolate had gained in public esteem. when coffee was first introduced in england it sold for about $ a pound. the first coffee house appears to have been established in constantinople, in the middle of the th century, while the first coffee house in london was not opened until a century later. the barbers still retained their ascendency, and the bath keepers had scarcely lost their position next to the barbers. it was not until harvey had reached a ripe age that the barbers were required in germany to pass an examination, in which they had to prove not only their knowledge but the legitimacy of their birth, and the fact that they had studied for three years and had worked for three years more as apprentices. anatomy was studied quite generally, sometimes upon human bodies. a dissecting room had been established in dresden in , in which stuffed bears, at that time a great rarity, were preserved with other curiosities. in rolfink, at jena, arranged for public dissection upon the bodies of all executed malefactors, delegates being present thereat from various other institutions. it is worth while to mention that in frankfort, for instance, during the expiration of years, but seven dissections were made, and that these were always accompanied by a celebration which lasted several days. vienna did not possess a skeleton in , and strassburg did not have one until . yet it is of interest to remember that the anatomical plates, like those often published to-day, which are meant to be lifted off in layers, existed even at this period. on the other hand, botanical gardens and chemical laboratories existed in several of the universities,--in strassburg, for instance, in ,--in oxford in . fabricius hildanus, the father of german surgery, or, as he has been sometimes called, the ambroise paré, of germany, was also a contemporary of harvey's. his real name was fabry and he was born in hilden, but he latinized his name into that form usually adopted to-day. scultetus was another famous surgeon of the same period. william gilbert, - , had been the talented physician of queen elizabeth, and was among the first to study the experimental method. with the appearance of his book upon the magnet, in , began the science of electricity and magnetism. he was the first to teach the fact that the earth itself was a great magnet and he distinguished between magnetic and electric reactions. later the great dutch anatomist, ruysch, afforded corroboration of harvey's views by another method, when he invented and practised those beautiful minute injections of the vascular system which made him so famous, and built up that great collection of specimens which peter the great bought for russia at an expense of about $ , . contemporary with harvey also was swammerdam, one of the most versatile men of his time, famous as naturalist, savant, physiologist, linguist and poet. it was during the fifteenth century that astronomy began to assume an importance and degree of accuracy never hitherto known. this was due very largely to the independence of thought and the researches of copernicus, who was born in cremona in , and who studied medicine in krakau and astronomy in vienna. he lived to the age of and was the real father of the heliocentric theory, now known as the copernician system, which he substituted for the previous ptolemaic theory, thus reversing the ancient idea that the sun circled about the earth. copernicus demonstrated the phases of the moon, but his opponents claimed that if this doctrine were true venus would exhibit the same phenomena; to which he replied that it was true, though he knew not what to say to these objections, but that god was good and would in time furnish answer to them. it was galileo's crude telescope which, in harvey's younger day, in , furnished this answer and revealed the phases of venus. to illustrate how the views of copernicus were received we might add here that martin luther paid his compliments to him by declaring that copernicus was a fool who wished to stand astronomy upon its head. copernicus was succeeded by galileo, who was born in in pisa, and died . he may be called the creator of dynamic astronomy and mechanics, as well as one of the most brilliant exponents of experimental and inductive reasoning. he was of noble birth and was, in fact, the torch bearer of physics at the period of the renaissance. he gave up speculation and substituted for it the habit of observation, reaping a large harvest of surprising facts, any one of which might have immortalized him. he not only established the movements of the earth on its own axis as well as around the sun, which copernicus had shown, but he discovered the weight of the atmosphere and first calculated the law of gravity. he and his successors were governed always by that aphorism which is to-day as true as ever: "experience is deceptive and judgment difficult." in when he was before the inquisition, at rome, and when its theologians had examined statements extracted from his letters, they solemnly rendered their decision in these words: "the first proposition that the sun is the centre and does not revolve about the earth is foolish, absurd, false in theology and heretical, because expressly contrary to the holy scripture. the second proposition that the earth is not the centre, but revolves about the sun, is absurd, false in philosophy and, from a theological point of view, at least, opposed to the true faith." this for a pronunciamento from the _infallible_ church! galileo and bruno have by some writers both been made to stand in an unpleasant light because of their recantation or shifting position before the inquisition. bruno was the greatest philosopher and sceptic of the latter part of the th century, and had outlined, withal somewhat vaguely, that which is now known as the nebular hypothesis. he was murdered by the inquisition in , and the views which he enunciated seem to have been buried with him, not to reappear until long after his sad fate had been consummated. he had, for instance, contended for the truths of the copernican doctrine, but it was not until ten years after his martyrdom that galileo proved it with his telescope. that both these great men yielded in some respects to the influences of the inquisition and renounced some of their scientific "heresies" is largely to be excused by the fact that they were both old, broken in health from the sufferings which they had endured, as well as from their disappointments, and that they had been, under these circumstances, handed over to that inquisition which knew no mercy. galileo could well remember the _auto da fê_ in the piazza dei fiore, in rome, the scene of bruno's martyrdom, as well as the tragic end of many another who had dared to have the courage of his convictions. let us, then, not judge him harshly, but be grateful even that the enormous power of the inquisition did not and could not suppress the truth. galileo's discovery of the satellites of jupiter, the rings of saturn, his experiments with the pendulum, his construction of the telescope, as well as of the thermometer, and many other deeds, have stamped him as one of the great figures in the history of progress and science. it is most interesting to note that this contemporary of harvey's, like himself, was given to inductions obtained from experimental studies. another great astronomical light of harvey's time was keppler, who was driven from one place to another by religious fanaticism, until he ended his life in . it was he who formulated the great principle which underlies the motions of the planets, and who gave to the world his so-called "laws," which so materially advanced the science of astronomy. it was he who really discovered that comet which was later given hailey's name, whose periodic return he first foretold. such was the spirit of the times in which harvey lived, and such the influences which surrounded his teachers before him and himself in turn. it makes a long preface to a consideration of what harvey himself accomplished, but it is not without its interest because men and their deeds must be judged largely by their environment. now, to speak more particularly of harvey himself, and what was known of the circulation when he undertook his investigations. the liver had been considered, from time immemorial, as the principal factor in the production and movement of the blood. the ancients supposed that here the veins took their origin and that through them the blood flowed to all parts of the body, returning to its source by an undulating movement or series of alternate waves. the arteries had been supposed to contain only vital spirits, whose great reservoir was the heart, although erasistratus had admitted that in certain cases blood might escape into the arterial channels. later galen showed that the arteries always contained blood, and he knew that blood was poured into the right side of the heart by the great veins, but believed that only a little of it passed from the right ventricle into the lungs, the greater part of it passing through hypothetical pores in the septum and thus into the left ventricle. this opinion, like galen's in other respects, remained unchanged until the middle of the th century. it was also known that valves existed within the veins, and that if an artery were tied on a living animal blood would cease to flow and pulsation be checked below the ligature, while if a vein were tied it shrunk above the ligature and became distended below. three men before harvey's time came very near to discovering the secret that made him famous; in fact, they made such advances on what was already known that history should accord them a distinguished place. one was _columbus_, who was born at cremona in , and died in . he was first a pupil and prosector and then a friend of vesalius, the great anatomist. later he succeeded him at the university of padua and unfortunately, after gaining his position, ungratefully turned upon his old teacher. he was, however, for his day a good anatomist and especially a good osteologist. it was he who first demonstrated experimentally that blood passes through the lungs into the pulmonary veins and that the latter connect with the left ventricle. he thus practically established the fact of the lesser circulation. he suffered, however, as did servetus, from the prevailing notion that spirits and blood were mixed together. from padua columbus went to pisa, and then to rome. he wrote with elegance and correctness of style and even described the vessels which penetrate the bone cells, the ossicles of the ear, the minute anatomy of the teeth, the ventricles of the larynx, as well as those valves which prevent the return of blood from the lungs to the heart. in fact, he narrowly missed the significance of the actual facts of the case, simply failing in his final analysis and assembling of those facts which he had already demonstrated. _cesalpinus_, who lived a little later, came still nearer the mark, having accepted the teachings of columbus regarding the course of the blood through the lungs. he added that the ultimate arterial branches connect with those of the veins, and he taught that blood and vital spirits, from which the ancients could never separate themselves, passed from the arteries into the veins during sleep, as was demonstrated by the swelling of the veins and the diminution of the pulse at that time. a little later came _michael servetus_, who figures principally in history as a theologian and a victim of theologians, since he perished a martyr to calvin's jealousy. he was, in effect, a wisely and widely educated man who did a great deal for science, one of the offences attributed to him being an edition of ptolemy's geography, in which judea was described as a barren and inhospitable land instead of one "flowing with milk and honey." this simple statement of a geographical fact was made a tremendous weapon of offence by calvin, who replied that even if servetus had only quoted from ptolemy and, although there were ample geographical proofs, it nevertheless "unnecessarily inculpated moses and grievously outraged the holy ghost." servetus dared to deny the passage of the blood through the septum of the heart, and contended that that which comes into the right side was distributed to the lung and returned to the left ventricle. he published his views, however, in a religious treatise on errors concerning the trinity, a most unfortunate place in which to inject such an important fact, since it gave his enemies a still greater opportunity to vent and ventilate their spleen. had he been able to leave out that notion of vital spirits, which prevailed with all his predecessors, he might actually have made the great discovery left for harvey to enunciate. i have not been able to refer to original documents in this matter, but it is claimed by some that his description of the circulation was contained in another religious work concerning the restitution of christianity, which was printed in nuremberg in . such was the actual state of knowledge concerning the movements of the blood and the functions of the heart when harvey published his great work. it behooves us now to proceed with a short account of harvey's own life and researches. _william harvey_ was born at folkestone on the first of april, . he was the eldest son of a prosperous merchant who raised a large family and who occupied the highest positions of honor in his own town. the son william was born to his second wife, by whom he had seven sons and two daughters. all of these children were helped to remunerative or honorable positions. they became merchants or politicians or secured prominence in some way, but william was the only one to study medicine. he was sent to the king's school at canterbury, in , and he was admitted at caius, in cambridge, in , where he graduated in arts in . the following year he went to padua, which then had one of the greatest medical schools of the time, and he obtained his medical diploma in , when twenty-four years of age. returning to england he received a doctor's degree at cambridge, and shortly afterward married a daughter of a london physician and entered upon the practice of medicine in london. in the great city his practice as a physician seems to have been from the outset successful, and his knowledge and ability procured him various valuable appointments. he was made a fellow of the college of physicians in . this royal college of physicians was given a grant of incorporation by henry viii in , at the intercession of chambers, linacre and ferdinand victoria, the king's physicians, it being under the patronage of cardinal wolsey. the first meetings were held at linacre's house which he bequeathed to the corporation at his death. until this college was founded practitioners of medicine were licensed to practise by the bishop of london or by the dean of st. paul's. a few years later harvey was appointed physician-extraordinary to king james i, and later yet, after the publication of his great treatise and its dedication to the king, he was made physician-in-ordinary to charles i, whom he attended during the civil wars. it must have been about when harvey first began expounding his views on the circulation of the blood, during lectures which were delivered at the college of physicians, but it was not until thirteen years later, i. e., in , that his great work de motu cordis was published in latin, as was customary among scholars, and at frankfort-on-the-main, since that was then the great center of the book publishing trade. the treatise was dedicated to king charles i, in a manner which to us would seem servile, and yet which was according to a custom followed by nearly all of the scholars of the day, who desired to attract not only the attention of royalty, but, in most instances, their benevolent assistance. it is worth while to quote at this point the first sentence or two of his dedication: "to the most serene and invincible charles, of great britain, france and ireland, king: defender of the faith, most serene king, "the heart of animals is the basis of their life, the principle of the whole, the sun of their microcosm, that upon which all movement depends, from which all strength proceeds. the king in like manner is the basis of his kingdom, the sun of his world, the heart of the commonwealth, whence all power derives, all grace appears. what i have here written of the movements of the heart i am the more emboldened to present to your majesty, according to the custom of the present age, because nearly all things human are done after human examples and many things in the king are after the pattern of the heart." the dedication was followed by a proemium which one may hardly read to-day without emotion. in it he sets forth the mystery that has surrounded the subject of the motion and function of the heart, as well as the attendant difficulties of the subject, speaking of his own early despair that he would ever be able to clear up the subject. he even said that at one time he found the matter so beset with difficulties that he was inclined to agree with fracastorius "that the movements of the heart and their purpose could be comprehended by god alone." only later was this despair dispelled by a suggestion when, as he says: "i began to think whether there might not be a movement in a circle" when thus the truth dawned fully upon him. we shall have to speak later of the opposition provoked by the appearance of this work and its almost general rejection. it is perhaps, however, but just to those who disputed harvey's discoveries to recall that no complete and actual demonstration of the actual circulation was possible at that time, nor for many years after, and until the introduction of the microscope, the common magnifying glass of that day being the only lens in use. it remained for malpighi to demonstrate the blood actually in circulation in the lung of a frog some three or four years after harvey's death, in . but harvey lived long enough to see his views gain general acceptance, and though at first, and as the result of the opposition provoked by his publication, his practice fell off mightily, he later regained his professional position and rose to the highest eminence, being elected in to the presidency of the college of physicians. to this institution he proved a great benefactor, making considerable additions to the building after its destruction in the great fire of and its subsequent restoration. he also left a certain sum of money as a foundation for an annual oration, to be delivered in commemoration of those who had been great benefactors of the college. this oration is still regularly delivered on st. luke's day, i. e., the th of october, and is ordinarily known as the harveian oration. in these orations more or less reference to harvey's work and influence is always made. this great man passed away on the d of june, , within ten months of his eightieth birthday, thus affording a brilliant exception to the list of men who have rendered great service to the world and not lived long enough to see it appreciated. as one reads harvey's own words, the wonder ever grows that it should have remained for him, after the lapse of so many centuries, to not only call attention to what had been said by galen but apparently forgotten by his successors, namely, that "the arteries contained blood and nothing but blood, and, consequently, neither spirits nor air, as may be readily gathered from experiments and reasonings," which he elsewhere furnishes. he furthermore shows how galen demonstrated this by applying two ligatures upon an exposed artery at some distance from each other, and then opening the vessel itself in which nothing but blood could be found. he calls attention also to the result of ligation of one of the large vessels of an extremity, the inevitable result being just what we to-day know it must be, and the procedure terminating with gangrene of the limb. not long before harvey's own publication, fabricius, he of aquapendente, had published a work on respiration, stating that, as the pulsation of the heart and arteries was insufficient for the ventilation and refrigeration of the blood, therefore were the lungs fashioned to surround the heart. harvey showed how the arterial pulse and respiration could not serve the same ends, combating the view generally held, that if the arteries were filled with air, a larger quantity of air penetrating when the pulse is large and full, it must come to pass that if one plunge into a bath of water or of oil when the pulse is strong and full it should forthwith become either smaller or much slower, since the surrounding fluid would render it either difficult or impossible for air to penetrate. he also called attention to the inconsistencies between this view and the arrangement of the prenatal circulation; also to the fact that marine animals, living in the depths of the sea, could under no circumstances take in or emit air by the movements of their arteries and beneath the infinite mass of waters, inasmuch as "to say that they absorb the air that is present in the water and emit their fumes into this medium, were to utter something very like a figment;" furthermore "when the windpipe is divided, air enters and returns through the wound by two opposite movements, but when an artery is divided blood escapes in one continuous stream and no air passes." discussing further the views which he stigmatized as so incongruous and mutually subversive that every one of them is justly brought under suspicion, he reverts again to the statements of galen, calling attention to the fact that from a single divided artery the whole of the blood of the body may be withdrawn in the course of half an hour or less, and to the inevitable consequences of such an act; also that when an artery is opened the blood is emptied with force and in jets, and that the impulse corresponds with that of the heart; again that in an aneurism the pulsation is the same as in other arteries, appealing for corroboration in this matter to the recent statements of riolan, who later became his avowed enemy. harvey also called attention to the fact that while ordinarily there was a seemingly fixed relation between respiration and pulse-rate, this might vary very much under certain circumstances, showing that respiration and circulation were two totally different processes. harvey utilized also the results of his researches in comparative anatomy and physiology, for early in his work he called attention to the fact that every animal which is unfurnished with lungs lacks a right ventricle. in his proemium he then proceeds to ask certain very pertinent questions which can only be briefly summarized in this place. he asks: first, why, inasmuch as the structure of both ventricles is practically identical, it should be imagined that their uses are different, and why, if tricuspid valves are placed at the entrance into the right ventricle and prove obstacles to the return of blood into vena cava, and if similar valves are situated at the commencement of the pulmonary artery, preventing return of blood into the ventricle, then why, when similar valves are found in connection with the other side of the heart, should we deny that they are there for the same purpose of prevention "here the egress" and "there the regurgitation of the blood?" secondly, he asks why, in view of the similarity of these structures, it should be said that things are arranged in the left ventricle for the egress and regress of spirits, and in the right ventricle for those of blood? thirdly, he enquires why, when one notes the resemblance between the passages and vessels connected with the opposite sides of the heart, one should regard one side as destined to a private purpose, namely, that of nourishing the lungs, the other to a more public function? furthermore, he enquires, since the lungs are so near, and in continual movement, and the vessels supplying them of such dimensions, what can be the use of the pulse of the right ventricle, which he had often observed in the course of his experiments? he sums up his inability to accept the explanations previously offered with a phrase which reads rather strangely, even in original latin: "deus bone! quomodo tricuspides impediunt aëris egressum, non sanguinis." i. e., "good god! how should the mitral valves prevent the regurgitation of air and not of blood?" he then takes up the views of those who have believed that the blood oozed through the septum of the heart from the right to the left side by certain secret pores, and to them he replied "by hercules, no such pores can be demonstrated, nor, in fact, do any such exist." again, "besides, if the blood could permeate the substance of the septum, or could be emptied from the ventricles, what use were there for the coronary artery and vein, branches of which proceed to the septum itself, to supply it with nourishment?" further on in the treatise harvey sets forth his motives for writing, stating how greatly unsettled had become his mind in that he did not know what he himself should conclude nor what to believe from others. he says: "i was not surprised that laurentius should have written that the movements of the heart were as perplexing as the flux and reflux of euripus had appeared to aristotle." he apologizes for the crime, as some of his friends considered it, that he should dare to depart from the precepts and opinions of all anatomists. he acknowledged that he took the step all the more willingly, seeing that fabricius, who had accurately and learnedly delineated almost every one of the several parts of animals in a special work, had left the heart entirely untouched. passing more directly to the actual work of the heart, he shows that not only are the ventricles contracted by virtue of the muscular structure of their own walls, but further that those fibers or bands, styled "nerves" by aristotle, that are so conspicuous in the ventricles of larger animals when they contract simultaneously, by an admirable adjustment, help to draw together all the internal surfaces as if with cords, thus expelling the charge of contained blood with force. later on he says that if the pulmonary artery be opened, blood will be seen spurting forth from it, just as when any other artery is punctured, and that the same result follows division of the vessel which in fishes leads from the heart. he furnishes a very happy simile to prove that the pulses of the arteries are due to the impulses of the left ventricle by showing how, when one blows into a glove all of its fingers will be found to have become distended at one and the same time. he quotes aristotle, who made no distinction between veins and arteries, but said that the blood of all animals palpitates within their vessels and by the pulse is sent everywhere simultaneously, all of this depending upon the heart. it is in chapter five of the treatise that he gives, probably for the first time, an accurate published account of just what transpires with one complete cycle of cardiac activity. the passage need not be quoted here, but deserves to be read by everyone interested in the subject, as who should not be? one sentence, however, is worth quotation or, at least, a summary, as follows: "but if the divine galen will here allow, as in other places he does, that all the arteries of the body arise from the great artery, and that this takes its origin from the heart; that all the vessels naturally contain and carry blood; that the three semilunar valves situated at the orifice of the aorta prevent the return of the blood into the heart, and that they were here for some important purpose,--i do not see how he can deny that the great artery is the very vessel to carry the blood, when it has attained its highest triumph of perfection, from the heart for distribution to all parts of the body." his chapter six deals with the course by which blood is carried from the right into the left ventricle, and here one must admire the large number of experimental demonstrations which harvey had undertaken upon all classes of animals, for he speaks even of that which occurs in small insects, whose circulation he had studied so far as he could with the simple lens. furthermore he described the prenatal circulation, omitting practically nothing of that which is taught to-day, showing that in embryos, while the lungs are yet in a state of inaction, both ventricles of the heart are employed, as if they were but one, for the transmission of blood. in concluding this chapter he again states briefly the course of the blood, and promises to show, first, that this may be so and, then, to prove that it really is so. his chapter seven is devoted to showing how the blood passes through the substance of the lungs from the right ventricle and then on into the pulmonary vein and left ventricle. he alludes to the multitude of doubters as belonging, as the poet had said, to that race of men who, when they will, assent full readily, and when they will not, by no matter of means; who, when their assent is wanted, fear, and when it is not, fear not to give it. a little later on he says: "as there are some who admit nothing unless upon authority, let them learn that the truth i am contending for can be confirmed from galen's own words, namely, that not only may the blood be transmitted from the pulmonary artery into the pulmonary veins and then into the left ventricle of the heart, but that this is effected by the ceaseless pulsation of the heart and the movements of the lungs in breathing." he then shows how galen explained the uses of the valves and the necessity for their existence, as well as the universal mutual anastomosis of the arteries with the veins, and that the heart is incessantly receiving and expelling blood by and from its ventricles, for which purpose it is furnished with four sets of valves, two for escape and two for inlet and their regulation. harvey then noted a well-known clinical fact, that the more frequent or forcible the pulsations, the more speedily might the body be deprived of its blood during hemorrhage, and that it thus happens that in fainting fits and the like, when the heart beats more languidly, hemorrhages are diminished and arrested. the balance of the book is practically devoted to further demonstration and corroboration of statements already made. a study of this work of harvey's illustrates how much respect even he and his contemporaries still showed for the authority of galen. it shows still further how nearly galen came to the actual truth concerning the circulation. had the latter not adopted too many of the notions of his predecessors concerning the nature of the soul (anima) and the spirits (pneuma) of man, he might himself have anticipated harvey by a thousand years, and by such announcement of a great truth have set forward physiology by an equal period. independent and original as harvey showed himself, he seems to have failed to get away from the notion of the vapors and spiritual nature of the blood which he had inherited from the writings of galen and many others. nevertheless he also alludes to this same blood as alimentive and nutritive. we must not forget, however, that this was years before priestly's discovery of oxygen and that harvey had, like others, no notion of the actual purpose of the lungs, believing that the purification and revivification of the blood was the office of the heart itself. along with its other intrinsic merits harvey's book possesses a clear and logical arrangement, the author first disposing of the errors of antiquity, describing next the behavior of the heart in the living animal, showing its automatic pumplike structure, its alternate contractions and the other phenomena already alluded to, thus piling up facts one upon another in a manner which proved quite irresistible. the only thing that he missed was the ultimate connection between the veins and the arteries, i. e., the capillaries, which it remained for malpighi to discover with the then new and novel microscope, which he did about , showing the movement of the blood cells in the small vessels, and confirming the reality of that ultimate communication which had been held to exist. malpighi discovered the blood corpuscles in , but it remained for leeuwenhoek, of delft, in , by using an improved instrument to demonstrate to all observers the actual movements of the circulating blood in the living animal. one historian has said that with harvey's overthrow of the old teachings regarding the importance of the liver and of the spirits in the heart "fell the four fundamental humors and qualities" while daremberg exclaims: "as in one of the days of the creation, chaos disappeared and light was separated from darkness." it remains now only to briefly consider how harvey's great discovery was received. to quote the words of one writer: "so much care and circumspection in search for truth, so much modesty and firmness in its demonstration, so much clearness and method in the development of his ideas, should have prepossessed everyone in favor of the theory of harvey; on the contrary, it caused a general stupefaction in the medical world and gave rise to great opposition." during the quarter of a century which elapsed after harvey's announcement there probably was not an anatomist nor physiologist of any prominence who did not take active part in the controversy engendered by it; even the philosopher descartes was one of the first adherents of the doctrine of the circulation, which he corroborated by experiments of his own. two years after the appearance of harvey's book appeared an attack, composed in fourteen days by one primerose, a man of scotch descent, born and educated in france, but practising at hull, in which he pronounced the impossibilities of surpassing the ancients or improving on the work of riolan, who already had written in opposition to harvey, and who was the only one to whom the latter vouchsafed an answer. it was riolan who procured a decree of the faculty of paris prohibiting the teaching of harvey's doctrine. it was this same riolan who combated with equal violence and obstinacy the other great discovery of the age, namely,--the circulation of the lymph. one of the earliest and fiercest adversaries of harvey's theory was plempius, of louvaine, who, however, gave way to the force of argument and who finally publicly and voluntarily passed over to the ranks of its defenders in , becoming one of harvey's most enthusiastic advocates. harvey's conduct through the controversy was always of the most dignified character; in fact, he rarely ventured to reply in any way to his adversaries, believing in the ultimate triumph of the truths which he had enunciated. his only noteworthy reply was one addressed to riolan, then professor in the paris faculty and one of the greatest anatomists of his age, to whose opinion great value was always attached. even in debating or arguing against him, harvey always spoke of him with great deference, calling him repeatedly the prince of science. riolan was, however, never converted, though whether he held to his previous position from obstinacy, from excess of respect for the ancients, or from envy and jealousy of his contemporary, is not known. another peculiar spectacle was afforded by one parisunus, who died in , a physician in venice, who, like harvey, had been a pupil of fabricius of aquapendente, who had been stigmatized by riolan as an ignoramus in anatomy, but who joined with others in declaring that he had seen the heart beat when perfectly bloodless, and that no beating of the heart and no sounds were to be heard as harvey had affirmed. with the later and more minute studies into the structure and function of the heart we are not here concerned. the endeavor has been rather to place before you the sentiments, the knowledge and the habits of thought of the men of harvey's time, with the briefest possible epitome of what they knew, or rather of how little they knew, to account for this later slavish adherence to authority by unwillingness to reason independently, or to observe natural phenomena intelligently, still less to experiment with them. it is, then, rather the brief history of an epochal discovery than an effort to trace out its far-reaching consequences that i have endeavored to give. here must close an account which perhaps has been to you tedious, and yet which is really brief, of harvey's life and labors. he lived to see his views generally accepted and to enjoy his own triumph, a pleasure not attained by many great inventors or discoverers. lessons of great importance may be gathered from a more careful study of this great historical epoch, but they must be left to your own powers of reasoning rather than to what i may add here. i commend it to you as a fertile source of inspiration, and a line of research worthy of both admiration and imitation. few men have rendered greater service to the world by the shedding of blood than did harvey, in his innocent and wonderful studies of its natural movement. perhaps it might be said of him that he was the first man to show that "blood will tell." what he made it tell has been thus briefly told to you. i know not how i may better close this account than by quoting the concluding words of his famous book, and especially repeating the lines which he has quoted from some latin author whom i have not been able to identify. his paragraph and his quotation are as follows: "finally, if any use or benefit to this department of the republic of letters should accrue from my labors, it will, perhaps, be allowed that i have not lived idly, and, as the old man in the comedy says: 'for never yet hath anyone attained to such perfection, but that time, and place, and use, have brought addition to his knowledge; or made correction, or admonished him, that he was ignorant of much which he had thought he knew; or led him to reject what he had once esteemed of highest price.'" xiii history of anaesthesia and the introduction of anaesthetics in surgery[ ] [ ] commemorative address delivered at the medical department, university of buffalo, october , . in commemoration of the semi-centennial of the introduction of ether as an anaesthetic agent fifty years ago to-day--that is to say, on the th of october, ,--there occurred an event which marks as distinct a step in human progress as almost any that could be named by the erudite historian. i refer to the first demonstration of the possibility of alleviating pain during surgical operations. had this been the date of a terrible battle, on land or sea, with mutual destruction of thousands of human beings, the date itself would have been signalized in literature and would have been impressed upon the memory of every schoolboy, while the names of the great military murderers who commanded the opposing armies would have been emblasoned upon monuments and the pages of history. but this event was merely the conquest of pain and the alleviation of human suffering, and no one who has ever served his race by contributing to either of these results has been remembered beyond his own generation or outside the circle of his immediate influence. such is the irony of fate. the world erects imposing monuments or builds tombs, like that of napoleon, to the memory of those who have been the greatest destroyers of their race; and so cæsar, hannibal, genghis khan, richard the lion-hearted, gustavus vasa, napoleon and hundreds of other great military murderers have received vastly more attention, because of their race-destroying propensities and abilities, than if they had ever fulfilled fate in any other capacity. but the men like sir spencer wells, who has added his , years of life to the total of human longevity, or like sir joseph lister, who has shown our profession how to conquer that arch enemy of time past, surgical sepsis, or like morton, who first publicly demonstrated how to bring on a safe and temporary condition of insensibility to pain, are men more worthy in our eyes of lasting fame, and much greater heroes of their times, and of all time,--yet are practically unknown to the world at large, to whom they have ministered in such an unmistakable and superior way. this much, then, by way of preface and reason for commemorating in this public way the semi-centennial of this really great event. because the world does scant honor to these men we should be all the more mindful of their services, and all the more insistent upon their public recognition. of all the achievements of the anglo-saxon race, i hold it true that the two greatest and most beneficent were the discovery of ether and the introduction of antiseptic methods,--one of which we owe to an american, the other to a briton. the production of deep sleep and the usual accompanying abolition of pain have been subjects which have ever appeared, in some form, in myth or fable, and to which poets of all times have alluded, usually with poetic license. one of the most popular of these fables connects the famous oracle of apollo, at delphi, whence proceeded mysterious utterances and inchoate sounds, with convulsions, delirium and insensibility upon the part of those who approached it. to what extent there is a basis of fact in this tradition can never be explained, but it is not improbable from what we now know of hypnotic influence. from all time it has been known that many different plants and herbs contained principles which were narcotic, stupefying or intoxicating. these properties have especially been ascribed to the juices of the poppy, the deadly nightshade, henbane, the indian hemp and the mandrágora, which for us now is the true mandrake, whose juice has long been known as possessing soporific influence. ulysses and his companions succumbed to the influence of _nepenthe_; and, nineteen hundred years ago, when crucifixion was a common punishment of malefactors, it was customary to assuage their last hours upon the cross by a draught of vinegar with gall or myrrh, which had real or supposititious narcotic properties. even the prophet amos, seven hundred years before the time of christ, spoke of such a mixture as this as "the wine of the condemned," for he says, in rehearsing the iniquities of israel by which they had incurred the anger of the almighty: "and they lay themselves down upon the clothes laid to pledge by every altar, and they drink the wine of the condemned in the house of their god," (chap. ii, verse ), meaning thereby undoubtedly that these people, in their completely demoralized condition, drank the soporific draught kept for criminals. herodotus mentions a habit of the scythians, who employed a vapor generated from the seed of the hemp for the purpose of producing an intoxication by inhalation. narcotic lotions were also used for bathing the people about to be operated upon. pliny, who perished at the destruction of herculaneum, a. d. , testified to the soporific power of the preparations made from mandrágora upon the faculties of those who drank it. he says: "it is drunk against serpents and before cuttings and puncturings, lest they should be felt." he also describes the indifference to pain produced by drinking a vinous infusion of the seeds of eruca, called by us the rocket, upon criminals about to undergo punishment. dioscorides relates of mandrágora that "some boil down the roots in wine to a third part, and preserve the juice thus procured, and give one cyathus of this to cause the insensibility of those who are about to be cut or cauterized." one of his later commentators also states that wine in which mandrágora roots have been steeped "does bring on sleep and appease pain, so that it is given to those who are to be cut, sawed or burnt in any parts of their body, that they may not perceive pain." apuleius, about a century later than pliny, advised the use of the same preparation. the chinese, in the earlier part of the century, gave patients preparations of hemp, by which they became completely insensible and were operated upon in many ways. this hemp is the cannabis indica which furnishes the _hasheesh_ of the orient and the intoxicating and deliriating _bhang_, about which travelers in the east used to write so much. in barbara, for instance, it was always taken, if possible, by criminals condemned to suffer mutilation or death. according to the testimony of medieval writers, knowledge of these narcotic drugs was practically applied during the last of the crusades, the probability being that the agent principally employed was this same hasheesh. hugo di lucca gave a complete formula for the preparation of the mixture, with which a sponge was to be saturated, dried, and then, when wanted, was to be soaked in warm water, and afterward applied to the nostrils, until he who was to be operated upon had fallen asleep; after which he was aroused with the vapor of vinegar. strangely enough, the numerous means of attaining insensibility, then more or less known to the common people, and especially to criminals and executioners, do not appear to have found favor for use during operations. whether this was due to unpleasant after-effects, or from what reason, we are not informed. only one or two surgical writers beside guy de chauliac ( ) refer in their works to agents for relief of pain, and then almost always to their unpleasant effects, the danger of producing asphyxiation, and the like. ambrose paré wrote that preparations of mandrágora were formerly used to avert pain. in , an english surgeon, bulleyn, affirmed that it was possible to put the patient into an anaesthetic state during the operation of lithotomy, but spoke of it as a "terrible dream." one meisner spoke of a secret remedy used by weiss, about the end of the xvii century, upon augustus ii., king of poland, who produced therewith such perfect insensibility to pain that an amputation of the royal foot was made without suffering, even without royal consent. the advice which the friar gave juliet regarding the distilled liquor which she was to drink, and which should presently throw her into a cold and drowsy humor, although a poetic generality, is shakespeare's recognition of a popular belief. middleton, a tragic writer of shakespeare's day, in his tragedy known as "women beware women," refers in the following terms to anesthesia in surgery: "i'll imitate the pities of old surgeons to this lost limb, who, ere they show their art, cast one asleep; then cut the diseased part." of course, of all the narcotics in use by educated men, opium has been, since its discovery and introduction, the most popular and generally used. surgeons of the last century were accustomed to administer large doses of it shortly before an operation, which, if serious, was rarely performed until the opiate effect was manifested. still, in view of its many unpleasant after-effects, its use was restricted, so far as possible, to extreme cases. baron larrey, noticing the benumbing effect of cold upon wounded soldiers, suggested its introduction for anesthetic purposes, and arnott, of london, systematized the practice, by recommending a freezing mixture of ice and salt to be laid directly upon the part to be cut. other surgeons were accustomed to put their patients into a condition of either alcoholic intoxication or alcoholic stupor. long-continued compression of a part was also practised by some, by which a limb could, as we say, be made to "go to sleep." a few others recommended to produce faintness by excessive bleeding. it was in that the arch-fraud mesmer entered paris and began to initiate people into the mysteries of what he called _animal magnetism_, which was soon named mesmerism, after him. thoroughly degenerate and disreputable as he was, he nevertheless taught people some new truths, which many of them learned to their sorrow, while in the hospitals of france and england severe operations were performed upon patients thrown into a mesmeric trance, and without suffering upon their part. that a scientific study of the mesmeric phenomena has occupied the attention of eminent men in recent years, and that hypnotism is now recognized as an agent often capable of producing insensibility to pain is simply true, as these facts have been turned to the real benefit of man by scientific students rather than by quacks and charlatans. in , sir humphrey davey, being at that time an assistant in the private hospital of dr. beddoes, which was established for treatment of disease by inhalation of gases, and which he called the pneumatic institute, began experimenting with nitrous oxide gas, and noticed its exhilarating and intoxicating effects; also the relief from pain which it afforded in headache and toothache. as the results of his reports, a knowledge of its properties was diffused all over the world, and it was utilized both for amusement and exhibition purposes. davey even wrote as follows of this gas: as nitrous oxide, in its extensive operation, appears capable of destroying physical pain, it may probably be used with advantage during surgical operations in which no great effusion of blood takes place. it is not at all unlikely that colton and wells, to be soon referred to, derived encouragement, if not incentive, from these statements of davey. nevertheless, velpeau, perhaps the greatest french surgeon of his day, wrote in , that "to escape pain in surgical operations is a chimera which we are not permitted to look for in our day." sulphuric ether, as a chemical compound, was known from the xiii century, for reference was made to it by raymond lully. it was first spoken of by the name of ether by godfrey, in the transactions of the london royal society, in , while isaac newton spoke of it as the ethereal spirits of wine. during all of the previous century it was known as a drug, and allusion to its inhalation was made in in a pamphlet, probably by pearson. beddoes, in , stated that "it gives almost immediate relief, both to the oppression and pain in the chest, in cases of pectoral catarrh." in , nysten spoke of inhalation of ether as being common treatment for mitigating pain in colic, and in he described an inhaler for its use. as early as it was often inhaled for experiment or amusement, and so-called "ether frolics" were common in various parts of the country. this was true, particularly for our purpose, of the students of cambridge, and of the common people in georgia in the vicinity of long's home. it probably is for this reason that a host of claimants for the honor of the discovery appeared so soon as the true anesthetic properties of the drug were demonstrated. there probably is every reason to think that, either by accident or design, a condition of greater or less insensibility to pain had been produced between and , by a number of different people, educated and ignorant, but that no one had the originality or the hardihood to push these investigations to the point of determining the real usefulness of ether. this was partly from ignorance, partly from fear, and partly because of the generally accepted impossibility of producing safe insensibility to pain. so, while independent claims sprang up from various sources, made by aspirants for honors in this direction, it is undoubtedly as properly due to morton to credit him with the introduction of this agent as an anesthetic as to credit columbus with the discovery of the new world, in spite of certain evidences that some portions of the american continent had been touched upon by adventurous voyagers before columbus ever saw it. the noun "anesthesia" and the adjective "anesthetic" were suggestions of dr. oliver wendell holmes, who early proposed their use to dr. morton in a letter which is still preserved. he suggests them with becoming modesty, advises dr. morton to consult others before adopting them, but, nevertheless, states that he thinks them apt for that purpose. the word anesthesia, therefore, is just about of the same age as the condition itself, and it, too, deserves commemoration upon this occasion. as one reads the history of anesthesia, which has been written up by a number of different authors, each, for the main part, having some particular object in view, or some particular friend whose claims he wishes especially to advocate, he may find mentioned at least a dozen different names of men who are supposed to have had more or less to do with this eventful discovery. but, for all practical purposes, one may reduce the list of claimants for the honor to four men, each of whose claims i propose to briefly discuss. these men were long, wells, jackson and morton. of these four, two were dentists and two practising physicians, to whom fate seems to have been unkind, as it often is, since three of them at least died a violent or distressing death, while the fourth lived to a ripe old age, harassed at almost every turn by those who sought to decry his reputation or injure his fortunes. crawford w. long was born in danielsville, ga., in . in he graduated from the medical department of the university of pennsylvania. in the part of the country where long settled it was a quite common occurrence to have what were known as "ether frolics" at social gatherings, ether being administered to various persons to the point of exhilaration, which in some instances was practically uncontrollable. long's friends claim that he had often noticed that when the ether effect was pushed to this extent the subjects of the frolic became oblivious to minor injuries, and that these facts, often noticed, suggested to his mind the use of ether in surgical operations. there is good evidence to show that long first administered ether for this purpose on the th of march, , and that on june th he repeated this performance upon the same patient; that in july he amputated a toe for a negro boy, but that the fourth operation was not performed until september of . in a young man, named wilhite, who had helped to put a colored boy to sleep at an ether frolic in , became a student of dr. long's, to whom long related his previous experiences. long had never heard of wilhite's episode, but had only one opportunity, in , to try it, again upon a negro boy. long lived at such a distance from railroad communication ( miles) as to have few advantages, either of practice, observation or access to literature. long made no public mention of his use of ether until , when he published an account of the first use of sulphuric ether by inhalation as an anesthetic in surgical operations, stating that he first read of morton's experiments in an editorial in the _medical examiner_ of december, , and again later; on reading which articles he determined to wait before publishing any account of his own discovery, to see whether anyone else would present a prior claim. no special attention was paid to long's article, as it seemed that he merely desired to place himself on record. there is little, probably no reasonable doubt as to long's priority in the use of ether as an anesthetic, although it is very doubtful if he carried it, at least at first, to its full extent. nevertheless long was an isolated observer, working entirely by himself, having certainly no opportunity and apparently little ambition to announce his discovery, and having no share in the events by which the value of ether was made known to the world. long's strongest advocate was the late dr. marion sims, who made a strong plea for his friend, and yet was not able to successfully establish anything more than has just been stated. as dr. morton's son, dr. w. j. morton, of new york, says, when writing of his father's claim: "men used steam to propel boats before fuller; electricity to convey messages before morse; vaccine virus to avert smallpox before jenner; and ether to annul pain before morton." but these men are not generally credited with their introduction by the world at large and, he argues, neither should long or the other contestants be given the credit due morton himself. in fact, long writes of his own work that the result of his second experiment was such as to make him conclude that ether would only be applicable in cases where its effects could be kept up by constant use; in other words, that the anesthetic state was of such short duration that it was to him most unsatisfactory. sir james paget has summed up the relative claims of our four contestants in an article entitled escape from pain, published in the _nineteenth century_ for december, . he says: "while long waited, and wells turned back, and jackson was thinking, and those to whom they had talked were neither acting nor thinking, morton, the practical man, went to work and worked resolutely. he gave ether successfully in severe surgical operations; he loudly proclaimed his deeds and he compelled mankind to hear him." horace wells was born in hartford, vt., in . in he began to study dentistry in boston, and after completing his studies began to practise in hartford, ct. he was a man of no small ingenuity, and devised many novelties for his work. in december, , he listened to a lecture delivered by dr. colton, who took for his subject nitrous oxide gas, the amusing effects of which he demonstrated to his audience upon a number of persons who visited the platform for that purpose. wells was one of these. wells, moreover, noticed that another young man, who bruised himself while under its influence, said afterward that he had not hurt himself at all. wells then stated to a bystander that he thought that if one took enough of that kind of gas he could have a tooth extracted and not feel it. he at once called upon a neighboring dentist friend and made arrangements to test the anesthetic effects of the gas upon himself the next morning. accordingly colton gave him the gas, and riggs, the friend, extracted the tooth; and wells, returning to consciousness, assured them both that he had not suffered a particle of pain. he began at once to construct an apparatus for its manufacture. dr. marcey, of hartford, then informed wells that while a student at amherst he and others had often inhaled nitrous oxide as well as the vapor of ether, for amusement, and suggested to wells to try ether. after a few trials, however, it was found more difficult to administer, and wells accordingly resolved to adhere to gas alone. this was in , two years after long's obscure experiments, of which, of course, they were ignorant. in , wells visited boston for the purpose of introducing his discovery, and among others called upon his former partner, morton, trying to establish the use of the gas. he soon became discouraged, however, and returned to hartford, resuming his practice. there he continued to use gas for about two years, but failed to secure its introduction into general surgery, owing to prejudice and ignorance on the part of dentists and physicians alike. wells's claims have been advocated by many of his fellow-citizens, and in bushnell park, in hartford, stands a monument erected by the city and the state, dedicated to horace wells, "who discovered anesthesia, november, ." c. t. jackson was born in plymouth, mass., in . he graduated in the harvard medical school in , after which he went abroad, where he remained for several years, made the acquaintance of the most distinguished men, experimented in general science, electricity and magnetism and even devised a telegraphic apparatus, similar to that which morse patented a year later. returning, in , he opened in boston a laboratory for instruction in analytical chemistry, the first of its kind in the country. he also made quite a reputation as a geologist and mineralogist and received official appointments from maine, rhode island, new hampshire and other states. in he discovered and opened up copper and iron mines in the lake superior district. in and he was much aroused by morton's experiments with sulphuric ether, and claimed even that he had suggested the use of ether to morton, claiming also that he had himself been relieved of an acute distress by inhalation of ether vapor, and that it was from reflection on the phenomena presented in his own case that the possibility of its use for relief of pain during surgical operations suggested itself to him. this led to a triangular conflict for the priority of discovery between wells, jackson and morton, each claiming the honor for himself. wells health soon gave way. he went abroad and got recognition from the french institute and the paris academy of sciences, which did not, however, endorse his claim as discoverer nor accept nitrous oxide as an anesthetic. wells returned to find that morton was on the tide of popular favor, the public having endorsed ether as the only reliable anesthetic. his mind became unbalanced, and in a fit of temporary aberration he ended his own life in a prison cell, in new york city in . wells being out of the way, jackson became morton's most violent opponent, and the two indulged in a most bitter fight and unseemly discussion. a few years later, jackson, who, as remarked, had an extensive acquaintance abroad, visited europe and presented his claim to the credit of the discovery of ether before various individuals and learned bodies, and so well did he work upon the french institute as to be recognized as the discoverer of modern anesthesia. a select committee of the house of representatives, to whom in congress referred the matter, announced the following conclusions: "first, that dr. horace wells did not make any discovery of the anesthetic properties of the vapor of ether which he himself considered reliable and which he thought proper to give to the world. that his experiments were confined to nitrous oxide, but did not show it to be an efficient and reliable anesthetic agent.... "second, that dr. charles t. jackson does not appear at any time to have made any discovery in regard to ether which was not in print in great britain some years before. * * * * * "fifth, that the whole agency of dr. jackson in the matter appears to consist entirely in his having made certain suggestions to aid dr. morton to make the discovery." in , jackson's mind gave way, and after seven years of confinement in an asylum he died in , at the age of , having been the recipient of many honors from foreign potentates and learned societies. william t. g. morton was born in charleston, mass., in . after a disastrous experience in business he was sent to baltimore in and began the study of dentistry. in he entered the dental office of horace wells as student and assistant, becoming a partner in . in partnership was dissolved, wells removing to hartford, as before stated. morton, ambitious for a medical degree, entered his name as a student in the office of charles t. jackson, in , and the same year matriculated in the harvard medical school, though he never graduated. having learned through wells of the latter's successful use of nitrous oxide gas, but not knowing how to make it, he sought the advice of dr. jackson, who informed him that its preparation entailed considerable difficulty, and inquired for what purpose he wanted it. on morton's replying that he wished to use it to make patients insensible to pain, jackson suggested the use of sulphuric ether, as marcey had suggested it to wells two years previously, saying that it would produce the same effect and did not require any apparatus. jackson also told morton of the ether frolics common at cambridge among the students. that same evening, september , , morton administered ether to a patient and extracted a tooth for him without pain. the next day he visited the office of a patent lawyer, for the purpose of securing a patent upon the new discovery. this lawyer ascertained that jackson had been intimately connected with its suggestion, and came to the conclusion that a patent could not safely issue to either one independently of the other. but jackson being a member of the state medical society, against whose ethical code it is to patent discoveries that pertain to the welfare of patients, and fearing the censure of his colleagues, agreed at once to assign his right over to morton, receiving in return a per cent. commission upon all that the latter made out of it. morton, as a dentist, having no more compunction then than dentists have now upon the securement of a patent,--in other words, being actuated by no fine ethical scruples,--secured the patent, and then called upon dr. j. mason warren, one of the surgeons in the massachusetts general hospital. warren promised his coöperation and appointed the th of october, , for the first public trial. upon this occasion the clinic room was filled with visitors and students, when morton placed the young man under the influence of his "letheon," as he called it then; after which warren removed a tumor from his neck. the trial was most successful. another took place on the following day, and on november th an amputation and an excision of the jaw were made, both patients being under the influence of letheon and oblivious to pain. at this time the nature of the anesthetic agent was kept a secret, the vapor of ether being disguised by aromatics, so as not to be recognized by anyone present. true to the highest traditions of their craft, the staff of the massachusetts general hospital now met and declined to make further use of a drug whose composition was thus kept secret. it was then that morton revealed the exact nature of it as sulphuric ether, disguised with aromatic oils. in a report made by the commissioner of patents, it was set forth that: "for many years it had been known that the vapor of sulphuric ether, when freely inhaled, would intoxicate as does alcohol when taken into the stomach, but that the former was much more temporary in its effects. but notwithstanding the records of its effects to this extent, which were familiar to so many, no surgeon had ever attempted to substitute it for the palliatives in common use previous to surgical operations. that, in view of these and other considerations, a patent had been granted for the discovery." in an english patent was obtained. morton soon began the attempt to sell office rights, as do the dentists of to-day, while the medical profession was then, as ever, antagonistic to patents, holding them to be subversive of general good. his patent was soon opposed and then generally infringed upon. litigation followed without end, and the government stultified itself by refusing to recognize the validity of the patent issued by itself. and so, without any compensation to the discoverer, ether soon came into general use in this country as abroad. while receiving many congratulations from friends and humanitarians, morton's success aroused the jealousy of some of his professional brethren, among them one dr. flagg, who commenced a terrible onslaught upon the new application of ether and its promoter. by his machinations a meeting of boston dentists was called and a committee of twelve appointed to make a formal protest against anesthesia. this committee published a manifesto in the _boston daily advertiser_, in which all sorts of untoward effects and unpleasant results were attributed to the new anesthetic. this proclamation was spread broadcast, and did morton, for the time, very much harm. equally obstreperous was dr. westcott, connected with the dental college in baltimore. he made fun of morton's "sucking bottles," as his inhalers were dubbed; and in various of the medical and secular journals of the day, bitter, often foolish and absurd, attacks were made. the editors of the _new orleans medical and surgical journal_ said: "that the leading surgeons of boston could be captivated by such an invention as this, heralded to the world under such auspices and upon such evidences of utility and safety as are presented by dr. bigelow, excites our amazement. why, mesmerism, which is repudiated by the savants of boston, has done a thousand times greater wonders, and without any of the dangers here threatened. what shall we see next?" these and similar statements created a very strong prejudice against morton, who, in december, , sent to washington, to a nephew of dr. warren, to endeavor to urge upon the government the advantages of employing ether in the army during the mexican war, then in progress. the chief of the bureau of medicine and surgery reported that the article might be of some service for use in large hospitals, but did not think it expedient for the department to incur any expense by introducing it into the general service; while the acting surgeon-general believed that the highly volatile character of the substance itself made it ill-adapted to the rough usage it would necessarily encounter upon the field of battle, and accordingly declined to recommend its use. in january of , morton demonstrated at the infirmary in washington, before a congressional committee and others, the anesthetic effect of ether, which he continued through a dangerous and protracted surgical operation. this was the result of a challenge to compare the effects of nitrous oxide and those of ether, the advocates of the former not putting in an appearance. the balance of morton's life seems to have been spent in continued jangles. the government, having repudiated its own patent, was repeatedly besought by memorials and through the influence of members of congress to bestow some testimonial upon or make some money return to morton for his discovery. several times he came near a realization of his hopes in this respect, when the action of some of his enemies or the termination of a congressional session, or some other accident, would doom him again to disappointment. the pages of evidence that were printed, the various reports issued through or by government officers, the memorials addressed from various individuals and societies, if all printed together, would make a large volume; but all of these were of no avail. morton spent all his means, as he spent his energies and time, in futile endeavor to get pecuniary recognition of his discovery, but was doomed to disappointment. he seemed alike a victim of unfortunate circumstances and of treachery and animosity upon the part of his opponents. especially did the fight wage warm between him and his friends and jackson. plots to ruin his business were repeatedly hatched and his life was made miserable in many ways. mere temporary sops to wounded vanity and impaired fortune were the honorary degrees and the testimonials that came to him from various institutions of learning and foreign societies. in both morton and jackson received from the french academy prizes valued at , francs each. finally, morton fell into a state of nervous prostration, suffered from anxiety and insomnia, and in a fit of temporary aberration exposed himself in central park, new york, became unconscious, and was taken to st. luke's hospital, dying just as he reached the institution, on the th of july, . in mount auburn cemetery, in boston, there stands a beautiful monument to william t. g. morton, bearing this inscription: "inventor and revealer of anesthetic inhalation, before whom in all time surgery was agony; by whom pain in surgery was averted and annulled; since whom science has control of pain." again, in the public garden in boston there was erected, in , a beautiful monument to the honor of the discoverer of ether, upon whom at that time they could not decide. upon the front are these words: "to commemorate that the inhaling of ether causes insensibility to pain, first proven to the world at the massachusetts general hospital, in boston, october, a. d. ." upon the right side are the words: "'neither shall there be any more pain.'--revelations." upon the left: "'this also cometh forth from the lord of hosts, which is wonderful in counsel and excellent in working.'--isaiah." and upon the other: "in gratitude for the relief of human suffering by the inhaling of ether, a citizen of boston has erected this monument, a. d. . the gift of thomas lee." summing up, then, the claims of our four contestants in the light of a collected history of the merits of each, it would appear that wells first made public use of nitrous oxide gas for limited purposes, but failed to introduce it into general professional use. that long, in an isolated rural practice, a few times used ether, with which he produced probably only partial insensibility to pain, and that he had apparently discontinued its use before learning of morton's researches. that jackson made no claim to the use of the agent on his own part, but simply of having suggested it to morton. and, finally, that morton quickly accepted the suggestion, made careful and scientific use thereof, but especially, and above all other things, first _demonstrated_ to the world at large the capability and the safety of this agent as an absolute, reliable and efficient anesthetic. so, though morton permitted his cupidity to run away with finer ethical considerations, and attached a higher pecuniary than humanitarian value to sulphuric ether, he, nevertheless, must be generally credited with having, to use the modern expression, "promoted" its introduction, and having shown to the world at large what an inestimably valuable therapeutic agent had been added to our resources for the control of pain. the synthetic compound known as chloroform was discovered independently by three different observers between and . these were respectively guthrie, of sackett's harbor, n. y.; soubeiran, of france, and liebig, of germany. the honor of introducing it to the profession as an anesthetic for surgical purposes is universally accorded to james y. simpson, then of edinburgh. yet claim was at one time advanced in favor of surgeon-major furnell, of the madras army medical corps, who in the summer preceding the announcement of simpson's brilliant discovery experimented with what is known as chloric ether, which is not an ether at all, but a solution of chloroform in alcohol. it is said that he found that it would produce the same results as sulphuric ether, with less unpleasant sensations, and suggested its use to coote, a well-known london surgeon. however, such claims as those made in favor of furnell are no more entitled to recognition than are those of wells or long in the matter of the introduction of ether to the public; for although individual observations were favorable to the compound, it never came to public notice on this surmise. sir james y. simpson was born in , took the degree of doctor of medicine in and advanced rapidly in his professional career until, in january, , he was appointed one of her majesty's physicians in scotland. having already obtained a large reputation, particularly in midwifery and gynecology, he directed his special attention toward the use of anesthetics in childbirth, and he had quickly recognized the value of sulphuric ether when introduced the previous year. he sought, however, for a substitute of equal power, having less disagreeable odor and unpleasant after effect. upon inquiry of his friend waldie, master of apothecaries hall of liverpool, if he knew of a substance likely to be of service in this direction, waldie, familiar with the composition of chloric ether, suggested its active principle chloroform; with which simpson experimented, and, upon the th of november, , established its anesthetic properties. these he first made known to the medico-chirurgical society of edinburgh in a paper read november th. three days later a public test was to have been made at the royal infirmary, but simpson, who was to administer the chloroform, being unavoidably detained, the operation was done as heretofore without an anesthetic, and this patient died during the operation. you can readily see that had this occurred under chloroform it would have been ascribed to the new drug, which would then and there have received its death blow. as it was, the first public trial took place two days later and the test was most successful. one would think that such a boon as simpson had here offered to the world would have been gratefully--not to say greedily--accepted by all. simpson's position was such as to give the new anesthetic every advantage that his already great reputation could attach to it, and it became at once the agent in common use in midwifery practice. but the scotch clergy of his day still possessed altogether too much of the old fanatic spirit of the church of the middle ages. one is never allowed to forget, in scanning the history of medicine, how bitterly the church has opposed, until recently, every advance in our science and our art. it was in a. d. , for instance, that the son of one of the venetian doges was married, in venice, to a sister of the emperor of the eastern roman empire. at the marriage feast the princess produced a silver fork and gold spoon, table novelties which excited both amusing and angry comment. but the venetian aristocracy took up with this new table fad, and forks and spoons as substitutes for fingers soon became the fashion. but the puissant church disapproved most strongly even of this arrangement, for priests went so far as to say, "to use forks was to deliberately insult the kind providence which had given to man fingers on each hand." it was this same spirit that led the scotch clergy to attack simpson most vehemently and denounce him from their pulpits as one who violated the moral law, for they said: "is it not ordained in scripture, 'in sorrow shalt thou bring forth children?' and yet this man would introduce a substance calculated to mitigate this sorrow." we of to-day can scarcely imagine the rancor with which these attacks were made for many months. finally, however, these fanatic defenders of the faith were routed by a quotation from the same scriptures in which they claimed to find their authority; for simpson, most adroitly turning upon them with their own weapons, called their attention to the first chapter of genesis, in which an account of eve's creation appears, and reminded them that when eve was formed from the rib of adam, the lord "caused a deep sleep to fall upon" him. so weak was their cause that with this single quotation their opposition subsided and within a week or two the entire scotch clergy was silenced. sir james simpson received from his own government that which was never accorded to morton: that is, due recognition of the great service he had rendered humanity. he died in , and upon his bust, which stands in westminster abbey, are the following words: "to whose genius and beneficence the world owes the blessings derived from the use of chloroform for the relief of suffering." it is scarcely necessary that i delay you now with an account of all of the other ethereal anesthetic agents which have from time to time been advocated since the memorable days to which i have devoted most of my time to-night. two only are at present ever thought of--namely, bichloride of methylene and bromide of ethyl!--and these are used by only a few, though each has its advantages. it is well known that nearly all of the ethers have more or less of anesthetic property, coupled with many dangers and disadvantages. sulphuric ether and chloroform hold the boards to-day as against any and all of their competitors. nitrous oxide gas, as already mentioned, was known to and used by wells, in hartford. with the advent of ether this gas fell at once into disuse, to be revived some fifteen years after the death of wells, mainly through the use of dr. g. q. colton. since this time its use has been quite universal, although confined for the main part to the offices of dentists. its great advantages are ease of administration and rapidity of recovery, making it especially useful for their purposes, while the difficulties attendant upon prolonged anesthesia by it makes it less useful for the surgeon. i will spend no further time upon it nor upon the subject save to do justice to modern anesthesia by a very different method and by means of a very different drug, which is to-day in so common use that we almost forget to mention the man to whom we owe it. i allude to _cocaine_ and its discoverer, koller. cocaine is now such a universally recognized local anesthetic that there is the best of reason for referring to it here--the more so because it affords another opportunity to do honor to a discoverer, who has rendered a most important service to not only our profession, but to the world in general. this principal active constituent of cocoa leaves was discovered about by niemann, and called by him cocaine. it is an alkaloid which combines with various acids in the formation of salts. it has the quality of benumbing raw and mucous surfaces, for which purpose it was applied first in by schroff, and in by moreno. in , van aurap hinted that this property might some day be utilized. karl koller logically concluded from what was known about it that this anesthetic property could be taken advantage of for work about the eye, and made a series of experiments upon the lower animals, by which he established its efficiency and made a brilliant discovery. he reported his experiments to the congress of german oculists, at heidelberg, in . news of this was transmitted with great rapidity, and within a few weeks the substance was used all over the world. its use spread rapidly to other branches of surgery, and cocaine local anesthesia became quickly an accomplished fact. more time was required to point out its disagreeable possibilities, its toxic properties and the like, but it now has an assured and most important place among anesthetic agents, and has been of the greatest use to probably per cent. of the civilized world. to koller is entirely due the credit of establishing its remarkable properties. * * * * * transcriber's notes obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, but the variations in spelling, punctuation, accents and hyphenation remain as in the original. chapter ix the paragraph originally read: "this recognition of our profession was accorded much more unstintingly nearly two thousand years ago, at a time when it was much less deserved, when cicero wrote (_de natura deorum_) "_homines ad inibus dando._" (men are never more godlike than when giving health to mankind)." the missing line in the latin quotation has been restored. italics are represented thus _italic_. volunteers the entire project gutenberg galsworthy files the forsyte saga: volume . the man of property volume . indian summer of a forsyte in chancery volume . awakening to let other novels: the dark flower the freelands beyond villa rubein and other stories villa rubein a man of devon a knight salvation of a forsyte the silence saint's progress the island pharisees the country house fraternity the patrician the burning spear five short tales the first and last a stoic the apple tree the juryman indian summer of a forsyte essays and studies: concerning life inn of tranquility magpie over the hill sheep-shearing evolution riding in the mist the procession a christian wind in the rocks my distant relative the black godmother quality the grand jury gone threshing that old-time place romance--three gleams memories felicity concerning letters a novelist's allegory some platitudes concerning drama meditation on finality wanted--schooling on our dislike of things as they are the windlestraw about censorship vague thoughts on art plays: first series: the silver box joy strife second series: the eldest son the little dream justice third series: the fugitive the pigeon the mob fourth series: a bit o' love the foundations the skin game six short plays: the first and the last the little man hall-marked defeat the sun punch and go fifth series: a family man loyalties windows [note: the spelling conforms to the original: "s's" instead of our "z's"; and "c's" where we would have "s's"; and "...our" as in colour and flavour; many interesting double consonants; etc.] forsyte saga complete by john galsworthy contents: part . the man of property part . indian summer of a forsyte in chancery part . awakening to let the man of property to my wife: i dedicate the forsyte saga in its entirety, believing it to be of all my works the least unworthy of one without whose encouragement, sympathy and criticism i could never have become even such a writer as i am. preface: "the forsyte saga" was the title originally destined for that part of it which is called "the man of property"; and to adopt it for the collected chronicles of the forsyte family has indulged the forsytean tenacity that is in all of us. the word saga might be objected to on the ground that it connotes the heroic and that there is little heroism in these pages. but it is used with a suitable irony; and, after all, this long tale, though it may deal with folk in frock coats, furbelows, and a gilt-edged period, is not devoid of the essential heat of conflict. discounting for the gigantic stature and blood-thirstiness of old days, as they have come down to us in fairy-tale and legend, the folk of the old sagas were forsytes, assuredly, in their possessive instincts, and as little proof against the inroads of beauty and passion as swithin, soames, or even young jolyon. and if heroic figures, in days that never were, seem to startle out from their surroundings in fashion unbecoming to a forsyte of the victorian era, we may be sure that tribal instinct was even then the prime force, and that "family" and the sense of home and property counted as they do to this day, for all the recent efforts to "talk them out." so many people have written and claimed that their families were the originals of the forsytes that one has been almost encouraged to believe in the typicality of an imagined species. manners change and modes evolve, and "timothy's on the bayswater road" becomes a nest of the unbelievable in all except essentials; we shall not look upon its like again, nor perhaps on such a one as james or old jolyon. and yet the figures of insurance societies and the utterances of judges reassure us daily that our earthly paradise is still a rich preserve, where the wild raiders, beauty and passion, come stealing in, filching security from beneath our noses. as surely as a dog will bark at a brass band, so will the essential soames in human nature ever rise up uneasily against the dissolution which hovers round the folds of ownership. "let the dead past bury its dead" would be a better saying if the past ever died. the persistence of the past is one of those tragi-comic blessings which each new age denies, coming cocksure on to the stage to mouth its claim to a perfect novelty. but no age is so new as that! human nature, under its changing pretensions and clothes, is and ever will be very much of a forsyte, and might, after all, be a much worse animal. looking back on the victorian era, whose ripeness, decline, and 'fall-of' is in some sort pictured in "the forsyte saga," we see now that we have but jumped out of a frying-pan into a fire. it would be difficult to substantiate a claim that the case of england was better in than it was in , when the forsytes assembled at old jolyon's to celebrate the engagement of june to philip bosinney. and in , when again the clan gathered to bless the marriage of fleur with michael mont, the state of england is as surely too molten and bankrupt as in the eighties it was too congealed and low-percented. if these chronicles had been a really scientific study of transition one would have dwelt probably on such factors as the invention of bicycle, motor-car, and flying-machine; the arrival of a cheap press; the decline of country life and increase of the towns; the birth of the cinema. men are, in fact, quite unable to control their own inventions; they at best develop adaptability to the new conditions those inventions create. but this long tale is no scientific study of a period; it is rather an intimate incarnation of the disturbance that beauty effects in the lives of men. the figure of irene, never, as the reader may possibly have observed, present, except through the senses of other characters, is a concretion of disturbing beauty impinging on a possessive world. one has noticed that readers, as they wade on through the salt waters of the saga, are inclined more and more to pity soames, and to think that in doing so they are in revolt against the mood of his creator. far from it! he, too, pities soames, the tragedy of whose life is the very simple, uncontrollable tragedy of being unlovable, without quite a thick enough skin to be thoroughly unconscious of the fact. not even fleur loves soames as he feels he ought to be loved. but in pitying soames, readers incline, perhaps, to animus against irene: after all, they think, he wasn't a bad fellow, it wasn't his fault; she ought to have forgiven him, and so on! and, taking sides, they lose perception of the simple truth, which underlies the whole story, that where sex attraction is utterly and definitely lacking in one partner to a union, no amount of pity, or reason, or duty, or what not, can overcome a repulsion implicit in nature. whether it ought to, or no, is beside the point; because in fact it never does. and where irene seems hard and cruel, as in the bois de boulogne, or the goupenor gallery, she is but wisely realistic--knowing that the least concession is the inch which precedes the impossible, the repulsive ell. a criticism one might pass on the last phase of the saga is the complaint that irene and jolyon those rebels against property--claim spiritual property in their son jon. but it would be hypercriticism, as the tale is told. no father and mother could have let the boy marry fleur without knowledge of the facts; and the facts determine jon, not the persuasion of his parents. moreover, jolyon's persuasion is not on his own account, but on irene's, and irene's persuasion becomes a reiterated: "don't think of me, think of yourself!" that jon, knowing the facts, can realise his mother's feelings, will hardly with justice be held proof that she is, after all, a forsyte. but though the impingement of beauty and the claims of freedom on a possessive world are the main prepossessions of the forsyte saga, it cannot be absolved from the charge of embalming the upper-middle class. as the old egyptians placed around their mummies the necessaries of a future existence, so i have endeavoured to lay beside the, figures of aunts ann and juley and hester, of timothy and swithin, of old jolyon and james, and of their sons, that which shall guarantee them a little life here-after, a little balm in the hurried gilead of a dissolving "progress." if the upper-middle class, with other classes, is destined to "move on" into amorphism, here, pickled in these pages, it lies under glass for strollers in the wide and ill-arranged museum of letters. here it rests, preserved in its own juice: the sense of property. . the man of property by john galsworthy "........ you will answer the slaves are ours ....." --merchant of venice. to edward garnett part i chapter i 'at home' at old jolyon's those privileged to be present at a family festival of the forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight--an upper middle-class family in full plumage. but whosoever of these favoured persons has possessed the gift of psychological analysis (a talent without monetary value and properly ignored by the forsytes), has witnessed a spectacle, not only delightful in itself, but illustrative of an obscure human problem. in plainer words, he has gleaned from a gathering of this family--no branch of which had a liking for the other, between no three members of whom existed anything worthy of the name of sympathy--evidence of that mysterious concrete tenacity which renders a family so formidable a unit of society, so clear a reproduction of society in miniature. he has been admitted to a vision of the dim roads of social progress, has understood something of patriarchal life, of the swarmings of savage hordes, of the rise and fall of nations. he is like one who, having watched a tree grow from its planting--a paragon of tenacity, insulation, and success, amidst the deaths of a hundred other plants less fibrous, sappy, and persistent--one day will see it flourishing with bland, full foliage, in an almost repugnant prosperity, at the summit of its efflorescence. on june , eighteen eighty-six, about four of the afternoon, the observer who chanced to be present at the house of old jolyon forsyte in stanhope gate, might have seen the highest efflorescence of the forsytes. this was the occasion of an 'at home' to celebrate the engagement of miss june forsyte, old jolyon's granddaughter, to mr. philip bosinney. in the bravery of light gloves, buff waistcoats, feathers and frocks, the family were present, even aunt ann, who now but seldom left the corner of her brother timothy's green drawing-room, where, under the aegis of a plume of dyed pampas grass in a light blue vase, she sat all day reading and knitting, surrounded by the effigies of three generations of forsytes. even aunt ann was there; her inflexible back, and the dignity of her calm old face personifying the rigid possessiveness of the family idea. when a forsyte was engaged, married, or born, the forsytes were present; when a forsyte died--but no forsyte had as yet died; they did not die; death being contrary to their principles, they took precautions against it, the instinctive precautions of highly vitalized persons who resent encroachments on their property. about the forsytes mingling that day with the crowd of other guests, there was a more than ordinarily groomed look, an alert, inquisitive assurance, a brilliant respectability, as though they were attired in defiance of something. the habitual sniff on the face of soames forsyte had spread through their ranks; they were on their guard. the subconscious offensiveness of their attitude has constituted old jolyon's 'home' the psychological moment of the family history, made it the prelude of their drama. the forsytes were resentful of something, not individually, but as a family; this resentment expressed itself in an added perfection of raiment, an exuberance of family cordiality, an exaggeration of family importance, and--the sniff. danger--so indispensable in bringing out the fundamental quality of any society, group, or individual--was what the forsytes scented; the premonition of danger put a burnish on their armour. for the first time, as a family, they appeared to have an instinct of being in contact, with some strange and unsafe thing. over against the piano a man of bulk and stature was wearing two waistcoats on his wide chest, two waistcoats and a ruby pin, instead of the single satin waistcoat and diamond pin of more usual occasions, and his shaven, square, old face, the colour of pale leather, with pale eyes, had its most dignified look, above his satin stock. this was swithin forsyte. close to the window, where he could get more than his fair share of fresh air, the other twin, james--the fat and the lean of it, old jolyon called these brothers--like the bulky swithin, over six feet in height, but very lean, as though destined from his birth to strike a balance and maintain an average, brooded over the scene with his permanent stoop; his grey eyes had an air of fixed absorption in some secret worry, broken at intervals by a rapid, shifting scrutiny of surrounding facts; his cheeks, thinned by two parallel folds, and a long, clean-shaven upper lip, were framed within dundreary whiskers. in his hands he turned and turned a piece of china. not far off, listening to a lady in brown, his only son soames, pale and well-shaved, dark-haired, rather bald, had poked his chin up sideways, carrying his nose with that aforesaid appearance of 'sniff,' as though despising an egg which he knew he could not digest. behind him his cousin, the tall george, son of the fifth forsyte, roger, had a quilpish look on his fleshy face, pondering one of his sardonic jests. something inherent to the occasion had affected them all. seated in a row close to one another were three ladies--aunts ann, hester (the two forsyte maids), and juley (short for julia), who not in first youth had so far forgotten herself as to marry septimus small, a man of poor constitution. she had survived him for many years. with her elder and younger sister she lived now in the house of timothy, her sixth and youngest brother, on the bayswater road. each of these ladies held fans in their hands, and each with some touch of colour, some emphatic feather or brooch, testified to the solemnity of the opportunity. in the centre of the room, under the chandelier, as became a host, stood the head of the family, old jolyon himself. eighty years of age, with his fine, white hair, his dome-like forehead, his little, dark grey eyes, and an immense white moustache, which drooped and spread below the level of his strong jaw, he had a patriarchal look, and in spite of lean cheeks and hollows at his temples, seemed master of perennial youth. he held himself extremely upright, and his shrewd, steady eyes had lost none of their clear shining. thus he gave an impression of superiority to the doubts and dislikes of smaller men. having had his own way for innumerable years, he had earned a prescriptive right to it. it would never have occurred to old jolyon that it was necessary to wear a look of doubt or of defiance. between him and the four other brothers who were present, james, swithin, nicholas, and roger, there was much difference, much similarity. in turn, each of these four brothers was very different from the other, yet they, too, were alike. through the varying features and expression of those five faces could be marked a certain steadfastness of chin, underlying surface distinctions, marking a racial stamp, too prehistoric to trace, too remote and permanent to discuss--the very hall-mark and guarantee of the family fortunes. among the younger generation, in the tall, bull-like george, in pallid strenuous archibald, in young nicholas with his sweet and tentative obstinacy, in the grave and foppishly determined eustace, there was this same stamp--less meaningful perhaps, but unmistakable--a sign of something ineradicable in the family soul. at one time or another during the afternoon, all these faces, so dissimilar and so alike, had worn an expression of distrust, the object of which was undoubtedly the man whose acquaintance they were thus assembled to make. philip bosinney was known to be a young man without fortune, but forsyte girls had become engaged to such before, and had actually married them. it was not altogether for this reason, therefore, that the minds of the forsytes misgave them. they could not have explained the origin of a misgiving obscured by the mist of family gossip. a story was undoubtedly told that he had paid his duty call to aunts ann, juley, and hester, in a soft grey hat--a soft grey hat, not even a new one--a dusty thing with a shapeless crown. "so, extraordinary, my dear--so odd," aunt hester, passing through the little, dark hall (she was rather short-sighted), had tried to 'shoo' it off a chair, taking it for a strange, disreputable cat--tommy had such disgraceful friends! she was disturbed when it did not move. like an artist for ever seeking to discover the significant trifle which embodies the whole character of a scene, or place, or person, so those unconscious artists--the forsytes had fastened by intuition on this hat; it was their significant trifle, the detail in which was embedded the meaning of the whole matter; for each had asked himself: "come, now, should i have paid that visit in that hat?" and each had answered "no!" and some, with more imagination than others, had added: "it would never have come into my head!" george, on hearing the story, grinned. the hat had obviously been worn as a practical joke! he himself was a connoisseur of such. "very haughty!" he said, "the wild buccaneer." and this mot, the 'buccaneer,' was bandied from mouth to mouth, till it became the favourite mode of alluding to bosinney. her aunts reproached june afterwards about the hat. "we don't think you ought to let him, dear!" they had said. june had answered in her imperious brisk way, like the little embodiment of will she was: "oh! what does it matter? phil never knows what he's got on!" no one had credited an answer so outrageous. a man not to know what he had on? no, no! what indeed was this young man, who, in becoming engaged to june, old jolyon's acknowledged heiress, had done so well for himself? he was an architect, not in itself a sufficient reason for wearing such a hat. none of the forsytes happened to be architects, but one of them knew two architects who would never have worn such a hat upon a call of ceremony in the london season. dangerous--ah, dangerous! june, of course, had not seen this, but, though not yet nineteen, she was notorious. had she not said to mrs. soames--who was always so beautifully dressed--that feathers were vulgar? mrs. soames had actually given up wearing feathers, so dreadfully downright was dear june! these misgivings, this disapproval, and perfectly genuine distrust, did not prevent the forsytes from gathering to old jolyon's invitation. an 'at home' at stanhope gate was a great rarity; none had been held for twelve years, not indeed, since old mrs. jolyon had died. never had there been so full an assembly, for, mysteriously united in spite of all their differences, they had taken arms against a common peril. like cattle when a dog comes into the field, they stood head to head and shoulder to shoulder, prepared to run upon and trample the invader to death. they had come, too, no doubt, to get some notion of what sort of presents they would ultimately be expected to give; for though the question of wedding gifts was usually graduated in this way: 'what are you givin'? nicholas is givin' spoons!'--so very much depended on the bridegroom. if he were sleek, well-brushed, prosperous-looking, it was more necessary to give him nice things; he would expect them. in the end each gave exactly what was right and proper, by a species of family adjustment arrived at as prices are arrived at on the stock exchange--the exact niceties being regulated at timothy's commodious, red-brick residence in bayswater, overlooking the park, where dwelt aunts ann, juley, and hester. the uneasiness of the forsyte family has been justified by the simple mention of the hat. how impossible and wrong would it have been for any family, with the regard for appearances which should ever characterize the great upper middle-class, to feel otherwise than uneasy! the author of the uneasiness stood talking to june by the further door; his curly hair had a rumpled appearance, as though he found what was going on around him unusual. he had an air, too, of having a joke all to himself. george, speaking aside to his brother, eustace, said: "looks as if he might make a bolt of it--the dashing buccaneer!" this 'very singular-looking man,' as mrs. small afterwards called him, was of medium height and strong build, with a pale, brown face, a dust-coloured moustache, very prominent cheek-bones, and hollow checks. his forehead sloped back towards the crown of his head, and bulged out in bumps over the eyes, like foreheads seen in the lion-house at the zoo. he had sherry-coloured eyes, disconcertingly inattentive at times. old jolyon's coachman, after driving june and bosinney to the theatre, had remarked to the butler: "i dunno what to make of 'im. looks to me for all the world like an 'alf-tame leopard." and every now and then a forsyte would come up, sidle round, and take a look at him. june stood in front, fending off this idle curiosity--a little bit of a thing, as somebody once said, 'all hair and spirit,' with fearless blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a bright colour, whose face and body seemed too slender for her crown of red-gold hair. a tall woman, with a beautiful figure, which some member of the family had once compared to a heathen goddess, stood looking at these two with a shadowy smile. her hands, gloved in french grey, were crossed one over the other, her grave, charming face held to one side, and the eyes of all men near were fastened on it. her figure swayed, so balanced that the very air seemed to set it moving. there was warmth, but little colour, in her cheeks; her large, dark eyes were soft. but it was at her lips--asking a question, giving an answer, with that shadowy smile--that men looked; they were sensitive lips, sensuous and sweet, and through them seemed to come warmth and perfume like the warmth and perfume of a flower. the engaged couple thus scrutinized were unconscious of this passive goddess. it was bosinney who first noticed her, and asked her name. june took her lover up to the woman with the beautiful figure. "irene is my greatest chum," she said: "please be good friends, you two!" at the little lady's command they all three smiled; and while they were smiling, soames forsyte, silently appearing from behind the woman with the beautiful figure, who was his wife, said: "ah! introduce me too!" he was seldom, indeed, far from irene's side at public functions, and even when separated by the exigencies of social intercourse, could be seen following her about with his eyes, in which were strange expressions of watchfulness and longing. at the window his father, james, was still scrutinizing the marks on the piece of china. "i wonder at jolyon's allowing this engagement," he said to aunt ann. "they tell me there's no chance of their getting married for years. this young bosinney" (he made the word a dactyl in opposition to general usage of a short o) "has got nothing. when winifred married dartie, i made him bring every penny into settlement--lucky thing, too--they'd ha' had nothing by this time!" aunt ann looked up from her velvet chair. grey curls banded her forehead, curls that, unchanged for decades, had extinguished in the family all sense of time. she made no reply, for she rarely spoke, husbanding her aged voice; but to james, uneasy of conscience, her look was as good as an answer. "well," he said, "i couldn't help irene's having no money. soames was in such a hurry; he got quite thin dancing attendance on her." putting the bowl pettishly down on the piano, he let his eyes wander to the group by the door. "it's my opinion," he said unexpectedly, "that it's just as well as it is." aunt ann did not ask him to explain this strange utterance. she knew what he was thinking. if irene had no money she would not be so foolish as to do anything wrong; for they said--they said--she had been asking for a separate room; but, of course, soames had not.... james interrupted her reverie: "but where," he asked, "was timothy? hadn't he come with them?" through aunt ann's compressed lips a tender smile forced its way: "no, he didn't think it wise, with so much of this diphtheria about; and he so liable to take things." james answered: "well, he takes good care of himself. i can't afford to take the care of myself that he does." nor was it easy to say which, of admiration, envy, or contempt, was dominant in that remark. timothy, indeed, was seldom seen. the baby of the family, a publisher by profession, he had some years before, when business was at full tide, scented out the stagnation which, indeed, had not yet come, but which ultimately, as all agreed, was bound to set in, and, selling his share in a firm engaged mainly in the production of religious books, had invested the quite conspicuous proceeds in three per cent. consols. by this act he had at once assumed an isolated position, no other forsyte being content with less than four per cent. for his money; and this isolation had slowly and surely undermined a spirit perhaps better than commonly endowed with caution. he had become almost a myth--a kind of incarnation of security haunting the background of the forsyte universe. he had never committed the imprudence of marrying, or encumbering himself in any way with children. james resumed, tapping the piece of china: "this isn't real old worcester. i s'pose jolyon's told you something about the young man. from all i can learn, he's got no business, no income, and no connection worth speaking of; but then, i know nothing--nobody tells me anything." aunt ann shook her head. over her square-chinned, aquiline old face a trembling passed; the spidery fingers of her hands pressed against each other and interlaced, as though she were subtly recharging her will. the eldest by some years of all the forsytes, she held a peculiar position amongst them. opportunists and egotists one and all--though not, indeed, more so than their neighbours--they quailed before her incorruptible figure, and, when opportunities were too strong, what could they do but avoid her! twisting his long, thin legs, james went on: "jolyon, he will have his own way. he's got no children"--and stopped, recollecting the continued existence of old jolyon's son, young jolyon, june's father, who had made such a mess of it, and done for himself by deserting his wife and child and running away with that foreign governess. "well," he resumed hastily, "if he likes to do these things, i s'pose he can afford to. now, what's he going to give her? i s'pose he'll give her a thousand a year; he's got nobody else to leave his money to." he stretched out his hand to meet that of a dapper, clean-shaven man, with hardly a hair on his head, a long, broken nose, full lips, and cold grey eyes under rectangular brows. "well, nick," he muttered, "how are you?" nicholas forsyte, with his bird-like rapidity and the look of a preternaturally sage schoolboy (he had made a large fortune, quite legitimately, out of the companies of which he was a director), placed within that cold palm the tips of his still colder fingers and hastily withdrew them. "i'm bad," he said, pouting--"been bad all the week; don't sleep at night. the doctor can't tell why. he's a clever fellow, or i shouldn't have him, but i get nothing out of him but bills." "doctors!" said james, coming down sharp on his words: "i've had all the doctors in london for one or another of us. there's no satisfaction to be got out of them; they'll tell you anything. there's swithin, now. what good have they done him? there he is; he's bigger than ever; he's enormous; they can't get his weight down. look at him!" swithin forsyte, tall, square, and broad, with a chest like a pouter pigeon's in its plumage of bright waistcoats, came strutting towards them. "er--how are you?" he said in his dandified way, aspirating the 'h' strongly (this difficult letter was almost absolutely safe in his keeping)--"how are you?" each brother wore an air of aggravation as he looked at the other two, knowing by experience that they would try to eclipse his ailments. "we were just saying," said james, "that you don't get any thinner." swithin protruded his pale round eyes with the effort of hearing. "thinner? i'm in good case," he said, leaning a little forward, "not one of your thread-papers like you!" but, afraid of losing the expansion of his chest, he leaned back again into a state of immobility, for he prized nothing so highly as a distinguished appearance. aunt ann turned her old eyes from one to the other. indulgent and severe was her look. in turn the three brothers looked at ann. she was getting shaky. wonderful woman! eighty-six if a day; might live another ten years, and had never been strong. swithin and james, the twins, were only seventy-five, nicholas a mere baby of seventy or so. all were strong, and the inference was comforting. of all forms of property their respective healths naturally concerned them most. "i'm very well in myself," proceeded james, "but my nerves are out of order. the least thing worries me to death. i shall have to go to bath." "bath!" said nicholas. "i've tried harrogate. that's no good. what i want is sea air. there's nothing like yarmouth. now, when i go there i sleep...." "my liver's very bad," interrupted swithin slowly. "dreadful pain here;" and he placed his hand on his right side. "want of exercise," muttered james, his eyes on the china. he quickly added: "i get a pain there, too." swithin reddened, a resemblance to a turkey-cock coming upon his old face. "exercise!" he said. "i take plenty: i never use the lift at the club." "i didn't know," james hurried out. "i know nothing about anybody; nobody tells me anything...." swithin fixed him with a stare: "what do you do for a pain there?" james brightened. "i take a compound...." "how are you, uncle?" june stood before him, her resolute small face raised from her little height to his great height, and her hand outheld. the brightness faded from james's visage. "how are you?" he said, brooding over her. "so you're going to wales to-morrow to visit your young man's aunts? you'll have a lot of rain there. this isn't real old worcester." he tapped the bowl. "now, that set i gave your mother when she married was the genuine thing." june shook hands one by one with her three great-uncles, and turned to aunt ann. a very sweet look had come into the old lady's face, she kissed the girl's check with trembling fervour. "well, my dear," she said, "and so you're going for a whole month!" the girl passed on, and aunt ann looked after her slim little figure. the old lady's round, steel grey eyes, over which a film like a bird's was beginning to come, followed her wistfully amongst the bustling crowd, for people were beginning to say good-bye; and her finger-tips, pressing and pressing against each other, were busy again with the recharging of her will against that inevitable ultimate departure of her own. 'yes,' she thought, 'everybody's been most kind; quite a lot of people come to congratulate her. she ought to be very happy.' amongst the throng of people by the door, the well-dressed throng drawn from the families of lawyers and doctors, from the stock exchange, and all the innumerable avocations of the upper-middle class--there were only some twenty percent of forsytes; but to aunt ann they seemed all forsytes--and certainly there was not much difference--she saw only her own flesh and blood. it was her world, this family, and she knew no other, had never perhaps known any other. all their little secrets, illnesses, engagements, and marriages, how they were getting on, and whether they were making money--all this was her property, her delight, her life; beyond this only a vague, shadowy mist of facts and persons of no real significance. this it was that she would have to lay down when it came to her turn to die; this which gave to her that importance, that secret self-importance, without which none of us can bear to live; and to this she clung wistfully, with a greed that grew each day! if life were slipping away from her, this she would retain to the end. she thought of june's father, young jolyon, who had run away with that foreign girl. and what a sad blow to his father and to them all. such a promising young fellow! a sad blow, though there had been no public scandal, most fortunately, jo's wife seeking for no divorce! a long time ago! and when june's mother died, six years ago, jo had married that woman, and they had two children now, so she had heard. still, he had forfeited his right to be there, had cheated her of the complete fulfilment of her family pride, deprived her of the rightful pleasure of seeing and kissing him of whom she had been so proud, such a promising young fellow! the thought rankled with the bitterness of a long-inflicted injury in her tenacious old heart. a little water stood in her eyes. with a handkerchief of the finest lawn she wiped them stealthily. "well, aunt ann?" said a voice behind. soames forsyte, flat-shouldered, clean-shaven, flat-cheeked, flat-waisted, yet with something round and secret about his whole appearance, looked downwards and aslant at aunt ann, as though trying to see through the side of his own nose. "and what do you think of the engagement?" he asked. aunt ann's eyes rested on him proudly; of all the nephews since young jolyon's departure from the family nest, he was now her favourite, for she recognised in him a sure trustee of the family soul that must so soon slip beyond her keeping. "very nice for the young man," she said; "and he's a good-looking young fellow; but i doubt if he's quite the right lover for dear june." soames touched the edge of a gold-lacquered lustre. "she'll tame him," he said, stealthily wetting his finger and rubbing it on the knobby bulbs. "that's genuine old lacquer; you can't get it nowadays. it'd do well in a sale at jobson's." he spoke with relish, as though he felt that he was cheering up his old aunt. it was seldom he was so confidential. "i wouldn't mind having it myself," he added; "you can always get your price for old lacquer." "you're so clever with all those things," said aunt ann. "and how is dear irene?" soames's smile died. "pretty well," he said. "complains she can't sleep; she sleeps a great deal better than i do," and he looked at his wife, who was talking to bosinney by the door. aunt ann sighed. "perhaps," she said, "it will be just as well for her not to see so much of june. she's such a decided character, dear june!" soames flushed; his flushes passed rapidly over his flat cheeks and centered between his eyes, where they remained, the stamp of disturbing thoughts. "i don't know what she sees in that little flibbertigibbet," he burst out, but noticing that they were no longer alone, he turned and again began examining the lustre. "they tell me jolyon's bought another house," said his father's voice close by; "he must have a lot of money--he must have more money than he knows what to do with! montpellier square, they say; close to soames! they never told me, irene never tells me anything!" "capital position, not two minutes from me," said the voice of swithin, "and from my rooms i can drive to the club in eight." the position of their houses was of vital importance to the forsytes, nor was this remarkable, since the whole spirit of their success was embodied therein. their father, of farming stock, had come from dorsetshire near the beginning of the century. 'superior dosset forsyte, as he was called by his intimates, had been a stonemason by trade, and risen to the position of a master-builder. towards the end of his life he moved to london, where, building on until he died, he was buried at highgate. he left over thirty thousand pounds between his ten children. old jolyon alluded to him, if at all, as 'a hard, thick sort of man; not much refinement about him.' the second generation of forsytes felt indeed that he was not greatly to their credit. the only aristocratic trait they could find in his character was a habit of drinking madeira. aunt hester, an authority on family history, described him thus: "i don't recollect that he ever did anything; at least, not in my time. he was er--an owner of houses, my dear. his hair about your uncle swithin's colour; rather a square build. tall? no--not very tall" (he had been five feet five, with a mottled face); "a fresh-coloured man. i remember he used to drink madeira; but ask your aunt ann. what was his father? he--er--had to do with the land down in dorsetshire, by the sea." james once went down to see for himself what sort of place this was that they had come from. he found two old farms, with a cart track rutted into the pink earth, leading down to a mill by the beach; a little grey church with a buttressed outer wall, and a smaller and greyer chapel. the stream which worked the mill came bubbling down in a dozen rivulets, and pigs were hunting round that estuary. a haze hovered over the prospect. down this hollow, with their feet deep in the mud and their faces towards the sea, it appeared that the primeval forsytes had been content to walk sunday after sunday for hundreds of years. whether or no james had cherished hopes of an inheritance, or of something rather distinguished to be found down there, he came back to town in a poor way, and went about with a pathetic attempt at making the best of a bad job. "there's very little to be had out of that," he said; "regular country little place, old as the hills...." its age was felt to be a comfort. old jolyon, in whom a desperate honesty welled up at times, would allude to his ancestors as: "yeomen--i suppose very small beer." yet he would repeat the word 'yeomen' as if it afforded him consolation. they had all done so well for themselves, these forsytes, that they were all what is called 'of a certain position.' they had shares in all sorts of things, not as yet--with the exception of timothy--in consols, for they had no dread in life like that of per cent. for their money. they collected pictures, too, and were supporters of such charitable institutions as might be beneficial to their sick domestics. from their father, the builder, they inherited a talent for bricks and mortar. originally, perhaps, members of some primitive sect, they were now in the natural course of things members of the church of england, and caused their wives and children to attend with some regularity the more fashionable churches of the metropolis. to have doubted their christianity would have caused them both pain and surprise. some of them paid for pews, thus expressing in the most practical form their sympathy with the teachings of christ. their residences, placed at stated intervals round the park, watched like sentinels, lest the fair heart of this london, where their desires were fixed, should slip from their clutches, and leave them lower in their own estimations. there was old jolyon in stanhope place; the jameses in park lane; swithin in the lonely glory of orange and blue chambers in hyde park mansions--he had never married, not he--the soamses in their nest off knightsbridge; the rogers in prince's gardens (roger was that remarkable forsyte who had conceived and carried out the notion of bringing up his four sons to a new profession. "collect house property, nothing like it," he would say; "i never did anything else"). the haymans again--mrs. hayman was the one married forsyte sister--in a house high up on campden hill, shaped like a giraffe, and so tall that it gave the observer a crick in the neck; the nicholases in ladbroke grove, a spacious abode and a great bargain; and last, but not least, timothy's on the bayswater road, where ann, and juley, and hester, lived under his protection. but all this time james was musing, and now he inquired of his host and brother what he had given for that house in montpellier square. he himself had had his eye on a house there for the last two years, but they wanted such a price. old jolyon recounted the details of his purchase. "twenty-two years to run?" repeated james; "the very house i was after--you've given too much for it!" old jolyon frowned. "it's not that i want it," said james hastily; it wouldn't suit my purpose at that price. soames knows the house, well--he'll tell you it's too dear--his opinion's worth having." "i don't," said old jolyon, "care a fig for his opinion." "well," murmured james, "you will have your own way--it's a good opinion. good-bye! we're going to drive down to hurlingham. they tell me june's going to wales. you'll be lonely tomorrow. what'll you do with yourself? you'd better come and dine with us!" old jolyon refused. he went down to the front door and saw them into their barouche, and twinkled at them, having already forgotten his spleen--mrs. james facing the horses, tall and majestic with auburn hair; on her left, irene--the two husbands, father and son, sitting forward, as though they expected something, opposite their wives. bobbing and bounding upon the spring cushions, silent, swaying to each motion of their chariot, old jolyon watched them drive away under the sunlight. during the drive the silence was broken by mrs. james. "did you ever see such a collection of rumty-too people?" soames, glancing at her beneath his eyelids, nodded, and he saw irene steal at him one of her unfathomable looks. it is likely enough that each branch of the forsyte family made that remark as they drove away from old jolyon's 'at home!' amongst the last of the departing guests the fourth and fifth brothers, nicholas and roger, walked away together, directing their steps alongside hyde park towards the praed street station of the underground. like all other forsytes of a certain age they kept carriages of their own, and never took cabs if by any means they could avoid it. the day was bright, the trees of the park in the full beauty of mid-june foliage; the brothers did not seem to notice phenomena, which contributed, nevertheless, to the jauntiness of promenade and conversation. "yes," said roger, "she's a good-lookin' woman, that wife of soames's. i'm told they don't get on." this brother had a high forehead, and the freshest colour of any of the forsytes; his light grey eyes measured the street frontage of the houses by the way, and now and then he would level his, umbrella and take a 'lunar,' as he expressed it, of the varying heights. "she'd no money," replied nicholas. he himself had married a good deal of money, of which, it being then the golden age before the married women's property act, he had mercifully been enabled to make a successful use. "what was her father?" "heron was his name, a professor, so they tell me." roger shook his head. "there's no money in that," he said. "they say her mother's father was cement." roger's face brightened. "but he went bankrupt," went on nicholas. "ah!" exclaimed roger, "soames will have trouble with her; you mark my words, he'll have trouble--she's got a foreign look." nicholas licked his lips. "she's a pretty woman," and he waved aside a crossing-sweeper. "how did he get hold of her?" asked roger presently. "she must cost him a pretty penny in dress!" "ann tells me," replied nicholas, "he was half-cracked about her. she refused him five times. james, he's nervous about it, i can see." "ah!" said roger again; "i'm sorry for james; he had trouble with dartie." his pleasant colour was heightened by exercise, he swung his umbrella to the level of his eye more frequently than ever. nicholas's face also wore a pleasant look. "too pale for me," he said, "but her figures capital!" roger made no reply. "i call her distinguished-looking," he said at last--it was the highest praise in the forsyte vocabulary. "that young bosinney will never do any good for himself. they say at burkitt's he's one of these artistic chaps--got an idea of improving english architecture; there's no money in that! i should like to hear what timothy would say to it." they entered the station. "what class are you going? i go second." "no second for me," said nicholas;--"you never know what you may catch." he took a first-class ticket to notting hill gate; roger a second to south kensington. the train coming in a minute later, the two brothers parted and entered their respective compartments. each felt aggrieved that the other had not modified his habits to secure his society a little longer; but as roger voiced it in his thoughts: 'always a stubborn beggar, nick!' and as nicholas expressed it to himself: 'cantankerous chap roger--always was!' there was little sentimentality about the forsytes. in that great london, which they had conquered and become merged in, what time had they to be sentimental? chapter ii old jolyon goes to the opera at five o'clock the following day old jolyon sat alone, a cigar between his lips, and on a table by his side a cup of tea. he was tired, and before he had finished his cigar he fell asleep. a fly settled on his hair, his breathing sounded heavy in the drowsy silence, his upper lip under the white moustache puffed in and out. from between the fingers of his veined and wrinkled hand the cigar, dropping on the empty hearth, burned itself out. the gloomy little study, with windows of stained glass to exclude the view, was full of dark green velvet and heavily-carved mahogany--a suite of which old jolyon was wont to say: 'shouldn't wonder if it made a big price some day!' it was pleasant to think that in the after life he could get more for things than he had given. in the rich brown atmosphere peculiar to back rooms in the mansion of a forsyte, the rembrandtesque effect of his great head, with its white hair, against the cushion of his high-backed seat, was spoiled by the moustache, which imparted a somewhat military look to his face. an old clock that had been with him since before his marriage forty years ago kept with its ticking a jealous record of the seconds slipping away forever from its old master. he had never cared for this room, hardly going into it from one year's end to another, except to take cigars from the japanese cabinet in the corner, and the room now had its revenge. his temples, curving like thatches over the hollows beneath, his cheek-bones and chin, all were sharpened in his sleep, and there had come upon his face the confession that he was an old man. he woke. june had gone! james had said he would be lonely. james had always been a poor thing. he recollected with satisfaction that he had bought that house over james's head. serve him right for sticking at the price; the only thing the fellow thought of was money. had he given too much, though? it wanted a lot of doing to--he dared say he would want all his money before he had done with this affair of june's. he ought never to have allowed the engagement. she had met this bosinney at the house of baynes, baynes and bildeboy, the architects. he believed that baynes, whom he knew--a bit of an old woman--was the young man's uncle by marriage. after that she'd been always running after him; and when she took a thing into her head there was no stopping her. she was continually taking up with 'lame ducks' of one sort or another. this fellow had no money, but she must needs become engaged to him--a harumscarum, unpractical chap, who would get himself into no end of difficulties. she had come to him one day in her slap-dash way and told him; and, as if it were any consolation, she had added: "he's so splendid; he's often lived on cocoa for a week!" "and he wants you to live on cocoa too?" "oh no; he is getting into the swim now." old jolyon had taken his cigar from under his white moustaches, stained by coffee at the edge, and looked at her, that little slip of a thing who had got such a grip of his heart. he knew more about 'swims' than his granddaughter. but she, having clasped her hands on his knees, rubbed her chin against him, making a sound like a purring cat. and, knocking the ash off his cigar, he had exploded in nervous desperation: "you're all alike: you won't be satisfied till you've got what you want. if you must come to grief, you must; i wash my hands of it." so, he had washed his hands of it, making the condition that they should not marry until bosinney had at least four hundred a year. "i shan't be able to give you very much," he had said, a formula to which june was not unaccustomed. "perhaps this what's-his-name will provide the cocoa." he had hardly seen anything of her since it began. a bad business! he had no notion of giving her a lot of money to enable a fellow he knew nothing about to live on in idleness. he had seen that sort of thing before; no good ever came of it. worst of all, he had no hope of shaking her resolution; she was as obstinate as a mule, always had been from a child. he didn't see where it was to end. they must cut their coat according to their cloth. he would not give way till he saw young bosinney with an income of his own. that june would have trouble with the fellow was as plain as a pikestaff; he had no more idea of money than a cow. as to this rushing down to wales to visit the young man's aunts, he fully expected they were old cats. and, motionless, old jolyon stared at the wall; but for his open eyes, he might have been asleep.... the idea of supposing that young cub soames could give him advice! he had always been a cub, with his nose in the air! he would be setting up as a man of property next, with a place in the country! a man of property! h'mph! like his father, he was always nosing out bargains, a cold-blooded young beggar! he rose, and, going to the cabinet, began methodically stocking his cigar-case from a bundle fresh in. they were not bad at the price, but you couldn't get a good cigar, nowadays, nothing to hold a candle to those old superfinos of hanson and bridger's. that was a cigar! the thought, like some stealing perfume, carried him back to those wonderful nights at richmond when after dinner he sat smoking on the terrace of the crown and sceptre with nicholas treffry and traquair and jack herring and anthony thornworthy. how good his cigars were then! poor old nick!--dead, and jack herring--dead, and traquair--dead of that wife of his, and thornworthy--awfully shaky (no wonder, with his appetite). of all the company of those days he himself alone seemed left, except swithin, of course, and he so outrageously big there was no doing anything with him. difficult to believe it was so long ago; he felt young still! of all his thoughts, as he stood there counting his cigars, this was the most poignant, the most bitter. with his white head and his loneliness he had remained young and green at heart. and those sunday afternoons on hampstead heath, when young jolyon and he went for a stretch along the spaniard's road to highgate, to child's hill, and back over the heath again to dine at jack straw's castle--how delicious his cigars were then! and such weather! there was no weather now. when june was a toddler of five, and every other sunday he took her to the zoo, away from the society of those two good women, her mother and her grandmother, and at the top of the bear den baited his umbrella with buns for her favourite bears, how sweet his cigars were then! cigars! he had not even succeeded in out-living his palate--the famous palate that in the fifties men swore by, and speaking of him, said: "forsyte's the best palate in london!" the palate that in a sense had made his fortune--the fortune of the celebrated tea men, forsyte and treffry, whose tea, like no other man's tea, had a romantic aroma, the charm of a quite singular genuineness. about the house of forsyte and treffry in the city had clung an air of enterprise and mystery, of special dealings in special ships, at special ports, with special orientals. he had worked at that business! men did work in those days! these young pups hardly knew the meaning of the word. he had gone into every detail, known everything that went on, sometimes sat up all night over it. and he had always chosen his agents himself, prided himself on it. his eye for men, he used to say, had been the secret of his success, and the exercise of this masterful power of selection had been the only part of it all that he had really liked. not a career for a man of his ability. even now, when the business had been turned into a limited liability company, and was declining (he had got out of his shares long ago), he felt a sharp chagrin in thinking of that time. how much better he might have done! he would have succeeded splendidly at the bar! he had even thought of standing for parliament. how often had not nicholas treffry said to him: "you could do anything, jo, if you weren't so d-damned careful of yourself!" dear old nick! such a good fellow, but a racketty chap! the notorious treffry! he had never taken any care of himself. so he was dead. old jolyon counted his cigars with a steady hand, and it came into his mind to wonder if perhaps he had been too careful of himself. he put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, and walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaning on one foot and the other, and helping himself by the bannister. the house was too big. after june was married, if she ever did marry this fellow, as he supposed she would, he would let it and go into rooms. what was the use of keeping half a dozen servants eating their heads off? the butler came to the ring of his bell--a large man with a beard, a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence. old jolyon told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at the club. how long had the carriage been back from taking miss june to the station? since two? then let him come round at half-past six! the club which old jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of those political institutions of the upper middle class which have seen better days. in spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing vitality. people had grown tired of saying that the 'disunion' was on its last legs. old jolyon would say it, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to well-constituted clubmen. "why do you keep your name on?" swithin often asked him with profound vexation. "why don't you join the 'polyglot'? you can't get a wine like our heidsieck under twenty shillin' a bottle anywhere in london;" and, dropping his voice, he added: "there's only five hundred dozen left. i drink it every night of my life." "i'll think of it," old jolyon would answer; but when he did think of it there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance fee, and it would take him four or five years to get in. he continued to think of it. he was too old to be a liberal, had long ceased to believe in the political doctrines of his club, had even been known to allude to them as 'wretched stuff,' and it afforded him pleasure to continue a member in the teeth of principles so opposed to his own. he had always had a contempt for the place, having joined it many years ago when they refused to have him at the 'hotch potch' owing to his being 'in trade.' as if he were not as good as any of them! he naturally despised the club that did take him. the members were a poor lot, many of them in the city --stockbrokers, solicitors, auctioneers--what not! like most men of strong character but not too much originality, old jolyon set small store by the class to which he belonged. faithfully he followed their customs, social and otherwise, and secretly he thought them 'a common lot.' years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the recollection of his defeat at the 'hotch potch'; and now in his thoughts it was enshrined as the queen of clubs. he would have been a member all these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod way his proposer, jack herring, had gone to work, they had not known what they were doing in keeping him out. why! they had taken his son jo at once, and he believed the boy was still a member; he had received a letter dated from there eight years ago. he had not been near the 'disunion' for months, and the house had undergone the piebald decoration which people bestow on old houses and old ships when anxious to sell them. 'beastly colour, the smoking-room!' he thought. 'the dining-room is good!' its gloomy chocolate, picked out with light green, took his fancy. he ordered dinner, and sat down in the very corner, at the very table perhaps! (things did not progress much at the 'disunion,' a club of almost radical principles) at which he and young jolyon used to sit twenty-five years ago, when he was taking the latter to drury lane, during his holidays. the boy had loved the theatre, and old jolyon recalled how he used to sit opposite, concealing his excitement under a careful but transparent nonchalance. he ordered himself, too, the very dinner the boy had always chosen-soup, whitebait, cutlets, and a tart. ah! if he were only opposite now! the two had not met for fourteen years. and not for the first time during those fourteen years old jolyon wondered whether he had been a little to blame in the matter of his son. an unfortunate love-affair with that precious flirt danae thornworthy (now danae pellew), anthony thornworthy's daughter, had thrown him on the rebound into the arms of june's mother. he ought perhaps to have put a spoke in the wheel of their marriage; they were too young; but after that experience of jo's susceptibility he had been only too anxious to see him married. and in four years the crash had come! to have approved his son's conduct in that crash was, of course, impossible; reason and training--that combination of potent factors which stood for his principles--told him of this impossibility, and his heart cried out. the grim remorselessness of that business had no pity for hearts. there was june, the atom with flaming hair, who had climbed all over him, twined and twisted herself about him--about his heart that was made to be the plaything and beloved resort of tiny, helpless things. with characteristic insight he saw he must part with one or with the other; no half-measures could serve in such a situation. in that lay its tragedy. and the tiny, helpless thing prevailed. he would not run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, and so to his son he said good-bye. that good-bye had lasted until now. he had proposed to continue a reduced allowance to young jolyon, but this had been refused, and perhaps that refusal had hurt him more than anything, for with it had gone the last outlet of his penned-in affection; and there had come such tangible and solid proof of rupture as only a transaction in property, a bestowal or refusal of such, could supply. his dinner tasted flat. his pint of champagne was dry and bitter stuff, not like the veuve clicquots of old days. over his cup of coffee, he bethought him that he would go to the opera. in the times, therefore--he had a distrust of other papers--he read the announcement for the evening. it was 'fidelio.' mercifully not one of those new-fangled german pantomimes by that fellow wagner. putting on his ancient opera hat, which, with its brim flattened by use, and huge capacity, looked like an emblem of greater days, and, pulling out an old pair of very thin lavender kid gloves smelling strongly of russia leather, from habitual proximity to the cigar-case in the pocket of his overcoat, he stepped into a hansom. the cab rattled gaily along the streets, and old jolyon was struck by their unwonted animation. 'the hotels must be doing a tremendous business,' he thought. a few years ago there had been none of these big hotels. he made a satisfactory reflection on some property he had in the neighbourhood. it must be going up in value by leaps and bounds! what traffic! but from that he began indulging in one of those strange impersonal speculations, so uncharacteristic of a forsyte, wherein lay, in part, the secret of his supremacy amongst them. what atoms men were, and what a lot of them! and what would become of them all? he stumbled as he got out of the cab, gave the man his exact fare, walked up to the ticket office to take his stall, and stood there with his purse in his hand--he always carried his money in a purse, never having approved of that habit of carrying it loosely in the pockets, as so many young men did nowadays. the official leaned out, like an old dog from a kennel. "why," he said in a surprised voice, "it's mr. jolyon forsyte! so it is! haven't seen you, sir, for years. dear me! times aren't what they were. why! you and your brother, and that auctioneer--mr. traquair, and mr. nicholas treffry--you used to have six or seven stalls here regular every season. and how are you, sir? we don't get younger!" the colour in old jolyon's eyes deepened; he paid his guinea. they had not forgotten him. he marched in, to the sounds of the overture, like an old war-horse to battle. folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves in the old way, and took up his glasses for a long look round the house. dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed his eyes on the curtain. more poignantly than ever he felt that it was all over and done with him. where were all the women, the pretty women, the house used to be so full of? where was that old feeling in the heart as he waited for one of those great singers? where that sensation of the intoxication of life and of his own power to enjoy it all? the greatest opera-goer of his day! there was no opera now! that fellow wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any voices to sing it. ah! the wonderful singers! gone! he sat watching the old scenes acted, a numb feeling at his heart. from the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in its elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak about old jolyon. he was as upright--very nearly--as in those old times when he came every night; his sight was as good--almost as good. but what a feeling of weariness and disillusion! he had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even imperfect things--and there had been many imperfect things--he had enjoyed them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young. but now he was deserted by his power of enjoyment, by his philosophy, and left with this dreadful feeling that it was all done with. not even the prisoners' chorus, nor florian's song, had the power to dispel the gloom of his loneliness. if jo were only with him! the boy must be forty by now. he had wasted fourteen years out of the life of his only son. and jo was no longer a social pariah. he was married. old jolyon had been unable to refrain from marking his appreciation of the action by enclosing his son a cheque for l . the cheque had been returned in a letter from the 'hotch potch,' couched in these words. 'my dearest father, 'your generous gift was welcome as a sign that you might think worse of me. i return it, but should you think fit to invest it for the benefit of the little chap (we call him jolly), who bears our christian and, by courtesy, our surname, i shall be very glad. 'i hope with all my heart that your health is as good as ever. 'your loving son, 'jo.' the letter was like the boy. he had always been an amiable chap. old jolyon had sent this reply: 'my dear jo, 'the sum (l ) stands in my books for the benefit of your boy, under the name of jolyon forsyte, and will be duly-credited with interest at per cent. i hope that you are doing well. my health remains good at present. 'with love, i am, 'your affectionate father, 'jolyon forsyte.' and every year on the st of january he had added a hundred and the interest. the sum was mounting up--next new year's day it would be fifteen hundred and odd pounds! and it is difficult to say how much satisfaction he had got out of that yearly transaction. but the correspondence had ended. in spite of his love for his son, in spite of an instinct, partly constitutional, partly the result, as in thousands of his class, of the continual handling and watching of affairs, prompting him to judge conduct by results rather than by principle, there was at the bottom of his heart a sort of uneasiness. his son ought, under the circumstances, to have gone to the dogs; that law was laid down in all the novels, sermons, and plays he had ever read, heard, or witnessed. after receiving the cheque back there seemed to him to be something wrong somewhere. why had his son not gone to the dogs? but, then, who could tell? he had heard, of course--in fact, he had made it his business to find out--that jo lived in st. john's wood, that he had a little house in wistaria avenue with a garden, and took his wife about with him into society--a queer sort of society, no doubt--and that they had two children--the little chap they called jolly (considering the circumstances the name struck him as cynical, and old jolyon both feared and disliked cynicism), and a girl called holly, born since the marriage. who could tell what his son's circumstances really were? he had capitalized the income he had inherited from his mother's father and joined lloyd's as an underwriter; he painted pictures, too--water-colours. old jolyon knew this, for he had surreptitiously bought them from time to time, after chancing to see his son's name signed at the bottom of a representation of the river thames in a dealer's window. he thought them bad, and did not hang them because of the signature; he kept them locked up in a drawer. in the great opera-house a terrible yearning came on him to see his son. he remembered the days when he had been wont to slide him, in a brown holland suit, to and fro under the arch of his legs; the times when he ran beside the boy's pony, teaching him to ride; the day he first took him to school. he had been a loving, lovable little chap! after he went to eton he had acquired, perhaps, a little too much of that desirable manner which old jolyon knew was only to be obtained at such places and at great expense; but he had always been companionable. always a companion, even after cambridge--a little far off, perhaps, owing to the advantages he had received. old jolyon's feeling towards our public schools and 'varsities never wavered, and he retained touchingly his attitude of admiration and mistrust towards a system appropriate to the highest in the land, of which he had not himself been privileged to partake.... now that june had gone and left, or as good as left him, it would have been a comfort to see his son again. guilty of this treason to his family, his principles, his class, old jolyon fixed his eyes on the singer. a poor thing--a wretched poor thing! and the florian a perfect stick! it was over. they were easily pleased nowadays! in the crowded street he snapped up a cab under the very nose of a stout and much younger gentleman, who had already assumed it to be his own. his route lay through pall mall, and at the corner, instead of going through the green park, the cabman turned to drive up st. james's street. old jolyon put his hand through the trap (he could not bear being taken out of his way); in turning, however, he found himself opposite the 'hotch potch,' and the yearning that had been secretly with him the whole evening prevailed. he called to the driver to stop. he would go in and ask if jo still belonged there. he went in. the hall looked exactly as it did when he used to dine there with jack herring, and they had the best cook in london; and he looked round with the shrewd, straight glance that had caused him all his life to be better served than most men. "mr. jolyon forsyte still a member here?" "yes, sir; in the club now, sir. what name?" old jolyon was taken aback. "his father," he said. and having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace. young jolyon, on the point of leaving the club, had put on his hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met him. he was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face--a narrower replica of his father's, with the same large drooping moustache--decidedly worn. he turned pale. this meeting was terrible after all those years, for nothing in the world was so terrible as a scene. they met and crossed hands without a word. then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said: "how are you, my boy?" the son answered: "how are you, dad?" old jolyon's hand trembled in its thin lavender glove. "if you're going my way," he said, "i can give you a lift." and as though in the habit of taking each other home every night they went out and stepped into the cab. to old jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. 'more of a man altogether,' was his comment. over the natural amiability of that son's face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour. the features were certainly those of a forsyte, but the expression was more the introspective look of a student or philosopher. he had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a good deal in the course of those fifteen years. to young jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a shock--he looked so worn and old. but in the cab he seemed hardly to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered, still being upright and keen-eyed. "you look well, dad." "middling," old jolyon answered. he was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into words. having got his son back like this, he felt he must know what was his financial position. "jo," he said, "i should like to hear what sort of water you're in. i suppose you're in debt?" he put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess. young jolyon answered in his ironical voice: "no! i'm not in debt!" old jolyon saw that he was angry, and touched his hand. he had run a risk. it was worth it, however, and jo had never been sulky with him. they drove on, without speaking again, to stanhope gate. old jolyon invited him in, but young jolyon shook his head. "june's not here," said his father hastily: "went of to-day on a visit. i suppose you know that she's engaged to be married?" "already?" murmured young jolyon'. old jolyon stepped out, and, in paying the cab fare, for the first time in his life gave the driver a sovereign in mistake for a shilling. placing the coin in his mouth, the cabman whipped his horse secretly on the underneath and hurried away. old jolyon turned the key softly in the lock, pushed open the door, and beckoned. his son saw him gravely hanging up his coat, with an expression on his face like that of a boy who intends to steal cherries. the door of the dining-room was open, the gas turned low; a spirit-urn hissed on a tea-tray, and close to it a cynical looking cat had fallen asleep on the dining-table. old jolyon 'shoo'd' her off at once. the incident was a relief to his feelings; he rattled his opera hat behind the animal. "she's got fleas," he said, following her out of the room. through the door in the hall leading to the basement he called "hssst!" several times, as though assisting the cat's departure, till by some strange coincidence the butler appeared below. "you can go to bed, parfitt," said old jolyon. "i will lock up and put out." when he again entered the dining-room the cat unfortunately preceded him, with her tail in the air, proclaiming that she had seen through this manouevre for suppressing the butler from the first.... a fatality had dogged old jolyon's domestic stratagems all his life. young jolyon could not help smiling. he was very well versed in irony, and everything that evening seemed to him ironical. the episode of the cat; the announcement of his own daughter's engagement. so he had no more part or parcel in her than he had in the puss! and the poetical justice of this appealed to him. "what is june like now?" he asked. "she's a little thing," returned old jolyon; they say she's like me, but that's their folly. she's more like your mother--the same eyes and hair." "ah! and she is pretty?" old jolyon was too much of a forsyte to praise anything freely; especially anything for which he had a genuine admiration. "not bad looking--a regular forsyte chin. it'll be lonely here when she's gone, jo." the look on his face again gave young jolyon the shock he had felt on first seeing his father. "what will you do with yourself, dad? i suppose she's wrapped up in him?" "do with myself?" repeated old jolyon with an angry break in his voice. "it'll be miserable work living here alone. i don't know how it's to end. i wish to goodness...." he checked himself, and added: "the question is, what had i better do with this house?" young jolyon looked round the room. it was peculiarly vast and dreary, decorated with the enormous pictures of still life that he remembered as a boy--sleeping dogs with their noses resting on bunches of carrots, together with onions and grapes lying side by side in mild surprise. the house was a white elephant, but he could not conceive of his father living in a smaller place; and all the more did it all seem ironical. in his great chair with the book-rest sat old jolyon, the figurehead of his family and class and creed, with his white head and dome-like forehead, the representative of moderation, and order, and love of property. as lonely an old man as there was in london. there he sat in the gloomy comfort of the room, a puppet in the power of great forces that cared nothing for family or class or creed, but moved, machine-like, with dread processes to inscrutable ends. this was how it struck young jolyon, who had the impersonal eye. the poor old dad! so this was the end, the purpose to which he had lived with such magnificent moderation! to be lonely, and grow older and older, yearning for a soul to speak to! in his turn old jolyon looked back at his son. he wanted to talk about many things that he had been unable to talk about all these years. it had been impossible to seriously confide in june his conviction that property in the soho quarter would go up in value; his uneasiness about that tremendous silence of pippin, the superintendent of the new colliery company, of which he had so long been chairman; his disgust at the steady fall in american golgothas, or even to discuss how, by some sort of settlement, he could best avoid the payment of those death duties which would follow his decease. under the influence, however, of a cup of tea, which he seemed to stir indefinitely, he began to speak at last. a new vista of life was thus opened up, a promised land of talk, where he could find a harbour against the waves of anticipation and regret; where he could soothe his soul with the opium of devising how to round off his property and make eternal the only part of him that was to remain alive. young jolyon was a good listener; it was his great quality. he kept his eyes fixed on his father's face, putting a question now and then. the clock struck one before old jolyon had finished, and at the sound of its striking his principles came back. he took out his watch with a look of surprise: "i must go to bed, jo," he said. young jolyon rose and held out his hand to help his father up. the old face looked worn and hollow again; the eyes were steadily averted. "good-bye, my boy; take care of yourself." a moment passed, and young jolyon, turning on his, heel, marched out at the door. he could hardly see; his smile quavered. never in all the fifteen years since he had first found out that life was no simple business, had he found it so singularly complicated. chapter iii dinner at swithin's in swithin's orange and light-blue dining-room, facing the park, the round table was laid for twelve. a cut-glass chandelier filled with lighted candles hung like a giant stalactite above its centre, radiating over large gilt-framed mirrors, slabs of marble on the tops of side-tables, and heavy gold chairs with crewel worked seats. everything betokened that love of beauty so deeply implanted in each family which has had its own way to make into society, out of the more vulgar heart of nature. swithin had indeed an impatience of simplicity, a love of ormolu, which had always stamped him amongst his associates as a man of great, if somewhat luxurious taste; and out of the knowledge that no one could possibly enter his rooms without perceiving him to be a man of wealth, he had derived a solid and prolonged happiness such as perhaps no other circumstance in life had afforded him. since his retirement from land agency, a profession deplorable in his estimation, especially as to its auctioneering department, he had abandoned himself to naturally aristocratic tastes. the perfect luxury of his latter days had embedded him like a fly in sugar; and his mind, where very little took place from morning till night, was the junction of two curiously opposite emotions, a lingering and sturdy satisfaction that he had made his own way and his own fortune, and a sense that a man of his distinction should never have been allowed to soil his mind with work. he stood at the sideboard in a white waistcoat with large gold and onyx buttons, watching his valet screw the necks of three champagne bottles deeper into ice-pails. between the points of his stand-up collar, which--though it hurt him to move--he would on no account have had altered, the pale flesh of his under chin remained immovable. his eyes roved from bottle to bottle. he was debating, and he argued like this: jolyon drinks a glass, perhaps two, he's so careful of himself. james, he can't take his wine nowadays. nicholas--fanny and he would swill water he shouldn't wonder! soames didn't count; these young nephews --soames was thirty-one--couldn't drink! but bosinney? encountering in the name of this stranger something outside the range of his philosophy, swithin paused. a misgiving arose within him! it was impossible to tell! june was only a girl, in love too! emily (mrs. james) liked a good glass of champagne. it was too dry for juley, poor old soul, she had no palate. as to hatty chessman! the thought of this old friend caused a cloud of thought to obscure the perfect glassiness of his eyes: he shouldn't wonder if she drank half a bottle! but in thinking of his remaining guest, an expression like that of a cat who is just going to purr stole over his old face: mrs. soames! she mightn't take much, but she would appreciate what she drank; it was a pleasure to give her good wine! a pretty woman--and sympathetic to him! the thought of her was like champagne itself! a pleasure to give a good wine to a young woman who looked so well, who knew how to dress, with charming manners, quite distinguished--a pleasure to entertain her. between the points of his collar he gave his head the first small, painful oscillation of the evening. "adolf!" he said. "put in another bottle." he himself might drink a good deal, for, thanks to that prescription of blight's, he found himself extremely well, and he had been careful to take no lunch. he had not felt so well for weeks. puffing out his lower lip, he gave his last instructions: "adolf, the least touch of the west india when you come to the ham." passing into the anteroom, he sat down on the edge of a chair, with his knees apart; and his tall, bulky form was wrapped at once in an expectant, strange, primeval immobility. he was ready to rise at a moment's notice. he had not given a dinner-party for months. this dinner in honour of june's engagement had seemed a bore at first (among forsytes the custom of solemnizing engagements by feasts was religiously observed), but the labours of sending invitations and ordering the repast over, he felt pleasantly stimulated. and thus sitting, a watch in his hand, fat, and smooth, and golden, like a flattened globe of butter, he thought of nothing. a long man, with side whiskers, who had once been in swithin's service, but was now a greengrocer, entered and proclaimed: "mrs. chessman, mrs. septimus small!" two ladies advanced. the one in front, habited entirely in red, had large, settled patches of the same colour in her cheeks, and a hard, dashing eye. she walked at swithin, holding out a hand cased in a long, primrose-coloured glove: "well! swithin," she said, "i haven't seen you for ages. how are you? why, my dear boy, how stout you're getting!" the fixity of swithin's eye alone betrayed emotion. a dumb and grumbling anger swelled his bosom. it was vulgar to be stout, to talk of being stout; he had a chest, nothing more. turning to his sister, he grasped her hand, and said in a tone of command: "well, juley." mrs. septimus small was the tallest of the four sisters; her good, round old face had gone a little sour; an innumerable pout clung all over it, as if it had been encased in an iron wire mask up to that evening, which, being suddenly removed, left little rolls of mutinous flesh all over her countenance. even her eyes were pouting. it was thus that she recorded her permanent resentment at the loss of septimus small. she had quite a reputation for saying the wrong thing, and, tenacious like all her breed, she would hold to it when she had said it, and add to it another wrong thing, and so on. with the decease of her husband the family tenacity, the family matter-of-factness, had gone sterile within her. a great talker, when allowed, she would converse without the faintest animation for hours together, relating, with epic monotony, the innumerable occasions on which fortune had misused her; nor did she ever perceive that her hearers sympathized with fortune, for her heart was kind. having sat, poor soul, long by the bedside of small (a man of poor constitution), she had acquired, the habit, and there were countless subsequent occasions when she had sat immense periods of time to amuse sick people, children, and other helpless persons, and she could never divest herself of the feeling that the world was the most ungrateful place anybody could live in. sunday after sunday she sat at the feet of that extremely witty preacher, the rev. thomas scoles, who exercised a great influence over her; but she succeeded in convincing everybody that even this was a misfortune. she had passed into a proverb in the family, and when anybody was observed to be peculiarly distressing, he was known as a regular 'juley.' the habit of her mind would have killed anybody but a forsyte at forty; but she was seventy-two, and had never looked better. and one felt that there were capacities for enjoyment about her which might yet come out. she owned three canaries, the cat tommy, and half a parrot--in common with her sister hester;--and these poor creatures (kept carefully out of timothy's way--he was nervous about animals), unlike human beings, recognising that she could not help being blighted, attached themselves to her passionately. she was sombrely magnificent this evening in black bombazine, with a mauve front cut in a shy triangle, and crowned with a black velvet ribbon round the base of her thin throat; black and mauve for evening wear was esteemed very chaste by nearly every forsyte. pouting at swithin, she said: "ann has been asking for you. you haven't been near us for an age!" swithin put his thumbs within the armholes of his waistcoat, and replied: "ann's getting very shaky; she ought to have a doctor!" "mr. and mrs. nicholas forsyte!" nicholas forsyte, cocking his rectangular eyebrows, wore a smile. he had succeeded during the day in bringing to fruition a scheme for the employment of a tribe from upper india in the gold-mines of ceylon. a pet plan, carried at last in the teeth of great difficulties--he was justly pleased. it would double the output of his mines, and, as he had often forcibly argued, all experience tended to show that a man must die; and whether he died of a miserable old age in his own country, or prematurely of damp in the bottom of a foreign mine, was surely of little consequence, provided that by a change in his mode of life he benefited the british empire. his ability was undoubted. raising his broken nose towards his listener, he would add: "for want of a few hundred of these fellows we haven't paid a dividend for years, and look at the price of the shares. i can't get ten shillings for them." he had been at yarmouth, too, and had come back feeling that he had added at least ten years to his own life. he grasped swithin's hand, exclaiming in a jocular voice: "well, so here we are again!" mrs. nicholas, an effete woman, smiled a smile of frightened jollity behind his back. "mr. and mrs. james forsyte! mr. and mrs. soames forsyte!" swithin drew his heels together, his deportment ever admirable. "well, james, well emily! how are you, soames? how do you do?" his hand enclosed irene's, and his eyes swelled. she was a pretty woman--a little too pale, but her figure, her eyes, her teeth! too good for that chap soames! the gods had given irene dark brown eyes and golden hair, that strange combination, provocative of men's glances, which is said to be the mark of a weak character. and the full, soft pallor of her neck and shoulders, above a gold-coloured frock, gave to her personality an alluring strangeness. soames stood behind, his eyes fastened on his wife's neck. the hands of swithin's watch, which he still held open in his hand, had left eight behind; it was half an hour beyond his dinner-time--he had had no lunch--and a strange primeval impatience surged up within him. "it's not like jolyon to be late!" he said to irene, with uncontrollable vexation. "i suppose it'll be june keeping him!" "people in love are always late," she answered. swithin stared at her; a dusky orange dyed his cheeks. "they've no business to be. some fashionable nonsense!" and behind this outburst the inarticulate violence of primitive generations seemed to mutter and grumble. "tell me what you think of my new star, uncle swithin," said irene softly. among the lace in the bosom of her dress was shining a five-pointed star, made of eleven diamonds. swithin looked at the star. he had a pretty taste in stones; no question could have been more sympathetically devised to distract his attention. "who gave you that?" he asked. "soames." there was no change in her face, but swithin's pale eyes bulged as though he might suddenly have been afflicted with insight. "i dare say you're dull at home," he said. "any day you like to come and dine with me, i'll give you as good a bottle of wine as you'll get in london." "miss june forsyte--mr. jolyon forsyte!... mr. boswainey!..." swithin moved his arm, and said in a rumbling voice: "dinner, now--dinner!" he took in irene, on the ground that he had not entertained her since she was a bride. june was the portion of bosinney, who was placed between irene and his fiancee. on the other side of june was james with mrs. nicholas, then old jolyon with mrs. james, nicholas with hatty chessman, soames with mrs. small, completing, the circle to swithin again. family dinners of the forsytes observe certain traditions. there are, for instance, no hors d'oeuvre. the reason for this is unknown. theory among the younger members traces it to the disgraceful price of oysters; it is more probably due to a desire to come to the point, to a good practical sense deciding at once that hors d'oeuvre are but poor things. the jameses alone, unable to withstand a custom almost universal in park lane, are now and then unfaithful. a silent, almost morose, inattention to each other succeeds to the subsidence into their seats, lasting till well into the first entree, but interspersed with remarks such as, "tom's bad again; i can't tell what's the matter with him!" "i suppose ann doesn't come down in the mornings?"--"what's the name of your doctor, fanny?" "stubbs?" "he's a quack!"--"winifred? she's got too many children. four, isn't it? she's as thin as a lath!"--"what d'you give for this sherry, swithin? too dry for me!" with the second glass of champagne, a kind of hum makes itself heard, which, when divested of casual accessories and resolved into its primal element, is found to be james telling a story, and this goes on for a long time, encroaching sometimes even upon what must universally be recognised as the crowning point of a forsyte feast--'the saddle of mutton.' no forsyte has given a dinner without providing a saddle of mutton. there is something in its succulent solidity which makes it suitable to people 'of a certain position.' it is nourishing and tasty; the sort of thing a man remembers eating. it has a past and a future, like a deposit paid into a bank; and it is something that can be argued about. each branch of the family tenaciously held to a particular locality--old jolyon swearing by dartmoor, james by welsh, swithin by southdown, nicholas maintaining that people might sneer, but there was nothing like new zealand! as for roger, the 'original' of the brothers, he had been obliged to invent a locality of his own, and with an ingenuity worthy of a man who had devised a new profession for his sons, he had discovered a shop where they sold german; on being remonstrated with, he had proved his point by producing a butcher's bill, which showed that he paid more than any of the others. it was on this occasion that old jolyon, turning to june, had said in one of his bursts of philosophy: "you may depend upon it, they're a cranky lot, the forsytes--and you'll find it out, as you grow older!" timothy alone held apart, for though he ate saddle of mutton heartily, he was, he said, afraid of it. to anyone interested psychologically in forsytes, this great saddle-of-mutton trait is of prime importance; not only does it illustrate their tenacity, both collectively and as individuals, but it marks them as belonging in fibre and instincts to that great class which believes in nourishment and flavour, and yields to no sentimental craving for beauty. younger members of the family indeed would have done without a joint altogether, preferring guinea-fowl, or lobster salad--something which appealed to the imagination, and had less nourishment--but these were females; or, if not, had been corrupted by their wives, or by mothers, who having been forced to eat saddle of mutton throughout their married lives, had passed a secret hostility towards it into the fibre of their sons. the great saddle-of-mutton controversy at an end, a tewkesbury ham commenced, together with the least touch of west indian--swithin was so long over this course that he caused a block in the progress of the dinner. to devote himself to it with better heart, he paused in his conversation. from his seat by mrs. septimus small soames was watching. he had a reason of his own connected with a pet building scheme, for observing bosinney. the architect might do for his purpose; he looked clever, as he sat leaning back in his chair, moodily making little ramparts with bread-crumbs. soames noted his dress clothes to be well cut, but too small, as though made many years ago. he saw him turn to irene and say something and her face sparkle as he often saw it sparkle at other people--never at himself. he tried to catch what they were saying, but aunt juley was speaking. hadn't that always seemed very extraordinary to soames? only last sunday dear mr. scole, had been so witty in his sermon, so sarcastic, "for what," he had said, "shall it profit a man if he gain his own soul, but lose all his property?" that, he had said, was the motto of the middle-class; now, what had he meant by that? of course, it might be what middle-class people believed--she didn't know; what did soames think? he answered abstractedly: "how should i know? scoles is a humbug, though, isn't he?" for bosinney was looking round the table, as if pointing out the peculiarities of the guests, and soames wondered what he was saying. by her smile irene was evidently agreeing with his remarks. she seemed always to agree with other people. her eyes were turned on himself; soames dropped his glance at once. the smile had died off her lips. a humbug? but what did soames mean? if mr. scoles was a humbug, a clergyman--then anybody might be--it was frightful! "well, and so they are!" said soames. during aunt juley's momentary and horrified silence he caught some words of irene's that sounded like: 'abandon hope, all ye who enter here!' but swithin had finished his ham. "where do you go for your mushrooms?" he was saying to irene in a voice like a courtier's; "you ought to go to smileybob's--he'll give 'em you fresh. these little men, they won't take the trouble!" irene turned to answer him, and soames saw bosinney watching her and smiling to himself. a curious smile the fellow had. a half-simple arrangement, like a child who smiles when he is pleased. as for george's nickname--'the buccaneer'--he did not think much of that. and, seeing bosinney turn to june, soames smiled too, but sardonically--he did not like june, who was not looking too pleased. this was not surprising, for she had just held the following conversation with james: "i stayed on the river on my way home, uncle james, and saw a beautiful site for a house." james, a slow and thorough eater, stopped the process of mastication. "eh?" he said. "now, where was that?" "close to pangbourne." james placed a piece of ham in his mouth, and june waited. "i suppose you wouldn't know whether the land about there was freehold?" he asked at last. "you wouldn't know anything about the price of land about there?" "yes," said june; "i made inquiries." her little resolute face under its copper crown was suspiciously eager and aglow. james regarded her with the air of an inquisitor. "what? you're not thinking of buying land!" he ejaculated, dropping his fork. june was greatly encouraged by his interest. it had long been her pet plan that her uncles should benefit themselves and bosinney by building country-houses. "of course not," she said. "i thought it would be such a splendid place for--you or--someone to build a country-house!" james looked at her sideways, and placed a second piece of ham in his mouth.... "land ought to be very dear about there," he said. what june had taken for personal interest was only the impersonal excitement of every forsyte who hears of something eligible in danger of passing into other hands. but she refused to see the disappearance of her chance, and continued to press her point. "you ought to go into the country, uncle james. i wish i had a lot of money, i wouldn't live another day in london." james was stirred to the depths of his long thin figure; he had no idea his niece held such downright views. "why don't you go into the country?" repeated june; "it would do you a lot of good." "why?" began james in a fluster. "buying land--what good d'you suppose i can do buying land, building houses?--i couldn't get four per cent. for my money!" "what does that matter? you'd get fresh air." "fresh air!" exclaimed james; "what should i do with fresh air," "i should have thought anybody liked to have fresh air," said june scornfully. james wiped his napkin all over his mouth. "you don't know the value of money," he said, avoiding her eye. "no! and i hope i never shall!" and, biting her lip with inexpressible mortification, poor june was silent. why were her own relations so rich, and phil never knew where the money was coming from for to-morrow's tobacco. why couldn't they do something for him? but they were so selfish. why couldn't they build country-houses? she had all that naive dogmatism which is so pathetic, and sometimes achieves such great results. bosinney, to whom she turned in her discomfiture, was talking to irene, and a chill fell on june's spirit. her eyes grew steady with anger, like old jolyon's when his will was crossed. james, too, was much disturbed. he felt as though someone had threatened his right to invest his money at five per cent. jolyon had spoiled her. none of his girls would have said such a thing. james had always been exceedingly liberal to his children, and the consciousness of this made him feel it all the more deeply. he trifled moodily with his strawberries, then, deluging them with cream, he ate them quickly; they, at all events, should not escape him. no wonder he was upset. engaged for fifty-four years (he had been admitted a solicitor on the earliest day sanctioned by the law) in arranging mortgages, preserving investments at a dead level of high and safe interest, conducting negotiations on the principle of securing the utmost possible out of other people compatible with safety to his clients and himself, in calculations as to the exact pecuniary possibilities of all the relations of life, he had come at last to think purely in terms of money. money was now his light, his medium for seeing, that without which he was really unable to see, really not cognisant of phenomena; and to have this thing, "i hope i shall never know the value of money!" said to his face, saddened and exasperated him. he knew it to be nonsense, or it would have frightened him. what was the world coming to! suddenly recollecting the story of young jolyon, however, he felt a little comforted, for what could you expect with a father like that! this turned his thoughts into a channel still less pleasant. what was all this talk about soames and irene? as in all self-respecting families, an emporium had been established where family secrets were bartered, and family stock priced. it was known on forsyte 'change that irene regretted her marriage. her regret was disapproved of. she ought to have known her own mind; no dependable woman made these mistakes. james reflected sourly that they had a nice house (rather small) in an excellent position, no children, and no money troubles. soames was reserved about his affairs, but he must be getting a very warm man. he had a capital income from the business--for soames, like his father, was a member of that well-known firm of solicitors, forsyte, bustard and forsyte--and had always been very careful. he had done quite unusually well with some mortgages he had taken up, too--a little timely foreclosure--most lucky hits! there was no reason why irene should not be happy, yet they said she'd been asking for a separate room. he knew where that ended. it wasn't as if soames drank. james looked at his daughter-in-law. that unseen glance of his was cold and dubious. appeal and fear were in it, and a sense of personal grievance. why should he be worried like this? it was very likely all nonsense; women were funny things! they exaggerated so, you didn't know what to believe; and then, nobody told him anything, he had to find out everything for himself. again he looked furtively at irene, and across from her to soames. the latter, listening to aunt juley, was looking up, under his brows in the direction of bosinney. 'he's fond of her, i know,' thought james. 'look at the way he's always giving her things.' and the extraordinary unreasonableness of her disaffection struck him with increased force. it was a pity, too, she was a taking little thing, and he, james, would be really quite fond of her if she'd only let him. she had taken up lately with june; that was doing her no good, that was certainly doing her no good. she was getting to have opinions of her own. he didn't know what she wanted with anything of the sort. she'd a good home, and everything she could wish for. he felt that her friends ought to be chosen for her. to go on like this was dangerous. june, indeed, with her habit of championing the unfortunate, had dragged from irene a confession, and, in return, had preached the necessity of facing the evil, by separation, if need be. but in the face of these exhortations, irene had kept a brooding silence, as though she found terrible the thought of this struggle carried through in cold blood. he would never give her up, she had said to june. "who cares?" june cried; "let him do what he likes--you've only to stick to it!" and she had not scrupled to say something of this sort at timothy's; james, when he heard of it, had felt a natural indignation and horror. what if irene were to take it into her head to--he could hardly frame the thought--to leave soames? but he felt this thought so unbearable that he at once put it away; the shady visions it conjured up, the sound of family tongues buzzing in his ears, the horror of the conspicuous happening so close to him, to one of his own children! luckily, she had no money--a beggarly fifty pound a year! and he thought of the deceased heron, who had had nothing to leave her, with contempt. brooding over his glass, his long legs twisted under the table, he quite omitted to rise when the ladies left the room. he would have to speak to soames --would have to put him on his guard; they could not go on like this, now that such a contingency had occurred to him. and he noticed with sour disfavour that june had left her wine-glasses full of wine. 'that little, thing's at the bottom of it all,' he mused; 'irene'd never have thought of it herself.' james was a man of imagination. the voice of swithin roused him from his reverie. "i gave four hundred pounds for it," he was saying. "of course it's a regular work of art." "four hundred! h'm! that's a lot of money!" chimed in nicholas. the object alluded to was an elaborate group of statuary in italian marble, which, placed upon a lofty stand (also of marble), diffused an atmosphere of culture throughout the room. the subsidiary figures, of which there were six, female, nude, and of highly ornate workmanship, were all pointing towards the central figure, also nude, and female, who was pointing at herself; and all this gave the observer a very pleasant sense of her extreme value. aunt juley, nearly opposite, had had the greatest difficulty in not looking at it all the evening. old jolyon spoke; it was he who had started the discussion. "four hundred fiddlesticks! don't tell me you gave four hundred for that?" between the points of his collar swithin's chin made the second painful oscillatory movement of the evening. "four-hundred-pounds, of english money; not a farthing less. i don't regret it. it's not common english--it's genuine modern italian!" soames raised the corner of his lip in a smile, and looked across at bosinney. the architect was grinning behind the fumes of his cigarette. now, indeed, he looked more like a buccaneer. "there's a lot of work about it," remarked james hastily, who was really moved by the size of the group. "it'd sell well at jobson's." "the poor foreign dey-vil that made it," went on swithin, "asked me five hundred--i gave him four. it's worth eight. looked half-starved, poor dey-vil!" "ah!" chimed in nicholas suddenly, "poor, seedy-lookin' chaps, these artists; it's a wonder to me how they live. now, there's young flageoletti, that fanny and the girls are always hav'in' in, to play the fiddle; if he makes a hundred a year it's as much as ever he does!" james shook his head. "ah!" he said, "i don't know how they live!" old jolyon had risen, and, cigar in mouth, went to inspect the group at close quarters. "wouldn't have given two for it!" he pronounced at last. soames saw his father and nicholas glance at each other anxiously; and, on the other side of swithin, bosinney, still shrouded in smoke. 'i wonder what he thinks of it?' thought soames, who knew well enough that this group was hopelessly vieux jeu; hopelessly of the last generation. there was no longer any sale at jobson's for such works of art. swithin's answer came at last. "you never knew anything about a statue. you've got your pictures, and that's all!" old jolyon walked back to his seat, puffing his cigar. it was not likely that he was going to be drawn into an argument with an obstinate beggar like swithin, pig-headed as a mule, who had never known a statue from a---straw hat. "stucco!" was all he said. it had long been physically impossible for swithin to start; his fist came down on the table. "stucco! i should like to see anything you've got in your house half as good!" and behind his speech seemed to sound again that rumbling violence of primitive generations. it was james who saved the situation. "now, what do you say, mr. bosinney? you're an architect; you ought to know all about statues and things!" every eye was turned upon bosinney; all waited with a strange, suspicious look for his answer. and soames, speaking for the first time, asked: "yes, bosinney, what do you say?" bosinney replied coolly: "the work is a remarkable one." his words were addressed to swithin, his eyes smiled slyly at old jolyon; only soames remained unsatisfied. "remarkable for what?" "for its naivete" the answer was followed by an impressive silence; swithin alone was not sure whether a compliment was intended. chapter iv projection of the house soames forsyte walked out of his green-painted front door three days after the dinner at swithin's, and looking back from across the square, confirmed his impression that the house wanted painting. he had left his wife sitting on the sofa in the drawing-room, her hands crossed in her lap, manifestly waiting for him to go out. this was not unusual. it happened, in fact, every day. he could not understand what she found wrong with him. it was not as if he drank! did he run into debt, or gamble, or swear; was he violent; were his friends rackety; did he stay out at night? on the contrary. the profound, subdued aversion which he felt in his wife was a mystery to him, and a source of the most terrible irritation. that she had made a mistake, and did not love him, had tried to love him and could not love him, was obviously no reason. he that could imagine so outlandish a cause for his wife's not getting on with him was certainly no forsyte. soames was forced, therefore, to set the blame entirely down to his wife. he had never met a woman so capable of inspiring affection. they could not go anywhere without his seeing how all the men were attracted by her; their looks, manners, voices, betrayed it; her behaviour under this attention had been beyond reproach. that she was one of those women--not too common in the anglo-saxon race--born to be loved and to love, who when not loving are not living, had certainly never even occurred to him. her power of attraction, he regarded as part of her value as his property; but it made him, indeed, suspect that she could give as well as receive; and she gave him nothing! 'then why did she marry me?' was his continual thought. he had, forgotten his courtship; that year and a half when he had besieged and lain in wait for her, devising schemes for her entertainment, giving her presents, proposing to her periodically, and keeping her other admirers away with his perpetual presence. he had forgotten the day when, adroitly taking advantage of an acute phase of her dislike to her home surroundings, he crowned his labours with success. if he remembered anything, it was the dainty capriciousness with which the gold-haired, dark-eyed girl had treated him. he certainly did not remember the look on her face--strange, passive, appealing--when suddenly one day she had yielded, and said that she would marry him. it had been one of those real devoted wooings which books and people praise, when the lover is at length rewarded for hammering the iron till it is malleable, and all must be happy ever after as the wedding bells. soames walked eastwards, mousing doggedly along on the shady side. the house wanted doing, up, unless he decided to move into the country, and build. for the hundredth time that month he turned over this problem. there was no use in rushing into things! he was very comfortably off, with an increasing income getting on for three thousand a year; but his invested capital was not perhaps so large as his father believed--james had a tendency to expect that his children should be better off than they were. 'i can manage eight thousand easily enough,' he thought, 'without calling in either robertson's or nicholl's.' he had stopped to look in at a picture shop, for soames was an 'amateur' of pictures, and had a little-room in no. , montpellier square, full of canvases, stacked against the wall, which he had no room to hang. he brought them home with him on his way back from the city, generally after dark, and would enter this room on sunday afternoons, to spend hours turning the pictures to the light, examining the marks on their backs, and occasionally making notes. they were nearly all landscapes with figures in the foreground, a sign of some mysterious revolt against london, its tall houses, its interminable streets, where his life and the lives of his breed and class were passed. every now and then he would take one or two pictures away with him in a cab, and stop at jobson's on his way into the city. he rarely showed them to anyone; irene, whose opinion he secretly respected and perhaps for that reason never solicited, had only been into the room on rare occasions, in discharge of some wifely duty. she was not asked to look at the pictures, and she never did. to soames this was another grievance. he hated that pride of hers, and secretly dreaded it. in the plate-glass window of the picture shop his image stood and looked at him. his sleek hair under the brim of the tall hat had a sheen like the hat itself; his cheeks, pale and flat, the line of his clean-shaven lips, his firm chin with its greyish shaven tinge, and the buttoned strictness of his black cut-away coat, conveyed an appearance of reserve and secrecy, of imperturbable, enforced composure; but his eyes, cold,--grey, strained--looking, with a line in the brow between them, examined him wistfully, as if they knew of a secret weakness. he noted the subjects of the pictures, the names of the painters, made a calculation of their values, but without the satisfaction he usually derived from this inward appraisement, and walked on. no. would do well enough for another year, if he decided to build! the times were good for building, money had not been so dear for years; and the site he had seen at robin hill, when he had gone down there in the spring to inspect the nicholl mortgage--what could be better! within twelve miles of hyde park corner, the value of the land certain to go up, would always fetch more than he gave for it; so that a house, if built in really good style, was a first-class investment. the notion of being the one member of his family with a country house weighed but little with him; for to a true forsyte, sentiment, even the sentiment of social position, was a luxury only to be indulged in after his appetite for more material pleasure had been satisfied. to get irene out of london, away from opportunities of going about and seeing people, away from her friends and those who put ideas into her head! that was the thing! she was too thick with june! june disliked him. he returned the sentiment. they were of the same blood. it would be everything to get irene out of town. the house would please her she would enjoy messing about with the decoration, she was very artistic! the house must be in good style, something that would always be certain to command a price, something unique, like that last house of parkes, which had a tower; but parkes had himself said that his architect was ruinous. you never knew where you were with those fellows; if they had a name they ran you into no end of expense and were conceited into the bargain. and a common architect was no good--the memory of parkes' tower precluded the employment of a common architect: this was why he had thought of bosinney. since the dinner at swithin's he had made enquiries, the result of which had been meagre, but encouraging: "one of the new school." "clever?" "as clever as you like--a bit--a bit up in the air!" he had not been able to discover what houses bosinney had built, nor what his charges were. the impression he gathered was that he would be able to make his own terms. the more he reflected on the idea, the more he liked it. it would be keeping the thing in the family, with forsytes almost an instinct; and he would be able to get 'favoured-nation,' if not nominal terms--only fair, considering the chance to bosinney of displaying his talents, for this house must be no common edifice. soames reflected complacently on the work it would be sure to bring the young man; for, like every forsyte, he could be a thorough optimist when there was anything to be had out of it. bosinney's office was in sloane street, close at, hand, so that he would be able to keep his eye continually on the plans. again, irene would not be to likely to object to leave london if her greatest friend's lover were given the job. june's marriage might depend on it. irene could not decently stand in the way of june's marriage; she would never do that, he knew her too well. and june would be pleased; of this he saw the advantage. bosinney looked clever, but he had also--and--it was one of his great attractions--an air as if he did not quite know on which side his bread were buttered; he should be easy to deal with in money matters. soames made this reflection in no defrauding spirit; it was the natural attitude of his mind--of the mind of any good business man--of all those thousands of good business men through whom he was threading his way up ludgate hill. thus he fulfilled the inscrutable laws of his great class--of human nature itself--when he reflected, with a sense of comfort, that bosinney would be easy to deal with in money matters. while he elbowed his way on, his eyes, which he usually kept fixed on the ground before his feet, were attracted upwards by the dome of st. paul's. it had a peculiar fascination for him, that old dome, and not once, but twice or three times a week, would he halt in his daily pilgrimage to enter beneath and stop in the side aisles for five or ten minutes, scrutinizing the names and epitaphs on the monuments. the attraction for him of this great church was inexplicable, unless it enabled him to concentrate his thoughts on the business of the day. if any affair of particular moment, or demanding peculiar acuteness, was weighing on his mind, he invariably went in, to wander with mouse-like attention from epitaph to epitaph. then retiring in the same noiseless way, he would hold steadily on up cheapside, a thought more of dogged purpose in his gait, as though he had seen something which he had made up his mind to buy. he went in this morning, but, instead of stealing from monument to monument, turned his eyes upwards to the columns and spacings of the walls, and remained motionless. his uplifted face, with the awed and wistful look which faces take on themselves in church, was whitened to a chalky hue in the vast building. his gloved hands were clasped in front over the handle of his umbrella. he lifted them. some sacred inspiration perhaps had come to him. 'yes,' he thought, 'i must have room to hang my pictures. that evening, on his return from the city, he called at bosinney's office. he found the architect in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe, and ruling off lines on a plan. soames refused a drink, and came at once to the point. "if you've nothing better to do on sunday, come down with me to robin hill, and give me your opinion on a building site." "are you going to build?" "perhaps," said soames; "but don't speak of it. i just want your opinion." "quite so," said the architect. soames peered about the room. "you're rather high up here," he remarked. any information he could gather about the nature and scope of bosinney's business would be all to the good. "it does well enough for me so far," answered the architect. "you're accustomed to the swells." he knocked out his pipe, but replaced it empty between his teeth; it assisted him perhaps to carry on the conversation. soames noted a hollow in each cheek, made as it were by suction. "what do you pay for an office like this?" said he. "fifty too much," replied bosinney. this answer impressed soames favourably. "i suppose it is dear," he said. "i'll call for you--on sunday about eleven." the following sunday therefore he called for bosinney in a hansom, and drove him to the station. on arriving at robin hill, they found no cab, and started to walk the mile and a half to the site. it was the st of august--a perfect day, with a burning sun and cloudless sky--and in the straight, narrow road leading up the hill their feet kicked up a yellow dust. "gravel soil," remarked soames, and sideways he glanced at the coat bosinney wore. into the side-pockets of this coat were thrust bundles of papers, and under one arm was carried a queer-looking stick. soames noted these and other peculiarities. no one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have taken such liberties with his appearance; and though these eccentricities were revolting to soames, he derived a certain satisfaction from them, as evidence of qualities by which he must inevitably profit. if the fellow could build houses, what did his clothes matter? "i told you," he said, "that i want this house to be a surprise, so don't say anything about it. i never talk of my affairs until they're carried through." bosinney nodded. "let women into your plans," pursued soames, "and you never know where it'll end." "ah!" said bosinney, "women are the devil!" this feeling had long been at the--bottom of soames's heart; he had never, however, put it into words. "oh!" he muttered, "so you're beginning to...." he stopped, but added, with an uncontrollable burst of spite: "june's got a temper of her own--always had." "a temper's not a bad thing in an angel." soames had never called irene an angel. he could not so have violated his best instincts, letting other people into the secret of her value, and giving himself away. he made no reply. they had struck into a half-made road across a warren. a cart-track led at right-angles to a gravel pit, beyond which the chimneys of a cottage rose amongst a clump of trees at the border of a thick wood. tussocks of feathery grass covered the rough surface of the ground, and out of these the larks soared into the hate of sunshine. on the far horizon, over a countless succession of fields and hedges, rose a line of downs. soames led till they had crossed to the far side, and there he stopped. it was the chosen site; but now that he was about to divulge the spot to another he had become uneasy. "the agent lives in that cottage," he said; "he'll give us some lunch--we'd better have lunch before we go into this matter." he again took the lead to the cottage, where the agent, a tall man named oliver, with a heavy face and grizzled beard, welcomed them. during lunch, which soames hardly touched, he kept looking at bosinney, and once or twice passed his silk handkerchief stealthily over his forehead. the meal came to an end at last, and bosinney rose. "i dare say you've got business to talk over," he said; "i'll just go and nose about a bit." without waiting for a reply he strolled out. soames was solicitor to this estate, and he spent nearly an hour in the agent's company, looking at ground-plans and discussing the nicholl and other mortgages; it was as it were by an afterthought that he brought up the question of the building site. "your people," he said, "ought to come down in their price to me, considering that i shall be the first to build." oliver shook his head. the site you've fixed on, sir, he said, "is the cheapest we've got. sites at the top of the slope are dearer by a good bit." "mind," said soames, "i've not decided; it's quite possible i shan't build at all. the ground rent's very high." "well, mr. forsyte, i shall be sorry if you go off, and i think you'll make a mistake, sir. there's not a bit of land near london with such a view as this, nor one that's cheaper, all things considered; we've only to advertise, to get a mob of people after it." they looked at each other. their faces said very plainly: 'i respect you as a man of business; and you can't expect me to believe a word you say.' well, repeated soames, "i haven't made up my mind; the thing will very likely go off!" with these words, taking up his umbrella, he put his chilly hand into the agent's, withdrew it without the faintest pressure, and went out into the sun. he walked slowly back towards the site in deep thought. his instinct told him that what the agent had said was true. a cheap site. and the beauty of it was, that he knew the agent did not really think it cheap; so that his own intuitive knowledge was a victory over the agent's. 'cheap or not, i mean to have it,' he thought. the larks sprang up in front of his feet, the air was full of butterflies, a sweet fragrance rose from the wild grasses. the sappy scent of the bracken stole forth from the wood, where, hidden in the depths, pigeons were cooing, and from afar on the warm breeze, came the rhythmic chiming of church bells. soames walked with his eyes on the ground, his lips opening and closing as though in anticipation of a delicious morsel. but when he arrived at the site, bosinney was nowhere to be seen. after waiting some little time, he crossed the warren in the direction of the slope. he would have shouted, but dreaded the sound of his voice. the warren was as lonely as a prairie, its silence only broken by the rustle of rabbits bolting to their holes, and the song of the larks. soames, the pioneer-leader of the great forsyte army advancing to the civilization of this wilderness, felt his spirit daunted by the loneliness, by the invisible singing, and the hot, sweet air. he had begun to retrace his steps when he at last caught sight of bosinney. the architect was sprawling under a large oak tree, whose trunk, with a huge spread of bough and foliage, ragged with age, stood on the verge of the rise. soames had to touch him on the shoulder before he looked up. "hallo! forsyte," he said, "i've found the very place for your house! look here!" soames stood and looked, then he said, coldly: "you may be very clever, but this site will cost me half as much again." "hang the cost, man. look at the view!" almost from their feet stretched ripe corn, dipping to a small dark copse beyond. a plain of fields and hedges spread to the distant grey-bluedowns. in a silver streak to the right could be seen the line of the river. the sky was so blue, and the sun so bright, that an eternal summer seemed to reign over this prospect. thistledown floated round them, enraptured by the serenity, of the ether. the heat danced over the corn, and, pervading all, was a soft, insensible hum, like the murmur of bright minutes holding revel between earth and heaven. soames looked. in spite of himself, something swelled in his breast. to live here in sight of all this, to be able to point it out to his friends, to talk of it, to possess it! his cheeks flushed. the warmth, the radiance, the glow, were sinking into his senses as, four years before, irene's beauty had sunk into his senses and made him long for her. he stole a glance at bosinney, whose eyes, the eyes of the coachman's 'half-tame leopard,' seemed running wild over the landscape. the sunlight had caught the promontories of the fellow's face, the bumpy cheekbones, the point of his chin, the vertical ridges above his brow; and soames watched this rugged, enthusiastic, careless face with an unpleasant feeling. a long, soft ripple of wind flowed over the corn, and brought a puff of warm air into their faces. "i could build you a teaser here," said bosinney, breaking the silence at last. "i dare say," replied soames, drily. "you haven't got to pay for it." "for about eight thousand i could build you a palace." soames had become very pale--a struggle was going on within him. he dropped his eyes, and said stubbornly: "i can't afford it." and slowly, with his mousing walk, he led the way back to the first site. they spent some time there going into particulars of the projected house, and then soames returned to the agent's cottage. he came out in about half an hour, and, joining bosinney, started for the station. "well," he said, hardly opening his lips, "i've taken that site of yours, after all." and again he was silent, confusedly debating how it was that this fellow, whom by habit he despised, should have overborne his own decision. chapter v a forsyte menage like the enlightened thousands of his class and generation in this great city of london, who no longer believe in red velvet chairs, and know that groups of modern italian marble are 'vieux jeu,' soames forsyte inhabited a house which did what it could. it owned a copper door knocker of individual design, windows which had been altered to open outwards, hanging flower boxes filled with fuchsias, and at the back (a great feature) a little court tiled with jade-green tiles, and surrounded by pink hydrangeas in peacock-blue tubs. here, under a parchment-coloured japanese sunshade covering the whole end, inhabitants or visitors could be screened from the eyes of the curious while they drank tea and examined at their leisure the latest of soames's little silver boxes. the inner decoration favoured the first empire and william morris. for its size, the house was commodious; there were countless nooks resembling birds' nests, and little things made of silver were deposited like eggs. in this general perfection two kinds of fastidiousness were at war. there lived here a mistress who would have dwelt daintily on a desert island; a master whose daintiness was, as it were, an investment, cultivated by the owner for his advancement, in accordance with the laws of competition. this competitive daintiness had caused soames in his marlborough days to be the first boy into white waistcoats in summer, and corduroy waistcoats in winter, had prevented him from ever appearing in public with his tie climbing up his collar, and induced him to dust his patent leather boots before a great multitude assembled on speech day to hear him recite moliere. skin-like immaculateness had grown over soames, as over many londoners; impossible to conceive of him with a hair out of place, a tie deviating one-eighth of an inch from the perpendicular, a collar unglossed! he would not have gone without a bath for worlds--it was the fashion to take baths; and how bitter was his scorn of people who omitted them! but irene could be imagined, like some nymph, bathing in wayside streams, for the joy of the freshness and of seeing her own fair body. in this conflict throughout the house the woman had gone to the wall. as in the struggle between saxon and celt still going on within the nation, the more impressionable and receptive temperament had had forced on it a conventional superstructure. thus the house had acquired a close resemblance to hundreds of other houses with the same high aspirations, having become: 'that very charming little house of the soames forsytes, quite individual, my dear--really elegant.' for soames forsyte--read james peabody, thomas atkins, or emmanuel spagnoletti, the name in fact of any upper-middle class englishman in london with any pretensions to taste; and though the decoration be different, the phrase is just. on the evening of august , a week after the expedition to robin hill, in the dining-room of this house--'quite individual, my dear--really elegant'--soames and irene were seated at dinner. a hot dinner on sundays was a little distinguishing elegance common to this house and many others. early in married life soames had laid down the rule: 'the servants must give us hot dinner on sundays--they've nothing to do but play the concertina.' the custom had produced no revolution. for--to soames a rather deplorable sign--servants were devoted to irene, who, in defiance of all safe tradition, appeared to recognise their right to a share in the weaknesses of human nature. the happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth--a distinguishing elegance--and so far had not spoken a word. soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had been buying, and so long as he talked irene's silence did not distress him. this evening he had found it impossible to talk. the decision to build had been weighing on his mind all the week, and he had made up his mind to tell her. his nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; she had no business to make him feel like that--a wife and a husband being one person. she had not looked at him once since they sat down; and he wondered what on earth she had been thinking about all the time. it was hard, when a man worked as he did, making money for her--yes, and with an ache in his heart--that she should sit there, looking--looking as if she saw the walls of the room closing in. it was enough to make a man get up and leave the table. the light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms--soames liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an inexpressible feeling of superiority to the majority of his acquaintance, whose wives were contented with their best high frocks or with tea-gowns, when they dined at home. under that rosy light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin made strange contrast with her dark brown eyes. could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its deep tints, the starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured glass, and quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier than the woman who sat at it? gratitude was no virtue among forsytes, who, competitive, and full of common-sense, had no occasion for it; and soames only experienced a sense of exasperation amounting to pain, that he did not own her as it was his right to own her, that he could not, as by stretching out his hand to that rose, pluck her and sniff the very secrets of her heart. out of his other property, out of all the things he had collected, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, he got a secret and intimate feeling; out of her he got none. in this house of his there was writing on every wall. his business-like temperament protested against a mysterious warning that she was not made for him. he had married this woman, conquered her, made her his own, and it seemed to him contrary to the most fundamental of all laws, the law of possession, that he could do no more than own her body--if indeed he could do that, which he was beginning to doubt. if any one had asked him if he wanted to own her soul, the question would have seemed to him both ridiculous and sentimental. but he did so want, and the writing said he never would. she was ever silent, passive, gracefully averse; as though terrified lest by word, motion, or sign she might lead him to believe that she was fond of him; and he asked himself: must i always go on like this? like most novel readers of his generation (and soames was a great novel reader), literature coloured his view of life; and he had imbibed the belief that it was only a question of time. in the end the husband always gained the affection of his wife. even in those cases--a class of book he was not very fond of--which ended in tragedy, the wife always died with poignant regrets on her lips, or if it were the husband who died--unpleasant thought--threw herself on his body in an agony of remorse. he often took irene to the theatre, instinctively choosing the modern society plays with the modern society conjugal problem, so fortunately different from any conjugal problem in real life. he found that they too always ended in the same way, even when there was a lover in the case. while he was watching the play soames often sympathized with the lover; but before he reached home again, driving with irene in a hansom, he saw that this would not do, and he was glad the play had ended as it had. there was one class of husband that had just then come into fashion, the strong, rather rough, but extremely sound man, who was peculiarly successful at the end of the play; with this person soames was really not in sympathy, and had it not been for his own position, would have expressed his disgust with the fellow. but he was so conscious of how vital to himself was the necessity for being a successful, even a 'strong,' husband, that he never spoke of a distaste born perhaps by the perverse processes of nature out of a secret fund of brutality in himself. but irene's silence this evening was exceptional. he had never before seen such an expression on her face. and since it is always the unusual which alarms, soames was alarmed. he ate his savoury, and hurried the maid as she swept off the crumbs with the silver sweeper. when she had left the room, he filled his glass with wine and said: "anybody been here this afternoon?" "june." "what did she want?" it was an axiom with the forsytes that people did not go anywhere unless they wanted something. "came to talk about her lover, i suppose?" irene made no reply. "it looks to me," continued soames, "as if she were sweeter on him than he is on her. she's always following him about." irene's eyes made him feel uncomfortable. "you've no business to say such a thing!" she exclaimed. "why not? anybody can see it." "they cannot. and if they could, it's disgraceful to say so." soames's composure gave way. "you're a pretty wife!" he said. but secretly he wondered at the heat of her reply; it was unlike her. "you're cracked about june! i can tell you one thing: now that she has the buccaneer in tow, she doesn't care twopence about you, and, you'll find it out. but you won't see so much of her in future; we're going to live in the country." he had been glad to get his news out under cover of this burst of irritation. he had expected a cry of dismay; the silence with which his pronouncement was received alarmed him. "you don't seem interested," he was obliged to add. "i knew it already." he looked at her sharply. "who told you?" "june." "how did she know?" irene did not answer. baffled and uncomfortable, he said: "it's a fine thing for bosinney, it'll be the making of him. i suppose she's told you all about it?" "yes." there was another pause, and then soames said: "i suppose you don't want to, go?" irene made no reply. "well, i can't tell what you want. you never seem contented here." "have my wishes anything to do with it?" she took the vase of roses and left the room. soames remained seated. was it for this that he had signed that contract? was it for this that he was going to spend some ten thousand pounds? bosinney's phrase came back to him: "women are the devil!" but presently he grew calmer. it might have, been worse. she might have flared up. he had expected something more than this. it was lucky, after all, that june had broken the ice for him. she must have wormed it out of bosinney; he might have known she would. he lighted his cigarette. after all, irene had not made a scene! she would come round--that was the best of her; she was cold, but not sulky. and, puffing the cigarette smoke at a lady-bird on the shining table, he plunged into a reverie about the house. it was no good worrying; he would go and make it up presently. she would be sitting out there in the dark, under the japanese sunshade, knitting. a beautiful, warm night.... in truth, june had come in that afternoon with shining eyes, and the words: "soames is a brick! it's splendid for phil--the very thing for him!" irene's face remaining dark and puzzled, she went on: "your new house at robin hill, of course. what? don't you know?" irene did not know. "oh! then, i suppose i oughtn't to have told you!" looking impatiently at her friend, she cried: "you look as if you didn't care. don't you see, it's what i've' been praying for--the very chance he's been wanting all this time. now you'll see what he can do;" and thereupon she poured out the whole story. since her own engagement she had not seemed much interested in her friend's position; the hours she spent with irene were given to confidences of her own; and at times, for all her affectionate pity, it was impossible to keep out of her smile a trace of compassionate contempt for the woman who had made such a mistake in her life--such a vast, ridiculous mistake. "he's to have all the decorations as well--a free hand. it's perfect--" june broke into laughter, her little figure quivered gleefully; she raised her hand, and struck a blow at a muslin curtain. "do you, know i even asked uncle james...." but, with a sudden dislike to mentioning that incident, she stopped; and presently, finding her friend so unresponsive, went away. she looked back from the pavement, and irene was still standing in the doorway. in response to her farewell wave, irene put her hand to her brow, and, turning slowly, shut the door.... soames went to the drawing-room presently, and peered at her through the window. out in the shadow of the japanese sunshade she was sitting very still, the lace on her white shoulders stirring with the soft rise and fall of her bosom. but about this silent creature sitting there so motionless, in the dark, there seemed a warmth, a hidden fervour of feeling, as if the whole of her being had been stirred, and some change were taking place in its very depths. he stole back to the dining-room unnoticed. chapter vi james at large it was not long before soames's determination to build went the round of the family, and created the flutter that any decision connected with property should make among forsytes. it was not his fault, for he had been determined that no one should know. june, in the fulness of her heart, had told mrs. small, giving her leave only to tell aunt ann--she thought it would cheer her, the poor old sweet! for aunt ann had kept her room now for many days. mrs. small told aunt ann at once, who, smiling as she lay back on her pillows, said in her distinct, trembling old voice: "it's very nice for dear june; but i hope they will be careful--it's rather dangerous!" when she was left alone again, a frown, like a cloud presaging a rainy morrow, crossed her face. while she was lying there so many days the process of recharging her will went on all the time; it spread to her face, too, and tightening movements were always in action at the corners of her lips. the maid smither, who had been in her service since girlhood, and was spoken of as "smither--a good girl--but so slow!"--the maid smither performed every morning with extreme punctiliousness the crowning ceremony of that ancient toilet. taking from the recesses of their pure white band-box those flat, grey curls, the insignia of personal dignity, she placed them securely in her mistress's hands, and turned her back. and every day aunts juley and hester were required to come and report on timothy; what news there was of nicholas; whether dear june had succeeded in getting jolyon to shorten the engagement, now that mr. bosinney was building soames a house; whether young roger's wife was really--expecting; how the operation on archie had succeeded; and what swithin had done about that empty house in wigmore street, where the tenant had lost all his money and treated him so badly; above all, about soames; was irene still--still asking for a separate room? and every morning smither was told: "i shall be coming down this afternoon, smither, about two o'clock. i shall want your arm, after all these days in bed!" after telling aunt ann, mrs. small had spoken of the house in the strictest confidence to mrs. nicholas, who in her turn had asked winifred dartie for confirmation, supposing, of course, that, being soames's sister, she would know all about it. through her it had in due course come round to the ears of james. he had been a good deal agitated. "nobody," he said, "told him anything." and, rather than go direct to soames himself, of whose taciturnity he was afraid, he took his umbrella and went round to timothy's. he found mrs. septimus and hester (who had been told--she was so safe, she found it tiring to talk) ready, and indeed eager, to discuss the news. it was very good of dear soames, they thought, to employ mr. bosinney, but rather risky. what had george named him? 'the buccaneer' how droll! but george was always droll! however, it would be all in the family they supposed they must really look upon mr. bosinney as belonging to the family, though it seemed strange. james here broke in: "nobody knows anything about him. i don't see what soames wants with a young man like that. i shouldn't be surprised if irene had put her oar in. i shall speak to...." "soames," interposed aunt juley, "told mr. bosinney that he didn't wish it mentioned. he wouldn't like it to be talked about, i'm sure, and if timothy knew he would be very vexed, i...." james put his hand behind his ear: "what?" he said. "i'm getting very deaf. i suppose i don't hear people. emily's got a bad toe. we shan't be able to start for wales till the end of the month. there' s always something!" and, having got what he wanted, he took his hat and went away. it was a fine afternoon, and he walked across the park towards soames's, where he intended to dine, for emily's toe kept her in bed, and rachel and cicely were on a visit to the country. he took the slanting path from the bayswater side of the row to the knightsbridge gate, across a pasture of short, burnt grass, dotted with blackened sheep, strewn with seated couples and strange waifs; lying prone on their faces, like corpses on a field over which the wave of battle has rolled. he walked rapidly, his head bent, looking neither to right nor, left. the appearance of this park, the centre of his own battle-field, where he had all his life been fighting, excited no thought or speculation in his mind. these corpses flung down, there, from out the press and turmoil of the struggle, these pairs of lovers sitting cheek by jowl for an hour of idle elysium snatched from the monotony of their treadmill, awakened no fancies in his mind; he had outlived that kind of imagination; his nose, like the nose of a sheep, was fastened to the pastures on which he browsed. one of his tenants had lately shown a disposition to be behind-hand in his rent, and it had become a grave question whether he had not better turn him out at once, and so run the risk of not re-letting before christmas. swithin had just been let in very badly, but it had served him right--he had held on too long. he pondered this as he walked steadily, holding his umbrella carefully by the wood, just below the crook of the handle, so as to keep the ferule off the ground, and not fray the silk in the middle. and, with his thin, high shoulders stooped, his long legs moving with swift mechanical precision, this passage through the park, where the sun shone with a clear flame on so much idleness--on so many human evidences of the remorseless battle of property, raging beyond its ring--was like the flight of some land bird across the sea. he felt a--touch on the arm as he came out at albert gate. it was soames, who, crossing from the shady side of piccadilly, where he had been walking home from the office, had suddenly appeared alongside. "your mother's in bed," said james; "i was, just coming to you, but i suppose i shall be in the way." the outward relations between james and his son were marked by a lack of sentiment peculiarly forsytean, but for all that the two were by no means unattached. perhaps they regarded one another as an investment; certainly they were solicitous of each other's welfare, glad of each other's company. they had never exchanged two words upon the more intimate problems of life, or revealed in each other's presence the existence of any deep feeling. something beyond the power of word-analysis bound them together, something hidden deep in the fibre of nations and families--for blood, they say, is thicker than water--and neither of them was a cold-blooded man. indeed, in james love of his children was now the prime motive of his existence. to have creatures who were parts of himself, to whom he might transmit the money he saved, was at the root of his saving; and, at seventy-five, what was left that could give him pleasure, but--saving? the kernel of life was in this saving for his children. than james forsyte, notwithstanding all his 'jonah-isms,' there was no saner man (if the leading symptom of sanity, as we are told, is self-preservation, though without doubt timothy went too far) in all this london, of which he owned so much, and loved with such a dumb love, as the centre of his opportunities. he had the marvellous instinctive sanity of the middle class. in him--more than in jolyon, with his masterful will and his moments of tenderness and philosophy--more than in swithin, the martyr to crankiness--nicholas, the sufferer from ability--and roger, the victim of enterprise--beat the true pulse of compromise; of all the brothers he was least remarkable in mind and person, and for that reason more likely to live for ever. to james, more than to any of the others, was "the family" significant and dear. there had always been something primitive and cosy in his attitude towards life; he loved the family hearth, he loved gossip, and he loved grumbling. all his decisions were formed of a cream which he skimmed off the family mind; and, through that family, off the minds of thousands of other families of similar fibre. year after year, week after week, he went to timothy's, and in his brother's front drawing-room--his legs twisted, his long white whiskers framing his clean-shaven mouth--would sit watching the family pot simmer, the cream rising to the top; and he would go away sheltered, refreshed, comforted, with an indefinable sense of comfort. beneath the adamant of his self-preserving instinct there was much real softness in james; a visit to timothy's was like an hour spent in the lap of a mother; and the deep craving he himself had for the protection of the family wing reacted in turn on his feelings towards his own children; it was a nightmare to him to think of them exposed to the treatment of the world, in money, health, or reputation. when his old friend john street's son volunteered for special service, he shook his head querulously, and wondered what john street was about to allow it; and when young street was assagaied, he took it so much to heart that he made a point of calling everywhere with the special object of saying: he knew how it would be--he'd no patience with them! when his son-in-law dartie had that financial crisis, due to speculation in oil shares, james made himself ill worrying over it; the knell of all prosperity seemed to have sounded. it took him three months and a visit to baden-baden to get better; there was something terrible in the idea that but for his, james's, money, dartie's name might have appeared in the bankruptcy list. composed of a physiological mixture so sound that if he had an earache he thought he was dying, he regarded the occasional ailments of his wife and children as in the nature of personal grievances, special interventions of providence for the purpose of destroying his peace of mind; but he did not believe at all in the ailments of people outside his own immediate family, affirming them in every case to be due to neglected liver. his universal comment was: "what can they expect? i have it myself, if i'm not careful!" when he went to soames's that evening he felt that life was hard on him: there was emily with a bad toe, and rachel gadding about in the country; he got no sympathy from anybody; and ann, she was ill--he did not believe she would last through the summer; he had called there three times now without her being able to see him! and this idea of soames's, building a house, that would have to be looked into. as to the trouble with irene, he didn't know what was to come of that--anything might come of it! he entered , montpellier square with the fullest intentions of being miserable. it was already half-past seven, and irene, dressed for dinner, was seated in the drawing-room. she was wearing her gold-coloured frock--for, having been displayed at a dinner-party, a soiree, and a dance, it was now to be worn at home--and she had adorned the bosom with a cascade of lace, on which james's eyes riveted themselves at once. "where do you get your things?" he said in an aggravated voice. "i never see rachel and cicely looking half so well. that rose-point, now--that's not real!" irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error. and, in spite of himself, james felt the influence of her deference, of the faint seductive perfume exhaling from her. no self-respecting forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said: he didn't know--he expected she was spending a pretty penny on dress. the gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, irene took him into the dining-room. she seated him in soames's usual place, round the corner on her left. the light fell softly there, so that he would not be worried by the gradual dying of the day; and she began to talk to him about himself. presently, over james came a change, like the mellowing that steals upon a fruit in the, sun; a sense of being caressed, and praised, and petted, and all without the bestowal of a single caress or word of praise. he felt that what he was eating was agreeing with him; he could not get that feeling at home; he did not know when he had enjoyed a glass of champagne so much, and, on inquiring the brand and price, was surprised to find that it was one of which he had a large stock himself, but could never drink; he instantly formed the resolution to let his wine merchant know that he had been swindled. looking up from his food, he remarked: "you've a lot of nice things about the place. now, what did you give for that sugar-sifter? shouldn't wonder if it was worth money!" he was particularly pleased with the appearance of a picture, on the wall opposite, which he himself had given them: "i'd no idea it was so good!" he said. they rose to go into the drawing-room, and james followed irene closely. "that's what i call a capital little dinner," he murmured, breathing pleasantly down on her shoulder; "nothing heavy--and not too frenchified. but i can't get it at home. i pay my cook sixty pounds a year, but she can't give me a dinner like that!" he had as yet made no allusion to the building of the house, nor did he when soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook himself to the room at the top, where he kept his pictures. james was left alone with his daughter-in-law. the glow of the wine, and of an excellent liqueur, was still within him. he felt quite warm towards her. she was really a taking little thing; she listened to you, and seemed to understand what you were saying; and, while talking, he kept examining her figure, from her bronze-coloured shoes to the waved gold of her hair. she was leaning back in an empire chair, her shoulders poised against the top--her body, flexibly straight and unsupported from the hips, swaying when she moved, as though giving to the arms of a lover. her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed. it may have been a recognition of danger in the very charm of her attitude, or a twang of digestion, that caused a sudden dumbness to fall on james. he did not remember ever having been quite alone with irene before. and, as he looked at her, an odd feeling crept over him, as though he had come across something strange and foreign. now what was she thinking about--sitting back like that? thus when he spoke it was in a sharper voice, as if he had been awakened from a pleasant dream. "what d'you do with yourself all day?" he said. "you never come round to park lane!" she seemed to be making very lame excuses, and james did not look at her. he did not want to believe that she was really avoiding them--it would mean too much. "i expect the fact is, you haven't time," he said; "you're always about with june. i expect you're useful to her with her young man, chaperoning, and one thing and another. they tell me she's never at home now; your uncle jolyon he doesn't like it, i fancy, being left so much alone as he is. they tell me she's always hanging about for this young bosinney; i suppose he comes here every day. now, what do you think of him? d'you think he knows his own mind? he seems to me a poor thing. i should say the grey mare was the better horse!" the colour deepened in irene's face; and james watched her suspiciously. "perhaps you don't quite understand mr. bosinney," she said. "don't understand him!" james hummed out: "why not?--you can see he's one of these artistic chaps. they say he's clever--they all think they're clever. you know more about him than i do," he added; and again his suspicious glance rested on her. "he is designing a house for soames," she said softly, evidently trying to smooth things over. "that brings me to what i was going to say," continued james; "i don't know what soames wants with a young man like that; why doesn't he go to a first-rate man?" "perhaps mr. bosinney is first-rate!" james rose, and took a turn with bent head. "that's it'," he said, "you young people, you all stick together; you all think you know best!" halting his tall, lank figure before her, he raised a finger, and levelled it at her bosom, as though bringing an indictment against her beauty: "all i can say is, these artistic people, or whatever they call themselves, they're as unreliable as they can be; and my advice to you is, don't you have too much to do with him!" irene smiled; and in the curve of her lips was a strange provocation. she seemed to have lost her deference. her breast rose and fell as though with secret anger; she drew her hands inwards from their rest on the arms of her chair until the tips of her fingers met, and her dark eyes looked unfathomably at james. the latter gloomily scrutinized the floor. "i tell you my opinion," he said, "it's a pity you haven't got a child to think about, and occupy you!" a brooding look came instantly on irene's face, and even james became conscious of the rigidity that took possession of her whole figure beneath the softness of its silk and lace clothing. he was frightened by the effect he had produced, and like most men with but little courage, he sought at once to justify himself by bullying. "you don't seem to care about going about. why don't you drive down to hurlingham with us? and go to the theatre now and then. at your time of life you ought to take an interest in things. you're a young woman!" the brooding look darkened on her face; he grew nervous. "well, i know nothing about it," he said; "nobody tells me anything. soames ought to be able to take care of himself. if he can't take care of himself he mustn't look to me--that's all." biting the corner of his forefinger he stole a cold, sharp look at his daughter-in-law. he encountered her eyes fixed on his own, so dark and deep, that he stopped, and broke into a gentle perspiration. "well, i must be going," he said after a short pause, and a minute later rose, with a slight appearance of surprise, as though he had expected to be asked to stop. giving his hand to irene, he allowed himself to be conducted to the door, and let out into the street. he would not have a cab, he would walk, irene was to say good-night to soames for him, and if she wanted a little gaiety, well, he would drive her down to richmond any day. he walked home, and going upstairs, woke emily out of the first sleep she had had for four and twenty hours, to tell her that it was his impression things were in a bad way at soames's; on this theme he descanted for half an hour, until at last, saying that he would not sleep a wink, he turned on his side and instantly began to snore. in montpellier square soames, who had come from the picture room, stood invisible at the top of the stairs, watching irene sort the letters brought by the last post. she turned back into the drawing-room; but in a minute came out, and stood as if listening. then she came stealing up the stairs, with a kitten in her arms. he could see her face bent over the little beast, which was purring against her neck. why couldn't she look at him like that? suddenly she saw him, and her face changed. "any letters for me?" he said. "three." he stood aside, and without another word she passed on into the bedroom. chapter vii old jolyon's peccadillo old jolyon came out of lord's cricket ground that same afternoon with the intention of going home. he had not reached hamilton terrace before he changed his mind, and hailing a cab, gave the driver an address in wistaria avenue. he had taken a resolution. june had hardly been at home at all that week; she had given him nothing of her company for a long time past, not, in fact, since she had become engaged to bosinney. he never asked her for her company. it was not his habit to ask people for things! she had just that one idea now--bosinney and his affairs--and she left him stranded in his great house, with a parcel of servants, and not a soul to speak to from morning to night. his club was closed for cleaning; his boards in recess; there was nothing, therefore, to take him into the city. june had wanted him to go away; she would not go herself, because bosinney was in london. but where was he to go by himself? he could not go abroad alone; the sea upset his liver; he hated hotels. roger went to a hydropathic--he was not going to begin that at his time of life, those new-fangled places we're all humbug! with such formulas he clothed to himself the desolation of his spirit; the lines down his face deepening, his eyes day by day looking forth with the melancholy which sat so strangely on a face wont to be strong and serene. and so that afternoon he took this journey through st. john's wood, in the golden-light that sprinkled the rounded green bushes of the acacia's before the little houses, in the summer sunshine that seemed holding a revel over the little gardens; and he looked about him with interest; for this was a district which no forsyte entered without open disapproval and secret curiosity. his cab stopped in front of a small house of that peculiar buff colour which implies a long immunity from paint. it had an outer gate, and a rustic approach. he stepped out, his bearing extremely composed; his massive head, with its drooping moustache and wings of white hair, very upright, under an excessively large top hat; his glance firm, a little angry. he had been driven into this! "mrs. jolyon forsyte at home?" "oh, yes sir!--what name shall i say, if you please, sir?" old jolyon could not help twinkling at the little maid as he gave his name. she seemed to him such a funny little toad! and he followed her through the dark hall, into a small double, drawing-room, where the furniture was covered in chintz, and the little maid placed him in a chair. "they're all in the garden, sir; if you'll kindly take a seat, i'll tell them." old jolyon sat down in the chintz-covered chair, and looked around him. the whole place seemed to him, as he would have expressed it, pokey; there was a certain--he could not tell exactly what--air of shabbiness, or rather of making two ends meet, about everything. as far as he could see, not a single piece of furniture was worth a five-pound note. the walls, distempered rather a long time ago, were decorated with water-colour sketches; across the ceiling meandered a long crack. these little houses were all old, second-rate concerns; he should hope the rent was under a hundred a year; it hurt him more than he could have said, to think of a forsyte--his own son living in such a place. the little maid came back. would he please to go down into the garden? old jolyon marched out through the french windows. in descending the steps he noticed that they wanted painting. young jolyon, his wife, his two children, and his dog balthasar, were all out there under a pear-tree. this walk towards them was the most courageous act of old jolyon's life; but no muscle of his face moved, no nervous gesture betrayed him. he kept his deep-set eyes steadily on the enemy. in those two minutes he demonstrated to perfection all that unconscious soundness, balance, and vitality of fibre that made, of him and so many others of his class the core of the nation. in the unostentatious conduct of their own affairs, to the neglect of everything else, they typified the essential individualism, born in the briton from the natural isolation of his country's life. the dog balthasar sniffed round the edges of his trousers; this friendly and cynical mongrel--offspring of a liaison between a russian poodle and a fox-terrier--had a nose for the unusual. the strange greetings over, old jolyon seated himself in a wicker chair, and his two grandchildren, one on each side of his knees, looked at him silently, never having seen so old a man. they were unlike, as though recognising the difference set between them by the circumstances of their births. jolly, the child of sin, pudgy-faced, with his tow-coloured hair brushed off his forehead, and a dimple in his chin, had an air of stubborn amiability, and the eyes of a forsyte; little holly, the child of wedlock, was a dark-skinned, solemn soul, with her mother's, grey and wistful eyes. the dog balthasar, having walked round the three small flower-beds, to show his extreme contempt for things at large, had also taken a seat in front of old jolyon, and, oscillating a tail curled by nature tightly over his back, was staring up with eyes that did not blink. even in the garden, that sense of things being pokey haunted old jolyon; the wicker chair creaked under his weight; the garden-beds looked 'daverdy'; on the far side, under the smut-stained wall, cats had made a path. while he and his grandchildren thus regarded each other with the peculiar scrutiny, curious yet trustful, that passes between the very young and the very old, young jolyon watched his wife. the colour had deepened in her thin, oval face, with its straight brows, and large, grey eyes. her hair, brushed in fine, high curves back from her forehead, was going grey, like his own, and this greyness made the sudden vivid colour in her cheeks painfully pathetic. the look on her face, such as he had never seen there before, such as she had always hidden from him, was full of secret resentments, and longings, and fears. her eyes, under their twitching brows, stared painfully. and she was silent. jolly alone sustained the conversation; he had many possessions, and was anxious that his unknown friend with extremely large moustaches, and hands all covered with blue veins, who sat with legs crossed like his own father (a habit he was himself trying to acquire), should know it; but being a forsyte, though not yet quite eight years old, he made no mention of the thing at the moment dearest to his heart--a camp of soldiers in a shop-window, which his father had promised to buy. no doubt it seemed to him too precious; a tempting of providence to mention it yet. and the sunlight played through the leaves on that little party of the three generations grouped tranquilly under the pear-tree, which had long borne no fruit. old jolyon's furrowed face was reddening patchily, as old men's faces redden in the sun. he took one of jolly's hands in his own; the boy climbed on to his knee; and little holly, mesmerized by this sight, crept up to them; the sound of the dog balthasar's scratching arose rhythmically. suddenly young mrs. jolyon got up and hurried indoors. a minute later her husband muttered an excuse, and followed. old jolyon was left alone with his grandchildren. and nature with her quaint irony began working in him one of her strange revolutions, following her cyclic laws into the depths of his heart. and that tenderness for little children, that passion for the beginnings of life which had once made him forsake his son and follow june, now worked in him to forsake june and follow these littler things. youth, like a flame, burned ever in his breast, and to youth he turned, to the round little limbs, so reckless, that wanted care, to the small round faces so unreasonably solemn or bright, to the treble tongues, and the shrill, chuckling laughter, to the insistent tugging hands, and the feel of small bodies against his legs, to all that was young and young, and once more young. and his eyes grew soft, his voice, and thin-veined hands soft, and soft his heart within him. and to those small creatures he became at once a place of pleasure, a place where they were secure, and could talk and laugh and play; till, like sunshine, there radiated from old jolyon's wicker chair the perfect gaiety of three hearts. but with young jolyon following to his wife's room it was different. he found her seated on a chair before her dressing-glass, with her hands before her face. her shoulders were shaking with sobs. this passion of hers for suffering was mysterious to him. he had been through a hundred of these moods; how he had survived them he never knew, for he could never believe they were moods, and that the last hour of his partnership had not struck. in the night she would be sure to throw her arms round his neck and say: "oh! jo, how i make you suffer!" as she had done a hundred times before. he reached out his hand, and, unseen, slipped his razor-case into his pocket. 'i cannot stay here,' he thought, 'i must go down!' without a word he left the room, and went back to the lawn. old jolyon had little holly on his knee; she had taken possession of his watch; jolly, very red in the face, was trying to show that he could stand on his head. the dog balthasar, as close as he might be to the tea-table, had fixed his eyes on the cake. young jolyon felt a malicious desire to cut their enjoyment short. what business had his father to come and upset his wife like this? it was a shock, after all these years! he ought to have known; he ought to have given them warning; but when did a forsyte ever imagine that his conduct could upset anybody! and in his thoughts he did old jolyon wrong. he spoke sharply to the children, and told them to go in to their tea. greatly surprised, for they had never heard their father speak sharply before, they went off, hand in hand, little holly looking back over her shoulder. young jolyon poured out the tea. "my wife's not the thing today," he said, but he knew well enough that his father had penetrated the cause of that sudden withdrawal, and almost hated the old man for sitting there so calmly. "you've got a nice little house here," said old jolyon with a shrewd look; "i suppose you've taken a lease of it!" young jolyon nodded. "i don't like the neighbourhood," said old jolyon; "a ramshackle lot." young jolyon replied: "yes, we're a ramshackle lot."' the silence was now only broken by the sound of the dog balthasar's scratching. old jolyon said simply: "i suppose i oughtn't to have come here, jo; but i get so lonely!" at these words young jolyon got up and put his hand on his father's shoulder. in the next house someone was playing over and over again: 'la donna mobile' on an untuned piano; and the little garden had fallen into shade, the sun now only reached the wall at the end, whereon basked a crouching cat, her yellow eyes turned sleepily down on the dog balthasar. there was a drowsy hum of very distant traffic; the creepered trellis round the garden shut out everything but sky, and house, and pear-tree, with its top branches still gilded by the sun. for some time they sat there, talking but little. then old jolyon rose to go, and not a word was said about his coming again. he walked away very sadly. what a poor miserable place; and he thought of the great, empty house in stanhope gate, fit residence for a forsyte, with its huge billiard-room and drawing-room that no one entered from one week's end to another. that woman, whose face he had rather liked, was too thin-skinned by half; she gave jo a bad time he knew! and those sweet children! ah! what a piece of awful folly! he walked towards the edgware road, between rows of little houses, all suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the prejudices of a forsyte are sacred) shady histories of some sort or kind. society, forsooth, the chattering hags and jackanapes--had set themselves up to pass judgment on his flesh and blood! a parcel of old women! he stumped his umbrella on the ground, as though to drive it into the heart of that unfortunate body, which had dared to ostracize his son and his son's son, in whom he could have lived again! he stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed society's behaviour for fifteen years--had only today been false to it! he thought of june, and her dead mother, and the whole story, with all his old bitterness. a wretched business! he was a long time reaching stanhope gate, for, with native perversity, being extremely tired, he walked the whole way. after washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to the dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when june was out--it was less lonely so. the evening paper had not yet come; he had finished the times, there was therefore nothing to do. the room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. he disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. his gaze, travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: 'group of dutch fishing boats at sunset'; the chef d'oeuvre of his collection. it gave him no pleasure. he closed his eyes. he was lonely! he oughtn't to complain, he knew, but he couldn't help it: he was a poor thing--had always been a poor thing--no pluck! such was his thought. the butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his master apparently asleep, exercised extreme caution in his movements. this bearded man also wore a moustache, which had given rise to grave doubts in the minds of many members--of the family--, especially those who, like soames, had been to public schools, and were accustomed to niceness in such matters. could he really be considered a butler? playful spirits alluded to him as: 'uncle jolyon's nonconformist'; george, the acknowledged wag, had named him: 'sankey.' he moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great polished table inimitably sleek and soft. old jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. the fellow was a sneak--he had always thought so--who cared about nothing but rattling through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or goodness knew what! a slug! fat too! and didn't care a pin about his master! but then against his will, came one of those moments of philosophy which made old jolyon different from other forsytes: after all why should the man care? he wasn't paid to care, and why expect it? in this world people couldn't look for affection unless they paid for it. it might be different in the next--he didn't know--couldn't tell! and again he shut his eyes. relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking things from the various compartments of the sideboard. his back seemed always turned to old jolyon; thus, he robbed his operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his master's presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. he appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he carried carefully and rather high, letting his heard droop over them protectingly. when he had finished, he stood for over a minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a look of contempt: after all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn't much left in him! soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. his orders were 'dinner at seven.' what if his master were asleep; he would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in! he had himself to think of, for he was due at his club at half-past eight! in answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup tureen. the butler took it from his hands and placed it on the table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher company into the room, he said in a solemn voice: "dinner is on the table, sir!" slowly old jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the table to eat his dinner. chapter viii plans of the house forsytes, as is generally admitted, have shells, like that extremely useful little animal which is made into turkish delight, in other words, they are never seen, or if seen would not be recognised, without habitats, composed of circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives, which seem to move along with them in their passage through a world composed of thousands of other forsytes with their habitats. without a habitat a forsyte is inconceivable--he would be like a novel without a plot, which is well-known to be an anomaly. to forsyte eyes bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed one of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life surrounded by circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives that do not belong to them. his rooms in sloane street, on the top floor, outside which, on a plate, was his name, 'philip baynes bosinney, architect,' were not those of a forsyte.--he had no sitting-room apart from his office, but a large recess had been screened off to conceal the necessaries of life--a couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit case, novels and slippers. the business part of the room had the usual furniture; an open cupboard with pigeon-holes, a round oak table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs, a standing desk of large dimensions covered with drawings and designs. june had twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt. he was believed to have a bedroom at the back. as far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, together with an odd fee once in a way, and--more worthy item--a private annuity under his father's will of one hundred and fifty pounds a year. what had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. it appeared that he had been a lincolnshire country doctor of cornish extraction, striking appearance, and byronic tendencies--a well-known figure, in fact, in his county. bosinney's uncle by marriage, baynes, of baynes and bildeboy, a forsyte in instincts if not in name, had but little that was worthy to relate of his brother-in-law. "an odd fellow!' he would say: 'always spoke of his three eldest boys as 'good creatures, but so dull'; they're all doing capitally in the indian civil! philip was the only one he liked. i've heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to me: 'my dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what you're thinking of! but i didn't follow his advice; not i! an eccentric man! he would say to phil: 'whether you live like a gentleman or not, my boy, be sure you die like one! and he had himself embalmed in a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond pin. oh, quite an original, i can assure you!" of bosinney himself baynes would speak warmly, with a certain compassion: "he's got a streak of his father's byronism. why, look at the way he threw up his chances when he left my office; going off like that for six months with a knapsack, and all for what?--to study foreign architecture--foreign! what could he expect? and there he is--a clever young fellow--doesn't make his hundred a year! now this engagement is the best thing that could have happened--keep him steady; he's one of those that go to bed all day and stay up all night, simply because they've no method; but no vice about him--not an ounce of vice. old forsyte's a rich man!" mr. baynes made himself extremely pleasant to june, who frequently visited his house in lowndes square at this period. "this house of your cousin's--what a capital man of business--is the very thing for philip," he would say to her; "you mustn't expect to see too much of him just now, my dear young lady. the good cause--the good cause! the young man must make his way. when i was his age i was at work day and night. my dear wife used to say to me, 'bobby, don't work too hard, think of your health'; but i never spared myself!" june had complained that her lover found no time to come to stanhope gate. the first time he came again they had not been together a quarter of an hour before, by one of those coincidences of which she was a mistress, mrs. septimus small arrived. thereon bosinney rose and hid himself, according to previous arrangement, in the little study, to wait for her departure. "my dear," said aunt juley, "how thin he is! i've often noticed it with engaged people; but you mustn't let it get worse. there's barlow's extract of veal; it did your uncle swithin a lot of good." june, her little figure erect before the hearth, her small face quivering grimly, for she regarded her aunt's untimely visit in the light of a personal injury, replied with scorn: "it's because he's busy; people who can do anything worth doing are never fat!" aunt juley pouted; she herself had always been thin, but the only pleasure she derived from the fact was the opportunity of longing to be stouter. "i don't think," she said mournfully, "that you ought to let them call him 'the buccaneer'; people might think it odd, now that he's going to build a house for soames. i do hope he will be careful; it's so important for him. soames has such good taste!" "taste!" cried june, flaring up at once; "wouldn't give that for his taste, or any of the family's!" mrs. small was taken aback. "your uncle swithin," she said, "always had beautiful taste! and soames's little house is lovely; you don't mean to say you don't think so!" "h'mph!" said june, "that's only because irene's there!" aunt juley tried to say something pleasant: "and how will dear irene like living in the country?" june gazed at her intently, with a look in her eyes as if her conscience had suddenly leaped up into them; it passed; and an even more intent look took its place, as if she had stared that conscience out of countenance. she replied imperiously: "of course she'll like it; why shouldn't she?" mrs. small grew nervous. "i didn't know," she said; "i thought she mightn't like to leave her friends. your uncle james says she doesn't take enough interest in life. we think--i mean timothy thinks--she ought to go out more. i expect you'll miss her very much!" june clasped her hands behind her neck. "i do wish," she cried, "uncle timothy wouldn't talk about what doesn't concern him!" aunt juley rose to the full height of her tall figure. "he never talks about what doesn't concern him," she said. june was instantly compunctious; she ran to her aunt and kissed her. "i'm very sorry, auntie; but i wish they'd let irene alone." aunt juley, unable to think of anything further on the subject that would be suitable, was silent; she prepared for departure, hooking her black silk cape across her chest, and, taking up her green reticule: "and how is your dear grandfather?" she asked in the hall, "i expect he's very lonely now that all your time is taken up with mr. bosinney." she bent and kissed her niece hungrily, and with little, mincing steps passed away. the tears sprang up in june's eyes; running into the little study, where bosinney was sitting at the table drawing birds on the back of an envelope, she sank down by his side and cried: "oh, phil! it's all so horrid!" her heart was as warm as the colour of her hair. on the following sunday morning, while soames was shaving, a message was brought him to the effect that mr. bosinney was below, and would be glad to see him. opening the door into his wife's room, he said: "bosinney's downstairs. just go and entertain him while i finish shaving. i'll be down in a minute. it's about the plans, i expect." irene looked at him, without reply, put the finishing touch to her dress and went downstairs. he could not make her out about this house. she had said nothing against it, and, as far as bosinney was concerned, seemed friendly enough. from the window of his dressing-room he could see them talking together in the little court below. he hurried on with his shaving, cutting his chin twice. he heard them laugh, and thought to himself: "well, they get on all right, anyway!" as he expected, bosinney had come round to fetch him to look at the plans. he took his hat and went over. the plans were spread on the oak table in the architect's room; and pale, imperturbable, inquiring, soames bent over them for a long time without speaking. he said at last in a puzzled voice: "it's an odd sort of house!" a rectangular house of two stories was designed in a quadrangle round a covered-in court. this court, encircled by a gallery on the upper floor, was roofed with a glass roof, supported by eight columns running up from the ground. it was indeed, to forsyte eyes, an odd house. "there's a lot of room cut to waste," pursued soames. bosinney began to walk about, and soames did not like the expression on his face. "the principle of this house," said the architect, "was that you should have room to breathe--like a gentleman!" soames extended his finger and thumb, as if measuring the extent of the distinction he should acquire; and replied: "oh! yes; i see." the peculiar look came into bosinney's face which marked all his enthusiasms. "i've tried to plan you a house here with some self-respect of its own. if you don't like it, you'd better say so. it's certainly the last thing to be considered--who wants self-respect in a house, when you can squeeze in an extra lavatory?" he put his finger suddenly down on the left division of the centre oblong: "you can swing a cat here. this is for your pictures, divided from this court by curtains; draw them back and you'll have a space of fifty-one by twenty-three six. this double-faced stove in the centre, here, looks one way towards the court, one way towards the picture room; this end wall is all window; you've a southeast light from that, a north light from the court. the rest of your pictures you can hang round the gallery upstairs, or in the other rooms." "in architecture," he went on--and though looking at soames he did not seem to see him, which gave soames an unpleasant feeling--"as in life, you'll get no self-respect without regularity. fellows tell you that's old fashioned. it appears to be peculiar any way; it never occurs to us to embody the main principle of life in our buildings; we load our houses with decoration, gimcracks, corners, anything to distract the eye. on the contrary the eye should rest; get your effects with a few strong lines. the whole thing is regularity there's no self-respect without it." soames, the unconscious ironist, fixed his gaze on bosinney's tie, which was far from being in the perpendicular; he was unshaven too, and his dress not remarkable for order. architecture appeared to have exhausted his regularity. "won't it look like a barrack?" he inquired. he did not at once receive a reply. "i can see what it is," said bosinney, "you want one of littlemaster's houses--one of the pretty and commodious sort, where the servants will live in garrets, and the front door be sunk so that you may come up again. by all means try littlemaster, you'll find him a capital fellow, i've known him all my life!" soames was alarmed. he had really been struck by the plans, and the concealment of his satisfaction had been merely instinctive. it was difficult for him to pay a compliment. he despised people who were lavish with their praises. he found himself now in the embarrassing position of one who must pay a compliment or run the risk of losing a good thing. bosinney was just the fellow who might tear up the plans and refuse to act for him; a kind of grown-up child! this grown-up childishness, to which he felt so superior, exercised a peculiar and almost mesmeric effect on soames, for he had never felt anything like it in himself. "well," he stammered at last, "it's--it's, certainly original." he had such a private distrust and even dislike of the word 'original' that he felt he had not really given himself away by this remark. bosinney seemed pleased. it was the sort of thing that would please a fellow like that! and his success encouraged soames. "it's--a big place," he said. "space, air, light," he heard bosinney murmur, "you can't live like a gentleman in one of littlemaster's--he builds for manufacturers." soames made a deprecating movement; he had been identified with a gentleman; not for a good deal of money now would he be classed with manufacturers. but his innate distrust of general principles revived. what the deuce was the good of talking about regularity and self-respect? it looked to him as if the house would be cold. "irene can't stand the cold!" he said. "ah!" said bosinney sarcastically. "your wife? she doesn't like the cold? i'll see to that; she shan't be cold. look here!" he pointed, to four marks at regular intervals on the walls of the court. "i've given you hot-water pipes in aluminium casings; you can get them with very good designs." soames looked suspiciously at these marks. "it's all very well, all this," he said, "but what's it going to cost?" the architect took a sheet of paper from his pocket: "the house, of course, should be built entirely of stone, but, as i thought you wouldn't stand that, i've compromised for a facing. it ought to have a copper roof, but i've made it green slate. as it is, including metal work, it'll cost you eight thousand five hundred." "eight thousand five hundred?" said soames. "why, i gave you an outside limit of eight!" "can't be done for a penny less," replied bosinney coolly. "you must take it or leave it!" it was the only way, probably, that such a proposition could have been made to soames. he was nonplussed. conscience told him to throw the whole thing up. but the design was good, and he knew it--there was completeness about it, and dignity; the servants' apartments were excellent too. he would gain credit by living in a house like that--with such individual features, yet perfectly well-arranged. he continued poring over the plans, while bosinney went into his bedroom to shave and dress. the two walked back to montpellier square in silence, soames watching him out of the corner of his eye. the buccaneer was rather a good-looking fellow--so he thought--when he was properly got up. irene was bending over her flowers when the two men came in. she spoke of sending across the park to fetch june. "no, no," said soames, "we've still got business to talk over!" at lunch he was almost cordial, and kept pressing bosinney to eat. he was pleased to see the architect in such high spirits, and left him to spend the afternoon with irene, while he stole off to his pictures, after his sunday habit. at tea-time he came down to the drawing-room, and found them talking, as he expressed it, nineteen to the dozen. unobserved in the doorway, he congratulated himself that things were taking the right turn. it was lucky she and bosinney got on; she seemed to be falling into line with the idea of the new house. quiet meditation among his pictures had decided him to spring the five hundred if necessary; but he hoped that the afternoon might have softened bosinney's estimates. it was so purely a matter which bosinney could remedy if he liked; there must be a dozen ways in which he could cheapen the production of a house without spoiling the effect. he awaited, therefore, his opportunity till irene was handing the architect his first cup of tea. a chink of sunshine through the lace of the blinds warmed her cheek, shone in the gold of her hair, and in her soft eyes. possibly the same gleam deepened bosinney's colour, gave the rather startled look to his face. soames hated sunshine, and he at once got up, to draw the blind. then he took his own cup of tea from his wife, and said, more coldly than he had intended: "can't you see your way to do it for eight thousand after all? there must be a lot of little things you could alter." bosinney drank off his tea at a gulp, put down his cup, and answered: "not one!" soames saw that his suggestion had touched some unintelligible point of personal vanity. "well," he agreed, with sulky resignation; "you must have it your own way, i suppose." a few minutes later bosinney rose to go, and soames rose too, to see him off the premises. the architect seemed in absurdly high spirits. after watching him walk away at a swinging pace, soames returned moodily to the drawing-room, where irene was putting away the music, and, moved by an uncontrollable spasm of curiosity, he asked: "well, what do you think of 'the buccaneer'?" he looked at the carpet while waiting for her answer, and he had to wait some time. "i don't know," she said at last. "do you think he's good-looking?" irene smiled. and it seemed to soames that she was mocking him. "yes," she answered; "very." chapter ix death of aunt ann there came a morning at the end of september when aunt ann was unable to take from smither's hands the insignia of personal dignity. after one look at the old face, the doctor, hurriedly sent for, announced that miss forsyte had passed away in her sleep. aunts juley and hester were overwhelmed by the shock. they had never imagined such an ending. indeed, it is doubtful whether they had ever realized that an ending was bound to come. secretly they felt it unreasonable of ann to have left them like this without a word, without even a struggle. it was unlike her. perhaps what really affected them so profoundly was the thought that a forsyte should have let go her grasp on life. if one, then why not all! it was a full hour before they could make up their minds to tell timothy. if only it could be kept from him! if only it could be broken to him by degrees! and long they stood outside his door whispering together. and when it was over they whispered together again. he would feel it more, they were afraid, as time went on. still, he had taken it better than could have been expected. he would keep his bed, of course! they separated, crying quietly. aunt juley stayed in her room, prostrated by the blow. her face, discoloured by tears, was divided into compartments by the little ridges of pouting flesh which had swollen with emotion. it was impossible to conceive of life without ann, who had lived with her for seventy-three years, broken only by the short interregnum of her married life, which seemed now so unreal. at fixed intervals she went to her drawer, and took from beneath the lavender bags a fresh pocket-handkerchief. her warm heart could not bear the thought that ann was lying there so cold. aunt hester, the silent, the patient, that backwater of the family energy, sat in the drawing-room, where the blinds were drawn; and she, too, had wept at first, but quietly, without visible effect. her guiding principle, the conservation of energy, did not abandon her in sorrow. she sat, slim, motionless, studying the grate, her hands idle in the lap of her black silk dress. they would want to rouse her into doing something, no doubt. as if there were any good in that! doing something would not bring back ann! why worry her? five o'clock brought three of the brothers, jolyon and james and swithin; nicholas was at yarmouth, and roger had a bad attack of gout. mrs. hayman had been by herself earlier in the day, and, after seeing ann, had gone away, leaving a message for timothy--which was kept from him--that she ought to have been told sooner. in fact, there was a feeling amongst them all that they ought to have been told sooner, as though they had missed something; and james said: "i knew how it'd be; i told you she wouldn't last through the summer." aunt hester made no reply; it was nearly october, but what was the good of arguing; some people were never satisfied. she sent up to tell her sister that the brothers were there. mrs. small came down at once. she had bathed her face, which was still swollen, and though she looked severely at swithin's trousers, for they were of light blue--he had come straight from the club, where the news had reached him--she wore a more cheerful expression than usual, the instinct for doing the wrong thing being even now too strong for her. presently all five went up to look at the body. under the pure white sheet a quilted counter-pane had been placed, for now, more than ever, aunt ann had need of warmth; and, the pillows removed, her spine and head rested flat, with the semblance of their life-long inflexibility; the coif banding the top of her brow was drawn on either side to the level of the ears, and between it and the sheet her face, almost as white, was turned with closed eyes to the faces of her brothers and sisters. in its extraordinary peace the face was stronger than ever, nearly all bone now under the scarce-wrinkled parchment of skin--square jaw and chin, cheekbones, forehead with hollow temples, chiselled nose--the fortress of an unconquerable spirit that had yielded to death, and in its upward sightlessness seemed trying to regain that spirit, to regain the guardianship it had just laid down. swithin took but one look at the face, and left the room; the sight, he said afterwards, made him very queer. he went downstairs shaking the whole house, and, seizing his hat, clambered into his brougham, without giving any directions to the coachman. he was driven home, and all the evening sat in his chair without moving. he could take nothing for dinner but a partridge, with an imperial pint of champagne.... old jolyon stood at the bottom of the bed, his hands folded in front of him. he alone of those in the room remembered the death of his mother, and though he looked at ann, it was of that he was thinking. ann was an old woman, but death had come to her at last--death came to all! his face did not move, his gaze seemed travelling from very far. aunt hester stood beside him. she did not cry now, tears were exhausted--her nature refused to permit a further escape of force; she twisted her hands, looking not at ann, but from side to side, seeking some way of escaping the effort of realization. of all the brothers and sisters james manifested the most emotion. tears rolled down the parallel furrows of his thin face; where he should go now to tell his troubles he did not know; juley was no good, hester worse than useless! he felt ann's death more than he had ever thought he should; this would upset him for weeks! presently aunt hester stole out, and aunt juley began moving about, doing 'what was necessary,' so that twice she knocked against something. old jolyon, roused from his reverie, that reverie of the long, long past, looked sternly at her, and went away. james alone was left by the bedside; glancing stealthily round, to see that he was not observed, he twisted his long body down, placed a kiss on the dead forehead, then he, too, hastily left the room. encountering smither in the hall, he began to ask her about the funeral, and, finding that she knew nothing, complained bitterly that, if they didn't take care, everything would go wrong. she had better send for mr. soames--he knew all about that sort of thing; her master was very much upset, he supposed--he would want looking after; as for her mistresses, they were no good--they had no gumption! they would be ill too, he shouldn't wonder. she had better send for the doctor; it was best to take things in time. he didn't think his sister ann had had the best opinion; if she'd had blank she would have been alive now. smither might send to park lane any time she wanted advice. of course, his carriage was at their service for the funeral. he supposed she hadn't such a thing as a glass of claret and a biscuit--he had had no lunch! the days before the funeral passed quietly. it had long been known, of course, that aunt ann had left her little property to timothy. there was, therefore, no reason for the slightest agitation. soames, who was sole executor, took charge of all arrangements, and in due course sent out the following invitation to every male member of the family: to........... your presence is requested at the funeral of miss ann forsyte, in highgate cemetery, at noon of oct. st. carriages will meet at "the bower," bayswater road, at . . no flowers by request. 'r.s.v.p.' the morning came, cold, with a high, grey, london sky, and at half-past ten the first carriage, that of james, drove up. it contained james and his son-in-law dartie, a fine man, with a square chest, buttoned very tightly into a frock coat, and a sallow, fattish face adorned with dark, well-curled moustaches, and that incorrigible commencement of whisker which, eluding the strictest attempts at shaving, seems the mark of something deeply ingrained in the personality of the shaver, being especially noticeable in men who speculate. soames, in his capacity of executor, received the guests, for timothy still kept his bed; he would get up after the funeral; and aunts juley and hester would not be coming down till all was over, when it was understood there would be lunch for anyone who cared to come back. the next to arrive was roger, still limping from the gout, and encircled by three of his sons--young roger, eustace, and thomas. george, the remaining son, arrived almost immediately afterwards in a hansom, and paused in the hall to ask soames how he found undertaking pay. they disliked each other. then came two haymans--giles and jesse perfectly silent, and very well dressed, with special creases down their evening trousers. then old jolyon alone. next, nicholas, with a healthy colour in his face, and a carefully veiled sprightliness in every movement of his head and body. one of his sons followed him, meek and subdued. swithin forsyte, and bosinney arrived at the same moment,--and stood--bowing precedence to each other,--but on the door opening they tried to enter together; they renewed their apologies in the hall, and, swithin, settling his stock, which had become disarranged in the struggle, very slowly mounted the stairs. the other hayman; two married sons of nicholas, together with tweetyman, spender, and warry, the husbands of married forsyte and hayman daughters. the company was then complete, twenty-one in all, not a male member of the family being absent but timothy and young jolyon. entering the scarlet and green drawing-room, whose apparel made so vivid a setting for their unaccustomed costumes, each tried nervously to find a seat, desirous of hiding the emphatic blackness of his trousers. there seemed a sort of indecency in that blackness and in the colour of their gloves--a sort of exaggeration of the feelings; and many cast shocked looks of secret envy at 'the buccaneer,' who had no gloves, and was wearing grey trousers. a subdued hum of conversation rose, no one speaking of the departed, but each asking after the other, as though thereby casting an indirect libation to this event, which they had come to honour. and presently james said: "well, i think we ought to be starting." they went downstairs, and, two and two, as they had been told off in strict precedence, mounted the carriages. the hearse started at a foot's pace; the carriages moved slowly after. in the first went old jolyon with nicholas; in the second, the twins, swithin and james; in the third, roger and young roger; soames, young nicholas, george, and bosinney followed in the fourth. each of the other carriages, eight in all, held three or four of the family; behind them came the doctor's brougham; then, at a decent interval, cabs containing family clerks and servants; and at the very end, one containing nobody at all, but bringing the total cortege up to the number of thirteen. so long as the procession kept to the highway of the bayswater road, it retained the foot's-pace, but, turning into less important thorough-fares, it soon broke into a trot, and so proceeded, with intervals of walking in the more fashionable streets, until it arrived. in the first carriage old jolyon and nicholas were talking of their wills. in the second the twins, after a single attempt, had lapsed into complete silence; both were rather deaf, and the exertion of making themselves heard was too great. only once james broke this silence: "i shall have to be looking about for some ground somewhere. what arrangements have you made, swithin?" and swithin, fixing him with a dreadful stare, answered: "don't talk to me about such things!" in the third carriage a disjointed conversation was carried on in the intervals of looking out to see how far they had got, george remarking, "well, it was really time that the poor old lady went." he didn't believe in people living beyond seventy, young nicholas replied mildly that the rule didn't seem to apply to the forsytes. george said he himself intended to commit suicide at sixty. young nicholas, smiling and stroking a long chin, didn't think his father would like that theory; he had made a lot of money since he was sixty. well, seventy was the outside limit; it was then time, george said, for them to go and leave their money to their children. soames, hitherto silent, here joined in; he had not forgotten the remark about the 'undertaking,' and, lifting his eyelids almost imperceptibly, said it was all very well for people who never made money to talk. he himself intended to live as long as he could. this was a hit at george, who was notoriously hard up. bosinney muttered abstractedly "hear, hear!" and, george yawning, the conversation dropped. upon arriving, the coffin was borne into the chapel, and, two by two, the mourners filed in behind it. this guard of men, all attached to the dead by the bond of kinship, was an impressive and singular sight in the great city of london, with its overwhelming diversity of life, its innumerable vocations, pleasures, duties, its terrible hardness, its terrible call to individualism. the family had gathered to triumph over all this, to give a show of tenacious unity, to illustrate gloriously that law of property underlying the growth of their tree, by which it had thriven and spread, trunk and branches, the sap flowing through all, the full growth reached at the appointed time. the spirit of the old woman lying in her last sleep had called them to this demonstration. it was her final appeal to that unity which had been their strength--it was her final triumph that she had died while the tree was yet whole. she was spared the watching of the branches jut out beyond the point of balance. she could not look into the hearts of her followers. the same law that had worked in her, bringing her up from a tall, straight-backed slip of a girl to a woman strong and grown, from a woman grown to a woman old, angular, feeble, almost witchlike, with individuality all sharpened and sharpened, as all rounding from the world's contact fell off from her--that same law would work, was working, in the family she had watched like a mother. she had seen it young, and growing, she had seen it strong and grown, and before her old eyes had time or strength to see any more, she died. she would have tried, and who knows but she might have kept it young and strong, with her old fingers, her trembling kisses--a little longer; alas! not even aunt ann could fight with nature. 'pride comes before a fall!' in accordance with this, the greatest of nature's ironies, the forsyte family had gathered for a last proud pageant before they fell. their faces to right and left, in single lines, were turned for the most part impassively toward the ground, guardians of their thoughts; but here and there, one looking upward, with a line between his brows, searched to see some sight on the chapel walls too much for him, to be listening to something that appalled. and the responses, low-muttered, in voices through which rose the same tone, the same unseizable family ring, sounded weird, as though murmured in hurried duplication by a single person. the service in the chapel over, the mourners filed up again to guard the body to the tomb. the vault stood open, and, round it, men in black were waiting. from that high and sacred field, where thousands of the upper middle class lay in their last sleep, the eyes of the forsytes travelled down across the flocks of graves. there--spreading to the distance, lay london, with no sun over it, mourning the loss of its daughter, mourning with this family, so dear, the loss of her who was mother and guardian. a hundred thousand spires and houses, blurred in the great grey web of property, lay there like prostrate worshippers before the grave of this, the oldest forsyte of them all. a few words, a sprinkle of earth, the thrusting of the coffin home, and aunt ann had passed to her last rest. round the vault, trustees of that passing, the five brothers stood, with white heads bowed; they would see that ann was comfortable where she was going. her little property must stay behind, but otherwise, all that could be should be done.... then severally, each stood aside, and putting on his hat, turned back to inspect the new inscription on the marble of the family vault: sacred to the memory of ann forsyte, the daughter of the above jolyon and ann forsyte, who departed this life the th day of september, , aged eighty-seven years and four days soon perhaps, someone else would be wanting an inscription. it was strange and intolerable, for they had not thought somehow, that forsytes could die. and one and all they had a longing to get away from this painfulness, this ceremony which had reminded them of things they could not bear to think about--to get away quickly and go about their business and forget. it was cold, too; the wind, like some slow, disintegrating force, blowing up the hill over the graves, struck them with its chilly breath; they began to split into groups, and as quickly as possible to fill the waiting carriages. swithin said he should go back to lunch at timothy's, and he offered to take anybody with him in his brougham. it was considered a doubtful privilege to drive with swithin in his brougham, which was not a large one; nobody accepted, and he went off alone. james and roger followed immediately after; they also would drop in to lunch. the others gradually melted away, old jolyon taking three nephews to fill up his carriage; he had a want of those young faces. soames, who had to arrange some details in the cemetery office, walked away with bosinney. he had much to talk over with him, and, having finished his business, they strolled to hampstead, lunched together at the spaniard's inn, and spent a long time in going into practical details connected with the building of the house; they then proceeded to the tram-line, and came as far as the marble arch, where bosinney went off to stanhope gate to see june. soames felt in excellent spirits when he arrived home, and confided to irene at dinner that he had had a good talk with bosinney, who really seemed a sensible fellow; they had had a capital walk too, which had done his liver good--he had been short of exercise for a long time--and altogether a very satisfactory day. if only it hadn't been for poor aunt ann, he would have taken her to the theatre; as it was, they must make the best of an evening at home. "the buccaneer asked after you more than once," he said suddenly. and moved by some inexplicable desire to assert his proprietorship, he rose from his chair and planted a kiss on his wife's shoulder. part ii chapter i progress of the house the winter had been an open one. things in the trade were slack; and as soames had reflected before making up his mind, it had been a good time for building. the shell of the house at robin hill was thus completed by the end of april. now that there was something to be seen for his money, he had been coming down once, twice, even three times a week, and would mouse about among the debris for hours, careful never to soil his clothes, moving silently through the unfinished brickwork of doorways, or circling round the columns in the central court. and he would stand before them for minutes' together, as though peering into the real quality of their substance. on april he had an appointment with bosinney to go over the accounts, and five minutes before the proper time he entered the tent which the architect had pitched for himself close to the old oak tree. the accounts were already prepared on a folding table, and with a nod soames sat down to study them. it was some time before he raised his head. "i can't make them out," he said at last; "they come to nearly seven hundred more than they ought" after a glance at bosinney's face he went on quickly: "if you only make a firm stand against these builder chaps you'll get them down. they stick you with everything if you don't look sharp.... take ten per cent. off all round. i shan't mind it's coming out a hundred or so over the mark!" bosinney shook his head: "i've taken off every farthing i can!" soames pushed back the table with a movement of anger, which sent the account sheets fluttering to the ground. "then all i can say is," he flustered out, "you've made a pretty mess of it!" "i've told you a dozen times," bosinney answered sharply, "that there'd be extras. i've pointed them out to you over and over again!" "i know that," growled soames: "i shouldn't have objected to a ten pound note here and there. how was i to know that by 'extras' you meant seven hundred pounds?" the qualities of both men had contributed to this not-inconsiderable discrepancy. on the one hand, the architect's devotion to his idea, to the image of a house which he had created and believed in--had made him nervous of being stopped, or forced to the use of makeshifts; on the other, soames' not less true and wholehearted devotion to the very best article that could be obtained for the money, had rendered him averse to believing that things worth thirteen shillings could not be bought with twelve. "i wish i'd never undertaken your house," said bosinney suddenly. "you come down here worrying me out of my life. you want double the value for your money anybody else would, and now that you've got a house that for its size is not to be beaten in the county, you don't want to pay for it. if you're anxious to be off your bargain, i daresay i can find the balance above the estimates myself, but i'm d----d if i do another stroke of work for you!" soames regained his composure. knowing that bosinney had no capital, he regarded this as a wild suggestion. he saw, too, that he would be kept indefinitely out of this house on which he had set his heart, and just at the crucial point when the architect's personal care made all the difference. in the meantime there was irene to be thought of! she had been very queer lately. he really believed it was only because she had taken to bosinney that she tolerated the idea of the house at all. it would not do to make an open breach with her. "you needn't get into a rage," he said. "if i'm willing to put up with it, i suppose you needn't cry out. all i meant was that when you tell me a thing is going to cost so much, i like to--well, in fact, i--like to know where i am." "look here!" said bosinney, and soames was both annoyed and surprised by the shrewdness of his glance. "you've got my services dirt cheap. for the kind of work i've put into this house, and the amount of time i've given to it, you'd have had to pay littlemaster or some other fool four times as much. what you want, in fact, is a first-rate man for a fourth-rate fee, and that's exactly what you've got!" soames saw that he really meant what he said, and, angry though he was, the consequences of a row rose before him too vividly. he saw his house unfinished, his wife rebellious, himself a laughingstock. "let's go over it," he said sulkily, "and see how the money's gone." "very well," assented bosinney. "but we'll hurry up, if you don't mind. i have to get back in time to take june to the theatre." soames cast a stealthy look at him, and said: "coming to our place, i suppose to meet her?" he was always coming to their place! there had been rain the night before-a spring rain, and the earth smelt of sap and wild grasses. the warm, soft breeze swung the leaves and the golden buds of the old oak tree, and in the sunshine the blackbirds were whistling their hearts out. it was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what. the earth gave forth a fainting warmth, stealing up through the chilly garment in which winter had wrapped her. it was her long caress of invitation, to draw men down to lie within her arms, to roll their bodies on her, and put their lips to her breast. on just such a day as this soames had got from irene the promise he had asked her for so often. seated on the fallen trunk of a tree, he had promised for the twentieth time that if their marriage were not a success, she should be as free as if she had never married him! "do you swear it?" she had said. a few days back she had reminded him of that oath. he had answered: "nonsense! i couldn't have sworn any such thing!" by some awkward fatality he remembered it now. what queer things men would swear for the sake of women! he would have sworn it at any time to gain her! he would swear it now, if thereby he could touch her--but nobody could touch her, she was cold-hearted! and memories crowded on him with the fresh, sweet savour of the spring wind-memories of his courtship. in the spring of the year he was visiting his old school-fellow and client, george liversedge, of branksome, who, with the view of developing his pine-woods in the neighbourhood of bournemouth, had placed the formation of the company necessary to the scheme in soames's hands. mrs. liversedge, with a sense of the fitness of things, had given a musical tea in his honour. later in the course of this function, which soames, no musician, had regarded as an unmitigated bore, his eye had been caught by the face of a girl dressed in mourning, standing by herself. the lines of her tall, as yet rather thin figure, showed through the wispy, clinging stuff of her black dress, her black-gloved hands were crossed in front of her, her lips slightly parted, and her large, dark eyes wandered from face to face. her hair, done low on her neck, seemed to gleam above her black collar like coils of shining metal. and as soames stood looking at her, the sensation that most men have felt at one time or another went stealing through him--a peculiar satisfaction of the senses, a peculiar certainty, which novelists and old ladies call love at first sight. still stealthily watching her, he at once made his way to his hostess, and stood doggedly waiting for the music to cease. "who is that girl with yellow hair and dark eyes?" he asked. "that--oh! irene heron. her father, professor heron, died this year. she lives with her stepmother. she's a nice girl, a pretty girl, but no money!" "introduce me, please," said soames. it was very little that he found to say, nor did he find her responsive to that little. but he went away with the resolution to see her again. he effected his object by chance, meeting her on the pier with her stepmother, who had the habit of walking there from twelve to one of a forenoon. soames made this lady's acquaintance with alacrity, nor was it long before he perceived in her the ally he was looking for. his keen scent for the commercial side of family life soon told him that irene cost her stepmother more than the fifty pounds a year she brought her; it also told him that mrs. heron, a woman yet in the prime of life, desired to be married again. the strange ripening beauty of her stepdaughter stood in the way of this desirable consummation. and soames, in his stealthy tenacity, laid his plans. he left bournemouth without having given himself away, but in a month's time came back, and this time he spoke, not to the girl, but to her stepmother. he had made up his mind, he said; he would wait any time. and he had long to wait, watching irene bloom, the lines of her young figure softening, the stronger blood deepening the gleam of her eyes, and warming her face to a creamy glow; and at each visit he proposed to her, and when that visit was at an end, took her refusal away with him, back to london, sore at heart, but steadfast and silent as the grave. he tried to come at the secret springs of her resistance; only once had he a gleam of light. it was at one of those assembly dances, which afford the only outlet to the passions of the population of seaside watering-places. he was sitting with her in an embrasure, his senses tingling with the contact of the waltz. she had looked at him over her, slowly waving fan; and he had lost his head. seizing that moving wrist, he pressed his lips to the flesh of her arm. and she had shuddered--to this day he had not forgotten that shudder--nor the look so passionately averse she had given him. a year after that she had yielded. what had made her yield he could never make out; and from mrs. heron, a woman of some diplomatic talent, he learnt nothing. once after they were married he asked her, "what made you refuse me so often?" she had answered by a strange silence. an enigma to him from the day that he first saw her, she was an enigma to him still.... bosinney was waiting for him at the door; and on his rugged, good-looking, face was a queer, yearning, yet happy look, as though he too saw a promise of bliss in the spring sky, sniffed a coming happiness in the spring air. soames looked at him waiting there. what was the matter with the fellow that he looked so happy? what was he waiting for with that smile on his lips and in his eyes? soames could not see that for which bosinney was waiting as he stood there drinking in the flower-scented wind. and once more he felt baffled in the presence of this man whom by habit he despised. he hastened on to the house. "the only colour for those tiles," he heard bosinney say,--"is ruby with a grey tint in the stuff, to give a transparent effect. i should like irene's opinion. i'm ordering the purple leather curtains for the doorway of this court; and if you distemper the drawing-room ivory cream over paper, you'll get an illusive look. you want to aim all through the decorations at what i call charm." soames said: "you mean that my wife has charm!" bosinney evaded the question. "you should have a clump of iris plants in the centre of that court." soames smiled superciliously. "i'll look into beech's some time," he said, "and see what's appropriate!" they found little else to say to each other, but on the way to the station soames asked: "i suppose you find irene very artistic." "yes." the abrupt answer was as distinct a snub as saying: "if you want to discuss her you can do it with someone else!" and the slow, sulky anger soames had felt all the afternoon burned the brighter within him. neither spoke again till they were close to the station, then soames asked: "when do you expect to have finished?" "by the end of june, if you really wish me to decorate as well." soames nodded. "but you quite understand," he said, "that the house is costing me a lot beyond what i contemplated. i may as well tell you that i should have thrown it up, only i'm not in the habit of giving up what i've set my mind on." bosinney made no reply. and soames gave him askance a look of dogged dislike--for in spite of his fastidious air and that supercilious, dandified taciturnity, soames, with his set lips and squared chin, was not unlike a bulldog.... when, at seven o'clock that evening, june arrived at , montpellier square, the maid bilson told her that mr. bosinney was in the drawing-room; the mistress--she said--was dressing, and would be down in a minute. she would tell her that miss june was here. june stopped her at once. "all right, bilson," she said, "i'll just go in. you, needn't hurry mrs. soames." she took off her cloak, and bilson, with an understanding look, did not even open the drawing-room door for her, but ran downstairs. june paused for a moment to look at herself in the little old-fashioned silver mirror above the oaken rug chest--a slim, imperious young figure, with a small resolute face, in a white frock, cut moon-shaped at the base of a neck too slender for her crown of twisted red-gold hair. she opened the drawing-room door softly, meaning to take him by surprise. the room was filled with a sweet hot scent of flowering azaleas. she took a long breath of the perfume, and heard bosinney's voice, not in the room, but quite close, saying. "ah! there were such heaps of things i wanted to talk about, and now we shan't have time!" irene's voice answered: "why not at dinner?" "how can one talk...." june's first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to the long window opening on the little court. it was from there that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their backs to her, their faces buried in the golden-pink blossoms, stood her lover and irene. silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the girl watched. "come on sunday by yourself--we can go over the house together." june saw irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms. it was not the look of a coquette, but--far worse to the watching girl--of a woman fearful lest that look should say too much. "i've promised to go for a drive with uncle...." "the big one! make him bring you; it's only ten miles--the very thing for his horses." "poor old uncle swithin!" a wave of the azalea scent drifted into june's face; she felt sick and dizzy. "do! ah! do!" "but why?" "i must see you there--i thought you'd like to help me...." the answer seemed to the girl to come softly with a tremble from amongst the blossoms: "so i do!" and she stepped into the open space of the window. "how stuffy it is here!" she said; "i can't bear this scent!" her eyes, so angry and direct, swept both their faces. "were you talking about the house? i haven't seen it yet, you know--shall we all go on sunday?"' from irene's face the colour had flown. "i am going for a drive that day with uncle swithin," she answered. "uncle swithin! what does he matter? you can throw him over!" "i am not in the habit of throwing people over!" there was a sound of footsteps and june saw soames standing just behind her. "well! if you are all ready," said irene, looking from one to the other with a strange smile, "dinner is too!" chapter ii june's treat dinner began in silence; the women facing one another, and the men. in silence the soup was finished--excellent, if a little thick; and fish was brought. in silence it was handed. bosinney ventured: "it's the first spring day." irene echoed softly: "yes--the first spring day." "spring!" said june: "there isn't a breath of air!" no one replied. the fish was taken away, a fine fresh sole from dover. and bilson brought champagne, a bottle swathed around the neck with white.... soames said: "you'll find it dry." cutlets were handed, each pink-frilled about the legs. they were refused by june, and silence fell. soames said: "you'd better take a cutlet, june; there's nothing coming." but june again refused, so they were borne away. and then irene asked: "phil, have you heard my blackbird?" bosinney answered: "rather--he's got a hunting-song. as i came round i heard him in the square." "he's such a darling!" "salad, sir?" spring chicken was removed. but soames was speaking: "the asparagus is very poor. bosinney, glass of sherry with your sweet? june, you're drinking nothing!" june said: "you know i never do. wine's such horrid stuff!" an apple charlotte came upon a silver dish, and smilingly irene said: "the azaleas are so wonderful this year!" to this bosinney murmured: "wonderful! the scent's extraordinary!" june said: "how can you like the scent? sugar, please, bilson." sugar was handed her, and soames remarked: "this charlottes good!" the charlotte was removed. long silence followed. irene, beckoning, said: "take out the azalea, bilson. miss june can't bear the scent." "no; let it stay," said june. olives from france, with russian caviare, were placed on little plates. and soames remarked: "why can't we have the spanish?" but no one answered. the olives were removed. lifting her tumbler june demanded: "give me some water, please." water was given her. a silver tray was brought, with german plums. there was a lengthy pause. in perfect harmony all were eating them. bosinney counted up the stones: "this year--next year--some time." irene finished softly: "never! there was such a glorious sunset. the sky's all ruby still--so beautiful!" he answered: "underneath the dark." their eyes had met, and june cried scornfully: "a london sunset!" egyptian cigarettes were handed in a silver box. soames, taking one, remarked: "what time's your play begin?" no one replied, and turkish coffee followed in enamelled cups. irene, smiling quietly, said: "if only...." "only what?" said june. "if only it could always be the spring!" brandy was handed; it was pale and old. soames said: "bosinney, better take some brandy." bosinney took a glass; they all arose. "you want a cab?" asked soames. june answered: "no! my cloaks please, bilson." her cloak was brought. irene, from the window, murmured: "such a lovely night! the stars are coming out!" soames added: "well, i hope you'll both enjoy yourselves." from the door june answered: "thanks. come, phil." bosinney cried: "i'm coming." soames smiled a sneering smile, and said: "i wish you luck!" and at the door irene watched them go. bosinney called: "good night!" "good night!" she answered softly.... june made her lover take her on the top of a 'bus, saying she wanted air, and there sat silent, with her face to the breeze. the driver turned once or twice, with the intention of venturing a remark, but thought better of it. they were a lively couple! the spring had got into his blood, too; he felt the need for letting steam escape, and clucked his tongue, flourishing his whip, wheeling his horses, and even they, poor things, had smelled the spring, and for a brief half-hour spurned the pavement with happy hoofs. the whole town was alive; the boughs, curled upward with their decking of young leaves, awaited some gift the breeze could bring. new-lighted lamps were gaining mastery, and the faces of the crowd showed pale under that glare, while on high the great white clouds slid swiftly, softly, over the purple sky. men in, evening dress had thrown back overcoats, stepping jauntily up the steps of clubs; working folk loitered; and women--those women who at that time of night are solitary--solitary and moving eastward in a stream--swung slowly along, with expectation in their gait, dreaming of good wine and a good supper, or--for an unwonted minute, of kisses given for love. those countless figures, going their ways under the lamps and the moving-sky, had one and all received some restless blessing from the stir of spring. and one and all, like those clubmen with their opened coats, had shed something of caste, and creed, and custom, and by the cock of their hats, the pace of their walk, their laughter, or their silence, revealed their common kinship under the passionate heavens. bosinney and june entered the theatre in silence, and mounted to their seats in the upper boxes. the piece had just begun, and the half-darkened house, with its rows of creatures peering all one way, resembled a great garden of flowers turning their faces to the sun. june had never before been in the upper boxes. from the age of fifteen she had habitually accompanied her grandfather to the stalls, and not common stalls, but the best seats in the house, towards the centre of the third row, booked by old jolyon, at grogan and boyne's, on his way home from the city, long before the day; carried in his overcoat pocket, together with his cigar-case and his old kid gloves, and handed to june to keep till the appointed night. and in those stalls--an erect old figure with a serene white head, a little figure, strenuous and eager, with a red-gold head--they would sit through every kind of play, and on the way home old jolyon would say of the principal actor: "oh, he's a poor stick! you should have seen little bobson!" she had looked forward to this evening with keen delight; it was stolen, chaperone-less, undreamed of at stanhope gate, where she was supposed to be at soames'. she had expected reward for her subterfuge, planned for her lover's sake; she had expected it to break up the thick, chilly cloud, and make the relations between them which of late had been so puzzling, so tormenting--sunny and simple again as they had been before the winter. she had come with the intention of saying something definite; and she looked at the stage with a furrow between her brows, seeing nothing, her hands squeezed together in her lap. a swarm of jealous suspicions stung and stung her. if bosinney was conscious of her trouble he made no sign. the curtain dropped. the first act had come to an end. "it's awfully hot here!" said the girl; "i should like to go out." she was very white, and she knew--for with her nerves thus sharpened she saw everything--that he was both uneasy and compunctious. at the back of the theatre an open balcony hung over the street; she took possession of this, and stood leaning there without a word, waiting for him to begin. at last she could bear it no longer. "i want to say something to you, phil," she said. "yes?" the defensive tone of his voice brought the colour flying to her cheek, the words flying to her lips: "you don't give me a chance to be nice to you; you haven't for ages now!" bosinney stared down at the street. he made no answer.... june cried passionately: "you know i want to do everything for you--that i want to be everything to you...." a hum rose from the street, and, piercing it with a sharp 'ping,' the bell sounded for the raising of the curtain. june did not stir. a desperate struggle was going on within her. should she put everything to the proof? should she challenge directly that influence, that attraction which was driving him away from her? it was her nature to challenge, and she said: "phil, take me to see the house on sunday!" with a smile quivering and breaking on her lips, and trying, how hard, not to show that she was watching, she searched his face, saw it waver and hesitate, saw a troubled line come between his brows, the blood rush into his face. he answered: "not sunday, dear; some other day!" "why not sunday? i shouldn't be in the way on sunday." he made an evident effort, and said: "i have an engagement." "you are going to take...." his eyes grew angry; he shrugged his shoulders, and answered: "an engagement that will prevent my taking you to see the house!" june bit her lip till the blood came, and walked back to her seat without another word, but she could not help the tears of rage rolling down her face. the house had been mercifully darkened for a crisis, and no one could see her trouble. yet in this world of forsytes let no man think himself immune from observation. in the third row behind, euphemia, nicholas's youngest daughter, with her married-sister, mrs. tweetyman, were watching. they reported at timothy's, how they had seen june and her fiance at the theatre. "in the stalls?" "no, not in the...." "oh! in the dress circle, of course. that seemed to be quite fashionable nowadays with young people!" well--not exactly. in the.... anyway, that engagement wouldn't last long. they had never seen anyone look so thunder and lightningy as that little june! with tears of enjoyment in their eyes, they related how she had kicked a man's hat as she returned to her seat in the middle of an act, and how the man had looked. euphemia had a noted, silent laugh, terminating most disappointingly in squeaks; and when mrs. small, holding up her hands, said: "my dear! kicked a ha-at?" she let out such a number of these that she had to be recovered with smelling-salts. as she went away she said to mrs. tweetyman: "kicked a--ha-at! oh! i shall die." for 'that little june' this evening, that was to have been 'her treat,' was the most miserable she had ever spent. god knows she tried to stifle her pride, her suspicion, her jealousy! she parted from bosinney at old jolyon's door without breaking down; the feeling that her lover must be conquered was strong enough to sustain her till his retiring footsteps brought home the true extent of her wretchedness. the noiseless 'sankey' let her in. she would have slipped up to her own room, but old jolyon, who had heard her entrance, was in the dining-room doorway. "come in and have your milk," he said. "it's been kept hot for you. you're very late. where have you been?" june stood at the fireplace, with a foot on the fender and an arm on the mantelpiece, as her grandfather had done when he came in that night of the opera. she was too near a breakdown to care what she told him. "we dined at soames's." "h'm! the man of property! his wife there and bosinney?" "yes." old jolyon's glance was fixed on her with the penetrating gaze from which it was difficult to hide; but she was not looking at him, and when she turned her face, he dropped his scrutiny at once. he had seen enough, and too much. he bent down to lift the cup of milk for her from the hearth, and, turning away, grumbled: "you oughtn't to stay out so late; it makes you fit for nothing." he was invisible now behind his paper, which he turned with a vicious crackle; but when june came up to kiss him, he said: "good-night, my darling," in a tone so tremulous and unexpected, that it was all the girl could do to get out of the room without breaking into the fit of sobbing which lasted her well on into the night. when the door was closed, old jolyon dropped his paper, and stared long and anxiously in front of him. 'the beggar!' he thought. 'i always knew she'd have trouble with him!' uneasy doubts and suspicions, the more poignant that he felt himself powerless to check or control the march of events, came crowding upon him. was the fellow going to jilt her? he longed to go and say to him: "look here, you sir! are you going to jilt my grand-daughter?" but how could he? knowing little or nothing, he was yet certain, with his unerring astuteness, that there was something going on. he suspected bosinney of being too much at montpellier square. 'this fellow,' he thought, 'may not be a scamp; his face is not a bad one, but he's a queer fish. i don't know what to make of him. i shall never know what to make of him! they tell me he works like a nigger, but i see no good coming of it. he's unpractical, he has no method. when he comes here, he sits as glum as a monkey. if i ask him what wine he'll have, he says: "thanks, any wine." if i offer him a cigar, he smokes it as if it were a twopenny german thing. i never see him looking at june as he ought to look at her; and yet, he's not after her money. if she were to make a sign, he'd be off his bargain to-morrow. but she won't--not she! she'll stick to him! she's as obstinate as fate--she'll never let go!' sighing deeply, he turned the paper; in its columns, perchance he might find consolation. and upstairs in her room june sat at her open window, where the spring wind came, after its revel across the park, to cool her hot cheeks and burn her heart. chapter iii drive with swithin two lines of a certain song in a certain famous old school's songbook run as follows: 'how the buttons on his blue frock shone, tra-la-la! how he carolled and he sang, like a bird!....' swithin did not exactly carol and sing like a bird, but he felt almost like endeavouring to hum a tune, as he stepped out of hyde park mansions, and contemplated his horses drawn up before the door. the afternoon was as balmy as a day in june, and to complete the simile of the old song, he had put on a blue frock-coat, dispensing with an overcoat, after sending adolf down three times to make sure that there was not the least suspicion of east in the wind; and the frock-coat was buttoned so tightly around his personable form, that, if the buttons did not shine, they might pardonably have done so. majestic on the pavement he fitted on a pair of dog-skin gloves; with his large bell-shaped top hat, and his great stature and bulk he looked too primeval for a forsyte. his thick white hair, on which adolf had bestowed a touch of pomatum, exhaled the fragrance of opoponax and cigars--the celebrated swithin brand, for which he paid one hundred and forty shillings the hundred, and of which old jolyon had unkindly said, he wouldn't smoke them as a gift; they wanted the stomach of a horse! "adolf!" "sare!" "the new plaid rug!" he would never teach that fellow to look smart; and mrs. soames he felt sure, had an eye! "the phaeton hood down; i am going--to--drive--a--lady!" a pretty woman would want to show off her frock; and well--he was going to drive a lady! it was like a new beginning to the good old days. ages since he had driven a woman! the last time, if he remembered, it had been juley; the poor old soul had been as nervous as a cat the whole time, and so put him out of patience that, as he dropped her in the bayswater road, he had said: "well i'm d---d if i ever drive you again!" and he never had, not he! going up to his horses' heads, he examined their bits; not that he knew anything about bits--he didn't pay his coachman sixty pounds a year to do his work for him, that had never been his principle. indeed, his reputation as a horsey man rested mainly on the fact that once, on derby day, he had been welshed by some thimble-riggers. but someone at the club, after seeing him drive his greys up to the door--he always drove grey horses, you got more style for the money, some thought--had called him 'four-in-hand forsyte.' the name having reached his ears through that fellow nicholas treffry, old jolyon's dead partner, the great driving man notorious for more carriage accidents than any man in the kingdom--swithin had ever after conceived it right to act up to it. the name had taken his fancy, not because he had ever driven four-in-hand, or was ever likely to, but because of something distinguished in the sound. four-in-hand forsyte! not bad! born too soon, swithin had missed his vocation. coming upon london twenty years later, he could not have failed to have become a stockbroker, but at the time when he was obliged to select, this great profession had not as yet became the chief glory of the upper-middle class. he had literally been forced into land agency. once in the driving seat, with the reins handed to him, and blinking over his pale old cheeks in the full sunlight, he took a slow look round--adolf was already up behind; the cockaded groom at the horses' heads stood ready to let go; everything was prepared for the signal, and swithin gave it. the equipage dashed forward, and before you could say jack robinson, with a rattle and flourish drew up at soames' door. irene came out at once, and stepped in--he afterward described it at timothy's--"as light as--er--taglioni, no fuss about it, no wanting this or wanting that;" and above all, swithin dwelt on this, staring at mrs. septimus in a way that disconcerted her a good deal, "no silly nervousness!" to aunt hester he portrayed irene's hat. "not one of your great flopping things, sprawling about, and catching the dust, that women are so fond of nowadays, but a neat little--" he made a circular motion of his hand, "white veil--capital taste." "what was it made of?" inquired aunt hester, who manifested a languid but permanent excitement at any mention of dress. "made of?" returned swithin; "now how should i know?" he sank into silence so profound that aunt hester began to be afraid he had fallen into a trance. she did not try to rouse him herself, it not being her custom. 'i wish somebody would come,' she thought; 'i don't like the look of him!' but suddenly swithin returned to life. "made of" he wheezed out slowly, "what should it be made of?" they had not gone four miles before swithin received the impression that irene liked driving with him. her face was so soft behind that white veil, and her dark eyes shone so in the spring light, and whenever he spoke she raised them to him and smiled. on saturday morning soames had found her at her writing-table with a note written to swithin, putting him off. why did she want to put him off? he asked. she might put her own people off when she liked, he would not have her putting off his people! she had looked at him intently, had torn up the note, and said: "very well!" and then she began writing another. he took a casual glance presently, and saw that it was addressed to bosinney. "what are you writing to him about?" he asked. irene, looking at him again with that intent look, said quietly: "something he wanted me to do for him!" "humph!" said soames,--"commissions!" "you'll have your work cut out if you begin that sort of thing!" he said no more. swithin opened his eyes at the mention of robin hill; it was a long way for his horses, and he always dined at half-past seven, before the rush at the club began; the new chef took more trouble with an early dinner--a lazy rascal! he would like to have a look at the house, however. a house appealed to any forsyte, and especially to one who had been an auctioneer. after all he said the distance was nothing. when he was a younger man he had had rooms at richmond for many years, kept his carriage and pair there, and drove them up and down to business every day of his life. four-in-hand forsyte they called him! his t-cart, his horses had been known from hyde park corner to the star and garter. the duke of z.... wanted to get hold of them, would have given him double the money, but he had kept them; know a good thing when you have it, eh? a look of solemn pride came portentously on his shaven square old face, he rolled his head in his stand-up collar, like a turkey-cock preening himself. she was really--a charming woman! he enlarged upon her frock afterwards to aunt juley, who held up her hands at his way of putting it. fitted her like a skin--tight as a drum; that was how he liked 'em, all of a piece, none of your daverdy, scarecrow women! he gazed at mrs. septimus small, who took after james--long and thin. "there's style about her," he went on, "fit for a king! and she's so quiet with it too!" "she seems to have made quite a conquest of you, any way," drawled aunt hester from her corner. swithin heard extremely well when anybody attacked him. "what's that?" he said. "i know a--pretty--woman when i see one, and all i can say is, i don't see the young man about that's fit for her; but perhaps--you--do, come, perhaps--you-do!" "oh?" murmured aunt hester, "ask juley!" long before they reached robin hill, however, the unaccustomed airing had made him terribly sleepy; he drove with his eyes closed, a life-time of deportment alone keeping his tall and bulky form from falling askew. bosinney, who was watching, came out to meet them, and all three entered the house together; swithin in front making play with a stout gold-mounted malacca cane, put into his hand by adolf, for his knees were feeling the effects of their long stay in the same position. he had assumed his fur coat, to guard against the draughts of the unfinished house. the staircase--he said--was handsome! the baronial style! they would want some statuary about! he came to a standstill between the columns of the doorway into the inner court, and held out his cane inquiringly. what was this to be--this vestibule, or whatever they called it? but gazing at the skylight, inspiration came to him. "ah! the billiard-room!" when told it was to be a tiled court with plants in the centre, he turned to irene: "waste this on plants? you take my advice and have a billiard table here!" irene smiled. she had lifted her veil, banding it like a nun's coif across her forehead, and the smile of her dark eyes below this seemed to swithin more charming than ever. he nodded. she would take his advice he saw. he had little to say of the drawing or dining-rooms, which he described as "spacious"; but fell into such raptures as he permitted to a man of his dignity, in the wine-cellar, to which he descended by stone steps, bosinney going first with a light. "you'll have room here," he said, "for six or seven hundred dozen--a very pooty little cellar!" bosinney having expressed the wish to show them the house from the copse below, swithin came to a stop. "there's a fine view from here," he remarked; "you haven't such a thing as a chair?" a chair was brought him from bosinney's tent. "you go down," he said blandly; "you two! i'll sit here and look at the view." he sat down by the oak tree, in the sun; square and upright, with one hand stretched out, resting on the nob of his cane, the other planted on his knee; his fur coat thrown open, his hat, roofing with its flat top the pale square of his face; his stare, very blank, fixed on the landscape. he nodded to them as they went off down through the fields. he was, indeed, not sorry to be left thus for a quiet moment of reflection. the air was balmy, not too much heat in the sun; the prospect a fine one, a remarka.... his head fell a little to one side; he jerked it up and thought: odd! he--ah! they were waving to him from the bottom! he put up his hand, and moved it more than once. they were active--the prospect was remar.... his head fell to the left, he jerked it up at once; it fell to the right. it remained there; he was asleep. and asleep, a sentinel on the--top of the rise, he appeared to rule over this prospect--remarkable--like some image blocked out by the special artist, of primeval forsytes in pagan days, to record the domination of mind over matter! and all the unnumbered generations of his yeoman ancestors, wont of a sunday to stand akimbo surveying their little plots of land, their grey unmoving eyes hiding their instinct with its hidden roots of violence, their instinct for possession to the exclusion of all the world--all these unnumbered generations seemed to sit there with him on the top of the rise. but from him, thus slumbering, his jealous forsyte spirit travelled far, into god-knows-what jungle of fancies; with those two young people, to see what they were doing down there in the copse--in the copse where the spring was running riot with the scent of sap and bursting buds, the song of birds innumerable, a carpet of bluebells and sweet growing things, and the sun caught like gold in the tops of the trees; to see what they were doing, walking along there so close together on the path that was too narrow; walking along there so close that they were always touching; to watch irene's eyes, like dark thieves, stealing the heart out of the spring. and a great unseen chaperon, his spirit was there, stopping with them to look at the little furry corpse of a mole, not dead an hour, with his mushroom-and-silver coat untouched by the rain or dew; watching over irene's bent head, and the soft look of her pitying eyes; and over that young man's head, gazing at her so hard, so strangely. walking on with them, too, across the open space where a wood-cutter had been at work, where the bluebells were trampled down, and a trunk had swayed and staggered down from its gashed stump. climbing it with them, over, and on to the very edge of the copse, whence there stretched an undiscovered country, from far away in which came the sounds, 'cuckoo-cuckoo!' silent, standing with them there, and uneasy at their silence! very queer, very strange! then back again, as though guilty, through the wood--back to the cutting, still silent, amongst the songs of birds that never ceased, and the wild scent--hum! what was it--like that herb they put in--back to the log across the path.... and then unseen, uneasy, flapping above them, trying to make noises, his forsyte spirit watched her balanced on the log, her pretty figure swaying, smiling down at that young man gazing up with such strange, shining eyes, slipping now--a--ah! falling, o--oh! sliding--down his breast; her soft, warm body clutched, her head bent back from his lips; his kiss; her recoil; his cry: "you must know--i love you!" must know--indeed, a pretty...? love! hah! swithin awoke; virtue had gone out of him. he had a taste in his mouth. where was he? damme! he had been asleep! he had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint in it. those young people--where had they got to? his left leg had pins and needles. "adolf!" the rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep somewhere. he stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously down over the fields, and presently he saw them coming. irene was in front; that young fellow--what had they nicknamed him--'the buccaneer?' looked precious hangdog there behind her; had got a flea in his ear, he shouldn't wonder. serve him right, taking her down all that way to look at the house! the proper place to look at a house from was the lawn. they saw him. he extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to encourage them. but they had stopped. what were they standing there for, talking--talking? they came on again. she had been, giving him a rub, he had not the least doubt of it, and no wonder, over a house like that--a great ugly thing, not the sort of house he was accustomed to. he looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable stare. that young man looked very queer! "you'll never make anything of this!" he said tartly, pointing at the mansion;--"too newfangled!" bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and swithin afterwards described him to aunt hester as "an extravagant sort of fellow very odd way of looking at you--a bumpy beggar!" what gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology he did not state; possibly bosinney's, prominent forehead and cheekbones and chin, or something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with swithin's conception of the calm satiety that should characterize the perfect gentleman. he brightened up at the mention of tea. he had a contempt for tea--his brother jolyon had been in tea; made a lot of money by it--but he was so thirsty, and had such a taste in his mouth, that he was prepared to drink anything. he longed to inform irene of the taste in his mouth--she was so sympathetic--but it would not be a distinguished thing to do; he rolled his tongue round, and faintly smacked it against his palate. in a far corner of the tent adolf was bending his cat-like moustaches over a kettle. he left it at once to draw the cork of a pint-bottle of champagne. swithin smiled, and, nodding at bosinney, said: "why, you're quite a monte cristo!" this celebrated novel--one of the half-dozen he had read--had produced an extraordinary impression on his mind. taking his glass from the table, he held it away from him to scrutinize the colour; thirsty as he was, it was not likely that he was going to drink trash! then, placing it to his lips, he took a sip. "a very nice wine," he said at last, passing it before his nose; "not the equal of my heidsieck!" it was at this moment that the idea came to him which he afterwards imparted at timothy's in this nutshell: "i shouldn't wonder a bit if that architect chap were sweet upon mrs. soames!" and from this moment his pale, round eyes never ceased to bulge with the interest of his discovery. "the fellow," he said to mrs. septimus, "follows her about with his eyes like a dog--the bumpy beggar! i don't wonder at it--she's a very charming woman, and, i should say, the pink of discretion!" a vague consciousness of perfume caging about irene, like that from a flower with half-closed petals and a passionate heart, moved him to the creation of this image. "but i wasn't sure of it," he said, "till i saw him pick up her handkerchief." mrs. small's eyes boiled with excitement. "and did he give it her back?" she asked. "give it back?" said swithin: "i saw him slobber on it when he thought i wasn't looking!" mrs. small gasped--too interested to speak. "but she gave him no encouragement," went on swithin; he stopped, and stared for a minute or two in the way that alarmed aunt hester so--he had suddenly recollected that, as they were starting back in the phaeton, she had given bosinney her hand a second time, and let it stay there too.... he had touched his horses smartly with the whip, anxious to get her all to himself. but she had looked back, and she had not answered his first question; neither had he been able to see her face--she had kept it hanging down. there is somewhere a picture, which swithin has not seen, of a man sitting on a rock, and by him, immersed in the still, green water, a sea-nymph lying on her back, with her hand on her naked breast. she has a half-smile on her face--a smile of hopeless surrender and of secret joy. seated by swithin's side, irene may have been smiling like that. when, warmed by champagne, he had her all to himself, he unbosomed himself of his wrongs; of his smothered resentment against the new chef at the club; his worry over the house in wigmore street, where the rascally tenant had gone bankrupt through helping his brother-in-law as if charity did not begin at home; of his deafness, too, and that pain he sometimes got in his right side. she listened, her eyes swimming under their lids. he thought she was thinking deeply of his troubles, and pitied himself terribly. yet in his fur coat, with frogs across the breast, his top hat aslant, driving this beautiful woman, he had never felt more distinguished. a coster, however, taking his girl for a sunday airing, seemed to have the same impression about himself. this person had flogged his donkey into a gallop alongside, and sat, upright as a waxwork, in his shallopy chariot, his chin settled pompously on a red handkerchief, like swithin's on his full cravat; while his girl, with the ends of a fly-blown boa floating out behind, aped a woman of fashion. her swain moved a stick with a ragged bit of string dangling from the end, reproducing with strange fidelity the circular flourish of swithin's whip, and rolled his head at his lady with a leer that had a weird likeness to swithin's primeval stare. though for a time unconscious of the lowly ruffian's presence, swithin presently took it into his head that he was being guyed. he laid his whip-lash across the mares flank. the two chariots, however, by some unfortunate fatality continued abreast. swithin's yellow, puffy face grew red; he raised his whip to lash the costermonger, but was saved from so far forgetting his dignity by a special intervention of providence. a carriage driving out through a gate forced phaeton and donkey-cart into proximity; the wheels grated, the lighter vehicle skidded, and was overturned. swithin did not look round. on no account would he have pulled up to help the ruffian. serve him right if he had broken his neck! but he could not if he would. the greys had taken alarm. the phaeton swung from side to side, and people raised frightened faces as they went dashing past. swithin's great arms, stretched at full length, tugged at the reins. his cheeks were puffed, his lips compressed, his swollen face was of a dull, angry red. irene had her hand on the rail, and at every lurch she gripped it tightly. swithin heard her ask: "are we going to have an accident, uncle swithin?" he gasped out between his pants: "it's nothing; a--little fresh!" "i've never been in an accident." "don't you move!" he took a look at her. she was smiling, perfectly calm. "sit still," he repeated. "never fear, i'll get you home!" and in the midst of all his terrible efforts, he was surprised to hear her answer in a voice not like her own: "i don't care if i never get home!" the carriage giving a terrific lurch, swithin's exclamation was jerked back into his throat. the horses, winded by the rise of a hill, now steadied to a trot, and finally stopped of their own accord. "when"--swithin described it at timothy's--"i pulled 'em up, there she was as cool as myself. god bless my soul! she behaved as if she didn't care whether she broke her neck or not! what was it she said: 'i don't care if i never get home?" leaning over the handle of his cane, he wheezed out, to mrs. small's terror: "and i'm not altogether surprised, with a finickin' feller like young soames for a husband!" it did not occur to him to wonder what bosinney had done after they had left him there alone; whether he had gone wandering about like the dog to which swithin had compared him; wandering down to that copse where the spring was still in riot, the cuckoo still calling from afar; gone down there with her handkerchief pressed to lips, its fragrance mingling with the scent of mint and thyme. gone down there with such a wild, exquisite pain in his heart that he could have cried out among the trees. or what, indeed, the fellow had done. in fact, till he came to timothy's, swithin had forgotten all about him. chapter iv james goes to see for himself those ignorant of forsyte 'change would not, perhaps, foresee all the stir made by irene's visit to the house. after swithin had related at timothy's the full story of his memorable drive, the same, with the least suspicion of curiosity, the merest touch of malice, and a real desire to do good, was passed on to june. "and what a dreadful thing to say, my dear!" ended aunt juley; "that about not going home. what did she mean?" it was a strange recital for the girl. she heard it flushing painfully, and, suddenly, with a curt handshake, took her departure. "almost rude!" mrs. small said to aunt hester, when june was gone. the proper construction was put on her reception of the news. she was upset. something was therefore very wrong. odd! she and irene had been such friends! it all tallied too well with whispers and hints that had been going about for some time past. recollections of euphemia's account of the visit to the theatre--mr. bosinney always at soames's? oh, indeed! yes, of course, he would be about the house! nothing open. only upon the greatest, the most important provocation was it necessary to say anything open on forsyte 'change. this machine was too nicely adjusted; a hint, the merest trifling expression of regret or doubt, sufficed to set the family soul so sympathetic--vibrating. no one desired that harm should come of these vibrations--far from it; they were set in motion with the best intentions, with the feeling, that each member of the family had a stake in the family soul. and much kindness lay at the bottom of the gossip; it would frequently result in visits of condolence being made, in accordance with the customs of society, thereby conferring a real benefit upon the sufferers, and affording consolation to the sound, who felt pleasantly that someone at all events was suffering from that from which they themselves were not suffering. in fact, it was simply a desire to keep things well-aired, the desire which animates the public press, that brought james, for instance, into communication with mrs. septimus, mrs. septimus, with the little nicholases, the little nicholases with who-knows-whom, and so on. that great class to which they had risen, and now belonged, demanded a certain candour, a still more certain reticence. this combination guaranteed their membership. many of the younger forsytes felt, very naturally, and would openly declare, that they did not want their affairs pried into; but so powerful was the invisible, magnetic current of family gossip, that for the life of them they could not help knowing all about everything. it was felt to be hopeless. one of them (young roger) had made an heroic attempt to free the rising generation, by speaking of timothy as an 'old cat.' the effort had justly recoiled upon himself; the words, coming round in the most delicate way to aunt juley's ears, were repeated by her in a shocked voice to mrs. roger, whence they returned again to young roger. and, after all, it was only the wrong-doers who suffered; as, for instance, george, when he lost all that money playing billiards; or young roger himself, when he was so dreadfully near to marrying the girl to whom, it was whispered, he was already married by the laws of nature; or again irene, who was thought, rather than said, to be in danger. all this was not only pleasant but salutary. and it made so many hours go lightly at timothy's in the bayswater road; so many hours that must otherwise have been sterile and heavy to those three who lived there; and timothy's was but one of hundreds of such homes in this city of london--the homes of neutral persons of the secure classes, who are out of the battle themselves, and must find their reason for existing, in the battles of others. but for the sweetness of family gossip, it must indeed have been lonely there. rumours and tales, reports, surmises--were they not the children of the house, as dear and precious as the prattling babes the brother and sisters had missed in their own journey? to talk about them was as near as they could get to the possession of all those children and grandchildren, after whom their soft hearts yearned. for though it is doubtful whether timothy's heart yearned, it is indubitable that at the arrival of each fresh forsyte child he was quite upset. useless for young roger to say, "old cat!" for euphemia to hold up her hands and cry: "oh! those three!" and break into her silent laugh with the squeak at the end. useless, and not too kind. the situation which at this stage might seem, and especially to forsyte eyes, strange--not to say 'impossible'--was, in view of certain facts, not so strange after all. some things had been lost sight of. and first, in the security bred of many harmless marriages, it had been forgotten that love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. a wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild! and further--the facts and figures of their own lives being against the perception of this truth--it was not generally recognised by forsytes that, where, this wild plant springs, men and women are but moths around the pale, flame-like blossom. it was long since young jolyon's escapade--there was danger of a tradition again arising that people in their position never cross the hedge to pluck that flower; that one could reckon on having love, like measles, once in due season, and getting over it comfortably for all time--as with measles, on a soothing mixture of butter and honey--in the arms of wedlock. of all those whom this strange rumour about bosinney and mrs. soames reached, james was the most affected. he had long forgotten how he had hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of chestnut hue, round emily, in the days of his own courtship. he had long forgotten the small house in the purlieus of mayfair, where he had spent the early days of his married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early days, not the small house,--a forsyte never forgot a house--he had afterwards sold it at a clear profit of four hundred pounds. he had long forgotten those days, with their hopes and fears and doubts about the prudence of the match (for emily, though pretty, had nothing, and he himself at that time was making a bare thousand a year), and that strange, irresistible attraction which had drawn him on, till he felt he must die if he could not marry the girl with the fair hair, looped so neatly back, the fair arms emerging from a skin-tight bodice, the fair form decorously shielded by a cage of really stupendous circumference. james had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through the river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced the saddest experience of all--forgetfulness of what it was like to be in love. forgotten! forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he had forgotten. and now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his son's wife; very vague, a shadow dodging among the palpable, straightforward appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible as a ghost, but carrying with it, like a ghost, inexplicable terror. he tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use than trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of daily in his evening paper. he simply could not. there could be nothing in it. it was all their nonsense. she didn't get on with soames as well as she might, but she was a good little thing--a good little thing! like the not inconsiderable majority of men, james relished a nice little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact tone, licking his lips, "yes, yes--she and young dyson; they tell me they're living at monte carlo!" but the significance of an affair of this sort--of its past, its present, or its future--had never struck him. what it meant, what torture and raptures had gone to its construction, what slow, overmastering fate had lurked within the facts, very naked, sometimes sordid, but generally spicy, presented to his gaze. he was not in the habit of blaming, praising, drawing deductions, or generalizing at all about such things; he simply listened rather greedily, and repeated what he was told, finding considerable benefit from the practice, as from the consumption of a sherry and bitters before a meal. now, however, that such a thing--or rather the rumour, the breath of it--had come near him personally, he felt as in a fog, which filled his mouth full of a bad, thick flavour, and made it difficult to draw breath. a scandal! a possible scandal! to repeat this word to himself thus was the only way in which he could focus or make it thinkable. he had forgotten the sensations necessary for understanding the progress, fate, or meaning of any such business; he simply could no longer grasp the possibilities of people running any risk for the sake of passion. amongst all those persons of his acquaintance, who went into the city day after day and did their business there, whatever it was, and in their leisure moments bought shares, and houses, and ate dinners, and played games, as he was told, it would have seemed to him ridiculous to suppose that there were any who would run risks for the sake of anything so recondite, so figurative, as passion. passion! he seemed, indeed, to have heard of it, and rules such as 'a young man and a young woman ought never to be trusted together' were fixed in his mind as the parallels of latitude are fixed on a map (for all forsytes, when it comes to 'bed-rock' matters of fact, have quite a fine taste in realism); but as to anything else--well, he could only appreciate it at all through the catch-word 'scandal.' ah! but there was no truth in it--could not be. he was not afraid; she was really a good little thing. but there it was when you got a thing like that into your mind. and james was of a nervous temperament--one of those men whom things will not leave alone, who suffer tortures from anticipation and indecision. for fear of letting something slip that he might otherwise secure, he was physically unable to make up his mind until absolutely certain that, by not making it up, he would suffer loss. in life, however, there were many occasions when the business of making up his mind did not even rest with himself, and this was one of them. what could he do? talk it over with soames? that would only make matters worse. and, after all, there was nothing in it, he felt sure. it was all that house. he had mistrusted the idea from the first. what did soames want to go into the country for? and, if he must go spending a lot of money building himself a house, why not have a first-rate man, instead of this young bosinney, whom nobody knew anything about? he had told them how it would be. and he had heard that the house was costing soames a pretty penny beyond what he had reckoned on spending. this fact, more than any other, brought home to james the real danger of the situation. it was always like this with these 'artistic' chaps; a sensible man should have nothing to say to them. he had warned irene, too. and see what had come of it! and it suddenly sprang into james's mind that he ought to go and see for himself. in the midst of that fog of uneasiness in which his mind was enveloped the notion that he could go and look at the house afforded him inexplicable satisfaction. it may have been simply the decision to do something--more possibly the fact that he was going to look at a house--that gave him relief. he felt that in staring at an edifice of bricks and mortar, of wood and stone, built by the suspected man himself, he would be looking into the heart of that rumour about irene. without saying a word, therefore, to anyone, he took a hansom to the station and proceeded by train to robin hill; thence--there being no 'flies,' in accordance with the custom of the neighbourhood--he found himself obliged to walk. he started slowly up the hill, his angular knees and high shoulders bent complainingly, his eyes fixed on his feet, yet, neat for all that, in his high hat and his frock-coat, on which was the speckless gloss imparted by perfect superintendence. emily saw to that; that is, she did not, of course, see to it--people of good position not seeing to each other's buttons, and emily was of good position--but she saw that the butler saw to it. he had to ask his way three times; on each occasion he repeated the directions given him, got the man to repeat them, then repeated them a second time, for he was naturally of a talkative disposition, and one could not be too careful in a new neighbourhood. he kept assuring them that it was a new house he was looking for; it was only, however, when he was shown the roof through the trees that he could feel really satisfied that he had not been directed entirely wrong. a heavy sky seemed to cover the world with the grey whiteness of a whitewashed ceiling. there was no freshness or fragrance in the air. on such a day even british workmen scarcely cared to do more then they were obliged, and moved about their business without the drone of talk which whiles away the pangs of labour. through spaces of the unfinished house, shirt-sleeved figures worked slowly, and sounds arose--spasmodic knockings, the scraping of metal, the sawing of wood, with the rumble of wheelbarrows along boards; now and again the foreman's dog, tethered by a string to an oaken beam, whimpered feebly, with a sound like the singing of a kettle. the fresh-fitted window-panes, daubed each with a white patch in the centre, stared out at james like the eyes of a blind dog. and the building chorus went on, strident and mirthless under the grey-white sky. but the thrushes, hunting amongst the fresh-turned earth for worms, were silent quite. james picked his way among the heaps of gravel--the drive was being laid--till he came opposite the porch. here he stopped and raised his eyes. there was but little to see from this point of view, and that little he took in at once; but he stayed in this position many minutes, and who shall know of what he thought. his china-blue eyes under white eyebrows that jutted out in little horns, never stirred; the long upper lip of his wide mouth, between the fine white whiskers, twitched once or twice; it was easy to see from that anxious rapt expression, whence soames derived the handicapped look which sometimes came upon his face. james might have been saying to himself: 'i don't know--life's a tough job.' in this position bosinney surprised him. james brought his eyes down from whatever bird's-nest they had been looking for in the sky to bosinney's face, on which was a kind of humorous scorn. "how do you do, mr. forsyte? come down to see for yourself?" it was exactly what james, as we know, had come for, and he was made correspondingly uneasy. he held out his hand, however, saying: "how are you?" without looking at bosinney. the latter made way for him with an ironical smile. james scented something suspicious in this courtesy. "i should like to walk round the outside first," he said, "and see what you've been doing!" a flagged terrace of rounded stones with a list of two or three inches to port had been laid round the south-east and south-west sides of the house, and ran with a bevelled edge into mould, which was in preparation for being turfed; along this terrace james led the way. "now what did this cost?" he asked, when he saw the terrace extending round the corner. "what should you think?" inquired bosinney. "how should i know?" replied james somewhat nonplussed; "two or three hundred, i dare say!" "the exact sum!" james gave him a sharp look, but the architect appeared unconscious, and he put the answer down to mishearing. on arriving at the garden entrance, he stopped to look at the view. "that ought to come down," he said, pointing to the oak-tree. "you think so? you think that with the tree there you don't get enough view for your money." again james eyed him suspiciously--this young man had a peculiar way of putting things: "well!" he said, with a perplexed, nervous, emphasis, "i don't see what you want with a tree." "it shall come down to-morrow," said bosinney. james was alarmed. "oh," he said, "don't go saying i said it was to come down! i know nothing about it!" "no?" james went on in a fluster: "why, what should i know about it? it's nothing to do with me! you do it on your own responsibility." "you'll allow me to mention your name?" james grew more and more alarmed: "i don't know what you want mentioning my name for," he muttered; "you'd better leave the tree alone. it's not your tree!" he took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. they entered the house. like swithin, james was impressed by the inner court-yard. "you must have spent a douce of a lot of money here," he said, after staring at the columns and gallery for some time. "now, what did it cost to put up those columns?" "i can't tell you off-hand," thoughtfully answered bosinney, "but i know it was a deuce of a lot!" "i should think so," said james. "i should...." he caught the architect's eye, and broke off. and now, whenever he came to anything of which he desired to know the cost, he stifled that curiosity. bosinney appeared determined that he should see everything, and had not james been of too 'noticing' a nature, he would certainly have found himself going round the house a second time. he seemed so anxious to be asked questions, too, that james felt he must be on his guard. he began to suffer from his exertions, for, though wiry enough for a man of his long build, he was seventy-five years old. he grew discouraged; he seemed no nearer to anything, had not obtained from his inspection any of the knowledge he had vaguely hoped for. he had merely increased his dislike and mistrust of this young man, who had tired him out with his politeness, and in whose manner he now certainly detected mockery. the fellow was sharper than he had thought, and better-looking than he had hoped. he had a--a 'don't care' appearance that james, to whom risk was the most intolerable thing in life, did not appreciate; a peculiar smile, too, coming when least expected; and very queer eyes. he reminded james, as he said afterwards, of a hungry cat. this was as near as he could get, in conversation with emily, to a description of the peculiar exasperation, velvetiness, and mockery, of which bosinney's manner had been composed. at last, having seen all that was to be seen, he came out again at the door where he had gone in; and now, feeling that he was wasting time and strength and money, all for nothing, he took the courage of a forsyte in both hands, and, looking sharply at bosinney, said: "i dare say you see a good deal of my daughter-in-law; now, what does she think of the house? but she hasn't seen it, i suppose?" this he said, knowing all about irene's visit not, of course, that there was anything in the visit, except that extraordinary remark she had made about 'not caring to get home'--and the story of how june had taken the news! he had determined, by this way of putting the question, to give bosinney a chance, as he said to himself. the latter was long in answering, but kept his eyes with uncomfortable steadiness on james. "she has seen the house, but i can't tell you what she thinks of it." nervous and baffled, james was constitutionally prevented from letting the matter drop. "oh!" he said, "she has seen it? soames brought her down, i suppose?" bosinney smilingly replied: "oh, no!" "what, did she come down alone?" "oh, no!" "then--who brought her?" "i really don't know whether i ought to tell you who brought her." to james, who knew that it was swithin, this answer appeared incomprehensible. "why!" he stammered, "you know that...." but he stopped, suddenly perceiving his danger. "well," he said, "if you don't want to tell me i suppose you won't! nobody tells me anything." somewhat to his surprise bosinney asked him a question. "by the by," he said, "could you tell me if there are likely to be any more of you coming down? i should like to be on the spot!" "any more?" said james bewildered, "who should there be more? i don't know of any more. good-bye?" looking at the ground he held out his hand, crossed the palm of it with bosinney's, and taking his umbrella just above the silk, walked away along the terrace. before he turned the corner he glanced back, and saw bosinney following him slowly--'slinking along the wall' as he put it to himself, 'like a great cat.' he paid no attention when the young fellow raised his hat. outside the drive, and out of sight, he slackened his pace still more. very slowly, more bent than when he came, lean, hungry, and disheartened, he made his way back to the station. the buccaneer, watching him go so sadly home, felt sorry perhaps for his behaviour to the old man. chapter v soames and bosinney correspond james said nothing to his son of this visit to the house; but, having occasion to go to timothy's on morning on a matter connected with a drainage scheme which was being forced by the sanitary authorities on his brother, he mentioned it there. it was not, he said, a bad house. he could see that a good deal could be made of it. the fellow was clever in his way, though what it was going to cost soames before it was done with he didn't know. euphemia forsyte, who happened to be in the room--she had come round to borrow the rev. mr. scoles' last novel, 'passion and paregoric', which was having such a vogue--chimed in. "i saw irene yesterday at the stores; she and mr. bosinney were having a nice little chat in the groceries." it was thus, simply, that she recorded a scene which had really made a deep and complicated impression on her. she had been hurrying to the silk department of the church and commercial stores--that institution than which, with its admirable system, admitting only guaranteed persons on a basis of payment before delivery, no emporium can be more highly recommended to forsytes--to match a piece of prunella silk for her mother, who was waiting in the carriage outside. passing through the groceries her eye was unpleasantly attracted by the back view of a very beautiful figure. it was so charmingly proportioned, so balanced, and so well clothed, that euphemia's instinctive propriety was at once alarmed; such figures, she knew, by intuition rather than experience, were rarely connected with virtue--certainly never in her mind, for her own back was somewhat difficult to fit. her suspicions were fortunately confirmed. a young man coming from the drugs had snatched off his hat, and was accosting the lady with the unknown back. it was then that she saw with whom she had to deal; the lady was undoubtedly mrs. soames, the young man mr. bosinney. concealing herself rapidly over the purchase of a box of tunisian dates, for she was impatient of awkwardly meeting people with parcels in her hands, and at the busy time of the morning, she was quite unintentionally an interested observer of their little interview. mrs. soames, usually somewhat pale, had a delightful colour in her cheeks; and mr. bosinney's manner was strange, though attractive (she thought him rather a distinguished-looking man, and george's name for him, 'the buccaneer'--about which there was something romantic--quite charming). he seemed to be pleading. indeed, they talked so earnestly--or, rather, he talked so earnestly, for mrs. soames did not say much--that they caused, inconsiderately, an eddy in the traffic. one nice old general, going towards cigars, was obliged to step quite out of the way, and chancing to look up and see mrs. soames' face, he actually took off his hat, the old fool! so like a man! but it was mrs. soames' eyes that worried euphemia. she never once looked at mr. bosinney until he moved on, and then she looked after him. and, oh, that look! on that look euphemia had spent much anxious thought. it is not too much to say that it had hurt her with its dark, lingering softness, for all the world as though the woman wanted to drag him back, and unsay something she had been saying. ah, well, she had had no time to go deeply into the matter just then, with that prunella silk on her hands; but she was 'very intriguee'--very! she had just nodded to mrs. soames, to show her that she had seen; and, as she confided, in talking it over afterwards, to her chum francie (roger's daughter), "didn't she look caught out just? ...." james, most averse at the first blush to accepting any news confirmatory of his own poignant suspicions, took her up at once. "oh" he said, "they'd be after wall-papers no doubt." euphemia smiled. "in the groceries?" she said softly; and, taking 'passion and paregoric' from the table, added: "and so you'll lend me this, dear auntie? good-bye!" and went away. james left almost immediately after; he was late as it was. when he reached the office of forsyte, bustard and forsyte, he found soames, sitting in his revolving, chair, drawing up a defence. the latter greeted his father with a curt good-morning, and, taking an envelope from his pocket, said: "it may interest you to look through this." james read as follows: d, sloane street, may . 'dear forsyte, 'the construction of your house being now completed, my duties as architect have come to an end. if i am to go on with the business of decoration, which at your request i undertook, i should like you to clearly understand that i must have a free hand. 'you never come down without suggesting something that goes counter to my scheme. i have here three letters from you, each of which recommends an article i should never dream of putting in. i had your father here yesterday afternoon, who made further valuable suggestions. 'please make up your mind, therefore, whether you want me to decorate for you, or to retire which on the whole i should prefer to do. 'but understand that, if i decorate, i decorate alone, without interference of any sort. if i do the thing, i will do it thoroughly, but i must have a free hand. 'yours truly, 'philip bosinney.' the exact and immediate cause of this letter cannot, of course, be told, though it is not improbable that bosinney may have been moved by some sudden revolt against his position towards soames--that eternal position of art towards property--which is so admirably summed up, on the back of the most indispensable of modern appliances, in a sentence comparable to the very finest in tacitus: thos. t. sorrow, inventor. bert m. padland, proprietor. "what are you going to say to him?" james asked. soames did not even turn his head. "i haven't made up my mind," he said, and went on with his defence. a client of his, having put some buildings on a piece of ground that did not belong to him, had been suddenly and most irritatingly warned to take them off again. after carefully going into the facts, however, soames had seen his way to advise that his client had what was known as a title by possession, and that, though undoubtedly the ground did not belong to him, he was entitled to keep it, and had better do so; and he was now following up this advice by taking steps to--as the sailors say--'make it so.' he had a distinct reputation for sound advice; people saying of him: "go to young forsyte--a long-headed fellow!" and he prized this reputation highly. his natural taciturnity was in his favour; nothing could be more calculated to give people, especially people with property (soames had no other clients), the impression that he was a safe man. and he was safe. tradition, habit, education, inherited aptitude, native caution, all joined to form a solid professional honesty, superior to temptation--from the very fact that it was built on an innate avoidance of risk. how could he fall, when his soul abhorred circumstances which render a fall possible--a man cannot fall off the floor! and those countless forsytes, who, in the course of innumerable transactions concerned with property of all sorts (from wives to water rights), had occasion for the services of a safe man, found it both reposeful and profitable to confide in soames. that slight superciliousness of his, combined with an air of mousing amongst precedents, was in his favour too--a man would not be supercilious unless he knew! he was really at the head of the business, for though james still came nearly every day to, see for himself, he did little now but sit in his chair, twist his legs, slightly confuse things already decided, and presently go away again, and the other partner, bustard, was a poor thing, who did a great deal of work, but whose opinion was never taken. so soames went steadily on with his defence. yet it would be idle to say that his mind was at ease. he was suffering from a sense of impending trouble, that had haunted him for some time past. he tried to think it physical--a condition of his liver--but knew that it was not. he looked at his watch. in a quarter of an hour he was due at the general meeting of the new colliery company--one of uncle jolyon's concerns; he should see uncle jolyon there, and say something to him about bosinney--he had not made up his mind what, but something--in any case he should not answer this letter until he had seen uncle jolyon. he got up and methodically put away the draft of his defence. going into a dark little cupboard, he turned up the light, washed his hands with a piece of brown windsor soap, and dried them on a roller towel. then he brushed his hair, paying strict attention to the parting, turned down the light, took his hat, and saying he would be back at half-past two, stepped into the poultry. it was not far to the offices of the new colliery company in ironmonger lane, where, and not at the cannon street hotel, in accordance with the more ambitious practice of other companies, the general meeting was always held. old jolyon had from the first set his face against the press. what business--he said--had the public with his concerns! soames arrived on the stroke of time, and took his seat alongside the board, who, in a row, each director behind his own ink-pot, faced their shareholders. in the centre of this row old jolyon, conspicuous in his black, tightly-buttoned frock-coat and his white moustaches, was leaning back with finger tips crossed on a copy of the directors' report and accounts. on his right hand, always a little larger than life, sat the secretary, 'down-by-the-starn' hemmings; an all-too-sad sadness beaming in his fine eyes; his iron-grey beard, in mourning like the rest of him, giving the feeling of an all-too-black tie behind it. the occasion indeed was a melancholy one, only six weeks having elapsed since that telegram had come from scorrier, the mining expert, on a private mission to the mines, informing them that pippin, their superintendent, had committed suicide in endeavouring, after his extraordinary two years' silence, to write a letter to his board. that letter was on the table now; it would be read to the shareholders, who would of course be put into possession of all the facts. hemmings had often said to soames, standing with his coat-tails divided before the fireplace: "what our shareholders don't know about our affairs isn't worth knowing. you may take that from me, mr. soames." on one occasion, old jolyon being present, soames recollected a little unpleasantness. his uncle had looked up sharply and said: "don't talk nonsense, hemmings! you mean that what they do know isn't worth knowing!" old jolyon detested humbug. hemmings, angry-eyed, and wearing a smile like that of a trained poodle, had replied in an outburst of artificial applause: "come, now, that's good, sir--that's very good. your uncle will have his joke!" the next time he had seen soames he had taken the opportunity of saying to him: "the chairman's getting very old!--i can't get him to understand things; and he's so wilful--but what can you expect, with a chin like his?" soames had nodded. everyone knew that uncle jolyon's chin was a caution. he was looking worried to-day, in spite of his general meeting look; he (soames) should certainly speak to him about bosinney. beyond old jolyon on the left was little mr. booker, and he, too, wore his general meeting look, as though searching for some particularly tender shareholder. and next him was the deaf director, with a frown; and beyond the deaf director, again, was old mr. bleedham, very bland, and having an air of conscious virtue--as well he might, knowing that the brown-paper parcel he always brought to the board-room was concealed behind his hat (one of that old-fashioned class, of flat-brimmed top-hats which go with very large bow ties, clean-shaven lips, fresh cheeks, and neat little, white whiskers). soames always attended the general meeting; it was considered better that he should do so, in case 'anything should arise!' he glanced round with his close, supercilious air at the walls of the room, where hung plans of the mine and harbour, together with a large photograph of a shaft leading to a working which had proved quite remarkably unprofitable. this photograph--a witness to the eternal irony underlying commercial enterprise till retained its position on the--wall, an effigy of the directors' pet, but dead, lamb. and now old jolyon rose, to present the report and accounts. veiling under a jove-like serenity that perpetual antagonism deep-seated in the bosom of a director towards his shareholders, he faced them calmly. soames faced them too. he knew most of them by sight. there was old scrubsole, a tar man, who always came, as hemmings would say, 'to make himself nasty,' a cantankerous-looking old fellow with a red face, a jowl, and an enormous low-crowned hat reposing on his knee. and the rev. mr. boms, who always proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman, in which he invariably expressed the hope that the board would not forget to elevate their employees, using the word with a double e, as being more vigorous and anglo-saxon (he had the strong imperialistic tendencies of his cloth). it was his salutary custom to buttonhole a director afterwards, and ask him whether he thought the coming year would be good or bad; and, according to the trend of the answer, to buy or sell three shares within the ensuing fortnight. and there was that military man, major o'bally, who could not help speaking, if only to second the re-election of the auditor, and who sometimes caused serious consternation by taking toasts--proposals rather--out of the hands of persons who had been flattered with little slips of paper, entrusting the said proposals to their care. these made up the lot, together with four or five strong, silent shareholders, with whom soames could sympathize--men of business, who liked to keep an eye on their affairs for themselves, without being fussy--good, solid men, who came to the city every day and went back in the evening to good, solid wives. good, solid wives! there was something in that thought which roused the nameless uneasiness in soames again. what should he say to his uncle? what answer should he make to this letter? . . . . "if any shareholder has any question to put, i shall be glad to answer it." a soft thump. old jolyon had let the report and accounts fall, and stood twisting his tortoise-shell glasses between thumb and forefinger. the ghost of a smile appeared on soames' face. they had better hurry up with their questions! he well knew his uncle's method (the ideal one) of at once saying: "i propose, then, that the report and accounts be adopted!" never let them get their wind--shareholders were notoriously wasteful of time! a tall, white-bearded man, with a gaunt, dissatisfied face, arose: "i believe i am in order, mr. chairman, in raising a question on this figure of l in the accounts. 'to the widow and family"' (he looked sourly round), "'of our late superintendent,' who so--er--ill-advisedly (i say--ill-advisedly) committed suicide, at a time when his services were of the utmost value to this company. you have stated that the agreement which he has so unfortunately cut short with his own hand was for a period of five years, of which one only had expired--i--" old jolyon made a gesture of impatience. "i believe i am in order, mr. chairman--i ask whether this amount paid, or proposed to be paid, by the board to the er--deceased--is for services which might have been rendered to the company--had he not committed suicide?" "it is in recognition of past services, which we all know--you as well as any of us--to have been of vital value." "then, sir, all i have to say is that the services being past, the amount is too much." the shareholder sat down. old jolyon waited a second and said: "i now propose that the report and--" the shareholder rose again: "may i ask if the board realizes that it is not their money which--i don't hesitate to say that if it were their money...." a second shareholder, with a round, dogged face, whom soames recognised as the late superintendent's brother-in-law, got up and said warmly: "in my opinion, sir, the sum is not enough!" the rev. mr. boms now rose to his feet. "if i may venture to express myself," he said, "i should say that the fact of the--er--deceased having committed suicide should weigh very heavily--very heavily with our worthy chairman. i have no doubt it has weighed with him, for--i say this for myself and i think for everyone present (hear, hear)--he enjoys our confidence in a high degree. we all desire, i should hope, to be charitable. but i feel sure" (he-looked severely at the late superintendent's brother-in-law) "that he will in some way, by some written expression, or better perhaps by reducing the amount, record our grave disapproval that so promising and valuable a life should have been thus impiously removed from a sphere where both its own interests and--if i may say so--our interests so imperatively demanded its continuance. we should not--nay, we may not--countenance so grave a dereliction of all duty, both human and divine." the reverend gentleman resumed his seat. the late superintendent's brother-in-law again rose: "what i have said i stick to," he said; "the amount is not enough!" the first shareholder struck in: "i challenge the legality of the payment. in my opinion this payment is not legal. the company's solicitor is present; i believe i am in order in asking him the question." all eyes were now turned upon soames. something had arisen! he stood up, close-lipped and cold; his nerves inwardly fluttered, his attention tweaked away at last from contemplation of that cloud looming on the horizon of his mind. "the point," he said in a low, thin voice, "is by no means clear. as there is no possibility of future consideration being received, it is doubtful whether the payment is strictly legal. if it is desired, the opinion of the court could be taken." the superintendent's brother-in-law frowned, and said in a meaning tone: "we have no doubt the opinion of the court could be taken. may i ask the name of the gentleman who has given us that striking piece of information? mr. soames forsyte? indeed!" he looked from soames to old jolyon in a pointed manner. a flush coloured soames' pale cheeks, but his superciliousness did not waver. old jolyon fixed his eyes on the speaker. "if," he said, "the late superintendents brother-in-law has nothing more to say, i propose that the report and accounts...." at this moment, however, there rose one of those five silent, stolid shareholders, who had excited soames' sympathy. he said: "i deprecate the proposal altogether. we are expected to give charity to this man's wife and children, who, you tell us, were dependent on him. they may have been; i do not care whether they were or not. i object to the whole thing on principle. it is high time a stand was made against this sentimental humanitarianism. the country is eaten up with it. i object to my money being paid to these people of whom i know nothing, who have done nothing to earn it. i object in toto; it is not business. i now move that the report and accounts be put back, and amended by striking out the grant altogether." old jolyon had remained standing while the strong, silent man was speaking. the speech awoke an echo in all hearts, voicing, as it did, the worship of strong men, the movement against generosity, which had at that time already commenced among the saner members of the community. the words 'it is not business' had moved even the board; privately everyone felt that indeed it was not. but they knew also the chairman's domineering temper and tenacity. he, too, at heart must feel that it was not business; but he was committed to his own proposition. would he go back upon it? it was thought to be unlikely. all waited with interest. old jolyon held up his hand; dark-rimmed glasses depending between his finger and thumb quivered slightly with a suggestion of menace. he addressed the strong, silent shareholder. "knowing, as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon the occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish me to put that amendment, sir?" "i do." old jolyon put the amendment. "does anyone second this?" he asked, looking calmly round. and it was then that soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power of will that was in that old man. no one stirred. looking straight into the eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old jolyon said: "i now move, 'that the report and accounts for the year be received and adopted.' you second that? those in favour signify the same in the usual way. contrary--no. carried. the next business, gentlemen...." soames smiled. certainly uncle jolyon had a way with him! but now his attention relapsed upon bosinney. odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours. irene's visit to the house--but there was nothing in that, except that she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell him anything. she was more silent, more touchy, every day. he wished to god the house were finished, and they were in it, away from london. town did not suit her; her nerves were not strong enough. that nonsense of the separate room had cropped up again! the meeting was breaking up now. underneath the photograph of the lost shaft hemmings was buttonholed by the rev. mr. boms. little mr. booker, his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry smiles, was having a parting turn-up with old scrubsole. the two hated each other like poison. there was some matter of a tar-contract between them, little mr. booker having secured it from the board for a nephew of his, over old scrubsole's head. soames had heard that from hemmings, who liked a gossip, more especially about his directors, except, indeed, old jolyon, of whom he was afraid. soames awaited his opportunity. the last shareholder was vanishing through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was putting on his hat. "can i speak to you for a minute, uncle jolyon?" it is uncertain what soames expected to get out of this interview. apart from that somewhat mysterious awe in which forsytes in general held old jolyon, due to his philosophic twist, or perhaps--as hemmings would doubtless have said--to his chin, there was, and always had been, a subtle antagonism between the younger man and the old. it had lurked under their dry manner of greeting, under their non-committal allusions to each other, and arose perhaps from old jolyon's perception of the quiet tenacity ('obstinacy,' he rather naturally called it) of the young man, of a secret doubt whether he could get his own way with him. both these forsytes, wide asunder as the poles in many respects, possessed in their different ways--to a greater degree than the rest of the family--that essential quality of tenacious and prudent insight into 'affairs,' which is the highwater mark of their great class. either of them, with a little luck and opportunity, was equal to a lofty career; either of them would have made a good financier, a great contractor, a statesman, though old jolyon, in certain of his moods when under the influence of a cigar or of nature--would have been capable of, not perhaps despising, but certainly of questioning, his own high position, while soames, who never smoked cigars, would not. then, too, in old jolyon's mind there was always the secret ache, that the son of james--of james, whom he had always thought such a poor thing, should be pursuing the paths of success, while his own son...! and last, not least--for he was no more outside the radiation of family gossip than any other forsyte--he had now heard the sinister, indefinite, but none the less disturbing rumour about bosinney, and his pride was wounded to the quick. characteristically, his irritation turned not against irene but against soames. the idea that his nephew's wife (why couldn't the fellow take better care of her--oh! quaint injustice! as though soames could possibly take more care!)--should be drawing to herself june's lover, was intolerably humiliating. and seeing the danger, he did not, like james, hide it away in sheer nervousness, but owned with the dispassion of his broader outlook, that it was not unlikely; there was something very attractive about irene! he had a presentiment on the subject of soames' communication as they left the board room together, and went out into the noise and hurry of cheapside. they walked together a good minute without speaking, soames with his mousing, mincing step, and old jolyon upright and using his umbrella languidly as a walking-stick. they turned presently into comparative quiet, for old jolyon's way to a second board led him in the direction of moorage street. then soames, without lifting his eyes, began: "i've had this letter from bosinney. you see what he says; i thought i'd let you know. i've spent a lot more than i intended on this house, and i want the position to be clear." old jolyon ran his eyes unwillingly over the letter: "what he says is clear enough," he said. "he talks about 'a free hand,'" replied soames. old jolyon looked at him. the long-suppressed irritation and antagonism towards this young fellow, whose affairs were beginning to intrude upon his own, burst from him. "well, if you don't trust him, why do you employ him?" soames stole a sideway look: "it's much too late to go into that," he said, "i only want it to be quite understood that if i give him a free hand, he doesn't let me in. i thought if you were to speak to him, it would carry more weight!" "no," said old jolyon abruptly; "i'll have nothing to do with it!" the words of both uncle and nephew gave the impression of unspoken meanings, far more important, behind. and the look they interchanged was like a revelation of this consciousness. "well," said soames; "i thought, for june's sake, i'd tell you, that's all; i thought you'd better know i shan't stand any nonsense!" "what is that to me?" old jolyon took him up. "oh! i don't know," said soames, and flurried by that sharp look he was unable to say more. "don't say i didn't tell you," he added sulkily, recovering his composure. "tell me!" said old jolyon; "i don't know what you mean. you come worrying me about a thing like this. i don't want to hear about your affairs; you must manage them yourself!" "very well," said soames immovably, "i will!" "good-morning, then," said old jolyon, and they parted. soames retraced his steps, and going into a celebrated eating-house, asked for a plate of smoked salmon and a glass of chablis; he seldom ate much in the middle of the day, and generally ate standing, finding the position beneficial to his liver, which was very sound, but to which he desired to put down all his troubles. when he had finished he went slowly back to his office, with bent head, taking no notice of the swarming thousands on the pavements, who in their turn took no notice of him. the evening post carried the following reply to bosinney: 'forsyte, bustard and forsyte, 'commissioners for oaths, ' , branch lane, poultry, e.c., 'may , . 'dear bosinney, 'i have, received your letter, the terms of which not a little surprise me. i was under the impression that you had, and have had all along, a "free hand"; for i do not recollect that any suggestions i have been so unfortunate as to make have met with your approval. in giving you, in accordance with your request, this "free hand," i wish you to clearly understand that the total cost of the house as handed over to me completely decorated, inclusive of your fee (as arranged between us), must not exceed twelve thousand pounds--l , . this gives you an ample margin, and, as you know, is far more than i originally contemplated. 'i am, 'yours truly, 'soames forsyte.' on the following day he received a note from bosinney: 'philip baynes bosinney, 'architect, ' d, sloane street, s.w., 'may . 'dear forsyte, 'if you think that in such a delicate matter as decoration i can bind myself to the exact pound, i am afraid you are mistaken. i can see that you are tired of the arrangement, and of me, and i had better, therefore, resign. 'yours faithfully, 'philip baynes bosinney.' soames pondered long and painfully over his answer, and late at night in the dining-room, when irene had gone to bed, he composed the following: ' , montpellier square, s.w., 'may , . 'dear bosinney, 'i think that in both our interests it would be extremely undesirable that matters should be so left at this stage. i did not mean to say that if you should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty or even fifty pounds, there would be any difficulty between us. this being so, i should like you to reconsider your answer. you have a "free hand" in the terms of this correspondence, and i hope you will see your way to completing the decorations, in the matter of which i know it is difficult to be absolutely exact. 'yours truly, 'soames forsyte.' bosinney's answer, which came in the course of the next day, was: 'may . 'dear forsyte, 'very well. 'ph. bosinney.' chapter vi old jolyon at the zoo old jolyon disposed of his second meeting--an ordinary board--summarily. he was so dictatorial that his fellow directors were left in cabal over the increasing domineeringness of old forsyte, which they were far from intending to stand much longer, they said. he went out by underground to portland road station, whence he took a cab and drove to the zoo. he had an assignation there, one of those assignations that had lately been growing more frequent, to which his increasing uneasiness about june and the 'change in her,' as he expressed it, was driving him. she buried herself away, and was growing thin; if he spoke to her he got no answer, or had his head snapped off, or she looked as if she would burst into tears. she was as changed as she could be, all through this bosinney. as for telling him about anything, not a bit of it! and he would sit for long spells brooding, his paper unread before him, a cigar extinct between his lips. she had been such a companion to him ever since she was three years old! and he loved her so! forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating down his guard; impending events over which he had no control threw their shadows on his head. the irritation of one accustomed to have his way was roused against he knew not what. chafing at the slowness of his cab, he reached the zoo door; but, with his sunny instinct for seizing the good of each moment, he forgot his vexation as he walked towards the tryst. from the stone terrace above the bear-pit his son and his two grandchildren came hastening down when they saw old jolyon coming, and led him away towards the lion-house. they supported him on either side, holding one to each of his hands,--whilst jolly, perverse like his father, carried his grandfather's umbrella in such a way as to catch people's legs with the crutch of the handle. young jolyon followed. it was as good as a play to see his father with the children, but such a play as brings smiles with tears behind. an old man and two small children walking together can be seen at any hour of the day; but the sight of old jolyon, with jolly and holly seemed to young jolyon a special peep-show of the things that lie at the bottom of our hearts. the complete surrender of that erect old figure to those little figures on either hand was too poignantly tender, and, being a man of an habitual reflex action, young jolyon swore softly under his breath. the show affected him in a way unbecoming to a forsyte, who is nothing if not undemonstrative. thus they reached the lion-house. there had been a morning fete at the botanical gardens, and a large number of forsy...'--that is, of well-dressed people who kept carriages had brought them on to the zoo, so as to have more, if possible, for their money, before going back to rutland gate or bryanston square. "let's go on to the zoo," they had said to each other; "it'll be great fun!" it was a shilling day; and there would not be all those horrid common people. in front of the long line of cages they were collected in rows, watching the tawny, ravenous beasts behind the bars await their only pleasure of the four-and-twenty hours. the hungrier the beast, the greater the fascination. but whether because the spectators envied his appetite, or, more humanely, because it was so soon to be satisfied, young jolyon could not tell. remarks kept falling on his ears: "that's a nasty-looking brute, that tiger!" "oh, what a love! look at his little mouth!" "yes, he's rather nice! don't go too near, mother." and frequently, with little pats, one or another would clap their hands to their pockets behind and look round, as though expecting young jolyon or some disinterested-looking person to relieve them of the contents. a well-fed man in a white waistcoat said slowly through his teeth: "it's all greed; they can't be hungry. why, they take no exercise." at these words a tiger snatched a piece of bleeding liver, and the fat man laughed. his wife, in a paris model frock and gold nose-nippers, reproved him: "how can you laugh, harry? such a horrid sight!" young jolyon frowned. the circumstances of his life, though he had ceased to take a too personal view of them, had left him subject to an intermittent contempt; and the class to which he had belonged--the carriage class--especially excited his sarcasm. to shut up a lion or tiger in confinement was surely a horrible barbarity. but no cultivated person would admit this. the idea of its being barbarous to confine wild animals had probably never even occurred to his father for instance; he belonged to the old school, who considered it at once humanizing and educational to confine baboons and panthers, holding the view, no doubt, that in course of time they might induce these creatures not so unreasonably to die of misery and heart-sickness against the bars of their cages, and put the society to the expense of getting others! in his eyes, as in the eyes of all forsytes, the pleasure of seeing these beautiful creatures in a state of captivity far outweighed the inconvenience of imprisonment to beasts whom god had so improvidently placed in a state of freedom! it was for the animals good, removing them at once from the countless dangers of open air and exercise, and enabling them to exercise their functions in the guaranteed seclusion of a private compartment! indeed, it was doubtful what wild animals were made for but to be shut up in cages! but as young jolyon had in his constitution the elements of impartiality, he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that which was merely lack of imagination must be wrong; for none who held these views had been placed in a similar position to the animals they caged, and could not, therefore, be expected to enter into their sensations. it was not until they were leaving the gardens--jolly and holly in a state of blissful delirium--that old jolyon found an opportunity of speaking to his son on the matter next his heart. "i don't know what to make of it," he said; "if she's to go on as she's going on now, i can't tell what's to come. i wanted her to see the doctor, but she won't. she's not a bit like me. she's your mother all over. obstinate as a mule! if she doesn't want to do a thing, she won't, and there's an end of it!" young jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father's chin. 'a pair of you,' he thought, but he said nothing. "and then," went on old jolyon, "there's this bosinney. i should like to punch the fellow's head, but i can't, i suppose, though--i don't see why you shouldn't," he added doubtfully. "what has he done? far better that it should come to an end, if they don't hit it off!" old jolyon looked at his son. now they had actually come to discuss a subject connected with the relations between the sexes he felt distrustful. jo would be sure to hold some loose view or other. "well, i don't know what you think," he said; "i dare say your sympathy's with him--shouldn't be surprised; but i think he's behaving precious badly, and if he comes my way i shall tell him so." he dropped the subject. it was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and meaning of bosinney's defection. had not his son done the very same thing (worse, if possible) fifteen years ago? there seemed no end to the consequences of that piece of folly. young jolyon also was silent; he had quickly penetrated his father's thought, for, dethroned from the high seat of an obvious and uncomplicated view of things, he had become both perceptive and subtle. the attitude he had adopted towards sexual matters fifteen years before, however, was too different from his father's. there was no bridging the gulf. he said coolly: "i suppose he's fallen in love with some other woman?" old jolyon gave him a dubious look: "i can't tell," he said; "they say so!" "then, it's probably true," remarked young jolyon unexpectedly; "and i suppose they've told you who she is?" "yes," said old jolyon, "soames's wife!" young jolyon did not whistle: the circumstances of his own life had rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he looked at his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his face. if old jolyon saw, he took no notice. "she and june were bosom friends!" he muttered. "poor little june!" said young jolyon softly. he thought of his daughter still as a babe of three. old jolyon came to a sudden halt. "i don't believe a word of it," he said, "it's some old woman's tale. get me a cab, jo, i'm tired to death!" they stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along, while carriage after carriage drove past, bearing forsytes of all descriptions from the zoo. the harness, the liveries, the gloss on the horses' coats, shone and glittered in the may sunlight, and each equipage, landau, sociable, barouche, victoria, or brougham, seemed to roll out proudly from its wheels: 'i and my horses and my men you know,' indeed the whole turn-out have cost a pot. but we were worth it every penny. look at master and at missis now, the dawgs! ease with security--ah! that's the ticket! and such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a perambulating forsyte. amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace than the others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. it swung on its high springs, and the four people who filled it seemed rocked as in a cradle. this chariot attracted young jolyon's attention; and suddenly, on the back seat, he recognised his uncle james, unmistakable in spite of the increased whiteness of his whiskers; opposite, their backs defended by sunshades, rachel forsyte and her elder but married sister, winifred dartie, in irreproachable toilettes, had posed their heads haughtily, like two of the birds they had been seeing at the zoo; while by james' side reclined dartie, in a brand-new frock-coat buttoned tight and square, with a large expanse of carefully shot linen protruding below each wristband. an extra, if subdued, sparkle, an added touch of the best gloss or varnish characterized this vehicle, and seemed to distinguish it from all the others, as though by some happy extravagance--like that which marks out the real 'work of art' from the ordinary 'picture'--it were designated as the typical car, the very throne of forsytedom. old jolyon did not see them pass; he was petting poor holly who was tired, but those in the carriage had taken in the little group; the ladies' heads tilted suddenly, there was a spasmodic screening movement of parasols; james' face protruded naively, like the head of a long bird, his mouth slowly opening. the shield-like rounds of the parasols grew smaller and smaller, and vanished. young jolyon saw that he had been recognised, even by winifred, who could not have been more than fifteen when he had forfeited the right to be considered a forsyte. there was not much change in them! he remembered the exact look of their turn-out all that time ago: horses, men, carriage--all different now, no doubt--but of the precise stamp of fifteen years before; the same neat display, the same nicely calculated arrogance ease with security! the swing exact, the pose of the sunshades exact, exact the spirit of the whole thing. and in the sunlight, defended by the haughty shields of parasols, carriage after carriage went by. "uncle james has just passed, with his female folk," said young jolyon. his father looked black. "did your uncle see us? yes? hmph! what's he want, coming down into these parts?" an empty cab drove up at this moment, and old jolyon stopped it. "i shall see you again before long, my boy!" he said. "don't you go paying any attention to what i've been saying about young bosinney--i don't believe a word of it!" kissing the children, who tried to detain him, he stepped in and was borne away. young jolyon, who had taken holly up in his arms, stood motionless at the corner, looking after the cab. chapter vii afternoon at timothy's if old jolyon, as he got into his cab, had said: 'i won't believe a word of it!' he would more truthfully have expressed his sentiments. the notion that james and his womankind had seen him in the company of his son had awakened in him not only the impatience he always felt when crossed, but that secret hostility natural between brothers, the roots of which--little nursery rivalries--sometimes toughen and deepen as life goes on, and, all hidden, support a plant capable of producing in season the bitterest fruits. hitherto there had been between these six brothers no more unfriendly feeling than that caused by the secret and natural doubt that the others might be richer than themselves; a feeling increased to the pitch of curiosity by the approach of death--that end of all handicaps--and the great 'closeness' of their man of business, who, with some sagacity, would profess to nicholas ignorance of james' income, to james ignorance of old jolyon's, to jolyon ignorance of roger's, to roger ignorance of swithin's, while to swithin he would say most irritatingly that nicholas must be a rich man. timothy alone was exempt, being in gilt-edged securities. but now, between two of them at least, had arisen a very different sense of injury. from the moment when james had the impertinence to pry into his affairs--as he put it--old jolyon no longer chose to credit this story about bosinney. his grand-daughter slighted through a member of 'that fellow's' family! he made up his mind that bosinney was maligned. there must be some other reason for his defection. june had flown out at him, or something; she was as touchy as she could be! he would, however, let timothy have a bit of his mind, and see if he would go on dropping hints! and he would not let the grass grow under his feet either, he would go there at once, and take very good care that he didn't have to go again on the same errand. he saw james' carriage blocking the pavement in front of 'the bower.' so they had got there before him--cackling about having seen him, he dared say! and further on, swithin's greys were turning their noses towards the noses of james' bays, as though in conclave over the family, while their coachmen were in conclave above. old jolyon, depositing his hat on the chair in the narrow hall, where that hat of bosinney's had so long ago been mistaken for a cat, passed his thin hand grimly over his face with its great drooping white moustaches, as though to remove all traces of expression, and made his way upstairs. he found the front drawing-room full. it was full enough at the best of times--without visitors--without any one in it--for timothy and his sisters, following the tradition of their generation, considered that a room was not quite 'nice' unless it was 'properly' furnished. it held, therefore, eleven chairs, a sofa, three tables, two cabinets, innumerable knicknacks, and part of a large grand piano. and now, occupied by mrs. small, aunt hester, by swithin, james, rachel, winifred, euphemia, who had come in again to return 'passion and paregoric' which she had read at lunch, and her chum frances, roger's daughter (the musical forsyte, the one who composed songs), there was only one chair left unoccupied, except, of course, the two that nobody ever sat on--and the only standing room was occupied by the cat, on whom old jolyon promptly stepped. in these days it was by no means unusual for timothy to have so many visitors. the family had always, one and all, had a real respect for aunt ann, and now that she was gone, they were coming far more frequently to the bower, and staying longer. swithin had been the first to arrive, and seated torpid in a red satin chair with a gilt back, he gave every appearance of lasting the others out. and symbolizing bosinney's name 'the big one,' with his great stature and bulk, his thick white hair, his puffy immovable shaven face, he looked more primeval than ever in the highly upholstered room. his conversation, as usual of late, had turned at once upon irene, and he had lost no time in giving aunts juley and hester his opinion with regard to this rumour he heard was going about. no--as he said--she might want a bit of flirtation--a pretty woman must have her fling; but more than that he did not believe. nothing open; she had too much good sense, too much proper appreciation of what was due to her position, and to the family! no sc..., he was going to say 'scandal' but the very idea was so preposterous that he waved his hand as though to say--'but let that pass!' granted that swithin took a bachelor's view of the situation--still what indeed was not due to that family in which so many had done so well for themselves, had attained a certain position? if he had heard in dark, pessimistic moments the words 'yeomen' and 'very small beer' used in connection with his origin, did he believe them? no! he cherished, hugging it pathetically to his bosom the secret theory that there was something distinguished somewhere in his ancestry. "must be," he once said to young jolyon, before the latter went to the bad. "look at us, we've got on! there must be good blood in us somewhere." he had been fond of young jolyon: the boy had been in a good set at college, had known that old ruffian sir charles fiste's sons--a pretty rascal one of them had turned out, too; and there was style about him--it was a thousand pities he had run off with that half-foreign governess! if he must go off like that why couldn't he have chosen someone who would have done them credit! and what was he now?--an underwriter at lloyd's; they said he even painted pictures--pictures! damme! he might have ended as sir jolyon forsyte, bart., with a seat in parliament, and a place in the country! it was swithin who, following the impulse which sooner or later urges thereto some member of every great family, went to the heralds' office, where they assured him that he was undoubtedly of the same family as the well-known forsites with an 'i,' whose arms were 'three dexter buckles on a sable ground gules,' hoping no doubt to get him to take them up. swithin, however, did not do this, but having ascertained that the crest was a 'pheasant proper,' and the motto 'for forsite,' he had the pheasant proper placed upon his carriage and the buttons of his coachman, and both crest and motto on his writing-paper. the arms he hugged to himself, partly because, not having paid for them, he thought it would look ostentatious to put them on his carriage, and he hated ostentation, and partly because he, like any practical man all over the country, had a secret dislike and contempt for things he could not understand he found it hard, as anyone might, to swallow 'three dexter buckles on a sable ground gules.' he never forgot, however, their having told him that if he paid for them he would be entitled to use them, and it strengthened his conviction that he was a gentleman. imperceptibly the rest of the family absorbed the 'pheasant proper,' and some, more serious than others, adopted the motto; old jolyon, however, refused to use the latter, saying that it was humbug meaning nothing, so far as he could see. among the older generation it was perhaps known at bottom from what great historical event they derived their crest; and if pressed on the subject, sooner than tell a lie--they did not like telling lies, having an impression that only frenchmen and russians told them--they would confess hurriedly that swithin had got hold of it somehow. among the younger generation the matter was wrapped in a discretion proper. they did not want to hurt the feelings of their elders, nor to feel ridiculous themselves; they simply used the crest.... "no," said swithin, "he had had an opportunity of seeing for himself, and what he should say was, that there was nothing in her manner to that young buccaneer or bosinney or whatever his name was, different from her manner to himself; in fact, he should rather say...." but here the entrance of frances and euphemia put an unfortunate stop to the conversation, for this was not a subject which could be discussed before young people. and though swithin was somewhat upset at being stopped like this on the point of saying something important, he soon recovered his affability. he was rather fond of frances--francie, as she was called in the family. she was so smart, and they told him she made a pretty little pot of pin-money by her songs; he called it very clever of her. he rather prided himself indeed on a liberal attitude towards women, not seeing any reason why they shouldn't paint pictures, or write tunes, or books even, for the matter of that, especially if they could turn a useful penny by it; not at all--kept them out of mischief. it was not as if they were men! 'little francie,' as she was usually called with good-natured contempt, was an important personage, if only as a standing illustration of the attitude of forsytes towards the arts. she was not really 'little,' but rather tall, with dark hair for a forsyte, which, together with a grey eye, gave her what was called 'a celtic appearance.' she wrote songs with titles like 'breathing sighs,' or 'kiss me, mother, ere i die,' with a refrain like an anthem: 'kiss me, mother, ere i die; kiss me-kiss me, mother, ah! kiss, ah! kiss me e-ere i-- kiss me, mother, ere i d-d-die!' she wrote the words to them herself, and other poems. in lighter moments she wrote waltzes, one of which, the 'kensington coil,' was almost national to kensington, having a sweet dip in it. it was very original. then there were her 'songs for little people,' at once educational and witty, especially 'gran'ma's porgie,' and that ditty, almost prophetically imbued with the coming imperial spirit, entitled 'black him in his little eye.' any publisher would take these, and reviews like 'high living,' and the 'ladies' genteel guide' went into raptures over: 'another of miss francie forsyte's spirited ditties, sparkling and pathetic. we ourselves were moved to tears and laughter. miss forsyte should go far.' with the true instinct of her breed, francie had made a point of knowing the right people--people who would write about her, and talk about her, and people in society, too--keeping a mental register of just where to exert her fascinations, and an eye on that steady scale of rising prices, which in her mind's eye represented the future. in this way she caused herself to be universally respected. once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an attachment--for the tenor of roger's life, with its whole-hearted collection of house property, had induced in his only daughter a tendency towards passion--she turned to great and sincere work, choosing the sonata form, for the violin. this was the only one of her productions that troubled the forsytes. they felt at once that it would not sell. roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often alluded to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was upset by this violin sonata. "rubbish like that!" he called it. francie had borrowed young flageoletti from euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at prince's gardens. as a matter of fact roger was right. it was rubbish, but--annoying! the sort of rubbish that wouldn't sell. as every forsyte knows, rubbish that sells is not rubbish at all--far from it. and yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth of art at what it would fetch, some of the forsytes--aunt hester, for instance, who had always been musical--could not help regretting that francie's music was not 'classical'; the same with her poems. but then, as aunt hester said, they didn't see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were 'little light things.' there was nobody who could write a poem like 'paradise lost,' or 'childe harold'; either of which made you feel that you really had read something. still, it was nice for francie to have something to occupy her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it! and both aunt hester and aunt juley were always ready to listen to the latest story of how francie had got her price increased. they listened now, together with swithin, who sat pretending not to, for these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he never could catch what they said. "and i can't think," said mrs. septimus, "how you do it. i should never have the audacity!" francie smiled lightly. "i'd much rather deal with a man than a woman. women are so sharp!" "my dear," cried mrs. small, "i'm sure we're not." euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the squeak, said, as though being strangled: "oh, you'll kill me some day, auntie." swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing when he himself perceived no joke. indeed, he detested euphemia altogether, to whom he always alluded as 'nick's daughter, what's she called--the pale one?' he had just missed being her god-father--indeed, would have been, had he not taken a firm stand against her outlandish name. he hated becoming a godfather. swithin then said to francie with dignity: "it's a fine day--er--for the time of year." but euphemia, who knew perfectly well that he had refused to be her godfather, turned to aunt hester, and began telling her how she had seen irene--mrs. soames--at the church and commercial stores. "and soames was with her?" said aunt hester, to whom mrs. small had as yet had no opportunity of relating the incident. "soames with her? of course not!" "but was she all alone in london?" "oh, no; there was mr. bosinney with her. she was perfectly dressed." but swithin, hearing the name irene, looked severely at euphemia, who, it is true, never did look well in a dress, whatever she may have done on other occasions, and said: "dressed like a lady, i've no doubt. it's a pleasure to see her." at this moment james and his daughters were announced. dartie, feeling badly in want of a drink, had pleaded an appointment with his dentist, and, being put down at the marble arch, had got into a hansom, and was already seated in the window of his club in piccadilly. his wife, he told his cronies, had wanted to take him to pay some calls. it was not in his line--not exactly. haw! hailing the waiter, he sent him out to the hall to see what had won the . race. he was dog-tired, he said, and that was a fact; had been drivin' about with his wife to 'shows' all the afternoon. had put his foot down at last. a fellow must live his own life. at this moment, glancing out of the bay window--for he loved this seat whence he could see everybody pass--his eye unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, chanced to light on the figure of soames, who was mousing across the road from the green park-side, with the evident intention of coming in, for he, too, belonged to 'the iseeum.' dartie sprang to his feet; grasping his glass, he muttered something about 'that . race,' and swiftly withdrew to the card-room, where soames never came. here, in complete isolation and a dim light, he lived his own life till half past seven, by which hour he knew soames must certainly have left the club. it would not do, as he kept repeating to himself whenever he felt the impulse to join the gossips in the bay-window getting too strong for him--it absolutely would not do, with finances as low as his, and the 'old man' (james) rusty ever since that business over the oil shares, which was no fault of his, to risk a row with winifred. if soames were to see him in the club it would be sure to come round to her that he wasn't at the dentist's at all. he never knew a family where things 'came round' so. uneasily, amongst the green baize card-tables, a frown on his olive coloured face, his check trousers crossed, and patent-leather boots shining through the gloom, he sat biting his forefinger, and wondering where the deuce he was to get the money if erotic failed to win the lancashire cup. his thoughts turned gloomily to the forsytes. what a set they were! there was no getting anything out of them--at least, it was a matter of extreme difficulty. they were so d---d particular about money matters; not a sportsman amongst the lot, unless it were george. that fellow soames, for instance, would have a ft if you tried to borrow a tenner from him, or, if he didn't have a fit, he looked at you with his cursed supercilious smile, as if you were a lost soul because you were in want of money. and that wife of his (dartie's mouth watered involuntarily), he had tried to be on good terms with her, as one naturally would with any pretty sister-in-law, but he would be cursed if the (he mentally used a coarse word)--would have anything to say to him--she looked at him, indeed, as if he were dirt--and yet she could go far enough, he wouldn't mind betting. he knew women; they weren't made with soft eyes and figures like that for nothing, as that fellow soames would jolly soon find out, if there were anything in what he had heard about this buccaneer johnny. rising from his chair, dartie took a turn across the room, ending in front of the looking-glass over the marble chimney-piece; and there he stood for a long time contemplating in the glass the reflection of his face. it had that look, peculiar to some men, of having been steeped in linseed oil, with its waxed dark moustaches and the little distinguished commencements of side whiskers; and concernedly he felt the promise of a pimple on the side of his slightly curved and fattish nose. in the meantime old jolyon had found the remaining chair in timothy's commodious drawing-room. his advent had obviously put a stop to the conversation, decided awkwardness having set in. aunt juley, with her well-known kindheartedness, hastened to set people at their ease again. "yes, jolyon," she said, "we were just saying that you haven't been here for a long time; but we mustn't be surprised. you're busy, of course? james was just saying what a busy time of year...." "was he?" said old jolyon, looking hard at james. "it wouldn't be half so busy if everybody minded their own business." james, brooding in a small chair from which his knees ran uphill, shifted his feet uneasily, and put one of them down on the cat, which had unwisely taken refuge from old jolyon beside him. "here, you've got a cat here," he said in an injured voice, withdrawing his foot nervously as he felt it squeezing into the soft, furry body. "several," said old jolyon, looking at one face and another; "i trod on one just now." a silence followed. then mrs. small, twisting her fingers and gazing round with 'pathetic calm', asked: "and how is dear june?" a twinkle of humour shot through the sternness of old jolyon's eyes. extraordinary old woman, juley! no one quite like her for saying the wrong thing! "bad!" he said; "london don't agree with her--too many people about, too much clatter and chatter by half." he laid emphasis on the words, and again looked james in the face. nobody spoke. a feeling of its being too dangerous to take a step in any direction, or hazard any remark, had fallen on them all. something of the sense of the impending, that comes over the spectator of a greek tragedy, had entered that upholstered room, filled with those white-haired, frock-coated old men, and fashionably attired women, who were all of the same blood, between all of whom existed an unseizable resemblance. not that they were conscious of it--the visits of such fateful, bitter spirits are only felt. then swithin rose. he would not sit there, feeling like that--he was not to be put down by anyone! and, manoeuvring round the room with added pomp, he shook hands with each separately. "you tell timothy from me," he said, "that he coddles himself too much!" then, turning to francie, whom he considered 'smart,' he added: "you come with me for a drive one of these days." but this conjured up the vision of that other eventful drive which had been so much talked about, and he stood quite still for a second, with glassy eyes, as though waiting to catch up with the significance of what he himself had said; then, suddenly recollecting that he didn't care a damn, he turned to old jolyon: "well, good-bye, jolyon! you shouldn't go about without an overcoat; you'll be getting sciatica or something!" and, kicking the cat slightly with the pointed tip of his patent leather boot, he took his huge form away. when he had gone everyone looked secretly at the others, to see how they had taken the mention of the word 'drive'--the word which had become famous, and acquired an overwhelming importance, as the only official--so to speak--news in connection with the vague and sinister rumour clinging to the family tongue. euphemia, yielding to an impulse, said with a short laugh: "i'm glad uncle swithin doesn't ask me to go for drives." mrs. small, to reassure her and smooth over any little awkwardness the subject might have, replied: "my dear, he likes to take somebody well dressed, who will do him a little credit. i shall never forget the drive he took me. it was an experience!" and her chubby round old face was spread for a moment with a strange contentment; then broke into pouts, and tears came into her eyes. she was thinking of that long ago driving tour she had once taken with septimus small. james, who had relapsed into his nervous brooding in the little chair, suddenly roused himself: "he's a funny fellow, swithin," he said, but in a half-hearted way. old jolyon's silence, his stern eyes, held them all in a kind of paralysis. he was disconcerted himself by the effect of his own words--an effect which seemed to deepen the importance of the very rumour he had come to scotch; but he was still angry. he had not done with them yet--no, no--he would give them another rub or two. he did not wish to rub his nieces, he had no quarrel with them--a young and presentable female always appealed to old jolyon's clemency--but that fellow james, and, in a less degree perhaps, those others, deserved all they would get. and he, too, asked for timothy. as though feeling that some danger threatened her younger brother, aunt juley suddenly offered him tea: "there it is," she said, "all cold and nasty, waiting for you in the back drawing room, but smither shall make you some fresh." old jolyon rose: "thank you," he said, looking straight at james, "but i've no time for tea, and--scandal, and the rest of it! it's time i was at home. good-bye, julia; good-bye, hester; good-bye, winifred." without more ceremonious adieux, he marched out. once again in his cab, his anger evaporated, for so it ever was with his wrath--when he had rapped out, it was gone. sadness came over his spirit. he had stopped their mouths, maybe, but at what a cost! at the cost of certain knowledge that the rumour he had been resolved not to believe was true. june was abandoned, and for the wife of that fellow's son! he felt it was true, and hardened himself to treat it as if it were not; but the pain he hid beneath this resolution began slowly, surely, to vent itself in a blind resentment against james and his son. the six women and one man left behind in the little drawing-room began talking as easily as might be after such an occurrence, for though each one of them knew for a fact that he or she never talked scandal, each one of them also knew that the other six did; all were therefore angry and at a loss. james only was silent, disturbed, to the bottom of his soul. presently francie said: "do you know, i think uncle jolyon is terribly changed this last year. what do you think, aunt hester?" aunt hester made a little movement of recoil: "oh, ask your aunt julia!" she said; "i know nothing about it." no one else was afraid of assenting, and james muttered gloomily at the floor: "he's not half the man he was." "i've noticed it a long time," went on francie; "he's aged tremendously." aunt juley shook her head; her face seemed suddenly to have become one immense pout. "poor dear jolyon," she said, "somebody ought to see to it for him!" there was again silence; then, as though in terror of being left solitarily behind, all five visitors rose simultaneously, and took their departure. mrs. small, aunt hester, and their cat were left once more alone, the sound of a door closing in the distance announced the approach of timothy. that evening, when aunt hester had just got off to sleep in the back bedroom that used to be aunt juley's before aunt juley took aunt ann's, her door was opened, and mrs. small, in a pink night-cap, a candle in her hand, entered: "hester!" she said. "hester!" aunt hester faintly rustled the sheet. "hester," repeated aunt juley, to make quite sure that she had awakened her, "i am quite troubled about poor dear jolyon. what," aunt juley dwelt on the word, "do you think ought to be done?" aunt hester again rustled the sheet, her voice was heard faintly pleading: "done? how should i know?" aunt juley turned away satisfied, and closing the door with extra gentleness so as not to disturb dear hester, let it slip through her fingers and fall to with a 'crack.' back in her own room, she stood at the window gazing at the moon over the trees in the park, through a chink in the muslin curtains, close drawn lest anyone should see. and there, with her face all round and pouting in its pink cap, and her eyes wet, she thought of 'dear jolyon,' so old and so lonely, and how she could be of some use to him; and how he would come to love her, as she had never been loved since--since poor septimus went away. chapter viii dance at roger's roger's house in prince's gardens was brilliantly alight. large numbers of wax candles had been collected and placed in cut-glass chandeliers, and the parquet floor of the long, double drawing-room reflected these constellations. an appearance of real spaciousness had been secured by moving out all the furniture on to the upper landings, and enclosing the room with those strange appendages of civilization known as 'rout' seats. in a remote corner, embowered in palms, was a cottage piano, with a copy of the 'kensington coil' open on the music-stand. roger had objected to a band. he didn't see in the least what they wanted with a band; he wouldn't go to the expense, and there was an end of it. francie (her mother, whom roger had long since reduced to chronic dyspepsia, went to bed on such occasions), had been obliged to content herself with supplementing the piano by a young man who played the cornet, and she so arranged with palms that anyone who did not look into the heart of things might imagine there were several musicians secreted there. she made up her mind to tell them to play loud--there was a lot of music in a cornet, if the man would only put his soul into it. in the more cultivated american tongue, she was 'through' at last--through that tortuous labyrinth of make-shifts, which must be traversed before fashionable display can be combined with the sound economy of a forsyte. thin but brilliant, in her maize-coloured frock with much tulle about the shoulders, she went from place to place, fitting on her gloves, and casting her eye over it all. to the hired butler (for roger only kept maids) she spoke about the wine. did he quite understand that mr. forsyte wished a dozen bottles of the champagne from whiteley's to be put out? but if that were finished (she did not suppose it would be, most of the ladies would drink water, no doubt), but if it were, there was the champagne cup, and he must do the best he could with that. she hated having to say this sort of thing to a butler, it was so infra dig.; but what could you do with father? roger, indeed, after making himself consistently disagreeable about the dance, would come down presently, with his fresh colour and bumpy forehead, as though he had been its promoter; and he would smile, and probably take the prettiest woman in to supper; and at two o'clock, just as they were getting into the swing, he would go up secretly to the musicians and tell them to play 'god save the queen,' and go away. francie devoutly hoped he might soon get tired, and slip off to bed. the three or four devoted girl friends who were staying in the house for this dance had partaken with her, in a small, abandoned room upstairs, of tea and cold chicken-legs, hurriedly served; the men had been sent out to dine at eustace's club, it being felt that they must be fed up. punctually on the stroke of nine arrived mrs. small alone. she made elaborate apologies for the absence of timothy, omitting all mention of aunt hester, who, at the last minute, had said she could not be bothered. francie received her effusively, and placed her on a rout seat, where she left her, pouting and solitary in lavender-coloured satin--the first time she had worn colour since aunt ann's death. the devoted maiden friends came now from their rooms, each by magic arrangement in a differently coloured frock, but all with the same liberal allowance of tulle on the shoulders and at the bosom--for they were, by some fatality, lean to a girl. they were all taken up to mrs. small. none stayed with her more than a few seconds, but clustering together talked and twisted their programmes, looking secretly at the door for the first appearance of a man. then arrived in a group a number of nicholases, always punctual--the fashion up ladbroke grove way; and close behind them eustace and his men, gloomy and smelling rather of smoke. three or four of francie's lovers now appeared, one after the other; she had made each promise to come early. they were all clean-shaven and sprightly, with that peculiar kind of young-man sprightliness which had recently invaded kensington; they did not seem to mind each other's presence in the least, and wore their ties bunching out at the ends, white waistcoats, and socks with clocks. all had handkerchiefs concealed in their cuffs. they moved buoyantly, each armoured in professional gaiety, as though he had come to do great deeds. their faces when they danced, far from wearing the traditional solemn look of the dancing englishman, were irresponsible, charming, suave; they bounded, twirling their partners at great pace, without pedantic attention to the rhythm of the music. at other dancers they looked with a kind of airy scorn--they, the light brigade, the heroes of a hundred kensington 'hops'--from whom alone could the right manner and smile and step be hoped. after this the stream came fast; chaperones silting up along the wall facing the entrance, the volatile element swelling the eddy in the larger room. men were scarce, and wallflowers wore their peculiar, pathetic expression, a patient, sourish smile which seemed to say: "oh, no! don't mistake me, i know you are not coming up to me. i can hardly expect that!" and francie would plead with one of her lovers, or with some callow youth: "now, to please me, do let me introduce you to miss pink; such a nice girl, really!" and she would bring him up, and say: "miss pink--mr. gathercole. can you spare him a dance?" then miss pink, smiling her forced smile, colouring a little, answered: "oh! i think so!" and screening her empty card, wrote on it the name of gathercole, spelling it passionately in the district that he proposed, about the second extra. but when the youth had murmured that it was hot, and passed, she relapsed into her attitude of hopeless expectation, into her patient, sourish smile. mothers, slowly fanning their faces, watched their daughters, and in their eyes could be read all the story of those daughters' fortunes. as for themselves, to sit hour after hour, dead tired, silent, or talking spasmodically--what did it matter, so long as the girls were having a good time! but to see them neglected and passed by! ah! they smiled, but their eyes stabbed like the eyes of an offended swan; they longed to pluck young gathercole by the slack of his dandified breeches, and drag him to their daughters--the jackanapes! and all the cruelties and hardness of life, its pathos and unequal chances, its conceit, self-forgetfulness, and patience, were presented on the battle-field of this kensington ball-room. here and there, too, lovers--not lovers like francie's, a peculiar breed, but simply lovers--trembling, blushing, silent, sought each other by flying glances, sought to meet and touch in the mazes of the dance, and now and again dancing together, struck some beholder by the light in their eyes. not a second before ten o'clock came the jameses--emily, rachel, winifred (dartie had been left behind, having on a former occasion drunk too much of roger's champagne), and cicely, the youngest, making her debut; behind them, following in a hansom from the paternal mansion where they had dined, soames and irene. all these ladies had shoulder-straps and no tulle--thus showing at once, by a bolder exposure of flesh, that they came from the more fashionable side of the park. soames, sidling back from the contact of the dancers, took up a position against the wall. guarding himself with his pale smile, he stood watching. waltz after waltz began and ended, couple after couple brushed by with smiling lips, laughter, and snatches of talk; or with set lips, and eyes searching the throng; or again, with silent, parted lips, and eyes on each other. and the scent of festivity, the odour of flowers, and hair, of essences that women love, rose suffocatingly in the heat of the summer night. silent, with something of scorn in his smile, soames seemed to notice nothing; but now and again his eyes, finding that which they sought, would fix themselves on a point in the shifting throng, and the smile die off his lips. he danced with no one. some fellows danced with their wives; his sense of 'form' had never permitted him to dance with irene since their marriage, and the god of the forsytes alone can tell whether this was a relief to him or not. she passed, dancing with other men, her dress, iris-coloured, floating away from her feet. she danced well; he was tired of hearing women say with an acid smile: "how beautifully your wife dances, mr. forsyte--it's quite a pleasure to watch her!" tired of answering them with his sidelong glance: "you think so?" a young couple close by flirted a fan by turns, making an unpleasant draught. francie and one of her lovers stood near. they were talking of love. he heard roger's voice behind, giving an order about supper to a servant. everything was very second-class! he wished that he had not come! he had asked irene whether she wanted him; she had answered with that maddening smile of hers "oh, no!" why had he come? for the last quarter of an hour he had not even seen her. here was george advancing with his quilpish face; it was too late to get out of his way. "have you seen 'the buccaneer'?" said this licensed wag; "he's on the warpath--hair cut and everything!" soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an interval of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked down into the street. a carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door hung some of those patient watchers of the london streets who spring up to the call of light or music; their faces, pale and upturned above their black and rusty figures, had an air of stolid watching that annoyed soames. why were they allowed to hang about; why didn't the bobby move them on? but the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted apart on the strip of crimson carpet stretched across the pavement; his face, under the helmet, wore the same stolid, watching look as theirs. across the road, through the railings, soames could see the branches of trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the gleam of the street lamps; beyond, again, the upper lights of the houses on the other side, so many eyes looking down on the quiet blackness of the garden; and over all, the sky, that wonderful london sky, dusted with the innumerable reflection of countless lamps; a dome woven over between its stars with the refraction of human needs and human fancies--immense mirror of pomp and misery that night after night stretches its kindly mocking over miles of houses and gardens, mansions and squalor, over forsytes, policemen, and patient watchers in the streets. soames turned away, and, hidden in the recess, gazed into the lighted room. it was cooler out there. he saw the new arrivals, june and her grandfather, enter. what had made them so late? they stood by the doorway. they looked fagged. fancy uncle jolyon turning out at this time of night! why hadn't june come to irene, as she usually did, and it occurred to him suddenly that he had seen nothing of june for a long time now. watching her face with idle malice, he saw it change, grow so pale that he thought she would drop, then flame out crimson. turning to see at what she was looking, he saw his wife on bosinney's arm, coming from the conservatory at the end of the room. her eyes were raised to his, as though answering some question he had asked, and he was gazing at her intently. soames looked again at june. her hand rested on old jolyon's arm; she seemed to be making a request. he saw a surprised look on his uncle's face; they turned and passed through the door out of his sight. the music began again--a waltz--and, still as a statue in the recess of the window, his face unmoved, but no smile on his lips, soames waited. presently, within a yard of the dark balcony, his wife and bosinney passed. he caught the perfume of the gardenias that she wore, saw the rise and fall of her bosom, the languor in her eyes, her parted lips, and a look on her face that he did not know. to the slow, swinging measure they danced by, and it seemed to him that they clung to each other; he saw her raise her eyes, soft and dark, to bosinney's, and drop them again. very white, he turned back to the balcony, and leaning on it, gazed down on the square; the figures were still there looking up at the light with dull persistency, the policeman's face, too, upturned, and staring, but he saw nothing of them. below, a carriage drew up, two figures got in, and drove away.... that evening june and old jolyon sat down to dinner at the usual hour. the girl was in her customary high-necked frock, old jolyon had not dressed. at breakfast she had spoken of the dance at uncle roger's, she wanted to go; she had been stupid enough, she said, not to think of asking anyone to take her. it was too late now. old jolyon lifted his keen eyes. june was used to go to dances with irene as a matter of course! and deliberately fixing his gaze on her, he asked: "why don't you get irene?" no! june did not want to ask irene; she would only go if--if her grandfather wouldn't mind just for once for a little time! at her look, so eager and so worn, old jolyon had grumblingly consented. he did not know what she wanted, he said, with going to a dance like this, a poor affair, he would wager; and she no more fit for it than a cat! what she wanted was sea air, and after his general meeting of the globular gold concessions he was ready to take her. she didn't want to go away? ah! she would knock herself up! stealing a mournful look at her, he went on with his breakfast. june went out early, and wandered restlessly about in the heat. her little light figure that lately had moved so languidly about its business, was all on fire. she bought herself some flowers. she wanted--she meant to look her best. he would be there! she knew well enough that he had a card. she would show him that she did not care. but deep down in her heart she resolved that evening to win him back. she came in flushed, and talked brightly all lunch; old jolyon was there, and he was deceived. in the afternoon she was overtaken by a desperate fit of sobbing. she strangled the noise against the pillows of her bed, but when at last it ceased she saw in the glass a swollen face with reddened eyes, and violet circles round them. she stayed in the darkened room till dinner time. all through that silent meal the struggle went on within her. she looked so shadowy and exhausted that old jolyon told 'sankey' to countermand the carriage, he would not have her going out.... she was to go to bed! she made no resistance. she went up to her room, and sat in the dark. at ten o'clock she rang for her maid. "bring some hot water, and go down and tell mr. forsyte that i feel perfectly rested. say that if he's too tired i can go to the dance by myself." the maid looked askance, and june turned on her imperiously. "go," she said, "bring the hot water at once!" her ball-dress still lay on the sofa, and with a sort of fierce care she arrayed herself, took the flowers in her hand, and went down, her small face carried high under its burden of hair. she could hear old jolyon in his room as she passed. bewildered and vexed, he was dressing. it was past ten, they would not get there till eleven; the girl was mad. but he dared not cross her--the expression of her face at dinner haunted him. with great ebony brushes he smoothed his hair till it shone like silver under the light; then he, too, came out on the gloomy staircase. june met him below, and, without a word, they went to the carriage. when, after that drive which seemed to last for ever, she entered roger's drawing-room, she disguised under a mask of resolution a very torment of nervousness and emotion. the feeling of shame at what might be called 'running after him' was smothered by the dread that he might not be there, that she might not see him after all, and by that dogged resolve--somehow, she did not know how--to win him back. the sight of the ballroom, with its gleaming floor, gave her a feeling of joy, of triumph, for she loved dancing, and when dancing she floated, so light was she, like a strenuous, eager little spirit. he would surely ask her to dance, and if he danced with her it would all be as it was before. she looked about her eagerly. the sight of bosinney coming with irene from the conservatory, with that strange look of utter absorption on his face, struck her too suddenly. they had not seen--no one should see--her distress, not even her grandfather. she put her hand on jolyon's arm, and said very low: "i must go home, gran; i feel ill." he hurried her away, grumbling to himself that he had known how it would be. to her he said nothing; only when they were once more in the carriage, which by some fortunate chance had lingered near the door, he asked her: "what is it, my darling?" feeling her whole slender body shaken by sobs, he was terribly alarmed. she must have blank to-morrow. he would insist upon it. he could not have her like this.... there, there! june mastered her sobs, and squeezing his hand feverishly, she lay back in her corner, her face muffled in a shawl. he could only see her eyes, fixed and staring in the dark, but he did not cease to stroke her hand with his thin fingers. chapter ix evening at richmond other eyes besides the eyes of june and of soames had seen 'those two' (as euphemia had already begun to call them) coming from the conservatory; other eyes had noticed the look on bosinney's face. there are moments when nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the careless calm of her ordinary moods--violent spring flashing white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery secret. there are moments, too, when in a picture-gallery, a work, noted by the casual spectator as '......titian--remarkably fine,' breaks through the defences of some forsyte better lunched perhaps than his fellows, and holds him spellbound in a kind of ecstasy. there are things, he feels--there are things here which--well, which are things. something unreasoning, unreasonable, is upon him; when he tries to define it with the precision of a practical man, it eludes him, slips away, as the glow of the wine he has drunk is slipping away, leaving him cross, and conscious of his liver. he feels that he has been extravagant, prodigal of something; virtue has gone out of him. he did not desire this glimpse of what lay under the three stars of his catalogue. god forbid that he should know anything about the forces of nature! god forbid that he should admit for a moment that there are such things! once admit that, and where was he? one paid a shilling for entrance, and another for the programme. the look which june had seen, which other forsytes had seen, was like the sudden flashing of a candle through a hole in some imaginary canvas, behind which it was being moved--the sudden flaming-out of a vague, erratic glow, shadowy and enticing. it brought home to onlookers the consciousness that dangerous forces were at work. for a moment they noticed it with pleasure, with interest, then felt they must not notice it at all. it supplied, however, the reason of june's coming so late and disappearing again without dancing, without even shaking hands with her lover. she was ill, it was said, and no wonder. but here they looked at each other guiltily. they had no desire to spread scandal, no desire to be ill-natured. who would have? and to outsiders no word was breathed, unwritten law keeping them silent. then came the news that june had gone to the seaside with old jolyon. he had carried her off to broadstairs, for which place there was just then a feeling, yarmouth having lost caste, in spite of nicholas, and no forsyte going to the sea without intending to have an air for his money such as would render him bilious in a week. that fatally aristocratic tendency of the first forsyte to drink madeira had left his descendants undoubtedly accessible. so june went to the sea. the family awaited developments; there was nothing else to do. but how far--how far had 'those two' gone? how far were they going to go? could they really be going at all? nothing could surely come of it, for neither of them had any money. at the most a flirtation, ending, as all such attachments should, at the proper time. soames' sister, winifred dartie, who had imbibed with the breezes of mayfair--she lived in green street--more fashionable principles in regard to matrimonial behaviour than were current, for instance, in ladbroke grove, laughed at the idea of there being anything in it. the 'little thing'--irene was taller than herself, and it was real testimony to the solid worth of a forsyte that she should always thus be a 'little thing'--the little thing was bored. why shouldn't she amuse herself? soames was rather tiring; and as to mr. bosinney--only that buffoon george would have called him the buccaneer--she maintained that he was very chic. this dictum--that bosinney was chic--caused quit a sensation. it failed to convince. that he was 'good-looking in a way' they were prepared to admit, but that anyone could call a man with his pronounced cheekbones, curious eyes, and soft felt hats chic was only another instance of winifred's extravagant way of running after something new. it was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when the very earth was extravagant, chestnut-trees spread with blossom, and flowers drenched in perfume, as they had never been before; when roses blew in every garden; and for the swarming stars the nights had hardly space; when every day and all day long the sun, in full armour, swung his brazen shield above the park, and people did strange things, lunching and dining in the open air. unprecedented was the tale of cabs and carriages that streamed across the bridges of the shining river, bearing the upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of bushey, richmond, kew, and hampton court. almost every family with any pretensions to be of the carriage-class paid one visit that year to the horse-chestnuts at bushey, or took one drive amongst the spanish chestnuts of richmond park. bowling smoothly, if dustily, along, in a cloud of their own creation, they would stare fashionably at the antlered heads which the great slow deer raised out of a forest of bracken that promised to autumn lovers such cover as was never seen before. and now and again, as the amorous perfume of chestnut flowers and of fern was drifted too near, one would say to the other: "my dear! what a peculiar scent!" and the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near honey-coloured. at the corners of london squares they gave out, as the sun went down, a perfume sweeter than the honey bees had taken--a perfume that stirred a yearning unnamable in the hearts of forsytes and their peers, taking the cool after dinner in the precincts of those gardens to which they alone had keys. and that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of flower-beds in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn, and turn again, as though lovers were waiting for them--waiting for the last light to die away under the shadow of the branches. some vague sympathy evoked by the scent of the limes, some sisterly desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating the soundness of her dictum that there was 'nothing in it'; or merely the craving to drive down to richmond, irresistible that summer, moved the mother of the little darties (of little publius, of imogen, maud, and benedict) to write the following note to her sister-in-law: 'dear irene, 'june . 'i hear that soames is going to henley tomorrow for the night. i thought it would be great fun if we made up a little party and drove down to, richmond. will you ask mr. bosinney, and i will get young flippard. 'emily (they called their mother emily--it was so chic) will lend us the carriage. i will call for you and your young man at seven o'clock. 'your affectionate sister, 'winifred dartie. 'montague believes the dinner at the crown and sceptre to be quite eatable.' montague was dartie's second and better known name--his first being moses; for he was nothing if not a man of the world. her plan met with more opposition from providence than so benevolent a scheme deserved. in the first place young flippard wrote: 'dear mrs. dartie, 'awfully sorry. engaged two deep. 'yours, 'augustus flippard.' it was late to send into the by-ways and hedges to remedy this misfortune. with the promptitude and conduct of a mother, winifred fell back on her husband. she had, indeed, the decided but tolerant temperament that goes with a good deal of profile, fair hair, and greenish eyes. she was seldom or never at a loss; or if at a loss, was always able to convert it into a gain. dartie, too, was in good feather. erotic had failed to win the lancashire cup. indeed, that celebrated animal, owned as he was by a pillar of the turf, who had secretly laid many thousands against him, had not even started. the forty-eight hours that followed his scratching were among the darkest in dartie's life. visions of james haunted him day and night. black thoughts about soames mingled with the faintest hopes. on the friday night he got drunk, so greatly was he affected. but on saturday morning the true stock exchange instinct triumphed within him. owing some hundreds, which by no possibility could he pay, he went into town and put them all on concertina for the saltown borough handicap. as he said to major scrotton, with whom he lunched at the iseeum: "that little jew boy, nathans, had given him the tip. he didn't care a cursh. he wash in--a mucker. if it didn't come up--well then, damme, the old man would have to pay!" a bottle of pol roger to his own cheek had given him a new contempt for james. it came up. concertina was squeezed home by her neck--a terrible squeak! but, as dartie said: there was nothing like pluck! he was by no means averse to the expedition to richmond. he would 'stand' it himself! he cherished an admiration for irene, and wished to be on more playful terms with her. at half-past five the park lane footman came round to say: mrs. forsyte was very sorry, but one of the horses was coughing! undaunted by this further blow, winifred at once despatched little publius (now aged seven) with the nursery governess to montpellier square. they would go down in hansoms and meet at the crown and sceptre at . . dartie, on being told, was pleased enough. it was better than going down with your back to the horses! he had no objection to driving down with irene. he supposed they would pick up the others at montpellier square, and swop hansoms there? informed that the meet was at the crown and sceptre, and that he would have to drive with his wife, he turned sulky, and said it was d---d slow! at seven o'clock they started, dartie offering to bet the driver half-a-crown he didn't do it in the three-quarters of an hour. twice only did husband and wife exchange remarks on the way. dartie said: "it'll put master soames's nose out of joint to hear his wife's been drivin' in a hansom with master bosinney!" winifred replied: "don't talk such nonsense, monty!" "nonsense!" repeated dartie. "you don't know women, my fine lady!" on the other occasion he merely asked: "how am i looking? a bit puffy about the gills? that fizz old george is so fond of is a windy wine!" he had been lunching with george forsyte at the haversnake. bosinney and irene had arrived before them. they were standing in one of the long french windows overlooking the river. windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too, and day and night the scents of flowers and trees came in, the hot scent of parching grass, and the cool scent of the heavy dews. to the eye of the observant dartie his two guests did not appear to be making much running, standing there close together, without a word. bosinney was a hungry-looking creature--not much go about him. he left them to winifred, however, and busied himself to order the dinner. a forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a dartie will tax the resources of a crown and sceptre. living as he does, from hand to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat; and he will eat it. his drink, too, will need to be carefully provided; there is much drink in this country 'not good enough' for a dartie; he will have the best. paying for things vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint himself. to stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a dartie. the best of everything! no sounder principle on which a man can base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable income, and a partiality for his grandchildren. with his not unable eye dartie had spotted this weakness in james the very first year after little publius's arrival (an error); he had profited by his perspicacity. four little darties were now a sort of perpetual insurance. the feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. this delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state of almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then served in ice, with madeira punch in place of sauce, according to a recipe known to a few men of the world. nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by dartie. he had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his bold, admiring stare seldom abandoning irene's face and figure. as he was obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of her--she was cool enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under their veil of creamy lace. he expected to have caught her out in some little game with bosinney; but not a bit of it, she kept up her end remarkably well. as for that architect chap, he was as glum as a bear with a sore head--winifred could barely get a word out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly took his liquor, and his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked queer. it was all very amusing. for dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a certain poignancy, being no fool. he told two or three stories verging on the improper, a concession to the company, for his stories were not used to verging. he proposed irene's health in a mock speech. nobody drank it, and winifred said: "don't be such a clown, monty!" at her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace overlooking the river. "i should like to see the common people making love," she said, "it's such fun!" there were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day's heat, and the air was alive with the sound of voices, coarse and loud, or soft as though murmuring secrets. it was not long before winifred's better sense--she was the only forsyte present--secured them an empty bench. they sat down in a row. a heavy tree spread a thick canopy above their heads, and the haze darkened slowly over the river. dartie sat at the end, next to him irene, then bosinney, then winifred. there was hardly room for four, and the man of the world could feel irene's arm crushed against his own; he knew that she could not withdraw it without seeming rude, and this amused him; he devised every now and again a movement that would bring her closer still. he thought: 'that buccaneer johnny shan't have it all to himself! it's a pretty tight fit, certainly!' from far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle of a mandoline, and voices singing the old round: 'a boat, a boat, unto the ferry, for we'll go over and be merry; and laugh, and quaff, and drink brown sherry!' and suddenly the moon appeared, young and tender, floating up on her back from behind a tree; and as though she had breathed, the air was cooler, but down that cooler air came always the warm odour of the limes. over his cigar dartie peered round at bosinney, who was sitting with his arms crossed, staring straight in front of him, and on his face the look of a man being tortured. and dartie shot a glance at the face between, so veiled by the overhanging shadow that it was but like a darker piece of the darkness shaped and breathed on; soft, mysterious, enticing. a hush had fallen on the noisy terrace, as if all the strollers were thinking secrets too precious to be spoken. and dartie thought: 'women!' the glow died above the river, the singing ceased; the young moon hid behind a tree, and all was dark. he pressed himself against irene. he was not alarmed at the shuddering that ran through the limbs he touched, or at the troubled, scornful look of her eyes. he felt her trying to draw herself away, and smiled. it must be confessed that the man of the world had drunk quite as much as was good for him. with thick lips parted under his well-curled moustaches, and his bold eyes aslant upon her, he had the malicious look of a satyr. along the pathway of sky between the hedges of the tree tops the stars clustered forth; like mortals beneath, they seemed to shift and swarm and whisper. then on the terrace the buzz broke out once more, and dartie thought: 'ah! he's a poor, hungry-looking devil, that bosinney!' and again he pressed himself against irene. the movement deserved a better success. she rose, and they all followed her. the man of the world was more than ever determined to see what she was made of. along the terrace he kept close at her elbow. he had within him much good wine. there was the long drive home, the long drive and the warm dark and the pleasant closeness of the hansom cab--with its insulation from the world devised by some great and good man. that hungry architect chap might drive with his wife--he wished him joy of her! and, conscious that his voice was not too steady, he was careful not to speak; but a smile had become fixed on his thick lips. they strolled along toward the cabs awaiting them at the farther end. his plan had the merit of all great plans, an almost brutal simplicity he would merely keep at her elbow till she got in, and get in quickly after her. but when irene reached the cab she did not get in; she slipped, instead, to the horse's head. dartie was not at the moment sufficiently master of his legs to follow. she stood stroking the horse's nose, and, to his annoyance, bosinney was at her side first. she turned and spoke to him rapidly, in a low voice; the words 'that man' reached dartie. he stood stubbornly by the cab step, waiting for her to come back. he knew a trick worth two of that! here, in the lamp-light, his figure (no more than medium height), well squared in its white evening waistcoat, his light overcoat flung over his arm, a pink flower in his button-hole, and on his dark face that look of confident, good-humoured insolence, he was at his best--a thorough man of the world. winifred was already in her cab. dartie reflected that bosinney would have a poorish time in that cab if he didn't look sharp! suddenly he received a push which nearly overturned him in the road. bosinney's voice hissed in his ear: "i am taking irene back; do you understand?" he saw a face white with passion, and eyes that glared at him like a wild cat's. "eh?" he stammered. "what? not a bit. you take my wife!" "get away!" hissed bosinney--"or i'll throw you into the road!" dartie recoiled; he saw as plainly as possible that the fellow meant it. in the space he made irene had slipped by, her dress brushed his legs. bosinney stepped in after her. "go on!" he heard the buccaneer cry. the cabman flicked his horse. it sprang forward. dartie stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, dashing at the cab where his wife sat, he scrambled in. "drive on!" he shouted to the driver, "and don't you lose sight of that fellow in front!" seated by his wife's side, he burst into imprecations. calming himself at last with a supreme effort, he added: "a pretty mess you've made of it, to let the buccaneer drive home with her; why on earth couldn't you keep hold of him? he's mad with love; any fool can see that!" he drowned winifred's rejoinder with fresh calls to the almighty; nor was it until they reached barnes that he ceased a jeremiad, in the course of which he had abused her, her father, her brother, irene, bosinney, the name of forsyte, his own children, and cursed the day when he had ever married. winifred, a woman of strong character, let him have his say, at the end of which he lapsed into sulky silence. his angry eyes never deserted the back of that cab, which, like a lost chance, haunted the darkness in front of him. fortunately he could not hear bosinney's passionate pleading--that pleading which the man of the world's conduct had let loose like a flood; he could not see irene shivering, as though some garment had been torn from her, nor her eyes, black and mournful, like the eyes of a beaten child. he could not hear bosinney entreating, entreating, always entreating; could not hear her sudden, soft weeping, nor see that poor, hungry-looking devil, awed and trembling, humbly touching her hand. in montpellier square their cabman, following his instructions to the letter, faithfully drew up behind the cab in front. the darties saw bosinney spring out, and irene follow, and hasten up the steps with bent head. she evidently had her key in her hand, for she disappeared at once. it was impossible to tell whether she had turned to speak to bosinney. the latter came walking past their cab; both husband and wife had an admirable view of his face in the light of a street lamp. it was working with violent emotion. "good-night, mr. bosinney!" called winifred. bosinney started, clawed off his hat, and hurried on. he had obviously forgotten their existence. "there!" said dartie, "did you see the beast's face? what did i say? fine games!" he improved the occasion. there had so clearly been a crisis in the cab that winifred was unable to defend her theory. she said: "i shall say nothing about it. i don't see any use in making a fuss!" with that view dartie at once concurred; looking upon james as a private preserve, he disapproved of his being disturbed by the troubles of others. "quite right," he said; "let soames look after himself. he's jolly well able to!" thus speaking, the darties entered their habitat in green street, the rent of which was paid by james, and sought a well-earned rest. the hour was midnight, and no forsytes remained abroad in the streets to spy out bosinney's wanderings; to see him return and stand against the rails of the square garden, back from the glow of the street lamp; to see him stand there in the shadow of trees, watching the house where in the dark was hidden she whom he would have given the world to see for a single minute--she who was now to him the breath of the lime-trees, the meaning of the light and the darkness, the very beating of his own heart. chapter x diagnosis of a forsyte it is in the nature of a forsyte to be ignorant that he is a forsyte; but young jolyon was well aware of being one. he had not known it till after the decisive step which had made him an outcast; since then the knowledge had been with him continually. he felt it throughout his alliance, throughout all his dealings with his second wife, who was emphatically not a forsyte. he knew that if he had not possessed in great measure the eye for what he wanted, the tenacity to hold on to it, the sense of the folly of wasting that for which he had given so big a price--in other words, the 'sense of property' he could never have retained her (perhaps never would have desired to retain her) with him through all the financial troubles, slights, and misconstructions of those fifteen years; never have induced her to marry him on the death of his first wife; never have lived it all through, and come up, as it were, thin, but smiling. he was one of those men who, seated cross-legged like miniature chinese idols in the cages of their own hearts, are ever smiling at themselves a doubting smile. not that this smile, so intimate and eternal, interfered with his actions, which, like his chin and his temperament, were quite a peculiar blend of softness and determination. he was conscious, too, of being a forsyte in his work, that painting of water-colours to which he devoted so much energy, always with an eye on himself, as though he could not take so unpractical a pursuit quite seriously, and always with a certain queer uneasiness that he did not make more money at it. it was, then, this consciousness of what it meant to be a forsyte, that made him receive the following letter from old jolyon, with a mixture of sympathy and disgust: 'sheldrake house, 'broadstairs, 'july . 'my dear jo,' (the dad's handwriting had altered very little in the thirty odd years that he remembered it.) 'we have been here now a fortnight, and have had good weather on the whole. the air is bracing, but my liver is out of order, and i shall be glad enough to get back to town. i cannot say much for june, her health and spirits are very indifferent, and i don't see what is to come of it. she says nothing, but it is clear that she is harping on this engagement, which is an engagement and no engagement, and--goodness knows what. i have grave doubts whether she ought to be allowed to return to london in the present state of affairs, but she is so self-willed that she might take it into her head to come up at any moment. the fact is someone ought to speak to bosinney and ascertain what he means. i'm afraid of this myself, for i should certainly rap him over the knuckles, but i thought that you, knowing him at the club, might put in a word, and get to ascertain what the fellow is about. you will of course in no way commit june. i shall be glad to hear from you in the course of a few days whether you have succeeded in gaining any information. the situation is very distressing to me, i worry about it at night. with my love to jolly and holly. 'i am, 'your affect. father, 'jolyon forsyte.' young jolyon pondered this letter so long and seriously that his wife noticed his preoccupation, and asked him what was the matter. he replied: "nothing." it was a fixed principle with him never to allude to june. she might take alarm, he did not know what she might think; he hastened, therefore, to banish from his manner all traces of absorption, but in this he was about as successful as his father would have been, for he had inherited all old jolyon's transparency in matters of domestic finesse; and young mrs. jolyon, busying herself over the affairs of the house, went about with tightened lips, stealing at him unfathomable looks. he started for the club in the afternoon with the letter in his pocket, and without having made up his mind. to sound a man as to 'his intentions' was peculiarly unpleasant to him; nor did his own anomalous position diminish this unpleasantness. it was so like his family, so like all the people they knew and mixed with, to enforce what they called their rights over a man, to bring him up to the mark; so like them to carry their business principles into their private relations. and how that phrase in the letter--'you will, of course, in no way commit june'--gave the whole thing away. yet the letter, with the personal grievance, the concern for june, the 'rap over the knuckles,' was all so natural. no wonder his father wanted to know what bosinney meant, no wonder he was angry. it was difficult to refuse! but why give the thing to him to do? that was surely quite unbecoming; but so long as a forsyte got what he was after, he was not too particular about the means, provided appearances were saved. how should he set about it, or how refuse? both seemed impossible. so, young jolyon! he arrived at the club at three o'clock, and the first person he saw was bosinney himself, seated in a corner, staring out of the window. young jolyon sat down not far off, and began nervously to reconsider his position. he looked covertly at bosinney sitting there unconscious. he did not know him very well, and studied him attentively for perhaps the first time; an unusual looking man, unlike in dress, face, and manner to most of the other members of the club--young jolyon himself, however different he had become in mood and temper, had always retained the neat reticence of forsyte appearance. he alone among forsytes was ignorant of bosinney's nickname. the man was unusual, not eccentric, but unusual; he looked worn, too, haggard, hollow in the cheeks beneath those broad, high cheekbones, though without any appearance of ill-health, for he was strongly built, with curly hair that seemed to show all the vitality of a fine constitution. something in his face and attitude touched young jolyon. he knew what suffering was like, and this man looked as if he were suffering. he got up and touched his arm. bosinney started, but exhibited no sign of embarrassment on seeing who it was. young jolyon sat down. "i haven't seen you for a long time," he said. "how are you getting on with my cousin's house?" "it'll be finished in about a week." "i congratulate you!" "thanks--i don't know that it's much of a subject for congratulation." "no?" queried young jolyon; "i should have thought you'd be glad to get a long job like that off your hands; but i suppose you feel it much as i do when i part with a picture--a sort of child?" he looked kindly at bosinney. "yes," said the latter more cordially, "it goes out from you and there's an end of it. i didn't know you painted." "only water-colours; i can't say i believe in my work." "don't believe in it? there--how can you do it? work's no use unless you believe in it!" "good," said young jolyon; "it's exactly what i've always said. by-the-bye, have you noticed that whenever one says 'good,' one always adds 'it's exactly what i've always said'! but if you ask me how i do it, i answer, because i'm a forsyte." "a forsyte! i never thought of you as one!" "a forsyte," replied young jolyon, "is not an uncommon animal. there are hundreds among the members of this club. hundreds out there in the streets; you meet them wherever you go!" "and how do you tell them, may i ask?" said bosinney. "by their sense of property. a forsyte takes a practical--one might say a commonsense--view of things, and a practical view of things is based fundamentally on a sense of property. a forsyte, you will notice, never gives himself away." "joking?" young jolyon's eye twinkled. "not much. as a forsyte myself, i have no business to talk. but i'm a kind of thoroughbred mongrel; now, there's no mistaking you: you're as different from me as i am from my uncle james, who is the perfect specimen of a forsyte. his sense of property is extreme, while you have practically none. without me in between, you would seem like a different species. i'm the missing link. we are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and i admit that it's a question of degree, but what i call a 'forsyte' is a man who is decidedly more than less a slave of property. he knows a good thing, he knows a safe thing, and his grip on property--it doesn't matter whether it be wives, houses, money, or reputation--is his hall-mark." "ah!" murmured bosinney. "you should patent the word." "i should like," said young jolyon, "to lecture on it: "properties and quality of a forsyte: this little animal, disturbed by the ridicule of his own sort, is unaffected in his motions by the laughter of strange creatures (you or i). hereditarily disposed to myopia, he recognises only the persons of his own species, amongst which he passes an existence of competitive tranquillity." "you talk of them," said bosinney, "as if they were half england." "they are," repeated young jolyon, "half england, and the better half, too, the safe half, the three per cent. half, the half that counts. it's their wealth and security that makes everything possible; makes your art possible, makes literature, science, even religion, possible. without forsytes, who believe in none of these things, and habitats but turn them all to use, where should we be? my dear sir, the forsytes are the middlemen, the commercials, the pillars of society, the cornerstones of convention; everything that is admirable!" "i don't know whether i catch your drift," said bosinney, "but i fancy there are plenty of forsytes, as you call them, in my profession." "certainly," replied young jolyon. "the great majority of architects, painters, or writers have no principles, like any other forsytes. art, literature, religion, survive by virtue of the few cranks who really believe in such things, and the many forsytes who make a commercial use of them. at a low estimate, three-fourths of our royal academicians are forsytes, seven-eighths of our novelists, a large proportion of the press. of science i can't speak; they are magnificently represented in religion; in the house of commons perhaps more numerous than anywhere; the aristocracy speaks for itself. but i'm not laughing. it is dangerous to go against the majority and what a majority!" he fixed his eyes on bosinney: "it's dangerous to let anything carry you away--a house, a picture, a--woman!" they looked at each other.--and, as though he had done that which no forsyte did--given himself away, young jolyon drew into his shell. bosinney broke the silence. "why do you take your own people as the type?" said he. "my people," replied young jolyon, "are not very extreme, and they have their own private peculiarities, like every other family, but they possess in a remarkable degree those two qualities which are the real tests of a forsyte--the power of never being able to give yourself up to anything soul and body, and the 'sense of property'." bosinney smiled: "how about the big one, for instance?" "do you mean swithin?" asked young jolyon. "ah! in swithin there's something primeval still. the town and middle-class life haven't digested him yet. all the old centuries of farm work and brute force have settled in him, and there they've stuck, for all he's so distinguished." bosinney seemed to ponder. "well, you've hit your cousin soames off to the life," he said suddenly. "he'll never blow his brains out." young jolyon shot at him a penetrating glance. "no," he said; "he won't. that's why he's to be reckoned with. look out for their grip! it's easy to laugh, but don't mistake me. it doesn't do to despise a forsyte; it doesn't do to disregard them!" "yet you've done it yourself!" young jolyon acknowledged the hit by losing his smile. "you forget," he said with a queer pride, "i can hold on, too--i'm a forsyte myself. we're all in the path of great forces. the man who leaves the shelter of the wall--well--you know what i mean. i don't," he ended very low, as though uttering a threat, "recommend every man to-go-my-way. it depends." the colour rushed into bosinney's face, but soon receded, leaving it sallow-brown as before. he gave a short laugh, that left his lips fixed in a queer, fierce smile; his eyes mocked young jolyon. "thanks," he said. "it's deuced kind of you. but you're not the only chaps that can hold on." he rose. young jolyon looked after him as he walked away, and, resting his head on his hand, sighed. in the drowsy, almost empty room the only sounds were the rustle of newspapers, the scraping of matches being struck. he stayed a long time without moving, living over again those days when he, too, had sat long hours watching the clock, waiting for the minutes to pass--long hours full of the torments of uncertainty, and of a fierce, sweet aching; and the slow, delicious agony of that season came back to him with its old poignancy. the sight of bosinney, with his haggard face, and his restless eyes always wandering to the clock, had roused in him a pity, with which was mingled strange, irresistible envy. he knew the signs so well. whither was he going--to what sort of fate? what kind of woman was it who was drawing him to her by that magnetic force which no consideration of honour, no principle, no interest could withstand; from which the only escape was flight. flight! but why should bosinney fly? a man fled when he was in danger of destroying hearth and home, when there were children, when he felt himself trampling down ideals, breaking something. but here, so he had heard, it was all broken to his hand. he himself had not fled, nor would he fly if it were all to come over again. yet he had gone further than bosinney, had broken up his own unhappy home, not someone else's: and the old saying came back to him: 'a man's fate lies in his own heart.' in his own heart! the proof of the pudding was in the eating--bosinney had still to eat his pudding. his thoughts passed to the woman, the woman whom he did not know, but the outline of whose story he had heard. an unhappy marriage! no ill-treatment--only that indefinable malaise, that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under heaven; and so from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from year to year, till death should end it. but young jolyon, the bitterness of whose own feelings time had assuaged, saw soames' side of the question too. whence should a man like his cousin, saturated with all the prejudices and beliefs of his class, draw the insight or inspiration necessary to break up this life? it was a question of imagination, of projecting himself into the future beyond the unpleasant gossip, sneers, and tattle that followed on such separations, beyond the passing pangs that the lack of the sight of her would cause, beyond the grave disapproval of the worthy. but few men, and especially few men of soames' class, had imagination enough for that. a deal of mortals in this world, and not enough imagination to go round! and sweet heaven, what a difference between theory and practice; many a man, perhaps even soames, held chivalrous views on such matters, who when the shoe pinched found a distinguishing factor that made of himself an exception. then, too, he distrusted his judgment. he had been through the experience himself, had tasted too the dregs the bitterness of an unhappy marriage, and how could he take the wide and dispassionate view of those who had never been within sound of the battle? his evidence was too first-hand--like the evidence on military matters of a soldier who has been through much active service, against that of civilians who have not suffered the disadvantage of seeing things too close. most people would consider such a marriage as that of soames and irene quite fairly successful; he had money, she had beauty; it was a case for compromise. there was no reason why they should not jog along, even if they hated each other. it would not matter if they went their own ways a little so long as the decencies were observed--the sanctity of the marriage tie, of the common home, respected. half the marriages of the upper classes were conducted on these lines: do not offend the susceptibilities of society; do not offend the susceptibilities of the church. to avoid offending these is worth the sacrifice of any private feelings. the advantages of the stable home are visible, tangible, so many pieces of property; there is no risk in the statu quo. to break up a home is at the best a dangerous experiment, and selfish into the bargain. this was the case for the defence, and young jolyon sighed. 'the core of it all,' he thought, 'is property, but there are many people who would not like it put that way. to them it is "the sanctity of the marriage tie"; but the sanctity of the marriage tie is dependent on the sanctity of the family, and the sanctity of the family is dependent on the sanctity of property. and yet i imagine all these people are followers of one who never owned anything. it is curious! and again young jolyon sighed. 'am i going on my way home to ask any poor devils i meet to share my dinner, which will then be too little for myself, or, at all events, for my wife, who is necessary to my health and happiness? it may be that after all soames does well to exercise his rights and support by his practice the sacred principle of property which benefits us all, with the exception of those who suffer by the process.' and so he left his chair, threaded his way through the maze of seats, took his hat, and languidly up the hot streets crowded with carriages, reeking with dusty odours, wended his way home. before reaching wistaria avenue he removed old jolyon's letter from his pocket, and tearing it carefully into tiny pieces, scattered them in the dust of the road. he let himself in with his key, and called his wife's name. but she had gone out, taking jolly and holly, and the house was empty; alone in the garden the dog balthasar lay in the shade snapping at flies. young jolyon took his seat there, too, under the pear-tree that bore no fruit. chapter xi bosinney on parole the day after the evening at richmond soames returned from henley by a morning train. not constitutionally interested in amphibious sports, his visit had been one of business rather than pleasure, a client of some importance having asked him down. he went straight to the city, but finding things slack, he left at three o'clock, glad of this chance to get home quietly. irene did not expect him. not that he had any desire to spy on her actions, but there was no harm in thus unexpectedly surveying the scene. after changing to park clothes he went into the drawing-room. she was sitting idly in the corner of the sofa, her favourite seat; and there were circles under her eyes, as though she had not slept. he asked: "how is it you're in? are you expecting somebody?" "yes that is, not particularly." "who?" "mr. bosinney said he might come." "bosinney. he ought to be at work." to this she made no answer. "well," said soames, "i want you to come out to the stores with me, and after that we'll go to the park." "i don't want to go out; i have a headache." soames replied: "if ever i want you to do anything, you've always got a headache. it'll do you good to come and sit under the trees." she did not answer. soames was silent for some minutes; at last he said: "i don't know what your idea of a wife's duty is. i never have known!" he had not expected her to reply, but she did. "i have tried to do what you want; it's not my fault that i haven't been able to put my heart into it." "whose fault is it, then?" he watched her askance. "before we were married you promised to let me go if our marriage was not a success. is it a success?" soames frowned. "success," he stammered--"it would be a success if you behaved yourself properly!" "i have tried," said irene. "will you let me go?" soames turned away. secretly alarmed, he took refuge in bluster. "let you go? you don't know what you're talking about. let you go? how can i let you go? we're married, aren't we? then, what are you talking about? for god's sake, don't let's have any of this sort of nonsense! get your hat on, and come and sit in the park." "then, you won't let me go?" he felt her eyes resting on him with a strange, touching look. "let you go!" he said; "and what on earth would you do with yourself if i did? you've got no money!" "i could manage somehow." he took a swift turn up and down the room; then came and stood before her. "understand," he said, "once and for all, i won't have you say this sort of thing. go and get your hat on!" she did not move. "i suppose," said soames, "you don't want to miss bosinney if he comes!" irene got up slowly and left the room. she came down with her hat on. they went out. in the park, the motley hour of mid-afternoon, when foreigners and other pathetic folk drive, thinking themselves to be in fashion, had passed; the right, the proper, hour had come, was nearly gone, before soames and irene seated themselves under the achilles statue. it was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the park. that was one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his married life, when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious creature before all london had been his greatest, though secret, pride. how many afternoons had he not sat beside her, extremely neat, with light grey gloves and faint, supercilious smile, nodding to acquaintances, and now and again removing his hat. his light grey gloves were still on his hands, and on his lips his smile sardonic, but where the feeling in his heart? the seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent and pale, as though to work out a secret punishment. once or twice he made some comment, and she bent her head, or answered "yes" with a tired smile. along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared after him when he passed. "look at that ass!" said soames; "he must be mad to walk like that in this heat!" he turned; irene had made a rapid movement. "hallo!" he said: "it's our friend the buccaneer!" and he sat still, with his sneering smile, conscious that irene was sitting still, and smiling too. "will she bow to him?" he thought. but she made no sign. bosinney reached the end of the rails, and came walking back amongst the chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer. when he saw them he stopped dead, and raised his hat. the smile never left soames' face; he also took off his hat. bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard physical exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and soames' smile seemed to say: "you've had a trying time, my friend ......what are you doing in the park?" he asked. "we thought you despised such frivolity!" bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to irene: "i've been round to your place; i hoped i should find you in." somebody tapped soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her answer, and took a resolution. "we're just going in," he said to bosinney; "you'd better come back to dinner with us." into that invitation he put a strange bravado, a stranger pathos: "you, can't deceive me," his look and voice seemed saying, "but see--i trust you--i'm not afraid of you!" they started back to montpellier square together, irene between them. in the crowded streets soames went on in front. he did not listen to their conversation; the strange resolution of trustfulness he had taken seemed to animate even his secret conduct. like a gambler, he said to himself: 'it's a card i dare not throw away--i must play it for what it's worth. i have not too many chances.' he dressed slowly, heard her leave her room and go downstairs, and, for full five minutes after, dawdled about in his dressing-room. then he went down, purposely shutting the door loudly to show that he was coming. he found them standing by the hearth, perhaps talking, perhaps not; he could not say. he played his part out in the farce, the long evening through--his manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been before; and when at last bosinney went, he said: "you must come again soon; irene likes to have you to talk about the house!" again his voice had the strange bravado and the stranger pathos; but his hand was cold as ice. loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, turned away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to say good-night--away from the sight of her golden head shining so under the light, of her smiling mournful lips; away from the sight of bosinney's eyes looking at her, so like a dog's looking at its master. and he went to bed with the certainty that bosinney was in love with his wife. the summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every opened window came in but hotter air. for long hours he lay listening to her breathing. she could sleep, but he must lie awake. and, lying awake, he hardened himself to play the part of the serene and trusting husband. in the small hours he slipped out of bed, and passing into his dressing-room, leaned by the open window. he could hardly breathe. a night four years ago came back to him--the night but one before his marriage; as hot and stifling as this. he remembered how he had lain in a long cane chair in the window of his sitting-room off victoria street. down below in a side street a man had banged at a door, a woman had cried out; he remembered, as though it were now, the sound of the scuffle, the slam of the door, the dead silence that followed. and then the early water-cart, cleansing the reek of the streets, had approached through the strange-seeming, useless lamp-light; he seemed to hear again its rumble, nearer and nearer, till it passed and slowly died away. he leaned far out of the dressing-room window over the little court below, and saw the first light spread. the outlines of dark walls and roofs were blurred for a moment, then came out sharper than before. he remembered how that other night he had watched the lamps paling all the length of victoria street; how he had hurried on his clothes and gone down into the street, down past houses and squares, to the street where she was staying, and there had stood and looked at the front of the little house, as still and grey as the face of a dead man. and suddenly it shot through his mind; like a sick man's fancy: what's he doing?--that fellow who haunts me, who was here this evening, who's in love with my wife--prowling out there, perhaps, looking for her as i know he was looking for her this afternoon; watching my house now, for all i can tell! he stole across the landing to the front of the house, stealthily drew aside a blind, and raised a window. the grey light clung about the trees of the square, as though night, like a great downy moth, had brushed them with her wings. the lamps were still alight, all pale, but not a soul stirred--no living thing in sight. yet suddenly, very faint, far off in the deathly stillness, he heard a cry writhing, like the voice of some wandering soul barred out of heaven, and crying for its happiness. there it was again--again! soames shut the window, shuddering. then he thought: 'ah! it's only the peacocks, across the water.' chapter xii june pays some calls jolyon stood in the narrow hall at broadstairs, inhaling that odour of oilcloth and herrings which permeates all respectable seaside lodging-houses. on a chair--a shiny leather chair, displaying its horsehair through a hole in the top left-hand corner--stood a black despatch case. this he was filling with papers, with the times, and a bottle of eau-de cologne. he had meetings that day of the 'globular gold concessions' and the 'new colliery company, limited,' to which he was going up, for he never missed a board; to 'miss a board' would be one more piece of evidence that he was growing old, and this his jealous forsyte spirit could not bear. his eyes, as he filled that black despatch case, looked as if at any moment they might blaze up with anger. so gleams the eye of a schoolboy, baited by a ring of his companions; but he controls himself, deterred by the fearful odds against him. and old jolyon controlled himself, keeping down, with his masterful restraint now slowly wearing out, the irritation fostered in him by the conditions of his life. he had received from his son an unpractical letter, in which by rambling generalities the boy seemed trying to get out of answering a plain question. 'i've seen bosinney,' he said; 'he is not a criminal. the more i see of people the more i am convinced that they are never good or bad--merely comic, or pathetic. you probably don't agree with me!' old jolyon did not; he considered it cynical to so express oneself; he had not yet reached that point of old age when even forsytes, bereft of those illusions and principles which they have cherished carefully for practical purposes but never believed in, bereft of all corporeal enjoyment, stricken to the very heart by having nothing left to hope for--break through the barriers of reserve and say things they would never have believed themselves capable of saying. perhaps he did not believe in 'goodness' and 'badness' any more than his son; but as he would have said: he didn't know--couldn't tell; there might be something in it; and why, by an unnecessary expression of disbelief, deprive yourself of possible advantage? accustomed to spend his holidays among the mountains, though (like a true forsyte) he had never attempted anything too adventurous or too foolhardy, he had been passionately fond of them. and when the wonderful view (mentioned in baedeker--'fatiguing but repaying')--was disclosed to him after the effort of the climb, he had doubtless felt the existence of some great, dignified principle crowning the chaotic strivings, the petty precipices, and ironic little dark chasms of life. this was as near to religion, perhaps, as his practical spirit had ever gone. but it was many years since he had been to the mountains. he had taken june there two seasons running, after his wife died, and had realized bitterly that his walking days were over. to that old mountain--given confidence in a supreme order of things he had long been a stranger. he knew himself to be old, yet he felt young; and this troubled him. it troubled and puzzled him, too, to think that he, who had always been so careful, should be father and grandfather to such as seemed born to disaster. he had nothing to say against jo--who could say anything against the boy, an amiable chap?--but his position was deplorable, and this business of june's nearly as bad. it seemed like a fatality, and a fatality was one of those things no man of his character could either understand or put up with. in writing to his son he did not really hope that anything would come of it. since the ball at roger's he had seen too clearly how the land lay--he could put two and two together quicker than most men--and, with the example of his own son before his eyes, knew better than any forsyte of them all that the pale flame singes men's wings whether they will or no. in the days before june's engagement, when she and mrs. soames were always together, he had seen enough of irene to feel the spell she cast over men. she was not a flirt, not even a coquette--words dear to the heart of his generation, which loved to define things by a good, broad, inadequate word--but she was dangerous. he could not say why. tell him of a quality innate in some women--a seductive power beyond their own control! he would but answer: 'humbug!' she was dangerous, and there was an end of it. he wanted to close his eyes to that affair. if it was, it was; he did not want to hear any more about it--he only wanted to save june's position and her peace of mind. he still hoped she might once more become a comfort to himself. and so he had written. he got little enough out of the answer. as to what young jolyon had made of the interview, there was practically only the queer sentence: 'i gather that he's in the stream.' the stream! what stream? what was this new-fangled way of talking? he sighed, and folded the last of the papers under the flap of the bag; he knew well enough what was meant. june came out of the dining-room, and helped him on with his summer coat. from her costume, and the expression of her little resolute face, he saw at once what was coming. "i'm going with you," she said. "nonsense, my dear; i go straight into the city. i can't have you racketting about!" "i must see old mrs. smeech." "oh, your precious 'lame ducks!" grumbled out old jolyon. he did not believe her excuse, but ceased his opposition. there was no doing anything with that pertinacity of hers. at victoria he put her into the carriage which had been ordered for himself--a characteristic action, for he had no petty selfishnesses. "now, don't you go tiring yourself, my darling," he said, and took a cab on into the city. june went first to a back-street in paddington, where mrs. smeech, her 'lame duck,' lived--an aged person, connected with the charring interest; but after half an hour spent in hearing her habitually lamentable recital, and dragooning her into temporary comfort, she went on to stanhope gate. the great house was closed and dark. she had decided to learn something at all costs. it was better to face the worst, and have it over. and this was her plan: to go first to phil's aunt, mrs. baynes, and, failing information there, to irene herself. she had no clear notion of what she would gain by these visits. at three o'clock she was in lowndes square. with a woman's instinct when trouble is to be faced, she had put on her best frock, and went to the battle with a glance as courageous as old jolyon's itself. her tremors had passed into eagerness. mrs. baynes, bosinney's aunt (louisa was her name), was in her kitchen when june was announced, organizing the cook, for she was an excellent housewife, and, as baynes always said, there was 'a lot in a good dinner.' he did his best work after dinner. it was baynes who built that remarkably fine row of tall crimson houses in kensington which compete with so many others for the title of 'the ugliest in london.' on hearing june's name, she went hurriedly to her bedroom, and, taking two large bracelets from a red morocco case in a locked drawer, put them on her white wrists--for she possessed in a remarkable degree that 'sense of property,' which, as we know, is the touchstone of forsyteism, and the foundation of good morality. her figure, of medium height and broad build, with a tendency to embonpoint, was reflected by the mirror of her whitewood wardrobe, in a gown made under her own organization, of one of those half-tints, reminiscent of the distempered walls of corridors in large hotels. she raised her hands to her hair, which she wore a la princesse de galles, and touched it here and there, settling it more firmly on her head, and her eyes were full of an unconscious realism, as though she were looking in the face one of life's sordid facts, and making the best of it. in youth her cheeks had been of cream and roses, but they were mottled now by middle-age, and again that hard, ugly directness came into her eyes as she dabbed a powder-puff across her forehead. putting the puff down, she stood quite still before the glass, arranging a smile over her high, important nose, her, chin, (never large, and now growing smaller with the increase of her neck), her thin-lipped, down-drooping mouth. quickly, not to lose the effect, she grasped her skirts strongly in both hands, and went downstairs. she had been hoping for this visit for some time past. whispers had reached her that things were not all right between her nephew and his fiancee. neither of them had been near her for weeks. she had asked phil to dinner many times; his invariable answer had been 'too busy.' her instinct was alarmed, and the instinct in such matters of this excellent woman was keen. she ought to have been a forsyte; in young jolyon's sense of the word, she certainly had that privilege, and merits description as such. she had married off her three daughters in a way that people said was beyond their deserts, for they had the professional plainness only to be found, as a rule, among the female kind of the more legal callings. her name was upon the committees of numberless charities connected with the church-dances, theatricals, or bazaars--and she never lent her name unless sure beforehand that everything had been thoroughly organized. she believed, as she often said, in putting things on a commercial basis; the proper function of the church, of charity, indeed, of everything, was to strengthen the fabric of 'society.' individual action, therefore, she considered immoral. organization was the only thing, for by organization alone could you feel sure that you were getting a return for your money. organization--and again, organization! and there is no doubt that she was what old jolyon called her--"a 'dab' at that"--he went further, he called her "a humbug." the enterprises to which she lent her name were organized so admirably that by the time the takings were handed over, they were indeed skim milk divested of all cream of human kindness. but as she often justly remarked, sentiment was to be deprecated. she was, in fact, a little academic. this great and good woman, so highly thought of in ecclesiastical circles, was one of the principal priestesses in the temple of forsyteism, keeping alive day and night a sacred flame to the god of property, whose altar is inscribed with those inspiring words: 'nothing for nothing, and really remarkably little for sixpence.' when she entered a room it was felt that something substantial had come in, which was probably the reason of her popularity as a patroness. people liked something substantial when they had paid money for it; and they would look at her--surrounded by her staff in charity ballrooms, with her high nose and her broad, square figure, attired in an uniform covered with sequins--as though she were a general. the only thing against her was that she had not a double name. she was a power in upper middle-class society, with its hundred sets and circles, all intersecting on the common battlefield of charity functions, and on that battlefield brushing skirts so pleasantly with the skirts of society with the capital 's.' she was a power in society with the smaller 's,' that larger, more significant, and more powerful body, where the commercially christian institutions, maxims, and 'principle,' which mrs. baynes embodied, were real life-blood, circulating freely, real business currency, not merely the sterilized imitation that flowed in the veins of smaller society with the larger 's.' people who knew her felt her to be sound--a sound woman, who never gave herself away, nor anything else, if she could possibly help it. she had been on the worst sort of terms with bosinney's father, who had not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable ridicule. she alluded to him now that he was gone as her 'poor, dear, irreverend brother.' she greeted june with the careful effusion of which she was a mistress, a little afraid of her as far as a woman of her eminence in the commercial and christian world could be afraid--for so slight a girl june had a great dignity, the fearlessness of her eyes gave her that. and mrs. baynes, too, shrewdly recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness of june's manner there was much of the forsyte. if the girl had been merely frank and courageous, mrs. baynes would have thought her 'cranky,' and despised her; if she had been merely a forsyte, like francie--let us say--she would have patronized her from sheer weight of metal; but june, small though she was--mrs. baynes habitually admired quantity--gave her an uneasy feeling; and she placed her in a chair opposite the light. there was another reason for her respect which mrs. baynes, too good a churchwoman to be worldly, would have been the last to admit--she often heard her husband describe old jolyon as extremely well off, and was biassed towards his granddaughter for the soundest of all reasons. to-day she felt the emotion with which we read a novel describing a hero and an inheritance, nervously anxious lest, by some frightful lapse of the novelist, the young man should be left without it at the end. her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how distinguished and desirable a girl this was. she asked after old jolyon's health. a wonderful man for his age; so upright, and young looking, and how old was he? eighty-one! she would never have thought it! they were at the sea! very nice for them; she supposed june heard from phil every day? her light grey eyes became more prominent as she asked this question; but the girl met the glance without flinching. "no," she said, "he never writes!" mrs. baynes's eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, but they did. they recovered immediately. "of course not. that's phil all over--he was always like that!" "was he?" said june. the brevity of the answer caused mrs. baynes's bright smile a moment's hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and spreading her skirts afresh, said: "why, my dear--he's quite the most harum-scarum person; one never pays the slightest attention to what he does!" the conviction came suddenly to june that she was wasting her time; even were she to put a question point-blank, she would never get anything out of this woman. 'do you see him?' she asked, her face crimsoning. the perspiration broke out on mrs. baynes' forehead beneath the powder. "oh, yes! i don't remember when he was here last--indeed, we haven't seen much of him lately. he's so busy with your cousin's house; i'm told it'll be finished directly. we must organize a little dinner to celebrate the event; do come and stay the night with us!" "thank you," said june. again she thought: 'i'm only wasting my time. this woman will tell me nothing.' she got up to go. a change came over mrs. baynes. she rose too; her lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands. something was evidently very wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who stood there, a slim, straight little figure, with her decided face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes. she was not accustomed to be afraid of asking question's--all organization was based on the asking of questions! but the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was fairly shaken; only that morning her husband had said: "old mr. forsyte must be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!" and this girl stood there, holding out her hand--holding out her hand! the chance might be slipping away--she couldn't tell--the chance of keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak. her eyes followed june to the door. it closed. then with an exclamation mrs. baynes ran forward, wobbling her bulky frame from side to side, and opened it again. too late! she heard the front door click, and stood still, an expression of real anger and mortification on her face. june went along the square with her bird-like quickness. she detested that woman now whom in happier days she had been accustomed to think so kind. was she always to be put off thus, and forced to undergo this torturing suspense? she would go to phil himself, and ask him what he meant. she had the right to know. she hurried on down sloane street till she came to bosinney's number. passing the swing-door at the bottom, she ran up the stairs, her heart thumping painfully. at the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding on to the bannisters, stood listening. no sound came from above. with a very white face she mounted the last flight. she saw the door, with his name on the plate. and the resolution that had brought her so far evaporated. the full meaning of her conduct came to her. she felt hot all over; the palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk covering of her gloves. she drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. leaning against the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful courage. no! she refused to go down. did it matter what people thought of her? they would never know! no one would help her if she did not help herself! she would go through with it. forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she rang the bell. the door did not open, and all her shame and fear suddenly abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that closed room, some recompense for the shame and fear that visit had cost her. it did not open; she left off ringing, and, sitting down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in her hands. presently she stole down, out into the air. she felt as though she had passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but to get home as quickly as she could. the people she met seemed to know where she had been, what she had been doing; and suddenly--over on the opposite side, going towards his rooms from the direction of montpellier square--she saw bosinney himself. she made a movement to cross into the traffic. their eyes met, and he raised his hat. an omnibus passed, obscuring her view; then, from the edge of the pavement, through a gap in the traffic, she saw him walking on. and june stood motionless, looking after him. chapter xiii perfection of the house 'one mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.' in the upper room at french's, where a forsyte could still get heavy english food, james and his son were sitting down to lunch. of all eating-places james liked best to come here; there was something unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, and though he had been to a certain extent corrupted by the necessity for being fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping pace with an income that would increase, he still hankered in quiet city moments after the tasty fleshpots of his earlier days. here you were served by hairy english waiters in aprons; there was sawdust on the floor, and three round gilt looking-glasses hung just above the line of sight. they had only recently done away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your chop, prime chump, with a floury-potato, without seeing your neighbours, like a gentleman. he tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of his waistcoat, a practice he had been obliged to abandon years ago in the west end. he felt that he should relish his soup--the entire morning had been given to winding up the estate of an old friend. after filling his mouth with household bread, stale, he at once began: "how are you going down to robin hill? you going to take irene? you'd better take her. i should think there'll be a lot that'll want seeing to." without looking up, soames answered: "she won't go." "won't go? what's the meaning of that? she's going to live in the house, isn't she?" soames made no reply. "i don't know what's coming to women nowadays," mumbled james; "i never used to have any trouble with them. she's had too much liberty. she's spoiled...." soames lifted his eyes: "i won't have anything said against her," he said unexpectedly. the silence was only broken now by the supping of james's soup. the waiter brought the two glasses of port, but soames stopped him. "that's not the way to serve port," he said; "take them away, and bring the bottle." rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, james took one of his rapid shifting surveys of surrounding facts. "your mother's in bed," he said; "you can have the carriage to take you down. i should think irene'd like the drive. this young bosinney'll be there, i suppose, to show you over" soames nodded. "i should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he's made finishing off," pursued james. "i'll just drive round and pick you both up." "i am going down by train," replied soames. "if you like to drive round and see, irene might go with you, i can't tell." he signed to the waiter to bring the bill, which james paid. they parted at st. paul's, soames branching off to the station, james taking his omnibus westwards. he had secured the corner seat next the conductor, where his long legs made it difficult for anyone to get in, and at all who passed him he looked resentfully, as if they had no business to be using up his air. he intended to take an opportunity this afternoon of speaking to irene. a word in time saved nine; and now that she was going to live in the country there was a chance for her to turn over a new leaf! he could see that soames wouldn't stand very much more of her goings on! it did not occur to him to define what he meant by her 'goings on'; the expression was wide, vague, and suited to a forsyte. and james had more than his common share of courage after lunch. on reaching home, he ordered out the barouche, with special instructions that the groom was to go too. he wished to be kind to her, and to give her every chance. when the door of no. was opened he could distinctly hear her singing, and said so at once, to prevent any chance of being denied entrance. yes, mrs. soames was in, but the maid did not know if she was seeing people. james, moving with the rapidity that ever astonished the observers of his long figure and absorbed expression, went forthwith into the drawing-room without permitting this to be ascertained. he found irene seated at the piano with her hands arrested on the keys, evidently listening to the voices in the hall. she greeted him without smiling. "your mother-in-law's in bed," he began, hoping at once to enlist her sympathy. "i've got the carriage here. now, be a good girl, and put on your hat and come with me for a drive. it'll do you good!" irene looked at him as though about to refuse, but, seeming to change her mind, went upstairs, and came down again with her hat on. "where are you going to take me?" she asked. "we'll just go down to robin hill," said james, spluttering out his words very quick; "the horses want exercise, and i should like to see what they've been doing down there." irene hung back, but again changed her mind, and went out to the carriage, james brooding over her closely, to make quite sure. it was not before he had got her more than half way that he began: "soames is very fond of you--he won't have anything said against you; why don't you show him more affection?" irene flushed, and said in a low voice: "i can't show what i haven't got." james looked at her sharply; he felt that now he had her in his own carriage, with his own horses and servants, he was really in command of the situation. she could not put him off; nor would she make a scene in public. "i can't think what you're about," he said. "he's a very good husband!" irene's answer was so low as to be almost inaudible among the sounds of traffic. he caught the words: "you are not married to him!" "what's that got to do with it? he's given you everything you want. he's always ready to take you anywhere, and now he's built you this house in the country. it's not as if you had anything of your own." "no." again james looked at her; he could not make out the expression on her face. she looked almost as if she were going to cry, and yet.... "i'm sure," he muttered hastily, "we've all tried to be kind to you." irene's lips quivered; to his dismay james saw a tear steal down her cheek. he felt a choke rise in his own throat. "we're all fond of you," he said, "if you'd only"--he was going to say, "behave yourself," but changed it to--"if you'd only be more of a wife to him." irene did not answer, and james, too, ceased speaking. there was something in her silence which disconcerted him; it was not the silence of obstinacy, rather that of acquiescence in all that he could find to say. and yet he felt as if he had not had the last word. he could not understand this. he was unable, however, to long keep silence. "i suppose that young bosinney," he said, "will be getting married to june now?" irene's face changed. "i don't know," she said; "you should ask her." "does she write to you?" no. "how's that?" said james. "i thought you and she were such great friends." irene turned on him. "again," she said, "you should ask her!" "well," flustered james, frightened by her look, "it's very odd that i can't get a plain answer to a plain question, but there it is." he sat ruminating over his rebuff, and burst out at last: "well, i've warned you. you won't look ahead. soames he doesn't say much, but i can see he won't stand a great deal more of this sort of thing. you'll have nobody but yourself to blame, and, what's more, you'll get no sympathy from anybody." irene bent her head with a little smiling bow. "i am very much obliged to you." james did not know what on earth to answer. the bright hot morning had changed slowly to a grey, oppressive afternoon; a heavy bank of clouds, with the yellow tinge of coming thunder, had risen in the south, and was creeping up. the branches of the trees dropped motionless across the road without the smallest stir of foliage. a faint odour of glue from the heated horses clung in the thick air; the coachman and groom, rigid and unbending, exchanged stealthy murmurs on the box, without ever turning their heads. to james' great relief they reached the house at last; the silence and impenetrability of this woman by his side, whom he had always thought so soft and mild, alarmed him. the carriage put them down at the door, and they entered. the hall was cool, and so still that it was like passing into a tomb; a shudder ran down james's spine. he quickly lifted the heavy leather curtains between the columns into the inner court. he could not restrain an exclamation of approval. the decoration was really in excellent taste. the dull ruby tiles that extended from the foot of the walls to the verge of a circular clump of tall iris plants, surrounding in turn a sunken basin of white marble filled with water, were obviously of the best quality. he admired extremely the purple leather curtains drawn along one entire side, framing a huge white-tiled stove. the central partitions of the skylight had been slid back, and the warm air from outside penetrated into the very heart of the house. he stood, his hands behind him, his head bent back on his high, narrow shoulders, spying the tracery on the columns and the pattern of the frieze which ran round the ivory-coloured walls under the gallery. evidently, no pains had been spared. it was quite the house of a gentleman. he went up to the curtains, and, having discovered how they were worked, drew them asunder and disclosed the picture-gallery, ending in a great window taking up the whole end of the room. it had a black oak floor, and its walls, again, were of ivory white. he went on throwing open doors, and peeping in. everything was in apple-pie order, ready for immediate occupation. he turned round at last to speak to irene, and saw her standing over in the garden entrance, with her husband and bosinney. though not remarkable for sensibility, james felt at once that something was wrong. he went up to them, and, vaguely alarmed, ignorant of the nature of the trouble, made an attempt to smooth things over. "how are you, mr. bosinney?" he said, holding out his hand. "you've been spending money pretty freely down here, i should say!" soames turned his back, and walked away. james looked from bosinney's frowning face to irene, and, in his agitation, spoke his thoughts aloud: "well, i can't tell what's the matter. nobody tells me anything!" and, making off after his son, he heard bosinney's short laugh, and his "well, thank god! you look so...." most unfortunately he lost the rest. what had happened? he glanced back. irene was very close to the architect, and her face not like the face he knew of her. he hastened up to his son. soames was pacing the picture-gallery. "what's the matter?" said james. "what's all this?" soames looked at him with his supercilious calm unbroken, but james knew well enough that he was violently angry. "our friend," he said, "has exceeded his instructions again, that's all. so much the worse for him this time." he turned round and walked back towards the door. james followed hurriedly, edging himself in front. he saw irene take her finger from before her lips, heard her say something in her ordinary voice, and began to speak before he reached them. "there's a storm coming on. we'd better get home. we can't take you, i suppose, mr. bosinney? no, i suppose not. then, good-bye!" he held out his hand. bosinney did not take it, but, turning with a laugh, said: "good-bye, mr. forsyte. don't get caught in the storm!" and walked away. "well," began james, "i don't know...." but the 'sight of irene's face stopped him. taking hold of his daughter-in-law by the elbow, he escorted her towards the carriage. he felt certain, quite certain, they had been making some appointment or other.... nothing in this world is more sure to upset a forsyte than the discovery that something on which he has stipulated to spend a certain sum has cost more. and this is reasonable, for upon the accuracy of his estimates the whole policy of his life is ordered. if he cannot rely on definite values of property, his compass is amiss; he is adrift upon bitter waters without a helm. after writing to bosinney in the terms that have already been chronicled, soames had dismissed the cost of the house from his mind. he believed that he had made the matter of the final cost so very plain that the possibility of its being again exceeded had really never entered his head. on hearing from bosinney that his limit of twelve thousand pounds would be exceeded by something like four hundred, he had grown white with anger. his original estimate of the cost of the house completed had been ten thousand pounds, and he had often blamed himself severely for allowing himself to be led into repeated excesses. over this last expenditure, however, bosinney had put himself completely in the wrong. how on earth a fellow could make such an ass of himself soames could not conceive; but he had done so, and all the rancour and hidden jealousy that had been burning against him for so long was now focussed in rage at this crowning piece of extravagance. the attitude of the confident and friendly husband was gone. to preserve property--his wife--he had assumed it, to preserve property of another kind he lost it now. "ah!" he had said to bosinney when he could speak, "and i suppose you're perfectly contented with yourself. but i may as well tell you that you've altogether mistaken your man!" what he meant by those words he did not quite know at the time, but after dinner he looked up the correspondence between himself and bosinney to make quite sure. there could be no two opinions about it--the fellow had made himself liable for that extra four hundred, or, at all events, for three hundred and fifty of it, and he would have to make it good. he was looking at his wife's face when he came to this conclusion. seated in her usual seat on the sofa, she was altering the lace on a collar. she had not once spoken to him all the evening. he went up to the mantelpiece, and contemplating his face in the mirror said: "your friend the buccaneer has made a fool of himself; he will have to pay for it!" she looked at him scornfully, and answered: "i don't know what you are talking about!" "you soon will. a mere trifle, quite beneath your contempt--four hundred pounds." "do you mean that you are going to make him pay that towards this hateful, house?" "i do." "and you know he's got nothing?" "yes." "then you are meaner than i thought you." soames turned from the mirror, and unconsciously taking a china cup from the mantelpiece, clasped his hands around it as though praying. he saw her bosom rise and fall, her eyes darkening with anger, and taking no notice of the taunt, he asked quietly: "are you carrying on a flirtation with bosinney?" "no, i am not!" her eyes met his, and he looked away. he neither believed nor disbelieved her, but he knew that he had made a mistake in asking; he never had known, never would know, what she was thinking. the sight of her inscrutable face, the thought of all the hundreds of evenings he had seen her sitting there like that soft and passive, but unreadable, unknown, enraged him beyond measure. "i believe you are made of stone," he said, clenching his fingers so hard that he broke the fragile cup. the pieces fell into the grate. and irene smiled. "you seem to forget," she said, "that cup is not!" soames gripped her arm. "a good beating," he said, "is the only thing that would bring you to your senses," but turning on his heel, he left the room. chapter xiv soames sits on the stairs soames went upstairs that night that he had gone too far. he was prepared to offer excuses for his words. he turned out the gas still burning in the passage outside their room. pausing, with his hand on the knob of the door, he tried to shape his apology, for he had no intention of letting her see that he was nervous. but the door did not open, nor when he pulled it and turned the handle firmly. she must have locked it for some reason, and forgotten. entering his dressing-room where the gas was also light and burning low, he went quickly to the other door. that too was locked. then he noticed that the camp bed which he occasionally used was prepared, and his sleeping-suit laid out upon it. he put his hand up to his forehead, and brought it away wet. it dawned on him that he was barred out. he went back to the door, and rattling the handle stealthily, called: "unlock the door, do you hear? unlock the door!" there was a faint rustling, but no answer. "do you hear? let me in at once--i insist on being let in!" he could catch the sound of her breathing close to the door, like the breathing of a creature threatened by danger. there was something terrifying in this inexorable silence, in the impossibility of getting at her. he went back to the other door, and putting his whole weight against it, tried to burst it open. the door was a new one--he had had them renewed himself, in readiness for their coming in after the honeymoon. in a rage he lifted his foot to kick in the panel; the thought of the servants restrained him, and he felt suddenly that he was beaten. flinging himself down in the dressing-room, he took up a book. but instead of the print he seemed to see his wife--with her yellow hair flowing over her bare shoulders, and her great dark eyes--standing like an animal at bay. and the whole meaning of her act of revolt came to him. she meant it to be for good. he could not sit still, and went to the door again. he could still hear her, and he called: "irene! irene!" he did not mean to make his voice pathetic. in ominous answer, the faint sounds ceased. he stood with clenched hands, thinking. presently he stole round on tiptoe, and running suddenly at the other door, made a supreme effort to break it open. it creaked, but did not yield. he sat down on the stairs and buried his face in his hands. for a long time he sat there in the dark, the moon through the skylight above laying a pale smear which lengthened slowly towards him down the stairway. he tried to be philosophical. since she had locked her doors she had no further claim as a wife, and he would console himself with other women. it was but a spectral journey he made among such delights--he had no appetite for these exploits. he had never had much, and he had lost the habit. he felt that he could never recover it. his hunger could only be appeased by his wife, inexorable and frightened, behind these shut doors. no other woman could help him. this conviction came to him with terrible force out there in the dark. his philosophy left him; and surly anger took its place. her conduct was immoral, inexcusable, worthy of any punishment within his power. he desired no one but her, and she refused him! she must really hate him, then! he had never believed it yet. he did not believe it now. it seemed to him incredible. he felt as though he had lost for ever his power of judgment. if she, so soft and yielding as he had always judged her, could take this decided step--what could not happen? then he asked himself again if she were carrying on an intrigue with bosinney. he did not believe that she was; he could not afford to believe such a reason for her conduct--the thought was not to be faced. it would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his marital relations public property. short of the most convincing proofs he must still refuse to believe, for he did not wish to punish himself. and all the time at heart--he did believe. the moonlight cast a greyish tinge over his figure, hunched against the staircase wall. bosinney was in love with her! he hated the fellow, and would not spare him now. he could and would refuse to pay a penny piece over twelve thousand and fifty pounds--the extreme limit fixed in the correspondence; or rather he would pay, he would pay and sue him for damages. he would go to jobling and boulter and put the matter in their hands. he would ruin the impecunious beggar! and suddenly--though what connection between the thoughts?--he reflected that irene had no money either. they were both beggars. this gave him a strange satisfaction. the silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall. she was going to bed at last. ah! joy and pleasant dreams! if she threw the door open wide he would not go in now! but his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he covered his eyes with his hands.... it was late the following afternoon when soames stood in the dining-room window gazing gloomily into the square. the sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze their gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ at the corner. it was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out of fashion, with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on and on, though nothing indeed but leaves danced to the tune. the woman did not look too gay, for she was tired; and from the tall houses no one threw her down coppers. she moved the organ on, and three doors off began again. it was the waltz they had played at roger's when irene had danced with bosinney; and the perfume of the gardenias she had worn came back to soames, drifted by the malicious music, as it had been drifted to him then, when she passed, her hair glistening, her eyes so soft, drawing bosinney on and on down an endless ballroom. the organ woman plied her handle slowly; she had been grinding her tune all day-grinding it in sloane street hard by, grinding it perhaps to bosinney himself. soames turned, took a cigarette from the carven box, and walked back to the window. the tune had mesmerized him, and there came into his view irene, her sunshade furled, hastening homewards down the square, in a soft, rose-coloured blouse with drooping sleeves, that he did not know. she stopped before the organ, took out her purse, and gave the woman money. soames shrank back and stood where he could see into the hall. she came in with her latch-key, put down her sunshade, and stood looking at herself in the glass. her cheeks were flushed as if the sun had burned them; her lips were parted in a smile. she stretched her arms out as though to embrace herself, with a laugh that for all the world was like a sob. soames stepped forward. "very-pretty!" he said. but as though shot she spun round, and would have passed him up the stairs. he barred the way. "why such a hurry?" he said, and his eyes fastened on a curl of hair fallen loose across her ear.... he hardly recognised her. she seemed on fire, so deep and rich the colour of her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, and of the unusual blouse she wore. she put up her hand and smoothed back the curl. she was breathing fast and deep, as though she had been running, and with every breath perfume seemed to come from her hair, and from her body, like perfume from an opening flower. "i don't like that blouse," he said slowly, "it's a soft, shapeless thing!" he lifted his finger towards her breast, but she dashed his hand aside. "don't touch me!" she cried. he caught her wrist; she wrenched it away. "and where may you have been?" he asked. "in heaven--out of this house!" with those words she fled upstairs. outside--in thanksgiving--at the very door, the organ-grinder was playing the waltz. and soames stood motionless. what prevented him from following her? was it that, with the eyes of faith, he saw bosinney looking down from that high window in sloane street, straining his eyes for yet another glimpse of irene's vanished figure, cooling his flushed face, dreaming of the moment when she flung herself on his breast--the scent of her still in the air around, and the sound of her laugh that was like a sob? part iii chapter i mrs. macander's evidence many people, no doubt, including the editor of the 'ultra vivisectionist,' then in the bloom of its first youth, would say that soames was less than a man not to have removed the locks from his wife's doors, and, after beating her soundly, resumed wedded happiness. brutality is not so deplorably diluted by humaneness as it used to be, yet a sentimental segment of the population may still be relieved to learn that he did none of these things. for active brutality is not popular with forsytes; they are too circumspect, and, on the whole, too softhearted. and in soames there was some common pride, not sufficient to make him do a really generous action, but enough to prevent his indulging in an extremely mean one, except, perhaps, in very hot blood. above all this a true forsyte refused to feel himself ridiculous. short of actually beating his wife, he perceived nothing to be done; he therefore accepted the situation without another word. throughout the summer and autumn he continued to go to the office, to sort his pictures, and ask his friends to dinner. he did not leave town; irene refused to go away. the house at robin hill, finished though it was, remained empty and ownerless. soames had brought a suit against the buccaneer, in which he claimed from him the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds. a firm of solicitors, messrs. freak and able, had put in a defence on bosinney's behalf. admitting the facts, they raised a point on the correspondence which, divested of legal phraseology, amounted to this: to speak of 'a free hand in the terms of this correspondence' is an irish bull. by a chance, fortuitous but not improbable in the close borough of legal circles, a good deal of information came to soames' ear anent this line of policy, the working partner in his firm, bustard, happening to sit next at dinner at walmisley's, the taxing master, to young chankery, of the common law bar. the necessity for talking what is known as 'shop,' which comes on all lawyers with the removal of the ladies, caused chankery, a young and promising advocate, to propound an impersonal conundrum to his neighbour, whose name he did not know, for, seated as he permanently was in the background, bustard had practically no name. he had, said chankery, a case coming on with a 'very nice point.' he then explained, preserving every professional discretion, the riddle in soames' case. everyone, he said, to whom he had spoken, thought it a nice point. the issue was small unfortunately, 'though d----d serious for his client he believed'--walmisley's champagne was bad but plentiful. a judge would make short work of it, he was afraid. he intended to make a big effort--the point was a nice one. what did his neighbour say? bustard, a model of secrecy, said nothing. he related the incident to soames however with some malice, for this quiet man was capable of human feeling, ending with his own opinion that the point was 'a very nice one.' in accordance with his resolve, our forsyte had put his interests into the hands of jobling and boulter. from the moment of doing so he regretted that he had not acted for himself. on receiving a copy of bosinney's defence he went over to their offices. boulter, who had the matter in hand, jobling having died some years before, told him that in his opinion it was rather a nice point; he would like counsel's opinion on it. soames told him to go to a good man, and they went to waterbuck, q.c., marking him ten and one, who kept the papers six weeks and then wrote as follows: 'in my opinion the true interpretation of this correspondence depends very much on the intention of the parties, and will turn upon the evidence given at the trial. i am of opinion that an attempt should be made to secure from the architect an admission that he understood he was not to spend at the outside more than twelve thousand and fifty pounds. with regard to the expression, "a free hand in the terms of this correspondence," to which my attention is directed, the point is a nice one; but i am of opinion that upon the whole the ruling in "boileau v. the blasted cement co., ltd.," will apply.' upon this opinion they acted, administering interrogatories, but to their annoyance messrs. freak and able answered these in so masterly a fashion that nothing whatever was admitted and that without prejudice. it was on october that soames read waterbuck's opinion, in the dining-room before dinner. it made him nervous; not so much because of the case of 'boileau v. the blasted cement co., ltd.,' as that the point had lately begun to seem to him, too, a nice one; there was about it just that pleasant flavour of subtlety so attractive to the best legal appetites. to have his own impression confirmed by waterbuck, q.c., would have disturbed any man. he sat thinking it over, and staring at the empty grate, for though autumn had come, the weather kept as gloriously fine that jubilee year as if it were still high august. it was not pleasant to be disturbed; he desired too passionately to set his foot on bosinney's neck. though he had not seen the architect since the last afternoon at robin hill, he was never free from the sense of his presence--never free from the memory of his worn face with its high cheek bones and enthusiastic eyes. it would not be too much to say that he had never got rid of the feeling of that night when he heard the peacock's cry at dawn--the feeling that bosinney haunted the house. and every man's shape that he saw in the dark evenings walking past, seemed that of him whom george had so appropriately named the buccaneer. irene still met him, he was certain; where, or how, he neither knew, nor asked; deterred by a vague and secret dread of too much knowledge. it all seemed subterranean nowadays. sometimes when he questioned his wife as to where she had been, which he still made a point of doing, as every forsyte should, she looked very strange. her self-possession was wonderful, but there were moments when, behind the mask of her face, inscrutable as it had always been to him, lurked an expression he had never been used to see there. she had taken to lunching out too; when he asked bilson if her mistress had been in to lunch, as often as not she would answer: "no, sir." he strongly disapproved of her gadding about by herself, and told her so. but she took no notice. there was something that angered, amazed, yet almost amused him about the calm way in which she disregarded his wishes. it was really as if she were hugging to herself the thought of a triumph over him. he rose from the perusal of waterbuck, q.c.'s opinion, and, going upstairs, entered her room, for she did not lock her doors till bed-time--she had the decency, he found, to save the feelings of the servants. she was brushing her hair, and turned to him with strange fierceness. "what do you want?" she said. "please leave my room!" he answered: "i want to know how long this state of things between us is to last? i have put up with it long enough." "will you please leave my room?" "will you treat me as your husband?" "no." "then, i shall take steps to make you." "do!" he stared, amazed at the calmness of her answer. her lips were compressed in a thin line; her hair lay in fluffy masses on her bare shoulders, in all its strange golden contrast to her dark eyes--those eyes alive with the emotions of fear, hate, contempt, and odd, haunting triumph. "now, please, will you leave my room?" he turned round, and went sulkily out. he knew very well that he had no intention of taking steps, and he saw that she knew too--knew that he was afraid to. it was a habit with him to tell her the doings of his day: how such and such clients had called; how he had arranged a mortgage for parkes; how that long-standing suit of fryer v. forsyte was getting on, which, arising in the preternaturally careful disposition of his property by his great uncle nicholas, who had tied it up so that no one could get at it at all, seemed likely to remain a source of income for several solicitors till the day of judgment. and how he had called in at jobson's, and seen a boucher sold, which he had just missed buying of talleyrand and sons in pall mall. he had an admiration for boucher, watteau, and all that school. it was a habit with him to tell her all these matters, and he continued to do it even now, talking for long spells at dinner, as though by the volubility of words he could conceal from himself the ache in his heart. often, if they were alone, he made an attempt to kiss her when she said good-night. he may have had some vague notion that some night she would let him; or perhaps only the feeling that a husband ought to kiss his wife. even if she hated him, he at all events ought not to put himself in the wrong by neglecting this ancient rite. and why did she hate him? even now he could not altogether believe it. it was strange to be hated!--the emotion was too extreme; yet he hated bosinney, that buccaneer, that prowling vagabond, that night-wanderer. for in his thoughts soames always saw him lying in wait--wandering. ah, but he must be in very low water! young burkitt, the architect, had seen him coming out of a third-rate restaurant, looking terribly down in the mouth! during all the hours he lay awake, thinking over the situation, which seemed to have no end--unless she should suddenly come to her senses--never once did the thought of separating from his wife seriously enter his head.... and the forsytes! what part did they play in this stage of soames' subterranean tragedy? truth to say, little or none, for they were at the sea. from hotels, hydropathics, or lodging-houses, they were bathing daily; laying in a stock of ozone to last them through the winter. each section, in the vineyard of its own choosing, grew and culled and pressed and bottled the grapes of a pet sea-air. the end of september began to witness their several returns. in rude health and small omnibuses, with considerable colour in their cheeks, they arrived daily from the various termini. the following morning saw them back at their vocations. on the next sunday timothy's was thronged from lunch till dinner. amongst other gossip, too numerous and interesting to relate, mrs. septimus small mentioned that soames and irene had not been away. it remained for a comparative outsider to supply the next evidence of interest. it chanced that one afternoon late in september, mrs. macander, winifred dartie's greatest friend, taking a constitutional, with young augustus flippard, on her bicycle in richmond park, passed irene and bosinney walking from the bracken towards the sheen gate. perhaps the poor little woman was thirsty, for she had ridden long on a hard, dry road, and, as all london knows, to ride a bicycle and talk to young flippard will try the toughest constitution; or perhaps the sight of the cool bracken grove, whence 'those two' were coming down, excited her envy. the cool bracken grove on the top of the hill, with the oak boughs for roof, where the pigeons were raising an endless wedding hymn, and the autumn, humming, whispered to the ears of lovers in the fern, while the deer stole by. the bracken grove of irretrievable delights, of golden minutes in the long marriage of heaven and earth! the bracken grove, sacred to stags, to strange tree-stump fauns leaping around the silver whiteness of a birch-tree nymph at summer dusk. this lady knew all the forsytes, and having been at june's 'at home,' was not at a loss to see with whom she had to deal. her own marriage, poor thing, had not been successful, but having had the good sense and ability to force her husband into pronounced error, she herself had passed through the necessary divorce proceedings without incurring censure. she was therefore a judge of all that sort of thing, and lived in one of those large buildings, where in small sets of apartments, are gathered incredible quantities of forsytes, whose chief recreation out of business hours is the discussion of each other's affairs. poor little woman, perhaps she was thirsty, certainly she was bored, for flippard was a wit. to see 'those two' in so unlikely a spot was quite a merciful 'pick-me-up.' at the macander, like all london, time pauses. this small but remarkable woman merits attention; her all-seeing eye and shrewd tongue were inscrutably the means of furthering the ends of providence. with an air of being in at the death, she had an almost distressing power of taking care of herself. she had done more, perhaps, in her way than any woman about town to destroy the sense of chivalry which still clogs the wheel of civilization. so smart she was, and spoken of endearingly as 'the little macander!' dressing tightly and well, she belonged to a woman's club, but was by no means the neurotic and dismal type of member who was always thinking of her rights. she took her rights unconsciously, they came natural to her, and she knew exactly how to make the most of them without exciting anything but admiration amongst that great class to whom she was affiliated, not precisely perhaps by manner, but by birth, breeding, and the true, the secret gauge, a sense of property. the daughter of a bedfordshire solicitor, by the daughter of a clergyman, she had never, through all the painful experience of being married to a very mild painter with a cranky love of nature, who had deserted her for an actress, lost touch with the requirements, beliefs, and inner feeling of society; and, on attaining her liberty, she placed herself without effort in the very van of forsyteism. always in good spirits, and 'full of information,' she was universally welcomed. she excited neither surprise nor disapprobation when encountered on the rhine or at zermatt, either alone, or travelling with a lady and two gentlemen; it was felt that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself; and the hearts of all forsytes warmed to that wonderful instinct, which enabled her to enjoy everything without giving anything away. it was generally felt that to such women as mrs. macander should we look for the perpetuation and increase of our best type of woman. she had never had any children. if there was one thing more than another that she could not stand it was one of those soft women with what men called 'charm' about them, and for mrs. soames she always had an especial dislike. obscurely, no doubt, she felt that if charm were once admitted as the criterion, smartness and capability must go to the wall; and she hated--with a hatred the deeper that at times this so-called charm seemed to disturb all calculations--the subtle seductiveness which she could not altogether overlook in irene. she said, however, that she could see nothing in the woman--there was no 'go' about her--she would never be able to stand up for herself--anyone could take advantage of her, that was plain--she could not see in fact what men found to admire! she was not really ill-natured, but, in maintaining her position after the trying circumstances of her married life, she had found it so necessary to be 'full of information,' that the idea of holding her tongue about 'those two' in the park never occurred to her. and it so happened that she was dining that very evening at timothy's, where she went sometimes to 'cheer the old things up,' as she was wont to put it. the same people were always asked to meet her: winifred dartie and her husband; francie, because she belonged to the artistic circles, for mrs. macander was known to contribute articles on dress to 'the ladies kingdom come'; and for her to flirt with, provided they could be obtained, two of the hayman boys, who, though they never said anything, were believed to be fast and thoroughly intimate with all that was latest in smart society. at twenty-five minutes past seven she turned out the electric light in her little hall, and wrapped in her opera cloak with the chinchilla collar, came out into the corridor, pausing a moment to make sure she had her latch-key. these little self-contained flats were convenient; to be sure, she had no light and no air, but she could shut it up whenever she liked and go away. there was no bother with servants, and she never felt tied as she used to when poor, dear fred was always about, in his mooney way. she retained no rancour against poor, dear fred, he was such a fool; but the thought of that actress drew from her, even now, a little, bitter, derisive smile. firmly snapping the door to, she crossed the corridor, with its gloomy, yellow-ochre walls, and its infinite vista of brown, numbered doors. the lift was going down; and wrapped to the ears in the high cloak, with every one of her auburn hairs in its place, she waited motionless for it to stop at her floor. the iron gates clanked open; she entered. there were already three occupants, a man in a great white waistcoat, with a large, smooth face like a baby's, and two old ladies in black, with mittened hands. mrs. macander smiled at them; she knew everybody; and all these three, who had been admirably silent before, began to talk at once. this was mrs. macander's successful secret. she provoked conversation. throughout a descent of five stories the conversation continued, the lift boy standing with his back turned, his cynical face protruding through the bars. at the bottom they separated, the man in the white waistcoat sentimentally to the billiard room, the old ladies to dine and say to each other: "a dear little woman!" "such a rattle!" and mrs. macander to her cab. when mrs. macander dined at timothy's, the conversation (although timothy himself could never be induced to be present) took that wider, man-of-the-world tone current among forsytes at large, and this, no doubt, was what put her at a premium there. mrs. small and aunt hester found it an exhilarating change. "if only," they said, "timothy would meet her!" it was felt that she would do him good. she could tell you, for instance, the latest story of sir charles fiste's son at monte carlo; who was the real heroine of tynemouth eddy's fashionable novel that everyone was holding up their hands over, and what they were doing in paris about wearing bloomers. she was so sensible, too, knowing all about that vexed question, whether to send young nicholas' eldest into the navy as his mother wished, or make him an accountant as his father thought would be safer. she strongly deprecated the navy. if you were not exceptionally brilliant or exceptionally well connected, they passed you over so disgracefully, and what was it after all to look forward to, even if you became an admiral--a pittance! an accountant had many more chances, but let him be put with a good firm, where there was no risk at starting! sometimes she would give them a tip on the stock exchange; not that mrs. small or aunt hester ever took it. they had indeed no money to invest; but it seemed to bring them into such exciting touch with the realities of life. it was an event. they would ask timothy, they said. but they never did, knowing in advance that it would upset him. surreptitiously, however, for weeks after they would look in that paper, which they took with respect on account of its really fashionable proclivities, to see whether 'bright's rubies' or 'the woollen mackintosh company' were up or down. sometimes they could not find the name of the company at all; and they would wait until james or roger or even swithin came in, and ask them in voices trembling with curiosity how that 'bolivia lime and speltrate' was doing--they could not find it in the paper. and roger would answer: "what do you want to know for? some trash! you'll go burning your fingers--investing your money in lime, and things you know nothing about! who told you?" and ascertaining what they had been told, he would go away, and, making inquiries in the city, would perhaps invest some of his own money in the concern. it was about the middle of dinner, just in fact as the saddle of mutton had been brought in by smither, that mrs. macander, looking airily round, said: "oh! and whom do you think i passed to-day in richmond park? you'll never guess--mrs. soames and--mr. bosinney. they must have been down to look at the house!" winifred dartie coughed, and no one said a word. it was the piece of evidence they had all unconsciously been waiting for. to do mrs. macander justice, she had been to switzerland and the italian lakes with a party of three, and had not heard of soames' rupture with his architect. she could not tell, therefore, the profound impression her words would make. upright and a little flushed, she moved her small, shrewd eyes from face to face, trying to gauge the effect of her words. on either side of her a hayman boy, his lean, taciturn, hungry face turned towards his plate, ate his mutton steadily. these two, giles and jesse, were so alike and so inseparable that they were known as the dromios. they never talked, and seemed always completely occupied in doing nothing. it was popularly supposed that they were cramming for an important examination. they walked without hats for long hours in the gardens attached to their house, books in their hands, a fox-terrier at their heels, never saying a word, and smoking all the time. every morning, about fifty yards apart, they trotted down campden hill on two lean hacks, with legs as long as their own, and every morning about an hour later, still fifty yards apart, they cantered up again. every evening, wherever they had dined, they might be observed about half-past ten, leaning over the balustrade of the alhambra promenade. they were never seen otherwise than together; in this way passing their lives, apparently perfectly content. inspired by some dumb stirring within them of the feelings of gentlemen, they turned at this painful moment to mrs. macander, and said in precisely the same voice: "have you seen the...?" such was her surprise at being thus addressed that she put down her fork; and smither, who was passing, promptly removed her plate. mrs. macander, however, with presence of mind, said instantly: "i must have a little more of that nice mutton." but afterwards in the drawing--room she sat down by mrs. small, determined to get to the bottom of the matter. and she began: "what a charming woman, mrs. soames; such a sympathetic temperament! soames is a really lucky man!" her anxiety for information had not made sufficient allowance for that inner forsyte skin which refuses to share its troubles with outsiders. mrs. septimus small, drawing herself up with a creak and rustle of her whole person, said, shivering in her dignity: "my dear, it is a subject we do not talk about!" chapter ii night in the park although with her infallible instinct mrs. small had said the very thing to make her guest 'more intriguee than ever,' it is difficult to see how else she could truthfully have spoken. it was not a subject which the forsytes could talk about even among themselves--to use the word soames had invented to characterize to himself the situation, it was 'subterranean.' yet, within a week of mrs. macander's encounter in richmond park, to all of them--save timothy, from whom it was carefully kept--to james on his domestic beat from the poultry to park lane, to george the wild one, on his daily adventure from the bow window at the haversnake to the billiard room at the 'red pottle,' was it known that 'those two' had gone to extremes. george (it was he who invented many of those striking expressions still current in fashionable circles) voiced the sentiment more accurately than any one when he said to his brother eustace that 'the buccaneer' was 'going it'; he expected soames was about 'fed up.' it was felt that he must be, and yet, what could be done? he ought perhaps to take steps; but to take steps would be deplorable. without an open scandal which they could not see their way to recommending, it was difficult to see what steps could be taken. in this impasse, the only thing was to say nothing to soames, and nothing to each other; in fact, to pass it over. by displaying towards irene a dignified coldness, some impression might be made upon her; but she was seldom now to be seen, and there seemed a slight difficulty in seeking her out on purpose to show her coldness. sometimes in the privacy of his bedroom james would reveal to emily the real suffering that his son's misfortune caused him. "i can't tell," he would say; "it worries me out of my life. there'll be a scandal, and that'll do him no good. i shan't say anything to him. there might be nothing in it. what do you think? she's very artistic, they tell me. what? oh, you're a 'regular juley! well, i don't know; i expect the worst. this is what comes of having no children. i knew how it would be from the first. they never told me they didn't mean to have any children--nobody tells me anything!" on his knees by the side of the bed, his eyes open and fixed with worry, he would breathe into the counterpane. clad in his nightshirt, his neck poked forward, his back rounded, he resembled some long white bird. "our father-," he repeated, turning over and over again the thought of this possible scandal. like old jolyon, he, too, at the bottom of his heart set the blame of the tragedy down to family interference. what business had that lot--he began to think of the stanhope gate branch, including young jolyon and his daughter, as 'that lot'--to introduce a person like this bosinney into the family? (he had heard george's soubriquet, 'the buccaneer,' but he could make nothing of that--the young man was an architect.) he began to feel that his brother jolyon, to whom he had always looked up and on whose opinion he had relied, was not quite what he had expected. not having his eldest brother's force of character, he was more sad than angry. his great comfort was to go to winifred's, and take the little darties in his carriage over to kensington gardens, and there, by the round pond, he could often be seen walking with his eyes fixed anxiously on little publius dartie's sailing-boat, which he had himself freighted with a penny, as though convinced that it would never again come to shore; while little publius--who, james delighted to say, was not a bit like his father skipping along under his lee, would try to get him to bet another that it never would, having found that it always did. and james would make the bet; he always paid--sometimes as many as three or four pennies in the afternoon, for the game seemed never to pall on little publius--and always in paying he said: "now, that's for your money-box. why, you're getting quite a rich man!" the thought of his little grandson's growing wealth was a real pleasure to him. but little publius knew a sweet-shop, and a trick worth two of that. and they would walk home across the park, james' figure, with high shoulders and absorbed and worried face, exercising its tall, lean protectorship, pathetically unregarded, over the robust child-figures of imogen and little publius. but those gardens and that park were not sacred to james. forsytes and tramps, children and lovers, rested and wandered day after day, night after night, seeking one and all some freedom from labour, from the reek and turmoil of the streets. the leaves browned slowly, lingering with the sun and summer-like warmth of the nights. on saturday, october , the sky that had been blue all day deepened after sunset to the bloom of purple grapes. there was no moon, and a clear dark, like some velvety garment, was wrapped around the trees, whose thinned branches, resembling plumes, stirred not in the still, warm air. all london had poured into the park, draining the cup of summer to its dregs. couple after couple, from every gate, they streamed along the paths and over the burnt grass, and one after another, silently out of the lighted spaces, stole into the shelter of the feathery trees, where, blotted against some trunk, or under the shadow of shrubs, they were lost to all but themselves in the heart of the soft darkness. to fresh-comers along the paths, these forerunners formed but part of that passionate dusk, whence only a strange murmur, like the confused beating of hearts, came forth. but when that murmur reached each couple in the lamp-light their voices wavered, and ceased; their arms enlaced, their eyes began seeking, searching, probing the blackness. suddenly, as though drawn by invisible hands, they, too, stepped over the railing, and, silent as shadows, were gone from the light. the stillness, enclosed in the far, inexorable roar of the town, was alive with the myriad passions, hopes, and loves of multitudes of struggling human atoms; for in spite of the disapproval of that great body of forsytes, the municipal council--to whom love had long been considered, next to the sewage question, the gravest danger to the community--a process was going on that night in the park, and in a hundred other parks, without which the thousand factories, churches, shops, taxes, and drains, of which they were custodians, were as arteries without blood, a man without a heart. the instincts of self-forgetfulness, of passion, and of love, hiding under the trees, away from the trustees of their remorseless enemy, the 'sense of property,' were holding a stealthy revel, and soames, returning from bayswater for he had been alone to dine at timothy's walking home along the water, with his mind upon that coming lawsuit, had the blood driven from his heart by a low laugh and the sound of kisses. he thought of writing to the times the next morning, to draw the attention of the editor to the condition of our parks. he did not, however, for he had a horror of seeing his name in print. but starved as he was, the whispered sounds in the stillness, the half-seen forms in the dark, acted on him like some morbid stimulant. he left the path along the water and stole under the trees, along the deep shadow of little plantations, where the boughs of chestnut trees hung their great leaves low, and there was blacker refuge, shaping his course in circles which had for their object a stealthy inspection of chairs side by side, against tree-trunks, of enlaced lovers, who stirred at his approach. now he stood still on the rise overlooking the serpentine, where, in full lamp-light, black against the silver water, sat a couple who never moved, the woman's face buried on the man's neck--a single form, like a carved emblem of passion, silent and unashamed. and, stung by the sight, soames hurried on deeper into the shadow of the trees. in this search, who knows what he thought and what he sought? bread for hunger--light in darkness? who knows what he expected to find--impersonal knowledge of the human heart--the end of his private subterranean tragedy--for, again, who knew, but that each dark couple, unnamed, unnameable, might not be he and she? but it could not be such knowledge as this that he was seeking--the wife of soames forsyte sitting in the park like a common wench! such thoughts were inconceivable; and from tree to tree, with his noiseless step, he passed. once he was sworn at; once the whisper, "if only it could always be like this!" sent the blood flying again from his heart, and he waited there, patient and dogged, for the two to move. but it was only a poor thin slip of a shop-girl in her draggled blouse who passed him, clinging to her lover's arm. a hundred other lovers too whispered that hope in the stillness of the trees, a hundred other lovers clung to each other. but shaking himself with sudden disgust, soames returned to the path, and left that seeking for he knew not what. chapter iii meeting at the botanical young jolyon, whose circumstances were not those of a forsyte, found at times a difficulty in sparing the money needful for those country jaunts and researches into nature, without having prosecuted which no watercolour artist ever puts brush to paper. he was frequently, in fact, obliged to take his colour-box into the botanical gardens, and there, on his stool, in the shade of a monkey-puzzler or in the lee of some india-rubber plant, he would spend long hours sketching. an art critic who had recently been looking at his work had delivered himself as follows: "in a way your drawings are very good; tone and colour, in some of them certainly quite a feeling for nature. but, you see, they're so scattered; you'll never get the public to look at them. now, if you'd taken a definite subject, such as 'london by night,' or 'the crystal palace in the spring,' and made a regular series, the public would have known at once what they were looking at. i can't lay too much stress upon that. all the men who are making great names in art, like crum stone or bleeder, are making them by avoiding the unexpected; by specializing and putting their works all in the same pigeon-hole, so that the public know pat once where to go. and this stands to reason, for if a man's a collector he doesn't want people to smell at the canvas to find out whom his pictures are by; he wants them to be able to say at once, 'a capital forsyte!' it is all the more important for you to be careful to choose a subject that they can lay hold of on the spot, since there's no very marked originality in your style." young jolyon, standing by the little piano, where a bowl of dried rose leaves, the only produce of the garden, was deposited on a bit of faded damask, listened with his dim smile. turning to his wife, who was looking at the speaker with an angry expression on her thin face, he said: "you see, dear?" "i do not," she answered in her staccato voice, that still had a little foreign accent; "your style has originality." the critic looked at her, smiled' deferentially, and said no more. like everyone else, he knew their history. the words bore good fruit with young jolyon; they were contrary to all that he believed in, to all that he theoretically held good in his art, but some strange, deep instinct moved him against his will to turn them to profit. he discovered therefore one morning that an idea had come to him for making a series of watercolour drawings of london. how the idea had arisen he could not tell; and it was not till the following year, when he had completed and sold them at a very fair price, that in one of his impersonal moods, he found himself able to recollect the art critic, and to discover in his own achievement another proof that he was a forsyte. he decided to commence with the botanical gardens, where he had already made so many studies, and chose the little artificial pond, sprinkled now with an autumn shower of red and yellow leaves, for though the gardeners longed to sweep them off, they could not reach them with their brooms. the rest of the gardens they swept bare enough, removing every morning nature's rain of leaves; piling them in heaps, whence from slow fires rose the sweet, acrid smoke that, like the cuckoo's note for spring, the scent of lime trees for the summer, is the true emblem of the fall. the gardeners' tidy souls could not abide the gold and green and russet pattern on the grass. the gravel paths must lie unstained, ordered, methodical, without knowledge of the realities of life, nor of that slow and beautiful decay which flings crowns underfoot to star the earth with fallen glories, whence, as the cycle rolls, will leap again wild spring. thus each leaf that fell was marked from the moment when it fluttered a good-bye and dropped, slow turning, from its twig. but on that little pond the leaves floated in peace, and praised heaven with their hues, the sunlight haunting over them. and so young jolyon found them. coming there one morning in the middle of october, he was disconcerted to find a bench about twenty paces from his stand occupied, for he had a proper horror of anyone seeing him at work. a lady in a velvet jacket was sitting there, with her eyes fixed on the ground. a flowering laurel, however, stood between, and, taking shelter behind this, young jolyon prepared his easel. his preparations were leisurely; he caught, as every true artist should, at anything that might delay for a moment the effort of his work, and he found himself looking furtively at this unknown dame. like his father before him, he had an eye for a face. this face was charming! he saw a rounded chin nestling in a cream ruffle, a delicate face with large dark eyes and soft lips. a black 'picture' hat concealed the hair; her figure was lightly poised against the back of the bench, her knees were crossed; the tip of a patent-leather shoe emerged beneath her skirt. there was something, indeed, inexpressibly dainty about the person of this lady, but young jolyon's attention was chiefly riveted by the look on her face, which reminded him of his wife. it was as though its owner had come into contact with forces too strong for her. it troubled him, arousing vague feelings of attraction and chivalry. who was she? and what doing there, alone? two young gentlemen of that peculiar breed, at once forward and shy, found in the regent's park, came by on their way to lawn tennis, and he noted with disapproval their furtive stares of admiration. a loitering gardener halted to do something unnecessary to a clump of pampas grass; he, too, wanted an excuse for peeping. a gentleman, old, and, by his hat, a professor of horticulture, passed three times to scrutinize her long and stealthily, a queer expression about his lips. with all these men young jolyon felt the same vague irritation. she looked at none of them, yet was he certain that every man who passed would look at her like that. her face was not the face of a sorceress, who in every look holds out to men the offer of pleasure; it had none of the 'devil's beauty' so highly prized among the first forsytes of the land; neither was it of that type, no less adorable, associated with the box of chocolate; it was not of the spiritually passionate, or passionately spiritual order, peculiar to house-decoration and modern poetry; nor did it seem to promise to the playwright material for the production of the interesting and neurasthenic figure, who commits suicide in the last act. in shape and colouring, in its soft persuasive passivity, its sensuous purity, this woman's face reminded him of titian's 'heavenly love,' a reproduction of which hung over the sideboard in his dining-room. and her attraction seemed to be in this soft passivity, in the feeling she gave that to pressure she must yield. for what or whom was she waiting, in the silence, with the trees dropping here and there a leaf, and the thrushes strutting close on grass, touched with the sparkle of the autumn rime? then her charming face grew eager, and, glancing round, with almost a lover's jealousy, young jolyon saw bosinney striding across the grass. curiously he watched the meeting, the look in their eyes, the long clasp of their hands. they sat down close together, linked for all their outward discretion. he heard the rapid murmur of their talk; but what they said he could not catch. he had rowed in the galley himself! he knew the long hours of waiting and the lean minutes of a half-public meeting; the tortures of suspense that haunt the unhallowed lover. it required, however, but a glance at their two faces to see that this was none of those affairs of a season that distract men and women about town; none of those sudden appetites that wake up ravening, and are surfeited and asleep again in six weeks. this was the real thing! this was what had happened to himself! out of this anything might come! bosinney was pleading, and she so quiet, so soft, yet immovable in her passivity, sat looking over the grass. was he the man to carry her off, that tender, passive being, who would never stir a step for herself? who had given him all herself, and would die for him, but perhaps would never run away with him! it seemed to young jolyon that he could hear her saying: "but, darling, it would ruin you!" for he himself had experienced to the full the gnawing fear at the bottom of each woman's heart that she is a drag on the man she loves. and he peeped at them no more; but their soft, rapid talk came to his ears, with the stuttering song of some bird who seemed trying to remember the notes of spring: joy--tragedy? which--which? and gradually their talk ceased; long silence followed. 'and where does soames come in?' young jolyon thought. 'people think she is concerned about the sin of deceiving her husband! little they know of women! she's eating, after starvation--taking her revenge! and heaven help her--for he'll take his.' he heard the swish of silk, and, spying round the laurel, saw them walking away, their hands stealthily joined.... at the end of july old jolyon had taken his grand-daughter to the mountains; and on that visit (the last they ever paid) june recovered to a great extent her health and spirits. in the hotels, filled with british forsytes--for old jolyon could not bear a 'set of germans,' as he called all foreigners--she was looked upon with respect--the only grand-daughter of that fine-looking, and evidently wealthy, old mr. forsyte. she did not mix freely with people--to mix freely with people was not june's habit--but she formed some friendships, and notably one in the rhone valley, with a french girl who was dying of consumption. determining at once that her friend should not die, she forgot, in the institution of a campaign against death, much of her own trouble. old jolyon watched the new intimacy with relief and disapproval; for this additional proof that her life was to be passed amongst 'lame ducks' worried him. would she never make a friendship or take an interest in something that would be of real benefit to her? 'taking up with a parcel of foreigners,' he called it. he often, however, brought home grapes or roses, and presented them to 'mam'zelle' with an ingratiating twinkle. towards the end of september, in spite of june's disapproval, mademoiselle vigor breathed her last in the little hotel at st. luc, to which they had moved her; and june took her defeat so deeply to heart that old jolyon carried her away to paris. here, in contemplation of the 'venus de milo' and the 'madeleine,' she shook off her depression, and when, towards the middle of october, they returned to town, her grandfather believed that he had effected a cure. no sooner, however, had they established themselves in stanhope gate than he perceived to his dismay a return of her old absorbed and brooding manner. she would sit, staring in front of her, her chin on her hand, like a little norse spirit, grim and intent, while all around in the electric light, then just installed, shone the great, drawing-room brocaded up to the frieze, full of furniture from baple and pullbred's. and in the huge gilt mirror were reflected those dresden china groups of young men in tight knee breeches, at the feet of full-bosomed ladies nursing on their laps pet lambs, which old jolyon had bought when he was a bachelor and thought so highly of in these days of degenerate taste. he was a man of most open mind, who, more than any forsyte of them all, had moved with the times, but he could never forget that he had bought these groups at jobson's, and given a lot of money for them. he often said to june, with a sort of disillusioned contempt: "you don't care about them! they're not the gimcrack things you and your friends like, but they cost me seventy pounds!" he was not a man who allowed his taste to be warped when he knew for solid reasons that it was sound. one of the first things that june did on getting home was to go round to timothy's. she persuaded herself that it was her duty to call there, and cheer him with an account of all her travels; but in reality she went because she knew of no other place where, by some random speech, or roundabout question, she could glean news of bosinney. they received her most cordially: and how was her dear grandfather? he had not been to see them since may. her uncle timothy was very poorly, he had had a lot of trouble with the chimney-sweep in his bedroom; the stupid man had let the soot down the chimney! it had quite upset her uncle. june sat there a long time, dreading, yet passionately hoping, that they would speak of bosinney. but paralyzed by unaccountable discretion, mrs. septimus small let fall no word, neither did she question june about him. in desperation the girl asked at last whether soames and irene were in town--she had not yet been to see anyone. it was aunt hester who replied: oh, yes, they were in town, they had not been away at all. there was some little difficulty about the house, she believed. june had heard, no doubt! she had better ask her aunt juley! june turned to mrs. small, who sat upright in her chair, her hands clasped, her face covered with innumerable pouts. in answer to the girl's look she maintained a strange silence, and when she spoke it was to ask june whether she had worn night-socks up in those high hotels where it must be so cold of a night. june answered that she had not, she hated the stuffy things; and rose to leave. mrs. small's infallibly chosen silence was far more ominous to her than anything that could have been said. before half an hour was over she had dragged the truth from mrs. baynes in lowndes square, that soames was bringing an action against bosinney over the decoration of the house. instead of disturbing her, the news had a strangely calming effect; as though she saw in the prospect of this struggle new hope for herself. she learnt that the case was expected to come on in about a month, and there seemed little or no prospect of bosinney's success. "and whatever he'll do i can't think," said mrs. baynes; "it's very dreadful for him, you know--he's got no money--he's very hard up. and we can't help him, i'm sure. i'm told the money-lenders won't lend if you have no security, and he has none--none at all." her embonpoint had increased of late; she was in the full swing of autumn organization, her writing-table literally strewn with the menus of charity functions. she looked meaningly at june, with her round eyes of parrot-grey. the sudden flush that rose on the girl's intent young face--she must have seen spring up before her a great hope--the sudden sweetness of her smile, often came back to lady baynes in after years (baynes was knighted when he built that public museum of art which has given so much employment to officials, and so little pleasure to those working classes for whom it was designed). the memory of that change, vivid and touching, like the breaking open of a flower, or the first sun after long winter, the memory, too, of all that came after, often intruded itself, unaccountably, inopportunely on lady baynes, when her mind was set upon the most important things. this was the very afternoon of the day that young jolyon witnessed the meeting in the botanical gardens, and on this day, too, old jolyon paid a visit to his solicitors, forsyte, bustard, and forsyte, in the poultry. soames was not in, he had gone down to somerset house; bustard was buried up to the hilt in papers and that inaccessible apartment, where he was judiciously placed, in order that he might do as much work as possible; but james was in the front office, biting a finger, and lugubriously turning over the pleadings in forsyte v. bosinney. this sound lawyer had only a sort of luxurious dread of the 'nice point,' enough to set up a pleasurable feeling of fuss; for his good practical sense told him that if he himself were on the bench he would not pay much attention to it. but he was afraid that this bosinney would go bankrupt and soames would have to find the money after all, and costs into the bargain. and behind this tangible dread there was always that intangible trouble, lurking in the background, intricate, dim, scandalous, like a bad dream, and of which this action was but an outward and visible sign. he raised his head as old jolyon came in, and muttered: "how are you, jolyon? haven't seen you for an age. you've been to switzerland, they tell me. this young bosinney, he's got himself into a mess. i knew how it would be!" he held out the papers, regarding his elder brother with nervous gloom. old jolyon read them in silence, and while he read them james looked at the floor, biting his fingers the while. old jolyon pitched them down at last, and they fell with a thump amongst a mass of affidavits in 're buncombe, deceased,' one of the many branches of that parent and profitable tree, 'fryer v. forsyte.' "i don't know what soames is about," he said, "to make a fuss over a few hundred pounds. i thought he was a man of property." james' long upper lip twitched angrily; he could not bear his son to be attacked in such a spot. "it's not the money," he began, but meeting his brother's glance, direct, shrewd, judicial, he stopped. there was a silence. "i've come in for my will," said old jolyon at last, tugging at his moustache. james' curiosity was roused at once. perhaps nothing in this life was more stimulating to him than a will; it was the supreme deal with property, the final inventory of a man's belongings, the last word on what he was worth. he sounded the bell. "bring in mr. jolyon's will," he said to an anxious, dark-haired clerk. "you going to make some alterations?" and through his mind there flashed the thought: 'now, am i worth as much as he?' old jolyon put the will in his breast pocket, and james twisted his long legs regretfully. "you've made some nice purchases lately, they tell me," he said. "i don't know where you get your information from," answered old jolyon sharply. "when's this action coming on? next month? i can't tell what you've got in your minds. you must manage your own affairs; but if you take my advice, you'll settle it out of court. good-bye!" with a cold handshake he was gone. james, his fixed grey-blue eye corkscrewing round some secret anxious image, began again to bite his finger. old jolyon took his will to the offices of the new colliery company, and sat down in the empty board room to read it through. he answered 'down-by-the-starn' hemmings so tartly when the latter, seeing his chairman seated there, entered with the new superintendent's first report, that the secretary withdrew with regretful dignity; and sending for the transfer clerk, blew him up till the poor youth knew not where to look. it was not--by george--as he (down-by-the-starn) would have him know, for a whippersnapper of a young fellow like him, to come down to that office, and think that he was god almighty. he (down-by-the-starn) had been head of that office for more years than a boy like him could count, and if he thought that when he had finished all his work, he could sit there doing nothing, he did not know him, hemmings (down-by-the-starn), and so forth. on the other side of the green baize door old jolyon sat at the long, mahogany-and-leather board table, his thick, loose-jointed, tortoiseshell eye-glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his gold pencil moving down the clauses of his will. it was a simple affair, for there were none of those vexatious little legacies and donations to charities, which fritter away a man's possessions, and damage the majestic effect of that little paragraph in the morning papers accorded to forsytes who die with a hundred thousand pounds. a simple affair. just a bequest to his son of twenty thousand, and 'as to the residue of my property of whatsoever kind whether realty or personalty, or partaking of the nature of either--upon trust to pay the proceeds rents annual produce dividends or interest thereof and thereon to my said grand-daughter june forsyte or her assigns during her life to be for her sole use and benefit and without, etc... and from and after her death or decease upon trust to convey assign transfer or make over the said last-mentioned lands hereditaments premises trust moneys stocks funds investments and securities or such as shall then stand for and represent the same unto such person or persons whether one or more for such intents purposes and uses and generally in such manner way and form in all respects as the said june forsyte notwithstanding coverture shall by her last will and testament or any writing or writings in the nature of a will testament or testamentary disposition to be by her duly made signed and published direct appoint or make over give and dispose of the same and in default etc.... provided always...' and so on, in seven folios of brief and simple phraseology. the will had been drawn by james in his palmy days. he had foreseen almost every contingency. old jolyon sat a long time reading this will; at last he took half a sheet of paper from the rack, and made a prolonged pencil note; then buttoning up the will, he caused a cab to be called and drove to the offices of paramor and herring, in lincoln's inn fields. jack herring was dead, but his nephew was still in the firm, and old jolyon was closeted with him for half an hour. he had kept the hansom, and on coming out, gave the driver the address-- , wistaria avenue. he felt a strange, slow satisfaction, as though he had scored a victory over james and the man of property. they should not poke their noses into his affairs any more; he had just cancelled their trusteeships of his will; he would take the whole of his business out of their hands, and put it into the hands of young herring, and he would move the business of his companies too. if that young soames were such a man of property, he would never miss a thousand a year or so; and under his great white moustache old jolyon grimly smiled. he felt that what he was doing was in the nature of retributive justice, richly deserved. slowly, surely, with the secret inner process that works the destruction of an old tree, the poison of the wounds to his happiness, his will, his pride, had corroded the comely edifice of his philosophy. life had worn him down on one side, till, like that family of which he was the head, he had lost balance. to him, borne northwards towards his son's house, the thought of the new disposition of property, which he had just set in motion, appeared vaguely in the light of a stroke of punishment, levelled at that family and that society, of which james and his son seemed to him the representatives. he had made a restitution to young jolyon, and restitution to young jolyon satisfied his secret craving for revenge-revenge against time, sorrow, and interference, against all that incalculable sum of disapproval that had been bestowed by the world for fifteen years on his only son. it presented itself as the one possible way of asserting once more the domination of his will; of forcing james, and soames, and the family, and all those hidden masses of forsytes--a great stream rolling against the single dam of his obstinacy--to recognise once and for all that he would be master. it was sweet to think that at last he was going to make the boy a richer man by far than that son of james, that 'man of property.' and it was sweet to give to jo, for he loved his son. neither young jolyon nor his wife were in (young jolyon indeed was not back from the botanical), but the little maid told him that she expected the master at any moment: "he's always at 'ome to tea, sir, to play with the children." old jolyon said he would wait; and sat down patiently enough in the faded, shabby drawing room, where, now that the summer chintzes were removed, the old chairs and sofas revealed all their threadbare deficiencies. he longed to send for the children; to have them there beside him, their supple bodies against his knees; to hear jolly's: "hallo, gran!" and see his rush; and feel holly's soft little hand stealing up against his cheek. but he would not. there was solemnity in what he had come to do, and until it was over he would not play. he amused himself by thinking how with two strokes of his pen he was going to restore the look of caste so conspicuously absent from everything in that little house; how he could fill these rooms, or others in some larger mansion, with triumphs of art from baple and pullbred's; how he could send little jolly to harrow and oxford (he no longer had faith in eton and cambridge, for his son had been there); how he could procure little holly the best musical instruction, the child had a remarkable aptitude. as these visions crowded before him, causing emotion to swell his heart, he rose, and stood at the window, looking down into the little walled strip of garden, where the pear-tree, bare of leaves before its time, stood with gaunt branches in the slow-gathering mist of the autumn afternoon. the dog balthasar, his tail curled tightly over a piebald, furry back, was walking at the farther end, sniffing at the plants, and at intervals placing his leg for support against the wall. and old jolyon mused. what pleasure was there left but to give? it was pleasant to give, when you could find one who would be thankful for what you gave--one of your own flesh and blood! there was no such satisfaction to be had out of giving to those who did not belong to you, to those who had no claim on you! such giving as that was a betrayal of the individualistic convictions and actions of his life, of all his enterprise, his labour, and his moderation, of the great and proud fact that, like tens of thousands of forsytes before him, tens of thousands in the present, tens of thousands in the future, he had always made his own, and held his own, in the world. and, while he stood there looking down on the smut-covered foliage of the laurels, the black-stained grass-plot, the progress of the dog balthasar, all the suffering of the fifteen years during which he had been baulked of legitimate enjoyment mingled its gall with the sweetness of the approaching moment. young jolyon came at last, pleased with his work, and fresh from long hours in the open air. on hearing that his father was in the drawing room, he inquired hurriedly whether mrs. forsyte was at home, and being informed that she was not, heaved a sigh of relief. then putting his painting materials carefully in the little coat-closet out of sight, he went in. with characteristic decision old jolyon came at once to the point. "i've been altering my arrangements, jo," he said. "you can cut your coat a bit longer in the future--i'm settling a thousand a year on you at once. june will have fifty thousand at my death; and you the rest. that dog of yours is spoiling the garden. i shouldn't keep a dog, if i were you!" the dog balthasar, seated in the centre of the lawn, was examining his tail. young jolyon looked at the animal, but saw him dimly, for his eyes were misty. "yours won't come short of a hundred thousand, my boy," said old jolyon; "i thought you'd better know. i haven't much longer to live at my age. i shan't allude to it again. how's your wife? and--give her my love." young jolyon put his hand on his father's shoulder, and, as neither spoke, the episode closed. having seen his father into a hansom, young jolyon came back to the drawing-room and stood, where old jolyon had stood, looking down on the little garden. he tried to realize all that this meant to him, and, forsyte that he was, vistas of property were opened out in his brain; the years of half rations through which he had passed had not sapped his natural instincts. in extremely practical form, he thought of travel, of his wife's costume, the children's education, a pony for jolly, a thousand things; but in the midst of all he thought, too, of bosinney and his mistress, and the broken song of the thrush. joy--tragedy! which? which? the old past--the poignant, suffering, passionate, wonderful past, that no money could buy, that nothing could restore in all its burning sweetness--had come back before him. when his wife came in he went straight up to her and took her in his arms; and for a long time he stood without speaking, his eyes closed, pressing her to him, while she looked at him with a wondering, adoring, doubting look in her eyes. chapter iv voyage into the inferno the morning after a certain night on which soames at last asserted his rights and acted like a man, he breakfasted alone. he breakfasted by gaslight, the fog of late november wrapping the town as in some monstrous blanket till the trees of the square even were barely visible from the dining-room window. he ate steadily, but at times a sensation as though he could not swallow attacked him. had he been right to yield to his overmastering hunger of the night before, and break down the resistance which he had suffered now too long from this woman who was his lawful and solemnly constituted helpmate? he was strangely haunted by the recollection of her face, from before which, to soothe her, he had tried to pull her hands--of her terrible smothered sobbing, the like of which he had never heard, and still seemed to hear; and he was still haunted by the odd, intolerable feeling of remorse and shame he had felt, as he stood looking at her by the flame of the single candle, before silently slinking away. and somehow, now that he had acted like this, he was surprised at himself. two nights before, at winifred dartie's, he had taken mrs. macander into dinner. she had said to him, looking in his face with her sharp, greenish eyes: "and so your wife is a great friend of that mr. bosinney's?" not deigning to ask what she meant, he had brooded over her words. they had roused in him a fierce jealousy, which, with the peculiar perversion of this instinct, had turned to fiercer desire. without the incentive of mrs. macander's words he might never have done what he had done. without their incentive and the accident of finding his wife's door for once unlocked, which had enabled him to steal upon her asleep. slumber had removed his doubts, but the morning brought them again. one thought comforted him: no one would know--it was not the sort of thing that she would speak about. and, indeed, when the vehicle of his daily business life, which needed so imperatively the grease of clear and practical thought, started rolling once more with the reading of his letters, those nightmare-like doubts began to assume less extravagant importance at the back of his mind. the incident was really not of great moment; women made a fuss about it in books; but in the cool judgment of right-thinking men, of men of the world, of such as he recollected often received praise in the divorce court, he had but done his best to sustain the sanctity of marriage, to prevent her from abandoning her duty, possibly, if she were still seeing bosinney, from.... no, he did not regret it. now that the first step towards reconciliation had been taken, the rest would be comparatively--comparatively.... he, rose and walked to the window. his nerve had been shaken. the sound of smothered sobbing was in his ears again. he could not get rid of it. he put on his fur coat, and went out into the fog; having to go into the city, he took the underground railway from sloane square station. in his corner of the first-class compartment filled with city men the smothered sobbing still haunted him, so he opened the times with the rich crackle that drowns all lesser sounds, and, barricaded behind it, set himself steadily to con the news. he read that a recorder had charged a grand jury on the previous day with a more than usually long list of offences. he read of three murders, five manslaughters, seven arsons, and as many as eleven rapes--a surprisingly high number--in addition to many less conspicuous crimes, to be tried during a coming sessions; and from one piece of news he went on to another, keeping the paper well before his face. and still, inseparable from his reading, was the memory of irene's tear-stained face, and the sounds from her broken heart. the day was a busy one, including, in addition to the ordinary affairs of his practice, a visit to his brokers, messrs. grin and grinning, to give them instructions to sell his shares in the new colliery co., ltd., whose business he suspected, rather than knew, was stagnating (this enterprise afterwards slowly declined, and was ultimately sold for a song to an american syndicate); and a long conference at waterbuck, q.c.'s chambers, attended by boulter, by fiske, the junior counsel, and waterbuck, q.c., himself. the case of forsyte v. bosinney was expected to be reached on the morrow, before mr. justice bentham. mr. justice bentham, a man of common-sense rather than too great legal knowledge, was considered to be about the best man they could have to try the action. he was a 'strong' judge. waterbuck, q.c., in pleasing conjunction with an almost rude neglect of boulter and fiske paid to soames a good deal of attention, by instinct or the sounder evidence of rumour, feeling him to be a man of property. he held with remarkable consistency to the opinion he had already expressed in writing, that the issue would depend to a great extent on the evidence given at the trial, and in a few well directed remarks he advised soames not to be too careful in giving that evidence. "a little bluffness, mr. forsyte," he said, "a little bluffness," and after he had spoken he laughed firmly, closed his lips tight, and scratched his head just below where he had pushed his wig back, for all the world like the gentleman-farmer for whom he loved to be taken. he was considered perhaps the leading man in breach of promise cases. soames used the underground again in going home. the fog was worse than ever at sloane square station. through the still, thick blur, men groped in and out; women, very few, grasped their reticules to their bosoms and handkerchiefs to their mouths; crowned with the weird excrescence of the driver, haloed by a vague glow of lamp-light that seemed to drown in vapour before it reached the pavement, cabs loomed dim-shaped ever and again, and discharged citizens, bolting like rabbits to their burrows. and these shadowy figures, wrapped each in his own little shroud of fog, took no notice of each other. in the great warren, each rabbit for himself, especially those clothed in the more expensive fur, who, afraid of carriages on foggy days, are driven underground. one figure, however, not far from soames, waited at the station door. some buccaneer or lover, of whom each forsyte thought: 'poor devil! looks as if he were having a bad time!' their kind hearts beat a stroke faster for that poor, waiting, anxious lover in the fog; but they hurried by, well knowing that they had neither time nor money to spare for any suffering but their own. only a policeman, patrolling slowly and at intervals, took an interest in that waiting figure, the brim of whose slouch hat half hid a face reddened by the cold, all thin, and haggard, over which a hand stole now and again to smooth away anxiety, or renew the resolution that kept him waiting there. but the waiting lover (if lover he were) was used to policemen's scrutiny, or too absorbed in his anxiety, for he never flinched. a hardened case, accustomed to long trysts, to anxiety, and fog, and cold, if only his mistress came at last. foolish lover! fogs last until the spring; there is also snow and rain, no comfort anywhere; gnawing fear if you bring her out, gnawing fear if you bid her stay at home! "serve him right; he should arrange his affairs better!" so any respectable forsyte. yet, if that sounder citizen could have listened at the waiting lover's heart, out there in the fog and the cold, he would have said again: "yes, poor devil he's having a bad time!" soames got into his cab, and, with the glass down, crept along sloane street, and so along the brompton road, and home. he reached his house at five. his wife was not in. she had gone out a quarter of an hour before. out at such a time of night, into this terrible fog! what was the meaning of that? he sat by the dining-room fire, with the door open, disturbed to the soul, trying to read the evening paper. a book was no good--in daily papers alone was any narcotic to such worry as his. from the customary events recorded in the journal he drew some comfort. 'suicide of an actress'--'grave indisposition of a statesman' (that chronic sufferer)--'divorce of an army officer'--'fire in a colliery'--he read them all. they helped him a little--prescribed by the greatest of all doctors, our natural taste. it was nearly seven when he heard her come in. the incident of the night before had long lost its importance under stress of anxiety at her strange sortie into the fog. but now that irene was home, the memory of her broken-hearted sobbing came back to him, and he felt nervous at the thought of facing her. she was already on the stairs; her grey fur coat hung to her knees, its high collar almost hid her face, she wore a thick veil. she neither turned to look at him nor spoke. no ghost or stranger could have passed more silently. bilson came to lay dinner, and told him that mrs. forsyte was not coming down; she was having the soup in her room. for once soames did not 'change'; it was, perhaps, the first time in his life that he had sat down to dinner with soiled cuffs, and, not even noticing them, he brooded long over his wine. he sent bilson to light a fire in his picture-room, and presently went up there himself. turning on the gas, he heaved a deep sigh, as though amongst these treasures, the backs of which confronted him in stacks, around the little room, he had found at length his peace of mind. he went straight up to the greatest treasure of them all, an undoubted turner, and, carrying it to the easel, turned its face to the light. there had been a movement in turners, but he had not been able to make up his mind to part with it. he stood for a long time, his pale, clean-shaven face poked forward above his stand-up collar, looking at the picture as though he were adding it up; a wistful expression came into his eyes; he found, perhaps, that it came to too little. he took it down from the easel to put it back against the wall; but, in crossing the room, stopped, for he seemed to hear sobbing. it was nothing--only the sort of thing that had been bothering him in the morning. and soon after, putting the high guard before the blazing fire, he stole downstairs. fresh for the morrow! was his thought. it was long before he went to sleep.... it is now to george forsyte that the mind must turn for light on the events of that fog-engulfed afternoon. the wittiest and most sportsmanlike of the forsytes had passed the day reading a novel in the paternal mansion at princes' gardens. since a recent crisis in his financial affairs he had been kept on parole by roger, and compelled to reside 'at home.' towards five o'clock he went out, and took train at south kensington station (for everyone to-day went underground). his intention was to dine, and pass the evening playing billiards at the red pottle--that unique hostel, neither club, hotel, nor good gilt restaurant. he got out at charing cross, choosing it in preference to his more usual st. james's park, that he might reach jermyn street by better lighted ways. on the platform his eyes--for in combination with a composed and fashionable appearance, george had sharp eyes, and was always on the look-out for fillips to his sardonic humour--his eyes were attracted by a man, who, leaping from a first-class compartment, staggered rather than walked towards the exit. 'so ho, my bird!' said george to himself; 'why, it's "the buccaneer!"' and he put his big figure on the trail. nothing afforded him greater amusement than a drunken man. bosinney, who wore a slouch hat, stopped in front of him, spun around, and rushed back towards the carriage he had just left. he was too late. a porter caught him by the coat; the train was already moving on. george's practised glance caught sight of the face of a lady clad in a grey fur coat at the carriage window. it was mrs. soames--and george felt that this was interesting! and now he followed bosinney more closely than ever--up the stairs, past the ticket collector into the street. in that progress, however, his feelings underwent a change; no longer merely curious and amused, he felt sorry for the poor fellow he was shadowing. 'the buccaneer' was not drunk, but seemed to be acting under the stress of violent emotion; he was talking to himself, and all that george could catch were the words "oh, god!" nor did he appear to know what he was doing, or where going; but stared, hesitated, moved like a man out of his mind; and from being merely a joker in search of amusement, george felt that he must see the poor chap through. he had 'taken the knock'--'taken the knock!' and he wondered what on earth mrs. soames had been saying, what on earth she had been telling him in the railway carriage. she had looked bad enough herself! it made george sorry to think of her travelling on with her trouble all alone. he followed close behind bosinney's elbow--tall, burly figure, saying nothing, dodging warily--and shadowed him out into the fog. there was something here beyond a jest! he kept his head admirably, in spite of some excitement, for in addition to compassion, the instincts of the chase were roused within him. bosinney walked right out into the thoroughfare--a vast muffled blackness, where a man could not see six paces before him; where, all around, voices or whistles mocked the sense of direction; and sudden shapes came rolling slow upon them; and now and then a light showed like a dim island in an infinite dark sea. and fast into this perilous gulf of night walked bosinney, and fast after him walked george. if the fellow meant to put his 'twopenny' under a 'bus, he would stop it if he could! across the street and back the hunted creature strode, not groping as other men were groping in that gloom, but driven forward as though the faithful george behind wielded a knout; and this chase after a haunted man began to have for george the strangest fascination. but it was now that the affair developed in a way which ever afterwards caused it to remain green in his mind. brought to a stand-still in the fog, he heard words which threw a sudden light on these proceedings. what mrs. soames had said to bosinney in the train was now no longer dark. george understood from those mutterings that soames had exercised his rights over an estranged and unwilling wife in the greatest--the supreme act of property. his fancy wandered in the fields of this situation; it impressed him; he guessed something of the anguish, the sexual confusion and horror in bosinney's heart. and he thought: 'yes, it's a bit thick! i don't wonder the poor fellow is half-cracked!' he had run his quarry to earth on a bench under one of the lions in trafalgar square, a monster sphynx astray like themselves in that gulf of darkness. here, rigid and silent, sat bosinney, and george, in whose patience was a touch of strange brotherliness, took his stand behind. he was not lacking in a certain delicacy--a sense of form--that did not permit him to intrude upon this tragedy, and he waited, quiet as the lion above, his fur collar hitched above his ears concealing the fleshy redness of his cheeks, concealing all but his eyes with their sardonic, compassionate stare. and men kept passing back from business on the way to their clubs--men whose figures shrouded in cocoons of fog came into view like spectres, and like spectres vanished. then even in his compassion george's quilpish humour broke forth in a sudden longing to pluck these spectres by the sleeve, and say: "hi, you johnnies! you don't often see a show like this! here's a poor devil whose mistress has just been telling him a pretty little story of her husband; walk up, walk up! he's taken the knock, you see." in fancy he saw them gaping round the tortured lover; and grinned as he thought of some respectable, newly-married spectre enabled by the state of his own affections to catch an inkling of what was going on within bosinney; he fancied he could see his mouth getting wider and wider, and the fog going down and down. for in george was all that contempt of the of the married middle-class--peculiar to the wild and sportsmanlike spirits in its ranks. but he began to be bored. waiting was not what he had bargained for. 'after all,' he thought, 'the poor chap will get over it; not the first time such a thing has happened in this little city!' but now his quarry again began muttering words of violent hate and anger. and following a sudden impulse george touched him on the shoulder. bosinney spun round. "who are you? what do you want?" george could have stood it well enough in the light of the gas lamps, in the light of that everyday world of which he was so hardy a connoisseur; but in this fog, where all was gloomy and unreal, where nothing had that matter-of-fact value associated by forsytes with earth, he was a victim to strange qualms, and as he tried to stare back into the eyes of this maniac, he thought: 'if i see a bobby, i'll hand him over; he's not fit to be at large.' but waiting for no answer, bosinney strode off into the fog, and george followed, keeping perhaps a little further off, yet more than ever set on tracking him down. 'he can't go on long like this,' he thought. 'it's god's own miracle he's not been run over already.' he brooded no more on policemen, a sportsman's sacred fire alive again within him. into a denser gloom than ever bosinney held on at a furious pace; but his pursuer perceived more method in his madness--he was clearly making his way westwards. 'he's really going for soames!' thought george. the idea was attractive. it would be a sporting end to such a chase. he had always disliked his cousin. the shaft of a passing cab brushed against his shoulder and made him leap aside. he did not intend to be killed for the buccaneer, or anyone. yet, with hereditary tenacity, he stuck to the trail through vapour that blotted out everything but the shadow of the hunted man and the dim moon of the nearest lamp. then suddenly, with the instinct of a town-stroller, george knew himself to be in piccadilly. here he could find his way blindfold; and freed from the strain of geographical uncertainty, his mind returned to bosinney's trouble. down the long avenue of his man-about-town experience, bursting, as it were, through a smirch of doubtful amours, there stalked to him a memory of his youth. a memory, poignant still, that brought the scent of hay, the gleam of moonlight, a summer magic, into the reek and blackness of this london fog--the memory of a night when in the darkest shadow of a lawn he had overheard from a woman's lips that he was not her sole possessor. and for a moment george walked no longer in black piccadilly, but lay again, with hell in his heart, and his face to the sweet-smelling, dewy grass, in the long shadow of poplars that hid the moon. a longing seized him to throw his arm round the buccaneer, and say, "come, old boy. time cures all. let's go and drink it off!" but a voice yelled at him, and he started back. a cab rolled out of blackness, and into blackness disappeared. and suddenly george perceived that he had lost bosinney. he ran forward and back, felt his heart clutched by a sickening fear, the dark fear which lives in the wings of the fog. perspiration started out on his brow. he stood quite still, listening with all his might. "and then," as he confided to dartie the same evening in the course of a game of billiards at the red pottle, "i lost him." dartie twirled complacently at his dark moustache. he had just put together a neat break of twenty-three,--failing at a 'jenny.' "and who was she?" he asked. george looked slowly at the 'man of the world's' fattish, sallow face, and a little grim smile lurked about the curves of his cheeks and his heavy-lidded eyes. 'no, no, my fine fellow,' he thought, 'i'm not going to tell you.' for though he mixed with dartie a good deal, he thought him a bit of a cad. "oh, some little love-lady or other," he said, and chalked his cue. "a love-lady!" exclaimed dartie--he used a more figurative expression. "i made sure it was our friend soa...." "did you?" said george curtly. "then damme you've made an error." he missed his shot. he was careful not to allude to the subject again till, towards eleven o'clock, having, in his poetic phraseology, 'looked upon the drink when it was yellow,' he drew aside the blind, and gazed out into the street. the murky blackness of the fog was but faintly broken by the lamps of the 'red pottle,' and no shape of mortal man or thing was in sight. "i can't help thinking of that poor buccaneer," he said. "he may be wandering out there now in that fog. if he's not a corpse," he added with strange dejection. "corpse!" said dartie, in whom the recollection of his defeat at richmond flared up. "he's all right. ten to one if he wasn't tight!" george turned on him, looking really formidable, with a sort of savage gloom on his big face. "dry up!" he said. "don't i tell you he's 'taken the knock!"' chapter v the trial in the morning of his case, which was second in the list, soames was again obliged to start without seeing irene, and it was just as well, for he had not as yet made up his mind what attitude to adopt towards her. he had been requested to be in court by half-past ten, to provide against the event of the first action (a breach of promise) collapsing, which however it did not, both sides showing a courage that afforded waterbuck, q.c., an opportunity for improving his already great reputation in this class of case. he was opposed by ram, the other celebrated breach of promise man. it was a battle of giants. the court delivered judgment just before the luncheon interval. the jury left the box for good, and soames went out to get something to eat. he met james standing at the little luncheon-bar, like a pelican in the wilderness of the galleries, bent over a sandwich with a glass of sherry before him. the spacious emptiness of the great central hall, over which father and son brooded as they stood together, was marred now and then for a fleeting moment by barristers in wig and gown hurriedly bolting across, by an occasional old lady or rusty-coated man, looking up in a frightened way, and by two persons, bolder than their generation, seated in an embrasure arguing. the sound of their voices arose, together with a scent as of neglected wells, which, mingling with the odour of the galleries, combined to form the savour, like nothing but the emanation of a refined cheese, so indissolubly connected with the administration of british justice. it was not long before james addressed his son. "when's your case coming on? i suppose it'll be on directly. i shouldn't wonder if this bosinney'd say anything; i should think he'd have to. he'll go bankrupt if it goes against him." he took a large bite at his sandwich and a mouthful of sherry. "your mother," he said, "wants you and irene to come and dine to-night." a chill smile played round soames' lips; he looked back at his father. anyone who had seen the look, cold and furtive, thus interchanged, might have been pardoned for not appreciating the real understanding between them. james finished his sherry at a draught. "how much?" he asked. on returning to the court soames took at once his rightful seat on the front bench beside his solicitor. he ascertained where his father was seated with a glance so sidelong as to commit nobody. james, sitting back with his hands clasped over the handle of his umbrella, was brooding on the end of the bench immediately behind counsel, whence he could get away at once when the case was over. he considered bosinney's conduct in every way outrageous, but he did not wish to run up against him, feeling that the meeting would be awkward. next to the divorce court, this court was, perhaps, the favourite emporium of justice, libel, breach of promise, and other commercial actions being frequently decided there. quite a sprinkling of persons unconnected with the law occupied the back benches, and the hat of a woman or two could be seen in the gallery. the two rows of seats immediately in front of james were gradually filled by barristers in wigs, who sat down to make pencil notes, chat, and attend to their teeth; but his interest was soon diverted from these lesser lights of justice by the entrance of waterbuck, q.c., with the wings of his silk gown rustling, and his red, capable face supported by two short, brown whiskers. the famous q.c. looked, as james freely admitted, the very picture of a man who could heckle a witness. for all his experience, it so happened that he had never seen waterbuck, q.c., before, and, like many forsytes in the lower branch of the profession, he had an extreme admiration for a good cross-examiner. the long, lugubrious folds in his cheeks relaxed somewhat after seeing him, especially as he now perceived that soames alone was represented by silk. waterbuck, q.c., had barely screwed round on his elbow to chat with his junior before mr. justice bentham himself appeared--a thin, rather hen-like man, with a little stoop, clean-shaven under his snowy wig. like all the rest of the court, waterbuck rose, and remained on his feet until the judge was seated. james rose but slightly; he was already comfortable, and had no opinion of bentham, having sat next but one to him at dinner twice at the bumley tomms'. bumley tomm was rather a poor thing, though he had been so successful. james himself had given him his first brief. he was excited, too, for he had just found out that bosinney was not in court. 'now, what's he mean by that?' he kept on thinking. the case having been called on, waterbuck, q.c., pushing back his papers, hitched his gown on his shoulder, and, with a semi-circular look around him, like a man who is going to bat, arose and addressed the court. the facts, he said, were not in dispute, and all that his lordship would be asked was to interpret the correspondence which had taken place between his client and the defendant, an architect, with reference to the decoration of a house. he would, however, submit that this correspondence could only mean one very plain thing. after briefly reciting the history of the house at robin hill, which he described as a mansion, and the actual facts of expenditure, he went on as follows: "my client, mr. soames forsyte, is a gentleman, a man of property, who would be the last to dispute any legitimate claim that might be made against him, but he has met with such treatment from his architect in the matter of this house, over which he has, as your lordship has heard, already spent some twelve--some twelve thousand pounds, a sum considerably in advance of the amount he had originally contemplated, that as a matter of principle--and this i cannot too strongly emphasize--as a matter of principle, and in the interests of others, he has felt himself compelled to bring this action. the point put forward in defence by the architect i will suggest to your lordship is not worthy of a moment's serious consideration." he then read the correspondence. his client, "a man of recognised position," was prepared to go into the box, and to swear that he never did authorize, that it was never in his mind to authorize, the expenditure of any money beyond the extreme limit of twelve thousand and fifty pounds, which he had clearly fixed; and not further to waste the time of the court, he would at once call mr. forsyte. soames then went into the box. his whole appearance was striking in its composure. his face, just supercilious enough, pale and clean-shaven, with a little line between the eyes, and compressed lips; his dress in unostentatious order, one hand neatly gloved, the other bare. he answered the questions put to him in a somewhat low, but distinct voice. his evidence under cross-examination savoured of taciturnity. had he not used the expression, "a free hand"? no. "come, come!" the expression he had used was 'a free hand in the terms of this correspondence.' "would you tell the court that that was english?" "yes!" "what do you say it means?" "what it says!" "are you prepared to deny that it is a contradiction in terms?" "yes." "you are not an irishman?" "no." "are you a well-educated man?" "yes." "and yet you persist in that statement?" "yes." throughout this and much more cross-examination, which turned again and again around the 'nice point,' james sat with his hand behind his ear, his eyes fixed upon his son. he was proud of him! he could not but feel that in similar circumstances he himself would have been tempted to enlarge his replies, but his instinct told him that this taciturnity was the very thing. he sighed with relief, however, when soames, slowly turning, and without any change of expression, descended from the box. when it came to the turn of bosinney's counsel to address the judge, james redoubled his attention, and he searched the court again and again to see if bosinney were not somewhere concealed. young chankery began nervously; he was placed by bosinney's absence in an awkward position. he therefore did his best to turn that absence to account. he could not but fear--he said--that his client had met with an accident. he had fully expected him there to give evidence; they had sent round that morning both to mr. bosinney's office and to his rooms (though he knew they were one and the same, he thought it was as well not to say so), but it was not known where he was, and this he considered to be ominous, knowing how anxious mr. bosinney had been to give his evidence. he had not, however, been instructed to apply for an adjournment, and in default of such instruction he conceived it his duty to go on. the plea on which he somewhat confidently relied, and which his client, had he not unfortunately been prevented in some way from attending, would have supported by his evidence, was that such an expression as a 'free hand' could not be limited, fettered, and rendered unmeaning, by any verbiage which might follow it. he would go further and say that the correspondence showed that whatever he might have said in his evidence, mr. forsyte had in fact never contemplated repudiating liability on any of the work ordered or executed by his architect. the defendant had certainly never contemplated such a contingency, or, as was demonstrated by his letters, he would never have proceeded with the work--a work of extreme delicacy, carried out with great care and efficiency, to meet and satisfy the fastidious taste of a connoisseur, a rich man, a man of property. he felt strongly on this point, and feeling strongly he used, perhaps, rather strong words when he said that this action was of a most unjustifiable, unexpected, indeed--unprecedented character. if his lordship had had the opportunity that he himself had made it his duty to take, to go over this very fine house and see the great delicacy and beauty of the decorations executed by his client--an artist in his most honourable profession--he felt convinced that not for one moment would his lordship tolerate this, he would use no stronger word than daring attempt to evade legitimate responsibility. taking the text of soames' letters, he lightly touched on 'boileau v. the blasted cement company, limited.' "it is doubtful," he said, "what that authority has decided; in any case i would submit that it is just as much in my favour as in my friend's." he then argued the 'nice point' closely. with all due deference he submitted that mr. forsyte's expression nullified itself. his client not being a rich man, the matter was a serious one for him; he was a very talented architect, whose professional reputation was undoubtedly somewhat at stake. he concluded with a perhaps too personal appeal to the judge, as a lover of the arts, to show himself the protector of artists, from what was occasionally--he said occasionally--the too iron hand of capital. "what," he said, "will be the position of the artistic professions, if men of property like this mr. forsyte refuse, and are allowed to refuse, to carry out the obligations of the commissions which they have given." he would now call his client, in case he should at the last moment have found himself able to be present. the name philip baynes bosinney was called three times by the ushers, and the sound of the calling echoed with strange melancholy throughout the court and galleries. the crying of this name, to which no answer was returned, had upon james a curious effect: it was like calling for your lost dog about the streets. and the creepy feeling that it gave him, of a man missing, grated on his sense of comfort and security-on his cosiness. though he could not have said why, it made him feel uneasy. he looked now at the clock--a quarter to three! it would be all over in a quarter of an hour. where could the young fellow be? it was only when mr. justice bentham delivered judgment that he got over the turn he had received. behind the wooden erection, by which he was fenced from more ordinary mortals, the learned judge leaned forward. the electric light, just turned on above his head, fell on his face, and mellowed it to an orange hue beneath the snowy crown of his wig; the amplitude of his robes grew before the eye; his whole figure, facing the comparative dusk of the court, radiated like some majestic and sacred body. he cleared his throat, took a sip of water, broke the nib of a quill against the desk, and, folding his bony hands before him, began. to james he suddenly loomed much larger than he had ever thought bentham would loom. it was the majesty of the law; and a person endowed with a nature far less matter-of-fact than that of james might have been excused for failing to pierce this halo, and disinter therefrom the somewhat ordinary forsyte, who walked and talked in every-day life under the name of sir walter bentham. he delivered judgment in the following words: "the facts in this case are not in dispute. on may last the defendant wrote to the plaintiff, requesting to be allowed to withdraw from his professional position in regard to the decoration of the plaintiff's house, unless he were given 'a free hand.' the plaintiff, on may , wrote back as follows: 'in giving you, in accordance with your request, this free hand, i wish you to clearly understand that the total cost of the house as handed over to me completely decorated, inclusive of your fee (as arranged between us) must not exceed twelve thousand pounds.' to this letter the defendant replied on may : 'if you think that in such a delicate matter as decoration i can bind myself to the exact pound, i am afraid you are mistaken.' on may the plaintiff wrote as follows: 'i did not mean to say that if you should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty or even fifty pounds there would be any difficulty between us. you have a free hand in the terms of this correspondence, and i hope you will see your way to completing the decorations.' on may the defendant replied thus shortly: 'very well.' "in completing these decorations, the defendant incurred liabilities and expenses which brought the total cost of this house up to the sum of twelve thousand four hundred pounds, all of which expenditure has been defrayed by the plaintiff. this action has been brought by the plaintiff to recover from the defendant the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds expended by him in excess of a sum of twelve thousand and fifty pounds, alleged by the plaintiff to have been fixed by this correspondence as the maximum sum that the defendant had authority to expend. "the question for me to decide is whether or no the defendant is liable to refund to the plaintiff this sum. in my judgment he is so liable. "what in effect the plaintiff has said is this 'i give you a free hand to complete these decorations, provided that you keep within a total cost to me of twelve thousand pounds. if you exceed that sum by as much as fifty pounds, i will not hold you responsible; beyond that point you are no agent of mine, and i shall repudiate liability.' it is not quite clear to me whether, had the plaintiff in fact repudiated liability under his agent's contracts, he would, under all the circumstances, have been successful in so doing; but he has not adopted this course. he has accepted liability, and fallen back upon his rights against the defendant under the terms of the latter's engagement. "in my judgment the plaintiff is entitled to recover this sum from the defendant. "it has been sought, on behalf of the defendant, to show that no limit of expenditure was fixed or intended to be fixed by this correspondence. if this were so, i can find no reason for the plaintiff's importation into the correspondence of the figures of twelve thousand pounds and subsequently of fifty pounds. the defendant's contention would render these figures meaningless. it is manifest to me that by his letter of may he assented to a very clear proposition, by the terms of which he must be held to be bound. "for these reasons there will be judgment for the plaintiff for the amount claimed with costs." james sighed, and stooping, picked up his umbrella which had fallen with a rattle at the words 'importation into this correspondence.' untangling his legs, he rapidly left the court; without waiting for his son, he snapped up a hansom cab (it was a clear, grey afternoon) and drove straight to timothy's where he found swithin; and to him, mrs. septimus small, and aunt hester, he recounted the whole proceedings, eating two muffins not altogether in the intervals of speech. "soames did very well," he ended; "he's got his head screwed on the right way. this won't please jolyon. it's a bad business for that young bosinney; he'll go bankrupt, i shouldn't wonder," and then after a long pause, during which he had stared disquietly into the fire, he added: "he wasn't there--now why?" there was a sound of footsteps. the figure of a thick-set man, with the ruddy brown face of robust health, was seen in the back drawing-room. the forefinger of his upraised hand was outlined against the black of his frock coat. he spoke in a grudging voice. "well, james," he said, "i can't--i can't stop," and turning round, he walked out. it was timothy. james rose from his chair. "there!" he said, "there! i knew there was something wro...." he checked himself, and was silent, staring before him, as though he had seen a portent. chapter vi soames breaks the news in leaving the court soames did not go straight home. he felt disinclined for the city, and drawn by need for sympathy in his triumph, he, too, made his way, but slowly and on foot, to timothy's in the bayswater road. his father had just left; mrs. small and aunt hester, in possession of the whole story, greeted him warmly. they were sure he was hungry after all that evidence. smither should toast him some more muffins, his dear father had eaten them all. he must put his legs up on the sofa; and he must have a glass of prune brandy too. it was so strengthening. swithin was still present, having lingered later than his wont, for he felt in want of exercise. on hearing this suggestion, he 'pished.' a pretty pass young men were coming to! his own liver was out of order, and he could not bear the thought of anyone else drinking prune brandy. he went away almost immediately, saying to soames: "and how's your wife? you tell her from me that if she's dull, and likes to come and dine with me quietly, i'll give her such a bottle of champagne as she doesn't get every day." staring down from his height on soames he contracted his thick, puffy, yellow hand as though squeezing within it all this small fry, and throwing out his chest he waddled slowly away. mrs. small and aunt hester were left horrified. swithin was so droll! they themselves were longing to ask soames how irene would take the result, yet knew that they must not; he would perhaps say something of his own accord, to throw some light on this, the present burning question in their lives, the question that from necessity of silence tortured them almost beyond bearing; for even timothy had now been told, and the effect on his health was little short of alarming. and what, too, would june do? this, also, was a most exciting, if dangerous speculation! they had never forgotten old jolyon's visit, since when he had not once been to see them; they had never forgotten the feeling it gave all who were present, that the family was no longer what it had been--that the family was breaking up. but soames gave them no help, sitting with his knees crossed, talking of the barbizon school of painters, whom he had just discovered. these were the coming men, he said; he should not wonder if a lot of money were made over them; he had his eye on two pictures by a man called corot, charming things; if he could get them at a reasonable price he was going to buy them--they would, he thought, fetch a big price some day. interested as they could not but be, neither mrs. septimus small nor aunt hester could entirely acquiesce in being thus put off. it was interesting--most interesting--and then soames was so clever that they were sure he would do something with those pictures if anybody could; but what was his plan now that he had won his case; was he going to leave london at once, and live in the country, or what was he going to do? soames answered that he did not know, he thought they should be moving soon. he rose and kissed his aunts. no sooner had aunt juley received this emblem of departure than a change came over her, as though she were being visited by dreadful courage; every little roll of flesh on her face seemed trying to escape from an invisible, confining mask. she rose to the full extent of her more than medium height, and said: "it has been on my mind a long time, dear, and if nobody else will tell you, i have made up my mind that...." aunt hester interrupted her: "mind, julia, you do it...." she gasped--"on your own responsibility!" mrs. small went on as though she had not heard: "i think you ought to know, dear, that mrs. macander saw irene walking in richmond park with mr. bosinney." aunt hester, who had also risen, sank back in her chair, and turned her face away. really juley was too--she should not do such things when she--aunt hester, was in the room; and, breathless with anticipation, she waited for what soames would answer. he had flushed the peculiar flush which always centred between his eyes; lifting his hand, and, as it were, selecting a finger, he bit a nail delicately; then, drawling it out between set lips, he said: "mrs. macander is a cat!" without waiting for any reply, he left the room. when he went into timothy's he had made up his mind what course to pursue on getting home. he would go up to irene and say: "well, i've won my case, and there's an end of it! i don't want to be hard on bosinney; i'll see if we can't come to some arrangement; he shan't be pressed. and now let's turn over a new leaf! we'll let the house, and get out of these fogs. we'll go down to robin hill at once. i--i never meant to be rough with you! let's shake hands--and--" perhaps she would let him kiss her, and forget! when he came out of timothy's his intentions were no longer so simple. the smouldering jealousy and suspicion of months blazed up within him. he would put an end to that sort of thing once and for all; he would not have her drag his name in the dirt! if she could not or would not love him, as was her duty and his right--she should not play him tricks with anyone else! he would tax her with it; threaten to divorce her! that would make her behave; she would never face that. but--but--what if she did? he was staggered; this had not occurred to him. what if she did? what if she made him a confession? how would he stand then? he would have to bring a divorce! a divorce! thus close, the word was paralyzing, so utterly at variance with all the principles that had hitherto guided his life. its lack of compromise appalled him; he felt--like the captain of a ship, going to the side of his vessel, and, with his own hands throwing over the most precious of his bales. this jettisoning of his property with his own hand seemed uncanny to soames. it would injure him in his profession: he would have to get rid of the house at robin hill, on which he had spent so much money, so much anticipation--and at a sacrifice. and she! she would no longer belong to him, not even in name! she would pass out of his life, and he--he should never see her again! he traversed in the cab the length of a street without getting beyond the thought that he should never see her again! but perhaps there was nothing to confess, even now very likely there was nothing to confess. was it wise to push things so far? was it wise to put himself into a position where he might have to eat his words? the result of this case would ruin bosinney; a ruined man was desperate, but--what could he do? he might go abroad, ruined men always went abroad. what could they do--if indeed it was 'they'--without money? it would be better to wait and see how things turned out. if necessary, he could have her watched. the agony of his jealousy (for all the world like the crisis of an aching tooth) came on again; and he almost cried out. but he must decide, fix on some course of action before he got home. when the cab drew up at the door, he had decided nothing. he entered, pale, his hands moist with perspiration, dreading to meet her, burning to meet her, ignorant of what he was to say or do. the maid bilson was in the hall, and in answer to his question: "where is your mistress?" told him that mrs. forsyte had left the house about noon, taking with her a trunk and bag. snatching the sleeve of his fur coat away from her grasp, he confronted her: "what?" he exclaimed; "what's that you said?" suddenly recollecting that he must not betray emotion, he added: "what message did she leave?" and noticed with secret terror the startled look of the maid's eyes. "mrs. forsyte left no message, sir." "no message; very well, thank you, that will do. i shall be dining out." the maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly turning over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood on the carved oak rug chest in the hall. mr. and mrs. bareham culcher. mrs. septimus small. mrs. baynes. mr. solomon thornworthy. lady bellis. miss hermione bellis. miss winifred bellis. miss ella bellis. who the devil were all these people? he seemed to have forgotten all familiar things. the words 'no message--a trunk, and a bag,' played a hide-and-seek in his brain. it was incredible that she had left no message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs two steps at a time, as a young married man when he comes home will run up to his wife's room. everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in perfect order. on the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was the bag she had made and embroidered with her own hands to hold her sleeping things; her slippers ready at the foot; the sheets even turned over at the head as though expecting her. on the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from her dressing bag, his own present. there must, then, be some mistake. what bag had she taken? he went to the bell to summon bilson, but remembered in time that he must assume knowledge of where irene had gone, take it all as a matter of course, and grope out the meaning for himself. he locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going round; and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes. hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the mirror. he was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out water, and began feverishly washing. her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion she used for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of his jealousy seized him again. struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the street. he had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went down sloane street he framed a story for use, in case he should not find her at bosinney's. but if he should? his power of decision again failed; he reached the house without knowing what he should do if he did find her there. it was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the woman who opened it could not say whether mr. bosinney were in or no; she had not seen him that day, not for two or three days; she did not attend to him now, nobody attended to him, he.... soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. he went up with a dogged, white face. the top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his ringing, he could hear no sound. he was obliged to descend, shivering under his fur, a chill at his heart. hailing a cab, he told the man to drive to park lane. on the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a cheque; she could not have more than three or four pounds, but there were her jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered how much money she could raise on these; enough to take them abroad; enough for them to live on for months! he tried to calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the calculation unmade. the butler asked whether mrs. soames was in the cab, the master had told him they were both expected to dinner. soames answered: "no. mrs. forsyte has a cold." the butler was sorry. soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and remembering that he was not in dress clothes, asked: "anybody here to dinner, warmson?" "nobody but mr. and mrs. dartie, sir." again it seemed to soames that the butler was looking curiously at him. his composure gave way. "what are you looking at?" he said. "what's the matter with me, eh?" the butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that sounded like: "nothing, sir, i'm sure, sir," and stealthily withdrew. soames walked upstairs. passing the drawing-room without a look, he went straight up to his mother's and father's bedroom. james, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean figure displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew from underneath one white dundreary whisker, his eyes peering with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top hooks of his wife's bodice. soames stopped; he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other reason. he--he himself had never--never been asked to.... he heard his father's voice, as though there were a pin in his mouth, saying: "who's that? who's there? what d'you want?" his mother's: "here, felice, come and hook this; your master'll never get done." he put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely: "it's i--soames!" he noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in emily's: "well, my dear boy?" and james', as he dropped the hook: "what, soames! what's brought you up? aren't you well?" he answered mechanically: "i'm all right," and looked at them, and it seemed impossible to bring out his news. james, quick to take alarm, began: "you don't look well. i expect you've taken a chill--it's liver, i shouldn't wonder. your mother'll give you...." but emily broke in quietly: "have you brought irene?" soames shook his head. "no," he stammered, "she--she's left me!" emily deserted the mirror before which she was standing. her tall, full figure lost its majesty and became very human as she came running over to soames. "my dear boy! my dear boy!" she put her lips to his forehead, and stroked his hand. james, too, had turned full towards his son; his face looked older. "left you?" he said. "what d'you mean--left you? you never told me she was going to leave you." soames answered surlily: "how could i tell? what's to be done?" james began walking up and down; he looked strange and stork-like without a coat. "what's to be done!" he muttered. "how should i know what's to be done? what's the good of asking me? nobody tells me anything, and then they come and ask me what's to be done; and i should like to know how i'm to tell them! here's your mother, there she stands; she doesn't say anything. what i should say you've got to do is to follow her.." soames smiled; his peculiar, supercilious smile had never before looked pitiable. "i don't know where she's gone," he said. "don't know where she's gone!" said james. "how d'you mean, don't know where she's gone? where d'you suppose she's gone? she's gone after that young bosinney, that's where she's gone. i knew how it would be." soames, in the long silence that followed, felt his mother pressing his hand. and all that passed seemed to pass as though his own power of thinking or doing had gone to sleep. his father's face, dusky red, twitching as if he were going to cry, and words breaking out that seemed rent from him by some spasm in his soul. "there'll be a scandal; i always said so." then, no one saying anything: "and there you stand, you and your mother!" and emily's voice, calm, rather contemptuous: "come, now, james! soames will do all that he can." and james, staring at the floor, a little brokenly: "well, i can't help you; i'm getting old. don't you be in too great a hurry, my boy." and his mother's voice again: "soames will do all he can to get her back. we won't talk of it. it'll all come right, i dare say." and james: "well, i can't see how it can come right. and if she hasn't gone off with that young bosinney, my advice to you is not to listen to her, but to follow her and get her back." once more soames felt his mother stroking his hand, in token of her approval, and as though repeating some form of sacred oath, he muttered between his teeth: "i will!" all three went down to the drawing-room together. there, were gathered the three girls and dartie; had irene been present, the family circle would have been complete. james sank into his armchair, and except for a word of cold greeting to dartie, whom he both despised and dreaded, as a man likely to be always in want of money, he said nothing till dinner was announced. soames, too, was silent; emily alone, a woman of cool courage, maintained a conversation with winifred on trivial subjects. she was never more composed in her manner and conversation than that evening. a decision having been come to not to speak of irene's flight, no view was expressed by any other member of the family as to the right course to be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the general tone adopted in relation to events as they afterwards turned out, that james's advice: "don't you listen to her, follow-her and get her back!" would, with here and there an exception, have been regarded as sound, not only in park lane, but amongst the nicholases, the rogers, and at timothy's. just as it would surely have been endorsed by that wider body of forsytes all over london, who were merely excluded from judgment by ignorance of the story. in spite then of emily's efforts, the dinner was served by warmson and the footman almost in silence. dartie was sulky, and drank all he could get; the girls seldom talked to each other at any time. james asked once where june was, and what she was doing with herself in these days. no one could tell him. he sank back into gloom. only when winifred recounted how little publius had given his bad penny to a beggar, did he brighten up. "ah!" he said, "that's a clever little chap. i don't know what'll become of him, if he goes on like this. an intelligent little chap, i call him!" but it was only a flash. the courses succeeded one another solemnly, under the electric light, which glared down onto the table, but barely reached the principal ornament of the walls, a so-called 'sea piece by turner,' almost entirely composed of cordage and drowning men. champagne was handed, and then a bottle of james' prehistoric port, but as by the chill hand of some skeleton. at ten o'clock soames left; twice in reply to questions, he had said that irene was not well; he felt he could no longer trust himself. his mother kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he pressed her hand, a flush of warmth in his cheeks. he walked away in the cold wind, which whistled desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of clear steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty greeting, nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the night-women hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of vagabonds at street corners. winter was come! but soames hastened home, oblivious; his hands trembled as he took the late letters from the gilt wire cage into which they had been thrust through the slit in the door.' none from irene! he went into the dining-room; the fire was bright there, his chair drawn up to it, slippers ready, spirit case, and carven cigarette box on the table; but after staring at it all for a minute or two, he turned out the light and went upstairs. there was a fire too in his dressing-room, but her room was dark and cold. it was into this room that soames went. he made a great illumination with candles, and for a long time continued pacing up and down between the bed and the door. he could not get used to the thought that she had really left him, and as though still searching for some message, some reason, some reading of all the mystery of his married life, he began opening every recess and drawer. there were her dresses; he had always liked, indeed insisted, that she should be well-dressed--she had taken very few; two or three at most, and drawer after drawer; full of linen and silk things, was untouched. perhaps after all it was only a freak, and she had gone to the seaside for a few days' change. if only that were so, and she were really coming back, he would never again do as he had done that fatal night before last, never again run that risk--though it was her duty, her duty as a wife; though she did belong to him--he would never again run that risk; she was evidently not quite right in her head! he stooped over the drawer where she kept her jewels; it was not locked, and came open as he pulled; the jewel box had the key in it. this surprised him until he remembered that it was sure to be empty. he opened it. it was far from empty. divided, in little green velvet compartments, were all the things he had given her, even her watch, and stuck into the recess that contained--the watch was a three-cornered note addressed 'soames forsyte,' in irene's handwriting: 'i think i have taken nothing that you or your people have given me.' and that was all. he looked at the clasps and bracelets of diamonds and pearls, at the little flat gold watch with a great diamond set in sapphires, at the chains and rings, each in its nest, and the tears rushed up in his eyes and dropped upon them. nothing that she could have done, nothing that she had done, brought home to him like this the inner significance of her act. for the moment, perhaps, he understood nearly all there was to understand--understood that she loathed him, that she had loathed him for years, that for all intents and purposes they were like people living in different worlds, that there was no hope for him, never had been; even, that she had suffered--that she was to be pitied. in that moment of emotion he betrayed the forsyte in him--forgot himself, his interests, his property--was capable of almost anything; was lifted into the pure ether of the selfless and unpractical. such moments pass quickly. and as though with the tears he had purged himself of weakness, he got up, locked the box, and slowly, almost trembling, carried it with him into the other room. chapter vii june's victory june had waited for her chance, scanning the duller columns of the journals, morning and evening with an assiduity which at first puzzled old jolyon; and when her chance came, she took it with all the promptitude and resolute tenacity of her character. she will always remember best in her life that morning when at last she saw amongst the reliable cause list of the times newspaper, under the heading of court xiii, mr. justice bentham, the case of forsyte v. bosinney. like a gambler who stakes his last piece of money, she had prepared to hazard her all upon this throw; it was not her nature to contemplate defeat. how, unless with the instinct of a woman in love, she knew that bosinney's discomfiture in this action was assured, cannot be told--on this assumption, however, she laid her plans, as upon a certainty. half past eleven found her at watch in the gallery of court xiii., and there she remained till the case of forsyte v. bosinney was over. bosinney's absence did not disquiet her; she had felt instinctively that he would not defend himself. at the end of the judgment she hastened down, and took a cab to his rooms. she passed the open street-door and the offices on the three lower floors without attracting notice; not till she reached the top did her difficulties begin. her ring was not answered; she had now to make up her mind whether she would go down and ask the caretaker in the basement to let her in to await mr. bosinney's return, or remain patiently outside the door, trusting that no one would, come up. she decided on the latter course. a quarter of an hour had passed in freezing vigil on the landing, before it occurred to her that bosinney had been used to leave the key of his rooms under the door-mat. she looked and found it there. for some minutes she could not decide to make use of it; at last she let herself in and left the door open that anyone who came might see she was there on business. this was not the same june who had paid the trembling visit five months ago; those months of suffering and restraint had made her less sensitive; she had dwelt on this visit so long, with such minuteness, that its terrors were discounted beforehand. she was not there to fail this time, for if she failed no one could help her. like some mother beast on the watch over her young, her little quick figure never stood still in that room, but wandered from wall to wall, from window to door, fingering now one thing, now another. there was dust everywhere, the room could not have been cleaned for weeks, and june, quick to catch at anything that should buoy up her hope, saw in it a sign that he had been obliged, for economy's sake, to give up his servant. she looked into the bedroom; the bed was roughly made, as though by the hand of man. listening intently, she darted in, and peered into his cupboards. a few shirts and collars, a pair of muddy boots--the room was bare even of garments. she stole back to the sitting-room, and now she noticed the absence of all the little things he had set store by. the clock that had been his mother's, the field-glasses that had hung over the sofa; two really valuable old prints of harrow, where his father had been at school, and last, not least, the piece of japanese pottery she herself had given him. all were gone; and in spite of the rage roused within her championing soul at the thought that the world should treat him thus, their disappearance augured happily for the success of her plan. it was while looking at the spot where the piece of japanese pottery had stood that she felt a strange certainty of being watched, and, turning, saw irene in the open doorway. the two stood gazing at each other for a minute in silence; then june walked forward and held out her hand. irene did not take it. when her hand was refused, june put it behind her. her eyes grew steady with anger; she waited for irene to speak; and thus waiting, took in, with who-knows-what rage of jealousy, suspicion, and curiosity, every detail of her friend's face and dress and figure. irene was clothed in her long grey fur; the travelling cap on her head left a wave of gold hair visible above her forehead. the soft fullness of the coat made her face as small as a child's. unlike june's cheeks, her cheeks had no colour in them, but were ivory white and pinched as if with cold. dark circles lay round her eyes. in one hand she held a bunch of violets. she looked back at june, no smile on her lips; and with those great dark eyes fastened on her, the girl, for all her startled anger, felt something of the old spell. she spoke first, after all. "what have you come for?" but the feeling that she herself was being asked the same question, made her add: "this horrible case. i came to tell him--he has lost it." irene did not speak, her eyes never moved from june's face, and the girl cried: "don't stand there as if you were made of stone!" irene laughed: "i wish to god i were!" but june turned away: "stop!" she cried, "don't tell me! i don't want to hear! i don't want to hear what you've come for. i don't want to hear!" and like some uneasy spirit, she began swiftly walking to and fro. suddenly she broke out: "i was here first. we can't both stay here together!" on irene's face a smile wandered up, and died out like a flicker of firelight. she did not move. and then it was that june perceived under the softness and immobility of this figure something desperate and resolved; something not to be turned away, something dangerous. she tore off her hat, and, putting both hands to her brow, pressed back the bronze mass of her hair. "you have no right here!" she cried defiantly. irene answered: "i have no right anywhere! "what do you mean?" "i have left soames. you always wanted me to!" june put her hands over her ears. "don't! i don't want to hear anything--i don't want to know anything. it's impossible to fight with you! what makes you stand like that? why don't you go?" irene's lips moved; she seemed to be saying: "where should i go?" june turned to the window. she could see the face of a clock down in the street. it was nearly four. at any moment he might come! she looked back across her shoulder, and her face was distorted with anger. but irene had not moved; in her gloved hands she ceaselessly turned and twisted the little bunch of violets. the tears of rage and disappointment rolled down june's cheeks. "how could you come?" she said. "you have been a false friend to me!" again irene laughed. june saw that she had played a wrong card, and broke down. "why have you come?" she sobbed. "you've ruined my life, and now you want to ruin his!" irene's mouth quivered; her eyes met june's with a look so mournful that the girl cried out in the midst of her sobbing, "no, no!" but irene's head bent till it touched her breast. she turned, and went quickly out, hiding her lips with the little bunch of violets. june ran to the door. she heard the footsteps going down and down. she called out: "come back, irene! come back!" the footsteps died away.... bewildered and torn, the girl stood at the top of the stairs. why had irene gone, leaving her mistress of the field? what did it mean? had she really given him up to her? or had she...? and she was the prey of a gnawing uncertainty.... bosinney did not come.... about six o'clock that afternoon old jolyon returned from wistaria avenue, where now almost every day he spent some hours, and asked if his grand-daughter were upstairs. on being told that she had just come in, he sent up to her room to request her to come down and speak to him. he had made up his mind to tell her that he was reconciled with her father. in future bygones must be bygones. he would no longer live alone, or practically alone, in this great house; he was going to give it up, and take one in the country for his son, where they could all go and live together. if june did not like this, she could have an allowance and live by herself. it wouldn't make much difference to her, for it was a long time since she had shown him any affection. but when june came down, her face was pinched and piteous; there was a strained, pathetic look in her eyes. she snuggled up in her old attitude on the arm of his chair, and what he said compared but poorly with the clear, authoritative, injured statement he had thought out with much care. his heart felt sore, as the great heart of a mother-bird feels sore when its youngling flies and bruises its wing. his words halted, as though he were apologizing for having at last deviated from the path of virtue, and succumbed, in defiance of sounder principles, to his more natural instincts. he seemed nervous lest, in thus announcing his intentions, he should be setting his granddaughter a bad example; and now that he came to the point, his way of putting the suggestion that, if she didn't like it, she could live by herself and lump it, was delicate in the extreme.' "and if, by any chance, my darling," he said, "you found you didn't get on--with them, why, i could make that all right. you could have what you liked. we could find a little flat in london where you could set up, and i could be running to continually. but the children," he added, "are dear little things!" then, in the midst of this grave, rather transparent, explanation of changed policy, his eyes twinkled. "this'll astonish timothy's weak nerves. that precious young thing will have something to say about this, or i'm a dutchman!" june had not yet spoken. perched thus on the arm of his chair, with her head above him, her face was invisible. but presently he felt her warm cheek against his own, and knew that, at all events, there was nothing very alarming in her attitude towards his news. he began to take courage. "you'll like your father," he said--"an amiable chap. never was much push about him, but easy to get on with. you'll find him artistic and all that." and old jolyon bethought him of the dozen or so water-colour drawings all carefully locked up in his bedroom; for now that his son was going to become a man of property he did not think them quite such poor things as heretofore. "as to your--your stepmother," he said, using the word with some little difficulty, "i call her a refined woman--a bit of a mrs. gummidge, i shouldn't wonder--but very fond of jo. and the children," he repeated--indeed, this sentence ran like music through all his solemn self-justification--"are sweet little things!" if june had known, those words but reincarnated that tender love for little children, for the young and weak, which in the past had made him desert his son for her tiny self, and now, as the cycle rolled, was taking him from her. but he began to get alarmed at her silence, and asked impatiently: "well, what do you say?" june slid down to his knee, and she in her turn began her tale. she thought it would all go splendidly; she did not see any difficulty, and she did not care a bit what people thought. old jolyon wriggled. h'm! then people would think! he had thought that after all these years perhaps they wouldn't! well, he couldn't help it! nevertheless, he could not approve of his granddaughter's way of putting it--she ought to mind what people thought! yet he said nothing. his feelings were too mixed, too inconsistent for expression. no--went on june he did not care; what business was it of theirs? there was only one thing--and with her cheek pressing against his knee, old jolyon knew at once that this something was no trifle: as he was going to buy a house in the country, would he not--to please her--buy that splendid house of soames' at robin hill? it was finished, it was perfectly beautiful, and no one would live in it now. they would all be so happy there. old jolyon was on the alert at once. wasn't the 'man of property' going to live in his new house, then? he never alluded to soames now but under this title. "no"--june said--"he was not; she knew that he was not!" how did she know? she could not tell him, but she knew. she knew nearly for certain! it was most unlikely; circumstances had changed! irene's words still rang in her head: "i have left soames. where should i go?" but she kept silence about that. if her grandfather would only buy it and settle that wretched claim that ought never to have been made on phil! it would be the very best thing for everybody, and everything--everything might come straight. and june put her lips to his forehead, and pressed them close. but old jolyon freed himself from her caress, his face wore the judicial look which came upon it when he dealt with affairs. he asked: what did she mean? there was something behind all this--had she been seeing bosinney? june answered: "no; but i have been to his rooms." "been to his rooms? who took you there?" june faced him steadily. "i went alone. he has lost that case. i don't care whether it was right or wrong. i want to help him; and i will!" old jolyon asked again: "have you seen him?" his glance seemed to pierce right through the girl's eyes into her soul. again june answered: "no; he was not there. i waited, but he did not come." old jolyon made a movement of relief. she had risen and looked down at him; so slight, and light, and young, but so fixed, and so determined; and disturbed, vexed, as he was, he could not frown away that fixed look. the feeling of being beaten, of the reins having slipped, of being old and tired, mastered him. "ah!" he said at last, "you'll get yourself into a mess one of these days, i can see. you want your own way in everything." visited by one of his strange bursts of philosophy, he added: "like that you were born; and like that you'll stay until you die!" and he, who in his dealings with men of business, with boards, with forsytes of all descriptions, with such as were not forsytes, had always had his own way, looked at his indomitable grandchild sadly--for he felt in her that quality which above all others he unconsciously admired. "do you know what they say is going on?" he said slowly. june crimsoned. "yes--no! i know--and i don't know--i don't care!" and she stamped her foot. "i believe," said old jolyon, dropping his eyes, "that you'd have him if he were dead!" there was a long silence before he spoke again. "but as to buying this house--you don't know what you're talking about!" june said that she did. she knew that he could get it if he wanted. he would only have to give what it cost. "what it cost! you know nothing about it. i won't go to soames--i'll have nothing more to do with that young man." "but you needn't; you can go to uncle james. if you can't buy the house, will you pay his lawsuit claim? i know he is terribly hard up--i've seen it. you can stop it out of my money!" a twinkle came into old jolyon's eyes. "stop it out of your money! a pretty way. and what will you do, pray, without your money?" but secretly, the idea of wresting the house from james and his son had begun to take hold of him. he had heard on forsyte 'change much comment, much rather doubtful praise of this house. it was 'too artistic,' but a fine place. to take from the 'man of property' that on which he had set his heart, would be a crowning triumph over james, practical proof that he was going to make a man of property of jo, to put him back in his proper position, and there to keep him secure. justice once for all on those who had chosen to regard his son as a poor, penniless outcast. he would see, he would see! it might be out of the question; he was not going to pay a fancy price, but if it could be done, why, perhaps he would do it! and still more secretly he knew that he could not refuse her. but he did not commit himself. he would think it over--he said to june. chapter viii bosinney's departure old jolyon was not given to hasty decisions; it is probable that he would have continued to think over the purchase of the house at robin hill, had not june's face told him that he would have no peace until he acted. at breakfast next morning she asked him what time she should order the carriage. "carriage!" he said, with some appearance of innocence; "what for? i'm not going out!" she answered: "if you don't go early, you won't catch uncle james before he goes into the city." "james! what about your uncle james?" "the house," she replied, in such a voice that he no longer pretended ignorance. "i've not made up my mind," he said. "you must! you must! oh! gran--think of me!" old jolyon grumbled out: "think of you--i'm always thinking of you, but you don't think of yourself; you don't think what you're letting yourself in for. well, order the carriage at ten!" at a quarter past he was placing his umbrella in the stand at park lane--he did not choose to relinquish his hat and coat; telling warmson that he wanted to see his master, he went, without being announced, into the study, and sat down. james was still in the dining-room talking to soames, who had come round again before breakfast. on hearing who his visitor was, he muttered nervously: "now, what's he want, i wonder?" he then got up. "well," he said to soames, "don't you go doing anything in a hurry. the first thing is to find out where she is--i should go to stainer's about it; they're the best men, if they can't find her, nobody can." and suddenly moved to strange softness, he muttered to himself, "poor little thing, i can't tell what she was thinking about!" and went out blowing his nose. old jolyon did not rise on seeing his brother, but held out his hand, and exchanged with him the clasp of a forsyte. james took another chair by the table, and leaned his head on his hand. "well," he said, "how are you? we don't see much of you nowadays!" old jolyon paid no attention to the remark. "how's emily?" he asked; and waiting for no reply, went on "i've come to see you about this affair of young bosinney's. i'm told that new house of his is a white elephant." "i don't know anything about a white elephant," said james, "i know he's lost his case, and i should say he'll go bankrupt." old jolyon was not slow to seize the opportunity this gave him. "i shouldn't wonder a bit!" he agreed; "and if he goes bankrupt, the 'man of property'--that is, soames'll be out of pocket. now, what i was thinking was this: if he's not going to live there...." seeing both surprise and suspicion in james' eye, he quickly went on: "i don't want to know anything; i suppose irene's put her foot down--it's not material to me. but i'm thinking of a house in the country myself, not too far from london, and if it suited me i don't say that i mightn't look at it, at a price." james listened to this statement with a strange mixture of doubt, suspicion, and relief, merging into a dread of something behind, and tinged with the remains of his old undoubted reliance upon his elder brother's good faith and judgment. there was anxiety, too, as to what old jolyon could have heard and how he had heard it; and a sort of hopefulness arising from the thought that if june's connection with bosinney were completely at an end, her grandfather would hardly seem anxious to help the young fellow. altogether he was puzzled; as he did not like either to show this, or to commit himself in any way, he said: "they tell me you're altering your will in favour of your son." he had not been told this; he had merely added the fact of having seen old jolyon with his son and grandchildren to the fact that he had taken his will away from forsyte, bustard and forsyte. the shot went home. "who told you that?" asked old jolyon. "i'm sure i don't know," said james; "i can't remember names--i know somebody told me soames spent a lot of money on this house; he's not likely to part with it except at a good price." "well," said old jolyon, "if, he thinks i'm going to pay a fancy price, he's mistaken. i've not got the money to throw away that he seems to have. let him try and sell it at a forced sale, and see what he'll get. it's not every man's house, i hear!" james, who was secretly also of this opinion, answered: "it's a gentleman's house. soames is here now if you'd like to see him." "no," said old jolyon, "i haven't got as far as that; and i'm not likely to, i can see that very well if i'm met in this manner!" james was a little cowed; when it came to the actual figures of a commercial transaction he was sure of himself, for then he was dealing with facts, not with men; but preliminary negotiations such as these made him nervous--he never knew quite how far he could go. "well," he said, "i know nothing about it. soames, he tells me nothing; i should think he'd entertain it--it's a question of price." "oh!" said old jolyon, "don't let him make a favour of it!" he placed his hat on his head in dudgeon. the door was opened and soames came in. "there's a policeman out here," he said with his half smile, "for uncle jolyon." old jolyon looked at him angrily, and james said: "a policeman? i don't know anything about a policeman. but i suppose you know something about him," he added to old jolyon with a look of suspicion: "i suppose you'd better see him!" in the hall an inspector of police stood stolidly regarding with heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes the fine old english furniture picked up by james at the famous mavrojano sale in portman square. "you'll find my brother in there," said james. the inspector raised his fingers respectfully to his peaked cap, and entered the study. james saw him go in with a strange sensation. "well," he said to soames, "i suppose we must wait and see what he wants. your uncle's been here about the house!" he returned with soames into the dining-room, but could not rest. "now what does he want?" he murmured again. "who?" replied soames: "the inspector? they sent him round from stanhope gate, that's all i know. that 'nonconformist' of uncle jolyon's has been pilfering, i shouldn't wonder!" but in spite of his calmness, he too was ill at ease. at the end of ten minutes old jolyon came in. he walked up to the table, and stood there perfectly silent pulling at his long white moustaches. james gazed up at him with opening mouth; he had never seen his brother look like this. old jolyon raised his hand, and said slowly: "young bosinney has been run over in the fog and killed." then standing above his brother and his nephew, and looking down at him with his deep eyes: "there's--some--talk--of--suicide," he said. james' jaw dropped. "suicide! what should he do that for?" old jolyon answered sternly: "god knows, if you and your son don't!" but james did not reply. for all men of great age, even for all forsytes, life has had bitter experiences. the passer-by, who sees them wrapped in cloaks of custom, wealth, and comfort, would never suspect that such black shadows had fallen on their roads. to every man of great age--to sir walter bentham himself--the idea of suicide has once at least been present in the ante-room of his soul; on the threshold, waiting to enter, held out from the inmost chamber by some chance reality, some vague fear, some painful hope. to forsytes that final renunciation of property is hard. oh! it is hard! seldom--perhaps never--can they achieve, it; and yet, how near have they not sometimes been! so even with james! then in the medley of his thoughts, he broke out: "why i saw it in the paper yesterday: 'run over in the fog!' they didn't know his name!" he turned from one face to the other in his confusion of soul; but instinctively all the time he was rejecting that rumour of suicide. he dared not entertain this thought, so against his interest, against the interest of his son, of every forsyte. he strove against it; and as his nature ever unconsciously rejected that which it could not with safety accept, so gradually he overcame this fear. it was an accident! it must have been! old jolyon broke in on his reverie. "death was instantaneous. he lay all day yesterday at the hospital. there was nothing to tell them who he was. i am going there now; you and your son had better come too." no one opposing this command he led the way from the room. the day was still and clear and bright, and driving over to park lane from stanhope gate, old jolyon had had the carriage open. sitting back on the padded cushions, finishing his cigar, he had noticed with pleasure the keen crispness of the air, the bustle of the cabs and people; the strange, almost parisian, alacrity that the first fine day will bring into london streets after a spell of fog or rain. and he had felt so happy; he had not felt like it for months. his confession to june was off his mind; he had the prospect of his son's, above all, of his grandchildren's company in the future--(he had appointed to meet young jolyon at the hotch potch that very manning to--discuss it again); and there was the pleasurable excitement of a coming encounter, a coming victory, over james and the 'man of property' in the matter of the house. he had the carriage closed now; he had no heart to look on gaiety; nor was it right that forsytes should be seen driving with an inspector of police. in that carriage the inspector spoke again of the death: "it was not so very thick--just there. the driver says the gentleman must have had time to see what he was about, he seemed to walk right into it. it appears that he was very hard up, we found several pawn tickets at his rooms, his account at the bank is overdrawn, and there's this case in to-day's papers;" his cold blue eyes travelled from one to another of the three forsytes in the carriage. old jolyon watching from his corner saw his brother's face change, and the brooding, worried, look deepen on it. at the inspector's words, indeed, all james' doubts and fears revived. hard-up--pawn-tickets--an overdrawn account! these words that had all his life been a far-off nightmare to him, seemed to make uncannily real that suspicion of suicide which must on no account be entertained. he sought his son's eye; but lynx-eyed, taciturn, immovable, soames gave no answering look. and to old jolyon watching, divining the league of mutual defence between them, there came an overmastering desire to have his own son at his side, as though this visit to the dead man's body was a battle in which otherwise he must single-handed meet those two. and the thought of how to keep june's name out of the business kept whirring in his brain. james had his son to support him! why should he not send for jo? taking out his card-case, he pencilled the following message: 'come round at once. i've sent the carriage for you.' on getting out he gave this card to his coachman, telling him to drive--as fast as possible to the hotch potch club, and if mr. jolyon forsyte were there to give him the card and bring him at once. if not there yet, he was to wait till he came. he followed the others slowly up the steps, leaning on his umbrella, and stood a moment to get his breath. the inspector said: "this is the mortuary, sir. but take your time." in the bare, white-walled room, empty of all but a streak of sunshine smeared along the dustless floor, lay a form covered by a sheet. with a huge steady hand the inspector took the hem and turned it back. a sightless face gazed up at them, and on either side of that sightless defiant face the three forsytes gazed down; in each one of them the secret emotions, fears, and pity of his own nature rose and fell like the rising, falling waves of life, whose wish those white walls barred out now for ever from bosinney. and in each one of them the trend of his nature, the odd essential spring, which moved him in fashions minutely, unalterably different from those of every other human being, forced him to a different attitude of thought. far from the others, yet inscrutably close, each stood thus, alone with death, silent, his eyes lowered. the inspector asked softly: "you identify the gentleman, sir?" old jolyon raised his head and nodded. he looked at his brother opposite, at that long lean figure brooding over the dead man, with face dusky red, and strained grey eyes; and at the figure of soames white and still by his father's side. and all that he had felt against those two was gone like smoke in the long white presence of death. whence comes it, how comes it--death? sudden reverse of all that goes before; blind setting forth on a path that leads to where? dark quenching of the fire! the heavy, brutal crushing--out that all men must go through, keeping their eyes clear and brave unto the end! small and of no import, insects though they are! and across old jolyon's face there flitted a gleam, for soames, murmuring to the inspector, crept noiselessly away. then suddenly james raised his eyes. there was a queer appeal in that suspicious troubled look: "i know i'm no match for you," it seemed to say. and, hunting for handkerchief he wiped his brow; then, bending sorrowful and lank over the dead man, he too turned and hurried out. old jolyon stood, still as death, his eyes fixed on the body. who shall tell of what he was thinking? of himself, when his hair was brown like the hair of that young fellow dead before him? of himself, with his battle just beginning, the long, long battle he had loved; the battle that was over for this young man almost before it had begun? of his grand-daughter, with her broken hopes? of that other woman? of the strangeness, and the pity of it? and the irony, inscrutable, and bitter of that end? justice! there was no justice for men, for they were ever in the dark! or perhaps in his philosophy he thought: better to be out of, it all! better to have done with it, like this poor youth.... some one touched him on the arm. a tear started up and wetted his eyelash. "well," he said, "i'm no good here. i'd better be going. you'll come to me as soon as you can, jo," and with his head bowed he went away. it was young jolyon's turn to take his stand beside the dead man, round whose fallen body he seemed to see all the forsytes breathless, and prostrated. the stroke had fallen too swiftly. the forces underlying every tragedy--forces that take no denial, working through cross currents to their ironical end, had met and fused with a thunder-clap, flung out the victim, and flattened to the ground all those that stood around. or so at all events young jolyon seemed to see them, lying around bosinney's body. he asked the inspector to tell him what had happened, and the latter, like a man who does not every day get such a chance, again detailed such facts as were known. "there's more here, sir, however," he said, "than meets the eye. i don't believe in suicide, nor in pure accident, myself. it's more likely i think that he was suffering under great stress of mind, and took no notice of things about him. perhaps you can throw some light on these." he took from his pocket a little packet and laid it on the table. carefully undoing it, he revealed a lady's handkerchief, pinned through the folds with a pin of discoloured venetian gold, the stone of which had fallen from the socket. a scent of dried violets rose to young jolyon's nostrils. "found in his breast pocket," said the inspector; "the name has been cut away!" young jolyon with difficulty answered: "i'm afraid i cannot help you!" but vividly there rose before him the face he had seen light up, so tremulous and glad, at bosinney's coming! of her he thought more than of his own daughter, more than of them all--of her with the dark, soft glance, the delicate passive face, waiting for the dead man, waiting even at that moment, perhaps, still and patient in the sunlight. he walked sorrowfully away from the hospital towards his father's house, reflecting that this death would break up the forsyte family. the stroke had indeed slipped past their defences into the very wood of their tree. they might flourish to all appearance as before, preserving a brave show before the eyes of london, but the trunk was dead, withered by the same flash that had stricken down bosinney. and now the saplings would take its place, each one a new custodian of the sense of property. good forest of forsytes! thought young jolyon--soundest timber of our land! concerning the cause of this death--his family would doubtless reject with vigour the suspicion of suicide, which was so compromising! they would take it as an accident, a stroke of fate. in their hearts they would even feel it an intervention of providence, a retribution--had not bosinney endangered their two most priceless possessions, the pocket and the hearth? and they would talk of 'that unfortunate accident of young bosinney's,' but perhaps they would not talk--silence might be better! as for himself, he regarded the bus-driver's account of the accident as of very little value. for no one so madly in love committed suicide for want of money; nor was bosinney the sort of fellow to set much store by a financial crisis. and so he too rejected this theory of suicide, the dead man's face rose too clearly before him. gone in the heyday of his summer--and to believe thus that an accident had cut bosinney off in the full sweep of his passion was more than ever pitiful to young jolyon. then came a vision of soames' home as it now was, and must be hereafter. the streak of lightning had flashed its clear uncanny gleam on bare bones with grinning spaces between, the disguising flesh was gone.... in the dining-room at stanhope gate old jolyon was sitting alone when his son came in. he looked very wan in his great armchair. and his eyes travelling round the walls with their pictures of still life, and the masterpiece 'dutch fishing-boats at sunset' seemed as though passing their gaze over his life with its hopes, its gains, its achievements. "ah! jo!" he said, "is that you? i've told poor little june. but that's not all of it. are you going to soames'? she's brought it on herself, i suppose; but somehow i can't bear to think of her, shut up there--and all alone." and holding up his thin, veined hand, he clenched it. chapter ix irene's return after leaving james and old jolyon in the mortuary of the hospital, soames hurried aimlessly along the streets. the tragic event of bosinney's death altered the complexion of everything. there was no longer the same feeling that to lose a minute would be fatal, nor would he now risk communicating the fact of his wife's flight to anyone till the inquest was over. that morning he had risen early, before the postman came, had taken the first-post letters from the box himself, and, though there had been none from irene, he had made an opportunity of telling bilson that her mistress was at the sea; he would probably, he said, be going down himself from saturday to monday. this had given him time to breathe, time to leave no stone unturned to find her. but now, cut off from taking steps by bosinney's death--that strange death, to think of which was like putting a hot iron to his heart, like lifting a great weight from it--he did not know how to pass his day; and he wandered here and there through the streets, looking at every face he met, devoured by a hundred anxieties. and as he wandered, he thought of him who had finished his wandering, his prowling, and would never haunt his house again. already in the afternoon he passed posters announcing the identity of the dead man, and bought the papers to see what they said. he would stop their mouths if he could, and he went into the city, and was closeted with boulter for a long time. on his way home, passing the steps of jobson's about half past four, he met george forsyte, who held out an evening paper to soames, saying: "here! have you seen this about the poor buccaneer?" soames answered stonily: "yes." george stared at him. he had never liked soames; he now held him responsible for bosinney's death. soames had done for him--done for him by that act of property that had sent the buccaneer to run amok that fatal afternoon. 'the poor fellow,' he was thinking, 'was so cracked with jealousy, so cracked for his vengeance, that he heard nothing of the omnibus in that infernal fog.' soames had done for him! and this judgment was in george's eyes. "they talk of suicide here," he said at last. "that cat won't jump." soames shook his head. "an accident," he muttered. clenching his fist on the paper, george crammed it into his pocket. he could not resist a parting shot. "h'mm! all flourishing at home? any little soameses yet?" with a face as white as the steps of jobson's, and a lip raised as if snarling, soames brushed past him and was gone.... on reaching home, and entering the little lighted hall with his latchkey, the first thing that caught his eye was his wife's gold-mounted umbrella lying on the rug chest. flinging off his fur coat, he hurried to the drawing-room. the curtains were drawn for the night, a bright fire of cedar-logs burned in the grate, and by its light he saw irene sitting in her usual corner on the sofa. he shut the door softly, and went towards her. she did not move, and did not seem to see him. "so you've come back?" he said. "why are you sitting here in the dark?" then he caught sight of her face, so white and motionless that it seemed as though the blood must have stopped flowing in her veins; and her eyes, that looked enormous, like the great, wide, startled brown eyes of an owl. huddled in her grey fur against the sofa cushions, she had a strange resemblance to a captive owl, bunched fir its soft feathers against the wires of a cage. the supple erectness of her figure was gone, as though she had been broken by cruel exercise; as though there were no longer any reason for being beautiful, and supple, and erect. "so you've come back," he repeated. she never looked up, and never spoke, the firelight playing over her motionless figure. suddenly she tried to rise, but he prevented her; it was then that he understood. she had come back like an animal wounded to death, not knowing where to turn, not knowing what she was doing. the sight of her figure, huddled in the fur, was enough. he knew then for certain that bosinney had been her lover; knew that she had seen the report of his death--perhaps, like himself, had bought a paper at the draughty corner of a street, and read it. she had come back then of her own accord, to the cage she had pined to be free of--and taking in all the tremendous significance of this, he longed to cry: "take your hated body, that i love, out of my house! take away that pitiful white face, so cruel and soft--before i crush it. get out of my sight; never let me see you again!" and, at those unspoken words, he seemed to see her rise and move away, like a woman in a terrible dream, from which she was fighting to awake--rise and go out into the dark and cold, without a thought of him, without so much as the knowledge of his presence. then he cried, contradicting what he had not yet spoken, "no; stay there!" and turning away from her, he sat down in his accustomed chair on the other side of the hearth. they sat in silence. and soames thought: 'why is all this? why should i suffer so? what have i done? it is not my fault!' again he looked at her, huddled like a bird that is shot and dying, whose poor breast you see panting as the air is taken from it, whose poor eyes look at you who have shot it, with a slow, soft, unseeing look, taking farewell of all that is good--of the sun, and the air, and its mate. so they sat, by the firelight, in the silence, one on each side of the hearth. and the fume of the burning cedar logs, that he loved so well, seemed to grip soames by the throat till he could bear it no longer. and going out into the hall he flung the door wide, to gulp down the cold air that came in; then without hat or overcoat went out into the square. along the garden rails a half-starved cat came rubbing her way towards him, and soames thought: 'suffering! when will it cease, my suffering?' at a front door across the way was a man of his acquaintance named rutter, scraping his boots, with an air of 'i am master here.' and soames walked on. from far in the clear air the bells of the church where he and irene had been married were pealing in 'practice' for the advent of christ, the chimes ringing out above the sound of traffic. he felt a craving for strong drink, to lull him to indifference, or rouse him to fury. if only he could burst out of himself, out of this web that for the first time in his life he felt around him. if only he could surrender to the thought: 'divorce her--turn her out! she has forgotten you. forget her!' if only he could surrender to the thought: 'let her go--she has suffered enough!' if only he could surrender to the desire: 'make a slave of her--she is in your power!' if only even he could surrender to the sudden vision: 'what does it all matter?' forget himself for a minute, forget that it mattered what he did, forget that whatever he did he must sacrifice something. if only he could act on an impulse! he could forget nothing; surrender to no thought, vision, or desire; it was all too serious; too close around him, an unbreakable cage. on the far side of the square newspaper boys were calling their evening wares, and the ghoulish cries mingled and jangled with the sound of those church bells. soames covered his ears. the thought flashed across him that but for a chance, he himself, and not bosinney, might be lying dead, and she, instead of crouching there like a shot bird with those dying eyes.... something soft touched his legs, the cat was rubbing herself against them. and a sob that shook him from head to foot burst from soames' chest. then all was still again in the dark, where the houses seemed to stare at him, each with a master and mistress of its own, and a secret story of happiness or sorrow. and suddenly he saw that his own door was open, and black against the light from the hall a man standing with his back turned. something slid too in his breast, and he stole up close behind. he could see his own fur coat flung across the carved oak chair; the persian rugs; the silver bowls, the rows of porcelain plates arranged along the walls, and this unknown man who was standing there. and sharply he asked: "what is it you want, sir?" the visitor turned. it was young jolyon. "the door was open," he said. "might i see your wife for a minute, i have a message for her?" soames gave him a strange, sidelong stare. "my wife can see no one," he muttered doggedly. young jolyon answered gently: "i shouldn't keep her a minute." soames brushed by him and barred the way. "she can see no one," he said again. young jolyon's glance shot past him into the hall, and soames turned. there in the drawing-room doorway stood irene, her eyes were wild and eager, her lips were parted, her hands outstretched. in the sight of both men that light vanished from her face; her hands dropped to her sides; she stood like stone. soames spun round, and met his visitor's eyes, and at the look he saw in them, a sound like a snarl escaped him. he drew his lips back in the ghost of a smile. "this is my house," he said; "i manage my own affairs. i've told you once--i tell you again; we are not at home." and in young jolyon's face he slammed the door. the forsyte saga by john galsworthy part contents: indian summer of a forsyte in chancery to andre chevrillon indian summer of a forsyte "and summer's lease hath all too short a date." --shakespeare i in the last day of may in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the evening, old jolyon forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace of his house at robin hill. he was waiting for the midges to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. his thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering, long-nailed fingers--a pointed polished nail had survived with him from those earlier victorian days when to touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so distinguished. his domed forehead, great white moustache, lean cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering sunshine by an old brown panama hat. his legs were crossed; in all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man who every morning put eau de cologne upon his silk handkerchief. at his feet lay a woolly brown-and-white dog trying to be a pomeranian--the dog balthasar between whom and old jolyon primal aversion had changed into attachment with the years. close to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was seated one of holly's dolls--called 'duffer alice'--with her body fallen over her legs and her doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. she was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. below the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to the pond, the coppice, and the prospect--'fine, remarkable'--at which swithin forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five years ago when he drove down with irene to look at the house. old jolyon had heard of his brother's exploit--that drive which had become quite celebrated on forsyte 'change. swithin! and the fellow had gone and died, last november, at the age of only seventy-nine, renewing the doubt whether forsytes could live for ever, which had first arisen when aunt ann passed away. died! and left only jolyon and james, roger and nicholas and timothy, julia, hester, susan! and old jolyon thought: 'eighty-five! i don't feel it--except when i get that pain.' his memory went searching. he had not felt his age since he had bought his nephew soames' ill-starred house and settled into it here at robin hill over three years ago. it was as if he had been getting younger every spring, living in the country with his son and his grandchildren--june, and the little ones of the second marriage, jolly and holly; living down here out of the racket of london and the cackle of forsyte 'change,' free of his boards, in a delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of occupation in the perfecting and mellowing of the house and its twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of holly and jolly. all the knots and crankiness, which had gathered in his heart during that long and tragic business of june, soames, irene his wife, and poor young bosinney, had been smoothed out. even june had thrown off her melancholy at last--witness this travel in spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. curiously perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, yet blank, because his son was not there. jo was never anything but a comfort and a pleasure to him nowadays--an amiable chap; but women, somehow--even the best--got a little on one's nerves, unless of course one admired them. far-off a cuckoo called; a wood-pigeon was cooing from the first elm-tree in the field, and how the daisies and buttercups had sprung up after the last mowing! the wind had got into the sou' west, too--a delicious air, sappy! he pushed his hat back and let the sun fall on his chin and cheek. somehow, to-day, he wanted company--wanted a pretty face to look at. people treated the old as if they wanted nothing. and with the un-forsytean philosophy which ever intruded on his soul, he thought: 'one's never had enough. with a foot in the grave one'll want something, i shouldn't be surprised!' down here--away from the exigencies of affairs--his grandchildren, and the flowers, trees, birds of his little domain, to say nothing of sun and moon and stars above them, said, 'open, sesame,' to him day and night. and sesame had opened--how much, perhaps, he did not know. he had always been responsive to what they had begun to call 'nature,' genuinely, almost religiously responsive, though he had never lost his habit of calling a sunset a sunset and a view a view, however deeply they might move him. but nowadays nature actually made him ache, he appreciated it so. every one of these calm, bright, lengthening days, with holly's hand in his, and the dog balthasar in front looking studiously for what he never found, he would stroll, watching the roses open, fruit budding on the walls, sunlight brightening the oak leaves and saplings in the coppice, watching the water-lily leaves unfold and glisten, and the silvery young corn of the one wheat field; listening to the starlings and skylarks, and the alderney cows chewing the cud, flicking slow their tufted tails; and every one of these fine days he ached a little from sheer love of it all, feeling perhaps, deep down, that he had not very much longer to enjoy it. the thought that some day--perhaps not ten years hence, perhaps not five--all this world would be taken away from him, before he had exhausted his powers of loving it, seemed to him in the nature of an injustice brooding over his horizon. if anything came after this life, it wouldn't be what he wanted; not robin hill, and flowers and birds and pretty faces--too few, even now, of those about him! with the years his dislike of humbug had increased; the orthodoxy he had worn in the 'sixties, as he had worn side-whiskers out of sheer exuberance, had long dropped off, leaving him reverent before three things alone--beauty, upright conduct, and the sense of property; and the greatest of these now was beauty. he had always had wide interests, and, indeed could still read the times, but he was liable at any moment to put it down if he heard a blackbird sing. upright conduct, property--somehow, they were tiring; the blackbirds and the sunsets never tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he could not get enough of them. staring into the stilly radiance of the early evening and at the little gold and white flowers on the lawn, a thought came to him: this weather was like the music of 'orfeo,' which he had recently heard at covent garden. a beautiful opera, not like meyerbeer, nor even quite mozart, but, in its way, perhaps even more lovely; something classical and of the golden age about it, chaste and mellow, and the ravogli 'almost worthy of the old days'--highest praise he could bestow. the yearning of orpheus for the beauty he was losing, for his love going down to hades, as in life love and beauty did go--the yearning which sang and throbbed through the golden music, stirred also in the lingering beauty of the world that evening. and with the tip of his cork-soled, elastic-sided boot he involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog balthasar, causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade him of the fact. when he had finished he rubbed the place he had been scratching against his master's calf, and settled down again with his chin over the instep of the disturbing boot. and into old jolyon's mind came a sudden recollection--a face he had seen at that opera three weeks ago--irene, the wife of his precious nephew soames, that man of property! though he had not met her since the day of the 'at home' in his old house at stanhope gate, which celebrated his granddaughter june's ill-starred engagement to young bosinney, he had remembered her at once, for he had always admired her--a very pretty creature. after the death of young bosinney, whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that she had left soames at once. goodness only knew what she had been doing since. that sight of her face--a side view--in the row in front, had been literally the only reminder these three years that she was still alive. no one ever spoke of her. and yet jo had told him something once--something which had upset him completely. the boy had got it from george forsyte, he believed, who had seen bosinney in the fog the day he was run over--something which explained the young fellow's distress--an act of soames towards his wife--a shocking act. jo had seen her, too, that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his description had always lingered in old jolyon's mind--'wild and lost' he had called her. and next day june had gone there--bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished. a tragic business altogether! one thing was certain--soames had never been able to lay hands on her again. and he was living at brighton, and journeying up and down--a fitting fate, the man of property! for when he once took a dislike to anyone--as he had to his nephew--old jolyon never got over it. he remembered still the sense of relief with which he had heard the news of irene's disappearance. it had been shocking to think of her a prisoner in that house to which she must have wandered back, when jo saw her, wandered back for a moment--like a wounded animal to its hole after seeing that news, 'tragic death of an architect,' in the street. her face had struck him very much the other night--more beautiful than he had remembered, but like a mask, with something going on beneath it. a young woman still--twenty-eight perhaps. ah, well! very likely she had another lover by now. but at this subversive thought--for married women should never love: once, even, had been too much--his instep rose, and with it the dog balthasar's head. the sagacious animal stood up and looked into old jolyon's face. 'walk?' he seemed to say; and old jolyon answered: "come on, old chap!" slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations of buttercups and daisies, and entered the fernery. this feature, where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below the level of the lawn so that it might come up again on the level of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity, so important in horticulture. its rocks and earth were beloved of the dog balthasar, who sometimes found a mole there. old jolyon made a point of passing through it because, though it was not beautiful, he intended that it should be, some day, and he would think: 'i must get varr to come down and look at it; he's better than beech.' for plants, like houses and human complaints, required the best expert consideration. it was inhabited by snails, and if accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point to one and tell them the story of the little boy who said: 'have plummers got leggers, mother? 'no, sonny.' 'then darned if i haven't been and swallowed a snileybob.' and when they skipped and clutched his hand, thinking of the snileybob going down the little boy's 'red lane,' his eyes would twinkle. emerging from the fernery, he opened the wicket gate, which just there led into the first field, a large and park-like area, out of which, within brick walls, the vegetable garden had been carved. old jolyon avoided this, which did not suit his mood, and made down the hill towards the pond. balthasar, who knew a water-rat or two, gambolled in front, at the gait which marks an oldish dog who takes the same walk every day. arrived at the edge, old jolyon stood, noting another water-lily opened since yesterday; he would show it to holly to-morrow, when 'his little sweet' had got over the upset which had followed on her eating a tomato at lunch--her little arrangements were very delicate. now that jolly had gone to school--his first term--holly was with him nearly all day long, and he missed her badly. he felt that pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at his left side. he looked back up the hill. really, poor young bosinney had made an uncommonly good job of the house; he would have done very well for himself if he had lived! and where was he now? perhaps, still haunting this, the site of his last work, of his tragic love affair. or was philip bosinney's spirit diffused in the general? who could say? that dog was getting his legs muddy! and he moved towards the coppice. there had been the most delightful lot of bluebells, and he knew where some still lingered like little patches of sky fallen in between the trees, away out of the sun. he passed the cow-houses and the hen-houses there installed, and pursued a path into the thick of the saplings, making for one of the bluebell plots. balthasar, preceding him once more, uttered a low growl. old jolyon stirred him with his foot, but the dog remained motionless, just where there was no room to pass, and the hair rose slowly along the centre of his woolly back. whether from the growl and the look of the dog's stivered hair, or from the sensation which a man feels in a wood, old jolyon also felt something move along his spine. and then the path turned, and there was an old mossy log, and on it a woman sitting. her face was turned away, and he had just time to think: 'she's trespassing--i must have a board put up!' before she turned. powers above! the face he had seen at the opera--the very woman he had just been thinking of! in that confused moment he saw things blurred, as if a spirit--queer effect--the slant of sunlight perhaps on her violet-grey frock! and then she rose and stood smiling, her head a little to one side. old jolyon thought: 'how pretty she is!' she did not speak, neither did he; and he realized why with a certain admiration. she was here no doubt because of some memory, and did not mean to try and get out of it by vulgar explanation. "don't let that dog touch your frock," he said; "he's got wet feet. come here, you!" but the dog balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her hand down and stroked his head. old jolyon said quickly: "i saw you at the opera the other night; you didn't notice me." "oh, yes! i did." he felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: 'do you think one could miss seeing you?' "they're all in spain," he remarked abruptly. "i'm alone; i drove up for the opera. the ravogli's good. have you seen the cow-houses?" in a situation so charged with mystery and something very like emotion he moved instinctively towards that bit of property, and she moved beside him. her figure swayed faintly, like the best kind of french figures; her dress, too, was a sort of french grey. he noticed two or three silver threads in her amber-coloured hair, strange hair with those dark eyes of hers, and that creamy-pale face. a sudden sidelong look from the velvety brown eyes disturbed him. it seemed to come from deep and far, from another world almost, or at all events from some one not living very much in this. and he said mechanically: "where are you living now?" "i have a little flat in chelsea." he did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear anything; but the perverse word came out: "alone?" she nodded. it was a relief to know that. and it came into his mind that, but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress of this coppice, showing these cow-houses to him, a visitor. "all alderneys," he muttered; "they give the best milk. this one's a pretty creature. woa, myrtle!" the fawn-coloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as irene's own, was standing absolutely still, not having long been milked. she looked round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, cynical eyes, and from her grey lips a little dribble of saliva threaded its way towards the straw. the scent of hay and vanilla and ammonia rose in the dim light of the cool cow-house; and old jolyon said: "you must come up and have some dinner with me. i'll send you home in the carriage." he perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, with her memories. but he wanted her company; a pretty face, a charming figure, beauty! he had been alone all the afternoon. perhaps his eyes were wistful, for she answered: "thank you, uncle jolyon. i should like to." he rubbed his hands, and said: "capital! let's go up, then!" and, preceded by the dog balthasar, they ascended through the field. the sun was almost level in their faces now, and he could see, not only those silver threads, but little lines, just deep enough to stamp her beauty with a coin-like fineness--the special look of life unshared with others. "i'll take her in by the terrace," he thought: "i won't make a common visitor of her." "what do you do all day?" he said. "teach music; i have another interest, too." "work!" said old jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, and smoothing its black petticoat. "nothing like it, is there? i don't do any now. i'm getting on. what interest is that?" "trying to help women who've come to grief." old jolyon did not quite understand. "to grief?" he repeated; then realised with a shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he had used that expression. assisting the magdalenes of london! what a weird and terrifying interest! and, curiosity overcoming his natural shrinking, he asked: "why? what do you do for them?" "not much. i've no money to spare. i can only give sympathy and food sometimes." involuntarily old jolyon's hand sought his purse. he said hastily: "how d'you get hold of them?" "i go to a hospital." "a hospital! phew!" "what hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of beauty." old jolyon straightened the doll. "beauty!" he ejaculated: "ha! yes! a sad business!" and he moved towards the house. through a french window, under sun-blinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her into the room where he was wont to study the times and the sheets of an agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of mangold wurzels, and the like, which provided holly with material for her paint brush. "dinner's in half an hour. you'd like to wash your hands! i'll take you to june's room." he saw her looking round eagerly; what changes since she had last visited this house with her husband, or her lover, or both perhaps--he did not know, could not say! all that was dark, and he wished to leave it so. but what changes! and in the hall he said: "my boy jo's a painter, you know. he's got a lot of taste. it isn't mine, of course, but i've let him have his way." she was standing very still, her eyes roaming through the hall and music room, as it now was--all thrown into one, under the great skylight. old jolyon had an odd impression of her. was she trying to conjure somebody from the shades of that space where the colouring was all pearl-grey and silver? he would have had gold himself; more lively and solid. but jo had french tastes, and it had come out shadowy like that, with an effect as of the fume of cigarettes the chap was always smoking, broken here and there by a little blaze of blue or crimson colour. it was not his dream! mentally he had hung this space with those gold-framed masterpieces of still and stiller life which he had bought in days when quantity was precious. and now where were they? sold for a song! that something which made him, alone among forsytes, move with the times had warned him against the struggle to retain them. but in his study he still had 'dutch fishing boats at sunset.' he began to mount the stairs with her, slowly, for he felt his side. "these are the bathrooms," he said, "and other arrangements. i've had them tiled. the nurseries are along there. and this is jo's and his wife's. they all communicate. but you remember, i expect." irene nodded. they passed on, up the gallery and entered a large room with a small bed, and several windows. "this is mine," he said. the walls were covered with the photographs of children and watercolour sketches, and he added doubtfully: "these are jo's. the view's first-rate. you can see the grand stand at epsom in clear weather." the sun was down now, behind the house, and over the 'prospect' a luminous haze had settled, emanation of the long and prosperous day. few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened, away to a loom of downs. "the country's changing," he said abruptly, "but there it'll be when we're all gone. look at those thrushes--the birds are sweet here in the mornings. i'm glad to have washed my hands of london." her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its mournful look. 'wish i could make her look happy!' he thought. 'a pretty face, but sad!' and taking up his can of hot water he went out into the gallery. "this is june's room," he said, opening the next door and putting the can down; "i think you'll find everything." and closing the door behind her he went back to his own room. brushing his hair with his great ebony brushes, and dabbing his forehead with eau de cologne, he mused. she had come so strangely--a sort of visitation; mysterious, even romantic, as if his desire for company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was which fulfilled that sort of thing. and before the mirror he straightened his still upright figure, passed the brushes over his great white moustache, touched up his eyebrows with eau de cologne, and rang the bell. "i forgot to let them know that i have a lady to dinner with me. let cook do something extra, and tell beacon to have the landau and pair at half-past ten to drive her back to town to-night. is miss holly asleep?" the maid thought not. and old jolyon, passing down the gallery, stole on tiptoe towards the nursery, and opened the door whose hinges he kept specially oiled that he might slip in and out in the evenings without being heard. but holly was asleep, and lay like a miniature madonna, of that type which the old painters could not tell from venus, when they had completed her. her long dark lashes clung to her cheeks; on her face was perfect peace--her little arrangements were evidently all right again. and old jolyon, in the twilight of the room, stood adoring her! it was so charming, solemn, and loving--that little face. he had more than his share of the blessed capacity of living again in the young. they were to him his future life--all of a future life that his fundamental pagan sanity perhaps admitted. there she was with everything before her, and his blood--some of it--in her tiny veins. there she was, his little companion, to be made as happy as ever he could make her, so that she knew nothing but love. his heart swelled, and he went out, stilling the sound of his patent-leather boots. in the corridor an eccentric notion attacked him: to think that children should come to that which irene had told him she was helping! women who were all, once, little things like this one sleeping there! 'i must give her a cheque!' he mused; 'can't bear to think of them!' they had never borne reflecting on, those poor outcasts; wounding too deeply the core of true refinement hidden under layers of conformity to the sense of property--wounding too grievously the deepest thing in him--a love of beauty which could give him, even now, a flutter of the heart, thinking of his evening in the society of a pretty woman. and he went downstairs, through the swinging doors, to the back regions. there, in the wine-cellar, was a hock worth at least two pounds a bottle, a steinberg cabinet, better than any johannisberg that ever went down throat; a wine of perfect bouquet, sweet as a nectarine--nectar indeed! he got a bottle out, handling it like a baby, and holding it level to the light, to look. enshrined in its coat of dust, that mellow coloured, slender-necked bottle gave him deep pleasure. three years to settle down again since the move from town--ought to be in prime condition! thirty-five years ago he had bought it--thank god he had kept his palate, and earned the right to drink it. she would appreciate this; not a spice of acidity in a dozen. he wiped the bottle, drew the cork with his own hands, put his nose down, inhaled its perfume, and went back to the music room. irene was standing by the piano; she had taken off her hat and a lace scarf she had been wearing, so that her gold-coloured hair was visible, and the pallor of her neck. in her grey frock she made a pretty picture for old jolyon, against the rosewood of the piano. he gave her his arm, and solemnly they went. the room, which had been designed to enable twenty-four people to dine in comfort, held now but a little round table. in his present solitude the big dining-table oppressed old jolyon; he had caused it to be removed till his son came back. here in the company of two really good copies of raphael madonnas he was wont to dine alone. it was the only disconsolate hour of his day, this summer weather. he had never been a large eater, like that great chap swithin, or sylvanus heythorp, or anthony thornworthy, those cronies of past times; and to dine alone, overlooked by the madonnas, was to him but a sorrowful occupation, which he got through quickly, that he might come to the more spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar. but this evening was a different matter! his eyes twinkled at her across the little table and he spoke of italy and switzerland, telling her stories of his travels there, and other experiences which he could no longer recount to his son and grand-daughter because they knew them. this fresh audience was precious to him; he had never become one of those old men who ramble round and round the fields of reminiscence. himself quickly fatigued by the insensitive, he instinctively avoided fatiguing others, and his natural flirtatiousness towards beauty guarded him specially in his relations with a woman. he would have liked to draw her out, but though she murmured and smiled and seemed to be enjoying what he told her, he remained conscious of that mysterious remoteness which constituted half her fascination. he could not bear women who threw their shoulders and eyes at you, and chattered away; or hard-mouthed women who laid down the law and knew more than you did. there was only one quality in a woman that appealed to him--charm; and the quieter it was, the more he liked it. and this one had charm, shadowy as afternoon sunlight on those italian hills and valleys he had loved. the feeling, too, that she was, as it were, apart, cloistered, made her seem nearer to himself, a strangely desirable companion. when a man is very old and quite out of the running, he loves to feel secure from the rivalries of youth, for he would still be first in the heart of beauty. and he drank his hock, and watched her lips, and felt nearly young. but the dog balthasar lay watching her lips too, and despising in his heart the interruptions of their talk, and the tilting of those greenish glasses full of a golden fluid which was distasteful to him. the light was just failing when they went back into the music-room. and, cigar in mouth, old jolyon said: "play me some chopin." by the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the texture of men's souls. old jolyon could not bear a strong cigar or wagner's music. he loved beethoven and mozart, handel and gluck, and schumann, and, for some occult reason, the operas of meyerbeer; but of late years he had been seduced by chopin, just as in painting he had succumbed to botticelli. in yielding to these tastes he had been conscious of divergence from the standard of the golden age. their poetry was not that of milton and byron and tennyson; of raphael and titian; mozart and beethoven. it was, as it were, behind a veil; their poetry hit no one in the face, but slipped its fingers under the ribs and turned and twisted, and melted up the heart. and, never certain that this was healthy, he did not care a rap so long as he could see the pictures of the one or hear the music of the other. irene sat down at the piano under the electric lamp festooned with pearl-grey, and old jolyon, in an armchair, whence he could see her, crossed his legs and drew slowly at his cigar. she sat a few moments with her hands on the keys, evidently searching her mind for what to give him. then she began and within old jolyon there arose a sorrowful pleasure, not quite like anything else in the world. he fell slowly into a trance, interrupted only by the movements of taking the cigar out of his mouth at long intervals, and replacing it. she was there, and the hock within him, and the scent of tobacco; but there, too, was a world of sunshine lingering into moonlight, and pools with storks upon them, and bluish trees above, glowing with blurs of wine-red roses, and fields of lavender where milk-white cows were grazing, and a woman all shadowy, with dark eyes and a white neck, smiled, holding out her arms; and through air which was like music a star dropped and was caught on a cow's horn. he opened his eyes. beautiful piece; she played well--the touch of an angel! and he closed them again. he felt miraculously sad and happy, as one does, standing under a lime-tree in full honey flower. not live one's own life again, but just stand there and bask in the smile of a woman's eyes, and enjoy the bouquet! and he jerked his hand; the dog balthasar had reached up and licked it. "beautiful!" he said: "go on--more chopin!" she began to play again. this time the resemblance between her and 'chopin' struck him. the swaying he had noticed in her walk was in her playing too, and the nocturne she had chosen and the soft darkness of her eyes, the light on her hair, as of moonlight from a golden moon. seductive, yes; but nothing of delilah in her or in that music. a long blue spiral from his cigar ascended and dispersed. 'so we go out!' he thought. 'no more beauty! nothing?' again irene stopped. "would you like some gluck? he used to write his music in a sunlit garden, with a bottle of rhine wine beside him." "ah! yes. let's have 'orfeo.'" round about him now were fields of gold and silver flowers, white forms swaying in the sunlight, bright birds flying to and fro. all was summer. lingering waves of sweetness and regret flooded his soul. some cigar ash dropped, and taking out a silk handkerchief to brush it off, he inhaled a mingled scent as of snuff and eau de cologne. 'ah!' he thought, 'indian summer--that's all!' and he said: "you haven't played me 'che faro.'" she did not answer; did not move. he was conscious of something--some strange upset. suddenly he saw her rise and turn away, and a pang of remorse shot through him. what a clumsy chap! like orpheus, she of course--she too was looking for her lost one in the hall of memory! and disturbed to the heart, he got up from his chair. she had gone to the great window at the far end. gingerly he followed. her hands were folded over her breast; he could just see her cheek, very white. and, quite emotionalized, he said: "there, there, my love!" the words had escaped him mechanically, for they were those he used to holly when she had a pain, but their effect was instantaneously distressing. she raised her arms, covered her face with them, and wept. old jolyon stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age. the passionate shame she seemed feeling at her abandonment, so unlike the control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had never before broken down in the presence of another being. "there, there--there, there!" he murmured, and putting his hand out reverently, touched her. she turned, and leaned the arms which covered her face against him. old jolyon stood very still, keeping one thin hand on her shoulder. let her cry her heart out--it would do her good. and the dog balthasar, puzzled, sat down on his stern to examine them. the window was still open, the curtains had not been drawn, the last of daylight from without mingled with faint intrusion from the lamp within; there was a scent of new-mown grass. with the wisdom of a long life old jolyon did not speak. even grief sobbed itself out in time; only time was good for sorrow--time who saw the passing of each mood, each emotion in turn; time the layer-to-rest. there came into his mind the words: 'as panteth the hart after cooling streams'--but they were of no use to him. then, conscious of a scent of violets, he knew she was drying her eyes. he put his chin forward, pressed his moustache against her forehead, and felt her shake with a quivering of her whole body, as of a tree which shakes itself free of raindrops. she put his hand to her lips, as if saying: "all over now! forgive me!" the kiss filled him with a strange comfort; he led her back to where she had been so upset. and the dog balthasar, following, laid the bone of one of the cutlets they had eaten at their feet. anxious to obliterate the memory of that emotion, he could think of nothing better than china; and moving with her slowly from cabinet to cabinet, he kept taking up bits of dresden and lowestoft and chelsea, turning them round and round with his thin, veined hands, whose skin, faintly freckled, had such an aged look. "i bought this at jobson's," he would say; "cost me thirty pounds. it's very old. that dog leaves his bones all over the place. this old 'ship-bowl' i picked up at the sale when that precious rip, the marquis, came to grief. but you don't remember. here's a nice piece of chelsea. now, what would you say this was?" and he was comforted, feeling that, with her taste, she was taking a real interest in these things; for, after all, nothing better composes the nerves than a doubtful piece of china. when the crunch of the carriage wheels was heard at last, he said: "you must come again; you must come to lunch, then i can show you these by daylight, and my little sweet--she's a dear little thing. this dog seems to have taken a fancy to you." for balthasar, feeling that she was about to leave, was rubbing his side against her leg. going out under the porch with her, he said: "he'll get you up in an hour and a quarter. take this for your protegees," and he slipped a cheque for fifty pounds into her hand. he saw her brightened eyes, and heard her murmur: "oh! uncle jolyon!" and a real throb of pleasure went through him. that meant one or two poor creatures helped a little, and it meant that she would come again. he put his hand in at the window and grasped hers once more. the carriage rolled away. he stood looking at the moon and the shadows of the trees, and thought: 'a sweet night! she......!' generated toc, edit, use, or remove. contents ii iii iv in chancery part chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv part ii chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv part iii chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv ii two days of rain, and summer set in bland and sunny. old jolyon walked and talked with holly. at first he felt taller and full of a new vigour; then he felt restless. almost every afternoon they would enter the coppice, and walk as far as the log. 'well, she's not there!' he would think, 'of course not!' and he would feel a little shorter, and drag his feet walking up the hill home, with his hand clapped to his left side. now and then the thought would move in him: 'did she come--or did i dream it?' and he would stare at space, while the dog balthasar stared at him. of course she would not come again! he opened the letters from spain with less excitement. they were not returning till july; he felt, oddly, that he could bear it. every day at dinner he screwed up his eyes and looked at where she had sat. she was not there, so he unscrewed his eyes again. on the seventh afternoon he thought: 'i must go up and get some boots.' he ordered beacon, and set out. passing from putney towards hyde park he reflected: 'i might as well go to chelsea and see her.' and he called out: "just drive me to where you took that lady the other night." the coachman turned his broad red face, and his juicy lips answered: "the lady in grey, sir?" "yes, the lady in grey." what other ladies were there! stodgy chap! the carriage stopped before a small three-storied block of flats, standing a little back from the river. with a practised eye old jolyon saw that they were cheap. 'i should think about sixty pound a year,' he mused; and entering, he looked at the name-board. the name 'forsyte' was not on it, but against 'first floor, flat c' were the words: 'mrs. irene heron.' ah! she had taken her maiden name again! and somehow this pleased him. he went upstairs slowly, feeling his side a little. he stood a moment, before ringing, to lose the feeling of drag and fluttering there. she would not be in! and then--boots! the thought was black. what did he want with boots at his age? he could not wear out all those he had. "your mistress at home?" "yes, sir." "say mr. jolyon forsyte." "yes, sir, will you come this way?" old jolyon followed a very little maid--not more than sixteen one would say--into a very small drawing-room where the sun-blinds were drawn. it held a cottage piano and little else save a vague fragrance and good taste. he stood in the middle, with his top hat in his hand, and thought: 'i expect she's very badly off!' there was a mirror above the fireplace, and he saw himself reflected. an old-looking chap! he heard a rustle, and turned round. she was so close that his moustache almost brushed her forehead, just under her hair. "i was driving up," he said. "thought i'd look in on you, and ask you how you got up the other night." and, seeing her smile, he felt suddenly relieved. she was really glad to see him, perhaps. "would you like to put on your hat and come for a drive in the park?" but while she was gone to put her hat on, he frowned. the park! james and emily! mrs. nicholas, or some other member of his precious family would be there very likely, prancing up and down. and they would go and wag their tongues about having seen him with her, afterwards. better not! he did not wish to revive the echoes of the past on forsyte 'change. he removed a white hair from the lapel of his closely-buttoned-up frock coat, and passed his hand over his cheeks, moustache, and square chin. it felt very hollow there under the cheekbones. he had not been eating much lately--he had better get that little whippersnapper who attended holly to give him a tonic. but she had come back and when they were in the carriage, he said: "suppose we go and sit in kensington gardens instead?" and added with a twinkle: "no prancing up and down there," as if she had been in the secret of his thoughts. leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and strolled towards the water. "you've gone back to your maiden name, i see," he said: "i'm not sorry." she slipped her hand under his arm: "has june forgiven me, uncle jolyon?" he answered gently: "yes--yes; of course, why not?" "and have you?" "i? i forgave you as soon as i saw how the land really lay." and perhaps he had; his instinct had always been to forgive the beautiful. she drew a deep breath. "i never regretted--i couldn't. did you ever love very deeply, uncle jolyon?" at that strange question old jolyon stared before him. had he? he did not seem to remember that he ever had. but he did not like to say this to the young woman whose hand was touching his arm, whose life was suspended, as it were, by memory of a tragic love. and he thought: 'if i had met you when i was young i--i might have made a fool of myself, perhaps.' and a longing to escape in generalities beset him. "love's a queer thing," he said, "fatal thing often. it was the greeks--wasn't it?--made love into a goddess; they were right, i dare say, but then they lived in the golden age." "phil adored them." phil! the word jarred him, for suddenly--with his power to see all round a thing, he perceived why she was putting up with him like this. she wanted to talk about her lover! well! if it was any pleasure to her! and he said: "ah! there was a bit of the sculptor in him, i fancy." "yes. he loved balance and symmetry; he loved the whole-hearted way the greeks gave themselves to art." balance! the chap had no balance at all, if he remembered; as for symmetry--clean-built enough he was, no doubt; but those queer eyes of his, and high cheek-bones--symmetry? "you're of the golden age, too, uncle jolyon." old jolyon looked round at her. was she chaffing him? no, her eyes were soft as velvet. was she flattering him? but if so, why? there was nothing to be had out of an old chap like him. "phil thought so. he used to say: 'but i can never tell him that i admire him.'" ah! there it was again. her dead lover; her desire to talk of him! and he pressed her arm, half resentful of those memories, half grateful, as if he recognised what a link they were between herself and him. "he was a very talented young fellow," he murmured. "it's hot; i feel the heat nowadays. let's sit down." they took two chairs beneath a chestnut tree whose broad leaves covered them from the peaceful glory of the afternoon. a pleasure to sit there and watch her, and feel that she liked to be with him. and the wish to increase that liking, if he could, made him go on: "i expect he showed you a side of him i never saw. he'd be at his best with you. his ideas of art were a little new--to me "--he had stiffed the word 'fangled.' "yes: but he used to say you had a real sense of beauty." old jolyon thought: 'the devil he did!' but answered with a twinkle: "well, i have, or i shouldn't be sitting here with you." she was fascinating when she smiled with her eyes, like that! "he thought you had one of those hearts that never grow old. phil had real insight." he was not taken in by this flattery spoken out of the past, out of a longing to talk of her dead lover--not a bit; and yet it was precious to hear, because she pleased his eyes and heart which--quite true!--had never grown old. was that because--unlike her and her dead lover, he had never loved to desperation, had always kept his balance, his sense of symmetry. well! it had left him power, at eighty-four, to admire beauty. and he thought, 'if i were a painter or a sculptor! but i'm an old chap. make hay while the sun shines.' a couple with arms entwined crossed on the grass before them, at the edge of the shadow from their tree. the sunlight fell cruelly on their pale, squashed, unkempt young faces. "we're an ugly lot!" said old jolyon suddenly. "it amazes me to see how--love triumphs over that." "love triumphs over everything!" "the young think so," he muttered. "love has no age, no limit, and no death." with that glow in her pale face, her breast heaving, her eyes so large and dark and soft, she looked like venus come to life! but this extravagance brought instant reaction, and, twinkling, he said: "well, if it had limits, we shouldn't be born; for by george! it's got a lot to put up with." then, removing his top hat, he brushed it round with a cuff. the great clumsy thing heated his forehead; in these days he often got a rush of blood to the head--his circulation was not what it had been. she still sat gazing straight before her, and suddenly she murmured: "it's strange enough that i'm alive." those words of jo's 'wild and lost' came back to him. "ah!" he said: "my son saw you for a moment--that day." "was it your son? i heard a voice in the hall; i thought for a second it was--phil." old jolyon saw her lips tremble. she put her hand over them, took it away again, and went on calmly: "that night i went to the embankment; a woman caught me by the dress. she told me about herself. when one knows that others suffer, one's ashamed." "one of those?" she nodded, and horror stirred within old jolyon, the horror of one who has never known a struggle with desperation. almost against his will he muttered: "tell me, won't you?" "i didn't care whether i lived or died. when you're like that, fate ceases to want to kill you. she took care of me three days--she never left me. i had no money. that's why i do what i can for them, now." but old jolyon was thinking: 'no money!' what fate could compare with that? every other was involved in it. "i wish you had come to me," he said. "why didn't you?" but irene did not answer. "because my name was forsyte, i suppose? or was it june who kept you away? how are you getting on now?" his eyes involuntarily swept her body. perhaps even now she was--! and yet she wasn't thin--not really! "oh! with my fifty pounds a year, i make just enough." the answer did not reassure him; he had lost confidence. and that fellow soames! but his sense of justice stifled condemnation. no, she would certainly have died rather than take another penny from him. soft as she looked, there must be strength in her somewhere--strength and fidelity. but what business had young bosinney to have got run over and left her stranded like this! "well, you must come to me now," he said, "for anything you want, or i shall be quite cut up." and putting on his hat, he rose. "let's go and get some tea. i told that lazy chap to put the horses up for an hour, and come for me at your place. we'll take a cab presently; i can't walk as i used to." he enjoyed that stroll to the kensington end of the gardens--the sound of her voice, the glancing of her eyes, the subtle beauty of a charming form moving beside him. he enjoyed their tea at ruffel's in the high street, and came out thence with a great box of chocolates swung on his little finger. he enjoyed the drive back to chelsea in a hansom, smoking his cigar. she had promised to come down next sunday and play to him again, and already in thought he was plucking carnations and early roses for her to carry back to town. it was a pleasure to give her a little pleasure, if it were pleasure from an old chap like him! the carriage was already there when they arrived. just like that fellow, who was always late when he was wanted! old jolyon went in for a minute to say good-bye. the little dark hall of the flat was impregnated with a disagreeable odour of patchouli, and on a bench against the wall--its only furniture--he saw a figure sitting. he heard irene say softly: "just one minute." in the little drawing-room when the door was shut, he asked gravely: "one of your protegees?" "yes. now thanks to you, i can do something for her." he stood, staring, and stroking that chin whose strength had frightened so many in its time. the idea of her thus actually in contact with this outcast grieved and frightened him. what could she do for them? nothing. only soil and make trouble for herself, perhaps. and he said: "take care, my dear! the world puts the worst construction on everything." "i know that." he was abashed by her quiet smile. "well then--sunday," he murmured: "good-bye." she put her cheek forward for him to kiss. "good-bye," he said again; "take care of yourself." and he went out, not looking towards the figure on the bench. he drove home by way of hammersmith; that he might stop at a place he knew of and tell them to send her in two dozen of their best burgundy. she must want picking-up sometimes! only in richmond park did he remember that he had gone up to order himself some boots, and was surprised that he could have had so paltry an idea. iii the little spirits of the past which throng an old man's days had never pushed their faces up to his so seldom as in the seventy hours elapsing before sunday came. the spirit of the future, with the charm of the unknown, put up her lips instead. old jolyon was not restless now, and paid no visits to the log, because she was coming to lunch. there is wonderful finality about a meal; it removes a world of doubts, for no one misses meals except for reasons beyond control. he played many games with holly on the lawn, pitching them up to her who was batting so as to be ready to bowl to jolly in the holidays. for she was not a forsyte, but jolly was--and forsytes always bat, until they have resigned and reached the age of eighty-five. the dog balthasar, in attendance, lay on the ball as often as he could, and the page-boy fielded, till his face was like the harvest moon. and because the time was getting shorter, each day was longer and more golden than the last. on friday night he took a liver pill, his side hurt him rather, and though it was not the liver side, there is no remedy like that. anyone telling him that he had found a new excitement in life and that excitement was not good for him, would have been met by one of those steady and rather defiant looks of his deep-set iron-grey eyes, which seemed to say: 'i know my own business best.' he always had and always would. on sunday morning, when holly had gone with her governess to church, he visited the strawberry beds. there, accompanied by the dog balthasar, he examined the plants narrowly and succeeded in finding at least two dozen berries which were really ripe. stooping was not good for him, and he became very dizzy and red in the forehead. having placed the strawberries in a dish on the dining-table, he washed his hands and bathed his forehead with eau de cologne. there, before the mirror, it occurred to him that he was thinner. what a 'threadpaper' he had been when he was young! it was nice to be slim--he could not bear a fat chap; and yet perhaps his cheeks were too thin! she was to arrive by train at half-past twelve and walk up, entering from the road past drage's farm at the far end of the coppice. and, having looked into june's room to see that there was hot water ready, he set forth to meet her, leisurely, for his heart was beating. the air smelled sweet, larks sang, and the grand stand at epsom was visible. a perfect day! on just such a one, no doubt, six years ago, soames had brought young bosinney down with him to look at the site before they began to build. it was bosinney who had pitched on the exact spot for the house--as june had often told him. in these days he was thinking much about that young fellow, as if his spirit were really haunting the field of his last work, on the chance of seeing--her. bosinney--the one man who had possessed her heart, to whom she had given her whole self with rapture! at his age one could not, of course, imagine such things, but there stirred in him a queer vague aching--as it were the ghost of an impersonal jealousy; and a feeling, too, more generous, of pity for that love so early lost. all over in a few poor months! well, well! he looked at his watch before entering the coppice--only a quarter past, twenty-five minutes to wait! and then, turning the corner of the path, he saw her exactly where he had seen her the first time, on the log; and realised that she must have come by the earlier train to sit there alone for a couple of hours at least. two hours of her society missed! what memory could make that log so dear to her? his face showed what he was thinking, for she said at once: "forgive me, uncle jolyon; it was here that i first knew." "yes, yes; there it is for you whenever you like. you're looking a little londony; you're giving too many lessons." that she should have to give lessons worried him. lessons to a parcel of young girls thumping out scales with their thick fingers. "where do you go to give them?" he asked. "they're mostly jewish families, luckily." old jolyon stared; to all forsytes jews seem strange and doubtful. "they love music, and they're very kind." "they had better be, by george!" he took her arm--his side always hurt him a little going uphill--and said: "did you ever see anything like those buttercups? they came like that in a night." her eyes seemed really to fly over the field, like bees after the flowers and the honey. "i wanted you to see them--wouldn't let them turn the cows in yet." then, remembering that she had come to talk about bosinney, he pointed to the clock-tower over the stables: "i expect he wouldn't have let me put that there--had no notion of time, if i remember." but, pressing his arm to her, she talked of flowers instead, and he knew it was done that he might not feel she came because of her dead lover. "the best flower i can show you," he said, with a sort of triumph, "is my little sweet. she'll be back from church directly. there's something about her which reminds me a little of you," and it did not seem to him peculiar that he had put it thus, instead of saying: "there's something about you which reminds me a little of her." ah! and here she was! holly, followed closely by her elderly french governess, whose digestion had been ruined twenty-two years ago in the siege of strasbourg, came rushing towards them from under the oak tree. she stopped about a dozen yards away, to pat balthasar and pretend that this was all she had in her mind. old jolyon, who knew better, said: "well, my darling, here's the lady in grey i promised you." holly raised herself and looked up. he watched the two of them with a twinkle, irene smiling, holly beginning with grave inquiry, passing into a shy smile too, and then to something deeper. she had a sense of beauty, that child--knew what was what! he enjoyed the sight of the kiss between them. "mrs. heron, mam'zelle beauce. well, mam'zelle--good sermon?" for, now that he had not much more time before him, the only part of the service connected with this world absorbed what interest in church remained to him. mam'zelle beauce stretched out a spidery hand clad in a black kid glove--she had been in the best families--and the rather sad eyes of her lean yellowish face seemed to ask: "are you well-brrred?" whenever holly or jolly did anything unpleasing to her--a not uncommon occurrence--she would say to them: "the little tayleurs never did that--they were such well-brrred little children." jolly hated the little tayleurs; holly wondered dreadfully how it was she fell so short of them. 'a thin rum little soul,' old jolyon thought her--mam'zelle beauce. luncheon was a successful meal, the mushrooms which he himself had picked in the mushroom house, his chosen strawberries, and another bottle of the steinberg cabinet filled him with a certain aromatic spirituality, and a conviction that he would have a touch of eczema to-morrow. after lunch they sat under the oak tree drinking turkish coffee. it was no matter of grief to him when mademoiselle beauce withdrew to write her sunday letter to her sister, whose future had been endangered in the past by swallowing a pin--an event held up daily in warning to the children to eat slowly and digest what they had eaten. at the foot of the bank, on a carriage rug, holly and the dog balthasar teased and loved each other, and in the shade old jolyon with his legs crossed and his cigar luxuriously savoured, gazed at irene sitting in the swing. a light, vaguely swaying, grey figure with a fleck of sunlight here and there upon it, lips just opened, eyes dark and soft under lids a little drooped. she looked content; surely it did her good to come and see him! the selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on him, for he could still feel pleasure in the pleasure of others, realising that what he wanted, though much, was not quite all that mattered. "it's quiet here," he said; "you mustn't come down if you find it dull. but it's a pleasure to see you. my little sweet is the only face which gives me any pleasure, except yours." from her smile he knew that she was not beyond liking to be appreciated, and this reassured him. "that's not humbug," he said. "i never told a woman i admired her when i didn't. in fact i don't know when i've told a woman i admired her, except my wife in the old days; and wives are funny." he was silent, but resumed abruptly: "she used to expect me to say it more often than i felt it, and there we were." her face looked mysteriously troubled, and, afraid that he had said something painful, he hurried on: "when my little sweet marries, i hope she'll find someone who knows what women feel. i shan't be here to see it, but there's too much topsy-turvydom in marriage; i don't want her to pitch up against that." and, aware that he had made bad worse, he added: "that dog will scratch." a silence followed. of what was she thinking, this pretty creature whose life was spoiled; who had done with love, and yet was made for love? some day when he was gone, perhaps, she would find another mate--not so disorderly as that young fellow who had got himself run over. ah! but her husband? "does soames never trouble you?" he asked. she shook her head. her face had closed up suddenly. for all her softness there was something irreconcilable about her. and a glimpse of light on the inexorable nature of sex antipathies strayed into a brain which, belonging to early victorian civilisation--so much older than this of his old age--had never thought about such primitive things. "that's a comfort," he said. "you can see the grand stand to-day. shall we take a turn round?" through the flower and fruit garden, against whose high outer walls peach trees and nectarines were trained to the sun, through the stables, the vinery, the mushroom house, the asparagus beds, the rosery, the summer-house, he conducted her--even into the kitchen garden to see the tiny green peas which holly loved to scoop out of their pods with her finger, and lick up from the palm of her little brown hand. many delightful things he showed her, while holly and the dog balthasar danced ahead, or came to them at intervals for attention. it was one of the happiest afternoons he had ever spent, but it tired him and he was glad to sit down in the music room and let her give him tea. a special little friend of holly's had come in--a fair child with short hair like a boy's. and the two sported in the distance, under the stairs, on the stairs, and up in the gallery. old jolyon begged for chopin. she played studies, mazurkas, waltzes, till the two children, creeping near, stood at the foot of the piano their dark and golden heads bent forward, listening. old jolyon watched. "let's see you dance, you two!" shyly, with a false start, they began. bobbing and circling, earnest, not very adroit, they went past and past his chair to the strains of that waltz. he watched them and the face of her who was playing turned smiling towards those little dancers thinking: 'sweetest picture i've seen for ages.' a voice said: "hollee! mais enfin--qu'est-ce que tu fais la--danser, le dimanche! viens, donc!" but the children came close to old jolyon, knowing that he would save them, and gazed into a face which was decidedly 'caught out.' "better the day, better the deed, mam'zelle. it's all my doing. trot along, chicks, and have your tea." and, when they were gone, followed by the dog balthasar, who took every meal, he looked at irene with a twinkle and said: "well, there we are! aren't they sweet? have you any little ones among your pupils?" "yes, three--two of them darlings." "pretty?" "lovely!" old jolyon sighed; he had an insatiable appetite for the very young. "my little sweet," he said, "is devoted to music; she'll be a musician some day. you wouldn't give me your opinion of her playing, i suppose?" "of course i will." "you wouldn't like--" but he stifled the words "to give her lessons." the idea that she gave lessons was unpleasant to him; yet it would mean that he would see her regularly. she left the piano and came over to his chair. "i would like, very much; but there is--june. when are they coming back?" old jolyon frowned. "not till the middle of next month. what does that matter?" "you said june had forgiven me; but she could never forget, uncle jolyon." forget! she must forget, if he wanted her to. but as if answering, irene shook her head. "you know she couldn't; one doesn't forget." always that wretched past! and he said with a sort of vexed finality: "well, we shall see." he talked to her an hour or more, of the children, and a hundred little things, till the carriage came round to take her home. and when she had gone he went back to his chair, and sat there smoothing his face and chin, dreaming over the day. that evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet of paper. he stayed for some minutes without writing, then rose and stood under the masterpiece 'dutch fishing boats at sunset.' he was not thinking of that picture, but of his life. he was going to leave her something in his will; nothing could so have stirred the stilly deeps of thought and memory. he was going to leave her a portion of his wealth, of his aspirations, deeds, qualities, work--all that had made that wealth; going to leave her, too, a part of all he had missed in life, by his sane and steady pursuit of wealth. all! what had he missed? 'dutch fishing boats' responded blankly; he crossed to the french window, and drawing the curtain aside, opened it. a wind had got up, and one of last year's oak leaves which had somehow survived the gardener's brooms, was dragging itself with a tiny clicking rustle along the stone terrace in the twilight. except for that it was very quiet out there, and he could smell the heliotrope watered not long since. a bat went by. a bird uttered its last 'cheep.' and right above the oak tree the first star shone. faust in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years of youth. morbid notion! no such bargain was possible, that was real tragedy! no making oneself new again for love or life or anything. nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off while you could, and leave it something in your will. but how much? and, as if he could not make that calculation looking out into the mild freedom of the country night, he turned back and went up to the chimney-piece. there were his pet bronzes--a cleopatra with the asp at her breast; a socrates; a greyhound playing with her puppy; a strong man reining in some horses. 'they last!' he thought, and a pang went through his heart. they had a thousand years of life before them! 'how much?' well! enough at all events to save her getting old before her time, to keep the lines out of her face as long as possible, and grey from soiling that bright hair. he might live another five years. she would be well over thirty by then. 'how much?' she had none of his blood in her! in loyalty to the tenor of his life for forty years and more, ever since he married and founded that mysterious thing, a family, came this warning thought--none of his blood, no right to anything! it was a luxury then, this notion. an extravagance, a petting of an old man's whim, one of those things done in dotage. his real future was vested in those who had his blood, in whom he would live on when he was gone. he turned away from the bronzes and stood looking at the old leather chair in which he had sat and smoked so many hundreds of cigars. and suddenly he seemed to see her sitting there in her grey dress, fragrant, soft, dark-eyed, graceful, looking up at him. why! she cared nothing for him, really; all she cared for was that lost lover of hers. but she was there, whether she would or no, giving him pleasure with her beauty and grace. one had no right to inflict an old man's company, no right to ask her down to play to him and let him look at her--for no reward! pleasure must be paid for in this world. 'how much?' after all, there was plenty; his son and his three grandchildren would never miss that little lump. he had made it himself, nearly every penny; he could leave it where he liked, allow himself this little pleasure. he went back to the bureau. 'well, i'm going to,' he thought, 'let them think what they like. i'm going to!' and he sat down. 'how much?' ten thousand, twenty thousand--how much? if only with his money he could buy one year, one month of youth. and startled by that thought, he wrote quickly: 'dear herring,--draw me a codicil to this effect: "i leave to my niece irene forsyte, born irene heron, by which name she now goes, fifteen thousand pounds free of legacy duty." 'yours faithfully, 'jolyon forsyte.' when he had sealed and stamped the envelope, he went back to the window and drew in a long breath. it was dark, but many stars shone now. iv he woke at half-past two, an hour which long experience had taught him brings panic intensity to all awkward thoughts. experience had also taught him that a further waking at the proper hour of eight showed the folly of such panic. on this particular morning the thought which gathered rapid momentum was that if he became ill, at his age not improbable, he would not see her. from this it was but a step to realisation that he would be cut off, too, when his son and june returned from spain. how could he justify desire for the company of one who had stolen--early morning does not mince words--june's lover? that lover was dead; but june was a stubborn little thing; warm-hearted, but stubborn as wood, and--quite true--not one who forgot! by the middle of next month they would be back. he had barely five weeks left to enjoy the new interest which had come into what remained of his life. darkness showed up to him absurdly clear the nature of his feeling. admiration for beauty--a craving to see that which delighted his eyes. preposterous, at his age! and yet--what other reason was there for asking june to undergo such painful reminder, and how prevent his son and his son's wife from thinking him very queer? he would be reduced to sneaking up to london, which tired him; and the least indisposition would cut him off even from that. he lay with eyes open, setting his jaw against the prospect, and calling himself an old fool, while his heart beat loudly, and then seemed to stop beating altogether. he had seen the dawn lighting the window chinks, heard the birds chirp and twitter, and the cocks crow, before he fell asleep again, and awoke tired but sane. five weeks before he need bother, at his age an eternity! but that early morning panic had left its mark, had slightly fevered the will of one who had always had his own way. he would see her as often as he wished! why not go up to town and make that codicil at his solicitor's instead of writing about it; she might like to go to the opera! but, by train, for he would not have that fat chap beacon grinning behind his back. servants were such fools; and, as likely as not, they had known all the past history of irene and young bosinney--servants knew everything, and suspected the rest. he wrote to her that morning: "my dear irene,--i have to be up in town to-morrow. if you would like to have a look in at the opera, come and dine with me quietly ...." but where? it was decades since he had dined anywhere in london save at his club or at a private house. ah! that new-fangled place close to covent garden.... "let me have a line to-morrow morning to the piedmont hotel whether to expect you there at o'clock." "yours affectionately, "jolyon forsyte." she would understand that he just wanted to give her a little pleasure; for the idea that she should guess he had this itch to see her was instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly that one so old should go out of his way to see beauty, especially in a woman. the journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his lawyer's, tired him. it was hot too, and after dressing for dinner he lay down on the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little. he must have had a sort of fainting fit, for he came to himself feeling very queer; and with some difficulty rose and rang the bell. why! it was past seven! and there he was and she would be waiting. but suddenly the dizziness came on again, and he was obliged to relapse on the sofa. he heard the maid's voice say: "did you ring, sir?" "yes, come here"; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in front of his eyes. "i'm not well, i want some sal volatile." "yes, sir." her voice sounded frightened. old jolyon made an effort. "don't go. take this message to my niece--a lady waiting in the hall--a lady in grey. say mr. forsyte is not well--the heat. he is very sorry; if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner." when she was gone, he thought feebly: 'why did i say a lady in grey--she may be in anything. sal volatile!' he did not go off again, yet was not conscious of how irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling salts to his nose, and pushing a pillow up behind his head. he heard her say anxiously: "dear uncle jolyon, what is it?" was dimly conscious of the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed. "ha!" he said, "it's nothing. how did you get here? go down and dine--the tickets are on the dressing-table. i shall be all right in a minute." he felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all right. "why! you are in grey!" he said. "help me up." once on his feet he gave himself a shake. "what business had i to go off like that!" and he moved very slowly to the glass. what a cadaverous chap! her voice, behind him, murmured: "you mustn't come down, uncle; you must rest." "fiddlesticks! a glass of champagne'll soon set me to rights. i can't have you missing the opera." but the journey down the corridor was troublesome. what carpets they had in these newfangled places, so thick that you tripped up in them at every step! in the lift he noticed how concerned she looked, and said with the ghost of a twinkle: "i'm a pretty host." when the lift stopped he had to hold firmly to the seat to prevent its slipping under him; but after soup and a glass of champagne he felt much better, and began to enjoy an infirmity which had brought such solicitude into her manner towards him. "i should have liked you for a daughter," he said suddenly; and watching the smile in her eyes, went on: "you mustn't get wrapped up in the past at your time of life; plenty of that when you get to my age. that's a nice dress--i like the style." "i made it myself." ah! a woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost her interest in life. "make hay while the sun shines," he said; "and drink that up. i want to see some colour in your cheeks. we mustn't waste life; it doesn't do. there's a new marguerite to-night; let's hope she won't be fat. and mephisto--anything more dreadful than a fat chap playing the devil i can't imagine." but they did not go to the opera after all, for in getting up from dinner the dizziness came over him again, and she insisted on his staying quiet and going to bed early. when he parted from her at the door of the hotel, having paid the cabman to drive her to chelsea, he sat down again for a moment to enjoy the memory of her words: "you are such a darling to me, uncle jolyon!" why! who wouldn't be! he would have liked to stay up another day and take her to the zoo, but two days running of him would bore her to death. no, he must wait till next sunday; she had promised to come then. they would settle those lessons for holly, if only for a month. it would be something. that little mam'zelle beauce wouldn't like it, but she would have to lump it. and crushing his old opera hat against his chest he sought the lift. he drove to waterloo next morning, struggling with a desire to say: 'drive me to chelsea.' but his sense of proportion was too strong. besides, he still felt shaky, and did not want to risk another aberration like that of last night, away from home. holly, too, was expecting him, and what he had in his bag for her. not that there was any cupboard love in his little sweet--she was a bundle of affection. then, with the rather bitter cynicism of the old, he wondered for a second whether it was not cupboard love which made irene put up with him. no, she was not that sort either. she had, if anything, too little notion of how to butter her bread, no sense of property, poor thing! besides, he had not breathed a word about that codicil, nor should he--sufficient unto the day was the good thereof. in the victoria which met him at the station holly was restraining the dog balthasar, and their caresses made 'jubey' his drive home. all the rest of that fine hot day and most of the next he was content and peaceful, reposing in the shade, while the long lingering sunshine showered gold on the lawns and the flowers. but on thursday evening at his lonely dinner he began to count the hours; sixty-five till he would go down to meet her again in the little coppice, and walk up through the fields at her side. he had intended to consult the doctor about his fainting fit, but the fellow would be sure to insist on quiet, no excitement and all that; and he did not mean to be tied by the leg, did not want to be told of an infirmity--if there were one, could not afford to hear of it at his time of life, now that this new interest had come. and he carefully avoided making any mention of it in a letter to his son. it would only bring them back with a run! how far this silence was due to consideration for their pleasure, how far to regard for his own, he did not pause to consider. that night in his study he had just finished his cigar and was dozing off, when he heard the rustle of a gown, and was conscious of a scent of violets. opening his eyes he saw her, dressed in grey, standing by the fireplace, holding out her arms. the odd thing was that, though those arms seemed to hold nothing, they were curved as if round someone's neck, and her own neck was bent back, her lips open, her eyes closed. she vanished at once, and there were the mantelpiece and his bronzes. but those bronzes and the mantelpiece had not been there when she was, only the fireplace and the wall! shaken and troubled, he got up. 'i must take medicine,' he thought; 'i can't be well.' his heart beat too fast, he had an asthmatic feeling in the chest; and going to the window, he opened it to get some air. a dog was barking far away, one of the dogs at gage's farm no doubt, beyond the coppice. a beautiful still night, but dark. 'i dropped off,' he mused, 'that's it! and yet i'll swear my eyes were open!' a sound like a sigh seemed to answer. "what's that?" he said sharply, "who's there?" putting his hand to his side to still the beating of his heart, he stepped out on the terrace. something soft scurried by in the dark. "shoo!" it was that great grey cat. 'young bosinney was like a great cat!' he thought. 'it was him in there, that she--that she was--he's got her still!' he walked to the edge of the terrace, and looked down into the darkness; he could just see the powdering of the daisies on the unmown lawn. here to-day and gone to-morrow! and there came the moon, who saw all, young and old, alive and dead, and didn't care a dump! his own turn soon. for a single day of youth he would give what was left! and he turned again towards the house. he could see the windows of the night nursery up there. his little sweet would be asleep. 'hope that dog won't wake her!' he thought. 'what is it makes us love, and makes us die! i must go to bed.' and across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he passed back within. how should an old man live his days if not in dreaming of his well-spent past? in that, at all events, there is no agitating warmth, only pale winter sunshine. the shell can withstand the gentle beating of the dynamos of memory. the present he should distrust; the future shun. from beneath thick shade he should watch the sunlight creeping at his toes. if there be sun of summer, let him not go out into it, mistaking it for the indian-summer sun! thus peradventure he shall decline softly, slowly, imperceptibly, until impatient nature clutches his wind-pipe and he gasps away to death some early morning before the world is aired, and they put on his tombstone: 'in the fulness of years!' yea! if he preserve his principles in perfect order, a forsyte may live on long after he is dead. old jolyon was conscious of all this, and yet there was in him that which transcended forsyteism. for it is written that a forsyte shall not love beauty more than reason; nor his own way more than his own health. and something beat within him in these days that with each throb fretted at the thinning shell. his sagacity knew this, but it knew too that he could not stop that beating, nor would if he could. and yet, if you had told him he was living on his capital, he would have stared you down. no, no; a man did not live on his capital; it was not done! the shibboleths of the past are ever more real than the actualities of the present. and he, to whom living on one's capital had always been anathema, could not have borne to have applied so gross a phrase to his own case. pleasure is healthful; beauty good to see; to live again in the youth of the young--and what else on earth was he doing! methodically, as had been the way of his whole life, he now arranged his time. on tuesdays he journeyed up to town by train; irene came and dined with him. and they went to the opera. on thursdays he drove to town, and, putting that fat chap and his horses up, met her in kensington gardens, picking up the carriage after he had left her, and driving home again in time for dinner. he threw out the casual formula that he had business in london on those two days. on wednesdays and saturdays she came down to give holly music lessons. the greater the pleasure he took in her society, the more scrupulously fastidious he became, just a matter-of-fact and friendly uncle. not even in feeling, really, was he more--for, after all, there was his age. and yet, if she were late he fidgeted himself to death. if she missed coming, which happened twice, his eyes grew sad as an old dog's, and he failed to sleep. and so a month went by--a month of summer in the fields, and in his heart, with summer's heat and the fatigue thereof. who could have believed a few weeks back that he would have looked forward to his son's and his grand-daughter's return with something like dread! there was such a delicious freedom, such recovery of that independence a man enjoys before he founds a family, about these weeks of lovely weather, and this new companionship with one who demanded nothing, and remained always a little unknown, retaining the fascination of mystery. it was like a draught of wine to him who has been drinking water for so long that he has almost forgotten the stir wine brings to his blood, the narcotic to his brain. the flowers were coloured brighter, scents and music and the sunlight had a living value--were no longer mere reminders of past enjoyment. there was something now to live for which stirred him continually to anticipation. he lived in that, not in retrospection; the difference is considerable to any so old as he. the pleasures of the table, never of much consequence to one naturally abstemious, had lost all value. he ate little, without knowing what he ate; and every day grew thinner and more worn to look at. he was again a 'threadpaper'; and to this thinned form his massive forehead, with hollows at the temples, gave more dignity than ever. he was very well aware that he ought to see the doctor, but liberty was too sweet. he could not afford to pet his frequent shortness of breath and the pain in his side at the expense of liberty. return to the vegetable existence he had led among the agricultural journals with the life-size mangold wurzels, before this new attraction came into his life--no! he exceeded his allowance of cigars. two a day had always been his rule. now he smoked three and sometimes four--a man will when he is filled with the creative spirit. but very often he thought: 'i must give up smoking, and coffee; i must give up rattling up to town.' but he did not; there was no one in any sort of authority to notice him, and this was a priceless boon. the servants perhaps wondered, but they were, naturally, dumb. mam'zelle beauce was too concerned with her own digestion, and too 'wellbrrred' to make personal allusions. holly had not as yet an eye for the relative appearance of him who was her plaything and her god. it was left for irene herself to beg him to eat more, to rest in the hot part of the day, to take a tonic, and so forth. but she did not tell him that she was the a cause of his thinness--for one cannot see the havoc oneself is working. a man of eighty-five has no passions, but the beauty which produces passion works on in the old way, till death closes the eyes which crave the sight of her. on the first day of the second week in july he received a letter from his son in paris to say that they would all be back on friday. this had always been more sure than fate; but, with the pathetic improvidence given to the old, that they may endure to the end, he had never quite admitted it. now he did, and something would have to be done. he had ceased to be able to imagine life without this new interest, but that which is not imagined sometimes exists, as forsytes are perpetually finding to their cost. he sat in his old leather chair, doubling up the letter, and mumbling with his lips the end of an unlighted cigar. after to-morrow his tuesday expeditions to town would have to be abandoned. he could still drive up, perhaps, once a week, on the pretext of seeing his man of business. but even that would be dependent on his health, for now they would begin to fuss about him. the lessons! the lessons must go on! she must swallow down her scruples, and june must put her feelings in her pocket. she had done so once, on the day after the news of bosinney's death; what she had done then, she could surely do again now. four years since that injury was inflicted on her--not christian to keep the memory of old sores alive. june's will was strong, but his was stronger, for his sands were running out. irene was soft, surely she would do this for him, subdue her natural shrinking, sooner than give him pain! the lessons must continue; for if they did, he was secure. and lighting his cigar at last, he began trying to shape out how to put it to them all, and explain this strange intimacy; how to veil and wrap it away from the naked truth--that he could not bear to be deprived of the sight of beauty. ah! holly! holly was fond of her, holly liked her lessons. she would save him--his little sweet! and with that happy thought he became serene, and wondered what he had been worrying about so fearfully. he must not worry, it left him always curiously weak, and as if but half present in his own body. that evening after dinner he had a return of the dizziness, though he did not faint. he would not ring the bell, because he knew it would mean a fuss, and make his going up on the morrow more conspicuous. when one grew old, the whole world was in conspiracy to limit freedom, and for what reason?--just to keep the breath in him a little longer. he did not want it at such cost. only the dog balthasar saw his lonely recovery from that weakness; anxiously watched his master go to the sideboard and drink some brandy, instead of giving him a biscuit. when at last old jolyon felt able to tackle the stairs he went up to bed. and, though still shaky next morning, the thought of the evening sustained and strengthened him. it was always such a pleasure to give her a good dinner--he suspected her of undereating when she was alone; and, at the opera to watch her eyes glow and brighten, the unconscious smiling of her lips. she hadn't much pleasure, and this was the last time he would be able to give her that treat. but when he was packing his bag he caught himself wishing that he had not the fatigue of dressing for dinner before him, and the exertion, too, of telling her about june's return. the opera that evening was 'carmen,' and he chose the last entr'acte to break the news, instinctively putting it off till the latest moment. she took it quietly, queerly; in fact, he did not know how she had taken it before the wayward music lifted up again and silence became necessary. the mask was down over her face, that mask behind which so much went on that he could not see. she wanted time to think it over, no doubt! he would not press her, for she would be coming to give her lesson to-morrow afternoon, and he should see her then when she had got used to the idea. in the cab he talked only of the carmen; he had seen better in the old days, but this one was not bad at all. when he took her hand to say good-night, she bent quickly forward and kissed his forehead. "good-bye, dear uncle jolyon, you have been so sweet to me." "to-morrow then," he said. "good-night. sleep well." she echoed softly: "sleep well" and from the cab window, already moving away, he saw her face screwed round towards him, and her hand put out in a gesture which seemed to linger. he sought his room slowly. they never gave him the same, and he could not get used to these 'spick-and-spandy' bedrooms with new furniture and grey-green carpets sprinkled all over with pink roses. he was wakeful and that wretched habanera kept throbbing in his head. his french had never been equal to its words, but its sense he knew, if it had any sense, a gipsy thing--wild and unaccountable. well, there was in life something which upset all your care and plans--something which made men and women dance to its pipes. and he lay staring from deep-sunk eyes into the darkness where the unaccountable held sway. you thought you had hold of life, but it slipped away behind you, took you by the scruff of the neck, forced you here and forced you there, and then, likely as not, squeezed life out of you! it took the very stars like that, he shouldn't wonder, rubbed their noses together and flung them apart; it had never done playing its pranks. five million people in this great blunderbuss of a town, and all of them at the mercy of that life-force, like a lot of little dried peas hopping about on a board when you struck your fist on it. ah, well! himself would not hop much longer--a good long sleep would do him good! how hot it was up here!--how noisy! his forehead burned; she had kissed it just where he always worried; just there--as if she had known the very place and wanted to kiss it all away for him. but, instead, her lips left a patch of grievous uneasiness. she had never spoken in quite that voice, had never before made that lingering gesture or looked back at him as she drove away. he got out of bed and pulled the curtains aside; his room faced down over the river. there was little air, but the sight of that breadth of water flowing by, calm, eternal, soothed him. 'the great thing,' he thought 'is not to make myself a nuisance. i'll think of my little sweet, and go to sleep.' but it was long before the heat and throbbing of the london night died out into the short slumber of the summer morning. and old jolyon had but forty winks. when he reached home next day he went out to the flower garden, and with the help of holly, who was very delicate with flowers, gathered a great bunch of carnations. they were, he told her, for 'the lady in grey'--a name still bandied between them; and he put them in a bowl in his study where he meant to tackle irene the moment she came, on the subject of june and future lessons. their fragrance and colour would help. after lunch he lay down, for he felt very tired, and the carriage would not bring her from the station till four o'clock. but as the hour approached he grew restless, and sought the schoolroom, which overlooked the drive. the sun-blinds were down, and holly was there with mademoiselle beauce, sheltered from the heat of a stifling july day, attending to their silkworms. old jolyon had a natural antipathy to these methodical creatures, whose heads and colour reminded him of elephants; who nibbled such quantities of holes in nice green leaves; and smelled, as he thought, horrid. he sat down on a chintz-covered windowseat whence he could see the drive, and get what air there was; and the dog balthasar who appreciated chintz on hot days, jumped up beside him. over the cottage piano a violet dust-sheet, faded almost to grey, was spread, and on it the first lavender, whose scent filled the room. in spite of the coolness here, perhaps because of that coolness the beat of life vehemently impressed his ebbed-down senses. each sunbeam which came through the chinks had annoying brilliance; that dog smelled very strong; the lavender perfume was overpowering; those silkworms heaving up their grey-green backs seemed horribly alive; and holly's dark head bent over them had a wonderfully silky sheen. a marvellous cruelly strong thing was life when you were old and weak; it seemed to mock you with its multitude of forms and its beating vitality. he had never, till those last few weeks, had this curious feeling of being with one half of him eagerly borne along in the stream of life, and with the other half left on the bank, watching that helpless progress. only when irene was with him did he lose this double consciousness. holly turned her head, pointed with her little brown fist to the piano--for to point with a finger was not 'well-brrred'--and said slyly: "look at the 'lady in grey,' gran; isn't she pretty to-day?" old jolyon's heart gave a flutter, and for a second the room was clouded; then it cleared, and he said with a twinkle: "who's been dressing her up?" "mam'zelle." "hollee! don't be foolish!" that prim little frenchwoman! she hadn't yet got over the music lessons being taken away from her. that wouldn't help. his little sweet was the only friend they had. well, they were her lessons. and he shouldn't budge shouldn't budge for anything. he stroked the warm wool on balthasar's head, and heard holly say: "when mother's home, there won't be any changes, will there? she doesn't like strangers, you know." the child's words seemed to bring the chilly atmosphere of opposition about old jolyon, and disclose all the menace to his new-found freedom. ah! he would have to resign himself to being an old man at the mercy of care and love, or fight to keep this new and prized companionship; and to fight tired him to death. but his thin, worn face hardened into resolution till it appeared all jaw. this was his house, and his affair; he should not budge! he looked at his watch, old and thin like himself; he had owned it fifty years. past four already! and kissing the top of holly's head in passing, he went down to the hall. he wanted to get hold of her before she went up to give her lesson. at the first sound of wheels he stepped out into the porch, and saw at once that the victoria was empty. "the train's in, sir; but the lady 'asn't come." old jolyon gave him a sharp upward look, his eyes seemed to push away that fat chap's curiosity, and defy him to see the bitter disappointment he was feeling. "very well," he said, and turned back into the house. he went to his study and sat down, quivering like a leaf. what did this mean? she might have lost her train, but he knew well enough she hadn't. 'good-bye, dear uncle jolyon.' why 'good-bye' and not 'good-night'? and that hand of hers lingering in the air. and her kiss. what did it mean? vehement alarm and irritation took possession of him. he got up and began to pace the turkey carpet, between window and wall. she was going to give him up! he felt it for certain--and he defenceless. an old man wanting to look on beauty! it was ridiculous! age closed his mouth, paralysed his power to fight. he had no right to what was warm and living, no right to anything but memories and sorrow. he could not plead with her; even an old man has his dignity. defenceless! for an hour, lost to bodily fatigue, he paced up and down, past the bowl of carnations he had plucked, which mocked him with its scent. of all things hard to bear, the prostration of will-power is hardest, for one who has always had his way. nature had got him in its net, and like an unhappy fish he turned and swam at the meshes, here and there, found no hole, no breaking point. they brought him tea at five o'clock, and a letter. for a moment hope beat up in him. he cut the envelope with the butter knife, and read: "dearest uncle jolyon,--i can't bear to write anything that may disappoint you, but i was too cowardly to tell you last night. i feel i can't come down and give holly any more lessons, now that june is coming back. some things go too deep to be forgotten. it has been such a joy to see you and holly. perhaps i shall still see you sometimes when you come up, though i'm sure it's not good for you; i can see you are tiring yourself too much. i believe you ought to rest quite quietly all this hot weather, and now you have your son and june coming back you will be so happy. thank you a million times for all your sweetness to me. "lovingly your irene." so, there it was! not good for him to have pleasure and what he chiefly cared about; to try and put off feeling the inevitable end of all things, the approach of death with its stealthy, rustling footsteps. not good for him! not even she could see how she was his new lease of interest in life, the incarnation of all the beauty he felt slipping from him. his tea grew cold, his cigar remained unlit; and up and down he paced, torn between his dignity and his hold on life. intolerable to be squeezed out slowly, without a say of your own, to live on when your will was in the hands of others bent on weighing you to the ground with care and love. intolerable! he would see what telling her the truth would do--the truth that he wanted the sight of her more than just a lingering on. he sat down at his old bureau and took a pen. but he could not write. there was something revolting in having to plead like this; plead that she should warm his eyes with her beauty. it was tantamount to confessing dotage. he simply could not. and instead, he wrote: "i had hoped that the memory of old sores would not be allowed to stand in the way of what is a pleasure and a profit to me and my little grand-daughter. but old men learn to forego their whims; they are obliged to, even the whim to live must be foregone sooner or later; and perhaps the sooner the better. "my love to you, "jolyon forsyte." 'bitter,' he thought, 'but i can't help it. i'm tired.' he sealed and dropped it into the box for the evening post, and hearing it fall to the bottom, thought: 'there goes all i've looked forward to!' that evening after dinner which he scarcely touched, after his cigar which he left half-smoked for it made him feel faint, he went very slowly upstairs and stole into the night-nursery. he sat down on the window-seat. a night-light was burning, and he could just see holly's face, with one hand underneath the cheek. an early cockchafer buzzed in the japanese paper with which they had filled the grate, and one of the horses in the stable stamped restlessly. to sleep like that child! he pressed apart two rungs of the venetian blind and looked out. the moon was rising, blood-red. he had never seen so red a moon. the woods and fields out there were dropping to sleep too, in the last glimmer of the summer light. and beauty, like a spirit, walked. 'i've had a long life,' he thought, 'the best of nearly everything. i'm an ungrateful chap; i've seen a lot of beauty in my time. poor young bosinney said i had a sense of beauty. there's a man in the moon to-night!' a moth went by, another, another. 'ladies in grey!' he closed his eyes. a feeling that he would never open them again beset him; he let it grow, let himself sink; then, with a shiver, dragged the lids up. there was something wrong with him, no doubt, deeply wrong; he would have to have the doctor after all. it didn't much matter now! into that coppice the moon-light would have crept; there would be shadows, and those shadows would be the only things awake. no birds, beasts, flowers, insects; just the shadows --moving; 'ladies in grey!' over that log they would climb; would whisper together. she and bosinney! funny thought! and the frogs and little things would whisper too! how the clock ticked, in here! it was all eerie--out there in the light of that red moon; in here with the little steady night-light and, the ticking clock and the nurse's dressing-gown hanging from the edge of the screen, tall, like a woman's figure. 'lady in grey!' and a very odd thought beset him: did she exist? had she ever come at all? or was she but the emanation of all the beauty he had loved and must leave so soon? the violet-grey spirit with the dark eyes and the crown of amber hair, who walks the dawn and the moonlight, and at blue-bell time? what was she, who was she, did she exist? he rose and stood a moment clutching the window-sill, to give him a sense of reality again; then began tiptoeing towards the door. he stopped at the foot of the bed; and holly, as if conscious of his eyes fixed on her, stirred, sighed, and curled up closer in defence. he tiptoed on and passed out into the dark passage; reached his room, undressed at once, and stood before a mirror in his night-shirt. what a scarecrow--with temples fallen in, and thin legs! his eyes resisted his own image, and a look of pride came on his face. all was in league to pull him down, even his reflection in the glass, but he was not down--yet! he got into bed, and lay a long time without sleeping, trying to reach resignation, only too well aware that fretting and disappointment were very bad for him. he woke in the morning so unrefreshed and strengthless that he sent for the doctor. after sounding him, the fellow pulled a face as long as your arm, and ordered him to stay in bed and give up smoking. that was no hardship; there was nothing to get up for, and when he felt ill, tobacco always lost its savour. he spent the morning languidly with the sun-blinds down, turning and re-turning the times, not reading much, the dog balthasar lying beside his bed. with his lunch they brought him a telegram, running thus: 'your letter received coming down this afternoon will be with you at four-thirty. irene.' coming down! after all! then she did exist--and he was not deserted. coming down! a glow ran through his limbs; his cheeks and forehead felt hot. he drank his soup, and pushed the tray-table away, lying very quiet until they had removed lunch and left him alone; but every now and then his eyes twinkled. coming down! his heart beat fast, and then did not seem to beat at all. at three o'clock he got up and dressed deliberately, noiselessly. holly and mam'zelle would be in the schoolroom, and the servants asleep after their dinner, he shouldn't wonder. he opened his door cautiously, and went downstairs. in the hall the dog balthasar lay solitary, and, followed by him, old jolyon passed into his study and out into the burning afternoon. he meant to go down and meet her in the coppice, but felt at once he could not manage that in this heat. he sat down instead under the oak tree by the swing, and the dog balthasar, who also felt the heat, lay down beside him. he sat there smiling. what a revel of bright minutes! what a hum of insects, and cooing of pigeons! it was the quintessence of a summer day. lovely! and he was happy--happy as a sand-boy, whatever that might be. she was coming; she had not given him up! he had everything in life he wanted--except a little more breath, and less weight--just here! he would see her when she emerged from the fernery, come swaying just a little, a violet-grey figure passing over the daisies and dandelions and 'soldiers' on the lawn--the soldiers with their flowery crowns. he would not move, but she would come up to him and say: 'dear uncle jolyon, i am sorry!' and sit in the swing and let him look at her and tell her that he had not been very well but was all right now; and that dog would lick her hand. that dog knew his master was fond of her; that dog was a good dog. it was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him, only make the rest of the world bright so that he could see the grand stand at epsom away out there, very far, and the cows cropping the clover in the field and swishing at the flies with their tails. he smelled the scent of limes, and lavender. ah! that was why there was such a racket of bees. they were excited--busy, as his heart was busy and excited. drowsy, too, drowsy and drugged on honey and happiness; as his heart was drugged and drowsy. summer--summer--they seemed saying; great bees and little bees, and the flies too! the stable clock struck four; in half an hour she would be here. he would have just one tiny nap, because he had had so little sleep of late; and then he would be fresh for her, fresh for youth and beauty, coming towards him across the sunlit lawn--lady in grey! and settling back in his chair he closed his eyes. some thistle-down came on what little air there was, and pitched on his moustache more white than itself. he did not know; but his breathing stirred it, caught there. a ray of sunlight struck through and lodged on his boot. a bumble-bee alighted and strolled on the crown of his panama hat. and the delicious surge of slumber reached the brain beneath that hat, and the head swayed forward and rested on his breast. summer--summer! so went the hum. the stable clock struck the quarter past. the dog balthasar stretched and looked up at his master. the thistledown no longer moved. the dog placed his chin over the sunlit foot. it did not stir. the dog withdrew his chin quickly, rose, and leaped on old jolyon's lap, looked in his face, whined; then, leaping down, sat on his haunches, gazing up. and suddenly he uttered a long, long howl. but the thistledown was still as death, and the face of his old master. summer--summer--summer! the soundless footsteps on the grass! in chancery two households both alike in dignity, from ancient grudge, break into new mutiny. --romeo and juliet to jessie and joseph conrad part chapter i at timothy's the possessive instinct never stands still. through florescence and feud, frosts and fires, it followed the laws of progression even in the forsyte family which had believed it fixed for ever. nor can it be dissociated from environment any more than the quality of potato from the soil. the historian of the english eighties and nineties will, in his good time, depict the somewhat rapid progression from self-contented and contained provincialism to still more self-contented if less contained imperialism--in other words, the 'possessive' instinct of the nation on the move. and so, as if in conformity, was it with the forsyte family. they were spreading not merely on the surface, but within. when, in , susan hayman, the married forsyte sister, followed her husband at the ludicrously low age of seventy-four, and was cremated, it made strangely little stir among the six old forsytes left. for this apathy there were three causes. first: the almost surreptitious burial of old jolyon in down at robin hill--first of the forsytes to desert the family grave at highgate. that burial, coming a year after swithin's entirely proper funeral, had occasioned a great deal of talk on forsyte 'change, the abode of timothy forsyte on the bayswater road, london, which still collected and radiated family gossip. opinions ranged from the lamentation of aunt juley to the outspoken assertion of francie that it was 'a jolly good thing to stop all that stuffy highgate business.' uncle jolyon in his later years--indeed, ever since the strange and lamentable affair between his granddaughter june's lover, young bosinney, and irene, his nephew soames forsyte's wife--had noticeably rapped the family's knuckles; and that way of his own which he had always taken had begun to seem to them a little wayward. the philosophic vein in him, of course, had always been too liable to crop out of the strata of pure forsyteism, so they were in a way prepared for his interment in a strange spot. but the whole thing was an odd business, and when the contents of his will became current coin on forsyte 'change, a shiver had gone round the clan. out of his estate (l , gross, with liabilities l s. d.) he had actually left l , to "whomever do you think, my dear? to irene!" that runaway wife of his nephew soames; irene, a woman who had almost disgraced the family, and--still more amazing was to him no blood relation. not out and out, of course; only a life interest--only the income from it! still, there it was; and old jolyon's claim to be the perfect forsyte was ended once for all. that, then, was the first reason why the burial of susan hayman--at woking--made little stir. the second reason was altogether more expansive and imperial. besides the house on campden hill, susan had a place (left her by hayman when he died) just over the border in hants, where the hayman boys had learned to be such good shots and riders, as it was believed, which was of course nice for them, and creditable to everybody; and the fact of owning something really countrified seemed somehow to excuse the dispersion of her remains--though what could have put cremation into her head they could not think! the usual invitations, however, had been issued, and soames had gone down and young nicholas, and the will had been quite satisfactory so far as it went, for she had only had a life interest; and everything had gone quite smoothly to the children in equal shares. the third reason why susan's burial made little stir was the most expansive of all. it was summed up daringly by euphemia, the pale, the thin: "well, i think people have a right to their own bodies, even when they're dead." coming from a daughter of nicholas, a liberal of the old school and most tyrannical, it was a startling remark--showing in a flash what a lot of water had run under bridges since the death of aunt ann in ' , just when the proprietorship of soames over his wife's body was acquiring the uncertainty which had led to such disaster. euphemia, of course, spoke like a child, and had no experience; for though well over thirty by now, her name was still forsyte. but, making all allowances, her remark did undoubtedly show expansion of the principle of liberty, decentralisation and shift in the central point of possession from others to oneself. when nicholas heard his daughter's remark from aunt hester he had rapped out: "wives and daughters! there's no end to their liberty in these days. i knew that 'jackson' case would lead to things--lugging in habeas corpus like that!" he had, of course, never really forgiven the married woman's property act, which would so have interfered with him if he had not mercifully married before it was passed. but, in truth, there was no denying the revolt among the younger forsytes against being owned by others; that, as it were, colonial disposition to own oneself, which is the paradoxical forerunner of imperialism, was making progress all the time. they were all now married, except george, confirmed to the turf and the iseeum club; francie, pursuing her musical career in a studio off the king's road, chelsea, and still taking 'lovers' to dances; euphemia, living at home and complaining of nicholas; and those two dromios, giles and jesse hayman. of the third generation there were not very many--young jolyon had three, winifred dartie four, young nicholas six already, young roger had one, marian tweetyman one; st. john hayman two. but the rest of the sixteen married--soames, rachel and cicely of james' family; eustace and thomas of roger's; ernest, archibald and florence of nicholas'; augustus and annabel spender of the hayman's--were going down the years unreproduced. thus, of the ten old forsytes twenty-one young forsytes had been born; but of the twenty-one young forsytes there were as yet only seventeen descendants; and it already seemed unlikely that there would be more than a further unconsidered trifle or so. a student of statistics must have noticed that the birth rate had varied in accordance with the rate of interest for your money. grandfather 'superior dosset' forsyte in the early nineteenth century had been getting ten per cent. for his, hence ten children. those ten, leaving out the four who had not married, and juley, whose husband septimus small had, of course, died almost at once, had averaged from four to five per cent. for theirs, and produced accordingly. the twenty-one whom they produced were now getting barely three per cent. in the consols to which their father had mostly tied the settlements they made to avoid death duties, and the six of them who had been reproduced had seventeen children, or just the proper two and five-sixths per stem. there were other reasons, too, for this mild reproduction. a distrust of their earning powers, natural where a sufficiency is guaranteed, together with the knowledge that their fathers did not die, kept them cautious. if one had children and not much income, the standard of taste and comfort must of necessity go down; what was enough for two was not enough for four, and so on--it would be better to wait and see what father did. besides, it was nice to be able to take holidays unhampered. sooner in fact than own children, they preferred to concentrate on the ownership of themselves, conforming to the growing tendency fin de siecle, as it was called. in this way, little risk was run, and one would be able to have a motor-car. indeed, eustace already had one, but it had shaken him horribly, and broken one of his eye teeth; so that it would be better to wait till they were a little safer. in the meantime, no more children! even young nicholas was drawing in his horns, and had made no addition to his six for quite three years. the corporate decay, however, of the forsytes, their dispersion rather, of which all this was symptomatic, had not advanced so far as to prevent a rally when roger forsyte died in . it had been a glorious summer, and after holidays abroad and at the sea they were practically all back in london, when roger with a touch of his old originality had suddenly breathed his last at his own house in princes gardens. at timothy's it was whispered sadly that poor roger had always been eccentric about his digestion--had he not, for instance, preferred german mutton to all the other brands? be that as it may, his funeral at highgate had been perfect, and coming away from it soames forsyte made almost mechanically for his uncle timothy's in the bayswater road. the 'old things'--aunt juley and aunt hester--would like to hear about it. his father--james--at eighty-eight had not felt up to the fatigue of the funeral; and timothy himself, of course, had not gone; so that nicholas had been the only brother present. still, there had been a fair gathering; and it would cheer aunts juley and hester up to know. the kindly thought was not unmixed with the inevitable longing to get something out of everything you do, which is the chief characteristic of forsytes, and indeed of the saner elements in every nation. in this practice of taking family matters to timothy's in the bayswater road, soames was but following in the footsteps of his father, who had been in the habit of going at least once a week to see his sisters at timothy's, and had only given it up when he lost his nerve at eighty-six, and could not go out without emily. to go with emily was of no use, for who could really talk to anyone in the presence of his own wife? like james in the old days, soames found time to go there nearly every sunday, and sit in the little drawing-room into which, with his undoubted taste, he had introduced a good deal of change and china not quite up to his own fastidious mark, and at least two rather doubtful barbizon pictures, at christmastides. he himself, who had done extremely well with the barbizons, had for some years past moved towards the marises, israels, and mauve, and was hoping to do better. in the riverside house which he now inhabited near mapledurham he had a gallery, beautifully hung and lighted, to which few london dealers were strangers. it served, too, as a sunday afternoon attraction in those week-end parties which his sisters, winifred or rachel, occasionally organised for him. for though he was but a taciturn showman, his quiet collected determinism seldom failed to influence his guests, who knew that his reputation was grounded not on mere aesthetic fancy, but on his power of gauging the future of market values. when he went to timothy's he almost always had some little tale of triumph over a dealer to unfold, and dearly he loved that coo of pride with which his aunts would greet it. this afternoon, however, he was differently animated, coming from roger's funeral in his neat dark clothes--not quite black, for after all an uncle was but an uncle, and his soul abhorred excessive display of feeling. leaning back in a marqueterie chair and gazing down his uplifted nose at the sky-blue walls plastered with gold frames, he was noticeably silent. whether because he had been to a funeral or not, the peculiar forsyte build of his face was seen to the best advantage this afternoon--a face concave and long, with a jaw which divested of flesh would have seemed extravagant: altogether a chinny face though not at all ill-looking. he was feeling more strongly than ever that timothy's was hopelessly 'rum-ti-too' and the souls of his aunts dismally mid-victorian. the subject on which alone he wanted to talk--his own undivorced position--was unspeakable. and yet it occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else. it was only since the spring that this had been so and a new feeling grown up which was egging him on towards what he knew might well be folly in a forsyte of forty-five. more and more of late he had been conscious that he was 'getting on.' the fortune already considerable when he conceived the house at robin hill which had finally wrecked his marriage with irene, had mounted with surprising vigour in the twelve lonely years during which he had devoted himself to little else. he was worth to-day well over a hundred thousand pounds, and had no one to leave it to--no real object for going on with what was his religion. even if he were to relax his efforts, money made money, and he felt that he would have a hundred and fifty thousand before he knew where he was. there had always been a strongly domestic, philoprogenitive side to soames; baulked and frustrated, it had hidden itself away, but now had crept out again in this his 'prime of life.' concreted and focussed of late by the attraction of a girl's undoubted beauty, it had become a veritable prepossession. and this girl was french, not likely to lose her head, or accept any unlegalised position. moreover, soames himself disliked the thought of that. he had tasted of the sordid side of sex during those long years of forced celibacy, secretively, and always with disgust, for he was fastidious, and his sense of law and order innate. he wanted no hole and corner liaison. a marriage at the embassy in paris, a few months' travel, and he could bring annette back quite separated from a past which in truth was not too distinguished, for she only kept the accounts in her mother's soho restaurant; he could bring her back as something very new and chic with her french taste and self-possession, to reign at 'the shelter' near mapledurham. on forsyte 'change and among his riverside friends it would be current that he had met a charming french girl on his travels and married her. there would be the flavour of romance, and a certain cachet about a french wife. no! he was not at all afraid of that. it was only this cursed undivorced condition of his, and--and the question whether annette would take him, which he dared not put to the touch until he had a clear and even dazzling future to offer her. in his aunts' drawing-room he heard with but muffled ears those usual questions: how was his dear father? not going out, of course, now that the weather was turning chilly? would soames be sure to tell him that hester had found boiled holly leaves most comforting for that pain in her side; a poultice every three hours, with red flannel afterwards. and could he relish just a little pot of their very best prune preserve--it was so delicious this year, and had such a wonderful effect. oh! and about the darties--had soames heard that dear winifred was having a most distressing time with montague? timothy thought she really ought to have protection it was said--but soames mustn't take this for certain--that he had given some of winifred's jewellery to a dreadful dancer. it was such a bad example for dear val just as he was going to college. soames had not heard? oh, but he must go and see his sister and look into it at once! and did he think these boers were really going to resist? timothy was in quite a stew about it. the price of consols was so high, and he had such a lot of money in them. did soames think they must go down if there was a war? soames nodded. but it would be over very quickly. it would be so bad for timothy if it wasn't. and of course soames' dear father would feel it very much at his age. luckily poor dear roger had been spared this dreadful anxiety. and aunt juley with a little handkerchief wiped away the large tear trying to climb the permanent pout on her now quite withered left cheek; she was remembering dear roger, and all his originality, and how he used to stick pins into her when they were little together. aunt hester, with her instinct for avoiding the unpleasant, here chimed in: did soames think they would make mr. chamberlain prime minister at once? he would settle it all so quickly. she would like to see that old kruger sent to st. helena. she could remember so well the news of napoleon's death, and what a, relief it had been to his grandfather. of course she and juley--"we were in pantalettes then, my dear"--had not felt it much at the time. soames took a cup of tea from her, drank it quickly, and ate three of those macaroons for which timothy's was famous. his faint, pale, supercilious smile had deepened just a little. really, his family remained hopelessly provincial, however much of london they might possess between them. in these go-ahead days their provincialism stared out even more than it used to. why, old nicholas was still a free trader, and a member of that antediluvian home of liberalism, the remove club--though, to be sure, the members were pretty well all conservatives now, or he himself could not have joined; and timothy, they said, still wore a nightcap. aunt juley spoke again. dear soames was looking so well, hardly a day older than he did when dear ann died, and they were all there together, dear jolyon, and dear swithin, and dear roger. she paused and caught the tear which had climbed the pout on her right cheek. did he--did he ever hear anything of irene nowadays? aunt hester visibly interposed her shoulder. really, juley was always saying something! the smile left soames' face, and he put his cup down. here was his subject broached for him, and for all his desire to expand, he could not take advantage. aunt juley went on rather hastily: "they say dear jolyon first left her that fifteen thousand out and out; then of course he saw it would not be right, and made it for her life only." had soames heard that? soames nodded. "your cousin jolyon is a widower now. he is her trustee; you knew that, of course?" soames shook his head. he did know, but wished to show no interest. young jolyon and he had not met since the day of bosinney's death. "he must be quite middle-aged by now," went on aunt juley dreamily. "let me see, he was born when your dear uncle lived in mount street; long before they went to stanhope gate in december. just before that dreadful commune. over fifty! fancy that! such a pretty baby, and we were all so proud of him; the very first of you all." aunt juley sighed, and a lock of not quite her own hair came loose and straggled, so that aunt hester gave a little shiver. soames rose, he was experiencing a curious piece of self-discovery. that old wound to his pride and self-esteem was not yet closed. he had come thinking he could talk of it, even wanting to talk of his fettered condition, and--behold! he was shrinking away from this reminder by aunt juley, renowned for her malapropisms. oh, soames was not going already! soames smiled a little vindictively, and said: "yes. good-bye. remember me to uncle timothy!" and, leaving a cold kiss on each forehead, whose wrinkles seemed to try and cling to his lips as if longing to be kissed away, he left them looking brightly after him--dear soames, it had been so good of him to come to-day, when they were not feeling very....! with compunction tweaking at his chest soames descended the stairs, where was always that rather pleasant smell of camphor and port wine, and house where draughts are not permitted. the poor old things--he had not meant to be unkind! and in the street he instantly forgot them, repossessed by the image of annette and the thought of the cursed coil around him. why had he not pushed the thing through and obtained divorce when that wretched bosinney was run over, and there was evidence galore for the asking! and he turned towards his sister winifred dartie's residence in green street, mayfair. chapter ii exit a man of the world that a man of the world so subject to the vicissitudes of fortunes as montague dartie should still be living in a house he had inhabited twenty years at least would have been more noticeable if the rent, rates, taxes, and repairs of that house had not been defrayed by his father-in-law. by that simple if wholesale device james forsyte had secured a certain stability in the lives of his daughter and his grandchildren. after all, there is something invaluable about a safe roof over the head of a sportsman so dashing as dartie. until the events of the last few days he had been almost-supernaturally steady all this year. the fact was he had acquired a half share in a filly of george forsyte's, who had gone irreparably on the turf, to the horror of roger, now stilled by the grave. sleeve-links, by martyr, out of shirt-on-fire, by suspender, was a bay filly, three years old, who for a variety of reasons had never shown her true form. with half ownership of this hopeful animal, all the idealism latent somewhere in dartie, as in every other man, had put up its head, and kept him quietly ardent for months past. when a man has some thing good to live for it is astonishing how sober he becomes; and what dartie had was really good--a three to one chance for an autumn handicap, publicly assessed at twenty-five to one. the old-fashioned heaven was a poor thing beside it, and his shirt was on the daughter of shirt-on-fire. but how much more than his shirt depended on this granddaughter of suspender! at that roving age of forty-five, trying to forsytes--and, though perhaps less distinguishable from any other age, trying even to darties--montague had fixed his current fancy on a dancer. it was no mean passion, but without money, and a good deal of it, likely to remain a love as airy as her skirts; and dartie never had any money, subsisting miserably on what he could beg or borrow from winifred--a woman of character, who kept him because he was the father of her children, and from a lingering admiration for those now-dying wardour street good looks which in their youth had fascinated her. she, together with anyone else who would lend him anything, and his losses at cards and on the turf (extraordinary how some men make a good thing out of losses!) were his whole means of subsistence; for james was now too old and nervous to approach, and soames too formidably adamant. it is not too much to say that dartie had been living on hope for months. he had never been fond of money for itself, had always despised the forsytes with their investing habits, though careful to make such use of them as he could. what he liked about money was what it bought--personal sensation. "no real sportsman cares for money," he would say, borrowing a 'pony' if it was no use trying for a 'monkey.' there was something delicious about montague dartie. he was, as george forsyte said, a 'daisy.' the morning of the handicap dawned clear and bright, the last day of september, and dartie who had travelled to newmarket the night before, arrayed himself in spotless checks and walked to an eminence to see his half of the filly take her final canter: if she won he would be a cool three thou. in pocket--a poor enough recompense for the sobriety and patience of these weeks of hope, while they had been nursing her for this race. but he had not been able to afford more. should he 'lay it off' at the eight to one to which she had advanced? this was his single thought while the larks sang above him, and the grassy downs smelled sweet, and the pretty filly passed, tossing her head and glowing like satin. after all, if he lost it would not be he who paid, and to 'lay it off' would reduce his winnings to some fifteen hundred--hardly enough to purchase a dancer out and out. even more potent was the itch in the blood of all the darties for a real flutter. and turning to george he said: "she's a clipper. she'll win hands down; i shall go the whole hog." george, who had laid off every penny, and a few besides, and stood to win, however it came out, grinned down on him from his bulky height, with the words: "so ho, my wild one!" for after a chequered apprenticeship weathered with the money of a deeply complaining roger, his forsyte blood was beginning to stand him in good stead in the profession of owner. there are moments of disillusionment in the lives of men from which the sensitive recorder shrinks. suffice it to say that the good thing fell down. sleeve-links finished in the ruck. dartie's shirt was lost. between the passing of these things and the day when soames turned his face towards green street, what had not happened! when a man with the constitution of montague dartie has exercised self-control for months from religious motives, and remains unrewarded, he does not curse god and die, he curses god and lives, to the distress of his family. winifred--a plucky woman, if a little too fashionable--who had borne the brunt of him for exactly twenty-one years, had never really believed that he would do what he now did. like so many wives, she thought she knew the worst, but she had not yet known him in his forty-fifth year, when he, like other men, felt that it was now or never. paying on the nd of october a visit of inspection to her jewel case, she was horrified to observe that her woman's crown and glory was gone--the pearls which montague had given her in ' , when benedict was born, and which james had been compelled to pay for in the spring of ' , to save scandal. she consulted her husband at once. he 'pooh-poohed' the matter. they would turn up! nor till she said sharply: "very well, then, monty, i shall go down to scotland yard myself," did he consent to take the matter in hand. alas! that the steady and resolved continuity of design necessary to the accomplishment of sweeping operations should be liable to interruption by drink. that night dartie returned home without a care in the world or a particle of reticence. under normal conditions winifred would merely have locked her door and let him sleep it off, but torturing suspense about her pearls had caused her to wait up for him. taking a small revolver from his pocket and holding on to the dining table, he told her at once that he did not care a cursh whether she lived s'long as she was quiet; but he himself wash tired o' life. winifred, holding onto the other side of the dining table, answered: "don't be a clown, monty. have you been to scotland yard?" placing the revolver against his chest, dartie had pulled the trigger several times. it was not loaded. dropping it with an imprecation, he had muttered: "for shake o' the children," and sank into a chair. winifred, having picked up the revolver, gave him some soda water. the liquor had a magical effect. life had illused him; winifred had never 'unshtood'm.' if he hadn't the right to take the pearls he had given her himself, who had? that spanish filly had got'm. if winifred had any 'jection he w'd cut--her--throat. what was the matter with that? (probably the first use of that celebrated phrase--so obscure are the origins of even the most classical language!) winifred, who had learned self-containment in a hard school, looked up at him, and said: "spanish filly! do you mean that girl we saw dancing in the pandemonium ballet? well, you are a thief and a blackguard." it had been the last straw on a sorely loaded consciousness; reaching up from his chair dartie seized his wife's arm, and recalling the achievements of his boyhood, twisted it. winifred endured the agony with tears in her eyes, but no murmur. watching for a moment of weakness, she wrenched it free; then placing the dining table between them, said between her teeth: "you are the limit, monty." (undoubtedly the inception of that phrase --so is english formed under the stress of circumstances.) leaving dartie with foam on his dark moustache she went upstairs, and, after locking her door and bathing her arm in hot water, lay awake all night, thinking of her pearls adorning the neck of another, and of the consideration her husband had presumably received therefor. the man of the world awoke with a sense of being lost to that world, and a dim recollection of having been called a 'limit.' he sat for half an hour in the dawn and the armchair where he had slept--perhaps the unhappiest half-hour he had ever spent, for even to a dartie there is something tragic about an end. and he knew that he had reached it. never again would he sleep in his dining-room and wake with the light filtering through those curtains bought by winifred at nickens and jarveys with the money of james. never again eat a devilled kidney at that rose-wood table, after a roll in the sheets and a hot bath. he took his note case from his dress coat pocket. four hundred pounds, in fives and tens--the remainder of the proceeds of his half of sleeve-links, sold last night, cash down, to george forsyte, who, having won over the race, had not conceived the sudden dislike to the animal which he himself now felt. the ballet was going to buenos aires the day after to-morrow, and he was going too. full value for the pearls had not yet been received; he was only at the soup. he stole upstairs. not daring to have a bath, or shave (besides, the water would be cold), he changed his clothes and packed stealthily all he could. it was hard to leave so many shining boots, but one must sacrifice something. then, carrying a valise in either hand, he stepped out onto the landing. the house was very quiet--that house where he had begotten his four children. it was a curious moment, this, outside the room of his wife, once admired, if not perhaps loved, who had called him 'the limit.' he steeled himself with that phrase, and tiptoed on; but the next door was harder to pass. it was the room his daughters slept in. maud was at school, but imogen would be lying there; and moisture came into dartie's early morning eyes. she was the most like him of the four, with her dark hair, and her luscious brown glance. just coming out, a pretty thing! he set down the two valises. this almost formal abdication of fatherhood hurt him. the morning light fell on a face which worked with real emotion. nothing so false as penitence moved him; but genuine paternal feeling, and that melancholy of 'never again.' he moistened his lips; and complete irresolution for a moment paralysed his legs in their check trousers. it was hard--hard to be thus compelled to leave his home! "d---nit!" he muttered, "i never thought it would come to this." noises above warned him that the maids were beginning to get up. and grasping the two valises, he tiptoed on downstairs. his cheeks were wet, and the knowledge of that was comforting, as though it guaranteed the genuineness of his sacrifice. he lingered a little in the rooms below, to pack all the cigars he had, some papers, a crush hat, a silver cigarette box, a ruff's guide. then, mixing himself a stiff whisky and soda, and lighting a cigarette, he stood hesitating before a photograph of his two girls, in a silver frame. it belonged to winifred. 'never mind,' he thought; 'she can get another taken, and i can't!' he slipped it into the valise. then, putting on his hat and overcoat, he took two others, his best malacca cane, an umbrella, and opened the front door. closing it softly behind him, he walked out, burdened as he had never been in all his life, and made his way round the corner to wait there for an early cab to come by. thus had passed montague dartie in the forty-fifth year of his age from the house which he had called his own. when winifred came down, and realised that he was not in the house, her first feeling was one of dull anger that he should thus elude the reproaches she had carefully prepared in those long wakeful hours. he had gone off to newmarket or brighton, with that woman as likely as not. disgusting! forced to a complete reticence before imogen and the servants, and aware that her father's nerves would never stand the disclosure, she had been unable to refrain from going to timothy's that afternoon, and pouring out the story of the pearls to aunts juley and hester in utter confidence. it was only on the following morning that she noticed the disappearance of that photograph. what did it mean? careful examination of her husband's relics prompted the thought that he had gone for good. as that conclusion hardened she stood quite still in the middle of his dressing-room, with all the drawers pulled out, to try and realise what she was feeling. by no means easy! though he was 'the limit' he was yet her property, and for the life of her she could not but feel the poorer. to be widowed yet not widowed at forty-two; with four children; made conspicuous, an object of commiseration! gone to the arms of a spanish jade! memories, feelings, which she had thought quite dead, revived within her, painful, sullen, tenacious. mechanically she closed drawer after drawer, went to her bed, lay on it, and buried her face in the pillows. she did not cry. what was the use of that? when she got off her bed to go down to lunch she felt as if only one thing could do her good, and that was to have val home. he--her eldest boy--who was to go to oxford next month at james' expense, was at littlehampton taking his final gallops with his trainer for smalls, as he would have phrased it following his father's diction. she caused a telegram to be sent to him. "i must see about his clothes," she said to imogen; "i can't have him going up to oxford all anyhow. those boys are so particular." "val's got heaps of things," imogen answered. "i know; but they want overhauling. i hope he'll come." "he'll come like a shot, mother. but he'll probably skew his exam." "i can't help that," said winifred. "i want him." with an innocent shrewd look at her mother's face, imogen kept silence. it was father, of course! val did come 'like a shot' at six o'clock. imagine a cross between a pickle and a forsyte and you have young publius valerius dartie. a youth so named could hardly turn out otherwise. when he was born, winifred, in the heyday of spirits, and the craving for distinction, had determined that her children should have names such as no others had ever had. (it was a mercy--she felt now--that she had just not named imogen thisbe.) but it was to george forsyte, always a wag, that val's christening was due. it so happened that dartie, dining with him a week after the birth of his son and heir, had mentioned this aspiration of winifred's. "call him cato," said george, "it'll be damned piquant!" he had just won a tenner on a horse of that name. "cato!" dartie had replied--they were a little 'on' as the phrase was even in those days--"it's not a christian name." "halo you!" george called to a waiter in knee breeches. "bring me the encyc'pedia brit. from the library, letter c." the waiter brought it. "here you are!" said george, pointing with his cigar: "cato publius valerius by virgil out of lydia. that's what you want. publius valerius is christian enough." dartie, on arriving home, had informed winifred. she had been charmed. it was so 'chic.' and publius valerius became the baby's name, though it afterwards transpired that they had got hold of the inferior cato. in , however, when little publius was nearly ten, the word 'chic' went out of fashion, and sobriety came in; winifred began to have doubts. they were confirmed by little publius himself who returned from his first term at school complaining that life was a burden to him--they called him pubby. winifred--a woman of real decision--promptly changed his school and his name to val, the publius being dropped even as an initial. at nineteen he was a limber, freckled youth with a wide mouth, light eyes, long dark lashes; a rather charming smile, considerable knowledge of what he should not know, and no experience of what he ought to do. few boys had more narrowly escaped being expelled--the engaging rascal. after kissing his mother and pinching imogen, he ran upstairs three at a time, and came down four, dressed for dinner. he was awfully sorry, but his 'trainer,' who had come up too, had asked him to dine at the oxford and cambridge; it wouldn't do to miss--the old chap would be hurt. winifred let him go with an unhappy pride. she had wanted him at home, but it was very nice to know that his tutor was so fond of him. he went out with a wink at imogen, saying: "i say, mother, could i have two plover's eggs when i come in?--cook's got some. they top up so jolly well. oh! and look here--have you any money?--i had to borrow a fiver from old snobby." winifred, looking at him with fond shrewdness, answered: "my dear, you are naughty about money. but you shouldn't pay him to-night, anyway; you're his guest. how nice and slim he looked in his white waistcoat, and his dark thick lashes!" "oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, mother; and i think i ought to stand the tickets; he's always hard up, you know." winifred produced a five-pound note, saying: "well, perhaps you'd better pay him, but you mustn't stand the tickets too." val pocketed the fiver. "if i do, i can't," he said. "good-night, mum!" he went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously, sniffing the air of piccadilly like a young hound loosed into covert. jolly good biz! after that mouldy old slow hole down there! he found his 'tutor,' not indeed at the oxford and cambridge, but at the goat's club. this 'tutor' was a year older than himself, a good-looking youth, with fine brown eyes, and smooth dark hair, a small mouth, an oval face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, one of those young men who without effort establish moral ascendancy over their companions. he had missed being expelled from school a year before val, had spent that year at oxford, and val could almost see a halo round his head. his name was crum, and no one could get through money quicker. it seemed to be his only aim in life--dazzling to young val, in whom, however, the forsyte would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the value for that money was. they dined quietly, in style and taste; left the club smoking cigars, with just two bottles inside them, and dropped into stalls at the liberty. for val the sound of comic songs, the sight of lovely legs were fogged and interrupted by haunting fears that he would never equal crum's quiet dandyism. his idealism was roused; and when that is so, one is never quite at ease. surely he had too wide a mouth, not the best cut of waistcoat, no braid on his trousers, and his lavender gloves had no thin black stitchings down the back. besides, he laughed too much--crum never laughed, he only smiled, with his regular dark brows raised a little so that they formed a gable over his just drooped lids. no! he would never be crum's equal. all the same it was a jolly good show, and cynthia dark simply ripping. between the acts crum regaled him with particulars of cynthia's private life, and the awful knowledge became val's that, if he liked, crum could go behind. he simply longed to say: "i say, take me!" but dared not, because of his deficiencies; and this made the last act or two almost miserable. on coming out crum said: "it's half an hour before they close; let's go on to the pandemonium." they took a hansom to travel the hundred yards, and seats costing seven-and-six apiece because they were going to stand, and walked into the promenade. it was in these little things, this utter negligence of money that crum had such engaging polish. the ballet was on its last legs and night, and the traffic of the promenade was suffering for the moment. men and women were crowded in three rows against the barrier. the whirl and dazzle on the stage, the half dark, the mingled tobacco fumes and women's scent, all that curious lure to promiscuity which belongs to promenades, began to free young val from his idealism. he looked admiringly in a young woman's face, saw she was not young, and quickly looked away. shades of cynthia dark! the young woman's arm touched his unconsciously; there was a scent of musk and mignonette. val looked round the corner of his lashes. perhaps she was young, after all. her foot trod on his; she begged his pardon. he said: "not at all; jolly good ballet, isn't it?" "oh, i'm tired of it; aren't you?" young val smiled--his wide, rather charming smile. beyond that he did not go--not yet convinced. the forsyte in him stood out for greater certainty. and on the stage the ballet whirled its kaleidoscope of snow-white, salmon-pink, and emerald-green and violet and seemed suddenly to freeze into a stilly spangled pyramid. applause broke out, and it was over! maroon curtains had cut it off. the semi-circle of men and women round the barrier broke up, the young woman's arm pressed his. a little way off disturbance seemed centring round a man with a pink carnation; val stole another glance at the young woman, who was looking towards it. three men, unsteady, emerged, walking arm in arm. the one in the centre wore the pink carnation, a white waistcoat, a dark moustache; he reeled a little as he walked. crum's voice said slow and level: "look at that bounder, he's screwed!" val turned to look. the 'bounder' had disengaged his arm, and was pointing straight at them. crum's voice, level as ever, said: "he seems to know you!" the 'bounder' spoke: "h'llo!" he said. "you f'llows, look! there's my young rascal of a son!" val saw. it was his father! he could have sunk into the crimson carpet. it was not the meeting in this place, not even that his father was 'screwed'; it was crum's word 'bounder,' which, as by heavenly revelation, he perceived at that moment to be true. yes, his father looked a bounder with his dark good looks, and his pink carnation, and his square, self-assertive walk. and without a word he ducked behind the young woman and slipped out of the promenade. he heard the word, "val!" behind him, and ran down deep-carpeted steps past the 'chuckersout,' into the square. to be ashamed of his own father is perhaps the bitterest experience a young man can go through. it seemed to val, hurrying away, that his career had ended before it had begun. how could he go up to oxford now amongst all those chaps, those splendid friends of crum's, who would know that his father was a 'bounder'! and suddenly he hated crum. who the devil was crum, to say that? if crum had been beside him at that moment, he would certainly have been jostled off the pavement. his own father--his own! a choke came up in his throat, and he dashed his hands down deep into his overcoat pockets. damn crum! he conceived the wild idea of running back and fending his father, taking him by the arm and walking about with him in front of crum; but gave it up at once and pursued his way down piccadilly. a young woman planted herself before him. "not so angry, darling!" he shied, dodged her, and suddenly became quite cool. if crum ever said a word, he would jolly well punch his head, and there would be an end of it. he walked a hundred yards or more, contented with that thought, then lost its comfort utterly. it wasn't simple like that! he remembered how, at school, when some parent came down who did not pass the standard, it just clung to the fellow afterwards. it was one of those things nothing could remove. why had his mother married his father, if he was a 'bounder'? it was bitterly unfair--jolly low-down on a fellow to give him a 'bounder' for father. the worst of it was that now crum had spoken the word, he realised that he had long known subconsciously that his father was not 'the clean potato.' it was the beastliest thing that had ever happened to him--beastliest thing that had ever happened to any fellow! and, down-hearted as he had never yet been, he came to green street, and let himself in with a smuggled latch-key. in the dining-room his plover's eggs were set invitingly, with some cut bread and butter, and a little whisky at the bottom of a decanter--just enough, as winifred had thought, for him to feel himself a man. it made him sick to look at them, and he went upstairs. winifred heard him pass, and thought: 'the dear boy's in. thank goodness! if he takes after his father i don't know what i shall do! but he won't he's like me. dear val!' chapter iii soames prepares to take steps when soames entered his sister's little louis quinze drawing-room, with its small balcony, always flowered with hanging geraniums in the summer, and now with pots of lilium auratum, he was struck by the immutability of human affairs. it looked just the same as on his first visit to the newly married darties twenty-one years ago. he had chosen the furniture himself, and so completely that no subsequent purchase had ever been able to change the room's atmosphere. yes, he had founded his sister well, and she had wanted it. indeed, it said a great deal for winifred that after all this time with dartie she remained well-founded. from the first soames had nosed out dartie's nature from underneath the plausibility, savoir faire, and good looks which had dazzled winifred, her mother, and even james, to the extent of permitting the fellow to marry his daughter without bringing anything but shares of no value into settlement. winifred, whom he noticed next to the furniture, was sitting at her buhl bureau with a letter in her hand. she rose and came towards him. tall as himself, strong in the cheekbones, well tailored, something in her face disturbed soames. she crumpled the letter in her hand, but seemed to change her mind and held it out to him. he was her lawyer as well as her brother. soames read, on iseeum club paper, these words: 'you will not get chance to insult in my own again. i am leaving country to-morrow. it's played out. i'm tired of being insulted by you. you've brought on yourself. no self-respecting man can stand it. i shall not ask you for anything again. good-bye. i took the photograph of the two girls. give them my love. i don't care what your family say. it's all their doing. i'm going to live new life. 'm.d.' this after-dinner note had a splotch on it not yet quite dry. he looked at winifred--the splotch had clearly come from her; and he checked the words: 'good riddance!' then it occurred to him that with this letter she was entering that very state which he himself so earnestly desired to quit--the state of a forsyte who was not divorced. winifred had turned away, and was taking a long sniff from a little gold-topped bottle. a dull commiseration, together with a vague sense of injury, crept about soames' heart. he had come to her to talk of his own position, and get sympathy, and here was she in the same position, wanting of course to talk of it, and get sympathy from him. it was always like that! nobody ever seemed to think that he had troubles and interests of his own. he folded up the letter with the splotch inside, and said: "what's it all about, now?" winifred recited the story of the pearls calmly. "do you think he's really gone, soames? you see the state he was in when he wrote that." soames who, when he desired a thing, placated providence by pretending that he did not think it likely to happen, answered: "i shouldn't think so. i might find out at his club." "if george is there," said winifred, "he would know." "george?" said soames; "i saw him at his father's funeral." "then he's sure to be there." soames, whose good sense applauded his sister's acumen, said grudgingly: "well, i'll go round. have you said anything in park lane?" "i've told emily," returned winifred, who retained that 'chic' way of describing her mother. "father would have a fit." indeed, anything untoward was now sedulously kept from james. with another look round at the furniture, as if to gauge his sister's exact position, soames went out towards piccadilly. the evening was drawing in--a touch of chill in the october haze. he walked quickly, with his close and concentrated air. he must get through, for he wished to dine in soho. on hearing from the hall porter at the iseeum that mr. dartie had not been in to-day, he looked at the trusty fellow and decided only to ask if mr. george forsyte was in the club. he was. soames, who always looked askance at his cousin george, as one inclined to jest at his expense, followed the pageboy, slightly reassured by the thought that george had just lost his father. he must have come in for about thirty thousand, besides what he had under that settlement of roger's, which had avoided death duty. he found george in a bow-window, staring out across a half-eaten plate of muffins. his tall, bulky, black-clothed figure loomed almost threatening, though preserving still the supernatural neatness of the racing man. with a faint grin on his fleshy face, he said: "hallo, soames! have a muffin?" "no, thanks," murmured soames; and, nursing his hat, with the desire to say something suitable and sympathetic, added: "how's your mother?" "thanks," said george; "so-so. haven't seen you for ages. you never go racing. how's the city?" soames, scenting the approach of a jest, closed up, and answered: "i wanted to ask you about dartie. i hear he's...." "flitted, made a bolt to buenos aires with the fair lola. good for winifred and the little darties. he's a treat." soames nodded. naturally inimical as these cousins were, dartie made them kin. "uncle james'll sleep in his bed now," resumed george; "i suppose he's had a lot off you, too." soames smiled. "ah! you saw him further," said george amicably. "he's a real rouser. young val will want a bit of looking after. i was always sorry for winifred. she's a plucky woman." again soames nodded. "i must be getting back to her," he said; "she just wanted to know for certain. we may have to take steps. i suppose there's no mistake?" "it's quite o.k.," said george--it was he who invented so many of those quaint sayings which have been assigned to other sources. "he was drunk as a lord last night; but he went off all right this morning. his ship's the tuscarora;" and, fishing out a card, he read mockingly: "'mr. montague dartie, poste restante, buenos aires.' i should hurry up with the steps, if i were you. he fairly fed me up last night." "yes," said soames; "but it's not always easy." then, conscious from george's eyes that he had roused reminiscence of his own affair, he got up, and held out his hand. george rose too. "remember me to winifred.... you'll enter her for the divorce stakes straight off if you ask me." soames took a sidelong look back at him from the doorway. george had seated himself again and was staring before him; he looked big and lonely in those black clothes. soames had never known him so subdued. 'i suppose he feels it in a way,' he thought. 'they must have about fifty thousand each, all told. they ought to keep the estate together. if there's a war, house property will go down. uncle roger was a good judge, though.' and the face of annette rose before him in the darkening street; her brown hair and her blue eyes with their dark lashes, her fresh lips and cheeks, dewy and blooming in spite of london, her perfect french figure. 'take steps!' he thought. re-entering winifred's house he encountered val, and they went in together. an idea had occurred to soames. his cousin jolyon was irene's trustee, the first step would be to go down and see him at robin hill. robin hill! the odd--the very odd feeling those words brought back! robin hill--the house bosinney had built for him and irene--the house they had never lived in--the fatal house! and jolyon lived there now! h'm! and suddenly he thought: 'they say he's got a boy at oxford! why not take young val down and introduce them! it's an excuse! less bald--very much less bald!' so, as they went upstairs, he said to val: "you've got a cousin at oxford; you've never met him. i should like to take you down with me to-morrow to where he lives and introduce you. you'll find it useful." val, receiving the idea with but moderate transports, soames clinched it. "i'll call for you after lunch. it's in the country--not far; you'll enjoy it." on the threshold of the drawing-room he recalled with an effort that the steps he contemplated concerned winifred at the moment, not himself. winifred was still sitting at her buhl bureau. "it's quite true," he said; "he's gone to buenos aires, started this morning--we'd better have him shadowed when he lands. i'll cable at once. otherwise we may have a lot of expense. the sooner these things are done the better. i'm always regretting that i didn't..." he stopped, and looked sidelong at the silent winifred. "by the way," he went on, "can you prove cruelty?" winifred said in a dull voice: "i don't know. what is cruelty?" "well, has he struck you, or anything?" winifred shook herself, and her jaw grew square. "he twisted my arm. or would pointing a pistol count? or being too drunk to undress himself, or--no--i can't bring in the children." "no," said soames; "no! i wonder! of course, there's legal separation--we can get that. but separation! um!" "what does it mean?" asked winifred desolately. "that he can't touch you, or you him; you're both of you married and unmarried." and again he grunted. what was it, in fact, but his own accursed position, legalised! no, he would not put her into that! "it must be divorce," he said decisively; "failing cruelty, there's desertion. there's a way of shortening the two years, now. we get the court to give us restitution of conjugal rights. then if he doesn't obey, we can bring a suit for divorce in six months' time. of course you don't want him back. but they won't know that. still, there's the risk that he might come. i'd rather try cruelty." winifred shook her head. "it's so beastly." "well," soames murmured, "perhaps there isn't much risk so long as he's infatuated and got money. don't say anything to anybody, and don't pay any of his debts." winifred sighed. in spite of all she had been through, the sense of loss was heavy on her. and this idea of not paying his debts any more brought it home to her as nothing else yet had. some richness seemed to have gone out of life. without her husband, without her pearls, without that intimate sense that she made a brave show above the domestic whirlpool, she would now have to face the world. she felt bereaved indeed. and into the chilly kiss he placed on her forehead, soames put more than his usual warmth. "i have to go down to robin hill to-morrow," he said, "to see young jolyon on business. he's got a boy at oxford. i'd like to take val with me and introduce him. come down to 'the shelter' for the week-end and bring the children. oh! by the way, no, that won't do; i've got some other people coming." so saying, he left her and turned towards soho. chapter iv soho of all quarters in the queer adventurous amalgam called london, soho is perhaps least suited to the forsyte spirit. 'so-ho, my wild one!' george would have said if he had seen his cousin going there. untidy, full of greeks, ishmaelites, cats, italians, tomatoes, restaurants, organs, coloured stuffs, queer names, people looking out of upper windows, it dwells remote from the british body politic. yet has it haphazard proprietary instincts of its own, and a certain possessive prosperity which keeps its rents up when those of other quarters go down. for long years soames' acquaintanceship with soho had been confined to its western bastion, wardour street. many bargains had he picked up there. even during those seven years at brighton after bosinney's death and irene's flight, he had bought treasures there sometimes, though he had no place to put them; for when the conviction that his wife had gone for good at last became firm within him, he had caused a board to be put up in montpellier square: for sale the lease of this desirable residence enquire of messrs. lesson and tukes, court street, belgravia. it had sold within a week--that desirable residence, in the shadow of whose perfection a man and a woman had eaten their hearts out. of a misty january evening, just before the board was taken down, soames had gone there once more, and stood against the square railings, looking at its unlighted windows, chewing the cud of possessive memories which had turned so bitter in the mouth. why had she never loved him? why? she had been given all she had wanted, and in return had given him, for three long years, all he had wanted--except, indeed, her heart. he had uttered a little involuntary groan, and a passing policeman had glanced suspiciously at him who no longer possessed the right to enter that green door with the carved brass knocker beneath the board 'for sale!' a choking sensation had attacked his throat, and he had hurried away into the mist. that evening he had gone to brighton to live.... approaching malta street, soho, and the restaurant bretagne, where annette would be drooping her pretty shoulders over her accounts, soames thought with wonder of those seven years at brighton. how had he managed to go on so long in that town devoid of the scent of sweetpeas, where he had not even space to put his treasures? true, those had been years with no time at all for looking at them--years of almost passionate money-making, during which forsyte, bustard and forsyte had become solicitors to more limited companies than they could properly attend to. up to the city of a morning in a pullman car, down from the city of an evening in a pullman car. law papers again after dinner, then the sleep of the tired, and up again next morning. saturday to monday was spent at his club in town--curious reversal of customary procedure, based on the deep and careful instinct that while working so hard he needed sea air to and from the station twice a day, and while resting must indulge his domestic affections. the sunday visit to his family in park lane, to timothy's, and to green street; the occasional visits elsewhere had seemed to him as necessary to health as sea air on weekdays. even since his migration to mapledurham he had maintained those habits until--he had known annette. whether annette had produced the revolution in his outlook, or that outlook had produced annette, he knew no more than we know where a circle begins. it was intricate and deeply involved with the growing consciousness that property without anyone to leave it to is the negation of true forsyteism. to have an heir, some continuance of self, who would begin where he left off--ensure, in fact, that he would not leave off--had quite obsessed him for the last year and more. after buying a bit of wedgwood one evening in april, he had dropped into malta street to look at a house of his father's which had been turned into a restaurant--a risky proceeding, and one not quite in accordance with the terms of the lease. he had stared for a little at the outside painted a good cream colour, with two peacock-blue tubs containing little bay-trees in a recessed doorway--and at the words 'restaurant bretagne' above them in gold letters, rather favourably impressed. entering, he had noticed that several people were already seated at little round green tables with little pots of fresh flowers on them and brittany-ware plates, and had asked of a trim waitress to see the proprietor. they had shown him into a back room, where a girl was sitting at a simple bureau covered with papers, and a small round, table was laid for two. the impression of cleanliness, order, and good taste was confirmed when the girl got up, saying, "you wish to see maman, monsieur?" in a broken accent. "yes," soames had answered, "i represent your landlord; in fact, i'm his son." "won't you sit down, sir, please? tell maman to come to this gentleman." he was pleased that the girl seemed impressed, because it showed business instinct; and suddenly he noticed that she was remarkably pretty--so remarkably pretty that his eyes found a difficulty in leaving her face. when she moved to put a chair for him, she swayed in a curious subtle way, as if she had been put together by someone with a special secret skill; and her face and neck, which was a little bared, looked as fresh as if they had been sprayed with dew. probably at this moment soames decided that the lease had not been violated; though to himself and his father he based the decision on the efficiency of those illicit adaptations in the building, on the signs of prosperity, and the obvious business capacity of madame lamotte. he did not, however, neglect to leave certain matters to future consideration, which had necessitated further visits, so that the little back room had become quite accustomed to his spare, not unsolid, but unobtrusive figure, and his pale, chinny face with clipped moustache and dark hair not yet grizzling at the sides. "un monsieur tres distingue," madame lamotte found him; and presently, "tres amical, tres gentil," watching his eyes upon her daughter. she was one of those generously built, fine-faced, dark-haired frenchwomen, whose every action and tone of voice inspire perfect confidence in the thoroughness of their domestic tastes, their knowledge of cooking, and the careful increase of their bank balances. after those visits to the restaurant bretagne began, other visits ceased--without, indeed, any definite decision, for soames, like all forsytes, and the great majority of their countrymen, was a born empiricist. but it was this change in his mode of life which had gradually made him so definitely conscious that he desired to alter his condition from that of the unmarried married man to that of the married man remarried. turning into malta street on this evening of early october, , he bought a paper to see if there were any after-development of the dreyfus case--a question which he had always found useful in making closer acquaintanceship with madame lamotte and her daughter, who were catholic and anti-dreyfusard. scanning those columns, soames found nothing french, but noticed a general fall on the stock exchange and an ominous leader about the transvaal. he entered, thinking: 'war's a certainty. i shall sell my consols.' not that he had many, personally, the rate of interest was too wretched; but he should advise his companies--consols would assuredly go down. a look, as he passed the doorways of the restaurant, assured him that business was good as ever, and this, which in april would have pleased him, now gave him a certain uneasiness. if the steps which he had to take ended in his marrying annette, he would rather see her mother safely back in france, a move to which the prosperity of the restaurant bretagne might become an obstacle. he would have to buy them out, of course, for french people only came to england to make money; and it would mean a higher price. and then that peculiar sweet sensation at the back of his throat, and a slight thumping about the heart, which he always experienced at the door of the little room, prevented his thinking how much it would cost. going in, he was conscious of an abundant black skirt vanishing through the door into the restaurant, and of annette with her hands up to her hair. it was the attitude in which of all others he admired her--so beautifully straight and rounded and supple. and he said: "i just came in to talk to your mother about pulling down that partition. no, don't call her." "monsieur will have supper with us? it will be ready in ten minutes." soames, who still held her hand, was overcome by an impulse which surprised him. "you look so pretty to-night," he said, "so very pretty. do you know how pretty you look, annette?" annette withdrew her hand, and blushed. "monsieur is very good." "not a bit good," said soames, and sat down gloomily. annette made a little expressive gesture with her hands; a smile was crinkling her red lips untouched by salve. and, looking at those lips, soames said: "are you happy over here, or do you want to go back to france?" "oh, i like london. paris, of course. but london is better than orleans, and the english country is so beautiful. i have been to richmond last sunday." soames went through a moment of calculating struggle. mapledurham! dared he? after all, dared he go so far as that, and show her what there was to look forward to! still! down there one could say things. in this room it was impossible. "i want you and your mother," he said suddenly, "to come for the afternoon next sunday. my house is on the river, it's not too late in this weather; and i can show you some good pictures. what do you say?" annette clasped her hands. "it will be lovelee. the river is so beautiful" "that's understood, then. i'll ask madame." he need say no more to her this evening, and risk giving himself away. but had he not already said too much? did one ask restaurant proprietors with pretty daughters down to one's country house without design? madame lamotte would see, if annette didn't. well! there was not much that madame did not see. besides, this was the second time he had stayed to supper with them; he owed them hospitality. walking home towards park lane--for he was staying at his father's--with the impression of annette's soft clever hand within his own, his thoughts were pleasant, slightly sensual, rather puzzled. take steps! what steps? how? dirty linen washed in public? pah! with his reputation for sagacity, for far-sightedness and the clever extrication of others, he, who stood for proprietary interests, to become the plaything of that law of which he was a pillar! there was something revolting in the thought! winifred's affair was bad enough! to have a double dose of publicity in the family! would not a liaison be better than that--a liaison, and a son he could adopt? but dark, solid, watchful, madame lamotte blocked the avenue of that vision. no! that would not work. it was not as if annette could have a real passion for him; one could not expect that at his age. if her mother wished, if the worldly advantage were manifestly great--perhaps! if not, refusal would be certain. besides, he thought: 'i'm not a villain. i don't want to hurt her; and i don't want anything underhand. but i do want her, and i want a son! there's nothing for it but divorce--somehow--anyhow--divorce!' under the shadow of the plane-trees, in the lamplight, he passed slowly along the railings of the green park. mist clung there among the bluish tree shapes, beyond range of the lamps. how many hundred times he had walked past those trees from his father's house in park lane, when he was quite a young man; or from his own house in montpellier square in those four years of married life! and, to-night, making up his mind to free himself if he could of that long useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to walk on, in at hyde park corner, out at knightsbridge gate, just as he used to when going home to irene in the old days. what could she be like now?--how had she passed the years since he last saw her, twelve years in all, seven already since uncle jolyon left her that money? was she still beautiful? would he know her if he saw her? 'i've not changed much,' he thought; 'i expect she has. she made me suffer.' he remembered suddenly one night, the first on which he went out to dinner alone--an old malburian dinner--the first year of their marriage. with what eagerness he had hurried back; and, entering softly as a cat, had heard her playing. opening the drawing-room door noiselessly, he had stood watching the expression on her face, different from any he knew, so much more open, so confiding, as though to her music she was giving a heart he had never seen. and he remembered how she stopped and looked round, how her face changed back to that which he did know, and what an icy shiver had gone through him, for all that the next moment he was fondling her shoulders. yes, she had made him suffer! divorce! it seemed ridiculous, after all these years of utter separation! but it would have to be. no other way! 'the question,' he thought with sudden realism, 'is--which of us? she or me? she deserted me. she ought to pay for it. there'll be someone, i suppose.' involuntarily he uttered a little snarling sound, and, turning, made his way back to park lane. chapter v james sees visions the butler himself opened the door, and closing it softly, detained soames on the inner mat. "the master's poorly, sir," he murmured. "he wouldn't go to bed till you came in. he's still in the diningroom." soames responded in the hushed tone to which the house was now accustomed. "what's the matter with him, warmson?" "nervous, sir, i think. might be the funeral; might be mrs. dartie's comin' round this afternoon. i think he overheard something. i've took him in a negus. the mistress has just gone up." soames hung his hat on a mahogany stag's-horn. "all right, warmson, you can go to bed; i'll take him up myself." and he passed into the dining-room. james was sitting before the fire, in a big armchair, with a camel-hair shawl, very light and warm, over his frock-coated shoulders, on to which his long white whiskers drooped. his white hair, still fairly thick, glistened in the lamplight; a little moisture from his fixed, light-grey eyes stained the cheeks, still quite well coloured, and the long deep furrows running to the corners of the clean-shaven lips, which moved as if mumbling thoughts. his long legs, thin as a crow's, in shepherd's plaid trousers, were bent at less than a right angle, and on one knee a spindly hand moved continually, with fingers wide apart and glistening tapered nails. beside him, on a low stool, stood a half-finished glass of negus, bedewed with beads of heat. there he had been sitting, with intervals for meals, all day. at eighty-eight he was still organically sound, but suffering terribly from the thought that no one ever told him anything. it is, indeed, doubtful how he had become aware that roger was being buried that day, for emily had kept it from him. she was always keeping things from him. emily was only seventy! james had a grudge against his wife's youth. he felt sometimes that he would never have married her if he had known that she would have so many years before her, when he had so few. it was not natural. she would live fifteen or twenty years after he was gone, and might spend a lot of money; she had always had extravagant tastes. for all he knew she might want to buy one of these motor-cars. cicely and rachel and imogen and all the young people--they all rode those bicycles now and went off goodness knew where. and now roger was gone. he didn't know--couldn't tell! the family was breaking up. soames would know how much his uncle had left. curiously he thought of roger as soames' uncle not as his own brother. soames! it was more and more the one solid spot in a vanishing world. soames was careful; he was a warm man; but he had no one to leave his money to. there it was! he didn't know! and there was that fellow chamberlain! for james' political principles had been fixed between ' and ' when 'that rascally radical' had been the chief thorn in the side of property and he distrusted him to this day in spite of his conversion; he would get the country into a mess and make money go down before he had done with it. a stormy petrel of a chap! where was soames? he had gone to the funeral of course which they had tried to keep from him. he knew that perfectly well; he had seen his son's trousers. roger! roger in his coffin! he remembered how, when they came up from school together from the west, on the box seat of the old slowflyer in , roger had got into the 'boot' and gone to sleep. james uttered a thin cackle. a funny fellow--roger--an original! he didn't know! younger than himself, and in his coffin! the family was breaking up. there was val going to the university; he never came to see him now. he would cost a pretty penny up there. it was an extravagant age. and all the pretty pennies that his four grandchildren would cost him danced before james' eyes. he did not grudge them the money, but he grudged terribly the risk which the spending of that money might bring on them; he grudged the diminution of security. and now that cicely had married, she might be having children too. he didn't know--couldn't tell! nobody thought of anything but spending money in these days, and racing about, and having what they called 'a good time.' a motor-car went past the window. ugly great lumbering thing, making all that racket! but there it was, the country rattling to the dogs! people in such a hurry that they couldn't even care for style--a neat turnout like his barouche and bays was worth all those new-fangled things. and consols at ! there must be a lot of money in the country. and now there was this old kruger! they had tried to keep old kruger from him. but he knew better; there would be a pretty kettle of fish out there! he had known how it would be when that fellow gladstone--dead now, thank god! made such a mess of it after that dreadful business at majuba. he shouldn't wonder if the empire split up and went to pot. and this vision of the empire going to pot filled a full quarter of an hour with qualms of the most serious character. he had eaten a poor lunch because of them. but it was after lunch that the real disaster to his nerves occurred. he had been dozing when he became aware of voices--low voices. ah! they never told him anything! winifred's and her mother's. "monty!" that fellow dartie--always that fellow dartie! the voices had receded; and james had been left alone, with his ears standing up like a hare's, and fear creeping about his inwards. why did they leave him alone? why didn't they come and tell him? and an awful thought, which through long years had haunted him, concreted again swiftly in his brain. dartie had gone bankrupt--fraudulently bankrupt, and to save winifred and the children, he--james--would have to pay! could he--could soames turn him into a limited company? no, he couldn't! there it was! with every minute before emily came back the spectre fiercened. why, it might be forgery! with eyes fixed on the doubted turner in the centre of the wall, james suffered tortures. he saw dartie in the dock, his grandchildren in the gutter, and himself in bed. he saw the doubted turner being sold at jobson's, and all the majestic edifice of property in rags. he saw in fancy winifred unfashionably dressed, and heard in fancy emily's voice saying: "now, don't fuss, james!" she was always saying: "don't fuss!" she had no nerves; he ought never to have married a woman eighteen years younger than himself. then emily's real voice said: "have you had a nice nap, james?" nap! he was in torment, and she asked him that! "what's this about dartie?" he said, and his eyes glared at her. emily's self-possession never deserted her. "what have you been hearing?" she asked blandly. "what's this about dartie?" repeated james. "he's gone bankrupt." "fiddle!" james made a great effort, and rose to the full height of his stork-like figure. "you never tell me anything," he said; "he's gone bankrupt." the destruction of that fixed idea seemed to emily all that mattered at the moment. "he has not," she answered firmly. "he's gone to buenos aires." if she had said "he's gone to mars" she could not have dealt james a more stunning blow; his imagination, invested entirely in british securities, could as little grasp one place as the other. "what's he gone there for?" he said. "he's got no money. what did he take?" agitated within by winifred's news, and goaded by the constant reiteration of this jeremiad, emily said calmly: "he took winifred's pearls and a dancer." "what!" said james, and sat down. his sudden collapse alarmed her, and smoothing his forehead, she said: "now, don't fuss, james!" a dusky red had spread over james' cheeks and forehead. "i paid for them," he said tremblingly; "he's a thief! i--i knew how it would be. he'll be the death of me; he ...." words failed him and he sat quite still. emily, who thought she knew him so well, was alarmed, and went towards the sideboard where she kept some sal volatile. she could not see the tenacious forsyte spirit working in that thin, tremulous shape against the extravagance of the emotion called up by this outrage on forsyte principles--the forsyte spirit deep in there, saying: 'you mustn't get into a fantod, it'll never do. you won't digest your lunch. you'll have a fit!' all unseen by her, it was doing better work in james than sal volatile. "drink this," she said. james waved it aside. "what was winifred about," he said, "to let him take her pearls?" emily perceived the crisis past. "she can have mine," she said comfortably. "i never wear them. she'd better get a divorce." "there you go!" said james. "divorce! we've never had a divorce in the family. where's soames?" "he'll be in directly." "no, he won't," said james, almost fiercely; "he's at the funeral. you think i know nothing." "well," said emily with calm, "you shouldn't get into such fusses when we tell you things." and plumping up his cushions, and putting the sal volatile beside him, she left the room. but james sat there seeing visions--of winifred in the divorce court, and the family name in the papers; of the earth falling on roger's coffin; of val taking after his father; of the pearls he had paid for and would never see again; of money back at four per cent., and the country going to the dogs; and, as the afternoon wore into evening, and tea-time passed, and dinnertime, those visions became more and more mixed and menacing--of being told nothing, till he had nothing left of all his wealth, and they told him nothing of it. where was soames? why didn't he come in?... his hand grasped the glass of negus, he raised it to drink, and saw his son standing there looking at him. a little sigh of relief escaped his lips, and putting the glass down, he said: "there you are! dartie's gone to buenos aires." soames nodded. "that's all right," he said; "good riddance." a wave of assuagement passed over james' brain. soames knew. soames was the only one of them all who had sense. why couldn't he come and live at home? he had no son of his own. and he said plaintively: "at my age i get nervous. i wish you were more at home, my boy." again soames nodded; the mask of his countenance betrayed no understanding, but he went closer, and as if by accident touched his father's shoulder. "they sent their love to you at timothy's," he said. "it went off all right. i've been to see winifred. i'm going to take steps." and he thought: 'yes, and you mustn't hear of them.' james looked up; his long white whiskers quivered, his thin throat between the points of his collar looked very gristly and naked. "i've been very poorly all day," he said; "they never tell me anything." soames' heart twitched. "well, it's all right. there's nothing to worry about. will you come up now?" and he put his hand under his father's arm. james obediently and tremulously raised himself, and together they went slowly across the room, which had a rich look in the firelight, and out to the stairs. very slowly they ascended. "good-night, my boy," said james at his bedroom door. "good-night, father," answered soames. his hand stroked down the sleeve beneath the shawl; it seemed to have almost nothing in it, so thin was the arm. and, turning away from the light in the opening doorway, he went up the extra flight to his own bedroom. 'i want a son,' he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed; 'i want a son.' chapter vi no-longer-young jolyon at home trees take little account of time, and the old oak on the upper lawn at robin hill looked no day older than when bosinney sprawled under it and said to soames: "forsyte, i've found the very place for your house." since then swithin had dreamed, and old jolyon died, beneath its branches. and now, close to the swing, no-longer-young jolyon often painted there. of all spots in the world it was perhaps the most sacred to him, for he had loved his father. contemplating its great girth--crinkled and a little mossed, but not yet hollow--he would speculate on the passage of time. that tree had seen, perhaps, all real english history; it dated, he shouldn't wonder, from the days of elizabeth at least. his own fifty years were as nothing to its wood. when the house behind it, which he now owned, was three hundred years of age instead of twelve, that tree might still be standing there, vast and hollow--for who would commit such sacrilege as to cut it down? a forsyte might perhaps still be living in that house, to guard it jealously. and jolyon would wonder what the house would look like coated with such age. wistaria was already about its walls--the new look had gone. would it hold its own and keep the dignity bosinney had bestowed on it, or would the giant london have lapped it round and made it into an asylum in the midst of a jerry-built wilderness? often, within and without of it, he was persuaded that bosinney had been moved by the spirit when he built. he had put his heart into that house, indeed! it might even become one of the 'homes of england'--a rare achievement for a house in these degenerate days of building. and the aesthetic spirit, moving hand in hand with his forsyte sense of possessive continuity, dwelt with pride and pleasure on his ownership thereof. there was the smack of reverence and ancestor-worship (if only for one ancestor) in his desire to hand this house down to his son and his son's son. his father had loved the house, had loved the view, the grounds, that tree; his last years had been happy there, and no one had lived there before him. these last eleven years at robin hill had formed in jolyon's life as a painter, the important period of success. he was now in the very van of water-colour art, hanging on the line everywhere. his drawings fetched high prices. specialising in that one medium with the tenacity of his breed, he had 'arrived'--rather late, but not too late for a member of the family which made a point of living for ever. his art had really deepened and improved. in conformity with his position he had grown a short fair beard, which was just beginning to grizzle, and hid his forsyte chin; his brown face had lost the warped expression of his ostracised period--he looked, if anything, younger. the loss of his wife in had been one of those domestic tragedies which turn out in the end for the good of all. he had, indeed, loved her to the last, for his was an affectionate spirit, but she had become increasingly difficult: jealous of her step-daughter june, jealous even of her own little daughter holly, and making ceaseless plaint that he could not love her, ill as she was, and 'useless to everyone, and better dead.' he had mourned her sincerely, but his face had looked younger since she died. if she could only have believed that she made him happy, how much happier would the twenty years of their companionship have been! june had never really got on well with her who had reprehensibly taken her own mother's place; and ever since old jolyon died she had been established in a sort of studio in london. but she had come back to robin hill on her stepmother's death, and gathered the reins there into her small decided hands. jolly was then at harrow; holly still learning from mademoiselle beauce. there had been nothing to keep jolyon at home, and he had removed his grief and his paint-box abroad. there he had wandered, for the most part in brittany, and at last had fetched up in paris. he had stayed there several months, and come back with the younger face and the short fair beard. essentially a man who merely lodged in any house, it had suited him perfectly that june should reign at robin hill, so that he was free to go off with his easel where and when he liked. she was inclined, it is true, to regard the house rather as an asylum for her proteges! but his own outcast days had filled jolyon for ever with sympathy towards an outcast, and june's 'lame ducks' about the place did not annoy him. by all means let her have them down--and feed them up; and though his slightly cynical humour perceived that they ministered to his daughter's love of domination as well as moved her warm heart, he never ceased to admire her for having so many ducks. he fell, indeed, year by year into a more and more detached and brotherly attitude towards his own son and daughters, treating them with a sort of whimsical equality. when he went down to harrow to see jolly, he never quite knew which of them was the elder, and would sit eating cherries with him out of one paper bag, with an affectionate and ironical smile twisting up an eyebrow and curling his lips a little. and he was always careful to have money in his pocket, and to be modish in his dress, so that his son need not blush for him. they were perfect friends, but never seemed to have occasion for verbal confidences, both having the competitive self-consciousness of forsytes. they knew they would stand by each other in scrapes, but there was no need to talk about it. jolyon had a striking horror--partly original sin, but partly the result of his early immorality--of the moral attitude. the most he could ever have said to his son would have been: "look here, old man; don't forget you're a gentleman," and then have wondered whimsically whether that was not a snobbish sentiment. the great cricket match was perhaps the most searching and awkward time they annually went through together, for jolyon had been at eton. they would be particularly careful during that match, continually saying: "hooray! oh! hard luck, old man!" or "hooray! oh! bad luck, dad!" to each other, when some disaster at which their hearts bounded happened to the opposing school. and jolyon would wear a grey top hat, instead of his usual soft one, to save his son's feelings, for a black top hat he could not stomach. when jolly went up to oxford, jolyon went up with him, amused, humble, and a little anxious not to discredit his boy amongst all these youths who seemed so much more assured and old than himself. he often thought, 'glad i'm a painter' for he had long dropped under-writing at lloyds--'it's so innocuous. you can't look down on a painter--you can't take him seriously enough.' for jolly, who had a sort of natural lordliness, had passed at once into a very small set, who secretly amused his father. the boy had fair hair which curled a little, and his grandfather's deepset iron-grey eyes. he was well-built and very upright, and always pleased jolyon's aesthetic sense, so that he was a tiny bit afraid of him, as artists ever are of those of their own sex whom they admire physically. on that occasion, however, he actually did screw up his courage to give his son advice, and this was it: "look here, old man, you're bound to get into debt; mind you come to me at once. of course, i'll always pay them. but you might remember that one respects oneself more afterwards if one pays one's own way. and don't ever borrow, except from me, will you?" and jolly had said: "all right, dad, i won't," and he never had. "and there's just one other thing. i don't know much about morality and that, but there is this: it's always worth while before you do anything to consider whether it's going to hurt another person more than is absolutely necessary." jolly had looked thoughtful, and nodded, and presently had squeezed his father's hand. and jolyon had thought: 'i wonder if i had the right to say that?' he always had a sort of dread of losing the dumb confidence they had in each other; remembering how for long years he had lost his own father's, so that there had been nothing between them but love at a great distance. he under-estimated, no doubt, the change in the spirit of the age since he himself went up to cambridge in ' ; and perhaps he underestimated, too, his boy's power of understanding that he was tolerant to the very bone. it was that tolerance of his, and possibly his scepticism, which ever made his relations towards june so queerly defensive. she was such a decided mortal; knew her own mind so terribly well; wanted things so inexorably until she got them--and then, indeed, often dropped them like a hot potato. her mother had been like that, whence had come all those tears. not that his incompatibility with his daughter was anything like what it had been with the first mrs. young jolyon. one could be amused where a daughter was concerned; in a wife's case one could not be amused. to see june set her heart and jaw on a thing until she got it was all right, because it was never anything which interfered fundamentally with jolyon's liberty--the one thing on which his jaw was also absolutely rigid, a considerable jaw, under that short grizzling beard. nor was there ever any necessity for real heart-to-heart encounters. one could break away into irony--as indeed he often had to. but the real trouble with june was that she had never appealed to his aesthetic sense, though she might well have, with her red-gold hair and her viking-coloured eyes, and that touch of the berserker in her spirit. it was very different with holly, soft and quiet, shy and affectionate, with a playful imp in her somewhere. he watched this younger daughter of his through the duckling stage with extraordinary interest. would she come out a swan? with her sallow oval face and her grey wistful eyes and those long dark lashes, she might, or she might not. only this last year had he been able to guess. yes, she would be a swan--rather a dark one, always a shy one, but an authentic swan. she was eighteen now, and mademoiselle beauce was gone--the excellent lady had removed, after eleven years haunted by her continuous reminiscences of the 'well-brrred little tayleurs,' to another family whose bosom would now be agitated by her reminiscences of the 'well-brrred little forsytes.' she had taught holly to speak french like herself. portraiture was not jolyon's forte, but he had already drawn his younger daughter three times, and was drawing her a fourth, on the afternoon of october th, , when a card was brought to him which caused his eyebrows to go up: mr. soames forsyte the shelter, connoisseurs club, mapledurham. st. james's. but here the forsyte saga must digress again.... to return from a long travel in spain to a darkened house, to a little daughter bewildered with tears, to the sight of a loved father lying peaceful in his last sleep, had never been, was never likely to be, forgotten by so impressionable and warm-hearted a man as jolyon. a sense as of mystery, too, clung to that sad day, and about the end of one whose life had been so well-ordered, balanced, and above-board. it seemed incredible that his father could thus have vanished without, as it were, announcing his intention, without last words to his son, and due farewells. and those incoherent allusions of little holly to 'the lady in grey,' of mademoiselle beauce to a madame errant (as it sounded) involved all things in a mist, lifted a little when he read his father's will and the codicil thereto. it had been his duty as executor of that will and codicil to inform irene, wife of his cousin soames, of her life interest in fifteen thousand pounds. he had called on her to explain that the existing investment in india stock, ear-marked to meet the charge, would produce for her the interesting net sum of l odd a year, clear of income tax. this was but the third time he had seen his cousin soames' wife--if indeed she was still his wife, of which he was not quite sure. he remembered having seen her sitting in the botanical gardens waiting for bosinney--a passive, fascinating figure, reminding him of titian's 'heavenly love,' and again, when, charged by his father, he had gone to montpellier square on the afternoon when bosinney's death was known. he still recalled vividly her sudden appearance in the drawing-room doorway on that occasion--her beautiful face, passing from wild eagerness of hope to stony despair; remembered the compassion he had felt, soames' snarling smile, his words, "we are not at home!" and the slam of the front door. this third time he saw a face and form more beautiful--freed from that warp of wild hope and despair. looking at her, he thought: 'yes, you are just what the dad would have admired!' and the strange story of his father's indian summer became slowly clear to him. she spoke of old jolyon with reverence and tears in her eyes. "he was so wonderfully kind to me; i don't know why. he looked so beautiful and peaceful sitting in that chair under the tree; it was i who first came on him sitting there, you know. such a lovely day. i don't think an end could have been happier. we should all like to go out like that." 'quite right!' he had thought. 'we should all a like to go out in full summer with beauty stepping towards us across a lawn.' and looking round the little, almost empty drawing-room, he had asked her what she was going to do now. "i am going to live again a little, cousin jolyon. it's wonderful to have money of one's own. i've never had any. i shall keep this flat, i think; i'm used to it; but i shall be able to go to italy." "exactly!" jolyon had murmured, looking at her faintly smiling lips; and he had gone away thinking: 'a fascinating woman! what a waste! i'm glad the dad left her that money.' he had not seen her again, but every quarter he had signed her cheque, forwarding it to her bank, with a note to the chelsea flat to say that he had done so; and always he had received a note in acknowledgment, generally from the flat, but sometimes from italy; so that her personality had become embodied in slightly scented grey paper, an upright fine handwriting, and the words, 'dear cousin jolyon.' man of property that he now was, the slender cheque he signed often gave rise to the thought: 'well, i suppose she just manages'; sliding into a vague wonder how she was faring otherwise in a world of men not wont to let beauty go unpossessed. at first holly had spoken of her sometimes, but 'ladies in grey' soon fade from children's memories; and the tightening of june's lips in those first weeks after her grandfather's death whenever her former friend's name was mentioned, had discouraged allusion. only once, indeed, had june spoken definitely: "i've forgiven her. i'm frightfully glad she's independent now...." on receiving soames' card, jolyon said to the maid--for he could not abide butlers--"show him into the study, please, and say i'll be there in a minute"; and then he looked at holly and asked: "do you remember 'the lady in grey,' who used to give you music-lessons?" "oh yes, why? has she come?" jolyon shook his head, and, changing his holland blouse for a coat, was silent, perceiving suddenly that such history was not for those young ears. his face, in fact, became whimsical perplexity incarnate while he journeyed towards the study. standing by the french-window, looking out across the terrace at the oak tree, were two figures, middle-aged and young, and he thought: 'who's that boy? surely they never had a child.' the elder figure turned. the meeting of those two forsytes of the second generation, so much more sophisticated than the first, in the house built for the one and owned and occupied by the other, was marked by subtle defensiveness beneath distinct attempt at cordiality. 'has he come about his wife?' jolyon was thinking; and soames, 'how shall i begin?' while val, brought to break the ice, stood negligently scrutinising this 'bearded pard' from under his dark, thick eyelashes. "this is val dartie," said soames, "my sister's son. he's just going up to oxford. i thought i'd like him to know your boy." "ah! i'm sorry jolly's away. what college?" "b.n.c.," replied val. "jolly's at the 'house,' but he'll be delighted to look you up." "thanks awfully." "holly's in--if you could put up with a female relation, she'd show you round. you'll find her in the hall if you go through the curtains. i was just painting her." with another "thanks, awfully!" val vanished, leaving the two cousins with the ice unbroken. "i see you've some drawings at the 'water colours,'" said soames. jolyon winced. he had been out of touch with the forsyte family at large for twenty-six years, but they were connected in his mind with frith's 'derby day' and landseer prints. he had heard from june that soames was a connoisseur, which made it worse. he had become aware, too, of a curious sensation of repugnance. "i haven't seen you for a long time," he said. "no," answered soames between close lips, "not since--as a matter of fact, it's about that i've come. you're her trustee, i'm told." jolyon nodded. "twelve years is a long time," said soames rapidly: "i--i'm tired of it." jolyon found no more appropriate answer than: "won't you smoke?" "no, thanks." jolyon himself lit a cigarette. "i wish to be free," said soames abruptly. "i don't see her," murmured jolyon through the fume of his cigarette. "but you know where she lives, i suppose?" jolyon nodded. he did not mean to give her address without permission. soames seemed to divine his thought. "i don't want her address," he said; "i know it." "what exactly do you want?" "she deserted me. i want a divorce." "rather late in the day, isn't it?" "yes," said soames. and there was a silence. "i don't know much about these things--at least, i've forgotten," said jolyon with a wry smile. he himself had had to wait for death to grant him a divorce from the first mrs. jolyon. "do you wish me to see her about it?" soames raised his eyes to his cousin's face. "i suppose there's someone," he said. a shrug moved jolyon's shoulders. "i don't know at all. i imagine you may have both lived as if the other were dead. it's usual in these cases." soames turned to the window. a few early fallen oak-leaves strewed the terrace already, and were rolling round in the wind. jolyon saw the figures of holly and val dartie moving across the lawn towards the stables. 'i'm not going to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds,' he thought. 'i must act for her. the dad would have wished that.' and for a swift moment he seemed to see his father's figure in the old armchair, just beyond soames, sitting with knees crossed, the times in his hand. it vanished. "my father was fond of her," he said quietly. "why he should have been i don't know," soames answered without looking round. "she brought trouble to your daughter june; she brought trouble to everyone. i gave her all she wanted. i would have given her even--forgiveness--but she chose to leave me." in jolyon compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice. what was there in the fellow that made it so difficult to be sorry for him? "i can go and see her, if you like," he said. "i suppose she might be glad of a divorce, but i know nothing." soames nodded. "yes, please go. as i say, i know her address; but i've no wish to see her." his tongue was busy with his lips, as if they were very dry. "you'll have some tea?" said jolyon, stifling the words: 'and see the house.' and he led the way into the hall. when he had rung the bell and ordered tea, he went to his easel to turn his drawing to the wall. he could not bear, somehow, that his work should be seen by soames, who was standing there in the middle of the great room which had been designed expressly to afford wall space for his own pictures. in his cousin's face, with its unseizable family likeness to himself, and its chinny, narrow, concentrated look, jolyon saw that which moved him to the thought: 'that chap could never forget anything--nor ever give himself away. he's pathetic!' chapter vii the colt and the filly when young val left the presence of the last generation he was thinking: 'this is jolly dull! uncle soames does take the bun. i wonder what this filly's like?' he anticipated no pleasure from her society; and suddenly he saw her standing there looking at him. why, she was pretty! what luck! "i'm afraid you don't know me," he said. "my name's val dartie--i'm once removed, second cousin, something like that, you know. my mother's name was forsyte." holly, whose slim brown hand remained in his because she was too shy to withdraw it, said: "i don't know any of my relations. are there many?" "tons. they're awful--most of them. at least, i don't know--some of them. one's relations always are, aren't they?" "i expect they think one awful too," said holly. "i don't know why they should. no one could think you awful, of course." holly looked at him--the wistful candour in those grey eyes gave young val a sudden feeling that he must protect her. "i mean there are people and people," he added astutely. "your dad looks awfully decent, for instance." "oh yes!" said holly fervently; "he is." a flush mounted in val's cheeks--that scene in the pandemonium promenade--the dark man with the pink carnation developing into his own father! "but you know what the forsytes are," he said almost viciously. "oh! i forgot; you don't." "what are they?" "oh! fearfully careful; not sportsmen a bit. look at uncle soames!" "i'd like to," said holly. val resisted a desire to run his arm through hers. "oh! no," he said, "let's go out. you'll see him quite soon enough. what's your brother like?" holly led the way on to the terrace and down to the lawn without answering. how describe jolly, who, ever since she remembered anything, had been her lord, master, and ideal? "does he sit on you?" said val shrewdly. "i shall be knowing him at oxford. have you got any horses?" holly nodded. "would you like to see the stables?" "rather!" they passed under the oak tree, through a thin shrubbery, into the stable-yard. there under a clock-tower lay a fluffy brown-and-white dog, so old that he did not get up, but faintly waved the tail curled over his back. "that's balthasar," said holly; "he's so old--awfully old, nearly as old as i am. poor old boy! he's devoted to dad." "balthasar! that's a rum name. he isn't purebred you know." "no! but he's a darling," and she bent down to stroke the dog. gentle and supple, with dark covered head and slim browned neck and hands, she seemed to val strange and sweet, like a thing slipped between him and all previous knowledge. "when grandfather died," she said, "he wouldn't eat for two days. he saw him die, you know." "was that old uncle jolyon? mother always says he was a topper." "he was," said holly simply, and opened the stable door. in a loose-box stood a silver roan of about fifteen hands, with a long black tail and mane. "this is mine--fairy." "ah!" said val, "she's a jolly palfrey. but you ought to bang her tail. she'd look much smarter." then catching her wondering look, he thought suddenly: 'i don't know--anything she likes!' and he took a long sniff of the stable air. "horses are ripping, aren't they? my dad..." he stopped. "yes?" said holly. an impulse to unbosom himself almost overcame him--but not quite. "oh! i don't know he's often gone a mucker over them. i'm jolly keen on them too--riding and hunting. i like racing awfully, as well; i should like to be a gentleman rider." and oblivious of the fact that he had but one more day in town, with two engagements, he plumped out: "i say, if i hire a gee to-morrow, will you come a ride in richmond park?" holly clasped her hands. "oh yes! i simply love riding. but there's jolly's horse; why don't you ride him? here he is. we could go after tea." val looked doubtfully at his trousered legs. he had imagined them immaculate before her eyes in high brown boots and bedford cords. "i don't much like riding his horse," he said. "he mightn't like it. besides, uncle soames wants to get back, i expect. not that i believe in buckling under to him, you know. you haven't got an uncle, have you? this is rather a good beast," he added, scrutinising jolly's horse, a dark brown, which was showing the whites of its eyes. "you haven't got any hunting here, i suppose?" "no; i don't know that i want to hunt. it must be awfully exciting, of course; but it's cruel, isn't it? june says so." "cruel?" ejaculated val. "oh! that's all rot. who's june?" "my sister--my half-sister, you know--much older than me." she had put her hands up to both cheeks of jolly's horse, and was rubbing her nose against its nose with a gentle snuffling noise which seemed to have an hypnotic effect on the animal. val contemplated her cheek resting against the horse's nose, and her eyes gleaming round at him. 'she's really a duck,' he thought. they returned to the house less talkative, followed this time by the dog balthasar, walking more slowly than anything on earth, and clearly expecting them not to exceed his speed limit. "this is a ripping place," said val from under the oak tree, where they had paused to allow the dog balthasar to come up. "yes," said holly, and sighed. "of course i want to go everywhere. i wish i were a gipsy." "yes, gipsies are jolly," replied val, with a conviction which had just come to him; "you're rather like one, you know." holly's face shone suddenly and deeply, like dark leaves gilded by the sun. "to go mad-rabbiting everywhere and see everything, and live in the open--oh! wouldn't it be fun?" "let's do it!" said val. "oh yes, let's!" "it'd be grand sport, just you and i." then holly perceived the quaintness and gushed. "well, we've got to do it," said val obstinately, but reddening too. "i believe in doing things you want to do. what's down there?" "the kitchen-garden, and the pond and the coppice, and the farm." "let's go down!" holly glanced back at the house. "it's tea-time, i expect; there's dad beckoning." val, uttering a growly sound, followed her towards the house. when they re-entered the hall gallery the sight of two middle-aged forsytes drinking tea together had its magical effect, and they became quite silent. it was, indeed, an impressive spectacle. the two were seated side by side on an arrangement in marqueterie which looked like three silvery pink chairs made one, with a low tea-table in front of them. they seemed to have taken up that position, as far apart as the seat would permit, so that they need not look at each other too much; and they were eating and drinking rather than talking--soames with his air of despising the tea-cake as it disappeared, jolyon of finding himself slightly amusing. to the casual eye neither would have seemed greedy, but both were getting through a good deal of sustenance. the two young ones having been supplied with food, the process went on silent and absorbative, till, with the advent of cigarettes, jolyon said to soames: "and how's uncle james?" "thanks, very shaky." "we're a wonderful family, aren't we? the other day i was calculating the average age of the ten old forsytes from my father's family bible. i make it eighty-four already, and five still living. they ought to beat the record;" and looking whimsically at soames, he added: "we aren't the men they were, you know." soames smiled. 'do you really think i shall admit that i'm not their equal'; he seemed to be saying, 'or that i've got to give up anything, especially life?' "we may live to their age, perhaps," pursued jolyon, "but self-consciousness is a handicap, you know, and that's the difference between us. we've lost conviction. how and when self-consciousness was born i never can make out. my father had a little, but i don't believe any other of the old forsytes ever had a scrap. never to see yourself as others see you, it's a wonderful preservative. the whole history of the last century is in the difference between us. and between us and you," he added, gazing through a ring of smoke at val and holly, uncomfortable under his quizzical regard, "there'll be--another difference. i wonder what." soames took out his watch. "we must go," he said, "if we're to catch our train." "uncle soames never misses a train," muttered val, with his mouth full. "why should i?" soames answered simply. "oh! i don't know," grumbled val, "other people do." at the front door he gave holly's slim brown hand a long and surreptitious squeeze. "look out for me to-morrow," he whispered; "three o'clock. i'll wait for you in the road; it'll save time. we'll have a ripping ride." he gazed back at her from the lodge gate, and, but for the principles of a man about town, would have waved his hand. he felt in no mood to tolerate his uncle's conversation. but he was not in danger. soames preserved a perfect muteness, busy with far-away thoughts. the yellow leaves came down about those two walking the mile and a half which soames had traversed so often in those long-ago days when he came down to watch with secret pride the building of the house--that house which was to have been the home of him and her from whom he was now going to seek release. he looked back once, up that endless vista of autumn lane between the yellowing hedges. what an age ago! "i don't want to see her," he had said to jolyon. was that true? 'i may have to,' he thought; and he shivered, seized by one of those queer shudderings that they say mean footsteps on one's grave. a chilly world! a queer world! and glancing sidelong at his nephew, he thought: 'wish i were his age! i wonder what she's like now!' chapter viii jolyon prosecutes trusteeship when those two were gone jolyon did not return to his painting, for daylight was failing, but went to the study, craving unconsciously a revival of that momentary vision of his father sitting in the old leather chair with his knees crossed and his straight eyes gazing up from under the dome of his massive brow. often in this little room, cosiest in the house, jolyon would catch a moment of communion with his father. not, indeed, that he had definitely any faith in the persistence of the human spirit--the feeling was not so logical--it was, rather, an atmospheric impact, like a scent, or one of those strong animistic impressions from forms, or effects of light, to which those with the artist's eye are especially prone. here only--in this little unchanged room where his father had spent the most of his waking hours--could be retrieved the feeling that he was not quite gone, that the steady counsel of that old spirit and the warmth of his masterful lovability endured. what would his father be advising now, in this sudden recrudescence of an old tragedy--what would he say to this menace against her to whom he had taken such a fancy in the last weeks of his life? 'i must do my best for her,' thought jolyon; 'he left her to me in his will. but what is the best?' and as if seeking to regain the sapience, the balance and shrewd common sense of that old forsyte, he sat down in the ancient chair and crossed his knees. but he felt a mere shadow sitting there; nor did any inspiration come, while the fingers of the wind tapped on the darkening panes of the french-window. 'go and see her?' he thought, 'or ask her to come down here? what's her life been? what is it now, i wonder? beastly to rake up things at this time of day.' again the figure of his cousin standing with a hand on a front door of a fine olive-green leaped out, vivid, like one of those figures from old-fashioned clocks when the hour strikes; and his words sounded in jolyon's ears clearer than any chime: "i manage my own affairs. i've told you once, i tell you again: we are not at home." the repugnance he had then felt for soames--for his flat-cheeked, shaven face full of spiritual bull-doggedness; for his spare, square, sleek figure slightly crouched as it were over the bone he could not digest--came now again, fresh as ever, nay, with an odd increase. 'i dislike him,' he thought, 'i dislike him to the very roots of me. and that's lucky; it'll make it easier for me to back his wife.' half-artist, and half-forsyte, jolyon was constitutionally averse from what he termed 'ructions'; unless angered, he conformed deeply to that classic description of the she-dog, 'er'd ruther run than fight.' a little smile became settled in his beard. ironical that soames should come down here--to this house, built for himself! how he had gazed and gaped at this ruin of his past intention; furtively nosing at the walls and stairway, appraising everything! and intuitively jolyon thought: 'i believe the fellow even now would like to be living here. he could never leave off longing for what he once owned! well, i must act, somehow or other; but it's a bore--a great bore.' late that evening he wrote to the chelsea flat, asking if irene would see him. the old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower so wonderfully was setting in a sky orange with coming storms. rumours of war added to the briskness of a london turbulent at the close of the summer holidays. and the streets to jolyon, who was not often up in town, had a feverish look, due to these new motorcars and cabs, of which he disapproved aesthetically. he counted these vehicles from his hansom, and made the proportion of them one in twenty. 'they were one in thirty about a year ago,' he thought; 'they've come to stay. just so much more rattling round of wheels and general stink'--for he was one of those rather rare liberals who object to anything new when it takes a material form; and he instructed his driver to get down to the river quickly, out of the traffic, desiring to look at the water through the mellowing screen of plane-trees. at the little block of flats which stood back some fifty yards from the embankment, he told the cabman to wait, and went up to the first floor. yes, mrs. heron was at home! the effect of a settled if very modest income was at once apparent to him remembering the threadbare refinement in that tiny flat eight years ago when he announced her good fortune. everything was now fresh, dainty, and smelled of flowers. the general effect was silvery with touches of black, hydrangea colour, and gold. 'a woman of great taste,' he thought. time had dealt gently with jolyon, for he was a forsyte. but with irene time hardly seemed to deal at all, or such was his impression. she appeared to him not a day older, standing there in mole-coloured velvet corduroy, with soft dark eyes and dark gold hair, with outstretched hand and a little smile. "won't you sit down?" he had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of embarrassment. "you look absolutely unchanged," he said. "and you look younger, cousin jolyon." jolyon ran his hands through his hair, whose thickness was still a comfort to him. "i'm ancient, but i don't feel it. that's one thing about painting, it keeps you young. titian lived to ninety-nine, and had to have plague to kill him off. do you know, the first time i ever saw you i thought of a picture by him?" "when did you see me for the first time?" "in the botanical gardens." "how did you know me, if you'd never seen me before?" "by someone who came up to you." he was looking at her hardily, but her face did not change; and she said quietly: "yes; many lives ago." "what is your recipe for youth, irene?" "people who don't live are wonderfully preserved." h'm! a bitter little saying! people who don't live! but an opening, and he took it. "you remember my cousin soames?" he saw her smile faintly at that whimsicality, and at once went on: "he came to see me the day before yesterday! he wants a divorce. do you?" "i?" the word seemed startled out of her. "after twelve years? it's rather late. won't it be difficult?" jolyon looked hard into her face. "unless...." he said. "unless i have a lover now. but i have never had one since." what did he feel at the simplicity and candour of those words? relief, surprise, pity! venus for twelve years without a lover! "and yet," he said, "i suppose you would give a good deal to be free, too?" "i don't know. what does it matter, now?" "but if you were to love again?" "i should love." in that simple answer she seemed to sum up the whole philosophy of one on whom the world had turned its back. "well! is there anything you would like me to say to him?" "only that i'm sorry he's not free. he had his chance once. i don't know why he didn't take it." "because he was a forsyte; we never part with things, you know, unless we want something in their place; and not always then." irene smiled. "don't you, cousin jolyon?--i think you do." "of course, i'm a bit of a mongrel--not quite a pure forsyte. i never take the halfpennies off my cheques, i put them on," said jolyon uneasily. "well, what does soames want in place of me now?" "i don't know; perhaps children." she was silent for a little, looking down. "yes," she murmured; "it's hard. i would help him to be free if i could." jolyon gazed into his hat, his embarrassment was increasing fast; so was his admiration, his wonder, and his pity. she was so lovely, and so lonely; and altogether it was such a coil! "well," he said, "i shall have to see soames. if there's anything i can do for you i'm always at your service. you must think of me as a wretched substitute for my father. at all events i'll let you know what happens when i speak to soames. he may supply the material himself." she shook her head. "you see, he has a lot to lose; and i have nothing. i should like him to be free; but i don't see what i can do." "nor i at the moment," said jolyon, and soon after took his leave. he went down to his hansom. half-past three! soames would be at his office still. "to the poultry," he called through the trap. in front of the houses of parliament and in whitehall, newsvendors were calling, "grave situation in the transvaal!" but the cries hardly roused him, absorbed in recollection of that very beautiful figure, of her soft dark glance, and the words: "i have never had one since." what on earth did such a woman do with her life, back-watered like this? solitary, unprotected, with every man's hand against her or rather--reaching out to grasp her at the least sign. and year after year she went on like that! the word 'poultry' above the passing citizens brought him back to reality. 'forsyte, bustard and forsyte,' in black letters on a ground the colour of peasoup, spurred him to a sort of vigour, and he went up the stone stairs muttering: "fusty musty ownerships! well, we couldn't do without them!" "i want mr. soames forsyte," he said to the boy who opened the door. "what name?" "mr. jolyon forsyte." the youth looked at him curiously, never having seen a forsyte with a beard, and vanished. the offices of 'forsyte, bustard and forsyte' had slowly absorbed the offices of 'tooting and bowles,' and occupied the whole of the first floor. the firm consisted now of nothing but soames and a number of managing and articled clerks. the complete retirement of james some six years ago had accelerated business, to which the final touch of speed had been imparted when bustard dropped off, worn out, as many believed, by the suit of 'fryer versus forsyte,' more in chancery than ever and less likely to benefit its beneficiaries. soames, with his saner grasp of actualities, had never permitted it to worry him; on the contrary, he had long perceived that providence had presented him therein with l a year net in perpetuity, and--why not? when jolyon entered, his cousin was drawing out a list of holdings in consols, which in view of the rumours of war he was going to advise his companies to put on the market at once, before other companies did the same. he looked round, sidelong, and said: "how are you? just one minute. sit down, won't you?" and having entered three amounts, and set a ruler to keep his place, he turned towards jolyon, biting the side of his flat forefinger.... "yes?" he said. "i have seen her." soames frowned. "well?" "she has remained faithful to memory." having said that, jolyon was ashamed. his cousin had flushed a dusky yellowish red. what had made him tease the poor brute! "i was to tell you she is sorry you are not free. twelve years is a long time. you know your law, and what chance it gives you." soames uttered a curious little grunt, and the two remained a full minute without speaking. 'like wax!' thought jolyon, watching that close face, where the flush was fast subsiding. 'he'll never give me a sign of what he's thinking, or going to do. like wax!' and he transferred his gaze to a plan of that flourishing town, 'by-street on sea,' the future existence of which lay exposed on the wall to the possessive instincts of the firm's clients. the whimsical thought flashed through him: 'i wonder if i shall get a bill of costs for this--"to attending mr. jolyon forsyte in the matter of my divorce, to receiving his account of his visit to my wife, and to advising him to go and see her again, sixteen and eightpence."' suddenly soames said: "i can't go on like this. i tell you, i can't go on like this." his eyes were shifting from side to side, like an animal's when it looks for way of escape. 'he really suffers,' thought jolyon; 'i've no business to forget that, just because i don't like him.' "surely," he said gently, "it lies with yourself. a man can always put these things through if he'll take it on himself." soames turned square to him, with a sound which seemed to come from somewhere very deep. "why should i suffer more than i've suffered already? why should i?" jolyon could only shrug his shoulders. his reason agreed, his instinct rebelled; he could not have said why. "your father," went on soames, "took an interest in her--why, goodness knows! and i suppose you do too?" he gave jolyon a sharp look. "it seems to me that one only has to do another person a wrong to get all the sympathy. i don't know in what way i was to blame--i've never known. i always treated her well. i gave her everything she could wish for. i wanted her." again jolyon's reason nodded; again his instinct shook its head. 'what is it?' he thought; 'there must be something wrong in me. yet if there is, i'd rather be wrong than right.' "after all," said soames with a sort of glum fierceness, "she was my wife." in a flash the thought went through his listener: 'there it is! ownerships! well, we all own things. but--human beings! pah!' "you have to look at facts," he said drily, "or rather the want of them." soames gave him another quick suspicious look. "the want of them?" he said. "yes, but i am not so sure." "i beg your pardon," replied jolyon; "i've told you what she said. it was explicit." "my experience has not been one to promote blind confidence in her word. we shall see." jolyon got up. "good-bye," he said curtly. "good-bye," returned soames; and jolyon went out trying to understand the look, half-startled, half-menacing, on his cousin's face. he sought waterloo station in a disturbed frame of mind, as though the skin of his moral being had been scraped; and all the way down in the train he thought of irene in her lonely flat, and of soames in his lonely office, and of the strange paralysis of life that lay on them both. 'in chancery!' he thought. 'both their necks in chancery--and her's so pretty!' chapter ix val hears the news the keeping of engagements had not as yet been a conspicuous feature in the life of young val dartie, so that when he broke two and kept one, it was the latter event which caused him, if anything, the greater surprise, while jogging back to town from robin hill after his ride with holly. she had been even prettier than he had thought her yesterday, on her silver-roan, long-tailed 'palfrey'; and it seemed to him, self-critical in the brumous october gloaming and the outskirts of london, that only his boots had shone throughout their two-hour companionship. he took out his new gold 'hunter'--present from james--and looked not at the time, but at sections of his face in the glittering back of its opened case. he had a temporary spot over one eyebrow, and it displeased him, for it must have displeased her. crum never had any spots. together with crum rose the scene in the promenade of the pandemonium. to-day he had not had the faintest desire to unbosom himself to holly about his father. his father lacked poetry, the stirrings of which he was feeling for the first time in his nineteen years. the liberty, with cynthia dark, that almost mythical embodiment of rapture; the pandemonium, with the woman of uncertain age--both seemed to val completely 'off,' fresh from communion with this new, shy, dark-haired young cousin of his. she rode 'jolly well,' too, so that it had been all the more flattering that she had let him lead her where he would in the long gallops of richmond park, though she knew them so much better than he did. looking back on it all, he was mystified by the barrenness of his speech; he felt that he could say 'an awful lot of fetching things' if he had but the chance again, and the thought that he must go back to littlehampton on the morrow, and to oxford on the twelfth--'to that beastly exam,' too--without the faintest chance of first seeing her again, caused darkness to settle on his spirit even more quickly than on the evening. he should write to her, however, and she had promised to answer. perhaps, too, she would come up to oxford to see her brother. that thought was like the first star, which came out as he rode into padwick's livery stables in the purlieus of sloane square. he got off and stretched himself luxuriously, for he had ridden some twenty-five good miles. the dartie within him made him chaffer for five minutes with young padwick concerning the favourite for the cambridgeshire; then with the words, "put the gee down to my account," he walked away, a little wide at the knees, and flipping his boots with his knotty little cane. 'i don't feel a bit inclined to go out,' he thought. 'i wonder if mother will stand fizz for my last night!' with 'fizz' and recollection, he could well pass a domestic evening. when he came down, speckless after his bath, he found his mother scrupulous in a low evening dress, and, to his annoyance, his uncle soames. they stopped talking when he came in; then his uncle said: "he'd better be told." at those words, which meant something about his father, of course, val's first thought was of holly. was it anything beastly? his mother began speaking. "your father," she said in her fashionably appointed voice, while her fingers plucked rather pitifully at sea-green brocade, "your father, my dear boy, has--is not at newmarket; he's on his way to south america. he--he's left us." val looked from her to soames. left them! was he sorry? was he fond of his father? it seemed to him that he did not know. then, suddenly--as at a whiff of gardenias and cigars--his heart twitched within him, and he was sorry. one's father belonged to one, could not go off in this fashion--it was not done! nor had he always been the 'bounder' of the pandemonium promenade. there were precious memories of tailors' shops and horses, tips at school, and general lavish kindness, when in luck. "but why?" he said. then, as a sportsman himself, was sorry he had asked. the mask of his mother's face was all disturbed; and he burst out: "all right, mother, don't tell me! only, what does it mean?" "a divorce, val, i'm afraid." val uttered a queer little grunt, and looked quickly at his uncle--that uncle whom he had been taught to look on as a guarantee against the consequences of having a father, even against the dartie blood in his own veins. the flat-checked visage seemed to wince, and this upset him. "it won't be public, will it?" so vividly before him had come recollection of his own eyes glued to the unsavoury details of many a divorce suit in the public press. "can't it be done quietly somehow? it's so disgusting for--for mother, and--and everybody." "everything will be done as quietly as it can, you may be sure." "yes--but, why is it necessary at all? mother doesn't want to marry again." himself, the girls, their name tarnished in the sight of his schoolfellows and of crum, of the men at oxford, of--holly! unbearable! what was to be gained by it? "do you, mother?" he said sharply. thus brought face to face with so much of her own feeling by the one she loved best in the world, winifred rose from the empire chair in which she had been sitting. she saw that her son would be against her unless he was told everything; and, yet, how could she tell him? thus, still plucking at the green brocade, she stared at soames. val, too, stared at soames. surely this embodiment of respectability and the sense of property could not wish to bring such a slur on his own sister! soames slowly passed a little inlaid paperknife over the smooth surface of a marqueterie table; then, without looking at his nephew, he began: "you don't understand what your mother has had to put up with these twenty years. this is only the last straw, val." and glancing up sideways at winifred, he added: "shall i tell him?" winifred was silent. if he were not told, he would be against her! yet, how dreadful to be told such things of his own father! clenching her lips, she nodded. soames spoke in a rapid, even voice: "he has always been a burden round your mother's neck. she has paid his debts over and over again; he has often been drunk, abused and threatened her; and now he is gone to buenos aires with a dancer." and, as if distrusting the efficacy of those words on the boy, he went on quickly: "he took your mother's pearls to give to her." val jerked up his hand, then. at that signal of distress winifred cried out: "that'll do, soames--stop!" in the boy, the dartie and the forsyte were struggling. for debts, drink, dancers, he had a certain sympathy; but the pearls--no! that was too much! and suddenly he found his mother's hand squeezing his. "you see," he heard soames say, "we can't have it all begin over again. there's a limit; we must strike while the iron's hot." val freed his hand. "but--you're--never going to bring out that about the pearls! i couldn't stand that--i simply couldn't!" winifred cried out: "no, no, val--oh no! that's only to show you how impossible your father is!" and his uncle nodded. somewhat assuaged, val took out a cigarette. his father had bought him that thin curved case. oh! it was unbearable--just as he was going up to oxford! "can't mother be protected without?" he said. "i could look after her. it could always be done later if it was really necessary." a smile played for a moment round soames' lips, and became bitter. "you don't know what you're talking of; nothing's so fatal as delay in such matters." "why?" "i tell you, boy, nothing's so fatal. i know from experience." his voice had the ring of exasperation. val regarded him round-eyed, never having known his uncle express any sort of feeling. oh! yes--he remembered now--there had been an aunt irene, and something had happened--something which people kept dark; he had heard his father once use an unmentionable word of her. "i don't want to speak ill of your father," soames went on doggedly, "but i know him well enough to be sure that he'll be back on your mother's hands before a year's over. you can imagine what that will mean to her and to all of you after this. the only thing is to cut the knot for good." in spite of himself, val was impressed; and, happening to look at his mother's face, he got what was perhaps his first real insight into the fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered most. "all right, mother," he said; "we'll back you up. only i'd like to know when it'll be. it's my first term, you know. i don't want to be up there when it comes off." "oh! my dear boy," murmured winifred, "it is a bore for you." so, by habit, she phrased what, from the expression of her face, was the most poignant regret. "when will it be, soames?" "can't tell--not for months. we must get restitution first." 'what the deuce is that?' thought val. 'what silly brutes lawyers are! not for months! i know one thing: i'm not going to dine in!' and he said: "awfully sorry, mother, i've got to go out to dinner now." though it was his last night, winifred nodded almost gratefully; they both felt that they had gone quite far enough in the expression of feeling. val sought the misty freedom of green street, reckless and depressed. and not till he reached piccadilly did he discover that he had only eighteen-pence. one couldn't dine off eighteen-pence, and he was very hungry. he looked longingly at the windows of the iseeum club, where he had often eaten of the best with his father! those pearls! there was no getting over them! but the more he brooded and the further he walked the hungrier he naturally became. short of trailing home, there were only two places where he could go--his grandfather's in park lane, and timothy's in the bayswater road. which was the less deplorable? at his grandfather's he would probably get a better dinner on the spur of the moment. at timothy's they gave you a jolly good feed when they expected you, not otherwise. he decided on park lane, not unmoved by the thought that to go up to oxford without affording his grandfather a chance to tip him was hardly fair to either of them. his mother would hear he had been there, of course, and might think it funny; but he couldn't help that. he rang the bell. "hullo, warmson, any dinner for me, d'you think?" "they're just going in, master val. mr. forsyte will be very glad to see you. he was saying at lunch that he never saw you nowadays." val grinned. "well, here i am. kill the fatted calf, warmson, let's have fizz." warmson smiled faintly--in his opinion val was a young limb. "i will ask mrs. forsyte, master val." "i say," val grumbled, taking off his overcoat, "i'm not at school any more, you know." warmson, not without a sense of humour, opened the door beyond the stag's-horn coat stand, with the words: "mr. valerus, ma'am." "confound him!" thought val, entering. a warm embrace, a "well, val!" from emily, and a rather quavery "so there you are at last!" from james, restored his sense of dignity. "why didn't you let us know? there's only saddle of mutton. champagne, warmson," said emily. and they went in. at the great dining-table, shortened to its utmost, under which so many fashionable legs had rested, james sat at one end, emily at the other, val half-way between them; and something of the loneliness of his grandparents, now that all their four children were flown, reached the boy's spirit. 'i hope i shall kick the bucket long before i'm as old as grandfather,' he thought. 'poor old chap, he's as thin as a rail!' and lowering his voice while his grandfather and warmson were in discussion about sugar in the soup, he said to emily: "it's pretty brutal at home, granny. i suppose you know." "yes, dear boy." "uncle soames was there when i left. i say, isn't there anything to be done to prevent a divorce? why is he so beastly keen on it?" "hush, my dear!" murmured emily; "we're keeping it from your grandfather." james' voice sounded from the other end. "what's that? what are you talking about?" "about val's college," returned emily. "young pariser was there, james; you remember--he nearly broke the bank at monte carlo afterwards." james muttered that he did not know--val must look after himself up there, or he'd get into bad ways. and he looked at his grandson with gloom, out of which affection distrustfully glimmered. "what i'm afraid of," said val to his plate, "is of being hard up, you know." by instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of insecurity for his grandchildren. "well," said james, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, "you'll have a good allowance; but you must keep within it." "of course," murmured val; "if it is good. how much will it be, grandfather?" "three hundred and fifty; it's too much. i had next to nothing at your age." val sighed. he had hoped for four, and been afraid of three. "i don't know what your young cousin has," said james; "he's up there. his father's a rich man." "aren't you?" asked val hardily. "i?" replied james, flustered. "i've got so many expenses. your father...." and he was silent. "cousin jolyon's got an awfully jolly place. i went down there with uncle soames--ripping stables." "ah!" murmured james profoundly. "that house--i knew how it would be!" and he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish-bones. his son's tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the forsyte family, had still the power to draw him down into a whirlpool of doubts and misgivings. val, who hankered to talk of robin hill, because robin hill meant holly, turned to emily and said: "was that the house built for uncle soames?" and, receiving her nod, went on: "i wish you'd tell me about him, granny. what became of aunt irene? is she still going? he seems awfully worked-up about something to-night." emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word irene had caught james' ear. "what's that?" he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his lips. "who's been seeing her? i knew we hadn't heard the last of that." "now, james," said emily, "eat your dinner. nobody's been seeing anybody." james put down his fork. "there you go," he said. "i might die before you'd tell me of it. is soames getting a divorce?" "nonsense," said emily with incomparable aplomb; "soames is much too sensible." james had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers together on the skin and bone of it. "she--she was always...." he said, and with that enigmatic remark the conversation lapsed, for warmson had returned. but later, when the saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, and dessert, and val had received a cheque for twenty pounds and his grandfather's kiss--like no other kiss in the world, from lips pushed out with a sort of fearful suddenness, as if yielding to weakness--he returned to the charge in the hall. "tell us about uncle soames, granny. why is he so keen on mother's getting a divorce?" "your uncle soames," said emily, and her voice had in it an exaggerated assurance, "is a lawyer, my dear boy. he's sure to know best." "is he?" muttered val. "but what did become of aunt irene? i remember she was jolly good-looking." "she--er...." said emily, "behaved very badly. we don't talk about it." "well, i don't want everybody at oxford to know about our affairs," ejaculated val; "it's a brutal idea. why couldn't father be prevented without its being made public?" emily sighed. she had always lived rather in an atmosphere of divorce, owing to her fashionable proclivities--so many of those whose legs had been under her table having gained a certain notoriety. when, however, it touched her own family, she liked it no better than other people. but she was eminently practical, and a woman of courage, who never pursued a shadow in preference to its substance. "your mother," she said, "will be happier if she's quite free, val. good-night, my dear boy; and don't wear loud waistcoats up at oxford, they're not the thing just now. here's a little present." with another five pounds in his hand, and a little warmth in his heart, for he was fond of his grandmother, he went out into park lane. a wind had cleared the mist, the autumn leaves were rustling, and the stars were shining. with all that money in his pocket an impulse to 'see life' beset him; but he had not gone forty yards in the direction of piccadilly when holly's shy face, and her eyes with an imp dancing in their gravity, came up before him, and his hand seemed to be tingling again from the pressure of her warm gloved hand. 'no, dash it!' he thought, 'i'm going home!' chapter x soames entertains the future it was full late for the river, but the weather was lovely, and summer lingered below the yellowing leaves. soames took many looks at the day from his riverside garden near mapledurham that sunday morning. with his own hands he put flowers about his little house-boat, and equipped the punt, in which, after lunch, he proposed to take them on the river. placing those chinese-looking cushions, he could not tell whether or no he wished to take annette alone. she was so very pretty--could he trust himself not to say irrevocable words, passing beyond the limits of discretion? roses on the veranda were still in bloom, and the hedges ever-green, so that there was almost nothing of middle-aged autumn to chill the mood; yet was he nervous, fidgety, strangely distrustful of his powers to steer just the right course. this visit had been planned to produce in annette and her mother a due sense of his possessions, so that they should be ready to receive with respect any overture he might later be disposed to make. he dressed with great care, making himself neither too young nor too old, very thankful that his hair was still thick and smooth and had no grey in it. three times he went up to his picture-gallery. if they had any knowledge at all, they must see at once that his collection alone was worth at least thirty thousand pounds. he minutely inspected, too, the pretty bedroom overlooking the river where they would take off their hats. it would be her bedroom if--if the matter went through, and she became his wife. going up to the dressing-table he passed his hand over the lilac-coloured pincushion, into which were stuck all kinds of pins; a bowl of pot-pourri exhaled a scent that made his head turn just a little. his wife! if only the whole thing could be settled out of hand, and there was not the nightmare of this divorce to be gone through first; and with gloom puckered on his forehead, he looked out at the river shining beyond the roses and the lawn. madame lamotte would never resist this prospect for her child; annette would never resist her mother. if only he were free! he drove to the station to meet them. what taste frenchwomen had! madame lamotte was in black with touches of lilac colour, annette in greyish lilac linen, with cream coloured gloves and hat. rather pale she looked and londony; and her blue eyes were demure. waiting for them to come down to lunch, soames stood in the open french-window of the diningroom moved by that sensuous delight in sunshine and flowers and trees which only came to the full when youth and beauty were there to share it with one. he had ordered the lunch with intense consideration; the wine was a very special sauterne, the whole appointments of the meal perfect, the coffee served on the veranda super-excellent. madame lamotte accepted creme de menthe; annette refused. her manners were charming, with just a suspicion of 'the conscious beauty' creeping into them. 'yes,' thought soames, 'another year of london and that sort of life, and she'll be spoiled.' madame was in sedate french raptures. "adorable! le soleil est si bon! how everything is chic, is it not, annette? monsieur is a real monte cristo." annette murmured assent, with a look up at soames which he could not read. he proposed a turn on the river. but to punt two persons when one of them looked so ravishing on those chinese cushions was merely to suffer from a sense of lost opportunity; so they went but a short way towards pangbourne, drifting slowly back, with every now and then an autumn leaf dropping on annette or on her mother's black amplitude. and soames was not happy, worried by the thought: 'how--when--where--can i say--what?' they did not yet even know that he was married. to tell them he was married might jeopardise his every chance; yet, if he did not definitely make them understand that he wished for annette's hand, it would be dropping into some other clutch before he was free to claim it. at tea, which they both took with lemon, soames spoke of the transvaal. "there'll be war," he said. madame lamotte lamented. "ces pauvres gens bergers!" could they not be left to themselves? soames smiled--the question seemed to him absurd. surely as a woman of business she understood that the british could not abandon their legitimate commercial interests. "ah! that!" but madame lamotte found that the english were a little hypocrite. they were talking of justice and the uitlanders, not of business. monsieur was the first who had spoken to her of that. "the boers are only half-civilised," remarked soames; "they stand in the way of progress. it will never do to let our suzerainty go." "what does that mean to say? suzerainty!" "what a strange word!" soames became eloquent, roused by these threats to the principle of possession, and stimulated by annette's eyes fixed on him. he was delighted when presently she said: "i think monsieur is right. they should be taught a lesson." she was sensible! "of course," he said, "we must act with moderation. i'm no jingo. we must be firm without bullying. will you come up and see my pictures?" moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon perceived that they knew nothing. they passed his last mauve, that remarkable study of a 'hay-cart going home,' as if it were a lithograph. he waited almost with awe to see how they would view the jewel of his collection--an israels whose price he had watched ascending till he was now almost certain it had reached top value, and would be better on the market again. they did not view it at all. this was a shock; and yet to have in annette a virgin taste to form would be better than to have the silly, half-baked predilections of the english middle-class to deal with. at the end of the gallery was a meissonier of which he was rather ashamed --meissonier was so steadily going down. madame lamotte stopped before it. "meissonier! ah! what a jewel!" soames took advantage of that moment. very gently touching annette's arm, he said: "how do you like my place, annette?" she did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, looked down, and murmured: "who would not like it? it is so beautiful!" "perhaps some day--" soames said, and stopped. so pretty she was, so self-possessed--she frightened him. those cornflower-blue eyes, the turn of that creamy neck, her delicate curves--she was a standing temptation to indiscretion! no! no! one must be sure of one's ground--much surer! 'if i hold off,' he thought, 'it will tantalise her.' and he crossed over to madame lamotte, who was still in front of the meissonier. "yes, that's quite a good example of his later work. you must come again, madame, and see them lighted up. you must both come and spend a night." enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? by moonlight too, the river must be ravishing! annette murmured: "thou art sentimental, maman!" sentimental! that black-robed, comely, substantial frenchwoman of the world! and suddenly he was certain as he could be that there was no sentiment in either of them. all the better. of what use sentiment? and yet....! he drove to the station with them, and saw them into the train. to the tightened pressure of his hand it seemed that annette's fingers responded just a little; her face smiled at him through the dark. he went back to the carriage, brooding. "go on home, jordan," he said to the coachman; "i'll walk." and he strode out into the darkening lanes, caution and the desire of possession playing see-saw within him. 'bon soir, monsieur!' how softly she had said it. to know what was in her mind! the french--they were like cats--one could tell nothing! but--how pretty! what a perfect young thing to hold in one's arms! what a mother for his heir! and he thought, with a smile, of his family and their surprise at a french wife, and their curiosity, and of the way he would play with it and buffet it confound them! the, poplars sighed in the darkness; an owl hooted. shadows deepened in the water. 'i will and must be free,' he thought. 'i won't hang about any longer. i'll go and see irene. if you want things done, do them yourself. i must live again--live and move and have my being.' and in echo to that queer biblicality church-bells chimed the call to evening prayer. chapter xi and visits the past on a tuesday evening after dining at his club soames set out to do what required more courage and perhaps less delicacy than anything he had yet undertaken in his life--save perhaps his birth, and one other action. he chose the evening, indeed, partly because irene was more likely to be in, but mainly because he had failed to find sufficient resolution by daylight, had needed wine to give him extra daring. he left his hansom on the embankment, and walked up to the old church, uncertain of the block of flats where he knew she lived. he found it hiding behind a much larger mansion; and having read the name, 'mrs. irene heron'--heron, forsooth! her maiden name: so she used that again, did she?--he stepped back into the road to look up at the windows of the first floor. light was coming through in the corner fiat, and he could hear a piano being played. he had never had a love of music, had secretly borne it a grudge in the old days when so often she had turned to her piano, making of it a refuge place into which she knew he could not enter. repulse! the long repulse, at first restrained and secret, at last open! bitter memory came with that sound. it must be she playing, and thus almost assured of seeing her, he stood more undecided than ever. shivers of anticipation ran through him; his tongue felt dry, his heart beat fast. 'i have no cause to be afraid,' he thought. and then the lawyer stirred within him. was he doing a foolish thing? ought he not to have arranged a formal meeting in the presence of her trustee? no! not before that fellow jolyon, who sympathised with her! never! he crossed back into the doorway, and, slowly, to keep down the beating of his heart, mounted the single flight of stairs and rang the bell. when the door was opened to him his sensations were regulated by the scent which came--that perfume--from away back in the past, bringing muffled remembrance: fragrance of a drawing-room he used to enter, of a house he used to own--perfume of dried rose-leaves and honey! "say, mr. forsyte," he said, "your mistress will see me, i know." he had thought this out; she would think it was jolyon! when the maid was gone and he was alone in the tiny hall, where the light was dim from one pearly-shaded sconce, and walls, carpet, everything was silvery, making the walled-in space all ghostly, he could only think ridiculously: 'shall i go in with my overcoat on, or take it off?' the music ceased; the maid said from the doorway: "will you walk in, sir?" soames walked in. he noted mechanically that all was still silvery, and that the upright piano was of satinwood. she had risen and stood recoiled against it; her hand, placed on the keys as if groping for support, had struck a sudden discord, held for a moment, and released. the light from the shaded piano-candle fell on her neck, leaving her face rather in shadow. she was in a black evening dress, with a sort of mantilla over her shoulders--he did not remember ever having seen her in black, and the thought passed through him: 'she dresses even when she's alone.' "you!" he heard her whisper. many times soames had rehearsed this scene in fancy. rehearsal served him not at all. he simply could not speak. he had never thought that the sight of this woman whom he had once so passionately desired, so completely owned, and whom he had not seen for twelve years, could affect him in this way. he had imagined himself speaking and acting, half as man of business, half as judge. and now it was as if he were in the presence not of a mere woman and erring wife, but of some force, subtle and elusive as atmosphere itself within him and outside. a kind of defensive irony welled up in him. "yes, it's a queer visit! i hope you're well." "thank you. will you sit down?" she had moved away from the piano, and gone over to a window-seat, sinking on to it, with her hands clasped in her lap. light fell on her there, so that soames could see her face, eyes, hair, strangely as he remembered them, strangely beautiful. he sat down on the edge of a satinwood chair, upholstered with silver-coloured stuff, close to where he was standing. "you have not changed," he said. "no? what have you come for?" "to discuss things." "i have heard what you want from your cousin." "well?" "i am willing. i have always been." the sound of her voice, reserved and close, the sight of her figure watchfully poised, defensive, was helping him now. a thousand memories of her, ever on the watch against him, stirred, and.... "perhaps you will be good enough, then, to give me information on which i can act. the law must be complied with." "i have none to give you that you don't know of." "twelve years! do you suppose i can believe that?" "i don't suppose you will believe anything i say; but it's the truth." soames looked at her hard. he had said that she had not changed; now he perceived that she had. not in face, except that it was more beautiful; not in form, except that it was a little fuller--no! she had changed spiritually. there was more of her, as it were, something of activity and daring, where there had been sheer passive resistance. 'ah!' he thought, 'that's her independent income! confound uncle jolyon!' "i suppose you're comfortably off now?" he said. "thank you, yes." "why didn't you let me provide for you? i would have, in spite of everything." a faint smile came on her lips; but she did not answer. "you are still my wife," said soames. why he said that, what he meant by it, he knew neither when he spoke nor after. it was a truism almost preposterous, but its effect was startling. she rose from the window-seat, and stood for a moment perfectly still, looking at him. he could see her bosom heaving. then she turned to the window and threw it open. "why do that?" he said sharply. "you'll catch cold in that dress. i'm not dangerous." and he uttered a little sad laugh. she echoed it--faintly, bitterly. "it was--habit." "rather odd habit," said soames as bitterly. "shut the window!" she shut it and sat down again. she had developed power, this woman--this--wife of his! he felt it issuing from her as she sat there, in a sort of armour. and almost unconsciously he rose and moved nearer; he wanted to see the expression on her face. her eyes met his unflinching. heavens! how clear they were, and what a dark brown against that white skin, and that burnt-amber hair! and how white her shoulders. funny sensation this! he ought to hate her. "you had better tell me," he said; "it's to your advantage to be free as well as to mine. that old matter is too old." "i have told you." "do you mean to tell me there has been nothing--nobody?" "nobody. you must go to your own life." stung by that retort, soames moved towards the piano and back to the hearth, to and fro, as he had been wont in the old days in their drawing-room when his feelings were too much for him. "that won't do," he said. "you deserted me. in common justice it's for you...." he saw her shrug those white shoulders, heard her murmur: "yes. why didn't you divorce me then? should i have cared?" he stopped, and looked at her intently with a sort of curiosity. what on earth did she do with herself, if she really lived quite alone? and why had he not divorced her? the old feeling that she had never understood him, never done him justice, bit him while he stared at her. "why couldn't you have made me a good wife?" he said. "yes; it was a crime to marry you. i have paid for it. you will find some way perhaps. you needn't mind my name, i have none to lose. now i think you had better go." a sense of defeat--of being defrauded of his self-justification, and of something else beyond power of explanation to himself, beset soames like the breath of a cold fog. mechanically he reached up, took from the mantel-shelf a little china bowl, reversed it, and said: "lowestoft. where did you get this? i bought its fellow at jobson's." and, visited by the sudden memory of how, those many years ago, he and she had bought china together, he remained staring at the little bowl, as if it contained all the past. her voice roused him. "take it. i don't want it." soames put it back on the shelf. "will you shake hands?" he said. a faint smile curved her lips. she held out her hand. it was cold to his rather feverish touch. 'she's made of ice,' he thought--'she was always made of ice!' but even as that thought darted through him, his senses were assailed by the perfume of her dress and body, as though the warmth within her, which had never been for him, were struggling to show its presence. and he turned on his heel. he walked out and away, as if someone with a whip were after him, not even looking for a cab, glad of the empty embankment and the cold river, and the thick-strewn shadows of the plane-tree leaves--confused, flurried, sore at heart, and vaguely disturbed, as though he had made some deep mistake whose consequences he could not foresee. and the fantastic thought suddenly assailed him if instead of, 'i think you had better go,' she had said, 'i think you had better stay!' what should he have felt, what would he have done? that cursed attraction of her was there for him even now, after all these years of estrangement and bitter thoughts. it was there, ready to mount to his head at a sign, a touch. 'i was a fool to go!' he muttered. 'i've advanced nothing. who could imagine? i never thought!' memory, flown back to the first years of his marriage, played him torturing tricks. she had not deserved to keep her beauty--the beauty he had owned and known so well. and a kind of bitterness at the tenacity of his own admiration welled up in him. most men would have hated the sight of her, as she had deserved. she had spoiled his life, wounded his pride to death, defrauded him of a son. and yet the mere sight of her, cold and resisting as ever, had this power to upset him utterly! it was some damned magnetism she had! and no wonder if, as she asserted; she had lived untouched these last twelve years. so bosinney--cursed be his memory!--had lived on all this time with her! soames could not tell whether he was glad of that knowledge or no. nearing his club at last he stopped to buy a paper. a headline ran: 'boers reported to repudiate suzerainty!' suzerainty! 'just like her!' he thought: 'she always did. suzerainty! i still have it by rights. she must be awfully lonely in that wretched little flat!' chapter xii on forsyte 'change soames belonged to two clubs, 'the connoisseurs,' which he put on his cards and seldom visited, and 'the remove,' which he did not put on his cards and frequented. he had joined this liberal institution five years ago, having made sure that its members were now nearly all sound conservatives in heart and pocket, if not in principle. uncle nicholas had put him up. the fine reading-room was decorated in the adam style. on entering that evening he glanced at the tape for any news about the transvaal, and noted that consols were down seven-sixteenths since the morning. he was turning away to seek the reading-room when a voice behind him said: "well, soames, that went off all right." it was uncle nicholas, in a frock-coat and his special cut-away collar, with a black tie passed through a ring. heavens! how young and dapper he looked at eighty-two! "i think roger'd have been pleased," his uncle went on. "the thing was very well done. blackley's? i'll make a note of them. buxton's done me no good. these boers are upsetting me--that fellow chamberlain's driving the country into war. what do you think?" "bound to come," murmured soames. nicholas passed his hand over his thin, clean-shaven cheeks, very rosy after his summer cure; a slight pout had gathered on his lips. this business had revived all his liberal principles. "i mistrust that chap; he's a stormy petrel. house-property will go down if there's war. you'll have trouble with roger's estate. i often told him he ought to get out of some of his houses. he was an opinionated beggar." 'there was a pair of you!' thought soames. but he never argued with an uncle, in that way preserving their opinion of him as 'a long-headed chap,' and the legal care of their property. "they tell me at timothy's," said nicholas, lowering his voice, "that dartie has gone off at last. that'll be a relief to your father. he was a rotten egg." again soames nodded. if there was a subject on which the forsytes really agreed, it was the character of montague dartie. "you take care," said nicholas, "or he'll turn up again. winifred had better have the tooth out, i should say. no use preserving what's gone bad." soames looked at him sideways. his nerves, exacerbated by the interview he had just come through, disposed him to see a personal allusion in those words. "i'm advising her," he said shortly. "well," said nicholas, "the brougham's waiting; i must get home. i'm very poorly. remember me to your father." and having thus reconsecrated the ties of blood, he passed down the steps at his youthful gait and was wrapped into his fur coat by the junior porter. 'i've never known uncle nicholas other than "very poorly,"' mused soames, 'or seen him look other than everlasting. what a family! judging by him, i've got thirty-eight years of health before me. well, i'm not going to waste them.' and going over to a mirror he stood looking at his face. except for a line or two, and three or four grey hairs in his little dark moustache, had he aged any more than irene? the prime of life--he and she in the very prime of life! and a fantastic thought shot into his mind. absurd! idiotic! but again it came. and genuinely alarmed by the recurrence, as one is by the second fit of shivering which presages a feverish cold, he sat down on the weighing machine. eleven stone! he had not varied two pounds in twenty years. what age was she? nearly thirty-seven--not too old to have a child--not at all! thirty-seven on the ninth of next month. he remembered her birthday well--he had always observed it religiously, even that last birthday so soon before she left him, when he was almost certain she was faithless. four birthdays in his house. he had looked forward to them, because his gifts had meant a semblance of gratitude, a certain attempt at warmth. except, indeed, that last birthday--which had tempted him to be too religious! and he shied away in thought. memory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense. and then he thought suddenly: 'i could send her a present for her birthday. after all, we're christians! couldn't!--couldn't we join up again!' and he uttered a deep sigh sitting there. annette! ah! but between him and annette was the need for that wretched divorce suit! and how? "a man can always work these things, if he'll take it on himself," jolyon had said. but why should he take the scandal on himself with his whole career as a pillar of the law at stake? it was not fair! it was quixotic! twelve years' separation in which he had taken no steps to free himself put out of court the possibility of using her conduct with bosinney as a ground for divorcing her. by doing nothing to secure relief he had acquiesced, even if the evidence could now be gathered, which was more than doubtful. besides, his own pride would never let him use that old incident, he had suffered from it too much. no! nothing but fresh misconduct on her part--but she had denied it; and--almost--he had believed her. hung up! utterly hung up! he rose from the scooped-out red velvet seat with a feeling of constriction about his vitals. he would never sleep with this going on in him! and, taking coat and hat again, he went out, moving eastward. in trafalgar square he became aware of some special commotion travelling towards him out of the mouth of the strand. it materialised in newspaper men calling out so loudly that no words whatever could be heard. he stopped to listen, and one came by. "payper! special! ultimatium by krooger! declaration of war!" soames bought the paper. there it was in the stop press....! his first thought was: 'the boers are committing suicide.' his second: 'is there anything still i ought to sell?' if so he had missed the chance--there would certainly be a slump in the city to-morrow. he swallowed this thought with a nod of defiance. that ultimatum was insolent--sooner than let it pass he was prepared to lose money. they wanted a lesson, and they would get it; but it would take three months at least to bring them to heel. there weren't the troops out there; always behind time, the government! confound those newspaper rats! what was the use of waking everybody up? breakfast to-morrow was quite soon enough. and he thought with alarm of his father. they would cry it down park lane. hailing a hansom, he got in and told the man to drive there. james and emily had just gone up to bed, and after communicating the news to warmson, soames prepared to follow. he paused by after-thought to say: "what do you think of it, warmson?" the butler ceased passing a hat brush over the silk hat soames had taken off, and, inclining his face a little forward, said in a low voice: "well, sir, they 'aven't a chance, of course; but i'm told they're very good shots. i've got a son in the inniskillings." "you, warmson? why, i didn't know you were married." "no, sir. i don't talk of it. i expect he'll be going out." the slighter shock soames had felt on discovering that he knew so little of one whom he thought he knew so well was lost in the slight shock of discovering that the war might touch one personally. born in the year of the crimean war, he had only come to consciousness by the time the indian mutiny was over; since then the many little wars of the british empire had been entirely professional, quite unconnected with the forsytes and all they stood for in the body politic. this war would surely be no exception. but his mind ran hastily over his family. two of the haymans, he had heard, were in some yeomanry or other--it had always been a pleasant thought, there was a certain distinction about the yeomanry; they wore, or used to wear, a blue uniform with silver about it, and rode horses. and archibald, he remembered, had once on a time joined the militia, but had given it up because his father, nicholas, had made such a fuss about his 'wasting his time peacocking about in a uniform.' recently he had heard somewhere that young nicholas' eldest, very young nicholas, had become a volunteer. 'no,' thought soames, mounting the stairs slowly, 'there's nothing in that!' he stood on the landing outside his parents' bed and dressing rooms, debating whether or not to put his nose in and say a reassuring word. opening the landing window, he listened. the rumble from piccadilly was all the sound he heard, and with the thought, 'if these motor-cars increase, it'll affect house property,' he was about to pass on up to the room always kept ready for him when he heard, distant as yet, the hoarse rushing call of a newsvendor. there it was, and coming past the house! he knocked on his mother's door and went in. his father was sitting up in bed, with his ears pricked under the white hair which emily kept so beautifully cut. he looked pink, and extraordinarily clean, in his setting of white sheet and pillow, out of which the points of his high, thin, nightgowned shoulders emerged in small peaks. his eyes alone, grey and distrustful under their withered lids, were moving from the window to emily, who in a wrapper was walking up and down, squeezing a rubber ball attached to a scent bottle. the room reeked faintly of the eau-de-cologne she was spraying. "all right!" said soames, "it's not a fire. the boers have declared war--that's all." emily stopped her spraying. "oh!" was all she said, and looked at james. soames, too, looked at his father. he was taking it differently from their expectation, as if some thought, strange to them, were working in him. "h'm!" he muttered suddenly, "i shan't live to see the end of this." "nonsense, james! it'll be over by christmas." "what do you know about it?" james answered her with asperity. "it's a pretty mess at this time of night, too!" he lapsed into silence, and his wife and son, as if hypnotised, waited for him to say: 'i can't tell--i don't know; i knew how it would be!' but he did not. the grey eyes shifted, evidently seeing nothing in the room; then movement occurred under the bedclothes, and the knees were drawn up suddenly to a great height. "they ought to send out roberts. it all comes from that fellow gladstone and his majuba." the two listeners noted something beyond the usual in his voice, something of real anxiety. it was as if he had said: 'i shall never see the old country peaceful and safe again. i shall have to die before i know she's won.' and in spite of the feeling that james must not be encouraged to be fussy, they were touched. soames went up to the bedside and stroked his father's hand which had emerged from under the bedclothes, long and wrinkled with veins. "mark my words!" said james, "consols will go to par. for all i know, val may go and enlist." "oh, come, james!" cried emily, "you talk as if there were danger." her comfortable voice seemed to soothe james for once. "well," he muttered, "i told you how it would be. i don't know, i'm sure--nobody tells me anything. are you sleeping here, my boy?" the crisis was past, he would now compose himself to his normal degree of anxiety; and, assuring his father that he was sleeping in the house, soames pressed his hand, and went up to his room. the following afternoon witnessed the greatest crowd timothy's had known for many a year. on national occasions, such as this, it was, indeed, almost impossible to avoid going there. not that there was any danger or rather only just enough to make it necessary to assure each other that there was none. nicholas was there early. he had seen soames the night before--soames had said it was bound to come. this old kruger was in his dotage--why, he must be seventy-five if he was a day! (nicholas was eighty-two.) what had timothy said? he had had a fit after majuba. these boers were a grasping lot! the dark-haired francie, who had arrived on his heels, with the contradictious touch which became the free spirit of a daughter of roger, chimed in: "kettle and pot, uncle nicholas. what price the uitlanders?" what price, indeed! a new expression, and believed to be due to her brother george. aunt juley thought francie ought not to say such a thing. dear mrs. macander's boy, charlie macander, was one, and no one could call him grasping. at this francie uttered one of her mots, scandalising, and so frequently repeated: "well, his father's a scotchman, and his mother's a cat." aunt juley covered her ears, too late, but aunt hester smiled; as for nicholas, he pouted--witticism of which he was not the author was hardly to his taste. just then marian tweetyman arrived, followed almost immediately by young nicholas. on seeing his son, nicholas rose. "well, i must be going," he said, "nick here will tell you what'll win the race." and with this hit at his eldest, who, as a pillar of accountancy, and director of an insurance company, was no more addicted to sport than his father had ever been, he departed. dear nicholas! what race was that? or was it only one of his jokes? he was a wonderful man for his age! how many lumps would dear marian take? and how were giles and jesse? aunt juley supposed their yeomanry would be very busy now, guarding the coast, though of course the boers had no ships. but one never knew what the french might do if they had the chance, especially since that dreadful fashoda scare, which had upset timothy so terribly that he had made no investments for months afterwards. it was the ingratitude of the boers that was so dreadful, after everything had been done for them--dr. jameson imprisoned, and he was so nice, mrs. macander had always said. and sir alfred milner sent out to talk to them--such a clever man! she didn't know what they wanted. but at this moment occurred one of those sensations--so precious at timothy's--which great occasions sometimes bring forth: "miss june forsyte." aunts juley and hester were on their feet at once, trembling from smothered resentment, and old affection bubbling up, and pride at the return of a prodigal june! well, this was a surprise! dear june--after all these years! and how well she was looking! not changed at all! it was almost on their lips to add, 'and how is your dear grandfather?' forgetting in that giddy moment that poor dear jolyon had been in his grave for seven years now. ever the most courageous and downright of all the forsytes, june, with her decided chin and her spirited eyes and her hair like flame, sat down, slight and short, on a gilt chair with a bead-worked seat, for all the world as if ten years had not elapsed since she had been to see them--ten years of travel and independence and devotion to lame ducks. those ducks of late had been all definitely painters, etchers, or sculptors, so that her impatience with the forsytes and their hopelessly inartistic outlook had become intense. indeed, she had almost ceased to believe that her family existed, and looked round her now with a sort of challenging directness which brought exquisite discomfort to the roomful. she had not expected to meet any of them but 'the poor old things'; and why she had come to see them she hardly knew, except that, while on her way from oxford street to a studio in latimer road, she had suddenly remembered them with compunction as two long-neglected old lame ducks. aunt juley broke the hush again. "we've just been saying, dear, how dreadful it is about these boers! and what an impudent thing of that old kruger!" "impudent!" said june. "i think he's quite right. what business have we to meddle with them? if he turned out all those wretched uitlanders it would serve them right. they're only after money." the silence of sensation was broken by francie saying: "what? are you a pro-boer?" (undoubtedly the first use of that expression). "well! why can't we leave them alone?" said june, just as, in the open doorway, the maid said "mr. soames forsyte." sensation on sensation! greeting was almost held up by curiosity to see how june and he would take this encounter, for it was shrewdly suspected, if not quite known, that they had not met since that old and lamentable affair of her fiance bosinney with soames' wife. they were seen to just touch each other's hands, and look each at the other's left eye only. aunt juley came at once to the rescue: "dear june is so original. fancy, soames, she thinks the boers are not to blame." "they only want their independence," said june; "and why shouldn't they have it?" "because," answered soames, with his smile a little on one side, "they happen to have agreed to our suzerainty." "suzerainty!" repeated june scornfully; "we shouldn't like anyone's suzerainty over us." "they got advantages in payment," replied soames; "a contract is a contract." "contracts are not always just," fumed out june, "and when they're not, they ought to be broken. the boers are much the weaker. we could afford to be generous." soames sniffed. "that's mere sentiment," he said. aunt hester, to whom nothing was more awful than any kind of disagreement, here leaned forward and remarked decisively: "what lovely weather it has been for the time of year?" but june was not to be diverted. "i don't know why sentiment should be sneered at. it's the best thing in the world." she looked defiantly round, and aunt juley had to intervene again: "have you bought any pictures lately, soames?" her incomparable instinct for the wrong subject had not failed her. soames flushed. to disclose the name of his latest purchases would be like walking into the jaws of disdain. for somehow they all knew of june's predilection for 'genius' not yet on its legs, and her contempt for 'success' unless she had had a finger in securing it. "one or two," he muttered. but june's face had changed; the forsyte within her was seeing its chance. why should not soames buy some of the pictures of eric cobbley--her last lame duck? and she promptly opened her attack: did soames know his work? it was so wonderful. he was the coming man. oh, yes, soames knew his work. it was in his view 'splashy,' and would never get hold of the public. june blazed up. "of course it won't; that's the last thing one would wish for. i thought you were a connoisseur, not a picture-dealer." "of course soames is a connoisseur," aunt juley said hastily; "he has wonderful taste--he can always tell beforehand what's going to be successful." "oh!" gasped june, and sprang up from the bead-covered chair, "i hate that standard of success. why can't people buy things because they like them?" "you mean," said francie, "because you like them." and in the slight pause young nicholas was heard saying gently that violet (his fourth) was taking lessons in pastel, he didn't know if they were any use. "well, good-bye, auntie," said june; "i must get on," and kissing her aunts, she looked defiantly round the room, said "good-bye" again, and went. a breeze seemed to pass out with her, as if everyone had sighed. the third sensation came before anyone had time to speak: "mr. james forsyte." james came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat which gave him a fictitious bulk. everyone stood up. james was so old; and he had not been at timothy's for nearly two years. "it's hot in here," he said. soames divested him of his coat, and as he did so could not help admiring the glossy way his father was turned out. james sat down, all knees, elbows, frock-coat, and long white whiskers. "what's the meaning of that?" he said. though there was no apparent sense in his words, they all knew that he was referring to june. his eyes searched his son's face. "i thought i'd come and see for myself. what have they answered kruger?" soames took out an evening paper, and read the headline. "'instant action by our government--state of war existing!'" "ah!" said james, and sighed. "i was afraid they'd cut and run like old gladstone. we shall finish with them this time." all stared at him. james! always fussy, nervous, anxious! james with his continual, 'i told you how it would be!' and his pessimism, and his cautious investments. there was something uncanny about such resolution in this the oldest living forsyte. "where's timothy?" said james. "he ought to pay attention to this." aunt juley said she didn't know; timothy had not said much at lunch to-day. aunt hester rose and threaded her way out of the room, and francie said rather maliciously: "the boers are a hard nut to crack, uncle james." "h'm!" muttered james. "where do you get your information? nobody tells me." young nicholas remarked in his mild voice that nick (his eldest) was now going to drill regularly. "ah!" muttered james, and stared before him--his thoughts were on val. "he's got to look after his mother," he said, "he's got no time for drilling and that, with that father of his." this cryptic saying produced silence, until he spoke again. "what did june want here?" and his eyes rested with suspicion on all of them in turn. "her father's a rich man now." the conversation turned on jolyon, and when he had been seen last. it was supposed that he went abroad and saw all sorts of people now that his wife was dead; his water-colours were on the line, and he was a successful man. francie went so far as to say: "i should like to see him again; he was rather a dear." aunt juley recalled how he had gone to sleep on the sofa one day, where james was sitting. he had always been very amiable; what did soames think? knowing that jolyon was irene's trustee, all felt the delicacy of this question, and looked at soames with interest. a faint pink had come up in his cheeks. "he's going grey," he said. indeed! had soames seen him? soames nodded, and the pink vanished. james said suddenly: "well--i don't know, i can't tell." it so exactly expressed the sentiment of everybody present that there was something behind everything, that nobody responded. but at this moment aunt hester returned. "timothy," she said in a low voice, "timothy has bought a map, and he's put in--he's put in three flags." timothy had ....! a sigh went round the company. if timothy had indeed put in three flags already, well!--it showed what the nation could do when it was roused. the war was as good as over. chapter xiii jolyon finds out where he is jolyon stood at the window in holly's old night nursery, converted into a studio, not because it had a north light, but for its view over the prospect away to the grand stand at epsom. he shifted to the side window which overlooked the stableyard, and whistled down to the dog balthasar who lay for ever under the clock tower. the old dog looked up and wagged his tail. 'poor old boy!' thought jolyon, shifting back to the other window. he had been restless all this week, since his attempt to prosecute trusteeship, uneasy in his conscience which was ever acute, disturbed in his sense of compassion which was easily excited, and with a queer sensation as if his feeling for beauty had received some definite embodiment. autumn was getting hold of the old oak-tree, its leaves were browning. sunshine had been plentiful and hot this summer. as with trees, so with men's lives! 'i ought to live long,' thought jolyon; 'i'm getting mildewed for want of heat. if i can't work, i shall be off to paris.' but memory of paris gave him no pleasure. besides, how could he go? he must stay and see what soames was going to do. 'i'm her trustee. i can't leave her unprotected,' he thought. it had been striking him as curious how very clearly he could still see irene in her little drawing-room which he had only twice entered. her beauty must have a sort of poignant harmony! no literal portrait would ever do her justice; the essence of her was--ah i what?... the noise of hoofs called him back to the other window. holly was riding into the yard on her long-tailed 'palfrey.' she looked up and he waved to her. she had been rather silent lately; getting old, he supposed, beginning to want her future, as they all did--youngsters! time was certainly the devil! and with the feeling that to waste this swift-travelling commodity was unforgivable folly, he took up his brush. but it was no use; he could not concentrate his eye--besides, the light was going. 'i'll go up to town,' he thought. in the hall a servant met him. "a lady to see you, sir; mrs. heron." extraordinary coincidence! passing into the picture-gallery, as it was still called, he saw irene standing over by the window. she came towards him saying: "i've been trespassing; i came up through the coppice and garden. i always used to come that way to see uncle jolyon." "you couldn't trespass here," replied jolyon; "history makes that impossible. i was just thinking of you." irene smiled. and it was as if something shone through; not mere spirituality--serener, completer, more alluring. "history!" she answered; "i once told uncle jolyon that love was for ever. well, it isn't. only aversion lasts." jolyon stared at her. had she got over bosinney at last? "yes!" he said, "aversion's deeper than love or hate because it's a natural product of the nerves, and we don't change them." "i came to tell you that soames has been to see me. he said a thing that frightened me. he said: 'you are still my wife!'" "what!" ejaculated jolyon. "you ought not to live alone." and he continued to stare at her, afflicted by the thought that where beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was why so many people looked on it as immoral. "what more?" "he asked me to shake hands. "did you?" "yes. when he came in i'm sure he didn't want to; he changed while he was there." "ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone." "i know no woman i could ask; and i can't take a lover to order, cousin jolyon." "heaven forbid!" said jolyon. "what a damnable position! will you stay to dinner? no? well, let me see you back to town; i wanted to go up this evening." "truly?" "truly. i'll be ready in five minutes." on that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music, contrasting the english and french characters and the difference in their attitude to art. but to jolyon the colours in the hedges of the long straight lane, the twittering of chaffinches who kept pace with them, the perfume of weeds being already burned, the turn of her neck, the fascination of those dark eyes bent on him now and then, the lure of her whole figure, made a deeper impression than the remarks they exchanged. unconsciously he held himself straighter, walked with a more elastic step. in the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what she did with her days. made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano, translated from the french. she had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which supplemented her income a little. she seldom went out in the evening. "i've been living alone so long, you see, that i don't mind it a bit. i believe i'm naturally solitary." "i don't believe that," said jolyon. "do you know many people?" "very few." at waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door of her mansions. squeezing her hand at parting, he said: "you know, you could always come to us at robin hill; you must let me know everything that happens. good-bye, irene." "good-bye," she answered softly. jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked her to dine and go to the theatre with him. solitary, starved, hung-up life that she had! "hotch potch club," he said through the trap-door. as his hansom debouched on to the embankment, a man in top-hat and overcoat passed, walking quickly, so close to the wall that he seemed to be scraping it. 'by jove!' thought jolyon; 'soames himself! what's he up to now?' and, stopping the cab round the corner, he got out and retraced his steps to where he could see the entrance to the mansions. soames had halted in front of them, and was looking up at the light in her windows. 'if he goes in,' thought jolyon, 'what shall i do? what have i the right to do?' what the fellow had said was true. she was still his wife, absolutely without protection from annoyance! 'well, if he goes in,' he thought, 'i follow.' and he began moving towards the mansions. again soames advanced; he was in the very entrance now. but suddenly he stopped, spun round on his heel, and came back towards the river. 'what now?' thought jolyon. 'in a dozen steps he'll recognise me.' and he turned tail. his cousin's footsteps kept pace with his own. but he reached his cab, and got in before soames had turned the corner. "go on!" he said through the trap. soames' figure ranged up alongside. "hansom!" he said. "engaged? hallo!" "hallo!" answered jolyon. "you?" the quick suspicion on his cousin's face, white in the lamplight, decided him. "i can give you a lift," he said, "if you're going west." "thanks," answered soames, and got in. "i've been seeing irene," said jolyon when the cab had started. "indeed!" "you went to see her yesterday yourself, i understand." "i did," said soames; "she's my wife, you know." the tone, the half-lifted sneering lip, roused sudden anger in jolyon; but he subdued it. "you ought to know best," he said, "but if you want a divorce it's not very wise to go seeing her, is it? one can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds?" "you're very good to warn me," said soames, "but i have not made up my mind." "she has," said jolyon, looking straight before him; "you can't take things up, you know, as they were twelve years ago." "that remains to be seen." "look here!" said jolyon, "she's in a damnable position, and i am the only person with any legal say in her affairs." "except myself," retorted soames, "who am also in a damnable position. hers is what she made for herself; mine what she made for me. i am not at all sure that in her own interests i shan't require her to return to me." "what!" exclaimed jolyon; and a shiver went through his whole body. "i don't know what you may mean by 'what,'" answered soames coldly; "your say in her affairs is confined to paying out her income; please bear that in mind. in choosing not to disgrace her by a divorce, i retained my rights, and, as i say, i am not at all sure that i shan't require to exercise them." "my god!" ejaculated jolyon, and he uttered a short laugh. "yes," said soames, and there was a deadly quality in his voice. "i've not forgotten the nickname your father gave me, 'the man of property'! i'm not called names for nothing." "this is fantastic," murmured jolyon. well, the fellow couldn't force his wife to live with him. those days were past, anyway! and he looked around at soames with the thought: 'is he real, this man?' but soames looked very real, sitting square yet almost elegant with the clipped moustache on his pale face, and a tooth showing where a lip was lifted in a fixed smile. there was a long silence, while jolyon thought: 'instead of helping her, i've made things worse.' suddenly soames said: "it would be the best thing that could happen to her in many ways." at those words such a turmoil began taking place in jolyon that he could barely sit still in the cab. it was as if he were boxed up with hundreds of thousands of his countrymen, boxed up with that something in the national character which had always been to him revolting, something which he knew to be extremely natural and yet which seemed to him inexplicable--their intense belief in contracts and vested rights, their complacent sense of virtue in the exaction of those rights. here beside him in the cab was the very embodiment, the corporeal sum as it were, of the possessive instinct--his own kinsman, too! it was uncanny and intolerable! 'but there's something more in it than that!' he thought with a sick feeling. 'the dog, they say, returns to his vomit! the sight of her has reawakened something. beauty! the devil's in it!' "as i say," said soames, "i have not made up my mind. i shall be obliged if you will kindly leave her quite alone." jolyon bit his lips; he who had always hated rows almost welcomed the thought of one now. "i can give you no such promise," he said shortly. "very well," said soames, "then we know where we are. i'll get down here." and stopping the cab he got out without word or sign of farewell. jolyon travelled on to his club. the first news of the war was being called in the streets, but he paid no attention. what could he do to help her? if only his father were alive! he could have done so much! but why could he not do all that his father could have done? was he not old enough?--turned fifty and twice married, with grown-up daughters and a son. 'queer,' he thought. 'if she were plain i shouldn't be thinking twice about it. beauty is the devil, when you're sensitive to it!' and into the club reading-room he went with a disturbed heart. in that very room he and bosinney had talked one summer afternoon; he well remembered even now the disguised and secret lecture he had given that young man in the interests of june, the diagnosis of the forsytes he had hazarded; and how he had wondered what sort of woman it was he was warning him against. and now! he was almost in want of a warning himself. 'it's deuced funny!' he thought, 'really deuced funny!' chapter xiv soames discovers what he wants it is so much easier to say, "then we know where we are," than to mean anything particular by the words. and in saying them soames did but vent the jealous rankling of his instincts. he got out of the cab in a state of wary anger--with himself for not having seen irene, with jolyon for having seen her; and now with his inability to tell exactly what he wanted. he had abandoned the cab because he could not bear to remain seated beside his cousin, and walking briskly eastwards he thought: 'i wouldn't trust that fellow jolyon a yard. once outcast, always outcast!' the chap had a natural sympathy with--with--laxity (he had shied at the word sin, because it was too melodramatic for use by a forsyte). indecision in desire was to him a new feeling. he was like a child between a promised toy and an old one which had been taken away from him; and he was astonished at himself. only last sunday desire had seemed simple--just his freedom and annette. 'i'll go and dine there,' he thought. to see her might bring back his singleness of intention, calm his exasperation, clear his mind. the restaurant was fairly full--a good many foreigners and folk whom, from their appearance, he took to be literary or artistic. scraps of conversation came his way through the clatter of plates and glasses. he distinctly heard the boers sympathised with, the british government blamed. 'don't think much of their clientele,' he thought. he went stolidly through his dinner and special coffee without making his presence known, and when at last he had finished, was careful not to be seen going towards the sanctum of madame lamotte. they were, as he entered, having supper--such a much nicer-looking supper than the dinner he had eaten that he felt a kind of grief--and they greeted him with a surprise so seemingly genuine that he thought with sudden suspicion: 'i believe they knew i was here all the time.' he gave annette a look furtive and searching. so pretty, seemingly so candid; could she be angling for him? he turned to madame lamotte and said: "i've been dining here." really! if she had only known! there were dishes she could have recommended; what a pity! soames was confirmed in his suspicion. 'i must look out what i'm doing!' he thought sharply. "another little cup of very special coffee, monsieur; a liqueur, grand marnier?" and madame lamotte rose to order these delicacies. alone with annette soames said, "well, annette?" with a defensive little smile about his lips. the girl blushed. this, which last sunday would have set his nerves tingling, now gave him much the same feeling a man has when a dog that he owns wriggles and looks at him. he had a curious sense of power, as if he could have said to her, 'come and kiss me,' and she would have come. and yet--it was strange--but there seemed another face and form in the room too; and the itch in his nerves, was it for that--or for this? he jerked his head towards the restaurant and said: "you have some queer customers. do you like this life?" annette looked up at him for a moment, looked down, and played with her fork. "no," she said, "i do not like it." 'i've got her,' thought soames, 'if i want her. but do i want her?' she was graceful, she was pretty--very pretty; she was fresh, she had taste of a kind. his eyes travelled round the little room; but the eyes of his mind went another journey--a half-light, and silvery walls, a satinwood piano, a woman standing against it, reined back as it were from him--a woman with white shoulders that he knew, and dark eyes that he had sought to know, and hair like dull dark amber. and as in an artist who strives for the unrealisable and is ever thirsty, so there rose in him at that moment the thirst of the old passion he had never satisfied. "well," he said calmly, "you're young. there's everything before you." annette shook her head. "i think sometimes there is nothing before me but hard work. i am not so in love with work as mother." "your mother is a wonder," said soames, faintly mocking; "she will never let failure lodge in her house." annette sighed. "it must be wonderful to be rich." "oh! you'll be rich some day," answered soames, still with that faint mockery; "don't be afraid." annette shrugged her shoulders. "monsieur is very kind." and between her pouting lips she put a chocolate. 'yes, my dear,' thought soames, 'they're very pretty.' madame lamotte, with coffee and liqueur, put an end to that colloquy. soames did not stay long. outside in the streets of soho, which always gave him such a feeling of property improperly owned, he mused. if only irene had given him a son, he wouldn't now be squirming after women! the thought had jumped out of its little dark sentry-box in his inner consciousness. a son--something to look forward to, something to make the rest of life worth while, something to leave himself to, some perpetuity of self. 'if i had a son,' he thought bitterly, 'a proper legal son, i could make shift to go on as i used. one woman's much the same as another, after all.' but as he walked he shook his head. no! one woman was not the same as another. many a time had he tried to think that in the old days of his thwarted married life; and he had always failed. he was failing now. he was trying to think annette the same as that other. but she was not, she had not the lure of that old passion. 'and irene's my wife,' he thought, 'my legal wife. i have done nothing to put her away from me. why shouldn't she come back to me? it's the right thing, the lawful thing. it makes no scandal, no disturbance. if it's disagreeable to her--but why should it be? i'm not a leper, and she--she's no longer in love!' why should he be put to the shifts and the sordid disgraces and the lurking defeats of the divorce court, when there she was like an empty house only waiting to be retaken into use and possession by him who legally owned her? to one so secretive as soames the thought of reentry into quiet possession of his own property with nothing given away to the world was intensely alluring. 'no,' he mused, 'i'm glad i went to see that girl. i know now what i want most. if only irene will come back i'll be as considerate as she wishes; she could live her own life; but perhaps--perhaps she would come round to me.' there was a lump in his throat. and doggedly along by the railings of the green park, towards his father's house, he went, trying to tread on his shadow walking before him in the brilliant moonlight. part ii chapter i the third generation jolly forsyte was strolling down high street, oxford, on a november afternoon; val dartie was strolling up. jolly had just changed out of boating flannels and was on his way to the 'frying-pan,' to which he had recently been elected. val had just changed out of riding clothes and was on his way to the fire--a bookmaker's in cornmarket. "hallo!" said jolly. "hallo!" replied val. the cousins had met but twice, jolly, the second-year man, having invited the freshman to breakfast; and last evening they had seen each other again under somewhat exotic circumstances. over a tailor's in the cornmarket resided one of those privileged young beings called minors, whose inheritances are large, whose parents are dead, whose guardians are remote, and whose instincts are vicious. at nineteen he had commenced one of those careers attractive and inexplicable to ordinary mortals for whom a single bankruptcy is good as a feast. already famous for having the only roulette table then to be found in oxford, he was anticipating his expectations at a dazzling rate. he out-crummed crum, though of a sanguine and rather beefy type which lacked the latter's fascinating languor. for val it had been in the nature of baptism to be taken there to play roulette; in the nature of confirmation to get back into college, after hours, through a window whose bars were deceptive. once, during that evening of delight, glancing up from the seductive green before him, he had caught sight, through a cloud of smoke, of his cousin standing opposite. 'rouge gagne, impair, et manque!' he had not seen him again. "come in to the frying-pan and have tea," said jolly, and they went in. a stranger, seeing them together, would have noticed an unseizable resemblance between these second cousins of the third generations of forsytes; the same bone formation in face, though jolly's eyes were darker grey, his hair lighter and more wavy. "tea and buttered buns, waiter, please," said jolly. "have one of my cigarettes?" said val. "i saw you last night. how did you do?" "i didn't play." "i won fifteen quid." though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he had once heard his father make--'when you're fleeced you're sick, and when you fleece you're sorry--jolly contented himself with: "rotten game, i think; i was at school with that chap. he's an awful fool." "oh! i don't know," said val, as one might speak in defence of a disparaged god; "he's a pretty good sport." they exchanged whiffs in silence. "you met my people, didn't you?" said jolly. "they're coming up to-morrow." val grew a little red. "really! i can give you a rare good tip for the manchester november handicap." "thanks, i only take interest in the classic races." "you can't make any money over them," said val. "i hate the ring," said jolly; "there's such a row and stink. i like the paddock." "i like to back my judgment,"' answered val. jolly smiled; his smile was like his father's. "i haven't got any. i always lose money if i bet." "you have to buy experience, of course." "yes, but it's all messed-up with doing people in the eye." "of course, or they'll do you--that's the excitement." jolly looked a little scornful. "what do you do with yourself? row?" "no--ride, and drive about. i'm going to play polo next term, if i can get my granddad to stump up." "that's old uncle james, isn't it? what's he like?" "older than forty hills," said val, "and always thinking he's going to be ruined." "i suppose my granddad and he were brothers." "i don't believe any of that old lot were sportsmen," said val; "they must have worshipped money." "mine didn't!" said jolly warmly. val flipped the ash off his cigarette. "money's only fit to spend," he said; "i wish the deuce i had more." jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which he had inherited from old jolyon: one didn't talk about money! and again there was silence, while they drank tea and ate the buttered buns. "where are your people going to stay?" asked val, elaborately casual. "'rainbow.' what do you think of the war?" "rotten, so far. the boers aren't sports a bit. why don't they come out into the open?" "why should they? they've got everything against them except their way of fighting. i rather admire them." "they can ride and shoot," admitted val, "but they're a lousy lot. do you know crum?" "of merton? only by sight. he's in that fast set too, isn't he? rather la-di-da and brummagem." val said fixedly: "he's a friend of mine." "oh! sorry!" and they sat awkwardly staring past each other, having pitched on their pet points of snobbery. for jolly was forming himself unconsciously on a set whose motto was: 'we defy you to bore us. life isn't half long enough, and we're going to talk faster and more crisply, do more and know more, and dwell less on any subject than you can possibly imagine. we are "the best"--made of wire and whipcord.' and val was unconsciously forming himself on a set whose motto was: 'we defy you to interest or excite us. we have had every sensation, or if we haven't, we pretend we have. we are so exhausted with living that no hours are too small for us. we will lose our shirts with equanimity. we have flown fast and are past everything. all is cigarette smoke. bismillah!' competitive spirit, bone-deep in the english, was obliging those two young forsytes to have ideals; and at the close of a century ideals are mixed. the aristocracy had already in the main adopted the 'jumping-jesus' principle; though here and there one like crum--who was an 'honourable'--stood starkly languid for that gambler's nirvana which had been the summum bonum of the old 'dandies' and of 'the mashers' in the eighties. and round crum were still gathered a forlorn hope of blue-bloods with a plutocratic following. but there was between the cousins another far less obvious antipathy--coming from the unseizable family resemblance, which each perhaps resented; or from some half-consciousness of that old feud persisting still between their branches of the clan, formed within them by odd words or half-hints dropped by their elders. and jolly, tinkling his teaspoon, was musing: 'his tie-pin and his waistcoat and his drawl and his betting--good lord!' and val, finishing his bun, was thinking: 'he's rather a young beast!' "i suppose you'll be meeting your people?" he said, getting up. "i wish you'd tell them i should like to show them over b.n.c.--not that there's anything much there--if they'd care to come." "thanks, i'll ask them." "would they lunch? i've got rather a decent scout." jolly doubted if they would have time. "you'll ask them, though?" "very good of you," said jolly, fully meaning that they should not go; but, instinctively polite, he added: "you'd better come and have dinner with us to-morrow." "rather. what time?" "seven-thirty." "dress?" "no." and they parted, a subtle antagonism alive within them. holly and her father arrived by a midday train. it was her first visit to the city of spires and dreams, and she was very silent, looking almost shyly at the brother who was part of this wonderful place. after lunch she wandered, examining his household gods with intense curiosity. jolly's sitting-room was panelled, and art represented by a set of bartolozzi prints which had belonged to old jolyon, and by college photographs--of young men, live young men, a little heroic, and to be compared with her memories of val. jolyon also scrutinised with care that evidence of his boy's character and tastes. jolly was anxious that they should see him rowing, so they set forth to the river. holly, between her brother and her father, felt elated when heads were turned and eyes rested on her. that they might see him to the best advantage they left him at the barge and crossed the river to the towing-path. slight in build--for of all the forsytes only old swithin and george were beefy--jolly was rowing 'two' in a trial eight. he looked very earnest and strenuous. with pride jolyon thought him the best-looking boy of the lot; holly, as became a sister, was more struck by one or two of the others, but would not have said so for the world. the river was bright that afternoon, the meadows lush, the trees still beautiful with colour. distinguished peace clung around the old city; jolyon promised himself a day's sketching if the weather held. the eight passed a second time, spurting home along the barges--jolly's face was very set, so as not to show that he was blown. they returned across the river and waited for him. "oh!" said jolly in the christ church meadows, "i had to ask that chap val dartie to dine with us to-night. he wanted to give you lunch and show you b.n.c., so i thought i'd better; then you needn't go. i don't like him much." holly's rather sallow face had become suffused with pink. "why not?" "oh! i don't know. he seems to me rather showy and bad form. what are his people like, dad? he's only a second cousin, isn't he?" jolyon took refuge in a smile. "ask holly," he said; "she saw his uncle." "i liked val," holly answered, staring at the ground before her; "his uncle looked--awfully different." she stole a glance at jolly from under her lashes. "did you ever," said jolyon with whimsical intention, "hear our family history, my dears? it's quite a fairy tale. the first jolyon forsyte--at all events the first we know anything of, and that would be your great-great-grandfather--dwelt in the land of dorset on the edge of the sea, being by profession an 'agriculturalist,' as your great-aunt put it, and the son of an agriculturist--farmers, in fact; your grandfather used to call them, 'very small beer.'" he looked at jolly to see how his lordliness was standing it, and with the other eye noted holly's malicious pleasure in the slight drop of her brother's face. "we may suppose him thick and sturdy, standing for england as it was before the industrial era began. the second jolyon forsyte--your great-grandfather, jolly; better known as superior dosset forsyte--built houses, so the chronicle runs, begat ten children, and migrated to london town. it is known that he drank sherry. we may suppose him representing the england of napoleon's wars, and general unrest. the eldest of his six sons was the third jolyon, your grandfather, my dears--tea merchant and chairman of companies, one of the soundest englishmen who ever lived--and to me the dearest." jolyon's voice had lost its irony, and his son and daughter gazed at him solemnly, "he was just and tenacious, tender and young at heart. you remember him, and i remember him. pass to the others! your great-uncle james, that's young val's grandfather, had a son called soames--whereby hangs a tale of no love lost, and i don't think i'll tell it you. james and the other eight children of 'superior dosset,' of whom there are still five alive, may be said to have represented victorian england, with its principles of trade and individualism at five per cent. and your money back--if you know what that means. at all events they've turned thirty thousand pounds into a cool million between them in the course of their long lives. they never did a wild thing--unless it was your great-uncle swithin, who i believe was once swindled at thimble-rig, and was called 'four-in-hand forsyte' because he drove a pair. their day is passing, and their type, not altogether for the advantage of the country. they were pedestrian, but they too were sound. i am the fourth jolyon forsyte--a poor holder of the name--" "no, dad," said jolly, and holly squeezed his hand. "yes," repeated jolyon, "a poor specimen, representing, i'm afraid, nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism, and individual liberty--a different thing from individualism, jolly. you are the fifth jolyon forsyte, old man, and you open the ball of the new century." as he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and holly said: "it's fascinating, dad." none of them quite knew what she meant. jolly was grave. the rainbow, distinguished, as only an oxford hostel can be, for lack of modernity, provided one small oak-panelled private sitting-room, in which holly sat to receive, white-frocked, shy, and alone, when the only guest arrived. rather as one would touch a moth, val took her hand. and wouldn't she wear this 'measly flower'? it would look ripping in her hair. he removed a gardenia from his coat. "oh! no, thank you--i couldn't!" but she took it and pinned it at her neck, having suddenly remembered that word 'showy'! val's buttonhole would give offence; and she so much wanted jolly to like him. did she realise that val was at his best and quietest in her presence, and was that, perhaps, half the secret of his attraction for her? "i never said anything about our ride, val." "rather not! it's just between us." by the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet he was giving her a sense of power very delicious; a soft feeling too--the wish to make him happy. "do tell me about oxford. it must be ever so lovely." val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you liked; the lectures were nothing; and there were some very good chaps. "only," he added, "of course i wish i was in town, and could come down and see you." holly moved one hand shyly on her knee, and her glance dropped. "you haven't forgotten," he said, suddenly gathering courage, "that we're going mad-rabbiting together?" holly smiled. "oh! that was only make-believe. one can't do that sort of thing after one's grown up, you know." "dash it! cousins can," said val. "next long vac.--it begins in june, you know, and goes on for ever--we'll watch our chance." but, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins, holly shook her head. "it won't come off," she murmured. "won't it!" said val fervently; "who's going to stop it? not your father or your brother." at this moment jolyon and jolly came in; and romance fled into val's patent leather and holly's white satin toes, where it itched and tingled during an evening not conspicuous for open-heartedness. sensitive to atmosphere, jolyon soon felt the latent antagonism between the boys, and was puzzled by holly; so he became unconsciously ironical, which is fatal to the expansiveness of youth. a letter, handed to him after dinner, reduced him to a silence hardly broken till jolly and val rose to go. he went out with them, smoking his cigar, and walked with his son to the gates of christ church. turning back, he took out the letter and read it again beneath a lamp. "dear jolyon, "soames came again to-night--my thirty-seventh birthday. you were right, i mustn't stay here. i'm going to-morrow to the piedmont hotel, but i won't go abroad without seeing you. i feel lonely and down-hearted. "yours affectionately, "irene." he folded the letter back into his pocket and walked on, astonished at the violence of his feelings. what had the fellow said or done? he turned into high street, down the turf, and on among a maze of spires and domes and long college fronts and walls, bright or dark-shadowed in the strong moonlight. in this very heart of england's gentility it was difficult to realise that a lonely woman could be importuned or hunted, but what else could her letter mean? soames must have been pressing her to go back to him again, with public opinion and the law on his side, too! 'eighteen-ninety-nine!,' he thought, gazing at the broken glass shining on the top of a villa garden wall; 'but when it comes to property we're still a heathen people! i'll go up to-morrow morning. i dare say it'll be best for her to go abroad.' yet the thought displeased him. why should soames hunt her out of england! besides, he might follow, and out there she would be still more helpless against the attentions of her own husband! 'i must tread warily,' he thought; 'that fellow could make himself very nasty. i didn't like his manner in the cab the other night.' his thoughts turned to his daughter june. could she help? once on a time irene had been her greatest friend, and now she was a 'lame duck,' such as must appeal to june's nature! he determined to wire to his daughter to meet him at paddington station. retracing his steps towards the rainbow he questioned his own sensations. would he be upsetting himself over every woman in like case? no! he would not. the candour of this conclusion discomfited him; and, finding that holly had gone up to bed, he sought his own room. but he could not sleep, and sat for a long time at his window, huddled in an overcoat, watching the moonlight on the roofs. next door holly too was awake, thinking of the lashes above and below val's eyes, especially below; and of what she could do to make jolly like him better. the scent of the gardenia was strong in her little bedroom, and pleasant to her. and val, leaning out of his first-floor window in b.n.c., was gazing at a moonlit quadrangle without seeing it at all, seeing instead holly, slim and white-frocked, as she sat beside the fire when he first went in. but jolly, in his bedroom narrow as a ghost, lay with a hand beneath his cheek and dreamed he was with val in one boat, rowing a race against him, while his father was calling from the towpath: 'two! get your hands away there, bless you!' chapter ii soames puts it to the touch of all those radiant firms which emblazon with their windows the west end of london, gaves and cortegal were considered by soames the most 'attractive' word just coming into fashion. he had never had his uncle swithin's taste in precious stones, and the abandonment by irene when she left his house in of all the glittering things he had given her had disgusted him with this form of investment. but he still knew a diamond when he saw one, and during the week before her birthday he had taken occasion, on his way into the poultry or his way out therefrom, to dally a little before the greater jewellers where one got, if not one's money's worth, at least a certain cachet with the goods. constant cogitation since his drive with jolyon had convinced him more and more of the supreme importance of this moment in his life, the supreme need for taking steps and those not wrong. and, alongside the dry and reasoned sense that it was now or never with his self-preservation, now or never if he were to range himself and found a family, went the secret urge of his senses roused by the sight of her who had once been a passionately desired wife, and the conviction that it was a sin against common sense and the decent secrecy of forsytes to waste the wife he had. in an opinion on winifred's case, dreamer, q.c.--he would much have preferred waterbuck, but they had made him a judge (so late in the day as to rouse the usual suspicion of a political job)--had advised that they should go forward and obtain restitution of conjugal rights, a point which to soames had never been in doubt. when they had obtained a decree to that effect they must wait to see if it was obeyed. if not, it would constitute legal desertion, and they should obtain evidence of misconduct and file their petition for divorce. all of which soames knew perfectly well. they had marked him ten and one. this simplicity in his sister's case only made him the more desperate about the difficulty in his own. everything, in fact, was driving him towards the simple solution of irene's return. if it were still against the grain with her, had he not feelings to subdue, injury to forgive, pain to forget? he at least had never injured her, and this was a world of compromise! he could offer her so much more than she had now. he would be prepared to make a liberal settlement on her which could not be upset. he often scrutinised his image in these days. he had never been a peacock like that fellow dartie, or fancied himself a woman's man, but he had a certain belief in his own appearance--not unjustly, for it was well-coupled and preserved, neat, healthy, pale, unblemished by drink or excess of any kind. the forsyte jaw and the concentration of his face were, in his eyes, virtues. so far as he could tell there was no feature of him which need inspire dislike. thoughts and yearnings, with which one lives daily, become natural, even if far-fetched in their inception. if he could only give tangible proof enough of his determination to let bygones be bygones, and to do all in his power to please her, why should she not come back to him? he entered gaves and cortegal's therefore, on the morning of november the th, to buy a certain diamond brooch. "four twenty-five and dirt cheap, sir, at the money. it's a lady's brooch." there was that in his mood which made him accept without demur. and he went on into the poultry with the flat green morocco case in his breast pocket. several times that day he opened it to look at the seven soft shining stones in their velvet oval nest. "if the lady doesn't like it, sir, happy to exchange it any time. but there's no fear of that." if only there were not! he got through a vast amount of work, only soother of the nerves he knew. a cablegram came while he was in the office with details from the agent in buenos aires, and the name and address of a stewardess who would be prepared to swear to what was necessary. it was a timely spur to soames, with his rooted distaste for the washing of dirty linen in public. and when he set forth by underground to victoria station he received a fresh impetus towards the renewal of his married life from the account in his evening paper of a fashionable divorce suit. the homing instinct of all true forsytes in anxiety and trouble, the corporate tendency which kept them strong and solid, made him choose to dine at park lane. he neither could nor would breath a word to his people of his intention--too reticent and proud--but the thought that at least they would be glad if they knew, and wish him luck, was heartening. james was in lugubrious mood, for the fire which the impudence of kruger's ultimatum had lit in him had been cold-watered by the poor success of the last month, and the exhortations to effort in the times. he didn't know where it would end. soames sought to cheer him by the continual use of the word buller. but james couldn't tell! there was colley--and he got stuck on that hill, and this ladysmith was down in a hollow, and altogether it looked to him a 'pretty kettle of fish'; he thought they ought to be sending the sailors--they were the chaps, they did a lot of good in the crimea. soames shifted the ground of consolation. winifred had heard from val that there had been a 'rag' and a bonfire on guy fawkes day at oxford, and that he had escaped detection by blacking his face. "ah!" james muttered, "he's a clever little chap." but he shook his head shortly afterwards and remarked that he didn't know what would become of him, and looking wistfully at his son, murmured on that soames had never had a boy. he would have liked a grandson of his own name. and now--well, there it was! soames flinched. he had not expected such a challenge to disclose the secret in his heart. and emily, who saw him wince, said: "nonsense, james; don't talk like that!" but james, not looking anyone in the face, muttered on. there were roger and nicholas and jolyon; they all had grandsons. and swithin and timothy had never married. he had done his best; but he would soon be gone now. and, as though he had uttered words of profound consolation, he was silent, eating brains with a fork and a piece of bread, and swallowing the bread. soames excused himself directly after dinner. it was not really cold, but he put on his fur coat, which served to fortify him against the fits of nervous shivering to which he had been subject all day. subconsciously, he knew that he looked better thus than in an ordinary black overcoat. then, feeling the morocco case flat against his heart, he sallied forth. he was no smoker, but he lit a cigarette, and smoked it gingerly as he walked along. he moved slowly down the row towards knightsbridge, timing himself to get to chelsea at nine-fifteen. what did she do with herself evening after evening in that little hole? how mysterious women were! one lived alongside and knew nothing of them. what could she have seen in that fellow bosinney to send her mad? for there was madness after all in what she had done--crazy moonstruck madness, in which all sense of values had been lost, and her life and his life ruined! and for a moment he was filled with a sort of exaltation, as though he were a man read of in a story who, possessed by the christian spirit, would restore to her all the prizes of existence, forgiving and forgetting, and becoming the godfather of her future. under a tree opposite knightsbridge barracks, where the moon-light struck down clear and white, he took out once more the morocco case, and let the beams draw colour from those stones. yes, they were of the first water! but, at the hard closing snap of the case, another cold shiver ran through his nerves; and he walked on faster, clenching his gloved hands in the pockets of his coat, almost hoping she would not be in. the thought of how mysterious she was again beset him. dining alone there night after night--in an evening dress, too, as if she were making believe to be in society! playing the piano--to herself! not even a dog or cat, so far as he had seen. and that reminded him suddenly of the mare he kept for station work at mapledurham. if ever he went to the stable, there she was quite alone, half asleep, and yet, on her home journeys going more freely than on her way out, as if longing to be back and lonely in her stable! 'i would treat her well,' he thought incoherently. 'i would be very careful.' and all that capacity for home life of which a mocking fate seemed for ever to have deprived him swelled suddenly in soames, so that he dreamed dreams opposite south kensington station. in the king's road a man came slithering out of a public house playing a concertina. soames watched him for a moment dance crazily on the pavement to his own drawling jagged sounds, then crossed over to avoid contact with this piece of drunken foolery. a night in the lock-up! what asses people were! but the man had noticed his movement of avoidance, and streams of genial blasphemy followed him across the street. 'i hope they'll run him in,' thought soames viciously. 'to have ruffians like that about, with women out alone!' a woman's figure in front had induced this thought. her walk seemed oddly familiar, and when she turned the corner for which he was bound, his heart began to beat. he hastened on to the corner to make certain. yes! it was irene; he could not mistake her walk in that little drab street. she threaded two more turnings, and from the last corner he saw her enter her block of flats. to make sure of her now, he ran those few paces, hurried up the stairs, and caught her standing at her door. he heard the latchkey in the lock, and reached her side just as she turned round, startled, in the open doorway. "don't be alarmed," he said, breathless. "i happened to see you. let me come in a minute." she had put her hand up to her breast, her face was colourless, her eyes widened by alarm. then seeming to master herself, she inclined her head, and said: "very well." soames closed the door. he, too, had need to recover, and when she had passed into the sitting-room, waited a full minute, taking deep breaths to still the beating of his heart. at this moment, so fraught with the future, to take out that morocco case seemed crude. yet, not to take it out left him there before her with no preliminary excuse for coming. and in this dilemma he was seized with impatience at all this paraphernalia of excuse and justification. this was a scene--it could be nothing else, and he must face it. he heard her voice, uncomfortably, pathetically soft: "why have you come again? didn't you understand that i would rather you did not?" he noticed her clothes--a dark brown velvet corduroy, a sable boa, a small round toque of the same. they suited her admirably. she had money to spare for dress, evidently! he said abruptly: "it's your birthday. i brought you this," and he held out to her the green morocco case. "oh! no-no!" soames pressed the clasp; the seven stones gleamed out on the pale grey velvet. "why not?" he said. "just as a sign that you don't bear me ill-feeling any longer." "i couldn't." soames took it out of the case. "let me just see how it looks." she shrank back. he followed, thrusting his hand with the brooch in it against the front of her dress. she shrank again. soames dropped his hand. "irene," he said, "let bygones be bygones. if i can, surely you might. let's begin again, as if nothing had been. won't you?" his voice was wistful, and his eyes, resting on her face, had in them a sort of supplication. she, who was standing literally with her back against the wall, gave a little gulp, and that was all her answer. soames went on: "can you really want to live all your days half-dead in this little hole? come back to me, and i'll give you all you want. you shall live your own life; i swear it." he saw her face quiver ironically. "yes," he repeated, "but i mean it this time. i'll only ask one thing. i just want--i just want a son. don't look like that! i want one. it's hard." his voice had grown hurried, so that he hardly knew it for his own, and twice he jerked his head back as if struggling for breath. it was the sight of her eyes fixed on him, dark with a sort of fascinated fright, which pulled him together and changed that painful incoherence to anger. "is it so very unnatural?" he said between his teeth, "is it unnatural to want a child from one's own wife? you wrecked our life and put this blight on everything. we go on only half alive, and without any future. is it so very unflattering to you that in spite of everything i--i still want you for my wife? speak, for goodness' sake! do speak." irene seemed to try, but did not succeed. "i don't want to frighten you," said soames more gently. "heaven knows. i only want you to see that i can't go on like this. i want you back. i want you." irene raised one hand and covered the lower part of her face, but her eyes never moved from his, as though she trusted in them to keep him at bay. and all those years, barren and bitter, since--ah! when?--almost since he had first known her, surged up in one great wave of recollection in soames; and a spasm that for his life he could not control constricted his face. "it's not too late," he said; "it's not--if you'll only believe it." irene uncovered her lips, and both her hands made a writhing gesture in front of her breast. soames seized them. "don't!" she said under her breath. but he stood holding on to them, trying to stare into her eyes which did not waver. then she said quietly: "i am alone here. you won't behave again as you once behaved." dropping her hands as though they had been hot irons, he turned away. was it possible that there could be such relentless unforgiveness! could that one act of violent possession be still alive within her? did it bar him thus utterly? and doggedly he said, without looking up: "i am not going till you've answered me. i am offering what few men would bring themselves to offer, i want a--a reasonable answer." and almost with surprise he heard her say: "you can't have a reasonable answer. reason has nothing to do with it. you can only have the brutal truth: i would rather die." soames stared at her. "oh!" he said. and there intervened in him a sort of paralysis of speech and movement, the kind of quivering which comes when a man has received a deadly insult, and does not yet know how he is going to take it, or rather what it is going to do with him. "oh!" he said again, "as bad as that? indeed! you would rather die. that's pretty!" "i am sorry. you wanted me to answer. i can't help the truth, can i?" at that queer spiritual appeal soames turned for relief to actuality. he snapped the brooch back into its case and put it in his pocket. "the truth!" he said; "there's no such thing with women. it's nerves-nerves." he heard the whisper: "yes; nerves don't lie. haven't you discovered that?" he was silent, obsessed by the thought: 'i will hate this woman. i will hate her.' that was the trouble! if only he could! he shot a glance at her who stood unmoving against the wall with her head up and her hands clasped, for all the world as if she were going to be shot. and he said quickly: "i don't believe a word of it. you have a lover. if you hadn't, you wouldn't be such a--such a little idiot." he was conscious, before the expression in her eyes, that he had uttered something of a non-sequitur, and dropped back too abruptly into the verbal freedom of his connubial days. he turned away to the door. but he could not go out. something within him--that most deep and secret forsyte quality, the impossibility of letting go, the impossibility of seeing the fantastic and forlorn nature of his own tenacity--prevented him. he turned about again, and there stood, with his back against the door, as hers was against the wall opposite, quite unconscious of anything ridiculous in this separation by the whole width of the room. "do you ever think of anybody but yourself?" he said. irene's lips quivered; then she answered slowly: "do you ever think that i found out my mistake--my hopeless, terrible mistake--the very first week of our marriage; that i went on trying three years--you know i went on trying? was it for myself?" soames gritted his teeth. "god knows what it was. i've never understood you; i shall never understand you. you had everything you wanted; and you can have it again, and more. what's the matter with me? i ask you a plain question: what is it?" unconscious of the pathos in that enquiry, he went on passionately: "i'm not lame, i'm not loathsome, i'm not a boor, i'm not a fool. what is it? what's the mystery about me?" her answer was a long sigh. he clasped his hands with a gesture that for him was strangely full of expression. "when i came here to-night i was--i hoped--i meant everything that i could to do away with the past, and start fair again. and you meet me with 'nerves,' and silence, and sighs. there's nothing tangible. it's like--it's like a spider's web." "yes." that whisper from across the room maddened soames afresh. "well, i don't choose to be in a spider's web. i'll cut it." he walked straight up to her. "now!" what he had gone up to her to do he really did not know. but when he was close, the old familiar scent of her clothes suddenly affected him. he put his hands on her shoulders and bent forward to kiss her. he kissed not her lips, but a little hard line where the lips had been drawn in; then his face was pressed away by her hands; he heard her say: "oh! no!" shame, compunction, sense of futility flooded his whole being, he turned on his heel and went straight out. chapter iii visit to irene jolyon found june waiting on the platform at paddington. she had received his telegram while at breakfast. her abode--a studio and two bedrooms in a st. john's wood garden--had been selected by her for the complete independence which it guaranteed. unwatched by mrs. grundy, unhindered by permanent domestics, she could receive lame ducks at any hour of day or night, and not seldom had a duck without studio of its own made use of june's. she enjoyed her freedom, and possessed herself with a sort of virginal passion; the warmth which she would have lavished on bosinney, and of which--given her forsyte tenacity--he must surely have tired, she now expended in championship of the underdogs and budding 'geniuses' of the artistic world. she lived, in fact, to turn ducks into the swans she believed they were. the very fervour of her protection warped her judgments. but she was loyal and liberal; her small eager hand was ever against the oppressions of academic and commercial opinion, and though her income was considerable, her bank balance was often a minus quantity. she had come to paddington station heated in her soul by a visit to eric cobbley. a miserable gallery had refused to let that straight-haired genius have his one-man show after all. its impudent manager, after visiting his studio, had expressed the opinion that it would only be a 'one-horse show from the selling point of view.' this crowning example of commercial cowardice towards her favourite lame duck--and he so hard up, with a wife and two children, that he had caused her account to be overdrawn--was still making the blood glow in her small, resolute face, and her red-gold hair to shine more than ever. she gave her father a hug, and got into a cab with him, having as many fish to fry with him as he with her. it became at once a question which would fry them first. jolyon had reached the words: "my dear, i want you to come with me," when, glancing at her face, he perceived by her blue eyes moving from side to side--like the tail of a preoccupied cat--that she was not attending. "dad, is it true that i absolutely can't get at any of my money?" "only the income, fortunately, my love." "how perfectly beastly! can't it be done somehow? there must be a way. i know i could buy a small gallery for ten thousand pounds." "a small gallery," murmured jolyon, "seems a modest desire. but your grandfather foresaw it." "i think," cried june vigorously, "that all this care about money is awful, when there's so much genius in the world simply crushed out for want of a little. i shall never marry and have children; why shouldn't i be able to do some good instead of having it all tied up in case of things which will never come off?" "our name is forsyte, my dear," replied jolyon in the ironical voice to which his impetuous daughter had never quite grown accustomed; "and forsytes, you know, are people who so settle their property that their grandchildren, in case they should die before their parents, have to make wills leaving the property that will only come to themselves when their parents die. do you follow that? nor do i, but it's a fact, anyway; we live by the principle that so long as there is a possibility of keeping wealth in the family it must not go out; if you die unmarried, your money goes to jolly and holly and their children if they marry. isn't it pleasant to know that whatever you do you can none of you be destitute?" "but can't i borrow the money?" jolyon shook his head. "you could rent a gallery, no doubt, if you could manage it out of your income." june uttered a contemptuous sound. "yes; and have no income left to help anybody with." "my dear child," murmured jolyon, "wouldn't it come to the same thing?" "no," said june shrewdly, "i could buy for ten thousand; that would only be four hundred a year. but i should have to pay a thousand a year rent, and that would only leave me five hundred. if i had the gallery, dad, think what i could do. i could make eric cobbley's name in no time, and ever so many others." "names worth making make themselves in time." "when they're dead." "did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having his name made?" "yes, you," said june, pressing his arm. jolyon started. 'i?' he thought. 'oh! ah! now she's going to ask me to do something. we take it out, we forsytes, each in our different ways.' june came closer to him in the cab. "darling," she said, "you buy the gallery, and i'll pay you four hundred a year for it. then neither of us will be any the worse off. besides, it's a splendid investment." jolyon wriggled. "don't you think," he said, "that for an artist to buy a gallery is a bit dubious? besides, ten thousand pounds is a lump, and i'm not a commercial character." june looked at him with admiring appraisement. "of course you're not, but you're awfully businesslike. and i'm sure we could make it pay. it'll be a perfect way of scoring off those wretched dealers and people." and again she squeezed her father's arm. jolyon's face expressed quizzical despair. "where is this desirable gallery? splendidly situated, i suppose?" "just off cork street." 'ah!' thought jolyon, 'i knew it was just off somewhere. now for what i want out of her!' "well, i'll think of it, but not just now. you remember irene? i want you to come with me and see her. soames is after her again. she might be safer if we could give her asylum somewhere." the word asylum, which he had used by chance, was of all most calculated to rouse june's interest. "irene! i haven't seen her since! of course! i'd love to help her." it was jolyon's turn to squeeze her arm, in warm admiration for this spirited, generous-hearted little creature of his begetting. "irene is proud," he said, with a sidelong glance, in sudden doubt of june's discretion; "she's difficult to help. we must tread gently. this is the place. i wired her to expect us. let's send up our cards." "i can't bear soames," said june as she got out; "he sneers at everything that isn't successful" irene was in what was called the 'ladies' drawing-room' of the piedmont hotel. nothing if not morally courageous, june walked straight up to her former friend, kissed her cheek, and the two settled down on a sofa never sat on since the hotel's foundation. jolyon could see that irene was deeply affected by this simple forgiveness. "so soames has been worrying you?" he said. "i had a visit from him last night; he wants me to go back to him." "you're not going, of course?" cried june. irene smiled faintly and shook her head. "but his position is horrible," she murmured. "it's his own fault; he ought to have divorced you when he could." jolyon remembered how fervently in the old days june had hoped that no divorce would smirch her dead and faithless lover's name. "let us hear what irene is going to do," he said. irene's lips quivered, but she spoke calmly. "i'd better give him fresh excuse to get rid of me." "how horrible!" cried june. "what else can i do?" "out of the question," said jolyon very quietly, "sans amour." he thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she half turned her back on them, and stood regaining control of herself. june said suddenly: "well, i shall go to soames and tell him he must leave you alone. what does he want at his age?" "a child. it's not unnatural" "a child!" cried june scornfully. "of course! to leave his money to. if he wants one badly enough let him take somebody and have one; then you can divorce him, and he can marry her." jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring june--her violent partizanship was fighting soames' battle. "it would be best for irene to come quietly to us at robin hill, and see how things shape." "of course," said june; "only...." irene looked full at jolyon--in all his many attempts afterwards to analyze that glance he never could succeed. "no! i should only bring trouble on you all. i will go abroad." he knew from her voice that this was final. the irrelevant thought flashed through him: 'well, i could see her there.' but he said: "don't you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he followed?" "i don't know. i can but try." june sprang up and paced the room. "it's all horrible," she said. "why should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless year after year by this disgusting sanctimonious law?" but someone had come into the room, and june came to a standstill. jolyon went up to irene: "do you want money?" "no." "and would you like me to let your flat?" "yes, jolyon, please." "when shall you be going?" "to-morrow." "you won't go back there in the meantime, will you?" this he said with an anxiety strange to himself. "no; i've got all i want here." "you'll send me your address?" she put out her hand to him. "i feel you're a rock." "built on sand," answered jolyon, pressing her hand hard; "but it's a pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. and if you change your mind....! come along, june; say good-bye." june came from the window and flung her arms round irene. "don't think of him," she said under her breath; "enjoy yourself, and bless you!" with a memory of tears in irene's eyes, and of a smile on her lips, they went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had interrupted the interview and was turning over the papers on the table. opposite the national gallery june exclaimed: "of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!" but jolyon did not respond. he had something of his father's balance, and could see things impartially even when his emotions were roused. irene was right; soames' position was as bad or worse than her own. as for the law--it catered for a human nature of which it took a naturally low view. and, feeling that if he stayed in his daughter's company he would in one way or another commit an indiscretion, he told her he must catch his train back to oxford; and hailing a cab, left her to turner's water-colours, with the promise that he would think over that gallery. but he thought over irene instead. pity, they said, was akin to love! if so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he pitied her profoundly. to think of her drifting about europe so handicapped and lonely! 'i hope to goodness she'll keep her head!' he thought; 'she might easily grow desperate.' in fact, now that she had cut loose from her poor threads of occupation, he couldn't imagine how she would go on--so beautiful a creature, hopeless, and fair game for anyone! in his exasperation was more than a little fear and jealousy. women did strange things when they were driven into corners. 'i wonder what soames will do now!' he thought. 'a rotten, idiotic state of things! and i suppose they would say it was her own fault.' very preoccupied and sore at heart, he got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and on the platform at oxford took his hat off to a lady whose face he seemed to remember without being able to put a name to her, not even when he saw her having tea at the rainbow. chapter iv where forsytes fear to tread quivering from the defeat of his hopes, with the green morocco case still flat against his heart, soames revolved thoughts bitter as death. a spider's web! walking fast, and noting nothing in the moonlight, he brooded over the scene he had been through, over the memory of her figure rigid in his grasp. and the more he brooded, the more certain he became that she had a lover--her words, 'i would sooner die!' were ridiculous if she had not. even if she had never loved him, she had made no fuss until bosinney came on the scene. no; she was in love again, or she would not have made that melodramatic answer to his proposal, which in all the circumstances was reasonable! very well! that simplified matters. 'i'll take steps to know where i am,' he thought; 'i'll go to polteed's the first thing tomorrow morning.' but even in forming that resolution he knew he would have trouble with himself. he had employed polteed's agency several times in the routine of his profession, even quite lately over dartie's case, but he had never thought it possible to employ them to watch his own wife. it was too insulting to himself! he slept over that project and his wounded pride--or rather, kept vigil. only while shaving did he suddenly remember that she called herself by her maiden name of heron. polteed would not know, at first at all events, whose wife she was, would not look at him obsequiously and leer behind his back. she would just be the wife of one of his clients. and that would be true--for was he not his own solicitor? he was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at the first possible moment, lest, after all, he might fail himself. and making warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he stole out of the house before the hour of breakfast. he walked rapidly to one of those small west end streets where polteed's and other firms ministered to the virtues of the wealthier classes. hitherto he had always had polteed to see him in the poultry; but he well knew their address, and reached it at the opening hour. in the outer office, a room furnished so cosily that it might have been a money-lender's, he was attended by a lady who might have been a schoolmistress. "i wish to see mr. claud polteed. he knows me--never mind my name." to keep everybody from knowing that he, soames forsyte, was reduced to having his wife spied on, was the overpowering consideration. mr. claud polteed--so different from mr. lewis polteed--was one of those men with dark hair, slightly curved noses, and quick brown eyes, who might be taken for jews but are really phoenicians; he received soames in a room hushed by thickness of carpet and curtains. it was, in fact, confidentially furnished, without trace of document anywhere to be seen. greeting soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door with a certain ostentation. "if a client sends for me," he was in the habit of saying, "he takes what precaution he likes. if he comes here, we convince him that we have no leakages. i may safely say we lead in security, if in nothing else....now, sir, what can i do for you?" soames' gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak. it was absolutely necessary to hide from this man that he had any but professional interest in the matter; and, mechanically, his face assumed its sideway smile. "i've come to you early like this because there's not an hour to lose"--if he lost an hour he might fail himself yet! "have you a really trustworthy woman free?" mr. polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his eyes over it, and locked the drawer up again. "yes," he said; "the very woman." soames had seated himself and crossed his legs--nothing but a faint flush, which might have been his normal complexion, betrayed him. "send her off at once, then, to watch a mrs. irene heron of flat c, truro mansions, chelsea, till further notice." "precisely," said mr. polteed; "divorce, i presume?" and he blew into a speaking-tube. "mrs. blanch in? i shall want to speak to her in ten minutes." "deal with any reports yourself," resumed soames, "and send them to me personally, marked confidential, sealed and registered. my client exacts the utmost secrecy." mr. polteed smiled, as though saying, 'you are teaching your grandmother, my dear sir;' and his eyes slid over soames' face for one unprofessional instant. "make his mind perfectly easy," he said. "do you smoke?" "no," said soames. "understand me: nothing may come of this. if a name gets out, or the watching is suspected, it may have very serious consequences." mr. polteed nodded. "i can put it into the cipher category. under that system a name is never mentioned; we work by numbers." he unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote on them, and handed one to soames. "keep that, sir; it's your key. i retain this duplicate. the case we'll call x. the party watched will be ; the watcher ; the mansions ; yourself--i should say, your firm-- ; my firm , myself . in case you should have to mention your client in writing i have called him ; any person we suspect will be ; a second person . any special hint or instruction while we're about it?" "no," said soames; "that is--every consideration compatible." again mr. polteed nodded. "expense?" soames shrugged. "in reason," he answered curtly, and got up. "keep it entirely in your own hands." "entirely," said mr. polteed, appearing suddenly between him and the door. "i shall be seeing you in that other case before long. good morning, sir." his eyes slid unprofessionally over soames once more, and he unlocked the door. "good morning," said soames, looking neither to right nor left. out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. a spider's web, and to cut it he must use this spidery, secret, unclean method, so utterly repugnant to one who regarded his private life as his most sacred piece of property. but the die was cast, he could not go back. and he went on into the poultry, and locked away the green morocco case and the key to that cipher destined to make crystal-clear his domestic bankruptcy. odd that one whose life was spent in bringing to the public eye all the private coils of property, the domestic disagreements of others, should dread so utterly the public eye turned on his own; and yet not odd, for who should know so well as he the whole unfeeling process of legal regulation. he worked hard all day. winifred was due at four o'clock; he was to take her down to a conference in the temple with dreamer q.c., and waiting for her he re-read the letter he had caused her to write the day of dartie's departure, requiring him to return. "dear montague, "i have received your letter with the news that you have left me for ever and are on your way to buenos aires. it has naturally been a great shock. i am taking this earliest opportunity of writing to tell you that i am prepared to let bygones be bygones if you will return to me at once. i beg you to do so. i am very much upset, and will not say any more now. i am sending this letter registered to the address you left at your club. please cable to me. "your still affectionate wife, "winifred dartie." ugh! what bitter humbug! he remembered leaning over winifred while she copied what he had pencilled, and how she had said, laying down her pen, "suppose he comes, soames!" in such a strange tone of voice, as if she did not know her own mind. "he won't come," he had answered, "till he's spent his money. that's why we must act at once." annexed to the copy of that letter was the original of dartie's drunken scrawl from the iseeum club. soames could have wished it had not been so manifestly penned in liquor. just the sort of thing the court would pitch on. he seemed to hear the judge's voice say: "you took this seriously! seriously enough to write him as you did? do you think he meant it?" never mind! the fact was clear that dartie had sailed and had not returned. annexed also was his cabled answer: "impossible return. dartie." soames shook his head. if the whole thing were not disposed of within the next few months the fellow would turn up again like a bad penny. it saved a thousand a year at least to get rid of him, besides all the worry to winifred and his father. 'i must stiffen dreamer's back,' he thought; 'we must push it on.' winifred, who had adopted a kind of half-mourning which became her fair hair and tall figure very well, arrived in james' barouche drawn by james' pair. soames had not seen it in the city since his father retired from business five years ago, and its incongruity gave him a shock. 'times are changing,' he thought; 'one doesn't know what'll go next!' top hats even were scarcer. he enquired after val. val, said winifred, wrote that he was going to play polo next term. she thought he was in a very good set. she added with fashionably disguised anxiety: "will there be much publicity about my affair, soames? must it be in the papers? it's so bad for him, and the girls." with his own calamity all raw within him, soames answered: "the papers are a pushing lot; it's very difficult to keep things out. they pretend to be guarding the public's morals, and they corrupt them with their beastly reports. but we haven't got to that yet. we're only seeing dreamer to-day on the restitution question. of course he understands that it's to lead to a divorce; but you must seem genuinely anxious to get dartie back--you might practice that attitude to-day." winifred sighed. "oh! what a clown monty's been!" she said. soames gave her a sharp look. it was clear to him that she could not take her dartie seriously, and would go back on the whole thing if given half a chance. his own instinct had been firm in this matter from the first. to save a little scandal now would only bring on his sister and her children real disgrace and perhaps ruin later on if dartie were allowed to hang on to them, going down-hill and spending the money james would leave his daughter. though it was all tied up, that fellow would milk the settlements somehow, and make his family pay through the nose to keep him out of bankruptcy or even perhaps gaol! they left the shining carriage, with the shining horses and the shining-hatted servants on the embankment, and walked up to dreamer q.c.'s chambers in crown office row. "mr. bellby is here, sir," said the clerk; "mr. dreamer will be ten minutes." mr. bellby, the junior--not as junior as he might have been, for soames only employed barristers of established reputation; it was, indeed, something of a mystery to him how barristers ever managed to establish that which made him employ them--mr. bellby was seated, taking a final glance through his papers. he had come from court, and was in wig and gown, which suited a nose jutting out like the handle of a tiny pump, his small shrewd blue eyes, and rather protruding lower lip--no better man to supplement and stiffen dreamer. the introduction to winifred accomplished, they leaped the weather and spoke of the war. soames interrupted suddenly: "if he doesn't comply we can't bring proceedings for six months. i want to get on with the matter, bellby." mr. bellby, who had the ghost of an irish brogue, smiled at winifred and murmured: "the law's delays, mrs. dartie." "six months!" repeated soames; "it'll drive it up to june! we shan't get the suit on till after the long vacation. we must put the screw on, bellby"--he would have all his work cut out to keep winifred up to the scratch. "mr. dreamer will see you now, sir." they filed in, mr. bellby going first, and soames escorting winifred after an interval of one minute by his watch. dreamer q.c., in a gown but divested of wig, was standing before the fire, as if this conference were in the nature of a treat; he had the leathery, rather oily complexion which goes with great learning, a considerable nose with glasses perched on it, and little greyish whiskers; he luxuriated in the perpetual cocking of one eye, and the concealment of his lower with his upper lip, which gave a smothered turn to his speech. he had a way, too, of coming suddenly round the corner on the person he was talking to; this, with a disconcerting tone of voice, and a habit of growling before he began to speak--had secured a reputation second in probate and divorce to very few. having listened, eye cocked, to mr. bellby's breezy recapitulation of the facts, he growled, and said: "i know all that;" and coming round the corner at winifred, smothered the words: "we want to get him back, don't we, mrs. dartie?" soames interposed sharply: "my sister's position, of course, is intolerable." dreamer growled. "exactly. now, can we rely on the cabled refusal, or must we wait till after christmas to give him a chance to have written--that's the point, isn't it?" "the sooner...." soames began. "what do you say, bellby?" said dreamer, coming round his corner. mr. bellby seemed to sniff the air like a hound. "we won't be on till the middle of december. we've no need to give um more rope than that." "no," said soames, "why should my sister be incommoded by his choosing to go..." "to jericho!" said dreamer, again coming round his corner; "quite so. people oughtn't to go to jericho, ought they, mrs. dartie?" and he raised his gown into a sort of fantail. "i agree. we can go forward. is there anything more?" "nothing at present," said soames meaningly; "i wanted you to see my sister." dreamer growled softly: "delighted. good evening!" and let fall the protection of his gown. they filed out. winifred went down the stairs. soames lingered. in spite of himself he was impressed by dreamer. "the evidence is all right, i think," he said to bellby. "between ourselves, if we don't get the thing through quick, we never may. d'you think he understands that?" "i'll make um," said bellby. "good man though--good man." soames nodded and hastened after his sister. he found her in a draught, biting her lips behind her veil, and at once said: "the evidence of the stewardess will be very complete." winifred's face hardened; she drew herself up, and they walked to the carriage. and, all through that silent drive back to green street, the souls of both of them revolved a single thought: 'why, oh! why should i have to expose my misfortune to the public like this? why have to employ spies to peer into my private troubles? they were not of my making.' chapter v jolly sits in judgment the possessive instinct, which, so determinedly balked, was animating two members of the forsyte family towards riddance of what they could no longer possess, was hardening daily in the british body politic. nicholas, originally so doubtful concerning a war which must affect property, had been heard to say that these boers were a pig-headed lot; they were causing a lot of expense, and the sooner they had their lesson the better. he would send out wolseley! seeing always a little further than other people--whence the most considerable fortune of all the forsytes--he had perceived already that buller was not the man--'a bull of a chap, who just went butting, and if they didn't look out ladysmith would fall.' this was early in december, so that when black week came, he was enabled to say to everybody: 'i told you so.' during that week of gloom such as no forsyte could remember, very young nicholas attended so many drills in his corps, 'the devil's own,' that young nicholas consulted the family physician about his son's health and was alarmed to find that he was perfectly sound. the boy had only just eaten his dinners and been called to the bar, at some expense, and it was in a way a nightmare to his father and mother that he should be playing with military efficiency at a time when military efficiency in the civilian population might conceivably be wanted. his grandfather, of course, pooh-poohed the notion, too thoroughly educated in the feeling that no british war could be other than little and professional, and profoundly distrustful of imperial commitments, by which, moreover, he stood to lose, for he owned de beers, now going down fast, more than a sufficient sacrifice on the part of his grandson. at oxford, however, rather different sentiments prevailed. the inherent effervescence of conglomerate youth had, during the two months of the term before black week, been gradually crystallising out into vivid oppositions. normal adolescence, ever in england of a conservative tendency though not taking things too seriously, was vehement for a fight to a finish and a good licking for the boers. of this larger faction val dartie was naturally a member. radical youth, on the other hand, a small but perhaps more vocal body, was for stopping the war and giving the boers autonomy. until black week, however, the groups were amorphous, without sharp edges, and argument remained but academic. jolly was one of those who knew not where he stood. a streak of his grandfather old jolyon's love of justice prevented, him from seeing one side only. moreover, in his set of 'the best' there was a 'jumping-jesus' of extremely advanced opinions and some personal magnetism. jolly wavered. his father, too, seemed doubtful in his views. and though, as was proper at the age of twenty, he kept a sharp eye on his father, watchful for defects which might still be remedied, still that father had an 'air' which gave a sort of glamour to his creed of ironic tolerance. artists of course; were notoriously hamlet-like, and to this extent one must discount for one's father, even if one loved him. but jolyon's original view, that to 'put your nose in where you aren't wanted' (as the uitlanders had done) 'and then work the oracle till you get on top is not being quite the clean potato,' had, whether founded in fact or no, a certain attraction for his son, who thought a deal about gentility. on the other hand jolly could not abide such as his set called 'cranks,' and val's set called 'smugs,' so that he was still balancing when the clock of black week struck. one--two--three, came those ominous repulses at stormberg, magersfontein, colenso. the sturdy english soul reacting after the first cried, 'ah! but methuen!' after the second: 'ah! but buller!' then, in inspissated gloom, hardened. and jolly said to himself: 'no, damn it! we've got to lick the beggars now; i don't care whether we're right or wrong.' and, if he had known it, his father was thinking the same thought. that next sunday, last of the term, jolly was bidden to wine with 'one of the best.' after the second toast, 'buller and damnation to the boers,' drunk--no heel taps--in the college burgundy, he noticed that val dartie, also a guest, was looking at him with a grin and saying something to his neighbour. he was sure it was disparaging. the last boy in the world to make himself conspicuous or cause public disturbance, jolly grew rather red and shut his lips. the queer hostility he had always felt towards his second-cousin was strongly and suddenly reinforced. 'all right!' he thought, 'you wait, my friend!' more wine than was good for him, as the custom was, helped him to remember, when they all trooped forth to a secluded spot, to touch val on the arm. "what did you say about me in there?" "mayn't i say what i like?" "no." "well, i said you were a pro-boer--and so you are!" "you're a liar!" "d'you want a row?" "of course, but not here; in the garden." "all right. come on." they went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching; they climbed the garden railings. the spikes on the top slightly ripped val's sleeve, and occupied his mind. jolly's mind was occupied by the thought that they were going to fight in the precincts of a college foreign to them both. it was not the thing, but never mind--the young beast! they passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took off their coats. "you're not screwed, are you?" said jolly suddenly. "i can't fight you if you're screwed." "no more than you." "all right then." without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures of defence. they had drunk too much for science, and so were especially careful to assume correct attitudes, until jolly smote val almost accidentally on the nose. after that it was all a dark and ugly scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no one to call 'time,' till, battered and blown, they unclinched and staggered back from each other, as a voice said: "your names, young gentlemen?" at this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden gate, like some demand of a god, their nerves gave way, and snatching up their coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up them, and made for the secluded spot whence they had issued to the fight. here, in dim light, they mopped their faces, and without a word walked, ten paces apart, to the college gate. they went out silently, val going towards the broad along the brewery, jolly down the lane towards the high. his head, still fumed, was busy with regret that he had not displayed more science, passing in review the counters and knockout blows which he had not delivered. his mind strayed on to an imagined combat, infinitely unlike that which he had just been through, infinitely gallant, with sash and sword, with thrust and parry, as if he were in the pages of his beloved dumas. he fancied himself la mole, and aramis, bussy, chicot, and d'artagnan rolled into one, but he quite failed to envisage val as coconnas, brissac, or rochefort. the fellow was just a confounded cousin who didn't come up to cocker. never mind! he had given him one or two. 'pro-boer!' the word still rankled, and thoughts of enlisting jostled his aching head; of riding over the veldt, firing gallantly, while the boers rolled over like rabbits. and, turning up his smarting eyes, he saw the stars shining between the housetops of the high, and himself lying out on the karoo (whatever that was) rolled in a blanket, with his rifle ready and his gaze fixed on a glittering heaven. he had a fearful 'head' next morning, which he doctored, as became one of 'the best,' by soaking it in cold water, brewing strong coffee which he could not drink, and only sipping a little hock at lunch. the legend that 'some fool' had run into him round a corner accounted for a bruise on his cheek. he would on no account have mentioned the fight, for, on second thoughts, it fell far short of his standards. the next day he went 'down,' and travelled through to robin hill. nobody was there but june and holly, for his father had gone to paris. he spent a restless and unsettled vacation, quite out of touch with either of his sisters. june, indeed, was occupied with lame ducks, whom, as a rule, jolly could not stand, especially that eric cobbley and his family, 'hopeless outsiders,' who were always littering up the house in the vacation. and between holly and himself there was a strange division, as if she were beginning to have opinions of her own, which was so--unnecessary. he punched viciously at a ball, rode furiously but alone in richmond park, making a point of jumping the stiff, high hurdles put up to close certain worn avenues of grass--keeping his nerve in, he called it. jolly was more afraid of being afraid than most boys are. he bought a rifle, too, and put a range up in the home field, shooting across the pond into the kitchen-garden wall, to the peril of gardeners, with the thought that some day, perhaps, he would enlist and save south africa for his country. in fact, now that they were appealing for yeomanry recruits the boy was thoroughly upset. ought he to go? none of 'the best,' so far as he knew--and he was in correspondence with several--were thinking of joining. if they had been making a move he would have gone at once--very competitive, and with a strong sense of form, he could not bear to be left behind in anything--but to do it off his own bat might look like 'swagger'; because of course it wasn't really necessary. besides, he did not want to go, for the other side of this young forsyte recoiled from leaping before he looked. it was altogether mixed pickles within him, hot and sickly pickles, and he became quite unlike his serene and rather lordly self. and then one day he saw that which moved him to uneasy wrath--two riders, in a glade of the park close to the ham gate, of whom she on the left-hand was most assuredly holly on her silver roan, and he on the right-hand as assuredly that 'squirt' val dartie. his first impulse was to urge on his own horse and demand the meaning of this portent, tell the fellow to 'bunk,' and take holly home. his second--to feel that he would look a fool if they refused. he reined his horse in behind a tree, then perceived that it was equally impossible to spy on them. nothing for it but to go home and await her coming! sneaking out with that young bounder! he could not consult with june, because she had gone up that morning in the train of eric cobbley and his lot. and his father was still in 'that rotten paris.' he felt that this was emphatically one of those moments for which he had trained himself, assiduously, at school, where he and a boy called brent had frequently set fire to newspapers and placed them in the centre of their studies to accustom them to coolness in moments of danger. he did not feel at all cool waiting in the stable-yard, idly stroking the dog balthasar, who queasy as an old fat monk, and sad in the absence of his master, turned up his face, panting with gratitude for this attention. it was half an hour before holly came, flushed and ever so much prettier than she had any right to look. he saw her look at him quickly--guiltily of course--then followed her in, and, taking her arm, conducted her into what had been their grandfather's study. the room, not much used now, was still vaguely haunted for them both by a presence with which they associated tenderness, large drooping white moustaches, the scent of cigar smoke, and laughter. here jolly, in the prime of his youth, before he went to school at all, had been wont to wrestle with his grandfather, who even at eighty had an irresistible habit of crooking his leg. here holly, perched on the arm of the great leather chair, had stroked hair curving silvery over an ear into which she would whisper secrets. through that window they had all three sallied times without number to cricket on the lawn, and a mysterious game called 'wopsy-doozle,' not to be understood by outsiders, which made old jolyon very hot. here once on a warm night holly had appeared in her 'nighty,' having had a bad dream, to have the clutch of it released. and here jolly, having begun the day badly by introducing fizzy magnesia into mademoiselle beauce's new-laid egg, and gone on to worse, had been sent down (in the absence of his father) to the ensuing dialogue: "now, my boy, you mustn't go on like this." "well, she boxed my ears, gran, so i only boxed hers, and then she boxed mine again." "strike a lady? that'll never do! have you begged her pardon?" "not yet." "then you must go and do it at once. come along." "but she began it, gran; and she had two to my one." "my dear, it was an outrageous thing to do." "well, she lost her temper; and i didn't lose mine." "come along." "you come too, then, gran." "well--this time only." and they had gone hand in hand. here--where the waverley novels and byron's works and gibbon's roman empire and humboldt's cosmos, and the bronzes on the mantelpiece, and that masterpiece of the oily school, 'dutch fishing-boats at sunset,' were fixed as fate, and for all sign of change old jolyon might have been sitting there still, with legs crossed, in the arm chair, and domed forehead and deep eyes grave above the times--here they came, those two grandchildren. and jolly said: "i saw you and that fellow in the park." the sight of blood rushing into her cheeks gave him some satisfaction; she ought to be ashamed! "well?" she said. jolly was surprised; he had expected more, or less. "do you know," he said weightily, "that he called me a pro-boer last term? and i had to fight him." "who won?" jolly wished to answer: 'i should have,' but it seemed beneath him. "look here!" he said, "what's the meaning of it? without telling anybody!" "why should i? dad isn't here; why shouldn't i ride with him?" "you've got me to ride with. i think he's an awful young rotter." holly went pale with anger. "he isn't. it's your own fault for not liking him." and slipping past her brother she went out, leaving him staring at the bronze venus sitting on a tortoise, which had been shielded from him so far by his sister's dark head under her soft felt riding hat. he felt queerly disturbed, shaken to his young foundations. a lifelong domination lay shattered round his feet. he went up to the venus and mechanically inspected the tortoise. why didn't he like val dartie? he could not tell. ignorant of family history, barely aware of that vague feud which had started thirteen years before with bosinney's defection from june in favour of soames' wife, knowing really almost nothing about val he was at sea. he just did dislike him. the question, however, was: what should he do? val dartie, it was true, was a second-cousin, but it was not the thing for holly to go about with him. and yet to 'tell' of what he had chanced on was against his creed. in this dilemma he went and sat in the old leather chair and crossed his legs. it grew dark while he sat there staring out through the long window at the old oak-tree, ample yet bare of leaves, becoming slowly just a shape of deeper dark printed on the dusk. 'grandfather!' he thought without sequence, and took out his watch. he could not see the hands, but he set the repeater going. 'five o'clock!' his grandfather's first gold hunter watch, butter-smooth with age--all the milling worn from it, and dented with the mark of many a fall. the chime was like a little voice from out of that golden age, when they first came from st. john's wood, london, to this house--came driving with grandfather in his carriage, and almost instantly took to the trees. trees to climb, and grandfather watering the geranium-beds below! what was to be done? tell dad he must come home? confide in june?--only she was so--so sudden! do nothing and trust to luck? after all, the vac. would soon be over. go up and see val and warn him off? but how get his address? holly wouldn't give it him! a maze of paths, a cloud of possibilities! he lit a cigarette. when he had smoked it halfway through his brow relaxed, almost as if some thin old hand had been passed gently over it; and in his ear something seemed to whisper: 'do nothing; be nice to holly, be nice to her, my dear!' and jolly heaved a sigh of contentment, blowing smoke through his nostrils.... but up in her room, divested of her habit, holly was still frowning. 'he is not--he is not!' were the words which kept forming on her lips. chapter vi jolyon in two minds a little private hotel over a well-known restaurant near the gare st. lazare was jolyon's haunt in paris. he hated his fellow forsytes abroad--vapid as fish out of water in their well-trodden runs, the opera, rue de rivoli, and moulin rouge. their air of having come because they wanted to be somewhere else as soon as possible annoyed him. but no other forsyte came near this haunt, where he had a wood fire in his bedroom and the coffee was excellent. paris was always to him more attractive in winter. the acrid savour from woodsmoke and chestnut-roasting braziers, the sharpness of the wintry sunshine on bright rays, the open cafes defying keen-aired winter, the self-contained brisk boulevard crowds, all informed him that in winter paris possessed a soul which, like a migrant bird, in high summer flew away. he spoke french well, had some friends, knew little places where pleasant dishes could be met with, queer types observed. he felt philosophic in paris, the edge of irony sharpened; life took on a subtle, purposeless meaning, became a bunch of flavours tasted, a darkness shot with shifting gleams of light. when in the first week of december he decided to go to paris, he was far from admitting that irene's presence was influencing him. he had not been there two days before he owned that the wish to see her had been more than half the reason. in england one did not admit what was natural. he had thought it might be well to speak to her about the letting of her flat and other matters, but in paris he at once knew better. there was a glamour over the city. on the third day he wrote to her, and received an answer which procured him a pleasurable shiver of the nerves: "my dear jolyon, "it will be a happiness for me to see you. "irene." he took his way to her hotel on a bright day with a feeling such as he had often had going to visit an adored picture. no woman, so far as he remembered, had ever inspired in him this special sensuous and yet impersonal sensation. he was going to sit and feast his eyes, and come away knowing her no better, but ready to go and feast his eyes again to-morrow. such was his feeling, when in the tarnished and ornate little lounge of a quiet hotel near the river she came to him preceded by a small page-boy who uttered the word, "madame," and vanished. her face, her smile, the poise of her figure, were just as he had pictured, and the expression of her face said plainly: 'a friend!' "well," he said, "what news, poor exile?" "none." "nothing from soames?" "nothing." "i have let the flat for you, and like a good steward i bring you some money. how do you like paris?" while he put her through this catechism, it seemed to him that he had never seen lips so fine and sensitive, the lower lip curving just a little upwards, the upper touched at one corner by the least conceivable dimple. it was like discovering a woman in what had hitherto been a sort of soft and breathed-on statue, almost impersonally admired. she owned that to be alone in paris was a little difficult; and yet, paris was so full of its own life that it was often, she confessed, as innocuous as a desert. besides, the english were not liked just now! "that will hardly be your case," said jolyon; "you should appeal to the french." "it has its disadvantages." jolyon nodded. "well, you must let me take you about while i'm here. we'll start to-morrow. come and dine at my pet restaurant; and we'll go to the opera-comique." it was the beginning of daily meetings. jolyon soon found that for those who desired a static condition of the affections, paris was at once the first and last place in which to be friendly with a pretty woman. revelation was alighting like a bird in his heart, singing: 'elle est ton reve! elle est ton reve! sometimes this seemed natural, sometimes ludicrous--a bad case of elderly rapture. having once been ostracised by society, he had never since had any real regard for conventional morality; but the idea of a love which she could never return--and how could she at his age?--hardly mounted beyond his subconscious mind. he was full, too, of resentment, at the waste and loneliness of her life. aware of being some comfort to her, and of the pleasure she clearly took in their many little outings, he was amiably desirous of doing and saying nothing to destroy that pleasure. it was like watching a starved plant draw up water, to see her drink in his companionship. so far as they could tell, no one knew her address except himself; she was unknown in paris, and he but little known, so that discretion seemed unnecessary in those walks, talks, visits to concerts, picture-galleries, theatres, little dinners, expeditions to versailles, st. cloud, even fontainebleau. and time fled--one of those full months without past to it or future. what in his youth would certainly have been headlong passion, was now perhaps as deep a feeling, but far gentler, tempered to protective companionship by admiration, hopelessness, and a sense of chivalry--arrested in his veins at least so long as she was there, smiling and happy in their friendship, and always to him more beautiful and spiritually responsive: for her philosophy of life seemed to march in admirable step with his own, conditioned by emotion more than by reason, ironically mistrustful, susceptible to beauty, almost passionately humane and tolerant, yet subject to instinctive rigidities of which as a mere man he was less capable. and during all this companionable month he never quite lost that feeling with which he had set out on the first day as if to visit an adored work of art, a well-nigh impersonal desire. the future--inexorable pendant to the present he took care not to face, for fear of breaking up his untroubled manner; but he made plans to renew this time in places still more delightful, where the sun was hot and there were strange things to see and paint. the end came swiftly on the th of january with a telegram: "have enlisted in imperial yeomanry. jolly." jolyon received it just as he was setting out to meet her at the louvre. it brought him up with a round turn. while he was lotus-eating here, his boy, whose philosopher and guide he ought to be, had taken this great step towards danger, hardship, perhaps even death. he felt disturbed to the soul, realising suddenly how irene had twined herself round the roots of his being. thus threatened with severance, the tie between them--for it had become a kind of tie--no longer had impersonal quality. the tranquil enjoyment of things in common, jolyon perceived, was gone for ever. he saw his feeling as it was, in the nature of an infatuation. ridiculous, perhaps, but so real that sooner or later it must disclose itself. and now, as it seemed to him, he could not, must not, make any such disclosure. the news of jolly stood inexorably in the way. he was proud of this enlistment; proud of his boy for going off to fight for the country; for on jolyon's pro-boerism, too, black week had left its mark. and so the end was reached before the beginning! well, luckily he had never made a sign! when he came into the gallery she was standing before the 'virgin of the rocks,' graceful, absorbed, smiling and unconscious. 'have i to give up seeing that?' he thought. 'it's unnatural, so long as she's willing that i should see her.' he stood, unnoticed, watching her, storing up the image of her figure, envying the picture on which she was bending that long scrutiny. twice she turned her head towards the entrance, and he thought: 'that's for me!' at last he went forward. "look!" he said. she read the telegram, and he heard her sigh. that sigh, too, was for him! his position was really cruel! to be loyal to his son he must just shake her hand and go. to be loyal to the feeling in his heart he must at least tell her what that feeling was. could she, would she understand the silence in which he was gazing at that picture? "i'm afraid i must go home at once," he said at last. "i shall miss all this awfully." "so shall i; but, of course, you must go." "well!" said jolyon holding out his hand. meeting her eyes, a flood of feeling nearly mastered him. "such is life!" he said. "take care of yourself, my dear!" he had a stumbling sensation in his legs and feet, as if his brain refused to steer him away from her. from the doorway, he saw her lift her hand and touch its fingers with her lips. he raised his hat solemnly, and did not look back again. chapter vii dartie versus dartie the suit--dartie versus dartie--for restitution of those conjugal rights concerning which winifred was at heart so deeply undecided, followed the laws of subtraction towards day of judgment. this was not reached before the courts rose for christmas, but the case was third on the list when they sat again. winifred spent the christmas holidays a thought more fashionably than usual, with the matter locked up in her low-cut bosom. james was particularly liberal to her that christmas, expressing thereby his sympathy, and relief, at the approaching dissolution of her marriage with that 'precious rascal,' which his old heart felt but his old lips could not utter. the disappearance of dartie made the fall in consols a comparatively small matter; and as to the scandal--the real animus he felt against that fellow, and the increasing lead which property was attaining over reputation in a true forsyte about to leave this world, served to drug a mind from which all allusions to the matter (except his own) were studiously kept. what worried him as a lawyer and a parent was the fear that dartie might suddenly turn up and obey the order of the court when made. that would be a pretty how-de-do! the fear preyed on him in fact so much that, in presenting winifred with a large christmas cheque, he said: "it's chiefly for that chap out there; to keep him from coming back." it was, of course, to pitch away good money, but all in the nature of insurance against that bankruptcy which would no longer hang over him if only the divorce went through; and he questioned winifred rigorously until she could assure him that the money had been sent. poor woman!--it cost her many a pang to send what must find its way into the vanity-bag of 'that creature!' soames, hearing of it, shook his head. they were not dealing with a forsyte, reasonably tenacious of his purpose. it was very risky without knowing how the land lay out there. still, it would look well with the court; and he would see that dreamer brought it out. "i wonder," he said suddenly, "where that ballet goes after the argentine"; never omitting a chance of reminder; for he knew that winifred still had a weakness, if not for dartie, at least for not laundering him in public. though not good at showing admiration, he admitted that she was behaving extremely well, with all her children at home gaping like young birds for news of their father--imogen just on the point of coming out, and val very restive about the whole thing. he felt that val was the real heart of the matter to winifred, who certainly loved him beyond her other children. the boy could spoke the wheel of this divorce yet if he set his mind to it. and soames was very careful to keep the proximity of the preliminary proceedings from his nephew's ears. he did more. he asked him to dine at the remove, and over val's cigar introduced the subject which he knew to be nearest to his heart. "i hear," he said, "that you want to play polo up at oxford." val became less recumbent in his chair. "rather!" he said. "well," continued soames, "that's a very expensive business. your grandfather isn't likely to consent to it unless he can make sure that he's not got any other drain on him." and he paused to see whether the boy understood his meaning. val's thick dark lashes concealed his eyes, but a slight grimace appeared on his wide mouth, and he muttered: "i suppose you mean my dad!" "yes," said soames; "i'm afraid it depends on whether he continues to be a drag or not;" and said no more, letting the boy dream it over. but val was also dreaming in those days of a silver-roan palfrey and a girl riding it. though crum was in town and an introduction to cynthia dark to be had for the asking, val did not ask; indeed, he shunned crum and lived a life strange even to himself, except in so far as accounts with tailor and livery stable were concerned. to his mother, his sisters, his young brother, he seemed to spend this vacation in 'seeing fellows,' and his evenings sleepily at home. they could not propose anything in daylight that did not meet with the one response: "sorry; i've got to see a fellow"; and he was put to extraordinary shifts to get in and out of the house unobserved in riding clothes; until, being made a member of the goat's club, he was able to transport them there, where he could change unregarded and slip off on his hack to richmond park. he kept his growing sentiment religiously to himself. not for a world would he breathe to the 'fellows,' whom he was not 'seeing,' anything so ridiculous from the point of view of their creed and his. but he could not help its destroying his other appetites. it was coming between him and the legitimate pleasures of youth at last on its own in a way which must, he knew, make him a milksop in the eyes of crum. all he cared for was to dress in his last-created riding togs, and steal away to the robin hill gate, where presently the silver roan would come demurely sidling with its slim and dark-haired rider, and in the glades bare of leaves they would go off side by side, not talking very much, riding races sometimes, and sometimes holding hands. more than once of an evening, in a moment of expansion, he had been tempted to tell his mother how this shy sweet cousin had stolen in upon him and wrecked his 'life.' but bitter experience, that all persons above thirty-five were spoil-sports, prevented him. after all, he supposed he would have to go through with college, and she would have to 'come out,' before they could be married; so why complicate things, so long as he could see her? sisters were teasing and unsympathetic beings, a brother worse, so there was no one to confide in. ah! and this beastly divorce business! what a misfortune to have a name which other people hadn't! if only he had been called gordon or scott or howard or something fairly common! but dartie--there wasn't another in the directory! one might as well have been named morkin for all the covert it afforded! so matters went on, till one day in the middle of january the silver-roan palfrey and its rider were missing at the tryst. lingering in the cold, he debated whether he should ride on to the house: but jolly might be there, and the memory of their dark encounter was still fresh within him. one could not be always fighting with her brother! so he returned dismally to town and spent an evening plunged in gloom. at breakfast next day he noticed that his mother had on an unfamiliar dress and was wearing her hat. the dress was black with a glimpse of peacock blue, the hat black and large--she looked exceptionally well. but when after breakfast she said to him, "come in here, val," and led the way to the drawing-room, he was at once beset by qualms. winifred carefully shut the door and passed her handkerchief over her lips; inhaling the violette de parme with which it had been soaked, val thought: 'has she found out about holly?' her voice interrupted "are you going to be nice to me, dear boy?" val grinned doubtfully. "will you come with me this morning...." "i've got to see...." began val, but something in her face stopped him. "i say," he said, "you don't mean...." "yes, i have to go to the court this morning." already!--that d---d business which he had almost succeeded in forgetting, since nobody ever mentioned it. in self-commiseration he stood picking little bits of skin off his fingers. then noticing that his mother's lips were all awry, he said impulsively: "all right, mother; i'll come. the brutes!" what brutes he did not know, but the expression exactly summed up their joint feeling, and restored a measure of equanimity. "i suppose i'd better change into a 'shooter,"' he muttered, escaping to his room. he put on the 'shooter,' a higher collar, a pearl pin, and his neatest grey spats, to a somewhat blasphemous accompaniment. looking at himself in the glass, he said, "well, i'm damned if i'm going to show anything!" and went down. he found his grandfather's carriage at the door, and his mother in furs, with the appearance of one going to a mansion house assembly. they seated themselves side by side in the closed barouche, and all the way to the courts of justice val made but one allusion to the business in hand. "there'll be nothing about those pearls, will there?" the little tufted white tails of winifred's muff began to shiver. "oh, no," she said, "it'll be quite harmless to-day. your grandmother wanted to come too, but i wouldn't let her. i thought you could take care of me. you look so nice, val. just pull your coat collar up a little more at the back--that's right." "if they bully you...." began val. "oh! they won't. i shall be very cool. it's the only way." "they won't want me to give evidence or anything?" "no, dear; it's all arranged." and she patted his hand. the determined front she was putting on it stayed the turmoil in val's chest, and he busied himself in drawing his gloves off and on. he had taken what he now saw was the wrong pair to go with his spats; they should have been grey, but were deerskin of a dark tan; whether to keep them on or not he could not decide. they arrived soon after ten. it was his first visit to the law courts, and the building struck him at once. "by jove!" he said as they passed into the hall, "this'd make four or five jolly good racket courts." soames was awaiting them at the foot of some stairs. "here you are!" he said, without shaking hands, as if the event had made them too familiar for such formalities. "it's happerly browne, court i. we shall be on first." a sensation such as he had known when going in to bat was playing now in the top of val's chest, but he followed his mother and uncle doggedly, looking at no more than he could help, and thinking that the place smelled 'fuggy.' people seemed to be lurking everywhere, and he plucked soames by the sleeve. "i say, uncle, you're not going to let those beastly papers in, are you?" soames gave him the sideway look which had reduced many to silence in its time. "in here," he said. "you needn't take off your furs, winifred." val entered behind them, nettled and with his head up. in this confounded hole everybody--and there were a good many of them--seemed sitting on everybody else's knee, though really divided from each other by pews; and val had a feeling that they might all slip down together into the well. this, however, was but a momentary vision--of mahogany, and black gowns, and white blobs of wigs and faces and papers, all rather secret and whispery--before he was sitting next his mother in the front row, with his back to it all, glad of her violette de parme, and taking off his gloves for the last time. his mother was looking at him; he was suddenly conscious that she had really wanted him there next to her, and that he counted for something in this business. all right! he would show them! squaring his shoulders, he crossed his legs and gazed inscrutably at his spats. but just then an 'old johnny' in a gown and long wig, looking awfully like a funny raddled woman, came through a door into the high pew opposite, and he had to uncross his legs hastily, and stand up with everybody else. 'dartie versus dartie!' it seemed to val unspeakably disgusting to have one's name called out like this in public! and, suddenly conscious that someone nearly behind him had begun talking about his family, he screwed his face round to see an old be-wigged buffer, who spoke as if he were eating his own words--queer-looking old cuss, the sort of man he had seen once or twice dining at park lane and punishing the port; he knew now where they 'dug them up.' all the same he found the old buffer quite fascinating, and would have continued to stare if his mother had not touched his arm. reduced to gazing before him, he fixed his eyes on the judge's face instead. why should that old 'sportsman' with his sarcastic mouth and his quick-moving eyes have the power to meddle with their private affairs--hadn't he affairs of his own, just as many, and probably just as nasty? and there moved in val, like an illness, all the deep-seated individualism of his breed. the voice behind him droned along: "differences about money matters--extravagance of the respondent" (what a word! was that his father?)--"strained situation--frequent absences on the part of mr. dartie. my client, very rightly, your ludship will agree, was anxious to check a course--but lead to ruin--remonstrated--gambling at cards and on the racecourse--" ('that's right!' thought val, 'pile it on!') "crisis early in october, when the respondent wrote her this letter from his club." val sat up and his ears burned. "i propose to read it with the emendations necessary to the epistle of a gentleman who has been--shall we say dining, me lud?" 'old brute!' thought val, flushing deeper; 'you're not paid to make jokes!' "'you will not get the chance to insult me again in my own house. i am leaving the country to-morrow. it's played out'--an expression, your ludship, not unknown in the mouths of those who have not met with conspicuous success." 'sniggering owls!' thought val, and his flush deepened. "'i am tired of being insulted by you.' my client will tell your ludship that these so-called insults consisted in her calling him 'the limit',--a very mild expression, i venture to suggest, in all the circumstances." val glanced sideways at his mother's impassive face, it had a hunted look in the eyes. 'poor mother,' he thought, and touched her arm with his own. the voice behind droned on. "'i am going to live a new life. m. d.'" "and next day, me lud, the respondent left by the steamship tuscarora for buenos aires. since then we have nothing from him but a cabled refusal in answer to the letter which my client wrote the following day in great distress, begging him to return to her. with your ludship's permission. i shall now put mrs. dartie in the box." when his mother rose, val had a tremendous impulse to rise too and say: 'look here! i'm going to see you jolly well treat her decently.' he subdued it, however; heard her saying, 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,' and looked up. she made a rich figure of it, in her furs and large hat, with a slight flush on her cheek-bones, calm, matter-of-fact; and he felt proud of her thus confronting all these 'confounded lawyers.' the examination began. knowing that this was only the preliminary to divorce, val followed with a certain glee the questions framed so as to give the impression that she really wanted his father back. it seemed to him that they were 'foxing old bagwigs finely.' and he received a most unpleasant jar when the judge said suddenly: "now, why did your husband leave you--not because you called him 'the limit,' you know?" val saw his uncle lift his eyes to the witness box, without moving his face; heard a shuffle of papers behind him; and instinct told him that the issue was in peril. had uncle soames and the old buffer behind made a mess of it? his mother was speaking with a slight drawl. "no, my lord, but it had gone on a long time." "what had gone on?" "our differences about money." "but you supplied the money. do you suggest that he left you to better his position?" 'the brute! the old brute, and nothing but the brute!' thought val suddenly. 'he smells a rat he's trying to get at the pastry!' and his heart stood still. if--if he did, then, of course, he would know that his mother didn't really want his father back. his mother spoke again, a thought more fashionably. "no, my lord, but you see i had refused to give him any more money. it took him a long time to believe that, but he did at last--and when he did...." "i see, you had refused. but you've sent him some since." "my lord, i wanted him back." "and you thought that would bring him?" "i don't know, my lord, i acted on my father's advice." something in the judge's face, in the sound of the papers behind him, in the sudden crossing of his uncle's legs, told val that she had made just the right answer. 'crafty!' he thought; 'by jove, what humbug it all is!' the judge was speaking: "just one more question, mrs. dartie. are you still fond of your husband?" val's hands, slack behind him, became fists. what business had that judge to make things human suddenly? to make his mother speak out of her heart, and say what, perhaps, she didn't know herself, before all these people! it wasn't decent. his mother answered, rather low: "yes, my lord." val saw the judge nod. 'wish i could take a cock-shy at your head!' he thought irreverently, as his mother came back to her seat beside him. witnesses to his father's departure and continued absence followed--one of their own maids even, which struck val as particularly beastly; there was more talking, all humbug; and then the judge pronounced the decree for restitution, and they got up to go. val walked out behind his mother, chin squared, eyelids drooped, doing his level best to despise everybody. his mother's voice in the corridor roused him from an angry trance. "you behaved beautifully, dear. it was such a comfort to have you. your uncle and i are going to lunch." "all right," said val; "i shall have time to go and see that fellow." and, parting from them abruptly, he ran down the stairs and out into the air. he bolted into a hansom, and drove to the goat's club. his thoughts were on holly and what he must do before her brother showed her this thing in to-morrow's paper. ******************************* when val had left them soames and winifred made their way to the cheshire cheese. he had suggested it as a meeting place with mr. bellby. at that early hour of noon they would have it to themselves, and winifred had thought it would be 'amusing' to see this far-famed hostelry. having ordered a light repast, to the consternation of the waiter, they awaited its arrival together with that of mr. bellby, in silent reaction after the hour and a half's suspense on the tenterhooks of publicity. mr. bellby entered presently, preceded by his nose, as cheerful as they were glum. well! they had got the decree of restitution, and what was the matter with that! "quite," said soames in a suitably low voice, "but we shall have to begin again to get evidence. he'll probably try the divorce--it will look fishy if it comes out that we knew of misconduct from the start. his questions showed well enough that he doesn't like this restitution dodge." "pho!" said mr. bellby cheerily, "he'll forget! why, man, he'll have tried a hundred cases between now and then. besides, he's bound by precedent to give ye your divorce, if the evidence is satisfactory. we won't let um know that mrs. dartie had knowledge of the facts. dreamer did it very nicely--he's got a fatherly touch about um!" soames nodded. "and i compliment ye, mrs. dartie," went on mr. bellby; "ye've a natural gift for giving evidence. steady as a rock." here the, waiter arrived with three plates balanced on one arm, and the remark: "i 'urried up the pudden, sir. you'll find plenty o' lark in it to-day." mr. bellby applauded his forethought with a dip of his nose. but soames and winifred looked with dismay at their light lunch of gravified brown masses, touching them gingerly with their forks in the hope of distinguishing the bodies of the tasty little song-givers. having begun, however, they found they were hungrier than they thought, and finished the lot, with a glass of port apiece. conversation turned on the war. soames thought ladysmith would fall, and it might last a year. bellby thought it would be over by the summer. both agreed that they wanted more men. there was nothing for it but complete victory, since it was now a question of prestige. winifred brought things back to more solid ground by saying that she did not want the divorce suit to come on till after the summer holidays had begun at oxford, then the boys would have forgotten about it before val had to go up again; the london season too would be over. the lawyers reassured her, an interval of six months was necessary--after that the earlier the better. people were now beginning to come in, and they parted--soames to the city, bellby to his chambers, winifred in a hansom to park lane to let her mother know how she had fared. the issue had been so satisfactory on the whole that it was considered advisable to tell james, who never failed to say day after day that he didn't know about winifred's affair, he couldn't tell. as his sands ran out; the importance of mundane matters became increasingly grave to him, as if he were feeling: 'i must make the most of it, and worry well; i shall soon have nothing to worry about.' he received the report grudgingly. it was a new-fangled way of going about things, and he didn't know! but he gave winifred a cheque, saying: "i expect you'll have a lot of expense. that's a new hat you've got on. why doesn't val come and see us?" winifred promised to bring him to dinner soon. and, going home, she sought her bedroom where she could be alone. now that her husband had been ordered back into her custody with a view to putting him away from her for ever, she would try once more to find out from her sore and lonely heart what she really wanted. chapter viii the challenge the morning had been misty, verging on frost, but the sun came out while val was jogging towards the roehampton gate, whence he would canter on to the usual tryst. his spirits were rising rapidly. there had been nothing so very terrible in the morning's proceedings beyond the general disgrace of violated privacy. 'if we were engaged!' he thought, 'what happens wouldn't matter.' he felt, indeed, like human society, which kicks and clamours at the results of matrimony, and hastens to get married. and he galloped over the winter-dried grass of richmond park, fearing to be late. but again he was alone at the trysting spot, and this second defection on the part of holly upset him dreadfully. he could not go back without seeing her to-day! emerging from the park, he proceeded towards robin hill. he could not make up his mind for whom to ask. suppose her father were back, or her sister or brother were in! he decided to gamble, and ask for them all first, so that if he were in luck and they were not there, it would be quite natural in the end to ask for holly; while if any of them were in--an 'excuse for a ride' must be his saving grace. "only miss holly is in, sir." "oh! thanks. might i take my horse round to the stables? and would you say--her cousin, mr. val dartie." when he returned she was in the hall, very flushed and shy. she led him to the far end, and they sat down on a wide window-seat. "i've been awfully anxious," said val in a low voice. "what's the matter?" "jolly knows about our riding." "is he in?" "no; but i expect he will be soon." "then!" cried val, and diving forward, he seized her hand. she tried to withdraw it, failed, gave up the attempt, and looked at him wistfully. "first of all," he said, "i want to tell you something about my family. my dad, you know, isn't altogether--i mean, he's left my mother and they're trying to divorce him; so they've ordered him to come back, you see. you'll see that in the paper to-morrow." her eyes deepened in colour and fearful interest; her hand squeezed his. but the gambler in val was roused now, and he hurried on: "of course there's nothing very much at present, but there will be, i expect, before it's over; divorce suits are beastly, you know. i wanted to tell you, because--because--you ought to know--if--" and he began to stammer, gazing at her troubled eyes, "if--if you're going to be a darling and love me, holly. i love you--ever so; and i want to be engaged." he had done it in a manner so inadequate that he could have punched his own head; and dropping on his knees, he tried to get nearer to that soft, troubled face. "you do love me--don't you? if you don't i...." there was a moment of silence and suspense, so awful that he could hear the sound of a mowing-machine far out on the lawn pretending there was grass to cut. then she swayed forward; her free hand touched his hair, and he gasped: "oh, holly!" her answer was very soft: "oh, val!" he had dreamed of this moment, but always in an imperative mood, as the masterful young lover, and now he felt humble, touched, trembly. he was afraid to stir off his knees lest he should break the spell; lest, if he did, she should shrink and deny her own surrender--so tremulous was she in his grasp, with her eyelids closed and his lips nearing them. her eyes opened, seemed to swim a little; he pressed his lips to hers. suddenly he sprang up; there had been footsteps, a sort of startled grunt. he looked round. no one! but the long curtains which barred off the outer hall were quivering. "my god! who was that?" holly too was on her feet. "jolly, i expect," she whispered. val clenched fists and resolution. "all right!" he said, "i don't care a bit now we're engaged," and striding towards the curtains, he drew them aside. there at the fireplace in the hall stood jolly, with his back elaborately turned. val went forward. jolly faced round on him. "i beg your pardon for hearing," he said. with the best intentions in the world, val could not help admiring him at that moment; his face was clear, his voice quiet, he looked somehow distinguished, as if acting up to principle. "well!" val said abruptly, "it's nothing to you." "oh!" said jolly; "you come this way," and he crossed the hall. val followed. at the study door he felt a touch on his arm; holly's voice said: "i'm coming too." "no," said jolly. "yes," said holly. jolly opened the door, and they all three went in. once in the little room, they stood in a sort of triangle on three corners of the worn turkey carpet; awkwardly upright, not looking at each other, quite incapable of seeing any humour in the situation. val broke the silence. "holly and i are engaged.", jolly stepped back and leaned against the lintel of the window. "this is our house," he said; "i'm not going to insult you in it. but my father's away. i'm in charge of my sister. you've taken advantage of me. "i didn't mean to," said val hotly. "i think you did," said jolly. "if you hadn't meant to, you'd have spoken to me, or waited for my father to come back." "there were reasons," said val. "what reasons?" "about my family--i've just told her. i wanted her to know before things happen." jolly suddenly became less distinguished. "you're kids," he said, "and you know you are. "i am not a kid," said val. "you are--you're not twenty." "well, what are you?" "i am twenty," said jolly. "only just; anyway, i'm as good a man as you." jolly's face crimsoned, then clouded. some struggle was evidently taking place in him; and val and holly stared at him, so clearly was that struggle marked; they could even hear him breathing. then his face cleared up and became oddly resolute. "we'll see that," he said. "i dare you to do what i'm going to do." "dare me?" jolly smiled. "yes," he said, "dare you; and i know very well you won't." a stab of misgiving shot through val; this was riding very blind. "i haven't forgotten that you're a fire-eater," said jolly slowly, "and i think that's about all you are; or that you called me a pro-boer." val heard a gasp above the sound of his own hard breathing, and saw holly's face poked a little forward, very pale, with big eyes. "yes," went on jolly with a sort of smile, "we shall soon see. i'm going to join the imperial yeomanry, and i dare you to do the same, mr. val dartie." val's head jerked on its stem. it was like a blow between the eyes, so utterly unthought of, so extreme and ugly in the midst of his dreaming; and he looked at holly with eyes grown suddenly, touchingly haggard. "sit down!" said jolly. "take your time! think it over well." and he himself sat down on the arm of his grandfather's chair. val did not sit down; he stood with hands thrust deep into his breeches' pockets-hands clenched and quivering. the full awfulness of this decision one way or the other knocked at his mind with double knocks as of an angry postman. if he did not take that 'dare' he was disgraced in holly's eyes, and in the eyes of that young enemy, her brute of a brother. yet if he took it, ah! then all would vanish--her face, her eyes, her hair, her kisses just begun! "take your time," said jolly again; "i don't want to be unfair." and they both looked at holly. she had recoiled against the bookshelves reaching to the ceiling; her dark head leaned against gibbon's roman empire, her eyes in a sort of soft grey agony were fixed on val. and he, who had not much gift of insight, had suddenly a gleam of vision. she would be proud of her brother--that enemy! she would be ashamed of him! his hands came out of his pockets as if lifted by a spring. "all right!" he said. "done!" holly's face--oh! it was queer! he saw her flush, start forward. he had done the right thing--her face was shining with wistful admiration. jolly stood up and made a little bow as who should say: 'you've passed.' "to-morrow, then," he said, "we'll go together." recovering from the impetus which had carried him to that decision, val looked at him maliciously from under his lashes. 'all right,' he thought, 'one to you. i shall have to join--but i'll get back on you somehow.' and he said with dignity: "i shall be ready." "we'll meet at the main recruiting office, then," said jolly, "at twelve o'clock." and, opening the window, he went out on to the terrace, conforming to the creed which had made him retire when he surprised them in the hall. the confusion in the mind of val thus left alone with her for whom he had paid this sudden price was extreme. the mood of 'showing-off' was still, however, uppermost. one must do the wretched thing with an air. "we shall get plenty of riding and shooting, anyway," he said; "that's one comfort." and it gave him a sort of grim pleasure to hear the sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of her heart. "oh! the war'll soon be over," he said; "perhaps we shan't even have to go out. i don't care, except for you." he would be out of the way of that beastly divorce. it was an ill-wind! he felt her warm hand slip into his. jolly thought he had stopped their loving each other, did he? he held her tightly round the waist, looking at her softly through his lashes, smiling to cheer her up, promising to come down and see her soon, feeling somehow six inches taller and much more in command of her than he had ever dared feel before. many times he kissed her before he mounted and rode back to town. so, swiftly, on the least provocation, does the possessive instinct flourish and grow. chapter ix dinner at james' dinner parties were not now given at james' in park lane--to every house the moment comes when master or mistress is no longer 'up to it'; no more can nine courses be served to twenty mouths above twenty fine white expanses; nor does the household cat any longer wonder why she is suddenly shut up. so with something like excitement emily--who at seventy would still have liked a little feast and fashion now and then--ordered dinner for six instead of two, herself wrote a number of foreign words on cards, and arranged the flowers--mimosa from the riviera, and white roman hyacinths not from rome. there would only be, of course, james and herself, soames, winifred, val, and imogen--but she liked to pretend a little and dally in imagination with the glory of the past. she so dressed herself that james remarked: "what are you putting on that thing for? you'll catch cold." but emily knew that the necks of women are protected by love of shining, unto fourscore years, and she only answered: "let me put you on one of those dickies i got you, james; then you'll only have to change your trousers, and put on your velvet coat, and there you'll be. val likes you to look nice." "dicky!" said james. "you're always wasting your money on something." but he suffered the change to be made till his neck also shone, murmuring vaguely: "he's an extravagant chap, i'm afraid." a little brighter in the eye, with rather more colour than usual in his cheeks, he took his seat in the drawing-room to wait for the sound of the front-door bell. "i've made it a proper dinner party," emily said comfortably; "i thought it would be good practice for imogen--she must get used to it now she's coming out." james uttered an indeterminate sound, thinking of imogen as she used to climb about his knee or pull christmas crackers with him. "she'll be pretty," he muttered, "i shouldn't wonder." "she is pretty," said emily; "she ought to make a good match." "there you go," murmured james; "she'd much better stay at home and look after her mother." a second dartie carrying off his pretty granddaughter would finish him! he had never quite forgiven emily for having been as much taken in by montague dartie as he himself had been. "where's warmson?" he said suddenly. "i should like a glass of madeira to-night." "there's champagne, james." james shook his head. "no body," he said; "i can't get any good out of it." emily reached forward on her side of the fire and rang the bell. "your master would like a bottle of madeira opened, warmson." "no, no!" said james, the tips of his ears quivering with vehemence, and his eyes fixed on an object seen by him alone. "look here, warmson, you go to the inner cellar, and on the middle shelf of the end bin on the left you'll see seven bottles; take the one in the centre, and don't shake it. it's the last of the madeira i had from mr. jolyon when we came in here--never been moved; it ought to be in prime condition still; but i don't know, i can't tell." "very good, sir," responded the withdrawing warmson. "i was keeping it for our golden wedding," said james suddenly, "but i shan't live three years at my age." "nonsense, james," said emily, "don't talk like that." "i ought to have got it up myself," murmured james, "he'll shake it as likely as not." and he sank into silent recollection of long moments among the open gas-jets, the cobwebs and the good smell of wine-soaked corks, which had been appetiser to so many feasts. in the wine from that cellar was written the history of the forty odd years since he had come to the park lane house with his young bride, and of the many generations of friends and acquaintances who had passed into the unknown; its depleted bins preserved the record of family festivity--all the marriages, births, deaths of his kith and kin. and when he was gone there it would be, and he didn't know what would become of it. it'd be drunk or spoiled, he shouldn't wonder! from that deep reverie the entrance of his son dragged him, followed very soon by that of winifred and her two eldest. they went down arm-in-arm--james with imogen, the debutante, because his pretty grandchild cheered him; soames with winifred; emily with val, whose eyes lighting on the oysters brightened. this was to be a proper full 'blowout' with 'fizz' and port! and he felt in need of it, after what he had done that day, as yet undivulged. after the first glass or two it became pleasant to have this bombshell up his sleeve, this piece of sensational patriotism, or example, rather, of personal daring, to display--for his pleasure in what he had done for his queen and country was so far entirely personal. he was now a 'blood,' indissolubly connected with guns and horses; he had a right to swagger--not, of course, that he was going to. he should just announce it quietly, when there was a pause. and, glancing down the menu, he determined on 'bombe aux fraises' as the proper moment; there would be a certain solemnity while they were eating that. once or twice before they reached that rosy summit of the dinner he was attacked by remembrance that his grandfather was never told anything! still, the old boy was drinking madeira, and looking jolly fit! besides, he ought to be pleased at this set-off to the disgrace of the divorce. the sight of his uncle opposite, too, was a sharp incentive. he was so far from being a sportsman that it would be worth a lot to see his face. besides, better to tell his mother in this way than privately, which might upset them both! he was sorry for her, but after all one couldn't be expected to feel much for others when one had to part from holly. his grandfather's voice travelled to him thinly. "val, try a little of the madeira with your ice. you won't get that up at college." val watched the slow liquid filling his glass, the essential oil of the old wine glazing the surface; inhaled its aroma, and thought: 'now for it!' it was a rich moment. he sipped, and a gentle glow spread in his veins, already heated. with a rapid look round, he said, "i joined the imperial yeomanry to-day, granny," and emptied his glass as though drinking the health of his own act. "what!" it was his mother's desolate little word. "young jolly forsyte and i went down there together." "you didn't sign?" from uncle soames. "rather! we go into camp on monday." "i say!" cried imogen. all looked at james. he was leaning forward with his hand behind his ear. "what's that?" he said. "what's he saying? i can't hear." emily reached forward to pat val's hand. "it's only that val has joined the yeomanry, james; it's very nice for him. he'll look his best in uniform." "joined the--rubbish!" came from james, tremulously loud. "you can't see two yards before your nose. he--he'll have to go out there. why! he'll be fighting before he knows where he is." val saw imogen's eyes admiring him, and his mother still and fashionable with her handkerchief before her lips. suddenly his uncle spoke. "you're under age." "i thought of that," smiled val; "i gave my age as twenty-one." he heard his grandmother's admiring, "well, val, that was plucky of you;" was conscious of warmson deferentially filling his champagne glass; and of his grandfather's voice moaning: "i don't know what'll become of you if you go on like this." imogen was patting his shoulder, his uncle looking at him sidelong; only his mother sat unmoving, till, affected by her stillness, val said: "it's all right, you know; we shall soon have them on the run. i only hope i shall come in for something." he felt elated, sorry, tremendously important all at once. this would show uncle soames, and all the forsytes, how to be sportsmen. he had certainly done something heroic and exceptional in giving his age as twenty-one. emily's voice brought him back to earth. "you mustn't have a second glass, james. warmson!" "won't they be astonished at timothy's!" burst out imogen. "i'd give anything to see their faces. do you have a sword, val, or only a popgun?" "what made you?" his uncle's voice produced a slight chill in the pit of val's stomach. made him? how answer that? he was grateful for his grandmother's comfortable: "well, i think it's very plucky of val. i'm sure he'll make a splendid soldier; he's just the figure for it. we shall all be proud of him." "what had young jolly forsyte to do with it? why did you go together?" pursued soames, uncannily relentless. "i thought you weren't friendly with him?" "i'm not," mumbled val, "but i wasn't going to be beaten by him." he saw his uncle look at him quite differently, as if approving. his grandfather was nodding too, his grandmother tossing her head. they all approved of his not being beaten by that cousin of his. there must be a reason! val was dimly conscious of some disturbing point outside his range of vision; as it might be, the unlocated centre of a cyclone. and, staring at his uncle's face, he had a quite unaccountable vision of a woman with dark eyes, gold hair, and a white neck, who smelt nice, and had pretty silken clothes which he had liked feeling when he was quite small. by jove, yes! aunt irene! she used to kiss him, and he had bitten her arm once, playfully, because he liked it--so soft. his grandfather was speaking: "what's his father doing?" "he's away in paris," val said, staring at the very queer expression on his uncle's face, like--like that of a snarling dog. "artists!" said james. the word coming from the very bottom of his soul, broke up the dinner. opposite his mother in the cab going home, val tasted the after-fruits of heroism, like medlars over-ripe. she only said, indeed, that he must go to his tailor's at once and have his uniform properly made, and not just put up with what they gave him. but he could feel that she was very much upset. it was on his lips to console her with the spoken thought that he would be out of the way of that beastly divorce, but the presence of imogen, and the knowledge that his mother would not be out of the way, restrained him. he felt aggrieved that she did not seem more proud of him. when imogen had gone to bed, he risked the emotional. "i'm awfully sorry to have to leave you, mother." "well, i must make the best of it. we must try and get you a commission as soon as we can; then you won't have to rough it so. do you know any drill, val?" "not a scrap." "i hope they won't worry you much. i must take you about to get the things to-morrow. good-night; kiss me." with that kiss, soft and hot, between his eyes, and those words, 'i hope they won't worry you much,' in his ears, he sat down to a cigarette, before a dying fire. the heat was out of him--the glow of cutting a dash. it was all a damned heart-aching bore. 'i'll be even with that chap jolly,' he thought, trailing up the stairs, past the room where his mother was biting her pillow to smother a sense of desolation which was trying to make her sob. and soon only one of the diners at james' was awake--soames, in his bedroom above his father's. so that fellow jolyon was in paris--what was he doing there? hanging round irene! the last report from polteed had hinted that there might be something soon. could it be this? that fellow, with his beard and his cursed amused way of speaking--son of the old man who had given him the nickname 'man of property,' and bought the fatal house from him. soames had ever resented having had to sell the house at robin hill; never forgiven his uncle for having bought it, or his cousin for living in it. reckless of the cold, he threw his window up and gazed out across the park. bleak and dark the january night; little sound of traffic; a frost coming; bare trees; a star or two. 'i'll see polteed to-morrow,' he thought. 'by god! i'm mad, i think, to want her still. that fellow! if...? um! no!' chapter x death of the dog balthasar jolyon, who had crossed from calais by night, arrived at robin hill on sunday morning. he had sent no word beforehand, so walked up from the station, entering his domain by the coppice gate. coming to the log seat fashioned out of an old fallen trunk, he sat down, first laying his overcoat on it. 'lumbago!' he thought; 'that's what love ends in at my time of life!' and suddenly irene seemed very near, just as she had been that day of rambling at fontainebleau when they had sat on a log to eat their lunch. hauntingly near! odour drawn out of fallen leaves by the pale-filtering sunlight soaked his nostrils. 'i'm glad it isn't spring,' he thought. with the scent of sap, and the song of birds, and the bursting of the blossoms, it would have been unbearable! 'i hope i shall be over it by then, old fool that i am!' and picking up his coat, he walked on into the field. he passed the pond and mounted the hill slowly. near the top a hoarse barking greeted him. up on the lawn above the fernery he could see his old dog balthasar. the animal, whose dim eyes took his master for a stranger, was warning the world against him. jolyon gave his special whistle. even at that distance of a hundred yards and more he could see the dawning recognition in the obese brown-white body. the old dog got off his haunches, and his tail, close-curled over his back, began a feeble, excited fluttering; he came waddling forward, gathered momentum, and disappeared over the edge of the fernery. jolyon expected to meet him at the wicket gate, but balthasar was not there, and, rather alarmed, he turned into the fernery. on his fat side, looking up with eyes already glazing, the old dog lay. "what is it, my poor old man?" cried jolyon. balthasar's curled and fluffy tail just moved; his filming eyes seemed saying: "i can't get up, master, but i'm glad to see you." jolyon knelt down; his eyes, very dimmed, could hardly see the slowly ceasing heave of the dog's side. he raised the head a little--very heavy. "what is it, dear man? where are you hurt?" the tail fluttered once; the eyes lost the look of life. jolyon passed his hands all over the inert warm bulk. there was nothing--the heart had simply failed in that obese body from the emotion of his master's return. jolyon could feel the muzzle, where a few whitish bristles grew, cooling already against his lips. he stayed for some minutes kneeling; with his hand beneath the stiffening head. the body was very heavy when he bore it to the top of the field; leaves had drifted there, and he strewed it with a covering of them; there was no wind, and they would keep him from curious eyes until the afternoon. 'i'll bury him myself,' he thought. eighteen years had gone since he first went into the st. john's wood house with that tiny puppy in his pocket. strange that the old dog should die just now! was it an omen? he turned at the gate to look back at that russet mound, then went slowly towards the house, very choky in the throat. june was at home; she had come down hotfoot on hearing the news of jolly's enlistment. his patriotism had conquered her feeling for the boers. the atmosphere of his house was strange and pocketty when jolyon came in and told them of the dog balthasar's death. the news had a unifying effect. a link with the past had snapped--the dog balthasar! two of them could remember nothing before his day; to june he represented the last years of her grandfather; to jolyon that life of domestic stress and aesthetic struggle before he came again into the kingdom of his father's love and wealth! and he was gone! in the afternoon he and jolly took picks and spades and went out to the field. they chose a spot close to the russet mound, so that they need not carry him far, and, carefully cutting off the surface turf, began to dig. they dug in silence for ten minutes, and then rested. "well, old man," said jolyon, "so you thought you ought?" "yes," answered jolly; "i don't want to a bit, of course." how exactly those words represented jolyon's own state of mind "i admire you for it, old boy. i don't believe i should have done it at your age--too much of a forsyte, i'm afraid. but i suppose the type gets thinner with each generation. your son, if you have one, may be a pure altruist; who knows?" "he won't be like me, then, dad; i'm beastly selfish." "no, my dear, that you clearly are not." jolly shook his head, and they dug again. "strange life a dog's," said jolyon suddenly: "the only four-footer with rudiments of altruism and a sense of god!" jolly looked at his father. "do you believe in god, dad? i've never known." at so searching a question from one to whom it was impossible to make a light reply, jolyon stood for a moment feeling his back tried by the digging. "what do you mean by god?" he said; "there are two irreconcilable ideas of god. there's the unknowable creative principle--one believes in that. and there's the sum of altruism in man--naturally one believes in that." "i see. that leaves out christ, doesn't it?" jolyon stared. christ, the link between those two ideas! out of the mouth of babes! here was orthodoxy scientifically explained at last! the sublime poem of the christ life was man's attempt to join those two irreconcilable conceptions of god. and since the sum of human altruism was as much a part of the unknowable creative principle as anything else in nature and the universe, a worse link might have been chosen after all! funny--how one went through life without seeing it in that sort of way! "what do you think, old man?" he said. jolly frowned. "of course, my first year we talked a good bit about that sort of thing. but in the second year one gives it up; i don't know why--it's awfully interesting." jolyon remembered that he also had talked a good deal about it his first year at cambridge, and given it up in his second. "i suppose," said jolly, "it's the second god, you mean, that old balthasar had a sense of." "yes, or he would never have burst his poor old heart because of something outside himself." "but wasn't that just selfish emotion, really?" jolyon shook his head. "no, dogs are not pure forsytes, they love something outside themselves." jolly smiled. "well, i think i'm one," he said. "you know, i only enlisted because i dared val dartie to." "but why?" "we bar each other," said jolly shortly. "ah!" muttered jolyon. so the feud went on, unto the third generation--this modern feud which had no overt expression? 'shall i tell the boy about it?' he thought. but to what end--if he had to stop short of his own part? and jolly thought: 'it's for holly to let him know about that chap. if she doesn't, it means she doesn't want him told, and i should be sneaking. anyway, i've stopped it. i'd better leave well alone!' so they dug on in silence, till jolyon said: "now, old man, i think it's big enough." and, resting on their spades, they gazed down into the hole where a few leaves had drifted already on a sunset wind. "i can't bear this part of it," said jolyon suddenly. "let me do it, dad. he never cared much for me." jolyon shook his head. "we'll lift him very gently, leaves and all. i'd rather not see him again. i'll take his head. now!" with extreme care they raised the old dog's body, whose faded tan and white showed here and there under the leaves stirred by the wind. they laid it, heavy, cold, and unresponsive, in the grave, and jolly spread more leaves over it, while jolyon, deeply afraid to show emotion before his son, began quickly shovelling the earth on to that still shape. there went the past! if only there were a joyful future to look forward to! it was like stamping down earth on one's own life. they replaced the turf carefully on the smooth little mound, and, grateful that they had spared each other's feelings, returned to the house arm-in-arm. chapter xi timothy stays the rot on forsyte 'change news of the enlistment spread fast, together with the report that june, not to be outdone, was going to become a red cross nurse. these events were so extreme, so subversive of pure forsyteism, as to have a binding effect upon the family, and timothy's was thronged next sunday afternoon by members trying to find out what they thought about it all, and exchange with each other a sense of family credit. giles and jesse hayman would no longer defend the coast but go to south africa quite soon; jolly and val would be following in april; as to june--well, you never knew what she would really do. the retirement from spion kop and the absence of any good news from the seat of war imparted an air of reality to all this, clinched in startling fashion by timothy. the youngest of the old forsytes--scarcely eighty, in fact popularly supposed to resemble their father, 'superior dosset,' even in his best-known characteristic of drinking sherry--had been invisible for so many years that he was almost mythical. a long generation had elapsed since the risks of a publisher's business had worked on his nerves at the age of forty, so that he had got out with a mere thirty-five thousand pounds in the world, and started to make his living by careful investment. putting by every year, at compound interest, he had doubled his capital in forty years without having once known what it was like to shake in his shoes over money matters. he was now putting aside some two thousand a year, and, with the care he was taking of himself, expected, so aunt hester said, to double his capital again before he died. what he would do with it then, with his sisters dead and himself dead, was often mockingly queried by free spirits such as francie, euphemia, or young nicholas' second, christopher, whose spirit was so free that he had actually said he was going on the stage. all admitted, however, that this was best known to timothy himself, and possibly to soames, who never divulged a secret. those few forsytes who had seen him reported a man of thick and robust appearance, not very tall, with a brown-red complexion, grey hair, and little of the refinement of feature with which most of the forsytes had been endowed by 'superior dosset's' wife, a woman of some beauty and a gentle temperament. it was known that he had taken surprising interest in the war, sticking flags into a map ever since it began, and there was uneasiness as to what would happen if the english were driven into the sea, when it would be almost impossible for him to put the flags in the right places. as to his knowledge of family movements or his views about them, little was known, save that aunt hester was always declaring that he was very upset. it was, then, in the nature of a portent when forsytes, arriving on the sunday after the evacuation of spion kop, became conscious, one after the other, of a presence seated in the only really comfortable armchair, back to the light, concealing the lower part of his face with a large hand, and were greeted by the awed voice of aunt hester: "your uncle timothy, my dear." timothy's greeting to them all was somewhat identical; and rather, as it were, passed over by him than expressed: "how de do? how de do? 'xcuse me gettin' up!" francie was present, and eustace had come in his car; winifred had brought imogen, breaking the ice of the restitution proceedings with the warmth of family appreciation at val's enlistment; and marian tweetyman with the last news of giles and jesse. these with aunt juley and hester, young nicholas, euphemia, and--of all people!--george, who had come with eustace in the car, constituted an assembly worthy of the family's palmiest days. there was not one chair vacant in the whole of the little drawing-room, and anxiety was felt lest someone else should arrive. the constraint caused by timothy's presence having worn off a little, conversation took a military turn. george asked aunt juley when she was going out with the red cross, almost reducing her to a state of gaiety; whereon he turned to nicholas and said: "young nick's a warrior bold, isn't he? when's he going to don the wild khaki?" young nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation, intimated that of course his mother was very anxious. "the dromios are off, i hear," said george, turning to marian tweetyman; "we shall all be there soon. en avant, the forsytes! roll, bowl, or pitch! who's for a cooler?" aunt juley gurgled, george was so droll! should hester get timothy's map? then he could show them all where they were. at a sound from timothy, interpreted as assent, aunt hester left the room. george pursued his image of the forsyte advance, addressing timothy as field marshal; and imogen, whom he had noted at once for 'a pretty filly,'--as vivandiere; and holding his top hat between his knees, he began to beat it with imaginary drumsticks. the reception accorded to his fantasy was mixed. all laughed--george was licensed; but all felt that the family was being 'rotted'; and this seemed to them unnatural, now that it was going to give five of its members to the service of the queen. george might go too far; and there was relief when he got up, offered his arm to aunt juley, marched up to timothy, saluted him, kissed his aunt with mock passion, said, "oh! what a treat, dear papa! come on, eustace!" and walked out, followed by the grave and fastidious eustace, who had never smiled. aunt juley's bewildered, "fancy not waiting for the map! you mustn't mind him, timothy. he's so droll!" broke the hush, and timothy removed the hand from his mouth. "i don't know what things are comin' to," he was heard to say. "what's all this about goin' out there? that's not the way to beat those boers." francie alone had the hardihood to observe: "what is, then, uncle timothy?" "all this new-fangled volunteerin' and expense--lettin' money out of the country." just then aunt hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby with eruptions. with the assistance of euphemia it was laid on the piano, a small colwood grand, last played on, it was believed, the summer before aunt ann died, thirteen years ago. timothy rose. he walked over to the piano, and stood looking at his map while they all gathered round. "there you are," he said; "that's the position up to date; and very poor it is. h'm!" "yes," said francie, greatly daring, "but how are you going to alter it, uncle timothy, without more men?" "men!" said timothy; "you don't want men--wastin' the country's money. you want a napoleon, he'd settle it in a month." "but if you haven't got him, uncle timothy?" "that's their business," replied timothy. "what have we kept the army up for--to eat their heads off in time of peace! they ought to be ashamed of themselves, comin' on the country to help them like this! let every man stick to his business, and we shall get on." and looking round him, he added almost angrily: "volunteerin', indeed! throwin' good money after bad! we must save! conserve energy that's the only way." and with a prolonged sound, not quite a sniff and not quite a snort, he trod on euphemia's toe, and went out, leaving a sensation and a faint scent of barley-sugar behind him. the effect of something said with conviction by one who has evidently made a sacrifice to say it is ever considerable. and the eight forsytes left behind, all women except young nicholas, were silent for a moment round the map. then francie said: "really, i think he's right, you know. after all, what is the army for? they ought to have known. it's only encouraging them." "my dear!" cried aunt juley, "but they've been so progressive. think of their giving up their scarlet. they were always so proud of it. and now they all look like convicts. hester and i were saying only yesterday we were sure they must feel it very much. fancy what the iron duke would have said!" "the new colour's very smart," said winifred; "val looks quite nice in his." aunt juley sighed. "i do so wonder what jolyon's boy is like. to think we've never seen him! his father must be so proud of him." "his father's in paris," said winifred. aunt hester's shoulder was seen to mount suddenly, as if to ward off her sister's next remark, for juley's crumpled cheeks had gushed. "we had dear little mrs. macander here yesterday, just back from paris. and whom d'you think she saw there in the street? you'll never guess." "we shan't try, auntie," said euphemia. "irene! imagine! after all this time; walking with a fair beard...." "auntie! you'll kill me! a fair beard...." "i was going to say," said aunt juley severely, "a fair-bearded gentleman. and not a day older; she was always so pretty," she added, with a sort of lingering apology. "oh! tell us about her, auntie," cried imogen; "i can just remember her. she's the skeleton in the family cupboard, isn't she? and they're such fun." aunt hester sat down. really, juley had done it now! "she wasn't much of a skeleton as i remember her," murmured euphemia, "extremely well-covered." "my dear!" said aunt juley, "what a peculiar way of putting it--not very nice." "no, but what was she like?" persisted imogen. "i'll tell you, my child," said francie; "a kind of modern venus, very well-dressed." euphemia said sharply: "venus was never dressed, and she had blue eyes of melting sapphire." at this juncture nicholas took his leave. "mrs. nick is awfully strict," said francie with a laugh. "she has six children," said aunt juley; "it's very proper she should be careful." "was uncle soames awfully fond of her?" pursued the inexorable imogen, moving her dark luscious eyes from face to face. aunt hester made a gesture of despair, just as aunt juley answered: "yes, your uncle soames was very much attached to her." "i suppose she ran off with someone?" "no, certainly not; that is--not precisely.' "what did she do, then, auntie?" "come along, imogen," said winifred, "we must be getting back." but aunt juley interjected resolutely: "she--she didn't behave at all well." "oh, bother!" cried imogen; "that's as far as i ever get." "well, my dear," said francie, "she had a love affair which ended with the young man's death; and then she left your uncle. i always rather liked her." "she used to give me chocolates," murmured imogen, "and smell nice." "of course!" remarked euphemia. "not of course at all!" replied francie, who used a particularly expensive essence of gillyflower herself. "i can't think what we are about," said aunt juley, raising her hands, "talking of such things!" "was she divorced?" asked imogen from the door. "certainly not," cried aunt juley; "that is--certainly not." a sound was heard over by the far door. timothy had re-entered the back drawing-room. "i've come for my map," he said. "who's been divorced?" "no one, uncle," replied francie with perfect truth. timothy took his map off the piano. "don't let's have anything of that sort in the family," he said. "all this enlistin's bad enough. the country's breakin' up; i don't know what we're comin' to." he shook a thick finger at the room: "too many women nowadays, and they don't know what they want." so saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went out as if afraid of being answered. the seven women whom he had addressed broke into a subdued murmur, out of which emerged francie's, "really, the forsytes!" and aunt juley's: "he must have his feet in mustard and hot water to-night, hester; will you tell jane? the blood has gone to his head again, i'm afraid...." that evening, when she and hester were sitting alone after dinner, she dropped a stitch in her crochet, and looked up: "hester, i can't think where i've heard that dear soames wants irene to come back to him again. who was it told us that george had made a funny drawing of him with the words, 'he won't be happy till he gets it'?" "eustace," answered aunt hester from behind the times; "he had it in his pocket, but he wouldn't show it us." aunt juley was silent, ruminating. the clock ticked, the times crackled, the fire sent forth its rustling purr. aunt juley dropped another stitch. "hester," she said, "i have had such a dreadful thought." "then don't tell me," said aunt hester quickly. "oh! but i must. you can't think how dreadful!" her voice sank to a whisper: "jolyon--jolyon, they say, has a--has a fair beard, now." chapter xii progress of the chase two days after the dinner at james', mr. polteed provided soames with food for thought. "a gentleman," he said, consulting the key concealed in his left hand, " as we say, has been paying marked attention to during the last month in paris. but at present there seems to have been nothing very conclusive. the meetings have all been in public places, without concealment--restaurants, the opera, the comique, the louvre, luxembourg gardens, lounge of the hotel, and so forth. she has not yet been traced to his rooms, nor vice versa. they went to fontainebleau--but nothing of value. in short, the situation is promising, but requires patience." and, looking up suddenly, he added: "one rather curious point-- has the same name as--er-- !" 'the fellow knows i'm her husband,' thought soames. "christian name--an odd one--jolyon," continued mr. polteed. "we know his address in paris and his residence here. we don't wish, of course, to be running a wrong hare." "go on with it, but be careful," said soames doggedly. instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his secret made him all the more reticent. "excuse me," said mr. polteed, "i'll just see if there's anything fresh in." he returned with some letters. relocking the door, he glanced at the envelopes. "yes, here's a personal one from to myself." "well?" said soames. "um!" said mr. polteed, "she says: ' left for england to-day. address on his baggage: robin hill. parted from in louvre gallery at . ; nothing very striking. thought it best to stay and continue observation of . you will deal with in england if you think desirable, no doubt.'" and mr. polteed lifted an unprofessional glance on soames, as though he might be storing material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of business. "very intelligent woman, , and a wonderful make-up. not cheap, but earns her money well. there's no suspicion of being shadowed so far. but after a time, as you know, sensitive people are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything definite to go on. i should rather advise letting-up on , and keeping an eye on . we can't get at correspondence without great risk. i hardly advise that at this stage. but you can tell your client that it's looking up very well." and again his narrowed eyes gleamed at his taciturn customer. "no," said soames suddenly, "i prefer that you should keep the watch going discreetly in paris, and not concern yourself with this end." "very well," replied mr. polteed, "we can do it." "what--what is the manner between them?" "i'll read you what she says," said mr. polteed, unlocking a bureau drawer and taking out a file of papers; "she sums it up somewhere confidentially. yes, here it is! ' very attractive--conclude , longer in the tooth' (slang for age, you know)--'distinctly gone--waiting his time-- perhaps holding off for terms, impossible to say without knowing more. but inclined to think on the whole--doesn't know her mind--likely to act on impulse some day. both have style.'" "what does that mean?" said soames between close lips. "well," murmured mr. polteed with a smile, showing many white teeth, "an expression we use. in other words, it's not likely to be a weekend business--they'll come together seriously or not at all." "h'm!" muttered soames, "that's all, is it?" "yes," said mr. polteed, "but quite promising." 'spider!' thought soames. "good-day!" he walked into the green park that he might cross to victoria station and take the underground into the city. for so late in january it was warm; sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the frosty grass--an illumined cobweb of a day. little spiders--and great spiders! and the greatest spinner of all, his own tenacity, for ever wrapping its cocoon of threads round any clear way out. what was that fellow hanging round irene for? was it really as polteed suggested? or was jolyon but taking compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it--sentimental radical chap that he had always been? if it were, indeed, as polteed hinted! soames stood still. it could not be! the fellow was seven years older than himself, no better looking! no richer! what attraction had he? 'besides, he's come back,' he thought; 'that doesn't look---i'll go and see him!' and, taking out a card, he wrote: "if you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, i shall be at the connoisseurs any day between . and , or i could come to the hotch potch if you prefer it. i want to see you.--s. f." he walked up st. james's street and confided it to the porter at the hotch potch. "give mr. jolyon forsyte this as soon as he comes in," he said, and took one of the new motor cabs into the city.... jolyon received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face towards the connoisseurs. what did soames want now? had he got wind of paris? and stepping across st. james's street, he determined to make no secret of his visit. 'but it won't do,' he thought, 'to let him know she's there, unless he knows already.' in this complicated state of mind he was conducted to where soames was drinking tea in a small bay-window. "no tea, thanks," said jolyon, "but i'll go on smoking if i may." the curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were lighted; the two cousins sat waiting on each other. "you've been in paris, i hear," said soames at last. "yes; just back." "young val told me; he and your boy are going off, then?" jolyon nodded. "you didn't happen to see irene, i suppose. it appears she's abroad somewhere." jolyon wreathed himself in smoke before he answered: "yes, i saw her." "how was she?" "very well." there was another silence; then soames roused himself in his chair. "when i saw you last," he said, "i was in two minds. we talked, and you expressed your opinion. i don't wish to reopen that discussion. i only wanted to say this: my position with her is extremely difficult. i don't want you to go using your influence against me. what happened is a very long time ago. i'm going to ask her to let bygones be bygones." "you have asked her, you know," murmured jolyon. "the idea was new to her then; it came as a shock. but the more she thinks of it, the more she must see that it's the only way out for both of us." "that's not my impression of her state of mind," said jolyon with particular calm. "and, forgive my saying, you misconceive the matter if you think reason comes into it at all." he saw his cousin's pale face grow paler--he had used, without knowing it, irene's own words. "thanks," muttered soames, "but i see things perhaps more plainly than you think. i only want to be sure that you won't try to influence her against me." "i don't know what makes you think i have any influence," said jolyon; "but if i have i'm bound to use it in the direction of what i think is her happiness. i am what they call a 'feminist,' i believe." "feminist!" repeated soames, as if seeking to gain time. "does that mean that you're against me?" "bluntly," said jolyon, "i'm against any woman living with any man whom she definitely dislikes. it appears to me rotten." "and i suppose each time you see her you put your opinions into her mind." "i am not likely to be seeing her." "not going back to paris?" "not so far as i know," said jolyon, conscious of the intent watchfulness in soames' face. "well, that's all i had to say. anyone who comes between man and wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility." jolyon rose and made him a slight bow. "good-bye," he said, and, without offering to shake hands, moved away, leaving soames staring after him. 'we forsytes,' thought jolyon, hailing a cab, 'are very civilised. with simpler folk that might have come to a row. if it weren't for my boy going to the war....' the war! a gust of his old doubt swept over him. a precious war! domination of peoples or of women! attempts to master and possess those who did not want you! the negation of gentle decency! possession, vested rights; and anyone 'agin' 'em--outcast! 'thank heaven!' he thought, 'i always felt "agin" 'em, anyway!' yes! even before his first disastrous marriage he could remember fuming over the bludgeoning of ireland, or the matrimonial suits of women trying to be free of men they loathed. parsons would have it that freedom of soul and body were quite different things! pernicious doctrine! body and soul could not thus be separated. free will was the strength of any tie, and not its weakness. 'i ought to have told soames,' he thought, 'that i think him comic. ah! but he's tragic, too!' was there anything, indeed, more tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own possessive instinct, who couldn't see the sky for it, or even enter fully into what another person felt! 'i must write and warn her,' he thought; 'he's going to have another try.' and all the way home to robin hill he rebelled at the strength of that duty to his son which prevented him from posting back to paris.... but soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing ache--a jealous ache, as if it had been revealed to him that this fellow held precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of resistance to his way out. 'does that mean that you're against me?' he had got nothing out of that disingenuous question. feminist! phrasey fellow! 'i mustn't rush things,' he thought. 'i have some breathing space; he's not going back to paris, unless he was lying. i'll let the spring come!' though how the spring could serve him, save by adding to his ache, he could not tell. and gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from pool to pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought: 'nothing seems any good--nothing seems worth while. i'm loney--that's the trouble.' he closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see irene, in a dark street below a church--passing, turning her neck so that he caught the gleam of her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark hat, which had gold spangles on it and a veil hanging down behind. he opened his eyes--so vividly he had seen her! a woman was passing below, but not she! oh no, there was nothing there! chapter xiii 'here we are again!' imogen's frocks for her first season exercised the judgment of her mother and the purse of her grandfather all through the month of march. with forsyte tenacity winifred quested for perfection. it took her mind off the slowly approaching rite which would give her a freedom but doubtfully desired; took her mind, too, off her boy and his fast approaching departure for a war from which the news remained disquieting. like bees busy on summer flowers, or bright gadflies hovering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms, she and her 'little daughter,' tall nearly as herself and with a bust measurement not far inferior, hovered in the shops of regent street, the establishments of hanover square and of bond street, lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics. dozens of young women of striking deportment and peculiar gait paraded before winifred and imogen, draped in 'creations.' the models--'very new, modom; quite the latest thing--' which those two reluctantly turned down, would have filled a museum; the models which they were obliged to have nearly emptied james' bank. it was no good doing things by halves, winifred felt, in view of the need for making this first and sole untarnished season a conspicuous success. their patience in trying the patience of those impersonal creatures who swam about before them could alone have been displayed by such as were moved by faith. it was for winifred a long prostration before her dear goddess fashion, fervent as a catholic might make before the virgin; for imogen an experience by no means too unpleasant--she often looked so nice, and flattery was implicit everywhere: in a word it was 'amusing.' on the afternoon of the th of march, having, as it were, gutted skywards, they had sought refreshment over the way at caramel and baker's, and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with cream, turned homewards through berkeley square of an evening touched with spring. opening the door--freshly painted a light olive-green; nothing neglected that year to give imogen a good send-off--winifred passed towards the silver basket to see if anyone had called, and suddenly her nostrils twitched. what was that scent? imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library, and stood absorbed. rather sharply, because of the queer feeling in her breast, winifred said: "take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner." imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. winifred heard the door of her room slammed to, and drew a long savouring breath. was it spring tickling her senses--whipping up nostalgia for her 'clown,' against all wisdom and outraged virtue? a male scent! a faint reek of cigars and lavender-water not smelt since that early autumn night six months ago, when she had called him 'the limit.' whence came it, or was it ghost of scent--sheer emanation from memory? she looked round her. nothing--not a thing, no tiniest disturbance of her hall, nor of the diningroom. a little day-dream of a scent--illusory, saddening, silly! in the silver basket were new cards, two with 'mr. and mrs. polegate thom,' and one with 'mr. polegate thom' thereon; she sniffed them, but they smelled severe. 'i must be tired,' she thought, 'i'll go and lie down.' upstairs the drawing-room was darkened, waiting for some hand to give it evening light; and she passed on up to her bedroom. this, too, was half-curtained and dim, for it was six o'clock. winifred threw off her coat--that scent again!--then stood, as if shot, transfixed against the bed-rail. something dark had risen from the sofa in the far corner. a word of horror--in her family--escaped her: "god!" "it's i--monty," said a voice. clutching the bed-rail, winifred reached up and turned the switch of the light hanging above her dressing-table. he appeared just on the rim of the light's circumference, emblazoned from the absence of his watch-chain down to boots neat and sooty brown, but--yes!--split at the toecap. his chest and face were shadowy. surely he was thin--or was it a trick of the light? he advanced, lighted now from toe-cap to the top of his dark head--surely a little grizzled! his complexion had darkened, sallowed; his black moustache had lost boldness, become sardonic; there were lines which she did not know about his face. there was no pin in his tie. his suit--ah!--she knew that--but how unpressed, unglossy! she stared again at the toe-cap of his boot. something big and relentless had been 'at him,' had turned and twisted, raked and scraped him. and she stayed, not speaking, motionless, staring at that crack across the toe. "well!" he said, "i got the order. i'm back." winifred's bosom began to heave. the nostalgia for her husband which had rushed up with that scent was struggling with a deeper jealousy than any she had felt yet. there he was--a dark, and as if harried, shadow of his sleek and brazen self! what force had done this to him--squeezed him like an orange to its dry rind! that woman! "i'm back," he said again. "i've had a beastly time. by god! i came steerage. i've got nothing but what i stand up in, and that bag." "and who has the rest?" cried winifred, suddenly alive. "how dared you come? you knew it was just for divorce that you got that order to come back. don't touch me!" they held each to the rail of the big bed where they had spent so many years of nights together. many times, yes--many times she had wanted him back. but now that he had come she was filled with this cold and deadly resentment. he put his hand up to his moustache; but did not frizz and twist it in the old familiar way, he just pulled it downwards. "gad!" he said: "if you knew the time i've had!" "i'm glad i don't!" "are the kids all right?" winifred nodded. "how did you get in?" "with my key." "then the maids don't know. you can't stay here, monty." he uttered a little sardonic laugh. "where then?" "anywhere." "well, look at me! that--that damned...." "if you mention her," cried winifred, "i go straight out to park lane and i don't come back." suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic that it moved her. he shut his eyes. it was as if he had said: 'all right! i'm dead to the world!' "you can have a room for the night," she said; "your things are still here. only imogen is at home." he leaned back against the bed-rail. "well, it's in your hands," and his own made a writhing movement. "i've been through it. you needn't hit too hard--it isn't worth while. i've been frightened; i've been frightened, freddie." that old pet name, disused for years and years, sent a shiver through winifred. 'what am i to do with him?' she thought. 'what in god's name am i to do with him?' "got a cigarette?" she gave him one from a little box she kept up there for when she couldn't sleep at night, and lighted it. with that action the matter-of-fact side of her nature came to life again. "go and have a hot bath. i'll put some clothes out for you in the dressing-room. we can talk later." he nodded, and fixed his eyes on her--they looked half-dead, or was it that the folds in the lids had become heavier? 'he's not the same,' she thought. he would never be quite the same again! but what would he be? "all right!" he said, and went towards the door. he even moved differently, like a man who has lost illusion and doubts whether it is worth while to move at all. when he was gone, and she heard the water in the bath running, she put out a complete set of garments on the bed in his dressing-room, then went downstairs and fetched up the biscuit box and whisky. putting on her coat again, and listening a moment at the bathroom door, she went down and out. in the street she hesitated. past seven o'clock! would soames be at his club or at park lane? she turned towards the latter. back! soames had always feared it--she had sometimes hoped it.... back! so like him--clown that he was--with this: 'here we are again!' to make fools of them all--of the law, of soames, of herself! yet to have done with the law, not to have that murky cloud hanging over her and the children! what a relief! ah! but how to accept his return? that 'woman' had ravaged him, taken from him passion such as he had never bestowed on herself, such as she had not thought him capable of. there was the sting! that selfish, blatant 'clown' of hers, whom she herself had never really stirred, had been swept and ungarnished by another woman! insulting! too insulting! not right, not decent to take him back! and yet she had asked for him; the law perhaps would make her now! he was as much her husband as ever--she had put herself out of court! and all he wanted, no doubt, was money--to keep him in cigars and lavender-water! that scent! 'after all, i'm not old,' she thought, 'not old yet!' but that woman who had reduced him to those words: 'i've been through it. i've been frightened--frightened, freddie!' she neared her father's house, driven this way and that, while all the time the forsyte undertow was drawing her to deep conclusion that after all he was her property, to be held against a robbing world. and so she came to james'. "mr. soames? in his room? i'll go up; don't say i'm here." her brother was dressing. she found him before a mirror, tying a black bow with an air of despising its ends. "hullo!" he said, contemplating her in the glass; "what's wrong?" "monty!" said winifred stonily. soames spun round. "what!" "back!" "hoist," muttered soames, "with our own petard. why the deuce didn't you let me try cruelty? i always knew it was too much risk this way." "oh! don't talk about that! what shall i do?" soames answered, with a deep, deep sound. "well?" said winifred impatiently. "what has he to say for himself?" "nothing. one of his boots is split across the toe." soames stared at her. "ah!" he said, "of course! on his beam ends. so--it begins again! this'll about finish father." "can't we keep it from him?" "impossible. he has an uncanny flair for anything that's worrying." and he brooded, with fingers hooked into his blue silk braces. "there ought to be some way in law," he muttered, "to make him safe." "no," cried winifred, "i won't be made a fool of again; i'd sooner put up with him." the two stared at each other. their hearts were full of feeling, but they could give it no expression--forsytes that they were. "where did you leave him?" "in the bath," and winifred gave a little bitter laugh. "the only thing he's brought back is lavender-water." "steady!" said soames, "you're thoroughly upset. i'll go back with you." "what's the use?" "we ought to make terms with him." "terms! it'll always be the same. when he recovers--cards and betting, drink and ....!" she was silent, remembering the look on her husband's face. the burnt child--the burnt child. perhaps...! "recovers?" replied soames: "is he ill?" "no; burnt out; that's all." soames took his waistcoat from a chair and put it on, he took his coat and got into it, he scented his handkerchief with eau-de-cologne, threaded his watch-chain, and said: "we haven't any luck." and in the midst of her own trouble winifred was sorry for him, as if in that little saying he had revealed deep trouble of his own. "i'd like to see mother," she said. "she'll be with father in their room. come down quietly to the study. i'll get her." winifred stole down to the little dark study, chiefly remarkable for a canaletto too doubtful to be placed elsewhere, and a fine collection of law reports unopened for many years. here she stood, with her back to maroon-coloured curtains close-drawn, staring at the empty grate, till her mother came in followed by soames. "oh! my poor dear!" said emily: "how miserable you look in here! this is too bad of him, really!" as a family they had so guarded themselves from the expression of all unfashionable emotion that it was impossible to go up and give her daughter a good hug. but there was comfort in her cushioned voice, and her still dimpled shoulders under some rare black lace. summoning pride and the desire not to distress her mother, winifred said in her most off-hand voice: "it's all right, mother; no good fussing." "i don't see," said emily, looking at soames, "why winifred shouldn't tell him that she'll prosecute him if he doesn't keep off the premises. he took her pearls; and if he's not brought them back, that's quite enough." winifred smiled. they would all plunge about with suggestions of this and that, but she knew already what she would be doing, and that was--nothing. the feeling that, after all, she had won a sort of victory, retained her property, was every moment gaining ground in her. no! if she wanted to punish him, she could do it at home without the world knowing. "well," said emily, "come into the dining-room comfortably--you must stay and have dinner with us. leave it to me to tell your father." and, as winifred moved towards the door, she turned out the light. not till then did they see the disaster in the corridor. there, attracted by light from a room never lighted, james was standing with his duncoloured camel-hair shawl folded about him, so that his arms were not free and his silvered head looked cut off from his fashionably trousered legs as if by an expanse of desert. he stood, inimitably stork-like, with an expression as if he saw before him a frog too large to swallow. "what's all this?" he said. "tell your father? you never tell me anything." the moment found emily without reply. it was winifred who went up to him, and, laying one hand on each of his swathed, helpless arms, said: "monty's not gone bankrupt, father. he's only come back." they all three expected something serious to happen, and were glad she had kept that grip of his arms, but they did not know the depth of root in that shadowy old forsyte. something wry occurred about his shaven mouth and chin, something scratchy between those long silvery whiskers. then he said with a sort of dignity: "he'll be the death of me. i knew how it would be." "you mustn't worry, father," said winifred calmly. "i mean to make him behave." "ah!" said james. "here, take this thing off, i'm hot." they unwound the shawl. he turned, and walked firmly to the dining-room. "i don't want any soup," he said to warmson, and sat down in his chair. they all sat down too, winifred still in her hat, while warmson laid the fourth place. when he left the room, james said: "what's he brought back?" "nothing, father." james concentrated his eyes on his own image in a tablespoon. "divorce!" he muttered; "rubbish! what was i about? i ought to have paid him an allowance to stay out of england. soames you go and propose it to him." it seemed so right and simple a suggestion that even winifred was surprised when she said: "no, i'll keep him now he's back; he must just behave--that's all." they all looked at her. it had always been known that winifred had pluck. "out there!" said james elliptically, "who knows what cut-throats! you look for his revolver! don't go to bed without. you ought to have warmson to sleep in the house. i'll see him myself tomorrow." they were touched by this declaration, and emily said comfortably: "that's right, james, we won't have any nonsense." "ah!" muttered james darkly, "i can't tell." the advent of warmson with fish diverted conversation. when, directly after dinner, winifred went over to kiss her father good-night, he looked up with eyes so full of question and distress that she put all the comfort she could into her voice. "it's all right, daddy, dear; don't worry. i shan't need anyone--he's quite bland. i shall only be upset if you worry. good-night, bless you!" james repeated the words, "bless you!" as if he did not quite know what they meant, and his eyes followed her to the door. she reached home before nine, and went straight upstairs. dartie was lying on the bed in his dressing-room, fully redressed in a blue serge suit and pumps; his arms were crossed behind his head, and an extinct cigarette drooped from his mouth. winifred remembered ridiculously the flowers in her window-boxes after a blazing summer day; the way they lay, or rather stood--parched, yet rested by the sun's retreat. it was as if a little dew had come already on her burnt-up husband. he said apathetically: "i suppose you've been to park lane. how's the old man?" winifred could not help the bitter answer: "not dead." he winced, actually he winced. "understand, monty," she said, "i will not have him worried. if you aren't going to behave yourself, you may go back, you may go anywhere. have you had dinner?" no. "would you like some?" he shrugged his shoulders. "imogen offered me some. i didn't want any." imogen! in the plenitude of emotion winifred had forgotten her. "so you've seen her? what did she say?" "she gave me a kiss." with mortification winifred saw his dark sardonic face relaxed. 'yes!' she thought, 'he cares for her, not for me a bit.' dartie's eyes were moving from side to side. "does she know about me?" he said. it flashed through winifred that here was the weapon she needed. he minded their knowing! "no. val knows. the others don't; they only know you went away." she heard him sigh with relief. "but they shall know," she said firmly, "if you give me cause." "all right!" he muttered, "hit me! i'm down!" winifred went up to the bed. "look here, monty! i don't want to hit you. i don't want to hurt you. i shan't allude to anything. i'm not going to worry. what's the use?" she was silent a moment. "i can't stand any more, though, and i won't! you'd better know. you've made me suffer. but i used to be fond of you. for the sake of that...." she met the heavy-lidded gaze of his brown eyes with the downward stare of her green-grey eyes; touched his hand suddenly, turned her back, and went into her room. she sat there a long time before her glass, fingering her rings, thinking of this subdued dark man, almost a stranger to her, on the bed in the other room; resolutely not 'worrying,' but gnawed by jealousy of what he had been through, and now and again just visited by pity. chapter xiv outlandish night soames doggedly let the spring come--no easy task for one conscious that time was flying, his birds in the bush no nearer the hand, no issue from the web anywhere visible. mr. polteed reported nothing, except that his watch went on--costing a lot of money. val and his cousin were gone to the war, whence came news more favourable; dartie was behaving himself so far; james had retained his health; business prospered almost terribly--there was nothing to worry soames except that he was 'held up,' could make no step in any direction. he did not exactly avoid soho, for he could not afford to let them think that he had 'piped off,' as james would have put it--he might want to 'pipe on' again at any minute. but he had to be so restrained and cautious that he would often pass the door of the restaurant bretagne without going in, and wander out of the purlieus of that region which always gave him the feeling of having been possessively irregular. he wandered thus one may night into regent street and the most amazing crowd he had ever seen; a shrieking, whistling, dancing, jostling, grotesque and formidably jovial crowd, with false noses and mouth-organs, penny whistles and long feathers, every appanage of idiocy, as it seemed to him. mafeking! of course, it had been relieved! good! but was that an excuse? who were these people, what were they, where had they come from into the west end? his face was tickled, his ears whistled into. girls cried: 'keep your hair on, stucco!' a youth so knocked off his top-hat that he recovered it with difficulty. crackers were exploding beneath his nose, between his feet. he was bewildered, exasperated, offended. this stream of people came from every quarter, as if impulse had unlocked flood-gates, let flow waters of whose existence he had heard, perhaps, but believed in never. this, then, was the populace, the innumerable living negation of gentility and forsyteism. this was--egad!--democracy! it stank, yelled, was hideous! in the east end, or even soho, perhaps--but here in regent street, in piccadilly! what were the police about! in , soames, with his forsyte thousands, had never seen the cauldron with the lid off; and now looking into it, could hardly believe his scorching eyes. the whole thing was unspeakable! these people had no restraint, they seemed to think him funny; such swarms of them, rude, coarse, laughing--and what laughter! nothing sacred to them! he shouldn't be surprised if they began to break windows. in pall mall, past those august dwellings, to enter which people paid sixty pounds, this shrieking, whistling, dancing dervish of a crowd was swarming. from the club windows his own kind were looking out on them with regulated amusement. they didn't realise! why, this was serious--might come to anything! the crowd was cheerful, but some day they would come in different mood! he remembered there had been a mob in the late eighties, when he was at brighton; they had smashed things and made speeches. but more than dread, he felt a deep surprise. they were hysterical--it wasn't english! and all about the relief of a little town as big as--watford, six thousand miles away. restraint, reserve! those qualities to him more dear almost than life, those indispensable attributes of property and culture, where were they? it wasn't english! no, it wasn't english! so soames brooded, threading his way on. it was as if he had suddenly caught sight of someone cutting the covenant 'for quiet possession' out of his legal documents; or of a monster lurking and stalking out in the future, casting its shadow before. their want of stolidity, their want of reverence! it was like discovering that nine-tenths of the people of england were foreigners. and if that were so--then, anything might happen! at hyde park corner he ran into george forsyte, very sunburnt from racing, holding a false nose in his hand. "hallo, soames!" he said, "have a nose!" soames responded with a pale smile. "got this from one of these sportsmen," went on george, who had evidently been dining; "had to lay him out--for trying to bash my hat. i say, one of these days we shall have to fight these chaps, they're getting so damned cheeky--all radicals and socialists. they want our goods. you tell uncle james that, it'll make him sleep." 'in vino veritas,' thought soames, but he only nodded, and passed on up hamilton place. there was but a trickle of roysterers in park lane, not very noisy. and looking up at the houses he thought: 'after all, we're the backbone of the country. they won't upset us easily. possession's nine points of the law.' but, as he closed the door of his father's house behind him, all that queer outlandish nightmare in the streets passed out of his mind almost as completely as if, having dreamed it, he had awakened in the warm clean morning comfort of his spring-mattressed bed. walking into the centre of the great empty drawing-room, he stood still. a wife! somebody to talk things over with. one had a right! damn it! one had a right! part iii chapter i soames in paris soames had travelled little. aged nineteen he had made the 'petty tour' with his father, mother, and winifred--brussels, the rhine, switzerland, and home by way of paris. aged twenty-seven, just when he began to take interest in pictures, he had spent five hot weeks in italy, looking into the renaissance--not so much in it as he had been led to expect--and a fortnight in paris on his way back, looking into himself, as became a forsyte surrounded by people so strongly self-centred and 'foreign' as the french. his knowledge of their language being derived from his public school, he did not understand them when they spoke. silence he had found better for all parties; one did not make a fool of oneself. he had disliked the look of the men's clothes, the closed-in cabs, the theatres which looked like bee-hives, the galleries which smelled of beeswax. he was too cautious and too shy to explore that side of paris supposed by forsytes to constitute its attraction under the rose; and as for a collector's bargain--not one to be had! as nicholas might have put it--they were a grasping lot. he had come back uneasy, saying paris was overrated. when, therefore, in june of he went to paris, it was but his third attempt on the centre of civilisation. this time, however, the mountain was going to mahomet; for he felt by now more deeply civilised than paris, and perhaps he really was. moreover, he had a definite objective. this was no mere genuflexion to a shrine of taste and immorality, but the prosecution of his own legitimate affairs. he went, indeed, because things were getting past a joke. the watch went on and on, and--nothing--nothing! jolyon had never returned to paris, and no one else was 'suspect!' busy with new and very confidential matters, soames was realising more than ever how essential reputation is to a solicitor. but at night and in his leisure moments he was ravaged by the thought that time was always flying and money flowing in, and his own future as much 'in irons' as ever. since mafeking night he had become aware that a 'young fool of a doctor' was hanging round annette. twice he had come across him--a cheerful young fool, not more than thirty. nothing annoyed soames so much as cheerfulness--an indecent, extravagant sort of quality, which had no relation to facts. the mixture of his desires and hopes was, in a word, becoming torture; and lately the thought had come to him that perhaps irene knew she was being shadowed: it was this which finally decided him to go and see for himself; to go and once more try to break down her repugnance, her refusal to make her own and his path comparatively smooth once more. if he failed again--well, he would see what she did with herself, anyway! he went to an hotel in the rue caumartin, highly recommended to forsytes, where practically nobody spoke french. he had formed no plan. he did not want to startle her; yet must contrive that she had no chance to evade him by flight. and next morning he set out in bright weather. paris had an air of gaiety, a sparkle over its star-shape which almost annoyed soames. he stepped gravely, his nose lifted a little sideways in real curiosity. he desired now to understand things french. was not annette french? there was much to be got out of his visit, if he could only get it. in this laudable mood and the place de la concorde he was nearly run down three times. he came on the 'cours la reine,' where irene's hotel was situated, almost too suddenly, for he had not yet fixed on his procedure. crossing over to the river side, he noted the building, white and cheerful-looking, with green sunblinds, seen through a screen of plane-tree leaves. and, conscious that it would be far better to meet her casually in some open place than to risk a call, he sat down on a bench whence he could watch the entrance. it was not quite eleven o'clock, and improbable that she had yet gone out. some pigeons were strutting and preening their feathers in the pools of sunlight between the shadows of the plane-trees. a workman in a blue blouse passed, and threw them crumbs from the paper which contained his dinner. a 'bonne' coiffed with ribbon shepherded two little girls with pig-tails and frilled drawers. a cab meandered by, whose cocher wore a blue coat and a black-glazed hat. to soames a kind of affectation seemed to cling about it all, a sort of picturesqueness which was out of date. a theatrical people, the french! he lit one of his rare cigarettes, with a sense of injury that fate should be casting his life into outlandish waters. he shouldn't wonder if irene quite enjoyed this foreign life; she had never been properly english--even to look at! and he began considering which of those windows could be hers under the green sunblinds. how could he word what he had come to say so that it might pierce the defence of her proud obstinacy? he threw the fag-end of his cigarette at a pigeon, with the thought: 'i can't stay here for ever twiddling my thumbs. better give it up and call on her in the late afternoon.' but he still sat on, heard twelve strike, and then half-past. 'i'll wait till one,' he thought, 'while i'm about it.' but just then he started up, and shrinkingly sat down again. a woman had come out in a cream-coloured frock, and was moving away under a fawn-coloured parasol. irene herself! he waited till she was too far away to recognise him, then set out after her. she was strolling as though she had no particular objective; moving, if he remembered rightly, toward the bois de boulogne. for half an hour at least he kept his distance on the far side of the way till she had passed into the bois itself. was she going to meet someone after all? some confounded frenchman--one of those 'bel ami' chaps, perhaps, who had nothing to do but hang about women--for he had read that book with difficulty and a sort of disgusted fascination. he followed doggedly along a shady alley, losing sight of her now and then when the path curved. and it came back to him how, long ago, one night in hyde park he had slid and sneaked from tree to tree, from seat to seat, hunting blindly, ridiculously, in burning jealousy for her and young bosinney. the path bent sharply, and, hurrying, he came on her sitting in front of a small fountain--a little green-bronze niobe veiled in hair to her slender hips, gazing at the pool she had wept: he came on her so suddenly that he was past before he could turn and take off his hat. she did not start up. she had always had great self-command--it was one of the things he most admired in her, one of his greatest grievances against her, because he had never been able to tell what she was thinking. had she realised that he was following? her self-possession made him angry; and, disdaining to explain his presence, he pointed to the mournful little niobe, and said: "that's rather a good thing." he could see, then, that she was struggling to preserve her composure. "i didn't want to startle you; is this one of your haunts?" "yes." "a little lonely." as he spoke, a lady, strolling by, paused to look at the fountain and passed on. irene's eyes followed her. "no," she said, prodding the ground with her parasol, "never lonely. one has always one's shadow." soames understood; and, looking at her hard, he exclaimed: "well, it's your own fault. you can be free of it at any moment. irene, come back to me, and be free." irene laughed. "don't!" cried soames, stamping his foot; "it's inhuman. listen! is there any condition i can make which will bring you back to me? if i promise you a separate house--and just a visit now and then?" irene rose, something wild suddenly in her face and figure. "none! none! none! you may hunt me to the grave. i will not come." outraged and on edge, soames recoiled. "don't make a scene!" he said sharply. and they both stood motionless, staring at the little niobe, whose greenish flesh the sunlight was burnishing. "that's your last word, then," muttered soames, clenching his hands; "you condemn us both." irene bent her head. "i can't come back. good-bye!" a feeling of monstrous injustice flared up in soames. "stop!" he said, "and listen to me a moment. you gave me a sacred vow--you came to me without a penny. you had all i could give you. you broke that vow without cause, you made me a by-word; you refused me a child; you've left me in prison; you--you still move me so that i want you--i want you. well, what do you think of yourself?" irene turned, her face was deadly pale, her eyes burning dark. "god made me as i am," she said; "wicked if you like--but not so wicked that i'll give myself again to a man i hate." the sunlight gleamed on her hair as she moved away, and seemed to lay a caress all down her clinging cream-coloured frock. soames could neither speak nor move. that word 'hate'--so extreme, so primitive--made all the forsyte in him tremble. with a deep imprecation he strode away from where she had vanished, and ran almost into the arms of the lady sauntering back--the fool, the shadowing fool! he was soon dripping with perspiration, in the depths of the bois. 'well,' he thought, 'i need have no consideration for her now; she has not a grain of it for me. i'll show her this very day that she's my wife still.' but on the way home to his hotel, he was forced to the conclusion that he did not know what he meant. one could not make scenes in public, and short of scenes in public what was there he could do? he almost cursed his own thin-skinnedness. she might deserve no consideration; but he--alas! deserved some at his own hands. and sitting lunchless in the hall of his hotel, with tourists passing every moment, baedeker in hand, he was visited by black dejection. in irons! his whole life, with every natural instinct and every decent yearning gagged and fettered, and all because fate had driven him seventeen years ago to set his heart upon this woman--so utterly, that even now he had no real heart to set on any other! cursed was the day he had met her, and his eyes for seeing in her anything but the cruel venus she was! and yet, still seeing her with the sunlight on the clinging china crepe of her gown, he uttered a little groan, so that a tourist who was passing, thought: 'man in pain! let's see! what did i have for lunch?' later, in front of a cafe near the opera, over a glass of cold tea with lemon and a straw in it, he took the malicious resolution to go and dine at her hotel. if she were there, he would speak to her; if she were not, he would leave a note. he dressed carefully, and wrote as follows: "your idyll with that fellow jolyon forsyte is known to me at all events. if you pursue it, understand that i will leave no stone unturned to make things unbearable for him. 's. f.'" he sealed this note but did not address it, refusing to write the maiden name which she had impudently resumed, or to put the word forsyte on the envelope lest she should tear it up unread. then he went out, and made his way through the glowing streets, abandoned to evening pleasure-seekers. entering her hotel, he took his seat in a far corner of the dining-room whence he could see all entrances and exits. she was not there. he ate little, quickly, watchfully. she did not come. he lingered in the lounge over his coffee, drank two liqueurs of brandy. but still she did not come. he went over to the keyboard and examined the names. number twelve, on the first floor! and he determined to take the note up himself. he mounted red-carpeted stairs, past a little salon; eight-ten-twelve! should he knock, push the note under, or....? he looked furtively round and turned the handle. the door opened, but into a little space leading to another door; he knocked on that--no answer. the door was locked. it fitted very closely to the floor; the note would not go under. he thrust it back into his pocket, and stood a moment listening. he felt somehow certain that she was not there. and suddenly he came away, passing the little salon down the stairs. he stopped at the bureau and said: "will you kindly see that mrs. heron has this note?" "madame heron left to-day, monsieur--suddenly, about three o'clock. there was illness in her family." soames compressed his lips. "oh!" he said; "do you know her address?" "non, monsieur. england, i think." soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. he hailed an open horse-cab which was passing. "drive me anywhere!" the man, who, obviously, did not understand, smiled, and waved his whip. and soames was borne along in that little yellow-wheeled victoria all over star-shaped paris, with here and there a pause, and the question, "c'est par ici, monsieur?" "no, go on," till the man gave it up in despair, and the yellow-wheeled chariot continued to roll between the tall, flat-fronted shuttered houses and plane-tree avenues--a little flying dutchman of a cab. 'like my life,' thought soames, 'without object, on and on!' chapter ii in the web soames returned to england the following day, and on the third morning received a visit from mr. polteed, who wore a flower and carried a brown billycock hat. soames motioned him to a seat. "the news from the war is not so bad, is it?" said mr. polteed. "i hope i see you well, sir." "thanks! quite." mr. polteed leaned forward, smiled, opened his hand, looked into it, and said softly: "i think we've done your business for you at last." "what?" ejaculated soames. "nineteen reports quite suddenly what i think we shall be justified in calling conclusive evidence," and mr. polteed paused. "well?" "on the th instant, after witnessing an interview between and a party, earlier in the day, can swear to having seen him coming out of her bedroom in the hotel about ten o'clock in the evening. with a little care in the giving of the evidence that will be enough, especially as has left paris--no doubt with the party in question. in fact, they both slipped off, and we haven't got on to them again, yet; but we shall--we shall. she's worked hard under very difficult circumstances, and i'm glad she's brought it off at last." mr. polteed took out a cigarette, tapped its end against the table, looked at soames, and put it back. the expression on his client's face was not encouraging. "who is this new person?" said soames abruptly. "that we don't know. she'll swear to the fact, and she's got his appearance pat." mr. polteed took out a letter, and began reading: "'middle-aged, medium height, blue dittoes in afternoon, evening dress at night, pale, dark hair, small dark moustache, flat cheeks, good chin, grey eyes, small feet, guilty look....'" soames rose and went to the window. he stood there in sardonic fury. congenital idiot--spidery congenital idiot! seven months at fifteen pounds a week--to be tracked down as his own wife's lover! guilty look! he threw the window open. "it's hot," he said, and came back to his seat. crossing his knees, he bent a supercilious glance on mr. polteed. "i doubt if that's quite good enough," he said, drawling the words, "with no name or address. i think you may let that lady have a rest, and take up our friend at this end." whether polteed had spotted him he could not tell; but he had a mental vision of him in the midst of his cronies dissolved in inextinguishable laughter. 'guilty look!' damnation! mr. polteed said in a tone of urgency, almost of pathos: "i assure you we have put it through sometimes on less than that. it's paris, you know. attractive woman living alone. why not risk it, sir? we might screw it up a peg." soames had sudden insight. the fellow's professional zeal was stirred: 'greatest triumph of my career; got a man his divorce through a visit to his own wife's bedroom! something to talk of there, when i retire!' and for one wild moment he thought: 'why not?' after all, hundreds of men of medium height had small feet and a guilty look! "i'm not authorised to take any risk!" he said shortly. mr. polteed looked up. "pity," he said, "quite a pity! that other affair seemed very costive." soames rose. "never mind that. please watch , and take care not to find a mare's nest. good-morning!" mr. polteed's eye glinted at the words 'mare's nest!' "very good. you shall be kept informed." and soames was alone again. the spidery, dirty, ridiculous business! laying his arms on the table, he leaned his forehead on them. full ten minutes he rested thus, till a managing clerk roused him with the draft prospectus of a new issue of shares, very desirable, in manifold and topping's. that afternoon he left work early and made his way to the restaurant bretagne. only madame lamotte was in. would monsieur have tea with her? soames bowed. when they were seated at right angles to each other in the little room, he said abruptly: "i want a talk with you, madame." the quick lift of her clear brown eyes told him that she had long expected such words. "i have to ask you something first: that young doctor--what's his name? is there anything between him and annette?" her whole personality had become, as it were, like jet--clear-cut, black, hard, shining. "annette is young," she said; "so is monsieur le docteur. between young people things move quickly; but annette is a good daughter. ah! what a jewel of a nature!" the least little smile twisted soames' lips. "nothing definite, then?" "but definite--no, indeed! the young man is veree nice, but--what would you? there is no money at present." she raised her willow-patterned tea-cup; soames did the same. their eyes met. "i am a married man," he said, "living apart from my wife for many years. i am seeking to divorce her." madame lamotte put down her cup. indeed! what tragic things there were! the entire absence of sentiment in her inspired a queer species of contempt in soames. "i am a rich man," he added, fully conscious that the remark was not in good taste. "it is useless to say more at present, but i think you understand." madame's eyes, so open that the whites showed above them, looked at him very straight. "ah! ca--mais nous avons le temps!" was all she said. "another little cup?" soames refused, and, taking his leave, walked westward. he had got that off his mind; she would not let annette commit herself with that cheerful young ass until....! but what chance of his ever being able to say: 'i'm free.' what chance? the future had lost all semblance of reality. he felt like a fly, entangled in cobweb filaments, watching the desirable freedom of the air with pitiful eyes. he was short of exercise, and wandered on to kensington gardens, and down queen's gate towards chelsea. perhaps she had gone back to her flat. that at all events he could find out. for since that last and most ignominious repulse his wounded self-respect had taken refuge again in the feeling that she must have a lover. he arrived before the little mansions at the dinner-hour. no need to enquire! a grey-haired lady was watering the flower-boxes in her window. it was evidently let. and he walked slowly past again, along the river--an evening of clear, quiet beauty, all harmony and comfort, except within his heart. chapter iii richmond park on the afternoon that soames crossed to france a cablegram was received by jolyon at robin hill: "your son down with enteric no immediate danger will cable again." it reached a household already agitated by the imminent departure of june, whose berth was booked for the following day. she was, indeed, in the act of confiding eric cobbley and his family to her father's care when the message arrived. the resolution to become a red cross nurse, taken under stimulus of jolly's enlistment, had been loyally fulfilled with the irritation and regret which all forsytes feel at what curtails their individual liberties. enthusiastic at first about the 'wonderfulness' of the work, she had begun after a month to feel that she could train herself so much better than others could train her. and if holly had not insisted on following her example, and being trained too, she must inevitably have 'cried off.' the departure of jolly and val with their troop in april had further stiffened her failing resolve. but now, on the point of departure, the thought of leaving eric cobbley, with a wife and two children, adrift in the cold waters of an unappreciative world weighed on her so that she was still in danger of backing out. the reading of that cablegram, with its disquieting reality, clinched the matter. she saw herself already nursing jolly--for of course they would let her nurse her own brother! jolyon--ever wide and doubtful--had no such hope. poor june! could any forsyte of her generation grasp how rude and brutal life was? ever since he knew of his boy's arrival at cape town the thought of him had been a kind of recurrent sickness in jolyon. he could not get reconciled to the feeling that jolly was in danger all the time. the cablegram, grave though it was, was almost a relief. he was now safe from bullets, anyway. and yet--this enteric was a virulent disease! the times was full of deaths therefrom. why could he not be lying out there in that up-country hospital, and his boy safe at home? the un-forsytean self-sacrifice of his three children, indeed, had quite bewildered jolyon. he would eagerly change places with jolly, because he loved his boy; but no such personal motive was influencing them. he could only think that it marked the decline of the forsyte type. late that afternoon holly came out to him under the old oak-tree. she had grown up very much during these last months of hospital training away from home. and, seeing her approach, he thought: 'she has more sense than june, child though she is; more wisdom. thank god she isn't going out.' she had seated herself in the swing, very silent and still. 'she feels this,' thought jolyon, 'as much as i' and, seeing her eyes fixed on him, he said: "don't take it to heart too much, my child. if he weren't ill, he might be in much greater danger." holly got out of the swing. "i want to tell you something, dad. it was through me that jolly enlisted and went out." "how's that?" "when you were away in paris, val dartie and i fell in love. we used to ride in richmond park; we got engaged. jolly found it out, and thought he ought to stop it; so he dared val to enlist. it was all my fault, dad; and i want to go out too. because if anything happens to either of them i should feel awful. besides, i'm just as much trained as june." jolyon gazed at her in a stupefaction that was tinged with irony. so this was the answer to the riddle he had been asking himself; and his three children were forsytes after all. surely holly might have told him all this before! but he smothered the sarcastic sayings on his lips. tenderness to the young was perhaps the most sacred article of his belief. he had got, no doubt, what he deserved. engaged! so this was why he had so lost touch with her! and to young val dartie--nephew of soames--in the other camp! it was all terribly distasteful. he closed his easel, and set his drawing against the tree. "have you told june?" "yes; she says she'll get me into her cabin somehow. it's a single cabin; but one of us could sleep on the floor. if you consent, she'll go up now and get permission." 'consent?' thought jolyon. 'rather late in the day to ask for that!' but again he checked himself. "you're too young, my dear; they won't let you." "june knows some people that she helped to go to cape town. if they won't let me nurse yet, i could stay with them and go on training there. let me go, dad!" jolyon smiled because he could have cried. "i never stop anyone from doing anything," he said. holly flung her arms round his neck. "oh! dad, you are the best in the world." 'that means the worst,' thought jolyon. if he had ever doubted his creed of tolerance he did so then. "i'm not friendly with val's family," he said, "and i don't know val, but jolly didn't like him." holly looked at the distance and said: "i love him." "that settles it," said jolyon dryly, then catching the expression on her face, he kissed her, with the thought: 'is anything more pathetic than the faith of the young?' unless he actually forbade her going it was obvious that he must make the best of it, so he went up to town with june. whether due to her persistence, or the fact that the official they saw was an old school friend of jolyon's, they obtained permission for holly to share the single cabin. he took them to surbiton station the following evening, and they duly slid away from him, provided with money, invalid foods, and those letters of credit without which forsytes do not travel. he drove back to robin hill under a brilliant sky to his late dinner, served with an added care by servants trying to show him that they sympathised, eaten with an added scrupulousness to show them that he appreciated their sympathy. but it was a real relief to get to his cigar on the terrace of flag-stones--cunningly chosen by young bosinney for shape and colour--with night closing in around him, so beautiful a night, hardly whispering in the trees, and smelling so sweet that it made him ache. the grass was drenched with dew, and he kept to those flagstones, up and down, till presently it began to seem to him that he was one of three, not wheeling, but turning right about at each end, so that his father was always nearest to the house, and his son always nearest to the terrace edge. each had an arm lightly within his arm; he dared not lift his hand to his cigar lest he should disturb them, and it burned away, dripping ash on him, till it dropped from his lips, at last, which were getting hot. they left him then, and his arms felt chilly. three jolyons in one jolyon they had walked. he stood still, counting the sounds--a carriage passing on the highroad, a distant train, the dog at gage's farm, the whispering trees, the groom playing on his penny whistle. a multitude of stars up there--bright and silent, so far off! no moon as yet! just enough light to show him the dark flags and swords of the iris flowers along the terrace edge--his favourite flower that had the night's own colour on its curving crumpled petals. he turned round to the house. big, unlighted, not a soul beside himself to live in all that part of it. stark loneliness! he could not go on living here alone. and yet, so long as there was beauty, why should a man feel lonely? the answer--as to some idiot's riddle--was: because he did. the greater the beauty, the greater the loneliness, for at the back of beauty was harmony, and at the back of harmony was --union. beauty could not comfort if the soul were out of it. the night, maddeningly lovely, with bloom of grapes on it in starshine, and the breath of grass and honey coming from it, he could not enjoy, while she who was to him the life of beauty, its embodiment and essence, was cut off from him, utterly cut off now, he felt, by honourable decency. he made a poor fist of sleeping, striving too hard after that resignation which forsytes find difficult to reach, bred to their own way and left so comfortably off by their fathers. but after dawn he dozed off, and soon was dreaming a strange dream. he was on a stage with immensely high rich curtains--high as the very stars--stretching in a semi-circle from footlights to footlights. he himself was very small, a little black restless figure roaming up and down; and the odd thing was that he was not altogether himself, but soames as well, so that he was not only experiencing but watching. this figure of himself and soames was trying to find a way out through the curtains, which, heavy and dark, kept him in. several times he had crossed in front of them before he saw with delight a sudden narrow rift--a tall chink of beauty the colour of iris flowers, like a glimpse of paradise, remote, ineffable. stepping quickly forward to pass into it, he found the curtains closing before him. bitterly disappointed he --or was it soames?--moved on, and there was the chink again through the parted curtains, which again closed too soon. this went on and on and he never got through till he woke with the word "irene" on his lips. the dream disturbed him badly, especially that identification of himself with soames. next morning, finding it impossible to work, he spent hours riding jolly's horse in search of fatigue. and on the second day he made up his mind to move to london and see if he could not get permission to follow his daughters to south africa. he had just begun to pack the following morning when he received this letter: "green hotel, "june . "richmond. "my dear jolyon, "you will be surprised to see how near i am to you. paris became impossible--and i have come here to be within reach of your advice. i would so love to see you again. since you left paris i don't think i have met anyone i could really talk to. is all well with you and with your boy? no one knows, i think, that i am here at present. "always your friend, "irene." irene within three miles of him!--and again in flight! he stood with a very queer smile on his lips. this was more than he had bargained for! about noon he set out on foot across richmond park, and as he went along, he thought: 'richmond park! by jove, it suits us forsytes!' not that forsytes lived there--nobody lived there save royalty, rangers, and the deer--but in richmond park nature was allowed to go so far and no further, putting up a brave show of being natural, seeming to say: 'look at my instincts--they are almost passions, very nearly out of hand, but not quite, of course; the very hub of possession is to possess oneself.' yes! richmond park possessed itself, even on that bright day of june, with arrowy cuckoos shifting the tree-points of their calls, and the wood doves announcing high summer. the green hotel, which jolyon entered at one o'clock, stood nearly opposite that more famous hostelry, the crown and sceptre; it was modest, highly respectable, never out of cold beef, gooseberry tart, and a dowager or two, so that a carriage and pair was almost always standing before the door. in a room draped in chintz so slippery as to forbid all emotion, irene was sitting on a piano stool covered with crewel work, playing 'hansel and gretel' out of an old score. above her on a wall, not yet morris-papered, was a print of the queen on a pony, amongst deer-hounds, scotch. caps, and slain stags; beside her in a pot on the window-sill was a white and rosy fuchsia. the victorianism of the room almost talked; and in her clinging frock irene seemed to jolyon like venus emerging from the shell of the past century. "if the proprietor had eyes," he said, "he would show you the door; you have broken through his decorations." thus lightly he smothered up an emotional moment. having eaten cold beef, pickled walnut, gooseberry tart, and drunk stone-bottle ginger-beer, they walked into the park, and light talk was succeeded by the silence jolyon had dreaded. "you haven't told me about paris," he said at last. "no. i've been shadowed for a long time; one gets used to that. but then soames came. by the little niobe--the same story; would i go back to him?" "incredible!" she had spoken without raising her eyes, but she looked up now. those dark eyes clinging to his said as no words could have: 'i have come to an end; if you want me, here i am.' for sheer emotional intensity had he ever--old as he was--passed through such a moment? the words: 'irene, i adore you!' almost escaped him. then, with a clearness of which he would not have believed mental vision capable, he saw jolly lying with a white face turned to a white wall. "my boy is very ill out there," he said quietly. irene slipped her arm through his. "let's walk on; i understand." no miserable explanation to attempt! she had understood! and they walked on among the bracken, knee-high already, between the rabbit-holes and the oak-trees, talking of jolly. he left her two hours later at the richmond hill gate, and turned towards home. 'she knows of my feeling for her, then,' he thought. of course! one could not keep knowledge of that from such a woman! chapter iv over the river jolly was tired to death of dreams. they had left him now too wan and weak to dream again; left him to lie torpid, faintly remembering far-off things; just able to turn his eyes and gaze through the window near his cot at the trickle of river running by in the sands, at the straggling milk-bush of the karoo beyond. he knew what the karoo was now, even if he had not seen a boer roll over like a rabbit, or heard the whine of flying bullets. this pestilence had sneaked on him before he had smelled powder. a thirsty day and a rash drink, or perhaps a tainted fruit--who knew? not he, who had not even strength left to grudge the evil thing its victory--just enough to know that there were many lying here with him, that he was sore with frenzied dreaming; just enough to watch that thread of river and be able to remember faintly those far-away things.... the sun was nearly down. it would be cooler soon. he would have liked to know the time--to feel his old watch, so butter-smooth, to hear the repeater strike. it would have been friendly, home-like. he had not even strength to remember that the old watch was last wound the day he began to lie here. the pulse of his brain beat so feebly that faces which came and went, nurse's, doctor's, orderly's, were indistinguishable, just one indifferent face; and the words spoken about him meant all the same thing, and that almost nothing. those things he used to do, though far and faint, were more distinct--walking past the foot of the old steps at harrow 'bill'--'here, sir! here, sir!'--wrapping boots in the westminster gazette, greenish paper, shining boots--grandfather coming from somewhere dark--a smell of earth--the mushroom house! robin hill! burying poor old balthasar in the leaves! dad! home.... consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no water in it--someone was speaking too. want anything? no. what could one want? too weak to want--only to hear his watch strike.... holly! she wouldn't bowl properly. oh! pitch them up! not sneaks!... 'back her, two and bow!' he was two!... consciousness came once more with a sense of the violet dusk outside, and a rising blood-red crescent moon. his eyes rested on it fascinated; in the long minutes of brain-nothingness it went moving up and up.... "he's going, doctor!" not pack boots again? never? 'mind your form, two!' don't cry! go quietly--over the river--sleep!... dark? if somebody would--strike--his--watch!... chapter v soames acts a sealed letter in the handwriting of mr. polteed remained unopened in soames' pocket throughout two hours of sustained attention to the affairs of the 'new colliery company,' which, declining almost from the moment of old jolyon's retirement from the chairmanship, had lately run down so fast that there was now nothing for it but a 'winding-up.' he took the letter out to lunch at his city club, sacred to him for the meals he had eaten there with his father in the early seventies, when james used to like him to come and see for himself the nature of his future life. here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed potato, he read: "dear sir, "in accordance with your suggestion we have duly taken the matter up at the other end with gratifying results. observation of has enabled us to locate at the green hotel, richmond. the two have been observed to meet daily during the past week in richmond park. nothing absolutely crucial has so far been notified. but in conjunction with what we had from paris at the beginning of the year, i am confident we could now satisfy the court. we shall, of course, continue to watch the matter until we hear from you. "very faithfully yours, "claud polteed." soames read it through twice and beckoned to the waiter: "take this away; it's cold." "shall i bring you some more, sir?" "no. get me some coffee in the other room." and, paying for what he had not eaten, he went out, passing two acquaintances without sign of recognition. 'satisfy the court!' he thought, sitting at a little round marble table with the coffee before him. that fellow jolyon! he poured out his coffee, sweetened and drank it. he would disgrace him in the eyes of his own children! and rising, with that resolution hot within him, he found for the first time the inconvenience of being his own solicitor. he could not treat this scandalous matter in his own office. he must commit the soul of his private dignity to a stranger, some other professional dealer in family dishonour. who was there he could go to? linkman and laver in budge row, perhaps--reliable, not too conspicuous, only nodding acquaintances. but before he saw them he must see polteed again. but at this thought soames had a moment of sheer weakness. to part with his secret? how find the words? how subject himself to contempt and secret laughter? yet, after all, the fellow knew already--oh yes, he knew! and, feeling that he must finish with it now, he took a cab into the west end. in this hot weather the window of mr. polteed's room was positively open, and the only precaution was a wire gauze, preventing the intrusion of flies. two or three had tried to come in, and been caught, so that they seemed to be clinging there with the intention of being devoured presently. mr. polteed, following the direction of his client's eye, rose apologetically and closed the window. 'posing ass!' thought soames. like all who fundamentally believe in themselves he was rising to the occasion, and, with his little sideway smile, he said: "i've had your letter. i'm going to act. i suppose you know who the lady you've been watching really is?" mr. polteed's expression at that moment was a masterpiece. it so clearly said: 'well, what do you think? but mere professional knowledge, i assure you--pray forgive it!' he made a little half airy movement with his hand, as who should say: 'such things--such things will happen to us all!' "very well, then," said soames, moistening his lips: "there's no need to say more. i'm instructing linkman and laver of budge row to act for me. i don't want to hear your evidence, but kindly make your report to them at five o'clock, and continue to observe the utmost secrecy." mr. polteed half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. "my dear sir," he said. "are you convinced," asked soames with sudden energy, "that there is enough?" the faintest movement occurred to mr. polteed's shoulders. "you can risk it," he murmured; "with what we have, and human nature, you can risk it." soames rose. "you will ask for mr. linkman. thanks; don't get up." he could not bear mr. polteed to slide as usual between him and the door. in the sunlight of piccadilly he wiped his forehead. this had been the worst of it--he could stand the strangers better. and he went back into the city to do what still lay before him. that evening in park lane, watching his father dine, he was overwhelmed by his old longing for a son--a son, to watch him eat as he went down the years, to be taken on his knee as james on a time had been wont to take him; a son of his own begetting, who could understand him because he was the same flesh and blood--understand, and comfort him, and become more rich and cultured than himself because he would start even better off. to get old--like that thin, grey wiry-frail figure sitting there--and be quite alone with possessions heaping up around him; to take no interest in anything because it had no future and must pass away from him to hands and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no jot! no! he would force it through now, and be free to marry, and have a son to care for him before he grew to be like the old old man his father, wistfully watching now his sweetbread, now his son. in that mood he went up to bed. but, lying warm between those fine linen sheets of emily's providing, he was visited by memories and torture. visions of irene, almost the solid feeling of her body, beset him. why had he ever been fool enough to see her again, and let this flood back on him so that it was pain to think of her with that fellow--that stealing fellow. chapter vi a summer day his boy was seldom absent from jolyon's mind in the days which followed the first walk with irene in richmond park. no further news had come; enquiries at the war office elicited nothing; nor could he expect to hear from june and holly for three weeks at least. in these days he felt how insufficient were his memories of jolly, and what an amateur of a father he had been. there was not a single memory in which anger played a part; not one reconciliation, because there had never been a rupture; nor one heart-to-heart confidence, not even when jolly's mother died. nothing but half-ironical affection. he had been too afraid of committing himself in any direction, for fear of losing his liberty, or interfering with that of his boy. only in irene's presence had he relief, highly complicated by the ever-growing perception of how divided he was between her and his son. with jolly was bound up all that sense of continuity and social creed of which he had drunk deeply in his youth and again during his boy's public school and varsity life--all that sense of not going back on what father and son expected of each other. with irene was bound up all his delight in beauty and in nature. and he seemed to know less and less which was the stronger within him. from such sentimental paralysis he was rudely awakened, however, one afternoon, just as he was starting off to richmond, by a young man with a bicycle and a face oddly familiar, who came forward faintly smiling. "mr. jolyon forsyte? thank you!" placing an envelope in jolyon's hand he wheeled off the path and rode away. bewildered, jolyon opened it. "admiralty probate and divorce, forsyte v. forsyte and forsyte!" a sensation of shame and disgust was followed by the instant reaction 'why, here's the very thing you want, and you don't like it!' but she must have had one too; and he must go to her at once. he turned things over as he went along. it was an ironical business. for, whatever the scriptures said about the heart, it took more than mere longings to satisfy the law. they could perfectly well defend this suit, or at least in good faith try to. but the idea of doing so revolted jolyon. if not her lover in deed he was in desire, and he knew that she was ready to come to him. her face had told him so. not that he exaggerated her feeling for him. she had had her grand passion, and he could not expect another from her at his age. but she had trust in him, affection for him, and must feel that he would be a refuge. surely she would not ask him to defend the suit, knowing that he adored her! thank heaven she had not that maddening british conscientiousness which refused happiness for the sake of refusing! she must rejoice at this chance of being free after seventeen years of death in life! as to publicity, the fat was in the fire! to defend the suit would not take away the slur. jolyon had all the proper feeling of a forsyte whose privacy is threatened: if he was to be hung by the law, by all means let it be for a sheep! moreover the notion of standing in a witness box and swearing to the truth that no gesture, not even a word of love had passed between them seemed to him more degrading than to take the tacit stigma of being an adulterer--more truly degrading, considering the feeling in his heart, and just as bad and painful for his children. the thought of explaining away, if he could, before a judge and twelve average englishmen, their meetings in paris, and the walks in richmond park, horrified him. the brutality and hypocritical censoriousness of the whole process; the probability that they would not be believed--the mere vision of her, whom he looked on as the embodiment of nature and of beauty, standing there before all those suspicious, gloating eyes was hideous to him. no, no! to defend a suit only made a london holiday, and sold the newspapers. a thousand times better accept what soames and the gods had sent! 'besides,' he thought honestly, 'who knows whether, even for my boy's sake, i could have stood this state of things much longer? anyway, her neck will be out of chancery at last!' thus absorbed, he was hardly conscious of the heavy heat. the sky had become overcast, purplish with little streaks of white. a heavy heat-drop plashed a little star pattern in the dust of the road as he entered the park. 'phew!' he thought, 'thunder! i hope she's not come to meet me; there's a ducking up there!' but at that very minute he saw irene coming towards the gate. 'we must scuttle back to robin hill,' he thought. *************************** the storm had passed over the poultry at four o'clock, bringing welcome distraction to the clerks in every office. soames was drinking a cup of tea when a note was brought in to him: "dear sir, "forsyte v. forsyte and forsyte "in accordance with your instructions, we beg to inform you that we personally served the respondent and co-respondent in this suit to-day, at richmond, and robin hill, respectively. "faithfully yours, "linkman and laver." for some minutes soames stared at that note. ever since he had given those instructions he had been tempted to annul them. it was so scandalous, such a general disgrace! the evidence, too, what he had heard of it, had never seemed to him conclusive; somehow, he believed less and less that those two had gone all lengths. but this, of course, would drive them to it; and he suffered from the thought. that fellow to have her love, where he had failed! was it too late? now that they had been brought up sharp by service of this petition, had he not a lever with which he could force them apart? 'but if i don't act at once,' he thought, 'it will be too late, now they've had this thing. i'll go and see him; i'll go down!' and, sick with nervous anxiety, he sent out for one of the 'new-fangled' motor-cabs. it might take a long time to run that fellow to ground, and goodness knew what decision they might come to after such a shock! 'if i were a theatrical ass,' he thought, 'i suppose i should be taking a horse-whip or a pistol or something!' he took instead a bundle of papers in the case of 'magentie versus wake,' intending to read them on the way down. he did not even open them, but sat quite still, jolted and jarred, unconscious of the draught down the back of his neck, or the smell of petrol. he must be guided by the fellow's attitude; the great thing was to keep his head! london had already begun to disgorge its workers as he neared putney bridge; the ant-heap was on the move outwards. what a lot of ants, all with a living to get, holding on by their eyelids in the great scramble! perhaps for the first time in his life soames thought: 'i could let go if i liked! nothing could touch me; i could snap my fingers, live as i wished--enjoy myself!' no! one could not live as he had and just drop it all--settle down in capua, to spend the money and reputation he had made. a man's life was what he possessed and sought to possess. only fools thought otherwise--fools, and socialists, and libertines! the cab was passing villas now, going a great pace. 'fifteen miles an hour, i should think!' he mused; 'this'll take people out of town to live!' and he thought of its bearing on the portions of london owned by his father--he himself had never taken to that form of investment, the gambler in him having all the outlet needed in his pictures. and the cab sped on, down the hill past wimbledon common. this interview! surely a man of fifty-two with grown-up children, and hung on the line, would not be reckless. 'he won't want to disgrace the family,' he thought; 'he was as fond of his father as i am of mine, and they were brothers. that woman brings destruction--what is it in her? i've never known.' the cab branched off, along the side of a wood, and he heard a late cuckoo calling, almost the first he had heard that year. he was now almost opposite the site he had originally chosen for his house, and which had been so unceremoniously rejected by bosinney in favour of his own choice. he began passing his handkerchief over his face and hands, taking deep breaths to give him steadiness. 'keep one's head,' he thought, 'keep one's head!' the cab turned in at the drive which might have been his own, and the sound of music met him. he had forgotten the fellow's daughters. "i may be out again directly," he said to the driver, "or i may be kept some time"; and he rang the bell. following the maid through the curtains into the inner hall, he felt relieved that the impact of this meeting would be broken by june or holly, whichever was playing in there, so that with complete surprise he saw irene at the piano, and jolyon sitting in an armchair listening. they both stood up. blood surged into soames' brain, and all his resolution to be guided by this or that left him utterly. the look of his farmer forbears--dogged forsytes down by the sea, from 'superior dosset' back--grinned out of his face. "very pretty!" he said. he heard the fellow murmur: "this is hardly the place--we'll go to the study, if you don't mind." and they both passed him through the curtain opening. in the little room to which he followed them, irene stood by the open window, and the 'fellow' close to her by a big chair. soames pulled the door to behind him with a slam; the sound carried him back all those years to the day when he had shut out jolyon--shut him out for meddling with his affairs. "well," he said, "what have you to say for yourselves?" the fellow had the effrontery to smile. "what we have received to-day has taken away your right to ask. i should imagine you will be glad to have your neck out of chancery." "oh!" said soames; "you think so! i came to tell you that i'll divorce her with every circumstance of disgrace to you both, unless you swear to keep clear of each other from now on." he was astonished at his fluency, because his mind was stammering and his hands twitching. neither of them answered; but their faces seemed to him as if contemptuous. "well," he said; "you--irene?" her lips moved, but jolyon laid his hand on her arm. "let her alone!" said soames furiously. "irene, will you swear it?" "no." "oh! and you?" "still less." "so then you're guilty, are you?" "yes, guilty." it was irene speaking in that serene voice, with that unreached air which had maddened him so often; and, carried beyond himself, he cried: "you are a devil" "go out! leave this house, or i'll do you an injury." that fellow to talk of injuries! did he know how near his throat was to being scragged? "a trustee," he said, "embezzling trust property! a thief, stealing his cousin's wife." "call me what you like. you have chosen your part, we have chosen ours. go out!" if he had brought a weapon soames might have used it at that moment. "i'll make you pay!" he said. "i shall be very happy." at that deadly turning of the meaning of his speech by the son of him who had nicknamed him 'the man of property,' soames stood glaring. it was ridiculous! there they were, kept from violence by some secret force. no blow possible, no words to meet the case. but he could not, did not know how to turn and go away. his eyes fastened on irene's face--the last time he would ever see that fatal face--the last time, no doubt! "you," he said suddenly, "i hope you'll treat him as you treated me--that's all." he saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not quite relief, he wrenched open the door, passed out through the hall, and got into his cab. he lolled against the cushion with his eyes shut. never in his life had he been so near to murderous violence, never so thrown away the restraint which was his second nature. he had a stripped and naked feeling, as if all virtue had gone out of him--life meaningless, mind-striking work. sunlight streamed in on him, but he felt cold. the scene he had passed through had gone from him already, what was before him would not materialise, he could catch on to nothing; and he felt frightened, as if he had been hanging over the edge of a precipice, as if with another turn of the screw sanity would have failed him. 'i'm not fit for it,' he thought; 'i mustn't--i'm not fit for it.' the cab sped on, and in mechanical procession trees, houses, people passed, but had no significance. 'i feel very queer,' he thought; 'i'll take a turkish bath.--i've been very near to something. it won't do.' the cab whirred its way back over the bridge, up the fulham road, along the park. "to the hammam," said soames. curious that on so warm a summer day, heat should be so comforting! crossing into the hot room he met george forsyte coming out, red and glistening. "hallo!" said george; "what are you training for? you've not got much superfluous." buffoon! soames passed him with his sideway smile. lying back, rubbing his skin uneasily for the first signs of perspiration, he thought: 'let them laugh! i won't feel anything! i can't stand violence! it's not good for me!' chapter vii a summer night soames left dead silence in the little study. "thank you for that good lie," said jolyon suddenly. "come out--the air in here is not what it was!" in front of a long high southerly wall on which were trained peach-trees the two walked up and down in silence. old jolyon had planted some cupressus-trees, at intervals, between this grassy terrace and the dipping meadow full of buttercups and ox-eyed daisies; for twelve years they had flourished, till their dark spiral shapes had quite a look of italy. birds fluttered softly in the wet shrubbery; the swallows swooped past, with a steel-blue sheen on their swift little bodies; the grass felt springy beneath the feet, its green refreshed; butterflies chased each other. after that painful scene the quiet of nature was wonderfully poignant. under the sun-soaked wall ran a narrow strip of garden-bed full of mignonette and pansies, and from the bees came a low hum in which all other sounds were set--the mooing of a cow deprived of her calf, the calling of a cuckoo from an elm-tree at the bottom of the meadow. who would have thought that behind them, within ten miles, london began--that london of the forsytes, with its wealth, its misery; its dirt and noise; its jumbled stone isles of beauty, its grey sea of hideous brick and stucco? that london which had seen irene's early tragedy, and jolyon's own hard days; that web; that princely workhouse of the possessive instinct! and while they walked jolyon pondered those words: 'i hope you'll treat him as you treated me.' that would depend on himself. could he trust himself? did nature permit a forsyte not to make a slave of what he adored? could beauty be confided to him? or should she not be just a visitor, coming when she would, possessed for moments which passed, to return only at her own choosing? 'we are a breed of spoilers!' thought jolyon, 'close and greedy; the bloom of life is not safe with us. let her come to me as she will, when she will, not at all if she will not. let me be just her stand-by, her perching-place; never-never her cage!' she was the chink of beauty in his dream. was he to pass through the curtains now and reach her? was the rich stuff of many possessions, the close encircling fabric of the possessive instinct walling in that little black figure of himself, and soames--was it to be rent so that he could pass through into his vision, find there something not of the senses only? 'let me,' he thought, 'ah! let me only know how not to grasp and destroy!' but at dinner there were plans to be made. to-night she would go back to the hotel, but tomorrow he would take her up to london. he must instruct his solicitor--jack herring. not a finger must be raised to hinder the process of the law. damages exemplary, judicial strictures, costs, what they liked--let it go through at the first moment, so that her neck might be out of chancery at last! to-morrow he would see herring--they would go and see him together. and then--abroad, leaving no doubt, no difficulty about evidence, making the lie she had told into the truth. he looked round at her; and it seemed to his adoring eyes that more than a woman was sitting there. the spirit of universal beauty, deep, mysterious, which the old painters, titian, giorgione, botticelli, had known how to capture and transfer to the faces of their women--this flying beauty seemed to him imprinted on her brow, her hair, her lips, and in her eyes. 'and this is to be mine!' he thought. 'it frightens me!' after dinner they went out on to the terrace to have coffee. they sat there long, the evening was so lovely, watching the summer night come very slowly on. it was still warm and the air smelled of lime blossom--early this summer. two bats were flighting with the faint mysterious little noise they make. he had placed the chairs in front of the study window, and moths flew past to visit the discreet light in there. there was no wind, and not a whisper in the old oak-tree twenty yards away! the moon rose from behind the copse, nearly full; and the two lights struggled, till moonlight conquered, changing the colour and quality of all the garden, stealing along the flagstones, reaching their feet, climbing up, changing their faces. "well," said jolyon at last, "you'll be tired, dear; we'd better start. the maid will show you holly's room," and he rang the study bell. the maid who came handed him a telegram. watching her take irene away, he thought: 'this must have come an hour or more ago, and she didn't bring it out to us! that shows! well, we'll be hung for a sheep soon!' and, opening the telegram, he read: "jolyon forsyte, robin hill.--your son passed painlessly away on june th. deep sympathy"--some name unknown to him. he dropped it, spun round, stood motionless. the moon shone in on him; a moth flew in his face. the first day of all that he had not thought almost ceaselessly of jolly. he went blindly towards the window, struck against the old armchair--his father's--and sank down on to the arm of it. he sat there huddled' forward, staring into the night. gone out like a candle flame; far from home, from love, all by himself, in the dark! his boy! from a little chap always so good to him--so friendly! twenty years old, and cut down like grass--to have no life at all! 'i didn't really know him,' he thought, 'and he didn't know me; but we loved each other. it's only love that matters.' to die out there--lonely--wanting them--wanting home! this seemed to his forsyte heart more painful, more pitiful than death itself. no shelter, no protection, no love at the last! and all the deeply rooted clanship in him, the family feeling and essential clinging to his own flesh and blood which had been so strong in old jolyon was so strong in all the forsytes--felt outraged, cut, and torn by his boy's lonely passing. better far if he had died in battle, without time to long for them to come to him, to call out for them, perhaps, in his delirium! the moon had passed behind the oak-tree now, endowing it with uncanny life, so that it seemed watching him--the oak-tree his boy had been so fond of climbing, out of which he had once fallen and hurt himself, and hadn't cried! the door creaked. he saw irene come in, pick up the telegram and read it. he heard the faint rustle of her dress. she sank on her knees close to him, and he forced himself to smile at her. she stretched up her arms and drew his head down on her shoulder. the perfume and warmth of her encircled him; her presence gained slowly his whole being. chapter viii james in waiting sweated to serenity, soames dined at the remove and turned his face toward park lane. his father had been unwell lately. this would have to be kept from him! never till that moment had he realised how much the dread of bringing james' grey hairs down with sorrow to the grave had counted with him; how intimately it was bound up with his own shrinking from scandal. his affection for his father, always deep, had increased of late years with the knowledge that james looked on him as the real prop of his decline. it seemed pitiful that one who had been so careful all his life and done so much for the family name--so that it was almost a byword for solid, wealthy respectability--should at his last gasp have to see it in all the newspapers. this was like lending a hand to death, that final enemy of forsytes. 'i must tell mother,' he thought, 'and when it comes on, we must keep the papers from him somehow. he sees hardly anyone.' letting himself in with his latchkey, he was beginning to ascend he stairs when he became conscious of commotion on the second-floor landing. his mother's voice was saying: "now, james, you'll catch cold. why can't you wait quietly?" his father's answering "wait? i'm always waiting. why doesn't he come in?" "you can speak to him to-morrow morning, instead of making a guy of yourself on the landing." "he'll go up to bed, i shouldn't wonder. i shan't sleep." "now come back to bed, james." "um! i might die before to-morrow morning for all you can tell." "you shan't have to wait till to-morrow morning; i'll go down and bring him up. don't fuss!" "there you go--always so cock-a-hoop. he mayn't come in at all." "well, if he doesn't come in you won't catch him by standing out here in your dressing-gown." soames rounded the last bend and came in sight of his father's tall figure wrapped in a brown silk quilted gown, stooping over the balustrade above. light fell on his silvery hair and whiskers, investing his head with, a sort of halo. "here he is!" he heard him say in a voice which sounded injured, and his mother's comfortable answer from the bedroom door: "that's all right. come in, and i'll brush your hair." james extended a thin, crooked finger, oddly like the beckoning of a skeleton, and passed through the doorway of his bedroom. 'what is it?' thought soames. 'what has he got hold of now?' his father was sitting before the dressing-table sideways to the mirror, while emily slowly passed two silver-backed brushes through and through his hair. she would do this several times a day, for it had on him something of the effect produced on a cat by scratching between its ears. "there you are!" he said. "i've been waiting." soames stroked his shoulder, and, taking up a silver button-hook, examined the mark on it. "well," he said, "you're looking better." james shook his head. "i want to say something. your mother hasn't heard." he announced emily's ignorance of what he hadn't told her, as if it were a grievance. "your father's been in a great state all the evening. i'm sure i don't know what about." the faint 'whisk-whisk' of the brushes continued the soothing of her voice. "no! you know nothing," said james. "soames can tell me." and, fixing his grey eyes, in which there was a look of strain, uncomfortable to watch, on his son, he muttered: "i'm getting on, soames. at my age i can't tell. i might die any time. there'll be a lot of money. there's rachel and cicely got no children; and val's out there--that chap his father will get hold of all he can. and somebody'll pick up imogen, i shouldn't wonder." soames listened vaguely--he had heard all this before. whish-whish! went the brushes. "if that's all!" said emily. "all!" cried james; "it's nothing. i'm coming to that." and again his eyes strained pitifully at soames. "it's you, my boy," he said suddenly; "you ought to get a divorce." that word, from those of all lips, was almost too much for soames' composure. his eyes reconcentrated themselves quickly on the buttonhook, and as if in apology james hurried on: "i don't know what's become of her--they say she's abroad. your uncle swithin used to admire her--he was a funny fellow." (so he always alluded to his dead twin-'the stout and the lean of it,' they had been called.) "she wouldn't be alone, i should say." and with that summing-up of the effect of beauty on human nature, he was silent, watching his son with eyes doubting as a bird's. soames, too, was silent. whish-whish went the brushes. "come, james! soames knows best. it's his 'business." "ah!" said james, and the word came from deep down; "but there's all my money, and there's his--who's it to go to? and when he dies the name goes out." soames replaced the button-hook on the lace and pink silk of the dressing-table coverlet. "the name?" said emily, "there are all the other forsytes." "as if that helped me," muttered james. "i shall be in my grave, and there'll be nobody, unless he marries again." "you're quite right," said soames quietly; "i'm getting a divorce." james' eyes almost started from his head. "what?" he cried. "there! nobody tells me anything." "well," said emily, "who would have imagined you wanted it? my dear boy, that is a surprise, after all these years." "it'll be a scandal," muttered james, as if to himself; "but i can't help that. don't brush so hard. when'll it come on?" "before the long vacation; it's not defended." james' lips moved in secret calculation. "i shan't live to see my grandson," he muttered. emily ceased brushing. "of course you will, james. soames will be as quick as he can." there was a long silence, till james reached out his arm. "here! let's have the eau-de-cologne," and, putting it to his nose, he moved his forehead in the direction of his son. soames bent over and kissed that brow just where the hair began. a relaxing quiver passed over james' face, as though the wheels of anxiety within were running down. "i'll get to bed," he said; "i shan't want to see the papers when that comes. they're a morbid lot; i can't pay attention to them, i'm too old." queerly affected, soames went to the door; he heard his father say: "here, i'm tired. i'll say a prayer in bed." and his mother answering "that's right, james; it'll be ever so much more comfy." chapter ix out of the web on forsyte 'change the announcement of jolly's death, among a batch of troopers, caused mixed sensation. strange to read that jolyon forsyte (fifth of the name in direct descent) had died of disease in the service of his country, and not be able to feel it personally. it revived the old grudge against his father for having estranged himself. for such was still the prestige of old jolyon that the other forsytes could never quite feel, as might have been expected, that it was they who had cut off his descendants for irregularity. the news increased, of course, the interest and anxiety about val; but then val's name was dartie, and even if he were killed in battle or got the victoria cross, it would not be at all the same as if his name were forsyte. not even casualty or glory to the haymans would be really satisfactory. family pride felt defrauded. how the rumour arose, then, that 'something very dreadful, my dear,' was pending, no one, least of all soames, could tell, secret as he kept everything. possibly some eye had seen 'forsyte v. forsyte and forsyte,' in the cause list; and had added it to 'irene in paris with a fair beard.' possibly some wall at park lane had ears. the fact remained that it was known--whispered among the old, discussed among the young--that family pride must soon receive a blow. soames, paying one, of his sunday visits to timothy's--paying it with the feeling that after the suit came on he would be paying no more--felt knowledge in the air as he came in. nobody, of course, dared speak of it before him, but each of the four other forsytes present held their breath, aware that nothing could prevent aunt juley from making them all uncomfortable. she looked so piteously at soames, she checked herself on the point of speech so often, that aunt hester excused herself and said she must go and bathe timothy's eye--he had a sty coming. soames, impassive, slightly supercilious, did not stay long. he went out with a curse stifled behind his pale, just smiling lips. fortunately for the peace of his mind, cruelly tortured by the coming scandal, he was kept busy day and night with plans for his retirement--for he had come to that grim conclusion. to go on seeing all those people who had known him as a 'long-headed chap,' an astute adviser--after that--no! the fastidiousness and pride which was so strangely, so inextricably blended in him with possessive obtuseness, revolted against the thought. he would retire, live privately, go on buying pictures, make a great name as a collector--after all, his heart was more in that than it had ever been in law. in pursuance of this now fixed resolve, he had to get ready to amalgamate his business with another firm without letting people know, for that would excite curiosity and make humiliation cast its shadow before. he had pitched on the firm of cuthcott, holliday and kingson, two of whom were dead. the full name after the amalgamation would therefore be cuthcott, holliday, kingson, forsyte, bustard and forsyte. but after debate as to which of the dead still had any influence with the living, it was decided to reduce the title to cuthcott, kingson and forsyte, of whom kingson would be the active and soames the sleeping partner. for leaving his name, prestige, and clients behind him, soames would receive considerable value. one night, as befitted a man who had arrived at so important a stage of his career, he made a calculation of what he was worth, and after writing off liberally for depreciation by the war, found his value to be some hundred and thirty thousand pounds. at his father's death, which could not, alas, be delayed much longer, he must come into at least another fifty thousand, and his yearly expenditure at present just reached two. standing among his pictures, he saw before him a future full of bargains earned by the trained faculty of knowing better than other people. selling what was about to decline, keeping what was still going up, and exercising judicious insight into future taste, he would make a unique collection, which at his death would pass to the nation under the title 'forsyte bequest.' if the divorce went through, he had determined on his line with madame lamotte. she had, he knew, but one real ambition--to live on her 'renter' in paris near her grandchildren. he would buy the goodwill of the restaurant bretagne at a fancy price. madame would live like a queen-mother in paris on the interest, invested as she would know how. (incidentally soames meant to put a capable manager in her place, and make the restaurant pay good interest on his money. there were great possibilities in soho.) on annette he would promise to settle fifteen thousand pounds (whether designedly or not), precisely the sum old jolyon had settled on 'that woman.' a letter from jolyon's solicitor to his own had disclosed the fact that 'those two' were in italy. and an opportunity had been duly given for noting that they had first stayed at an hotel in london. the matter was clear as daylight, and would be disposed of in half an hour or so; but during that half-hour he, soames, would go down to hell; and after that half-hour all bearers of the forsyte name would feel the bloom was off the rose. he had no illusions like shakespeare that roses by any other name would smell as sweet. the name was a possession, a concrete, unstained piece of property, the value of which would be reduced some twenty per cent. at least. unless it were roger, who had once refused to stand for parliament, and--oh, irony!--jolyon, hung on the line, there had never been a distinguished forsyte. but that very lack of distinction was the name's greatest asset. it was a private name, intensely individual, and his own property; it had never been exploited for good or evil by intrusive report. he and each member of his family owned it wholly, sanely, secretly, without any more interference from the public than had been necessitated by their births, their marriages, their deaths. and during these weeks of waiting and preparing to drop the law, he conceived for that law a bitter distaste, so deeply did he resent its coming violation of his name, forced on him by the need he felt to perpetuate that name in a lawful manner. the monstrous injustice of the whole thing excited in him a perpetual suppressed fury. he had asked no better than to live in spotless domesticity, and now he must go into the witness box, after all these futile, barren years, and proclaim his failure to keep his wife--incur the pity, the amusement, the contempt of his kind. it was all upside down. she and that fellow ought to be the sufferers, and they--were in italy! in these weeks the law he had served so faithfully, looked on so reverently as the guardian of all property, seemed to him quite pitiful. what could be more insane than to tell a man that he owned his wife, and punish him when someone unlawfully took her away from him? did the law not know that a man's name was to him the apple of his eye, that it was far harder to be regarded as cuckold than as seducer? he actually envied jolyon the reputation of succeeding where he, soames, had failed. the question of damages worried him, too. he wanted to make that fellow suffer, but he remembered his cousin's words, "i shall be very happy," with the uneasy feeling that to claim damages would make not jolyon but himself suffer; he felt uncannily that jolyon would rather like to pay them--the chap was so loose. besides, to claim damages was not the thing to do. the claim, indeed, had been made almost mechanically; and as the hour drew near soames saw in it just another dodge of this insensitive and topsy-turvy law to make him ridiculous; so that people might sneer and say: "oh, yes, he got quite a good price for her!" and he gave instructions that his counsel should state that the money would be given to a home for fallen women. he was a long time hitting off exactly the right charity; but, having pitched on it, he used to wake up in the night and think: 'it won't do, too lurid; it'll draw attention. something quieter--better taste.' he did not care for dogs, or he would have named them; and it was in desperation at last--for his knowledge of charities was limited--that he decided on the blind. that could not be inappropriate, and it would make the jury assess the damages high. a good many suits were dropping out of the list, which happened to be exceptionally thin that summer, so that his case would be reached before august. as the day grew nearer, winifred was his only comfort. she showed the fellow-feeling of one who had been through the mill, and was the 'femme-sole' in whom he confided, well knowing that she would not let dartie into her confidence. that ruffian would be only too rejoiced! at the end of july, on the afternoon before the case, he went in to see her. they had not yet been able to leave town, because dartie had already spent their summer holiday, and winifred dared not go to her father for more money while he was waiting not to be told anything about this affair of soames. soames found her with a letter in her hand. "that from val," he asked gloomily. "what does he say?" "he says he's married," said winifred. "whom to, for goodness' sake?" winifred looked up at him. "to holly forsyte, jolyon's daughter." "what?" "he got leave and did it. i didn't even know he knew her. awkward, isn't it?" soames uttered a short laugh at that characteristic minimisation. "awkward! well, i don't suppose they'll hear about this till they come back. they'd better stay out there. that fellow will give her money." "but i want val back," said winifred almost piteously; "i miss him, he helps me to get on." "i know," murmured soames. "how's dartie behaving now?" "it might be worse; but it's always money. would you like me to come down to the court to-morrow, soames?" soames stretched out his hand for hers. the gesture so betrayed the loneliness in him that she pressed it between her two. "never mind, old boy. you'll feel ever so much better when it's all over." "i don't know what i've done," said soames huskily; "i never have. it's all upside down. i was fond of her; i've always been." winifred saw a drop of blood ooze out of his lip, and the sight stirred her profoundly. "of course," she said, "it's been too bad of her all along! but what shall i do about this marriage of val's, soames? i don't know how to write to him, with this coming on. you've seen that child. is she pretty?" "yes, she's pretty," said soames. "dark--lady-like enough." 'that doesn't sound so bad,' thought winifred. 'jolyon had style.' "it is a coil," she said. "what will father say? "mustn't be told," said soames. "the war'll soon be over now, you'd better let val take to farming out there." it was tantamount to saying that his nephew was lost. "i haven't told monty," winifred murmured desolately. the case was reached before noon next day, and was over in little more than half an hour. soames--pale, spruce, sad-eyed in the witness-box--had suffered so much beforehand that he took it all like one dead. the moment the decree nisi was pronounced he left the courts of justice. four hours until he became public property! 'solicitor's divorce suit!' a surly, dogged anger replaced that dead feeling within him. 'damn them all!' he thought; 'i won't run away. i'll act as if nothing had happened.' and in the sweltering heat of fleet street and ludgate hill he walked all the way to his city club, lunched, and went back to his office. he worked there stolidly throughout the afternoon. on his way out he saw that his clerks knew, and answered their involuntary glances with a look so sardonic that they were immediately withdrawn. in front of st. paul's, he stopped to buy the most gentlemanly of the evening papers. yes! there he was! 'well-known solicitor's divorce. cousin co-respondent. damages given to the blind'--so, they had got that in! at every other face, he thought: 'i wonder if you know!' and suddenly he felt queer, as if something were racing round in his head. what was this? he was letting it get hold of him! he mustn't! he would be ill. he mustn't think! he would get down to the river and row about, and fish. 'i'm not going to be laid up,' he thought. it flashed across him that he had something of importance to do before he went out of town. madame lamotte! he must explain the law. another six months before he was really free! only he did not want to see annette! and he passed his hand over the top of his head--it was very hot. he branched off through covent garden. on this sultry day of late july the garbage-tainted air of the old market offended him, and soho seemed more than ever the disenchanted home of rapscallionism. alone, the restaurant bretagne, neat, daintily painted, with its blue tubs and the dwarf trees therein, retained an aloof and frenchified self-respect. it was the slack hour, and pale trim waitresses were preparing the little tables for dinner. soames went through into the private part. to his discomfiture annette answered his knock. she, too, looked pale and dragged down by the heat. "you are quite a stranger," she said languidly. soames smiled. "i haven't wished to be; i've been busy." "where's your mother, annette? i've got some news for her." "mother is not in." it seemed to soames that she looked at him in a queer way. what did she know? how much had her mother told her? the worry of trying to make that out gave him an alarming feeling in the head. he gripped the edge of the table, and dizzily saw annette come forward, her eyes clear with surprise. he shut his own and said: "it's all right. i've had a touch of the sun, i think." the sun! what he had was a touch of 'darkness! annette's voice, french and composed, said: "sit down, it will pass, then." her hand pressed his shoulder, and soames sank into a chair. when the dark feeling dispersed, and he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him. what an inscrutable and odd expression for a girl of twenty! "do you feel better?" "it's nothing," said soames. instinct told him that to be feeble before her was not helping him--age was enough handicap without that. will-power was his fortune with annette, he had lost ground these latter months from indecision--he could not afford to lose any more. he got up, and said: "i'll write to your mother. i'm going down to my river house for a long holiday. i want you both to come there presently and stay. it's just at its best. you will, won't you?" "it will be veree nice." a pretty little roll of that 'r' but no enthusiasm. and rather sadly he added: "you're feeling the heat; too, aren't you, annette? it'll do you good to be on the river. good-night." annette swayed forward. there was a sort of compunction in the movement. "are you fit to go? shall i give you some coffee?" "no," said soames firmly. "give me your hand." she held out her hand, and soames raised it to his lips. when he looked up, her face wore again that strange expression. 'i can't tell,' he thought, as he went out; 'but i mustn't think--i mustn't worry: but worry he did, walking toward pall mall. english, not of her religion, middle-aged, scarred as it were by domestic tragedy, what had he to give her? only wealth, social position, leisure, admiration! it was much, but was it enough for a beautiful girl of twenty? he felt so ignorant about annette. he had, too, a curious fear of the french nature of her mother and herself. they knew so well what they wanted. they were almost forsytes. they would never grasp a shadow and miss a substance. the tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to madame lamotte when he reached his club warned him still further that he was at the end of his tether. "my dear madame (he said), "you will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that i obtained my decree of divorce to-day. by the english law i shall not, however, be free to marry again till the decree is confirmed six months hence. in the meanwhile i have the honor to ask to be considered a formal suitor for the hand of your daughter. i shall write again in a few days and beg you both to come and stay at my river house. "i am, dear madame, "sincerely yours, "soames forsyte." having sealed and posted this letter, he went into the dining-room. three mouthfuls of soup convinced him that he could not eat; and, causing a cab to be summoned, he drove to paddington station and took the first train to reading. he reached his house just as the sun went down, and wandered out on to the lawn. the air was drenched with the scent of pinks and picotees in his flower-borders. a stealing coolness came off the river. rest-peace! let a poor fellow rest! let not worry and shame and anger chase like evil night-birds in his head! like those doves perched half-sleeping on their dovecot, like the furry creatures in the woods on the far side, and the simple folk in their cottages, like the trees and the river itself, whitening fast in twilight, like the darkening cornflower-blue sky where stars were coming up--let him cease from himself, and rest! chapter x passing of an age the marriage of soames with annette took place in paris on the last day of january, , with such privacy that not even emily was told until it was accomplished. the day after the wedding he brought her to one of those quiet hotels in london where greater expense can be incurred for less result than anywhere else under heaven. her beauty in the best parisian frocks was giving him more satisfaction than if he had collected a perfect bit of china, or a jewel of a picture; he looked forward to the moment when he would exhibit her in park lane, in green street, and at timothy's. if some one had asked him in those days, "in confidence--are you in love with this girl?" he would have replied: "in love? what is love? if you mean do i feel to her as i did towards irene in those old days when i first met her and she would not have me; when i sighed and starved after her and couldn't rest a minute until she yielded--no! if you mean do i admire her youth and prettiness, do my senses ache a little when i see her moving about--yes! do i think she will keep me straight, make me a creditable wife and a good mother for my children?--again, yes!" "what more do i need? and what more do three-quarters of the women who are married get from the men who marry them?" and if the enquirer had pursued his query, "and do you think it was fair to have tempted this girl to give herself to you for life unless you have really touched her heart?" he would have answered: "the french see these things differently from us. they look at marriage from the point of view of establishments and children; and, from my own experience, i am not at all sure that theirs is not the sensible view. i shall not expect this time more than i can get, or she can give. years hence i shouldn't be surprised if i have trouble with her; but i shall be getting old, i shall have children by then. i shall shut my eyes. i have had my great passion; hers is perhaps to come--i don't suppose it will be for me. i offer her a great deal, and i don't expect much in return, except children, or at least a son. but one thing i am sure of--she has very good sense!" and if, insatiate, the enquirer had gone on, "you do not look, then, for spiritual union in this marriage?" soames would have lifted his sideway smile, and rejoined: "that's as it may be. if i get satisfaction for my senses, perpetuation of myself; good taste and good humour in the house; it is all i can expect at my age. i am not likely to be going out of my way towards any far-fetched sentimentalism." whereon, the enquirer must in good taste have ceased enquiry. the queen was dead, and the air of the greatest city upon earth grey with unshed tears. fur-coated and top-hatted, with annette beside him in dark furs, soames crossed park lane on the morning of the funeral procession, to the rails in hyde park. little moved though he ever was by public matters, this event, supremely symbolical, this summing-up of a long rich period, impressed his fancy. in ' , when she came to the throne, 'superior dosset' was still building houses to make london hideous; and james, a stripling of twenty-six, just laying the foundations of his practice in the law. coaches still ran; men wore stocks, shaved their upper lips, ate oysters out of barrels; 'tigers' swung behind cabriolets; women said, 'la!' and owned no property; there were manners in the land, and pigsties for the poor; unhappy devils were hanged for little crimes, and dickens had but just begun to write. well-nigh two generations had slipped by--of steamboats, railways, telegraphs, bicycles, electric light, telephones, and now these motorcars--of such accumulated wealth, that eight per cent. had become three, and forsytes were numbered by the thousand! morals had changed, manners had changed, men had become monkeys twice-removed, god had become mammon--mammon so respectable as to deceive himself: sixty-four years that favoured property, and had made the upper middle class; buttressed, chiselled, polished it, till it was almost indistinguishable in manners, morals, speech, appearance, habit, and soul from the nobility. an epoch which had gilded individual liberty so that if a man had money, he was free in law and fact, and if he had not money he was free in law and not in fact. an era which had canonised hypocrisy, so that to seem to be respectable was to be. a great age, whose transmuting influence nothing had escaped save the nature of man and the nature of the universe. and to witness the passing of this age, london--its pet and fancy--was pouring forth her citizens through every gate into hyde park, hub of victorianism, happy hunting-ground of forsytes. under the grey heavens, whose drizzle just kept off, the dark concourse gathered to see the show. the 'good old' queen, full of years and virtue, had emerged from her seclusion for the last time to make a london holiday. from houndsditch, acton, ealing, hampstead, islington, and bethnal green; from hackney, hornsey, leytonstone, battersea, and fulham; and from those green pastures where forsytes flourish--mayfair and kensington, st. james' and belgravia, bayswater and chelsea and the regent's park, the people swarmed down on to the roads where death would presently pass with dusky pomp and pageantry. never again would a queen reign so long, or people have a chance to see so much history buried for their money. a pity the war dragged on, and that the wreath of victory could not be laid upon her coffin! all else would be there to follow and commemorate--soldiers, sailors, foreign princes, half-masted bunting, tolling bells, and above all the surging, great, dark-coated crowd, with perhaps a simple sadness here and there deep in hearts beneath black clothes put on by regulation. after all, more than a queen was going to her rest, a woman who had braved sorrow, lived well and wisely according to her lights. out in the crowd against the railings, with his arm hooked in annette's, soames waited. yes! the age was passing! what with this trade unionism, and labour fellows in the house of commons, with continental fiction, and something in the general feel of everything, not to be expressed in words, things were very different; he recalled the crowd on mafeking night, and george forsyte saying: "they're all socialists, they want our goods." like james, soames didn't know, he couldn't tell--with edward on the throne! things would never be as safe again as under good old viccy! convulsively he pressed his young wife's arm. there, at any rate, was something substantially his own, domestically certain again at last; something which made property worth while--a real thing once more. pressed close against her and trying to ward others off, soames was content. the crowd swayed round them, ate sandwiches and dropped crumbs; boys who had climbed the plane-trees chattered above like monkeys, threw twigs and orange-peel. it was past time; they should be coming soon! and, suddenly, a little behind them to the left, he saw a tallish man with a soft hat and short grizzling beard, and a tallish woman in a little round fur cap and veil. jolyon and irene talking, smiling at each other, close together like annette and himself! they had not seen him; and stealthily, with a very queer feeling in his heart, soames watched those two. they looked happy! what had they come here for--inherently illicit creatures, rebels from the victorian ideal? what business had they in this crowd? each of them twice exiled by morality--making a boast, as it were, of love and laxity! he watched them fascinated; admitting grudgingly even with his arm thrust through annette's that--that she--irene--no! he would not admit it; and he turned his eyes away. he would not see them, and let the old bitterness, the old longing rise up within him! and then annette turned to him and said: "those two people, soames; they know you, i am sure. who are they?" soames nosed sideways. "what people?" "there, you see them; just turning away. they know you." "no," soames answered; "a mistake, my dear." "a lovely face! and how she walk! elle est tres distinguee!" soames looked then. into his life, out of his life she had walked like that swaying and erect, remote, unseizable; ever eluding the contact of his soul! he turned abruptly from that receding vision of the past. "you'd better attend," he said, "they're coming now!" but while he stood, grasping her arm, seemingly intent on the head of the procession, he was quivering with the sense of always missing something, with instinctive regret that he had not got them both. slow came the music and the march, till, in silence, the long line wound in through the park gate. he heard annette whisper, "how sad it is and beautiful!" felt the clutch of her hand as she stood up on tiptoe; and the crowd's emotion gripped him. there it was--the bier of the queen, coffin of the age slow passing! and as it went by there came a murmuring groan from all the long line of those who watched, a sound such as soames had never heard, so unconscious, primitive, deep and wild, that neither he nor any knew whether they had joined in uttering it. strange sound, indeed! tribute of an age to its own death.... ah! ah!.... the hold on life had slipped. that which had seemed eternal was gone! the queen--god bless her! it moved on with the bier, that travelling groan, as a fire moves on over grass in a thin line; it kept step, and marched alongside down the dense crowds mile after mile. it was a human sound, and yet inhuman, pushed out by animal subconsciousness, by intimate knowledge of universal death and change. none of us--none of us can hold on for ever! it left silence for a little--a very little time, till tongues began, eager to retrieve interest in the show. soames lingered just long enough to gratify annette, then took her out of the park to lunch at his father's in park lane.... james had spent the morning gazing out of his bedroom window. the last show he would see, last of so many! so she was gone! well, she was getting an old woman. swithin and he had seen her crowned--slim slip of a girl, not so old as imogen! she had got very stout of late. jolyon and he had seen her married to that german chap, her husband--he had turned out all right before he died, and left her with that son of his. and he remembered the many evenings he and his brothers and their cronies had wagged their heads over their wine and walnuts and that fellow in his salad days. and now he had come to the throne. they said he had steadied down--he didn't know--couldn't tell! he'd make the money fly still, he shouldn't wonder. what a lot of people out there! it didn't seem so very long since he and swithin stood in the crowd outside westminster abbey when she was crowned, and swithin had taken him to cremorne afterwards--racketty chap, swithin; no, it didn't seem much longer ago than jubilee year, when he had joined with roger in renting a balcony in piccadilly. jolyon, swithin, roger all gone, and he would be ninety in august! and there was soames married again to a french girl. the french were a queer lot, but they made good mothers, he had heard. things changed! they said this german emperor was here for the funeral, his telegram to old kruger had been in shocking taste. he should not be surprised if that chap made trouble some day. change! h'm! well, they must look after themselves when he was gone: he didn't know where he'd be! and now emily had asked dartie to lunch, with winifred and imogen, to meet soames' wife--she was always doing something. and there was irene living with that fellow jolyon, they said. he'd marry her now, he supposed. 'my brother jolyon,' he thought, 'what would he have said to it all?' and somehow the utter impossibility of knowing what his elder brother, once so looked up to, would have said, so worried james that he got up from his chair by the window, and began slowly, feebly to pace the room. 'she was a pretty thing, too,' he thought; 'i was fond of her. perhaps soames didn't suit her--i don't know--i can't tell. we never had any trouble with our wives.' women had changed everything had changed! and now the queen was dead--well, there it was! a movement in the crowd brought him to a standstill at the window, his nose touching the pane and whitening from the chill of it. they had got her as far as hyde park corner--they were passing now! why didn't emily come up here where she could see, instead of fussing about lunch. he missed her at that moment--missed her! through the bare branches of the plane-trees he could just see the procession, could see the hats coming off the people's heads--a lot of them would catch colds, he shouldn't wonder! a voice behind him said: "you've got a capital view here, james!" "there you are!" muttered james; "why didn't you come before? you might have missed it!" and he was silent, staring with all his might. "what's the noise?" he asked suddenly. "there's no noise," returned emily; "what are you thinking of?--they wouldn't cheer." "i can hear it." "nonsense, james!" no sound came through those double panes; what james heard was the groaning in his own heart at sight of his age passing. "don't you ever tell me where i'm buried," he said suddenly. "i shan't want to know." and he turned from the window. there she went, the old queen; she'd had a lot of anxiety--she'd be glad to be out of it, he should think! emily took up the hair-brushes. "there'll be just time to brush your head," she said, "before they come. you must look your best, james." "ah!" muttered james; "they say she's pretty." the meeting with his new daughter-in-law took place in the dining-room. james was seated by the fire when she was brought in. he placed, his hands on the arms of the chair and slowly raised himself. stooping and immaculate in his frock-coat, thin as a line in euclid, he received annette's hand in his; and the anxious eyes of his furrowed face, which had lost its colour now, doubted above her. a little warmth came into them and into his cheeks, refracted from her bloom. "how are you?" he said. "you've been to see the queen, i suppose? did you have a good crossing?" in this way he greeted her from whom he hoped for a grandson of his name. gazing at him, so old, thin, white, and spotless, annette murmured something in french which james did not understand. "yes, yes," he said, "you want your lunch, i expect. soames, ring the bell; we won't wait for that chap dartie." but just then they arrived. dartie had refused to go out of his way to see 'the old girl.' with an early cocktail beside him, he had taken a 'squint' from the smoking-room of the iseeum, so that winifred and imogen had been obliged to come back from the park to fetch him thence. his brown eyes rested on annette with a stare of almost startled satisfaction. the second beauty that fellow soames had picked up! what women could see in him! well, she would play him the same trick as the other, no doubt; but in the meantime he was a lucky devil! and he brushed up his moustache, having in nine months of green street domesticity regained almost all his flesh and his assurance. despite the comfortable efforts of emily, winifred's composure, imogen's enquiring friendliness, dartie's showing-off, and james' solicitude about her food, it was not, soames felt, a successful lunch for his bride. he took her away very soon. "that monsieur dartie," said annette in the cab, "je n'aime pas ce type-la!" "no, by george!" said soames. "your sister is veree amiable, and the girl is pretty. your father is veree old. i think your mother has trouble with him; i should not like to be her." soames nodded at the shrewdness, the clear hard judgment in his young wife; but it disquieted him a little. the thought may have just flashed through him, too: 'when i'm eighty she'll be fifty-five, having trouble with me!' "there's just one other house of my relations i must take you to," he said; "you'll find it funny, but we must get it over; and then we'll dine and go to the theatre." in this way he prepared her for timothy's. but timothy's was different. they were delighted to see dear soames after this long long time; and so this was annette! "you are so pretty, my dear; almost too young and pretty for dear soames, aren't you? but he's very attentive and careful--such a good hush...." aunt juley checked herself, and placed her lips just under each of annette's eyes--she afterwards described them to francie, who dropped in, as: "cornflower-blue, so pretty, i quite wanted to kiss them. i must say dear soames is a perfect connoisseur. in her french way, and not so very french either, i think she's as pretty--though not so distinguished, not so alluring--as irene. because she was alluring, wasn't she? with that white skin and those dark eyes, and that hair, couleur de--what was it? i always forget." "feuille morte," francie prompted. "of course, dead leaves--so strange. i remember when i was a girl, before we came to london, we had a foxhound puppy--to 'walk' it was called then; it had a tan top to its head and a white chest, and beautiful dark brown eyes, and it was a lady." "yes, auntie," said francie, "but i don't see the connection." "oh!" replied aunt juley, rather flustered, "it was so alluring, and her eyes and hair, you know...." she was silent, as if surprised in some indelicacy. "feuille morte," she added suddenly; "hester--do remember that!".... considerable debate took place between the two sisters whether timothy should or should not be summoned to see annette. "oh, don't bother!" said soames. "but it's no trouble, only of course annette's being french might upset him a little. he was so scared about fashoda. i think perhaps we had better not run the risk, hester. it's nice to have her all to ourselves, isn't it? and how are you, soames? have you quite got over your...." hester interposed hurriedly: "what do you think of london, annette?" soames, disquieted, awaited the reply. it came, sensible, composed: "oh! i know london. i have visited before." he had never ventured to speak to her on the subject of the restaurant. the french had different notions about gentility, and to shrink from connection with it might seem to her ridiculous; he had waited to be married before mentioning it; and now he wished he hadn't. "and what part do you know best?" said aunt juley. "soho," said annette simply. soames snapped his jaw. "soho?" repeated aunt juley; "soho?" 'that'll go round the family,' thought soames. "it's very french, and interesting," he said. "yes," murmured aunt juley, "your uncle roger had some houses there once; he was always having to turn the tenants out, i remember." soames changed the subject to mapledurham. "of course," said aunt juley, "you will be going down there soon to settle in. we are all so looking forward to the time when annette has a dear little...." "juley!" cried aunt hester desperately, "ring tea!" soames dared not wait for tea, and took annette away. "i shouldn't mention soho if i were you," he said in the cab. "it's rather a shady part of london; and you're altogether above that restaurant business now; i mean," he added, "i want you to know nice people, and the english are fearful snobs." annette's clear eyes opened; a little smile came on her lips. "yes?" she said. 'h'm!' thought soames, 'that's meant for me!' and he looked at her hard. 'she's got good business instincts,' he thought. 'i must make her grasp it once for all!' "look here, annette! it's very simple, only it wants understanding. our professional and leisured classes still think themselves a cut above our business classes, except of course the very rich. it may be stupid, but there it is, you see. it isn't advisable in england to let people know that you ran a restaurant or kept a shop or were in any kind of trade. it may have been extremely creditable, but it puts a sort of label on you; you don't have such a good time, or meet such nice people--that's all." "i see," said annette; "it is the same in france." "oh!" murmured soames, at once relieved and taken aback. "of course, class is everything, really." "yes," said annette; "comme vous etes sage." 'that's all right,' thought soames, watching her lips, 'only she's pretty cynical.' his knowledge of french was not yet such as to make him grieve that she had not said 'tu.' he slipped his arm round her, and murmured with an effort: "et vous etes ma belle femme." annette went off into a little fit of laughter. "oh, non!" she said. "oh, non! ne parlez pas francais, soames. what is that old lady, your aunt, looking forward to?" soames bit his lip. "god knows!" he said; "she's always saying something;" but he knew better than god. chapter xi suspended animation the war dragged on. nicholas had been heard to say that it would cost three hundred millions if it cost a penny before they'd done with it! the income-tax was seriously threatened. still, there would be south africa for their money, once for all. and though the possessive instinct felt badly shaken at three o'clock in the morning, it recovered by breakfast-time with the recollection that one gets nothing in this world without paying for it. so, on the whole, people went about their business much as if there were no war, no concentration camps, no slippery de wet, no feeling on the continent, no anything unpleasant. indeed, the attitude of the nation was typified by timothy's map, whose animation was suspended--for timothy no longer moved the flags, and they could not move themselves, not even backwards and forwards as they should have done. suspended animation went further; it invaded forsyte 'change, and produced a general uncertainty as to what was going to happen next. the announcement in the marriage column of the times, 'jolyon forsyte to irene, only daughter of the late professor heron,' had occasioned doubt whether irene had been justly described. and yet, on the whole, relief was felt that she had not been entered as 'irene, late the wife,' or 'the divorced wife,' 'of soames forsyte.' altogether, there had been a kind of sublimity from the first about the way the family had taken that 'affair.' as james had phrased it, 'there it was!' no use to fuss! nothing to be had out of admitting that it had been a 'nasty jar'--in the phraseology of the day. but what would happen now that both soames and jolyon were married again? that was very intriguing. george was known to have laid eustace six to four on a little jolyon before a little soames. george was so droll! it was rumoured, too, that he and dartie had a bet as to whether james would attain the age of ninety, though which of them had backed james no one knew. early in may, winifred came round to say that val had been wounded in the leg by a spent bullet, and was to be discharged. his wife was nursing him. he would have a little limp--nothing to speak of. he wanted his grandfather to buy him a farm out there where he could breed horses. her father was giving holly eight hundred a year, so they could be quite comfortable, because his grandfather would give val five, he had said; but as to the farm, he didn't know--couldn't tell: he didn't want val to go throwing away his money. "but you know," said winifred, "he must do something." aunt hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise, because if he didn't buy a farm it couldn't turn out badly. "but val loves horses," said winifred. "it'd be such an occupation for him." aunt juley thought that horses were very uncertain, had not montague found them so? "val's different," said winifred; "he takes after me." aunt juley was sure that dear val was very clever. "i always remember," she added, "how he gave his bad penny to a beggar. his dear grandfather was so pleased. he thought it showed such presence of mind. i remember his saying that he ought to go into the navy." aunt hester chimed in: did not winifred think that it was much better for the young people to be secure and not run any risk at their age? "well," said winifred, "if they were in london, perhaps; in london it's amusing to do nothing. but out there, of course, he'll simply get bored to death." aunt hester thought that it would be nice for him to work, if he were quite sure not to lose by it. it was not as if they had no money. timothy, of course, had done so well by retiring. aunt juley wanted to know what montague had said. winifred did not tell her, for montague had merely remarked: "wait till the old man dies." at this moment francie was announced. her eyes were brimming with a smile. "well," she said, "what do you think of it?" "of what, dear?" "in the times this morning." "we haven't seen it, we always read it after dinner; timothy has it till then." francie rolled her eyes. "do you think you ought to tell us?" said aunt juley. "what was it?" "irene's had a son at robin hill." aunt juley drew in her breath. "but," she said, "they were only married in march!" "yes, auntie; isn't it interesting?" "well," said winifred, "i'm glad. i was sorry for jolyon losing his boy. it might have been val." aunt juley seemed to go into a sort of dream. "i wonder," she murmured, "what dear soames will think? he has so wanted to have a son himself. a little bird has always told me that." "well," said winifred, "he's going to--bar accidents." gladness trickled out of aunt juley's eyes. "how delightful!" she said. "when?" "november." such a lucky month! but she did wish it could be sooner. it was a long time for james to wait, at his age! to wait! they dreaded it for james, but they were used to it themselves. indeed, it was their great distraction. to wait! for the times to read; for one or other of their nieces or nephews to come in and cheer them up; for news of nicholas' health; for that decision of christopher's about going on the stage; for information concerning the mine of mrs. macander's nephew; for the doctor to come about hester's inclination to wake up early in the morning; for books from the library which were always out; for timothy to have a cold; for a nice quiet warm day, not too hot, when they could take a turn in kensington gardens. to wait, one on each side of the hearth in the drawing-room, for the clock between them to strike; their thin, veined, knuckled hands plying knitting-needles and crochet-hooks, their hair ordered to stop--like canute's waves--from any further advance in colour. to wait in their black silks or satins for the court to say that hester might wear her dark green, and juley her darker maroon. to wait, slowly turning over and over, in their old minds the little joys and sorrows, events and expectancies, of their little family world, as cows chew patient cuds in a familiar field. and this new event was so well worth waiting for. soames had always been their pet, with his tendency to give them pictures, and his almost weekly visits which they missed so much, and his need for their sympathy evoked by the wreck of his first marriage. this new event--the birth of an heir to soames--was so important for him, and for his dear father, too, that james might not have to die without some certainty about things. james did so dislike uncertainty; and with montague, of course, he could not feel really satisfied to leave no grand-children but the young darties. after all, one's own name did count! and as james' ninetieth birthday neared they wondered what precautions he was taking. he would be the first of the forsytes to reach that age, and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on to life. that was so important, they felt, at their ages eighty-seven and eighty-five; though they did not want to think of themselves when they had timothy, who was not yet eighty-two, to think of. there was, of course, a better world. 'in my father's house are many mansions' was one of aunt juley's favourite sayings--it always comforted her, with its suggestion of house property, which had made the fortune of dear roger. the bible was, indeed, a great resource, and on very fine sundays there was church in the morning; and sometimes juley would steal into timothy's study when she was sure he was out, and just put an open new testament casually among the books on his little table--he was a great reader, of course, having been a publisher. but she had noticed that timothy was always cross at dinner afterwards. and smither had told her more than once that she had picked books off the floor in doing the room. still, with all that, they did feel that heaven could not be quite so cosy as the rooms in which they and timothy had been waiting so long. aunt hester, especially, could not bear the thought of the exertion. any change, or rather the thought of a change--for there never was any--always upset her very much. aunt juley, who had more spirit, sometimes thought it would be quite exciting; she had so enjoyed that visit to brighton the year dear susan died. but then brighton one knew was nice, and it was so difficult to tell what heaven would be like, so on the whole she was more than content to wait. on the morning of james' birthday, august the th, they felt extraordinary animation, and little notes passed between them by the hand of smither while they were having breakfast in their beds. smither must go round and take their love and little presents and find out how mr. james was, and whether he had passed a good night with all the excitement. and on the way back would smither call in at green street--it was a little out of her way, but she could take the bus up bond street afterwards; it would be a nice little change for her--and ask dear mrs. dartie to be sure and look in before she went out of town. all this smither did--an undeniable servant trained many years ago under aunt ann to a perfection not now procurable. mr. james, so mrs. james said, had passed an excellent night, he sent his love; mrs. james had said he was very funny and had complained that he didn't know what all the fuss was about. oh! and mrs. dartie sent her love, and she would come to tea. aunts juley and hester, rather hurt that their presents had not received special mention--they forgot every year that james could not bear to receive presents, 'throwing away their money on him,' as he always called it--were 'delighted'; it showed that james was in good spirits, and that was so important for him. and they began to wait for winifred. she came at four, bringing imogen, and maud, just back from school, and 'getting such a pretty girl, too,' so that it was extremely difficult to ask for news about annette. aunt juley, however, summoned courage to enquire whether winifred had heard anything, and if soames was anxious. "uncle soames is always anxious, auntie," interrupted imogen; "he can't be happy now he's got it." the words struck familiarly on aunt juley's ears. ah! yes; that funny drawing of george's, which had not been shown them! but what did imogen mean? that her uncle always wanted more than he could have? it was not at all nice to think like that. imogen's voice rose clear and clipped: "imagine! annette's only two years older than me; it must be awful for her, married to uncle soames." aunt juley lifted her hands in horror. "my dear," she said, "you don't know what you're talking about. your uncle soames is a match for anybody. he's a very clever man, and good-looking and wealthy, and most considerate and careful, and not at all old, considering everything." imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the 'old dears,' only smiled. "i hope," said aunt juley quite severely, "that you will marry as good a man." "i shan't marry a good man, auntie," murmured imogen; "they're dull." "if you go on like this," replied aunt juley, still very much upset, "you won't marry anybody. we'd better not pursue the subject;" and turning to winifred, she said: "how is montague?" that evening, while they were waiting for dinner, she murmured: "i've told smither to get up half a bottle of the sweet champagne, hester. i think we ought to drink dear james' health, and--and the health of soames' wife; only, let's keep that quite secret. i'll just say like this, 'and you know, hester!' and then we'll drink. it might upset timothy." "it's more likely to upset us," said aunt nester. "but we must, i suppose; for such an occasion." "yes," said aunt juley rapturously, "it is an occasion! only fancy if he has a dear little boy, to carry the family on! i do feel it so important, now that irene has had a son. winifred says george is calling jolyon 'the three-decker,' because of his three families, you know! george is droll. and fancy! irene is living after all in the house soames had built for them both. it does seem hard on dear soames; and he's always been so regular." that night in bed, excited and a little flushed still by her glass of wine and the secrecy of the second toast, she lay with her prayer-book opened flat, and her eyes fixed on a ceiling yellowed by the light from her reading-lamp. young things! it was so nice for them all! and she would be so happy if she could see dear soames happy. but, of course, he must be now, in spite of what imogen had said. he would have all that he wanted: property, and wife, and children! and he would live to a green old age, like his dear father, and forget all about irene and that dreadful case. if only she herself could be here to buy his children their first rocking-horse! smither should choose it for her at the stores, nice and dappled. ah! how roger used to rock her until she fell off! oh dear! that was a long time ago! it was! 'in my father's house are many mansions--'a little scrattling noise caught her ear--'but no mice!' she thought mechanically. the noise increased. there! it was a mouse! how naughty of smither to say there wasn't! it would be eating through the wainscot before they knew where they were, and they would have to have the builders in. they were such destructive things! and she lay, with her eyes just moving, following in her mind that little scrattling sound, and waiting for sleep to release her from it. chapter xii birth of a forsyte soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on the path above the river, turned round and walked back to the garden door, without having realised that he had moved. the sound of wheels crunching the drive convinced him that time had passed, and the doctor gone. what, exactly, had he said? "this is the position, mr. forsyte. i can make pretty certain of her life if i operate, but the baby will be born dead. if i don't operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it's a great risk for the mother--a great risk. in either case i don't think she can ever have another child. in her state she obviously can't decide for herself, and we can't wait for her mother. it's for you to make the decision, while i'm getting what's necessary. i shall be back within the hour." the decision! what a decision! no time to get a specialist down! no time for anything! the sound of wheels died away, but soames still stood intent; then, suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river. to come before its time like this, with no chance to foresee anything, not even to get her mother here! it was for her mother to make that decision, and she couldn't arrive from paris till to-night! if only he could have understood the doctor's jargon, the medical niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the chances properly; but they were greek to him--like a legal problem to a layman. and yet he must decide! he brought his hand away from his brow wet, though the air was chilly. these sounds which came from her room! to go back there would only make it more difficult. he must be calm, clear. on the one hand life, nearly certain, of his young wife, death quite certain, of his child; and--no more children afterwards! on the other, death perhaps of his wife, nearly certain life for the child; and--no more children afterwards! which to choose?.... it had rained this last fortnight--the river was very full, and in the water, collected round the little house-boat moored by his landing-stage, were many leaves from the woods above, brought off by a frost. leaves fell, lives drifted down--death! to decide about death! and no one to give him a hand. life lost was lost for good. let nothing go that you could keep; for, if it went, you couldn't get it back. it left you bare, like those trees when they lost their leaves; barer and barer until you, too, withered and came down. and, by a queer somersault of thought, he seemed to see not annette lying up there behind that window-pane on which the sun was shining, but irene lying in their bedroom in montpellier square, as it might conceivably have been her fate to lie, sixteen years ago. would he have hesitated then? not a moment! operate, operate! make certain of her life! no decision--a mere instinctive cry for help, in spite of his knowledge, even then, that she did not love him! but this! ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling for annette! many times these last months, especially since she had been growing frightened, he had wondered. she had a will of her own, was selfish in her french way. and yet--so pretty! what would she wish--to take the risk. 'i know she wants the child,' he thought. 'if it's born dead, and no more chance afterwards--it'll upset her terribly. no more chance! all for nothing! married life with her for years and years without a child. nothing to steady her! she's too young. nothing to look forward to, for her--for me! for me!' he struck his hands against his chest! why couldn't he think without bringing himself in--get out of himself and see what he ought to do? the thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it had come in contact with a breastplate. out of oneself! impossible! out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless space! the very idea was ghastly, futile! and touching there the bedrock of reality, the bottom of his forsyte spirit, soames rested for a moment. when one ceased, all ceased; it might go on, but there'd be nothing in it! he looked at his watch. in half an hour the doctor would be back. he must decide! if against the operation and she died, how face her mother and the doctor afterwards? how face his own conscience? it was his child that she was having. if for the operation--then he condemned them both to childlessness. and for what else had he married her but to have a lawful heir? and his father--at death's door, waiting for the news! 'it's cruel!' he thought; 'i ought never to have such a thing to settle! it's cruel!' he turned towards the house. some deep, simple way of deciding! he took out a coin, and put it back. if he spun it, he knew he would not abide by what came up! he went into the dining-room, furthest away from that room whence the sounds issued. the doctor had said there was a chance. in here that chance seemed greater; the river did not flow, nor the leaves fall. a fire was burning. soames unlocked the tantalus. he hardly ever touched spirits, but now--he poured himself out some whisky and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. 'that fellow jolyon,' he thought; 'he had children already. he has the woman i really loved; and now a son by her! and i--i'm asked to destroy my only child! annette can't die; it's not possible. she's strong!' he was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the doctor's carriage, and went out to him. he had to wait for him to come downstairs. "well, doctor?" "the situation's the same. have you decided?" "yes," said soames; "don't operate!" "not? you understand--the risk's great?" in soames' set face nothing moved but the lips. "you said there was a chance?" "a chance, yes; not much of one." "you say the baby must be born dead if you do?" "yes." "do you still think that in any case she can't have another?" "one can't be absolutely sure, but it's most unlikely." "she's strong," said soames; "we'll take the risk." the doctor looked at him very gravely. "it's on your shoulders," he said; "with my own wife, i couldn't." soames' chin jerked up as if someone had hit him. "am i of any use up there?" he asked. "no; keep away." "i shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where." the doctor nodded, and went upstairs. soames continued to stand, listening. 'by this time to-morrow,' he thought, 'i may have her death on my hands.' no! it was unfair --monstrous, to put it that way! sullenness dropped on him again, and he went up to the gallery. he stood at the window. the wind was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy ragged white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through the screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour, glowing, burnished-an early autumn. if it were his own life, would he be taking that risk? 'but she'd take the risk of losing me,' he thought, 'sooner than lose her child! she doesn't really love me!' what could one expect--a girl and french? the one thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and their futures, was a child! 'i've been through a lot for this,' he thought, 'i'll hold on--hold on. there's a chance of keeping both--a chance!' one kept till things were taken--one naturally kept! he began walking round the gallery. he had made one purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he halted before it--a girl with dull gold hair which looked like filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was holding in her hand. even at this tortured moment he could just feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made--admire the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl's figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster. collecting pictures; growing richer, richer! what use, if....! he turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the window. some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. in the clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. they flew far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. annette fed the doves; it was pretty to see her. they took it out of her hand; they knew she was matter-of-fact. a choking sensation came into his throat. she would not--could nod die! she was too--too sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in spite of her fair prettiness. it was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and stood listening. not a sound! a milky twilight crept about the stairway and the landings below. he had turned back when a sound caught his ear. peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and his heart stood still. what was it? death? the shape of death coming from her door? no! only a maid without cap or apron. she came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly: "the doctor wants to see you, sir." he ran down. she stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and said: "oh, sir! it's over." "over?" said soames, with a sort of menace; "what d'you mean?" "it's born, sir." he dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on the doctor in the dim passage. the man was wiping his brow. "well?" he said; "quick!" "both living; it's all right, i think." soames stood quite still, covering his eyes. "i congratulate you," he heard the doctor say; "it was touch and go." soames let fall the hand which was covering his face. "thanks," he said; "thanks very much. what is it?" "daughter--luckily; a son would have killed her--the head." a daughter! "the utmost care of both," he hearts the doctor say, "and we shall do. when does the mother come?" "to-night, between nine and ten, i hope." "i'll stay till then. do you want to see them?" "not now," said soames; "before you go. i'll have dinner sent up to you." and he went downstairs. relief unspeakable, and yet--a daughter! it seemed to him unfair. to have taken that risk--to have been through this agony--and what agony!--for a daughter! he stood before the blazing fire of wood logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust himself. 'my father!' he thought. a bitter disappointment, no disguising it! one never got all one wanted in this life! and there was no other--at least, if there was, it was no use! while he was standing there, a telegram was brought him. "come up at once, your father sinking fast.--mother." he read it with a choking sensation. one would have thought he couldn't feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this. half-past seven, a train from reading at nine, and madame's train, if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty--he would meet that, and go on. he ordered the carriage, ate some dinner mechanically, and went upstairs. the doctor came out to him. "they're sleeping." "i won't go in," said soames with relief. "my father's dying; i have to--go up. is it all right?" the doctor's face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. 'if they were all as unemotional' he might have been saying. "yes, i think you may go with an easy mind. you'll be down soon?" "to-morrow," said soames. "here's the address." the doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy. "good-night!" said soames abruptly, and turned away. he put on his fur coat. death! it was a chilly business. he smoked a cigarette in the carriage--one of his rare cigarettes. the night was windy and flew on black wings; the carriage lights had to search out the way. his father! that old, old man! a comfortless night--to die! the london train came in just as he reached the station, and madame lamotte, substantial, dark-clothed, very yellow in the lamplight, came towards the exit with a dressing-bag. "this all you have?" asked soames. "but yes; i had not the time. how is my little one?" "doing well--both. a girl!" "a girl! what joy! i had a frightful crossing!" her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing, climbed into the brougham. "and you, mon cher?" "my father's dying," said soames between his teeth. "i'm going up. give my love to annette." "tiens!" murmured madame lamotte; "quel malheur!" soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. 'the french!' he thought. chapter xiii james is told a simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the air and the people who saw him were filtered, as it were, the room he had not left since the middle of september--and james was in deep waters. a little cold, passing his little strength and flying quickly to his lungs. "he mustn't catch cold," the doctor had declared, and he had gone and caught it. when he first felt it in his throat he had said to his nurse--for he had one now--"there, i knew how it would be, airing the room like that!" for a whole day he was highly nervous about himself and went in advance of all precautions and remedies; drawing every breath with extreme care and having his temperature taken every hour. emily was not alarmed. but next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: "he won't have his temperature taken." emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said softly, "how do you feel, james?" holding the thermometer to his lips. james looked up at her. "what's the good of that?" he murmured huskily; "i don't want to know." then she was alarmed. he breathed with difficulty, he looked terribly frail, white, with faint red discolorations. she had 'had trouble' with him, goodness knew; but he was james, had been james for nearly fifty years; she couldn't remember or imagine life without james--james, behind all his fussiness, his pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and generous to them all! all that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was in his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope. his very stillness, the way he conserved every little scrap of energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. it touched her deeply; and though her face was composed and comfortable in the sick-room, tears ran down her cheeks when she was out of it. about tea-time on the third day--she had just changed her dress, keeping her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed everything--she saw a difference. 'it's no use; i'm tired,' was written plainly across that white face, and when she went up to him, he muttered: "send for soames." "yes, james," she said comfortably; "all right--at once." and she kissed his forehead. a tear dropped there, and as she wiped it off she saw that his eyes looked grateful. much upset, and without hope now, she sent soames the telegram. when he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was still as a grave. warmson's broad face looked almost narrow; he took the fur coat with a sort of added care, saying: "will you have a glass of wine, sir?" soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry. warmson's lips twitched. "he's asking for you, sir;" and suddenly he blew his nose. "it's a long time, sir," he said, "that i've been with mr. forsyte--a long time." soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs. this house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never seemed to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last pilgrimage to his father's room. it was not his taste; but in its own substantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and security. and the night was so dark and windy; the grave so cold and lonely! he paused outside the door. no sound came from within. he turned the handle softly and was in the room before he was perceived. the light was shaded. his mother and winifred were sitting on the far side of the bed; the nurse was moving away from the near side where was an empty chair. 'for me!' thought soames. as he moved from the door his mother and sister rose, but he signed with his hand and they sat down again. he went up to the chair and stood looking at his father. james' breathing was as if strangled; his eyes were closed. and in soames, looking on his father so worn and white and wasted, listening to his strangled breathing, there rose a passionate vehemence of anger against nature, cruel, inexorable nature, kneeling on the chest of that wisp of a body, slowly pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the being who was dearest to him in the world. his father, of all men, had lived a careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was his reward--to have life slowly, painfully squeezed out of him! and, without knowing that he spoke, he said: "it's cruel!" he saw his mother cover her eyes and winifred bow her face towards the bed. women! they put up with things so much better than men. he took a step nearer to his father. for three days james had not been shaved, and his lips and chin were covered with hair, hardly more snowy than his forehead. it softened his face, gave it a queer look already not of this world. his eyes opened. soames went quite close and bent over. the lips moved. "here i am, father:" "um--what--what news? they never tell...." the voice died, and a flood of emotion made soames' face work so that he could not speak. tell him?--yes. but what? he made a great effort, got his lips together, and said: "good news, dear, good--annette, a son." "ah!" it was the queerest sound, ugly, relieved, pitiful, triumphant--like the noise a baby makes getting what it wants. the eyes closed, and that strangled sound of breathing began again. soames recoiled to the chair and stonily sat down. the lie he had told, based, as it were, on some deep, temperamental instinct that after death james would not know the truth, had taken away all power of feeling for the moment. his arm brushed against something. it was his father's naked foot. in the struggle to breathe he had pushed it out from under the clothes. soames took it in his hand, a cold foot, light and thin, white, very cold. what use to put it back, to wrap up that which must be colder soon! he warmed it mechanically with his hand, listening to his father's laboured breathing; while the power of feeling rose again within him. a little sob, quickly smothered, came from winifred, but his mother sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on james. soames signed to the nurse. "where's the doctor?" he whispered. "he's been sent for." "can't you do anything to ease his breathing?" "only an injection; and he can't stand it. the doctor said, while he was fighting...." "he's not fighting," whispered soames, "he's being slowly smothered. it's awful." james stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying. soames rose and bent over him. james feebly moved his two hands, and soames took them. "he wants to be pulled up," whispered the nurse. soames pulled. he thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of anger passed over james' face. the nurse plumped the pillows. soames laid the hands down, and bending over kissed his father's forehead. as he was raising himself again, james' eyes bent on him a look which seemed to come from the very depths of what was left within. 'i'm done, my boy,' it seemed to say, 'take care of them, take care of yourself; take care--i leave it all to you.' "yes, yes," soames whispered, "yes, yes." behind him the nurse did he knew, not what, for his father made a tiny movement of repulsion as if resenting that interference; and almost at once his breathing eased away, became quiet; he lay very still. the strained expression on his face passed, a curious white tranquillity took its place. his eyelids quivered, rested; the whole face rested; at ease. only by the faint puffing of his lips could they tell that he was breathing. soames sank back on his chair, and fell to cherishing the foot again. he heard the nurse quietly crying over there by the fire; curious that she, a stranger, should be the only one of them who cried! he heard the quiet lick and flutter of the fire flames. one more old forsyte going to his long rest--wonderful, they were!--wonderful how he had held on! his mother and winifred were leaning forward, hanging on the sight of james' lips. but soames bent sideways over the feet, warming them both; they gave him comfort, colder and colder though they grew. suddenly he started up; a sound, a dreadful sound such as he had never heard, was coming from his father's lips, as if an outraged heart had broken with a long moan. what a strong heart, to have uttered that farewell! it ceased. soames looked into the face. no motion; no breath! dead! he kissed the brow, turned round and went out of the room. he ran upstairs to the bedroom, his old bedroom, still kept for him; flung himself face down on the bed, and broke into sobs which he stilled with the pillow.... a little later he went downstairs and passed into the room. james lay alone, wonderfully calm, free from shadow and anxiety, with the gravity on his ravaged face which underlies great age, the worn fine gravity of old coins. soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room with windows thrown open to the london night. "good-bye!" he whispered, and went out. chapter xiv his he had much to see to, that night and all next day. a telegram at breakfast reassured him about annette, and he only caught the last train back to reading, with emily's kiss on his forehead and in his ears her words: "i don't know what i should have done without you, my dear boy." he reached his house at midnight. the weather had changed, was mild again, as though, having finished its work and sent a forsyte to his last account, it could relax. a second telegram, received at dinner-time, had confirmed the good news of annette, and, instead of going in, soames passed down through the garden in the moonlight to his houseboat. he could sleep there quite well. bitterly tired, he lay down on the sofa in his fur coat and fell asleep. he woke soon after dawn and went on deck. he stood against the rail, looking west where the river swept round in a wide curve under the woods. in soames, appreciation of natural beauty was curiously like that of his farmer ancestors, a sense of grievance if it wasn't there, sharpened, no doubt, and civilised, by his researches among landscape painting. but dawn has power to fertilise the most matter-of-fact vision, and he was stirred. it was another world from the river he knew, under that remote cool light; a world into which man had not entered, an unreal world, like some strange shore sighted by discovery. its colour was not the colour of convention, was hardly colour at all; its shapes were brooding yet distinct; its silence stunning; it had no scent. why it should move him he could not tell, unless it were that he felt so alone in it, bare of all relationship and all possessions. into such a world his father might be voyaging, for all resemblance it had to the world he had left. and soames took refuge from it in wondering what painter could have done it justice. the white-grey water was like--like the belly of a fish! was it possible that this world on which he looked was all private property, except the water--and even that was tapped! no tree, no shrub, not a blade of grass, not a bird or beast, not even a fish that was not owned. and once on a time all this was jungle and marsh and water, and weird creatures roamed and sported without human cognizance to give them names; rotting luxuriance had rioted where those tall, carefully planted woods came down to the water, and marsh-misted reeds on that far side had covered all the pasture. well! they had got it under, kennelled it all up, labelled it, and stowed it in lawyers' offices. and a good thing too! but once in a way, as now, the ghost of the past came out to haunt and brood and whisper to any human who chanced to be awake: 'out of my unowned loneliness you all came, into it some day you will all return.' and soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world-new to him and so very old: the world, unowned, visiting the scene of its past--went down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp. when he had drunk it, he took out writing materials and wrote two paragraphs: "on the th instant at his residence in park lane, james forsyte, in his ninety-first year. funeral at noon on the th at highgate. no flowers by request." "on the th instant at the shelter; mapledurham, annette, wife of soames forsyte, of a daughter." and underneath on the blottingpaper he traced the word "son." it was eight o'clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went across to the house. bushes across the river stood round and bright-coloured out of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue and straight; and his doves cooed, preening their feathers in the sunlight. he stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh linen and dark clothes. madame lamotte was beginning her breakfast when he went down. she looked at his clothes, said, "don't tell me!" and pressed his hand. "annette is prettee well. but the doctor say she can never have no more children. you knew that?" soames nodded. "it's a pity. mais la petite est adorable. du cafe?" soames got away from her as soon as he could. she offended him--solid, matter-of-fact, quick, clear--french. he could not bear her vowels, her 'r's'; he resented the way she had looked at him, as if it were his fault that annette could never bear him a son! his fault! he even resented her cheap adoration of the daughter he had not yet seen. curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child! one would have thought he must have rushed up at the first moment. on the contrary, he had a sort of physical shrinking from it--fastidious possessor that he was. he was afraid of what annette was thinking of him, author of her agonies, afraid of the look of the baby, afraid of showing his disappointment with the present and--the future. he spent an hour walking up and down the drawing-room before he could screw his courage up to mount the stairs and knock on the door of their room. madame lamotte opened it. "ah! at last you come! elle vous attend!" she passed him, and soames went in with his noiseless step, his jaw firmly set, his eyes furtive. annette was very pale and very pretty lying there. the baby was hidden away somewhere; he could not see it. he went up to the bed, and with sudden emotion bent and kissed her forehead. "here you are then, soames," she said. "i am not so bad now. but i suffered terribly, terribly. i am glad i cannot have any more. oh! how i suffered!" soames stood silent, stroking her hand; words of endearment, of sympathy, absolutely would not come; the thought passed through him: 'an english girl wouldn't have said that!' at this moment he knew with certainty that he would never be near to her in spirit and in truth, nor she to him. he had collected her--that was all! and jolyon's words came rushing into his mind: "i should imagine you will be glad to have your neck out of chancery." well, he had got it out! had he got it in again? "we must feed you up," he said, "you'll soon be strong." "don't you want to see baby, soames? she is asleep." "of course," said soames, "very much." he passed round the foot of the bed to the other side and stood staring. for the first moment what he saw was much what he had expected to see--a baby. but as he stared and the baby breathed and made little sleeping movements with its tiny features, it seemed to assume an individual shape, grew to be like a picture, a thing he would know again; not repulsive, strangely bud-like and touching. it had dark hair. he touched it with his finger, he wanted to see its eyes. they opened, they were dark--whether blue or brown he could not tell. the eyes winked, stared, they had a sort of sleepy depth in them. and suddenly his heart felt queer, warm, as if elated. "ma petite fleur!" annette said softly. "fleur," repeated soames: "fleur! we'll call her that." the sense of triumph and renewed possession swelled within him. by god! this--this thing was his! by god! this--this thing was his! the forsyte saga part awakening and to let by john galsworthy awakening to let to charles scribner awakening through the massive skylight illuminating the hall at robin hill, the july sunlight at five o'clock fell just where the broad stairway turned; and in that radiant streak little jon forsyte stood, blue-linen-suited. his hair was shining, and his eyes, from beneath a frown, for he was considering how to go downstairs, this last of innumerable times, before the car brought his father and mother home. four at a time, and five at the bottom? stale! down the banisters? but in which fashion? on his face, feet foremost? very stale. on his stomach, sideways? paltry! on his back, with his arms stretched down on both sides? forbidden! or on his face, head foremost, in a manner unknown as yet to any but himself? such was the cause of the frown on the illuminated face of little jon.... in that summer of the simple souls who even then desired to simplify the english tongue, had, of course, no cognizance of little jon, or they would have claimed him for a disciple. but one can be too simple in this life, for his real name was jolyon, and his living father and dead half-brother had usurped of old the other shortenings, jo and jolly. as a fact little jon had done his best to conform to convention and spell himself first jhon, then john; not till his father had explained the sheer necessity, had he spelled his name jon. up till now that father had possessed what was left of his heart by the groom, bob, who played the concertina, and his nurse "da," who wore the violet dress on sundays, and enjoyed the name of spraggins in that private life lived at odd moments even by domestic servants. his mother had only appeared to him, as it were in dreams, smelling delicious, smoothing his forehead just before he fell asleep, and sometimes docking his hair, of a golden brown colour. when he cut his head open against the nursery fender she was there to be bled over; and when he had nightmare she would sit on his bed and cuddle his head against her neck. she was precious but remote, because "da" was so near, and there is hardly room for more than one woman at a time in a man's heart. with his father, too, of course, he had special bonds of union; for little jon also meant to be a painter when he grew up--with the one small difference, that his father painted pictures, and little jon intended to paint ceilings and walls, standing on a board between two step-ladders, in a dirty-white apron, and a lovely smell of whitewash. his father also took him riding in richmond park, on his pony, mouse, so-called because it was so-coloured. little jon had been born with a silver spoon in a mouth which was rather curly and large. he had never heard his father or his mother speak in an angry voice, either to each other, himself, or anybody else; the groom, bob, cook, jane, bella and the other servants, even "da," who alone restrained him in his courses, had special voices when they talked to him. he was therefore of opinion that the world was a place of perfect and perpetual gentility and freedom. a child of , he had come to consciousness when his country, just over that bad attack of scarlet fever, the boer war, was preparing for the liberal revival of . coercion was unpopular, parents had exalted notions of giving their offspring a good time. they spoiled their rods, spared their children, and anticipated the results with enthusiasm. in choosing, moreover, for his father an amiable man of fifty-two, who had already lost an only son, and for his mother a woman of thirty-eight, whose first and only child he was, little jon had done well and wisely. what had saved him from becoming a cross between a lap dog and a little prig, had been his father's adoration of his mother, for even little jon could see that she was not merely just his mother, and that he played second fiddle to her in his father's heart: what he played in his mother's heart he knew not yet. as for "auntie" june, his half-sister (but so old that she had grown out of the relationship) she loved him, of course, but was too sudden. his devoted "da," too, had a spartan touch. his bath was cold and his knees were bare; he was not encouraged to be sorry for himself. as to the vexed question of his education, little jon shared the theory of those who considered that children should not be forced. he rather liked the mademoiselle who came for two hours every morning to teach him her language, together with history, geography and sums; nor were the piano lessons which his mother gave him disagreeable, for she had a way of luring him from tune to tune, never making him practise one which did not give him pleasure, so that he remained eager to convert ten thumbs into eight fingers. under his father he learned to draw pleasure-pigs and other animals. he was not a highly educated little boy. yet, on the whole, the silver spoon stayed in his mouth without spoiling it, though "da" sometimes said that other children would do him a "world of good." it was a disillusionment, then, when at the age of nearly seven she held him down on his back, because he wanted to do something of which she did not approve. this first interference with the free individualism of a forsyte drove him almost frantic. there was something appalling in the utter helplessness of that position, and the uncertainty as to whether it would ever come to an end. suppose she never let him get up any more! he suffered torture at the top of his voice for fifty seconds. worse than anything was his perception that "da" had taken all that time to realise the agony of fear he was enduring. thus, dreadfully, was revealed to him the lack of imagination in the human being. when he was let up he remained convinced that "da" had done a dreadful thing. though he did not wish to bear witness against her, he had been compelled, by fear of repetition, to seek his mother and say: "mum, don't let 'da' hold me down on my back again." his mother, her hands held up over her head, and in them two plaits of hair--"couleur de feuille morte," as little jon had not yet learned to call it--had looked at him with eyes like little bits of his brown velvet tunic, and answered: "no, darling, i won't." she, being in the nature of a goddess, little jon was satisfied; especially when, from under the dining-table at breakfast, where he happened to be waiting for a mushroom, he had overheard her say to his father: "then, will you tell 'da,' dear, or shall i? she's so devoted to him"; and his father's answer: "well, she mustn't show it that way. i know exactly what it feels like to be held down on one's back. no forsyte can stand it for a minute." conscious that they did not know him to be under the table, little jon was visited by the quite new feeling of embarrassment, and stayed where he was, ravaged by desire for the mushroom. such had been his first dip into the dark abysses of existence. nothing much had been revealed to him after that, till one day, having gone down to the cow-house for his drink of milk fresh from the cow, after garratt had finished milking, he had seen clover's calf, dead. inconsolable, and followed by an upset garratt, he had sought "da"; but suddenly aware that she was not the person he wanted, had rushed away to find his father, and had run into the arms of his mother. "clover's calf's dead! oh! oh! it looked so soft!" his mother's clasp, and her: "yes, darling, there, there!" had stayed his sobbing. but if clover's calf could die, anything could--not only bees, flies, beetles and chickens--and look soft like that! this was appalling--and soon forgotten! the next thing had been to sit on a bumble bee, a poignant experience, which his mother had understood much better than "da"; and nothing of vital importance had happened after that till the year turned; when, following a day of utter wretchedness, he had enjoyed a disease composed of little spots, bed, honey in a spoon, and many tangerine oranges. it was then that the world had flowered. to "auntie" june he owed that flowering, for no sooner was he a little lame duck than she came rushing down from london, bringing with her the books which had nurtured her own berserker spirit, born in the noted year of . aged, and of many colours, they were stored with the most formidable happenings. of these she read to little jon, till he was allowed to read to himself; whereupon she whisked back to london and left them with him in a heap. those books cooked his fancy, till he thought and dreamed of nothing but midshipmen and dhows, pirates, rafts, sandal-wood traders, iron horses, sharks, battles, tartars, red indians, balloons, north poles and other extravagant delights. the moment he was suffered to get up, he rigged his bed fore and aft, and set out from it in a narrow bath across green seas of carpet, to a rock, which he climbed by means of its mahogany drawer knobs, to sweep the horizon with his drinking tumbler screwed to his eye, in search of rescuing sails. he made a daily raft out of the towel stand, the tea tray, and his pillows. he saved the juice from his french plums, bottled it in an empty medicine bottle, and provisioned the raft with the rum that it became; also with pemmican made out of little saved-up bits of chicken sat on and dried at the fire; and with lime juice against scurvy, extracted from the peel of his oranges and a little economised juice. he made a north pole one morning from the whole of his bedclothes except the bolster, and reached it in a birch-bark canoe (in private life the fender), after a terrible encounter with a polar bear fashioned from the bolster and four skittles dressed up in "da's" nightgown. after that, his father, seeking to steady his imagination, brought him ivanboe, bevis, a book about king arthur, and tom brown's schooldays. he read the first, and for three days built, defended and stormed front de boeuf's castle, taking every part in the piece except those of rebecca and rowena; with piercing cries of: "en avant, de bracy!" and similar utterances. after reading the book about king arthur he became almost exclusively sir lamorac de galis, because, though there was very little about him, he preferred his name to that of any other knight; and he rode his old rocking-horse to death, armed with a long bamboo. bevis he found tame; besides, it required woods and animals, of which he had none in his nursery, except his two cats, fitz and puck forsyte, who permitted no liberties. for tom brown he was as yet too young. there was relief in the house when, after the fourth week, he was permitted to go down and out. the month being march the trees were exceptionally like the masts of ships, and for little jon that was a wonderful spring, extremely hard on his knees, suits, and the patience of "da," who had the washing and reparation of his clothes. every morning the moment his breakfast was over, he could be viewed by his mother and father, whose windows looked out that way, coming from the study, crossing the terrace, climbing the old oak tree, his face resolute and his hair bright. he began the day thus because there was not time to go far afield before his lessons. the old tree's variety never staled; it had mainmast, foremast, top-gallant mast, and he could always come down by the halyards--or ropes of the swing. after his lessons, completed by eleven, he would go to the kitchen for a thin piece of cheese, a biscuit and two french plums--provision enough for a jolly-boat at least--and eat it in some imaginative way; then, armed to the teeth with gun, pistols, and sword, he would begin the serious climbing of the morning, encountering by the way innumerable slavers, indians, pirates, leopards, and bears. he was seldom seen at that hour of the day without a cutlass in his teeth (like dick needham) amid the rapid explosion of copper caps. and many were the gardeners he brought down with yellow peas shot out of his little gun. he lived a life of the most violent action. "jon," said his father to his mother, under the oak tree, "is terrible. i'm afraid he's going to turn out a sailor, or something hopeless. do you see any sign of his appreciating beauty?" "not the faintest." "well, thank heaven he's no turn for wheels or engines! i can bear anything but that. but i wish he'd take more interest in nature." "he's imaginative, jolyon." "yes, in a sanguinary way. does he love anyone just now?" "no; only everyone. there never was anyone born more loving or more lovable than jon." "being your boy, irene." at this moment little jon, lying along a branch high above them, brought them down with two peas; but that fragment of talk lodged, thick, in his small gizzard. loving, lovable, imaginative, sanguinary! the leaves also were thick by now, and it was time for his birthday, which, occurring every year on the twelfth of may, was always memorable for his chosen dinner of sweetbread, mushrooms, macaroons, and ginger beer. between that eighth birthday, however, and the afternoon when he stood in the july radiance at the turning of the stairway, several important things had happened. "da," worn out by washing his knees, or moved by that mysterious instinct which forces even nurses to desert their nurslings, left the very day after his birthday in floods of tears "to be married"--of all things--"to a man." little jon, from whom it had been kept, was inconsolable for an afternoon. it ought not to have been kept from him! two large boxes of soldiers and some artillery, together with the young buglers, which had been among his birthday presents, cooperated with his grief in a sort of conversion, and instead of seeking adventures in person and risking his own life, he began to play imaginative games, in which he risked the lives of countless tin soldiers, marbles, stones and beans. of these forms of "chair a canon" he made collections, and, using them alternately, fought the peninsular, the seven years, the thirty years, and other wars, about which he had been reading of late in a big history of europe which had been his grandfather's. he altered them to suit his genius, and fought them all over the floor in his day nursery, so that nobody could come in, for fearing of disturbing gustavus adolphus, king of sweden, or treading on an army of austrians. because of the sound of the word he was passionately addicted to the austrians, and finding there were so few battles in which they were successful he had to invent them in his games. his favourite generals were prince eugene, the archduke charles and wallenstein. tilly and mack ("music-hall turns" he heard his father call them one day, whatever that might mean) one really could not love very much, austrian though they were. for euphonic reasons, too, he doted on turenne. this phase, which caused his parents anxiety, because it kept him indoors when he ought to have been out, lasted through may and half of june, till his father killed it by bringing home to him tom sawyer and huckleberry finn. when he read those books something happened in him, and he went out of doors again in passionate quest of a river. there being none on the premises at robin hill, he had to make one out of the pond, which fortunately had water lilies, dragonflies, gnats, bullrushes, and three small willow trees. on this pond, after his father and garratt had ascertained by sounding that it had a reliable bottom and was nowhere more than two feet deep, he was allowed a little collapsible canoe, in which he spent hours and hours paddling, and lying down out of sight of indian joe and other enemies. on the shore of the pond, too, he built himself a wigwam about four feet square, of old biscuit tins, roofed in by boughs. in this he would make little fires, and cook the birds he had not shot with his gun, hunting in the coppice and fields, or the fish he did not catch in the pond because there were none. this occupied the rest of june and that july, when his father and mother were away in ireland. he led a lonely life of "make believe" during those five weeks of summer weather, with gun, wigwam, water and canoe; and, however hard his active little brain tried to keep the sense of beauty away, she did creep in on him for a second now and then, perching on the wing of a dragon-fly, glistening on the water lilies, or brushing his eyes with her blue as he jay on his back in ambush. "auntie" june, who had been left in charge, had a "grown-up" in the house, with a cough and a large piece of putty which he was making into a face; so she hardly ever came down to see him in the pond. once, however, she brought with her two other "grown-ups." little jon, who happened to have painted his naked self bright blue and yellow in stripes out of his father's water-colour box, and put some duck's feathers in his hair, saw them coming, and--ambushed himself among the willows. as he had foreseen, they came at once to his wigwam and knelt down to look inside, so that with a blood-curdling yell he was able to take the scalps of "auntie" june and the woman "grown-up" in an almost complete manner before they kissed him. the names of the two grown-ups were "auntie" holly and "uncle" val, who had a brown face and a little limp, and laughed at him terribly. he took a fancy to "auntie" holly, who seemed to be a sister too; but they both went away the same afternoon and he did not see them again. three days before his father and mother were to come home "auntie" june also went off in a great hurry, taking the "grown-up" who coughed and his piece of putty; and mademoiselle said: "poor man, he was veree ill. i forbid you to go into his room, jon." little jon, who rarely did things merely because he was told not to, refrained from going, though he was bored and lonely. in truth the day of the pond was past, and he was filled to the brim of his soul with restlessness and the want of something--not a tree, not a gun--something soft. those last two days had seemed months in spite of cast up by the sea, wherein he was reading about mother lee and her terrible wrecking bonfire. he had gone up and down the stairs perhaps a hundred times in those two days, and often from the day nursery, where he slept now, had stolen into his mother's room, looked at everything, without touching, and on into the dressing-room; and standing on one leg beside the bath, like slingsby, had whispered: "ho, ho, ho! dog my cats!" mysteriously, to bring luck. then, stealing back, he had opened his mother's wardrobe, and taken a long sniff which seemed to bring him nearer to--he didn't know what. he had done this just before he stood in the streak of sunlight, debating in which of the several ways he should slide down the banisters. they all seemed silly, and in a sudden languor he began descending the steps one by one. during that descent he could remember his father quite distinctly--the short grey beard, the deep eyes twinkling, the furrow between them, the funny smile, the thin figure which always seemed so tall to little jon; but his mother he couldn't see. all that represented her was something swaying with two dark eyes looking back at him; and the scent of her wardrobe. bella was in the hall, drawing aside the big curtains, and opening the front door. little jon said, wheedling, "bella!" "yes, master jon." "do let's have tea under the oak tree when they come; i know they'd like it best." "you mean you'd like it best." little jon considered. "no, they would, to please me." bella smiled. "very well, i'll take it out if you'll stay quiet here and not get into mischief before they come." little jon sat down on the bottom step, and nodded. bella came close, and looked him over. "get up!" she said. little jon got up. she scrutinized him behind; he was not green, and his knees seemed clean. "all right!" she said. "my! aren't you brown? give me a kiss!" and little jon received a peck on his hair. "what jam?" he asked. "i'm so tired of waiting." "gooseberry and strawberry." num! they were his favourites! when she was gone he sat still for quite a minute. it was quiet in the big hall open to its east end so that he could see one of his trees, a brig sailing very slowly across the upper lawn. in the outer hall shadows were slanting from the pillars. little jon got up, jumped one of them, and walked round the clump of iris plants which filled the pool of grey-white marble in the centre. the flowers were pretty, but only smelled a very little. he stood in the open doorway and looked out. suppose!--suppose they didn't come! he had waited so long that he felt he could not bear that, and his attention slid at once from such finality to the dust motes in the bluish sunlight coming in: thrusting his hand up, he tried to catch some. bella ought to have dusted that piece of air! but perhaps they weren't dust--only what sunlight was made of, and he looked to see whether the sunlight out of doors was the same. it was not. he had said he would stay quiet in the hall, but he simply couldn't any more; and crossing the gravel of the drive he lay down on the grass beyond. pulling six daisies he named them carefully, sir lamorac, sir tristram, sir lancelot, sir palimedes, sir bors, sir gawain, and fought them in couples till only sir lamorac, whom he had selected for a specially stout stalk, had his head on, and even he, after three encounters, looked worn and waggly. a beetle was moving slowly in the grass, which almost wanted cutting. every blade was a small tree, round whose trunk the beetle had to glide. little jon stretched out sir lamorac, feet foremost, and stirred the creature up. it scuttled painfully. little jon laughed, lost interest, and sighed. his heart felt empty. he turned over and lay on his back. there was a scent of honey from the lime trees in flower, and in the sky the blue was beautiful, with a few white clouds which looked and perhaps tasted like lemon ice. he could hear bob playing: "way down upon de suwannee ribber" on his concertina, and it made him nice and sad. he turned over again and put his ear to the ground--indians could hear things coming ever so far--but he could hear nothing--only the concertina! and almost instantly he did hear a grinding sound, a faint toot. yes! it was a car--coming--coming! up he jumped. should he wait in the porch, or rush upstairs, and as they came in, shout: "look!" and slide slowly down the banisters, head foremost? should he? the car turned in at the drive. it was too late! and he only waited, jumping up and down in his excitement. the car came quickly, whirred, and stopped. his father got out, exactly like life. he bent down and little jon bobbed up--they bumped. his father said, "bless us! well, old man, you are brown!" just as he would; and the sense of expectation--of something wanted--bubbled unextinguished in little jon. then, with a long, shy look he saw his mother, in a blue dress, with a blue motor scarf over her cap and hair, smiling. he jumped as high as ever he could, twined his legs behind her back, and hugged. he heard her gasp, and felt her hugging back. his eyes, very dark blue just then, looked into hers, very dark brown, till her lips closed on his eyebrow, and, squeezing with all his might, he heard her creak and laugh, and say: "you are strong, jon!" he slid down at that, and rushed into the hall, dragging her by the hand. while he was eating his jam beneath the oak tree, he noticed things about his mother that he had never seemed to see before, her cheeks for instance were creamy, there were silver threads in her dark goldy hair, her throat had no knob in it like bella's, and she went in and out softly. he noticed, too, some little lines running away from the corners of her eyes, and a nice darkness under them. she was ever so beautiful, more beautiful than "da" or mademoiselle, or "auntie" june or even "auntie" holly, to whom he had taken a fancy; even more beautiful than bella, who had pink cheeks and came out too suddenly in places. this new beautifulness of his mother had a kind of particular importance, and he ate less than he had expected to. when tea was over his father wanted him to walk round the gardens. he had a long conversation with his father about things in general, avoiding his private life--sir lamorac, the austrians, and the emptiness he had felt these last three days, now so suddenly filled up. his father told him of a place called glensofantrim, where he and his mother had been; and of the little people who came out of the ground there when it was very quiet. little jon came to a halt, with his heels apart. "do you really believe they do, daddy?" "no, jon, but i thought you might." "why?" "you're younger than i; and they're fairies." little jon squared the dimple in his chin. "i don't believe in fairies. i never see any." "ha!" said his father. "does mum?" his father smiled his funny smile. "no; she only sees pan." "what's pan?" "the goaty god who skips about in wild and beautiful places." "was he in glensofantrim?" "mum said so." little jon took his heels up, and led on. "did you see him?" "no; i only saw venus anadyomene." little jon reflected; venus was in his book about the greeks and trojans. then anna was her christian and dyomene her surname? but it appeared, on inquiry, that it was one word, which meant rising from the foam. "did she rise from the foam in glensofantrim?" "yes; every day." "what is she like, daddy?" "like mum." "oh! then she must be..." but he stopped at that, rushed at a wall, scrambled up, and promptly scrambled down again. the discovery that his mother was beautiful was one which he felt must absolutely be kept to himself. his father's cigar, however, took so long to smoke, that at last he was compelled to say: "i want to see what mum's brought home. do you mind, daddy?" he pitched the motive low, to absolve him from unmanliness, and was a little disconcerted when his father looked at him right through, heaved an important sigh, and answered: "all right, old man, you go and love her." he went, with a pretence of slowness, and then rushed, to make up. he entered her bedroom from his own, the door being open. she was still kneeling before a trunk, and he stood close to her, quite still. she knelt up straight, and said: "well, jon?" "i thought i'd just come and see." having given and received another hug, he mounted the window-seat, and tucking his legs up under him watched her unpack. he derived a pleasure from the operation such as he had not yet known, partly because she was taking out things which looked suspicious, and partly because he liked to look at her. she moved differently from anybody else, especially from bella; she was certainly the refinedest-looking person he had ever seen. she finished the trunk at last, and knelt down in front of him. "have you missed us, jon?" little jon nodded, and having thus admitted his feelings, continued to nod. "but you had 'auntie' june?" "oh! she had a man with a cough." his mother's face changed, and looked almost angry. he added hastily: "he was a poor man, mum; he coughed awfully; i--i liked him." his mother put her hands behind his waist. "you like everybody, jon?" little jon considered. "up to a point," he said: "auntie june took me to church one sunday." "to church? oh!" "she wanted to see how it would affect me." "and did it?" "yes. i came over all funny, so she took me home again very quick. i wasn't sick after all. i went to bed and had hot brandy and water, and read the boys of beechwood. it was scrumptious." his mother bit her lip. "when was that?" "oh! about--a long time ago--i wanted her to take me again, but she wouldn't. you and daddy never go to church, do you?" "no, we don't." "why don't you?" his mother smiled. "well, dear, we both of us went when we were little. perhaps we went when we were too little." "i see," said little jon, "it's dangerous." "you shall judge for yourself about all those things as you grow up." little jon replied in a calculating manner: "i don't want to grow up, much. i don't want to go to school." a sudden overwhelming desire to say something more, to say what he really felt, turned him red. "i--i want to stay with you, and be your lover, mum." then with an instinct to improve the situation, he added quickly "i don't want to go to bed to-night, either. i'm simply tired of going to bed, every night." "have you had any more nightmares?" "only about one. may i leave the door open into your room to-night, mum?" "yes, just a little." little jon heaved a sigh of satisfaction. "what did you see in glensofantrim?" "nothing but beauty, darling." "what exactly is beauty?" "what exactly is--oh! jon, that's a poser." "can i see it, for instance?" his mother got up, and sat beside him. "you do, every day. the sky is beautiful, the stars, and moonlit nights, and then the birds, the flowers, the trees--they're all beautiful. look out of the window--there's beauty for you, jon." "oh! yes, that's the view. is that all?" "all? no. the sea is wonderfully beautiful, and the waves, with their foam flying back." "did you rise from it every day, mum?" his mother smiled. "well, we bathed." little jon suddenly reached out and caught her neck in his hands. "i know," he said mysteriously, "you're it, really, and all the rest is make-believe." she sighed, laughed, said: "oh! jon!" little jon said critically: "do you think bella beautiful, for instance? i hardly do." "bella is young; that's something." "but you look younger, mum. if you bump against bella she hurts." "i don't believe 'da' was beautiful, when i come to think of it; and mademoiselle's almost ugly." "mademoiselle has a very nice face." "oh! yes; nice. i love your little rays, mum." "rays?" little jon put his finger to the outer corner of her eye. "oh! those? but they're a sign of age." "they come when you smile." "but they usen't to." "oh! well, i like them. do you love me, mum?" "i do--i do love you, darling." "ever so?" "ever so!" "more than i thought you did?" "much--much more." "well, so do i; so that makes it even." conscious that he had never in his life so given himself away, he felt a sudden reaction to the manliness of sir lamorac, dick needham, huck finn, and other heroes. "shall i show you a thing or two?" he said; and slipping out of her arms, he stood on his head. then, fired by her obvious admiration, he mounted the bed, and threw himself head foremost from his feet on to his back, without touching anything with his hands. he did this several times. that evening, having inspected what they had brought, he stayed up to dinner, sitting between them at the little round table they used when they were alone. he was extremely excited. his mother wore a french-grey dress, with creamy lace made out of little scriggly roses, round her neck, which was browner than the lace. he kept looking at her, till at last his father's funny smile made him suddenly attentive to his slice of pineapple. it was later than he had ever stayed up, when he went to bed. his mother went up with him, and he undressed very slowly so as to keep her there. when at last he had nothing on but his pyjamas, he said: "promise you won't go while i say my prayers!" "i promise." kneeling down and plunging his face into the bed, little jon hurried up, under his breath, opening one eye now and then, to see her standing perfectly still with a smile on her face. "our father"--so went his last prayer, "which art in heaven, hallowed be thy mum, thy kingdom mum--on earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily mum and forgive us our trespasses on earth as it is in heaven and trespass against us, for thine is the evil the power and the glory for ever and ever. amum! look out!" he sprang, and for a long minute remained in her arms. once in bed, he continued to hold her hand. "you won't shut the door any more than that, will you? are you going to be long, mum?" "i must go down and play to daddy." "oh! well, i shall hear you." "i hope not; you must go to sleep." "i can sleep any night." "well, this is just a night like any other." "oh! no--it's extra special." "on extra special nights one always sleeps soundest." "but if i go to sleep, mum, i shan't hear you come up." "well, when i do, i'll come in and give you a kiss, then if you're awake you'll know, and if you're not you'll still know you've had one." little jon sighed, "all right!" he said: "i suppose i must put up with that. mum?" "yes?" "what was her name that daddy believes in? venus anna diomedes?" "oh! my angel! anadyomene." "yes! but i like my name for you much better." "what is yours, jon?" little jon answered shyly: "guinevere! it's out of the round table--i've only just thought of it, only of course her hair was down." his mother's eyes, looking past him, seemed to float. "you won't forget to come, mum?" "not if you'll go to sleep." "that's a bargain, then." and little jon screwed up his eyes. he felt her lips on his forehead, heard her footsteps; opened his eyes to see her gliding through the doorway, and, sighing, screwed them up again. then time began. for some ten minutes of it he tried loyally to sleep, counting a great number of thistles in a row, "da's" old recipe for bringing slumber. he seemed to have been hours counting. it must, he thought, be nearly time for her to come up now. he threw the bedclothes back. "i'm hot!" he said, and his voice sounded funny in the darkness, like someone else's. why didn't she come? he sat up. he must look! he got out of bed, went to the window and pulled the curtain a slice aside. it wasn't dark, but he couldn't tell whether because of daylight or the moon, which was very big. it had a funny, wicked face, as if laughing at him, and he did not want to look at it. then, remembering that his mother had said moonlit nights were beautiful, he continued to stare out in a general way. the trees threw thick shadows, the lawn looked like spilt milk, and a long, long way he could see; oh! very far; right over the world, and it all looked different and swimmy. there was a lovely smell, too, in his open window. 'i wish i had a dove like noah!' he thought. "the moony moon was round and bright, it shone and shone and made it light." after that rhyme, which came into his head all at once, he became conscious of music, very soft-lovely! mum playing! he bethought himself of a macaroon he had, laid up in his chest of drawers, and, getting it, came back to the window. he leaned out, now munching, now holding his jaws to hear the music better. "da" used to say that angels played on harps in heaven; but it wasn't half so lovely as mum playing in the moony night, with him eating a macaroon. a cockchafer buzzed by, a moth flew in his face, the music stopped, and little jon drew his head in. she must be coming! he didn't want to be found awake. he got back into bed and pulled the clothes nearly over his head; but he had left a streak of moonlight coming in. it fell across the floor, near the foot of the bed, and he watched it moving ever so slowly towards him, as if it were alive. the music began again, but he could only just hear it now; sleepy music, pretty--sleepy--music--sleepy--slee..... and time slipped by, the music rose, fell, ceased; the moonbeam crept towards his face. little jon turned in his sleep till he lay on his back, with one brown fist still grasping the bedclothes. the corners of his eyes twitched--he had begun to dream. he dreamed he was drinking milk out of a pan that was the moon, opposite a great black cat which watched him with a funny smile like his father's. he heard it whisper: "don't drink too much!" it was the cat's milk, of course, and he put out his hand amicably to stroke the creature; but it was no longer there; the pan had become a bed, in which he was lying, and when he tried to get out he couldn't find the edge; he couldn't find it--he--he--couldn't get out! it was dreadful! he whimpered in his sleep. the bed had begun to go round too; it was outside him and inside him; going round and round, and getting fiery, and mother lee out of cast up by the sea was stirring it! oh! so horrible she looked! faster and faster!--till he and the bed and mother lee and the moon and the cat were all one wheel going round and round and up and up--awful--awful--awful! he shrieked. a voice saying: "darling, darling!" got through the wheel, and he awoke, standing on his bed, with his eyes wide open. there was his mother, with her hair like guinevere's, and, clutching her, he buried his face in it. "oh! oh!" "it's all right, treasure. you're awake now. there! there! it's nothing!" but little jon continued to say: "oh! oh!" her voice went on, velvety in his ear: "it was the moonlight, sweetheart, coming on your face." little jon burbled into her nightgown "you said it was beautiful. oh!" "not to sleep in, jon. who let it in? did you draw the curtains?" "i wanted to see the time; i--i looked out, i--i heard you playing, mum; i--i ate my macaroon." but he was growing slowly comforted; and the instinct to excuse his fear revived within him. "mother lee went round in me and got all fiery," he mumbled. "well, jon, what can you expect if you eat macaroons after you've gone to bed?" "only one, mum; it made the music ever so more beautiful. i was waiting for you--i nearly thought it was to-morrow." "my ducky, it's only just eleven now." little jon was silent, rubbing his nose on her neck. "mum, is daddy in your room?" "not to-night." "can i come?" "if you wish, my precious." half himself again, little jon drew back. "you look different, mum; ever so younger." "it's my hair, darling." little jon laid hold of it, thick, dark gold, with a few silver threads. "i like it," he said: "i like you best of all like this." taking her hand, he had begun dragging her towards the door. he shut it as they passed, with a sigh of relief. "which side of the bed do you like, mum?" "the left side." "all right." wasting no time, giving her no chance to change her mind, little jon got into the bed, which seemed much softer than his own. he heaved another sigh, screwed his head into the pillow and lay examining the battle of chariots and swords and spears which always went on outside blankets, where the little hairs stood up against the light. "it wasn't anything, really, was it?" he said. from before her glass his mother answered: "nothing but the moon and your imagination heated up. you mustn't get so excited, jon." but, still not quite in possession of his nerves, little jon answered boastfully: "i wasn't afraid, really, of course!" and again he lay watching the spears and chariots. it all seemed very long. "oh! mum, do hurry up!" "darling, i have to plait my hair." "oh! not to-night. you'll only have to unplait it again to-morrow. i'm sleepy now; if you don't come, i shan't be sleepy soon." his mother stood up white and flowey before the winged mirror: he could see three of her, with her neck turned and her hair bright under the light, and her dark eyes smiling. it was unnecessary, and he said: "do come, mum; i'm waiting." "very well, my love, i'll come." little jon closed his eyes. everything was turning out most satisfactory, only she must hurry up! he felt the bed shake, she was getting in. and, still with his eyes closed, he said sleepily: "it's nice, isn't it?" he heard her voice say something, felt her lips touching his nose, and, snuggling up beside her who lay awake and loved him with her thoughts, he fell into the dreamless sleep, which rounded off his past. to let "from out the fatal loins of those two foes a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life." --romeo and juliet. to charles scribner part i encounter soames forsyte emerged from the knightsbridge hotel, where he was staying, in the afternoon of the th of may, , with the intention of visiting a collection of pictures in a gallery off cork street, and looking into the future. he walked. since the war he never took a cab if he could help it. their drivers were, in his view, an uncivil lot, though now that the war was over and supply beginning to exceed demand again, getting more civil in accordance with the custom of human nature. still, he had not forgiven them, deeply identifying them with gloomy memories, and now, dimly, like all members, of their class, with revolution. the considerable anxiety he had passed through during the war, and the more considerable anxiety he had since undergone in the peace, had produced psychological consequences in a tenacious nature. he had, mentally, so frequently experienced ruin, that he had ceased to believe in its material probability. paying away four thousand a year in income and super tax, one could not very well be worse off! a fortune of a quarter of a million, encumbered only by a wife and one daughter, and very diversely invested, afforded substantial guarantee even against that "wildcat notion" a levy on capital. and as to confiscation of war profits, he was entirely in favour of it, for he had none, and "serve the beggars right!" the price of pictures, moreover, had, if anything, gone up, and he had done better with his collection since the war began than ever before. air-raids, also, had acted beneficially on a spirit congenitally cautious, and hardened a character already dogged. to be in danger of being entirely dispersed inclined one to be less apprehensive of the more partial dispersions involved in levies and taxation, while the habit of condemning the impudence of the germans had led naturally to condemning that of labour, if not openly at least in the sanctuary of his soul. he walked. there was, moreover, time to spare, for fleur was to meet him at the gallery at four o'clock, and it was as yet but half-past two. it was good for him to walk--his liver was a little constricted, and his nerves rather on edge. his wife was always out when she was in town, and his daughter would flibberty-gibbet all over the place like most young women since the war. still, he must be thankful that she had been too young to do anything in that war itself. not, of course, that he had not supported the war from its inception, with all his soul, but between that and supporting it with the bodies of his wife and daughter, there had been a gap fixed by something old-fashioned within him which abhorred emotional extravagance. he had, for instance, strongly objected to annette, so attractive, and in only thirty-four, going to her native france, her "chere patrie" as, under the stimulus of war, she had begun to call it, to nurse her "braves poilus," forsooth! ruining her health and her looks! as if she were really a nurse! he had put a stopper on it. let her do needlework for them at home, or knit! she had not gone, therefore, and had never been quite the same woman since. a bad tendency of hers to mock at him, not openly, but in continual little ways, had grown. as for fleur, the war had resolved the vexed problem whether or not she should go to school. she was better away from her mother in her war mood, from the chance of air-raids, and the impetus to do extravagant things; so he had placed her in a seminary as far west as had seemed to him compatible with excellence, and had missed her horribly. fleur! he had never regretted the somewhat outlandish name by which at her birth he had decided so suddenly to call her--marked concession though it had been to the french. fleur! a pretty name--a pretty child! but restless--too restless; and wilful! knowing her power too over her father! soames often reflected on the mistake it was to dote on his daughter. to get old and dote! sixty-five! he was getting on; but he didn't feel it, for, fortunately perhaps, considering annette's youth and good looks, his second marriage had turned out a cool affair. he had known but one real passion in his life--for that first wife of his--irene. yes, and that fellow, his cousin jolyon, who had gone off with her, was looking very shaky, they said. no wonder, at seventy-two, after twenty years of a third marriage! soames paused a moment in his march to lean over the railings of the row. a suitable spot for reminiscence, half-way between that house in park lane which had seen his birth and his parents' deaths, and the little house in montpellier square where thirty-five years ago he had enjoyed his first edition of matrimony. now, after twenty years of his second edition, that old tragedy seemed to him like a previous existence--which had ended when fleur was born in place of the son he had hoped for. for many years he had ceased regretting, even vaguely, the son who had not been born; fleur filled the bill in his heart. after all, she bore his name; and he was not looking forward at all to the time when she would change it. indeed, if he ever thought of such a calamity, it was seasoned by the vague feeling that he could make her rich enough to purchase perhaps and extinguish the name of the fellow who married her--why not, since, as it seemed, women were equal to men nowadays? and soames, secretly convinced that they were not, passed his curved hand over his face vigorously, till it reached the comfort of his chin. thanks to abstemious habits, he had not grown fat and gabby; his nose was pale and thin, his grey moustache close-clipped, his eyesight unimpaired. a slight stoop closened and corrected the expansion given to his face by the heightening of his forehead in the recession of his grey hair. little change had time wrought in the "warmest" of the young forsytes, as the last of the old forsytes--timothy-now in his hundred and first year, would have phrased it. the shade from the plane-trees fell on his neat homburg hat; he had given up top hats--it was no use attracting attention to wealth in days like these. plane-trees! his thoughts travelled sharply to madrid--the easter before the war, when, having to make up his mind about that goya picture, he had taken a voyage of discovery to study the painter on his spot. the fellow had impressed him--great range, real genius! highly as the chap ranked, he would rank even higher before they had finished with him. the second goya craze would be greater even than the first; oh, yes! and he had bought. on that visit he had--as never before--commissioned a copy of a fresco painting called "la vendimia," wherein was the figure of a girl with an arm akimbo, who had reminded him of his daughter. he had it now in the gallery at mapledurham, and rather poor it was--you couldn't copy goya. he would still look at it, however, if his daughter were not there, for the sake of something irresistibly reminiscent in the light, erect balance of the figure, the width between the arching eyebrows, the eager dreaming of the dark eyes. curious that fleur should have dark eyes, when his own were grey--no pure forsyte had brown eyes--and her mother's blue! but of course her grandmother lamotte's eyes were dark as treacle! he began to walk on again toward hyde park corner. no greater change in all england than in the row! born almost within hail of it, he could remember it from on. brought there as a child between the crinolines to stare at tight-trousered dandies in whiskers, riding with a cavalry seat; to watch the doffing of curly-brimmed and white top hats; the leisurely air of it all, and the little bow-legged man in a long red waistcoat who used to come among the fashion with dogs on several strings, and try to sell one to his mother: king charles spaniels, italian greyhounds, affectionate to her crinoline--you never saw them now. you saw no quality of any sort, indeed, just working people sitting in dull rows with nothing to stare at but a few young bouncing females in pot hats, riding astride, or desultory colonials charging up and down on dismal-looking hacks; with, here and there, little girls on ponies, or old gentlemen jogging their livers, or an orderly trying a great galumphing cavalry horse; no thoroughbreds, no grooms, no bowing, no scraping, no gossip--nothing; only the trees the same--the trees in--different to the generations and declensions of mankind. a democratic england--dishevelled, hurried, noisy, and seemingly without an apex. and that something fastidious in the soul of soames turned over within him. gone forever, the close borough of rank and polish! wealth there was--oh, yes! wealth--he himself was a richer man than his father had ever been; but manners, flavour, quality, all gone, engulfed in one vast, ugly, shoulder-rubbing, petrol-smelling cheerio. little half-beaten pockets of gentility and caste lurking here and there, dispersed and chetif, as annette would say; but nothing ever again firm and coherent to look up to. and into this new hurly-burly of bad manners and loose morals his daughter--flower of his life--was flung! and when those labour chaps got power--if they ever did--the worst was yet to come. he passed out under the archway, at last no longer--thank goodness! --disfigured by the gungrey of its search-light. 'they'd better put a search-light on to where they're all going,' he thought, 'and light up their precious democracy!' and he directed his steps along the club fronts of piccadilly. george forsyte, of course, would be sitting in the bay window of the iseeum. the chap was so big now that he was there nearly all his time, like some immovable, sardonic, humorous eye noting the decline of men and things. and soames hurried, ever constitutionally uneasy beneath his cousin's glance. george, who, as he had heard, had written a letter signed "patriot" in the middle of the war, complaining of the government's hysteria in docking the oats of race-horses. yes, there he was, tall, ponderous, neat, clean-shaven, with his smooth hair, hardly thinned, smelling, no doubt, of the best hair-wash, and a pink paper in his hand. well, he didn't change! and for perhaps the first time in his life soames felt a kind of sympathy tapping in his waistcoat for that sardonic kinsman. with his weight, his perfectly parted hair, and bull-like gaze, he was a guarantee that the old order would take some shifting yet. he saw george move the pink paper as if inviting him to ascend--the chap must want to ask something about his property. it was still under soames' control; for in the adoption of a sleeping partnership at that painful period twenty years back when he had divorced irene, soames had found himself almost insensibly retaining control of all purely forsyte affairs. hesitating for just a moment, he nodded and went in. since the death of his brother-in-law montague dartie, in paris, which no one had quite known what to make of, except that it was certainly not suicide--the iseeum club had seemed more respectable to soames. george, too, he knew, had sown the last of his wild oats, and was committed definitely to the joys of the table, eating only of the very best so as to keep his weight down, and owning, as he said, "just one or two old screws to give me an interest in life." he joined his cousin, therefore, in the bay window without the embarrassing sense of indiscretion he had been used to feel up there. george put out a well-kept hand. "haven't seen you since the war," he said. "how's your wife?" "thanks," said soames coldly, "well enough." some hidden jest curved, for a moment, george's fleshy face, and gloated from his eye. "that belgian chap, profond," he said, "is a member here now. he's a rum customer." "quite!" muttered soames. "what did you want to see me about?" "old timothy; he might go off the hooks at any moment. i suppose he's made his will." "yes." "well, you or somebody ought to give him a look up--last of the old lot; he's a hundred, you know. they say he's like a rummy. where are you goin' to put him? he ought to have a pyramid by rights." soames shook his head. "highgate, the family vault." "well, i suppose the old girls would miss him, if he was anywhere else. they say he still takes an interest in food. he might last on, you know. don't we get anything for the old forsytes? ten of them--average age eighty-eight--i worked it out. that ought to be equal to triplets." "is that all?" said soames, "i must be getting on." 'you unsociable devil,' george's eyes seemed to answer. "yes, that's all: look him up in his mausoleum--the old chap might want to prophesy." the grin died on the rich curves of his face, and he added: "haven't you attorneys invented a way yet of dodging this damned income tax? it hits the fixed inherited income like the very deuce. i used to have two thousand five hundred a year; now i've got a beggarly fifteen hundred, and the price of living doubled." "ah!" murmured soames, "the turf's in danger." over george's face moved a gleam of sardonic self-defence. "well," he said, "they brought me up to do nothing, and here i am in the sear and yellow, getting poorer every day. these labour chaps mean to have the lot before they've done. what are you going to do for a living when it comes? i shall work a six-hour day teaching politicians how to see a joke. take my tip, soames; go into parliament, make sure of your four hundred--and employ me." and, as soames retired, he resumed his seat in the bay window. soames moved along piccadilly deep in reflections excited by his cousin's words. he himself had always been a worker and a saver, george always a drone and a spender; and yet, if confiscation once began, it was he--the worker and the saver--who would be looted! that was the negation of all virtue, the overturning of all forsyte principles. could civilization be built on any other? he did not think so. well, they wouldn't confiscate his pictures, for they wouldn't know their worth. but what would they be worth, if these maniacs once began to milk capital? a drug on the market. 'i don't care about myself,' he thought; 'i could live on five hundred a year, and never know the difference, at my age.' but fleur! this fortune, so widely invested, these treasures so carefully chosen and amassed, were all for--her. and if it should turn out that he couldn't give or leave them to her--well, life had no meaning, and what was the use of going in to look at this crazy, futuristic stuff with the view of seeing whether it had any future? arriving at the gallery off cork street, however, he paid his shilling, picked up a catalogue, and entered. some ten persons were prowling round. soames took steps and came on what looked to him like a lamp-post bent by collision with a motor omnibus. it was advanced some three paces from the wall, and was described in his catalogue as "jupiter." he examined it with curiosity, having recently turned some of his attention to sculpture. 'if that's jupiter,' he thought, 'i wonder what juno's like.' and suddenly he saw her, opposite. she appeared to him like nothing so much as a pump with two handles, lightly clad in snow. he was still gazing at her, when two of the prowlers halted on his left. "epatant!" he heard one say. "jargon!" growled soames to himself. the other's boyish voice replied "missed it, old bean; he's pulling your leg. when jove and juno created he them, he was saying: 'i'll see how much these fools will swallow.' and they've lapped up the lot." "you young duffer! vospovitch is an innovator. don't you see that he's brought satire into sculpture? the future of plastic art, of music, painting, and even architecture, has set in satiric. it was bound to. people are tired--the bottom's tumbled out of sentiment." "well, i'm quite equal to taking a little interest in beauty. i was through the war. you've dropped your handkerchief, sir." soames saw a handkerchief held out in front of him. he took it with some natural suspicion, and approached it to his nose. it had the right scent--of distant eau de cologne--and his initials in a corner. slightly reassured, he raised his eyes to the young man's face. it had rather fawn-like ears, a laughing mouth, with half a toothbrush growing out of it on each side, and small lively eyes, above a normally dressed appearance. "thank you," he said; and moved by a sort of irritation, added: "glad to hear you like beauty; that's rare, nowadays." "i dote on it," said the young man; "but you and i are the last of the old guard, sir." soames smiled. "if you really care for pictures," he said, "here's my card. i can show you some quite good ones any sunday, if you're down the river and care to look in." "awfully nice of you, sir. i'll drop in like a bird. my name's mont-michael." and he took off his hat. soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly in response, with a downward look at the young man's companion, who had a purple tie, dreadful little sluglike whiskers, and a scornful look--as if he were a poet! it was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he went and sat down in an alcove. what had possessed him to give his card to a rackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like that? and fleur, always at the back of his thoughts, started out like a filigree figure from a clock when the hour strikes. on the screen opposite the alcove was a large canvas with a great many square tomato-coloured blobs on it, and nothing else, so far as soames could see from where he sat. he looked at his catalogue: "no. 'the future town'--paul post." 'i suppose that's satiric too,' he thought. 'what a thing!' but his second impulse was more cautious. it did not do to condemn hurriedly. there had been those stripey, streaky creations of monet's, which had turned out such trumps; and then the stippled school; and gauguin. why, even since the post-impressionists there had been one or two painters not to be sneezed at. during the thirty-eight years of his connoisseur's life, indeed, he had marked so many "movements," seen the tides of taste and technique so ebb and flow, that there was really no telling anything except that there was money to be made out of every change of fashion. this too might quite well be a case where one must subdue primordial instinct, or lose the market. he got up and stood before the picture, trying hard to see it with the eyes of other people. above the tomato blobs was what he took to be a sunset, till some one passing said: "he's got the airplanes wonderfully, don't you think!" below the tomato blobs was a band of white with vertical black stripes, to which he could assign no meaning whatever, till some one else came by, murmuring: "what expression he gets with his foreground!" expression? of what? soames went back to his seat. the thing was "rich," as his father would have said, and he wouldn't give a damn for it. expression! ah! they were all expressionists now, he had heard, on the continent. so it was coming here too, was it? he remembered the first wave of influenza in --or ' --hatched in china, so they said. he wondered where this--this expressionism had been hatched. the thing was a regular disease! he had become conscious of a woman and a youth standing between him and the "future town." their backs were turned; but very suddenly soames put his catalogue before his face, and drawing his hat forward, gazed through the slit between. no mistaking that back, elegant as ever though the hair above had gone grey. irene! his divorced wife--irene! and this, no doubt, was--her son--by that fellow jolyon forsyte--their boy, six months older than his own girl! and mumbling over in his mind the bitter days of his divorce, he rose to get out of sight, but quickly sat down again. she had turned her head to speak to her boy; her profile was still so youthful that it made her grey hair seem powdery, as if fancy-dressed; and her lips were smiling as soames, first possessor of them, had never seen them smile. grudgingly he admitted her still beautiful and in figure almost as young as ever. and how that boy smiled back at her! emotion squeezed soames' heart. the sight infringed his sense of justice. he grudged her that boy's smile--it went beyond what fleur gave him, and it was undeserved. their son might have been his son; fleur might have been her daughter, if she had kept straight! he lowered his catalogue. if she saw him, all the better! a reminder of her conduct in the presence of her son, who probably knew nothing of it, would be a salutary touch from the finger of that nemesis which surely must soon or late visit her! then, half-conscious that such a thought was extravagant for a forsyte of his age, soames took out his watch. past four! fleur was late. she had gone to his niece imogen cardigan's, and there they would keep her smoking cigarettes and gossiping, and that. he heard the boy laugh, and say eagerly: "i say, mum, is this by one of auntie june's lame ducks?" "paul post--i believe it is, darling." the word produced a little shock in soames; he had never heard her use it. and then she saw him. his eyes must have had in them something of george forsyte's sardonic look; for her gloved hand crisped the folds of her frock, her eyebrows rose, her face went stony. she moved on. "it is a caution," said the boy, catching her arm again. soames stared after them. that boy was good-looking, with a forsyte chin, and eyes deep-grey, deep in; but with something sunny, like a glass of old sherry spilled over him; his smile perhaps, his hair. better than they deserved--those two! they passed from his view into the next room, and soames continued to regard the future town, but saw it not. a little smile snarled up his lips. he was despising the vehemence of his own feelings after all these years. ghosts! and yet as one grew old--was there anything but what was ghost-like left? yes, there was fleur! he fixed his eyes on the entrance. she was due; but she would keep him waiting, of course! and suddenly he became aware of a sort of human breeze--a short, slight form clad in a sea-green djibbah with a metal belt and a fillet binding unruly red-gold hair all streaked with grey. she was talking to the gallery attendants, and something familiar riveted his gaze--in her eyes, her chin, her hair, her spirit--something which suggested a thin skye terrier just before its dinner. surely june forsyte! his cousin june--and coming straight to his recess! she sat down beside him, deep in thought, took out a tablet, and made a pencil note. soames sat unmoving. a confounded thing, cousinship! "disgusting!" he heard her murmur; then, as if resenting the presence of an overhearing stranger, she looked at him. the worst had happened. "soames!" soames turned his head a very little. "how are you?" he said. "haven't seen you for twenty years." "no. whatever made you come here?" "my sins," said soames. "what stuff!" "stuff? oh, yes--of course; it hasn't arrived yet. "it never will," said soames; "it must be making a dead loss." "of course it is." "how d'you know?" "it's my gallery." soames sniffed from sheer surprise. "yours? what on earth makes you run a show like this?" "i don't treat art as if it were grocery." soames pointed to the future town. "look at that! who's going to live in a town like that, or with it on his walls?" june contemplated the picture for a moment. "it's a vision," she said. "the deuce!" there was silence, then june rose. 'crazylooking creature!' he thought. "well," he said, "you'll find your young stepbrother here with a woman i used to know. if you take my advice, you'll close this exhibition." june looked back at him. "oh! you forsyte!" she said, and moved on. about her light, fly-away figure, passing so suddenly away, was a look of dangerous decisions. forsyte! of course, he was a forsyte! and so was she! but from the time when, as a mere girl, she brought bosinney into his life to wreck it, he had never hit it off with june and never would! and here she was, unmarried to this day, owning a gallery!... and suddenly it came to soames how little he knew now of his own family. the old aunts at timothy's had been dead so many years; there was no clearing-house for news. what had they all done in the war? young roger's boy had been wounded, st. john hayman's second son killed; young nicholas' eldest had got an o. b. e., or whatever they gave them. they had all joined up somehow, he believed. that boy of jolyon's and irene's, he supposed, had been too young; his own generation, of course, too old, though giles hayman had driven a car for the red cross--and jesse hayman been a special constable--those "dromios" had always been of a sporting type! as for himself, he had given a motor ambulance, read the papers till he was sick of them, passed through much anxiety, bought no clothes, lost seven pounds in weight; he didn't know what more he could have done at his age. indeed, thinking it over, it struck him that he and his family had taken this war very differently to that affair with the boers, which had been supposed to tax all the resources of the empire. in that old war, of course, his nephew val dartie had been wounded, that fellow jolyon's first son had died of enteric, "the dromios" had gone out on horses, and june had been a nurse; but all that had seemed in the nature of a portent, while in this war everybody had done "their bit," so far as he could make out, as a matter of course. it seemed to show the growth of something or other--or perhaps the decline of something else. had the forsytes become less individual, or more imperial, or less provincial? or was it simply that one hated germans?... why didn't fleur come, so that he could get away? he saw those three return together from the other room and pass back along the far side of the screen. the boy was standing before the juno now. and, suddenly, on the other side of her, soames saw--his daughter, with eyebrows raised, as well they might be. he could see her eyes glint sideways at the boy, and the boy look back at her. then irene slipped her hand through his arm, and drew him on. soames saw him glancing round, and fleur looking after them as the three went out. a voice said cheerfully: "bit thick, isn't it, sir?" the young man who had handed him his handkerchief was again passing. soames nodded. "i don't know what we're coming to." "oh! that's all right, sir," answered the young man cheerfully; "they don't either." fleur's voice said: "hallo, father! here you are!" precisely as if he had been keeping her waiting. the young man, snatching off his hat, passed on. "well," said soames, looking her up and down, "you're a punctual sort of young woman!" this treasured possession of his life was of medium height and colour, with short, dark chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes were set in whites so clear that they glinted when they moved, and yet in repose were almost dreamy under very white, black-lashed lids, held over them in a sort of suspense. she had a charming profile, and nothing of her father in her face save a decided chin. aware that his expression was softening as he looked at her, soames frowned to preserve the unemotionalism proper to a forsyte. he knew she was only too inclined to take advantage of his weakness. slipping her hand under his arm, she said: "who was that?" "he picked up my handkerchief. we talked about the pictures." "you're not going to buy that, father?" "no," said soames grimly; "nor that juno you've been looking at." fleur dragged at his arm. "oh! let's go! it's a ghastly show." in the doorway they passed the young man called mont and his partner. but soames had hung out a board marked "trespassers will be prosecuted," and he barely acknowledged the young fellow's salute. "well," he said in the street, "whom did you meet at imogen's?" "aunt winifred, and that monsieur profond." "oh!" muttered soames; "that chap! what does your aunt see in him?" "i don't know. he looks pretty deep--mother says she likes him." soames grunted. "cousin val and his wife were there, too." "what!" said soames. "i thought they were back in south africa." "oh, no! they've sold their farm. cousin val is going to train race-horses on the sussex downs. they've got a jolly old manor-house; they asked me down there." soames coughed: the news was distasteful to him. "what's his wife like now?" "very quiet, but nice, i think." soames coughed again. "he's a rackety chap, your cousin val." "oh! no, father; they're awfully devoted. i promised to go--saturday to wednesday next." "training race-horses!" said soames. it was extravagant, but not the reason for his distaste. why the deuce couldn't his nephew have stayed out in south africa? his own divorce had been bad enough, without his nephew's marriage to the daughter of the co-respondent; a half-sister too of june, and of that boy whom fleur had just been looking at from under the pump-handle. if he didn't look out, she would come to know all about that old disgrace! unpleasant things! they were round him this afternoon like a swarm of bees! "i don't like it!" he said. "i want to see the race-horses," murmured fleur; "and they've promised i shall ride. cousin val can't walk much, you know; but he can ride perfectly. he's going to show me their gallops." "racing!" said soames. "it's a pity the war didn't knock that on the head. he's taking after his father, i'm afraid." "i don't know anything about his father." "no," said soames, grimly. "he took an interest in horses and broke his neck in paris, walking down-stairs. good riddance for your aunt." he frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which he had attended in paris six years ago, because. montague dartie could not attend it himself--perfectly normal stairs in a house where they played baccarat. either his winnings or the way he had celebrated them had gone to his brother-in-law's head. the french procedure had been very loose; he had had a lot of trouble with it. a sound from fleur distracted his attention. "look! the people who were in the gallery with us." "what people?" muttered soames, who knew perfectly well. "i think that woman's beautiful." "come into this pastry-cook's," said soames abruptly, and tightening his grip on her arm he turned into a confectioner's. it was--for him--a surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously: "what will you have?" "oh! i don't want anything. i had a cocktail and a tremendous lunch." "we must have something now we're here," muttered soames, keeping hold of her arm. "two teas," he said; "and two of those nougat things." but no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. those three--those three were coming in! he heard irene say something to her boy, and his answer: "oh! no, mum; this place is all right. my stunt." and the three sat down. at that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts and shadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had ever loved--his divorced wife and his daughter by her successor--soames was not so much afraid of them as of his cousin june. she might make a scene--she might introduce those two children--she was capable of anything. he bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck to his plate. working at it with his finger, he glanced at fleur. she was masticating dreamily, but her eyes were on the boy. the forsyte in him said: "think, feel, and you're done for!" and he wiggled his finger desperately. plate! did jolyon wear a plate? did that woman wear a plate? time had been when he had seen her wearing nothing! that was something, anyway, which had never been stolen from him. and she knew it, though she might sit there calm and self-possessed, as if she had never been his wife. an acid humour stirred in his forsyte blood; a subtle pain divided by hair's breadth from pleasure. if only june did not suddenly bring her hornets about his ears! the boy was talking. "of course, auntie june"--so he called his half-sister "auntie," did he?--well, she must be fifty, if she was a day!--"it's jolly good of you to encourage them. only--hang it all!" soames stole a glance. irene's startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy. she--she had these devotions--for bosinney--for that boy's father--for this boy! he touched fleur's arm, and said: "well, have you had enough?" "one more, father, please." she would be sick! he went to the counter to pay. when he turned round again he saw fleur standing near the door, holding a handkerchief which the boy had evidently just handed to her. "f. f.," he heard her say. "fleur forsyte--it's mine all right. thank you ever so." good god! she had caught the trick from what he'd told her in the gallery--monkey! "forsyte? why--that's my name too. perhaps we're cousins." "really! we must be. there aren't any others. i live at mapledurham; where do you?" "robin hill." question and answer had been so rapid that all was over before he could lift a finger. he saw irene's face alive with startled feeling, gave the slightest shake of his head, and slipped his arm through fleur's. "come along!" he said. she did not move. "didn't you hear, father? isn't it queer--our name's the same. are we cousins?" "what's that?" he said. "forsyte? distant, perhaps." "my name's jolyon, sir. jon, for short." "oh! ah!" said soames. "yes. distant. how are you? very good of you. good-bye!" he moved on. "thanks awfully," fleur was saying. "au revoir!" "au revoir!" he heard the boy reply. ii fine fleur forsyte emerging from the "pastry-cook's," soames' first impulse was to vent his nerves by saying to his daughter: 'dropping your hand-kerchief!' to which her reply might well be: 'i picked that up from you!' his second impulse therefore was to let sleeping dogs lie. but she would surely question him. he gave her a sidelong look, and found she was giving him the same. she said softly: "why don't you like those cousins, father?" soames lifted the corner of his lip. "what made you think that?" "cela se voit." 'that sees itself!' what a way of putting it! after twenty years of a french wife soames had still little sympathy with her language; a theatrical affair and connected in his mind with all the refinements of domestic irony. "how?" he asked. "you must know them; and you didn't make a sign. i saw them looking at you." "i've never seen the boy in my life," replied soames with perfect truth. "no; but you've seen the others, dear." soames gave her another look. what had she picked up? had her aunt winifred, or imogen, or val dartie and his wife, been talking? every breath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, and winifred warned many times that he wouldn't have a whisper of it reach her for the world. so far as she ought to know, he had never been married before. but her dark eyes, whose southern glint and clearness often almost frightened him, met his with perfect innocence. "well," he said, "your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel. the two families don't know each other." "how romantic!" 'now, what does she mean by that?' he thought. the word was to him extravagant and dangerous--it was as if she had said: "how jolly!" "and they'll continue not to know each, other," he added, but instantly regretted the challenge in those words. fleur was smiling. in this age, when young people prided themselves on going their own ways and paying no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had said the very thing to excite her wilfulness. then, recollecting the expression on irene's face, he breathed again. "what sort of a quarrel?" he heard fleur say. "about a house. it's ancient history for you. your grandfather died the day you were born. he was ninety." "ninety? are there many forsytes besides those in the red book?" "i don't know," said soames. "they're all dispersed now. the old ones are dead, except timothy." fleur clasped her hands. "timothy? isn't that delicious?" "not at all," said soames. it offended him that she should think "timothy" delicious--a kind of insult to his breed. this new generation mocked at anything solid and tenacious. "you go and see the old boy. he might want to prophesy." ah! if timothy could see the disquiet england of his great-nephews and great-nieces, he would certainly give tongue. and involuntarily he glanced up at the iseeum; yes--george was still in the window, with the same pink paper in his hand. "where is robin hill, father?" robin hill! robin hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! what did she want to know for? "in surrey," he muttered; "not far from richmond. why?" "is the house there?" "what house?" "that they quarrelled about." "yes. but what's all that to do with you? we're going home to-morrow--you'd better be thinking about your frocks." "bless you! they're all thought about. a family feud? it's like the bible, or mark twain--awfully exciting. what did you do in the feud, father?" "never you mind." "oh! but if i'm to keep it up?" "who said you were to keep it up?" "you, darling." "i? i said it had nothing to do with you." "just what i think, you know; so that's all right." she was too sharp for him; fine, as annette sometimes called her. nothing for it but to distract her attention. "there's a bit of rosaline point in here," he said, stopping before a shop, "that i thought you might like." when he had paid for it and they had resumed their progress, fleur said: "don't you think that boy's mother is the most beautiful woman of her age you've ever seen?" soames shivered. uncanny, the way she stuck to it! "i don't know that i noticed her." "dear, i saw the corner of your eye." "you see everything--and a great deal more, it seems to me!" "what's her husband like? he must be your first cousin, if your fathers were brothers." "dead, for all i know," said soames, with sudden vehemence. "i haven't seen him for twenty years." "what was he?" "a painter." "that's quite jolly." the words: "if you want to please me you'll put those people out of your head," sprang to soames' lips, but he choked them back--he must not let her see his feelings. "he once insulted me," he said. her quick eyes rested on his face. "i see! you didn't avenge it, and it rankles. poor father! you let me have a go!" it was really like lying in the dark with a mosquito hovering above his face. such pertinacity in fleur was new to him, and, as they reached the hotel, he said grimly: "i did my best. and that's enough about these people. i'm going up till dinner." "i shall sit here." with a parting look at her extended in a chair--a look half-resentful, half-adoring--soames moved into the lift and was transported to their suite on the fourth floor. he stood by the window of the sitting-room which gave view over hyde park, and drummed a finger on its pane. his feelings were confused, tetchy, troubled. the throb of that old wound, scarred over by time and new interests, was mingled with displeasure and anxiety, and a slight pain in his chest where that nougat stuff had disagreed. had annette come in? not that she was any good to him in such a difficulty. whenever she had questioned him about his first marriage, he had always shut her up; she knew nothing of it, save that it had been the great passion of his life, and his marriage with herself but domestic makeshift. she had always kept the grudge of that up her sleeve, as it were, and used it commercially. he listened. a sound--the vague murmur of a woman's movements--was coming through the door. she was in. he tapped. "who?" "i," said soames. she had been changing her frock, and was still imperfectly clothed; a striking figure before her glass. there was a certain magnificence about her arms, shoulders, hair, which had darkened since he first knew her, about the turn of her neck, the silkiness of her garments, her dark-lashed, greyblue eyes--she was certainly as handsome at forty as she had ever been. a fine possession, an excellent housekeeper, a sensible and affectionate enough mother. if only she weren't always so frankly cynical about the relations between them! soames, who had no more real affection for her than she had for him, suffered from a kind of english grievance in that she had never dropped even the thinnest veil of sentiment over their partnership. like most of his countrymen and women, he held the view that marriage should be based on mutual love, but that when from a marriage love had disappeared, or, been found never to have really existed--so that it was manifestly not based on love--you must not admit it. there it was, and the love was not--but there you were, and must continue to be! thus you had it both ways, and were not tarred with cynicism, realism, and immorality like the french. moreover, it was necessary in the interests of property. he knew that she knew that they both knew there was no love between them, but he still expected her not to admit in words or conduct such a thing, and he could never understand what she meant when she talked of the hypocrisy of the english. he said: "whom have you got at 'the shelter' next week?" annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve--he always wished she wouldn't do that. "your sister winifred, and the car-r-digans"--she took up a tiny stick of black--"and prosper profond." "that belgian chap? why him?" annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said: "he amuses winifred." "i want some one to amuse fleur; she's restive." "r-restive?" repeated annette. "is it the first time you see that, my friend? she was born r-restive, as you call it." would she never get that affected roll out of her r's? he touched the dress she had taken off, and asked: "what have you been doing?" annette looked at him, reflected in her glass. her just-brightened lips smiled, rather full, rather ironical. "enjoying myself," she said. "oh!" answered soames glumly. "ribbandry, i suppose." it was his word for all that incomprehensible running in and out of shops that women went in for. "has fleur got her summer dresses?" "you don't ask if i have mine." "you don't care whether i do or not." "quite right. well, she has; and i have mine--terribly expensive." "h'm!" said soames. "what does that chap profond do in england?" annette raised the eyebrows she had just finished. "he yachts." "ah!" said soames; "he's a sleepy chap." "sometimes," answered annette, and her face had a sort of quiet enjoyment. "but sometimes very amusing." "he's got a touch of the tar-brush about him." annette stretched herself. "tar-brush?" she said. "what is that? his mother was armenienne." "that's it, then," muttered soames. "does he know anything about pictures?" "he knows about everything--a man of the world." "well, get some one for fleur. i want to distract her. she's going off on saturday to val dartie and his wife; i don't like it." "why not?" since the reason could not be explained without going into family history, soames merely answered: "racketing about. there's too much of it." "i like that little mrs. val; she is very quiet and clever." "i know nothing of her except--this thing's new." and soames took up a creation from the bed. annette received it from him. "would you hook me?" she said. soames hooked. glancing once over her shoulder into the glass, he saw the expression on her face, faintly amused, faintly contemptuous, as much as to say: "thanks! you will never learn!" no, thank god, he wasn't a frenchman! he finished with a jerk, and the words: "it's too low here." and he went to the door, with the wish to get away from her and go down to fleur again. annette stayed a powder-puff, and said with startling suddenness "que to es grossier!" he knew the expression--he had reason to. the first time she had used it he had thought it meant "what a grocer you are!" and had not known whether to be relieved or not when better informed. he resented the word--he was not coarse! if he was coarse, what was that chap in the room beyond his, who made those horrible noises in the morning when he cleared his throat, or those people in the lounge who thought it well-bred to say nothing but what the whole world could hear at the top of their voices--quacking inanity! coarse, because he had said her dress was low! well, so it was! he went out without reply. coming into the lounge from the far end, he at once saw fleur where he had left her. she sat with crossed knees, slowly balancing a foot in silk stocking and grey shoe, sure sign that she was dreaming. her eyes showed it too--they went off like that sometimes. and then, in a moment, she would come to life, and be as quick and restless as a monkey. and she knew so much, so self-assured, and not yet nineteen. what was that odious word? flapper! dreadful young creatures--squealing and squawking and showing their legs! the worst of them bad dreams, the best of them powdered angels! fleur was not a flapper, not one of those slangy, ill-bred young females. and yet she was frighteningly self-willed, and full of life, and determined to enjoy it. enjoy! the word brought no puritan terror to soames; but it brought the terror suited to his temperament. he had always been afraid to enjoy to-day for fear he might not enjoy tomorrow so much. and it was terrifying to feel that his daughter was divested of that safeguard. the very way she sat in that chair showed it--lost in her dream. he had never been lost in a dream himself--there was nothing to be had out of it; and where she got it from he did not know! certainly not from annette! and yet annette, as a young girl, when he was hanging about her, had once had a flowery look. well, she had lost it now! fleur rose from her chair-swiftly, restlessly; and flung herself down at a writing-table. seizing ink and writing paper, she began to write as if she had not time to breathe before she got her letter written. and suddenly she saw him. the air of desperate absorption vanished, she smiled, waved a kiss, made a pretty face as if she were a little puzzled and a little bored. ah! she was "fine"--"fine!" iii at robin hill jolyon forsyte had spent his boy's nineteenth birthday at robin hill, quietly going into his affairs. he did everything quietly now, because his heart was in a poor way, and, like all his family, he disliked the idea of dying. he had never realised how much till one day, two years ago, he had gone to his doctor about certain symptoms, and been told: "at any moment, on any overstrain." he had taken it with a smile--the natural forsyte reaction against an unpleasant truth. but with an increase of symptoms in the train on the way home, he had realised to the full the sentence hanging over him. to leave irene, his boy, his home, his work--though he did little enough work now! to leave them for unknown darkness, for the unimaginable state, for such nothingness that he would not even be conscious of wind stirring leaves above his grave, nor of the scent of earth and grass. of such nothingness that, however hard he might try to conceive it, he never could, and must still hover on the hope that he might see again those he loved! to realise this was to endure very poignant spiritual anguish. before he reached home that day he had determined to keep it from irene. he would have to be more careful than man had ever been, for the least thing would give it away and make her as wretched as himself, almost. his doctor had passed him sound in other respects, and seventy was nothing of an age--he would last a long time yet, if he could. such a conclusion, followed out for nearly two years, develops to the full the subtler side of character. naturally not abrupt, except when nervously excited, jolyon had become control incarnate. the sad patience of old people who cannot exert themselves was masked by a smile which his lips preserved even in private. he devised continually all manner of cover to conceal his enforced lack of exertion. mocking himself for so doing, he counterfeited conversion to the simple life; gave up wine and cigars, drank a special kind of coffee with no coffee in it. in short, he made himself as safe as a forsyte in his condition could, under the rose of his mild irony. secure from discovery, since his wife and son had gone up to town, he had spent the fine may day quietly arranging his papers, that he might die to-morrow without inconveniencing any one, giving in fact a final polish to his terrestrial state. having docketed and enclosed it in his father's old chinese cabinet, he put the key into an envelope, wrote the words outside: "key of the chinese cabinet, wherein will be found the exact state of me, j. f.," and put it in his breast-pocket, where it would be always about him, in case of accident. then, ringing for tea, he went out to have it under the old oak-tree. all are under sentence of death; jolyon, whose sentence was but a little more precise and pressing, had become so used to it that he thought habitually, like other people, of other things. he thought of his son now. jon was nineteen that day, and jon had come of late to a decision. educated neither at eton like his father, nor at harrow, like his dead half-brother, but at one of those establishments which, designed to avoid the evil and contain the good of the public school system, may or may not contain the evil and avoid the good, jon had left in april perfectly ignorant of whit he wanted to become. the war, which had promised to go on for ever, had ended just as he was about to join the army, six months before his time. it had taken him ever since to get used to the idea that he could now choose for himself. he had held with his father several discussions, from which, under a cheery show of being ready for anything--except, of course, the church, army, law, stage, stock exchange, medicine, business, and engineering--jolyon had gathered rather clearly that jon wanted to go in for nothing. he himself had felt exactly like that at the same age. with him that pleasant vacuity had soon been ended by an early marriage, and its unhappy consequences. forced to become an underwriter at lloyd's, he had regained prosperity before his artistic talent had outcropped. but having--as the simple say --"learned" his boy to draw pigs and other animals, he knew that jon would never be a painter, and inclined to the conclusion that his aversion from everything else meant that he was going to be a writer. holding, however, the view that experience was necessary even for that profession, there seemed to jolyon nothing in the meantime, for jon, but university, travel, and perhaps the eating of dinners for the bar. after that one would see, or more probably one would not. in face of these proffered allurements, however, jon had remained undecided. such discussions with his son had confirmed in jolyon a doubt whether the world had really changed. people said that it was a new age. with the profundity of one not too long for any age, jolyon perceived that under slightly different surfaces the era was precisely what it had been. mankind was still divided into two species: the few who had "speculation" in their souls, and the many who had none, with a belt of hybrids like himself in the middle. jon appeared to have speculation; it seemed to his father a bad lookout. with something deeper, therefore, than his usual smile, he had heard the boy say, a fortnight ago: "i should like to try farming, dad; if it won't cost you too much. it seems to be about the only sort of life that doesn't hurt anybody; except art, and of course that's out of the question for me." jolyon subdued his smile, and answered: "all right; you shall skip back to where we were under the first jolyon in . it'll prove the cycle theory, and incidentally, no doubt, you may grow a better turnip than he did." a little dashed, jon had answered: "but don't you think it's a good scheme, dad?" "'twill serve, my dear; and if you should really take to it, you'll do more good than most men, which is little enough." to himself, however, he had said: 'but he won't take to it. i give him four years. still, it's healthy, and harmless.' after turning the matter over and consulting with irene, he wrote to his daughter, mrs. val dartie, asking if they knew of a farmer near them on the downs who would take jon as an apprentice. holly's answer had been enthusiastic. there was an excellent man quite close; she and val would love jon to live with them. the boy was due to go to-morrow. sipping weak tea with lemon in it, jolyon gazed through the leaves of the old oak-tree at that view which had appeared to him desirable for thirty-two years. the tree beneath which he sat seemed not a day older! so young, the little leaves of brownish gold; so old, the whitey-grey-green of its thick rough trunk. a tree of memories, which would live on hundreds of years yet, unless some barbarian cut it down--would see old england out at the pace things were going! he remembered a night three years before, when, looking from his window, with his arm close round irene, he had watched a german aeroplane hovering, it seemed, right over the old tree. next day they had found a bomb hole in a field on gage's farm. that was before he knew that he was under sentence of death. he could almost have wished the bomb had finished him. it would have saved a lot of hanging about, many hours of cold fear in the pit of his stomach. he had counted on living to the normal forsyte age of eighty-five or more, when irene would be seventy. as it was, she would miss him. still there was jon, more important in her life than himself; jon, who adored his mother. under that tree, where old jolyon--waiting for irene to come to him across the lawn--had breathed his last, jolyon wondered, whimsically, whether, having put everything in such perfect order, he had not better close his own eyes and drift away. there was something undignified in o parasitically clinging on to the effortless close of a life wherein he regretted two things only--the long division between his father and himself when he was young, and the lateness of his union o with irene. from where he sat he could see a cluster of apple-trees in blossom. nothing in nature moved him so much as fruit-trees in blossom; and his heart ached suddenly because he might never see them flower again. spring! decidedly no man ought to have to die while his heart was still young enough to love beauty! blackbirds sang recklessly in the shrubbery, swallows were flying high, the leaves above him glistened; and over the fields was every imaginable tint of early foliage, burnished by the level sunlight, away to where the distant "smoke-bush" blue was trailed along the horizon. irene's flowers in their narrow beds had startling individuality that evening, little deep assertions of gay life. only chinese and japanese painters, and perhaps leonardo, had known how to get that startling little ego into each painted flower, and bird, and beast--the ego, yet the sense of species, the universality of life as well. they were the fellows! 'i've made nothing that will live!' thought jolyon; 'i've been an amateur--a mere lover, not a creator. still, i shall leave jon behind me when i go.' what luck that the boy had not been caught by that ghastly war! he might so easily have been killed, like poor jolly twenty years ago out in the transvaal. jon would do something some day--if the age didn't spoil him--an imaginative chap! his whim to take up farming was but a bit of sentiment, and about as likely to last. and just then he saw them coming up the field: irene and the boy; walking from the station, with their arms linked. and getting up, he strolled down through the new rose garden to meet them.... irene came into his room that night and sat down by the window. she sat there without speaking till he said: "what is it, my love?" "we had an encounter to-day." "with whom?" "soames." soames! he had kept that name out of his thoughts these last two years; conscious that it was bad for him. and, now, his heart moved in a disconcerting manner, as if it had side-slipped within his chest. irene went on quietly: "he and his daughter were in the gallery, and afterward at the confectioner's where we had tea." jolyon went over and put his hand on her shoulder. "how did he look?" "grey; but otherwise much the same." "and the daughter?" "pretty. at least, jon thought so." jolyon's heart side-slipped again. his wife's face had a strained and puzzled look. "you didn't-?" he began. "no; but jon knows their name. the girl dropped her handkerchief and he picked it up." jolyon sat down on his bed. an evil chance! "june was with you. did she put her foot into it?" "no; but it was all very queer and strained, and jon could see it was." jolyon drew a long breath, and said: "i've often wondered whether we've been right to keep it from him. he'll find out some day." "the later the better, jolyon; the young have such cheap, hard judgment. when you were nineteen what would you have thought of your mother if she had done what i have?" yes! there it was! jon worshipped his mother; and knew nothing of the tragedies, the inexorable necessities of life, nothing of the prisoned grief in an unhappy marriage, nothing of jealousy or passion--knew nothing at all, as yet! "what have you told him?" he said at last. "that they were relations, but we didn't know them; that you had never cared much for your family, or they for you. i expect he will be asking you." jolyon smiled. "this promises to take the place of air-raids," he said. "after all, one misses them." irene looked up at him. "we've known it would come some day." he answered her with sudden energy: "i could never stand seeing jon blame you. he shan't do that, even in thought. he has imagination; and he'll understand if it's put to him properly. i think i had better tell him before he gets to know otherwise." "not yet, jolyon." that was like her--she had no foresight, and never went to meet trouble. still--who knew?--she might be right. it was ill going against a mother's instinct. it might be well to let the boy go on, if possible, till experience had given him some touchstone by which he could judge the values of that old tragedy; till love, jealousy, longing, had deepened his charity. all the same, one must take precautions--every precaution possible! and, long after irene had left him, he lay awake turning over those precautions. he must write to holly, telling her that jon knew nothing as yet of family history. holly was discreet, she would make sure of her husband, she would see to it! jon could take the letter with him when he went to-morrow. and so the day on which he had put the polish on his material estate died out with the chiming of the stable clock; and another began for jolyon in the shadow of a spiritual disorder which could not be so rounded off and polished.... but jon, whose room had once been his day nursery, lay awake too, the prey of a sensation disputed by those who have never known it, "love at first sight!" he had felt it beginning in him with the glint of those dark eyes gazing into his athwart the juno--a conviction that this was his 'dream'; so that what followed had seemed to him at once natural and miraculous. fleur! her name alone was almost enough for one who was terribly susceptible to the charm of words. in a homoeopathic age, when boys and girls were co-educated, and mixed up in early life till sex was almost abolished, jon was singularly old-fashioned. his modern school took boys only, and his holidays had been spent at robin hill with boy friends, or his parents alone. he had never, therefore, been inoculated against the germs of love by small doses of the poison. and now in the dark his temperature was mounting fast. he lay awake, featuring fleur--as they called it--recalling her words, especially that "au revoir!" so soft and sprightly. he was still so wide awake at dawn that he got up, slipped on tennis shoes, trousers, and a sweater, and in silence crept downstairs and out through the study window. it was just light; there was a smell of grass. 'fleur!' he thought; 'fleur!' it was mysteriously white out of doors, with nothing awake except the birds just beginning to chirp. 'i'll go down into the coppice,' he thought. he ran down through the fields, reached the pond just as the sun rose, and passed into the coppice. bluebells carpeted the ground there; among the larch-trees there was mystery--the air, as it were, composed of that romantic quality. jon sniffed its freshness, and stared at the bluebells in the sharpening light. fleur! it rhymed with her! and she lived at mapleduram--a jolly name, too, on the river somewhere. he could find it in the atlas presently. he would write to her. but would she answer? oh! she must. she had said "au revoir!" not good-bye! what luck that she had dropped her handkerchief! he would never have known her but for that. and the more he thought of that handkerchief, the more amazing his luck seemed. fleur! it certainly rhymed with her! rhythm thronged his head; words jostled to be joined together; he was on the verge of a poem. jon remained in this condition for more than half an hour, then returned to the house, and getting a ladder, climbed in at his bedroom window out of sheer exhilaration. then, remembering that the study window was open, he went down and shut it, first removing the ladder, so as to obliterate all traces of his feeling. the thing was too deep to be revealed to mortal soul-even-to his mother. iv the mausoleum there are houses whose souls have passed into the limbo of time, leaving their bodies in the limbo of london. such was not quite the condition of "timothy's" on the bayswater road, for timothy's soul still had one foot in timothy forsyte's body, and smither kept the atmosphere unchanging, of camphor and port wine and house whose windows are only opened to air it twice a day. to forsyte imagination that house was now a sort of chinese pill-box, a series of layers in the last of which was timothy. one did not reach him, or so it was reported by members of the family who, out of old-time habit or absentmindedness, would drive up once in a blue moon and ask after their surviving uncle. such were francie, now quite emancipated from god (she frankly avowed atheism), euphemia, emancipated from old nicholas, and winifred dartie from her "man of the world." but, after all, everybody was emancipated now, or said they were--perhaps not quite the same thing! when soames, therefore, took it on his way to paddington station on the morning after that encounter, it was hardly with the expectation of seeing timothy in the flesh. his heart made a faint demonstration within him while he stood in full south sunlight on the newly whitened doorstep of that little house where four forsytes had once lived, and now but one dwelt on like a winter fly; the house into which soames had come and out of which he had gone times without number, divested of, or burdened with, fardels of family gossip; the house of the "old people" of another century, another age. the sight of smither--still corseted up to the armpits because the new fashion which came in as they were going out about had never been considered "nice" by aunts juley and hester--brought a pale friendliness to soames' lips; smither, still faithfully arranged to old pattern in every detail, an invaluable servant--none such left--smiling back at him, with the words: "why! it's mr. soames, after all this time! and how are you, sir? mr. timothy will be so pleased to know you've been." "how is he?" "oh! he keeps fairly bobbish for his age, sir; but of course he's a wonderful man. as i said to mrs. dartie when she was here last: it would please miss forsyte and mrs. juley and miss hester to see how he relishes a baked apple still. but he's quite deaf. and a mercy, i always think. for what we should have done with him in the air-raids, i don't know." "ah!" said soames. "what did you do with him?" "we just left him in his bed, and had the bell run down into the cellar, so that cook and i could hear him if he rang. it would never have done to let him know there was a war on. as i said to cook, 'if mr. timothy rings, they may do what they like--i'm going up. my dear mistresses would have a fit if they could see him ringing and nobody going to him.' but he slept through them all beautiful. and the one in the daytime he was having his bath. it was a mercy, because he might have noticed the people in the street all looking up--he often looks out of the window." "quite!" murmured soames. smither was getting garrulous! "i just want to look round and see if there's anything to be done." "yes, sir. i don't think there's anything except a smell of mice in the dining-room that we don't know how to get rid of. it's funny they should be there, and not a crumb, since mr. timothy took to not coming down, just before the war. but they're nasty little things; you never know where they'll take you next." "does he leave his bed?"-- "oh! yes, sir; he takes nice exercise between his bed and the window in the morning, not to risk a change of air. and he's quite comfortable in himself; has his will out every day regular. it's a great consolation to him--that." "well, smither, i want to see him, if i can; in case he has anything to say to me." smither coloured up above her corsets. "it will be an occasion!" she said. "shall i take you round the house, sir, while i send cook to break it to him?" "no, you go to him," said soames. "i can go round the house by myself." one could not confess to sentiment before another, and soames felt that he was going to be sentimental nosing round those rooms so saturated with the past. when smither, creaking with excitement, had left him, soames entered the dining-room and sniffed. in his opinion it wasn't mice, but incipient wood-rot, and he examined the panelling. whether it was worth a coat of paint, at timothy's age, he was not sure. the room had always been the most modern in the house; and only a faint smile curled soames' lips and nostrils. walls of a rich green surmounted the oak dado; a heavy metal chandelier hung by a chain from a ceiling divided by imitation beams. the pictures had been bought by timothy, a bargain, one day at jobson's sixty years ago--three snyder "still lifes," two faintly coloured drawings of a boy and a girl, rather charming, which bore the initials "j. r."--timothy had always believed they might turn out to be joshua reynolds, but soames, who admired them, had discovered that they were only john robinson; and a doubtful morland of a white pony being shod. deep-red plush curtains, ten high-backed dark mahogany chairs with deep-red plush seats, a turkey carpet, and a mahogany dining-table as large as the room was small, such was an apartment which soames could remember unchanged in soul or body since he was four years old. he looked especially at the two drawings, and thought: 'i shall buy those at the sale.' from the dining-room he passed into timothy's study. he did not remember ever having been in that room. it was lined from floor to ceiling with volumes, and he looked at them with curiosity. one wall seemed devoted to educational books, which timothy's firm had published two generations back-sometimes as many as twenty copies of one book. soames read their titles and shuddered. the middle wall had precisely the same books as used to be in the library at his own father's in park lane, from which he deduced the fancy that james and his youngest brother had gone out together one day and bought a brace of small libraries. the third wall he approached with more excitement. here, surely, timothy's own taste would be found. it was. the books were dummies. the fourth wall was all heavily curtained window. and turned toward it was a large chair with a mahogany reading-stand attached, on which a yellowish and folded copy of the times, dated july , , the day timothy first failed to come down, as if in preparation for the war, seemed waiting for him still. in a corner stood a large globe of that world never visited by timothy, deeply convinced of the unreality of everything but england, and permanently upset by the sea, on which he had been very sick one sunday afternoon in , out of a pleasure boat off the pier at brighton, with juley and hester, swithin and hatty chessman; all due to swithin, who was always taking things into his head, and who, thank goodness, had been sick too. soames knew all about it, having heard the tale fifty times at least from one or other of them. he went up to the globe, and gave it a spin; it emitted a faint creak and moved about an inch, bringing into his purview a daddy-long-legs which had died on it in latitude . 'mausoleum!' he thought. 'george was right!' and he went out and up the stairs. on the half-landing he stopped before the case of stuffed humming-birds which had delighted his childhood. they looked not a day older, suspended on wires above pampas-grass. if the case were opened the birds would not begin to hum, but the whole thing would crumble, he suspected. it wouldn't be worth putting that into the sale! and suddenly he was caught by a memory of aunt ann--dear old aunt ann--holding him by the hand in front of that case and saying: "look, soamey! aren't they bright and pretty, dear little humming-birds!" soames remembered his own answer: "they don't hum, auntie." he must have been six, in a black velveteen suit with a light-blue collar-he remembered that suit well! aunt ann with her ringlets, and her spidery kind hands, and her grave old aquiline smile--a fine old lady, aunt ann! he moved on up to the drawing-room door. there on each side of it were the groups of miniatures. those he would certainly buy in! the miniatures of his four aunts, one of his uncle swithin adolescent, and one of his uncle nicholas as a boy. they had all been painted by a young lady friend of the family at a time, , about, when miniatures were considered very genteel, and lasting too, painted as they were on ivory. many a time had he heard the tale of that young lady: "very talented, my dear; she had quite a weakness for swithin, and very soon after she went into a consumption and died: so like keats--we often spoke of it." well, there they were! ann, juley, hester, susan--quite a small child; swithin, with sky-blue eyes, pink cheeks, yellow curls, white waistcoat-large as life; and nicholas, like cupid with an eye on heaven. now he came to think of it, uncle nick had always been rather like that--a wonderful man to the last. yes, she must have had talent, and miniatures always had a certain back-watered cachet of their own, little subject to the currents of competition on aesthetic change. soames opened the drawing-room door. the room was dusted, the furniture uncovered, the curtains drawn back, precisely as if his aunts still dwelt there patiently waiting. and a thought came to him: when timothy died--why not? would it not be almost a duty to preserve this house--like carlyle's--and put up a tablet, and show it? "specimen of mid-victorian abode--entrance, one shilling, with catalogue." after all, it was the completest thing, and perhaps the deadest in the london of to-day. perfect in its special taste and culture, if, that is, he took down and carried over to his own collection the four barbizon pictures he had given them. the still sky-blue walls, tile green curtains patterned with red flowers and ferns; the crewel-worked fire-screen before the cast-iron grate; the mahogany cupboard with glass windows, full of little knickknacks; the beaded footstools; keats, shelley, southey, cowper, coleridge, byron's corsair (but nothing else), and the victorian poets in a bookshelf row; the marqueterie cabinet lined with dim red plush, full of family relics: hester's first fan; the buckles of their mother's father's shoes; three bottled scorpions; and one very yellow elephant's tusk, sent home from india by great-uncle edgar forsyte, who had been in jute; a yellow bit of paper propped up, with spidery writing on it, recording god knew what! and the pictures crowding on the walls--all water-colours save those four barbizons looking like tile foreigners they were, and doubtful customers at that--pictures bright and illustrative, "telling the bees," "hey for the ferry!" and two in the style of frith, all thimblerig and crinolines, given them by swithin. oh! many, many pictures at which soames had gazed a thousand times in supercilious fascination; a marvellous collection of bright, smooth gilt frames. and the boudoir-grand piano, beautifully dusted, hermetically sealed as ever; and aunt juley's album of pressed seaweed on it. and the gilt-legged chairs, stronger than they looked. and on one side of the fireplace the sofa of crimson silk, where aunt ann, and after her aunt juley, had been wont to sit, facing the light and bolt upright. and on the other side of the fire the one really easy chair, back to the light, for aunt hester. soames screwed up his eyes; he seemed to see them sitting there. ah! and the atmosphere--even now, of too many stuffs and washed lace curtains, lavender in bags, and dried bees' wings. 'no,' he thought, 'there's nothing like it left; it ought to be preserved.' and, by george, they might laugh at it, but for a standard of gentle life never departed from, for fastidiousness of skin and eye and nose and feeling, it beat to-day hollow--to-day with its tubes and cars, its perpetual smoking, its cross-legged, bare-necked girls visible up to the knees and down to the waist if you took the trouble (agreeable to the satyr within each forsyte but hardly his idea of a lady), with their feet, too, screwed round the legs of their chairs while they ate, and their "so longs," and their "old beans," and their laughter--girls who gave him the shudders whenever he thought of fleur in contact with them; and the hard-eyed, capable, older women who managed life and gave him the shudders too. no! his old aunts, if they never opened their minds, their eyes, or very much their windows, at least had manners, and a standard, and reverence for past and future. with rather a choky feeling he closed the door and went tiptoeing upstairs. he looked in at a place on the way: h'm! in perfect order of the eighties, with a sort of yellow oilskin paper on the walls. at the top of the stairs he hesitated between four doors. which of them was timothy's? and he listened. a sound, as of a child slowly dragging a hobby-horse about, came to his ears. that must be timothy! he tapped, and a door was opened by smither, very red in the face. mr. timothy was taking his walk, and she had not been able to get him to attend. if mr. soames would come into the back-room, he could see him through the door. soames went into the back-room and stood watching. the last of the old forsytes was on his feet, moving with the most impressive slowness, and an air of perfect concentration on his own affairs, backward and forward between the foot of his bed and the window, a distance of some twelve feet. the lower part of his square face, no longer clean-shaven, was covered with snowy beard clipped as short as it could be, and his chin looked as broad as his brow where the hair was also quite white, while nose and cheeks and brow were a good yellow. one hand held a stout stick, and the other grasped the skirt of his jaeger dressing-gown, from under which could be seen his bed-socked ankles and feet thrust into jaeger slippers. the expression on his face was that of a crossed child, intent on something that he has not got. each time he turned he stumped the stick, and then dragged it, as if to show that he could do without it: "he still looks strong," said soames under his breath. "oh! yes, sir. you should see him take his bath--it's wonderful; he does enjoy it so." those quite loud words gave soames an insight. timothy had resumed his babyhood. "does he take any interest in things generally?" he said, also loud. "oh i yes, sir; his food and his will. it's quite a sight to see him turn it over and over, not to read it, of course; and every now and then he asks the price of consols, and i write it on a slate for him--very large. of course, i always write the same, what they were when he last took notice, in . we got the doctor to forbid him to read the paper when the war broke out. oh! he did take on about that at first. but he soon came round, because he knew it tired him; and he's a wonder to conserve energy as he used to call it when my dear mistresses were alive, bless their hearts! how he did go on at them about that; they were always so active, if you remember, mr. soames." "what would happen if i were to go in?" asked soames: "would he remember me? i made his will, you know, after miss hester died in ." "oh! that, sir," replied smither doubtfully, "i couldn't take on me to say. i think he might; he really is a wonderful man for his age." soames moved into the doorway, and waiting for timothy to turn, said in a loud voice: "uncle timothy!" timothy trailed back half-way, and halted. "eh?" he said. "soames," cried soames at the top of his voice, holding out his hand, "soames forsyte!" "no!" said timothy, and stumping his stick loudly on the floor, he continued his walk. "it doesn't seem to work," said soames. "no, sir," replied smither, rather crestfallen; "you see, he hasn't finished his walk. it always was one thing at a time with him. i expect he'll ask me this afternoon if you came about the gas, and a pretty job i shall have to make him understand." "do you think he ought to have a man about him?" smither held up her hands. "a man! oh! no. cook and me can manage perfectly. a strange man about would send him crazy in no time. and my mistresses wouldn't like the idea of a man in the house. besides, we're so--proud of him." "i suppose the doctor comes?" "every morning. he makes special terms for such a quantity, and mr. timothy's so used, he doesn't take a bit of notice, except to put out his tongue." "well," said soames, turning away, "it's rather sad and painful to me." "oh! sir," returned smither anxiously, "you mustn't think that. now that he can't worry about things, he quite enjoys his life, really he does. as i say to cook, mr. timothy is more of a man than he ever was. you see, when he's not walkin', or takin' his bath, he's eatin', and when he's not eatin', he's sleepin'; and there it is. there isn't an ache or a care about him anywhere." "well," said soames, "there's something in that. i'll go down. by the way, let me see his will." "i should have to take my time about that, sir; he keeps it under his pillow, and he'd see me, while he's active." "i only want to know if it's the one i made," said soames; "you take a look at its date some time, and let me know." "yes, sir; but i'm sure it's the same, because me and cook witnessed, you remember, and there's our names on it still, and we've only done it once." "quite," said soames. he did remember. smither and jane had been proper witnesses, having been left nothing in the will that they might have no interest in timothy's death. it had been--he fully admitted--an almost improper precaution, but timothy had wished it, and, after all, aunt hester had provided for them amply. "very well," he said; "good-bye, smither. look after him, and if he should say anything at any time, put it down, and let me know." "oh i yes, mr. soames; i'll be sure to do that. it's been such a pleasant change to see you. cook will be quite excited when i tell her." soames shook her hand and went down-stairs. he stood for fully two minutes by the hat-stand whereon he had hung his hat so many times. 'so it all passes,' he was thinking; 'passes and begins again. poor old chap!' and he listened, if perchance the sound of timothy trailing his hobby-horse might come down the well of the stairs; or some ghost of an old face show over the bannisters, and an old voice say: 'why, it's dear soames, and we were only saying that we hadn't seen him for a week!' nothing--nothing! just the scent of camphor, and dust-motes in a sunbeam through the fanlight over the door. the little old house! a mausoleum! and, turning on his heel, he went out, and caught his train. v the native heath "his foot's upon his native heath, his name's--val dartie." with some such feeling did val dartie, in the fortieth year of his age, set out that same thursday morning very early from the old manor-house he had taken on the north side of the sussex downs. his destination was newmarket, and he had not been there since the autumn of , when he stole over from oxford for the cambridgeshire. he paused at the door to give his wife a kiss, and put a flask of port into his pocket. "don't overtire your leg, val, and don't bet too much." with the pressure of her chest against his own, and her eyes looking into his, val felt both leg and pocket safe. he should be moderate; holly was always right--she had a natural aptitude. it did not seem so remarkable to him, perhaps, as it might to others, that--half dartie as he was--he should have been perfectly faithful to his young first cousin during the twenty years since he married her romantically out in the boer war; and faithful without any feeling of sacrifice or boredom--she was so quick, so slyly always a little in front of his mood. being first cousins they had decided, rather needlessly, to have no children; and, though a little sallower, she had kept her looks, her slimness, and the colour of her dark hair. val particularly admired the life of her own she carried on, besides carrying on his, and riding better every year. she kept up her music, she read an awful lot--novels, poetry, all sorts of stuff. out on their farm in cape colony she had looked after all the "nigger" babies and women in a miraculous manner. she was, in fact, clever; yet made no fuss about it, and had no "side." though not remarkable for humility, val had come to have the feeling that she was his superior, and he did not grudge it--a great tribute. it might be noted that he never looked at holly without her knowing of it, but that she looked at him sometimes unawares. he had kissed her in the porch because he should not be doing so on the platform, though she was going to the station with him, to drive the car back. tanned and wrinkled by colonial weather and the wiles inseparable from horses, and handicapped by the leg which, weakened in the boer war, had probably saved his life in the war just past, val was still much as he had been in the days of his courtship; his smile as wide and charming, his eyelashes, if anything, thicker and darker, his eyes screwed up under them, as bright a grey, his freckles rather deeper, his hair a little grizzled at the sides. he gave the impression of one who has lived actively with horses in a sunny climate. twisting the car sharp round at the gate, he said: "when is young jon coming?" "to-day." "is there anything you want for him? i could bring it down on saturday." "no; but you might come by the same train as fleur--one-forty." val gave the ford full rein; he still drove like a man in a new country on bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects heaven at every hole. "that's a young woman who knows her way about," he said. "i say, has it struck you?" "yes," said holly. "uncle soames and your dad--bit awkward, isn't it?" "she won't know, and he won't know, and nothing must be said, of course. it's only for five days, val." "stable secret! righto!" if holly thought it safe, it was. glancing slyly round at him, she said: "did you notice how beautifully she asked herself?" "no!" "well, she did. what do you think of her, val?" "pretty and clever; but she might run out at any corner if she got her monkey up, i should say." "i'm wondering," holly murmured, "whether she is the modern young woman. one feels at sea coming home into all this." "you? you get the hang of things so quick." holly slid her hand into his coat-pocket. "you keep one in the know," said val encouraged. "what do you think of that belgian fellow, profond?" "i think he's rather 'a good devil.'" val grinned. "he seems to me a queer fish for a friend of our family. in fact, our family is in pretty queer waters, with uncle soames marrying a frenchwoman, and your dad marrying soames's first. our grandfathers would have had fits!" "so would anybody's, my dear." "this car," val said suddenly, "wants rousing; she doesn't get her hind legs under her uphill. i shall have to give her her head on the slope if i'm to catch that train." there was that about horses which had prevented him from ever really sympathising with a car, and the running of the ford under his guidance compared with its running under that of holly was always noticeable. he caught the train. "take care going home; she'll throw you down if she can. good-bye, darling." "good-bye," called holly, and kissed her hand. in the train, after quarter of an hour's indecision between thoughts of holly, his morning paper, the look of the bright day, and his dim memory of newmarket, val plunged into the recesses of a small square book, all names, pedigrees, tap-roots, and notes about the make and shape of horses. the forsyte in him was bent on the acquisition of a certain strain of blood, and he was subduing resolutely as yet the dartie hankering for a nutter. on getting back to england, after the profitable sale of his south african farm and stud, and observing that the sun seldom shone, val had said to himself: "i've absolutely got to have an interest in life, or this country will give me the blues. hunting's not enough, i'll breed and i'll train." with just that extra pinch of shrewdness and decision imparted by long residence in a new country, val had seen the weak point of modern breeding. they were all hypnotised by fashion and high price. he should buy for looks, and let names go hang! and here he was already, hypnotised by the prestige of a certain strain of blood! half-consciously, he thought: 'there's something in this damned climate which makes one go round in a ring. all the same, i must have a strain of mayfly blood.' in this mood he reached the mecca of his hopes. it was one of those quiet meetings favourable to such as wish to look into horses, rather than into the mouths of bookmakers; and val clung to the paddock. his twenty years of colonial life, divesting him of the dandyism in which he had been bred, had left him the essential neatness of the horseman, and given him a queer and rather blighting eye over what he called "the silly haw-haw" of some englishmen, the "flapping cockatoory" of some english-women--holly had none of that and holly was his model. observant, quick, resourceful, val went straight to the heart of a transaction, a horse, a drink; and he was on his way to the heart of a mayfly filly, when a slow voice said at his elbow: "mr. val dartie? how's mrs. val dartie? she's well, i hope." and he saw beside him the belgian he had met at his sister imogen's. "prosper profond--i met you at lunch," said the voice. "how are you?" murmured val. "i'm very well," replied monsieur profond, smiling with a certain inimitable slowness. "a good devil," holly had called him. well! he looked a little like a devil, with his dark, clipped, pointed beard; a sleepy one though, and good-humoured, with fine eyes, unexpectedly intelligent. "here's a gentleman wants to know you--cousin of yours--mr. george forsyde." val saw a large form, and a face clean-shaven, bull-like, a little lowering, with sardonic humour bubbling behind a full grey eye; he remembered it dimly from old days when he would dine with his father at the iseeum club. "i used to go racing with your father," george was saying: "how's the stud? like to buy one of my screws?" val grinned, to hide the sudden feeling that the bottom had fallen out of breeding. they believed in nothing over here, not even in horses. george forsyte, prosper profond! the devil himself was not more disillusioned than those two. "didn't know you were a racing man," he said to monsieur profond. "i'm not. i don't care for it. i'm a yachtin' man. i don't care for yachtin' either, but i like to see my friends. i've got some lunch, mr. val dartie, just a small lunch, if you'd like to 'ave some; not much--just a small one--in my car." "thanks," said val; "very good of you. i'll come along in about quarter of an hour." "over there. mr. forsyde's comin'," and monsieur profond "poinded" with a yellow-gloved finger; "small car, with a small lunch"; he moved on, groomed, sleepy, and remote, george forsyte following, neat, huge, and with his jesting air. val remained gazing at the mayfly filly. george forsyte, of course, was an old chap, but this profond might be about his own age; val felt extremely young, as if the mayfly filly were a toy at which those two had laughed. the animal had lost reality. "that 'small' mare"--he seemed to hear the voice of monsieur profond --"what do you see in her?--we must all die!" and george forsyte, crony of his father, racing still! the mayfly strain--was it any better than any other? he might just as well have a flutter with his money instead. "no, by gum!" he muttered suddenly, "if it's no good breeding horses, it's no good doing anything. what did i come for? i'll buy her." he stood back and watched the ebb of the paddock visitors toward the stand. natty old chips, shrewd portly fellows, jews, trainers looking as if they had never been guilty of seeing a horse in their lives; tall, flapping, languid women, or brisk, loud-voiced women; young men with an air as if trying to take it seriously--two or three of them with only one arm. 'life over here's a game!' thought val. 'muffin bell rings, horses run, money changes hands; ring again, run again, money changes back.' but, alarmed at his own philosophy, he went to the paddock gate to watch the mayfly filly canter down. she moved well; and he made his way over to the "small" car. the "small" lunch was the sort a man dreams of but seldom gets; and when it was concluded monsieur profond walked back with him to the paddock. "your wife's a nice woman," was his surprising remark. "nicest woman i know," returned val dryly. "yes," said monsieur profond; "she has a nice face. i admire nice women." val looked at him suspiciously, but something kindly and direct in the heavy diabolism of his companion disarmed him for the moment. "any time you like to come on my yacht, i'll give her a small cruise." "thanks," said val, in arms again, "she hates the sea." "so do i," said monsieur profond. "then why do you yacht?" the belgian's eyes smiled. "oh! i don't know. i've done everything; it's the last thing i'm doin'." "it must be d-d expensive. i should want more reason than that." monsieur prosper profond raised his eyebrows, and puffed out a heavy lower lip. "i'm an easy-goin' man," he said. "were you in the war?" asked val. "ye-es. i've done that too. i was gassed; it was a small bit unpleasant." he smiled with a deep and sleepy air of prosperity, as if he had caught it from his name. whether his saying "small" when he ought to have said "little" was genuine mistake or affectation val could not decide; the fellow was evidently capable of anything. among the ring of buyers round the mayfly filly who had won her race, monsieur profond said: "you goin' to bid?" val nodded. with this sleepy satan at his elbow, he felt in need of faith. though placed above the ultimate blows of providence by the forethought of a grand-father who had tied him up a thousand a year to which was added the thousand a year tied up for holly by her grand-father, val was not flush of capital that he could touch, having spent most of what he had realised from his south african farm on his establishment in sussex. and very soon he was thinking: 'dash it! she's going beyond me!' his limit-six hundred-was exceeded; he dropped out of the bidding. the mayfly filly passed under the hammer at seven hundred and fifty guineas. he was turning away vexed when the slow voice of monsieur profond said in his ear: "well, i've bought that small filly, but i don't want her; you take her and give her to your wife." val looked at the fellow with renewed suspicion, but the good humour in his eyes was such that he really could not take offence. "i made a small lot of money in the war," began monsieur profond in answer to that look. "i 'ad armament shares. i like to give it away. i'm always makin' money. i want very small lot myself. i like my friends to 'ave it." "i'll buy her of you at the price you gave," said val with sudden resolution. "no," said monsieur profond. "you take her. i don' want her." "hang it! one doesn't--" "why not?" smiled monsieur profond. "i'm a friend of your family." "seven hundred and fifty guineas is not a box of cigars," said val impatiently. "all right; you keep her for me till i want her, and do what you like with her." "so long as she's yours," said val. "i don't mind that." "that's all right," murmured monsieur profond, and moved away. val watched; he might be "a good devil," but then again he might not. he saw him rejoin george forsyte, and thereafter saw him no more. he spent those nights after racing at his mother's house in green street. winifred dartie at sixty-two was marvellously preserved, considering the three-and-thirty years during which she had put up with montague dartie, till almost happily released by a french staircase. it was to her a vehement satisfaction to have her favourite son back from south africa after all this time, to feel him so little changed, and to have taken a fancy to his wife. winifred, who in the late seventies, before her marriage, had been in the vanguard of freedom, pleasure, and fashion, confessed her youth outclassed by the donzellas of the day. they seemed, for instance, to regard marriage as an incident, and winifred sometimes regretted that she had not done the same; a second, third, fourth incident might have secured her a partner of less dazzling inebriety; though, after all, he had left her val, imogen, maud, benedict (almost a colonel and unharmed by the war)--none of whom had been divorced as yet. the steadiness of her children often amazed one who remembered their father; but, as she was fond of believing, they were really all forsytes, favouring herself, with the exception, perhaps, of imogen. her brother's "little girl" fleur frankly puzzled winifred. the child was as restless as any of these modern young women--"she's a small flame in a draught," prosper profond had said one day after dinner--but she did not flop, or talk at the top of her voice. the steady forsyteism in winifred's own character instinctively resented the feeling in the air, the modern girl's habits and her motto: "all's much of a muchness! spend, to-morrow we shall be poor!" she found it a saving grace in fleur that, having set her heart on a thing, she had no change of heart until she got it--though--what happened after, fleur was, of course, too young to have made evident. the child was a "very pretty little thing," too, and quite a credit to take about, with her mother's french taste and gift for wearing clothes; everybody turned to look at fleur--great consideration to winifred, a lover of the style and distinction which had so cruelly deceived her in the case of montague dartie. in discussing her with val, at breakfast on saturday morning, winifred dwelt on the family skeleton. "that little affair of your father-in-law and your aunt irene, val--it's old as the hills, of course, fleur need know nothing about it--making a fuss. your uncle soames is very particular about that. so you'll be careful." "yes! but it's dashed awkward--holly's young half-brother is coming to live with us while he learns farming. he's there already." "oh!" said winifred. "that is a gaff! what is he like?" "only saw him once--at robin hill, when we were home in ; he was naked and painted blue and yellow in stripes--a jolly little chap." winifred thought that "rather nice," and added comfortably: "well, holly's sensible; she'll know how to deal with it. i shan't tell your uncle. it'll only bother him. it's a great comfort to have you back, my dear boy, now that i'm getting on." "getting on! why! you're as young as ever. that chap profond, mother, is he all right?" "prosper profond! oh! the most amusing man i know." val grunted, and recounted the story of the mayfly filly. "that's so like him," murmured winifred. "he does all sorts of things." "well," said val shrewdly, "our family haven't been too lucky with that kind of cattle; they're too light-hearted for us." it was true, and winifred's blue study lasted a full minute before she answered: "oh! well! he's a foreigner, val; one must make allowances." "all right, i'll use his filly and make it up to him, somehow." and soon after he gave her his blessing, received a kiss, and left her for his bookmaker's, the iseeum club, and victoria station. vi jon mrs. val dartie, after twenty years of south africa, had fallen deeply in love, fortunately with something of her own, for the object of her passion was the prospect in front of her windows, the cool clear light on the green downs. it was england again, at last! england more beautiful than she had dreamed. chance had, in fact, guided the val darties to a spot where the south downs had real charm when the sun shone. holly had enough of her father's eye to apprehend the rare quality of their outlines and chalky radiance; to go up there by the ravine-like lane and wander along toward chanctonbury or amberley, was still a delight which she hardly attempted to share with val, whose admiration of nature was confused by a forsyte's instinct for getting something out of it, such as the condition of the turf for his horses' exercise. driving the ford home with a certain humouring, smoothness, she promised herself that the first use she would make of jon would be to take him up there, and show him "the view" under this may-day sky. she was looking forward to her young half-brother with a motherliness not exhausted by val. a three-day visit to robin hill, soon after their arrival home, had yielded no sight of him--he was still at school; so that her recollection, like val's, was of a little sunny-haired boy, striped blue and yellow, down by the pond. those three days at robin hill had been exciting, sad, embarrassing. memories of her dead brother, memories of val's courtship; the ageing of her father, not seen for twenty years, something funereal in his ironic gentleness which did not escape one who had much subtle instinct; above all, the presence of her stepmother, whom she could still vaguely remember as the "lady in grey" of days when she was little and grandfather alive and mademoiselle beauce so cross because that intruder gave her music lessons--all these confused and tantalised a spirit which had longed to find robin hill untroubled. but holly was adept at keeping things to herself, and all had seemed to go quite well. her father had kissed her when she left him, with lips which she was sure had trembled. "well, my dear," he said, "the war hasn't changed robin hill, has it? if only you could have brought jolly back with you! i say, can you stand this spiritualistic racket? when the oak-tree dies, it dies, i'm afraid." from the warmth of her embrace he probably divined that he had let the cat out of the bag, for he rode off at once on irony. "spiritualism--queer word, when the more they manifest the more they prove that they've got hold of matter." "how?" said holly. "why! look at their photographs of auric presences. you must have something material for light and shade to fall on before you can take a photograph. no, it'll end in our calling all matter spirit, or all spirit matter--i don't know which." "but don't you believe in survival, dad?" jolyon had looked at her, and the sad whimsicality of his face impressed her deeply. "well, my dear, i should like to get something out of death. i've been looking into it a bit. but for the life of me i can't find anything that telepathy, sub-consciousness, and emanation from the storehouse of this world can't account for just as well. wish i could! wishes father thought but they don't breed evidence." holly had pressed her lips again to his forehead with the feeling that it confirmed his theory that all matter was becoming spirit--his brow felt, somehow, so insubstantial. but the most poignant memory of that little visit had been watching, unobserved, her stepmother reading to herself a letter from jon. it was--she decided--the prettiest sight she had ever seen. irene, lost as it were in the letter of her boy, stood at a window where the light fell on her face and her fine grey hair; her lips were moving, smiling, her dark eyes laughing, dancing, and the hand which did not hold the letter was pressed against her breast. holly withdrew as from a vision of perfect love, convinced that jon must be nice. when she saw him coming out of the station with a kit-bag in either hand, she was confirmed in her predisposition. he was a little like jolly, that long-lost idol of her childhood, but eager-looking and less formal, with deeper eyes and brighter-coloured hair, for he wore no hat; altogether a very interesting "little" brother! his tentative politeness charmed one who was accustomed to assurance in the youthful manner; he was disturbed because she was to drive him home, instead of his driving her. shouldn't he have a shot? they hadn't a car at robin hill since the war, of course, and he had only driven once, and landed up a bank, so she oughtn't to mind his trying. his laugh, soft and infectious, was very attractive, though that word, she had heard, was now quite old-fashioned. when they reached the house he pulled out a crumpled letter which she read while he was washing--a quite short letter, which must have cost her father many a pang to write. "my dear, "you and val will not forget, i trust, that jon knows nothing of family history. his mother and i think he is too young at present. the boy is very dear, and the apple of her eye. verbum sapientibus. your loving father, "j. f." that was all; but it renewed in holly an uneasy regret that fleur was coming. after tea she fulfilled that promise to herself and took jon up the hill. they had a long talk, sitting above an old chalk-pit grown over with brambles and goosepenny. milkwort and liverwort starred the green slope, the larks sang, and thrushes in the brake, and now and then a gull flighting inland would wheel very white against the paling sky, where the vague moon was coming up. delicious fragrance came to them, as if little invisible creatures were running and treading scent out of the blades of grass. jon, who had fallen silent, said rather suddenly: "i say, this is wonderful! there's no fat on it at all. gull's flight and sheep-bells" "'gull's flight and sheep-bells'! you're a poet, my dear!" jon sighed. "oh, golly! no go!" "try! i used to at your age." "did you? mother says 'try' too; but i'm so rotten. have you any of yours for me to see?" "my dear," holly murmured, "i've been married nineteen years. i only wrote verses when i wanted to be." "oh!" said jon, and turned over on his face: the one cheek she could see was a charming colour. was jon "touched in the wind," then, as val would have called it? already? but, if so, all the better, he would take no notice of young fleur. besides, on monday he would begin his farming. and she smiled. was it burns who followed the plough, or only piers plowman? nearly every young man and most young women seemed to be poets now, judging from the number of their books she had read out in south africa, importing them from hatchus and bumphards; and quite good--oh! quite; much better than she had been herself! but then poetry had only really come in since her day--with motor-cars. another long talk after dinner over a wood fire in the low hall, and there seemed little left to know about jon except anything of real importance. holly parted from him at his bedroom door, having seen twice over that he had everything, with the conviction that she would love him, and val would like him. he was eager, but did not gush; he was a splendid listener, sympathetic, reticent about himself. he evidently loved their father, and adored his mother. he liked riding, rowing, and fencing better than games. he saved moths from candles, and couldn't bear spiders, but put them out of doors in screws of paper sooner than kill them. in a word, he was amiable. she went to sleep, thinking that he would suffer horribly if anybody hurt him; but who would hurt him? jon, on the other hand, sat awake at his window with a bit of paper and a pencil, writing his first "real poem" by the light of a candle because there was not enough moon to see by, only enough to make the night seem fluttery and as if engraved on silver. just the night for fleur to walk, and turn her eyes, and lead on-over the hills and far away. and jon, deeply furrowed in his ingenuous brow, made marks on the paper and rubbed them out and wrote them in again, and did all that was necessary for the completion of a work of art; and he had a feeling such as the winds of spring must have, trying their first songs among the coming blossom. jon was one of those boys (not many) in whom a home-trained love of beauty had survived school life. he had had to keep it to himself, of course, so that not even the drawing-master knew of it; but it was there, fastidious and clear within him. and his poem seemed to him as lame and stilted as the night was winged. but he kept it, all the same. it was a "beast," but better than nothing as an expression of the inexpressible. and he thought with a sort of discomfiture: 'i shan't be able to show it to mother.' he slept terribly well, when he did sleep, overwhelmed by novelty. vii fleur to avoid the awkwardness of questions which could not be answered, all that had been told jon was: "there's a girl coming down with val for the week-end." for the same reason, all that had been told fleur was: "we've got a youngster staying with us." the two yearlings, as val called them in his thoughts, met therefore in a manner which for unpreparedness left nothing to be desired. they were thus introduced by holly: "this is jon, my little brother; fleur's a cousin of ours, jon." jon, who was coming in through a french window out of strong sunlight, was so confounded by the providential nature of this miracle, that he had time to hear fleur say calmly: "oh, how do you do?" as if he had never seen her, and to understand dimly from the quickest imaginable little movement of her head that he never had seen her. he bowed therefore over her hand in an intoxicated manner, and became more silent than the grave. he knew better than to speak. once in his early life, surprised reading by a nightlight, he had said fatuously "i was just turning over the leaves, mum," and his mother had replied: "jon, never tell stories, because of your face nobody will ever believe them." the saying had permanently undermined the confidence necessary to the success of spoken untruth. he listened therefore to fleur's swift and rapt allusions to the jolliness of everything, plied her with scones and jam, and got away as soon as might be. they say that in delirium tremens you see a fixed object, preferably dark, which suddenly changes shape and position. jon saw the fixed object; it had dark eyes and passably dark hair, and changed its position, but never its shape. the knowledge that between him and that object there was already a secret understanding (however impossible to understand) thrilled him so that he waited feverishly, and began to copy out his poem--which of course he would never dare to--show her--till the sound of horses' hoofs roused him, and, leaning from his window, he saw her riding forth with val. it was clear that she wasted no time, but the sight filled him with grief. he wasted his. if he had not bolted, in his fearful ecstasy, he might have been asked to go too. and from his window he sat and watched them disappear, appear again in the chine of the road, vanish, and emerge once more for a minute clear on the outline of the down. 'silly brute!' he thought; 'i always miss my chances.' why couldn't he be self-confident and ready? and, leaning his chin on his hands, he imagined the ride he might have had with her. a week-end was but a week-end, and he had missed three hours of it. did he know any one except himself who would have been such a flat? he did not. he dressed for dinner early, and was first down. he would miss no more. but he missed fleur, who came down last. he sat opposite her at dinner, and it was terrible--impossible to say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing, impossible to keep his eyes fixed on her in the only natural way; in sum, impossible to treat normally one with whom in fancy he had already been over the hills and far away; conscious, too, all the time, that he must seem to her, to all of them, a dumb gawk. yes, it was terrible! and she was talking so well--swooping with swift wing this way and that. wonderful how she had learned an art which he found so disgustingly difficult. she must think him hopeless indeed! his sister's eyes, fixed on him with a certain astonishment, obliged him at last to look at fleur; but instantly her eyes, very wide and eager, seeming to say, "oh! for goodness' sake!" obliged him to look at val, where a grin obliged him to look at his cutlet--that, at least, had no eyes, and no grin, and he ate it hastily. "jon is going to be a farmer," he heard holly say; "a farmer and a poet." he glanced up reproachfully, caught the comic lift of her eyebrow just like their father's, laughed, and felt better. val recounted the incident of monsieur prosper profond; nothing could have been more favourable, for, in relating it, he regarded holly, who in turn regarded him, while fleur seemed to be regarding with a slight frown some thought of her own, and jon was really free to look at her at last. she had on a white frock, very simple and well made; her arms were bare, and her hair had a white rose in it. in just that swift moment of free vision, after such intense discomfort, jon saw her sublimated, as one sees in the dark a slender white fruit-tree; caught her like a verse of poetry flashed before the eyes of the mind, or a tune which floats out in the distance and dies. he wondered giddily how old she was--she seemed so much more self-possessed and experienced than himself. why mustn't he say they had met? he remembered suddenly his mother's face; puzzled, hurt-looking, when she answered: "yes, they're relations, but we don't know them." impossible that his mother, who loved beauty, should not admire fleur if she did know her. alone with val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and answered the advances of this new-found brother-in-law. as to riding (always the first consideration with val) he could have the young chestnut, saddle and unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it when he brought it in. jon said he was accustomed to all that at home, and saw that he had gone up one in his host's estimation. "fleur," said val, "can't ride much yet, but she's keen. of course, her father doesn't know a horse from a cart-wheel. does your dad ride?" "he used to; but now he's--you know, he's--" he stopped, so hating the word "old." his father was old, and yet not old; no--never! "quite," muttered val. "i used to know your brother up at oxford, ages ago, the one who died in the boer war. we had a fight in new college gardens. that was a queer business," he added, musing; "a good deal came out of it." jon's eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical research, when his sister's voice said gently from the doorway: "come along, you two," and he rose, his heart pushing him toward something far more modern. fleur having declared that it was "simply too wonderful to stay indoors," they all went out. moonlight was frosting the dew, and an old sundial threw a long shadow. two box hedges at right angles, dark and square, barred off the orchard. fleur turned through that angled opening. "come on!" she called. jon glanced at the others, and followed. she was running among the trees like a ghost. all was lovely and foamlike above her, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of nettles. she vanished. he thought he had lost her, then almost ran into her standing quite still. "isn't it jolly?" she cried, and jon answered: "rather!" she reached up, twisted off a blossom and, twirling it in her fingers, said: "i suppose i can call you jon?" "i should think so just." "all right! but you know there's a feud between our families?" jon stammered: "feud? why?" "it's ever so romantic and silly. that's why i pretended we hadn't met. shall we get up early to-morrow morning and go for a walk before breakfast and have it out? i hate being slow about things, don't you?" jon murmured a rapturous assent. "six o'clock, then. i think your mother's beautiful" jon said fervently: "yes, she is." "i love all kinds of beauty," went on fleur, "when it's exciting. i don't like greek things a bit." "what! not euripides?" "euripides? oh! no, i can't bear greek plays; they're so long. i think beauty's always swift. i like to look at one picture, for instance, and then run off. i can't bear a lot of things together. look!" she held up her blossom in the moonlight. "that's better than all the orchard, i think." and, suddenly, with her other hand she caught jon's. "of all things in the world, don't you think caution's the most awful? smell the moonlight!" she thrust the blossom against his face; jon agreed giddily that of all things in the world caution was the worst, and bending over, kissed the hand which held his. "that's nice and old-fashioned," said fleur calmly. "you're frightfully silent, jon. still i like silence when it's swift." she let go his hand. "did you think i dropped my handkerchief on purpose?" "no!" cried jon, intensely shocked. "well, i did, of course. let's get back, or they'll think we're doing this on purpose too." and again she ran like a ghost among the trees. jon followed, with love in his heart, spring in his heart, and over all the moonlit white unearthly blossom. they came out where they had gone in, fleur walking demurely. "it's quite wonderful in there," she said dreamily to holly. jon preserved silence, hoping against hope that she might be thinking it swift. she bade him a casual and demure good-night, which made him think he had been dreaming.... in her bedroom fleur had flung off her gown, and, wrapped in a shapeless garment, with the white flower still in her hair, she looked like a mousme, sitting cross-legged on her bed, writing by candlelight. "dearest cherry, "i believe i'm in love. i've got it in the neck, only the feeling is really lower down. he's a second cousin-such a child, about six months older and ten years younger than i am. boys always fall in love with their seniors, and girls with their juniors or with old men of forty. don't laugh, but his eyes are the truest things i ever saw; and he's quite divinely silent! we had a most romantic first meeting in london under the vospovitch juno. and now he's sleeping in the next room and the moonlight's on the blossom; and to-morrow morning, before anybody's awake, we're going to walk off into down fairyland. there's a feud between our families, which makes it really exciting. yes! and i may have to use subterfuge and come on you for invitations--if so, you'll know why! my father doesn't want us to know each other, but i can't help that. life's too short. he's got the most beautiful mother, with lovely silvery hair and a young face with dark eyes. i'm staying with his sister--who married my cousin; it's all mixed up, but i mean to pump her to-morrow. we've often talked about love being a spoil-sport; well, that's all tosh, it's the beginning of sport, and the sooner you feel it, my dear, the better for you. "jon (not simplified spelling, but short for jolyon, which is a name in my family, they say) is the sort that lights up and goes out; about five feet ten, still growing, and i believe he's going to be a poet. if you laugh at me i've done with you forever. i perceive all sorts of difficulties, but you know when i really want a thing i get it. one of the chief effects of love is that you see the air sort of inhabited, like seeing a face in the moon; and you feel--you feel dancey and soft at the same time, with a funny sensation--like a continual first sniff of orange--blossom--just above your stays. this is my first, and i feel as if it were going to be my last, which is absurd, of course, by all the laws of nature and morality. if you mock me i will smite you, and if you tell anybody i will never forgive you. so much so, that i almost don't think i'll send this letter. anyway, i'll sleep over it. so good-night, my cherry--oh! "your, "fleur." viii idyll on grass when those two young forsytes emerged from the chine lane, and set their faces east toward the sun, there was not a cloud in heaven, and the downs were dewy. they had come at a good bat up the slope and were a little out of breath; if they had anything to say they did not say it, but marched in the early awkwardness of unbreakfasted morning under the songs of the larks. the stealing out had been fun, but with the freedom of the tops the sense of conspiracy ceased, and gave place to dumbness. "we've made one blooming error," said fleur, when they had gone half a mile. "i'm hungry." jon produced a stick of chocolate. they shared it and their tongues were loosened. they discussed the nature of their homes and previous existences, which had a kind of fascinating unreality up on that lonely height. there remained but one thing solid in jon's past--his mother; but one thing solid in fleur's--her father; and of these figures, as though seen in the distance with disapproving faces, they spoke little. the down dipped and rose again toward chanctonbury ring; a sparkle of far sea came into view, a sparrow-hawk hovered in the sun's eye so that the blood-nourished brown of his wings gleamed nearly red. jon had a passion for birds, and an aptitude for sitting very still to watch them; keen-sighted, and with a memory for what interested him, on birds he was almost worth listening to. but in chanctonbury ring there were none--its great beech temple was empty of life, and almost chilly at this early hour; they came out willingly again into the sun on the far side. it was fleur's turn now. she spoke of dogs, and the way people treated them. it was wicked to keep them on chains! she would like to flog people who did that. jon was astonished to find her so humanitarian. she knew a dog, it seemed, which some farmer near her home kept chained up at the end of his chicken run, in all weathers, till it had almost lost its voice from barking! "and the misery is," she said vehemently, "that if the poor thing didn't bark at every one who passes it wouldn't be kept there. i do think men are cunning brutes. i've let it go twice, on the sly; it's nearly bitten me both times, and then it goes simply mad with joy; but it always runs back home at last, and they chain it up again. if i had my way, i'd chain that man up." jon saw her teeth and her eyes gleam. "i'd brand him on his forehead with the word 'brute'; that would teach him!" jon agreed that it would be a good remedy. "it's their sense of property," he said, "which makes people chain things. the last generation thought of nothing but property; and that's why there was the war." "oh!" said fleur, "i never thought of that. your people and mine quarrelled about property. and anyway we've all got it--at least, i suppose your people have." "oh! yes, luckily; i don't suppose i shall be any good at making money." "if you were, i don't believe i should like you." jon slipped his hand tremulously under her arm. fleur looked straight before her and chanted: "jon, jon, the farmer's son, stole a pig, and away he run!" jon's arm crept round her waist. "this is rather sudden," said fleur calmly; "do you often do it?" jon dropped his arm. but when she laughed his arm stole back again; and fleur began to sing: "o who will oer the downs so free, o who will with me ride? o who will up and follow me---" "sing, jon!" jon sang. the larks joined in, sheep-bells, and an early morning church far away over in steyning. they went on from tune to tune, till fleur said: "my god! i am hungry now!" "oh! i am sorry!" she looked round into his face. "jon, you're rather a darling." and she pressed his hand against her waist. jon almost reeled from happiness. a yellow-and-white dog coursing a hare startled them apart. they watched the two vanish down the slope, till fleur said with a sigh: "he'll never catch it, thank goodness! what's the time? mine's stopped. i never wound it." jon looked at his watch. "by jove!" he said, "mine's stopped; too." they walked on again, but only hand in hand. "if the grass is dry," said fleur, "let's sit down for half a minute." jon took off his coat, and they shared it. "smell! actually wild thyme!" with his arm round her waist again, they sat some minutes in silence. "we are goats!" cried fleur, jumping up; "we shall be most fearfully late, and look so silly, and put them on their guard. look here, jon we only came out to get an appetite for breakfast, and lost our way. see?" "yes," said jon. "it's serious; there'll be a stopper put on us. are you a good liar?" "i believe not very; but i can try." fleur frowned. "you know," she said, "i realize that they don't mean us to be friends." "why not?" "i told you why." "but that's silly." "yes; but you don't know my father!" "i suppose he's fearfully fond of you." "you see, i'm an only child. and so are you--of your mother. isn't it a bore? there's so much expected of one. by the time they've done expecting, one's as good as dead." "yes," muttered jon, "life's beastly short. one wants to live forever, and know everything." "and love everybody?" "no," cried jon; "i only want to love once--you." "indeed! you're coming on! oh! look! there's the chalk-pit; we can't be very far now. let's run." jon followed, wondering fearfully if he had offended her. the chalk-pit was full of sunshine and the murmuration of bees. fleur flung back her hair. "well," she said, "in case of accidents, you may give me one kiss, jon," and she pushed her cheek forward. with ecstasy he kissed that hot soft cheek. "now, remember! we lost our way; and leave it to me as much as you can. i'm going to be rather beastly to you; it's safer; try and be beastly to me!" jon shook his head. "that's impossible." "just to please me; till five o'clock, at all events." "anybody will be able to see through it," said jon gloomily. "well, do your best. look! there they are! wave your hat! oh! you haven't got one. well, i'll cooee! get a little away from me, and look sulky." five minutes later, entering the house and doing his utmost to look sulky, jon heard her clear voice in the dining-room: "oh! i'm simply ravenous! he's going to be a farmer--and he loses his way! the boy's an idiot!" ix goya lunch was over and soames mounted to the picture-gallery in his house near mapleduram. he had what annette called "a grief." fleur was not yet home. she had been expected on wednesday; had wired that it would be friday; and again on friday that it would be sunday afternoon; and here were her aunt, and her cousins the cardigans, and this fellow profond, and everything flat as a pancake for the want of her. he stood before his gauguin--sorest point of his collection. he had bought the ugly great thing with two early matisses before the war, because there was such a fuss about those post-impressionist chaps. he was wondering whether profond would take them off his hands--the fellow seemed not to know what to do with his money--when he heard his sister's voice say: "i think that's a horrid thing, soames," and saw that winifred had followed him up. "oh! you do?" he said dryly; "i gave five hundred for it." "fancy! women aren't made like that even if they are black." soames uttered a glum laugh. "you didn't come up to tell me that." "no. do you know that jolyon's boy is staying with val and his wife?" soames spun round. "what?" "yes," drawled winifred; "he's gone to live with them there while he learns farming." soames had turned away, but her voice pursued him as he walked up and down. "i warned val that neither of them was to be spoken to about old matters." "why didn't you tell me before?" winifred shrugged her substantial shoulders. "fleur does what she likes. you've always spoiled her. besides, my dear boy, what's the harm?" "the harm!" muttered soames. "why, she--" he checked himself. the juno, the handkerchief, fleur's eyes, her questions, and now this delay in her return--the symptoms seemed to him so sinister that, faithful to his nature, he could not part with them. "i think you take too much care," said winifred. "if i were you, i should tell her of that old matter. it's no good thinking that girls in these days are as they used to be. where they pick up their knowledge i can't tell, but they seem to know everything." over soames' face, closely composed, passed a sort of spasm, and winifred added hastily: "if you don't like to speak of it, i could for you." soames shook his head. unless there was absolute necessity the thought that his adored daughter should learn of that old scandal hurt his pride too much. "no," he said, "not yet. never if i can help it. "nonsense, my dear. think what people are!" "twenty years is a long time," muttered soames. "outside our family, who's likely to remember?" winifred was silenced. she inclined more and more to that peace and quietness of which montague dartie had deprived her in her youth. and, since pictures always depressed her, she soon went down again. soames passed into the corner where, side by side, hung his real goya and the copy of the fresco "la vendimia." his acquisition of the real goya rather beautifully illustrated the cobweb of vested interests and passions which mesh the bright-winged fly of human life. the real goya's noble owner's ancestor had come into possession of it during some spanish war--it was in a word loot. the noble owner had remained in ignorance of its value until in the nineties an enterprising critic discovered that a spanish painter named goya was a genius. it was only a fair goya, but almost unique in england, and the noble owner became a marked man. having many possessions and that aristocratic culture which, independent of mere sensuous enjoyment, is founded on the sounder principle that one must know everything and be fearfully interested in life, he had fully intended to keep an article which contributed to his reputation while he was alive, and to leave it to the nation after he was dead. fortunately for soames, the house of lords was violently attacked in , and the noble owner became alarmed and angry. 'if,' he said to himself, 'they think they can have it both ways they are very much mistaken. so long as they leave me in quiet enjoyment the nation can have some of my pictures at my death. but if the nation is going to bait me, and rob me like this, i'm damned if i won't sell the lot. they can't have my private property and my public spirit-both.' he brooded in this fashion for several months till one morning, after reading the speech of a certain statesman, he telegraphed to his agent to come down and bring bodkin. on going over the collection bodkin, than whose opinion on market values none was more sought, pronounced that with a free hand to sell to america, germany, and other places where there was an interest in art, a lot more money could be made than by selling in england. the noble owner's public spirit--he said--was well known but the pictures were unique. the noble owner put this opinion in his pipe and smoked it for a year. at the end of that time he read another speech by the same statesman, and telegraphed to his agents: "give bodkin a free hand." it was at this juncture that bodkin conceived the idea which salved the goya and two other unique pictures for the native country of the noble owner. with one hand bodkin proffered the pictures to the foreign market, with the other he formed a list of private british collectors. having obtained what he considered the highest possible bids from across the seas, he submitted pictures and bids to the private british collectors, and invited them, of their public spirit, to outbid. in three instances (including the goya) out of twenty-one he was successful. and why? one of the private collectors made buttons--he had made so many that he desired that his wife should be called lady "buttons." he therefore bought a unique picture at great cost, and gave it to the nation. it was "part," his friends said, "of his general game." the second of the private collectors was an americophobe, and bought an unique picture to "spite the damned yanks." the third of the private collectors was soames, who--more sober than either of the, others--bought after a visit to madrid, because he was certain that goya was still on the up grade. goya was not booming at the moment, but he would come again; and, looking at that portrait, hogarthian, manetesque in its directness, but with its own queer sharp beauty of paint, he was perfectly satisfied still that he had made no error, heavy though the price had been--heaviest he had ever paid. and next to it was hanging the copy of "la vendimia." there she was--the little wretch-looking back at him in her dreamy mood, the mood he loved best because he felt so much safer when she looked like that. he was still gazing when the scent of a cigar impinged on his nostrils, and a voice said: "well, mr. forsyde, what you goin' to do with this small lot?" that belgian chap, whose mother-as if flemish blood were not enough--had been armenian! subduing a natural irritation, he said: "are you a judge of pictures?" "well, i've got a few myself." "any post-impressionists?" "ye-es, i rather like them." "what do you think of this?" said soames, pointing to the gauguin. monsieur profond protruded his lower lip and short pointed beard. "rather fine, i think," he said; "do you want to sell it?" soames checked his instinctive "not particularly"--he would not chaffer with this alien. "yes," he said. "what do you want for it?" "what i gave." "all right," said monsieur profond. "i'll be glad to take that small picture. post-impressionists--they're awful dead, but they're amusin'. i don' care for pictures much, but i've got some, just a small lot." "what do you care for?" monsieur profond shrugged his shoulders. "life's awful like a lot of monkeys scramblin' for empty nuts." "you're young," said soames. if the fellow must make a generalization, he needn't suggest that the forms of property lacked solidity! "i don' worry," replied monsieur profond smiling; "we're born, and we die. half the world's starvin'. i feed a small lot of babies out in my mother's country; but what's the use? might as well throw my money in the river." soames looked at him, and turned back toward his goya. he didn't know what the fellow wanted. "what shall i make my cheque for?" pursued monsieur profond. "five hundred," said soames shortly; "but i don't want you to take it if you don't care for it more than that." "that's all right," said monsieur profond; "i'll be 'appy to 'ave that picture." he wrote a cheque with a fountain-pen heavily chased with gold. soames watched the process uneasily. how on earth had the fellow known that he wanted to sell that picture? monsieur profond held out the cheque. "the english are awful funny about pictures," he said. "so are the french, so are my people. they're all awful funny." "i don't understand you," said soames stiffly. "it's like hats," said monsieur profond enigmatically, "small or large, turnin' up or down--just the fashion. awful funny." and, smiling, he drifted out of the gallery again, blue and solid like the smoke of his excellent cigar. soames had taken the cheque, feeling as if the intrinsic value of ownership had been called in question. 'he's a cosmopolitan,' he thought, watching profond emerge from under the verandah with annette, and saunter down the lawn toward the river. what his wife saw in the fellow he didn't know, unless it was that he could speak her language; and there passed in soames what monsieur profond would have called a "small doubt" whether annette was not too handsome to be walking with any one so "cosmopolitan." even at that distance he could see the blue fumes from profond's cigar wreath out in the quiet sunlight; and his grey buckskin shoes, and his grey hat--the fellow was a dandy! and he could see the quick turn of his wife's head, so very straight on her desirable neck and shoulders. that turn of her neck always seemed to him a little too showy, and in the "queen of all i survey" manner--not quite distinguished. he watched them walk along the path at the bottom of the garden. a young man in flannels joined them down there--a sunday caller no doubt, from up the river. he went back to his goya. he was still staring at that replica of fleur, and worrying over winifred's news, when his wife's voice said: "mr. michael mont, soames. you invited him to see your pictures." there was the cheerful young man of the gallery off cork street! "turned up, you see, sir; i live only four miles from pangbourne. jolly day, isn't it?" confronted with the results of his expansiveness, soames scrutinized his visitor. the young man's mouth was excessively large and curly--he seemed always grinning. why didn't he grow the rest of those idiotic little moustaches, which made him look like a music-hall buffoon? what on earth were young men about, deliberately lowering their class with these tooth-brushes, or little slug whiskers? ugh! affected young idiots! in other respects he was presentable, and his flannels very clean. "happy to see you!" he said. the young man, who had been turning his head from side to side, became transfixed. "i say!" he said, "'some' picture!" soames saw, with mixed sensations, that he had addressed the remark to the goya copy. "yes," he said dryly, "that's not a goya. it's a copy. i had it painted because it reminded me of my daughter." "by jove! i thought i knew the face, sir. is she here?" the frankness of his interest almost disarmed soames. "she'll be in after tea," he said. "shall we go round the pictures?" and soames began that round which never tired him. he had not anticipated much intelligence from one who had mistaken a copy for an original, but as they passed from section to section, period to period, he was startled by the young man's frank and relevant remarks. natively shrewd himself, and even sensuous beneath his mask, soames had not spent thirty-eight years over his one hobby without knowing something more about pictures than their market values. he was, as it were, the missing link between the artist and the commercial public. art for art's sake and all that, of course, was cant. but aesthetics and good taste were necessary. the appreciation of enough persons of good taste was what gave a work of art its permanent market value, or in other words made it "a work of art." there was no real cleavage. and he was sufficiently accustomed to sheep-like and unseeing visitors, to be intrigued by one who did not hesitate to say of mauve: "good old haystacks!" or of james maris: "didn't he just paint and paper 'em! mathew was the real swell, sir; you could dig into his surfaces!" it was after the young man had whistled before a whistler, with the words, "d'you think he ever really saw a naked woman, sir?" that soames remarked: "what are you, mr. mont, if i may ask?" "i, sir? i was going to be a painter, but the war knocked that. then in the trenches, you know, i used to dream of the stock exchange, snug and warm and just noisy enough. but the peace knocked that, shares seem off, don't they? i've only been demobbed about a year. what do you recommend, sir?" "have you got money?" "well," answered the young man, "i've got a father; i kept him alive during the war, so he's bound to keep me alive now. though, of course, there's the question whether he ought to be allowed to hang on to his property. what do you think about that, sir?" soames, pale and defensive, smiled. "the old man has fits when i tell him he may have to work yet. he's got land, you know; it's a fatal disease." "this is my real goya," said soames dryly. "by george! he was a swell. i saw a goya in munich once that bowled me middle stump. a most evil-looking old woman in the most gorgeous lace. he made no compromise with the public taste. that old boy was 'some' explosive; he must have smashed up a lot of convention in his day. couldn't he just paint! he makes velasquez stiff, don't you think?" "i have no velasquez," said soames. the young man stared. "no," he said; "only nations or profiteers can afford him, i suppose. i say, why shouldn't all the bankrupt nations sell their velasquez and titians and other swells to the profiteers by force, and then pass a law that any one who holds a picture by an old master--see schedule--must hang it in a public gallery? there seems something in that." "shall we go down to tea?" said soames. the young man's ears seemed to droop on his skull. 'he's not dense,' thought soames, following him off the premises. goya, with his satiric and surpassing precision, his original "line," and the daring of his light and shade, could have reproduced to admiration the group assembled round annette's tea-tray in the inglenook below. he alone, perhaps, of painters would have done justice to the sunlight filtering through a screen of creeper, to the lovely pallor of brass, the old cut glasses, the thin slices of lemon in pale amber tea; justice to annette in her black lacey dress; there was something of the fair spaniard in her beauty, though it lacked the spirituality of that rare type; to winifred's grey-haired, corseted solidity; to soames, of a certain grey and flat-cheeked distinction; to the vivacious michael mont, pointed in ear and eye; to imogen, dark, luscious of glance, growing a little stout; to prosper profond, with his expression as who should say, "well, mr. goya, what's the use of paintin' this small party?" finally, to jack cardigan, with his shining stare and tanned sanguinity betraying the moving principle: "i'm english, and i live to be fit." curious, by the way, that imogen, who as a girl had declared solemnly one day at timothy's that she would never marry a good man--they were so dull--should have married jack cardigan, in whom health had so destroyed all traces of original sin, that she might have retired to rest with ten thousand other englishmen without knowing the difference from the one she had chosen to repose beside. "oh!" she would say of him, in her "amusing" way, "jack keeps himself so fearfully fit; he's never had a day's illness in his life. he went right through the war without a finger-ache. you really can't imagine how fit he is!" indeed, he was so "fit" that he couldn't see when she was flirting, which was such a comfort in a way. all the same she was quite fond of him, so far as one could be of a sports-machine, and of the two little cardigans made after his pattern. her eyes just then were comparing him maliciously with prosper profond. there was no "small" sport or game which monsieur profond had not played at too, it seemed, from skittles to tarpon-fishing, and worn out every one. imogen would sometimes wish that they had worn out jack, who continued to play at them and talk of them with the simple zeal of a school-girl learning hockey; at the age of great-uncle timothy she well knew that jack would be playing carpet golf in her bedroom, and "wiping somebody's eye." he was telling them now how he had "pipped the pro--a charmin' fellow, playin' a very good game," at the last hole this morning; and how he had pulled down to caversham since lunch, and trying to incite prosper profond to play him a set of tennis after tea--do him good--"keep him fit. "but what's the use of keepin' fit?" said monsieur profond. "yes, sir," murmured michael mont, "what do you keep fit for?" "jack," cried imogen, enchanted, "what do you keep fit for?" jack cardigan stared with all his health. the questions were like the buzz of a mosquito, and he put up his hand to wipe them away. during the war, of course, he had kept fit to kill germans; now that it was over he either did not know, or shrank in delicacy from explanation of his moving principle. "but he's right," said monsieur profond unexpectedly, "there's nothin' left but keepin' fit." the saying, too deep for sunday afternoon, would have passed unanswered, but for the mercurial nature of young mont. "good!" he cried. "that's the great discovery of the war. we all thought we were progressing--now we know we're only changing." "for the worse," said monsieur profond genially. "how you are cheerful, prosper!" murmured annette. "you come and play tennis!" said jack cardigan; "you've got the hump. we'll soon take that down. d'you play, mr. mont?" "i hit the ball about, sir." at this juncture soames rose, ruffled in that deep instinct of preparation for the future which guided his existence. "when fleur comes--" he heard jack cardigan say. ah! and why didn't she come? he passed through drawing-room, hall, and porch out on to the drive, and stood there listening for the car. all was still and sundayfied; the lilacs in full flower scented the air. there were white clouds, like the feathers of ducks gilded by the sunlight. memory of the day when fleur was born, and he had waited in such agony with her life and her mother's balanced in his hands, came to him sharply. he had saved her then, to be the flower of his life. and now! was she going to give him trouble--pain--give him trouble? he did not like the look of things! a blackbird broke in on his reverie with an evening song--a great big fellow up in that acacia-tree. soames had taken quite an interest in his birds of late years; he and fleur would walk round and watch them; her eyes were sharp as needles, and she knew every nest. he saw her dog, a retriever, lying on the drive in a patch of sunlight, and called to him. "hallo, old fellow-waiting for her too!" the dog came slowly with a grudging tail, and soames mechanically laid a pat on his head. the dog, the bird, the lilac, all were part of fleur for him; no more, no less. 'too fond of her!' he thought, 'too fond!' he was like a man uninsured, with his ships at sea. uninsured again--as in that other time, so long ago, when he would wander dumb and jealous in the wilderness of london, longing for that woman--his first wife--the mother of this infernal boy. ah! there was the car at last! it drew up, it had luggage, but no fleur. "miss fleur is walking up, sir, by the towing-path." walking all those miles? soames stared. the man's face had the beginning of a smile on it. what was he grinning at? and very quickly he turned, saying, "all right, sims!" and went into the house. he mounted to the picture-gallery once more. he had from there a view of the river bank, and stood with his eyes fixed on it, oblivious of the fact that it would be an hour at least before her figure showed there. walking up! and that fellow's grin! the boy--! he turned abruptly from the window. he couldn't spy on her. if she wanted to keep things from him--she must; he could not spy on her. his heart felt empty, and bitterness mounted from it into his very mouth. the staccato shouts of jack cardigan pursuing the ball, the laugh of young mont rose in the stillness and came in. he hoped they were making that chap profond run. and the girl in "la vendimia" stood with her arm akimbo and her dreamy eyes looking past him. 'i've done all i could for you,' he thought, 'since you were no higher than my knee. you aren't going to--to--hurt me, are you?' but the goya copy answered not, brilliant in colour just beginning to tone down. 'there's no real life in it,' thought soames. 'why doesn't she come?' x trio among those four forsytes of the third, and, as one might say, fourth generation, at wansdon under the downs, a week-end prolonged unto the ninth day had stretched the crossing threads of tenacity almost to snapping-point. never had fleur been so "fine," holly so watchful, val so stable-secretive, jon so silent and disturbed. what he learned of farming in that week might have been balanced on the point of a penknife and puffed off. he, whose nature was essentially averse from intrigue, and whose adoration of fleur disposed him to think that any need for concealing it was "skittles," chafed and fretted, yet obeyed, taking what relief he could in the few moments when they were alone. on thursday, while they were standing in the bay window of the drawing-room, dressed for dinner, she said to him: "jon, i'm going home on sunday by the . from paddington; if you were to go home on saturday you could come up on sunday and take me down, and just get back here by the last train, after. you were going home anyway, weren't you?" jon nodded. "anything to be with you," he said; "only why need i pretend--" fleur slipped her little finger into his palm: "you have no instinct, jon; you must leave things to me. it's serious about our people. we've simply got to be secret at present, if we want to be together." the door was opened, and she added loudly: "you are a duffer, jon." something turned over within jon; he could not bear this subterfuge about a feeling so natural, so overwhelming, and so sweet. on friday night about eleven he had packed his bag, and was leaning out of his window, half miserable, and half lost in a dream of paddington station, when he heard a tiny sound, as of a finger-nail tapping on his door. he rushed to it and listened. again the sound. it was a nail. he opened. oh! what a lovely thing came in! "i wanted to show you my fancy dress," it said, and struck an attitude at the foot of his bed. jon drew a long breath and leaned against the door. the apparition wore white muslin on its head, a fichu round its bare neck over a wine-coloured dress, fulled out below its slender waist. it held one arm akimbo, and the other raised, right-angled, holding a fan which touched its head. "this ought to be a basket of grapes," it whispered, "but i haven't got it here. it's my goya dress. and this is the attitude in the picture. do you like it?" "it's a dream." the apparition pirouetted. "touch it, and see." jon knelt down and took the skirt reverently. "grape colour," came the whisper, "all grapes--la vendimia--the vintage." jon's fingers scarcely touched each side of the waist; he looked up, with adoring eyes. "oh! jon," it whispered; bent, kissed his forehead, pirouetted again, and, gliding out, was gone. jon stayed on his knees, and his head fell forward against the bed. how long he stayed like that he did not know. the little noises--of the tapping nail, the feet, the skirts rustling--as in a dream--went on about him; and before his closed eyes the figure stood and smiled and whispered, a faint perfume of narcissus lingering in the air. and his forehead where it had been kissed had a little cool place between the brows, like the imprint of a flower. love filled his soul, that love of boy for girl which knows so little, hopes so much, would not brush the down off for the world, and must become in time a fragrant memory--a searing passion--a humdrum mateship--or, once in many times, vintage full and sweet with sunset colour on the grapes. enough has been said about jon forsyte here and in another place to show what long marches lay between him and his great-great-grandfather, the first jolyon, in dorset down by the sea. jon was sensitive as a girl, more sensitive than nine out of ten girls of the day; imaginative as one of his half-sister june's "lame duck" painters; affectionate as a son of his father and his mother naturally would be. and yet, in his inner tissue, there was something of the old founder of his family, a secret tenacity of soul, a dread of showing his feelings, a determination not to know when he was beaten. sensitive, imaginative, affectionate boys get a bad time at school, but jon had instinctively kept his nature dark, and been but normally unhappy there. only with his mother had he, up till then, been absolutely frank and natural; and when he went home to robin hill that saturday his heart was heavy because fleur had said that he must not be frank and natural with her from whom he had never yet kept anything, must not even tell her that they had met again, unless he found that she knew already. so intolerable did this seem to him that he was very near to telegraphing an excuse and staying up in london. and the first thing his mother said to him was: "so you've had our little friend of the confectioner's there, jon. what is she like on second thoughts?" with relief, and a high colour, jon answered: "oh! awfully jolly, mum." her arm pressed his. jon had never loved her so much as in that minute which seemed to falsify fleur's fears and to release his soul. he turned to look at her, but something in her smiling face--something which only he perhaps would have caught--stopped the words bubbling up in him. could fear go with a smile? if so, there was fear in her face. and out of jon tumbled quite other words, about farming, holly, and the downs. talking fast, he waited for her to come back to fleur. but she did not. nor did his father mention her, though of course he, too, must know. what deprivation, and killing of reality was in his silence about fleur--when he was so full of her; when his mother was so full of jon, and his father so full of his mother! and so the trio spent the evening of that saturday. after dinner his mother played; she seemed to play all the things he liked best, and he sat with one knee clasped, and his hair standing up where his fingers had run through it. he gazed at his mother while she played, but he saw fleur--fleur in the moonlit orchard, fleur in the sunlit gravel-pit, fleur in that fancy dress, swaying, whispering, stooping, kissing his forehead. once, while he listened, he forgot himself and glanced at his father in that other easy chair. what was dad looking like that for? the expression on his face was so sad and puzzling. it filled him with a sort of remorse, so that he got up and went and sat on the arm of his father's chair. from there he could not see his face; and again he saw fleur--in his mother's hands, slim and white on the keys, in the profile of her face and her powdery hair; and down the long room in the open window where the may night walked outside. when he went up to bed his mother came into his room. she stood at the window, and said: "those cypresses your grandfather planted down there have done wonderfully. i always think they look beautiful under a dropping moon. i wish you had known your grandfather, jon." "were you married to father when he was alive?" asked jon suddenly. "no, dear; he died in ' --very old--eighty-five, i think." "is father like him?" "a little, but more subtle, and not quite so solid." "i know, from grandfather's portrait; who painted that?" "one of june's 'lame ducks.' but it's quite good." jon slipped his hand through his mother's arm. "tell me about the family quarrel, mum." he felt her arm quivering. "no, dear; that's for your father some day, if he thinks fit." "then it was serious," said jon, with a catch in his breath. "yes." and there was a silence, during which neither knew whether the arm or the hand within it were quivering most. "some people," said irene softly, "think the moon on her back is evil; to me she's always lovely. look at those cypress shadows! jon, father says we may go to italy, you and i, for two months. would you like?" jon took his hand from under her arm; his sensation was so sharp and so confused. italy with his mother! a fortnight ago it would have been perfection; now it filled him with dismay; he felt that the sudden suggestion had to do with fleur. he stammered out: "oh! yes; only--i don't know. ought i--now i've just begun? i'd like to think it over." her voice answered, cool and gentle: "yes, dear; think it over. but better now than when you've begun farming seriously. italy with you! it would be nice!" jon put his arm round her waist, still slim and firm as a girl's. "do you think you ought to leave father?" he said feebly, feeling very mean. "father suggested it; he thinks you ought to see italy at least before you settle down to anything." the sense of meanness died in jon; he knew, yes--he knew--that his father and his mother were not speaking frankly, no more than he himself. they wanted to keep him from fleur. his heart hardened. and, as if she felt that process going on, his mother said: "good-night, darling. have a good sleep and think it over. but it would be lovely!" she pressed him to her so quickly that he did not see her face. jon stood feeling exactly as he used to when he was a naughty little boy; sore because he was not loving, and because he was justified in his own eyes. but irene, after she had stood a moment in her own room, passed through the dressing-room between it and her husband's. "well?" "he will think it over, jolyon." watching her lips that wore a little drawn smile, jolyon said quietly: "you had better let me tell him, and have done with it. after all, jon has the instincts of a gentleman. he has only to understand--" "only! he can't understand; that's impossible." "i believe i could have at his age." irene caught his hand. "you were always more of a realist than jon; and never so innocent." "that's true," said jolyon. "it's queer, isn't it? you and i would tell our stories to the world without a particle of shame; but our own boy stumps us." "we've never cared whether the world approves or not." "jon would not disapprove of us!" "oh! jolyon, yes. he's in love, i feel he's in love. and he'd say: 'my mother once married without love! how could she have!' it'll seem to him a crime! and so it was!" jolyon took her hand, and said with a wry smile: "ah! why on earth are we born young? now, if only we were born old and grew younger year by year, we should understand how things happen, and drop all our cursed intolerance. but you know if the boy is really in love, he won't forget, even if he goes to italy. we're a tenacious breed; and he'll know by instinct why he's being sent. nothing will really cure him but the shock of being told." "let me try, anyway." jolyon stood a moment without speaking. between this devil and this deep sea--the pain of a dreaded disclosure and the grief of losing his wife for two months--he secretly hoped for the devil; yet if she wished for the deep sea he must put up with it. after all, it would be training for that departure from which there would be no return. and, taking her in his arms, he kissed her eyes, and said: "as you will, my love." xi duet that "small" emotion, love, grows amazingly when threatened with extinction. jon reached paddington station half an hour before his time and a full week after, as it seemed to him. he stood at the appointed bookstall, amid a crowd of sunday travellers, in a harris tweed suit exhaling, as it were, the emotion of his thumping heart. he read the names of the novels on the book-stall, and bought one at last, to avoid being regarded with suspicion by the book-stall clerk. it was called "the heart of the trail!" which must mean something, though it did not seem to. he also bought "the lady's mirror" and "the landsman." every minute was an hour long, and full of horrid imaginings. after nineteen had passed, he saw her with a bag and a porter wheeling her luggage. she came swiftly; she came cool. she greeted him as if he were a brother. "first class," she said to the porter, "corner seats; opposite." jon admired her frightful self-possession. "can't we get a carriage to ourselves," he whispered. "no good; it's a stopping train. after maidenhead perhaps. look natural, jon." jon screwed his features into a scowl. they got in--with two other beasts!--oh! heaven! he tipped the porter unnaturally, in his confusion. the brute deserved nothing for putting them in there, and looking as if he knew all about it into the bargain. fleur hid herself behind "the lady's mirror." jon imitated her behind "the landsman." the train started. fleur let "the lady's mirror" fall and leaned forward. "well?" she said. "it's seemed about fifteen days." she nodded, and jon's face lighted up at once. "look natural," murmured fleur, and went off into a bubble of laughter. it hurt him. how could he look natural with italy hanging over him? he had meant to break it to her gently, but now he blurted it out. "they want me to go to italy with mother for two months." fleur drooped her eyelids; turned a little pale, and bit her lips. "oh!" she said. it was all, but it was much. that "oh!" was like the quick drawback of the wrist in fencing ready for riposte. it came. "you must go!" "go?" said jon in a strangled voice. "of course." "but--two months--it's ghastly." "no," said fleur, "six weeks. you'll have forgotten me by then. we'll meet in the national gallery the day after you get back." jon laughed. "but suppose you've forgotten me," he muttered into the noise of the train. fleur shook her head. "some other beast--" murmured jon. her foot touched his. "no other beast," she said, lifting "the lady's mirror." the train stopped; two passengers got out, and one got in. 'i shall die,' thought jon, 'if we're not alone at all.' the train went on; and again fleur leaned forward. "i never let go," she said; "do you?" jon shook his head vehemently. "never!" he said. "will you write to me?" "no; but you can--to my club." she had a club; she was wonderful! "did you pump holly?" he muttered. "yes, but i got nothing. i didn't dare pump hard." "what can it be?" cried jon. "i shall find out all right." a long silence followed till fleur said: "this is maidenhead; stand by, jon!" the train stopped. the remaining passenger got out. fleur drew down her blind. "quick!" she cried. "hang out! look as much of a beast as you can." jon blew his nose, and scowled; never in all his life had he scowled like that! an old lady recoiled, a young one tried the handle. it turned, but the door would not open. the train moved, the young lady darted to another carriage. "what luck!" cried jon. "it jammed." "yes," said fleur; "i was holding it." the train moved out, and jon fell on his knees. "look out for the corridor," she whispered; "and--quick!" her lips met his. and though their kiss only lasted perhaps ten seconds, jon's soul left his body and went so far beyond, that, when he was again sitting opposite that demure figure, he was pale as death. he heard her sigh, and the sound seemed to him the most precious he had ever heard--an exquisite declaration that he meant something to her. "six weeks isn't really long," she said; "and you can easily make it six if you keep your head out there, and never seem to think of me." jon gasped. "this is just what's really wanted, jon, to convince them, don't you see? if we're just as bad when you come back they'll stop being ridiculous about it. only, i'm sorry it's not spain; there's a girl in a goya picture at madrid who's like me, father says. only she isn't--we've got a copy of her." it was to jon like a ray of sunshine piercing through a fog. "i'll make it spain," he said, "mother won't mind; she's never been there. and my father thinks a lot of goya." "oh! yes, he's a painter--isn't he?" "only water-colour," said jon, with honesty. "when we come to reading, jon, get out first and go down to caversham lock and wait for me. i'll send the car home and we'll walk by the towing-path." jon seized her hand in gratitude, and they sat silent, with the world well lost, and one eye on the corridor. but the train seemed to run twice as fast now, and its sound was almost lost in that of jon's sighing. "we're getting near," said fleur; "the towing-path's awfully exposed. one more! oh! jon, don't forget me." jon answered with his kiss. and very soon, a flushed, distracted-looking youth could have been seen--as they say--leaping from the train and hurrying along the platform, searching his pockets for his ticket. when at last she rejoined him on the towing-path a little beyond caversham lock he had made an effort, and regained some measure of equanimity. if they had to part, he would not make a scene! a breeze by the bright river threw the white side of the willow leaves up into the sunlight, and followed those two with its faint rustle. "i told our chauffeur that i was train-giddy," said fleur. "did you look pretty natural as you went out?" "i don't know. what is natural?" "it's natural to you to look seriously happy. when i first saw you i thought you weren't a bit like other people." "exactly what i thought when i saw you. i knew at once i should never love anybody else." fleur laughed. "we're absurdly young. and love's young dream is out of date, jon. besides, it's awfully wasteful. think of all the fun you might have. you haven't begun, even; it's a shame, really. and there's me. i wonder!" confusion came on jon's spirit. how could she say such things just as they were going to part? "if you feel like that," he said, "i can't go. i shall tell mother that i ought to try and work. there's always the condition of the world!" "the condition of the world!" jon thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "but there is," he said; "think of the people starving!" fleur shook her head. "no, no, i never, never will make myself miserable for nothing." "nothing! but there's an awful state of things, and of course one ought to help." "oh! yes, i know all that. but you can't help people, jon; they're hopeless. when you pull them out they only get into another hole. look at them, still fighting and plotting and struggling, though they're dying in heaps all the time. idiots!" "aren't you sorry for them?" "oh! sorry--yes, but i'm not going to make myself unhappy about it; that's no good." and they were silent, disturbed by this first glimpse of each other's natures. "i think people are brutes and idiots," said fleur stubbornly. "i think they're poor wretches," said jon. it was as if they had quarrelled--and at this supreme and awful moment, with parting visible out there in that last gap of the willows! "well, go and help your poor wretches, and don't think of me." jon stood still. sweat broke out on his forehead, and his limbs trembled. fleur too had stopped, and was frowning at the river. "i must believe in things," said jon with a sort of agony; "we're all meant to enjoy life." fleur laughed. "yes; and that's what you won't do, if you don't take care. but perhaps your idea of enjoyment is to make yourself wretched. there are lots of people like that, of course." she was pale, her eyes had darkened, her lips had thinned. was it fleur thus staring at the water? jon had an unreal feeling as if he were passing through the scene in a book where the lover has to choose between love and duty. but just then she looked round at him. never was anything so intoxicating as that vivacious look. it acted on him exactly as the tug of a chain acts on a dog--brought him up to her with his tail wagging and his tongue out. "don't let's be silly," she said, "time's too short. look, jon, you can just see where i've got to cross the river. there, round the bend, where the woods begin." jon saw a gable, a chimney or two, a patch of wall through the trees --and felt his heart sink. "i mustn't dawdle any more. it's no good going beyond the next hedge, it gets all open. let's get on to it and say good-bye." they went side by side, hand in hand, silently toward the hedge, where the may-flower, both pink and white, was in full bloom. "my club's the 'talisman,' stratton street, piccadilly. letters there will be quite safe, and i'm almost always up once a week." jon nodded. his face had become extremely set, his eyes stared straight before him. "to-day's the twenty-third of may," said fleur; "on the ninth of july i shall be in front of the 'bacchus and ariadne' at three o'clock; will you?" "i will." "if you feel as bad as i it's all right. let those people pass!" a man and woman airing their children went by strung out in sunday fashion. the last of them passed the wicket gate. "domesticity!" said fleur, and blotted herself against the hawthorn hedge. the blossom sprayed out above her head, and one pink cluster brushed her cheek. jon put up his hand jealously to keep it off. "good-bye, jon." for a second they stood with hands hard clasped. then their lips met for the third time, and when they parted fleur broke away and fled through the wicket gate. jon stood where she had left him, with his forehead against that pink cluster. gone! for an eternity--for seven weeks all but two days! and here he was, wasting the last sight of her! he rushed to the gate. she was walking swiftly on the heels of the straggling children. she turned her head, he saw her hand make a little flitting gesture; then she sped on, and the trailing family blotted her out from his view. the words of a comic song-- "paddington groan-worst ever known he gave a sepulchral paddington groan--" came into his head, and he sped incontinently back to reading station. all the way up to london and down to wansdon he sat with "the heart of the trail" open on his knee, knitting in his head a poem so full of feeling that it would not rhyme. xii caprice fleur sped on. she had need of rapid motion; she was late, and wanted all her wits about her when she got in. she passed the islands, the station, and hotel, and was about to take the ferry, when she saw a skiff with a young man standing up in it, and holding to the bushes. "miss forsyte," he said; "let me put you across. i've come on purpose." she looked at him in blank amazement. "it's all right, i've been having tea with your people. i thought i'd save you the last bit. it's on my way, i'm just off back to pangbourne. my name's mont. i saw you at the picture-gallery--you remember--when your father invited me to see his pictures." "oh!" said fleur; "yes--the handkerchief." to this young man she owed jon; and, taking his hand, she stepped down into the skiff. still emotional, and a little out of breath, she sat silent; not so the young man. she had never heard any one say so much in so short a time. he told her his age, twenty-four; his weight, ten stone eleven; his place of residence, not far away; described his sensations under fire, and what it felt like to be gassed; criticized the juno, mentioned his own conception of that goddess; commented on the goya copy, said fleur was not too awfully like it; sketched in rapidly the condition of england; spoke of monsieur profond--or whatever his name was--as "an awful sport"; thought her father had some "ripping" pictures and some rather "dug-up"; hoped he might row down again and take her on the river because he was quite trustworthy; inquired her opinion of tchekov, gave her his own; wished they could go to the russian ballet together some time--considered the name fleur forsyte simply topping; cursed his people for giving him the name of michael on the top of mont; outlined his father, and said that if she wanted a good book she should read "job"; his father was rather like job while job still had land. "but job didn't have land," fleur murmured; "he only had flocks and herds and moved on." "ah!" answered michael mont, "i wish my gov'nor would move on. not that i want his land. land's an awful bore in these days, don't you think?" "we never have it in my family," said fleur. "we have everything else. i believe one of my great-uncles once had a sentimental farm in dorset, because we came from there originally, but it cost him more than it made him happy." "did he sell it?" "no; he kept it." "why?" "because nobody would buy it." "good for the old boy!" "no, it wasn't good for him. father says it soured him. his name was swithin." "what a corking name!" "do you know that we're getting farther off, not nearer? this river flows." "splendid!" cried mont, dipping his sculls vaguely; "it's good to meet a girl who's got wit." "but better to meet a young man who's got it in the plural." young mont raised a hand to tear his hair. "look out!" cried fleur. "your scull!" "all right! it's thick enough to bear a scratch." "do you mind sculling?" said fleur severely. "i want to get in." "ah!" said mont; "but when you get in, you see, i shan't see you any more to-day. fini, as the french girl said when she jumped on her bed after saying her prayers. don't you bless the day that gave you a french mother, and a name like yours?" "i like my name, but father gave it me. mother wanted me called marguerite." "which is absurd. do you mind calling me m. m. and letting me call you f. f.? it's in the spirit of the age." "i don't mind anything, so long as i get in." mont caught a little crab, and answered: "that was a nasty one!" "please row." "i am." and he did for several strokes, looking at her with rueful eagerness. "of course, you know," he ejaculated, pausing, "that i came to see you, not your father's pictures." fleur rose. "if you don't row, i shall get out and swim." "really and truly? then i could come in after you." "mr. mont, i'm late and tired; please put me on shore at once." when she stepped out on to the garden landing-stage he rose, and grasping his hair with both hands, looked at her. fleur smiled. "don't!" cried the irrepressible mont. "i know you're going to say: 'out, damned hair!'" fleur whisked round, threw him a wave of her hand. "good-bye, mr. m.m.!" she called, and was gone among the rose-trees. she looked at her wrist-watch and the windows of the house. it struck her as curiously uninhabited. past six! the pigeons were just gathering to roost, and sunlight slanted on the dovecot, on their snowy feathers, and beyond in a shower on the top boughs of the woods. the click of billiard-balls came from the ingle-nook--jack cardigan, no doubt; a faint rustling, too, from an eucalyptus-tree, startling southerner in this old english garden. she reached the verandah and was passing in, but stopped at the sound of voices from the drawing-room to her left. mother! monsieur profond! from behind the verandah screen which fenced the ingle-nook she heard these words: "i don't, annette." did father know that he called her mother "annette"? always on the side of her father--as children are ever on one side or the other in houses where relations are a little strained--she stood, uncertain. her mother was speaking in her low, pleasing, slightly metallic voice--one word she caught: "demain." and profond's answer: "all right." fleur frowned. a little sound came out into the stillness. then profond's voice: "i'm takin' a small stroll." fleur darted through the window into the morning-room. there he came from the drawing-room, crossing the verandah, down the lawn; and the click of billiard-balls which, in listening for other sounds, she had ceased to hear, began again. she shook herself, passed into the hall, and opened the drawing-room door. her mother was sitting on the sofa between the windows, her knees crossed, her head resting on a cushion, her lips half parted, her eyes half closed. she looked extraordinarily handsome. "ah! here you are, fleur! your father is beginning to fuss." "where is he?" "in the picture-gallery. go up!" "what are you going to do to-morrow, mother?" "to-morrow? i go up to london with your aunt." "i thought you might be. will you get me a quite plain parasol?" what colour?" "green. they're all going back, i suppose." "yes, all; you will console your father. kiss me, then." fleur crossed the room, stooped, received a kiss on her forehead, and went out past the impress of a form on the sofa-cushions in the other corner. she ran up-stairs. fleur was by no means the old-fashioned daughter who demands the regulation of her parents' lives in accordance with the standard imposed upon herself. she claimed to regulate her own life, not those of others; besides, an unerring instinct for what was likely to advantage her own case was already at work. in a disturbed domestic atmosphere the heart she had set on jon would have a better chance. none the less was she offended, as a flower by a crisping wind. if that man had really been kissing her mother it was--serious, and her father ought to know. "demain!" "all right!" and her mother going up to town! she turned into her bedroom and hung out of the window to cool her face, which had suddenly grown very hot. jon must be at the station by now! what did her father know about jon? probably everything--pretty nearly! she changed her dress, so as to look as if she had been in some time, and ran up to the gallery. soames was standing stubbornly still before his alfred stevens--the picture he loved best. he did not turn at the sound of the door, but she knew he had heard, and she knew he was hurt. she came up softly behind him, put her arms round his neck, and poked her face over his shoulder till her cheek lay against his. it was an advance which had never yet failed, but it failed her now, and she augured the worst. "well," he said stonily, "so you've come!" "is that all," murmured fleur, "from a bad parent?" and she rubbed her cheek against his. soames shook his head so far as that was possible. "why do you keep me on tenterhooks like this, putting me off and off?" "darling, it was very harmless." "harmless! much you know what's harmless and what isn't." fleur dropped her arms. "well, then, dear, suppose you tell me; and be quite frank about it." and she went over to the window-seat. her father had turned from his picture, and was staring at his feet. he looked very grey. 'he has nice small feet,' she thought, catching his eye, at once averted from her. "you're my only comfort," said soames suddenly, "and you go on like this." fleur's heart began to beat. "like what, dear?" again soames gave her a look which, but for the affection in it, might have been called furtive. "you know what i told you," he said. "i don't choose to have anything to do with that branch of our family." "yes, ducky, but i don't know why i shouldn't." soames turned on his heel. "i'm not going into the reasons," he said; "you ought to trust me, fleur!" the way he spoke those words affected fleur, but she thought of jon, and was silent, tapping her foot against the wainscot. unconsciously she had assumed a modern attitude, with one leg twisted in and out of the other, with her chin on one bent wrist, her other arm across her chest, and its hand hugging her elbow; there was not a line of her that was not involuted, and yet--in spite of all--she retained a certain grace. "you knew my wishes," soames went on, "and yet you stayed on there four days. and i suppose that boy came with you to-day." fleur kept her eyes on him. "i don't ask you anything," said soames; "i make no inquisition where you're concerned." fleur suddenly stood up, leaning out at the window with her chin on her hands. the sun had sunk behind trees, the pigeons were perched, quite still, on the edge of the dove-cot; the click of the billiard-balls mounted, and a faint radiance shone out below where jack cardigan had turned the light up. "will it make you any happier," she said suddenly, "if i promise you not to see him for say--the next six weeks?" she was not prepared for a sort of tremble in the blankness of his voice. "six weeks? six years--sixty years more like. don't delude yourself, fleur; don't delude yourself!" fleur turned in alarm. "father, what is it?" soames came close enough to see her face. "don't tell me," he said, "that you're foolish enough to have any feeling beyond caprice. that would be too much!" and he laughed. fleur, who had never heard him laugh like that, thought: 'then it is deep! oh! what is it?' and putting her hand through his arm she said lightly: "no, of course; caprice. only, i like my caprices and i don't like yours, dear." "mine!" said soames bitterly, and turned away. the light outside had chilled, and threw a chalky whiteness on the river. the trees had lost all gaiety of colour. she felt a sudden hunger for jon's face, for his hands, and the feel of his lips again on hers. and pressing her arms tight across her breast she forced out a little light laugh. "o la! la! what a small fuss! as profond would say. father, i don't like that man." she saw him stop, and take something out of his breast pocket. "you don't?" he said. "why?" "nothing," murmured fleur; "just caprice!" "no," said soames; "not caprice!" and he tore what was in his hands across. "you're right. i don't like him either!" "look!" said fleur softly. "there he goes! i hate his shoes; they don't make any noise." down in the failing light prosper profond moved, his hands in his side pockets, whistling softly in his beard; he stopped, and glanced up at the sky, as if saying: "i don't think much of that small moon." fleur drew back. "isn't he a great cat?" she whispered; and the sharp click of the billiard-balls rose, as if jack cardigan had capped the cat, the moon, caprice, and tragedy with: "in off the red!" monsieur profond had resumed his stroll, to a teasing little tune in his beard. what was it? oh! yes, from "rigoletto": "donna a mobile." just what he would think! she squeezed her father's arm. "prowling!" she muttered, as he turned the corner of the house. it was past that disillusioned moment which divides the day and night-still and lingering and warm, with hawthorn scent and lilac scent clinging on the riverside air. a blackbird suddenly burst out. jon would be in london by now; in the park perhaps, crossing the serpentine, thinking of her! a little sound beside her made her turn her eyes; her father was again tearing the paper in his hands. fleur saw it was a cheque. "i shan't sell him my gauguin," he said. "i don't know what your aunt and imogen see in him." "or mother." "your mother!" said soames. 'poor father!' she thought. 'he never looks happy--not really happy. i don't want to make him worse, but of course i shall have to, when jon comes back. oh! well, sufficient unto the night!' "i'm going to dress," she said. in her room she had a fancy to put on her "freak" dress. it was of gold tissue with little trousers of the same, tightly drawn in at the ankles, a page's cape slung from the shoulders, little gold shoes, and a gold-winged mercury helmet; and all over her were tiny gold bells, especially on the helmet; so that if she shook her head she pealed. when she was dressed she felt quite sick because jon could not see her; it even seemed a pity that the sprightly young man michael mont would not have a view. but the gong had sounded, and she went down. she made a sensation in the drawing-room. winifred thought it "most amusing." imogen was enraptured. jack cardigan called it "stunning," "ripping," "topping," and "corking." monsieur profond, smiling with his eyes, said: "that's a nice small dress!" her mother, very handsome in black, sat looking at her, and said nothing. it remained for her father to apply the test of common sense. "what did you put on that thing for? you're not going to dance." fleur spun round, and the bells pealed. "caprice!" soames stared at her, and, turning away, gave his arm to winifred. jack cardigan took her mother. prosper profond took imogen. fleur went in by herself, with her bells jingling.... the "small" moon had soon dropped down, and may night had fallen soft and warm, enwrapping with its grape-bloom colour and its scents the billion caprices, intrigues, passions, longings, and regrets of men and women. happy was jack cardigan who snored into imogen's white shoulder, fit as a flea; or timothy in his "mausoleum," too old for anything but baby's slumber. for so many lay awake, or dreamed, teased by the criss-cross of the world. the dew fell and the flowers closed; cattle grazed on in the river meadows, feeling with their tongues for the grass they could not see; and the sheep on the downs lay quiet as stones. pheasants in the tall trees of the pangbourne woods, larks on their grassy nests above the gravel-pit at wansdon, swallows in the eaves at robin hill, and the sparrows of mayfair, all made a dreamless night of it, soothed by the lack of wind. the mayfly filly, hardly accustomed to her new quarters, scraped at her straw a little; and the few night-flitting things--bats, moths, owls--were vigorous in the warm darkness; but the peace of night lay in the brain of all day-time nature, colourless and still. men and women, alone, riding the hobby-horses of anxiety or love, burned their wavering tapers of dream and thought into the lonely hours. fleur, leaning out of her window, heard the hall clock's muffled chime of twelve, the tiny splash of a fish, the sudden shaking of an aspen's leaves in the puffs of breeze that rose along the river, the distant rumble of a night train, and time and again the sounds which none can put a name to in the darkness, soft obscure expressions of uncatalogued emotions from man and beast, bird and machine, or, maybe, from departed forsytes, darties, cardigans, taking night strolls back into a world which had once suited their embodied spirits. but fleur heeded not these sounds; her spirit, far from disembodied, fled with swift wing from railway-carriage to flowery hedge, straining after jon, tenacious of his forbidden image, and the sound of his voice, which was taboo. and she crinkled her nose, retrieving from the perfume of the riverside night that moment when his hand slipped between the mayflowers and her cheek. long she leaned out in her freak dress, keen to burn her wings at life's candle; while the moths brushed her cheeks on their pilgrimage to the lamp on her dressing-table, ignorant that in a forsyte's house there is no open flame. but at last even she felt sleepy, and, forgetting her bells, drew quickly in. through the open window of his room, alongside annette's, soames, wakeful too, heard their thin faint tinkle, as it might be shaken from stars, or the dewdrops falling from a flower, if one could hear such sounds. 'caprice!' he thought. 'i can't tell. she's wilful. what shall i do? fleur!' and long into the "small" night he brooded. part ii i mother and son to say that jon forsyte accompanied his mother to spain unwillingly would scarcely have been adequate. he went as a well-natured dog goes for a walk with its mistress, leaving a choice mutton-bone on the lawn. he went looking back at it. forsytes deprived of their mutton-bones are wont to sulk. but jon had little sulkiness in his composition. he adored his mother, and it was his first travel. spain had become italy by his simply saying: "i'd rather go to spain, mum; you've been to italy so many times; i'd like it new to both of us." the fellow was subtle besides being naive. he never forgot that he was going to shorten the proposed two months into six weeks, and must therefore show no sign of wishing to do so. for one with so enticing a mutton-bone and so fixed an idea, he made a good enough travelling companion, indifferent to where or when he arrived, superior to food, and thoroughly appreciative of a country strange to the most travelled englishman. fleur's wisdom in refusing to write to him was profound, for he reached each new place entirely without hope or fever, and could concentrate immediate attention on the donkeys and tumbling bells, the priests, patios, beggars, children, crowing cocks, sombreros, cactus-hedges, old high white villages, goats, olive-trees, greening plains, singing birds in tiny cages, watersellers, sunsets, melons, mules, great churches, pictures, and swimming grey-brown mountains of a fascinating land. it was already hot, and they enjoyed an absence of their compatriots. jon, who, so far as he knew, had no blood in him which was not english, was often innately unhappy in the presence of his own countrymen. he felt they had no nonsense about them, and took a more practical view of things than himself. he confided to his mother that he must be an unsociable beast--it was jolly to be away from everybody who could talk about the things people did talk about. to which irene had replied simply: "yes, jon, i know." in this isolation he had unparalleled opportunities of appreciating what few sons can apprehend, the whole-heartedness of a mother's love. knowledge of something kept from her made him, no doubt, unduly sensitive; and a southern people stimulated his admiration for her type of beauty, which he had been accustomed to hear called spanish, but which he now perceived to be no such thing. her beauty was neither english, french, spanish, nor italian--it was special! he appreciated, too, as never before, his mother's subtlety of instinct. he could not tell, for instance, whether she had noticed his absorption in that goya picture, "la vendimia," or whether she knew that he had slipped back there after lunch and again next morning, to stand before it full half an hour, a second and third time. it was not fleur, of course, but like enough to give him heartache--so dear to lovers--remembering her standing at the foot of his bed with her hand held above her head. to keep a postcard reproduction of this picture in his pocket and slip it out to look at became for jon one of those bad habits which soon or late disclose themselves to eyes sharpened by love, fear, or jealousy. and his mother's were sharpened by all three. in granada he was fairly caught, sitting on a sun-warmed stone bench in a little battlemented garden on the alhambra hill, whence he ought to have been looking at the view. his mother, he had thought, was examining the potted stocks between the polled acacias, when her voice said: "is that your favourite goya, jon?" he checked, too late, a movement such as he might have made at school to conceal some surreptitious document, and answered: "yes." "it certainly is most charming; but i think i prefer the 'quitasol' your father would go crazy about goya; i don't believe he saw them when he was in spain in ' ." in ' --nine years before he had been born! what had been the previous existences of his father and his mother? if they had a right to share in his future, surely he had a right to share in their pasts. he looked up at her. but something in her face--a look of life hard-lived, the mysterious impress of emotions, experience, and suffering-seemed, with its incalculable depth, its purchased sanctity, to make curiosity impertinent. his mother must have had a wonderfully interesting life; she was so beautiful, and so--so--but he could not frame what he felt about her. he got up, and stood gazing down at the town, at the plain all green with crops, and the ring of mountains glamorous in sinking sunlight. her life was like the past of this old moorish city, full, deep, remote--his own life as yet such a baby of a thing, hopelessly ignorant and innocent! they said that in those mountains to the west, which rose sheer from the blue-green plain, as if out of a sea, phoenicians had dwelt--a dark, strange, secret race, above the land! his mother's life was as unknown to him, as secret, as that phoenician past was to the town down there, whose cocks crowed and whose children played and clamoured so gaily, day in, day out. he felt aggrieved that she should know all about him and he nothing about her except that she loved him and his father, and was beautiful. his callow ignorance--he had not even had the advantage of the war, like nearly everybody else!--made him small in his own eyes. that night, from the balcony of his bedroom, he gazed down on the roof of the town--as if inlaid with honeycomb of jet, ivory, and gold; and, long after, he lay awake, listening to the cry of the sentry as the hours struck, and forming in his head these lines: "voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping spanish city darkened under her white stars! "what says the voice-its clear-lingering anguish? just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety? just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song? "no! tis one deprived, whose lover's heart is weeping, just his cry: 'how long?'" the word "deprived" seemed to him cold and unsatisfactory, but "bereaved" was too final, and no other word of two syllables short-long came to him, which would enable him to keep "whose lover's heart is weeping." it was past two by the time he had finished it, and past three before he went to sleep, having said it over to himself at least twenty-four times. next day he wrote it out and enclosed it in one of those letters to fleur which he always finished before he went down, so as to have his mind free and companionable. about noon that same day, on the tiled terrace of their hotel, he felt a sudden dull pain in the back of his head, a queer sensation in the eyes, and sickness. the sun had touched him too affectionately. the next three days were passed in semi-darkness, and a dulled, aching indifference to all except the feel of ice on his forehead and his mother's smile. she never moved from his room, never relaxed her noiseless vigilance, which seemed to jon angelic. but there were moments when he was extremely sorry for himself, and wished terribly that fleur could see him. several times he took a poignant imaginary leave of her and of the earth, tears oozing out of his eyes. he even prepared the message he would send to her by his mother--who would regret to her dying day that she had ever sought to separate them--his poor mother! he was not slow, however, in perceiving that he had now his excuse for going home. toward half-past six each evening came a "gasgacha" of bells--a cascade of tumbling chimes, mounting from the city below and falling back chime on chime. after listening to them on the fourth day he said suddenly: "i'd like to be back in england, mum, the sun's too hot." "very well, darling. as soon as you're fit to travel" and at once he felt better, and--meaner. they had been out five weeks when they turned toward home. jon's head was restored to its pristine clarity, but he was confined to a hat lined by his mother with many layers of orange and green silk and he still walked from choice in the shade. as the long struggle of discretion between them drew to its close, he wondered more and more whether she could see his eagerness to get back to that which she had brought him away from. condemned by spanish providence to spend a day in madrid between their trains, it was but natural to go again to the prado. jon was elaborately casual this time before his goya girl. now that he was going back to her, he could afford a lesser scrutiny. it was his mother who lingered before the picture, saying: "the face and the figure of the girl are exquisite." jon heard her uneasily. did she understand? but he felt once more that he was no match for her in self-control and subtlety. she could, in some supersensitive way, of which he had not the secret, feel the pulse of his thoughts; she knew by instinct what he hoped and feared and wished. it made him terribly uncomfortable and guilty, having, beyond most boys, a conscience. he wished she would be frank with him, he almost hoped for an open struggle. but none came, and steadily, silently, they travelled north. thus did he first learn how much better than men women play a waiting game. in paris they had again to pause for a day. jon was grieved because it lasted two, owing to certain matters in connection with a dressmaker; as if his mother, who looked beautiful in anything, had any need of dresses! the happiest moment of his travel was that when he stepped on to the folkestone boat. standing by the bulwark rail, with her arm in his, she said "i'm afraid you haven't enjoyed it much, jon. but you've been very sweet to me." jon squeezed her arm. "oh i yes, i've enjoyed it awfully-except for my head lately." and now that the end had come, he really had, feeling a sort of glamour over the past weeks--a kind of painful pleasure, such as he had tried to screw into those lines about the voice in the night crying; a feeling such as he had known as a small boy listening avidly to chopin, yet wanting to cry. and he wondered why it was that he couldn't say to her quite simply what she had said to him: "you were very sweet to me." odd--one never could be nice and natural like that! he substituted the words: "i expect we shall be sick." they were, and reached london somewhat attenuated, having been away six weeks and two days, without a single allusion to the subject which had hardly ever ceased to occupy their minds. ii fathers and daughters deprived of his wife and son by the spanish adventure, jolyon found the solitude at robin hill intolerable. a philosopher when he has all that he wants is different from a philosopher when he has not. accustomed, however, to the idea, if not to the reality of resignation, he would perhaps have faced it out but for his daughter june. he was a "lame duck" now, and on her conscience. having achieved--momentarily--the rescue of an etcher in low circumstances, which she happened to have in hand, she appeared at robin hill a fortnight after irene and jon had gone. june was living now in a tiny house with a big studio at chiswick. a forsyte of the best period, so far as the lack of responsibility was concerned, she had overcome the difficulty of a reduced income in a manner satisfactory to herself and her father. the rent of the gallery off cork street which he had bought for her and her increased income tax happening to balance, it had been quite simpl--she no longer paid him the rent. the gallery might be expected now at any time, after eighteen years of barren usufruct, to pay its way, so that she was sure her father would not feel it. through this device she still had twelve hundred a year, and by reducing what she ate, and, in place of two belgians in a poor way, employing one austrian in a poorer, practically the same surplus for the relief of genius. after three days at robin hill she carried her father back with her to town. in those three days she had stumbled on the secret he had kept for two years, and had instantly decided to cure him. she knew, in fact, the very man. he had done wonders with. paul post--that painter a little in advance of futurism; and she was impatient with her father because his eyebrows would go up, and because he had heard of neither. of course, if he hadn't "faith" he would never get well! it was absurd not to have faith in the man who had healed paul post so that he had only just relapsed, from having overworked, or overlived, himself again. the great thing about this healer was that he relied on nature. he had made a special study of the symptoms of nature--when his patient failed in any natural symptom he supplied the poison which caused it--and there you were! she was extremely hopeful. her father had clearly not been living a natural life at robin hill, and she intended to provide the symptoms. he was--she felt--out of touch with the times, which was not natural; his heart wanted stimulating. in the little chiswick house she and the austrian--a grateful soul, so devoted to june for rescuing her that she was in danger of decease from overwork--stimulated jolyon in all sorts of ways, preparing him for his cure. but they could not keep his eyebrows down; as, for example, when the austrian woke him at eight o'clock just as he was going to sleep, or june took the times away from him, because it was unnatural to read "that stuff" when he ought to be taking an interest in "life." he never failed, indeed, to be astonished at her resource, especially in the evenings. for his benefit, as she declared, though he suspected that she also got something out of it, she assembled the age so far as it was satellite to genius; and with some solemnity it would move up and down the studio before him in the fox-trot, and that more mental form of dancing--the one-step--which so pulled against the music, that jolyon's eyebrows would be almost lost in his hair from wonder at the strain it must impose on the dancer's will-power. aware that, hung on the line in the water colour society, he was a back number to those with any pretension to be called artists, he would sit in the darkest corner he could find, and wonder about rhythm, on which so long ago he had been raised. and when june brought some girl or young man up to him, he would rise humbly to their level so far as that was possible, and think: 'dear me! this is very dull for them!' having his father's perennial sympathy with youth, he used to get very tired from entering into their points of view. but it was all stimulating, and he never failed in admiration of his daughter's indomitable spirit. even genius itself attended these gatherings now and then, with its nose on one side; and june always introduced it to her father. this, she felt, was exceptionally good for him, for genius was a natural symptom he had never had--fond as she was of him. certain as a man can be that she was his own daughter, he often wondered whence she got herself--her red-gold hair, now greyed into a special colour; her direct, spirited face, so different from his own rather folded and subtilised countenance, her little lithe figure, when he and most of the forsytes were tall. and he would dwell on the origin of species, and debate whether she might be danish or celtic. celtic, he thought, from her pugnacity, and her taste in fillets and djibbahs. it was not too much to say that he preferred her to the age with which she was surrounded, youthful though, for the greater part, it was. she took, however, too much interest in his teeth, for he still had some of those natural symptoms. her dentist at once found "staphylococcus aureus present in pure culture" (which might cause boils, of course), and wanted to take out all the teeth he had and supply him with two complete sets of unnatural symptoms. jolyon's native tenacity was roused, and in the studio that evening he developed his objections. he had never had any boils, and his own teeth would last his time. of course--june admitted--they would last his time if he didn't have them out! but if he had more teeth he would have a better heart and his time would be longer. his recalcitrance--she said--was a symptom of his whole attitude; he was taking it lying down. he ought to be fighting. when was he going to see the man who had cured paul post? jolyon was very sorry, but the fact was he was not going to see him. june chafed. pondridge--she said--the healer, was such a fine man, and he had such difficulty in making two ends meet, and getting his theories recognised. it was just such indifference and prejudice as her father manifested which was keeping him back. it would be so splendid for both of them! "i perceive," said jolyon, "that you are trying to kill two birds with one stone." "to cure, you mean!" cried june. "my dear, it's the same thing." june protested. it was unfair to say that without a trial. jolyon thought he might not have the chance, of saying it after. "dad!" cried june, "you're hopeless." "that," said jolyon, "is a fact, but i wish to remain hopeless as long as possible. i shall let sleeping dogs lie, my child. they are quiet at present." "that's not giving science a chance," cried june. "you've no idea how devoted pondridge is. he puts his science before everything." "just," replied jolyon, puffing the mild cigarette to which he was reduced, "as mr. paul post puts his art, eh? art for art's sake --science for the sake of science. i know those enthusiastic egomaniac gentry. they vivisect you without blinking. i'm enough of a forsyte to give them the go-by, june." "dad," said june, "if you only knew how old-fashioned that sounds! nobody can afford to be half-hearted nowadays." "i'm afraid," murmured jolyon, with his smile, "that's the only natural symptom with which mr. pondridge need not supply me. we are born to be extreme or to be moderate, my dear; though, if you'll forgive my saying so, half the people nowadays who believe they're extreme are really very moderate. i'm getting on as well as i can expect, and i must leave it at that." june was silent, having experienced in her time the inexorable character of her father's amiable obstinacy so far as his own freedom of action was concerned. how he came to let her know why irene had taken jon to spain puzzled jolyon, for he had little confidence in her discretion. after she had brooded on the news, it brought a rather sharp discussion, during which he perceived to the full the fundamental opposition between her active temperament and his wife's passivity. he even gathered that a little soreness still remained from that generation-old struggle between them over the body of philip bosinney, in which the passive had so signally triumphed over the active principle. according to june, it was foolish and even cowardly to hide the past from jon. sheer opportunism, she called it. "which," jolyon put in mildly, "is the working principle of real life, my dear." "oh!" cried june, "you don't really defend her for not telling jon, dad. if it were left to you, you would." "i might, but simply because i know he must find out, which will be worse than if we told him." "then why don't you tell him? it's just sleeping dogs again." "my dear," said jolyon, "i wouldn't for the world go against irene's instinct. he's her boy." "yours too," cried june. "what is a man's instinct compared with a mother's?" "well, i think it's very weak of you." "i dare say," said jolyon, "i dare say." and that was all she got from him; but the matter rankled in her brain. she could not bear sleeping dogs. and there stirred in her a tortuous impulse to push the matter toward decision. jon ought to be told, so that either his feeling might be nipped in the bud, or, flowering in spite of the past, come to fruition. and she determined to see fleur, and judge for herself. when june determined on anything, delicacy became a somewhat minor consideration. after all, she was soames' cousin, and they were both interested in pictures. she would go and tell him that he ought to buy a paul post, or perhaps a piece of sculpture by boris strumolowski, and of course she would say nothing to her father. she went on the following sunday, looking so determined that she had some difficulty in getting a cab at reading station. the river country was lovely in those days of her own month, and june ached at its loveliness. she who had passed through this life without knowing what union was had a love of natural beauty which was almost madness. and when she came to that choice spot where soames had pitched his tent, she dismissed her cab, because, business over, she wanted to revel in the bright water and the woods. she appeared at his front door, therefore, as a mere pedestrian, and sent in her card. it was in june's character to know that when her nerves were fluttering she was doing something worth while. if one's nerves did not flutter, she was taking the line of least resistance, and knew that nobleness was not obliging her. she was conducted to a drawing-room, which, though not in her style, showed every mark of fastidious elegance. thinking, 'too much taste--too many knick-knacks,' she saw in an old lacquer-framed mirror the figure of a girl coming in from the verandah. clothed in white, and holding some white roses in her hand, she had, reflected in that silvery-grey pool of glass, a vision-like appearance, as if a pretty ghost had come out of the green garden. "how do you do?" said june, turning round. "i'm a cousin of your father's." "oh, yes; i saw you in that confectioner's." "with my young stepbrother. is your father in?" "he will be directly. he's only gone for a little walk." june slightly narrowed her blue eyes, and lifted her decided chin. "your name's fleur, isn't it? i've heard of you from holly. what do you think of jon?" the girl lifted the roses in her hand, looked at them, and answered calmly: "he's quite a nice boy." "not a bit like holly or me, is he?" "not a bit." 'she's cool,' thought june. and suddenly the girl said: "i wish you'd tell me why our families don't get on?" confronted with the question she had advised her father to answer, june was silent; whether because this girl was trying to get something out of her, or simply because what one would do theoretically is not always what one will do when it comes to the point. "you know," said the girl, "the surest way to make people find out the worst is to keep them ignorant. my father's told me it was a quarrel about property. but i don't believe it; we've both got heaps. they wouldn't have been so bourgeois as all that." june flushed. the word applied to her grandfather and father offended her. "my grandfather," she said, "was very generous, and my father is, too; neither of them was in the least bourgeois." "well, what was it then?" repeated the girl: conscious that this young forsyte meant having what she wanted, june at once determined to prevent her, and to get something for herself instead. "why do you want to know?" the girl smelled at her roses. "i only want to know because they won't tell me." "well, it was about property, but there's more than one kind." "that makes it worse. now i really must know." june's small and resolute face quivered. she was wearing a round cap, and her hair had fluffed out under it. she looked quite young at that moment, rejuvenated by encounter. "you know," she said, "i saw you drop your handkerchief. is there anything between you and jon? because, if so, you'd better drop that too." the girl grew paler, but she smiled. "if there were, that isn't the way to make me." at the gallantry of that reply, june held out her hand. "i like you; but i don't like your father; i never have. we may as well be frank." "did you come down to tell him that?" june laughed. "no; i came down to see you." "how delightful of you." this girl could fence. "i'm two and a half times your age," said june, "but i quite sympathize. it's horrid not to have one's own way." the girl smiled again. "i really think you might tell me." how the child stuck to her point "it's not my secret. but i'll see what i can do, because i think both you and jon ought to be told. and now i'll say good-bye." "won't you wait and see father?" june shook her head. "how can i get over to the other side?" "i'll row you across." "look!" said june impulsively, "next time you're in london, come and see me. this is where i live. i generally have young people in the evening. but i shouldn't tell your father that you're coming." the girl nodded. watching her scull the skiff across, june thought: 'she's awfully pretty and well made. i never thought soames would have a daughter as pretty as this. she and jon would make a lovely couple. the instinct to couple, starved within herself, was always at work in june. she stood watching fleur row back; the girl took her hand off a scull to wave farewell, and june walked languidly on between the meadows and the river, with an ache in her heart. youth to youth, like the dragon-flies chasing each other, and love like the sun warming them through and through. her youth! so long ago--when phil and she--and since? nothing--no one had been quite what she had wanted. and so she had missed it all. but what a coil was round those two young things, if they really were in love, as holly would have it--as her father, and irene, and soames himself seemed to dread. what a coil, and what a barrier! and the itch for the future, the contempt, as it were, for what was overpast, which forms the active principle, moved in the heart of one who ever believed that what one wanted was more important than what other people did not want. from the bank, awhile, in the warm summer stillness, she watched the water-lily plants and willow leaves, the fishes rising; sniffed the scent of grass and meadow-sweet, wondering how she could force everybody to be happy. jon and fleur! two little lame ducks--charming callow yellow little ducks! a great pity! surely something could be done! one must not take such situations lying down. she walked on, and reached a station, hot and cross. that evening, faithful to the impulse toward direct action, which made many people avoid her, she said to her father: "dad, i've been down to see young fleur. i think she's very attractive. it's no good hiding our heads under our wings, is it?" the startled jolyon set down his barley-water, and began crumbling his bread. "it's what you appear to be doing," he said. "do you realise whose daughter she is?" "can't the dead past bury its dead?" jolyon rose. "certain things can never be buried." "i disagree," said june. "it's that which stands in the way of all happiness and progress. you don't understand the age, dad. it's got no use for outgrown things. why do you think it matters so terribly that jon should know about his mother? who pays any attention to that sort of thing now? the marriage laws are just as they were when soames and irene couldn't get a divorce, and you had to come in. we've moved, and they haven't. so nobody cares. marriage without a decent chance of relief is only a sort of slave-owning; people oughtn't to own each other. everybody sees that now. if irene broke such laws, what does it matter?" "it's not for me to disagree there," said jolyon; "but that's all quite beside the mark. this is a matter of human feeling." "of course it is," cried june, "the human feeling of those two young things." "my dear," said jolyon with gentle exasperation; "you're talking nonsense." "i'm not. if they prove to be really fond of each other, why should they be made unhappy because of the past?" "you haven't lived that past. i have--through the feelings of my wife; through my own nerves and my imagination, as only one who is devoted can." june, too, rose, and began to wander restlessly. "if," she said suddenly, "she were the daughter of philip bosinney, i could understand you better. irene loved him, she never loved soames." jolyon uttered a deep sound-the sort of noise an italian peasant woman utters to her mule. his heart had begun beating furiously, but he paid no attention to it, quite carried away by his feelings. "that shows how little you understand. neither i nor jon, if i know him, would mind a love-past. it's the brutality of a union without love. this girl is the daughter of the man who once owned jon's mother as a negro-slave was owned. you can't lay that ghost; don't try to, june! it's asking us to see jon joined to the flesh and blood of the man who possessed jon's mother against her will. it's no good mincing words; i want it clear once for all. and now i mustn't talk any more, or i shall have to sit up with this all night." and, putting his hand over his heart, jolyon turned his back on his daughter and stood looking at the river thames. june, who by nature never saw a hornet's nest until she had put her head into it, was seriously alarmed. she came and slipped her arm through his. not convinced that he was right, and she herself wrong, because that was not natural to her, she was yet profoundly impressed by the obvious fact that the subject was very bad for him. she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, and said nothing. after taking her elderly cousin across, fleur did not land at once, but pulled in among the reeds, into the sunshine. the peaceful beauty of the afternoon seduced for a little one not much given to the vague and poetic. in the field beyond the bank where her skiff lay up, a machine drawn by a grey horse was turning an early field of hay. she watched the grass cascading over and behind the light wheels with fascination--it looked so cool and fresh. the click and swish blended with the rustle of the willows and the poplars, and the cooing of a wood-pigeon, in a true river song. alongside, in the deep green water, weeds, like yellow snakes, were writhing and nosing with the current; pied cattle on the farther side stood in the shade lazily swishing their tails. it was an afternoon to dream. and she took out jon's letters--not flowery effusions, but haunted in their recital of things seen and done by a longing very agreeable to her, and all ending "your devoted j." fleur was not sentimental, her desires were ever concrete and concentrated, but what poetry there was in the daughter of soames and annette had certainly in those weeks of waiting gathered round her memories of jon. they all belonged to grass and blossom, flowers and running water. she enjoyed him in the scents absorbed by her crinkling nose. the stars could persuade her that she was standing beside him in the centre of the map of spain; and of an early morning the dewy cobwebs, the hazy sparkle and promise of the day down in the garden, were jon personified to her. two white swans came majestically by, while she was reading his letters, followed by their brood of six young swans in a line, with just so much water between each tail and head, a flotilla of grey destroyers. fleur thrust her letters back, got out her sculls, and pulled up to the landing-stage. crossing the lawn, she wondered whether she should tell her father of june's visit. if he learned of it from the butler, he might think it odd if she did not. it gave her, too, another chance to startle out of him the reason of the feud. she went, therefore, up the road to meet him. soames had gone to look at a patch of ground on which the local authorities were proposing to erect a sanatorium for people with weak lungs. faithful to his native individualism, he took no part in local affairs, content to pay the rates which were always going up. he could not, however, remain indifferent to this new and dangerous scheme. the site was not half a mile from his own house. he was quite of opinion that the country should stamp out tuberculosis; but this was not the place. it should be done farther away. he took, indeed, an attitude common to all true forsytes, that disability of any sort in other people was not his affair, and the state should do its business without prejudicing in any way the natural advantages which he had acquired or inherited. francie, the most free-spirited forsyte of his generation (except perhaps that fellow jolyon) had once asked him in her malicious way: "did you ever see the name forsyte in a subscription list, soames?" that was as it might be, but a sanatorium would depreciate the neighbourhood, and he should certainly sign the petition which was being got up against it. returning with this decision fresh within him, he saw fleur coming. she was showing him more affection of late, and the quiet time down here with her in this summer weather had been making him feel quite young; annette was always running up to town for one thing or another, so that he had fleur to himself almost as much as he could wish. to be sure, young mont had formed a habit of appearing on his motor-cycle almost every other day. thank goodness, the young fellow had shaved off his half-toothbrushes, and no longer looked like a mountebank! with a girl friend of fleur's who was staying in the house, and a neighbouring youth or so, they made two couples after dinner, in the hall, to the music of the electric pianola, which performed fox-trots unassisted, with a surprised shine on its expressive surface. annette, even, now and then passed gracefully up and down in the arms of one or other of the young men. and soames, coming to the drawing-room door, would lift his nose a little sideways, and watch them, waiting to catch a smile from fleur; then move back to his chair by the drawing-room hearth, to peruse the times or some other collector's price list. to his ever-anxious eyes fleur showed no signs of remembering that caprice of hers. when she reached him on the dusty road, he slipped his hand within her arm. "who, do you think, has been to see you, dad? she couldn't wait! guess!" "i never guess," said soames uneasily. "who?" "your cousin, june forsyte." quite unconsciously soames gripped her arm. "what did she want?" "i don't know. but it was rather breaking through the feud, wasn't it?" "feud? what feud?" "the one that exists in your imagination, dear." soames dropped her arm. was she mocking, or trying to draw him on? "i suppose she wanted me to buy a picture," he said at last. "i don't think so. perhaps it was just family affection." "she's only a first cousin once removed," muttered soames. "and the daughter of your enemy." "what d'you mean by that?" "i beg your pardon, dear; i thought he was." "enemy!" repeated soames. "it's ancient history. i don't know where you get your notions." "from june forsyte." it had come to her as an inspiration that if he thought she knew, or were on the edge of knowledge, he would tell her. soames was startled, but she had underrated his caution and tenacity. "if you know," he said coldly, "why do you plague me?" fleur saw that she had overreached herself. "i don't want to plague you, darling. as you say, why want to know more? why want to know anything of that 'small' mystery--je m'en fiche, as profond says?" "that chap!" said soames profoundly. that chap, indeed, played a considerable, if invisible, part this summer--for he had not turned up again. ever since the sunday when fleur had drawn attention to him prowling on the lawn, soames had thought of him a good deal, and always in connection with annette, for no reason, except that she was looking handsomer than for some time past. his possessive instinct, subtle, less formal, more elastic since the war, kept all misgiving underground. as one looks on some american river, quiet and pleasant, knowing that an alligator perhaps is lying in the mud with his snout just raised and indistinguishable from a snag of wood--so soames looked on the river of his own existence, subconscious of monsieur profond, refusing to see more than the suspicion of his snout. he had at this epoch in his life practically all he wanted, and was as nearly happy as his nature would permit. his senses were at rest; his affections found all the vent they needed in his daughter; his collection was well known, his money well invested; his health excellent, save for a touch of liver now and again; he had not yet begun to worry seriously about what would happen after death, inclining to think that nothing would happen. he resembled one of his own gilt-edged securities, and to knock the gilt off by seeing anything he could avoid seeing would be, he felt instinctively, perverse and retrogressive. those two crumpled rose-leaves, fleur's caprice and monsieur profond's snout, would level away if he lay on them industriously. that evening chance, which visits the lives of even the best-invested forsytes, put a clue into fleur's hands. her father came down to dinner without a handkerchief, and had occasion to blow his nose. "i'll get you one, dear," she had said, and ran upstairs. in the sachet where she sought for it--an old sachet of very faded silk--there were two compartments: one held handkerchiefs; the other was buttoned, and contained something flat and hard. by some childish impulse fleur unbuttoned it. there was a frame and in it a photograph of herself as a little girl. she gazed at it, fascinated, as one is by one's own presentment. it slipped under her fidgeting thumb, and she saw that another photograph was behind. she pressed her own down further, and perceived a face, which she seemed to know, of a young woman, very good-looking, in a very old style of evening dress. slipping her own photograph up over it again, she took out a handkerchief and went down. only on the stairs did she identify that face. surely--surely jon's mother! the conviction came as a shock. and she stood still in a flurry of thought. why, of course! jon's father had married the woman her father had wanted to marry, had cheated him out of her, perhaps. then, afraid of showing by her manner that she had lighted on his secret, she refused to think further, and, shaking out the silk handkerchief, entered the dining-room. "i chose the softest, father." "h'm!" said soames; "i only use those after a cold. never mind!" that evening passed for fleur in putting two and two together; recalling the look on her father's face in the confectioner's shop--a look strange and coldly intimate, a queer look. he must have loved that woman very much to have kept her photograph all this time, in spite of having lost her. unsparing and matter-of-fact, her mind darted to his relations with her own mother. had he ever really loved her? she thought not. jon was the son of the woman he had really loved. surely, then, he ought not to mind his daughter loving him; it only wanted getting used to. and a sigh of sheer relief was caught in the folds of her nightgown slipping over her head. iii meetings youth only recognises age by fits and starts. jon, for one, had never really seen his father's age till he came back from spain. the face of the fourth jolyon, worn by waiting, gave him quite a shock--it looked so wan and old. his father's mask had been forced awry by the emotion of the meeting, so that the boy suddenly realised how much he must have felt their absence. he summoned to his aid the thought: 'well, i didn't want to go!' it was out of date for youth to defer to age. but jon was by no means typically modern. his father had always been "so jolly" to him, and to feel that one meant to begin again at once the conduct which his father had suffered six weeks' loneliness to cure was not agreeable. at the question, "well, old man, how did the great goya strike you?" his conscience pricked him badly. the great goya only existed because he had created a face which resembled fleur's. on the night of their return, he went to bed full of compunction; but awoke full of anticipation. it was only the fifth of july, and no meeting was fixed with fleur until the ninth. he was to have three days at home before going back to farm. somehow he must contrive to see her! in the lives of men an inexorable rhythm, caused by the need for trousers, not even the fondest parents can deny. on the second day, therefore, jon went to town, and having satisfied his conscience by ordering what was indispensable in conduit street, turned his face toward piccadilly. stratton street, where her club was, adjoined devonshire house. it would be the merest chance that she should be at her club. but he dawdled down bond street with a beating heart, noticing the superiority of all other young men to himself. they wore their clothes with such an air; they had assurance; they were old. he was suddenly overwhelmed by the conviction that fleur must have forgotten him. absorbed in his own feeling for her all these weeks, he had mislaid that possibility. the corners of his mouth drooped, his hands felt clammy. fleur with the pick of youth at the beck of her smile-fleur incomparable! it was an evil moment. jon, however, had a great idea that one must be able to face anything. and he braced himself with that dour refection in front of a bric-a-brac shop. at this high-water mark of what was once the london season, there was nothing to mark it out from any other except a grey top hat or two, and the sun. jon moved on, and turning the corner into piccadilly, ran into val dartie moving toward the iseeum club, to which he had just been elected. "hallo! young man! where are you off to?" jon gushed. "i've just been to my tailor's." val looked him up and down. "that's good! i'm going in here to order some cigarettes; then come and have some lunch." jon thanked him. he might get news of her from val! the condition of england, that nightmare of its press and public men, was seen in different perspective within the tobacconist's which they now entered. "yes, sir; precisely the cigarette i used to supply your father with. bless me! mr. montague dartie was a customer here from--let me see--the year melton won the derby. one of my very best customers he was." a faint smile illumined the tobacconist's face. "many's the tip he's given me, to be sure! i suppose he took a couple of hundred of these every week, year in, year out, and never changed his cigarette. very affable gentleman, brought me a lot of custom. i was sorry he met with that accident. one misses an old customer like him." val smiled. his father's decease had closed an account which had been running longer, probably, than any other; and in a ring of smoke puffed out from that time-honoured cigarette he seemed to see again his father's face, dark, good-looking, moustachioed, a little puffy, in the only halo it had earned. his father had his fame here, anyway--a man who smoked two hundred cigarettes a week, who could give tips, and run accounts for ever! to his tobacconist a hero! even that was some distinction to inherit! "i pay cash," he said; "how much?" "to his son, sir, and cash--ten and six. i shall never forget mr. montague dartie. i've known him stand talkin' to me half an hour. we don't get many like him now, with everybody in such a hurry. the war was bad for manners, sir--it was bad for manners. you were in it, i see." "no," said val, tapping his knee, "i got this in the war before. saved my life, i expect. do you want any cigarettes, jon?" rather ashamed, jon murmured, "i don't smoke, you know," and saw the tobacconist's lips twisted, as if uncertain whether to say "good god!" or "now's your chance, sir!" "that's right," said val; "keep off it while you can. you'll want it when you take a knock. this is really the same tobacco, then?" "identical, sir; a little dearer, that's all. wonderful staying power--the british empire, i always say." "send me down a hundred a week to this address, and invoice it monthly. come on, jon." jon entered the iseeum with curiosity. except to lunch now and then at the hotch-potch with his father, he had never been in a london club. the iseeum, comfortable and unpretentious, did not move, could not, so long as george forsyte sat on its committee, where his culinary acumen was almost the controlling force. the club had made a stand against the newly rich, and it had taken all george forsyte's prestige, and praise of him as a "good sportsman," to bring in prosper profond. the two were lunching together when the half-brothers-in-law entered the dining-room, and attracted by george's forefinger, sat down at their table, val with his shrewd eyes and charming smile, jon with solemn lips and an attractive shyness in his glance. there was an air of privilege around that corner table, as though past masters were eating there. jon was fascinated by the hypnotic atmosphere. the waiter, lean in the chaps, pervaded with such free-masonical deference. he seemed to hang on george forsyte's lips, to watch the gloat in his eye with a kind of sympathy, to follow the movements of the heavy club-marked silver fondly. his liveried arm and confidential voice alarmed jon, they came so secretly over his shoulder. except for george's "your grandfather tipped me once; he was a deuced good judge of a cigar!" neither he nor the other past master took any notice of him, and he was grateful for this. the talk was all about the breeding, points, and prices of horses, and he listened to it vaguely at first, wondering how it was possible to retain so much knowledge in a head. he could not take his eyes off the dark past master--what he said was so deliberate and discouraging--such heavy, queer, smiled-out words. jon was thinking of butterflies, when he heard him say: "i want to see mr. soames forsyde take an interest in 'orses." "old soames! he's too dry a file!" with all his might jon tried not to grow red, while the dark past master went on. "his daughter's an attractive small girl. mr. soames forsyde is a bit old-fashioned. i want to see him have a pleasure some day." george forsyte grinned. "don't you worry; he's not so miserable as he looks. he'll never show he's enjoying anything--they might try and take it from him. old soames! once bit, twice shy!" "well, jon," said val, hastily, "if you've finished, we'll go and have coffee." "who were those?" jon asked, on the stairs. "i didn't quite---" "old george forsyte is a first cousin of your father's and of my uncle soames. he's always been here. the other chap, profond, is a queer fish. i think he's hanging round soames' wife, if you ask me!" jon looked at him, startled. "but that's awful," he said: "i mean--for fleur." "don't suppose fleur cares very much; she's very up-to-date." "her mother!" "you're very green, jon." jon grew red. "mothers," he stammered angrily, "are different." "you're right," said val suddenly; "but things aren't what they were when i was your age. there's a 'to-morrow we die' feeling. that's what old george meant about my uncle soames. he doesn't mean to die to-morrow." jon said, quickly: "what's the matter between him and my father?" "stable secret, jon. take my advice, and bottle up. you'll do no good by knowing. have a liqueur?" jon shook his head. "i hate the way people keep things from one," he muttered, "and then sneer at one for being green." "well, you can ask holly. if she won't tell you, you'll believe it's for your own good, i suppose." jon got up. "i must go now; thanks awfully for the lunch." val smiled up at him half-sorry, and yet amused. the boy looked so upset. "all right! see you on friday." "i don't know," murmured jon. and he did not. this conspiracy of silence made him desperate. it was humiliating to be treated like a child! he retraced his moody steps to stratton street. but he would go to her club now, and find out the worst! to his enquiry the reply was that miss forsyte was not in the club. she might be in perhaps later. she was often in on monday--they could not say. jon said he would call again, and, crossing into the green park, flung himself down under a tree. the sun was bright, and a breeze fluttered the leaves of the young lime-tree beneath which he lay; but his heart ached. such darkness seemed gathered round his happiness. he heard big ben chime "three" above the traffic. the sound moved something in him, and, taking out a piece of paper, he began to scribble on it with a pencil. he had jotted a stanza, and was searching the grass for another verse, when something hard touched his shoulder-a green parasol. there above him stood fleur! "they told me you'd been, and were coming back. so i thought you might be out here; and you are--it's rather wonderful!" "oh, fleur! i thought you'd have forgotten me." "when i told you that i shouldn't!" jon seized her arm. "it's too much luck! let's get away from this side." he almost dragged her on through that too thoughtfully regulated park, to find some cover where they could sit and hold each other's hands. "hasn't anybody cut in?" he said, gazing round at her lashes, in suspense above her cheeks. "there is a young idiot, but he doesn't count." jon felt a twitch of compassion for the-young idiot. "you know i've had sunstroke; i didn't tell you." "really! was it interesting?" "no. mother was an angel. has anything happened to you?" "nothing. except that i think i've found out what's wrong between our families, jon." his heart began beating very fast. "i believe my father wanted to marry your mother, and your father got her instead." "oh!" "i came on a photo of her; it was in a frame behind a photo of me. of course, if he was very fond of her, that would have made him pretty mad, wouldn't it?" jon thought for a minute. "not if she loved my father best." "but suppose they were engaged?" "if we were engaged, and you found you loved somebody better, i might go cracked, but i shouldn't grudge it you." "i should. you mustn't ever do that with me, jon. "my god! not much!" "i don't believe that he's ever really cared for my mother." jon was silent. val's words--the two past masters in the club! "you see, we don't know," went on fleur; "it may have been a great shock. she may have behaved badly to him. people do." "my mother wouldn't." fleur shrugged her shoulders. "i don't think we know much about our fathers and mothers. we just see them in the light of the way they treat us; but they've treated other people, you know, before we were born-plenty, i expect. you see, they're both old. look at your father, with three separate families!" "isn't there any place," cried jon, "in all this beastly london where we can be alone?" "only a taxi." "let's get one, then." when they were installed, fleur asked suddenly: "are you going back to robin hill? i should like to see where you live, jon. i'm staying with my aunt for the night, but i could get back in time for dinner. i wouldn't come to the house, of course." jon gazed at her enraptured. "splendid! i can show it you from the copse, we shan't meet anybody. there's a train at four." the god of property and his forsytes great and small, leisured, official, commercial, or professional, like the working classes, still worked their seven hours a day, so that those two of the fourth generation travelled down to robin hill in an empty first-class carriage, dusty and sun-warmed, of that too early train. they travelled in blissful silence, holding each other's hands. at the station they saw no one except porters, and a villager or two unknown to jon, and walked out up the lane, which smelled of dust and honeysuckle. for jon--sure of her now, and without separation before him--it was a miraculous dawdle, more wonderful than those on the downs, or along the river thames. it was love-in-a-mist--one of those illumined pages of life, where every word and smile, and every light touch they gave each other were as little gold and red and blue butterflies and flowers and birds scrolled in among the text--a happy communing, without afterthought, which lasted thirty-seven minutes. they reached the coppice at the milking hour. jon would not take her as far as the farmyard; only to where she could see the field leading up to the gardens, and the house beyond. they turned in among the larches, and suddenly, at the winding of the path, came on irene, sitting on an old log seat. there are various kinds of shocks: to the vertebrae; to the nerves; to moral sensibility; and, more potent and permanent, to personal dignity. this last was the shock jon received, coming thus on his mother. he became suddenly conscious that he was doing an indelicate thing. to have brought fleur down openly--yes! but to sneak her in like this! consumed with shame, he put on a front as brazen as his nature would permit. fleur was smiling, a little defiantly; his mother's startled face was changing quickly to the impersonal and gracious. it was she who uttered the first words: "i'm very glad to see you. it was nice of jon to think of bringing you down to us." "we weren't coming to the house," jon blurted out. "i just wanted fleur to see where i lived." his mother said quietly: "won't you come up and have tea?" feeling that he had but aggravated his breach of breeding, he heard fleur answer: "thanks very much; i have to get back to dinner. i met jon by accident, and we thought it would be rather jolly just to see his home." how self-possessed she was! "of course; but you must have tea. we'll send you down to the station. my husband will enjoy seeing you." the expression of his mother's eyes, resting on him for a moment, cast jon down level with the ground--a true worm. then she led on, and fleur followed her. he felt like a child, trailing after those two, who were talking so easily about spain and wansdon, and the house up there beyond the trees and the grassy slope. he watched the fencing of their eyes, taking each other in--the two beings he loved most in the world. he could see his father sitting under the oaktree; and suffered in advance all the loss of caste he must go through in the eyes of that tranquil figure, with his knees crossed, thin, old, and elegant; already he could feel the faint irony which would come into his voice and smile. "this is fleur forsyte, jolyon; jon brought her down to see the house. let's have tea at once--she has to catch a train. jon, tell them, dear, and telephone to the dragon for a car." to leave her alone with them was strange, and yet, as no doubt his mother had foreseen, the least of evils at the moment; so he ran up into the house. now he would not see fleur alone again--not for a minute, and they had arranged no further meeting! when he returned under cover of the maids and teapots, there was not a trace of awkwardness beneath the tree; it was all within himself, but not the less for that. they were talking of the gallery off cork street. "we back numbers," his father was saying, "are awfully anxious to find out why we can't appreciate the new stuff; you and jon must tell us." "it's supposed to be satiric, isn't it?" said fleur. he saw his father's smile. "satiric? oh! i think it's more than that. what do you say, jon?" "i don't know at all," stammered jon. his father's face had a sudden grimness. "the young are tired of us, our gods and our ideals. off with their heads, they say--smash their idols! and let's get back to-nothing! and, by jove, they've done it! jon's a poet. he'll be going in, too, and stamping on what's left of us. property, beauty, sentiment--all smoke. we mustn't own anything nowadays, not even our feelings. they stand in the way of--nothing." jon listened, bewildered, almost outraged by his father's words, behind which he felt a meaning that he could not reach. he didn't want to stamp on anything! "nothing's the god of to-day," continued jolyon; "we're back where the russians were sixty years ago, when they started nihilism." "no, dad," cried jon suddenly, "we only want to live, and we don't know how, because of the past--that's all!" "by george!" said jolyon, "that's profound, jon. is it your own? the past! old ownerships, old passions, and their aftermath. let's have cigarettes." conscious that his mother had lifted her hand to her lips, quickly, as if to hush something, jon handed the cigarettes. he lighted his father's and fleur's, then one for himself. had he taken the knock that val had spoken of? the smoke was blue when he had not puffed, grey when he had; he liked the sensation in his nose, and the sense of equality it gave him. he was glad no one said: "so you've begun!" he felt less young. fleur looked at her watch, and rose. his mother went with her into the house. jon stayed with his father, puffing at the cigarette. "see her into the car, old man," said jolyon; "and when she's gone, ask your mother to come back to me." jon went. he waited in the hall. he saw her into the car. there was no chance for any word; hardly for a pressure of the hand. he waited all that evening for something to be said to him. nothing was said. nothing might have happened. he went up to bed, and in the mirror on his dressing-table met himself. he did not speak, nor did the image; but both looked as if they thought the more. iv in green street uncertain whether the impression that prosper profond was dangerous should be traced to his attempt to give val the mayfly filly; to a remark of fleur's: "he's like the hosts of midian--he prowls and prowls around"; to his preposterous inquiry of jack cardigan: "what's the use of keepin' fit?" or, more simply, to the fact that he was a foreigner, or alien as it was now called. certain, that annette was looking particularly handsome, and that soames--had sold him a gauguin and then torn up the cheque, so that monsieur profond himself had said: "i didn't get that small picture i bought from mr. forsyde." however suspiciously regarded, he still frequented winifred's evergreen little house in green street, with a good-natured obtuseness which no one mistook for naiv ete, a word hardly applicable to monsieur prosper profond. winifred still found him "amusing," and would write him little notes saying: "come and have a 'jolly' with us"--it was breath of life to her to keep up with the phrases of the day. the mystery, with which all felt him to be surrounded, was due to his having done, seen, heard, and known everything, and found nothing in it--which was unnatural. the english type of disillusionment was familiar enough to winifred, who had always moved in fashionable circles. it gave a certain cachet or distinction, so that one got something out of it. but to see nothing in anything, not as a pose, but because there was nothing in anything, was not english; and that which was not english one could not help secretly feeling dangerous, if not precisely bad form. it was like having the mood which the war had left, seated--dark, heavy, smiling, indifferent--in your empire chair; it was like listening to that mood talking through thick pink lips above a little diabolic beard. it was, as jack cardigan expressed it--for the english character at large--"a bit too thick"--for if nothing was really worth getting excited about, there were always games, and one could make it so! even winifred, ever a forsyte at heart, felt that there was nothing to be had out of such a mood of disillusionment, so that it really ought not to be there. monsieur profond, in fact, made the mood too plain in a country which decently veiled such realities. when fleur, after her hurried return from robin hill, came down to dinner that evening, the mood was standing at the window of winifred's little drawing-room, looking out into green street, with an air of seeing nothing in it. and fleur gazed promptly into the fireplace with an air of seeing a fire which was not there. monsieur profond came from the window. he was in full fig, with a white waistcoat and a white flower in his buttonhole. "well, miss forsyde," he said, "i'm awful pleased to see you. mr. forsyde well? i was sayin' to-day i want to see him have some pleasure. he worries." "you think so?" said fleur shortly. "worries," repeated monsieur profond, burring the r's. fleur spun round. "shall i tell you," she said, "what would give him pleasure?" but the words, "to hear that you had cleared out," died at the expression on his face. all his fine white teeth were showing. "i was hearin' at the club to-day about his old trouble." fleur opened her eyes. "what do you mean?" monsieur profond moved his sleek head as if to minimize his statement. "before you were born," he said; "that small business." though conscious that he had cleverly diverted her from his own share in her father's worry, fleur was unable to withstand a rush of nervous curiosity. "tell me what you heard." "why!" murmured monsieur profond, "you know all that." "i expect i do. but i should like to know that you haven't heard it all wrong." "his first wife," murmured monsieur profond. choking back the words, "he was never married before," she said: "well, what about her?" "mr. george forsyde was tellin' me about your father's first wife marryin' his cousin jolyon afterward. it was a small bit unpleasant, i should think. i saw their boy--nice boy!" fleur looked up. monsieur profond was swimming, heavily diabolical, before her. that--the reason! with the most heroic effort of her life so far, she managed to arrest that swimming figure. she could not tell whether he had noticed. and just then winifred came in. "oh! here you both are already; imogen and i have had the most amusing afternoon at the babies' bazaar." "what babies?" said fleur mechanically. "the 'save the babies.' i got such a bargain, my dear. a piece of old armenian work--from before the flood. i want your opinion on it, prosper." "auntie," whispered fleur suddenly. at the tone in the girl's voice winifred closed in on her.' "what's the matter? aren't you well?" monsieur profond had withdrawn into the window, where he was practically out of hearing. "auntie, he-he told me that father has been married before. is it true that he divorced her, and she married jon forsyte's father?" never in all the life of the mother of four little darties had winifred felt more seriously embarrassed. her niece's face was so pale, her eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained. "your father didn't wish you to hear," she said, with all the aplomb she could muster. "these things will happen. i've often told him he ought to let you know." "oh!" said fleur, and that was all, but it made winifred pat her shoulder--a firm little shoulder, nice and white! she never could help an appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece, who would have to be married, of course--though not to that boy jon. "we've forgotten all about it years and years ago," she said comfortably. "come and have dinner!" "no, auntie. i don't feel very well. may i go upstairs?" "my dear!" murmured winifred, concerned, "you're not taking this to heart? why, you haven't properly come out yet! that boy's a child!" "what boy? i've only got a headache. but i can't stand that man to-night." "well, well," said winifred, "go and lie down. i'll send you some bromide, and i shall talk to prosper profond. what business had he to gossip? though i must say i think it's much better you should know." fleur smiled. "yes," she said, and slipped from the room. she went up with her head whirling, a dry sensation in her throat, a guttered frightened feeling in her breast. never in her life as yet had she suffered from even momentary fear that she would not get what she had set her heart on. the sensations of the afternoon had been full and poignant, and this gruesome discovery coming on the top of them had really made her head ache. no wonder her father had hidden that photograph, so secretly behind her own-ashamed of having kept it! but could he hate jon's mother and yet keep her photograph? she pressed her hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. had they told jon--had her visit to robin hill forced them to tell him? everything now turned on that! she knew, they all knew, except--perhaps--jon! she walked up and down, biting her lip and thinking desperately hard. jon loved his mother. if they had told him, what would he do? she could not tell. but if they had not told him, should she not--could she not get him for herself--get married to him, before he knew? she searched her memories of robin hill. his mother's face so passive--with its dark eyes and as if powdered hair, its reserve, its smile--baffled her; and his father's--kindly, sunken, ironic. instinctively she felt they would shrink from telling jon, even now, shrink from hurting him--for of course it would hurt him awfully to know! her aunt must be made not to tell her father that she knew. so long as neither she herself nor jon were supposed to know, there was still a chance--freedom to cover one's tracks, and get what her heart was set on. but she was almost overwhelmed by her isolation. every one's hand was against her--every one's! it was as jon had said--he and she just wanted to live and the past was in their way, a past they hadn't shared in, and didn't understand! oh! what a shame! and suddenly she thought of june. would she help them? for somehow june had left on her the impression that she would be sympathetic with their love, impatient of obstacle. then, instinctively, she thought: 'i won't give anything away, though, even to her. i daren't. i mean to have jon; against them all.' soup was brought up to her, and one of winifred's pet headache cachets. she swallowed both. then winifred herself appeared. fleur opened her campaign with the words: "you know, auntie, i do wish people wouldn't think i'm in love with that boy. why, i've hardly seen him!" winifred, though experienced, was not "fine." she accepted the remark with considerable relief. of course, it was not pleasant for the girl to hear of the family scandal, and she set herself to minimise the matter, a task for which she was eminently qualified, "raised" fashionably under a comfortable mother and a father whose nerves might not be shaken, and for many years the wife of montague dartie. her description was a masterpiece of understatement. fleur's father's first wife had been very foolish. there had been a young man who had got run over, and she had left fleur's father. then, years after, when it might all have come--right again, she had taken up with their cousin jolyon; and, of course, her father had been obliged to have a divorce. nobody remembered anything of it now, except just the family. and, perhaps, it had all turned out for the best; her father had fleur; and jolyon and irene had been quite happy, they said, and their boy was a nice boy. "val having holly, too, is a sort of plaster, don't you know?" with these soothing words, winifred patted her niece's shoulder; thought: 'she's a nice, plump little thing!' and went back to prosper profond, who, in spite of his indiscretion, was very "amusing" this evening. for some minutes after her aunt had gone fleur remained under influence of bromide material and spiritual. but then reality came back. her aunt had left out all that mattered--all the feeling, the hate, the love, the unforgivingness of passionate hearts. she, who knew so little of life, and had touched only the fringe of love, was yet aware by instinct that words have as little relation to fact and feeling as coin to the bread it buys. 'poor father!' she thought. 'poor me! poor jon! but i don't care, i mean to have him!' from the window of her darkened room she saw "that man" issue from the door below and "prowl" away. if he and her mother--how would that affect her chance? surely it must make her father cling to her more closely, so that he would consent in the end to anything she wanted, or become reconciled the sooner to what she did without his knowledge. she took some earth from the flower-box in the window, and with all her might flung it after that disappearing figure. it fell short, but the action did her good. and a little puff of air came up from green street, smelling of petrol, not sweet. v purely forsyte affairs soames, coming up to the city, with the intention of calling in at green street at the end of his day and taking fleur back home with him, suffered from rumination. sleeping partner that he was, he seldom visited the city now, but he still had a room of his own at cuthcott, kingson and forsyte's, and one special clerk and a half assigned to the management of purely forsyte affairs. they were somewhat in flux just now--an auspicious moment for the disposal of house property. and soames was unloading the estates of his father and uncle roger, and to some extent of his uncle nicholas. his shrewd and matter-of-course probity in all money concerns had made him something of an autocrat in connection with these trusts. if soames thought this or thought that, one had better save oneself the bother of thinking too. he guaranteed, as it were, irresponsibility to numerous forsytes of the third and fourth generations. his fellow trustees, such as his cousins roger or nicholas, his cousins-in-law tweetyman and spender, or his sister cicely's husband, all trusted him; he signed first, and where he signed first they signed after, and nobody was a penny the worse. just now they were all a good many pennies the better, and soames was beginning to see the close of certain trusts, except for distribution of the income from securities as gilt-edged as was compatible with the period. passing the more feverish parts of the city toward the most perfect backwater in london, he ruminated. money was extraordinarily tight; and morality extraordinarily loose! the war had done it. banks were not lending; people breaking contracts all over the place. there was a feeling in the air and a look on faces that he did not like. the country seemed in for a spell of gambling and bankruptcies. there was satisfaction in the thought that neither he nor his trusts had an investment which could be affected by anything less maniacal than national repudiation or a levy on capital. if soames had faith, it was in what he called "english common sense"--or the power to have things, if not one way then another. he might--like his father james before him--say he didn't know what things were coming to, but he never in his heart believed they were. if it rested with him, they wouldn't--and, after all, he was only an englishman like any other, so quietly tenacious of what he had that he knew he would never really part with it without something more or less equivalent in exchange. his mind was essentially equilibristic in material matters, and his way of putting the national situation difficult to refute in a world composed of human beings. take his own case, for example! he was well off. did that do anybody harm? he did not eat ten meals a day; he ate no more than, perhaps not so much as, a poor man. he spent no money on vice; breathed no more air, used no more water to speak of than the mechanic or the porter. he certainly had pretty things about him, but they had given employment in the making, and somebody must use them. he bought pictures, but art must be encouraged. he was, in fact, an accidental channel through which money flowed, employing labour. what was there objectionable in that? in his charge money was in quicker and more useful flux than it would be in charge of the state and a lot of slow-fly money-sucking officials. and as to what he saved each year--it was just as much in flux as what he didn't save, going into water board or council stocks, or something sound and useful. the state paid him no salary for being trustee of his own or other people's money he did all that for nothing. therein lay the whole case against nationalisation--owners of private property were unpaid, and yet had every incentive to quicken up the flux. under nationalisation--just the opposite! in a country smarting from officialism he felt that he had a strong case. it particularly annoyed him, entering that backwater of perfect peace, to think that a lot of unscrupulous trusts and combinations had been cornering the market in goods of all kinds, and keeping prices at an artificial height. such abusers of the individualistic system were the ruffians who caused all the trouble, and it was some satisfaction to see them getting into a stew at fast lest the whole thing might come down with a run--and land them in the soup. the offices of cuthcott, kingson and forsyte occupied the ground and first floors of a house on the right-hand side; and, ascending to his room, soames thought: 'time we had a coat of paint.' his old clerk gradman was seated, where he always was, at a huge bureau with countless pigeonholes. half-the-clerk stood beside him, with a broker's note recording investment of the proceeds from sale of the bryanston square house, in roger forsyte's estate. soames took it, and said: "vancouver city stock. h'm. it's down today!" with a sort of grating ingratiation old gradman answered him: "ye-es; but everything's down, mr. soames." and half-the-clerk withdrew. soames skewered the document on to a number of other papers and hung up his hat. "i want to look at my will and marriage settlement, gradman." old gradman, moving to the limit of his swivel chair, drew out two drafts from the bottom lefthand drawer. recovering his body, he raised his grizzle-haired face, very red from stooping. "copies, sir." soames took them. it struck him suddenly how like gradman was to the stout brindled yard dog they had been wont to keep on his chain at the shelter, till one day fleur had come and insisted it should be let loose, so that it had at once bitten the cook and been destroyed. if you let gradman off his chain, would he bite the cook? checking this frivolous fancy, soames unfolded his marriage settlement. he had not looked at it for over eighteen years, not since he remade his will when his father died and fleur was born. he wanted to see whether the words "during coverture" were in. yes, they were--odd expression, when you thought of it, and derived perhaps from horse-breeding! interest on fifteen thousand pounds (which he paid her without deducting income tax) so long as she remained his wife, and afterward during widowhood "dum casta"--old-fashioned and rather pointed words, put in to insure the conduct of fleur's mother. his will made it up to an annuity of a thousand under the same conditions. all right! he returned the copies to gradman, who took them without looking up, swung the chair, restored the papers to their drawer, and went on casting up. "gradman! i don't like the condition of the country; there are a lot of people about without any common sense. i want to find a way by which i can safeguard miss fleur against anything which might arise." gradman wrote the figure " " on his blotting-paper. "ye-es," he said; "there's a nahsty spirit." "the ordinary restraint against anticipation doesn't meet the case." "nao," said gradman. "suppose those labour fellows come in, or worse! it's these people with fixed ideas who are the danger. look at ireland!" "ah!" said gradman. "suppose i were to make a settlement on her at once with myself as beneficiary for life, they couldn't take anything but the interest from me, unless of course they alter the law." gradman moved his head and smiled. "ah!" he said, "they wouldn't do tha-at!" "i don't know," muttered soames; "i don't trust them." "it'll take two years, sir, to be valid against death duties." soames sniffed. two years! he was only sixty-five! "that's not the point. draw a form of settlement that passes all my property to miss fleur's children in equal shares, with antecedent life-interests first to myself and then to her without power of anticipation, and add a clause that in the event of anything happening to divert her life-interest, that interest passes to the trustees, to apply for her benefit, in their absolute discretion." gradman grated: "rather extreme at your age, sir; you lose control." "that's my business," said soames sharply. gradman wrote on a piece of paper: "life-interest--anticipation--divert interest--absolute discretion...." and said: "what trustees? there's young mr. kingson; he's a nice steady young fellow." "yes, he might do for one. i must have three. there isn't a forsyte now who appeals to me." "not young mr. nicholas? he's at the bar. we've given 'im briefs." "he'll never set the thames on fire," said soames. a smile oozed out on gradman's face, greasy from countless mutton-chops, the smile of a man who sits all day. "you can't expect it, at his age, mr. soames." "why? what is he? forty?" "ye-es, quite a young fellow." "well, put him in; but i want somebody who'll take a personal interest. there's no one that i can see." "what about mr. valerius, now he's come home?" "val dartie? with that father?" "we-ell," murmured gradman, "he's been dead seven years--the statute runs against him." "no," said soames. "i don't like the connection." he rose. gradman said suddenly: "if they were makin' a levy on capital, they could come on the trustees, sir. so there you'd be just the same. i'd think it over, if i were you." "that's true," said soames. "i will. what have you done about that dilapidation notice in vere street?" "i 'aven't served it yet. the party's very old. she won't want to go out at her age." "i don't know. this spirit of unrest touches every one." "still, i'm lookin' at things broadly, sir. she's eighty-one." "better serve it," said soames, "and see what she says. oh! and mr. timothy? is everything in order in case of--" "i've got the inventory of his estate all ready; had the furniture and pictures valued so that we know what reserves to put on. i shall be sorry when he goes, though. dear me! it is a time since i first saw mr. timothy!" "we can't live for ever," said soames, taking down his hat. "nao," said gradman; "but it'll be a pity--the last of the old family! shall i take up the matter of that nuisance in old compton street? those organs--they're nahsty things." "do. i must call for miss fleur and catch the four o'clock. good-day, gradman." "good-day, mr. soames. i hope miss fleur--" "well enough, but gads about too much." "ye-es," grated gradman; "she's young." soames went out, musing: "old gradman! if he were younger i'd put him in the trust. there's nobody i can depend on to take a real interest." leaving the bilious and mathematical exactitude, the preposterous peace of that backwater, he thought suddenly: 'during coverture! why can't they exclude fellows like profond, instead of a lot of hard-working germans?' and was surprised at the depth of uneasiness which could provoke so unpatriotic a thought. but there it was! one never got a moment of real peace. there was always something at the back of everything! and he made his way toward green street. two hours later by his watch, thomas gradman, stirring in his swivel chair, closed the last drawer of his bureau, and putting into his waistcoat pocket a bunch of keys so fat that they gave him a protuberance on the liver side, brushed his old top hat round with his sleeve, took his umbrella, and descended. thick, short, and buttoned closely into his old frock coat, he walked toward covent garden market. he never missed that daily promenade to the tube for highgate, and seldom some critical transaction on the way in connection with vegetables and fruit. generations might be born, and hats might change, wars be fought, and forsytes fade away, but thomas gradman, faithful and grey, would take his daily walk and buy his daily vegetable. times were not what they were, and his son had lost a leg, and they never gave him those nice little plaited baskets to carry the stuff in now, and these tubes were convenient things--still he mustn't complain; his health was good considering his time of life, and after fifty-four years in the law he was getting a round eight hundred a year and a little worried of late, because it was mostly collector's commission on the rents, and with all this conversion of forsyte property going on, it looked like drying up, and the price of living still so high; but it was no good worrying--" the good god made us all"--as he was in the habit of saying; still, house property in london--he didn't know what mr. roger or mr. james would say if they could see it being sold like this--seemed to show a lack of faith; but mr. soames--he worried. life and lives in being and twenty-one years after--beyond that you couldn't go; still, he kept his health wonderfully--and miss fleur was a pretty little thing--she was; she'd marry; but lots of people had no children nowadays--he had had his first child at twenty-two; and mr. jolyon, married while he was at cambridge, had his child the same year--gracious peter! that was back in ' , a long time before old mr. jolyon--fine judge of property--had taken his will away from mr. james--dear, yes! those were the days when they were buyin' property right and left, and none of this khaki and fallin' over one another to get out of things; and cucumbers at twopence; and a melon--the old melons, that made your mouth water! fifty years since he went into mr. james' office, and mr. james had said to him: "now, gradman, you're only a shaver--you pay attention, and you'll make your five hundred a year before you've done." and he had, and feared god, and served the forsytes, and kept a vegetable diet at night. and, buying a copy of john bull--not that he approved of it, an extravagant affair--he entered the tube elevator with his mere brown-paper parcel, and was borne down into the bowels of the earth. vi soames' private life on his way to green street it occurred to soames that he ought to go into dumetrius' in suffolk street about the possibility of the bolderby old crome. almost worth while to have fought the war to have the bolderby old crome, as it were, in flux! old bolderby had died, his son and grandson had been killed--a cousin was coming into the estate, who meant to sell it, some said because of the condition of england, others said because he had asthma. if dumetrius once got hold of it the price would become prohibitive; it was necessary for soames to find out whether dumetrius had got it, before he tried to get it himself. he therefore confined himself to discussing with dumetrius whether monticellis would come again now that it was the fashion for a picture to be anything except a picture; and the future of johns, with a side-slip into buxton knights. it was only when leaving that he added: "so they're not selling the bolderby old crome, after all?" in sheer pride of racial superiority, as he had calculated would be the case, dumetrius replied: "oh! i shall get it, mr. forsyte, sir!" the flutter of his eyelid fortified soames in a resolution to write direct to the new bolderby, suggesting that the only dignified way of dealing with an old crome was to avoid dealers. he therefore said, "well, good-day!" and went, leaving dumetrius the wiser. at green street he found that fleur was out and would be all the evening; she was staying one more night in london. he cabbed on dejectedly, and caught his train. he reached his house about six o'clock. the air was heavy, midges biting, thunder about. taking his letters he went up to his dressing-room to cleanse himself of london. an uninteresting post. a receipt, a bill for purchases on behalf of fleur. a circular about an exhibition of etchings. a letter beginning: "sir, "i feel it my duty..." that would be an appeal or something unpleasant. he looked at once for the signature. there was none! incredulously he turned the page over and examined each corner. not being a public man, soames had never yet had an anonymous letter, and his first impulse was to tear it up, as a dangerous thing; his second to read it, as a thing still more dangerous. "sir, "i feel it my duty to inform you that having no interest in the matter your lady is carrying on with a foreigner--" reaching that word soames stopped mechanically and examined the postmark. so far as he could pierce the impenetrable disguise in which the post office had wrapped it, there was something with a "sea" at the end and a "t" in it. chelsea? no! battersea? perhaps! he read on. "these foreigners are all the same. sack the lot. this one meets your lady twice a week. i know it of my own knowledge--and to see an englishman put on goes against the grain. you watch it and see if what i say isn't true. i shouldn't meddle if it wasn't a dirty foreigner that's in it. yours obedient." the sensation with which soames dropped the letter was similar to that he would have had entering his bedroom and finding it full of black-beetles. the meanness of anonymity gave a shuddering obscenity to the moment. and the worst of it was that this shadow had been at the back of his mind ever since the sunday evening when fleur had pointed down at prosper profond strolling on the lawn, and said: "prowling cat!" had he not in connection therewith, this very day, perused his will and marriage settlement? and now this anonymous ruffian, with nothing to gain, apparently, save the venting of his spite against foreigners, had wrenched it out of the obscurity in which he had hoped and wished it would remain. to have such knowledge forced on him, at his time of life, about fleur's mother i he picked the letter up from the carpet, tore it across, and then, when it hung together by just the fold at the back, stopped tearing, and reread it. he was taking at that moment one of the decisive resolutions of his life. he would not be forced into another scandal. no! however he decided to deal with this matter--and it required the most far-sighted and careful consideration he would do nothing that might injure fleur. that resolution taken, his mind answered the helm again, and he made his ablutions. his hands trembled as he dried them. scandal he would not have, but something must be done to stop this sort of thing! he went into his wife's room and stood looking around him. the idea of searching for anything which would incriminate, and entitle him to hold a menace over her, did not even come to him. there would be nothing--she was much too practical. the idea of having her watched had been dismissed before it came--too well he remembered his previous experience of that. no! he had nothing but this torn-up letter from some anonymous ruffian, whose impudent intrusion into his private life he so violently resented. it was repugnant to him to make use of it, but he might have to. what a mercy fleur was not at home to-night! a tap on the door broke up his painful cogitations. "mr. michael mont, sir, is in the drawing-room. will you see him?" "no," said soames; "yes. i'll come down." anything that would take his mind off for a few minutes! michael mont in flannels stood on the verandah smoking a cigarette. he threw it away as soames came up, and ran his hand through his hair. soames' feeling toward this young man was singular. he was no doubt a rackety, irresponsible young fellow according to old standards, yet somehow likeable, with his extraordinarily cheerful way of blurting out his opinions. "come in," he said; "have you had tea?" mont came in. "i thought fleur would have been back, sir; but i'm glad she isn't. the fact is, i--i'm fearfully gone on her; so fearfully gone that i thought you'd better know. it's old-fashioned, of course, coming to fathers first, but i thought you'd forgive that. i went to my own dad, and he says if i settle down he'll see me through. he rather cottons to the idea, in fact. i told him about your goya." "oh!" said soames, inexpressibly dry. "he rather cottons?" "yes, sir; do you?" soames smiled faintly. "you see," resumed mont, twiddling his straw hat, while his hair, ears, eyebrows, all seemed to stand up from excitement, "when you've been through the war you can't help being in a hurry." "to get married; and unmarried afterward," said soames slowly. "not from fleur, sir. imagine, if you were me!" soames cleared his throat. that way of putting it was forcible enough. "fleur's too young," he said. "oh! no, sir. we're awfully old nowadays. my dad seems to me a perfect babe; his thinking apparatus hasn't turned a hair. but he's a baronight, of course; that keeps him back." "baronight," repeated soames; "what may that be?" "bart, sir. i shall be a bart some day. but i shall live it down, you know." "go away and live this down," said soames. young mont said imploringly: "oh! no, sir. i simply must hang around, or i shouldn't have a dog's chance. you'll let fleur do what she likes, i suppose, anyway. madame passes me." "indeed!" said soames frigidly. "you don't really bar me, do you?" and the young man looked so doleful that soames smiled. "you may think you're very old," he said; "but you strike me as extremely young. to rattle ahead of everything is not a proof of maturity." "all right, sir; i give you our age. but to show you i mean business--i've got a job." "glad to hear it." "joined a publisher; my governor is putting up the stakes." soames put his hand over his mouth--he had so very nearly said: "god help the publisher!" his grey eyes scrutinised the agitated young man. "i don't dislike you, mr. mont, but fleur is everything to me: everything--do you understand?" "yes, sir, i know; but so she is to me." "that's as may be. i'm glad you've told me, however. and now i think there's nothing more to be said." "i know it rests with her, sir." "it will rest with her a long time, i hope." "you aren't cheering," said mont suddenly. "no," said soames, "my experience of life has not made me anxious to couple people in a hurry. good-night, mr. mont. i shan't tell fleur what you've said." "oh!" murmured mont blankly; "i really could knock my brains out for want of her. she knows that perfectly well." "i dare say." and soames held out his hand. a distracted squeeze, a heavy sigh, and soon after sounds from the young man's motor-cycle called up visions of flying dust and broken bones. 'the younger generation!' he thought heavily, and went out on to the lawn. the gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell of fresh-cut grass--the thundery air kept all scents close to earth. the sky was of a purplish hue--the poplars black. two or three boats passed on the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm. 'three days' fine weather,' thought soames, 'and then a storm!' where was annette? with that chap, for all he knew--she was a young woman! impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he entered the summerhouse and sat down. the fact was--and he admitted it--fleur was so much to him that his wife was very little--very little; french--had never been much more than a mistress, and he was getting indifferent to that side of things! it was odd how, with all this ingrained care for moderation and secure investment, soames ever put his emotional eggs into one basket. first irene--now fleur. he was dimly conscious of it, sitting there, conscious of its odd dangerousness. it had brought him to wreck and scandal once, but now--now it should save him! he cared so much for fleur that he would have no further scandal. if only he could get at that anonymous letter-writer, he would teach him not to meddle and stir up mud at the bottom of water which he wished should remain stagnant!... a distant flash, a low rumble, and large drops of rain spattered on the thatch above him. he remained indifferent, tracing a pattern with his finger on the dusty surface of a little rustic table. fleur's future! 'i want fair sailing for her,' he thought. 'nothing else matters at my time of life.' a lonely business--life! what you had you never could keep to yourself! as you warned one off, you let another in. one could make sure of nothing! he reached up and pulled a red rambler rose from a cluster which blocked the window. flowers grew and dropped--nature was a queer thing! the thunder rumbled and crashed, travelling east along a river, the paling flashes flicked his eyes; the poplar tops showed sharp and dense against the sky, a heavy shower rustled and rattled and veiled in the little house wherein he sat, indifferent, thinking. when the storm was over, he left his retreat and went down the wet path to the river bank. two swans had come, sheltering in among the reeds. he knew the birds well, and stood watching the dignity in the curve of those white necks and formidable snake-like heads. 'not dignified--what i have to do!' he thought. and yet it must be tackled, lest worse befell. annette must be back by now from wherever she had gone, for it was nearly dinner-time, and as the moment for seeing her approached, the difficulty of knowing what to say and how to say it had increased. a new and scaring thought occurred to him. suppose she wanted her liberty to marry this fellow! well, if she did, she couldn't have it. he had not married her for that. the image of prosper profond dawdled before him reassuringly. not a marrying man! no, no! anger replaced that momentary scare. 'he had better not come my way,' he thought. the mongrel represented---! but what did prosper profond represent? nothing that mattered surely. and yet something real enough in the world--unmorality let off its chain, disillusionment on the prowl! that expression annette had caught from him: "je m'en fiche!" a fatalistic chap! a continental--a cosmopolitan--a product of the age! if there were condemnation more complete, soames felt that he did not know it. the swans had turned their heads, and were looking past him into some distance of their own. one of them uttered a little hiss, wagged its tail, turned as if answering to a rudder, and swam away. the other followed. their white bodies, their stately necks, passed out of his sight, and he went toward the house. annette was in the drawing-room, dressed for dinner, and he thought as he went up-stairs 'handsome is as handsome does.' handsome! except for remarks about the curtains in the drawing-room, and the storm, there was practically no conversation during a meal distinguished by exactitude of quantity and perfection of quality. soames drank nothing. he followed her into the drawing-room afterward, and found her smoking a cigarette on the sofa between the two french windows. she was leaning back, almost upright, in a low black frock, with her knees crossed and her blue eyes half-closed; grey-blue smoke issued from her red, rather full lips, a fillet bound her chestnut hair, she wore the thinnest silk stockings, and shoes with very high heels showing off her instep. a fine piece in any room! soames, who held that torn letter in a hand thrust deep into the side-pocket of his dinner-jacket, said: "i'm going to shut the window; the damp's lifting in." he did so, and stood looking at a david cox adorning the cream-panelled wall close by. what was she thinking of? he had never understood a woman in his life--except fleur--and fleur not always! his heart beat fast. but if he meant to do it, now was the moment. turning from the david cox, he took out the torn letter. "i've had this." her eyes widened, stared at him, and hardened. soames handed her the letter. "it's torn, but you can read it." and he turned back to the david cox--a sea-piece, of good tone--but without movement enough. 'i wonder what that chap's doing at this moment?' he thought. 'i'll astonish him yet.' out of the corner of his eye he saw annette holding the letter rigidly; her eyes moved from side to side under her darkened lashes and frowning darkened eyes. she dropped the letter, gave a little shiver, smiled, and said: "dirrty!" "i quite agree," said soames; "degrading. is it true?" a tooth fastened on her red lower lip. "and what if it were?" she was brazen! "is that all you have to say?" "no." "well, speak out!" "what is the good of talking?" soames said icily: "so you admit it?" "i admit nothing. you are a fool to ask. a man like you should not ask. it is dangerous." soames made a tour of the room, to subdue his rising anger. "do you remember," he said, halting in front of her, "what you were when i married you? working at accounts in a restaurant." "do you remember that i was not half your age?" soames broke off the hard encounter of their eyes, and went back to the david cox. "i am not going to bandy words. i require you to give up this --friendship. i think of the matter entirely as it affects fleur." "ah!--fleur!" "yes," said soames stubbornly; "fleur. she is your child as well as mine." "it is kind to admit that!" "are you going to do what i say?" "i refuse to tell you." "then i must make you." annette smiled. "no, soames," she said. "you are helpless. do not say things that you will regret." anger swelled the veins on his forehead. he opened his mouth to vent that emotion, and could not. annette went on: "there shall be no more such letters, i promise you. that is enough." soames writhed. he had a sense of being treated like a child by this woman who had deserved he did not know what. "when two people have married, and lived like us, soames, they had better be quiet about each other. there are things one does not drag up into the light for people to laugh at. you will be quiet, then; not for my sake for your own. you are getting old; i am not, yet. you have made me ver-ry practical" soames, who had passed through all the sensations of being choked, repeated dully: "i require you to give up this friendship." "and if i do not?" "then--then i will cut you out of my will." somehow it did not seem to meet the case. annette laughed. "you will live a long time, soames." "you--you are a bad woman," said soames suddenly. annette shrugged her shoulders. "i do not think so. living with you has killed things in me, it is true; but i am not a bad woman. i am sensible--that is all. and so will you be when you have thought it over." "i shall see this man," said soames sullenly, "and warn him off." "mon cher, you are funny. you do not want me, you have as much of me as you want; and you wish the rest of me to be dead. i admit nothing, but i am not going to be dead, soames, at my age; so you had better be quiet, i tell you. i myself will make no scandal; none. now, i am not saying any more, whatever you do." she reached out, took a french novel off a little table, and opened it. soames watched her, silenced by the tumult of his feelings. the thought of that man was almost making him want her, and this was a revelation of their relationship, startling to one little given to introspective philosophy. without saying another word he went out and up to the picture-gallery. this came of marrying a frenchwoman! and yet, without her there would have been no fleur! she had served her purpose. 'she's right,' he thought; 'i can do nothing. i don't even know that there's anything in it.' the instinct of self-preservation warned him to batten down his hatches, to smother the fire with want of air. unless one believed there was something in a thing, there wasn't. that night he went into her room. she received him in the most matter-of-fact way, as if there had been no scene between them. and he returned to his own room with a curious sense of peace. if one didn't choose to see, one needn't. and he did not choose--in future he did not choose. there was nothing to be gained by it--nothing! opening the drawer he took from the sachet a handkerchief, and the framed photograph of fleur. when he had looked at it a little he slipped it down, and there was that other one--that old one of irene. an owl hooted while he stood in his window gazing at it. the owl hooted, the red climbing roses seemed to deepen in colour, there came a scent of lime-blossom. god! that had been a different thing! passion--memory! dust! vii june takes a hand one who was a sculptor, a slav, a sometime resident in new york, an egoist, and impecunious, was to be found of an evening in june forsyte's studio on the bank of the thames at chiswick. on the evening of july , boris strumolowski--several of whose works were on show there because they were as yet too advanced to be on show anywhere else--had begun well, with that aloof and rather christ-like silence which admirably suited his youthful, round, broad cheek-boned countenance framed in bright hair banged like a girl's. june had known him three weeks, and he still seemed to her the principal embodiment of genius, and hope of the future; a sort of star of the east which had strayed into an unappreciative west. until that evening he had conversationally confined himself to recording his impressions of the united states, whose dust he had just shaken from off his feet--a country, in his opinion, so barbarous in every way that he had sold practically nothing there, and become an object of suspicion to the police; a country, as he said, without a race of its own, without liberty, equality, or fraternity, without principles, traditions, taste, without--in a word--a soul. he had left it for his own good, and come to the only other country where he could live well. june had dwelt unhappily on him in her lonely moments, standing before his creations--frightening, but powerful and symbolic once they had been explained! that he, haloed by bright hair like an early italian painting, and absorbed in his genius to the exclusion of all else--the only sign of course by which real genius could be told--should still be a "lame duck" agitated her warm heart almost to the exclusion of paul post. and she had begun to take steps to clear her gallery, in order to fill it with strumolowski masterpieces. she had at once encountered trouble. paul post had kicked; vospovitch had stung. with all the emphasis of a genius which she did not as yet deny them, they had demanded another six weeks at least of her gallery. the american stream, still flowing in, would soon be flowing out. the american stream was their right, their only hope, their salvation--since nobody in this "beastly" country cared for art. june had yielded to the demonstration. after all boris would not mind their having the full benefit of an american stream, which he himself so violently despised. this evening she had put that to boris with nobody else present, except hannah hobdey, the mediaeval black-and-whitist, and jimmy portugal, editor of the neo-artist. she had put it to him with that sudden confidence which continual contact with the neo-artistic world had never been able to dry up in her warm and generous nature. he had not broken his christ-like silence, however, for more than two minutes before she began to move her blue eyes from side to side, as a cat moves its tail. this--he said--was characteristic of england, the most selfish country in the world; the country which sucked the blood of other countries; destroyed the brains and hearts of irishmen, hindus, egyptians, boers, and burmese, all the best races in the world; bullying, hypocritical england! this was what he had expected, coming to, such a country, where the climate was all fog, and the people all tradesmen perfectly blind to art, and sunk in profiteering and the grossest materialism. conscious that hannah hobdey was murmuring, "hear, hear!" and jimmy portugal sniggering, june grew crimson, and suddenly rapped out: "then why did you ever come? we didn't ask you." the remark was so singularly at variance with all she had led him to expect from her, that strumolowski stretched out his hand and took a cigarette. "england never wants an idealist," he said. but in june something primitively english was thoroughly upset; old jolyon's sense of justice had risen, as it were, from bed. "you come and sponge on us," she said, "and then abuse us. if you think that's playing the game, i don't." she now discovered that which others had discovered before her--the thickness of hide beneath which the sensibility of genius is sometimes veiled. strumolowski's young and ingenuous face became the incarnation of a sneer. "sponge, one does not sponge, one takes what is owing--a tenth part of what is owing. you will repent to say that, miss forsyte." "oh, no," said june, "i shan't." "ah! we know very well, we artists--you take us to get what you can out of us. i want nothing from you"--and he blew out a cloud of june's smoke. decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame within her. "very well, then, you can take your things away." and, almost in the same moment, she thought: 'poor boy! he's only got a garret, and probably not a taxi fare. in front of these people, too; it's positively disgusting!' young strumolowski shook his head violently; his hair, thick, smooth, close as a golden plate, did not fall off. "i can live on nothing," he said shrilly; "i have often had to for the sake of my art. it is you bourgeois who force us to spend money." the words hit june like a pebble, in the ribs. after all she had done for art, all her identification with its troubles and lame ducks. she was struggling for adequate words when the door was opened, and her austrian murmured: "a young lady, gnadiges fraulein." "where?" "in the little meal-room." with a glance at boris strumolowski, at hannah hobdey, at jimmy portugal, june said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity. entering the "little meal-room," she perceived the young lady to be fleur--looking very pretty, if pale. at this disenchanted moment a little lame duck of her own breed was welcome to june, so homoeopathic by instinct. the girl must have come, of course, because of jon; or, if not, at least to get something out of her. and june felt just then that to assist somebody was the only bearable thing. "so you've remembered to come," she said. "yes. what a jolly little duck of a house! but please don't let me bother you, if you've got people." "not at all," said june. "i want to let them stew in their own juice for a bit. have you come about jon?" "you said you thought we ought to be told. well, i've found out." "oh!" said june blankly. "not nice, is it?" they were standing one on each side of the little bare table at which june took her meals. a vase on it was full of iceland poppies; the girl raised her hand and touched them with a gloved finger. to her new-fangled dress, frilly about the hips and tight below the knees, june took a sudden liking--a charming colour, flax-blue. 'she makes a picture,' thought june. her little room, with its whitewashed walls, its floor and hearth of old pink brick, its black paint, and latticed window athwart which the last of the sunlight was shining, had never looked so charming, set off by this young figure, with the creamy, slightly frowning face. she remembered with sudden vividness how nice she herself had looked in those old days when her heart was set on philip bosinney, that dead lover, who had broken from her to destroy for ever irene's allegiance to this girl's father. did fleur know of that, too? "well," she said, "what are you going to do?" it was some seconds before fleur answered. "i don't want jon to suffer. i must see him once more to put an end to it." "you're going to put an end to it!" "what else is there to do?" the girl seemed to june, suddenly, intolerably spiritless. "i suppose you're right," she muttered. "i know my father thinks so; but--i should never have done it myself. i can't take things lying down." how poised and watchful that girl looked; how unemotional her voice sounded! "people will assume that i'm in love." "well, aren't you?" fleur shrugged her shoulders. 'i might have known it,' thought june; 'she's soames' daughter--fish! and yet--he!' "what do you want me to do then?" she said with a sort of disgust. "could i see jon here to-morrow on his way down to holly's? he'd come if you sent him a line to-night. and perhaps afterward you'd let them know quietly at robin hill that it's all over, and that they needn't tell jon about his mother." "all right!" said june abruptly. "i'll write now, and you can post it. half-past two tomorrow. i shan't be in, myself." she sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. when she looked round with the finished note fleur was still touching the poppies with her gloved finger. june licked a stamp. "well, here it is. if you're not in love, of course, there's no more to be said. jon's lucky." fleur took the note. "thanks awfully!" 'cold-blooded little baggage!' thought june. jon, son of her father, to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of--soames! it was humiliating! "is that all?" fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed toward the door. "good-bye!" "good-bye!... little piece of fashion!" muttered june, closing the door. "that family!" and she marched back toward her studio. boris strumolowski had regained his christ-like silence and jimmy portugal was damning everybody, except the group in whose behalf he ran the neo-artist. among the condemned were eric cobbley, and several other "lame-duck" genii who at one time or another had held first place in the repertoire of june's aid and adoration. she experienced a sense of futility and disgust, and went to the window to let the river-wind blow those squeaky words away. but when at length jimmy portugal had finished, and gone with hannah hobdey, she sat down and mothered young strumolowski for half an hour, promising him a month, at least, of the american stream; so that he went away with his halo in perfect order. 'in spite of all,' june thought, 'boris is wonderful' viii the bit between the teeth to know that your hand is against every one's is--for some natures--to experience a sense of moral release. fleur felt no remorse when she left june's house. reading condemnatory resentment in her little kinswoman's blue eyes-she was glad that she had fooled her, despising june because that elderly idealist had not seen what she was after. end it, forsooth! she would soon show them all that she was only just beginning. and she smiled to herself on the top of the bus which carried her back to mayfair. but the smile died, squeezed out by spasms of anticipation and anxiety. would she be able to manage jon? she had taken the bit between her teeth, but could she make him take it too? she knew the truth and the real danger of delay--he knew neither; therein lay all the difference in the world. 'suppose i tell him,' she thought; 'wouldn't it really be safer?' this hideous luck had no right to spoil their love; he must see that! they could not let it! people always accepted an accomplished fact in time! from that piece of philosophy--profound enough at her age--she passed to another consideration less philosophic. if she persuaded jon to a quick and secret marriage, and he found out afterward that she had known the truth. what then? jon hated subterfuge. again, then, would it not be better to tell him? but the memory of his mother's face kept intruding on that impulse. fleur was afraid. his mother had power over him; more power perhaps than she herself. who could tell? it was too great a risk. deep-sunk in these instinctive calculations she was carried on past green street as far as the ritz hotel. she got down there, and walked back on the green park side. the storm had washed every tree; they still dripped. heavy drops fell on to her frills, and to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes of the iseeum club. chancing to look up she saw monsieur profond with a tall stout man in the bay window. turning into green street she heard her name called, and saw "that prowler" coming up. he took off his hat--a glossy "bowler" such as she particularly detested. "good evenin'! miss forsyde. isn't there a small thing i can do for you?" "yes, pass by on the other side." "i say! why do you dislike me?" "do i?" "it looks like it." "well, then, because you make me feel life isn't worth living." monsieur profond smiled. "look here, miss forsyde, don't worry. it'll be all right. nothing lasts." "things do last," cried fleur; "with me anyhow--especially likes and dislikes." "well, that makes me a bit un'appy." "i should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or unhappy." "i don't like to annoy other people. i'm goin' on my yacht." fleur looked at him, startled. "where?" "small voyage to the south seas or somewhere," said monsieur profond. fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult. clearly he meant to convey that he was breaking with her mother. how dared he have anything to break, and yet how dared he break it? "good-night, miss forsyde! remember me to mrs. dartie. i'm not so bad really. good-night!" fleur left him standing there with his hat raised. stealing a look round, she saw him stroll--immaculate and heavy--back toward his club. 'he can't even love with conviction,' she thought. 'what will mother do?' her dreams that night were endless and uneasy; she rose heavy and unrested, and went at once to the study of whitaker's almanac. a forsyte is instinctively aware that facts are the real crux of any situation. she might conquer jon's prejudice, but without exact machinery to complete their desperate resolve, nothing would happen. from the invaluable tome she learned that they must each be twenty-one; or some one's consent would be necessary, which of course was unobtainable; then she became lost in directions concerning licenses, certificates, notices, districts, coming finally to the word "perjury." but that was nonsense! who would really mind their giving wrong ages in order to be married for love! she ate hardly any breakfast, and went back to whitaker. the more she studied the less sure she became; till, idly turning the pages, she came to scotland. people could be married there without any of this nonsense. she had only to go and stay there twenty-one days, then jon could come, and in front of two people they could declare themselves married. and what was more--they would be! it was far the best way; and at once she ran over her schoolfellows. there was mary lambe who lived in edinburgh and was "quite a sport!" she had a brother too. she could stay with mary lambe, who with her brother would serve for witnesses. she well knew that some girls would think all this unnecessary, and that all she and jon need do was to go away together for a weekend and then say to their people: "we are married by nature, we must now be married by law." but fleur was forsyte enough to feel such a proceeding dubious, and to dread her father's face when he heard of it. besides, she did not believe that jon would do it; he had an opinion of her such as she could not bear to diminish. no! mary lambe was preferable, and it was just the time of year to go to scotland. more at ease now she packed, avoided her aunt, and took a bus to chiswick. she was too early, and went on to kew gardens. she found no peace among its flower-beds, labelled trees, and broad green spaces, and having lunched off anchovy-paste sandwiches and coffee, returned to chiswick and rang june's bell. the austrian admitted her to the "little meal-room." now that she knew what she and jon were up against, her longing for him had increased tenfold, as if he were a toy with sharp edges or dangerous paint such as they had tried to take from her as a child. if she could not have her way, and get jon for good and all, she felt like dying of privation. by hook or crook she must and would get him! a round dim mirror of very old glass hung over the pink brick hearth. she stood looking at herself reflected in it, pale, and rather dark under the eyes; little shudders kept passing through her nerves. then she heard the bell ring, and, stealing to the window, saw him standing on the doorstep smoothing his hair and lips, as if he too were trying to subdue the fluttering of his nerves. she was sitting on one of the two rush-seated chairs, with her back to the door, when he came in, and she said at once-- "sit down, jon, i want to talk seriously." jon sat on the table by her side, and without looking at him she went on: "if you don't want to lose me, we must get married." jon gasped. "why? is there anything new?" "no, but i felt it at robin hill, and among my people." "but--" stammered jon, "at robin hill--it was all smooth--and they've said nothing to me." "but they mean to stop us. your mother's face was enough. and my father's." "have you seen him since?" fleur nodded. what mattered a few supplementary lies? "but," said jon eagerly, "i can't see how they can feel like that after all these years." fleur looked up at him. "perhaps you don't love me enough." "not love you enough! why--!" "then make sure of me." "without telling them?" "not till after." jon was silent. how much older he looked than on that day, barely two months ago, when she first saw him--quite two years older! "it would hurt mother awfully," he said. fleur drew her hand away. "you've got to choose." jon slid off the table on to his knees. "but why not tell them? they can't really stop us, fleur!" "they can! i tell you, they can." "how?" "we're utterly dependent--by putting money pressure, and all sorts of other pressure. i'm not patient, jon." "but it's deceiving them." fleur got up. "you can't really love me, or you wouldn't hesitate. 'he either fears his fate too much!'" lifting his hands to her waist, jon forced her to sit down again. she hurried on: "i've planned it all out. we've only to go to scotland. when we're married they'll soon come round. people always come round to facts. don't you see, jon?" "but to hurt them so awfully!" so he would rather hurt her than those people of his! "all right, then; let me go!" jon got up and put his back against the door. "i expect you're right," he said slowly; "but i want to think it over." she could see that he was seething with feelings he wanted to express; but she did not mean to help him. she hated herself at this moment and almost hated him. why had she to do all the work to secure their love? it wasn't fair. and then she saw his eyes, adoring and distressed. "don't look like that! i only don't want to lose you, jon." "you can't lose me so long as you want me." "oh, yes, i can." jon put his hands on her shoulders. "fleur, do you know anything you haven't told me?" it was the point-blank question she had dreaded. she looked straight at him, and answered: "no." she had burnt her boats; but what did it matter, if she got him? he would forgive her. and throwing her arms round his neck, she kissed him on the lips. she was winning! she felt it in the beating of his heart against her, in the closing of his eyes. "i want to make sure! i want to make sure!" she whispered. "promise!" jon did not answer. his face had the stillness of extreme trouble. at last he said: "it's like hitting them. i must think a little, fleur. i really must." fleur slipped out of his arms. "oh! very well!" and suddenly she burst into tears of disappointment, shame, and overstrain. followed five minutes of acute misery. jon's remorse and tenderness knew no bounds; but he did not promise. despite her will to cry, "very well, then, if you don't love me enough-goodbye!" she dared not. from birth accustomed to her own way, this check from one so young, so tender, so devoted, baffled and surprised her. she wanted to push him away from her, to try what anger and coldness would do, and again she dared not. the knowledge that she was scheming to rush him blindfold into the irrevocable weakened everything--weakened the sincerity of pique, and the sincerity of passion; even her kisses had not the lure she wished for them. that stormy little meeting ended inconclusively. "will you some tea, gnadiges fraulein?" pushing jon from her, she cried out: "no-no, thank you! i'm just going." and before he could prevent her she was gone. she went stealthily, mopping her gushed, stained cheeks, frightened, angry, very miserable. she had stirred jon up so fearfully, yet nothing definite was promised or arranged! but the more uncertain and hazardous the future, the more "the will to have" worked its tentacles into the flesh of her heart--like some burrowing tick! no one was at green street. winifred had gone with imogen to see a play which some said was allegorical, and others "very exciting, don't you know." it was because of what others said that winifred and imogen had gone. fleur went on to paddington. through the carriage the air from the brick-kilns of west drayton and the late hayfields fanned her still gushed cheeks. flowers had seemed to be had for the picking; now they were all thorned and prickled. but the golden flower within the crown of spikes seemed to her tenacious spirit all the fairer and more desirable. ix the fat in the fire on reaching home fleur found an atmosphere so peculiar that it penetrated even the perplexed aura of her own private life. her mother was inaccessibly entrenched in a brown study; her father contemplating fate in the vinery. neither of them had a word to throw to a dog. 'is it because of me?' thought fleur. 'or because of profond?' to her mother she said: "what's the matter with father?" her mother answered with a shrug of her shoulders. to her father: "what's the matter with mother?" her father answered: "matter? what should be the matter?" and gave her a sharp look. "by the way," murmured fleur, "monsieur profond is going a 'small' voyage on his yacht, to the south seas." soames examined a branch on which no grapes were growing. "this vine's a failure," he said. "i've had young mont here. he asked me something about you." "oh! how do you like him, father?" "he--he's a product--like all these young people." "what were you at his age, dear?" soames smiled grimly. "we went to work, and didn't play about--flying and motoring, and making love." "didn't you ever make love?" she avoided looking at him while she said that, but she saw him well enough. his pale face had reddened, his eyebrows, where darkness was still mingled with the grey, had come close together. "i had no time or inclination to philander." "perhaps you had a grand passion." soames looked at her intently. "yes--if you want to know--and much good it did me." he moved away, along by the hot-water pipes. fleur tiptoed silently after him. "tell me about it, father!" soames became very still. "what should you want to know about such things, at your age?" "is she alive?" he nodded. "and married?" yes." "it's jon forsyte's mother, isn't it? and she was your wife first." it was said in a flash of intuition. surely his opposition came from his anxiety that she should not know of that old wound to his pride. but she was startled. to see some one so old and calm wince as if struck, to hear so sharp a note of pain in his voice! "who told you that? if your aunt! i can't bear the affair talked of." "but, darling," said fleur, softly, "it's so long ago." "long ago or not, i...." fleur stood stroking his arm. "i've tried to forget," he said suddenly; "i don't wish to be reminded." and then, as if venting some long and secret irritation, he added: "in these days people don't understand. grand passion, indeed! no one knows what it is." "i do," said fleur, almost in a whisper. soames, who had turned his back on her, spun round. "what are you talking of--a child like you!" "perhaps i've inherited it, father." "what?" "for her son, you see." he was pale as a sheet, and she knew that she was as bad. they stood staring at each other in the steamy heat, redolent of the mushy scent of earth, of potted geranium, and of vines coming along fast. "this is crazy," said soames at last, between dry lips. scarcely moving her own, she murmured: "don't be angry, father. i can't help it." but she could see he wasn't angry; only scared, deeply scared. "i thought that foolishness," he stammered, "was all forgotten." "oh, no! it's ten times what it was." soames kicked at the hot-water pipe. the hapless movement touched her, who had no fear of her father--none. "dearest!" she said. "what must be, must, you know." "must!" repeated soames. "you don't know what you're talking of. has that boy been told?" the blood rushed into her cheeks. "not yet." he had turned from her again, and, with one shoulder a little raised, stood staring fixedly at a joint in the pipes. "it's most distasteful to me," he said suddenly; "nothing could be more so. son of that fellow! it's--it's--perverse!" she had noted, almost unconsciously, that he did not say "son of that woman," and again her intuition began working. did the ghost of that grand passion linger in some corner of his heart? she slipped her hand under his arm. "jon's father is quite ill and old; i saw him." "you--?" "yes, i went there with jon; i saw them both." "well, and what did they say to you?" "nothing. they were very polite." "they would be." he resumed his contemplation of the pipe-joint, and then said suddenly: "i must think this over--i'll speak to you again to-night." she knew this was final for the moment, and stole away, leaving him still looking at the pipe-joint. she wandered into the fruit-garden, among the raspberry and currant bushes, without impetus to pick and eat. two months ago--she was light-hearted! even two days ago--light-hearted, before prosper profond told her. now she felt tangled in a web-of passions, vested rights, oppressions and revolts, the ties of love and hate. at this dark moment of discouragement there seemed, even to her hold-fast nature, no way out. how deal with it--how sway and bend things to her will, and get her heart's desire? and, suddenly, round the corner of the high box hedge, she came plump on her mother, walking swiftly, with an open letter in her hand. her bosom was heaving, her eyes dilated, her cheeks flushed. instantly fleur thought: 'the yacht! poor mother!' annette gave her a wide startled look, and said: "j'ai la migraine." "i'm awfully sorry, mother." "oh, yes! you and your father--sorry!" "but, mother--i am. i know what it feels like." annette's startled eyes grew wide, till the whites showed above them. "poor innocent!" she said. her mother--so self-possessed, and commonsensical--to look and speak like this! it was all frightening! her father, her mother, herself! and only two months back they had seemed to have everything they wanted in this world. annette crumpled the letter in her hand. fleur knew that she must ignore the sight. "can't i do anything for your head, mother?" annette shook that head and walked on, swaying her hips. 'it's cruel,' thought fleur, 'and i was glad! that man! what do men come prowling for, disturbing everything! i suppose he's tired of her. what business has he to be tired of my mother? what business!' and at that thought, so natural and so peculiar, she uttered a little choked laugh. she ought, of course, to be delighted, but what was there to be delighted at? her father didn't really care! her mother did, perhaps? she entered the orchard, and sat down under a cherry-tree. a breeze sighed in the higher boughs; the sky seen through their green was very blue and very white in cloud--those heavy white clouds almost always present in river landscape. bees, sheltering out of the wind, hummed softly, and over the lush grass fell the thick shade from those fruit-trees planted by her father five-and-twenty, years ago. birds were almost silent, the cuckoos had ceased to sing, but wood-pigeons were cooing. the breath and drone and cooing of high summer were not for long a sedative to her excited nerves. crouched over her knees she began to scheme. her father must be made to back her up. why should he mind so long as she was happy? she had not lived for nearly nineteen years without knowing that her future was all he really cared about. she had, then, only to convince him that her future could not be happy without jon. he thought it a mad fancy. how foolish the old were, thinking they could tell what the young felt! had not he confessed that he--when young--had loved with a grand passion? he ought to understand! 'he piles up his money for me,' she thought; 'but what's the use, if i'm not going to be happy?' money, and all it bought, did not bring happiness. love only brought that. the ox-eyed daisies in this orchard, which gave it such a moony look sometimes, grew wild and happy, and had their hour. 'they oughtn't to have called me fleur,' she mused, 'if they didn't mean me to have my hour, and be happy while it lasts.' nothing real stood in the way, like poverty, or disease--sentiment only, a ghost from the unhappy past! jon was right. they wouldn't let you live, these old people! they made mistakes, committed crimes, and wanted their children to go on paying! the breeze died away; midges began to bite. she got up, plucked a piece of honeysuckle, and went in. it was hot that night. both she and her mother had put on thin, pale low frocks. the dinner flowers were pale. fleur was struck with the pale look of everything; her father's face, her mother's shoulders; the pale panelled walls, the pale grey velvety carpet, the lamp-shade, even the soup was pale. there was not one spot of colour in the room, not even wine in the pale glasses, for no one drank it. what was not pale was black--her father's clothes, the butler's clothes, her retriever stretched out exhausted in the window, the curtains black with a cream pattern. a moth came in, and that was pale. and silent was that half-mourning dinner in the heat. her father called her back as she was following her mother out. she sat down beside him at the table, and, unpinning the pale honeysuckle, put it to her nose. "i've been thinking," he said. "yes, dear?" "it's extremely painful for me to talk, but there's no help for it. i don't know if you understand how much you are to me i've never spoken of it, i didn't think it necessary; but--but you're everything. your mother--" he paused, staring at his finger-bowl of venetian glass. "yes?"' "i've only you to look to. i've never had--never wanted anything else, since you were born." "i know," fleur murmured. soames moistened his lips. "you may think this a matter i can smooth over and arrange for you. you're mistaken. i'm helpless." fleur did not speak. "quite apart from my own feelings," went on soames with more resolution, "those two are not amenable to anything i can say. they--they hate me, as people always hate those whom they have injured." "but he--jon--" "he's their flesh and blood, her only child. probably he means to her what you mean to me. it's a deadlock." "no," cried fleur, "no, father!" soames leaned back, the image of pale patience, as if resolved on the betrayal of no emotion. "listen!" he said. "you're putting the feelings of two months--two months--against the feelings of thirty-five years! what chance do you think you have? two months--your very first love affair, a matter of half a dozen meetings, a few walks and talks, a few kisses--against, against what you can't imagine, what no one could who hasn't been through it. come, be reasonable, fleur! it's midsummer madness!" fleur tore the honeysuckle into little, slow bits. "the madness is in letting the past spoil it all. "what do we care about the past? it's our lives, not yours." soames raised his hand to his forehead, where suddenly she saw moisture shining. "whose child are you?" he said. "whose child is he? the present is linked with the past, the future with both. there's no getting away from that." she had never heard philosophy pass those lips before. impressed even in her agitation, she leaned her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands. "but, father, consider it practically. we want each other. there's ever so much money, and nothing whatever in the way but sentiment. let's bury the past, father." his answer was a sigh. "besides," said fleur gently, "you can't prevent us." "i don't suppose," said soames, "that if left to myself i should try to prevent you; i must put up with things, i know, to keep your affection. but it's not i who control this matter. that's what i want you to realise before it's too late. if you go on thinking you can get your way and encourage this feeling, the blow will be much heavier when you find you can't." "oh!" cried fleur, "help me, father; you can help me, you know." soames made a startled movement of negation. "i?" he said bitterly. "help? i am the impediment--the just cause and impediment--isn't that the jargon? you have my blood in your veins." he rose. "well, the fat's in the fire. if you persist in your wilfulness you'll have yourself to blame. come! don't be foolish, my child--my only child!" fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder. all was in such turmoil within her. but no good to show it! no good at all! she broke away from him, and went out into the twilight, distraught, but unconvinced. all was indeterminate and vague within her, like the shapes and shadows in the garden, except--her will to have. a poplar pierced up into the dark-blue sky and touched a white star there. the dew wetted her shoes, and chilled her bare shoulders. she went down to the river bank, and stood gazing at a moonstreak on the darkening water. suddenly she smelled tobacco smoke, and a white figure emerged as if created by the moon. it was young mont in flannels, standing in his boat. she heard the tiny hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the water. "fleur," came his voice, "don't be hard on a poor devil! i've been waiting hours." "for what?" "come in my boat!" "not i." "why not?" "i'm not a water-nymph." "haven't you any romance in you? don't be modern, fleur!" he appeared on the path within a yard of her. "go away!" "fleur, i love you. fleur!" fleur uttered a short laugh. "come again," she said, "when i haven't got my wish." "what is your wish?" "ask another." "fleur," said mont, and his voice sounded strange, "don't mock me! even vivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before they're cut up for good." fleur shook her head; but her lips were trembling. "well, you shouldn't make me jump. give me a cigarette." mont gave her one, lighted it, and another for himself. "i don't want to talk rot," he said, "but please imagine all the rot that all the lovers that ever were have talked, and all my special rot thrown in." "thank you, i have imagined it. good-night!" they stood for a moment facing each other in the shadow of an acacia-tree with very moonlit blossoms, and the smoke from their cigarettes mingled in the air between them. "also ran: 'michael mont'?" he said. fleur turned abruptly toward the house. on the lawn she stopped to look back. michael mont was whirling his arms above him; she could see them dashing at his head; then waving at the moonlit blossoms of the acacia. his voice just reached her. "jolly-jolly!" fleur shook herself. she couldn't help him, she had too much trouble of her own! on the verandah she stopped very suddenly again. her mother was sitting in the drawing-room at her writing bureau, quite alone. there was nothing remarkable in the expression of her face except its utter immobility. but she looked desolate! fleur went upstairs. at the door of her room she paused. she could hear her father walking up and down, up and down the picture-gallery. 'yes,' she thought, jolly! oh, jon!' x decision when fleur left him jon stared at the austrian. she was a thin woman with a dark face and the concerned expression of one who has watched every little good that life once had slip from her, one by one. "no tea?" she said. susceptible to the disappointment in her voice, jon murmured: "no, really; thanks." "a lil cup--it ready. a lil cup and cigarette." fleur was gone! hours of remorse and indecision lay before him! and with a heavy sense of disproportion he smiled, and said: "well--thank you!" she brought in a little pot of tea with two little cups, and a silver box of cigarettes on a little tray. "sugar? miss forsyte has much sugar--she buy my sugar, my friend's sugar also. miss forsyte is a veree kind lady. i am happy to serve her. you her brother?" "yes," said jon, beginning to puff the second cigarette of his life. "very young brother," said the austrian, with a little anxious smile, which reminded him of the wag of a dog's tail. "may i give you some?" he said. "and won't you sit down, please?" the austrian shook her head. "your father a very nice old man--the most nice old man i ever see. miss forsyte tell me all about him. is he better?" her words fell on jon like a reproach. "oh yes, i think he's all right." "i like to see him again," said the austrian, putting a hand on her heart; "he have veree kind heart." "yes," said jon. and again her words seemed to him a reproach. "he never give no trouble to no one, and smile so gentle." "yes, doesn't he?" "he look at miss forsyte so funny sometimes. i tell him all my story; he so sympatisch. your mother--she nice and well?" "yes, very." "he have her photograph on his dressing-table. veree beautiful" jon gulped down his tea. this woman, with her concerned face and her reminding words, was like the first and second murderers. "thank you," he said; "i must go now. may--may i leave this with you?" he put a ten-shilling note on the tray with a doubting hand and gained the door. he heard the austrian gasp, and hurried out. he had just time to catch his train, and all the way to victoria looked at every face that passed, as lovers will, hoping against hope. on reaching worthing he put his luggage into the local train, and set out across the downs for wansdon, trying to walk off his aching irresolution. so long as he went full bat, he could enjoy the beauty of those green slopes, stopping now and again to sprawl on the grass, admire the perfection of a wild rose or listen to a lark's song. but the war of motives within him was but postponed--the longing for fleur, and the hatred of deception. he came to the old chalk-pit above wansdon with his mind no more made up than when he started. to see both sides of a question vigorously was at once jon's strength and weakness. he tramped in, just as the first dinner-bell rang. his things had already been brought up. he had a hurried bath and came down to find holly alone--val had gone to town and would not be back till the last train. since val's advice to him to ask his sister what was the matter between the two families, so much had happened--fleur's disclosure in the green park, her visit to robin hill, to-day's meeting--that there seemed nothing to ask. he talked of spain, his sunstroke, val's horses, their father's health. holly startled him by saying that she thought their father not at all well. she had been twice to robin hill for the week-end. he had seemed fearfully languid, sometimes even in pain, but had always refused to talk about himself. "he's awfully dear and unselfish--don't you think, jon?" feeling far from dear and unselfish himself, jon answered: "rather!" "i think, he's been a simply perfect father, so long as i can remember." "yes," answered jon, very subdued. "he's never interfered, and he's always seemed to understand. i shall never forget his letting me go to south africa in the boer war when i was in love with val." "that was before he married mother, wasn't it?" said jon suddenly. "yes. why?" "oh! nothing. only, wasn't she engaged to fleur's father first?" holly put down the spoon she was using, and raised her eyes. her stare was circumspect. what did the boy know? enough to make it better to tell him? she could not decide. he looked strained and worried, altogether older, but that might be the sunstroke. "there was something," she said. "of course we were out there, and got no news of anything." she could not take the risk. it was not her secret. besides, she was in the dark about his feelings now. before spain she had made sure he was in love; but boys were boys; that was seven weeks ago, and all spain between. she saw that he knew she was putting him off, and added: "have you heard anything of fleur?" "yes." his face told her, then, more than the most elaborate explanations. so he had not forgotten! she said very quietly: "fleur is awfully attractive, jon, but you know--val and i don't really like her very much." "why?" "we think she's got rather a 'having' nature." "'having'? i don't know what you mean. she--she--" he pushed his dessert plate away, got up, and went to the window. holly, too, got up, and put her arm round his waist. "don't be angry, jon dear. we can't all see people in the same light, can we? you know, i believe each of us only has about one or two people who can see the best that's in us, and bring it out. for you i think it's your mother. i once saw her looking at a letter of yours; it was wonderful to see her face. i think she's the most beautiful woman i ever saw--age doesn't seem to touch her." jon's face softened; then again became tense. everybody--everybody was against him and fleur! it all strengthened the appeal of her words: "make sure of me--marry me, jon!" here, where he had passed that wonderful week with her--the tug of her enchantment, the ache in his heart increased with every minute that she was not there to make the room, the garden, the very air magical. would he ever be able to live down here, not seeing her? and he closed up utterly, going early to bed. it would not make him healthy, wealthy, and wise, but it closeted him with memory of fleur in her fancy frock. he heard val's arrival--the ford discharging cargo, then the stillness of the summer night stole back--with only the bleating of very distant sheep, and a night-jar's harsh purring. he leaned far out. cold moon--warm air--the downs like silver! small wings, a stream bubbling, the rambler roses! god--how empty all of it without her! in the bible it was written: thou shalt leave father and mother and cleave to--fleur! let him have pluck, and go and tell them! they couldn't stop him marrying her--they wouldn't want to stop him when they knew how he felt. yes! he would go! bold and open--fleur was wrong! the night-jar ceased, the sheep were silent; the only sound in the darkness was the bubbling of the stream. and jon in his bed slept, freed from the worst of life's evils--indecision. xi timothy prophesies on the day of the cancelled meeting at the national gallery began the second anniversary of the resurrection of england's pride and glory--or, more shortly, the top hat. "lord's"--that festival which the war had driven from the field--raised its light and dark blue flags for the second time, displaying almost every feature of a glorious past. here, in the luncheon interval, were all species of female and one species of male hat, protecting the multiple types of face associated with "the classes." the observing forsyte might discern in the free or unconsidered seats a certain number of the squash-hatted, but they hardly ventured on the grass; the old school--or schools--could still rejoice that the proletariat was not yet paying the necessary half-crown. here was still a close borough, the only one left on a large scale--for the papers were about to estimate the attendance at ten thousand. and the ten thousand, all animated by one hope, were asking each other one question: "where are you lunching?" something wonderfully uplifting and reassuring in that query and the sight of so many people like themselves voicing it! what reserve power in the british realm--enough pigeons, lobsters, lamb, salmon mayonnaise, strawberries, and bottles of champagne to feed the lot! no miracle in prospect--no case of seven loaves and a few fishes--faith rested on surer foundations. six thousand top hats, four thousand parasols would be doffed and furled, ten thousand mouths all speaking the same english would be filled. there was life in the old dog yet! tradition! and again tradition! how strong and how elastic! wars might rage, taxation prey, trades unions take toll, and europe perish of starvation; but the ten thousand would be fed; and, within their ring fence, stroll upon green turf, wear their top hats, and meet--themselves. the heart was sound, the pulse still regular. e-ton! e-ton! har-r-o-o-o-w! among the many forsytes, present on a hunting-ground theirs, by personal prescriptive right, or proxy, was soames with his wife and daughter. he had not been at either school, he took no interest in cricket, but he wanted fleur to show her frock, and he wanted to wear his top hat parade it again in peace and plenty among his peers. he walked sedately with fleur between him and annette. no women equalled them, so far as he could see. they could walk, and hold themselves up; there was substance in their good looks; the modern woman had no build, no chest, no anything! he remembered suddenly with what intoxication of pride he had walked round with irene in the first years of his first marriage. and how they used to lunch on the drag which his mother would make his father have, because it was so "chic"--all drags and carriages in those days, not these lumbering great stands! and how consistently montague dartie had drunk too much. he supposed that people drank too much still, but there was not the scope for it there used to be. he remembered george forsyte--whose brothers roger and eustace had been at harrow and eton --towering up on the top of the drag waving a light-blue flag with one hand and a dark-blue flag with the other, and shouting "etroow-harrton!" just when everybody was silent, like the buffoon he had always been; and eustace got up to the nines below, too dandified to wear any colour or take any notice. h'm! old days, and irene in grey silk shot with palest green. he looked, sideways, at fleur's face. rather colourless-no light, no eagerness! that love affair was preying on her--a bad business! he looked beyond, at his wife's face, rather more touched up than usual, a little disdainful--not that she had any business to disdain, so far as he could see. she was taking profond's defection with curious quietude; or was his "small" voyage just a blind? if so, he should refuse to see it! having promenaded round the pitch and in front of the pavilion, they sought winifred's table in the bedouin club tent. this club--a new "cock and hen"--had been founded in the interests of travel, and of a gentleman with an old scottish name, whose father had somewhat strangely been called levi. winifred had joined, not because she had travelled, but because instinct told her that a club with such a name and such a founder was bound to go far; if one didn't join at once one might never have the chance. its tent, with a text from the koran on an orange ground, and a small green camel embroidered over the entrance, was the most striking on the ground. outside it they found jack cardigan in a dark blue tie (he had once played for harrow), batting with a malacca cane to show how that fellow ought to have hit that ball. he piloted them in. assembled in winifred's corner were imogen, benedict with his young wife, val dartie without holly, maud and her husband, and, after soames and his two were seated, one empty place. "i'm expecting prosper," said winifred, "but he's so busy with his yacht." soames stole a glance. no movement in his wife's face! whether that fellow were coming or not, she evidently knew all about it. it did not escape him that fleur, too, looked at her mother. if annette didn't respect his feelings, she might think of fleur's! the conversation, very desultory, was syncopated by jack cardigan talking about "mid-off." he cited all the "great mid-offs" from the beginning of time, as if they had been a definite racial entity in the composition of the british people. soames had finished his lobster, and was beginning on pigeon-pie, when he heard the words, "i'm a small bit late, mrs. dartie," and saw that there was no longer any empty place. that fellow was sitting between annette and imogen. soames ate steadily on, with an occasional word to maud and winifred. conversation buzzed around him. he heard the voice of profond say: "i think you're mistaken, mrs. forsyde; i'll--i'll bet miss forsyde agrees with me." "in what?" came fleur's clear voice across the table. "i was sayin', young gurls are much the same as they always were --there's very small difference." "do you know so much about them?" that sharp reply caught the ears of all, and soames moved uneasily on his thin green chair. "well, i don't know, i think they want their own small way, and i think they always did." "indeed!" "oh, but--prosper," winifred interjected comfortably, "the girls in the streets--the girls who've been in munitions, the little flappers in the shops; their manners now really quite hit you in the eye." at the word "hit" jack cardigan stopped his disquisition; and in the silence monsieur profond said: "it was inside before, now it's outside; that's all." "but their morals!" cried imogen. "just as moral as they ever were, mrs. cardigan, but they've got more opportunity." the saying, so cryptically cynical, received a little laugh from imogen, a slight opening of jack cardigan's mouth, and a creak from soames' chair. winifred said: "that's too bad, prosper." "what do you say, mrs. forsyde; don't you think human nature's always the same?" soames subdued a sudden longing to get up and kick the fellow. he heard his wife reply: "human nature is not the same in england as anywhere else." that was her confounded mockery! "well, i don't know much about this small country"--'no, thank god!' thought soames--"but i should say the pot was boilin' under the lid everywhere. we all want pleasure, and we always did." damn the fellow! his cynicism was--was outrageous! when lunch was over they broke up into couples for the digestive promenade. too proud to notice, soames knew perfectly that annette and that fellow had gone prowling round together. fleur was with val; she had chosen him, no doubt, because he knew that boy. he himself had winifred for partner. they walked in the bright, circling stream, a little flushed and sated, for some minutes, till winifred sighed: "i wish we were back forty years, old boy!" before the eyes of her spirit an interminable procession of her own "lord's" frocks was passing, paid for with the money of her father, to save a recurrent crisis. "it's been very amusing, after all. sometimes i even wish monty was back. what do you think of people nowadays, soames?" "precious little style. the thing began to go to pieces with bicycles and motor-cars; the war has finished it." "i wonder what's coming?" said winifred in a voice dreamy from pigeon-pie. "i'm not at all sure we shan't go back to crinolines and pegtops. look at that dress!" soames shook his head. "there's money, but no faith in things. we don't lay by for the future. these youngsters--it's all a short life and a merry one with them." "there's a hat!" said winifred. "i don't know--when you come to think of the people killed and all that in the war, it's rather wonderful, i think. there's no other country--prosper says the rest are all bankrupt, except america; and of course her men always took their style in dress from us." "is that chap," said soames, "really going to the south seas?" "oh! one never knows where prosper's going!" "he's a sign of the times," muttered soames, "if you like." winifred's hand gripped his arm. "don't turn your head," she said in a low voice, "but look to your right in the front row of the stand." soames looked as best he could under that limitation. a man in a grey top hat, grey-bearded, with thin brown, folded cheeks, and a certain elegance of posture, sat there with a woman in a lawn-coloured frock, whose dark eyes were fixed on himself. soames looked quickly at his feet. how funnily feet moved, one after the other like that! winifred's voice said in his ear: "jolyon looks very ill; but he always had style. she doesn't change --except her hair." "why did you tell fleur about that business?" "i didn't; she picked it up. i always knew she would." "well, it's a mess. she's set her heart upon their boy." "the little wretch," murmured winifred. "she tried to take me in about that. what shall you do, soames?" "be guided by events." they moved on, silent, in the almost solid crowd. "really," said winifred suddenly; "it almost seems like fate. only that's so old-fashioned. look! there are george and eustace!" george forsyte's lofty bulk had halted before them. "hallo, soames!" he said. "just met profond and your wife. you'll catch 'em if you put on pace. did you ever go to see old timothy?" soames nodded, and the streams forced them apart. "i always liked old george," said winifred. "he's so droll." "i never did," said soames. "where's your seat? i shall go to mine. fleur may be back there." having seen winifred to her seat, he regained his own, conscious of small, white, distant figures running, the click of the bat, the cheers and counter-cheers. no fleur, and no annette! you could expect nothing of women nowadays! they had the vote. they were "emancipated," and much good it was doing them! so winifred would go back, would she, and put up with dartie all over again? to have the past once more--to be sitting here as he had sat in ' and ' , before he was certain that his marriage with irene had gone all wrong, before her antagonism had become so glaring that with the best will in the world he could not overlook it. the sight of her with that fellow had brought all memory back. even now he could not understand why she had been so impracticable. she could love other men; she had it in her! to himself, the one person she ought to have loved, she had chosen to refuse her heart. it seemed to him, fantastically, as he looked back, that all this modern relaxation of marriage--though its forms and laws were the same as when he married her--that all this modern looseness had come out of her revolt; it seemed to him, fantastically, that she had started it, till all decent ownership of anything had gone, or was on the point of going. all came from her! and now--a pretty state of things! homes! how could you have them without mutual ownership? not that he had ever had a real home! but had that been his fault? he had done his best. and his rewards were--those two sitting in that stand, and this affair of fleur's! and overcome by loneliness he thought: 'shan't wait any longer! they must find their own way back to the hotel--if they mean to come!' hailing a cab outside the ground, he said: "drive me to the bayswater road." his old aunts had never failed him. to them he had meant an ever-welcome visitor. though they were gone, there, still, was timothy! smither was standing in the open doorway. "mr. soames! i was just taking the air. cook will be so pleased." "how is mr. timothy?" "not himself at all these last few days, sir; he's been talking a great deal. only this morning he was saying: 'my brother james, he's getting old.' his mind wanders, mr. soames, and then he will talk of them. he troubles about their investments. the other day he said: 'there's my brother jolyon won't look at consols'--he seemed quite down about it. come in, mr. soames, come in! it's such a pleasant change!" "well," said soames, "just for a few minutes." "no," murmured smither in the hall, where the air had the singular freshness of the outside day, "we haven't been very satisfied with him, not all this week. he's always been one to leave a titbit to the end; but ever since monday he's been eating it first. if you notice a dog, mr. soames, at its dinner, it eats the meat first. we've always thought it such a good sign of mr. timothy at his age to leave it to the last, but now he seems to have lost all his self-control; and, of course, it makes him leave the rest. the doctor doesn't make anything of it, but"--smither shook her head--"he seems to think he's got to eat it first, in case he shouldn't get to it. that and his talking makes us anxious." "has he said anything important?" "i shouldn't like to say that, mr. soames; but he's turned against his will. he gets quite pettish--and after having had it out every morning for years, it does seem funny. he said the other day: 'they want my money.' it gave me such a turn, because, as i said to him, nobody wants his money, i'm sure. and it does seem a pity he should be thinking about money at his time of life. i took my courage in my 'ands. 'you know, mr. timothy,' i said, 'my dear mistress'--that's miss forsyte, mr. soames, miss ann that trained me--'she never thought about money,' i said, 'it was all character with her.' he looked at me, i can't tell you how funny, and he said quite dry: 'nobody wants my character.' think of his saying a thing like that! but sometimes he'll say something as sharp and sensible as anything." soames, who had been staring at an old print by the hat-rack, thinking, 'that's got value!' murmured: "i'll go up and see him, smither." "cook's with him," answered smither above her corsets; "she will be pleased to see you." he mounted slowly, with the thought: 'shan't care to live to be that age.' on the second floor, he paused, and tapped. the door was opened, and he saw the round homely face of a woman about sixty. "mr. soames!" she said: "why! mr. soames!" soames nodded. "all right, cook!" and entered. timothy was propped up in bed, with his hands joined before his chest, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, where a fly was standing upside down. soames stood at the foot of the bed, facing him. "uncle timothy," he said, raising his voice. "uncle timothy!" timothy's eyes left the fly, and levelled themselves on his visitor. soames could see his pale tongue passing over his darkish lips. "uncle timothy," he said again, "is there anything i can do for you? is there anything you'd like to say?" "ha!" said timothy. "i've come to look you up and see that everything's all right." timothy nodded. he seemed trying to get used to the apparition before him. "have you got everything you want?" "no," said timothy. "can i get you anything?" "no," said timothy. "i'm soames, you know; your nephew, soames forsyte. your brother james' son." timothy nodded. "i shall be delighted to do anything i can for you." timothy beckoned. soames went close to him: "you--" said timothy in a voice which seemed to have outlived tone, "you tell them all from me--you tell them all--" and his finger tapped on soames' arm, "to hold on--hold on--consols are goin' up," and he nodded thrice. "all right!" said soames; "i will." "yes," said timothy, and, fixing his eyes again on the ceiling, he added: "that fly!" strangely moved, soames looked at the cook's pleasant fattish face, all little puckers from staring at fires. "that'll do him a world of good, sir," she said. a mutter came from timothy, but he was clearly speaking to himself, and soames went out with the cook. "i wish i could make you a pink cream, mr. soames, like in old days; you did so relish them. good-bye, sir; it has been a pleasure." "take care of him, cook, he is old." and, shaking her crumpled hand, he went down-stairs. smither was still taking the air in the doorway. "what do you think of him, mr. soames?" "h'm!" soames murmured: "he's lost touch." "yes," said smither, "i was afraid you'd think that coming fresh out of the world to see him like." "smither," said soames, "we're all indebted to you." "oh, no, mr. soames, don't say that! it's a pleasure--he's such a wonderful man." "well, good-bye!" said soames, and got into his taxi. 'going up!' he thought; 'going up!' reaching the hotel at knightsbridge he went to their sitting-room, and rang for tea. neither of them were in. and again that sense of loneliness came over him. these hotels. what monstrous great places they were now! he could remember when there was nothing bigger than long's or brown's, morley's or the tavistock, and the heads that were shaken over the langham and the grand. hotels and clubs--clubs and hotels; no end to them now! and soames, who had just been watching at lord's a miracle of tradition and continuity, fell into reverie over the changes in that london where he had been born five-and-sixty years before. whether consols were going up or not, london had become a terrific property. no such property in the world, unless it were new york! there was a lot of hysteria in the papers nowadays; but any one who, like himself, could remember london sixty years ago, and see it now, realised the fecundity and elasticity of wealth. they had only to keep their heads, and go at it steadily. why! he remembered cobblestones, and stinking straw on the floor of your cab. and old timothy--what could he not have told them, if he had kept his memory! things were unsettled, people in a funk or in a hurry, but here were london and the thames, and out there the british empire, and the ends of the earth. "consols are goin' up!" he should n't be a bit surprised. it was the breed that counted. and all that was bull-dogged in soames stared for a moment out of his grey eyes, till diverted by the print of a victorian picture on the walls. the hotel had bought three dozen of that little lot! the old hunting or "rake's progress" prints in the old inns were worth looking at--but this sentimental stuff--well, victorianism had gone! "tell them to hold on!" old timothy had said. but to what were they to hold on in this modern welter of the "democratic principle"? why, even privacy was threatened! and at the thought that privacy might perish, soames pushed back his teacup and went to the window. fancy owning no more of nature than the crowd out there owned of the flowers and trees and waters of hyde park! no, no! private possession underlay everything worth having. the world had slipped its sanity a bit, as dogs now and again at full moon slipped theirs and went off for a night's rabbiting; but the world, like the dog, knew where its bread was buttered and its bed warm, and would come back sure enough to the only home worth having--to private ownership. the world was in its second childhood for the moment, like old timothy--eating its titbit first! he heard a sound behind him, and saw that his wife and daughter had come in. "so you're back!" he said. fleur did not answer; she stood for a moment looking at him and her mother, then passed into her bedroom. annette poured herself out a cup of tea. "i am going to paris, to my mother, soames." "oh! to your mother?" "yes." "for how long?" "i do not know." "and when are you going?" "on monday." was she really going to her mother? odd, how indifferent he felt! odd, how clearly she had perceived the indifference he would feel so long as there was no scandal. and suddenly between her and himself he saw distinctly the face he had seen that afternoon--irene's. "will you want money?" "thank you; i have enough." "very well. let us know when you are coming back." annette put down the cake she was fingering, and, looking up through darkened lashes, said: "shall i give maman any message?" "my regards." annette stretched herself, her hands on her waist, and said in french: "what luck that you have never loved me, soames!" then rising, she too left the room. soames was glad she had spoken it in french--it seemed to require no dealing with. again that other face--pale, dark-eyed, beautiful still! and there stirred far down within him the ghost of warmth, as from sparks lingering beneath a mound of flaky ash. and fleur infatuated with her boy! queer chance! yet, was there such a thing as chance? a man went down a street, a brick fell on his head. ah! that was chance, no doubt. but this! "inherited," his girl had said. she--she was "holding on"! part iii i old jolyon walks twofold impulse had made jolyon say to his wife at breakfast "let's go up to lord's!" "wanted"--something to abate the anxiety in which those two had lived during the sixty hours since jon had brought fleur down. "wanted"--too, that which might assuage the pangs of memory in one who knew he might lose them any day! fifty-eight years ago jolyon had become an eton boy, for old jolyon's whim had been that he should be canonised at the greatest possible expense. year after year he had gone to lord's from stanhope gate with a father whose youth in the eighteen-twenties had been passed without polish in the game of cricket. old jolyon would speak quite openly of swipes, full tosses, half and three-quarter balls; and young jolyon with the guileless snobbery of youth had trembled lest his sire should be overheard. only in this supreme matter of cricket he had been nervous, for his father--in crimean whiskers then--had ever impressed him as the beau ideal. though never canonised himself, old jolyon's natural fastidiousness and balance had saved him from the errors of the vulgar. how delicious, after howling in a top hat and a sweltering heat, to go home with his father in a hansom cab, bathe, dress, and forth to the "disunion" club, to dine off white bait, cutlets, and a tart, and go--two "swells," old and young, in lavender kid gloves--to the opera or play. and on sunday, when the match was over, and his top hat duly broken, down with his father in a special hansom to the "crown and sceptre," and the terrace above the river--the golden sixties when the world was simple, dandies glamorous, democracy not born, and the books of whyte melville coming thick and fast. a generation later, with his own boy, jolly, harrow-buttonholed with corn-flowers--by old jolyon's whim his grandson had been canonised at a trifle less expense--again jolyon had experienced the heat and counter-passions of the day, and come back to the cool and the strawberry beds of robin hill, and billiards after dinner, his boy making the most heart-breaking flukes and trying to seem languid and grown-up. those two days each year he and his son had been alone together in the world, one on each side--and democracy just born! and so, he had unearthed a grey top hat, borrowed a tiny bit of light-blue ribbon from irene, and gingerly, keeping cool, by car and train and taxi, had reached lord's ground. there, beside her in a lawn-coloured frock with narrow black edges, he had watched the game, and felt the old thrill stir within him. when soames passed, the day was spoiled. irene's face was distorted by compression of the lips. no good to go on sitting here with soames or perhaps his daughter recurring in front of them, like decimals. and he said: "well, dear, if you've had enough--let's go!" that evening jolyon felt exhausted. not wanting her to see him thus, he waited till she had begun to play, and stole off to the little study. he opened the long window for air, and the door, that he might still hear her music drifting in; and, settled in his father's old armchair, closed his eyes, with his head against the worn brown leather. like that passage of the cesar franck sonata--so had been his life with her, a divine third movement. and now this business of jon's--this bad business! drifted to the edge of consciousness, he hardly knew if it were in sleep that he smelled the scent of a cigar, and seemed to see his father in the blackness before his closed eyes. that shape formed, went, and formed again; as if in the very chair where he himself was sitting, he saw his father, black-coated, with. knees crossed, glasses balanced between thumb and finger; saw the big white moustaches, and the deep eyes looking up below a dome of forehead and seeming to search his own, seeming to speak. "are you facing it, jo? it's for you to decide. she's only a woman!" ah! how well he knew his father in that phrase; how all the victorian age came up with it! and his answer "no, i've funked it--funked hurting her and jon and myself. i've got a heart; i've funked it." but the old eyes, so much older, so much younger than his own, kept at it; "it's your wife, your son; your past. tackle it, my boy!" was it a message from walking spirit; or but the instinct of his sire living on within him? and again came that scent of cigar smoke-from the old saturated leather. well! he would tackle it, write to jon, and put the whole thing down in black and white! and suddenly he breathed with difficulty, with a sense of suffocation, as if his heart were swollen. he got up and went out into the air. the stars were very bright. he passed along the terrace round the corner of the house, till, through the window of the music-room, he could see irene at the piano, with lamp-light falling on her powdery hair; withdrawn into herself she seemed, her dark eyes staring straight before her, her hands idle. jolyon saw her raise those hands and clasp them over her breast. 'it's jon, with her,' he thought; 'all jon! i'm dying out of her--it's natural!' and, careful not to be seen, he stole back. next day, after a bad night, he sat down to his task. he wrote with difficulty and many erasures. "my dearest boy, "you are old enough to understand how very difficult it is for elders to give themselves away to their young. especially when--like your mother and myself, though i shall never think of her as anything but young--their hearts are altogether set on him to whom they must confess. i cannot say we are conscious of having sinned exactly--people in real life very seldom are, i believe--but most persons would say we had, and at all events our conduct, righteous or not, has found us out. the truth is, my dear, we both have pasts, which it is now my task to make known to you, because they so grievously and deeply affect your future. many, very many years ago, as far back indeed as , when she was only twenty, your mother had the great and lasting misfortune to make an unhappy marriage--no, not with me, jon. without money of her own, and with only a stepmother--closely related to jezebel--she was very unhappy in her home life. it was fleur's father that she married, my cousin soames forsyte. he had pursued her very tenaciously and to do him justice was deeply in love with her. within a week she knew the fearful mistake she had made. it was not his fault; it was her error of judgment--her misfortune." so far jolyon had kept some semblance of irony, but now his subject carried him away. "jon, i want to explain to you if i can--and it's very hard--how it is that an unhappy marriage such as this can so easily come about. you will of course say: 'if she didn't really love him how could she ever have married him?' you would be right if it were not for one or two rather terrible considerations. from this initial mistake of hers all the subsequent trouble, sorrow, and tragedy have come, and so i must make it clear to you if i can. you see, jon, in those days and even to this day--indeed, i don't see, for all the talk of enlightenment, how it can well be otherwise--most girls are married ignorant of the sexual side of life. even if they know what it means they have not experienced it. that's the crux. it is this actual lack of experience, whatever verbal knowledge they have, which makes all the difference and all the trouble. in a vast number of marriages-and your mother's was one--girls are not and cannot be certain whether they love the man they marry or not; they do not know until after that act of union which makes the reality of marriage. now, in many, perhaps in most doubtful cases, this act cements and strengthens the attachment, but in other cases, and your mother's was one, it is a revelation of mistake, a destruction of such attraction as there was. there is nothing more tragic in a woman's life than such a revelation, growing daily, nightly clearer. coarse-grained and unthinking people are apt to laugh at such a mistake, and say, 'what a fuss about nothing!' narrow and self-righteous people, only capable of judging the lives of others by their own, are apt to condemn those who make this tragic error, to condemn them for life to the dungeons they have made for themselves. you know the expression: 'she has made her bed, she must lie on it!' it is a hard-mouthed saying, quite unworthy of a gentleman or lady in the best sense of those words; and i can use no stronger condemnation. i have not been what is called a moral man, but i wish to use no words to you, my dear, which will make you think lightly of ties or contracts into which you enter. heaven forbid! but with the experience of a life behind me i do say that those who condemn the victims of these tragic mistakes, condemn them and hold out no hands to help them, are inhuman, or rather they would be if they had the understanding to know what they are doing. but they haven't! let them go! they are as much anathema to me as i, no doubt, am to them. i have had to say all this, because i am going to put you into a position to judge your mother, and you are very young, without experience of what life is. to go on with the story. after three years of effort to subdue her shrinking--i was going to say her loathing and it's not too strong a word, for shrinking soon becomes loathing under such circumstances--three years of what to a sensitive, beauty-loving nature like your mother's, jon, was torment, she met a young man who fell in love with her. he was the architect of this very house that we live in now, he was building it for her and fleur's father to live in, a new prison to hold her, in place of the one she inhabited with him in london. perhaps that fact played some part in what came of it. but in any case she, too, fell in love with him. i know it's not necessary to explain to you that one does not precisely choose with whom one will fall in love. it comes. very well! it came. i can imagine--though she never said much to me about it--the struggle that then took place in her, because, jon, she was brought up strictly and was not light in her ideas--not at all. however, this was an overwhelming feeling, and it came to pass that they loved in deed as well as in thought. then came a fearful tragedy. i must tell you of it because if i don't you will never understand the real situation that you have now to face. the man whom she had married--soames forsyte, the father of fleur one night, at the height of her passion for this young man, forcibly reasserted his rights over her. the next day she met her lover and told him of it. whether he committed suicide or whether he was accidentally run over in his distraction, we never knew; but so it was. think of your mother as she was that evening when she heard of his death. i happened to see her. your grandfather sent me to help her if i could. i only just saw her, before the door was shut against me by her husband. but i have never forgotten her face, i can see it now. i was not in love with her then, not for twelve years after, but i have never for gotten. my dear boy--it is not easy to write like this. but you see, i must. your mother is wrapped up in you, utterly, devotedly. i don't wish to write harshly of soames forsyte. i don't think harshly of him. i have long been sorry for him; perhaps i was sorry even then. as the world judges she was in error, he within his rights. he loved her--in his way. she was his property. that is the view he holds of life--of human feelings and hearts--property. it's not his fault--so was he born. to me it is a view that has always been abhorrent--so was i born! knowing you as i do, i feel it cannot be otherwise than abhorrent to you. let me go on with the story. your mother fled from his house that night; for twelve years she lived quietly alone without companionship of any sort, until in her husband--you see, he was still her husband, for he did not attempt to divorce her, and she of course had no right to divorce him--became conscious, it seems, of the want of children, and commenced a long attempt to induce her to go back to him and give him a child. i was her trustee then, under your grandfather's will, and i watched this going on. while watching, i became attached to her, devotedly attached. his pressure increased, till one day she came to me here and practically put herself under my protection. her husband, who was kept informed of all her movements, attempted to force us apart by bringing a divorce suit, or possibly he really meant it, i don't know; but anyway our names were publicly joined. that decided us, and we became united in fact. she was divorced, married me, and you were born. we have lived in perfect happiness, at least i have, and i believe your mother also. soames, soon after the divorce, married fleur's mother, and she was born. that is the story, jon. i have told it you, because by the affection which we see you have formed for this man's daughter you are blindly moving toward what must utterly destroy your mother's happiness, if not your own. i don't wish to speak of myself, because at my age there's no use supposing i shall cumber the ground much longer, besides, what i should suffer would be mainly on her account, and on yours. but what i want you to realise is that feelings of horror and aversion such as those can never be buried or forgotten. they are alive in her to-day. only yesterday at lord's we happened to see soames forsyte. her face, if you had seen it, would have convinced you. the idea that you should marry his daughter is a nightmare to her, jon. i have nothing to say against fleur save that she is his daughter. but your children, if you married her, would be the grandchildren of soames, as much as of your mother, of a man who once owned your mother as a man might own a slave. think what that would mean. by such a marriage you enter the camp which held your mother prisoner and wherein she ate her heart out. you are just on the threshold of life, you have only known this girl two months, and however deeply you think you love her, i appeal to you to break it off at once. don't give your mother this rankling pain and humiliation during the rest of her life. young though she will always seem to me, she is fifty-seven. except for us two she has no one in the world. she will soon have only you. pluck up your spirit, jon, and break away. don't put this cloud and barrier between you. don't break her heart! bless you, my dear boy, and again forgive me for all the pain this letter must bring you--we tried to spare it you, but spain--it seems---was no good. "ever your devoted father "jolyon forsyte." having finished his confession, jolyon sat with a thin cheek on his hand, re-reading. there were things in it which hurt him so much, when he thought of jon reading them, that he nearly tore the letter up. to speak of such things at all to a boy--his own boy--to speak of them in relation to his own wife and the boy's own mother, seemed dreadful to the reticence of his forsyte soul. and yet without speaking of them how make jon understand the reality, the deep cleavage, the ineffaceable scar? without them, how justify this stiffing of the boy's love? he might just as well not write at all! he folded the confession, and put it in his pocket. it was--thank heaven!--saturday; he had till sunday evening to think it over; for even if posted now it could not reach jon till monday. he felt a curious relief at this delay, and at the fact that, whether sent or not, it was written. in the rose garden, which had taken the place of the old fernery, he could see irene snipping and pruning, with a little basket on her arm. she was never idle, it seemed to him, and he envied her now that he himself was idle nearly all his time. he went down to her. she held up a stained glove and smiled. a piece of lace tied under her chin concealed her hair, and her oval face with its still dark brows looked very young. "the green-fly are awful this year, and yet it's cold. you look tired, jolyon." jolyon took the confession from his pocket. "i've been writing this. i think you ought to see it?" "to jon?" her whole face had changed, in that instant, becoming almost haggard. "yes; the murder's out." he gave it to her, and walked away among the roses. presently, seeing that she had finished reading and was standing quite still with the sheets of the letter against her skirt, he came back to her. "well?" "it's wonderfully put. i don't see how it could be put better. thank you, dear." "is there anything you would like left out?" she shook her head. "no; he must know all, if he's to understand." "that's what i thought, but--i hate it!" he had the feeling that he hated it more than she--to him sex was so much easier to mention between man and woman than between man and man; and she had always been more natural and frank, not deeply secretive like his forsyte self. "i wonder if he will understand, even now, jolyon? he's so young; and he shrinks from the physical." "he gets that shrinking from my father, he was as fastidious as a girl in all such matters. would it be better to rewrite the whole thing, and just say you hated soames?" irene shook her head. "hate's only a word. it conveys nothing. no, better as it is." "very well. it shall go to-morrow." she raised her face to his, and in sight of the big house's many creepered windows, he kissed her. ii confession late that same afternoon, jolyon had a nap in the old armchair. face down on his knee was la rotisserie de la refine pedauque, and just before he fell asleep he had been thinking: 'as a people shall we ever really like the french? will they ever really like us!' he himself had always liked the french, feeling at home with their wit, their taste, their cooking. irene and he had paid many visits to france before the war, when jon had been at his private school. his romance with her had begun in paris--his last and most enduring romance. but the french--no englishman could like them who could not see them in some sort with the detached aesthetic eye! and with that melancholy conclusion he had nodded off. when he woke he saw jon standing between him and the window. the boy had evidently come in from the garden and was waiting for him to wake. jolyon smiled, still half asleep. how nice the chap looked--sensitive, affectionate, straight! then his heart gave a nasty jump; and a quaking sensation overcame him. jon! that confession! he controlled himself with an effort. "why, jon, where did you spring from?" jon bent over and kissed his forehead. only then he noticed the look on the boy's face. "i came home to tell you something, dad." with all his might jolyon tried to get the better of the jumping, gurgling sensations within his chest. "well, sit down, old man. have you seen your mother?" "no." the boy's flushed look gave place to pallor; he sat down on the arm of the old chair, as, in old days, jolyon himself used to sit beside his own father, installed in its recesses. right up to the time of the rupture in their relations he had been wont to perch there--had he now reached such a moment with his own son? all his life he had hated scenes like poison, avoided rows, gone on his own way quietly and let others go on theirs. but now--it seemed--at the very end of things, he had a scene before him more painful than any he had avoided. he drew a visor down over his emotion, and waited for his son to speak. "father," said jon slowly, "fleur and i are engaged." 'exactly!' thought jolyon, breathing with difficulty. "i know that you and mother don't like the idea. fleur says that mother was engaged to her father before you married her. of course i don't know what happened, but it must be ages ago. i'm devoted to her, dad, and she says she is to me." jolyon uttered a queer sound, half laugh, half groan. "you are nineteen, jon, and i am seventy-two. how are we to understand each other in a matter like this, eh?" "you love mother, dad; you must know what we feel. it isn't fair to us to let old things spoil our happiness, is it?" brought face to face with his confession, jolyon resolved to do without it if by any means he could. he laid his hand on the boy's arm. "look, jon! i might put you off with talk about your both being too young and not knowing your own minds, and all that, but you wouldn't listen, besides, it doesn't meet the case--youth, unfortunately, cures itself. you talk lightly about 'old things like that,' knowing nothing--as you say truly--of what happened. now, have i ever given you reason to doubt my love for you, or my word?" at a less anxious moment he might have been amused by the conflict his words aroused--the boy's eager clasp, to reassure him on these points, the dread on his face of what that reassurance would bring forth; but he could only feel grateful for the squeeze. "very well, you can believe what i tell you. if you don't give up this love affair, you will make mother wretched to the end of her days. believe me, my dear, the past, whatever it was, can't be buried--it can't indeed." jon got off the arm of the chair. 'the girl'--thought jolyon--'there she goes--starting up before him --life itself--eager, pretty, loving!' "i can't, father; how can i--just because you say that? of course, i can't!" "jon, if you knew the story you would give this up without hesitation; you would have to! can't you believe me?" "how can you tell what i should think? father, i love her better than anything in the world." jolyon's face twitched, and he said with painful slowness: "better than your mother, jon?" from the boy's face, and his clenched fists jolyon realised the stress and struggle he was going through. "i don't know," he burst out, "i don't know! but to give fleur up for nothing--for something i don't understand, for something that i don't believe can really matter half so much, will make me--make me" "make you feel us unjust, put a barrier--yes. but that's better than going on with this." "i can't. fleur loves me, and i love her. you want me to trust you; why don't you trust me, father? we wouldn't want to know anything--we wouldn't let it make any difference. it'll only make us both love you and mother all the more." jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out again empty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth. "think what your mother's been to you, jon! she has nothing but you; i shan't last much longer." "why not? it isn't fair to--why not?" "well," said jolyon, rather coldly, "because the doctors tell me i shan't; that's all." "oh, dad!" cried jon, and burst into tears. this downbreak of his son, whom he had not seen cry since he was ten, moved jolyon terribly. he recognised to the full how fearfully soft the boy's heart was, how much he would suffer in this business, and in life generally. and he reached out his hand helplessly--not wishing, indeed not daring to get up. "dear man," he said, "don't--or you'll make me!" jon smothered down his paroxysm, and stood with face averted, very still. 'what now?' thought jolyon. 'what can i say to move him?' "by the way, don't speak of that to mother," he said; "she has enough to frighten her with this affair of yours. i know how you feel. but, jon, you know her and me well enough to be sure we wouldn't wish to spoil your happiness lightly. why, my dear boy, we don't care for anything but your happiness--at least, with me it's just yours and mother's and with her just yours. it's all the future for you both that's at stake." jon turned. his face was deadly pale; his eyes, deep in his head, seemed to burn. "what is it? what is it? don't keep me like this!" jolyon, who knew that he was beaten, thrust his hand again into his breast pocket, and sat for a full minute, breathing with difficulty, his eyes closed. the thought passed through his mind: 'i've had a good long innings--some pretty bitter moments--this is the worst!' then he brought his hand out with the letter, and said with a sort of fatigue: "well, jon, if you hadn't come to-day, i was going to send you this. i wanted to spare you--i wanted to spare your mother and myself, but i see it's no good. read it, and i think i'll go into the garden." he reached forward to get up. jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly, "no, i'll go"; and was gone. jolyon sank back in his chair. a blue-bottle chose that moment to come buzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, better than nothing.... where had the boy gone to read his letter? the wretched letter--the wretched story! a cruel business--cruel to her--to soames--to those two children--to himself!... his heart thumped and pained him. life--its loves--its work--its beauty--its aching, and--its end! a good time; a fine time in spite of all; until--you regretted that you had ever been born. life--it wore you down, yet did not make you want to die--that was the cunning evil! mistake to have a heart! again the blue-bottle came buzzing--bringing in all the heat and hum and scent of summer--yes, even the scent--as of ripe fruits, dried grasses, sappy shrubs, and the vanilla breath of cows. and out there somewhere in the fragrance jon would be reading that letter, turning and twisting its pages in his trouble, his bewilderment and trouble--breaking his heart about it! the thought made jolyon acutely miserable. jon was such a tender-hearted chap, affectionate to his bones, and conscientious, too--it was so unfair, so damned unfair! he remembered irene saying to him once: "never was any one born more loving and lovable than jon." poor little jon! his world gone up the spout, all of a summer afternoon! youth took things so hard! and stirred, tormented by that vision of youth taking things hard, jolyon got out of his chair, and went to the window. the boy was nowhere visible. and he passed out. if one could take any help to him now--one must! he traversed the shrubbery, glanced into the walled garden--no jon! nor where the peaches and the apricots were beginning to swell and colour. he passed the cupressus trees, dark and spiral, into the meadow. where had the boy got to? had he rushed down to the coppice--his old hunting-ground? jolyon crossed the rows of hay. they would cock it on monday and be carrying the day after, if rain held off. often they had crossed this field together--hand in hand, when jon was a little chap. dash it! the golden age was over by the time one was ten! he came to the pond, where flies and gnats were dancing over a bright reedy surface; and on into the coppice. it was cool there, fragrant of larches. still no jon! he called. no answer! on the log seat he sat down, nervous, anxious, forgetting his own physical sensations. he had been wrong to let the boy get away with that letter; he ought to have kept him under his eye from the start! greatly troubled, he got up to retrace his steps. at the farm-buildings he called again, and looked into the dark cow-house. there in the cool, and the scent of vanilla and ammonia, away from flies, the three alderneys were chewing the quiet cud; just milked, waiting for evening, to be turned out again into the lower field. one turned a lazy head, a lustrous eye; jolyon could see the slobber on its grey lower lip. he saw everything with passionate clearness, in the agitation of his nerves--all that in his time he had adored and tried to paint--wonder of light and shade and colour. no wonder the legend put christ into a manger--what more devotional than the eyes and moon-white horns of a chewing cow in the warm dusk! he called again. no answer! and he hurried away out of the coppice, past the pond, up the hill. oddly ironical--now he came to think of it--if jon had taken the gruel of his discovery down in the coppice where his mother and bosinney in those old days had made the plunge of acknowledging their love. where he himself, on the log seat the sunday morning he came back from paris, had realised to the full that irene had become the world to him. that would have been the place for irony to tear the veil from before the eyes of irene's boy! but he was not here! where had he got to? one must find the poor chap! a gleam of sun had come, sharpening to his hurrying senses all the beauty of the afternoon, of the tall trees and lengthening shadows, of the blue, and the white clouds, the scent of the hay, and the cooing of the pigeons; and the flower shapes standing tall. he came to the rosery, and the beauty of the roses in that sudden sunlight seemed to him unearthly. "rose, you spaniard!" wonderful three words! there she had stood by that bush of dark red roses; had stood to read and decide that jon must know it all! he knew all now! had she chosen wrong? he bent and sniffed a rose, its petals brushed his nose and trembling lips; nothing so soft as a rose-leaf's velvet, except her neck--irene! on across the lawn he went, up the slope, to the oak-tree. its top alone was glistening, for the sudden sun was away over the house; the lower shade was thick, blessedly cool--he was greatly overheated. he paused a minute with his hand on the rope of the swing--jolly, holly--jon! the old swing! and suddenly, he felt horribly--deadly ill. 'i've over done it!' he thought: 'by jove! i've overdone it--after all!' he staggered up toward the terrace, dragged himself up the steps, and fell against the wall of the house. he leaned there gasping, his face buried in the honey-suckle that he and she had taken such trouble with that it might sweeten the air which drifted in. its fragrance mingled with awful pain. 'my love!' he thought; 'the boy!' and with a great effort he tottered in through the long window, and sank into old jolyon's chair. the book was there, a pencil in it; he caught it up, scribbled a word on the open page.... his hand dropped.... so it was like this--was it?... there was a great wrench; and darkness.... iii irene when jon rushed away with the letter in his hand, he ran along the terrace and round the corner of the house, in fear and confusion. leaning against the creepered wall he tore open the letter. it was long--very long! this added to his fear, and he began reading. when he came to the words: "it was fleur's father that she married," everything seemed to spin before him. he was close to a window, and entering by it, he passed, through music-room and hall, up to his bedroom. dipping his face in cold water, he sat on his bed, and went on reading, dropping each finished page on the bed beside him. his father's writing was easy to read--he knew it so well, though he had never had a letter from him one quarter so long. he read with a dull feeling--imagination only half at work. he best grasped, on that first reading, the pain his father must have had in writing such a letter. he let the last sheet fall, and in a sort of mental, moral helplessness began to read the first again. it all seemed to him disgusting--dead and disgusting. then, suddenly, a hot wave of horrified emotion tingled through him. he buried his face in his hands. his mother! fleur's father! he took up the letter again, and read on mechanically. and again came the feeling that it was all dead and disgusting; his own love so different! this letter said his mother--and her father! an awful letter! property! could there be men who looked on women as their property? faces seen in street and countryside came thronging up before him--red, stock-fish faces; hard, dull faces; prim, dry faces; violent faces; hundreds, thousands of them! how could he know what men who had such faces thought and did? he held his head in his hands and groaned. his mother! he caught up the letter and read on again: "horror and aversion-alive in her to-day.... your children.... grandchildren.... of a man who once owned your mother as a man might own a slave...." he got up from his bed. this cruel shadowy past, lurking there to murder his love and fleur's, was true, or his father could never have written it. 'why didn't they tell me the first thing,' he thought, 'the day i first saw fleur? they knew i'd seen her. they were afraid, and--now--i've--got it!' overcome by misery too acute for thought or reason, he crept into a dusky corner of the room and sat down on the floor. he sat there, like some unhappy little animal. there was comfort in dusk, and the floor--as if he were back in those days when he played his battles sprawling all over it. he sat there huddled, his hair ruffled, his hands clasped round his knees, for how long he did not know. he was wrenched from his blank wretchedness by the sound of the door opening from his mother's room. the blinds were down over the windows of his room, shut up in his absence, and from where he sat he could only hear a rustle, her footsteps crossing, till beyond the bed he saw her standing before his dressing-table. she had something in her hand. he hardly breathed, hoping she would not see him, and go away. he saw her touch things on the table as if they had some virtue in them, then face the window-grey from head to foot like a ghost. the least turn of her head, and she must see him! her lips moved: "oh! jon!" she was speaking to herself; the tone of her voice troubled jon's heart. he saw in her hand a little photograph. she held it toward the light, looking at it--very small. he knew it--one of himself as a tiny boy, which she always kept in her bag. his heart beat fast. and, suddenly as if she had heard it, she turned her eyes and saw him. at the gasp she gave, and the movement of her hands pressing the photograph against her breast, he said: "yes, it's me." she moved over to the bed, and sat down on it, quite close to him, her hands still clasping her breast, her feet among the sheets of the letter which had slipped to the floor. she saw them, and her hands grasped the edge of the bed. she sat very upright, her dark eyes fixed on him. at last she spoke. "well, jon, you know, i see." "yes." "you've seen father?" "yes." there was a long silence, till she said: "oh! my darling!" "it's all right." the emotions in him were so, violent and so mixed that he dared not move--resentment, despair, and yet a strange yearning for the comfort of her hand on his forehead. "what are you going to do?" "i don't know." there was another long silence, then she got up. she stood a moment, very still, made a little movement with her hand, and said: "my darling boy, my most darling boy, don't think of me--think of yourself," and, passing round the foot of the bed, went back into her room. jon turned--curled into a sort of ball, as might a hedgehog--into the corner made by the two walls. he must have been twenty minutes there before a cry roused him. it came from the terrace below. he got up, scared. again came the cry: "jon!" his mother was calling! he ran out and down the stairs, through the empty dining-room into the study. she was kneeling before the old armchair, and his father was lying back quite white, his head on his breast, one of his hands resting on an open book, with a pencil clutched in it--more strangely still than anything he had ever seen. she looked round wildly, and said: "oh! jon--he's dead--he's dead!" jon flung himself down, and reaching over the arm of the chair, where he had lately been sitting, put his lips to the forehead. icy cold! how could--how could dad be dead, when only an hour ago--! his mother's arms were round the knees; pressing her breast against them. "why--why wasn't i with him?" he heard her whisper. then he saw the tottering word "irene" pencilled on the open page, and broke down himself. it was his first sight of human death, and its unutterable stillness blotted from him all other emotion; all else, then, was but preliminary to this! all love and life, and joy, anxiety, and sorrow, all movement, light and beauty, but a beginning to this terrible white stillness. it made a dreadful mark on him; all seemed suddenly little, futile, short. he mastered himself at last, got up, and raised her. "mother! don't cry--mother!" some hours later, when all was done that had to be, and his mother was lying down, he saw his father alone, on the bed, covered with a white sheet. he stood for a long time gazing at that face which had never looked angry--always whimsical, and kind. "to be kind and keep your end up--there's nothing else in it," he had once heard his father say. how wonderfully dad had acted up to that philosophy! he understood now that his father had known for a long time past that this would come suddenly--known, and not said a word. he gazed with an awed and passionate reverence. the loneliness of it--just to spare his mother and himself! his own trouble seemed small while he was looking at that face. the word scribbled on the page! the farewell word! now his mother had no one but himself! he went up close to the dead face--not changed at all, and yet completely changed. he had heard his father say once that he did not believe in consciousness surviving death, or that if it did it might be just survival till the natural age limit of the body had been reached--the natural term of its inherent vitality; so that if the body were broken by accident, excess, violent disease, consciousness might still persist till, in the course of nature uninterfered with, it would naturally have faded out. it had struck him because he had never heard any one else suggest it. when the heart failed like this--surely it was not quite natural! perhaps his father's consciousness was in the room with him. above the bed hung a picture of his father's father. perhaps his consciousness, too, was still alive; and his brother's--his half-brother, who had died in the transvaal. were they all gathered round this bed? jon kissed the forehead, and stole back to his own room. the door between it and his mother's was ajar; she had evidently been in--everything was ready for him, even some biscuits and hot milk, and the letter no longer on the floor. he ate and drank, watching the last light fade. he did not try to see into the future--just stared at the dark branches of the oak-tree, level with his window, and felt as if life had stopped. once in the night, turning in his heavy sleep, he was conscious of something white and still, beside his bed, and started up. his mother's voice said: "it's only i, jon dear!" her hand pressed his forehead gently back; her white figure disappeared. alone! he fell heavily asleep again, and dreamed he saw his mother's name crawling on his bed. iv soames cogitates the announcement in the times of his cousin jolyon's death affected soames quite simply. so that chap was gone! there had never been a time in their two lives when love had not been lost between them. that quick-blooded sentiment hatred had run its course long since in soames' heart, and he had refused to allow any recrudescence, but he considered this early decease a piece of poetic justice. for twenty years the fellow had enjoyed the reversion of his wife and house, and--he was dead! the obituary notice, which appeared a little later, paid jolyon--he thought--too much attention. it spoke of that "diligent and agreeable painter whose work we have come to look on as typical of the best late-victorian water-colour art." soames, who had almost mechanically preferred mole, morpin, and caswell baye, and had always sniffed quite audibly when he came to one of his cousin's on the line, turned the times with a crackle. he had to go up to town that morning on forsyte affairs, and was fully conscious of gradman's glance sidelong over his spectacles. the old clerk had about him an aura of regretful congratulation. he smelled, as it were, of old days. one could almost hear him thinking: "mr. jolyon, ye-es--just my age, and gone--dear, dear! i dare say she feels it. she was a mice-lookin' woman. flesh is flesh! they've given 'im a notice in the papers. fancy!" his atmosphere in fact caused soames to handle certain leases and conversions with exceptional swiftness. "about that settlement on miss fleur, mr. soames?" "i've thought better of that," answered soames shortly. "ah! i'm glad of that. i thought you were a little hasty. the times do change." how this death would affect fleur had begun to trouble soames. he was not certain that she knew of it--she seldom looked at the paper, never at the births, marriages, and deaths. he pressed matters on, and made his way to green street for lunch. winifred was almost doleful. jack cardigan had broken a splashboard, so far as one could make out, and would not be "fit" for some time. she could not get used to the idea. "did profond ever get off?" he said suddenly. "he got off," replied winifred, "but where--i don't know." yes, there it was--impossible to tell anything! not that he wanted to know. letters from annette were coming from dieppe, where she and her mother were staying. "you saw that fellow's death, i suppose?" "yes," said winifred. "i'm sorry for--for his children. he was very amiable." soames uttered a rather queer sound. a suspicion of the old deep truth--that men were judged in this world rather by what they were than by what they did--crept and knocked resentfully at the back doors of his mind. "i know there was a superstition to that effect," he muttered. "one must do him justice now he's dead." "i should like to have done him justice before," said soames; "but i never had the chance. have you got a 'baronetage' here?" "yes; in that bottom row." soames took out a fat red book, and ran over the leaves. "mont-sir lawrence, th bt., cr. , e. s. of geoffrey, th bt., and lavinia, daur. of sir charles muskham, bt., of muskham hall, shrops: marr. emily, daur. of conway charwell, esq., of condaford grange, co. oxon; son, heir michael conway, b. , daurs. residence: lippinghall manor, folwell, bucks. clubs: snooks': coffee house: aeroplane. see bidiicott." "h'm!" he said. "did you ever know a publisher?" "uncle timothy." "alive, i mean." "monty knew one at his club. he brought him here to dinner once. monty was always thinking of writing a book, you know, about how to make money on the turf. he tried to interest that man." "well?" "he put him on to a horse--for the two thousand. we didn't see him again. he was rather smart, if i remember." "did it win?" "no; it ran last, i think. you know monty really was quite clever in his way." "was he?" said soames. "can you see any connection between a sucking baronet and publishing?" "people do all sorts of things nowadays," replied winifred. "the great stunt seems not to be idle--so different from our time. to do nothing was the thing then. but i suppose it'll come again." "this young mont that i'm speaking of is very sweet on fleur. if it would put an end to that other affair i might encourage it." "has he got style?" asked winifred. "he's no beauty; pleasant enough, with some scattered brains. there's a good deal of land, i believe. he seems genuinely attached. but i don't know." "no," murmured winifred; "it's--very difficult. i always found it best to do nothing. it is such a bore about jack; now we shan't get away till after bank holiday. well, the people are always amusing, i shall go into the park and watch them." "if i were you," said soames, "i should have a country cottage, and be out of the way of holidays and strikes when you want." "the country bores me," answered winifred, "and i found the railway strike quite exciting." winifred had always been noted for sang-froid. soames took his leave. all the way down to reading he debated whether he should tell fleur of that boy's father's death. it did not alter the situation except that he would be independent now, and only have his mother's opposition to encounter. he would come into a lot of money, no doubt, and perhaps the house--the house built for irene and himself--the house whose architect had wrought his domestic ruin. his daughter--mistress of that house! that would be poetic justice! soames uttered a little mirthless laugh. he had designed that house to re-establish his failing union, meant it for the seat of his descendants, if he could have induced irene to give him one! her son and fleur! their children would be, in some sort, offspring of the union between himself and her! the theatricality in that thought was repulsive to his sober sense. and yet--it would be the easiest and wealthiest way out of the impasse, now that jolyon was gone. the juncture of two forsyte fortunes had a kind of conservative charm. and she--irene-would be linked to him once more. nonsense! absurd! he put the notion from his head. on arriving home he heard the click of billiard-balls, and through the window saw young mont sprawling over the table. fleur, with her cue akimbo, was watching with a smile. how pretty she looked! no wonder that young fellow was out of his mind about her. a title--land! there was little enough in land, these days; perhaps less in a title. the old forsytes had always had a kind of contempt for titles, rather remote and artificial things--not worth the money they cost, and having to do with the court. they had all had that feeling in differing measure--soames remembered. swithin, indeed, in his most expansive days had once attended a levee. he had come away saying he shouldn't go again--"all that small fry." it was suspected that he had looked too big in knee-breeches. soames remembered how his own mother had wished to be presented because of the fashionable nature of the performance, and how his father had put his foot down with unwonted decision. what did she want with that peacocking--wasting time and money; there was nothing in it! the instinct which had made and kept the english commons the chief power in the state, a feeling that their own world was good enough and a little better than any other because it was their world, had kept the old forsytes singularly free of "flummery," as nicholas had been wont to call it when he had the gout. soames' generation, more self-conscious and ironical, had been saved by a sense of swithin in knee-breeches. while the third and the fourth generation, as it seemed to him, laughed at everything. however, there was no harm in the young fellow's being heir to a title and estate--a thing one couldn't help. he entered quietly, as mont missed his shot. he noted the young man's eyes, fixed on fleur bending over in her turn; and the adoration in them almost touched him. she paused with the cue poised on the bridge of her slim hand, and shook her crop of short dark chestnut hair. "i shall never do it." "'nothing venture.'" "all right." the cue struck, the ball rolled. "there!" "bad luck! never mind!" then they saw him, and soames said: "i'll mark for you." he sat down on the raised seat beneath the marker, trim and tired, furtively studying those two young faces. when the game was over mont came up to him. "i've started in, sir. rum game, business, isn't it? i suppose you saw a lot of human nature as a solicitor." "i did." "shall i tell you what i've noticed: people are quite on the wrong tack in offering less than they can afford to give; they ought to offer more, and work backward." soames raised his eyebrows. "suppose the more is accepted?" "that doesn't matter a little bit," said mont; "it's much more paying to abate a price than to increase it. for instance, say we offer an author good terms--he naturally takes them. then we go into it, find we can't publish at a decent profit and tell him so. he's got confidence in us because we've been generous to him, and he comes down like a lamb, and bears us no malice. but if we offer him poor terms at the start, he doesn't take them, so we have to advance them to get him, and he thinks us damned screws into the bargain. "try buying pictures on that system," said soames; "an offer accepted is a contract--haven't you learned that?" young mont turned his head to where fleur was standing in the window. "no," he said, "i wish i had. then there's another thing. always let a man off a bargain if he wants to be let off." "as advertisement?" said soames dryly. "of course it is; but i meant on principle." "does your firm work on those lines?" "not yet," said mont, "but it'll come." "and they will go." "no, really, sir. i'm making any number of observations, and they all confirm my theory. human nature is consistently underrated in business, people do themselves out of an awful lot of pleasure and profit by that. of course, you must be perfectly genuine and open, but that's easy if you feel it. the more human and generous you are the better chance you've got in business." soames rose. "are you a partner?" "not for six months, yet." "the rest of the firm had better make haste and retire." mont laughed. "you'll see," he said. "there's going to be a big change. the possessive principle has got its shutters up." "what?" said soames. "the house is to let! good-bye, sir; i'm off now." soames watched his daughter give her hand, saw her wince at the squeeze it received, and distinctly heard the young man's sigh as he passed out. then she came from the window, trailing her finger along the mahogany edge of the billiard-table. watching her, soames knew that she was going to ask him something. her finger felt round the last pocket, and she looked up. "have you done anything to stop jon writing to me, father?" soames shook his head. "you haven't seen, then?" he said. "his father died just a week ago to-day." "oh!" in her startled, frowning face he saw the instant struggle to apprehend what this would mean. "poor jon! why didn't you tell me, father?" "i never know!" said soames slowly; "you don't confide in me." "i would, if you'd help me, dear." "perhaps i shall." fleur clasped her hands. "oh! darling--when one wants a thing fearfully, one doesn't think of other people. don't be angry with me." soames put out his hand, as if pushing away an aspersion. "i'm cogitating," he said. what on earth had made him use a word like that! "has young mont been bothering you again?" fleur smiled. "oh! michael! he's always bothering; but he's such a good sort--i don't mind him." "well," said soames, "i'm tired; i shall go and have a nap before dinner." he went up to his picture-gallery, lay down on the couch there, and closed his eyes. a terrible responsibility this girl of his--whose mother was--ah! what was she? a terrible responsibility! help her--how could he help her? he could not alter the fact that he was her father. or that irene--! what was it young mont had said--some nonsense about the possessive instinct--shutters up--to let? silly! the sultry air, charged with a scent of meadow-sweet, of river and roses, closed on his senses, drowsing them. v the fixed idea "the fixed idea," which has outrun more constables than any other form of human disorder, has never more speed and stamina than when it takes the avid guise of love. to hedges and ditches, and doors, to humans without ideas fixed or otherwise, to perambulators and the contents sucking their fixed ideas, even to the other sufferers from this fast malady--the fixed idea of love pays no attention. it runs with eyes turned inward to its own light, oblivious of all other stars. those with the fixed ideas that human happiness depends on their art, on vivisecting dogs, on hating foreigners, on paying supertax, on remaining ministers, on making wheels go round, on preventing their neighbours from being divorced, on conscientious objection, greek roots, church dogma, paradox and superiority to everybody else, with other forms of ego-mania--all are unstable compared with him or her whose fixed idea is the possession of some her or him. and though fleur, those chilly summer days, pursued the scattered life of a little forsyte whose frocks are paid for, and whose business is pleasure, she was--as winifred would have said in the latest fashion of speech--"honest to god" indifferent to it all. she wished and wished for the moon, which sailed in cold skies above the river or the green park when she went to town. she even kept jon's letters, covered with pink silk, on her heart, than which in days when corsets were so low, sentiment so despised, and chests so out of fashion, there could, perhaps, have been no greater proof of the fixity of her idea. after hearing of his father's death, she wrote to jon, and received his answer three days later on her return from a river picnic. it was his first letter since their meeting at june's. she opened it with misgiving, and read it with dismay. "since i saw you i've heard everything about the past. i won't tell it you--i think you knew when we met at june's. she says you did. if you did, fleur, you ought to have told me. i expect you only heard your father's side of it. i have heard my mother's. it's dreadful. now that she's so sad i can't do anything to hurt her more. of course, i long for you all day, but i don't believe now that we shall ever come together--there's something too strong pulling us apart." so! her deception had found her out. but jon--she felt--had forgiven that. it was what he said of his mother which caused the guttering in her heart and the weak sensation in her legs. her first impulse was to reply--her second, not to reply. these impulses were constantly renewed in the days which followed, while desperation grew within her. she was not her father's child for nothing. the tenacity which had at once made and undone soames was her backbone, too, frilled and embroidered by french grace and quickness. instinctively she conjugated the verb "to have" always with the pronoun "i." she concealed, however, all signs of her growing desperation, and pursued such river pleasures as the winds and rain of a disagreeable july permitted, as if she had no care in the world; nor did any "sucking baronet" ever neglect the business of a publisher more consistently than her attendant spirit, michael mont. to soames she was a puzzle. he was almost deceived by this careless gaiety. almost--because he did not fail to mark her eyes often fixed on nothing, and the film of light shining from her bedroom window late at night. what was she thinking and brooding over into small hours when she ought to have been asleep? but he dared not ask what was in her mind; and, since that one little talk in the billiard-room, she said nothing to him. in this taciturn condition of affairs it chanced that winifred invited them to lunch and to go afterward to "a most amusing little play, 'the beggar's opera'" and would they bring a man to make four? soames, whose attitude toward theatres was to go to nothing, accepted, because fleur's attitude was to go to everything. they motored up, taking michael mont, who, being in his seventh heaven, was found by winifred "very amusing." "the beggar's opera" puzzled soames. the people were very unpleasant, the whole thing very cynical. winifred was "intrigued"--by the dresses. the music, too, did not displease her. at the opera, the night before, she had arrived too early for the russian ballet, and found the stage occupied by singers, for a whole hour pale or apoplectic from terror lest by some dreadful inadvertence they might drop into a tune. michael mont was enraptured with the whole thing. and all three wondered what fleur was thinking of it. but fleur was not thinking of it. her fixed idea stood on the stage and sang with polly peachum, mimed with filch, danced with jenny diver, postured with lucy lockit, kissed, trolled, and cuddled with macheath. her lips might smile, her hands applaud, but the comic old masterpiece made no more impression on her than if it had been pathetic, like a modern "revue." when they embarked in the car to return, she ached because jon was not sitting next her instead of michael mont. when, at some jolt, the young man's arm touched hers as if by accident, she only thought: 'if that were jon's arm!' when his cheerful voice, tempered by her proximity, murmured above the sound of the car's progress, she smiled and answered, thinking: 'if that were jon's voice!' and when once he said, "fleur, you look a perfect angel in that dress!" she answered, "oh, do you like it?" thinking, 'if only jon could see it!' during this drive she took a resolution. she would go to robin hill and see him--alone; she would take the car, without word beforehand to him or to her father. it was nine days since his letter, and she could wait no longer. on monday she would go! the decision made her well disposed toward young mont. with something to look forward to she could afford to tolerate and respond. he might stay to dinner; propose to her as usual; dance with her, press her hand, sigh--do what he liked. he was only a nuisance when he interfered with her fixed idea. she was even sorry for him so far as it was possible to be sorry for anybody but herself just now. at dinner he seemed to talk more wildly than usual about what he called "the death of the close borough"--she paid little attention, but her father seemed paying a good deal, with the smile on his face which meant opposition, if not anger. "the younger generation doesn't think as you do, sir; does it, fleur?" fleur shrugged her shoulders--the younger generation was just jon, and she did not know what he was thinking. "young people will think as i do when they're my age, mr. mont. human nature doesn't change." "i admit that, sir; but the forms of thought change with the times. the pursuit of self-interest is a form of thought that's going out." "indeed! to mind one's own business is not a form of thought, mr. mont, it's an instinct." yes, when jon was the business! "but what is one's business, sir? that's the point. everybody's business is going to be one's business. isn't it, fleur?" fleur only smiled. "if not," added young mont, "there'll be blood." "people have talked like that from time immemorial" "but you'll admit, sir, that the sense of property is dying out?" "i should say increasing among those who have none." "well, look at me! i'm heir to an entailed estate. i don't want the thing; i'd cut the entail to-morrow." "you're not married, and you don't know what you're talking about." fleur saw the young man's eyes turn rather piteously upon her. "do you really mean that marriage--?" he began. "society is built on marriage," came from between her father's close lips; "marriage and its consequences. do you want to do away with it?" young mont made a distracted gesture. silence brooded over the dinner table, covered with spoons bearing the forsyte crest--a pheasant proper--under the electric light in an alabaster globe. and outside, the river evening darkened, charged with heavy moisture and sweet scents. 'monday,' thought fleur; 'monday!' vi desperate the weeks which followed the death of his father were sad and empty to the only jolyon forsyte left. the necessary forms and ceremonies --the reading of the will, valuation of the estate, distribution of the legacies--were enacted over the head, as it were, of one not yet of age. jolyon was cremated. by his special wish no one attended that ceremony, or wore black for him. the succession of his property, controlled to some extent by old jolyon's will, left his widow in possession of robin hill, with two thousand five hundred pounds a year for life. apart from this the two wills worked together in some complicated way to insure that each of jolyon's three children should have an equal share in their grandfather's and father's property in the future as in the present, save only that jon, by virtue of his sex, would have control of his capital when he was twenty-one, while june and holly would only have the spirit of theirs, in order that their children might have the body after them. if they had no children, it would all come to jon if he outlived them; and since june was fifty, and holly nearly forty, it was considered in lincoln's inn fields that but for the cruelty of income tax, young jon would be as warm a man as his grandfather when he died. all this was nothing to jon, and little enough to his mother. it was june who did everything needful for one who had left his affairs in perfect order. when she had gone, and those two were alone again in the great house, alone with death drawing them together, and love driving them apart, jon passed very painful days secretly disgusted and disappointed with himself. his mother would look at him with such a patient sadness which yet had in it an instinctive pride, as if she were reserving her defence. if she smiled he was angry that his answering smile should be so grudging and unnatural. he did not judge or condemn her; that was all too remote--indeed, the idea of doing so had never come to him. no! he was grudging and unnatural because he couldn't have what he wanted be cause of her. there was one alleviation--much to do in connection with his father's career, which could not be safely entrusted to june, though she had offered to undertake it. both jon and his mother had felt that if she took his portfolios, unexhibited drawings and unfinished matter, away with her, the work would encounter such icy blasts from paul post and other frequenters of her studio, that it would soon be frozen out even of her warm heart. on its old-fashioned plane and of its kind the work was good, and they could not bear the thought of its subjection to ridicule. a one-man exhibition of his work was the least testimony they could pay to one they had loved; and on preparation for this they spent many hours together. jon came to have a curiously increased respect for his father. the quiet tenacity with which he had converted a mediocre talent into something really individual was disclosed by these researches. there was a great mass of work with a rare continuity of growth in depth and reach of vision. nothing certainly went very deep, or reached very high--but such as the work was, it was thorough, conscientious, and complete. and, remembering his father's utter absence of "side" or self-assertion, the chaffing humility with which he had always spoken of his own efforts, ever calling himself "an amateur," jon could not help feeling that he had never really known his father. to take himself seriously, yet never bore others by letting them know that he did so, seemed to have been his ruling principle. there was something in this which appealed to the boy, and made him heartily endorse his mother's comment: "he had true refinement; he couldn't help thinking of others, whatever he did. and when he took a resolution which went counter, he did it with the minimum of defiance--not like the age, is it? twice in his life he had to go against everything; and yet it never made him bitter." jon saw tears running down her face, which she at once turned away from him. she was so quiet about her loss that sometimes he had thought she didn't feel it much. now, as he looked at her, he felt how far he fell short of the reserve power and dignity in both his father and his mother. and, stealing up to her, he put his arm round her waist. she kissed him swiftly, but with a sort of passion, and went out of the room. the studio, where they had been sorting and labelling, had once been holly's schoolroom, devoted to her silkworms, dried lavender, music, and other forms of instruction. now, at the end of july, despite its northern and eastern aspects, a warm and slumberous air came in between the long-faded lilac linen curtains. to redeem a little the departed glory, as of a field that is golden and gone, clinging to a room which its master has left, irene had placed on the paint-stained table a bowl of red roses. this, and jolyon's favourite cat, who still clung to the deserted habitat, were the pleasant spots in that dishevelled, sad workroom. jon, at the north window, sniffing air mysteriously scented with warm strawberries, heard a car drive up. the lawyers again about some nonsense! why did that scent so make one ache? and where did it come from--there were no strawberry beds on this side of the house. instinctively he took a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, and wrote down some broken words. a warmth began spreading in his chest; he rubbed the palms of his hands together. presently he had jotted this: "if i could make a little song a little song to soothe my heart! i'd make it all of little things the plash of water, rub of wings, the puffing-off of dandies crown, the hiss of raindrop spilling down, the purr of cat, the trill of bird, and ev'ry whispering i've heard from willy wind in leaves and grass, and all the distant drones that pass. a song as tender and as light as flower, or butterfly in flight; and when i saw it opening, i'd let it fly and sing!" he was still muttering it over to himself at the window, when he heard his name called, and, turning round, saw fleur. at that amazing apparition, he made at first no movement and no sound, while her clear vivid glance ravished his heart. then he went forward to the table, saying, "how nice of you to come!" and saw her flinch as if he had thrown something at her. "i asked for you," she said, "and they showed me up here. but i can go away again." jon clutched the paint-stained table. her face and figure in its frilly frock photographed itself with such startling vividness upon his eyes, that if she had sunk through the floor he must still have seen her. "i know i told you a lie, jon. but i told it out of love." "yes, oh! yes! that's nothing!" "i didn't answer your letter. what was the use--there wasn't anything to answer. i wanted to see you instead." she held out both her hands, and jon grasped them across the table. he tried to say something, but all his attention was given to trying not to hurt her hands. his own felt so hard and hers so soft. she said almost defiantly: "that old story--was it so very dreadful?" "yes." in his voice, too, there was a note of defiance. she dragged her hands away. "i didn't think in these days boys were tied to their mothers' apron-strings." jon's chin went up as if he had been struck. "oh! i didn't mean it, jon. what a horrible thing to say!" swiftly she came close to him. "jon, dear; i didn't mean it." "all right." she had put her two hands on his shoulder, and her forehead down on them; the brim of her hat touched his neck, and he felt it quivering. but, in a sort of paralysis, he made no response. she let go of his shoulder and drew away. "well, i'll go, if you don't want me. but i never thought you'd have given me up." "i haven't," cried jon, coming suddenly to life. "i can't. i'll try again." her eyes gleamed, she swayed toward him. "jon--i love you! don't give me up! if you do, i don't know what--i feel so desperate. what does it matter--all that past-compared with this?" she clung to him. he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. but while he kissed her he saw, the sheets of that letter fallen down on the floor of his bedroom--his father's white dead face--his mother kneeling before it. fleur's whispered, "make her! promise! oh! jon, try!" seemed childish in his ear. he felt curiously old. "i promise!" he muttered. "only, you don't understand." "she wants to spoil our lives, just because--" "yes, of what?" again that challenge in his voice, and she did not answer. her arms tightened round him, and he returned her kisses; but even while he yielded, the poison worked in him, the poison of the letter. fleur did not know, she did not understand--she misjudged his mother; she came from the enemy's camp! so lovely, and he loved her so--yet, even in her embrace, he could not help the memory of holly's words: "i think she has a 'having' nature," and his mother's "my darling boy, don't think of me--think of yourself!" when she was gone like a passionate dream, leaving her image on his eyes, her kisses on his lips, such an ache in his heart, jon leaned in the window, listening to the car bearing her away. still the scent as of warm strawberries, still the little summer sounds that should make his song; still all the promise of youth and happiness in sighing, floating, fluttering july--and his heart torn; yearning strong in him; hope high in him yet with its eyes cast down, as if ashamed. the miserable task before him! if fleur was desperate, so was he--watching the poplars swaying, the white clouds passing, the sunlight on the grass. he waited till evening, till after their almost silent dinner, till his mother had played to him and still he waited, feeling that she knew what he was waiting to say. she kissed him and went up-stairs, and still he lingered, watching the moonlight and the moths, and that unreality of colouring which steals along and stains a summer night. and he would have given anything to be back again in the past--barely three months back; or away forward, years, in the future. the present with this dark cruelty of a decision, one way or the other, seemed impossible. he realised now so much more keenly what his mother felt than he had at first; as if the story in that letter had been a poisonous germ producing a kind of fever of partisanship, so that he really felt there were two camps, his mother's and his--fleur's and her father's. it might be a dead thing, that old tragic ownership and enmity, but dead things were poisonous till time had cleaned them away. even his love felt tainted, less illusioned, more of the earth, and with a treacherous lurking doubt lest fleur, like her father, might want to own; not articulate, just a stealing haunt, horribly unworthy, which crept in and about the ardour of his memories, touched with its tarnishing breath the vividness and grace of that charmed face and figure--a doubt, not real enough to convince him of its presence, just real enough to deflower a perfect faith. and perfect faith, to jon, not yet twenty, was essential. he still had youth's eagerness to give with both hands, to take with neither--to give lovingly to one who had his own impulsive generosity. surely she had! he got up from the window-seat and roamed in the big grey ghostly room, whose walls were hung with silvered canvas. this house his father said in that death-bed letter--had been built for his mother to live in--with fleur's father! he put out his hand in the half-dark, as if to grasp the shadowy hand of the dead. he clenched, trying to feel the thin vanished fingers of his father; to squeeze them, and reassure him that he--he was on his father's side. tears, prisoned within him, made his eyes feel dry and hot. he went back to the window. it was warmer, not so eerie, more comforting outside, where the moon hung golden, three days off full; the freedom of the night was comforting. if only fleur and he had met on some desert island without a past--and nature for their house! jon had still his high regard for desert islands, where breadfruit grew, and the water was blue above the coral. the night was deep, was free--there was enticement in it; a lure, a promise, a refuge from entanglement, and love! milksop tied to his mother's...! his cheeks burned. he shut the window, drew curtains over it, switched off the lighted sconce, and went up-stairs. the door of his room was open, the light turned up; his mother, still in her evening gown, was standing at the window. she turned and said: "sit down, jon; let's talk." she sat down on the window-seat, jon on his bed. she had her profile turned to him, and the beauty and grace of her figure, the delicate line of the brow, the nose, the neck, the strange and as it were remote refinement of her, moved him. his mother never belonged to her surroundings. she came into them from somewhere--as it were! what was she going to say to him, who had in his heart such things to say to her? "i know fleur came to-day. i'm not surprised." it was as though she had added: "she is her father's daughter!" and jon's heart hardened. irene went on quietly: "i have father's letter. i picked it up that night and kept it. would you like it back, dear?" jon shook his head. "i had read it, of course, before he gave it to you. it didn't quite do justice to my criminality." "mother!" burst from jon's lips. "he put it very sweetly, but i know that in marrying fleur's father without love i did a dreadful thing. an unhappy marriage, jon, can play such havoc with other lives besides one's own. you are fearfully young, my darling, and fearfully loving. do you think you can possibly be happy with this girl?" staring at her dark eyes, darker now from pain, jon answered "yes; oh! yes--if you could be." irene smiled. "admiration of beauty and longing for possession are not love. if yours were another case like mine, jon--where the deepest things are stifled; the flesh joined, and the spirit at war!" "why should it, mother? you think she must be like her father, but she's not. i've seen him." again the smile came on irene's lips, and in jon something wavered; there was such irony and experience in that smile. "you are a giver, jon; she is a taker." that unworthy doubt, that haunting uncertainty again! he said with vehemence: "she isn't--she isn't. it's only because i can't bear to make you unhappy, mother, now that father--" he thrust his fists against his forehead. irene got up. "i told you that night, dear, not to mind me. i meant it. think of yourself and your own happiness! i can stand what's left--i've brought it on myself." again the word "mother!" burst from jon's lips. she came over to him and put her hands over his. "do you feel your head, darling?" jon shook it. what he felt was in his chest--a sort of tearing asunder of the tissue there, by the two loves. "i shall always love you the same, jon, whatever you do. you won't lose anything." she smoothed his hair gently, and walked away. he heard the door shut; and, rolling over on the bed, lay, stifling his breath, with an awful held-up feeling within him. vii embassy enquiring for her at tea time soames learned that fleur had been out in the car since two. three hours! where had she gone? up to london without a word to him? he had never become quite reconciled with cars. he had embraced them in principle--like the born empiricist, or forsyte, that he was--adopting each symptom of progress as it came along with: "well, we couldn't do without them now." but in fact he found them tearing, great, smelly things. obliged by annette to have one--a rollhard with pearl-grey cushions, electric light, little mirrors, trays for the ashes of cigarettes, flower vases--all smelling of petrol and stephanotis--he regarded it much as he used to regard his brother-in-law, montague dartie. the thing typified all that was fast, insecure, and subcutaneously oily in modern life. as modern life became faster, looser, younger, soames was becoming older, slower, tighter, more and more in thought and language like his father james before him. he was almost aware of it himself. pace and progress pleased him less and less; there was an ostentation, too, about a car which he considered provocative in the prevailing mood of labour. on one occasion that fellow sims had driven over the only vested interest of a working man. soames had not forgotten the behaviour of its master, when not many people would have stopped to put up with it. he had been sorry for the dog, and quite prepared to take its part against the car, if that ruffian hadn't been so outrageous. with four hours fast becoming five, and still no fleur, all the old car-wise feelings he had experienced in person and by proxy balled within him, and sinking sensations troubled the pit of his stomach. at seven he telephoned to winifred by trunk call. no! fleur had not been to green street. then where was she? visions of his beloved daughter rolled up in her pretty frills, all blood and dust-stained, in some hideous catastrophe, began to haunt him. he went to her room and spied among her things. she had taken nothing--no dressing-case, no jewellery. and this, a relief in one sense, increased his fears of an accident. terrible to be helpless when his loved one was missing, especially when he couldn't bear fuss or publicity of any kind! what should he do if she were not back by nightfall? at a quarter to eight he heard the car. a great weight lifted from off his heart; he hurried down. she was getting out--pale and tired-looking, but nothing wrong. he met her in the hall. "you've frightened me. where have you been?" "to robin hill. i'm sorry, dear. i had to go; i'll tell you afterward." and, with a flying kiss, she ran up-stairs. soames waited in the drawing-room. to robin hill! what did that portend? it was not a subject they could discuss at dinner--consecrated to the susceptibilities of the butler. the agony of nerves soames had been through, the relief he felt at her safety, softened his power to condemn what she had done, or resist what she was going to do; he waited in a relaxed stupor for her revelation. life was a queer business. there he was at sixty-five and no more in command of things than if he had not spent forty years in building up security-always something one couldn't get on terms with! in the pocket of his dinner-jacket was a letter from annette. she was coming back in a fortnight. he knew nothing of what she had been doing out there. and he was glad that he did not. her absence had been a relief. out of sight was out of mind! and now she was coming back. another worry! and the bolderby old crome was gone--dumetrius had got it--all because that anonymous letter had put it out of his thoughts. he furtively remarked the strained look on his daughter's face, as if she too were gazing at a picture that she couldn't buy. he almost wished the war back. worries didn't seem, then, quite so worrying. from the caress in her voice, the look on her face, he became certain that she wanted something from him, uncertain whether it would be wise of him to give it her. he pushed his savoury away uneaten, and even joined her in a cigarette. after dinner she set the electric piano-player going. and he augured the worst when she sat down on a cushion footstool at his knee, and put her hand on his. "darling, be nice to me. i had to see jon--he wrote to me. he's going to try what he can do with his mother. but i've been thinking. it's really in your hands, father. if you'd persuade her that it doesn't mean renewing the past in any way! that i shall stay yours, and jon will stay hers; that you need never see him or her, and she need never see you or me! only you could persuade her, dear, because only you could promise. one can't promise for other people. surely it wouldn't be too awkward for you to see her just this once now that jon's father is dead?" "too awkward?" soames repeated. "the whole thing's preposterous." "you know," said fleur, without looking up, "you wouldn't mind seeing her, really." soames was silent. her words had expressed a truth too deep for him to admit. she slipped her fingers between his own--hot, slim, eager, they clung there. this child of his would corkscrew her way into a brick wall! "what am i to do if you won't, father?" she said very softly. "i'll do anything for your happiness," said soanies; "but this isn't for your happiness." "oh! it is; it is!" "it'll only stir things up," he said grimly. "but they are stirred up. the thing is to quiet them. to make her feel that this is just our lives, and has nothing to do with yours or hers. you can do it, father, i know you can." "you know a great deal, then," was soames' glum answer. "if you will, jon and i will wait a year--two years if you like." "it seems to me," murmured soames, "that you care nothing about what i feel." fleur pressed his hand against her cheek. "i do, darling. but you wouldn't like me to be awfully miserable." how she wheedled to get her ends! and trying with all his might to think she really cared for him--he was not sure--not sure. all she cared for was this boy! why should he help her to get this boy, who was killing her affection for himself? why should he? by the laws of the forsytes it was foolish! there was nothing to be had out of it--nothing! to give her to that boy! to pass her into the enemy's camp, under the influence of the woman who had injured him so deeply! slowly--inevitably--he would lose this flower of his life! and suddenly he was conscious that his hand was wet. his heart gave a little painful jump. he couldn't bear her to cry. he put his other hand quickly over hers, and a tear dropped on that, too. he couldn't go on like this! "well, well," he said, "i'll think it over, and do what i can. come, come!" if she must have it for her happiness--she must; he couldn't refuse to help her. and lest she should begin to thank him he got out of his chair and went up to the piano-player--making that noise! it ran down, as he reached it, with a faint buzz. that musical box of his nursery days: "the harmonious blacksmith," "glorious port"--the thing had always made him miserable when his mother set it going on sunday afternoons. here it was again--the same thing, only larger, more expensive, and now it played "the wild, wild women," and "the policeman's holiday," and he was no longer in black velvet with a sky blue collar. 'profond's right,' he thought, 'there's nothing in it! we're all progressing to the grave!' and with that surprising mental comment he walked out. he did not see fleur again that night. but, at breakfast, her eyes followed him about with an appeal he could not escape--not that he intended to try. no! he had made up his mind to the nerve-racking business. he would go to robin hill--to that house of memories. pleasant memory--the last! of going down to keep that boy's father and irene apart by threatening divorce. he had often thought, since, that it had clinched their union. and, now, he was going to clinch the union of that boy with his girl. 'i don't know what i've done,' he thought, 'to have such things thrust on me!' he went up by train and down by train, and from the station walked by the long rising lane, still very much as he remembered it over thirty years ago. funny--so near london! some one evidently was holding on to the land there. this speculation soothed him, moving between the high hedges slowly, so as not to get overheated, though the day was chill enough. after all was said and done there was something real about land, it didn't shift. land, and good pictures! the values might fluctuate a bit, but on the whole they were always going up--worth holding on to, in a world where there was such a lot of unreality, cheap building, changing fashions, such a "here to-day and gone to-morrow" spirit. the french were right, perhaps, with their peasant proprietorship, though he had no opinion of the french. one's bit of land! something solid in it! he had heard peasant proprietors described as a pig-headed lot; had heard young mont call his father a pigheaded morning poster--disrespectful young devil. well, there were worse things than being pig-headed or reading the morning post. there was profond and his tribe, and all these labour chaps, and loud-mouthed politicians and 'wild, wild women'! a lot of worse things! and suddenly soames became conscious of feeling weak, and hot, and shaky. sheer nerves at the meeting before him! as aunt juley might have said--quoting "superior dosset"--his nerves were "in a proper fautigue." he could see the house now among its trees, the house he had watched being built, intending it for himself and this woman, who, by such strange fate, had lived in it with another after all! he began to think of dumetrius, local loans, and other forms of investment. he could not afford to meet her with his nerves all shaking; he who represented the day of judgment for her on earth as it was in heaven; he, legal ownership, personified, meeting lawless beauty, incarnate. his dignity demanded impassivity during this embassy designed to link their offspring, who, if she had behaved herself, would have been brother and sister. that wretched tune, "the wild, wild women," kept running in his head, perversely, for tunes did not run there as a rule. passing the poplars in front of the house, he thought: 'how they've grown; i had them planted!' a maid answered his ring. "will you say--mr. forsyte, on a very special matter." if she realised who he was, quite probably she would not see him. 'by george!' he thought, hardening as the tug came. 'it's a topsy-turvy affair!' the maid came back. "would the gentleman state his business, please?" "say it concerns mr. jon," said soames. and once more he was alone in that hall with the pool of grey-white marble designed by her first lover. ah! she had been a bad lot--had loved two men, and not himself! he must remember that when he came face to face with her once more. and suddenly he saw her in the opening chink between the long heavy purple curtains, swaying, as if in hesitation; the old perfect poise and line, the old startled dark-eyed gravity, the old calm defensive voice: "will you come in, please?" he passed through that opening. as in the picture-gallery and the confectioner's shop, she seemed to him still beautiful. and this was the first time--the very first--since he married her seven-and-thirty years ago, that he was speaking to her without the legal right to call her his. she was not wearing black--one of that fellow's radical notions, he supposed. "i apologise for coming," he said glumly; "but this business must be settled one way or the other." "won't you sit down?" "no, thank you." anger at his false position, impatience of ceremony between them, mastered him, and words came tumbling out: "it's an infernal mischance; i've done my best to discourage it. i consider my daughter crazy, but i've got into the habit of indulging her; that's why i'm here. i suppose you're fond of your son." "devotedly." "well?" "it rests with him." he had a sense of being met and baffled. always--always she had baffled him, even in those old first married days. "it's a mad notion," he said. "it is." "if you had only--! well--they might have been--" he did not finish that sentence "brother and sister and all this saved," but he saw her shudder as if he had, and stung by the sight he crossed over to the window. out there the trees had not grown--they couldn't, they were old! "so far as i'm concerned," he said, "you may make your mind easy. i desire to see neither you nor your son if this marriage comes about. young people in these days are--are unaccountable. but i can't bear to see my daughter unhappy. what am i to say to her when i go back?" "please say to her as i said to you, that it rests with jon." "you don't oppose it?" "with all my heart; not with my lips." soames stood, biting his finger. "i remember an evening--" he said suddenly; and was silent. what was there--what was there in this woman that would not fit into the four corners of his hate or condemnation? "where is he--your son?" "up in his father's studio, i think." "perhaps you'd have him down." he watched her ring the bell, he watched the maid come in. "please tell mr. jon that i want him." "if it rests with him," said soames hurriedly, when the maid was gone, "i suppose i may take it for granted that this unnatural marriage will take place; in that case there'll be formalities. whom do i deal with--herring's?" irene nodded. "you don't propose to live with them?" irene shook her head. "what happens to this house?" "it will be as jon wishes." "this house," said soames suddenly: "i had hopes when i began it. if they live in it--their children! they say there's such a thing as nemesis. do you believe in it?" "yes." "oh! you do!" he had come back from the window, and was standing close to her, who, in the curve of her grand piano, was, as it were, embayed. "i'm not likely to see you again," he said slowly. "will you shake hands"--his lip quivered, the words came out jerkily--"and let the past die." he held out his hand. her pale face grew paler, her eyes so dark, rested immovably on his, her hands remained clasped in front of her. he heard a sound and turned. that boy was standing in the opening of the curtains. very queer he looked, hardly recognisable as the young fellow he had seen in the gallery off cork street--very queer; much older, no youth in the face at all--haggard, rigid, his hair ruffled, his eyes deep in his head. soames made an effort, and said with a lift of his lip, not quite a smile nor quite a sneer: "well, young man! i'm here for my daughter; it rests with you, it seems--this matter. your mother leaves it in your hands." the boy continued staring at his mother's face, and made no answer. "for my daughter's sake i've brought myself to come," said soames. "what am i to say to her when i go back?" still looking at his mother, the boy said, quietly: "tell fleur that it's no good, please; i must do as my father wished before he died." "jon!" "it's all right, mother." in a kind of stupefaction soames looked from one to the other; then, taking up hat and umbrella which he had put down on a chair, he walked toward the curtains. the boy stood aside for him to go by. he passed through and heard the grate of the rings as the curtains were drawn behind him. the sound liberated something in his chest. 'so that's that!' he thought, and passed out of the front door. viii the dark tune as soames walked away from the house at robin hill the sun broke through the grey of that chill afternoon, in smoky radiance. so absorbed in landscape painting that he seldom looked seriously for effects of nature out of doors--he was struck by that moody effulgence--it mourned with a triumph suited to his own feeling. victory in defeat. his embassy had come to naught. but he was rid of those people, had regained his daughter at the expense of--her happiness. what would fleur say to him? would she believe he had done his best? and under that sunlight faring on the elms, hazels, hollies of the lane and those unexploited fields, soames felt dread. she would be terribly upset! he must appeal to her pride. that boy had given her up, declared part and lot with the woman who so long ago had given her father up! soames clenched his hands. given him up, and why? what had been wrong with him? and once more he felt the malaise of one who contemplates himself as seen by another--like a dog who chances on his refection in a mirror and is intrigued and anxious at the unseizable thing. not in a hurry to get home, he dined in town at the connoisseurs. while eating a pear it suddenly occurred to him that, if he had not gone down to robin hill, the boy might not have so decided. he remembered the expression on his face while his mother was refusing the hand he had held out. a strange, an awkward thought! had fleur cooked her own goose by trying to make too sure? he reached home at half-past nine. while the car was passing in at one drive gate he heard the grinding sputter of a motor-cycle passing out by the other. young mont, no doubt, so fleur had not been lonely. but he went in with a sinking heart. in the cream-panelled drawing-room she was sitting with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her clasped hands, in front of a white camellia plant which filled the fireplace. that glance at her before she saw him renewed his dread. what was she seeing among those white camellias? "well, father!" soames shook his head. his tongue failed him. this was murderous work! he saw her eyes dilate, her lips quivering. "what? what? quick, father!" "my dear," said soames, "i--i did my best, but--" and again he shook his head. fleur ran to him, and put a hand on each of his shoulders. "she?" "no," muttered soames; "he. i was to tell you that it was no use; he must do what his father wished before he died." he caught her by the waist. "come, child, don't let them hurt you. they're not worth your little finger." fleur tore herself from his grasp. "you didn't you--couldn't have tried. you--you betrayed me, father!" bitterly wounded, soames gazed at her passionate figure writhing there in front of him. "you didn't try--you didn't--i was a fool! iwon't believe he could--he ever could! only yesterday he--! oh! why did i ask you?" "yes," said soames, quietly, "why did you? i swallowed my feelings; i did my best for you, against my judgment--and this is my reward. good-night!" with every nerve in his body twitching he went toward the door. fleur darted after him. "he gives me up? you mean that? father!" soames turned and forced himself to answer: "yes." "oh!" cried fleur. "what did you--what could you have done in those old days?" the breathless sense of really monstrous injustice cut the power of speech in soames' throat. what had he done! what had they done to him! and with quite unconscious dignity he put his hand on his breast, and looked at her. "it's a shame!" cried fleur passionately. soames went out. he mounted, slow and icy, to his picture gallery, and paced among his treasures. outrageous! oh! outrageous! she was spoiled! ah! and who had spoiled her? he stood still before the goya copy. accustomed to her own way in everything. flower of his life! and now that she couldn't have it! he turned to the window for some air. daylight was dying, the moon rising, gold behind the poplars! what sound was that? why! that piano thing! a dark tune, with a thrum and a throb! she had set it going--what comfort could she get from that? his eyes caught movement down there beyond the lawn, under the trellis of rambler roses and young acacia-trees, where the moonlight fell. there she was, roaming up and down. his heart gave a little sickening jump. what would she do under this blow? how could he tell? what did he know of her--he had only loved her all his life--looked on her as the apple of his eye! he knew nothing--had no notion. there she was--and that dark tune--and the river gleaming in the moonlight! 'i must go out,' he thought. he hastened down to the drawing-room, lighted just as he had left it, with the piano thrumming out that waltz, or fox-trot, or whatever they called it in these days, and passed through on to the verandah. where could he watch, without her seeing him? and he stole down through the fruit garden to the boat-house. he was between her and the river now, and his heart felt lighter. she was his daughter, and annette's--she wouldn't do anything foolish; but there it was--he didn't know! from the boat house window he could see the last acacia and the spin of her skirt when she turned in her restless march. that tune had run down at last--thank goodness! he crossed the floor and looked through the farther window at the water slow-flowing past the lilies. it made little bubbles against them, bright where a moon-streak fell. he remembered suddenly that early morning when he had slept on the house-boat after his father died, and she had just been born--nearly nineteen years ago! even now he recalled the unaccustomed world when he woke up, the strange feeling it had given him. that day the second passion of his life began--for this girl of his, roaming under the acacias. what a comfort she had been to him! and all the soreness and sense of outrage left him. if he could make her happy again, he didn't care! an owl flew, queeking, queeking; a bat flitted by; the moonlight brightened and broadened on the water. how long was she going to roam about like this! he went back to the window, and suddenly saw her coming down to the bank. she stood quite close, on the landing-stage. and soames watched, clenching his hands. should he speak to her? his excitement was intense. the stillness of her figure, its youth, its absorption in despair, in longing, in--itself. he would always remember it, moonlit like that; and the faint sweet reek of the river and the shivering of the willow leaves. she had everything in the world that he could give her, except the one thing that she could not have because of him! the perversity of things hurt him at that moment, as might a fish-bone in his throat. then, with an infinite relief, he saw her turn back toward the house. what could he give her to make amends? pearls, travel, horses, other young men--anything she wanted--that he might lose the memory of her young figure lonely by the water! there! she had set that tune going again! why--it was a mania! dark, thrumming, faint, travelling from the house. it was as though she had said: "if i can't have something to keep me going, i shall die of this!" soames dimly understood. well, if it helped her, let her keep it thrumming on all night! and, mousing back through the fruit garden, he regained the verandah. though he meant to go in and speak to her now, he still hesitated, not knowing what to say, trying hard to recall how it felt to be thwarted in love. he ought to know, ought to remember--and he could not! gone--all real recollection; except that it had hurt him horribly. in this blankness he stood passing his handkerchief over hands and lips, which were very dry. by craning his head he could just see fleur, standing with her back to that piano still grinding out its tune, her arms tight crossed on her breast, a lighted cigarette between her lips, whose smoke half veiled her face. the expression on it was strange to soames, the eyes shone and stared, and every feature was alive with a sort of wretched scorn and anger. once or twice he had seen annette look like that--the face was too vivid, too naked, not his daughter's at that moment. and he dared not go in, realising the futility of any attempt at consolation. he sat down in the shadow of the ingle-nook. monstrous trick, that fate had played him! nemesis! that old unhappy marriage! and in god's name-why? how was he to know, when he wanted irene so violently, and she consented to be his, that she would never love him? the tune died and was renewed, and died again, and still soames sat in the shadow, waiting for he knew not what. the fag of fleur's cigarette, flung through the window, fell on the grass; he watched it glowing, burning itself out. the moon had freed herself above the poplars, and poured her unreality on the garden. comfortless light, mysterious, withdrawn--like the beauty of that woman who had never loved him--dappling the nemesias and the stocks with a vesture not of earth. flowers! and his flower so unhappy! ah! why could one not put happiness into local loans, gild its edges, insure it against going down? light had ceased to flow out now from the drawing-room window. all was silent and dark in there. had she gone up? he rose, and, tiptoeing, peered in. it seemed so! he entered. the verandah kept the moonlight out; and at first he could see nothing but the outlines of furniture blacker than the darkness. he groped toward the farther window to shut it. his foot struck a chair, and he heard a gasp. there she was, curled and crushed into the corner of the sofa! his hand hovered. did she want his consolation? he stood, gazing at that ball of crushed frills and hair and graceful youth, trying to burrow its way out of sorrow. how leave her there? at last he touched her hair, and said: "come, darling, better go to bed. i'll make it up to you, somehow." how fatuous! but what could he have said? ix under the oak-tree when their visitor had disappeared jon and his mother stood without speaking, till he said suddenly: "i ought to have seen him out." but soames was already walking down the drive, and jon went upstairs to his father's studio, not trusting himself to go back. the expression on his mother's face confronting the man she had once been married to, had sealed a resolution growing within him ever since she left him the night before. it had put the finishing touch of reality. to marry fleur would be to hit his mother in the face; to betray his dead father! it was no good! jon had the least resentful of natures. he bore his parents no grudge in this hour of his distress. for one so young there was a rather strange power in him of seeing things in some sort of proportion. it was worse for fleur, worse for his mother even, than it was for him. harder than to give up was to be given up, or to be the cause of some one you loved giving up for you. he must not, would not behave grudgingly! while he stood watching the tardy sunlight, he had again that sudden vision of the world which had come to him the night before. sea on sea, country on country, millions on millions of people, all with their own lives, energies, joys, griefs, and suffering--all with things they had to give up, and separate struggles for existence. even though he might be willing to give up all else for the one thing he couldn't have, he would be a fool to think his feelings mattered much in so vast a world, and to behave like a cry-baby or a cad. he pictured the people who had nothing--the millions who had given up life in the war, the millions whom the war had left with life and little else; the hungry children he had read of, the shattered men; people in prison, every kind of unfortunate. and--they did not help him much. if one had to miss a meal, what comfort in the knowledge that many others had to miss it too? there was more distraction in the thought of getting away out into this vast world of which he knew nothing yet. he could not go on staying here, walled in and sheltered, with everything so slick and comfortable, and nothing to do but brood and think what might have been. he could not go back to wansdon, and the memories of fleur. if he saw her again he could not trust himself; and if he stayed here or went back there, he would surely see her. while they were within reach of each other that must happen. to go far away and quickly was the only thing to do. but, however much he loved his mother, he did not want to go away with her. then feeling that was brutal, he made up his mind desperately to propose that they should go to italy. for two hours in that melancholy room he tried to master himself, then dressed solemnly for dinner. his mother had done the same. they ate little, at some length, and talked of his father's catalogue. the show was arranged for october, and beyond clerical detail there was nothing more to do. after dinner she put on a cloak and they went out; walked a little, talked a little, till they were standing silent at last beneath the oak-tree. ruled by the thought: 'if i show anything, i show all,' jon put his arm through hers and said quite casually: "mother, let's go to italy." irene pressed his arm, and said as casually: "it would be very nice; but i've been thinking you ought to see and do more than you would if i were with you." "but then you'd be alone." "i was once alone for more than twelve years. besides, i should like to be here for the opening of father's show." jon's grip tightened round her arm; he was not deceived. "you couldn't stay here all by yourself; it's too big." "not here, perhaps. in london, and i might go to paris, after the show opens. you ought to have a year at least, jon, and see the world." "yes, i'd like to see the world and rough it. but i don't want to leave you all alone." "my dear, i owe you that at least. if it's for your good, it'll be for mine. why not start tomorrow? you've got your passport." "yes; if i'm going it had better be at once. only--mother--if--if i wanted to stay out somewhere--america or anywhere, would you mind coming presently?" "wherever and whenever you send for me. but don't send until you really want me." jon drew a deep breath. "i feel england's choky." they stood a few minutes longer under the oak-tree--looking out to where the grand stand at epsom was veiled in evening. the branches kept the moonlight from them, so that it only fell everywhere else--over the fields and far away, and on the windows of the creepered house behind, which soon would be to let. x fleur's wedding the october paragraphs describing the wedding of fleur forsyte to michael mont hardly conveyed the symbolic significance of this event. in the union of the great-granddaughter of "superior dosset" with the heir of a ninth baronet was the outward and visible sign of that merger of class in class which buttresses the political stability of a realm. the time had come when the forsytes might resign their natural resentment against a "flummery" not theirs by birth, and accept it as the still more natural due of their possessive instincts. besides, they had to mount to make room for all those so much more newly rich. in that quiet but tasteful ceremony in hanover square, and afterward among the furniture in green street, it had been impossible for those not in the know to distinguish the forsyte troop from the mont contingent--so far away was "superior dosset" now. was there, in the crease of his trousers, the expression of his moustache, his accent, or the shine on his top-hat, a pin to choose between soames and the ninth baronet himself? was not fleur as self-possessed, quick, glancing, pretty, and hard as the likeliest muskham, mont, or charwell filly present? if anything, the forsytes had it in dress and looks and manners. they had become "upper class" and now their name would be formally recorded in the stud book, their money joined to land. whether this was a little late in the day, and those rewards of the possessive instinct, lands and money, destined for the melting-pot--was still a question so moot that it was not mooted. after all, timothy had said consols were goin' up. timothy, the last, the missing link; timothy, in extremis on the bayswater road--so francie had reported. it was whispered, too, that this young mont was a sort of socialist--strangely wise of him, and in the nature of insurance, considering the days they lived in. there was no uneasiness on that score. the landed classes produced that sort of amiable foolishness at times, turned to safe uses and confined to theory. as george remarked to his sister francie: "they'll soon be having puppies--that'll give him pause." the church with white flowers and something blue in the middle of the east window looked extremely chaste, as though endeavouring to counteract the somewhat lurid phraseology of a service calculated to keep the thoughts of all on puppies. forsytes, haymans, tweetymans, sat in the left aisle; monts, charwells; muskhams in the right; while a sprinkling of fleur's fellow-sufferers at school, and of mont's fellow-sufferers in, the war, gaped indiscriminately from either side, and three maiden ladies, who had dropped in on their way from skyward's brought up the rear, together with two mont retainers and fleur's old nurse. in the unsettled state of the country as full a house as could be expected. mrs. val dartie, who sat with her husband in the third row, squeezed his hand more than once during the performance. to her, who knew the plot of this tragi-comedy, its most dramatic moment was well-nigh painful. 'i wonder if jon knows by instinct,' she thought--jon, out in british columbia. she had received a letter from him only that morning which had made her smile and say: "jon's in british columbia, val, because he wants to be in california. he thinks it's too nice there." "oh!" said val, "so he's beginning to see a joke again." "he's bought some land and sent for his mother." "what on earth will she do out there?" "all she cares about is jon. do you still think it a happy release?" val's shrewd eyes narrowed to grey pin-points between their dark lashes. "fleur wouldn't have suited him a bit. she's not bred right." "poor little fleur!" sighed holly. ah! it was strange--this marriage. the young man, mont, had caught her on the rebound, of course, in the reckless mood of one whose ship has just gone down. such a plunge could not but be--as val put it--an outside chance. there was little to be told from the back view of her young cousin's veil, and holly's eyes reviewed the general aspect of this christian wedding. she, who had made a love-match which had been successful, had a horror of unhappy marriages. this might not be one in the end--but it was clearly a toss-up; and to consecrate a toss-up in this fashion with manufactured unction before a crowd of fashionable free-thinkers--for who thought otherwise than freely, or not at all, when they were "dolled" up--seemed to her as near a sin as one could find in an age which had abolished them. her eyes wandered from the prelate in his robes (a charwell-the forsytes had not as yet produced a prelate) to val, beside her, thinking--she was certain--of the mayfly filly at fifteen to one for the cambridgeshire. they passed on and caught the profile of the ninth baronet, in counterfeitment of the kneeling process. she could just see the neat ruck above his knees where he had pulled his trousers up, and thought: 'val's forgotten to pull up his!' her eyes passed to the pew in front of her, where winifred's substantial form was gowned with passion, and on again to soames and annette kneeling side by side. a little smile came on her lips--prosper profond, back from the south seas of the channel, would be kneeling too, about six rows behind. yes! this was a funny "small" business, however it turned out; still it was in a proper church and would be in the proper papers to-morrow morning. they had begun a hymn; she could hear the ninth baronet across the aisle, singing of the hosts of midian. her little finger touched val's thumb--they were holding the same hymn-book--and a tiny thrill passed through her, preserved--from twenty years ago. he stooped and whispered: "i say, d'you remember the rat?" the rat at their wedding in cape colony, which had cleaned its whiskers behind the table at the registrar's! and between her little and third forgers she squeezed his thumb hard. the hymn was over, the prelate had begun to deliver his discourse. he told them of the dangerous times they lived in, and the awful conduct of the house of lords in connection with divorce. they were all soldiers--he said--in the trenches under the poisonous gas of the prince of darkness, and must be manful. the purpose of marriage was children, not mere sinful happiness. an imp danced in holly's eyes--val's eyelashes were meeting. whatever happened; he must not snore. her finger and thumb closed on his thigh till he stirred uneasily. the discourse was over, the danger past. they were signing in the vestry; and general relaxation had set in. a voice behind her said: "will she stay the course?" "who's that?" she whispered. "old george forsyte!" holly demurely scrutinized one of whom she had often heard. fresh from south africa, and ignorant of her kith and kin, she never saw one without an almost childish curiosity. he was very big, and very dapper; his eyes gave her a funny feeling of having no particular clothes. "they're off!" she heard him say. they came, stepping from the chancel. holly looked first in young mont's face. his lips and ears were twitching, his eyes, shifting from his feet to the hand within his arm, stared suddenly before them as if to face a firing party. he gave holly the feeling that he was spiritually intoxicated. but fleur! ah! that was different. the girl was perfectly composed, prettier than ever, in her white robes and veil over her banged dark chestnut hair; her eyelids hovered demure over her dark hazel eyes. outwardly, she seemed all there. but inwardly, where was she? as those two passed, fleur raised her eyelids--the restless glint of those clear whites remained on holly's vision as might the flutter of caged bird's wings. in green street winifred stood to receive, just a little less composed than usual. soames' request for the use of her house had come on her at a deeply psychological moment. under the influence of a remark of prosper profond, she had begun to exchange her empire for expressionistic furniture. there were the most amusing arrangements, with violet, green, and orange blobs and scriggles, to be had at mealard's. another month and the change would have been complete. just now, the very "intriguing" recruits she had enlisted, did not march too well with the old guard. it was as if her regiment were half in khaki, half in scarlet and bearskins. but her strong and comfortable character made the best of it in a drawing-room which typified, perhaps, more perfectly than she imagined, the semi-bolshevized imperialism of her country. after all, this was a day of merger, and you couldn't have too much of it! her eyes travelled indulgently among her guests. soames had gripped the back of a buhl chair; young mont was behind that "awfully amusing" screen, which no one as yet had been able to explain to her. the ninth baronet had shied violently at a round scarlet table, inlaid under glass with blue australian butteries' wings, and was clinging to her louis-quinze cabinet; francie forsyte had seized the new mantel-board, finely carved with little purple grotesques on an ebony ground; george, over by the old spinet, was holding a little sky-blue book as if about to enter bets; prosper profond was twiddling the knob of the open door, black with peacock-blue panels; and annette's hands, close by, were grasping her own waist; two muskhams clung to the balcony among the plants, as if feeling ill; lady mont, thin and brave-looking, had taken up her long-handled glasses and was gazing at the central light shade, of ivory and orange dashed with deep magenta, as if the heavens had opened. everybody, in fact, seemed holding on to something. only fleur, still in her bridal dress, was detached from all support, flinging her words and glances to left and right. the room was full of the bubble and the squeak of conversation. nobody could hear anything that anybody said; which seemed of little consequence, since no one waited for anything so slow as an answer. modern conversation seemed to winifred so different from the days of her prime, when a drawl was all the vogue. still it was "amusing," which, of course, was all that mattered. even the forsytes were talking with extreme rapidity--fleur and christopher, and imogen, and young nicholas's youngest, patrick. soames, of course, was silent; but george, by the spinet, kept up a running commentary, and francie, by her mantel-shelf. winifred drew nearer to the ninth baronet. he seemed to promise a certain repose; his nose was fine and drooped a little, his grey moustaches too; and she said, drawling through her smile: "it's rather nice, isn't it?" his reply shot out of his smile like a snipped bread pellet "d'you remember, in frazer, the tribe that buries the bride up to the waist?" he spoke as fast as anybody! he had dark lively little eyes, too, all crinkled round like a catholic priest's. winifred felt suddenly he might say things she would regret. "they're always so amusing--weddings," she murmured, and moved on to soames. he was curiously still, and winifred saw at once what was dictating his immobility. to his right was george forsyte, to his left annette and prosper profond. he could not move without either seeing those two together, or the reflection of them in george forsyte's japing eyes. he was quite right not to be taking notice. "they say timothy's sinking;" he said glumly. "where will you put him, soames?" "highgate." he counted on his fingers. "it'll make twelve of them there, including wives. how do you think fleur looks?" "remarkably well." soames nodded. he had never seen her look prettier, yet he could not rid himself of the impression that this business was unnatural--remembering still that crushed figure burrowing into the corner of the sofa. from that night to this day he had received from her no confidences. he knew from his chauffeur that she had made one more attempt on robin hill and drawn blank--an empty house, no one at home. he knew that she had received a letter, but not what was in it, except that it had made her hide herself and cry. he had remarked that she looked at him sometimes when she thought he wasn't noticing, as if she were wondering still what he had done--forsooth--to make those people hate him so. well, there it was! annette had come back, and things had worn on through the summer--very miserable, till suddenly fleur had said she was going to marry young mont. she had shown him a little more affection when she told him that. and he had yielded--what was the good of opposing it? god knew that he had never wished to thwart her in anything! and the young man seemed quite delirious about her. no doubt she was in a reckless mood, and she was young, absurdly young. but if he opposed her, he didn't know what she would do; for all he could tell she might want to take up a profession, become a doctor or solicitor, some nonsense. she had no aptitude for painting, writing, music, in his view the legitimate occupations of unmarried women, if they must do something in these days. on the whole, she was safer married, for he could see too well how feverish and restless she was at home. annette, too, had been in favour of it--annette, from behind the veil of his refusal to know what she was about, if she was about anything. annette had said: "let her marry this young man. he is a nice boy--not so highty-flighty as he seems." where she got her expressions, he didn't know--but her opinion soothed his doubts. his wife, whatever her conduct, had clear eyes and an almost depressing amount of common sense. he had settled fifty thousand on fleur, taking care that there was no cross settlement in case it didn't turn out well. could it turn out well? she had not got over that other boy--he knew. they were to go to spain for the honeymoon. he would be even lonelier when she was gone. but later, perhaps, she would forget, and turn to him again! winifred's voice broke on his reverie. "why! of all wonders-june!" there, in a djibbah--what things she wore!--with her hair straying from under a fillet, soames saw his cousin, and fleur going forward to greet her. the two passed from their view out on to the stairway. "really," said winifred, "she does the most impossible things! fancy her coming!" "what made you ask her?" muttered soames. "because i thought she wouldn't accept, of course." winifred had forgotten that behind conduct lies the main trend of character; or, in other words, omitted to remember that fleur was now a "lame duck." on receiving her invitation, june had first thought, 'i wouldn't go near them for the world!' and then, one morning, had awakened from a dream of fleur waving to her from a boat with a wild unhappy gesture. and she had changed her mind. when fleur came forward and said to her, "do come up while i'm changing my dress," she had followed up the stairs. the girl led the way into imogen's old bedroom, set ready for her toilet. june sat down on the bed, thin and upright, like a little spirit in the sear and yellow. fleur locked the door. the girl stood before her divested of her wedding dress. what a pretty thing she was! "i suppose you think me a fool," she said, with quivering lips, "when it was to have been jon. but what does it matter? michael wants me, and i don't care. it'll get me away from home." diving her hand into the frills on her breast, she brought out a letter. "jon wrote me this." june read: "lake okanagen, british columbia. i'm not coming back to england. bless you always. jon." "she's made safe, you see," said fleur. june handed back the letter. "that's not fair to irene," she said, "she always told jon he could do as he wished." fleur smiled bitterly. "tell me, didn't she spoil your life too?" june looked up. "nobody can spoil a life, my dear. that's nonsense. things happen, but we bob up." with a sort of terror she saw the girl sink on her knees and bury her face in the djibbah. a strangled sob mounted to june's ears. "it's all right--all right," she murmured, "don't! there, there!" but the point of the girl's chin was pressed ever closer into her thigh, and the sound was dreadful of her sobbing. well, well! it had to come. she would feel better afterward! june stroked the short hair of that shapely head; and all the scattered mother-sense in her focussed itself and passed through the tips of her fingers into the girl's brain. "don't sit down under it, my dear," she said at last. "we can't control life, but we can fight it. make the best of things. i've had to. i held on, like you; and i cried, as you're crying now. and look at me!" fleur raised her head; a sob merged suddenly into a little choked laugh. in truth it was a thin and rather wild and wasted spirit she was looking at, but it had brave eyes. "all right!" she said. "i'm sorry. i shall forget him, i suppose, if i fly fast and far enough." and, scrambling to her feet, she went over to the wash-stand. june watched her removing with cold water the traces of emotion. save for a little becoming pinkness there was nothing left when she stood before the mirror. june got off the bed and took a pin-cushion in her hand. to put two pins into the wrong places was all the vent she found for sympathy. "give me a kiss," she said when fleur was ready, and dug her chin into the girl's warm cheek. "i want a whiff," said fleur; "don't wait." june left her, sitting on the bed with a cigarette between her lips and her eyes half closed, and went down-stairs. in the doorway of the drawing-room stood soames as if unquiet at his daughter's tardiness. june tossed her head and passed down on to the half-landing. her cousin francie was standing there. "look!" said june, pointing with her chin at soames. "that man's fatal!" "how do you mean," said francie, "fatal?" june did not answer her. "i shan't wait to see them off," she said. "good-bye!" "good-bye!" said francie, and her eyes, of a celtic grey, goggled. that old feud! really, it was quite romantic! soames, moving to the well of the staircase, saw june go, and drew a breath of satisfaction. why didn't fleur come? they would miss their train. that train would bear her away from him, yet he could not help fidgeting at the thought that they would lose it. and then she did come, running down in her tan-coloured frock and black velvet cap, and passed him into the drawing-room. he saw her kiss her mother, her aunt, val's wife, imogen, and then come forth, quick and pretty as ever. how would she treat him at this last moment of her girlhood? he couldn't hope for much! her lips pressed the middle of his cheek. "daddy!" she said, and was past and gone! daddy! she hadn't called him that for years. he drew a long breath and followed slowly down. there was all the folly with that confetti stuff and the rest of it to go through with yet. but he would like just to catch her smile, if she leaned out, though they would hit her in the eye with the shoe, if they didn't take care. young mont's voice said fervently in his ear: "good-bye, sir; and thank you! i'm so fearfully bucked." "good-bye," he said; "don't miss your train." he stood on the bottom step but three, whence he could see above the heads--the silly hats and heads. they were in the car now; and there was that stuff, showering, and there went the shoe. a flood of something welled up in soames, and--he didn't know--he couldn't see! xi the last of the old forsytes when they came to prepare that terrific symbol timothy forsyte--the one pure individualist left, the only man who hadn't heard of the great war--they found him wonderful--not even death had undermined his soundness. to smither and cook that preparation came like final evidence of what they had never believed possible--the end of the old forsyte family on earth. poor mr. timothy must now take a harp and sing in the company of miss forsyte, mrs. julia, miss hester; with mr. jolyon, mr. swithin, mr. james, mr. roger, and mr. nicholas of the party. whether mrs. hayman would be there was more doubtful, seeing that she had been cremated. secretly cook thought that mr. timothy would be upset--he had always been so set against barrel organs. how many times had she not said: "drat the thing! there it is again! smither, you'd better run up and see what you can do." and in her heart she would so have enjoyed the tunes, if she hadn't known that mr. timothy would ring the bell in a minute and say: "here, take him a halfpenny and tell him to move on." often they had been obliged to add threepence of their own before the man would go--timothy had ever underrated the value of emotion. luckily he had taken the organs for blue-bottles in his last years, which had been a comfort, and they had been able to enjoy the tunes. but a harp! cook wondered. it was a change! and mr. timothy had never liked change. but she did not speak of this to smither, who did so take a line of her own in regard to heaven that it quite put one about sometimes. she cried while timothy was being prepared, and they all had sherry afterward out of the yearly christmas bottle, which would not be needed now. ah! dear! she had been there five-and-forty years and smither three-and-forty! and now they would be going to a tiny house in tooting, to live on their savings and what miss hester had so kindly left them--for to take fresh service after the glorious past--no! but they would like just to see mr. soames again, and mrs. dartie, and miss francie, and miss euphemia. and even if they had to take their own cab, they felt they must go to the funeral. for six years mr. timothy had been their baby, getting younger and younger every day, till at last he had been too young to live. they spent the regulation hours of waiting in polishing and dusting, in catching the one mouse left, and asphyxiating the last beetle so as to leave it nice, discussing with each other what they would buy at the sale. miss ann's workbox; miss juley's (that is mrs. julia's) seaweed album; the fire-screen miss hester had crewelled; and mr. timothy's hair--little golden curls, glued into a black frame. oh! they must have those--only the price of things had gone up so! it fell to soames to issue invitations for the funeral. he had them drawn up by gradman in his office--only blood relations, and no flowers. six carriages were ordered. the will would be read afterward at the house. he arrived at eleven o'clock to see that all was ready. at a quarter past old gradman came in black gloves and crape on his hat. he and soames stood in the drawing-room waiting. at half-past eleven the carriages drew up in a long row. but no one else appeared. gradman said: "it surprises me, mr. soames. i posted them myself." "i don't know," said soames; "he'd lost touch with the family." soames had often noticed in old days how much more neighbourly his family were to the dead than to the living. but, now, the way they had flocked to fleur's wedding and abstained from timothy's funeral, seemed to show some vital change. there might, of course, be another reason; for soames felt that if he had not known the contents of timothy's will, he might have stayed away himself through delicacy. timothy had left a lot of money, with nobody in particular to leave it to. they mightn't like to seem to expect something. at twelve o'clock the procession left the door; timothy alone in the first carriage under glass. then soames alone; then gradman alone; then cook and smither together. they started at a walk, but were soon trotting under a bright sky. at the entrance to highgate cemetery they were delayed by service in the chapel. soames would have liked to stay outside in the sunshine. he didn't believe a word of it; on the other hand, it was a form of insurance which could not safely be neglected, in case there might be something in it after all. they walked up two and two--he and gradman, cook and smither--to the family vault. it was not very distinguished for the funeral of the last old forsyte. he took gradman into his carriage on the way back to the bayswater road with a certain glow in his heart. he had a surprise in pickle for the old chap who had served the forsytes four-and-fifty years-a treat that was entirely his doing. how well he remembered saying to timothy the day--after aunt hester's funeral: "well; uncle timothy, there's gradman. he's taken a lot of trouble for the family. what do you say to leaving him five thousand?" and his surprise, seeing the difficulty there had been in getting timothy to leave anything, when timothy had nodded. and now the old chap would be as pleased as punch, for mrs. gradman, he knew, had a weak heart, and their son had lost a leg in the war. it was extraordinarily gratifying to soames to have left him five thousand pounds of timothy's money. they sat down together in the little drawing-room, whose walls--like a vision of heaven--were sky-blue and gold with every picture-frame unnaturally bright, and every speck of dust removed from every piece of furniture, to read that little masterpiece--the will of timothy. with his back to the light in aunt hester's chair, soames faced gradman with his face to the light, on aunt ann's sofa; and, crossing his legs, began: "this is the last will and testament of me timothy forsyte of the bower bayswater road, london i appoint my nephew soames forsyte of the shelter mapleduram and thomas gradman of folly road highgate (hereinafter called my trustees) to be the trustees and executors of this my will to the said soames forsyte i leave the sum of one thousand pounds free of legacy duty and to the said thomas gradman i leave the sum of five thousand pounds free of legacy duty." soames paused. old gradman was leaning forward, convulsively gripping a stout black knee with each of his thick hands; his mouth had fallen open so that the gold fillings of three teeth gleamed; his eyes were blinking, two tears rolled slowly out of them. soames read hastily on. "all the rest of my property of whatsoever description i bequeath to my trustees upon trust to convert and hold the same upon the following trusts namely to pay thereout all my debts funeral expenses and outgoings of any kind in connection with my will and to hold the residue thereof in trust for that male lineal descendant of my father jolyon forsyte by his marriage with ann pierce who after the decease of all lineal descendants whether male or female of my said father by his said marriage in being at the time of my death shall last attain the age of twenty-one years absolutely it being my desire that my property shall be nursed to the extreme limit permitted by the laws of england for the benefit of such male lineal descendant as aforesaid." soames read the investment and attestation clauses, and, ceasing, looked at gradman. the old fellow was wiping his brow with a large handkerchief, whose brilliant colour supplied a sudden festive tinge to the proceedings. "my word, mr. soames!" he said, and it was clear that the lawyer in him had utterly wiped out the man: "my word! why, there are two babies now, and some quite young children--if one of them lives to be eighty--it's not a great age--and add twenty-one--that's a hundred years; and mr. timothy worth a hundred and fifty thousand pound net if he's worth a penny. compound interest at five per cent. doubles you in fourteen years. in fourteen years three hundred thousand-six hundred thousand in twenty-eight--twelve hundred thousand in forty-two--twenty-four hundred thousand in fifty-six--four million eight hundred thousand in seventy--nine million six hundred thousand in eighty-four--why, in a hundred years it'll be twenty million! and we shan't live to use it! it is a will!" soames said dryly: "anything may happen. the state might take the lot; they're capable of anything in these days." "and carry five," said gradman to himself. "i forgot--mr. timothy's in consols; we shan't get more than two per cent. with this income tax. to be on the safe side, say eight millions. still, that's a pretty penny." soames rose and handed him the will. "you're going into the city. take care of that, and do what's necessary. advertise; but there are no debts. when's the sale?" "tuesday week," said gradman. "life or lives in bein' and twenty-one years afterward--it's a long way off. but i'm glad he's left it in the family...." the sale--not at jobson's, in view of the victorian nature of the effects--was far more freely attended than the funeral, though not by cook and smither, for soames had taken it on himself to give them their heart's desires. winifred was present, euphemia, and francie, and eustace had come in his car. the miniatures, barbizons, and j. r. drawings had been bought in by soames; and relics of no marketable value were set aside in an off-room for members of the family who cared to have mementoes. these were the only restrictions upon bidding characterised by an almost tragic languor. not one piece of furniture, no picture or porcelain figure appealed to modern taste. the humming birds had fallen like autumn leaves when taken from where they had not hummed for sixty years. it was painful to soames to see the chairs his aunts had sat on, the little grand piano they had practically never played, the books whose outsides they had gazed at, the china they had dusted, the curtains they had drawn, the hearth-rug which had warmed their feet; above all, the beds they had lain and died in--sold to little dealers, and the housewives of fulham. and yet--what could one do? buy them and stick them in a lumber-room? no; they had to go the way of all flesh and furniture, and be worn out. but when they put up aunt ann's sofa and were going to knock it down for thirty shillings, he cried out, suddenly: "five pounds!" the sensation was considerable, and the sofa his. when that little sale was over in the fusty saleroom, and those victorian ashes scattered, he went out into the misty october sunshine feeling as if cosiness had died out of the world, and the board "to let" was up, indeed. revolutions on the horizon; fleur in spain; no comfort in annette; no timothy's on the bayswater road. in the irritable desolation of his soul he went into the goupenor gallery. that chap jolyon's watercolours were on view there. he went in to look down his nose at them--it might give him some faint satisfaction. the news had trickled through from june to val's wife, from her to val, from val to his mother, from her to soames, that the house--the fatal house at robin hill--was for sale, and irene going to join her boy out in british columbia, or some such place. for one wild moment the thought had come to soames: 'why shouldn't i buy it back? i meant it for my!' no sooner come than gone. too lugubrious a triumph; with too many humiliating memories for himself and fleur. she would never live there after what had happened. no, the place must go its way to some peer or profiteer. it had been a bone of contention from the first, the shell of the feud; and with the woman gone, it was an empty shell. "for sale or to let." with his mind's eye he could see that board raised high above the ivied wall which he had built. he passed through the first of the two rooms in the gallery. there was certainly a body of work! and now that the fellow was dead it did not seem so trivial. the drawings were pleasing enough, with quite a sense of atmosphere, and something individual in the brush work. 'his father and my father; he and i; his child and mine!' thought soames. so it had gone on! and all about that woman! softened by the events of the past week, affected by the melancholy beauty of the autumn day, soames came nearer than he had ever been to realisation of that truth--passing the understanding of a forsyte pure--that the body of beauty has a spiritual essence, uncapturable save by a devotion which thinks not of self. after all, he was near that truth in his devotion to his daughter; perhaps that made him understand a little how he had missed the prize. and there, among the drawings of his kinsman, who had attained to that which he had found beyond his reach, he thought of him and her with a tolerance which surprised him. but he did not buy a drawing. just as he passed the seat of custom on his return to the outer air he met with a contingency which had not been entirely absent from his mind when he went into the gallery--irene, herself, coming in. so she had not gone yet, and was still paying farewell visits to that fellow's remains! he subdued the little involuntary leap of his subconsciousness, the mechanical reaction of his senses to the charm of this once-owned woman, and passed her with averted eyes. but when he had gone by he could not for the life of him help looking back. this, then, was finality--the heat and stress of his life, the madness and the longing thereof, the only defeat he had known, would be over when she faded from his view this time; even such memories had their own queer aching value. she, too, was looking back. suddenly she lifted her gloved hand, her lips smiled faintly, her dark eyes seemed to speak. it was the turn of soames to make no answer to that smile and that little farewell wave; he went out into the fashionable street quivering from head to foot. he knew what she had meant to say: "now that i am going for ever out of the reach of you and yours--forgive me; i wish you well." that was the meaning; last sign of that terrible reality--passing morality, duty, common sense--her aversion from him who had owned her body, but had never touched her spirit or her heart. it hurt; yes--more than if she had kept her mask unmoved, her hand unlifted. three days later, in that fast-yellowing october, soames took a taxi-cab to highgate cemetery and mounted through its white forest to the forsyte vault. close to the cedar, above catacombs and columbaria, tall, ugly, and individual, it looked like an apex of the competitive system. he could remember a discussion wherein swithin had advocated the addition to its face of the pheasant proper. the proposal had been rejected in favour of a wreath in stone, above the stark words: "the family vault of jolyon forsyte: ." it was in good order. all trace of the recent interment had been removed, and its sober grey gloomed reposefully in the sunshine. the whole family lay there now, except old jolyon's wife, who had gone back under a contract to her own family vault in suffolk; old jolyon himself lying at robin hill; and susan hayman, cremated so that none knew where she might be. soames gazed at it with satisfaction--massive, needing little attention; and this was important, for he was well aware that no one would attend to it when he himself was gone, and he would have to be looking out for lodgings soon. he might have twenty years before him, but one never knew. twenty years without an aunt or uncle, with a wife of whom one had better not know anything, with a daughter gone from home. his mood inclined to melancholy and retrospection. this cemetery was full, they said--of people with extraordinary names, buried in extraordinary taste. still, they had a fine view up here, right over london. annette had once given him a story to read by that frenchman, maupassant, most lugubrious concern, where all the skeletons emerged from their graves one night, and all the pious inscriptions on the stones were altered to descriptions of their sins. not a true story at all. he didn't know about the french, but there was not much real harm in english people except their teeth and their taste, which was certainly deplorable. "the family vault of jolyon forsyte: ." a lot of people had been buried here since then--a lot of english life crumbled to mould and dust! the boom of an airplane passing under the gold-tinted clouds caused him to lift his eyes. the deuce of a lot of expansion had gone on. but it all came back to a cemetery--to a name and a date on a tomb. and he thought with a curious pride that he and his family had done little or nothing to help this feverish expansion. good solid middlemen, they had gone to work with dignity to manage and possess. "superior dosset," indeed, had built in a dreadful, and jolyon painted in a doubtful, period, but so far as he remembered not another of them all had soiled his hands by creating anything--unless you counted val dartie and his horse-breeding. collectors, solicitors, barristers, merchants, publishers, accountants, directors, land agents, even soldiers--there they had been! the country had expanded, as it were, in spite of them. they had checked, controlled, defended, and taken advantage of the process and when you considered how "superior dosset" had begun life with next to nothing, and his lineal descendants already owned what old gradman estimated at between a million and a million and a half, it was not so bad! and yet he sometimes felt as if the family bolt was shot, their possessive instinct dying out. they seemed unable to make money--this fourth generation; they were going into art, literature, farming, or the army; or just living on what was left them--they had no push and no tenacity. they would die out if they didn't take care. soames turned from the vault and faced toward the breeze. the air up here would be delicious if only he could rid his nerves of the feeling that mortality was in it. he gazed restlessly at the crosses and the urns, the angels, the "immortelles," the flowers, gaudy or withering; and suddenly he noticed a spot which seemed so different from anything else up there that he was obliged to walk the few necessary yards and look at it. a sober corner, with a massive queer-shaped cross of grey rough-hewn granite, guarded by four dark yew-trees. the spot was free from the pressure of the other graves, having a little box-hedged garden on the far side, and in front a goldening birch-tree. this oasis in the desert of conventional graves appealed to the aesthetic sense of soames, and he sat down there in the sunshine. through those trembling gold birch leaves he gazed out at london, and yielded to the waves of memory. he thought of irene in montpellier square, when her hair was rusty-golden and her white shoulders his--irene, the prize of his love-passion, resistant to his ownership. he saw bosinney's body lying in that white mortuary, and irene sitting on the sofa looking at space with the eyes of a dying bird. again he thought of her by the little green niobe in the bois de boulogne, once more rejecting him. his fancy took him on beside his drifting river on the november day when fleur was to be born, took him to the dead leaves floating on the green-tinged water and the snake-headed weed for ever swaying and nosing, sinuous, blind, tethered. and on again to the window opened to the cold starry night above hyde park, with his father lying dead. his fancy darted to that picture of "the future town," to that boy's and fleur's first meeting; to the bluish trail of prosper profond's cigar, and fleur in the window pointing down to where the fellow prowled. to the sight of irene and that dead fellow sitting side by side in the stand at lord's. to her and that boy at robin hill. to the sofa, where fleur lay crushed up in the corner; to her lips pressed into his cheek, and her farewell "daddy." and suddenly he saw again irene's grey-gloved hand waving its last gesture of release. he sat there a long time dreaming his career, faithful to the scut of his possessive instinct, warming himself even with its failures. "to let"--the forsyte age and way of life, when a man owned his soul, his investments, and his woman, without check or question. and now the state had, or would have, his investments, his woman had herself, and god knew who had his soul. "to let"--that sane and simple creed! the waters of change were foaming in, carrying the promise of new forms only when their destructive flood should have passed its full. he sat there, subconscious of them, but with his thoughts resolutely set on the past--as a man might ride into a wild night with his face to the tail of his galloping horse. athwart the victorian dykes the waters were rolling on property, manners, and morals, on melody and the old forms of art--waters bringing to his mouth a salt taste as of blood, lapping to the foot of this highgate hill where victorianism lay buried. and sitting there, high up on its most individual spot, soames--like a figure of investment--refused their restless sounds. instinctively he would not fight them--there was in him too much primeval wisdom, of man the possessive animal. they would quiet down when they had fulfilled their tidal fever of dispossessing and destroying; when the creations and the properties of others were sufficiently broken and defected--they would lapse and ebb, and fresh forms would rise based on an instinct older than the fever of change--the instinct of home. "je m'en fiche," said prosper profond. soames did not say "je m'en fiche"--it was french, and the fellow was a thorn in his side--but deep down he knew that change was only the interval of death between two forms of life, destruction necessary to make room for fresher property. what though the board was up, and cosiness to let?--some one would come along and take it again some day. and only one thing really troubled him, sitting there--the melancholy craving in his heart--because the sun was like enchantment on his face and on the clouds and on the golden birch leaves, and the wind's rustle was so gentle, and the yewtree green so dark, and the sickle of a moon pale in the sky. he might wish and wish and never get it--the beauty and the loving in the world! the end the dark flower by john galsworthy "take the flower from my breast, i pray thee, take the flower too from out my tresses; and then go hence, for see, the night is fair, the stars rejoice to watch thee on thy way." --from "the bard of the dimbovitza." the dark flower part i spring i he walked along holywell that afternoon of early june with his short gown drooping down his arms, and no cap on his thick dark hair. a youth of middle height, and built as if he had come of two very different strains, one sturdy, the other wiry and light. his face, too, was a curious blend, for, though it was strongly formed, its expression was rather soft and moody. his eyes--dark grey, with a good deal of light in them, and very black lashes--had a way of looking beyond what they saw, so that he did not seem always to be quite present; but his smile was exceedingly swift, uncovering teeth as white as a negro's, and giving his face a peculiar eagerness. people stared at him a little as he passed--since in eighteen hundred and eighty he was before his time in not wearing a cap. women especially were interested; they perceived that he took no notice of them, seeming rather to be looking into distance, and making combinations in his soul. did he know of what he was thinking--did he ever know quite definitely at that time of his life, when things, especially those beyond the immediate horizon, were so curious and interesting?--the things he was going to see and do when he had got through oxford, where everybody was 'awfully decent' to him and 'all right' of course, but not so very interesting. he was on his way to his tutor's to read an essay on oliver cromwell; and under the old wall, which had once hedged in the town, he took out of his pocket a beast. it was a small tortoise, and, with an extreme absorption, he watched it move its little inquiring head, feeling it all the time with his short, broad fingers, as though to discover exactly how it was made. it was mighty hard in the back! no wonder poor old aeschylus felt a bit sick when it fell on his head! the ancients used it to stand the world on--a pagoda world, perhaps, of men and beasts and trees, like that carving on his guardian's chinese cabinet. the chinese made jolly beasts and trees, as if they believed in everything having a soul, and not only being just fit for people to eat or drive or make houses of. if only the art school would let him model things 'on his own,' instead of copying and copying--it was just as if they imagined it would be dangerous to let you think out anything for yourself! he held the tortoise to his waistcoat, and let it crawl, till, noticing that it was gnawing the corner of his essay, he put it back into his pocket. what would his tutor do if he were to know it was there?--cock his head a little to one side, and say: "ah! there are things, lennan, not dreamed of in my philosophy!" yes, there were a good many not dreamed of by 'old stormer,' who seemed so awfully afraid of anything that wasn't usual; who seemed always laughing at you, for fear that you should laugh at him. there were lots of people in oxford like that. it was stupid. you couldn't do anything decent if you were afraid of being laughed at! mrs. stormer wasn't like that; she did things because--they came into her head. but then, of course, she was austrian, not english, and ever so much younger than old stormer. and having reached the door of his tutor's house, he rang the bell. . . . ii when anna stormer came into the study she found her husband standing at the window with his head a little on one side--a tall, long-legged figure in clothes of a pleasant tweed, and wearing a low turn-over collar (not common in those days) and a blue silk tie, which she had knitted, strung through a ring. he was humming and gently tapping the window-pane with his well-kept finger-nails. though celebrated for the amount of work he got through, she never caught him doing any in this house of theirs, chosen because it was more than half a mile away from the college which held the 'dear young clowns,' as he called them, of whom he was tutor. he did not turn--it was not, of course, his habit to notice what was not absolutely necessary--but she felt that he was aware of her. she came to the window seat and sat down. he looked round at that, and said: "ah!" it was a murmur almost of admiration, not usual from him, since, with the exception of certain portions of the classics, it was hardly his custom to admire. but she knew that she was looking her best sitting there, her really beautiful figure poised, the sun shining on her brown hair, and brightening her deep-set, ice-green eyes under their black lashes. it was sometimes a great comfort to her that she remained so good-looking. it would have been an added vexation indeed to have felt that she ruffled her husband's fastidiousness. even so, her cheekbones were too high for his taste, symbols of that something in her character which did not go with his--the dash of desperation, of vividness, that lack of a certain english smoothness, which always annoyed him. "harold!"--she would never quite flatten her r's--"i want to go to the mountains this year." the mountains! she had not seen them since that season at san martino di castrozza twelve years ago, which had ended in her marrying him. "nostalgia!" "i don't know what that means--i am homesick. can we go?" "if you like--why not? but no leading up the cimone della pala for me!" she knew what he meant by that. no romance. how splendidly he had led that day! she had almost worshipped him. what blindness! what distortion! was it really the same man standing there with those bright, doubting eyes, with grey already in his hair? yes, romance was over! and she sat silent, looking out into the street--that little old street into which she looked day and night. a figure passed out there, came to the door, and rang. she said softly: "here is mark lennan!" she felt her husband's eyes rest on her just for a moment, knew that he had turned, heard him murmur: "ah, the angel clown!" and, quite still, she waited for the door to open. there was the boy, with his blessed dark head, and his shy, gentle gravity, and his essay in his hand. "well, lennan, and how's old noll? hypocrite of genius, eh? draw up; let's get him over!" motionless, from her seat at the window, she watched those two figures at the table--the boy reading in his queer, velvety bass voice; her husband leaning back with the tips of his fingers pressed together, his head a little on one side, and that faint, satiric smile which never reached his eyes. yes, he was dozing, falling asleep; and the boy, not seeing, was going on. then he came to the end and glanced up. what eyes he had! other boys would have laughed; but he looked almost sorry. she heard him murmur: "i'm awfully sorry, sir." "ah, lennan, you caught me! fact is, term's fagged me out. we're going to the mountains. ever been to the mountains? what--never! you should come with us, eh? what do you say, anna? don't you think this young man ought to come with us?" she got up, and stood staring at them both. had she heard aright? then she answered--very gravely: "yes; i think he ought." "good; we'll get him to lead up the cimone della pala!" iii when the boy had said good-bye, and she had watched him out into the street, anna stood for a moment in the streak of sunlight that came in through the open door, her hands pressed to cheeks which were flaming. then she shut the door and leaned her forehead against the window-pane, seeing nothing. her heart beat very fast; she was going over and over again the scene just passed through. this meant so much more than it had seemed to mean. . . . though she always had heimweh, and especially at the end of the summer term, this year it had been a different feeling altogether that made her say to her husband: "i want to go to the mountains!" for twelve years she had longed for the mountains every summer, but had not pleaded for them; this year she had pleaded, but she did not long for them. it was because she had suddenly realized the strange fact that she did not want to leave england, and the reason for it, that she had come and begged to go. yet why, when it was just to get away from thought of this boy, had she said: "yes, i think he ought to come!" ah! but life for her was always a strange pull between the conscientious and the desperate; a queer, vivid, aching business! how long was it now since that day when he first came to lunch, silent and shy, and suddenly smiling as if he were all lighted up within--the day when she had said to her husband afterwards: "ah, he's an angel!" not yet a year--the beginning of last october term, in fact. he was different from all the other boys; not that he was a prodigy with untidy hair, ill-fitting clothes, and a clever tongue; but because of something--something--ah! well--different; because he was--he; because she longed to take his head between her hands and kiss it. she remembered so well the day that longing first came to her. she was giving him tea, it was quite early in the easter term; he was stroking her cat, who always went to him, and telling her that he meant to be a sculptor, but that his guardian objected, so that, of course, he could not start till he was of age. the lamp on the table had a rose-coloured shade; he had been rowing--a very cold day--and his face was glowing; generally it was rather pale. and suddenly he smiled, and said: "it's rotten waiting for things, isn't it?" it was then she had almost stretched out her hands to draw his forehead to her lips. she had thought then that she wanted to kiss him, because it would have been so nice to be his mother--she might just have been his mother, if she had married at sixteen. but she had long known now that she wanted to kiss, not his forehead, but his lips. he was there in her life--a fire in a cold and unaired house; it had even become hard to understand that she could have gone on all these years without him. she had missed him so those six weeks of the easter vacation, she had revelled so in his three queer little letters, half-shy, half-confidential; kissed them, and worn them in her dress! and in return had written him long, perfectly correct epistles in her still rather quaint english. she had never let him guess her feelings; the idea that he might shocked her inexpressibly. when the summer term began, life seemed to be all made up of thoughts of him. if, ten years ago, her baby had lived, if its cruel death--after her agony--had not killed for good her wish to have another; if for years now she had not been living with the knowledge that she had no warmth to expect, and that love was all over for her; if life in the most beautiful of all old cities had been able to grip her--there would have been forces to check this feeling. but there was nothing in the world to divert the current. and she was so brimful of life, so conscious of vitality running to sheer waste. sometimes it had been terrific, that feeling within her, of wanting to live--to find outlet for her energy. so many hundreds of lonely walks she had taken during all these years, trying to lose herself in nature--hurrying alone, running in the woods, over the fields, where people did not come, trying to get rid of that sense of waste, trying once more to feel as she had felt when a girl, with the whole world before her. it was not for nothing that her figure was superb, her hair so bright a brown, her eyes so full of light. she had tried many distractions. work in the back streets, music, acting, hunting; given them up one after the other; taken to them passionately again. they had served in the past. but this year they had not served. . . . one sunday, coming from confession unconfessed, she had faced herself. it was wicked. she would have to kill this feeling--must fly from this boy who moved her so! if she did not act quickly, she would be swept away. and then the thought had come: why not? life was to be lived--not torpidly dozed through in this queer cultured place, where age was in the blood! life was for love--to be enjoyed! and she would be thirty-six next month! it seemed to her already an enormous age. thirty-six! soon she would be old, actually old--and never have known passion! the worship, which had made a hero of the distinguished-looking englishman, twelve years older than herself, who could lead up the cimone della pala, had not been passion. it might, perhaps, have become passion if he had so willed. but he was all form, ice, books. had he a heart at all, had he blood in his veins? was there any joy of life in this too beautiful city and these people who lived in it--this place where even enthusiasms seemed to be formal and have no wings, where everything was settled and sophisticated as the very chapels and cloisters? and yet, to have this feeling for a boy--for one almost young enough to be her son! it was so--shameless! that thought haunted her, made her flush in the dark, lying awake at night. and desperately she would pray--for she was devout--pray to be made pure, to be given the holy feelings of a mother, to be filled simply with the sweet sense that she could do everything, suffer anything for him, for his good. after these long prayers she would feel calmed, drowsy, as though she had taken a drug. for hours, perhaps, she would stay like that. and then it would all come over her again. she never thought of his loving her; that would be--unnatural. why should he love her? she was very humble about it. ever since that sunday, when she avoided the confessional, she had brooded over how to make an end--how to get away from a longing that was too strong for her. and she had hit on this plan--to beg for the mountains, to go back to where her husband had come into her life, and try if this feeling would not die. if it did not, she would ask to be left out there with her own people, away from this danger. and now the fool--the blind fool--the superior fool--with his satiric smile, his everlasting patronage, had driven her to overturn her own plan. well, let him take the consequences; she had done her best! she would have this one fling of joy, even if it meant that she must stay out there, and never see the boy again! standing in her dusky hall, where a faint scent of woodrot crept out into the air, whenever windows and doors were closed, she was all tremulous with secret happiness. to be with him among her mountains, to show him all those wonderful, glittering or tawny crags, to go with him to the top of them and see the kingdoms of the world spread out below; to wander with him in the pine woods, on the alps in all the scent of the trees and the flowers, where the sun was hot! the first of july; and it was only the tenth of june! would she ever live so long? they would not go to san martino this time, rather to cortina--some new place that had no memories! she moved from the window, and busied herself with a bowl of flowers. she had heard that humming sound which often heralded her husband's approach, as though warning the world to recover its good form before he reached it. in her happiness she felt kind and friendly to him. if he had not meant to give her joy, he had nevertheless given it! he came downstairs two at a time, with that air of not being a pedagogue, which she knew so well; and, taking his hat off the stand, half turned round to her. "pleasant youth, young lennan; hope he won't bore us out there!" his voice seemed to have an accent of compunction, to ask pardon for having issued that impulsive invitation. and there came to her an overwhelming wish to laugh. to hide it, to find excuse for it, she ran up to him, and, pulling his coat lapels till his face was within reach, she kissed the tip of his nose. and then she laughed. and he stood looking at her, with his head just a little on one side, and his eyebrows just a little raised. iv when young mark heard a soft tapping at his door, though out of bed, he was getting on but dreamily--it was so jolly to watch the mountains lying out in this early light like huge beasts. that one they were going up, with his head just raised above his paws, looked very far away out there! opening the door an inch, he whispered: "is it late?" "five o'clock; aren't you ready?" it was awfully rude of him to keep her waiting! and he was soon down in the empty dining-room, where a sleepy maid was already bringing in their coffee. anna was there alone. she had on a flax-blue shirt, open at the neck, a short green skirt, and a grey-green velvety hat, small, with one black-cock's feather. why could not people always wear such nice things, and be as splendid-looking! and he said: "you do look jolly, mrs. stormer!" she did not answer for so long that he wondered if it had been rude to say that. but she did look so strong, and swift, and happy-looking. down the hill, through a wood of larch-trees, to the river, and across the bridge, to mount at once by a path through hay-fields. how could old stormer stay in bed on such a morning! the peasant girls in their blue linen skirts were already gathering into bundles what the men had scythed. one, raking at the edge of a field, paused and shyly nodded to them. she had the face of a madonna, very calm and grave and sweet, with delicate arched brows--a face it was pure pleasure to see. the boy looked back at her. everything to him, who had never been out of england before, seemed strange and glamorous. the chalets, with their long wide burnt-brown wooden balconies and low-hanging eaves jutting far beyond the walls; these bright dresses of the peasant women; the friendly little cream-coloured cows, with blunt, smoke-grey muzzles. even the feel in the air was new, that delicious crisp burning warmth that lay so lightly as it were on the surface of frozen stillness; and the special sweetness of all places at the foot of mountains--scent of pine-gum, burning larch-wood, and all the meadow flowers and grasses. but newest of all was the feeling within him--a sort of pride, a sense of importance, a queer exhilaration at being alone with her, chosen companion of one so beautiful. they passed all the other pilgrims bound the same way--stout square germans with their coats slung through straps, who trailed behind them heavy alpenstocks, carried greenish bags, and marched stolidly at a pace that never varied, growling, as anna and the boy went by: "aber eilen ist nichts!" but those two could not go fast enough to keep pace with their spirits. this was no real climb--just a training walk to the top of the nuvolau; and they were up before noon, and soon again descending, very hungry. when they entered the little dining-room of the cinque torre hutte, they found it occupied by a party of english people, eating omelettes, who looked at anna with faint signs of recognition, but did not cease talking in voices that all had a certain half-languid precision, a slight but brisk pinching of sounds, as if determined not to tolerate a drawl, and yet to have one. most of them had field-glasses slung round them, and cameras were dotted here and there about the room. their faces were not really much alike, but they all had a peculiar drooping smile, and a particular lift of the eyebrows, that made them seem reproductions of a single type. their teeth, too, for the most part were a little prominent, as though the drooping of their mouths had forced them forward. they were eating as people eat who distrust the lower senses, preferring not to be compelled to taste or smell. "from our hotel," whispered anna; and, ordering red wine and schnitzels, she and the boy sat down. the lady who seemed in command of the english party inquired now how mr. stormer was--he was not laid up, she hoped. no? only lazy? indeed! he was a great climber, she believed. it seemed to the boy that this lady somehow did not quite approve of them. the talk was all maintained between her, a gentleman with a crumpled collar and puggaree, and a short thick-set grey-bearded man in a dark norfolk jacket. if any of the younger members of the party spoke, the remark was received with an arch lifting of the brows, and drooping of the lids, as who should say: "ah! very promising!" "nothing in my life has given me greater pain than to observe the aptitude of human nature for becoming crystallized." it was the lady in command who spoke, and all the young people swayed their faces up and down, as if assenting. how like they were, the boy thought, to guinea-fowl, with their small heads and sloping shoulders and speckly grey coats! "ah! my dear lady"--it was the gentleman with the crumpled collar--"you novelists are always girding at the precious quality of conformity. the sadness of our times lies in this questioning spirit. never was there more revolt, especially among the young. to find the individual judging for himself is a grave symptom of national degeneration. but this is not a subject--" "surely, the subject is of the most poignant interest to all young people." again all the young ones raised their faces and moved them slightly from side to side. "my dear lady, we are too prone to let the interest that things arouse blind our judgment in regard to the advisability of discussing them. we let these speculations creep and creep until they twine themselves round our faith and paralyze it." one of the young men interjected suddenly: "madre"--and was silent. "i shall not, i think"--it was the lady speaking--"be accused of licence when i say that i have always felt that speculation is only dangerous when indulged in by the crude intelligence. if culture has nothing to give us, then let us have no culture; but if culture be, as i think it, indispensable, then we must accept the dangers that culture brings." again the young people moved their faces, and again the younger of the two young men said: "madre--" "dangers? have cultured people dangers?" who had spoken thus? every eyebrow was going up, every mouth was drooping, and there was silence. the boy stared at his companion. in what a strange voice she had made that little interjection! there seemed a sort of flame, too, lighted in her eyes. then the little grey-bearded man said, and his rather whispering voice sounded hard and acid: "we are all human, my dear madam." the boy felt his heart go thump at anna's laugh. it was just as if she had said: "ah! but not you--surely!" and he got up to follow her towards the door. the english party had begun already talking--of the weather. the two walked some way from the 'hut' in silence, before anna said: "you didn't like me when i laughed?" "you hurt their feelings, i think." "i wanted to--the english grundys! ah! don't be cross with me! they were english grundys, weren't they--every one?" she looked into his face so hard, that he felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and a dizzy sensation of being drawn forward. "they have no blood, those people! their voices, their supercilious eyes that look you up and down! oh! i've had so much of them! that woman with her liberalism, just as bad as any. i hate them all!" he would have liked to hate them, too, since she did; but they had only seemed to him amusing. "they aren't human. they don't feel! some day you'll know them. they won't amuse you then!" she went on, in a quiet, almost dreamy voice: "why do they come here? it's still young and warm and good out here. why don't they keep to their culture, where no one knows what it is to ache and feel hunger, and hearts don't beat. feel!" disturbed beyond measure, the boy could not tell whether it was in her heart or in his hand that the blood was pulsing so. was he glad or sorry when she let his hand go? "ah, well! they can't spoil this day. let's rest." at the edge of the larch-wood where they sat, were growing numbers of little mountain pinks, with fringed edges and the sweetest scent imaginable; and she got up presently to gather them. but he stayed where he was, and odd sensations stirred in him. the blue of the sky, the feathery green of the larch-trees, the mountains, were no longer to him what they had been early that morning. she came back with her hands full of the little pinks, spread her fingers and let them drop. they showered all over his face and neck. never was so wonderful a scent; never such a strange feeling as they gave him. they clung to his hair, his forehead, his eyes, one even got caught on the curve of his lips; and he stared up at her through their fringed petals. there must have been something wild in his eyes then, something of the feeling that was stinging his heart, for her smile died; she walked away, and stood with her face turned from him. confused, and unhappy, he gathered the strewn flowers; and not till he had collected every one did he get up and shyly take them to her, where she still stood, gazing into the depths of the larch-wood. v what did he know of women, that should make him understand? at his public school he had seen none to speak to; at oxford, only this one. at home in the holidays, not any, save his sister cicely. the two hobbies of their guardian, fishing, and the antiquities of his native county, rendered him averse to society; so that his little devonshire manor-house, with its black oak panels and its wild stone-walled park along the river-side was, from year's end to year's end, innocent of all petticoats, save those of cicely and old miss tring, the governess. then, too, the boy was shy. no, there was nothing in his past, of not yet quite nineteen years, to go by. he was not of those youths who are always thinking of conquests. the very idea of conquest seemed to him vulgar, mean, horrid. there must be many signs indeed before it would come into his head that a woman was in love with him, especially the one to whom he looked up, and thought so beautiful. for before all beauty he was humble, inclined to think himself a clod. it was the part of life which was always unconsciously sacred, and to be approached trembling. the more he admired, the more tremulous and diffident he became. and so, after his one wild moment, when she plucked those sweet-scented blossoms and dropped them over him, he felt abashed; and walking home beside her he was quieter than ever, awkward to the depths of his soul. if there were confusion in his heart which had been innocent of trouble, what must there have been in hers, that for so long had secretly desired the dawning of that confusion? and she, too, was very silent. passing a church with open door in the outskirts of the village, she said: "don't wait for me--i want to go in here a little." in the empty twilight within, one figure, a countrywoman in her black shawl, was kneeling--marvellously still. he would have liked to stay. that kneeling figure, the smile of the sunlight filtering through into the half darkness! he lingered long enough to see anna, too, go down on her knees in the stillness. was she praying? again he had the turbulent feeling with which he had watched her pluck those flowers. she looked so splendid kneeling there! it was caddish to feel like that, when she was praying, and he turned quickly away into the road. but that sharp, sweet stinging sensation did not leave him. he shut his eyes to get rid of her image--and instantly she became ten times more visible, his feeling ten times stronger. he mounted to the hotel; there on the terrace was his tutor. and oddly enough, the sight of him at that moment was no more embarrassing than if it had been the hotel concierge. stormer did not somehow seem to count; did not seem to want you to count him. besides, he was so old--nearly fifty! the man who was so old was posed in a characteristic attitude--hands in the pockets of his norfolk jacket, one shoulder slightly raised, head just a little on one side, as if preparing to quiz something. he spoke as lennan came up, smiling--but not with his eyes. "well, young man, and what have you done with my wife?" "left her in a church, sir." "ah! she will do that! has she run you off your legs? no? then let's walk and talk a little." to be thus pacing up and down and talking with her husband seemed quite natural, did not even interfere with those new sensations, did not in the least increase his shame for having them. he only wondered a little how she could have married him--but so little! quite far and academic was his wonder--like his wonder in old days how his sister could care to play with dolls. if he had any other feeling, it was just a longing to get away and go down the hill again to the church. it seemed cold and lonely after all that long day with her--as if he had left himself up there, walking along hour after hour, or lying out in the sun beside her. what was old stormer talking about? the difference between the greek and roman views of honour. always in the past--seemed to think the present was bad form. and he said: "we met some english grundys, sir, on the mountain." "ah, yes! any particular brand?" "some advanced, and some not; but all the same, i think, really." "i see. grundys, i think you said?" "yes, sir, from this hotel. it was mrs. stormer's name for them. they were so very superior." "quite." there was something unusual in the tone of that little word. and the boy stared--for the first time there seemed a real man standing there. then the blood rushed up into his cheeks, for there she was! would she come up to them? how splendid she was looking, burnt by the sun, and walking as if just starting! but she passed into the hotel without turning her head their way. had he offended, hurt her? he made an excuse, and got away to his room. in the window from which that same morning he had watched the mountains lying out like lions in the dim light, he stood again, and gazed at the sun dropping over the high horizon. what had happened to him? he felt so different, so utterly different. it was another world. and the most strange feeling came on him, as of the flowers falling again all over his face and neck and hands, the tickling of their soft-fringed edges, the stinging sweetness of their scent. and he seemed to hear her voice saying: "feel!" and to feel her heart once more beating under his hand. vi alone with that black-shawled figure in the silent church, anna did not pray. resting there on her knees, she experienced only the sore sensation of revolt. why had fate flung this feeling into her heart, lighted up her life suddenly, if god refused her its enjoyment? some of the mountain pinks remained clinging to her belt, and the scent of them, crushed against her, warred with the faint odour of age and incense. while they were there, with their enticement and their memories, prayer would never come. but did she want to pray? did she desire the mood of that poor soul in her black shawl, who had not moved by one hair's breadth since she had been watching her, who seemed resting her humble self so utterly, letting life lift from her, feeling the relief of nothingness? ah, yes! what would it be to have a life so toilsome, so little exciting from day to day and hour to hour, that just to kneel there in wistful stupor was the greatest pleasure one could know? it was beautiful to see her, but it was sad. and there came over anna a longing to go up to her neighbour and say: "tell me your troubles; we are both women." she had lost a son, perhaps, some love--or perhaps not really love, only some illusion. ah! love. . . . why should any spirit yearn, why should any body, full of strength and joy, wither slowly away for want of love? was there not enough in this great world for her, anna, to have a little? she would not harm him, for she would know when he had had enough of her; she would surely have the pride and grace then to let him go. for, of course, he would get tired of her. at her age she could never hope to hold a boy more than a few years--months, perhaps. but would she ever hold him at all? youth was so hard--it had no heart! and then the memory of his eyes came back--gazing up, troubled, almost wild--when she had dropped on him those flowers. that memory filled her with a sort of delirium. one look from her then, one touch, and he would have clasped her to him. she was sure of it, yet scarcely dared to believe what meant so much. and suddenly the torment that she must go through, whatever happened, seemed to her too brutal and undeserved! she rose. just one gleam of sunlight was still slanting through the doorway; it failed by a yard or so to reach the kneeling countrywoman, and anna watched. would it steal on and touch her, or would the sun pass down behind the mountains, and it fade away? unconscious of that issue, the black-shawled figure knelt, never moving. and the beam crept on. "if it touches her, then he will love me, if only for an hour; if it fades out too soon--" and the beam crept on. that shadowy path of light, with its dancing dust-motes, was it indeed charged with fate--indeed the augury of love or darkness? and, slowly moving, it mounted, the sun sinking; it rose above that bent head, hovered in a golden mist, passed--and suddenly was gone. unsteadily, seeing nothing plain, anna walked out of the church. why she passed her husband and the boy on the terrace without a look she could not quite have said--perhaps because the tortured does not salute her torturers. when she reached her room she felt deadly tired, and lying down on her bed, almost at once fell asleep. she was wakened by a sound, and, recognizing the delicate 'rat-tat' of her husband's knock, did not answer, indifferent whether he came in or no. he entered noiselessly. if she did not let him know she was awake, he would not wake her. she lay still and watched him sit down astride of a chair, cross his arms on its back, rest his chin on them, and fix his eyes on her. through her veil of eyelashes she had unconsciously contrived that his face should be the one object plainly seen--the more intensely visualized, because of this queer isolation. she did not feel at all ashamed of this mutual fixed scrutiny, in which she had such advantage. he had never shown her what was in him, never revealed what lay behind those bright satiric eyes. now, perhaps, she would see! and she lay, regarding him with the intense excited absorption with which one looks at a tiny wildflower through a magnifying-lens, and watches its insignificance expanded to the size and importance of a hothouse bloom. in her mind was this thought: he is looking at me with his real self, since he has no reason for armour against me now. at first his eyes seemed masked with their customary brightness, his whole face with its usual decorous formality; then gradually he became so changed that she hardly knew him. that decorousness, that brightness, melted off what lay behind, as frosty dew melts off grass. and her very soul contracted within her, as if she had become identified with what he was seeing--a something to be passed over, a very nothing. yes, his was the face of one looking at what was unintelligible, and therefore negligible; at that which had no soul; at something of a different and inferior species and of no great interest to a man. his face was like a soundless avowal of some conclusion, so fixed and intimate that it must surely emanate from the very core of him--be instinctive, unchangeable. this was the real he! a man despising women! her first thought was: and he's married--what a fate! her second: if he feels that, perhaps thousands of men do! am i and all women really what they think us? the conviction in his stare--its through-and-through conviction--had infected her; and she gave in to it for the moment, crushed. then her spirit revolted with such turbulence, and the blood so throbbed in her, that she could hardly lie still. how dare he think her like that--a nothing, a bundle of soulless inexplicable whims and moods and sensuality? a thousand times, no! it was he who was the soulless one, the dry, the godless one; who, in his sickening superiority, could thus deny her, and with her all women! that stare was as if he saw her--a doll tricked out in garments labelled soul, spirit, rights, responsibilities, dignity, freedom--all so many words. it was vile, it was horrible, that he should see her thus! and a really terrific struggle began in her between the desire to get up and cry this out, and the knowledge that it would be stupid, undignified, even mad, to show her comprehension of what he would never admit or even understand that he had revealed to her. and then a sort of cynicism came to her rescue. what a funny thing was married life--to have lived all these years with him, and never known what was at the bottom of his heart! she had the feeling now that, if she went up to him and said: "i am in love with that boy!" it would only make him droop the corners of his mouth and say in his most satiric voice: "really! that is very interesting!"--would not change in one iota his real thoughts of her; only confirm him in the conviction that she was negligible, inexplicable, an inferior strange form of animal, of no real interest to him. and then, just when she felt that she could not hold herself in any longer, he got up, passed on tiptoe to the door, opened it noiselessly, and went out. the moment he had gone, she jumped up. so, then, she was linked to one for whom she, for whom women, did not, as it were, exist! it seemed to her that she had stumbled on knowledge of almost sacred importance, on the key of everything that had been puzzling and hopeless in their married life. if he really, secretly, whole-heartedly despised her, the only feeling she need have for one so dry, so narrow, so basically stupid, was just contempt. but she knew well enough that contempt would not shake what she had seen in his face; he was impregnably walled within his clever, dull conviction of superiority. he was for ever intrenched, and she would always be only the assailant. though--what did it matter, now? usually swift, almost careless, she was a long time that evening over her toilette. her neck was very sunburnt, and she lingered, doubtful whether to hide it with powder, or accept her gipsy colouring. she did accept it, for she saw that it gave her eyes, so like glacier ice, under their black lashes, and her hair, with its surprising glints of flame colour, a peculiar value. when the dinner-bell rang she passed her husband's door without, as usual, knocking, and went down alone. in the hall she noticed some of the english party of the mountain hut. they did not greet her, conceiving an immediate interest in the barometer; but she could feel them staring at her very hard. she sat down to wait, and at once became conscious of the boy coming over from the other side of the room, rather like a person walking in his sleep. he said not a word. but how he looked! and her heart began to beat. was this the moment she had longed for? if it, indeed, had come, dared she take it? then she saw her husband descending the stairs, saw him greet the english party, heard the intoning of their drawl. she looked up at the boy, and said quickly: "was it a happy day?" it gave her such delight to keep that look on his face, that look as if he had forgotten everything except just the sight of her. his eyes seemed to have in them something holy at that moment, something of the wonder-yearning of nature and of innocence. it was dreadful to know that in a moment that look must be gone; perhaps never to come back on his face--that look so precious! her husband was approaching now! let him see, if he would! let him see that someone could adore--that she was not to everyone a kind of lower animal. yes, he must have seen the boy's face; and yet his expression never changed. he noticed nothing! or was it that he disdained to notice? vii then followed for young lennan a strange time, when he never knew from minute to minute whether he was happy--always trying to be with her, restless if he could not be, sore if she talked with and smiled at others; yet, when he was with her, restless too, unsatisfied, suffering from his own timidity. one wet morning, when she was playing the hotel piano, and he listening, thinking to have her to himself, there came a young german violinist--pale, and with a brown, thin-waisted coat, longish hair, and little whiskers--rather a beast, in fact. soon, of course, this young beast was asking her to accompany him--as if anyone wanted to hear him play his disgusting violin! every word and smile that she gave him hurt so, seeing how much more interesting than himself this foreigner was! and his heart grew heavier and heavier, and he thought: if she likes him i ought not to mind--only, i do mind! how can i help minding? it was hateful to see her smiling, and the young beast bending down to her. and they were talking german, so that he could not tell what they were saying, which made it more unbearable. he had not known there could be such torture. and then he began to want to hurt her, too. but that was mean--besides, how could he hurt her? she did not care for him. he was nothing to her--only a boy. if she really thought him only a boy, who felt so old--it would be horrible. it flashed across him that she might be playing that young violinist against him! no, she never would do that! but the young beast looked just the sort that might take advantage of her smiles. if only he would do something that was not respectful, how splendid it would be to ask him to come for a walk in the woods, and, having told him why, give him a thrashing. afterwards, he would not tell her, he would not try to gain credit by it. he would keep away till she wanted him back. but suddenly the thought of what he would feel if she really meant to take this young man as her friend in place of him became so actual, so poignant, so horribly painful, that he got up abruptly and went towards the door. would she not say a word to him before he got out of the room, would she not try and keep him? if she did not, surely it would be all over; it would mean that anybody was more to her than he. that little journey to the door, indeed, seemed like a march to execution. would she not call after him? he looked back. she was smiling. but he could not smile; she had hurt him too much! turning his head away, he went out, and dashed into the rain bareheaded. the feeling of it on his face gave him a sort of dismal satisfaction. soon he would be wet through. perhaps he would get ill. out here, far away from his people, she would have to offer to nurse him; and perhaps--perhaps in his illness he would seem to her again more interesting than that young beast, and then--ah! if only he could be ill! he mounted rapidly through the dripping leaves towards the foot of the low mountain that rose behind the hotel. a trail went up there to the top, and he struck into it, going at a great pace. his sense of injury began dying away; he no longer wanted to be ill. the rain had stopped, the sun came out; he went on, up and up. he would get to the top quicker than anyone ever had! it was something he could do better than that young beast. the pine-trees gave way to stunted larches, and these to pine scrub and bare scree, up which he scrambled, clutching at the tough bushes, terribly out of breath, his heart pumping, the sweat streaming into his eyes. he had no feeling now but wonder whether he would get to the top before he dropped, exhausted. he thought he would die of the beating of his heart; but it was better to die than to stop and be beaten by a few yards. he stumbled up at last on to the little plateau at the top. for full ten minutes he lay there on his face without moving, then rolled over. his heart had given up that terrific thumping; he breathed luxuriously, stretched out his arms along the steaming grass--felt happy. it was wonderful up here, with the sun burning hot in a sky clear-blue already. how tiny everything looked below--hotel, trees, village, chalets--little toy things! he had never before felt the sheer joy of being high up. the rain-clouds, torn and driven in huge white shapes along the mountains to the south, were like an army of giants with chariots and white horses hurrying away. he thought suddenly: "suppose i had died when my heart pumped so! would it have mattered the least bit? everything would be going on just the same, the sun shining, the blue up there the same; and those toy things down in the valley." that jealousy of his an hour ago, why--it was nothing--he himself nothing! what did it matter if she were nice to that fellow in the brown coat? what did anything matter when the whole thing was so big--and he such a tiny scrap of it? on the edge of the plateau, to mark the highest point, someone had erected a rude cross, which jutted out stark against the blue sky. it looked cruel somehow, sagged all crooked, and out of place up here; a piece of bad manners, as if people with only one idea had dragged it in, without caring whether or no it suited what was around it. one might just as well introduce one of these rocks into that jolly dark church where he had left her the other day, as put a cross up here. a sound of bells, and of sniffing and scuffling, roused him; a large grey goat had come up and was smelling at his hair--the leader of a flock, that were soon all round him, solemnly curious, with their queer yellow oblong-pupilled eyes, and their quaint little beards and tails. awfully decent beasts--and friendly! what jolly things to model! he lay still (having learnt from the fisherman, his guardian, that necessary habit in the presence of all beasts), while the leader sampled the flavour of his neck. the passage of that long rough tongue athwart his skin gave him an agreeable sensation, awakened a strange deep sense of comradeship. he restrained his desire to stroke the creature's nose. it appeared that they now all wished to taste his neck; but some were timid, and the touch of their tongues simply a tickle, so that he was compelled to laugh, and at that peculiar sound they withdrew and gazed at him. there seemed to be no one with them; then, at a little distance, quite motionless in the shade of a rock, he spied the goatherd, a boy about his own age. how lonely he must be up here all day! perhaps he talked to his goats. he looked as if he might. one would get to have queer thoughts up here, get to know the rocks, and clouds, and beasts, and what they all meant. the goatherd uttered a peculiar whistle, and something, lennan could not tell exactly what, happened among the goats--a sort of "here, sir!" seemed to come from them. and then the goatherd moved out from the shade and went over to the edge of the plateau, and two of the goats that were feeding there thrust their noses into his hand, and rubbed themselves against his legs. the three looked beautiful standing there together on the edge against the sky. . . . that night, after dinner, the dining-room was cleared for dancing, so that the guests might feel freedom and gaiety in the air. and, indeed, presently, a couple began sawing up and down over the polished boards, in the apologetic manner peculiar to hotel guests. then three pairs of italians suddenly launched themselves into space--twirling and twirling, and glaring into each other's eyes; and some americans, stimulated by their precept, began airily backing and filling. two of the 'english grundys' with carefully amused faces next moved out. to lennan it seemed that they all danced very well, better than he could. did he dare ask her? then he saw the young violinist go up, saw her rise and take his arm and vanish into the dancing-room; and leaning his forehead against a window-pane, with a sick, beaten feeling, he stayed, looking out into the moonlight, seeing nothing. he heard his name spoken; his tutor was standing beside him. "you and i, lennan, must console each other. dancing's for the young, eh?" fortunately it was the boy's instinct and his training not to show his feelings; to be pleasant, though suffering. "yes, sir. jolly moonlight, isn't it, out there?" "ah! very jolly; yes. when i was your age i twirled the light fantastic with the best. but gradually, lennan, one came to see it could not be done without a partner--there was the rub! tell me--do you regard women as responsible beings? i should like to have your opinion on that." it was, of course, ironical--yet there was something in those words--something! "i think it's you, sir, who ought to give me yours." "my dear lennan--my experience is a mere nothing!" that was meant for unkindness to her! he would not answer. if only stormer would go away! the music had stopped. they would be sitting out somewhere, talking! he made an effort, and said: "i was up the hill at the back this morning, where the cross is. there were some jolly goats." and suddenly he saw her coming. she was alone--flushed, smiling; it struck him that her frock was the same colour as the moonlight. "harold, will you dance?" he would say 'yes,' and she would be gone again! but his tutor only made her a little bow, and said with that smile of his: "lennan and i have agreed that dancing is for the young." "sometimes the old must sacrifice themselves. mark, will you dance?" behind him he heard his tutor murmur: "ah! lennan--you betray me!" that little silent journey with her to the dancing-room was the happiest moment perhaps that he had ever known. and he need not have been so much afraid about his dancing. truly, it was not polished, but it could not spoil hers, so light, firm, buoyant! it was wonderful to dance with her. only when the music stopped and they sat down did he know how his head was going round. he felt strange, very strange indeed. he heard her say: "what is it, dear boy? you look so white!" without quite knowing what he did, he bent his face towards the hand that she had laid on his sleeve, then knew no more, having fainted. viii growing boy--over-exertion in the morning! that was all! he was himself very quickly, and walked up to bed without assistance. rotten of him! never was anyone more ashamed of his little weakness than this boy. now that he was really a trifle indisposed, he simply could not bear the idea of being nursed at all or tended. almost rudely he had got away. only when he was in bed did he remember the look on her face as he left her. how wistful and unhappy, seeming to implore him to forgive her! as if there were anything to forgive! as if she had not made him perfectly happy when she danced with him! he longed to say to her: "if i might be close to you like that one minute every day, then i don't mind all the rest!" perhaps he would dare say that to-morrow. lying there he still felt a little funny. he had forgotten to close the ribs of the blinds, and moonlight was filtering in; but he was too idle, too drowsy to get up now and do it. they had given him brandy, rather a lot--that perhaps was the reason he felt so queer; not ill, but mazy, as if dreaming, as if he had lost the desire ever to move again. just to lie there, and watch the powdery moonlight, and hear faraway music throbbing down below, and still feel the touch of her, as in the dance she swayed against him, and all the time to have the scent about him of flowers! his thoughts were dreams, his dreams thoughts--all precious unreality. and then it seemed to him that the moonlight was gathered into a single slip of pallor--there was a thrumming, a throbbing, and that shape of moonlight moved towards him. it came so close that he felt its warmth against his brow; it sighed, hovered, drew back soundless, and was gone. he must have fallen then into dreamless sleep. . . . what time was it when he was awakened by that delicate 'rat-tat' to see his tutor standing in the door-way with a cup of tea? was young lennan all right? yes, he was perfectly all right--would be down directly! it was most frightfully good of mr. stormer to come! he really didn't want anything. yes, yes; but the maimed and the halt must be attended to! his face seemed to the boy very kind just then--only to laugh at him a very little--just enough. and it was awfully decent of him to have come, and to stand there while he drank the tea. he was really all right, but for a little headache. many times while he was dressing he stood still, trying to remember. that white slip of moonlight? was it moonlight? was it part of a dream; or was it, could it have been she, in her moonlight-coloured frock? why had he not stayed awake? he would not dare to ask her, and now would never know whether the vague memory of warmth on his brow had been a kiss. he breakfasted alone in the room where they had danced. there were two letters for him. one from his guardian enclosing money, and complaining of the shyness of the trout; the other from his sister. the man she was engaged to--he was a budding diplomat, attached to the embassy at rome--was afraid that his leave was going to be curtailed. they would have to be married at once. they might even have to get a special licence. it was lucky mark was coming back so soon. they simply must have him for best man. the only bridesmaid now would be sylvia. . . . sylvia doone? why, she was only a kid! and the memory of a little girl in a very short holland frock, with flaxen hair, pretty blue eyes, and a face so fair that you could almost see through it, came up before him. but that, of course, was six years ago; she would not still be in a frock that showed her knees, or wear beads, or be afraid of bulls that were never there. it was stupid being best man--they might have got some decent chap! and then he forgot all--for there was she, out on the terrace. in his rush to join her he passed several of the 'english grundys,' who stared at him askance. indeed, his conduct of the night before might well have upset them. an oxford man, fainting in an hotel! something wrong there! . . . and then, when he reached her, he did find courage. "was it really moonlight?" "all moonlight." "but it was warm!" and, when she did not answer that, he had within him just the same light, intoxicated feeling as after he had won a race at school. but now came a dreadful blow. his tutor's old guide had suddenly turned up, after a climb with a party of germans. the war-horse had been aroused in stormer. he wished to start that afternoon for a certain hut, and go up a certain peak at dawn next day. but lennan was not to go. why not? because of last night's faint; and because, forsooth, he was not some stupid thing they called 'an expert.' as if--! where she could go he could! this was to treat him like a child. of course he could go up this rotten mountain. it was because she did not care enough to take him! she did not think him man enough! did she think that he could not climb what--her husband--could? and if it were dangerous she ought not to be going, leaving him behind--that was simply cruel! but she only smiled, and he flung away from her, not having seen that all this grief of his only made her happy. and that afternoon they went off without him. what deep, dark thoughts he had then! what passionate hatred of his own youth! what schemes he wove, by which she might come back, and find him gone-up some mountain far more dangerous and fatiguing! if people did not think him fit to climb with, he would climb by himself. that, anyway, everyone admitted, was dangerous. and it would be her fault. she would be sorry then. he would get up, and be off before dawn; he put his things out ready, and filled his flask. the moonlight that evening was more wonderful than ever, the mountains like great ghosts of themselves. and she was up there at the hut, among them! it was very long before he went to sleep, brooding over his injuries--intending not to sleep at all, so as to be ready to be off at three o'clock. at nine o'clock he woke. his wrath was gone; he only felt restless and ashamed. if, instead of flying out, he had made the best of it, he could have gone with them as far as the hut, could have stayed the night there. and now he cursed himself for being such a fool and idiot. some little of that idiocy he could, perhaps, retrieve. if he started for the hut at once, he might still be in time to meet them coming down, and accompany them home. he swallowed his coffee, and set off. he knew the way at first, then in woods lost it, recovered the right track again at last, but did not reach the hut till nearly two o'clock. yes, the party had made the ascent that morning--they had been seen, been heard jodelling on the top. gewiss! gewiss! but they would not come down the same way. oh, no! they would be going home down to the west and over the other pass. they would be back in house before the young herr himself. he heard this, oddly, almost with relief. was it the long walk alone, or being up there so high? or simply that he was very hungry? or just these nice friendly folk in the hut, and their young daughter with her fresh face, queer little black cloth sailor hat with long ribbons, velvet bodice, and perfect simple manners; or the sight of the little silvery-dun cows, thrusting their broad black noses against her hand? what was it that had taken away from him all his restless feeling, made him happy and content? . . . he did not know that the newest thing always fascinates the puppy in its gambols! . . . he sat a long while after lunch, trying to draw the little cows, watching the sun on the cheek of that pretty maiden, trying to talk to her in german. and when at last he said: "adieu!" and she murmured "kuss die hand. adieu!" there was quite a little pang in his heart. . . . wonderful and queer is the heart of a man! . . . for all that, as he neared home he hastened, till he was actually running. why had he stayed so long up there? she would be back--she would expect to see him; and that young beast of a violinist would be with her, perhaps, instead! he reached the hotel just in time to rush up and dress, and rush down to dinner. ah! they were tired, no doubt--were resting in their rooms. he sat through dinner as best he could; got away before dessert, and flew upstairs. for a minute he stood there doubtful; on which door should he knock? then timidly he tapped on hers. no answer! he knocked loud on his tutor's door. no answer! they were not back, then. not back? what could that mean? or could it be that they were both asleep? once more he knocked on her door; then desperately turned the handle, and took a flying glance. empty, tidy, untouched! not back! he turned and ran downstairs again. all the guests were streaming out from dinner, and he became entangled with a group of 'english grundys' discussing a climbing accident which had occurred in switzerland. he listened, feeling suddenly quite sick. one of them, the short grey-bearded grundy with the rather whispering voice, said to him: "all alone again to-night? the stormers not back?" lennan did his best to answer, but something had closed his throat; he could only shake his head. "they had a guide, i think?" said the 'english grundy.' this time lennan managed to get out: "yes, sir." "stormer, i fancy, is quite an expert!" and turning to the lady whom the young 'grundys' addressed as 'madre' he added: "to me the great charm of mountain-climbing was always the freedom from people--the remoteness." the mother of the young 'grundys,' looking at lennan with her half-closed eyes, answered: "that, to me, would be the disadvantage; i always like to be mixing with my own kind." the grey-bearded 'grundy' murmured in a muffled voice: "dangerous thing, that, to say--in an hotel!" and they went on talking, but of what lennan no longer knew, lost in this sudden feeling of sick fear. in the presence of these 'english grundys,' so superior to all vulgar sensations, he could not give vent to his alarm; already they viewed him as unsound for having fainted. then he grasped that there had begun all round him a sort of luxurious speculation on what might have happened to the stormers. the descent was very nasty; there was a particularly bad traverse. the 'grundy,' whose collar was not now crumpled, said he did not believe in women climbing. it was one of the signs of the times that he most deplored. the mother of the young 'grundys' countered him at once: in practice she agreed that they were out of place, but theoretically she could not see why they should not climb. an american standing near threw all into confusion by saying he guessed that it might be liable to develop their understandings. lennan made for the front door. the moon had just come up over in the south, and exactly under it he could see their mountain. what visions he had then! he saw her lying dead, saw himself climbing down in the moonlight and raising her still-living, but half-frozen, form from some perilous ledge. even that was almost better than this actuality of not knowing where she was, or what had happened. people passed out into the moonlight, looking curiously at his set face staring so fixedly. one or two asked him if he were anxious, and he answered: "oh no, thanks!" soon there would have to be a search party. how soon? he would, he must be, of it! they should not stop him this time. and suddenly he thought: ah, it is all because i stayed up there this afternoon talking to that girl, all because i forgot her! and then he heard a stir behind him. there they were, coming down the passage from a side door--she in front with her alpenstock and rucksack--smiling. instinctively he recoiled behind some plants. they passed. her sunburned face, with its high cheek-bones and its deep-set eyes, looked so happy; smiling, tired, triumphant. somehow he could not bear it, and when they were gone by he stole out into the wood and threw himself down in shadow, burying his face, and choking back a horrible dry sobbing that would keep rising in his throat. ix next day he was happy; for all the afternoon he lay out in the shade of that same wood at her feet, gazing up through larch-boughs. it was so wonderful, with nobody but nature near. nature so alive, and busy, and so big! coming down from the hut the day before, he had seen a peak that looked exactly like the figure of a woman with a garment over her head, the biggest statue in the world; from further down it had become the figure of a bearded man, with his arm bent over his eyes. had she seen it? had she noticed how all the mountains in moonlight or very early morning took the shape of beasts? what he wanted most in life was to be able to make images of beasts and creatures of all sorts, that were like--that had--that gave out the spirit of--nature; so that by just looking at them one could have all those jolly feelings one had when one was watching trees, and beasts, and rocks, and even some sorts of men--but not 'english grundys.' so he was quite determined to study art? oh yes, of course! he would want to leave--oxford, then! no, oh no! only some day he would have to. she answered: "some never get away!" and he said quickly: "of course, i shall never want to leave oxford while you are there." he heard her draw her breath in sharply. "oh yes, you will! now help me up!" and she led the way back to the hotel. he stayed out on the terrace when she had gone in, restless and unhappy the moment he was away from her. a voice close by said: "well, friend lennan--brown study, or blue devils, which?" there, in one of those high wicker chairs that insulate their occupants from the world, he saw his tutor leaning back, head a little to one side, and tips of fingers pressed together. he looked like an idol sitting there inert, and yet--yesterday he had gone up that mountain! "cheer up! you will break your neck yet! when i was your age, i remember feeling it deeply that i was not allowed to risk the lives of others." lennan stammered out: "i didn't think of that; but i thought where mrs. stormer could go, i could." "ah! for all our admiration we cannot quite admit--can we, when it comes to the point?" the boy's loyalty broke into flame: "it's not that. i think mrs. stormer as good as any man--only--only--" "not quite so good as you, eh?" "a hundred times better, sir." stormer smiled. ironic beast! "lennan," he said, "distrust hyperbole." "of course, i know i'm no good at climbing," the boy broke out again; "but--but--i thought where she was allowed to risk her life, i ought to be!" "good! i like that." it was said so entirely without irony for once, that the boy was disconcerted. "you are young, brother lennan," his tutor went on. "now, at what age do you consider men develop discretion? because, there is just one thing always worth remembering--women have none of that better part of valour." "i think women are the best things in the world," the boy blurted out. "may you long have that opinion!" his tutor had risen, and was ironically surveying his knees. "a bit stiff!" he said. "let me know when you change your views!" "i never shall, sir." "ah, ah! never is a long word, lennan. i am going to have some tea;" and gingerly he walked away, quizzing, as it were, with a smile, his own stiffness. lennan remained where he was, with burning cheeks. his tutor's words again had seemed directed against her. how could a man say such things about women! if they were true, he did not want to know; if they were not true, it was wicked to say them. it must be awful never to have generous feelings; always to have to be satirical. dreadful to be like the 'english grundys'; only different, of course, because, after all, old stormer was much more interesting and intelligent--ever so much more; only, just as 'superior.' "some never get away!" had she meant--from that superiority? just down below were a family of peasants scything and gathering in the grass. one could imagine her doing that, and looking beautiful, with a coloured handkerchief over her head; one could imagine her doing anything simple--one could not imagine old stormer doing anything but what he did do. and suddenly the boy felt miserable, oppressed by these dim glimmerings of lives misplaced. and he resolved that he would not be like stormer when he was old! no, he would rather be a regular beast than be like that! . . . when he went to his room to change for dinner he saw in a glass of water a large clove carnation. who had put it there? who could have put it there--but she? it had the same scent as the mountain pinks she had dropped over him, but deeper, richer--a scent moving, dark, and sweet. he put his lips to it before he pinned it into his coat. there was dancing again that night--more couples this time, and a violin beside the piano; and she had on a black frock. he had never seen her in black. her face and neck were powdered over their sunburn. the first sight of that powder gave him a faint shock. he had not somehow thought that ladies ever put on powder. but if she did--then it must be right! and his eyes never left her. he saw the young german violinist hovering round her, even dancing with her twice; watched her dancing with others, but all without jealousy, without troubling; all in a sort of dream. what was it? had he been bewitched into that queer state, bewitched by the gift of that flower in his coat? what was it, when he danced with her, that kept him happy in her silence and his own? there was no expectation in him of anything that she would say, or do--no expectation, no desire. even when he wandered out with her on to the terrace, even when they went down the bank and sat on a bench above the fields where the peasants had been scything, he had still no feeling but that quiet, dreamy adoration. the night was black and dreamy too, for the moon was still well down behind the mountains. the little band was playing the next waltz; but he sat, not moving, not thinking, as if all power of action and thought had been stolen out of him. and the scent of the flower in his coat rose, for there was no wind. suddenly his heart stopped beating. she had leaned against him, he felt her shoulder press his arm, her hair touch his cheek. he closed his eyes then, and turned his face to her. he felt her lips press his mouth with a swift, burning kiss. he sighed, stretched out his arms. there was nothing there but air. the rustle of her dress against the grass was all! the flower--it, too, was gone. x not one minute all that night did anna sleep. was it remorse that kept her awake, or the intoxication of memory? if she felt that her kiss had been a crime, it was not against her husband or herself, but against the boy--the murder of illusion, of something sacred. but she could not help feeling a delirious happiness too, and the thought of trying to annul what she had done did not even occur to her. he was ready, then, to give her a little love! ever so little, compared to hers, but still a little! there could be no other meaning to that movement of his face with the closed eyes, as if he would nestle it down on her breast. was she ashamed of her little manoeuvres of these last few days--ashamed of having smiled at the young violinist, of that late return from the mountain climb, of the flower she had given him, of all the conscious siege she had laid since the evening her husband came in and sat watching her, without knowing that she saw him? no; not really ashamed! her remorse rose only from the kiss. it hurt to think of that, because it was death, the final extinction of the mother-feeling in her; the awakening of--who knew what--in the boy! for if she was mysterious to him, what was he not to her, with his eagerness, and his dreaminess, his youthful warmth, his innocence! what if it had killed in him trust, brushed off the dew, tumbled a star down? could she forgive herself for that? could she bear it if she were to make him like so many other boys, like that young violinist; just a cynical youth, looking on women as what they called 'fair game'? but could she make him into such--would he ever grow like that? oh! surely not; or she would not have loved him from the moment she first set eyes on him and spoke of him as 'an angel.' after that kiss--that crime, if it were one--in the dark she had not known what he had done, where gone--perhaps wandering, perhaps straight up to his room. why had she refrained, left him there, vanished out of his arms? this she herself hardly understood. not shame; not fear; reverence perhaps--for what? for love--for the illusion, the mystery, all that made love beautiful; for youth, and the poetry of it; just for the sake of the black still night itself, and the scent of that flower--dark flower of passion that had won him to her, and that she had stolen back, and now wore all night long close to her neck, and in the morning placed withered within her dress. she had been starved so long, and so long waited for that moment--it was little wonder if she did not clearly know why she had done just this, and not that! and now how should she meet him, how first look into his eyes? would they have changed? would they no longer have the straight look she so loved? it would be for her to lead, to make the future. and she kept saying to herself: i am not going to be afraid. it is done. i will take what life offers! of her husband she did not think at all. but the first moment she saw the boy, she knew that something from outside, and untoward, had happened since that kiss. he came up to her, indeed, but he said nothing, stood trembling all over and handed her a telegram that contained these words: "come back at once wedding immediate expect you day after to-morrow. cicely." the words grew indistinct even as she read them, and the boy's face all blurred. then, making an effort, she said quietly: "of course, you must go. you cannot miss your only sister's wedding." without protest he looked at her; and she could hardly bear that look--it seemed to know so little, and ask so much. she said: "it is nothing--only a few days. you will come back, or we will come to you." his face brightened at once. "will you really come to us soon, at once--if they ask you? then i don't mind--i--i--" and then he stopped, choking. she said again: "ask us. we will come." he seized her hand; pressed and pressed it in both his own, then stroked it gently, and said: "oh! i'm hurting it!" she laughed, not wishing to cry. in a few minutes he would have to start to catch the only train that would get him home in time. she went and helped him to pack. her heart felt like lead, but, not able to bear that look on his face again, she kept cheerfully talking of their return, asking about his home, how to get to it, speaking of oxford and next term. when his things were ready she put her arms round his neck, and for a moment pressed him to her. then she escaped. looking back from his door, she saw him standing exactly as when she had withdrawn her arms. her cheeks were wet; she dried them as she went downstairs. when she felt herself safe, she went out on the terrace. her husband was there, and she said to him: "will you come with me into the town? i want to buy some things." he raised his eyebrows, smiled dimly, and followed her. they walked slowly down the hill into the long street of the little town. all the time she talked of she knew not what, and all the time she thought: his carriage will pass--his carriage will pass! several carriages went jingling by. at last he came. sitting there, and staring straight before him, he did not see them. she heard her husband say: "hullo! where is our young friend lennan off to, with his luggage --looking like a lion cub in trouble?" she answered in a voice that she tried to make clear and steady: "there must be something wrong; or else it is his sister's wedding." she felt that her husband was gazing at her, and wondered what her face was like; but at that moment the word "madre!" sounded close in her ear and they were surrounded by a small drove of 'english grundys.' xi that twenty mile drive was perhaps the worst part of the journey for the boy. it is always hard to sit still and suffer. when anna left him the night before, he had wandered about in the dark, not knowing quite where he went. then the moon came up, and he found himself sitting under the eave of a barn close to a chalet where all was dark and quiet; and down below him the moon-whitened valley village--its roofs and spires and little glamorous unreal lights. in his evening suit, his dark ruffled hair uncovered, he would have made a quaint spectacle for the owners of that chalet, if they had chanced to see him seated on the hay-strewn boards against their barn, staring before him with such wistful rapture. but they were folk to whom sleep was precious. . . . and now it was all snatched away from him, relegated to some immensely far-off future. would it indeed be possible to get his guardian to ask them down to hayle? and would they really come? his tutor would surely never care to visit a place right away in the country--far from books and everything! he frowned, thinking of his tutor, but it was with perplexity--no other feeling. and yet, if he could not have them down there, how could he wait the two whole months till next term began! so went his thoughts, round and round, while the horses jogged, dragging him further and further from her. it was better in the train; the distraction of all the strange crowd of foreigners, the interest of new faces and new country; and then sleep--a long night of it, snoozed up in his corner, thoroughly fagged out. and next day more new country, more new faces; and slowly, his mood changing from ache and bewilderment to a sense of something promised, delightful to look forward to. then calais at last, and a night-crossing in a wet little steamer, a summer gale blowing spray in his face, waves leaping white in a black sea, and the wild sound of the wind. on again to london, the early drive across the town, still sleepy in august haze; an english breakfast--porridge, chops, marmalade. and, at last, the train for home. at all events he could write to her, and tearing a page out of his little sketch-book, he began: "i am writing in the train, so please forgive this joggly writing--" then he did not know how to go on, for all that he wanted to say was such as he had never even dreamed of writing--things about his feelings which would look horrible in words; besides, he must not put anything that might not be read, by anyone, so what was there to say? "it has been such a long journey," he wrote at last, "away from the tyrol;" (he did not dare even to put "from you,") "i thought it would never end. but at last it has--very nearly. i have thought a great deal about the tyrol. it was a lovely time--the loveliest time i have ever had. and now it's over, i try to console myself by thinking of the future, but not the immediate future--that is not very enjoyable. i wonder how the mountains are looking to-day. please give my love to them, especially the lion ones that come and lie out in the moonlight--you will not recognize them from this"--then followed a sketch. "and this is the church we went to, with someone kneeling. and this is meant for the 'english grundys,' looking at someone who is coming in very late with an alpenstock--only, i am better at the 'english grundys' than at the person with the alpenstock. i wish i were the 'english grundys' now, still in the tyrol. i hope i shall get a letter from you soon; and that it will say you are getting ready to come back. my guardian will be awfully keen for you to come and stay with us. he is not half bad when you know him, and there will be his sister, mrs. doone, and her daughter left there after the wedding. it will be simply disgusting if you and mr. stormer don't come. i wish i could write all i feel about my lovely time in the tyrol, but you must please imagine it." and just as he had not known how to address her, so he could not tell how to subscribe himself, and only put "mark lennan." he posted the letter at exeter, where he had some time to wait; and his mind moved still more from past to future. now that he was nearing home he began to think of his sister. in two days she would be gone to italy; he would not see her again for a long time, and a whole crowd of memories began to stretch out hands to him. how she and he used to walk together in the walled garden, and on the sunk croquet ground; she telling him stories, her arm round his neck, because she was two years older, and taller than he in those days. their first talk each holidays, when he came back to her; the first tea--with unlimited jam--in the old mullion-windowed, flower-chintzed schoolroom, just himself and her and old tingle (miss tring, the ancient governess, whose chaperonage would now be gone), and sometimes that kid sylvia, when she chanced to be staying there with her mother. cicely had always understood him when he explained to her how inferior school was, because nobody took any interest in beasts or birds except to kill them; or in drawing, or making things, or anything decent. they would go off together, rambling along the river, or up the park, where everything looked so jolly and wild--the ragged oak-trees, and huge boulders, of whose presence old godden, the coachman, had said: "i can't think but what these ha' been washed here by the flood, mast' mark!" these and a thousand other memories beset his conscience now. and as the train drew closer to their station, he eagerly made ready to jump out and greet her. there was the honeysuckle full out along the paling of the platform over the waiting-room; wonderful, this year--and there was she, standing alone on the platform. no, it was not cicely! he got out with a blank sensation, as if those memories had played him false. it was a girl, indeed, but she only looked about sixteen, and wore a sunbonnet that hid her hair and half her face. she had on a blue frock, and some honeysuckle in her waist-belt. she seemed to be smiling at him, and expecting him to smile at her; and so he did smile. she came up to him then, and said: "i'm sylvia." he answered: "oh! thanks awfully--it was awfully good of you to come and meet me." "cicely's so busy. it's only the t-cart. have you got much luggage?" she took up his hold-all, and he took it from her; she took his bag, and he took it from her; then they went out to the t-cart. a small groom stood there, holding a silver-roan cob with a black mane and black swish tail. she said: "d'you mind if i drive, because i'm learning." and he answered: "oh, no! rather not." she got up; he noticed that her eyes looked quite excited. then his portmanteau came out and was deposited with the other things behind; and he got up beside her. she said: "let go, billy." the roan rushed past the little groom, whose top boots seemed to twinkle as he jumped up behind. they whizzed round the corner from the station yard, and observing that her mouth was just a little open as though this had disconcerted her, he said: "he pulls a bit." "yes--but isn't he perfectly sweet?" "he is rather decent." ah! when she came, he would drive her; they would go off alone in the t-cart, and he would show her all the country round. he was re-awakened by the words: "oh! i know he's going to shy!" at once there was a swerve. the roan was cantering. they had passed a pig. "doesn't he look lovely now? ought i to have whipped him when he shied?" "rather not." "why?" "because horses are horses, and pigs are pigs; it's natural for horses to shy at them." "oh!" he looked up at her then, sidelong. the curve of her cheek and chin looked very soft, and rather jolly. "i didn't know you, you know!" he said. "you've grown up so awfully." "i knew you at once. your voice is still furry." there was another silence, till she said: "he does pull, rather--doesn't he, going home?" "shall i drive?" "yes, please." he stood up and took the reins, and she slipped past under them in front of him; her hair smelt exactly like hay, as she was softly bumped against him. she kept regarding him steadily with very blue eyes, now that she was relieved of driving. "cicely was afraid you weren't coming," she said suddenly. "what sort of people are those old stormers?" he felt himself grow very red, choked something down, and answered: "it's only he that's old. she's not more than about thirty-five." "that is old." he restrained the words: "of course it's old to a kid like you!" and, instead, he looked at her. was she exactly a kid? she seemed quite tall (for a girl) and not very thin, and there was something frank and soft about her face, and as if she wanted you to be nice to her. "is she very pretty?" this time he did not go red, such was the disturbance that question made in him. if he said: "yes," it was like letting the world know his adoration; but to say anything less would be horrible, disloyal. so he did say: "yes," listening hard to the tone of his own voice. "i thought she was. do you like her very much?" again he struggled with that thing in his throat, and again said: "yes." he wanted to hate this girl, yet somehow could not--she looked so soft and confiding. she was staring before her now, her lips still just parted, so evidently that had not been because of bolero's pulling; they were pretty all the same, and so was her short, straight little nose, and her chin, and she was awfully fair. his thoughts flew back to that other face--so splendid, so full of life. suddenly he found himself unable to picture it--for the first time since he had started on his journey it would not come before him. "oh! look!" her hand was pulling at his arm. there in the field over the hedge a buzzard hawk was dropping like a stone. "oh, mark! oh! oh! it's got it!" she was covering her face with both her hands, and the hawk, with a young rabbit in its claws, was sailing up again. it looked so beautiful that he did not somehow feel sorry for the rabbit; but he wanted to stroke and comfort her, and said: "it's all right, sylvia; it really is. the rabbit's dead already, you know. and it's quite natural." she took her hands away from a face that looked just as if she were going to cry. "poor little rabbit! it was such a little one!" xii on the afternoon of the day following he sat in the smoking-room with a prayer book in his hand, and a frown on his forehead, reading the marriage service. the book had been effectively designed for not spoiling the figure when carried in a pocket. but this did not matter, for even if he could have read the words, he would not have known what they meant, seeing that he was thinking how he could make a certain petition to a certain person sitting just behind at a large bureau with a sliding top, examining artificial flies. he fixed at last upon this form: "gordy!" (why gordy no one quite knew now--whether because his name was george, or by way of corruption from guardian.) "when cis is gone it'll be rather awful, won't it?" "not a bit." mr. heatherley was a man of perhaps sixty-four, if indeed guardians have ages, and like a doctor rather than a squire; his face square and puffy, his eyes always half-closed, and his curly mouth using bluntly a voice of that refined coarseness peculiar to people of old family. "but it will, you know!" "well, supposin' it is?" "i only wondered if you'd mind asking mr. and mrs. stormer to come here for a little--they were awfully kind to me out there." "strange man and woman! my dear fellow!" "mr. stormer likes fishing." "does he? and what does she like?" very grateful that his back was turned, the boy said: "i don't know--anything--she's awfully nice." "ah! pretty?" he answered faintly: "i don't know what you call pretty, gordy." he felt, rather than saw, his guardian scrutinizing him with those half-closed eyes under their gouty lids. "all right; do as you like. have 'em here and have done with it, by all means." did his heart jump? not quite; but it felt warm and happy, and he said: "thanks awfully, gordy. it's most frightfully decent of you," and turned again to the marriage service. he could make out some of it. in places it seemed to him fine, and in other places queer. about obeying, for instance. if you loved anybody, it seemed rotten to expect them to obey you. if you loved them and they loved you, there couldn't ever be any question of obeying, because you would both do the things always of your own accord. and if they didn't love you, or you them, then--oh! then it would be simply too disgusting for anything, to go on living with a person you didn't love or who didn't love you. but of course she didn't love his tutor. had she once? those bright doubting eyes, that studiously satiric mouth came very clearly up before him. you could not love them; and yet--he was really very decent. a feeling as of pity, almost of affection, rose in him for his remote tutor. it was queer to feel so, since the last time they had talked together out there, on the terrace, he had not felt at all like that. the noise of the bureau top sliding down aroused him; mr. heatherley was closing in the remains of the artificial flies. that meant he would be going out to fish. and the moment he heard the door shut, mark sprang up, slid back the bureau top, and began to write his letter. it was hard work. "dear mrs. stormer, "my guardian wishes me to beg you and mr. stormer to pay us a visit as soon as you come back from the tyrol. please tell mr. stormer that only the very best fishermen--like him--can catch our trout; the rest catch our trees. this is me catching our trees (here followed a sketch). my sister is going to be married to-morrow, and it will be disgusting afterwards unless you come. so do come, please. and with my very best greetings, "i am, "your humble servant, "m. lennan." when he had stamped this production and dropped it in the letter-box, he had the oddest feeling, as if he had been let out of school; a desire to rush about, to frolic. what should he do? cis, of course, would be busy--they were all busy about the wedding. he would go and saddle bolero, and jump him in the park; or should he go down along the river and watch the jays? both seemed lonely occupations. and he stood in the window--dejected. at the age of five, walking with his nurse, he had been overheard remarking: "nurse, i want to eat a biscuit--all the way i want to eat a biscuit!" and it was still rather so with him perhaps--all the way he wanted to eat a biscuit. he bethought him then of his modelling, and went out to the little empty greenhouse where he kept his masterpieces. they seemed to him now quite horrible--and two of them, the sheep and the turkey, he marked out for summary destruction. the idea occurred to him that he might try and model that hawk escaping with the little rabbit; but when he tried, no nice feeling came, and flinging the things down he went out. he ran along the unweeded path to the tennis ground--lawn tennis was then just coming in. the grass looked very rough. but then, everything about that little manor house was left rather wild and anyhow; why, nobody quite knew, and nobody seemed to mind. he stood there scrutinizing the condition of the ground. a sound of humming came to his ears. he got up on the wall. there was sylvia sitting in the field, making a wreath of honeysuckle. he stood very quiet and listened. she looked pretty--lost in her tune. then he slid down off the wall, and said gently: "hallo!" she looked round at him, her eyes very wide open. "your voice is jolly, sylvia!" "oh, no!" "it is. come and climb a tree!" "where?" "in the park, of course." they were some time selecting the tree, many being too easy for him, and many too hard for her; but one was found at last, an oak of great age, and frequented by rooks. then, insisting that she must be roped to him, he departed to the house for some blind-cord. the climb began at four o'clock--named by him the ascent of the cimone della pala. he led the momentous expedition, taking a hitch of the blind-cord round a branch before he permitted her to move. two or three times he was obliged to make the cord fast and return to help her, for she was not an 'expert'; her arms seemed soft, and she was inclined to straddle instead of trusting to one foot. but at last they were settled, streaked indeed with moss, on the top branch but two. they rested there, silent, listening to the rooks soothing an outraged dignity. save for this slowly subsiding demonstration it was marvellously peaceful and remote up there, half-way to a blue sky thinly veiled from them by the crinkled brown-green leaves. the peculiar dry mossy smell of an oak-tree was disturbed into the air by the least motion of their feet or hands against the bark. they could hardly see the ground, and all around, other gnarled trees barred off any view. he said: "if we stay up here till it's dark we might see owls." "oh, no! owls are horrible!" "what! they're lovely--especially the white ones." "i can't stand their eyes, and they squeak so when they're hunting." "oh! but that's so jolly, and their eyes are beautiful." "they're always catching mice and little chickens; all sorts of little things." "but they don't mean to; they only want them to eat. don't you think things are jolliest at night?" she slipped her arm in his. "no; i don't like the dark." "why not? it's splendid--when things get mysterious." he dwelt lovingly on that word. "i don't like mysterious things. they frighten you." "oh, sylvia!" "no, i like early morning--especially in spring, when it's beginning to get leafy." "well, of course." she was leaning against him, for safety, just a little; and stretching out his arm, he took good hold of the branch to make a back for her. there was a silence. then he said: "if you could only have one tree, which would you have?" "not oaks. limes--no--birches. which would you?" he pondered. there were so many trees that were perfect. birches and limes, of course; but beeches and cypresses, and yews, and cedars, and holm-oaks--almost, and plane-trees; then he said suddenly: "pines; i mean the big ones with reddish stems and branches pretty high up." "why?" again he pondered. it was very important to explain exactly why; his feelings about everything were concerned in this. and while he mused she gazed at him, as if surprised to see anyone think so deeply. at last he said: "because they're independent and dignified and never quite cold, and their branches seem to brood, but chiefly because the ones i mean are generally out of the common where you find them. you know--just one or two, strong and dark, standing out against the sky." "they're too dark." it occurred to him suddenly that he had forgotten larches. they, of course, could be heavenly, when you lay under them and looked up at the sky, as he had that afternoon out there. then he heard her say: "if i could only have one flower, i should have lilies of the valley, the small ones that grow wild and smell so jolly." he had a swift vision of another flower, dark--very different, and was silent. "what would you have, mark?" her voice sounded a little hurt. "you are thinking of one, aren't you?" he said honestly: "yes, i am." "which?" "it's dark, too; you wouldn't care for it a bit." "how d'you know?" "a clove carnation." "but i do like it--only--not very much." he nodded solemnly. "i knew you wouldn't." then a silence fell between them. she had ceased to lean against him, and he missed the cosy friendliness of it. now that their voices and the cawings of the rooks had ceased, there was nothing heard but the dry rustle of the leaves, and the plaintive cry of a buzzard hawk hunting over the little tor across the river. there were nearly always two up there, quartering the sky. to the boy it was lovely, that silence--like nature talking to you--nature always talked in silences. the beasts, the birds, the insects, only really showed themselves when you were still; you had to be awfully quiet, too, for flowers and plants, otherwise you couldn't see the real jolly separate life there was in them. even the boulders down there, that old godden thought had been washed up by the flood, never showed you what queer shapes they had, and let you feel close to them, unless you were thinking of nothing else. sylvia, after all, was better in that way than he had expected. she could keep quiet (he had thought girls hopeless); she was gentle, and it was rather jolly to watch her. through the leaves there came the faint far tinkle of the tea-bell. she said: "we must get down." it was much too jolly to go in, really. but if she wanted her tea --girls always wanted tea! and, twisting the cord carefully round the branch, he began to superintend her descent. about to follow, he heard her cry: "oh, mark! i'm stuck--i'm stuck! i can't reach it with my foot! i'm swinging!" and he saw that she was swinging by her hands and the cord. "let go; drop on to the branch below--the cord'll hold you straight till you grab the trunk." her voice mounted piteously: "i can't--i really can't--i should slip!" he tied the cord, and slithered hastily to the branch below her; then, bracing himself against the trunk, he clutched her round the waist and knees; but the taut cord held her up, and she would not come to anchor. he could not hold her and untie the cord, which was fast round her waist. if he let her go with one hand, and got out his knife, he would never be able to cut and hold her at the same time. for a moment he thought he had better climb up again and slack off the cord, but he could see by her face that she was getting frightened; he could feel it by the quivering of her body. "if i heave you up," he said, "can you get hold again above?" and, without waiting for an answer, he heaved. she caught hold frantically. "hold on just for a second." she did not answer, but he saw that her face had gone very white. he snatched out his knife and cut the cord. she clung just for that moment, then came loose into his arms, and he hauled her to him against the trunk. safe there, she buried her face on his shoulder. he began to murmur to her and smooth her softly, with quite a feeling of its being his business to smooth her like this, to protect her. he knew she was crying, but she let no sound escape, and he was very careful not to show that he knew, for fear she should feel ashamed. he wondered if he ought to kiss her. at last he did, on the top of her head, very gently. then she put up her face and said she was a beast. and he kissed her again on an eyebrow. after that she seemed all right, and very gingerly they descended to the ground, where shadows were beginning to lengthen over the fern and the sun to slant into their eyes. xiii the night after the wedding the boy stood at the window of his pleasant attic bedroom, with one wall sloping, and a faint smell of mice. he was tired and excited, and his brain, full of pictures. this was his first wedding, and he was haunted by a vision of his sister's little white form, and her face with its starry eyes. she was gone--his no more! how fearful the wedding march had sounded on that organ--that awful old wheezer; and the sermon! one didn't want to hear that sort of thing when one felt inclined to cry. even gordy had looked rather boiled when he was giving her away. with perfect distinctness he could still see the group before the altar rails, just as if he had not been a part of it himself. cis in her white, sylvia in fluffy grey; his impassive brother-in-law's tall figure; gordy looking queer in a black coat, with a very yellow face, and eyes still half-closed. the rotten part of it all had been that you wanted to be just feeling, and you had to be thinking of the ring, and your gloves, and whether the lowest button of your white waistcoat was properly undone. girls could do both, it seemed--cis seemed to be seeing something wonderful all the time, and sylvia had looked quite holy. he himself had been too conscious of the rector's voice, and the sort of professional manner with which he did it all, as if he were making up a prescription, with directions how to take it. and yet it was all rather beautiful in a kind of fashion, every face turned one way, and a tremendous hush--except for poor old godden's blowing of his nose with his enormous red handkerchief; and the soft darkness up in the roof, and down in the pews; and the sunlight brightening the south windows. all the same, it would have been much jollier just taking hands by themselves somewhere, and saying out before god what they really felt--because, after all, god was everything, everywhere, not only in stuffy churches. that was how he would like to be married, out of doors on a starry night like this, when everything felt wonderful all round you. surely god wasn't half as small as people seemed always making him--a sort of superior man a little bigger than themselves! even the very most beautiful and wonderful and awful things one could imagine or make, could only be just nothing to a god who had a temple like the night out there. but then you couldn't be married alone, and no girl would ever like to be married without rings and flowers and dresses, and words that made it all feel small and cosy! cis might have, perhaps, only she wouldn't, because of not hurting other people's feelings; but sylvia--never--she would be afraid. only, of course, she was young! and the thread of his thoughts broke--and scattered like beads from a string. leaning out, and resting his chin on his hands, he drew the night air into his lungs. honeysuckle, or was it the scent of lilies still? the stars all out, and lots of owls to-night--four at least. what would night be like without owls and stars? but that was it--you never could think what things would be like if they weren't just what and where they were. you never knew what was coming, either; and yet, when it came, it seemed as if nothing else ever could have come. that was queer-you could do anything you liked until you'd done it, but when you had done it, then you knew, of course, that you must always have had to . . . what was that light, below and to the left? whose room? old tingle's--no, the little spare room--sylvia's! she must be awake, then! he leaned far out, and whispered in the voice she had said was still furry: "sylvia!" the light flickered, he could just see her head appear, with hair all loose, and her face turning up to him. he could only half see, half imagine it, mysterious, blurry; and he whispered: "isn't this jolly?" the whisper travelled back: "awfully." "aren't you sleepy?" "no; are you?" "not a bit. d'you hear the owls?" "rather." "doesn't it smell good?" "perfect. can you see me?" "only just, not too much. can you?" "i can't see your nose. shall i get the candle?" "no--that'd spoil it. what are you sitting on?" "the window sill." "it doesn't twist your neck, does it?" "no--o--only a little bit." "are you hungry?" "yes." "wait half a shake. i'll let down some chocolate in my big bath towel; it'll swing along to you--reach out." a dim white arm reached out. "catch! i say, you won't get cold?" "rather not." "it's too jolly to sleep, isn't it?" "mark!" "yes." "which star is yours? mine is the white one over the top branch of the big sycamore, from here." "mine is that twinkling red one over the summer house. sylvia!" "yes." "catch!" "oh! i couldn't--what was it?" "nothing." "no, but what was it?" "only my star. it's caught in your hair." "oh!" "listen!" silence, then, until her awed whisper: "what?" and his floating down, dying away: "cave!" what had stirred--some window opened? cautiously he spied along the face of the dim house. there was no light anywhere, nor any shifting blur of white at her window below. all was dark, remote--still sweet with the scent of something jolly. and then he saw what that something was. all over the wall below his window white jessamine was in flower--stars, not only in the sky. perhaps the sky was really a field of white flowers; and god walked there, and plucked the stars. . . . the next morning there was a letter on his plate when he came down to breakfast. he couldn't open it with sylvia on one side of him, and old tingle on the other. then with a sort of anger he did open it. he need not have been afraid. it was written so that anyone might have read; it told of a climb, of bad weather, said they were coming home. was he relieved, disturbed, pleased at their coming back, or only uneasily ashamed? she had not got his second letter yet. he could feel old tingle looking round at him with those queer sharp twinkling eyes of hers, and sylvia regarding him quite frankly. and conscious that he was growing red, he said to himself: 'i won't!' and did not. in three days they would be at oxford. would they come on here at once? old tingle was speaking. he heard sylvia answer: "no, i don't like 'bopsies.' they're so hard!" it was their old name for high cheekbones. sylvia certainly had none, her cheeks went softly up to her eyes. "do you, mark?" he said slowly: "on some people." "people who have them are strong-willed, aren't they?" was she--anna--strong-willed? it came to him that he did not know at all what she was. when breakfast was over and he had got away to his old greenhouse, he had a strange, unhappy time. he was a beast, he had not been thinking of her half enough! he took the letter out, and frowned at it horribly. why could he not feel more? what was the matter with him? why was he such a brute--not to be thinking of her day and night? for long he stood, disconsolate, in the little dark greenhouse among the images of his beasts, the letter in his hand. he stole out presently, and got down to the river unobserved. comforting--that crisp, gentle sound of water; ever so comforting to sit on a stone, very still, and wait for things to happen round you. you lost yourself that way, just became branches, and stones, and water, and birds, and sky. you did not feel such a beast. gordy would never understand why he did not care for fishing--one thing trying to catch another--instead of watching and understanding what things were. you never got to the end of looking into water, or grass or fern; always something queer and new. it was like that, too, with yourself, if you sat down and looked properly--most awfully interesting to see things working in your mind. a soft rain had begun to fall, hissing gently on the leaves, but he had still a boy's love of getting wet, and stayed where he was, on the stone. some people saw fairies in woods and down in water, or said they did; that did not seem to him much fun. what was really interesting was noticing that each thing was different from every other thing, and what made it so; you must see that before you could draw or model decently. it was fascinating to see your creatures coming out with shapes of their very own; they did that without your understanding how. but this vacation he was no good--couldn't draw or model a bit! a jay had settled about forty yards away, and remained in full view, attending to his many-coloured feathers. of all things, birds were the most fascinating! he watched it a long time, and when it flew on, followed it over the high wall up into the park. he heard the lunch-bell ring in the far distance, but did not go in. so long as he was out there in the soft rain with the birds and trees and other creatures, he was free from that unhappy feeling of the morning. he did not go back till nearly seven, properly wet through, and very hungry. all through dinner he noticed that sylvia seemed to be watching him, as if wanting to ask him something. she looked very soft in her white frock, open at the neck; and her hair almost the colour of special moonlight, so goldy-pale; and he wanted her to understand that it wasn't a bit because of her that he had been out alone all day. after dinner, when they were getting the table ready to play 'red nines,' he did murmur: "did you sleep last night--after?" she nodded fervently to that. it was raining really hard now, swishing and dripping out in the darkness, and he whispered: "our stars would be drowned to-night." "do you really think we have stars?" "we might. but mine's safe, of course; your hair is jolly, sylvia." she gazed at him, very sweet and surprised. xiv anna did not receive the boy's letter in the tyrol. it followed her to oxford. she was just going out when it came, and she took it up with the mingled beatitude and almost sickening tremor that a lover feels touching the loved one's letter. she would not open it in the street, but carried it all the way to the garden of a certain college, and sat down to read it under the cedar-tree. that little letter, so short, boyish, and dry, transported her halfway to heaven. she was to see him again at once, not to wait weeks, with the fear that he would quite forget her! her husband had said at breakfast that oxford without 'the dear young clowns' assuredly was charming, but oxford 'full of tourists and other strange bodies' as certainly was not. where should they go? thank heaven, the letter could be shown him! for all that, a little stab of pain went through her that there was not one word which made it unsuitable to show. still, she was happy. never had her favourite college garden seemed so beautiful, with each tree and flower so cared for, and the very wind excluded; never had the birds seemed so tame and friendly. the sun shone softly, even the clouds were luminous and joyful. she sat a long time, musing, and went back forgetting all she had come out to do. having both courage and decision, she did not leave the letter to burn a hole in her corsets, but gave it to her husband at lunch, looking him in the face, and saying carelessly: "providence, you see, answers your question." he read it, raised his eyebrows, smiled, and, without looking up, murmured: "you wish to prosecute this romantic episode?" did he mean anything--or was it simply his way of putting things? "i naturally want to be anywhere but here." "perhaps you would like to go alone?" he said that, of course, knowing she could not say: yes. and she answered simply: "no." "then let us both go--on monday. i will catch the young man's trout; thou shalt catch--h'm!--he shall catch--what is it he catches--trees? good! that's settled." and, three days later, without another word exchanged on the subject, they started. was she grateful to him? no. afraid of him? no. scornful of him? not quite. but she was afraid of herself, horribly. how would she ever be able to keep herself in hand, how disguise from these people that she loved their boy? it was her desperate mood that she feared. but since she so much wanted all the best for him that life could give, surely she would have the strength to do nothing that might harm him. yet she was afraid. he was there at the station to meet them, in riding things and a nice rough norfolk jacket that she did not recognize, though she thought she knew his clothes by heart; and as the train came slowly to a standstill the memory of her last moment with him, up in his room amid the luggage that she had helped to pack, very nearly overcame her. it seemed so hard to have to meet him coldly, formally, to have to wait--who knew how long--for a minute with him alone! and he was so polite, so beautifully considerate, with all the manners of a host; hoping she wasn't tired, hoping mr. stormer had brought his fishing-rod, though they had lots, of course, they could lend him; hoping the weather would be fine; hoping that they wouldn't mind having to drive three miles, and busying himself about their luggage. all this when she just wanted to take him in her arms and push his hair back from his forehead, and look at him! he did not drive with them--he had thought they would be too crowded--but followed, keeping quite close in the dust to point out the scenery, mounted on a 'palfrey,' as her husband called the roan with the black swish tail. this countryside, so rich and yet a little wild, the independent-looking cottages, the old dark cosy manor-house, all was very new to one used to oxford, and to london, and to little else of england. and all was delightful. even mark's guardian seemed to her delightful. for gordy, when absolutely forced to face an unknown woman, could bring to the encounter a certain bluff ingratiation. his sister, too, mrs. doone, with her faded gentleness, seemed soothing. when anna was alone in her room, reached by an unexpected little stairway, she stood looking at its carved four-poster bed and the wide lattice window with chintz curtains, and the flowers in a blue bowl. yes, all was delightful. and yet! what was it? what had she missed? ah, she was a fool to fret! it was only his anxiety that they should be comfortable, his fear that he might betray himself. out there those last few days--his eyes! and now! she brooded earnestly over what dress she should put on. she, who tanned so quickly, had almost lost her sunburn in the week of travelling and oxford. to-day her eyes looked tired, and she was pale. she was not going to disdain anything that might help. she had reached thirty-six last month, and he would be nineteen to-morrow! she decided on black. in black she knew that her neck looked whiter, and the colour of her eyes and hair stranger. she put on no jewellery, did not even pin a rose at her breast, took white gloves. since her husband did not come to her room, she went up the little stairway to his. she surprised him ready dressed, standing by the fireplace, smiling faintly. what was he thinking of, standing there with that smile? was there blood in him at all? he inclined his head slightly and said: "good! chaste as the night! black suits you. shall we find our way down to these savage halls?" and they went down. everyone was already there, waiting. a single neighbouring squire and magistrate, by name trusham, had been bidden, to make numbers equal. dinner was announced; they went in. at the round table in a dining-room, all black oak, with many candles, and terrible portraits of departed ancestors, anna sat between the magistrate and gordy. mark was opposite, between a quaint-looking old lady and a young girl who had not been introduced, a girl in white, with very fair hair and very white skin, blue eyes, and lips a little parted; a daughter evidently of the faded mrs. doone. a girl like a silvery moth, like a forget-me-not! anna found it hard to take her eyes away from this girl's face; not that she admired her exactly; pretty she was--yes; but weak, with those parted lips and soft chin, and almost wistful look, as if her deep-blue half-eager eyes were in spite of her. but she was young--so young! that was why not to watch her seemed impossible. "sylvia doone?" indeed! yes. a soft name, a pretty name--and very like her! every time her eyes could travel away from her duty to squire trusham, and to gordy (on both of whom she was clearly making an impression), she gazed at this girl, sitting there by the boy, and whenever those two young things smiled and spoke together she felt her heart contract and hurt her. was this why that something had gone out of his eyes? ah, she was foolish! if every girl or woman the boy knew was to cause such a feeling in her, what would life be like? and her will hardened against her fears. she was looking brilliant herself; and she saw that the girl in her turn could not help gazing at her eagerly, wistfully, a little bewildered--hatefully young. and the boy? slowly, surely, as a magnet draws, anna could feel that she was drawing him, could see him stealing chances to look at her. once she surprised him full. what troubled eyes! it was not the old adoring face; yet she knew from its expression that she could make him want her--make him jealous--easily fire him with her kisses, if she would. and the dinner wore to an end. then came the moment when the girl and she must meet under the eyes of the mother, and that sharp, quaint-looking old governess. it would be a hard moment, that! and it came--a hard moment and a long one, for gordy sat full span over his wine. but anna had not served her time beneath the gaze of upper oxford for nothing; she managed to be charming, full of interest and questions in her still rather foreign accent. miss doone--soon she became sylvia--must show her all the treasures and antiquities. was it too dark to go out just to look at the old house by night? oh, no. not a bit. there were goloshes in the hall. and they went, the girl leading, and talking of anna knew not what, so absorbed was she in thinking how for a moment, just a moment, she could contrive to be with the boy alone. it was not remarkable, this old house, but it was his home--might some day perhaps be his. and houses at night were strangely alive with their window eyes. "that is my room," the girl said, "where the jessamine is--you can just see it. mark's is above--look, under where the eave hangs out, away to the left. the other night--" "yes; the other night?" "oh, i don't--! listen. that's an owl. we have heaps of owls. mark likes them. i don't, much." always mark! "he's awfully keen, you see, about all beasts and birds--he models them. shall i show you his workshop?--it's an old greenhouse. here, you can see in." there through the glass anna indeed could just see the boy's quaint creations huddling in the dark on a bare floor, a grotesque company of small monsters. she murmured: "yes, i see them, but i won't really look unless he brings me himself." "oh, he's sure to. they interest him more than anything in the world." for all her cautious resolutions anna could not for the life of her help saying: "what, more than you?" the girl gave her a wistful stare before she answered: "oh! i don't count much." anna laughed, and took her arm. how soft and young it felt! a pang went through her heart, half jealous, half remorseful. "do you know," she said, "that you are very sweet?" the girl did not answer. "are you his cousin?" "no. gordy is only mark's uncle by marriage; my mother is gordy's sister--so i'm nothing." nothing! "i see--just what you english call 'a connection.'" they were silent, seeming to examine the night; then the girl said: "i wanted to see you awfully. you're not like what i thought." "oh! and what did you think?" "i thought you would have dark eyes, and venetian red hair, and not be quite so tall. of course, i haven't any imagination." they were at the door again when the girl said that, and the hall light was falling on her; her slip of a white figure showed clear. young--how young she looked! everything she said--so young! and anna murmured: "and you are--more than i thought, too." just then the men came out from the dining-room; her husband with the look on his face that denoted he had been well listened to; squire trusham laughing as a man does who has no sense of humour; gordy having a curly, slightly asphyxiated air; and the boy his pale, brooding look, as though he had lost touch with his surroundings. he wavered towards her, seemed to lose himself, went and sat down by the old governess. was it because he did not dare to come up to her, or only because he saw the old lady sitting alone? it might well be that. and the evening, so different from what she had dreamed of, closed in. squire trusham was gone in his high dog-cart, with his famous mare whose exploits had entertained her all through dinner. her candle had been given her; she had said good-night to all but mark. what should she do when she had his hand in hers? she would be alone with him in that grasp, whose strength no one could see. and she did not know whether to clasp it passionately, or to let it go coolly back to its owner; whether to claim him or to wait. but she was unable to help pressing it feverishly. at once in his face she saw again that troubled look; and her heart smote her. she let it go, and that she might not see him say good-night to the girl, turned and mounted to her room. fully dressed, she flung herself on the bed, and there lay, her handkerchief across her mouth, gnawing at its edges. xv mark's nineteenth birthday rose in grey mist, slowly dropped its veil to the grass, and shone clear and glistening. he woke early. from his window he could see nothing in the steep park but the soft blue-grey, balloon-shaped oaks suspended one above the other among the round-topped boulders. it was in early morning that he always got his strongest feeling of wanting to model things; then and after dark, when, for want of light, it was no use. this morning he had the craving badly, and the sense of not knowing how weighed down his spirit. his drawings, his models--they were all so bad, so fumbly. if only this had been his twenty-first birthday, and he had his money, and could do what he liked. he would not stay in england. he would be off to athens, or rome, or even to paris, and work till he could do something. and in his holidays he would study animals and birds in wild countries where there were plenty of them, and you could watch them in their haunts. it was stupid having to stay in a place like oxford; but at the thought of what oxford meant, his roaming fancy, like a bird hypnotized by a hawk, fluttered, stayed suspended, and dived back to earth. and that feeling of wanting to make things suddenly left him. it was as though he had woken up, his real self; then--lost that self again. very quietly he made his way downstairs. the garden door was not shuttered, not even locked--it must have been forgotten overnight. last night! he had never thought he would feel like this when she came--so bewildered, and confused; drawn towards her, but by something held back. and he felt impatient, angry with himself, almost with her. why could he not be just simply happy, as this morning was happy? he got his field-glasses and searched the meadow that led down to the river. yes, there were several rabbits out. with the white marguerites and the dew cobwebs, it was all moon-flowery and white; and the rabbits being there made it perfect. he wanted one badly to model from, and for a moment was tempted to get his rook rifle--but what was the good of a dead rabbit--besides, they looked so happy! he put the glasses down and went towards his greenhouse to get a drawing block, thinking to sit on the wall and make a sort of midsummer night's dream sketch of flowers and rabbits. someone was there, bending down and doing something to his creatures. who had the cheek? why, it was sylvia--in her dressing-gown! he grew hot, then cold, with anger. he could not bear anyone in that holy place! it was hateful to have his things even looked at; and she--she seemed to be fingering them. he pulled the door open with a jerk, and said: "what are you doing?" he was indeed so stirred by righteous wrath that he hardly noticed the gasp she gave, and the collapse of her figure against the wall. she ran past him, and vanished without a word. he went up to his creatures and saw that she had placed on the head of each one of them a little sprig of jessamine flower. why! it was idiotic! he could see nothing at first but the ludicrousness of flowers on the heads of his beasts! then the desperation of this attempt to imagine something graceful, something that would give him pleasure touched him; for he saw now that this was a birthday decoration. from that it was only a second before he was horrified with himself. poor little sylvia! what a brute he was! she had plucked all that jessamine, hung out of her window and risked falling to get hold of it; and she had woken up early and come down in her dressing-gown just to do something that she thought he would like! horrible--what he had done! now, when it was too late, he saw, only too clearly, her startled white face and quivering lips, and the way she had shrunk against the wall. how pretty she had looked in her dressing-gown with her hair all about her, frightened like that! he would do anything now to make up to her for having been such a perfect beast! the feeling, always a little with him, that he must look after her--dating, no doubt, from days when he had protected her from the bulls that were not there; and the feeling of her being so sweet and decent to him always; and some other feeling too--all these suddenly reached poignant climax. he simply must make it up to her! he ran back into the house and stole upstairs. outside her room he listened with all his might, but could hear nothing; then tapped softly with one nail, and, putting his mouth to the keyhole, whispered: "sylvia!" again and again he whispered her name. he even tried the handle, meaning to open the door an inch, but it was bolted. once he thought he heard a noise like sobbing, and this made him still more wretched. at last he gave it up; she would not come, would not be consoled. he deserved it, he knew, but it was very hard. and dreadfully dispirited he went up to his room, took a bit of paper, and tried to write: "dearest sylvia, "it was most awfully sweet of you to put your stars on my beasts. it was just about the most sweet thing you could have done. i am an awful brute, but, of course, if i had only known what you were doing, i should have loved it. do forgive me; i deserve it, i know--only it is my birthday. "your sorrowful "mark." he took this down, slipped it under her door, tapped so that she might notice it, and stole away. it relieved his mind a little, and he went downstairs again. back in the greenhouse, sitting on a stool, he ruefully contemplated those chapletted beasts. they consisted of a crow, a sheep, a turkey, two doves, a pony, and sundry fragments. she had fastened the jessamine sprigs to the tops of their heads by a tiny daub of wet clay, and had evidently been surprised trying to put a sprig into the mouth of one of the doves, for it hung by a little thread of clay from the beak. he detached it and put it in his buttonhole. poor little sylvia! she took things awfully to heart. he would be as nice as ever he could to her all day. and, balancing on his stool, he stared fixedly at the wall against which she had fallen back; the line of her soft chin and throat seemed now to be his only memory. it was very queer how he could see nothing but that, the way the throat moved, swallowed--so white, so soft. and he had made it go like that! it seemed an unconscionable time till breakfast. as the hour approached he haunted the hall, hoping she might be first down. at last he heard footsteps, and waited, hidden behind the door of the empty dining-room, lest at sight of him she should turn back. he had rehearsed what he was going to do--bend down and kiss her hand and say: "dulcinea del toboso is the most beautiful lady in the world, and i the most unfortunate knight upon the earth," from his favourite passage out of his favourite book, 'don quixote.' she would surely forgive him then, and his heart would no longer hurt him. certainly she could never go on making him so miserable if she knew his feelings! she was too soft and gentle for that. alas! it was not sylvia who came; but anna, fresh from sleep, with her ice-green eyes and bright hair; and in sudden strange antipathy to her, that strong, vivid figure, he stood dumb. and this first lonely moment, which he had so many times in fancy spent locked in her arms, passed without even a kiss; for quickly one by one the others came. but of sylvia only news through mrs. doone that she had a headache, and was staying in bed. her present was on the sideboard, a book called 'sartor resartus.' "mark--from sylvia, august st, ," together with gordy's cheque, mrs. doone's pearl pin, old tingle's 'stones of venice,' and one other little parcel wrapped in tissue-paper--four ties of varying shades of green, red, and blue, hand-knitted in silk--a present of how many hours made short by the thought that he would wear the produce of that clicking. he did not fail in outer gratitude, but did he realize what had been knitted into those ties? not then. birthdays, like christmas days, were made for disenchantment. always the false gaiety of gaiety arranged--always that pistol to the head: 'confound you! enjoy yourself!' how could he enjoy himself with the thought of sylvia in her room, made ill by his brutality! the vision of her throat working, swallowing her grief, haunted him like a little white, soft spectre all through the long drive out on to the moor, and the picnic in the heather, and the long drive home--haunted him so that when anna touched or looked at him he had no spirit to answer, no spirit even to try and be with her alone, but almost a dread of it instead. and when at last they were at home again, and she whispered: "what is it? what have i done?" he could only mutter: "nothing! oh, nothing! it's only that i've been a brute!" at that enigmatic answer she might well search his face. "is it my husband?" he could answer that, at all events. "oh, no!" "what is it, then? tell me." they were standing in the inner porch, pretending to examine the ancestral chart--dotted and starred with dolphins and little full-rigged galleons sailing into harbours--which always hung just there. "tell me, mark; i don't like to suffer!" what could he say, since he did not know himself? he stammered, tried to speak, could not get anything out. "is it that girl?" startled, he looked away, and said: "of course not." she shivered, and went into the house. but he stayed, staring at the chart with a dreadful stirred-up feeling--of shame and irritation, pity, impatience, fear, all mixed. what had he done, said, lost? it was that horrid feeling of when one has not been kind and not quite true, yet might have been kinder if one had been still less true. ah! but it was all so mixed up. it felt all bleak, too, and wintry in him, as if he had suddenly lost everybody's love. then he was conscious of his tutor. "ah! friend lennan--looking deeply into the past from the less romantic present? nice things, those old charts. the dolphins are extremely jolly." it was difficult to remember not to be ill-mannered then. why did stormer jeer like that? he just managed to answer: "yes, sir; i wish we had some now." "there are so many moons we wish for, lennan, and they none of them come tumbling down." the voice was almost earnest, and the boy's resentment fled. he felt sorry, but why he did not know. "in the meantime," he heard his tutor say, "let us dress for dinner." when he came down to the drawing-room, anna in her moonlight-coloured frock was sitting on the sofa talking to--sylvia. he kept away from them; they could neither of them want him. but it did seem odd to him, who knew not too much concerning women, that she could be talking so gaily, when only half an hour ago she had said: "is it that girl?" he sat next her at dinner. again it was puzzling that she should be laughing so serenely at gordy's stories. did the whispering in the porch, then, mean nothing? and sylvia would not look at him; he felt sure that she turned her eyes away simply because she knew he was going to look in her direction. and this roused in him a sore feeling--everything that night seemed to rouse that feeling--of injustice; he was cast out, and he could not tell why. he had not meant to hurt either of them! why should they both want to hurt him so? and presently there came to him a feeling that he did not care: let them treat him as they liked! there were other things besides love! if they did not want him--he did not want them! and he hugged this reckless, unhappy, don't-care feeling to him with all the abandonment of youth. but even birthdays come to an end. and moods and feelings that seem so desperately real die in the unreality of sleep. xvi if to the boy that birthday was all bewildered disillusionment, to anna it was verily slow torture; she found no relief in thinking that there were things in life other than love. but next morning brought readjustment, a sense of yesterday's extravagance, a renewal of hope. impossible surely that in one short fortnight she had lost what she had made so sure of! she had only to be resolute. only to grasp firmly what was hers. after all these empty years was she not to have her hour? to sit still meekly and see it snatched from her by a slip of a soft girl? a thousand times, no! and she watched her chance. she saw him about noon sally forth towards the river, with his rod. she had to wait a little, for gordy and his bailiff were down there by the tennis lawn, but they soon moved on. she ran out then to the park gate. once through that she felt safe; her husband, she knew, was working in his room; the girl somewhere invisible; the old governess still at her housekeeping; mrs. doone writing letters. she felt full of hope and courage. this old wild tangle of a park, that she had not yet seen, was beautiful--a true trysting-place for fauns and nymphs, with its mossy trees and boulders and the high bracken. she kept along under the wall in the direction of the river, but came to no gate, and began to be afraid that she was going wrong. she could hear the river on the other side, and looked for some place where she could climb and see exactly where she was. an old ash-tree tempted her. scrambling up into its fork, she could just see over. there was the little river within twenty yards, its clear dark water running between thick foliage. on its bank lay a huge stone balanced on another stone still more huge. and with his back to this stone stood the boy, his rod leaning beside him. and there, on the ground, her arms resting on her knees, her chin on her hands, that girl sat looking up. how eager his eyes now--how different from the brooding eyes of yesterday! "so, you see, that was all. you might forgive me, sylvia!" and to anna it seemed verily as if those two young faces formed suddenly but one--the face of youth. if she had stayed there looking for all time, she could not have had graven on her heart a vision more indelible. vision of spring, of all that was gone from her for ever! she shrank back out of the fork of the old ash-tree, and, like a stricken beast, went hurrying, stumbling away, amongst the stones and bracken. she ran thus perhaps a quarter of a mile, then threw up her arms, fell down amongst the fern, and lay there on her face. at first her heart hurt her so that she felt nothing but that physical pain. if she could have died! but she knew it was nothing but breathlessness. it left her, and that which took its place she tried to drive away by pressing her breast against the ground, by clutching the stalks of the bracken--an ache, an emptiness too dreadful! youth to youth! he was gone from her--and she was alone again! she did not cry. what good in crying? but gusts of shame kept sweeping through her; shame and rage. so this was all she was worth! the sun struck hot on her back in that lair of tangled fern, where she had fallen; she felt faint and sick. she had not known till now quite what this passion for the boy had meant to her; how much of her very belief in herself was bound up with it; how much clinging to her own youth. what bitterness! one soft slip of a white girl--one young thing--and she had become as nothing! but was that true? could she not even now wrench him back to her with the passion that this child knew nothing of! surely! oh, surely! let him but once taste the rapture she could give him! and at that thought she ceased clutching at the bracken stalks, lying as still as the very stones around her. could she not? might she not, even now? and all feeling, except just a sort of quivering, deserted her--as if she had fallen into a trance. why spare this girl? why falter? she was first! he had been hers out there. and she still had the power to draw him. at dinner the first evening she had dragged his gaze to her, away from that girl--away from youth, as a magnet draws steel. she could still bind him with chains that for a little while at all events he would not want to break! bind him? hateful word! take him, hankering after what she could not give him--youth, white innocence, spring? it would be infamous, infamous! she sprang up from the fern, and ran along the hillside, not looking where she went, stumbling among the tangled growth, in and out of the boulders, till she once more sank breathless on to a stone. it was bare of trees just here, and she could see, across the river valley, the high larch-crowned tor on the far side. the sky was clear--the sun bright. a hawk was wheeling over that hill; far up, very near the blue! infamous! she could not do that! could not drug him, drag him to her by his senses, by all that was least high in him, when she wished for him all the finest things that life could give, as if she had been his mother. she could not. it would be wicked! in that moment of intense spiritual agony, those two down there in the sun, by the grey stone and the dark water, seemed guarded from her, protected. the girl's white flower-face trembling up, the boy's gaze leaping down! strange that a heart which felt that, could hate at the same moment that flower-face, and burn to kill with kisses that eagerness in the boy's eyes. the storm in her slowly passed. and she prayed just to feel nothing. it was natural that she should lose her hour! natural that her thirst should go unslaked, and her passion never bloom; natural that youth should go to youth, this boy to his own kind, by the law of--love. the breeze blowing down the valley fanned her cheeks, and brought her a faint sensation of relief. nobility! was it just a word? or did those that gave up happiness feel noble? she wandered for a long time in the park. not till late afternoon did she again pass out by the gate, through which she had entered, full of hope. she met no one before she reached her room; and there, to be safe, took refuge in her bed. she dreaded only lest the feeling of utter weariness should leave her. she wanted no vigour of mind or body till she was away from here. she meant neither to eat nor drink; only to sleep, if she could. to-morrow, if there were any early train, she could be gone before she need see anyone; her husband must arrange. as to what he would think, and she could say--time enough to decide that. and what did it matter? the one vital thing now was not to see the boy, for she could not again go through hours of struggle like those. she rang the bell, and sent the startled maid with a message to her husband. and while she waited for him to come, her pride began revolting. she must not let him see. that would be horrible. and slipping out of bed she got a handkerchief and the eau-de-cologne flask, and bandaged her forehead. he came almost instantly, entering in his quick, noiseless way, and stood looking at her. he did not ask what was the matter, but simply waited. and never before had she realized so completely how he began, as it were, where she left off; began on a plane from which instinct and feeling were as carefully ruled out as though they had been blasphemous. she summoned all her courage, and said: "i went into the park; the sun must have been too hot. i should like to go home to-morrow, if you don't mind. i can't bear not feeling well in other people's houses." she was conscious of a smile flickering over his face; then it grew grave. "ah!" he said; "yes. the sun, a touch of that will last some days. will you be fit to travel, though?" she had a sudden conviction that he knew all about it, but that--since to know all about it was to feel himself ridiculous--he had the power of making himself believe that he knew nothing. was this fine of him, or was it hateful? she closed her eyes and said: "my head is bad, but i shall be able. only i don't want a fuss made. could we go by a train before they are down?" she heard him say: "yes. that will have its advantages." there was not the faintest sound now, but of course he was still there. in that dumb, motionless presence was all her future. yes, that would be her future--a thing without feeling, and without motion. a fearful curiosity came on her to look at it. she opened her gaze. he was still standing just as he had been, his eyes fixed on her. but one hand, on the edge of his coat pocket--out of the picture, as it were--was nervously closing and unclosing. and suddenly she felt pity. not for her future--which must be like that; but for him. how dreadful to have grown so that all emotion was exiled--how dreadful! and she said gently: "i am sorry, harold." as if he had heard something strange and startling, his eyes dilated in a curious way, he buried that nervous hand in his pocket, turned, and went out. xvii when young mark came on sylvia by the logan-stone, it was less surprising to him than if he had not known she was there--having watched her go. she was sitting, all humped together, brooding over the water, her sunbonnet thrown back; and that hair, in which his star had caught, shining faint-gold under the sun. he came on her softly through the grass, and, when he was a little way off, thought it best to halt. if he startled her she might run away, and he would not have the heart to follow. how still she was, lost in her brooding! he wished he could see her face. he spoke at last, gently: "sylvia! . . . would you mind?" and, seeing that she did not move, he went up to her. surely she could not still be angry with him! "thanks most awfully for that book you gave me--it looks splendid!" she made no answer. and leaning his rod against the stone, he sighed. that silence of hers seemed to him unjust; what was it she wanted him to say or do? life was not worth living, if it was to be all bottled up like this. "i never meant to hurt you. i hate hurting people. it's only that my beasts are so bad--i can't bear people to see them--especially you--i want to please you--i do really. so, you see, that was all. you might forgive me, sylvia!" something over the wall, a rustling, a scattering in the fern--deer, no doubt! and again he said eagerly, softly: "you might be nice to me, sylvia; you really might." very quickly, turning her head away, she said: "it isn't that any more. it's--it's something else." "what else?" "nothing--only, that i don't count--now--" he knelt down beside her. what did she mean? but he knew well enough. "of course, you count! most awfully! oh, don't be unhappy! i hate people being unhappy. don't be unhappy, sylvia!" and he began gently to stroke her arm. it was all strange and troubled within him; one thing only plain--he must not admit anything! as if reading that thought, her blue eyes seemed suddenly to search right into him. then she pulled some blades of grass, and began plaiting them. "she counts." ah! he was not going to say: she doesn't! it would be caddish to say that. even if she didn't count--did she still?--it would be mean and low. and in his eyes just then there was the look that had made his tutor compare him to a lion cub in trouble. sylvia was touching his arm. "mark!" "yes." "don't!" he got up and took his rod. what was the use? he could not stay there with her, since he could not--must not speak. "are you going?" "yes." "are you angry? please don't be angry with me." he felt a choke in his throat, bent down to her hand, and kissed it; then shouldered his rod, and marched away. looking back once, he saw her still sitting there, gazing after him, forlorn, by that great stone. it seemed to him, then, there was nowhere he could go; nowhere except among the birds and beasts and trees, who did not mind even if you were all mixed up and horrible inside. he lay down in the grass on the bank. he could see the tiny trout moving round and round the stones; swallows came all about him, flying very low; a hornet, too, bore him company for a little. but he could take interest in nothing; it was as if his spirit were in prison. it would have been nice, indeed, to be that water, never staying, passing, passing; or wind, touching everything, never caught. to be able to do nothing without hurting someone--that was what was so ghastly. if only one were like a flower, that just sprang up and lived its life all to itself, and died. but whatever he did, or said now, would be like telling lies, or else being cruel. the only thing was to keep away from people. and yet how keep away from his own guests? he went back to the house for lunch, but both those guests were out, no one seemed quite to know where. restless, unhappy, puzzled, he wandered round and about all the afternoon. just before dinner he was told of mrs. stormer's not being well, and that they would be leaving to-morrow. going--after three days! that plunged him deeper into his strange and sorrowful confusion. he was reduced now to a complete brooding silence. he knew he was attracting attention, but could not help it. several times during dinner he caught gordy's eyes fixed on him, from under those puffy half-closed lids, with asphyxiated speculation. but he simply could not talk--everything that came into his mind to say seemed false. ah! it was a sad evening--with its glimmering vision into another's sore heart, its confused gnawing sense of things broken, faith betrayed; and yet always the perplexed wonder--"how could i have helped it?" and always sylvia's wistful face that he tried not to look at. he stole out, leaving gordy and his tutor still over their wine, and roamed about the garden a long time, listening sadly to the owls. it was a blessing to get upstairs, though of course he would not sleep. but he did sleep, all through a night of many dreams, in the last of which he was lying on a mountain side, anna looking down into his eyes, and bending her face to his. he woke just as her lips touched him. still under the spell of that troubling dream, he became conscious of the sound of wheels and horses' hoofs on the gravel, and sprang out of bed. there was the waggonette moving from the door, old godden driving, luggage piled up beside him, and the stormers sitting opposite each other in the carriage. going away like that--having never even said good-bye! for a moment he felt as people must when they have unwittingly killed someone--utterly stunned and miserable. then he dashed into his clothes. he would not let her go thus! he would--he must--see her again! what had he done that she should go like this? he rushed downstairs. the hall was empty; nineteen minutes to eight! the train left at eight o'clock. had he time to saddle bolero? he rushed round to the stables; but the cob was out, being shoed. he would--he must get there in time. it would show her anyway that he was not quite a cad. he walked till the drive curved, then began running hard. a quarter of a mile, and already he felt better, not so miserable and guilty; it was something to feel you had a tough job in hand, all your work cut out--something to have to think of economizing strength, picking out the best going, keeping out of the sun, saving your wind uphill, flying down any slope. it was cool still, and the dew had laid the dust; there was no traffic and scarcely anyone to look back and gape as he ran by. what he would do, if he got there in time--how explain this mad three-mile run--he did not think. he passed a farm that he knew was just half-way. he had left his watch. indeed, he had put on only his trousers, shirt, and norfolk jacket; no tie, no hat, not even socks under his tennis shoes, and he was as hot as fire, with his hair flying back--a strange young creature indeed for anyone to meet. but he had lost now all feeling, save the will to get there. a flock of sheep came out of a field into the lane. he pushed through them somehow, but they lost him several seconds. more than a mile still; and he was blown, and his legs beginning to give! downhill indeed they went of their own accord, but there was the long run-in, quite level; and he could hear the train, now slowly puffing its way along the valley. then, in spite of exhaustion, his spirit rose. he would not go in looking like a scarecrow, utterly done, and make a scene. he must pull himself together at the end, and stroll in--as if he had come for fun. but how--seeing that at any moment he felt he might fall flat in the dust, and stay there for ever! and, as he ran, he made little desperate efforts to mop his face, and brush his clothes. there were the gates, at last--two hundred yards away. the train, he could hear no longer. it must be standing in the station. and a sob came from his overdriven lungs. he heard the guard's whistle as he reached the gates. instead of making for the booking-office, he ran along the paling, where an entrance to the goods'-shed was open, and dashing through he fell back against the honeysuckle. the engine was just abreast of him; he snatched at his sleeve and passed it over his face, to wipe the sweat away. everything was blurred. he must see--surely he had not come in time just not to see! he pushed his hands over his forehead and hair, and spied up dizzily at the slowly passing train. she was there, at a window! standing, looking out! he dared not step forward, for fear of falling, but he put out his hand--she saw him. yes, she saw him! wasn't she going to make a sign? not one? and suddenly he saw her tear at her dress, pluck something out, and throw it. it fell close to his feet. he did not pick it up--he wanted to see her face till she was gone. it looked wonderful--very proud, and pale. she put her hand up to her lips. then everything went blurred again and when he could see once more, the train had vanished. but at his feet was what she had thrown. he picked it up! all dry and dark, it was the flower she had given him in the tyrol, and stolen back from his buttonhole. creeping out, past the goods'-shed, he made his way to a field, and lay down with his face pressed to that withered thing which still had its scent. . . . the asphyxiated speculation in his guardian's eyes had not been without significance. mark did not go back to oxford. he went instead to rome--to live in his sister's house, and attend a school of sculpture. that was the beginning of a time when nothing counted except his work. to anna he wrote twice, but received no answer. from his tutor he had one little note: "my dear lennan, "so! you abandon us for art? ah! well--it was your moon, if i remember--one of them. a worthy moon--a little dusty in these days--a little in her decline--but to you no doubt a virgin goddess, whose hem, etc. "we shall retain the friendliest memories of you in spite of your defection. "once your tutor and still your friend, "harold stormer." after that vacation it was long--very long before he saw sylvia again. part ii summer i gleam of a thousand lights; clack and mutter of innumerable voices, laughter, footsteps; hiss and rumble of passing trains taking gamblers back to nice or mentone; fevered wailing from the violins of four fiddlers with dark-white skins outside the cafe; and above, around, beyond, the dark sky, and the dark mountains, and the dark sea, like some great dark flower to whose heart is clinging a jewelled beetle. so was monte carlo on that may night of . but mark lennan, at one of the little marble-topped tables, was in too great maze and exaltation of spirit and of senses to be conscious of its glare and babel, even of its beauty. he sat so very still that his neighbours, with the instinctive aversion of the human creature to what is too remote from its own mood, after one good stare, turned their eyes away, as from something ludicrous, almost offensive. he was lost, indeed, in memory of the minutes just gone by. for it had come at last, after all these weeks of ferment, after all this strange time of perturbation. very stealthily it had been creeping on him, ever since that chance introduction nearly a year ago, soon after he settled down in london, following those six years of rome and paris. first the merest friendliness, because she was so nice about his work; then respectful admiration, because she was so beautiful; then pity, because she was so unhappy in her marriage. if she had been happy, he would have fled. the knowledge that she had been unhappy long before he knew her had kept his conscience still. and at last one afternoon she said: "ah! if you come out there too!" marvelously subtle, the way that one little outslipped saying had worked in him, as though it had a life of its own--like a strange bird that had flown into the garden of his heart, and established itself with its new song and flutterings, its new flight, its wistful and ever clearer call. that and one moment, a few days later in her london drawing-room, when he had told her that he was coming, and she did not, could not, he felt, look at him. queer, that nothing momentous said, done--or even left undone--had altered all the future! and so she had gone with her uncle and aunt, under whose wing one might be sure she would meet with no wayward or exotic happenings. and he had received from her this little letter: "hotel coeur d'or, "monte carlo. "my dear mark, "we've arrived. it is so good to be in the sun. the flowers are wonderful. i am keeping gorbio and roquebrune till you come. "your friend, "olive cramier." that letter was the single clear memory he had of the time between her going and his following. he received it one afternoon, sitting on an old low garden wall with the spring sun shining on him through apple-trees in blossom, and a feeling as if all the desire of the world lay before him, and he had but to stretch out his arms to take it. then confused unrest, all things vague; till at the end of his journey he stepped out of the train at beaulieu with a furiously beating heart. but why? surely he had not expected her to come out from monte carlo to meet him! a week had gone by since then in one long effort to be with her and appear to others as though he did not greatly wish to be; two concerts, two walks with her alone, when all that he had said seemed as nothing said, and all her sayings but ghosts of what he wished to hear; a week of confusion, day and night, until, a few minutes ago, her handkerchief had fallen from her glove on to the dusty road, and he had picked it up and put it to his lips. nothing could take away the look she had given him then. nothing could ever again separate her from him utterly. she had confessed in it to the same sweet, fearful trouble that he himself was feeling. she had not spoken, but he had seen her lips part, her breast rise and fall. and he had not spoken. what was the use of words? he felt in the pocket of his coat. there, against his fingers, was that wisp of lawn and lace, soft, yet somehow alive; and stealthily he took it out. the whole of her, with her fragrance, seemed pressed to his face in the touch of that lawn border, roughened by little white stars. more secretly than ever he put it back; and for the first time looked round. these people! they belonged to a world that he had left. they gave him the same feeling that her uncle and aunt had given him just now, when they said good-night, following her into their hotel. that good colonel, that good mrs. ercott! the very concretion of the world he had been brought up in, of the english point of view; symbolic figures of health, reason, and the straight path, on which at that moment, seemingly, he had turned his back. the colonel's profile, ruddy through its tan, with grey moustache guiltless of any wax, his cheery, high-pitched: "good-night, young lennan!" his wife's curly smile, her flat, cosy, confidential voice--how strange and remote they had suddenly become! and all these people here, chattering, drinking--how queer and far away! or was it just that he was queer and remote to them? and getting up from his table, he passed the fiddlers with the dark-white skins, out into the place. ii he went up the side streets to the back of her hotel, and stood by the railings of the garden--one of those hotel gardens which exist but to figure in advertisements, with its few arid palms, its paths staring white between them, and a fringe of dusty lilacs and mimosas. and there came to him the oddest feeling--that he had been there before, peering through blossoms at those staring paths and shuttered windows. a scent of wood-smoke was abroad, and some dry plant rustled ever so faintly in what little wind was stirring. what was there of memory in this night, this garden? some dark sweet thing, invisible, to feel whose presence was at once ecstasy, and the irritation of a thirst that will not be quenched. and he walked on. houses, houses! at last he was away from them, alone on the high road, beyond the limits of monaco. and walking thus through the night he had thoughts that he imagined no one had ever had before him. the knowledge that she loved him had made everything seem very sacred and responsible. whatever he did, he must not harm her. women were so helpless! for in spite of six years of art in rome and paris, he still had a fastidious reverence for women. if she had loved her husband she would have been safe enough from him; but to be bound to a companionship that she gave unwillingly--this had seemed to him atrocious, even before he loved her. how could any husband ask that? have so little pride--so little pity? the unpardonable thing! what was there to respect in such a marriage? only, he must not do her harm! but now that her eyes had said, i love you!--what then? it was simply miraculous to know that, under the stars of this warm southern night, burning its incense of trees and flowers! climbing up above the road, he lay down. if only she were there beside him! the fragrance of the earth not yet chilled, crept to his face; and for just a moment it seemed to him that she did come. if he could keep her there for ever in that embrace that was no embrace--in that ghostly rapture, on this wild fragrant bed that no lovers before had ever pressed, save the creeping things, and the flowers; save sunlight and moonlight with their shadows; and the wind kissing the earth! . . . then she was gone; his hands touched nothing but the crumbled pine dust, and the flowers of the wild thyme fallen into sleep. he stood on the edge of the little cliff, above the road between the dark mountains and the sea black with depth. too late for any passer-by; as far from what men thought and said and did as the very night itself with its whispering warmth. and he conjured up her face, making certain of it--the eyes, clear and brown, and wide apart; the close, sweet mouth; the dark hair; the whole flying loveliness. then he leaped down into the road, and ran--one could not walk, feeling this miracle, that no one had ever felt before, the miracle of love. iii in their most reputable hotel 'le coeur d'or,' long since remodelled and renamed, mrs. ercott lay in her brass-bound bed looking by starlight at the colonel in his brass-bound bed. her ears were carefully freed from the pressure of her pillow, for she thought she heard a mosquito. companion for thirty years to one whose life had been feverishly punctuated by the attentions of those little beasts, she had no love for them. it was the one subject on which perhaps her imagination was stronger than her common sense. for in fact there was not, and could not be, a mosquito, since the first thing the colonel did, on arriving at any place farther south than parallel of latitude, was to open the windows very wide, and nail with many tiny tacks a piece of mosquito netting across that refreshing space, while she held him firmly by the coat-tails. the fact that other people did not so secure their windows did not at all trouble the colonel, a true englishman, who loved to act in his own way, and to think in the ways of other people. after that they would wait till night came, then burn a peculiar little lamp with a peculiar little smell, and, in the full glare of the gaslight, stand about on chairs, with slippers, and their eyes fixed on true or imaginary beasts. then would fall little slaps, making little messes, and little joyous or doleful cries would arise: "i've got that one!" "oh, john, i missed him!" and in the middle of the room, the colonel, in pyjamas, and spectacles (only worn in very solemn moments, low down on his nose), would revolve slowly, turning his eyes, with that look in them of out-facing death which he had so long acquired, on every inch of wall and ceiling, till at last he would say: "well, dolly, that's the lot!" at which she would say: "give me a kiss, dear!" and he would kiss her, and get into his bed. there was, then, no mosquito, save that general ghost of him which lingered in the mind of one devoted to her husband. spying out his profile, for he was lying on his back, she refrained from saying: "john, are you awake?" a whiffling sound was coming from a nose, to which--originally straight--attention to military duties had given a slight crook, half an inch below the level of grizzled eyebrows raised a little, as though surprised at the sounds beneath. she could hardly see him, but she thought: "how good he looks!" and, in fact, he did. it was the face of a man incapable of evil, having in its sleep the candour of one at heart a child--that simple candour of those who have never known how to seek adventures of the mind, and have always sought adventures of the body. then somehow she did say: "john! are you asleep?" the colonel, instantly alive, as at some old-time attack, answered: "yes." "that poor young man!" "which?" "mark lennan. haven't you seen?" "what?" "my dear, it was under your nose. but you never do see these things!" the colonel slowly turned his head. his wife was an imaginative woman! she had always been so. dimly he perceived that something romantic was about to come from her. but with that almost professional gentleness of a man who has cut the heads and arms off people in his time, he answered: "what things?" "he picked up her handkerchief." "whose?" "olive's. he put it in his pocket. i distinctly saw him." there was silence; then mrs. ercott's voice rose again, impersonal, far away. "what always astonishes me about young people is the way they think they're not seen--poor dears!" still there was silence. "john! are you thinking?" for a considerable sound of breathing, not mere whiffling now, was coming from the colonel--to his wife a sure sign. and indeed he was thinking. dolly was an imaginative woman, but something told him that in this case she might not be riding past the hounds. mrs. ercott raised herself. he looked more good than ever; a little perplexed frown had climbed up with his eyebrows and got caught in the wrinkles across his forehead. "i'm very fond of olive," he said. mrs. ercott fell back on her pillows. in her heart there was just that little soreness natural to a woman over fifty, whose husband has a niece. "no doubt," she murmured. something vague moved deep down in the colonel; he stretched out his hand. in that strip of gloom between the beds it encountered another hand, which squeezed it rather hard. he said: "look here, old girl!" and there was silence. mrs. ercott in her turn was thinking. her thoughts were flat and rapid like her voice, but had that sort of sentiment which accompanies the mental exercise of women with good hearts. poor young man! and poor olive! but was a woman ever to be pitied, when she was so pretty as that! besides, when all was said and done, she had a fine-looking man for husband; in parliament, with a career, and fond of her--decidedly. and their little house in london, so close to westminster, was a distinct dear; and nothing could be more charming than their cottage by the river. was olive, then, to be pitied? and yet--she was not happy. it was no good pretending that she was happy. all very well to say that such things were within one's control, but if you read novels at all, you knew they weren't. there was such a thing as incompatibility. oh yes! and there was the matter of difference in their ages! olive was twenty-six, robert cramier forty-two. and now this young mark lennan was in love with her. what if she were in love with him! john would realize then, perhaps, that the young flew to the young. for men--even the best, like john, were funny! she would never dream of feeling for any of her nephews as john clearly felt for olive. the colonel's voice broke in on her thoughts. "nice young fellow--lennan! great pity! better sheer off--if he's getting--" and, rather suddenly, she answered: "suppose he can't!" "can't?" "did you never hear of a 'grande passion'?" the colonel rose on his elbow. this was another of those occasions that showed him how, during the later years of his service in madras and upper burmah, when dolly's health had not been equal to the heat, she had picked up in london a queer way of looking at things--as if they were not--not so right or wrong as--as he felt them to be. and he repeated those two french words in his own way, adding: "isn't that just what i'm saying? the sooner he stands clear, the better." but mrs. ercott, too, sat up. "be human," she said. the colonel experienced the same sensation as when one suddenly knows that one is not digesting food. because young lennan was in danger of getting into a dishonourable fix, he was told to be human! really, dolly was--! the white blur of her new boudoir cap suddenly impinged on his consciousness. surely she was not getting--un-english! at her time of life! "i'm thinking of olive," he said; "i don't want her worried with that sort of thing." "perhaps olive can manage for herself. in these days it doesn't do to interfere with love." "love!" muttered the colonel. "what? phew!" if one's own wife called this--this sort of--thing, love--then, why had he been faithful to her--in very hot climates--all these years? a sense of waste, and of injustice, tried to rear its head against all the side of him that attached certain meanings to certain words, and acted up to them. and this revolt gave him a feeling, strange and so unpleasant. love! it was not a word to use thus loosely! love led to marriage; this could not lead to marriage, except through--the divorce court. and suddenly the colonel had a vision of his dead brother lindsay, olive's father, standing there in the dark, with his grave, clear-cut, ivory-pale face, under the black hair supposed to be derived from a french ancestress who had escaped from the massacre of st. bartholomew. upright fellow always, lindsay--even before he was made bishop! queer somehow that olive should be his daughter. not that she was not upright; not at all! but she was soft! lindsay was not! imagine him seeing that young fellow putting her handkerchief in his pocket. but had young lennan really done such a thing? dolly was imaginative! he had mistaken it probably for his own; if he had chanced to blow his nose, he would have realized. for, coupled with the almost child-like candour of his mind, the colonel had real administrative vigour, a true sense of practical values; an ounce of illustration was always worth to him a pound of theory! dolly was given to riding off on theories. thank god! she never acted on 'em! he said gently: "my dear! young lennan may be an artist and all that, but he's a gentleman! i know old heatherley, his guardian. why i introduced him to olive myself!" "what has that to do with it? he's in love with her." one of the countless legion that hold a creed taken at face value, into whose roots and reasons they have never dreamed of going, the colonel was staggered. like some native on an island surrounded by troubled seas, which he has stared at with a certain contemptuous awe all his life, but never entered, he was disconcerted by thus being asked to leave the shore. and by his own wife! indeed, mrs. ercott had not intended to go so far; but there was in her, as in all women whose minds are more active than their husbands', a something worrying her always to go a little farther than she meant. with real compunction she heard the colonel say: "i must get up and drink some water." she was out of bed in a moment. "not without boiling!" she had seriously troubled him, then! now he would not sleep--the blood went to his head so quickly. he would just lie awake, trying not to disturb her. she could not bear him not to disturb her. it seemed so selfish of her! she ought to have known that the whole subject was too dangerous to discuss at night. she became conscious that he was standing just behind her; his figure in its thin covering looked very lean, his face strangely worn. "i'm sorry you put that idea into my head!" he said. "i'm fond of olive." again mrs. ercott felt that jealous twinge, soon lost this time in the motherliness of a childless woman for her husband. he must not be troubled! he should not be troubled. and she said: "the water's boiling! now sip a good glass slowly, and get into bed, or i'll take your temperature!" obediently the colonel took from her the glass, and as he sipped, she put her hand up and stroked his head. iv in the room below them the subject of their discussion was lying very wide awake. she knew that she had betrayed herself, made plain to mark lennan what she had never until now admitted to herself. but the love-look, which for the life of her she could not keep back, had been followed by a feeling of having 'lost caste.' for, hitherto, the world of women had been strictly divided by her into those who did and those who did not do such things; and to be no longer quite sure to which half she belonged was frightening. but what was the good of thinking, of being frightened?--it could not lead to anything. yesterday she had not known this would come; and now she could not guess at to-morrow! to-night was enough! to-night with its swimming loveliness! just to feel! to love, and to be loved! a new sensation for her--as different from those excited by the courtships of her girlhood, or by her marriage, as light from darkness. for she had never been in love, not even with her husband. she knew it now. the sun was shining in a world where she had thought there was none. nothing could come of it. but the sun was shining; and in that sunshine she must warm herself a little. quite simply she began to plan what he and she would do. there were six days left. they had not yet been to gorbio, nor to castellar--none of those long walks or rides they had designed to do for the beauty of them. would he come early to-morrow? what could they do together? no one should know what these six days would be to her--not even he. to be with him, watch his face, hear his voice, and now and then just touch him! she could trust herself to show no one. and then, it would be--over! though, of course, she would see him again in london. and, lying there in the dark, she thought of their first meeting, one sunday morning, in hyde park. the colonel religiously observed church parade, and would even come all the way down to westminster, from his flat near knightsbridge, in order to fetch his niece up to it. she remembered how, during their stroll, he had stopped suddenly in front of an old gentleman with a puffy yellow face and eyes half open. "ah! mr. heatherley--you up from devonshire? how's your nephew --the--er--sculptor?" and the old gentleman, glaring a little, as it seemed to her, from under his eyelids and his grey top hat, had answered: "colonel ercott, i think? here's the fellow himself--mark!" and a young man had taken off his hat. she had only noticed at first that his dark hair grew--not long--but very thick; and that his eyes were very deep-set. then she saw him smile; it made his face all eager, yet left it shy; and she decided that he was nice. soon after, she had gone with the ercotts to see his 'things'; for it was, of course, and especially in those days, quite an event to know a sculptor--rather like having a zebra in your park. the colonel had been delighted and a little relieved to find that the 'things' were nearly all of beasts and birds. "very interestin'" to one full of curious lore about such, having in his time killed many of them, and finding himself at the end of it with a curious aversion to killing any more--which he never put into words. acquaintanceship had ripened fast after that first visit to his studio, and now it was her turn to be relieved that mark lennan devoted himself almost entirely to beasts and birds instead of to the human form, so-called divine. ah! yes--she would have suffered; now that she loved him, she saw that. at all events she could watch his work and help it with sympathy. that could not be wrong. . . . she fell asleep at last, and dreamed that she was in a boat alone on the river near her country cottage, drifting along among spiky flowers like asphodels, with birds singing and flying round her. she could move neither face nor limbs, but that helpless feeling was not unpleasant, till she became conscious that she was drawing nearer and nearer to what was neither water nor land, light nor darkness, but simply some unutterable feeling. and then she saw, gazing at her out of the rushes on the banks, a great bull head. it moved as she moved--it was on both sides of her, yet all the time only one head. she tried to raise her hands and cover her eyes, but could not--and woke with a sob. . . . it was light. nearly six o'clock already! her dream made her disinclined to trust again to sleep. sleep was a robber now--of each minute of these few days! she got up, and looked out. the morning was fine, the air warm already, sweet with dew, and heliotrope nailed to the wall outside her window. she had but to open her shutters and walk into the sun. she dressed, took her sunshade, stealthily slipped the shutters back, and stole forth. shunning the hotel garden, where the eccentricity of her early wandering might betray the condition of her spirit, she passed through into the road toward the casino. without perhaps knowing it, she was making for where she had sat with him yesterday afternoon, listening to the band. hatless, but defended by her sunshade, she excited the admiration of the few connoisseurs as yet abroad, strolling in blue blouses to their labours; and this simple admiration gave her pleasure. for once she was really conscious of the grace in her own limbs, actually felt the gentle vividness of her own face, with its nearly black hair and eyes, and creamy skin--strange sensation, and very comforting! in the casino gardens she walked more slowly, savouring the aromatic trees, and stopping to bend and look at almost every flower; then, on the seat, where she had sat with him yesterday, she rested. a few paces away were the steps that led to the railway-station, trodden upwards eagerly by so many, day after day, night after night, and lightly or sorrowfully descended. above her, two pines, a pepper-tree, and a palm mingled their shade--so fantastic the jumbling of trees and souls in this strange place! she furled her sunshade and leaned back. her gaze, free and friendly, passed from bough to bough. against the bright sky, unbesieged as yet by heat or dust, they had a spiritual look, lying sharp and flat along the air. she plucked a cluster of pinkish berries from the pepper-tree, crushing and rubbing them between her hands to get their fragrance. all these beautiful and sweet things seemed to be a part of her joy at being loved, part of this sudden summer in her heart. the sky, the flowers, that jewel of green-blue sea, the bright acacias, were nothing in the world but love. and those few who passed, and saw her sitting there under the pepper-tree, wondered no doubt at the stillness of this dame bien mise, who had risen so early. v in the small hours, which so many wish were smaller, the colonel had awakened, with the affair of the handkerchief swelling visibly. his niece's husband was not a man that he had much liking for--a taciturn fellow, with possibly a bit of the brute in him, a man who rather rode people down; but, since dolly and he were in charge of olive, the notion that young lennan was falling in love with her under their very noses was alarming to one naturally punctilious. it was not until he fell asleep again, and woke in full morning light, that the remedy occurred to him. she must be taken out of herself! dolly and he had been slack; too interested in this queer place, this queer lot of people! they had neglected her, left her to. . . boys and girls!--one ought always to remember. but it was not too late. she was old lindsay's daughter; would not forget herself. poor old lindsay--fine fellow; bit too much, perhaps, of the--huguenot in him! queer, those throw-backs! had noticed in horses, time and again--white hairs about the tail, carriage of the head--skip generations and then pop out. and olive had something of his look--the same ivory skin, same colour of eyes and hair! only she was not severe, like her father, not exactly! and once more there shot through the colonel a vague dread, as of a trusteeship neglected. it disappeared, however, in his bath. he was out before eight o'clock, a thin upright figure in hard straw hat and grey flannel clothes, walking with the indescribable loose poise of the soldier englishman, with that air, different from the french, german, what not, because of shoulders ever asserting, through their drill, the right to put on mufti; with that perfectly quiet and modest air of knowing that, whatever might be said, there was only one way of wearing clothes and moving legs. and, as he walked, he smoothed his drooping grey moustache, considering how best to take his niece out of herself. he passed along by the terrace, and stood for a moment looking down at the sea beyond the pigeon-shooting ground. then he moved on round under the casino into the gardens at the back. a beautiful spot! wonderful care they had taken with the plants! it made him think a little of tushawore, where his old friend the rajah--precious old rascal!--had gardens to his palace rather like these. he paced again to the front. it was nice and quiet in the early mornings, with the sea down there, and nobody trying to get the better of anybody else. there were fellows never happy unless they were doing someone in the eye. he had known men who would ride at the devil himself, make it a point of honour to swindle a friend out of a few pounds! odd place this 'monte'--sort of a garden of eden gone wrong. and all the real, but quite inarticulate love of nature, which had supported the colonel through deserts and jungles, on transports at sea, and in mountain camps, awoke in the sweetness of these gardens. his dear mother! he had never forgotten the words with which she had shown him the sunset through the coppice down at old withes norton, when he was nine years old: "that is beauty, jack! do you feel it, darling?" he had not felt it at the time--not he; a thick-headed, scampering youngster. even when he first went to india he had had no eye for a sunset. the rising generation were different. that young couple, for instance, under the pepper-tree, sitting there without a word, just looking at the trees. how long, he wondered, had they been sitting like that? and suddenly something in the colonel leaped; his steel-coloured eyes took on their look of out-facing death. choking down a cough, he faced about, back to where he had stood above the pigeon-shooting ground. . . . olive and that young fellow! an assignation! at this time in the morning! the earth reeled. his brother's child--his favourite niece! the woman whom he most admired--the woman for whom his heart was softest. leaning over the stone parapet, no longer seeing either the smooth green of the pigeon-shooting ground, or the smooth blue of the sea beyond, he was moved, distressed, bewildered beyond words. before breakfast! that was the devil of it! confession, as it were, of everything. moreover, he had seen their hands touching on the seat. the blood rushed up to his face; he had seen, spied out, what was not intended for his eyes. nice position--that! dolly, too, last night, had seen. but that was different. women might see things--it was expected of them. but for a man--a--a gentleman! the fullness of his embarrassment gradually disclosed itself. his hands were tied. could he even consult dolly? he had a feeling of isolation, of utter solitude. nobody--not anybody in the world--could understand his secret and intense discomfort. to take up a position--the position he was bound to take up, as olive's nearest relative and protector, and--what was it--chaperon, by the aid of knowledge come at in such a way, however unintentionally! never in all his days in the regiment--and many delicate matters affecting honour had come his way--had he had a thing like this to deal with. poor child! but he had no business to think of her like that. no, indeed! she had not behaved--as--and there he paused, curiously unable to condemn her. suppose they got up and came that way! he took his hands off the stone parapet, and made for his hotel. his palms were white from the force of his grip. he said to himself as he went along: "i must consider the whole question calmly; i must think it out." this gave him relief. with young lennan, at all events, he could be angry. but even there he found, to his dismay, no finality of judgment. and this absence of finality, so unwonted, distressed him horribly. there was something in the way the young man had been sitting there beside her--so quiet, so almost timid--that had touched him. this was bad, by jove--very bad! the two of them, they made, somehow, a nice couple! confound it! this would not do! the chaplain of the little english church, passing at this moment, called out, "fine morning, colonel ercott." the colonel saluted, and did not answer. the greeting at the moment seemed to him paltry. no morning could be fine that contained such a discovery. he entered the hotel, passed into the dining-room, and sat down. nobody was there. they all had their breakfast upstairs, even dolly. olive alone was in the habit of supporting him while he ate an english breakfast. and suddenly he perceived that he was face to face already with this dreadful situation. to have breakfast without, as usual, waiting for her, seemed too pointed. she might be coming in at any minute now. to wait for her, and have it, without showing anything--how could he do that? he was conscious of a faint rustling behind him. there she was, and nothing decided. in this moment of hopeless confusion the colonel acted by pure instinct, rose, patted her cheek, and placed a chair. "well, my dear," he said; "hungry?" she was looking very dainty, very soft. that creamy dress showed off her dark hair and eyes, which seemed somehow to be--flying off somewhere; yes--it was queer, but that was the only way to put it. he got no reassurance, no comfort, from the sight of her. and slowly he stripped the skin from the banana with which he always commenced breakfast. one might just as well be asked to shoot a tame dove or tear a pretty flower to pieces as he expected to take her to task, even if he could, in honour. and he sought refuge in the words: "been out?" then could have bitten his tongue off. suppose she answered: "no." but she did not so answer. the colour came into her cheeks, indeed, but she nodded: "it's so lovely!" how pretty she looked saying that! he had put himself out of court now--could never tell her what he had seen, after setting, as it were, that trap for her; and presently he asked: "got any plans to-day?" she answered, without flinching in the least: "mark lennan and i were going to take mules from mentone up to gorbio." he was amazed at her steadiness--never, to his knowledge, having encountered a woman armoured at every point to preserve a love that flies against the world. how tell what was under her smile! and in confusion of feeling that amounted almost to pain he heard her say: "will you and aunt dolly come?" between sense of trusteeship and hatred of spoiling sport; between knowledge of the danger she was in and half-pitying admiration at the sight of her; between real disapproval of an illicit and underhand business (what else was it, after all?) and some dim perception that here was something he did not begin to be able to fathom--something that perhaps no one but those two themselves could deal with--between these various extremes he was lost indeed. and he stammered out: "i must ask your aunt; she's--she's not very good on a mule." then, in an impulse of sheer affection, he said with startling suddenness: "my dear, i've often meant to ask, are you happy at home?" "at home?" there was something sinister about the way she repeated that, as if the word "home" were strange to her. she drank her coffee and got up; and the colonel felt afraid of her, standing there--afraid of what she was going to tell him. he grew very red. but, worse than all, she said absolutely nothing; only shrugged her shoulders with a little smile that went to his heart. vi on the wild thyme, under the olives below the rock village of gorbio, with their mules cropping at a little distance, those two sat after their lunch, listening to the cuckoos. since their uncanny chance meeting that morning in the gardens, when they sat with their hands just touching, amazed and elated by their own good fortune, there was not much need to say what they felt, to break with words this rapture of belonging to each other--so shyly, so wildly, so, as it were, without reality. they were like epicures with old wine in their glasses, not yet tired of its fragrance and the spell of anticipation. and so their talk was not of love, but, in that pathetic way of star-crossed lovers, of the things they loved; leaving out--each other. it was the telling of her dream that brought the words from him at last; but she drew away, and answered: "it can't--it mustn't be!" then he just clung to her hand; and presently, seeing that her eyes were wet, took courage enough to kiss her cheek. trembling and fugitive indeed that first passage of their love. not much of the conquering male in him, nor in her of the ordinary enchantress. and then they went, outwardly sober enough, riding their mules down the stony slopes back to mentone. but in the grey, dusty railway-carriage when she had left him, he was like a man drugged, staring at where she had sat opposite. two hours later, at dinner in her hotel, between her and mrs. ercott, with the colonel opposite, he knew for the first time what he was faced with. to watch every thought that passed within him, lest it should by the slightest sign betray him; to regulate and veil every look and every word he spoke to her; never for a second to forget that these other persons were actual and dangerous, not merely the insignificant and grotesque shadows that they seemed. it would be perhaps for ever a part of his love for her to seem not to love her. he did not dare dream of fulfilment. he was to be her friend, and try to bring her happiness--burn and long for her, and not think about reward. this was his first real overwhelming passion--so different to the loves of spring--and he brought to it all that naivete, that touching quality of young englishmen, whose secret instinct it is to back away from the full nature of love, even from admitting that it has that nature. they two were to love, and--not to love! for the first time he understood a little of what that meant. a few stolen adoring minutes now and then, and, for the rest, the presence of a world that must be deceived. already he had almost a hatred of that orderly, brown-faced colonel, with his eyes that looked so steady and saw nothing; of that flat, kindly lady, who talked so pleasantly throughout dinner, saying things that he had to answer without knowing what they signified. he realized, with a sense of shock, that he was deprived of all interests in life but one; not even his work had any meaning apart from her. it lit no fire within him to hear mrs. ercott praise certain execrable pictures in the royal academy, which she had religiously visited the day before leaving home. and as the interminable meal wore on, he began even to feel grief and wonder that olive could be so smiling, so gay, and calm; so, as it seemed to him, indifferent to this intolerable impossibility of exchanging even one look of love. did she really love him--could she love him, and show not one little sign of it? and suddenly he felt her foot touch his own. it was the faintest sidelong, supplicating pressure, withdrawn at once, but it said: 'i know what you are suffering; i, too, but i love you.' characteristically, he felt that it cost her dear to make use of that little primitive device of common loves; the touch awoke within him only chivalry. he would burn for ever sooner than cause her the pain of thinking that he was not happy. after dinner, they sat out on a balcony. the stars glowed above the palms; a frog was croaking. he managed to draw his chair so that he could look at her unseen. how deep, and softly dark her eyes, when for a second they rested on his! a moth settled on her knee--a cunning little creature, with its hooded, horned owl's face, and tiny black slits of eyes! would it have come so confidingly to anyone but her? the colonel knew its name--he had collected it. very common, he said. the interest in it passed; but lennan stayed, bent forward, gazing at that silk-covered knee. the voice of mrs. ercott, sharper than its wont, said: "what day does robert say he wants you back, my dear?" he managed to remain gazing at the moth, even to take it gently from her knee, while he listened to her calm answer. "tuesday, i believe." then he got up, and let the moth fly into the darkness; his hands and lips were trembling, and he was afraid of their being seen. he had never known, had not dreamed, of such a violent, sick feeling. that this man could thus hale her home at will! it was grotesque, fantastic, awful, but--it was true! next tuesday she would journey back away from him to be again at the mercy of her fate! the pain of this thought made him grip the railing, and grit his teeth, to keep himself from crying out. and another thought came to him: i shall have to go about with this feeling, day and night, and keep it secret. they were saying good-night; and he had to smirk and smile, and pretend--to her above all--that he was happy, and he could see that she knew it was pretence. then he was alone, with the feeling that he had failed her at the first shot; torn, too, between horror of what he suddenly saw before him, and longing to be back in her presence at any cost. . . . and all this on the day of that first kiss which had seemed to him to make her so utterly his own. he sat down on a bench facing the casino. neither the lights, nor the people passing in and out, not even the gipsy bandsmen's music, distracted his thoughts for a second. could it be less than twenty-four hours since he had picked up her handkerchief, not thirty yards away? in that twenty-four hours he seemed to have known every emotion that man could feel. and in all the world there was now not one soul to whom he could speak his real thoughts--not even to her, because from her, beyond all, he must keep at any cost all knowledge of his unhappiness. so this was illicit love--as it was called! loneliness, and torture! not jealousy--for her heart was his; but amazement, outrage, fear. endless lonely suffering! and nobody, if they knew, would care, or pity him one jot! was there really, then, as the ancients thought, a daemon that liked to play with men, as men liked to stir an earwig and turn it over and put a foot on it in the end? he got up and made his way towards the railway-station. there was the bench where she had been sitting when he came on her that very morning. the stars in their courses had seemed to fight for them then; but whether for joy he no longer knew. and there on the seat were still the pepper berries she had crushed and strewn. he broke off another bunch and bruised them. that scent was the ghost of sacred minutes when her hand lay against his own. the stars in their courses--for joy or sorrow! vii there was no peace now for colonel and mrs. ercott. they felt themselves conspirators, and of conspiracy they had never had the habit. yet how could they openly deal with anxieties which had arisen solely from what they had chanced secretly to see? what was not intended for one's eyes and ears did not exist; no canon of conduct could be quite so sacred. as well defend the opening of another person's letters as admit the possibility of making use of adventitious knowledge. so far tradition, and indeed character, made them feel at one, and conspire freely. but they diverged on a deeper plane. mrs. ercott had said, indeed, that here was something which could not be controlled; the colonel had felt it--a very different thing! less tolerant in theory, he was touched at heart; mrs. ercott, in theory almost approving--she read that dangerous authoress, george eliot--at heart felt cold towards her husband's niece. for these reasons they could not in fact conspire without, in the end, saying suddenly: "well, it's no good talking about it!" and almost at once beginning to talk about it again. in proposing to her that mule, the colonel had not had time, or, rather, not quite conviction enough as to his line of action, to explain so immediately the new need for her to sit upon it. it was only when, to his somewhat strange relief, she had refused the expedition, and olive had started without them, that he told her of the meeting in the gardens, of which he had been witness. she then said at once that if she had known she would, of course, have put up with anything in order to go; not because she approved of interfering, but because they must think of robert! and the colonel had said: "d--n the fellow!" and there the matter had rested for the moment, for both of them were, wondering a little which fellow it was that he had damned. that indeed was the trouble. if the colonel had not cared so much about his niece, and had liked, instead of rather disliking cramier; if mrs. ercott had not found mark lennan a 'nice boy,' and had not secretly felt her husband's niece rather dangerous to her peace of mind; if, in few words, those three had been puppets made of wood and worked by law, it would have been so much simpler for all concerned. it was the discovery that there was a personal equation in such matters, instead of just a simple rule of three, which disorganized the colonel and made him almost angry; which depressed mrs. ercott and made her almost silent. . . . these two good souls had stumbled on a problem which has divided the world from birth. shall cases be decided on their individual merits, or according to formal codes? beneath an appearance and a vocabulary more orthodox than ever, the colonel's allegiance to authority and the laws of form was really shaken; he simply could not get out of his head the sight of those two young people sitting side by side, nor the tone of olive's voice, when she had repeated his regrettable words about happiness at home. if only the thing had not been so human! if only she had been someone else's niece, it would clearly have been her duty to remain unhappy. as it was, the more he thought, the less he knew what to think. a man who had never had any balance to speak of at his bank, and from the nomadic condition of his life had no exaggerated feeling for a settled social status--deeming society in fact rather a bore--he did not unduly exaggerate the worldly dangers of this affair; neither did he honestly believe that she would burn in everlasting torment if she did not succeed in remaining true to 'that great black chap,' as he secretly called cramier. his feeling was simply that it was an awful pity; a sort of unhappy conviction that it was not like the women of his family to fall upon such ways; that his dead brother would turn in his grave; in two words that it was 'not done.' yet he was by no means of those who, giving latitude to women in general, fall with whips on those of their own family who take it. on the contrary, believing that 'woman in general' should be stainless to the world's eye, he was inclined to make allowance for any individual woman that he knew and loved. a suspicion he had always entertained, that cramier was not by breeding 'quite the clean potato' may insensibly have influenced him just a little. he had heard indeed that he was not even entitled to the name of cramier, but had been adopted by a childless man, who had brought him up and left him a lot of money. there was something in this that went against the grain of the childless colonel. he had never adopted, nor been adopted by anyone himself. there was a certain lack about a man who had been adopted, of reasonable guarantee--he was like a non-vintage wine, or a horse without a pedigree; you could not quite rely on what he might do, having no tradition in his blood. his appearance, too, and manner somehow lent colour to this distrust. a touch of the tar-brush somewhere, and a stubborn, silent, pushing fellow. why on earth had olive ever married him! but then women were such kittle cattle, poor things! and old lindsay, with his vestments and his views on obedience, must have been a tartar as a father, poor old chap! besides, cramier, no doubt, was what most women would call good-looking; more taking to the eye than such a quiet fellow as young lennan, whose features were rather anyhow, though pleasant enough, and with a nice smile--the sort of young man one could not help liking, and who certainly would never hurt a fly! and suddenly there came the thought: why should he not go to young lennan and put it to him straight? that he was in love with olive? not quite--but the way to do it would come to him. he brooded long over this idea, and spoke of it to mrs. ercott, while shaving, the next morning. her answer: "my dear john, bosh!" removed his last doubt. without saying where he was going, he strolled out the moment after breakfast--and took a train to beaulieu. at the young man's hotel he sent in his card, and was told that this monsieur had already gone out for the day. his mood of marching straight up to the guns thus checked, he was left pensive and distraught. not having seen beaulieu (they spoke of it then as a coming place), he made his way up an incline. that whole hillside was covered with rose-trees. thousands of these flowers were starring the lower air, and the strewn petals of blown and fallen roses covered the light soil. the colonel put his nose to blossoms here and there, but they had little scent, as if they knew that the season was already over. a few blue-bloused peasants were still busy among them. and suddenly he came on young lennan himself, sitting on a stone and dabbing away with his fingers at a lump of putty stuff. the colonel hesitated. apart from obvious reasons for discomfiture, he had that feeling towards art common to so many of his caste. it was not work, of course, but it was very clever--a mystery to him how anyone could do it! on seeing him, lennan had risen, dropping his handkerchief over what he was modelling--but not before the colonel had received a dim impression of something familiar. the young man was very red--the colonel, too, was conscious suddenly of the heat. he held out his hand. "nice quiet place this," he stammered; "never seen it before. i called at your hotel." now that he had his chance, he was completely at a loss. the sight of the face emerging from that lump of 'putty stuff' had quite unnerved him. the notion of this young man working at it up here all by himself, just because he was away an hour or two from the original, touched him. how on earth to say what he had come to say? it was altogether different from what he had thought. and it suddenly flashed through him--dolly was right! she's always right--hang it! "you're busy," he said; "i mustn't interrupt you." "not at all, sir. it was awfully good of you to look me up." the colonel stared. there was something about young lennan that he had not noticed before; a 'don't take liberties with me!' look that made things difficult. but still he lingered, staring wistfully at the young man, who stood waiting with such politeness. then a safe question shot into his mind: "ah! and when do you go back to england? we're off on tuesday." while he spoke, a puff of wind lifted the handkerchief from the modelled face. would the young fellow put it back? he did not. and the colonel thought: "it would have been bad form. he knew i wouldn't take advantage. yes! he's a gentleman!" lifting his hand to the salute, he said: "well, i must be getting back. see you at dinner perhaps?" and turning on his heel he marched away. the remembrance of that face in the 'putty stuff' up there by the side of the road accompanied him home. it was bad--it was serious! and the sense that he counted for nothing in all of it grew and grew in him. he told no one of where he had been. . . . when the colonel turned with ceremony and left him, lennan sat down again on the flat stone, took up his 'putty stuff,' and presently effaced that image. he sat still a long time, to all appearance watching the little blue butterflies playing round the red and tawny roses. then his fingers began to work, feverishly shaping a head; not of a man, not of a beast, but a sort of horned, heavy mingling of the two. there was something frenetic in the movement of those rather short, blunt-ended fingers, as though they were strangling the thing they were creating. viii in those days, such as had served their country travelled, as befitted spartans, in ordinary first-class carriages, and woke in the morning at la roche or some strange-sounding place, for paler coffee and the pale brioche. so it was with colonel and mrs. ercott and their niece, accompanied by books they did not read, viands they did not eat, and one somnolent irishman returning from the east. in the disposition of legs there was the usual difficulty, no one quite liking to put them up, and all ultimately doing so, save olive. more than once during that night the colonel, lying on the seat opposite, awoke and saw her sitting, withdrawn into her corner, with eyes still open. staring at that little head which he admired so much, upright and unmoving, in its dark straw toque against the cushion, he would become suddenly alert. kicking the irishman slightly in the effort, he would slip his legs down, bend across to her in the darkness, and, conscious of a faint fragrance as of violets, whisper huskily: "anything i can do for you, my dear?" when she had smiled and shaken her head, he would retreat, and after holding his breath to see if dolly were asleep, would restore his feet, slightly kicking the irishman. after one such expedition, for full ten minutes he remained awake, wondering at her tireless immobility. for indeed she was spending this night entranced, with the feeling that lennan was beside her, holding her hand in his. she seemed actually to feel the touch of his finger against the tiny patch of her bare palm where the glove opened. it was wonderful, this uncanny communion in the dark rushing night--she would not have slept for worlds! never before had she felt so close to him, not even when he had kissed her that once under the olives; nor even when at the concert yesterday his arm pressed hers; and his voice whispered words she heard so thirstily. and that golden fortnight passed and passed through her on an endless band of reminiscence. its memories were like flowers, such scent and warmth and colour in them; and of all, none perhaps quite so poignant as the memory of the moment, at the door of their carriage, when he said, so low that she just heard: "good-bye, my darling!" he had never before called her that. not even his touch on her cheek under the olives equalled the simple treasure of that word. and above the roar and clatter of the train, and the snoring of the irishman, it kept sounding in her ears, hour after dark hour. it was perhaps not wonderful, that through all that night she never once looked the future in the face--made no plans, took no stock of her position; just yielded to memory, and to the half-dreamed sensation of his presence close beside her. whatever might come afterwards, she was his this night. such was the trance that gave to her the strange, soft, tireless immobility which so moved her uncle whenever he woke up. in paris they drove from station to station in a vehicle unfit for three--'to stretch their legs'--as the colonel said. since he saw in his niece no signs of flagging, no regret, his spirits were rising, and he confided to mrs. ercott in the buffet at the gare du nord, when olive had gone to wash, that he did not think there was much in it, after all, looking at the way she'd travelled. but mrs. ercott answered: "haven't you ever noticed that olive never shows what she does not want to? she has not got those eyes for nothing." "what eyes?" "eyes that see everything, and seem to see nothing." conscious that something was hurting her, the colonel tried to take her hand. but mrs. ercott rose quickly, and went where he could not follow. thus suddenly deserted, the colonel brooded, drumming on the little table. what now! dolly was unjust! poor dolly! he was as fond of her as ever! of course! how could he help olive's being young--and pretty; how could he help looking after her, and wanting to save her from this mess! thus he sat wondering, dismayed by the unreasonableness of women. it did not enter his head that mrs. ercott had been almost as sleepless as his niece, watching through closed eyes every one of those little expeditions of his, and saying to herself: "ah! he doesn't care how i travel!" she returned serene enough, concealing her 'grief,' and soon they were once more whirling towards england. but the future had begun to lay its hand on olive; the spell of the past was already losing power; the sense that it had all been a dream grew stronger every minute. in a few hours she would re-enter the little house close under the shadow of that old wren church, which reminded her somehow of childhood, and her austere father with his chiselled face. the meeting with her husband! how go through that! and to-night! but she did not care to contemplate to-night. and all those to-morrows wherein there was nothing she had to do of which it was reasonable to complain, yet nothing she could do without feeling that all the friendliness and zest and colour was out of life, and she a prisoner. into those to-morrows she felt she would slip back, out of her dream; lost, with hardly perhaps an effort. to get away to the house on the river, where her husband came only at weekends, had hitherto been a refuge; only she would not see mark there--unless--! then, with the thought that she would, must still see him sometimes, all again grew faintly glamorous. if only she did see him, what would the rest matter? never again as it had before! the colonel was reaching down her handbag; his cheery: "looks as if it would be rough!" aroused her. glad to be alone, and tired enough now, she sought the ladies' cabin, and slept through the crossing, till the voice of the old stewardess awakened her: "you've had a nice sleep. we're alongside, miss." ah! if she were but that now! she had been dreaming that she was sitting in a flowery field, and lennan had drawn her up by the hands, with the words: "we're here, my darling!" on deck, the colonel, laden with bags, was looking back for her, and trying to keep a space between him and his wife. he signalled with his chin. threading her way towards him, she happened to look up. by the rails of the pier above she saw her husband. he was leaning there, looking intently down; his tall broad figure made the people on each side of him seem insignificant. the clean-shaved, square-cut face, with those almost epileptic, forceful eyes, had a stillness and intensity beside which the neighbouring faces seemed to disappear. she saw him very clearly, even noting the touch of silver in his dark hair, on each side under his straw hat; noting that he seemed too massive for his neat blue suit. his face relaxed; he made a little movement of one hand. suddenly it shot through her: suppose mark had travelled with them, as he had wished to do? for ever and ever now, that dark massive creature, smiling down at her, was her enemy; from whom she must guard and keep herself if she could; keep, at all events, each one of her real thoughts and hopes! she could have writhed, and cried out; instead, she tightened her grip on the handle of her bag, and smiled. though so skilled in knowledge of his moods, she felt, in his greeting, his fierce grip of her shoulders, the smouldering of some feeling the nature of which she could not quite fathom. his voice had a grim sincerity: "glad you're back--thought you were never coming!" resigned to his charge, a feeling of sheer physical faintness so beset her that she could hardly reach the compartment he had reserved. it seemed to her that, for all her foreboding, she had not till this moment had the smallest inkling of what was now before her; and at his muttered: "must we have the old fossils in?" she looked back to assure herself that her uncle and aunt were following. to avoid having to talk, she feigned to have travelled badly, leaning back with closed eyes, in her corner. if only she could open them and see, not this square-jawed face with its intent gaze of possession, but that other with its eager eyes humbly adoring her. the interminable journey ended all too soon. she clung quite desperately to the colonel's hand on the platform at charing cross. when his kind face vanished she would be lost indeed! then, in the closed cab, she heard her husband's: "aren't you going to kiss me?" and submitted to his embrace. she tried so hard to think: what does it matter? it's not i, not my soul, my spirit--only my miserable lips! she heard him say: "you don't seem too glad to see me!" and then: "i hear you had young lennan out there. what was he doing?" she felt the turmoil of sudden fear, wondered whether she was showing it, lost it in unnatural alertness--all in the second before she answered: "oh! just a holiday." some seconds passed, and then he said: "you didn't mention him in your letters." she answered coolly: "didn't i? we saw a good deal of him." she knew that he was looking at her--an inquisitive, half-menacing regard. why--oh, why!--could she not then and there cry out: "and i love him--do you hear?--i love him!" so awful did it seem to be denying her love with these half lies! but it was all so much more grim and hopeless than even she had thought. how inconceivable, now, that she had ever given herself up to this man for life! if only she could get away from him to her room, and scheme and think! for his eyes never left her, travelling over her with their pathetic greed, their menacing inquiry, till he said: "well, it's not done you any harm. you look very fit." but his touch was too much even for her self-command, and she recoiled as if he had struck her. "what's the matter? did i hurt you?" it seemed to her that he was jeering--then realized as vividly that he was not. and the full danger to her, perhaps to mark himself, of shrinking from this man, striking her with all its pitiable force, she made a painful effort, slipped her hand under his arm, and said: "i'm very tired. you startled me." but he put her hand away, and turning his face, stared out of the window. and so they reached their home. when he had left her alone, she remained where she was standing, by her wardrobe, without sound or movement, thinking: what am i going to do? how am i going to live? ix when mark lennan, travelling through from beaulieu, reached his rooms in chelsea, he went at once to the little pile of his letters, twice hunted through them, then stood very still, with a stunned, sick feeling. why had she not sent him that promised note? and now he realized--though not yet to the full--what it meant to be in love with a married woman. he must wait in this suspense for eighteen hours at least, till he could call, and find out what had happened to prevent her, till he could hear from her lips that she still loved him. the chilliest of legal lovers had access to his love, but he must possess a soul that was on fire, in this deadly patience, for fear of doing something that might jeopardize her. telegraph? he dared not. write? she would get it by the first post; but what could he say that was not dangerous, if cramier chanced to see? call? still more impossible till three o'clock, at very earliest, to-morrow. his gaze wandered round the studio. were these household gods, and all these works of his, indeed the same he had left twenty days ago? they seemed to exist now only in so far as she might come to see them--come and sit in such a chair, and drink out of such a cup, and let him put this cushion for her back, and that footstool for her feet. and so vividly could he see her lying back in that chair looking across at him, that he could hardly believe she had never yet sat there. it was odd how--without any resolution taken, without admission that their love could not remain platonic, without any change in their relations, save one humble kiss and a few whispered words--everything was changed. a month or so ago, if he had wanted, he would have gone at once calmly to her house. it would have seemed harmless, and quite natural. now it was impossible to do openly the least thing that strict convention did not find desirable. sooner or later they would find him stepping over convention, and take him for what he was not--a real lover! a real lover! he knelt down before the empty chair and stretched out his arms. no substance--no warmth--no fragrance--nothing! longing that passed through air, as the wind through grass. he went to the little round window, which overlooked the river. the last evening of may; gloaming above the water, dusk resting in the trees, and the air warm! better to be out, and moving in the night, out in the ebb and flow of things, among others whose hearts were beating, than stay in this place that without her was so cold and meaningless. lamps--the passion-fruit of towns--were turning from pallor to full orange, and the stars were coming out. half-past nine! at ten o'clock, and not before, he would walk past her house. to have this something to look forward to, however furtive and barren, helped. but on a saturday night there would be no sitting at the house. cramier would be at home; or they would both be out; or perhaps have gone down to their river cottage. cramier! what cruel demon had presided over that marring of her life! why had he never met her till after she had bound herself to this man! from a negative contempt for one who was either not sensitive enough to recognize that his marriage was a failure, or not chivalrous enough to make that failure bear as little hardly as possible on his wife, he had come already to jealous hatred as of a monster. to be face to face with cramier in a mortal conflict could alone have satisfied his feeling. . . . yet he was a young man by nature gentle! his heart beat desperately as he approached that street--one of those little old streets, so beautiful, that belonged to a vanished london. it was very narrow, there was no shelter; and he thought confusedly of what he could say, if met in this remote backwater that led nowhere. he would tell some lie, no doubt. lies would now be his daily business. lies and hatred, those violent things of life, would come to seem quite natural, in the violence of his love. he stood a moment, hesitating, by the rails of the old church. black, white-veined, with shadowy summits, in that half darkness, it was like some gigantic vision. mystery itself seemed modelled there. he turned and walked quickly down the street close to the houses on the further side. the windows of her house were lighted! so, she was not away! dim light in the dining-room, lights in the room above--her bedroom, doubtless. was there no way to bring her to the window, no way his spirit could climb up there and beckon hers out to him? perhaps she was not there, perhaps it was but a servant taking up hot water. he was at the end of the street by now, but to leave without once more passing was impossible. and this time he went slowly, his head down, feigning abstraction, grudging every inch of pavement, and all the time furtively searching that window with the light behind the curtains. nothing! once more he was close to the railings of the church, and once more could not bring himself to go away. in the little, close, deserted street, not a soul was moving, not even a cat or dog; nothing alive but many discreet, lighted windows. like veiled faces, showing no emotion, they seemed to watch his indecision. and he thought: "ah, well! i dare say there are lots like me. lots as near, and yet as far away! lots who have to suffer!" but what would he not have given for the throwing open of those curtains. then, suddenly scared by an approaching figure, he turned and walked away. x at three o'clock next day he called. in the middle of her white drawing-room, whose latticed window ran the whole length of one wall, stood a little table on which was a silver jar full of early larkspurs, evidently from her garden by the river. and lennan waited, his eyes fixed on those blossoms so like to little blue butterflies and strange-hued crickets, tethered to the pale green stems. in this room she passed her days, guarded from him. once a week, at most, he would be able to come there--once a week for an hour or two of the hundred and sixty-eight hours that he longed to be with her. and suddenly he was conscious of her. she had come in without sound, and was standing by the piano, so pale, in her cream-white dress, that her eyes looked jet black. he hardly knew that face, like a flower closed against cold. what had he done? what had happened in these five days to make her like this to him? he took her hands and tried to kiss them; but she said quickly: "he's in!" at that he stood silent, looking into that face, frozen to a dreadful composure, on the breaking up of which his very life seemed to depend. at last he said: "what is it? am i nothing to you, after all?" but as soon as he had spoken he saw that he need not have asked, and flung his arms round her. she clung to him with desperation; then freed herself, and said: "no, no; let's sit down quietly!" he obeyed, half-divining, half-refusing to admit all that lay behind that strange coldness, and this desperate embrace; all the self-pity, and self-loathing, shame, rage, and longing of a married woman for the first time face to face with her lover in her husband's house. she seemed now to be trying to make him forget her strange behaviour; to be what she had been during that fortnight in the sunshine. but, suddenly, just moving her lips, she said: "quick! when can we see each other? i will come to you to tea --to-morrow," and, following her eyes, he saw the door opening, and cramier coming in. unsmiling, very big in the low room, he crossed over to them, and offered his hand to lennan; then drawing a low chair forward between their two chairs, sat down. "so you're back," he said. "have a good time?" "thanks, yes; very." "luck for olive you were there; those places are dull holes." "it was luck for me." "no doubt." and with those words he turned to his wife. his elbows rested along the arms of his chair, so that his clenched palms were upwards; it was as if he knew that he was holding those two, gripped one in each hand. "i wonder," he said slowly, "that fellows like you, with nothing in the world to tie them, ever sit down in a place like london. i should have thought rome or paris were your happy hunting-grounds." in his voice, in those eyes of his, a little bloodshot, with their look of power, in his whole attitude, there was a sort of muffled menace, and contempt, as though he were thinking: "step into my path, and i will crush you!" and lennan thought: "how long must i sit here?" then, past that figure planted solidly between them, he caught a look from her, swift, sure, marvellously timed--again and again--as if she were being urged by the very presence of this danger. one of those glances would surely--surely be seen by cramier. is there need for fear that a swallow should dash itself against the wall over which it skims? but he got up, unable to bear it longer. "going?" that one suave word had an inimitable insolence. he could hardly see his hand touching cramier's heavy fist. then he realized that she was standing so that their faces when they must say good-bye could not be seen. her eyes were smiling, yet imploring; her lips shaped the word: "to-morrow!" and squeezing her hand desperately, he got away. he had never dreamed that to see her in the presence of the man who owned her would be so terrible. for a moment he thought that he must give her up, give up a love that would drive him mad. he climbed on to an omnibus travelling west. another twenty-four hours of starvation had begun. it did not matter at all what he did with them. they were simply so much aching that had to be got through somehow--so much aching; and what relief at the end? an hour or two with her, desperately holding himself in. like most artists, and few englishmen, he lived on feelings rather than on facts; so, found no refuge in decisive resolutions. but he made many--the resolution to give her up; to be true to the ideal of service for no reward; to beseech her to leave cramier and come to him--and he made each many times. at hyde park corner he got down, and went into the park, thinking that to walk would help him. a great number of people were sitting there, taking mysterious anodyne, doing the right thing; to avoid them, he kept along the rails, and ran almost into the arms of colonel and mrs. ercott, who were coming from the direction of knightsbridge, slightly flushed, having lunched and talked of 'monte' at the house of a certain general. they greeted him with the surprise of those who had said to each other many times: "that young man will come rushing back!" it was very nice--they said--to run across him. when did he arrive? they had thought he was going on to italy--he was looking rather tired. they did not ask if he had seen her--being too kind, and perhaps afraid that he would say 'yes,' which would be embarrassing; or that he would say 'no,' which would be still more embarrassing when they found that he ought to have said 'yes.' would he not come and sit with them a little--they were going presently to see how olive was? lennan perceived that they were warning him. and, forcing himself to look at them very straight, he said: "i have just been there." mrs. ercott phrased her impressions that same evening: "he looks quite hunted, poor young man! i'm afraid there's going to be fearful trouble there. did you notice how quickly he ran away from us? he's thin, too; if it wasn't for his tan, he'd look really ill. the boy's eyes are so pathetic; and he used to have such a nice smile in them." the colonel, who was fastening her hooks, paused in an operation that required concentration. "it's a thousand pities," he muttered, "that he hasn't any work to do. that puddling about with clay or whatever he does is no good at all." and slowly fastening one hook, he unhooked several others. mrs. ercott went on: "and i saw olive, when she thought i wasn't looking; it was just as if she'd taken off a mask. but robert cramier will never put up with it. he's in love with her still; i watched him. it's tragic, john." the colonel let his hands fall from the hooks. "if i thought that," he said, "i'd do something." "if you could, it would not be tragic." the colonel stared. there was always something to be done. "you read too many novels," he said, but without spirit. mrs. ercott smiled, and made no answer to an aspersion she had heard before. xi when lennan reached his rooms again after that encounter with the ercotts, he found in his letterbox a visiting card: "mrs. doone" "miss sylvia doone," and on it pencilled the words: "do come and see us before we go down to hayle--sylvia." he stared blankly at the round handwriting he knew so well. sylvia! nothing perhaps could have made so plain to him how in this tornado of his passion the world was drowned. sylvia! he had almost forgotten her existence; and yet, only last year, after he definitely settled down in london, he had once more seen a good deal of her; and even had soft thoughts of her again--with her pale-gold hair, her true look, her sweetness. then they had gone for the winter to algiers for her mother's health. when they came back, he had already avoided seeing her, though that was before olive went to monte carlo, before he had even admitted his own feeling. and since--he had not once thought of her. not once! the world had indeed vanished. "do come and see us--sylvia." the very notion was an irritation. no rest from aching and impatience to be had that way. and then the idea came to him: why not kill these hours of waiting for to-morrow's meeting by going on the river passing by her cottage? there was still one train that he could catch. he reached the village after dark, and spent the night at the inn; got up early next morning, took a boat, and pulled down-stream. the bluffs of the opposite bank were wooded with high trees. the sun shone softly on their leaves, and the bright stream was ruffled by a breeze that bent all the reeds and slowly swayed the water-flowers. one thin white line of wind streaked the blue sky. he shipped his sculls and drifted, listening to the wood-pigeons, watching the swallows chasing. if only she were here! to spend one long day thus, drifting with the stream! to have but one such rest from longing! her cottage, he knew, lay on the same side as the village, and just beyond an island. she had told him of a hedge of yew-trees, and a white dovecote almost at the water's edge. he came to the island, and let his boat slide into the backwater. it was all overgrown with willow-trees and alders, dark even in this early morning radiance, and marvellously still. there was no room to row; he took the boathook and tried to punt, but the green water was too deep and entangled with great roots, so that he had to make his way by clawing with the hook at branches. birds seemed to shun this gloom, but a single magpie crossed the one little clear patch of sky, and flew low behind the willows. the air here had a sweetish, earthy odour of too rank foliage; all brightness seemed entombed. he was glad to pass out again under a huge poplar-tree into the fluttering gold and silver of the morning. and almost at once he saw the yew-hedge at the border of some bright green turf, and a pigeon-house, high on its pole, painted cream-white. about it a number of ring-doves and snow-white pigeons were perched or flying; and beyond the lawn he could see the dark veranda of a low house, covered by wistaria just going out of flower. a drift of scent from late lilacs, and new-mown grass, was borne out to him, together with the sound of a mowing-machine, and the humming of many bees. it was beautiful here, and seemed, for all its restfulness, to have something of that flying quality he so loved about her face, about the sweep of her hair, the quick, soft turn of her eyes--or was that but the darkness of the yew-trees, the whiteness of the dovecote, and the doves themselves, flying? he lay there a long time quietly beneath the bank, careful not to attract the attention of the old gardener, who was methodically pushing his machine across and across the lawn. how he wanted her with him then! wonderful that there could be in life such beauty and wild softness as made the heart ache with the delight of it, and in that same life grey rules and rigid barriers--coffins of happiness! that doors should be closed on love and joy! there was not so much of it in the world! she, who was the very spirit of this flying, nymph-like summer, was untimely wintered-up in bleak sorrow. there was a hateful unwisdom in that thought; it seemed so grim and violent, so corpse-like, gruesome, narrow and extravagant! what possible end could it serve that she should be unhappy! even if he had not loved her, he would have hated her fate just as much--all such stories of imprisoned lives had roused his anger even as a boy. soft white clouds--those bright angels of the river, never very long away--had begun now to spread their wings over the woods; and the wind had dropped so that the slumbrous warmth and murmuring of summer gathered full over the water. the old gardener had finished his job of mowing, and came with a little basket of grain to feed the doves. lennan watched them going to him, the ring-doves, very dainty, and capricious, keeping to themselves. in place of that old fellow, he was really seeing her, feeding from her hands those birds of cypris. what a group he could have made of her with them perching and flying round her! if she were his, what could he not achieve--to make her immortal--like the old greeks and italians, who, in their work, had rescued their mistresses from time! . . he was back in his rooms in london two hours before he dared begin expecting her. living alone there but for a caretaker who came every morning for an hour or two, made dust, and departed, he had no need for caution. and when he had procured flowers, and the fruits and cakes which they certainly would not eat--when he had arranged the tea-table, and made the grand tour at least twenty times, he placed himself with a book at the little round window, to watch for her approach. there, very still, he sat, not reading a word, continually moistening his dry lips and sighing, to relieve the tension of his heart. at last he saw her coming. she was walking close to the railings of the houses, looking neither to right nor left. she had on a lawn frock, and a hat of the palest coffee-coloured straw, with a narrow black velvet ribbon. she crossed the side street, stopped for a second, gave a swift look round, then came resolutely on. what was it made him love her so? what was the secret of her fascination? certainly, no conscious enticements. never did anyone try less to fascinate. he could not recall one single little thing that she had done to draw him to her. was it, perhaps, her very passivity, her native pride that never offered or asked anything, a sort of soft stoicism in her fibre; that and some mysterious charm, as close and intimate as scent was to a flower? he waited to open till he heard her footstep just outside. she came in without a word, not even looking at him. and he, too, said not a word till he had closed the door, and made sure of her. then they turned to each other. her breast was heaving a little, under her thin frock, but she was calmer than he, with that wonderful composure of pretty women in all the passages of love, as who should say: this is my native air! they stood and looked at each other, as if they could never have enough, till he said at last: "i thought i should die before this moment came. there isn't a minute that i don't long for you so terribly that i can hardly live." "and do you think that i don't long for you?" "then come to me!" she looked at him mournfully and shook her head. well, he had known that she would not. he had not earned her. what right had he to ask her to fly against the world, to brave everything, to have such faith in him--as yet? he had no heart to press his words, beginning then to understand the paralyzing truth that there was no longer any resolving this or that; with love like his he had ceased to be a separate being with a separate will. he was entwined with her, could act only if her will and his were one. he would never be able to say to her: 'you must!' he loved her too much. and she knew it. so there was nothing for it but to forget the ache, and make the hour happy. but how about that other truth--that in love there is no pause, no resting? . . . with any watering, however scant, the flower will grow till its time comes to be plucked. . . . this oasis in the desert--these few minutes with her alone, were swept through and through with a feverish wind. to be closer! how not try to be that? how not long for her lips when he had but her hand to kiss? and how not be poisoned with the thought that in a few minutes she would leave him and go back to the presence of that other, who, even though she loathed him, could see and touch her when he would? she was leaning back in the very chair where in fancy he had seen her, and he only dared sit at her feet and look up. and this, which a week ago would have been rapture, was now almost torture, so far did it fall short of his longing. it was torture, too, to keep his voice in tune with the sober sweetness of her voice. and bitterly he thought: how can she sit there, and not want me, as i want her? then at a touch of her fingers on his hair, he lost control, and kissed her lips. her surrender lasted only for a second. "no, no--you must not!" that mournful surprise sobered him at once. he got up, stood away from her, begged to be forgiven. and, when she was gone, he sat in the chair where she had sat. that clasp of her, the kiss he had begged her to forget--to forget!--nothing could take that from him. he had done wrong; had startled her, had fallen short of chivalry! and yet--a smile of utter happiness would cling about his lips. his fastidiousness, his imagination almost made him think that this was all he wanted. if he could close his eyes, now, and pass out, before he lost that moment of half-fulfilment! and, the smile still on his lips, he lay back watching the flies wheeling and chasing round the hanging-lamp. sixteen of them there were, wheeling and chasing--never still! xii when, walking from lennan's studio, olive reentered her dark little hall, she approached its alcove and glanced first at the hat-stand. they were all there--the silk hat, the bowler, the straw! so he was in! and within each hat, in turn, she seemed to see her husband's head--with the face turned away from her--so distinctly as to note the leathery look of the skin of his cheek and neck. and she thought: "i pray that he will die! it is wicked, but i pray that he will die!" then, quietly, that he might not hear, she mounted to her bedroom. the door into his dressing-room was open, and she went to shut it. he was standing there at the window. "ah! you're in! been anywhere?" "to the national gallery." it was the first direct lie she had ever told him, and she was surprised to feel neither shame nor fear, but rather a sense of pleasure at defeating him. he was the enemy, all the more the enemy because she was still fighting against herself, and, so strangely, in his behalf. "alone?" "yes." "rather boring, wasn't it? i should have thought you'd have got young lennan to take you there." "why?" by instinct she had seized on the boldest answer; and there was nothing to be told from her face. if he were her superior in strength, he was her inferior in quickness. he lowered his eyes, and said: "his line, isn't it?" with a shrug she turned away and shut the door. she sat down on the edge of her bed, very still. in that little passage of wits she had won, she could win in many such; but the full hideousness of things had come to her. lies! lies! that was to be her life! that; or to say farewell to all she now cared for, to cause despair not only in herself, but in her lover, and--for what? in order that her body might remain at the disposal of that man in the next room--her spirit having flown from him for ever. such were the alternatives, unless those words: "then come to me," were to be more than words. were they? could they be? they would mean such happiness if--if his love for her were more than a summer love? and hers for him? was it--were they--more than summer loves? how know? and, without knowing, how give such pain to everyone? how break a vow she had thought herself quite above breaking? how make such a desperate departure from all the traditions and beliefs in which she had been brought up! but in the very nature of passion is that which resents the intrusion of hard and fast decisions. . . . and suddenly she thought: if our love cannot stay what it is, and if i cannot yet go to him for always, is there not still another way? she got up and began to dress for dinner. standing before her glass she was surprised to see that her face showed no signs of the fears and doubts that were now her comrades. was it because, whatever happened, she loved and was beloved! she wondered how she had looked when he kissed her so passionately; had she shown her joy before she checked him? in her garden by the river were certain flowers that, for all her care, would grow rank and of the wrong colour--wanting a different soil. was she, then, like those flowers of hers? ah! let her but have her true soil, and she would grow straight and true enough! then in the doorway she saw her husband. she had never, till to-day, quite hated him; but now she did, with a real blind horrible feeling. what did he want of her standing there with those eyes fixed on her--those forceful eyes, touched with blood, that seemed at once to threaten, covet, and beseech! she drew her wrapper close round her shoulders. at that he came up and said: "look at me, olive!" against instinct and will she obeyed, and he went on: "be careful! i say, be careful!" then he took her by the shoulders, and raised her up to him. and, quite unnerved, she stood without resisting. "i want you," he said; "i mean to keep you." then, suddenly letting her go, he covered his eyes with his hands. that frightened her most--it was so unlike him. not till now had she understood between what terrifying forces she was balancing. she did not speak, but her face grew white. from behind those hands he uttered a sound, not quite like a human noise, turned sharply, and went out. she dropped back into the chair before her mirror, overcome by the most singular feeling she had ever known; as if she had lost everything, even her love for lennan, and her longing for his love. what was it all worth, what was anything worth in a world like this? all was loathsome, herself loathsome! all was a void! hateful, hateful, hateful! it was like having no heart at all! and that same evening, when her husband had gone down to the house, she wrote to lennan: "our love must never turn to earthiness as it might have this afternoon. everything is black and hopeless. he suspects. for you to come here is impossible, and too dreadful for us both. and i have no right to ask you to be furtive, i can't bear to think of you like that, and i can't bear it myself. i don't know what to do or say. don't try to see me yet. i must have time, i must think." xiii colonel ercott was not a racing man, but he had in common with others of his countrymen a religious feeling in the matter of the derby. his remembrances of it went back to early youth, for he had been born and brought up almost within sound of the coaching-road to epsom. every derby and oaks day he had gone out on his pony to watch the passing of the tall hats and feathers of the great, and the pot-hats and feathers of the lowly; and afterwards, in the fields at home, had ridden races with old lindsay, finishing between a cow that judged and a clump of bulrushes representing the grand stand. but for one reason or another he had never seen the great race, and the notion that it was his duty to see it had now come to him. he proposed this to mrs. ercott with some diffidence. she read so many books--he did not quite know whether she would approve. finding that she did, he added casually: "and we might take olive." mrs. ercott answered dryly: "you know the house of commons has a holiday?" the colonel murmured: "oh! i don't want that chap!" "perhaps," said mrs. ercott, "you would like mark lennan." the colonel looked at her most dubiously. dolly could talk of it as a tragedy, and a--a grand passion, and yet make a suggestion like that! then his wrinkles began slowly to come alive, and he gave her waist a squeeze. mrs. ercott did not resist that treatment. "take olive alone," she said. "i don't really care to go." when the colonel went to fetch his niece he found her ready, and very half-heartedly he asked for cramier. it appeared she had not told him. relieved, yet somewhat disconcerted, he murmured: "he won't mind not going, i suppose?" "if he went, i should not." at this quiet answer the colonel was beset again by all his fears. he put his white 'topper' down, and took her hand. "my dear," he said, "i don't want to intrude upon your feelings; but--but is there anything i can do? it's dreadful to see things going unhappily with you!" he felt his hand being lifted, her face pressed against it; and, suffering acutely, with his other hand, cased in a bright new glove, he smoothed her arm. "we'll have a jolly good day, sweetheart," he said, "and forget all about it." she gave the hand a kiss and turned away. and the colonel vowed to himself that she should not be unhappy--lovely creature that she was, so delicate, and straight, and fine in her pearly frock. and he pulled himself together, brushing his white 'topper' vigorously with his sleeve, forgetting that this kind of hat has no nap. and so he was tenderness itself on the journey down, satisfying all her wants before she had them, telling her stories of indian life, and consulting her carefully as to which horse they should back. there was the duke's, of course, but there was another animal that appealed to him greatly. his friend tabor had given him the tip--tabor, who had the best arabs in all india--and at a nice price. a man who practically never gambled, the colonel liked to feel that his fancy would bring him in something really substantial--if it won; the idea that it could lose not really troubling him. however, they would see it in the paddock, and judge for themselves. the paddock was the place, away from all the dust and racket--olive would enjoy the paddock! once on the course, they neglected the first race; it was more important, the colonel thought, that they should lunch. he wanted to see more colour in her cheeks, wanted to see her laugh. he had an invitation to his old regiment's drag, where the champagne was sure to be good. and he was so proud of her--would not have missed those young fellows' admiration of her for the world; though to take a lady amongst them was, in fact, against the rules. it was not, then, till the second race was due to start that they made their way into the paddock. here the derby horses were being led solemnly, attended each by a little posse of persons, looking up their legs and down their ribs to see whether they were worthy of support, together with a few who liked to see a whole horse at a time. presently they found the animal which had been recommended to the colonel. it was a chestnut, with a starred forehead, parading in a far corner. the colonel, who really loved a horse, was deep in admiration. he liked its head and he liked its hocks; above all, he liked its eye. a fine creature, all sense and fire--perhaps just a little straight in the shoulder for coming down the hill! and in the midst of his examination he found himself staring at his niece. what breeding the child showed, with her delicate arched brows, little ears, and fine, close nostrils; and the way she moved--so sure and springy. she was too pretty to suffer! a shame! if she hadn't been so pretty that young fellow wouldn't have fallen in love with her. if she weren't so pretty--that husband of hers wouldn't--! and the colonel dropped his gaze, startled by the discovery he had stumbled on. if she hadn't been so pretty! was that the meaning of it all? the cynicism of his own reflection struck him between wind and water. and yet something in himself seemed to confirm it somehow. what then? was he to let them tear her in two between them, destroying her, because she was so pretty? and somehow this discovery of his--that passion springs from worship of beauty and warmth, of form and colour--disturbed him horribly, for he had no habit of philosophy. the thought seemed to him strangely crude, even immoral. that she should be thus between two ravening desires--a bird between two hawks, a fruit between two mouths! it was a way of looking at things that had never before occurred to him. the idea of a husband clutching at his wife, the idea of that young man who looked so gentle, swooping down on her; and the idea that if she faded, lost her looks, went off, their greed, indeed, any man's, would die away--all these horrible ideas hurt him the more for the remarkable suddenness with which they had come to him. a tragic business! dolly had said so. queer and quick--were women! but his resolution that the day was to be jolly soon recurred to him, and he hastily resumed inspection of his fancy. perhaps they ought to have a ten-pound note on it, and they had better get back to the stand! and as they went the colonel saw, standing beneath a tree at a little distance, a young man that he could have sworn was lennan. not likely for an artist chap to be down here! but it was undoubtedly young lennan, brushed-up, in a top-hat. fortunately, however, his face was not turned in their direction. he said nothing to olive, not wishing--especially after those unpleasant thoughts--to take responsibility, and he kept her moving towards the gate, congratulating himself that his eyes had been so sharp. in the crush there he was separated from her a little, but she was soon beside him again; and more than ever he congratulated himself that nothing had occurred to upset her and spoil the day. her cheeks were warm enough now, her dark eyes glowing. she was excited no doubt by thoughts of the race, and of the 'tenner' he was going to put on for her. he recounted the matter afterwards to mrs. ercott. "that chestnut tabor put me on to finished nowhere--couldn't get down the hill--knew it wouldn't the moment i set eyes on it. but the child enjoyed herself. wish you'd been there, my dear!" of his deeper thoughts and of that glimpse of young lennan he did not speak, for on the way home an ugly suspicion had attacked him. had the young fellow, after all, seen and managed to get close to her in the crush at the paddock gateway? xiv that letter of hers fanned the flame in lennan as nothing had yet fanned it. earthiness! was it earthiness to love as he did? if so, then not for all the world would he be otherwise than earthy. in the shock of reading it, he crossed his rubicon, and burned his boats behind him. no more did the pale ghost, chivalrous devotion, haunt him. he knew now that he could not stop short. since she asked him, he must not, of course, try to see her just yet. but when he did, then he would fight for his life; the thought that she might be meaning to slip away from him was too utterly unbearable. but she could not be meaning that! she would never be so cruel! ah! she would--she must come to him in the end! the world, life itself, would be well lost for love of her! thus resolved, he was even able to work again; and all that tuesday he modelled at a big version of the fantastic, bull-like figure he had conceived after the colonel left him up on the hillside at beaulieu. he worked at it with a sort of evil joy. into this creature he would put the spirit of possession that held her from him. and while his fingers forced the clay, he felt as if he had cramier's neck within his grip. yet, now that he had resolved to take her if he could, he had not quite the same hatred. after all, this man loved her too, could not help it that she loathed him; could not help it that he had the disposition of her, body and soul! june had come in with skies of a blue that not even london glare and dust could pale. in every square and park and patch of green the air simmered with life and with the music of birds swaying on little boughs. piano organs in the streets were no longer wistful for the south; lovers already sat in the shade of trees. to remain indoors, when he was not working, was sheer torture; for he could not read, and had lost all interest in the little excitements, amusements, occupations that go to make up the normal life of man. every outer thing seemed to have dropped off, shrivelled, leaving him just a condition of the spirit, a state of mind. lying awake he would think of things in the past, and they would mean nothing--all dissolved and dispersed by the heat of this feeling in him. indeed, his sense of isolation was so strong that he could not even believe that he had lived through the facts which his memory apprehended. he had become one burning mood--that, and nothing more. to be out, especially amongst trees, was the only solace. and he sat for a long time that evening under a large lime-tree on a knoll above the serpentine. there was very little breeze, just enough to keep alive a kind of whispering. what if men and women, when they had lived their gusty lives, became trees! what if someone who had burned and ached were now spreading over him this leafy peace--this blue-black shadow against the stars? or were the stars, perhaps, the souls of men and women escaped for ever from love and longing? he broke off a branch of the lime and drew it across his face. it was not yet in flower, but it smelled lemony and fresh even here in london. if only for a moment he could desert his own heart, and rest with the trees and stars! no further letter came from her next morning, and he soon lost his power to work. it was derby day. he determined to go down. perhaps she would be there. even if she were not, he might find some little distraction in the crowd and the horses. he had seen her in the paddock long before the colonel's sharp eyes detected him; and, following in the crush, managed to touch her hand in the crowded gateway, and whisper: "to-morrow, the national gallery, at four o'clock--by the bacchus and ariadne. for god's sake!" her gloved hand pressed his hard; and she was gone. he stayed in the paddock, too happy almost to breathe. . . . next day, while waiting before that picture, he looked at it with wonder. for there seemed his own passion transfigured in the darkening star-crowned sky, and the eyes of the leaping god. in spirit, was he not always rushing to her like that? minutes passed, and she did not come. what should he do if she failed him? surely die of disappointment and despair. . . . he had little enough experience as yet of the toughness of the human heart; how life bruises and crushes, yet leaves it beating. . . . then, from an unlikely quarter, he saw her coming. they walked in silence down to the quiet rooms where the turner watercolours hung. no one, save two frenchmen and an old official, watched them passing slowly before those little pictures, till they came to the end wall, and, unseen, unheard by any but her, he could begin! the arguments he had so carefully rehearsed were all forgotten; nothing left but an incoherent pleading. life without her was not life; and they had only one life for love--one summer. it was all dark where she was not--the very sun itself was dark. better to die than to live such false, broken lives, apart from each other. better to die at once than to live wanting each other, longing and longing, and watching each other's sorrow. and all for the sake of what? it maddened, killed him, to think of that man touching her when he knew she did but hate him. it shamed all manhood; it could not be good to help such things to be. a vow when the spirit of it was gone was only superstition; it was wicked to waste one's life for the sake of that. society--she knew, she must know--only cared for the forms, the outsides of things. and what did it matter what society thought? it had no soul, no feeling, nothing. and if it were said they ought to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others, to make things happier in the world, she must know that was only true when love was light and selfish; but not when people loved as they did, with all their hearts and souls, so that they would die for each other any minute, so that without each other there was no meaning in anything. it would not help a single soul, for them to murder their love and all the happiness of their lives; to go on in a sort of living death. even if it were wrong, he would rather do that wrong, and take the consequences! but it was not, it could not be wrong, when they felt like that! and all the time that he was pouring forth those supplications, his eyes searched and searched her face. but there only came from her: "i don't know--i can't tell--if only i knew!" and then he was silent, stricken to the heart; till, at a look or a touch from her, he would break out again: "you do love me--you do; then what does anything else matter?" and so it went on and on that summer afternoon, in the deserted room meant for such other things, where the two frenchmen were too sympathetic, and the old official too drowsy, to come. then it all narrowed to one fierce, insistent question: "what is it--what is it you're afraid of?" but to that, too, he got only the one mournful answer, paralyzing in its fateful monotony. "i don't know--i can't tell!" it was awful to go on thus beating against this uncanny, dark, shadowy resistance; these unreal doubts and dreads, that by their very dumbness were becoming real to him, too. if only she could tell him what she feared! it could not be poverty--that was not like her--besides, he had enough for both. it could not be loss of a social position, which was but irksome to her! surely it was not fear that he would cease to love her! what was it? in god's name--what? to-morrow--she had told him--she was to go down, alone, to the river-house; would she not come now, this very minute, to him instead? and they would start off--that night, back to the south where their love had flowered. but again it was: "i can't! i don't know--i must have time!" and yet her eyes had that brooding love-light. how could she hold back and waver? but, utterly exhausted, he did not plead again; did not even resist when she said: "you must go, now; and leave me to get back! i will write. perhaps--soon--i shall know." he begged for, and took one kiss; then, passing the old official, went quickly up and out. xv he reached his rooms overcome by a lassitude that was not, however, quite despair. he had made his effort, failed--but there was still within him the unconquerable hope of the passionate lover. . . . as well try to extinguish in full june the beating of the heart of summer; deny to the flowers their deepening hues, or to winged life its slumbrous buzzing, as stifle in such a lover his conviction of fulfilment. . . . he lay down on a couch, and there stayed a long time quite still, his forehead pressed against the wall. his will was already beginning to recover for a fresh attempt. it was merciful that she was going away from cramier, going to where he had in fancy watched her feed her doves. no laws, no fears, not even her commands could stop his fancy from conjuring her up by day and night. he had but to close his eyes, and she was there. a ring at the bell, repeated several times, roused him at last to go to the door. his caller was robert cramier. and at sight of him, all lennan's lethargy gave place to a steely feeling. what had brought him here? had he been spying on his wife? the old longing for physical combat came over him. cramier was perhaps fifteen years his senior, but taller, heavier, thicker. chances, then, were pretty equal! "won't you come in?" he said. "thanks." the voice had in it the same mockery as on sunday; and it shot through him that cramier had thought to find his wife here. if so, he did not betray it by any crude look round. he came in with his deliberate step, light and well-poised for so big a man. "so this," he said, "is where you produce your masterpieces! anything great since you came back?" lennan lifted the cloths from the half-modelled figure of his bull-man. he felt malicious pleasure in doing that. would cramier recognize himself in this creature with the horn-like ears, and great bossed forehead? if this man who had her happiness beneath his heel had come here to mock, he should at all events get what he had come to give. and he waited. "i see. you are giving the poor brute horns!" if cramier had seen, he had dared to add a touch of cynical humour, which the sculptor himself had never thought of. and this even evoked in the young man a kind of admiring compunction. "those are not horns," he said gently; "only ears." cramier lifted a hand and touched the edge of his own ear. "not quite like that, are they--human ears? but i suppose you would call this symbolic. what, if i may ask, does it represent?" all the softness in lennan vanished. "if you can't gather that from looking, it must be a failure." "not at all. if i am right, you want something for it to tread on, don't you, to get your full effect?" lennan touched the base of the clay. "the broken curve here"--then, with sudden disgust at this fencing, was silent. what had the man come for? he must want something. and, as if answering, cramier said: "to pass to another subject--you see a good deal of my wife. i just wanted to tell you that i don't very much care that you should. it is as well to be quite frank, i think." lennan bowed. "is that not," he said, "perhaps rather a matter for her decision?" that heavy figure--those threatening eyes! the whole thing was like a dream come true! "i do not feel it so. i am not one of those who let things drift. please understand me. you come between us at your peril." lennan kept silence for a moment, then he said quietly: "can one come between two people who have ceased to have anything in common?" the veins in cramier's forehead were swollen, his face and neck had grown crimson. and lennan thought with strange elation: now he's going to hit me! he could hardly keep his hands from shooting out and seizing in advance that great strong neck. if he could strangle, and have done with him! but, quite suddenly, cramier turned on his heel. "i have warned you," he said, and went. lennan took a long breath. so! that was over, and he knew where he was. if cramier had struck out, he would surely have seized his neck and held on till life was gone. nothing should have shaken him off. in fancy he could see himself swaying, writhing, reeling, battered about by those heavy fists, but always with his hands on the thick neck, squeezing out its life. he could feel, absolutely feel, the last reel and stagger of that great bulk crashing down, dragging him with it, till it lay upturned, still. he covered his eyes with his hands. . . . thank god! the fellow had not hit out! he went to the door, opened it, and stood leaning against the door-post. all was still and drowsy out there in that quiet backwater of a street. not a soul in sight! how still, for london! only the birds. in a neighbouring studio someone was playing chopin. queer! he had almost forgotten there was such a thing as chopin. a mazurka! spinning like some top thing, round and round--weird little tune! . . . well, and what now? only one thing certain. sooner give up life than give her up! far sooner! love her, achieve her--or give up everything, and drown to that tune going on and on, that little dancing dirge of summer! xvi at her cottage olive stood often by the river. what lay beneath all that bright water--what strange, deep, swaying, life so far below the ruffling of wind, and the shadows of the willow trees? was love down there, too? love between sentient things, where it was almost dark; or had all passion climbed up to rustle with the reeds, and float with the water-flowers in the sunlight? was there colour? or had colour been drowned? no scent and no music; but movement there would be, for all the dim groping things bending one way to the current--movement, no less than in the aspen-leaves, never quite still, and the winged droves of the clouds. and if it were dark down there, it was dark, too, above the water; and hearts ached, and eyes just as much searched for that which did not come. to watch it always flowing by to the sea; never looking back, never swaying this way or that; drifting along, quiet as fate--dark, or glamorous with the gold and moonlight of these beautiful days and nights, when every flower in her garden, in the fields, and along the river banks, was full of sweet life; when dog-roses starred the lanes, and in the wood the bracken was nearly a foot high. she was not alone there, though she would much rather have been; two days after she left london her uncle and aunt had joined her. it was from cramier they had received their invitation. he himself had not yet been down. every night, having parted from mrs. ercott and gone up the wide shallow stairs to her room, she would sit down at the window to write to lennan, one candle beside her--one pale flame for comrade, as it might be his spirit. every evening she poured out to him her thoughts, and ended always: "have patience!" she was still waiting for courage to pass that dark hedge of impalpable doubts and fears and scruples, of a dread that she could not make articulate even to herself. having finished, she would lean out into the night. the colonel, his black figure cloaked against the dew, would be pacing up and down the lawn, with his good-night cigar, whose fiery spark she could just discern; and, beyond, her ghostly dove-house; and, beyond, the river--flowing. then she would clasp herself close--afraid to stretch out her arms, lest she should be seen. each morning she rose early, dressed, and slipped away to the village to post her letter. from the woods across the river wild pigeons would be calling--as though love itself pleaded with her afresh each day. she was back well before breakfast, to go up to her room and come down again as if for the first time. the colonel, meeting her on the stairs, or in the hall, would say: "ah, my dear! just beaten you! slept well?" and, while her lips touched his cheek, slanted at the proper angle for uncles, he never dreamed that she had been three miles already through the dew. now that she was in the throes of an indecision, whose ending, one way or the other, must be so tremendous, now that she was in the very swirl, she let no sign at all escape her; the colonel and even his wife were deceived into thinking that after all no great harm had been done. it was grateful to them to think so, because of that stewardship at monte carlo, of which they could not render too good account. the warm sleepy days, with a little croquet and a little paddling on the river, and much sitting out of doors, when the colonel would read aloud from tennyson, were very pleasant. to him--if not to mrs. ercott--it was especially jolly to be out of town 'this confounded crowded time of year.' and so the days of early june went by, each finer than the last. and then cramier came down, without warning on a friday evening. it was hot in london . . . the session dull. . . . the jubilee turning everything upside down. . . . they were lucky to be out of town! a silent dinner--that! mrs. ercott noticed that he drank wine like water, and for minutes at a time fixed his eyes, that looked heavy as if he had not been sleeping, not on his wife's face but on her neck. if olive really disliked and feared him--as john would have it--she disguised her feelings very well! for so pale a woman she was looking brilliant that night. the sun had caught her cheeks, perhaps. that black low-cut frock suited her, with old milanese-point lace matching her skin so well, and one carnation, of darkest red, at her breast. her eyes were really sometimes like black velvet. it suited pale women to have those eyes, that looked so black at night! she was talking, too, and laughing more than usual. one would have said: a wife delighted to welcome her husband! and yet there was something--something in the air, in the feel of things--the lowering fixity of that man's eyes, or--thunder coming, after all this heat! surely the night was unnaturally still and dark, hardly a breath of air, and so many moths out there, passing the beam of light, like little pale spirits crossing a river! mrs. ercott smiled, pleased at that image. moths! men were like moths; there were women from whom they could not keep away. yes, there was something about olive that drew men to her. not meretricious--to do her justice, not that at all; but something soft, and-fatal; like one of these candle-flames to the poor moths. john's eyes were never quite as she knew them when he was looking at olive; and robert cramier's--what a queer, drugged look they had! as for that other poor young fellow--she had never forgotten his face when they came on him in the park! and when after dinner they sat on the veranda, they were all more silent still, just watching, it seemed, the smoke of their cigarettes, rising quite straight, as though wind had been withdrawn from the world. the colonel twice endeavoured to speak about the moon: it ought to be up by now! it was going to be full. and then cramier said: "put on that scarf thing, olive, and come round the garden with me." mrs. ercott admitted to herself now that what john said was true. just one gleam of eyes, turned quickly this way and that, as a bird looks for escape; and then olive had got up and quietly gone with him down the path, till their silent figures were lost to sight. disturbed to the heart, mrs. ercott rose and went over to her husband's chair. he was frowning, and staring at his evening shoe balanced on a single toe. he looked up at her and put out his hand. mrs. ercott gave it a squeeze; she wanted comfort. the colonel spoke: "it's heavy to-night, dolly. i don't like the feel of it." xvii they had passed without a single word spoken, down through the laurels and guelder roses to the river bank; then he had turned to the right, and gone along it under the dove-house, to the yew-trees. there he had stopped, in the pitch darkness of that foliage. it seemed to her dreadfully still; if only there had been the faintest breeze, the faintest lisping of reeds on the water, one bird to make a sound; but nothing, nothing save his breathing, deep, irregular, with a quiver in it. what had he brought her here for? to show her how utterly she was his? was he never going to speak, never going to say whatever it was he had in mind to say? if only he would not touch her! then he moved, and a stone dislodged fell with a splash into the water. she could not help a little gasp. how black the river looked! but slowly, beyond the dim shape of the giant poplar, a shiver of light stole outwards across the blackness from the far bank--the moon, whose rim she could now see rising, of a thick gold like a coin, above the woods. her heart went out to that warm light. at all events there was one friendly inhabitant of this darkness. suddenly she felt his hands on her waist. she did not move, her heart beat too furiously; but a sort of prayer fluttered up from it against her lips. in the grip of those heavy hands was such quivering force! his voice sounded very husky and strange: "olive, this can't go on. i suffer. my god! i suffer!" a pang went through her, a sort of surprise. suffer! she might wish him dead, but she did not want him to suffer--god knew! and yet, gripped by those hands, she could not say: i am sorry! he made a sound that was almost a groan, and dropped on his knees. feeling herself held fast, she tried to push his forehead back from her waist. it was fiery hot; and she heard him mutter: "have mercy! love me a little!" but the clutch of his hands, never still on the thin silk of her dress, turned her faint. she tried to writhe away, but could not; stood still again, and at last found her voice. "mercy? can i make myself love? no one ever could since the world began. please, please get up. let me go!" but he was pulling her down to him so that she was forced on to her knees on the grass, with her face close to his. a low moaning was coming from him. it was horrible--so horrible! and he went on pleading, the words all confused, not looking in her face. it seemed to her that it would never end, that she would never get free of that grip, away from that stammering, whispering voice. she stayed by instinct utterly still, closing her eyes. then she felt his gaze for the first time that evening on her face, and realized that he had not dared to look until her eyes were closed, for fear of reading what was in them. she said very gently: "please let me go. i think i'm going to faint." he relaxed the grip of his arms; she sank down and stayed unmoving on the grass. after such utter stillness that she hardly knew whether he were there or not, she felt his hot hand on her bare shoulder. was it all to begin again? she shrank down lower still, and a little moan escaped her. he let her go suddenly, and, when at last she looked up, was gone. she got to her feet trembling, and moved quickly from under the yew-trees. she tried to think--tried to understand exactly what this portended for her, for him, for her lover. but she could not. there was around her thoughts the same breathless darkness that brooded over this night. ah! but to the night had been given that pale-gold moon-ray, to herself nothing, no faintest gleam; as well try to pierce below the dark surface of that water! she passed her hands over her face, and hair, and dress. how long had it lasted? how long had they been out here? and she began slowly moving back towards the house. thank god! she had not yielded to fear or pity, not uttered falsities, not pretended she could love him, and betrayed her heart. that would have been the one unbearable thing to have been left remembering! she stood long looking down, as if trying to see the future in her dim flower-beds; then, bracing herself, hurried to the house. no one was on the veranda, no one in the drawing-room. she looked at the clock. nearly eleven. ringing for the servant to shut the windows, she stole up to her room. had her husband gone away as he had come? or would she presently again be face to face with that dread, the nerve of which never stopped aching now, dread of the night when he was near? she determined not to go to bed, and drawing a long chair to the window, wrapped herself in a gown, and lay back. the flower from her dress, miraculously uncrushed in those dark minutes on the grass, she set in water beside her at the window--mark's favourite flower, he had once told her; it was a comfort, with its scent, and hue, and memory of him. strange that in her life, with all the faces seen, and people known, she had not loved one till she had met lennan! she had even been sure that love would never come to her; had not wanted it--very much; had thought to go on well enough, and pass out at the end, never having known, or much cared to know, full summer. love had taken its revenge on her now for all slighted love offered her in the past; for the one hated love that had to-night been on its knees to her. they said it must always come once to every man and woman--this witchery, this dark sweet feeling, springing up, who knew how or why? she had not believed, but now she knew. and whatever might be coming, she would not have this different. since all things changed, she must change and get old and be no longer pretty for him to look at, but this in her heart could not change. she felt sure of that. it was as if something said: this is for ever, beyond life, beyond death, this is for ever! he will be dust, and you dust, but your love will live! somewhere--in the woods, among the flowers, or down in the dark water, it will haunt! for it only you have lived! . . . then she noticed that a slender silvery-winged thing, unlike any moth she had ever seen, had settled on her gown, close to her neck. it seemed to be sleeping, so delicate and drowsy, having come in from the breathless dark, thinking, perhaps, that her whiteness was a light. what dim memory did it rouse; something of him, something he had done--in darkness, on a night like this. ah, yes! that evening after gorbio, the little owl-moth on her knee! he had touched her when he took that cosy wan velvet-eyed thing off her! she leaned out for air. what a night!--whose stars were hiding in the sheer heavy warmth; whose small, round, golden moon had no transparency! a night like a black pansy with a little gold heart. and silent! for, of the trees, that whispered so much at night, not even the aspens had voice. the unstirring air had a dream-solidity against her cheeks. but in all the stillness, what sentiency, what passion--as in her heart! could she not draw him to her from those woods, from that dark gleaming river, draw him from the flowers and trees and the passion-mood of the sky--draw him up to her waiting here, so that she was no more this craving creature, but one with him and the night! and she let her head droop down on her hands. all night long she stayed there at the window. sometimes dozing in the chair; once waking with a start, fancying that her husband was bending over her. had he been--and stolen away? and the dawn came; dew-grey, filmy and wistful, woven round each black tree, and round the white dove-cot, and falling scarf-like along the river. and the chirrupings of birds stirred among leaves as yet invisible. she slept then. xviii when she awoke once more, in daylight, smiling, cramier was standing beside her chair. his face, all dark and bitter, had the sodden look of a man very tired. "so!" he said: "sleeping this way doesn't spoil your dreams. don't let me disturb them. i am just going back to town." like a frightened bird, she stayed, not stirring, gazing at his back as he leaned in the window, till, turning round on her again, he said: "but remember this: what i can't have, no one else shall! do you understand? no one else!" and he bent down close, repeating: "do you understand--you bad wife!" four years' submission to a touch she shrank from; one long effort not to shrink! bad wife! not if he killed her would she answer now! "do you hear?" he said once more: "make up your mind to that. i mean it." he had gripped the arms of her chair, till she could feel it quiver beneath her. would he drive his fist into her face that she managed to keep still smiling? but there only passed into his eyes an expression which she could not read. "well," he said, "you know!" and walked heavily towards the door. the moment he had gone she sprang up: yes, she was a bad wife! a wife who had reached the end of her tether. a wife who hated instead of loving. a wife in prison! bad wife! martyrdom, then, for the sake of a faith in her that was lost already, could be but folly. if she seemed bad and false to him, there was no longer reason to pretend to be otherwise. no longer would she, in the words of the old song:--'sit and sigh--pulling bracken, pulling bracken.' no more would she starve for want of love, and watch the nights throb and ache, as last night had throbbed and ached, with the passion that she might not satisfy. and while she was dressing she wondered why she did not look tired. to get out quickly! to send her lover word at once to hasten to her while it was safe--that she might tell him she was coming to him out of prison! she would telegraph for him to come that evening with a boat, opposite the tall poplar. she and her aunt and uncle were to go to dinner at the rectory, but she would plead headache at the last minute. when the ercotts had gone she would slip out, and he and she would row over to the wood, and be together for two hours of happiness. and they must make a clear plan, too--for to-morrow they would begin their life together. but it would not be safe to send that message from the village; she must go down and over the bridge to the post-office on the other side, where they did not know her. it was too late now before breakfast. better after, when she could slip away, knowing for certain that her husband had gone. it would still not be too late for her telegram--lennan never left his rooms till the midday post which brought her letters. she finished dressing, and knowing that she must show no trace of her excitement, sat quite still for several minutes, forcing herself into languor. then she went down. her husband had breakfasted and gone. at everything she did, and every word she spoke, she was now smiling with a sort of wonder, as if she were watching a self, that she had abandoned like an old garment, perform for her amusement. it even gave her no feeling of remorse to think she was going to do what would be so painful to the good colonel. he was dear to her--but it did not matter. she was past all that. nothing mattered--nothing in the world! it amused her to believe that her uncle and aunt misread her last night's walk in the dark garden, misread her languor and serenity. and at the first moment possible she flew out, and slipped away under cover of the yew-trees towards the river. passing the spot where her husband had dragged her down to him on her knees in the grass, she felt a sort of surprise that she could ever have been so terrified. what was he? the past--nothing! and she flew on. she noted carefully the river bank opposite the tall poplar. it would be quite easy to get down from there into a boat. but they would not stay in that dark backwater. they would go over to the far side into those woods from which last night the moon had risen, those woods from which the pigeons mocked her every morning, those woods so full of summer. coming back, no one would see her landing; for it would be pitch dark in the backwater. and, while she hurried, she looked back across her shoulder, marking where the water, entering, ceased to be bright. a dragon-fly brushed her cheek; she saw it vanish where the sunlight failed. how suddenly its happy flight was quenched in that dark shade, as a candle flame blown out. the tree growth there was too thick--the queer stumps and snags had uncanny shapes, as of monstrous creatures, whose eyes seemed to peer out at you. she shivered. she had seen those monsters with their peering eyes somewhere. ah! in her dream at monte carlo of that bull-face staring from the banks, while she drifted by, unable to cry out. no! the backwater was not a happy place--they would not stay there a single minute. and more swiftly than ever she flew on along the path. soon she had crossed the bridge, sent off her message, and returned. but there were ten hours to get through before eight o'clock, and she did not hurry now. she wanted this day of summer to herself alone, a day of dreaming till he came; this day for which all her life till now had been shaping her--the day of love. fate was very wonderful! if she had ever loved before; if she had known joy in her marriage--she could never have been feeling what she was feeling now, what she well knew she would never feel again. she crossed a new-mown hayfield, and finding a bank, threw herself down on her back among its uncut grasses. far away at the other end men were scything. it was all very beautiful--the soft clouds floating, the clover-stalks pushing themselves against her palms, and stems of the tall couch grass cool to her cheeks; little blue butterflies; a lark, invisible; the scent of the ripe hay; and the gold-fairy arrows of the sun on her face and limbs. to grow and reach the hour of summer; all must do that! that was the meaning of life! she had no more doubts and fears. she had no more dread, no bitterness, and no remorse for what she was going to do. she was doing it because she must. . . . as well might grass stay its ripening because it shall be cut down! she had, instead, a sense of something blessed and uplifting. whatever power had made her heart, had placed within it this love. whatever it was, whoever it was, could not be angry with her! a wild bee settled on her arm, and she held it up between her and the sun, so that she might enjoy its dusky glamour. it would not sting her--not to-day! the little blue butterflies, too, kept alighting on her, who lay there so still. and the love-songs of the wood-pigeons never ceased, nor the faint swish of scything. at last she rose to make her way home. a telegram had come saying simply: "yes." she read it with an unmoved face, having resorted again to her mask of languor. toward tea-time she confessed to headache, and said she would lie down. up there in her room she spent those three hours writing--writing as best she could all she had passed through in thought and feeling, before making her decision. it seemed to her that she owed it to herself to tell her lover how she had come to what she had never thought to come to. she put what she had written in an envelope and sealed it. she would give it to him, that he might read and understand, when she had shown him with all of her how she loved him. it would pass the time for him, until to-morrow--until they set out on their new life together. for to-night they would make their plans, and to-morrow start. at half-past seven she sent word that her headache was too bad to allow her to go out. this brought a visit from mrs. ercott: the colonel and she were so distressed; but perhaps olive was wise not to exert herself! and presently the colonel himself spoke, lugubriously through the door: not well enough to come? no fun without her! but she mustn't on any account strain herself! no, no! her heart smote her at that. he was always so good to her. at last, watching from the corridor, she saw them sally forth down the drive--the colonel a little in advance, carrying his wife's evening shoes. how nice he looked--with his brown face, and his grey moustache; so upright, and concerned with what he had in hand! there was no languor in her now. she had dressed in white, and now she took a blue silk cloak with a hood, and caught up the flower that had so miraculously survived last night's wearing and pinned it at her breast. then making sure no servant was about, she slipped downstairs and out. it was just eight, and the sun still glistened on the dove-cot. she kept away from that lest the birds should come fluttering about her, and betray her by cooing. when she had nearly reached the tow-path, she stopped affrighted. surely something had moved, something heavy, with a sound of broken branches. was it the memory of last night come on her again; or, indeed, someone there? she walked back a few steps. foolish alarm! in the meadow beyond a cow was brushing against the hedge. and, stealing along the grass, out on to the tow-path, she went swiftly towards the poplar. xix a hundred times in these days of her absence lennan had been on the point of going down, against her orders, just to pass the house, just to feel himself within reach, to catch a glimpse of her, perhaps, from afar. if his body haunted london, his spirit had passed down on to that river where he had drifted once already, reconnoitring. a hundred times--by day in fancy, and by night in dreams--pulling himself along by the boughs, he stole down that dim backwater, till the dark yews and the white dove-cot came into view. for he thought now only of fulfilment. she was wasting cruelly away! why should he leave her where she was? leave her to profane herself and all womanhood in the arms of a man she hated? and on that day of mid-june, when he received her telegram, it was as if he had been handed the key of paradise. would she--could she mean to come away with him that very night? he would prepare for that at all events. he had so often in mind faced this crisis in his affairs, that now it only meant translating into action what had been carefully thought out. he packed, supplied himself liberally with money, and wrote a long letter to his guardian. it would hurt the old man--gordy was over seventy now--but that could not be helped. he would not post it till he knew for certain. after telling how it had all come about, he went on thus: "i know that to many people, and perhaps to you, gordy, it will seem very wrong, but it does not to me, and that is the simple truth. everybody has his own views on such things, i suppose; and as i would not--on my honour, gordy--ever have held or wished to hold, or ever will hold in marriage or out of marriage, any woman who does not love me, so i do not think it is acting as i would resent others acting towards me, to take away from such unhappiness this lady for whom i would die at any minute. i do not mean to say that pity has anything to do with it--i thought so at first, but i know now that it is all swallowed up in the most mighty feeling i have ever had or ever shall have. i am not a bit afraid of conscience. if god is universal truth, he cannot look hardly upon us for being true to ourselves. and as to people, we shall just hold up our heads; i think that they generally take you at your own valuation. but, anyway, society does not much matter. we shan't want those who don't want us--you may be sure. i hope he will divorce her quickly--there is nobody much to be hurt by that except you and cis; but if he doesn't--it can't be helped. i don't think she has anything; but with my six hundred, and what i can make, even if we have to live abroad, we shall be all right for money. you have been awfully good to me always, gordy, and i am very grieved to hurt you, and still more sorry if you think i am being ungrateful; but when one feels as i do--body and soul and spirit--there isn't any question; there wouldn't be if death itself stood in the way. if you receive this, we shall be gone together; i will write to you from wherever we pitch our tent, and, of course, i shall write to cicely. but will you please tell mrs. doone and sylvia, and give them my love if they still care to have it. good-bye, dear gordy. i believe you would have done the same, if you had been i. always your affectionate--mark." in all those preparations he forgot nothing, employing every minute of the few hours in a sort of methodic exaltation. the last thing before setting out he took the damp cloths off his 'bull-man.' into the face of the monster there had come of late a hungry, yearning look. the artist in him had done his work that unconscious justice; against his will had set down the truth. and, wondering whether he would ever work at it again, he redamped the cloths and wrapped it carefully. he did not go to her village, but to one five or six miles down the river--it was safer, and the row would steady him. hiring a skiff, he pulled up stream. he travelled very slowly to kill time, keeping under the far bank. and as he pulled, his very heart seemed parched with nervousness. was it real that he was going to her, or only some fantastic trick of fate, a dream from which he would wake to find himself alone again? he passed the dove-cot at last, and kept on till he could round into the backwater and steal up under cover to the poplar. he arrived a few minutes before eight o'clock, turned the boat round, and waited close beneath the bank, holding to a branch, and standing so that he could see the path. if a man could die from longing and anxiety, surely lennan must have died then! all wind had failed, and the day was fallen into a wonderful still evening. gnats were dancing in the sparse strips of sunlight that slanted across the dark water, now that the sun was low. from the fields, bereft of workers, came the scent of hay and the heavy scent of meadow-sweet; the musky odour of the backwater was confused with them into one brooding perfume. no one passed. and sounds were few and far to that wistful listener, for birds did not sing just there. how still and warm was the air, yet seemed to vibrate against his cheeks as though about to break into flame. that fancy came to him vividly while he stood waiting--a vision of heat simmering in little pale red flames. on the thick reeds some large, slow, dusky flies were still feeding, and now and then a moorhen a few yards away splashed a little, or uttered a sharp, shrill note. when she came--if she did come!--they would not stay here, in this dark earthy backwater; he would take her over to the other side, away to the woods! but the minutes passed, and his heart sank. then it leaped up. someone was coming--in white, with bare head, and something blue or black flung across her arm. it was she! no one else walked like that! she came very quickly. and he noticed that her hair looked like little wings on either side of her brow, as if her face were a white bird with dark wings, flying to love! now she was close, so close that he could see her lips parted, and her eyes love-lighted--like nothing in the world but darkness wild with dew and starlight. he reached up and lifted her down into the boat, and the scent of some flower pressed against his face seemed to pierce into him and reach his very heart, awakening the memory of something past, forgotten. then, seizing the branches, snapping them in his haste, he dragged the skiff along through the sluggish water, the gnats dancing in his face. she seemed to know where he was taking her, and neither of them spoke a single word, while he pulled out into the open, and over to the far bank. there was but one field between them and the wood--a field of young wheat, with a hedge of thorn and alder. and close to that hedge they set out, their hands clasped. they had nothing to say yet--like children saving up. she had put on her cloak to hide her dress, and its silk swished against the silvery blades of the wheat. what had moved her to put on this blue cloak? blue of the sky, and flowers, of birds' wings, and the black-burning blue of the night! the hue of all holy things! and how still it was in the late gleam of the sun! not one little sound of beast or bird or tree; not one bee humming! and not much colour--only the starry white hemlocks and globe-campion flowers, and the low-flying glamour of the last warm light on the wheat. xx . . . now over wood and river the evening drew in fast. and first the swallows, that had looked as if they would never stay their hunting, ceased; and the light, that had seemed fastened above the world, for all its last brightenings, slowly fell wingless and dusky. the moon would not rise till ten! and all things waited. the creatures of night were slow to come forth after that long bright summer's day, watching for the shades of the trees to sink deeper and deeper into the now chalk-white water; watching for the chalk-white face of the sky to be masked with velvet. the very black-plumed trees themselves seemed to wait in suspense for the grape-bloom of night. all things stared, wan in that hour of pass ing day--all things had eyes wistful and unblessed. in those moments glamour was so dead that it was as if meaning had abandoned the earth. but not for long. winged with darkness, it stole back; not the soul of meaning that had gone, but a witch-like and brooding spirit harbouring in the black trees, in the high dark spears of the rushes, and on the grim-snouted snags that lurked along the river bank. then the owls came out, and night-flying things. and in the wood there began a cruel bird-tragedy--some dark pursuit in the twilight above the bracken; the piercing shrieks of a creature into whom talons have again and again gone home; and mingled with them, hoarse raging cries of triumph. many minutes they lasted, those noises of the night, sound-emblems of all the cruelty in the heart of nature; till at last death appeased that savagery. and any soul abroad, that pitied fugitives, might once more listen, and not weep. . . . then a nightingale began to give forth its long liquid gurgling; and a corn-crake churred in the young wheat. again the night brooded, in the silent tops of the trees, in the more silent depths of the water. it sent out at long intervals a sigh or murmur, a tiny scuttling splash, an owl's hunting cry. and its breath was still hot and charged with heavy odour, for no dew was falling. . . . xxi it was past ten when they came out from the wood. she had wanted to wait for the moon to rise; not a gold coin of a moon as last night, but ivory pale, and with a gleaming radiance level over the fern, and covering the lower boughs, as it were, with a drift of white blossom. through the wicket gate they passed once more beside the moon-coloured wheat, which seemed of a different world from that world in which they had walked but an hour and a half ago. and in lennan's heart was a feeling such as a man's heart can only know once in all his life--such humble gratitude, and praise, and adoration of her who had given him her all. there should be nothing for her now but joy--like the joy of this last hour. she should never know less happiness! and kneeling down before her at the water's edge he kissed her dress, and hands, and feet, which to-morrow would be his forever. then they got into the boat. the smile of the moonlight glided over each ripple, and reed, and closing water-lily; over her face, where the hood had fallen back from her loosened hair; over one hand trailing the water, and the other touching the flower at her breast; and, just above her breath, she said: "row, my dear love; it's late!" dipping his sculls, he shot the skiff into the darkness of the backwater. . . . what happened then he never knew, never clearly--in all those after years. a vision of her white form risen to its feet, bending forward like a creature caught, that cannot tell which way to spring; a crashing shock, his head striking something hard! nothingness! and then--an awful, awful struggle with roots and weeds and slime, a desperate agony of groping in that pitchy blackness, among tree-stumps, in dead water that seemed to have no bottom--he and that other, who had leaped at them in the dark with his boat, like a murdering beast; a nightmare search more horrible than words could tell, till in a patch of moonlight on the bank they laid her, who for all their efforts never stirred. . . . there she lay all white, and they two crouched at her head and feet--like dark creatures of the woods and waters over that which with their hunting they had slain. how long they stayed there, not once looking at each other, not once speaking, not once ceasing to touch with their hands that dead thing--he never knew. how long in the summer night, with its moonlight and its shadows quivering round them, and the night wind talking in the reeds! and then the most enduring of all sentient things had moved in him again; so that he once more felt. . . . never again to see those eyes that had loved him with their light! never again to kiss her lips! frozen--like moonlight to the earth, with the flower still clinging at her breast. thrown out on the bank like a plucked water-lily! dead? no, no! not dead! alive in the night--alive to him--somewhere! not on this dim bank, in this hideous backwater, with that dark dumb creature who had destroyed her! out there on the river--in the wood of their happiness--somewhere alive! . . . and, staggering up past cramier, who never moved, he got into his boat, and like one demented pulled out into the stream. but once there in the tide, he fell huddled forward, motionless above his oars. . . . and the moonlight flooded his dark skiff drifting down. and the moonlight effaced the ripples on the water that had stolen away her spirit. her spirit mingled now with the white beauty and the shadows, for ever part of the stillness and the passion of a summer night; hovering, floating, listening to the rustle of the reeds, and the whispering of the woods; one with the endless dream--that spirit passing out, as all might wish to pass, in the hour of happiness. part iii autumn i when on that november night lennan stole to the open door of his dressing-room, and stood watching his wife asleep, fate still waited for an answer. a low fire was burning--one of those fires that throw faint shadows everywhere, and once and again glow so that some object shines for a moment, some shape is clearly seen. the curtains were not quite drawn, and a plane-tree branch with leaves still hanging, which had kept them company all the fifteen years they had lived there, was moving darkly in the wind, now touching the glass with a frail tap, as though asking of him, who had been roaming in that wind so many hours, to let it in. unfailing comrades--london plane-trees! he had not dared hope that sylvia would be asleep. it was merciful that she was, whichever way the issue went--that issue so cruel. her face was turned towards the fire, and one hand rested beneath her cheek. so she often slept. even when life seemed all at sea, its landmarks lost, one still did what was customary. poor tender-hearted thing--she had not slept since he told her, forty-eight hours, that seemed such years, ago! with her flaxen hair, and her touching candour, even in sleep, she looked like a girl lying there, not so greatly changed from what she had been that summer of cicely's marriage down at hayle. her face had not grown old in all those twenty-eight years. there had been till now no special reason why it should. thought, strong feeling, suffering, those were what changed faces; sylvia had never thought very deeply, never suffered much, till now. and was it for him, who had been careful of her--very careful on the whole, despite man's selfishness, despite her never having understood the depths of him--was it for him of all people to hurt her so, to stamp her face with sorrow, perhaps destroy her utterly? he crept a little farther in and sat down in the arm-chair beyond the fire. what memories a fire gathered into it, with its flaky ashes, its little leaf-like flames, and that quiet glow and flicker! what tale of passions! how like to a fire was a man's heart! the first young fitful leapings, the sudden, fierce, mastering heat, the long, steady sober burning, and then--that last flaming-up, that clutch back at its own vanished youth, the final eager flight of flame, before the ashes wintered it to nothing! visions and memories he saw down in the fire, as only can be seen when a man's heart, by the agony of long struggle, has been stripped of skin, and quivers at every touch. love! a strange haphazard thing was love--so spun between ecstacy and torture! a thing insidious, irresponsible, desperate. a flying sweetness, more poignant than anything on earth, more dark in origin and destiny. a thing without reason or coherence. a man's love-life--what say had he in the ebb and flow of it? no more than in the flights of autumn birds, swooping down, alighting here and there, passing on. the loves one left behind--even in a life by no means vagabond in love, as men's lives went! the love that thought the tyrol skies would fall if he were not first with a certain lady. the love whose star had caught in the hair of sylvia, now lying there asleep. a so-called love--that half-glamorous, yet sordid little meal of pleasure, which youth, however sensitive, must eat, it seems, some time or other with some young light of love--a glimpse of life that beforehand had seemed much and had meant little, save to leave him disillusioned with himself and sorry for his partner. and then the love that he could not, even after twenty years, bear to remember; that all-devouring summer passion, which in one night had gained all and lost all terribly, leaving on his soul a scar that could never be quite healed, leaving his spirit always a little lonely, haunted by the sense of what might have been. of his share in that night of tragedy--that 'terrible accident on the river'--no one had ever dreamed. and then the long despair which had seemed the last death of love had slowly passed, and yet another love had been born--or rather born again, pale, sober, but quite real; the fresh springing-up of a feeling long forgotten, of that protective devotion of his boyhood. he still remembered the expression on sylvia's face when he passed her by chance in oxford street, soon after he came back from his four years of exile in the east and rome--that look, eager, yet reproachful, then stoically ironic, as if saying: 'oh, no! after forgetting me four years and more--you can't remember me now!' and when he spoke, the still more touching pleasure in her face. then uncertain months, with a feeling of what the end would be; and then their marriage. happy enough--gentle, not very vivid, nor spiritually very intimate--his work always secretly as remote from her as when she had thought to please him by putting jessamine stars on the heads of his beasts. a quiet successful union, not meaning, he had thought, so very much to him nor so very much to her--until forty-eight hours ago he told her; and she had shrunk, and wilted, and gone all to pieces. and what was it he had told her? a long story--that! sitting there by the fire, with nothing yet decided, he could see it all from the start, with its devilish, delicate intricacy, its subtle slow enchantment spinning itself out of him, out of his own state of mind and body, rather than out of the spell cast over him, as though a sort of fatal force, long dormant, were working up again to burst into dark flower. . . . ii yes, it had begun within him over a year ago, with a queer unhappy restlessness, a feeling that life was slipping, ebbing away within reach of him, and his arms never stretched out to arrest it. it had begun with a sort of long craving, stilled only when he was working hard--a craving for he knew not what, an ache which was worst whenever the wind was soft. they said that about forty-five was a perilous age for a man--especially for an artist. all the autumn of last year he had felt this vague misery rather badly. it had left him alone most of december and january, while he was working so hard at his group of lions; but the moment that was finished it had gripped him hard again. in those last days of january he well remembered wandering about in the parks day after day, trying to get away from it. mild weather, with a scent in the wind! with what avidity he had watched children playing, the premature buds on the bushes, anything, everything young--with what an ache, too, he had been conscious of innumerable lives being lived round him, and loves loved, and he outside, unable to know, to grasp, to gather them; and all the time the sands of his hourglass running out! a most absurd and unreasonable feeling for a man with everything he wanted, with work that he loved, quite enough money, and a wife so good as sylvia--a feeling that no englishman of forty-six, in excellent health, ought for a moment to have been troubled with. a feeling such as, indeed, no englishman ever admitted having--so that there was not even, as yet, a society for its suppression. for what was this disquiet feeling, but the sense that he had had his day, would never again know the stir and fearful joy of falling in love, but only just hanker after what was past and gone! could anything be more reprehensible in a married man? it was--yes--the last day of january, when, returning from one of those restless rambles in hyde park, he met dromore. queer to recognize a man hardly seen since school-days. yet unmistakably, johnny dromore, sauntering along the rails of piccadilly on the green park side, with that slightly rolling gait of his thin, horseman's legs, his dandified hat a little to one side, those strange, chaffing, goggling eyes, that look, as if making a perpetual bet. yes--the very same teasing, now moody, now reckless, always astute johnny dromore, with a good heart beneath an outside that seemed ashamed of it. truly to have shared a room at school--to have been at college together, were links mysteriously indestructible. "mark lennan! by gum! haven't seen you for ages. not since you turned out a full-blown--what d'you call it? awfully glad to meet you, old chap!" here was the past indeed, long vanished in feeling and thought and all; and lennan's head buzzed, trying to find some common interest with this hunting, racing man-about-town. johnny dromore come to life again--he whom the machine had stamped with astute simplicity by the time he was twenty-two, and for ever after left untouched in thought and feeling--johnny dromore, who would never pass beyond the philosophy that all was queer and freakish which had not to do with horses, women, wine, cigars, jokes, good-heartedness, and that perpetual bet; johnny dromore, who, somewhere in him, had a pocket of depth, a streak of hunger, that was not just johnny dromore. how queer was the sound of that jerky talk! "you ever see old fookes now? been racin' at all? you live in town? remember good old blenker?" and then silence, and then another spurt: "ever go down to 'bambury's?' ever go racin'? . . . come on up to my 'digs.' you've got nothin' to do." no persuading johnny dromore that a 'what d'you call it' could have anything to do. "come on, old chap. i've got the hump. it's this damned east wind." well he remembered it, when they shared a room at 'bambury's'--that hump of johnny dromore's, after some reckless spree or bout of teasing. and down that narrow bye-street of piccadilly he had gone, and up into those 'digs' on the first floor, with their little dark hall, their van beers' drawing and vanity fair cartoons, and prints of racehorses, and of the old nightgown steeplechase; with the big chairs, and all the paraphernalia of race guides and race-glasses, fox-masks and stags'-horns, and hunting-whips. and yet, something that from the first moment struck him as not quite in keeping, foreign to the picture--a little jumble of books, a vase of flowers, a grey kitten. "sit down, old chap. what'll you drink?" sunk into the recesses of a marvellous chair, with huge arms of tawny leather, he listened and spoke drowsily. 'bambury's,' oxford, gordy's clubs--dear old gordy, gone now!--things long passed by; they seemed all round him once again. and yet, always that vague sense, threading this resurrection, threading the smoke of their cigars, and johnny dromore's clipped talk--of something that did not quite belong. might it be, perhaps, that sepia drawing--above the 'tantalus' on the oak sideboard at the far end--of a woman's face gazing out into the room? mysteriously unlike everything else, except the flowers, and this kitten that was pushing its furry little head against his hand. odd how a single thing sometimes took possession of a room, however remote in spirit! it seemed to reach like a shadow over dromore's outstretched limbs, and weathered, long-nosed face, behind his huge cigar; over the queer, solemn, chaffing eyes, with something brooding in the depths of them. "ever get the hump? bally awful, isn't it? it's getting old. we're bally old, you know, lenny!" ah! no one had called him 'lenny' for twenty years. and it was true; they were unmentionably old. "when a fellow begins to feel old, you know, it's time he went broke--or something; doesn't bear sittin' down and lookin' at. come out to 'monte' with me!" 'monte!' that old wound, never quite healed, started throbbing at the word, so that he could hardly speak his: "no, i don't care for 'monte.'" and, at once, he saw dromore's eyes probing, questioning: "you married?" "yes." "never thought of you as married!" so dromore did think of him. queer! he never thought of johnny dromore. "winter's bally awful, when you're not huntin'. you've changed a lot; should hardly have known you. last time i saw you, you'd just come back from rome or somewhere. what's it like bein' a--a sculptor? saw something of yours once. ever do things of horses?" yes; he had done a 'relief' of ponies only last year. "you do women, too, i s'pose?" "not often." the eyes goggled slightly. quaint, that unholy interest! just like boys, the johnny dromores--would never grow up, no matter how life treated them. if dromore spoke out his soul, as he used to speak it out at 'bambury's,' he would say: 'you get a pull there; you have a bally good time, i expect.' that was the way it took them; just a converse manifestation of the very same feeling towards art that the pious philistines had, with their deploring eyebrows and their 'peril to the soul.' babes all! not a glimmering of what art meant--of its effort, and its yearnings! "you make money at it?" "oh, yes." again that appreciative goggle, as who should say: 'ho! there's more in this than i thought!' a long silence, then, in the dusk with the violet glimmer from outside the windows, the fire flickering in front of them, the grey kitten purring against his neck, the smoke of their cigars going up, and such a strange, dozing sense of rest, as he had not known for many days. and then--something, someone at the door, over by the sideboard! and dromore speaking in a queer voice: "come in, nell! d'you know my daughter?" a hand took lennan's, a hand that seemed to waver between the aplomb of a woman of the world, and a child's impulsive warmth. and a voice, young, clipped, clear, said: "how d'you do? she's rather sweet, isn't she--my kitten?" then dromore turned the light up. a figure fairly tall, in a grey riding-habit, stupendously well cut; a face not quite so round as a child's nor so shaped as a woman's, blushing slightly, very calm; crinkly light-brown hair tied back with a black ribbon under a neat hat; and eyes like those eyes of gainsborough's 'perdita'--slow, grey, mesmeric, with long lashes curling up, eyes that draw things to them, still innocent. and just on the point of saying: "i thought you'd stepped out of that picture"--he saw dromore's face, and mumbled instead: "so it's your kitten?" "yes; she goes to everybody. do you like persians? she's all fur really. feel!" entering with his fingers the recesses of the kitten, he said: "cats without fur are queer." "have you seen one without fur?" "oh, yes! in my profession we have to go below fur--i'm a sculptor." "that must be awfully interesting." what a woman of the world! but what a child, too! and now he could see that the face in the sepia drawing was older altogether--lips not so full, look not so innocent, cheeks not so round, and something sad and desperate about it--a face that life had rudely touched. but the same eyes it had--and what charm, for all its disillusionment, its air of a history! then he noticed, fastened to the frame, on a thin rod, a dust-coloured curtain, drawn to one side. the self-possessed young voice was saying: "would you mind if i showed you my drawings? it would be awfully good of you. you could tell me about them." and with dismay he saw her open a portfolio. while he scrutinized those schoolgirl drawings, he could feel her looking at him, as animals do when they are making up their minds whether or no to like you; then she came and stood so close that her arm pressed his. he redoubled his efforts to find something good about the drawings. but in truth there was nothing good. and if, in other matters, he could lie well enough to save people's feelings, where art was concerned he never could; so he merely said: "you haven't been taught, you see." "will you teach me?" but before he could answer, she was already effacing that naive question in her most grown-up manner. "of course i oughtn't to ask. it would bore you awfully." after that he vaguely remembered dromore's asking if he ever rode in the row; and those eyes of hers following him about; and her hand giving his another childish squeeze. then he was on his way again down the dimly-lighted stairs, past an interminable array of vanity fair cartoons, out into the east wind. iii crossing the green park on his way home, was he more, or less, restless? difficult to say. a little flattered, certainly, a little warmed; yet irritated, as always when he came into contact with people to whom the world of art was such an amusing unreality. the notion of trying to show that child how to draw--that feather-pate, with her riding and her kitten; and her 'perdita' eyes! quaint, how she had at once made friends with him! he was a little different, perhaps, from what she was accustomed to. and how daintily she spoke! a strange, attractive, almost lovely child! certainly not more than seventeen--and--johnny dromore's daughter! the wind was bitter, the lamps bright among the naked trees. beautiful always--london at night, even in january, even in an east wind, with a beauty he never tired of. its great, dark, chiselled shapes, its gleaming lights, like droves of flying stars come to earth; and all warmed by the beat and stir of innumerable lives--those lives that he ached so to know and to be part of. he told sylvia of his encounter. dromore! the name struck her. she had an old irish song, 'the castle of dromore,' with a queer, haunting refrain. it froze hard all the week, and he began a life-size group of their two sheep-dogs. then a thaw set in with that first south-west wind, which brings each february a feeling of spring such as is never again recaptured, and men's senses, like sleepy bees in the sun, go roving. it awakened in him more violently than ever the thirst to be living, knowing, loving--the craving for something new. not this, of course, took him back to dromore's rooms; oh, no! just friendliness, since he had not even told his old room-mate where he lived, or said that his wife would be glad to make his acquaintance, if he cared to come round. for johnny dromore had assuredly not seemed too happy, under all his hard-bitten air. yes! it was but friendly to go again. dromore was seated in his long arm-chair, a cigar between his lips, a pencil in his hand, a ruff's guide on his knee; beside him was a large green book. there was a festive air about him, very different from his spasmodic gloom of the other day; and he murmured without rising: "halo, old man!--glad to see you. take a pew. look here! agapemone--which d'you think i ought to put her to--san diavolo or ponte canet?--not more than four crosses of st. paul. goin' to get a real good one from her this time!" he, who had never heard these sainted names, answered: "oh! ponte canet, without doubt. but if you're working i'll come in another time." "lord! no! have a smoke. i'll just finish lookin' out their blood--and take a pull." and so lennan sat down to watch those researches, wreathed in cigar smoke and punctuated by muttered expletives. they were as sacred and absorbing, no doubt, as his own efforts to create in clay; for before dromore's inner vision was the perfect racehorse--he, too, was creating. here was no mere dodge for making money, but a process hallowed by the peculiar sensation felt when one rubbed the palms of the hands together, the sensation that accompanied all creative achievement. once only dromore paused to turn his head and say: "bally hard, gettin' a taproot right!" real art! how well an artist knew that desperate search after the point of balance, the central rivet that must be found before a form would come to life. . . . and he noted that to-day there was no kitten, no flowers, no sense at all of an extraneous presence--even the picture was curtained. had the girl been just a dream--a fancy conjured up by his craving after youth? then he saw that dromore had dropped the large green book, and was standing before the fire. "nell took to you the other day. but you always were a lady's man. remember the girl at coaster's?" coaster's tea-shop, where he would go every afternoon that he had money, just for the pleasure of looking shyly at a face. something beautiful to look at--nothing more! johnny dromore would no better understand that now than when they were at 'bambury's.' not the smallest good even trying to explain! he looked up at the goggling eyes; he heard the bantering voice: "i say--you are goin' grey. we're bally old, lenny! a fellow gets old when he marries." and he answered: "by the way, i never knew that you had been." from dromore's face the chaffing look went, like a candle-flame blown out; and a coppery flush spread over it. for some seconds he did not speak, then, jerking his head towards the picture, he muttered gruffly: "never had the chance of marrying, there; nell's 'outside.'" a sort of anger leaped in lennan; why should dromore speak that word as if he were ashamed of his own daughter? just like his sort--none so hidebound as men-about-town! flotsam on the tide of other men's opinions; poor devils adrift, without the one true anchorage of their own real feelings! and doubtful whether dromore would be pleased, or think him gushing, or even distrustful of his morality, he said: "as for that, it would only make any decent man or woman nicer to her. when is she going to let me teach her drawing?" dromore crossed the room, drew back the curtain of the picture, and in a muffled voice, said: "my god, lenny! life's unfair. nell's coming killed her mother. i'd rather it had been me--bar chaff! women have no luck." lennan got up from his comfortable chair. for, startled out of the past, the memory of that summer night, when yet another woman had no luck, was flooding his heart with its black, inextinguishable grief. he said quietly: "the past is past, old man." dromore drew the curtain again across the picture, and came back to the fire. and for a full minute he stared into it. "what am i to do with nell? she's growing up." "what have you done with her so far?" "she's been at school. in the summer she goes to ireland--i've got a bit of an old place there. she'll be eighteen in july. i shall have to introduce her to women, and all that. it's the devil! how? who?" lennan could only murmur: "my wife, for one." he took his leave soon after. johnny dromore! bizarre guardian for that child! queer life she must have of it, in that bachelor's den, surrounded by ruff's guides! what would become of her? caught up by some young spark about town; married to him, no doubt--her father would see to the thoroughness of that, his standard of respectability was evidently high! and after--go the way, maybe, of her mother--that poor thing in the picture with the alluring, desperate face. well! it was no business of his! iv no business of his! the merest sense of comradeship, then, took him once more to dromore's after that disclosure, to prove that the word 'outside' had no significance save in his friend's own fancy; to assure him again that sylvia would be very glad to welcome the child at any time she liked to come. when he had told her of that little matter of nell's birth, she had been silent a long minute, looking in his face, and then had said: "poor child! i wonder if she knows! people are so unkind, even nowadays!" he could not himself think of anyone who would pay attention to such a thing, except to be kinder to the girl; but in such matters sylvia was the better judge, in closer touch with general thought. she met people that he did not--and of a more normal species. it was rather late when he got to dromore's diggings on that third visit. "mr. dromore, sir," the man said--he had one of those strictly confidential faces bestowed by an all-wise providence on servants in the neighbourhood of piccadilly--"mr. dromore, sir, is not in. but he will be almost sure to be in to dress. miss nell is in, sir." and there she was, sitting at the table, pasting photographs into an album--lonely young creature in that abode of male middle-age! lennan stood, unheard, gazing at the back of her head, with its thick crinkly-brown hair tied back on her dark-red frock. and, to the confidential man's soft: "mr. lennan, miss," he added a softer: "may i come in?" she put her hand into his with intense composure. "oh, yes, do! if you don't mind the mess i'm making;" and, with a little squeeze of the tips of his fingers, added: "would it bore you to see my photographs?" and down they sat together before the photographs--snapshots of people with guns or fishing-rods, little groups of schoolgirls, kittens, dromore and herself on horseback, and several of a young man with a broad, daring, rather good-looking face. "that's oliver--oliver dromore--dad's first cousin once removed. rather nice, isn't he? do you like his expression?" lennan did not know. not her second cousin; her father's first cousin once removed! and again there leaped in him that unreasoning flame of indignant pity. "and how about drawing? you haven't come to be taught yet." she went almost as red as her frock. "i thought you were only being polite. i oughtn't to have asked. of course, i want to awfully--only i know it'll bore you." "it won't at all." she looked up at that. what peculiar languorous eyes they were! "shall i come to-morrow, then?" "any day you like, between half-past twelve and one." "where?" he took out a card. "mark lennan--yes--i like your name. i liked it the other day. it's awfully nice!" what was in a name that she should like him because of it? his fame as a sculptor--such as it was--could have nothing to do with that, for she would certainly not know of it. ah! but there was a lot in a name--for children. in his childhood what fascination there had been in the words macaroon, and spaniard, and carinola, and aldebaran, and mr. mccrae. for quite a week the whole world had been mr. mccrae--a most ordinary friend of gordy's. by whatever fascination moved, she talked freely enough now--of her school; of riding and motoring--she seemed to love going very fast; about newmarket--which was 'perfect'; and theatres--plays of the type that johnny dromore might be expected to approve; these together with 'hamlet' and 'king lear' were all she had seen. never was a girl so untouched by thought, or art--yet not stupid, having, seemingly, a certain natural good taste; only, nothing, evidently, had come her way. how could it--'johnny dromore duce, et auspice johnny dromore!' she had been taken, indeed, to the national gallery while at school. and lennan had a vision of eight or ten young maidens trailing round at the skirts of one old maiden, admiring landseer's dogs, giggling faintly at botticelli's angels, gaping, rustling, chattering like young birds in a shrubbery. but with all her surroundings, this child of johnny dromoredom was as yet more innocent than cultured girls of the same age. if those grey, mesmeric eyes of hers followed him about, they did so frankly, unconsciously. there was no minx in her, so far. an hour went by, and dromore did not come. and the loneliness of this young creature in her incongruous abode began telling on lennan's equanimity. what did she do in the evenings? "sometimes i go to the theatre with dad, generally i stay at home." "and then?" "oh! i just read, or talk french." "what? to yourself?" "yes, or to oliver sometimes, when he comes in." so oliver came in! "how long have you known oliver?" "oh! ever since i was a child." he wanted to say: and how long is that? but managed to refrain, and got up to go instead. she caught his sleeve and said: "you're not to go!" saying that she looked as a dog will, going to bite in fun, her upper lip shortened above her small white teeth set fast on her lower lip, and her chin thrust a little forward. a glimpse of a wilful spirit! but as soon as he had smiled, and murmured: "ah! but i must, you see!" she at once regained her manners, only saying rather mournfully: "you don't call me by my name. don't you like it?" "nell?" "yes. it's really eleanor, of course. don't you like it?" if he had detested the name, he could only have answered: "very much." "i'm awfully glad! good-bye." when he got out into the street, he felt terribly like a man who, instead of having had his sleeve touched, has had his heart plucked at. and that warm, bewildered feeling lasted him all the way home. changing for dinner, he looked at himself with unwonted attention. yes, his dark hair was still thick, but going distinctly grey; there were very many lines about his eyes, too, and those eyes, still eager when they smiled, were particularly deepset, as if life had forced them back. his cheekbones were almost 'bopsies' now, and his cheeks very thin and dark, and his jaw looked too set and bony below the almost black moustache. altogether a face that life had worn a good deal, with nothing for a child to take a fancy to and make friends with, that he could see. sylvia came in while he was thus taking stock of himself, bringing a freshly-opened flask of eau-de-cologne. she was always bringing him something--never was anyone so sweet in those ways. in that grey, low-cut frock, her white, still prettiness and pale-gold hair, so little touched by time, only just fell short of real beauty for lack of a spice of depth and of incisiveness, just as her spirit lacked he knew not what of poignancy. he would not for the world have let her know that he ever felt that lack. if a man could not hide little rifts in the lute from one so good and humble and affectionate, he was not fit to live. she sang 'the castle of dromore' again that night with its queer haunting lilt. and when she had gone up, and he was smoking over the fire, the girl in her dark-red frock seemed to come, and sit opposite with her eyes fixed on his, just as she had been sitting while they talked. dark red had suited her! suited the look on her face when she said: "you're not to go!" odd, indeed, if she had not some devil in her, with that parentage! v next day they had summoned him from the studio to see a peculiar phenomenon--johnny dromore, very well groomed, talking to sylvia with unnatural suavity, and carefully masking the goggle in his eyes! mrs. lennan ride? ah! too busy, of course. helped mark with his--er--no! really! read a lot, no doubt? never had any time for readin' himself--awful bore not having time to read! and sylvia listening and smiling, very still and soft. what had dromore come for? to spy out the land, discover why lennan and his wife thought nothing of the word 'outside'--whether, in fact, their household was respectable. . . . a man must always look twice at 'what-d'you-call-ems,' even if they have shared his room at school! . . . to his credit, of course, to be so careful of his daughter, at the expense of time owed to the creation of the perfect racehorse! on the whole he seemed to be coming to the conclusion that they might be useful to nell in the uncomfortable time at hand when she would have to go about; seemed even to be falling under the spell of sylvia's transparent goodness--abandoning his habitual vigilance against being scored off in life's perpetual bet; parting with his armour of chaff. almost a relief, indeed, once out of sylvia's presence, to see that familiar, unholy curiosity creeping back into his eyes, as though they were hoping against parental hope to find something--er--amusing somewhere about that mysterious mecca of good times--a 'what-d'you-call-it's' studio. delicious to watch the conflict between relief and disappointment. alas! no model--not even a statue without clothes; nothing but portrait heads, casts of animals, and such-like sobrieties--absolutely nothing that could bring a blush to the cheek of the young person, or a glow to the eyes of a johnny dromore. with what curious silence he walked round and round the group of sheep-dogs, inquiring into them with that long crinkled nose of his! with what curious suddenness, he said: "damned good! you wouldn't do me one of nell on horseback?" with what dubious watchfulness he listened to the answer: "i might, perhaps, do a statuette of her; if i did, you should have a cast." did he think that in some way he was being outmanoeuvered? for he remained some seconds in a sort of trance before muttering, as though clinching a bet: "done! and if you want to ride with her to get the hang of it, i can always mount you." when he had gone, lennan remained staring at his unfinished sheep-dogs in the gathering dusk. again that sense of irritation at contact with something strange, hostile, uncomprehending! why let these dromores into his life like this? he shut the studio, and went back to the drawing-room. sylvia was sitting on the fender, gazing at the fire, and she edged along so as to rest against his knees. the light from a candle on her writing-table was shining on her hair, her cheek, and chin, that years had so little altered. a pretty picture she made, with just that candle flame, swaying there, burning slowly, surely down the pale wax--candle flame, of all lifeless things most living, most like a spirit, so bland and vague, one would hardly have known it was fire at all. a drift of wind blew it this way and that: he got up to shut the window, and as he came back; sylvia said: "i like mr. dromore. i think he's nicer than he looks." "he's asked me to make a statuette of his daughter on horseback." "and will you?" "i don't know." "if she's really so pretty, you'd better." "pretty's hardly the word--but she's not ordinary." she turned round, and looked up at him, and instinctively he felt that something difficult to answer was coming next. "mark." "yes." "i wanted to ask you: are you really happy nowadays?" "of course. why not?" what else to be said? to speak of those feelings of the last few months--those feelings so ridiculous to anyone who had them not--would only disturb her horribly. and having received her answer, sylvia turned back to the fire, resting silently against his knees. . . . three days later the sheep-dogs suddenly abandoned the pose into which he had lured them with such difficulty, and made for the studio door. there in the street was nell dromore, mounted on a narrow little black horse with a white star, a white hoof, and devilish little goat's ears, pricked, and very close together at the tips. "dad said i had better ride round and show you magpie. he's not very good at standing still. are those your dogs? what darlings!" she had slipped her knee already from the pummel, and slid down; the sheep-dogs were instantly on their hind-feet, propping themselves against her waist. lennan held the black horse--a bizarre little beast, all fire and whipcord, with a skin like satin, liquid eyes, very straight hocks, and a thin bang-tail reaching down to them. the little creature had none of those commonplace good looks so discouraging to artists. he had forgotten its rider, till she looked up from the dogs, and said: "do you like him? it is nice of you to be going to do us." when she had ridden away, looking back until she turned the corner, he tried to lure the two dogs once more to their pose. but they would sit no more, going continually to the door, listening and sniffing; and everything felt disturbed and out of gear. that same afternoon at sylvia's suggestion he went with her to call on the dromores. while they were being ushered in he heard a man's voice rather high-pitched speaking in some language not his own; then the girl: "no, no, oliver. 'dans l'amour il y a toujours un qui aime, et l'autre qui se laisse aimer.'" she was sitting in her father's chair, and on the window-sill they saw a young man lolling, who rose and stood stock-still, with an almost insolent expression on his broad, good-looking face. lennan scrutinized him with interest--about twenty-four he might be, rather dandified, clean-shaved, with crisp dark hair and wide-set hazel eyes, and, as in his photograph, a curious look of daring. his voice, when he vouchsafed a greeting, was rather high and not unpleasant, with a touch of lazy drawl. they stayed but a few minutes, and going down those dimly lighted stairs again, sylvia remarked: "how prettily she said good-bye--as if she were putting up her face to be kissed! i think she's lovely. so does that young man. they go well together." rather abruptly lennan answered: "ah! i suppose they do." vi she came to them often after that, sometimes alone, twice with johnny dromore, sometimes with young oliver, who, under sylvia's spell, soon lost his stand-off air. and the statuette was begun. then came spring in earnest, and that real business of life--the racing of horses 'on the flat,' when johnny dromore's genius was no longer hampered by the illegitimate risks of 'jumpin'.' he came to dine with them the day before the first newmarket meeting. he had a soft spot for sylvia, always saying to lennan as he went away: "charmin' woman--your wife!" she, too, had a soft spot for him, having fathomed the utter helplessness of this worldling's wisdom, and thinking him pathetic. after he was gone that evening, she said: "ought we to have nell to stay with us while you're finishing her? she must be very lonely now her father's so much away." it was like sylvia to think of that; but would it be pleasure or vexation to have in the house this child with her quaint grown-upness, her confiding ways, and those 'perdita' eyes? in truth he did not know. she came to them with touching alacrity--very like a dog, who, left at home when the family goes for a holiday, takes at once to those who make much of it. and she was no trouble, too well accustomed to amuse herself; and always quaint to watch, with her continual changes from child to woman of the world. a new sensation, this--of a young creature in the house. both he and sylvia had wanted children, without luck. twice illness had stood in the way. was it, perhaps, just that little lack in her--that lack of poignancy, which had prevented her from becoming a mother? an only child herself, she had no nieces or nephews; cicely's boys had always been at school, and now were out in the world. yes, a new sensation, and one in which lennan's restless feelings seemed to merge and vanish. outside the hours when nell sat to him, he purposely saw but little of her, leaving her to nestle under sylvia's wing; and this she did, as if she never wanted to come out. thus he preserved his amusement at her quaint warmths, and quainter calmness, his aesthetic pleasure in watching her, whose strange, half-hypnotized, half-hypnotic gaze, had a sort of dreamy and pathetic lovingness, as if she were brimful of affections that had no outlet. every morning after 'sitting' she would stay an hour bent over her own drawing, which made practically no progress; and he would often catch her following his movements with those great eyes of hers, while the sheep-dogs would lie perfectly still at her feet, blinking horribly--such was her attraction. his birds also, a jackdaw and an owl, who had the run of the studio, tolerated her as they tolerated no other female, save the housekeeper. the jackdaw would perch on her and peck her dress; but the owl merely engaged her in combats of mesmeric gazing, which never ended in victory for either. now that she was with them, oliver dromore began to haunt the house, coming at all hours, on very transparent excuses. she behaved to him with extreme capriciousness, sometimes hardly speaking, sometimes treating him like a brother; and in spite of all his nonchalance, the poor youth would just sit glowering, or gazing out his adoration, according to her mood. one of these july evenings lennan remembered beyond all others. he had come, after a hard day's work, out from his studio into the courtyard garden to smoke a cigarette and feel the sun on his cheek before it sank behind the wall. a piano-organ far away was grinding out a waltz; and on an hydrangea tub, under the drawing-room window, he sat down to listen. nothing was visible from there, save just the square patch of a quite blue sky, and one soft plume of smoke from his own kitchen chimney; nothing audible save that tune, and the never-ending street murmur. twice birds flew across--starlings. it was very peaceful, and his thoughts went floating like the smoke of his cigarette, to meet who-knew-what other thoughts--for thoughts, no doubt, had little swift lives of their own; desired, found their mates, and, lightly blending, sent forth offspring. why not? all things were possible in this wonder-house of a world. even that waltz tune, floating away, would find some melody to wed, and twine with, and produce a fresh chord that might float in turn to catch the hum of a gnat or fly, and breed again. queer--how everything sought to entwine with something else! on one of the pinkish blooms of the hydrangea he noted a bee--of all things, in this hidden-away garden of tiles and gravel and plants in tubs! the little furry, lonely thing was drowsily clinging there, as if it had forgotten what it had come for--seduced, maybe, like himself, from labour by these last rays of the sun. its wings, close-furled, were glistening; its eyes seemed closed. and the piano-organ played on, a tune of yearning, waiting, yearning. . . . then, through the window above his head, he heard oliver dromore--a voice one could always tell, pitched high, with its slight drawl--pleading, very softly at first, then insistent, imperious; and suddenly nell's answering voice: "i won't, oliver! i won't! i won't!" he rose to go out of earshot. then a door slammed, and he saw her at the window above him, her waist on a level with his head; flushed, with her grey eyes ominously bright, her full lips parted. and he said: "what is it, nell?" she leaned down and caught his hand; her touch was fiery hot. "he kissed me! i won't let him--i won't kiss him!" through his head went a medley of sayings to soothe children that are hurt; but he felt unsteady, unlike himself. and suddenly she knelt, and put her hot forehead against his lips. it was as if she had really been a little child, wanting the place kissed to make it well. vii after that strange outburst, lennan considered long whether he should speak to oliver. but what could he say, from what standpoint say it, and--with that feeling? or should he speak to dromore? not very easy to speak on such a subject to one off whose turf all spiritual matters were so permanently warned. nor somehow could he bring himself to tell sylvia; it would be like violating a confidence to speak of the child's outburst and that quivering moment, when she had kneeled and put her hot forehead to his lips for comfort. such a disclosure was for nell herself to make, if she so wished. and then young oliver solved the difficulty by coming to the studio himself next day. he entered with 'dromore' composure, very well groomed, in a silk hat, a cut-away black coat and charming lemon-coloured gloves; what, indeed, the youth did, besides belonging to the yeomanry and hunting all the winter, seemed known only to himself. he made no excuse for interrupting lennan, and for some time sat silently smoking his cigarette, and pulling the ears of the dogs. and lennan worked on, waiting. there was always something attractive to him in this young man's broad, good-looking face, with its crisp dark hair, and half-insolent good humour, now so clouded. at last oliver got up, and went over to the unfinished 'girl on the magpie horse.' turning to it so that his face could not be seen, he said: "you and mrs. lennan have been awfully kind to me; i behaved rather like a cad yesterday. i thought i'd better tell you. i want to marry nell, you know." lennan was glad that the young man's face was so religiously averted. he let his hands come to anchor on what he was working at before he answered: "she's only a child, oliver;" and then, watching his fingers making an inept movement with the clay, was astonished at himself. "she'll be eighteen this month," he heard oliver say. "if she once gets out--amongst people--i don't know what i shall do. old johnny's no good to look after her." the young man's face was very red; he was forgetting to hide it now. then it went white, and he said through clenched teeth: "she sends me mad! i don't know how not to--if i don't get her, i shall shoot myself. i shall, you know--i'm that sort. it's her eyes. they draw you right out of yourself--and leave you--" and from his gloved hand the smoked-out cigarette-end fell to the floor. "they say her mother was like that. poor old johnny! d'you think i've got a chance, mr. lennan? i don't mean now, this minute; i know she's too young." lennan forced himself to answer. "i dare say, my dear fellow, i dare say. have you talked with my wife?" oliver shook his head. "she's so good--i don't think she'd quite understand my sort of feeling." a queer little smile came up on lennan's lips. "ah, well!" he said, "you must give the child time. perhaps when she comes back from ireland, after the summer." the young man answered moodily: "yes. i've got the run of that, you know. and i shan't be able to keep away." he took up his hat. "i suppose i oughtn't to have come and bored you about this, but nell thinks such a lot of you; and, you being different to most people--i thought you wouldn't mind." he turned again at the door. "it wasn't gas what i said just now--about not getting her. fellows say that sort of thing, but i mean it." he put on that shining hat and went. and lennan stood, staring at the statuette. so! passion broke down even the defences of dromoredom. passion! strange hearts it chose to bloom in! 'being different to most people--i thought you wouldn't mind'! how had this youth known that sylvia would not understand passion so out of hand as this? and what had made it clear that he (lennan) would? was there, then, something in his face? there must be! even johnny dromore--most reticent of creatures--had confided to him that one hour of his astute existence, when the wind had swept him out to sea! yes! and that statuette would never be any good, try as he might. oliver was right--it was her eyes! how they had smoked--in their childish anger--if eyes could be said to smoke, and how they had drawn and pleaded when she put her face to his in her still more childish entreaty! if they were like this now, what would they be when the woman in her woke? just as well not to think of her too much! just as well to work, and take heed that he would soon be forty-seven! just as well that next week she would be gone to ireland! and the last evening before she went they took her to see "carmen" at the opera. he remembered that she wore a nearly high white frock, and a dark carnation in the ribbon tying her crinkly hair, that still hung loose. how wonderfully entranced she sat, drunk on that opera that he had seen a score of times; now touching his arm, now sylvia's, whispering questions: "who's that?" "what's coming now?" the carmen roused her to adoration, but don jose was 'too fat in his funny little coat,' till, in the maddened jealousy of the last act, he rose superior. then, quite lost in excitement, she clutched lennan's arm; and her gasp, when carmen at last fell dead, made all their neighbours jump. her emotion was far more moving than that on the stage; he wanted badly to stroke, and comfort her and say: "there, there, my dear, it's only make-believe!" and, when it was over, and the excellent murdered lady and her poor fat little lover appeared before the curtain, finally forgetting that she was a woman of the world, she started forward in her seat and clapped, and clapped. fortunate that johnny dromore was not there to see! but all things coming to an end, they had to get up and go. and, as they made their way out to the hall, lennan felt a hot little finger crooked into his own, as if she simply must have something to squeeze. he really did not know what to do with it. she seemed to feel this half-heartedness, soon letting it go. all the way home in the cab she was silent. with that same abstraction she ate her sandwiches and drank her lemonade; took sylvia's kiss, and, quite a woman of the world once more, begged that they would not get up to see her off--for she was to go at seven in the morning, to catch the irish mail. then, holding out her hand to lennan, she very gravely said: "thanks most awfully for taking me to-night. good-bye!" he stayed full half an hour at the window, smoking. no street lamp shone just there, and the night was velvety black above the plane-trees. at last, with a sigh, he shut up, and went tiptoe-ing upstairs in darkness. suddenly in the corridor the white wall seemed to move at him. a warmth, a fragrance, a sound like a tiny sigh, and something soft was squeezed into his hand. then the wall moved back, and he stood listening--no sound, no anything! but in his dressing-room he looked at the soft thing in his hand. it was the carnation from her hair. what had possessed the child to give him that? carmen! ah! carmen! and gazing at the flower, he held it away from him with a sort of terror; but its scent arose. and suddenly he thrust it, all fresh as it was, into a candle-flame, and held it, burning, writhing, till it blackened to velvet. then his heart smote him for so cruel a deed. it was still beautiful, but its scent was gone. and turning to the window he flung it far out into the darkness. viii now that she was gone, it was curious how little they spoke of her, considering how long she had been with them. and they had from her but one letter written to sylvia, very soon after she left, ending: "dad sends his best respects, please; and with my love to you and mr. lennan, and all the beasts.--nell. "oliver is coming here next week. we are going to some races." it was difficult, of course, to speak of her, with that episode of the flower, too bizarre to be told--the sort of thing sylvia would see out of all proportion--as, indeed, any woman might. yet--what had it really been, but the uncontrolled impulse of an emotional child longing to express feelings kindled by the excitement of that opera? what but a child's feathery warmth, one of those flying peeps at the mystery of passion that young things take? he could not give away that pretty foolishness. and because he would not give it away, he was more than usually affectionate to sylvia. they had made no holiday plans, and he eagerly fell in with her suggestion that they should go down to hayle. there, if anywhere, this curious restlessness would leave him. they had not been down to the old place for many years; indeed, since gordy's death it was generally let. they left london late in august. the day was closing in when they arrived. honeysuckle had long been improved away from that station paling, against which he had stood twenty-nine years ago, watching the train carrying anna stormer away. in the hired fly sylvia pressed close to him, and held his hand beneath the ancient dust-rug. both felt the same excitement at seeing again this old home. not a single soul of the past days would be there now--only the house and the trees, the owls and the stars; the river, park, and logan stone! it was dark when they arrived; just their bedroom and two sitting-rooms had been made ready, with fires burning, though it was still high summer. the same old execrable heatherleys looked down from the black oak panellings. the same scent of apples and old mice clung here and there about the dark corridors with their unexpected stairways. it was all curiously unchanged, as old houses are when they are let furnished. once in the night he woke. through the wide-open, uncurtained windows the night was simply alive with stars, such swarms of them swinging and trembling up there; and, far away, rose the melancholy, velvet-soft hooting of an owl. sylvia's voice, close to him, said: "mark, that night when your star caught in my hair? do you remember?" yes, he remembered. and in his drowsy mind just roused from dreams, there turned and turned the queer nonsensical refrain: "i never--never--will desert mr. micawber. . . ." a pleasant month that--of reading, and walking with the dogs the country round, of lying out long hours amongst the boulders or along the river banks, watching beasts and birds. the little old green-house temple of his early masterpieces was still extant, used now to protect watering pots. but no vestige of impulse towards work came to him down there. he was marking time; not restless, not bored, just waiting--but for what, he had no notion. and sylvia, at any rate, was happy, blooming in these old haunts, losing her fairness in the sun; even taking again to a sunbonnet, which made her look extraordinarily young. the trout that poor old gordy had so harried were left undisturbed. no gun was fired; rabbits, pigeons, even the few partridges enjoyed those first days of autumn unmolested. the bracken and leaves turned very early, so that the park in the hazy september sunlight had an almost golden hue. a gentle mellowness reigned over all that holiday. and from ireland came no further news, save one picture postcard with the words: "this is our house.--nell." in the last week of september they went back to london. and at once there began in him again that restless, unreasonable aching--that sense of being drawn away out of himself; so that he once more took to walking the park for hours, over grass already strewn with leaves, always looking--craving--and for what? at dromore's the confidential man did not know when his master would be back; he had gone to scotland with miss nell after the st. leger. was lennan disappointed? not so--relieved, rather. but his ache was there all the time, feeding on its secrecy and loneliness, unmentionable feeling that it was. why had he not realized long ago that youth was over, passion done with, autumn upon him? how never grasped the fact that 'time steals away'? and, as before, the only refuge was in work. the sheep--dogs and 'the girl on the magpie horse' were finished. he began a fantastic 'relief'--a nymph peering from behind a rock, and a wild-eyed man creeping, through reeds, towards her. if he could put into the nymph's face something of this lure of youth and life and love that was dragging at him, into the man's face the state of his own heart, it might lay that feeling to rest. anything to get it out of himself! and he worked furiously, laboriously, all october, making no great progress. . . . what could he expect when life was all the time knocking with that muffled tapping at his door? it was on the tuesday, after the close of the last newmarket meeting, and just getting dusk, when life opened the door and walked in. she wore a dark-red dress, a new one, and surely her face--her figure--were very different from what he had remembered! they had quickened and become poignant. she was no longer a child--that was at once plain. cheeks, mouth, neck, waist--all seemed fined, shaped; the crinkly, light-brown hair was coiled up now under a velvet cap; only the great grey eyes seemed quite the same. and at sight of her his heart gave a sort of dive and flight, as if all its vague and wistful sensations had found their goal. then, in sudden agitation, he realized that his last moment with this girl--now a child no longer--had been a secret moment of warmth and of emotion; a moment which to her might have meant, in her might have bred, feelings that he had no inkling of. he tried to ignore that fighting and diving of his heart, held out his hand, and murmured: "ah, nell! back at last! you've grown." then, with a sensation of every limb gone weak, he felt her arms round his neck, and herself pressed against him. there was time for the thought to flash through him: this is terrible! he gave her a little convulsive squeeze--could a man do less?--then just managed to push her gently away, trying with all his might to think: she's a child! it's nothing more than after carmen! she doesn't know what i am feeling! but he was conscious of a mad desire to clutch her to him. the touch of her had demolished all his vagueness, made things only too plain, set him on fire. he said uncertainly: "come to the fire, my child, and tell me all about it." if he did not keep to the notion that she was just a child, his head would go. perdita--'the lost one'! a good name for her, indeed, as she stood there, her eyes shining in the firelight--more mesmeric than ever they had been! and, to get away from the lure of those eyes, he bent down and raked the grate, saying: "have you seen sylvia?" but he knew that she had not, even before she gave that impatient shrug. then he pulled himself together, and said: "what has happened to you, child?" "i'm not a child." "no, we've both grown older. i was forty-seven the other day." she caught his hand--heavens! how supple she was!--and murmured: "you're not old a bit; you're quite young." at his wits' end, with his heart thumping, but still keeping his eyes away from her, he said: "where is oliver?" she dropped his hand at that. "oliver? i hate him!" afraid to trust himself near her, he had begun walking up and down. and she stood, following him with her gaze--the firelight playing on her red frock. what extraordinary stillness! what power she had developed in these few months! had he let her see that he felt that power? and had all this come of one little moment in a dark corridor, of one flower pressed into his hand? why had he not spoken to her roughly then--told her she was a romantic little fool? god knew what thoughts she had been feeding on! but who could have supposed--who dreamed--? and again he fixed his mind resolutely on that thought: she's a child--only a child! "come!" he said: "tell me all about your time in ireland?" "oh! it was just dull--it's all been dull away from you." it came out without hesitancy or shame, and he could only murmur: "ah! you've missed your drawing!" "yes. can i come to-morrow?" that was the moment to have said: no! you are a foolish child, and i an elderly idiot! but he had neither courage nor clearness of mind enough; nor--the desire. and, without answering, he went towards the door to turn up the light. "oh, no! please don't! it's so nice like this!" the shadowy room, the bluish dusk painted on all the windows, the fitful shining of the fire, the pallor and darkness of the dim casts and bronzes, and that one glowing figure there before the hearth! and her voice, a little piteous, went on: "aren't you glad i'm back? i can't see you properly out there." he went back into the glow, and she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. then her calm young voice said, ever so distinctly: "oliver wants me to marry him, and i won't, of course." he dared not say: why not? he dared not say anything. it was too dangerous. and then followed those amazing words: "you know why, don't you? of course you do." it was ridiculous, almost shameful to understand their meaning. and he stood, staring in front of him, without a word; humility, dismay, pride, and a sort of mad exultation, all mixed and seething within him in the queerest pudding of emotion. but all he said was: "come, my child; we're neither of us quite ourselves to-night. let's go to the drawing-room." ix back in the darkness and solitude of the studio, when she was gone, he sat down before the fire, his senses in a whirl. why was he not just an ordinary animal of a man that could enjoy what the gods had sent? it was as if on a november day someone had pulled aside the sober curtains of the sky and there in a chink had been april standing--thick white blossom, a purple cloud, a rainbow, grass vivid green, light flaring from one knew not where, and such a tingling passion of life on it all as made the heart stand still! this, then, was the marvellous, enchanting, maddening end of all that year of restlessness and wanting! this bit of spring suddenly given to him in the midst of autumn. her lips, her eyes, her hair; her touching confidence; above all--quite unbelievable--her love. not really love perhaps, just childish fancy. but on the wings of fancy this child would fly far, too far--all wistfulness and warmth beneath that light veneer of absurd composure. to live again--to plunge back into youth and beauty--to feel spring once more--to lose the sense of all being over, save just the sober jogtrot of domestic bliss; to know, actually to know, ecstasy again, in the love of a girl; to rediscover all that youth yearns for, and feels, and hopes, and dreads, and loves. it was a prospect to turn the head even of a decent man. . . . by just closing his eyes he could see her standing there with the firelight glow on her red frock; could feel again that marvellous thrill when she pressed herself against him in the half-innocent, seducing moment when she first came in; could feel again her eyes drawing--drawing him! she was a witch, a grey-eyed, brown-haired witch--even unto her love of red. she had the witch's power of lighting fever in the veins. and he simply wondered at himself, that he had not, as she stood there in the firelight, knelt, and put his arms round her and pressed his face against her waist. why had he not? but he did not want to think; the moment thought began he knew he must be torn this way and that, tossed here and there between reason and desire, pity and passion. every sense struggled to keep him wrapped in the warmth and intoxication of this discovery that he, in the full of autumn, had awakened love in spring. it was amazing that she could have this feeling; yet there was no mistake. her manner to sylvia just now had been almost dangerously changed; there had been a queer cold impatience in her look, frightening from one who but three months ago had been so affectionate. and, going away, she had whispered, with that old trembling-up at him, as if offering to be kissed: "i may come, mayn't i? and don't be angry with me, please; i can't help it." a monstrous thing at his age to let a young girl love him--compromise her future! a monstrous thing by all the canons of virtue and gentility! and yet--what future?--with that nature--those eyes--that origin--with that father, and that home? but he would not--simply must not think! nevertheless, he showed the signs of thought, and badly; for after dinner sylvia, putting her hand on his forehead, said: "you're working too hard, mark. you don't go out enough." he held those fingers fast. sylvia! no, indeed he must not think! but he took advantage of her words, and said that he would go out and get some air. he walked at a great pace--to keep thought away--till he reached the river close to westminster, and, moved by sudden impulse, seeking perhaps an antidote, turned down into that little street under the big wren church, where he had never been since the summer night when he lost what was then more to him than life. there she had lived; there was the house--those windows which he had stolen past and gazed at with such distress and longing. who lived there now? once more he seemed to see that face out of the past, the dark hair, and dark soft eyes, and sweet gravity; and it did not reproach him. for this new feeling was not a love like that had been. only once could a man feel the love that passed all things, the love before which the world was but a spark in a draught of wind; the love that, whatever dishonour, grief, and unrest it might come through, alone had in it the heart of peace and joy and honour. fate had torn that love from him, nipped it off as a sharp wind nips off a perfect flower. this new feeling was but a fever, a passionate fancy, a grasping once more at youth and warmth. ah, well! but it was real enough! and, in one of those moments when a man stands outside himself, seems to be lifted away and see his own life twirling, lennan had a vision of a shadow driven here and there; a straw going round and round; a midge in the grip of a mad wind. where was the home of this mighty secret feeling that sprang so suddenly out of the dark, and caught you by the throat? why did it come now and not then, for this one and not that other? what did man know of it, save that it made him spin and hover--like a moth intoxicated by a light, or a bee by some dark sweet flower; save that it made of him a distraught, humble, eager puppet of its fancy? had it not once already driven him even to the edge of death; and must it now come on him again with its sweet madness, its drugging scent? what was it? why was it? why these passionate obsessions that could not decently be satisfied? had civilization so outstripped man that his nature was cramped into shoes too small--like the feet of a chinese woman? what was it? why was it? and faster than ever he walked away. pall mall brought him back to that counterfeit presentment of the real--reality. there, in st. james's street, was johnny dromore's club; and, again moved by impulse, he pushed open its swing door. no need to ask; for there was dromore in the hall, on his way from dinner to the card-room. the glossy tan of hard exercise and good living lay on his cheeks as thick as clouted cream. his eyes had the peculiar shine of superabundant vigour; a certain sub-festive air in face and voice and movements suggested that he was going to make a night of it. and the sardonic thought flashed through lennan: shall i tell him? "hallo, old chap! awfully glad to see you! what you doin' with yourself? workin' hard? how's your wife? you been away? been doin' anything great?" and then the question that would have given him his chance, if he had liked to be so cruel: "seen nell?" "yes, she came round this afternoon." "what d'you think of her? comin' on nicely, isn't she?" that old query, half furtive and half proud, as much as to say: 'i know she's not in the stud-book, but, d--n it, i sired her!' and then the old sudden gloom, which lasted but a second, and gave way again to chaff. lennan stayed very few minutes. never had he felt farther from his old school-chum. no. whatever happened, johnny dromore must be left out. it was a position he had earned with his goggling eyes, and his astute philosophy; from it he should not be disturbed. he passed along the railings of the green park. on the cold air of this last october night a thin haze hung, and the acrid fragrance from little bonfires of fallen leaves. what was there about that scent of burned-leaf smoke that had always moved him so? symbol of parting!--that most mournful thing in all the world. for what would even death be, but for parting? sweet, long sleep, or new adventure. but, if a man loved others--to leave them, or be left! ah! and it was not death only that brought partings! he came to the opening of the street where dromore lived. she would be there, sitting by the fire in the big chair, playing with her kitten, thinking, dreaming, and--alone! he passed on at such a pace that people stared; till, turning the last corner for home, he ran almost into the arms of oliver dromore. the young man was walking with unaccustomed indecision, his fur coat open, his opera-hat pushed up on his crisp hair. dark under the eyes, he had not the proper gloss of a dromore at this season of the year. "mr. lennan! i've just been round to you." and lennan answered dazedly: "will you come in, or shall i walk your way a bit?" "i'd rather--out here, if you don't mind." so in silence they went back into the square. and oliver said: "let's get over by the rails." they crossed to the railings of the square's dark garden, where nobody was passing. and with every step lennan's humiliation grew. there was something false and undignified in walking with this young man who had once treated him as a father confessor to his love for nell. and suddenly he perceived that they had made a complete circuit of the square garden without speaking a single word. "yes?" he said. oliver turned his face away. "you remember what i told you in the summer. well, it's worse now. i've been going a mucker lately in all sorts of ways to try and get rid of it. but it's all no good. she's got me!" and lennan thought: you're not alone in that! but he kept silence. his chief dread was of saying something that he would remember afterwards as the words of judas. then oliver suddenly burst out: "why can't she care? i suppose i'm nothing much, but she's known me all her life, and she used to like me. there's something--i can't make out. could you do anything for me with her?" lennan pointed across the street. "in every other one of those houses, oliver," he said, "there's probably some creature who can't make out why another creature doesn't care. passion comes when it will, goes when it will; and we poor devils have no say in it." "what do you advise me, then?" lennan had an almost overwhelming impulse to turn on his heel and leave the young man standing there. but he forced himself to look at his face, which even then had its attraction--perhaps more so than ever, so pallid and desperate it was. and he said slowly, staring mentally at every word: "i'm not up to giving you advice. the only thing i might say is: one does not press oneself where one isn't wanted; all the same--who knows? so long as she feels you're there, waiting, she might turn to you at any moment. the more chivalrous you are, oliver, the more patiently you wait, the better chance you have." oliver took those words of little comfort without flinching. "i see," he said. "thanks! but, my god! it's hard. i never could wait." and with that epigram on himself, holding out his hand, he turned away. lennan went slowly home, trying to gauge exactly how anyone who knew all would judge him. it was a little difficult in this affair to keep a shred of dignity. sylvia had not gone up, and he saw her looking at him anxiously. the one strange comfort in all this was that his feeling for her, at any rate, had not changed. it seemed even to have deepened--to be more real to him. how could he help staying awake that night? how could he help thinking, then? and long time he lay, staring at the dark. as if thinking were any good for fever in the veins! x passion never plays the game. it, at all events, is free from self-consciousness, and pride; from dignity, nerves, scruples, cant, moralities; from hypocrisies, and wisdom, and fears for pocket, and position in this world and the next. well did the old painters limn it as an arrow or a wind! if it had not been as swift and darting, earth must long ago have drifted through space untenanted--to let. . . . after that fevered night lennan went to his studio at the usual hour and naturally did not do a stroke of work. he was even obliged to send away his model. the fellow had been his hairdresser, but, getting ill, and falling on dark days, one morning had come to the studio, to ask with manifest shame if his head were any good. after having tested his capacity for standing still, and giving him some introductions, lennan had noted him down: "five feet nine, good hair, lean face, something tortured and pathetic. give him a turn if possible." the turn had come, and the poor man was posing in a painful attitude, talking, whenever permitted, of the way things had treated him, and the delights of cutting hair. this morning he took his departure with the simple pleasure of one fully paid for services not rendered. and so, walking up and down, up and down, the sculptor waited for nell's knock. what would happen now? thinking had made nothing clear. here was offered what every warm-blooded man whose spring is past desires--youth and beauty, and in that youth a renewal of his own; what all men save hypocrites and englishmen would even admit that they desired. and it was offered to one who had neither religious nor moral scruples, as they are commonly understood. in theory he could accept. in practice he did not as yet know what he could do. one thing only he had discovered during the night's reflections: that those who scouted belief in the principle of liberty made no greater mistake than to suppose that liberty was dangerous because it made a man a libertine. to those with any decency, the creed of freedom was--of all--the most enchaining. easy enough to break chains imposed by others, fling his cap over the windmill, and cry for the moment at least: i am unfettered, free! hard, indeed, to say the same to his own unfettered self! yes, his own self was in the judgment-seat; by his own verdict and decision he must abide. and though he ached for the sight of her, and his will seemed paralyzed--many times already he had thought: it won't do! god help me! then twelve o'clock had come, and she had not. would 'the girl on the magpie horse' be all he would see of her to-day--that unsatisfying work, so cold, and devoid of witchery? better have tried to paint her--with a red flower in her hair, a pout on her lips, and her eyes fey, or languorous. goya could have painted her! and then, just as he had given her up, she came. after taking one look at his face, she slipped in ever so quietly, like a very good child. . . . marvellous the instinct and finesse of the young when they are women! . . . not a vestige in her of yesterday's seductive power; not a sign that there had been a yesterday at all--just confiding, like a daughter. sitting there, telling him about ireland, showing him the little batch of drawings she had done while she was away. had she brought them because she knew they would make him feel sorry for her? what could have been less dangerous, more appealing to the protective and paternal side of him than she was that morning; as if she only wanted what her father and her home could not give her--only wanted to be a sort of daughter to him! she went away demurely, as she had come, refusing to stay to lunch, manifestly avoiding sylvia. only then he realized that she must have taken alarm from the look of strain on his face, been afraid that he would send her away; only then perceived that, with her appeal to his protection, she had been binding him closer, making it harder for him to break away and hurt her. and the fevered aching began again--worse than ever--the moment he lost sight of her. and more than ever he felt in the grip of something beyond his power to fight against; something that, however he swerved, and backed, and broke away, would close in on him, find means to bind him again hand and foot. in the afternoon dromore's confidential man brought him a note. the fellow, with his cast-down eyes, and his well-parted hair, seemed to lennan to be saying: "yes, sir--it is quite natural that you should take the note out of eyeshot, sir--but i know; fortunately, there is no necessity for alarm--i am strictly confidential." and this was what the note contained: "you promised to ride with me once--you did promise, and you never have. do please ride with me to-morrow; then you will get what you want for the statuette instead of being so cross with it. you can have dad's horse--he has gone to newmarket again, and i'm so lonely. please--to-morrow, at half-past two--starting from here.--nell." to hesitate in view of those confidential eyes was not possible; it must be 'yes' or 'no'; and if 'no,' it would only mean that she would come in the morning instead. so he said: "just say 'all right!'" "very good, sir." then from the door: "mr. dromore will be away till saturday, sir." now, why had the fellow said that? curious how this desperate secret feeling of his own made him see sinister meaning in this servant, in oliver's visit of last night--in everything. it was vile--this suspiciousness! he could feel, almost see, himself deteriorating already, with this furtive feeling in his soul. it would soon be written on his face! but what was the use of troubling? what would come, would--one way or the other. and suddenly he remembered with a shock that it was the first of november--sylvia's birthday! he had never before forgotten it. in the disturbance of that discovery he was very near to going and pouring out to her the whole story of his feelings. a charming birthday present, that would make! taking his hat, instead, he dashed round to the nearest flower shop. a frenchwoman kept it. what had she? what did monsieur desire? "des oeillets rouges? j'en ai de bien beaux ce soir." no--not those. white flowers! "une belle azalee?" yes, that would do--to be sent at once--at once! next door was a jeweller's. he had never really known if sylvia cared for jewels, since one day he happened to remark that they were vulgar. and feeling that he had fallen low indeed, to be trying to atone with some miserable gewgaw for never having thought of her all day, because he had been thinking of another, he went in and bought the only ornament whose ingredients did not make his gorge rise, two small pear-shaped black pearls, one at each end of a fine platinum chain. coming out with it, he noticed over the street, in a clear sky fast deepening to indigo, the thinnest slip of a new moon, like a bright swallow, with wings bent back, flying towards the ground. that meant--fine weather! if it could only be fine weather in his heart! and in order that the azalea might arrive first, he walked up and down the square which he and oliver had patrolled the night before. when he went in, sylvia was just placing the white azalea in the window of the drawing-room; and stealing up behind her he clasped the little necklet round her throat. she turned round and clung to him. he could feel that she was greatly moved. and remorse stirred and stirred in him that he was betraying her with his kiss. but, even while he kissed her, he was hardening his heart. xi next day, still following the lead of her words about fresh air and his tired look, he told her that he was going to ride, and did not say with whom. after applauding his resolution, she was silent for a little--then asked: "why don't you ride with nell?" he had already so lost his dignity, that he hardly felt disgraced in answering: "it might bore her!" "oh, no; it wouldn't bore her." had she meant anything by that? and feeling as if he were fencing with his own soul, he said: "very well, i will." he had perceived suddenly that he did not know his wife, having always till now believed that it was she who did not quite know him. if she had not been out at lunch-time, he would have lunched out himself--afraid of his own face. for feverishness in sick persons mounts steadily with the approach of a certain hour. and surely his face, to anyone who could have seen him being conveyed to piccadilly, would have suggested a fevered invalid rather than a healthy, middle-aged sculptor in a cab. the horses were before the door--the little magpie horse, and a thoroughbred bay mare, weeded from dromore's racing stable. nell, too, was standing ready, her cheeks very pink, and her eyes very bright. she did not wait for him to mount her, but took the aid of the confidential man. what was it that made her look so perfect on that little horse--shape of limb, or something soft and fiery in her spirit that the little creature knew of? they started in silence, but as soon as the sound of hoofs died on the tan of rotten row, she turned to him. "it was lovely of you to come! i thought you'd be afraid--you are afraid of me." and lennan thought: you're right! "but please don't look like yesterday. to-day's too heavenly. oh! i love beautiful days, and i love riding, and--" she broke off and looked at him. 'why can't you just be nice to me'--she seemed to be saying--'and love me as you ought!' that was her power--the conviction that he did, and ought to love her; that she ought to and did love him. how simple! but riding, too, is a simple passion; and simple passions distract each other. it was a treat to be on that bay mare. who so to be trusted to ride the best as johnny dromore? at the far end of the row she cried out: "let's go on to richmond now," and trotted off into the road, as if she knew she could do with him what she wished. and, following meekly, he asked himself: why? what was there in her to make up to him for all that he was losing--his power of work, his dignity, his self-respect? what was there? just those eyes, and lips, and hair? and as if she knew what he was thinking, she looked round and smiled. so they jogged on over the bridge and across barnes common into richmond park. but the moment they touched turf, with one look back at him, she was off. had she all the time meant to give him this breakneck chase--or had the loveliness of that autumn day gone to her head--blue sky and coppery flames of bracken in the sun, and the beech leaves and the oak leaves; pure highland colouring come south for once. when in the first burst he had tested the mare's wind, this chase of her, indeed, was sheer delight. through glades, over fallen tree-trunks, in bracken up to the hocks, out across the open, past a herd of amazed and solemn deer, over rotten ground all rabbit-burrows, till just as he thought he was up to her, she slipped away by a quick turn round trees. mischief incarnate, but something deeper than mischief, too! he came up with her at last, and leaned over to seize her rein. with a cut of her whip that missed his hand by a bare inch, and a wrench, she made him shoot past, wheeled in her tracks, and was off again like an arrow, back amongst the trees--lying right forward under the boughs, along the neck of her little horse. then out from amongst the trees she shot downhill. right down she went, full tilt, and after her went lennan, lying back, and expecting the bay mare to come down at every stride. this was her idea of fun! she switched round at the bottom and went galloping along the foot of the hill; and he thought: now i've got her! she could not break back up that hill, and there was no other cover for fully half a mile. then he saw, not thirty yards in front, an old sandpit; and great god! she was going straight at it! and shouting frantically, he reined his mare outwards. but she only raised her whip, cut the magpie horse over the flank, and rode right on. he saw that little demon gather its feet and spring--down, down, saw him pitch, struggle, sink--and she, flung forward, roll over and lie on her back. he felt nothing at the moment, only had that fixed vision of a yellow patch of sand, the blue sky, a rook flying, and her face upturned. but when he came on her she was on her feet, holding the bridle of her dazed horse. no sooner did he touch her, than she sank down. her eyes were closed, but he could feel that she had not fainted; and he just held her, and kept pressing his lips to her eyes and forehead. suddenly she let her head fall back, and her lips met his. then opening her eyes, she said: "i'm not hurt, only--funny. has magpie cut his knees?" not quite knowing what he did, he got up to look. the little horse was cropping at some grass, unharmed--the sand and fern had saved his knees. and the languid voice behind him said: "it's all right--you can leave the horses. they'll come when i call." now that he knew she was unhurt, he felt angry. why had she behaved in this mad way--given him this fearful shock? but in that same languid voice she went on: "don't be cross with me. i thought at first i'd pull up, but then i thought: 'if i jump he can't help being nice'--so i did--don't leave off loving me because i'm not hurt, please." terribly moved, he sat down beside her, took her hands in his, and said: "nell! nell! it's all wrong--it's madness!" "why? don't think about it! i don't want you to think--only to love me." "my child, you don't know what love is!" for answer she only flung her arms round his neck; then, since he held back from kissing her, let them fall again, and jumped up. "very well. but i love you. you can think of that--you can't prevent me!" and without waiting for help, she mounted the magpie horse from the sand-heap where they had fallen. very sober that ride home! the horses, as if ashamed of their mad chase, were edging close to each other, so that now and then his arm would touch her shoulder. he asked her once what she had felt while she was jumping. "only to be sure my foot was free. it was rather horrid coming down, thinking of magpie's knees;" and touching the little horse's goat-like ears, she added softly: "poor dear! he'll be stiff to-morrow." she was again only the confiding, rather drowsy, child. or was it that the fierceness of those past moments had killed his power of feeling? an almost dreamy hour--with the sun going down, the lamps being lighted one by one--and a sort of sweet oblivion over everything! at the door, where the groom was waiting, lennan would have said good-bye, but she whispered: "oh, no, please! i am tired now--you might help me up a little." and so, half carrying her, he mounted past the vanity fair cartoons, and through the corridor with the red paper and the van beers' drawings, into the room where he had first seen her. once settled back in dromore's great chair, with the purring kitten curled up on her neck, she murmured: "isn't it nice? you can make tea; and we'll have hot buttered toast." and so lennan stayed, while the confidential man brought tea and toast; and, never once looking at them, seemed to know all that had passed, all that might be to come. then they were alone again, and, gazing down at her stretched out in that great chair, lennan thought: "thank god that i'm tired too--body and soul!" but suddenly she looked up at him, and pointing to the picture that to-day had no curtain drawn, said: "do you think i'm like her? i made oliver tell me about--myself this summer. that's why you needn't bother. it doesn't matter what happens to me, you see. and i don't care--because you can love me, without feeling bad about it. and you will, won't you?" then, with her eyes still on his face, she went on quickly: "only we won't talk about that now, will we? it's too cosy. i am nice and tired. do smoke!" but lennan's fingers trembled so that he could hardly light that cigarette. and, watching them, she said: "please give me one. dad doesn't like my smoking." the virtue of johnny dromore! yes! it would always be by proxy! and he muttered: "how do you think he would like to know about this afternoon, nell?" "i don't care." then peering up through the kitten's fur she murmured: "oliver wants me to go to a dance on saturday--it's for a charity. shall i?" "of course; why not?" "will you come?" "i?" "oh, do! you must! it's my very first, you know. i've got an extra ticket." and against his will, his judgment--everything, lennan answered: "yes." she clapped her hands, and the kitten crawled down to her knees. when he got up to go, she did not move, but just looked up at him; and how he got away he did not know. stopping his cab a little short of home, he ran, for he felt cold and stiff, and letting himself in with his latch-key, went straight to the drawing-room. the door was ajar, and sylvia standing at the window. he heard her sigh; and his heart smote him. very still, and slender, and lonely she looked out there, with the light shining on her fair hair so that it seemed almost white. then she turned and saw him. he noticed her throat working with the effort she made not to show him anything, and he said: "surely you haven't been anxious! nell had a bit of a fall--jumping into a sandpit. she's quite mad sometimes. i stayed to tea with her--just to make sure she wasn't really hurt." but as he spoke he loathed himself; his voice sounded so false. she only answered: "it's all right, dear," but he saw that she kept her eyes--those blue, too true eyes--averted, even when she kissed him. and so began another evening and night and morning of fever, subterfuge, wariness, aching. a round of half-ecstatic torment, out of which he seemed no more able to break than a man can break through the walls of a cell. . . . though it live but a day in the sun, though it drown in tenebrous night, the dark flower of passion will have its hour. . . . xii to deceive undoubtedly requires a course of training. and, unversed in this art, lennan was fast finding it intolerable to scheme and watch himself, and mislead one who had looked up to him ever since they were children. yet, all the time, he had a feeling that, since he alone knew all the circumstances of his case, he alone was entitled to blame or to excuse himself. the glib judgments that moralists would pass upon his conduct could be nothing but the imbecilities of smug and pharisaic fools--of those not under this drugging spell--of such as had not blood enough, perhaps, ever to fall beneath it! the day after the ride nell had not come, and he had no word from her. was she, then, hurt, after all? she had lain back very inertly in that chair! and sylvia never asked if he knew how the girl was after her fall, nor offered to send round to inquire. did she not wish to speak of her, or had she simply--not believed? when there was so much he could not talk of it seemed hard that just what happened to be true should be distrusted. she had not yet, indeed, by a single word suggested that she felt he was deceiving her, but at heart he knew that she was not deceived. . . . those feelers of a woman who loves--can anything check their delicate apprehension? . . . towards evening, the longing to see the girl--a sensation as if she were calling him to come to her--became almost insupportable; yet, whatever excuse he gave, he felt that sylvia would know where he was going. he sat on one side of the fire, she on the other, and they both read books; the only strange thing about their reading was, that neither of them ever turned a leaf. it was 'don quixote' he read, the page which had these words: "let altisidora weep or sing, still i am dulcinea's and hers alone, dead or alive, dutiful and unchanged, in spite of all the necromantic powers in the world." and so the evening passed. when she went up to bed, he was very near to stealing out, driving up to the dromores' door, and inquiring of the confidential man; but the thought of the confounded fellow's eyes was too much for him, and he held out. he took up sylvia's book, de maupassant's 'fort comme la mort'--open at the page where the poor woman finds that her lover has passed away from her to her own daughter. and as he read, the tears rolled down his cheek. sylvia! sylvia! were not his old favourite words from that old favourite book still true? "dulcinea del toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and i the most unfortunate knight upon the earth. it were unjust that such perfection should suffer through my weakness. no, pierce my body with your lance, knight, and let my life expire with my honour. . . ." why could he not wrench this feeling from his heart, banish this girl from his eyes? why could he not be wholly true to her who was and always had been wholly true to him? horrible--this will-less, nerveless feeling, this paralysis, as if he were a puppet moved by a cruel hand. and, as once before, it seemed to him that the girl was sitting there in sylvia's chair in her dark red frock, with her eyes fixed on him. uncannily vivid--that impression! . . . a man could not go on long with his head in chancery like this, without becoming crazed! it was growing dusk on saturday afternoon when he gave up that intolerable waiting and opened the studio door to go to nell. it was now just two days since he had seen or heard of her. she had spoken of a dance for that very night--of his going to it. she must be ill! but he had not taken six steps when he saw her coming. she had on a grey furry scarf, hiding her mouth, making her look much older. the moment the door was shut she threw it off, went to the hearth, drew up a little stool, and, holding her hands out to the fire, said: "have you thought about me? have you thought enough now?" and he answered: "yes, i've thought, but i'm no nearer." "why? nobody need ever know you love me. and if they did, i wouldn't care." simple! how simple! glorious, egoistic youth! he could not speak of sylvia to this child--speak of his married life, hitherto so dignified, so almost sacred. it was impossible. then he heard her say: "it can't be wrong to love you! i don't care if it is wrong," and saw her lips quivering, and her eyes suddenly piteous and scared, as if for the first time she doubted of the issue. here was fresh torment! to watch an unhappy child. and what was the use of even trying to make clear to her--on the very threshold of life--the hopeless maze that he was wandering in! what chance of making her understand the marsh of mud and tangled weeds he must drag through to reach her. "nobody need know." so simple! what of his heart and his wife's heart? and, pointing to his new work--the first man bewitched by the first nymph--he said: "look at this, nell! that nymph is you; and this man is me." she got up, and came to look. and while she was gazing he greedily drank her in. what a strange mixture of innocence and sorcery! what a wonderful young creature to bring to full knowledge of love within his arms! and he said: "you had better understand what you are to me--all that i shall never know again; there it is in that nymph's face. oh, no! not your face. and there am i struggling through slime to reach you--not my face, of course." she said: "poor face!" then covered her own. was she going to cry, and torture him still more? but, instead, she only murmured: "but you have reached me!" swayed towards him, and put her lips to his. he gave way then. from that too stormy kiss of his she drew back for a second, then, as if afraid of her own recoil, snuggled close again. but the instinctive shrinking of innocence had been enough for lennan--he dropped his arms and said: "you must go, child." without a word she picked up her fur, put it on, and stood waiting for him to speak. then, as he did not, she held out something white. it was the card for the dance. "you said you were coming?" and he nodded. her eyes and lips smiled at him; she opened the door, and, still with that slow, happy smile, went out. . . . yes, he would be coming; wherever she was, whenever she wanted him! . . . his blood on fire, heedless of everything but to rush after happiness, lennan spent those hours before the dance. he had told sylvia that he would be dining at his club--a set of rooms owned by a small coterie of artists in chelsea. he had taken this precaution, feeling that he could not sit through dinner opposite her and then go out to that dance--and nell! he had spoken of a guest at the club, to account for evening dress--another lie, but what did it matter? he was lying all the time, if not in words, in action--must lie, indeed, to save her suffering! he stopped at the frenchwoman's flower shop. "que desirez-vous, monsieur? des oeillets rouges--j'en ai de bien beaux, ce soir." des oeillets rouges? yes, those to-night! to this address. no green with them; no card! how strange the feeling--with the die once cast for love--of rushing, of watching his own self being left behind! in the brompton road, outside a little restaurant, a thin musician was playing on a violin. ah! and he knew this place; he would go in there, not to the club--and the fiddler should have all he had to spare, for playing those tunes of love. he turned in. he had not been there since the day before that night on the river, twenty years ago. never since; and yet it was not changed. the same tarnished gilt, and smell of cooking; the same macaroni in the same tomato sauce; the same chianti flasks; the same staring, light-blue walls wreathed with pink flowers. only the waiter different--hollow-cheeked, patient, dark of eye. he, too, should be well tipped! and that poor, over-hatted lady, eating her frugal meal--to her, at all events, a look of kindness. for all desperate creatures he must feel, this desperate night! and suddenly he thought of oliver. another desperate one! what should he say to oliver at this dance--he, aged forty-seven, coming there without his wife! some imbecility, such as: 'watching the human form divine in motion,' 'catching sidelights on nell for the statuette'--some cant; it did not matter! the wine was drawn, and he must drink! it was still early when he left the restaurant--a dry night, very calm, not cold. when had he danced last? with olive cramier, before he knew he loved her. well, that memory could not be broken, for he would not dance to-night! just watch, sit with the girl a few minutes, feel her hand cling to his, see her eyes turned back to him; and--come away! and then--the future! for the wine was drawn! the leaf of a plane-tree, fluttering down, caught on his sleeve. autumn would soon be gone, and after autumn--only winter! she would have done with him long before he came to winter. nature would see to it that youth called for her, and carried her away. nature in her courses! but just to cheat nature for a little while! to cheat nature--what greater happiness! here was the place with red-striped awning, carriages driving away, loiterers watching. he turned in with a beating heart. was he before her? how would she come to this first dance? with oliver alone? or had some chaperon been found? to have come because she--this child so lovely, born 'outside'--might have need of chaperonage, would have been some comfort to dignity, so wistful, so lost as his. but, alas! he knew he was only there because he could not keep away! already they were dancing in the hall upstairs; but not she, yet; and he stood leaning against the wall where she must pass. lonely and out of place he felt; as if everyone must know why he was there. people stared, and he heard a girl ask: "who's that against the wall with the hair and dark moustache?"--and her partner murmuring his answer, and her voice again: "yes, he looks as if he were seeing sand and lions." for whom, then, did they take him? thank heaven! they were all the usual sort. there would be no one that he knew. suppose johnny dromore himself came with nell! he was to be back on saturday! what could he say, then? how meet those doubting, knowing eyes, goggling with the fixed philosophy that a man has but one use for woman? god! and it would be true! for a moment he was on the point of getting his coat and hat, and sneaking away. that would mean not seeing her till monday; and he stood his ground. but after to-night there must be no more such risks--their meetings must be wisely planned, must sink underground. and then he saw her at the foot of the stairs in a dress of a shell-pink colour, with one of his flowers in her light-brown hair and the others tied to the handle of a tiny fan. how self-possessed she looked, as if this were indeed her native element--her neck and arms bare, her cheeks a deep soft pink, her eyes quickly turning here and there. she began mounting the stairs, and saw him. was ever anything so lovely as she looked just then? behind her he marked oliver, and a tall girl with red hair, and another young man. he moved deliberately to the top of the stairs on the wall side, so that from behind they should not see her face when she greeted him. she put the little fan with the flowers to her lips; and, holding out her hand, said, quick and low: "the fourth, it's a polka; we'll sit out, won't we?" then swaying a little, so that her hair and the flower in it almost touched his face, she passed, and there in her stead stood oliver. lennan had expected one of his old insolent looks, but the young man's face was eager and quite friendly. "it was awfully good of you to come, mr. lennan. is mrs. lennan--" and lennan murmured: "she wasn't able; she's not quite--" and could have sunk into the shining floor. youth with its touching confidence, its eager trust! this was the way he was fulfilling his duty towards youth! when they had passed into the ballroom he went back to his position against the wall. they were dancing number three; his time of waiting, then, was drawing to a close. from where he stood he could not see the dancers--no use to watch her go round in someone else's arms. not a true waltz--some french or spanish pavement song played in waltz time; bizarre, pathetic, whirling after its own happiness. that chase for happiness! well, life, with all its prizes and its possibilities, had nothing that quite satisfied--save just the fleeting moments of passion! nothing else quite poignant enough to be called pure joy! or so it seemed to him. the waltz was over. he could see her now, on a rout seat against the wall with the other young man, turning her eyes constantly as if to make sure that he was still standing there. what subtle fuel was always being added to the fire by that flattery of her inexplicable adoration--of those eyes that dragged him to her, yet humbly followed him, too! five times while she sat there he saw the red-haired girl or oliver bring men up; saw youths cast longing glances; saw girls watching her with cold appraisement, or with a touching, frank delight. from the moment that she came in, there had been, in her father's phrase, 'only one in it.' and she could pass all this by, and still want him. incredible! at the first notes of the polka he went to her. it was she who found their place of refuge--a little alcove behind two palm-plants. but sitting there, he realized, as never before, that there was no spiritual communion between him and this child. she could tell him her troubles or her joys; he could soothe or sympathize; but never would the gap between their natures and their ages be crossed. his happiness was only in the sight and touch of her. but that, god knew, was happiness enough--a feverish, craving joy, like an overtired man's thirst, growing with the drink on which it tries to slake itself. sitting there, in the scent of those flowers and of some sweet essence in her hair, with her fingers touching his, and her eyes seeking his, he tried loyally not to think of himself, to grasp her sensations at this her first dance, and just help her to enjoyment. but he could not--paralyzed, made drunk by that insensate longing to take her in his arms and crush her to him as he had those few hours back. he could see her expanding like a flower, in all this light, and motion, and intoxicating admiration round her. what business had he in her life, with his dark hunger after secret hours; he--a coin worn thin already--a destroyer of the freshness and the glamour of her youth and beauty! then, holding up the flowers, she said: "did you give me these because of the one i gave you?" "yes." "what did you do with that?" "burned it." "oh! but why?" "because you are a witch--and witches must be burned with all their flowers." "are you going to burn me?" he put his hand on her cool arm. "feel! the flames are lighted." "you may! i don't care!" she took his hand and laid her cheek against it; yet, to the music, which had begun again, the tip of her shoe was already beating time. and he said: "you ought to be dancing, child." "oh, no! only it's a pity you don't want to." "yes! do you understand that it must all be secret--underground?" she covered his lips with the fan, and said: "you're not to think; you're not to think--never! when can i come?" "i must find the best way. not to-morrow. nobody must know, nell--for your sake--for hers--nobody!" she nodded, and repeated with a soft, mysterious wisdom: "nobody." and then, aloud: "here's oliver! it was awfully good of you to come. good-night!" and as, on oliver's arm, she left their little refuge, she looked back. he lingered--to watch her through this one dance. how they made all the other couples sink into insignificance, with that something in them both that was better than mere good looks--that something not outre or eccentric, but poignant, wayward. they went well together, those two dromores--his dark head and her fair head; his clear, brown, daring eyes, and her grey, languorous, mesmeric eyes. ah! master oliver was happy now, with her so close to him! it was not jealousy that lennan felt. not quite--one did not feel jealous of the young; something very deep--pride, sense of proportion, who knew what--prevented that. she, too, looked happy, as if her soul were dancing, vibrating with the music and the scent of the flowers. he waited for her to come round once more, to get for a last time that flying glance turned back; then found his coat and hat and went. xiii outside, he walked a few steps, then stood looking back at the windows of the hall through some trees, the shadows of whose trunks, in the light of a street lamp, were spilled out along the ground like the splines of a fan. a church clock struck eleven. for hours yet she would be there, going round and round in the arms of youth! try as he might he could never recapture for himself the look that oliver's face had worn--the look that was the symbol of so much more than he himself could give her. why had she come into his life--to her undoing, and his own? and the bizarre thought came to him: if she were dead should i really care? should i not be almost glad? if she were dead her witchery would be dead, and i could stand up straight again and look people in the face! what was this power that played with men, darted into them, twisted their hearts to rags; this power that had looked through her eyes when she put her fan, with his flowers, to her lips? the thrumming of the music ceased; he walked away. it must have been nearly twelve when he reached home. now, once more, would begin the gruesome process of deception--flinching of soul, and brazening of visage. it would be better when the whole thievish business was irretrievably begun and ordered in its secret courses! there was no light in the drawing-room, save just the glow of the fire. if only sylvia might have gone to bed! then he saw her, sitting motionless out there by the uncurtained window. he went over to her, and began his hateful formula: "i'm afraid you've been lonely. i had to stay rather late. a dull evening." and, since she did not move or answer, but just sat there very still and white, he forced himself to go close, bend down to her, touch her cheek; even to kneel beside her. she looked round then; her face was quiet enough, but her eyes were strangely eager. with a pitiful little smile she broke out: "oh, mark! what is it--what is it? anything is better than this!" perhaps it was the smile, perhaps her voice or eyes--but something gave way in lennan. secrecy, precaution went by the board. bowing his head against her breast, he poured it all out, while they clung, clutched together in the half dark like two frightened children. only when he had finished did he realize that if she had pushed him away, refused to let him touch her, it would have been far less piteous, far easier to bear, than her wan face and her hands clutching him, and her words: "i never thought--you and i--oh! mark--you and i--" the trust in their life together, in himself, that those words revealed! yet, not greater than he had had--still had! she could not understand--he had known that she could never understand; it was why he had fought so for secrecy, all through. she was taking it as if she had lost everything; and in his mind she had lost nothing. this passion, this craving for youth and life, this madness--call it what one would--was something quite apart, not touching his love and need of her. if she would only believe that! over and over he repeated it; over and over again perceived that she could not take it in. the only thing she saw was that his love had gone from her to another--though that was not true! suddenly she broke out of his arms, pushing him from her, and cried: "that girl--hateful, horrible, false!" never had he seen her look like this, with flaming spots in her white cheeks, soft lips and chin distorted, blue eyes flaming, breast heaving, as if each breath were drawn from lungs that received no air. and then, as quickly, the fire went out of her; she sank down on the sofa; covering her face with her arms, rocking to and fro. she did not cry, but a little moan came from her now and then. and each one of those sounds was to lennan like the cry of something he was murdering. at last he went and sat down on the sofa by her and said: "sylvia! sylvia! don't! oh! don't!" and she was silent, ceasing to rock herself; letting him smooth and stroke her. but her face she kept hidden, and only once she spoke, so low that he could hardly hear: "i can't--i won't keep you from her." and with the awful feeling that no words could reach or soothe the wound in that tender heart, he could only go on stroking and kissing her hands. it was atrocious--horrible--this that he had done! god knew that he had not sought it--the thing had come on him. surely even in her misery she could see that! deep down beneath his grief and self-hatred, he knew, what neither she nor anyone else could know--that he could not have prevented this feeling, which went back to days before he ever saw the girl--that no man could have stopped that feeling in himself. this craving and roving was as much part of him as his eyes and hands, as overwhelming and natural a longing as his hunger for work, or his need of the peace that sylvia gave, and alone could give him. that was the tragedy--it was all sunk and rooted in the very nature of a man. since the girl had come into their lives he was no more unfaithful to his wife in thought than he had been before. if only she could look into him, see him exactly as he was, as, without part or lot in the process, he had been made--then she would understand, and even might not suffer; but she could not, and he could never make it plain. and solemnly, desperately, with a weary feeling of the futility of words, he went on trying: could she not see? it was all a thing outside him--a craving, a chase after beauty and life, after his own youth! at that word she looked at him: "and do you think i don't want my youth back?" he stopped. for a woman to feel that her beauty--the brightness of her hair and eyes, the grace and suppleness of her limbs--were slipping from her and from the man she loved! was there anything more bitter?--or any more sacred duty than not to add to that bitterness, not to push her with suffering into old age, but to help keep the star of her faith in her charm intact! man and woman--they both wanted youth again; she, that she might give it all to him; he, because it would help him towards something--new! just that world of difference! he got up, and said: "come, dear, let's try and sleep." he had not once said that he could give it up. the words would not pass his lips, though he knew she must be conscious that he had not said them, must be longing to hear them. all he had been able to say was: "so long as you want me, you shall never lose me" . . . and, "i will never keep anything from you again." up in their room she lay hour after hour in his arms, quite unresentful, but without life in her, and with eyes that, when his lips touched them, were always wet. what a maze was a man's heart, wherein he must lose himself every minute! what involved and intricate turnings and turnings on itself; what fugitive replacement of emotion by emotion! what strife between pities and passions; what longing for peace! . . . and in his feverish exhaustion, which was almost sleep, lennan hardly knew whether it was the thrum of music or sylvia's moaning that he heard; her body or nell's within his arms. . . . but life had to be lived, a face preserved against the world, engagements kept. and the nightmare went on for both of them, under the calm surface of an ordinary sunday. they were like people walking at the edge of a high cliff, not knowing from step to step whether they would fall; or like swimmers struggling for issue out of a dark whirlpool. in the afternoon they went together to a concert; it was just something to do--something that saved them for an hour or two from the possibility of speaking on the one subject left to them. the ship had gone down, and they were clutching at anything that for a moment would help to keep them above water. in the evening some people came to supper; a writer and two painters, with their wives. a grim evening--never more so than when the conversation turned on that perennial theme--the freedom, spiritual, mental, physical, requisite for those who practise art. all the stale arguments were brought forth, and had to be joined in with unmoved faces. and for all their talk of freedom, lennan could see the volte-face his friends would be making, if they only knew. it was not 'the thing' to seduce young girls--as if, forsooth, there were freedom in doing only what people thought 'the thing'! their cant about the free artist spirit experiencing everything, would wither the moment it came up against a canon of 'good form,' so that in truth it was no freer than the bourgeois spirit, with its conventions; or the priest spirit, with its cry of 'sin!' no, no! to resist--if resistance were possible to this dragging power--maxims of 'good form,' dogmas of religion and morality, were no help--nothing was any help, but some feeling stronger than passion itself. sylvia's face, forced to smile!--that, indeed was a reason why they should condemn him! none of their doctrines about freedom could explain that away--the harm, the death that came to a man's soul when he made a loving, faithful creature suffer. but they were gone at last--with their "thanks so much!" and their "delightful evening!" and those two were face to face for another night. he knew that it must begin all over again--inevitable, after the stab of that wretched argument plunged into their hearts and turned and turned all the evening. "i won't, i mustn't keep you starved, and spoil your work. don't think of me, mark! i can bear it!" and then a breakdown worse than the night before. what genius, what sheer genius nature had for torturing her creatures! if anyone had told him, even so little as a week ago, that he could have caused such suffering to sylvia--sylvia, whom as a child with wide blue eyes and a blue bow on her flaxen head he had guarded across fields full of imaginary bulls; sylvia, in whose hair his star had caught; sylvia, who day and night for fifteen years had been his devoted wife; whom he loved and still admired--he would have given him the lie direct. it would have seemed incredible, monstrous, silly. had all married men and women such things to go through--was this but a very usual crossing of the desert? or was it, once for all, shipwreck? death--unholy, violent death--in a storm of sand? another night of misery, and no answer to that question yet. he had told her that he would not see nell again without first letting her know. so, when morning came, he simply wrote the words: "don't come today!"--showed them to sylvia, and sent them by a servant to dromore's. hard to describe the bitterness with which he entered his studio that morning. in all this chaos, what of his work? could he ever have peace of mind for it again? those people last night had talked of 'inspiration of passion, of experience.' in pleading with her he had used the words himself. she--poor soul!--had but repeated them, trying to endure them, to believe them true. and were they true? again no answer, or certainly none that he could give. to have had the waters broken up; to be plunged into emotion; to feel desperately, instead of stagnating--some day he might be grateful--who knew? some day there might be fair country again beyond this desert, where he could work even better than before. but just now, as well expect creative work from a condemned man. it seemed to him that he was equally destroyed whether he gave nell up, and with her, once for all, that roving, seeking instinct, which ought, forsooth, to have been satisfied, and was not; or whether he took nell, knowing that in doing so he was torturing a woman dear to him! that was as far as he could see to-day. what he would come to see in time god only knew! but: 'freedom of the spirit!' that was a phrase of bitter irony indeed! and, there, with his work all round him, like a man tied hand and foot, he was swept by such a feeling of exasperated rage as he had never known. women! these women! only let him be free of both, of all women, and the passions and pities they aroused, so that his brain and his hands might live and work again! they should not strangle, they should not destroy him! unfortunately, even in his rage, he knew that flight from them both could never help him. one way or the other the thing would have to be fought through. if it had been a straight fight even; a clear issue between passion and pity! but both he loved, and both he pitied. there was nothing straight and clear about it anywhere; it was all too deeply rooted in full human nature. and the appalling sense of rushing ceaselessly from barrier to barrier began really to affect his brain. true, he had now and then a lucid interval of a few minutes, when the ingenious nature of his own torments struck him as supremely interesting and queer; but this was not precisely a relief, for it only meant, as in prolonged toothache, that his power of feeling had for a moment ceased. a very pretty little hell indeed! all day he had the premonition, amounting to certainty, that nell would take alarm at those three words he had sent her, and come in spite of them. and yet, what else could he have written? nothing save what must have alarmed her more, or plunged him deeper. he had the feeling that she could follow his moods, that her eyes could see him everywhere, as a cat's eyes can see in darkness. that feeling had been with him, more or less, ever since the last evening of october, the evening she came back from her summer--grown-up. how long ago? only six days--was it possible? ah, yes! she knew when her spell was weakening, when the current wanted, as it were, renewing. and about six o'clock--dusk already--without the least surprise, with only a sort of empty quivering, he heard her knock. and just behind the closed door, as near as he could get to her, he stood, holding his breath. he had given his word to sylvia--of his own accord had given it. through the thin wood of the old door he could hear the faint shuffle of her feet on the pavement, moved a few inches this way and that, as though supplicating the inexorable silence. he seemed to see her head, bent a little forward listening. three times she knocked, and each time lennan writhed. it was so cruel! with that seeing-sense of hers she must know he was there; his very silence would be telling her--for his silence had its voice, its pitiful breathless sound. then, quite distinctly, he heard her sigh, and her footsteps move away; and covering his face with his hands he rushed to and fro in the studio, like a madman. no sound of her any more! gone! it was unbearable; and, seizing his hat, he ran out. which way? at random he ran towards the square. there she was, over by the railings; languidly, irresolutely moving towards home. xiv but now that she was within reach, he wavered; he had given his word--was he going to break it? then she turned, and saw him; and he could not go back. in the biting easterly wind her face looked small, and pinched, and cold, but her eyes only the larger, the more full of witchery, as if beseeching him not to be angry, not to send her away. "i had to come; i got frightened. why did you write such a tiny little note?" he tried to make his voice sound quiet and ordinary. "you must be brave, nell. i have had to tell her." she clutched at his arm; then drew herself up, and said in her clear, clipped voice: "oh! i suppose she hates me, then!" "she is terribly unhappy." they walked a minute, that might have been an hour, without a word; not round the square, as he had walked with oliver, but away from the house. at last she said in a half-choked voice: "i only want a little bit of you." and he answered dully: "in love, there are no little bits--no standing still." then, suddenly, he felt her hand in his, the fingers lacing, twining restlessly amongst his own; and again the half-choked voice said: "but you will let me see you sometimes! you must!" hardest of all to stand against was this pathetic, clinging, frightened child. and, not knowing very clearly what he said, he murmured: "yes--yes; it'll be all right. be brave--you must be brave, nell. it'll all come right." but she only answered: "no, no! i'm not brave. i shall do something." her face looked just as when she had ridden at that gravel pit. loving, wild, undisciplined, without resource of any kind--what might she not do? why could he not stir without bringing disaster upon one or other? and between these two, suffering so because of him, he felt as if he had lost his own existence. in quest of happiness, he had come to that! suddenly she said: "oliver asked me again at the dance on saturday. he said you had told him to be patient. did you?" "yes." "why?" "i was sorry for him." she let his hand go. "perhaps you would like me to marry him." very clearly he saw those two going round and round over the shining floor. "it would be better, nell." she made a little sound--of anger or dismay. "you don't really want me, then?" that was his chance. but with her arm touching his, her face so pale and desperate, and those maddening eyes turned to him, he could not tell that lie, and answered: "yes--i want you, god knows!" at that a sigh of content escaped her, as if she were saying to herself: 'if he wants me he will not let me go.' strange little tribute to her faith in love and her own youth! they had come somehow to pall mall by now. and scared to find himself so deep in the hunting-ground of the dromores, lennan turned hastily towards st. james's park, that they might cross it in the dark, round to piccadilly. to be thus slinking out of the world's sight with the daughter of his old room-mate--of all men in the world the last perhaps that he should do this to! a nice treacherous business! but the thing men called honour--what was it, when her eyes were looking at him and her shoulder touching his? since he had spoken those words, "yes, i want you," she had been silent--fearful perhaps to let other words destroy their comfort. but near the gate by hyde park corner she put her hand again into his, and again her voice, so clear, said: "i don't want to hurt anybody, but you will let me come sometimes--you will let me see you--you won't leave me all alone, thinking that i'll never see you again?" and once more, without knowing what he answered, lennan murmured: "no, no! it'll be all right, dear--it'll all come right. it must--and shall." again her fingers twined amongst his, like a child's. she seemed to have a wonderful knowledge of the exact thing to say and do to keep him helpless. and she went on: "i didn't try to love you--it isn't wrong to love--it wouldn't hurt her. i only want a little of your love." a little--always a little! but he was solely bent on comforting her now. to think of her going home, and sitting lonely, frightened, and unhappy, all the evening, was dreadful. and holding her fingers tight, he kept on murmuring words of would-be comfort. then he saw that they were out in piccadilly. how far dared he go with her along the railings before he said good-bye? a man was coming towards them, just where he had met dromore that first fatal afternoon nine months ago; a man with a slight lurch in his walk and a tall, shining hat a little on one side. but thank heaven!--it was not dromore--only one somewhat like him, who in passing stared sphinx-like at nell. and lennan said: "you must go home now, child; we mustn't be seen together." for a moment he thought she was going to break down, refuse to leave him. then she threw up her head, and for a second stood like that, quite motionless, looking in his face. suddenly stripping off her glove, she thrust her warm, clinging hand into his. her lips smiled faintly, tears stood in her eyes; then she drew her hand away and plunged into the traffic. he saw her turn the corner of her street and disappear. and with the warmth of that passionate little hand still stinging his palm, he almost ran towards hyde park. taking no heed of direction, he launched himself into its dark space, deserted in this cold, homeless wind, that had little sound and no scent, travelling its remorseless road under the grey-black sky. the dark firmament and keen cold air suited one who had little need of aids to emotion--one who had, indeed, but the single wish to get rid, if he only could, of the terrible sensation in his head, that bruised, battered, imprisoned feeling of a man who paces his cell--never, never to get out at either end. without thought or intention he drove his legs along; not running, because he knew that he would have to stop the sooner. alas! what more comic spectacle for the eyes of a good citizen than this married man of middle age, striding for hours over those dry, dark, empty pastures--hunted by passion and by pity, so that he knew not even whether he had dined! but no good citizen was abroad of an autumn night in a bitter easterly wind. the trees were the sole witnesses of this grim exercise--the trees, resigning to the cold blast their crinkled leaves that fluttered past him, just a little lighter than the darkness. here and there his feet rustled in the drifts, waiting their turn to serve the little bonfires, whose scent still clung in the air. a desperate walk, in this heart of london--round and round, up and down, hour after hour, keeping always in the dark; not a star in the sky, not a human being spoken to or even clearly seen, not a bird or beast; just the gleam of the lights far away, and the hoarse muttering of the traffic! a walk as lonely as the voyage of the human soul is lonely from birth to death with nothing to guide it but the flickering glow from its own frail spirit lighted it knows not where. . . . and, so tired that he could hardly move his legs, but free at last of that awful feeling in his head--free for the first time for days and days--lennan came out of the park at the gate where he had gone in, and walked towards his home, certain that tonight, one way or the other, it would be decided. . . . xv this then--this long trouble of body and of spirit--was what he remembered, sitting in the armchair beyond his bedroom fire, watching the glow, and sylvia sleeping there exhausted, while the dark plane-tree leaves tap-tapped at the window in the autumn wind; watching, with the uncanny certainty that, he would not pass the limits of this night without having made at last a decision that would not alter. for even conflict wears itself out; even indecision has this measure set to its miserable powers of torture, that any issue in the end is better than the hell of indecision itself. once or twice in those last days even death had seemed to him quite tolerable; but now that his head was clear and he had come to grips, death passed out of his mind like the shadow that it was. nothing so simple, extravagant, and vain could serve him. other issues had reality; death--none. to leave sylvia, and take this young love away; there was reality in that, but it had always faded as soon as it shaped itself; and now once more it faded. to put such a public and terrible affront on a tender wife whom he loved, do her to death, as it were, before the world's eyes--and then, ever remorseful, grow old while the girl was still young? he could not. if sylvia had not loved him, yes; or, even if he had not loved her; or if, again, though loving him she had stood upon her rights--in any of those events he might have done it. but to leave her whom he did love, and who had said to him so generously: "i will not hamper you--go to her"--would be a black atrocity. every memory, from their boy-and-girl lovering to the desperate clinging of her arms these last two nights--memory with its innumerable tentacles, the invincible strength of its countless threads, bound him to her too fast. what then? must it come, after all, to giving up the girl? and sitting there, by that warm fire, he shivered. how desolate, sacrilegious, wasteful to throw love away; to turn from the most precious of all gifts; to drop and break that vase! there was not too much love in the world, nor too much warmth and beauty--not, anyway, for those whose sands were running out, whose blood would soon be cold. could sylvia not let him keep both her love and the girl's? could she not bear that? she had said she could; but her face, her eyes, her voice gave her the lie, so that every time he heard her his heart turned sick with pity. this, then, was the real issue. could he accept from her such a sacrifice, exact a daily misery, see her droop and fade beneath it? could he bear his own happiness at such a cost? would it be happiness at all? he got up from the chair and crept towards her. she looked very fragile sleeping there! the darkness below her closed eyelids showed cruelly on that too fair skin; and in her flax-coloured hair he saw what he had never noticed--a few strands of white. her softly opened lips, almost colourless, quivered with her uneven breathing; and now and again a little feverish shiver passed up as from her heart. all soft and fragile! not much life, not much strength; youth and beauty slipping! to know that he who should be her champion against age and time would day by day be placing one more mark upon her face, one more sorrow in her heart! that he should do this--they both going down the years together! as he stood there holding his breath, bending to look at her, that slurring swish of the plane-tree branch, flung against and against the window by the autumn wind, seemed filling the whole world. then her lips moved in one of those little, soft hurrying whispers that unhappy dreamers utter, the words all blurred with their wistful rushing. and he thought: i, who believe in bravery and kindness; i, who hate cruelty--if i do this cruel thing, what shall i have to live for; how shall i work; how bear myself? if i do it, i am lost--an outcast from my own faith--a renegade from all that i believe in. and, kneeling there close to that face so sad and lonely, that heart so beaten even in its sleep, he knew that he could not do it--knew it with sudden certainty, and a curious sense of peace. over!--the long struggle--over at last! youth with youth, summer to summer, falling leaf with falling leaf! and behind him the fire flickered, and the plane-tree leaves tap-tapped. he rose, and crept away stealthily downstairs into the drawing-room, and through the window at the far end out into the courtyard, where he had sat that day by the hydrangea, listening to the piano-organ. very dark and cold and eerie it was there, and he hurried across to his studio. there, too, it was cold, and dark, and eerie, with its ghostly plaster presences, stale scent of cigarettes, and just one glowing ember of the fire he had left when he rushed out after nell--those seven hours ago. he went first to the bureau, turned up its lamp, and taking out some sheets of paper, marked on them directions for his various works; for the statuette of nell, he noted that it should be taken with his compliments to mr. dromore. he wrote a letter to his banker directing money to be sent to rome, and to his solicitor telling him to let the house. he wrote quickly. if sylvia woke, and found him still away, what might she not think? he took a last sheet. did it matter what he wrote, what deliberate lie, if it helped nell over the first shock? "dear nell, "i write this hastily in the early hours, to say that we are called out to italy to my only sister, who is very ill. we leave by the first morning boat, and may be away some time. i will write again. don't fret, and god bless you. "m. l." he could not see very well as he wrote. poor, loving, desperate child! well, she had youth and strength, and would soon have--oliver! and he took yet another sheet. "dear oliver, "my wife and i are obliged to go post-haste to italy. i watched you both at the dance the other night. be very gentle with nell; and--good luck to you! but don't say again that i told you to be patient; it is hardly the way to make her love you. "m. lennan." that, then, was all--yes, all! he turned out the little lamp, and groped towards the hearth. but one thing left. to say good-bye! to her, and youth, and passion!--to the only salve for the aching that spring and beauty bring--the aching for the wild, the passionate, the new, that never quite dies in a man's heart. ah! well, sooner or later, all men had to say good-bye to that. all men--all men! he crouched down before the hearth. there was no warmth in that fast-blackening ember, but it still glowed like a dark-red flower. and while it lived he crouched there, as though it were that to which he was saying good-bye. and on the door he heard the girl's ghostly knocking. and beside him--a ghost among the ghostly presences--she stood. slowly the glow blackened, till the last spark had faded out. then by the glimmer of the night he found his way back, softly as he had come, to his bedroom. sylvia was still sleeping; and, to watch for her to wake, he sat down again by the fire, in silence only stirred by the frail tap-tapping of those autumn leaves, and the little catch in her breathing now and then. it was less troubled than when he had bent over her before, as though in her sleep she knew. he must not miss the moment of her waking, must be beside her before she came to full consciousness, to say: "there, there! it's all over; we are going away at once--at once." to be ready to offer that quick solace, before she had time to plunge back into her sorrow, was an island in this black sea of night, a single little refuge point for his bereaved and naked being. something to do--something fixed, real, certain. and yet another long hour before her waking, he sat forward in the chair, with that wistful eagerness, his eyes fixed on her face, staring through it at some vision, some faint, glimmering light--far out there beyond--as a traveller watches a star. . . . star . . . . the end. the freelands by john galsworthy "liberty's a glorious feast."--burns. prologue one early april afternoon, in a worcestershire field, the only field in that immediate landscape which was not down in grass, a man moved slowly athwart the furrows, sowing--a big man of heavy build, swinging his hairy brown arm with the grace of strength. he wore no coat or hat; a waistcoat, open over a blue-checked cotton shirt, flapped against belted corduroys that were somewhat the color of his square, pale-brown face and dusty hair. his eyes were sad, with the swimming yet fixed stare of epileptics; his mouth heavy-lipped, so that, but for the yearning eyes, the face would have been almost brutal. he looked as if he suffered from silence. the elm-trees bordering the field, though only just in leaf, showed dark against a white sky. a light wind blew, carrying already a scent from the earth and growth pushing up, for the year was early. the green malvern hills rose in the west; and not far away, shrouded by trees, a long country house of weathered brick faced to the south. save for the man sowing, and some rooks crossing from elm to elm, no life was visible in all the green land. and it was quiet--with a strange, a brooding tranquillity. the fields and hills seemed to mock the scars of road and ditch and furrow scraped on them, to mock at barriers of hedge and wall--between the green land and white sky was a conspiracy to disregard those small activities. so lonely was it, so plunged in a ground-bass of silence; so much too big and permanent for any figure of man. across and across the brown loam the laborer doggedly finished out his task; scattered the few last seeds into a corner, and stood still. thrushes and blackbirds were just beginning that even-song whose blitheness, as nothing else on earth, seems to promise youth forever to the land. he picked up his coat, slung it on, and, heaving a straw bag over his shoulder, walked out on to the grass-bordered road between the elms. "tryst! bob tryst!" at the gate of a creepered cottage amongst fruit-trees, high above the road, a youth with black hair and pale-brown face stood beside a girl with frizzy brown hair and cheeks like poppies. "have you had that notice?" the laborer answered slowly: "yes, mr. derek. if she don't go, i've got to." "what a d--d shame!" the laborer moved his head, as though he would have spoken, but no words came. "don't do anything, bob. we'll see about that." "evenin', mr. derek. evenin', miss sheila," and the laborer moved on. the two at the wicket gate also turned away. a black-haired woman dressed in blue came to the wicket gate in their place. there seemed no purpose in her standing there; it was perhaps an evening custom, some ceremony such as moslems observe at the muezzin-call. and any one who saw her would have wondered what on earth she might be seeing, gazing out with her dark glowing eyes above the white, grass-bordered roads stretching empty this way and that between the elm-trees and green fields; while the blackbirds and thrushes shouted out their hearts, calling all to witness how hopeful and young was life in this english countryside. . . . chapter i mayday afternoon in oxford street, and felix freeland, a little late, on his way from hampstead to his brother john's house in porchester gardens. felix freeland, author, wearing the very first gray top hat of the season. a compromise, that--like many other things in his life and works--between individuality and the accepted view of things, aestheticism and fashion, the critical sense and authority. after the meeting at john's, to discuss the doings of the family of his brother morton freeland--better known as tod--he would perhaps look in on the caricatures at the english gallery, and visit one duchess in mayfair, concerning the george richard memorial. and so, not the soft felt hat which really suited authorship, nor the black top hat which obliterated personality to the point of pain, but this gray thing with narrowish black band, very suitable, in truth, to a face of a pale buff color, to a moustache of a deep buff color streaked with a few gray hairs, to a black braided coat cut away from a buff-colored waistcoat, to his neat boots--not patent leather--faintly buffed with may-day dust. even his eyes, freeland gray, were a little buffed over by sedentary habit, and the number of things that he was conscious of. for instance, that the people passing him were distressingly plain, both men and women; plain with the particular plainness of those quite unaware of it. it struck him forcibly, while he went along, how very queer it was that with so many plain people in the country, the population managed to keep up even as well as it did. to his wonderfully keen sense of defect, it seemed little short of marvellous. a shambling, shoddy crew, this crowd of shoppers and labor demonstrators! a conglomeration of hopelessly mediocre visages! what was to be done about it? ah! what indeed!--since they were evidently not aware of their own dismal mediocrity. hardly a beautiful or a vivid face, hardly a wicked one, never anything transfigured, passionate, terrible, or grand. nothing greek, early italian, elizabethan, not even beefy, beery, broad old georgian. something clutched-in, and squashed-out about it all--on that collective face something of the look of a man almost comfortably and warmly wrapped round by a snake at the very beginning of its squeeze. it gave felix freeland a sort of faint excitement and pleasure to notice this. for it was his business to notice things, and embalm them afterward in ink. and he believed that not many people noticed it, so that it contributed in his mind to his own distinction, which was precious to him. precious, and encouraged to be so by the press, which--as he well knew--must print his name several thousand times a year. and yet, as a man of culture and of principle, how he despised that kind of fame, and theoretically believed that a man's real distinction lay in his oblivion of the world's opinion, particularly as expressed by that flighty creature, the fourth estate. but here again, as in the matter of the gray top hat, he had instinctively compromised, taking in press cuttings which described himself and his works, while he never failed to describe those descriptions--good, bad, and indifferent--as 'that stuff,' and their writers as 'those fellows.' not that it was new to him to feel that the country was in a bad way. on the contrary, it was his established belief, and one for which he was prepared to furnish due and proper reasons. in the first place he traced it to the horrible hold industrialism had in the last hundred years laid on the nation, draining the peasantry from 'the land'; and in the second place to the influence of a narrow and insidious officialism, sapping the independence of the people. this was why, in going to a conclave with his brother john, high in government employ, and his brother stanley, a captain of industry, possessor of the morton plough works, he was conscious of a certain superiority in that he, at all events, had no hand in this paralysis which was creeping on the country. and getting more buff-colored every minute, he threaded his way on, till, past the marble arch, he secured the elbow-room of hyde park. here groups of young men, with chivalrous idealism, were jeering at and chivying the broken remnants of a suffrage meeting. felix debated whether he should oppose his body to their bodies, his tongue to theirs, or whether he should avert his consciousness and hurry on; but, that instinct which moved him to wear the gray top hat prevailing, he did neither, and stood instead, looking at them in silent anger, which quickly provoked endearments--such as: "take it off," or "keep it on," or "what cheer, toppy!" but nothing more acute. and he meditated: culture! could culture ever make headway among the blind partisanships, the hand-to-mouth mentality, the cheap excitements of this town life? the faces of these youths, the tone of their voices, the very look of their bowler hats, said: no! you could not culturalize the impermeable texture of their vulgarity. and they were the coming manhood of the nation--this inexpressibly distasteful lot of youths! the country had indeed got too far away from 'the land.' and this essential towny commonness was not confined to the classes from which these youths were drawn. he had even remarked it among his own son's school and college friends--an impatience of discipline, an insensibility to everything but excitement and having a good time, a permanent mental indigestion due to a permanent diet of tit-bits. what aspiration they possessed seemed devoted to securing for themselves the plums of official or industrial life. his boy alan, even, was infected, in spite of home influences and the atmosphere of art in which he had been so sedulously soaked. he wished to enter his uncle stanley's plough works, seeing in it a 'soft thing.' but the last of the woman-baiters had passed by now, and, conscious that he was really behind time, felix hurried on. . . . in his study--a pleasant room, if rather tidy--john freeland was standing before the fire smoking a pipe and looking thoughtfully at nothing. he was, in fact, thinking, with that continuity characteristic of a man who at fifty has won for himself a place of permanent importance in the home office. starting life in the royal engineers, he still preserved something of a military look about his figure, and grave visage with steady eyes and drooping moustache (both a shade grayer than those of felix), and a forehead bald from justness and knowing where to lay his hand on papers. his face was thinner, his head narrower, than his brother's, and he had acquired a way of making those he looked at doubt themselves and feel the sudden instability of all their facts. he was--as has been said--thinking. his brother stanley had wired to him that morning: "am motoring up to-day on business; can you get felix to come at six o'clock and talk over the position at tod's?" what position at tod's? he had indeed heard something vague--of those youngsters of tod's, and some fuss they were making about the laborers down there. he had not liked it. too much of a piece with the general unrest, and these new democratic ideas that were playing old harry with the country! for in his opinion the country was in a bad way, partly owing to industrialism, with its rotting effect upon physique; partly to this modern analytic intellectualism, with its destructive and anarchic influence on morals. it was difficult to overestimate the mischief of those two factors; and in the approaching conference with his brothers, one of whom was the head of an industrial undertaking, and the other a writer, whose books, extremely modern, he never read, he was perhaps vaguely conscious of his own cleaner hands. hearing a car come to a halt outside, he went to the window and looked out. yes, it was stanley! . . stanley freeland, who had motored up from becket--his country place, close to his plough works in worcestershire--stood a moment on the pavement, stretching his long legs and giving directions to his chauffeur. he had been stopped twice on the road for not exceeding the limit as he believed, and was still a little ruffled. was it not his invariable principle to be moderate in speed as in all other things? and his feeling at the moment was stronger even than usual, that the country was in a bad way, eaten up by officialism, with its absurd limitations of speed and the liberty of the subject, and the advanced ideas of these new writers and intellectuals, always talking about the rights and sufferings of the poor. there was no progress along either of those roads. he had it in his heart, as he stood there on the pavement, to say something pretty definite to john about interference with the liberty of the subject, and he wouldn't mind giving old felix a rap about his precious destructive doctrines, and continual girding at the upper classes, vested interests, and all the rest of it. if he had something to put in their place that would be another matter. capital and those who controlled it were the backbone of the country--what there was left of the country, apart from these d--d officials and aesthetic fellows! and with a contraction of his straight eyebrows above his straight gray eyes, straight blunt nose, blunter moustaches, and blunt chin, he kept a tight rein on his blunt tongue, not choosing to give way even to his own anger. then, perceiving felix coming--'in a white topper, by jove!'--he crossed the pavement to the door; and, tall, square, personable, rang the bell. chapter ii "well, what's the matter at tod's?" and felix moved a little forward in his chair, his eyes fixed with interest on stanley, who was about to speak. "it's that wife of his, of course. it was all very well so long as she confined herself to writing, and talk, and that land society, or whatever it was she founded, the one that snuffed out the other day; but now she's getting herself and those two youngsters mixed up in our local broils, and really i think tod's got to be spoken to." "it's impossible for a husband to interfere with his wife's principles." so felix. "principles!" the word came from john. "certainly! kirsteen's a woman of great character; revolutionary by temperament. why should you expect her to act as you would act yourselves?" when felix had said that, there was a silence. then stanley muttered: "poor old tod!" felix sighed, lost for a moment in his last vision of his youngest brother. it was four years ago now, a summer evening--tod standing between his youngsters derek and sheila, in a doorway of his white, black-timbered, creepered cottage, his sunburnt face and blue eyes the serenest things one could see in a day's march! "why 'poor'?" he said. "tod's much happier than we are. you've only to look at him." "ah!" said stanley suddenly. "d'you remember him at father's funeral?--without his hat, and his head in the clouds. fine-lookin' chap, old tod--pity he's such a child of nature." felix said quietly: "if you'd offered him a partnership, stanley--it would have been the making of him." "tod in the plough works? my hat!" felix smiled. at sight of that smile, stanley grew red, and john refilled his pipe. it is always the devil to have a brother more sarcastic than oneself! "how old are those two?" john said abruptly. "sheila's twenty, derek nineteen." "i thought the boy was at an agricultural college?" "finished." "what's he like?" "a black-haired, fiery fellow, not a bit like tod." john muttered: "that's her celtic blood. her father, old colonel moray, was just that sort; by george, he was a regular black highlander. what's the trouble exactly?" it was stanley who answered: "that sort of agitation business is all very well until it begins to affect your neighbors; then it's time it stopped. you know the mallorings who own all the land round tod's. well, they've fallen foul of the mallorings over what they call injustice to some laborers. questions of morality involved. i don't know all the details. a man's got notice to quit over his deceased wife's sister; and some girl or other in another cottage has kicked over--just ordinary country incidents. what i want is that tod should be made to see that his family mustn't quarrel with his nearest neighbors in this way. we know the mallorings well, they're only seven miles from us at becket. it doesn't do; sooner or later it plays the devil all round. and the air's full of agitation about the laborers and 'the land,' and all the rest of it--only wants a spark to make real trouble." and having finished this oration, stanley thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and jingled the money that was there. john said abruptly: "felix, you'd better go down." felix was sitting back, his eyes for once withdrawn from his brothers' faces. "odd," he said, "really odd, that with a perfectly unique person like tod for a brother, we only see him once in a blue moon." "it's because he is so d--d unique." felix got up and gravely extended his hand to stanley. "by jove," he said, "you've spoken truth." and to john he added: "well, i will go, and let you know the upshot." when he had departed, the two elder brothers remained for some moments silent, then stanley said: "old felix is a bit tryin'! with the fuss they make of him in the papers, his head's swelled!" john did not answer. one could not in so many words resent one's own brother being made a fuss of, and if it had been for something real, such as discovering the source of the black river, conquering bechuanaland, curing blue-mange, or being made a bishop, he would have been the first and most loyal in his appreciation; but for the sort of thing felix made up--fiction, and critical, acid, destructive sort of stuff, pretending to show john freeland things that he hadn't seen before--as if felix could!--not at all the jolly old romance which one could read well enough and enjoy till it sent you to sleep after a good day's work. no! that felix should be made a fuss of for such work as that really almost hurt him. it was not quite decent, violating deep down one's sense of form, one's sense of health, one's traditions. though he would not have admitted it, he secretly felt, too, that this fuss was dangerous to his own point of view, which was, of course, to him the only real one. and he merely said: "will you stay to dinner, stan?" chapter iii if john had those sensations about felix, so--when he was away from john--had felix about himself. he had never quite grown out of the feeling that to make himself conspicuous in any way was bad form. in common with his three brothers he had been through the mills of gentility--those unique grinding machines of education only found in his native land. tod, to be sure, had been publicly sacked at the end of his third term, for climbing on to the headmaster's roof and filling up two of his chimneys with football pants, from which he had omitted to remove his name. felix still remembered the august scene--the horrid thrill of it, the ominous sound of that: "freeland minimus!" the ominous sight of poor little tod emerging from his obscurity near the roof of the speech room, and descending all those steps. how very small and rosy he had looked, his bright hair standing on end, and his little blue eyes staring up very hard from under a troubled frown. and the august hand holding up those sooty pants, and the august voice: "these appear to be yours, freeland minimus. were you so good as to put them down my chimneys?" and the little piping, "yes, sir." "may i ask why, freeland minimus?" "i don't know, sir." "you must have had some reason, freeland minimus?" "it was the end of term, sir." "ah! you must not come back here, freeland minimus. you are too dangerous, to yourself, and others. go to your place." and poor little tod ascending again all those steps, cheeks more terribly rosy than ever, eyes bluer, from under a still more troubled frown; little mouth hard set; and breathing so that you could hear him six forms off. true, the new head had been goaded by other outrages, the authors of which had not omitted to remove their names; but the want of humor, the amazing want of humor! as if it had not been a sign of first-rate stuff in tod! and to this day felix remembered with delight the little bubbling hiss that he himself had started, squelched at once, but rippling out again along the rows like tiny scattered lines of fire when a conflagration is suppressed. expulsion had been the salvation of tod! or--his damnation? which? god would know, but felix was not certain. having himself been fifteen years acquiring 'mill' philosophy, and another fifteen years getting rid of it, he had now begun to think that after all there might be something in it. a philosophy that took everything, including itself, at face value, and questioned nothing, was sedative to nerves too highly strung by the continual examination of the insides of oneself and others, with a view to their alteration. tod, of course, having been sent to germany after his expulsion, as one naturally would be, and then put to farming, had never properly acquired 'mill' manner, and never sloughed it off; and yet he was as sedative a man as you could meet. emerging from the tube station at hampstead, he moved toward home under a sky stranger than one might see in a whole year of evenings. between the pine-trees on the ridge it was opaque and colored like pinkish stone, and all around violent purple with flames of the young green, and white spring blossom lit against it. spring had been dull and unimaginative so far, but this evening it was all fire and gathered torrents; felix wondered at the waiting passion of that sky. he reached home just as those torrents began to fall. the old house, beyond the spaniard's road, save for mice and a faint underlying savor of wood-rot in two rooms, well satisfied the aesthetic sense. felix often stood in his hall, study, bedroom, and other apartments, admiring the rich and simple glow of them--admiring the rarity and look of studied negligence about the stuffs, the flowers, the books, the furniture, the china; and then quite suddenly the feeling would sweep over him: "by george, do i really own all this, when my ideal is 'bread and water, and on feast days a little bit of cheese'?" true, he was not to blame for the niceness of his things--flora did it; but still--there they were, a little hard to swallow for an epicurean. it might, of course, have been worse, for if flora had a passion for collecting, it was a very chaste one, and though what she collected cost no little money, it always looked as if it had been inherited, and--as everybody knows--what has been inherited must be put up with, whether it be a coronet or a cruet-stand. to collect old things, and write poetry! it was a career; one would not have one's wife otherwise. she might, for instance, have been like stanley's wife, clara, whose career was wealth and station; or john's wife, anne, whose career had been cut short; or even tod's wife, kirsteen, whose career was revolution. no--a wife who had two, and only two children, and treated them with affectionate surprise, who was never out of temper, never in a hurry, knew the points of a book or play, could cut your hair at a pinch; whose hand was dry, figure still good, verse tolerable, and--above all--who wished for no better fate than fate had given her--was a wife not to be sneezed at. and felix never had. he had depicted so many sneezing wives and husbands in his books, and knew the value of a happy marriage better perhaps than any one in england. he had laid marriage low a dozen times, wrecked it on all sorts of rocks, and had the greater veneration for his own, which had begun early, manifested every symptom of ending late, and in the meantime walked down the years holding hands fast, and by no means forgetting to touch lips. hanging up the gray top hat, he went in search of her. he found her in his dressing-room, surrounded by a number of little bottles, which she was examining vaguely, and putting one by one into an 'inherited' waste-paper basket. having watched her for a little while with a certain pleasure, he said: "yes, my dear?" noticing his presence, and continuing to put bottles into the basket, she answered: "i thought i must--they're what dear mother's given us." there they lay--little bottles filled with white and brown fluids, white and blue and brown powders; green and brown and yellow ointments; black lozenges; buff plasters; blue and pink and purple pills. all beautifully labelled and corked. and he said in a rather faltering voice: "bless her! how she does give her things away! haven't we used any?" "not one. and they have to be cleared away before they're stale, for fear we might take one by mistake." "poor mother!" "my dear, she's found something newer than them all by now." felix sighed. "the nomadic spirit. i have it, too!" and a sudden vision came to him of his mother's carved ivory face, kept free of wrinkles by sheer will-power, its firm chin, slightly aquiline nose, and measured brows; its eyes that saw everything so quickly, so fastidiously, its compressed mouth that smiled sweetly, with a resolute but pathetic acceptation. of the piece of fine lace, sometimes black, sometimes white, over her gray hair. of her hands, so thin now, always moving a little, as if all the composure and care not to offend any eye by allowing time to ravage her face, were avenging themselves in that constant movement. of her figure, that was short but did not seem so, still quick-moving, still alert, and always dressed in black or gray. a vision of that exact, fastidious, wandering spirit called frances fleeming freeland--that spirit strangely compounded of domination and humility, of acceptation and cynicism; precise and actual to the point of desert dryness; generous to a point that caused her family to despair; and always, beyond all things, brave. flora dropped the last little bottle, and sitting on the edge of the bath let her eyebrows rise. how pleasant was that impersonal humor which made her superior to other wives! "you--nomadic? how?" "mother travels unceasingly from place to place, person to person, thing to thing. i travel unceasingly from motive to motive, mind to mind; my native air is also desert air--hence the sterility of my work." flora rose, but her eyebrows descended. "your work," she said, "is not sterile." "that, my dear," said felix, "is prejudice." and perceiving that she was going to kiss him, he waited without annoyance. for a woman of forty-two, with two children and three books of poems--and not knowing which had taken least out of her--with hazel-gray eyes, wavy eyebrows darker than they should have been, a glint of red in her hair; wavy figure and lips; quaint, half-humorous indolence, quaint, half-humorous warmth--was she not as satisfactory a woman as a man could possibly have married! "i have got to go down and see tod," he said. "i like that wife of his; but she has no sense of humor. how much better principles are in theory than in practice!" flora repeated softly, as if to herself: "i'm glad i have none." she was at the window leaning out, and felix took his place beside her. the air was full of scent from wet leaves, alive with the song of birds thanking the sky. suddenly he felt her arm round his ribs; either it or they--which, he could not at the moment tell--seemed extraordinarily soft. . . . between felix and his young daughter, nedda, there existed the only kind of love, except a mother's, which has much permanence--love based on mutual admiration. though why nedda, with her starry innocence, should admire him, felix could never understand, not realizing that she read his books, and even analyzed them for herself in the diary which she kept religiously, writing it when she ought to have been asleep. he had therefore no knowledge of the way his written thoughts stimulated the ceaseless questioning that was always going on within her; the thirst to know why this was and that was not. why, for instance, her heart ached so some days and felt light and eager other days? why, when people wrote and talked of god, they seemed to know what he was, and she never did? why people had to suffer; and the world be black to so many millions? why one could not love more than one man at a time? why--a thousand things? felix's books supplied no answers to these questions, but they were comforting; for her real need as yet was not for answers, but ever for more questions, as a young bird's need is for opening its beak without quite knowing what is coming out or going in. when she and her father walked, or sat, or went to concerts together, their talk was neither particularly intimate nor particularly voluble; they made to each other no great confidences. yet each was certain that the other was not bored--a great thing; and they squeezed each other's little fingers a good deal--very warming. now with his son alan, felix had a continual sensation of having to keep up to a mark and never succeeding--a feeling, as in his favorite nightmare, of trying to pass an examination for which he had neglected to prepare; of having to preserve, in fact, form proper to the father of alan freeland. with nedda he had a sense of refreshment; the delight one has on a spring day, watching a clear stream, a bank of flowers, birds flying. and nedda with her father--what feeling had she? to be with him was like a long stroking with a touch of tickle in it; to read his books, a long tickle with a nice touch of stroking now and then when one was not expecting it. that night after dinner, when alan had gone out and flora into a dream, she snuggled up alongside her father, got hold of his little finger, and whispered: "come into the garden, dad; i'll put on goloshes. it's an awfully nice moon." the moon indeed was palest gold behind the pines, so that its radiance was a mere shower of pollen, just a brushing of white moth-down over the reeds of their little dark pond, and the black blur of the flowering currant bushes. and the young lime-trees, not yet in full leaf, quivered ecstatically in that moon-witchery, still letting fall raindrops of the past spring torrent, with soft hissing sounds. a real sense in the garden, of god holding his breath in the presence of his own youth swelling, growing, trembling toward perfection! somewhere a bird--a thrush, they thought--mixed in its little mind as to night and day, was queerly chirruping. and felix and his daughter went along the dark wet paths, holding each other's arms, not talking much. for, in him, very responsive to the moods of nature, there was a flattered feeling, with that young arm in his, of spring having chosen to confide in him this whispering, rustling hour. and in nedda was so much of that night's unutterable youth--no wonder she was silent! then, somehow--neither responsible--they stood motionless. how quiet it was, but for a distant dog or two, and the stilly shivering-down of the water drops, and the far vibration of the million-voiced city! how quiet and soft and fresh! then nedda spoke: "dad, i do so want to know everything." not rousing even a smile, with its sublime immodesty, that aspiration seemed to felix infinitely touching. what less could youth want in the very heart of spring? and, watching her face put up to the night, her parted lips, and the moon-gleam fingering her white throat, he answered: "it'll all come soon enough, my pretty!" to think that she must come to an end like the rest, having found out almost nothing, having discovered just herself, and the particle of god that was within her! but he could not, of course, say this. "i want to feel. can't i begin?" how many millions of young creatures all the world over were sending up that white prayer to climb and twine toward the stars, and--fall to earth again! and nothing to be answered, but: "time enough, nedda!" "but, dad, there are such heaps of things, such heaps of people, and reasons, and--and life; and i know nothing. dreams are the only times, it seems to me, that one finds out anything." "as for that, my child, i am exactly in your case. what's to be done for us?" she slid her hand through his arm again. "don't laugh at me!" "heaven forbid! i meant it. you're finding out much quicker than i. it's all folk-music to you still; to me strauss and the rest of the tired stuff. the variations my mind spins--wouldn't i just swap them for the tunes your mind is making?" "i don't seem making tunes at all. i don't seem to have anything to make them of. take me down to see 'the tods,' dad!" why not? and yet--! just as in this spring night felix felt so much, so very much, lying out there behind the still and moony dark, such marvellous holding of breath and waiting sentiency, so behind this innocent petition, he could not help the feeling of a lurking fatefulness. that was absurd. and he said: "if you wish it, by all means. you'll like your uncle tod; as to the others, i can't say, but your aunt is an experience, and experiences are what you want, it seems." fervently, without speech, nedda squeezed his arm. chapter iv stanley freeland's country house, becket, was almost a show place. it stood in its park and pastures two miles from the little town of transham and the morton plough works; close to the ancestral home of the moretons, his mother's family--that home burned down by roundheads in the civil war. the site--certain vagaries in the ground--mrs. stanley had caused to be walled round, and consecrated so to speak with a stone medallion on which were engraved the aged moreton arms--arrows and crescent moons in proper juxtaposition. peacocks, too--that bird 'parlant,' from the old moreton crest--were encouraged to dwell there and utter their cries, as of passionate souls lost in too comfortable surroundings. by one of those freaks of which nature is so prodigal, stanley--owner of this native moreton soil--least of all four freeland brothers, had the moreton cast of mind and body. that was why he made so much more money than the other three put together, and had been able, with the aid of clara's undoubted genius for rank and station, to restore a strain of moreton blood to its rightful position among the county families of worcestershire. bluff and without sentiment, he himself set little store by that, smiling up his sleeve--for he was both kindly and prudent--at his wife who had been a tomson. it was not in stanley to appreciate the peculiar flavor of the moretons, that something which in spite of their naivete and narrowness, had really been rather fine. to him, such moretons as were left were 'dry enough sticks, clean out of it.' they were of a breed that was already gone, the simplest of all country gentlemen, dating back to the conquest, without one solitary conspicuous ancestor, save the one who had been physician to a king and perished without issue--marrying from generation to generation exactly their own equals; living simple, pious, parochial lives; never in trade, never making money, having a tradition and a practice of gentility more punctilious than the so-called aristocracy; constitutionally paternal and maternal to their dependents, constitutionally so convinced that those dependents and all indeed who were not 'gentry,' were of different clay, that they were entirely simple and entirely without arrogance, carrying with them even now a sort of early atmosphere of archery and home-made cordials, lavender and love of clergy, together with frequent use of the word 'nice,' a peculiar regularity of feature, and a complexion that was rather parchmenty. high church people and tories, naturally, to a man and woman, by sheer inbred absence of ideas, and sheer inbred conviction that nothing else was nice; but withal very considerate of others, really plucky in bearing their own ills; not greedy, and not wasteful. of becket, as it now was, they would not have approved at all. by what chance edmund moreton (stanley's mother's grandfather), in the middle of the eighteenth century, had suddenly diverged from family feeling and ideals, and taken that 'not quite nice' resolution to make ploughs and money, would never now be known. the fact remained, together with the plough works. a man apparently of curious energy and character, considering his origin, he had dropped the e from his name, and--though he continued the family tradition so far as to marry a fleeming of worcestershire, to be paternal to his workmen, to be known as squire, and to bring his children up in the older moreton 'niceness'--he had yet managed to make his ploughs quite celebrated, to found a little town, and die still handsome and clean-shaved at the age of sixty-six. of his four sons, only two could be found sufficiently without the e to go on making ploughs. stanley's grandfather, stuart morton, indeed, had tried hard, but in the end had reverted to the congenital instinct for being just a moreton. an extremely amiable man, he took to wandering with his family, and died in france, leaving one daughter--frances, stanley's mother--and three sons, one of whom, absorbed in horses, wandered to australia and was killed by falling from them; one of whom, a soldier, wandered to india, and the embraces of a snake; and one of whom wandered into the embraces of the holy roman church. the morton plough works were dry and dwindling when stanley's father, seeking an opening for his son, put him and money into them. from that moment they had never looked back, and now brought stanley, the sole proprietor, an income of full fifteen thousand pounds a year. he wanted it. for clara, his wife, had that energy of aspiration which before now has raised women to positions of importance in the counties which are not their own, and caused, incidentally, many acres to go out of cultivation. not one plough was used on the whole of becket, not even a morton plough--these indeed were unsuitable to english soil and were all sent abroad. it was the corner-stone of his success that stanley had completely seen through the talked-of revival of english agriculture, and sedulously cultivated the foreign market. this was why the becket dining-room could contain without straining itself large quantities of local magnates and celebrities from london, all deploring the condition of 'the land,' and discussing without end the regrettable position of the agricultural laborer. except for literary men and painters, present in small quantities to leaven the lump, becket was, in fact, a rallying point for the advanced spirits of land reform--one of those places where they were sure of being well done at week-ends, and of congenial and even stimulating talk about the undoubted need for doing something, and the designs which were being entertained upon 'the land' by either party. this very heart of english country that the old moretons in their paternal way had so religiously farmed, making out of its lush grass and waving corn a simple and by no means selfish or ungenerous subsistence, was now entirely lawns, park, coverts, and private golf course, together with enough grass to support the kine which yielded that continual stream of milk necessary to clara's entertainments and children, all female, save little francis, and still of tender years. of gardeners, keepers, cow-men, chauffeurs, footmen, stablemen--full twenty were supported on those fifteen hundred acres that formed the little becket demesne. of agricultural laborers proper--that vexed individual so much in the air, so reluctant to stay on 'the land,' and so difficult to house when he was there, there were fortunately none, so that it was possible for stanley, whose wife meant him to 'put up' for the division, and his guests, who were frequently in parliament, to hold entirely unbiassed and impersonal views upon the whole question so long as they were at becket. it was beautiful there, too, with the bright open fields hedged with great elms, and that ever-rich serenity of its grass and trees. the white house, timbered with dark beams in true worcestershire fashion, and added-to from time to time, had preserved, thanks to a fine architect, an old-fashioned air of spacious presidency above its gardens and lawns. on the long artificial lake, with innumerable rushy nooks and water-lilies and coverture of leaves floating flat and bright in the sun, the half-tame wild duck and shy water-hens had remote little worlds, and flew and splashed when all becket was abed, quite as if the human spirit, with its monkey-tricks and its little divine flame, had not yet been born. under the shade of a copper-beech, just where the drive cut through into its circle before the house, an old lady was sitting that afternoon on a campstool. she was dressed in gray alpaca, light and cool, and had on her iron-gray hair a piece of black lace. a number of hearth and home and a little pair of scissors, suspended by an inexpensive chain from her waist, rested on her knee, for she had been meaning to cut out for dear felix a certain recipe for keeping the head cool; but, as a fact, she sat without doing so, very still, save that, now and then, she compressed her pale fine lips, and continually moved her pale fine hands. she was evidently waiting for something that promised excitement, even pleasure, for a little rose-leaf flush had quavered up into a face that was colored like parchment; and her gray eyes under regular and still-dark brows, very far apart, between which there was no semblance of a wrinkle, seemed noting little definite things about her, almost unwillingly, as an arab's or a red indian's eyes will continue to note things in the present, however their minds may be set on the future. so sat frances fleeming freeland (nee morton) waiting for the arrival of her son felix and her grandchildren alan and nedda. she marked presently an old man limping slowly on a stick toward where the drive debouched, and thought at once: "he oughtn't to be coming this way. i expect he doesn't know the way round to the back. poor man, he's very lame. he looks respectable, too." she got up and went toward him, remarking that his face with nice gray moustaches was wonderfully regular, almost like a gentleman's, and that he touched his dusty hat with quite old-fashioned courtesy. and smiling--her smile was sweet but critical--she said: "you'll find the best way is to go back to that little path, and past the greenhouses. have you hurt your leg?" "my leg's been like that, m'm, fifteen year come michaelmas." "how did it happen?" "ploughin'. the bone was injured; an' now they say the muscle's dried up in a manner of speakin'." "what do you do for it? the very best thing is this." from the recesses of a deep pocket, placed where no one else wore such a thing, she brought out a little pot. "you must let me give it you. put it on when you go to bed, and rub it well in; you'll find it act splendidly." the old man took the little pot with dubious reverence. "yes, m'm," he said; "thank you, m'm." "what is your name?" "gaunt." "and where do you live?" "over to joyfields, m'm." "joyfields--another of my sons lives there--mr. morton freeland. but it's seven miles." "i got a lift half-way." "and have you business at the house?" the old man was silent; the downcast, rather cynical look of his lined face deepened. and frances freeland thought: 'he's overtired. they must give him some tea and an egg. what can he want, coming all this way? he's evidently not a beggar.' the old man who was not a beggar spoke suddenly: "i know the mr. freeland at joyfields. he's a good gentleman, too." "yes, he is. i wonder i don't know you." "i'm not much about, owin' to my leg. it's my grand-daughter in service here, i come to see." "oh, yes! what is her name?" "gaunt her name is." "i shouldn't know her by her surname." "alice." "ah! in the kitchen; a nice, pretty girl. i hope you're not in trouble." again the old man was silent, and again spoke suddenly: "that's as you look at it, m'm," he said. "i've got a matter of a few words to have with her about the family. her father he couldn't come, so i come instead." "and how are you going to get back?" "i'll have to walk, i expect, without i can pick up with a cart." frances freeland compressed her lips. "with that leg you should have come by train." the old man smiled. "i hadn't the fare like," he said. "i only gets five shillin's a week, from the council, and two o' that i pays over to my son." frances freeland thrust her hand once more into that deep pocket, and as she did so she noticed that the old man's left boot was flapping open, and that there were two buttons off his coat. her mind was swiftly calculating: "it is more than seven weeks to quarter day. of course i can't afford it, but i must just give him a sovereign." she withdrew her hand from the recesses of her pocket and looked at the old man's nose. it was finely chiselled, and the same yellow as his face. "it looks nice, and quite sober," she thought. in her hand was her purse and a boot-lace. she took out a sovereign. "now, if i give you this," she said, "you must promise me not to spend any of it in the public-house. and this is for your boot. and you must go back by train. and get those buttons sewn on your coat. and tell cook, from me, please, to give you some tea and an egg." and noticing that he took the sovereign and the boot-lace very respectfully, and seemed altogether very respectable, and not at all coarse or beery-looking, she said: "good-by; don't forget to rub what i gave you into your leg every night and every morning," and went back to her camp-stool. sitting down on it with the scissors in her hand, she still did not cut out that recipe, but remained as before, taking in small, definite things, and feeling with an inner trembling that dear felix and alan and nedda would soon be here; and the little flush rose again in her cheeks, and again her lips and hands moved, expressing and compressing what was in her heart. and close behind her, a peacock, straying from the foundations of the old moreton house, uttered a cry, and moved slowly, spreading its tail under the low-hanging boughs of the copper-beeches, as though it knew those dark burnished leaves were the proper setting for its 'parlant' magnificence. chapter v the day after the little conference at john's, felix had indeed received the following note: "dear felix: "when you go down to see old tod, why not put up with us at becket? any time will suit, and the car can take you over to joyfields when you like. give the pen a rest. clara joins in hoping you'll come, and mother is still here. no use, i suppose, to ask flora. "yours ever, "stanley." during the twenty years of his brother's sojourn there felix had been down to becket perhaps once a year, and latterly alone; for flora, having accompanied him the first few times, had taken a firm stand. "my dear," she said, "i feel all body there." felix had rejoined: "no bad thing, once in a way." but flora had remained firm. life was too short! she did not get on well with clara. neither did felix feel too happy in his sister-in-law's presence; but the gray top-hat instinct had kept him going there, for one ought to keep in touch with one's brothers. he replied to stanley: "dear stanley: "delighted; if i may bring my two youngsters. we'll arrive to-morrow at four-fifty. "yours affectionately, "felix." travelling with nedda was always jolly; one could watch her eyes noting, inquiring, and when occasion served, have one's little finger hooked in and squeezed. travelling with alan was convenient, the young man having a way with railways which felix himself had long despaired of acquiring. neither of the children had ever been at becket, and though alan was seldom curious, and nedda too curious about everything to be specially so about this, yet felix experienced in their company the sensations of a new adventure. arrived at transham, that little town upon a hill which the morton plough works had created, they were soon in stanley's car, whirling into the sleepy peace of a worcestershire afternoon. would this young bird nestling up against him echo flora's verdict: 'i feel all body there!' or would she take to its fatted luxury as a duck to water? and he said: "by the way, your aunt's 'bigwigs' set in on a saturday. are you for staying and seeing the lions feed, or do we cut back?" from alan he got the answer he expected: "if there's golf or something, i suppose we can make out all right." from nedda: "what sort of bigwigs are they, dad?" "a sort you've never seen, my dear." "then i should like to stay. only, about dresses?" "what war paint have you?" "only two white evenings. and mums gave me her mechlin." "'twill serve." to felix, nedda in white 'evenings' was starry and all that man could desire. "only, dad, do tell me about them, beforehand." "my dear, i will. and god be with you. this is where becket begins." the car had swerved into a long drive between trees not yet full-grown, but decorously trying to look more than their twenty years. to the right, about a group of older elms, rooks were in commotion, for stanley's three keepers' wives had just baked their annual rook pies, and the birds were not yet happy again. those elms had stood there when the old moretons walked past them through corn-fields to church of a sunday. away on the left above the lake, the little walled mound had come in view. something in felix always stirred at sight of it, and, squeezing nedda's arm, he said: "see that silly wall? behind there granny's ancients lived. gone now--new house--new lake--new trees--new everything." but he saw from his little daughter's calm eyes that the sentiment in him was not in her. "i like the lake," she said. "there's granny--oh, and a peacock!" his mother's embrace, with its frail energy, and the pressure of her soft, dry lips, filled felix always with remorse. why could he not give the simple and direct expression to his feeling that she gave to hers? he watched those lips transferred to nedda, heard her say: "oh, my darling, how lovely to see you! do you know this for midge-bites?" a hand, diving deep into a pocket, returned with a little silver-coated stick having a bluish end. felix saw it rise and hover about nedda's forehead, and descend with two little swift dabs. "it takes them away at once." "oh, but granny, they're not midge-bites; they're only from my hat!" "it doesn't matter, darling; it takes away anything like that." and he thought: 'mother is really wonderful!' at the house the car had already disgorged their luggage. only one man, but he absolutely the butler, awaited them, and they entered, at once conscious of clara's special pot-pourri. its fragrance steamed from blue china, in every nook and crevice, a sort of baptism into luxury. clara herself, in the outer morning-room, smelled a little of it. quick and dark of eye, capable, comely, perfectly buttoned, one of those women who know exactly how not to be superior to the general taste of the period. in addition to that great quality she was endowed with a fine nose, an instinct for co-ordination not to be excelled, and a genuine love of making people comfortable; so that it was no wonder that she had risen in the ranks of hostesses, till her house was celebrated for its ease, even among those who at their week-ends liked to feel 'all body.' in regard to that characteristic of becket, not even felix in his ironies had ever stood up to clara; the matter was too delicate. frances freeland, indeed--not because she had any philosophic preconceptions on the matter, but because it was 'not nice, dear, to be wasteful' even if it were only of rose-leaves, or to 'have too much decoration,' such as japanese prints in places where they hum--sometimes told her daughter-in-law frankly what was wrong, without, however, making the faintest impression upon clara, for she was not sensitive, and, as she said to stanley, it was 'only mother.' when they had drunk that special chinese tea, all the rage, but which no one really liked, in the inner morning, or afternoon room--for the drawing-rooms were too large to be comfortable except at week-ends--they went to see the children, a special blend of stanley and clara, save the little francis, who did not seem to be entirely body. then clara took them to their rooms. she lingered kindly in nedda's, feeling that the girl could not yet feel quite at home, and looking in the soap-dish lest she might not have the right verbena, and about the dressing-table to see that she had pins and scent, and plenty of 'pot-pourri,' and thinking: 'the child is pretty--a nice girl, not like her mother.' explaining carefully how, because of the approaching week-end, she had been obliged to put her in 'a very simple room' where she would be compelled to cross the corridor to her bath, she asked her if she had a quilted dressing-gown, and finding that she had not, left her saying she would send one--and could she do her frocks up, or should sirrett come? abandoned, the girl stood in the middle of the room, so far more 'simple' than she had ever slept in, with its warm fragrance of rose-leaves and verbena, its aubusson carpet, white silk-quilted bed, sofa, cushioned window-seat, dainty curtains, and little nickel box of biscuits on little spindly table. there she stood and sniffed, stretched herself, and thought: 'it's jolly--only, it smells too much!' and she went up to the pictures, one by one. they seemed to go splendidly with the room, and suddenly she felt homesick. ridiculous, of course! yet, if she had known where her father's room was, she would have run out to it; but her memory was too tangled up with stairs and corridors--to find her way down to the hall again was all she could have done. a maid came in now with a blue silk gown very thick and soft. could she do anything for miss freeland? no, thanks, she could not; only, did she know where mr. freeland's room was? "which mr. freeland, miss, the young or the old?" "oh, the old!" having said which, nedda felt unhappy; her dad was not old! "no, miss; but i'll find out. it'll be in the walnut wing!" but with a little flutter at the thought of thus setting people to run about wings, nedda murmured: "oh! thanks, no; it doesn't matter." she settled down now on the cushion of the window-seat, to look out and take it all in, right away to that line of hills gone blue in the haze of the warm evening. that would be malvern; and there, farther to the south, the 'tods' lived. 'joyfields!' a pretty name! and it was lovely country all round; green and peaceful, with its white, timbered houses and cottages. people must be very happy, living here--happy and quiet like the stars and the birds; not like the crowds in london thronging streets and shops and hampstead heath; not like the people in all those disgruntled suburbs that led out for miles where london ought to have stopped but had not; not like the thousands and thousands of those poor creatures in bethnal green, where her slum work lay. the natives here must surely be happy. only, were there any natives? she had not seen any. away to the right below her window were the first trees of the fruit garden; for many of them spring was over, but the apple-trees had just come into blossom, and the low sun shining through a gap in some far elms was slanting on their creamy pink, christening them--nedda thought--with drops of light; and lovely the blackbirds' singing sounded in the perfect hush! how wonderful to be a bird, going where you would, and from high up in the air seeing everything; flying down a sunbeam, drinking a raindrop, sitting on the very top of a tall tree, running in grass so high that you were hidden, laying little perfect blue-green eggs, or pure-gray speckly ones; never changing your dress, yet always beautiful. surely the spirit of the world was in the birds and the clouds, roaming, floating, and in the flowers and trees that never smelled anything but sweet, never looked anything but lovely, and were never restless. why was one restless, wanting things that did not come--wanting to feel and know, wanting to love, and be loved? and at that thought which had come to her so unexpectedly--a thought never before shaped so definitely--nedda planted her arms on the window-sill, with sleeves fallen down, and let her hands meet cup-shaped beneath her chin. love! to have somebody with whom she could share everything--some one to whom and for whom she could give up--some one she could protect and comfort--some one who would bring her peace. peace, rest--from what? ah! that she could not make clear, even to herself. love! what would love be like? her father loved her, and she loved him. she loved her mother; and alan on the whole was jolly to her--it was not that. what was it--where was it--when would it come and wake her, and kiss her to sleep, all in one? come and fill her as with the warmth and color, the freshness, light, and shadow of this beautiful may evening, flood her as with the singing of those birds, and the warm light sunning the apple blossoms. and she sighed. then--as with all young things whose attention after all is but as the hovering of a butterfly--her speculation was attracted to a thin, high-shouldered figure limping on a stick, away from the house, down one of the paths among the apple-trees. he wavered, not knowing, it seemed, his way. and nedda thought: 'poor old man, how lame he is!' she saw him stoop, screened, as he evidently thought, from sight, and take something very small from his pocket. he gazed, rubbed it, put it back; what it was she could not see. then pressing his hand down, he smoothed and stretched his leg. his eyes seemed closed. so a stone man might have stood! till very slowly he limped on, passing out of sight. and turning from the window, nedda began hurrying into her evening things. when she was ready she took a long time to decide whether to wear her mother's lace or keep it for the bigwigs. but it was so nice and creamy that she simply could not take it off, and stood turning and turning before the glass. to stand before a glass was silly and old-fashioned; but nedda could never help it, wanting so badly to be nicer to look at than she was, because of that something that some day was coming! she was, in fact, pretty, but not merely pretty--there was in her face something alive and sweet, something clear and swift. she had still that way of a child raising its eyes very quickly and looking straight at you with an eager innocence that hides everything by its very wonder; and when those eyes looked down they seemed closed--their dark lashes were so long. her eyebrows were wide apart, arching with a slight angle, and slanting a little down toward her nose. her forehead under its burnt-brown hair was candid; her firm little chin just dimpled. altogether, a face difficult to take one's eyes off. but nedda was far from vain, and her face seemed to her too short and broad, her eyes too dark and indeterminate, neither gray nor brown. the straightness of her nose was certainly comforting, but it, too, was short. being creamy in the throat and browning easily, she would have liked to be marble-white, with blue dreamy eyes and fair hair, or else like a madonna. and was she tall enough? only five foot five. and her arms were too thin. the only things that gave her perfect satisfaction were her legs, which, of course, she could not at the moment see; they really were rather jolly! then, in a panic, fearing to be late, she turned and ran out, fluttering into the maze of stairs and corridors. chapter vi clara, mrs. stanley freeland, was not a narrow woman either in mind or body; and years ago, soon indeed after she married stanley, she had declared her intention of taking up her sister-in-law, kirsteen, in spite of what she had heard were the woman's extraordinary notions. those were the days of carriages, pairs, coachmen, grooms, and, with her usual promptitude, ordering out the lot, she had set forth. it is safe to say she had never forgotten that experience. imagine an old, white, timbered cottage with a thatched roof, and no single line about it quite straight. a cottage crazy with age, buried up to the thatch in sweetbrier, creepers, honeysuckle, and perched high above crossroads. a cottage almost unapproachable for beehives and their bees--an insect for which clara had an aversion. imagine on the rough, pebbled approach to the door of this cottage (and clara had on thin shoes) a peculiar cradle with a dark-eyed baby that was staring placidly at two bees sleeping on a coverlet made of a rough linen such as clara had never before seen. imagine an absolutely naked little girl of three, sitting in a tub of sunlight in the very doorway. clara had turned swiftly and closed the wicket gate between the pebbled pathway and the mossed steps that led down to where her coachman and her footman were sitting very still, as was the habit of those people. she had perceived at once that she was making no common call. then, with real courage she had advanced, and, looking down at the little girl with a fearful smile, had tickled the door with the handle of her green parasol. a woman younger than herself, a girl, indeed, appeared in a low doorway. she had often told stanley since that she would never forget her first sight (she had not yet had another) of tod's wife. a brown face and black hair, fiery gray eyes, eyes all light, under black lashes, and "such a strange smile"; bare, brown, shapely arms and neck in a shirt of the same rough, creamy linen, and, from under a bright blue skirt, bare, brown, shapely ankles and feet! a voice so soft and deadly that, as clara said: "what with her eyes, it really gave me the shivers. and, my dear," she had pursued, "white-washed walls, bare brick floors, not a picture, not a curtain, not even a fire-iron. clean--oh, horribly! they must be the most awful cranks. the only thing i must say that was nice was the smell. sweetbrier, and honey, coffee, and baked apples--really delicious. i must try what i can do with it. but that woman--girl, i suppose she is--stumped me. i'm sure she'd have cut my head off if i'd attempted to open my mouth on ordinary topics. the children were rather ducks; but imagine leaving them about like that amongst the bees. 'kirsteen!' she looked it. never again! and tod i didn't see at all; i suppose he was mooning about amongst his creatures." it was the memory of this visit, now seventeen years ago, that had made her smile so indulgently when stanley came back from the conference. she had said at once that they must have felix to stay, and for her part she would be only too glad to do anything she could for those poor children of tod's, even to asking them to becket, and trying to civilize them a little. . . . "but as for that woman, there'll be nothing to be done with her, i can assure you. and i expect tod is completely under her thumb." to felix, who took her in to dinner, she spoke feelingly and in a low voice. she liked felix, in spite of his wife, and respected him--he had a name. lady malloring--she told him--the mallorings owned, of course, everything round joyfields--had been telling her that of late tod's wife had really become quite rabid over the land question. 'the tods' were hand in glove with all the cottagers. she, clara, had nothing to say against any one who sympathized with the condition of the agricultural laborer; quite the contrary. becket was almost, as felix knew--though perhaps it wasn't for her to say so--the centre of that movement; but there were ways of doing things, and one did so deprecate women like this kirsteen--what an impossibly celtic name!--putting her finger into any pie that really was of national importance. nothing could come of anything done that sort of way. if felix had any influence with tod it would be a mercy to use it in getting those poor young creatures away from home, to mix a little with people who took a sane view of things. she would like very much to get them over to becket, but with their notions it was doubtful whether they had evening clothes! she had, of course, never forgotten that naked mite in the tub of sunlight, nor the poor baby with its bees and its rough linen. felix replied deferentially--he was invariably polite, and only just ironic enough, in the houses of others--that he had the very greatest respect for tod, and that there could be nothing very wrong with the woman to whom tod was so devoted. as for the children, his own young people would get at them and learn all about what was going on in a way that no fogey like himself could. in regard to the land question, there were, of course, many sides to that, and he, for one, would not be at all sorry to observe yet another. after all, the tods were in real contact with the laborers, and that was the great thing. it would be very interesting. yes, clara quite saw all that, but--and here she sank her voice so that there was hardly any left--as felix was going over there, she really must put him au courant with the heart of this matter. lady malloring had told her the whole story. it appeared there were two cases: a family called gaunt, an old man, and his son, who had two daughters--one of them, alice, quite a nice girl, was kitchen-maid here at becket, but the other sister--wilmet--well! she was one of those girls that, as felix must know, were always to be found in every village. she was leading the young men astray, and lady malloring had put her foot down, telling her bailiff to tell the farmer for whom gaunt worked that he and his family must go, unless they sent the girl away somewhere. that was one case. and the other was of a laborer called tryst, who wanted to marry his deceased wife's sister. of course, whether mildred malloring was not rather too churchy and puritanical--now that a deceased wife's sister was legal--clara did not want to say; but she was undoubtedly within her rights if she thought it for the good of the village. this man, tryst, was a good workman, and his farmer had objected to losing him, but lady malloring had, of course, not given way, and if he persisted he would get put out. all the cottages about there were sir gerald malloring's, so that in both cases it would mean leaving the neighborhood. in regard to village morality, as felix knew, the line must be drawn somewhere. felix interrupted quietly: "i draw it at lady malloring." "well, i won't argue that with you. but it really is a scandal that tod's wife should incite her young people to stir up the villagers. goodness knows where that mayn't lead! tod's cottage and land, you see, are freehold, the only freehold thereabouts; and his being a brother of stanley's makes it particularly awkward for the mallorings." "quite so!" murmured felix. "yes, but my dear felix, when it comes to infecting those simple people with inflated ideas of their rights, it's serious, especially in the country. i'm told there's really quite a violent feeling. i hear from alice gaunt that the young tods have been going about saying that dogs are better off than people treated in this fashion, which, of course, is all nonsense, and making far too much of a small matter. don't you think so?" but felix only smiled his peculiar, sweetish smile, and answered: "i'm glad to have come down just now." clara, who did not know that when felix smiled like that he was angry, agreed. "yes," she said; "you're an observer. you will see the thing in right perspective." "i shall endeavor to. what does tod say?" "oh! tod never seems to say anything. at least, i never hear of it." felix murmured: "tod is a well in the desert." to which deep saying clara made no reply, not indeed understanding in the least what it might signify. that evening, when alan, having had his fill of billiards, had left the smoking-room and gone to bed, felix remarked to stanley: "i say, what sort of people are these mallorings?" stanley, who was settling himself for the twenty minutes of whiskey, potash, and a review, with which he commonly composed his mind before retiring, answered negligently: "the mallorings? oh! about the best type of landowner we've got." "what exactly do you mean by that?" stanley took his time to answer, for below his bluff good-nature he had the tenacious, if somewhat slow, precision of an english man of business, mingled with a certain mistrust of 'old felix.' "well," he said at last, "they build good cottages, yellow brick, d--d ugly, i must say; look after the character of their tenants; give 'em rebate of rent if there's a bad harvest; encourage stock-breedin', and machinery--they've got some of my ploughs, but the people don't like 'em, and, as a matter of fact, they're right--they're not made for these small fields; set an example goin' to church; patronize the rifle range; buy up the pubs when they can, and run 'em themselves; send out jelly, and let people over their place on bank holidays. dash it all, i don't know what they don't do. why?" "are they liked?" "liked? no, i should hardly think they were liked; respected, and all that. malloring's a steady fellow, keen man on housing, and a gentleman; she's a bit too much perhaps on the pious side. they've got one of the finest georgian houses in the country. altogether they're what you call 'model.'" "but not human." stanley slightly lowered the review and looked across it at his brother. it was evident to him that 'old felix' was in one of his free-thinking moods. "they're domestic," he said, "and fond of their children, and pleasant neighbors. i don't deny that they've got a tremendous sense of duty, but we want that in these days." "duty to what?" stanley raised his level eyebrows. it was a stumper. without great care he felt that he would be getting over the border into the uncharted land of speculation and philosophy, wandering on paths that led him nowhere. "if you lived in the country, old man," he said, "you wouldn't ask that sort of question." "you don't imagine," said felix, "that you or the mallorings live in the country? why, you landlords are every bit as much town dwellers as i am--thought, habit, dress, faith, souls, all town stuff. there is no 'country' in england now for us of the 'upper classes.' it's gone. i repeat: duty to what?" and, rising, he went over to the window, looking out at the moonlit lawn, overcome by a sudden aversion from more talk. of what use were words from a mind tuned in one key to a mind tuned in another? and yet, so ingrained was his habit of discussion, that he promptly went on: "the mallorings, i've not the slightest doubt, believe it their duty to look after the morals of those who live on their property. there are three things to be said about that: one--you can't make people moral by adopting the attitude of the schoolmaster. two--it implies that they consider themselves more moral than their neighbors. three--it's a theory so convenient to their security that they would be exceptionally good people if they did not adopt it; but, from your account, they are not so much exceptionally as just typically good people. what you call their sense of duty, stanley, is really their sense of self-preservation coupled with their sense of superiority." "h'm!" said stanley; "i don't know that i quite follow you." "i always hate an odor of sanctity. i'd prefer them to say frankly: 'this is my property, and you'll jolly well do what i tell you, on it.'" "but, my dear chap, after all, they really are superior." "that," said felix, "i emphatically question. put your mallorings to earn their living on fifteen to eighteen shillings a week, and where would they be? the mallorings have certain virtues, no doubt, natural to their fortunate environment, but of the primitive virtues of patience, hardihood, perpetual, almost unconscious self-sacrifice, and cheerfulness in the face of a hard fate, they are no more the equals of the people they pretend to be superior to than i am your equal as a man of business." "hang it!" was stanley's answer, "what a d--d old heretic you are!" felix frowned. "am i? be honest! take the life of a malloring and take it at its best; see how it stands comparison in the ordinary virtues with those of an averagely good specimen of a farm-laborer. your malloring is called with a cup of tea, at, say, seven o'clock, out of a nice, clean, warm bed; he gets into a bath that has been got ready for him; into clothes and boots that have been brushed for him; and goes down to a room where there's a fire burning already if it's a cold day, writes a few letters, perhaps, before eating a breakfast of exactly what he likes, nicely prepared for him, and reading the newspaper that best comforts his soul; when he has eaten and read, he lights his cigar or his pipe and attends to his digestion in the most sanitary and comfortable fashion; then in his study he sits down to steady direction of other people, either by interview or by writing letters, or what not. in this way, between directing people and eating what he likes, he passes the whole day, except that for two or three hours, sometimes indeed seven or eight hours, he attends to his physique by riding, motoring, playing a game, or indulging in a sport that he has chosen for himself. and, at the end of all that, he probably has another bath that has been made ready for him, puts on clean clothes that have been put out for him, goes down to a good dinner that has been cooked for him, smokes, reads, learns, and inwardly digests, or else plays cards, billiards, and acts host till he is sleepy, and so to bed, in a clean, warm bed, in a clean, fresh room. is that exaggerated?" "no; but when you talk of his directing other people, you forget that he is doing what they couldn't." "he may be doing what they couldn't; but ordinary directive ability is not born in a man; it's acquired by habit and training. suppose fortune had reversed them at birth, the gaunt or tryst would by now have it and the malloring would not. the accident that they were not reversed at birth has given the malloring a thousandfold advantage." "it's no joke directing things," muttered stanley. "no work is any joke; but i just put it to you: simply as work, without taking in the question of reward, would you dream for a minute of swapping your work with the work of one of your workmen? no. well, neither would a malloring with one of his gaunts. so that, my boy, for work which is intrinsically more interesting and pleasurable, the malloring gets a hundred to a thousand times more money." "all this is rank socialism, my dear fellow." "no; rank truth. now, to take the life of a gaunt. he gets up summer and winter much earlier out of a bed that he cannot afford time or money to keep too clean or warm, in a small room that probably has not a large enough window; into clothes stiff with work and boots stiff with clay; makes something hot for himself, very likely brings some of it to his wife and children; goes out, attending to his digestion crudely and without comfort; works with his hands and feet from half past six or seven in the morning till past five at night, except that twice he stops for an hour or so and eats simple things that he would not altogether have chosen to eat if he could have had his will. he goes home to a tea that has been got ready for him, and has a clean-up without assistance, smokes a pipe of shag, reads a newspaper perhaps two days old, and goes out again to work for his own good, in his vegetable patch, or to sit on a wooden bench in an atmosphere of beer and 'baccy.' and so, dead tired, but not from directing other people, he drowses himself to early lying again in his doubtful bed. is that exaggerated?" "i suppose not, but he--" "has his compensations: clean conscience--freedom from worry--fresh air, all the rest of it! i know. clean conscience granted, but so has your malloring, it would seem. freedom from worry--yes, except when a pair of boots is wanted, or one of the children is ill; then he has to make up for lost time with a vengeance. fresh air--and wet clothes, with a good chance of premature rheumatism. candidly, which of those two lives demands more of the virtues on which human life is founded--courage and patience, hardihood and self-sacrifice? and which of two men who have lived those two lives well has most right to the word 'superior'?" stanley dropped the review and for fully a minute paced the room without reply. then he said: "felix, you're talking flat revolution." felix, who, faintly smiling, had watched him up and down, up and down the turkey carpet, answered: "not so. i am by no means a revolutionary person, because with all the good-will in the world i have been unable to see how upheavals from the bottom, or violence of any sort, is going to equalize these lives or do any good. but i detest humbug, and i believe that so long as you and your mallorings go on blindly dosing yourselves with humbug about duty and superiority, so long will you see things as they are not. and until you see things as they are, purged of all that sickening cant, you will none of you really move to make the conditions of life more and ever more just. for, mark you, stanley, i, who do not believe in revolution from the bottom, the more believe that it is up to us in honour to revolutionize things from the top!" "h'm!" said stanley; "that's all very well; but the more you give the more they want, till there's no end to it." felix stared round that room, where indeed one was all body. "by george," he said, "i've yet to see a beginning. but, anyway, if you give in a grudging spirit, or the spirit of a schoolmaster, what can you expect? if you offer out of real good-will, so it is taken." and suddenly conscious that he had uttered a constructive phrase, felix cast down his eyes, and added: "i am going to my clean, warm bed. good night, old man!" when his brother had taken up his candlestick and gone, stanley, uttering a dubious sound, sat down on the lounge, drank deep out of his tumbler, and once more took up his review. chapter vii the next day stanley's car, fraught with felix and a note from clara, moved swiftly along the grass-bordered roads toward joyfields. lying back on the cushioned seat, the warm air flying at his face, felix contemplated with delight his favorite countryside. certainly this garden of england was very lovely, its greenness, trees, and large, pied, lazy cattle; its very emptiness of human beings even was pleasing. nearing joyfields he noted the mallorings' park and their long georgian house, carefully fronting south. there, too, was the pond of what village there was, with the usual ducks on it; and three well-remembered cottages in a row, neat and trim, of the old, thatched sort, but evidently restored. out of the door of one of them two young people had just emerged, going in the same direction as the car. felix passed them and turned to look. yes, it was they! he stopped the car. they were walking, with eyes straight before them, frowning. and felix thought: 'nothing of tod in either of them; regular celts!' the girl's vivid, open face, crisp, brown, untidy hair, cheeks brimful of color, thick lips, eyes that looked up and out as a skye terrier's eyes look out of its shagginess--indeed, her whole figure struck felix as almost frighteningly vital; and she walked as if she despised the ground she covered. the boy was even more arresting. what a strange, pale-dark face, with its black, uncovered hair, its straight black brows; what a proud, swan's-eyed, thin-lipped, straight-nosed young devil, marching like a very highlander; though still rather run-up, from sheer youthfulness! they had come abreast of the car by now, and, leaning out, he said: "you don't remember me, i'm afraid!" the boy shook his head. wonderful eyes he had! but the girl put out her hand. "of course, derek; it's uncle felix." they both smiled now, the girl friendly, the boy rather drawn back into himself. and feeling strangely small and ill at ease, felix murmured: "i'm going to see your father. can i give you a lift home?" the answer came as he expected: "no, thanks." then, as if to tone it down, the girl added: "we've got something to do first. you'll find him in the orchard." she had a ringing voice, full of warmth. lifting his hat, felix passed on. they were a couple! strange, attractive, almost frightening. kirsteen had brought his brother a formidable little brood. arriving at the cottage, he went up its mossy stones and through the wicket gate. there was little change, indeed, since the days of clara's visit, save that the beehives had been moved farther out. nor did any one answer his knock; and mindful of the girl's words, "you'll find him in the orchard," he made his way out among the trees. the grass was long and starred with petals. felix wandered over it among bees busy with the apple-blossom. at the very end he came on his brother, cutting down a pear-tree. tod was in shirt-sleeves, his brown arms bare almost to the shoulders. how tremendous the fellow was! what resounding and terrific blows he was dealing! down came the tree, and tod drew his arm across his brow. this great, burnt, curly-headed fellow was more splendid to look upon than even felix had remembered, and so well built that not a movement of his limbs was heavy. his cheek-bones were very broad and high; his brows thick and rather darker than his bright hair, so that his deep-set, very blue eyes seemed to look out of a thicket; his level white teeth gleamed from under his tawny moustache, and his brown, unshaven cheeks and jaw seemed covered with gold powder. catching sight of felix, he came forward. "fancy," he said, "old gladstone spending his leisure cutting down trees--of all melancholy jobs!" felix did not quite know what to answer, so he put his arm within his brother's. tod drew him toward the tree. "sit down!" he said. then, looking sorrowfully at the pear-tree, he murmured: "seventy years--and down in seven minutes. now we shall burn it. well, it had to go. this is the third year it's had no blossom." his speech was slow, like that of a man accustomed to think aloud. felix admired him askance. "i might live next door," he thought, "for all the notice he's taken of my turning up!" "i came over in stanley's car," he said. "met your two coming along--fine couple they are!" "ah!" said tod. and there was something in the way he said it that was more than a mere declaration of pride or of affection. then he looked at felix. "what have you come for, old man?" felix smiled. quaint way to put it! "for a talk." "ah!" said tod, and he whistled. a largish, well-made dog with a sleek black coat, white underneath, and a black tail white-tipped, came running up, and stood before tod, with its head rather to one side and its yellow-brown eyes saying: 'i simply must get at what you're thinking, you know.' "go and tell your mistress to come--mistress!" the dog moved his tail, lowered it, and went off. "a gypsy gave him to me," said tod; "best dog that ever lived." "every one thinks that of his own dog, old man." "yes," said tod; "but this is." "he looks intelligent." "he's got a soul," said tod. "the gypsy said he didn't steal him, but he did." "do you always know when people aren't speaking the truth, then?" "yes." at such a monstrous remark from any other man, felix would have smiled; but seeing it was tod, he only asked: "how?" "people who aren't speaking the truth look you in the face and never move their eyes." "some people do that when they are speaking the truth." "yes; but when they aren't, you can see them struggling to keep their eyes straight. a dog avoids your eye when he's something to conceal; a man stares at you. listen!" felix listened and heard nothing. "a wren"; and, screwing up his lips, tod emitted a sound: "look!" felix saw on the branch of an apple-tree a tiny brown bird with a little beak sticking out and a little tail sticking up. and he thought: 'tod's hopeless!' "that fellow," said tod softly, "has got his nest there just behind us." again he emitted the sound. felix saw the little bird move its head with a sort of infinite curiosity, and hop twice on the branch. "i can't get the hen to do that," tod murmured. felix put his hand on his brother's arm--what an arm! "yes," he said; "but look here, old man--i really want to talk to you." tod shook his head. "wait for her," he said. felix waited. tod was getting awfully eccentric, living this queer, out-of-the-way life with a cranky woman year after year; never reading anything, never seeing any one but tramps and animals and villagers. and yet, sitting there beside his eccentric brother on that fallen tree, he had an extraordinary sense of rest. it was, perhaps, but the beauty and sweetness of the day with its dappling sunlight brightening the apple-blossoms, the wind-flowers, the wood-sorrel, and in the blue sky above the fields those clouds so unimaginably white. all the tiny noises of the orchard, too, struck on his ear with a peculiar meaning, a strange fulness, as if he had never heard such sounds before. tod, who was looking at the sky, said suddenly: "are you hungry?" and felix remembered that they never had any proper meals, but, when hungry, went to the kitchen, where a wood-fire was always burning, and either heated up coffee, and porridge that was already made, with boiled eggs and baked potatoes and apples, or devoured bread, cheese, jam, honey, cream, tomatoes, butter, nuts, and fruit, that were always set out there on a wooden table, under a muslin awning; he remembered, too, that they washed up their own bowls and spoons and plates, and, having finished, went outside and drew themselves a draught of water. queer life, and deuced uncomfortable--almost chinese in its reversal of everything that every one else was doing. "no," he said, "i'm not." "i am. here she is." felix felt his heart beating--clara was not alone in being frightened of this woman. she was coming through the orchard with the dog; a remarkable-looking woman--oh, certainly remarkable! she greeted him without surprise and, sitting down close to tod, said: "i'm glad to see you." why did this family somehow make him feel inferior? the way she sat there and looked at him so calmly! still more the way she narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her lips, as if rather malicious thoughts were rising in her soul! her hair, as is the way of fine, soft, almost indigo-colored hair, was already showing threads of silver; her whole face and figure thinner than he had remembered. but a striking woman still--with wonderful eyes! her dress--felix had scanned many a crank in his day--was not so alarming as it had once seemed to clara; its coarse-woven, deep-blue linen and needle-worked yoke were pleasing to him, and he could hardly take his gaze from the kingfisher-blue band or fillet that she wore round that silver-threaded black hair. he began by giving her clara's note, the wording of which he had himself dictated: "dear kirsteen: "though we have not seen each other for so long, i am sure you will forgive my writing. it would give us so much pleasure if you and the two children would come over for a night or two while felix and his young folk are staying with us. it is no use, i fear, to ask tod; but of course if he would come, too, both stanley and myself would be delighted. "yours cordially, "clara freeland." she read it, handed it to tod, who also read it and handed it to felix. nobody said anything. it was so altogether simple and friendly a note that felix felt pleased with it, thinking: 'i expressed that well!' then tod said: "go ahead, old man! you've got something to say about the youngsters, haven't you?" how on earth did he know that? but then tod had a sort of queer prescience. "well," he brought out with an effort, "don't you think it's a pity to embroil your young people in village troubles? we've been hearing from stanley--" kirsteen interrupted in her calm, staccato voice with just the faintest lisp: "stanley would not understand." she had put her arm through tod's, but never removed her eyes from her brother-in-law's face. "possibly," said felix, "but you must remember that stanley, john, and myself represent ordinary--what shall we say--level-headed opinion." "with which we have nothing in common, i'm afraid." felix glanced from her to tod. the fellow had his head on one side and seemed listening to something in the distance. and felix felt a certain irritation. "it's all very well," he said, "but i think you really have got to look at your children's future from a larger point of view. you don't surely want them to fly out against things before they've had a chance to see life for themselves." she answered: "the children know more of life than most young people. they've seen it close to, they've seen its realities. they know what the tyranny of the countryside means." "yes, yes," said felix, "but youth is youth." "they are not too young to know and feel the truth." felix was impressed. how those narrowing eyes shone! what conviction in that faintly lisping voice! 'i am a fool for my pains,' he thought, and only said: "well, what about this invitation, anyway?" "yes; it will be just the thing for them at the moment." the words had to felix a somewhat sinister import. he knew well enough that she did not mean by them what others would have meant. but he said: "when shall we expect them? tuesday, i suppose, would be best for clara, after her weekend. is there no chance of you and tod?" she quaintly wrinkled her lips into not quite a smile, and answered: "tod shall say. do you hear, tod?" "in the meadow. it was there yesterday--first time this year." felix slipped his arm through his brother's. "quite so, old man." "what?" said tod. "ah! let's go in. i'm awfully hungry." . . . sometimes out of a calm sky a few drops fall, the twigs rustle, and far away is heard the muttering of thunder; the traveller thinks: 'a storm somewhere about.' then all once more is so quiet and peaceful that he forgets he ever had that thought, and goes on his way careless. so with felix returning to becket in stanley's car. that woman's face, those two young heathens--the unconscious tod! there was mischief in the air above that little household. but once more the smooth gliding of the cushioned car, the soft peace of the meadows so permanently at grass, the churches, mansions, cottages embowered among their elms, the slow-flapping flight of the rooks and crows lulled felix to quietude, and the faint far muttering of that thunder died away. nedda was in the drive when he returned, gazing at a nymph set up there by clara. it was a good thing, procured from berlin, well known for sculpture, and beginning to green over already, as though it had been there a long time--a pretty creature with shoulders drooping, eyes modestly cast down, and a sparrow perching on her head. "well, dad?" "they're coming." "when?" "on tuesday--the youngsters, only." "you might tell me a little about them." but felix only smiled. his powers of description faltered before that task; and, proud of those powers, he did not choose to subject them to failure. chapter viii not till three o'clock that saturday did the bigwigs begin to come. lord and lady britto first from erne by car; then sir gerald and lady malloring, also by car from joyfields; an early afternoon train brought three members of the lower house, who liked a round of golf--colonel martlett, mr. sleesor, and sir john fanfar--with their wives; also miss bawtrey, an american who went everywhere; and moorsome, the landscape-painter, a short, very heavy man who went nowhere, and that in almost perfect silence, which he afterward avenged. by a train almost sure to bring no one else came literature in public affairs, alone, henry wiltram, whom some believed to have been the very first to have ideas about the land. he was followed in the last possible train by cuthcott, the advanced editor, in his habitual hurry, and lady maude ughtred in her beauty. clara was pleased, and said to stanley, while dressing, that almost every shade of opinion about the land was represented this week-end. she was not, she said, afraid of anything, if she could keep henry wiltram and cuthcott apart. the house of commons men would, of course, be all right. stanley assented: "they'll be 'fed up' with talk. but how about britto--he can sometimes be very nasty, and cuthcott's been pretty rough on him, in his rag." clara had remembered that, and she was putting lady maude on one side of cuthcott, and moorsome on the other, so that he would be quite safe at dinner, and afterward--stanley must look out! "what have you done with nedda?" stanley asked. "given her to colonel martlett, with sir john fanfar on the other side; they both like something fresh." she hoped, however, to foster a discussion, so that they might really get further this week-end; the opportunity was too good to throw away. "h'm!" stanley murmured. "felix said some very queer things the other night. he, too, might make ructions." oh, no!--clara persisted--felix had too much good taste. she thought that something might be coming out of this occasion, something as it were national, that would bear fruit. and watching stanley buttoning his braces, she grew enthusiastic. for, think how splendidly everything was represented! britto, with his view that the thing had gone too far, and all the little efforts we might make now were no good, with canada and those great spaces to outbid anything we could do; though she could not admit that he was right, there was a lot in what he said; he had great gifts--and some day might--who knew? then there was sir john--clara pursued--who was almost the father of the new tory policy: assist the farmers to buy their own land. and colonel martlett, representing the older tory policy of: what the devil would happen to the landowners if they did? secretly (clara felt sure) he would never go into a lobby to support that. he had said to her: 'look at my brother james's property; if we bring this policy in, and the farmers take advantage, his house might stand there any day without an acre round it.' quite true--it might. the same might even happen to becket. stanley grunted. exactly!--clara went on: and that was the beauty of having got the mallorings; theirs was such a steady point of view, and she was not sure that they weren't right, and the whole thing really a question of model proprietorship. "h'm!" stanley muttered. "felix will have his knife into that." clara did not think that mattered. the thing was to get everybody's opinion. even mr. moorsome's would be valuable--if he weren't so terrifically silent, for he must think a lot, sitting all day, as he did, painting the land. "he's a heavy ass," said stanley. yes; but clara did not wish to be narrow. that was why it was so splendid to have got mr. sleesor. if anybody knew the radical mind he did, and he could give full force to what one always felt was at the bottom of it--that the radicals' real supporters were the urban classes; so that their policy must not go too far with 'the land,' for fear of seeming to neglect the towns. for, after all, in the end it was out of the pockets of the towns that 'the land' would have to be financed, and nobody really could expect the towns to get anything out of it. stanley paused in the adjustment of his tie; his wife was a shrewd woman. "you've hit it there," he said. "wiltram will give it him hot on that, though." of course, clara assented. and it was magnificent that they had got henry wiltram, with his idealism and his really heavy corn tax; not caring what happened to the stunted products of the towns--and they truly were stunted, for all that the radicals and the half-penny press said--till at all costs we could grow our own food. there was a lot in that. "yes," stanley muttered, "and if he gets on to it, shan't i have a jolly time of it in the smoking-room? i know what cuthcott's like with his shirt out." clara's eyes brightened; she was very curious herself to see mr. cuthcott with his--that is, to hear him expound the doctrine he was always writing up, namely, that 'the land' was gone and, short of revolution, there was nothing for it but garden cities. she had heard he was so cutting and ferocious that he really did seem as if he hated his opponents. she hoped he would get a chance--perhaps felix could encourage him. "what about the women?" stanley asked suddenly. "will they stand a political powwow? one must think of them a bit." clara had. she was taking a farewell look at herself in the far-away mirror through the door into her bedroom. it was a mistake--she added--to suppose that women were not interested in 'the land.' lady britto was most intelligent, and mildred malloring knew every cottage on her estate. "pokes her nose into 'em often enough," stanley muttered. lady fanfar again, and mrs. sleesor, and even hilda martlett, were interested in their husbands, and miss bawtrey, of course, interested in everything. as for maude ughtred, all talk would be the same to her; she was always week-ending. stanley need not worry--it would be all right; some real work would get done, some real advance be made. so saying, she turned her fine shoulders twice, once this way and once that, and went out. she had never told even stanley her ambition that at becket, under her aegis, should be laid the foundation-stone of the real scheme, whatever it might be, that should regenerate 'the land.' stanley would only have laughed; even though it would be bound to make him lord freeland when it came to be known some day. . . . to the eyes and ears of nedda that evening at dinner, all was new indeed, and all wonderful. it was not that she was unaccustomed to society or to conversation, for to their house at hampstead many people came, uttering many words, but both the people and the words were so very different. after the first blush, the first reconnaissance of the two bigwigs between whom she sat, her eyes would stray and her ears would only half listen to them. indeed, half her ears, she soon found out, were quite enough to deal with colonel martlett and sir john fanfar. across the azaleas she let her glance come now and again to anchor on her father's face, and exchanged with him a most enjoyable blink. she tried once or twice to get through to alan, but he was always eating; he looked very like a young uncle stanley this evening. what was she feeling? short, quick stabs of self-consciousness as to how she was looking; a sort of stunned excitement due to sheer noise and the number of things offered to her to eat and drink; keen pleasure in the consciousness that colonel martlett and sir john fanfar and other men, especially that nice one with the straggly moustache who looked as if he were going to bite, glanced at her when they saw she wasn't looking. if only she had been quite certain that it was not because they thought her too young to be there! she felt a sort of continual exhilaration, that this was the great world--the world where important things were said and done, together with an intense listening expectancy, and a sense most unexpected and almost frightening, that nothing important was being said or would be done. but this she knew to be impudent. on sunday evenings at home people talked about a future existence, about nietzsche, tolstoy, chinese pictures, post-impressionism, and would suddenly grow hot and furious about peace, and strauss, justice, marriage, and de maupassant, and whether people were losing their souls through materialism, and sometimes one of them would get up and walk about the room. but to-night the only words she could catch were the names of two politicians whom nobody seemed to approve of, except that nice one who was going to bite. once very timidly she asked colonel martlett whether he liked strauss, and was puzzled by his answer: "rather; those 'tales of hoffmann' are rippin', don't you think? you go to the opera much?" she could not, of course, know that the thought which instantly rose within her was doing the governing classes a grave injustice--almost all of whom save colonel martlett knew that the 'tales of hoffmann' were by one offenbach. but beyond all things she felt she would never, never learn to talk as they were all talking--so quickly, so continuously, so without caring whether everybody or only the person they were talking to heard what they said. she had always felt that what you said was only meant for the person you said it to, but here in the great world she must evidently not say anything that was not meant for everybody, and she felt terribly that she could not think of anything of that sort to say. and suddenly she began to want to be alone. that, however, was surely wicked and wasteful, when she ought to be learning such a tremendous lot; and yet, what was there to learn? and listening just sufficiently to colonel martlett, who was telling her how great a man he thought a certain general, she looked almost despairingly at the one who was going to bite. he was quite silent at that moment, gazing at his plate, which was strangely empty. and nedda thought: 'he has jolly wrinkles about his eyes, only they might be heart disease; and i like the color of his face, so nice and yellow, only that might be liver. but i do like him--i wish i'd been sitting next to him; he looks real.' from that thought, of the reality of a man whose name she did not know, she passed suddenly into the feeling that nothing else of this about her was real at all, neither the talk nor the faces, not even the things she was eating. it was all a queer, buzzing dream. nor did that sensation of unreality cease when her aunt began collecting her gloves, and they trooped forth to the drawing-room. there, seated between mrs. sleesor and lady britto, with lady malloring opposite, and miss bawtrey leaning over the piano toward them, she pinched herself to get rid of the feeling that, when all these were out of sight of each other, they would become silent and have on their lips a little, bitter smile. would it be like that up in their bedrooms, or would it only be on her (nedda's) own lips that this little smile would come? it was a question she could not answer; nor could she very well ask it of any of these ladies. she looked them over as they sat there talking and felt very lonely. and suddenly her eyes fell on her grandmother. frances freeland was seated halfway down the long room in a sandalwood chair, somewhat insulated by a surrounding sea of polished floor. she sat with a smile on her lips, quite still, save for the continual movement of her white hands on her black lap. to her gray hair some lace of chantilly was pinned with a little diamond brooch, and hung behind her delicate but rather long ears. and from her shoulders was depended a silvery garment, of stuff that looked like the mail shirt of a fairy, reaching the ground on either side. a tacit agreement had evidently been come to, that she was incapable of discussing 'the land' or those other subjects such as the french murder, the russian opera, the chinese pictures, and the doings of one, l----, whose fate was just then in the air, so that she sat alone. and nedda thought: 'how much more of a lady she looks than anybody here! there's something deep in her to rest on that isn't in the bigwigs; perhaps it's because she's of a different generation.' and, getting up, she went over and sat down beside her on a little chair. frances freeland rose at once and said: "now, my darling, you can't be comfortable in that tiny chair. you must take mine." "oh, no, granny; please!" "oh, yes; but you must! it's so comfortable, and i've simply been longing to sit in the chair you're in. now, darling, to please me!" seeing that a prolonged struggle would follow if she did not get up, nedda rose and changed chairs. "do you like these week-ends, granny?" frances freeland seemed to draw her smile more resolutely across her face. with her perfect articulation, in which there was, however, no trace of bigwiggery, she answered: "i think they're most interesting, darling. it's so nice to see new people. of course you don't get to know them, but it's very amusing to watch, especially the head-dresses!" and sinking her voice: "just look at that one with the feather going straight up; did you ever see such a guy?" and she cackled with a very gentle archness. gazing at that almost priceless feather, trying to reach god, nedda felt suddenly how completely she was in her grandmother's little camp; how entirely she disliked bigwiggery. frances freeland's voice brought her round. "do you know, darling, i've found the most splendid thing for eyebrows? you just put a little on every night and it keeps them in perfect order. i must give you my little pot." "i don't like grease, granny." "oh! but this isn't grease, darling. it's a special thing; and you only put on just the tiniest touch." diving suddenly into the recesses of something, she produced an exiguous round silver box. prizing it open, she looked over her shoulder at the bigwigs, then placed her little finger on the contents of the little box, and said very softly: "you just take the merest touch, and you put it on like that, and it keeps them together beautifully. let me! nobody'll see!" quite well understanding that this was all part of her grandmother's passion for putting the best face upon things, and having no belief in her eyebrows, nedda bent forward; but in a sudden flutter of fear lest the bigwigs might observe the operation, she drew back, murmuring: "oh, granny, darling! not just now!" at that moment the men came in, and, under cover of the necessary confusion, she slipped away into the window. it was pitch-black outside, with the moon not yet up. the bloomy, peaceful dark out there! wistaria and early roses, clustering in, had but the ghost of color on their blossoms. nedda took a rose in her fingers, feeling with delight its soft fragility, its coolness against her hot palm. here in her hand was a living thing, here was a little soul! and out there in the darkness were millions upon millions of other little souls, of little flame-like or coiled-up shapes alive and true. a voice behind her said: "nothing nicer than darkness, is there?" she knew at once it was the one who was going to bite; the voice was proper for him, having a nice, smothery sound. and looking round gratefully, she said: "do you like dinner-parties?" it was jolly to watch his eyes twinkle and his thin cheeks puff out. he shook his head and muttered through that straggly moustache: "you're a niece, aren't you? i know your father. he's a big man." hearing those words spoken of her father, nedda flushed. "yes, he is," she said fervently. her new acquaintance went on: "he's got the gift of truth--can laugh at himself as well as others; that's what makes him precious. these humming-birds here to-night couldn't raise a smile at their own tomfoolery to save their silly souls." he spoke still in that voice of smothery wrath, and nedda thought: 'he is nice!' "they've been talking about 'the land'"--he raised his hands and ran them through his palish hair--"'the land!' heavenly father! 'the land!' why! look at that fellow!" nedda looked and saw a man, like richard coeur de lion in the history books, with a straw-colored moustache just going gray. "sir gerald malloring--hope he's not a friend of yours! divine right of landowners to lead 'the land' by the nose! and our friend britto!" nedda, following his eyes, saw a robust, quick-eyed man with a suave insolence in his dark, clean-shaved face. "because at heart he's just a supercilious ruffian, too cold-blooded to feel, he'll demonstrate that it's no use to feel--waste of valuable time--ha! valuable!--to act in any direction. and that's a man they believe things of. and poor henry wiltram, with his pathetic: 'grow our own food--maximum use of the land as food-producer, and let the rest take care of itself!' as if we weren't all long past that feeble individualism; as if in these days of world markets the land didn't stand or fall in this country as a breeding-ground of health and stamina and nothing else. well, well!" "aren't they really in earnest, then?" asked nedda timidly. "miss freeland, this land question is a perfect tragedy. bar one or two, they all want to make the omelette without breaking eggs; well, by the time they begin to think of breaking them, mark me--there'll be no eggs to break. we shall be all park and suburb. the real men on the land, what few are left, are dumb and helpless; and these fellows here for one reason or another don't mean business--they'll talk and tinker and top-dress--that's all. does your father take any interest in this? he could write something very nice." "he takes interest in everything," said nedda. "please go on, mr. --mr.--" she was terribly afraid he would suddenly remember that she was too young and stop his nice, angry talk. "cuthcott. i'm an editor, but i was brought up on a farm, and know something about it. you see, we english are grumblers, snobs to the backbone, want to be something better than we are; and education nowadays is all in the direction of despising what is quiet and humdrum. we never were a stay-at-home lot, like the french. that's at the back of this business--they may treat it as they like, radicals or tories, but if they can't get a fundamental change of opinion into the national mind as to what is a sane and profitable life; if they can't work a revolution in the spirit of our education, they'll do no good. there'll be lots of talk and tinkering, tariffs and tommy-rot, and, underneath, the land-bred men dying, dying all the time. no, madam, industrialism and vested interests have got us! bar the most strenuous national heroism, there's nothing for it now but the garden city!" "then if we were all heroic, 'the land' could still be saved?" mr. cuthcott smiled. "of course we might have a european war or something that would shake everything up. but, short of that, when was a country ever consciously and homogeneously heroic--except china with its opium? when did it ever deliberately change the spirit of its education, the trend of its ideas; when did it ever, of its own free will, lay its vested interests on the altar; when did it ever say with a convinced and resolute heart: 'i will be healthy and simple before anything. i will not let the love of sanity and natural conditions die out of me!' when, miss freeland, when?" and, looking so hard at nedda that he almost winked, he added: "you have the advantage of me by thirty years. you'll see what i shall not--the last of the english peasant. did you ever read 'erewhon,' where the people broke up their machines? it will take almost that sort of national heroism to save what's left of him, even." for answer, nedda wrinkled her brows horribly. before her there had come a vision of the old, lame man, whose name she had found out was gaunt, standing on the path under the apple-trees, looking at that little something he had taken from his pocket. why she thought of him thus suddenly she had no idea, and she said quickly: "it's awfully interesting. i do so want to hear about 'the land.' i only know a little about sweated workers, because i see something of them." "it's all of a piece," said mr. cuthcott; "not politics at all, but religion--touches the point of national self-knowledge and faith, the point of knowing what we want to become and of resolving to become it. your father will tell you that we have no more idea of that at present than a cat of its own chemical composition. as for these good people here to-night--i don't want to be disrespectful, but if they think they're within a hundred miles of the land question, i'm a--i'm a jingo--more i can't say." and, as if to cool his head, he leaned out of the window. "nothing is nicer than darkness, as i said just now, because you can only see the way you must go instead of a hundred and fifty ways you might. in darkness your soul is something like your own; in daylight, lamplight, moonlight, never." nedda's spirit gave a jump; he seemed almost at last to be going to talk about the things she wanted, above all, to find out. her cheeks went hot, she clenched her hands and said resolutely: "mr. cuthcott, do you believe in god?" mr. cuthcott made a queer, deep little noise; it was not a laugh, however, and it seemed as if he knew she could not bear him to look at her just then. "h'm!" he said. "every one does that--according to their natures. some call god it, some him, some her, nowadays--that's all. you might as well ask--do i believe that i'm alive?" "yes," said nedda, "but which do you call god?" as she asked that, he gave a wriggle, and it flashed through her: 'he must think me an awful enfant terrible!' his face peered round at her, queer and pale and puffy, with nice, straight eyes; and she added hastily: "it isn't a fair question, is it? only you talked about darkness, and the only way--so i thought--" "quite a fair question. my answer is, of course: 'all three'; but the point is rather: does one wish to make even an attempt to define god to oneself? frankly, i don't! i'm content to feel that there is in one some kind of instinct toward perfection that one will still feel, i hope, when the lights are going out; some kind of honour forbidding one to let go and give up. that's all i've got; i really don't know that i want more." nedda clasped her hands. "i like that," she said; "only--what is perfection, mr. cuthcott?" again he emitted that deep little sound. "ah!" he repeated, "what is perfection? awkward, that--isn't it?" "is it"--nedda rushed the words out--"is it always to be sacrificing yourself, or is it--is it always to be--to be expressing yourself?" "to some--one; to some--the other; to some--half one, half the other." "but which is it to me?" "ah! that you've got to find out for yourself. there's a sort of metronome inside us--wonderful, sell-adjusting little machine; most delicate bit of mechanism in the world--people call it conscience--that records the proper beat of our tempos. i guess that's all we have to go by." nedda said breathlessly: "yes; and it's frightfully hard, isn't it?" "exactly," mr. cuthcott answered. "that's why people devised religions and other ways of having the thing done second-hand. we all object to trouble and responsibility if we can possibly avoid it. where do you live?" "in hampstead." "your father must be a stand-by, isn't he?" "oh, yes; dad's splendid; only, you see, i am a good deal younger than he. there was just one thing i was going to ask you. are these very bigwigs?" mr. cuthcott turned to the room and let his screwed-up glance wander. he looked just then particularly as if he were going to bite. "if you take 'em at their own valuation: yes. if at the country's: so-so. if at mine: ha! i know what you'd like to ask: should i be a bigwig in their estimation? not i! as you knock about, miss freeland, you'll find out one thing--all bigwiggery is founded on: scratch my back, and i'll scratch yours. seriously, these are only tenpenny ones; but the mischief is, that in the matter of 'the land,' the men who really are in earnest are precious scarce. nothing short of a rising such as there was in would make the land question real, even for the moment. not that i want to see one--god forbid! those poor doomed devils were treated worse than dogs, and would be again." before nedda could pour out questions about the rising in , stanley's voice said: "cuthcott, i want to introduce you!" her new friend screwed his eyes up tighter and, muttering something, put out his hand to her. "thank you for our talk. i hope we shall meet again. any time you want to know anything--i'll be only too glad. good night!" she felt the squeeze of his hand, warm and dry, but rather soft, as of a man who uses a pen too much; saw him following her uncle across the room, with his shoulders a little hunched, as if preparing to inflict, and ward off, blows. and with the thought: 'he must be jolly when he gives them one!' she turned once more to the darkness, than which he had said there was nothing nicer. it smelled of new-mown grass, was full of little shiverings of leaves, and all colored like the bloom of a black grape. and her heart felt soothed. chapter ix ". . . when i first saw derek i thought i should never feel anything but shy and hopeless. in four days, only in four days, the whole world is different. . . . and yet, if it hadn't been for that thunder-storm, i shouldn't have got over being shy in time. he has never loved anybody--nor have i. it can't often be like that--it makes it solemn. there's a picture somewhere--not a good one, i know--of a young highlander being taken away by soldiers from his sweetheart. derek is fiery and wild and shy and proud and dark--like the man in that picture. that last day along the hills--along and along--with the wind in our faces, i could have walked forever; and then joyfields at the end! their mother's wonderful; i'm afraid of her. but uncle tod is a perfect dear. i never saw any one before who noticed so many things that i didn't, and nothing that i did. i am sure he has in him what mr. cuthcott said we were all losing--the love of simple, natural conditions. and then, the moment, when i stood with derek at the end of the orchard, to say good-by. the field below covered with those moony-white flowers, and the cows all dark and sleepy; the holy feeling down there was wonderful, and in the branches over our heads, too, and the velvety, starry sky, and the dewiness against one's face, and the great, broad silence--it was all worshipping something, and i was worshipping--worshipping happiness. i was happy, and i think he was. perhaps i shall never be so happy again. when he kissed me i didn't think the whole world had so much happiness in it. i know now that i'm not cold a bit; i used to think i was. i believe i could go with him anywhere, and do anything he wanted. what would dad think? only the other day i was saying i wanted to know everything. one only knows through love. it's love that makes the world all beautiful--makes it like those pictures that seem to be wrapped in gold, makes it like a dream--no, not like a dream--like a wonderful tune. i suppose that's glamour--a goldeny, misty, lovely feeling, as if my soul were wandering about with his--not in my body at all. i want it to go on and on wandering--oh! i don't want it back in my body, all hard and inquisitive and aching! i shall never know anything so lovely as loving him and being loved. i don't want anything more--nothing! stay with me, please--happiness! don't go away and leave me! . . . they frighten me, though; he frightens me--their idealism; wanting to do great things, and fight for justice. if only i'd been brought up more like that--but everything's been so different. it's their mother, i think, even more than themselves. i seem to have grown up just looking on at life as at a show; watching it, thinking about it, trying to understand--not living it at all. i must get over that; i will. i believe i can tell the very moment i began to love him. it was in the schoolroom the second evening. sheila and i were sitting there just before dinner, and he came, in a rage, looking splendid. 'that footman put out everything just as if i were a baby--asked me for suspenders to fasten on my socks; hung the things on a chair in order, as if i couldn't find out for myself what to put on first; turned the tongues of my shoes out!--curled them over!' then derek looked at me and said: 'do they do that for you?--and poor old gaunt, who's sixty-six and lame, has three shillings a week to buy him everything. just think of that! if we had the pluck of flies--' and he clenched his fists. but sheila got up, looked hard at me, and said: 'that'll do, derek.' then he put his hand on my arm and said: 'it's only cousin nedda!' i began to love him then; and i believe he saw it, because i couldn't take my eyes away. but it was when sheila sang 'the red sarafan,' after dinner, that i knew for certain. 'the red sarafan'--it's a wonderful song, all space and yearning, and yet such calm--it's the song of the soul; and he was looking at me while she sang. how can he love me? i am nothing--no good for anything! alan calls him a 'run-up kid, all legs and wings.' sometimes i hate alan; he's conventional and stodgy--the funny thing is that he admires sheila. she'll wake him up; she'll stick pins into him. no, i don't want alan hurt--i want every one in the world to be happy, happy--as i am. . . . the next day was the thunder-storm. i never saw lightning so near--and didn't care a bit. if he were struck i knew i should be; that made it all right. when you love, you don't care, if only the something must happen to you both. when it was over, and we came out from behind the stack and walked home through the fields, all the beasts looked at us as if we were new and had never been seen before; and the air was ever so sweet, and that long, red line of cloud low down in the purple, and the elm-trees so heavy and almost black. he put his arm round me, and i let him. . . . it seems an age to wait till they come to stay with us next week. if only mother likes them, and i can go and stay at joyfields. will she like them? it's all so different to what it would be if they were ordinary. but if he were ordinary i shouldn't love him; it's because there's nobody like him. that isn't a loverish fancy--you only have to look at him against alan or uncle stanley or even dad. everything he does is so different; the way he walks, and the way he stands drawn back into himself, like a stag, and looks out as if he were burning and smouldering inside; even the way he smiles. dad asked me what i thought of him! that was only the second day. i thought he was too proud, then. and dad said: 'he ought to be in a highland regiment; pity--great pity!' he is a fighter, of course. i don't like fighting, but if i'm not ready to, he'll stop loving me, perhaps. i've got to learn. o darkness out there, help me! and stars, help me! o god, make me brave, and i will believe in you forever! if you are the spirit that grows in things in spite of everything, until they're like the flowers, so perfect that we laugh and sing at their beauty, grow in me, too; make me beautiful and brave; then i shall be fit for him, alive or dead; and that's all i want. every evening i shall stand in spirit with him at the end of that orchard in the darkness, under the trees above the white flowers and the sleepy cows, and perhaps i shall feel him kiss me again. . . . i'm glad i saw that old man gaunt; it makes what they feel more real to me. he showed me that poor laborer tryst, too, the one who mustn't marry his wife's sister, or have her staying in the house without marrying her. why should people interfere with others like that? it does make your blood boil! derek and sheila have been brought up to be in sympathy with the poor and oppressed. if they had lived in london they would have been even more furious, i expect. and it's no use my saying to myself 'i don't know the laborer, i don't know his hardships,' because he is really just the country half of what i do know and see, here in london, when i don't hide my eyes. one talk showed me how desperately they feel; at night, in sheila's room, when we had gone up, just we four. alan began it; they didn't want to, i could see; but he was criticising what some of those bigwigs had said--the 'varsity makes boys awfully conceited. it was such a lovely night; we were all in the big, long window. a little bat kept flying past; and behind the copper-beech the moon was shining on the lake. derek sat in the windowsill, and when he moved he touched me. to be touched by him gives me a warm shiver all through. i could hear him gritting his teeth at what alan said--frightfully sententious, just like a newspaper: 'we can't go into land reform from feeling, we must go into it from reason.' then derek broke out: 'walk through this country as we've walked; see the pigsties the people live in; see the water they drink; see the tiny patches of ground they have; see the way their roofs let in the rain; see their peeky children; see their patience and their hopelessness; see them working day in and day out, and coming on the parish at the end! see all that, and then talk about reason! reason! it's the coward's excuse, and the rich man's excuse, for doing nothing. it's the excuse of the man who takes jolly good care not to see for fear that he may come to feel! reason never does anything, it's too reasonable. the thing is to act; then perhaps reason will be jolted into doing something.' but sheila touched his arm, and he stopped very suddenly. she doesn't trust us. i shall always be being pushed away from him by her. he's just twenty, and i shall be eighteen in a week; couldn't we marry now at once? then, whatever happened, i couldn't be cut off from him. if i could tell dad, and ask him to help me! but i can't--it seems desecration to talk about it, even to dad. all the way up in the train to-day, coming back home, i was struggling not to show anything; though it's hateful to keep things from dad. love alters everything; it melts up the whole world and makes it afresh. love is the sun of our spirits, and it's the wind. ah, and the rain, too! but i won't think of that! . . . i wonder if he's told aunt kirsteen! . . ." chapter x while nedda sat, long past midnight, writing her heart out in her little, white, lilac-curtained room of the old house above the spaniard's road, derek, of whom she wrote, was walking along the malvern hills, hurrying upward in the darkness. the stars were his companions; though he was no poet, having rather the fervid temper of the born swordsman, that expresses itself in physical ecstasies. he had come straight out from a stormy midnight talk with sheila. what was he doing--had been the burden of her cry--falling in love just at this moment when they wanted all their wits and all their time and strength for this struggle with the mallorings? it was foolish, it was weak; and with a sweet, soft sort of girl who could be no use. hotly he had answered: what business was it of hers? as if one fell in love when one wished! she didn't know--her blood didn't run fast enough! sheila had retorted, "i've more blood in my big toe than nedda in all her body! a lot of use you'll be, with your heart mooning up in london!" and crouched together on the end of her bed, gazing fixedly up at him through her hair, she had chanted mockingly: "here we go gathering wool and stars--wool and stars--wool and stars!" he had not deigned to answer, but had gone out, furious with her, striding over the dark fields, scrambling his way through the hedges toward the high loom of the hills. up on the short grass in the cooler air, with nothing between him and those swarming stars, he lost his rage. it never lasted long--hers was more enduring. with the innate lordliness of a brother he already put it down to jealousy. sheila was hurt that he should want any one but her; as if his love for nedda would make any difference to their resolution to get justice for tryst and the gaunts, and show those landed tyrants once for all that they could not ride roughshod. nedda! with her dark eyes, so quick and clear, so loving when they looked at him! nedda, soft and innocent, the touch of whose lips had turned his heart to something strange within him, and wakened such feelings of chivalry! nedda! to see whom for half a minute he felt he would walk a hundred miles. this boy's education had been administered solely by his mother till he was fourteen, and she had brought him up on mathematics, french, and heroism. his extensive reading of history had been focussed on the personality of heroes, chiefly knights errant, and revolutionaries. he had carried the worship of them to the agricultural college, where he had spent four years; and a rather rough time there had not succeeded in knocking romance out of him. he had found that you could not have such beliefs comfortably without fighting for them, and though he ended his career with the reputation of a rebel and a champion of the weak, he had had to earn it. to this day he still fed himself on stories of rebellions and fine deeds. the figures of spartacus, montrose, hofer, garibaldi, hampden, and john nicholson, were more real to him than the people among whom he lived, though he had learned never to mention--especially not to the matter-of-fact sheila--his encompassing cloud of heroes; but, when he was alone, he pranced a bit with them, and promised himself that he too would reach the stars. so you may sometimes see a little, grave boy walking through a field, unwatched as he believes, suddenly fling his feet and his head every which way. an active nature, romantic, without being dreamy and book-loving, is not too prone to the attacks of love; such a one is likely to survive unscathed to a maturer age. but nedda had seduced him, partly by the appeal of her touchingly manifest love and admiration, and chiefly by her eyes, through which he seemed to see such a loyal, and loving little soul looking. she had that indefinable something which lovers know that they can never throw away. and he had at once made of her, secretly, the crown of his active romanticism--the lady waiting for the spoils of his lance. queer is the heart of a boy--strange its blending of reality and idealism! climbing at a great pace, he reached malvern beacon just as it came dawn, and stood there on the top, watching. he had not much aesthetic sense; but he had enough to be impressed by the slow paling of the stars over space that seemed infinite, so little were its dreamy confines visible in the may morning haze, where the quivering crimson flags and spears of sunrise were forging up in a march upon the sky. that vision of the english land at dawn, wide and mysterious, hardly tallied with mr. cuthcott's view of a future dedicate to park and garden city. while derek stood there gazing, the first lark soared up and began its ecstatic praise. save for that song, silence possessed all the driven dark, right out to the severn and the sea, and the fastnesses of the welsh hills, and the wrekin, away in the north, a black point in the gray. for a moment dark and light hovered and clung together. would victory wing back into night or on into day? then, as a town is taken, all was over in one overmastering rush, and light proclaimed. derek tightened his belt and took a bee-line down over the slippery grass. he meant to reach the cottage of the laborer tryst before that early bird was away to the fields. he meditated as he went. bob tryst was all right! if they only had a dozen or two like him! a dozen or two whom they could trust, and who would trust each other and stand firm to form the nucleus of a strike, which could be timed for hay harvest. what slaves these laborers still were! if only they could be relied on, if only they would stand together! slavery! it was slavery; so long as they could be turned out of their homes at will in this fashion. his rebellion against the conditions of their lives, above all against the manifold petty tyrannies that he knew they underwent, came from use of his eyes and ears in daily contact with a class among whom he had been more or less brought up. in sympathy with, and yet not of them, he had the queer privilege of feeling their slights as if they were his own, together with feelings of protection, and even of contempt that they should let themselves be slighted. he was near enough to understand how they must feel; not near enough to understand why, feeling as they did, they did not act as he would have acted. in truth, he knew them no better than he should. he found tryst washing at his pump. in the early morning light the big laborer's square, stubborn face, with its strange, dog-like eyes, had a sodden, hungry, lost look. cutting short ablutions that certainly were never protracted, he welcomed derek, and motioned him to pass into the kitchen. the young man went in, and perched himself on the window-sill beside a pot of bridal wreath. the cottage was one of the mallorings', and recently repaired. a little fire was burning, and a teapot of stewed tea sat there beside it. four cups and spoons and some sugar were put out on a deal table, for tryst was, in fact, brewing the morning draught of himself and children, who still lay abed up-stairs. the sight made derek shiver and his eyes darken. he knew the full significance of what he saw. "did you ask him again, bob?" "yes, i asked 'im." "what did he say?" "said as orders was plain. 'so long as you lives there,' he says, 'along of yourself alone, you can't have her come back.'" "did you say the children wanted looking after badly? did you make it clear? did you say mrs. tryst wished it, before she--" "i said that." "what did he say then?" "'sorry for you, m'lad, but them's m'lady's orders, an' i can't go contrary. i don't wish to go into things,' he says; 'you know better'n i how far 'tis gone when she was 'ere before; but seein' as m'lady don't never give in to deceased wife's sister marryin', if she come back 'tis certain to be the other thing. so, as that won't do neither, you go elsewhere,' he says." having spoken thus at length, tryst lifted the teapot and poured out the dark tea into the three cups. "will 'ee have some, sir?" derek shook his head. taking the cups, tryst departed up the narrow stairway. and derek remained motionless, staring at the bridal wreath, till the big man came down again and, retiring into a far corner, sat sipping at his own cup. "bob," said the boy suddenly, "do you like being a dog; put to what company your master wishes?" tryst set his cup down, stood up, and crossed his thick arms--the swift movement from that stolid creature had in it something sinister; but he did not speak. "do you like it, bob?" "i'll not say what i feels, mr. derek; that's for me. what i does'll be for others, p'raps." and he lifted his strange, lowering eyes to derek's. for a full minute the two stared, then derek said: "look out, then; be ready!" and, getting off the sill, he went out. on the bright, slimy surface of the pond three ducks were quietly revelling in that hour before man and his damned soul, the dog, rose to put the fear of god into them. in the sunlight, against the green duckweed, their whiteness was truly marvellous; difficult to believe that they were not white all through. passing the three cottages, in the last of which the gaunts lived, he came next to his own home, but did not turn in, and made on toward the church. it was a very little one, very old, and had for him a curious fascination, never confessed to man or beast. to his mother, and sheila, more intolerant, as became women, that little, lichened, gray stone building was the very emblem of hypocrisy, of a creed preached, not practised; to his father it was nothing, for it was not alive, and any tramp, dog, bird, or fruit-tree meant far more. but in derek it roused a peculiar feeling, such as a man might have gazing at the shores of a native country, out of which he had been thrown for no fault of his own--a yearning deeply muffled up in pride and resentment. not infrequently he would come and sit brooding on the grassy hillock just above the churchyard. church-going, with its pageantry, its tradition, dogma, and demand for blind devotion, would have suited him very well, if only blind devotion to his mother had not stood across that threshold; he could not bring himself to bow to that which viewed his rebellious mother as lost. and yet the deep fibres of heredity from her papistic highland ancestors, and from old pious moretons, drew him constantly to this spot at times when no one would be about. it was his enemy, this little church, the fold of all the instincts and all the qualities against which he had been brought up to rebel; the very home of patronage and property and superiority; the school where his friends the laborers were taught their place! and yet it had that queer, ironical attraction for him. in some such sort had his pet hero montrose rebelled, and then been drawn despite himself once more to the side of that against which he had taken arms. while he leaned against the rail, gazing at that ancient edifice, he saw a girl walk into the churchyard at the far end, sit down on a gravestone, and begin digging a little hole in the grass with the toe of her boot. she did not seem to see him, and at his ease he studied her face, one of those broad, bright english country faces with deep-set rogue eyes and red, thick, soft lips, smiling on little provocation. in spite of her disgrace, in spite of the fact that she was sitting on her mother's grave, she did not look depressed. and derek thought: 'wilmet gaunt is the jolliest of them all! she isn't a bit a bad girl, as they say; it's only that she must have fun. if they drive her out of here, she'll still want fun wherever she is; she'll go to a town and end up like those girls i saw in bristol.' and the memory of those night girls, with their rouged faces and cringing boldness, came back to him with horror. he went across the grass toward her. she looked round as he came, and her face livened. "well, wilmet?" "you're an early bird, mr. derek." "haven't been to bed." "oh!" "been up malvern beacon to see the sun rise." "you're tired, i expect!" "no." "must be fine up there. you'd see a long ways from there; near to london i should think. do you know london, mr. derek?" "no." "they say 'tis a funny place, too." her rogue eyes gleamed from under a heavy frown. "it'd not be all 'do this' an' 'do that'; an' 'you bad girl' an' 'you little hussy!' in london. they say there's room for more'n one sort of girl there." "all towns are beastly places, wilmet." again her rogue's eyes gleamed. "i don' know so much about that, mr. derek. i'm going where i won't be chivied about and pointed at, like what i am here." "your dad's stuck to you; you ought to stick to him." "ah, dad! he's losin' his place for me, but that don't stop his tongue at home. 'tis no use to nag me--nag me. suppose one of m'lady's daughters had a bit of fun--they say there's lots as do--i've heard tales--there'd be none comin' to chase her out of her home. 'no, my girl, you can't live here no more, endangerin' the young men. you go away. best for you's where they'll teach you to be'ave. go on! out with you! i don't care where you go; but you just go!' 'tis as if girls were all pats o' butter--same square, same pattern on it, same weight, an' all." derek had come closer; he put his hand down and gripped her arm. her eloquence dried up before the intentness of his face, and she just stared up at him. "now, look here, wilmet; you promise me not to scoot without letting us know. we'll get you a place to go to. promise." a little sheepishly the rogue-girl answered: "i promise; only, i'm goin'." suddenly she dimpled and broke into her broad smile. "mr. derek, d'you know what they say--they say you're in love. you was seen in th' orchard. ah! 'tis all right for you and her! but if any one kiss and hug me, i got to go!" derek drew back among the graves, as if he had been struck with a whip. she looked up at him with coaxing sweetness. "don't you mind me, mr. derek, and don't you stay here neither. if they saw you here with me, they'd say: 'aw--look! endangerin' another young man--poor young man!' good mornin', mr. derek!" the rogue eyes followed him gravely, then once more began examining the grass, and the toe of her boot again began kicking a little hole. but derek did not look back. chapter xi it is in the nature of men and angels to pursue with death such birds as are uncommon, such animals as are rare; and society had no use for one like tod, so uncut to its pattern as to be practically unconscious of its existence. not that he had deliberately turned his back on anything; he had merely begun as a very young man to keep bees. the better to do that he had gone on to the cultivation of flowers and fruit, together with just enough farming as kept his household in vegetables, milk, butter, and eggs. living thus amongst insects, birds, cows, and the peace of trees, he had become queer. his was not a very reflective mind, it distilled but slowly certain large conclusions, and followed intently the minute happenings of his little world. to him a bee, a bird, a flower, a tree was well-nigh as interesting as a man; yet men, women, and especially children took to him, as one takes to a newfoundland dog, because, though capable of anger, he seemed incapable of contempt, and to be endowed with a sort of permanent wonder at things. then, too, he was good to look at, which counts for more than a little in the scales of our affections; indeed, the slight air of absence in his blue eyes was not chilling, as is that which portends a wandering of its owner on his own business. people recognized that it meant some bee or other in that bonnet, or elsewhere, some sound or scent or sight of life, suddenly perceived--always of life! he had often been observed gazing with peculiar gravity at a dead flower, bee, bird, or beetle, and, if spoken to at such a moment, would say, "gone!" touching a wing or petal with his finger. to conceive of what happened after death did not apparently come within the few large conclusions of his reflective powers. that quaint grief of his in the presence of the death of things that were not human had, more than anything, fostered a habit among the gentry and clergy of the neighborhood of drawing up the mouth when they spoke of him, and slightly raising the shoulders. for the cottagers, to be sure, his eccentricity consisted rather in his being a 'gentleman,' yet neither eating flesh, drinking wine, nor telling them how they ought to behave themselves, together with the way he would sit down on anything and listen to what they had to tell him, without giving them the impression that he was proud of himself for doing so. in fact, it was the extraordinary impression he made of listening and answering without wanting anything either for himself or for them, that they could not understand. how on earth it came about that he did not give them advice about their politics, religion, morals, or monetary states, was to them a never-ending mystery; and though they were too well bred to shrug their shoulders, there did lurk in their dim minds the suspicion that 'the good gentleman,' as they called him, was 'a tiddy-bit off.' he had, of course, done many practical little things toward helping them and their beasts, but always, as it seemed, by accident, so that they could never make up their minds afterward whether he remembered having done them, which, in fact, he probably did not; and this seemed to them perhaps the most damning fact of all about his being--well, about his being--not quite all there. another worrying habit he had, too, that of apparently not distinguishing between them and any tramps or strangers who might happen along and come across him. this was, in their eyes, undoubtedly a fault; for the village was, after all, their village, and he, as it were, their property. to crown all, there was a story, full ten years old now, which had lost nothing in the telling, of his treatment of a cattle-drover. to the village it had an eerie look, that windmill-like rage let loose upon a man who, after all, had only been twisting a bullock's tail and running a spiked stick into its softer parts, as any drover might. people said--the postman and a wagoner had seen the business, raconteurs born, so that the tale had perhaps lost nothing--that he had positively roared as he came leaping down into the lane upon the man, a stout and thick-set fellow, taken him up like a baby, popped him into a furzebush, and held him there. people said that his own bare arms had been pricked to the very shoulder from pressing the drover down into that uncompromising shrub, and the man's howls had pierced the very heavens. the postman, to this day, would tell how the mere recollection of seeing it still made him sore all over. of the words assigned to tod on this occasion, the mildest and probably most true were: "by the lord god, if you treat a beast like that again, i'll cut your liver out, you hell-hearted sweep!" the incident, which had produced a somewhat marked effect in regard to the treatment of animals all round that neighborhood, had never been forgotten, nor in a sense forgiven. in conjunction with the extraordinary peace and mildness of his general behavior, it had endowed tod with mystery; and people, especially simple folk, cannot bring themselves to feel quite at home with mystery. children only--to whom everything is so mysterious that nothing can be--treated him as he treated them, giving him their hands with confidence. but children, even his own, as they grew up, began to have a little of the village feeling toward tod; his world was not theirs, and what exactly his world was they could not grasp. possibly it was the sense that they partook of his interest and affection too much on a level with any other kind of living thing that might happen to be about, which discomfited their understanding. they held him, however, in a certain reverence. that early morning he had already done a good two hours' work in connection with broad beans, of which he grew, perhaps, the best in the whole county, and had knocked off for a moment, to examine a spider's web. this marvellous creation, which the dew had visited and clustered over, as stars over the firmament, was hung on the gate of the vegetable garden, and the spider, a large and active one, was regarding tod with the misgiving natural to its species. intensely still tod stood, absorbed in contemplation of that bright and dusty miracle. then, taking up his hoe again, he went back to the weeds that threatened his broad beans. now and again he stopped to listen, or to look at the sky, as is the way of husbandmen, thinking of nothing, enjoying the peace of his muscles. "please, sir, father's got into a fit again." two little girls were standing in the lane below. the elder, who had spoken in that small, anxious voice, had a pale little face with pointed chin; her hair, the color of over-ripe corn, hung fluffy on her thin shoulders, her flower-like eyes, with something motherly in them already, were the same hue as her pale-blue, almost clean, overall. she had her smaller, chubbier sister by the hand, and, having delivered her message, stood still, gazing up at tod, as one might at god. tod dropped his hoe. "biddy come with me; susie go and tell mrs. freeland, or miss sheila." he took the frail little hand of the elder tryst and ran. they ran at the child's pace, the one so very massive, the other such a whiff of flesh and blood. "did you come at once, biddy?" "yes, sir." "where was he taken?" "in the kitchen--just as i was cookin' breakfast." "ah! is it a bad one?" "yes, sir, awful bad--he's all foamy." "what did you do for it?" "susie and me turned him over, and billy's seein' he don't get his tongue down his throat--like what you told us, and we ran to you. susie was frightened, he hollered so." past the three cottages, whence a woman at a window stared in amaze to see that queer couple running, past the pond where the ducks, whiter than ever in the brightening sunlight, dived and circled carelessly, into the tryst kitchen. there on the brick floor lay the distressful man, already struggling back out of epilepsy, while his little frightened son sat manfully beside him. "towels, and hot water, biddy!" with extraordinary calm rapidity the small creature brought what might have been two towels, a basin, and the kettle; and in silence she and tod steeped his forehead. "eyes look better, biddy?" "he don't look so funny now, sir." picking up that form, almost as big as his own, tod carried it up impossibly narrow stairs and laid it on a dishevelled bed. "phew! open the window, biddy." the small creature opened what there was of window. "now, go down and heat two bricks and wrap them in something, and bring them up." tryst's boots and socks removed, tod rubbed the large, warped feet. while doing this he whistled, and the little boy crept up-stairs and squatted in the doorway, to watch and listen. the morning air overcame with its sweetness the natural odor of that small room, and a bird or two went flirting past. the small creature came back with the bricks, wrapped in petticoats of her own, and, placing them against the soles of her father's feet, she stood gazing at tod, for all the world like a little mother dog with puppies. "you can't go to school to-day, biddy." "is susie and billy to go?" "yes; there's nothing to be frightened of now. he'll be nearly all right by evening. but some one shall stay with you." at this moment tryst lifted his hand, and the small creature went and stood beside him, listening to the whispering that emerged from his thick lips. "father says i'm to thank you, please." "yes. have you had your breakfasts?" the small creature and her smaller brother shook their heads. "go down and get them." whispering and twisting back, they went, and by the side of the bed tod sat down. in tryst's eyes was that same look of dog-like devotion he had bent on derek earlier that morning. tod stared out of the window and gave the man's big hand a squeeze. of what did he think, watching a lime-tree outside, and the sunlight through its foliage painting bright the room's newly whitewashed wall, already gray-spotted with damp again; watching the shadows of the leaves playing in that sunlight? almost cruel, that lovely shadow game of outside life so full and joyful, so careless of man and suffering; too gay almost, too alive! of what did he think, watching the chase and dart of shadow on shadow, as of gray butterflies fluttering swift to the sack of flowers, while beside him on the bed the big laborer lay? . . . when kirsteen and sheila came to relieve him of that vigil he went down-stairs. there in the kitchen biddy was washing up, and susie and billy putting on their boots for school. they stopped to gaze at tod feeling in his pockets, for they knew that things sometimes happened after that. to-day there came out two carrots, some lumps of sugar, some cord, a bill, a pruning knife, a bit of wax, a bit of chalk, three flints, a pouch of tobacco, two pipes, a match-box with a single match in it, a six-pence, a necktie, a stick of chocolate, a tomato, a handkerchief, a dead bee, an old razor, a bit of gauze, some tow, a stick of caustic, a reel of cotton, a needle, no thimble, two dock leaves, and some sheets of yellowish paper. he separated from the rest the sixpence, the dead bee, and what was edible. and in delighted silence the three little trysts gazed, till biddy with the tip of one wet finger touched the bee. "not good to eat, biddy." at those words, one after the other, cautiously, the three little trysts smiled. finding that tod smiled too, they broadened, and billy burst into chuckles. then, clustering in the doorway, grasping the edibles and the sixpence, and consulting with each other, they looked long after his big figure passing down the road. chapter xii still later, that same morning, derek and sheila moved slowly up the mallorings' well-swept drive. their lips were set, as though they had spoken the last word before battle, and an old cock pheasant, running into the bushes close by, rose with a whir and skimmed out toward his covert, scared, perhaps, by something uncompromising in the footsteps of those two. only when actually under the shelter of the porch, which some folk thought enhanced the old greek-temple effect of the mallorings' house, derek broke through that taciturnity: "what if they won't?" "wait and see; and don't lose your head, derek." the man who stood there when the door opened was tall, grave, wore his hair in powder, and waited without speech. "will you ask sir gerald and lady malloring if miss freeland and mr. derek freeland could see them, please; and will you say the matter is urgent?" the man bowed, left them, and soon came back. "my lady will see you, miss; sir gerald is not in. this way." past the statuary, flowers, and antlers of the hall, they traversed a long, cool corridor, and through a white door entered a white room, not very large, and very pretty. two children got up as they came in and flapped out past them like young partridges, and lady malloring rose from her writing-table and came forward, holding out her hand. the two young freelands took it gravely. for all their hostility they could not withstand the feeling that she would think them terrible young prigs if they simply bowed. and they looked steadily at one with whom they had never before been at quite such close quarters. lady malloring, who had originally been the honorable mildred killory, a daughter of viscount silport, was tall, slender, and not very striking, with very fair hair going rather gray; her expression in repose was pleasant, a little anxious; only by her eyes was the suspicion awakened that she was a woman of some character. they had that peculiar look of belonging to two worlds, so often to be met with in english eyes, a look of self-denying aspiration, tinctured with the suggestion that denial might not be confined to self. in a quite friendly voice she said: "can i do anything for you?" and while she waited for an answer her glance travelled from face to face of the two young people, with a certain curiosity. after a silence of several seconds, sheila answered: "not for us, thank you; for others, you can." lady malloring's eyebrows rose a little, as if there seemed to her something rather unjust in those words--'for others.' "yes?" she said. sheila, whose hands were clenched, and whose face had been fiery red, grew suddenly almost white. "lady malloring, will you please let the gaunts stay in their cottage and tryst's wife's sister come to live with the children and him?" lady malloring raised one hand; the motion, quite involuntary, ended at the tiny cross on her breast. she said quietly: "i'm afraid you don't understand." "yes," said sheila, still very pale, "we understand quite well. we understand that you are acting in what you believe to be the interests of morality. all the same, won't you? do!" "i'm very sorry, but i can't." "may we ask why?" lady malloring started, and transferred her glance to derek. "i don't know," she said with a smile, "that i am obliged to account for my actions to you two young people. besides, you must know why, quite well." sheila put out her hand. "wilmet gaunt will go to the bad if you turn them out." "i am afraid i think she has gone to the bad already, and i do not mean her to take others there with her. i am sorry for poor tryst, and i wish he could find some nice woman to marry; but what he proposes is impossible." the blood had flared up again in sheila's cheeks; she was as red as the comb of a turkey-cock. "why shouldn't he marry his wife's sister? it's legal, now, and you've no right to stop it." lady malloring bit her lips; she looked straight and hard at sheila. "i do not stop it; i have no means of stopping it. only, he cannot do it and live in one of our cottages. i don't think we need discuss this further." "i beg your pardon--" the words had come from derek. lady malloring paused in her walk toward the bell. with his peculiar thin-lipped smile the boy went on: "we imagined you would say no; we really came because we thought it fair to warn you that there may be trouble." lady malloring smiled. "this is a private matter between us and our tenants, and we should be so glad if you could manage not to interfere." derek bowed, and put his hand within his sister's arm. but sheila did not move; she was trembling with anger. "who are you," she suddenly burst out, "to dispose of the poor, body and soul? who are you, to dictate their private lives? if they pay their rent, that should be enough for you." lady malloring moved swiftly again toward the bell. she paused with her hand on it, and said: "i am sorry for you two; you have been miserably brought up!" there was a silence; then derek said quietly: "thank you; we shall remember that insult to our people. don't ring, please; we're going." in a silence if anything more profound than that of their approach, the two young people retired down the drive. they had not yet learned--most difficult of lessons--how to believe that people could in their bones differ from them. it had always seemed to them that if only they had a chance of putting directly what they thought, the other side must at heart agree, and only go on saying they didn't out of mere self-interest. they came away, therefore, from this encounter with the enemy a little dazed by the discovery that lady malloring in her bones believed that she was right. it confused them, and heated the fires of their anger. they had shaken off all private dust before sheila spoke. "they're all like that--can't see or feel--simply certain they're superior! it makes--it makes me hate them! it's terrible, ghastly." and while she stammered out those little stabs of speech, tears of rage rolled down her cheeks. derek put his arm round her waist. "all right! no good groaning; let's think seriously what to do." there was comfort to the girl in that curiously sudden reversal of their usual attitudes. "whatever's done," he went on, "has got to be startling. it's no good pottering and protesting, any more." and between his teeth he muttered: "'men of england, wherefore plough?' . . ." in the room where the encounter had taken place mildred malloring was taking her time to recover. from very childhood she had felt that the essence of her own goodness, the essence of her duty in life, was the doing of 'good' to others; from very childhood she had never doubted that she was in a position to do this, and that those to whom she did good, although they might kick against it as inconvenient, must admit that it was their 'good.' the thought: 'they don't admit that i am superior!' had never even occurred to her, so completely was she unselfconscious, in her convinced superiority. it was hard, indeed, to be flung against such outspoken rudeness. it shook her more than she gave sign of, for she was not by any means an insensitive woman--shook her almost to the point of feeling that there was something in the remonstrance of those dreadful young people. yet, how could there be, when no one knew better than she that the laborers on the malloring estate were better off than those on nine out of ten estates; better paid and better housed, and--better looked after in their morals. was she to give up that?--when she knew that she was better able to tell what was good for them than they were themselves. after all, without stripping herself naked of every thought, experience, and action since her birth, how could she admit that she was not better able? and slowly, in the white room with the moss-green carpet, she recovered, till there was only just a touch of soreness left, at the injustice implicit in their words. those two had been 'miserably brought up,' had never had a chance of finding their proper place, of understanding that they were just two callow young things, for whom life had some fearful knocks in store. she could even feel now that she had meant that saying: 'i am sorry for you two!' she was sorry for them, sorry for their want of manners and their point of view, neither of which they could help, of course, with a mother like that. for all her gentleness and sensibility, there was much practical directness about mildred malloring; for her, a page turned was a page turned, an idea absorbed was never disgorged; she was of religious temperament, ever trimming her course down the exact channel marked out with buoys by the port authorities, and really incapable of imagining spiritual wants in others that could not be satisfied by what satisfied herself. and this pathetic strength she had in common with many of her fellow creatures in every class. sitting down at the writing-table from which she had been disturbed, she leaned her thin, rather long, gentle, but stubborn face on her hand, thinking. these gaunts were a source of irritation in the parish, a kind of open sore. it would be better if they could be got rid of before quarter day, up to which she had weakly said they might remain. far better for them to go at once, if it could be arranged. as for the poor fellow tryst, thinking that by plunging into sin he could improve his lot and his poor children's, it was really criminal of those freelands to encourage him. she had refrained hitherto from seriously worrying gerald on such points of village policy--his hands were so full; but he must now take his part. and she rang the bell. "tell sir gerald i'd like to see him, please, as soon as he gets back." "sir gerald has just come in, my lady." "now, then!" gerald malloring--an excellent fellow, as could be seen from his face of strictly norman architecture, with blue stained-glass windows rather deep set in--had only one defect: he was not a poet. not that this would have seemed to him anything but an advantage, had he been aware of it. his was one of those high-principled natures who hold that breadth is synonymous with weakness. it may be said without exaggeration that the few meetings of his life with those who had a touch of the poet in them had been exquisitely uncomfortable. silent, almost taciturn by nature, he was a great reader of poetry, and seldom went to sleep without having digested a page or two of wordsworth, milton, tennyson, or scott. byron, save such poems as 'don juan' or 'the waltz,' he could but did not read, for fear of setting a bad example. burns, shelley, and keats he did not care for. browning pained him, except by such things as: 'how they brought the good news from ghent to aix' and the 'cavalier tunes'; while of 'omar khayyam' and 'the hound of heaven' he definitely disapproved. for shakespeare he had no real liking, though he concealed this, from humility in the face of accepted opinion. his was a firm mind, sure of itself, but not self-assertive. his points were so good, and he had so many of them, that it was only when he met any one touched with poetry that his limitations became apparent; it was rare, however, and getting more so every year, for him to have this unpleasant experience. when summoned by his wife, he came in with a wrinkle between his straight brows; he had just finished a morning's work on a drainage scheme, like the really good fellow that he was. she greeted him with a little special smile. nothing could be friendlier than the relations between these two. affection and trust, undeviating undemonstrativeness, identity of feeling as to religion, children, property; and, in regard to views on the question of sex, a really strange unanimity, considering that they were man and woman. "it's about these gaunts, gerald. i feel they must go at once. they're only creating bad feeling by staying till quarter day. i have had the young freelands here." "those young pups!" "can't it be managed?" malloring did not answer hastily. he had that best point of the good englishman, a dislike to being moved out of a course of conduct by anything save the appeal of his own conscience. "i don't know," he said, "why we should alter what we thought was just. must give him time to look round and get a job elsewhere." "i think the general state of feeling demands it. it's not fair to the villagers to let the freelands have such a handle for agitating. labor's badly wanted everywhere; he can't have any difficulty in getting a place, if he likes." "no. only, i rather admire the fellow for sticking by his girl, though he is such a 'land-lawyer.' i think it's a bit harsh to move him suddenly." "so did i, till i saw from those young furies what harm it's doing. they really do infect the cottagers. you know how discontent spreads. and tryst--they're egging him on, too." malloring very thoughtfully filled a pipe. he was not an alarmist; if anything, he erred on the side of not being alarmed until it was all over and there was no longer anything to be alarmed at! his imagination would then sometimes take fire, and he would say that such and such, or so and so, was dangerous. "i'd rather go and have a talk with freeland," he said. "he's queer, but he's not at all a bad chap." lady malloring rose, and took one of his real-leather buttons in her hand. "my dear gerald, mr. freeland doesn't exist." "don't know about that; a man can always come to life, if he likes, in his own family." lady malloring was silent. it was true. for all their unanimity of thought and feeling, for all the latitude she had in domestic and village affairs, gerald had a habit of filling his pipe with her decisions. quite honestly, she had no objection to their becoming smoke through his lips, though she might wriggle just a little. to her credit, she did entirely carry out in her life her professed belief that husbands should be the forefronts of their wives. for all that, there burst from her lips the words: "that freeland woman! when i think of the mischief she's always done here, by her example and her irreligion--i can't forgive her. i don't believe you'll make any impression on mr. freeland; he's entirely under her thumb." smoking slowly, and looking just over the top of his wife's head, malioring answered: "i'll have a try; and don't you worry!" lady malloring turned away. her soreness still wanted salve. "those two young people," she murmured, "said some very unpleasant things to me. the boy, i believe, might have some good in him, but the girl is simply terrible." "h'm! i think just the reverse, you know." "they'll come to awful grief if they're not brought up sharp. they ought to be sent to the colonies to learn reality." malloring nodded. "come out, mildred, and see how they're getting on with the new vinery." and they went out together through the french window. the vinery was of their own designing, and of extraordinary interest. in contemplation of its lofty glass and aluminium-cased pipes the feeling of soreness left her. it was very pleasant, standing with gerald, looking at what they had planned together; there was a soothing sense of reality about that visit, after the morning's happening, with its disappointment, its reminder of immorality and discontent, and of folk ungrateful for what was done for their good. and, squeezing her husband's arm, she murmured: "it's really exactly what we thought it would be, gerald!" chapter xiii about five o'clock of that same afternoon, gerald malloring went to see tod. an open-air man himself, who often deplored the long hours he was compelled to spend in the special atmosphere of the house of commons, he rather envied tod his existence in this cottage, crazed from age, and clothed with wistaria, rambler roses, sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and virginia creeper. freeland had, in his opinion, quite a jolly life of it--the poor fellow not being able, of course, to help having a cranky wife and children like that. he pondered, as he went along, over a talk at becket, when stanley, still under the influence of felix's outburst, had uttered some rather queer sayings. for instance, he had supposed that they (meaning, apparently, himself and malloring) were rather unable to put themselves in the position of these trysts and gaunts. he seemed to speak of them as one might speak generically of hodge, which had struck malloring as singular, it not being his habit to see anything in common between an individual case, especially on his own estate, and the ethics of a general proposition. the place for general propositions was undoubtedly the house of commons, where they could be supported one way or the other, out of blue books. he had little use for them in private life, where innumerable things such as human nature and all that came into play. he had stared rather hard at his host when stanley had followed up that first remark with: "i'm bound to say, i shouldn't care to have to get up at half past five, and go out without a bath!" what that had to do with the land problem or the regulation of village morality malloring had been unable to perceive. it all depended on what one was accustomed to; and in any case threw no light on the question, as to whether or not he was to tolerate on his estate conduct of which his wife and himself distinctly disapproved. at the back of national life there was always this problem of individual conduct, especially sexual conduct--without regularity in which, the family, as the unit of national life, was gravely threatened, to put it on the lowest ground. and he did not see how to bring it home to the villagers that they had got to be regular, without making examples now and then. he had hoped very much to get through his call without coming across freeland's wife and children, and was greatly relieved to find tod, seated on a window-sill in front of his cottage, smoking, and gazing apparently at nothing. in taking the other corner of the window-sill, the thought passed through his mind that freeland was really a very fine-looking fellow. tod was, indeed, about malloring's own height of six feet one, with the same fairness and straight build of figure and feature. but tod's head was round and massive, his hair crisp and uncut; malloring's head long and narrow, his hair smooth and close-cropped. tod's eyes, blue and deep-set, seemed fixed on the horizon, malloring's, blue and deep-set, on the nearest thing they could light on. tod smiled, as it were, without knowing; malloring seemed to know what he was smiling at almost too well. it was comforting, however, that freeland was as shy and silent as himself, for this produced a feeling that there could not be any real difference between their points of view. perceiving at last that if he did not speak they would continue sitting there dumb till it was time for him to go, malloring said: "look here, freeland; about my wife and yours and tryst and the gaunts, and all the rest of it! it's a pity, isn't it? this is a small place, you know. what's your own feeling?" tod answered: "a man has only one life." malloring was a little puzzled. "in this world. i don't follow." "live and let live." a part of malloring undoubtedly responded to that curt saying, a part of him as strongly rebelled against it; and which impulse he was going to follow was not at first patent. "you see, you keep apart," he said at last. "you couldn't say that so easily if you had, like us, to take up the position in which we find ourselves." "why take it up?" malloring frowned. "how would things go on?" "all right," said tod. malloring got up from the sill. this was 'laisser-faire' with a vengeance! such philosophy had always seemed to him to savor dangerously of anarchism. and yet twenty years' experience as a neighbor had shown him that tod was in himself perhaps the most harmless person in worcestershire, and held in a curious esteem by most of the people about. he was puzzled, and sat down again. "i've never had a chance to talk things over with you," he said. "there are a good few people, freeland, who can't behave themselves; we're not bees, you know!" he stopped, having an uncomfortable suspicion that his hearer was not listening. "first i've heard this year," said tod. for all the rudeness of that interruption, malloring felt a stir of interest. he himself liked birds. unfortunately, he could hear nothing but the general chorus of their songs. "thought they'd gone," murmured tod. malloring again got up. "look here, freeland," he said, "i wish you'd give your mind to this. you really ought not to let your wife and children make trouble in the village." confound the fellow! he was smiling; there was a sort of twinkle in his smile, too, that malloring found infectious! "no, seriously," he said, "you don't know what harm you mayn't do." "have you ever watched a dog looking at a fire?" asked tod. "yes, often; why?" "he knows better than to touch it." "you mean you're helpless? but you oughtn't to be." the fellow was smiling again! "then you don't mean to do anything?" tod shook his head. malloring flushed. "now, look here, freeland," he said, "forgive my saying so, but this strikes me as a bit cynical. d'you think i enjoy trying to keep things straight?" tod looked up. "birds," he said, "animals, insects, vegetable life--they all eat each other more or less, but they don't fuss about it." malloring turned abruptly and went down the path. fuss! he never fussed. fuss! the word was an insult, addressed to him! if there was one thing he detested more than another, whether in public or private life, it was 'fussing.' did he not belong to the league for suppression of interference with the liberty of the subject? was he not a member of the party notoriously opposed to fussy legislation? had any one ever used the word in connection with conduct of his, before? if so, he had never heard them. was it fussy to try and help the church to improve the standard of morals in the village? was it fussy to make a simple decision and stick to it? the injustice of the word really hurt him. and the more it hurt him, the slower and more dignified and upright became his march toward his drive gate. 'wild geese' in the morning sky had been forerunners; very heavy clouds were sweeping up from the west, and rain beginning to fall. he passed an old man leaning on the gate of a cottage garden and said: "good evening!" the old man touched his hat but did not speak. "how's your leg, gaunt?" "'tis much the same, sir gerald." "rain coming makes it shoot, i expect." "it do." malloring stood still. the impulse was on him to see if, after all, the gaunts' affair could not be disposed of without turning the old fellow and his son out. "look here!" he said; "about this unfortunate business. why don't you and your son make up your minds without more ado to let your granddaughter go out to service? you've been here all your lives; i don't want to see you go." the least touch of color invaded the old man's carved and grayish face. "askin' your pardon," he said, "my son sticks by his girl, and i sticks by my son!" "oh! very well; you know your own business, gaunt. i spoke for your good." a faint smile curled the corners of old gaunt's mouth downward beneath his gray moustaches. "thank you kindly," he said. malloring raised a finger to his cap and passed on. though he felt a longing to stride his feelings off, he did not increase his pace, knowing that the old man's eyes were following him. but how pig-headed they were, seeing nothing but their own point of view! well, he could not alter his decision. they would go at the june quarter--not a day before, nor after. passing tryst's cottage, he noticed a 'fly' drawn up outside, and its driver talking to a woman in hat and coat at the cottage doorway. she avoided his eye. 'the wife's sister again!' he thought. 'so that fellow's going to be an ass, too? hopeless, stubborn lot!' and his mind passed on to his scheme for draining the bottom fields at cantley bromage. this village trouble was too small to occupy for long the mind of one who had so many duties. . . . old gaunt remained at the gate watching till the tall figure passed out of sight, then limped slowly down the path and entered his son's cottage. tom gaunt, not long in from work, was sitting in his shirtsleeves, reading the paper--a short, thick-set man with small eyes, round, ruddy cheeks, and humorous lips indifferently concealed by a ragged moustache. even in repose there was about him something talkative and disputatious. he was clearly the kind of man whose eyes and wit would sparkle above a pewter pot. a good workman, he averaged out an income of perhaps eighteen shillings a week, counting the two shillings' worth of vegetables that he grew. his erring daughter washed for two old ladies in a bungalow, so that with old gaunt's five shillings from the parish, the total resources of this family of five, including two small boys at school, was seven and twenty shillings a week. quite a sum! his comparative wealth no doubt contributed to the reputation of tom gaunt, well known as local wag and disturber of political meetings. his method with these gatherings, whether liberal or tory, had a certain masterly simplicity. by interjecting questions that could not be understood, and commenting on the answers received, he insured perpetual laughter, with the most salutary effects on the over-consideration of any political question, together with a tendency to make his neighbors say: "ah! tom gaunt, he's a proper caution, he is!" an encomium dear to his ears. what he seriously thought about anything in this world, no one knew; but some suspected him of voting liberal, because he disturbed their meetings most. his loyalty to his daughter was not credited to affection. it was like tom gaunt to stick his toes in and kick--the quality, for choice. to look at him and old gaunt, one would not have thought they could be son and father, a relationship indeed ever dubious. as for his wife, she had been dead twelve years. some said he had joked her out of life, others that she had gone into consumption. he was a reader--perhaps the only one in all the village, and could whistle like a blackbird. to work hard, but without too great method, to drink hard, but with perfect method, and to talk nineteen to the dozen anywhere except at home--was his mode of life. in a word, he was a 'character.' old gaunt sat down in a wooden rocking-chair, and spoke. "sir gerald 'e've a-just passed." "sir gerald 'e can goo to hell. they'll know un there, by 'is little ears." "'e've a-spoke about us stoppin'; so as mettie goes out to sarvice." "'e've a-spoke about what 'e don't know 'bout, then. let un do what they like, they can't put tom gaunt about; he can get work anywhere--tom gaunt can, an' don't you forget that, old man." the old man, placing his thin brown hands on his knees, was silent. and thoughts passed through and through him. 'if so be as tom goes, there'll be no one as'll take me in for less than three bob a week. two bob a week, that's what i'll 'ave to feed me--two bob a week--two bob a week! but if so be's i go with tom, i'll 'ave to reg'lar sit down under he for me bread and butter.' and he contemplated his son. "where are you goin', then?" he said. tom gaunt rustled the greenish paper he was reading, and his little, hard gray eyes fixed his father. "who said i was going?" old gaunt, smoothing and smoothing the lined, thin cheeks of the parchmenty, thin-nosed face that frances freeland had thought to be almost like a gentleman's, answered: "i thart you said you was goin'." "you think too much, then--that's what 'tis. you think too much, old man." with a slight deepening of the sardonic patience in his face, old gaunt rose, took a bowl and spoon down from a shelf, and very slowly proceeded to make himself his evening meal. it consisted of crusts of bread soaked in hot water and tempered with salt, pepper, onion, and a touch of butter. and while he waited, crouched over the kettle, his son smoked his grayish clay and read his greenish journal; an old clock ticked and a little cat purred without provocation on the ledge of the tight-closed window. then the door opened and the rogue-girl appeared. she shook her shoulders as though to dismiss the wetting she had got, took off her turn-down, speckly, straw hat, put on an apron, and rolled up her sleeves. her arms were full and firm and red; the whole of her was full and firm. from her rosy cheeks to her stout ankles she was superabundant with vitality, the strangest contrast to her shadowy, thin old grandfather. about the preparation of her father's tea she moved with a sort of brooding stolidity, out of which would suddenly gleam a twinkle of rogue-sweetness, as when she stopped to stroke the little cat or to tickle the back of her grandfather's lean neck in passing. having set the tea, she stood by the table and said slowly: "tea's ready, father. i'm goin' to london." tom gaunt put down his pipe and journal, took his seat at the table, filled his mouth with sausage, and said: "you're goin' where i tell you." "i'm goin' to london." tom gaunt stayed the morsel in one cheek and fixed her with his little, wild boar's eye. "ye're goin' to catch the stick," he said. "look here, my girl, tom gaunt's been put about enough along of you already. don't you make no mistake." "i'm goin' to london," repeated the rogue-girl stolidly. "you can get alice to come over." "oh! can i? ye're not goin' till i tell you. don't you think it!" "i'm goin'. i saw mr. derek this mornin'. they'll get me a place there." tom gaunt remained with his fork as it were transfixed. the effort of devising contradiction to the chief supporters of his own rebellion was for the moment too much for him. he resumed mastication. "you'll go where i want you to go; and don't you think you can tell me where that is." in the silence that ensued the only sound was that of old gaunt supping at his crusty-broth. then the rogue-girl went to the window and, taking the little cat on her breast, sat looking out into the rain. having finished his broth, old gaunt got up, and, behind his son's back, he looked at his granddaughter and thought: 'goin' to london! 'twud be best for us all. we shudn' need to be movin', then. goin' to london!' but he felt desolate. chapter xiv when spring and first love meet in a girl's heart, then the birds sing. the songs that blackbirds and dusty-coated thrushes flung through nedda's window when she awoke in hampstead those may mornings seemed to have been sung by herself all night. whether the sun were flashing on the leaves, or rain-drops sieving through on a sou'west wind, the same warmth glowed up in her the moment her eyes opened. whether the lawn below were a field of bright dew, or dry and darkish in a shiver of east wind, her eyes never grew dim all day; and her blood felt as light as ostrich feathers. stormed by an attack of his cacoethes scribendi, after those few blank days at becket, felix saw nothing amiss with his young daughter. the great observer was not observant of things that other people observed. neither he nor flora, occupied with matters of more spiritual importance, could tell, offhand, for example, on which hand a wedding-ring was worn. they had talked enough of becket and the tods to produce the impression on flora's mind that one day or another two young people would arrive in her house on a visit; but she had begun a poem called 'dionysus at the well,' and felix himself had plunged into a satiric allegory entitled 'the last of the laborers.' nedda, therefore, walked alone; but at her side went always an invisible companion. in that long, imaginary walking-out she gave her thoughts and the whole of her heart, and to be doing this never surprised her, who, before, had not given them whole to anything. a bee knows the first summer day and clings intoxicated to its flowers; so did nedda know and cling. she wrote him two letters and he wrote her one. it was not poetry; indeed, it was almost all concerned with wilmet gaunt, asking nedda to find a place in london where the girl could go; but it ended with the words: "your lover, "derek." this letter troubled nedda. she would have taken it at once to felix or to flora if it had not been for the first words, "dearest nedda," and those last three. except her mother, she instinctively distrusted women in such a matter as that of wilmet gaunt, feeling they would want to know more than she could tell them, and not be too tolerant of what they heard. casting about, at a loss, she thought suddenly of mr. cuthcott. at dinner that day she fished round carefully. felix spoke of him almost warmly. what cuthcott could have been doing at becket, of all places, he could not imagine--the last sort of man one expected to see there; a good fellow, rather desperate, perhaps, as men of his age were apt to get if they had too many women, or no woman, about them. which, said nedda, had mr. cuthcott? oh! none. how had he struck nedda? and felix looked at his little daughter with a certain humble curiosity. he always felt that the young instinctively knew so much more than he did. "i liked him awfully. he was like a dog." "ah!" said felix, "he is like a dog--very honest; he grins and runs about the city, and might be inclined to bay the moon." 'i don't mind that,' nedda thought, 'so long as he's not "superior."' "he's very human," felix added. and having found out that he lived in gray's inn, nedda thought: 'i will; i'll ask him.' to put her project into execution, she wrote this note: "dear mr. cuthcott: "you were so kind as to tell me you wouldn't mind if i bothered you about things. i've got a very bothery thing to know what to do about, and i would be so glad of your advice. it so happens that i can't ask my father and mother. i hope you won't think me very horrible, wasting your time. and please say no, if you'd rather. "yours sincerely, "nedda freeland." the answer came: "dear miss freeland: "delighted. but if very bothery, better save time and ink, and have a snack of lunch with me to-morrow at the elgin restaurant, close to the british museum. quiet and respectable. no flowers by request. one o'clock. "very truly yours, "giles cuthcott." putting on 'no flowers' and with a fast-beating heart, nedda, went on her first lonely adventure. to say truth she did not know in the least how ever she was going to ask this almost strange man about a girl of doubtful character. but she kept saying to herself: 'i don't care--he has nice eyes.' and her spirit would rise as she got nearer, because, after all, she was going to find things out, and to find things out was jolly. the new warmth and singing in her heart had not destroyed, but rather heightened, her sense of the extraordinary interest of all things that be. and very mysterious to her that morning was the kaleidoscope of oxford street and its innumerable girls, and women, each going about her business, with a life of her own that was not nedda's. for men she had little use just now, they had acquired a certain insignificance, not having gray-black eyes that smoked and flared, nor harris tweed suits that smelled delicious. only once on her journey from oxford circus she felt the sense of curiosity rise in her, in relation to a man, and this was when she asked a policeman at tottenham court road, and he put his head down fully a foot to listen to her. so huge, so broad, so red in the face, so stolid, it seemed wonderful to her that he paid her any attention! if he were a human being, could she really be one, too? but that, after all, was no more odd than everything. why, for instance, the spring flowers in that woman's basket had been born; why that high white cloud floated over; why and what was nedda freeland? at the entrance of the little restaurant she saw mr. cuthcott waiting. in a brown suit, with his pale but freckled face, and his gnawed-at, sandy moustache, and his eyes that looked out and beyond, he was certainly no beauty. but nedda thought: 'he's even nicer than i remembered, and i'm sure he knows a lot.' at first, to be sitting opposite to him, in front of little plates containing red substances and small fishes, was so exciting that she simply listened to his rapid, rather stammering voice mentioning that the english had no idea of life or cookery, that god had so made this country by mistake that everything, even the sun, knew it. what, however, would she drink? chardonnet? it wasn't bad here. she assented, not liking to confess that she did not know what chardonnet might be, and hoping it was some kind of sherbet. she had never yet drunk wine, and after a glass felt suddenly extremely strong. "well," said mr. cuthcott, and his eyes twinkled, "what's your botheration? i suppose you want to strike out for yourself. my daughters did that without consulting me." "oh! have you got daughters?" "yes--funny ones; older than you." "that's why you understand, then" mr. cuthcott smiled. "they were a liberal education!" and nedda thought: 'poor dad, i wonder if i am!' "yes," mr. cuthcott murmured, "who would think a gosling would ever become a goose?" "ah!" said nedda eagerly, "isn't it wonderful how things grow?" she felt his eyes suddenly catch hold of hers. "you're in love!" he said. it seemed to her a great piece of luck that he had found that out. it made everything easy at once, and her words came out pell-mell. "yes, and i haven't told my people yet. i don't seem able. he's given me something to do, and i haven't much experience." a funny little wriggle passed over mr. cuthcott's face. "yes, yes; go on! tell us about it." she took a sip from her glass, and the feeling that he had been going to laugh passed away. "it's about the daughter of a laborer, down there in worcestershire, where he lives, not very far from becket. he's my cousin, derek, the son of my other uncle at joyfields. he and his sister feel most awfully strongly about the laborers." "ah!" said mr. cuthcott, "the laborers! queer how they're in the air, all of a sudden." "this girl hasn't been very good, and she has to go from the village, or else her family have. he wants me to find a place for her in london." "i see; and she hasn't been very good?" "not very." she knew that her cheeks were flushing, but her eyes felt steady, and seeing that his eyes never moved, she did not mind. she went on: "it's sir gerald malloring's estate. lady malloring--won't--" she heard a snap. mr. cuthcott's mouth had closed. "oh!" he said, "say no more!" 'he can bite nicely!' she thought. mr. cuthcott, who had begun lightly thumping the little table with his open hand, broke out suddenly: "that petty bullying in the country! i know it! my god! those prudes, those prisms! they're the ruination of half the girls on the--" he looked at nedda and stopped short. "if she can do any kind of work, i'll find her a place. in fact, she'd better come, for a start, under my old housekeeper. let your cousin know; she can turn up any day. name? wilmet gaunt? right you are!" he wrote it on his cuff. nedda rose to her feet, having an inclination to seize his hand, or stroke his head, or something. she subsided again with a fervid sigh, and sat exchanging with him a happy smile. at last she said: "mr. cuthcott, is there any chance of things like that changing?" "changing?" he certainly had grown paler, and was again lightly thumping the table. "changing? by gum! it's got to change! this d--d pluto-aristocratic ideal! the weed's so grown up that it's choking us. yes, miss freeland, whether from inside or out i don't know yet, but there's a blazing row coming. things are going to be made new before long." under his thumps the little plates had begun to rattle and leap. and nedda thought: 'i do like him.' but she said anxiously: "you believe there's something to be done, then? derek is simply full of it; i want to feel like that, too, and i mean to." his face grew twinkly; he put out his hand. and wondering a little whether he meant her to, nedda timidly stretched forth her own and grasped it. "i like you," he said. "love your cousin and don't worry." nedda's eyes slipped into the distance. "but i'm afraid for him. if you saw him, you'd know." "one's always afraid for the fellows that are worth anything. there was another young freeland at your uncle's the other night--" "my brother alan!" "oh! your brother? well, i wasn't afraid for him, and it seemed a pity. have some of this; it's about the only thing they do well here." "oh, thank you, no. i've had a lovely lunch. mother and i generally have about nothing." and clasping her hands she added: "this is a secret, isn't it, mr. cuthcott?" "dead." he laughed and his face melted into a mass of wrinkles. nedda laughed also and drank up the rest of her wine. she felt blissful. "yes," said mr. cuthcott, "there's nothing like loving. how long have you been at it?" "only five days, but it's everything." mr. cuthcott sighed. "that's right. when you can't love, the only thing is to hate." "oh!" said nedda. mr. cuthcott again began banging on the little table. "look at them, look at them!" his eyes wandered angrily about the room, wherein sat some few who had passed though the mills of gentility. "what do they know of life? where are their souls and sympathies? they haven't any. i'd like to see their blood flow, the silly brutes." nedda looked at them with alarm and curiosity. they seemed to her somewhat like everybody she knew. she said timidly: "do you think our blood ought to flow, too?" mr. cuthcott relapsed into twinkles. "rather! mine first!" 'he is human!' thought nedda. and she got up: "i'm afraid i ought to go now. it's been awfully nice. thank you so very much. good-by!" he shook her firm little hand with his frail thin one, and stood smiling till the restaurant door cut him off from her view. the streets seemed so gorgeously full of life now that nedda's head swam. she looked at it all with such absorption that she could not tell one thing from another. it seemed rather long to the tottenham court road, though she noted carefully the names of all the streets she passed, and was sure she had not missed it. she came at last to one called poultry. 'poultry!' she thought; 'i should have remembered that--poultry?' and she laughed. it was so sweet and feathery a laugh that the driver of an old four-wheeler stopped his horse. he was old and anxious-looking, with a gray beard and deep folds in his red cheeks. "poultry!" she said. "please, am i right for the tottenham court road?" the old man answered: "glory, no, miss; you're goin' east!" 'east!' thought nedda; 'i'd better take him.' and she got in. she sat in the four-wheeler, smiling. and how far this was due to chardonnet she did not consider. she was to love and not worry. it was wonderful! in this mood she was put down, still smiling, at the tottenham court road tube, and getting out her purse she prepared to pay the cabman. the fare would be a shilling, but she felt like giving him two. he looked so anxious and worn, in spite of his red face. he took them, looked at her, and said: "thank you, miss; i wanted that." "oh!" murmured nedda, "then please take this, too. it's all i happen to have, except my tube fare." the old man took it, and water actually ran along his nose. "god bless yer!" he said. and taking up his whip, he drove off quickly. rather choky, but still glowing, nedda descended to her train. it was not till she was walking to the spaniard's road that a cloud seemed to come over her sky, and she reached home dejected. in the garden of the freelands' old house was a nook shut away by berberis and rhododendrons, where some bees were supposed to make honey, but, knowing its destination, and belonging to a union, made no more than they were obliged. in this retreat, which contained a rustic bench, nedda was accustomed to sit and read; she went there now. and her eyes began filling with tears. why must the poor old fellow who had driven her look so anxious and call on god to bless her for giving him that little present? why must people grow old and helpless, like that grandfather gaunt she had seen at becket? why was there all the tyranny that made derek and sheila so wild? and all the grinding poverty that she herself could see when she went with her mother to their girls' club, in bethnal green? what was the use of being young and strong if nothing happened, nothing was really changed, so that one got old and died seeing still the same things as before? what was the use even of loving, if love itself had to yield to death? the trees! how they grew from tiny seeds to great and beautiful things, and then slowly, slowly dried and decayed away to dust. what was the good of it all? what comfort was there in a god so great and universal that he did not care to keep her and derek alive and loving forever, and was not interested enough to see that the poor old cab-driver should not be haunted day and night with fear of the workhouse for himself and an old wife, perhaps? nedda's tears fell fast, and how far this was chardonnet no one could tell. felix, seeking inspiration from the sky in regard to 'the last of the laborers,' heard a noise like sobbing, and, searching, found his little daughter sitting there and crying as if her heart would break. the sight was so unusual and so utterly disturbing that he stood rooted, quite unable to bring her help. should he sneak away? should he go for flora? what should he do? like many men whose work keeps them centred within themselves, he instinctively avoided everything likely to pain or trouble him; for this reason, when anything did penetrate those mechanical defences he became almost strangely tender. loath, for example, to believe that any one was ill, if once convinced of it, he made so good a nurse that flora, at any rate, was in the habit of getting well with suspicious alacrity. thoroughly moved now, he sat down on the bench beside nedda, and said: "my darling!" she leaned her forehead against his arm and sobbed the more. felix waited, patting her far shoulder gently. he had often dealt with such situations in his books, and now that one had come true was completely at a loss. he could not even begin to remember what was usually said or done, and he only made little soothing noises. to nedda this tenderness brought a sudden sharp sense of guilt and yearning. she began: "it's not because of that i'm crying, dad, but i want you to know that derek and i are in love." the words: 'you! what! in those few days!' rose, and got as far as felix's teeth; he swallowed them and went on patting her shoulder. nedda in love! he felt blank and ashy. that special feeling of owning her more than any one else, which was so warming and delightful, so really precious--it would be gone! what right had she to take it from him, thus, without warning! then he remembered how odious he had always said the elderly were, to spoke the wheels of youth, and managed to murmur: "good luck to you, my pretty!" he said it, conscious that a father ought to be saying: 'you're much too young, and he's your cousin!' but what a father ought to say appeared to him just then both sensible and ridiculous. nedda rubbed her cheek against his hand. "it won't make any difference, dad, i promise you!" and felix thought: 'not to you, only to me!' but he said: "not a scrap, my love! what were you crying about?" "about the world; it seems so heartless." and she told him about the water that had run along the nose of the old four-wheeler man. but while he seemed to listen, felix thought: 'i wish to god i were made of leather; then i shouldn't feel as if i'd lost the warmth inside me. i mustn't let her see. fathers are queer--i always suspected that. there goes my work for a good week!' then he answered: "no, my dear, the world is not heartless; it's only arranged according to certain necessary contraries: no pain, no pleasure; no dark, no light, and the rest of it. if you think, it couldn't be arranged differently." as he spoke a blackbird came running with a chuckle from underneath the berberis, looked at them with alarm, and ran back. nedda raised her face. "dad, i mean to do something with my life!" felix answered: "yes. that's right." but long after nedda had fallen into dreams that night, he lay awake, with his left foot enclosed between floras', trying to regain that sense of warmth which he knew he must never confess to having lost. chapter xv flora took the news rather with the air of a mother-dog that says to her puppy: "oh, very well, young thing! go and stick your teeth in it and find out for yourself!" sooner or later this always happened, and generally sooner nowadays. besides, she could not help feeling that she would get more of felix, to her a matter of greater importance than she gave sign of. but inwardly the news had given her a shock almost as sharp as that felt by him. was she really the mother of one old enough to love? was the child that used to cuddle up to her in the window-seat to be read to, gone from her; that used to rush in every morning at all inconvenient moments of her toilet; that used to be found sitting in the dark on the stairs, like a little sleepy owl, because, for-sooth, it was so 'cosey'? not having seen derek, she did not as yet share her husband's anxiety on that score, though his description was dubious: "upstanding young cockerel, swinging his sporran and marching to pipes--a fine spurn about him! born to trouble, if i know anything, trying to sweep the sky with his little broom!" "is he a prig?" "no-o. there's simplicity about his scorn, and he seems to have been brought up on facts, not on literature, like most of these young monkeys. the cousinship i don't think matters; kirsteen brings in too strong an out-strain. he's her son, not tod's. but perhaps," he added, sighing, "it won't last." flora shook her head. "it will last!" she said; "nedda's deep." and if nedda held, so would fate; no one would throw nedda over! they naturally both felt that. 'dionysus at the well,' no less than 'the last of the laborers,' had a light week of it. though in a sense relieved at having parted with her secret, nedda yet felt that she had committed desecration. suppose derek should mind her people knowing! on the day that he and sheila were to come, feeling she could not trust herself to seem even reasonably calm, she started out, meaning to go to the south kensington museum and wander the time away there; but once out-of-doors the sky seemed what she wanted, and, turning down the hill on the north side, she sat down under a gorse bush. here tramps, coming in to london, passed the night under the stars; here was a vision, however dim, of nature. and nature alone could a little soothe her ecstatic nerves. how would he greet her? would he be exactly as he was when they stood at the edge of tod's orchard, above the dreamy, darkening fields, joining hands and lips, moved as they had never been moved before? may blossom was beginning to come out along the hedge of the private grounds that bordered that bit of cockney common, and from it, warmed by the sun, the scent stole up to her. familiar, like so many children of the cultured classes, with the pagan and fairy-tales of nature, she forgot them all the moment she was really by herself with earth and sky. in their breadth, their soft and stirring continuity, they rejected bookish fancy, and woke in her rapture and yearning, a sort of long delight, a never-appeased hunger. crouching, hands round knees, she turned her face to get the warmth of the sun, and see the white clouds go slowly by, and catch all the songs that the birds sang. and every now and then she drew a deep breath. it was true what dad had said: there was no real heartlessness in nature. it was warm, beating, breathing. and if things ate each other, what did it matter? they had lived and died quickly, helping to make others live. the sacred swing and circle of it went on forever, full and harmonious under the lighted sky, under the friendly stars. it was wonderful to be alive! and all done by love. love! more, more, more love! and then death, if it must come! for, after all, to nedda death was so far away, so unimaginably dim and distant, that it did not really count. while she sat, letting her fingers, that were growing slowly black, scrabble the grass and fern, a feeling came on her of a presence, a creature with wings above and around, that seemed to have on its face a long, mysterious smile of which she, nedda, was herself a tiny twinkle. she would bring derek here. they two would sit together and let the clouds go over them, and she would learn all that he really thought, and tell him all her longings and fears; they would be silent, too, loving each other too much to talk. she made elaborate plans of what they were to do and see, beginning with the east end and the national gallery, and ending with sunrise from parliament hill; but she somehow knew that nothing would happen as she had designed. if only the first moment were not different from what she hoped! she sat there so long that she rose quite stiff, and so hungry that she could not help going home and stealing into the kitchen. it was three o'clock, and the old cook, as usual, asleep in an armchair, with her apron thrown up between her face and the fire. what would cookie say if she knew? in that oven she had been allowed to bake in fancy perfect little doll loaves, while cookie baked them in reality. here she had watched the mysterious making of pink cream, had burned countless 'goes' of toffy, and cocoanut ice; and tasted all kinds of loveliness. dear old cookie! stealing about on tiptoe, seeking what she might devour, she found four small jam tarts and ate them, while the cook snored softly. then, by the table, that looked so like a great loaf-platter, she stood contemplating cook. old darling, with her fat, pale, crumply face! hung to the dresser, opposite, was a little mahogany looking-glass tilted forward. nedda could see herself almost down to her toes. 'i mean to be prettier than i am!' she thought, putting her hands on her waist. 'i wonder if i can pull them in a bit!' sliding her fingers under her blouse, she began to pull at certain strings. they would not budge. they were loose, yes, really too comfortable. she would have to get the next size smaller! and dropping her chin, she rubbed it on the lace edging of her chest, where it felt warm and smelled piny. had cookie ever been in love? her gray hairs were coming, poor old duck! the windows, where a protection of wire gauze kept out the flies, were opened wide, and the sun shone in and dimmed the fire. the kitchen clock ticked like a conscience; a faint perfume of frying-pan and mint scented the air. and, for the first time since this new sensation of love had come to her, nedda felt as if a favorite book, read through and done with, were dropping from her hands. the lovely times in that kitchen, in every nook of that old house and garden, would never come again! gone! she felt suddenly cast down to sadness. they had been lovely times! to be deserting in spirit all that had been so good to her--it seemed like a crime! she slid down off the table and, passing behind the cook, put her arms round those substantial sides. without meaning to, out of sheer emotion, she pressed them somewhat hard, and, as from a concertina emerges a jerked and drawn-out chord, so from the cook came a long, quaking sound; her apron fell, her body heaved, and her drowsy, flat, soft voice, greasy from pondering over dishes, murmured: "ah, miss nedda! it's you, my dear! bless your pretty 'eart." but down nedda's cheeks, behind her, rolled two tears. "cookie, oh, cookie!" and she ran out. . . . and the first moment? it was like nothing she had dreamed of. strange, stiff! one darting look, and then eyes down; one convulsive squeeze, then such a formal shake of hot, dry hands, and off he had gone with felix to his room, and she with sheila to hers, bewildered, biting down consternation, trying desperately to behave 'like a little lady,' as her old nurse would have put it--before sheila, especially, whose hostility she knew by instinct she had earned. all that evening, furtive watching, formal talk, and underneath a ferment of doubt and fear and longing. all a mistake! an awful mistake! did he love her? heaven! if he did not, she could never face any one again. he could not love her! his eyes were like those of a swan when its neck is drawn up and back in anger. terrible--having to show nothing, having to smile at sheila, at dad, and mother! and when at last she got to her room, she stood at the window and at first simply leaned her forehead against the glass and shivered. what had she done? had she dreamed it all--dreamed that they had stood together under those boughs in the darkness, and through their lips exchanged their hearts? she must have dreamed it! dreamed that most wonderful, false dream! and the walk home in the thunder-storm, and his arm round her, and her letters, and his letter--dreamed it all! and now she was awake! from her lips came a little moan, and she sank down huddled, and stayed there ever so long, numb and chilly. undress--go to bed? not for the world. by the time the morning came she had got to forget that she had dreamed. for very shame she had got to forget that; no one should see. her cheeks and ears and lips were burning, but her body felt icy cold. then--what time she did not know at all--she felt she must go out and sit on the stairs. they had always been her comforters, those wide, shallow, cosey stairs. out and down the passage, past all their rooms--his the last--to the dark stairs, eerie at night, where the scent of age oozed out of the old house. all doors below, above, were closed; it was like looking down into a well, to sit with her head leaning against the banisters. and silent, so silent--just those faint creakings that come from nowhere, as it might be the breathing of the house. she put her arms round a cold banister and hugged it hard. it hurt her, and she embraced it the harder. the first tears of self-pity came welling up, and without warning a great sob burst out of her. alarmed at the sound, she smothered her mouth with her arm. no good; they came breaking out! a door opened; all the blood rushed to her heart and away from it, and with a little dreadful gurgle she was silent. some one was listening. how long that terrible listening lasted she had no idea; then footsteps, and she was conscious that it was standing in the dark behind her. a foot touched her back. she gave a little gasp. derek's voice whispered hoarsely: "what? who are you?" and, below her breath, she answered: "nedda." his arms wrenched her away from the banister, his voice in her ear said: "nedda, darling, nedda!" but despair had sunk too deep; she could only quiver and shake and try to drive sobbing out of her breath. then, most queer, not his words, nor the feel of his arms, comforted her--any one could pity!--but the smell and the roughness of his norfolk jacket. so he, too, had not been in bed; he, too, had been unhappy! and, burying her face in his sleeve, she murmured: "oh, derek! why?" "i didn't want them all to see. i can't bear to give it away. nedda, come down lower and let's love each other!" softly, stumbling, clinging together, they went down to the last turn of the wide stairs. how many times had she not sat there, in white frocks, her hair hanging down as now, twisting the tassels of little programmes covered with hieroglyphics only intelligible to herself, talking spasmodically to spasmodic boys with budding 'tails,' while chinese lanterns let fall their rose and orange light on them and all the other little couples as exquisitely devoid of ease. ah! it was worth those hours of torture to sit there together now, comforting each other with hands and lips and whisperings. it was more, as much more than that moment in the orchard, as sun shining after a spring storm is more than sun in placid mid-july. to hear him say: "nedda, i love you!" to feel it in his hand clasped on her heart was much more, now that she knew how difficult it was for him to say or show it, except in the dark with her alone. many a long day they might have gone through together that would not have shown her so much of his real heart as that hour of whispering and kisses. he had known she was unhappy, and yet he couldn't! it had only made him more dumb! it was awful to be like that! but now that she knew, she was glad to think that it was buried so deep in him and kept for her alone. and if he did it again she would just know that it was only shyness and pride. and he was not a brute and a beast, as he insisted. but suppose she had chanced not to come out! would she ever have lived through the night? and she shivered. "are you cold, darling? put on my coat." it was put on her in spite of all effort to prevent him. never was anything so warm, so delicious, wrapping her in something more than harris tweed. and the hall clock struck--two! she could just see his face in the glimmer that filtered from the skylight at the top. and she felt that he was learning her, learning all that she had to give him, learning the trust that was shining through her eyes. there was just enough light for them to realize the old house watching from below and from above--a glint on the dark floor there, on the dark wall here; a blackness that seemed to be inhabited by some spirit, so that their hands clutched and twitched, when the tiny, tiny noises of time, playing in wood and stone, clicked out. that stare of the old house, with all its knowledge of lives past, of youth and kisses spent and gone, of hopes spun and faiths abashed, the old house cynical, stirred in them desire to clutch each other close and feel the thrill of peering out together into mystery that must hold for them so much of love and joy and trouble! and suddenly she put her fingers to his face, passed them softly, clingingly, over his hair, forehead, eyes, traced the sharp cheek-bones down to his jaw, round by the hard chin up to his lips, over the straight bone of his nose, lingering, back, to his eyes again. "now, if i go blind, i shall know you. give me one kiss, derek. you must be tired." buried in the old dark house that kiss lasted long; then, tiptoeing--she in front--pausing at every creak, holding breath, they stole up to their rooms. and the clock struck--three! chapter xvi felix (nothing if not modern) had succumbed already to the feeling that youth ruled the roost. whatever his misgivings, his and flora's sense of loss, nedda must be given a free hand! derek gave no outward show of his condition, and but for his little daughter's happy serenity felix would have thought as she had thought that first night. he had a feeling that his nephew rather despised one so soaked in mildness and reputation as felix freeland; and he got on better with sheila, not because she was milder, but because she was devoid of that scornful tang which clung about her brother. no! sheila was not mild. rich-colored, downright of speech, with her mane of short hair, she was a no less startling companion. the smile of felix had never been more whimsically employed than during that ten-day visit. the evening john freeland came to dinner was the highwater mark of his alarmed amusement. mr. cuthcott, also bidden, at nedda's instigation, seemed to take a mischievous delight in drawing out those two young people in face of their official uncle. the pleasure of the dinner to felix--and it was not too great--was in watching nedda's face. she hardly spoke, but how she listened! nor did derek say much, but what he did say had a queer, sarcastic twinge about it. "an unpleasant young man," was john's comment afterward. "how the deuce did he ever come to be tod's son? sheila, of course, is one of these hot-headed young women that make themselves a nuisance nowadays, but she's intelligible. by the way, that fellow cuthcott's a queer chap!" one subject of conversation at dinner had been the morality of revolutionary violence. and the saying that had really upset john had been derek's: "conflagration first--morality afterward!" he had looked at his nephew from under brows which a constant need for rejecting petitions to the home office had drawn permanently down and in toward the nose, and made no answer. to felix these words had a more sinister significance. with his juster appreciation both of the fiery and the official points of view, his far greater insight into his nephew than ever john would have, he saw that they were more than a mere arrow of controversy. and he made up his mind that night that he would tackle his nephew and try to find out exactly what was smouldering within that crisp, black pate. following him into the garden next morning, he said to himself: 'no irony--that's fatal. man to man--or boy to boy--whichever it is!' but, on the garden path, alongside that young spread-eagle, whose dark, glowering, self-contained face he secretly admired, he merely began: "how do you like your uncle john?" "he doesn't like me, uncle felix." somewhat baffled, felix proceeded: "i say, derek, fortunately or unfortunately, i've some claim now to a little knowledge of you. you've got to open out a bit to me. what are you going to do with yourself in life? you can't support nedda on revolution." having drawn this bow at a venture, he paused, doubtful of his wisdom. a glance at derek's face confirmed his doubt. it was closer than ever, more defiant. "there's a lot of money in revolution, uncle felix--other people's." dash the young brute! there was something in him! he swerved off to a fresh line. "how do you like london?" "i don't like it. but, uncle felix, don't you wish you were seeing it for the first time? what books you'd write!" felix felt that unconscious thrust go 'home.' revolt against staleness and clipped wings, against the terrible security of his too solid reputation, smote him. "what strikes you most about it, then?" he asked. "that it ought to be jolly well blown up. everybody seems to know that, too--they look it, anyway, and yet they go on as if it oughtn't." "why ought it to be blown up?" "well, what's the good of anything while london and all these other big towns are sitting on the country's chest? england must have been a fine place once, though!" "some of us think it a fine place still." "of course it is, in a way. but anything new and keen gets sat on. england's like an old tom-cat by the fire: too jolly comfortable for anything!" at this support to his own theory that the country was going to the dogs, owing to such as john and stanley, felix thought: 'out of the mouths of babes!' but he merely said: "you're a cheerful young man!" "it's got cramp," derek muttered; "can't even give women votes. fancy my mother without a vote! and going to wait till every laborer is off the land before it attends to them. it's like the port you gave us last night, uncle felix, wonderful crust!" "and what is to be your contribution to its renovation?" derek's face instantly resumed its peculiar defiant smile, and felix thought: 'young beggar! he's as close as wax.' after their little talk, however, he had more understanding of his nephew. his defiant self-sufficiency seemed more genuine. . . . in spite of his sensations when dining with felix, john freeland (little if not punctilious) decided that it was incumbent on him to have the 'young tods' to dinner, especially since frances freeland had come to stay with him the day after the arrival of those two young people at hampstead. she had reached porchester gardens faintly flushed from the prospect of seeing darling john, with one large cane trunk, and a hand-bag of a pattern which the man in the shop had told her was the best thing out. it had a clasp which had worked beautifully in the shop, but which, for some reason, on the journey had caused her both pain and anxiety. convinced, however, that she could cure it and open the bag the moment she could get to that splendid new pair of pincers in her trunk, which a man had only yesterday told her were the latest, she still felt that she had a soft thing, and dear john must have one like it if she could get him one at the stores to-morrow. john, who had come away early from the home office, met her in that dark hall, to which he had paid no attention since his young wife died, fifteen years ago. embracing him, with a smile of love almost timorous from intensity, frances freeland looked him up and down, and, catching what light there was gleaming on his temples, determined that she had in her bag, as soon as she could get it open, the very thing for dear john's hair. he had such a nice moustache, and it was a pity he was getting bald. brought to her room, she sat down rather suddenly, feeling, as a fact, very much like fainting--a condition of affairs to which she had never in the past and intended never in the future to come, making such a fuss! owing to that nice new patent clasp, she had not been able to get at her smelling-salts, nor the little flask of brandy and the one hard-boiled egg without which she never travelled; and for want of a cup of tea her soul was nearly dying within her. dear john would never think she had not had anything since breakfast (she travelled always by a slow train, disliking motion), and she would not for the world let him know--so near dinner-time, giving a lot of trouble! she therefore stayed quite quiet, smiling a little, for fear he might suspect her. seeing john, however, put her bag down in the wrong place, she felt stronger. "no, darling--not there--in the window." and while he was changing the position of the bag, her heart swelled with joy because his back was so straight, and with the thought: 'what a pity the dear boy has never married again! it does so keep a man from getting moony!' with all that writing and thinking he had to do, such important work, too, it would have been so good for him, especially at night. she would not have expressed it thus in words--that would not have been quite nice--but in thought frances freeland was a realist. when he was gone, and she could do as she liked, she sat stiller than ever, knowing by long experience that to indulge oneself in private only made it more difficult not to indulge oneself in public. it really was provoking that this nice new clasp should go wrong just this once, and that the first time it was used! and she took from her pocket a tiny prayer-book, and, holding it to the light, read the eighteenth psalm--it was a particularly good one, that never failed her when she felt low--she used no glasses, and up to the present had avoided any line between the brows, knowing it was her duty to remain as nice as she could to look at, so as not to spoil the pleasure of people round about her. then saying to herself firmly, "i do not, i will not want any tea--but i shall be glad of dinner!" she rose and opened her cane trunk. though she knew exactly where they were, she was some time finding the pincers, because there were so many interesting things above them, each raising a different train of thought. a pair of field-glasses, the very latest--the man had said--for darling derek; they would be so useful to keep his mind from thinking about things that it was no good thinking about. and for dear flora (how wonderful that she could write poetry--poetry!) a really splendid, and perfectly new, little pill. she herself had already taken two, and they had suited her to perfection. for darling felix a new kind of eau de cologne, made in worcester, because that was the only scent he would use. for her pet nedda, a piece of 'point de venise' that she really could not be selfish enough to keep any longer, especially as she was particularly fond of it. for alan, a new kind of tin-opener that the dear boy would like enormously; he was so nice and practical. for sheila, such a nice new novel by mr. and mrs. whirlingham--a bright, wholesome tale, with such a good description of quite a new country in it--the dear child was so clever, it would be a change for her. then, actually resting on the pincers, she came on her pass-book, recently made up, containing little or no balance, just enough to get darling john that bag like hers with the new clasp, which would be so handy for his papers when he went travelling. and having reached the pincers, she took them in her hand, and sat down again to be quite quiet a moment, with her still-dark eyelashes resting on her ivory cheeks and her lips pressed to a colorless line; for her head swam from stooping over. in repose, with three flies circling above her fine gray hair, she might have served a sculptor for a study of the stoic spirit. then, going to the bag, her compressed lips twitching, her gray eyes piercing into its clasp with a kind of distrustful optimism, she lifted the pincers and tweaked it hard. if the atmosphere of that dinner, to which all six from hampstead came, was less disturbed than john anticipated, it was due to his sense of hospitality, and to every one's feeling that controversy would puzzle and distress granny. that there were things about which people differed, frances freeland well knew, but that they should so differ as to make them forget to smile and have good manners would not have seemed right to her at all. and of this, in her presence, they were all conscious; so that when they had reached the asparagus there was hardly anything left that could by any possibility be talked about. and this--for fear of seeming awkward--they at once proceeded to discuss, flora remarking that london was very full. john agreed. frances freeland, smiling, said: "it's so nice for derek and sheila to be seeing it like this for the first time." sheila said: "why? isn't it always as full as this?" john answered: "in august practically empty. they say a hundred thousand people, at least, go away." "double!" remarked felix. "the figures are variously given. my estimate--" "one in sixty. that shows you!" at this interruption of derek's john frowned slightly. "what does it show you?" he said. derek glanced at his grandmother. "oh, nothing!" "of course it shows you," exclaimed sheila, "what a heartless great place it is. all 'the world' goes out of town, and 'london's empty!' but if you weren't told so you'd never know the difference." derek muttered: "i think it shows more than that." under the table flora was touching john's foot warningly; nedda attempting to touch derek's; felix endeavoring to catch john's eye; alan trying to catch sheila's; john biting his lip and looking carefully at nothing. only frances freeland was smiling and gazing lovingly at dear derek, thinking he would be so handsome when he had grown a nice black moustache. and she said: "yes, dear. what were you going to say?" derek looked up. "do you really want it, granny?" nedda murmured across the table: "no, derek." frances freeland raised her brows quizzically. she almost looked arch. "but of course i do, darling. i want to hear immensely. it's so interesting." "derek was going to say, mother"--every one at once looked at felix, who had thus broken in--"that all we west-end people--john and i and flora and stanley, and even you--all we people born in purple and fine linen, are so accustomed to think we're all that matters, that when we're out of london there's nobody in it. he meant to say that this is appalling enough, but that what is still more appalling is the fact that we really are all that matters, and that if people try to disturb us, we can, and jolly well will, take care they don't disturb us long. is that what you meant, derek?" derek turned a rather startled look on felix. "what he meant to say," went on felix, "was, that age and habit, vested interests, culture and security sit so heavy on this country's chest, that aspiration may wriggle and squirm but will never get from under. that, for all we pretend to admire enthusiasm and youth, and the rest of it, we push it out of us just a little faster than it grows up. is that what you meant, derek?" "you'll try to, but you won't succeed!" "i'm afraid we shall, and with a smile, too, so that you won't see us doing it." "i call that devilish." "i call it natural. look at a man who's growing old; notice how very gracefully and gradually he does it. take my hair--your aunt says she can't tell the difference from month to month. and there it is, or rather isn't--little by little." frances freeland, who during felix's long speech had almost closed her eyes, opened them, and looked piercingly at the top of his head. "darling," she said, "i've got the very thing for it. you must take some with you when you go tonight. john is going to try it." checked in the flow of his philosophy, felix blinked like an owl surprised. "mother," he said, "you only have the gift of keeping young." "oh! my dear, i'm getting dreadfully old. i have the greatest difficulty in keeping awake sometimes when people are talking. but i mean to fight against it. it's so dreadfully rude, and ugly, too; i catch myself sometimes with my mouth open." flora said quietly: "granny, i have the very best thing for that--quite new!" a sweet but rather rueful smile passed over frances freeland's face. "now," she said, "you're chaffing me," and her eyes looked loving. it is doubtful if john understood the drift of felix's exordium, it is doubtful if he had quite listened--he having so much to not listen to at the home office that the practice was growing on him. a vested interest to john was a vested interest, culture was culture, and security was certainly security--none of them were symbols of age. further, the social question--at least so far as it had to do with outbreaks of youth and enthusiasm--was too familiar to him to have any general significance whatever. what with women, labor people, and the rest of it, he had no time for philosophy--a dubious process at the best. a man who had to get through so many daily hours of real work did not dissipate his energy in speculation. but, though he had not listened to felix's remarks, they had ruffled him. there is no philosophy quite so irritating as that of a brother! true, no doubt, that the country was in a bad way, but as to vested interests and security, that was all nonsense! the guilty causes were free thought and industrialism. having seen them all off to hampstead, he gave his mother her good-night kiss. he was proud of her, a wonderful woman, who always put a good face on everything! even her funny way of always having some new thing or other to do you good--even that was all part of her wanting to make the best of things. she never lost her 'form'! john worshipped that kind of stoicism which would die with its head up rather than live with its tail down. perhaps the moment of which he was most proud in all his life was that, when, at the finish of his school mile, he overheard a vulgar bandsman say: "i like that young----'s running; he breathes through his----nose." at that moment, if he had stooped to breathe through his mouth, he must have won; as it was he had lost in great distress and perfect form. when, then, he had kissed frances freeland, and watched her ascend the stairs, breathless because she would breathe through her nose to the very last step, he turned into his study, lighted his pipe, and sat down to a couple of hours of a report upon the forces of constabulary available in the various counties, in the event of any further agricultural rioting, such as had recently taken place on a mild scale in one or two districts where there was still danish blood. he worked at the numbers steadily, with just that engineer's touch of mechanical invention which had caused him to be so greatly valued in a department where the evolution of twelve policemen out of ten was constantly desired. his mastery of figures was highly prized, for, while it had not any of that flamboyance which has come from america and the game of poker, it possessed a kind of english optimism, only dangerous when, as rarely happened, it was put to the test. he worked two full pipes long, and looked at the clock. twelve! no good knocking off just yet! he had no liking for bed this many a long year, having, from loyalty to memory and a drier sense of what became one in the home department, preserved his form against temptations of the flesh. yet, somehow, to-night he felt no spring, no inspiration, in his handling of county constabulary. a kind of english stolidity about them baffled him--ten of them remained ten. and leaning that forehead, whose height so troubled frances freeland, on his neat hand, he fell to brooding. those young people with everything before them! did he envy them? or was he glad of his own age? fifty! fifty already; a fogey! an official fogey! for all the world like an umbrella, that every day some one put into a stand and left there till it was time to take it out again. neatly rolled, too, with an elastic and button! and this fancy, which had never come to him before, surprised him. one day he, too, would wear out, slit all up his seams, and they would leave him at home, or give him away to the butler. he went to the window. a scent of--of may, or something! and nothing in sight save houses just like his own! he looked up at the strip of sky privileged to hang just there. he had got a bit rusty with his stars. there, however, certainly was venus. and he thought of how he had stood by the ship's rail on that honeymoon trip of his twenty years ago, giving his young wife her first lesson in counting the stars. and something very deep down, very mossed and crusted over in john's heart, beat and stirred, and hurt him. nedda--he had caught her looking at that young fellow just as anne had once looked at him, john freeland, now an official fogey, an umbrella in a stand. there was a policeman! how ridiculous the fellow looked, putting one foot before the other, flirting his lantern and trying the area gates! this confounded scent of hawthorn--could it be hawthorn?--got here into the heart of london! the look in that girl's eyes! what was he about, to let them make him feel as though he could give his soul for a face looking up into his own, for a breast touching his, and the scent of a woman's hair. hang it! he would smoke a cigarette and go to bed! he turned out the light and began to mount the stairs; they creaked abominably--the felt must be wearing out. a woman about the place would have kept them quiet. reaching the landing of the second floor, he paused a moment from habit, to look down into the dark hall. a voice, thin, sweet, almost young, said: "is that you, darling?" john's heart stood still. what--was that? then he perceived that the door of the room that had been his wife's was open, and remembered that his mother was in there. "what! aren't you asleep, mother?" frances freeland's voice answered cheerfully: "oh, no, dear; i'm never asleep before two. come in." john entered. propped very high on her pillows, in perfect regularity, his mother lay. her carved face was surmounted by a piece of fine lace, her thin, white fingers on the turnover of the sheet moved in continual interlocking, her lips smiled. "there's something you must have," she said. "i left my door open on purpose. give me that little bottle, darling." john took from a small table by the bed a still smaller bottle. frances freeland opened it, and out came three tiny white globules. "now," she said, "pop them in! you've no idea how they'll send you to sleep! they're the most splendid things; perfectly harmless. just let them rest on the tongue and swallow!" john let them rest--they were sweetish--and swallowed. "how is it, then," he said, "that you never go to sleep before two?" frances freeland corked the little bottle, as if enclosing within it that awkward question. "they don't happen to act with me, darling; but that's nothing. it's the very thing for any one who has to sit up so late," and her eyes searched his face. yes--they seemed to say--i know you pretend to have work; but if you only had a dear little wife! "i shall leave you this bottle when i go. kiss me." john bent down, and received one of those kisses of hers that had such sudden vitality in the middle of them, as if her lips were trying to get inside his cheek. from the door he looked back. she was smiling, composed again to her stoic wakefulness. "shall i shut the door, mother?" "please, darling." with a little lump in his throat john closed the door. chapter xvii the london which derek had said should be blown up was at its maximum of life those may days. even on this outer rampart of hampstead, people, engines, horses, all had a touch of the spring fever; indeed, especially on this rampart of hampstead was there increase of the effort to believe that nature was not dead and embalmed in books. the poets, painters, talkers who lived up there were at each other all the time in their great game of make-believe. how could it be otherwise, when there was veritably blossom on the trees and the chimneys were ceasing to smoke? how otherwise, when the sun actually shone on the ponds? but the four young people (for alan joined in--hypnotized by sheila) did not stay in hampstead. chiefly on top of tram and 'bus they roamed the wilderness. bethnal green and leytonstone, kensington and lambeth, st. james's and soho, whitechapel, shoreditch, west ham, and piccadilly, they traversed the whole ant-heap at its most ebullient moment. they knew their whitman and their dostoievsky sufficiently to be aware that they ought to love and delight in everything--in the gentleman walking down piccadilly with a flower in his buttonhole, and in the lady sewing that buttonhole in bethnal green; in the orator bawling himself hoarse close to the marble arch, the coster loading his barrow in covent garden; and in uncle john freeland rejecting petitions in whitehall. all these things, of course, together with the long lines of little gray houses in camden town, long lines of carts with bobtail horses rattling over blackfriars' bridge, long smells drifting behind taxicabs--all these things were as delightful and as stimulating to the soul as the clouds that trailed the heavens, the fronds of the lilac, and leonardo's cartoon in the diploma gallery. all were equal manifestations of that energy in flower known as 'life.' they knew that everything they saw and felt and smelled ought equally to make them long to catch creatures to their hearts and cry: hosanna! and nedda and alan, bred in hampstead, even knew that to admit that these things did not all move them in the same way would be regarded as a sign of anaemia. nevertheless--most queerly--these four young people confessed to each other all sorts of sensations besides that 'hosanna' one. they even confessed to rage and pity and disgust one moment, and to joy and dreams the next, and they differed greatly as to what excited which. it was truly odd! the only thing on which they did seem to agree was that they were having 'a thundering good time.' a sort of sense of "blow everything!" was in their wings, and this was due not to the fact that they were thinking of and loving and admiring the little gray streets and the gentleman in piccadilly--as, no doubt, in accordance with modern culture, they should have been--but to the fact that they were loving and admiring themselves, and that entirely without the trouble of thinking about it at all. the practice, too, of dividing into couples was distinctly precious to them, for, though they never failed to start out together, they never failed to come home two by two. in this way did they put to confusion whitman and dostoievsky, and all the other thinkers in hampstead. in the daytime they all, save alan, felt that london ought to be blown up; but at night it undermined their philosophies so that they sat silent on the tops of their respective 'buses, with arms twined in each other's. for then a something seemed to have floated up from that mass of houses and machines, of men and trees, and to be hovering above them, violet-colored, caught between the stars and the lights, a spirit of such overpowering beauty that it drenched even alan in a kind of awe. after all, the huge creature that sat with such a giant's weight on the country's chest, the monster that had spoiled so many fields and robbed so many lives of peace and health, could fly at night upon blue and gold and purple wings, murmur a passionate lullaby, and fall into deep sleep! one such night they went to the gallery at the opera, to supper at an oyster-shop, under alan's pilotage, and then set out to walk back to hampstead, timing themselves to catch the dawn. they had not gone twenty steps up southampton row before alan and sheila were forty steps in front. a fellow-feeling had made derek and nedda stand to watch an old man who walked, tortuous, extremely happy, bidding them all come. and when they moved on, it was very slowly, just keeping sight of the others across the lumbered dimness of covent garden, where tarpaulin-covered carts and barrows seemed to slumber under the blink of lamps and watchmen's lanterns. across long acre they came into a street where there was not a soul save the two others, a long way ahead. walking with his arm tightly laced with hers, touching her all down one side, derek felt that it would be glorious to be attacked by night-birds in this dark, lonely street, to have a splendid fight and drive them off, showing himself to nedda for a man, and her protector. but nothing save one black cat came near, and that ran for its life. he bent round and looked under the blue veil-thing that wrapped nedda's head. her face seemed mysteriously lovely, and her eyes, lifted so quickly, mysteriously true. she said: "derek, i feel like a hill with the sun on it!" "i feel like that yellow cloud with the wind in it." "i feel like an apple-tree coming into blossom." "i feel like a giant." "i feel like a song." "i feel i could sing you." "on a river, floating along." "a wide one, with great plains on each side, and beasts coming down to drink, and either the sun or a yellow moon shining, and some one singing, too, far off." "the red sarafan." "let's run!" from that yellow cloud sailing in moonlight a spurt of rain had driven into their faces, and they ran as fast as their blood was flowing, and the raindrops coming down, jumping half the width of the little dark streets, clutching each other's arms. and peering round into her face, so sweet and breathless, into her eyes, so dark and dancing, he felt he could run all night if he had her there to run beside him through the dark. into another street they dashed, and again another, till she stopped, panting. "where are we now?" neither knew. a policeman put them right for portland place. half past one! and it would be dawn soon after three! they walked soberly again now into the outer circle of regent's park; talked soberly, too, discussing sublunary matters, and every now and then, their arms, round each other, gave little convulsive squeezes. the rain had stopped and the moon shone clear; by its light the trees and flowers were clothed in colors whose blood had spilled away; the town's murmur was dying, the house lights dead already. they came out of the park into a road where the latest taxis were rattling past; a face, a bare neck, silk hat, or shirt-front gleamed in the window-squares, and now and then a laugh came floating through. they stopped to watch them from under the low-hanging branches of an acacia-tree, and derek, gazing at her face, still wet with rain, so young and round and soft, thought: 'and she loves me!' suddenly she clutched him round the neck, and their lips met. they talked not at all for a long time after that kiss, walking slowly up the long, empty road, while the whitish clouds sailed across the dark river of the sky and the moon slowly sank. this was the most delicious part of all that long walk home, for the kiss had made them feel as though they had no bodies, but were just two spirits walking side by side. this is its curious effect sometimes in first love between the very young. . . . having sent flora to bed, felix was sitting up among his books. there was no need to do this, for the young folk had latch-keys, but, having begun the vigil, he went on with it, a volume about eastern philosophies on his knee, a bowl of narcissus blooms, giving forth unexpected whiffs of odor, beside him. and he sank into a long reverie. could it be said--as was said in this eastern book--that man's life was really but a dream; could that be said with any more truth than it had once been said, that he rose again in his body, to perpetual life? could anything be said with truth, save that we knew nothing? and was that not really what had always been said by man--that we knew nothing, but were just blown over and about the world like soughs of wind, in obedience to some immortal, unknowable coherence! but had that want of knowledge ever retarded what was known as the upward growth of man? had it ever stopped man from working, fighting, loving, dying like a hero if need were? had faith ever been anything but embroidery to an instinctive heroism, so strong that it needed no such trappings? had faith ever been anything but anodyne, or gratification of the aesthetic sense? or had it really body and substance of its own? was it something absolute and solid, that he--felix freeland--had missed? or again, was it, perhaps, but the natural concomitant of youth, a naive effervescence with which thought and brooding had to part? and, turning the page of his book, he noticed that he could no longer see to read, the lamp had grown too dim, and showed but a decorative glow in the bright moonlight flooding through the study window. he got up and put another log on the fire, for these last nights of may were chilly. nearly three! where were these young people? had he been asleep, and they come in? sure enough, in the hall alan's hat and sheila's cloak--the dark-red one he had admired when she went forth--were lying on a chair. but of the other two--nothing! he crept upstairs. their doors were open. they certainly took their time--these young lovers. and the same sore feeling which had attacked felix when nedda first told him of her love came on him badly in that small of the night when his vitality was lowest. all the hours she had spent clambering about him, or quietly resting on his knee with her head tucked in just where his arm and shoulder met, listening while he read or told her stories, and now and again turning those clear eyes of hers wide open to his face, to see if he meant it; the wilful little tugs of her hand when they two went exploring the customs of birds, or bees, or flowers; all her 'daddy, i love yous!' and her rushes to the front door, and long hugs when he came back from a travel; all those later crookings of her little finger in his, and the times he had sat when she did not know it, watching her, and thinking: 'that little creature, with all that's before her, is my very own daughter to take care of, and share joy and sorrow with. . . .' each one of all these seemed to come now and tweak at him, as the songs of blackbirds tweak the heart of one who lies, unable to get out into the spring. his lamp had burned itself quite out; the moon was fallen below the clump of pines, and away to the north-east something stirred in the stain and texture of the sky. felix opened the window. what peace out there! the chill, scentless peace of night, waiting for dawn's renewal of warmth and youth. through that bay window facing north he could see on one side the town, still wan with the light of its lamps, on the other the country, whose dark bloom was graying fast. suddenly a tiny bird twittered, and felix saw his two truants coming slowly from the gate across the grass, his arm round her shoulders, hers round his waist. with their backs turned to him, they passed the corner of the house, across where the garden sloped away. there they stood above the wide country, their bodies outlined against a sky fast growing light, evidently waiting for the sun to rise. silent they stood, while the birds, one by one, twittered out their first calls. and suddenly felix saw the boy fling his hand up into the air. the sun! far away on the gray horizon was a flare of red! chapter xviii the anxieties of the lady mallorings of this life concerning the moral welfare of their humbler neighbors are inclined to march in front of events. the behavior in tryst's cottage was more correct than it would have been in nine out of ten middle or upper class demesnes under similar conditions. between the big laborer and 'that woman,' who, since the epileptic fit, had again come into residence, there had passed nothing whatever that might not have been witnessed by biddy and her two nurslings. for love is an emotion singularly dumb and undemonstrative in those who live the life of the fields; passion a feeling severely beneath the thumb of a propriety born of the age-long absence of excitants, opportunities, and the aesthetic sense; and those two waited, almost as a matter of course, for the marriage which was forbidden them in this parish. the most they did was to sit and look at one another. on the day of which felix had seen the dawn at hampstead, sir gerald's agent tapped on the door of tryst's cottage, and was answered by biddy, just in from school for the midday meal. "your father home, my dear?" "no, sir; auntie's in." "ask your auntie to come and speak to me." the mother-child vanished up the narrow stairs, and the agent sighed. a strong-built, leathery-skinned man in a brown suit and leggings, with a bristly little moustache and yellow whites to his eyes, he did not, as he had said to his wife that morning, 'like the job a little bit.' and while he stood there waiting, susie and billy emerged from the kitchen and came to stare at him. the agent returned that stare till a voice behind him said: "yes, sir?" 'that woman' was certainly no great shakes to look at: a fresh, decent, faithful sort of body! and he said gruffly: "mornin', miss. sorry to say my orders are to make a clearance here. i suppose tryst didn't think we should act on it, but i'm afraid i've got to put his things out, you know. now, where are you all going; that's the point?" "i shall go home, i suppose; but tryst and the children--we don't know." the agent tapped his leggings with a riding-cane. "so you've been expecting it!" he said with relief. "that's right." and, staring down at the mother-child, he added: "well, what d'you say, my dear; you look full of sense, you do!" biddy answered: "i'll go and tell mr. freeland, sir." "ah! you're a bright maid. he'll know where to put you for the time bein'. have you had your dinner?" "no, sir; it's just ready." "better have it--better have it first. no hurry. what've you got in the pot that smells so good?" "bubble and squeak, sir." "bubble and squeak! ah!" and with those words the agent withdrew to where, in a farm wagon drawn up by the side of the road, three men were solemnly pulling at their pipes. he moved away from them a little, for, as he expressed it to his wife afterward: "look bad, you know, look bad--anybody seeing me! those three little children--that's where it is! if our friends at the hall had to do these jobs for themselves, there wouldn't be any to do!" presently, from his discreet distance, he saw the mother-child going down the road toward tod's, in her blue 'pinny' and corn-colored hair. nice little thing! pretty little thing, too! pity, great pity! and he went back to the cottage. on his way a thought struck him so that he well-nigh shivered. suppose the little thing brought back that mrs. freeland, the lady who always went about in blue, without a hat! phew! mr. freeland--he was another sort; a bit off, certainly--harmless, quite harmless! but that lady! and he entered the cottage. the woman was washing up; seemed a sensible body. when the two kids cleared off to school he could go to work and get it over; the sooner the better, before people came hanging round. a job of this kind sometimes made nasty blood! his yellowish eyes took in the nature of the task before him. funny jam-up they did get about them, to be sure! every blessed little thing they'd ever bought, and more, too! have to take precious good care nothing got smashed, or the law would be on the other leg! and he said to the woman: "now, miss, can i begin?" "i can't stop you, sir." 'no,' he thought, 'you can't stop me, and i blamed well wish you could!' but he said: "got an old wagon out here. thought i'd save him damage by weather or anything; we'll put everything in that, and run it up into the empty barn at marrow and leave it. and there they'll be for him when he wants 'em." the woman answered: "you're very kind, i'm sure." perceiving that she meant no irony, the agent produced a sound from somewhere deep and went out to summon his men. with the best intentions, however, it is not possible, even in villages so scattered that they cannot be said to exist, to do anything without every one's knowing; and the work of 'putting out' the household goods of the tryst family, and placing them within the wagon, was not an hour in progress before the road in front of the cottage contained its knot of watchers. old gaunt first, alone--for the rogue-girl had gone to mr. cuthcott's and tom gaunt was at work. the old man had seen evictions in his time, and looked on silently, with a faint, sardonic grin. four children, so small that not even school had any use for them as yet, soon gathered round his legs, followed by mothers coming to retrieve them, and there was no longer silence. then came two laborers, on their way to a job, a stone-breaker, and two more women. it was through this little throng that the mother-child and kirsteen passed into the fast-being-gutted cottage. the agent was standing by tryst's bed, keeping up a stream of comment to two of his men, who were taking that aged bed to pieces. it was his habit to feel less when he talked more; but no one could have fallen into a more perfect taciturnity than he when he saw kirsteen coming up those narrow stairs. in so small a space as this room, where his head nearly touched the ceiling, was it fair to be confronted by that lady--he put it to his wife that same evening--"was it fair?" he had seen a mother wild duck look like that when you took away its young--snaky fierce about the neck, and its dark eye! he had seen a mare, going to bite, look not half so vicious! "there she stood, and--let me have it?--not a bit! too much the lady for that, you know!--just looked at me, and said very quiet: 'ah! mr. simmons, and are you really doing this?' and put her hand on that little girl of his. 'orders are orders, ma'am!' what could i say? 'ah!' she said, 'yes, orders are orders, but they needn't be obeyed.' 'as to that, ma'am,' i said--mind you, she's a lady; you can't help feeling that 'i'm a working man, the same as tryst here; got to earn my living.' 'so have slave-drivers, mr. simmons.' 'every profession,' i said, 'has got its dirty jobs, ma'am. and that's a fact.' 'and will have,' she said, 'so long as professional men consent to do the dirty work of their employers.' 'and where should i be, i should like to know,' i said, 'if i went on that lay? i've got to take the rough with the smooth.' 'well,' she said, 'mr. freeland and i will take tryst and the little ones in at present.' good-hearted people, do a lot for the laborers, in their way. all the same, she's a bit of a vixen. picture of a woman, too, standin' there; shows blood, mind you! once said, all over--no nagging. she took the little girl off with her. and pretty small i felt, knowing i'd got to finish that job, and the folk outside gettin' nastier all the time--not sayin' much, of course, but lookin' a lot!" the agent paused in his recital and gazed fixedly at a bluebottle crawling up the windowpane. stretching out his thumb and finger, he nipped it suddenly and threw it in the grate. "blest if that fellow himself didn't turn up just as i was finishing. i was sorry for the man, you know. there was his home turned out-o'-doors. big man, too! 'you blanky-blank!' he says; 'if i'd been here you shouldn't ha' done this!' thought he was goin' to hit me. 'come, tryst!' i said, 'it's not my doing, you know!' 'ah!' he said, 'i know that; and it'll be blanky well the worse for them!' rough tongue; no class of man at all, he is! 'yes,' he said, 'let 'em look out; i'll be even with 'em yet!' 'none o' that!' i told him; 'you know which side the law's buttered. i'm making it easy for you, too, keeping your things in the wagon, ready to shift any time!' he gave me a look--he's got very queer eyes, swimmin', sad sort of eyes, like a man in liquor--and he said: 'i've been here twenty years,' he said. 'my wife died here.' and all of a sudden he went as dumb as a fish. never let his eyes off us, though, while we finished up the last of it; made me feel funny, seein' him glowering like that all the time. he'll savage something over this, you mark my words!" again the agent paused, and remained as though transfixed, holding that face of his, whose yellow had run into the whites of the eyes, as still as wood. "he's got some feeling for the place, i suppose," he said suddenly; "or maybe they've put it into him about his rights; there's plenty of 'em like that. well, anyhow, nobody likes his private affairs turned inside out for every one to gape at. i wouldn't myself." and with that deeply felt remark the agent put out his leathery-yellow thumb and finger and nipped a second bluebottle. . . . while the agent was thus recounting to his wife the day's doings, the evicted tryst sat on the end of his bed in a ground-floor room of tod's cottage. he had taken off his heavy boots, and his feet, in their thick, soiled socks, were thrust into a pair of tod's carpet slippers. he sat without moving, precisely as if some one had struck him a blow in the centre of the forehead, and over and over again he turned the heavy thought: 'they've turned me out o' there--i done nothing, and they turned me out o' there! blast them--they turned me out o' there!' . . . in the orchard tod sat with a grave and puzzled face, surrounded by the three little trysts. and at the wicket gate kirsteen, awaiting the arrival of derek and sheila--summoned home by telegram--stood in the evening glow, her blue-clad figure still as that of any worshipper at the muezzin-call. chapter xix "a fire, causing the destruction of several ricks and an empty cowshed, occurred in the early morning of thursday on the home farm of sir gerald malloring's estate in worcestershire. grave suspicions of arson are entertained, but up to the present no arrest has been made. the authorities are in doubt whether the occurrence has any relation with recent similar outbreaks in the eastern counties." so stanley read at breakfast, in his favorite paper; and the little leader thereon: "the outbreak of fire on sir gerald malloring's worcestershire property may or may not have any significance as a symptom of agrarian unrest. we shall watch the upshot with some anxiety. certain it is that unless the authorities are prepared to deal sharply with arson, or other cases of deliberate damage to the property of landlords, we may bid good-by to any hope of ameliorating the lot of the laborer" --and so on. if stanley had risen and paced the room there would have been a good deal to be said for him; for, though he did not know as much as felix of the nature and sentiments of tod's children, he knew enough to make any but an englishman uneasy. the fact that he went on eating ham, and said to clara, "half a cup!" was proof positive of that mysterious quality called phlegm which had long enabled his country to enjoy the peace of a weedy duck-pond. stanley, a man of some intelligence--witness his grasp of the secret of successful plough-making (none for the home market!)--had often considered this important proposition of phlegm. people said england was becoming degenerate and hysterical, growing soft, and nervous, and towny, and all the rest of it. in his view there was a good deal of bosh about that! "look," he would say, "at the weight that chauffeurs put on! look at the house of commons, and the size of the upper classes!" if there were growing up little shrill types of working men and socialists, and new women, and half-penny papers, and a rather larger crop of professors and long-haired chaps--all the better for the rest of the country! the flesh all these skimpy ones had lost, solid people had put on. the country might be suffering a bit from officialism, and the tendency of modern thought, but the breed was not changing. john bull was there all right under his moustache. take it off and clap on little side-whiskers, and you had as many bulls as you liked, any day. there would be no social upheaval so long as the climate was what it was! and with this simple formula, and a kind of very deep-down throaty chuckle, he would pass to a subject of more immediate importance. there was something, indeed, rather masterly in his grasp of the fact that rain might be trusted to put out any fire--give it time. and he kept a special vessel in a special corner which recorded for him faithfully the number of inches that fell; and now and again he wrote to his paper to say that there were more inches in his vessel than there had been "for thirty years." his conviction that the country was in a bad way was nothing but a skin affection, causing him local irritation rather than affecting the deeper organs of his substantial body. he did not readily confide in clara concerning his own family, having in a marked degree the truly domestic quality of thinking it superior to his wife's. she had been a tomson, not one of the tomsons, and it was quite a question whether he or she were trying to forget that fact the faster. but he did say to her as he was getting into the car: "it's just possible i might go round by tod's on my way home. i want a run." she answered: "be careful what you say to that woman. i don't want her here by any chance. the young ones were quite bad enough." and when he had put in his day at the works he did turn the nose of his car toward tod's. travelling along grass-bordered roads, the beauty of this england struck his not too sensitive spirit and made him almost gasp. it was that moment of the year when the countryside seems to faint from its own loveliness, from the intoxication of its scents and sounds. creamy-white may, splashed here and there with crimson, flooded the hedges in breaking waves of flower-foam; the fields were all buttercup glory; every tree had its cuckoo, calling; every bush its blackbird or thrush in full even-song. swallows were flying rather low, and the sky, whose moods they watch, had the slumberous, surcharged beauty of a long, fine day, with showers not far away. some orchards were still in blossom, and the great wild bees, hunting over flowers and grasses warm to their touch, kept the air deeply murmurous. movement, light, color, song, scent, the warm air, and the fluttering leaves were confused, till one had almost become the other. and stanley thought, for he was not rhapsodic 'wonderful pretty country! the way everything's looked after--you never see it abroad!' but the car, a creature with little patience for natural beauty, had brought him to the crossroads and stood, panting slightly, under the cliff-bank whereon grew tod's cottage, so loaded now with lilac, wistaria, and roses that from the road nothing but a peak or two of the thatched roof could be seen. stanley was distinctly nervous. it was not a weakness his face and figure were very capable of showing, but he felt that dryness of mouth and quivering of chest which precede adventures of the soul. advancing up the steps and pebbled path, which clara had trodden once, just nineteen years ago, and he himself but three times as yet in all, he cleared his throat and said to himself: 'easy, old man! what is it, after all? she won't bite!' and in the very doorway he came upon her. what there was about this woman to produce in a man of common sense such peculiar sensations, he no more knew after seeing her than before. felix, on returning from his visit, had said, "she's like a song of the hebrides sung in the middle of a programme of english ballads." the remark, as any literary man's might, had conveyed nothing to stanley, and that in a far-fetched way. still, when she said: "will you come in?" he felt heavier and thicker than he had ever remembered feeling; as a glass of stout might feel coming across a glass of claret. it was, perhaps, the gaze of her eyes, whose color he could not determine, under eyebrows that waved in the middle and twitched faintly, or a dress that was blue, with the queerest effect of another color at the back of it, or perhaps the feeling of a torrent flowing there under a coat of ice, that might give way in little holes, so that your leg went in but not the whole of you. something, anyway, made him feel both small and heavy--that awkward combination for a man accustomed to associate himself with cheerful but solid dignity. in seating himself by request at a table, in what seemed to be a sort of kitchen, he experienced a singular sensation in the legs, and heard her say, as it might be to the air: "biddy, dear, take susie and billy out." and thereupon a little girl with a sad and motherly face came crawling out from underneath the table, and dropped him a little courtesy. then another still smaller girl came out, and a very small boy, staring with all his eyes. all these things were against stanley, and he felt that if he did not make it quite clear that he was there he would soon not know where he was. "i came," he said, "to talk about this business up at malloring's." and, encouraged by having begun, he added: "whose kids were those?" a level voice with a faint lisp answered him: "they belong to a man called tryst; he was turned out of his cottage on wednesday because his dead wife's sister was staying with him, so we've taken them in. did you notice the look on the face of the eldest?" stanley nodded. in truth, he had noticed something, though what he could not have said. "at nine years old she has to do the housework and be a mother to the other two, besides going to school. this is all because lady malloring has conscientious scruples about marriage with a deceased wife's sister." 'certainly'--thought stanley--'that does sound a bit thick!' and he asked: "is the woman here, too?" "no, she's gone home for the present." he felt relief. "i suppose malloring's point is," he said, "whether or not you're to do what you like with your own property. for instance, if you had let this cottage to some one you thought was harming the neighborhood, wouldn't you terminate his tenancy?" she answered, still in that level voice: "her action is cowardly, narrow, and tyrannical, and no amount of sophistry will make me think differently." stanley felt precisely as if one of his feet had gone through the ice into water so cold that it seemed burning hot! sophistry! in a plain man like himself! he had always connected the word with felix. he looked at her, realizing suddenly that the association of his brother's family with the outrage on malloring's estate was probably even nearer than he had feared. "look here, kirsteen!" he said, uttering the unlikely name with resolution, for, after all, she was his sister-in-law: "did this fellow set fire to malloring's ricks?" he was aware of a queer flash, a quiver, a something all over her face, which passed at once back to its intent gravity. "we have no reason to suppose so. but tyranny produces revenge, as you know." stanley shrugged his shoulders. "it's not my business to go into the rights and wrongs of what's been done. but, as a man of the world and a relative, i do ask you to look after your youngsters and see they don't get into a mess. they're an inflammable young couple--young blood, you know!" having made this speech, stanley looked down, with a feeling that it would give her more chance. "you are very kind," he heard her saying in that quiet, faintly lisping voice; "but there are certain principles involved." and, suddenly, his curious fear of this woman took shape. principles! he had unconsciously been waiting for that word, than which none was more like a red rag to him. "what principles can possibly be involved in going against the law?" "and where the law is unjust?" stanley was startled, but he said: "remember that your principles, as you call them, may hurt other people besides yourself; tod and your children most of all. how is the law unjust, may i ask?" she had been sitting at the table opposite, but she got up now and went to the hearth. for a woman of forty-two--as he supposed she would be--she was extraordinarily lithe, and her eyes, fixed on him from under those twitching, wavy brows, had a curious glow in their darkness. the few silver threads in the mass of her over-fine black hair seemed to give it extra vitality. the whole of her had a sort of intensity that made him profoundly uncomfortable. and he thought suddenly: 'poor old tod! fancy having to go to bed with that woman!' without raising her voice, she began answering his question. "these poor people have no means of setting law in motion, no means of choosing where and how they will live, no means of doing anything except just what they are told; the mallorings have the means to set the law in motion, to choose where and how to live, and to dictate to others. that is why the law is unjust. with every independent pound a year, this equal law of yours--varies!" "phew!" said stanley. "that's a proposition!" "i give you a simple case. if i had chosen not to marry tod but to live with him in free love, we could have done it without inconvenience. we have some independent income; we could have afforded to disregard what people thought or did. we could have bought (as we did buy) our piece of land and our cottage, out of which we could not have been turned. since we don't care for society, it would have made absolutely no difference to our present position. but tryst, who does not even want to defy the law--what happens to him? what happens to hundreds of laborers all over the country who venture to differ in politics, religion, or morals from those who own them?" 'by george!' thought stanley, 'it's true, in a way; i never looked at it quite like that.' but the feeling that he had come to persuade her to be reasonable, and the deeply rooted englishry of him, conspired to make him say: "that's all very well; but, you see, it's only a necessary incident of property-holding. you can't interfere with plain rights." "you mean--an evil inherent in property-holding?" "if you like; i don't split words. the lesser of two evils. what's your remedy? you don't want to abolish property; you've confessed that property gives you your independence!" again that curious quiver and flash! "yes; but if people haven't decency enough to see for themselves how the law favors their independence, they must be shown that it doesn't pay to do to others as they would hate to be done by." "and you wouldn't try reasoning?" "they are not amenable to reason." stanley took up his hat. "well, i think some of us are. i see your point; but, you know, violence never did any good; it isn't--isn't english." she did not answer. and, nonplussed thereby, he added lamely: "i should have liked to have seen tod and your youngsters. remember me to them. clara sent her regards"; and, looking round the room in a rather lost way, he held out his hand. he had an impression of something warm and dry put into it, with even a little pressure. back in the car, he said to his chauffeur, "go home the other way, batter, past the church." the vision of that kitchen, with its brick floor, its black oak beams, bright copper pans, the flowers on the window-sill, the great, open hearth, and the figure of that woman in her blue dress standing before it, with her foot poised on a log, clung to his mind's eye with curious fidelity. and those three kids, popping out like that--proof that the whole thing was not a rather bad dream! 'queer business!' he thought; 'bad business! that woman's uncommonly all there, though. lot in what she said, too. where the deuce should we all be if there were many like her!' and suddenly he noticed, in a field to the right, a number of men coming along the hedge toward the road--evidently laborers. what were they doing? he stopped the car. there were fifteen or twenty of them, and back in the field he could see a girl's red blouse, where a little group of four still lingered. 'by george!' he thought, 'those must be the young tods going it!' and, curious to see what it might mean, stanley fixed his attention on the gate through which the men were bound to come. first emerged a fellow in corduroys tied below the knee, with long brown moustaches decorating a face that, for all its haggardness, had a jovial look. next came a sturdy little red-faced, bow-legged man in shirt-sleeves rolled up, walking alongside a big, dark fellow with a cap pushed up on his head, who had evidently just made a joke. then came two old men, one of whom was limping, and three striplings. another big man came along next, in a little clearance, as it were, between main groups. he walked heavily, and looked up lowering at the car. the fellow's eyes were queer, and threatening, and sad--giving stanley a feeling of discomfort. then came a short, square man with an impudent, loquacious face and a bit of swagger in his walk. he, too, looked up at stanley and made some remark which caused two thin-faced fellows with him to grin sheepishly. a spare old man, limping heavily, with a yellow face and drooping gray moustaches, walked next, alongside a warped, bent fellow, with yellowish hair all over his face, whose expression struck stanley as half-idiotic. then two more striplings of seventeen or so, whittling at bits of sticks; an active, clean-shorn chap with drawn-in cheeks; and, last of all, a small man by himself, without a cap on a round head covered with thin, light hair, moving at a 'dot-here, dot-there' walk, as though he had beasts to drive. stanley noted that all--save the big man with the threatening, sad eyes, the old, yellow-faced man with a limp, and the little man who came out last, lost in his imaginary beasts--looked at the car furtively as they went their ways. and stanley thought: 'english peasant! poor devil! who is he? what is he? who'd miss him if he did die out? what's the use of all this fuss about him? he's done for! glad i've nothing to do with him at becket, anyway! "back to the land!" "independent peasantry!" not much! shan't say that to clara, though; knock the bottom out of her week-ends!' and to his chauffeur he muttered: "get on, batter!" so, through the peace of that country, all laid down in grass, through the dignity and loveliness of trees and meadows, this may evening, with the birds singing under a sky surcharged with warmth and color, he sped home to dinner. chapter xx but next morning, turning on his back as it came dawn, stanley thought, with the curious intensity which in those small hours so soon becomes fear: 'by jove! i don't trust that woman a yard! i shall wire for felix!' and the longer he lay on his back, the more the conviction bored a hole in him. there was a kind of fever in the air nowadays, that women seemed to catch, as children caught the measles. what did it all mean? england used to be a place to live in. one would have thought an old country like this would have got through its infantile diseases! hysteria! no one gave in to that. still, one must look out! arson was about the limit! and stanley had a vision, suddenly, of his plough-works in flames. why not? the ploughs were not for the english market. who knew whether these laboring fellows mightn't take that as a grievance, if trouble began to spread? this somewhat far-fetched notion, having started to burrow, threw up a really horrid mole-hill on stanley. and it was only the habit, in the human mind, of saying suddenly to fears: stop! i'm tired of you! that sent him to sleep about half past four. he did not, however, neglect to wire to felix: "if at all possible, come down again at once; awkward business at joyfields." nor, on the charitable pretext of employing two old fellows past ordinary work, did he omit to treble his night-watchman. . . on wednesday, the day of which he had seen the dawn rise, felix had already been startled, on returning from his constitutional, to discover his niece and nephew in the act of departure. all the explanation vouchsafed had been: "awfully sorry, uncle felix; mother's wired for us." save for the general uneasiness which attended on all actions of that woman, felix would have felt relieved at their going. they had disturbed his life, slipped between him and nedda! so much so that he did not even expect her to come and tell him why they had gone, nor feel inclined to ask her. so little breaks the fine coherence of really tender ties! the deeper the quality of affection, the more it 'starts and puffs,' and from sheer sensitive feeling, each for the other, spares attempt to get back into touch! his paper--though he did not apply to it the word 'favorite,' having that proper literary feeling toward all newspapers, that they took him in rather than he them--gave him on friday morning precisely the same news, of the rick-burning, as it gave to stanley at breakfast and to john on his way to the home office. to john, less in the know, it merely brought a knitting of the brow and a vague attempt to recollect the numbers of the worcestershire constabulary. to felix it brought a feeling of sickness. men whose work in life demands that they shall daily whip their nerves, run, as a rule, a little in advance of everything. and goodness knows what he did not see at that moment. he said no word to nedda, but debated with himself and flora what, if anything, was to be done. flora, whose sense of humor seldom deserted her, held the more comfortable theory that there was nothing to be done as yet. soon enough to cry when milk was spilled! he did not agree, but, unable to suggest a better course, followed her advice. on saturday, however, receiving stanley's wire, he had much difficulty in not saying to her, "i told you so!" the question that agitated him now was whether or not to take nedda with him. flora said: "yes. the child will be the best restraining influence, if there is really trouble brewing!" some feeling fought against this in felix, but, suspecting it to be mere jealousy, he decided to take her. and, to the girl's rather puzzled delight, they arrived at becket that day in time for dinner. it was not too reassuring to find john there, too. stanley had also wired to him. the matter must indeed be serious! the usual week-end was in progress. clara had made one of her greatest efforts. a bulgarian had providentially written a book in which he showed, beyond doubt, that persons fed on brown bread, potatoes, and margarine, gave the most satisfactory results of all. it was a discovery of the first value as a topic for her dinner-table--seeming to solve the whole vexed problem of the laborers almost at one stroke. if they could only be got to feed themselves on this perfect programme, what a saving of the situation! on those three edibles, the bulgarian said--and he had been well translated--a family of five could be maintained at full efficiency for a shilling per day. why! that would leave nearly eight shillings a week, in many cases more, for rent, firing, insurance, the man's tobacco, and the children's boots. there would be no more of that terrible pinching by the mothers, to feed the husband and children properly, of which one heard so much; no more lamentable deterioration in our stock! brown bread, potatoes, margarine--quite a great deal could be provided for seven shillings! and what was more delicious than a well-baked potato with margarine of good quality? the carbohydrates--or was it hybocardrates--ah, yes! the kybohardrates--would be present in really sufficient quantity! little else was talked of all through dinner at her end of the table. above the flowers which frances freeland always insisted on arranging--and very charmingly--when she was there--over bare shoulders and white shirt-fronts, those words bombed and rebombed. brown bread, potatoes, margarine, carbohydrates, calorific! they mingled with the creaming sizzle of champagne, with the soft murmur of well-bred deglutition. white bosoms heaved and eyebrows rose at them. and now and again some bigwig versed in science murmured the word 'fats.' an agricultural population fed to the point of efficiency without disturbance of the existing state of things! eureka! if only into the bargain they could be induced to bake their own brown bread and cook their potatoes well! faces flushed, eyes brightened, and teeth shone. it was the best, the most stimulating, dinner ever swallowed in that room. nor was it until each male guest had eaten, drunk, and talked himself into torpor suitable to the company of his wife, that the three brothers could sit in the smoking-room together, undisturbed. when stanley had described his interview with 'that woman,' his glimpse of the red blouse, and the laborers' meeting, there was a silence before john said: "it might be as well if tod would send his two youngsters abroad for a bit." felix shook his head. "i don't think he would, and i don't think they'd go. but we might try to get those two to see that anything the poor devils of laborers do is bound to recoil on themselves, fourfold. i suppose," he added, with sudden malice, "a laborers' rising would have no chance?" neither john nor stanley winced. "rising? why should they rise?" "they did in ' ." "in ' !" repeated john. "agriculture had its importance then. now it has none. besides, they've no cohesion, no power, like the miners or railway men. rising? no chance, no earthly! weight of metal's dead against it." felix smiled. "money and guns! guns and money! confess with me, brethren, that we're glad of metal." john stared and stanley drank off his whiskey and potash. felix really was a bit 'too thick' sometimes. then stanley said: "wonder what tod thinks of it all. will you go over, felix, and advise that our young friends be more considerate to these poor beggars?" felix nodded. and with 'good night, old man' all round, and no shaking of the hands, the three brothers dispersed. but behind felix, as he opened his bedroom door, a voice whispered: "dad!" and there, in the doorway of the adjoining room, was nedda in her dressing-gown. "do come in for a minute. i've been waiting up. you are late." felix followed her into her room. the pleasure he would once have had in this midnight conspiracy was superseded now, and he stood blinking at her gravely. in that blue gown, with her dark hair falling on its lace collar and her face so round and childish, she seemed more than ever to have defrauded him. hooking her arm in his, she drew him to the window; and felix thought: 'she just wants to talk to me about derek. dog in the manger that i am! here goes to be decent!' so he said: "well, my dear?" nedda pressed his hand with a little coaxing squeeze. "daddy, darling, i do love you!" and, though felix knew that she had grasped what he was feeling, a sort of warmth spread in him. she had begun counting his fingers with one of her own, sitting close beside him. the warmth in felix deepened, but he thought: 'she must want a good deal out of me!' then she began: "why did we come down again? i know there's something wrong! it's hard not to know, when you're anxious." and she sighed. that little sigh affected felix. "i'd always rather know the truth, dad. aunt clara said something about a fire at the mallorings'." felix stole a look at her. yes! there was a lot in this child of his! depth, warmth, and strength to hold to things. no use to treat her as a child! and he answered: "my dear, there's really nothing beyond what you know--our young man and sheila are hotheads, and things over there are working up a bit. we must try and smooth them down." "dad, ought i to back him whatever he does?" what a question! the more so that one cannot answer superficially the questions of those whom one loves. "ah!" he said at last. "i don't know yet. some things it's not your duty to do; that's certain. it can't be right to do things simply because he does them--that's not real--however fond one is." "no; i feel that. only, it's so hard to know what i do really think--there's always such a lot trying to make one feel that only what's nice and cosey is right!" and felix thought: 'i've been brought up to believe that only russian girls care for truth. it seems i was wrong. the saints forbid i should be a stumbling-block to my own daughter searching for it! and yet--where's it all leading? is this the same child that told me only the other night she wanted to know everything? she's a woman now! so much for love!' and he said: "let's go forward quietly, without expecting too much of ourselves." "yes, dad; only i distrust myself so." "no one ever got near the truth who didn't." "can we go over to joyfields to-morrow? i don't think i could bear a whole day of bigwigs and eating, with this hanging--" "poor bigwigs! all right! we'll go. and now, bed; and think of nothing!" her whisper tickled his ear: "you are a darling to me, dad!" he went out comforted. and for some time after she had forgotten everything he leaned out of his window, smoking cigarettes, and trying to see the body and soul of night. how quiet she was--night, with her mystery, bereft of moon, in whose darkness seemed to vibrate still the song of the cuckoos that had been calling so all day! and whisperings of leaves communed with felix. chapter xxi what tod thought of all this was, perhaps, as much of an enigma to tod as to his three brothers, and never more so than on that sunday morning when two police constables appeared at his door with a warrant for the arrest of tryst. after regarding them fixedly for full thirty seconds, he said, "wait!" and left them in the doorway. kirsteen was washing breakfast things which had a leadless glaze, and tryst's three children, extremely tidy, stood motionless at the edge of the little scullery, watching. when she had joined him in the kitchen tod shut the door. "two policemen," he said, "want tryst. are they to have him?" in the life together of these two there had, from the very start, been a queer understanding as to who should decide what. it had become by now so much a matter of instinct that combative consultations, which bulk so large in married lives, had no place in theirs. a frowning tremor passed over her face. "i suppose they must. derek is out. leave it to me, tod, and take the tinies into the orchard." tod took the three little trysts to the very spot where derek and nedda had gazed over the darkening fields in exchanging that first kiss, and, sitting on the stump of the apple-tree he had cut down, he presented each of them with an apple. while they ate, he stared. and his dog stared at him. how far there worked in tod the feelings of an ordinary man watching three small children whose only parent the law was just taking into its charge it would be rash to say, but his eyes were extremely blue and there was a frown between them. "well, biddy?" he said at last. biddy did not reply; the habit of being a mother had imposed on her, together with the gravity of her little, pale, oval face, a peculiar talent for silence. but the round-cheeked susie said: "billy can eat cores." after this statement, silence was broken only by munching, till tod remarked: "what makes things?" the children, having the instinct that he had not asked them, but himself, came closer. he had in his hand a little beetle. "this beetle lives in rotten wood; nice chap, isn't he?" "we kill beetles; we're afraid of them." so susie. they were now round tod so close that billy was standing on one of his large feet, susie leaning her elbows on one of his broad knees, and biddy's slender little body pressed against his huge arm. "no," said tod; "beetles are nice chaps." "the birds eats them," remarked billy. "this beetle," said tod, "eats wood. it eats through trees and the trees get rotten." biddy spoke: "then they don't give no more apples." tod put the beetle down and billy got off his foot to tread on it. when he had done his best the beetle emerged and vanished in the grass. tod, who had offered no remonstrance, stretched out his hand and replaced billy on his foot. "what about my treading on you, billy?" he said. "why?" "i'm big and you're little." on billy's square face came a puzzled defiance. if he had not been early taught his station he would evidently have found some poignant retort. an intoxicated humblebee broke the silence by buzzing into biddy's fluffed-out, corn-gold hair. tod took it off with his hand. "lovely chap, isn't he?" the children, who had recoiled, drew close again, while the drunken bee crawled feebly in the cage of tod's large hand. "bees sting," said biddy; "i fell on a bee and it stang me!" "you stang it first," said tod. "this chap wouldn't sting--not for worlds. stroke it!" biddy put out her little, pale finger but stayed it a couple of inches from the bee. "go on," said tod. opening her mouth a little, biddy went on and touched the bee. "it's soft," she said. "why don't it buzz?" "i want to stroke it, too," said susie. and billy stamped a little on tod's foot. "no," said tod; "only biddy." there was perfect silence till the dog, rising, approached its nose, black with a splash of pinky whiteness on the end of the bridge, as if to love the bee. "no," said tod. the dog looked at him, and his yellow-brown eyes were dark with anxiety. "it'll sting the dog's nose," said biddy, and susie and billy came yet closer. it was at this moment, when the heads of the dog, the bee, tod, biddy, susie, and billy might have been contained within a noose three feet in diameter, that felix dismounted from stanley's car and, coming from the cottage, caught sight of that little idyll under the dappled sunlight, green, and blossom. it was something from the core of life, out of the heartbeat of things--like a rare picture or song, the revelation of the childlike wonder and delight, to which all other things are but the supernumerary casings--a little pool of simplicity into which fever and yearning sank and were for a moment drowned. and quite possibly he would have gone away without disturbing them if the dog had not growled and wagged his tail. but when the children had been sent down into the field he experienced the usual difficulty in commencing a talk with tod. how far was his big brother within reach of mere unphilosophic statements; how far was he going to attend to facts? "we came back yesterday," he began; "nedda and i. you know all about derek and nedda, i suppose?" tod nodded. "what do you think of it?" "he's a good chap." "yes," murmured felix, "but a firebrand. this business at malloring's--what's it going to lead to, tod? we must look out, old man. couldn't you send derek and sheila abroad for a bit?" "wouldn't go." "but, after all, they're dependent on you." "don't say that to them; i should never see them again." felix, who felt the instinctive wisdom of that remark, answered helplessly: "what's to be done, then?" "sit tight." and tod's hand came down on felix's shoulder. "but suppose they get into real trouble? stanley and john don't like it; and there's mother." and felix added, with sudden heat, "besides, i can't stand nedda being made anxious like this." tod removed his hand. felix would have given a good deal to have been able to see into the brain behind the frowning stare of those blue eyes. "can't help by worrying. what must be, will. look at the birds!" the remark from any other man would have irritated felix profoundly; coming from tod, it seemed the unconscious expression of a really felt philosophy. and, after all, was he not right? what was this life they all lived but a ceaseless worrying over what was to come? was not all man's unhappiness caused by nervous anticipations of the future? was not that the disease, and the misfortune, of the age; perhaps of all the countless ages man had lived through? with an effort he recalled his thoughts from that far flight. what if tod had rediscovered the secret of the happiness that belonged to birds and lilies of the field--such overpowering interest in the moment that the future did not exist? why not? were not the only minutes when he himself was really happy those when he lost himself in work, or love? and why were they so few? for want of pressure to the square moment. yes! all unhappiness was fear and lack of vitality to live the present fully. that was why love and fighting were such poignant ecstasies--they lived their present to the full. and so it would be almost comic to say to those young people: go away; do nothing in this matter in which your interest and your feelings are concerned! don't have a present, because you've got to have a future! and he said: "i'd give a good deal for your power of losing yourself in the moment, old boy!" "that's all right," said tod. he was examining the bark of a tree, which had nothing the matter with it, so far as felix could see; while his dog, who had followed them, carefully examined tod. both were obviously lost in the moment. and with a feeling of defeat felix led the way back to the cottage. in the brick-floored kitchen derek was striding up and down; while around him, in an equilateral triangle, stood the three women, sheila at the window, kirsteen by the open hearth, nedda against the wall opposite. derek exclaimed at once: "why did you let them, father? why didn't you refuse to give him up?" felix looked at his brother. in the doorway, where his curly head nearly touched the wood, tod's face was puzzled, rueful. he did not answer. "any one could have said he wasn't here. we could have smuggled him away. now the brutes have got him! i don't know that, though--" and he made suddenly for the door. tod did not budge. "no," he said. derek turned; his mother was at the other door; at the window, the two girls. the comedy of this scene, if there be comedy in the face of grief, was for the moment lost on felix. 'it's come,' he thought. 'what now?' derek had flung himself down at the table and was burying his head in his hands. sheila went up to him. "don't be a fool, derek." however right and natural that remark, it seemed inadequate. and felix looked at nedda. the blue motor scarf she had worn had slipped off her dark head; her face was white; her eyes, fixed immovably on derek, seemed waiting for him to recognize that she was there. the boy broke out again: "it was treachery! we took him in; and now we've given him up. they wouldn't have touched us if we'd got him away. not they!" felix literally heard the breathing of tod on one side of him and of kirsteen on the other. he crossed over and stood opposite his nephew. "look here, derek," he said; "your mother was quite right. you might have put this off for a day or two; but it was bound to come. you don't know the reach of the law. come, my dear fellow! it's no good making a fuss, that's childish--the thing is to see that the man gets every chance." derek looked up. probably he had not yet realized that his uncle was in the room; and felix was astonished at his really haggard face; as if the incident had bitten and twisted some vital in his body. "he trusted us." felix saw kirsteen quiver and flinch, and understood why they had none of them felt quite able to turn their backs on that display of passion. something deep and unreasoning was on the boy's side; something that would not fit with common sense and the habits of civilized society; something from an arab's tent or a highland glen. then tod came up behind and put his hands on his son's shoulders. "come!" he said; "milk's spilt." "all right!" said derek gruffly, and he went to the door. felix made nedda a sign and she slipped out after him. chapter xxii nedda, her blue head-gear trailing, followed along at the boy's side while he passed through the orchard and two fields; and when he threw himself down under an ash-tree she, too, subsided, waiting for him to notice her. "i am here," she said at last. at that ironic little speech derek sat up. "it'll kill him," he said. "but--to burn things, derek! to light horrible cruel flames, and burn things, even if they aren't alive!" derek said through his teeth: "it's i who did it! if i'd never talked to him he'd have been like the others. they were taking him in a cart, like a calf." nedda got possession of his hand and held it tight. that was a bitter and frightening hour under the faintly rustling ash-tree, while the wind sprinkled over her flakes of the may blossom, just past its prime. love seemed now so little a thing, seemed to have lost warmth and power, seemed like a suppliant outside a door. why did trouble come like this the moment one felt deeply? the church bell was tolling; they could see the little congregation pass across the churchyard into that weekly dream they knew too well. and presently the drone emerged, mingling with the voices outside, of sighing trees and trickling water, of the rub of wings, birds' songs, and the callings of beasts everywhere beneath the sky. in spite of suffering because love was not the first emotion in his heart, the girl could only feel he was right not to be loving her; that she ought to be glad of what was eating up all else within him. it was ungenerous, unworthy, to want to be loved at such a moment. yet she could not help it! this was her first experience of the eternal tug between self and the loved one pulled in the hearts of lovers. would she ever come to feel happy when he was just doing what he thought was right? and she drew a little away from him; then perceived that unwittingly she had done the right thing, for he at once tried to take her hand again. and this was her first lesson, too, in the nature of man. if she did not give her hand, he wanted it! but she was not one of those who calculate in love; so she gave him her hand at once. that went to his heart; and he put his arm round her, till he could feel the emotion under those stays that would not be drawn any closer. in this nest beneath the ash-tree they sat till they heard the organ wheeze and the furious sound of the last hymn, and saw the brisk coming-forth with its air of, 'thank god! and now, to eat!' till at last there was no stir again about the little church--no stir at all save that of nature's ceaseless thanksgiving. . . . tod, his brown face still rueful, had followed those two out into the air, and sheila had gone quickly after him. thus left alone with his sister-in-law, felix said gravely: "if you don't want the boy to get into real trouble, do all you can to show him that the last way in the world to help these poor fellows is to let them fall foul of the law. it's madness to light flames you can't put out. what happened this morning? did the man resist?" her face still showed how bitter had been her mortification, and he was astonished that she kept her voice so level and emotionless. "no. he went with them quite quietly. the back door was open; he could have walked out. i did not advise him to. i'm glad no one saw his face except myself. you see," she added, "he's devoted to derek, and derek knows it; that's why he feels it so, and will feel it more and more. the boy has a great sense of honour, felix." under that tranquillity felix caught the pain and yearning in her voice. yes! this woman really felt and saw. she was not one of those who make disturbance with their brains and powers of criticism; rebellion leaped out from the heat in her heart. but he said: "is it right to fan this flame? do you think any good end is being served?" waiting for her answer, he found himself gazing at the ghost of dark down on her upper lip, wondering that he had never noticed it before. very low, as if to herself, she said: "i would kill myself to-day if i didn't believe that tyranny and injustice must end." "in our time?" "perhaps not." "are you content to go on working for an utopia that you will never see?" "while our laborers are treated and housed more like dogs than human beings, while the best life under the sun--because life on the soil might be the best life--is despised and starved, and made the plaything of people's tongues, neither i nor mine are going to rest." the admiration she inspired in felix at that moment was mingled with a kind of pity. he said impressively: "do you know the forces you are up against? have you looked into the unfathomable heart of this trouble? understood the tug of the towns, the call of money to money; grasped the destructive restlessness of modern life; the abysmal selfishness of people when you threaten their interests; the age-long apathy of those you want to help? have you grasped all these?" "and more!" felix held out his hand. "then," he said, "you are truly brave!" she shook her head. "it got bitten into me very young. i was brought up in the highlands among the crofters in their worst days. in some ways the people here are not so badly off, but they're still slaves." "except that they can go to canada if they want, and save old england." she flushed. "i hate irony." felix looked at her with ever-increasing interest; she certainly was of the kind that could be relied on to make trouble. "ah!" he murmured. "don't forget that when we can no longer smile we can only swell and burst. it is some consolation to reflect that by the time we've determined to do something really effectual for the ploughmen of england there'll be no ploughmen left!" "i cannot smile at that." and, studying her face, felix thought, 'you're right there! you'll get no help from humor.' . . . early that afternoon, with nedda between them, felix and his nephew were speeding toward transham. the little town--a hamlet when edmund moreton dropped the e from his name and put up the works which stanley had so much enlarged--had monopolized by now the hill on which it stood. living entirely on its ploughs, it yet had but little of the true look of a british factory town, having been for the most part built since ideas came into fashion. with its red roofs and chimneys, it was only moderately ugly, and here and there an old white, timbered house still testified to the fact that it had once been country. on this fine sunday afternoon the population were in the streets, and presented all that long narrow-headedness, that twist and distortion of feature, that perfect absence of beauty in face, figure, and dress, which is the glory of the briton who has been for three generations in a town. 'and my great-grandfather'--thought felix--'did all this! god rest his soul!' at a rather new church on the very top they halted, and went in to inspect the morton memorials. there they were, in dedicated corners. 'edmund and his wife catherine'--'charles edmund and his wife florence'--'maurice edmund and his wife dorothy.' clara had set her foot down against 'stanley and his wife clara' being in the fourth; her soul was above ploughs, and she, of course, intended to be buried at becket, as clara, dowager lady freeland, for her efforts in regard to the land. felix, who had a tendency to note how things affected other people, watched derek's inspection of these memorials and marked that they excited in him no tendency to ribaldry. the boy, indeed, could hardly be expected to see in them what felix saw--an epitome of the great, perhaps fatal, change that had befallen his native country; a record of the beginning of that far-back fever, whose course ran ever faster, which had emptied country into town and slowly, surely, changed the whole spirit of life. when edmund moreton, about , took the infection disseminated by the development of machinery, and left the farming of his acres to make money, that thing was done which they were all now talking about trying to undo, with their cries of: "back to the land! back to peace and sanity in the shade of the elms! back to the simple and patriarchal state of feeling which old documents disclose. back to a time before these little squashed heads and bodies and features jutted every which way; before there were long squashed streets of gray houses; long squashed chimneys emitting smoke-blight; long squashed rows of graves; and long squashed columns of the daily papers. back to well-fed countrymen who could not read, with common rights, and a kindly feeling for old 'moretons,' who had a kindly feeling for them!" back to all that? a dream! sirs! a dream! there was nothing for it now, but --progress! progress! on with the dance! let engines rip, and the little, squash-headed fellows with them! commerce, literature, religion, science, politics, all taking a hand; what a glorious chance had money, ugliness, and ill will! such were the reflections of felix before the brass tablet: "in loving memory of edmund morton and his devoted wife catherine. at rest in the lord. a.d., ." from the church they went about their proper business, to interview a mr. pogram, of the firm of pogram & collet, solicitors, in whose hands the interests of many citizens of transham and the country round were almost securely deposited. he occupied, curiously enough, the house where edmund morton himself had lived, conducting his works on the one hand and the squirearchy of the parish on the other. incorporated now into the line of a long, loose street, it still stood rather apart from its neighbors, behind some large shrubs and trees of the holmoak variety. mr. pogram, who was finishing his sunday after-lunch cigar, was a short, clean-shaved man with strong cheeks and those rather lustful gray-blue eyes which accompany a sturdy figure. he rose when they were introduced, and, uncrossing his fat little thighs, asked what he could do for them. felix propounded the story of the arrest, so far as might be, in words of one syllable, avoiding the sentimental aspect of the question, and finding it hard to be on the side of disorder, as any modern writer might. there was something, however, about mr. pogram that reassured him. the small fellow looked a fighter--looked as if he would sympathize with tryst's want of a woman about him. the tusky but soft-hearted little brute kept nodding his round, sparsely covered head while he listened, exuding a smell of lavender-water, cigars, and gutta-percha. when felix ceased he said, rather dryly: "sir gerald malloring? yes. sir gerald's country agents, i rather think, are messrs. porter of worcester. quite so." and a conviction that mr. pogram thought they should have been messrs. pogram & collet of transham confirmed in felix the feeling that they had come to the right man. "i gather," mr. pogram said, and he looked at nedda with a glance from which he obviously tried to remove all earthly desires, "that you, sir, and your nephew wish to go and see the man. mrs. pogram will be delighted to show miss freeland our garden. your great-grandfather, sir, on the mother's side, lived in this house. delighted to meet you; often heard of your books; mrs. pogram has read one--let me see--'the bannister,' was it?" "'the balustrade,'" felix answered gently. mr. pogram rang the bell. "quite so," he said. "assizes are just over so that he can't come up for trial till august or september; pity--great pity! bail in cases of arson--for a laborer, very doubtful! ask your mistress to come, please." there entered a faded rose of a woman on whom mr. pogram in his time had evidently made a great impression. a vista of two or three little pograms behind her was hastily removed by the maid. and they all went into the garden. "through here," said mr. pogram, coming to a side door in the garden wall, "we can make a short cut to the police station. as we go along i shall ask you one or two blunt questions." and he thrust out his under lip: "for instance, what's your interest in this matter?" before felix could answer, derek had broken in: "my uncle has come out of kindness. it's my affair, sir. the man has been tyrannously treated." mr. pogram cocked his eye. "yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt! he's not confessed, i understand?" "no; but--" mr. pogram laid a finger on his lips. "never say die; that's what we're here for. so," he went on, "you're a rebel; socialist, perhaps. dear me! well, we're all of us something, nowadays--i'm a humanitarian myself. often say to mrs. pogram--humanity's the thing in this age--and so it is! well, now, what line shall we take?" and he rubbed his hands. "shall we have a try at once to upset what evidence they've got? we should want a strong alibi. our friends here will commit if they can--nobody likes arson. i understand he was sleeping in your cottage. his room, now? was it on the ground floor?" "yes; but--" mr. pogram frowned, as who should say: ah! be careful! "he had better reserve his defence and give us time to turn round," he said rather shortly. they had arrived at the police station and after a little parley were ushered into the presence of tryst. the big laborer was sitting on the stool in his cell, leaning back against the wall, his hands loose and open at his sides. his gaze passed at once from felix and mr. pogram, who were in advance, to derek; and the dumb soul seemed suddenly to look through, as one may see all there is of spirit in a dog reach out to its master. this was the first time felix had seen him who had caused already so much anxiety, and that broad, almost brutal face, with the yearning fidelity in its tragic eyes, made a powerful impression on him. it was the sort of face one did not forget and might be glad of not remembering in dreams. what had put this yearning spirit into so gross a frame, destroying its solid coherence? why could not tryst have been left by nature just a beer-loving serf, devoid of grief for his dead wife, devoid of longing for the nearest he could get to her again, devoid of susceptibility to this young man's influence? and the thought of all that was before the mute creature, sitting there in heavy, hopeless patience, stung felix's heart so that he could hardly bear to look him in the face. derek had taken the man's thick, brown hand; felix could see with what effort the boy was biting back his feelings. "this is mr. pogram, bob. a solicitor who'll do all he can for you." felix looked at mr. pogram. the little man was standing with arms akimbo; his face the queerest mixture of shrewdness and compassion, and he was giving off an almost needlessly strong scent of gutta-percha. "yes, my man," he said, "you and i are going to have a talk when these gentlemen have done with you," and, turning on his heel, he began to touch up the points of his little pink nails with a penknife, in front of the constable who stood outside the cell door, with his professional air of giving a man a chance. invaded by a feeling, apt to come to him in zoos, that he was watching a creature who had no chance to escape being watched, felix also turned; but, though his eyes saw not, his ears could not help hearing. "forgive me, bob! it's i who got you into this!" "no, sir; naught to forgive. i'll soon be back, and then they'll see!" by the reddening of mr. pogram's ears felix formed the opinion that the little man, also, could hear. "tell her not to fret, mr. derek. i'd like a shirt, in case i've got to stop. the children needn' know where i be; though i an't ashamed." "it may be a longer job than you think, bob." in the silence that followed felix could not help turning. the laborer's eyes were moving quickly round his cell, as if for the first time he realized that he was shut up; suddenly he brought those big hands of his together and clasped them between his knees, and again his gaze ran round the cell. felix heard the clearing of a throat close by, and, more than ever conscious of the scent of gutta-percha, grasped its connection with compassion in the heart of mr. pogram. he caught derek's muttered, "don't ever think we're forgetting you, bob," and something that sounded like, "and don't ever say you did it." then, passing felix and the little lawyer, the boy went out. his head was held high, but tears were running down his cheeks. felix followed. a bank of clouds, gray-white, was rising just above the red-tiled roofs, but the sun still shone brightly. and the thought of the big laborer sitting there knocked and knocked at felix's heart mournfully, miserably. he had a warmer feeling for his young nephew than he had ever had. mr. pogram rejoined them soon, and they walked on together, "well?" said felix. mr. pogram answered in a somewhat grumpy voice: "not guilty, and reserve defence. you have influence, young man! dumb as a waiter. poor devil!" and not another word did he say till they had re-entered his garden. here the ladies, surrounded by many little pograms, were having tea. and seated next the little lawyer, whose eyes were fixed on nedda, felix was able to appreciate that in happier mood he exhaled almost exclusively the scent of lavender-water and cigars. chapter xxiii on their way back to becket, after the visit to tryst, felix and nedda dropped derek half-way on the road to joyfields. they found that the becket household already knew of the arrest. woven into a dirge on the subject of 'the land,' the last town doings, and adventures on golf courses, it formed the genial topic of the dinner-table; for the bulgarian with his carbohydrates was already a wonder of the past. the bigwigs of this week-end were quite a different lot from those of three weeks ago, and comparatively homogeneous, having only three different plans for settling the land question, none of which, fortunately, involved any more real disturbance of the existing state of things than the potato, brown-bread plan, for all were based on the belief held by the respectable press, and constructive portions of the community, that omelette can be made without breaking eggs. on one thing alone, the whole house party was agreed--the importance of the question. indeed, a sincere conviction on this point was like the card one produces before one is admitted to certain functions. no one came to becket without it; or, if he did, he begged, borrowed, or stole it the moment he smelled clara's special pot-pourri in the hall; and, though he sometimes threw it out of the railway-carriage window in returning to town, there was nothing remarkable about that. the conversational debauch of the first night's dinner--and, alas! there were only two even at becket during a week-end--had undoubtedly revealed the feeling, which had set in of late, that there was nothing really wrong with the condition of the agricultural laborer, the only trouble being that the unreasonable fellow did not stay on the land. it was believed that henry wiltram, in conjunction with colonel martlett, was on the point of promoting a policy for imposing penalties on those who attempted to leave it without good reason, such reason to be left to the discretion of impartial district boards, composed each of one laborer, one farmer, and one landowner, decision going by favor of majority. and though opinion was rather freely expressed that, since the voting would always be two to one against, this might trench on the liberty of the subject, many thought that the interests of the country were so much above this consideration that something of the sort would be found, after all, to be the best arrangement. the cruder early notions of resettling the land by fostering peasant proprietorship, with habitable houses and security of tenure, were already under a cloud, since it was more than suspected that they would interfere unduly with the game laws and other soundly vested interests. mere penalization of those who (or whose fathers before them) had at great pains planted so much covert, enclosed so much common, and laid so much country down in grass was hardly a policy for statesmen. a section of the guests, and that perhaps strongest because most silent, distinctly favored this new departure of henry wiltram's. coupled with his swinging corn tax, it was indubitably a stout platform. a second section of the guests spoke openly in favor of lord settleham's policy of good-will. the whole thing, they thought, must be voluntary, and they did not see any reason why, if it were left to the kindness and good intentions of the landowner, there should be any land question at all. boards would be formed in every county on which such model landowners as sir gerald malloring, or lord settleham himself, would sit, to apply the principles of goodwill. against this policy the only criticism was levelled by felix. he could have agreed, he said, if he had not noticed that lord settleham, and nearly all landowners, were thoroughly satisfied with their existing good-will and averse to any changes in their education that might foster an increase of it. if--he asked--landowners were so full of good-will, and so satisfied that they could not be improved in that matter, why had they not already done what was now proposed, and settled the land question? he himself believed that the land question, like any other, was only capable of settlement through improvement in the spirit of all concerned, but he found it a little difficult to credit lord settleham and the rest of the landowners with sincerity in the matter so long as they were unconscious of any need for their own improvement. according to him, they wanted it both ways, and, so far as he could see, they meant to have it! his use of the word sincere, in connection with lord settleham, was at once pounced on. he could not know lord settleham--one of the most sincere of men. felix freely admitted that he did not, and hastened to explain that he did not question the--er--parliamentary sincerity of lord settleham and his followers. he only ventured to doubt whether they realized the hold that human nature had on them. his experience, he said, of the houses where they had been bred, and the seminaries where they had been trained, had convinced him that there was still a conspiracy on foot to blind lord settleham and those others concerning all this; and, since they were themselves part of the conspiracy, there was very little danger of their unmasking it. at this juncture felix was felt to have exceeded the limit of fair criticism, and only that toleration toward literary men of a certain reputation, in country houses, as persons brought there to say clever and irresponsible things, prevented people from taking him seriously. the third section of the guests, unquestionably more static than the others, confined themselves to pointing out that, though the land question was undoubtedly serious, nothing whatever would result from placing any further impositions upon landowners. for, after all, what was land? simply capital invested in a certain way, and very poorly at that. and what was capital? simply a means of causing wages to be paid. and whether they were paid to men who looked after birds and dogs, loaded your guns, beat your coverts, or drove you to the shoot, or paid to men who ploughed and fertilized the land, what did it matter? to dictate to a man to whom he was to pay wages was, in the last degree, un-english. everybody knew the fate which had come, or was coming, upon capital. it was being driven out of the country by leaps and bounds--though, to be sure, it still perversely persisted in yielding every year a larger revenue by way of income tax. and it would be dastardly to take advantage of land just because it was the only sort of capital which could not fly the country in times of need. stanley himself, though--as became a host--he spoke little and argued not at all, was distinctly of this faction; and clara sometimes felt uneasy lest her efforts to focus at becket all interest in the land question should not quite succeed in outweighing the passivity of her husband's attitude. but, knowing that it is bad policy to raise the whip too soon, she trusted to her genius to bring him 'with one run at the finish,' as they say, and was content to wait. there was universal sympathy with the mallorings. if a model landlord like malloring had trouble with his people, who--who should be immune? arson! it was the last word! felix, who secretly shared nedda's horror of the insensate cruelty of flames, listened, nevertheless, to the jubilation that they had caught the fellow, with profound disturbance. for the memory of the big laborer seated against the wall, his eyes haunting round his cell, quarrelled fiercely with his natural abhorrence of any kind of violence, and his equally natural dislike of what brought anxiety into his own life--and the life, almost as precious, of his little daughter. scarcely a word of the evening's conversation but gave him in high degree the feeling: how glib all this is, how far from reality! how fatted up with shell after shell of comfort and security! what do these people know, what do they realize, of the pressure and beat of raw life that lies behind--what do even i, who have seen this prisoner, know? for us it's as simple as killing a rat that eats our corn, or a flea that sucks our blood. arson! destructive brute--lock him up! and something in felix said: for order, for security, this may be necessary. but something also said: our smug attitude is odious! he watched his little daughter closely, and several times marked the color rush up in her face, and once could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes. if the temper of this talk were trying to him, hardened at a hundred dinner-tables, what must it be to a young and ardent creature! and he was relieved to find, on getting to the drawing-room, that she had slipped behind the piano and was chatting quietly with her uncle john. . as to whether this or that man liked her, nedda perhaps was not more ignorant than other women; and she had noted a certain warmth and twinkle in uncle john's eyes the other evening, a certain rather jolly tendency to look at her when he should have been looking at the person to whom he was talking; so that she felt toward him a trustful kindliness not altogether unmingled with a sense that he was in that office which controls the destinies of those who 'get into trouble.' the motives even of statesmen, they say, are mixed; how much more so, then, of girls in love! tucked away behind a steinway, which instinct told her was not for use, she looked up under her lashes at her uncle's still military figure and said softly: "it was awfully good of you to come, too, uncle john." and john, gazing down at that round, dark head, and those slim, pretty, white shoulders, answered: "not at all--very glad to get a breath of fresh air." and he stealthily tightened his white waistcoat--a rite neglected of late; the garment seemed to him at the moment unnecessarily loose. "you have so much experience, uncle. do you think violent rebellion is ever justifiable?" "i do not." nedda sighed. "i'm glad you think that," she murmured, "because i don't think it is, either. i do so want you to like derek, uncle john, because--it's a secret from nearly every one--he and i are engaged." john jerked his head up a little, as though he had received a slight blow. the news was not palatable. he kept his form, however, and answered: "oh! really! ah!" nedda said still more softly: "please don't judge him by the other night; he wasn't very nice then, i know." john cleared his throat. instinct warned her that he agreed, and she said rather sadly: "you see, we're both awfully young. it must be splendid to have experience." over john's face, with its double line between the brows, its double line in the thin cheeks, its single firm line of mouth beneath a gray moustache, there passed a little grimace. "as to being young," he said, "that'll change for the--er--better only too fast." what was it in this girl that reminded him of that one with whom he had lived but two years, and mourned fifteen? was it her youth? was it that quick way of lifting her eyes, and looking at him with such clear directness? or the way her hair grew? or what? "do you like the people here, uncle john?" the question caught john, as it were, between wind and water. indeed, all her queries seemed to be trying to incite him to those wide efforts of mind which bring into use the philosophic nerve; and it was long since he had generalized afresh about either things or people, having fallen for many years past into the habit of reaching his opinions down out of some pigeonhole or other. to generalize was a youthful practice that one took off as one takes certain garments off babies when they come to years of discretion. but since he seemed to be in for it, he answered rather shortly: "not at all." nedda sighed again. "nor do i. they make me ashamed of myself." john, whose dislike of the bigwigs was that of the dogged worker of this life for the dogged talkers, wrinkled his brows: "how's that?" "they make me feel as if i were part of something heavy sitting on something else, and all the time talking about how to make things lighter for the thing it's sitting on." a vague recollection of somebody--some writer, a dangerous one--having said something of this sort flitted through john. "do you think england is done for, uncle--i mean about 'the land'?" in spite of his conviction that 'the country was in a bad way,' john was deeply, intimately shocked by that simple little question. done for! never! whatever might be happening underneath, there must be no confession of that. no! the country would keep its form. the country would breathe through its nose, even if it did lose the race. it must never know, or let others know, even if it were beaten. and he said: "what on earth put that into your head?" "only that it seems funny, if we're getting richer and richer, and yet all the time farther and farther away from the life that every one agrees is the best for health and happiness. father put it into my head, making me look at the little, towny people in transham this afternoon. i know i mean to begin at once to learn about farm work." "you?" this pretty young thing with the dark head and the pale, slim shoulders! farm work! women were certainly getting queer. in his department he had almost daily evidence of that! "i should have thought art was more in your line!" nedda looked up at him; and he was touched by that look, so straight and young. "it's this. i don't believe derek will be able to stay in england. when you feel very strongly about things it must be awfully difficult to." in bewilderment john answered: "why! i should have said this was the country of all others for movements, and social work, and--and--cranks--" he paused. "yes; but those are all for curing the skin, and i suppose we're really dying of heart disease, aren't we? derek feels that, anyway, and, you see, he's not a bit wise, not even patient--so i expect he'll have to go. i mean to be ready, anyway." and nedda got up. "only, if he does something rash, don't let them hurt him, uncle john, if you can help it." john felt her soft fingers squeezing his almost desperately, as if her emotions had for the moment got out of hand. and he was moved, though he knew that the squeeze expressed feeling for his nephew, not for himself. when she slid away out of the big room all friendliness seemed to go out with her, and very soon after he himself slipped away to the smoking-room. there he was alone, and, lighting a cigar, because he still had on his long-tailed coat which did not go with that pipe he would so much have preferred, he stepped out of the french window into the warm, dark night. he walked slowly in his evening pumps up a thin path between columbines and peonies, late tulips, forget-me-nots, and pansies peering up in the dark with queer, monkey faces. he had a love for flowers, rather starved for a long time past, and, strangely, liked to see them, not in the set and orderly masses that should seemingly have gone with his character, but in wilder beds, where one never knew what flower was coming next. once or twice he stopped and bent down, ascertaining which kind it was, living its little life down there, then passed on in that mood of stammering thought which besets men of middle age who walk at night--a mood caught between memory of aspirations spun and over, and vision of aspirations that refuse to take shape. why should they, any more--what was the use? and turning down another path he came on something rather taller than himself, that glowed in the darkness as though a great moon, or some white round body, had floated to within a few feet of the earth. approaching, he saw it for what it was--a little magnolia-tree in the full of its white blossoms. those clustering flower-stars, printed before him on the dark coat of the night, produced in john more feeling than should have been caused by a mere magnolia-tree; and he smoked somewhat furiously. beauty, seeking whom it should upset, seemed, like a girl, to stretch out arms and say: "i am here!" and with a pang at heart, and a long ash on his cigar, between lips that quivered oddly, john turned on his heel and retraced his footsteps to the smoking-room. it was still deserted. taking up a review, he opened it at an article on 'the land,' and, fixing his eyes on the first page, did not read it, but thought: 'that child! what folly! engaged! h'm! to that young--! why, they're babes! and what is it about her that reminds me--reminds me--what is it? lucky devil, felix--to have her for daughter! engaged! the little thing's got her troubles before her. wish i had! by george, yes--wish i had!' and with careful fingers he brushed off the ash that had fallen on his lapel. . . the little thing who had her troubles before her, sitting in her bedroom window, had watched his white front and the glowing point of his cigar passing down there in the dark, and, though she did not know that they belonged to him, had thought: 'there's some one nice, anyway, who likes being out instead of in that stuffy drawing-room, playing bridge, and talking, talking.' then she felt ashamed of her uncharitableness. after all, it was wrong to think of them like that. they did it for rest after all their hard work; and she--she did not work at all! if only aunt kirsteen would let her stay at joyfields, and teach her all that sheila knew! and lighting her candles, she opened her diary to write. "life," she wrote, "is like looking at the night. one never knows what's coming, only suspects, as in the darkness you suspect which trees are what, and try to see whether you are coming to the edge of anything. . . a moth has just flown into my candle before i could stop it! has it gone quite out of the world? if so, why should it be different for us? the same great something makes all life and death, all light and dark, all love and hate--then why one fate for one living thing, and the opposite for another? but suppose there is nothing after death--would it make me say: 'i'd rather not live'? it would only make me delight more in life of every kind. only human beings brood and are discontented, and trouble about future life. while derek and i were sitting in that field this morning, a bumblebee flew to the bank and tucked its head into the grass and went to sleep, just tired out with flying and working at its flowers; it simply snoozed its head down and went off. we ought to live every minute to the utmost, and when we're tired out, tuck in our heads and sleep. . . . if only derek is not brooding over that poor man! poor man--all alone in the dark, with months of misery before him! poor soul! oh! i am sorry for all the unhappiness of people! i can't bear to think of it. i simply can't." and dropping her pen, nedda went again to her window and leaned out. so sweet the air smelled that it made her ache with delight to breathe it in. each leaf that lived out there, each flower, each blade of grass, were sworn to conspiracy of perfume. and she thought: 'they must all love each other; it all goes together so beautifully!' then, mingled with the incense of the night, she caught the savor of woodsmoke. it seemed to make the whole scent even more delicious, but she thought, bewildered: 'smoke! cruel fire--burning the wood that once grew leaves like those. oh! it is so mixed!' it was a thought others have had before her. chapter xxiv to see for himself how it fared with the big laborer at the hands of preliminary justice, felix went into transham with stanley the following morning. john having departed early for town, the brothers had not further exchanged sentiments on the subject of what stanley called 'the kick-up at joyfields.' and just as night will sometimes disperse the brooding moods of nature, so it had brought to all three the feeling: 'haven't we made too much of this? haven't we been a little extravagant, and aren't we rather bored with the whole subject?' arson was arson; a man in prison more or less was a man in prison more or less! this was especially stanley's view, and he took the opportunity to say to felix: "look here, old man, the thing is, of course, to see it in proportion." it was with this intention, therefore, that felix entered the building where the justice of that neighborhood was customarily dispensed. it was a species of small hall, somewhat resembling a chapel, with distempered walls, a platform, and benches for the public, rather well filled that morning--testimony to the stir the little affair had made. felix, familiar with the appearance of london police courts, noted the efforts that had been made to create resemblance to those models of administration. the justices of the peace, hastily convoked and four in number, sat on the platform, with a semicircular backing of high gray screens and a green baize barrier in front of them, so that their legs and feet were quite invisible. in this way had been preserved the really essential feature of all human justice--at whose feet it is well known one must not look! their faces, on the contrary, were entirely exposed to view, and presented that pleasing variety of type and unanimity of expression peculiar to men keeping an open mind. below them, with his face toward the public, was placed a gray-bearded man at a table also covered with green baize, that emblem of authority. and to the side, at right angles, raised into the air, sat a little terrier of a man, with gingery, wired hair, obviously the more articulate soul of these proceedings. as felix sat down to worship, he noticed mr. pogram at the green baize table, and received from the little man a nod and the faintest whiff of lavender and gutta-percha. the next moment he caught sight of derek and sheila, screwed sideways against one of the distempered walls, looking, with their frowning faces, for all the world like two young devils just turned out of hell. they did not greet him, and felix set to work to study the visages of justice. they impressed him, on the whole, more favorably than he had expected. the one to his extreme left, with a gray-whiskered face, was like a large and sleepy cat of mature age, who moved not, except to write a word now and then on the paper before him, or to hand back a document. next to him, a man of middle age with bald forehead and dark, intelligent eyes seemed conscious now and again of the body of the court, and felix thought: 'you have not been a magistrate long.' the chairman, who sat next, with the moustache of a heavy dragoon and gray hair parted in the middle, seemed, on the other hand, oblivious of the public, never once looking at them, and speaking so that they could not hear him, and felix thought: 'you have been a magistrate too long.' between him and the terrier man, the last of the four wrote diligently, below a clean, red face with clipped white moustache and little peaked beard. and felix thought: 'retired naval!' then he saw that they were bringing in tryst. the big laborer advanced between two constables, his broad, unshaven face held high, and his lowering eyes, through which his strange and tragical soul seemed looking, turned this way and that. felix, who, no more than any one else, could keep his gaze off the trapped creature, felt again all the sensations of the previous afternoon. "guilty? or, not guilty?" as if repeating something learned by heart, tryst answered: "not guilty, sir." and his big hands, at his sides, kept clenching and unclenching. the witnesses, four in number, began now to give their testimony. a sergeant of police recounted how he had been first summoned to the scene of burning, and afterward arrested tryst; sir gerald's agent described the eviction and threats uttered by the evicted man; two persons, a stone-breaker and a tramp, narrated that they had seen him going in the direction of the rick and barn at five o'clock, and coming away therefrom at five-fifteen. punctuated by the barking of the terrier clerk, all this took time, during which there passed through felix many thoughts. here was a man who had done a wicked, because an antisocial, act; the sort of act no sane person could defend; an act so barbarous, stupid, and unnatural that the very beasts of the field would turn noses away from it! how was it, then, that he himself could not feel incensed? was it that in habitually delving into the motives of men's actions he had lost the power of dissociating what a man did from what he was; had come to see him, with his thoughts, deeds, and omissions, as a coherent growth? and he looked at tryst. the big laborer was staring with all his soul at derek. and, suddenly, he saw his nephew stand up--tilt his dark head back against the wall--and open his mouth to speak. in sheer alarm felix touched mr. pogram on the arm. the little square man had already turned; he looked at that moment extremely like a frog. "gentlemen, i wish to say--" "who are you? sit down!" it was the chairman, speaking for the first time in a voice that could be heard. "i wish to say that he is not responsible. i--" "silence! silence, sir! sit down!" felix saw his nephew waver, and sheila pulling at his sleeve; then, to his infinite relief, the boy sat down. his sallow face was red; his thin lips compressed to a white line. and slowly under the eyes of the whole court he grew deadly pale. distracted by fear that the boy might make another scene, felix followed the proceedings vaguely. they were over soon enough: tryst committed, defence reserved, bail refused--all as mr. pogram had predicted. derek and sheila had vanished, and in the street outside, idle at this hour of a working-day, were only the cars of the four magistrates; two or three little knots of those who had been in court, talking of the case; and in the very centre of the street, an old, dark-whiskered man, lame, and leaning on a stick. "very nearly being awkward," said the voice of mr. pogram in his ear. "i say, do you think--no hand himself, surely no real hand himself?" felix shook his head violently. if the thought had once or twice occurred to him, he repudiated it with all his force when shaped by another's mouth--and such a mouth, so wide and rubbery! "no, no! strange boy! extravagant sense of honour--too sensitive, that's all!" "quite so," murmured mr. pogram soothingly. "these young people! we live in a queer age, mr. freeland. all sorts of ideas about, nowadays. young men like that--better in the army--safe in the army. no ideas there!" "what happens now?" said felix. "wait!" said mr. pogram. "nothing else for it--wait. three months--twiddle his thumbs. bad system! rotten!" "and suppose in the end he's proved innocent?" mr. pogram shook his little round head, whose ears were very red. "ah!" he said: "often say to my wife: 'wish i weren't a humanitarian!' heart of india-rubber--excellent thing--the greatest blessing. well, good-morning! anything you want to say at any time, let me know!" and exhaling an overpowering whiff of gutta-percha, he grasped felix's hand and passed into a house on the door of which was printed in brazen letters: "edward pogram, james collet. solicitors. agents." on leaving the little humanitarian, felix drifted back toward the court. the cars were gone, the groups dispersed; alone, leaning on his stick, the old, dark-whiskered man stood like a jackdaw with a broken wing. yearning, at that moment, for human intercourse, felix went up to him. "fine day," he said. "yes, sir, 'tis fine enough." and they stood silent, side by side. the gulf fixed by class and habit between soul and human soul yawned before felix as it had never before. stirred and troubled, he longed to open his heart to this old, ragged, dark-eyed, whiskered creature with the game leg, who looked as if he had passed through all the thorns and thickets of hard and primitive existence; he longed that the old fellow should lay bare to him his heart. and for the life of him he could not think of any mortal words which might bridge the unreal gulf between them. at last he said: "you a native here?" "no, sir. from over malvern way. livin' here with my darter, owin' to my leg. her 'usband works in this here factory." "and i'm from london," felix said. "thart you were. fine place, london, they say!" felix shook his head. "not so fine as this worcestershire of yours." the old man turned his quick, dark gaze. "aye!" he said, "people'll be a bit nervy-like in towns, nowadays. the country be a good place for a healthy man, too; i don't want no better place than the country--never could abide bein' shut in." "there aren't so very many like you, judging by the towns." the old man smiled--that smile was the reverse of a bitter tonic coated with sweet stuff to make it palatable. "'tes the want of a life takes 'em," he said. "there's not a many like me. there's not so many as can't do without the smell of the earth. with these 'ere newspapers--'tesn't taught nowadays. the boys and gells they goes to school, and 'tes all in favor of the towns there. i can't work no more; i'm 's good as gone meself; but i feel sometimes i'll 'ave to go back. i don't like the streets, an' i guess 'tes worse in london." "ah! perhaps," felix said, "there are more of us like you than you think." again the old man turned his dark, quick glance. "well, an' i widden say no to that, neither. i've seen 'em terrible homesick. 'tes certain sure there's lots would never go, ef 'twasn't so mortial hard on the land. 'tisn't a bare livin', after that. an' they're put upon, right and left they're put upon. 'tes only a man here and there that 'as something in 'im too strong. i widden never 'ave stayed in the country ef 'twasn't that i couldn't stand the town life. 'tes like some breeds o' cattle--you take an' put 'em out o' their own country, an' you 'ave to take an' put 'em back again. only some breeds, though. others they don' mind where they go. well, i've seen the country pass in my time, as you might say; where you used to see three men you only see one now." "are they ever going back onto the land?" "they tark about it. i read my newspaper reg'lar. in some places i see they're makin' unions. that an't no good." "why?" the old man smiled again. "why! think of it! the land's different to anythin' else--that's why! different work, different hours, four men's work to-day and one's to-morrow. work land wi' unions, same as they've got in this 'ere factory, wi' their eight hours an' their do this an' don' do that? no! you've got no weather in factories, an' such-like. on the land 'tes a matter o' weather. on the land a man must be ready for anythin' at any time; you can't work it no other way. 'tes along o' god's comin' into it; an' no use pullin' this way an' that. union says to me: you mustn't work after hours. hoh! i've 'ad to set up all night wi' ship an' cattle hundreds o' times, an' no extra for it. 'tes not that way they'll do any good to keep people on the land. oh, no!" "how, then?" "well, you'll want new laws, o' course, to prevent farmers an' landowners takin' their advantage; you want laws to build new cottages; but mainly 'tes a case of hands together; can't be no other--the land's so ticklish. if 'tesn't hands together, 'tes nothing. i 'ad a master once that was never content so long's we wasn't content. that farm was better worked than any in the parish." "yes, but the difficulty is to get masters that can see the other side; a man doesn't care much to look at home." the old man's dark eyes twinkled. 'no; an' when 'e does, 'tes generally to say: 'lord, an't i right, an' an't they wrong, just?' that's powerful customary!" "it is," said felix; "god bless us all!" "ah! you may well say that, sir; an' we want it, too. a bit more wages wouldn't come amiss, neither. an' a bit more freedom; 'tes a man's liberty 'e prizes as well as money." "did you hear about this arson case?" the old man cast a glance this way and that before he answered in a lower voice: "they say 'e was put out of his cottage. i've seen men put out for votin' liberal; i've seen 'em put out for free-thinkin'; all sorts o' things i seen em put out for. 'tes that makes the bad blood. a man wants to call 'is soul 'is own, when all's said an' done. an' 'e can't, not in th' old country, unless 'e's got the dibs." "and yet you never thought of emigrating?" "thart of it--ah! thart of it hundreds o' times; but some'ow cudden never bring mysel' to the scratch o' not seein' th' beacon any more. i can just see it from 'ere, you know. but there's not so many like me, an' gettin' fewer every day." "yes," murmured felix, "that i believe." "'tes a 'and-made piece o' goods--the land! you has to be fond of it, same as of your missis and yer chillen. these poor pitiful fellows that's workin' in this factory, makin' these here colonial ploughs--union's all right for them--'tes all mechanical; but a man on the land, 'e's got to put the land first, whether 'tes his own or some one else's, or he'll never do no good; might as well go for a postman, any day. i'm keepin' of you, though, with my tattle!" in truth, felix had looked at the old man, for the accursed question had begun to worry him: ought he or not to give the lame old fellow something? would it hurt his feelings? why could he not say simply: 'friend, i'm better off than you; help me not to feel so unfairly favored'? perhaps he might risk it. and, diving into his trousers pockets, he watched the old man's eyes. if they followed his hand, he would risk it. but they did not. withdrawing his hand, he said: "have a cigar?" the old fellow's dark face twinkled. "i don' know," he said, "as i ever smoked one; but i can have a darned old try!" "take the lot," said felix, and shuffled into the other's pocket the contents of his cigar-case. "if you get through one, you'll want the rest. they're pretty good." "ah!" said the old man. "shuldn' wonder, neither." "good-by. i hope your leg will soon be better." "thank 'ee, sir. good-by, thank 'ee!" looking back from the turning, felix saw him still standing there in the middle of the empty street. having undertaken to meet his mother, who was returning this afternoon to becket, he had still two hours to put away, and passing mr. pogram's house, he turned into a path across a clover-field and sat down on a stile. he had many thoughts, sitting at the foot of this little town--which his great-grandfather had brought about. and chiefly he thought of the old man he had been talking to, sent there, as it seemed to him, by providence, to afford a prototype for his 'the last of the laborers.' wonderful that the old fellow should talk of loving 'the land,' whereon he must have toiled for sixty years or so, at a number of shillings per week, that would certainly not buy the cigars he had shovelled into that ragged pocket. wonderful! and yet, a marvellous sweet thing, when all was said--this land! changing its sheen and texture, the feel of its air, its very scent, from day to day. this land with myriad offspring of flowers and flying folk; the majestic and untiring march of seasons: spring and its wistful ecstasy of saplings, and its yearning, wild, wind-loosened heart; gleam and song, blossom and cloud, and the swift white rain; each upturned leaf so little and so glad to flutter; each wood and field so full of peeping things! summer! ah! summer, when on the solemn old trees the long days shone and lingered, and the glory of the meadows and the murmur of life and the scent of flowers bewildered tranquillity, till surcharge of warmth and beauty brooded into dark passion, and broke! and autumn, in mellow haze down on the fields and woods; smears of gold already on the beeches, smears of crimson on the rowans, the apple-trees still burdened, and a flax-blue sky well-nigh merging with the misty air; the cattle browsing in the lingering golden stillness; not a breath to fan the blue smoke of the weed-fires--and in the fields no one moving--who would disturb such mellow peace? and winter! the long spaces, the long dark; and yet--and yet, what delicate loveliness of twig tracery; what blur of rose and brown and purple caught in the bare boughs and in the early sunset sky! what sharp dark flights of birds in the gray-white firmament! who cared what season held in its arms this land that had bred them all! not wonderful that into the veins of those who nursed it, tending, watching its perpetual fertility, should be distilled a love so deep and subtle that they could not bear to leave it, to abandon its hills, and greenness, and bird-songs, and all the impress of their forefathers throughout the ages. like so many of his fellows--cultured moderns, alien to the larger forms of patriotism, that rich liquor brewed of maps and figures, commercial profit, and high-cockalorum, which served so perfectly to swell smaller heads--felix had a love of his native land resembling love for a woman, a kind of sensuous chivalry, a passion based on her charm, on her tranquillity, on the power she had to draw him into her embrace, to make him feel that he had come from her, from her alone, and into her alone was going back. and this green parcel of his native land, from which the half of his blood came, and that the dearest half, had a potency over his spirit that he might well be ashamed of in days when the true briton was a town-bred creature with a foot of fancy in all four corners of the globe. there was ever to him a special flavor about the elm-girt fields, the flowery coppices, of this country of the old moretons, a special fascination in its full, white-clouded skies, its grass-edged roads, its pied and creamy cattle, and the blue-green loom of the malvern hills. if god walked anywhere for him, it was surely here. sentiment! without sentiment, without that love, each for his own corner, 'the land' was lost indeed! not if all becket blew trumpets till kingdom came, would 'the land' be reformed, if they lost sight of that! to fortify men in love for their motherland, to see that insecurity, grinding poverty, interference, petty tyranny, could no longer undermine that love--this was to be, surely must be, done! monotony? was that cry true? what work now performed by humble men was less monotonous than work on the land? what work was even a tenth part so varied? never quite the same from day to day: now weeding, now hay, now roots, now hedging; now corn, with sowing, reaping, threshing, stacking, thatching; the care of beasts, and their companionship; sheep-dipping, shearing, wood-gathering, apple-picking, cider-making; fashioning and tarring gates; whitewashing walls; carting; trenching--never, never two days quite the same! monotony! the poor devils in factories, in shops, in mines; poor devils driving 'busses, punching tickets, cleaning roads; baking; cooking; sewing; typing! stokers; machine-tenders; brick-layers; dockers; clerks! ah! that great company from towns might well cry out: monotony! true, they got their holidays; true, they had more social life--a point that might well be raised at becket: holidays and social life for men on the soil! but--and suddenly felix thought of the long, long holiday that was before the laborer tryst. 'twiddle his thumbs'--in the words of the little humanitarian--twiddle his thumbs in a space twelve feet by seven! no sky to see, no grass to smell, no beast to bear him company; no anything--for, what resources in himself had this poor creature? no anything, but to sit with tragic eyes fixed on the wall before him for eighty days and eighty nights, before they tried him. and then--not till then--would his punishment for that moment's blind revenge for grievous wrong begin! what on this earth of god's was more disproportioned, and wickedly extravagant, more crassly stupid, than the arrangements of his most perfect creature, man? what a devil was man, who could yet rise to such sublime heights of love and heroism! what a ferocious brute, the most ferocious and cold-blooded brute that lived! of all creatures most to be stampeded by fear into a callous torturer! 'fear'--thought felix--'fear! not momentary panic, such as makes our brother animals do foolish things; conscious, calculating fear, paralyzing the reason of our minds and the generosity of our hearts. a detestable thing tryst has done, a hateful act; but his punishment will be twentyfold as hateful!' and, unable to sit and think of it, felix rose and walked on through the fields. . . . chapter xxv he was duly at transham station in time for the london train, and, after a minute consecrated to looking in the wrong direction, he saw his mother already on the platform with her bag, an air-cushion, and a beautifully neat roll. 'travelling third!' he thought. 'why will she do these things?' slightly flushed, she kissed felix with an air of abstraction. "how good of you to meet me, darling!" felix pointed in silence to the crowded carriage from which she had emerged. frances freeland looked a little rueful. "it would have been delightful," she said. "there was a dear baby there and, of course, i couldn't have the window down, so it was rather hot." felix, who could just see the dear baby, said dryly: "so that's how you go about, is it? have you had any lunch?" frances freeland put her hand under his arm. "now, don't fuss, darling! here's sixpence for the porter. there's only one trunk--it's got a violet label. do you know them? they're so useful. you see them at once. i must get you some." "let me take those things. you won't want this cushion. i'll let the air out." "i'm afraid you won't be able, dear. it's quite the best screw i've ever come across--a splendid thing; i can't get it undone." "ah!" said felix. "and now we may as well go out to the car!" he was conscious of a slight stoppage in his mother's footsteps and rather a convulsive squeeze of her hand on his arm. looking at her face, he discovered it occupied with a process whose secret he could not penetrate, a kind of disarray of her features, rapidly and severely checked, and capped with a resolute smile. they had already reached the station exit, where stanley's car was snorting. frances freeland looked at it, then, mounting rather hastily, sat, compressing her lips. when they were off, felix said: "would you like to stop at the church and have a look at the brasses to your grandfather and the rest of them?" his mother, who had slipped her hand under his arm again, answered: "no, dear; i've seen them. the church is not at all beautiful. i like the old church at becket so much better; it is such a pity your great-grandfather was not buried there." she had never quite got over the lack of 'niceness' about those ploughs. going, as was the habit of stanley's car, at considerable speed, felix was not at first certain whether the peculiar little squeezes his arm was getting were due to the bounds of the creature under them or to some cause more closely connected with his mother, and it was not till they shaved a cart at the turning of the becket drive that it suddenly dawned on him that she was in terror. he discovered it in looking round just as she drew her smile over a spasm of her face and throat. and, leaning out of the car, he said: "drive very slowly, batter; i want to look at the trees." a little sigh rewarded him. since she had said nothing, he said nothing, and clara's words in the hall seemed to him singularly tactless: "oh! i meant to have reminded you, felix, to send the car back and take a fly. i thought you knew that mother's terrified of motors." and at his mother's answer: "oh! no; i quite enjoyed it, dear," he thought: 'bless her heart! she is a stoic!' whether or no to tell her of the 'kick-up at joyfields' exercised his mind. the question was intricate, for she had not yet been informed that nedda and derek were engaged, and felix did not feel at liberty to forestall the young people. that was their business. on the other hand, she would certainly glean from clara a garbled understanding of the recent events at joyfields, if she were not first told of them by himself. and he decided to tell her, with the natural trepidation of one who, living among principles and theories, never quite knew what those, for whom each fact is unrelated to anything else under the moon, were going to think. frances freeland, he knew well, kept facts and theories especially unrelated, or, rather, modified her facts to suit her theories, instead of, like felix, her theories to suit her facts. for example, her instinctive admiration for church and state, her instinctive theory that they rested on gentility and people who were nice, was never for a moment shaken when she saw a half-starved baby of the slums. her heart would impel her to pity and feed the poor little baby if she could, but to correlate the creature with millions of other such babies, and those millions with the church and state, would not occur to her. and if felix made an attempt to correlate them for her she would look at him and think: 'dear boy! how good he is! i do wish he wouldn't let that line come in his forehead; it does so spoil it!' and she would say: "yes, darling, i know, it's very sad; only i'm not clever." and, if a liberal government chanced to be in power, would add: "of course, i do think this government is dreadful. i must show you a sermon of the dear bishop of walham. i cut it out of the 'daily mystery.' he puts things so well--he always has such nice ideas." and felix, getting up, would walk a little and sit down again too suddenly. then, as if entreating him to look over her want of 'cleverness,' she would put out a hand that, for all its whiteness, had never been idle and smooth his forehead. it had sometimes touched him horribly to see with what despair she made attempts to follow him in his correlating efforts, and with what relief she heard him cease enough to let her say: "yes, dear; only, i must show you this new kind of expanding cork. it's simply splendid. it bottles up everything!" and after staring at her just a moment he would acquit her of irony. very often after these occasions he had thought, and sometimes said: "mother, you're the best conservative i ever met." she would glance at him then, with a special loving doubtfulness, at a loss as to whether or no he had designed to compliment her. when he had given her half an hour to rest he made his way to the blue corridor, where a certain room was always kept for her, who never occupied it long enough at a time to get tired of it. she was lying on a sofa in a loose gray cashmere gown. the windows were open, and the light breeze just moved in the folds of the chintz curtains and stirred perfume from a bowl of pinks--her favorite flowers. there was no bed in this bedroom, which in all respects differed from any other in clara's house, as though the spirit of another age and temper had marched in and dispossessed the owner. felix had a sensation that one was by no means all body here. on the contrary. there was not a trace of the body anywhere; as if some one had decided that the body was not quite nice. no bed, no wash-stand, no chest of drawers, no wardrobe, no mirror, not even a jar of clara's special pot-pourri. and felix said: "this can't be your bedroom, mother?" frances freeland answered, with a touch of deprecating quizzicality: "oh yes, darling. i must show you my arrangements." and she rose. "this," she said, "you see, goes under there, and that under here; and that again goes under this. then they all go under that, and then i pull this. it's lovely." "but why?" said felix. "oh! but don't you see? it's so nice; nobody can tell. and it doesn't give any trouble." "and when you go to bed?" "oh! i just pop my clothes into this and open that. and there i am. it's simply splendid." "i see," said felix. "do you think i might sit down, or shall i go through?" frances freeland loved him with her eyes, and said: "naughty boy!" and felix sat down on what appeared to be a window-seat. "well," he said, with slight uneasiness, for she was hovering, "i think you're wonderful." frances freeland put away an impeachment that she evidently felt to be too soft. "oh! but it's all so simple, darling." and felix saw that she had something in her hand, and mind. "this is my little electric brush. it'll do wonders with your hair. while you sit there, i'll just try it." a clicking and a whirring had begun to occur close to his ear, and something darted like a gadfly at his scalp. "i came to tell you something serious, mother." "yes, darling; it'll be simply lovely to hear it; and you mustn't mind this, because it really is a first-rate thing--quite new." now, how is it, thought felix, that any one who loves the new as she does, when it's made of matter, will not even look at it when it's made of mind? and, while the little machine buzzed about his head, he proceeded to detail to her the facts of the state of things that existed at joyfields. when he had finished, she said: "now, darling, bend down a little." felix bent down. and the little machine began severely tweaking the hairs on the nape of his neck. he sat up again rather suddenly. frances freeland was contemplating the little machine. "how very provoking! it's never done that before!" "quite so!" felix murmured. "but about joyfields?" "oh, my dear, it is such a pity they don't get on with those mallorings! i do think it sad they weren't brought up to go to church." felix stared, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry that his recital had not roused within her the faintest suspicion of disaster. how he envied her that single-minded power of not seeing further than was absolutely needful! and suddenly he thought: 'she really is wonderful! with her love of church, how it must hurt her that we none of us go, not even john! and yet she never says a word. there really is width about her; a power of accepting the inevitable. never was woman more determined to make the best of a bad job. it's a great quality!' and he heard her say: "now, darling, if i give you this, you must promise me to use it every morning. you'll find you'll soon have a splendid crop of little young hairs." "i know," he said gloomily; "but they won't come to anything. age has got my head, mother, just as it's got 'the land's.'" "oh, nonsense! you must go on with it, that's all!" felix turned so that he could look at her. she was moving round the room now, meticulously adjusting the framed photographs of her family that were the only decoration of the walls. how formal, chiselled, and delicate her face, yet how almost fanatically decisive! how frail and light her figure, yet how indomitably active! and the memory assailed him of how, four years ago, she had defeated double pneumonia without having a doctor, simply by lying on her back. 'she leaves trouble,' he thought, 'until it's under her nose, then simply tells it that it isn't there. there's something very english about that.' she was chasing a bluebottle now with a little fan made of wire, and, coming close to felix, said: "have you seen these, darling? you've only to hit the fly and it kills him at once." "but do you ever hit the fly?" "oh, yes!" and she waved the fan at the bluebottle, which avoided it without seeming difficulty. "i can't bear hurting them, but i don't like flies. there!" the bluebottle flew out of the window behind felix and in at the one that was not behind him. he rose. "you ought to rest before tea, mother." he felt her searching him with her eyes, as if trying desperately to find something she might bestow upon or do for him. "would you like this wire--" with a feeling that he was defrauding love, he turned and fled. she would never rest while he was there! and yet there was that in her face which made him feel a brute to go. passing out of the house, sunk in its monday hush, no vestige of a bigwig left, felix came to that new-walled mound where the old house of the moretons had been burned 'by soldiers from tewkesbury and gloucester,' as said the old chronicles dear to the heart of clara. and on the wall he sat him down. above, in the uncut grass, he could see the burning blue of a peacock's breast, where the heraldic bird stood digesting grain in the repose of perfect breeding, and below him gardeners were busy with the gooseberries. 'gardeners and the gooseberries of the great!' he thought. 'such is the future of our land.' and he watched them. how methodically they went to work! how patient and well-done-for they looked! after all, was it not the ideal future? gardeners, gooseberries, and the great! each of the three content in that station of life into which--! what more could a country want? gardeners, gooseberries, and the great! the phrase had a certain hypnotic value. why trouble? why fuss? gardeners, gooseberries, and the great! a perfect land! a land dedicate to the week-end! gardeners, goose--! and suddenly he saw that he was not alone. half hidden by the angle of the wall, on a stone of the foundations, carefully preserved and nearly embedded in the nettles which clara had allowed to grow because they added age to the appearance, was sitting a bigwig. one of the settleham faction, he had impressed felix alike by his reticence, the steady sincerity of his gray eyes, a countenance that, beneath a simple and delicate urbanity, had still in it something of the best type of schoolboy. 'how comes he to have stayed?' he mused. 'i thought they always fed and scattered!' and having received an answer to his salutation, he moved across and said: "i imagined you'd gone." "i've been having a look round. it's very jolly here. my affections are in the north, but i suppose this is pretty well the heart of england." "near 'the big song,'" felix answered. "there'll never be anything more english than shakespeare, when all's said and done." and he took a steady, sidelong squint at his companion. 'this is another of the types i've been looking for,' he reflected. the peculiar 'don't-quite-touch-me' accent of the aristocrat--and of those who would be--had almost left this particular one, as though he secretly aspired to rise superior and only employed it in the nervousness of his first greetings. 'yes,' thought felix, 'he's just about the very best we can do among those who sit upon 'the land.' i would wager there's not a better landlord nor a better fellow in all his class, than this one. he's chalks away superior to malloring, if i know anything of faces--would never have turned poor tryst out. if this exception were the rule! and yet--! does he, can he, go quite far enough to meet the case? if not--what hope of regeneration from above? would he give up his shooting? could he give up feeling he's a leader? would he give up his town house and collecting whatever it is he collects? could he let himself sink down and merge till he was just unseen leaven of good-fellowship and good-will, working in the common bread?' and squinting at that sincere, clean, charming, almost fine face, he answered himself unwillingly: 'he could not!' and suddenly he knew that he was face to face with the tremendous question which soon or late confronts all thinkers. sitting beside him--was the highest product of the present system! with its charm, humanity, courage, chivalry up to a point, its culture, and its cleanliness, this decidedly rare flower at the end of a tall stalk, with dark and tortuous roots and rank foliage, was in a sense the sole justification of power wielded from above. and was it good enough? was it quite good enough? like so many other thinkers, felix hesitated to reply. if only merit and the goods of this world could be finally divorced! if the reward of virtue were just men's love and an unconscious self-respect! if only 'to have nothing' were the highest honour! and yet, to do away with this beside him and put in its place--what? no kiss-me-quick change had a chance of producing anything better. to scrap the long growth of man and start afresh was but to say: 'since in the past the best that man has done has not been good enough, i have a perfect faith in him for the future!' no! that was a creed for archangels and other extremists. safer to work on what we had! and he began: "next door to this estate i'm told there's ten thousand acres almost entirely grass and covert, owned by lord baltimore, who lives in norfolk, london, cannes, and anywhere else that the whim takes him. he comes down here twice a year to shoot. the case is extremely common. surely it spells paralysis. if land is to be owned at all in such great lumps, owners ought at least to live on the lumps, and to pass very high examinations as practical farmers. they ought to be the life and soul, the radiating sun, of their little universes; or else they ought to be cleared out. how expect keen farming to start from such an example? it really looks to me as if the game laws would have to go." and he redoubled his scrutiny of the bigwig's face. a little furrow in its brow had deepened visibly, but nodding, he said: "the absentee landlord is a curse, of course. i'm afraid i'm a bit of a one myself. and i'm bound to say--though i'm keen on shooting--if the game laws were abolished, it might do a lot." "you wouldn't move in that direction, i suppose?" the bigwig smiled--charming, rather whimsical, that smile. "honestly, i'm not up to it. the spirit, you know, but the flesh--! my line is housing and wages, of course." 'there it is,' thought felix. 'up to a point, they'll move--not up to the point. it's all fiddling. one won't give up his shooting; another won't give up his power; a third won't give up her week-ends; a fourth won't give up his freedom. our interest in the thing is all lackadaisical, a kind of bun-fight of pet notions. there's no real steam.' and abruptly changing the subject, he talked of pictures to the pleasant bigwig in the sleepy afternoon. of how this man could paint, and that man couldn't. and in the uncut grass the peacock slowly moved, displaying his breast of burning blue; and below, the gardeners worked among the gooseberries. chapter xxvi nedda, borrowing the bicycle of clara's maid, sirrett, had been over to joyfields, and only learned on her return of her grandmother's arrival. in her bath before dinner there came to her one of those strategic thoughts that even such as are no longer quite children will sometimes conceive. she hurried desperately into her clothes, and, ready full twenty minutes before the gong was due to sound, made her way to her grandmother's room. frances freeland had just pulled this, and, to her astonishment, that had not gone in properly. she was looking at it somewhat severely, when she heard nedda's knock. drawing a screen temporarily over the imperfection, she said: "come in!" the dear child looked charming in her white evening dress with one red flower in her hair; and while she kissed her, she noted that the neck of her dress was just a little too open to be quite nice, and at once thought: 'i've got the very thing for that.' going to a drawer that no one could have suspected of being there, she took from it a little diamond star. getting delicate but firm hold of the mechlin at the top of the frock, she popped it in, so that the neck was covered at least an inch higher, and said: "now, ducky, you're to keep that as a little present. you've no idea how perfectly it suits you just like this." and having satisfied for the moment her sense of niceness and that continual itch to part with everything she had, she surveyed her granddaughter, lighted up by that red flower, and said: "how sweet you look!" nedda, looking down past cheeks colored by pleasure at the new little star on a neck rather browned by her day in the sun, murmured: "oh, granny! it's much too lovely! you mustn't give it to me!" these were moments that frances freeland loved best in life; and, with the untruthfulness in which she only indulged when she gave things away, or otherwise benefited her neighbors with or without their will, she added: "it's quite wasted; i never wear it myself." and, seeing nedda's smile, for the girl recollected perfectly having admired it during dinner at uncle john's, and at becket itself, she said decisively, "so that's that!" and settled her down on the sofa. but just as she was thinking, 'i have the very thing for the dear child's sunburn,' nedda said: "granny, dear, i've been meaning to tell you--derek and i are engaged." for the moment frances freeland could do nothing but tremulously interlace her fingers. "oh, but, darling," she said very gravely, "have you thought?" "i think of nothing else, granny." "but has he thought?" nedda nodded. frances freeland sat staring straight before her. nedda and derek, derek and nedda! the news was almost unintelligible; those two were still for her barely more than little creatures to be tucked up at night. engaged! marriage! between those who were both as near to her, almost, as her own children had been! the effort was for the moment quite too much for her, and a sort of pain disturbed her heart. then the crowning principle of her existence came a little to her aid. no use in making a fuss; must put the best face on it, whether it were going to come to anything or not! and she said: "well, darling, i don't know, i'm sure. i dare say it's very lovely for you. but do you think you've seen enough of him?" nedda gave her a swift look, then dropped her lashes, so that her eyes seemed closed. snuggling up, she said: "no, granny, i do wish i could see more; if only i could go and stay with them a little!" and as she planted that dart of suggestion, the gong sounded. in frances freeland, lying awake till two, as was her habit, the suggestion grew. to this growth not only her custom of putting the best face on things, but her incurable desire to make others happy, and an instinctive sympathy with love-affairs, all contributed; moreover, felix had said something about derek's having been concerned in something rash. if darling nedda were there it would occupy his mind and help to make him careful. never dilatory in forming resolutions, she decided to take the girl over with her on the morrow. kirsteen had a dear little spare room, and nedda should take her bag. it would be a nice surprise for them all. accordingly, next morning, not wanting to give any trouble, she sent thomas down to the red lion, where they had a comfortable fly, with a very steady, respectable driver, and ordered it to come at half past two. then, without saying anything to clara, she told nedda to be ready to pop in her bag, trusting to her powers of explaining everything to everybody without letting anybody know anything. little difficulties of this sort never bunkered her; she was essentially a woman of action. and on the drive to joyfields she stilled the girl's quavering with: "it's all right, darling; it'll be very nice for them." she was perhaps the only person in the world who was not just a little bit afraid of kirsteen. indeed, she was constitutionally unable to be afraid of anything, except motor-cars, and, of course, earwigs, and even them one must put up with. her critical sense told her that this woman in blue was just like anybody else, besides her father had been the colonel of a highland regiment, which was quite nice, and one must put the best face on her. in this way, pointing out the beauty of each feature of the scenery, and not permitting herself or nedda to think about the bag, they drove until they came to joyfields. kirsteen alone was in, and, having sent nedda into the orchard to look for her uncle, frances freeland came at once to the point. it was so important, she thought, that darling nedda should see more of dear derek. they were very young, and if she could stay for a few weeks, they would both know their minds so much better. she had made her bring her bag, because she knew dear kirsteen would agree with her; and it would be so nice for them all. felix had told her about that poor man who had done this dreadful thing, and she thought that if nedda were here it would be a distraction. she was a very good child, and quite useful in the house. and while she was speaking she watched kirsteen, and thought: 'she is very handsome, and altogether ladylike; only it is such a pity she wears that blue thing in her hair--it makes her so conspicuous.' and rather unexpectedly she said: "do you know, dear, i believe i know the very thing to keep your hair from getting loose. it's such lovely hair. and this is quite a new thing, and doesn't show at all; invented by a very nice hairdresser in worcester. it's simplicity itself. do let me show you!" quickly going over, she removed the kingfisher-blue fillet, and making certain passes with her fingers through the hair, murmured: "it's so beautifully fine; it seems such a pity not to show it all, dear. now look at yourself!" and from the recesses of her pocket she produced a little mirror. "i'm sure tod will simply love it like that. it'll be such a nice change for him." kirsteen, with just a faint wrinkling of her lips and eyebrows, waited till she had finished. then she said: "yes, mother, dear, i'm sure he will," and replaced the fillet. a patient, half-sad, half-quizzical smile visited frances freeland's lips, as who should say: 'yes, i know you think that i'm a fuss-box, but it really is a pity that you wear it so, darling!' at sight of that smile, kirsteen got up and kissed her gravely on the forehead. when nedda came back from a fruitless search for tod, her bag was already in the little spare bedroom and frances freeland gone. the girl had never yet been alone with her aunt, for whom she had a fervent admiration not unmixed with awe. she idealized her, of course, thinking of her as one might think of a picture or statue, a symbolic figure, standing for liberty and justice and the redress of wrong. her never-varying garb of blue assisted the girl's fancy, for blue was always the color of ideals and aspiration--was not blue sky the nearest one could get to heaven--were not blue violets the flowers of spring? then, too, kirsteen was a woman with whom it would be quite impossible to gossip or small-talk; with her one could but simply and directly say what one felt, and only that over things which really mattered. and this seemed to nedda so splendid that it sufficed in itself to prevent the girl from saying anything whatever. she longed to, all the same, feeling that to be closer to her aunt meant to be closer to derek. yet, with all, she knew that her own nature was very different; this, perhaps, egged her on, and made her aunt seem all the more exciting. she waited breathless till kirsteen said: "yes, you and derek must know each other better. the worst kind of prison in the world is a mistaken marriage." nedda nodded fervently. "it must be. but i think one knows, aunt kirsteen!" she felt as if she were being searched right down to the soul before the answer came: "perhaps. i knew myself. i have seen others who did--a few. i think you might." nedda flushed from sheer joy. "i could never go on if i didn't love. i feel i couldn't, even if i'd started." with another long look through narrowing eyes, kirsteen answered: "yes. you would want truth. but after marriage truth is an unhappy thing, nedda, if you have made a mistake." "it must be dreadful. awful." "so don't make a mistake, my dear--and don't let him." nedda answered solemnly: "i won't--oh, i won't!" kirsteen had turned away to the window, and nedda heard her say quietly to herself: "'liberty's a glorious feast!'" trembling all over with the desire to express what was in her, nedda stammered: "i would never keep anything that wanted to be free--never, never! i would never try to make any one do what they didn't want to!" she saw her aunt smile, and wondered whether she had said anything exceptionally foolish. but it was not foolish--surely not--to say what one really felt. "some day, nedda, all the world will say that with you. until then we'll fight those who won't say it. have you got everything in your room you want? let's come and see." to pass from becket to joyfields was really a singular experience. at becket you were certainly supposed to do exactly what you liked, but the tyranny of meals, baths, scents, and other accompaniments of the 'all-body' regime soon annihilated every impulse to do anything but just obey it. at joyfields, bodily existence was a kind of perpetual skirmish, a sort of grudged accompaniment to a state of soul. you might be alone in the house at any meal-time. you might or might not have water in your jug. and as to baths, you had to go out to a little white-washed shed at the back, with a brick floor, where you pumped on yourself, prepared to shout out, "halloo! i'm here!" in case any one else came wanting to do the same. the conditions were in fact almost perfect for seeing more of one another. nobody asked where you were going, with whom going, or how going. you might be away by day or night without exciting curiosity or comment. and yet you were conscious of a certain something always there, holding the house together; some principle of life, or perhaps--just a woman in blue. there, too, was that strangest of all phenomena in an english home--no game ever played, outdoors or in. the next fortnight, while the grass was ripening, was a wonderful time for nedda, given up to her single passion--of seeing more of him who so completely occupied her heart. she was at peace now with sheila, whose virility forbade that she should dispute pride of place with this soft and truthful guest, so evidently immersed in rapture. besides, nedda had that quality of getting on well with her own sex, found in those women who, though tenacious, are not possessive; who, though humble, are secretly very self-respecting; who, though they do not say much about it, put all their eggs in one basket; above all, who disengage, no matter what their age, a candid but subtle charm. but that fortnight was even more wonderful for derek, caught between two passions--both so fervid. for though the passion of his revolt against the mallorings did not pull against his passion for nedda, they both tugged at him. and this had one curious psychological effect. it made his love for nedda more actual, less of an idealization. now that she was close to him, under the same roof, he felt the full allurement of her innocent warmth; he would have been cold-blooded indeed if he had not taken fire, and, his pride always checking the expression of his feelings, they glowed ever hotter underneath. yet, over those sunshiny days there hung a shadow, as of something kept back, not shared between them; a kind of waiting menace. nedda learned of kirsteen and sheila all the useful things she could; the evenings she passed with derek, those long evenings of late may and early june, this year so warm and golden. they walked generally in the direction of the hills. a favorite spot was a wood of larches whose green shoots had not yet quite ceased to smell of lemons. tall, slender things those trees, whose stems and dried lower branch-growth were gray, almost sooty, up to the feathery green of the tops, that swayed and creaked faintly in a wind, with a soughing of their branches like the sound of the sea. from the shelter of those highland trees, rather strange in such a countryside, they two could peer forth at the last sunlight gold-powdering the fringed branches, at the sunset flush dyeing the sky above the beacon; watch light slowly folding gray wings above the hay-fields and the elms; mark the squirrels scurry along, and the pigeons' evening flight. a stream ran there at the edge, and beech-trees grew beside it. in the tawny-dappled sand bed of that clear water, and the gray-green dappled trunks of those beeches with their great, sinuous, long-muscled roots, was that something which man can never tame or garden out of the land: the strength of unconquerable fertility--the remote deep life in nature's heart. men and women had their spans of existence; those trees seemed as if there forever! from generation to generation lovers might come and, looking on this strength and beauty, feel in their veins the sap of the world. here the laborer and his master, hearing the wind in the branches and the water murmuring down, might for a brief minute grasp the land's unchangeable wild majesty. and on the far side of that little stream was a field of moon-colored flowers that had for nedda a strange fascination. once the boy jumped across and brought her back a handkerchief full. they were of two kinds: close to the water's edge the marsh orchis, and farther back, a small marguerite. out of this they made a crown of the alternate flowers, and a girdle for her waist. that was an evening of rare beauty, and warm enough already for an early chafer to go blooming in the dusk. an evening when they wandered with their arms round each other a long time, silent, stopping to listen to an owl; stopping to point out each star coming so shyly up in the gray-violet of the sky. and that was the evening when they had a strange little quarrel, sudden as a white squall on a blue sea, or the tiff of two birds shooting up in a swift spiral of attack and then--all over. would he come to-morrow to see her milking? he could not. why? he could not; he would be out. ah! he never told her where he went; he never let her come with him among the laborers like sheila. "i can't; i'm pledged not." "then you don't trust me!" "of course i trust you; but a promise is a promise. you oughtn't to ask me, nedda." "no; but i would never have promised to keep anything from you." "you don't understand." "oh! yes, i do. love doesn't mean the same to you that it does to me." "how do you know what it means to me?" "i couldn't have a secret from you." "then you don't count honour." "honour only binds oneself!" "what d'you mean by that?" "i include you--you don't include me in yourself, that's all." "i think you're very unjust. i was obliged to promise; it doesn't only concern myself." then silent, motionless, a yard apart, they looked fiercely at each other, their hearts stiff and sore, and in their brains no glimmer of perception of anything but tragedy. what more tragic than to have come out of an elysium of warm arms round each other, to this sudden hostility! and the owl went on hooting, and the larches smelled sweet! and all around was the same soft dusk wherein the flowers in her hair and round her waist gleamed white! but for nedda the world had suddenly collapsed. tears rushed into her eyes; she shook her head and turned away, hiding them passionately. . . . a full minute passed, each straining to make no sound and catch the faintest sound from the other, till in her breathing there was a little clutch. his fingers came stealing round, touched her cheeks, and were wetted. his arms suddenly squeezed all breath out of her; his lips fastened on hers. she answered those lips with her own desperately, bending her head back, shutting her wet eyes. and the owl hooted, and the white flowers fell into the dusk off her hair and waist. after that, they walked once more enlaced, avoiding with what perfect care any allusion to the sudden tragedy, giving themselves up to the bewildering ecstasy that had started throbbing in their blood with that kiss, longing only not to spoil it. and through the sheltering larch wood their figures moved from edge to edge, like two little souls in paradise, unwilling to come forth. after that evening love had a poignancy it had not quite had before; at once deeper, sweeter, tinged for both of them with the rich darkness of passion, and with discovery that love does not mean a perfect merger of one within another. for both felt themselves in the right over that little quarrel. the boy that he could not, must not, resign what was not his to resign; feeling dimly, without being quite able to shape the thought even to himself, that a man has a life of action into which a woman cannot always enter, with which she cannot always be identified. the girl feeling that she did not want any life into which he did not enter, so that it was hard that he should want to exclude her from anything. for all that, she did not try again to move him to let her into the secret of his plans of revolt and revenge, and disdained completely to find them out from sheila or her aunt. and the grass went on ripening. many and various as the breeds of men, or the trees of a forest, were the stalks that made up that greenish jungle with the waving, fawn-colored surface; of rye-grass and brome-grass, of timothy, plantain, and yarrow; of bent-grass and quake-grass, foxtail, and the green-hearted trefoil; of dandelion, dock, musk-thistle, and sweet-scented vernal. on the th of june tod began cutting his three fields; the whole family, with nedda and the three tryst children, working like slaves. old gaunt, who looked to the harvests to clothe him for the year, came to do his share of raking, and any other who could find some evening hours to spare. the whole was cut and carried in three days of glorious weather. the lovers were too tired the last evening of hay harvest to go rambling, and sat in the orchard watching the moon slide up through the coppice behind the church. they sat on tod's log, deliciously weary, in the scent of the new-mown hay, while moths flitted gray among the blue darkness of the leaves, and the whitened trunks of the apple-trees gleamed ghostly. it was very warm; a night of whispering air, opening all hearts. and derek said: "you'll know to-morrow, nedda." a flutter of fear overtook her. what would she know? chapter xxvii on the th of june sir gerald malloring, returning home to dinner from the house of commons, found on his hall table, enclosed in a letter from his agent, the following paper: "we, the undersigned laborers on sir gerald malloring's estate, beg respectfully to inform him that we consider it unjust that any laborer should be evicted from his cottage for any reason connected with private life, or social or political convictions. and we respectfully demand that, before a laborer receives notice to quit for any such reason, the case shall be submitted to all his fellow laborers on the estate; and that in the future he shall only receive such notice if a majority of his fellow laborers record their votes in favor of the notice being given. in the event of this demand being refused, we regretfully decline to take any hand in getting in the hay on sir gerald malloring's estate." then followed ninety-three signatures, or signs of the cross with names printed after them. the agent's letter which enclosed this document mentioned that the hay was already ripe for cutting; that everything had been done to induce the men to withdraw the demand, without success, and that the farmers were very much upset. the thing had been sprung on them, the agent having no notion that anything of the sort was on foot. it had been very secretly, very cleverly, managed; and, in the agent's opinion, was due to mr. freeland's family. he awaited sir gerald's instructions. working double tides, with luck and good weather, the farmers and their families might perhaps save half of the hay. malloring read this letter twice, and the enclosure three times, and crammed them deep down into his pocket. it was pre-eminently one of those moments which bring out the qualities of norman blood. and the first thing he did was to look at the barometer. it was going slowly down. after a month of first-class weather it would not do that without some sinister intention. an old glass, he believed in it implicitly. he tapped, and it sank further. he stood there frowning. should he consult his wife? general friendliness said: yes! a norman instinct of chivalry, and perhaps the deeper norman instinct, that, when it came to the point, women were too violent, said, no! he went upstairs three at a time, and came down two. and all through dinner he sat thinking it over, and talking as if nothing had happened; so that he hardly spoke. three-quarters of the hay at stake, if it rained soon! a big loss to the farmers, a further reduction in rents already far too low. should he grin and bear it, and by doing nothing show these fellows that he could afford to despise their cowardly device? for it was cowardly to let his grass get ripe and play it this low trick! but if he left things unfought this time, they would try it on again with the corn--not that there was much of that on the estate of a man who only believed in corn as a policy. should he make the farmers sack the lot and get in other labor? but where? agricultural laborers were made, not born. and it took a deuce of a lot of making, at that! should he suspend wages till they withdrew their demand? that might do--but he would still lose the hay. the hay! after all, anybody, pretty well, could make hay; it was the least skilled of all farm work, so long as the farmers were there to drive the machines and direct. why not act vigorously? and his jaws set so suddenly on a piece of salmon that he bit his tongue. the action served to harden a growing purpose. so do small events influence great! suspend those fellows' wages, get down strike-breakers, save the hay! and if there were a row--well, let there be a row! the constabulary would have to act. it was characteristic of his really norman spirit that the notion of agreeing to the demand, or even considering whether it were just, never once came into his mind. he was one of those, comprising nowadays nearly all his class, together with their press, who habitually referred to his country as a democratic power, a champion of democracy--but did not at present suspect the meaning of the word; nor, to say truth, was it likely they ever would. nothing, however, made him more miserable than indecision. and so, now that he was on the point of deciding, and the decision promised vigorous consequences, he felt almost elated. closing his jaws once more too firmly, this time on lamb, he bit his tongue again. it was impossible to confess what he had done, for two of his children were there, expected to eat with that well-bred detachment which precludes such happenings; and he rose from dinner with his mind made up. instead of going back to the house of commons, he went straight to a strike-breaking agency. no grass should grow under the feet of his decision! thence he sought the one post-office still open, despatched a long telegram to his agent, another to the chief constable of worcestershire; and, feeling he had done all he could for the moment, returned to the 'house,' where they were debating the rural housing question. he sat there, paying only moderate attention to a subject on which he was acknowledged an authority. to-morrow, in all probability, the papers would have got hold of the affair! how he loathed people poking their noses into his concerns! and suddenly he was assailed, very deep down, by a feeling with which in his firmness he had not reckoned--a sort of remorse that he was going to let a lot of loafing blackguards down onto his land, to toss about his grass, and swill their beastly beer above it. and all the real love he had for his fields and coverts, all the fastidiousness of an english gentleman, and, to do him justice, the qualms of a conscience telling him that he owed better things than this to those born on his estate, assaulted him in force. he sat back in his seat, driving his long legs hard against the pew in front. his thick, wavy, still brown hair was beautifully parted above the square brow that frowned over deep-set eyes and a perfectly straight nose. now and again he bit into a side of his straw-colored moustache, or raised a hand and twisted the other side. without doubt one of the handsomest and perhaps the most norman-looking man in the whole 'house.' there was a feeling among those round him that he was thinking deeply. and so he was. but he had decided, and he was not a man who went back on his decisions. morning brought even worse sensations. those ruffians that he had ordered down--the farmers would never consent to put them up! they would have to camp. camp on his land! it was then that for two seconds the thought flashed through him: ought i to have considered whether i could agree to that demand? gone in another flash. if there was one thing a man could not tolerate, it was dictation! out of the question! but perhaps he had been a little hasty about strike-breakers. was there not still time to save the situation from that, if he caught the first train? the personal touch was everything. if he put it to the men on the spot, with these strike-breakers up his sleeve, surely they must listen! after all, they were his own people. and suddenly he was overcome with amazement that they should have taken such a step. what had got into them? spiritless enough, as a rule, in all conscience; the sort of fellows who hadn't steam even to join the miniature rifle-range that he had given them! and visions of them, as he was accustomed to pass them in the lanes, slouching along with their straw bags, their hoes, and their shamefaced greetings, passed before him. yes! it was all that fellow freeland's family! the men had been put up to it--put up to it! the very wording of their demand showed that! very bitterly he thought of the unneighborly conduct of that woman and her cubs. it was impossible to keep it from his wife! and so he told her. rather to his surprise, she had no scruples about the strike-breakers. of course, the hay must be saved! and the laborers be taught a lesson! all the unpleasantness he and she had gone through over tryst and that gaunt girl must not go for nothing! it must never be said or thought that the freeland woman and her children had scored over them! if the lesson were once driven home, they would have no further trouble. he admired her firmness, though with a certain impatience. women never quite looked ahead; never quite realized all the consequences of anything. and he thought: 'by george! i'd no idea she was so hard! but, then, she always felt more strongly about tryst and that gaunt girl than i did.' in the hall the glass was still going down. he caught the . , wiring to his agent to meet him at the station, and to the impresario of the strike-breakers to hold up their departure until he telegraphed. the three-mile drive up from the station, fully half of which was through his own land, put him in possession of all the agent had to tell: nasty spirit abroad--men dumb as fishes--the farmers, puzzled and angry, had begun cutting as best they could. not a man had budged. he had seen young mr. and miss freeland going about. the thing had been worked very cleverly. he had suspected nothing--utterly unlike the laborers as he knew them. they had no real grievance, either! yes, they were going on with all their other work--milking, horses, and that; it was only the hay they wouldn't touch. their demand was certainly a very funny one--very funny--had never heard of anything like it. amounted almost to security of tenure. the tryst affair no doubt had done it! malloring cut him short: "till they've withdrawn this demand, simmons, i can't discuss that or anything." the agent coughed behind his hand. naturally! only perhaps there might be a way of wording it that would satisfy them. never do to really let them have such decisions in their hands, of course! they were just passing tod's. the cottage wore its usual air of embowered peace. and for the life of him malloring could not restrain a gesture of annoyance. on reaching home he sent gardeners and grooms in all directions with word that he would be glad to meet the men at four o'clock at the home farm. much thought, and interviews with several of the farmers, who all but one--a shaky fellow at best--were for giving the laborers a sharp lesson, occupied the interval. though he had refused to admit the notion that the men could be chicaned, as his agent had implied, he certainly did wonder a little whether a certain measure of security might not in some way be guaranteed, which would still leave him and the farmers a free hand. but the more he meditated on the whole episode, the more he perceived how intimately it interfered with the fundamental policy of all good landowners--of knowing what was good for their people better than those people knew themselves. as four o'clock approached, he walked down to the home farm. the sky was lightly overcast, and a rather chill, draughty, rustling wind had risen. resolved to handle the men with the personal touch, he had discouraged his agent and the farmers from coming to the conference, and passed the gate with the braced-up feeling of one who goes to an encounter. in that very spick-and-span farmyard ducks were swimming leisurely on the greenish pond, white pigeons strutting and preening on the eaves of the barn, and his keen eye noted that some tiles were out of order up there. four o'clock! ah, here was a fellow coming! and instinctively he crisped his hands that were buried in his pockets, and ran over to himself his opening words. then, with a sensation of disgust, he saw that the advancing laborer was that incorrigible 'land lawyer' gaunt. the short, square man with the ruffled head and the little bright-gray eyes saluted, uttered an "afternoon, sir gerald!" in his teasing voice, and stood still. his face wore the jeering twinkle that had disconcerted so many political meetings. two lean fellows, rather alike, with lined faces and bitten, drooped moustaches, were the next to come through the yard gate. they halted behind gaunt, touching their forelocks, shuffling a little, and looking sidelong at each other. and malloring waited. five past four! ten past! then he said: "d'you mind telling the others that i'm here?" gaunt answered: "if so be as you was waitin' for the meetin', i fancy as 'ow you've got it, sir gerald!" a wave of anger surged up in malloring, dyeing his face brick-red. so! he had come all that way with the best intentions--to be treated like this; to meet this 'land lawyer,' who, he could see, was only here to sharpen his tongue, and those two scarecrow-looking chaps, who had come to testify, no doubt, to his discomfiture. and he said sharply: "so that's the best you can do to meet me, is it?" gaunt answered imperturbably: "i think it is, sir gerald." "then you've mistaken your man." "i don't think so, sir gerald." without another look malloring passed the three by, and walked back to the house. in the hall was the agent, whose face clearly showed that he had foreseen this defeat. malloring did not wait for him to speak. "make arrangements. the strike-breakers will be down by noon to-morrow. i shall go through with it now, simmons, if i have to clear the whole lot out. you'd better go in and see that they're ready to send police if there's any nonsense. i'll be down again in a day or two." and, without waiting for reply, he passed into his study. there, while the car was being got ready, he stood in the window, very sore; thinking of what he had meant to do; thinking of his good intentions; thinking of what was coming to the country, when a man could not even get his laborers to come and hear what he had to say. and a sense of injustice, of anger, of bewilderment, harrowed his very soul. chapter xxviii for the first two days of this new 'kick-up,' that 'fellow freeland's' family undoubtedly tasted the sweets of successful mutiny. the fellow himself alone shook his head. he, like nedda, had known nothing, and there was to him something unnatural and rather awful in this conduct toward dumb crops. from the moment he heard of it he hardly spoke, and a perpetual little frown creased a brow usually so serene. in the early morning of the day after malloring went back to town, he crossed the road to a field where the farmer, aided by his family and one of malloring's gardeners, was already carrying the hay; and, taking up a pitchfork, without a word to anybody, he joined in the work. the action was deeper revelation of his feeling than any expostulation, and the young people watched it rather aghast. "it's nothing," derek said at last; "father never has understood, and never will, that you can't get things without fighting. he cares more for trees and bees and birds than he does for human beings." "that doesn't explain why he goes over to the enemy, when it's only a lot of grass." kirsteen answered: "he hasn't gone over to the enemy, sheila. you don't understand your father; to neglect the land is sacrilege to him. it feeds us--he would say--we live on it; we've no business to forget that but for the land we should all be dead." "that's beautiful," said nedda quickly; "and true." sheila answered angrily: "it may be true in france with their bread and wine. people don't live off the land here; they hardly eat anything they grow themselves. how can we feel like that when we're all brought up on mongrel food? besides, it's simply sentimental, when there are real wrongs to fight about." "your father is not sentimental, sheila. it's too deep with him for that, and too unconscious. he simply feels so unhappy about the waste of that hay that he can't keep his hands off it." derek broke in: "mother's right. and it doesn't matter, except that we've got to see that the men don't follow his example. they've a funny feeling about him." kirsteen shook her head. "you needn't be afraid. he's always been too strange to them!" "well, i'm going to stiffen their backs. coming sheila?" and they went. left, as she seemed always to be in these days of open mutiny, nedda said sadly: "what is coming, aunt kirsteen?" her aunt was standing in the porch, looking straight before her; a trail of clematis had drooped over her fine black hair down on to the blue of her linen dress. she answered, without turning: "have you ever seen, on jubilee nights, bonfire to bonfire, from hill to hill, to the end of the land? this is the first lighted." nedda felt something clutch her heart. what was that figure in blue? priestess? prophetess? and for a moment the girl felt herself swept into the vision those dark glowing eyes were seeing; some violent, exalted, inexorable, flaming vision. then something within her revolted, as though one had tried to hypnotize her into seeing what was not true; as though she had been forced for the moment to look, not at what was really there, but at what those eyes saw projected from the soul behind them. and she said quietly: "i don't believe, aunt kirsteen. i don't really believe. i think it must go out." kirsteen turned. "you are like your father," she said--"a doubter." nedda shook her head. "i can't persuade myself to see what isn't there. i never can, aunt kirsteen." without reply, save a quiver of her brows, kirsteen went back into the house. and nedda stayed on the pebbled path before the cottage, unhappy, searching her own soul. did she fail to see because she was afraid to see, because she was too dull to see; or because, as she had said, there was really nothing there--no flames to leap from hill to hill, no lift, no tearing in the sky that hung over the land? and she thought: 'london--all those big towns, their smoke, the things they make, the things we want them to make, that we shall always want them to make. aren't they there? for every laborer who's a slave dad says there are five town workers who are just as much slaves! and all those bigwigs with their great houses, and their talk, and their interest in keeping things where they are! aren't they there? i don't--i can't believe anything much can happen, or be changed. oh! i shall never see visions, and dream dreams!' and from her heart she sighed. in the meantime derek and sheila were going their round on bicycles, to stiffen the backs of the laborers. they had hunted lately, always in a couple, desiring no complications, having decided that it was less likely to provoke definite assault and opposition from the farmers. to their mother was assigned all correspondence; to themselves the verbal exhortations, the personal touch. it was past noon, and they were already returning, when they came on the char-a-bancs containing the head of the strike-breaking column. the two vehicles were drawn up opposite the gate leading to marrow farm, and the agent was detaching the four men destined to that locality, with their camping-gear. by the open gate the farmer stood eying his new material askance. dejected enough creatures they looked--poor devils picked up at ten pound the dozen, who, by the mingled apathy and sheepish amusement on their faces, might never have seen a pitchfork, or smelled a field of clover, in their lives. the two young freelands rode slowly past; the boy's face scornfully drawn back into itself; the girl's flaming scarlet. "don't take notice," derek said; "we'll soon stop that." and they had gone another mile before he added: "we've got to make our round again; that's all." the words of mr. pogram, 'you have influence, young man,' were just. there was about derek the sort of quality that belongs to the good regimental officer; men followed and asked themselves why the devil they had, afterward. and if it be said that no worse leader than a fiery young fool can be desired for any movement, it may also be said that without youth and fire and folly there is usually no movement at all. late in the afternoon they returned home, dead beat. that evening the farmers and their wives milked the cows, tended the horses, did everything that must be done, not without curses. and next morning the men, with gaunt and a big, dark fellow, called tulley, for spokesmen, again proffered their demand. the agent took counsel with malloring by wire. his answer, "concede nothing," was communicated to the men in the afternoon, and received by gaunt with the remark: "i thart we should be hearin' that. please to thank sir gerald. the men concedes their gratitood." . . . that night it began to rain. nedda, waking, could hear the heavy drops pattering on the sweetbrier and clematis thatching her open window. the scent of rain-cooled leaves came in drifts, and it seemed a shame to sleep. she got up; put on her dressing-gown, and went to thrust her nose into that bath of dripping sweetness. dark as the clouds had made the night, there was still the faint light of a moon somewhere behind. the leaves of the fruit-trees joined in the long, gentle hissing, and now and again rustled and sighed sharply; a cock somewhere, as by accident, let off a single crow. there were no stars. all was dark and soft as velvet. and nedda thought: 'the world is dressed in living creatures! trees, flowers, grass, insects, ourselves--woven together--the world is dressed in life! i understand uncle tod's feeling! if only it would rain till they have to send these strike-breakers back because there's no hay worth fighting about!' suddenly her heart beat fast. the wicket gate had clicked. there was something darker than the darkness coming along the path! scared, but with all protective instinct roused, she leaned out, straining to see. a faint grating sound from underneath came up to her. a window being opened! and she flew to her door. she neither barred it, however, nor cried out, for in that second it had flashed across her: 'suppose it's he! gone out to do something desperate, as tryst did!' if it were, he would come up-stairs and pass her door, going to his room. she opened it an inch, holding her breath. at first, nothing! was it fancy? or was some one noiselessly rifling the room down-stairs? but surely no one would steal of uncle tod, who, everybody knew, had nothing valuable. then came a sound as of bootless feet pressing the stairs stealthily! and the thought darted through her, 'if it isn't he, what shall i do?' and then--'what shall i do--if it is!' desperately she opened the door, clasping her hands on the place whence her heart had slipped down to her bare feet. but she knew it was he before she heard him whisper: "nedda!" and, clutching him by the sleeve, she drew him in and closed the door. he was wet through, dripping; so wet that the mere brushing against him made her skin feel moist through its thin coverings. "where have you been? what have you been doing? oh, derek!" there was just light enough to see his face, his teeth, the whites of his eyes. "cutting their tent-ropes in the rain. hooroosh!" it was such a relief that she just let out a little gasping "oh!" and leaned her forehead against his coat. then she felt his wet arms round her, his wet body pressed to hers, and in a second he was dancing with her a sort of silent, ecstatic war dance. suddenly he stopped, went down on his knees, pressing his face to her waist, and whispering: "what a brute, what a brute! making her wet! poor little nedda!" nedda bent over him; her hair covered his wet head, her hands trembled on his shoulders. her heart felt as if it would melt right out of her; she longed so to warm and dry him with herself. and, in turn, his wet arms clutched her close, his wet hands could not keep still on her. then he drew back, and whispering: "oh, nedda! nedda!" fled out like a dark ghost. oblivious that she was damp from head to foot, nedda stood swaying, her eyes closed and her lips just open; then, putting out her arms, she drew them suddenly in and clasped herself. . . . when she came down to breakfast the next morning, he had gone out already, and uncle tod, too; her aunt was writing at the bureau. sheila greeted her gruffly, and almost at once went out. nedda swallowed coffee, ate her egg, and bread and honey, with a heavy heart. a newspaper lay open on the table; she read it idly till these words caught her eye: "the revolt which has paralyzed the hay harvest on sir gerald malloring's worcestershire estate and led to the introduction of strike-breakers, shows no sign of abatement. a very wanton spirit of mischief seems to be abroad in this neighborhood. no reason can be ascertained for the arson committed a short time back, nor for this further outbreak of discontent. the economic condition of the laborers on this estate is admittedly rather above than below the average." and at once she thought: '"mischief!" what a shame!' were people, then, to know nothing of the real cause of the revolt--nothing of the tryst eviction, the threatened eviction of the gaunts? were they not to know that it was on principle, and to protest against that sort of petty tyranny to the laborers all over the country, that this rebellion had been started? for liberty! only simple liberty not to be treated as though they had no minds or souls of their own--weren't the public to know that? if they were allowed to think that it was all wanton mischief--that derek was just a mischief-maker--it would be dreadful! some one must write and make this known? her father? but dad might think it too personal--his own relations! mr. cuthcott! into whose household wilmet gaunt had gone. ah! mr. cuthcott who had told her that he was always at her service! why not? and the thought that she might really do something at last to help made her tingle all over. if she borrowed sheila's bicycle she could catch the nine-o'clock train to london, see him herself, make him do something, perhaps even bring him back with her! she examined her purse. yes, she had money. she would say nothing, here, because, of course, he might refuse! at the back of her mind was the idea that, if a real newspaper took the part of the laborers, derek's position would no longer be so dangerous; he would be, as it were, legally recognized, and that, in itself, would make him more careful and responsible. whence she got this belief in the legalizing power of the press it is difficult to say, unless that, reading newspapers but seldom, she still took them at their own valuation, and thought that when they said: "we shall do this," or "we must do that," they really were speaking for the country, and that forty-five millions of people were deliberately going to do something, whereas, in truth, as was known to those older than nedda, they were speaking, and not too conclusively at that, for single anonymous gentlemen in a hurry who were not going to do anything. she knew that the press had power, great power--for she was always hearing that--and it had not occurred to her as yet to examine the composition of that power so as to discover that, while the press certainly had a certain monopoly of expression, and that same 'spirit of body' which makes police constables swear by one another, it yet contained within its ring fence the sane and advisable futility of a perfectly balanced contradiction; so that its only functions, practically speaking, were the dissemination of news, seven-tenths of which would have been happier in obscurity; and--'irritation of the dutch!' not, of course, that the press realized this; nor was it probable that any one would tell it, for it had power--great power. she caught her train--glowing outwardly from the speed of her ride, and inwardly from the heat of adventure and the thought that at last she was being of some use. the only other occupants of her third-class compartment were a friendly looking man, who might have been a sailor or other wanderer on leave, and his thin, dried-up, black-clothed cottage woman of an old mother. they sat opposite each other. the son looked at his mother with beaming eyes, and she remarked: "an' i says to him, says i, i says, 'what?' i says; so 'e says to me, he says, 'yes,' he says; 'that's what i say,' he says." and nedda thought: 'what an old dear! and the son looks nice too; i do like simple people.' they got out at the first stop and she journeyed on alone. taking a taxicab from paddington, she drove toward gray's inn. but now that she was getting close she felt very nervous. how expect a busy man like mr. cuthcott to spare time to come down all that way? it would be something, though, if she could get him even to understand what was really happening, and why; so that he could contradict that man in the other paper. it must be wonderful to be writing, daily, what thousands and thousands of people read! yes! it must be a very sacred-feeling life! to be able to say things in that particularly authoritative way which must take such a lot of people in--that is, make such a lot of people think in the same way! it must give a man a terrible sense of responsibility, make him feel that he simply must be noble, even if he naturally wasn't. yes! it must be a wonderful profession, and only fit for the highest! in addition to mr. cuthcott, she knew as yet but three young journalists, and those all weekly. at her timid ring the door was opened by a broad-cheeked girl, enticingly compact in apron and black frock, whose bright color, thick lips, and rogue eyes came of anything but london. it flashed across nedda that this must be the girl for whose sake she had faced mr. cuthcott at the luncheon-table! and she said: "are you wilmet gaunt?" the girl smiled till her eyes almost disappeared, and answered: "yes, miss." "i'm nedda freeland, miss sheila's cousin. i've just come from joyfields. how are you getting on?" "fine, thank you, miss. plenty of life here." nedda thought: 'that's what derek said of her. bursting with life! and so she is.' and she gazed doubtfully at the girl, whose prim black dress and apron seemed scarcely able to contain her. "is mr. cuthcott in?" "no, miss; he'll be down at the paper. two hundred and five floodgate street." 'oh!' thought nedda with dismay; 'i shall never venture there!' and glancing once more at the girl, whose rogue slits of eyes, deep sunk between check-bones and brow, seemed to be quizzing her and saying: 'you and mr. derek--oh! i know!' she went sadly away. and first she thought she would go home to hampstead, then that she would go back to the station, then: 'after all, why shouldn't i go and try? they can't eat me. i will!' she reached her destination at the luncheon-hour, so that the offices of the great evening journal were somewhat deserted. producing her card, she was passed from hand to hand till she rested in a small bleak apartment where a young woman was typing fast. she longed to ask her how she liked it, but did not dare. the whole atmosphere seemed to her charged with a strenuous solemnity, as though everything said, 'we have power--great power.' and she waited, sitting by the window which faced the street. on the buildings opposite she could read the name of another great evening journal. why, it was the one which had contained the paragraph she had read at breakfast! she had bought a copy of it at the station. its temperament, she knew, was precisely opposed to that of mr. cuthcott's paper. over in that building, no doubt there would be the same strenuously loaded atmosphere, so that if they opened the windows on both sides little puffs of power would meet in mid-air, above the heads of the passers-by, as might the broadsides of old three-deckers, above the green, green sea. and for the first time an inkling of the great comic equipoise in floodgate street and human affairs stole on nedda's consciousness. they puffed and puffed, and only made smoke in the middle! that must be why dad always called them: 'those fellows!' she had scarcely, however, finished beginning to think these thoughts when a handbell sounded sharply in some adjoining room, and the young woman nearly fell into her typewriter. readjusting her balance, she rose, and, going to the door, passed out in haste. through the open doorway nedda could see a large and pleasant room, whose walls seemed covered with prints of men standing in attitudes such that she was almost sure they were statesmen; and, at a table in the centre, the back of mr. cuthcott in a twiddly chair, surrounded by sheets of paper reposing on the floor, shining like autumn leaves on a pool of water. she heard his voice, smothery, hurried, but still pleasant, say: "take these, miss mayne, take these! begin on them, begin! confound it! what's the time?" and the young woman's voice: "half past one, mr. cuthcott!" and a noise from mr. cuthcott's throat that sounded like an adjuration to the deity not to pass over something. then the young woman dipped and began gathering those leaves of paper, and over her comely back nedda had a clear view of mr. cuthcott hunching one brown shoulder as though warding something off, and of one of his thin hands ploughing up and throwing back his brown hair on one side, and heard the sound of his furiously scratching pen. and her heart pattered; it was so clear that he was 'giving them one' and had no time for her. and involuntarily she looked at the windows beyond him to see if there were any puffs of power issuing therefrom. but they were closed. she saw the young woman rise and come back toward her, putting the sheets of paper in order; and, as the door was closing, from the twiddly chair a noise that seemed to couple god with the condemnation of silly souls. when the young woman was once more at the typewriter she rose and said: "have you given him my card yet?" the young woman looked at her surprised, as if she had broken some rule of etiquette, and answered: "no." "then don't, please. i can see that he's too busy. i won't wait." the young woman abstractedly placed a sheet of paper in her typewriter. "very well," she said. "good morning!" and before nedda reached the door she heard the click-click of the machine, reducing mr. cuthcott to legibility. 'i was stupid to come,' she thought. 'he must be terribly overworked. poor man! he does say lovely things!' and, crestfallen, she went along the passages, and once more out into floodgate street. she walked along it frowning, till a man who was selling newspapers said as she passed: "mind ye don't smile, lydy!" seeing that he was selling mr. cuthcott's paper, she felt for a coin to buy one, and, while searching, scrutinized the newsvender's figure, almost entirely hidden by the words: great housing scheme hope for the million! on a buff-colored board; while above it, his face, that had not quite blood enough to be scorbutic, was wrapped in the expression of those philosophers to whom a hope would be fatal. he was, in fact, just what he looked--a street stoic. and a dim perception of the great social truth: "the smell of half a loaf is not better than no bread!" flickered in nedda's brain as she passed on. was that what derek was doing with the laborers--giving them half the smell of a liberty that was not there? and a sudden craving for her father came over her. he--he only, was any good, because he, only, loved her enough to feel how distracted and unhappy she was feeling, how afraid of what was coming. so, making for a tube station, she took train to hampstead. . . . it was past two, and felix, on the point of his constitutional. he had left becket the day after nedda's rather startling removal to joyfields, and since then had done his level best to put the whole tryst affair, with all its somewhat sinister relevance to her life and his own, out of his mind as something beyond control. he had but imperfectly succeeded. flora, herself not too present-minded, had in these days occasion to speak to him about the absent-minded way in which he fulfilled even the most domestic duties, and alan was always saying to him, "buck up, dad!" with nedda's absorption into the little joyfields whirlpool, the sun shone but dimly for felix. and a somewhat febrile attention to 'the last of the laborers' had not brought it up to his expectations. he fluttered under his buff waistcoat when he saw her coming in at the gate. she must want something of him! for to this pitch of resignation, as to his little daughter's love for him, had he come! and if she wanted something of him, things would be going wrong again down there! nor did the warmth of her embrace, and her: "oh! dad, it is nice to see you!" remove that instinctive conviction; though delicacy, born of love, forbade him to ask her what she wanted. talking of the sky and other matters, thinking how pretty she was looking, he waited for the new, inevitable proof that youth was first, and a mere father only second fiddle now. a note from stanley had already informed him of the strike. the news had been something of a relief. strikes, at all events, were respectable and legitimate means of protest, and to hear that one was in progress had not forced him out of his laborious attempt to believe the whole affair only a mole-hill. he had not, however, heard of the strike-breakers, nor had he seen any newspaper mention of the matter; and when she had shown him the paragraph; recounted her visit to mr. cuthcott, and how she had wanted to take him back with her to see for himself--he waited a moment, then said almost timidly: "should i be of any use, my dear?" she flushed and squeezed his hand in silence; and he knew he would. when he had packed a handbag and left a note for flora, he rejoined her in the hall. it was past seven when they reached their destination, and, taking the station 'fly,' drove slowly up to joyfields, under a showery sky. chapter xxix when felix and nedda reached tod's cottage, the three little trysts, whose activity could never be quite called play, were all the living creatures about the house. "where is mrs. freeland, biddy?" "we don't know; a man came, and she went." "and miss sheila?" "she went out in the mornin'. and mr. freeland's gone." susie added: "the dog's gone, too." "then help me to get some tea." "yes." with the assistance of the mother-child, and the hindrance of susie and billy, nedda made and laid tea, with an anxious heart. the absence of her aunt, who so seldom went outside the cottage, fields, and orchard, disturbed her; and, while felix refreshed himself, she fluttered several times on varying pretexts to the wicket gate. at her third visit, from the direction of the church, she saw figures coming on the road--dark figures carrying something, followed by others walking alongside. what sun there had been had quite given in to heavy clouds; the light was dull, the elm-trees dark; and not till they were within two hundred yards could nedda make out that these were figures of policemen. then, alongside that which they were carrying, she saw her aunt's blue dress. what were they carrying like that? she dashed down the steps, and stopped. no! if it were he they would bring him in! she rushed back again, distracted. she could see now a form stretched on a hurdle. it was he! "dad! quick!" felix came, startled at that cry, to find his little daughter on the path wringing her hands and flying back to the wicket gate. they were close now. she saw them begin to mount the steps, those behind raising their arms so that the hurdle should be level. derek lay on his back, with head and forehead swathed in wet blue linen, torn from his mother's skirt; and the rest of his face very white. he lay quite still, his clothes covered with mud. terrified, nedda plucked at kirsteen's sleeve. "what is it?" "concussion!" the stillness of that blue-clothed figure, so calm beside her, gave her strength to say quietly: "put him in my room, aunt kirsteen; there's more air there!" and she flew up-stairs, flinging wide her door, making the bed ready, snatching her night things from the pillow; pouring out cold water, sprinkling the air with eau de cologne. then she stood still. perhaps, they would not bring him there? yes, they were coming up. they brought him in, and laid him on the bed. she heard one say: "doctor'll be here directly, ma'am. let him lie quiet." then she and his mother were alone beside him. "undo his boots," said kirsteen. nedda's fingers trembled, and she hated them for fumbling so, while she drew off those muddy boots. then her aunt said softly: "hold him up, dear, while i get his things off." and, with a strange rapture that she was allowed to hold him thus, she supported him against her breast till he was freed and lying back inert. then, and only then, she whispered: "how long before he--?" kirsteen shook her head; and, slipping her arm round the girl, murmured: "courage, nedda!" the girl felt fear and love rush up desperately to overwhelm her. she choked them back, and said quite quietly: "i will. i promise. only let me help nurse him!" kirsteen nodded. and they sat down to wait. that quarter of an hour was the longest of her life. to see him thus, living, yet not living, with the spirit driven from him by a cruel blow, perhaps never to come back! curious, how things still got themselves noticed when all her faculties were centred in gazing at his face. she knew that it was raining again; heard the swish and drip, and smelled the cool wet perfume through the scent of the eau de cologne that she had spilled. she noted her aunt's arm, as it hovered, wetting the bandage; the veins and rounded whiteness from under the loose blue sleeve slipped up to the elbow. one of his feet lay close to her at the bed's edge; she stole her hand beneath the sheet. that foot felt very cold, and she grasped it tight. if only she could pass life into him through her hot hand. she heard the ticking of her little travelling-clock, and was conscious of flies wheeling close up beneath the white ceiling, of how one by one they darted at each other, making swift zigzags in the air. and something in her she had not yet known came welling up, softening her eyes, her face, even the very pose of her young body--the hidden passion of a motherliness, that yearned so to 'kiss the place,' to make him well, to nurse and tend, restore and comfort him. and with all her might she watched the movements of those rounded arms under the blue sleeves--how firm and exact they were, how soft and quiet and swift, bathing the dark head! then from beneath the bandage she caught sight suddenly of his eyes. and her heart turned sick. oh, they were not quite closed! as if he hadn't life enough to close them! she bit into her lip to stop a cry. it was so terrible to see them without light. why did not that doctor come? over and over and over again within her the prayer turned: let him live! oh, let him live! the blackbirds out in the orchard were tuning up for evening. it seemed almost dreadful they should be able to sing like that. all the world was going on just the same! if he died, the world would have no more light for her than there was now in his poor eyes--and yet it would go on the same! how was that possible? it was not possible, because she would die too! she saw her aunt turn her head like a startled animal; some one was coming up the stairs! it was the doctor, wiping his wet face--a young man in gaiters. how young--dreadfully young! no; there was a little gray at the sides of his hair! what would he say? and nedda sat with hands tight clenched in her lap, motionless as a young crouching sphinx. an interminable testing, and questioning, and answer! never smoked --never drank--never been ill! the blow--ah, here! just here! concussion--yes! then long staring into the eyes, the eyelids lifted between thumb and finger. and at last (how could he talk so loud! yet it was a comfort too--he would not talk like that if derek were going to die!)--hair cut shorter--ice--watch him like a lynx! this and that, if he came to. nothing else to be done. and then those blessed words: "but don't worry too much. i think it'll be all right." she could not help a little sigh escaping her clenched teeth. the doctor was looking at her. his eyes were nice. "sister?" "cousin." "ah! well, i'll get back now, and send you out some ice, at once." more talk outside the door. nedda, alone with her lover, crouched forward on her knees, and put her lips to his. they were not so cold as his foot, and the first real hope and comfort came to her. watch him like a lynx--wouldn't she? but how had it all happened? and where was sheila? and uncle tod? her aunt had come back and was stroking her shoulder. there had been fighting in the barn at marrow farm. they had arrested sheila. derek had jumped down to rescue her and struck his head against a grindstone. her uncle had gone with sheila. they would watch, turn and turn about. nedda must go now and eat something, and get ready to take the watch from eight to midnight. following her resolve to make no fuss, the girl went out. the police had gone. the mother-child was putting her little folk to bed; and in the kitchen felix was arranging the wherewithal to eat. he made her sit down and kept handing things; watching like a cat to see that she put them in her mouth, in the way from which only flora had suffered hitherto; he seemed so anxious and unhappy, and so awfully sweet, that nedda forced herself to swallow what she thought would never go down a dry and choky throat. he kept coming up and touching her shoulder or forehead. once he said: "it's all right, you know, my pet; concussion often takes two days." two days with his eyes like that! the consolation was not so vivid as felix might have wished; but she quite understood that he was doing his best to give it. she suddenly remembered that he had no room to sleep in. he must use derek's. no! that, it appeared, was to be for her when she came off duty. felix was going to have an all-night sitting in the kitchen. he had been looking forward to an all-night sitting for many years, and now he had got his chance. it was a magnificent opportunity--"without your mother, my dear, to insist on my sleeping." and staring at his smile, nedda thought: 'he's like granny--he comes out under difficulties. if only i did!' the ice arrived by motor-cycle just before her watch began. it was some comfort to have that definite thing to see to. how timorous and humble are thoughts in a sick-room, above all when the sick are stretched behind the muffle of unconsciousness, withdrawn from the watcher by half-death! and yet, for him or her who loves, there is at least the sense of being alone with the loved one, of doing all that can be done; and in some strange way of twining hearts with the exiled spirit. to nedda, sitting at his feet, and hardly ever turning eyes away from his still face, it sometimes seemed that the flown spirit was there beside her. and she saw into his soul in those hours of watching, as one looking into a stream sees the leopard-like dapple of its sand and dark-strewn floor, just reached by sunlight. she saw all his pride, courage, and impatience, his reserve, and strange unwilling tenderness, as she had never seen them. and a queer dreadful feeling moved her that in some previous existence she had looked at that face dead on a field of battle, frowning up at the stars. that was absurd--there were no previous existences! or was it prevision of what would come some day? when, at half past nine, the light began to fail, she lighted two candles in tall, thin, iron candlesticks beside her. they burned without flicker, those spires of yellow flame, slowly conquering the dying twilight, till in their soft radiance the room was full of warm dusky shadows, the night outside ever a deeper black. two or three times his mother came, looked at him, asked her if she should stay, and, receiving a little silent shake of the head, went away again. at eleven o'clock, when once more she changed the ice-cap, his eyes had still no lustre, and for a moment her courage failed her utterly. it seemed to her that he could never win back, that death possessed the room already, possessed those candle-flames, the ticking of the clock, the dark, dripping night, possessed her heart. could he be gone before she had been his! gone! where? she sank down on her knees, covering her eyes. what good to watch, if he were never coming back! a long time--it seemed hours--passed thus, with the feeling growing deeper in her that no good would come while she was watching. and behind the barrier of her hands she tried desperately to rally courage. if things were--they were! one must look them in the face! she took her hands away. his eyes! was it light in them? was it? they were seeing--surely they saw. and his lips made the tiniest movement. in that turmoil of exultation she never knew how she managed to continue kneeling there, with her hands on his. but all her soul shone down to him out of her eyes, and drew and drew at his spirit struggling back from the depths of him. for many minutes that struggle lasted; then he smiled. it was the feeblest smile that ever was on lips, but it made the tears pour down nedda's cheeks and trickle off on to his hands. then, with a stoicism that she could not believe in, so hopelessly unreal it seemed, so utterly the negation of the tumult within her, she settled back again at his feet to watch and not excite him. and still his lips smiled that faint smile, and his opened eyes grew dark and darker with meaning. so at midnight kirsteen found them. chapter xxx in the early hours of his all-night sitting felix had first only memories, and then kirsteen for companion. "i worry most about tod," she said. "he had that look in his face when he went off from marrow farm. he might do something terrible if they ill-treat sheila. if only she has sense enough to see and not provoke them." "surely she will," felix murmured. "yes, if she realizes. but she won't, i'm afraid. even i have only known him look like that three times. tod is so gentle--passion stores itself in him; and when it comes, it's awful. if he sees cruelty, he goes almost mad. once he would have killed a man if i hadn't got between them. he doesn't know what he's doing at such moments. i wish--i wish he were back. it's hard one can't pierce through, and see him." gazing at her eyes so dark and intent, felix thought: 'if you can't pierce through--none can.' he learned the story of the disaster. early that morning derek had assembled twenty of the strongest laborers, and taken them a round of the farms to force the strike-breakers to desist. there had been several fights, in all of which the strike-breakers had been beaten. derek himself had fought three times. in the afternoon the police had come, and the laborers had rushed with derek and sheila, who had joined them, into a barn at marrow farm, barred it, and thrown mangolds at the police, when they tried to force an entrance. one by one the laborers had slipped away by a rope out of a ventilation-hole high up at the back, and they had just got sheila down when the police appeared on that side, too. derek, who had stayed to the last, covering their escape with mangolds, had jumped down twenty feet when he saw them taking sheila, and, pitching forward, hit his head against a grindstone. then, just as they were marching sheila and two of the laborers away, tod had arrived and had fallen in alongside the policemen--he and the dog. it was then she had seen that look on his face. felix, who had never beheld his big brother in berserk mood, could offer no consolation; nor had he the heart to adorn the tale, and inflict on this poor woman his reflection: 'this, you see, is what comes of the ferment you have fostered. this is the reward of violence!' he longed, rather, to comfort her; she seemed so lonely and, in spite of all her stoicism, so distraught and sad. his heart went out, too, to tod. how would he himself have felt, walking by the side of policemen whose arms were twisted in nedda's! but so mixed are the minds of men that at this very moment there was born within him the germ of a real revolt against the entry of his little daughter into this family of hotheads. it was more now than mere soreness and jealousy; it was fear of a danger hitherto but sniffed at, but now only too sharply savored. when she left him to go up-stairs, felix stayed consulting the dark night. as ever, in hours of ebbed vitality, the shapes of fear and doubt grew clearer and more positive; they loomed huge out there among the apple-trees, where the drip-drip of the rain made music. but his thoughts were still nebulous, not amounting to resolve. it was no moment for resolves--with the boy lying up there between the tides of chance; and goodness knew what happening to tod and sheila. the air grew sharper; he withdrew to the hearth, where a wood fire still burned, gray ash, red glow, scent oozing from it. and while he crouched there, blowing it with bellows, he heard soft footsteps, and saw nedda standing behind him transformed. but in the midst of all his glad sympathy felix could not help thinking: 'better for you, perhaps, if he had never returned from darkness!' she came and crouched down by him. "let me sit with you, dad. it smells so good." "very well; but you must sleep." "i don't believe i'll ever want to sleep again." and at the glow in her felix glowed too. what is so infectious as delight? they sat a long time talking, as they had not talked since the first fatal visit to becket. of how love, and mountains, works of art, and doing things for others were the only sources of happiness; except scents, and lying on one's back looking through tree-tops at the sky; and tea, and sunlight, flowers, and hard exercise; oh, and the sea! of how, when things went hard, one prayed--but what did one pray to? was it not to something in oneself? it was of no use to pray to the great mysterious force that made one thing a cabbage, and the other a king; for that could obviously not be weak-minded enough to attend. and gradually little pauses began to creep into their talk; then a big pause, and nedda, who would never want to sleep again, was fast asleep. felix watched those long, dark lashes resting on her cheeks; the slow, soft rise of her breast; the touching look of trust and goodness in that young face abandoned to oblivion after these hours of stress; watched the little tired shadows under the eyes, the tremors of the just-parted lips. and, getting up, stealthy as a cat, he found a light rug, and ever more stealthily laid it over her. she stirred at that, smiled up at him, and instantly went off again. and he thought: 'poor little sweetheart, she was tired!' and a passionate desire to guard her from trials and troubles came on him. at four o'clock kirsteen slipped in again, and whispered: "she made me promise to come for her. how pretty she looks, sleeping!" "yes," felix answered; "pretty and good!" nedda raised her head, stared up at her aunt, and a delighted smile spread over her face. "is it time again? how lovely!" then, before either could speak or stop her, she was gone. "she is more in love," kirsteen murmured, "than i ever saw a girl of her age." "she is more in love," felix answered, "than is good to see." "she is not truer than derek is." "that may be, but she will suffer from him." "women who love must always suffer." her cheeks were sunken, shadowy; she looked very tired. when she had gone to get some sleep, felix restored the fire and put on a kettle, meaning to make himself some coffee. morning had broken, clear and sparkling after the long rain, and full of scent and song. what glory equalled this early morning radiance, the dewy wonder of everything! what hour of the day was such a web of youth and beauty as this, when all the stars from all the skies had fallen into the grass! a cold nose was thrust into his hand, and he saw beside him tod's dog. the animal was wet, and lightly moved his white-tipped tail; while his dark-yellow eyes inquired of felix what he was going to give a dog to eat. then felix saw his brother coming in. tod's face was wild and absent as a man with all his thoughts turned on something painful in the distance. his ruffled hair had lost its brightness; his eyes looked as if driven back into his head; he was splashed with mud, and wet from head to foot. he walked up to the hearth without a word. "well, old man?" said felix anxiously. tod looked at him, but did not answer. "come," said felix; "tell us!" "locked up," said tod in a voice unlike his own. "i didn't knock them down." "heavens! i should hope not." "i ought to have." felix put his hand within his brother's arm. "they twisted her arms; one of them pushed her from behind. i can't understand it. how was it i didn't? i can't understand." "i can," said felix. "they were the law. if they had been mere men you'd have done it, fast enough." "i can't understand," tod repeated. "i've been walking ever since." felix stroked his shoulder. "go up-stairs, old man. kirsteen's anxious." tod sat down and took his boots off. "i can't understand," he said once more. then, without another word, or even a look at felix, he went out and up the stairs. and felix thought: 'poor kirsteen! ah, well--they're all about as queer, one as the other! how to get nedda out of it?' and, with that question gnawing at him, he went out into the orchard. the grass was drenching wet, so he descended to the road. two wood-pigeons were crooning to each other, truest of all sounds of summer; there was no wind, and the flies had begun humming. in the air, cleared of dust, the scent of hay was everywhere. what about those poor devils of laborers, now? they would get the sack for this! and he was suddenly beset with a feeling of disgust. this world where men, and women too, held what they had, took what they could; this world of seeing only one thing at a time; this world of force, and cunning, of struggle, and primitive appetites; of such good things, too, such patience, endurance, heroism--and yet at heart so unutterably savage! he was very tired; but it was too wet to sit down, so he walked on. now and again he passed a laborer going to work; but very few in all those miles, and they quite silent. 'did they ever really whistle?' felix thought. 'were they ever jolly ploughmen? or was that always a fiction? surely, if they can't give tongue this morning, they never can!' he crossed a stile and took a slanting path through a little wood. the scent of leaves and sap, the dapple of sunlight--all the bright early glow and beauty struck him with such force that he could have cried out in the sharpness of sensation. at that hour when man was still abed and the land lived its own life, how full and sweet and wild that life seemed, how in love with itself! truly all the trouble in the world came from the manifold disharmonies of the self-conscious animal called man! then, coming out on the road again, he saw that he must be within a mile or two of becket; and finding himself suddenly very hungry, determined to go there and get some breakfast. chapter xxxi duly shaved with one of stanley's razors, bathed, and breakfasted, felix was on the point of getting into the car to return to joyfields when he received a message from his mother: would he please go up and see her before he went? he found her looking anxious and endeavoring to conceal it. having kissed him, she drew him to her sofa and said: "now, darling, come and sit down here, and tell me all about this dreadful business." and taking up an odorator she blew over him a little cloud of scent. "it's quite a new perfume; isn't it delicious?" felix, who dreaded scent, concealed his feelings, sat down, and told her. and while he told her he was conscious of how pathetically her fastidiousness was quivering under those gruesome details--fighting with policemen, fighting with common men, prison--for a lady; conscious too of her still more pathetic effort to put a good face on it. when he had finished she remained so perfectly still, with lips so hard compressed, that he said: "it's no good worrying, mother." frances freeland rose, pulled something hard, and a cupboard appeared. she opened it, and took out a travelling-bag. "i must go back with you at once," she said. "i don't think it's in the least necessary, and you'll only knock yourself up." "oh, nonsense, darling! i must." knowing that further dissuasion would harden her determination, felix said: "i'm going in the car." "that doesn't matter. i shall be ready in ten minutes. oh! and do you know this? it's splendid for taking lines out under the eyes!" she was holding out a little round box with the lid off. "just wet your finger with it, and dab it gently on." touched by this evidence of her deep desire that he should put as good a face on it as herself, felix dabbed himself under the eyes. "that's right. now, wait for me, dear; i shan't be a minute. i've only to get my things. they'll all go splendidly in this little bag." in a quarter of an hour they had started. during that journey frances freeland betrayed no sign of tremor. she was going into action, and, therefore, had no patience with her nerves. "are you proposing to stay, mother?" felix hazarded; "because i don't think there's a room for you." "oh! that's nothing, darling. i sleep beautifully in a chair. it suits me better than lying down." felix cast up his eyes, and made no answer. on arriving, they found that the doctor had been there, expressed his satisfaction, and enjoined perfect quiet. tod was on the point of starting back to transham, where sheila and the two laborers would be brought up before the magistrates. felix and kirsteen took hurried counsel. now that mother, whose nursing was beyond reproach, had come, it would be better if they went with tod. all three started forthwith in the car. left alone, frances freeland took her bag--a noticeably old one, without any patent clasp whatever, so that she could open it--went noiselessly upstairs, tapped on derek's door, and went in. a faint but cheerful voice remarked: "halloo, granny!" frances freeland went up to the bed, smiled down on him ineffably, laid a finger on his lips, and said, in the stillest voice: "you mustn't talk, darling!" then she sat down in the window with her bag beside her. half a tear had run down her nose, and she had no intention that it should be seen. she therefore opened her bag, and, having taken out a little bottle, beckoned nedda. "now, darling," she whispered, "you must just take one of these. it's nothing new; they're what my mother used to give me at your age. and for one hour you must go out and get some fresh air, and then you can come back." "must i, granny?" "yes; you must keep up your strength. kiss me." nedda kissed a cheek that seemed extraordinarily smooth and soft, received a kiss in the middle of her own, and, having stayed a second by the bed, looking down with all her might, went out. frances freeland, in the window, wasted no thoughts, but began to run over in her mind the exact operations necessary to defeat this illness of darling derek's. her fingers continually locked and interlocked themselves with fresh determinations; her eyes, fixed on imaginary foods, methods of washing, and ways of keeping him quiet, had an almost fanatical intensity. like a good general she marshalled her means of attack and fixed them in perfect order. now and then she gazed into her bag, making quite sure that she had everything, and nothing that was new-fangled or liable to go wrong. for into action she never brought any of those patent novelties that delighted her soul in times of peace. for example, when she herself had pneumonia and no doctor, for two months, it was well known that she had lain on her back, free from every kind of remedy, employing only courage, nature, and beef tea, or some such simple sustenance. having now made her mental dispositions, she got up without sound and slipped off a petticoat that she suspected of having rustled a little when she came in; folding and popping it where it could not be suspected any more, she removed her shoes and put on very old velvet slippers. she walked in these toward the bed, listening to find out whether she could hear herself, without success. then, standing where she could see when his eyes opened, she began to take stock. that pillow wasn't very comfortable! a little table was wanted on both sides, instead of on one. there was no odorator, and she did not see one of those arrangements! all these things would have to be remedied. absorbed in this reconnoitring, she failed to observe that darling derek was looking at her through eyelashes that were always so nice and black. he said suddenly, in that faint and cheerful voice: "all right, granny; i'm going to get up to-morrow." frances freeland, whose principle it was that people should always be encouraged to believe themselves better than they were, answered. "yes, darling, of course; you'll be up in no time. it'll be delightful to see you in a chair to-morrow. but you mustn't talk." derek sighed, closed his eyes, and went off into a faint. it was in moments such as these that frances freeland was herself. her face flushed a little and grew terribly determined. conscious that she was absolutely alone in the house, she ran to her bag, took out her sal volatile, applied it vigorously to his nose, and poured a little between his lips. she did other things to him, and not until she had brought him round, and the best of it was already made, did she even say to herself: 'it's no use fussing; i must make the best of it.' then, having discovered that he felt quite comfortable--as he said--she sat down in a chair to fan him and tremble vigorously. she would not have allowed that movement of her limbs if it had in any way interfered with the fanning. but since, on the contrary, it seemed to be of assistance, she certainly felt it a relief; for, whatever age her spirit might be, her body was seventy-three. and while she fanned she thought of derek as a little, black-haired, blazing-gray-eyed slip of a sallow boy, all little thin legs and arms moving funnily like a foal's. he had been such a dear, gentlemanlike little chap. it was dreadful he should be forgetting himself so, and getting into such trouble. and her thoughts passed back beyond him to her own four little sons, among whom she had been so careful not to have a favorite, but to love them all equally. and she thought of how their holland suits wore out, especially in the elastic, and got green behind, almost before they were put on; and of how she used to cut their hairs, spending at least three-quarters of an hour on each, because she had never been quick at it, while they sat so good--except stanley, and darling tod, who would move just as she had got into the comb particularly nice bits of his hair, always so crisp and difficult! and of how she had cut off felix's long golden curls when he was four, and would have cried over it, if crying hadn't always been silly! and of how beautifully they had all had their measles together, so that she had been up with them day and night for about a fortnight. and of how it was a terrible risk with derek and darling nedda, not at all a wise match, she was afraid. and yet, if they really were attached, of course one must put the best face on it! and how lovely it would be to see another little baby some day; and what a charming little mother nedda would make--if only the dear child would do her hair just a little differently! and she perceived that derek was asleep--and one of her own legs, from the knee down. she would certainly have bad pins and needles if she did not get up; but, since she would not wake him for the world, she must do something else to cure it. and she hit upon this plan. she had only to say, 'nonsense, you haven't anything of the sort!' and it was sure to go away. she said this to her leg, but, being a realist, she only made it feel like a pin-cushion. she knew, however, that she had only to persevere, because it would never do to give in. she persevered, and her leg felt as if red-hot needles were being stuck in it. then, for the life of her, she could not help saying a little psalm. the sensation went away and left her leg quite dead. she would have no strength in it at all when she got up. but that would be easily cured, when she could get to her bag, with three globules of nux vomica--and darling derek must not be waked up for anything! she waited thus till nedda came back, and then said, "sssh!" he woke at once, so that providentially she was able to get up, and, having stood with her weight on one leg for five minutes, so as to be quite sure she did not fall, she crossed back to the window, took her nux vomica, and sat down with her tablets to note down the little affairs she would require, while nedda took her place beside the bed, to fan him. having made her list, she went to nedda and whispered that she was going down to see about one or two little things, and while she whispered she arranged the dear child's hair. if only she would keep it just like that, it would be so much more becoming! and she went down-stairs. accustomed to the resources of stanley's establishment, or at least to those of john's and felix's, and of the hotels she stayed at, she felt for a moment just a little nonplussed at discovering at her disposal nothing but three dear little children playing with a dog, and one bicycle. for a few seconds she looked at the latter hard. if only it had been a tricycle! then, feeling certain that she could not make it into one, she knew that she must make the best of it, especially as, in any case, she could not have used it, for it would never do to leave darling nedda alone in the house. she decided therefore to look in every room to see if she could find the things she wanted. the dog, who had been attracted by her, left the children and came too, and the children, attracted by the dog, followed; so they all five went into a room on the ground floor. it was partitioned into two by a screen; in one portion was a rough camp bedstead, and in the other two dear little child's beds, that must once have been derek's and sheila's, and one still smaller, made out of a large packing-case. the eldest of the little children said: "that's where billy sleeps, susie sleeps here, and i sleeps there; and our father sleeped in here before he went to prison." frances freeland experienced a shock. to prison! the idea of letting these little things know such a thing as that! the best face had so clearly not been put on it that she decided to put it herself. "oh, not to prison, dear! only into a house in the town for a little while." it seemed to her quite dreadful that they should know the truth--it was simply necessary to put it out of their heads. that dear little girl looked so old already, such a little mother! and, as they stood about her, she gazed piercingly at their heads. they were quite clean. the second dear little thing said: "we like bein' here; we hope father won't be comin' back from prison for a long time, so as we can go on stayin' here. mr. freeland gives us apples." the failure of her attempt to put a nicer idea into their heads disconcerted frances freeland for a moment only. she said: "who told you he was in prison?" biddy answered slowly: "nobody didn't tell us; we picked it up." "oh, but you should never pick things up! that's not at all nice. you don't know what harm they may do you." billy replied: "we picked up a dead cat yesterday. it didn't scratch a bit, it didn't." and biddy added: "please, what is prison like?" pity seized on frances freeland for these little derelicts, whose heads and pinafores and faces were so clean. she pursed her lips very tight and said: "hold out your hands, all of you." three small hands were held out, and three small pairs of gray-blue eyes looked up at her. from the recesses of her pocket she drew forth her purse, took from it three shillings, and placed one in the very centre of each palm. the three small hands closed; two small grave bodies dipped in little courtesies; the third remained stock-still, but a grin spread gradually on its face from ear to ear. "what do you say?" said frances freeland. "thank you." "thank you--what?" "thank you, ma'am." "that's right. now run away and play a nice game in the orchard." the three turned immediately and went. a sound of whispering rose busily outside. frances freeland, glancing through the window, saw them unlatching the wicket gate. sudden alarm seized her. she put out her head and called. biddy came back. "you mustn't spend them all at once." biddy shook her head. "no. once we had a shillin', and we were sick. we're goin' to spend three pennies out of one shillin' every day, till they're gone." "and aren't you going to put any by for a rainy day?" "no." frances freeland did not know what to answer. dear little things! the dear little things vanished. in tod's and kirsteen's room she found a little table and a pillow, and something that might do, and having devised a contrivance by which this went into that and that into this and nothing whatever showed, she conveyed the whole very quietly up near dear derek's room, and told darling nedda to go down-stairs and look for something that she knew she would not find, for she could not think at the moment of any better excuse. when the child had gone, she popped this here, and popped that there. and there she was! and she felt better. it was no use whatever to make a fuss about that aspect of nursing which was not quite nice. one just put the best face upon it, quietly did what was necessary, and pretended that it was not there. kirsteen had not seen to things quite as she should have. but then dear kirsteen was so clever. her attitude, indeed, to that blue bird, who had alighted now twenty-one years ago in the freeland nest, had always, after the first few shocks, been duly stoical. for, however her fastidiousness might jib at neglect of the forms of things, she was the last woman not to appreciate really sterling qualities. though it was a pity dear kirsteen did expose her neck and arms so that they had got quite brown, a pity that she never went to church and had brought up the dear children not to go, and to have ideas that were not quite right about 'the land,' still she was emphatically a lady, and devoted to dear tod, and very good. and her features were so regular, and she had such a good color, and was so slim and straight in the back, that she was always a pleasure to look at. and if she was not quite so practical as she might have been, that was not everything; and she would never get stout, as there was every danger of clara doing. so that from the first she had always put a good face on her. derek's voice interrupted her thoughts: "i'm awfully thirsty, granny." "yes, darling. don't move your head; and just let me pop in some of this delicious lemonade with a spoon." nedda, returning, found her supporting his head with one hand, while with the other she kept popping in the spoon, her soul smiling at him lovingly through her lips and eyes. chapter xxxii felix went back to london the afternoon of frances freeland's installation, taking sheila with him. she had been 'bound over to keep the peace'--a task which she would obviously be the better able to accomplish at a distance. and, though to take charge of her would be rather like holding a burning match till there was no match left, he felt bound to volunteer. he left nedda with many misgivings; but had not the heart to wrench her away. the recovery of a young man who means to get up to-morrow is not so rapid when his head, rather than his body, is the seat of trouble. derek's temperament was against him. he got up several times in spirit, to find that his body had remained in bed. and this did not accelerate his progress. it had been impossible to dispossess frances freeland from command of the sick-room; and, since she was admittedly from experience and power of paying no attention to her own wants, the fittest person for the position, there she remained, taking turn and turn about with nedda, and growing a little whiter, a little thinner, more resolute in face, and more loving in her eyes, from day to day. that tragedy of the old--the being laid aside from life before the spirit is ready to resign, the feeling that no one wants you, that all those you have borne and brought up have long passed out on to roads where you cannot follow, that even the thought-life of the world streams by so fast that you lie up in a backwater, feebly, blindly groping for the full of the water, and always pushed gently, hopelessly back; that sense that you are still young and warm, and yet so furbelowed with old thoughts and fashions that none can see how young and warm you are, none see how you long to rub hearts with the active, how you yearn for something real to do that can help life on, and how no one will give it you! all this--this tragedy--was for the time defeated. she was, in triumph, doing something real for those she loved and longed to do things for. she had sheila's room. for a week at least derek asked no questions, made no allusion to the mutiny, not even to the cause of his own disablement. it had been impossible to tell whether the concussion had driven coherent recollection from his mind, or whether he was refraining from an instinct of self-preservation, barring such thoughts as too exciting. nedda dreaded every day lest he should begin. she knew that the questions would fall on her, since no answer could possibly be expected from granny except: "it's all right, darling, everything's going on perfectly--only you mustn't talk!" it began the last day of june, the very first day that he got up. "they didn't save the hay, did they?" was he fit to hear the truth? would he forgive her if she did not tell it? if she lied about this, could she go on lying to his other questions? when he discovered, later, would not the effect undo the good of lies now? she decided to lie; but, when she opened her lips, simply could not, with his eyes on her; and said faintly: "yes, they did." his face contracted. she slipped down at once and knelt beside his chair. he said between his teeth: "go on; tell me. did it all collapse?" she could only stroke his hands and bow her head. "i see. what's happened to them?" without looking up, she murmured: "some have been dismissed; the others are working again all right." "all right!" she looked up then so pitifully that he did not ask her anything more. but the news put him back a week. and she was in despair. the day he got up again he began afresh: "when are the assizes?" "the th of august." "has anybody been to see bob tryst?" "yes; aunt kirsteen has been twice." having been thus answered, he was quiet for a long time. she had slipped again out of her chair to kneel beside him; it seemed the only place from which she could find courage for her answers. he put his hand, that had lost its brown, on her hair. at that she plucked up spirit to ask: "would you like me to go and see him?" he nodded. "then, i will--to-morrow." "don't ever tell me what isn't true, nedda! people do; that's why i didn't ask before." she answered fervently: "i won't! oh, i won't!" she dreaded this visit to the prison. even to think of those places gave her nightmare. sheila's description of her night in a cell had made her shiver with horror. but there was a spirit in nedda that went through with things; and she started early the next day, refusing kirsteen's proffered company. the look of that battlemented building, whose walls were pierced with emblems of the christian faith, turned her heartsick, and she stood for several minutes outside the dark-green door before she could summon courage to ring the bell. a stout man in blue, with a fringe of gray hair under his peaked cap, and some keys dangling from a belt, opened, and said: "yes, miss?" being called 'miss' gave her a little spirit, and she produced the card she had been warming in her hand. "i have come to see a man called robert tryst, waiting for trial at the assizes." the stout man looked at the card back and front, as is the way of those in doubt, closed the door behind her, and said: "just a minute, miss." the shutting of the door behind her sent a little shiver down nedda's spine; but the temperature of her soul was rising, and she looked round. beyond the heavy arch, beneath which she stood, was a courtyard where she could see two men, also in blue, with peaked caps. then, to her left, she became conscious of a shaven-headed noiseless being in drab-gray clothes, on hands and knees, scrubbing the end of a corridor. her tremor at the stealthy ugliness of this crouching figure yielded at once to a spasm of pity. the man gave her a look, furtive, yet so charged with intense penetrating curiosity that it seemed to let her suddenly into innumerable secrets. she felt as if the whole life of people shut away in silence and solitude were disclosed to her in the swift, unutterably alive look of this noiseless kneeling creature, riving out of her something to feed his soul and body on. that look seemed to lick its lips. it made her angry, made her miserable, with a feeling of pity she could hardly bear. tears, too startled to flow, darkened her eyes. poor man! how he must hate her, who was free, and all fresh from the open world and the sun, and people to love and talk to! the 'poor man' scrubbed on steadily, his ears standing out from his shaven head; then, dragging his knee-mat skew-ways, he took the chance to look at her again. perhaps because his dress and cap and stubble of hair and even the color of his face were so drab-gray, those little dark eyes seemed to her the most terribly living things she had ever seen. she felt that they had taken her in from top to toe, clothed and unclothed, taken in the resentment she had felt and the pity she was feeling; they seemed at once to appeal, to attack, and to possess her ravenously, as though all the starved instincts in a whole prisoned world had rushed up and for a second stood outside their bars. then came the clank of keys, the eyes left her as swiftly as they had seized her, and he became again just that stealthy, noiseless creature scrubbing a stone floor. and, shivering, nedda thought: 'i can't bear myself here--me with everything in the world i want--and these with nothing!' but the stout janitor was standing by her again, together with another man in blue, who said: "now, miss; this way, please!" and down that corridor they went. though she did not turn, she knew well that those eyes were following, still riving something from her; and she heaved a sigh of real relief when she was round a corner. through barred windows that had no glass she could see another court, where men in the same drab-gray clothes printed with arrows were walking one behind the other, making a sort of moving human hieroglyphic in the centre of the concrete floor. two warders with swords stood just outside its edge. some of those walking had their heads up, their chests expanded, some slouched along with heads almost resting on their chests; but most had their eyes fixed on the back of the neck of the man in front; and there was no sound save the tramp of feet. nedda put her hand to her throat. the warder beside her said in a chatty voice: "that's where the 'ards takes their exercise, miss. you want to see a man called tryst, waitin' trial, i think. we've had a woman here to see him, and a lady in blue, once or twice." "my aunt." "ah! just so. laborer, i think--case of arson. funny thing; never yet found a farm-laborer that took to prison well." nedda shivered. the words sounded ominous. then a little flame lit itself within her. "does anybody ever 'take to' prison?" the warder uttered a sound between a grunt and chuckle. "there's some has a better time here than they have out, any day. no doubt about it--they're well fed here." her aunt's words came suddenly into nedda's mind: 'liberty's a glorious feast!' but she did not speak them. "yes," the warder proceeded, "some o' them we get look as if they didn't have a square meal outside from one year's end to the other. if you'll just wait a minute, miss, i'll fetch the man down to you." in a bare room with distempered walls, and bars to a window out of which she could see nothing but a high brick wall, nedda waited. so rapid is the adjustment of the human mind, so quick the blunting of human sensation, that she had already not quite the passion of pitiful feeling which had stormed her standing under that archway. a kind of numbness gripped her nerves. there were wooden forms in this room, and a blackboard, on which two rows of figures had been set one beneath the other, but not yet added up. the silence at first was almost deathly. then it was broken by a sound as of a heavy door banged, and the shuffling tramp of marching men--louder, louder, softer--a word of command--still softer, and it died away. dead silence again! nedda pressed her hands to her breast. twice she added up those figures on the blackboard; each time the number was the same. ah, there was a fly--two flies! how nice they looked, moving, moving, chasing each other in the air. did flies get into the cells? perhaps not even a fly came there--nothing more living than walls and wood! nothing living except what was inside oneself! how dreadful! not even a clock ticking, not even a bird's song! silent, unliving, worse than in this room! something pressed against her leg. she started violently and looked down. a little cat! oh, what a blessed thing! a little sandy, ugly cat! it must have crept in through the door. she was not locked in, then, anyway! thus far had nerves carried her already! scrattling the little cat's furry pate, she pulled herself together. she would not tremble and be nervous. it was disloyal to derek and to her purpose, which was to bring comfort to poor tryst. then the door was pushed open, and the warder said: "a quarter of an hour, miss. i'll be just outside." she saw a big man with unshaven cheeks come in, and stretched out her hand. "i am mr. derek's cousin, going to be married to him. he's been ill, but he's getting well again now. we knew you'd like to hear." and she thought: 'oh! what a tragic face! i can't bear to look at his eyes!' he took her hand, said, "thank you, miss," and stood as still as ever. "please come and sit down, and we can talk." tryst moved to a form and took his seat thereon, with his hands between his knees, as if playing with an imaginary cap. he was dressed in an ordinary suit of laborer's best clothes, and his stiff, dust-colored hair was not cut particularly short. the cheeks of his square-cut face had fallen in, the eyes had sunk back, and the prominence thus given to his cheek and jawbones and thick mouth gave his face a savage look--only his dog-like, terribly yearning eyes made nedda feel so sorry that she simply could not feel afraid. "the children are such dears, mr. tryst. billy seems to grow every day. they're no trouble at all, and quite happy. biddy's wonderful with them." "she's a good maid." the thick lips shaped the words as though they had almost lost power of speech. "do they let you see the newspapers we send? have you got everything you want?" for a minute he did not seem to be going to answer; then, moving his head from side to side, he said: "nothin' i want, but just get out of here." nedda murmured helplessly: "it's only a month now to the assizes. does mr. pogram come to see you?" "yes, he comes. he can't do nothin'!" "oh, don't despair! even if they don't acquit you, it'll soon be over. don't despair!" and she stole her hand out and timidly touched his arm. she felt her heart turning over and over, he looked so sad. he said in that stumbling, thick voice: "thank you kindly. i must get out. i won't stand long of it--not much longer. i'm not used to it--always been accustomed to the air, an' bein' about, that's where 'tis. but don't you tell him, miss. you say i'm goin' along all right. don't you tell him what i said. 'tis no use him frettin' over me. 'twon' do me no good." and nedda murmured: "no, no; i won't tell him." then suddenly came the words she had dreaded: "d'you think they'll let me go, miss?" "oh, yes, i think so--i hope so!" but she could not meet his eyes, and hearing him grit his boot on the floor knew he had not believed her. he said slowly: "i never meant to do it when i went out that mornin'. it came on me sudden, lookin' at the straw." nedda gave a little gasp. could that man outside hear? tryst went on: "if they don't let me go, i won' stand it. 'tis too much for a man. i can't sleep, i can't eat, nor nothin'. i won' stand it. it don' take long to die, if you put your mind to it." feeling quite sick with pity, nedda got up and stood beside him; and, moved by an uncontrollable impulse, she lifted one of his great hands and clasped it in both her own. "oh, try and be brave and look forward! you're going to be ever so happy some day." he gave her a strange long stare. "yes, i'll be happy some day. don' you never fret about me." and nedda saw that the warder was standing in the doorway. "sorry, miss, time's up." without a word tryst rose and went out. nedda was alone again with the little sandy cat. standing under the high-barred window she wiped her cheeks, that were all wet. why, why must people suffer so? suffer so slowly, so horribly? what were men made of that they could go on day after day, year after year, watching others suffer? when the warder came back to take her out, she did not trust herself to speak, or even to look at him. she walked with hands tight clenched, and eyes fixed on the ground. outside the prison door she drew a long, long breath. and suddenly her eyes caught the inscription on the corner of a lane leading down alongside the prison wall--"love's walk"! chapter xxxiii peremptorily ordered by the doctor to the sea, but with instructions to avoid for the present all excitement, sunlight, and color, derek and his grandmother repaired to a spot well known to be gray, and nedda went home to hampstead. this was the last week in july. a fortnight spent in the perfect vacuity of an english watering-place restored the boy wonderfully. no one could be better trusted than frances freeland to preserve him from looking on the dark side of anything, more specially when that thing was already not quite nice. their conversation was therefore free from allusion to the laborers, the strike, or bob tryst. and derek thought the more. the approaching trial was hardly ever out of his mind. bathing, he would think of it; sitting on the gray jetty looking over the gray sea, he would think of it. up the gray cobbled streets and away on the headlands, he would think of it. and, so as not to have to think of it, he would try to walk himself to a standstill. unfortunately the head will continue working when the legs are at rest. and when he sat opposite to her at meal-times, frances freeland would gaze piercingly at his forehead and muse: 'the dear boy looks much better, but he's getting a little line between his brows--it is such a pity!' it worried her, too, that the face he was putting on their little holiday together was not quite as full as she could have wished--though the last thing in the world she could tolerate were really fat cheeks, those signs of all that her stoicism abhorred, those truly unforgivable marks of the loss of 'form.' he struck her as dreadfully silent, too, and she would rack her brains for subjects that would interest him, often saying to herself: 'if only i were clever!' it was natural he should think of dear nedda, but surely it was not that which gave him the little line. he must be brooding about those other things. he ought not to be melancholy like this and let anything prevent the sea from doing him good. the habit--hard-learned by the old, and especially the old of her particular sex--of not wishing for the moon, or at all events of not letting others know that you are wishing for it, had long enabled frances freeland to talk cheerfully on the most indifferent subjects whether or no her heart were aching. one's heart often did ache, of course, but it simply didn't do to let it interfere, making things uncomfortable for others. and once she said to him: "you know, darling, i think it would be so nice for you to take a little interest in politics. they're very absorbing when you once get into them. i find my paper most enthralling. and it really has very good principles." "if politics did anything for those who most need things done, granny--but i can't see that they do." she thought a little, then, making firm her lips, said: "i don't think that's quite just, darling, there are a great many politicians who are very much looked up to--all the bishops, for instance, and others whom nobody could suspect of self-seeking." "i didn't mean that politicians were self-seeking, granny; i meant that they're comfortable people, and the things that interest them are those that interest comfortable people. what have they done for the laborers, for instance?" "oh, but, darling! they're going to do a great deal. in my paper they're continually saying that." "do you believe it?" "i'm sure they wouldn't say so if they weren't. there's quite a new plan, and it sounds most sensible. and so i don't think, darling, that if i were you i should make myself unhappy about all that kind of thing. they must know best. they're all so much older than you. and you're getting quite a little line between your eyes." derek smiled. "all right, granny; i shall have a big one soon." frances freeland smiled, too, but shook her head. "yes; and that's why i really think you ought to take interest in politics." "i'd rather take interest in you, granny. you're very jolly to look at." frances freeland raised her brows. "i? my dear, i'm a perfect fright nowadays." thus pushing away what her stoicism and perpetual aspiration to an impossibly good face would not suffer her to admit, she added: "where would you like to drive this afternoon?" for they took drives in a small victoria, frances freeland holding her sunshade to protect him from the sun whenever it made the mistake of being out. on august the fourth he insisted that he was well and must go back home. and, though to bring her attendance on him to an end was a grief, she humbly admitted that he must be wanting younger company, and, after one wistful attempt, made no further bones. the following day they travelled. on getting home he found that the police had been to see little biddy tryst, who was to be called as a witness. tod would take her over on the morning of the trial. derek did not wait for this, but on the day before the assizes repacked his bag and went off to the royal charles hostel at worcester. he slept not at all that night, and next morning was early at the court, for tryst's case would be the first. anxiously he sat watching all the queer and formal happenings that mark the initiation of the higher justice--the assemblage of the gentlemen in wigs; the sifting, shifting, settling of clerks, and ushers, solicitors, and the public; the busy indifference, the cheerful professionalism of it all. he saw little mr. pogram come in, more square and rubbery than ever, and engage in conclave with one of the bewigged. the smiles, shrugs, even the sharp expressions on that barrister's face; the way he stood, twisting round, one hand wrapped in his gown, one foot on the bench behind; it was all as if he had done it hundreds of times before and cared not the snap of one of his thin, yellow fingers. then there was a sudden hush; the judge came in, bowed, and took his seat. and that, too, seemed so professional. haunted by the thought of him to whom this was almost life and death, the boy was incapable of seeing how natural it was that they should not all feel as he did. the case was called and tryst brought in. derek had once more to undergo the torture of those tragic eyes fixed on him. round that heavy figure, that mournful, half-brutal, and half-yearning face, the pleadings, the questions, the answers buzzed, bringing out facts with damning clearness, yet leaving the real story of that early morning as hidden as if the court and all were but gibbering figures of air. the real story of tryst, heavy and distraught, rising and turning out from habit into the early haze on the fields, where his daily work had lain, of tryst brooding, with the slow, the wrathful incoherence that centuries of silence in those lonely fields had passed into the blood of his forebears and himself. brooding, in the dangerous disproportion that enforced continence brings to certain natures, loading the brain with violence till the storm bursts and there leap out the lurid, dark insanities of crime. brooding, while in the air flies chased each other, insects crawled together in the grass, and the first principle of nature worked everywhere its sane fulfilment. they might talk and take evidence as they would, be shrewd and sharp with all the petty sharpness of the law; but the secret springs would still lie undisclosed, too natural and true to bear the light of day. the probings and eloquence of justice would never paint the picture of that moment of maniacal relief, when, with jaw hanging loose, eyes bulging in exultation of revenge, he had struck those matches with his hairy hands and let them flare in the straw, till the little red flames ran and licked, rustled and licked, and there was nothing to do but watch them lick and burn. nor of that sudden wildness of dumb fear that rushed into the heart of the crouching creature, changing the madness of his face to palsy. nor of the recoil from the burning stack; those moments empty with terror. nor of how terror, through habit of inarticulate, emotionless existence, gave place again to brute stolidity. and so, heavily back across the dewy fields, under the larks' songs, the cooings of pigeons, the hum of wings, and all the unconscious rhythm of ageless nature. no! the probings of justice could never reach the whole truth. and even justice quailed at its own probings when the mother-child was passed up from tod's side into the witness-box and the big laborer was seen to look at her and she at him. she seemed to have grown taller; her pensive little face and beautifully fluffed-out corn-brown hair had an eerie beauty, perched up there in the arid witness-box, as of some small figure from the brush of botticelli. "your name, my dear?" "biddy tryst." "how old?" "ten next month, please." "do you remember going to live at mr. freeland's cottage?" "yes, sir." "and do you remember the first night?" "yes, sir." "where did you sleep, biddy?" "please, sir, we slept in a big room with a screen. billy and susie and me; and father behind the screen." "and where was the room?" "down-stairs, sir." "now, biddy, what time did you wake up the first morning?" "when father got up." "was that early or late?" "very early." "would you know the time?" "no, sir." "but it was very early; how did you know that?" "it was a long time before we had any breakfast." "and what time did you have breakfast?" "half past six by the kitchen clock." "was it light when you woke up?" "yes, sir." "when father got up, did he dress or did he go to bed again?" "he hadn't never undressed, sir." "then did he stay with you or did he go out?" "out, sir." "and how long was it before he came back?" "when i was puttin' on billy's boots." "what had you done in between?" "helped susie and dressed billy." "and how long does that take you generally?" "half an hour, sir." "i see. what did father look like when he came in, biddy?" the mother-child paused. for the first time it seemed to dawn on her that there was something dangerous in these questions. she twisted her small hands before her and gazed at her father. the judge said gently: "well, my child?" "like he does now, sir." "thank you, biddy." that was all; the mother-child was suffered to step down and take her place again by tod. and in the silence rose the short and rubbery report of little mr. pogram blowing his nose. no evidence given that morning was so conclusive, actual, terrible as that unconscious: "like he does now, sir." that was why even justice quailed a little at its own probings. from this moment the boy knew that tryst's fate was sealed. what did all those words matter, those professional patterings one way and the other; the professional jeers: 'my friend has told you this' and 'my friend will tell you that.' the professional steering of the impartial judge, seated there above them all; the cold, calculated rhapsodies about the heinousness of arson; the cold and calculated attack on the characters of the stone-breaker witness and the tramp witness; the cold and calculated patter of the appeal not to condemn a father on the evidence of his little child; the cold and calculated outburst on the right of every man to be assumed innocent except on overwhelming evidence such as did not here exist. the cold and calculated balancing of pro and con; and those minutes of cold calculation veiled from the eyes of the court. even the verdict: 'guilty'; even the judgment: 'three years' penal servitude.' all nothing, all superfluity to the boy supporting the tragic gaze of tryst's eyes and making up his mind to a desperate resort. "three years' penal servitude!" the big laborer paid no more attention to those words than to any others spoken during that hour's settlement of his fate. true, he received them standing, as is the custom, fronting the image of justice, from whose lips they came. but by no single gesture did he let any one see the dumb depths of his soul. if life had taught him nothing else, it had taught him never to express himself. mute as any bullock led into the slaughtering-house, with something of a bullock's dulled and helpless fear in his eyes, he passed down and away between his jailers. and at once the professional noises rose, and the professional rhapsodists, hunching their gowns, swept that little lot of papers into their pink tape, and, turning to their neighbors, smiled, and talked, and jerked their eyebrows. chapter xxxiv the nest on the spaniard's road had not been able to contain sheila long. there are certain natures, such as that of felix, to whom the claims and exercise of authority are abhorrent, who refuse to exercise it themselves and rage when they see it exercised over others, but who somehow never come into actual conflict with it. there are other natures, such as sheila's, who do not mind in the least exercising authority themselves, but who oppose it vigorously when they feel it coming near themselves or some others. of such is the kingdom of militancy. her experience with the police had sunk deep into her soul. they had not, as a fact, treated her at all badly, which did not prevent her feeling as if they had outraged in her the dignity of woman. she arrived, therefore, in hampstead seeing red even where red was not. and since, undoubtedly, much real red was to be seen, there was little other color in the world or in her cheeks those days. long disagreements with alan, to whom she was still a magnet but whose stanley-like nature stood firm against the blandishments of her revolting tongue, drove her more and more toward a decision the seeds of which had, perhaps, been planted during her former stay among the breezy airs of hampstead. felix, coming one day into his wife's study--for the house knew not the word drawing-room--found flora, with eyebrows lifted up and smiling lips, listening to sheila proclaiming the doctrine that it was impossible not to live 'on one's own.' nothing else--felix learned--was compatible with dignity, or even with peace of mind. she had, therefore, taken a back room high up in a back street, in which she was going to live perfectly well on ten shillings a week; and, having thirty-two pounds saved up, she would be all right for a year, after which she would be able to earn her living. the principle she purposed to keep before her eyes was that of committing herself to nothing which would seriously interfere with her work in life. somehow, it was impossible to look at this girl, with her glowing cheeks and her glowing eyes, and her hair frizzy from ardor, and to distrust her utterances. yes! she would arrive, if not where she wanted, at all events somewhere; which, after all, was the great thing. and in fact she did arrive the very next day in the back room high up in the back street, and neither tod's cottage nor the house on the spaniard's road saw more than flying gleams of her, thenceforth. another by-product, this, of that little starting episode, the notice given to tryst! strange how in life one little incident, one little piece of living stress, can attract and gather round it the feelings, thoughts, actions of people whose lives run far and wide away therefrom. but episodes are thus potent only when charged with a significance that comes from the clash of the deepest instincts. during the six weeks which had elapsed between his return home from joyfields and the assizes, felix had much leisure to reflect that if lady malloring had not caused tryst to be warned that he could not marry his deceased wife's sister and continue to stay on the estate--the lives of felix himself, his daughter, mother, brother, brother's wife, their son and daughter, and in less degree of his other brothers, would have been free of a preoccupation little short of ludicrous in proportion to the face value of the cause. but he had leisure, too, to reflect that in reality the issue involved in that tiny episode concerned human existence to its depths--for, what was it but the simple, all-important question of human freedom? the simple, all-important issue of how far men and women should try to rule the lives of others instead of trying only to rule their own, and how far those others should allow their lives to be so ruled? this it was which gave that episode its power of attracting and affecting the thoughts, feelings, actions of so many people otherwise remote. and though felix was paternal enough to say to himself nearly all the time, 'i can't let nedda get further into this mess!' he was philosopher enough to tell himself, in the unfatherly balance of his hours, that the mess was caused by the fight best of all worth fighting--of democracy against autocracy, of a man's right to do as he likes with his life if he harms not others; of 'the land' against the fetterers of 'the land.' and he was artist enough to see how from that little starting episode the whole business had sprung--given, of course, the entrance of the wilful force called love. but a father, especially when he has been thoroughly alarmed, gives the artist and philosopher in him short shrift. nedda came home soon after sheila went, and to the eyes of felix she came back too old and thoughtful altogether. how different a girl from the nedda who had so wanted 'to know everything' that first night of may! what was she brooding over, what planning, in that dark, round, pretty head? at what resolve were those clear eyes so swiftly raised to look? what was going on within, when her breast heaved so, without seeming cause, and the color rushed up in her cheeks at a word, as though she had been so far away that the effort of recall was alone enough to set all her veins throbbing. and yet felix could devise no means of attack on her infatuation. for a man cannot cultivate the habit of never interfering and then suddenly throw it over; least of all when the person to be interfered with is his pet and only daughter. flora, not of course in the swim of those happenings at joyflelds, could not be got to take the matter very seriously. in fact--beyond what concerned felix himself and poetry--the matter that she did take seriously had yet to be discovered. hers was one of those semi-detached natures particularly found in hampstead. when exhorted to help tackle the question, she could only suggest that felix should take them all abroad when he had finished 'the last of the laborers.' a tour, for instance, in norway and sweden, where none of them had ever been, and perhaps down through finland into russia. feeling like one who squirts on a burning haystack with a garden syringe, felix propounded this scheme to his little daughter. she received it with a start, a silence, a sort of quivering all over, as of an animal who scents danger. she wanted to know when, and being told--'not before the middle of august', relapsed into her preoccupation as if nothing had been said. felix noted on the hall table one afternoon a letter in her handwriting, addressed to a worcester newspaper, and remarked thereafter that she began to receive this journal daily, obviously with a view to reports of the coming assizes. once he tried to break through into her confidence. it was august bank holiday, and they had gone out on to the heath together to see the people wonderfully assembled. coming back across the burnt-up grass, strewn with paper bags, banana peel, and the cores of apples, he hooked his hand into her arm. "what is to be done with a child that goes about all day thinking and thinking and not telling anybody what she is thinking?" she smiled round at him and answered: "i know, dad. she is a pig, isn't she?" this comparison with an animal of proverbial stubbornness was not encouraging. then his hand was squeezed to her side and he heard her murmur: "i wonder if all daughters are such beasts!" he understood well that she had meant: 'there is only one thing i want--one thing i mean to have--one thing in the world for me now!' and he said soberly: "we can't expect anything else." "oh, daddy!" she answered, but nothing more. only four days later she came to his study with a letter, and a face so flushed and troubled that he dropped his pen and got up in alarm. "read this, dad! it's impossible! it's not true! it's terrible! oh! what am i to do?" the letter ran thus, in a straight, boyish handwriting: "royal charles hostel, "worcester, aug. th. "my nedda, "i have just seen bob tried. they have given him three years' penal. it was awful to sit there and watch him. he can never stand it. it was awful to watch him looking at me. it's no good. i'm going to give myself up. i must do it. i've got everything ready; they'll have to believe me and squash his sentence. you see, but for me it would never have been done. it's a matter of honour. i can't let him suffer any more. this isn't impulse. i've been meaning to do it for some time, if they found him guilty. so in a way, it's an immense relief. i'd like to have seen you first, but it would only distress you, and i might not have been able to go through with it after. nedda, darling, if you still love me when i get out, we'll go to new zealand, away from this country where they bully poor creatures like bob. be brave! i'll write to-morrow, if they let me. "your "derek." the first sensation in felix on reading this effusion was poignant recollection of the little lawyer's look after derek had made the scene at tryst's committal and of his words: 'nothing in it, is there?' his second thought: 'is this the cutting of the knot that i've been looking for?' his third, which swept all else away: 'my poor little darling! what business has that boy to hurt her again like this!' he heard her say: "tryst told me himself he did it, dad! he told me when i went to see him in the prison. honour doesn't demand what isn't true! oh, dad, help me!" felix was slow in getting free from the cross currents of reflection. "he wrote this last night," he said dismally. "he may have done it already. we must go and see john." nedda clasped her hands. "ah! yes!" and felix had not the heart to add what he was thinking: 'not that i see what good he can do!' but, though sober reason told him this, it was astonishingly comforting to be going to some one who could be relied on to see the facts of the situation without any of that 'flimflam' with which imagination is accustomed to surround them. "and we'll send derek a wire for what it's worth." they went at once to the post-office, felix composing this message on the way: 'utterly mistaken chivalry you have no right await our arrival felix freeland.' he handed it to her to read, and passed it under the brass railing to the clerk, not without the feeling of shame due from one who uses the word chivalry in a post-office. on the way to the tube station he held her arm tightly, but whether to impart courage or receive it he could not have said, so strung-up in spirit did he feel her. with few words exchanged they reached whitehall. marking their card 'urgent,' they were received within ten minutes. john was standing in a high, white room, smelling a little of papers and tobacco, and garnished solely by five green chairs, a table, and a bureau with an immense number of pigeonholes, whereat he had obviously been seated. quick to observe what concerned his little daughter, felix noted how her greeting trembled up at her uncle and how a sort of warmth thawed for the moment the regularity of his brother's face. when they had taken two of the five green chairs and john was back at his bureau, felix handed over the letter. john read it and looked at nedda. then taking a pipe out of his pocket, which he had evidently filled before they came in, he lighted it and re-read the letter. then, looking very straight at nedda, he said: "nothing in it? honour bright, my dear!" "no, uncle john, nothing. only that he fancies his talk about injustice put it into tryst's head." john nodded; the girl's face was evidence enough for him. "any proof?" "tryst himself told me in the prison that he did it. he said it came on him suddenly, when he saw the straw." a pause followed before john said: "good! you and i and your father will go down and see the police." nedda lifted her hands and said breathlessly: "but, uncle! dad! have i the right? he says--honour. won't it be betraying him?" felix could not answer, but with relief he heard john say: "it's not honorable to cheat the law." "no; but he trusted me or he wouldn't have written." john answered slowly: "i think your duty's plain, my dear. the question for the police will be whether or not to take notice of this false confession. for us to keep the knowledge that it's false from them, under the circumstances, is clearly not right. besides being, to my mind, foolish." for felix to watch this mortal conflict going on in the soul of his daughter--that soul which used to seem, perhaps even now seemed, part of himself; to know that she so desperately wanted help for her decision, and to be unable to give it, unable even to trust himself to be honest--this was hard for felix. there she sat, staring before her; and only her tight-clasped hands, the little movements of her lips and throat, showed the struggle going on in her. "i couldn't, without seeing him; i must see him first, uncle!" john got up and went over to the window; he, too, had been affected by her face. "you realize," he said, "that you risk everything by that. if he's given himself up, and they've believed him, he's not the sort to let it fall through. you cut off your chance if he won't let you tell. better for your father and me to see him first, anyway." and felix heard a mutter that sounded like: 'confound him!' nedda rose. "can we go at once, then, uncle?" with a solemnity that touched felix, john put a hand on each side of her face, raised it, and kissed her on the forehead. "all right!" he said. "let's be off!" a silent trio sought paddington in a taxi-cab, digesting this desperate climax of an affair that sprang from origins so small. in felix, contemplating his daughter's face, there was profound compassion, but also that family dismay, that perturbation of self-esteem, which public scandal forces on kinsmen, even the most philosophic. he felt exasperation against derek, against kirsteen, almost even against tod, for having acquiesced passively in the revolutionary bringing-up which had brought on such a disaster. war against injustice; sympathy with suffering; chivalry! yes! but not quite to the point whence they recoiled on his daughter, his family, himself! the situation was impossible! he was fast resolving that, whether or no they saved derek from this quixotry, the boy should not have nedda. and already his eyes found difficulty in meeting hers. they secured a compartment to themselves and, having settled down in corners, began mechanically unfolding evening journals. for after all, whatever happens, one must read the papers! without that, life would indeed be insupportable! felix had bought mr. cuthcott's, but, though he turned and turned the sheets, they seemed to have no sense till these words caught his eyes: "convict's tragic death! yesterday afternoon at worcester, while being conveyed from the assize court back to prison, a man named tryst, sentenced to three years' penal servitude for arson, suddenly attacked the warders in charge of him and escaped. he ran down the street, hotly pursued, and, darting out into the traffic, threw himself under a motor-car going at some speed. the car struck him on the head, and the unfortunate man was killed on the spot. no reason whatever can be assigned for this desperate act. he is known, however, to have suffered from epilepsy, and it is thought an attack may have been coming on him at the time." when felix had read these words he remained absolutely still, holding that buff-colored paper before his face, trying to decide what he must do now. what was the significance--exactly the significance of this? now that tryst was dead, derek's quixotic action had no meaning. but had he already 'confessed'? it seemed from this account that the suicide was directly after the trial; even before the boy's letter to nedda had been written. he must surely have heard of it since and given up his mad idea! he leaned over, touched john on the knee, and handed him the paper. john read the paragraph, handed it back; and the two brothers stared fixedly at each other. then felix made the faintest movement of his head toward his daughter, and john nodded. crossing to nedda, felix hooked his arm in hers and said: "just look at this, my child." nedda read, started to her feet, sank back, and cried out: "poor, poor man! oh, dad! poor man!" felix felt ashamed. though tryst's death meant so much relief to her, she felt first this rush of compassion; he himself, to whom it meant so much less relief, had felt only that relief. "he said he couldn't stand it; he told me that. but i never thought--oh! poor man!" and, burying her face against his arm, she gave way. petrified, and conscious that john at the far end of the carriage was breathing rather hard, felix could only stroke her arm till at last she whispered: "there's nobody now for derek to save. oh, if you'd seen that poor man in prison, dad!" and the only words of comfort felix could find were: "my child, there are thousands and thousands of poor prisoners and captives!" in a truce to agitation they spent the rest of that three hours' journey, while the train rattled and rumbled through the quiet, happy-looking land. chapter xxxv it was tea-time when they reached worcester, and at once went up to the royal charles hostel. a pretty young woman in the office there informed them that the young gentleman had paid his bill and gone out about ten o'clock; but had left his luggage. she had not seen him come in. his room was up that little staircase at the end of the passage. there was another entrance that he might have come in at. the 'boots' would take them. past the hall stuffed with furniture and decorated with the stags' heads and battle-prints common to english county-town hotels, they followed the 'boots' up five red-carpeted steps, down a dingy green corridor, to a door at the very end. there was no answer to their knock. the dark little room, with striped walls, and more battle-prints, looked out on a side street and smelled dusty. on a shiny leather sofa an old valise, strapped-up ready for departure, was reposing with felix's telegram, unopened, deposited thereon. writing on his card, "have come down with nedda. f. f.," and laying it on the telegram, in case derek should come in by the side entrance, felix and nedda rejoined john in the hall. to wait in anxiety is perhaps the hardest thing in life; tea, tobacco, and hot baths perhaps the only anodynes. these, except the baths, they took. without knowing what had happened, neither john nor felix liked to make inquiry at the police station, nor did they care to try and glean knowledge from the hotel people by questions that might lead to gossip. they could but kick their heels till it became reasonably certain that derek was not coming back. the enforced waiting increased felix's exasperation. everything derek did seemed designed to cause nedda pain. to watch her sitting there, trying resolutely to mask her anxiety, became intolerable. at last he got up and said to john: "i think we'd better go round there," and, john nodding, he added: "wait here, my child. one of us'll come back at once and tell you anything we hear." she gave them a grateful look and the two brothers went out. they had not gone twenty yards when they met derek striding along, pale, wild, unhappy-looking. when felix touched him on the arm, he started and stared blankly at his uncle. "we've seen about tryst," felix said: "you've not done anything?" derek shook his head. "good! john, tell nedda that, and stay with her a bit. i want to talk to derek. we'll go in the other way." he put his hand under the boy's arm and turned him down into the side street. when they reached the gloomy little bedroom felix pointed to the telegram. "from me. i suppose the news of his death stopped you?" "yes." derek opened the telegram, dropped it, and sat down beside his valise on the shiny sofa. he looked positively haggard. taking his stand against the chest of drawers, felix said quietly: "i'm going to have it out with you, derek. do you understand what all this means to nedda? do you realize how utterly unhappy you're making her? i don't suppose you're happy yourself--" the boy's whole figure writhed. "happy! when you've killed some one you don't think much of happiness--your own or any one's!" startled in his turn, felix said sharply: "don't talk like that. it's monomania." derek laughed. "bob tryst's dead--through me! i can't get out of that." gazing at the boy's tortured face, felix grasped the gruesome fact that this idea amounted to obsession. "derek," he said, "you've dwelt on this till you see it out of all proportion. if we took to ourselves the remote consequences of all our words we should none of us survive a week. you're overdone. you'll see it differently to-morrow." derek got up to pace the room. "i swear i would have saved him. i tried to do it when they committed him at transham." he looked wildly at felix. "didn't i? you were there; you heard!" "yes, yes; i heard." "they wouldn't let me then. i thought they mightn't find him guilty here--so i let it go on. and now he's dead. you don't know how i feel!" his throat was working, and felix said with real compassion: "my dear boy! your sense of honour is too extravagant altogether. a grown man like poor tryst knew perfectly what he was doing." "no. he was like a dog--he did what he thought was expected of him. i never meant him to burn those ricks." "exactly! no one can blame you for a few wild words. he might have been the boy and you the man by the way you take it! come!" derek sat down again on the shiny sofa and buried his head in his hands. "i can't get away from him. he's been with me all day. i see him all the time." that the boy was really haunted was only too apparent. how to attack this mania? if one could make him feel something else! and felix said: "look here, derek! before you've any right to nedda you've got to find ballast. that's a matter of honour, if you like." derek flung up his head as if to escape a blow. seeing that he had riveted him, felix pressed on, with some sternness: "a man can't serve two passions. you must give up this championing the weak and lighting flames you can't control. see what it leads to! you've got to grow and become a man. until then i don't trust my daughter to you." the boy's lips quivered; a flush darkened his face, ebbed, and left him paler than ever. felix felt as if he had hit that face. still, anything was better than to leave him under this gruesome obsession! then, to his consternation, derek stood up and said: "if i go and see his body at the prison, perhaps he'll leave me alone a little!" catching at that, as he would have caught at anything, felix said: "good! yes! go and see the poor fellow; we'll come, too." and he went out to find nedda. by the time they reached the street derek had already started, and they could see him going along in front. felix racked his brains to decide whether he ought to prepare her for the state the boy was in. twice he screwed himself up to take the plunge, but her face--puzzled, as though wondering at her lover's neglect of her--stopped him. better say nothing! just as they reached the prison she put her hand on his arm: "look, dad!" and felix read on the corner of the prison lane those words: 'love's walk'! derek was waiting at the door. after some difficulty they were admitted and taken down the corridor where the prisoner on his knees had stared up at nedda, past the courtyard where those others had been pacing out their living hieroglyphic, up steps to the hospital. here, in a white-washed room on a narrow bed, the body of the big laborer lay, wrapped in a sheet. "we bury him friday, poor chap! fine big man, too!" and at the warder's words a shudder passed through felix. the frozen tranquillity of that body! as the carved beauty of great buildings, so is the graven beauty of death, the unimaginable wonder of the abandoned thing lying so quiet, marvelling at its resemblance to what once lived! how strange this thing, still stamped by all that it had felt, wanted, loved, and hated, by all its dumb, hard, commonplace existence! this thing with the calm, pathetic look of one who asks of his own fled spirit: why have you abandoned me? death! what more wonderful than a dead body--that still perfect work of life, for which life has no longer use! what more mysterious than this sight of what still is, yet is not! below the linen swathing the injured temples, those eyes were closed through which such yearning had looked forth. from that face, where the hair had grown faster than if it had been alive, death's majesty had planed away the aspect of brutality, removed the yearning, covering all with wistful acquiescence. was his departed soul coherent? where was it? did it hover in this room, visible still to the boy? did it stand there beside what was left of tryst the laborer, that humblest of all creatures who dared to make revolt--serf, descendant of serfs, who, since the beginning, had hewn wood, drawn water, and done the will of others? or was it winged, and calling in space to the souls of the oppressed? this body would go back to the earth that it had tended, the wild grass would grow over it, the seasons spend wind and rain forever above it. but that which had held this together--the inarticulate, lowly spirit, hardly asking itself why things should be, faithful as a dog to those who were kind to it, obeying the dumb instinct of a violence that in his betters would be called 'high spirit,' where--felix wondered--where was it? and what were they thinking--nedda and that haunted boy--so motionless? nothing showed on their faces, nothing but a sort of living concentration, as if they were trying desperately to pierce through and see whatever it was that held this thing before them in such awful stillness. their first glimpse of death; their first perception of that terrible remoteness of the dead! no wonder they seemed to be conjured out of the power of thought and feeling! nedda was first to turn away. walking back by her side, felix was surprised by her composure. the reality of death had not been to her half so harrowing as the news of it. she said softly: "i'm glad to have seen him like that; now i shall think of him--at peace; not as he was that other time." derek rejoined them, and they went in silence back to the hotel. but at the door she said: "come with me to the cathedral, derek; i can't go in yet!" to felix's dismay the boy nodded, and they turned to go. should he stop them? should he go with them? what should a father do? and, with a heavy sigh, he did nothing but retire into the hotel. chapter xxxvi it was calm, with a dark-blue sky, and a golden moon, and the lighted street full of people out for airing. the great cathedral, cutting the heavens with its massive towers, was shut. no means of getting in; and while they stood there looking up the thought came into nedda's mind: where would they bury poor tryst who had killed himself? would they refuse to bury that unhappy one in a churchyard? surely, the more unhappy and desperate he was, the kinder they ought to be to him! they turned away down into a little lane where an old, white, timbered cottage presided ghostly at the corner. some church magnate had his garden back there; and it was quiet, along the waving line of a high wall, behind which grew sycamores spreading close-bunched branches, whose shadows, in the light of the corner lamps, lay thick along the ground this glamourous august night. a chafer buzzed by, a small black cat played with its tail on some steps in a recess. nobody passed. the girl's heart was beating fast. derek's face was so strange and strained. and he had not yet said one word to her. all sorts of fears and fancies beset her till she was trembling all over. "what is it?" she said at last. "you haven't--you haven't stopped loving me, derek?" "no one could stop loving you." "what is it, then? are you thinking of poor tryst?" with a catch in his throat and a sort of choked laugh he answered: "yes." "but it's all over. he's at peace." "peace!" then, in a queer, dead voice, he added: "i'm sorry, nedda. it's beastly for you. but i can't help it." what couldn't he help? why did he keep her suffering like this--not telling her? what was this something that seemed so terribly between them? she walked on silently at his side, conscious of the rustling of the sycamores, of the moonlit angle of the church magnate's house, of the silence in the lane, and the gliding of their own shadows along the wall. what was this in his face, his thoughts, that she could not reach! and she cried out: "tell me! oh, tell me, derek! i can go through anything with you!" "i can't get rid of him, that's all. i thought he'd go when i'd seen him there. but it's no good!" terror got hold of her then. she peered at his face--very white and haggard. there seemed no blood in it. they were going downhill now, along the blank wall of a factory; there was the river in front, with the moonlight on it and boats drawn up along the bank. from a chimney a scroll of black smoke was flung out across the sky, and a lighted bridge glowed above the water. they turned away from that, passing below the dark pile of the cathedral. here couples still lingered on benches along the river-bank, happy in the warm night, under the august moon! and on and on they walked in that strange, miserable silence, past all those benches and couples, out on the river-path by the fields, where the scent of hay-stacks, and the freshness from the early stubbles and the grasses webbed with dew, overpowered the faint reek of the river mud. and still on and on in the moonlight that haunted through the willows. at their footsteps the water-rats scuttled down into the water with tiny splashes; a dog barked somewhere a long way off; a train whistled; a frog croaked. from the stubbles and second crops of sun-baked clover puffs of warm air kept stealing up into the chillier air beneath the willows. such moonlit nights never seem to sleep. and there was a kind of triumph in the night's smile, as though it knew that it ruled the river and the fields, ruled with its gleams the silent trees that had given up all rustling. suddenly derek said: "he's walking with us! look! over there!" and for a second there did seem to nedda a dim, gray shape moving square and dogged, parallel with them at the stubble edges. gasping out: "oh, no; don't frighten me! i can't bear it tonight!" she hid her face against his shoulder like a child. he put his arm round her and she pressed her face deep into his coat. this ghost of bob tryst holding him away from her! this enemy! this uncanny presence! she pressed closer, closer, and put her face up to his. it was wonderfully lonely, silent, whispering, with the moongleams slipping through the willow boughs into the shadow where they stood. and from his arms warmth stole through her! closer and closer she pressed, not quite knowing what she did, not quite knowing anything but that she wanted him never to let her go; wanted his lips on hers, so that she might feel his spirit pass, away from what was haunting it, into hers, never to escape. but his lips did not come to hers. they stayed drawn back, trembling, hungry-looking, just above her lips. and she whispered: "kiss me!" she felt him shudder in her arms, saw his eyes darken, his lips quiver and quiver, as if he wanted them to, but they would not. what was it? oh, what was it? wasn't he going to kiss her--not to kiss her? and while in that unnatural pause they stood, their heads bent back among the moongleams and those willow shadows, there passed through nedda such strange trouble as she had never known. not kiss her! not kiss her! why didn't he? when in her blood and in the night all round, in the feel of his arms, the sight of his hungry lips, was something unknown, wonderful, terrifying, sweet! and she wailed out: "i want you--i don't care--i want you!" she felt him sway, reel, and clutch her as if he were going to fall, and all other feeling vanished in the instinct of the nurse she had already been to him. he was ill again! yes, he was ill! and she said: "derek--don't! it's all right. let's walk on quietly!" she got his arm tightly in hers and drew him along toward home. by the jerking of that arm, the taut look on his face, she could feel that he did not know from step to step whether he could stay upright. but she herself was steady and calm enough, bent on keeping emotion away, and somehow getting him back along the river-path, abandoned now to the moon and the bright, still spaces of the night and the slow-moving, whitened water. why had she not felt from the first that he was overwrought and only fit for bed? thus, very slowly, they made their way up by the factory again into the lane by the church magnate's garden, under the branches of the sycamores, past the same white-faced old house at the corner, to the high street where some few people were still abroad. at the front door of the hotel stood felix, looking at his watch, disconsolate as an old hen. to her great relief he went in quickly when he saw them coming. she could not bear the thought of talk and explanation. the one thing was to get derek to bed. all the time he had gone along with that taut face; and now, when he sat down on the shiny sofa in the little bedroom, he shivered so violently that his teeth chattered. she rang for a hot bottle and brandy and hot water. when he had drunk he certainly shivered less, professed himself all right, and would not let her stay. she dared not ask, but it did seem as if the physical collapse had driven away, for the time at all events, that ghostly visitor, and, touching his forehead with her lips--very motherly--so that he looked up and smiled at her--she said in a matter-of-fact voice: "i'll come back after a bit and tuck you up," and went out. felix was waiting in the hall, at a little table on which stood a bowl of bread and milk. he took the cover off it for her without a word. and while she supped he kept glancing at her, trying to make up his mind to words. but her face was sealed. and all he said was: "your uncle's gone to becket for the night. i've got you a room next mine, and a tooth-brush, and some sort of comb. i hope you'll be able to manage, my child." nedda left him at the door of his room and went into her own. after waiting there ten minutes she stole out again. it was all quiet, and she went resolutely back down the stairs. she did not care who saw her or what they thought. probably they took her for derek's sister; but even if they didn't she would not have cared. it was past eleven, the light nearly out, and the hall in the condition of such places that await a morning's renovation. his corridor, too, was quite dark. she opened the door without sound and listened, till his voice said softly: "all right, little angel; i'm not asleep." and by a glimmer of moonlight, through curtains designed to keep out nothing, she stole up to the bed. she could just see his face, and eyes looking up at her with a sort of adoration. she put her hand on his forehead and whispered: "are you comfy?" he murmured back: "yes, quite comfy." kneeling down, she laid her face beside his on the pillow. she could not help doing that; it made everything seem holy, cuddley, warm. his lips touched her nose. her eyes, for just that instant, looked up into his, that were very dark and soft; then she got up. "would you like me to stay till you're asleep?" "yes; forever. but i shouldn't exactly sleep. would you?" in the darkness nedda vehemently shook her head. sleep! no! she would not sleep! "good night, then!" "good night, little dark angel!" "good night!" with that last whisper she slipped back to the door and noiselessly away. chapter xxxvii it was long before she closed her eyes, spending the hours in fancy where still less she would have slept. but when she did drop off she dreamed that he and she were alone upon a star, where all the trees were white, the water, grass, birds, everything, white, and they were walking arm in arm, among white flowers. and just as she had stooped to pick one--it was no flower, but--tryst's white-banded face! she woke with a little cry. she was dressed by eight and went at once to derek's room. there was no answer to her knock, and in a flutter of fear she opened the door. he had gone--packed, and gone. she ran back to the hall. there was a note for her in the office, and she took it out of sight to read. it said: "he came back this morning. i'm going home by the first train. he seems to want me to do something. "derek." came back! that thing--that gray thing that she, too, had seemed to see for a moment in the fields beside the river! and he was suffering again as he had suffered yesterday! it was awful. she waited miserably till her father came down. to find that he, too, knew of this trouble was some relief. he made no objection when she begged that they should follow on to joyfields. directly after breakfast they set out. once on her way to derek again, she did not feel so frightened. but in the train she sat very still, gazing at her lap, and only once glanced up from under those long lashes. "can you understand it, dad?" felix, not much happier than she, answered: "the man had something queer about him. besides derek's been ill, don't forget that. but it's too bad for you, nedda. i don't like it; i don't like it." "i can't be parted from him, dad. that's impossible." felix was silenced by the vigor of those words. "his mother can help, perhaps," he said. ah! if his mother would help--send him away from the laborers, and all this! up from the station they took the field paths, which cut off quite a mile. the grass and woods were shining brightly, peacefully in the sun; it seemed incredible that there should be heartburnings about a land so smiling, that wrongs and miseries should haunt those who lived and worked in these bright fields. surely in this earthly paradise the dwellers were enviable, well-nourished souls, sleek and happy as the pied cattle that lifted their inquisitive muzzles! nedda tried to stroke the nose of one--grayish, blunt, moist. but the creature backed away from her hand, snuffling, and its cynical, soft eyes with chestnut lashes seemed warning the girl that she belonged to the breed that might be trusted to annoy. in the last fields before the joyfields crossroads they came up with a little, square, tow-headed man, without coat or cap, who had just driven some cattle in and was returning with his dog, at a 'dot-here dot-there' walk, as though still driving them. he gave them a look rather like that of the bullock nedda had tried to stroke. she knew he must be one of the malloring men, and longed to ask him questions; but he, too, looked shy and distrustful, as if he suspected that they wanted something out of him. she summoned up courage, however, to say: "did you see about poor bob tryst?" "i 'eard tell. 'e didn' like prison. they say prison takes the 'eart out of you. 'e didn' think o' that." and the smile that twisted the little man's lips seemed to nedda strange and cruel, as if he actually found pleasure in the fate of his fellow. all she could find to answer was: "is that a good dog?" the little man looked down at the dog trotting alongside with drooped tail, and shook his head: "'e's no good wi' beasts--won't touch 'em!" then, looking up sidelong, he added surprisingly: "mast' freeland 'e got a crack on the head, though!" again there was that satisfied resentment in his voice and the little smile twisting his lips. nedda felt more lost than ever. they parted at the crossroads and saw him looking back at them as they went up the steps to the wicket gate. amongst a patch of early sunflowers, tod, in shirt and trousers, was surrounded by his dog and the three small trysts, all apparently engaged in studying the biggest of the sunflowers, where a peacock-butterfly and a bee were feeding, one on a gold petal, the other on the black heart. nedda went quickly up to them and asked: "has derek come, uncle tod?" tod raised his eyes. he did not seem in the least surprised to see her, as if his sky were in the habit of dropping his relatives at ten in the morning. "gone out again," he said. nedda made a sign toward the children. "have you heard, uncle tod?" tod nodded and his blue eyes, staring above the children's heads, darkened. "is granny still here?" again tod nodded. leaving felix in the garden, nedda stole upstairs and tapped on frances freeland's door. she, whose stoicism permitted her the one luxury of never coming down to breakfast, had just made it for herself over a little spirit-lamp. she greeted nedda with lifted eyebrows. "oh, my darling! where have you come from? you must have my nice cocoa! isn't this the most perfect lamp you ever saw? did you ever see such a flame? watch!" she touched the spirit-lamp and what there was of flame died out. "now, isn't that provoking? it's really a splendid thing, quite a new kind. i mean to get you one. now, drink your cocoa; it's beautifully hot." "i've had breakfast, granny." frances freeland gazed at her doubtfully, then, as a last resource, began to sip the cocoa, of which, in truth, she was badly in want. "granny, will you help me?" "of course, darling. what is it?" "i do so want derek to forget all about this terrible business." frances freeland, who had unscrewed the top of a little canister, answered: "yes, dear, i quite agree. i'm sure it's best for him. open your mouth and let me pop in one of these delicious little plasmon biscuits. they're perfect after travelling. only," she added wistfully, "i'm afraid he won't pay any attention to me." "no, but you could speak to aunt kirsteen; it's for her to stop him." one of her most pathetic smiles came over frances freeland's face. "yes, i could speak to her. but, you see, i don't count for anything. one doesn't when one gets old." "oh, granny, you do! you count for a lot; every one admires you so. you always seem to have something that--that other people haven't got. and you're not a bit old in spirit." frances freeland was fingering her rings; she slipped one off. "well," she said, "it's no good thinking about that, is it? i've wanted to give you this for ages, darling; it is so uncomfortable on my finger. now, just let me see if i can pop it on!" nedda recoiled. "oh, granny!" she said. "you are--!" and vanished. there was still no one in the kitchen, and she sat down to wait for her aunt to finish her up-stairs duties. kirsteen came down at last, in her inevitable blue dress, betraying her surprise at this sudden appearance of her niece only by a little quivering of her brows. and, trembling with nervousness, nedda took her plunge, pouring out the whole story--of derek's letter; their journey down; her father's talk with him; the visit to tryst's body; their walk by the river; and of how haunted and miserable he was. showing the little note he had left that morning, she clasped her hands and said: "oh, aunt kirsteen, make him happy again! stop that awful haunting and keep him from all this!" kirsteen had listened, with one foot on the hearth in her favorite attitude. when the girl had finished she said quietly: "i'm not a witch, nedda!" "but if it wasn't for you he would never have started. and now that poor tryst's dead he would leave it alone. i'm sure only you can make him lose that haunted feeling." kirsteen shook her head. "listen, nedda!" she said slowly, as though weighing each word. "i should like you to understand. there's a superstition in this country that people are free. ever since i was a girl your age i've known that they are not; no one is free here who can't pay for freedom. it's one thing to see, another to feel this with your whole being. when, like me, you have an open wound, which something is always inflaming, you can't wonder, can you, that fever escapes into the air. derek may have caught the infection of my fever--that's all! but i shall never lose that fever, nedda--never!" "but, aunt kirsteen, this haunting is dreadful. i can't bear to see it." "my dear, derek is very highly strung, and he's been ill. it's in my family to see things. that'll go away." nedda said passionately: "i don't believe he'll ever lose it while he goes on here, tearing his heart out. and they're trying to get me away from him. i know they are!" kirsteen turned; her eyes seemed to blaze. "they? ah! yes! you'll have to fight if you want to marry a rebel, nedda!" nedda put her hands to her forehead, bewildered. "you see, nedda, rebellion never ceases. it's not only against this or that injustice, it's against all force and wealth that takes advantage of its force and wealth. that rebellion goes on forever. think well before you join in." nedda turned away. of what use to tell her to think when 'i won't--i can't be parted from him!' kept every other thought paralyzed. and she pressed her forehead against the cross-bar of the window, trying to find better words to make her appeal again. out there above the orchard the sky was blue, and everything light and gay, as the very butterflies that wavered past. a motor-car seemed to have stopped in the road close by; its whirring and whizzing was clearly audible, mingled with the cooings of pigeons and a robin's song. and suddenly she heard her aunt say: "you have your chance, nedda! here they are!" nedda turned. there in the doorway were her uncles john and stanley coming in, followed by her father and uncle tod. what did this mean? what had they come for? and, disturbed to the heart, she gazed from one to the other. they had that curious look of people not quite knowing what their reception will be like, yet with something resolute, almost portentous, in their mien. she saw john go up to her aunt and hold out his hand. "i dare say felix and nedda have told you about yesterday," he said. "stanley and i thought it best to come over." kirsteen answered: "tod, will you tell mother who's here?" then none of them seemed to know quite what to say, or where to look, till frances freeland, her face all pleased and anxious, came in. when she had kissed them they all sat down. and nedda, at the window, squeezed her hands tight together in her lap. "we've come about derek," john said. "yes," broke in stanley. "for goodness' sake, kirsteen, don't let's have any more of this! just think what would have happened yesterday if that poor fellow hadn't providentially gone off the hooks!" "providentially!" "well, it was. you see to what lengths derek was prepared to go. hang it all! we shouldn't have been exactly proud of a felon in the family." frances freeland, who had been lacing and unlacing her fingers, suddenly fixed her eyes on kirsteen. "i don't understand very well, darling, but i am sure that whatever dear john says will be wise and right. you must remember that he is the eldest and has a great deal of experience." kirsteen bent her head. if there was irony in the gesture, it was not perceived by frances freeland. "it can't be right for dear derek, or any gentleman, to go against the law of the land or be mixed up with wrong-doing in any way. i haven't said anything, but i have felt it very much. because--it's all been not quite nice, has it?" nedda saw her father wince. then stanley broke in again: "now that the whole thing's done with, do, for heaven's sake, let's have a little peace!" at that moment her aunt's face seemed wonderful to nedda; so quiet, yet so burningly alive. "peace! there is no peace in this world. there is death, but no peace!" and, moving nearer to tod, she rested her hand on his shoulder, looking, as it seemed to nedda, at something far away, till john said: "that's hardly the point, is it? we should be awfully glad to know that there'll be no more trouble. all this has been very worrying. and now the cause seems to be--removed." there was always a touch of finality in john's voice. nedda saw that all had turned to kirsteen for her answer. "if those up and down the land who profess belief in liberty will cease to filch from the helpless the very crust of it, the cause will be removed." "which is to say--never!" at those words from felix, frances freeland, gazing first at him and then at kirsteen, said in a pained voice: "i don't think you ought to talk like that, kirsteen, dear. nobody who's at all nice means to be unkind. we're all forgetful sometimes. i know i often forget to be sympathetic. it vexes me dreadfully!" "mother, don't defend tyranny!" "i'm sure it's often from the best motives, dear." "so is rebellion." "well, i don't understand about that, darling. but i do think, with dear john, it's a great pity. it will be a dreadful drawback to derek if he has to look back on something that he regrets when he's older. it's always best to smile and try to look on the bright side of things and not be grumbly-grumbly!" after that little speech of frances freeland's there was a silence that nedda thought would last forever, till her aunt, pressing close to tod's shoulder, spoke. "you want me to stop derek. i tell you all what i've just told nedda. i don't attempt to control derek; i never have. for myself, when i see a thing i hate i can't help fighting against it. i shall never be able to help that. i understand how you must dislike all this; i know it must be painful to you, mother. but while there is tyranny in this land, to laborers, women, animals, anything weak and helpless, so long will there be rebellion against it, and things will happen that will disturb you." again nedda saw her father wince. but frances freeland, bending forward, fixed her eyes piercingly on kirsteen's neck, as if she were noticing something there more important than that about tyranny! then john said very gravely: "you seem to think that we approve of such things being done to the helpless!" "i know that you disapprove." "with the masterly inactivity," felix said suddenly, in a voice more bitter than nedda had ever heard from him, "of authority, money, culture, and philosophy. with the disapproval that lifts no finger--winking at tyrannies lest worse befall us. yes, we--brethren--we--and so we shall go on doing. quite right, kirsteen!" "no. the world is changing, felix, changing!" but nedda had started up. there at the door was derek. chapter xxxviii derek, who had slept the sleep of the dead, having had none for two nights, woke thinking of nedda hovering above him in the dark; of her face laid down beside him on the pillow. and then, suddenly, up started that thing, and stood there, haunting him! why did it come? what did it want of him? after writing the little note to nedda, he hurried to the station and found a train about to start. to see and talk with the laborers; to do something, anything to prove that this tragic companion had no real existence! he went first to the gaunts' cottage. the door, there, was opened by the rogue-girl, comely and robust as ever, in a linen frock, with her sleeves rolled up, and smiling broadly at his astonishment. "don't be afraid, mr. derek; i'm only here for the week-end, just to tiddy up a bit. 'tis all right in london. i wouldn't come back here, i wouldn't--not if you was to give me--" and she pouted her red lips. "where's your father, wilmet?" "over in willey's copse cuttin' stakes. i hear you've been ill, mr. derek. you do look pale. were you very bad?" and her eyes opened as though the very thought of illness was difficult for her to grasp. "i saw your young lady up in london. she's very pretty. wish you happiness, mr. derek. grandfather, here's mr. derek!" the face of old gaunt, carved, cynical, yellow, appeared above her shoulder. there he stood, silent, giving derek no greeting. and with a sudden miserable feeling the boy said: "i'll go and find him. good-by, wilmet!" "good-by, mr. derek. 'tis quiet enough here now; there's changes." her rogue face twinkled again, and, turning her chin, she rubbed it on her plump shoulder, as might a heifer, while from behind her grandfather gaunt's face looked out with a faint, sardonic grin. derek, hurrying on to willey's copse, caught sight, along a far hedge, of the big dark laborer, tulley, who had been his chief lieutenant in the fighting; but, whether the man heard his hail or no, he continued along the hedgeside without response and vanished over a stile. the field dipped sharply to a stream, and at the crossing derek came suddenly on the little 'dot-here dot-there' cowherd, who, at derek's greeting, gave him an abrupt "good day!" and went on with his occupation of mending a hurdle. again that miserable feeling beset the boy, and he hastened on. a sound of chopping guided him. near the edge of the coppice tom gaunt was lopping at some bushes. at sight of derek he stopped and stood waiting, his loquacious face expressionless, his little, hard eye cocked. "good morning, tom. it's ages since i saw you." "ah, 'tis a proper long time! you 'ad a knock." derek winced; it was said as if he had been disabled in an affair in which gaunt had neither part nor parcel. then, with a great effort, the boy brought out his question: "you've heard about poor bob?" "yaas; 'tis the end of him." some meaning behind those words, the unsmiling twist of that hard-bitten face, the absence of the 'sir' that even tom gaunt generally gave him, all seemed part of an attack. and, feeling as if his heart were being squeezed, derek looked straight into his face. "what's the matter, tom?" "matter! i don' know as there's anything the matter, ezactly!" "what have i done? tell me!" tom gaunt smiled; his little, gray eyes met derek's full. "'tisn't for a gentleman to be held responsible." "come!" derek cried passionately. "what is it? d'you think i deserted you, or what? speak out, man!" abating nothing of his stare and drawl, gaunt answered: "deserted? oh, dear no! us can't afford to do no more dyin' for you--that's all!" "for me! dying! my god! d'you think i wouldn't have--? oh! confound you!" "aye! confounded us you 'ave! hope you're satisfied!" pale as death and quivering all over, derek answered: "so you think i've just been frying fish of my own?" tom gaunt, emitted a little laugh. "i think you've fried no fish at all. that's what i think. and no one else does, neither, if you want to know--except poor bob. you've fried his fish, sure enough!" stung to the heart, the boy stood motionless. a pigeon was cooing; the sappy scent from the lopped bushes filled all the sun-warmed air. "i see!" he said. "thanks, tom; i'm glad to know." without moving a muscle, tom gaunt answered: "don't mention it!" and resumed his lopping. derek turned and walked out of the little wood. but when he had put a field between him and the sound of gaunt's bill-hook, he lay down and buried his face in the grass, chewing at its green blades, scarce dry of dew, and with its juicy sweetness tasting the full of bitterness. and the gray shade stalked out again, and stood there in the warmth of the august day, with its scent and murmur of full summer, while the pigeons cooed and dandelion fluff drifted by. . . . when, two hours later, he entered the kitchen at home, of the company assembled frances freeland alone retained equanimity enough to put up her face to be kissed. "i'm so thankful you've come back in time to see your uncles, darling. your uncle john thinks, and we all agree, that to encourage those poor laborers to do things which are not nice is--is--you know what i mean, darling!" derek gave a bitter little laugh. "criminal, granny! yes, and puppyish! i've learned all that." the sound of his voice was utterly unlike his own, and kirsteen, starting forward, put her arm round him. "it's all right, mother. they've chucked me." at that moment, when all, save his mother, wanted so to express their satisfaction, frances freeland alone succeeded. "i'm so glad, darling!" then john rose and, holding out his hand to his nephew, said: "that's the end of the trouble, then, derek?" "yes. and i beg your pardon, uncle john; and all--uncle stanley, uncle felix; you, dad; granny." they had all risen now. the boy's face gave them--even john, even stanley--a choke in the throat. frances freeland suddenly took their arms and went to the door; her other two sons followed. and quietly they all went out. derek, who had stayed perfectly still, staring past nedda into a corner of the room, said: "ask him what he wants, mother." nedda smothered down a cry. but kirsteen, tightening her clasp of him and looking steadily into that corner, answered: "nothing, my boy. he's quite friendly. he only wants to be with you for a little." "but i can't do anything for him." "he knows that." "i wish he wouldn't, mother. i can't be more sorry than i have been." kirsteen's face quivered. "my dear, it will go quite soon. love nedda! see! she wants you!" derek answered in the same quiet voice: "yes, nedda is the comfort. mother, i want to go away--away out of england--right away." nedda rushed and flung her arms round him. "i, too, derek; i, too!" that evening felix came out to the old 'fly,' waiting to take him from joyfields to becket. what a sky! all over its pale blue a far-up wind had drifted long, rosy clouds, and through one of them the half-moon peered, of a cheese-green hue; and, framed and barred by the elm-trees, like some roseate, stained-glass window, the sunset blazed. in a corner of the orchard a little bonfire had been lighted, and round it he could see the three small trysts dropping armfuls of leaves and pointing at the flames leaping out of the smoulder. there, too, was tod's big figure, motionless, and his dog sitting on its haunches, with head poked forward, staring at those red tongues of flame. kirsteen had come with him to the wicket gate. he held her hand long in his own and pressed it hard. and while that blue figure, turned to the sunset, was still visible, he screwed himself back to look. they had been in painful conclave, as it seemed to felix, all day, coming to the decision that those two young things should have their wish, marry, and go out to new zealand. the ranch of cousin alick morton (son of that brother of frances freeland, who, absorbed in horses, had wandered to australia and died in falling from them) had extended a welcome to derek. those two would have a voyage of happiness--see together the red sunsets in the mediterranean, pompeii, and the dark ants of men swarming in endless band up and down with their coal-sacks at port said; smell the cinnamon gardens of colombo; sit up on deck at night and watch the stars. . . . who could grudge it them? out there youth and energy would run unchecked. for here youth had been beaten! on and on the old 'fly' rumbled between the shadowy fields. 'the world is changing, felix--changing!' was that defeat of youth, then, nothing? under the crust of authority and wealth, culture and philosophy--was the world really changing; was liberty truly astir, under that sky in the west all blood; and man rising at long last from his knees before the god of force? the silent, empty fields darkened, the air gathered dewy thickness, and the old 'fly' rumbled and rolled as slow as fate. cottage lamps were already lighted for the evening meal. no laborer abroad at this hour! and felix thought of tryst, the tragic fellow--the moving, lonely figure; emanation of these solitary fields, shade of the departing land! one might well see him as that boy saw him, silent, dogged, in a gray light such as this now clinging above the hedgerows and the grass! the old 'fly' turned into the becket drive. it had grown dark now, save for the half-moon; the last chafer was booming by, and a bat flitting, a little, blind, eager bat, through the quiet trees. he got out to walk the last few hundred yards. a lovely night, silent below her stars--cool and dark, spread above field after field, wood on wood, for hundreds of miles on every side. night covering his native land. the same silence had reigned out there, the same perfume stolen up, the same star-shine fallen, for millions of years in the past, and would for millions of years to come. close to where the half-moon floated, a slow, narrow, white cloud was passing--curiously shaped. at one end of it felix could see distinctly the form of a gleaming skull, with dark sky showing through its eyeholes, cheeks, and mouth. a queer phenomenon; fascinating, rather ghastly! it grew sharper in outline, more distinct. one of those sudden shudders, that seize men from the crown of the head to the very heels, passed down his back. he shut his eyes. and, instead, there came up before him kirsteen's blue-clothed figure turned to the sunset glow. ah! better to see that than this skull above the land! better to believe her words: 'the world is changing, felix--changing!' world is changing, felix--changing!' the end beyond by john galsworthy "che faro senza--!" to thomas hardy beyond part i i at the door of st. george's registry office, charles clare winton strolled forward in the wake of the taxi-cab that was bearing his daughter away with "the fiddler fellow" she had married. his sense of decorum forbade his walking with nurse betty--the only other witness of the wedding. a stout woman in a highly emotional condition would have been an incongruous companion to his slim, upright figure, moving with just that unexaggerated swing and balance becoming to a lancer of the old school, even if he has been on the retired list for sixteen years. poor betty! he thought of her with irritated sympathy--she need not have given way to tears on the door-step. she might well feel lost now gyp was gone, but not so lost as himself! his pale-gloved hand--the one real hand he had, for his right hand had been amputated at the wrist--twisted vexedly at the small, grizzling moustache lifting itself from the corners of his firm lips. on this grey february day he wore no overcoat; faithful to the absolute, almost shamefaced quietness of that wedding, he had not even donned black coat and silk hat, but wore a blue suit and a hard black felt. the instinct of a soldier and hunting man to exhibit no sign whatever of emotion did not desert him this dark day of his life; but his grey-hazel eyes kept contracting, staring fiercely, contracting again; and, at moments, as if overpowered by some deep feeling, they darkened and seemed to draw back in his head. his face was narrow and weathered and thin-cheeked, with a clean-cut jaw, small ears, hair darker than the moustache, but touched at the side wings with grey--the face of a man of action, self-reliant, resourceful. and his bearing was that of one who has always been a bit of a dandy, and paid attention to "form," yet been conscious sometimes that there were things beyond. a man, who, preserving all the precision of a type, yet had in him a streak of something that was not typical. such often have tragedy in their pasts. making his way towards the park, he turned into mount street. there was the house still, though the street had been very different then--the house he had passed, up and down, up and down in the fog, like a ghost, that november afternoon, like a cast-out dog, in such awful, unutterable agony of mind, twenty-three years ago, when gyp was born. and then to be told at the door--he, with no right to enter, he, loving as he believed man never loved woman--to be told at the door that she was dead--dead in bearing what he and she alone knew was their child! up and down in the fog, hour after hour, knowing her time was upon her; and at last to be told that! of all fates that befall man, surely the most awful is to love too much. queer that his route should take him past the very house to-day, after this new bereavement! accursed luck--that gout which had sent him to wiesbaden, last september! accursed luck that gyp had ever set eyes on this fellow fiorsen, with his fatal fiddle! certainly not since gyp had come to live with him, fifteen years ago, had he felt so forlorn and fit for nothing. to-morrow he would get back to mildenham and see what hard riding would do. without gyp--to be without gyp! a fiddler! a chap who had never been on a horse in his life! and with his crutch-handled cane he switched viciously at the air, as though carving a man in two. his club, near hyde park corner, had never seemed to him so desolate. from sheer force of habit he went into the card-room. the afternoon had so darkened that electric light already burned, and there were the usual dozen of players seated among the shaded gleams falling decorously on dark-wood tables, on the backs of chairs, on cards and tumblers, the little gilded coffee-cups, the polished nails of fingers holding cigars. a crony challenged him to piquet. he sat down listless. that three-legged whist--bridge--had always offended his fastidiousness--a mangled short cut of a game! poker had something blatant in it. piquet, though out of fashion, remained for him the only game worth playing--the only game which still had style. he held good cards and rose the winner of five pounds that he would willingly have paid to escape the boredom of the bout. where would they be by now? past newbury; gyp sitting opposite that swedish fellow with his greenish wildcat's eyes. something furtive, and so foreign, about him! a mess--if he were any judge of horse or man! thank god he had tied gyp's money up--every farthing! and an emotion that was almost jealousy swept him at the thought of the fellow's arms round his soft-haired, dark-eyed daughter--that pretty, willowy creature, so like in face and limb to her whom he had loved so desperately. eyes followed him when he left the card-room, for he was one who inspired in other men a kind of admiration--none could say exactly why. many quite as noted for general good sportsmanship attracted no such attention. was it "style," or was it the streak of something not quite typical--the brand left on him by the past? abandoning the club, he walked slowly along the railings of piccadilly towards home, that house in bury street, st. james's, which had been his london abode since he was quite young--one of the few in the street that had been left untouched by the general passion for puffing down and building up, which had spoiled half london in his opinion. a man, more silent than anything on earth, with the soft, quick, dark eyes of a woodcock and a long, greenish, knitted waistcoat, black cutaway, and tight trousers strapped over his boots, opened the door. "i shan't go out again, markey. mrs. markey must give me some dinner. anything'll do." markey signalled that he had heard, and those brown eyes under eyebrows meeting and forming one long, dark line, took his master in from head to heel. he had already nodded last night, when his wife had said the gov'nor would take it hard. retiring to the back premises, he jerked his head toward the street and made a motion upward with his hand, by which mrs. markey, an astute woman, understood that she had to go out and shop because the gov'nor was dining in. when she had gone, markey sat down opposite betty, gyp's old nurse. the stout woman was still crying in a quiet way. it gave him the fair hump, for he felt inclined to howl like a dog himself. after watching her broad, rosy, tearful face in silence for some minutes, he shook his head, and, with a gulp and a tremor of her comfortable body, betty desisted. one paid attention to markey. winton went first into his daughter's bedroom, and gazed at its emptied silken order, its deserted silver mirror, twisting viciously at his little moustache. then, in his sanctum, he sat down before the fire, without turning up the light. anyone looking in, would have thought he was asleep; but the drowsy influence of that deep chair and cosy fire had drawn him back into the long-ago. what unhappy chance had made him pass her house to-day! some say there is no such thing as an affinity, no case--of a man, at least--made bankrupt of passion by a single love. in theory, it may be so; in fact, there are such men--neck-or-nothing men, quiet and self-contained, the last to expect that nature will play them such a trick, the last to desire such surrender of themselves, the last to know when their fate is on them. who could have seemed to himself, and, indeed, to others, less likely than charles clare winton to fall over head and ears in love when he stepped into the belvoir hunt ballroom at grantham that december evening, twenty-four years ago? a keen soldier, a dandy, a first-rate man to hounds, already almost a proverb in his regiment for coolness and for a sort of courteous disregard of women as among the minor things of life--he had stood there by the door, in no hurry to dance, taking a survey with an air that just did not give an impression of "side" because it was not at all put on. and--behold!--she had walked past him, and his world was changed for ever. was it an illusion of light that made her whole spirit seem to shine through a half-startled glance? or a little trick of gait, a swaying, seductive balance of body; was it the way her hair waved back, or a subtle scent, as of a flower? what was it? the wife of a squire of those parts, with a house in london. her name? it doesn't matter--she has been long enough dead. there was no excuse--not an ill-treated woman; an ordinary, humdrum marriage, of three years standing; no children. an amiable good fellow of a husband, fifteen years older than herself, inclined already to be an invalid. no excuse! yet, in one month from that night, winton and she were lovers, not only in thought but in deed. a thing so utterly beyond "good form" and his sense of what was honourable and becoming in an officer and gentleman that it was simply never a question of weighing pro and con, the cons had it so completely. and yet from that first evening, he was hers, she his. for each of them the one thought was how to be with the other. if so--why did they not at least go off together? not for want of his beseeching. and no doubt, if she had survived gyp's birth, they would have gone. but to face the prospect of ruining two men, as it looked to her, had till then been too much for that soft-hearted creature. death stilled her struggle before it was decided. there are women in whom utter devotion can still go hand in hand with a doubting soul. such are generally the most fascinating; for the power of hard and prompt decision robs women of mystery, of the subtle atmosphere of change and chance. though she had but one part in four of foreign blood, she was not at all english. but winton was english to his back-bone, english in his sense of form, and in that curious streak of whole-hearted desperation that will break form to smithereens in one department and leave it untouched in every other of its owner's life. to have called winton a "crank" would never have occurred to any one--his hair was always perfectly parted; his boots glowed; he was hard and reticent, accepting and observing every canon of well-bred existence. yet, in that, his one infatuation, he was as lost to the world and its opinion as the longest-haired lentil-eater of us all. though at any moment during that one year of their love he would have risked his life and sacrificed his career for a whole day in her company, he never, by word or look, compromised her. he had carried his punctilious observance of her "honour" to a point more bitter than death, consenting, even, to her covering up the tracks of their child's coming. paying that gambler's debt was by far the bravest deed of his life, and even now its memory festered. to this very room he had come back after hearing she was dead; this very room which he had refurnished to her taste, so that even now, with its satinwood chairs, little dainty jacobean bureau, shaded old brass candelabra, divan, it still had an air exotic to bachelordom. there, on the table, had been a letter recalling him to his regiment, ordered on active service. if he had realized what he would go through before he had the chance of trying to lose his life out there, he would undoubtedly have taken that life, sitting in this very chair before the fire--the chair sacred to her and memory. he had not the luck he wished for in that little war--men who don't care whether they live or die seldom have. he secured nothing but distinction. when it was over, he went on, with a few more lines in his face, a few more wrinkles in his heart, soldiering, shooting tigers, pig-sticking, playing polo, riding to hounds harder than ever; giving nothing away to the world; winning steadily the curious, uneasy admiration that men feel for those who combine reckless daring with an ice-cool manner. since he was less of a talker even than most of his kind, and had never in his life talked of women, he did not gain the reputation of a woman-hater, though he so manifestly avoided them. after six years' service in india and egypt, he lost his right hand in a charge against dervishes, and had, perforce, to retire, with the rank of major, aged thirty-four. for a long time he had hated the very thought of the child--his child, in giving birth to whom the woman he loved had died. then came a curious change of feeling; and for three years before his return to england, he had been in the habit of sending home odds and ends picked up in the bazaars, to serve as toys. in return, he had received, twice annually at least, a letter from the man who thought himself gyp's father. these letters he read and answered. the squire was likable, and had been fond of her; and though never once had it seemed possible to winton to have acted otherwise than he did, he had all the time preserved a just and formal sense of the wrong he had done this man. he did not experience remorse, but he had always an irksome feeling as of a debt unpaid, mitigated by knowledge that no one had ever suspected, and discounted by memory of the awful torture he had endured to make sure against suspicion. when, plus distinction and minus his hand, he was at last back in england, the squire had come to see him. the poor man was failing fast from bright's disease. winton entered again that house in mount street with an emotion, to stifle which required more courage than any cavalry charge. but one whose heart, as he would have put it, is "in the right place" does not indulge the quaverings of his nerves, and he faced those rooms where he had last seen her, faced that lonely little dinner with her husband, without sign of feeling. he did not see little ghita, or gyp, as she had nicknamed herself, for she was already in her bed; and it was a whole month before he brought himself to go there at an hour when he could see the child if he would. the fact is, he was afraid. what would the sight of this little creature stir in him? when betty, the nurse, brought her in to see the soldier gentleman with "the leather hand," who had sent her those funny toys, she stood calmly staring with her large, deep-brown eyes. being seven, her little brown-velvet frock barely reached the knees of her thin, brown-stockinged legs planted one just in front of the other, as might be the legs of a small brown bird; the oval of her gravely wondering face was warm cream colour without red in it, except that of the lips, which were neither full nor thin, and had a little tuck, the tiniest possible dimple at one corner. her hair of warm dark brown had been specially brushed and tied with a narrow red ribbon back from her forehead, which was broad and rather low, and this added to her gravity. her eyebrows were thin and dark and perfectly arched; her little nose was perfectly straight, her little chin in perfect balance between round and point. she stood and stared till winton smiled. then the gravity of her face broke, her lips parted, her eyes seemed to fly a little. and winton's heart turned over within him--she was the very child of her that he had lost! and he said, in a voice that seemed to him to tremble: "well, gyp?" "thank you for my toys; i like them." he held out his hand, and she gravely put her small hand into it. a sense of solace, as if some one had slipped a finger in and smoothed his heart, came over winton. gently, so as not to startle her, he raised her hand a little, bent, and kissed it. it may have been from his instant recognition that here was one as sensitive as child could be, or the way many soldiers acquire from dealing with their men--those simple, shrewd children--or some deeper instinctive sense of ownership between them; whatever it was, from that moment, gyp conceived for him a rushing admiration, one of those headlong affections children will sometimes take for the most unlikely persons. he used to go there at an hour when he knew the squire would be asleep, between two and five. after he had been with gyp, walking in the park, riding with her in the row, or on wet days sitting in her lonely nursery telling stories, while stout betty looked on half hypnotized, a rather queer and doubting look on her comfortable face--after such hours, he found it difficult to go to the squire's study and sit opposite him, smoking. those interviews reminded him too much of past days, when he had kept such desperate check on himself--too much of the old inward chafing against the other man's legal ownership--too much of the debt owing. but winton was triple-proofed against betrayal of feeling. the squire welcomed him eagerly, saw nothing, felt nothing, was grateful for his goodness to the child. well, well! he had died in the following spring. and winton found that he had been made gyp's guardian and trustee. since his wife's death, the squire had muddled his affairs, his estate was heavily mortgaged; but winton accepted the position with an almost savage satisfaction, and, from that moment, schemed deeply to get gyp all to himself. the mount street house was sold; the lincolnshire place let. she and nurse betty were installed at his own hunting-box, mildenham. in this effort to get her away from all the squire's relations, he did not scruple to employ to the utmost the power he undoubtedly had of making people feel him unapproachable. he was never impolite to any of them; he simply froze them out. having plenty of money himself, his motives could not be called in question. in one year he had isolated her from all except stout betty. he had no qualms, for gyp was no more happy away from him than he from her. he had but one bad half-hour. it came when he had at last decided that she should be called by his name, if not legally at least by custom, round mildenham. it was to markey he had given the order that gyp was to be little miss winton for the future. when he came in from hunting that day, betty was waiting in his study. she stood in the centre of the emptiest part of that rather dingy room, as far as possible away from any good or chattel. how long she had been standing there, heaven only knew; but her round, rosy face was confused between awe and resolution, and she had made a sad mess of her white apron. her blue eyes met winton's with a sort of desperation. "about what markey told me, sir. my old master wouldn't have liked it, sir." touched on the raw by this reminder that before the world he had been nothing to the loved one, that before the world the squire, who had been nothing to her, had been everything, winton said icily: "indeed! you will be good enough to comply with my wish, all the same." the stout woman's face grew very red. she burst out, breathless: "yes, sir; but i've seen what i've seen. i never said anything, but i've got eyes. if miss gyp's to take your name, sir, then tongues'll wag, and my dear, dead mistress--" but at the look on his face she stopped, with her mouth open. "you will be kind enough to keep your thoughts to yourself. if any word or deed of yours gives the slightest excuse for talk--you go. understand me, you go, and you never see gyp again! in the meantime you will do what i ask. gyp is my adopted daughter." she had always been a little afraid of him, but she had never seen that look in his eyes or heard him speak in that voice. and she bent her full moon of a face and went, with her apron crumpled as apron had never been, and tears in her eyes. and winton, at the window, watching the darkness gather, the leaves flying by on a sou'-westerly wind, drank to the dregs a cup of bitter triumph. he had never had the right to that dead, forever-loved mother of his child. he meant to have the child. if tongues must wag, let them! this was a defeat of all his previous precaution, a deep victory of natural instinct. and his eyes narrowed and stared into the darkness. ii in spite of his victory over all human rivals in the heart of gyp, winton had a rival whose strength he fully realized perhaps for the first time now that she was gone, and he, before the fire, was brooding over her departure and the past. not likely that one of his decisive type, whose life had so long been bound up with swords and horses, would grasp what music might mean to a little girl. such ones, he knew, required to be taught scales, and "in a cottage near a wood" with other melodies. he took care not to go within sound of them, so that he had no conception of the avidity with which gyp had mopped up all, and more than all, her governess could teach her. he was blind to the rapture with which she listened to any stray music that came its way to mildenham--to carols in the christmas dark, to certain hymns, and one special "nunc dimittis" in the village church, attended with a hopeless regularity; to the horn of the hunter far out in the quivering, dripping coverts; even to markey's whistling, which was full and strangely sweet. he could share her love of dogs and horses, take an anxious interest in her way of catching bumblebees in the hollow of her hand and putting them to her small, delicate ears to hear them buzz, sympathize with her continual ravages among the flowerbeds, in the old-fashioned garden, full of lilacs and laburnums in spring, pinks, roses, cornflowers in summer, dahlias and sunflowers in autumn, and always a little neglected and overgrown, a little squeezed in, and elbowed by the more important surrounding paddocks. he could sympathize with her attempts to draw his attention to the song of birds; but it was simply not in him to understand how she loved and craved for music. she was a cloudy little creature, up and down in mood--rather like a brown lady spaniel that she had, now gay as a butterfly, now brooding as night. any touch of harshness she took to heart fearfully. she was the strangest compound of pride and sell-disparagement; the qualities seemed mixed in her so deeply that neither she nor any one knew of which her cloudy fits were the result. being so sensitive, she "fancied" things terribly. things that others did to her, and thought nothing of, often seemed to her conclusive evidence that she was not loved by anybody, which was dreadfully unjust, because she wanted to love everyone--nearly. then suddenly she would feel: "if they don't love me, i don't care. i don't want anything of anybody!" presently, all would blow away just like a cloud, and she would love and be gay, until something fresh, perhaps not at all meant to hurt her, would again hurt her horribly. in reality, the whole household loved and admired her. but she was one of those delicate-treading beings, born with a skin too few, who--and especially in childhood--suffer from themselves in a world born with a skin too many. to winton's extreme delight, she took to riding as a duck to water, and knew no fear on horseback. she had the best governess he could get her, the daughter of an admiral, and, therefore, in distressed circumstances; and later on, a tutor for her music, who came twice a week all the way from london--a sardonic man who cherished for her even more secret admiration than she for him. in fact, every male thing fell in love with her at least a little. unlike most girls, she never had an epoch of awkward plainness, but grew like a flower, evenly, steadily. winton often gazed at her with a sort of intoxication; the turn of her head, the way those perfectly shaped, wonderfully clear brown eyes would "fly," the set of her straight, round neck, the very shaping of her limbs were all such poignant reminders of what he had so loved. and yet, for all that likeness to her mother, there was a difference, both in form and character. gyp had, as it were, an extra touch of "breeding," more chiselling in body, more fastidiousness in soul, a little more poise, a little more sheer grace; in mood, more variance, in mind, more clarity and, mixed with her sweetness, a distinct spice of scepticism which her mother had lacked. in modern times there are no longer "toasts," or she would have been one with both the hunts. though delicate in build, she was not frail, and when her blood was up would "go" all day, and come in so bone-tired that she would drop on to the tiger skin before the fire, rather than face the stairs. life at mildenham was lonely, save for winton's hunting cronies, and they but few, for his spiritual dandyism did not gladly suffer the average country gentleman and his frigid courtesy frightened women. besides, as betty had foreseen, tongues did wag--those tongues of the countryside, avid of anything that might spice the tedium of dull lives and brains. and, though no breath of gossip came to winton's ears, no women visited at mildenham. save for the friendly casual acquaintanceships of churchyard, hunting-field, and local race-meetings, gyp grew up knowing hardly any of her own sex. this dearth developed her reserve, kept her backward in sex-perception, gave her a faint, unconscious contempt for men--creatures always at the beck and call of her smile, and so easily disquieted by a little frown--gave her also a secret yearning for companions of her own gender. any girl or woman that she did chance to meet always took a fancy to her, because she was so nice to them, which made the transitory nature of these friendships tantalizing. she was incapable of jealousies or backbiting. let men beware of such--there is coiled in their fibre a secret fascination! gyp's moral and spiritual growth was not the sort of subject that winton could pay much attention to. it was pre-eminently a matter one did not talk about. outward forms, such as going to church, should be preserved; manners should be taught her by his own example as much as possible; beyond this, nature must look after things. his view had much real wisdom. she was a quick and voracious reader, bad at remembering what she read; and though she had soon devoured all the books in winton's meagre library, including byron, whyte-melville, and humboldt's "cosmos," they had not left too much on her mind. the attempts of her little governess to impart religion were somewhat arid of result, and the interest of the vicar, gyp, with her instinctive spice of scepticism soon put into the same category as the interest of all the other males she knew. she felt that he enjoyed calling her "my dear" and patting her shoulder, and that this enjoyment was enough reward for his exertions. tucked away in that little old dark manor house, whose stables alone were up to date--three hours from london, and some thirty miles from the wash, it must be confessed that her upbringing lacked modernity. about twice a year, winton took her up to town to stay with his unmarried sister rosamund in curzon street. those weeks, if they did nothing else, increased her natural taste for charming clothes, fortified her teeth, and fostered her passion for music and the theatre. but the two main nourishments of the modern girl--discussion and games--she lacked utterly. moreover, those years of her life from fifteen to nineteen were before the social resurrection of , and the world still crawled like a winter fly on a window-pane. winton was a tory, aunt rosamund a tory, everybody round her a tory. the only spiritual development she underwent all those years of her girlhood was through her headlong love for her father. after all, was there any other way in which she could really have developed? only love makes fruitful the soul. the sense of form that both had in such high degree prevented much demonstration; but to be with him, do things for him, to admire, and credit him with perfection; and, since she could not exactly wear the same clothes or speak in the same clipped, quiet, decisive voice, to dislike the clothes and voices of other men--all this was precious to her beyond everything. if she inherited from him that fastidious sense of form, she also inherited his capacity for putting all her eggs in one basket. and since her company alone gave him real happiness, the current of love flowed over her heart all the time. though she never realized it, abundant love for somebody was as necessary to her as water running up the stems of flowers, abundant love from somebody as needful as sunshine on their petals. and winton's somewhat frequent little runs to town, to newmarket, or where not, were always marked in her by a fall of the barometer, which recovered as his return grew near. one part of her education, at all events, was not neglected--cultivation of an habitual sympathy with her poorer neighbours. without concerning himself in the least with problems of sociology, winton had by nature an open hand and heart for cottagers, and abominated interference with their lives. and so it came about that gyp, who, by nature also never set foot anywhere without invitation, was always hearing the words: "step in, miss gyp"; "step in, and sit down, lovey," and a good many words besides from even the boldest and baddest characters. there is nothing like a soft and pretty face and sympathetic listening for seducing the hearts of "the people." so passed the eleven years till she was nineteen and winton forty-six. then, under the wing of her little governess, she went to the hunt-ball. she had revolted against appearing a "fluffy miss," wanting to be considered at once full-fledged; so that her dress, perfect in fit, was not white but palest maize-colour, as if she had already been to dances. she had all winton's dandyism, and just so much more as was appropriate to her sex. with her dark hair, wonderfully fluffed and coiled, waving across her forehead, her neck bare for the first time, her eyes really "flying," and a demeanour perfectly cool--as though she knew that light and movement, covetous looks, soft speeches, and admiration were her birthright--she was more beautiful than even winton had thought her. at her breast she wore some sprigs of yellow jasmine procured by him from town--a flower of whose scent she was very fond, and that he had never seen worn in ballrooms. that swaying, delicate creature, warmed by excitement, reminded him, in every movement and by every glance of her eyes, of her whom he had first met at just such a ball as this. and by the carriage of his head, the twist of his little moustache, he conveyed to the world the pride he was feeling. that evening held many sensations for gyp--some delightful, one confused, one unpleasant. she revelled in her success. admiration was very dear to her. she passionately enjoyed dancing, loved feeling that she was dancing well and giving pleasure. but, twice over, she sent away her partners, smitten with compassion for her little governess sitting there against the wall--all alone, with no one to take notice of her, because she was elderly, and roundabout, poor darling! and, to that loyal person's horror, she insisted on sitting beside her all through two dances. nor would she go in to supper with anyone but winton. returning to the ballroom on his arm, she overheard an elderly woman say: "oh, don't you know? of course he really is her father!" and an elderly man answer: "ah, that accounts for it--quite so!" with those eyes at the back of the head which the very sensitive possess, she could see their inquisitive, cold, slightly malicious glances, and knew they were speaking of her. and just then her partner came for her. "really is her father!" the words meant too much to be grasped this evening of full sensations. they left a little bruise somewhere, but softened and anointed, just a sense of confusion at the back of her mind. and very soon came that other sensation, so disillusioning, that all else was crowded out. it was after a dance--a splendid dance with a good-looking man quite twice her age. they were sitting behind some palms, he murmuring in his mellow, flown voice admiration for her dress, when suddenly he bent his flushed face and kissed her bare arm above the elbow. if he had hit her he could not have astonished or hurt her more. it seemed to her innocence that he would never have done such a thing if she had not said something dreadful to encourage him. without a word she got up, gazed at him a moment with eyes dark from pain, shivered, and slipped away. she went straight to winton. from her face, all closed up, tightened lips, and the familiar little droop at their corners, he knew something dire had happened, and his eyes boded ill for the person who had hurt her; but she would say nothing except that she was tired and wanted to go home. and so, with the little faithful governess, who, having been silent perforce nearly all the evening, was now full of conversation, they drove out into the frosty night. winton sat beside the chauffeur, smoking viciously, his fur collar turned up over his ears, his eyes stabbing the darkness, under his round, low-drawn fur cap. who had dared upset his darling? and, within the car, the little governess chattered softly, and gyp, shrouded in lace, in her dark corner sat silent, seeing nothing but the vision of that insult. sad end to a lovely night! she lay awake long hours in the darkness, while a sort of coherence was forming in her mind. those words: "really is her father!" and that man's kissing of her bare arm were a sort of revelation of sex-mystery, hardening the consciousness that there was something at the back of her life. a child so sensitive had not, of course, quite failed to feel the spiritual draughts around her; but instinctively she had recoiled from more definite perceptions. the time before winton came was all so faint--betty, toys, short glimpses of a kind, invalidish man called "papa." as in that word there was no depth compared with the word "dad" bestowed on winton, so there had been no depth in her feelings towards the squire. when a girl has no memory of her mother, how dark are many things! none, except betty, had ever talked of her mother. there was nothing sacred in gyp's associations, no faiths to be broken by any knowledge that might come to her; isolated from other girls, she had little realisation even of the conventions. still, she suffered horribly, lying there in the dark--from bewilderment, from thorns dragged over her skin, rather than from a stab in the heart. the knowledge of something about her conspicuous, doubtful, provocative of insult, as she thought, grievously hurt her delicacy. those few wakeful hours made a heavy mark. she fell asleep at last, still all in confusion, and woke up with a passionate desire to know. all that morning she sat at her piano, playing, refusing to go out, frigid to betty and the little governess, till the former was reduced to tears and the latter to wordsworth. after tea she went to winton's study, that dingy little room where he never studied anything, with leather chairs and books which--except "mr. jorrocks," byron, those on the care of horses, and the novels of whyte-melville--were never read; with prints of superequine celebrities, his sword, and photographs of gyp and of brother officers on the walls. two bright spots there were indeed--the fire, and the little bowl that gyp always kept filled with flowers. when she came gliding in like that, a slender, rounded figure, her creamy, dark-eyed, oval face all cloudy, she seemed to winton to have grown up of a sudden. he had known all day that something was coming, and had been cudgelling his brains finely. from the fervour of his love for her, he felt an anxiety that was almost fear. what could have happened last night--that first night of her entrance into society--meddlesome, gossiping society! she slid down to the floor against his knee. he could not see her face, could not even touch her; for she had settled down on his right side. he mastered his tremors and said: "well, gyp--tired?" "no." "a little bit?" "no." "was it up to what you thought, last night?" "yes." the logs hissed and crackled; the long flames ruffled in the chimney-draught; the wind roared outside--then, so suddenly that it took his breath away: "dad, are you really and truly my father?" when that which one has always known might happen at last does happen, how little one is prepared! in the few seconds before an answer that could in no way be evaded, winton had time for a tumult of reflection. a less resolute character would have been caught by utter mental blankness, then flung itself in panic on "yes" or "no." but winton was incapable of losing his head; he would not answer without having faced the consequences of his reply. to be her father was the most warming thing in his life; but if he avowed it, how far would he injure her love for him? what did a girl know? how make her understand? what would her feeling be about her dead mother? how would that dead loved one feel? what would she have wished? it was a cruel moment. and the girl, pressed against his knee, with face hidden, gave him no help. impossible to keep it from her, now that her instinct was roused! silence, too, would answer for him. and clenching his hand on the arm of his chair, he said: "yes, gyp; your mother and i loved each other." he felt a quiver go through her, would have given much to see her face. what, even now, did she understand? well, it must be gone through with, and he said: "what made you ask?" she shook her head and murmured: "i'm glad." grief, shock, even surprise would have roused all his loyalty to the dead, all the old stubborn bitterness, and he would have frozen up against her. but this acquiescent murmur made him long to smooth it down. "nobody has ever known. she died when you were born. it was a fearful grief to me. if you've heard anything, it's just gossip, because you go by my name. your mother was never talked about. but it's best you should know, now you're grown up. people don't often love as she and i loved. you needn't be ashamed." she had not moved, and her face was still turned from him. she said quietly: "i'm not ashamed. am i very like her?" "yes; more than i could ever have hoped." very low she said: "then you don't love me for myself?" winton was but dimly conscious of how that question revealed her nature, its power of piercing instinctively to the heart of things, its sensitive pride, and demand for utter and exclusive love. to things that go too deep, one opposes the bulwark of obtuseness. and, smiling, he simply said: "what do you think?" then, to his dismay, he perceived that she was crying--struggling against it so that her shoulder shook against his knee. he had hardly ever known her cry, not in all the disasters of unstable youth, and she had received her full meed of knocks and tumbles. he could only stroke that shoulder, and say: "don't cry, gyp; don't cry!" she ceased as suddenly as she had begun, got up, and, before he too could rise, was gone. that evening, at dinner, she was just as usual. he could not detect the slightest difference in her voice or manner, or in her good-night kiss. and so a moment that he had dreaded for years was over, leaving only the faint shame which follows a breach of reticence on the spirits of those who worship it. while the old secret had been quite undisclosed, it had not troubled him. disclosed, it hurt him. but gyp, in those twenty-four hours, had left childhood behind for good; her feeling toward men had hardened. if she did not hurt them a little, they would hurt her! the sex-instinct had come to life. to winton she gave as much love as ever, even more, perhaps; but the dew was off. iii the next two years were much less solitary, passed in more or less constant gaiety. his confession spurred winton on to the fortification of his daughter's position. he would stand no nonsense, would not have her looked on askance. there is nothing like "style" for carrying the defences of society--only, it must be the genuine thing. whether at mildenham, or in london under the wing of his sister, there was no difficulty. gyp was too pretty, winton too cool, his quietness too formidable. she had every advantage. society only troubles itself to make front against the visibly weak. the happiest time of a girl's life is that when all appreciate and covet her, and she herself is free as air--a queen of hearts, for none of which she hankers; or, if not the happiest, at all events it is the gayest time. what did gyp care whether hearts ached for her--she knew not love as yet, perhaps would never know the pains of unrequited love. intoxicated with life, she led her many admirers a pretty dance, treating them with a sort of bravura. she did not want them to be unhappy, but she simply could not take them seriously. never was any girl so heart-free. she was a queer mixture in those days, would give up any pleasure for winton, and most for betty or her aunt--her little governess was gone--but of nobody else did she seem to take account, accepting all that was laid at her feet as the due of her looks, her dainty frocks, her music, her good riding and dancing, her talent for amateur theatricals and mimicry. winton, whom at least she never failed, watched that glorious fluttering with quiet pride and satisfaction. he was getting to those years when a man of action dislikes interruption of the grooves into which his activity has fallen. he pursued his hunting, racing, card-playing, and his very stealthy alms and services to lame ducks of his old regiment, their families, and other unfortunates--happy in knowing that gyp was always as glad to be with him as he to be with her. hereditary gout, too, had begun to bother him. the day that she came of age they were up in town, and he summoned her to the room, in which he now sat by the fire recalling all these things, to receive an account of his stewardship. he had nursed her greatly embarrassed inheritance very carefully till it amounted to some twenty thousand pounds. he had never told her of it--the subject was dangerous, and, since his own means were ample, she had not wanted for anything. when he had explained exactly what she owned, shown her how it was invested, and told her that she must now open her own banking account, she stood gazing at the sheets of paper, whose items she had been supposed to understand, and her face gathered the look which meant that she was troubled. without lifting her eyes she asked: "does it all come from--him?" he had not expected that, and flushed under his tan. "no; eight thousand of it was your mother's." gyp looked at him, and said: "then i won't take the rest--please, dad." winton felt a sort of crabbed pleasure. what should be done with that money if she did not take it, he did not in the least know. but not to take it was like her, made her more than ever his daughter--a kind of final victory. he turned away to the window from which he had so often watched for her mother. there was the corner she used to turn! in one minute, surely she would be standing there, colour glowing in her cheeks, her eyes soft behind her veil, her breast heaving a little with her haste, waiting for his embrace. there she would stand, drawing up her veil. he turned round. difficult to believe it was not she! and he said: "very well, my love. but you will take the equivalent from me instead. the other can be put by; some one will benefit some day!" at those unaccustomed words, "my love," from his undemonstrative lips, the colour mounted in her cheeks and her eyes shone. she threw her arms round his neck. she had her fill of music in those days, taking piano lessons from a monsieur harmost, a grey-haired native of liege, with mahogany cheeks and the touch of an angel, who kept her hard at it and called her his "little friend." there was scarcely a concert of merit that she did not attend or a musician of mark whose playing she did not know, and, though fastidiousness saved her from squirming in adoration round the feet of those prodigious performers, she perched them all on pedestals, men and women alike, and now and then met them at her aunt's house in curzon street. aunt rosamund, also musical, so far as breeding would allow, stood for a good deal to gyp, who had built up about her a romantic story of love wrecked by pride from a few words she had once let drop. she was a tall and handsome woman, a year older than winton, with a long, aristocratic face, deep-blue, rather shining eyes, a gentlemanly manner, warm heart, and one of those indescribable, not unmelodious drawls that one connects with an unshakable sense of privilege. she, in turn, was very fond of gyp; and what passed within her mind, by no means devoid of shrewdness, as to their real relationship, remained ever discreetly hidden. she was, so far again as breeding would allow, something of a humanitarian and rebel, loving horses and dogs, and hating cats, except when they had four legs. the girl had just that softness which fascinates women who perhaps might have been happier if they had been born men. not that rosamund winton was of an aggressive type--she merely had the resolute "catch hold of your tail, old fellow" spirit so often found in englishwomen of the upper classes. a cheery soul, given to long coats and waistcoats, stocks, and a crutch-handled stick, she--like her brother--had "style," but more sense of humour--valuable in musical circles! at her house, the girl was practically compelled to see fun as well as merit in all those prodigies, haloed with hair and filled to overflowing with music and themselves. and, since gyp's natural sense of the ludicrous was extreme, she and her aunt could rarely talk about anything without going into fits of laughter. winton had his first really bad attack of gout when gyp was twenty-two, and, terrified lest he might not be able to sit a horse in time for the opening meets, he went off with her and markey to wiesbaden. they had rooms in the wilhelmstrasse, overlooking the gardens, where leaves were already turning, that gorgeous september. the cure was long and obstinate, and winton badly bored. gyp fared much better. attended by the silent markey, she rode daily on the neroberg, chafing at regulations which reduced her to specified tracks in that majestic wood where the beeches glowed. once or even twice a day she went to the concerts in the kurhaus, either with her father or alone. the first time she heard fiorsen play she was alone. unlike most violinists, he was tall and thin, with great pliancy of body and swift sway of movement. his face was pale, and went strangely with hair and moustache of a sort of dirt-gold colour, and his thin cheeks with very broad high cheek-bones had little narrow scraps of whisker. those little whiskers seemed to gyp awful--indeed, he seemed rather awful altogether--but his playing stirred and swept her in the most uncanny way. he had evidently remarkable technique; and the emotion, the intense wayward feeling of his playing was chiselled by that technique, as if a flame were being frozen in its swaying. when he stopped, she did not join in the tornado of applause, but sat motionless, looking up at him. quite unconstrained by all those people, he passed the back of his hand across his hot brow, shoving up a wave or two of that queer-coloured hair; then, with a rather disagreeable smile, he made a short supple bow or two. and she thought, "what strange eyes he has--like a great cat's!" surely they were green; fierce, yet shy, almost furtive--mesmeric! certainly the strangest man she had ever seen, and the most frightening. he seemed looking straight at her; and, dropping her gaze, she clapped. when she looked again, his face had lost that smile for a kind of wistfulness. he made another of those little supple bows straight at her--it seemed to gyp--and jerked his violin up to his shoulder. "he's going to play to me," she thought absurdly. he played without accompaniment a little tune that seemed to twitch the heart. when he finished, this time she did not look up, but was conscious that he gave one impatient bow and walked off. that evening at dinner she said to winton: "i heard a violinist to-day, dad, the most wonderful playing--gustav fiorsen. is that swedish, do you think--or what?" winton answered: "very likely. what sort of a bounder was he to look at? i used to know a swede in the turkish army--nice fellow, too." "tall and thin and white-faced, with bumpy cheek-bones, and hollows under them, and queer green eyes. oh, and little goldy side-whiskers." "by jove! it sounds the limit." gyp murmured, with a smile: "yes; i think perhaps he is." she saw him next day in the gardens. they were sitting close to the schiller statue, winton reading the times, to whose advent he looked forward more than he admitted, for he was loath by confessions of boredom to disturb gyp's manifest enjoyment of her stay. while perusing the customary comforting animadversions on the conduct of those "rascally radicals" who had just come into power, and the account of a newmarket meeting, he kept stealing sidelong glances at his daughter. certainly she had never looked prettier, daintier, shown more breeding than she did out here among these germans with their thick pasterns, and all the cosmopolitan hairy-heeled crowd in this god-forsaken place! the girl, unconscious of his stealthy regalement, was letting her clear eyes rest, in turn, on each figure that passed, on the movements of birds and dogs, watching the sunlight glisten on the grass, burnish the copper beeches, the lime-trees, and those tall poplars down there by the water. the doctor at mildenham, once consulted on a bout of headache, had called her eyes "perfect organs," and certainly no eyes could take things in more swiftly or completely. she was attractive to dogs, and every now and then one would stop, in two minds whether or no to put his nose into this foreign girl's hand. from a flirtation of eyes with a great dane, she looked up and saw fiorsen passing, in company with a shorter, square man, having very fashionable trousers and a corseted waist. the violinist's tall, thin, loping figure was tightly buttoned into a brownish-grey frock-coat suit; he wore a rather broad-brimmed, grey, velvety hat; in his buttonhole was a white flower; his cloth-topped boots were of patent leather; his tie was bunched out at the ends over a soft white-linen shirt--altogether quite a dandy! his most strange eyes suddenly swept down on hers, and he made a movement as if to put his hand to his hat. 'why, he remembers me,' thought gyp. that thin-waisted figure with head set just a little forward between rather high shoulders, and its long stride, curiously suggested a leopard or some lithe creature. he touched his short companion's arm, muttered something, turned round, and came back. she could see him staring her way, and knew he was coming simply to look at her. she knew, too, that her father was watching. and she felt that those greenish eyes would waver before his stare--that stare of the englishman of a certain class, which never condescends to be inquisitive. they passed; gyp saw fiorsen turn to his companion, slightly tossing back his head in their direction, and heard the companion laugh. a little flame shot up in her. winton said: "rum-looking johnnies one sees here!" "that was the violinist i told you of--fiorsen." "oh! ah!" but he had evidently forgotten. the thought that fiorsen should have picked her out of all that audience for remembrance subtly flattered her vanity. she lost her ruffled feeling. though her father thought his dress awful, it was really rather becoming. he would not have looked as well in proper english clothes. once, at least, during the next two days, she noticed the short, square young man who had been walking with him, and was conscious that he followed her with his eyes. and then a certain baroness von maisen, a cosmopolitan friend of aunt rosamund's, german by marriage, half-dutch, half-french by birth, asked her if she had heard the swedish violinist, fiorsen. he would be, she said, the best violinist of the day, if--and she shook her head. finding that expressive shake unquestioned, the baroness pursued her thoughts: "ah, these musicians! he wants saving from himself. if he does not halt soon, he will be lost. pity! a great talent!" gyp looked at her steadily and asked: "does he drink, then?" "pas mal! but there are things besides drink, ma chere." instinct and so much life with winton made the girl regard it as beneath her to be shocked. she did not seek knowledge of life, but refused to shy away from it or be discomfited; and the baroness, to whom innocence was piquant, went on: "des femmes--toujours des femmes! c'est grand dommage. it will spoil his spirit. his sole chance is to find one woman, but i pity her; sapristi, quelle vie pour elle!" gyp said calmly: "would a man like that ever love?" the baroness goggled her eyes. "i have known such a man become a slave. i have known him running after a woman like a lamb while she was deceiving him here and there. on ne peut jamais dire. ma belle, il y a des choses que vous ne savez pas encore." she took gyp's hand. "and yet, one thing is certain. with those eyes and those lips and that figure, you have a time before you!" gyp withdrew her hand, smiled, and shook her head; she did not believe in love. "ah, but you will turn some heads! no fear! as you english say. there is fatality in those pretty brown eyes!" a girl may be pardoned who takes as a compliment the saying that her eyes are fatal. the words warmed gyp, uncontrollably light-hearted in these days, just as she was warmed when people turned to stare at her. the soft air, the mellowness of this gay place, much music, a sense of being a rara avis among people who, by their heavier type, enhanced her own, had produced in her a kind of intoxication, making her what the baroness called "un peu folle." she was always breaking into laughter, having that precious feeling of twisting the world round her thumb, which does not come too often in the life of one who is sensitive. everything to her just then was either "funny" or "lovely." and the baroness, conscious of the girl's chic, genuinely attracted by one so pretty, took care that she saw all the people, perhaps more than all, that were desirable. to women and artists, between whom there is ever a certain kinship, curiosity is a vivid emotion. besides, the more a man has conquered, the more precious field he is for a woman's conquest. to attract a man who has attracted many, what is it but a proof that one's charm is superior to that of all those others? the words of the baroness deepened in gyp the impression that fiorsen was "impossible," but secretly fortified the faint excitement she felt that he should have remembered her out of all that audience. later on, they bore more fruit than that. but first came that queer incident of the flowers. coming in from a ride, a week after she had sat with winton under the schiller statue, gyp found on her dressing-table a bunch of gloire de dijon and la france roses. plunging her nose into them, she thought: "how lovely! who sent me these?" there was no card. all that the german maid could say was that a boy had brought them from a flower shop "fur fraulein vinton"; it was surmised that they came from the baroness. in her bodice at dinner, and to the concert after, gyp wore one la france and one gloire de dijon--a daring mixture of pink and orange against her oyster-coloured frock, which delighted her, who had a passion for experiments in colour. they had bought no programme, all music being the same to winton, and gyp not needing any. when she saw fiorsen come forward, her cheeks began to colour from sheer anticipation. he played first a minuet by mozart; then the cesar franck sonata; and when he came back to make his bow, he was holding in his hand a gloire de dijon and a la france rose. involuntarily, gyp raised her hand to her own roses. his eyes met hers; he bowed just a little lower. then, quite naturally, put the roses to his lips as he was walking off the platform. gyp dropped her hand, as if it had been stung. then, with the swift thought: "oh, that's schoolgirlish!" she contrived a little smile. but her cheeks were flushing. should she take out those roses and let them fall? her father might see, might notice fiorsen's--put two and two together! he would consider she had been insulted. had she? she could not bring herself to think so. it was too pretty a compliment, as if he wished to tell her that he was playing to her alone. the baroness's words flashed through her mind: "he wants saving from himself. pity! a great talent!" it was a great talent. there must be something worth saving in one who could play like that! they left after his last solo. gyp put the two roses carefully back among the others. three days later, she went to an afternoon "at home" at the baroness von maisen's. she saw him at once, over by the piano, with his short, square companion, listening to a voluble lady, and looking very bored and restless. all that overcast afternoon, still and with queer lights in the sky, as if rain were coming, gyp had been feeling out of mood, a little homesick. now she felt excited. she saw the short companion detach himself and go up to the baroness; a minute later, he was brought up to her and introduced--count rosek. gyp did not like his face; there were dark rings under the eyes, and he was too perfectly self-possessed, with a kind of cold sweetness; but he was very agreeable and polite, and spoke english well. he was--it seemed--a pole, who lived in london, and seemed to know all that was to be known about music. miss winton--he believed--had heard his friend fiorsen play; but not in london? no? that was odd; he had been there some months last season. faintly annoyed at her ignorance, gyp answered: "yes; but i was in the country nearly all last summer." "he had a great success. i shall take him back; it is best for his future. what do you think of his playing?" in spite of herself, for she did not like expanding to this sphinxlike little man, gyp murmured: "oh, simply wonderful, of course!" he nodded, and then rather suddenly said, with a peculiar little smile: "may i introduce him? gustav--miss winton!" gyp turned. there he was, just behind her, bowing; and his eyes had a look of humble adoration which he made no attempt whatever to conceal. gyp saw another smile slide over the pole's lips; and she was alone in the bay window with fiorsen. the moment might well have fluttered a girl's nerves after his recognition of her by the schiller statue, after that episode of the flowers, and what she had heard of him. but life had not yet touched either her nerves or spirit; she only felt amused and a little excited. close to, he had not so much that look of an animal behind bars, and he certainly was in his way a dandy, beautifully washed--always an important thing--and having some pleasant essence on his handkerchief or hair, of which gyp would have disapproved if he had been english. he wore a diamond ring also, which did not somehow seem bad form on that particular little finger. his height, his broad cheek-bones, thick but not long hair, the hungry vitality of his face, figure, movements, annulled those evidences of femininity. he was male enough, rather too male. speaking with a queer, crisp accent, he said: "miss winton, you are my audience here. i play to you--only to you." gyp laughed. "you laugh at me; but you need not. i play for you because i admire you. i admire you terribly. if i sent you those flowers, it was not to be rude. it was my gratitude for the pleasure of your face." his voice actually trembled. and, looking down, gyp answered: "thank you. it was very kind of you. i want to thank you for your playing. it is beautiful--really beautiful!" he made her another little bow. "when i go back to london, will you come and hear me?" "i should think any one would go to hear you, if they had the chance." he gave a short laugh. "bah! here, i do it for money; i hate this place. it bores me--bores me! was that your father sitting with you under the statue?" gyp nodded, suddenly grave. she had not forgotten the slighting turn of his head. he passed his hand over his face, as if to wipe off its expression. "he is very english. but you--of no country--you belong to all!" gyp made him an ironical little bow. "no; i should not know your country--you are neither of the north nor of the south. you are just woman, made to be adored. i came here hoping to meet you; i am extremely happy. miss winton, i am your very devoted servant." he was speaking very fast, very low, with an agitated earnestness that surely could not be put on. but suddenly muttering: "these people!" he made her another of his little bows and abruptly slipped away. the baroness was bringing up another man. the chief thought left by that meeting was: "is that how he begins to everyone?" she could not quite believe it. the stammering earnestness of his voice, those humbly adoring looks! then she remembered the smile on the lips of the little pole, and thought: "but he must know i'm not silly enough just to be taken in by vulgar flattery!" too sensitive to confide in anyone, she had no chance to ventilate the curious sensations of attraction and repulsion that began fermenting in her, feelings defying analysis, mingling and quarrelling deep down in her heart. it was certainly not love, not even the beginning of that; but it was the kind of dangerous interest children feel in things mysterious, out of reach, yet within reach, if only they dared! and the tug of music was there, and the tug of those words of the baroness about salvation--the thought of achieving the impossible, reserved only for the woman of supreme charm, for the true victress. but all these thoughts and feelings were as yet in embryo. she might never see him again! and she certainly did not know whether she even wanted to. iv gyp was in the habit of walking with winton to the kochbrunnen, where, with other patient-folk, he was required to drink slowly for twenty minutes every morning. while he was imbibing she would sit in a remote corner of the garden, and read a novel in the reclam edition, as a daily german lesson. she was sitting there, the morning after the "at-home" at the baroness von maisen's, reading turgenev's "torrents of spring," when she saw count rosek sauntering down the path with a glass of the waters in his hand. instant memory of the smile with which he had introduced fiorsen made her take cover beneath her sunshade. she could see his patent-leathered feet, and well-turned, peg-top-trousered legs go by with the gait of a man whose waist is corseted. the certainty that he wore those prerogatives of womanhood increased her dislike. how dare men be so effeminate? yet someone had told her that he was a good rider, a good fencer, and very strong. she drew a breath of relief when he was past, and, for fear he might turn and come back, closed her little book and slipped away. but her figure and her springing step were more unmistakable than she knew. next morning, on the same bench, she was reading breathlessly the scene between gemma and sanin at the window, when she heard fiorsen's voice, behind her, say: "miss winton!" he, too, held a glass of the waters in one hand, and his hat in the other. "i have just made your father's acquaintance. may i sit down a minute?" gyp drew to one side on the bench, and he sat down. "what are you reading?" "a story called 'torrents of spring.'" "ah, the finest ever written! where are you?" "gemma and sanin in the thunderstorm." "wait! you have madame polozov to come! what a creation! how old are you, miss winton?" "twenty-two." "you would be too young to appreciate that story if you were not you. but you know much--by instinct. what is your christian name--forgive me!" "ghita." "ghita? not soft enough." "i am always called gyp." "gyp--ah, gyp! yes; gyp!" he repeated her name so impersonally that she could not be angry. "i told your father i have had the pleasure of meeting you. he was very polite." gyp said coldly: "my father is always polite." "like the ice in which they put champagne." gyp smiled; she could not help it. and suddenly he said: "i suppose they have told you that i am a mauvais sujet." gyp inclined her head. he looked at her steadily, and said: "it is true. but i could be better--much." she wanted to look at him, but could not. a queer sort of exultation had seized on her. this man had power; yet she had power over him. if she wished she could make him her slave, her dog, chain him to her. she had but to hold out her hand, and he would go on his knees to kiss it. she had but to say, "come," and he would come from wherever he might be. she had but to say, "be good," and he would be good. it was her first experience of power; and it was intoxicating. but--but! gyp could never be self-confident for long; over her most victorious moments brooded the shadow of distrust. as if he read her thought, fiorsen said: "tell me to do something--anything; i will do it, miss winton." "then--go back to london at once. you are wasting yourself here, you know. you said so!" he looked at her, bewildered and upset, and muttered: "you have asked me the one thing i can't do, miss--miss gyp!" "please--not that; it's like a servant!" "i am your servant!" "is that why you won't do what i ask you?" "you are cruel." gyp laughed. he got up and said, with sudden fierceness: "i am not going away from you; do not think it." bending with the utmost swiftness, he took her hand, put his lips to it, and turned on his heel. gyp, uneasy and astonished, stared at her hand, still tingling from the pressure of his bristly moustache. then she laughed again--it was just "foreign" to have your hand kissed--and went back to her book, without taking in the words. was ever courtship more strange than that which followed? it is said that the cat fascinates the bird it desires to eat; here the bird fascinated the cat, but the bird too was fascinated. gyp never lost the sense of having the whip-hand, always felt like one giving alms, or extending favour, yet had a feeling of being unable to get away, which seemed to come from the very strength of the spell she laid on him. the magnetism with which she held him reacted on herself. thoroughly sceptical at first, she could not remain so. he was too utterly morose and unhappy if she did not smile on him, too alive and excited and grateful if she did. the change in his eyes from their ordinary restless, fierce, and furtive expression to humble adoration or wistful hunger when they looked at her could never have been simulated. and she had no lack of chance to see that metamorphosis. wherever she went, there he was. if to a concert, he would be a few paces from the door, waiting for her entrance. if to a confectioner's for tea, as likely as not he would come in. every afternoon he walked where she must pass, riding to the neroberg. except in the gardens of the kochbrunnen, when he would come up humbly and ask to sit with her five minutes, he never forced his company, or tried in any way to compromise her. experience, no doubt, served him there; but he must have had an instinct that it was dangerous with one so sensitive. there were other moths, too, round that bright candle, and they served to keep his attentions from being too conspicuous. did she comprehend what was going on, understand how her defences were being sapped, grasp the danger to retreat that lay in permitting him to hover round her? not really. it all served to swell the triumphant intoxication of days when she was ever more and more in love with living, more and more conscious that the world appreciated and admired her, that she had power to do what others couldn't. was not fiorsen, with his great talent, and his dubious reputation, proof of that? and he excited her. whatever else one might be in his moody, vivid company, one would not be dull. one morning, he told her something of his life. his father had been a small swedish landowner, a very strong man and a very hard drinker; his mother, the daughter of a painter. she had taught him the violin, but died while he was still a boy. when he was seventeen he had quarrelled with his father, and had to play his violin for a living in the streets of stockholm. a well-known violinist, hearing him one day, took him in hand. then his father had drunk himself to death, and he had inherited the little estate. he had sold it at once--"for follies," as he put it crudely. "yes, miss winton; i have committed many follies, but they are nothing to those i shall commit the day i do not see you any more!" and, with that disturbing remark, he got up and left her. she had smiled at his words, but within herself she felt excitement, scepticism, compassion, and something she did not understand at all. in those days, she understood herself very little. but how far did winton understand, how far see what was going on? he was a stoic; but that did not prevent jealousy from taking alarm, and causing him twinges more acute than those he still felt in his left foot. he was afraid of showing disquiet by any dramatic change, or he would have carried her off a fortnight at least before his cure was over. he knew too well the signs of passion. that long, loping, wolfish fiddling fellow with the broad cheekbones and little side-whiskers (good god!) and greenish eyes whose looks at gyp he secretly marked down, roused his complete distrust. perhaps his inbred english contempt for foreigners and artists kept him from direct action. he could not take it quite seriously. gyp, his fastidious perfect gyp, succumbing, even a little to a fellow like that! never! his jealous affection, too, could not admit that she would neglect to consult him in any doubt or difficulty. he forgot the sensitive secrecy of girls, forgot that his love for her had ever shunned words, her love for him never indulged in confidences. nor did he see more than a little of what there was to see, and that little was doctored by fiorsen for his eyes, shrewd though they were. nor was there in all so very much, except one episode the day before they left, and of that he knew nothing. that last afternoon was very still, a little mournful. it had rained the night before, and the soaked tree-trunks, the soaked fallen leaves gave off a faint liquorice-like perfume. in gyp there was a feeling, as if her spirit had been suddenly emptied of excitement and delight. was it the day, or the thought of leaving this place where she had so enjoyed herself? after lunch, when winton was settling his accounts, she wandered out through the long park stretching up the valley. the sky was brooding-grey, the trees were still and melancholy. it was all a little melancholy, and she went on and on, across the stream, round into a muddy lane that led up through the outskirts of a village, on to the higher ground whence she could return by the main road. why must things come to an end? for the first time in her life, she thought of mildenham and hunting without enthusiasm. she would rather stay in london. there she would not be cut off from music, from dancing, from people, and all the exhilaration of being appreciated. on the air came the shrilly, hollow droning of a thresher, and the sound seemed exactly to express her feelings. a pigeon flew over, white against the leaden sky; some birch-trees that had gone golden shivered and let fall a shower of drops. it was lonely here! and, suddenly, two little boys bolted out of the hedge, nearly upsetting her, and scurried down the road. something had startled them. gyp, putting up her face to see, felt on it soft pin-points of rain. her frock would be spoiled, and it was one she was fond of--dove-coloured, velvety, not meant for weather. she turned for refuge to the birch-trees. it would be over directly, perhaps. muffled in distance, the whining drone of that thresher still came travelling, deepening her discomfort. then in the hedge, whence the boys had bolted down, a man reared himself above the lane, and came striding along toward her. he jumped down the bank, among the birch-trees. and she saw it was fiorsen--panting, dishevelled, pale with heat. he must have followed her, and climbed straight up the hillside from the path she had come along in the bottom, before crossing the stream. his artistic dandyism had been harshly treated by that scramble. she might have laughed; but, instead, she felt excited, a little scared by the look on his hot, pale face. he said, breathlessly: "i have caught you. so you are going to-morrow, and never told me! you thought you would slip away--not a word for me! are you always so cruel? well, i will not spare you, either!" crouching suddenly, he took hold of her broad ribbon sash, and buried his face in it. gyp stood trembling--the action had not stirred her sense of the ridiculous. he circled her knees with his arms. "oh, gyp, i love you--i love you--don't send me away--let me be with you! i am your dog--your slave. oh, gyp, i love you!" his voice moved and terrified her. men had said "i love you" several times during those last two years, but never with that lost-soul ring of passion, never with that look in the eyes at once fiercely hungry and so supplicating, never with that restless, eager, timid touch of hands. she could only murmur: "please get up!" but he went on: "love me a little, only a little--love me! oh, gyp!" the thought flashed through gyp: 'to how many has he knelt, i wonder?' his face had a kind of beauty in its abandonment--the beauty that comes from yearning--and she lost her frightened feeling. he went on, with his stammering murmur: "i am a prodigal, i know; but if you love me, i will no longer be. i will do great things for you. oh, gyp, if you will some day marry me! not now. when i have proved. oh, gyp, you are so sweet--so wonderful!" his arms crept up till he had buried his face against her waist. without quite knowing what she did, gyp touched his hair, and said again: "no; please get up." he got up then, and standing near, with his hands hard clenched at his sides, whispered: "have mercy! speak to me!" she could not. all was strange and mazed and quivering in her, her spirit straining away, drawn to him, fantastically confused. she could only look into his face with her troubled, dark eyes. and suddenly she was seized and crushed to him. she shrank away, pushing him back with all her strength. he hung his head, abashed, suffering, with eyes shut, lips trembling; and her heart felt again that quiver of compassion. she murmured: "i don't know. i will tell you later--later--in england." he bowed, folding his arms, as if to make her feel safe from him. and when, regardless of the rain, she began to move on, he walked beside her, a yard or so away, humbly, as though he had never poured out those words or hurt her lips with the violence of his kiss. back in her room, taking off her wet dress, gyp tried to remember what he had said and what she had answered. she had not promised anything. but she had given him her address, both in london and the country. unless she resolutely thought of other things, she still felt the restless touch of his hands, the grip of his arms, and saw his eyes as they were when he was kissing her; and once more she felt frightened and excited. he was playing at the concert that evening--her last concert. and surely he had never played like that--with a despairing beauty, a sort of frenzied rapture. listening, there came to her a feeling--a feeling of fatality--that, whether she would or no, she could not free herself from him. v once back in england, gyp lost that feeling, or very nearly. her scepticism told her that fiorsen would soon see someone else who seemed all he had said she was! how ridiculous to suppose that he would stop his follies for her, that she had any real power over him! but, deep down, she did not quite believe this. it would have wounded her belief in herself too much--a belief so subtle and intimate that she was not conscious of it; belief in that something about her which had inspired the baroness to use the word "fatality." winton, who breathed again, hurried her off to mildenham. he had bought her a new horse. they were in time for the last of the cubbing. and, for a week at least, the passion for riding and the sight of hounds carried all before it. then, just as the real business of the season was beginning, she began to feel dull and restless. mildenham was dark; the autumn winds made dreary noises. her little brown spaniel, very old, who seemed only to have held on to life just for her return, died. she accused herself terribly for having left it so long when it was failing. thinking of all the days lass had been watching for her to come home--as betty, with that love of woeful recital so dear to simple hearts, took good care to make plain--she felt as if she had been cruel. for events such as these, gyp was both too tender-hearted and too hard on herself. she was quite ill for several days. the moment she was better, winton, in dismay, whisked her back to aunt rosamund, in town. he would lose her company, but if it did her good, took her out of herself, he would be content. running up for the week-end, three days later, he was relieved to find her decidedly perked-up, and left her again with the easier heart. it was on the day after he went back to mildenham that she received a letter from fiorsen, forwarded from bury street. he was--it said--just returning to london; he had not forgotten any look she had ever given him, or any word she had spoken. he should not rest till he could see her again. "for a long time," the letter ended, "before i first saw you, i was like the dead--lost. all was bitter apples to me. now i am a ship that comes from the whirlpools to a warm blue sea; now i see again the evening star. i kiss your hands, and am your faithful slave--gustav fiorsen." these words, which from any other man would have excited her derision, renewed in gyp that fluttered feeling, the pleasurable, frightened sense that she could not get away from his pursuit. she wrote in answer to the address he gave her in london, to say that she was staying for a few days in curzon street with her aunt, who would be glad to see him if he cared to come in any afternoon between five and six, and signed herself "ghita winton." she was long over that little note. its curt formality gave her satisfaction. was she really mistress of herself--and him; able to dispose as she wished? yes; and surely the note showed it. it was never easy to tell gyp's feelings from her face; even winton was often baffled. her preparation of aunt rosamund for the reception of fiorsen was a masterpiece of casualness. when he duly came, he, too, seemed doubly alive to the need for caution, only gazing at gyp when he could not be seen doing so. but, going out, he whispered: "not like this--not like this; i must see you alone--i must!" she smiled and shook her head. but bubbles had come back to the wine in her cup. that evening she said quietly to aunt rosamund: "dad doesn't like mr. fiorsen--can't appreciate his playing, of course." and this most discreet remark caused aunt rosamund, avid--in a well-bred way--of music, to omit mention of the intruder when writing to her brother. the next two weeks he came almost every day, always bringing his violin, gyp playing his accompaniments, and though his hungry stare sometimes made her feel hot, she would have missed it. but when winton next came up to bury street, she was in a quandary. to confess that fiorsen was here, having omitted to speak of him in her letters? not to confess, and leave him to find it out from aunt rosamund? which was worse? seized with panic, she did neither, but told her father she was dying for a gallop. hailing that as the best of signs, he took her forthwith back to mildenham. and curious were her feelings--light-hearted, compunctious, as of one who escapes yet knows she will soon be seeking to return. the meet was rather far next day, but she insisted on riding to it, since old pettance, the superannuated jockey, charitably employed as extra stable help at mildenham, was to bring on her second horse. there was a good scenting-wind, with rain in the offing, and outside the covert they had a corner to themselves--winton knowing a trick worth two of the field's at-large. they had slipped there, luckily unseen, for the knowing were given to following the one-handed horseman in faded pink, who, on his bang-tailed black mare, had a knack of getting so well away. one of the whips, a little dark fellow with smouldery eyes and sucked-in weathered cheeks, dashed out of covert, rode past, saluting, and dashed in again. a jay came out with a screech, dived, and doubled back; a hare made off across the fallow--the light-brown lopping creature was barely visible against the brownish soil. pigeons, very high up, flew over and away to the next wood. the shrilling voices of the whips rose from the covert-depths, and just a whimper now and then from the hounds, swiftly wheeling their noses among the fern and briers. gyp, crisping her fingers on the reins, drew-in deep breaths. it smelled so sweet and soft and fresh under that sky, pied of blue, and of white and light-grey swift-moving clouds--not half the wind down here that there was up there, just enough to be carrying off the beech and oak leaves, loosened by frost two days before. if only a fox would break this side, and they could have the first fields to themselves! it was so lovely to be alone with hounds! one of these came trotting out, a pretty young creature, busy and unconcerned, raising its tan-and-white head, its mild reproachful deep-brown eyes, at winton's, "loo-in trix!" what a darling! a burst of music from the covert, and the darling vanished among the briers. gyp's new brown horse pricked its ears. a young man in a grey cutaway, buff cords, and jack-boots, on a low chestnut mare, came slipping round the covert. oh--did that mean they were all coming? impatiently she glanced at this intruder, who raised his hat a little and smiled. that smile, faintly impudent, was so infectious, that gyp was melted to a slight response. then she frowned. he had spoiled their lovely loneliness. who was he? he looked unpardonably serene and happy sitting there. she did not remember his face at all, yet there was something familiar about it. he had taken his hat off--a broad face, very well cut, and clean-shaved, with dark curly hair, extraordinary clear eyes, a bold, cool, merry look. where had she seen somebody like him? a tiny sound from winton made her turn her head. the fox--stealing out beyond those further bushes! breathless, she fixed her eyes on her father's face. it was hard as steel, watching. not a sound, not a quiver, as if horse and man had turned to metal. was he never going to give the view-halloo? then his lips writhed, and out it came. gyp cast a swift smile of gratitude at the young man for having had taste and sense to leave that to her father, and again he smiled at her. there were the first hounds streaming out--one on the other--music and feather! why didn't dad go? they would all be round this way in a minute! then the black mare slid past her, and, with a bound, her horse followed. the young man on the chestnut was away on the left. only the hunts-man and one whip--beside their three selves! glorious! the brown horse went too fast at that first fence and winton called back: "steady, gyp! steady him!" but she couldn't; and it didn't matter. grass, three fields of grass! oh, what a lovely fox--going so straight! and each time the brown horse rose, she thought: "perfect! i can ride! oh, i am happy!" and she hoped her father and the young man were looking. there was no feeling in the world like this, with a leader like dad, hounds moving free, good going, and the field distanced. better than dancing; better--yes, better than listening to music. if one could spend one's life galloping, sailing over fences; if it would never stop! the new horse was a darling, though he did pull. she crossed the next fence level with the young man, whose low chestnut mare moved with a stealthy action. his hat was crammed down now, and his face very determined, but his lips still had something of that smile. gyp thought: "he's got a good seat--very strong, only he looks like 'thrusting.' nobody rides like dad--so beautifully quiet!" indeed, winton's seat on a horse was perfection, all done with such a minimum expenditure. the hounds swung round in a curve. now she was with them, really with them! what a pace--cracking! no fox could stand this long! and suddenly she caught sight of him, barely a field ahead, scurrying desperately, brush down; and the thought flashed through her: 'oh! don't let's catch you. go on, fox; go on! get away!' were they really all after that little hunted red thing--a hundred great creatures, horses and men and women and dogs, and only that one little fox! but then came another fence, and quickly another, and she lost feelings of shame and pity in the exultation of flying over them. a minute later the fox went to earth within a few hundred yards of the leading hound, and she was glad. she had been in at deaths before--horrid! but it had been a lovely gallop. and, breathless, smiling rapturously, she wondered whether she could mop her face before the field came up, without that young man noticing. she could see him talking to her father, and taking out a wisp of a handkerchief that smelled of cyclamen, she had a good scrub round. when she rode up, the young man raised his hat, and looking full at her said: "you did go!" his voice, rather high-pitched, had in it a spice of pleasant laziness. gyp made him an ironical little bow, and murmured: "my new horse, you mean." he broke again into that irrepressible smile, but, all the same, she knew that he admired her. and she kept thinking: 'where have i seen someone like him?' they had two more runs, but nothing like that first gallop. nor did she again see the young man, whose name--it seemed--was summerhay, son of a certain lady summerhay at widrington, ten miles from mildenham. all that long, silent jog home with winton in fading daylight, she felt very happy--saturated with air and elation. the trees and fields, the hay-stacks, gates, and ponds beside the lanes grew dim; lights came up in the cottage windows; the air smelled sweet of wood smoke. and, for the first time all day, she thought of fiorsen, thought of him almost longingly. if he could be there in the cosy old drawing-room, to play to her while she lay back--drowsing, dreaming by the fire in the scent of burning cedar logs--the mozart minuet, or that little heart-catching tune of poise, played the first time she heard him, or a dozen other of the things he played unaccompanied! that would be the most lovely ending to this lovely day. just the glow and warmth wanting, to make all perfect--the glow and warmth of music and adoration! and touching the mare with her heel, she sighed. to indulge fancies about music and fiorsen was safe here, far away from him; she even thought she would not mind if he were to behave again as he had under the birch-trees in the rain at wiesbaden. it was so good to be adored. her old mare, ridden now six years, began the series of contented snuffles that signified she smelt home. here was the last turn, and the loom of the short beech-tree avenue to the house--the old manor-house, comfortable, roomy, rather dark, with wide shallow stairs. ah, she was tired; and it was drizzling now. she would be nicely stiff to-morrow. in the light coming from the open door she saw markey standing; and while fishing from her pocket the usual lumps of sugar, heard him say: "mr. fiorsen, sir--gentleman from wiesbaden--to see you." her heart thumped. what did this mean? why had he come? how had he dared? how could he have been so treacherous to her? ah, but he was ignorant, of course, that she had not told her father. a veritable judgment on her! she ran straight in and up the stairs. the voice of betty, "your bath's ready, miss gyp," roused her. and crying, "oh, betty darling, bring me up my tea!" she ran into the bathroom. she was safe there; and in the delicious heat of the bath faced the situation better. there could be only one meaning. he had come to ask for her. and, suddenly, she took comfort. better so; there would be no more secrecy from dad! and he would stand between her and fiorsen if--if she decided not to marry him. the thought staggered her. had she, without knowing it, got so far as this? yes, and further. it was all no good; fiorsen would never accept refusal, even if she gave it! but, did she want to refuse? she loved hot baths, but had never stayed in one so long. life was so easy there, and so difficult outside. betty's knock forced her to get out at last, and let her in with tea and the message. would miss gyp please to go down when she was ready? vi winton was staggered. with a glance at gyp's vanishing figure, he said curtly to markey, "where have you put this gentleman?" but the use of the word "this" was the only trace he showed of his emotions. in that little journey across the hall he entertained many extravagant thoughts. arrived at the study, he inclined his head courteously enough, waiting for fiorsen to speak. the "fiddler," still in his fur-lined coat, was twisting a squash hat in his hands. in his own peculiar style he was impressive. but why couldn't he look you in the face; or, if he did, why did he seem about to eat you? "you knew i was returned to london, major winton?" then gyp had been seeing the fellow without letting him know! the thought was chill and bitter to winton. he must not give her away, however, and he simply bowed. he felt that his visitor was afraid of his frigid courtesy; and he did not mean to help him over that fear. he could not, of course, realize that this ascendancy would not prevent fiorsen from laughing at him behind his back and acting as if he did not exist. no real contest, in fact, was possible between men moving on such different planes, neither having the slightest respect for the other's standards or beliefs. fiorsen, who had begun to pace the room, stopped, and said with agitation: "major winton, your daughter is the most beautiful thing on earth. i love her desperately. i am a man with a future, though you may not think it. i have what future i like in my art if only i can marry her. i have a little money, too--not much; but in my violin there is all the fortune she can want." winton's face expressed nothing but cold contempt. that this fellow should take him for one who would consider money in connection with his daughter simply affronted him. fiorsen went on: "you do not like me--that is clear. i saw it the first moment. you are an english gentleman"--he pronounced the words with a sort of irony--"i am nothing to you. yet, in my world, i am something. i am not an adventurer. will you permit me to beg your daughter to be my wife?" he raised his hands that still held the hat; involuntarily they had assumed the attitude of prayer. for a second, winton realized that he was suffering. that weakness went in a flash, and he said frigidly: "i am obliged to you, sir, for coming to me first. you are in my house, and i don't want to be discourteous, but i should be glad if you would be good enough to withdraw and take it that i shall certainly oppose your wish as best i can." the almost childish disappointment and trouble in fiorsen's face changed quickly to an expression fierce, furtive, mocking; and then shifted to despair. "major winton, you have loved; you must have loved her mother. i suffer!" winton, who had turned abruptly to the fire, faced round again. "i don't control my daughter's affections, sir; she will do as she wishes. i merely say it will be against my hopes and judgment if she marries you. i imagine you've not altogether waited for my leave. i was not blind to the way you hung about her at wiesbaden, mr. fiorsen." fiorsen answered with a twisted, miserable smile: "poor wretches do what they can. may i see her? let me just see her." was it any good to refuse? she had been seeing the fellow already without his knowledge, keeping from him--him--all her feelings, whatever they were. and he said: "i'll send for her. in the meantime, perhaps you'll have some refreshment?" fiorsen shook his head, and there followed half an hour of acute discomfort. winton, in his mud-stained clothes before the fire, supported it better than his visitor. that child of nature, after endeavouring to emulate his host's quietude, renounced all such efforts with an expressive gesture, fidgeted here, fidgeted there, tramped the room, went to the window, drew aside the curtains and stared out into the dark; came back as if resolved again to confront winton; then, baffled by that figure so motionless before the fire, flung himself down in an armchair, and turned his face to the wall. winton was not cruel by nature, but he enjoyed the writhings of this fellow who was endangering gyp's happiness. endangering? surely not possible that she would accept him! yet, if not, why had she not told him? and he, too, suffered. then she came. he had expected her to be pale and nervous; but gyp never admitted being naughty till she had been forgiven. her smiling face had in it a kind of warning closeness. she went up to fiorsen, and holding out her hand, said calmly: "how nice of you to come!" winton had the bitter feeling that he--he--was the outsider. well, he would speak plainly; there had been too much underhand doing. "mr. fiorsen has done us the honour to wish to marry you. i've told him that you decide such things for yourself. if you accept him, it will be against my wish, naturally." while he was speaking, the glow in her cheeks deepened; she looked neither at him nor at fiorsen. winton noted the rise and fall of the lace on her breast. she was smiling, and gave the tiniest shrug of her shoulders. and, suddenly smitten to the heart, he walked stiffly to the door. it was evident that she had no use for his guidance. if her love for him was not worth to her more than this fellow! but there his resentment stopped. he knew that he could not afford wounded feelings; could not get on without her. married to the greatest rascal on earth, he would still be standing by her, wanting her companionship and love. she represented too much in the present and--the past. with sore heart, indeed, he went down to dinner. fiorsen was gone when he came down again. what the fellow had said, or she had answered, he would not for the world have asked. gulfs between the proud are not lightly bridged. and when she came up to say good-night, both their faces were as though coated with wax. in the days that followed, she gave no sign, uttered no word in any way suggesting that she meant to go against his wishes. fiorsen might not have existed, for any mention made of him. but winton knew well that she was moping, and cherishing some feeling against himself. and this he could not bear. so, one evening, after dinner, he said quietly: "tell me frankly, gyp; do you care for that chap?" she answered as quietly: "in a way--yes." "is that enough?" "i don't know, dad." her lips had quivered; and winton's heart softened, as it always did when he saw her moved. he put his hand out, covered one of hers, and said: "i shall never stand in the way of your happiness, gyp. but it must be happiness. can it possibly be that? i don't think so. you know what they said of him out there?" "yes." he had not thought she knew. and his heart sank. "that's pretty bad, you know. and is he of our world at all?" gyp looked up. "do you think i belong to 'our world,' dad?" winton turned away. she followed, slipping her hand under his arm. "i didn't mean to hurt. but it's true, isn't it? i don't belong among society people. they wouldn't have me, you know--if they knew about what you told me. ever since that i've felt i don't belong to them. i'm nearer him. music means more to me than anything!" winton gave her hand a convulsive grip. a sense of coming defeat and bereavement was on him. "if your happiness went wrong, gyp, i should be most awfully cut up." "but why shouldn't i be happy, dad?" "if you were, i could put up with anyone. but, i tell you, i can't believe you would be. i beg you, my dear--for god's sake, make sure. i'll put a bullet into the man who treats you badly." gyp laughed, then kissed him. but they were silent. at bedtime he said: "we'll go up to town to-morrow." whether from a feeling of the inevitable, or from the forlorn hope that seeing more of the fellow might be the only chance of curing her--he put no more obstacles in the way. and the queer courtship began again. by christmas she had consented, still under the impression that she was the mistress, not the slave--the cat, not the bird. once or twice, when fiorsen let passion out of hand and his overbold caresses affronted her, she recoiled almost with dread from what she was going toward. but, in general, she lived elated, intoxicated by music and his adoration, withal remorseful that she was making her father sad. she was but little at mildenham, and he, in his unhappiness, was there nearly all the time, riding extra hard, and leaving gyp with his sister. aunt rosamund, though under the spell of fiorsen's music, had agreed with her brother that fiorsen was "impossible." but nothing she said made any effect on gyp. it was new and startling to discover in this soft, sensitive girl such a vein of stubbornness. opposition seemed to harden her resolution. and the good lady's natural optimism began to persuade her that gyp would make a silk purse out of that sow's ear yet. after all, the man was a celebrity in his way! it was settled for february. a house with a garden was taken in st. john's wood. the last month went, as all such last months go, in those intoxicating pastimes, the buying of furniture and clothes. if it were not for that, who knows how many engagement knots would slip! and to-day they had been married. to the last, winton had hardly believed it would come to that. he had shaken the hand of her husband and kept pain and disappointment out of his face, knowing well that he deceived no one. thank heaven, there had been no church, no wedding-cake, invitations, congratulations, fal-lals of any kind--he could never have stood them. not even rosamund--who had influenza--to put up with! lying back in the recesses of that old chair, he stared into the fire. they would be just about at torquay by now--just about. music! who would have thought noises made out of string and wood could have stolen her away from him? yes, they would be at torquay by now, at their hotel. and the first prayer winton had uttered for years escaped his lips: "let her be happy! let her be happy!" then, hearing markey open the door, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. part ii i when a girl first sits opposite the man she has married, of what does she think? not of the issues and emotions that lie in wait. they are too overwhelming; she would avoid them while she can. gyp thought of her frock, a mushroom-coloured velvet cord. not many girls of her class are married without "fal-lals," as winton had called them. not many girls sit in the corner of their reserved first-class compartments without the excitement of having been supreme centre of the world for some flattering hours to buoy them up on that train journey, with no memories of friends' behaviour, speech, appearance, to chat of with her husband, so as to keep thought away. for gyp, her dress, first worn that day, betty's breakdown, the faces, blank as hats, of the registrar and clerk, were about all she had to distract her. she stole a look at her husband, clothed in blue serge, just opposite. her husband! mrs. gustav fiorsen! no! people might call her that; to herself, she was ghita winton. ghita fiorsen would never seem right. and, not confessing that she was afraid to meet his eyes, but afraid all the same, she looked out of the window. a dull, bleak, dismal day; no warmth, no sun, no music in it--the thames as grey as lead, the willows on its banks forlorn. suddenly she felt his hand on hers. she had not seen his face like that before--yes; once or twice when he was playing--a spirit shining though. she felt suddenly secure. if it stayed like that, then!--his hand rested on her knee; his face changed just a little; the spirit seemed to waver, to be fading; his lips grew fuller. he crossed over and sat beside her. instantly she began to talk about their house, where they were going to put certain things--presents and all that. he, too, talked of the house; but every now and then he glanced at the corridor, and muttered. it was pleasant to feel that the thought of her possessed him through and through, but she was tremulously glad of that corridor. life is mercifully made up of little things! and gyp was always able to live in the moment. in the hours they had spent together, up to now, he had been like a starved man snatching hasty meals; now that he had her to himself for good, he was another creature altogether--like a boy out of school, and kept her laughing nearly all the time. presently he got down his practise violin, and putting on the mute, played, looking at her over his shoulder with a droll smile. she felt happy, much warmer at heart, now. and when his face was turned away, she looked at him. he was so much better looking now than when he had those little whiskers. one day she had touched one of them and said: "ah! if only these wings could fly!" next morning they had flown. his face was not one to be easily got used to; she was not used to it yet, any more than she was used to his touch. when it grew dark, and he wanted to draw down the blinds, she caught him by the sleeve, and said: "no, no; they'll know we're honeymooners!" "well, my gyp, and are we not?" but he obeyed; only, as the hours went on, his eyes seemed never to let her alone. at torquay, the sky was clear and starry; the wind brought whiffs of sea-scent into their cab; lights winked far out on a headland; and in the little harbour, all bluish dark, many little boats floated like tame birds. he had put his arm round her, and she could feel his hand resting on her heart. she was grateful that he kept so still. when the cab stopped and they entered the hall of the hotel, she whispered: "don't let's let them see!" still, mercifully, little things! inspecting the three rooms, getting the luggage divided between dressing-room and bedroom, unpacking, wondering which dress to put on for dinner, stopping to look out over the dark rocks and the sea, where the moon was coming up, wondering if she dared lock the door while she was dressing, deciding that it would be silly; dressing so quickly, fluttering when she found him suddenly there close behind her, beginning to do up her hooks. those fingers were too skilful! it was the first time she had thought of his past with a sort of hurt pride and fastidiousness. when he had finished, he twisted her round, held her away, looked at her from head to foot, and said below his breath: "mine!" her heart beat fast then; but suddenly he laughed, slipped his arm about her, and danced her twice round the room. he let her go demurely down the stairs in front of him, saying: "they shan't see--my gyp. oh, they shan't see! we are old married people, tired of each other--very!" at dinner it amused him at first--her too, a little--to keep up this farce of indifference. but every now and then he turned and stared at some inoffensive visitor who was taking interest in them, with such fierce and genuine contempt that gyp took alarm; whereon he laughed. when she had drunk a little wine and he had drunk a good deal, the farce of indifference came to its end. he talked at a great rate now, slying nicknaming the waiters and mimicking the people around--happy thrusts that made her smile but shiver a little, lest they should be heard or seen. their heads were close together across the little table. they went out into the lounge. coffee came, and he wanted her to smoke with him. she had never smoked in a public room. but it seemed stiff and "missish" to refuse--she must do now as his world did. and it was another little thing; she wanted little things, all the time wanted them. she drew back a window-curtain, and they stood there side by side. the sea was deep blue beneath bright stars, and the moon shone through a ragged pine-tree on a little headland. though she stood five feet six in her shoes, she was only up to his mouth. he sighed and said: "beautiful night, my gyp!" and suddenly it struck her that she knew nothing of what was in him, and yet he was her husband! "husband"--funny word, not pretty! she felt as a child opening the door of a dark room, and, clutching his arm, said: "look! there's a sailing-boat. what's it doing out there at night?" another little thing! any little thing! presently he said: "come up-stairs! i'll play to you." up in their sitting-room was a piano, but--not possible; to-morrow they would have to get another. to-morrow! the fire was hot, and he took off his coat to play. in one of his shirt-sleeves there was a rent. she thought, with a sort of triumph: 'i shall mend that!' it was something definite, actual--a little thing. there were lilies in the room that gave a strong, sweet scent. he brought them up to her to sniff, and, while she was sniffing, stooped suddenly and kissed her neck. she shut her eyes with a shiver. he took the flowers away at once, and when she opened her eyes again, his violin was at his shoulder. for a whole hour he played, and gyp, in her cream-coloured frock, lay back, listening. she was tired, not sleepy. it would have been nice to have been sleepy. her mouth had its little sad tuck or dimple at the corner; her eyes were deep and dark--a cloudy child. his gaze never left her face; he played and played, and his own fitful face grew clouded. at last he put away the violin, and said: "go to bed, gyp; you're tired." obediently she got up and went into the bedroom. with a sick feeling in her heart, and as near the fire as she could get, she undressed with desperate haste, and got to bed. an age--it seemed--she lay there shivering in her flimsy lawn against the cold sheets, her eyes not quite closed, watching the flicker of the firelight. she did not think--could not--just lay stiller than the dead. the door creaked. she shut her eyes. had she a heart at all? it did not seem to beat. she lay thus, with eyes shut, till she could bear it no longer. by the firelight she saw him crouching at the foot of the bed; could just see his face--like a face--a face--where seen? ah yes!--a picture--of a wild man crouching at the feet of iphigenia--so humble, so hungry--so lost in gazing. she gave a little smothered sob and held out her hand. ii gyp was too proud to give by halves. and in those early days she gave fiorsen everything except--her heart. she earnestly desired to give that too; but hearts only give themselves. perhaps if the wild man in him, maddened by beauty in its power, had not so ousted the spirit man, her heart might have gone with her lips and the rest of her. he knew he was not getting her heart, and it made him, in the wildness of his nature and the perversity of a man, go just the wrong way to work, trying to conquer her by the senses, not the soul. yet she was not unhappy--it cannot be said she was unhappy, except for a sort of lost feeling sometimes, as if she were trying to grasp something that kept slipping, slipping away. she was glad to give him pleasure. she felt no repulsion--this was man's nature. only there was always that feeling that she was not close. when he was playing, with the spirit-look on his face, she would feel: 'now, now, surely i shall get close to him!' but the look would go; how to keep it there she did not know, and when it went, her feeling went too. their little suite of rooms was at the very end of the hotel, so that he might play as much as he wished. while he practised in the mornings she would go into the garden, which sloped in rock-terraces down to the sea. wrapped in fur, she would sit there with a book. she soon knew each evergreen, or flower that was coming out--aubretia, and laurustinus, a little white flower whose name was uncertain, and one star-periwinkle. the air was often soft; the birds sang already and were busy with their weddings, and twice, at least, spring came in her heart--that wonderful feeling when first the whole being scents new life preparing in the earth and the wind--the feeling that only comes when spring is not yet, and one aches and rejoices all at once. seagulls often came over her, craning down their greedy bills and uttering cries like a kitten's mewing. out here she had feelings, that she did not get with him, of being at one with everything. she did not realize how tremendously she had grown up in these few days, how the ground bass had already come into the light music of her life. living with fiorsen was opening her eyes to much beside mere knowledge of "man's nature"; with her perhaps fatal receptivity, she was already soaking up the atmosphere of his philosophy. he was always in revolt against accepting things because he was expected to; but, like most executant artists, he was no reasoner, just a mere instinctive kicker against the pricks. he would lose himself in delight with a sunset, a scent, a tune, a new caress, in a rush of pity for a beggar or a blind man, a rush of aversion from a man with large feet or a long nose, of hatred for a woman with a flat chest or an expression of sanctimony. he would swing along when he was walking, or dawdle, dawdle; he would sing and laugh, and make her laugh too till she ached, and half an hour later would sit staring into some pit of darkness in a sort of powerful brooding of his whole being. insensibly she shared in this deep drinking of sensation, but always gracefully, fastidiously, never losing sense of other people's feelings. in his love-raptures, he just avoided setting her nerves on edge, because he never failed to make her feel his enjoyment of her beauty; that perpetual consciousness, too, of not belonging to the proper and respectable, which she had tried to explain to her father, made her set her teeth against feeling shocked. but in other ways he did shock her. she could not get used to his utter oblivion of people's feelings, to the ferocious contempt with which he would look at those who got on his nerves, and make half-audible comments, just as he had commented on her own father when he and count rosek passed them, by the schiller statue. she would visibly shrink at those remarks, though they were sometimes so excruciatingly funny that she had to laugh, and feel dreadful immediately after. she saw that he resented her shrinking; it seemed to excite him to run amuck the more. but she could not help it. once she got up and walked away. he followed her, sat on the floor beside her knees, and thrust his head, like a great cat, under her hand. "forgive me, my gyp; but they are such brutes. who could help it? now tell me--who could, except my gyp?" and she had to forgive him. but, one evening, when he had been really outrageous during dinner, she answered: "no; i can't. it's you that are the brute. you were a brute to them!" he leaped up with a face of furious gloom and went out of the room. it was the first time he had given way to anger with her. gyp sat by the fire, very disturbed; chiefly because she was not really upset at having hurt him. surely she ought to be feeling miserable at that! but when, at ten o'clock, he had not come back, she began to flutter in earnest. she had said a dreadful thing! and yet, in her heart, she did not take back her judgment. he really had been a brute. she would have liked to soothe herself by playing, but it was too late to disturb people, and going to the window, she looked out over the sea, feeling beaten and confused. this was the first time she had given free rein to her feeling against what winton would have called his "bounderism." if he had been english, she would never have been attracted by one who could trample so on other people's feelings. what, then, had attracted her? his strangeness, wildness, the mesmeric pull of his passion for her, his music! nothing could spoil that in him. the sweep, the surge, and sigh in his playing was like the sea out there, dark, and surf-edged, beating on the rocks; or the sea deep-coloured in daylight, with white gulls over it; or the sea with those sinuous paths made by the wandering currents, the subtle, smiling, silent sea, holding in suspense its unfathomable restlessness, waiting to surge and spring again. that was what she wanted from him--not his embraces, not even his adoration, his wit, or his queer, lithe comeliness touched with felinity; no, only that in his soul which escaped through his fingers into the air and dragged at her soul. if, when he came in, she were to run to him, throw her arms round his neck, make herself feel close, lose herself in him! why not? it was her duty; why not her delight, too? but she shivered. some instinct too deep for analysis, something in the very heart of her nerves made her recoil, as if she were afraid, literally scared of letting herself go, of loving--the subtlest instinct of self-preservation against something fatal; against being led on beyond--yes, it was like that curious, instinctive sinking which some feel at the mere sight of a precipice, a dread of going near, lest they should be drawn on and over by resistless attraction. she passed into their bedroom and began slowly to undress. to go to bed without knowing where he was, what doing, thinking, seemed already a little odd; and she sat brushing her hair slowly with the silver-backed brushes, staring at her own pale face, whose eyes looked so very large and dark. at last there came to her the feeling: "i can't help it! i don't care!" and, getting into bed, she turned out the light. it seemed queer and lonely; there was no fire. and then, without more ado, she slept. she had a dream of being between fiorsen and her father in a railway-carriage out at sea, with the water rising higher and higher, swishing and sighing. awakening always, like a dog, to perfect presence of mind, she knew that he was playing in the sitting-room, playing--at what time of night? she lay listening to a quivering, gibbering tune that she did not know. should she be first to make it up, or should she wait for him? twice she half slipped out of bed, but both times, as if fate meant her not to move, he chose that moment to swell out the sound, and each time she thought: 'no, i can't. it's just the same now; he doesn't care how many people he wakes up. he does just what he likes, and cares nothing for anyone.' and covering her ears with her hands, she continued to lie motionless. when she withdrew her hands at last, he had stopped. then she heard him coming, and feigned sleep. but he did not spare even sleep. she submitted to his kisses without a word, her heart hardening within her--surely he smelled of brandy! next morning he seemed to have forgotten it all. but gyp had not. she wanted badly to know what he had felt, where he had gone, but was too proud to ask. she wrote twice to her father in the first week, but afterwards, except for a postcard now and then, she never could. why tell him what she was doing, in company of one whom he could not bear to think of? had he been right? to confess that would hurt her pride too much. but she began to long for london. the thought of her little house was a green spot to dwell on. when they were settled in, and could do what they liked without anxiety about people's feelings, it would be all right perhaps. when he could start again really working, and she helping him, all would be different. her new house, and so much to do; her new garden, and fruit-trees coming into blossom! she would have dogs and cats, would ride when dad was in town. aunt rosamund would come, friends, evenings of music, dances still, perhaps--he danced beautifully, and loved it, as she did. and his concerts--the elation of being identified with his success! but, above all, the excitement of making her home as dainty as she could, with daring experiments in form and colour. and yet, at heart she knew that to be already looking forward, banning the present, was a bad sign. one thing, at all events, she enjoyed--sailing. they had blue days when even the march sun was warm, and there was just breeze enough. he got on excellently well with the old salt whose boat they used, for he was at his best with simple folk, whose lingo he could understand about as much as they could understand his. in those hours, gyp had some real sensations of romance. the sea was so blue, the rocks and wooded spurs of that southern coast so dreamy in the bright land-haze. oblivious of "the old salt," he would put his arm round her; out there, she could swallow down her sense of form, and be grateful for feeling nearer to him in spirit. she made loyal efforts to understand him in these weeks that were bringing a certain disillusionment. the elemental part of marriage was not the trouble; if she did not herself feel passion, she did not resent his. when, after one of those embraces, his mouth curled with a little bitter smile, as if to say, "yes, much you care for me," she would feel compunctious and yet aggrieved. but the trouble lay deeper--the sense of an insuperable barrier; and always that deep, instinctive recoil from letting herself go. she could not let herself be known, and she could not know him. why did his eyes often fix her with a stare that did not seem to see her? what made him, in the midst of serious playing, break into some furious or desolate little tune, or drop his violin? what gave him those long hours of dejection, following the maddest gaiety? above all, what dreams had he in those rare moments when music transformed his strange pale face? or was it a mere physical illusion--had he any dreams? "the heart of another is a dark forest"--to all but the one who loves. one morning, he held up a letter. "ah, ha! paul rosek went to see our house. 'a pretty dove's nest!' he calls it." the memory of the pole's sphinxlike, sweetish face, and eyes that seemed to know so many secrets, always affected gyp unpleasantly. she said quietly: "why do you like him, gustav?" "like him? oh, he is useful. a good judge of music, and--many things." "i think he is hateful." fiorsen laughed. "hateful? why hateful, my gyp? he is a good friend. and he admires you--oh, he admires you very much! he has success with women. he always says, 'j'ai une technique merveilleuse pour seduire une femme'" gyp laughed. "ugh! he's like a toad, i think." "ah, i shall tell him that! he will be flattered." "if you do; if you give me away--i--" he jumped up and caught her in his arms; his face was so comically compunctious that she calmed down at once. she thought over her words afterwards and regretted them. all the same, rosek was a sneak and a cold sensualist, she was sure. and the thought that he had been spying at their little house tarnished her anticipations of homecoming. they went to town three days later. while the taxi was skirting lord's cricket-ground, gyp slipped her hand into fiorsen's. she was brimful of excitement. the trees were budding in the gardens that they passed; the almond-blossom coming--yes, really coming! they were in the road now. five, seven, nine--thirteen! two more! there it was, nineteen, in white figures on the leaf-green railings, under the small green lilac buds; yes, and their almond-blossom was out, too! she could just catch a glimpse over those tall railings of the low white house with its green outside shutters. she jumped out almost into the arms of betty, who stood smiling all over her broad, flushed face, while, from under each arm peered forth the head of a black devil, with pricked ears and eyes as bright as diamonds. "betty! what darlings!" "major winton's present, my dear--ma'am!" giving the stout shoulders a hug, gyp seized the black devils, and ran up the path under the trellis, while the scotch-terrier pups, squeezed against her breast, made confused small noises and licked her nose and ears. through the square hall she ran into the drawing-room, which opened out on to the lawn; and there, in the french window, stood spying back at the spick-and-span room, where everything was, of course, placed just wrong. the colouring, white, ebony, and satinwood, looked nicer even than she had hoped. out in the garden--her own garden--the pear-trees were thickening, but not in blossom yet; a few daffodils were in bloom along the walls, and a magnolia had one bud opened. and all the time she kept squeezing the puppies to her, enjoying their young, warm, fluffy savour, and letting them kiss her. she ran out of the drawing-room, up the stairs. her bedroom, the dressing-room, the spare room, the bathroom--she dashed into them all. oh, it was nice to be in your own place, to be--suddenly she felt herself lifted off the ground from behind, and in that undignified position, her eyes flying, she turned her face till he could reach her lips. iii to wake, and hear the birds at early practise, and feel that winter is over--is there any pleasanter moment? that first morning in her new house, gyp woke with the sparrow, or whatever the bird which utters the first cheeps and twitters, soon eclipsed by so much that is more important in bird-song. it seemed as if all the feathered creatures in london must be assembled in her garden; and the old verse came into her head: "all dear nature's children sweet lie at bride and bridegroom's feet, blessing their sense. not a creature of the air, bird melodious or bird fair, be absent hence!" she turned and looked at her husband. he lay with his head snoozled down into the pillow, so that she could only see his thick, rumpled hair. and a shiver went through her, exactly as if a strange man were lying there. did he really belong to her, and she to him--for good? and was this their house--together? it all seemed somehow different, more serious and troubling, in this strange bed, of this strange room, that was to be so permanent. careful not to wake him, she slipped out and stood between the curtains and the window. light was all in confusion yet; away low down behind the trees, the rose of dawn still clung. one might almost have been in the country, but for the faint, rumorous noises of the town beginning to wake, and that film of ground-mist which veils the feet of london mornings. she thought: "i am mistress in this house, have to direct it all--see to everything! and my pups! oh, what do they eat?" that was the first of many hours of anxiety, for she was very conscientious. her fastidiousness desired perfection, but her sensitiveness refused to demand it of others--especially servants. why should she harry them? fiorsen had not the faintest notion of regularity. she found that he could not even begin to appreciate her struggles in housekeeping. and she was much too proud to ask his help, or perhaps too wise, since he was obviously unfit to give it. to live like the birds of the air was his motto. gyp would have liked nothing better; but, for that, one must not have a house with three servants, several meals, two puppy-dogs, and no great experience of how to deal with any of them. she spoke of her difficulties to no one and suffered the more. with betty--who, bone-conservative, admitted fiorsen as hardly as she had once admitted winton--she had to be very careful. but her great trouble was with her father. though she longed to see him, she literally dreaded their meeting. he first came--as he had been wont to come when she was a tiny girl--at the hour when he thought the fellow to whom she now belonged would most likely be out. her heart beat, when she saw him under the trellis. she opened the door herself, and hung about him so that his shrewd eyes should not see her face. and she began at once to talk of the puppies, whom she had named don and doff. they were perfect darlings; nothing was safe from them; her slippers were completely done for; they had already got into her china-cabinet and gone to sleep there! he must come and see all over. hooking her arm into his, and talking all the time, she took him up-stairs and down, and out into the garden, to the studio, or music-room, at the end, which had an entrance to itself on to a back lane. this room had been the great attraction. fiorsen could practice there in peace. winton went along with her very quietly, making a shrewd comment now and then. at the far end of the garden, looking over the wall, down into that narrow passage which lay between it and the back of another garden he squeezed her arm suddenly and said: "well, gyp, what sort of a time?" the question had come at last. "oh, rather lovely--in some ways." but she did not look at him, nor he at her. "see, dad! the cats have made quite a path there!" winton bit his lips and turned from the wall. the thought of that fellow was bitter within him. she meant to tell him nothing, meant to keep up that lighthearted look--which didn't deceive him a bit! "look at my crocuses! it's really spring today!" it was. even a bee or two had come. the tiny leaves had a transparent look, too thin as yet to keep the sunlight from passing through them. the purple, delicate-veined crocuses, with little flames of orange blowing from their centres, seemed to hold the light as in cups. a wind, without harshness, swung the boughs; a dry leaf or two still rustled round here and there. and on the grass, and in the blue sky, and on the almond-blossom was the first spring brilliance. gyp clasped her hands behind her head. "lovely--to feel the spring!" and winton thought: 'she's changed!' she had softened, quickened--more depth of colour in her, more gravity, more sway in her body, more sweetness in her smile. but--was she happy? a voice said: "ah, what a pleasure!" the fellow had slunk up like the great cat he was. and it seemed to winton that gyp had winced. "dad thinks we ought to have dark curtains in the music-room, gustav." fiorsen made a bow. "yes, yes--like a london club." winton, watching, was sure of supplication in her face. and, forcing a smile, he said: "you seem very snug here. glad to see you again. gyp looks splendid." another of those bows he so detested! mountebank! never, never would he be able to stand the fellow! but he must not, would not, show it. and, as soon as he decently could, he went, taking his lonely way back through this region, of which his knowledge was almost limited to lord's cricket-ground, with a sense of doubt and desolation, an irritation more than ever mixed with the resolve to be always at hand if the child wanted him. he had not been gone ten minutes before aunt rosamund appeared, with a crutch-handled stick and a gentlemanly limp, for she, too, indulged her ancestors in gout. a desire for exclusive possession of their friends is natural to some people, and the good lady had not known how fond she was of her niece till the girl had slipped off into this marriage. she wanted her back, to go about with and make much of, as before. and her well-bred drawl did not quite disguise this feeling. gyp could detect fiorsen subtly mimicking that drawl; and her ears began to burn. the puppies afforded a diversion--their points, noses, boldness, and food, held the danger in abeyance for some minutes. then the mimicry began again. when aunt rosamund had taken a somewhat sudden leave, gyp stood at the window of her drawing-room with the mask off her face. fiorsen came up, put his arm round her from behind, and said with a fierce sigh: "are they coming often--these excellent people?" gyp drew back from him against the wall. "if you love me, why do you try to hurt the people who love me too?" "because i am jealous. i am jealous even of those puppies." "and shall you try to hurt them?" "if i see them too much near you, perhaps i shall." "do you think i can be happy if you hurt things because they love me?" he sat down and drew her on to his knee. she did not resist, but made not the faintest return to his caresses. the first time--the very first friend to come into her own new home! it was too much! fiorsen said hoarsely: "you do not love me. if you loved me, i should feel it through your lips. i should see it in your eyes. oh, love me, gyp! you shall!" but to say to love: "stand and deliver!" was not the way to touch gyp. it seemed to her mere ill-bred stupidity. she froze against him in soul, all the more that she yielded her body. when a woman refuses nothing to one whom she does not really love, shadows are already falling on the bride-house. and fiorsen knew it; but his self-control about equalled that of the two puppies. yet, on the whole, these first weeks in her new home were happy, too busy to allow much room for doubting or regret. several important concerts were fixed for may. she looked forward to these with intense eagerness, and pushed everything that interfered with preparation into the background. as though to make up for that instinctive recoil from giving her heart, of which she was always subconscious, she gave him all her activities, without calculation or reserve. she was ready to play for him all day and every day, just as from the first she had held herself at the disposal of his passion. to fail him in these ways would have tarnished her opinion of herself. but she had some free hours in the morning, for he had the habit of lying in bed till eleven, and was never ready for practise before twelve. in those early hours she got through her orders and her shopping--that pursuit which to so many women is the only real "sport"--a chase of the ideal; a pitting of one's taste and knowledge against that of the world at large; a secret passion, even in the beautiful, for making oneself and one's house more beautiful. gyp never went shopping without that faint thrill running up and down her nerves. she hated to be touched by strange fingers, but not even that stopped her pleasure in turning and turning before long mirrors, while the saleswoman or man, with admiration at first crocodilic and then genuine, ran the tips of fingers over those curves, smoothing and pinning, and uttering the word, "moddam." on other mornings, she would ride with winton, who would come for her, leaving her again at her door after their outings. one day, after a ride in richmond park, where the horse-chestnuts were just coming into flower, they had late breakfast on the veranda of a hotel before starting for home. some fruit-trees were still in blossom just below them, and the sunlight showering down from a blue sky brightened to silver the windings of the river, and to gold the budding leaves of the oak-trees. winton, smoking his after-breakfast cigar, stared down across the tops of those trees toward the river and the wooded fields beyond. stealing a glance at him, gyp said very softly: "did you ever ride with my mother, dad?" "only once--the very ride we've been to-day. she was on a black mare; i had a chestnut--" yes, in that grove on the little hill, which they had ridden through that morning, he had dismounted and stood beside her. gyp stretched her hand across the table and laid it on his. "tell me about her, dear. was she beautiful?" "yes." "dark? tall?" "very like you, gyp. a little--a little"--he did not know how to describe that difference--"a little more foreign-looking perhaps. one of her grandmothers was italian, you know." "how did you come to love her? suddenly?" "as suddenly as"--he drew his hand away and laid it on the veranda rail--"as that sun came on my hand." gyp said quietly, as if to herself: "yes; i don't think i understand that--yet." winton drew breath through his teeth with a subdued hiss. "did she love you at first sight, too?" he blew out a long puff of smoke. "one easily believes what one wants to--but i think she did. she used to say so." "and how long?" "only a year." gyp said very softly: "poor darling dad." and suddenly she added: "i can't bear to think i killed her--i can't bear it!" winton got up in the discomfort of these sudden confidences; a blackbird, startled by the movement, ceased his song. gyp said in a hard voice: "no; i don't want to have any children." "without that, i shouldn't have had you, gyp." "no; but i don't want to have them. and i don't--i don't want to love like that. i should be afraid." winton looked at her for a long time without speaking, his brows drawn down, frowning, puzzled, as though over his own past. "love," he said, "it catches you, and you're gone. when it comes, you welcome it, whether it's to kill you or not. shall we start back, my child?" when she got home, it was not quite noon. she hurried over her bath and dressing, and ran out to the music-room. its walls had been hung with willesden scrim gilded over; the curtains were silver-grey; there was a divan covered with silver-and-gold stuff, and a beaten brass fireplace. it was a study in silver, and gold, save for two touches of fantasy--a screen round the piano-head, covered with brilliantly painted peacocks' tails, and a blue persian vase, in which were flowers of various hues of red. fiorsen was standing at the window in a fume of cigarette smoke. he did not turn round. gyp put her hand within his arm, and said: "so sorry, dear. but it's only just half-past twelve." his face was as if the whole world had injured him. "pity you came back! very nice, riding, i'm sure!" could she not go riding with her own father? what insensate jealousy and egomania! she turned away, without a word, and sat down at the piano. she was not good at standing injustice--not good at all! the scent of brandy, too, was mixed with the fumes of his cigarette. drink in the morning was so ugly--really horrid! she sat at the piano, waiting. he would be like this till he had played away the fumes of his ill mood, and then he would come and paw her shoulders and put his lips to her neck. yes; but it was not the way to behave, not the way to make her love him. and she said suddenly: "gustav; what exactly have i done that you dislike?" "you have had a father." gyp sat quite still for a few seconds, and then began to laugh. he looked so like a sulky child, standing there. he turned swiftly on her and put his hand over her mouth. she looked up over that hand which smelled of tobacco. her heart was doing the grand ecart within her, this way in compunction, that way in resentment. his eyes fell before hers; he dropped his hand. "well, shall we begin?" she said. he answered roughly: "no," and went out into the garden. gyp was left dismayed, disgusted. was it possible that she could have taken part in such a horrid little scene? she remained sitting at the piano, playing over and over a single passage, without heeding what it was. iv so far, they had seen nothing of rosek at the little house. she wondered if fiorsen had passed on to him her remark, though if he had, he would surely say he hadn't; she had learned that her husband spoke the truth when convenient, not when it caused him pain. about music, or any art, however, he could be implicitly relied on; and his frankness was appalling when his nerves were ruffled. but at the first concert she saw rosek's unwelcome figure on the other side of the gangway, two rows back. he was talking to a young girl, whose face, short and beautifully formed, had the opaque transparency of alabaster. with her round blue eyes fixed on him, and her lips just parted, she had a slightly vacant look. her laugh, too, was just a little vacant. and yet her features were so beautiful, her hair so smooth and fair, her colouring so pale and fine, her neck so white and round, the poise of her body so perfect that gyp found it difficult to take her glance away. she had refused her aunt's companionship. it might irritate fiorsen and affect his playing to see her with "that stiff english creature." she wanted, too, to feel again the sensations of wiesbaden. there would be a kind of sacred pleasure in knowing that she had helped to perfect sounds which touched the hearts and senses of so many listeners. she had looked forward to this concert so long. and she sat scarcely breathing, abstracted from consciousness of those about her, soft and still, radiating warmth and eagerness. fiorsen looked his worst, as ever, when first coming before an audience--cold, furtive, defensive, defiant, half turned away, with those long fingers tightening the screws, touching the strings. it seemed queer to think that only six hours ago she had stolen out of bed from beside him. wiesbaden! no; this was not like wiesbaden! and when he played she had not the same emotions. she had heard him now too often, knew too exactly how he produced those sounds; knew that their fire and sweetness and nobility sprang from fingers, ear, brain--not from his soul. nor was it possible any longer to drift off on those currents of sound into new worlds, to hear bells at dawn, and the dews of evening as they fell, to feel the divinity of wind and sunlight. the romance and ecstasy that at wiesbaden had soaked her spirit came no more. she was watching for the weak spots, the passages with which he had struggled and she had struggled; she was distracted by memories of petulance, black moods, and sudden caresses. and then she caught his eye. the look was like, yet how unlike, those looks at wiesbaden. it had the old love-hunger, but had lost the adoration, its spiritual essence. and she thought: 'is it my fault, or is it only because he has me now to do what he likes with?' it was all another disillusionment, perhaps the greatest yet. but she kindled and flushed at the applause, and lost herself in pleasure at his success. at the interval, she slipped out at once, for her first visit to the artist's room, the mysterious enchantment of a peep behind the scenes. he was coming down from his last recall; and at sight of her his look of bored contempt vanished; lifting her hand, he kissed it. gyp felt happier than she had since her marriage. her eyes shone, and she whispered: "beautiful!" he whispered back: "so! do you love me, gyp?" she nodded. and at that moment she did, or thought so. then people began to come; amongst them her old music-master, monsieur harmost, grey and mahogany as ever, who, after a "merveilleux," "tres fort" or two to fiorsen, turned his back on him to talk to his old pupil. so she had married fiorsen--dear, dear! that was extraordinary, but extraordinary! and what was it like, to be always with him--a little funny--not so? and how was her music? it would be spoiled now. ah, what a pity! no? she must come to him, then; yes, come again. all the time he patted her arm, as if playing the piano, and his fingers, that had the touch of an angel, felt the firmness of her flesh, as though debating whether she were letting it deteriorate. he seemed really to have missed "his little friend," to be glad at seeing her again; and gyp, who never could withstand appreciation, smiled at him. more people came. she saw rosek talking to her husband, and the young alabaster girl standing silent, her lips still a little parted, gazing up at fiorsen. a perfect figure, though rather short; a dovelike face, whose exquisitely shaped, just-opened lips seemed to be demanding sugar-plums. she could not be more than nineteen. who was she? a voice said almost in her ear: "how do you do, mrs. fiorsen? i am fortunate to see you again at last." she was obliged to turn. if gustav had given her away, one would never know it from this velvet-masked creature, with his suave watchfulness and ready composure, who talked away so smoothly. what was it that she so disliked in him? gyp had acute instincts, the natural intelligence deep in certain natures not over intellectual, but whose "feelers" are too delicate to be deceived. and, for something to say, she asked: "who is the girl you were talking to, count rosek? her face is so lovely." he smiled, exactly the smile she had so disliked at wiesbaden; following his glance, she saw her husband talking to the girl, whose lips at that moment seemed more than ever to ask for sugar-plums. "a young dancer, daphne wing--she will make a name. a dove flying! so you admire her, madame gyp?" gyp said, smiling: "she's very pretty--i can imagine her dancing beautifully." "will you come one day and see her? she has still to make her debut." gyp answered: "thank you. i don't know. i love dancing, of course." "good! i will arrange it." and gyp thought: "no, no! i don't want to have anything to do with you! why do i not speak the truth? why didn't i say i hate dancing?" just then a bell sounded; people began hurrying away. the girl came up to rosek. "miss daphne wing--mrs. fiorsen." gyp put out her hand with a smile--this girl was certainly a picture. miss daphne wing smiled, too, and said, with the intonation of those who have been carefully corrected of an accent: "oh, mrs. fiorsen, how beautifully your husband plays--doesn't he?" it was not merely the careful speech but something lacking when the perfect mouth moved--spirit, sensibility, who could say? and gyp felt sorry, as at blight on a perfect flower. with a friendly nod, she turned away to fiorsen, who was waiting to go up on to the platform. was it at her or at the girl he had been looking? she smiled at him and slid away. in the corridor, rosek, in attendance, said: "why not this evening? come with gustav to my rooms. she shall dance to us, and we will all have supper. she admires you, madame gyp. she will love to dance for you." gyp longed for the simple brutality to say: "i don't want to come. i don't like you!" but all she could manage was: "thank you. i--i will ask gustav." once in her seat again, she rubbed the cheek that his breath had touched. a girl was singing now--one of those faces that gyp always admired, reddish-gold hair, blue eyes--the very antithesis of herself--and the song was "the bens of jura," that strange outpouring from a heart broken by love: "and my heart reft of its own sun--" tears rose in her eyes, and the shiver of some very deep response passed through her. what was it dad had said: "love catches you, and you're gone!" she, who was the result of love like that, did not want to love! the girl finished singing. there was little applause. yet she had sung beautifully; and what more wonderful song in the world? was it too tragic, too painful, too strange--not "pretty" enough? gyp felt sorry for her. her head ached now. she would so have liked to slip away when it was all over. but she had not the needful rudeness. she would have to go through with this evening at rosek's and be gay. and why not? why this shadow over everything? but it was no new sensation, that of having entered by her own free will on a life which, for all effort, would not give her a feeling of anchorage or home. of her own accord she had stepped into the cage! on the way to rosek's rooms, she disguised from fiorsen her headache and depression. he was in one of his boy-out-of-school moods, elated by applause, mimicking her old master, the idolatries of his worshippers, rosek, the girl dancer's upturned expectant lips. and he slipped his arm round gyp in the cab, crushing her against him and sniffing at her cheek as if she had been a flower. rosek had the first floor of an old-time mansion in russell square. the smell of incense or some kindred perfume was at once about one; and, on the walls of the dark hall, electric light burned, in jars of alabaster picked up in the east. the whole place was in fact a sanctum of the collector's spirit. its owner had a passion for black--the walls, divans, picture-frames, even some of the tilings were black, with glimmerings of gold, ivory, and moonlight. on a round black table there stood a golden bowl filled with moonlight-coloured velvety "palm" and "honesty"; from a black wall gleamed out the ivory mask of a faun's face; from a dark niche the little silver figure of a dancing girl. it was beautiful, but deathly. and gyp, though excited always by anything new, keenly alive to every sort of beauty, felt a longing for air and sunlight. it was a relief to get close to one of the black-curtained windows, and see the westering sun shower warmth and light on the trees of the square gardens. she was introduced to a mr. and mrs. gallant, a dark-faced, cynical-looking man with clever, malicious eyes, and one of those large cornucopias of women with avid blue stares. the little dancer was not there. she had "gone to put on nothing," rosek informed them. he took gyp the round of his treasures, scarabs, rops drawings, death-masks, chinese pictures, and queer old flutes, with an air of displaying them for the first time to one who could truly appreciate. and she kept thinking of that saying, "une technique merveilleuse." her instinct apprehended the refined bone-viciousness of this place, where nothing, save perhaps taste, would be sacred. it was her first glimpse into that gilt-edged bohemia, whence the generosities, the elans, the struggles of the true bohemia are as rigidly excluded as from the spheres where bishops moved. but she talked and smiled; and no one could have told that her nerves were crisping as if at contact with a corpse. while showing her those alabaster jars, her host had laid his hand softly on her wrist, and in taking it away, he let his fingers, with a touch softer than a kitten's paw, ripple over the skin, then put them to his lips. ah, there it was--the--the technique! a desperate desire to laugh seized her. and he saw it--oh, yes, he saw it! he gave her one look, passed that same hand over his smooth face, and--behold!--it showed as before, unmortified, unconscious. a deadly little man! when they returned to the salon, as it was called, miss daphne wing in a black kimono, whence her face and arms emerged more like alabaster than ever, was sitting on a divan beside fiorsen. she rose at once and came across to gyp. "oh, mrs. fiorsen"--why did everything she said begin with "oh"--"isn't this room lovely? it's perfect for dancing. i only brought cream, and flame-colour; they go so beautifully with black." she threw back her kimono for gyp to inspect her dress--a girdled cream-coloured shift, which made her ivory arms and neck seem more than ever dazzling; and her mouth opened, as if for a sugar-plum of praise. then, lowering her voice, she murmured: "do you know, i'm rather afraid of count rosek." "why?" "oh, i don't know; he's so critical, and smooth, and he comes up so quietly. i do think your husband plays wonderfully. oh, mrs. fiorsen, you are beautiful, aren't you?" gyp laughed. "what would you like me to dance first? a waltz of chopin's?" "yes; i love chopin." "then i shall. i shall dance exactly what you like, because i do admire you, and i'm sure you're awfully sweet. oh, yes; you are; i can see that! and i think your husband's awfully in love with you. i should be, if i were a man. you know, i've been studying five years, and i haven't come out yet. but now count rosek's going to back me, i expect it'll be very soon. will you come to my first night? mother says i've got to be awfully careful. she only let me come this evening because you were going to be here. would you like me to begin?" she slid across to rosek, and gyp heard her say: "oh, mrs. fiorsen wants me to begin; a chopin waltz, please. the one that goes like this." rosek went to the piano, the little dancer to the centre of the room. gyp sat down beside fiorsen. rosek began playing, his eyes fixed on the girl, and his mouth loosened from compression in a sweetish smile. miss daphne wing was standing with her finger-tips joined at her breast--a perfect statue of ebony and palest wax. suddenly she flung away the black kimono. a thrill swept gyp from head to foot. she could dance--that common little girl! every movement of her round, sinuous body, of her bare limbs, had the ecstasy of natural genius, controlled by the quivering balance of a really fine training. "a dove flying!" so she was. her face had lost its vacancy, or rather its vacancy had become divine, having that look--not lost but gone before--which dance demands. yes, she was a gem, even if she had a common soul. tears came up in gyp's eyes. it was so lovely--like a dove, when it flings itself up in the wind, breasting on up, up--wings bent back, poised. abandonment, freedom--chastened, shaped, controlled! when, after the dance, the girl came and sat down beside her, she squeezed her hot little hand, but the caress was for her art, not for this moist little person with the lips avid of sugar-plums. "oh, did you like it? i'm so glad. shall i go and put on my flame-colour, now?" the moment she was gone, comment broke out freely. the dark and cynical gallant thought the girl's dancing like a certain napierkowska whom he had seen in moscow, without her fire--the touch of passion would have to be supplied. she wanted love! love! and suddenly gyp was back in the concert-hall, listening to that other girl singing the song of a broken heart. "thy kiss, dear love --like watercress gathered fresh from cool streams." love! in this abode--of fauns' heads, deep cushions, silver dancing girls! love! she had a sudden sense of deep abasement. what was she, herself, but just a feast for a man's senses? her home, what but a place like this? miss daphne wing was back again. gyp looked at her husband's face while she was dancing. his lips! how was it that she could see that disturbance in him, and not care? if she had really loved him, to see his lips like that would have hurt her, but she might have understood perhaps, and forgiven. now she neither quite understood nor quite forgave. and that night, when he kissed her, she murmured: "would you rather it were that girl--not me?" "that girl! i could swallow her at a draft. but you, my gyp--i want to drink for ever!" was that true? if she had loved him--how good to hear! v after this, gyp was daily more and more in contact with high bohemia, that curious composite section of society which embraces the neck of music, poetry, and the drama. she was a success, but secretly she felt that she did not belong to it, nor, in truth, did fiorsen, who was much too genuine a bohemian, and artist, and mocked at the gallants and even the roseks of this life, as he mocked at winton, aunt rosamund, and their world. life with him had certainly one effect on gyp; it made her feel less and less a part of that old orthodox, well-bred world which she had known before she married him; but to which she had confessed to winton she had never felt that she belonged, since she knew the secret of her birth. she was, in truth, much too impressionable, too avid of beauty, and perhaps too naturally critical to accept the dictates of their fact-and-form-governed routine; only, of her own accord, she would never have had initiative enough to step out of its circle. loosened from those roots, unable to attach herself to this new soil, and not spiritually leagued with her husband, she was more and more lonely. her only truly happy hours were those spent with winton or at her piano or with her puppies. she was always wondering at what she had done, longing to find the deep, the sufficient reason for having done it. but the more she sought and longed, the deeper grew her bewilderment, her feeling of being in a cage. of late, too, another and more definite uneasiness had come to her. she spent much time in her garden, where the blossoms had all dropped, lilac was over, acacias coming into bloom, and blackbirds silent. winton, who, by careful experiment, had found that from half-past three to six there was little or no chance of stumbling across his son-in-law, came in nearly every day for tea and a quiet cigar on the lawn. he was sitting there with gyp one afternoon, when betty, who usurped the functions of parlour-maid whenever the whim moved her, brought out a card on which were printed the words, "miss daphne wing." "bring her out, please, betty dear, and some fresh tea, and buttered toast--plenty of buttered toast; yes, and the chocolates, and any other sweets there are, betty darling." betty, with that expression which always came over her when she was called "darling," withdrew across the grass, and gyp said to her father: "it's the little dancer i told you of, dad. now you'll see something perfect. only, she'll be dressed. it's a pity." she was. the occasion had evidently exercised her spirit. in warm ivory, shrouded by leaf-green chiffon, with a girdle of tiny artificial leaves, and a lightly covered head encircled by other green leaves, she was somewhat like a nymph peering from a bower. if rather too arresting, it was charming, and, after all, no frock could quite disguise the beauty of her figure. she was evidently nervous. "oh, mrs. fiorsen, i thought you wouldn't mind my coming. i did so want to see you again. count rosek said he thought i might. it's all fixed for my coming-out. oh, how do you do?" and with lips and eyes opening at winton, she sat down in the chair he placed for her. gyp, watching his expression, felt inclined to laugh. dad, and daphne wing! and the poor girl so evidently anxious to make a good impression! presently she asked: "have you been dancing at count rosek's again lately?" "oh, yes, haven't you--didn't you--i--" and she stopped. the thought flashed through gyp, 'so gustav's been seeing her, and hasn't told me!' but she said at once: "ah, yes, of course; i forgot. when is the night of your coming-out?" "next friday week. fancy! the octagon. isn't it splendid? they've given me such a good engagement. i do so want you and mr. fiorsen to come, though!" gyp, smiling, murmured: "of course we will. my father loves dancing, too; don't you, dad?" winton took his cigar from his mouth. "when it's good," he said, urbanely. "oh, mine is good; isn't it, mrs. fiorsen? i mean, i have worked--ever since i was thirteen, you know. i simply love it. i think you would dance beautifully, mrs. fiorsen. you've got such a perfect figure. i simply love to see you walk." gyp flushed, and said: "do have one of these, miss wing--they've got whole raspberries inside." the little dancer put one in her mouth. "oh, but please don't call me miss wing! i wish you'd call me daphne. mr. fior--everybody does." conscious of her father's face, gyp murmured: "it's a lovely name. won't you have another? these are apricot." "they're perfect. you know, my first dress is going to be all orange-blossom; mr. fiorsen suggested that. but i expect he told you. perhaps you suggested it really; did you?" gyp shook her head. "count rosek says the world is waiting for me--" she paused with a sugar-plum halfway to her lips, and added doubtfully: "do you think that's true?" gyp answered with a soft: "i hope so." "he says i'm something new. it would be nice to think that. he has great taste; so has mr. fiorsen, hasn't he?" conscious of the compression in the lips behind the smoke of her father's cigar, and with a sudden longing to get up and walk away, gyp nodded. the little dancer placed the sweet in her mouth, and said complacently: "of course he has; because he married you." then, seeming to grow conscious of winton's eyes fixed so intently on her, she became confused, swallowed hastily, and said: "oh, isn't it lovely here--like the country! i'm afraid i must go; it's my practice-time. it's so important for me not to miss any now, isn't it?" and she rose. winton got up, too. gyp saw the girl's eyes, lighting on his rigid hand, grow round and rounder; and from her, walking past the side of the house, the careful voice floated back: "oh, i do hope--" but what, could not be heard. sinking back in her chair, gyp sat motionless. bees were murmurous among her flowers, pigeons murmurous among the trees; the sunlight warmed her knees, and her stretched-out feet through the openwork of her stockings. the maid's laughter, the delicious growling of the puppies at play in the kitchen came drifting down the garden, with the distant cry of a milkman up the road. all was very peaceful. but in her heart were such curious, baffled emotions, such strange, tangled feelings. this moment of enlightenment regarding the measure of her husband's frankness came close on the heels of the moment fate had chosen for another revelation, for clinching within her a fear felt for weeks past. she had said to winton that she did not want to have a child. in those conscious that their birth has caused death or even too great suffering, there is sometimes this hostile instinct. she had not even the consolation that fiorsen wanted children; she knew that he did not. and now she was sure one was coming. but it was more than that. she had not reached, and knew she could not reach, that point of spirit-union which alone makes marriage sacred, and the sacrifices demanded by motherhood a joy. she was fairly caught in the web of her foolish and presumptuous mistake! so few months of marriage--and so sure that it was a failure, so hopeless for the future! in the light of this new certainty, it was terrifying. a hard, natural fact is needed to bring a yearning and bewildered spirit to knowledge of the truth. disillusionment is not welcome to a woman's heart; the less welcome when it is disillusionment with self as much as with another. her great dedication--her scheme of life! she had been going to--what?--save fiorsen from himself! it was laughable. she had only lost herself. already she felt in prison, and by a child would be all the more bound. to some women, the knowledge that a thing must be brings assuagement of the nerves. gyp was the opposite of those. to force her was the way to stiver up every contrary emotion. she might will herself to acquiesce, but--one cannot change one's nature. and so, while the pigeons cooed and the sunlight warmed her feet, she spent the bitterest moments of her life--so far. pride came to her help. she had made a miserable mess of it, but no one must know--certainly not her father, who had warned her so desperately! she had made her bed, and she would have to lie on it. when winton came back, he found her smiling, and said: "i don't see the fascination, gyp." "don't you think her face really rather perfect?" "common." "yes; but that drops off when she's dancing." winton looked at her from under half-closed eyelids. "with her clothes? what does fiorsen think of her?" gyp smiled. "does he think of her? i don't know." she could feel the watchful tightening of his face. and suddenly he said: "daphne wing! by george!" the words were a masterpiece of resentment and distrust. his daughter in peril from--such as that! after he was gone gyp sat on till the sun had quite vanished and the dew was stealing through her thin frock. she would think of anything, anybody except herself! to make others happy was the way to be happy--or so they said. she would try--must try. betty--so stout, and with that rheumatism in her leg--did she ever think of herself? or aunt rosamund, with her perpetual rescuings of lost dogs, lame horses, and penniless musicians? and dad, for all his man-of-the-world ways, was he not always doing little things for the men of his old regiment, always thinking of her, too, and what he could do to give her pleasure? to love everybody, and bring them happiness! was it not possible? only, people were hard to love, different from birds and beasts and flowers, to love which seemed natural and easy. she went up to her room and began to dress for dinner. which of her frocks did he like best? the pale, low-cut amber, or that white, soft one, with the coffee-dipped lace? she decided on the latter. scrutinizing her supple, slender image in the glass, a shudder went through her. that would all go; she would be like those women taking careful exercise in the streets, who made her wonder at their hardihood in showing themselves. it wasn't fair that one must become unsightly, offensive to the eye, in order to bring life into the world. some women seemed proud to be like that. how was that possible? she would never dare to show herself in the days coming. she finished dressing and went downstairs. it was nearly eight, and fiorsen had not come in. when the gong was struck, she turned from the window with a sigh, and went in to dinner. that sigh had been relief. she ate her dinner with the two pups beside her, sent them off, and sat down at her piano. she played chopin--studies, waltzes, mazurkas, preludes, a polonaise or two. and betty, who had a weakness for that composer, sat on a chair by the door which partitioned off the back premises, having opened it a little. she wished she could go and take a peep at her "pretty" in her white frock, with the candle-flames on each side, and those lovely lilies in the vase close by, smelling beautiful. and one of the maids coming too near, she shooed her angrily away. it grew late. the tray had been brought up; the maids had gone to bed. gyp had long stopped playing, had turned out, ready to go up, and, by the french window, stood gazing out into the dark. how warm it was--warm enough to draw forth the scent of the jessamine along the garden wall! not a star. there always seemed so few stars in london. a sound made her swing round. something tall was over there in the darkness, by the open door. she heard a sigh, and called out, frightened: "is that you, gustav?" he spoke some words that she could not understand. shutting the window quickly, she went toward him. light from the hall lit up one side of his face and figure. he was pale; his eyes shone strangely; his sleeve was all white. he said thickly: "little ghost!" and then some words that must be swedish. it was the first time gyp had ever come to close quarters with drunkenness. and her thought was simply: 'how awful if anybody were to see--how awful!' she made a rush to get into the hall and lock the door leading to the back regions, but he caught her frock, ripping the lace from her neck, and his entangled fingers clutched her shoulder. she stopped dead, fearing to make a noise or pull him over, and his other hand clutched her other shoulder, so that he stood steadying himself by her. why was she not shocked, smitten to the ground with grief and shame and rage? she only felt: "what am i to do? how get him upstairs without anyone knowing?" and she looked up into his face--it seemed to her so pathetic with its shining eyes and its staring whiteness that she could have burst into tears. she said gently: "gustav, it's all right. lean on me; we'll go up." his hands, that seemed to have no power or purpose, touched her cheeks, mechanically caressing. more than disgust, she felt that awful pity. putting her arm round his waist, she moved with him toward the stairs. if only no one heard; if only she could get him quietly up! and she murmured: "don't talk; you're not well. lean on me hard." he seemed to make a big effort; his lips puffed out, and with an expression of pride that would have been comic if not so tragic, he muttered something. holding him close with all her strength, as she might have held one desperately loved, she began to mount. it was easier than she had thought. only across the landing now, into the bedroom, and then the danger would be over. done! he was lying across the bed, and the door shut. then, for a moment, she gave way to a fit of shivering so violent that she could hear her teeth chattering yet could not stop them. she caught sight of herself in the big mirror. her pretty lace was all torn; her shoulders were red where his hands had gripped her, holding himself up. she threw off her dress, put on a wrapper, and went up to him. he was lying in a sort of stupor, and with difficulty she got him to sit up and lean against the bed-rail. taking off his tie and collar, she racked her brains for what to give him. sal volatile! surely that must be right. it brought him to himself, so that he even tried to kiss her. at last he was in bed, and she stood looking at him. his eyes were closed; he would not see if she gave way now. but she would not cry--she would not. one sob came--but that was all. well, there was nothing to be done now but get into bed too. she undressed, and turned out the light. he was in a stertorous sleep. and lying there, with eyes wide open, staring into the dark, a smile came on her lips--a very strange smile! she was thinking of all those preposterous young wives she had read of, who, blushing, trembling, murmur into the ears of their young husbands that they "have something--something to tell them!" vi looking at fiorsen, next morning, still sunk in heavy sleep, her first thought was: 'he looks exactly the same.' and, suddenly, it seemed queer to her that she had not been, and still was not, disgusted. it was all too deep for disgust, and somehow, too natural. she took this new revelation of his unbridled ways without resentment. besides, she had long known of this taste of his--one cannot drink brandy and not betray it. she stole noiselessly from bed, noiselessly gathered up his boots and clothes all tumbled on to a chair, and took them forth to the dressing-room. there she held the garments up to the early light and brushed them, then, noiseless, stole back to bed, with needle and thread and her lace. no one must know; not even he must know. for the moment she had forgotten that other thing so terrifically important. it came back to her, very sudden, very sickening. so long as she could keep it secret, no one should know that either--he least of all. the morning passed as usual; but when she came to the music-room at noon, she found that he had gone out. she was just sitting down to lunch when betty, with the broad smile which prevailed on her moon-face when someone had tickled the right side of her, announced: "count rosek." gyp got up, startled. "say that mr. fiorsen is not in, betty. but--but ask if he will come and have some lunch, and get a bottle of hock up, please." in the few seconds before her visitor appeared, gyp experienced the sort of excitement one has entering a field where a bull is grazing. but not even his severest critics could accuse rosek of want of tact. he had hoped to see gustav, but it was charming of her to give him lunch--a great delight! he seemed to have put off, as if for her benefit, his corsets, and some, at all events, of his offending looks--seemed simpler, more genuine. his face was slightly browned, as if, for once, he had been taking his due of air and sun. he talked without cynical submeanings, was most appreciative of her "charming little house," and even showed some warmth in his sayings about art and music. gyp had never disliked him less. but her instincts were on the watch. after lunch, they went out across the garden to see the music-room, and he sat down at the piano. he had the deep, caressing touch that lies in fingers of steel worked by a real passion for tone. gyp sat on the divan and listened. she was out of his sight there; and she looked at him, wondering. he was playing schumann's child music. how could one who produced such fresh idyllic sounds have sinister intentions? and presently she said: "count rosek!" "madame?" "will you please tell me why you sent daphne wing here yesterday?" "i send her?" "yes." but instantly she regretted having asked that question. he had swung round on the music-stool and was looking full at her. his face had changed. "since you ask me, i thought you should know that gustav is seeing a good deal of her." he had given the exact answer she had divined. "do you think i mind that?" a flicker passed over his face. he got up and said quietly: "i am glad that you do not." "why glad?" she, too, had risen. though he was little taller than herself, she was conscious suddenly of how thick and steely he was beneath his dapper garments, and of a kind of snaky will-power in his face. her heart beat faster. he came toward her and said: "i am glad you understand that it is over with gustav--finished--" he stopped dead, seeing at once that he had gone wrong, and not knowing quite where. gyp had simply smiled. a flush coloured his cheeks, and he said: "he is a volcano soon extinguished. you see, i know him. better you should know him, too. why do you smile?" "why is it better i should know?" he went very pale, and said between his teeth: "that you may not waste your time; there is love waiting for you." but gyp still smiled. "was it from love of me that you made him drunk last night?" his lips quivered. "gyp!" gyp turned. but with the merest change of front, he had put himself between her and the door. "you never loved him. that is my excuse. you have given him too much already--more than he is worth. ah! god! i am tortured by you; i am possessed." he had gone white through and through like a flame, save for his smouldering eyes. she was afraid, and because she was afraid, she stood her ground. should she make a dash for the door that opened into the little lane and escape that way? then suddenly he seemed to regain control; but she could feel that he was trying to break through her defences by the sheer intensity of his gaze--by a kind of mesmerism, knowing that he had frightened her. under the strain of this duel of eyes, she felt herself beginning to sway, to get dizzy. whether or no he really moved his feet, he seemed coming closer inch by inch. she had a horrible feeling--as if his arms were already round her. with an effort, she wrenched her gaze from his, and suddenly his crisp hair caught her eyes. surely--surely it was curled with tongs! a kind of spasm of amusement was set free in her heart, and, almost inaudibly, the words escaped her lips: "une technique merveilleuse!" his eyes wavered; he uttered a little gasp; his lips fell apart. gyp walked across the room and put her hand on the bell. she had lost her fear. without a word, he turned, and went out into the garden. she watched him cross the lawn. gone! she had beaten him by the one thing not even violent passions can withstand--ridicule, almost unconscious ridicule. then she gave way and pulled the bell with nervous violence. the sight of the maid, in her trim black dress and spotless white apron, coming from the house completed her restoration. was it possible that she had really been frightened, nearly failing in that encounter, nearly dominated by that man--in her own house, with her own maids down there at hand? and she said quietly: "i want the puppies, please." "yes, ma'am." over the garden, the day brooded in the first-gathered warmth of summer. mid-june of a fine year. the air was drowsy with hum and scent. and gyp, sitting in the shade, while the puppies rolled and snapped, searched her little world for comfort and some sense of safety, and could not find it; as if there were all round her a hot heavy fog in which things lurked, and where she kept erect only by pride and the will not to cry out that she was struggling and afraid. fiorsen, leaving his house that morning, had walked till he saw a taxi-cab. leaning back therein, with hat thrown off, he caused himself to be driven rapidly, at random. this was one of his habits when his mind was not at ease--an expensive idiosyncrasy, ill-afforded by a pocket that had holes. the swift motion and titillation by the perpetual close shaving of other vehicles were sedative to him. he needed sedatives this morning. to wake in his own bed without the least remembering how he had got there was no more new to him than to many another man of twenty-eight, but it was new since his marriage. if he had remembered even less he would have been more at ease. but he could just recollect standing in the dark drawing-room, seeing and touching a ghostly gyp quite close to him. and, somehow, he was afraid. and when he was afraid--like most people--he was at his worst. if she had been like all the other women in whose company he had eaten passion-fruit, he would not have felt this carking humiliation. if she had been like them, at the pace he had been going since he obtained possession of her, he would already have "finished," as rosek had said. and he knew well enough that he had not "finished." he might get drunk, might be loose-ended in every way, but gyp was hooked into his senses, and, for all that he could not get near her, into his spirit. her very passivity was her strength, the secret of her magnetism. in her, he felt some of that mysterious sentiency of nature, which, even in yielding to man's fevers, lies apart with a faint smile--the uncapturable smile of the woods and fields by day or night, that makes one ache with longing. he felt in her some of the unfathomable, soft, vibrating indifference of the flowers and trees and streams, of the rocks, of birdsongs, and the eternal hum, under sunshine or star-shine. her dark, half-smiling eyes enticed him, inspired an unquenchable thirst. and his was one of those natures which, encountering spiritual difficulty, at once jib off, seek anodynes, try to bandage wounded egoism with excess--a spoiled child, with the desperations and the inherent pathos, the something repulsive and the something lovable that belong to all such. having wished for this moon, and got her, he now did not know what to do with her, kept taking great bites at her, with a feeling all the time of getting further and further away. at moments, he desired revenge for his failure to get near her spiritually, and was ready to commit follies of all kinds. he was only kept in control at all by his work. for he did work hard; though, even there, something was lacking. he had all the qualities of making good, except the moral backbone holding them together, which alone could give him his rightful--as he thought--pre-eminence. it often surprised and vexed him to find that some contemporary held higher rank than himself. threading the streets in his cab, he mused: "did i do anything that really shocked her last night? why didn't i wait for her this morning and find out the worst?" and his lips twisted awry--for to find out the worst was not his forte. meditation, seeking as usual a scapegoat, lighted on rosek. like most egoists addicted to women, he had not many friends. rosek was the most constant. but even for him, fiorsen had at once the contempt and fear that a man naturally uncontrolled and yet of greater scope has for one of less talent but stronger will-power. he had for him, too, the feeling of a wayward child for its nurse, mixed with the need that an artist, especially an executant artist, feels for a connoisseur and patron with well-lined pockets. 'curse paul!' he thought. 'he must know--he does know--that brandy of his goes down like water. trust him, he saw i was getting silly! he had some game on. where did i go after? how did i get home?' and again: 'did i hurt gyp?' if the servants had seen--that would be the worst; that would upset her fearfully! and he laughed. then he had a fresh access of fear. he didn't know her, never knew what she was thinking or feeling, never knew anything about her. and he thought angrily: 'that's not fair! i don't hide myself from her. i am as free as nature; i let her see everything. what did i do? that maid looked very queerly at me this morning!' and suddenly he said to the driver: "bury street, st. james's." he could find out, at all events, whether gyp had been to her father's. the thought of winton ever afflicted him; and he changed his mind several times before the cab reached that little street, but so swiftly that he had not time to alter his instructions to the driver. a light sweat broke out on his forehead while he was waiting for the door to be opened. "mrs. fiorsen here?" "no, sir." "not been here this morning?" "no, sir." he shrugged away the thought that he ought to give some explanation of his question, and got into the cab again, telling the man to drive to curzon street. if she had not been to "that aunt rosamund" either it would be all right. she had not. there was no one else she would go to. and, with a sigh of relief, he began to feel hungry, having had no breakfast. he would go to rosek's, borrow the money to pay his cab, and lunch there. but rosek was not in. he would have to go home to get the cab paid. the driver seemed to eye him queerly now, as though conceiving doubts about the fare. going in under the trellis, fiorsen passed a man coming out, who held in his hand a long envelope and eyed him askance. gyp, who was sitting at her bureau, seemed to be adding up the counterfoils in her cheque-book. she did not turn round, and fiorsen paused. how was she going to receive him? "is there any lunch?" he said. she reached out and rang the bell. he felt sorry for himself. he had been quite ready to take her in his arms and say: "forgive me, little gyp; i'm sorry!" betty answered the bell. "please bring up some lunch for mr. fiorsen." he heard the stout woman sniff as she went out. she was a part of his ostracism. and, with sudden rage, he said: "what do you want for a husband--a bourgeois who would die if he missed his lunch?" gyp turned round to him and held out her cheque-book. "i don't in the least mind about meals; but i do about this." he read on the counterfoil: "messrs. travers & sanborn, tailors, account rendered: l s. d." "are there many of these, gustav?" fiorsen had turned the peculiar white that marked deep injury to his sell-esteem. he said violently: "well, what of that? a bill! did you pay it? you have no business to pay my bills." "the man said if it wasn't paid this time, he'd sue you." her lips quivered. "i think owing money is horrible. it's undignified. are there many others? please tell me!" "i shall not tell you. what is it to you?" "it is a lot to me. i have to keep this house and pay the maids and everything, and i want to know how i stand. i am not going to make debts. that's hateful." her face had a hardness that he did not know. he perceived dimly that she was different from the gyp of this hour yesterday--the last time when, in possession of his senses, he had seen or spoken to her. the novelty of her revolt stirred him in strange ways, wounded his self-conceit, inspired a curious fear, and yet excited his senses. he came up to her, said softly: "money! curse money! kiss me!" with a certain amazement at the sheer distaste in her face, he heard her say: "it's childish to curse money. i will spend all the income i have; but i will not spend more, and i will not ask dad." he flung himself down in a chair. "ho! ho! virtue!" "no--pride." he said gloomily: "so you don't believe in me. you don't believe i can earn as much as i want--more than you have--any time? you never have believed in me." "i think you earn now as much as you are ever likely to earn." "that is what you think! i don't want money--your money! i can live on nothing, any time. i have done it--often." "hssh!" he looked round and saw the maid in the doorway. "please, sir, the driver says can he have his fare, or do you want him again? twelve shillings." fiorsen stared at her a moment in the way that--as the maid often said--made you feel like a silly. "no. pay him." the girl glanced at gyp, answered: "yes, sir," and went out. fiorsen laughed; he laughed, holding his sides. it was droll coming on the top of his assertion, too droll! and, looking up at her, he said: "that was good, wasn't it, gyp?" but her face had not abated its gravity; and, knowing that she was even more easily tickled by the incongruous than himself, he felt again that catch of fear. something was different. yes; something was really different. "did i hurt you last night?" she shrugged her shoulders and went to the window. he looked at her darkly, jumped up, and swung out past her into the garden. and, almost at once, the sound of his violin, furiously played in the music-room, came across the lawn. gyp listened with a bitter smile. money, too! but what did it matter? she could not get out of what she had done. she could never get out. tonight he would kiss her; and she would pretend it was all right. and so it would go on and on! well, it was her own fault. taking twelve shillings from her purse, she put them aside on the bureau to give the maid. and suddenly she thought: 'perhaps he'll get tired of me. if only he would get tired!' that was a long way the furthest she had yet gone. vii they who have known the doldrums--how the sails of the listless ship droop, and the hope of escape dies day by day--may understand something of the life gyp began living now. on a ship, even doldrums come to an end. but a young woman of twenty-three, who has made a mistake in her marriage, and has only herself to blame, looks forward to no end, unless she be the new woman, which gyp was not. having settled that she would not admit failure, and clenched her teeth on the knowledge that she was going to have a child, she went on keeping things sealed up even from winton. to fiorsen, she managed to behave as usual, making material life easy and pleasant for him--playing for him, feeding him well, indulging his amorousness. it did not matter; she loved no one else. to count herself a martyr would be silly! her malaise, successfully concealed, was deeper--of the spirit; the subtle utter discouragement of one who has done for herself, clipped her own wings. as for rosek, she treated him as if that little scene had never taken place. the idea of appealing to her husband in a difficulty was gone for ever since the night he came home drunk. and she did not dare to tell her father. he would--what would he not do? but she was always on her guard, knowing that rosek would not forgive her for that dart of ridicule. his insinuations about daphne wing she put out of mind, as she never could have if she had loved fiorsen. she set up for herself the idol of pride, and became its faithful worshipper. only winton, and perhaps betty, could tell she was not happy. fiorsen's debts and irresponsibility about money did not worry her much, for she paid everything in the house--rent, wages, food, and her own dress--and had so far made ends meet; and what he did outside the house she could not help. so the summer wore on till concerts were over, and it was supposed to be impossible to stay in london. but she dreaded going away. she wanted to be left quiet in her little house. it was this which made her tell fiorsen her secret one night, after the theatre. he had begun to talk of a holiday, sitting on the edge of the settee, with a glass in his hand and a cigarette between his lips. his cheeks, white and hollow from too much london, went a curious dull red; he got up and stared at her. gyp made an involuntary movement with her hands. "you needn't look at me. it's true." he put down glass and cigarette and began to tramp the room. and gyp stood with a little smile, not even watching him. suddenly he clasped his forehead and broke out: "but i don't want it; i won't have it--spoiling my gyp." then quickly going up to her with a scared face: "i don't want it; i'm afraid of it. don't have it." in gyp's heart came the same feeling as when he had stood there drunk, against the wall--compassion, rather than contempt of his childishness. and taking his hand she said: "all right, gustav. it shan't bother you. when i begin to get ugly, i'll go away with betty till it's over." he went down on his knees. "oh, no! oh, no! oh, no! my beautiful gyp!" and gyp sat like a sphinx, for fear that she too might let slip those words: "oh, no!" the windows were open, and moths had come in. one had settled on the hydrangea plant that filled the hearth. gyp looked at the soft, white, downy thing, whose head was like a tiny owl's against the bluish petals; looked at the purple-grey tiles down there, and the stuff of her own frock, in the shaded gleam of the lamps. and all her love of beauty rebelled, called up by his: "oh, no!" she would be unsightly soon, and suffer pain, and perhaps die of it, as her own mother had died. she set her teeth, listening to that grown-up child revolting against what he had brought on her, and touched his hand, protectingly. it interested, even amused her this night and next day to watch his treatment of the disconcerting piece of knowledge. for when at last he realized that he had to acquiesce in nature, he began, as she had known he would, to jib away from all reminder of it. she was careful not to suggest that he should go away without her, knowing his perversity. but when he proposed that she should come to ostend with him and rosek, she answered, after seeming deliberation, that she thought she had better not--she would rather stay at home quite quietly; but he must certainly go and get a good holiday. when he was really gone, peace fell on gyp--peace such as one feels, having no longer the tight, banded sensations of a fever. to be without that strange, disorderly presence in the house! when she woke in the sultry silence of the next morning, she utterly failed to persuade herself that she was missing him, missing the sound of his breathing, the sight of his rumpled hair on the pillow, the outline of his long form under the sheet. her heart was devoid of any emptiness or ache; she only felt how pleasant and cool and tranquil it was to lie there alone. she stayed quite late in bed. it was delicious, with window and door wide open and the puppies running in and out, to lie and doze off, or listen to the pigeons' cooing, and the distant sounds of traffic, and feel in command once more of herself, body and soul. now that she had told fiorsen, she had no longer any desire to keep her condition secret. feeling that it would hurt her father to learn of it from anyone but herself, she telephoned to tell him she was alone, and asked if she might come to bury street and dine with him. winton had not gone away, because, between goodwood and doncaster there was no racing that he cared for; one could not ride at this time of year, so might just as well be in london. in fact, august was perhaps the pleasantest of all months in town; the club was empty, and he could sit there without some old bore buttonholing him. little boncarte, the fencing-master, was always free for a bout--winton had long learned to make his left hand what his right hand used to be; the turkish baths in jermyn street were nearly void of their fat clients; he could saunter over to covent garden, buy a melon, and carry it home without meeting any but the most inferior duchesses in piccadilly; on warm nights he could stroll the streets or the parks, smoking his cigar, his hat pushed back to cool his forehead, thinking vague thoughts, recalling vague memories. he received the news that his daughter was alone and free from that fellow with something like delight. where should he dine her? mrs. markey was on her holiday. why not blafard's? quiet---small rooms--not too respectable--quite fairly cool--good things to eat. yes; blafard's! when she drove up, he was ready in the doorway, his thin brown face with its keen, half-veiled eyes the picture of composure, but feeling at heart like a schoolboy off for an exeat. how pretty she was looking--though pale from london--her dark eyes, her smile! and stepping quickly to the cab, he said: "no; i'm getting in--dining at blafard's, gyp--a night out!" it gave him a thrill to walk into that little restaurant behind her; and passing through its low red rooms to mark the diners turn and stare with envy--taking him, perhaps, for a different sort of relation. he settled her into a far corner by a window, where she could see the people and be seen. he wanted her to be seen; while he himself turned to the world only the short back wings of his glossy greyish hair. he had no notion of being disturbed in his enjoyment by the sight of hivites and amorites, or whatever they might be, lapping champagne and shining in the heat. for, secretly, he was living not only in this evening but in a certain evening of the past, when, in this very corner, he had dined with her mother. his face then had borne the brunt; hers had been turned away from inquisition. but he did not speak of this to gyp. she drank two full glasses of wine before she told him her news. he took it with the expression she knew so well--tightening his lips and staring a little upward. then he said quietly: "when?" "november, dad." a shudder, not to be repressed, went through winton. the very month! and stretching his hand across the table, he took hers and pressed it tightly. "it'll be all right, child; i'm glad." clinging to his hand, gyp murmured: "i'm not; but i won't be frightened--i promise." each was trying to deceive the other; and neither was deceived. but both were good at putting a calm face on things. besides, this was "a night out"--for her, the first since her marriage--of freedom, of feeling somewhat as she used to feel with all before her in a ballroom of a world; for him, the unfettered resumption of a dear companionship and a stealthy revel in the past. after his, "so he's gone to ostend?" and his thought: 'he would!' they never alluded to fiorsen, but talked of horses, of mildenham--it seemed to gyp years since she had been there--of her childish escapades. and, looking at him quizzically, she asked: "what were you like as a boy, dad? aunt rosamund says that you used to get into white rages when nobody could go near you. she says you were always climbing trees, or shooting with a catapult, or stalking things, and that you never told anybody what you didn't want to tell them. and weren't you desperately in love with your nursery-governess?" winton smiled. how long since he had thought of that first affection. miss huntley! helena huntley--with crinkly brown hair, and blue eyes, and fascinating frocks! he remembered with what grief and sense of bitter injury he heard in his first school-holidays that she was gone. and he said: "yes, yes. by jove, what a time ago! and my father's going off to india. he never came back; killed in that first afghan business. when i was fond, i was fond. but i didn't feel things like you--not half so sensitive. no; not a bit like you, gyp." and watching her unconscious eyes following the movements of the waiters, never staring, but taking in all that was going on, he thought: 'prettiest creature in the world!' "well," he said: "what would you like to do now--drop into a theatre or music-hall, or what?" gyp shook her head. it was so hot. could they just drive, and then perhaps sit in the park? that would be lovely. it had gone dark, and the air was not quite so exhausted--a little freshness of scent from the trees in the squares and parks mingled with the fumes of dung and petrol. winton gave the same order he had given that long past evening: "knightsbridge gate." it had been a hansom then, and the night air had blown in their faces, instead of as now in these infernal taxis, down the back of one's neck. they left the cab and crossed the row; passed the end of the long water, up among the trees. there, on two chairs covered by winton's coat, they sat side by side. no dew was falling yet; the heavy leaves hung unstirring; the air was warm, sweet-smelling. blotted against trees or on the grass were other couples darker than the darkness, very silent. all was quiet save for the never-ceasing hum of traffic. from winton's lips, the cigar smoke wreathed and curled. he was dreaming. the cigar between his teeth trembled; a long ash fell. mechanically he raised his hand to brush it off--his right hand! a voice said softly in his ear: "isn't it delicious, and warm, and gloomy black?" winton shivered, as one shivers recalled from dreams; and, carefully brushing off the ash with his left hand, he answered: "yes; very jolly. my cigar's out, though, and i haven't a match." gyp's hand slipped through his arm. "all these people in love, and so dark and whispery--it makes a sort of strangeness in the air. don't you feel it?" winton murmured: "no moon to-night!" again they were silent. a puff of wind ruffled the leaves; the night, for a moment, seemed full of whispering; then the sound of a giggle jarred out and a girl's voice: "oh! chuck it, 'arry." gyp rose. "i feel the dew now, dad. can we walk on?" they went along paths, so as not to wet her feet in her thin shoes. and they talked. the spell was over; the night again but a common london night; the park a space of parching grass and gravel; the people just clerks and shop-girls walking out. viii fiorsen's letters were the source of one long smile to gyp. he missed her horribly; if only she were there!--and so forth--blended in the queerest way with the impression that he was enjoying himself uncommonly. there were requests for money, and careful omission of any real account of what he was doing. out of a balance running rather low, she sent him remittances; this was her holiday, too, and she could afford to pay for it. she even sought out a shop where she could sell jewelry, and, with a certain malicious joy, forwarded him the proceeds. it would give him and herself another week. one night she went with winton to the octagon, where daphne wing was still performing. remembering the girl's squeaks of rapture at her garden, she wrote next day, asking her to lunch and spend a lazy afternoon under the trees. the little dancer came with avidity. she was pale, and droopy from the heat, but happily dressed in liberty silk, with a plain turn-down straw hat. they lunched off sweetbreads, ices, and fruit, and then, with coffee, cigarettes, and plenty of sugar-plums, settled down in the deepest shade of the garden, gyp in a low wicker chair, daphne wing on cushions and the grass. once past the exclamatory stage, she seemed a great talker, laying bare her little soul with perfect liberality. and gyp--excellent listener--enjoyed it, as one enjoys all confidential revelations of existences very different from one's own, especially when regarded as a superior being. "of course i don't mean to stay at home any longer than i can help; only it's no good going out into life"--this phrase she often used--"till you know where you are. in my profession, one has to be so careful. of course, people think it's worse than it is; father gets fits sometimes. but you know, mrs. fiorsen, home's awful. we have mutton--you know what mutton is--it's really awful in your bedroom in hot weather. and there's nowhere to practise. what i should like would be a studio. it would be lovely, somewhere down by the river, or up here near you. that would be lovely. you know, i'm putting by. as soon as ever i have two hundred pounds, i shall skip. what i think would be perfectly lovely would be to inspire painters and musicians. i don't want to be just a common 'turn'--ballet business year after year, and that; i want to be something rather special. but mother's so silly about me; she thinks i oughtn't to take any risks at all. i shall never get on that way. it is so nice to talk to you, mrs. fiorsen, because you're young enough to know what i feel; and i'm sure you'd never be shocked at anything. you see, about men: ought one to marry, or ought one to take a lover? they say you can't be a perfect artist till you've felt passion. but, then, if you marry, that means mutton over again, and perhaps babies, and perhaps the wrong man after all. ugh! but then, on the other hand, i don't want to be raffish. i hate raffish people--i simply hate them. what do you think? it's awfully difficult, isn't it?" gyp, perfectly grave, answered: "that sort of thing settles itself. i shouldn't bother beforehand." miss daphne wing buried her perfect chin deeper in her hands, and said meditatively: "yes; i rather thought that, too; of course i could do either now. but, you see, i really don't care for men who are not distinguished. i'm sure i shall only fall in love with a really distinguished man. that's what you did--isn't it?--so you must understand. i think mr. fiorsen is wonderfully distinguished." sunlight, piercing the shade, suddenly fell warm on gyp's neck where her blouse ceased, and fortunately stilled the medley of emotion and laughter a little lower down. she continued to look gravely at daphne wing, who resumed: "of course, mother would have fits if i asked her such a question, and i don't know what father would do. only it is important, isn't it? one may go all wrong from the start; and i do really want to get on. i simply adore my work. i don't mean to let love stand in its way; i want to make it help, you know. count rosek says my dancing lacks passion. i wish you'd tell me if you think it does. i should believe you." gyp shook her head. "i'm not a judge." daphne wing looked up reproachfully. "oh, i'm sure you are! if i were a man, i should be passionately in love with you. i've got a new dance where i'm supposed to be a nymph pursued by a faun; it's so difficult to feel like a nymph when you know it's only the ballet-master. do you think i ought to put passion into that? you see, i'm supposed to be flying all the time; but it would be much more subtle, wouldn't it, if i could give the impression that i wanted to be caught. don't you think so?" gyp said suddenly: "yes, i think it would do you good to be in love." miss daphne's mouth fell a little open; her eyes grew round. she said: "you frightened me when you said that. you looked so different--so--intense." a flame indeed had leaped up in gyp. this fluffy, flabby talk of love set her instincts in revolt. she did not want to love; she had failed to fall in love. but, whatever love was like, it did not bear talking about. how was it that this little suburban girl, when she once got on her toes, could twirl one's emotions as she did? "d'you know what i should simply revel in?" daphne wing went on: "to dance to you here in the garden some night. it must be wonderful to dance out of doors; and the grass is nice and hard now. only, i suppose it would shock the servants. do they look out this way?" gyp shook her head. "i could dance over there in front of the drawing-room window. only it would have to be moonlight. i could come any sunday. i've got a dance where i'm supposed to be a lotus flower--that would do splendidly. and there's my real moonlight dance that goes to chopin. i could bring my dresses, and change in the music-room, couldn't i?" she wriggled up, and sat cross-legged, gazing at gyp, and clasping her hands. "oh, may i?" her excitement infected gyp. a desire to give pleasure, the queerness of the notion, and her real love of seeing this girl dance, made her say: "yes; next sunday." daphne wing got up, made a rush, and kissed her. her mouth was soft, and she smelled of orange blossom; but gyp recoiled a little--she hated promiscuous kisses. somewhat abashed, miss daphne hung her head, and said: "you did look so lovely; i couldn't help it, really." and gyp gave her hand the squeeze of compunction. they went indoors, to try over the music of the two dances; and soon after daphne wing departed, full of sugar-plums and hope. she arrived punctually at eight o'clock next sunday, carrying an exiguous green linen bag, which contained her dresses. she was subdued, and, now that it had come to the point, evidently a little scared. lobster salad, hock, and peaches restored her courage. she ate heartily. it did not apparently matter to her whether she danced full or empty; but she would not smoke. "it's bad for the--" she checked herself. when they had finished supper, gyp shut the dogs into the back premises; she had visions of their rending miss wing's draperies, or calves. then they went into the drawing-room, not lighting up, that they might tell when the moonlight was strong enough outside. though it was the last night of august, the heat was as great as ever--a deep, unstirring warmth; the climbing moon shot as yet but a thin shaft here and there through the heavy foliage. they talked in low voices, unconsciously playing up to the nature of the escapade. as the moon drew up, they stole out across the garden to the music-room. gyp lighted the candles. "can you manage?" miss daphne had already shed half her garments. "oh, i'm so excited, mrs. fiorsen! i do hope i shall dance well." gyp stole back to the house; it being sunday evening, the servants had been easily disposed of. she sat down at the piano, turning her eyes toward the garden. a blurred white shape flitted suddenly across the darkness at the far end and became motionless, as it might be a white-flowering bush under the trees. miss daphne had come out, and was waiting for the moon. gyp began to play. she pitched on a little sicilian pastorale that the herdsmen play on their pipes coming down from the hills, softly, from very far, rising, rising, swelling to full cadence, and failing, failing away again to nothing. the moon rose over the trees; its light flooded the face of the house, down on to the grass, and spread slowly back toward where the girl stood waiting. it caught the border of sunflowers along the garden wall with a stroke of magical, unearthly colour--gold that was not gold. gyp began to play the dance. the pale blurr in the darkness stirred. the moonlight fell on the girl now, standing with arms spread, holding out her drapery--a white, winged statue. then, like a gigantic moth she fluttered forth, blanched and noiseless flew over the grass, spun and hovered. the moonlight etched out the shape of her head, painted her hair with pallid gold. in the silence, with that unearthly gleam of colour along the sunflowers and on the girl's head, it was as if a spirit had dropped into the garden and was fluttering to and fro, unable to get out. a voice behind gyp said: "my god! what's this? an angel?" fiorsen was standing hall-way in the darkened room staring out into the garden, where the girl had halted, transfixed before the window, her eyes as round as saucers, her mouth open, her limbs rigid with interest and affright. suddenly she turned and, gathering her garment, fled, her limbs gleaming in the moonlight. and gyp sat looking up at the apparition of her husband. she could just see his eyes straining after that flying nymph. miss daphne's faun! why, even his ears were pointed! had she never noticed before, how like a faun he was? yes--on her wedding-night! and she said quietly: "daphne wing was rehearsing her new dance. so you're back! why didn't you let me know? are you all right--you look splendid!" fiorsen bent down and clutched her by the shoulders. "my gyp! kiss me!" but even while his lips were pressed on hers, she felt rather than saw his eyes straying to the garden, and thought, "he would like to be kissing that girl!" the moment he had gone to get his things from the cab, she slipped out to the music-room. miss daphne was dressed, and stuffing her garments into the green linen bag. she looked up, and said piteously: "oh! does he mind? it's awful, isn't it?" gyp strangled her desire to laugh. "it's for you to mind." "oh, i don't, if you don't! how did you like the dance?" "lovely! when you're ready--come along!" "oh, i think i'd rather go home, please! it must seem so funny!" "would you like to go by this back way into the lane? you turn to the right, into the road." "oh, yes; please. it would have been better if he could have seen the dance properly, wouldn't it? what will he think?" gyp smiled, and opened the door into the lane. when she returned, fiorsen was at the window, gazing out. was it for her or for that flying nymph? ix september and october passed. there were more concerts, not very well attended. fiorsen's novelty had worn off, nor had his playing sweetness and sentiment enough for the big public. there was also a financial crisis. it did not seem to gyp to matter. everything seemed remote and unreal in the shadow of her coming time. unlike most mothers to be, she made no garments, no preparations of any kind. why make what might never be needed? she played for fiorsen a great deal, for herself not at all, read many books--poetry, novels, biographies--taking them in at the moment, and forgetting them at once, as one does with books read just to distract the mind. winton and aunt rosamund, by tacit agreement, came on alternate afternoons. and winton, almost as much under that shadow as gyp herself, would take the evening train after leaving her, and spend the next day racing or cub-hunting, returning the morning of the day after to pay his next visit. he had no dread just then like that of an unoccupied day face to face with anxiety. betty, who had been present at gyp's birth, was in a queer state. the obvious desirability of such events to one of motherly type defrauded by fate of children was terribly impinged on by that old memory, and a solicitude for her "pretty" far exceeding what she would have had for a daughter of her own. what a peony regards as a natural happening to a peony, she watches with awe when it happens to the lily. that other single lady of a certain age, aunt rosamund, the very antithesis to betty--a long, thin nose and a mere button, a sense of divine rights and no sense of rights at all, a drawl and a comforting wheeze, length and circumference, decision and the curtsey to providence, humour and none, dyspepsia, and the digestion of an ostrich, with other oppositions--aunt rosamund was also uneasy, as only one could be who disapproved heartily of uneasiness, and habitually joked and drawled it into retirement. but of all those round gyp, fiorsen gave the most interesting display. he had not even an elementary notion of disguising his state of mind. and his state of mind was weirdly, wistfully primitive. he wanted gyp as she had been. the thought that she might never become herself again terrified him so at times that he was forced to drink brandy, and come home only a little less far gone than that first time. gyp had often to help him go to bed. on two or three occasions, he suffered so that he was out all night. to account for this, she devised the formula of a room at count rosek's, where he slept when music kept him late, so as not to disturb her. whether the servants believed her or not, she never knew. nor did she ever ask him where he went--too proud, and not feeling that she had the right. deeply conscious of the unaesthetic nature of her condition, she was convinced that she could no longer be attractive to one so easily upset in his nerves, so intolerant of ugliness. as to deeper feelings about her--had he any? he certainly never gave anything up, or sacrificed himself in any way. if she had loved, she felt she would want to give up everything to the loved one; but then--she would never love! and yet he seemed frightened about her. it was puzzling! but perhaps she would not be puzzled much longer about that or anything; for she often had the feeling that she would die. how could she be going to live, grudging her fate? what would give her strength to go through with it? and, at times, she felt as if she would be glad to die. life had defrauded her, or she had defrauded herself of life. was it really only a year since that glorious day's hunting when dad and she, and the young man with the clear eyes and the irrepressible smile, had slipped away with the hounds ahead of all the field--the fatal day fiorsen descended from the clouds and asked for her? an overwhelming longing for mildenham came on her, to get away there with her father and betty. she went at the beginning of november. over her departure, fiorsen behaved like a tired child that will not go to bed. he could not bear to be away from her, and so forth; but when she had gone, he spent a furious bohemian evening. at about five, he woke with "an awful cold feeling in my heart," as he wrote to gyp next day--"an awful feeling, my gyp; i walked up and down for hours" (in reality, half an hour at most). "how shall i bear to be away from you at this time? i feel lost." next day, he found himself in paris with rosek. "i could not stand," he wrote, "the sight of the streets, of the garden, of our room. when i come back i shall stay with rosek. nearer to the day i will come; i must come to you." but gyp, when she read the letter, said to winton: "dad, when it comes, don't send for him. i don't want him here." with those letters of his, she buried the last remnants of her feeling that somewhere in him there must be something as fine and beautiful as the sounds he made with his violin. and yet she felt those letters genuine in a way, pathetic, and with real feeling of a sort. from the moment she reached mildenham, she began to lose that hopelessness about herself; and, for the first time, had the sensation of wanting to live in the new life within her. she first felt it, going into her old nursery, where everything was the same as it had been when she first saw it, a child of eight; there was her old red doll's house, the whole side of which opened to display the various floors; the worn venetian blinds, the rattle of whose fall had sounded in her ears so many hundred times; the high fender, near which she had lain so often on the floor, her chin on her hands, reading grimm, or "alice in wonderland," or histories of england. here, too, perhaps this new child would live amongst the old familiars. and the whim seized her to face her hour in her old nursery, not in the room where she had slept as a girl. she would not like the daintiness of that room deflowered. let it stay the room of her girlhood. but in the nursery--there was safety, comfort! and when she had been at mildenham a week, she made betty change her over. no one in that house was half so calm to look at in those days as gyp. betty was not guiltless of sitting on the stairs and crying at odd moments. mrs. markey had never made such bad soups. markey so far forgot himself as frequently to talk. winton lamed a horse trying an impossible jump that he might get home the quicker, and, once back, was like an unquiet spirit. if gyp were in the room, he would make the pretence of wanting to warm his feet or hand, just to stroke her shoulder as he went back to his chair. his voice, so measured and dry, had a ring in it, that too plainly disclosed the anxiety of his heart. gyp, always sensitive to atmosphere, felt cradled in all the love about her. wonderful that they should all care so much! what had she done for anyone, that people should be so sweet--he especially, whom she had so grievously distressed by her wretched marriage? she would sit staring into the fire with her wide, dark eyes, unblinking as an owl's at night--wondering what she could do to make up to her father, whom already once she had nearly killed by coming into life. and she began to practise the bearing of the coming pain, trying to project herself into this unknown suffering, so that it should not surprise from her cries and contortions. she had one dream, over and over again, of sinking and sinking into a feather bed, growing hotter and more deeply walled in by that which had no stay in it, yet through which her body could not fall and reach anything more solid. once, after this dream, she got up and spent the rest of the night wrapped in a blanket and the eider-down, on the old sofa, where, as a child, they had made her lie flat on her back from twelve to one every day. betty was aghast at finding her there asleep in the morning. gyp's face was so like the child-face she had seen lying there in the old days, that she bundled out of the room and cried bitterly into the cup of tea. it did her good. going back with the tea, she scolded her "pretty" for sleeping out there, with the fire out, too! but gyp only said: "betty, darling, the tea's awfully cold! please get me some more!" x from the day of the nurse's arrival, winton gave up hunting. he could not bring himself to be out of doors for more than half an hour at a time. distrust of doctors did not prevent him having ten minutes every morning with the old practitioner who had treated gyp for mumps, measles, and the other blessings of childhood. the old fellow--his name was rivershaw--was a most peculiar survival. he smelled of mackintosh, had round purplish cheeks, a rim of hair which people said he dyed, and bulging grey eyes slightly bloodshot. he was short in body and wind, drank port wine, was suspected of taking snuff, read the times, spoke always in a husky voice, and used a very small brougham with a very old black horse. but he had a certain low cunning, which had defeated many ailments, and his reputation for assisting people into the world stood extremely high. every morning punctually at twelve, the crunch of his little brougham's wheels would be heard. winton would get up, and, taking a deep breath, cross the hall to the dining-room, extract from a sideboard a decanter of port, a biscuit-canister, and one glass. he would then stand with his eyes fixed on the door, till, in due time, the doctor would appear, and he could say: "well, doctor? how is she?" "nicely; quite nicely." "nothing to make one anxious?" the doctor, puffing out his cheeks, with eyes straying to the decanter, would murmur: "cardiac condition, capital--a little--um--not to matter. taking its course. these things!" and winton, with another deep breath, would say: "glass of port, doctor?" an expression of surprise would pass over the doctor's face. "cold day--ah, perhaps--" and he would blow his nose on his purple-and-red bandanna. watching him drink his port, winton would mark: "we can get you at any time, can't we?" and the doctor, sucking his lips, would answer: "never fear, my dear sir! little miss gyp--old friend of mine. at her service day and night. never fear!" a sensation of comfort would pass through winton, which would last quite twenty minutes after the crunching of the wheels and the mingled perfumes of him had died away. in these days, his greatest friend was an old watch that had been his father's before him; a gold repeater from switzerland, with a chipped dial-plate, and a case worn wondrous thin and smooth--a favourite of gyp's childhood. he would take it out about every quarter of an hour, look at its face without discovering the time, finger it, all smooth and warm from contact with his body, and put it back. then he would listen. there was nothing whatever to listen to, but he could not help it. apart from this, his chief distraction was to take a foil and make passes at a leather cushion, set up on the top of a low bookshelf. in these occupations, varied by constant visits to the room next the nursery, where--to save her the stairs--gyp was now established, and by excursions to the conservatory to see if he could not find some new flower to take her, he passed all his time, save when he was eating, sleeping, or smoking cigars, which he had constantly to be relighting. by gyp's request, they kept from him knowledge of when her pains began. after that first bout was over and she was lying half asleep in the old nursery, he happened to go up. the nurse--a bonny creature--one of those free, independent, economic agents that now abound--met him in the sitting-room. accustomed to the "fuss and botheration of men" at such times, she was prepared to deliver him a little lecture. but, in approaching, she became affected by the look on his face, and, realizing somehow that she was in the presence of one whose self-control was proof, she simply whispered: "it's beginning; but don't be anxious--she's not suffering just now. we shall send for the doctor soon. she's very plucky"; and with an unaccustomed sensation of respect and pity she repeated: "don't be anxious, sir." "if she wants to see me at any time, i shall be in my study. save her all you can, nurse." the nurse was left with a feeling of surprise at having used the word "sir"; she had not done such a thing since--since--! and, pensive, she returned to the nursery, where gyp said at once: "was that my father? i didn't want him to know." the nurse answered mechanically: "that's all right, my dear." "how long do you think before--before it'll begin again, nurse? i'd like to see him." the nurse stroked her hair. "soon enough when it's all over and comfy. men are always fidgety." gyp looked at her, and said quietly: "yes. you see, my mother died when i was born." the nurse, watching those lips, still pale with pain, felt a queer pang. she smoothed the bed-clothes and said: "that's nothing--it often happens--that is, i mean,--you know it has no connection whatever." and seeing gyp smile, she thought: 'well, i am a fool.' "if by any chance i don't get through, i want to be cremated; i want to go back as quick as i can. i can't bear the thought of the other thing. will you remember, nurse? i can't tell my father that just now; it might upset him. but promise me." and the nurse thought: 'that can't be done without a will or something, but i'd better promise. it's a morbid fancy, and yet she's not a morbid subject, either.' and she said: "very well, my dear; only, you're not going to do anything of the sort. that's flat." gyp smiled again, and there was silence, till she said: "i'm awfully ashamed, wanting all this attention, and making people miserable. i've read that japanese women quietly go out somewhere by themselves and sit on a gate." the nurse, still busy with the bedclothes, murmured abstractedly: "yes, that's a very good way. but don't you fancy you're half the trouble most of them are. you're very good, and you're going to get on splendidly." and she thought: 'odd! she's never once spoken of her husband. i don't like it for this sort--too perfect, too sensitive; her face touches you so!' gyp murmured again: "i'd like to see my father, please; and rather quick." the nurse, after one swift look, went out. gyp, who had clinched her hands under the bedclothes, fixed her eyes on the window. november! acorns and the leaves--the nice, damp, earthy smell! acorns all over the grass. she used to drive the old retriever in harness on the lawn covered with acorns and the dead leaves, and the wind still blowing them off the trees--in her brown velvet--that was a ducky dress! who was it had called her once "a wise little owl," in that dress? and, suddenly, her heart sank. the pain was coming again. winton's voice from the door said: "well, my pet?" "it was only to see how you are. i'm all right. what sort of a day is it? you'll go riding, won't you? give my love to the horses. good-bye, dad; just for now." her forehead was wet to his lips. outside, in the passage, her smile, like something actual on the air, preceded him--the smile that had just lasted out. but when he was back in the study, he suffered--suffered! why could he not have that pain to bear instead? the crunch of the brougham brought his ceaseless march over the carpet to an end. he went out into the hall and looked into the doctor's face--he had forgotten that this old fellow knew nothing of his special reason for deadly fear. then he turned back into his study. the wild south wind brought wet drift-leaves whirling against the panes. it was here that he had stood looking out into the dark, when fiorsen came down to ask for gyp a year ago. why had he not bundled the fellow out neck and crop, and taken her away?--india, japan--anywhere would have done! she had not loved that fiddler, never really loved him. monstrous--monstrous! the full bitterness of having missed right action swept over winton, and he positively groaned aloud. he moved from the window and went over to the bookcase; there in one row were the few books he ever read, and he took one out. "life of general lee." he put it back and took another, a novel of whyte melville's: "good for nothing." sad book--sad ending! the book dropped from his hand and fell with a flump on the floor. in a sort of icy discovery, he had seen his life as it would be if for a second time he had to bear such loss. she must not--could not die! if she did--then, for him--! in old times they buried a man with his horse and his dog, as if at the end of a good run. there was always that! the extremity of this thought brought relief. he sat down, and, for a long time, stayed staring into the fire in a sort of coma. then his feverish fears began again. why the devil didn't they come and tell him something, anything--rather than this silence, this deadly solitude and waiting? what was that? the front door shutting. wheels? had that hell-hound of an old doctor sneaked off? he started up. there at the door was markey, holding in his hand some cards. winton scanned them. "lady summerhay; mr. bryan summerhay. i said, 'not at home,' sir." winton nodded. "well?" "nothing at present. you have had no lunch, sir." "what time is it?" "four o'clock." "bring in my fur coat and the port, and make the fire up. i want any news there is." markey nodded. odd to sit in a fur coat before a fire, and the day not cold! they said you lived on after death. he had never been able to feel that she was living on. she lived in gyp. and now if gyp--! death--your own--no great matter! but--for her! the wind was dropping with the darkness. he got up and drew the curtains. it was seven o'clock when the doctor came down into the hall, and stood rubbing his freshly washed hands before opening the study door. winton was still sitting before the fire, motionless, shrunk into his fur coat. he raised himself a little and looked round dully. the doctor's face puckered, his eyelids drooped half-way across his bulging eyes; it was his way of smiling. "nicely," he said; "nicely--a girl. no complications." winton's whole body seemed to swell, his lips opened, he raised his hand. then, the habit of a lifetime catching him by the throat, he stayed motionless. at last he got up and said: "glass of port, doctor?" the doctor spying at him above the glass thought: 'this is "the fifty-two." give me "the sixty-eight"--more body.' after a time, winton went upstairs. waiting in the outer room he had a return of his cold dread. "perfectly successful--the patient died from exhaustion!" the tiny squawking noise that fell on his ears entirely failed to reassure him. he cared nothing for that new being. suddenly he found betty just behind him, her bosom heaving horribly. "what is it, woman? don't!" she had leaned against his shoulder, appearing to have lost all sense of right and wrong, and, out of her sobbing, gurgled: "she looks so lovely--oh dear, she looks so lovely!" pushing her abruptly from him, winton peered in through the just-opened door. gyp was lying extremely still, and very white; her eyes, very large, very dark, were fastened on her baby. her face wore a kind of wonder. she did not see winton, who stood stone-quiet, watching, while the nurse moved about her business behind a screen. this was the first time in his life that he had seen a mother with her just-born baby. that look on her face--gone right away somewhere, right away--amazed him. she had never seemed to like children, had said she did not want a child. she turned her head and saw him. he went in. she made a faint motion toward the baby, and her eyes smiled. winton looked at that swaddled speckled mite; then, bending down, he kissed her hand and tiptoed away. at dinner he drank champagne, and benevolence towards all the world spread in his being. watching the smoke of his cigar wreathe about him, he thought: 'must send that chap a wire.' after all, he was a fellow being--might be suffering, as he himself had suffered only two hours ago. to keep him in ignorance--it wouldn't do! and he wrote out the form-- "all well, a daughter.--winton," and sent it out with the order that a groom should take it in that night. gyp was sleeping when he stole up at ten o'clock. he, too, turned in, and slept like a child. xi returning the next afternoon from the first ride for several days, winton passed the station fly rolling away from the drive-gate with the light-hearted disillusionment peculiar to quite empty vehicles. the sight of a fur coat and broad-brimmed hat in the hall warned him of what had happened. "mr. fiorsen, sir; gone up to mrs. fiorsen." natural, but a d--d bore! and bad, perhaps, for gyp. he asked: "did he bring things?" "a bag, sir." "get a room ready, then." to dine tete-a-tete with that fellow! gyp had passed the strangest morning in her life, so far. her baby fascinated her, also the tug of its lips, giving her the queerest sensation, almost sensual; a sort of meltedness, an infinite warmth, a desire to grip the little creature right into her--which, of course, one must not do. and yet, neither her sense of humour nor her sense of beauty were deceived. it was a queer little affair with a tuft of black hair, in grace greatly inferior to a kitten. its tiny, pink, crisped fingers with their infinitesimal nails, its microscopic curly toes, and solemn black eyes--when they showed, its inimitable stillness when it slept, its incredible vigour when it fed, were all, as it were, miraculous. withal, she had a feeling of gratitude to one that had not killed nor even hurt her so very desperately--gratitude because she had succeeded, performed her part of mother perfectly--the nurse had said so--she, so distrustful of herself! instinctively she knew, too, that this was her baby, not his, going "to take after her," as they called it. how it succeeded in giving that impression she could not tell, unless it were the passivity, and dark eyes of the little creature. then from one till three they had slept together with perfect soundness and unanimity. she awoke to find the nurse standing by the bed, looking as if she wanted to tell her something. "someone to see you, my dear." and gyp thought: 'he! i can't think quickly; i ought to think quickly--i want to, but i can't.' her face expressed this, for the nurse said at once: "i don't think you're quite up to it yet." gyp answered: "yes. only, not for five minutes, please." her spirit had been very far away, she wanted time to get it back before she saw him--time to know in some sort what she felt now; what this mite lying beside her had done for her and him. the thought that it was his, too--this tiny, helpless being--seemed unreal. no, it was not his! he had not wanted it, and now that she had been through the torture it was hers, not his--never his. the memory of the night when she first yielded to the certainty that the child was coming, and he had come home drunk, swooped on her, and made her shrink and shudder and put her arm round her baby. it had not made any difference. only--back came the old accusing thought, from which these last days she had been free: 'but i married him--i chose to marry him. i can't get out of that!' and she felt as if she must cry out to the nurse: "keep him away; i don't want to see him. oh, please, i'm tired." she bit the words back. and presently, with a very faint smile, said: "now, i'm ready." she noticed first what clothes he had on--his newest suit, dark grey, with little lighter lines--she had chosen it herself; that his tie was in a bow, not a sailor's knot, and his hair brighter than usual--as always just after being cut; and surely the hair was growing down again in front of his ears. then, gratefully, almost with emotion, she realized that his lips were quivering, his whole face quivering. he came in on tiptoe, stood looking at her a minute, then crossed very swiftly to the bed, very swiftly knelt down, and, taking her hand, turned it over and put his face to it. the bristles of his moustache tickled her palm; his nose flattened itself against her fingers, and his lips kept murmuring words into the hand, with the moist warm touch of his lips. gyp knew he was burying there all his remorse, perhaps the excesses he had committed while she had been away from him, burying the fears he had felt, and the emotion at seeing her so white and still. she felt that in a minute he would raise a quite different face. and it flashed through her: "if i loved him i wouldn't mind what he did--ever! why don't i love him? there's something loveable. why don't i?" he did raise his face; his eyes lighted on the baby, and he grinned. "look at this!" he said. "is it possible? oh, my gyp, what a funny one! oh, oh, oh!" he went off into an ecstasy of smothered laughter; then his face grew grave, and slowly puckered into a sort of comic disgust. gyp too had seen the humours of her baby, of its queer little reddish pudge of a face, of its twenty-seven black hairs, and the dribble at its almost invisible mouth; but she had also seen it as a miracle; she had felt it, and there surged up from her all the old revolt and more against his lack of consideration. it was not a funny one--her baby! it was not ugly! or, if it were, she was not fit to be told of it. her arm tightened round the warm bundled thing against her. fiorsen put his finger out and touched its cheek. "it is real--so it is. mademoiselle fiorsen. tk, tk!" the baby stirred. and gyp thought: 'if i loved i wouldn't even mind his laughing at my baby. it would be different.' "don't wake her!" she whispered. she felt his eyes on her, knew that his interest in the baby had ceased as suddenly as it came, that he was thinking, "how long before i have you in my arms again?" he touched her hair. and, suddenly, she had a fainting, sinking sensation that she had never yet known. when she opened her eyes again, the economic agent was holding something beneath her nose and making sounds that seemed to be the words: "well, i am a d--d fool!" repeatedly expressed. fiorsen was gone. seeing gyp's eyes once more open, the nurse withdrew the ammonia, replaced the baby, and saying: "now go to sleep!" withdrew behind the screen. like all robust personalities, she visited on others her vexations with herself. but gyp did not go to sleep; she gazed now at her sleeping baby, now at the pattern of the wall-paper, trying mechanically to find the bird caught at intervals amongst its brown-and-green foliage--one bird in each alternate square of the pattern, so that there was always a bird in the centre of four other birds. and the bird was of green and yellow with a red beak. on being turned out of the nursery with the assurance that it was "all right--only a little faint," fiorsen went down-stairs disconsolate. the atmosphere of this dark house where he was a stranger, an unwelcome stranger, was insupportable. he wanted nothing in it but gyp, and gyp had fainted at his touch. no wonder he felt miserable. he opened a door. what room was this? a piano! the drawing-room. ugh! no fire--what misery! he recoiled to the doorway and stood listening. not a sound. grey light in the cheerless room; almost dark already in the hall behind him. what a life these english lived--worse than the winter in his old country home in sweden, where, at all events, they kept good fires. and, suddenly, all his being revolted. stay here and face that father--and that image of a servant! stay here for a night of this! gyp was not his gyp, lying there with that baby beside her, in this hostile house. smothering his footsteps, he made for the outer hall. there were his coat and hat. he put them on. his bag? he could not see it. no matter! they could send it after him. he would write to her--say that her fainting had upset him--that he could not risk making her faint again--could not stay in the house so near her, yet so far. she would understand. and there came over him a sudden wave of longing. gyp! he wanted her. to be with her! to look at her and kiss her, and feel her his own again! and, opening the door, he passed out on to the drive and strode away, miserable and sick at heart. all the way to the station through the darkening lanes, and in the railway carriage going up, he felt that aching wretchedness. only in the lighted street, driving back to rosek's, did he shake it off a little. at dinner and after, drinking that special brandy he nearly lost it; but it came back when he went to bed, till sleep relieved him with its darkness and dreams. xii gyp's recovery proceeded at first with a sure rapidity which delighted winton. as the economic agent pointed out, she was beautifully made, and that had a lot to do with it! before christmas day, she was already out, and on christmas morning the old doctor, by way of present, pronounced her fit and ready to go home when she liked. that afternoon, she was not so well, and next day back again upstairs. nothing seemed definitely wrong, only a sort of desperate lassitude; as if the knowledge that to go back was within her power, only needing her decision, had been too much for her. and since no one knew her inward feelings, all were puzzled except winton. the nursing of her child was promptly stopped. it was not till the middle of january that she said to him. "i must go home, dad." the word "home" hurt him, and he only answered: "very well, gyp; when?" "the house is quite ready. i think i had better go to-morrow. he's still at rosek's. i won't let him know. two or three days there by myself first would be better for settling baby in." "very well; i'll take you up." he made no effort to ascertain her feelings toward fiorsen. he knew too well. they travelled next day, reaching london at half-past two. betty had gone up in the early morning to prepare the way. the dogs had been with aunt rosamund all this time. gyp missed their greeting; but the installation of betty and the baby in the spare room that was now to be the nursery, absorbed all her first energies. light was just beginning to fail when, still in her fur, she took a key of the music-room and crossed the garden, to see how all had fared during her ten weeks' absence. what a wintry garden! how different from that languorous, warm, moonlit night when daphne wing had come dancing out of the shadow of the dark trees. how bare and sharp the boughs against the grey, darkening sky--and not a song of any bird, not a flower! she glanced back at the house. cold and white it looked, but there were lights in her room and in the nursery, and someone just drawing the curtains. now that the leaves were off, one could see the other houses of the road, each different in shape and colour, as is the habit of london houses. it was cold, frosty; gyp hurried down the path. four little icicles had formed beneath the window of the music-room. they caught her eye, and, passing round to the side, she broke one off. there must be a fire in there, for she could see the flicker through the curtains not quite drawn. thoughtful ellen had been airing it! but, suddenly, she stood still. there was more than a fire in there! through the chink in the drawn curtains she had seen two figures seated on the divan. something seemed to spin round in her head. she turned to rush away. then a kind of superhuman coolness came to her, and she deliberately looked in. he and daphne wing! his arm was round her neck. the girl's face riveted her eyes. it was turned a little back and up, gazing at him, the lips parted, the eyes hypnotized, adoring; and her arm round him seemed to shiver--with cold, with ecstasy? again that something went spinning through gyp's head. she raised her hand. for a second it hovered close to the glass. then, with a sick feeling, she dropped it and turned away. never! never would she show him or that girl that they could hurt her! never! they were safe from any scene she would make--safe in their nest! and blindly, across the frosty grass, through the unlighted drawing-room, she went upstairs to her room, locked the door, and sat down before the fire. pride raged within her. she stuffed her handkerchief between her teeth and lips; she did it unconsciously. her eyes felt scorched from the fire-flames, but she did not trouble to hold her hand before them. suddenly she thought: 'suppose i had loved him?' and laughed. the handkerchief dropped to her lap, and she looked at it with wonder--it was blood-stained. she drew back in the chair, away from the scorching of the fire, and sat quite still, a smile on her lips. that girl's eyes, like a little adoring dog's--that girl, who had fawned on her so! she had got her "distinguished man"! she sprang up and looked at herself in the glass; shuddered, turned her back on herself, and sat down again. in her own house! why not here--in this room? why not before her eyes? not yet a year married! it was almost funny--almost funny! and she had her first calm thought: 'i am free.' but it did not seem to mean anything, had no value to a spirit so bitterly stricken in its pride. she moved her chair closer to the fire again. why had she not tapped on the window? to have seen that girl's face ashy with fright! to have seen him--caught--caught in the room she had made beautiful for him, the room where she had played for him so many hours, the room that was part of the house that she paid for! how long had they used it for their meetings--sneaking in by that door from the back lane? perhaps even before she went away--to bear his child! and there began in her a struggle between mother instinct and her sense of outrage--a spiritual tug-of-war so deep that it was dumb, unconscious--to decide whether her baby would be all hers, or would have slipped away from her heart, and be a thing almost abhorrent. she huddled nearer the fire, feeling cold and physically sick. and suddenly the thought came to her: 'if i don't let the servants know i'm here, they might go out and see what i saw!' had she shut the drawing-room window when she returned so blindly? perhaps already--! in a fever, she rang the bell, and unlocked the door. the maid came up. "please shut the drawing-room, window, ellen; and tell betty i'm afraid i got a little chill travelling. i'm going to bed. ask her if she can manage with baby." and she looked straight into the girl's face. it wore an expression of concern, even of commiseration, but not that fluttered look which must have been there if she had known. "yes, m'm; i'll get you a hot-water bottle, m'm. would you like a hot bath and a cup of hot tea at once?" gyp nodded. anything--anything! and when the maid was gone, she thought mechanically: 'a cup of hot tea! how quaint! what should it be but hot?' the maid came back with the tea; she was an affectionate girl, full of that admiring love servants and dogs always felt for gyp, imbued, too, with the instinctive partisanship which stores itself one way or the other in the hearts of those who live in houses where the atmosphere lacks unity. to her mind, the mistress was much too good for him--a foreigner--and such 'abits! manners--he hadn't any! and no good would come of it. not if you took her opinion! "and i've turned the water in, m'm. will you have a little mustard in it?" again gyp nodded. and the girl, going downstairs for the mustard, told cook there was "that about the mistress that makes you quite pathetic." the cook, who was fingering her concertina, for which she had a passion, answered: "she 'ides up her feelin's, same as they all does. thank 'eaven she haven't got that drawl, though, that 'er old aunt 'as--always makes me feel to want to say, 'buck up, old dear, you ain't 'alf so precious as all that!'" and when the maid ellen had taken the mustard and gone, she drew out her concertina to its full length and, with cautionary softness, began to practise "home, sweet home!" to gyp, lying in her hot bath, those muffled strains just mounted, not quite as a tune, rather as some far-away humming of large flies. the heat of the water, the pungent smell of the mustard, and that droning hum slowly soothed and drowsed away the vehemence of feeling. she looked at her body, silver-white in the yellowish water, with a dreamy sensation. some day she, too, would love! strange feeling she had never had before! strange, indeed, that it should come at such a moment, breaking through the old instinctive shrinking. yes; some day love would come to her. there floated before her brain the adoring look on daphne wing's face, the shiver that had passed along her arm, and pitifulness crept into her heart--a half-bitter, half-admiring pitifulness. why should she grudge--she who did not love? the sounds, like the humming of large flies, grew deeper, more vibrating. it was the cook, in her passion swelling out her music on the phrase, "be it ne-e-ver so humble, there's no-o place like home!" xiii that night, gyp slept peacefully, as though nothing had happened, as though there were no future at all before her. she woke into misery. her pride would never let her show the world what she had discovered, would force her to keep an unmoved face and live an unmoved life. but the struggle between mother-instinct and revolt was still going on within her. she was really afraid to see her baby, and she sent word to betty that she thought it would be safer if she kept quite quiet till the afternoon. she got up at noon and stole downstairs. she had not realized how violent was her struggle over his child till she was passing the door of the room where it was lying. if she had not been ordered to give up nursing, that struggle would never have come. her heart ached, but a demon pressed her on and past the door. downstairs she just pottered round, dusting her china, putting in order the books which, after house-cleaning, the maid had arranged almost too carefully, so that the first volumes of dickens and thackeray followed each other on the top shell, and the second volumes followed each other on the bottom shelf. and all the time she thought dully: 'why am i doing this? what do i care how the place looks? it is not my home. it can never be my home!' for lunch she drank some beef tea, keeping up the fiction of her indisposition. after that, she sat down at her bureau to write. something must be decided! there she sat, her forehead on her hand, and nothing came--not one word--not even the way to address him; just the date, and that was all. at a ring of the bell she started up. she could not see anybody! but the maid only brought a note from aunt rosamund, and the dogs, who fell frantically on their mistress and instantly began to fight for her possession. she went on her knees to separate them, and enjoin peace and good-will, and their little avid tongues furiously licked her cheeks. under the eager touch of those wet tongues the band round her brain and heart gave way; she was overwhelmed with longing for her baby. nearly a day since she had seen her--was it possible? nearly a day without sight of those solemn eyes and crinkled toes and fingers! and followed by the dogs, she went upstairs. the house was invisible from the music-room; and, spurred on by thought that, until fiorsen knew she was back, those two might be there in each other's arms any moment of the day or night, gyp wrote that evening: "dear gustav,--we are back.--gyp." what else in the world could she say? he would not get it till he woke about eleven. with the instinct to take all the respite she could, and knowing no more than before how she would receive his return, she went out in the forenoon and wandered about all day shopping and trying not to think. returning at tea-time, she went straight up to her baby, and there heard from betty that he had come, and gone out with his violin to the music-room. bent over the child, gyp needed all her self-control--but her self-control was becoming great. soon, the girl would come fluttering down that dark, narrow lane; perhaps at this very minute her fingers were tapping at the door, and he was opening it to murmur, "no; she's back!" ah, then the girl would shrink! the rapid whispering--some other meeting-place! lips to lips, and that look on the girl's face; till she hurried away from the shut door, in the darkness, disappointed! and he, on that silver-and-gold divan, gnawing his moustache, his eyes--catlike---staring at the fire! and then, perhaps, from his violin would come one of those swaying bursts of sound, with tears in them, and the wind in them, that had of old bewitched her! she said: "open the window just a little, betty dear--it's hot." there it was, rising, falling! music! why did it so move one even when, as now, it was the voice of insult! and suddenly she thought: "he will expect me to go out there again and play for him. but i will not, never!" she put her baby down, went into her bedroom, and changed hastily into a teagown for the evening, ready to go downstairs. a little shepherdess in china on the mantel-shelf attracted her attention, and she took it in her hand. she had bought it three and more years ago, when she first came to london, at the beginning of that time of girl-gaiety when all life seemed a long cotillion, and she its leader. its cool daintiness made it seem the symbol of another world, a world without depths or shadows, a world that did not feel--a happy world! she had not long to wait before he tapped on the drawing-room window. she got up from the tea-table to let him in. why do faces gazing in through glass from darkness always look hungry--searching, appealing for what you have and they have not? and while she was undoing the latch she thought: 'what am i going to say? i feel nothing!' the ardour of his gaze, voice, hands seemed to her so false as to be almost comic; even more comically false his look of disappointment when she said: "please take care; i'm still brittle!" then she sat down again and asked: "will you have some tea?" "tea! i have you back, and you ask me if i will have tea gyp! do you know what i have felt like all this time? no; you don't know. you know nothing of me--do you?" a smile of sheer irony formed on her lips--without her knowing it was there. she said: "have you had a good time at count rosek's?" and, without her will, against her will, the words slipped out: "i'm afraid you've missed the music-room!" his stare wavered; he began to walk up and down. "missed! missed everything! i have been very miserable, gyp. you've no idea how miserable. yes, miserable, miserable, miserable!" with each repetition of that word, his voice grew gayer. and kneeling down in front of her, he stretched his long arms round her till they met behind her waist: "ah, my gyp! i shall be a different being, now." and gyp went on smiling. between that, and stabbing these false raptures to the heart, there seemed to be nothing she could do. the moment his hands relaxed, she got up and said: "you know there's a baby in the house?" he laughed. "ah, the baby! i'd forgotten. let's go up and see it." gyp answered: "you go." she could feel him thinking: 'perhaps it will make her nice to me!' he turned suddenly and went. she stood with her eyes shut, seeing the divan in the music-room and the girl's arm shivering. then, going to the piano, she began with all her might to play a chopin polonaise. that evening they dined out, and went to "the tales of hoffmann." by such devices it was possible to put off a little longer what she was going to do. during the drive home in the dark cab, she shrank away into her corner, pretending that his arm would hurt her dress; her exasperated nerves were already overstrung. twice she was on the very point of crying out: "i am not daphne wing!" but each time pride strangled the words in her throat. and yet they would have to come. what other reason could she find to keep him from her room? but when in her mirror she saw him standing behind her--he had crept into the bedroom like a cat--fierceness came into her. she could see the blood rush up in her own white face, and, turning round she said: "no, gustav, go out to the music-room if you want a companion." he recoiled against the foot of the bed and stared at her haggardly, and gyp, turning back to her mirror, went on quietly taking the pins out of her hair. for fully a minute she could see him leaning there, moving his head and hands as though in pain. then, to her surprise, he went. and a vague feeling of compunction mingled with her sense of deliverance. she lay awake a long time, watching the fire-glow brighten and darken on the ceiling, tunes from "the tales of hoffmann" running in her head; thoughts and fancies crisscrossing in her excited brain. falling asleep at last, she dreamed she was feeding doves out of her hand, and one of them was daphne wing. she woke with a start. the fire still burned, and by its light she saw him crouching at the foot of the bed, just as he had on their wedding-night--the same hungry yearning in his face, and an arm outstretched. before she could speak, he began: "oh, gyp, you don't understand! all that is nothing--it is only you i want--always. i am a fool who cannot control himself. think! it's a long time since you went away from me." gyp said, in a hard voice: "i didn't want to have a child." he said quickly: "no; but now you have it you are glad. don't be unmerciful, my gyp! it is like you to be merciful. that girl--it is all over--i swear--i promise." his hand touched her foot through the soft eiderdown. gyp thought: 'why does he come and whine to me like this? he has no dignity--none!' and she said: "how can you promise? you have made the girl love you. i saw her face." he drew his hand back. "you saw her?" "yes." he was silent, staring at her. presently he began again: "she is a little fool. i do not care for the whole of her as much as i care for your one finger. what does it matter what one does in that way if one does not care? the soul, not the body, is faithful. a man satisfies appetite--it is nothing." gyp said: "perhaps not; but it is something when it makes others miserable." "has it made you miserable, my gyp?" his voice had a ring of hope. she answered, startled: "i? no--her." "her? ho! it is an experience for her--it is life. it will do her no harm." "no; nothing will do anybody harm if it gives you pleasure." at that bitter retort, he kept silence a long time, now and then heaving a long sigh. his words kept sounding in her heart: "the soul, not the body, is faithful." was he, after all, more faithful to her than she had ever been, could ever be--who did not love, had never loved him? what right had she to talk, who had married him out of vanity, out of--what? and suddenly he said: "gyp! forgive!" she uttered a sigh, and turned away her face. he bent down against the eider-down. she could hear him drawing long, sobbing breaths, and, in the midst of her lassitude and hopelessness, a sort of pity stirred her. what did it matter? she said, in a choked voice: "very well, i forgive." xiv the human creature has wonderful power of putting up with things. gyp never really believed that daphne wing was of the past. her sceptical instinct told her that what fiorsen might honestly mean to do was very different from what he would do under stress of opportunity carefully put within his reach. since her return, rosek had begun to come again, very careful not to repeat his mistake, but not deceiving her at all. though his self-control was as great as fiorsen's was small, she felt he had not given up his pursuit of her, and would take very good care that daphne wing was afforded every chance of being with her husband. but pride never let her allude to the girl. besides, what good to speak of her? they would both lie--rosek, because he obviously saw the mistaken line of his first attack; fiorsen, because his temperament did not permit him to suffer by speaking the truth. having set herself to endure, she found she must live in the moment, never think of the future, never think much of anything. fortunately, nothing so conduces to vacuity as a baby. she gave herself up to it with desperation. it was a good baby, silent, somewhat understanding. in watching its face, and feeling it warm against her, gyp succeeded daily in getting away into the hypnotic state of mothers, and cows that chew the cud. but the baby slept a great deal, and much of its time was claimed by betty. those hours, and they were many, gyp found difficult. she had lost interest in dress and household elegance, keeping just enough to satisfy her fastidiousness; money, too, was scarce, under the drain of fiorsen's irregular requirements. if she read, she began almost at once to brood. she was cut off from the music-room, had not crossed its threshold since her discovery. aunt rosamund's efforts to take her into society were fruitless--all the effervescence was out of that, and, though her father came, he never stayed long for fear of meeting fiorsen. in this condition of affairs, she turned more and more to her own music, and one morning, after she had come across some compositions of her girlhood, she made a resolution. that afternoon she dressed herself with pleasure, for the first time for months, and sallied forth into the february frost. monsieur edouard harmost inhabited the ground floor of a house in the marylebone road. he received his pupils in a large back room overlooking a little sooty garden. a walloon by extraction, and of great vitality, he grew old with difficulty, having a soft corner in his heart for women, and a passion for novelty, even for new music, that was unappeasable. any fresh discovery would bring a tear rolling down his mahogany cheeks into his clipped grey beard, the while he played, singing wheezily to elucidate the wondrous novelty; or moved his head up and down, as if pumping. when gyp was shown into this well-remembered room he was seated, his yellow fingers buried in his stiff grey hair, grieving over a pupil who had just gone out. he did not immediately rise, but stared hard at gyp. "ah," he said, at last, "my little old friend! she has come back! now that is good!" and, patting her hand he looked into her face, which had a warmth and brilliance rare to her in these days. then, making for the mantelpiece, he took therefrom a bunch of parma violets, evidently brought by his last pupil, and thrust them under her nose. "take them, take them--they were meant for me. now--how much have you forgotten? come!" and, seizing her by the elbow, he almost forced her to the piano. "take off your furs. sit down!" and while gyp was taking off her coat, he fixed on her his prominent brown eyes that rolled easily in their slightly blood-shot whites, under squared eyelids and cliffs of brow. she had on what fiorsen called her "humming-bird" blouse--dark blue, shot with peacock and old rose, and looked very warm and soft under her fur cap. monsieur harmost's stare seemed to drink her in; yet that stare was not unpleasant, having in it only the rather sad yearning of old men who love beauty and know that their time for seeing it is getting short. "play me the 'carnival,'" he said. "we shall soon see!" gyp played. twice he nodded; once he tapped his fingers on his teeth, and showed her the whites of his eyes--which meant: "that will have to be very different!" and once he grunted. when she had finished, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and, examining the fingers, began: "yes, yes, soon again! spoiling yourself, playing for that fiddler! trop sympathique! the back-bone, the back-bone--we shall improve that. now, four hours a day for six weeks--and we shall have something again." gyp said softly: "i have a baby, monsieur harmost." monsieur harmost bounded. "what! that is a tragedy!" gyp shook her head. "you like it? a baby! does it not squall?" "very little." "mon dieu! well, well, you are still as beautiful as ever. that is something. now, what can you do with this baby? could you get rid of it a little? this is serious. this is a talent in danger. a fiddler, and a baby! c'est beaucoup! c'est trop!" gyp smiled. and monsieur harmost, whose exterior covered much sensibility, stroked her hand. "you have grown up, my little friend," he said gravely. "never mind; nothing is wasted. but a baby!" and he chirruped his lips. "well; courage! we shall do things yet!" gyp turned her head away to hide the quiver of her lips. the scent of latakia tobacco that had soaked into things, and of old books and music, a dark smell, like monsieur harmost's complexion; the old brown curtains, the sooty little back garden beyond, with its cat-runs, and its one stunted sumach tree; the dark-brown stare of monsieur harmost's rolling eyes brought back that time of happiness, when she used to come week after week, full of gaiety and importance, and chatter away, basking in his brusque admiration and in music, all with the glamourous feeling that she was making him happy, and herself happy, and going to play very finely some day. the voice of monsieur harmost, softly gruff, as if he knew what she was feeling, increased her emotion; her breast heaved under the humming-bird blouse, water came into her eyes, and more than ever her lips quivered. he was saying: "come, come! the only thing we cannot cure is age. you were right to come, my child. music is your proper air. if things are not all what they ought to be, you shall soon forget. in music--in music, we can get away. after all, my little friend, they cannot take our dreams from us--not even a wife, not even a husband can do that. come, we shall have good times yet!" and gyp, with a violent effort, threw off that sudden weakness. from those who serve art devotedly there radiates a kind of glamour. she left monsieur harmost that afternoon, infected by his passion for music. poetic justice--on which all homeopathy is founded--was at work to try and cure her life by a dose of what had spoiled it. to music, she now gave all the hours she could spare. she went to him twice a week, determining to get on, but uneasy at the expense, for monetary conditions were ever more embarrassed. at home, she practised steadily and worked hard at composition. she finished several songs and studies during the spring and summer, and left still more unfinished. monsieur harmost was tolerant of these efforts, seeming to know that harsh criticism or disapproval would cut her impulse down, as frost cuts the life of flowers. besides, there was always something fresh and individual in her things. he asked her one day: "what does your husband think of these?" gyp was silent a moment. "i don't show them to him." she never had; she instinctively kept back the knowledge that she composed, dreading his ruthlessness when anything grated on his nerves, and knowing that a breath of mockery would wither her belief in herself, frail enough plant already. the only person, besides her master, to whom she confided her efforts was--strangely enough--rosek. but he had surprised her one day copying out some music, and said at once: "i knew. i was certain you composed. ah, do play it to me! i am sure you have talent." the warmth with which he praised that little "caprice" was surely genuine; and she felt so grateful that she even played him others, and then a song for him to sing. from that day, he no longer seemed to her odious; she even began to have for him a certain friendliness, to be a little sorry, watching him, pale, trim, and sphinx-like, in her drawing-room or garden, getting no nearer to the fulfilment of his desire. he had never again made love to her, but she knew that at the least sign he would. his face and his invincible patience made him pathetic to her. women such as gyp cannot actively dislike those who admire them greatly. she consulted him about fiorsen's debts. there were hundreds of pounds owing, it seemed, and, in addition, much to rosek himself. the thought of these debts weighed unbearably on her. why did he, how did he get into debt like this? what became of the money he earned? his fees, this summer, were good enough. there was such a feeling of degradation about debt. it was, somehow, so underbred to owe money to all sorts of people. was it on that girl, on other women, that he spent it all? or was it simply that his nature had holes in every pocket? watching fiorsen closely, that spring and early summer, she was conscious of a change, a sort of loosening, something in him had given way--as when, in winding a watch, the key turns on and on, the ratchet being broken. yet he was certainly working hard--perhaps harder than ever. she would hear him, across the garden, going over and over a passage, as if he never would be satisfied. but his playing seemed to her to have lost its fire and sweep; to be stale, and as if disillusioned. it was all as though he had said to himself: "what's the use?" in his face, too, there was a change. she knew--she was certain that he was drinking secretly. was it his failure with her? was it the girl? was it simply heredity from a hard-drinking ancestry? gyp never faced these questions. to face them would mean useless discussion, useless admission that she could not love him, useless asseveration from him about the girl, which she would not believe, useless denials of all sorts. hopeless! he was very irritable, and seemed especially to resent her music lessons, alluding to them with a sort of sneering impatience. she felt that he despised them as amateurish, and secretly resented it. he was often impatient, too, of the time she gave to the baby. his own conduct with the little creature was like all the rest of him. he would go to the nursery, much to betty's alarm, and take up the baby; be charming with it for about ten minutes, then suddenly dump it back into its cradle, stare at it gloomily or utter a laugh, and go out. sometimes, he would come up when gyp was there, and after watching her a little in silence, almost drag her away. suffering always from the guilty consciousness of having no love for him, and ever more and more from her sense that, instead of saving him she was, as it were, pushing him down-hill--ironical nemesis for vanity!--gyp was ever more and more compliant to his whims, trying to make up. but this compliance, when all the time she felt further and further away, was straining her to breaking-point. hers was a nature that goes on passively enduring till something snaps; after that--no more. those months of spring and summer were like a long spell of drought, when moisture gathers far away, coming nearer, nearer, till, at last, the deluge bursts and sweeps the garden. xv the tenth of july that year was as the first day of summer. there had been much fine weather, but always easterly or northerly; now, after a broken, rainy fortnight, the sun had come in full summer warmth with a gentle breeze, drifting here and there scent of the opening lime blossom. in the garden, under the trees at the far end, betty sewed at a garment, and the baby in her perambulator had her seventh morning sleep. gyp stood before a bed of pansies and sweet peas. how monkeyish the pansies' faces! the sweet peas, too, were like tiny bright birds fastened to green perches swaying with the wind. and their little green tridents, growing out from the queer, flat stems, resembled the antennae of insects. each of these bright frail, growing things had life and individuality like herself! the sound of footsteps on the gravel made her turn. rosek was coming from the drawing-room window. rather startled, gyp looked at him over her shoulder. what had brought him at eleven o'clock in the morning? he came up to her, bowed, and said: "i came to see gustav. he's not up yet, it seems. i thought i would speak to you first. can we talk?" hesitating just a second, gyp drew off her gardening-gloves: "of course! here? or in the drawing-room?" rosek answered: "in the drawing-room, please." a faint tremor passed through her, but she led the way, and seated herself where she could see betty and the baby. rosek stood looking down at her; his stillness, the sweetish gravity of his well-cut lips, his spotless dandyism stirred in gyp a kind of unwilling admiration. "what is it?" she said. "bad business, i'm afraid. something must be done at once. i have been trying to arrange things, but they will not wait. they are even threatening to sell up this house." with a sense of outrage, gyp cried: "nearly everything here is mine." rosek shook his head. "the lease is in his name--you are his wife. they can do it, i assure you." a sort of shadow passed over his face, and he added: "i cannot help him any more--just now." gyp shook her head quickly. "no--of course! you ought not to have helped him at all. i can't bear--" he bowed, and she stopped, ashamed. "how much does he owe altogether?" "about thirteen hundred pounds. it isn't much, of course. but there is something else--" "worse?" rosek nodded. "i am afraid to tell you; you will think again perhaps that i am trying to make capital out of it. i can read your thoughts, you see. i cannot afford that you should think that, this time." gyp made a little movement as though putting away his words. "no; tell me, please." rosek shrugged his shoulders. "there is a man called wagge, an undertaker--the father of someone you know--" "daphne wing?" "yes. a child is coming. they have made her tell. it means the cancelling of her engagements, of course--and other things." gyp uttered a little laugh; then she said slowly: "can you tell me, please, what this mr.--wagge can do?" again rosek shrugged his shoulders. "he is rabid--a rabid man of his class is dangerous. a lot of money will be wanted, i should think--some blood, perhaps." he moved swiftly to her, and said very low: "gyp, it is a year since i told you of this. you did not believe me then. i told you, too, that i loved you. i love you more, now, a hundred times! don't move! i am going up to gustav." he turned, and gyp thought he was really going; but he stopped and came back past the line of the window. the expression of his face was quite changed, so hungry that, for a moment, she felt sorry for him. and that must have shown in her face, for he suddenly caught at her, and tried to kiss her lips; she wrenched back, and he could only reach her throat, but that he kissed furiously. letting her go as suddenly, he bent his head and went out without a look. gyp stood wiping his kisses off her throat with the back of her hand, dumbly, mechanically thinking: "what have i done to be treated like this? what have i done?" no answer came. and such rage against men flared up that she just stood there, twisting her garden-gloves in her hands, and biting the lips he would have kissed. then, going to her bureau, she took up her address book and looked for the name: wing, , frankland street, fulham. unhooking her little bag from off the back of the chair, she put her cheque-book into it. then, taking care to make no sound, she passed into the hall, caught up her sunshade, and went out, closing the door without noise. she walked quickly toward baker street. her gardening-hat was right enough, but she had come out without gloves, and must go into the first shop and buy a pair. in the choosing of them, she forgot her emotions for a minute. out in the street again, they came back as bitterly as ever. and the day was so beautiful--the sun bright, the sky blue, the clouds dazzling white; from the top of her 'bus she could see all its brilliance. there rose up before her the memory of the man who had kissed her arm at the first ball. and now--this! but, mixed with her rage, a sort of unwilling compassion and fellow feeling kept rising for that girl, that silly, sugar-plum girl, brought to such a pass by--her husband. these feelings sustained her through that voyage to fulham. she got down at the nearest corner, walked up a widish street of narrow grey houses till she came to number eighty-eight. on that newly scrubbed step, waiting for the door to open, she very nearly turned and fled. what exactly had she come to do? the door was opened by a servant in an untidy frock. mutton! the smell of mutton--there it was, just as the girl had said! "is miss--miss daphne wing at home?" in that peculiar "i've given it up" voice of domestics in small households, the servant answered: "yes; miss disey's in. d'you want to see 'er? what nyme?" gyp produced her card. the maid looked at it, at gyp, and at two brown-painted doors, as much as to say, "where will you have it?" then, opening the first of them, she said: "tyke a seat, please; i'll fetch her." gyp went in. in the middle of what was clearly the dining-room, she tried to subdue the tremor of her limbs and a sense of nausea. the table against which her hand rested was covered with red baize, no doubt to keep the stains of mutton from penetrating to the wood. on the mahogany sideboard reposed a cruet-stand and a green dish of very red apples. a bamboo-framed talc screen painted with white and yellow marguerites stood before a fireplace filled with pampas-grass dyed red. the chairs were of red morocco, the curtains a brownish-red, the walls green, and on them hung a set of landseer prints. the peculiar sensation which red and green in juxtaposition produce on the sensitive was added to gyp's distress. and, suddenly, her eyes lighted on a little deep-blue china bowl. it stood on a black stand on the mantel-piece, with nothing in it. to gyp, in this room of red and green, with the smell of mutton creeping in, that bowl was like the crystallized whiff of another world. daphne wing--not daisy wagge--had surely put it there! and, somehow, it touched her--emblem of stifled beauty, emblem of all that the girl had tried to pour out to her that august afternoon in her garden nearly a year ago. thin eastern china, good and really beautiful! a wonder they allowed it to pollute this room! a sigh made her turn round. with her back against the door and a white, scared face, the girl was standing. gyp thought: 'she has suffered horribly.' and, going impulsively up to her, she held out her hand. daphne wing sighed out: "oh, mrs. fiorsen!" and, bending over that hand, kissed it. gyp saw that her new glove was wet. then the girl relapsed, her feet a little forward, her head a little forward, her back against the door. gyp, who knew why she stood thus, was swept again by those two emotions--rage against men, and fellow feeling for one about to go through what she herself had just endured. "it's all right," she said, gently; "only, what's to be done?" daphne wing put her hands up over her white face and sobbed. she sobbed so quietly but so terribly deeply that gyp herself had the utmost difficulty not to cry. it was the sobbing of real despair by a creature bereft of hope and strength, above all, of love--the sort of weeping which is drawn from desolate, suffering souls only by the touch of fellow feeling. and, instead of making gyp glad or satisfying her sense of justice, it filled her with more rage against her husband--that he had taken this girl's infatuation for his pleasure and then thrown her away. she seemed to see him discarding that clinging, dove-fair girl, for cloying his senses and getting on his nerves, discarding her with caustic words, to abide alone the consequences of her infatuation. she put her hand timidly on that shaking shoulder, and stroked it. for a moment the sobbing stopped, and the girl said brokenly: "oh, mrs. fiorsen, i do love him so!" at those naive words, a painful wish to laugh seized on gyp, making her shiver from head to foot. daphne wing saw it, and went on: "i know--i know--it's awful; but i do--and now he--he--" her quiet but really dreadful sobbing broke out again. and again gyp began stroking and stroking her shoulder. "and i have been so awful to you! oh, mrs. fiorsen, do forgive me, please!" all gyp could find to answer, was: "yes, yes; that's nothing! don't cry--don't cry!" very slowly the sobbing died away, till it was just a long shivering, but still the girl held her hands over her face and her face down. gyp felt paralyzed. the unhappy girl, the red and green room, the smell of mutton--creeping! at last, a little of that white face showed; the lips, no longer craving for sugar-plums, murmured: "it's you he--he--really loves all the time. and you don't love him--that's what's so funny--and--and--i can't understand it. oh, mrs. fiorsen, if i could see him--just see him! he told me never to come again; and i haven't dared. i haven't seen him for three weeks--not since i told him about it. what shall i do? what shall i do?" his being her own husband seemed as nothing to gyp at that moment. she felt such pity and yet such violent revolt that any girl should want to crawl back to a man who had spurned her. unconsciously, she had drawn herself up and pressed her lips together. the girl, who followed every movement, said piteously: "i don't seem to have any pride. i don't mind what he does to me, or what he says, if only i can see him." gyp's revolt yielded to her pity. she said: "how long before?" "three months." three months--and in this state of misery! "i think i shall do something desperate. now that i can't dance, and they know, it's too awful! if i could see him, i wouldn't mind anything. but i know--i know he'll never want me again. oh, mrs. fiorsen, i wish i was dead! i do!" a heavy sigh escaped gyp, and, bending suddenly, she kissed the girl's forehead. still that scent of orange blossom about her skin or hair, as when she asked whether she ought to love or not; as when she came, moth-like, from the tree-shade into the moonlight, spun, and fluttered, with her shadow spinning and fluttering before her. gyp turned away, feeling that she must relieve the strain and pointing to the bowl, said: "you put that there, i'm sure. it's beautiful." the girl answered, with piteous eagerness: "oh, would you like it? do take it. count rosek gave it me." she started away from the door. "oh, that's papa. he'll be coming in!" gyp heard a man clear his throat, and the rattle of an umbrella falling into a stand; the sight of the girl wilting and shrinking against the sideboard steadied her. then the door opened, and mr. wagge entered. short and thick, in black frock coat and trousers, and a greyish beard, he stared from one to the other. he looked what he was, an englishman and a chapelgoer, nourished on sherry and mutton, who could and did make his own way in the world. his features, coloured, as from a deep liverishness, were thick, like his body, and not ill-natured, except for a sort of anger in his small, rather piggy grey eyes. he said in a voice permanently gruff, but impregnated with a species of professional ingratiation: "ye-es? whom 'ave i--?" "mrs. fiorsen." "ow!" the sound of his breathing could be heard distinctly; he twisted a chair round and said: "take a seat, won't you?" gyp shook her head. in mr. wagge's face a kind of deference seemed to struggle with some more primitive emotion. taking out a large, black-edged handkerchief, he blew his nose, passed it freely over his visage, and turning to his daughter, muttered: "go upstairs." the girl turned quickly, and the last glimpse of her white face whipped up gyp's rage against men. when the door was shut, mr. wagge cleared his throat; the grating sound carried with it the suggestion of enormously thick linings. he said more gruffly than ever: "may i ask what 'as given us the honour?" "i came to see your daughter." his little piggy eyes travelled from her face to her feet, to the walls of the room, to his own watch-chain, to his hands that had begun to rub themselves together, back to her breast, higher than which they dared not mount. their infinite embarrassment struck gyp. she could almost hear him thinking: 'now, how can i discuss it with this attractive young female, wife of the scoundrel who's ruined my daughter? delicate-that's what it is!' then the words burst hoarsely from him. "this is an unpleasant business, ma'am. i don't know what to say. reelly i don't. it's awkward; it's very awkward." gyp said quietly: "your daughter is desperately unhappy; and that can't be good for her just now." mr. wagge's thick figure seemed to writhe. "pardon me, ma'am," he spluttered, "but i must call your husband a scoundrel. i'm sorry to be impolite, but i must do it. if i had 'im 'ere, i don't know that i should be able to control myself--i don't indeed." gyp made a movement of her gloved hands, which he seemed to interpret as sympathy, for he went on in a stream of husky utterance: "it's a delicate thing before a lady, and she the injured party; but one has feelings. from the first i said this dancin' was in the face of providence; but women have no more sense than an egg. her mother she would have it; and now she's got it! career, indeed! pretty career! daughter of mine! i tell you, ma'am, i'm angry; there's no other word for it--i'm angry. if that scoundrel comes within reach of me, i shall mark 'im--i'm not a young man, but i shall mark 'im. an' what to say to you, i'm sure i don't know. that my daughter should be'ave like that! well, it's made a difference to me. an' now i suppose her name'll be dragged in the mud. i tell you frankly i 'oped you wouldn't hear of it, because after all the girl's got her punishment. and this divorce-court--it's not nice--it's a horrible thing for respectable people. and, mind you, i won't see my girl married to that scoundrel, not if you do divorce 'im. no; she'll have her disgrace for nothing." gyp, who had listened with her head a little bent, raised it suddenly, and said: "there'll be no public disgrace, mr. wagge, unless you make it yourself. if you send daphne--daisy--quietly away somewhere till her trouble's over, no one need know anything." mr. wagge, whose mouth had opened slightly, and whose breathing could certainly have been heard in the street, took a step forward and said: "do i understand you to say that you're not goin' to take proceedings, ma'am?" gyp shuddered, and shook her head. mr. wagge stood silent, slightly moving his face up and down. "well," he said, at length, "it's more than she deserves; but i don't disguise it's a relief to me. and i must say, in a young lady like you, and--and handsome, it shows a christian spirit." again gyp shivered, and shook her head. "it does. you'll allow me to say so, as a man old enough to be your father--and a regular attendant." he held out his hand. gyp put her gloved hand into it. "i'm very, very sorry. please be nice to her." mr. wagge recoiled a little, and for some seconds stood ruefully rubbing his hands together and looking from side to side. "i'm a domestic man," he said suddenly. "a domestic man in a serious line of life; and i never thought to have anything like this in my family--never! it's been--well, i can't tell you what it's been!" gyp took up her sunshade. she felt that she must get away; at any moment he might say something she could not bear--and the smell of mutton rising fast! "i am sorry," she said again; "good-bye"; and moved past him to the door. she heard him breathing hard as he followed her to open it, and thought: 'if only--oh! please let him be silent till i get outside!' mr. wagge passed her and put his hand on the latch of the front door. his little piggy eyes scanned her almost timidly. "well," he said, "i'm very glad to have the privilege of your acquaintance; and, if i may say so, you 'ave--you 'ave my 'earty sympathy. good-day." the door once shut behind her, gyp took a long breath and walked swiftly away. her cheeks were burning; and, with a craving for protection, she put up her sunshade. but the girl's white face came up again before her, and the sound of her words: "oh, mrs. fiorsen, i wish i was dead! i do!" xvi gyp walked on beneath her sunshade, making unconsciously for the peace of trees. her mind was a whirl of impressions--daphne wing's figure against the door, mr. wagge's puggy grey-bearded countenance, the red pampas-grass, the blue bowl, rosek's face swooping at her, her last glimpse of her baby asleep under the trees! she reached kensington gardens, turned into that walk renowned for the beauty of its flowers and the plainness of the people who frequent it, and sat down on a bench. it was near the luncheon-hour; nursemaids, dogs, perambulators, old gentlemen--all were hurrying a little toward their food. they glanced with critical surprise at this pretty young woman, leisured and lonely at such an hour, trying to find out what was wrong with her, as one naturally does with beauty--bow legs or something, for sure, to balance a face like that! but gyp noticed none of them, except now and again a dog which sniffed her knees in passing. for months she had resolutely cultivated insensibility, resolutely refused to face reality; the barrier was forced now, and the flood had swept her away. "proceedings!" mr. wagge had said. to those who shrink from letting their secret affairs be known even by their nearest friends, the notion of a public exhibition of troubles simply never comes, and it had certainly never come to gyp. with a bitter smile she thought: 'i'm better off than she is, after all! suppose i loved him, too? no, i never--never--want to love. women who love suffer too much.' she sat on that bench a long time before it came into her mind that she was due at monsieur harmost's for a music lesson at three o'clock. it was well past two already; and she set out across the grass. the summer day was full of murmurings of bees and flies, cooings of blissful pigeons, the soft swish and stir of leaves, and the scent of lime blossom under a sky so blue, with few white clouds slow, and calm, and full. why be unhappy? and one of those spotty spaniel dogs, that have broad heads, with frizzy topknots, and are always rascals, smelt at her frock and moved round and round her, hoping that she would throw her sunshade on the water for him to fetch, this being in his view the only reason why anything was carried in the hand. she found monsieur harmost fidgeting up and down the room, whose opened windows could not rid it of the smell of latakia. "ah," he said, "i thought you were not coming! you look pale; are you not well? is it the heat? or"--he looked hard into her face--"has someone hurt you, my little friend?" gyp shook her head. "ah, yes," he went on irritably; "you tell me nothing; you tell nobody nothing! you close up your pretty face like a flower at night. at your age, my child, one should make confidences; a secret grief is to music as the east wind to the stomach. put off your mask for once." he came close to her. "tell me your troubles. it is a long time since i have been meaning to ask. come! we are only once young; i want to see you happy." but gyp stood looking down. would it be relief to pour her soul out? would it? his brown eyes questioned her like an old dog's. she did not want to hurt one so kind. and yet--impossible! monsieur harmost suddenly sat down at the piano. resting his hands on the keys, he looked round at her, and said: "i am in love with you, you know. old men can be very much in love, but they know it is no good--that makes them endurable. still, we like to feel of use to youth and beauty; it gives us a little warmth. come; tell me your grief!" he waited a moment, then said irritably: "well, well, we go to music then!" it was his habit to sit by her at the piano corner, but to-day he stood as if prepared to be exceptionally severe. and gyp played, whether from overexcited nerves or from not having had any lunch, better than she had ever played. the chopin polonaise in a flat, that song of revolution, which had always seemed so unattainable, went as if her fingers were being worked for her. when she had finished, monsieur harmost, bending forward, lifted one of her hands and put his lips to it. she felt the scrub of his little bristly beard, and raised her face with a deep sigh of satisfaction. a voice behind them said mockingly: "bravo!" there, by the door, stood fiorsen. "congratulations, madame! i have long wanted to see you under the inspiration of your--master!" gyp's heart began to beat desperately. monsieur harmost had not moved. a faint grin slowly settled in his beard, but his eyes were startled. fiorsen kissed the back of his own hand. "to this old pantaloon you come to give your heart. ho--what a lover!" gyp saw the old man quiver; she sprang up and cried: "you brute!" fiorsen ran forward, stretching out his arms toward monsieur harmost, as if to take him by the throat. the old man drew himself up. "monsieur," he said, "you are certainly drunk." gyp slipped between, right up to those outstretched hands till she could feel their knuckles against her. had he gone mad? would he strangle her? but her eyes never moved from his, and his began to waver; his hands dropped, and, with a kind of moan, he made for the door. monsieur harmost's voice behind her said: "before you go, monsieur, give me some explanation of this imbecility!" fiorsen spun round, shook his fist, and went out muttering. they heard the front door slam. gyp turned abruptly to the window, and there, in her agitation, she noticed little outside things as one does in moments of bewildered anger. even into that back yard, summer had crept. the leaves of the sumach-tree were glistening; in a three-cornered little patch of sunlight, a black cat with a blue ribbon round its neck was basking. the voice of one hawking strawberries drifted melancholy from a side street. she was conscious that monsieur harmost was standing very still, with a hand pressed to his mouth, and she felt a perfect passion of compunction and anger. that kind and harmless old man--to be so insulted! this was indeed the culmination of all gustav's outrages! she would never forgive him this! for he had insulted her as well, beyond what pride or meekness could put up with. she turned, and, running up to the old man, put both her hands into his. "i'm so awfully sorry. good-bye, dear, dear monsieur harmost; i shall come on friday!" and, before he could stop her, she was gone. she dived into the traffic; but, just as she reached the pavement on the other side, felt her dress plucked and saw fiorsen just behind her. she shook herself free and walked swiftly on. was he going to make a scene in the street? again he caught her arm. she stopped dead, faced round on him, and said, in an icy voice: "please don't make scenes in the street, and don't follow me like this. if you want to talk to me, you can--at home." then, very calmly, she turned and walked on. but he was still following her, some paces off. she did not quicken her steps, and to the first taxicab driver that passed she made a sign, and saying: "bury street--quick!" got in. she saw fiorsen rush forward, too late to stop her. he threw up his hand and stood still, his face deadly white under his broad-brimmed hat. she was far too angry and upset to care. from the moment she turned to the window at monsieur harmost's, she had determined to go to her father's. she would not go back to fiorsen; and the one thought that filled her mind was how to get betty and her baby. nearly four! dad was almost sure to be at his club. and leaning out, she said: "no; hyde park corner, please." the hall porter, who knew her, after calling to a page-boy: "major winton--sharp, now!" came specially out of his box to offer her a seat and the times. gyp sat with it on her knee, vaguely taking in her surroundings--a thin old gentleman anxiously weighing himself in a corner, a white-calved footman crossing with a tea-tray; a number of hats on pegs; the green-baize board with its white rows of tapelike paper, and three members standing before it. one of them, a tall, stout, good-humoured-looking man in pince-nez and a white waistcoat, becoming conscious, removed his straw hat and took up a position whence, without staring, he could gaze at her; and gyp knew, without ever seeming to glance at him, that he found her to his liking. she saw her father's unhurried figure passing that little group, all of whom were conscious now, and eager to get away out of this sanctum of masculinity, she met him at the top of the low steps, and said: "i want to talk to you, dad." he gave her a quick look, selected his hat, and followed to the door. in the cab, he put his hand on hers and said: "now, my dear?" but all she could get out was: "i want to come back to you. i can't go on there. it's--it's--i've come to an end." his hand pressed hers tightly, as if he were trying to save her the need for saying more. gyp went on: "i must get baby; i'm terrified that he'll try to keep her, to get me back." "is he at home?" "i don't know. i haven't told him that i'm going to leave him." winton looked at his watch and asked: "does the baby ever go out as late as this?" "yes; after tea. it's cooler." "i'll take this cab on, then. you stay and get the room ready for her. don't worry, and don't go out till i return." and gyp thought: 'how wonderful of him not to have asked a single question.' the cab stopped at the bury street door. she took his hand, put it to her cheek, and got out. he said quietly: "do you want the dogs?" "yes--oh, yes! he doesn't care for them." "all right. there'll be time to get you in some things for the night after i come back. i shan't run any risks to-day. make mrs. markey give you tea." gyp watched the cab gather way again, saw him wave his hand; then, with a deep sigh, half anxiety, half relief, she rang the bell. xvii when the cab debouched again into st. james' street, winton gave the order: "quick as you can!" one could think better going fast! a little red had come into his brown cheeks; his eyes under their half-drawn lids had a keener light; his lips were tightly closed; he looked as he did when a fox was breaking cover. gyp could do no wrong, or, if she could, he would stand by her in it as a matter of course. but he was going to take no risks--make no frontal attack. time for that later, if necessary. he had better nerves than most people, and that kind of steely determination and resource which makes many englishmen of his class formidable in small operations. he kept his cab at the door, rang, and asked for gyp, with a kind of pleasure in his ruse. "she's not in yet, sir. mr. fiorsen's in." "ah! and baby?" "yes, sir." "i'll come in and see her. in the garden?" "yes, sir." "dogs there, too?" "yes, sir. and will you have tea, please, sir?" "no, thanks." how to effect this withdrawal without causing gossip, and yet avoid suspicion of collusion with gyp? and he added: "unless mrs. fiorsen comes in." passing out into the garden, he became aware that fiorsen was at the dining-room window watching him, and decided to make no sign that he knew this. the baby was under the trees at the far end, and the dogs came rushing thence with a fury which lasted till they came within scent of him. winton went leisurely up to the perambulator, and, saluting betty, looked down at his grandchild. she lay under an awning of muslin, for fear of flies, and was awake. her solemn, large brown eyes, already like gyp's, regarded him with gravity. clucking to her once or twice, as is the custom, he moved so as to face the house. in this position, he had betty with her back to it. and he said quietly: "i'm here with a message from your mistress, betty. keep your head; don't look round, but listen to me. she's at bury street and going to stay there; she wants you and baby and the dogs." the stout woman's eyes grew round and her mouth opened. winton put his hand on the perambulator. "steady, now! go out as usual with this thing. it's about your time; and wait for me at the turning to regent's park. i'll come on in my cab and pick you all up. don't get flurried; don't take anything; do exactly as you usually would. understand?" it is not in the nature of stout women with babies in their charge to receive such an order without question. her colour, and the heaving of that billowy bosom made winton add quickly: "now, betty, pull yourself together; gyp wants you. i'll tell you all about it in the cab." the poor woman, still heaving vaguely, could only stammer: "yes, sir. poor little thing! what about its night-things? and miss gyp's?" conscious of that figure still at the window, winton made some passes with his fingers at the baby, and said: "never mind them. as soon as you see me at the drawing-room window, get ready and go. eyes front, betty; don't look round; i'll cover your retreat! don't fail gyp now. pull yourself together." with a sigh that could have been heard in kensington, betty murmured: "very well, sir; oh dear!" and began to adjust the strings of her bonnet. with nods, as if he had been the recipient of some sage remarks about the baby, winton saluted, and began his march again towards the house. he carefully kept his eyes to this side and to that, as if examining the flowers, but noted all the same that fiorsen had receded from the window. rapid thought told him that the fellow would come back there to see if he were gone, and he placed himself before a rose-bush, where, at that reappearance, he could make a sign of recognition. sure enough, he came; and winton quietly raising his hand to the salute passed on through the drawing-room window. he went quickly into the hall, listened a second, and opened the dining-room door. fiorsen was pacing up and down, pale and restless. he came to a standstill and stared haggardly at winton, who said: "how are you? gyp not in?" "no." something in the sound of that "no" touched winton with a vague--a very vague--compunction. to be left by gyp! then his heart hardened again. the fellow was a rotter--he was sure of it, had always been sure. "baby looks well," he said. fiorsen turned and began to pace up and down again. "where is gyp? i want her to come in. i want her." winton took out his watch. "it's not late." and suddenly he felt a great aversion for the part he was playing. to get the baby; to make gyp safe--yes! but, somehow, not this pretence that he knew nothing about it. he turned on his heel and walked out. it imperilled everything; but he couldn't help it. he could not stay and go on prevaricating like this. had that woman got clear? he went back into the drawing-room. there they were--just passing the side of the house. five minutes, and they would be down at the turning. he stood at the window, waiting. if only that fellow did not come in! through the partition wall he could hear him still tramping up and down the dining-room. what a long time a minute was! three had gone when he heard the dining-room door opened, and fiorsen crossing the hall to the front door. what was he after, standing there as if listening? and suddenly he heard him sigh. it was just such a sound as many times, in the long-past days, had escaped himself, waiting, listening for footsteps, in parched and sickening anxiety. did this fellow then really love--almost as he had loved? and in revolt at spying on him like this, he advanced and said: "well, i won't wait any longer." fiorsen started; he had evidently supposed himself alone. and winton thought: 'by jove! he does look bad!' "good-bye!" he said; but the words: "give my love to gyp," perished on their way up to his lips. "good-bye!" fiorsen echoed. and winton went out under the trellis, conscious of that forlorn figure still standing at the half-opened door. betty was nowhere in sight; she must have reached the turning. his mission had succeeded, but he felt no elation. round the corner, he picked up his convoy, and, with the perambulator hoisted on to the taxi, journeyed on at speed. he had said he would explain in the cab, but the only remark he made was: "you'll all go down to mildenham to-morrow." and betty, who had feared him ever since their encounter so many years ago, eyed his profile, without daring to ask questions. before he reached home, winton stopped at a post-office, and sent this telegram: "gyp and the baby are with me letter follows.--winton." it salved a conscience on which that fellow's figure in the doorway weighed; besides, it was necessary, lest fiorsen should go to the police. the rest must wait till he had talked with gyp. there was much to do, and it was late before they dined, and not till markey had withdrawn could they begin their talk. close to the open windows where markey had placed two hydrangea plants--just bought on his own responsibility, in token of silent satisfaction--gyp began. she kept nothing back, recounting the whole miserable fiasco of her marriage. when she came to daphne wing and her discovery in the music-room, she could see the glowing end of her father's cigar move convulsively. that insult to his adored one seemed to winton so inconceivable that, for a moment, he stopped her recital by getting up to pace the room. in her own house--her own house! and--after that, she had gone on with him! he came back to his chair and did not interrupt again, but his stillness almost frightened her. coming to the incidents of the day itself, she hesitated. must she tell him, too, of rosek--was it wise, or necessary? the all-or-nothing candour that was part of her nature prevailed, and she went straight on, and, save for the feverish jerking of his evening shoe, winton made no sign. when she had finished, he got up and slowly extinguished the end of his cigar against the window-sill; then looking at her lying back in her chair as if exhausted, he said: "by god!" and turned his face away to the window. at that hour before the theatres rose, a lull brooded in the london streets; in this quiet narrow one, the town's hum was only broken by the clack of a half-drunken woman bickering at her man as they lurched along for home, and the strains of a street musician's fiddle, trying to make up for a blank day. the sound vaguely irritated winton, reminding him of those two damnable foreigners by whom she had been so treated. to have them at the point of a sword or pistol--to teach them a lesson! he heard her say: "dad, i should like to pay his debts. then things would be as they were when i married him." he emitted an exasperated sound. he did not believe in heaping coals of fire. "i want to make sure, too, that the girl is all right till she's over her trouble. perhaps i could use some of that--that other money, if mine is all tied up?" it was sheer anger, not disapproval of her impulse, that made him hesitate; money and revenge would never be associated in his mind. gyp went on: "i want to feel as if i'd never let him marry me. perhaps his debts are all part of that--who knows? please!" winton looked at her. how like--when she said that "please!" how like--her figure sunk back in the old chair, and the face lifted in shadow! a sort of exultation came to him. he had got her back--had got her back! xviii fiorsen's bedroom was--as the maid would remark--"a proper pigsty"--until he was out of it and it could be renovated each day. he had a talent for disorder, so that the room looked as if three men instead of one had gone to bed in it. clothes and shoes, brushes, water, tumblers, breakfast-tray, newspapers, french novels, and cigarette-ends--none were ever where they should have been; and the stale fumes from the many cigarettes he smoked before getting up incommoded anyone whose duty it was to take him tea and shaving-water. when, on that first real summer day, the maid had brought rosek up to him, he had been lying a long time on his back, dreamily watching the smoke from his cigarette and four flies waltzing in the sunlight that filtered through the green sun-blinds. this hour, before he rose, was his creative moment, when he could best see the form of music and feel inspiration for its rendering. of late, he had been stale and wretched, all that side of him dull; but this morning he felt again the delicious stir of fancy, that vibrating, half-dreamy state when emotion seems so easily to find shape and the mind pierces through to new expression. hearing the maid's knock, and her murmured: "count rosek to see you, sir," he thought: 'what the devil does he want?' a larger nature, drifting without control, in contact with a smaller one, who knows his own mind exactly, will instinctively be irritable, though he may fail to grasp what his friend is after. and pushing the cigarette-box toward rosek, he turned away his head. it would be money he had come about, or--that girl! that girl--he wished she was dead! soft, clinging creature! a baby! god! what a fool he had been--ah, what a fool! such absurdity! unheard of! first gyp--then her! he had tried to shake the girl off. as well try to shake off a burr! how she clung! he had been patient--oh, yes--patient and kind, but how go on when one was tired--tired of her--and wanting only gyp, only his own wife? that was a funny thing! and now, when, for an hour or two, he had shaken free of worry, had been feeling happy--yes, happy--this fellow must come, and stand there with his face of a sphinx! and he said pettishly: "well, paul! sit down. what troubles have you brought?" rosek lit a cigarette but did not sit down. he struck even fiorsen by his unsmiling pallor. "you had better look out for mr. wagge, gustav; he came to me yesterday. he has no music in his soul." fiorsen sat up. "satan take mr. wagge! what can he do?" "i am not a lawyer, but i imagine he can be unpleasant--the girl is young." fiorsen glared at him, and said: "why did you throw me that cursed girl?" rosek answered, a little too steadily: "i did not, my friend." "what! you did. what was your game? you never do anything without a game. you know you did. come; what was your game?" "you like pleasure, i believe." fiorsen said violently: "look here: i have done with your friendship--you are no friend to me. i have never really known you, and i should not wish to. it is finished. leave me in peace." rosek smiled. "my dear, that is all very well, but friendships are not finished like that. moreover, you owe me a thousand pounds." "well, i will pay it." rosek's eyebrows mounted. "i will. gyp will lend it to me." "oh! is gyp so fond of you as that? i thought she only loved her music-lessons." crouching forward with his knees drawn up, fiorsen hissed out: "don't talk of gyp! get out of this! i will pay you your thousand pounds." rosek, still smiling, answered: "gustav, don't be a fool! with a violin to your shoulder, you are a man. without--you are a child. lie quiet, my friend, and think of mr. wagge. but you had better come and talk it over with me. good-bye for the moment. calm yourself." and, flipping the ash off his cigarette on to the tray by fiorsen's elbow, he nodded and went. fiorsen, who had leaped out of bed, put his hand to his head. the cursed fellow! cursed be every one of them--the father and the girl, rosek and all the other sharks! he went out on to the landing. the house was quite still below. rosek had gone--good riddance! he called, "gyp!" no answer. he went into her room. its superlative daintiness struck his fancy. a scent of cyclamen! he looked out into the garden. there was the baby at the end, and that fat woman. no gyp! never in when she was wanted. wagge! he shivered; and, going back into his bedroom, took a brandy-bottle from a locked cupboard and drank some. it steadied him; he locked up the cupboard again, and dressed. going out to the music-room, he stopped under the trees to make passes with his fingers at the baby. sometimes he felt that it was an adorable little creature, with its big, dark eyes so like gyp's. sometimes it excited his disgust--a discoloured brat. this morning, while looking at it, he thought suddenly of the other that was coming--and grimaced. catching betty's stare of horrified amazement at the face he was making at her darling, he burst into a laugh and turned away into the music-room. while he was keying up his violin, gyp's conduct in never having come there for so long struck him as bitterly unjust. the girl--who cared about the wretched girl? as if she made any real difference! it was all so much deeper than that. gyp had never loved him, never given him what he wanted, never quenched his thirst of her! that was the heart of it. no other woman he had ever had to do with had been like that--kept his thirst unquenched. no; he had always tired of them before they tired of him. she gave him nothing really--nothing! had she no heart or did she give it elsewhere? what was that paul had said about her music-lessons? and suddenly it struck him that he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of where she went or what she did. she never told him anything. music-lessons? every day, nearly, she went out, was away for hours. the thought that she might go to the arms of another man made him put down his violin with a feeling of actual sickness. why not? that deep and fearful whipping of the sexual instinct which makes the ache of jealousy so truly terrible was at its full in such a nature as fiorsen's. he drew a long breath and shuddered. the remembrance of her fastidious pride, her candour, above all her passivity cut in across his fear. no, not gyp! he went to a little table whereon stood a tantalus, tumblers, and a syphon, and pouring out some brandy, drank. it steadied him. and he began to practise. he took a passage from brahms' violin concerto and began to play it over and over. suddenly, he found he was repeating the same flaws each time; he was not attending. the fingering of that thing was ghastly! music-lessons! why did she take them? waste of time and money--she would never be anything but an amateur! ugh! unconsciously, he had stopped playing. had she gone there to-day? it was past lunch-time. perhaps she had come in. he put down his violin and went back to the house. no sign of her! the maid came to ask if he would lunch. no! was the mistress to be in? she had not said. he went into the dining-room, ate a biscuit, and drank a brandy and soda. it steadied him. lighting a cigarette, he came back to the drawing-room and sat down at gyp's bureau. how tidy! on the little calendar, a pencil-cross was set against to-day--wednesday, another against friday. what for? music-lessons! he reached to a pigeon-hole, and took out her address-book. "h--harmost, a, marylebone road," and against it the words in pencil, " p.m." three o'clock. so that was her hour! his eyes rested idly on a little old coloured print of a bacchante, with flowing green scarf, shaking a tambourine at a naked cupid, who with a baby bow and arrow in his hands, was gazing up at her. he turned it over; on the back was written in a pointed, scriggly hand, "to my little friend.--e. h." fiorsen drew smoke deep down into his lungs, expelled it slowly, and went to the piano. he opened it and began to play, staring vacantly before him, the cigarette burned nearly to his lips. he went on, scarcely knowing what he played. at last he stopped, and sat dejected. a great artist? often, nowadays, he did not care if he never touched a violin again. tired of standing up before a sea of dull faces, seeing the blockheads knock their silly hands one against the other! sick of the sameness of it all! besides--besides, were his powers beginning to fail? what was happening to him of late? he got up, went into the dining-room, and drank some brandy. gyp could not bear his drinking. well, she shouldn't be out so much--taking music-lessons. music-lessons! nearly three o'clock. if he went for once and saw what she really did--went, and offered her his escort home! an attention. it might please her. better, anyway, than waiting here until she chose to come in with her face all closed up. he drank a little more brandy--ever so little--took his hat and went. not far to walk, but the sun was hot, and he reached the house feeling rather dizzy. a maid-servant opened the door to him. "i am mr. fiorsen. mrs. fiorsen here?" "yes, sir; will you wait?" why did she look at him like that? ugly girl! how hateful ugly people were! when she was gone, he reopened the door of the waiting-room, and listened. chopin! the polonaise in a flat. good! could that be gyp? very good! he moved out, down the passage, drawn on by her playing, and softly turned the handle. the music stopped. he went in. when winton had left him, an hour and a half later that afternoon, fiorsen continued to stand at the front door, swaying his body to and fro. the brandy-nurtured burst of jealousy which had made him insult his wife and old monsieur harmost had died suddenly when gyp turned on him in the street and spoke in that icy voice; since then he had felt fear, increasing every minute. would she forgive? to one who always acted on the impulse of the moment, so that he rarely knew afterward exactly what he had done, or whom hurt, gyp's self-control had ever been mysterious and a little frightening. where had she gone? why did she not come in? anxiety is like a ball that rolls down-hill, gathering momentum. suppose she did not come back! but she must--there was the baby--their baby! for the first time, the thought of it gave him unalloyed satisfaction. he left the door, and, after drinking a glass to steady him, flung himself down on the sofa in the drawing-room. and while he lay there, the brandy warm within him, he thought: 'i will turn over a new leaf; give up drink, give up everything, send the baby into the country, take gyp to paris, berlin, vienna, rome--anywhere out of this england, anywhere, away from that father of hers and all these stiff, dull folk! she will like that--she loves travelling!' yes, they would be happy! delicious nights--delicious days--air that did not weigh you down and make you feel that you must drink--real inspiration--real music! the acrid wood-smoke scent of paris streets, the glistening cleanness of the thiergarten, a serenading song in a florence back street, fireflies in the summer dusk at sorrento--he had intoxicating memories of them all! slowly the warmth of the brandy died away, and, despite the heat, he felt chill and shuddery. he shut his eyes, thinking to sleep till she came in. but very soon he opened them, because--a thing usual with him of late--he saw such ugly things--faces, vivid, changing as he looked, growing ugly and uglier, becoming all holes--holes--horrible holes--corruption--matted, twisted, dark human-tree-roots of faces! horrible! he opened his eyes, for when he did that, they always went. it was very silent. no sound from above. no sound of the dogs. he would go up and see the baby. while he was crossing the hall, there came a ring. he opened the door himself. a telegram! he tore the envelope. "gyp and the baby are with me letter follows.--winton." he gave a short laugh, shut the door in the boy's face, and ran upstairs; why--heaven knew! there was nobody there now! nobody! did it mean that she had really left him--was not coming back? he stopped by the side of gyp's bed, and flinging himself forward, lay across it, burying his face. and he sobbed, as men will, unmanned by drink. had he lost her? never to see her eyes closing and press his lips against them! never to soak his senses in her loveliness! he leaped up, with the tears still wet on his face. lost her? absurd! that calm, prim, devilish englishman, her father--he was to blame--he had worked it all--stealing the baby! he went down-stairs and drank some brandy. it steadied him a little. what should he do? "letter follows." drink, and wait? go to bury street? no. drink! enjoy himself! he laughed, and, catching up his hat, went out, walking furiously at first, then slower and slower, for his head began to whirl, and, taking a cab, was driven to a restaurant in soho. he had eaten nothing but a biscuit since his breakfast, always a small matter, and ordered soup and a flask of their best chianti--solids he could not face. more than two hours he sat, white and silent, perspiration on his forehead, now and then grinning and flourishing his fingers, to the amusement and sometimes the alarm of those sitting near. but for being known there, he would have been regarded with suspicion. about half-past nine, there being no more wine, he got up, put a piece of gold on the table, and went out without waiting for his change. in the streets, the lamps were lighted, but daylight was not quite gone. he walked unsteadily, toward piccadilly. a girl of the town passed and looked up at him. staring hard, he hooked his arm in hers without a word; it steadied him, and they walked on thus together. suddenly he said: "well, girl, are you happy?" the girl stopped and tried to disengage her arm; a rather frightened look had come into her dark-eyed powdered face. fiorsen laughed, and held it firm. "when the unhappy meet, they walk together. come on! you are just a little like my wife. will you have a drink?" the girl shook her head, and, with a sudden movement, slipped her arm out of this madman's and dived away like a swallow through the pavement traffic. fiorsen stood still and laughed with his head thrown back. the second time to-day. she had slipped from his grasp. passers looked at him, amazed. the ugly devils! and with a grimace, he turned out of piccadilly, past st. james's church, making for bury street. they wouldn't let him in, of course--not they! but he would look at the windows; they had flower-boxes--flower-boxes! and, suddenly, he groaned aloud--he had thought of gyp's figure busy among the flowers at home. missing the right turning, he came in at the bottom of the street. a fiddler in the gutter was scraping away on an old violin. fiorsen stopped to listen. poor devil! "pagliacci!" going up to the man--dark, lame, very shabby, he took out some silver, and put his other hand on the man's shoulder. "brother," he said, "lend me your fiddle. here's money for you. come; lend it to me. i am a great violinist." "vraiment, monsieur!" "ah! vraiment! voyons! donnez--un instant--vous verrez." the fiddler, doubting but hypnotized, handed him the fiddle; his dark face changed when he saw this stranger fling it up to his shoulder and the ways of his fingers with bow and strings. fiorsen had begun to walk up the street, his eyes searching for the flower-boxes. he saw them, stopped, and began playing "che faro?" he played it wonderfully on that poor fiddle; and the fiddler, who had followed at his elbow, stood watching him, uneasy, envious, but a little entranced. sapristi! this tall, pale monsieur with the strange face and the eyes that looked drunk and the hollow chest, played like an angel! ah, but it was not so easy as all that to make money in the streets of this sacred town! you might play like forty angels and not a copper! he had begun another tune--like little pluckings at your heart--tres joli--tout a fait ecoeurant! ah, there it was--a monsieur as usual closing the window, drawing the curtains! always same thing! the violin and the bow were thrust back into his hands; and the tall strange monsieur was off as if devils were after him--not badly drunk, that one! and not a sou thrown down! with an uneasy feeling that he had been involved in something that he did not understand, the lame, dark fiddler limped his way round the nearest corner, and for two streets at least did not stop. then, counting the silver fiorsen had put into his hand and carefully examining his fiddle, he used the word, "bigre!" and started for home. xix gyp hardly slept at all. three times she got up, and, stealing to the door, looked in at her sleeping baby, whose face in its new bed she could just see by the night-light's glow. the afternoon had shaken her nerves. nor was betty's method of breathing while asleep conducive to the slumber of anything but babies. it was so hot, too, and the sound of the violin still in her ears. by that little air of poise, she had known for certain it was fiorsen; and her father's abrupt drawing of the curtains had clinched that certainty. if she had gone to the window and seen him, she would not have been half so deeply disturbed as she was by that echo of an old emotion. the link which yesterday she thought broken for good was reforged in some mysterious way. the sobbing of that old fiddle had been his way of saying, "forgive me; forgive!" to leave him would have been so much easier if she had really hated him; but she did not. however difficult it may be to live with an artist, to hate him is quite as difficult. an artist is so flexible--only the rigid can be hated. she hated the things he did, and him when he was doing them; but afterward again could hate him no more than she could love him, and that was--not at all. resolution and a sense of the practical began to come back with daylight. when things were hopeless, it was far better to recognize it and harden one's heart. winton, whose night had been almost as sleepless--to play like a beggar in the street, under his windows, had seemed to him the limit!--announced at breakfast that he must see his lawyer, make arrangements for the payment of fiorsen's debts, and find out what could be done to secure gyp against persecution. some deed was probably necessary; he was vague on all such matters. in the meantime, neither gyp nor the baby must go out. gyp spent the morning writing and rewriting to monsieur harmost, trying to express her chagrin, but not saying that she had left fiorsen. her father came back from westminster quiet and angry. he had with difficulty been made to understand that the baby was fiorsen's property, so that, if the fellow claimed it, legally they would be unable to resist. the point opened the old wound, forced him to remember that his own daughter had once belonged to another--father. he had told the lawyer in a measured voice that he would see the fellow damned first, and had directed a deed of separation to be prepared, which should provide for the complete payment of fiorsen's existing debts on condition that he left gyp and the baby in peace. after telling gyp this, he took an opportunity of going to the extempore nursery and standing by the baby's cradle. until then, the little creature had only been of interest as part of gyp; now it had for him an existence of its own--this tiny, dark-eyed creature, lying there, watching him so gravely, clutching his finger. suddenly the baby smiled--not a beautiful smile, but it made on winton an indelible impression. wishing first to settle this matter of the deed, he put off going down to mildenham; but "not trusting those two scoundrels a yard"--for he never failed to bracket rosek and fiorsen--he insisted that the baby should not go out without two attendants, and that gyp should not go out alone. he carried precaution to the point of accompanying her to monsieur harmost's on the friday afternoon, and expressed a wish to go in and shake hands with the old fellow. it was a queer meeting. those two had as great difficulty in finding anything to say as though they were denizens of different planets. and indeed, there are two planets on this earth! when, after a minute or so of the friendliest embarrassment, he had retired to wait for her, gyp sat down to her lesson. monsieur harmost said quietly: "your letter was very kind, my little friend--and your father is very kind. but, after all, it was a compliment your husband paid me." his smile smote gyp; it seemed to sum up so many resignations. "so you stay again with your father!" and, looking at her very hard with his melancholy brown eyes, "when will you find your fate, i wonder?" "never!" monsieur harmost's eyebrows rose. "ah," he said, "you think! no, that is impossible!" he walked twice very quickly up and down the room; then spinning round on his heel, said sharply: "well, we must not waste your father's time. to work." winton's simple comment in the cab on the way home was: "nice old chap!" at bury street, they found gyp's agitated parlour-maid. going to do the music-room that morning, she had "found the master sitting on the sofa, holding his head, and groaning awful. he's not been at home, ma'am, since you--you went on your visit, so i didn't know what to do. i ran for cook and we got him up to bed, and not knowing where you'd be, ma'am, i telephoned to count rosek, and he came--i hope i didn't do wrong--and he sent me down to see you. the doctor says his brain's on the touch and go, and he keeps askin' for you, ma'am. so i didn't know what to do." gyp, pale to the lips, said: "wait here a minute, ellen," and went into the dining-room. winton followed. she turned to him at once, and said: "oh, dad, what am i to do? his brain! it would be too awful to feel i'd brought that about." winton grunted. gyp went on: "i must go and see. if it's really that, i couldn't bear it. i'm afraid i must go, dad." winton nodded. "well, i'll come too," he said. "the girl can go back in the cab and say we're on the way." taking a parting look at her baby, gyp thought bitterly: 'my fate? this is my fate, and no getting out of it!' on the journey, she and winton were quite silent--but she held his hand tight. while the cook was taking up to rosek the news of their arrival, gyp stood looking out at her garden. two days and six hours only since she had stood there above her pansies; since, at this very spot, rosek had kissed her throat! slipping her hand through winton's arm, she said: "dad, please don't make anything of that kiss. he couldn't help himself, i suppose. what does it matter, too?" a moment later rosek entered. before she could speak, winton was saying: "thank you for letting us know, sir. but now that my daughter is here, there will be no further need for your kind services. good-day!" at the cruel curtness of those words, gyp gave the tiniest start forward. she had seen them go through rosek's armour as a sword through brown paper. he recovered himself with a sickly smile, bowed, and went out. winton followed--precisely as if he did not trust him with the hats in the hall. when the outer door was shut, he said: "i don't think he'll trouble you again." gyp's gratitude was qualified by a queer compassion. after all, his offence had only been that of loving her. fiorsen had been taken to her room, which was larger and cooler than his own; and the maid was standing by the side of the bed with a scared face. gyp signed to her to go. he opened his eyes presently: "gyp! oh! gyp! is it you? the devilish, awful things i see--don't go away again! oh, gyp!" with a sob he raised himself and rested his forehead against her. and gyp felt--as on the first night he came home drunk--a merging of all other emotions in the desire to protect and heal. "it's all right, all right," she murmured. "i'm going to stay. don't worry about anything. keep quite quiet, and you'll soon be well." in a quarter of an hour, he was asleep. his wasted look went to her heart, and that expression of terror which had been coming and going until he fell asleep! anything to do with the brain was so horrible! only too clear that she must stay--that his recovery depended on her. she was still sitting there, motionless, when the doctor came, and, seeing him asleep, beckoned her out. he looked a kindly man, with two waistcoats, the top one unbuttoned; and while he talked, he winked at gyp involuntarily, and, with each wink, gyp felt that he ripped the veil off one more domestic secret. sleep was the ticket--the very ticket for him! had something on his mind--yes! and--er--a little given to--brandy? ah! all that must stop! stomach as well as nerves affected. seeing things--nasty things--sure sign. perhaps not a very careful life before marriage. and married--how long? his kindly appreciative eyes swept gyp from top to toe. year and a half! quite so! hard worker at his violin, too? no doubt! musicians always a little inclined to be immoderate--too much sense of beauty--burn the candle at both ends! she must see to that. she had been away, had she not--staying with her father? yes. but--no one like a wife for nursing. as to treatment? well! one would shove in a dash of what he would prescribe, night and morning. perfect quiet. no stimulant. a little cup of strong coffee without milk, if he seemed low. keep him in bed at present. no worry; no excitement. young man still. plenty of vitality. as to herself, no undue anxiety. to-morrow they would see whether a night nurse would be necessary. above all, no violin for a month, no alcohol--in every way the strictest moderation! and with a last and friendliest wink, leaning heavily on that word "moderation," he took out a stylographic pen, scratched on a leaf of his note-book, shook gyp's hand, smiled whimsically, buttoned his upper waistcoat, and departed. gyp went back to her seat by the bed. irony! she whose only desire was to be let go free, was mainly responsible for his breakdown! but for her, there would be nothing on his mind, for he would not be married! brooding morbidly, she asked herself--his drinking, debts, even the girl--had she caused them, too? and when she tried to free him and herself--this was the result! was there something fatal about her that must destroy the men she had to do with? she had made her father unhappy, monsieur harmost--rosek, and her husband! even before she married, how many had tried for her love, and gone away unhappy! and, getting up, she went to a mirror and looked at herself long and sadly. xx three days after her abortive attempt to break away, gyp, with much heart-searching, wrote to daphne wing, telling her of fiorsen's illness, and mentioning a cottage near mildenham, where--if she liked to go--she would be quite comfortable and safe from all curiosity, and finally begging to be allowed to make good the losses from any broken dance-contracts. next morning, she found mr. wagge with a tall, crape-banded hat in his black-gloved hands, standing in the very centre of her drawing-room. he was staring into the garden, as if he had been vouchsafed a vision of that warm night when the moonlight shed its ghostly glamour on the sunflowers, and his daughter had danced out there. she had a perfect view of his thick red neck in its turndown collar, crossed by a black bow over a shiny white shirt. and, holding out her hand, she said: "how do you do, mr. wagge? it was kind of you to come." mr. wagge turned. his pug face wore a downcast expression. "i hope i see you well, ma'am. pretty place you 'ave 'ere. i'm fond of flowers myself. they've always been my 'obby." "they're a great comfort in london, aren't they?" "ye-es; i should think you might grow the dahlia here." and having thus obeyed the obscure instincts of savoir faire, satisfied some obscurer desire to flatter, he went on: "my girl showed me your letter. i didn't like to write; in such a delicate matter i'd rather be vivey vocey. very kind, in your position; i'm sure i appreciate it. i always try to do the christian thing myself. flesh passes; you never know when you may have to take your turn. i said to my girl i'd come and see you." "i'm very glad. i hoped perhaps you would." mr. wagge cleared his throat, and went on, in a hoarser voice: "i don't want to say anything harsh about a certain party in your presence, especially as i read he's indisposed, but really i hardly know how to bear the situation. i can't bring myself to think of money in relation to that matter; all the same, it's a serious loss to my daughter, very serious loss. i've got my family pride to think of. my daughter's name, well--it's my own; and, though i say it, i'm respected--a regular attendant--i think i told you. sometimes, i assure you, i feel i can't control myself, and it's only that--and you, if i may say so, that keeps me in check." during this speech, his black-gloved hands were clenching and unclenching, and he shifted his broad, shining boots. gyp gazed at them, not daring to look up at his eyes thus turning and turning from christianity to shekels, from his honour to the world, from his anger to herself. and she said: "please let me do what i ask, mr. wagge. i should be so unhappy if i mightn't do that little something." mr. wagge blew his nose. "it's a delicate matter," he said. "i don't know where my duty lays. i don't, reelly." gyp looked up then. "the great thing is to save daisy suffering, isn't it?" mr. wagge's face wore for a moment an expression of affront, as if from the thought: 'sufferin'! you must leave that to her father!' then it wavered; the curious, furtive warmth of the attracted male came for a moment into his little eyes; he averted them, and coughed. gyp said softly: "to please me." mr. wagge's readjusted glance stopped in confusion at her waist. he answered, in a voice that he strove to make bland: "if you put it in that way, i don't reelly know 'ow to refuse; but it must be quite between you and me--i can't withdraw my attitude." gyp murmured: "no, of course. thank you so much; and you'll let me know about everything later. i mustn't take up your time now." and she held out her hand. mr. wagge took it in a lingering manner. "well, i have an appointment," he said; "a gentleman at campden hill. he starts at twelve. i'm never late. good-morning." when she had watched his square, black figure pass through the outer gate, busily rebuttoning those shining black gloves, she went upstairs and washed her face and hands. for several days, fiorsen wavered; but his collapse had come just in time, and with every hour the danger lessened. at the end of a fortnight of a perfectly white life, there remained nothing to do in the words of the doctor but "to avoid all recurrence of the predisposing causes, and shove in sea air!" gyp had locked up all brandy--and violins; she could control him so long as he was tamed by his own weakness. but she passed some very bitter hours before she sent for her baby, betty, and the dogs, and definitely took up life in her little house again. his debts had been paid, including the thousand pounds to rosek, and the losses of daphne wing. the girl had gone down to that cottage where no one had ever heard of her, to pass her time in lonely grief and terror, with the aid of a black dress and a gold band on her third finger. august and the first half of september were spent near bude. fiorsen's passion for the sea, a passion gyp could share, kept him singularly moderate and free from restiveness. he had been thoroughly frightened, and such terror is not easily forgotten. they stayed in a farmhouse, where he was at his best with the simple folk, and his best could be charming. he was always trying to get his "mermaid," as he took to calling gyp, away from the baby, getting her away to himself, along the grassy cliffs and among the rocks and yellow sands of that free coast. his delight was to find every day some new nook where they could bathe, and dry themselves by sitting in the sun. and very like a mermaid she was, on a seaweedy rock, with her feet close together in a little pool, her fingers combing her drowned hair, and the sun silvering her wet body. if she had loved him, it would have been perfect. but though, close to nature like this--there are men to whom towns are poison--he was so much more easy to bear, even to like, her heart never opened to him, never fluttered at his voice, or beat more quickly under his kisses. one cannot regulate these things. the warmth in her eyes when they looked at her baby, and the coolness when they looked at him, was such that not even a man, and he an egoist, could help seeing; and secretly he began to hate that tiny rival, and she began to notice that he did. as soon as the weather broke, he grew restless, craving his violin, and they went back to town, in robust health--all three. during those weeks, gyp had never been free of the feeling that it was just a lull, of forces held up in suspense, and the moment they were back in their house, this feeling gathered density and darkness, as rain gathers in the sky after a fine spell. she had often thought of daphne wing, and had written twice, getting in return one naive and pathetic answer: 'dear mrs. fiorsen, 'oh, it is kind of you to write, because i know what you must be feeling about me; and it was so kind of you to let me come here. i try not to think about things, but of course i can't help it; and i don't seem to care what happens now. mother is coming down here later on. sometimes i lie awake all night, listening to the wind. don't you think the wind is the most melancholy thing in the world? i wonder if i shall die? i hope i shall. oh, i do, really! good-bye, dear mrs. fiorsen. i shall never forgive myself about you. 'your grateful, 'daphne wing.' the girl had never once been mentioned between her and fiorsen since the night when he sat by her bed, begging forgiveness; she did not know whether he ever gave the little dancer and her trouble a thought, or even knew what had become of her. but now that the time was getting near, gyp felt more and more every day as if she must go down and see her. she wrote to her father, who, after a dose of harrogate with aunt rosamund, was back at mildenham. winton answered that the nurse was there, and that there seemed to be a woman, presumably the mother, staying with her, but that he had not of course made direct inquiry. could not gyp come down? he was alone, and cubbing had begun. it was like him to veil his longings under such dry statements. but the thought of giving him pleasure, and of a gallop with hounds fortified intensely her feeling that she ought to go. now that baby was so well, and fiorsen still not drinking, she might surely snatch this little holiday and satisfy her conscience about the girl. since the return from cornwall, she had played for him in the music-room just as of old, and she chose the finish of a morning practice to say: "gustav, i want to go to mildenham this afternoon for a week. father's lonely." he was putting away his violin, but she saw his neck grow red. "to him? no. he will steal you as he stole the baby. let him have the baby if he likes. not you. no." gyp, who was standing by the piano, kept silence at this unexpected outburst, but revolt blazed up in her. she never asked him anything; he should not refuse this. he came up behind and put his arms round her. "my gyp, i want you here--i am lonely, too. don't go away." she tried to force his arms apart, but could not, and her anger grew. she said coldly: "there's another reason why i must go." "no, no! no good reason--to take you from me." "there is! the girl who is just going to have your child is staying near mildenham, and i want to see how she is." he let go of her then, and recoiling against the divan, sat down. and gyp thought: 'i'm sorry. i didn't mean to--but it serves him right.' he muttered, in a dull voice: "oh, i hoped she was dead." "yes! for all you care, she might be. i'm going, but you needn't be afraid that i shan't come back. i shall be back to-day week; i promise." he looked at her fixedly. "yes. you don't break your promises; you will not break it." but, suddenly, he said again: "gyp, don't go!" "i must." he got up and caught her in his arms. "say you love me, then!" but she could not. it was one thing to put up with embraces, quite another to pretend that. when at last he was gone, she sat smoothing her hair, staring before her with hard eyes, thinking: "here--where i saw him with that girl! what animals men are!" late that afternoon, she reached mildenham. winton met her at the station. and on the drive up, they passed the cottage where daphne wing was staying. it stood in front of a small coppice, a creepered, plain-fronted, little brick house, with a garden still full of sunflowers, tenanted by the old jockey, pettance, his widowed daughter, and her three small children. "that talkative old scoundrel," as winton always called him, was still employed in the mildenham stables, and his daughter was laundress to the establishment. gyp had secured for daphne wing the same free, independent, economic agent who had watched over her own event; the same old doctor, too, was to be the presiding deity. there were no signs of life about the cottage, and she would not stop, too eager to be at home again, to see the old rooms, and smell the old savour of the house, to get to her old mare, and feel its nose nuzzling her for sugar. it was so good to be back once more, feeling strong and well and able to ride. the smile of the inscrutable markey at the front door was a joy to her, even the darkness of the hall, where a gleam of last sunlight fell across the skin of winton's first tiger, on which she had so often sunk down dead tired after hunting. ah, it was nice to be at home! in her mare's box, old pettance was putting a last touch to cleanliness. his shaven, skin-tight, wicked old face, smiled deeply. he said in honeyed tones: "good evenin', miss; beautiful evenin', ma'am!" and his little burning brown eyes, just touched by age, regarded her lovingly. "well, pettance, how are you? and how's annie, and how are the children? and how's this old darling?" "wonderful, miss; artful as a kitten. carry you like a bird to-morrow, if you're goin' out." "how are her legs?" and while gyp passed her hand down those iron legs, the old mare examined her down the back of her neck. "they 'aven't filled not once since she come in--she was out all july and august; but i've kept 'er well at it since, in 'opes you might be comin'." "they feel splendid." and, still bending down, gyp asked: "and how is your lodger--the young lady i sent you?" "well, ma'am, she's very young, and these very young ladies they get a bit excited, you know, at such times; i should say she've never been--" with obvious difficulty he checked the words, "to an 'orse before!" "well, you must expect it. and her mother, she's a dreadful funny one, miss. she does needle me! oh, she puts my back up properly! no class, of course--that's where it is. but this 'ere nurse--well, you know, miss, she won't 'ave no nonsense; so there we are. and, of course, you're bound to 'ave 'ighsteria, a bit--losin' her 'usband as young as that." gyp could feel his wicked old smile even before she raised herself. but what did it matter if he did guess? she knew he would keep a stable secret. "oh, we've 'ad some pretty flirts--up and cryin', dear me! i sleeps in the next room--oh, yes, at night-time--when you're a widder at that age, you can't expect nothin' else. i remember when i was ridin' in ireland for captain o'neill, there was a young woman--" gyp thought: 'i mustn't let him get off--or i shall be late for dinner,' and she said: "oh, pettance, who bought the young brown horse?" "mr. bryn summer'ay, ma'am, over at widrington, for an 'unter, and 'ack in town, miss." "summerhay? ah!" with a touch of the whip to her memory, gyp recalled the young man with the clear eyes and teasing smile, on the chestnut mare, the bold young man who reminded her of somebody, and she added: "that'll be a good home for him, i should think." "oh, yes, miss; good 'ome--nice gentleman, too. he come over here to see it, and asked after you. i told 'im you was a married lady now, miss. 'ah,' he said; 'she rode beautiful!' and he remembered the 'orse well. the major, he wasn't 'ere just then, so i let him try the young un; he popped 'im over a fence or two, and when he come back he says, 'well, i'm goin' to have 'im.' speaks very pleasant, an' don't waste no time--'orse was away before the end of the week. carry 'im well; 'e's a strong rider, too, and a good plucked one, but bad 'ands, i should say." "yes, pettance; i must go in now. will you tell annie i shall be round to-morrow, to see her?" "very good, miss. 'ounds meets at filly cross, seven-thirty. you'll be goin' out?" "rather. good-night." flying back across the yard, gyp thought: "'she rode beautiful!' how jolly! i'm glad he's got my horse." xxi still glowing from her morning in the saddle, gyp started out next day at noon on her visit to the "old scoundrel's" cottage. it was one of those lingering mellow mornings of late september, when the air, just warmed through, lifts off the stubbles, and the hedgerows are not yet dried of dew. the short cut led across two fields, a narrow strip of village common, where linen was drying on gorse bushes coming into bloom, and one field beyond; she met no one. crossing the road, she passed into the cottage-garden, where sunflowers and michaelmas daisies in great profusion were tangled along the low red-brick garden-walls, under some poplar trees yellow-flecked already. a single empty chair, with a book turned face downward, stood outside an open window. smoke wreathing from one chimney was the only sign of life. but, standing undecided before the half-open door, gyp was conscious, as it were, of too much stillness, of something unnatural about the silence. she was just raising her hand to knock when she heard the sound of smothered sobbing. peeping through the window, she could just see a woman dressed in green, evidently mrs. wagge, seated at a table, crying into her handkerchief. at that very moment, too, a low moaning came from the room above. gyp recoiled; then, making up her mind, she went in and knocked at the room where the woman in green was sitting. after fully half a minute, it was opened, and mrs. wagge stood there. the nose and eyes and cheeks of that thinnish, acid face were red, and in her green dress, and with her greenish hair (for it was going grey and she put on it a yellow lotion smelling of cantharides), she seemed to gyp just like one of those green apples that turn reddish so unnaturally in the sun. she had rubbed over her face, which shone in streaks, and her handkerchief was still crumpled in her hand. it was horrible to come, so fresh and glowing, into the presence of this poor woman, evidently in bitter sorrow. and a desperate desire came over gyp to fly. it seemed dreadful for anyone connected with him who had caused this trouble to be coming here at all. but she said as softly as she could: "mrs. wagge? please forgive me--but is there any news? i am--it was i who got daphne down here." the woman before her was evidently being torn this way and that, but at last she answered, with a sniff: "it--it--was born this morning--dead." gyp gasped. to have gone through it all for that! every bit of mother-feeling in her rebelled and sorrowed; but her reason said: better so! much better! and she murmured: "how is she?" mrs. wagge answered, with profound dejection: "bad--very bad. i don't know i'm sure what to say--my feelings are all anyhow, and that's the truth. it's so dreadfully upsetting altogether." "is my nurse with her?" "yes; she's there. she's a very headstrong woman, but capable, i don't deny. daisy's very weak. oh, it is upsetting! and now i suppose there'll have to be a burial. there really seems no end to it. and all because of--of that man." and mrs. wagge turned away again to cry into her handkerchief. feeling she could never say or do the right thing to the poor lady, gyp stole out. at the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated whether to go up or no. at last, she mounted softly. it must be in the front room that the bereaved girl was lying--the girl who, but a year ago, had debated with such naive self-importance whether or not it was her duty to take a lover. gyp summoned courage to tap gently. the economic agent opened the door an inch, but, seeing who it was, slipped her robust and handsome person through into the corridor. "you, my dear!" she said in a whisper. "that's nice!" "how is she?" "fairly well--considering. you know about it?" "yes; can i see her?" "i hardly think so. i can't make her out. she's got no spirit, not an ounce. she doesn't want to get well, i believe. it's the man, i expect." and, looking at gyp with her fine blue eyes, she asked: "is that it? is he tired of her?" gyp met her gaze better than she had believed possible. "yes, nurse." the economic agent swept her up and down. "it's a pleasure to look at you. you've got quite a colour, for you. after all, i believe it might do her good to see you. come in!" gyp passed in behind her, and stood gazing, not daring to step forward. what a white face, with eyes closed, with fair hair still damp on the forehead, with one white hand lying on the sheet above her heart! what a frail madonna of the sugar-plums! on the whole of that bed the only colour seemed the gold hoop round the wedding-finger. the economic agent said very quietly: "look, my dear; i've brought you a nice visitor." daphne wing's eyes and lips opened and closed again. and the awful thought went through gyp: 'poor thing! she thought it was going to be him, and it's only me!' then the white lips said: "oh, mrs. fiorsen, it's you--it is kind of you!" and the eyes opened again, but very little, and differently. the economic agent slipped away. gyp sat down by the bed and timidly touched the hand. daphne wing looked at her, and two tears slowly ran down her cheeks. "it's over," she said just audibly, "and there's nothing now--it was dead, you know. i don't want to live. oh, mrs. fiorsen, why can't they let me die, too?" gyp bent over and kissed the hand, unable to bear the sight of those two slowly rolling tears. daphne wing went on: "you are good to me. i wish my poor little baby hadn't--" gyp, knowing her own tears were wetting that hand, raised herself and managed to get out the words: "bear up! think of your work!" "dancing! ho!" she gave the least laugh ever heard. "it seems so long ago." "yes; but now it'll all come back to you again, better than ever." daphne wing answered by a feeble sigh. there was silence. gyp thought: 'she's falling asleep.' with eyes and mouth closed like that, and all alabaster white, the face was perfect, purged of its little commonnesses. strange freak that this white flower of a face could ever have been produced by mr. and mrs. wagge! daphne wing opened her eyes and said: "oh! mrs. fiorsen, i feel so weak. and i feel much more lonely now. there's nothing anywhere." gyp got up; she felt herself being carried into the mood of the girl's heart, and was afraid it would be seen. daphne wing went on: "do you know, when nurse said she'd brought a visitor, i thought it was him; but i'm glad now. if he had looked at me like he did--i couldn't have borne it." gyp bent down and put her lips to the damp forehead. faint, very faint, there was still the scent of orange-blossom. when she was once more in the garden, she hurried away; but instead of crossing the fields again, turned past the side of the cottage into the coppice behind. and, sitting down on a log, her hands pressed to her cheeks and her elbows to her breast, she stared at the sunlit bracken and the flies chasing each other over it. love! was it always something hateful and tragic that spoiled lives? criss-cross! one darting on another, taking her almost before she knew she was seized, then darting away and leaving her wanting to be seized again. or darting on her, who, when seized, was fatal to the darter, yet had never wanted to be seized. or darting one on the other for a moment, then both breaking away too soon. did never two dart at each other, seize, and cling, and ever after be one? love! it had spoiled her father's life, and daphne wing's; never came when it was wanted; always came when it was not. malevolent wanderer, alighting here, there; tiring of the spirit before it tired of the body; or of the body before it tired of the spirit. better to have nothing to do with it--far better! if one never loved, one would never feel lonely--like that poor girl. and yet! no--there was no "and yet." who that was free would wish to become a slave? a slave--like daphne wing! a slave--like her own husband to his want of a wife who did not love him. a slave like her father had been--still was, to a memory. and watching the sunlight on the bracken, gyp thought: 'love! keep far from me. i don't want you. i shall never want you!' every morning that week she made her way to the cottage, and every morning had to pass through the hands of mrs. wagge. the good lady had got over the upsetting fact that gyp was the wife of that villain, and had taken a fancy to her, confiding to the economic agent, who confided it to gyp, that she was "very distangey--and such pretty eyes, quite italian." she was one of those numberless persons whose passion for distinction was just a little too much for their passionate propriety. it was that worship of distinction which had caused her to have her young daughter's talent for dancing fostered. who knew to what it might lead in these days? at great length she explained to gyp the infinite care with which she had always "brought daisy up like a lady--and now this is the result." and she would look piercingly at gyp's hair or ears, at her hands or her instep, to see how it was done. the burial worried her dreadfully. "i'm using the name of daisy wing; she was christened 'daisy' and the wing's professional, so that takes them both in, and it's quite the truth. but i don't think anyone would connect it, would they? about the father's name, do you think i might say the late mr. joseph wing, this once? you see, it never was alive, and i must put something if they're not to guess the truth, and that i couldn't bear; mr. wagge would be so distressed. it's in his own line, you see. oh, it is upsetting!" gyp murmured desperately: "oh! yes, anything." though the girl was so deathly white and spiritless, it soon became clear that she was going to pull through. with each day, a little more colour and a little more commonness came back to her. and gyp felt instinctively that she would, in the end, return to fulham purged of her infatuation, a little harder, perhaps a little deeper. late one afternoon toward the end of her week at mildenham, gyp wandered again into the coppice, and sat down on that same log. an hour before sunset, the light shone level on the yellowing leaves all round her; a startled rabbit pelted out of the bracken and pelted back again, and, from the far edge of the little wood, a jay cackled harshly, shifting its perch from tree to tree. gyp thought of her baby, and of that which would have been its half-brother; and now that she was so near having to go back to fiorsen, she knew that she had not been wise to come here. to have been in contact with the girl, to have touched, as it were, that trouble, had made the thought of life with him less tolerable even than it was before. only the longing to see her baby made return seem possible. ah, well--she would get used to it all again! but the anticipation of his eyes fixed on her, then sliding away from the meeting with her eyes, of all--of all that would begin again, suddenly made her shiver. she was very near to loathing at that moment. he, the father of her baby! the thought seemed ridiculous and strange. that little creature seemed to bind him to her no more than if it were the offspring of some chance encounter, some pursuit of nymph by faun. no! it was hers alone. and a sudden feverish longing to get back to it overpowered all other thought. this longing grew in her so all night that at breakfast she told her father. swallowing down whatever his feeling may have been, he said: "very well, my child; i'll come up with you." putting her into the cab in london, he asked: "have you still got your key of bury street? good! remember, gyp--any time day or night--there it is for you." she had wired to fiorsen from mildenham that she was coming, and she reached home soon after three. he was not in, and what was evidently her telegram lay unopened in the hall. tremulous with expectation, she ran up to the nursery. the pathetic sound of some small creature that cannot tell what is hurting it, or why, met her ears. she went in, disturbed, yet with the half-triumphant thought: 'perhaps that's for me!' betty, very flushed, was rocking the cradle, and examining the baby's face with a perplexed frown. seeing gyp, she put her hand to her side, and gasped: "oh, be joyful! oh, my dear! i am glad. i can't do anything with baby since the morning. whenever she wakes up, she cries like that. and till to-day she's been a little model. hasn't she! there, there!" gyp took up the baby, whose black eyes fixed themselves on her mother in a momentary contentment; but, at the first movement, she began again her fretful plaint. betty went on: "she's been like that ever since this morning. mr. fiorsen's been in more than once, ma'am, and the fact is, baby don't like it. he stares at her so. but this morning i thought--well--i thought: 'you're her father. it's time she was getting used to you.' so i let them be a minute; and when i came back--i was only just across to the bathroom--he was comin' out lookin' quite fierce and white, and baby--oh, screamin'! and except for sleepin', she's hardly stopped cryin' since." pressing the baby to her breast, gyp sat very still, and queer thoughts went through her mind. "how has he been, betty?" she said. betty plaited her apron; her moon-face was troubled. "well," she said, "i think he's been drinkin'. oh, i'm sure he has--i've smelt it about him. the third day it began. and night before last he came in dreadfully late--i could hear him staggerin' about, abusing the stairs as he was comin' up. oh dear--it is a pity!" the baby, who had been still enough since she lay in her mother's lap, suddenly raised her little voice again. gyp said: "betty, i believe something hurts her arm. she cries the moment she's touched there. is there a pin or anything? just see. take her things off. oh--look!" both the tiny arms above the elbow were circled with dark marks, as if they had been squeezed by ruthless fingers. the two women looked at each other in horror; and under her breath gyp said: "he!" she had flushed crimson; her eyes filled but dried again almost at once. and, looking at her face, now gone very pale, and those lips tightened to a line, betty stopped in her outburst of ejaculation. when they had wrapped the baby's arm in remedies and cotton-wool, gyp went into her bedroom, and, throwing herself down on her bed, burst into a passion of weeping, smothering it deep in her pillow. it was the crying of sheer rage. the brute! not to have control enough to stop short of digging his claws into that precious mite! just because the poor little thing cried at that cat's stare of his! the brute! the devil! and he would come to her and whine about it, and say: "my gyp, i never meant--how should i know i was hurting? her crying was so--why should she cry at me? i was upset! i wasn't thinking!" she could hear him pleading and sighing to her to forgive him. but she would not--not this time! he had hurt a helpless thing once too often. her fit of crying ceased, and she lay listening to the tick of the clock, and marshalling in her mind a hundred little evidences of his malevolence toward her baby--his own baby. how was it possible? was he really going mad? and a fit of such chilly shuddering seized her that she crept under the eider down to regain warmth. in her rage, she retained enough sense of proportion to understand that he had done this, just as he had insulted monsieur harmost and her father--and others--in an ungovernable access of nerve-irritation; just as, perhaps, one day he would kill someone. but to understand this did not lessen her feeling. her baby! such a tiny thing! she hated him at last; and she lay thinking out the coldest, the cruellest, the most cutting things to say. she had been too long-suffering. but he did not come in that evening; and, too upset to eat or do anything, she went up to bed at ten o'clock. when she had undressed, she stole across to the nursery; she had a longing to have the baby with her--a feeling that to leave her was not safe. she carried her off, still sleeping, and, locking her doors, got into bed. having warmed a nest with her body for the little creature, she laid it there; and then for a long time lay awake, expecting every minute to hear him return. she fell asleep at last, and woke with a start. there were vague noises down below or on the stairs. it must be he! she had left the light on in her room, and she leaned over to look at the baby's face. it was still sleeping, drawing its tiny breaths peacefully, little dog-shivers passing every now and then over its face. gyp, shaking back her dark plaits of hair, sat up by its side, straining her ears. yes; he was coming up, and, by the sounds, he was not sober. she heard a loud creak, and then a thud, as if he had clutched at the banisters and fallen; she heard muttering, too, and the noise of boots dropped. swiftly the thought went through her: 'if he were quite drunk, he would not have taken them off at all;--nor if he were quite sober. does he know i'm back?' then came another creak, as if he were raising himself by support of the banisters, and then--or was it fancy?--she could hear him creeping and breathing behind the door. then--no fancy this time--he fumbled at the door and turned the handle. in spite of his state, he must know that she was back, had noticed her travelling-coat or seen the telegram. the handle was tried again, then, after a pause, the handle of the door between his room and hers was fiercely shaken. she could hear his voice, too, as she knew it when he was flown with drink, thick, a little drawling. "gyp--let me in--gyp!" the blood burned up in her cheeks, and she thought: 'no, my friend; you're not coming in!' after that, sounds were more confused, as if he were now at one door, now at the other; then creakings, as if on the stairs again, and after that, no sound at all. for fully half an hour, gyp continued to sit up, straining her ears. where was he? what doing? on her over-excited nerves, all sorts of possibilities came crowding. he must have gone downstairs again. in that half-drunken state, where would his baffled frenzies lead him? and, suddenly, she thought that she smelled burning. it went, and came again; she got up, crept to the door, noiselessly turned the key, and, pulling it open a few inches, sniffed. all was dark on the landing. there was no smell of burning out there. suddenly, a hand clutched her ankle. all the blood rushed from her heart; she stifled a scream, and tried to pull the door to. but his arm and her leg were caught between, and she saw the black mass of his figure lying full-length on its face. like a vice, his hand held her; he drew himself up on to his knees, on to his feet, and forced his way through. panting, but in utter silence, gyp struggled to drive him out. his drunken strength seemed to come and go in gusts, but hers was continuous, greater than she had ever thought she had, and she panted: "go! go out of my room--you--you--wretch!" then her heart stood still with horror, for he had slued round to the bed and was stretching his hands out above the baby. she heard him mutter: "ah-h-h!--you--in my place--you!" gyp flung herself on him from behind, dragging his arms down, and, clasping her hands together, held him fast. he twisted round in her arms and sat down on the bed. in that moment of his collapse, gyp snatched up her baby and fled out, down the dark stairs, hearing him stumbling, groping in pursuit. she fled into the dining-room and locked the door. she heard him run against it and fall down. snuggling her baby, who was crying now, inside her nightgown, next to her skin for warmth, she stood rocking and hushing it, trying to listen. there was no more sound. by the hearth, whence a little heat still came forth from the ashes, she cowered down. with cushions and the thick white felt from the dining-table, she made the baby snug, and wrapping her shivering self in the table-cloth, sat staring wide-eyed before her--and always listening. there were sounds at first, then none. a long, long time she stayed like that, before she stole to the door. she did not mean to make a second mistake. she could hear the sound of heavy breathing. and she listened to it, till she was quite certain that it was really the breathing of sleep. then stealthily she opened, and looked. he was over there, lying against the bottom chair, in a heavy, drunken slumber. she knew that sleep so well; he would not wake from it. it gave her a sort of evil pleasure that they would find him like that in the morning when she was gone. she went back to her baby and, with infinite precaution, lifted it, still sleeping, cushion and all, and stole past him up the stairs that, under her bare feet, made no sound. once more in her locked room, she went to the window and looked out. it was just before dawn; her garden was grey and ghostly, and she thought: 'the last time i shall see you. good-bye!' then, with the utmost speed, she did her hair and dressed. she was very cold and shivery, and put on her fur coat and cap. she hunted out two jerseys for the baby, and a certain old camel's-hair shawl. she took a few little things she was fondest of and slipped them into her wrist-bag with her purse, put on her hat and a pair of gloves. she did everything very swiftly, wondering, all the time, at her own power of knowing what to take. when she was quite ready, she scribbled a note to betty to follow with the dogs to bury street, and pushed it under the nursery door. then, wrapping the baby in the jerseys and shawl, she went downstairs. the dawn had broken, and, from the long narrow window above the door with spikes of iron across it, grey light was striking into the hall. gyp passed fiorsen's sleeping figure safely, and, for one moment, stopped for breath. he was lying with his back against the wall, his head in the hollow of an arm raised against a stair, and his face turned a little upward. that face which, hundreds of times, had been so close to her own, and something about this crumpled body, about his tumbled hair, those cheek-bones, and the hollows beneath the pale lips just parted under the dirt-gold of his moustache--something of lost divinity in all that inert figure--clutched for a second at gyp's heart. only for a second. it was over, this time! no more--never again! and, turning very stealthily, she slipped her shoes on, undid the chain, opened the front door, took up her burden, closed the door softly behind her, and walked away. part iii i gyp was going up to town. she sat in the corner of a first-class carriage, alone. her father had gone up by an earlier train, for the annual june dinner of his old regiment, and she had stayed to consult the doctor concerning "little gyp," aged nearly nineteen months, to whom teeth were making life a burden. her eyes wandered from window to window, obeying the faint excitement within her. all the winter and spring, she had been at mildenham, very quiet, riding much, and pursuing her music as best she could, seeing hardly anyone except her father; and this departure for a spell of london brought her the feeling that comes on an april day, when the sky is blue, with snow-white clouds, when in the fields the lambs are leaping, and the grass is warm for the first time, so that one would like to roll in it. at widrington, a porter entered, carrying a kit-bag, an overcoat, and some golf-clubs; and round the door a little group, such as may be seen at any english wayside station, clustered, filling the air with their clean, slightly drawling voices. gyp noted a tall woman whose blonde hair was going grey, a young girl with a fox-terrier on a lead, a young man with a scotch terrier under his arm and his back to the carriage. the girl was kissing the scotch terrier's head. "good-bye, old ossy! was he nice! tumbo, keep down! you're not going!" "good-bye, dear boy! don't work too hard!" the young man's answer was not audible, but it was followed by irrepressible gurgles and a smothered: "oh, bryan, you are--good-bye, dear ossy!" "good-bye!" "good-bye!" the young man who had got in, made another unintelligible joke in a rather high-pitched voice, which was somehow familiar, and again the gurgles broke forth. then the train moved. gyp caught a side view of him, waving his hat from the carriage window. it was her acquaintance of the hunting-field--the "mr. bryn summer'ay," as old pettance called him, who had bought her horse last year. seeing him pull down his overcoat, to bank up the old scotch terrier against the jolting of the journey, she thought: 'i like men who think first of their dogs.' his round head, with curly hair, broad brow, and those clean-cut lips, gave her again the wonder: 'where have i seen someone like him?' he raised the window, and turned round. "how would you like--oh, how d'you do! we met out hunting. you don't remember me, i expect." "yes; perfectly. and you bought my horse last summer. how is he?" "in great form. i forgot to ask what you called him; i've named him hotspur--he'll never be steady at his fences. i remember how he pulled with you that day." they were silent, smiling, as people will in remembrance of a good run. then, looking at the dog, gyp said softly: "he looks rather a darling. how old?" "twelve. beastly when dogs get old!" there was another little silence while he contemplated her steadily with his clear eyes. "i came over to call once--with my mother; november the year before last. somebody was ill." "yes--i." "badly?" gyp shook her head. "i heard you were married--" the little drawl in his voice had increased, as though covering the abruptness of that remark. gyp looked up. "yes; but my little daughter and i live with my father again." what "came over" her--as they say--to be so frank, she could not have told. he said simply: "ah! i've often thought it queer i've never seen you since. what a run that was!" "perfect! was that your mother on the platform?" "yes--and my sister edith. extraordinary dead-alive place, widrington; i expect mildenham isn't much better?" "it's very quiet, but i like it." "by the way, i don't know your name now?" "fiorsen." "oh, yes! the violinist. life's a bit of a gamble, isn't it?" gyp did not answer that odd remark, did not quite know what to make of this audacious young man, whose hazel eyes and lazy smile were queerly lovable, but whose face in repose had such a broad gravity. he took from his pocket a little red book. "do you know these? i always take them travelling. finest things ever written, aren't they?" the book--shakespeare's sonnets--was open at that which begins: "let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove--" gyp read on as far as the lines: "love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come. love alters not with his brief hours and weeks but bears it out even to the edge of doom--" and looked out of the window. the train was passing through a country of fields and dykes, where the sun, far down in the west, shone almost level over wide, whitish-green space, and the spotted cattle browsed or stood by the ditches, lazily flicking their tufted tails. a shaft of sunlight flowed into the carriage, filled with dust motes; and, handing the little book back through that streak of radiance, she said softly: "yes; that's wonderful. do you read much poetry?" "more law, i'm afraid. but it is about the finest thing in the world, isn't it?" "no; i think music." "are you a musician?" "only a little." "you look as if you might be." "what? a little?" "no; i should think you had it badly." "thank you. and you haven't it at all?" "i like opera." "the hybrid form--and the lowest!" "that's why it suits me. don't you like it, though?" "yes; that's why i'm going up to london." "really? are you a subscriber?" "this season." "so am i. jolly--i shall see you." gyp smiled. it was so long since she had talked to a man of her own age, so long since she had seen a face that roused her curiosity and admiration, so long since she had been admired. the sun-shaft, shifted by a westward trend of the train, bathed her from the knees up; and its warmth increased her light-hearted sense of being in luck--above her fate, instead of under it. astounding how much can be talked of in two or three hours of a railway journey! and what a friendly after-warmth clings round those hours! does the difficulty of making oneself heard provoke confidential utterance? or is it the isolation or the continual vibration that carries friendship faster and further than will a spasmodic acquaintanceship of weeks? but in that long talk he was far the more voluble. there was, too, much of which she could not speak. besides, she liked to listen. his slightly drawling voice fascinated her--his audacious, often witty way of putting things, and the irrepressible bubble of laughter that would keep breaking from him. he disclosed his past, such as it was, freely--public-school and college life, efforts at the bar, ambitions, tastes, even his scrapes. and in this spontaneous unfolding there was perpetual flattery; gyp felt through it all, as pretty women will, a sort of subtle admiration. presently he asked her if she played piquet. "yes; i play with my father nearly every evening." "shall we have a game, then?" she knew he only wanted to play because he could sit nearer, joined by the evening paper over their knees, hand her the cards after dealing, touch her hand by accident, look in her face. and this was not unpleasant; for she, in turn, liked looking at his face, which had what is called "charm"--that something light and unepiscopal, entirely lacking to so many solid, handsome, admirable faces. but even railway journeys come to an end; and when he gripped her hand to say good-bye, she gave his an involuntary little squeeze. standing at her cab window, with his hat raised, the old dog under his arm, and a look of frank, rather wistful, admiration on his face, he said: "i shall see you at the opera, then, and in the row perhaps; and i may come along to bury street, some time, mayn't i?" nodding to those friendly words, gyp drove off through the sultry london evening. her father was not back from the dinner, and she went straight to her room. after so long in the country, it seemed very close in bury street; she put on a wrapper and sat down to brush the train-smoke out of her hair. for months after leaving fiorsen, she had felt nothing but relief. only of late had she begun to see her new position, as it was--that of a woman married yet not married, whose awakened senses have never been gratified, whose spirit is still waiting for unfoldment in love, who, however disillusioned, is--even if in secret from herself--more and more surely seeking a real mate, with every hour that ripens her heart and beauty. to-night--gazing at her face, reflected, intent and mournful, in the mirror--she saw that position more clearly, in all its aridity, than she had ever seen it. what was the use of being pretty? no longer use to anyone! not yet twenty-six, and in a nunnery! with a shiver, but not of cold, she drew her wrapper close. this time last year she had at least been in the main current of life, not a mere derelict. and yet--better far be like this than go back to him whom memory painted always standing over her sleeping baby, with his arms stretched out and his fingers crooked like claws. after that early-morning escape, fiorsen had lurked after her for weeks, in town, at mildenham, followed them even to scotland, where winton had carried her off. but she had not weakened in her resolution a second time, and suddenly he had given up pursuit, and gone abroad. since then--nothing had come from him, save a few wild or maudlin letters, written evidently during drinking-bouts. even they had ceased, and for four months she had heard no word. he had "got over" her, it seemed, wherever he was--russia, sweden--who knew--who cared? she let the brush rest on her knee, thinking again of that walk with her baby through empty, silent streets, in the early misty morning last october, of waiting dead-tired outside here, on the pavement, ringing till they let her in. often, since, she had wondered how fear could have worked her up to that weird departure. she only knew that it had not been unnatural at the time. her father and aunt rosamund had wanted her to try for a divorce, and no doubt they had been right. but her instincts had refused, still refused to let everyone know her secrets and sufferings--still refused the hollow pretence involved, that she had loved him when she never had. no, it had been her fault for marrying him without love-- "love is not love which alters when it alteration finds!" what irony--giving her that to read--if her fellow traveller had only known! she got up from before the mirror, and stood looking round her room, the room she had always slept in as a girl. so he had remembered her all this time! it had not seemed like meeting a stranger. they were not strangers now, anyway. and, suddenly, on the wall before her, she saw his face; or, if not, what was so like that she gave a little gasp. of course! how stupid of her not to have known at once! there, in a brown frame, hung a photograph of the celebrated botticelli or masaccio "head of a young man" in the national gallery. she had fallen in love with it years ago, and on the wall of her room it had been ever since. that broad face, the clear eyes, the bold, clean-cut mouth, the audacity--only, the live face was english, not italian, had more humour, more "breeding," less poetry--something "old georgian" about it. how he would laugh if she told him he was like that peasant acolyte with fluffed-out hair, and a little ruching round his neck! and, smiling, gyp plaited her own hair and got into bed. but she could not sleep; she heard her father come in and go up to his room, heard the clocks strike midnight, and one, and two, and always the dull roar of piccadilly. she had nothing over her but a sheet, and still it was too hot. there was a scent in the room, as of honeysuckle. where could it come from? she got up at last, and went to the window. there, on the window-sill, behind the curtains, was a bowl of jessamine. her father must have brought it up for her--just like him to think of that! and, burying her nose in those white blossoms, she was visited by a memory of her first ball--that evening of such delight and disillusionment. perhaps bryan summerhay had been there--all that time ago! if he had been introduced to her then, if she had happened to dance with him instead of with that man who had kissed her arm, might she not have felt different toward all men? and if he had admired her--and had not everyone, that night--might she not have liked, perhaps more than liked, him in return? or would she have looked on him as on all her swains before she met fiorsen, so many moths fluttering round a candle, foolish to singe themselves, not to be taken seriously? perhaps she had been bound to have her lesson, to be humbled and brought low! taking a sprig of jessamine and holding it to her nose, she went up to that picture. in the dim light, she could just see the outline of the face and the eyes gazing at her. the scent of the blossom penetrated her nerves; in her heart, something faintly stirred, as a leaf turns over, as a wing flutters. and, blossom and all, she clasped her hands over her breast, where again her heart quivered with that faint, shy tremor. it was late, no--early, when she fell asleep and had a strange dream. she was riding her old mare through a field of flowers. she had on a black dress, and round her head a crown of bright, pointed crystals; she sat without saddle, her knee curled up, perched so lightly that she hardly felt the mare's back, and the reins she held were long twisted stems of honeysuckle. singing as she rode, her eyes flying here and there, over the field, up to the sky, she felt happier, lighter than thistledown. while they raced along, the old mare kept turning her head and biting at the honeysuckle flowers; and suddenly that chestnut face became the face of summerhay, looking back at her with his smile. she awoke. sunlight, through the curtains where she had opened them to find the flowers, was shining on her. ii very late that same night, summerhay came out of the little chelsea house, which he inhabited, and walked toward the river. in certain moods men turn insensibly toward any space where nature rules a little--downs, woods, waters--where the sky is free to the eye and one feels the broad comradeship of primitive forces. a man is alone when he loves, alone when he dies; nobody cares for one so absorbed, and he cares for nobody, no--not he! summerhay stood by the river-wall and looked up at the stars through the plane-tree branches. every now and then he drew a long breath of the warm, unstirring air, and smiled, without knowing that he smiled. and he thought of little, of nothing; but a sweetish sensation beset his heart, a kind of quivering lightness his limbs. he sat down on a bench and shut his eyes. he saw a face--only a face. the lights went out one by one in the houses opposite; no cabs passed now, and scarce a passenger was afoot, but summerhay sat like a man in a trance, the smile coming and going on his lips; and behind him the air that ever stirs above the river faintly moved with the tide flowing up. it was nearly three, just coming dawn, when he went in, and, instead of going to bed, sat down to a case in which he was junior on the morrow, and worked right on till it was time to ride before his bath and breakfast. he had one of those constitutions, not uncommon among barristers--fostered perhaps by ozone in the courts of law--that can do this sort of thing and take no harm. indeed, he worked best in such long spurts of vigorous concentration. with real capacity and a liking for his work, this young man was certainly on his way to make a name; though, in the intervals of energy, no one gave a more complete impression of imperturbable drifting on the tides of the moment. altogether, he was rather a paradox. he chose to live in that little chelsea house which had a scrap of garden rather than in the temple or st. james's, because he often preferred solitude; and yet he was an excellent companion, with many friends, who felt for him the affectionate distrust inspired by those who are prone to fits and starts of work and play, conviviality and loneliness. to women, he was almost universally attractive. but if he had scorched his wings a little once or twice, he had kept heart-free on the whole. he was, it must be confessed, a bit of a gambler, the sort of gambler who gets in deep, and then, by a plucky, lucky plunge, gets out again, until some day perhaps--he stays there. his father, a diplomatist, had been dead fifteen years; his mother was well known in the semi-intellectual circles of society. he had no brothers, two sisters, and an income of his own. such was bryan summerhay at the age of twenty-six, his wisdom-teeth to cut, his depths unplumbed. when he started that morning for the temple, he had still a feeling of extraordinary lightness in his limbs, and he still saw that face--its perfect regularity, its warm pallor, and dark smiling eyes rather wide apart, its fine, small, close-set ears, and the sweep of the black-brown hair across the low brow. or was it something much less definite he saw--an emanation or expression, a trick, a turn, an indwelling grace, a something that appealed, that turned, and touched him? whatever it was, it would not let him be, and he did not desire that it should. for this was in his character; if he saw a horse that he liked, he put his money on whatever it ran; if charmed by an opera, he went over and over again; if by a poem, he almost learned it by heart. and while he walked along the river--his usual route--he had queer and unaccustomed sensations, now melting, now pugnacious. and he felt happy. he was rather late, and went at once into court. in wig and gown, that something "old georgian" about him was very visible. a beauty-spot or two, a full-skirted velvet coat, a sword and snuff-box, with that grey wig or its equivalent, and there would have been a perfect eighteenth-century specimen of the less bucolic stamp--the same strong, light build, breadth of face, brown pallor, clean and unpinched cut of lips, the same slight insolence and devil-may-caredom, the same clear glance, and bubble of vitality. it was almost a pity to have been born so late. except that once or twice he drew a face on blotting-paper and smeared it over, he remained normally attentive to his "lud" and the matters in hand all day, conducted without error the examination of two witnesses and with terror the cross-examination of one; lunched at the courts in perfect amity with the sucking barrister on the other side of the case, for they had neither, as yet, reached that maturity which enables an advocate to call his enemy his "friend," and treat him with considerable asperity. though among his acquaintances summerhay always provoked badinage, in which he was scarcely ever defeated, yet in chambers and court, on circuit, at his club, in society or the hunting-field, he had an unfavourable effect on the grosser sort of stories. there are men--by no means strikingly moral--who exercise this blighting influence. they are generally what the french call "spirituel," and often have rather desperate love-affairs which they keep very closely to themselves. when at last in chambers, he had washed off that special reek of clothes, and parchment, far-away herrings, and distemper, which clings about the law, dipping his whole curly head in water, and towelling vigorously, he set forth alone along the embankment, his hat tilted up, smoking a cigar. it was nearly seven. just this time yesterday he had got into the train, just this time yesterday turned and seen the face which had refused to leave him since. fever recurs at certain hours, just so did the desire to see her mount within him, becoming an obsession, because it was impossible to gratify it. one could not call at seven o'clock! the idea of his club, where at this time of day he usually went, seemed flat and stale, until he remembered that he might pass up bury street to get to it. but, near charing cross, a hand smote him on the shoulder, and the voice of one of his intimates said: "halo, bryan!" odd, that he had never noticed before how vacuous this fellow was--with his talk of politics, and racing, of this ass and that ass--subjects hitherto of primary importance! and, stopping suddenly, he drawled out: "look here, old chap, you go on; see you at the club--presently." "why? what's up?" with his lazy smile, summerhay answered: "'there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio,'" and turned on his heel. when his friend had disappeared, he resumed his journey toward bury street. he passed his boot shop, where, for some time, he had been meaning to order two pairs, and went by thinking: 'i wonder where she goes for things.' her figure came to him so vividly--sitting back in that corner, or standing by the cab, her hand in his. the blood rushed up in his cheeks. she had been scented like flowers, and--and a rainy wind! he stood still before a plate-glass window, in confusion, and suddenly muttered aloud: "damn it! i believe i am!" an old gentleman, passing, turned so suddenly, to see what he was, that he ricked his neck. but summerhay still stood, not taking in at all the reflected image of his frowning, rueful face, and of the cigar extinct between his lips. then he shook his head vigorously and walked on. he walked faster, his mind blank, as it is sometimes for a short space after a piece of sell-revelation that has come too soon for adjustment or even quite for understanding. and when he began to think, it was irritably and at random. he had come to bury street, and, while he passed up it, felt a queer, weak sensation down the back of his legs. no flower-boxes this year broke the plain front of winton's house, and nothing whatever but its number and the quickened beating of his heart marked it out for summerhay from any other dwelling. the moment he turned into jermyn street, that beating of the heart subsided, and he felt suddenly morose. he entered his club at the top of st. james' street and passed at once into the least used room. this was the library; and going to the french section, he took down "the three musketeers" and seated himself in a window, with his back to anyone who might come in. he had taken this--his favourite romance, feeling in want of warmth and companionship; but he did not read. from where he sat he could throw a stone to where she was sitting perhaps; except for walls he could almost reach her with his voice, could certainly see her. this was imbecile! a woman he had only met twice. imbecile! he opened the book-- "oh, no; it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken. it is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth's unknown altho' its height be taken." "point of five! three queens--three knaves! do you know that thing of dowson's: 'i have been faithful to thee, cynara, in my fashion'? better than any verlaine, except 'les sanglots longs.' what have you got?" "only quart to the queen. do you like the name 'cynara'?" "yes; don't you?" "cynara! cynara! ye-es--an autumn, rose-petal, whirling, dead-leaf sound." "good! pipped. shut up, ossy--don't snore!" "ah, poor old dog! let him. shuffle for me, please. oh! there goes another card!" her knee was touching his--! . . . the book had dropped--summerhay started. dash it! hopeless! and, turning round in that huge armchair, he snoozed down into its depths. in a few minutes, he was asleep. he slept without a dream. it was two hours later when the same friend, seeking distraction, came on him, and stood grinning down at that curly head and face which just then had the sleepy abandonment of a small boy's. maliciously he gave the chair a little kick. summerhay stirred, and thought: 'what! where am i?' in front of the grinning face, above him, floated another, filmy, charming. he shook himself, and sat up. "oh, damn you!" "sorry, old chap!" "what time is it?" "ten o'clock." summerhay uttered an unintelligible sound, and, turning over on the other arm, pretended to snooze down again. but he slept no more. instead, he saw her face, heard her voice, and felt again the touch of her warm, gloved hand. iii at the opera, that friday evening, they were playing "cavalleria" and "pagliacci"--works of which gyp tolerated the first and loved the second, while winton found them, with "faust" and "carmen," about the only operas he could not sleep through. women's eyes, which must not stare, cover more space than the eyes of men, which must not stare, but do; women's eyes have less method, too, seeing all things at once, instead of one thing at a time. gyp had seen summerhay long before he saw her; seen him come in and fold his opera hat against his white waistcoat, looking round, as if for--someone. her eyes criticized him in this new garb--his broad head, and its crisp, dark, shining hair, his air of sturdy, lazy, lovable audacity. he looked well in evening clothes. when he sat down, she could still see just a little of his profile; and, vaguely watching the stout santuzza and the stouter turiddu, she wondered whether, by fixing her eyes on him, she could make him turn and see her. just then he did see her, and his face lighted up. she smiled back. why not? she had not so many friends nowadays. but it was rather startling to find, after that exchange of looks, that she at once began to want another. would he like her dress? was her hair nice? she wished she had not had it washed that morning. but when the interval came, she did not look round, until his voice said: "how d'you do, major winton? oh, how d'you do?" winton had been told of the meeting in the train. he was pining for a cigarette, but had not liked to desert his daughter. after a few remarks, he got up and said: "take my pew a minute, summerhay, i'm going to have a smoke." he went out, thinking, not for the first time by a thousand: 'poor child, she never sees a soul! twenty-five, pretty as paint, and clean out of the running. what the devil am i to do about her?' summerhay sat down. gyp had a queer feeling, then, as if the house and people vanished, and they two were back again in the railway-carriage--alone together. ten minutes to make the most of! to smile and talk, and enjoy the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice and laugh. to laugh, too, and be warm and nice to him. why not? they were friends. and, presently, she said, smiling: "oh, by the way, there's a picture in the national gallery, i want you to look at." "yes? which? will you take me?" "if you like." "to-morrow's saturday; may i meet you there? what time? three?" gyp nodded. she knew she was flushing, and, at that moment, with the warmth in her cheeks and the smile in her eyes, she had the sensation, so rare and pleasant, of feeling beautiful. then he was gone! her father was slipping back into his stall; and, afraid of her own face, she touched his arm, and murmured: "dad, do look at that head-dress in the next row but one; did you ever see anything so delicious!" and while winton was star-gazing, the orchestra struck up the overture to "pagliacci." watching that heart-breaking little plot unfold, gyp had something more than the old thrill, as if for the first time she understood it with other than her aesthetic sense. poor nedda! and poor canio! poor silvio! her breast heaved, and her eyes filled with tears. within those doubled figures of the tragi-comedy she seemed to see, to feel that passionate love--too swift, too strong, too violent, sweet and fearful within them. "thou hast my heart, and i am thine for ever --to-night and for ever i am thine! what is there left to me? what have i but a heart that is broken?" and the clear, heart-aching music mocking it all, down to those last words: la commedia e finita! while she was putting on her cloak, her eyes caught summerhay's. she tried to smile--could not, gave a shake of her head, slowly forced her gaze away from his, and turned to follow winton. at the national gallery, next day, she was not late by coquetry, but because she had changed her dress at the last minute, and because she was afraid of letting him think her eager. she saw him at once standing under the colonnade, looking by no means imperturbable, and marked the change in his face when he caught sight of her, with a little thrill. she led him straight up into the first italian room to contemplate his counterfeit. a top hat and modern collar did not improve the likeness, but it was there still. "well! do you like it?" "yes. what are you smiling at?" "i've had a photograph of that, ever since i was fifteen; so you see i've known you a long time." he stared. "great scott! am i like that? all right; i shall try and find you now." but gyp shook her head. "no. come and look at my very favourite picture 'the death of procris.' what is it makes one love it so? procris is out of drawing, and not beautiful; the faun's queer and ugly. what is it--can you tell?" summerhay looked not at the picture, but at her. in aesthetic sense, he was not her equal. she said softly: "the wonder in the faun's face, procris's closed eyes; the dog, and the swans, and the pity for what might have been!" summerhay repeated: "ah, for what might have been! did you enjoy 'pagliacci'?" gyp shivered. "i think i felt it too much." "i thought you did. i watched you." "destruction by--love--seems such a terrible thing! now show me your favourites. i believe i can tell you what they are, though." "well?" "the 'admiral,' for one." "yes. what others?" "the two bellini's." "by jove, you are uncanny!" gyp laughed. "you want decision, clarity, colour, and fine texture. is that right? here's another of my favourites." on a screen was a tiny "crucifixion" by da messina--the thinnest of high crosses, the thinnest of simple, humble, suffering christs, lonely, and actual in the clear, darkened landscape. "i think that touches one more than the big, idealized sort. one feels it was like that. oh! and look--the francesca's! aren't they lovely?" he repeated: "yes; lovely!" but his eyes said: "and so are you." they spent two hours among those endless pictures, talking a little of art and of much besides, almost as alone as in the railway carriage. but, when she had refused to let him walk back with her, summerhay stood stock-still beneath the colonnade. the sun streamed in under; the pigeons preened their feathers; people passed behind him and down there in the square, black and tiny against the lions and the great column. he took in nothing of all that. what was it in her? she was like no one he had ever known--not one! different from girls and women in society as--simile failed. still more different from anything in the half-world he had met! not the new sort--college, suffrage! like no one! and he knew so little of her! not even whether she had ever really been in love. her husband--where was he; what was he to her? "the rare, the mute, the inexpressive she!" when she smiled; when her eyes--but her eyes were so quick, would drop before he could see right into them! how beautiful she had looked, gazing at that picture--her favourite, so softly, her lips just smiling! if he could kiss them, would he not go nearly mad? with a deep sigh, he moved down the wide, grey steps into the sunlight. and london, throbbing, overflowing with the season's life, seemed to him empty. to-morrow--yes, to-morrow he could call! iv after that sunday call, gyp sat in the window at bury street close to a bowl of heliotrope on the window-sill. she was thinking over a passage of their conversation. "mrs. fiorsen, tell me about yourself." "why? what do you want to know?" "your marriage?" "i made a fearful mistake--against my father's wish. i haven't seen my husband for months; i shall never see him again if i can help it. is that enough?" "and you love him?" "no." "it must be like having your head in chancery. can't you get it out?" "no." "why?" "divorce-court! ugh! i couldn't!" "yes, i know--it's hellish!" was he, who gripped her hand so hard and said that, really the same nonchalant young man who had leaned out of the carriage window, gurgling with laughter? and what had made the difference? she buried her face in the heliotrope, whose perfume seemed the memory of his visit; then, going to the piano, began to play. she played debussy, mcdowell, ravel; the chords of modern music suited her feelings just then. and she was still playing when her father came in. during these last nine months of his daughter's society, he had regained a distinct measure of youthfulness, an extra twist in his little moustache, an extra touch of dandyism in his clothes, and the gloss of his short hair. gyp stopped playing at once, and shut the piano. "mr. summerhay's been here, dad. he was sorry to miss you." there was an appreciable pause before winton answered: "my dear, i doubt it." and there passed through gyp the thought that she could never again be friends with a man without giving that pause. then, conscious that her father was gazing at her, she turned and said: "well, was it nice in the park?" "thirty years ago they were all nobs and snobs; now god himself doesn't know what they are!" "but weren't the flowers nice?" "ah--and the trees, and the birds--but, by jove, the humans do their best to dress the balance!" "what a misanthrope you're getting!" "i'd like to run a stud for two-leggers; they want proper breeding. what sort of a fellow is young summerhay? not a bad face." she answered impassively: "yes; it's so alive." in spite of his self-control, she could always read her father's thoughts quicker than he could read hers, and knew that he was struggling between the wish that she should have a good time and the desire to convey some kind of warning. he said, with a sigh: "what does a young man's fancy turn to in summer, gyp?" women who have subtle instincts and some experience are able to impose their own restraint on those who, at the lifting of a hand, would become their lovers. from that afternoon on, gyp knew that a word from her would change everything; but she was far from speaking it. and yet, except at week-ends, when she went back to her baby at mildenham, she saw summerhay most days--in the row, at the opera, or at bury street. she had a habit of going to st. james's park in the late afternoon and sitting there by the water. was it by chance that he passed one day on his way home from chambers, and that, after this, they sat there together constantly? why make her father uneasy--when there was nothing to be uneasy about--by letting him come too often to bury street? it was so pleasant, too, out there, talking calmly of many things, while in front of them the small ragged children fished and put the fishes into clear glass bottles, to eat, or watch on rainy days, as is the custom of man with the minor works of god. so, in nature, when the seasons are about to change, the days pass, tranquil, waiting for the wind that brings in the new. and was it not natural to sit under the trees, by the flowers and the water, the pigeons and the ducks, that wonderful july? for all was peaceful in gyp's mind, except, now and then, when a sort of remorse possessed her, a sort of terror, and a sort of troubling sweetness. v summerhay did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and when, on the closing-day of term, he left his chambers to walk to that last meeting, his face was much as usual under his grey top hat. but, in truth, he had come to a pretty pass. he had his own code of what was befitting to a gentleman. it was perhaps a trifle "old georgian," but it included doing nothing to distress a woman. all these weeks he had kept himself in hand; but to do so had cost him more than he liked to reflect on. the only witness of his struggles was his old scotch terrier, whose dreams he had disturbed night after night, tramping up and down the long back-to-front sitting-room of his little house. she knew--must know--what he was feeling. if she wanted his love, she had but to raise her finger; and she had not raised it. when he touched her, when her dress disengaged its perfume or his eyes traced the slow, soft movement of her breathing, his head would go round, and to keep calm and friendly had been torture. while he could see her almost every day, this control had been just possible; but now that he was about to lose her--for weeks--his heart felt sick within him. he had been hard put to it before the world. a man passionately in love craves solitude, in which to alternate between fierce exercise and that trance-like stillness when a lover simply aches or is busy conjuring her face up out of darkness or the sunlight. he had managed to do his work, had been grateful for having it to do; but to his friends he had not given attention enough to prevent them saying: "what's up with old bryan?" always rather elusive in his movements, he was now too elusive altogether for those who had been accustomed to lunch, dine, dance, and sport with him. and yet he shunned his own company--going wherever strange faces, life, anything distracted him a little, without demanding real attention. it must be confessed that he had come unwillingly to discovery of the depth of his passion, aware that it meant giving up too much. but there are women who inspire feeling so direct and simple that reason does not come into play; and he had never asked himself whether gyp was worth loving, whether she had this or that quality, such or such virtue. he wanted her exactly as she was; and did not weigh her in any sort of balance. it is possible for men to love passionately, yet know that their passion is but desire, possible for men to love for sheer spiritual worth, feeling that the loved one lacks this or that charm. summerhay's love had no such divided consciousness. about her past, too, he dismissed speculation. he remembered having heard in the hunting-field that she was winton's natural daughter; even then it had made him long to punch the head of that covertside scandal-monger. the more there might be against the desirability of loving her, the more he would love her; even her wretched marriage only affected him in so far as it affected her happiness. it did not matter--nothing mattered except to see her and be with her as much as she would let him. and now she was going to the sea for a month, and he himself--curse it!--was due in perthshire to shoot grouse. a month! he walked slowly along the river. dared he speak? at times, her face was like a child's when it expects some harsh or frightening word. one could not hurt her--impossible! but, at times, he had almost thought she would like him to speak. once or twice he had caught a slow soft glance--gone the moment he had sight of it. he was before his time, and, leaning on the river parapet, watched the tide run down. the sun shone on the water, brightening its yellowish swirl, and little black eddies--the same water that had flowed along under the willows past eynsham, past oxford, under the church at clifton, past moulsford, past sonning. and he thought: 'my god! to have her to myself one day on the river--one whole long day!' why had he been so pusillanimous all this time? he passed his hand over his face. broad faces do not easily grow thin, but his felt thin to him, and this gave him a kind of morbid satisfaction. if she knew how he was longing, how he suffered! he turned away, toward whitehall. two men he knew stopped to bandy a jest. one of them was just married. they, too, were off to scotland for the twelfth. pah! how stale and flat seemed that which till then had been the acme of the whole year to him! ah, but if he had been going to scotland with her! he drew his breath in with a sigh that nearly removed the home office. oblivious of the gorgeous sentries at the horse guards, oblivious of all beauty, he passed irresolute along the water, making for their usual seat; already, in fancy, he was sitting there, prodding at the gravel, a nervous twittering in his heart, and that eternal question: dare i speak? asking itself within him. and suddenly he saw that she was before him, sitting there already. his heart gave a jump. no more craning--he would speak! she was wearing a maize-coloured muslin to which the sunlight gave a sort of transparency, and sat, leaning back, her knees crossed, one hand resting on the knob of her furled sunshade, her face half hidden by her shady hat. summerhay clenched his teeth, and went straight up to her. "gyp! no, i won't call you anything else. this can't go on! you know it can't. you know i worship you! if you can't love me, i've got to break away. all day, all night, i think and dream of nothing but you. gyp, do you want me to go?" suppose she said: "yes, go!" she made a little movement, as if in protest, and without looking at him, answered very low: "of course i don't want you to go. how could i?" summerhay gasped. "then you do love me?" she turned her face away. "wait, please. wait a little longer. when we come back i'll tell you: i promise!" "so long?" "a month. is that long? please! it's not easy for me." she smiled faintly, lifted her eyes to him just for a second. "please not any more now." that evening at his club, through the bluish smoke of cigarette after cigarette, he saw her face as she had lifted it for that one second; and now he was in heaven, now in hell. vi the verandahed bungalow on the south coast, built and inhabited by an artist friend of aunt rosamund's, had a garden of which the chief feature was one pine-tree which had strayed in advance of the wood behind. the little house stood in solitude, just above a low bank of cliff whence the beach sank in sandy ridges. the verandah and thick pine wood gave ample shade, and the beach all the sun and sea air needful to tan little gyp, a fat, tumbling soul, as her mother had been at the same age, incurably fond and fearless of dogs or any kind of beast, and speaking words already that required a glossary. at night, gyp, looking from her bedroom through the flat branches of the pine, would get a feeling of being the only creature in the world. the crinkled, silvery sea, that lonely pine-tree, the cold moon, the sky dark corn-flower blue, the hiss and sucking rustle of the surf over the beach pebbles, even the salt, chill air, seemed lonely. by day, too--in the hazy heat when the clouds merged, scarce drifting, into the blue, and the coarse sea-grass tufts hardly quivered, and sea-birds passed close above the water with chuckle and cry--it all often seemed part of a dream. she bathed, and grew as tanned as her little daughter, a regular gypsy, in her broad hat and linen frocks; and yet she hardly seemed to be living down here at all, for she was never free of the memory of that last meeting with summerhay. why had he spoken and put an end to their quiet friendship, and left her to such heart-searchings all by herself? but she did not want his words unsaid. only, how to know whether to recoil and fly, or to pass beyond the dread of letting herself go, of plunging deep into the unknown depths of love--of that passion, whose nature for the first time she had tremulously felt, watching "pagliacci"--and had ever since been feeling and trembling at! must it really be neck or nothing? did she care enough to break through all barriers, fling herself into midstream? when they could see each other every day, it was so easy to live for the next meeting--not think of what was coming after. but now, with all else cut away, there was only the future to think about--hers and his. but need she trouble about his? would he not just love her as long as he liked? then she thought of her father--still faithful to a memory--and felt ashamed. some men loved on--yes--even beyond death! but, sometimes, she would think: 'am i a candle-flame again? is he just going to burn himself? what real good can i be to him--i, without freedom, and with my baby, who will grow up?' yet all these thoughts were, in a way, unreal. the struggle was in herself, so deep that she could hardly understand it; as might be an effort to subdue the instinctive dread of a precipice. and she would feel a kind of resentment against all the happy life round her these summer days--the sea-birds, the sunlight, and the waves; the white sails far out; the calm sun-steeped pine-trees; her baby, tumbling and smiling and softly twittering; and betty and the other servants--all this life that seemed so simple and untortured. to the one post each day she looked forward terribly. and yet his letters, which began like hers: "my dear friend," might have been read by anyone--almost. she spent a long time over her answers. she was not sleeping well; and, lying awake, she could see his face very distinct before her closed eyes--its teasing, lazy smile, its sudden intent gravity. once she had a dream of him, rushing past her down into the sea. she called, but, without turning his head, he swam out further, further, till she lost sight of him, and woke up suddenly with a pain in her heart. "if you can't love me, i've got to break away!" his face, his flung-back head reminded her too sharply of those words. now that he was away from her, would he not feel that it was best to break, and forget her? up there, he would meet girls untouched by life--not like herself. he had everything before him; could he possibly go on wanting one who had nothing before her? some blue-eyed girl with auburn hair--that type so superior to her own--would sweep, perhaps had already swept him, away from her! what then? no worse than it used to be? ah, so much worse that she dared not think of it! then, for five days, no letter came. and, with each blank morning, the ache in her grew--a sharp, definite ache of longing and jealousy, utterly unlike the mere feeling of outraged pride when she had surprised fiorsen and daphne wing in the music-room--a hundred years ago, it seemed. when on the fifth day the postman left nothing but a bill for little gyp's shoes, and a note from aunt rosamund at harrogate, where she had gone with winton for the annual cure, gyp's heart sank to the depths. was this the end? and, with a blind, numb feeling, she wandered out into the wood, where the fall of the pine-needles, season after season, had made of the ground one soft, dark, dust-coloured bed, on which the sunlight traced the pattern of the pine boughs, and ants rummaged about their great heaped dwellings. gyp went along till she could see no outer world for the grey-brown tree-stems streaked with gum-resin; and, throwing herself down on her face, dug her elbows deep into the pine dust. tears, so rare with her, forced their way up, and trickled slowly to the hands whereon her chin rested. no good--crying! crying only made her ill; crying was no relief. she turned over on her back and lay motionless, the sunbeams warm on her cheeks. silent here, even at noon! the sough of the calm sea could not reach so far; the flies were few; no bird sang. the tall bare pine stems rose up all round like columns in a temple roofed with the dark boughs and sky. cloud-fleeces drifted slowly over the blue. there should be peace--but in her heart there was none! a dusky shape came padding through the trees a little way off, another--two donkeys loose from somewhere, who stood licking each other's necks and noses. those two humble beasts, so friendly, made her feel ashamed. why should she be sorry for herself, she who had everything in life she wanted--except love--the love she had thought she would never want? ah, but she wanted it now, wanted it at last with all her being! with a shudder, she sprang up; the ants had got to her, and she had to pick them off her neck and dress. she wandered back towards the beach. if he had truly found someone to fill his thoughts, and drive her out, all the better for him; she would never, by word or sign, show him that she missed, and wanted him--never! she would sooner die! she came out into the sunshine. the tide was low; and the wet foreshore gleamed with opal tints; there were wandering tracks on the sea, as of great serpents winding their way beneath the surface; and away to the west the archwayed, tawny rock that cut off the line of coast was like a dream-shape. all was dreamy. and, suddenly her heart began beating to suffocation and the colour flooded up in her cheeks. on the edge of the low cliff bank, by the side of the path, summerhay was sitting! he got up and came toward her. putting her hands up to her glowing face, she said: "yes; it's me. did you ever see such a gipsified object? i thought you were still in scotland. how's dear ossy?" then her self-possession failed, and she looked down. "it's no good, gyp. i must know." it seemed to gyp that her heart had given up beating; she said quietly: "let's sit down a minute"; and moved under the cliff bank where they could not be seen from the house. there, drawing the coarse grass blades through her fingers, she said, with a shiver: "i didn't try to make you, did i? i never tried." "no; never." "it's wrong." "who cares? no one could care who loves as i do. oh, gyp, can't you love me? i know i'm nothing much." how quaint and boyish! "but it's eleven weeks to-day since we met in the train. i don't think i've had one minute's let-up since." "have you tried?" "why should i, when i love you?" gyp sighed; relief, delight, pain--she did not know. "then what is to be done? look over there--that bit of blue in the grass is my baby daughter. there's her--and my father--and--" "and what?" "i'm afraid--afraid of love, bryan!" at that first use of his name, summerhay turned pale and seized her hand. "afraid--how--afraid?" gyp said very low: "i might love too much. don't say any more now. no; don't! let's go in and have lunch." and she got up. he stayed till tea-time, and not a word more of love did he speak. but when he was gone, she sat under the pine-tree with little gyp on her lap. love! if her mother had checked love, she herself would never have been born. the midges were biting before she went in. after watching betty give little gyp her bath, she crossed the passage to her bedroom and leaned out of the window. could it have been to-day she had lain on the ground with tears of despair running down on to her hands? away to the left of the pine-tree, the moon had floated up, soft, barely visible in the paling sky. a new world, an enchanted garden! and between her and it--what was there? that evening she sat with a book on her lap, not reading; and in her went on the strange revolution which comes in the souls of all women who are not half-men when first they love--the sinking of 'i' into 'thou,' the passionate, spiritual subjection, the intense, unconscious giving-up of will, in preparation for completer union. she slept without dreaming, awoke heavy and oppressed. too languid to bathe, she sat listless on the beach with little gyp all the morning. had she energy or spirit to meet him in the afternoon by the rock archway, as she had promised? for the first time since she was a small and naughty child, she avoided the eyes of betty. one could not be afraid of that stout, devoted soul, but one could feel that she knew too much. when the time came, after early tea, she started out; for if she did not go, he would come, and she did not want the servants to see him two days running. this last day of august was warm and still, and had a kind of beneficence--the corn all gathered in, the apples mellowing, robins singing already, a few slumberous, soft clouds, a pale blue sky, a smiling sea. she went inland, across the stream, and took a footpath back to the shore. no pines grew on that side, where the soil was richer--of a ruddy brown. the second crops of clover were already high; in them humblebees were hard at work; and, above, the white-throated swallows dipped and soared. gyp gathered a bunch of chicory flowers. she was close above the shore before she saw him standing in the rock archway, looking for her across the beach. after the hum of the bees and flies, it was very quiet here--only the faintest hiss of tiny waves. he had not yet heard her coming, and the thought flashed through her: 'if i take another step, it is for ever! she stood there scarcely breathing, the chicory flowers held before her lips. then she heard him sigh, and, moving quickly forward, said: "here i am." he turned round, seized her hand, and, without a word, they passed through the archway. they walked on the hard sand, side by side, till he said: "let's go up into the fields." they scrambled up the low cliff and went along the grassy top to a gate into a stubble field. he held it open for her, but, as she passed, caught her in his arms and kissed her lips as if he would never stop. to her, who had been kissed a thousand times, it was the first kiss. deadly pale, she fell back from him against the gate; then, her lips still quivering, her eyes very dark, she looked at him distraught with passion, drunk on that kiss. and, suddenly turning round to the gate, she laid her arms on the top bar and buried her face on them. a sob came up in her throat that seemed to tear her to bits, and she cried as if her heart would break. his timid despairing touches, his voice close to her ear: "gyp, gyp! my darling! my love! oh, don't, gyp!" were not of the least avail; she could not stop. that kiss had broken down something in her soul, swept away her life up to that moment, done something terrible and wonderful. at last, she struggled out: "i'm sorry--so sorry! don't--don't look at me! go away a little, and i'll--i'll be all right." he obeyed without a word, and, passing through the gate, sat down on the edge of the cliff with his back to her, looking out over the sea. gripping the wood of the old grey gate till it hurt her hands, gyp gazed at the chicory flowers and poppies that had grown up again in the stubble field, at the butterflies chasing in the sunlight over the hedge toward the crinkly foam edging the quiet sea till they were but fluttering white specks in the blue. but when she had rubbed her cheeks and smoothed her face, she was no nearer to feeling that she could trust herself. what had happened in her was too violent, too sweet, too terrifying. and going up to him she said: "let me go home now by myself. please, let me go, dear. to-morrow!" summerhay looked up. "whatever you wish, gyp--always!" he pressed her hand against his cheek, then let it go, and, folding his arms tight, resumed his meaningless stare at the sea. gyp turned away. she crossed back to the other side of the stream, but did not go in for a long time, sitting in the pine wood till the evening gathered and the stars crept out in a sky of that mauve-blue which the psychic say is the soul-garment colour of the good. late that night, when she had finished brushing her hair, she opened her window and stepped out on to the verandah. how warm! how still! not a sound from the sleeping house--not a breath of wind! her face, framed in her hair, her hands, and all her body, felt as if on fire. the moon behind the pine-tree branches was filling every cranny of her brain with wakefulness. the soft shiver of the wellnigh surfless sea on a rising tide, rose, fell, rose, fell. the sand cliff shone like a bank of snow. and all was inhabited, as a moonlit night is wont to be, by a magical presence. a big moth went past her face, so close that she felt the flutter of its wings. a little night beast somewhere was scruttling in bushes or the sand. suddenly, across the wan grass the shadow of the pine-trunk moved. it moved--ever so little--moved! and, petrified--gyp stared. there, joined to the trunk, summerhay was standing, his face just visible against the stem, the moonlight on one cheek, a hand shading his eyes. he moved that hand, held it out in supplication. for long--how long--gyp did not stir, looking straight at that beseeching figure. then, with a feeling she had never known, she saw him coming. he came up to the verandah and stood looking up at her. she could see all the workings of his face--passion, reverence, above all amazement; and she heard his awed whisper: "is it you, gyp? really you? you look so young--so young!" vii from the moment of surrender, gyp passed straight into a state the more enchanted because she had never believed in it, had never thought that she could love as she now loved. days and nights went by in a sort of dream, and when summerhay was not with her, she was simply waiting with a smile on her lips for the next hour of meeting. just as she had never felt it possible to admit the world into the secrets of her married life, so, now she did not consider the world at all. only the thought of her father weighed on her conscience. he was back in town. and she felt that she must tell him. when summerhay heard this he only said: "all right, gyp, whatever you think best." and two days before her month at the bungalow was up, she went, leaving betty and little gyp to follow on the last day. winton, pale and somewhat languid, as men are when they have been cured, found her when he came in from the club. she had put on evening dress, and above the pallor of her shoulders, her sunwarmed face and throat had almost the colour of a nectarine. he had never seen her look like that, never seen her eyes so full of light. and he uttered a quiet grunt of satisfaction. it was as if a flower, which he had last seen in close and elegant shape, had bloomed in full perfection. she did not meet his gaze quite steadily and all that evening kept putting her confession off and off. it was not easy--far from easy. at last, when he was smoking his "go-to-bed" cigarette, she took a cushion and sank down on it beside his chair, leaning against his knee, where her face was hidden from him, as on that day after her first ball, when she had listened to his confession. and she began: "dad, do you remember my saying once that i didn't understand what you and my mother felt for each other?" winton did not speak; misgiving had taken possession of him. gyp went on: "i know now how one would rather die than give someone up." winton drew his breath in sharply: "who? summerhay?" "yes; i used to think i should never be in love, but you knew better." better! in disconsolate silence, he thought rapidly: 'what's to be done? what can i do? get her a divorce?' perhaps because of the ring in her voice, or the sheer seriousness of the position, he did not feel resentment as when he lost her to fiorsen. love! a passion such as had overtaken her mother and himself! and this young man? a decent fellow, a good rider--comprehensible! ah, if the course had only been clear! he put his hand on her shoulder and said: "well, gyp, we must go for the divorce, then, after all." she shook her head. "it's too late. let him divorce me, if he only will!" winton needed all his self-control at that moment. too late? already! sudden recollection that he had not the right to say a word alone kept him silent. gyp went on: "i love him, with every bit of me. i don't care what comes--whether it's open or secret. i don't care what anybody thinks." she had turned round now, and if winton had doubt of her feeling, he lost it. this was a gyp he had never seen! a glowing, soft, quick-breathing creature, with just that lithe watchful look of the mother cat or lioness whose whelps are threatened. there flashed through him a recollection of how, as a child, with face very tense, she would ride at fences that were too big. at last he said: "i'm sorry you didn't tell me sooner." "i couldn't. i didn't know. oh, dad, i'm always hurting you! forgive me!" she was pressing his hand to her cheek that felt burning hot. and he thought: "forgive! of course i forgive. that's not the point; the point is--" and a vision of his loved one talked about, besmirched, bandied from mouth to mouth, or else--for her what there had been for him, a hole-and-corner life, an underground existence of stealthy meetings kept dark, above all from her own little daughter. ah, not that! and yet--was not even that better than the other, which revolted to the soul his fastidious pride in her, roused in advance his fury against tongues that would wag, and eyes that would wink or be uplifted in righteousness? summerhay's world was more or less his world; scandal, which--like all parasitic growths--flourishes in enclosed spaces, would have every chance. and, at once, his brain began to search, steely and quick, for some way out; and the expression as when a fox broke covert, came on his face. "nobody knows, gyp?" "no; nobody." that was something! with an irritation that rose from his very soul, he muttered: "i can't stand it that you should suffer, and that fellow fiorsen go scot-free. can you give up seeing summerhay while we get you a divorce? we might do it, if no one knows. i think you owe it to me, gyp." gyp got up and stood by the window a long time without answering. winton watched her face. at last she said: "i couldn't. we might stop seeing each other; it isn't that. it's what i should feel. i shouldn't respect myself after; i should feel so mean. oh, dad, don't you see? he really loved me in his way. and to pretend! to make out a case for myself, tell about daphne wing, about his drinking, and baby; pretend that i wanted him to love me, when i got to hate it and didn't care really whether he was faithful or not--and knowing all the while that i've been everything to someone else! i couldn't. i'd much rather let him know, and ask him to divorce me." winton replied: "and suppose he won't?" "then my mind would be clear, anyway; and we would take what we could." "and little gyp?" staring before her as if trying to see into the future, she said slowly: "some day, she'll understand, as i do. or perhaps it will be all over before she knows. does happiness ever last?" and, going up to him, she bent over, kissed his forehead, and went out. the warmth from her lips, and the scent of her remained with winton like a sensation wafted from the past. was there then nothing to be done--nothing? men of his stamp do not, as a general thing, see very deep even into those who are nearest to them; but to-night he saw his daughter's nature more fully perhaps than ever before. no use to importune her to act against her instincts--not a bit of use! and yet--how to sit and watch it all--watch his own passion with its ecstasy and its heart-burnings re-enacted with her--perhaps for many years? and the old vulgar saying passed through his mind: "what's bred in the bone will come out in the meat." now she had given, she would give with both hands--beyond measure--beyond!--as he himself, as her mother had given! ah, well, she was better off than his own loved one had been. one must not go ahead of trouble, or cry over spilled milk! viii gyp had a wakeful night. the question she herself had raised, of telling fiorsen, kept her thoughts in turmoil. was he likely to divorce her if she did? his contempt for what he called 'these bourgeois morals,' his instability, the very unpleasantness, and offence to his vanity--all this would prevent him. no; he would not divorce her, she was sure, unless by any chance he wanted legal freedom, and that was quite unlikely. what then would be gained? ease for her conscience? but had she any right to ease her conscience if it brought harm to her lover? and was it not ridiculous to think of conscience in regard to one who, within a year of marriage, had taken to himself a mistress, and not even spared the home paid for and supported by his wife? no; if she told fiorsen, it would only be to salve her pride, wounded by doing what she did not avow. besides, where was he? at the other end of the world for all she knew. she came down to breakfast, dark under the eyes and no whit advanced toward decision. neither of them mentioned their last night's talk, and gyp went back to her room to busy herself with dress, after those weeks away. it was past noon when, at a muffled knock, she found markey outside her door. "mr. fiorsen, m'm." gyp beckoned him in, and closed the door. "in the hall, m'm--slipped in when i answered the bell; short of shoving, i couldn't keep him out." gyp stood full half a minute before she said: "is my father in?" "no, m'm; the major's gone to the fencin'-club." "what did you say?" "said i would see. so far as i was aware, nobody was in. shall i have a try to shift him, m'm?" with a faint smile gyp shook her head. "say no one can see him." markey's woodcock eyes, under their thin, dark, twisting brows, fastened on her dolefully; he opened the door to go. fiorsen was standing there, and, with a quick movement, came in. she saw markey raise his arms as if to catch him round the waist, and said quietly: "markey--wait outside, please." when the door was shut, she retreated against her dressing-table and stood gazing at her husband, while her heart throbbed as if it would leap through its coverings. he had grown a short beard, his cheeks seemed a little fatter, and his eyes surely more green; otherwise, he looked much as she remembered him. and the first thought that passed through her was: 'why did i ever pity him? he'll never fret or drink himself to death--he's got enough vitality for twenty men.' his face, which had worn a fixed, nervous smile, grew suddenly grave as her own, and his eyes roved round the room in the old half-fierce, half-furtive way. "well, gyp," he said, and his voice shook a little: "at last! won't you kiss me?" the question seemed to gyp idiotic; and suddenly she felt quite cool. "if you want to speak to my father, you must come later; he's out." fiorsen gave one of his fierce shrugs. "is it likely? look, gyp! i returned from russia yesterday. i was a great success, made a lot of money out there. come back to me! i will be good--i swear it! now i have seen you again, i can't be without you. ah, gyp, come back to me! and see how good i will be. i will take you abroad, you and the bambina. we will go to rome--anywhere you like--live how you like. only come back to me!" gyp answered stonily: "you are talking nonsense." "gyp, i swear to you i have not seen a woman--not one fit to put beside you. oh, gyp, be good to me once more. this time i will not fail. try me! try me, my gyp!" only at this moment of his pleading, whose tragic tones seemed to her both false and childish, did gyp realize the strength of the new feeling in her heart. and the more that feeling throbbed within her, the harder her face and her voice grew. she said: "if that is all you came to say--please go. i will never come back to you. once for all, understand, please." the silence in which he received her words, and his expression, impressed her far more than his appeal; with one of his stealthy movements he came quite close, and, putting his face forward till it almost touched her, said: "you are my wife. i want you back. i must have you back. if you do not come, i will kill either you or myself." and suddenly she felt his arms knotted behind her back, crushing her to him. she stilled a scream; then, very swiftly, took a resolve, and, rigid in his arms, said: "let go; you hurt me. sit down quietly. i will tell you something." the tone of her voice made him loosen his grasp and crane back to see her face. gyp detached his arms from her completely, sat down on an old oak chest, and motioned him to the window-seat. her heart thumped pitifully; cold waves of almost physical sickness passed through and through her. she had smelt brandy in his breath when he was close to her. it was like being in the cage of a wild beast; it was like being with a madman! the remembrance of him with his fingers stretched out like claws above her baby was so vivid at that moment that she could scarcely see him as he was, sitting there quietly, waiting for what she was going to say. and fixing her eyes on him, she said softly: "you say you love me, gustav. i tried to love you, too, but i never could--never from the first. i tried very hard. surely you care what a woman feels, even if she happens to be your wife." she could see his face quiver; and she went on: "when i found i couldn't love you, i felt i had no right over you. i didn't stand on my rights. did i?" again his face quivered, and again she hurried on: "but you wouldn't expect me to go all through my life without ever feeling love--you who've felt it so many times?" then, clasping her hands tight, with a sort of wonder at herself, she murmured: "i am in love. i've given myself." he made a queer, whining sound, covering his face. and the beggar's tag: "'ave a feelin' 'eart, gentleman--'ave a feelin' 'eart!" passed idiotically through gyp's mind. would he get up and strangle her? should she dash to the door--escape? for a long, miserable moment, she watched him swaying on the window-seat, with his face covered. then, without looking at her, he crammed a clenched hand up against his mouth, and rushed out. through the open door, gyp had a glimpse of markey's motionless figure, coming to life as fiorsen passed. she drew a long breath, locked the door, and lay down on her bed. her heart beat dreadfully. for a moment, something had checked his jealous rage. but if on this shock he began to drink, what might not happen? he had said something wild. and she shuddered. but what right had he to feel jealousy and rage against her? what right? she got up and went to the glass, trembling, mechanically tidying her hair. miraculous that she had come through unscathed! her thoughts flew to summerhay. they were to meet at three o'clock by the seat in st. james's park. but all was different, now; difficult and dangerous! she must wait, take counsel with her father. and yet if she did not keep that tryst, how anxious he would be--thinking that all sorts of things had happened to her; thinking perhaps--oh, foolish!--that she had forgotten, or even repented of her love. what would she herself think, if he were to fail her at their first tryst after those days of bliss? certainly that he had changed his mind, seen she was not worth it, seen that a woman who could give herself so soon, so easily, was one to whom he could not sacrifice his life. in this cruel uncertainty, she spent the next two hours, till it was nearly three. if she did not go out, he would come on to bury street, and that would be still more dangerous. she put on her hat and walked swiftly towards st. james's palace. once sure that she was not being followed, her courage rose, and she passed rapidly down toward the water. she was ten minutes late, and seeing him there, walking up and down, turning his head every few seconds so as not to lose sight of the bench, she felt almost lightheaded from joy. when they had greeted with that pathetic casualness of lovers which deceives so few, they walked on together past buckingham palace, up into the green park, beneath the trees. during this progress, she told him about her father; but only when they were seated in that comparative refuge, and his hand was holding hers under cover of the sunshade that lay across her knee, did she speak of fiorsen. he tightened his grasp of her hand; then, suddenly dropping it, said: "did he touch you, gyp?" gyp heard that question with a shock. touch her! yes! but what did it matter? he made a little shuddering sound; and, wondering, mournful, she looked at him. his hands and teeth were clenched. she said softly: "bryan! don't! i wouldn't let him kiss me." he seemed to have to force his eyes to look at her. "it's all right," he said, and, staring before him, bit his nails. gyp sat motionless, cut to the heart. she was soiled, and spoiled for him! of course! and yet a sense of injustice burned in her. her heart had never been touched; it was his utterly. but that was not enough for a man--he wanted an untouched body, too. that she could not give; he should have thought of that sooner, instead of only now. and, miserably, she, too, stared before her, and her face hardened. a little boy came and stood still in front of them, regarding her with round, unmoving eyes. she was conscious of a slice of bread and jam in his hand, and that his mouth and cheeks were smeared with red. a woman called out: "jacky! come on, now!" and he was hauled away, still looking back, and holding out his bread and jam as though offering her a bite. she felt summerhay's arm slipping round her. "it's over, darling. never again--i promise you!" ah, he might promise--might even keep that promise. but he would suffer, always suffer, thinking of that other. and she said: "you can only have me as i am, bryan. i can't make myself new for you; i wish i could--oh, i wish i could!" "i ought to have cut my tongue out first! don't think of it! come home to me and have tea--there's no one there. ah, do, gyp--come!" he took her hands and pulled her up. and all else left gyp but the joy of being close to him, going to happiness. ix fiorsen, passing markey like a blind man, made his way out into the street, but had not gone a hundred yards before he was hurrying back. he had left his hat. the servant, still standing there, handed him that wide-brimmed object and closed the door in his face. once more he moved away, going towards piccadilly. if it had not been for the expression on gyp's face, what might he not have done? and, mixed with sickening jealousy, he felt a sort of relief, as if he had been saved from something horrible. so she had never loved him! never at all? impossible! impossible that a woman on whom he had lavished such passion should never have felt passion for him--never any! innumerable images of her passed before him--surrendering, always surrendering. it could not all have been pretence! he was not a common man--she herself had said so; he had charm--or, other women thought so! she had lied; she must have lied, to excuse herself! he went into a cafe and asked for a fine champagne. they brought him a carafe, with the measures marked. he sat there a long time. when he rose, he had drunk nine, and he felt better, with a kind of ferocity that was pleasant in his veins and a kind of nobility that was pleasant in his soul. let her love, and be happy with her lover! but let him get his fingers on that fellow's throat! let her be happy, if she could keep her lover from him! and suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, for there on a sandwich-board just in front of him were the words: "daphne wing. pantheon. daphne wing. plastic danseuse. poetry of motion. to-day at three o'clock. pantheon. daphne wing." ah, she had loved him--little daphne! it was past three. going in, he took his place in the stalls, close to the stage, and stared before him, with a sort of bitter amusement. this was irony indeed! ah--and here she came! a pierrette--in short, diaphanous muslin, her face whitened to match it; a pierrette who stood slowly spinning on her toes, with arms raised and hands joined in an arch above her glistening hair. idiotic pose! idiotic! but there was the old expression on her face, limpid, dovelike. and that something of the divine about her dancing smote fiorsen through all the sheer imbecility of her posturings. across and across she flitted, pirouetting, caught up at intervals by a pierrot in black tights with a face as whitened as her own, held upside down, or right end up with one knee bent sideways, and the toe of a foot pressed against the ankle of the other, and arms arched above her. then, with pierrot's hands grasping her waist, she would stand upon one toe and slowly twiddle, lifting her other leg toward the roof, while the trembling of her form manifested cunningly to all how hard it was; then, off the toe, she capered out to the wings, and capered back, wearing on her face that divine, lost, dovelike look, while her perfect legs gleamed white up to the very thigh-joint. yes; on the stage she was adorable! and raising his hands high, fiorsen clapped and called out: "brava!" he marked the sudden roundness of her eyes, a tiny start--no more. she had seen him. 'ah! some don't forget me!' he thought. and now she came on for her second dance, assisted this time only by her own image reflected in a little weedy pool about the middle of the stage. from the programme fiorsen read, "ophelia's last dance," and again he grinned. in a clinging sea-green gown, cut here and there to show her inevitable legs, with marguerites and corn-flowers in her unbound hair, she circled her own reflection, languid, pale, desolate; then slowly gaining the abandon needful to a full display, danced with frenzy till, in a gleam of limelight, she sank into the apparent water and floated among paper water-lilies on her back. lovely she looked there, with her eyes still open, her lips parted, her hair trailing behind. and again fiorsen raised his hands high to clap, and again called out: 'brava!' but the curtain fell, and ophelia did not reappear. was it the sight of him, or was she preserving the illusion that she was drowned? that "arty" touch would be just like her. averting his eyes from two comedians in calico, beating each other about the body, he rose with an audible "pish!" and made his way out. he stopped in the street to scribble on his card, "will you see me?--g. f." and took it round to the stage-door. the answer came back: "miss wing will see you m a minute, sir." and leaning against the distempered wall of the draughty corridor, a queer smile on his face, fiorsen wondered why the devil he was there, and what the devil she would say. when he was admitted, she was standing with her hat on, while her "dresser" buttoned her patent-leather shoes. holding out her hand above the woman's back, she said: "oh, mr. fiorsen, how do you do?" fiorsen took the little moist hand; and his eyes passed over her, avoiding a direct meeting with her eyes. he received an impression of something harder, more self-possessed, than he remembered. her face was the same, yet not the same; only her perfect, supple little body was as it had been. the dresser rose, murmured: "good-afternoon, miss," and went. daphne wing smiled faintly. "i haven't seen you for a long time, have i?" "no; i've been abroad. you dance as beautifully as ever." "oh, yes; it hasn't hurt my dancing." with an effort, he looked her in the face. was this really the same girl who had clung to him, cloyed him with her kisses, her tears, her appeals for love--just a little love? ah, but she was more desirable, much more desirable than he had remembered! and he said: "give me a kiss, little daphne!" daphne wing did not stir; her white teeth rested on her lower lip; she said: "oh, no, thank you! how is mrs. fiorsen?" fiorsen turned abruptly. "there is none." "oh, has she divorced you?" "no. stop talking of her; stop talking, i say!" daphne wing, still motionless in the centre of her little crowded dressing-room said, in a matter-of-fact voice: "you are polite, aren't you? it's funny; i can't tell whether i'm glad to see you. i had a bad time, you know; and mrs. fiorsen was an angel. why do you come to see me now?" exactly! why had he come? the thought flashed through him: 'she'll help me to forget.' and he said: "i was a great brute to you, daphne. i came to make up, if i can." "oh, no; you can't make up--thank you!" a shudder ran through her, and she began drawing on her gloves. "you taught me a lot, you know. i ought to be quite grateful. oh, you've grown a little beard! d'you think that improves you? it makes you look rather like mephistopheles, i think." fiorsen stared fixedly at that perfectly shaped face, where a faint, underdone pink mingled with the fairness of the skin. was she mocking him? impossible! she looked too matter of fact. "where do you live now?" he said. "i'm on my own, in a studio. you can come and see it, if you like." "with pleasure." "only, you'd better understand. i've had enough of love." fiorsen grinned. "even for another?" he said. daphne wing answered calmly: "i wish you would treat me like a lady." fiorsen bit his lip, and bowed. "may i have the pleasure of giving you some tea?" "yes, thank you; i'm very hungry. i don't eat lunch on matinee-days; i find it better not. do you like my ophelia dance?" "it's artificial." "yes, it is artificial--it's done with mirrors and wire netting, you know. but do i give you the illusion of being mad?" fiorsen nodded. "i'm so glad. shall we go? i do want my tea." she turned round, scrutinized herself in the glass, touched her hat with both hands, revealing, for a second, all the poised beauty of her figure, took a little bag from the back of a chair, and said: "i think, if you don't mind going on, it's less conspicuous. i'll meet you at ruffel's--they have lovely things there. au revoir." in a state of bewilderment, irritation, and queer meekness, fiorsen passed down coventry street, and entering the empty ruffel's, took a table near the window. there he sat staring before him, for the sudden vision of gyp sitting on that oaken chest, at the foot of her bed, had blotted the girl clean out. the attendant coming to take his order, gazed at his pale, furious face, and said mechanically: "what can i get you, please?" looking up, fiorsen saw daphne wing outside, gazing at the cakes in the window. she came in. "oh, here you are! i should like iced coffee and walnut cake, and some of those marzipan sweets--oh, and some whipped cream with my cake. do you mind?" and, sitting down, she fixed her eyes on his face and asked: "where have you been abroad?" "stockholm, budapest, moscow, other places." "how perfect! do you think i should make a success in budapest or moscow?" "you might; you are english enough." "oh! do you think i'm very english?" "utterly. your kind of--" but even he was not quite capable of finishing that sentence--"your kind of vulgarity could not be produced anywhere else." daphne wing finished it for him: "my kind of beauty?" fiorsen grinned and nodded. "oh, i think that's the nicest thing you ever said to me! only, of course, i should like to think i'm more of the greek type--pagan, you know." she fell silent, casting her eyes down. her profile at that moment, against the light, was very pure and soft in line. and he said: "i suppose you hate me, little daphne? you ought to hate me." daphne wing looked up; her round, blue-grey eyes passed over him much as they had been passing over the marzipan. "no; i don't hate you--now. of course, if i had any love left for you, i should. oh, isn't that irish? but one can think anybody a rotter without hating them, can't one?" fiorsen bit his lips. "so you think me a 'rotter'?" daphne wing's eyes grew rounder. "but aren't you? you couldn't be anything else--could you?--with the sort of things you did." "and yet you don't mind having tea with me?" daphne wing, who had begun to eat and drink, said with her mouth full: "you see, i'm independent now, and i know life. that makes you harmless." fiorsen stretched out his hand and seized hers just where her little warm pulse was beating very steadily. she looked at it, changed her fork over, and went on eating with the other hand. fiorsen drew his hand away as if he had been stung. "ah, you have changed--that is certain!" "yes; you wouldn't expect anything else, would you? you see, one doesn't go through that for nothing. i think i was a dreadful little fool--" she stopped, with her spoon on its way to her mouth--"and yet--" "i love you still, little daphne." she slowly turned her head toward him, and a faint sigh escaped her. "once i would have given a lot to hear that." and turning her head away again, she picked a large walnut out of her cake and put it in her mouth. "are you coming to see my studio? i've got it rather nice and new. i'm making twenty-five a week; my next engagement, i'm going to get thirty. i should like mrs. fiorsen to know--oh, i forgot; you don't like me to speak of her! why not? i wish you'd tell me!" gazing, as the attendant had, at his furious face, she went on: "i don't know how it is, but i'm not a bit afraid of you now. i used to be. oh, how is count rosek? is he as pale as ever? aren't you going to have anything more? you've had hardly anything. d'you know what i should like--a chocolate eclair and a raspberry ice-cream soda with a slice of tangerine in it." when she had slowly sucked up that beverage, prodding the slice of tangerine with her straws, they went out and took a cab. on that journey to her studio, fiorsen tried to possess himself of her hand, but, folding her arms across her chest, she said quietly: "it's very bad manners to take advantage of cabs." and, withdrawing sullenly into his corner, he watched her askance. was she playing with him? or had she really ceased to care the snap of a finger? it seemed incredible. the cab, which had been threading the maze of the soho streets, stopped. daphne wing alighted, proceeded down a narrow passage to a green door on the right, and, opening it with a latch-key, paused to say: "i like it's being in a little sordid street--it takes away all amateurishness. it wasn't a studio, of course; it was the back part of a paper-maker's. any space conquered for art is something, isn't it?" she led the way up a few green-carpeted stairs, into a large room with a skylight, whose walls were covered in japanese silk the colour of yellow azaleas. here she stood for a minute without speaking, as though lost in the beauty of her home: then, pointing to the walls, she said: "it took me ages, i did it all myself. and look at my little japanese trees; aren't they dickies?" six little dark abortions of trees were arranged scrupulously on a lofty window-sill, whence the skylight sloped. she added suddenly: "i think count rosek would like this room. there's something bizarre about it, isn't there? i wanted to surround myself with that, you know--to get the bizarre note into my work. it's so important nowadays. but through there i've got a bedroom and a bathroom and a little kitchen with everything to hand, all quite domestic; and hot water always on. my people are so funny about this room. they come sometimes, and stand about. but they can't get used to the neighbourhood; of course it is sordid, but i think an artist ought to be superior to that." suddenly touched, fiorsen answered gently: "yes, little daphne." she looked at him, and another tiny sigh escaped her. "why did you treat me like you did?" she said. "it's such a pity, because now i can't feel anything at all." and turning, she suddenly passed the back of her hand across her eyes. really moved by that, fiorsen went towards her, but she had turned round again, and putting out her hand to keep him off, stood shaking her head, with half a tear glistening on her eyelashes. "please sit down on the divan," she said. "will you smoke? these are russians." and she took a white box of pink-coloured cigarettes from a little golden birchwood table. "i have everything russian and japanese so far as i can; i think they help more than anything with atmosphere. i've got a balalaika; you can't play on it, can you? what a pity! if only i had a violin! i should have liked to hear you play again." she clasped her hands: "do you remember when i danced to you before the fire?" fiorsen remembered only too well. the pink cigarette trembled in his fingers, and he said rather hoarsely: "dance to me now, daphne!" she shook her head. "i don't trust you a yard. nobody would--would they?" fiorsen started up. "then why did you ask me here? what are you playing at, you little--" at sight of her round, unmoving eyes, he stopped. she said calmly: "i thought you'd like to see that i'd mastered my fate--that's all. but, of course, if you don't, you needn't stop." fiorsen sank back on the divan. a conviction that everything she said was literal had begun slowly to sink into him. and taking a long pull at that pink cigarette he puffed the smoke out with a laugh. "what are you laughing at?" "i was thinking, little daphne, that you are as great an egoist as i." "i want to be. it's the only thing, isn't it?" fiorsen laughed again. "you needn't worry. you always were." she had seated herself on an indian stool covered with a bit of turkish embroidery, and, joining her hands on her lap, answered gravely: "no; i think i wasn't, while i loved you. but it didn't pay, did it?" fiorsen stared at her. "it has made a woman of you, daphne. your face is different. your mouth is prettier for my kisses--or the want of them. all over, you are prettier." pink came up in daphne wing's cheeks. and, encouraged by that flush, he went on warmly: "if you loved me now, i should not tire of you. oh, you can believe me! i--" she shook her head. "we won't talk about love, will we? did you have a big triumph in moscow and st. petersburg? it must be wonderful to have really great triumphs!" fiorsen answered gloomily: "triumphs? i made a lot of money." daphne wing purred: "oh, i expect you're very happy." did she mean to be ironic? "i'm miserable." he got up and went towards her. she looked up in his face. "i'm sorry if you're miserable. i know what it feels like." "you can help me not to be. little daphne, you can help me to forget." he had stopped, and put his hands on her shoulders. without moving daphne wing answered: "i suppose it's mrs. fiorsen you want to forget, isn't it?" "as if she were dead. ah, let it all be as it was, daphne! you have grown up; you are a woman, an artist, and you--" daphne wing had turned her head toward the stairs. "that was the bell," she said. "suppose it's my people? it's just their time! oh, isn't that awkward?" fiorsen dropped his grasp of her and recoiled against the wall. there with his head touching one of the little japanese trees, he stood biting his fingers. she was already moving toward the door. "my mother's got a key, and it's no good putting you anywhere, because she always has a good look round. but perhaps it isn't them. besides, i'm not afraid now; it makes a wonderful difference being on one's own." she disappeared. fiorsen could hear a woman's acid voice, a man's, rather hoarse and greasy, the sound of a smacking kiss. and, with a vicious shrug, he stood at bay. trapped! the little devil! the little dovelike devil! he saw a lady in a silk dress, green shot with beetroot colour, a short, thick gentleman with a round, greyish beard, in a grey suit, having a small dahlia in his buttonhole, and, behind them, daphne wing, flushed, and very round-eyed. he took a step, intending to escape without more ado. the gentleman said: "introduce us, daisy. i didn't quite catch--mr. dawson? how do you do, sir? one of my daughter's impresarios, i think. 'appy to meet you, i'm sure." fiorsen took a long breath, and bowed. mr. wagge's small piggy eyes had fixed themselves on the little trees. "she's got a nice little place here for her work--quiet and unconventional. i hope you think well of her talent, sir? you might go further and fare worse, i believe." again fiorsen bowed. "you may be proud of her," he said; "she is the rising star." mr. wagge cleared his throat. "ow," he said; "ye'es! from a little thing, we thought she had stuff in her. i've come to take a great interest in her work. it's not in my line, but i think she's a sticker; i like to see perseverance. where you've got that, you've got half the battle of success. so many of these young people seem to think life's all play. you must see a lot of that in your profession, sir." "robert!" a shiver ran down fiorsen's spine. "ye-es?" "the name was not dawson!" there followed a long moment. on the one side was that vinegary woman poking her head forward like an angry hen, on the other, daphne wing, her eyes rounder and rounder, her cheeks redder and redder, her lips opening, her hands clasped to her perfect breast, and, in the centre, that broad, grey-bearded figure, with reddening face and angry eyes and hoarsening voice: "you scoundrel! you infernal scoundrel!" it lurched forward, raising a pudgy fist. fiorsen sprang down the stairs and wrenched open the door. he walked away in a whirl of mortification. should he go back and take that pug-faced vulgarian by the throat? as for that minx! but his feelings about her were too complicated for expression. and then--so dark and random are the ways of the mind--his thoughts darted back to gyp, sitting on the oaken chest, making her confession; and the whips and stings of it scored him worse than ever. x that same evening, standing at the corner of bury street, summerhay watched gyp going swiftly to her father's house. he could not bring himself to move while there was still a chance to catch a glimpse of her face, a sign from her hand. gone! he walked away with his head down. the more blissful the hours just spent, the greater the desolation when they are over. of such is the nature of love, as he was now discerning. the longing to have her always with him was growing fast. since her husband knew--why wait? there would be no rest for either of them in an existence of meetings and partings like this, with the menace of that fellow. she must come away with him at once--abroad--until things had declared themselves; and then he must find a place where they could live and she feel safe and happy. he must show he was in dead earnest, set his affairs in order. and he thought: 'no good doing things by halves. mother must know. the sooner the better. get it over--at once!' and, with a grimace of discomfort, he set out for his aunt's house in cadogan gardens, where his mother always stayed when she was in town. lady summerhay was in the boudoir, waiting for dinner and reading a book on dreams. a red-shaded lamp cast a mellow tinge over the grey frock, over one reddish cheek and one white shoulder. she was a striking person, tall and well built, her very blonde hair only just turning grey, for she had married young and been a widow fifteen years--one of those women whose naturally free spirits have been netted by association with people of public position. bubbles were still rising from her submerged soul, but it was obvious that it would not again set eyes on the horizon. with views neither narrow nor illiberal, as views in society go, she judged everything now as people of public position must--discussion, of course, but no alteration in one's way of living. speculation and ideas did not affect social usage. the countless movements in which she and her friends were interested for the emancipation and benefit of others were, in fact, only channels for letting off her superfluous goodwill, conduit-pipes, for the directing spirit bred in her. she thought and acted in terms of the public good, regulated by what people of position said at luncheon and dinner. and it was surely not her fault that such people must lunch and dine. when her son had bent and kissed her, she held up the book to him and said: "well, bryan, i think this man's book disgraceful; he simply runs his sex-idea to death. really, we aren't all quite so obsessed as that. i do think he ought to be put in his own lunatic asylum." summerhay, looking down at her gloomily, answered: "i've got bad news for you, mother." lady summerhay closed the book and searched his face with apprehension. she knew that expression. she knew that poise of his head, as if butting at something. he looked like that when he came to her in gambling scrapes. was this another? bryan had always been a pickle. his next words took her breath away. "the people at mildenham, major winton and his daughter--you know. well, i'm in love with her--i'm--i'm her lover." lady summerhay uttered a gasp. "but--but--bryan--" "that fellow she married drinks. he's impossible. she had to leave him a year ago, with her baby--other reasons, too. look here, mother: this is hateful, but you'd got to know. i can't talk of her. there's no chance of a divorce." his voice grew higher. "don't try to persuade me out of it. it's no good." lady summerhay, from whose comely face a frock, as it were, had slipped, clasped her hands together on the book. such a swift descent of "life" on one to whom it had for so long been a series of "cases" was cruel, and her son felt this without quite realizing why. in the grip of his new emotions, he still retained enough balance to appreciate what an abominably desolate piece of news this must be to her, what a disturbance and disappointment. and, taking her hand, he put it to his lips. "cheer up, mother! it's all right. she's happy, and so am i." lady summerhay could only press her hand against his kiss, and murmur: "yes; that's not everything, bryan. is there--is there going to be a scandal?" "i don't know. i hope not; but, anyway, he knows about it." "society doesn't forgive." summerhay shrugged his shoulders. "awfully sorry for you, mother." "oh, bryan!" this repetition of her plaint jarred his nerves. "don't run ahead of things. you needn't tell edith or flo. you needn't tell anybody. we don't know what'll happen yet." but in lady summerhay all was too sore and blank. this woman she had never seen, whose origin was doubtful, whose marriage must have soiled her, who was some kind of a siren, no doubt. it really was too hard! she believed in her son, had dreamed of public position for him, or, rather, felt he would attain it as a matter of course. and she said feebly: "this major winton is a man of breeding, isn't he?" "rather!" and, stopping before her, as if he read her thoughts, he added: "you think she's not good enough for me? she's good enough for anyone on earth. and she's the proudest woman i've ever met. if you're bothering as to what to do about her--don't! she won't want anything of anybody--i can tell you that. she won't accept any crumbs." "that's lucky!" hovered on lady summerhay's lips; but, gazing at her son, she became aware that she stood on the brink of a downfall in his heart. then the bitterness of her disappointment rising up again, she said coldly: "are you going to live together openly?" "yes; if she will." "you don't know yet?" "i shall--soon." lady summerhay got up, and the book on dreams slipped off her lap with a thump. she went to the fireplace, and stood there looking at her son. he had altered. his merry look was gone; his face was strange to her. she remembered it like that, once in the park at widrington, when he lost his temper with a pony and came galloping past her, sitting back, his curly hair stivered up like a little demon's. and she said sadly: "you can hardly expect me to like it for you, bryan, even if she is what you say. and isn't there some story about--" "my dear mother, the more there is against her, the more i shall love her--that's obvious." lady summerhay sighed again. "what is this man going to do? i heard him play once." "i don't know. nothing, i dare say. morally and legally, he's out of court. i only wish to god he would bring a case, and i could marry her; but gyp says he won't." lady summerhay murmured: "gyp? is that her name?" and a sudden wish, almost a longing, not a friendly one, to see this woman seized her. "will you bring her to see me? i'm alone here till wednesday." "i'll ask her, but i don't think she'll come." he turned his head away. "mother, she's wonderful!" an unhappy smile twisted lady summerhay's lips. no doubt! aphrodite herself had visited her boy. aphrodite! and--afterward? she asked desolately: "does major winton know?" "yes." "what does he say to it?" "say? what can anyone say? from your point of view, or his, it's rotten, of course. but in her position, anything's rotten." at that encouraging word, the flood-gates gave way in lady summerhay, and she poured forth a stream of words. "oh, my dear, can't you pull up? i've seen so many of these affairs go wrong. it really is not for nothing that law and conventions are what they are--believe me! really, bryan, experience does show that the pressure's too great. it's only once in a way--very exceptional people, very exceptional circumstances. you mayn't think now it'll hamper you, but you'll find it will--most fearfully. it's not as if you were a writer or an artist, who can take his work where he likes and live in a desert if he wants. you've got to do yours in london, your whole career is bound up with society. do think, before you go butting up against it! it's all very well to say it's no affair of anyone's, but you'll find it is, bryan. and then, can you--can you possibly make her happy in the long-run?" she stopped at the expression on his face. it was as if he were saying: "i have left your world. talk to your fellows; all this is nothing to me." "look here, mother: you don't seem to understand. i'm devoted--devoted so that there's nothing else for me." "how long will that last, bryan? you mean bewitched." summerhay said, with passion: "i don't. i mean what i said. good-night!" and he went to the door. "won't you stay to dinner, dear?" but he was gone, and the full of vexation, anxiety, and wretchedness came on lady summerhay. it was too hard! she went down to her lonely dinner, desolate and sore. and to the book on dreams, opened beside her plate, she turned eyes that took in nothing. summerhay went straight home. the lamps were brightening in the early-autumn dusk, and a draughty, ruffling wind flicked a yellow leaf here and there from off the plane trees. it was just the moment when evening blue comes into the colouring of the town--that hour of fusion when day's hard and staring shapes are softening, growing dark, mysterious, and all that broods behind the lives of men and trees and houses comes down on the wings of illusion to repossess the world--the hour when any poetry in a man wells up. but summerhay still heard his mother's, "oh, bryan!" and, for the first time, knew the feeling that his hand was against everyone's. there was a difference already, or so it seemed to him, in the expression of each passer-by. nothing any more would be a matter of course; and he was of a class to whom everything has always been a matter of course. perhaps he did not realize this clearly yet; but he had begun to take what the nurses call "notice," as do those only who are forced on to the defensive against society. putting his latch-key into the lock, he recalled the sensation with which, that afternoon, he had opened to gyp for the first time--half furtive, half defiant. it would be all defiance now. this was the end of the old order! and, lighting a fire in his sitting-room, he began pulling out drawers, sorting and destroying. he worked for hours, burning, making lists, packing papers and photographs. finishing at last, he drank a stiff whisky and soda, and sat down to smoke. now that the room was quiet, gyp seemed to fill it again with her presence. closing his eyes, he could see her there by the hearth, just as she stood before they left, turning her face up to him, murmuring: "you won't stop loving me, now you're so sure i love you?" stop loving her! the more she loved him, the more he would love her. and he said aloud: "by god! i won't!" at that remark, so vehement for the time of night, the old scotch terrier, ossian, came from his corner and shoved his long black nose into his master's hand. "come along up, ossy! good dog, oss!" and, comforted by the warmth of that black body beside him in the chair, summerhay fell asleep in front of the fire smouldering with blackened fragments of his past. xi though gyp had never seemed to look round she had been quite conscious of summerhay still standing where they had parted, watching her into the house in bury street. the strength of her own feeling surprised her, as a bather in the sea is surprised, finding her feet will not touch bottom, that she is carried away helpless--only, these were the waters of ecstasy. for the second night running, she hardly slept, hearing the clocks of st. james's strike, and big ben boom, hour after hour. at breakfast, she told her father of fiorsen's reappearance. he received the news with a frown and a shrewd glance. "well, gyp?" "i told him." his feelings, at that moment, were perhaps as mixed as they had ever been--curiosity, parental disapproval, to which he knew he was not entitled, admiration of her pluck in letting that fellow know, fears for the consequences of this confession, and, more than all, his profound disturbance at knowing her at last launched into the deep waters of love. it was the least of these feelings that found expression. "how did he take it?" "rushed away. the only thing i feel sure of is that he won't divorce me." "no, by george; i don't suppose even he would have that impudence!" and winton was silent, trying to penetrate the future. "well," he said suddenly, "it's on the knees of the gods then. but be careful, gyp." about noon, betty returned from the sea, with a solemn, dark-eyed, cooing little gyp, brown as a roasted coffee-berry. when she had been given all that she could wisely eat after the journey, gyp carried her off to her own room, undressed her for sheer delight of kissing her from head to foot, and admiring her plump brown legs, then cuddled her up in a shawl and lay down with her on the bed. a few sleepy coos and strokings, and little gyp had left for the land of nod, while her mother lay gazing at her black lashes with a kind of passion. she was not a child-lover by nature; but this child of her own, with her dark softness, plump delicacy, giving disposition, her cooing voice, and constant adjurations to "dear mum," was adorable. there was something about her insidiously seductive. she had developed so quickly, with the graceful roundness of a little animal, the perfection of a flower. the italian blood of her great-great-grandmother was evidently prepotent in her as yet; and, though she was not yet two years old, her hair, which had lost its baby darkness, was already curving round her neck and waving on her forehead. one of her tiny brown hands had escaped the shawl and grasped its edge with determined softness. and while gyp gazed at the pinkish nails and their absurdly wee half-moons, at the sleeping tranquillity stirred by breathing no more than a rose-leaf on a windless day, her lips grew fuller, trembled, reached toward the dark lashes, till she had to rein her neck back with a jerk to stop such self-indulgence. soothed, hypnotized, almost in a dream, she lay there beside her baby. that evening, at dinner, winton said calmly: "well, i've been to see fiorsen, and warned him off. found him at that fellow rosek's." gyp received the news with a vague sensation of alarm. "and i met that girl, the dancer, coming out of the house as i was going in--made it plain i'd seen her, so i don't think he'll trouble you." an irresistible impulse made her ask: "how was she looking, dad?" winton smiled grimly. how to convey his impression of the figure he had seen coming down the steps--of those eyes growing rounder and rounder at sight of him, of that mouth opening in an: "oh!" "much the same. rather flabbergasted at seeing me, i think. a white hat--very smart. attractive in her way, but common, of course. those two were playing the piano and fiddle when i went up. they tried not to let me in, but i wasn't to be put off. queer place, that!" gyp smiled. she could see it all so well. the black walls, the silver statuettes, rops drawings, scent of dead rose-leaves and pastilles and cigarettes--and those two by the piano--and her father so cool and dry! "one can't stand on ceremony with fellows like that. i hadn't forgotten that polish chap's behaviour to you, my dear." through gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague return of the feelings once inspired by rosek. "i'm almost sorry you went, dad. did you say anything very--" "did i? let's see! no; i think i was quite polite." he added, with a grim, little smile: "i won't swear i didn't call one of them a ruffian. i know they said something about my presuming on being a cripple." "oh, darling!" "yes; it was that polish chap--and so he is!" gyp murmured: "i'd almost rather it had been--the other." rosek's pale, suave face, with the eyes behind which there were such hidden things, and the lips sweetish and restrained and sensual--he would never forgive! but winton only smiled again, patting her arm. he was pleased with an encounter which had relieved his feelings. gyp spent all that evening writing her first real love-letter. but when, next afternoon at six, in fulfilment of its wording, she came to summerhay's little house, her heart sank; for the blinds were down and it had a deserted look. if he had been there, he would have been at the window, waiting. had he, then, not got her letter, not been home since yesterday? and that chill fear which besets lovers' hearts at failure of a tryst smote her for the first time. in the three-cornered garden stood a decayed statue of a naked boy with a broken bow--a sparrow was perching on his greenish shoulder; sooty, heart-shaped lilac leaves hung round his head, and at his legs the old scotch terrier was sniffing. gyp called: "ossian! ossy!" and the old dog came, wagging his tail feebly. "master! where is your master, dear?" ossian poked his long nose into her calf, and that gave her a little comfort. she passed, perforce, away from the deserted house and returned home; but all manner of frightened thoughts beset her. where had he gone? why had he gone? why had he not let her know? doubts--those hasty attendants on passion--came thronging, and scepticism ran riot. what did she know of his life, of his interests, of him, except that he said he loved her? where had he gone? to widrington, to some smart house-party, or even back to scotland? the jealous feelings that had so besieged her at the bungalow when his letters ceased came again now with redoubled force. there must be some woman who, before their love began, had claim on him, or some girl that he admired. he never told her of any such--of course, he would not! she was amazed and hurt by her capacity for jealousy. she had always thought she would be too proud to feel jealousy--a sensation so dark and wretched and undignified, but--alas!--so horribly real and clinging. she had said she was not dining at home; so winton had gone to his club, and she was obliged to partake of a little trumped-up lonely meal. she went up to her room after it, but there came on her such restlessness that presently she put on her things and slipped out. she went past st. james's church into piccadilly, to the further, crowded side, and began to walk toward the park. this was foolish; but to do a foolish thing was some relief, and she went along with a faint smile, mocking her own recklessness. several women of the town--ships of night with sails set--came rounding out of side streets or down the main stream, with their skilled, rapid-seeming slowness. and at the discomfited, half-hostile stares on their rouged and powdered faces, gyp felt a wicked glee. she was disturbing, hurting them--and she wanted to hurt. presently, a man, in evening dress, with overcoat thrown open, gazed pointblank into her face, and, raising his hat, ranged up beside her. she walked straight on, still with that half-smile, knowing him puzzled and fearfully attracted. then an insensate wish to stab him to the heart made her turn her head and look at him. at the expression on her face, he wilted away from her, and again she felt that wicked glee at having hurt him. she crossed out into the traffic, to the park side, and turned back toward st. james's; and now she was possessed by profound, black sadness. if only her lover were beside her that beautiful evening, among the lights and shadows of the trees, in the warm air! why was he not among these passers-by? she who could bring any casual man to her side by a smile could not conjure up the only one she wanted from this great desert of a town! she hurried along, to get in and hide her longing. but at the corner of st. james's street, she stopped. that was his club, nearly opposite. perhaps he was there, playing cards or billiards, a few yards away, and yet as in another world. presently he would come out, go to some music-hall, or stroll home thinking of her--perhaps not even thinking of her! another woman passed, giving her a furtive glance. but gyp felt no glee now. and, crossing over, close under the windows of the club, she hurried home. when she reached her room, she broke into a storm of tears. how could she have liked hurting those poor women, hurting that man--who was only paying her a man's compliment, after all? and with these tears, her jealous, wild feelings passed, leaving only her longing. next morning brought a letter. summerhay wrote from an inn on the river, asking her to come down by the eleven o'clock train, and he would meet her at the station. he wanted to show her a house that he had seen; and they could have the afternoon on the river! gyp received this letter, which began: "my darling!" with an ecstasy that she could not quite conceal. and winton, who had watched her face, said presently: "i think i shall go to newmarket, gyp. home to-morrow evening." in the train on the way down, she sat with closed eyes, in a sort of trance. if her lover had been there holding her in his arms, he could not have seemed nearer. she saw him as the train ran in; but they met without a hand-clasp, without a word, simply looking at each other and breaking into smiles. a little victoria "dug up"--as summerhay said--"horse, driver and all," carried them slowly upward. under cover of the light rugs their hands were clasped, and they never ceased to look into each other's faces, except for those formal glances of propriety which deceive no one. the day was beautiful, as only early september days can be--when the sun is hot, yet not too hot, and its light falls in a silken radiance on trees just losing the opulent monotony of summer, on silvery-gold reaped fields, silvery-green uplands, golden mustard; when shots ring out in the distance, and, as one gazes, a leaf falls, without reason, as it would seem. presently they branched off the main road by a lane past a clump of beeches and drew up at the gate of a lonely house, built of very old red brick, and covered by virginia creeper just turning--a house with an ingle-nook and low, broad chimneys. before it was a walled, neglected lawn, with poplars and one large walnut-tree. the sunlight seemed to have collected in that garden, and there was a tremendous hum of bees. above the trees, the downs could be seen where racehorses, they said, were trained. summerhay had the keys of the house, and they went in. to gyp, it was like a child's "pretending"--to imagine they were going to live there together, to sort out the rooms and consecrate each. she would not spoil this perfect day by argument or admission of the need for a decision. and when he asked: "well, darling, what do you think of it?" she only answered: "oh, lovely, in a way; but let's go back to the river and make the most of it." they took boat at 'the bowl of cream,' the river inn where summerhay was staying. to him, who had been a rowing man at oxford, the river was known from lechlade to richmond; but gyp had never in her life been on it, and its placid magic, unlike that of any other river in the world, almost overwhelmed her. on this glistening, windless day, to drift along past the bright, flat water-lily leaves over the greenish depths, to listen to the pigeons, watch the dragon-flies flitting past, and the fish leaping lazily, not even steering, letting her hand dabble in the water, then cooling her sun-warmed cheek with it, and all the time gazing at summerhay, who, dipping his sculls gently, gazed at her--all this was like a voyage down some river of dreams, the very fulfilment of felicity. there is a degree of happiness known to the human heart which seems to belong to some enchanted world--a bright maze into which, for a moment now and then, we escape and wander. to-day, he was more than ever like her botticelli "young man," with his neck bare, and his face so clear-eyed and broad and brown. had she really had a life with another man? and only a year ago? it seemed inconceivable! but when, in the last backwater, he tied the boat up and came to sit with her once more, it was already getting late, and the vague melancholy of the now shadowy river was stealing into her. and, with a sort of sinking in her heart, she heard him begin: "gyp, we must go away together. we can never stand it going on apart, snatching hours here and there." pressing his hand to her cheeks, she murmured: "why not, darling? hasn't this been perfect? what could we ever have more perfect? it's been paradise itself!" "yes; but to be thrown out every day! to be whole days and nights without you! gyp, you must--you must! what is there against it? don't you love me enough?" she looked at him, and then away into the shadows. "too much, i think. it's tempting providence to change. let's go on as we are, bryan. no; don't look like that--don't be angry!" "why are you afraid? are you sorry for our love?" "no; but let it be like this. don't let's risk anything." "risk? is it people--society--you're afraid of? i thought you wouldn't care." gyp smiled. "society? no; i'm not afraid of that." "what, then? of me?" "i don't know. men soon get tired. i'm a doubter, bryan, i can't help it." "as if anyone could get tired of you! are you afraid of yourself?" again gyp smiled. "not of loving too little, i told you." "how can one love too much?" she drew his head down to her. but when that kiss was over, she only said again: "no, bryan; let's go on as we are. i'll make up to you when i'm with you. if you were to tire of me, i couldn't bear it." for a long time more he pleaded--now with anger, now with kisses, now with reasonings; but, to all, she opposed that same tender, half-mournful "no," and, at last, he gave it up, and, in dogged silence, rowed her to the village, whence she was to take train back. it was dusk when they left the boat, and dew was falling. just before they reached the station, she caught his hand and pressed it to her breast. "darling, don't be angry with me! perhaps i will--some day." and, in the train, she tried to think herself once more in the boat, among the shadows and the whispering reeds and all the quiet wonder of the river. xii on reaching home she let herself in stealthily, and, though she had not had dinner, went up at once to her room. she was just taking off her blouse when betty entered, her round face splotched with red, and tears rolling down her cheeks. "betty! what is it?" "oh, my dear, where have you been? such a dreadful piece of news! they've stolen her! that wicked man--your husband--he took her right out of her pram--and went off with her in a great car--he and that other one! i've been half out of my mind!" gyp stared aghast. "i hollered to a policeman. 'he's stolen her--her father! catch them!' i said. 'however shall i face my mistress?'" she stopped for breath, then burst out again. "'he's a bad one,' i said. 'a foreigner! they're both foreigners!' 'her father?' he said. 'well, why shouldn't he? he's only givin' her a joy ride. he'll bring her back, never you fear.' and i ran home--i didn't know where you were. oh dear! the major away and all--what was i to do? i'd just turned round to shut the gate of the square gardens, and i never saw him till he'd put his great long arm over the pram and snatched her out." and, sitting on the bed, she gave way utterly. gyp stood still. nemesis for her happiness? that vengeful wretch, rosek! this was his doing. and she said: "oh, betty, she must be crying!" a fresh outburst of moans was the only answer. gyp remembered suddenly what the lawyer had said over a year ago--it had struck her with terror at the time. in law, fiorsen owned and could claim her child. she could have got her back, then, by bringing a horrible case against him, but now, perhaps, she had no chance. was it her return to fiorsen that they aimed at--or the giving up of her lover? she went over to her mirror, saying: "we'll go at once, betty, and get her back somehow. wash your face." while she made ready, she fought down those two horrible fears--of losing her child, of losing her lover; the less she feared, the better she could act, the more subtly, the swifter. she remembered that she had somewhere a little stiletto, given her a long time ago. she hunted it out, slipped off its red-leather sheath, and, stabbing the point into a tiny cork, slipped it beneath her blouse. if they could steal her baby, they were capable of anything. she wrote a note to her father, telling him what had happened, and saying where she had gone. then, in a taxi, they set forth. cold water and the calmness of her mistress had removed from betty the main traces of emotion; but she clasped gyp's hand hard and gave vent to heavy sighs. gyp would not think. if she thought of her little one crying, she knew she would cry, too. but her hatred for those who had dealt this cowardly blow grew within her. she took a resolution and said quietly: "mr. summerhay, betty. that's why they've stolen our darling. i suppose you know he and i care for each other. they've stolen her so as to make me do anything they like." a profound sigh answered her. behind that moon-face with the troubled eyes, what conflict was in progress--between unquestioning morality and unquestioning belief in gyp, between fears for her and wishes for her happiness, between the loyal retainer's habit of accepting and the old nurse's feeling of being in charge? she said faintly: "oh dear! he's a nice gentleman, too!" and suddenly, wheezing it out with unexpected force: "to say truth, i never did hold you was rightly married to that foreigner in that horrible registry place--no music, no flowers, no blessin' asked, nor nothing. i cried me eyes out at the time." gyp said quietly: "no; betty, i never was. i only thought i was in love." a convulsive squeeze and creaking, whiffling sounds heralded a fresh outburst. "don't cry; we're just there. think of our darling!" the cab stopped. feeling for her little weapon, she got out, and with her hand slipped firmly under betty's arm, led the way upstairs. chilly shudders ran down her spine--memories of daphne wing and rosek, of that large woman--what was her name?--of many other faces, of unholy hours spent up there, in a queer state, never quite present, never comfortable in soul; memories of late returnings down these wide stairs out to their cab, of fiorsen beside her in the darkness, his dim, broad-cheekboned face moody in the corner or pressed close to hers. once they had walked a long way homeward in the dawn, rosek with them, fiorsen playing on his muted violin, to the scandal of the policemen and the cats. dim, unreal memories! grasping betty's arm more firmly, she rang the bell. when the man servant, whom she remembered well, opened the door, her lips were so dry that they could hardly form the words: "is mr. fiorsen in, ford?" "no, ma'am; mr. fiorsen and count rosek went into the country this afternoon. i haven't their address at present." she must have turned white, for she could hear the man saying: "anything i can get you, ma'am?" "when did they start, please?" "one o'clock, ma'am--by car. count rosek was driving himself. i should say they won't be away long--they just had their bags with them." gyp put out her hand helplessly; she heard the servant say in a concerned voice: "i could let you know the moment they return, ma'am, if you'd kindly leave me your address." giving her card, and murmuring: "thank you, ford; thank you very much," she grasped betty's arm again and leaned heavily on her going down the stairs. it was real, black fear now. to lose helpless things--children--dogs--and know for certain that one cannot get to them, no matter what they may be suffering! to be pinned down to ignorance and have in her ears the crying of her child--this horror, gyp suffered now. and nothing to be done! nothing but to go to bed and wait--hardest of all tasks! mercifully--thanks to her long day in the open--she fell at last into a dreamless sleep, and when she was called, there was a letter from fiorsen on the tray with her tea. "gyp: "i am not a baby-stealer like your father. the law gives me the right to my own child. but swear to give up your lover, and the baby shall come back to you at once. if you do not give him up, i will take her away out of england. send me an answer to this post-office, and do not let your father try any tricks upon me. "gustav fiorsen." beneath was written the address of a west end post-office. when gyp had finished reading, she went through some moments of such mental anguish as she had never known, but--just as when betty first told her of the stealing--her wits and wariness came quickly back. had he been drinking when he wrote that letter? she could almost fancy that she smelled brandy, but it was so easy to fancy what one wanted to. she read it through again--this time, she felt almost sure that it had been dictated to him. if he had composed the wording himself, he would never have resisted a gibe at the law, or a gibe at himself for thus safeguarding her virtue. it was rosek's doing. her anger flamed up anew. since they used such mean, cruel ways, why need she herself be scrupulous? she sprang out of bed and wrote: "how could you do such a brutal thing? at all events, let the darling have her nurse. it's not like you to let a little child suffer. betty will be ready to come the minute you send for her. as for myself, you must give me time to decide. i will let you know within two days. "gyp." when she had sent this off, and a telegram to her father at newmarket, she read fiorsen's letter once more, and was more than ever certain that it was rosek's wording. and, suddenly, she thought of daphne wing, whom her father had seen coming out of rosek's house. through her there might be a way of getting news. she seemed to see again the girl lying so white and void of hope when robbed by death of her own just-born babe. yes; surely it was worth trying. an hour later, her cab stopped before the wagges' door in frankland street. but just as she was about to ring the bell, a voice from behind her said: "allow me; i have a key. what may i--oh, it's you!" she turned. mr. wagge, in professional habiliments, was standing there. "come in; come in," he said. "i was wondering whether perhaps we shouldn't be seeing you after what's transpired." hanging his tall black hat, craped nearly to the crown, on a knob of the mahogany stand, he said huskily: "i did think we'd seen the last of that," and opened the dining-room door. "come in, ma'am. we can put our heads together better in here." in that too well remembered room, the table was laid with a stained white cloth, a cruet-stand, and bottle of worcestershire sauce. the little blue bowl was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of red and green. gyp said quickly: "doesn't daph--daisy live at home, then, now?" the expression on mr. wagge's face was singular; suspicion, relief, and a sort of craftiness were blended with that furtive admiration which gyp seemed always to excite in him. "do i understand that you--er--" "i came to ask if daisy would do something for me." mr. wagge blew his nose. "you didn't know--" he began again. "yes; i dare say she sees my husband, if that's what you mean; and i don't mind--he's nothing to me now." mr. wagge's face became further complicated by the sensations of a husband. "well," he said, "it's not to be wondered at, perhaps, in the circumstances. i'm sure i always thought--" gyp interrupted swiftly. "please, mr. wagge--please! will you give me daisy's address?" mr. wagge remained a moment in deep thought; then he said, in a gruff, jerky voice: "seventy-three comrade street, so'o. up to seeing him there on tuesday, i must say i cherished every hope. now i'm sorry i didn't strike him--he was too quick for me--" he had raised one of his gloved hands and was sawing it up and down. the sight of that black object cleaving the air nearly made gyp scream, her nerves were so on edge. "it's her blasted independence--i beg pardon--but who wouldn't?" he ended suddenly. gyp passed him. "who wouldn't?" she heard his voice behind her. "i did think she'd have run straight this time--" and while she was fumbling at the outer door, his red, pudgy face, with its round grey beard, protruded almost over her shoulder. "if you're going to see her, i hope you'll--" gyp was gone. in her cab she shivered. once she had lunched with her father at a restaurant in the strand. it had been full of mr. wagges. but, suddenly, she thought: 'it's hard on him, poor man!' xiii seventy-three comrade street, soho, was difficult to find; but, with the aid of a milk-boy, gyp discovered the alley at last, and the right door. there her pride took sudden alarm, and but for the milk-boy's eyes fixed on her while he let out his professional howl, she might have fled. a plump white hand and wrist emerging took the can, and daphne wing's voice said: "oh, where's the cream?" "ain't got none." "oh! i told you always--two pennyworth at twelve o'clock." "two penn'orth." the boy's eyes goggled. "didn't you want to speak to her, miss?" he beat the closing door. "lidy wants to speak to you! good-mornin', miss." the figure of daphne wing in a blue kimono was revealed. her eyes peered round at gyp. "oh!" she said. "may i come in?" "oh, yes! oh, do! i've been practising. oh, i am glad to see you!" in the middle of the studio, a little table was laid for two. daphne wing went up to it, holding in one hand the milk-can and in the other a short knife, with which she had evidently been opening oysters. placing the knife on the table, she turned round to gyp. her face was deep pink, and so was her neck, which ran v-shaped down into the folds of her kimono. her eyes, round as saucers, met gyp's, fell, met them again. she said: "oh, mrs. fiorsen, i am glad! i really am. i wanted you so much to see my room--do you like it? how did you know where i was?" she looked down and added: "i think i'd better tell you. mr. fiorsen came here, and, since then, i've seen him at count rosek's--and--and--" "yes; but don't trouble to tell me, please." daphne wing hurried on. "of course, i'm quite mistress of myself now." then, all at once, the uneasy woman-of-the-world mask dropped from her face and she seized gyp's hand. "oh, mrs. fiorsen, i shall never be like you!" with a little shiver, gyp said: "i hope not." her pride rushed up in her. how could she ask this girl anything? she choked back that feeling, and said stonily: "do you remember my baby? no, of course; you never saw her. he and count rosek have just taken her away from me." daphne wing convulsively squeezed the hand of which she had possessed herself. "oh, what a wicked thing! when?" "yesterday afternoon." "oh, i am glad i haven't seen him since! oh, i do think that was wicked! aren't you dreadfully distressed?" the least of smiles played on gyp's mouth. daphne wing burst forth: "d'you know--i think--i think your self-control is something awful. it frightens me. if my baby had lived and been stolen like that, i should have been half dead by now." gyp answered stonily as ever: "yes; i want her back, and i wondered--" daphne wing clasped her hands. "oh, i expect i can make him--" she stopped, confused, then added hastily: "are you sure you don't mind?" "i shouldn't mind if he had fifty loves. perhaps he has." daphne wing uttered a little gasp; then her teeth came down rather viciously on her lower lip. "i mean him to do what i want now, not what he wants me. that's the only way when you love. oh, don't smile like that, please; you do make me feel so--uncertain." "when are you going to see him next?" daphne wing grew very pink. "i don't know. he might be coming in to lunch. you see, it's not as if he were a stranger, is it?" casting up her eyes a little, she added: "he won't even let me speak your name; it makes him mad. that's why i'm sure he still loves you; only, his love is so funny." and, seizing gyp's hand: "i shall never forget how good you were to me. i do hope you--you love somebody else." gyp pressed those damp, clinging fingers, and daphne wing hurried on: "i'm sure your baby's a darling. how you must be suffering! you look quite pale. but it isn't any good suffering. i learned that." her eyes lighted on the table, and a faint ruefulness came into them, as if she were going to ask gyp to eat the oysters. gyp bent forward and put her lips to the girl's forehead. "good-bye. my baby would thank you if she knew." and she turned to go. she heard a sob. daphne wing was crying; then, before gyp could speak, she struck herself on the throat, and said, in a strangled voice: "tha--that's idiotic! i--i haven't cried since--since, you know. i--i'm perfect mistress of myself; only, i--only--i suppose you reminded me--i never cry!" those words and the sound of a hiccough accompanied gyp down the alley to her cab. when she got back to bury street, she found betty sitting in the hall with her bonnet on. she had not been sent for, nor had any reply come from newmarket. gyp could not eat, could settle to nothing. she went up to her bedroom to get away from the servants' eyes, and went on mechanically with a frock of little gyp's she had begun on the fatal morning fiorsen had come back. every other minute she stopped to listen to sounds that never meant anything, went a hundred times to the window to look at nothing. betty, too, had come upstairs, and was in the nursery opposite; gyp could hear her moving about restlessly among her household gods. presently, those sounds ceased, and, peering into the room, she saw the stout woman still in her bonnet, sitting on a trunk, with her back turned, uttering heavy sighs. gyp stole back into her own room with a sick, trembling sensation. if--if her baby really could not be recovered except by that sacrifice! if that cruel letter were the last word, and she forced to decide between them! which would she give up? which follow--her lover or her child? she went to the window for air--the pain about her heart was dreadful. and, leaning there against the shutter, she felt quite dizzy from the violence of a struggle that refused coherent thought or feeling, and was just a dumb pull of instincts, both so terribly strong--how terribly strong she had not till then perceived. her eyes fell on the picture that reminded her of bryan; it seemed now to have no resemblance--none. he was much too real, and loved, and wanted. less than twenty-four hours ago, she had turned a deaf ear to his pleading that she should go to him for ever. how funny! would she not rush to him now--go when and where he liked? ah, if only she were back in his arms! never could she give him up--never! but then in her ears sounded the cooing words, "dear mum!" her baby--that tiny thing--how could she give her up, and never again hold close and kiss that round, perfect little body, that grave little dark-eyed face? the roar of london came in through the open window. so much life, so many people--and not a soul could help! she left the window and went to the cottage-piano she had there, out of winton's way. but she only sat with arms folded, looking at the keys. the song that girl had sung at fiorsen's concert--song of the broken heart--came back to her. no, no; she couldn't--couldn't! it was to her lover she would cling. and tears ran down her cheeks. a cab had stopped below, but not till betty came rushing in did she look up. xiv when, trembling all over, she entered the dining-room, fiorsen was standing by the sideboard, holding the child. he came straight up and put her into gyp's arms. "take her," he said, "and do what you will. be happy." hugging her baby, close to the door as she could get, gyp answered nothing. her heart was in such a tumult that she could not have spoken a word to save her life; relieved, as one dying of thirst by unexpected water; grateful, bewildered, abashed, yet instinctively aware of something evanescent and unreal in his altruism. daphne wing! what bargain did this represent? fiorsen must have felt the chill of this instinctive vision, for he cried out: "yes! you never believed in me; you never thought me capable of good! why didn't you?" gyp bent her face over her baby to hide the quivering of her lips. "i am sorry--very, very sorry." fiorsen came closer and looked into her face. "by god, i am afraid i shall never forget you--never!" tears had come into his eyes, and gyp watched them, moved, troubled, but still deeply mistrusting. he brushed his hand across his face; and the thought flashed through her: 'he means me to see them! ah, what a cynical wretch i am!' fiorsen saw that thought pass, and muttering suddenly: "good-bye, gyp! i am not all bad. i am not!" he tore the door open and was gone. that passionate "i am not!" saved gyp from a breakdown. no; even at his highest pitch of abnegation, he could not forget himself. relief, if overwhelming, is slowly realized; but when, at last, what she had escaped and what lay before her were staring full in each other's face, it seemed to her that she must cry out, and tell the whole world of her intoxicating happiness. and the moment little gyp was in betty's arms, she sat down and wrote to summerhay: "darling, "i've had a fearful time. my baby was stolen by him while i was with you. he wrote me a letter saying that he would give her back to me if i gave you up. but i found i couldn't give you up, not even for my baby. and then, a few minutes ago, he brought her--none the worse. tomorrow we shall all go down to mildenham; but very soon, if you still want me, i'll come with you wherever you like. my father and betty will take care of my treasure till we come back; and then, perhaps, the old red house we saw--after all. only--now is the time for you to draw back. look into the future--look far! don't let any foolish pity--or honour--weigh with you; be utterly sure, i do beseech you. i can just bear it now if i know it's for your good. but afterward it'll be too late. it would be the worst misery of all if i made you unhappy. oh, make sure--make sure! i shall understand. i mean this with every bit of me. and now, good-night, and perhaps--good-bye. "your "gyp." she read it over and shivered. did she really mean that she could bear it if he drew back--if he did look far, far into the future, and decided that she was not worth the candle? ah, but better now--than later. she closed and sealed the letter, and sat down to wait for her father. and she thought: 'why does one have a heart? why is there in one something so much too soft?' ten days later, at mildenham station, holding her father's hand, gyp could scarcely see him for the mist before her eyes. how good he had been to her all those last days, since she told him that she was going to take the plunge! not a word of remonstrance or complaint. "good-bye, my love! take care of yourself; wire from london, and again from paris." and, smiling up at her, he added: "he has luck; i had none." the mist became tears, rolled down, fell on his glove. "not too long out there, gyp!" she pressed her wet cheek passionately to his. the train moved, but, so long as she could see, she watched him standing on the platform, waving his grey hat, then, in her corner, sat down, blinded with tears behind her veil. she had not cried when she left him the day of her fatal marriage; she cried now that she was leaving him to go to her incredible happiness. strange! but her heart had grown since then. part iv i little gyp, aged nearly four and a half that first of may, stood at the edge of the tulip border, bowing to two hen turkeys who were poking their heads elegantly here and there among the flowers. she was absurdly like her mother, the same oval-shaped face, dark arched brows, large and clear brown eyes; but she had the modern child's open-air look; her hair, that curled over at the ends, was not allowed to be long, and her polished brown legs were bare to the knees. "turkeys! you aren't good, are you? come on!" and, stretching out her hands with the palms held up, she backed away from the tulip-bed. the turkeys, trailing delicately their long-toed feet and uttering soft, liquid interrogations, moved after her in hopes of what she was not holding in her little brown hands. the sun, down in the west, for it was past tea-time, slanted from over the roof of the red house, and painted up that small procession--the deep blue frock of little gyp, the glint of gold in the chestnut of her hair; the daisy-starred grass; the dark birds with translucent red dewlaps, and checkered tails and the tulip background, puce and red and yellow. when she had lured them to the open gate, little gyp raised herself, and said: "aren't you duffies, dears? shoo!" and on the tails of the turkeys she shut the gate. then she went to where, under the walnut-tree--the one large tree of that walled garden--a very old scotch terrier was lying, and sitting down beside him, began stroking his white muzzle, saying: "ossy, ossy, do you love me?" presently, seeing her mother in the porch, she jumped up, and crying out: "ossy--ossy! walk!" rushed to gyp and embraced her legs, while the old scotch terrier slowly followed. thus held prisoner, gyp watched the dog's approach. nearly three years had changed her a little. her face was softer, and rather more grave, her form a little fuller, her hair, if anything, darker, and done differently--instead of waving in wings and being coiled up behind, it was smoothly gathered round in a soft and lustrous helmet, by which fashion the shape of her head was better revealed. "darling, go and ask pettance to put a fresh piece of sulphur in ossy's water-bowl, and to cut up his meat finer. you can give hotspur and brownie two lumps of sugar each; and then we'll go out." going down on her knees in the porch, she parted the old dog's hair, and examined his eczema, thinking: "i must rub some more of that stuff in to-night. oh, ducky, you're not smelling your best! yes; only--not my face!" a telegraph-boy was coming from the gate. gyp opened the missive with the faint tremor she always felt when summerhay was not with her. "detained; shall be down by last train; need not come up to-morrow.--bryan." when the boy was gone, she stooped down and stroked the old dog's head. "master home all day to-morrow, ossy--master home!" a voice from the path said, "beautiful evenin', ma'am." the "old scoundrel," pettance, stiffer in the ankle-joints, with more lines in his gargoyle's face, fewer stumps in his gargoyle's mouth, more film over his dark, burning little eyes, was standing before her, and, behind him, little gyp, one foot rather before the other, as gyp had been wont to stand, waited gravely. "oh, pettance, mr. summerhay will be at home all to-morrow, and we'll go a long ride: and when you exercise, will you call at the inn, in case i don't go that way, and tell major winton i expect him to dinner to-night?" "yes, ma'am; and i've seen the pony for little miss gyp this morning, ma'am. it's a mouse pony, five year old, sound, good temper, pretty little paces. i says to the man: 'don't you come it over me,' i says; 'i was born on an 'orse. talk of twenty pounds, for that pony! ten, and lucky to get it!' 'well,' he says, 'pettance, it's no good to talk round an' round with you. fifteen!' he says. 'i'll throw you one in,' i says, 'eleven! take it or leave it.' 'ah!' he says, 'pettance, you know 'ow to buy an 'orse. all right,' he says; 'twelve!' she's worth all of fifteen, ma'am, and the major's passed her. so if you likes to have 'er, there she is!" gyp looked at her little daughter, who had given one excited hop, but now stood still, her eyes flying up at her mother and her lips parted; and she thought: "the darling! she never begs for anything!" "very well, pettance; buy her." the "old scoundrel" touched his forelock: "yes, ma'am--very good, ma'am. beautiful evenin', ma'am." and, withdrawing at his gait of one whose feet are at permanent right angles to the legs, he mused: 'and that'll be two in my pocket.' ten minutes later gyp, little gyp, and ossian emerged from the garden gate for their evening walk. they went, not as usual, up to the downs, but toward the river, making for what they called "the wild." this was an outlying plot of neglected ground belonging to their farm, two sedgy meadows, hedged by banks on which grew oaks and ashes. an old stone linhay, covered to its broken thatch by a huge ivy bush, stood at the angle where the meadows met. the spot had a strange life to itself in that smooth, kempt countryside of cornfields, grass, and beech-clumps; it was favoured by beasts and birds, and little gyp had recently seen two baby hares there. from an oak-tree, where the crinkled leaves were not yet large enough to hide him, a cuckoo was calling and they stopped to look at the grey bird till he flew off. the singing and serenity, the green and golden oaks and ashes, the flowers--marsh-orchis, ladies' smocks, and cuckoo-buds, starring the rushy grass--all brought to gyp that feeling of the uncapturable spirit which lies behind the forms of nature, the shadowy, hovering smile of life that is ever vanishing and ever springing again out of death. while they stood there close to the old linhay a bird came flying round them in wide circles, uttering shrill cries. it had a long beak and long, pointed wings, and seemed distressed by their presence. little gyp squeezed her mother's hand. "poor bird! isn't it a poor bird, mum?" "yes, dear, it's a curlew--i wonder what's the matter with it. perhaps its mate is hurt." "what is its mate?" "the bird it lives with." "it's afraid of us. it's not like other birds. is it a real bird, mum? or one out of the sky?" "i think it's real. shall we go on and see if we can find out what's the matter?" "yes." they went on into the sedgy grass and the curlew continued to circle, vanishing and reappearing from behind the trees, always uttering those shrill cries. little gyp said: "mum, could we speak to it? because we're not going to hurt nothing, are we?" "of course not, darling! but i'm afraid the poor bird's too wild. try, if you like. call to it: 'courlie! courlie!"' little gyp's piping joined the curlew's cries and other bird-songs in the bright shadowy quiet of the evening till gyp said: "oh, look; it's dipping close to the ground, over there in that corner--it's got a nest! we won't go near, will we?" little gyp echoed in a hushed voice: "it's got a nest." they stole back out of the gate close to the linhay, the curlew still fighting and crying behind them. "aren't we glad the mate isn't hurt, mum?" gyp answered with a shiver: "yes, darling, fearfully glad. now then, shall we go down and ask grandy to come up to dinner?" little gyp hopped. and they went toward the river. at "the bowl of cream," winton had for two years had rooms, which he occupied as often as his pursuits permitted. he had refused to make his home with gyp, desiring to be on hand only when she wanted him; and a simple life of it he led in those simple quarters, riding with her when summerhay was in town, visiting the cottagers, smoking cigars, laying plans for the defence of his daughter's position, and devoting himself to the whims of little gyp. this moment, when his grandchild was to begin to ride, was in a manner sacred to one for whom life had scant meaning apart from horses. looking at them, hand in hand, gyp thought: 'dad loves her as much as he loves me now--more, i think.' lonely dinner at the inn was an infliction which he studiously concealed from gyp, so he accepted their invitation without alacrity, and they walked on up the hill, with little gyp in the middle, supported by a hand on each side. the red house contained nothing that had been in gyp's married home except the piano. it had white walls, furniture of old oak, and for pictures reproductions of her favourites. "the death of procris" hung in the dining-room. winton never failed to scrutinize it when he came in to a meal--that "deuced rum affair" appeared to have a fascination for him. he approved of the dining-room altogether; its narrow oak "last supper" table made gay by a strip of blue linen, old brick hearth, casement windows hung with flowered curtains--all had a pleasing austerity, uncannily redeemed to softness. he got on well enough with summerhay, but he enjoyed himself much more when he was there alone with his daughter. and this evening he was especially glad to have her to himself, for she had seemed of late rather grave and absent-minded. when dinner was over and they were undisturbed, he said: "it must be pretty dull for you, my dear, sometimes. i wish you saw more people." "oh no, dad." watching her smile, he thought: 'that's not sour grapes"--what is the trouble, then?' "i suppose you've not heard anything of that fellow fiorsen lately?" "not a word. but he's playing again in london this season, i see." "is he? ah, that'll cheer them." and he thought: 'it's not that, then. but there's something--i'll swear!' "i hear that bryan's going ahead. i met a man in town last week who spoke of him as about the most promising junior at the bar." "yes; he's doing awfully well." and a sound like a faint sigh caught his ears. "would you say he's changed much since you knew him, dad?" "i don't know--perhaps a little less jokey." "yes; he's lost his laugh." it was very evenly and softly said, yet it affected winton. "can't expect him to keep that," he answered, "turning people inside out, day after day--and most of them rotten. by george, what a life!" but when he had left her, strolling back in the bright moonlight, he reverted to his suspicions and wished he had said more directly: "look here, gyp, are you worrying about bryan--or have people been making themselves unpleasant?" he had, in these last three years, become unconsciously inimical to his own class and their imitators, and more than ever friendly to the poor--visiting the labourers, small farmers, and small tradesmen, doing them little turns when he could, giving their children sixpences, and so forth. the fact that they could not afford to put on airs of virtue escaped him; he perceived only that they were respectful and friendly to gyp and this warmed his heart toward them in proportion as he grew exasperated with the two or three landed families, and that parvenu lot in the riverside villas. when he first came down, the chief landowner--a man he had known for years--had invited him to lunch. he had accepted with the deliberate intention of finding out where he was, and had taken the first natural opportunity of mentioning his daughter. she was, he said, devoted to her flowers; the red house had quite a good garden. his friend's wife, slightly lifting her brows, had answered with a nervous smile: "oh! yes; of course--yes." a silence had, not unnaturally, fallen. since then, winton had saluted his friend and his friend's wife with such frigid politeness as froze the very marrow in their bones. he had not gone there fishing for gyp to be called on, but to show these people that his daughter could not be slighted with impunity. foolish of him, for, man of the world to his fingertips, he knew perfectly well that a woman living with a man to whom she was not married could not be recognized by people with any pretensions to orthodoxy; gyp was beyond even the debatable ground on which stood those who have been divorced and are married again. but even a man of the world is not proof against the warping of devotion, and winton was ready to charge any windmill at any moment on her behalf. outside the inn door, exhaling the last puffs of his good-night cigarette, he thought: 'what wouldn't i give for the old days, and a chance to wing some of these moral upstarts!' ii the last train was not due till eleven-thirty, and having seen that the evening tray had sandwiches, gyp went to summerhay's study, the room at right angles to the body of the house, over which was their bedroom. here, if she had nothing to do, she always came when he was away, feeling nearer to him. she would have been horrified if she had known of her father's sentiments on her behalf. her instant denial of the wish to see more people had been quite genuine. the conditions of her life, in that respect, often seemed to her ideal. it was such a joy to be free of people one did not care two straws about, and of all empty social functions. everything she had now was real--love, and nature, riding, music, animals, and poor people. what else was worth having? she would not have changed for anything. it often seemed to her that books and plays about the unhappiness of women in her position were all false. if one loved, what could one want better? such women, if unhappy, could have no pride; or else could not really love! she had recently been reading "anna karenina," and had often said to herself: "there's something not true about it--as if tolstoy wanted to make us believe that anna was secretly feeling remorse. if one loves, one doesn't feel remorse. even if my baby had been taken away, i shouldn't have felt remorse. one gives oneself to love--or one does not." she even derived a positive joy from the feeling that her love imposed a sort of isolation; she liked to be apart--for him. besides, by her very birth she was outside the fold of society, her love beyond the love of those within it--just as her father's love had been. and her pride was greater than theirs, too. how could women mope and moan because they were cast out, and try to scratch their way back where they were not welcome? how could any woman do that? sometimes, she wondered whether, if fiorsen died, she would marry her lover. what difference would it make? she could not love him more. it would only make him feel, perhaps, too sure of her, make it all a matter of course. for herself, she would rather go on as she was. but for him, she was not certain, of late had been less and less certain. he was not bound now, could leave her when he tired! and yet--did he perhaps feel himself more bound than if they were married--unfairly bound? it was this thought--barely more than the shadow of a thought--which had given her, of late, the extra gravity noticed by her father. in that unlighted room with the moonbeams drifting in, she sat down at summerhay's bureau, where he often worked too late at his cases, depriving her of himself. she sat there resting her elbows on the bare wood, crossing her finger-tips, gazing out into the moonlight, her mind drifting on a stream of memories that seemed to have beginning only from the year when he came into her life. a smile crept out on her face, and now and then she uttered a little sigh of contentment. so many memories, nearly all happy! surely, the most adroit work of the jeweller who put the human soul together was his provision of its power to forget the dark and remember sunshine. the year and a half of her life with fiorsen, the empty months that followed it were gone, dispersed like mist by the radiance of the last three years in whose sky had hung just one cloud, no bigger than a hand, of doubt whether summerhay really loved her as much as she loved him, whether from her company he got as much as the all she got from his. she would not have been her distrustful self if she could have settled down in complacent security; and her mind was ever at stretch on that point, comparing past days and nights with the days and nights of the present. her prevision that, when she loved, it would be desperately, had been fulfilled. he had become her life. when this befalls one whose besetting strength and weakness alike is pride--no wonder that she doubts. for their odyssey they had gone to spain--that brown un-european land of "lyrio" flowers, and cries of "agua!" in the streets, where the men seem cleft to the waist when they are astride of horses, under their wide black hats, and the black-clothed women with wonderful eyes still look as if they missed their eastern veils. it had been a month of gaiety and glamour, last days of september and early days of october, a revel of enchanted wanderings in the streets of seville, of embraces and laughter, of strange scents and stranger sounds, of orange light and velvety shadows, and all the warmth and deep gravity of spain. the alcazar, the cigarette-girls, the gipsy dancers of triana, the old brown ruins to which they rode, the streets, and the square with its grave talkers sitting on benches in the sun, the water-sellers and the melons; the mules, and the dark ragged man out of a dream, picking up the ends of cigarettes, the wine of malaga, burnt fire and honey! seville had bewitched them--they got no further. they had come back across the brown uplands of castile to madrid and goya and velasquez, till it was time for paris, before the law-term began. there, in a queer little french hotel--all bedrooms, and a lift, coffee and carved beds, wood fires, and a chambermaid who seemed all france, and down below a restaurant, to which such as knew about eating came, with waiters who looked like monks, both fat and lean--they had spent a week. three special memories of that week started up in the moonlight before gyp's eyes: the long drive in the bois among the falling leaves of trees flashing with colour in the crisp air under a brilliant sky. a moment in the louvre before the leonardo "bacchus," when--his "restored" pink skin forgotten--all the world seemed to drop away while she listened, with the listening figure before her, to some mysterious music of growing flowers and secret life. and that last most disconcerting memory, of the night before they returned. they were having supper after the theatre in their restaurant, when, in a mirror she saw three people come in and take seats at a table a little way behind--fiorsen, rosek, and daphne wing! how she managed to show no sign she never knew! while they were ordering, she was safe, for rosek was a gourmet, and the girl would certainly be hungry; but after that, she knew that nothing could save her being seen--rosek would mark down every woman in the room! should she pretend to feel faint and slip out into the hotel? or let bryan know? or sit there laughing and talking, eating and drinking, as if nothing were behind her? her own face in the mirror had a flush, and her eyes were bright. when they saw her, they would see that she was happy, safe in her love. her foot sought summerhay's beneath the table. how splendid and brown and fit he looked, compared with those two pale, towny creatures! and he was gazing at her as though just discovering her beauty. how could she ever--that man with his little beard and his white face and those eyes--how could she ever! ugh! and then, in the mirror, she saw rosek's dark-circled eyes fasten on her and betray their recognition by a sudden gleam, saw his lips compressed, and a faint red come up in his cheeks. what would he do? the girl's back was turned--her perfect back--and she was eating. and fiorsen was staring straight before him in that moody way she knew so well. all depended on that deadly little man, who had once kissed her throat. a sick feeling seized on gyp. if her lover knew that within five yards of him were those two men! but she still smiled and talked, and touched his foot. rosek had seen that she was conscious--was getting from it a kind of satisfaction. she saw him lean over and whisper to the girl, and daphne wing turning to look, and her mouth opening for a smothered "oh!" gyp saw her give an uneasy glance at fiorsen, and then begin again to eat. surely she would want to get away before he saw. yes; very soon she rose. what little airs of the world she had now--quite mistress of the situation! the wrap must be placed exactly on her shoulders; and how she walked, giving just one startled look back from the door. gone! the ordeal over! and gyp said: "let's go up, darling." she felt as if they had both escaped a deadly peril--not from anything those two could do to him or her, but from the cruel ache and jealousy of the past, which the sight of that man would have brought him. women, for their age, are surely older than men--married women, at all events, than men who have not had that experience. and all through those first weeks of their life together, there was a kind of wise watchfulness in gyp. he was only a boy in knowledge of life as she saw it, and though his character was so much more decided, active, and insistent than her own, she felt it lay with her to shape the course and avoid the shallows and sunken rocks. the house they had seen together near the river, under the berkshire downs, was still empty; and while it was being got ready, they lived at a london hotel. she had insisted that he should tell no one of their life together. if that must come, she wanted to be firmly settled in, with little gyp and betty and the horses, so that it should all be for him as much like respectable married life as possible. but, one day, in the first week after their return, while in her room, just back from a long day's shopping, a card was brought up to her: "lady summerhay." her first impulse was to be "not at home"; her second, "i'd better face it. bryan would wish me to see her!" when the page-boy was gone, she turned to the mirror and looked at herself doubtfully. she seemed to know exactly what that tall woman whom she had seen on the platform would think of her--too soft, not capable, not right for him!--not even if she were legally his wife. and touching her hair, laying a dab of scent on her eyebrows, she turned and went downstairs fluttering, but outwardly calm enough. in the little low-roofed inner lounge of that old hotel, whose rooms were all "entirely renovated," gyp saw her visitor standing at a table, rapidly turning the pages of an illustrated magazine, as people will when their minds are set upon a coming operation. and she thought: 'i believe she's more frightened than i am!' lady summerhay held out a gloved hand. "how do you do?" she said. "i hope you'll forgive my coming." gyp took the hand. "thank you. it was very good of you. i'm sorry bryan isn't in yet. will you have some tea?" "i've had tea; but do let's sit down. how do you find the hotel?" "very nice." on a velvet lounge that had survived the renovation, they sat side by side, screwed round toward each other. "bryan's told me what a pleasant time you had abroad. he's looking very well, i think. i'm devoted to him, you know." gyp answered softly: "yes, you must be." and her heart felt suddenly as hard as flint. lady summerhay gave her a quick look. "i--i hope you won't mind my being frank--i've been so worried. it's an unhappy position, isn't it?" gyp did not answer, and she hurried on. "if there's anything i can do to help, i should be so glad--it must be horrid for you." gyp said very quietly: "oh! no. i'm perfectly happy--couldn't be happier." and she thought: 'i suppose she doesn't believe that.' lady summerhay was looking at her fixedly. "one doesn't realize these things at first--neither of you will, till you see how dreadfully society can cold-shoulder." gyp made an effort to control a smile. "one can only be cold-shouldered if one puts oneself in the way of it. i should never wish to see or speak to anyone who couldn't take me just for what i am. and i don't really see what difference it will make to bryan; most men of his age have someone, somewhere." she felt malicious pleasure watching her visitor jib and frown at the cynicism of that soft speech; a kind of hatred had come on her of this society woman, who--disguise it as she would--was at heart her enemy, who regarded her, must regard her, as an enslaver, as a despoiler of her son's worldly chances, a delilah dragging him down. she said still more quietly: "he need tell no one of my existence; and you can be quite sure that if ever he feels he's had enough of me, he'll never be troubled by the sight of me again." and she got up. lady summerhay also rose. "i hope you don't think--i really am only too anxious to--" "i think it's better to be quite frank. you will never like me, or forgive me for ensnaring bryan. and so it had better be, please, as it would be if i were just his common mistress. that will be perfectly all right for both of us. it was very good of you to come, though. thank you--and good-bye." lady summerhay literally faltered with speech and hand. with a malicious smile, gyp watched her retirement among the little tables and elaborately modern chairs till her tall figure had disappeared behind a column. then she sat down again on the lounge, pressing her hands to her burning ears. she had never till then known the strength of the pride-demon within her; at the moment, it was almost stronger than her love. she was still sitting there, when the page-boy brought her another card--her father's. she sprang up saying: "yes, here, please." winton came in all brisk and elated at sight of her after this long absence; and, throwing her arms round his neck, she hugged him tight. he was doubly precious to her after the encounter she had just gone though. when he had given her news of mildenham and little gyp, he looked at her steadily, and said: "the coast'll be clear for you both down there, and at bury street, whenever you like to come, gyp. i shall regard this as your real marriage. i shall have the servants in and make that plain." a row like family prayers--and dad standing up very straight, saying in his dry way: "you will be so good in future as to remember--" "i shall be obliged if you will," and so on; betty's round face pouting at being brought in with all the others; markey's soft, inscrutable; mrs. markey's demure and goggling; the maids' rabbit-faces; old pettance's carved grin the film lifting from his little burning eyes: "ha! mr. bryn summer'ay; he bought her orse, and so she's gone to 'im!" and she said: "darling, i don't know! it's awfully sweet of you. we'll see later." winton patted her hand. "we must stand up to 'em, you know, gyp. you mustn't get your tail down." gyp laughed. "no, dad; never!" that same night, across the strip of blackness between their beds, she said: "bryan, promise me something!" "it depends. i know you too well." "no; it's quite reasonable, and possible. promise!" "all right; if it is." "i want you to let me take the lease of the red house--let it be mine, the whole thing--let me pay for everything there." "reasonable! what's the point?" "only that i shall have a proper home of my own. i can't explain, but your mother's coming to-day made me feel i must." "my child, how could i possibly live on you there? it's absurd!" "you can pay for everything else; london--travelling--clothes, if you like. we can make it square up. it's not a question of money, of course. i only want to feel that if, at any moment, you don't need me any more, you can simply stop coming." "i think that's brutal, gyp." "no, no; so many women lose men's love because they seem to claim things of them. i don't want to lose yours that way--that's all." "that's silly, darling!" "it's not. men--and women, too--always tug at chains. and when there is no chain--" "well then; let me take the house, and you can go away when you're tired of me." his voice sounded smothered, resentful; she could hear him turning and turning, as if angry with his pillows. and she murmured: "no; i can't explain. but i really mean it." "we're just beginning life together, and you talk as if you want to split it up. it hurts, gyp, and that's all about it." she said gently: "don't be angry, dear." "well! why don't you trust me more?" "i do. only i must make as sure as i can." the sound came again of his turning and turning. "i can't!" gyp said slowly: "oh! very well!" a dead silence followed, both lying quiet in the darkness, trying to get the better of each other by sheer listening. an hour perhaps passed before he sighed, and, feeling his lips on hers, she knew that she had won. iii there, in the study, the moonlight had reached her face; an owl was hooting not far away, and still more memories came--the happiest of all, perhaps--of first days in this old house together. summerhay damaged himself out hunting that first winter. the memory of nursing him was strangely pleasant, now that it was two years old. for convalescence they had gone to the pyrenees--argeles in march, all almond-blossom and snows against the blue--a wonderful fortnight. in london on the way back they had their first awkward encounter. coming out of a theatre one evening, gyp heard a woman's voice, close behind, say: "why, it's bryan! what ages!" and his answer defensively drawled out: "halo! how are you, diana?" "oh, awfully fit. where are you, nowadays? why don't you come and see us?" again the drawl: "down in the country. i will, some time. good-bye." a tall woman or girl--red-haired, with one of those wonderful white skins that go therewith; and brown--yes, brown eyes; gyp could see those eyes sweeping her up and down with a sort of burning-live curiosity. bryan's hand was thrust under her arm at once. "come on, let's walk and get a cab." as soon as they were clear of the crowd, she pressed his hand to her breast, and said: "did you mind?" "mind? of course not. it's for you to mind." "who was it?" "a second cousin. diana leyton." "do you know her very well?" "oh yes--used to." "and do you like her very much?" "rather!" he looked round into her face, with laughter bubbling up behind his gravity. ah, but could one tease on such a subject as their love? and to this day the figure of that tall girl with the burning-white skin, the burning-brown eyes, the burning-red hair was not quite a pleasant memory to gyp. after that night, they gave up all attempt to hide their union, going to whatever they wished, whether they were likely to meet people or not. gyp found that nothing was so easily ignored as society when the heart was set on other things. besides, they were seldom in london, and in the country did not wish to know anyone, in any case. but she never lost the feeling that what was ideal for her might not be ideal for him. he ought to go into the world, ought to meet people. it would not do for him to be cut off from social pleasures and duties, and then some day feel that he owed his starvation to her. to go up to london, too, every day was tiring, and she persuaded him to take a set of residential chambers in the temple, and sleep there three nights a week. in spite of all his entreaties, she herself never went to those chambers, staying always at bury street when she came up. a kind of superstition prevented her; she would not risk making him feel that she was hanging round his neck. besides, she wanted to keep herself desirable--so little a matter of course that he would hanker after her when he was away. and she never asked him where he went or whom he saw. but, sometimes, she wondered whether he could still be quite faithful to her in thought, love her as he used to; and joy would go down behind a heavy bank of clouds, till, at his return, the sun came out again. love such as hers--passionate, adoring, protective, longing to sacrifice itself, to give all that it had to him, yet secretly demanding all his love in return--for how could a proud woman love one who did not love her?--such love as this is always longing for a union more complete than it is likely to get in a world where all things move and change. but against the grip of this love she never dreamed of fighting now. from the moment when she knew she must cling to him rather than to her baby, she had made no reservations; all her eggs were in one basket, as her father's had been before her--all! the moonlight was shining full on the old bureau and a vase of tulips standing there, giving those flowers colour that was not colour, and an unnamed look, as if they came from a world which no human enters. it glinted on a bronze bust of old voltaire, which she had bought him for a christmas present, so that the great writer seemed to be smiling from the hollows of his eyes. gyp turned the bust a little, to catch the light on its far cheek; a letter was disclosed between it and the oak. she drew it out thinking: 'bless him! he uses everything for paper-weights'; and, in the strange light, its first words caught her eyes: "dear bryan, "but i say--you are wasting yourself--" she laid it down, methodically pushing it back under the bust. perhaps he had put it there on purpose! she got up and went to the window, to check the temptation to read the rest of that letter and see from whom it was. no! she did not admit that she was tempted. one did not read letters. then the full import of those few words struck into her: "dear bryan. but i say--you are wasting yourself." a letter in a chain of correspondence, then! a woman's hand; but not his mother's, nor his sisters'--she knew their writings. who had dared to say he was wasting himself? a letter in a chain of letters! an intimate correspondent, whose name she did not know, because--he had not told her! wasting himself--on what?--on his life with her down here? and was he? had she herself not said that very night that he had lost his laugh? she began searching her memory. yes, last christmas vacation--that clear, cold, wonderful fortnight in florence, he had been full of fun. it was may now. was there no memory since--of his old infectious gaiety? she could not think of any. "but i say--you are wasting yourself." a sudden hatred flared up in her against the unknown woman who had said that thing--and fever, running through her veins, made her ears burn. she longed to snatch forth and tear to pieces the letter, with its guardianship of which that bust seemed mocking her; and she turned away with the thought: 'i'll go and meet him; i can't wait here.' throwing on a cloak she walked out into the moonlit garden, and went slowly down the whitened road toward the station. a magical, dewless night! the moonbeams had stolen in to the beech clump, frosting the boles and boughs, casting a fine ghostly grey over the shadow-patterned beech-mast. gyp took the short cut through it. not a leaf moved in there, no living thing stirred; so might an earth be where only trees inhabited! she thought: 'i'll bring him back through here.' and she waited at the far corner of the clump, where he must pass, some little distance from the station. she never gave people unnecessary food for gossip--any slighting of her irritated him, she was careful to spare him that. the train came in; a car went whizzing by, a cyclist, then the first foot-passenger, at a great pace, breaking into a run. she saw that it was he, and, calling out his name, ran back into the shadow of the trees. he stopped dead in his tracks, then came rushing after her. that pursuit did not last long, and, in his arms, gyp said: "if you aren't too hungry, darling, let's stay here a little--it's so wonderful!" they sat down on a great root, and leaning against him, looking up at the dark branches, she said: "have you had a hard day?" "yes; got hung up by a late consultation; and old leyton asked me to come and dine." gyp felt a sensation as when feet happen on ground that gives a little. "the leytons--that's eaton square, isn't it? a big dinner?" "no. only the old people, and bertie and diana." "diana? that's the girl we met coming out of the theatre, isn't it?" "when? oh--ah--what a memory, gyp!" "yes; it's good for things that interest me." "why? did she interest you?" gyp turned and looked into his face. "yes. is she clever?" "h'm! i suppose you might call her so." "and in love with you?" "great scott! why?" "is it very unlikely? i am." he began kissing her lips and hair. and, closing her eyes, gyp thought: 'if only that's not because he doesn't want to answer!' then, for some minutes, they were silent as the moonlit beech clump. "answer me truly, bryan. do you never--never--feel as if you were wasting yourself on me?" she was certain of a quiver in his grasp; but his face was open and serene, his voice as usual when he was teasing. "well, hardly ever! aren't you funny, dear?" "promise me faithfully to let me know when you've had enough of me. promise!" "all right! but don't look for fulfilment in this life." "i'm not so sure." "i am." gyp put up her lips, and tried to drown for ever in a kiss the memory of those words: "but i say--you are wasting yourself." iv summerhay, coming down next morning, went straight to his bureau; his mind was not at ease. "wasting yourself!" what had he done with that letter of diana's? he remembered gyp's coming in just as he finished reading it. searching the pigeonholes and drawers, moving everything that lay about, he twitched the bust--and the letter lay disclosed. he took it up with a sigh of relief: "dear bryan, "but i say--you are wasting yourself. why, my dear, of course! 'il faut se faire valoir!' you have only one foot to put forward; the other is planted in i don't know what mysterious hole. one foot in the grave--at thirty! really, bryan! pull it out. there's such a lot waiting for you. it's no good your being hoity-toity, and telling me to mind my business. i'm speaking for everyone who knows you. we all feel the blight on the rose. besides, you always were my favourite cousin, ever since i was five and you a horrid little bully of ten; and i simply hate to think of you going slowly down instead of quickly up. oh! i know 'd--n the world!' but--are you? i should have thought it was 'd--ning' you! enough! when are you coming to see us? i've read that book. the man seems to think love is nothing but passion, and passion always fatal. i wonder! perhaps you know. "don't be angry with me for being such a grandmother. "au revoir. "your very good cousin, "diana leyton." he crammed the letter into his pocket, and sat there, appalled. it must have lain two days under that bust! had gyp seen it? he looked at the bronze face; and the philosopher looked back from the hollows of his eyes, as if to say: "what do you know of the human heart, my boy--your own, your mistress's, that girl's, or anyone's? a pretty dance the heart will lead you yet! put it in a packet, tie it round with string, seal it up, drop it in a drawer, lock the drawer! and to-morrow it will be out and skipping on its wrappings. ho! ho!" and summerhay thought: 'you old goat. you never had one!' in the room above, gyp would still be standing as he had left her, putting the last touch to her hair--a man would be a scoundrel who, even in thought, could--"hallo!" the eyes of the bust seemed to say. "pity! that's queer, isn't it? why not pity that red-haired girl, with the skin so white that it burns you, and the eyes so brown that they burn you--don't they?" old satan! gyp had his heart; no one in the world would ever take it from her! and in the chair where she had sat last night conjuring up memories, he too now conjured. how he had loved her, did love her! she would always be what she was and had been to him. and the sage's mouth seemed to twist before him with the words: "quite so, my dear! but the heart's very funny--very--capacious!" a tiny sound made him turn. little gyp was standing in the doorway. "hallo!" he said. "hallo, baryn!" she came flying to him, and he caught her up so that she stood on his knees with the sunlight shining on her fluffed out hair. "well, gipsy! who's getting a tall girl?" "i'm goin' to ride." "ho, ho!" "baryn, let's do humpty-dumpty!" "all right; come on!" he rose and carried her upstairs. gyp was still doing one of those hundred things which occupy women for a quarter of an hour after they are "quite ready," and at little gyp's shout of, "humpty!" she suspended her needle to watch the sacred rite. summerhay had seated himself on the foot-rail of the bed, rounding his arms, sinking his neck, blowing out his cheeks to simulate an egg; then, with an unexpectedness that even little gyp could always see through, he rolled backward on to the bed. and she, simulating "all the king's horses," tried in vain to put him up again. this immemorial game, watched by gyp a hundred times, had to-day a special preciousness. if he could be so ridiculously young, what became of her doubts? looking at his face pulled this way and that, lazily imperturbable under the pommelings of those small fingers, she thought: 'and that girl dared to say he was wasting himself!' for in the night conviction had come to her that those words were written by the tall girl with the white skin, the girl of the theatre--the diana of his last night's dinner. humpty-dumpty was up on the bed-rail again for the finale; all the king's horses were clasped to him, making the egg more round, and over they both went with shrieks and gurgles. what a boy he was! she would not--no, she would not brood and spoil her day with him. but that afternoon, at the end of a long gallop on the downs, she turned her head away and said suddenly: "is she a huntress?" "who?" "your cousin--diana." in his laziest voice, he answered: "i suppose you mean--does she hunt me?" she knew that tone, that expression on his face, knew he was angry; but could not stop herself. "i did." "so you're going to become jealous, gyp?" it was one of those cold, naked sayings that should never be spoken between lovers--one of those sayings at which the heart of the one who speaks sinks with a kind of dismay, and the heart of the one who hears quivers. she cantered on. and he, perforce, after her. when she reined in again, he glanced into her face and was afraid. it was all closed up against him. and he said softly: "i didn't mean that, gyp." but she only shook her head. he had meant it--had wanted to hurt her! it didn't matter--she wouldn't give him the chance again. and she said: "look at that long white cloud, and the apple-green in the sky--rain to-morrow. one ought to enjoy any fine day as if it were the last." uneasy, ashamed, yet still a little angry, summerhay rode on beside her. that night, she cried in her sleep; and, when he awakened her, clung to him and sobbed out: "oh! such a dreadful dream! i thought you'd left off loving me!" for a long time he held and soothed her. never, never! he would never leave off loving her! but a cloud no broader than your hand can spread and cover the whole day. v the summer passed, and always there was that little patch of silence in her heart, and in his. the tall, bright days grew taller, slowly passed their zenith, slowly shortened. on saturdays and sundays, sometimes with winton and little gyp, but more often alone, they went on the river. for gyp, it had never lost the magic of their first afternoon upon it--never lost its glamour as of an enchanted world. all the week she looked forward to these hours of isolation with him, as if the surrounding water secured her not only against a world that would take him from her, if it could, but against that side of his nature, which, so long ago she had named "old georgian." she had once adventured to the law courts by herself, to see him in his wig and gown. under that stiff grey crescent on his broad forehead, he seemed so hard and clever--so of a world to which she never could belong, so of a piece with the brilliant bullying of the whole proceeding. she had come away feeling that she only possessed and knew one side of him. on the river, she had that side utterly--her lovable, lazy, impudently loving boy, lying with his head in her lap, plunging in for a swim, splashing round her; or with his sleeves rolled up, his neck bare, and a smile on his face, plying his slow sculls down-stream, singing, "away, my rolling river," or puffing home like a demon in want of his dinner. it was such a blessing to lose for a few hours each week this growing consciousness that she could never have the whole of him. but all the time the patch of silence grew, for doubt in the heart of one lover reacts on the heart of the other. when the long vacation came, she made an heroic resolve. he must go to scotland, must have a month away from her, a good long rest. and while betty was at the sea with little gyp, she would take her father to his cure. she held so inflexibly to this resolve, that, after many protests, he said with a shrug: "very well, i will then--if you're so keen to get rid of me." "keen to get rid!" when she could not bear to be away from him! but she forced her feeling back, and said, smiling: "at last! there's a good boy!" anything! if only it would bring him back to her exactly as he had been. she asked no questions as to where, or to whom, he would go. tunbridge wells, that charming purgatory where the retired prepare their souls for a more permanent retirement, was dreaming on its hills in long rows of adequate villas. its commons and woods had remained unscorched, so that the retired had not to any extent deserted it, that august, for the sea. they still shopped in the pantiles, strolled the uplands, or flourished their golf-clubs in the grassy parks; they still drank tea in each other's houses and frequented the many churches. one could see their faces, as it were, goldened by their coming glory, like the chins of children by reflection from buttercups. from every kind of life they had retired, and, waiting now for a more perfect day, were doing their utmost to postpone it. they lived very long. gyp and her father had rooms in a hotel where he could bathe and drink the waters without having to climb three hills. this was the first cure she had attended since the long-past time at wiesbaden. was it possible that was only six years ago? she felt so utterly, so strangely different! then life had been sparkling sips of every drink, and of none too much; now it was one long still draft, to quench a thirst that would not be quenched. during these weeks she held herself absolutely at her father's disposal, but she lived for the post, and if, by any chance, she did not get her daily letter, her heart sank to the depths. she wrote every day, sometimes twice, then tore up that second letter, remembering for what reason she had set herself to undergo this separation. during the first week, his letters had a certain equanimity; in the second week they became ardent; in the third, they were fitful--now beginning to look forward, now moody and dejected; and they were shorter. during this third week aunt rosamund joined them. the good lady had become a staunch supporter of gyp's new existence, which, in her view, served fiorsen right. why should the poor child's life be loveless? she had a definitely low opinion of men, and a lower of the state of the marriage-laws; in her view, any woman who struck a blow in that direction was something of a heroine. and she was oblivious of the fact that gyp was quite guiltless of the desire to strike a blow against the marriage-laws, or anything else. aunt rosamund's aristocratic and rebellious blood boiled with hatred of what she called the "stuffy people" who still held that women were men's property. it had made her specially careful never to put herself in that position. she had brought gyp a piece of news. "i was walking down bond street past that tea-and-tart shop, my dear--you know, where they have those special coffee-creams, and who should come out of it but miss daphne wing and our friend fiorsen; and pretty hangdog he looked. he came up to me, with his little lady watching him like a lynx. really, my dear, i was rather sorry for him; he'd got that hungry look of his; she'd been doing all the eating, i'm sure. he asked me how you were. i told him, 'very well.' "'when you see her,' he said, 'tell her i haven't forgotten her, and never shall. but she was quite right; this is the sort of lady that i'm fit for.' and the way he looked at that girl made me feel quite uncomfortable. then he gave me one of his little bows; and off they went, she as pleased as punch. i really was sorry for him." gyp said quietly: "ah! you needn't have been, auntie; he'll always be able to be sorry for himself." a little shocked at her niece's cynicism, aunt rosamund was silent. the poor lady had not lived with fiorsen! that same afternoon, gyp was sitting in a shelter on the common, a book on her knee--thinking her one long thought: 'to-day is thursday--monday week! eleven days--still!'--when three figures came slowly toward her, a man, a woman, and what should have been a dog. english love of beauty and the rights of man had forced its nose back, deprived it of half its ears, and all but three inches or so of tail. it had asthma--and waddled in disillusionment. a voice said: "this'll do, maria. we can take the sun 'ere." but for that voice, with the permanent cold hoarseness caught beside innumerable graves, gyp might not have recognized mr. wagge, for he had taken off his beard, leaving nothing but side-whiskers, and mrs. wagge had filled out wonderfully. they were some time settling down beside her. "you sit here, maria; you won't get the sun in your eyes." "no, robert; i'll sit here. you sit there." "no, you sit there." "no, i will. come, duckie!" but the dog, standing stockily on the pathway was gazing at gyp, while what was left of its broad nose moved from side to side. mr. wagge followed the direction of its glance. "oh!" he said, "oh, this is a surprise!" and fumbling at his straw hat, he passed his other hand over his sleeve and held it out to gyp. it felt almost dry, and fatter than it had been. while she was shaking it, the dog moved forward and sat down on her feet. mrs. wagge also extended her hand, clad in a shiny glove. "this is a--a--pleasure," she murmured. "who would have thought of meeting you! oh, don't let duckie sit against your pretty frock! come, duckie!" but duckie did not move, resting his back against gyp's shin-bones. mr. wagge, whose tongue had been passing over a mouth which she saw to its full advantage for the first time, said abruptly: "you 'aven't come to live here, 'ave you?" "oh no! i'm only with my father for the baths." "ah, i thought not, never havin' seen you. we've been retired here ourselves a matter of twelve months. a pretty spot." "yes; lovely, isn't it?" "we wanted nature. the air suits us, though a bit--er--too irony, as you might say. but it's a long-lived place. we were quite a time lookin' round." mrs. wagge added in her thin voice: "yes--we'd thought of wimbledon, you see, but mr. wagge liked this better; he can get his walk, here; and it's more--select, perhaps. we have several friends. the church is very nice." mr. wagge's face assumed an uncertain expression. he said bluffly: "i was always a chapel man; but--i don't know how it is--there's something in a place like this that makes church seem more--more suitable; my wife always had a leaning that way. i never conceal my actions." gyp murmured: "it's a question of atmosphere, isn't it?" mr. wagge shook his head. "no; i don't hold with incense--we're not 'igh church. but how are you, ma'am? we often speak of you. you're looking well." his face had become a dusky orange, and mrs. wagge's the colour of a doubtful beetroot. the dog on gyp's feet stirred, snuffled, turned round, and fell heavily against her legs again. she said quietly: "i was hearing of daisy only to-day. she's quite a star now, isn't she?" mrs. wagge sighed. mr. wagge looked away and answered: "it's a sore subject. there she is, making her forty and fifty pound a week, and run after in all the papers. she's a success--no doubt about it. and she works. saving a matter of fifteen 'undred a year, i shouldn't be surprised. why, at my best, the years the influenza was so bad, i never cleared a thousand net. no, she's a success." mrs. wagge added: "have you seen her last photograph--the one where she's standing between two hydrangea-tubs? it was her own idea." mr. wagge mumbled suddenly: "i'm always glad to see her when she takes a run down in a car. but i've come here for quiet after the life i've led, and i don't want to think about it, especially before you, ma'am. i don't--that's a fact." a silence followed, during which mr. and mrs. wagge looked at their feet, and gyp looked at the dog. "ah!--here you are!" it was winton, who had come up from behind the shelter, and stood, with eyebrows slightly raised. gyp could not help a smile. her father's weathered, narrow face, half-veiled eyes, thin nose, little crisp, grey moustache that did not hide his firm lips, his lean, erect figure, the very way he stood, his thin, dry, clipped voice were the absolute antithesis of mr. wagge's thickset, stoutly planted form, thick-skinned, thick-featured face, thick, rather hoarse yet oily voice. it was as if providence had arranged a demonstration of the extremes of social type. and she said: "mr. and mrs. wagge--my father." winton raised his hat. gyp remained seated, the dog duckie being still on her feet. "'appy to meet you, sir. i hope you have benefit from the waters. they're supposed to be most powerful, i believe." "thank you--not more deadly than most. are you drinking them?" mr. wagge smiled. "nao!" he said, "we live here." "indeed! do you find anything to do?" "well, as a fact, i've come here for rest. but i take a turkish bath once a fortnight--find it refreshing; keeps the pores of the skin acting." mrs. wagge added gently: "it seems to suit my husband wonderfully." winton murmured: "yes. is this your dog? bit of a philosopher, isn't he?" mrs. wagge answered: "oh, he's a naughty dog, aren't you, duckie?" the dog duckie, feeling himself the cynosure of every eye, rose and stood panting into gyp's face. she took the occasion to get up. "we must go, i'm afraid. good-bye. it's been very nice to meet you again. when you see daisy, will you please give her my love?" mrs. wagge unexpectedly took a handkerchief from her reticule. mr. wagge cleared his throat heavily. gyp was conscious of the dog duckie waddling after them, and of mrs. wagge calling, "duckie, duckie!" from behind her handkerchief. winton said softly: "so those two got that pretty filly! well, she didn't show much quality, when you come to think of it. she's still with our friend, according to your aunt." gyp nodded. "yes; and i do hope she's happy." "he isn't, apparently. serves him right." gyp shook her head. "oh no, dad!" "well, one oughtn't to wish any man worse than he's likely to get. but when i see people daring to look down their noses at you--by jove! i get--" "darling, what does that matter?" winton answered testily: "it matters very much to me--the impudence of it!" his mouth relaxed in a grim little smile: "ah, well--there's not much to choose between us so far as condemning our neighbours goes. 'charity stakes--also ran, charles clare winton, the church, and mrs. grundy.'" they opened out to each other more in those few days at tunbridge wells than they had for years. whether the process of bathing softened his crust, or the air that mr. wagge found "a bit--er--too irony, as you might say," had upon winton the opposite effect, he certainly relaxed that first duty of man, the concealment of his spirit, and disclosed his activities as he never had before--how such and such a person had been set on his feet, so and so sent out to canada, this man's wife helped over her confinement, that man's daughter started again after a slip. and gyp's child-worship of him bloomed anew. on the last afternoon of their stay, she strolled out with him through one of the long woods that stretched away behind their hotel. excited by the coming end of her self-inflicted penance, moved by the beauty among those sunlit trees, she found it difficult to talk. but winton, about to lose her, was quite loquacious. starting from the sinister change in the racing-world--so plutocratic now, with the american seat, the increase of bookmaking owners, and other tragic occurrences--he launched forth into a jeremiad on the condition of things in general. parliament, he thought, especially now that members were paid, had lost its self-respect; the towns had eaten up the country; hunting was threatened; the power and vulgarity of the press were appalling; women had lost their heads; and everybody seemed afraid of having any "breeding." by the time little gyp was gyp's age, they would all be under the thumb of watch committees, live in garden cities, and have to account for every half-crown they spent, and every half-hour of their time; the horse, too, would be an extinct animal, brought out once a year at the lord-mayor's show. he hoped--the deuce--he might not be alive to see it. and suddenly he added: "what do you think happens after death, gyp?" they were sitting on one of those benches that crop up suddenly in the heart of nature. all around them briars and bracken were just on the turn; and the hum of flies, the vague stir of leaves and life formed but a single sound. gyp, gazing into the wood, answered: "nothing, dad. i think we just go back." "ah--my idea, too!" neither of them had ever known what the other thought about it before! gyp murmured: "la vie est vaine --un peu d'amour, un peu de haine, et puis bonjour!" not quite a grunt or quite a laugh emerged from the depths of winton, and, looking up at the sky, he said: "and what they call 'god,' after all, what is it? just the very best you can get out of yourself--nothing more, so far as i can see. dash it, you can't imagine anything more than you can imagine. one would like to die in the open, though, like whyte-melville. but there's one thing that's always puzzled me, gyp. all one's life one's tried to have a single heart. death comes, and out you go! then why did one love, if there's to be no meeting after?" "yes; except for that, who would care? but does the wanting to meet make it any more likely, dad? the world couldn't go on without love; perhaps loving somebody or something with all your heart is all in itself." winton stared; the remark was a little deep. "ye-es," he said at last. "i often think the religious johnnies are saving their money to put on a horse that'll never run after all. i remember those yogi chaps in india. there they sat, and this jolly world might rot round them for all they cared--they thought they were going to be all right themselves, in kingdom come. but suppose it doesn't come?" gyp murmured with a little smile: "perhaps they were trying to love everything at once." "rum way of showing it. and, hang it, there are such a lot of things one can't love! look at that!" he pointed upwards. against the grey bole of a beech-tree hung a board, on which were the freshly painted words: private trespassers will be prosecuted "that board is stuck up all over this life and the next. well, we won't give them the chance to warn us off, gyp." slipping her hand through his arm, she pressed close up to him. "no, dad; you and i will go off with the wind and the sun, and the trees and the waters, like procris in my picture." vi the curious and complicated nature of man in matters of the heart is not sufficiently conceded by women, professors, clergymen, judges, and other critics of his conduct. and naturally so, since they all have vested interests in his simplicity. even journalists are in the conspiracy to make him out less wayward than he is, and dip their pens in epithets, if his heart diverges inch or ell. bryan summerhay was neither more curious nor more complicated than those of his own sex who would condemn him for getting into the midnight express from edinburgh with two distinct emotions in his heart--a regretful aching for the girl, his cousin, whom he was leaving behind, and a rapturous anticipation of the woman whom he was going to rejoin. how was it possible that he could feel both at once? "against all the rules," women and other moralists would say. well, the fact is, a man's heart knows no rules. and he found it perfectly easy, lying in his bunk, to dwell on memories of diana handing him tea, or glancing up at him, while he turned the leaves of her songs, with that enticing mockery in her eyes and about her lips; and yet the next moment to be swept from head to heel by the longing to feel gyp's arms around him, to hear her voice, look in her eyes, and press his lips on hers. if, instead of being on his way to rejoin a mistress, he had been going home to a wife, he would not have felt a particle more of spiritual satisfaction, perhaps not so much. he was returning to the feelings and companionship that he knew were the most deeply satisfying spiritually and bodily he would ever have. and yet he could ache a little for that red-haired girl, and this without any difficulty. how disconcerting! but, then, truth is. from that queer seesawing of his feelings, he fell asleep, dreamed of all things under the sun as men only can in a train, was awakened by the hollow silence in some station, slept again for hours, it seemed, and woke still at the same station, fell into a sound sleep at last that ended at willesden in broad daylight. dressing hurriedly, he found he had but one emotion now, one longing--to get to gyp. sitting back in his cab, hands deep-thrust into the pockets of his ulster, he smiled, enjoying even the smell of the misty london morning. where would she be--in the hall of the hotel waiting, or upstairs still? not in the hall! and asking for her room, he made his way to its door. she was standing in the far corner motionless, deadly pale, quivering from head to foot; and when he flung his arms round her, she gave a long sigh, closing her eyes. with his lips on hers, he could feel her almost fainting; and he too had no consciousness of anything but that long kiss. next day, they went abroad to a little place not far from fecamp, in that normandy countryside where all things are large--the people, the beasts, the unhedged fields, the courtyards of the farms guarded so squarely by tall trees, the skies, the sea, even the blackberries large. and gyp was happy. but twice there came letters, in that too-well-remembered handwriting, which bore a scottish postmark. a phantom increases in darkness, solidifies when seen in mist. jealousy is rooted not in reason, but in the nature that feels it--in her nature that loved desperately, felt proudly. and jealousy flourishes on scepticism. even if pride would have let her ask, what good? she would not have believed the answers. of course he would say--if only out of pity--that he never let his thoughts rest on another woman. but, after all, it was only a phantom. there were many hours in those three weeks when she felt he really loved her, and so--was happy. they went back to the red house at the end of the first week in october. little gyp, home from the sea, was now an almost accomplished horsewoman. under the tutelage of old pettance, she had been riding steadily round and round those rough fields by the linhay which they called "the wild," her firm brown legs astride of the mouse-coloured pony, her little brown face, with excited, dark eyes, very erect, her auburn crop of short curls flopping up and down on her little straight back. she wanted to be able to "go out riding" with grandy and mum and baryn. and the first days were spent by them all more or less in fulfilling her new desires. then term began, and gyp sat down again to the long sharing of summerhay with his other life. vii one afternoon at the beginning of november, the old scotch terrier, ossian, lay on the path in the pale sunshine. he had lain there all the morning since his master went up by the early train. nearly sixteen years old, he was deaf now and disillusioned, and every time that summerhay left him, his eyes seemed to say: "you will leave me once too often!" the blandishments of the other nice people about the house were becoming to him daily less and less a substitute for that which he felt he had not much time left to enjoy; nor could he any longer bear a stranger within the gate. from her window, gyp saw him get up and stand with his back ridged, growling at the postman, and, fearing for the man's calves, she hastened out. among the letters was one in that dreaded hand writing marked "immediate," and forwarded from his chambers. she took it up, and put it to her nose. a scent--of what? too faint to say. her thumb nails sought the edge of the flap on either side. she laid the letter down. any other letter, but not that--she wanted to open it too much. readdressing it, she took it out to put with the other letters. and instantly the thought went through her: 'what a pity! if i read it, and there was nothing!' all her restless, jealous misgivings of months past would then be set at rest! she stood, uncertain, with the letter in her hand. ah--but if there were something! she would lose at one stroke her faith in him, and her faith in herself--not only his love but her own self-respect. she dropped the letter on the table. could she not take it up to him herself? by the three o'clock slow train, she could get to him soon after five. she looked at her watch. she would just have time to walk down. and she ran upstairs. little gyp was sitting on the top stair--her favourite seat--looking at a picture-book. "i'm going up to london, darling. tell betty i may be back to-night, or perhaps i may not. give me a good kiss." little gyp gave the good kiss, and said: "let me see you put your hat on, mum." while gyp was putting on hat and furs, she thought: "i shan't take a bag; i can always make shift at bury street if--" she did not finish the thought, but the blood came up in her cheeks. "take care of ossy, darling!" she ran down, caught up the letter, and hastened away to the station. in the train, her cheeks still burned. might not this first visit to his chambers be like her old first visit to the little house in chelsea? she took the letter out. how she hated that large, scrawly writing for all the thoughts and fears it had given her these past months! if that girl knew how much anxiety and suffering she had caused, would she stop writing, stop seeing him? and gyp tried to conjure up her face, that face seen only for a minute, and the sound of that clipped, clear voice but once heard--the face and voice of one accustomed to have her own way. no! it would only make her go on all the more. fair game, against a woman with no claim--but that of love. thank heaven she had not taken him away from any woman--unless--that girl perhaps thought she had! ah! why, in all these years, had she never got to know his secrets, so that she might fight against what threatened her? but would she have fought? to fight for love was degrading, horrible! and yet--if one did not? she got up and stood at the window of her empty carriage. there was the river--and there--yes, the very backwater where he had begged her to come to him for good. it looked so different, bare and shorn, under the light grey sky; the willows were all polled, the reeds cut down. and a line from one of his favourite sonnets came into her mind: "bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang." ah, well! time enough to face things when they came. she would only think of seeing him! and she put the letter back to burn what hole it liked in the pocket of her fur coat. the train was late; it was past five, already growing dark, when she reached paddington and took a cab to the temple. strange to be going there for the first time--not even to know exactly where harcourt buildings were. at temple lane, she stopped the cab and walked down that narrow, ill-lighted, busy channel into the heart of the great law. "up those stone steps, miss; along the railin', second doorway." gyp came to the second doorway and in the doubtful light scrutinized the names. "summerhay--second floor." she began to climb the stairs. her heart beat fast. what would he say? how greet her? was it not absurd, dangerous, to have come? he would be having a consultation perhaps. there would be a clerk or someone to beard, and what name could she give? on the first floor she paused, took out a blank card, and pencilled on it: "can i see you a minute?--g." then, taking a long breath to quiet her heart, she went on up. there was the name, and there the door. she rang--no one came; listened--could hear no sound. all looked so massive and bleak and dim--the iron railings, stone stairs, bare walls, oak door. she rang again. what should she do? leave the letter? not see him after all--her little romance all come to naught--just a chilly visit to bury street, where perhaps there would be no one but mrs. markey, for her father, she knew, was at mildenham, hunting, and would not be up till sunday! and she thought: 'i'll leave the letter, go back to the strand, have some tea, and try again.' she took out the letter, with a sort of prayer pushed it through the slit of the door, heard it fall into its wire cage; then slowly descended the stairs to the outer passage into temple lane. it was thronged with men and boys, at the end of the day's work. but when she had nearly reached the strand, a woman's figure caught her eye. she was walking with a man on the far side; their faces were turned toward each other. gyp heard their voices, and, faint, dizzy, stood looking back after them. they passed under a lamp; the light glinted on the woman's hair, on a trick of summerhay's, the lift of one shoulder, when he was denying something; she heard his voice, high-pitched. she watched them cross, mount the stone steps she had just come down, pass along the railed stone passage, enter the doorway, disappear. and such horror seized on her that she could hardly walk away. "oh no! oh no! oh no!" so it went in her mind--a kind of moaning, like that of a cold, rainy wind through dripping trees. what did it mean? oh, what did it mean? in this miserable tumult, the only thought that did not come to her was that of going back to his chambers. she hurried away. it was a wonder she was not run over, for she had no notion what she was doing, where going, and crossed the streets without the least attention to traffic. she came to trafalgar square, and stood leaning against its parapet in front of the national gallery. here she had her first coherent thought: so that was why his chambers had been empty! no clerk--no one! that they might be alone. alone, where she had dreamed of being alone with him! and only that morning he had kissed her and said, "good-bye, treasure!" a dreadful little laugh got caught in her throat, confused with a sob. why--why had she a heart? down there, against the plinth of one of the lions, a young man leaned, with his arms round a girl, pressing her to him. gyp turned away from the sight and resumed her miserable wandering. she went up bury street. no light; not any sign of life! it did not matter; she could not have gone in, could not stay still, must walk! she put up her veil to get more air, feeling choked. the trees of the green park, under which she was passing now, had still a few leaves, and they gleamed in the lamplight copper-coloured as that girl's hair. all sorts of torturing visions came to her. those empty chambers! she had seen one little minute of their intimacy. a hundred kisses might have passed between them--a thousand words of love! and he would lie to her. already he had acted a lie! she had not deserved that. and this sense of the injustice done her was the first relief she felt--this definite emotion of a mind clouded by sheer misery. she had not deserved that he should conceal things from her. she had not had one thought or look for any man but him since that night down by the sea, when he came to her across the garden in the moonlight--not one thought--and never would! poor relief enough! she was in hyde park now, wandering along a pathway which cut diagonally across the grass. and with more resolution, more purpose, she began searching her memory for signs, proofs of when he had changed to her. she could not find them. he had not changed in his ways to her; not at all. could one act love, then? act passion, or--horrible thought!--when he kissed her nowadays, was he thinking of that girl? she heard the rustling of leaves behind. a youth was following her along the path, some ravening youth, whose ungoverned breathing had a kind of pathos in it. heaven! what irony! she was too miserable to care, hardly even knew when, in the main path again, she was free from his pursuit. love! why had it such possession of her, that a little thing--yes, a little thing--only the sight of him with another, should make her suffer so? she came out on the other side of the park. what should she do? crawl home, creep into her hole, and lie there stricken! at paddington she found a train just starting and got in. there were other people in the carriage, business men from the city, lawyers, from that--place where she had been. and she was glad of their company, glad of the crackle of evening papers and stolid faces giving her looks of stolid interest from behind them, glad to have to keep her mask on, afraid of the violence of her emotion. but one by one they got out, to their cars or their constitutionals, and she was left alone to gaze at darkness and the deserted river just visible in the light of a moon smothered behind the sou'westerly sky. and for one wild moment she thought: 'shall i open the door and step out--one step--peace!' she hurried away from the station. it was raining, and she drew up her veil to feel its freshness on her hot face. there was just light enough for her to see the pathway through the beech clump. the wind in there was sighing, soughing, driving the dark boughs, tearing off the leaves, little black wet shapes that came whirling at her face. the wild melancholy in that swaying wood was too much for gyp; she ran, thrusting her feet through the deep rustling drifts of leaves not yet quite drenched. they clung all wet round her thin stockings, and the rainy wind beat her forehead. at the edge, she paused for breath, leaning against the bole of a beech, peering back, where the wild whirling wind was moaning and tearing off the leaves. then, bending her head to the rain, she went on in the open, trying to prepare herself to show nothing when she reached home. she got in and upstairs to her room, without being seen. if she had possessed any sedative drug she would have taken it. anything to secure oblivion from this aching misery! huddling before the freshly lighted fire, she listened to the wind driving through the poplars; and once more there came back to her the words of that song sung by the scottish girl at fiorsen's concert: "and my heart reft of its own sun, deep lies in death-torpor cold and grey." presently she crept into bed, and at last fell asleep. she woke next morning with the joyful thought: 'it's saturday; he'll be down soon after lunch!' and then she remembered. ah, no! it was too much! at the pang of that remembrance, it was as if a devil entered into her--a devil of stubborn pride, which grew blacker with every hour of that morning. after lunch, that she might not be in when he came, she ordered her mare, and rode up on the downs alone. the rain had ceased, but the wind still blew strong from the sou'west, and the sky was torn and driven in swathes of white and grey to north, south, east, and west, and puffs of what looked like smoke scurried across the cloud banks and the glacier-blue rifts between. the mare had not been out the day before, and on the springy turf stretched herself in that thoroughbred gallop which bears a rider up, as it were, on air, till nothing but the thud of hoofs, the grass flying by, the beating of the wind in her face betrayed to gyp that she was moving. for full two miles they went without a pull, only stopped at last by the finish of the level. from there, one could see far--away over to wittenham clumps across the valley, and to the high woods above the river in the east--away, in the south and west, under that strange, torn sky, to a whole autumn land, of whitish grass, bare fields, woods of grey and gold and brown, fast being pillaged. but all that sweep of wind, and sky, freshness of rain, and distant colour could not drive out of gyp's heart the hopeless aching and the devil begotten of it. viii there are men who, however well-off--either in money or love--must gamble. their affections may be deeply rooted, but they cannot repulse fate when it tantalizes them with a risk. summerhay, who loved gyp, was not tired of her either physically or mentally, and even felt sure he would never tire, had yet dallied for months with this risk which yesterday had come to a head. and now, taking his seat in the train to return to her, he felt unquiet; and since he resented disquietude, he tried defiantly to think of other things, but he was very unsuccessful. looking back, it was difficult for him to tell when the snapping of his defences had begun. a preference shown by one accustomed to exact preference is so insidious. the girl, his cousin, was herself a gambler. he did not respect her as he respected gyp; she did not touch him as gyp touched him, was not--no, not half--so deeply attractive; but she had--confound her! the power of turning his head at moments, a queer burning, skin-deep fascination, and, above all, that most dangerous quality in a woman--the lure of an imperious vitality. in love with life, she made him feel that he was letting things slip by. and since to drink deep of life was his nature, too--what chance had he of escape? far-off cousinhood is a dangerous relationship. its familiarity is not great enough to breed contempt, but sufficient to remove those outer defences to intimacy, the conquest of which, in other circumstances, demands the conscious effort which warns people whither they are going. summerhay had not realized the extent of the danger, but he had known that it existed, especially since scotland. it would be interesting--as the historians say--to speculate on what he would have done, if he could have foretold what would happen. but he had certainly not foretold the crisis of yesterday evening. he had received a telegram from her at lunch-time, suggesting the fulfilment of a jesting promise, made in scotland, that she should have tea with him and see his chambers--a small and harmless matter. only, why had he dismissed his clerk so early? that is the worst of gamblers--they will put a polish on the risks they run. he had not reckoned, perhaps, that she would look so pretty, lying back in his big oxford chair, with furs thrown open so that her white throat showed, her hair gleaming, a smile coming and going on her lips; her white hand, with polished nails, holding that cigarette; her brown eyes, so unlike gyp's, fixed on him; her slim foot with high instep thrust forward in transparent stocking. not reckoned that, when he bent to take her cup, she would put out her hands, draw his head down, press her lips to his, and say: "now you know!" his head had gone round, still went round, thinking of it! that was all. a little matter--except that, in an hour, he would be meeting the eyes of one he loved much more. and yet--the poison was in his blood; a kiss so cut short--by what--what counter impulse?--leaving him gazing at her without a sound, inhaling that scent of hers--something like a pine wood's scent, only sweeter, while she gathered up her gloves, fastened her furs, as if it had been he, not she, who had snatched that kiss. but her hand had pressed his arm against her as they went down the stairs. and getting into her cab at the temple station, she had looked back at him with a little half-mocking smile of challenge and comradeship and promise. the link would be hard to break--even if he wanted to. and yet nothing would come of it! heavens, no! he had never thought! marriage! impossible! anything else--even more impossible! when he got back to his chambers, he had found in the box the letter, which her telegram had repeated, readdressed by gyp from the red house. and a faint uneasiness at its having gone down there passed through him. he spent a restless evening at the club, playing cards and losing; sat up late in his chambers over a case; had a hard morning's work, and only now that he was nearing gyp, realized how utterly he had lost the straightforward simplicity of things. when he reached the house and found that she had gone out riding alone, his uneasiness increased. why had she not waited as usual for him to ride with her? and he paced up and down the garden, where the wind was melancholy in the boughs of the walnut-tree that had lost all its leaves. little gyp was out for her walk, and only poor old ossy kept him company. had she not expected him by the usual train? he would go and try to find out. he changed and went to the stables. old pettance was sitting on a corn-bin, examining an aged ruff's guide, which contained records of his long-past glory, scored under by a pencil: "june stakes: agility. e. pettance rd." "tidport selling h'cap: dorothea, e. pettance, o." "salisbury cup: also ran plum pudding, e. pettance," with other triumphs. he got up, saying: "good-afternoon, sir; windy afternoon, sir. the mistress 'as been gone out over two hours, sir. she wouldn't take me with 'er." "hurry up, then, and saddle hotspur." "yes, sir; very good, sir." over two hours! he went up on to the downs, by the way they generally came home, and for an hour he rode, keeping a sharp lookout for any sign of her. no use; and he turned home, hot and uneasy. on the hall table were her riding-whip and gloves. his heart cleared, and he ran upstairs. she was doing her hair and turned her head sharply as he entered. hurrying across the room he had the absurd feeling that she was standing at bay. she drew back, bent her face away from him, and said: "no! don't pretend! anything's better than pretence!" he had never seen her look or speak like that--her face so hard, her eyes so stabbing! and he recoiled dumbfounded. "what's the matter, gyp?" "nothing. only--don't pretend!" and, turning to the glass, she went on twisting and coiling up her hair. she looked lovely, flushed from her ride in the wind, and he had a longing to seize her in his arms. but her face stopped him. with fear and a sort of anger, he said: "you might explain, i think." an evil little smile crossed her face. "you can do that. i am in the dark." "i don't in the least understand what you mean." "don't you?" there was something deadly in her utter disregard of him, while her fingers moved swiftly about her dark, shining hair--something so appallingly sudden in this hostility that summerhay felt a peculiar sensation in his head, as if he must knock it against something. he sat down on the side of the bed. was it that letter? but how? it had not been opened. he said: "what on earth has happened, gyp, since i went up yesterday? speak out, and don't keep me like this!" she turned and looked at him. "don't pretend that you're upset because you can't kiss me! don't be false, bryan! you know it's been pretence for months." summerhay's voice grew high. "i think you've gone mad. i don't know what you mean." "oh, yes, you do. did you get a letter yesterday marked 'immediate'?" ah! so it was that! to meet the definite, he hardened, and said stubbornly: "yes; from diana leyton. do you object?" "no; only, how do you think it got back to you from here so quickly?" he said dully: "i don't know. by post, i suppose." "no; i put it in your letter-box myself--at half-past five." summerhay's mind was trained to quickness, and the full significance of those words came home to him at once. he stared at her fixedly. "i suppose you saw us, then." "yes." he got up, made a helpless movement, and said: "oh, gyp, don't! don't be so hard! i swear by--" gyp gave a little laugh, turned her back, and went on coiling at her hair. and again that horrid feeling that he must knock his head against something rose in summerhay. he said helplessly: "i only gave her tea. why not? she's my cousin. it's nothing! why should you think the worst of me? she asked to see my chambers. why not? i couldn't refuse." "your empty chambers? don't, bryan--it's pitiful! i can't bear to hear you." at that lash of the whip, summerhay turned and said: "it pleases you to think the worst, then?" gyp stopped the movement of her fingers and looked round at him. "i've always told you you were perfectly free. do you think i haven't felt it going on for months? there comes a moment when pride revolts--that's all. don't lie to me, please!" "i am not in the habit of lying." but still he did not go. that awful feeling of encirclement, of a net round him, through which he could not break--a net which he dimly perceived even in his resentment to have been spun by himself, by that cursed intimacy, kept from her all to no purpose--beset him more closely every minute. could he not make her see the truth, that it was only her he really loved? and he said: "gyp, i swear to you there's nothing but one kiss, and that was not--" a shudder went through her from head to foot; she cried out: "oh, please go away!" he went up to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and said: "it's only you i really love. i swear it! why don't you believe me? you must believe me. you can't be so wicked as not to. it's foolish--foolish! think of our life--think of our love--think of all--" her face was frozen; he loosened his grasp of her, and muttered: "oh, your pride is awful!" "yes, it's all i've got. lucky for you i have it. you can go to her when you like." "go to her! it's absurd--i couldn't--if you wish, i'll never see her again." she turned away to the glass. "oh, don't! what is the use?" nothing is harder for one whom life has always spoiled than to find his best and deepest feelings disbelieved in. at that moment, summerhay meant absolutely what he said. the girl was nothing to him! if she was pursuing him, how could he help it? and he could not make gyp believe it! how awful! how truly terrible! how unjust and unreasonable of her! and why? what had he done that she should be so unbelieving--should think him such a shallow scoundrel? could he help the girl's kissing him? help her being fond of him? help having a man's nature? unreasonable, unjust, ungenerous! and giving her a furious look, he went out. he went down to his study, flung himself on the sofa and turned his face to the wall. devilish! but he had not been there five minutes before his anger seemed childish and evaporated into the chill of deadly and insistent fear. he was perceiving himself up against much more than a mere incident, up against her nature--its pride and scepticism--yes--and the very depth and singleness of her love. while she wanted nothing but him, he wanted and took so much else. he perceived this but dimly, as part of that feeling that he could not break through, of the irritable longing to put his head down and butt his way out, no matter what the obstacles. what was coming? how long was this state of things to last? he got up and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind him, his head thrown back; and every now and then he shook that head, trying to free it from this feeling of being held in chancery. and then diana! he had said he would not see her again. but was that possible? after that kiss--after that last look back at him! how? what could he say--do? how break so suddenly? then, at memory of gyp's face, he shivered. ah, how wretched it all was! there must be some way out--some way! surely some way out! for when first, in the wood of life, fatality halts, turns her dim dark form among the trees, shows her pale cheek and those black eyes of hers, shows with awful swiftness her strange reality--men would be fools indeed who admitted that they saw her! ix gyp stayed in her room doing little things--as a woman will when she is particularly wretched--sewing pale ribbons into her garments, polishing her rings. and the devil that had entered into her when she woke that morning, having had his fling, slunk away, leaving the old bewildered misery. she had stabbed her lover with words and looks, felt pleasure in stabbing, and now was bitterly sad. what use--what satisfaction? how by vengeful prickings cure the deep wound, disperse the canker in her life? how heal herself by hurting him whom she loved so? if he came up again now and made but a sign, she would throw herself into his arms. but hours passed, and he did not come, and she did not go down--too truly miserable. it grew dark, but she did not draw the curtains; the sight of the windy moonlit garden and the leaves driving across brought a melancholy distraction. little gyp came in and prattled. there was a tree blown down, and she had climbed on it; they had picked up two baskets of acorns, and the pigs had been so greedy; and she had been blown away, so that betty had had to run after her. and baryn was walking in the study; he was so busy he had only given her one kiss. when she was gone, gyp opened the window and let the wind full into her face. if only it would blow out of her heart this sickening sense that all was over, no matter how he might pretend to love her out of pity! in a nature like hers, so doubting and self-distrustful, confidence, once shaken to the roots, could never be restored. a proud nature that went all lengths in love could never be content with a half-love. she had been born too doubting, proud, and jealous, yet made to love too utterly. she--who had been afraid of love, and when it came had fought till it swept her away; who, since then, had lived for love and nothing else, who gave all, and wanted all--knew for certain and for ever that she could not have all. it was "nothing" he had said! nothing! that for months he had been thinking at least a little of another woman besides herself. she believed what he had told her, that there had been no more than a kiss--but was it nothing that they had reached that kiss? this girl--this cousin--who held all the cards, had everything on her side--the world, family influence, security of life; yes, and more, so terribly much more--a man's longing for the young and unawakened. this girl he could marry! it was this thought which haunted her. a mere momentary outbreak of man's natural wildness she could forgive and forget--oh, yes! it was the feeling that it was a girl, his own cousin, besieging him, dragging him away, that was so dreadful. ah, how horrible it was--how horrible! how, in decent pride, keep him from her, fetter him? she heard him come up to his dressing-room, and while he was still there, stole out and down. life must go on, the servants be hoodwinked, and so forth. she went to the piano and played, turning the dagger in her heart, or hoping forlornly that music might work some miracle. he came in presently and stood by the fire, silent. dinner, with the talk needful to blinding the household--for what is more revolting than giving away the sufferings of the heart?--was almost unendurable and directly it was over, they went, he to his study, she back to the piano. there she sat, ready to strike the notes if anyone came in; and tears fell on the hands that rested in her lap. with all her soul she longed to go and clasp him in her arms and cry: "i don't care--i don't care! do what you like--go to her--if only you'll love me a little!" and yet to love--a little! was it possible? not to her! in sheer misery she went upstairs and to bed. she heard him come up and go into his dressing-room--and, at last, in the firelight saw him kneeling by her. "gyp!" she raised herself and threw her arms round him. such an embrace a drowning woman might have given. pride and all were abandoned in an effort to feel him close once more, to recover the irrecoverable past. for a long time she listened to his pleading, explanations, justifications, his protestations of undying love--strange to her and painful, yet so boyish and pathetic. she soothed him, clasping his head to her breast, gazing out at the flickering fire. in that hour, she rose to a height above herself. what happened to her own heart did not matter so long as he was happy, and had all that he wanted with her and away from her--if need be, always away from her. but, when he had gone to sleep, a terrible time began; for in the small hours, when things are at their worst, she could not keep back her weeping, though she smothered it into the pillow. it woke him, and all began again; the burden of her cry: "it's gone!" the burden of his: "it's not--can't you see it isn't?" till, at last, that awful feeling that he must knock his head against the wall made him leap up and tramp up and down like a beast in a cage--the cage of the impossible. for, as in all human tragedies, both were right according to their natures. she gave him all herself, wanted all in return, and could not have it. he wanted her, the rest besides, and no complaining, and could not have it. he did not admit impossibility; she did. at last came another of those pitying lulls till he went to sleep in her arms. long she lay awake, staring at the darkness, admitting despair, trying to find how to bear it, not succeeding. impossible to cut his other life away from him--impossible that, while he lived it, this girl should not be tugging him away from her. impossible to watch and question him. impossible to live dumb and blind, accepting the crumbs left over, showing nothing. would it have been better if they had been married? but then it might have been the same--reversed; perhaps worse! the roots were so much deeper than that. he was not single-hearted and she was. in spite of all that he said, she knew he didn't really want to give up that girl. how could he? even if the girl would let him go! and slowly there formed within her a gruesome little plan to test him. then, ever so gently withdrawing her arms, she turned over and slept, exhausted. next morning, remorselessly carrying out that plan, she forced herself to smile and talk as if nothing had happened, watching the relief in his face, his obvious delight at the change, with a fearful aching in her heart. she waited till he was ready to go down, and then, still smiling, said: "forget all about yesterday, darling. promise me you won't let it make any difference. you must keep up your friendship; you mustn't lose anything. i shan't mind; i shall be quite happy." he knelt down and leaned his forehead against her waist. and, stroking his hair, she repeated: "i shall only be happy if you take everything that comes your way. i shan't mind a bit." and she watched his face that had lost its trouble. "do you really mean that?" "yes; really!" "then you do see that it's nothing, never has been anything--compared with you--never!" he had accepted her crucifixion. a black wave surged into her heart. "it would be so difficult and awkward for you to give up that intimacy. it would hurt your cousin so." she saw the relief deepen in his face and suddenly laughed. he got up from his knees and stared at her. "oh, gyp, for god's sake don't begin again!" but she went on laughing; then, with a sob, turned away and buried her face in her hands. to all his prayers and kisses she answered nothing, and breaking away from him, she rushed toward the door. a wild thought possessed her. why go on? if she were dead, it would be all right for him, quiet--peaceful, quiet--for them all! but he had thrown himself in the way. "gyp, for heaven's sake! i'll give her up--of course i'll give her up. do--do--be reasonable! i don't care a finger-snap for her compared with you!" and presently there came another of those lulls that both were beginning to know were mere pauses of exhaustion. they were priceless all the same, for the heart cannot go on feeling at that rate. it was sunday morning, the church-bells ringing, no wind, a lull in the sou'westerly gale--one of those calms that fall in the night and last, as a rule, twelve or fifteen hours, and the garden all strewn with leaves of every hue, from green spotted with yellow to deep copper. summerhay was afraid; he kept with her all the morning, making all sorts of little things to do in her company. but he gradually lost his fear, she seemed so calm now, and his was a nature that bore trouble badly, ever impatient to shake it off. and then, after lunch, the spirit-storm beat up again, with a swiftness that showed once more how deceptive were those lulls, how fearfully deep and lasting the wound. he had simply asked her whether he should try to match something for her when he went up, to-morrow. she was silent a moment, then answered: "oh, no, thanks; you'll have other things to do; people to see!" the tone of her voice, the expression on her face showed him, with a fresh force of revelation, what paralysis had fallen on his life. if he could not reconvince her of his love, he would be in perpetual fear--that he might come back and find her gone, fear that she might even do something terrible to herself. he looked at her with a sort of horror, and, without a word, went out of the room. the feeling that he must hit his head against something was on him once more, and once more he sought to get rid of it by tramping up and down. great god! such a little thing, such fearful consequences! all her balance, her sanity almost, destroyed. was what he had done so very dreadful? he could not help diana loving him! in the night, gyp had said: "you are cruel. do you think there is any man in the world that i wouldn't hate the sight of if i knew that to see him gave you a moment's pain?" it was true--he felt it was true. but one couldn't hate a girl simply because she loved you; at least he couldn't--not even to save gyp pain. that was not reasonable, not possible. but did that difference between a man and a woman necessarily mean that gyp loved him so much more than he loved her? could she not see things in proportion? see that a man might want, did want, other friendships, even passing moments of passion, and yet could love her just the same? she thought him cruel, called him cruel--what for? because he had kissed a girl who had kissed him; because he liked talking to her, and--yes, might even lose his head with her. but cruel! he was not! gyp would always be first with him. he must make her see--but how? give up everything? give up--diana? (truth is so funny--it will out even in a man's thoughts!) well, and he could! his feeling was not deep--that was god's truth! but it would be difficult, awkward, brutal to give her up completely! it could be done, though, sooner than that gyp should think him cruel to her. it could be--should be done! only, would it be any use? would she believe? would she not always now be suspecting him when he was away from her, whatever he did? must he then sit down here in inactivity? and a gust of anger with her swept him. why should she treat him as if he were utterly unreliable? or--was he? he stood still. when diana had put her arms round his neck, he could no more have resisted answering her kiss than he could now fly through the window and over those poplar trees. but he was not a blackguard, not cruel, not a liar! how could he have helped it all? the only way would have been never to have answered the girl's first letter, nearly a year ago. how could he foresee? and, since then, all so gradual, and nothing, really, or almost nothing. again the surge of anger swelled his heart. she must have read the letter which had been under that cursed bust of old voltaire all those months ago. the poison had been working ever since! and in sudden fury at that miserable mischance, he drove his fist into the bronze face. the bust fell over, and summerhay looked stupidly at his bruised hand. a silly thing to do! but it had quenched his anger. he only saw gyp's face now--so pitifully unhappy. poor darling! what could he do? if only she would believe! and again he had the sickening conviction that whatever he did would be of no avail. he could never get back, was only at the beginning, of a trouble that had no end. and, like a rat in a cage, his mind tried to rush out of this entanglement now at one end, now at the other. ah, well! why bruise your head against walls? if it was hopeless--let it go! and, shrugging his shoulders, he went out to the stables, and told old pettance to saddle hotspur. while he stood there waiting, he thought: 'shall i ask her to come?' but he could not stand another bout of misery--must have rest! and mounting, he rode up towards the downs. hotspur, the sixteen-hand brown horse, with not a speck of white, that gyp had ridden hunting the day she first saw summerhay, was nine years old now. his master's two faults as a horseman--a habit of thrusting, and not too light hands--had encouraged his rather hard mouth, and something had happened in the stables to-day to put him into a queer temper; or perhaps he felt--as horses will--the disturbance raging within his rider. at any rate, he gave an exhibition of his worst qualities, and summerhay derived perverse pleasure from that waywardness. he rode a good hour up there; then, hot, with aching arms--for the brute was pulling like the devil!--he made his way back toward home and entered what little gyp called "the wild," those two rough sedgy fields with the linhay in the corner where they joined. there was a gap in the hedge-growth of the bank between them, and at this he put hotspur at speed. the horse went over like a bird; and for the first time since diana's kiss summerhay felt a moment's joy. he turned him round and sent him at it again, and again hotspur cleared it beautifully. but the animal's blood was up now. summerhay could hardly hold him. muttering: "oh, you brute, don't pull!" he jagged the horse's mouth. there darted into his mind gyp's word: "cruel!" and, viciously, in one of those queer nerve-crises that beset us all, he struck the pulling horse. they were cantering toward the corner where the fields joined, and suddenly he was aware that he could no more hold the beast than if a steam-engine had been under him. straight at the linhay hotspur dashed, and summerhay thought: "my god! he'll kill himself!" straight at the old stone linhay, covered by the great ivy bush. right at it--into it! summerhay ducked his head. not low enough--the ivy concealed a beam! a sickening crash! torn backward out of the saddle, he fell on his back in a pool of leaves and mud. and the horse, slithering round the linhay walls, checked in his own length, unhurt, snorting, frightened, came out, turning his wild eyes on his master, who never stirred, then trotted back into the field, throwing up his head. x when, at her words, summerhay went out of the room, gyp's heart sank. all the morning she had tried so hard to keep back her despairing jealousy, and now at the first reminder had broken down again. it was beyond her strength! to live day after day knowing that he, up in london, was either seeing that girl or painfully abstaining from seeing her! and then, when he returned, to be to him just what she had been, to show nothing--would it ever be possible? hardest to bear was what seemed to her the falsity of his words, maintaining that he still really loved her. if he did, how could he hesitate one second? would not the very thought of the girl be abhorrent to him? he would have shown that, not merely said it among other wild things. words were no use when they contradicted action. she, who loved with every bit of her, could not grasp that a man can really love and want one woman and yet, at the same time, be attracted by another. that sudden fearful impulse of the morning to make away with herself and end it for them both recurred so vaguely that it hardly counted in her struggles; the conflict centred now round the question whether life would be less utterly miserable if she withdrew from him and went back to mildenham. life without him? that was impossible! life with him? just as impossible, it seemed! there comes a point of mental anguish when the alternatives between which one swings, equally hopeless, become each so monstrous that the mind does not really work at all, but rushes helplessly from one to the other, no longer trying to decide, waiting on fate. so in gyp that sunday afternoon, doing little things all the time--mending a hole in one of his gloves, brushing and applying ointment to old ossy, sorting bills and letters. at five o'clock, knowing little gyp must soon be back from her walk, and feeling unable to take part in gaiety, she went up and put on her hat. she turned from contemplation of her face with disgust. since it was no longer the only face for him, what was the use of beauty? she slipped out by the side gate and went down toward the river. the lull was over; the south-west wind had begun sighing through the trees again, and gorgeous clouds were piled up from the horizon into the pale blue. she stood by the river watching its grey stream, edged by a scum of torn-off twigs and floating leaves, watched the wind shivering through the spoiled plume-branches of the willows. and, standing there, she had a sudden longing for her father; he alone could help her--just a little--by his quietness, and his love, by his mere presence. she turned away and went up the lane again, avoiding the inn and the riverside houses, walking slowly, her head down. and a thought came, her first hopeful thought. could they not travel--go round the world? would he give up his work for that--that chance to break the spell? dared she propose it? but would even that be anything more than a putting-off? if she was not enough for him now, would she not be still less, if his work were cut away? still, it was a gleam, a gleam in the blackness. she came in at the far end of the fields they called "the wild." a rose-leaf hue tinged the white cloud-banks, which towered away to the east beyond the river; and peeping over that mountain-top was the moon, fleecy and unsubstantial in the flax-blue sky. it was one of nature's moments of wild colour. the oak-trees above the hedgerows had not lost their leaves, and in the darting, rain-washed light from the setting sun, had a sheen of old gold with heart of ivy-green; the hail-stripped beeches flamed with copper; the russet tufts of the ash-trees glowed. and past gyp, a single leaf blown off, went soaring, turning over and over, going up on the rising wind, up--up, higher--higher into the sky, till it was lost--away. the rain had drenched the long grass, and she turned back. at the gate beside the linhay, a horse was standing. it whinnied. hotspur, saddled, bridled, with no rider! why? where--then? hastily she undid the latch, ran through, and saw summerhay lying in the mud--on his back, with eyes wide-open, his forehead and hair all blood. some leaves had dropped on him. god! o god! his eyes had no sight, his lips no breath; his heart did not beat; the leaves had dropped even on his face--in the blood on his poor head. gyp raised him--stiffened, cold as ice! she gave one cry, and fell, embracing his dead, stiffened body with all her strength, kissing his lips, his eyes, his broken forehead; clasping, warming him, trying to pass life into him; till, at last, she, too, lay still, her lips on his cold lips, her body on his cold body in the mud and the fallen leaves, while the wind crept and rustled in the ivy, and went over with the scent of rain. close by, the horse, uneasy, put his head down and sniffed at her, then, backing away, neighed, and broke into a wild gallop round the field. . . . old pettance, waiting for summerhay's return to stable-up for the night, heard that distant neigh and went to the garden gate, screwing up his little eyes against the sunset. he could see a loose horse galloping down there in "the wild," where no horse should be, and thinking: "there now; that artful devil's broke away from the guv'nor! now i'll 'ave to ketch 'im!" he went back, got some oats, and set forth at the best gait of his stiff-jointed feet. the old horseman characteristically did not think of accidents. the guv'nor had got off, no doubt, to unhitch that heavy gate--the one you had to lift. that 'orse--he was a masterpiece of mischief! his difference with the animal still rankled in a mind that did not easily forgive. half an hour later, he entered the lighted kitchen shaking and gasping, tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks into the corners of his gargoyle's mouth, and panted out: "o, my gord! fetch the farmer--fetch an 'urdle! o my gord! betty, you and cook--i can't get 'er off him. she don't speak. i felt her--all cold. come on, you sluts--quick! o my gord! the poor guv'nor! that 'orse must 'a' galloped into the linhay and killed him. i've see'd the marks on the devil's shoulder where he rubbed it scrapin' round the wall. come on--come on! fetch an 'urdle or she'll die there on him in the mud. put the child to bed and get the doctor, and send a wire to london, to the major, to come sharp. oh, blarst you all--keep your 'eads! what's the good o' howlin' and blubberin'!" in the whispering corner of those fields, light from a lantern and the moon fell on the old stone linhay, on the ivy and the broken gate, on the mud, the golden leaves, and the two quiet bodies clasped together. gyp's consciousness had flown; there seemed no difference between them. and presently, over the rushy grass, a procession moved back in the wind and the moonlight--two hurdles, two men carrying one, two women and a man the other, and, behind, old pettance and the horse. xi when gyp recovered a consciousness, whose flight had been mercifully renewed with morphia, she was in her bed, and her first drowsy movement was toward her mate. with eyes still closed, she turned, as she was wont, and put out her hand to touch him before she dozed off again. there was no warmth, no substance; through her mind, still away in the mists of morphia, the thoughts passed vague and lonely: 'ah, yes, in london!' and she turned on her back. london! something--something up there! she opened her eyes. so the fire had kept in all night! someone was in a chair there, or--was she dreaming! and suddenly, without knowing why, she began breathing hurriedly in little half-sobbing gasps. the figure moved, turned her face in the firelight. betty! gyp closed her eyes. an icy sweat had broken out all over her. a dream! in a whisper, she said: "betty!" the muffled answer came. "yes, my darlin'." "what is it?" no answer; then a half-choked, "don't 'ee think--don't 'ee think! your daddy'll be here directly, my sweetie!" gyp's eyes, wide open, passed from the firelight and that rocking figure to the little chink of light that was hardly light as yet, coming in at one corner of the curtain. she was remembering. her tongue stole out and passed over her lips; beneath the bedclothes she folded both her hands tight across her heart. then she was not dead with him--not dead! not gone back with him into the ground--not--and suddenly there flickered in her a flame of maniacal hatred. they were keeping her alive! a writhing smile forced its way up on to her parched lips. "betty, i'm so thirsty--so thirsty. get me a cup of tea." the stout form heaved itself from the chair and came toward the bed. "yes, my lovey, at once. it'll do you good. that's a brave girl." "yes." the moment the door clicked to, gyp sprang up. her veins throbbed; her whole soul was alive with cunning. she ran to the wardrobe, seized her long fur coat, slipped her bare feet into her slippers, wound a piece of lace round her head, and opened the door. all dark and quiet! holding her breath, stifling the sound of her feet, she glided down the stairs, slipped back the chain of the front door, opened it, and fled. like a shadow she passed across the grass, out of the garden gate, down the road under the black dripping trees. the beginning of light was mixing its grey hue into the darkness; she could just see her feet among the puddles on the road. she heard the grinding and whirring of a motor-car on its top gear approaching up the hill, and cowered away against the hedge. its light came searching along, picking out with a mysterious momentary brightness the bushes and tree-trunks, making the wet road gleam. gyp saw the chauffeur turn his head back at her, then the car's body passed up into darkness, and its tail-light was all that was left to see. perhaps that car was going to the red house with her father, the doctor, somebody, helping to keep her alive! the maniacal hate flared up in her again; she flew on. the light grew; a man with a dog came out of a gate she had passed, and called "hallo!" she did not turn her head. she had lost her slippers, and ran with bare feet, unconscious of stones, or the torn-off branches strewing the road, making for the lane that ran right down to the river, a little to the left of the inn, the lane of yesterday, where the bank was free. she turned into the lane; dimly, a hundred or more yards away, she could see the willows, the width of lighter grey that was the river. the river--"away, my rolling river!"--the river--and the happiest hours of all her life! if he were anywhere, she would find him there, where he had sung, and lain with his head on her breast, and swum and splashed about her; where she had dreamed, and seen beauty, and loved him so! she reached the bank. cold and grey and silent, swifter than yesterday, the stream was flowing by, its dim far shore brightening slowly in the first break of dawn. and gyp stood motionless, drawing her breath in gasps after her long run; her knees trembled; gave way. she sat down on the wet grass, clasping her arms round her drawn-up legs, rocking herself to and fro, and her loosened hair fell over her face. the blood beat in her ears; her heart felt suffocated; all her body seemed on fire, yet numb. she sat, moving her head up and down--as the head of one moves that is gasping her last--waiting for breath--breath and strength to let go life, to slip down into the grey water. and that queer apartness from self, which is the property of fever, came on her, so that she seemed to see herself sitting there, waiting, and thought: 'i shall see myself dead, floating among the reeds. i shall see the birds wondering above me!' and, suddenly, she broke into a storm of dry sobbing, and all things vanished from her, save just the rocking of her body, the gasping of her breath, and the sound of it in her ears. her boy--her boy--and his poor hair! "away, my rolling river!" swaying over, she lay face down, clasping at the wet grass and the earth. the sun rose, laid a pale bright streak along the water, and hid himself again. a robin twittered in the willows; a leaf fell on her bare ankle. winton, who had been hunting on saturday, had returned to town on sunday by the evening tram, and gone straight to his club for some supper. there falling asleep over his cigar, he had to be awakened when they desired to close the club for the night. it was past two when he reached bury street and found a telegram. "something dreadful happened to mr. summerhay. come quick.--betty." never had he so cursed the loss of his hand as during the time that followed, when markey had to dress, help his master, pack bags, and fetch a taxi equipped for so long a journey. at half-past three they started. the whole way down, winton, wrapped in his fur coat, sat a little forward on his seat, ready to put his head through the window and direct the driver. it was a wild night, and he would not let markey, whose chest was not strong, go outside to act as guide. twice that silent one, impelled by feelings too strong even for his respectful taciturnity, had spoken. "that'll be bad for miss gyp, sir." "bad, yes--terrible." and later: "d'you think it means he's dead, sir?" winton answered sombrely: "god knows, markey! we must hope for the best." dead! could fate be cruel enough to deal one so soft and loving such a blow? and he kept saying to himself: "courage. be ready for the worst. be ready." but the figures of betty and a maid at the open garden gate, in the breaking darkness, standing there wringing their hands, were too much for his stoicism. leaping out, he cried: "what is it, woman? quick!" "oh, sir! my dear's gone. i left her a moment to get her a cup of tea. and she's run out in the cold!" winton stood for two seconds as if turned to stone. then, taking betty by the shoulder, he asked quietly: "what happened to him?" betty could not answer, but the maid said: "the horse killed him at that linhay, sir, down in 'the wild.' and the mistress was unconscious till quarter of an hour ago." "which way did she go?" "out here, sir; the door and the gate was open--can't tell which way." through winton flashed one dreadful thought: the river! "turn the cab round! stay in, markey! betty and you, girl, go down to 'the wild,' and search there at once. yes? what is it?" the driver was leaning out. "as we came up the hill, sir, i see a lady or something in a long dark coat with white on her head, against the hedge." "right! drive down again sharp, and use your eyes." at such moments, thought is impossible, and a feverish use of every sense takes its place. but of thought there was no need, for the gardens of villas and the inn blocked the river at all but one spot. winton stopped the car where the narrow lane branched down to the bank, and jumping out, ran. by instinct he ran silently on the grass edge, and markey, imitating, ran behind. when he came in sight of a black shape lying on the bank, he suffered a moment of intense agony, for he thought it was just a dark garment thrown away. then he saw it move, and, holding up his hand for markey to stand still, walked on alone, tiptoeing in the grass, his heart swelling with a sort of rapture. stealthily moving round between that prostrate figure and the water, he knelt down and said, as best he could, for the husk in his throat: "my darling!" gyp raised her head and stared at him. her white face, with eyes unnaturally dark and large, and hair falling all over it, was strange to him--the face of grief itself, stripped of the wrappings of form. and he knew not what to do, how to help or comfort, how to save. he could see so clearly in her eyes the look of a wild animal at the moment of its capture, and instinct made him say: "i lost her just as cruelly, gyp." he saw the words reach her brain, and that wild look waver. stretching out his arm, he drew her close to him till her cheek was against his, her shaking body against him, and kept murmuring: "for my sake, gyp; for my sake!" when, with markey's aid, he had got her to the cab, they took her, not back to the house, but to the inn. she was in high fever, and soon delirious. by noon, aunt rosamund and mrs. markey, summoned by telegram, had arrived; and the whole inn was taken lest there should be any noise to disturb her. at five o'clock, winton was summoned downstairs to the little so-called reading-room. a tall woman was standing at the window, shading her eyes with the back of a gloved hand. though they had lived so long within ten miles of each other he only knew lady summerhay by sight, and he waited for the poor woman to speak first. she said in a low voice: "there is nothing to say; only, i thought i must see you. how is she?" "delirious." they stood in silence a full minute, before she whispered: "my poor boy! did you see him--his forehead?" her lips quivered. "i will take him back home." and tears rolled, one after the other, slowly down her flushed face under her veil. poor woman! poor woman! she had turned to the window, passing her handkerchief up under the veil, staring out at the little strip of darkening lawn, and winton, too, stared out into that mournful daylight. at last, he said: "i will send you all his things, except--except anything that might help my poor girl." she turned quickly. "and so it's ended like this! major winton, is there anything behind--were they really happy?" winton looked straight at her and answered: "ah, too happy!" without a quiver, he met those tear-darkened, dilated eyes straining at his; with a heavy sigh, she once more turned away, and, brushing her handkerchief across her face, drew down her veil. it was not true--he knew from the mutterings of gyp's fever--but no one, not even summerhay's mother, should hear a whisper if he could help it. at the door, he murmured: "i don't know whether my girl will get through, or what she will do after. when fate hits, she hits too hard. and you! good-bye." lady summerhay pressed his outstretched hand. "good-bye," she said, in a strangled voice. "i wish you--good-bye." then, turning abruptly, she hastened away. winton went back to his guardianship upstairs. in the days that followed, when gyp, robbed of memory, hung between life and death, winton hardly left her room, that low room with creepered windows whence the river could be seen, gliding down under the pale november sunshine or black beneath the stars. he would watch it, fascinated, as one sometimes watches the relentless sea. he had snatched her as by a miracle from that snaky river. he had refused to have a nurse. aunt rosamund and mrs. markey were skilled in sickness, and he could not bear that a strange person should listen to those delirious mutterings. his own part of the nursing was just to sit there and keep her secrets from the others--if he could. and he grudged every minute away from his post. he would stay for hours, with eyes fixed on her face. no one could supply so well as he just that coherent thread of the familiar, by which the fevered, without knowing it, perhaps find their way a little in the dark mazes where they wander. and he would think of her as she used to be--well and happy--adopting unconsciously the methods of those mental and other scientists whom he looked upon as quacks. he was astonished by the number of inquiries, even people whom he had considered enemies left cards or sent their servants, forcing him to the conclusion that people of position are obliged to reserve their human kindness for those as good as dead. but the small folk touched him daily by their genuine concern for her whose grace and softness had won their hearts. one morning he received a letter forwarded from bury street. "dear major winton, "i have read a paragraph in the paper about poor mr. summerhay's death. and, oh, i feel so sorry for her! she was so good to me; i do feel it most dreadfully. if you think she would like to know how we all feel for her, you would tell her, wouldn't you? i do think it's cruel. "very faithfully yours, "daphne wing." so they knew summerhay's name--he had not somehow expected that. he did not answer, not knowing what to say. during those days of fever, the hardest thing to bear was the sound of her rapid whisperings and mutterings--incoherent phrases that said so little and told so much. sometimes he would cover his ears, to avoid hearing of that long stress of mind at which he had now and then glimpsed. of the actual tragedy, her wandering spirit did not seem conscious; her lips were always telling the depth of her love, always repeating the dread of losing his; except when they would give a whispering laugh, uncanny and enchanting, as at some gleam of perfect happiness. those little laughs were worst of all to hear; they never failed to bring tears into his eyes. but he drew a certain gruesome comfort from the conclusion slowly forced on him, that summerhay's tragic death had cut short a situation which might have had an even more tragic issue. one night in the big chair at the side of her bed, he woke from a doze to see her eyes fixed on him. they were different; they saw, were her own eyes again. her lips moved. "dad." "yes, my pet." "i remember everything." at that dreadful little saying, winton leaned forward and put his lips to her hand, that lay outside the clothes. "where is he buried?" "at widrington." "yes." it was rather a sigh than a word and, raising his head, winton saw her eyes closed again. now that the fever had gone, the white transparency of her cheeks and forehead against the dark lashes and hair was too startling. was it a living face, or was its beauty that of death? he bent over. she was breathing--asleep. xii the return to mildenham was made by easy stages nearly two months after summerhay's death, on new year's day--mildenham, dark, smelling the same, full of ghosts of the days before love began. for little gyp, more than five years old now, and beginning to understand life, this was the pleasantest home yet. in watching her becoming the spirit of the place, as she herself had been when a child, gyp found rest at times, a little rest. she had not picked up much strength, was shadowy as yet, and if her face was taken unawares, it was the saddest face one could see. her chief preoccupation was not being taken unawares. alas! to winton, her smile was even sadder. he was at his wits' end about her that winter and spring. she obviously made the utmost effort to keep up, and there was nothing to do but watch and wait. no use to force the pace. time alone could heal--perhaps. meanwhile, he turned to little gyp, so that they became more or less inseparable. spring came and passed. physically, gyp grew strong again, but since their return to mildenham, she had never once gone outside the garden, never once spoken of the red house, never once of summerhay. winton had hoped that warmth and sunlight would bring some life to her spirit, but it did not seem to. not that she cherished her grief, appeared, rather, to do all in her power to forget and mask it. she only had what used to be called a broken heart. nothing to be done. little gyp, who had been told that "baryn" had gone away for ever, and that she must "never speak of him for fear of making mum sad," would sometimes stand and watch her mother with puzzled gravity. she once remarked uncannily to winton: "mum doesn't live with us, grandy; she lives away somewhere, i think. is it with baryn?" winton stared, and answered: "perhaps it is, sweetheart; but don't say that to anybody but me. don't ever talk of baryn to anyone else." "yes, i know; but where is he, grandy?" what could winton answer? some imbecility with the words "very far" in it; for he had not courage to broach the question of death, that mystery so hopelessly beyond the grasp of children, and of himself--and others. he rode a great deal with the child, who, like her mother before her, was never so happy as in the saddle; but to gyp he did not dare suggest it. she never spoke of horses, never went to the stables, passed all the days doing little things about the house, gardening, and sitting at her piano, sometimes playing a little, sometimes merely looking at the keys, her hands clasped in her lap. this was early in the fateful summer, before any as yet felt the world-tremors, or saw the veil of the temple rending and the darkness beginning to gather. winton had no vision of the coif above the dark eyes of his loved one, nor of himself in a strange brown garb, calling out old familiar words over barrack-squares. he often thought: 'if only she had something to take her out of herself!' in june he took his courage in both hands and proposed a visit to london. to his surprise, she acquiesced without hesitation. they went up in whit-week. while they were passing widrington, he forced himself to an unnatural spurt of talk; and it was not till fully quarter of an hour later that, glancing stealthily round his paper, he saw her sitting motionless, her face turned to the fields and tears rolling down it. and he dared not speak, dared not try to comfort her. she made no sound, the muscles of her face no movement; only, those tears kept rolling down. and, behind his paper, winton's eyes narrowed and retreated; his face hardened till the skin seemed tight drawn over the bones, and every inch of him quivered. the usual route from the station to bury street was "up," and the cab went by narrow by-streets, town lanes where the misery of the world is on show, where ill-looking men, draggled and over-driven women, and the jaunty ghosts of little children in gutters and on doorsteps proclaim, by every feature of their clay-coloured faces and every movement of their unfed bodies, the post-datement of the millennium; where the lean and smutted houses have a look of dissolution indefinitely put off, and there is no more trace of beauty than in a sewer. gyp, leaning forward, looked out, as one does after a long sea voyage; winton felt her hand slip into his and squeeze it hard. that evening after dinner--in the room he had furnished for her mother, where the satinwood chairs, the little jacobean bureau, the old brass candelabra were still much as they had been just on thirty years ago--she said: "dad, i've been thinking. would you mind if i could make a sort of home at mildenham where poor children could come to stay and get good air and food? there are such thousands of them." strangely moved by this, the first wish he had heard her express since the tragedy, winton took her hand, and, looking at it as if for answer to his question, said: "my dear, are, you strong enough?" "quite. there's nothing wrong with me now except here." she drew his hand to her and pressed it against her heart. "what's given, one can't get back. i can't help it; i would if i could. it's been so dreadful for you. i'm so sorry." winton made an unintelligible sound, and she went on: "if i had them to see after, i shouldn't be able to think so much; the more i had to do the better. good for our gipsy-bird, too, to have them there. i should like to begin it at once." winton nodded. anything that she felt could do her good--anything! "yes, yes," he said; "i quite see--you could use the two old cottages to start with, and we can easily run up anything you want." "only let me do it all, won't you?" at that touch of her old self, winton smiled. she should do everything, pay for everything, bring a whole street of children down, if it would give her any comfort! "rosamund'll help you find 'em," he muttered. "she's first-rate at all that sort of thing." then, looking at her fixedly, he added: "courage, my soul; it'll all come back some day." gyp forced herself to smile. watching her, he understood only too well the child's saying: "mum lives away somewhere, i think." suddenly, she said, very low: "and yet i wouldn't have been without it." she was sitting, her hands clasped in her lap, two red spots high in her cheeks, her eyes shining strangely, the faint smile still on her lips. and winton, staring with narrowed eyes, thought: 'love! beyond measure--beyond death--it nearly kills. but one wouldn't have been without it. why?' three days later, leaving gyp with his sister, he went back to mildenham to start the necessary alterations in the cottages. he had told no one he was coming, and walked up from the station on a perfect june day, bright and hot. when he turned through the drive gate, into the beech-tree avenue, the leaf-shadows were thick on the ground, with golden gleams of the invincible sunlight thrusting their way through. the grey boles, the vivid green leaves, those glistening sun-shafts through the shade entranced him, coming from the dusty road. down in the very middle of the avenue, a small, white figure was standing, as if looking out for him. he heard a shrill shout. "oh, grandy, you've come back--you've come back! what fun!" winton took her curls in his hand, and, looking into her face, said: "well, my gipsy-bird, will you give me one of these?" little gyp looked at him with flying eyes, and, hugging his legs, answered furiously: "yes; because i love you. pull!" "yes; because i love you. pull!" the end. villa rubein contents: villa rubein a man of devon a knight salvation of a forsyte the silence villa rubein preface writing not long ago to my oldest literary friend, i expressed in a moment of heedless sentiment the wish that we might have again one of our talks of long-past days, over the purposes and methods of our art. and my friend, wiser than i, as he has always been, replied with this doubting phrase "could we recapture the zest of that old time?" i would not like to believe that our faith in the value of imaginative art has diminished, that we think it less worth while to struggle for glimpses of truth and for the words which may pass them on to other eyes; or that we can no longer discern the star we tried to follow; but i do fear, with him, that half a lifetime of endeavour has dulled the exuberance which kept one up till morning discussing the ways and means of aesthetic achievement. we have discovered, perhaps with a certain finality, that by no talk can a writer add a cubit to his stature, or change the temperament which moulds and colours the vision of life he sets before the few who will pause to look at it. and so--the rest is silence, and what of work we may still do will be done in that dogged muteness which is the lot of advancing years. other times, other men and modes, but not other truth. truth, though essentially relative, like einstein's theory, will never lose its ever-new and unique quality-perfect proportion; for truth, to the human consciousness at least, is but that vitally just relation of part to whole which is the very condition of life itself. and the task before the imaginative writer, whether at the end of the last century or all these aeons later, is the presentation of a vision which to eye and ear and mind has the implicit proportions of truth. i confess to have always looked for a certain flavour in the writings of others, and craved it for my own, believing that all true vision is so coloured by the temperament of the seer, as to have not only the just proportions but the essential novelty of a living thing for, after all, no two living things are alike. a work of fiction should carry the hall mark of its author as surely as a goya, a daumier, a velasquez, and a mathew maris, should be the unmistakable creations of those masters. this is not to speak of tricks and manners which lend themselves to that facile elf, the caricaturist, but of a certain individual way of seeing and feeling. a young poet once said of another and more popular poet: "oh! yes, but be cuts no ice." and, when one came to think of it, he did not; a certain flabbiness of spirit, a lack of temperament, an absence, perhaps, of the ironic, or passionate, view, insubstantiated his work; it had no edge--just a felicity which passed for distinction with the crowd. let me not be understood to imply that a novel should be a sort of sandwich, in which the author's mood or philosophy is the slice of ham. one's demand is for a far more subtle impregnation of flavour; just that, for instance, which makes de maupassant a more poignant and fascinating writer than his master flaubert, dickens and thackeray more living and permanent than george eliot or trollope. it once fell to my lot to be the preliminary critic of a book on painting, designed to prove that the artist's sole function was the impersonal elucidation of the truths of nature. i was regretfully compelled to observe that there were no such things as the truths of nature, for the purposes of art, apart from the individual vision of the artist. seer and thing seen, inextricably involved one with the other, form the texture of any masterpiece; and i, at least, demand therefrom a distinct impression of temperament. i never saw, in the flesh, either de maupassant or tchekov--those masters of such different methods entirely devoid of didacticism--but their work leaves on me a strangely potent sense of personality. such subtle intermingling of seer with thing seen is the outcome only of long and intricate brooding, a process not too favoured by modern life, yet without which we achieve little but a fluent chaos of clever insignificant impressions, a kind of glorified journalism, holding much the same relation to the deeply-impregnated work of turgenev, hardy, and conrad, as a film bears to a play. speaking for myself, with the immodesty required of one who hazards an introduction to his own work, i was writing fiction for five years before i could master even its primary technique, much less achieve that union of seer with thing seen, which perhaps begins to show itself a little in this volume--binding up the scanty harvests of , , and --especially in the tales: "a knight," and "salvation of a forsyte." men, women, trees, and works of fiction--very tiny are the seeds from which they spring. i used really to see the "knight"--in , was it?--sitting in the "place" in front of the casino at monte carlo; and because his dried-up elegance, his burnt straw hat, quiet courtesy of attitude, and big dog, used to fascinate and intrigue me, i began to imagine his life so as to answer my own questions and to satisfy, i suppose, the mood i was in. i never spoke to him, i never saw him again. his real story, no doubt, was as different from that which i wove around his figure as night from day. as for swithin, wild horses will not drag from me confession of where and when i first saw the prototype which became enlarged to his bulky stature. i owe swithin much, for he first released the satirist in me, and is, moreover, the only one of my characters whom i killed before i gave him life, for it is in "the man of property" that swithin forsyte more memorably lives. ranging beyond this volume, i cannot recollect writing the first words of "the island pharisees"--but it would be about august, . like all the stories in "villa rubein," and, indeed, most of my tales, the book originated in the curiosity, philosophic reflections, and unphilosophic emotions roused in me by some single figure in real life. in this case it was ferrand, whose real name, of course, was not ferrand, and who died in some "sacred institution" many years ago of a consumption brought on by the conditions of his wandering life. if not "a beloved," he was a true vagabond, and i first met him in the champs elysees, just as in "the pigeon" he describes his meeting with wellwyn. though drawn very much from life, he did not in the end turn out very like the ferrand of real life--the, figures of fiction soon diverge from their prototypes. the first draft of "the island pharisees" was buried in a drawer; when retrieved the other day, after nineteen years, it disclosed a picaresque string of anecdotes told by ferrand in the first person. these two-thirds of a book were laid to rest by edward garnett's dictum that its author was not sufficiently within ferrand's skin; and, struggling heavily with laziness and pride, he started afresh in the skin of shelton. three times be wrote that novel, and then it was long in finding the eye of sydney pawling, who accepted it for heinemann's in . that was a period of ferment and transition with me, a kind of long awakening to the home truths of social existence and national character. the liquor bubbled too furiously for clear bottling. and the book, after all, became but an introduction to all those following novels which depict--somewhat satirically--the various sections of english "society" with a more or less capital "s." looking back on the long-stretched-out body of one's work, it is interesting to mark the endless duel fought within a man between the emotional and critical sides of his nature, first one, then the other, getting the upper hand, and too seldom fusing till the result has the mellowness of full achievement. one can even tell the nature of one's readers, by their preference for the work which reveals more of this side than of that. my early work was certainly more emotional than critical. but from came nine years when the critical was, in the main, holding sway. from to the emotional again struggled for the upper hand; and from that time on there seems to have been something of a "dead beat." so the conflict goes, by what mysterious tides promoted, i know not. an author must ever wish to discover a hapless member of the public who, never yet having read a word of his writing, would submit to the ordeal of reading him right through from beginning to end. probably the effect could only be judged through an autopsy, but in the remote case of survival, it would interest one so profoundly to see the differences, if any, produced in that reader's character or outlook over life. this, however, is a consummation which will remain devoutly to be wished, for there is a limit to human complaisance. one will never know the exact measure of one's infecting power; or whether, indeed, one is not just a long soporific. a writer they say, should not favouritize among his creations; but then a writer should not do so many things that he does. this writer, certainly, confesses to having favourites, and of his novels so far be likes best: the forsyte series; "the country house"; "fraternity"; "the dark flower"; and "five tales"; believing these to be the works which most fully achieve fusion of seer with thing seen, most subtly disclose the individuality of their author, and best reveal such of truth as has been vouchsafed to him. john galsworthy. to my sister blanche lilian sauter villa rubein i walking along the river wall at botzen, edmund dawney said to alois harz: "would you care to know the family at that pink house, villa rubein?" harz answered with a smile: "perhaps." "come with me then this afternoon." they had stopped before an old house with a blind, deserted look, that stood by itself on the wall; harz pushed the door open. "come in, you don't want breakfast yet. i'm going to paint the river to-day." he ran up the bare broad stairs, and dawney followed leisurely, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat, and his head thrown back. in the attic which filled the whole top story, harz had pulled a canvas to the window. he was a young man of middle height, square shouldered, active, with an angular face, high cheek-bones, and a strong, sharp chin. his eyes were piercing and steel-blue, his eyebrows very flexible, nose long and thin with a high bridge; and his dark, unparted hair fitted him like a cap. his clothes looked as if he never gave them a second thought. this room, which served for studio, bedroom, and sitting-room, was bare and dusty. below the window the river in spring flood rushed down the valley, a stream, of molten bronze. harz dodged before the canvas like a fencer finding his distance; dawney took his seat on a packingcase. "the snows have gone with a rush this year," he drawled. "the talfer comes down brown, the eisack comes down blue; they flow into the etsch and make it green; a parable of the spring for you, my painter." harz mixed his colours. "i've no time for parables," he said, "no time for anything. if i could be guaranteed to live to ninety-nine, like titian--he had a chance. look at that poor fellow who was killed the other day! all that struggle, and then--just at the turn!" he spoke english with a foreign accent; his voice was rather harsh, but his smile very kindly. dawney lit a cigarette. "you painters," he said, "are better off than most of us. you can strike out your own line. now if i choose to treat a case out of the ordinary way and the patient dies, i'm ruined." "my dear doctor--if i don't paint what the public likes, i starve; all the same i'm going to paint in my own way; in the end i shall come out on top." "it pays to work in the groove, my friend, until you've made your name; after that--do what you like, they'll lick your boots all the same." "ah, you don't love your work." dawney answered slowly: "never so happy as when my hands are full. but i want to make money, to get known, to have a good time, good cigars, good wine. i hate discomfort. no, my boy, i must work it on the usual lines; i don't like it, but i must lump it. one starts in life with some notion of the ideal--it's gone by the board with me. i've got to shove along until i've made my name, and then, my little man--then--" "then you'll be soft!" "you pay dearly for that first period!" "take my chance of that; there's no other way." "make one!" "humph!" harz poised his brush, as though it were a spear: "a man must do the best in him. if he has to suffer--let him!" dawney stretched his large soft body; a calculating look had come into his eyes. "you're a tough little man!" he said. "i've had to be tough." dawney rose; tobacco smoke was wreathed round his unruffled hair. "touching villa rubein," he said, "shall i call for you? it's a mixed household, english mostly--very decent people." "no, thank you. i shall be painting all day. haven't time to know the sort of people who expect one to change one's clothes." "as you like; ta-to!" and, puffing out his chest, dawney vanished through a blanket looped across the doorway. harz set a pot of coffee on a spirit-lamp, and cut himself some bread. through the window the freshness of the morning came; the scent of sap and blossom and young leaves; the scent of earth, and the mountains freed from winter; the new flights and songs of birds; all the odorous, enchanted, restless spring. there suddenly appeared through the doorway a white rough-haired terrier dog, black-marked about the face, with shaggy tan eyebrows. he sniffed at harz, showed the whites round his eyes, and uttered a sharp bark. a young voice called: "scruff! thou naughty dog!" light footsteps were heard on the stairs; from the distance a thin, high voice called: "greta! you mustn't go up there!" a little girl of twelve, with long fair hair under a wide-brimmed hat, slipped in. her blue eyes opened wide, her face flushed up. that face was not regular; its cheek-bones were rather prominent, the nose was flattish; there was about it an air, innocent, reflecting, quizzical, shy. "oh!" she said. harz smiled: "good-morning! this your dog?" she did not answer, but looked at him with soft bewilderment; then running to the dog seized him by the collar. "scr-ruff! thou naughty dog--the baddest dog!" the ends of her hair fell about him; she looked up at harz, who said: "not at all! let me give him some bread." "oh no! you must not--i will beat him--and tell him he is bad; then he shall not do such things again. now he is sulky; he looks so always when he is sulky. is this your home?" "for the present; i am a visitor." "but i think you are of this country, because you speak like it." "certainly, i am a tyroler." "i have to talk english this morning, but i do not like it very much --because, also i am half austrian, and i like it best; but my sister, christian, is all english. here is miss naylor; she shall be very angry with me." and pointing to the entrance with a rosy-tipped forefinger, she again looked ruefully at harz. there came into the room with a walk like the hopping of a bird an elderly, small lady, in a grey serge dress, with narrow bands of claret-coloured velveteen; a large gold cross dangled from a steel chain on her chest; she nervously twisted her hands, clad in black kid gloves, rather white about the seams. her hair was prematurely grey; her quick eyes brown; her mouth twisted at one corner; she held her face, kind-looking, but long and narrow, rather to one side, and wore on it a look of apology. her quick sentences sounded as if she kept them on strings, and wanted to draw them back as soon as she had let them forth. "greta, how can, you do such things? i don't know what your father would say! i am sure i don't know how to--so extraordinary--" "please!" said harz. "you must come at once--so very sorry--so awkward!" they were standing in a ring: harz with his eyebrows working up and down; the little lady fidgeting her parasol; greta, flushed and pouting, her eyes all dewy, twisting an end of fair hair round her finger. "oh, look!" the coffee had boiled over. little brown streams trickled spluttering from the pan; the dog, with ears laid back and tail tucked in, went scurrying round the room. a feeling of fellowship fell on them at once. "along the wall is our favourite walk, and scruff--so awkward, so unfortunate--we did not think any one lived here--the shutters are cracked, the paint is peeling off so dreadfully. have you been long in botzen? two months? fancy! you are not english? you are tyrolese? but you speak english so well--there for seven years? really? so fortunate!--it is greta's day for english." miss naylor's eyes darted bewildered glances at the roof where the crossing of the beams made such deep shadows; at the litter of brushes, tools, knives, and colours on a table made out of packing-cases; at the big window, innocent of glass, and flush with the floor, whence dangled a bit of rusty chain--relic of the time when the place had been a store-loft; her eyes were hastily averted from an unfnished figure of the nude. greta, with feet crossed, sat on a coloured blanket, dabbling her fnger in a little pool of coffee, and gazing up at harz. and he thought: 'i should like to paint her like that. "a forget-me-not."' he took out his chalks to make a sketch of her. "shall you show me?" cried out greta, scrambling to her feet. "'will,' greta--'will'; how often must i tell you? i think we should be going--it is very late--your father--so very kind of you, but i think we should be going. scruff!" miss naylor gave the floor two taps. the terrier backed into a plaster cast which came down on his tail, and sent him flying through the doorway. greta followed swiftly, crying: "ach! poor scrufee!" miss naylor crossed the room; bowing, she murmured an apology, and also disappeared. harz was left alone, his guests were gone; the little girl with the fair hair and the eyes like forget-me-nots, the little lady with kindly gestures and bird-like walk, the terrier. he looked round him; the room seemed very empty. gnawing his moustache, he muttered at the fallen cast. then taking up his brush, stood before his picture, smiling and frowning. soon he had forgotten it all in his work. ii it was early morning four days later, and harz was loitering homewards. the shadows of the clouds passing across the vines were vanishing over the jumbled roofs and green-topped spires of the town. a strong sweet wind was blowing from the mountains, there was a stir in the branches of the trees, and flakes of the late blossom were drifting down. amongst the soft green pods of a kind of poplar chafers buzzed, and numbers of their little brown bodies were strewn on the path. he passed a bench where a girl sat sketching. a puff of wind whirled her drawing to the ground; harz ran to pick it up. she took it from him with a bow; but, as he turned away, she tore the sketch across. "ah!" he said; "why did you do that?" this girl, who stood with a bit of the torn sketch in either hand, was slight and straight; and her face earnest and serene. she gazed at harz with large, clear, greenish eyes; her lips and chin were defiant, her forehead tranquil. "i don't like it." "will you let me look at it? i am a painter." "it isn't worth looking at, but--if you wish--" he put the two halves of the sketch together. "you see!" she said at last; "i told you." harz did not answer, still looking at the sketch. the girl frowned. harz asked her suddenly: "why do you paint?" she coloured, and said: "show me what is wrong." "i cannot show you what is wrong, there is nothing wrong--but why do you paint?" "i don't understand." harz shrugged his shoulders. "you've no business to do that," said the girl in a hurt voice; "i want to know." "your heart is not in it," said harz. she looked at him, startled; her eyes had grown thoughtful. "i suppose that is it. there are so many other things--" "there should be nothing else," said harz. she broke in: "i don't want always to be thinking of myself. suppose--" "ah! when you begin supposing!" the girl confronted him; she had torn the sketch again. "you mean that if it does not matter enough, one had better not do it at all. i don't know if you are right--i think you are." there was the sound of a nervous cough, and harz saw behind him his three visitors--miss naylor offering him her hand; greta, flushed, with a bunch of wild flowers, staring intently in his face; and the terrier, sniffing at his trousers. miss naylor broke an awkward silence. "we wondered if you would still be here, christian. i am sorry to interrupt you--i was not aware that you knew mr. herr--" "harz is my name--we were just talking" "about my sketch. oh, greta, you do tickle! will you come and have breakfast with us to-day, herr harz? it's our turn, you know." harz, glancing at his dusty clothes, excused himself. but greta in a pleading voice said: "oh! do come! scruff likes you. it is so dull when there is nobody for breakfast but ourselves." miss naylor's mouth began to twist. harz hurriedly broke in: "thank you. i will come with pleasure; you don't mind my being dirty?" "oh no! we do not mind; then we shall none of us wash, and afterwards i shall show you my rabbits." miss naylor, moving from foot to foot, like a bird on its perch, exclaimed: "i hope you won't regret it, not a very good meal--the girls are so impulsive--such informal invitation; we shall be very glad." but greta pulled softly at her sister's sleeve, and christian, gathering her things, led the way. harz followed in amazement; nothing of this kind had come into his life before. he kept shyly glancing at the girls; and, noting the speculative innocence in greta's eyes, he smiled. they soon came to two great poplar-trees, which stood, like sentinels, one on either side of an unweeded gravel walk leading through lilac bushes to a house painted dull pink, with green-shuttered windows, and a roof of greenish slate. over the door in faded crimson letters were written the words, "villa rubein." "that is to the stables," said greta, pointing down a path, where some pigeons were sunning themselves on a wall. "uncle nic keeps his horses there: countess and cuckoo--his horses begin with c, because of chris--they are quite beautiful. he says he could drive them to kingdom-come and they would not turn their hair. bow, and say 'good-morning' to our house!" harz bowed. "father said all strangers should, and i think it brings good luck." from the doorstep she looked round at harz, then ran into the house. a broad, thick-set man, with stiff, brushed-up hair, a short, brown, bushy beard parted at the chin, a fresh complexion, and blue glasses across a thick nose, came out, and called in a bluff voice: "ha! my good dears, kiss me quick--prrt! how goes it then this morning? a good walk, hein?" the sound of many loud rapid kisses followed. "ha, fraulein, good!" he became aware of harz's figure standing in the doorway: "und der herr?" miss naylor hurriedly explained. "good! an artist! kommen sie herein, i am delight. you will breakfast? i too--yes, yes, my dears--i too breakfast with you this morning. i have the hunter's appetite." harz, looking at him keenly, perceived him to be of middle height and age, stout, dressed in a loose holland jacket, a very white, starched shirt, and blue silk sash; that he looked particularly clean, had an air of belonging to society, and exhaled a really fine aroma of excellent cigars and the best hairdresser's essences. the room they entered was long and rather bare; there was a huge map on the wall, and below it a pair of globes on crooked supports, resembling two inflated frogs erect on their hind legs. in one corner was a cottage piano, close to a writing-table heaped with books and papers; this nook, sacred to christian, was foreign to the rest of the room, which was arranged with supernatural neatness. a table was laid for breakfast, and the sun-warmed air came in through french windows. the meal went merrily; herr paul von morawitz was never in such spirits as at table. words streamed from him. conversing with harz, he talked of art as who should say: "one does not claim to be a connoisseur--pas si bete--still, one has a little knowledge, que diable!" he recommended him a man in the town who sold cigars that were "not so very bad." he consumed porridge, ate an omelette; and bending across to greta gave her a sounding kiss, muttering: "kiss me quick!"--an expression he had picked up in a london music-hall, long ago, and considered chic. he asked his daughters' plans, and held out porridge to the terrier, who refused it with a sniff. "well," he said suddenly, looking at miss naylor, "here is a gentleman who has not even heard our names!" the little lady began her introductions in a breathless voice. "good!" herr paul said, puffing out his lips: "now we know each other!" and, brushing up the ends of his moustaches, he carried off harz into another room, decorated with pipe-racks, prints of dancing-girls, spittoons, easy-chairs well-seasoned by cigar smoke, french novels, and newspapers. the household at villa rubein was indeed of a mixed and curious nature. cut on both floors by corridors, the villa was divided into four divisions; each of which had its separate inhabitants, an arrangement which had come about in the following way: when old nicholas treffry died, his estate, on the boundary of cornwall, had been sold and divided up among his three surviving children--nicholas, who was much the eldest, a partner in the well-known firm of forsyte and treffry, teamen, of the strand; constance, married to a man called decie; and margaret, at her father's death engaged to the curate of the parish, john devorell, who shortly afterwards became its rector. by his marriage with margaret treffry the rector had one child called christian. soon after this he came into some property, and died, leaving it unfettered to his widow. three years went by, and when the child was six years old, mrs. devorell, still young and pretty, came to live in london with her brother nicholas. it was there that she met paul von morawitz--the last of an old czech family, who had lived for many hundred years on their estates near budweiss. paul had been left an orphan at the age of ten, and without a solitary ancestral acre. instead of acres, he inherited the faith that nothing was too good for a von morawitz. in later years his savoir faire enabled him to laugh at faith, but it stayed quietly with him all the same. the absence of acres was of no great consequence, for through his mother, the daughter of a banker in vienna, he came into a well-nursed fortune. it befitted a von morawitz that he should go into the cavalry, but, unshaped for soldiering, he soon left the service; some said he had a difference with his colonel over the quality of food provided during some manoeuvres; others that he had retired because his chargers did not fit his legs, which were, indeed, rather round. he had an admirable appetite for pleasure; a man-about-town's life suited him. he went his genial, unreflecting, costly way in vienna, paris, london. he loved exclusively those towns, and boasted that he was as much at home in one as in another. he combined exuberant vitality with fastidiousness of palate, and devoted both to the acquisition of a special taste in women, weeds, and wines; above all he was blessed with a remarkable digestion. he was thirty when he met mrs. devorell; and she married him because he was so very different from anybody she had ever seen. people more dissimilar were never mated. to paul--accustomed to stage doors--freshness, serene tranquillity, and obvious purity were the baits; he had run through more than half his fortune, too, and the fact that she had money was possibly not overlooked. be that as it may, he was fond of her; his heart was soft, he developed a domestic side. greta was born to them after a year of marriage. the instinct of the "freeman" was, however, not dead in paul; he became a gambler. he lost the remainder of his fortune without being greatly disturbed. when he began to lose his wife's fortune too things naturally became more difficult. not too much remained when nicholas treffry stepped in, and caused his sister to settle what was left on her daughters, after providing a life-interest for herself and paul. losing his supplies, the good man had given up his cards. but the instinct of the "freeman" was still living in his breast; he took to drink. he was never grossly drunk, and rarely very sober. his wife sorrowed over this new passion; her health, already much enfeebled, soon broke down. the doctors sent her to the tyrol. she seemed to benefit by this, and settled down at botzen. the following year, when greta was just ten, she died. it was a shock to paul. he gave up excessive drinking; became a constant smoker, and lent full rein to his natural domesticity. he was fond of both the girls, but did not at all understand them; greta, his own daughter, was his favourite. villa rubein remained their home; it was cheap and roomy. money, since paul became housekeeper to himself, was scarce. about this time mrs. decie, his wife's sister, whose husband had died in the east, returned to england; paul invited her to come and live with them. she had her own rooms, her own servant; the arrangement suited paul--it was economically sound, and there was some one always there to take care of the girls. in truth he began to feel the instinct of the "freeman" rising again within him; it was pleasant to run over to vienna now and then; to play piquet at a club in gries, of which he was the shining light; in a word, to go "on the tiles" a little. one could not always mourn--even if a woman were an angel; moreover, his digestion was as good as ever. the fourth quarter of this villa was occupied by nicholas treffry, whose annual sojourn out of england perpetually surprised himself. between him and his young niece, christian, there existed, however, a rare sympathy; one of those affections between the young and old, which, mysteriously born like everything in life, seems the only end and aim to both, till another feeling comes into the younger heart. since a long and dangerous illness, he had been ordered to avoid the english winter, and at the commencement of each spring he would appear at botzen, driving his own horses by easy stages from the italian riviera, where he spent the coldest months. he always stayed till june before going back to his london club, and during all that time he let no day pass without growling at foreigners, their habits, food, drink, and raiment, with a kind of big dog's growling that did nobody any harm. the illness had broken him very much; he was seventy, but looked more. he had a servant, a luganese, named dominique, devoted to him. nicholas treffry had found him overworked in an hotel, and had engaged him with the caution: "look--here, dominique! i swear!" to which dominique, dark of feature, saturnine and ironical, had only replied: "tres biens, m'sieur!" iii harz and his host sat in leather chairs; herr paul's square back was wedged into a cushion, his round legs crossed. both were smoking, and they eyed each other furtively, as men of different stamp do when first thrown together. the young artist found his host extremely new and disconcerting; in his presence he felt both shy and awkward. herr paul, on the other hand, very much at ease, was thinking indolently: 'good-looking young fellow--comes of the people, i expect, not at all the manner of the world; wonder what he talks about.' presently noticing that harz was looking at a photograph, he said: "ah! yes! that was a woman! they are not to be found in these days. she could dance, the little coralie! did you ever see such arms? confess that she is beautiful, hein?" "she has individuality," said harz. "a fine type!" herr paul blew out a cloud of smoke. "yes," he murmured, "she was fine all over!" he had dropped his eyeglasses, and his full brown eyes, with little crow's-feet at the corners, wandered from his visitor to his cigar. 'he'd be like a satyr if he wasn't too clean,' thought harz. 'put vine leaves in his hair, paint him asleep, with his hands crossed, so!' "when i am told a person has individuality," herr paul was saying in a rich and husky voice, "i generally expect boots that bulge, an umbrella of improper colour; i expect a creature of 'bad form' as they say in england; who will shave some days and some days will not shave; who sometimes smells of india-rubber, and sometimes does not smell, which is discouraging!" "you do not approve of individuality?" said harz shortly. "not if it means doing, and thinking, as those who know better do not do, or think." "and who are those who know better?" "ah! my dear, you are asking me a riddle? well, then--society, men of birth, men of recognised position, men above eccentricity, in a word, of reputation." harz looked at him fixedly. "men who haven't the courage of their own ideas, not even the courage to smell of india-rubber; men who have no desires, and so can spend all their time making themselves flat!" herr paul drew out a red silk handkerchief and wiped his beard. "i assure you, my dear," he said, "it is easier to be flat; it is more respectable to be flat. himmel! why not, then, be flat?" "like any common fellow?" "certes; like any common fellow--like me, par exemple!" herr paul waved his hand. when he exercised unusual tact, he always made use of a french expression. harz flushed. herr paul followed up his victory. "come, come!" he said. "pass me my men of repute! que diable! we are not anarchists." "are you sure?" said harz. herr paul twisted his moustache. "i beg your pardon," he said slowly. but at this moment the door was opened; a rumbling voice remarked: "morning, paul. who's your visitor?" harz saw a tall, bulky figure in the doorway. "come in,"' called out herr paul. "let me present to you a new acquaintance, an artist: herr harz--mr. nicholas treffry. psumm bumm! all this introducing is dry work." and going to the sideboard he poured out three glasses of a light, foaming beer. mr. treffry waved it from him: "not for me," he said: "wish i could! they won't let me look at it." and walking over, to the window with a heavy tread, which trembled like his voice, he sat down. there was something in his gait like the movements of an elephant's hind legs. he was very tall (it was said, with the customary exaggeration of family tradition, that there never had been a male treffry under six feet in height), but now he stooped, and had grown stout. there was something at once vast and unobtrusive about his personality. he wore a loose brown velvet jacket, and waistcoat, cut to show a soft frilled shirt and narrow black ribbon tie; a thin gold chain was looped round his neck and fastened to his fob. his heavy cheeks had folds in them like those in a bloodhound's face. he wore big, drooping, yellow-grey moustaches, which he had a habit of sucking, and a goatee beard. he had long loose ears that might almost have been said to gap. on his head there was a soft black hat, large in the brim and low in the crown. his grey eyes, heavy-lidded, twinkled under their bushy brows with a queer, kind cynicism. as a young man he had sown many a wild oat; but he had also worked and made money in business; he had, in fact, burned the candle at both ends; but he had never been unready to do his fellows a good turn. he had a passion for driving, and his reckless method of pursuing this art had caused him to be nicknamed: "the notorious treffry." once, when he was driving tandem down a hill with a loose rein, the friend beside him had said: "for all the good you're doing with those reins, treffry, you might as well throw them on the horses' necks." "just so," treffry had answered. at the bottom of the hill they had gone over a wall into a potato patch. treffry had broken several ribs; his friend had gone unharmed. he was a great sufferer now, but, constitutionally averse to being pitied, he had a disconcerting way of humming, and this, together with the shake in his voice, and his frequent use of peculiar phrases, made the understanding of his speech depend at times on intuition rather than intelligence. the clock began to strike eleven. harz muttered an excuse, shook hands with his host, and bowing to his new acquaintance, went away. he caught a glimpse of greta's face against the window, and waved his hand to her. in the road he came on dawney, who was turning in between the poplars, with thumbs as usual hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat. "hallo!" the latter said. "doctor!" harz answered slyly; "the fates outwitted me, it seems." "serve you right," said dawney, "for your confounded egoism! wait here till i come out, i shan't be many minutes." but harz went on his way. a cart drawn by cream-coloured oxen was passing slowly towards the bridge. in front of the brushwood piled on it two peasant girls were sitting with their feet on a mat of grass--the picture of contentment. "i'm wasting my time!" he thought. "i've done next to nothing in two months. better get back to london! that girl will never make a painter!" she would never make a painter, but there was something in her that he could not dismiss so rapidly. she was not exactly beautiful, but she was sympathetic. the brow was pleasing, with dark-brown hair softly turned back, and eyes so straight and shining. the two sisters were very different! the little one was innocent, yet mysterious; the elder seemed as clear as crystal! he had entered the town, where the arcaded streets exuded their peculiar pungent smell of cows and leather, wood-smoke, wine-casks, and drains. the sound of rapid wheels over the stones made him turn his head. a carriage drawn by red-roan horses was passing at a great pace. people stared at it, standing still, and looking alarmed. it swung from side to side and vanished round a corner. harz saw mr. nicholas treffry in a long, whitish dust-coat; his italian servant, perched behind, was holding to the seat-rail, with a nervous grin on his dark face. 'certainly,' harz thought, 'there's no getting away from these people this morning--they are everywhere.' in his studio he began to sort his sketches, wash his brushes, and drag out things he had accumulated during his two months' stay. he even began to fold his blanket door. but suddenly he stopped. those two girls! why not try? what a picture! the two heads, the sky, and leaves! begin to-morrow! against that window--no, better at the villa! call the picture--spring...! iv the wind, stirring among trees and bushes, flung the young leaves skywards. the trembling of their silver linings was like the joyful flutter of a heart at good news. it was one of those spring mornings when everything seems full of a sweet restlessness--soft clouds chasing fast across the sky; soft scents floating forth and dying; the notes of birds, now shrill and sweet, now hushed in silences; all nature striving for something, nothing at peace. villa rubein withstood the influence of the day, and wore its usual look of rest and isolation. harz sent in his card, and asked to see "der herr." the servant, a grey-eyed, clever-looking swiss with no hair on his face, came back saying: "der herr, mein herr, is in the garden gone." harz followed him. herr paul, a small white flannel cap on his head, gloves on his hands, and glasses on his nose, was watering a rosebush, and humming the serenade from faust. this aspect of the house was very different from the other. the sun fell on it, and over a veranda creepers clung and scrambled in long scrolls. there was a lawn, with freshly mown grass; flower-beds were laid out, and at the end of an avenue of young acacias stood an arbour covered with wisteria. in the east, mountain peaks--fingers of snow--glittered above the mist. a grave simplicity lay on that scene, on the roofs and spires, the valleys and the dreamy hillsides, with their yellow scars and purple bloom, and white cascades, like tails of grey horses swishing in the wind. herr paul held out his hand: "what can we do for you?" he said. "i have to beg a favour," replied harz. "i wish to paint your daughters. i will bring the canvas here--they shall have no trouble. i would paint them in the garden when they have nothing else to do." herr paul looked at him dubiously--ever since the previous day he had been thinking: 'queer bird, that painter--thinks himself the devil of a swell! looks a determined fellow too!' now--staring in the painter's face--it seemed to him, on the whole, best if some one else refused this permission. "with all the pleasure, my dear sir," he said. "come, let us ask these two young ladies!" and putting down his hose, he led the way towards the arbour, thinking: 'you'll be disappointed, my young conqueror, or i'm mistaken.' miss naylor and the girls were sitting in the shade, reading la fontaine's fables. greta, with one eye on her governess, was stealthily cutting a pig out of orange peel. "ah! my dear dears!" began herr paul, who in the presence of miss naylor always paraded his english. "here is our friend, who has a very flattering request to make; he would paint you, yes--both together, alfresco, in the air, in the sunshine, with the birds, the little birds!" greta, gazing at harz, gushed deep pink, and furtively showed him her pig. christian said: "paint us? oh no!" she saw harz looking at her, and added, slowly: "if you really wish it, i suppose we could!" then dropped her eyes. "ah!" said herr paul raising his brows till his glasses fell from his nose: "and what says gretchen? does she want to be handed up to posterities a little peacock along with the other little birds?" greta, who had continued staring at the painter, said: "of--course --i--want--to--be." "prrt!" said herr paul, looking at miss naylor. the little lady indeed opened her mouth wide, but all that came forth was a tiny squeak, as sometimes happens when one is anxious to say something, and has not arranged beforehand what it shall be. the affair seemed ended; harz heaved a sigh of satisfaction. but herr paul had still a card to play. "there is your aunt," he said; "there are things to be considered--one must certainly inquire--so, we shall see." kissing greta loudly on both cheeks, he went towards the house. "what makes you want to paint us?" christian asked, as soon as he was gone. "i think it very wrong," miss naylor blurted out. "why?" said harz, frowning. "greta is so young--there are lessons--it is such a waste of time!" his eyebrows twitched: "ah! you think so!" "i don't see why it is a waste of time," said christian quietly; "there are lots of hours when we sit here and do nothing." "and it is very dull," put in greta, with a pout. "you are rude, greta," said miss naylor in a little rage, pursing her lips, and taking up her knitting. "i think it seems always rude to speak the truth," said greta. miss naylor looked at her in that concentrated manner with which she was in the habit of expressing displeasure. but at this moment a servant came, and said that mrs. decie would be glad to see herr harz. the painter made them a stiff bow, and followed the servant to the house. miss naylor and the two girls watched his progress with apprehensive eyes; it was clear that he had been offended. crossing the veranda, and passing through an open window hung with silk curtains, hart entered a cool dark room. this was mrs. decie's sanctum, where she conducted correspondence, received her visitors, read the latest literature, and sometimes, when she had bad headaches, lay for hours on the sofa, with a fan, and her eyes closed. there was a scent of sandalwood, a suggestion of the east, a kind of mystery, in here, as if things like chairs and tables were not really what they seemed, but something much less commonplace. the visitor looked twice, to be quite sure of anything; there were many plants, bead curtains, and a deal of silverwork and china. mrs. decie came forward in the slightly rustling silk which--whether in or out of fashion--always accompanied her. a tall woman, over fifty, she moved as if she had been tied together at the knees. her face was long, with broad brows, from which her sandy-grey hair was severely waved back; she had pale eyes, and a perpetual, pale, enigmatic smile. her complexion had been ruined by long residence in india, and might unkindly have been called fawn-coloured. she came close to harz, keeping her eyes on his, with her head bent slightly forward. "we are so pleased to know you," she said, speaking in a voice which had lost all ring. "it is charming to find some one in these parts who can help us to remember that there is such a thing as art. we had mr. c---here last autumn, such a charming fellow. he was so interested in the native customs and dresses. you are a subject painter, too, i think? won't you sit down?" she went on for some time, introducing painters' names, asking questions, skating round the edge of what was personal. and the young man stood before her with a curious little smile fixed on his lips. 'she wants to know whether i'm worth powder and shot,' he thought. "you wish to paint my nieces?" mrs. decie said at last, leaning back on her settee. "i wish to have that honour," harz answered with a bow. "and what sort of picture did you think of?" "that," said harz, "is in the future. i couldn't tell you." and he thought: 'will she ask me if i get my tints in paris, like the woman tramper told me of?' the perpetual pale smile on mrs. decie's face seemed to invite his confidence, yet to warn him that his words would be sucked in somewhere behind those broad fine brows, and carefully sorted. mrs. decie, indeed, was thinking: 'interesting young man, regular bohemian--no harm in that at his age; something napoleonic in his face; probably has no dress clothes. yes, should like to see more of him!' she had a fine eye for points of celebrity; his name was unfamiliar, would probably have been scouted by that famous artist mr. c---, but she felt her instinct urging her on to know him. she was, to do her justice, one of those "lion" finders who seek the animal for pleasure, not for the glory it brings them; she had the courage of her instincts--lion-entities were indispensable to her, but she trusted to divination to secure them; nobody could foist a "lion" on her. "it will be very nice. you will stay and have some lunch? the arrangements here are rather odd. such a mixed household--but there is always lunch at two o'clock for any one who likes, and we all dine at seven. you would have your sittings in the afternoons, perhaps? i should so like to see your sketches. you are using the old house on the wall for studio; that is so original of you!" harz would not stay to lunch, but asked if he might begin work that afternoon; he left a little suffocated by the sandalwood and sympathy of this sphinx-like woman. walking home along the river wall, with the singing of the larks and thrushes, the rush of waters, the humming of the chafers in his ears, he felt that he would make something fine of this subject. before his eyes the faces of the two girls continually started up, framed by the sky, with young leaves guttering against their cheeks. v three days had passed since harz began his picture, when early in the morning, greta came from villa rubein along the river dyke and sat down on a bench from which the old house on the wall was visible. she had not been there long before harz came out. "i did not knock," said greta, "because you would not have heard, and it is so early, so i have been waiting for you a quarter of an hour." selecting a rosebud, from some flowers in her hand, she handed it to him. "that is my first rosebud this year," she said; "it is for you because you are painting me. to-day i am thirteen, herr harz; there is not to be a sitting, because it is my birthday; but, instead, we are all going to meran to see the play of andreas hofer. you are to come too, please; i am here to tell you, and the others shall be here directly." harz bowed: "and who are the others?" "christian, and dr. edmund, miss naylor, and cousin teresa. her husband is ill, so she is sad, but to-day she is going to forget that. it is not good to be always sad, is it, herr harz?" he laughed: "you could not be." greta answered gravely: "oh yes, i could. i too am often sad. you are making fun. you are not to make fun to-day, because it is my birthday. do you think growing up is nice, herr harz?" "no, fraulein greta, it is better to have all the time before you." they walked on side by side. "i think," said greta, "you are very much afraid of losing time. chris says that time is nothing." "time is everything," responded harz. "she says that time is nothing, and thought is everything," greta murmured, rubbing a rose against her cheek, "but i think you cannot have a thought unless you have the time to think it in. there are the others! look!" a cluster of sunshades on the bridge glowed for a moment and was lost in shadow. "come," said harz, "let's join them!" at meran, under schloss tirol, people were streaming across the meadows into the open theatre. here were tall fellows in mountain dress, with leather breeches, bare knees, and hats with eagles' feathers; here were fruit-sellers, burghers and their wives, mountebanks, actors, and every kind of visitor. the audience, packed into an enclosure of high boards, sweltered under the burning sun. cousin teresa, tall and thin, with hard, red cheeks, shaded her pleasant eyes with her hand. the play began. it depicted the rising in the tyrol of : the village life, dances and yodelling; murmurings and exhortations, the warning beat of drums; then the gathering, with flintlocks, pitchforks, knives; the battle and victory; the homecoming, and festival. then the second gathering, the roar of cannon; betrayal, capture, death. the impassive figure of the patriot andreas hofer always in front, black-bearded, leathern-girdled, under the blue sky, against a screen of mountains. harz and christian sat behind the others. he seemed so intent on the play that she did not speak, but watched his face, rigid with a kind of cold excitement; he seemed to be transported by the life passing before them. something of his feeling seized on her; when the play was over she too was trembling. in pushing their way out they became separated from the others. "there's a short cut to the station here," said christian; "let's go this way." the path rose a little; a narrow stream crept alongside the meadow, and the hedge was spangled with wild roses. christian kept glancing shyly at the painter. since their meeting on the river wall her thoughts had never been at rest. this stranger, with his keen face, insistent eyes, and ceaseless energy, had roused a strange feeling in her; his words had put shape to something in her not yet expressed. she stood aside at a stile to make way for some peasant boys, dusty and rough-haired, who sang and whistled as they went by. "i was like those boys once," said harz. christian turned to him quickly. "ah! that was why you felt the play, so much." "it's my country up there. i was born amongst the mountains. i looked after the cows, and slept in hay-cocks, and cut the trees in winter. they used to call me a 'black sheep,' a 'loafer' in my village." "why?" "ah! why? i worked as hard as any of them. but i wanted to get away. do you think i could have stayed there all my life?" christian's eyes grew eager. "if people don't understand what it is you want to do, they always call you a loafer!" muttered harz. "but you did what you meant to do in spite of them," christian said. for herself it was so hard to finish or decide. when in the old days she told greta stories, the latter, whose instinct was always for the definite, would say: "and what came at the end, chris? do finish it this morning!" but christian never could. her thoughts were deep, vague, dreamy, invaded by both sides of every question. whatever she did, her needlework, her verse-making, her painting, all had its charm; but it was not always what it was intended for at the beginning. nicholas treffry had once said of her: "when chris starts out to make a hat, it may turn out an altar-cloth, but you may bet it won't be a hat." it was her instinct to look for what things meant; and this took more than all her time. she knew herself better than most girls of nineteen, but it was her reason that had informed her, not her feelings. in her sheltered life, her heart had never been ruffled except by rare fits of passion--"tantrums" old nicholas treffry dubbed them--at what seemed to her mean or unjust. "if i were a man," she said, "and going to be great, i should have wanted to begin at the very bottom as you did." "yes," said harz quickly, "one should be able to feel everything." she did not notice how simply he assumed that he was going to be great. he went on, a smile twisting his mouth unpleasantly beneath its dark moustache--"not many people think like you! it's a crime not to have been born a gentleman." "that's a sneer," said christian; "i didn't think you would have sneered!" "it is true. what is the use of pretending that it isn't?" "it may be true, but it is finer not to say it!" "by heavens!" said harz, striking one hand into the other, "if more truth were spoken there would not be so many shams." christian looked down at him from her seat on the stile. "you are right all the same, fraulein christian," he added suddenly; "that's a very little business. work is what matters, and trying to see the beauty in the world." christian's face changed. she understood, well enough, this craving after beauty. slipping down from the stile, she drew a slow deep breath. "yes!" she said. neither spoke for some time, then harz said shyly: "if you and fraulein greta would ever like to come and see my studio, i should be so happy. i would try and clean it up for you!" "i should like to come. i could learn something. i want to learn." they were both silent till the path joined the road. "we must be in front of the others; it's nice to be in front--let's dawdle. i forgot--you never dawdle, herr harz." "after a big fit of work, i can dawdle against any one; then i get another fit of work--it's like appetite." "i'm always dawdling," answered christian. by the roadside a peasant woman screwed up her sun-dried face, saying in a low voice: "please, gracious lady, help me to lift this basket!" christian stooped, but before she could raise it, harz hoisted it up on his back. "all right," he nodded; "this good lady doesn't mind." the woman, looking very much ashamed, walked along by christian; she kept rubbing her brown hands together, and saying; "gracious lady, i would not have wished. it is heavy, but i would not have wished." "i'm sure he'd rather carry it," said christian. they had not gone far along the road, however, before the others passed them in a carriage, and at the strange sight miss naylor could be seen pursing her lips; cousin teresa nodding pleasantly; a smile on dawney's face; and beside him greta, very demure. harz began to laugh. "what are you laughing at?" asked christian. "you english are so funny. you mustn't do this here, you mustn't do that there, it's like sitting in a field of nettles. if i were to walk with you without my coat, that little lady would fall off her seat." his laugh infected christian; they reached the station feeling that they knew each other better. the sun had dipped behind the mountains when the little train steamed down the valley. all were subdued, and greta, with a nodding head, slept fitfully. christian, in her corner, was looking out of the window, and harz kept studying her profile. he tried to see her eyes. he had remarked indeed that, whatever their expression, the brows, arched and rather wide apart, gave them a peculiar look of understanding. he thought of his picture. there was nothing in her face to seize on, it was too sympathetic, too much like light. yet her chin was firm, almost obstinate. the train stopped with a jerk; she looked round at him. it was as though she had said: "you are my friend." at villa rubein, herr paul had killed the fatted calf for greta's fest. when the whole party were assembled, he alone remained standing; and waving his arm above the cloth, cried: "my dears! your happiness! there are good things here--come!" and with a sly look, the air of a conjurer producing rabbits, he whipped the cover off the soup tureen: "soup-turtle, fat, green fat!" he smacked his lips. no servants were allowed, because, as greta said to harz: "it is that we are to be glad this evening." geniality radiated from herr paul's countenance, mellow as a bowl of wine. he toasted everybody, exhorting them to pleasure. harz passed a cracker secretly behind greta's head, and miss naylor, moved by a mysterious impulse, pulled it with a sort of gleeful horror; it exploded, and greta sprang off her chair. scruff, seeing this, appeared suddenly on the sideboard with his forelegs in a plate of soup; without moving them, he turned his head, and appeared to accuse the company of his false position. it was the signal for shrieks of laughter. scruff made no attempt to free his forelegs; but sniffed the soup, and finding that nothing happened, began to lap it. "take him out! oh! take him out!" wailed greta, "he shall be ill!" "allons! mon cher!" cried herr paul, "c'est magnifique, mais, vous savez, ce nest guere la guerre!" scruff, with a wild spring, leaped past him to the ground. "ah!" cried miss naylor, "the carpet!" fresh moans of mirth shook the table; for having tasted the wine of laughter, all wanted as much more as they could get. when scruff and his traces were effaced, herr paul took a ladle in his hand. "i have a toast," he said, waving it for silence; "a toast we will drink all together from our hearts; the toast of my little daughter, who to-day has thirteen years become; and there is also in our hearts," he continued, putting down the ladle and suddenly becoming grave, "the thought of one who is not today with us to see this joyful occasion; to her, too, in this our happiness we turn our hearts and glasses because it is her joy that we should yet be joyful. i drink to my little daughter; may god her shadow bless!" all stood up, clinking their glasses, and drank: then, in the hush that followed, greta, according to custom, began to sing a german carol; at the end of the fourth line she stopped, abashed. heir paul blew his nose loudly, and, taking up a cap that had fallen from a cracker, put it on. every one followed his example, miss naylor attaining the distinction of a pair of donkey's ears, which she wore, after another glass of wine, with an air of sacrificing to the public good. at the end of supper came the moment for the offering of gifts. herr paul had tied a handkerchief over greta's eyes, and one by one they brought her presents. greta, under forfeit of a kiss, was bound to tell the giver by the feel of the gift. her swift, supple little hands explored noiselessly; and in every case she guessed right. dawney's present, a kitten, made a scene by clawing at her hair. "that is dr. edmund's," she cried at once. christian saw that harz had disappeared, but suddenly he came back breathless, and took his place at the end of the rank of givers. advancing on tiptoe, he put his present into greta's hands. it was a small bronze copy of a donatello statue. "oh, herr harz!" cried greta; "i saw it in the studio that day. it stood on the table, and it is lovely." mrs. decie, thrusting her pale eyes close to it, murmured: "charming!" mr. treffry took it in his forgers. "rum little toad! cost a pot of money, i expect!" he eyed harz doubtfully. they went into the next room now, and herr paul, taking greta's bandage, transferred it to his own eyes. "take care--take care, all!" he cried; "i am a devil of a catcher," and, feeling the air cautiously, he moved forward like a bear about to hug. he caught no one. christian and greta whisked under his arms and left him grasping at the air. mrs. decie slipped past with astonishing agility. mr. treffry, smoking his cigar, and barricaded in a corner, jeered: "bravo, paul! the active beggar! can't he run! go it, greta!" at last herr paul caught cousin teresa, who, fattened against the wall, lost her head, and stood uttering tiny shrieks. suddenly mrs. decie started playing the blue danube. herr paul dropped the handkerchief, twisted his moustache up fiercely, glared round the room, and seizing greta by the waist, began dancing furiously, bobbing up and down like a cork in lumpy water. cousin teresa followed suit with miss naylor, both very solemn, and dancing quite different steps. harz, went up to christian. "i can't dance," he said, "that is, i have only danced once, but--if you would try with me!" she put her hand on his arm, and they began. she danced, light as a feather, eyes shining, feet flying, her body bent a little forward. it was not a great success at first, but as soon as the time had got into harz's feet, they went swinging on when all the rest had stopped. sometimes one couple or another slipped through the window to dance on the veranda, and came whirling in again. the lamplight glowed on the girls' white dresses; on herr paul's perspiring face. he constituted in himself a perfect orgy, and when the music stopped flung himself, full length, on the sofa gasping out: "my god! but, my god!" suddenly christian felt harz cling to her arm. glowing and panting she looked at him. "giddy!" he murmured: "i dance so badly; but i'll soon learn." greta clapped her hands: "every evening we will dance, every evening we will dance." harz looked at christian; the colour had deepened in her face. "i'll show you how they dance in my village, feet upon the ceiling!" and running to dawney, he said: "hold me here! lift me--so! now, on--two," he tried to swing his feet above his head, but, with an "ouch!" from dawney, they collapsed, and sat abruptly on the floor. this untimely event brought the evening to an end. dawney left, escorting cousin teresa, and harz strode home humming the blue danube, still feeling christian's waist against his arm. in their room the two girls sat long at the window to cool themselves before undressing. "ah!" sighed greta, "this is the happiest birthday i have had." cristian too thought: 'i have never been so happy in my life as i have been to-day. i should like every day to be like this!' and she leant out into the night, to let the air cool her cheeks. "chris!" said greta some days after this, "miss naylor danced last evening; i think she shall have a headache to-day. there is my french and my history this morning." "well, i can take them." "that is nice; then we can talk. i am sorry about the headache. i shall give her some of my eau de cologne." miss naylor's headaches after dancing were things on which to calculate. the girls carried their books into the arbour; it was a showery day, and they had to run for shelter through the raindrops and sunlight. "the french first, chris!" greta liked her french, in which she was not far inferior to christian; the lesson therefore proceeded in an admirable fashion. after one hour exactly by her watch (mr. treffry's birthday present loved and admired at least once every hour) greta rose. "chris, i have not fed my rabbits." "be quick! there's not much time for history." greta vanished. christian watched the bright water dripping from the roof; her lips were parted in a smile. she was thinking of something harz had said the night before. a discussion having been started as to whether average opinion did, or did not, safeguard society, harz, after sitting silent, had burst out: "i think one man in earnest is better than twenty half-hearted men who follow tamely; in the end he does society most good." dawney had answered: "if you had your way there would be no society." "i hate society because it lives upon the weak." "bah!" herr paul chimed in; "the weak goes to the wall; that is as certain as that you and i are here." "let them fall against the wall," cried harz; "don't push them there...." greta reappeared, walking pensively in the rain. "bino," she said, sighing, "has eaten too much. i remember now, i did feed them before. must we do the history, chris?" "of course!" greta opened her book, and put a finger in the page. "herr harz is very kind to me," she said. "yesterday he brought a bird which had. come into his studio with a hurt wing; he brought it very gently in his handkerchief--he is very kind, the bird was not even frightened of him. you did not know about that, chris?" chris flushed a little, and said in a hurt voice "i don't see what it has to--do with me." "no," assented greta. christian's colour deepened. "go on with your history, greta." "only," pursued greta, "that he always tells you all about things, chris." "he doesn't! how can you say that!" "i think he does, and it is because you do not make him angry. it is very easy to make him angry; you have only to think differently, and he shall be angry at once." "you are a little cat!" said christian; "it isn't true, at all. he hates shams, and can't bear meanness; and it is mean to cover up dislikes and pretend that you agree with people." "papa says that he thinks too much about himself." "father!" began christian hotly; biting her lips she stopped, and turned her wrathful eyes on greta. "you do not always show your dislikes, chris." "i? what has that to do with it? because one is a coward that doesn't make it any better, does it?" "i think that he has a great many dislikes," murmured greta. "i wish you would attend to your own faults, and not pry into other people's," and pushing the book aside, christian gazed in front of her. some minutes passed, then greta leaning over, rubbed a cheek against her shoulder. "i am very sorry, chris--i only wanted to be talking. shall i read some history?" "yes," said christian coldly. "are you angry with me, chris?" there was no answer. the lingering raindrops pattered down on the roof. greta pulled at her sister's sleeve. "look, chris!" she said. "there is herr harz!" christian looked up, dropped her eyes again, and said: "will you go on with the history, greta?" greta sighed. "yes, i will--but, oh! chris, there is the luncheon gong!" and she meekly closed the book. during the following weeks there was a "sitting" nearly every afternoon. miss naylor usually attended them; the little lady was, to a certain extent, carried past objection. she had begun to take an interest in the picture, and to watch the process out of the corner of her eye; in the depths of her dear mind, however, she never quite got used to the vanity and waste of time; her lips would move and her knitting-needles click in suppressed remonstrances. what harz did fast he did best; if he had leisure he "saw too much," loving his work so passionately that he could never tell exactly when to stop. he hated to lay things aside, always thinking: "i can get it better." greta was finished, but with christian, try as he would, he was not satisfied; from day to day her face seemed to him to change, as if her soul were growing. there were things too in her eyes that he could neither read nor reproduce. dawney would often stroll out to them after his daily visit, and lying on the grass, his arms crossed behind his head, and a big cigar between his lips, would gently banter everybody. tea came at five o'clock, and then mrs. decie appeared armed with a magazine or novel, for she was proud of her literary knowledge. the sitting was suspended; harz, with a cigarette, would move between the table and the picture, drinking his tea, putting a touch in here and there; he never sat down till it was all over for the day. during these "rests" there was talk, usually ending in discussion. mrs. decie was happiest in conversations of a literary order, making frequent use of such expressions as: "after all, it produces an illusion--does anything else matter?" "rather a poseur, is he not?" "a question, that, of temperament," or "a matter of the definition of words"; and other charming generalities, which sound well, and seem to go far, and are pleasingly irrefutable. sometimes the discussion turned on art--on points of colour or technique; whether realism was quite justified; and should we be pre-raphaelites? when these discussions started, christian's eyes would grow bigger and clearer, with a sort of shining reasonableness; as though they were trying to see into the depths. and harz would stare at them. but the look in those eyes eluded him, as if they had no more meaning than mrs. decie's, which, with their pale, watchful smile, always seemed saying: "come, let us take a little intellectual exercise." greta, pulling scruff's ears, would gaze up at the speakers; when the talk was over, she always shook herself. but if no one came to the "sittings," there would sometimes be very earnest, quick talk, sometimes long silences. one day christian said: "what is your religion?" harz finished the touch he was putting on the canvas, before he answered: "roman catholic, i suppose; i was baptised in that church." "i didn't mean that. do you believe in a future life?" "christian," murmured greta, who was plaiting blades of grass, "shall always want to know what people think about a future life; that is so funny!" "how can i tell?" said harz; "i've never really thought of it--never had the time." "how can you help thinking?" christian said: "i have to--it seems to me so awful that we might come to an end." she closed her book, and it slipped off her lap. she went on: "there must be a future life, we're so incomplete. what's the good of your work, for instance? what's the use of developing if you have to stop?" "i don't know," answered harz. "i don't much care. all i know is, i've got to work." "but why?" "for happiness--the real happiness is fighting--the rest is nothing. if you have finished a thing, does it ever satisfy you? you look forward to the next thing at once; to wait is wretched!" christian clasped her hands behind her neck; sunlight flickered through the leaves on to the bosom of her dress. "ah! stay like that!" cried harz. she let her eyes rest on his face, swinging her foot a little. "you work because you must; but that's not enough. why do you feel you must? i want to know what's behind. when i was travelling with aunt constance the winter before last we often talked--i've heard her discuss it with her friends. she says we move in circles till we reach nirvana. but last winter i found i couldn't talk to her; it seemed as if she never really meant anything. then i started reading--kant and hegel--" "ah!" put in harz, "if they would teach me to draw better, or to see a new colour in a flower, or an expression in a face, i would read them all." christian leaned forward: "it must be right to get as near truth as possible; every step gained is something. you believe in truth; truth is the same as beauty--that was what you said--you try to paint the truth, you always see the beauty. but how can we know truth, unless we know what is at the root of it?" "i--think," murmured greta, sotto voce, "you see one way--and he sees another--because--you are not one person." "of course!" said christian impatiently, "but why--" a sound of humming interrupted her. nicholas treffry was coming from the house, holding the times in one hand, and a huge meerschaum pipe in the other. "aha!" he said to harz: "how goes the picture?" and he lowered himself into a chair. "better to-day, uncle?" said christian softly. mr. treffry growled. "confounded humbugs, doctors!" he said. "your father used to swear by them; why, his doctor killed him--made him drink such a lot of stuff!" "why then do you have a doctor, uncle nic?" asked greta. mr. treffry looked at her; his eyes twinkled. "i don't know, my dear. if they get half a chance, they won't let go of you!" there had been a gentle breeze all day, but now it had died away; not a leaf quivered, not a blade of grass was stirring; from the house were heard faint sounds as of some one playing on a pipe. a blackbird came hopping down the path. "when you were a boy, did you go after birds' nests, uncle nic?" greta whispered. "i believe you, greta." the blackbird hopped into the shrubbery. "you frightened him, uncle nic! papa says that at schloss konig, where he lived when he was young, he would always be after jackdaws' nests." "gammon, greta. your father never took a jackdaw's nest, his legs are much too round!" "are you fond of birds, uncle nic?" "ask me another, greta! well, i s'pose so." "then why did you go bird-nesting? i think it is cruel" mr. treffry coughed behind his paper: "there you have me, greta," he remarked. harz began to gather his brushes: "thank you," he said, "that's all i can do to-day." "can i look?" mr. treffry inquired. "certainly!" uncle nic got up slowly, and stood in front of the picture. "when it's for sale," he said at last, "i'll buy it." harz bowed; but for some reason he felt annoyed, as if he had been asked to part with something personal. "i thank you," he said. a gong sounded. "you'll stay and have a snack with us?" said mr. treffry; "the doctor's stopping." gathering up his paper, he moved off to the house with his hand on greta's shoulder, the terrier running in front. harz and christian were left alone. he was scraping his palette, and she was sitting with her elbows resting on her knees; between them, a gleam of sunlight dyed the path golden. it was evening already; the bushes and the flowers, after the day's heat, were breathing out perfume; the birds had started their evensong. "are you tired of sitting for your portrait, fraulein christian?" christian shook her head. "i shall get something into it that everybody does not see--something behind the surface, that will last." christian said slowly: "that's like a challenge. you were right when you said fighting is happiness--for yourself, but not for me. i'm a coward. i hate to hurt people, i like them to like me. if you had to do anything that would make them hate you, you would do it all the same, if it helped your work; that's fine--it's what i can't do. it's--it's everything. do you like uncle nic?" the young painter looked towards the house, where under the veranda old nicholas treffry was still in sight; a smile came on his lips. "if i were the finest painter in the world, he wouldn't think anything of me for it, i'm afraid; but if i could show him handfuls of big cheques for bad pictures i had painted, he would respect me." she smiled, and said: "i love him." "then i shall like him," harz answered simply. she put her hand out, and her fingers met his. "we shall be late," she said, glowing, and catching up her book: "i'm always late!" vii there was one other guest at dinner, a well-groomed person with pale, fattish face, dark eyes, and hair thin on the temples, whose clothes had a military cut. he looked like a man fond of ease, who had gone out of his groove, and collided with life. herr paul introduced him as count mario sarelli. two hanging lamps with crimson shades threw a rosy light over the table, where, in the centre stood a silver basket, full of irises. through the open windows the garden was all clusters of black foliage in the dying light. moths fluttered round the lamps; greta, following them with her eyes, gave quite audible sighs of pleasure when they escaped. both girls wore white, and harz, who sat opposite christian, kept looking at her, and wondering why he had not painted her in that dress. mrs. decie understood the art of dining--the dinner, ordered by herr paul, was admirable; the servants silent as their, shadows; there was always a hum of conversation. sarelli, who sat on her right hand, seemed to partake of little except olives, which he dipped into a glass of sherry. he turned his black, solemn eyes silently from face to face, now and then asking the meaning of an english word. after a discussion on modern rome, it was debated whether or no a criminal could be told by the expression of his face. "crime," said mrs. decie, passing her hand across her brow--"crime is but the hallmark of strong individuality." miss naylor, gushing rather pink, stammered: "a great crime must show itself--a murder. why, of course!" "if that were so," said dawney, "we should only have to look about us--no more detectives." miss naylor rejoined with slight severity: "i cannot conceive that such a thing can pass the human face by, leaving no impression!" harz said abruptly: "there are worse things than murder." "ah! par exemple!" said sarelli. there was a slight stir all round the table. "verry good," cried out herr paul, "a vot' sante, cher." miss naylor shivered, as if some one had put a penny down her back; and mrs. decie, leaning towards harz, smiled like one who has made a pet dog do a trick. christian alone was motionless, looking thoughtfully at harz. "i saw a man tried for murder once," he said, "a murder for revenge; i watched the judge, and i thought all the time: 'i'd rather be that murderer than you; i've never seen a meaner face; you crawl through life; you're not a criminal, simply because you haven't the courage.'" in the dubious silence following the painter's speech, mr. treffry could distinctly be heard humming. then sarelli said: "what do you say to anarchists, who are not men, but savage beasts, whom i would tear to pieces!" "as to that," harz answered defiantly, "it maybe wise to hang them, but then there are so many other men that it would be wise to hang." "how can we tell what they went through; what their lives were?" murmured christian. miss naylor, who had been rolling a pellet of bread, concealed it hastily. "they are--always given a chance to--repent--i believe," she said. "for what they are about to receive," drawled dawney. mrs. decie signalled with her fan: "we are trying to express the inexpressible--shall we go into the garden?" all rose; harz stood by the window, and in passing, christian looked at him. he sat down again with a sudden sense of loss. there was no white figure opposite now. raising his eyes he met sarelli's. the italian was regarding him with a curious stare. herr paul began retailing apiece of scandal he had heard that afternoon. "shocking affair!" he said; "i could never have believed it of her! b---is quite beside himself. yesterday there was a row, it seems!" "there has been one every day for months," muttered dawney. "but to leave without a word, and go no one knows where! b---is 'viveur' no doubt, mais, mon dieu, que voulezvous? she was always a poor, pale thing. why! when my---" he flourished his cigar; "i was not always---what i should have been---one lives in a world of flesh and blood---we are not all angels---que diable! but this is a very vulgar business. she goes off; leaves everything---without a word; and b---is very fond of her. these things are not done!" the starched bosom of his shirt seemed swollen by indignation. mr. treffry, with a heavy hand on the table, eyed him sideways. dawney said slowly: "b---is a beast; i'm sorry for the poor woman; but what can she do alone?" "there is, no doubt, a man," put in sarelli. herr paul muttered: "who knows?" "what is b---going to do?" said dawney. "ah!" said herr paul. "he is fond of her. he is a chap of resolution, he will get her back. he told me: 'well, you know, i shall follow her wherever she goes till she comes back.' he will do it, he is a determined chap; he will follow her wherever she goes." mr. treffry drank his wine off at a gulp, and sucked his moustache in sharply. "she was a fool to marry him," said dawney; "they haven't a point in common; she hates him like poison, and she's the better of the two. but it doesn't pay a woman to run off like that. b---had better hurry up, though. what do you think, sir?" he said to mr. treffry. "eh?" said mr. treffry; "how should i know? ask paul there, he's one of your moral men, or count sarelli." the latter said impassively: "if i cared for her i should very likely kill her--if not--" he shrugged his shoulders. harz, who was watching, was reminded of his other words at dinner, "wild beasts whom i would tear to pieces." he looked with interest at this quiet man who said these extremely ferocious things, and thought: 'i should like to paint that fellow.' herr paul twirled his wine-glass in his fingers. "there are family ties," he said, "there is society, there is decency; a wife should be with her husband. b---will do quite right. he must go after her; she will not perhaps come back at first; he will follow her; she will begin to think, 'i am helpless--i am ridiculous!' a woman is soon beaten. they will return. she is once more with her husband--society will forgive, it will be all right." "by jove, paul," growled mr. treffry, "wonderful power of argument!" "a wife is a wife," pursued herr paul; "a man has a right to her society." "what do you say to that, sir?" asked dawney. mr. treffry tugged at his beard: "make a woman live with you, if she don't want to? i call it low." "but, my dear," exclaimed herr paul, "how should you know? you have not been married." "no, thank the lord!" mr. treffry replied. "but looking at the question broadly, sir," said dawney; "if a husband always lets his wife do as she likes, how would the thing work out? what becomes of the marriage tie?" "the marriage tie," growled mr. treffry, "is the biggest thing there is! but, by jove, doctor, i'm a dutchman if hunting women ever helped the marriage tie!" "i am not thinking of myself," herr paul cried out, "i think of the community. there are rights." "a decent community never yet asked a man to tread on his self-respect. if i get my fingers skinned over my marriage, which i undertake at my own risk, what's the community to do with it? d'you think i'm going to whine to it to put the plaster on? as to rights, it'd be a deuced sight better for us all if there wasn't such a fuss about 'em. leave that to women! i don't give a tinker's damn for men who talk about their rights in such matters." sarelli rose. "but your honour," he said, "there is your honour!" mr. treffry stared at him. "honour! if huntin' women's your idea of honour, well--it isn't mine." "then you'd forgive her, sir, whatever happened," dawney said. "forgiveness is another thing. i leave that to your sanctimonious beggars. but, hunt a woman! hang it, sir, i'm not a cad!" and bringing his hand down with a rattle, he added: "this is a subject that don't bear talking of." sarelli fell back in his seat, twirling his moustaches fiercely. harz, who had risen, looked at christian's empty place. 'if i were married!' he thought suddenly. herr paul, with a somewhat vinous glare, still muttered, "but your duty to the family!" harz slipped through the window. the moon was like a wonderful white lantern in the purple sky; there was but a smoulder of stars. beneath the softness of the air was the iciness of the snow; it made him want to run and leap. a sleepy beetle dropped on its back; he turned it over and watched it scurry across the grass. someone was playing schumann's kinderscenen. harz stood still to listen. the notes came twining, weaving round his thoughts; the whole night seemed full of girlish voices, of hopes and fancies, soaring away to mountain heights--invisible, yet present. between the stems of the acacia-trees he could see the flicker of white dresses, where christian and greta were walking arm in arm. he went towards them; the blood flushed up in his face, he felt almost surfeited by some sweet emotion. then, in sudden horror, he stood still. he was in love! with nothing done with everything before him! he was going to bow down to a face! the flicker of the dresses was no longer visible. he would not be fettered, he would stamp it out! he turned away; but with each step, something seemed to jab at his heart. round the corner of the house, in the shadow of the wall, dominique, the luganese, in embroidered slippers, was smoking a long cherry-wood pipe, leaning against a tree--mephistopheles in evening clothes. harz went up to him. "lend me a pencil, dominique." "bien, m'sieu." resting a card against the tree harz wrote to mrs. decie: "forgive me, i am obliged to go away. in a few days i shall hope to return, and finish the picture of your nieces." he sent dominique for his hat. during the man's absence he was on the point of tearing up the card and going back into the house. when the luganese returned he thrust the card into his hand, and walked out between the tall poplars, waiting, like ragged ghosts, silver with moonlight. viii harz walked away along the road. a dog was howling. the sound seemed too appropriate. he put his fingers to his ears, but the lugubrious noise passed those barriers, and made its way into his heart. was there nothing that would put an end to this emotion? it was no better in the old house on the wall; he spent the night tramping up and down. just before daybreak he slipped out with a knapsack, taking the road towards meran. he had not quite passed through gries when he overtook a man walking in the middle of the road and leaving a trail of cigar smoke behind him. "ah! my friend," the smoker said, "you walk early; are you going my way?" it was count sarelli. the raw light had imparted a grey tinge to his pale face, the growth of his beard showed black already beneath the skin; his thumbs were hooked in the pockets of a closely buttoned coat, he gesticulated with his fingers. "you are making a journey?" he said, nodding at the knapsack. "you are early--i am late; our friend has admirable kummel--i have drunk too much. you have not been to bed, i think? if there is no sleep in one's bed it is no good going to look for it. you find that? it is better to drink kummel...! pardon! you are doing the right thing: get away! get away as fast as possible! don't wait, and let it catch you!" harz stared at him amazed. "pardon!" sarelli said again, raising his hat, "that girl--the white girl--i saw. you do well to get away!" he swayed a little as he walked. "that old fellow--what is his name-trrreffr-ry! what ideas of honour!" he mumbled: "honour is an abstraction! if a man is not true to an abstraction, he is a low type; but wait a minute!" he put his hand to his side as though in pain. the hedges were brightening with a faint pinky glow; there was no sound on the long, deserted road, but that of their footsteps; suddenly a bird commenced to chirp, another answered--the world seemed full of these little voices. sarelli stopped. "that white girl," he said, speaking with rapidity. "yes! you do well! get away! don't let it catch you! i waited, it caught me--what happened? everything horrible--and now--kummel!" laughing a thick laugh, he gave a twirl to his moustache, and swaggered on. "i was a fine fellow--nothing too big for mario sarelli; the regiment looked to me. then she came--with her eyes and her white dress, always white, like this one; the little mole on her chin, her hands for ever moving--their touch as warm as sunbeams. then, no longer sarelli this, and that! the little house close to the ramparts! two arms, two eyes, and nothing here," he tapped his breast, "but flames that made ashes quickly--in her, like this ash--!" he flicked the white flake off his cigar. "it's droll! you agree, hein? some day i shall go back and kill her. in the meantime--kummel!" he stopped at a house close to the road, and stood still, his teeth bared in a grin. "but i bore you," he said. his cigar, flung down, sputtered forth its sparks on the road in front of harz. "i live here--good-morning! you are a man for work--your honour is your art! i know, and you are young! the man who loves flesh better than his honour is a low type--i am a low type. i! mario sarelli, a low type! i love flesh better than my honour!" he remained swaying at the gate with the grin fixed on his face; then staggered up the steps, and banged the door. but before harz had walked on, he again appeared, beckoning, in the doorway. obeying an impulse, harz went in. "we will make a night of it," said sarelli; "wine, brandy, kummel? i am virtuous--kummel it must be for me!" he sat down at a piano, and began to touch the keys. harz poured out some wine. sarelli nodded. "you begin with that? allegro--piu--presto! "wine--brandy--kummel!" he quickened the time of the tune: "it is not too long a passage, and this"--he took his hands off the keys--"comes after." harz smiled. "some men do not kill themselves," he said. sarelli, who was bending and swaying to the music of a tarantella, broke off, and letting his eyes rest on the painter, began playing schumann's kinderscenen. harz leaped to his feet. "stop that!" he cried. "it pricks you?" said sarelli suavely; "what do you think of this?" he played again, crouching over the piano, and making the notes sound like the crying of a wounded animal. "for me!" he said, swinging round, and rising. "your health! and so you don't believe in suicide, but in murder? the custom is the other way; but you don't believe in customs? customs are only for society?" he drank a glass of kummel. "you do not love society?" harz looked at him intently; he did not want to quarrel. "i am not too fond of other people's thoughts," he said at last; "i prefer to think my own. "and is society never right? that poor society!" "society! what is society--a few men in good coats? what has it done for me?" sarelli bit the end off a cigar. "ah!" he said; "now we are coming to it. it is good to be an artist, a fine bantam of an artist; where other men have their dis-ci-pline, he has his, what shall we say--his mound of roses?" the painter started to his feet. "yes," said sarelli, with a hiccough, "you are a fine fellow!" "and you are drunk!" cried harz. "a little drunk--not much, not enough to matter!" harz broke into laughter. it was crazy to stay there listening to this mad fellow. what had brought him in? he moved towards the door. "ah!" said sarelli, "but it is no good going to bed--let us talk. i have a lot to say--it is pleasant to talk to anarchists at times." full daylight was already coming through the chinks of the shutters. "you are all anarchists, you painters, you writing fellows. you live by playing ball with facts. images--nothing solid--hein? you're all for new things too, to tickle your nerves. no discipline! true anarchists, every one of you!" harz poured out another glass of wine and drank it off. the man's feverish excitement was catching. "only fools," he replied, "take things for granted. as for discipline, what do you aristocrats, or bourgeois know of discipline? have you ever been hungry? have you ever had your soul down on its back?" "soul on its back? that is good!" "a man's no use," cried harz, "if he's always thinking of what others think; he must stand on his own legs." "he must not then consider other people?" "not from cowardice anyway." sarelli drank. "what would you do," he said, striking his chest, "if you had a devil-here? would you go to bed?" a sort of pity seized on harz. he wanted to say something that would be consoling but could find no words; and suddenly he felt disgusted. what link was there between him and this man; between his love and this man's love? "harz!" muttered sarelli; "harz means 'tar,' hein? your family is not an old one?" harz glared, and said: "my father is a peasant." sarelli lifted the kummel bottle and emptied it into his glass, with a steady hand. "you're honest--and we both have devils. i forgot; i brought you in to see a picture!" he threw wide the shutters; the windows were already open, and a rush of air came in. "ah!" he said, sniffing, "smells of the earth, nicht wahr, herr artist? you should know--it belongs to your father.... come, here's my picture; a correggio! what do you think of it?" "it is a copy." "you think?" "i know." "then you have given me the lie, signor," and drawing out his handkerchief sarelli flicked it in the painter's face. harz turned white. "duelling is a good custom!" said sarelli. "i shall have the honour to teach you just this one, unless you are afraid. here are pistols--this room is twenty feet across at least, twenty feet is no bad distance." and pulling out a drawer he took two pistols from a case, and put them on the table. "the light is good--but perhaps you are afraid." "give me one!" shouted the infuriated painter; "and go to the devil for a fool" "one moment!" sarelli murmured: "i will load them, they are more useful loaded." harz leaned out of the window; his head was in a whirl. 'what on earth is happening?' he thought. 'he's mad--or i am! confound him! i'm not going to be killed!' he turned and went towards the table. sarelli's head was sunk on his arms, he was asleep. harz methodically took up the pistols, and put them back into the drawer. a sound made him turn his head; there stood a tall, strong young woman in a loose gown caught together on her chest. her grey eyes glanced from the painter to the bottles, from the bottles to the pistol-case. a simple reasoning, which struck harz as comic. "it is often like this," she said in the country patois; "der herr must not be frightened." lifting the motionless sarelli as if he were a baby, she laid him on a couch. "ah!" she said, sitting down and resting her elbow on the table; "he will not wake!" harz bowed to her; her patient figure, in spite of its youth and strength, seemed to him pathetic. taking up his knapsack, he went out. the smoke of cottages rose straight; wisps of mist were wandering about the valley, and the songs of birds dropping like blessings. all over the grass the spiders had spun a sea of threads that bent and quivered to the pressure of the air, like fairy tight-ropes. all that day he tramped. blacksmiths, tall stout men with knotted muscles, sleepy eyes, and great fair beards, came out of their forges to stretch and wipe their brows, and stare at him. teams of white oxen, waiting to be harnessed, lashed their tails against their flanks, moving their heads slowly from side to side in the heat. old women at chalet doors blinked and knitted. the white houses, with gaping caves of storage under the roofs, the red church spire, the clinking of hammers in the forges, the slow stamping of oxen-all spoke of sleepy toil, without ideas or ambition. harz knew it all too well; like the earth's odour, it belonged to him, as sarelli had said. towards sunset coming to a copse of larches, he sat down to rest. it was very still, but for the tinkle of cowbells, and, from somewhere in the distance, the sound of dropping logs. two barefooted little boys came from the wood, marching earnestly along, and looking at harz as if he were a monster. once past him, they began to run. 'at their age,' he thought, 'i should have done the same.' a hundred memories rushed into his mind. he looked down at the village straggling below--white houses with russet tiles and crowns of smoke, vineyards where the young leaves were beginning to unfold, the red-capped spire, a thread of bubbling stream, an old stone cross. he had been fourteen years struggling up from all this; and now just as he had breathing space, and the time to give himself wholly to his work--this weakness was upon him! better, a thousand times, to give her up! in a house or two lights began to wink; the scent of wood smoke reached him, the distant chimes of bells, the burring of a stream. ix next day his one thought was to get back to work. he arrived at the studio in the afternoon, and, laying in provisions, barricaded the lower door. for three days he did not go out; on the fourth day he went to villa rubein.... schloss runkelstein--grey, blind, strengthless--still keeps the valley. the windows which once, like eyes, watched men and horses creeping through the snow, braved the splutter of guns and the gleam of torches, are now holes for the birds to nest in. tangled creepers have spread to the very summits of the walls. in the keep, instead of grim men in armour, there is a wooden board recording the history of the castle and instructing visitors on the subject of refreshments. only at night, when the cold moon blanches everything, the castle stands like the grim ghost of its old self, high above the river. after a long morning's sitting the girls had started forth with harz and dawney to spend the afternoon at the ruin; miss naylor, kept at home by headache, watched them depart with words of caution against sunstroke, stinging nettles, and strange dogs. since the painter's return christian and he had hardly spoken to each other. below the battlement on which they sat, in a railed gallery with little tables, dawney and greta were playing dominoes, two soldiers drinking beer, and at the top of a flight of stairs the custodian's wife sewing at a garment. christian said suddenly: "i thought we were friends." "well, fraulein christian, aren't we?" "you went away without a word; friends don't do that." harz bit his lips. "i don't think you care," she went on with a sort of desperate haste, "whether you hurt people or not. you have been here all this time without even going to see your father and mother." "do you think they would want to see me?" christian looked up. "it's all been so soft for you," he said bitterly; "you don't understand." he turned his head away, and then burst out: "i'm proud to come straight from the soil--i wouldn't have it otherwise; but they are of 'the people,' everything is narrow with them--they only understand what they can see and touch." "i'm sorry i spoke like that," said christian softly; "you've never told me about yourself." there was something just a little cruel in the way the painter looked at her, then seeming to feel compunction, he said quickly: "i always hated--the peasant life--i wanted to get away into the world; i had a feeling in here--i wanted--i don't know what i wanted! i did run away at last to a house-painter at meran. the priest wrote me a letter from my father--they threw me off; that's all." christian's eyes were very bright, her lips moved, like the lips of a child listening to a story. "go on," she said. "i stayed at meran two years, till i'd learnt all i could there, then a brother of my mother's helped me to get to vienna; i was lucky enough to find work with a man who used to decorate churches. we went about the country together. once when he was ill i painted the roof of a church entirely by myself; i lay on my back on the scaffold boards all day for a week--i was proud of that roof." he paused. "when did you begin painting pictures?" "a friend asked me why i didn't try for the academie. that started me going to the night schools; i worked every minute--i had to get my living as well, of course, so i worked at night. "then when the examination came, i thought i could do nothing--it was just as if i had never had a brush or pencil in my hand. but the second day a professor in passing me said, 'good! quite good!' that gave me courage. i was sure i had failed though; but i was second out of sixty." christian nodded. "to work in the schools after that i had to give up my business, of course. there was only one teacher who ever taught me anything; the others all seemed fools. this man would come and rub out what you'd done with his sleeve. i used to cry with rage--but i told him i could only learn from him, and he was so astonished that he got me into his class." "but how did you live without money?" asked christian. his face burned with a dark flush. "i don't know how i lived; you must have been through these things to know, you would never understand." "but i want to understand, please." "what do you want me to tell you? how i went twice a week to eat free dinners! how i took charity! how i was hungry! there was a rich cousin of my mother's--i used to go to him. i didn't like it. but if you're starving in the winter" christian put out her hand. "i used to borrow apronsful of coals from other students who were as poor--but i never went to the rich students." the flush had died out of his face. "that sort of thing makes you hate the world! you work till you stagger; you're cold and hungry; you see rich people in their carriages, wrapped in furs, and all the time you want to do something great. you pray for a chance, any chance; nothing comes to the poor! it makes you hate the world." christian's eyes filled with tears. he went on: "but i wasn't the only one in that condition; we used to meet. garin, a russian with a brown beard and patches of cheek showing through, and yellow teeth, who always looked hungry. paunitz, who came from sympathy! he had fat cheeks and little eyes, and a big gold chain--the swine! and little misek. it was in his room we met, with the paper peeling off the walls, and two doors with cracks in them, so that there was always a draught. we used to sit on his bed, and pull the dirty blankets over us for warmth; and smoke--tobacco was the last thing we ever went without. over the bed was a virgin and child--misek was a very devout catholic; but one day when he had had no dinner and a dealer had kept his picture without paying him, he took the image and threw it on the floor before our eyes; it broke, and he trampled on the bits. lendorf was another, a heavy fellow who was always puffing out his white cheeks and smiting himself, and saying: 'cursed society!' and schonborn, an aristocrat who had quarrelled with his family. he was the poorest of us all; but only he and i would ever have dared to do anything--they all knew that!" christian listened with awe. "do you mean?" she said, "do you mean, that you--?" "you see! you're afraid of me at once. it's impossible even for you to understand. it only makes you afraid. a hungry man living on charity, sick with rage and shame, is a wolf even to you!" christian looked straight into his eyes. "that's not true. if i can't understand, i can feel. would you be the same now if it were to come again?" "yes, it drives me mad even now to think of people fatted with prosperity, sneering and holding up their hands at poor devils who have suffered ten times more than the most those soft animals could bear. i'm older; i've lived--i know things can't be put right by violence--nothing will put things right, but that doesn't stop my feeling." "did you do anything? you must tell me all now." "we talked--we were always talking." "no, tell me everything!" unconsciously she claimed, and he seemed unconsciously to admit her right to this knowledge. "there's not much to tell. one day we began talking in low voices --garin began it; he had been in some affair in russia. we took an oath; after that we never raised our voices. we had a plan. it was all new to me, and i hated the whole thing--but i was always hungry, or sick from taking charity, and i would have done anything. they knew that; they used to look at me and schonborn; we knew that no one else had any courage. he and i were great friends, but we never talked of that; we tried to keep our minds away from the thought of it. if we had a good day and were not so hungry, it seemed unnatural; but when the day had not been good--then it seemed natural enough. i wasn't afraid, but i used to wake up in the night; i hated the oath we had taken, i hated every one of those fellows; the thing was not what i was made for, it wasn't my work, it wasn't my nature, it was forced on me--i hated it, but sometimes i was like a madman." "yes, yes," she murmured. "all this time i was working at the academie, and learning all i could.... one evening that we met, paunitz was not there. misek was telling us how the thing had been arranged. schonborn and i looked at each other--it was warm--perhaps we were not hungry--it was springtime, too, and in the spring it's different. there is something." christian nodded. "while we were talking there came a knock at the door. lendorf put his eye to the keyhole, and made a sign. the police were there. nobody said anything, but misek crawled under the bed; we all followed; and the knocking grew louder and louder. in the wall at the back of the bed was a little door into an empty cellar. we crept through. there was a trap-door behind some cases, where they used to roll barrels in. we crawled through that into the back street. we went different ways." he paused, and christian gasped. "i thought i would get my money, but there was a policeman before my door. they had us finely. it was paunitz; if i met him even now i should wring his neck. i swore i wouldn't be caught, but i had no idea where to go. then i thought of a little italian barber who used to shave me when i had money for a shave; i knew he would help. he belonged to some italian society; he often talked to me, under his breath, of course. i went to him. he was shaving himself before going to a ball. i told him what had happened; it was funny to see him put his back against the door. he was very frightened, understanding this sort of thing better than i did--for i was only twenty then. he shaved my head and moustache and put me on a fair wig. then he brought me macaroni, and some meat, to eat. he gave me a big fair moustache, and a cap, and hid the moustache in the lining. he brought me a cloak of his own, and four gulden. all the time he was extremely frightened, and kept listening, and saying: 'eat!' "when i had done, he just said: 'go away, i refuse to know anything more of you.' "i thanked him and went out. i walked about all that night; for i couldn't think of anything to do or anywhere to go. in the morning i slept on a seat in one of the squares. then i thought i would go to the gallerien; and i spent the whole day looking at the pictures. when the galleries were shut i was very tired, so i went into a cafe, and had some beer. when i came out i sat on the same seat in the square. i meant to wait till dark and then walk out of the city and take the train at some little station, but while i was sitting there i went to sleep. a policeman woke me. he had my wig in his hand. "'why do you wear a wig?' he said. "i answered: 'because i am bald.' "'no,' he said, 'you're not bald, you've been shaved. i can feel the hair coming.' "he put his finger on my head. i felt reckless and laughed. "'ah!' he said, 'you'll come with me and explain all this; your nose and eyes are looked for.' "i went with him quietly to the police-station...." harz seemed carried away by his story. his quick dark face worked, his steel-grey eyes stared as though he were again passing through all these long-past emotions. the hot sun struck down; christian drew herself together, sitting with her hands clasped round her knees. x "i didn't care by then what came of it. i didn't even think what i was going to say. he led me down a passage to a room with bars across the windows and long seats, and maps on the walls. we sat and waited. he kept his eye on me all the time; and i saw no hope. presently the inspector came. 'bring him in here,' he said; i remember feeling i could kill him for ordering me about! we went into the next room. it had a large clock, a writing-table, and a window, without bars, looking on a courtyard. long policemen's coats and caps were hanging from some pegs. the inspector told me to take off my cap. i took it off, wig and all. he asked me who i was, but i refused to answer. just then there was a loud sound of voices in the room we had come from. the inspector told the policeman to look after me, and went to see what it was. i could hear him talking. he called out: 'come here, becker!' i stood very quiet, and becker went towards the door. i heard the inspector say: 'go and find schwartz, i will see after this fellow.' the policeman went, and the inspector stood with his back to me in the half-open door, and began again to talk to the man in the other room. once or twice he looked round at me, but i stood quiet all the time. they began to disagree, and their voices got angry. the inspector moved a little into the other room. 'now!' i thought, and slipped off my cloak. i hooked off a policeman's coat and cap, and put them on. my heart beat till i felt sick. i went on tiptoe to the window. there was no one outside, but at the entrance a man was holding some horses. i opened the window a little and held my breath. i heard the inspector say: 'i will report you for impertinence!' and slipped through the window. the coat came down nearly to my heels, and the cap over my eyes. i walked up to the man with the horses, and said: 'good-evening.' one of the horses had begun to kick, and he only grunted at me. i got into a passing tram; it was five minutes to the west bahnhof; i got out there. there was a train starting; they were shouting 'einsteigen!' i ran. the collector tried to stop me. i shouted: 'business--important!' he let me by. i jumped into a carriage. the train started." he paused, and christian heaved a sigh. harz went on, twisting a twig of ivy in his hands: "there was another man in the carriage reading a paper. presently i said to him, 'where do we stop first?' 'st. polten.' then i knew it was the munich express--st. polten, amstetten, linz, and salzburg--four stops before the frontier. the man put down his paper and looked at me; he had a big fair moustache and rather shabby clothes. his looking at me disturbed me, for i thought every minute he would say: 'you're no policeman!' and suddenly it came into my mind that if they looked for me in this train, it would be as a policeman!--they would know, of course, at the station that a policeman had run past at the last minute. i wanted to get rid of the coat and cap, but the man was there, and i didn't like to move out of the carriage for other people to notice. so i sat on. we came to st. polten at last. the man in my carriage took his bag, got out, and left his paper on the seat. we started again; i breathed at last, and as soon as i could took the cap and coat and threw them out into the darkness. i thought: 'i shall get across the frontier now.' i took my own cap out and found the moustache luigi gave me; rubbed my clothes as clean as possible; stuck on the moustache, and with some little ends of chalk in my pocket made my eyebrows light; then drew some lines in my face to make it older, and pulled my cap well down above my wig. i did it pretty well--i was quite like the man who had got out. i sat in his corner, took up his newspaper, and waited for amstetten. it seemed a tremendous time before we got there. from behind my paper i could see five or six policemen on the platform, one quite close. he opened the door, looked at me, and walked through the carriage into the corridor. i took some tobacco and rolled up a cigarette, but it shook, harz lifted the ivy twig, like this. in a minute the conductor and two more policemen came. 'he was here,' said the conductor, 'with this gentleman.' one of them looked at me, and asked: 'have you seen a policeman travelling on this train?' 'yes,' i said. 'where?' 'he got out at st. polten.' the policeman asked the conductor: 'did you see him get out there?' the conductor shook his head. i said: 'he got out as the train was moving.' 'ah!' said the policeman, 'what was he like?' 'rather short, and no moustache. why?' 'did you notice anything unusual?' 'no,' i said, 'only that he wore coloured trousers. what's the matter?' one policeman said to the other: 'that's our man! send a telegram to st. polten; he has more than an hour's start.' he asked me where i was going. i told him: 'linz.' 'ah!' he said, 'you'll have to give evidence; your name and address please?' 'josef reinhardt, donau strasse.' he wrote it down. the conductor said: 'we are late, can we start?' they shut the door. i heard them say to the conductor: 'search again at linz, and report to the inspector there.' they hurried on to the platform, and we started. at first i thought i would get out as soon as the train had left the station. then, that i should be too far from the frontier; better to go on to linz and take my chance there. i sat still and tried not to think. "after a long time, we began to run more slowly. i put my head out and could see in the distance a ring of lights hanging in the blackness. i loosened the carriage door and waited for the train to run slower still; i didn't mean to go into linz like a rat into a trap. at last i could wait no longer; i opened the door, jumped and fell into some bushes. i was not much hurt, but bruised, and the breath knocked out of me. as soon as i could, i crawled out. it was very dark. i felt heavy and sore, and for some time went stumbling in and out amongst trees. presently i came to a clear space; on one side i could see the town's shape drawn in lighted lamps, and on the other a dark mass, which i think was forest; in the distance too was a thin chain of lights. i thought: 'they must be the lights of a bridge.' just then the moon came out, and i could see the river shining below. it was cold and damp, and i walked quickly. at last i came out on a road, past houses and barking dogs, down to the river bank; there i sat against a shed and went to sleep. i woke very stiff. it was darker than before; the moon was gone. i could just see the river. i stumbled on, to get through the town before dawn. it was all black shapes-houses and sheds, and the smell of the river, the smell of rotting hay, apples, tar, mud, fish; and here and there on a wharf a lantern. i stumbled over casks and ropes and boxes; i saw i should never get clear--the dawn had begun already on the other side. some men came from a house behind me. i bent, and crept behind some barrels. they passed along the wharf; they seemed to drop into the river. i heard one of them say: 'passau before night.' i stood up and saw they had walked on board a steamer which was lying head up-stream, with some barges in tow. there was a plank laid to the steamer, and a lantern at the other end. i could hear the fellows moving below deck, getting up steam. i ran across the plank and crept to the end of the steamer. i meant to go with them to passau! the rope which towed the barges was nearly taut; and i knew if i could get on to the barges i should be safe. i climbed down on this rope and crawled along. i was desperate, i knew they'd soon be coming up, and it was getting light. i thought i should fall into the water several times, but i got to the barge at last. it was laden with straw. there was nobody on board. i was hungry and thirsty--i looked for something to eat; there was nothing but the ashes of a fire and a man's coat. i crept into the straw. soon a boat brought men, one for each barge, and there were sounds of steam. as soon as we began moving through the water, i fell asleep. when i woke we were creeping through a heavy mist. i made a little hole in the straw and saw the bargeman. he was sitting by a fire at the barge's edge, so that the sparks and smoke blew away over the water. he ate and drank with both hands, and funny enough he looked in the mist, like a big bird flapping its wings; there was a good smell of coffee, and i sneezed. how the fellow started! but presently he took a pitchfork and prodded the straw. then i stood up. i couldn't help laughing, he was so surprised--a huge, dark man, with a great black beard. i pointed to the fire and said 'give me some, brother!' he pulled me out of the straw; i was so stiff, i couldn't move. i sat by the fire, and ate black bread and turnips, and drank coffee; while he stood by, watching me and muttering. i couldn't understand him well--he spoke a dialect from hungary. he asked me: how i got there--who i was--where i was from? i looked up in his face, and he looked down at me, sucking his pipe. he was a big man, he lived alone on the river, and i was tired of telling lies, so i told him the whole thing. when i had done he just grunted. i can see him now standing over me, with the mist hanging in his beard, and his great naked arms. he drew me some water, and i washed and showed him my wig and moustache, and threw them overboard. all that day we lay out on the barge in the mist, with our feet to the fire, smoking; now and then he would spit into the ashes and mutter into his beard. i shall never forget that day. the steamer was like a monster with fiery nostrils, and the other barges were dumb creatures with eyes, where the fires were; we couldn't see the bank, but now and then a bluff and high trees, or a castle, showed in the mist. if i had only had paint and canvas that day!" he sighed. "it was early spring, and the river was in flood; they were going to regensburg to unload there, take fresh cargo, and back to linz. as soon as the mist began to clear, the bargeman hid me in the straw. at passau was the frontier; they lay there for the night, but nothing happened, and i slept in the straw. the next day i lay out on the barge deck; there was no mist, but i was free--the sun shone gold on the straw and the green sacking; the water seemed to dance, and i laughed--i laughed all the time, and the barge man laughed with me. a fine fellow he was! at regensburg i helped them to unload; for more than a week we worked; they nicknamed me baldhead, and when it was all over i gave the money i earned for the unloading to the big bargeman. we kissed each other at parting. i had still three of the gulden that luigi gave me, and i went to a house-painter and got work with him. for six months i stayed there to save money; then i wrote to my mother's cousin in vienna, and told him i was going to london. he gave me an introduction to some friends there. i went to hamburg, and from there to london in a cargo steamer, and i've never been back till now." xi after a minute's silence christian said in a startled voice: "they could arrest you then!" harz laughed. "if they knew; but it's seven years ago." "why did you come here, when it's so dangerous?" "i had been working too hard, i wanted to see my country--after seven years, and when it's forbidden! but i'm ready to go back now." he looked down at her, frowning. "had you a hard time in london, too?" "harder, at first--i couldn't speak the language. in my profession it's hard work to get recognised, it's hard work to make a living. there are too many whose interest it is to keep you down--i shan't forget them." "but every one is not like that?" "no; there are fine fellows, too. i shan't forget them either. i can sell my pictures now; i'm no longer weak, and i promise you i shan't forget. if in the future i have power, and i shall have power--i shan't forget." a shower of fine gravel came rattling on the wall. dawney was standing below them with an amused expression on his upturned face. "are you going to stay there all night?" he asked. "greta and i have bored each other." "we're coming," called christian hastily. on the way back neither spoke a word, but when they reached the villa, harz took her hand, and said: "fraulein christian, i can't do any more with your picture. i shan't touch it again after this." she made no answer, but they looked at each other, and both seemed to ask, to entreat, something more; then her eyes fell. he dropped her hand, and saying, "good-night," ran after dawney. in the corridor, dominique, carrying a dish of fruit, met the sisters; he informed them that miss naylor had retired to bed; that herr paul would not be home to dinner; his master was dining in his room; dinner would be served for mrs. decie and the two young ladies in a quarter of an hour: "and the fish is good to-night; little trouts! try them, signorina!" he moved on quickly, softly, like a cat, the tails of his dress-coat flapping, and the heels of his white socks gleaming. christian ran upstairs. she flew about her room, feeling that if she once stood still it would all crystallise in hard painful thought, which motion alone kept away. she washed, changed her dress and shoes, and ran down to her uncle's room. mr. treffry had just finished dinner, pushed the little table back, and was sitting in his chair, with his glasses on his nose, reading the tines. christian touched his forehead with her lips. "glad to see you, chris. your stepfather's out to dinner, and i can't stand your aunt when she's in one of her talking moods--bit of a humbug, chris, between ourselves; eh, isn't she?" his eyes twinkled. christian smiled. there was a curious happy restlessness in her that would not let her keep still. "picture finished?" mr. treffry asked suddenly, taking up the paper with a crackle. "don't go and fall in love with the painter, chris." christian was still enough now. 'why not?' she thought. 'what should you know about him? isn't he good enough for me?' a gong sounded. "there's your dinner," mr. treffry remarked. with sudden contrition she bent and kissed him. but when she had left the room mr. treffry put down the times and stared at the door, humming to himself, and thoughtfully fingering his chin. christian could not eat; she sat, indifferent to the hoverings of dominique, tormented by uneasy fear and longings. she answered mrs. decie at random. greta kept stealing looks at her from under her lashes. "decided characters are charming, don't you think so, christian?" mrs. decie said, thrusting her chin a little forward, and modelling the words. "that is why i like mr. harz so much; such an immense advantage for a man to know his mind. you have only to look at that young man to see that he knows what he wants, and means to have it." christian pushed her plate away. greta, flushing, said abruptly: "doctor edmund is not a decided character, i think. this afternoon he said: 'shall i have some beer-yes, i shall--no, i shall not'; then he ordered the beer, so, when it came, he gave it to the soldiers." mrs. decie turned her enigmatic smile from one girl to the other. when dinner was over they went into her room. greta stole at once to the piano, where her long hair fell almost to the keys; silently she sat there fingering the notes, smiling to herself, and looking at her aunt, who was reading pater's essays. christian too had taken up a book, but soon put it down--of several pages she had not understood a word. she went into the garden and wandered about the lawn, clasping her hands behind her head. the air was heavy; very distant thunder trembled among the mountains, flashes of summer lightning played over the trees; and two great moths were hovering about a rosebush. christian watched their soft uncertain rushes. going to the little summer-house she flung herself down on a seat, and pressed her hands to her heart. there was a strange and sudden aching there. was he going from her? if so, what would be left? how little and how narrow seemed the outlook of her life--with the world waiting for her, the world of beauty, effort, self-sacrifice, fidelity! it was as though a flash of that summer lightning had fled by, singeing her, taking from her all powers of flight, burning off her wings, as off one of those pale hovering moths. tears started up, and trickled down her face. 'blind!' she thought; 'how could i have been so blind?' some one came down the path. "who's there?" she cried. harz stood in the doorway. "why did you come out?" he said. "ah! why did you come out?" he caught her hand; christian tried to draw it from him, and to turn her eyes away, but she could not. he flung himself down on his knees, and cried: "i love you!" in a rapture of soft terror christian bent her forehead down to his hand. "what are you doing?" she heard him say. "is it possible that you love me?" and she felt his kisses on her hair. "my sweet! it will be so hard for you; you are so little, so little, and so weak." clasping his hand closer to her face, she murmured: "i don't care." there was a long, soft silence, that seemed to last for ever. suddenly she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. "whatever comes!" she whispered, and gathering her dress, escaped from him into the darkness. xii christian woke next morning with a smile. in her attitudes, her voice, her eyes, there was a happy and sweet seriousness, as if she were hugging some holy thought. after breakfast she took a book and sat in the open window, whence she could see the poplar-trees guarding the entrance. there was a breeze; the roses close by kept nodding to her; the cathedral bells were in full chime; bees hummed above the lavender; and in the sky soft clouds were floating like huge, white birds. the sounds of miss naylor's staccato dictation travelled across the room, and greta's sighs as she took it down, one eye on her paper, one eye on scruff, who lay with a black ear flapped across his paw, and his tan eyebrows quivering. he was in disgrace, for dominique, coming on him unawares, had seen him "say his prayers" before a pudding, and take the pudding for reward. christian put her book down gently, and slipped through the window. harz was coming in from the road. "i am all yours!" she whispered. his fingers closed on hers, and he went into the house. she slipped back, took up her book, and waited. it seemed long before he came out, but when he did he waved her back, and hurried on; she had a glimpse of his face, white to the lips. feeling faint and sick, she flew to her stepfather's room. herr paul was standing in a corner with the utterly disturbed appearance of an easy-going man, visited by the unexpected. his fine shirt-front was crumpled as if his breast had heaved too suddenly under strong emotion; his smoked eyeglasses dangled down his back; his fingers were embedded in his beard. he was fixing his eye on a spot in the floor as though he expected it to explode and blow them to fragments. in another corner mrs. decie, with half-closed eyes, was running her finger-tips across her brow. "what have you said to him?" cried christian. herr paul regarded her with glassy eyes. "mein gott!" he said. "your aunt and i!" "what have you said to him?" repeated christian. "the impudence! an anarchist! a beggar!" "paul!" murmured mrs. decie. "the outlaw! the fellow!" herr paul began to stride about the room. quivering from head to foot, christian cried: "how dared you?" and ran from the room, pushing aside miss naylor and greta, who stood blanched and frightened in the doorway. herr paul stopped in his tramp, and, still with his eyes fixed on the floor, growled: "a fine thing-hein? what's coming? will you please tell me? an anarchist--a beggar!" "paul!" murmured mrs. decie. "paul! paul! and you!" he pointed to miss naylor--"two women with eyes!--hein!" "there is nothing to be gained by violence," mrs. decie murmured, passing her handkerchief across her lips. miss naylor, whose thin brown cheeks had flushed, advanced towards him. "i hope you do not--" she said; "i am sure there was nothing that i could have prevented--i should be glad if that were understood." and, turning with some dignity, the little lady went away, closing the door behind her. "you hear!" herr paul said, violently sarcastic: "nothing she could have prevented! enfin! will you please tell me what i am to do?" "men of the world"--whose philosophy is a creature of circumstance and accepted things--find any deviation from the path of their convictions dangerous, shocking, and an intolerable bore. herr paul had spent his life laughing at convictions; the matter had but to touch him personally, and the tap of laughter was turned off. that any one to whom he was the lawful guardian should marry other than a well-groomed man, properly endowed with goods, properly selected, was beyond expression horrid. from his point of view he had great excuse for horror; and he was naturally unable to judge whether he had excuse for horror from other points of view. his amazement had in it a spice of the pathetic; he was like a child in the presence of a thing that he absolutely could not understand. the interview had left him with a sense of insecurity which he felt to be particularly unfair. the door was again opened, and greta flew in, her cheeks flushed, her hair floating behind her, and tears streaming down her cheeks. "papa!" she cried, "you have been cruel to chris. the door is locked; i can hear her crying--why have you been cruel?" without waiting to be answered, she flew out again. herr paul seized his hair with both his hands: "good! very good! my own child, please! what next then?" mrs. decie rose from her chair languidly. "my head is very bad," she said, shading her eyes and speaking in low tones: "it is no use making a fuss--nothing can come of this--he has not a penny. christian will have nothing till you die, which will not be for a long time yet, if you can but avoid an apoplectic fit!" at these last words herr paul gave a start of real disgust. "hum!" he muttered; it was as if the world were bent on being brutal to him. mrs. decie continued: "if i know anything of this young man, he will not come here again, after the words you have spoken. as for christian--you had better talk to nicholas. i am going to lie down." herr paul nervously fingered the shirt-collar round his stout, short neck. "nicholas! certainly--a good idea. quelle diable d'afaire!" 'french!' thought mrs. decie; 'we shall soon have peace. poor christian! i'm sorry! after all, these things are a matter of time and opportunity.' this consoled her a good deal. but for christian the hours were a long nightmare of grief and shame, fear and anger. would he forgive? would he be true to her? or would he go away without a word? since yesterday it was as if she had stepped into another world, and lost it again. in place of that new feeling, intoxicating as wine, what was coming? what bitter; dreadful ending? a rude entrance this into the life of facts, and primitive emotions! she let greta into her room after a time, for the child had begun sobbing; but she would not talk, and sat hour after hour at the window with the air fanning her face, and the pain in her eyes turned to the sky and trees. after one or two attempts at consolation, greta sank on the floor, and remained there, humbly gazing at her sister in a silence only broken when christian cleared her throat of tears, and by the song of birds in the garden. in the afternoon she slipped away and did not come back again. after his interview with mr. treffry, herr paul took a bath, perfumed himself with precision, and caused it to be clearly understood that, under circumstances such as these, a man's house was not suited for a pig to live in. he shortly afterwards went out to the kurbaus, and had not returned by dinner-time. christian came down for dinner. there were crimson spots in her cheeks, dark circles round her eyes; she behaved, however, as though nothing had happened. miss naylor, affected by the kindness of her heart and the shock her system had sustained, rolled a number of bread pills, looking at each as it came, with an air of surprise, and concealing it with difficulty. mr. treffry was coughing, and when he talked his voice seemed to rumble even more than usual. greta was dumb, trying to catch christian's eye; mrs. decie alone seemed at ease. after dinner mr. treffry went off to his room, leaning heavily on christian's shoulder. as he sank into his chair, he said to her: "pull yourself together, my dear!" christian did not answer him. outside his room greta caught her by the sleeve. "look!" she whispered, thrusting a piece of paper into christian's hand. "it is to me from dr. edmund, but you must read it." christian opened the note, which ran as follows: "my philosopher and friend,--i received your note, and went to our friend's studio; he was not in, but half an hour ago i stumbled on him in the platz. he is not quite himself; has had a touch of the sun--nothing serious: i took him to my hotel, where he is in bed. if he will stay there he will be all right in a day or two. in any case he shall not elude my clutches for the present. "my warm respects to mistress christian.--yours in friendship and philosophy, "edmund dawney." christian read and re-read this note, then turned to greta. "what did you say to dr. dawney?" greta took back the piece of paper, and replied: "i said: "'dear dr. edmund,--we are anxious about herr harz. we think he is perhaps not very well to-day. we (i and christian) should like to know. you can tell us. please shall you? greta.' "that is what i said." christian dropped her eyes. "what made you write?" greta gazed at her mournfully: "i thought--o chris! come into the garden. i am so hot, and it is so dull without you!" christian bent her head forward and rubbed her cheek against greta's, then without another word ran upstairs and locked herself into her room. the child stood listening; hearing the key turn in the lock, she sank down on the bottom step and took scruff in her arms. half an hour later miss naylor, carrying a candle, found her there fast asleep, with her head resting on the terrier's back, and tear stains on her cheeks.... mrs. decie presently came out, also carrying a candle, and went to her brother's room. she stood before his chair, with folded hands. "nicholas, what is to be done?" mr. treffry was pouring whisky into a glass. "damn it, con!" he answered; "how should i know?" "there's something in christian that makes interference dangerous. i know very well that i've no influence with her at all." "you're right there, con," mr. treffry replied. mrs. decie's pale eyes, fastened on his face, forced him to look up. "i wish you would leave off drinking whisky and attend to me. paul is an element--" "paul," mr. treffry growled, "is an ass!" "paul," pursued mrs. decie, "is an element of danger in the situation; any ill-timed opposition of his might drive her to i don't know what. christian is gentle, she is 'sympathetic' as they say; but thwart her, and she is as obstinate as.... "you or i! leave her alone!" "i understand her character, but i confess that i am at a loss what to do." "do nothing!" he drank again. mrs. decie took up the candle. "men!" she said with a mysterious intonation; shrugging her shoulders, she walked out. mr. treffry put down his glass. 'understand?' he thought; 'no, you don't, and i don't. who understands a young girl? vapourings, dreams, moonshine i.... what does she see in this painter fellow? i wonder!' he breathed heavily. 'by heavens! i wouldn't have had this happen for a hundred thousand pounds!' xiii for many hours after dawney had taken him to his hotel, harz was prostrate with stunning pains in the head and neck. he had been all day without food, exposed to burning sun, suffering violent emotion. movement of any sort caused him such agony that he could only lie in stupor, counting the spots dancing before, his eyes. dawney did everything for him, and harz resented in a listless way the intent scrutiny of the doctor's calm, black eyes. towards the end of the second day he was able to get up; dawney found him sitting on the bed in shirt and trousers. "my son," he said, "you had better tell me what the trouble is--it will do your stubborn carcase good." "i must go back to work," said harz. "work!" said dawney deliberately: "you couldn't, if you tried." "i must." "my dear fellow, you couldn't tell one colour from another." "i must be doing something; i can't sit here and think." dawney hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat: "you won't see the sun for three days yet, if i can help it." harz got up. "i'm going to my studio to-morrow," he said. "i promise not to go out. i must be where i can see my work. if i can't paint, i can draw; i can feel my brushes, move my things about. i shall go mad if i do nothing." dawney took his arm, and walked him up and down. "i'll let you go," he said, "but give me a chance! it's as much to me to put you straight as it is to you to paint a decent picture. now go to bed; i'll have a carriage for you to-morrow morning." harz sat down on the bed again, and for a long time stayed without moving, his eyes fixed on the floor. the sight of him, so desperate and miserable, hurt the young doctor. "can you get to bed by yourself?" he asked at last. harz nodded. "then, good-night, old chap!" and dawney left the room. he took his hat and turned towards the villa. between the poplars he stopped to think. the farther trees were fret-worked black against the lingering gold of the sunset; a huge moth, attracted by the tip of his cigar, came fluttering in his face. the music of a concertina rose and fell, like the sighing of some disillusioned spirit. dawney stood for several minutes staring at the house. he was shown to mrs. decie's room. she was holding a magazine before her eyes, and received him with as much relief as philosophy permitted. "you are the very person i wanted to see," she said. he noticed that the magazine she held was uncut. "you are a young man," pursued mrs. decie, "but as my doctor i have a right to your discretion." dawney smiled; the features of his broad, clean-shaven face looked ridiculously small on such occasions, but his eyes retained their air of calculation. "that is so," he answered. "it is about this unfortunate affair. i understand that mr. harz is with you. i want you to use your influence to dissuade him from attempting to see my niece." "influence!" said dawney; "you know harz!" mrs. decie's voice hardened. "everybody," she said, "has his weak points. this young man is open to approach from at least two quarters--his pride is one, his work an other. i am seldom wrong in gauging character; these are his vital spots, and they are of the essence of this matter. i'm sorry for him, of course--but at his age, and living a man's life, these things--" her smile was extra pale. "i wish you could give me something for my head. it's foolish to worry. nerves of course! but i can't help it! you know my opinion, dr. dawney. that young man will go far if he remains unfettered; he will make a name. you will be doing him a great service if you could show him the affair as it really is--a drag on him, and quite unworthy of his pride! do help me! you are just the man to do it!" dawney threw up his head as if to shake off this impeachment; the curve of his chin thus displayed was imposing in its fulness; altogether he was imposing, having an air of capability. she struck him, indeed, as really scared; it was as if her mask of smile had become awry, and failed to cover her emotion; and he was puzzled, thinking, 'i wouldn't have believed she had it in her....' "it's not an easy business," he said; "i'll think it over." "thank you!" murmured mrs. decie. "you are most kind." passing the schoolroom, he looked in through the open door. christian was sitting there. the sight of her face shocked him, it was so white, so resolutely dumb. a book lay on her knees; she was not reading, but staring before her. he thought suddenly: 'poor thing! if i don't say something to her, i shall be a brute!' "miss devorell," he said: "you can reckon on him." christian tried to speak, but her lips trembled so that nothing came forth. "good-night," said dawney, and walked out.... three days later harz was sitting in the window of his studio. it was the first day he had found it possible to work, and now, tired out, he stared through the dusk at the slowly lengthening shadows of the rafters. a solitary mosquito hummed, and two house sparrows, who had built beneath the roof, chirruped sleepily. swallows darted by the window, dipping their blue wings towards the quiet water; a hush had stolen over everything. he fell asleep. he woke, with a dim impression of some near presence. in the pale glimmer from innumerable stars, the room was full of shadowy shapes. he lit his lantern. the flame darted forth, bickered, then slowly lit up the great room. "who's there?" a rustling seemed to answer. he peered about, went to the doorway, and drew the curtain. a woman's cloaked figure shrank against the wall. her face was buried in her hands; her arms, from which the cloak fell back, were alone visible. "christian?" she ran past him, and when he had put the lantern down, was standing at the window. she turned quickly to him. "take me away from here! let me come with you!" "do you mean it?" "you said you wouldn't give me up!" "you know what you are doing?" she made a motion of assent. "but you don't grasp what this means. things to bear that you know nothing of--hunger perhaps! think, even hunger! and your people won't forgive--you'll lose everything." she shook her head. "i must choose--it's one thing or the other. i can't give you up! i should be afraid!" "but, dear; how can you come with me? we can't be married here." "i am giving my life to you." "you are too good for me," said harz. "the life you're going into--may be dark, like that!" he pointed to the window. a sound of footsteps broke the hush. they could see a figure on the path below. it stopped, seemed to consider, vanished. they heard the sounds of groping hands, of a creaking door, of uncertain feet on the stairs. harz seized her hand. "quick!" he whispered; "behind this canvas!" christian was trembling violently. she drew her hood across her face. the heavy breathing and ejaculations of the visitor were now plainly audible. "he's there! quick! hide!" she shook her head. with a thrill at his heart, harz kissed her, then walked towards the entrance. the curtain was pulled aside. it was herr paul, holding a cigar in one hand, his hat in the other, and breathing hard. "pardon!" he said huskily, "your stairs are steep, and dark! mais en, fin! nous voila! i have ventured to come for a talk." his glance fell on the cloaked figure in the shadow. "pardon! a thousand pardons! i had no idea! i beg you to forgive this indiscretion! i may take it you resign pretensions then? you have a lady here--i have nothing more to say; i only beg a million pardons for intruding. a thousand times forgive me! good-night!" he bowed and turned to go. christian stepped forward, and let the hood fall from her head. "it's i!" herr paul pirouetted. "good god!" he stammered, dropping cigar and hat. "good god!" the lantern flared suddenly, revealing his crimson, shaking cheeks. "you came here, at night! you, the daughter of my wife!" his eyes wandered with a dull glare round the room. "take care!" cried harz: "if you say a word against her---" the two men stared at each other's eyes. and without warning, the lantern flickered and went out. christian drew the cloak round her again. herr paul's voice broke the silence; he had recovered his self-possession. "ah! ah!" he said: "darkness! tant mieux! the right thing for what we have to say. since we do not esteem each other, it is well not to see too much." "just so," said harz. christian had come close to them. her pale face and great shining eyes could just be seen through the gloom. herr paul waved his arm; the gesture was impressive, annihilating. "this is a matter, i believe, between two men," he said, addressing harz. "let us come to the point. i will do you the credit to suppose that you have a marriage in view. you know, perhaps, that miss devorell has no money till i die?" "yes." "and i am passably young! you have money, then?" "no." "in that case, you would propose to live on air?" "no, to work; it has been done before." "it is calculated to increase hunger! you are prepared to take miss devorell, a young lady accustomed to luxury, into places like--this!" he peered about him, "into places that smell of paint, into the milieu of 'the people,' into the society of bohemians--who knows? of anarchists, perhaps?" harz clenched his hands: "i will answer no more questions." "in that event, we reach the ultimatum," said herr paul. "listen, herr outlaw! if you have not left the country by noon to-morrow, you shall be introduced to the police!" christian uttered a cry. for a minute in the gloom the only sound heard was the short, hard breathing of the two men. suddenly harz cried: "you coward, i defy you!" "coward!" herr paul repeated. "that is indeed the last word. look to yourself, my friend!" stooping and fumbling on the floor, he picked up his hat. christian had already vanished; the sound of her hurrying footsteps was distinctly audible at the top of the dark stairs. herr paul stood still a minute. "look to yourself, my dear friend!" he said in a thick voice, groping for the wall. planting his hat askew on his head, he began slowly to descend the stairs. xv nicholas treffry sat reading the paper in his room by the light of a lamp with a green shade; on his sound foot the terrier scruff was asleep and snoring lightly--the dog habitually came down when greta was in bed, and remained till mr. treffry, always the latest member of the household, retired to rest. through the long window a little river of light shone out on the veranda tiles, and, flowing past, cut the garden in two. there was the sound of hurried footsteps, a rustling of draperies; christian, running through the window, stood before him. mr. treffry dropped his paper, such a fury of passion and alarm shone in the girl's eyes. "chris! what is it?" "hateful!" "chris!" "oh! uncle! he's insulted, threatened! and i love his little finger more than all the, world!" her passionate voice trembled, her eyes were shining. mr. treffry's profound discomfort found vent in the gruff words: "sit down!" "i'll never speak to father again! oh! uncle! i love him!" quiet in the extremity of his disturbance, mr. treffry leaned forward in his chair, rested his big hands on its arms, and stared at her. chris! here was a woman he did not know! his lips moved under the heavy droop of his moustache. the girl's face had suddenly grown white. she sank down on her knees, and laid her cheek against his hand. he felt it wet; and a lump rose in his throat. drawing his hand away, he stared at it, and wiped it with his sleeve. "don't cry!" he said. she seized it again and clung to it; that clutch seemed to fill him with sudden rage. "what's the matter? how the devil can i do anything if you don't tell me?" she looked up at him. the distress of the last days, the passion and fear of the last hour, the tide of that new life of the spirit and the flesh, stirring within her, flowed out in a stream of words. when she had finished, there was so dead a silence that the fluttering of a moth round the lamp could be heard plainly. mr. treffry raised himself, crossed the room, and touched the bell. "tell the groom," he said to dominique, "to put the horses to, and have 'em round at once; bring my old boots; we drive all night...." his bent figure looked huge, body and legs outlined by light, head and shoulders towering into shadow. "he shall have a run for his money!" he said. his eyes stared down sombrely at his niece. "it's more than he deserves!--it's more than you deserve, chris. sit down there and write to him; tell him to put himself entirely in my hands." he turned his back on her, and went into his bedroom. christian rose, and sat down at the writing-table. a whisper startled her. it came from dominique, who was holding out a pair of boots. "m'mselle chris, what is this?--to run about all night?" but christian did not answer. "m'mselle chris, are you ill?" then seeing her face, he slipped away again. she finished her letter and went out to the carriage. mr. treffry was seated under the hood. "shan't want you," he called out to the groom, "get up, dominique." christian thrust her letter into his hand. "give him that," she said, clinging to his arm with sudden terror. "oh! uncle! do take care!" "chris, if i do this for you--" they looked wistfully at one another. then, shaking his head, mr. treffry gathered up the reins. "don't fret, my dear, don't fret! whoa, mare!" the carriage with a jerk plunged forward into darkness, curved with a crunch of wheels, and vanished, swinging between the black treepillars at the entrance.... christian stood, straining to catch the failing sound of the hoofs. down the passage came a flutter of white garments; soft limbs were twined about her, some ends of hair fell on her face. "what is it, chris? where have you been? where is uncle nic going? tell me!" christian tore herself away. "i don't know," she cried, "i know nothing!" greta stroked her face. "poor chris!" she murmured. her bare feet gleamed, her hair shone gold against her nightdress. "come to bed, poor chris!" christian laughed. "you little white moth! feel how hot i am! you'll burn your wings!" harz had lain down, fully dressed. he was no longer angry, but felt that he would rather die than yield. presently he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. "m'sieu!" it was the voice of dominique, whose face, illumined by a match, wore an expression of ironical disgust. "my master," he said, "makes you his compliments; he says there is no time to waste. you are to please come and drive with him!" "your master is very kind. tell him i'm in bed." "ah, m'sieu," said dominique, grimacing, "i must not go back with such an answer. if you would not come, i was to give you this." harz broke the seal and read christian's letter. "i will come," he said. a clock was striking as they went out through the gate. from within the dark cave of the phaeton hood mr. treffry said gruffly: "come along, sir!" harz flung his knapsack in, and followed. his companion's figure swayed, the whiplash slid softly along the flank of the off horse, and, as the carriage rattled forward, mr. treffry called out, as if by afterthought: "hallo, dominique!" dominque's voice, shaken and ironical, answered from behind: "m'v'la, m'sieu!" in the long street of silent houses, men sitting in the lighted cafes turned with glasses at their lips to stare after the carriage. the narrow river of the sky spread suddenly to a vast, limpid ocean tremulous with stars. they had turned into the road for italy. mr. treffry took a pull at his horses. "whoa, mare! dogged does it!" and the near horse, throwing up her head, whinnied; a fleck of foam drifted into harz's face. the painter had come on impulse; because christian had told him to, not of his own free will. he was angry with himself, wounded in self-esteem, for having allowed any one to render him this service. the smooth swift movement through velvet blackness splashed on either hand with the flying lamp-light; the strong sweet air blowing in his face-air that had kissed the tops of mountains and stolen their spirit; the snort and snuffle of the horses, and crisp rattling of their hoofs--all this soon roused in him another feeling. he looked at mr. treffry's profile, with its tufted chin; at the grey road adventuring in darkness; at the purple mass of mountains piled above it. all seemed utterly unreal. as if suddenly aware that he had a neighbour, mr. treffry turned his head. "we shall do better than this presently," he said, "bit of a slope coming. haven't had 'em out for three days. whoa-mare! steady!" "why are you taking this trouble for me?" asked harz. "i'm an old chap, mr. harz, and an old chap may do a stupid thing once in a while!" "you are very good," said harz, "but i want no favours." mr. treffry stared at him. "just so," he said drily, "but you see there's my niece to be thought of. look here! we're not at the frontier yet, mr. harz, by forty miles; it's long odds we don't get there--so, don't spoil sport!" he pointed to the left. harz caught the glint of steel. they were already crossing the railway. the sigh of the telegraph wires fluttered above them. "hear 'em," said mr. treffry, "but if we get away up the mountains, we'll do yet!" they had begun to rise, the speed slackened. mr. treffry rummaged out a flask. "not bad stuff, mr. harz--try it. you won't? mother's milk! fine night, eh?" below them the valley was lit by webs of milky mist like the glimmer of dew on grass. these two men sitting side by side--unlike in face, age, stature, thought, and life--began to feel drawn towards each other, as if, in the rolling of the wheels, the snorting of the horses, the huge dark space, the huge uncertainty, they had found something they could enjoy in common. the, steam from the horses' flanks and nostrils enveloped them with an odour as of glue. "you smoke, mr. harz?" harz took the proffered weed, and lighted it from the glowing tip of mr. treffry's cigar, by light of which his head and hat looked like some giant mushroom. suddenly the wheels jolted on a rubble of loose stones; the carriage was swung sideways. the scared horses, straining asunder, leaped forward, and sped downwards, in the darkness. past rocks, trees, dwellings, past a lighted house that gleamed and vanished. with a clink and clatter, a flirt of dust and pebbles, and the side lamps throwing out a frisky orange blink, the carriage dashed down, sinking and rising like a boat crossing billows. the world seemed to rock and sway; to dance up, and be flung flat again. only the stars stood still. mr. treffry, putting on the brake, muttered apologetically: "a little out o'hand!" suddenly with a headlong dive, the carriage swayed as if it would fly in pieces, slithered along, and with a jerk steadied itself. harz lifted his voice in a shout of pure excitement. mr. treffry let out a short shaky howl, and from behind there rose a wail. but the hill was over and the startled horses were cantering with a free, smooth motion. mr. treffry and harz looked at each other. xvii mr. treffry said with a sort of laugh: "near go, eh? you drive? no? that's a pity! broken most of my bones at the game--nothing like it!" each felt a kind of admiration for the other that he had not felt before. presently mr. treffry began: "look here, mr. harz, my niece is a slip of a thing, with all a young girl's notions! what have you got to give her, eh? yourself? that's surely not enough; mind this--six months after marriage we all turn out much the same--a selfish lot! not to mention this anarchist affair! "you're not of her blood, nor of her way of life, nor anything--it's taking chances--and--" his hand came down on the young man's knee, "i'm fond of her, you see." "if you were in my place," said harz, "would you give her up?" mr. treffry groaned. "lord knows!" "men have made themselves before now. for those who don't believe in failure, there's no such thing. suppose she does suffer a little? will it do her any harm? fair weather love is no good." mr. treffry sighed. "brave words, sir! you'll pardon me if i'm too old to understand 'em when they're used about my niece." he pulled the horses up, and peered into the darkness. "we're going through this bit quietly; if they lose track of us here so much the better. dominique! put out the lamps. soho, my beauties!" the horses paced forward at a walk the muffled beat of their hoofs in the dust hardly broke the hush. mr. treffry pointed to the left: "it'll be another thirty-five miles to the frontier." they passed the whitewashed houses, and village church with its sentinel cypress-trees. a frog was croaking in a runlet; there was a faint spicy scent of lemons. but nothing stirred. it was wood now on either side, the high pines, breathing their fragrance out into the darkness, and, like ghosts amongst them, the silver stems of birch-trees. mr. treffry said gruffly: "you won't give her up? her happiness means a lot to me." "to you!" said harz: "to him! and i am nothing! do you think i don't care for her happiness? is it a crime for me to love her?" "almost, mr. harz--considering...." "considering that i've no money! always money!" to this sneer mr. treffry made no answer, clucking to his horses. "my niece was born and bred a lady," he said at last. "i ask you plainly what position have you got to give her?" "if she marries me," said harz, "she comes into my world. you think that i'm a common...." mr. treffry shook his head: "answer my question, young man." but the painter did not answer it, and silence fell. a light breeze had sprung up; the whispering in the trees, the rolling of the wheels in this night progress, the pine-drugged air, sent harz to sleep. when he woke it was to the same tune, varied by mr. treffry's uneasy snoring; the reins were hanging loose, and, peering out, he saw dominique shuffling along at the horses' heads. he joined him, and, one on each side, they plodded up and up. a haze had begun to bathe the trees, the stars burnt dim, the air was colder. mr. treffry woke coughing. it was like some long nightmare, this interminable experience of muffled sounds and shapes, of perpetual motion, conceived, and carried out in darkness. but suddenly the day broke. heralded by the snuffle of the horses, light began glimmering over a chaos of lines and shadows, pale as mother-o'-pearl. the stars faded, and in a smouldering zigzag the dawn fled along the mountain tops, flinging out little isles of cloud. from a lake, curled in a hollow like a patch of smoke, came the cry of a water-bird. a cuckoo started a soft mocking; and close to the carriage a lark flew up. beasts and men alike stood still, drinking in the air-sweet with snows and dew, and vibrating faintly with the running of the water and the rustling of the leaves. the night had played sad tricks with mr. nicholas treffry; his hat was grey with dust; his cheeks brownish-purple, there were heavy pouches beneath his eyes, which stared painfully. "we'll call a halt," he said, "and give the gees their grub, poor things. can you find some water, mr. harz? there's a rubber bucket in behind. "can't get about myself this morning; make that lazy fellow of mine stir his stumps." harz saw that he had drawn off one of his boots, and stretched the foot out on a cushion. "you're not fit to go farther," he said; "you're ill." "ill!" replied mr. treffry; "not a bit of it!" harz looked at him, then catching up the bucket, made off in search of water. when he came back the horses were feeding from an india-rubber trough slung to the pole; they stretched their heads towards the bucket, pushing aside each other's noses. the flame in the east had died, but the tops of the larches were bathed in a gentle radiance; and the peaks ahead were like amber. everywhere were threads of water, threads of snow, and little threads of dewy green, glistening like gossamer. mr. treffry called out: "give me your arm, mr. harz; i'd like to shake the reefs out of me. when one comes to stand over at the knees, it's no such easy matter, eh?" he groaned as he put his foot down, and gripped the young man's shoulder as in a vise. presently he lowered himself on to a stone. "'all over now!' as chris would say when she was little; nasty temper she had too--kick and scream on the floor! never lasted long though.... 'kiss her! take her up! show her the pictures!' amazing fond of pictures chris was!" he looked dubiously at harz; then took a long pull at his flask. "what would the doctor say? whisky at four in the morning! well! thank the lord doctors aren't always with us." sitting on the stone, with one hand pressed against his side, and the other tilting up the flask, he was grey from head to foot. harz had dropped on to another stone. he, too, was worn out by the excitement and fatigue, coming so soon after his illness. his head was whirling, and the next thing he remembered was a tree walking at him, turning round, yellow from the roots up; everything seemed yellow, even his own feet. somebody opposite to him was jumping up and down, a grey bear--with a hat--mr. treffry! he cried: "ha-alloo!" and the figure seemed to fall and disappear.... when harz came to himself a hand was pouring liquor into his mouth, and a wet cloth was muffled round his brows; a noise of humming and hoofs seemed familiar. mr. treffry loomed up alongside, smoking a cigar; he was muttering: "a low trick, paul--bit of my mind!" then, as if a curtain had been snatched aside, the vision before harz cleared again. the carriage was winding between uneven, black-eaved houses, past doorways from which goats and cows were coming out, with bells on their necks. black-eyed boys, and here and there a drowsy man with a long, cherry-stemmed pipe between his teeth, stood aside to stare. mr. treffry seemed to have taken a new lease of strength; like an angry old dog, he stared from side to side. "my bone!" he seemed to say: "let's see who's going to touch it!" the last house vanished, glowing in the early sunshine, and the carriage with its trail of dust became entombed once more in the gloom of tall trees, along a road that cleft a wilderness of mossgrown rocks, and dewy stems, through which the sun had not yet driven paths. dominique came round to them, bearing appearance of one who has seen better days, and a pot of coffee brewed on a spirit lamp. breakfast--he said--was served! the ears of the horses were twitching with fatigue. mr. treffry said sadly: "if i can see this through, you can. get on, my beauties!" as soon as the sun struck through the trees, mr. treffry's strength ebbed again. he seemed to suffer greatly; but did not complain. they had reached the pass at last, and the unchecked sunlight was streaming down with a blinding glare. "jump up!" mr. treffry cried out. "we'll make a finish of it!" and he gave the reins a jerk. the horses flung up their heads, and the bleak pass with its circling crown of jagged peaks soon slipped away. between the houses on the very top, they passed at a slow trot; and soon began slanting down the other side. mr. treffry brought them to a halt where a mule track joined the road. "that's all i can do for you; you'd better leave me here," he said. "keep this track down to the river--go south--you'll be in italy in a couple of hours. get rail at feltre. money? yes? well!" he held out his hand; harz gripped it. "give her up, eh?" harz shook his head. "no? then it's 'pull devil, pull baker,' between us. good-bye, and good luck to you!" and mustering his strength for a last attempt at dignity, mr. treffry gathered up the reins. harz watched his figure huddled again beneath the hood. the carriage moved slowly away. xviii at villa rubein people went about, avoiding each other as if detected in conspiracy. miss naylor, who for an inscrutable reason had put on her best frock, a purple, relieved at the chest with bird's-eye blue, conveyed an impression of trying to count a chicken which ran about too fast. when greta asked what she had lost she was heard to mutter: "mr.--needlecase." christian, with big circles round her eyes, sat silent at her little table. she had had no sleep. herr paul coming into the room about noon gave her a furtive look and went out again; after this he went to his bedroom, took off all his clothes, flung them passionately one by one into a footbath, and got into bed. "i might be a criminal!" he muttered to himself, while the buttons of his garments rattled on the bath. "am i her father? have i authority? do i know the world? bssss! i might be a frog!" mrs. decie, having caused herself to be announced, found him smoking a cigar, and counting the flies on the ceiling. "if you have really done this, paul," she said in a restrained voice, "you have done a very unkind thing, and what is worse, you have made us all ridiculous. but perhaps you have not done it?" "i have done it," cried herr paul, staring dreadfully: "i have done it, i tell you, i have done it--" "very well, you have done it--and why, pray? what conceivable good was there in it? i suppose you know that nicholas has driven him to the frontier? nicholas is probably more dead than alive by this time; you know his state of health." herr paul's fingers ploughed up his beard. "nicholas is mad--and the girl is mad! leave me alone! i will not be made angry; do you understand? i will not be worried--i am not fit for it." his prominent brown eyes stared round the room, as if looking for a way of escape. "if i may prophesy, you will be worried a good deal," said mrs. decie coldly, "before you have finished with this affair." the anxious, uncertain glance which herr paul gave her at these words roused an unwilling feeling of compunction in her. "you are not made for the outraged father of the family," she said. "you had better give up the attitude, paul; it does not suit you." herr paul groaned. "i suppose it is not your fault," she added. just then the door was opened, and fritz, with an air of saying the right thing, announced: "a gentleman of the police to see you, sir." herr paul bounded. "keep him out!" he cried. mrs. decie, covering her lips, disappeared with a rustling of silk; in her place stood a stiff man in blue.... thus the morning dragged itself away without any one being able to settle to anything, except herr paul, who was settled in bed. as was fitting in a house that had lost its soul, meals were neglected, even by the dog. about three o'clock a telegram came for christian, containing these words: "all right; self returns to-morrow. treffry." after reading it she put on her hat and went out, followed closely by greta, who, when she thought that she would not be sent away, ran up from behind and pulled her by the sleeve. "let me come, chris--i shall not talk." the two girls walked on together. when they had gone some distance christian said: "i'm going to get his pictures, and take charge of them!" "oh!" said greta timidly. "if you are afraid," said christian, "you had better go back home." "i am not afraid, chris," said greta meekly. neither girl spoke again till they had taken the path along the wall. over the tops of the vines the heat was dancing. "the sun-fairies are on the vines!" murmured greta to herself. at the old house they stopped, and christian, breathing quickly, pushed the door; it was immovable. "look!" said greta, "they have screwed it!" she pointed out three screws with a rosy-tipped forefinger. christian stamped her foot. "we mustn't stand here," she said; "let's sit on that bench and think." "yes," murmured greta, "let us think." dangling an end of hair, she regarded christian with her wide blue eyes. "i can't make any plan," christian cried at last, "while you stare at me like that." "i was thinking," said greta humbly, "if they have screwed it up, perhaps we shall screw it down again; there is the big screw-driver of fritz." "it would take a long time; people are always passing." "people do not pass in the evening," murmured greta, "because the gate at our end is always shut." christian rose. "we will come this evening, just before the gate is shut." "but, chris, how shall we get back again?" "i don't know; i mean to have the pictures." "it is not a high gate," murmured greta. after dinner the girls went to their room, greta bearing with her the big screw-driver of fritz. at dusk they slipped downstairs and out. they arrived at the old house, and stood, listening, in the shadow of the doorway. the only sounds were those of distant barking dogs, and of the bugles at the barracks. "quick!" whispered christian; and greta, with all the strength of her small hands, began to turn the screws. it was some time before they yielded; the third was very obstinate, till christian took the screw-driver and passionately gave the screw a starting twist. "it is like a pig--that one," said greta, rubbing her wrists mournfully. the opened door revealed the gloom of the dank rooms and twisting staircase, then fell to behind them with a clatter. greta gave a little scream, and caught her sister's dress. "it is dark," she gasped; "o chris! it is dark!" christian groped for the bottom stair, and greta felt her arm shaking. "suppose there is a man to keep guard! o chris! suppose there are bats!" "you are a baby!" christian answered in a trembling voice. "you had better go home!" greta choked a little in the dark. "i am--not--going home, but i'm afraid of bats. o chris! aren't you afraid?" "yes," said christian, "but i'm going to have the pictures." her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over. having found the bottom step she began to mount with greta clinging to her skirts. the haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of all things, hated darkness. the blanket across the doorway of the loft had been taken down, there was nothing to veil the empty room. "nobody here, you see," said christian. "no-o," whispered greta, running to the window, and clinging to the wall, like one of the bats she dreaded. "but they have been here!" cried christian angrily. "they have broken this." she pointed to the fragments of a plaster cast that had been thrown down. out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, wooden frames, dragging them with all her strength. "help me!" she cried; "it will be dark directly." they collected a heap of sketches and three large pictures, piling them before the window, and peering at them in the failing light. greta said ruefully: "o chris! they are heavy ones; we shall never carry them, and the gate is shut now!" christian took a pointed knife from the table. "i shall cut them out of the frames," she said. "listen! what's that?" it was the sound of whistling, which stopped beneath the window. the girls, clasping each other's hands, dropped on their knees. "hallo!" cried a voice. greta crept to the window, and, placing her face level with the floor, peered over. "it is only dr. edmund; he doesn't know, then," she whispered; "i shall call him; he is going away!" cried christian catching her sister's --"don't!" cried christian catching her sister's dress. "he would help us," greta said reproachfully, "and it would not be so dark if he were here." christian's cheeks were burning. "i don't choose," she said, and began handling the pictures, feeling their edges with her knife. "chris! suppose anybody came?" "the door is screwed," christian answered absently. "o chris! we screwed it unscrewed; anybody who wishes shall come!" christian, leaning her chin in her hands, gazed at her thoughtfully. "it will take a long time to cut these pictures out carefully; or, perhaps i can get them out without cutting. you must screw me up and go home. in the morning you must come early, when the gate is open, unscrew me again, and help carry the pictures." greta did not answer at once. at last she shook her head violently. "i am afraid," she gasped. "we can't both stay here all night," said christian; "if any one comes to our room there will be nobody to answer. we can't lift these pictures over the gate. one of us must go back; you can climb over the gate--there is nothing to be afraid of" greta pressed her hands together. "do you want the pictures badly, chris?" christian nodded. "very badly?" "yes--yes--yes!" greta remained sitting where she was, shivering violently, as a little animal shivers when it scents danger. at last she rose. "i am going," she said in a despairing voice. at the doorway she turned. "if miss naylor shall ask me where you are, chris, i shall be telling her a story." christian started. "i forgot that--o greta, i am sorry! i will go instead." greta took another step--a quick one. "i shall die if i stay here alone," she said; "i can tell her that you are in bed; you must go to bed here, chris, so it shall be true after all." christian threw her arms about her. "i am so sorry, darling; i wish i could go instead. but if you have to tell a lie, i would tell a straight one." "would you?" said greta doubtfully. "yes." "i think," said greta to herself, beginning to descend the stairs, "i think i will tell it in my way." she shuddered and went on groping in the darkness. christian listened for the sound of the screws. it came slowly, threatening her with danger and solitude. sinking on her knees she began to work at freeing the canvas of a picture. her heart throbbed distressfully; at the stir of wind-breath or any distant note of clamour she stopped, and held her breathing. no sounds came near. she toiled on, trying only to think that she was at the very spot where last night his arms had been round her. how long ago it seemed! she was full of vague terror, overmastered by the darkness, dreadfully alone. the new glow of resolution seemed suddenly to have died down in her heart, and left her cold. she would never be fit to be his wife, if at the first test her courage failed! she set her teeth; and suddenly she felt a kind of exultation, as if she too were entering into life, were knowing something within herself that she had never known before. her fingers hurt, and the pain even gave pleasure; her cheeks were burning; her breath came fast. they could not stop her now! this feverish task in darkness was her baptism into life. she finished; and rolling the pictures very carefully, tied them with cord. she had done something for him! nobody could take that from her! she had a part of him! this night had made him hers! they might do their worst! she lay down on his mattress and soon fell asleep.... she was awakened by scruff's tongue against her face. greta was standing by her side. "wake up, chris! the gate is open!" in the cold early light the child seemed to glow with warmth and colour; her eyes were dancing. "i am not afraid now; scruff and i sat up all night, to catch the morning--i--think it was fun; and o chris!" she ended with a rueful gleam in her eyes, "i told it." christian hugged her. "come--quick! there is nobody about. are those the pictures?" each supporting an end, the girls carried the bundle downstairs, and set out with their corpse-like burden along the wall-path between the river and the vines. xix hidden by the shade of rose-bushes greta lay stretched at length, cheek on arm, sleeping the sleep of the unrighteous. through the flowers the sun flicked her parted lips with kisses, and spilled the withered petals on her. in a denser islet of shade, scruff lay snapping at a fly. his head lolled drowsily in the middle of a snap, and snapped in the middle of a loll. at three o'clock miss naylor too came out, carrying a basket and pair of scissors. lifting her skirts to avoid the lakes of water left by the garden hose, she stopped in front of a rose-bush, and began to snip off the shrivelled flowers. the little lady's silvered head and thin, brown face sustained the shower of sunlight unprotected, and had a gentle dignity in their freedom. presently, as the scissors flittered in and out of the leaves, she, began talking to herself. "if girls were more like what they used to be, this would not have happened. perhaps we don't understand; it's very easy to forget." burying her nose and lips in a rose, she sniffed. "poor dear girl! it's such a pity his father is--a--" "a farmer," said a sleepy voice behind the rosebush. miss naylor leaped. "greta! how you startled me! a farmer--that is --an--an agriculturalist!" "a farmer with vineyards--he told us, and he is not ashamed. why is it a pity, miss naylor?" miss naylor's lips looked very thin. "for many reasons, of which you know nothing." "that is what you always say," pursued the sleepy voice; "and that is why, when i am to be married, there shall also be a pity." "greta!" miss naylor cried, "it is not proper for a girl of your age to talk like that." "why?" said greta. "because it is the truth?" miss naylor made no reply to this, but vexedly cut off a sound rose, which she hastily picked up and regarded with contrition. greta spoke again: "chris said: 'i have got the pictures, i shall tell her'; but i shall tell you instead, because it was i that told the story." miss naylor stared, wrinkling her nose, and holding the scissors wide apart.... "last night," said greta slowly, "i and chris went to his studio and took his pictures, and so, because the gate was shut, i came back to tell it; and when you asked me where chris was, i told it; because she was in the studio all night, and i and scruff sat up all night, and in the morning we brought the pictures, and hid them under our beds, and that is why--we--are--so--sleepy." over the rose-bush miss naylor peered down at her; and though she was obliged to stand on tiptoe this did not altogether destroy her dignity. "i am surprised at you, greta; i am surprised at christian, more surprised at christian. the world seems upside down." greta, a sunbeam entangled in her hair, regarded her with inscrutable, innocent eyes. "when you were a girl, i think you would be sure to be in love," she murmured drowsily. miss naylor, flushing deeply, snipped off a particularly healthy bud. "and so, because you are not married, i think--" the scissors hissed. greta nestled down again. "i think it is wicked to cut off all the good buds," she said, and shut her eyes. miss naylor continued to peer across the rosebush; but her thin face, close to the glistening leaves, had become oddly soft, pink, and girlish. at a deeper breath from greta, the little lady put down her basket, and began to pace the lawn, followed dubiously by scruff. it was thus that christian came on them. miss naylor slipped her arm into the girl's and though she made no sound, her lips kept opening and shutting, like the beak of a bird contemplating a worm. christian spoke first: "miss naylor, i want to tell you please--" "oh, my dear! i know; greta has been in the confessional before you." she gave the girl's arm a squeeze. "isn't it a lovely day? did you ever see 'five fingers' look so beautiful?" and she pointed to the great peaks of the funffingerspitze glittering in the sun like giant crystals. "i like them better with clouds about them." "well," agreed miss naylor nervously, "they certainly are nicer with clouds about them. they look almost hot and greasy, don't they.... my dear!" she went on, giving christian's arm a dozen little squeezes, "we all of us--that is, we all of us--" christian turned her eyes away. "my dear," miss naylor tried again, "i am far--that is, i mean, to all of us at some time or another--and then you see--well--it is hard!" christian kissed the gloved hand resting on her arm. miss naylor bobbed her head; a tear trickled off her nose. "do let us wind your skein of woof!" she said with resounding gaiety. some half-hour later mrs. decie called christian to her room. "my dear!" she said; "come here a minute; i have a message for you." christian went with an odd, set look about her mouth. her aunt was sitting, back to the light, tapping a bowl of goldfish with the tip of a polished finger-nail; the room was very cool. she held a letter out. "your uncle is not coming back tonight." christian took the letter. it was curtly worded, in a thin, toppling hand: "dear con--can't get back to-night. sending dominique for things. tell christian to come over with him for night if possible.--yr. aff. brother, nicls. treffry." "dominique has a carriage here," said mrs. decie. "you will have nice time to catch the train. give my love to your uncle. you must take barbi with you, i insist on that." she rose from her chair and held christian's hand: "my dear! you look very tired--very! almost ill. i don't like to see you look like that. come!" she thrust her pale lips forward, and kissed the girl's paler cheek. then as christian left the room she sank back in her chair, with creases in her forehead, and began languidly to cut a magazine. 'poor christian!' she thought, 'how hardly she does take it! i am sorry for her; but perhaps it's just as well, as things are turning out. psychologically it is interesting!' christian found her things packed, and the two servants waiting. in a few minutes they were driving to the station. she made dominique take the seat opposite. "well?" she asked him. dominique's eyebrows twitched, he smiled deprecatingly. "m'mselle, mr. treffry told me to hold my tongue." "but you can tell me, dominique; barbi can't understand." "to you, then, m'mselle," said dominique, as one who accepts his fate; "to you, then, who will doubtless forget all that i shall tell you--my master is not well; he has terrible pain here; he has a cough; he is not well at all; not well at all." a feeling of dismay seized on the girl. "we were a caravan for all that night," dominique resumed. "in the morning by noon we ceased to be a caravan; signor harz took a mule path; he will be in italy--certainly in italy. as for us, we stayed at san martino, and my master went to bed. it was time; i had much trouble with his clothes, his legs were swollen. in the afternoon came a signor of police, on horseback, red and hot; i persuaded him that we were at paneveggio, but as we were not, he came back angry--mon die! as angry as a cat. it was not good to meet him--when he was with my master i was outside. there was much noise. i do not know what passed, but at last the signor came out through the door, and went away in a hurry." dominique's features were fixed in a sardonic grin; he rubbed the palm of one hand with the finger of the other. "mr. treffry made me give him whisky afterwards, and he had no money to pay the bill--that i know because i paid it. well, m'mselle, to-day he would be dressed and very slowly we came as far as auer; there he could do no more, so went to bed. he is not well at all." christian was overwhelmed by forebodings; the rest of the journey was made in silence, except when barbi, a country girl, filled with the delirium of railway travel, sighed: "ach! gnadige fraulein!" looking at christian with pleasant eyes. at once, on arriving at the little hostel, christian went to see her uncle. his room was darkened, and smelt of beeswax. "ah! chris," he said, "glad to see you." in a blue flannel gown, with a rug over his feet, he was lying on a couch lengthened artificially by chairs; the arm he reached out issued many inches from its sleeve, and showed the corded veins of the wrist. christian, settling his pillows, looked anxiously into his eyes. "i'm not quite the thing, chris," said mr. treffry. "somehow, not quite the thing. i'll come back with you to-morrow." "let me send for dr. dawney, uncle?" "no--no! plenty of him when i get home. very good young fellow, as doctors go, but i can't stand his puddin's--slops and puddin's, and all that trumpery medicine on the top. send me dominique, my dear--i'll put myself to rights a bit!" he fingered his unshaven cheek, and clutched the gown together on his chest. "got this from the landlord. when you come back we'll have a little talk!" he was asleep when she came into the room an hour later. watching his uneasy breathing, she wondered what it was that he was going to say. he looked ill! and suddenly she realised that her thoughts were not of him.... when she was little he would take her on his back; he had built cocked hats for her and paper boats; had taught her to ride; slid her between his knees; given her things without number; and taken his payment in kisses. and now he was ill, and she was not thinking of him! he had been all that was most dear to her, yet before her eyes would only come the vision of another. mr. treffry woke suddenly. "not been asleep, have i? the beds here are infernal hard." "uncle nic, won't you give me news of him?" mr. treffry looked at her, and christian could not bear that look. "he's safe into italy; they aren't very keen after him, it's so long ago; i squared 'em pretty easily. now, look here, chris!" christian came close; he took her hand. "i'd like to see you pull yourself together. 'tisn't so much the position; 'tisn't so much the money; because after all there's always mine--" christian shook her head. "but," he went on with shaky emphasis, "there's the difference of blood, and that's a serious thing; and there's this anarch--this political affair; and there's the sort of life, an' that's a serious thing; but--what i'm coming to is this, chris--there's the man!" christian drew away her hand. mr. treffry went on: "ah! yes. i'm an old chap and fond of you, but i must speak out what i think. he's got pluck, he's strong, he's in earnest; but he's got a damned hot temper, he's an egotist, and--he's not the man for you. if you marry him, as sure as i lie here, you'll be sorry for it. you're not your father's child for nothing; nice fellow as ever lived, but soft as butter. if you take this chap, it'll be like mixing earth and ironstone, and they don't blend!" he dropped his head back on the pillows, and stretching out his hand, repeated wistfully: "take my word for it, my dear, he's not the man for you." christian, staring at the wall beyond, said quietly: "i can't take any one's word for that." "ah!" muttered mr. treffry, "you're obstinate enough, but obstinacy isn't strength. "you'll give up everything to him, you'll lick his shoes; and you'll never play anything but second fiddle in his life. he'll always be first with himself, he and his work, or whatever he calls painting pictures; and some day you'll find that out. you won't like it, and i don't like it for you, chris, and that's flat." he wiped his brow where the perspiration stood in beads. christian said: "you don't understand; you don't believe in him; you don't see! if i do come after his work--if i do give him everything, and he can't give all back--i don't care! he'll give what he can; i don't want any more. if you're afraid of the life for me, uncle, if you think it'll be too hard--" mr. treffry bowed his head. "i do, chris." "well, then, i hate to be wrapped in cotton wool; i want to breathe. if i come to grief, it's my own affair; nobody need mind." mr. treffry's fingers sought his beard. "ah! yes. just so!" christian sank on her knees. "oh! uncle! i'm a selfish beast!" mr. treffry laid his hand against her cheek. "i think i could do with a nap," he said. swallowing a lump in her throat, she stole out of the room. by a stroke of fate mr. treffry's return to villa rubein befell at the psychological moment when herr paul, in a suit of rather too bright blue, was starting for vienna. as soon as he saw the carriage appear between the poplars he became as pensive as a boy caught in the act of stealing cherries. pitching his hatbox to fritz, he recovered himself, however, in time to whistle while mr. treffry was being assisted into the house. having forgotten his anger, he was only anxious now to smooth out its after effects; in the glances he cast at christian and his brother-in-law there was a kind of shamed entreaty which seemed to say: "for goodness' sake, don't worry me about that business again! nothing's come of it, you see!" he came forward: "ah! mon cher! so you return; i put off my departure, then. vienna must wait for me--that poor vienna!" but noticing the extreme feebleness of mr. treffry's advance, he exclaimed with genuine concern: "what is it? you're ill? my god!" after disappearing for five minutes, he came back with a whitish liquid in a glass. "there!" he said, "good for the gout--for a cough--for everything!" mr. treffry sniffed, drained the glass, and sucked his moustache. "ah!" he said. "no doubt! but it's uncommonly like gin, paul." then turning to christian, he said: "shake hands, you two!" christian looked from one to the other, and at last held out her hand to herr paul, who brushed it with his moustache, gazing after her as she left the room with a queer expression. "my dear!" he began, "you support her in this execrable matter? you forget my position, you make me ridiculous. i have been obliged to go to bed in my own house, absolutely to go to bed, because i was in danger of becoming funny." "look here, paul!" mr. treffry said gruffly, "if any one's to bully chris, it's i." "in that case," returned herr paul sarcastically, "i will go to vienna." "you may go to the devil!" said mr. treffry; "and i'll tell you what--in my opinion it was low to set the police on that young chap; a low, dirty trick." herr paul divided his beard carefully in two, took his seat on the very edge of an arm-chair, and placing his hands on his parted knees, said: "i have regretted it since--mais, que diable! he called me a coward--it is very hot weather!--there were drinks at the kurhaus--i am her guardian--the affair is a very beastly one--there were more drinks--i was a little enfin!" he shrugged his shoulders. "adieu, my dear; i shall be some time in vienna; i need rest!" he rose and went to the door; then he turned, and waved his cigar. "adieu! be good; get well! i will buy you some cigars up there." and going out, he shut the door on any possibility of answer. mr. treffry lay back amongst his cushions. the clock ticked; pigeons cooed on the veranda; a door opened in the distance, and for a moment a treble voice was heard. mr. treffry's head drooped forward; across his face, gloomy and rugged, fell a thin line of sunlight. the clock suddenly stopped ticking, and outside, in mysterious accord, the pigeons rose with a great fluttering of wings, and flew off'. mr. treffry made a startled, heavy movement. he tried to get on to his feet and reach the bell, but could not, and sat on the side of the couch with drops of sweat rolling off his forehead, and his hands clawing his chest. there was no sound at all throughout the house. he looked about him, and tried to call, but again could not. he tried once more to reach the bell, and, failing, sat still, with a thought that made him cold. "i'm done for," he muttered. "by george! i believe i'm done for this time!" a voice behind him said: "can we have a look at you, sir?" "ah! doctor, bear a hand, there's a good fellow." dawney propped him against the cushions, and loosened his shirt. receiving no answer to his questions, he stepped alarmed towards the bell. mr. treffry stopped him with a sign. "let's hear what you make of me," he said. when dawney had examined him, he asked: "well?" "well," answered dawney slowly, "there's trouble, of course." mr. treffry broke out with a husky whisper: "out with it, doctor; don't humbug me." dawney bent down, and took his wrist. "i don't know how you've got into this state, sir," he said with the brusqueness of emotion. "you're in a bad way. it's the old trouble; and you know what that means as well as i. all i can tell you is, i'm going to have a big fight with it. it shan't be my fault, there's my hand on that." mr. treffry lay with his eyes fixed on the ceiling; at last he said: "i want to live." "yes--yes." "i feel better now; don't make a fuss about it. it'll be very awkward if i die just now. patch me up, for the sake of my niece." dawney nodded. "one minute, there are a few things i want," and he went out. a moment later greta stole in on tiptoe. she bent over till her hair touched mr. treffry's face. "uncle nic!" she whispered. he opened his eyes. "hallo, greta!" "i have come to bring you my love, uncle nic, and to say good-bye. papa says that i and scruff and miss naylor are going to vienna with him; we have had to pack in half an hour; in five minutes we are going to vienna, and it is my first visit there, uncle nic." "to vienna!" mr. treffry repeated slowly. "don't have a guide, greta; they're humbugs." "no, uncle nic," said greta solemnly. "draw the curtains, old girl, let's have a look at you. why, you're as smart as ninepence!" "yes," said greta with a sigh, touching the buttons of her cape, "because i am going to vienna; but i am sorry to leave you, uncle nic." "are you, greta?" "but you will have chris, and you are fonder of chris than of me, uncle nic." "i've known her longer." "perhaps when you've known me as long as chris, you shall be as fond of me." "when i've known you as long--may be." "while i am gone, uncle nic, you are to get well, you are not very well, you know." "what put that into your head?" "if you were well you would be smoking a cigar--it is just three o'clock. this kiss is for myself, this is for scruff, and this is for miss naylor." she stood upright again; a tremulous, joyful gravity was in her eyes and on her lips. "good-bye, my dear; take care of yourselves; and don't you have a guide, they're humbugs." "no, uncle nic. there is the carriage! to vienna, uncle nic!" the dead gold of her hair gleamed in the doorway. mr. treffry raised himself upon his elbow. "give us one more, for luck!" greta ran back. "i love you very much!" she said, and kissing him, backed slowly, then, turning, flew out like a bird. mr. treffry fixed his eyes on the shut door. xxi after many days of hot, still weather, the wind had come, and whirled the dust along the parched roads. the leaves were all astir, like tiny wings. round villa rubein the pigeons cooed uneasily, all the other birds were silent. late in the afternoon christian came out on the veranda, reading a letter: "dear chris,--we are here now six days, and it is a very large place with many churches. in the first place then we have been to a great many, but the nicest of them is not st. stephan's kirche, it is another, but i do not remember the name. papa is out nearly all the night; he says he is resting here, so he is not able to come to the churches with us, but i do not think he rests very much. the day before yesterday we, that is, papa, i, and miss naylor, went to an exhibition of pictures. it was quite beautiful and interesting (miss naylor says it is not right to say 'quite' beautiful, but i do not know what other word could mean 'quite' except the word 'quite,' because it is not exceedingly and not extremely). and o chris! there was one picture painted by him; it was about a ship without masts--miss naylor says it is a barge, but i do not know what a barge is--on fire, and, floating down a river in a fog. i think it is extremely beautiful. miss naylor says it is very impressionistick--what is that? and papa said 'puh!' but he did not know it was painted by herr harz, so i did not tell him. "there has also been staying at our hotel that count sarelli who came one evening to dinner at our house, but he is gone away now. he sat all day in the winter garden reading, and at night he went out with papa. miss naylor says he is unhappy, but i think he does not take enough exercise; and o chris! one day he said to me, 'that is your sister, mademoiselle, that young lady in the white dress? does she always wear white dresses?' and i said to him: 'it is not always a white dress; in the picture, it is green, because the picture is called "spring.' but i did not tell him the colours of all your dresses because he looked so tired. then he said to me: 'she is very charming.' so i tell you this, chris, because i think you shall like to know. scruff' has a sore toe; it is because he has eaten too much meat. "it is not nice without you, chris, and miss naylor says i am improving my mind here, but i do not think it shall improve very much, because at night i like it always best, when the shops are lighted and the carriages are driving past; then i am wanting to dance. the first night papa said he would take me to the theatre, but yesterday he said it was not good for me; perhaps to-morrow he shall think it good for me again. "yesterday we have been in the prater, and saw many people, and some that papa knew; and then came the most interesting part of all, sitting under the trees in the rain for two hours because we could not get a carriage (very exciting). "there is one young lady here, only she is not any longer very young, who knew papa when he was a boy. i like her very much; she shall soon know me quite to the bottom and is very kind. "the ill husband of cousin teresa who went with us to meran and lost her umbrella and dr. edmund was so sorry about it, has been very much worse, so she is not here but in baden. i wrote to her but have no news, so i do not know whether he is still living or not, at any rate he can't get well again so soon (and i don't think he ever shall). i think as the weather is very warm you and uncle nic are sitting much out of doors. i am sending presents to you all in a wooden box and screwed very firm, so you shall have to use again the big screw-driver of fritz. for aunt constance, photographs; for uncle nic, a green bird on a stand with a hole in the back of the bird to put his ashes in; it is a good green and not expensif please tell him, because he does not like expensif presents (miss naylor says the bird has an inquiring eye--it is a parrat); for you, a little brooch of turquoise because i like them best; for dr. edmund a machine to weigh medicines in because he said he could not get a good one in botzen; this is a very good one, the shopman told me so, and is the most expensif of all the presents--so that is all my money, except two gulden. if papa shall give me some more, i shall buy for miss naylor a parasol, because it is useful and the handle of hers is 'wobbley' (that is one of dr. edmund's words and i like it). "good-bye for this time. greta sends you her kiss. "p. s.--miss naylor has read all this letter (except about the parasol) and there are several things she did not want me to put, so i have copied it without the things, but at the last i have kept that copy myself, so that is why this is smudgy and several words are not spelt well, but all the things are here." christian read, smiling, but to finish it was like dropping a talisman, and her face clouded. a sudden draught blew her hair about, and from within, mr. treffry's cough mingled with the soughing of the wind; the sky was fast blackening. she went indoors, took a pen and began to write: "my friend,--why haven't you written to me? it is so, long to wait. uncle says you are in italy--it is dreadful not to know for certain. i feel you would have written if you could; and i can't help thinking of all the things that may have happened. i am unhappy. uncle nic is ill; he will not confess it, that is his way; but he is very ill. though perhaps you will never see this, i must write down all my thoughts. sometimes i feel that i am brutal to be always thinking about you, scheming how to be with you again, when he is lying there so ill. how good he has always been to me; it is terrible that love should pull one apart so. surely love should be beautiful, and peaceful, instead of filling me with bitter, wicked thoughts. i love you--and i love him; i feel as if i were torn in two. why should it be so? why should the beginning of one life mean the ending of another, one love the destruction of another? i don't understand. the same spirit makes me love you and him, the same sympathy, the same trust--yet it sometimes seems as if i were a criminal in loving you. you know what he thinks--he is too honest not to have shown you. he has talked to me; he likes you in a way, but you are a foreigner--he says-your life is not my life. 'he is not the man for you!' those were his words. and now he doesn't talk to me, but when i am in the room he looks at me--that's worse--a thousand times; when he talks it rouses me to fight--when it's his eyes only, i'm a coward at once; i feel i would do anything, anything, only not to hurt him. why can't he see? is it because he's old and we are young? he may consent, but he will never, never see; it will always hurt him. "i want to tell you everything; i have had worse thoughts than these --sometimes i have thought that i should never have the courage to face the struggle which you have to face. then i feel quite broken; it is like something giving way in me. then i think of you, and it is over; but it has been there, and i am ashamed--i told you i was a coward. it's like the feeling one would have going out into a storm on a dark night, away from a warm fire--only of the spirit not the body--which makes it worse. i had to tell you this; you mustn't think of it again, i mean to fight it away and forget that it has ever been there. but uncle nic--what am i to do? i hate myself because i am young, and he is old and weak--sometimes i seem even to hate him. i have all sorts of thoughts, and always at the end of them, like a dark hole at the end of a passage, the thought that i ought to give you up. ought i? tell me. i want to know, i want to do what is right; i still want to do that, though sometimes i think i am all made of evil. "do you remember once when we were talking, you said: 'nature always has an answer for every question; you cannot get an answer from laws, conventions, theories, words, only from nature.' what do you say to me now; do you tell me it is nature to come to you in spite of everything, and so, that it must be right? i think you would; but can it be nature to do something which will hurt terribly one whom i love and who loves me? if it is--nature is cruel. is that one of the 'lessons of life'? is that what aunt constance means when she says: 'if life were not a paradox, we could not get on at all'? i am beginning to see that everything has its dark side; i never believed that before. "uncle nic dreads the life for me; he doesn't understand (how should he?--he has always had money) how life can be tolerable without money--it is horrible that the accident of money should make such difference in our lives. i am sometimes afraid myself, and i can't outface that fear in him; he sees the shadow of his fear in me--his eyes seem to see everything that is in me now; the eyes of old people are the saddest things in the world. i am writing like a wretched coward, but you will never see this letter i suppose, and so it doesn't matter; but if you do, and i pray that you may--well, if i am only worth taking at my best, i am not worth taking at all. i want you to know the worst of me--you, and no one else. "with uncle nic it is not as with my stepfather; his opposition only makes me angry, mad, ready to do anything, but with uncle nic i feel so bruised--so sore. he said: 'it is not so much the money, because there is always mine.' i could never do a thing he cannot bear, and take his money, and you would never let me. one knows very little of anything in the world till trouble comes. you know how it is with flowers and trees; in the early spring they look so quiet and self-contained; then all in a moment they change--i think it must be like that with the heart. i used to think i knew a great deal, understood why and how things came about; i thought self-possession and reason so easy; now i know nothing. and nothing in the world matters but to see you and hide away from that look in uncle nic's eyes. three months ago i did not know you, now i write like this. whatever i look at, i try to see as you would see; i feel, now you are away even more than when you were with me, what your thoughts would be, how you would feel about this or that. some things you have said seem always in my mind like lights--" a slanting drift of rain was striking the veranda tiles with a cold, ceaseless hissing. christian shut the window, and went into her uncle's room. he was lying with closed eyes, growling at dominique, who moved about noiselessly, putting the room ready for the night. when he had finished, and with a compassionate bow had left the room, mr. treffry opened his eyes, and said: "this is beastly stuff of the doctor's, chris, it puts my monkey up; i can't help swearing after i've taken it; it's as beastly as a vulgar woman's laugh, and i don't know anything beastlier than that!" "i have a letter from greta, uncle nic; shall i read it?" he nodded, and christian read the letter, leaving out the mention of harz, and for some undefined reason the part about sarelli. "ay!" said mr. treffry with a feeble laugh, "greta and her money! send her some more, chris. wish i were a youngster again; that's a beast of a proverb about a dog and his day. i'd like to go fishing again in the west country! a fine time we had when we were youngsters. you don't get such times these days. 'twasn't often the fishing-smacks went out without us. we'd watch their lights from our bedroom window; when they were swung aboard we were out and down to the quay before you could say 'knife.' they always waited for us; but your uncle dan was the favourite, he was the chap for luck. when i get on my legs, we might go down there, you and i? for a bit, just to see? what d'you say, old girl?" their eyes met. "i'd like to look at the smack lights going to sea on a dark night; pity you're such a duffer in a boat--we might go out with them. do you a power of good! you're not looking the thing, my dear." his voice died wistfully, and his glance, sweeping her face, rested on her hands, which held and twisted greta's letter. after a minute or two of silence he boomed out again with sudden energy: "your aunt'll want to come and sit with me, after dinner; don't let her, chris, i can't stand it. tell her i'm asleep--the doctor'll be here directly; ask him to make up some humbug for you--it's his business." he was seized by a violent fit of pain which seemed to stab his breath away, and when it was over signed that he would be left alone. christian went back to her letter in the other room, and had written these words, when the gong summoned her to dinner: "i'm like a leaf in the wind, i put out my hand to one thing, and it's seized and twisted and flung aside. i want you--i want you; if i could see you i think i should know what to do--" xxii the rain drove with increasing fury. the night was very black. nicholas treffry slept heavily. by the side of his bed the night-lamp cast on to the opposite wall a bright disc festooned by the hanging shadow of the ceiling. christian was leaning over him. for the moment he filled all her heart, lying there, so helpless. fearful of waking him she slipped into the sitting-room. outside the window stood a man with his face pressed to the pane. her heart thumped; she went up and unlatched the window. it was harz, with the rain dripping off him. he let fall his hat and cape. "you!" she said, touching his sleeve. "you! you!" he was sodden with wet, his face drawn and tired; a dark growth of beard covered his cheeks and chin. "where is your uncle?" he said; "i want to see him." she put her hand up to his lips, but he caught it and covered it with kisses. "he's asleep--ill--speak gently!" "i came to him first," he muttered. christian lit the lamp; and he looked at her hungrily without a word. "it's not possible to go on like this; i came to tell your uncle so. he is a man. as for the other, i want to have nothing to do with him! i came back on foot across the mountains. it's not possible to go on like this, christian." she handed him her letter. he held it to the light, clearing his brow of raindrops. when he had read to the last word he gave it her back, and whispered: "come!" her lips moved, but she did not speak. "while this goes on i can't work; i can do nothing. i can't--i won't bargain with my work; if it's to be that, we had better end it. what are we waiting for? sooner or later we must come to this. i'm sorry that he's ill, god knows! but that changes nothing. to wait is tying me hand and foot--it's making me afraid! fear kills! it will kill you! it kills work, and i must work, i can't waste time--i won't! i will sooner give you up." he put his hands on her shoulders. "i love you! i want you! look in my eyes and see if you dare hold back!" christian stood with the grip of his strong hands on her shoulders, without a movement or sign. her face was very white. and suddenly he began to kiss that pale, still face, to kiss its eyes and lips, to kiss it from its chin up to its hair; and it stayed pale, as a white flower, beneath those kisses--as a white flower, whose stalk the fingers bend back a little. there was a sound of knocking on the wall; mr. treffry called feebly. christian broke away from harz. "to-morrow!" he whispered, and picking up his hat and cloak, went out again into the rain. xxiii it was not till morning that christian fell into a troubled sleep. she dreamed that a voice was calling her, and she was filled with a helpless, dumb dream terror. when she woke the light was streaming in; it was sunday, and the cathedral bells were chiming. her first thought was of harz. one step, one moment of courage! why had she not told her uncle? if he had only asked! but why--why should she tell him? when it was over and she was gone, he would see that all was for the best. her eyes fell on greta's empty bed. she sprang up, and bending over, kissed the pillow. 'she will mind at first; but she's so young! nobody will really miss me, except uncle nic!' she stood along while in the window without moving. when she was dressed she called out to her maid: "bring me some milk, barbi; i'm going to church." "ach! gnadiges fraulein, will you no breakfast have?" "no thank you, barbi." "liebes fraulein, what a beautiful morning after the rain it has become! how cool! it is for you good--for the colour in your cheeks; now they will bloom again!" and barbi stroked her own well-coloured cheeks. dominique, sunning himself outside with a cloth across his arm, bowed as she passed, and smiled affectionately: "he is better this morning, m'mselle. we march--we are getting on. good news will put the heart into you." christian thought: 'how sweet every one is to-day!' even the villa seemed to greet her, with the sun aslant on it; and the trees, trembling and weeping golden tears. at the cathedral she was early for the service, but here and there were figures on their knees; the faint, sickly odour of long-burnt incense clung in the air; a priest moved silently at the far end. she knelt, and when at last she rose the service had begun. with the sound of the intoning a sense of peace came to her--the peace of resolution. for good or bad she felt that she had faced her fate. she went out with a look of quiet serenity and walked home along the dyke. close to harz's studio she sat down. now--it was her own; all that had belonged to him, that had ever had a part in him. an old beggar, who had been watching her, came gently from behind. "gracious lady!" he said, peering at her eyes, "this is the lucky day for you. i have lost my luck." christian opened her purse, there was only one coin in it, a gold piece; the beggar's eyes sparkled. she thought suddenly: 'it's no longer mine; i must begin to be careful,' but she felt ashamed when she looked at the old man. "i am sorry," she said; "yesterday i would have given you this, but--but now it's already given." he seemed so old and poor--what could she give him? she unhooked a little silver brooch at her throat. "you will get something for that," she said; "it's better than nothing. i am very sorry you are so old and poor." the beggar crossed himself. "gracious lady," he muttered, "may you never want!" christian hurried on; the rustling of leaves soon carried the words away. she did not feel inclined to go in, and crossing the bridge began to climb the hill. there was a gentle breeze, drifting the clouds across the sun; lizards darted out over the walls, looked at her, and whisked away. the sunshine, dappling through the tops of trees, gashed down on a torrent. the earth smelt sweet, the vineyards round the white farms glistened; everything seemed to leap and dance with sap and life; it was a moment of spring in midsummer. christian walked on, wondering at her own happiness. 'am i heartless?' she thought. 'i am going to leave him--i am going into life; i shall have to fight now, there'll be no looking back.' the path broke away and wound down to the level of the torrent; on the other side it rose again, and was lost among trees. the woods were dank; she hastened home. in her room she began to pack, sorting and tearing up old letters. 'only one thing matters,' she thought; 'singleness of heart; to see your way, and keep to it with all your might.' she looked up and saw barbi standing before her with towels in her hands, and a scared face. "are you going a journey, gnadiges fraulein?" "i am going away to be married, barbi," said christian at last; "don't speak of it to any one, please." barbi leant a little forward with the towels clasped to the blue cotton bosom of her dress. "no, no! i will not speak. but, dear fraulein, that is a big matter; have you well thought?" "thought, barbi? have i not!" "but, dear fraulein, will you be rich?" "no! i shall be as poor as you." "ach! dear god! that is terrible. katrina, my sister, she is married; she tells me all her life; she tells me it is very hard, and but for the money in her stocking it would be harder. dear fraulein, think again! and is he good? sometimes they are not good." "he is good," said christian, rising; "it is all settled!" and she kissed barbi on the cheek. "you are crying, liebes fraulein! think yet again, perhaps it is not quite all settled; it is not possible that a maiden should not a way out leave?" christian smiled. "i don't do things that way, barbi." barbi hung the towels on the horse, and crossed herself. mr. treffry's gaze was fixed on a tortoise-shell butterfly fluttering round the ceiling. the insect seemed to fascinate him, as things which move quickly always fascinate the helpless. christian came softly in. "couldn't stay in bed, chris," he called out with an air of guilt. "the heat was something awful. the doctor piped off in a huff, just because o' this." he motioned towards a jug of claret-cup and a pipe on the table by his elbow. "i was only looking at 'em." christian, sitting down beside him, took up a fan. "if i could get out of this heat--" he said, and closed his eyes. 'i must tell him,' she thought; 'i can't slink away.' "pour me out some of that stuff, chris." she reached for the jug. yes! she must tell him! her heart sank. mr. treffry took a lengthy draught. "broken my promise; don't matter--won't hurt any one but me." he took up the pipe and pressed tobacco into it. "i've been lying here with this pain going right through me, and never a smoke! d'you tell me anything the parsons say can do me half the good of this pipe?" he leaned back, steeped in a luxury of satisfaction. he went on, pursuing a private train of thought: "things have changed a lot since my young days. when i was a youngster, a young fellow had to look out for peck and perch--he put the future in his pocket. he did well or not, according as he had stuff in him. now he's not content with that, it seems--trades on his own opinion of himself; thinks he is what he says he's going to be." "you are unjust," said christian. mr. treffry grunted. "ah, well! i like to know where i am. if i lend money to a man, i like to know whether he's going to pay it back; i may not care whether he does or not, but i like to know. the same with other things. i don't care what a man has--though, mind you, chris, it's not a bad rule that measures men by the balance at their banks; but when it comes to marriage, there's a very simple rule, what's not enough for one is not enough for two. you can't talk black white, or bread into your mouth. i don't care to speak about myself, as you know, chris, but i tell you this--when i came to london i wanted to marry--i hadn't any money, and i had to want. when i had the money--but that's neither here nor there!" he frowned, fingering his pipe. "i didn't ask her, chris; i didn't think it the square thing; it seems that's out of fashion!" christian's cheeks were burning. "i think a lot while i lie here," mr. treffry went on; "nothing much else to do. what i ask myself is this: what do you know about what's best for you? what do you know of life? take it or leave it, life's not all you think; it's give and get all the way, a fair start is everything." christian thought: 'will he never see?' mr. treffry went on: "i get better every day, but i can't last for ever. it's not pleasant to lie here and know that when i'm gone there'll be no one to keep a hand on the check string!" "don't talk like that, dear!" christian murmured. "it's no use blinking facts, chris. i've lived a long time in the world; i've seen things pretty well as they are; and now there's not much left for me to think about but you." "but, uncle, if you loved him, as i do, you couldn't tell me to be afraid! it's cowardly and mean to be afraid. you must have forgotten!" mr. treffry closed his eyes. "yes," he said; "i'm old." the fan had dropped into christian's lap; it rested on her white frock like a large crimson leaf; her eyes were fixed on it. mr. treffry looked at her. "have you heard from him?" he asked with sudden intuition. "last night, in that room, when you thought i was talking to dominique--" the pipe fell from his hand. "what!" he stammered: "back?" christian, without looking up, said: "yes, he's back; he wants me--i must go to him, uncle." there was a long silence. "you must go to him?" he repeated. she longed to fling herself down at his knees, but he was so still, that to move seemed impossible; she remained silent, with folded hands. mr. treffry spoke: "you'll let me know--before--you--go. goodnight!" christian stole out into the passage. a bead curtain rustled in the draught; voices reached her. "my honour is involved, or i would give the case up." "he is very trying, poor nicholas! he always had that peculiar quality of opposition; it has brought him to grief a hundred times. there is opposition in our blood; my family all have it. my eldest brother died of it; with my poor sister, who was as gentle as a lamb, it took the form of doing the right thing in the wrong place. it is a matter of temperament, you see. you must have patience." "patience," repeated dawney's voice, "is one thing; patience where there is responsibility is another. i've not had a wink of sleep these last two nights." there was a faint, shrill swish of silk. "is he so very ill?" christian held her breath. the answer came at last. "has he made his will? with this trouble in the side again, i tell you plainly, mrs. decie, there's little or no chance." christian put her hands up to her ears, and ran out into the air. what was she about to do, then--to leave him dying! on the following day harz was summoned to the villa. mr. treffry had just risen, and was garbed in a dressing-suit, old and worn, which had a certain air of magnificence. his seamed cheeks were newly shaved. "i hope i see you well," he said majestically. thinking of the drive and their last parting, harz felt sorry and ashamed. suddenly christian came into the room; she stood for a moment looking at him; then sat down. "chris!" said mr. treffry reproachfully. she shook her head, and did not move; mournful and intent, her eyes seemed full of secret knowledge. mr. treffry spoke: "i've no right to blame you, mr. harz, and chris tells me you came to see me first, which is what i would have expected of you; but you shouldn't have come back." "i came back, sir, because i found i was obliged. i must speak out." "i ask nothing better," mr. treffry replied. harz looked again at christian; but she made no sign, sitting with her chin resting on her hands. "i have come for her," he said; "i can make my living--enough for both of us. but i can't wait." "why?" harz made no answer. mr. treffry boomed out again: "why? isn't she worth waiting for? isn't she worth serving for?" "i can't expect you to understand me," the painter said. "my art is my life to me. do you suppose that if it wasn't i should ever have left my village; or gone through all that i've gone through, to get as far even as i am? you tell me to wait. if my thoughts and my will aren't free, how can i work? i shan't be worth my salt. you tell me to go back to england--knowing she is here, amongst you who hate me, a thousand miles away. i shall know that there's a death fight going on in her and outside her against me--you think that i can go on working under these conditions. others may be able, i am not. that's the plain truth. if i loved her less--" there was a silence, then mr. treffry said: "it isn't fair to come here and ask what you're asking. you don't know what's in the future for you, you don't know that you can keep a wife. it isn't pleasant, either, to think you can't hold up your head in your own country." harz turned white. "ah! you bring that up again!" he broke out. "seven years ago i was a boy and starving; if you had been in my place you would have done what i did. my country is as much to me as your country is to you. i've been an exile seven years, i suppose i shall always be i've had punishment enough; but if you think i am a rascal, i'll go and give myself up." he turned on his heel. "stop! i beg your pardon! i never meant to hurt you. it isn't easy for me to eat my words," mr. treffry said wistfully, "let that count for something." he held out his hand. harz came quickly back and took it. christian's gaze was never for a moment withdrawn; she seemed trying to store up the sight of him within her. the light darting through the half-closed shutters gave her eyes a strange, bright intensity, and shone in the folds of her white dress like the sheen of birds' wings. mr. treffry glanced uneasily about him. "god knows i don't want anything but her happiness," he said. "what is it to me if you'd murdered your mother? it's her i'm thinking of." "how can you tell what is happiness to her? you have your own ideas of happiness--not hers, not mine. you can't dare to stop us, sir!" "dare?" said mr. treffry. "her father gave her over to me when she was a mite of a little thing; i've known her all her life. i've--i've loved her--and you come here with your 'dare'!" his hand dragged at his beard, and shook as though palsied. a look of terror came into christian's face. "all right, chris! i don't ask for quarter, and i don't give it!" harz made a gesture of despair. "i've acted squarely by you, sir," mr. treffry went on, "i ask the same of you. i ask you to wait, and come like an honest man, when you can say, 'i see my way--here's this and that for her.' what makes this art you talk of different from any other call in life? it doesn't alter facts, or give you what other men have no right to expect. it doesn't put grit into you, or keep your hands clean, or prove that two and two make five." harz answered bitterly: "you know as much of art as i know of money. if we live a thousand years we shall never understand each other. i am doing what i feel is best for both of us." mr. treffry took hold of the painter's sleeve. "i make you an offer," he said. "your word not to see or write to her for a year! then, position or not, money or no money, if she'll have you, i'll make it right for you." "i could not take your money." a kind of despair seemed suddenly to seize on mr. nicholas treffry. he rose, and stood towering over them. "all my life--" he said; but something seemed to click deep down in his throat, and he sank back in his seat. "go!" whispered christian, "go!" but mr. treffry found his voice again: "it's for the child to say. well, chris!" christian did not speak. it was harz who broke the silence. he pointed to mr. treffry. "you know i can't tell you to come with--that, there. why did you send for me?" and, turning, he went out. christian sank on her knees, burying her face in her hands. mr. treffry pressed his handkerchief with a stealthy movement to his mouth. it was dyed crimson with the price of his victory. xxvi a telegram had summoned herr paul from vienna. he had started forthwith, leaving several unpaid accounts to a more joyful opportunity, amongst them a chemist's bill, for a wonderful quack medicine of which he brought six bottles. he came from mr. treffry's room with tears rolling down his cheeks, saying: "poor nicholas! poor nicholas! il n'a pas de chance!" it was difficult to find any one to listen; the women were scared and silent, waiting for the orders that were now and then whispered through the door. herr paul could not bear this silence, and talked to his servant for half an hour, till fritz also vanished to fetch something from the town. then in despair herr paul went to his room. it was hard not to be allowed to help--it was hard to wait! when the heart was suffering, it was frightful! he turned and, looking furtively about him, lighted a cigar. yes, it came to every one--at some time or other; and what was it, that death they talked of? was it any worse than life? that frightful jumble people made for themselves! poor nicholas! after all, it was he that had the luck! his eyes filled with tears, and drawing a penknife from his pocket, he began to stab it into the stuffing of his chair. scruff, who sat watching the chink of light under the door, turned his head, blinked at him, and began feebly tapping with a claw. it was intolerable, this uncertainty--to be near, and yet so far, was not endurable! herr paul stepped across the room. the dog, following, threw his black-marked muzzle upwards with a gruff noise, and went back to the door. his master was holding in his hand a bottle of champagne. poor nicholas! he had chosen it. herr paul drained a glass. poor nicholas! the prince of fellows, and of what use was one? they kept him away from nicholas! herr paul's eyes fell on the terrier. "ach! my dear," he said, "you and i, we alone are kept away!" he drained a second glass. what was it? this life! froth-like that! he tossed off a third glass. forget! if one could not help, it was better to forget! he put on his hat. yes. there was no room for him there! he was not wanted! he finished the bottle, and went out into the passage. scruff ran and lay down at mr. treffry's door. herr paul looked at him. "ach!" he said, tapping his chest, "ungrateful hound!" and opening the front door he went out on tiptoe.... late that afternoon greta stole hatless through the lilac bushes; she looked tired after her night journey, and sat idly on a chair in the speckled shadow of a lime-tree. 'it is not like home,' she thought; 'i am unhappy. even the birds are silent, but perhaps that is because it is so hot. i have never been sad like this--for it is not fancy that i am sad this time, as it is sometimes. it is in my heart like the sound the wind makes through a wood, it feels quite empty in my heart. if it is always like this to be unhappy, then i am sorry for all the unhappy things in the world; i am sorrier than i ever was before.' a shadow fell on the grass, she raised her eyes, and saw dawney. "dr. edmund!" she whispered. dawney turned to her; a heavy furrow showed between his brows. his eyes, always rather close together, stared painfully. "dr. edmund," greta whispered, "is it true?" he took her hand, and spread his own palm over it. "perhaps," he said; "perhaps not. we must hope." greta looked up, awed. "they say he is dying." "we have sent for the best man in vienna." greta shook her head. "but you are clever, dr. edmund; and you are afraid." "he is brave," said dawney; "we must all be brave, you know. you too!" "brave?" repeated greta; "what is it to be brave? if it is not to cry and make a fuss--that i can do. but if it is not to be sad in here," she touched her breast, "that i cannot do, and it shall not be any good for me to try." "to be brave is to hope; don't give up hope, dear." "no," said greta, tracing the pattern of the sunlight on her skirt. "but i think that when we hope, we are not brave, because we are expecting something for ourselves. chris says that hope is prayer, and if it is prayer, then all the time we are hoping, we are asking for something, and it is not brave to ask for things." a smile curved dawney's mouth. "go on, philosopher!" he said. "be brave in your own way, it will be just as good as anybody else's." "what are you going to do to be brave, dr. edmund?" "i? fight! if only we had five years off his life!" greta watched him as he walked away. "i shall never be brave," she mourned; "i shall always be wanting to be happy." and, kneeling down, she began to disentangle a fly, imprisoned in a cobweb. a plant of hemlock had sprung up in the long grass by her feet. greta thought, dismayed: 'there are weeds!' it seemed but another sign of the death of joy. 'but it's very beautiful,' she thought, 'the blossoms are like stars. i am not going to pull it up. i will leave it; perhaps it will spread all through the garden; and if it does i do not care, for now things are not like they used to be and i do not, think they ever shall be again.' xxvii the days went by; those long, hot days, when the heat haze swims up about ten of the forenoon, and, as the sun sinks level with the mountains, melts into golden ether which sets the world quivering with sparkles. at the lighting of the stars those sparkles die, vanishing one by one off the hillsides; evening comes flying down the valleys, and life rests under her cool wings. the night falls; and the hundred little voices of the night arise. it was near grape-gathering, and in the heat the fight for nicholas treffry's life went on, day in, day out, with gleams of hope and moments of despair. doctors came, but after the first he refused to see them. "no," he said to dawney--"throwing away money. if i pull through it won't be because of them." for days together he would allow no one but dawney, dominique, and the paid nurse in the room. "i can stand it better," he said to christian, "when i don't see any of you; keep away, old girl, and let me get on with it!" to have been able to help would have eased the tension of her nerves, and the aching of her heart. at his own request they had moved his bed into a corner so that he might face the wall. there he would lie for hours together, not speaking a word, except to ask for drink. sometimes christian crept in unnoticed, and sat watching, with her arms tightly folded across her breast. at night, after greta was asleep, she would toss from side to side, muttering feverish prayers. she spent hours at her little table in the schoolroom, writing letters to harz that were never sent. once she wrote these words: "i am the most wicked of all creatures--i have even wished that he may die!" a few minutes afterwards miss naylor found her with her head buried on her arms. christian sprang up; tears were streaming down her cheeks. "don't touch me!" she cried, and rushed away. later, she stole into her uncle's room, and sank down on the floor beside the bed. she sat there silently, unnoticed all the evening. when night came she could hardly be persuaded to leave the room. one day mr. treffry expressed a wish to see herr paul; it was a long while before the latter could summon courage to go in. "there's a few dozen of the gordon sherry at my chambers, in london, paul," mr. treffry said; "i'd be glad to think you had 'em. and my man, dominique, i've made him all right in my will, but keep your eye on him; he's a good sort for a foreigner, and no chicken, but sooner or later, the women'll get hold of him. that's all i had to say. send chris to me." herr paul stood by the bedside speechless. suddenly he blurted out. "ah! my dear! courage! we are all mortal. you will get well!" all the morning he walked about quite inconsolable. "it was frightful to see him, you know, frightful! an iron man could not have borne it." when christian came to him, mr. treffry raised himself and looked at her a long while. his wistful face was like an accusation. but that very afternoon the news came from the sickroom that he was better, having had no pain for several hours. every one went about with smiles lurking in their eyes, and ready to break forth at a word. in the kitchen barbi burst out crying, and, forgetting to toss the pan, spoiled a kaiser-schmarn she was making. dominique was observed draining a glass of chianti, and solemnly casting forth the last drops in libation. an order was given for tea to be taken out under the acacias, where it was always cool; it was felt that something in the nature of high festival was being held. even herr paul was present; but christian did not come. nobody spoke of illness; to mention it might break the spell. miss naylor, who had gone into the house, came back, saying: "there is a strange man standing over there by the corner of the house." "really!" asked mrs. decie; "what does he want?" miss naylor reddened. "i did not ask him. i--don't--know--whether he is quite respectable. his coat is buttoned very close, and he--doesn't seem--to have a--collar." "go and see what he wants, dear child," mrs. decie said to greta. "i don't know--i really do not know--" began miss naylor; "he has very--high--boots," but greta was already on her way, with hands clasped behind her, and demure eyes taking in the stranger's figure. "please?" she said, when she was close to him. the stranger took his cap off with a jerk. "this house has no bells," he said in a nasal voice; "it has a tendency to discourage one." "yes," said greta gravely, "there is a bell, but it does not ring now, because my uncle is so ill." "i am very sorry to hear that. i don't know the people here, but i am very sorry to hear that. "i would be glad to speak a few words to your sister, if it is your sister that i want." and the stranger's face grew very red. "is it," said greta, "that you are a friend of herr harz? if you are a friend of his, you will please come and have some tea, and while you are having tea i will look for chris." perspiration bedewed the stranger's forehead. "tea? excuse me! i don't drink tea." "there is also coffee," greta said. the stranger's progress towards the arbour was so slow that greta arrived considerably before him. "it is a friend of herr harz," she whispered; "he will drink coffee. i am going to find chris." "greta!" gasped miss naylor. mrs. decie put up her hand. "ah!" she said, "if it is so, we must be very nice to him for christian's sake." miss naylor's face grew soft. "ah, yes!" she said; "of course." "bah!" muttered herr paul, "that recommences.' "paul!" murmured mrs. decie, "you lack the elements of wisdom." herr paul glared at the approaching stranger. mrs. decie had risen, and smilingly held out her hand. "we are so glad to know you; you are an artist too, perhaps? i take a great interest in art, and especially in that school which mr. harz represents." the stranger smiled. "he is the genuine article, ma'am," he said. "he represents no school, he is one of that kind whose corpses make schools." "ah!" murmured mrs. decie, "you are an american. that is so nice. do sit down! my niece will soon be here." greta came running back. "will you come, please?" she said. "chris is ready." gulping down his coffee, the stranger included them all in a single bow, and followed her. "ach!" said herr paul, "garcon tres chic, celui-la!" christian was standing by her little table. the stranger began. "i am sending mr. harz's things to england; there are some pictures here. he would be glad to have them." a flood of crimson swept over her face. "i am sending them to london," the stranger repeated; "perhaps you could give them to me to-day." "they are ready; my sister will show you." her eyes seemed to dart into his soul, and try to drag something from it. the words rushed from her lips: "is there any message for me?" the stranger regarded her curiously. "no," he stammered, "no! i guess not. he is well.... i wish...." he stopped; her white face seemed to flash scorn, despair, and entreaty on him all at once. and turning, she left him standing there. xxvii when christian went that evening to her uncle's room he was sitting up in bed, and at once began to talk. "chris," he said, "i can't stand this dying by inches. i'm going to try what a journey'll do for me. i want to get back to the old country. the doctor's promised. there's a shot in the locker yet! i believe in that young chap; he's stuck to me like a man.... it'll be your birthday, on tuesday, old girl, and you'll be twenty. seventeen years since your father died. you've been a lot to me.... a parson came here today. that's a bad sign. thought it his duty! very civil of him! i wouldn't see him, though. if there's anything in what they tell you, i'm not going to sneak in at this time o' day. there's one thing that's rather badly on my mind. i took advantage of mr. harz with this damned pitifulness of mine. you've a right to look at me as i've seen you sometimes when you thought i was asleep. if i hadn't been ill he'd never have left you. i don't blame you, chris--not i! you love me? i know that, my dear. but one's alone when it comes to the run-in. don't cry! our minds aren't sunday-school books; you're finding it out, that's all!" he sighed and turned away. the noise of sun-blinds being raised vibrated through the house. a feeling of terror seized on the girl; he lay so still, and yet the drawing of each breath was a fight. if she could only suffer in his place! she went close, and bent over him. "it's air we want, both you and i!" he muttered. christian beckoned to the nurse, and stole out through the window. a regiment was passing in the road; she stood half-hidden amongst the lilac bushes watching. the poplar leaves drooped lifeless and almost black above her head, the dust raised by the soldiers' feet hung in the air; it seemed as if in all the world no freshness and no life were stirring. the tramp of feet died away. suddenly within arm's length of her a man appeared, his stick shouldered like a sword. he raised his hat. "good-evening! you do not remember me? sarelli. pardon! you looked like a ghost standing there. how badly those fellows marched! we hang, you see, on the skirts of our profession and criticise; it is all we are fit for." his black eyes, restless and malevolent like a swan's, seemed to stab her face. "a fine evening! too hot. the storm is wanted; you feel that? it is weary waiting for the storm; but after the storm, my dear young lady, comes peace." he smiled, gently, this time, and baring his head again, was lost to view in the shadow of the trees. his figure had seemed to christian like the sudden vision of a threatening, hidden force. she thrust out her hands, as though to keep it off. no use; it was within her, nothing could keep it away! she went to mrs. decie's room, where her aunt and miss naylor were conversing in low tones. to hear their voices brought back the touch of this world of everyday which had no part or lot in the terrifying powers within her. dawney slept at the villa now. in the dead of night he was awakened by a light flashed in his eyes. christian was standing there, her face pale and wild with terror, her hair falling in dark masses on her shoulders. "save him! save him!" she cried. "quick! the bleeding!" he saw her muffle her face in her white sleeves, and seizing the candle, leaped out of bed and rushed away. the internal haemorrhage had come again, and nicholas treffry wavered between life and death. when it had ceased, he sank into a sort of stupor. about six o'clock he came back to consciousness; watching his eyes, they could see a mental struggle taking place within him. at last he singled christian out from the others by a sign. "i'm beat, chris," he whispered. "let him know, i want to see him." his voice grew a little stronger. "i thought that i could see it through--but here's the end." he lifted his hand ever so little, and let it fall again. when told a little later that a telegram had been sent to harz his eyes expressed satisfaction. herr paul came down in ignorance of the night's events. he stopped in front of the barometer and tapped it, remarking to miss naylor: "the glass has gone downstairs; we shall have cool weather--it will still go well with him!" when, with her brown face twisted by pity and concern, she told him that it was a question of hours, herr paul turned first purple, then pale, and sitting down, trembled violently. "i cannot believe it," he exclaimed almost angrily. "yesterday he was so well! i cannot believe it! poor nicholas! yesterday he spoke to me!" taking miss naylor's hand, he clutched it in his own. "ah!" he cried, letting it go suddenly, and striking at his forehead, "it is too terrible; only yesterday he spoke to me of sherry. is there nobody, then, who can do good?" "there is only god," replied miss naylor softly. "god?" said herr paul in a scared voice. "we--can--all--pray to him," miss naylor murmured; little spots of colour came into her cheeks. "i am going to do it now." herr paul raised her hand and kissed it. "are you?" he said; "good! i too." he passed through his study door, closed it carefully behind him, then for some unknown reason set his back against it. ugh! death! it came to all! some day it would come to him. it might come tomorrow! one must pray! the day dragged to its end. in the sky clouds had mustered, and, crowding close on one another, clung round the sun, soft, thick, greywhite, like the feathers on a pigeon's breast. towards evening faint tremblings were felt at intervals, as from the shock of immensely distant earthquakes. nobody went to bed that night, but in the morning the report was the same: "unconscious--a question of hours." once only did he recover consciousness, and then asked for harz. a telegram had come from him, he was on the way. towards seven of the evening the long-expected storm broke in a sky like ink. into the valleys and over the crests of mountains it seemed as though an unseen hand were spilling goblets of pale wine, darting a sword-blade zigzag over trees, roofs, spires, peaks, into the very firmament, which answered every thrust with great bursts of groaning. just beyond the veranda greta saw a glowworm shining, as it might be a tiny bead of the fallen lightning. soon the rain covered everything. sometimes a jet of light brought the hilltops, towering, dark, and hard, over the house, to disappear again behind the raindrops and shaken leaves. each breath drawn by the storm was like the clash of a thousand cymbals; and in his room mr. treffry lay unconscious of its fury. greta had crept in unobserved; and sat curled in a corner, with scruff in her arms, rocking slightly to and fro. when christian passed, she caught her skirt, and whispered: "it is your birthday, chris!" mr. treffry stirred. "what's that? thunder?--it's cooler. where am i? chris!" dawney signed for her to take his place. "chris!" mr. treffry said. "it's near now." she bent across him, and her tears fell on his forehead. "forgive!" she whispered; "love me!" he raised his finger, and touched her cheek. for an hour or more he did not speak, though once or twice he moaned, and faintly tightened his pressure on her fingers. the storm had died away, but very far off the thunder was still muttering. his eyes opened once more, rested on her, and passed beyond, into that abyss dividing youth from age, conviction from conviction, life from death. at the foot of the bed dawney stood covering his face; behind him dominique knelt with hands held upwards; the sound of greta's breathing, soft in sleep, rose and fell in the stillness. xxix one afternoon in march, more than three years after mr. treffry's death, christian was sitting at the window of a studio in st. john's wood. the sky was covered with soft, high clouds, through which shone little gleams of blue. now and then a bright shower fell, sprinkling the trees, where every twig was curling upwards as if waiting for the gift of its new leaves. and it seemed to her that the boughs thickened and budded under her very eyes; a great concourse of sparrows had gathered on those boughs, and kept raising a shrill chatter. over at the far side of the room harz was working at a picture. on christian's face was the quiet smile of one who knows that she has only to turn her eyes to see what she wishes to see; of one whose possessions are safe under her hand. she looked at harz with that possessive smile. but as into the brain of one turning in his bed grim fancies will suddenly leap up out of warm nothingness, so there leaped into her mind the memory of that long ago dawn, when he had found her kneeling by mr. treffry's body. she seemed to see again the dead face, so gravely quiet, and furrowless. she seemed to see her lover and herself setting forth silently along the river wall where they had first met; sitting down, still silent, beneath the poplar-tree where the little bodies of the chafers had lain strewn in the spring. to see the trees changing from black to grey, from grey to green, and in the dark sky long white lines of cloud, lighting to the south like birds; and, very far away, rosy peaks watching the awakening of the earth. and now once again, after all that time, she felt her spirit shrink away from his; as it had shrunk in that hour, when she had seemed hateful to herself. she remembered the words she had spoken: "i have no heart left. you've torn it in two between you. love is all self--i wanted him to die." she remembered too the raindrops on the vines like a million tiny lamps, and the throstle that began singing. then, as dreams die out into warm nothingness, recollection vanished, and the smile came back to her lips. she took out a letter. "....o chris! we are really coming; i seem to be always telling it to myself, and i have told scruff many times, but he does not care, because he is getting old. miss naylor says we shall arrive for breakfast, and that we shall be hungry, but perhaps she will not be very hungry, if it is rough. papa said to me: 'je serai inconsolable, mais inconsolable!' but i think he will not be, because he is going to vienna. when we are come, there will be nobody at villa rubein; aunt constance has gone a fortnight ago to florence. there is a young man at her hotel; she says he will be one of the greatest playwriters in england, and she sent me a play of his to read; it was only a little about love, i did not like it very much.... o chris! i think i shall cry when i see you. as i am quite grown up, miss naylor is not to come back with me; sometimes she is sad, but she will be glad to see you, chris. she seems always sadder when it is spring. today i walked along the wall; the little green balls of wool are growing on the poplars already, and i saw one chafer; it will not be long before the cherry blossom comes; and i felt so funny, sad and happy together, and once i thought that i had wings and could fly away up the valley to meran--but i had none, so i sat on the bench where we sat the day we took the pictures, and i thought and thought; there was nothing came to me in my thoughts, but all was sweet and a little noisy, and rather sad; it was like the buzzing of the chafer, in my head; and now i feel so tired and all my blood is running up and down me. i do not mind, because i know it is the spring. "dominique came to see us the other day; he is very well, and is half the proprietor of the adler hotel, at meran; he is not at all different, and he asked about you and about alois--do you know, chris, to myself i call him herr harz, but when i have seen him this time i shall call him alois in my heart also. "i have a letter from dr. edmund; he is in london, so perhaps you have seen him, only he has a great many patients and some that he has 'hopes of killing soon'! especially one old lady, because she is always wanting him to do things for her, and he is never saying 'no,' so he does not like her. he says that he is getting old. when i have finished this letter i am going to write and tell him that perhaps he shall see me soon, and then i think he will be very sad. now that the spring is come there are more flowers to take to uncle nic's grave, and every day, when i am gone, barbi is to take them so that he shall not miss you, chris, because all the flowers i put there are for you. "i am buying some toys without paint on for my niece." "o chris! this will be the first baby that i have known." "i am only to stay three weeks with you, but i think when i am once there i shall be staying longer. i send a kiss for my niece, and to herr harz, my love--that is the last time i shall call him herr harz; and to you, chris, all the joy that is in my heart.--your loving "greta." christian rose, and, turning very softly, stood, leaning her elbows on the back of a high seat, looking at her husband. in her eyes there was a slow, clear, faintly smiling, yet yearning look, as though this strenuous figure bent on its task were seen for a moment as something apart, and not all the world to her. "tired?" asked harz, putting his lips to her hand. "no, it's only--what greta says about the spring; it makes one want more than one has got." slipping her hand away, she went back to the window. harz stood, looking after her; then, taking up his palette, again began painting. in the world, outside, the high soft clouds flew by; the trees seemed thickening and budding. and christian thought: 'can we never have quite enough?' december . to my father a man of devon i "moor, th july. .......it is quiet here, sleepy, rather--a farm is never quiet; the sea, too, is only a quarter of a mile away, and when it's windy, the sound of it travels up the combe; for distraction, you must go four miles to brixham or five to kingswear, and you won't find much then. the farm lies in a sheltered spot, scooped, so to speak, high up the combe side--behind is a rise of fields, and beyond, a sweep of down. you have the feeling of being able to see quite far, which is misleading, as you soon find out if you walk. it is true devon country-hills, hollows, hedge-banks, lanes dipping down into the earth or going up like the sides of houses, coppices, cornfields, and little streams wherever there's a place for one; but the downs along the cliff, all gorse and ferns, are wild. the combe ends in a sandy cove with black rock on one side, pinkish cliffs away to the headland on the other, and a coastguard station. just now, with the harvest coming on, everything looks its richest, the apples ripening, the trees almost too green. it's very hot, still weather; the country and the sea seem to sleep in the sun. in front of the farm are half-a-dozen pines that look as if they had stepped out of another land, but all round the back is orchard as lush, and gnarled, and orthodox as any one could wish. the house, a long, white building with three levels of roof, and splashes of brown all over it, looks as if it might be growing down into the earth. it was freshly thatched two years ago--and that's all the newness there is about it; they say the front door, oak, with iron knobs, is three hundred years old at least. you can touch the ceilings with your hand. the windows certainly might be larger--a heavenly old place, though, with a flavour of apples, smoke, sweetbriar, bacon, honeysuckle, and age, all over it. the owner is a man called john ford, about seventy, and seventeen stone in weight--very big, on long legs, with a grey, stubbly beard, grey, watery eyes, short neck and purplish complexion; he is asthmatic, and has a very courteous, autocratic manner. his clothes are made of harris tweed--except on sundays, when he puts on black--a seal ring, and a thick gold cable chain. there's nothing mean or small about john ford; i suspect him of a warm heart, but he doesn't let you know much about him. he's a north-country man by birth, and has been out in new zealand all his life. this little devonshire farm is all he has now. he had a large "station" in the north island, and was much looked up to, kept open house, did everything, as one would guess, in a narrow-minded, large-handed way. he came to grief suddenly; i don't quite know how. i believe his only son lost money on the turf, and then, unable to face his father, shot himself; if you had seen john ford, you could imagine that. his wife died, too, that year. he paid up to the last penny, and came home, to live on this farm. he told me the other night that he had only one relation in the world, his granddaughter, who lives here with him. pasiance voisey--old spelling for patience, but they pronounce, it pash-yence--is sitting out here with me at this moment on a sort of rustic loggia that opens into the orchard. her sleeves are rolled up, and she's stripping currants, ready for black currant tea. now and then she rests her elbows on the table, eats a berry, pouts her lips, and, begins again. she has a round, little face; a long, slender body; cheeks like poppies; a bushy mass of black-brown hair, and dark-brown, almost black, eyes; her nose is snub; her lips quick, red, rather full; all her motions quick and soft. she loves bright colours. she's rather like a little cat; sometimes she seems all sympathy, then in a moment as hard as tortoise-shell. she's all impulse; yet she doesn't like to show her feelings; i sometimes wonder whether she has any. she plays the violin. it's queer to see these two together, queer and rather sad. the old man has a fierce tenderness for her that strikes into the very roots of him. i see him torn between it, and his cold north-country horror of his feelings; his life with her is an unconscious torture to him. she's a restless, chafing thing, demure enough one moment, then flashing out into mocking speeches or hard little laughs. yet she's fond of him in her fashion; i saw her kiss him once when he was asleep. she obeys him generally--in a way as if she couldn't breathe while she was doing it. she's had a queer sort of education--history, geography, elementary mathematics, and nothing else; never been to school; had a few lessons on the violin, but has taught herself most of what she knows. she is well up in the lore of birds, flowers, and insects; has three cats, who follow her about; and is full of pranks. the other day she called out to me, "i've something for you. hold out your hand and shut your eyes!" it was a large, black slug! she's the child of the old fellow's only daughter, who was sent home for schooling at torquay, and made a runaway match with one richard voisey, a yeoman farmer, whom she met in the hunting-field. john ford was furious--his ancestors, it appears, used to lead ruffians on the cumberland side of the border--he looked on "squire" rick voisey as a cut below him. he was called "squire," as far as i can make out, because he used to play cards every evening with a parson in the neighbourhood who went by the name of "devil" hawkins. not that the voisey stock is to be despised. they have had this farm since it was granted to one richard voysey by copy dated th september, henry viii. mrs. hopgood, the wife of the bailiff--a dear, quaint, serene old soul with cheeks like a rosy, withered apple, and an unbounded love of pasiance--showed me the very document. "i kape it," she said. "mr. ford be tu proud--but other folks be proud tu. 'tis a pra-aper old fam'ly: all the women is margery, pasiance, or mary; all the men's richards an' johns an' rogers; old as they apple-trees." rick voisey was a rackety, hunting fellow, and "dipped" the old farm up to its thatched roof. john ford took his revenge by buying up the mortgages, foreclosing, and commanding his daughter and voisey to go on living here rent free; this they dutifully did until they were both killed in a dog-cart accident, eight years ago. old ford's financial smash came a year later, and since then he's lived here with pasiance. i fancy it's the cross in her blood that makes her so restless, and irresponsible: if she had been all a native she'd have been happy enough here, or all a stranger like john ford himself, but the two strains struggling for mastery seem to give her no rest. you'll think this a far-fetched theory, but i believe it to be the true one. she'll stand with lips pressed together, her arms folded tight across her narrow chest, staring as if she could see beyond the things round her; then something catches her attention, her eyes will grow laughing, soft, or scornful all in a minute! she's eighteen, perfectly fearless in a boat, but you can't get her to mount a horse--a sore subject with her grandfather, who spends most of his day on a lean, half-bred pony, that carries him like a feather, for all his weight. they put me up here as a favour to dan treffry; there's an arrangement of l. s. d. with mrs. hopgood in the background. they aren't at all well off; this is the largest farm about, but it doesn't bring them in much. to look at john ford, it seems incredible he should be short of money--he's too large. we have family prayers at eight, then, breakfast--after that freedom for writing or anything else till supper and evening prayers. at midday one forages for oneself. on sundays, two miles to church twice, or you get into john ford's black books.... dan treffry himself is staying at kingswear. he says he's made his pile; it suits him down here--like a sleep after years of being too wide-awake; he had a rough time in new zealand, until that mine made his fortune. you'd hardly remember him; he reminds me of his uncle, old nicholas treffry; the same slow way of speaking, with a hesitation, and a trick of repeating your name with everything he says; left-handed too, and the same slow twinkle in his eyes. he has a dark, short beard, and red-brown cheeks; is a little bald on the temples, and a bit grey, but hard as iron. he rides over nearly every day, attended by a black spaniel with a wonderful nose and a horror of petticoats. he has told me lots of good stories of john ford in the early squatter's times; his feats with horses live to this day; and he was through the maori wars; as dan says, "a man after uncle nic's own heart." they are very good friends, and respect each other; dan has a great admiration for the old man, but the attraction is pasiance. he talks very little when she's in the room, but looks at her in a sidelong, wistful sort of way. pasiance's conduct to him would be cruel in any one else, but in her, one takes it with a pinch of salt. dan goes off, but turns up again as quiet and dogged as you please. last night, for instance, we were sitting in the loggia after supper. pasiance was fingering the strings of her violin, and suddenly dan (a bold thing for him) asked her to play. "what!" she said, "before men? no, thank you!" "why not?" "because i hate them." down came john ford's hand on the wicker table: "you forget yourself! go to bed!" she gave dan a look, and went; we could hear her playing in her bedroom; it sounded like a dance of spirits; and just when one thought she had finished, out it would break again like a burst of laughter. presently, john ford begged our pardons ceremoniously, and stumped off indoors. the violin ceased; we heard his voice growling at her; down he came again. just as he was settled in his chair there was a soft swish, and something dark came falling through the apple boughs. the violin! you should have seen his face! dan would have picked the violin up, but the old man stopped him. later, from my bedroom window, i saw john ford come out and stand looking at the violin. he raised his foot as if to stamp on it. at last he picked it up, wiped it carefully, and took it in.... my room is next to hers. i kept hearing her laugh, a noise too as if she were dragging things about the room. then i fell asleep, but woke with a start, and went to the window for a breath of fresh air. such a black, breathless night! nothing to be seen but the twisted, blacker branches; not the faintest stir of leaves, no sound but muffled grunting from the cowhouse, and now and then a faint sigh. i had the queerest feeling of unrest and fear, the last thing to expect on such a night. there is something here that's disturbing; a sort of suppressed struggle. i've never in my life seen anything so irresponsible as this girl, or so uncompromising as the old man; i keep thinking of the way he wiped that violin. it's just as if a spark would set everything in a blaze. there's a menace of tragedy--or--perhaps it's only the heat, and too much of mother hopgood's crame.... ii "tuesday. ......i've made a new acquaintance. i was lying in the orchard, and presently, not seeing me, he came along--a man of middle height, with a singularly good balance, and no lumber--rather old blue clothes, a flannel shirt, a dull red necktie, brown shoes, a cap with a leather peak pushed up on the forehead. face long and narrow, bronzed with a kind of pale burnt-in brownness; a good forehead. a brown moustache, beard rather pointed, blackening about the cheeks; his chin not visible, but from the beard's growth must be big; mouth i should judge sensuous. nose straight and blunt; eyes grey, with an upward look, not exactly frank, because defiant; two parallel furrows down each cheek, one from the inner corner of the eye, one from the nostril; age perhaps thirty-five. about the face, attitude, movements, something immensely vital, adaptable, daring, and unprincipled. he stood in front of the loggia, biting his fingers, a kind of nineteenth-century buccaneer, and i wondered what he was doing in this galley. they say you can tell a man of kent or a somersetshire man; certainly you can tell a yorkshire man, and this fellow could only have been a man of devon, one of the two main types found in this county. he whistled; and out came pasiance in a geranium-coloured dress, looking like some tall poppy--you know the slight droop of a poppy's head, and the way the wind sways its stem.... she is a human poppy, her fuzzy dark hair is like a poppy's lustreless black heart, she has a poppy's tantalising attraction and repulsion, something fatal, or rather fateful. she came walking up to my new friend, then caught sight of me, and stopped dead. "that," she said to me, "is zachary pearse. this," she said to him, "is our lodger." she said it with a wonderful soft malice. she wanted to scratch me, and she scratched. half an hour later i was in the yard, when up came this fellow pearse. "glad to know you," he said, looking thoughtfully at the pigs. "you're a writer, aren't you?" "a sort of one," i said. "if by any chance," he said suddenly, "you're looking for a job, i could put something in your way. walk down to the beach with me, and i'll tell you; my boat's at anchor, smartest little craft in these parts." it was very hot, and i had no desire whatever to go down to the beach--i went, all the same. we had not gone far when john ford and dan treffry came into the lane. our friend seemed a little disconcerted, but soon recovered himself. we met in the middle of the lane, where there was hardly room to pass. john ford, who looked very haughty, put on his pince-nez and stared at pearse. "good-day!" said pearse; "fine weather! i've been up to ask pasiance to come for a sail. wednesday we thought, weather permitting; this gentleman's coming. perhaps you'll come too, mr. treffry. you've never seen my place. i'll give you lunch, and show you my father. he's worth a couple of hours' sail any day." it was said in such an odd way that one couldn't resent his impudence. john ford was seized with a fit of wheezing, and seemed on the eve of an explosion; he glanced at me, and checked himself. "you're very good," he said icily; "my granddaughter has other things to do. you, gentlemen, will please yourselves"; and, with a very slight bow, he went stumping on to the house. dan looked at me, and i looked at him. "you'll come?" said pearse, rather wistfully. dan stammered: "thank you, mr. pearse; i'm a better man on a horse than in a boat, but--thank you." cornered in this way, he's a shy, soft-hearted being. pearse smiled his thanks. "wednesday, then, at ten o'clock; you shan't regret it." "pertinacious beggar!" i heard dan mutter in his beard; and found myself marching down the lane again by pearse's side. i asked him what he was good enough to mean by saying i was coming, without having asked me. he answered, unabashed: "you see, i'm not friends with the old man; but i knew he'd not be impolite to you, so i took the liberty." he has certainly a knack of turning one's anger to curiosity. we were down in the combe now; the tide was running out, and the sand all little, wet, shining ridges. about a quarter of a mile out lay a cutter, with her tan sail half down, swinging to the swell. the sunlight was making the pink cliffs glow in the most wonderful way; and shifting in bright patches over the sea like moving shoals of goldfish. pearse perched himself on his dinghy, and looked out under his hand. he seemed lost in admiration. "if we could only net some of those spangles," he said, "an' make gold of 'em! no more work then." "it's a big job i've got on," he said presently; "i'll tell you about it on wednesday. i want a journalist." "but i don't write for the papers," i said; "i do other sort of work. my game is archaeology." "it doesn't matter," he said, "the more imagination the better. it'd be a thundering good thing for you." his assurance was amazing, but it was past supper-time, and hunger getting the better of my curiosity, i bade him good-night. when i looked back, he was still there, on the edge of his boat, gazing at the sea. a queer sort of bird altogether, but attractive somehow. nobody mentioned him that evening; but once old ford, after staring a long time at pasiance, muttered a propos of nothing, "undutiful children!" she was softer than usual; listening quietly to our talk, and smiling when spoken to. at bedtime she went up to her grand-father, without waiting for the usual command, "come and kiss me, child." dan did not stay to supper, and he has not been here since. this morning i asked mother hopgood who zachary pearse was. she's a true devonian; if there's anything she hates, it is to be committed to a definite statement. she ambled round her answer, and at last told me that he was "son of old cap'en jan pearse to black mill. 'tes an old family to dartymouth an' plymouth," she went on in a communicative outburst. "they du say francis drake tuke five o' they pearses with 'en to fight the spaniards. at least that's what i've heard mr. zachary zay; but ha-apgood can tell yu." poor hopgood, the amount of information she saddles him with in the course of the day! having given me thus to understand that she had run dry, she at once went on: "cap'en jan pearse made a dale of ventures. he's old now--they du say nigh an 'undred. ha-apgood can tell yu." "but the son, mrs. hopgood?" her eyes twinkled with sudden shrewdness: she hugged herself placidly. "an' what would yu take for dinner to-day? there's duck; or yu might like 'toad in the hole,' with an apple tart; or then, there's--well! we'll see what we can du like." and off she went, without waiting for my answer. to-morrow is wednesday. i shan't be sorry to get another look at this fellow pearse.... iii "friday, th july. .......why do you ask me so many questions, and egg me on to write about these people instead of minding my business? if you really want to hear, i'll tell you of wednesday's doings. it was a splendid morning; and dan turned up, to my surprise--though i might have known that when he says a thing, he does it. john ford came out to shake hands with him, then, remembering why he had come, breathed loudly, said nothing, and went in again. nothing was to be seen of pasiance, and we went down to the beach together. "i don't like this fellow pearse, george," dan said to me on the way; "i was fool enough to say i'd go, and so i must, but what's he after? not the man to do things without a reason, mind you." i remarked that we should soon know. "i'm not so sure--queer beggar; i never look at him without thinking of a pirate." the cutter lay in the cove as if she had never moved. there too was zachary pearse seated on the edge of his dinghy. "a five-knot breeze," he said, "i'll run you down in a couple of hours." he made no inquiry about pasiance, but put us into his cockleshell and pulled for the cutter. a lantern-jawed fellow, named prawle, with a spiky, prominent beard, long, clean-shaven upper lip, and tanned complexion--a regular hard-weather bird--received us. the cutter was beautifully clean; built for a brixham trawler, she still had her number--dh --uneffaced. we dived into a sort of cabin, airy, but dark, fitted with two bunks and a small table, on which stood some bottles of stout; there were lockers, too, and pegs for clothes. prawle, who showed us round, seemed very proud of a steam contrivance for hoisting sails. it was some minutes before we came on deck again; and there, in the dinghy, being pulled towards the cutter, sat pasiance. "if i'd known this," stammered dan, getting red, "i wouldn't have come." she had outwitted us, and there was nothing to be done. it was a very pleasant sail. the breeze was light from the south-east, the sun warm, the air soft. presently pasiance began singing: "columbus is dead and laid in his grave, oh! heigh-ho! and laid in his grave; over his head the apple-trees wave oh! heigh-ho! the apple-trees wave.... "the apples are ripe and ready to fall, oh! heigh-ho! and ready to fall; there came an old woman and gathered them all, oh! heigh-ho! and gathered them all.... "the apples are gathered, and laid on the shelf, oh! heigh-ho! and laid on the shelf; if you want any more, you must sing for yourself, oh! heigh-ho! and sing for yourself." her small, high voice came to us in trills and spurts, as the wind let it, like the singing of a skylark lost in the sky. pearse went up to her and whispered something. i caught a glimpse of her face like a startled wild creature's; shrinking, tossing her hair, laughing, all in the same breath. she wouldn't sing again, but crouched in the bows with her chin on her hands, and the sun falling on one cheek, round, velvety, red as a peach.... we passed dartmouth, and half an hour later put into a little wooded bay. on a low reddish cliff was a house hedged round by pine-trees. a bit of broken jetty ran out from the bottom of the cliff. we hooked on to this, and landed. an ancient, fish-like man came slouching down and took charge of the cutter. pearse led us towards the house, pasiance following mortally shy all of a sudden. the house had a dark, overhanging thatch of the rush reeds that grow in the marshes hereabouts; i remember nothing else remarkable. it was neither old, nor new; neither beautiful, nor exactly ugly; neither clean, nor entirely squalid; it perched there with all its windows over the sea, turning its back contemptuously on the land. seated in a kind of porch, beside an immense telescope, was a very old man in a panama hat, with a rattan cane. his pure-white beard and moustache, and almost black eyebrows, gave a very singular, piercing look to his little, restless, dark-grey eyes; all over his mahogany cheeks and neck was a network of fine wrinkles. he sat quite upright, in the full sun, hardly blinking. "dad!" said zachary, "this is pasiance voisey." the old man turned his eyes on her and muttered, "how do you do, ma'am?" then took no further notice. and pasiance, who seemed to resent this, soon slipped away and went wandering about amongst the pines. an old woman brought some plates and bottles and laid them casually on a table; and we sat round the figure of old captain pearse without a word, as if we were all under a spell. before lunch there was a little scene between zachary pearse and dan, as to which of them should summon pasiance. it ended in both going, and coming back without her. she did not want any lunch, would stay where she was amongst the pines. for lunch we had chops, wood-pigeons, mushrooms, and mulberry preserve, and drank wonderful madeira out of common wine-glasses. i asked the old man where he got it; he gave me a queer look, and answered with a little bow: "stood me in tu shillin' the bottle, an' the country got nothing out of it, sir. in the early thirties; tu shillin' the bottle; there's no such wine nowadays and," he added, looking at zachary, "no such men." zachary smiled and said: "you did nothing so big, dad, as what i'm after, now!" the old man's eyes had a sort of disdain in them. "you're going far, then, in the pied witch, zack?" "i am," said zachary. "and where might yu be goin' in that old trampin' smut factory?" "morocco." "heu!" said the old man, "there's nothing there; i know that coast, as i know the back o' my hand." he stretched out a hand covered with veins and hair. zachary began suddenly to pour out a flood of words: "below mogador--a fellow there--friend of mine--two years ago now. concessions--trade-gunpowder--cruisers--feuds--money& mdash;chiefs--gatling guns--sultan--rifles--rebellion--gold." he detailed a reckless, sordid, bold scheme, which, on the pivot of a trading venture, was intended to spin a whole wheel of political convulsions. "they'll never let you get there," said old pearse. "won't they?" returned zachary. "oh yes, they will, an' when i leave, there'll be another dynasty, and i'll be a rich man." "yu'll never leave," answered the old man. zachary took out a sheet of paper covered with figures. he had worked the whole thing out. so much--equipment, so much--trade, so much--concessions, so much--emergencies. "my last mag!" he ended, "a thousand short; the ship's ready, and if i'm not there within a month my chance is as good as gone." this was the pith of his confidences--an appeal for money, and we all looked as men will when that crops up. "mad!" muttered the old man, looking at the sea. "no," said zachary. that one word was more eloquent than all the rest of his words put together. this fellow is no visionary. his scheme may be daring, and unprincipled, but--he knows very well what he's about. "well!" said old pearse, "you shall have five 'undred of my money, if it's only to learn what yu're made of. wheel me in!" zachary wheeled him into the house, but soon came back. "the old man's cheque for five hundred pounds!" he said, holding it up. "mr. treffry, give me another, and you shall have a third of the profits." i expected dan to give a point-blank refusal. but he only asked: "would that clear you for starting?" "with that," said zachary, "i can get to sea in a fortnight." "good!" dan said slowly. "give me a written promise! to sea in fourteen days and my fair share on the five hundred pounds--no more--no less." again i thought pearse would have jumped at this, but he leaned his chin on his hand, and looked at dan, and dan looked at him. while they were staring at each other like this, pasiance came up with a kitten. "see!" she said, "isn't it a darling?" the kitten crawled and clawed its way up behind her neck. i saw both men's eyes as they looked at pasiance, and suddenly understood what they were at. the kitten rubbed itself against pasiance's cheek, overbalanced, and fell, clawing, down her dress. she caught it up and walked away. some one, i don't know which of us, sighed, and pearse cried "done!" the bargain had been driven. "good-bye, mr. pearse," said dan; "i guess that's all i'm wanted for. i'll find my pony waiting in the village. george, you'll see pasiance home?" we heard the hoofs of his pony galloping down the road; pearse suddenly excused himself, and disappeared. this venture of his may sound romantic and absurd, but it's matter-of-fact enough. he's after l. s. d.! shades of drake, raleigh, hawkins, oxenham! the worm of suspicion gnaws at the rose of romance. what if those fellows, too, were only after l. s. d....? i strolled into the pine-wood. the earth there was covered like a bee's body with black and gold stripes; there was the blue sea below, and white, sleepy clouds, and bumble-bees booming above the heather; it was all softness, a summer's day in devon. suddenly i came on pearse standing at the edge of the cliff with pasiance sitting in a little hollow below, looking up at him. i heard him say: "pasiance--pasiance!" the sound of his voice, and the sight of her soft, wondering face made me furious. what business has she with love, at her age? what business have they with each other? he told me presently that she had started off for home, and drove me to the ferry, behind an old grey pony. on the way he came back to his offer of the other day. "come with me," he said. "it doesn't do to neglect the press; you can see the possibilities. it's one of the few countries left. if i once get this business started you don't know where it's going to stop. you'd have free passage everywhere, and whatever you like in reason." i answered as rudely as i could--but by no means as rudely as i wanted--that his scheme was mad. as a matter of fact, it's much too sane for me; for, whatever the body of a scheme, its soul is the fibre of the schemer. "think of it," he urged, as if he could see into me. "you can make what you like of it. press paragraphs, of course. but that's mechanical; why, even i could do it, if i had time. as for the rest, you'll be as free--as free as a man." there, in five words of one syllable, is the kernel of this fellow pearse--"as free as a man!" no rule, no law, not even the mysterious shackles that bind men to their own self-respects! "as free as a man!" no ideals; no principles; no fixed star for his worship; no coil he can't slide out of! but the fellow has the tenacity of one of the old devon mastiffs, too. he wouldn't take "no" for an answer. "think of it," he said; "any day will do--i've got a fortnight.... look! there she is!" i thought that he meant pasiance; but it was an old steamer, sluggish and black in the blazing sun of mid-stream, with a yellow-and-white funnel, and no sign of life on her decks. "that's her--the pied witch! do her twelve knots; you wouldn't think it! well! good-evening! you'd better come. a word to me at any time. i'm going aboard now." as i was being ferried across i saw him lolling in the stern-sheets of a little boat, the sun crowning his straw hat with glory. i came on pasiance, about a mile up the road, sitting in the hedge. we walked on together between the banks--devonshire banks, as high as houses, thick with ivy and ferns, bramble and hazel boughs, and honeysuckle. "do you believe in a god?" she said suddenly. "grandfather's god is simply awful. when i'm playing the fiddle, i can feel god; but grandfather's is such a stuffy god--you know what i mean: the sea, the wind, the trees, colours too--they make one feel. but i don't believe that life was meant to 'be good' in. isn't there anything better than being good? when i'm 'good,' i simply feel wicked." she reached up, caught a flower from the hedge, and slowly tore its petals. "what would you do," she muttered, "if you wanted a thing, but were afraid of it? but i suppose you're never afraid!" she added, mocking me. i admitted that i was sometimes afraid, and often afraid of being afraid. "that's nice! i'm not afraid of illness, nor of grandfather, nor of his god; but--i want to be free. if you want a thing badly, you're afraid about it." i thought of zachary pearse's words, "free as a man." "why are you looking at me like that?" she said. i stammered: "what do you mean by freedom?" "do you know what i shall do to-night?" she answered. "get out of my window by the apple-tree, and go to the woods, and play!" we were going down a steep lane, along the side of a wood, where there's always a smell of sappy leaves, and the breath of the cows that come close to the hedge to get the shade. there was a cottage in the bottom, and a small boy sat outside playing with a heap of dust. "hallo, johnny!" said pasiance. "hold your leg out and show this man your bad place!" the small boy undid a bandage round his bare and dirty little leg, and proudly revealed a sore. "isn't it nasty?" cried pasiance ruefully, tying up the bandage again; "poor little feller! johnny, see what i've brought you!" she produced from her pocket a stick of chocolate, the semblance of a soldier made of sealing-wax and worsted, and a crooked sixpence. it was a new glimpse of her. all the way home she was telling me the story of little johnny's family; when she came to his mother's death, she burst out: "a beastly shame, wasn't it, and they're so poor; it might just as well have been somebody else. i like poor people, but i hate rich ones--stuck-up beasts." mrs. hopgood was looking over the gate, with her cap on one side, and one of pasiance's cats rubbing itself against her skirts. at the sight of us she hugged herself. "where's grandfather?" asked pasiance. the old lady shook her head. "is it a row?" mrs. hopgood wriggled, and wriggled, and out came: "did you get yure tay, my pretty? no? well, that's a pity; yu'll be falin' low-like." pasiance tossed her head, snatched up the cat, and ran indoors. i remained staring at mrs. hopgood. "dear-dear," she clucked, "poor lamb. so to spake it's--" and she blurted out suddenly, "chuckin' full of wra-ath, he is. well, there!" my courage failed that evening. i spent it at the coastguard station, where they gave me bread and cheese and some awful cider. i passed the kitchen as i came back. a fire was still burning there, and two figures, misty in the darkness, flitted about with stealthy laughter like spirits afraid of being detected in a carnal-meal. they were pasiance and mrs. hopgood; and so charming was the smell of eggs and bacon, and they had such an air of tender enjoyment of this dark revel, that i stifled many pangs, as i crept hungry up to bed. in the middle of the night i woke and heard what i thought was screaming; then it sounded like wind in trees, then like the distant shaking of a tambourine, with the high singing of a human voice. suddenly it stopped--two long notes came wailing out like sobs--then utter stillness; and though i listened for an hour or more there was no other sound .... iv " th august. ......for three days after i wrote last, nothing at all happened here. i spent the mornings on the cliff reading, and watching the sun-sparks raining on the sea. it's grand up there with the gorse all round, the gulls basking on the rocks, the partridges calling in the corn, and now and then a young hawk overhead. the afternoons i spent out in the orchard. the usual routine goes on at the farm all the time--cow-milking, bread-baking, john ford riding in and out, pasiance in her garden stripping lavender, talking to the farm hands; and the smell of clover, and cows and hay; the sound of hens and pigs and pigeons, the soft drawl of voices, the dull thud of the farm carts; and day by day the apples getting redder. then, last monday, pasiance was away from sunrise till sunset--nobody saw her go--nobody knew where she had gone. it was a wonderful, strange day, a sky of silver-grey and blue, with a drift of wind-clouds, all the trees sighing a little, the sea heaving in a long, low swell, the animals restless, the birds silent, except the gulls with their old man's laughter and kitten's mewing. a something wild was in the air; it seemed to sweep across the downs and combe, into the very house, like a passionate tune that comes drifting to your ears when you're sleepy. but who would have thought the absence of that girl for a few hours could have wrought such havoc! we were like uneasy spirits; mrs. hopgood's apple cheeks seemed positively to wither before one's eyes. i came across a dairymaid and farm hand discussing it stolidly with very downcast faces. even hopgood, a hard-bitten fellow with immense shoulders, forgot his imperturbability so far as to harness his horse, and depart on what he assured me was "just a wild-guse chaace." it was long before john ford gave signs of noticing that anything was wrong, but late in the afternoon i found him sitting with his hands on his knees, staring straight before him. he rose heavily when he saw me, and stalked out. in the evening, as i was starting for the coastguard station to ask for help to search the cliff, pasiance appeared, walking as if she could hardly drag one leg after the other. her cheeks were crimson; she was biting her lips to keep tears of sheer fatigue out of her eyes. she passed me in the doorway without a word. the anxiety he had gone through seemed to forbid the old man from speaking. he just came forward, took her face in his hands, gave it a great kiss, and walked away. pasiance dropped on the floor in the dark passage, and buried her face on her arms. "leave me alone!" was all she would say. after a bit she dragged herself upstairs. presently mrs. hopgood came to me. "not a word out of her--an' not a bite will she ate, an' i had a pie all ready--scrumptious. the good lord knows the truth--she asked for brandy; have you any brandy, sir? ha-apgood'e don't drink it, an' mister ford 'e don't allaow for anything but caowslip wine." i had whisky. the good soul seized the flask, and went off hugging it. she returned it to me half empty. "lapped it like a kitten laps milk. i misdaoubt it's straong, poor lamb, it lusened 'er tongue praaperly. 'i've a-done it,' she says to me, 'mums-i've a-done it,' an' she laughed like a mad thing; and then, sir, she cried, an' kissed me, an' pusshed me thru the door. gude lard! what is 't she's a-done...?" it rained all the next day and the day after. about five o'clock yesterday the rain ceased; i started off to kingswear on hopgood's nag to see dan treffry. every tree, bramble, and fern in the lanes was dripping water; and every bird singing from the bottom of his heart. i thought of pasiance all the time. her absence that day was still a mystery; one never ceased asking oneself what she had done. there are people who never grow up--they have no right to do things. actions have consequences--and children have no business with consequences. dan was out. i had supper at the hotel, and rode slowly home. in the twilight stretches of the road, where i could touch either bank of the lane with my whip, i thought of nothing but pasiance and her grandfather; there was something in the half light suited to wonder and uncertainty. it had fallen dark before i rode into the straw-yard. two young bullocks snuffled at me, a sleepy hen got up and ran off with a tremendous shrieking. i stabled the horse, and walked round to the back. it was pitch black under the apple-trees, and the windows were all darkened. i stood there a little, everything smelled so delicious after the rain; suddenly i had the uncomfortable feeling that i was being watched. have you ever felt like that on a dark night? i called out at last: "is any one there?" not a sound! i walked to the gate-nothing! the trees still dripped with tiny, soft, hissing sounds, but that was all. i slipped round to the front, went in, barricaded the door, and groped up to bed. but i couldn't sleep. i lay awake a long while; dozed at last, and woke with a jump. a stealthy murmur of smothered voices was going on quite close somewhere. it stopped. a minute passed; suddenly came the soft thud as of something falling. i sprang out of bed and rushed to the window. nothing--but in the distance something that sounded like footsteps. an owl hooted; then clear as crystal, but quite low, i heard pasiance singing in her room: "the apples are ripe and ready to fall. oh! heigh-ho! and ready to fall." i ran to her door and knocked. "what is it?" she cried. "is anything the matter?" "matter?" "is anything the matter?" "ha-ha-ha-ha! good-night!" then quite low, i heard her catch her breath, hard, sharply. no other answer, no other sound. i went to bed and lay awake for hours.... this evening dan came; during supper he handed pasiance a roll of music; he had got it in torquay. the shopman, he said, had told him that it was a "corker." it was bach's "chaconne." you should have seen her eyes shine, her fingers actually tremble while she turned over the pages. seems odd to think of her worshipping at the shrine of bach as odd as to think of a wild colt running of its free will into the shafts; but that's just it with her you can never tell. "heavenly!" she kept saying. john ford put down his knife and fork. "heathenish stuff!" he muttered, and suddenly thundered out, "pasiance!" she looked up with a start, threw the music from her, and resumed her place. during evening prayers, which follow every night immediately on food, her face was a study of mutiny. she went to bed early. it was rather late when we broke up--for once old ford had been talking of his squatter's life. as we came out, dan held up his hand. a dog was barking. "it's lass," he said. "she'll wake pasiance." the spaniel yelped furiously. dan ran out to stop her. he was soon back. "somebody's been in the orchard, and gone off down to the cove." he ran on down the path. i, too, ran, horribly uneasy. in front, through the darkness, came the spaniel's bark; the lights of the coastguard station faintly showed. i was first on the beach; the dog came to me at once, her tail almost in her mouth from apology. there was the sound of oars working in rowlocks; nothing visible but the feathery edges of the waves. dan said behind, "no use! he's gone." his voice sounded hoarse, like that of a man choking with passion. "george," he stammered, "it's that blackguard. i wish i'd put a bullet in him." suddenly a light burned up in the darkness on the sea, seemed to swing gently, and vanished. without another word we went back up the hill. john ford stood at the gate motionless, indifferent--nothing had dawned on him as yet. i whispered to dan, "let it alone!" "no," he said, "i'm going to show you." he struck a match, and slowly hunted the footsteps in the wet grass of the orchard. "look--here!" he stopped under pasiance's window and swayed the match over the ground. clear as daylight were the marks of some one who had jumped or fallen. dan held the match over his head. "and look there!" he said. the bough of an apple-tree below the window was broken. he blew the match out. i could see the whites of his eyes, like an angry animal's. "drop it, dan!" i said. he turned on his heel suddenly, and stammered out, "you're right." but he had turned into john ford's arms. the old man stood there like some great force, darker than the darkness, staring up at the window, as though stupefied. we had not a word to say. he seemed unconscious of our presence. he turned round, and left us standing there. "follow him!" said dan. "follow him--by god! it's not safe." we followed. bending, and treading heavily, he went upstairs. he struck a blow on pasiance's door. "let me in!" he said. i drew dan into my bedroom. the key was slowly turned, her door was flung open, and there she stood in her dressing-gown, a candle in her hand, her face crimson, and oh! so young, with its short, crisp hair and round cheeks. the old man--like a giant in front of her--raised his hands, and laid them on her shoulders. "what's this? you--you've had a man in your room?" her eyes did not drop. "yes," she said. dan gave a groan. "who?" "zachary pearse," she answered in a voice like a bell. he gave her one awful shake, dropped his hands, then raised them as though to strike her. she looked him in the eyes; his hands dropped, and he too groaned. as far as i could see, her face never moved. "i'm married to him," she said, "d' you hear? married to him. go out of my room!" she dropped the candle on the floor at his feet, and slammed the door in his face. the old man stood for a minute as though stunned, then groped his way downstairs. "dan," i said, "is it true?" "ah!" he answered, "it's true; didn't you hear her?" i was glad i couldn't see his face. "that ends it," he said at last; "there's the old man to think of." "what will he do?" "go to the fellow this very night." he seemed to have no doubt. trust one man of action to know another. i muttered something about being an outsider--wondered if there was anything i could do to help. "well," he said slowly, "i don't know that i'm anything but an outsider now; but i'll go along with him, if he'll have me." he went downstairs. a few minutes later they rode out from the straw-yard. i watched them past the line of hayricks, into the blacker shadows of the pines, then the tramp of hoofs began to fail in the darkness, and at last died away. i've been sitting here in my bedroom writing to you ever since, till my candle's almost gone. i keep thinking what the end of it is to be; and reproaching myself for doing nothing. and yet, what could i have done? i'm sorry for her--sorrier than i can say. the night is so quiet--i haven't heard a sound; is she asleep, awake, crying, triumphant? it's four o'clock; i've been asleep. they're back. dan is lying on my bed. i'll try and tell you his story as near as i can, in his own words. "we rode," he said, "round the upper way, keeping out of the lanes, and got to kingswear by half-past eleven. the horse-ferry had stopped running, and we had a job to find any one to put us over. we hired the fellow to wait for us, and took a carriage at the 'castle.' before we got to black mill it was nearly one, pitch-dark. with the breeze from the southeast, i made out he should have been in an hour or more. the old man had never spoken to me once: and before we got there i had begun to hope we shouldn't find the fellow after all. we made the driver pull up in the road, and walked round and round, trying to find the door. then some one cried, 'who are you?' "'john ford.' "'what do you want?' it was old pearse. "'to see zachary pearse.' "the long window out of the porch where we sat the other day was open, and in we went. there was a door at the end of the room, and a light coming through. john ford went towards it; i stayed out in the dark. "'who's that with you?' "'mr. treffry.' "'let him come in!' i went in. the old fellow was in bed, quite still on his pillows, a candle by his side; to look at him you'd think nothing of him but his eyes were alive. it was queer being there with those two old men!" dan paused, seemed to listen, then went on doggedly. "'sit down, gentleman,' said old pearse. 'what may you want to see my son for?' john ford begged his pardon, he had something to say, he said, that wouldn't wait. "they were very polite to one another," muttered dan .... "'will you leave your message with me?' said pearse. "'what i have to say to your son is private.' "'i'm his father.' "'i'm my girl's grandfather; and her only stand-by.' "'ah!' muttered old pearse, 'rick voisey's daughter?' "'i mean to see your son.' "old pearse smiled. queer smile he's got, sort of sneering sweet. "'you can never tell where zack may be,' he said. 'you think i want to shield him. you're wrong; zack can take care of himself.' "'your son's here!' said john ford. 'i know.' old pearse gave us a very queer look. "'you come into my house like thieves in the night,' he said, 'and give me the lie, do you?' "'your son came to my child's room like a thief in the night; it's for that i want to see him,' and then," said dan, "there was a long silence. at last pearse said: "'i don't understand; has he played the blackguard?' "john ford answered, 'he's married her, or, before god, i'd kill him.' "old pearse seemed to think this over, never moving on his pillows. 'you don't know zack,' he said; 'i'm sorry for you, and i'm sorry for rick voisey's daughter; but you don't know zack.' "'sorry!' groaned out john ford; 'he's stolen my child, and i'll punish him.' "'punish!' cried old pearse, 'we don't take punishment, not in my family.' "'captain jan pearse, as sure as i stand here, you and your breed will get your punishment of god.' old pearse smiled. "'mr. john ford, that's as may be; but sure as i lie here we won't take it of you. you can't punish unless you make to feel, and that you can't du.'" and that is truth! dan went on again: "'you won't tell me where your son is!' but old pearse never blinked. "'i won't,' he said, 'and now you may get out. i lie here an old man alone, with no use to my legs, night on night, an' the house open; any rapscallion could get in; d' ye think i'm afraid of you?' "we were beat; and walked out without a word. but that old man; i've thought of him a lot--ninety-two, and lying there. whatever he's been, and they tell you rum things of him, whatever his son may be, he's a man. it's not what he said, nor that there was anything to be afraid of just then, but somehow it's the idea of the old chap lying there. i don't ever wish to see a better plucked one...." we sat silent after that; out of doors the light began to stir among the leaves. there were all kinds of rustling sounds, as if the world were turning over in bed. suddenly dan said: "he's cheated me. i paid him to clear out and leave her alone. d' you think she's asleep?" he's made no appeal for sympathy, he'd take pity for an insult; but he feels it badly. "i'm tired as a cat," he said at last, and went to sleep on my bed. it's broad daylight now; i too am tired as a cat.... v "saturday, th august. .......i take up my tale where i left off yesterday.... dan and i started as soon as we could get mrs. hopgood to give us coffee. the old lady was more tentative, more undecided, more pouncing, than i had ever seen her. she was manifestly uneasy: ha-apgood--who "don't slape" don't he, if snores are any criterion--had called out in the night, "hark to th' 'arses' 'oofs!" had we heard them? and where might we be going then? 'twas very earrly to start, an' no breakfast. haapgood had said it was goin' to shaowerr. miss pasiance was not to 'er violin yet, an' mister ford 'e kept 'is room. was it?--would there be--? "well, an' therr's an 'arvest bug; 'tis some earrly for they!" wonderful how she pounces on all such creatures, when i can't even see them. she pressed it absently between finger and thumb, and began manoeuvring round another way. long before she had reached her point, we had gulped down our coffee, and departed. but as we rode out she came at a run, holding her skirts high with either hand, raised her old eyes bright and anxious in their setting of fine wrinkles, and said: "'tidden sorrow for her?" a shrug of the shoulders was all the answer she got. we rode by the lanes; through sloping farmyards, all mud and pigs, and dirty straw, and farmers with clean-shaven upper lips and whiskers under the chin; past fields of corn, where larks were singing. up or down, we didn't draw rein till we came to dan's hotel. there was the river gleaming before us under a rainbow mist that hallowed every shape. there seemed affinity between the earth and the sky. i've never seen that particular soft unity out of devon. and every ship, however black or modern, on those pale waters, had the look of a dream ship. the tall green woods, the red earth, the white houses, were all melted into one opal haze. it was raining, but the sun was shining behind. gulls swooped by us--ghosts of the old greedy wanderers of the sea. we had told our two boatmen to pull us out to the pied witch! they started with great resolution, then rested on their oars. "the pied witch, zurr?" asked one politely; "an' which may her be?" that's the west countryman all over! never say you "nay," never lose an opportunity, never own he doesn't know, or can't do anything --independence, amiability, and an eye to the main chance. we mentioned pearse's name. "capt'n zach'ry pearse!" they exchanged a look half-amused, half-admiring. "the zunflaower, yu mane. that's her. zunflaower, ahoy!" as we mounted the steamer's black side i heard one say: "pied witch! a pra-aper name that--a dandy name for her!" they laughed as they made fast. the mate of the sunflower, or pied witch, or whatever she was called, met us--a tall young fellow in his shirtsleeves, tanned to the roots of his hair, with sinewy, tattooed arms, and grey eyes, charred round the rims from staring at weather. "the skipper is on board," he said. "we're rather busy, as you see. get on with that, you sea-cooks," he bawled at two fellows who were doing nothing. all over the ship, men were hauling, splicing, and stowing cargo. "to-day's friday: we're off on wednesday with any luck. will you come this way?" he led us down the companion to a dark hole which he called the saloon. "names? what! are you mr. treffry? then we're partners!" a schoolboy's glee came on his face. "look here!" he said; "i can show you something," and he unlocked the door of a cabin. there appeared to be nothing in it but a huge piece of tarpaulin, which depended, bulging, from the topmost bunk. he pulled it up. the lower bunk had been removed, and in its place was the ugly body of a dismounted gatling gun. "got six of them," he whispered, with unholy mystery, through which his native frankness gaped out. "worth their weight in gold out there just now, the skipper says. got a heap of rifles, too, and lots of ammunition. he's given me a share. this is better than the p. and o., and playing deck cricket with the passengers. i'd made up my mind already to chuck that, and go in for plantin' sugar, when i ran across the skipper. wonderful chap, the skipper! i'll go and tell him. he's been out all night; only came aboard at four bells; having a nap now, but he won't mind that for you." off he went. i wondered what there was in zachary pearse to attract a youngster of this sort; one of the customary twelve children of some country parson, no doubt-burning to shoot a few niggers, and for ever frank and youthful. he came back with his hands full of bottles. "what'll you drink? the skipper'll be here in a jiffy. excuse my goin' on deck. we're so busy." and in five minutes zachary pearse did come. he made no attempt to shake hands, for which i respected him. his face looked worn, and more defiant than usual. "well, gentlemen?" he said. "we've come to ask what you're going to do?" said dan. "i don't know," answered pearse, "that that's any of your business." dan's little eyes were like the eyes of an angry pig. "you've got five hundred pounds of mine," he said; "why do you think i gave it you?" zachary bit his fingers. "that's no concern of mine," he said. "i sail on wednesday. your money's safe." "do you know what i think of you?" said dan. "no, and you'd better not tell me!" then, with one of his peculiar changes, he smiled: "as you like, though." dan's face grew very dark. "give me a plain answer," he said: "what are you going to do about her?" zachary looked up at him from under his brows. "nothing." "are you cur enough to deny that you've married her?" zachary looked at him coolly. "not at all," he said. "what in god's name did you do it for?" "you've no monopoly in the post of husband, mr. treffry." "to put a child in that position! haven't you the heart of a man? what d' ye come sneaking in at night for? by gad! don't you know you've done a beastly thing?" zachary's face darkened, he clenched his fists. then he seemed to shut his anger into himself. "you wanted me to leave her to you," he sneered. "i gave her my promise that i'd take her out there, and we'd have gone off on wednesday quietly enough, if you hadn't come and nosed the whole thing out with your infernal dog. the fat's in the fire! there's no reason why i should take her now. i'll come back to her a rich man, or not at all." "and in the meantime?" i slipped in. he turned to me, in an ingratiating way. "i would have taken her to save the fuss--i really would--it's not my fault the thing's come out. i'm on a risky job. to have her with me might ruin the whole thing; it would affect my nerve. it isn't safe for her." "and what's her position to be," i said, "while you're away? do you think she'd have married you if she'd known you were going to leave her like this? you ought to give up this business. "you stole her. her life's in your hands; she's only a child!" a quiver passed over his face; it showed that he was suffering. "give it up!" i urged. "my last farthing's in it," he sighed; "the chance of a lifetime." he looked at me doubtfully, appealingly, as if for the first time in his life he had been given a glimpse of that dilemma of consequences which his nature never recognises. i thought he was going to give in. suddenly, to my horror, dan growled, "play the man!" pearse turned his head. "i don't want your advice anyway," he said; "i'll not be dictated to." "to your last day," said dan, "you shall answer to me for the way you treat her." zachary smiled. "do you see that fly?" he said. "wel--i care for you as little as this," and he flicked the fly off his white trousers. "good-morning...!" the noble mariners who manned our boat pulled lustily for the shore, but we had hardly shoved off' when a storm of rain burst over the ship, and she seemed to vanish, leaving a picture on my eyes of the mate waving his cap above the rail, with his tanned young face bent down at us, smiling, keen, and friendly. ...... we reached the shore drenched, angry with ourselves, and with each other; i started sulkily for home. as i rode past an orchard, an apple, loosened by the rainstorm, came down with a thud. "the apples were ripe and ready to fall, oh! heigh-ho! and ready to fall." i made up my mind to pack, and go away. but there's a strangeness, a sort of haunting fascination in it all. to you, who don't know the people, it may only seem a piece of rather sordid folly. but it isn't the good, the obvious, the useful that puts a spell on us in life. it's the bizarre, the dimly seen, the mysterious for good or evil. the sun was out again when i rode up to the farm; its yellow thatch shone through the trees as if sheltering a store of gladness and good news. john ford himself opened the door to me. he began with an apology, which made me feel more than ever an intruder; then he said: "i have not spoken to my granddaughter--i waited to see dan treffry." he was stern and sad-eyed, like a man with a great weight of grief on his shoulders. he looked as if he had not slept; his dress was out of order, he had not taken his clothes off, i think. he isn't a man whom you can pity. i felt i had taken a liberty in knowing of the matter at all. when i told him where we had been, he said: "it was good of you to take this trouble. that you should have had to! but since such things have come to pass--" he made a gesture full of horror. he gave one the impression of a man whose pride was struggling against a mortal hurt. presently he asked: "you saw him, you say? he admitted this marriage? did he give an explanation?" i tried to make pearse's point of view clear. before this old man, with his inflexible will and sense of duty, i felt as if i held a brief for zachary, and must try to do him justice. "let me understand," he said at last. "he stole her, you say, to make sure; and deserts her within a fortnight." "he says he meant to take her--" "do you believe that?" before i could answer, i saw pasiance standing at the window. how long she had been there i don't know. "is it true that he is going to leave me behind?" she cried out. i could only nod. "did you hear him your own self?" "yes." she stamped her foot. "but he promised! he promised!" john ford went towards her. "don't touch me, grandfather! i hate every one! let him do what he likes, i don't care." john ford's face turned quite grey. "pasiance," he said, "did you want to leave me so much?" she looked straight at us, and said sharply: "what's the good of telling stories. i can't help its hurting you." "what did you think you would find away from here?" she laughed. "find? i don't know--nothing; i wouldn't be stifled anyway. now i suppose you'll shut me up because i'm a weak girl, not strong like men!" "silence!" said john ford; "i will make him take you." "you shan't!" she cried; "i won't let you. he's free to do as he likes. he's free--i tell you all, everybody--free!" she ran through the window, and vanished. john ford made a movement as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. i left him there. i went to the kitchen, where hopgood was sitting at the table, eating bread and cheese. he got up on seeing me, and very kindly brought me some cold bacon and a pint of ale. "i thart i shude be seeing yu, zurr," he said between his bites; "therr's no thart to 'atin' 'bout the 'ouse to-day. the old wumman's puzzivantin' over miss pasiance. young girls are skeery critters"--he brushed his sleeve over his broad, hard jaws, and filled a pipe "specially when it's in the blood of 'em. squire rick voisey werr a dandy; an' mistress voisey--well, she werr a nice lady tu, but"--rolling the stem of his pipe from corner to corner of his mouth--"she werr a pra-aper vixen." hopgood's a good fellow, and i believe as soft as he looks hard, but he's not quite the sort with whom one chooses to talk over a matter like this. i went upstairs, and began to pack, but after a bit dropped it for a book, and somehow or other fell asleep. i woke, and looked at my watch; it was five o'clock. i had been asleep four hours. a single sunbeam was slanting across from one of my windows to the other, and there was the cool sound of milk dropping into pails; then, all at once, a stir as of alarm, and heavy footsteps. i opened my door. hopgood and a coast-guardsman were carrying pasiance slowly up the stairs. she lay in their arms without moving, her face whiter than her dress, a scratch across the forehead, and two or three drops there of dried blood. her hands were clasped, and she slowly crooked and stiffened out her fingers. when they turned with her at the stair top, she opened her lips, and gasped, "all right, don't put me down. i can bear it." they passed, and, with a half-smile in her eyes, she said something to me that i couldn't catch; the door was shut, and the excited whispering began again below. i waited for the men to come out, and caught hold of hopgood. he wiped the sweat off his forehead. "poor young thing!" he said. "she fell--down the cliffs--'tis her back--coastguard saw her 'twerr they fetched her in. the lord 'elp her mebbe she's not broken up much! an' mister ford don't know! i'm gwine for the doctor." there was an hour or more to wait before he came; a young fellow; almost a boy. he looked very grave, when he came out of her room. "the old woman there fond of her? nurse her well...? fond as a dog!--good! don't know--can't tell for certain! afraid it's the spine, must have another opinion! what a plucky girl! tell mr. ford to have the best man he can get in torquay--there's c---. i'll be round the first thing in the morning. keep her dead quiet. i've left a sleeping draught; she'll have fever tonight." john ford came in at last. poor old man! what it must have cost him not to go to her for fear of the excitement! how many times in the next few hours didn't i hear him come to the bottom of the stairs; his heavy wheezing, and sighing; and the forlorn tread of his feet going back! about eleven, just as i was going to bed, mrs. hopgood came to my door. "will yu come, sir," she said; "she's asking for yu. naowt i can zay but what she will see yu; zeems crazy, don't it?" a tear trickled down the old lady's cheek. "du 'ee come; 'twill du 'err 'arm mebbe, but i dunno--she'll fret else." i slipped into the room. lying back on her pillows, she was breathing quickly with half-closed eyes. there was nothing to show that she had wanted me, or even knew that i was there. the wick of the candle, set by the bedside, had been snuffed too short, and gave but a faint light; both window and door stood open, still there was no draught, and the feeble little flame burned quite still, casting a faint yellow stain on the ceiling like the refection from a buttercup held beneath a chin. these ceilings are far too low! across the wide, squat window the apple branches fell in black stripes which never stirred. it was too dark to see things clearly. at the foot of the bed was a chest, and there mrs. hopgood had sat down, moving her lips as if in speech. mingled with the half-musty smell of age; there were other scents, of mignonette, apples, and some sweet-smelling soap. the floor had no carpet, and there was not one single dark object except the violin, hanging from a nail over the bed. a little, round clock ticked solemnly. "why won't you give me that stuff, mums?" pasiance said in a faint, sharp voice. "i want to sleep." "have you much pain?" i asked. "of course i have; it's everywhere." she turned her face towards me. "you thought i did it on purpose, but you're wrong. if i had, i'd have done it better than this. i wouldn't have this brutal pain." she put her fingers over her eyes. "it's horrible to complain! only it's so bad! but i won't again--promise." she took the sleeping draught gratefully, making a face, like a child after a powder. "how long do you think it'll be before i can play again? oh! i forgot--there are other things to think about." she held out her hand to me. "look at my ring. married--isn't it funny? ha, ha! nobody will ever understand--that's funny too! poor gran! you see, there wasn't any reason--only me. that's the only reason i'm telling you now; mums is there--but she doesn't count; why don't you count, mums?" the fever was fighting against the draught; she had tossed the clothes back from her throat, and now and then raised one thin arm a little, as if it eased her; her eyes had grown large, and innocent like a child's; the candle, too, had flared, and was burning clearly. "nobody is to tell him--nobody at all; promise...! if i hadn't slipped, it would have been different. what would have happened then? you can't tell; and i can't--that's funny! do you think i loved him? nobody marries without love, do they? not quite without love, i mean. but you see i wanted to be free, he said he'd take me; and now he's left me after all! i won't be left, i can't! when i came to the cliff--that bit where the ivy grows right down--there was just the sea there, underneath; so i thought i would throw myself over and it would be all quiet; and i climbed on a ledge, it looked easier from there, but it was so high, i wanted to get back; and then my foot slipped; and now it's all pain. you can't think much, when you're in pain." from her eyes i saw that she was dropping off. "nobody can take you away from-yourself. he's not to be told--not even--i don't--want you--to go away, because--" but her eyes closed, and she dropped off to sleep. they don't seem to know this morning whether she is better or worse.... vi "tuesday, th august. it seems more like three weeks than three days since i wrote. the time passes slowly in a sickhouse...! the doctors were here this morning, they give her forty hours. not a word of complaint has passed her lips since she knew. to see her you would hardly think her ill; her cheeks have not had time to waste or lose their colour. there is not much pain, but a slow, creeping numbness.... it was john ford's wish that she should be told. she just turned her head to the wall and sighed; then to poor old mrs. hopgood, who was crying her heart out: "don't cry, mums, i don't care." when they had gone, she asked for her violin. she made them hold it for her, and drew the bow across the strings; but the notes that came out were so trembling and uncertain that she dropped the bow and broke into a passion of sobbing. since then, no complaint or moan of any kind.... but to go back. on sunday, the day after i wrote, as i was coming from a walk, i met a little boy making mournful sounds on a tin whistle. "coom ahn!" he said, "the miss wahnts t' zee yu." i went to her room. in the morning she had seemed better, but now looked utterly exhausted. she had a letter in her hand. "it's this," she said. "i don't seem to understand it. he wants me to do something--but i can't think, and my eyes feel funny. read it to me, please." the letter was from zachary. i read it to her in a low voice, for mrs. hopgood was in the room, her eyes always fixed on pasiance above her knitting. when i'd finished, she made me read it again, and yet again. at first she seemed pleased, almost excited, then came a weary, scornful look, and before i'd finished the third time she was asleep. it was a remarkable letter, that seemed to bring the man right before one's eyes. i slipped it under her fingers on the bed-clothes, and went out. fancy took me to the cliff where she had fallen. i found the point of rock where the cascade of ivy flows down the cliff; the ledge on which she had climbed was a little to my right--a mad place. it showed plainly what wild emotions must have been driving her! behind was a half-cut cornfield with a fringe of poppies, and swarms of harvest insects creeping and flying; in the uncut corn a landrail kept up a continual charring. the sky was blue to the very horizon, and the sea wonderful, under that black wild cliff stained here and there with red. over the dips and hollows of the fields great white clouds hung low down above the land. there are no brassy, east-coast skies here; but always sleepy, soft-shaped clouds, full of subtle stir and change. passages of zachary's pearse's letter kept rising to my lips. after all he's the man that his native place, and life, and blood have made him. it is useless to expect idealists where the air is soft and things good to look on (the idealist grows where he must create beauty or comfort for himself); useless to expect a man of law and order, in one whose fathers have stared at the sea day and night for a thousand years--the sea, full of its promises of unknown things, never quite the same, a slave to its own impulses. man is an imitative animal.... "life's hard enough," he wrote, "without tying yourself down. don't think too hardly of me! shall i make you happier by taking you into danger? if i succeed you'll be a rich woman; but i shall fail if you're with me. to look at you makes me soft. at sea a man dreams of all the good things on land, he'll dream of the heather, and honey--you're like that; and he'll dream of the apple-trees, and the grass of the orchards--you're like that; sometimes he only lies on his back and wishes--and you're like that, most of all like that...." when i was reading those words i remember a strange, soft, half-scornful look came over pasiance's face; and once she said, "but that's all nonsense, isn't it...?" then followed a long passage about what he would gain if he succeeded, about all that he was risking, the impossibility of failure, if he kept his wits about him. "it's only a matter of two months or so," he went on; "stay where you are, dear, or go to my dad. he'll be glad to have you. there's my mother's room. there's no one to say 'no' to your fiddle there; you can play it by the sea; and on dark nights you'll have the stars dancing to you over the water as thick as bees. i've looked at them often, thinking of you...." pasiance had whispered to me, "don't read that bit," and afterwards i left it out.... then the sensuous side of him shows up: "when i've brought this off, there's the whole world before us. there are places i can take you to. there's one i know, not too warm and not too cold, where you can sit all day in the shade and watch the creepers, and the cocoa-palms, still as still; nothing to do or care about; all the fruits you can think of; no noise but the parrots and the streams, and a splash when a nigger dives into a water-hole. pasiance, we'll go there! with an eighty-ton craft there's no sea we couldn't know. the world's a fine place for those who go out to take it; there's lots of unknown stuff' in it yet. i'll fill your lap, my pretty, so full of treasures that you shan't know yourself. a man wasn't meant to sit at home...." throughout this letter--for all its real passion--one could feel how the man was holding to his purpose--the rather sordid purpose of this venture. he's unconscious of it; for he is in love with her; but he must be furthering his own ends. he is vital--horribly vital! i wonder less now that she should have yielded. what visions hasn't he dangled before her. there was physical attraction, too--i haven't forgotten the look i saw on her face at black mill. but when all's said and done, she married him, because she's pasiance voisey, who does things and wants "to get back." and she lies there dying; not he nor any other man will ever take her away. it's pitiful to think of him tingling with passion, writing that letter to this doomed girl in that dark hole of a saloon. "i've wanted money," he wrote, "ever since i was a little chap sitting in the fields among the cows.... i want it for you now, and i mean to have it. i've studied the thing two years; i know what i know.... "the moment this is in the post i leave for london. there are a hundred things to look after still; i can't trust myself within reach of you again till the anchor's weighed. when i re-christened her the pied witch, i thought of you--you witch to me...." there followed a solemn entreaty to her to be on the path leading to the cove at seven o'clock on wednesday evening (that is, to-morrow) when he would come ashore and bid her good-bye. it was signed, "your loving husband, zachary pearse...." i lay at the edge of that cornfield a long time; it was very peaceful. the church bells had begun to ring. the long shadows came stealing out from the sheaves; woodpigeons rose one by one, and flapped off to roost; the western sky was streaked with red, and all the downs and combe bathed in the last sunlight. perfect harvest weather; but oppressively still, the stillness of suspense.... life at the farm goes on as usual. we have morning and evening prayers. john ford reads them fiercely, as though he were on the eve of a revolt against his god. morning and evening he visits her, comes out wheezing heavily, and goes to his own room; i believe, to pray. since this morning i haven't dared meet him. he is a strong old man--but this will break him up.... vii "kingswear, saturday, th august. it's over--i leave here to-morrow, and go abroad. a quiet afternoon--not a breath up in the churchyard! i was there quite half an hour before they came. some red cows had strayed into the adjoining orchard, and were rubbing their heads against the railing. while i stood there an old woman came and drove them away; afterwards, she stooped and picked up the apples that had fallen before their time. "the apples are ripe and ready to fall, oh! heigh-ho! and ready to fall; there came an old woman and gathered them all, oh! heigh-ho! and gathered them all." ......they brought pasiance very simply--no hideous funeral trappings, thank god--the farm hands carried her, and there was no one there but john ford, the hopgoods, myself, and that young doctor. they read the service over her grave. i can hear john ford's "amen!" now. when it was over he walked away bareheaded in the sun, without a word. i went up there again this evening, and wandered amongst the tombstones. "richard voisey," "john, the son of richard and constance voisey," "margery voisey," so many generations of them in that corner; then "richard voisey and agnes his wife," and next to it that new mound on which a sparrow was strutting and the shadows of the apple-trees already hovering. i will tell you the little left to tell.... on wednesday afternoon she asked for me again. "it's only till seven," she whispered. "he's certain to come then. but if i--were to die first--then tell him--i'm sorry for him. they keep saying: 'don't talk--don't talk!' isn't it stupid? as if i should have any other chance! there'll be no more talking after to-night! make everybody come, please--i want to see them all. when you're dying you're freer than any other time--nobody wants you to do things, nobody cares what you say.... he promised me i should do what i liked if i married him--i never believed that really--but now i can do what i like; and say all the things i want to." she lay back silent; she could not after all speak the inmost thoughts that are in each of us, so sacred that they melt away at the approach of words. i shall remember her like that--with the gleam of a smile in her half-closed eyes, her red lips parted--such a quaint look of mockery, pleasure, regret, on her little round, upturned face; the room white, and fresh with flowers, the breeze guttering the apple-leaves against the window. in the night they had unhooked the violin and taken it away; she had not missed it.... when dan came, i gave up my place to him. he took her hand gently in his great paw, without speaking. "how small my hand looks there," she said, "too small." dan put it softly back on the bedclothes and wiped his forehead. pasiance cried in a sharp whisper: "is it so hot in here? i didn't know." dan bent down, put his lips to her fingers and left the room. the afternoon was long, the longest i've ever spent. sometimes she seemed to sleep, sometimes whispered to herself about her mother, her grandfather, the garden, or her cats--all sorts of inconsequent, trivial, even ludicrous memories seemed to throng her mind--never once, i think, did she speak of zachary, but, now and then, she asked the time.... each hour she grew visibly weaker. john ford sat by her without moving, his heavy breathing was often the only sound; sometimes she rubbed her fingers on his hand, without speaking. it was a summary of their lives together. once he prayed aloud for her in a hoarse voice; then her pitiful, impatient eyes signed to me. "quick," she whispered, "i want him; it's all so--cold." i went out and ran down the path towards the cove. leaning on a gate stood zachary, an hour before his time; dressed in the same old blue clothes and leather-peaked cap as on the day when i saw him first. he knew nothing of what had happened. but at a quarter of the truth, i'm sure he divined the whole, though he would not admit it to himself. he kept saying, "it can't be. she'll be well in a few days--a sprain! d' you think the sea-voyage.... is she strong enough to be moved now at once?" it was painful to see his face, so twisted by the struggle between his instinct and his vitality. the sweat poured down his forehead. he turned round as we walked up the path, and pointed out to sea. there was his steamer. "i could get her on board in no time. impossible! what is it, then? spine? good god! the doctors.... sometimes they'll do wonders!" it was pitiful to see his efforts to blind himself to the reality. "it can't be, she's too young. we're walking very slow." i told him she was dying. for a second i thought he was going to run away. then he jerked up his head, and rushed on towards the house. at the foot of the staircase he gripped me by the shoulder. "it's not true!" he said; "she'll get better now i'm here. i'll stay. let everything go. i'll stay." "now's the time," i said, "to show you loved her. pull yourself together, man!" he shook all over. "yes!" was all he answered. we went into her room. it seemed impossible she was going to die; the colour was bright in her cheeks, her lips trembling and pouted as if she had just been kissed, her eyes gleaming, her hair so dark and crisp, her face so young.... half an hour later i stole to the open door of her room. she was still and white as the sheets of her bed. john ford stood at the foot; and, bowed to the level of the pillows, his head on his clenched fists, sat zachary. it was utterly quiet. the guttering of the leaves had ceased. when things have come to a crisis, how little one feels--no fear, no pity, no sorrow, rather the sense, as when a play is over, of anxiety to get away! suddenly zachary rose, brushed past me without seeing, and ran downstairs. some hours later i went out on the path leading to the cove. it was pitch-black; the riding light of the pied witch was still there, looking no bigger than a firefly. then from in front i heard sobbing--a man's sobs; no sound is quite so dreadful. zachary pearse got up out of the bank not ten paces off. i had no heart to go after him, and sat down in the hedge. there was something subtly akin to her in the fresh darkness of the young night; the soft bank, the scent of honeysuckle, the touch of the ferns and brambles. death comes to all of us, and when it's over it's over; but this blind business--of those left behind! a little later the ship whistled twice; her starboard light gleamed faintly--and that was all.... viii "torquay, th october. ....do you remember the letters i wrote you from moor farm nearly three years ago? to-day i rode over there. i stopped at brixham on the way for lunch, and walked down to the quay. there had been a shower--but the sun was out again, shining on the sea, the brown-red sails, and the rampart of slate roofs. a trawler was lying there, which had evidently been in a collision. the spiky-bearded, thin-lipped fellow in torn blue jersey and sea-boots who was superintending the repairs, said to me a little proudly: "bane in collision, zurr; like to zee over her?" then suddenly screwing up his little blue eyes, he added: "why, i remembers yu. steered yu along o' the young lady in this yer very craft." it was prawle, zachary pearse's henchman. "yes," he went on, "that's the cutter." "and captain pearse?" he leant his back against the quay, and spat. "he was a pra-aper man; i never zane none like 'en." "did you do any good out there?" prawle gave me a sharp glance. "gude? no, t'was arrm we done, vrom ztart to finish--had trouble all the time. what a man cude du, the skipper did. when yu caan't du right, zome calls it 'providence'! 'tis all my eye an' betty martin! what i zay es, 'tis these times, there's such a dale o' folk, a dale of puzzivantin' fellers; the world's to small." with these words there flashed across me a vision of drake crushed into our modern life by the shrinkage of the world; drake caught in the meshes of red tape, electric wires, and all the lofty appliances of our civilization. does a type survive its age; live on into times that have no room for it? the blood is there--and sometimes there's a throw-back.... all fancy! eh? "so," i said, "you failed?" prawle wriggled. "i wudden' goo for to zay that, zurr--'tis an ugly word. da-am!" he added, staring at his boots, "'twas thru me tu. we were along among the haythen, and i mus' nades goo for to break me leg. the capt'n he wudden' lave me. 'one devon man,' he says to me, 'don' lave anotherr.' we werr six days where we shuld ha' been tu; when we got back to the ship a cruiser had got her for gun-runnin'." "and what has become of captain pearse?" prawle answered, "zurr, i belave 'e went to china, 'tis onsartin." "he's not dead?" prawle looked at me with a kind of uneasy anger. "yu cudden' kell 'en! 'tis true, mun 'll die zome day. but therr's not a one that'll show better zport than capt'n zach'ry pearse." i believe that; he will be hard to kill. the vision of him comes up, with his perfect balance, defiant eyes, and sweetish smile; the way the hair of his beard crisped a little, and got blacker on the cheeks; the sort of desperate feeling he gave, that one would never get the better of him, that he would never get the better of himself. i took leave of prawle and half a crown. before i was off the quay i heard him saying to a lady, "bane in collision, marm! like to zee over her?" after lunch i rode on to moor. the old place looked much the same; but the apple-trees were stripped of fruit, and their leaves beginning to go yellow and fall. one of pasiance's cats passed me in the orchard hunting a bird, still with a ribbon round its neck. john ford showed me all his latest improvements, but never by word or sign alluded to the past. he inquired after dan, back in new zealand now, without much interest; his stubbly beard and hair have whitened; he has grown very stout, and i noticed that his legs are not well under control; he often stops to lean on his stick. he was very ill last winter; and sometimes, they say, will go straight off to sleep in the middle of a sentence. i managed to get a few minutes with the hopgoods. we talked of pasiance sitting in the kitchen under a row of plates, with that clinging smell of wood-smoke, bacon, and age bringing up memories, as nothing but scents can. the dear old lady's hair, drawn so nicely down her forehead on each side from the centre of her cap, has a few thin silver lines; and her face is a thought more wrinkled. the tears still come into her eyes when she talks of her "lamb." of zachary i heard nothing, but she told me of old pearse's death. "therr they found 'en, zo to spake, dead--in th' sun; but ha-apgood can tell yu," and hopgood, ever rolling his pipe, muttered something, and smiled his wooden smile. he came to see me off from the straw-yard. "'tis like death to the varrm, zurr," he said, putting all the play of his vast shoulders into the buckling of my girths. "mister ford--well! and not one of th' old stock to take it when 'e's garn.... ah! it werr cruel; my old woman's never been hersel' since. tell 'ee what 'tis--don't du t' think to much." i went out of my way to pass the churchyard. there were flowers, quite fresh, chrysanthemums, and asters; above them the white stone, already stained: "pasiance "wife of zachary pearse "'the lord hath given, and the lord hath taken away.'" the red cows were there too; the sky full of great white clouds, some birds whistling a little mournfully, and in the air the scent of fallen leaves.... may, . a knight to my mother a knight i at monte carlo, in the spring of the year -, i used to notice an old fellow in a grey suit and sunburnt straw hat with a black ribbon. every morning at eleven o'clock, he would come down to the place, followed by a brindled german boarhound, walk once or twice round it, and seat himself on a bench facing the casino. there he would remain in the sun, with his straw hat tilted forward, his thin legs apart, his brown hands crossed between them, and the dog's nose resting on his knee. after an hour or more he would get up, and, stooping a little from the waist, walk slowly round the place and return up hill. just before three, he would come down again in the same clothes and go into the casino, leaving the dog outside. one afternoon, moved by curiosity, i followed him. he passed through the hall without looking at the gambling-rooms, and went into the concert. it became my habit after that to watch for him. when he sat in the place i could see him from the window of my room. the chief puzzle to me was the matter of his nationality. his lean, short face had a skin so burnt that it looked like leather; his jaw was long and prominent, his chin pointed, and he had hollows in his cheeks. there were wrinkles across his forehead; his eyes were brown; and little white moustaches were brushed up from the corners of his lips. the back of his head bulged out above the lines of his lean neck and high, sharp shoulders; his grey hair was cropped quite close. in the marseilles buffet, on the journey out, i had met an englishman, almost his counterpart in features--but somehow very different! this old fellow had nothing of the other's alert, autocratic self-sufficiency. he was quiet and undemonstrative, without looking, as it were, insulated against shocks and foreign substances. he was certainly no frenchman. his eyes, indeed, were brown, but hazel-brown, and gentle--not the red-brown sensual eye of the frenchman. an american? but was ever an american so passive? a german? his moustache was certainly brushed up, but in a modest, almost pathetic way, not in the least teutonic. nothing seemed to fit him. i gave him up, and named him "the cosmopolitan." leaving at the end of april, i forgot him altogether. in the same month, however, of the following year i was again at monte carlo, and going one day to the concert found myself seated next this same old fellow. the orchestra was playing meyerbeer's "prophete," and my neighbour was asleep, snoring softly. he was dressed in the same grey suit, with the same straw hat (or one exactly like it) on his knees, and his hands crossed above it. sleep had not disfigured him--his little white moustache was still brushed up, his lips closed; a very good and gentle expression hovered on his face. a curved mark showed on his right temple, the scar of a cut on the side of his neck, and his left hand was covered by an old glove, the little forger of which was empty. he woke up when the march was over and brisked up his moustache. the next thing on the programme was a little thing by poise from le joli gilles, played by mons. corsanego on the violin. happening to glance at my old neighbour, i saw a tear caught in the hollow of his cheek, and another just leaving the corner of his eye; there was a faint smile on his lips. then came an interval; and while orchestra and audience were resting, i asked him if he were fond of music. he looked up without distrust, bowed, and answered in a thin, gentle voice: "certainly. i know nothing about it, play no instrument, could never sing a note; but fond of it! who would not be?" his english was correct enough, but with an emphasis not quite american nor quite foreign. i ventured to remark that he did not care for meyerbeer. he smiled. "ah!" he said, "i was asleep? too bad of me. he is a little noisy--i know so little about music. there is bach, for instance. would you believe it, he gives me no pleasure? a great misfortune to be no musician!" he shook his head. i murmured, "bach is too elevating for you perhaps." "to me," he answered, "any music i like is elevating. people say some music has a bad effect on them. i never found any music that gave me a bad thought--no--no--quite the opposite; only sometimes, as you see, i go to sleep. but what a lovely instrument the violin!" a faint flush came on his parched cheeks. "the human soul that has left the body. a curious thing, distant bugles at night have given me the same feeling." the orchestra was now coming back, and, folding his hands, my neighbour turned his eyes towards them. when the concert was over we came out together. waiting at the entrance was his dog. "you have a beautiful dog!" "ah! yes. freda. mia cara, da su mano!" the dog squatted on her haunches, and lifted her paw in the vague, bored way of big dogs when requested to perform civilities. she was a lovely creature--the purest brindle, without a speck of white, and free from the unbalanced look of most dogs of her breed. "basta! basta!" he turned to me apologetically. "we have agreed to speak italian; in that way i keep up the language; astonishing the number of things that dog will understand!" i was about to take my leave, when he asked if i would walk a little way with him--"if you are free, that is." we went up the street with freda on the far side of her master. "do you never 'play' here?" i asked him. "play? no. it must be very interesting; most exciting, but as a matter of fact, i can't afford it. if one has very little, one is too nervous." he had stopped in front of a small hairdresser's shop. "i live here," he said, raising his hat again. "au revoir!--unless i can offer you a glass of tea. it's all ready. come! i've brought you out of your way; give me the pleasure!" i have never met a man so free from all self-consciousness, and yet so delicate and diffident the combination is a rare one. we went up a steep staircase to a room on the second floor. my companion threw the shutters open, setting all the flies buzzing. the top of a plane-tree was on a level with the window, and all its little brown balls were dancing, quite close, in the wind. as he had promised, an urn was hissing on a table; there was also a small brown teapot, some sugar, slices of lemon, and glasses. a bed, washstand, cupboard, tin trunk, two chairs, and a small rug were all the furniture. above the bed a sword in a leather sheath was suspended from two nails. the photograph of a girl stood on the closed stove. my host went to the cupboard and produced a bottle, a glass, and a second spoon. when the cork was drawn, the scent of rum escaped into the air. he sniffed at it and dropped a teaspoonful into both glasses. "this is a trick i learned from the russians after plevna; they had my little finger, so i deserved something in exchange." he looked round; his eyes, his whole face, seemed to twinkle. "i assure you it was worth it--makes all the difference. try!" he poured off the tea. "had you a sympathy with the turks?" "the weaker side--" he paused abruptly, then added: "but it was not that." over his face innumerable crow's-feet had suddenly appeared, his eyes twitched; he went on hurriedly, "i had to find something to do just then--it was necessary." he stared into his glass; and it was some time before i ventured to ask if he had seen much fighting. "yes," he replied gravely, "nearly twenty years altogether; i was one of garibaldi's mille in ' ." "surely you are not italian?" he leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "i was in genoa at that time learning banking; garibaldi was a wonderful man! one could not help it." he spoke quite simply. "you might say it was like seeing a little man stand up to a ring of great hulking fellows; i went, just as you would have gone, if you'd been there. i was not long with them--our war began; i had to go back home." he said this as if there had been but one war since the world began. "in ' ," he mused, "till ' . just think of it! the poor country. why, in my state, south carolina--i was through it all--nobody could be spared there--we were one to three." "i suppose you have a love of fighting?" "h'm!" he said, as if considering the idea for the first time. "sometimes i fought for a living, and sometimes--because i was obliged; one must try to be a gentleman. but won't you have some more?" i refused more tea and took my leave, carrying away with me a picture of the old fellow looking down from the top of the steep staircase, one hand pressed to his back, the other twisting up those little white moustaches, and murmuring, "take care, my dear sir, there's a step there at the corner." "to be a gentleman!" i repeated in the street, causing an old french lady to drop her parasol, so that for about two minutes we stood bowing and smiling to each other, then separated full of the best feeling. ii a week later i found myself again seated next him at a concert. in the meantime i had seen him now and then, but only in passing. he seemed depressed. the corners of his lips were tightened, his tanned cheeks had a greyish tinge, his eyes were restless; and, between two numbers of the programme, he murmured, tapping his fingers on his hat, "do you ever have bad days? yes? not pleasant, are they?" then something occurred from which all that i have to tell you followed. there came into the concert-hall the heroine of one of those romances, crimes, follies, or irregularities, call it what you will, which had just attracted the "world's" stare. she passed us with her partner, and sat down in a chair a few rows to our right. she kept turning her head round, and at every turn i caught the gleam of her uneasy eyes. some one behind us said: "the brazen baggage!" my companion turned full round, and glared at whoever it was who had spoken. the change in him was quite remarkable. his lips were drawn back from his teeth; he frowned; the scar on his temple had reddened. "ah!" he said to me. "the hue and cry! contemptible! how i hate it! but you wouldn't understand--!" he broke off, and slowly regained his usual air of self-obliteration; he even seemed ashamed, and began trying to brush his moustaches higher than ever, as if aware that his heat had robbed them of neatness. "i'm not myself, when i speak of such matters," he said suddenly; and began reading his programme, holding it upside down. a minute later, however, he said in a peculiar voice: "there are people to be found who object to vivisecting animals; but the vivisection of a woman, who minds that? will you tell me it's right, that because of some tragedy like this--believe me, it is always a tragedy--we should hunt down a woman? that her fellow-women should make an outcast of her? that we, who are men, should make a prey of her? if i thought that...." again he broke off, staring very hard in front of him. "it is we who make them what they are; and even if that is not so--why! if i thought there was a woman in the world i could not take my hat off to--i--i--couldn't sleep at night." he got up from his seat, put on his old straw hat with trembling fingers, and, without a glance back, went out, stumbling over the chair-legs. i sat there, horribly disturbed; the words, "one must try to be a gentleman!" haunting me. when i came out, he was standing by the entrance with one hand on his hip and the other on his dog. in that attitude of waiting he was such a patient figure; the sun glared down and showed the threadbare nature of his clothes and the thinness of his brown hands, with their long forgers and nails yellow from tobacco. seeing me he came up the steps again, and raised his hat. "i am glad to have caught you; please forget all that." i asked if he would do me the honour of dining at my hotel. "dine?" he repeated with the sort of smile a child gives if you offer him a box of soldiers; "with the greatest pleasure. i seldom dine out, but i think i can muster up a coat. yes--yes--and at what time shall i come? at half-past seven, and your hotel is--? good! i shall be there. freda, mia cara, you will be alone this evening. you do not smoke caporal, i fear. i find it fairly good; though it has too much bite." he walked off with freda, puffing at his thin roll of caporal. once or twice he stopped, as if bewildered or beset by some sudden doubt or memory; and every time he stopped, freda licked his hand. they disappeared round the corner of the street, and i went to my hotel to see about dinner. on the way i met jules le ferrier, and asked him to come too. "my faith, yes!" he said, with the rosy pessimism characteristic of the french editor. "man must dine!" at half-past six we assembled. my "cosmopolitan" was in an old frock-coat braided round the edges, buttoned high and tight, defining more than ever the sharp lines of his shoulders and the slight kink of his back; he had brought with him, too, a dark-peaked cap of military shape, which he had evidently selected as more fitting to the coat than a straw hat. he smelled slightly of some herb. we sat down to dinner, and did not rise for two hours. he was a charming guest, praised everything he ate--not with commonplaces, but in words that made you feel it had given him real pleasure. at first, whenever jules made one of his caustic remarks, he looked quite pained, but suddenly seemed to make up his mind that it was bark, not bite; and then at each of them he would turn to me and say, "aha! that's good--isn't it?" with every glass of wine he became more gentle and more genial, sitting very upright, and tightly buttoned-in; while the little white wings of his moustache seemed about to leave him for a better world. in spite of the most leading questions, however, we could not get him to talk about himself, for even jules, most cynical of men, had recognised that he was a hero of romance. he would answer gently and precisely, and then sit twisting his moustaches, perfectly unconscious that we wanted more. presently, as the wine went a little to his head, his thin, high voice grew thinner, his cheeks became flushed, his eyes brighter; at the end of dinner he said: "i hope i have not been noisy." we assured him that he had not been noisy enough. "you're laughing at me," he answered. "surely i've been talking all the time!" "mon dieu!" said jules, "we have been looking for some fables of your wars; but nothing--nothing, not enough to feed a frog!" the old fellow looked troubled. "to be sure!" he mused. "let me think! there is that about colhoun at gettysburg; and there's the story of garibaldi and the miller." he plunged into a tale, not at all about himself, which would have been extremely dull, but for the conviction in his eyes, and the way he stopped and commented. "so you see," he ended, "that's the sort of man garibaldi was! i could tell you another tale of him." catching an introspective look in jules's eye, however, i proposed taking our cigars over to the cafe opposite. "delightful!" the old fellow said: "we shall have a band and the fresh air, and clear consciences for our cigars. i cannot like this smoking in a room where there are ladies dining." he walked out in front of us, smoking with an air of great enjoyment. jules, glowing above his candid shirt and waistcoat, whispered to me, "mon cher georges, how he is good!" then sighed, and added darkly: "the poor man!" we sat down at a little table. close by, the branches of a plane-tree rustled faintly; their leaves hung lifeless, speckled like the breasts of birds, or black against the sky; then, caught by the breeze, fluttered suddenly. the old fellow sat, with head thrown back, a smile on his face, coming now and then out of his enchanted dreams to drink coffee, answer our questions, or hum the tune that the band was playing. the ash of his cigar grew very long. one of those bizarre figures in oriental garb, who, night after night, offer their doubtful wares at a great price, appeared in the white glare of a lamp, looked with a furtive smile at his face, and glided back, discomfited by its unconsciousness. it was a night for dreams! a faint, half-eastern scent in the air, of black tobacco and spice; few people as yet at the little tables, the waiters leisurely, the band soft! what was he dreaming of, that old fellow, whose cigar-ash grew so long? of youth, of his battles, of those things that must be done by those who try to be gentlemen; perhaps only of his dinner; anyway of something gilded in vague fashion as the light was gilding the branches of the plane-tree. jules pulled my sleeve: "he sleeps." he had smilingly dropped off; the cigar-ash--that feathery tower of his dreams--had broken and fallen on his sleeve. he awoke, and fell to dusting it. the little tables round us began to fill. one of the bandsmen played a czardas on the czymbal. two young frenchmen, talking loudly, sat down at the adjoining table. they were discussing the lady who had been at the concert that afternoon. "it's a bet," said one of them, "but there's the present man. i take three weeks, that's enough 'elle est declassee; ce n'est que le premier pas--'" my old friend's cigar fell on the table. "monsieur," he stammered, "you speak of a lady so, in a public place?" the young man stared at him. "who is this person?" he said to his companion. my guest took up jules's glove that lay on the table; before either of us could raise a finger, he had swung it in the speaker's face. "enough!" he said, and, dropping the glove, walked away. we all jumped to our feet. i left jules and hurried after him. his face was grim, his eyes those of a creature who has been struck on a raw place. he made a movement of his fingers which said plainly. "leave me, if you please!" i went back to the cafe. the two young men had disappeared, so had jules, but everything else was going on just as before; the bandsman still twanging out his czardas; the waiters serving drinks; the orientals trying to sell their carpets. i paid the bill, sought out the manager, and apologised. he shrugged his shoulders, smiled and said: "an eccentric, your friend, nicht wahr?" could he tell me where m. le ferrier was? he could not. i left to look for jules; could not find him, and returned to my hotel disgusted. i was sorry for my old guest, but vexed with him too; what business had he to carry his quixotism to such an unpleasant length? i tried to read. eleven o'clock struck; the casino disgorged a stream of people; the place seemed fuller of life than ever; then slowly it grew empty and quite dark. the whim seized me to go out. it was a still night, very warm, very black. on one of the seats a man and woman sat embraced, on another a girl was sobbing, on a third--strange sight--a priest dozed. i became aware of some one at my side; it was my old guest. "if you are not too tired," he said, "can you give me ten minutes?" "certainly; will you come in?" "no, no; let us go down to the terrace. i shan't keep you long." he did not speak again till we reached a seat above the pigeon-shooting grounds; there, in a darkness denser for the string of lights still burning in the town, we sat down. "i owe you an apology," he said; "first in the afternoon, then again this evening--your guest--your friend's glove! i have behaved as no gentleman should." he was leaning forward with his hands on the handle of a stick. his voice sounded broken and disturbed. "oh!" i muttered. "it's nothing!"' "you are very good," he sighed; "but i feel that i must explain. i consider i owe this to you, but i must tell you i should not have the courage if it were not for another reason. you see i have no friend." he looked at me with an uncertain smile. i bowed, and a minute or two later he began.... iii "you will excuse me if i go back rather far. it was in ' , when i had been ill with cuban fever. to keep me alive they had put me on board a ship at santiago, and at the end of the voyage i found myself in london. i had very little money; i knew nobody. i tell you, sir, there are times when it's hard for a fighting man to get anything to do. people would say to me: 'afraid we've nothing for a man like you in our business.' i tried people of all sorts; but it was true--i had been fighting here and there since ' , i wasn't fit for anything--" he shook his head. "in the south, before the war, they had a saying, i remember, about a dog and a soldier having the same value. but all this has nothing to do with what i have to tell you." he sighed again and went on, moistening his lips: "i was walking along the strand one day, very disheartened, when i heard my name called. it's a queer thing, that, in a strange street. by the way," he put in with dry ceremony, "you don't know my name, i think: it is brune--roger brune. at first i did not recognise the person who called me. he had just got off an omnibus--a square-shouldered man with heavy moustaches, and round spectacles. but when he shook my hand i knew him at once. he was a man called dalton, who was taken prisoner at gettysburg; one of you englishmen who came to fight with us--a major in the regiment where i was captain. we were comrades during two campaigns. if i had been his brother he couldn't have seemed more pleased to see me. he took me into a bar for the sake of old times. the drink went to my head, and by the time we reached trafalgar square i was quite unable to walk. he made me sit down on a bench. i was in fact--drunk. it's disgraceful to be drunk, but there was some excuse. now i tell you, sir" (all through his story he was always making use of that expression, it seemed to infuse fresh spirit into him, to help his memory in obscure places, to give him the mastery of his emotions; it was like the piece of paper a nervous man holds in his hand to help him through a speech), "there never was a man with a finer soul than my friend dalton. he was not clever, though he had read much; and sometimes perhaps he was too fond of talking. but he was a gentleman; he listened to me as if i had been a child; he was not ashamed of me--and it takes a gentleman not to be ashamed of a drunken man in the streets of london; god knows what things i said to him while we were sitting there! he took me to his home and put me to bed himself; for i was down again with fever." he stopped, turned slightly from me, and put his hand up to his brow. "well, then it was, sir, that i first saw her. i am not a poet and i cannot tell you what she seemed to me. i was delirious, but i always knew when she was there. i had dreams of sunshine and cornfields, of dancing waves at sea, young trees--never the same dreams, never anything for long together; and when i had my senses i was afraid to say so for fear she would go away. she'd be in the corner of the room, with her hair hanging about her neck, a bright gold colour; she never worked and never read, but sat and talked to herself in a whisper, or looked at me for a long time together out of her blue eyes, a little frown between them, and her upper lip closed firm on her lower lip, where she had an uneven tooth. when her father came, she'd jump up and hang on to his neck until he groaned, then run away, but presently come stealing back on tiptoe. i used to listen for her footsteps on the stairs, then the knock, the door flung back or opened quietly--you never could tell which; and her voice, with a little lisp, 'are you better today, mr. brune? what funny things you say when you're delirious! father says you've been in heaps of battles!"' he got up, paced restlessly to and fro, and sat down again. "i remember every word as if it were yesterday, all the things she said, and did; i've had a long time to think them over, you see. well, i must tell you, the first morning that i was able to get up, i missed her. dalton came in her place, and i asked him where she was. 'my dear fellow,' he answered, 'i've sent eilie away to her old nurse's inn down on the river; she's better there at this time of year.' we looked at each other, and i saw that he had sent her away because he didn't trust me. i was hurt by this. illness spoils one. he was right, he was quite right, for all he knew about me was that i could fight and had got drunk; but i am very quick-tempered. i made up my mind at once to leave him. but i was too weak--he had to put me to bed again. the very next morning he came and proposed that i should go into partnership with him. he kept a fencing-school and pistol-gallery. it seemed like the finger of god; and perhaps it was--who knows?" he fell into a reverie, and taking out his caporal, rolled himself a cigarette; having lighted it, he went on suddenly: "there, in the room above the school, we used to sit in the evenings, one on each side of the grate. the room was on the second floor, i remember, with two windows, and a view of nothing but the houses opposite. the furniture was covered up with chintz. the things on the bookshelf were never disturbed, they were eilie's--half-broken cases with butterflies, a dead frog in a bottle, a horse-shoe covered with tinfoil, some shells too, and a cardboard box with three speckled eggs in it, and these words written on the lid: 'missel-thrush from lucy's tree--second family, only one blown.'" he smoked fiercely, with puffs that were like sharp sighs. "dalton was wrapped up in her. he was never tired of talking to me about her, and i was never tired of hearing. we had a number of pupils; but in the evening when we sat there, smoking--our talk would sooner or later--come round to her. her bedroom opened out of that sitting--room; he took me in once and showed me a narrow little room the width of a passage, fresh and white, with a photograph of her mother above the bed, and an empty basket for a dog or cat." he broke off with a vexed air, and resumed sternly, as if trying to bind himself to the narration of his more important facts: "she was then fifteen--her mother had been dead twelve years--a beautiful, face, her mother's; it had been her death that sent dalton to fight with us. well, sir, one day in august, very hot weather, he proposed a run into the country, and who should meet us on the platform when we arrived but eilie, in a blue sun-bonnet and frock-flax blue, her favourite colour. i was angry with dalton for not telling me that we should see her; my clothes were not quite--my hair wanted cutting. it was black then, sir," he added, tracing a pattern in the darkness with his stick. "she had a little donkey-cart; she drove, and, while we walked one on each side, she kept looking at me from under her sunbonnet. i must tell you that she never laughed--her eyes danced, her cheeks would go pink, and her hair shake about on her neck, but she never laughed. her old nurse, lucy, a very broad, good woman, had married the proprietor of the inn in the village there. i have never seen anything like that inn: sweethriar up to the roof! and the scent--i am very susceptible to scents!" his head drooped, and the cigarette fell from his hand. a train passing beneath sent up a shower of sparks. he started, and went on: "we had our lunch in the parlour--i remember that room very well, for i spent the happiest days of my life afterwards in that inn.... we went into a meadow after lunch, and my friend dalton fell asleep. a wonderful thing happened then. eilie whispered to me, 'let's have a jolly time.' she took me for the most glorious walk. the river was close by. a lovely stream, your river thames, so calm and broad; it is like the spirit of your people. i was bewitched; i forgot my friend, i thought of nothing but how to keep her to myself. it was such a day! there are days that are the devil's, but that was truly one of god's. she took me to a little pond under an elm-tree, and we dragged it, we two, an hour, for a kind of tiny red worm to feed some creature that she had. we found them in the mud, and while she was bending over, the curls got in her eyes. if you could have seen her then, i think, sir, you would have said she was like the first sight of spring.... we had tea afterwards, all together, in the long grass under some fruit-trees. if i had the knack of words, there are things that i could say." he bent, as though in deference to those unspoken memories. "twilight came on while we were sitting there. a wonderful thing is twilight in the country! it became time for us to go. there was an avenue of trees close by--like a church with a window at the end, where golden light came through. i walked up and down it with her. 'will you come again?' she whispered, and suddenly she lifted up her face to be kissed. i kissed her as if she were a little child. and when we said good-bye, her eyes were looking at me across her father's shoulder, with surprise and sorrow in them. 'why do you go away?' they seemed to say.... but i must tell you," he went on hurriedly, "of a thing that happened before we had gone a hundred yards. we were smoking our pipes, and i, thinking of her--when out she sprang from the hedge and stood in front of us. dalton cried out, 'what are you here for again, you mad girl?' she rushed up to him and hugged him; but when she looked at me, her face was quite different--careless, defiant, as one might say--it hurt me. i couldn't understand it, and what one doesn't understand frightens one." iv "time went on. there was no swordsman, or pistol-shot like me in london, they said. we had as many pupils as we liked--it was the only part of my life when i have been able to save money. i had no chance to spend it. we gave lessons all day, and in the evening were too tired to go out. that year i had the misfortune to lose my dear mother. i became a rich man--yes, sir, at that time i must have had not less than six hundred a year. "it was a long time before i saw eilie again. she went abroad to dresden with her father's sister to learn french and german. it was in the autumn of when she came back to us. she was seventeen then--a beautiful young creature." he paused, as if to gather his forces for description, and went on. "tall, as a young tree, with eyes like the sky. i would not say she was perfect, but her imperfections were beautiful to me. what is it makes you love--ah! sir, that is very hidden and mysterious. she had never lost the trick of closing her lips tightly when she remembered her uneven tooth. you may say that was vanity, but in a young girl--and which of us is not vain, eh? 'old men and maidens, young men and children!' "as i said, she came back to london to her little room, and in the evenings was always ready with our tea. you mustn't suppose she was housewifely; there is something in me that never admired housewifeliness--a fine quality, no doubt, still--" he sighed. "no," he resumed, "eilie was not like that, for she was never quite the same two days together. i told you her eyes were like the sky--that was true of all of her. in one thing, however, at that time, she always seemed the same--in love for her father. for me! i don't know what i should have expected; but my presence seemed to have the effect of making her dumb; i would catch her looking at me with a frown, and then, as if to make up to her own nature--and a more loving nature never came into this world, that i shall maintain to my dying day--she would go to her father and kiss him. when i talked with him she pretended not to notice, but i could see her face grow cold and stubborn. i am not quick; and it was a long time before i understood that she was jealous, she wanted him all to herself. i've often wondered how she could be his daughter, for he was the very soul of justice and a slow man too--and she was as quick as a bird. for a long time after i saw her dislike of me, i refused to believe it--if one does not want to believe a thing there are always reasons why it should not seem true, at least so it is with me, and i suppose with all selfish men. "i spent evening after evening there, when, if i had not thought only of myself, i should have kept away. but one day i could no longer be blind. "it was a sunday in february. i always had an invitation on sundays to dine with them in the middle of the day. there was no one in the sitting-room; but the door of eilie's bedroom was open. i heard her voice: 'that man, always that man!' it was enough for me, i went down again without coming in, and walked about all day. "for three weeks i kept away. to the school of course i came as usual, but not upstairs. i don't know what i told dalton--it did not signify what you told him, he always had a theory of his own, and was persuaded of its truth--a very single-minded man, sir. "but now i come to the most wonderful days of my life. it was an early spring that year. i had fallen away already from my resolution, and used to slink up--seldom, it's true--and spend the evening with them as before. one afternoon i came up to the sitting-room; the light was failing--it was warm, and the windows were open. in the air was that feeling which comes to you once a year, in the spring, no matter where you may be, in a crowded street, or alone in a forest; only once--a feeling like--but i cannot describe it. "eilie was sitting there. if you don't know, sir, i can't tell you what it means to be near the woman one loves. she was leaning on the windowsill, staring down into the street. it was as though she might be looking out for some one. i stood, hardly breathing. she turned her head, and saw me. her eyes were strange. they seemed to ask me a question. but i couldn't have spoken for the world. i can't tell you what i felt--i dared not speak, or think, or hope. i have been in nineteen battles--several times in positions of some danger, when the lifting of a finger perhaps meant death; but i have never felt what i was feeling at that moment. i knew something was coming; and i was paralysed with terror lest it should not come!" he drew a long breath. "the servant came in with a light and broke the spell. all that night i lay awake and thought of how she had looked at me, with the colour coming slowly up in her cheeks--"it was three days before i plucked up courage to go again; and then i felt her eyes on me at once--she was making a 'cat's cradle' with a bit of string, but i could see them stealing up from her hands to my face. and she went wandering about the room, fingering at everything. when her father called out: 'what's the matter with you, elie?' she stared at him like a child caught doing wrong. i looked straight at her then, she tried to look at me, but she couldn't; and a minute later she went out of the room. god knows what sort of nonsense i talked--i was too happy. "then began our love. i can't tell you of that time. often and often dalton said to me: 'what's come to the child? nothing i can do pleases her.' all the love she had given him was now for me; but he was too simple and straight to see what was going on. how many times haven't i felt criminal towards him! but when you're happy, with the tide in your favour, you become a coward at once...." v "well, sir," he went on, "we were married on her eighteenth birthday. it was a long time before dalton became aware of our love. but one day he said to me with a very grave look: "'eilie has told me, brune; i forbid it. she's too young, and you're--too old!' i was then forty-five, my hair as black and thick as a rook's feathers, and i was strong and active. i answered him: 'we shall be married within a month!' we parted in anger. it was a may night, and i walked out far into the country. there's no remedy for anger, or, indeed, for anything, so fine as walking. once i stopped--it was on a common, without a house or light, and the stars shining like jewels. i was hot from walking, i could feel the blood boiling in my veins--i said to myself 'old, are you?' and i laughed like a fool. it was the thought of losing her--i wished to believe myself angry, but really i was afraid; fear and anger in me are very much the same. a friend of mine, a bit of a poet, sir, once called them 'the two black wings of self.' and so they are, so they are...! the next morning i went to dalton again, and somehow i made him yield. i'm not a philosopher, but it has often seemed to me that no benefit can come to us in this life without an equal loss somewhere, but does that stop us? no, sir, not often.... "we were married on the th of june , in the parish church. the only people present were dalton, lucy, and lucy's husband--a big, red-faced fellow, with blue eyes and a golden beard parted in two. it had been arranged that we should spend the honeymoon down at their inn on the river. my wife, dalton and i, went to a restaurant for lunch. she was dressed in grey, the colour of a pigeon's feathers." he paused, leaning forward over the crutch handle of his stick; trying to conjure up, no doubt, that long-ago image of his young bride in her dress "the colour of a pigeon's feathers," with her blue eyes and yellow hair, the little frown between her brows, the firmly shut red lips, opening to speak the words, "for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health." "at that time, sir," he went on suddenly, "i was a bit of a dandy. i wore, i remember, a blue frock-coat, with white trousers, and a grey top hat. even now i should always prefer to be well dressed.... "we had an excellent lunch, and drank veuve clicquot, a wine that you cannot get in these days! dalton came with us to the railway station. i can't bear partings; and yet, they must come. "that evening we walked out in the cool under the aspen-trees. what should i remember in all my life if not that night--the young bullocks snuffling in the gateways--the campion flowers all lighted up along the hedges--the moon with a halo-bats, too, in and out among the stems, and the shadows of the cottages as black and soft as that sea down there. for a long time we stood on the river-bank beneath a lime-tree. the scent of the lime flowers! a man can only endure about half his joy; about half his sorrow. lucy and her husband," he went on, presently, "his name was frank tor--a man like an old viking, who ate nothing but milk, bread, and fruit--were very good to us! it was like paradise in that inn--though the commissariat, i am bound to say, was limited. the sweethriar grew round our bedroom windows; when the breeze blew the leaves across the opening--it was like a bath of perfume. eilie grew as brown as a gipsy while we were there. i don't think any man could have loved her more than i did. but there were times when my heart stood still; it didn't seem as if she understood how much i loved her. one day, i remember, she coaxed me to take her camping. we drifted down-stream all the afternoon, and in the evening pulled into the reeds under the willow-boughs and lit a fire for her to cook by--though, as a matter of fact, our provisions were cooked already--but you know how it is; all the romance was in having a real fire. 'we won't pretend,' she kept saying. while we were eating our supper a hare came to our clearing--a big fellow--how surprised he looked! 'the tall hare,' eilie called him. after that we sat by the ashes and watched the shadows, till at last she roamed away from me. the time went very slowly; i got up to look for her. it was past sundown. i called and called. it was a long time before i found her--and she was like a wild thing, hot and flushed, her pretty frock torn, her hands and face scratched, her hair down, like some beautiful creature of the woods. if one loves, a little thing will scare one. i didn't think she had noticed my fright; but when we got back to the boat she threw her arms round my neck, and said, 'i won't ever leave you again!' "once in the night i woke--a water-hen was crying, and in the moonlight a kingfisher flew across. the wonder on the river--the wonder of the moon and trees, the soft bright mist, the stillness! it was like another world, peaceful, enchanted, far holier than ours. it seemed like a vision of the thoughts that come to one--how seldom! and go if one tries to grasp them. magic--poetry-sacred!" he was silent a minute, then went on in a wistful voice: "i looked at her, sleeping like a child, with her hair loose, and her lips apart, and i thought: 'god do so to me, if ever i bring her pain!' how was i to understand her? the mystery and innocence of her soul! the river has had all my light and all my darkness, the happiest days, and the hours when i've despaired; and i like to think of it, for, you know, in time bitter memories fade, only the good remain.... yet the good have their own pain, a different kind of aching, for we shall never get them back. sir," he said, turning to me with a faint smile, "it's no use crying over spilt milk.... in the neighbourhood of lucy's inn, the rose and maybush--can you imagine a prettier name? i have been all over the world, and nowhere found names so pretty as in the english country. there, too, every blade of grass; and flower, has a kind of pride about it; knows it will be cared for; and all the roads, trees, and cottages, seem to be certain that they will live for ever.... but i was going to tell you: half a mile from the inn was a quiet old house which we used to call the 'convent'--though i believe it was a farm. we spent many afternoons there, trespassing in the orchard--eilie was fond of trespassing; if there were a long way round across somebody else's property, she would always take it. we spent our last afternoon in that orchard, lying in the long grass. i was reading childe harold for the first time--a wonderful, a memorable poem! i was at that passage--the bull-fight--you remember: "'thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, the din expands, and expectation mute' --"when suddenly eilie said: 'suppose i were to leave off loving you?' it was as if some one had struck me in the face. i jumped up, and tried to take her in my arms, but she slipped away; then she turned, and began laughing softly. i laughed too. i don't know why...." vi "we went back to london the next day; we lived quite close to the school, and about five days a week dalton came to dine with us. he would have come every day, if he had not been the sort of man who refuses to consult his own pleasure. we had more pupils than ever. in my leisure i taught my wife to fence. i have never seen any one so lithe and quick; or so beautiful as she looked in her fencing dress, with embroidered shoes. "i was completely happy. when a man has obtained his desire he becomes careless and self-satisfied; i was watchful, however, for i knew that i was naturally a selfish man. i studied to arrange my time and save my money, to give her as much pleasure as i could. what she loved best in the world just then was riding. i bought a horse for her, and in the evenings of the spring and summer we rode together; but when it was too dark to go out late, she would ride alone, great distances, sometimes spend the whole day in the saddle, and come back so tired she could hardly walk upstairs--i can't say that i liked that. it made me nervous, she was so headlong--but i didn't think it right to interfere with her. i had a good deal of anxiety about money, for though i worked hard and made more than ever, there never seemed enough. i was anxious to save--i hoped, of course--but we had no child, and this was a trouble to me. she grew more beautiful than ever, and i think was happy. has it ever struck you that each one of us lives on the edge of a volcano? there is, i imagine, no one who has not some affection or interest so strong that he counts the rest for nothing, beside it. no doubt a man may live his life through without discovering that. but some of us--! i am not complaining; what is--is." he pulled the cap lower over his eyes, and clutched his hands firmly on the top of his stick. he was like a man who rushes his horse at some hopeless fence, unwilling to give himself time, for fear of craning at the last moment. "in the spring of ' , a new pupil came to me, a young man of twenty-one who was destined for the army. i took a fancy to him, and did my best to turn him into a good swordsman; but there was a kind of perverse recklessness in him; for a few minutes one would make a great impression, then he would grow utterly careless. 'francis,' i would say, 'if i were you i should be ashamed.' 'mr. brune,' he would answer, 'why should i be ashamed? i didn't make myself.' god knows, i wish to do him justice, he had a heart--one day he drove up in a cab, and brought in his poor dog, who had been run over, and was dying: for half an hour he shut himself up with its body, we could hear him sobbing like a child; he came out with his eyes all red, and cried: 'i know where to find the brute who drove over him,' and off he rushed. he had beautiful italian eyes; a slight figure, not very tall; dark hair, a little dark moustache; and his lips were always a trifle parted--it was that, and his walk, and the way he drooped his eyelids, which gave him a peculiar, soft, proud look. i used to tell him that he'd never make a soldier! 'oh!' he'd answer, 'that'll be all right when the time comes! he believed in a kind of luck that was to do everything for him, when the time came. one day he came in as i was giving eilie her lesson. this was the first time they saw each other. after that he came more often, and sometimes stayed to dinner with us. i won't deny, sir, that i was glad to welcome him; i thought it good for eilie. can there be anything more odious," he burst out, "than such a self-complacent blindness? there are people who say, 'poor man, he had such faith!' faith, sir! conceit! i was a fool--in this world one pays for folly.... "the summer came; and one saturday in early june, eilie, i, and francis--i won't tell you his other name--went riding. the night had been wet; there was no dust, and presently the sun came out--a glorious day! we rode a long way. about seven o'clock we started back-slowly, for it was still hot, and there was all the cool of night before us. it was nine o'clock when we came to richmond park. a grand place, richmond park; and in that half-light wonderful, the deer moving so softly, you might have thought they were spirits. we were silent too--great trees have that effect on me.... "who can say when changes come? like a shift of the wind, the old passes, the new is on you. i am telling you now of a change like that. without a sign of warning, eilie put her horse into a gallop. 'what are you doing?' i shouted. she looked back with a smile, then he dashed past me too. a hornet might have stung them both: they galloped over fallen trees, under low hanging branches, up hill and down. i had to watch that madness! my horse was not so fast. i rode like a demon; but fell far behind. i am not a man who takes things quietly. when i came up with them at last, i could not speak for rage. they were riding side by side, the reins on the horses' necks, looking in each other's faces. 'you should take care,' i said. 'care!' she cried; 'life is not all taking care!' my anger left me. i dropped behind, as grooms ride behind their mistresses... jealousy! no torture is so ceaseless or so black.... in those minutes a hundred things came up in me--a hundred memories, true, untrue, what do i know? my soul was poisoned. i tried to reason with myself. it was absurd to think such things! it was unmanly.... even if it were true, one should try to be a gentleman! but i found myself laughing; yes, sir, laughing at that word." he spoke faster, as if pouring his heart out not to a live listener, but to the night. "i could not sleep that night. to lie near her with those thoughts in my brain was impossible! i made an excuse, and sat up with some papers. the hardest thing in life is to see a thing coming and be able to do nothing to prevent it. what could i do? have you noticed how people may become utter strangers without a word? it only needs a thought.... the very next day she said: 'i want to go to lucy's.' 'alone?' 'yes.' i had made up my mind by then that she must do just as she wished. perhaps i acted wrongly; i do not know what one ought to do in such a case; but before she went i said to her: 'eilie, what is it?' 'i don't know,' she answered; and i kissed her--that was all.... a month passed; i wrote to her nearly every day, and i had short letters from her, telling me very little of herself. dalton was a torture to me, for i could not tell him; he had a conviction that she was going to become a mother. 'ah, brune!' he said, 'my poor wife was just like that.' life, sir, is a somewhat ironical affair...! he--i find it hard to speak his name--came to the school two or three times a week. i used to think i saw a change, a purpose growing up through his recklessness; there seemed a violence in him as if he chafed against my blade. i had a kind of joy in feeling i had the mastery, and could toss the iron out of his hand any minute like a straw. i was ashamed, and yet i gloried in it. jealousy is a low thing, sir--a low, base thing! when he asked me where my wife was, i told him; i was too proud to hide it. soon after that he came no more to the school. "one morning, when i could bear it no longer, i wrote, and said i was coming down. i would not force myself on her, but i asked her to meet me in the orchard of the old house we called the convent. i asked her to be there at four o'clock. it has always been my, belief that a man must neither beg anything of a woman, nor force anything from her. women are generous--they will give you what they can. i sealed my letter, and posted it myself. all the way down i kept on saying to myself, 'she must come--surely she will come!'" vii "i was in high spirits, but the next moment trembled like a man with ague. i reached the orchard before my time. she was not there. you know what it is like to wait? i stood still and listened; i went to the point whence i could see farthest; i said to myself, 'a watched pot never boils; if i don't look for her she will come.' i walked up and down with my eyes on the ground. the sickness of it! a hundred times i took out my watch.... perhaps it was fast, perhaps hers was slow--i can't tell you a thousandth part of my hopes and fears. there was a spring of water, in one corner. i sat beside it, and thought of the last time i had been there--and something seemed to burst in me. it was five o'clock before i lost all hope; there comes a time when you're glad that hope is dead, it means rest. 'that's over,' you say, 'now i can act.' but what was i to do? i lay down with my face to the ground; when one's in trouble, it's the only thing that helps--something to press against and cling to that can't give way. i lay there for two hours, knowing all the time that i should play the coward. at seven o'clock i left the orchard and went towards the inn; i had broken my word, but i felt happy.... i should see her--and, sir, nothing--nothing seemed to matter beside that. tor was in the garden snipping at his roses. he came up, and i could see that he couldn't look me in the face. 'where's my wife?' i said. he answered, 'let's get lucy.' i ran indoors. lucy met me with two letters; the first--my own--unopened; and the second, this: "'i have left you. you were good to me, but now--it is no use. eilie.'" "she told me that a boy had brought a letter for my wife the day before, from a young gentleman in a boat. when lucy delivered it she asked, 'who is he, miss eilie? what will mr. brune say?' my wife looked at her angrily, but gave her no answer--and all that day she never spoke. in the evening she was gone, leaving this note on the bed.... lucy cried as if her heart would break. i took her by the shoulders and put her from the room; i couldn't bear the noise. i sat down and tried to think. while i was sitting there tor came in with a letter. it was written on the notepaper of an inn twelve miles up the river: these were the words. "'eilie is mine. i am ready to meet you where you like.'" he went on with a painful evenness of speech. "when i read those words, i had only one thought--to reach them; i ran down to the river, and chose out the lightest boat. just as i was starting, tor came running. 'you dropped this letter, sir,' he said. 'two pair of arms are better than one.' he came into the boat. i took the sculls and i pulled out into the stream. i pulled like a madman; and that great man, with his bare arms crossed, was like a huge, tawny bull sitting there opposite me. presently he took my place, and i took the rudder lines. i could see his chest, covered with hair, heaving up and down, it gave me a sort of comfort--it meant that we were getting nearer. then it grew dark, there was no moon, i could barely see the bank; there's something in the dark which drives one into oneself. people tell you there comes a moment when your nature is decided--'saved' or 'lost' as they call it--for good or evil. that is not true, your self is always with you, and cannot be altered; but, sir, i believe that in a time of agony one finds out what are the things one can do, and what are those one cannot. you get to know yourself, that's all. and so it was with me. every thought and memory and passion was so clear and strong! i wanted to kill him. i wanted to kill myself. but her--no! we are taught that we possess our wives, body and soul, we are brought up in that faith, we are commanded to believe it--but when i was face to face with it, those words had no meaning; that belief, those commands, they were without meaning to me, they were--vile. oh yes, i wanted to find comfort in them, i wanted to hold on to them--but i couldn't. you may force a body; how can you force a soul? no, no--cowardly! but i wanted to--i wanted to kill him and force her to come back to me! and then, suddenly, i felt as if i were pressing right on the most secret nerve of my heart. i seemed to see her face, white and quivering, as if i'd stamped my heel on it. they say this world is ruled by force; it may be true--i know i have a weak spot in me.... i couldn't bear it. at last i jumped to my feet and shouted out, 'turn the boat round!' tor looked up at me as if i had gone mad. and i had gone mad. i seized the boat-hook and threatened him; i called him fearful names. 'sir,' he said, 'i don't take such names from any one!' 'you'll take them from me,' i shouted; 'turn the boat round, you idiot, you hound, you fish!...' i have a terrible temper, a perfect curse to me. he seemed amazed, even frightened; he sat down again suddenly and pulled the boat round. i fell on the seat, and hid my face. i believe the moon came up; there must have been a mist too, for i was cold as death. in this life, sir, we cannot hide our faces--but by degrees the pain of wounds grows less. some will have it that such blows are mortal; it is not so. time is merciful. "in the early morning i went back to london. i had fever on me--and was delirious. i dare say i should have killed myself if i had not been so used to weapons--they and i were too old friends, i suppose--i can't explain. it was a long while before i was up and about. dalton nursed me through it; his great heavy moustache had grown quite white. we never mentioned her; what was the good? there were things to settle of course, the lawyer--this was unspeakably distasteful to me. i told him it was to be as she wished, but the fellow would come to me, with his--there, i don't want to be unkind. i wished him to say it was my fault, but he said--i remember his smile now--he said, that was impossible, would be seen through, talked of collusion--i don't understand these things, and what's more, i can't bear them, they are--dirty. "two years later, when i had come back to london, after the russo-turkish war, i received a letter from her. i have it here." he took an old, yellow sheet of paper out of a leathern pockethook, spread it in his fingers, and sat staring at it. for some minutes he did not speak. "in the autumn of that same year she died in childbirth. he had deserted her. fortunately for him, he was killed on the indian frontier, that very year. if she had lived she would have been thirty-two next june; not a great age.... i know i am what they call a crank; doctors will tell you that you can't be cured of a bad illness, and be the same man again. if you are bent, to force yourself straight must leave you weak in another place. i must and will think well of women--everything done, and everything said against them is a stone on her dead body. could you sit, and listen to it?" as though driven by his own question, he rose, and paced up and down. he came back to the seat at last. "that, sir, is the reason of my behaviour this afternoon, and again this evening. you have been so kind, i wanted!--wanted to tell you. she had a little daughter--lucy has her now. my friend dalton is dead; there would have been no difficulty about money, but, i am sorry to say, that he was swindled--disgracefully. it fell to me to administer his affairs--he never knew it, but he died penniless; he had trusted some wretched fellows--had an idea they would make his fortune. as i very soon found, they had ruined him. it was impossible to let lucy--such a dear woman--bear that burden. i have tried to make provision; but, you see," he took hold of my sleeve, "i, too, have not been fortunate; in fact, it's difficult to save a great deal out of l a year; but the capital is perfectly safe--and i get l , s. a quarter, paid on the nail. i have often been tempted to reinvest at a greater rate of interest, but i've never dared. anyway, there are no debts--i've been obliged to make a rule not to buy what i couldn't pay for on the spot.... now i am really plaguing you--but i wanted to tell you--in case-anything should happen to me." he seemed to take a sudden scare, stiffened, twisted his moustache, and muttering, "your great kindness! shall never forget!" turned hurriedly away. he vanished; his footsteps, and the tap of his stick grew fainter and fainter. they died out. he was gone. suddenly i got up and hastened after him. i soon stopped--what was there to say? viii the following day i was obliged to go to nice, and did not return till midnight. the porter told me that jules le ferrier had been to see me. the next morning, while i was still in bed, the door was opened, and jules appeared. his face was very pale; and the moment he stood still drops of perspiration began coursing down his cheeks. "georges!" he said, "he is dead. there, there! how stupid you look! my man is packing. i have half an hour before the train; my evidence shall come from italy. i have done my part, the rest is for you. why did you have that dinner? the don quixote! the idiot! the poor man! don't move! have you a cigar? listen! when you followed him, i followed the other two. my infernal curiosity! can you conceive a greater folly? how fast they walked, those two! feeling their cheeks, as if he had struck them both, you know; it was funny. they soon saw me, for their eyes were all round about their heads; they had the mark of a glove on their cheeks." the colour began to come back, into jules's face; he gesticulated with his cigar and became more and more dramatic. "they waited for me. 'tiens!' said one, 'this gentleman was with him. my friend's name is m. le baron de---. the man who struck him was an odd-looking person; kindly inform me whether it is possible for my friend to meet him?' eh!" commented jules, "he was offensive! was it for me to give our dignity away? 'perfectly, monsieur!' i answered. 'in that case,' he said, 'please give me his name and ad dress.... i could not remember his name, and as for the address, i never knew it...! i reflected. 'that,' i said, 'i am unable to do, for special reasons.' 'aha!' he said, 'reasons that will prevent our fighting him, i suppose? 'on the contrary,' i said. 'i will convey your request to him; i may mention that i have heard he is the best swordsman and pistol-shot in europe. good-night!' i wished to give them something to dream of, you understand.... patience, my dear! patience! i was, coming to you, but i thought i would let them sleep on it--there was plenty of time! but yesterday morning i came into the place, and there he was on the bench, with a big dog. i declare to you he blushed like a young girl. 'sir,' he said, 'i was hoping to meet you; last evening i made a great disturbance. i took an unpardonable liberty'--and he put in my hand an envelope. my friend, what do you suppose it contained--a pair of gloves! senor don punctilioso, hein? he was the devil, this friend of yours; he fascinated me with his gentle eyes and his white moustachettes, his humility, his flames--poor man...! i told him i had been asked to take him a challenge. 'if anything comes of it,' i said, 'make use of me!' 'is that so?' he said. 'i am most grateful for your kind offer. let me see--it is so long since i fought a duel. the sooner it's over the better. could you arrange to-morrow morning? weapons? yes; let them choose.' you see, my friend, there was no hanging back here; nous voila en train." jules took out his watch. "i have sixteen minutes. it is lucky for you that you were away yesterday, or you would be in my shoes now. i fixed the place, right hand of the road to roquebrune, just by the railway cutting, and the time--five-thirty of the morning. it was arranged that i should call for him. disgusting hour; i have not been up so early since i fought jacques tirbaut in ' . at five o'clock i found him ready and drinking tea with rum in it--singular man! he made me have some too, brrr! he was shaved, and dressed in that old frock-coat. his great dog jumped into the carriage, but he bade her get out, took her paws on his shoulders, and whispered in her ear some italian words; a charm, hein! and back she went, the tail between the legs. we drove slowly, so as not to shake his arm. he was more gay than i. all the way he talked to me of you: how kind you were! how good you had been to him! 'you do not speak of yourself!' i said. 'have you no friends, nothing to say? sometimes an accident will happen!' 'oh!' he answered, 'there is no danger; but if by any chance--well, there is a letter in my pocket.' 'and if you should kill him?' i said. 'but i shall not,' he answered slyly: 'do you think i am going to fire at him? no, no; he is too young.' 'but,' i said, 'i--'i am not going to stand that!' 'yes,' he replied, 'i owe him a shot; but there is no danger--not the least danger.' we had arrived; already they were there. ah bah! you know the preliminaries, the politeness--this duelling, you know, it is absurd, after all. we placed them at twenty paces. it is not a bad place. there are pine-trees round, and rocks; at that hour it was cool and grey as a church. i handed him the pistol. how can i describe him to you, standing there, smoothing the barrel with his fingers! 'what a beautiful thing a good pistol!' he said. 'only a fool or a madman throws away his life,' i said. 'certainly,' he replied, 'certainly; but there is no danger,' and he regarded me, raising his moustachette. "there they stood then, back to back, with the mouths of their pistols to the sky. 'un!' i cried, 'deux! tirez!' they turned, i saw the smoke of his shot go straight up like a prayer; his pistol dropped. i ran to him. he looked surprised, put out his hand, and fell into my arms. he was dead. those fools came running up. 'what is it?' cried one. i made him a bow. 'as you see,' i said; 'you have made a pretty shot. my friend fired in the air. messieurs, you had better breakfast in italy.' we carried him to the carriage, and covered him with a rug; the others drove for the frontier. i brought him to his room. here is his letter." jules stopped; tears were running down his face. "he is dead; i have closed his eyes. look here, you know, we are all of us cads--it is the rule; but this--this, perhaps, was the exception." and without another word he rushed away.... outside the old fellow's lodging a dismounted cocher was standing disconsolate in the sun. "how was i to know they were going to fight a duel?" he burst out on seeing me. "he had white hair--i call you to witness he had white hair. this is bad for me: they will ravish my licence. aha! you will see--this is bad for me!" i gave him the slip and found my way upstairs. the old fellow was alone, lying on the bed, his feet covered with a rug as if he might feel cold; his eyes were closed, but in this sleep of death, he still had that air of faint surprise. at full length, watching the bed intently, freda lay, as she lay nightly when he was really asleep. the shutters were half open; the room still smelt slightly of rum. i stood for a long time looking at the face: the little white fans of moustache brushed upwards even in death, the hollows in his cheeks, the quiet of his figure; he was like some old knight.... the dog broke the spell. she sat up, and resting her paws on the bed, licked his face. i went downstairs--i couldn't bear to hear her howl. this was his letter to me, written in a pointed handwriting: "my dear sir,--should you read this, i shall be gone. i am ashamed to trouble you--a man should surely manage so as not to give trouble; and yet i believe you will not consider me importunate. if, then, you will pick up the pieces of an old fellow, i ask you to have my sword, the letter enclosed in this, and the photograph that stands on the stove buried with me. my will and the acknowledgments of my property are between the leaves of the byron in my tin chest; they should go to lucy tor--address thereon. perhaps you will do me the honour to retain for yourself any of my books that may give you pleasure. in the pilgrim's progress you will find some excellent recipes for turkish coffee, italian and spanish dishes, and washing wounds. the landlady's daughter speaks italian, and she would, i know, like to have freda; the poor dog will miss me. i have read of old indian warriors taking their horses and dogs with them to the happy hunting-grounds. freda would come--noble animals are dogs! she eats once a day--a good large meal--and requires much salt. if you have animals of your own, sir, don't forget--all animals require salt. i have no debts, thank god! the money in my pockets would bury me decently--not that there is any danger. and i am ashamed to weary you with details--the least a man can do is not to make a fuss--and yet he must be found ready.--sir, with profound gratitude, your servant, "roger brune." everything was as he had said. the photograph on the stove was that of a young girl of nineteen or twenty, dressed in an old-fashioned style, with hair gathered backward in a knot. the eyes gazed at you with a little frown, the lips were tightly closed; the expression of the face was eager, quick, wilful, and, above all, young. the tin trunk was scented with dry fragments of some herb, the history of which in that trunk man knoweth not.... there were a few clothes, but very few, all older than those he usually wore. besides the byron and pilgrim's progress were scott's quentin durward, captain marryat's midshipman easy, a pocket testament, and a long and frightfully stiff book on the art of fortifying towns, much thumbed, and bearing date . by far the most interesting thing i found, however, was a diary, kept down to the preceding christmas. it was a pathetic document, full of calculations of the price of meals; resolutions to be careful over this or that; doubts whether he must not give up smoking; sentences of fear that freda had not enough to eat. it appeared that he had tried to live on ninety pounds a year, and send the other hundred pounds home to lucy for the child; in this struggle he was always failing, having to send less than the amount-the entries showed that this was a nightmare to him. the last words, written on christmas day, were these "what is the use of writing this, since it records nothing but failure!" the landlady's daughter and myself were at the funeral. the same afternoon i went into the concert-room, where i had spoken to him first. when i came out freda was lying at the entrance, looking into the faces of every one that passed, and sniffing idly at their heels. close by the landlady's daughter hovered, a biscuit in her hand, and a puzzled, sorry look on her face. september . to my brother hubert galsworthy salvation of a forsyte i swithin forsyte lay in bed. the corners of his mouth under his white moustache drooped towards his double chin. he panted: "my doctor says i'm in a bad way, james." his twin-brother placed his hand behind his ear. "i can't hear you. they tell me i ought to take a cure. there's always a cure wanted for something. emily had a cure." swithin replied: "you mumble so. i hear my man, adolph. i trained him.... you ought to have an ear-trumpet. you're getting very shaky, james." there was silence; then james forsyte, as if galvanised, remarked: "i s'pose you've made your will. i s'pose you've left your money to the family; you've nobody else to leave it to. there was danson died the other day, and left his money to a hospital" the hairs of swithin's white moustache bristled. "my fool of a doctor told me to make my will," he said, "i hate a fellow who tells you to make your will. my appetite's good; i ate a partridge last night. i'm all the better for eating. he told me to leave off champagne! i eat a good breakfast. i'm not eighty. you're the same age, james. you look very shaky." james forsyte said: "you ought to have another opinion. have blank; he's the first man now. i had him for emily; cost me two hundred guineas. he sent her to homburg; that's the first place now. the prince was there--everybody goes there." swithin forsyte answered: "i don't get any sleep at night, now i can't get out; and i've bought a new carriage--gave a pot of money for it. d' you ever have bronchitis? they tell me champagne's dangerous; it's my belief i couldn't take a better thing." james forsyte rose. "you ought to have another opinion. emily sent her love; she would have come in, but she had to go to niagara. everybody goes there; it's the place now. rachel goes every morning: she overdoes it--she'll be laid up one of these days. there's a fancy ball there to-night; the duke gives the prizes." swithin forsyte said angrily: "i can't get things properly cooked here; at the club i get spinach decently done." the bed-clothes jerked at the tremor of his legs. james forsyte replied: "you must have done well with tintos; you must have made a lot of money by them. your ground-rents must be falling in, too. you must have any amount you don't know what to do with." he mouthed the words, as if his lips were watering. swithin forsyte glared. "money!" he said; "my doctor's bill's enormous." james forsyte stretched out a cold, damp hand "goodbye! you ought to have another opinion. i can't keep the horses waiting: they're a new pair--stood me in three hundred. you ought to take care of yourself. i shall speak to blank about you. you ought to have him--everybody says he's the first man. good-bye!" swithin forsyte continued to stare at the ceiling. he thought: 'a poor thing, james! a selfish beggar! must be worth a couple of hundred thousand!' he wheezed, meditating on life.... he was ill and lonely. for many years he had been lonely, and for two years ill; but as he had smoked his first cigar, so he would live his life-stoutly, to its predestined end. every day he was driven to the club; sitting forward on the spring cushions of a single brougham, his hands on his knees, swaying a little, strangely solemn. he ascended the steps into that marble hall--the folds of his chin wedged into the aperture of his collar--walking squarely with a stick. later he would dine, eating majestically, and savouring his food, behind a bottle of champagne set in an ice-pail--his waistcoat defended by a napkin, his eyes rolling a little or glued in a stare on the waiter. never did he suffer his head or back to droop, for it was not distinguished so to do. because he was old and deaf, he spoke to no one; and no one spoke to him. the club gossip, an irishman, said to each newcomer: "old forsyte! look at 'um! must ha' had something in his life to sour 'um!" but swithin had had nothing in his life to sour him. for many days now he had lain in bed in a room exuding silver, crimson, and electric light, smelling of opopanax and of cigars. the curtains were drawn, the firelight gleamed; on a table by his bed were a jug of barley-water and the times. he made an attempt to read, failed, and fell again to thinking. his face with its square chin, looked like a block of pale leather bedded in the pillow. it was lonely! a woman in the room would have made all the difference! why had he never married? he breathed hard, staring froglike at the ceiling; a memory had come into his mind. it was a long time ago--forty odd years--but it seemed like yesterday.... it happened when he was thirty-eight, for the first and only time in his life travelling on the continent, with his twin-brother james and a man named traquair. on the way from germany to venice, he had found himself at the hotel goldene alp at salzburg. it was late august, and weather for the gods: sunshine on the walls and the shadows of the vine-leaves, and at night, the moonlight, and again on the walls the shadows of the vine-leaves. averse to the suggestions of other people, swithin had refused to visit the citadel; he had spent the day alone in the window of his bedroom, smoking a succession of cigars, and disparaging the appearance of the passers-by. after dinner he was driven by boredom into the streets. his chest puffed out like a pigeon's, and with something of a pigeon's cold and inquiring eye, he strutted, annoyed at the frequency of uniforms, which seemed to him both needless and offensive. his spleen rose at this crowd of foreigners, who spoke an unintelligible language, wore hair on their faces, and smoked bad tobacco. 'a queer lot!' he thought. the sound of music from a cafe attracted him; he walked in, vaguely moved by a wish for the distinction of adventure, without the trouble which adventure usually brought with it; spurred too, perhaps, by an after-dinner demon. the cafe was the bier-halle of the 'fifties, with a door at either end, and lighted by a large wooden lantern. on a small dais three musicians were fiddling. solitary men, or groups, sat at some dozen tables, and the waiters hurried about replenishing glasses; the air was thick with smoke. swithin sat down. "wine!" he said sternly. the astonished waiter brought him wine. swithin pointed to a beer glass on the table. "here!" he said, with the same ferocity. the waiter poured out the wine. 'ah!' thought swithin, 'they can understand if they like.' a group of officers close by were laughing; swithin stared at them uneasily. a hollow cough sounded almost in his ear. to his left a man sat reading, with his elbows on the corners of a journal, and his gaunt shoulders raised almost to his eyes. he had a thin, long nose, broadening suddenly at the nostrils; a black-brown beard, spread in a savage fan over his chest; what was visible of the face was the colour of old parchment. a strange, wild, haughty-looking creature! swithin observed his clothes with some displeasure--they were the clothes of a journalist or strolling actor. and yet he was impressed. this was singular. how could he be impressed by a fellow in such clothes! the man reached out a hand, covered with black hairs, and took up a tumbler that contained a dark-coloured fluid. 'brandy!' thought swithin. the crash of a falling chair startled him--his neighbour had risen. he was of immense height, and very thin; his great beard seemed to splash away from his mouth; he was glaring at the group of officers, and speaking. swithin made out two words: "hunde! deutsche hunde!" 'hounds! dutch hounds!' he thought: 'rather strong!' one of the officers had jumped up, and now drew his sword. the tall man swung his chair up, and brought it down with a thud. everybody round started up and closed on him. the tall man cried out, "to me, magyars!" swithin grinned. the tall man fighting such odds excited his unwilling admiration; he had a momentary impulse to go to his assistance. 'only get a broken nose!' he thought, and looked for a safe corner. but at that moment a thrown lemon struck him on the jaw. he jumped out of his chair and rushed at the officers. the hungarian, swinging his chair, threw him a look of gratitude--swithin glowed with momentary admiration of himself. a sword blade grazed his--arm; he felt a sudden dislike of the hungarian. 'this is too much,' he thought, and, catching up a chair, flung it at the wooden lantern. there was a crash--faces and swords vanished. he struck a match, and by the light of it bolted for the door. a second later he was in the street. ii a voice said in english, "god bless you, brother!" swithin looked round, and saw the tall hungarian holding out his hand. he took it, thinking, 'what a fool i've been!' there was something in the hungarian's gesture which said, "you are worthy of me!" it was annoying, but rather impressive. the man seemed even taller than before; there was a cut on his cheek, the blood from which was trickling down his beard. "you english!" he said. "i saw you stone haynau--i saw you cheer kossuth. the free blood of your people cries out to us." he looked at swithin. "you are a big man, you have a big soul--and strong, how you flung them down! ha!" swithin had an impulse to take to his heels. "my name," said the hungarian, "is boleskey. you are my friend." his english was good. 'bulsh-kai-ee, burlsh-kai-ee,' thought swithin; 'what a devil of a name!' "mine," he said sulkily, "is forsyte." the hungarian repeated it. "you've had a nasty jab on the cheek," said swithin; the sight of the matted beard was making him feel sick. the hungarian put his fingers to his cheek, brought them away wet, stared at them, then with an indifferent air gathered a wisp of his beard and crammed it against the cut. "ugh!" said swithin. "here! take my handkerchief!" the hungarian bowed. "thank you!" he said; "i couldn't think of it! thank you a thousand times!" "take it!" growled swithin; it seemed to him suddenly of the first importance. he thrust the handkerchief into the hungarian's hand, and felt a pain in his arm. 'there!' he thought, 'i've strained a muscle.' the hungarian kept muttering, regardless of passers-by, "swine! how you threw them over! two or three cracked heads, anyway--the cowardly swine!" "look here!" said swithin suddenly; "which is my way to the goldene alp?" the hungarian replied, "but you are coming with me, for a glass of wine?" swithin looked at the ground. 'not if i know it!' he thought. "ah!" said the hungarian with dignity, "you do not wish for my friendship!" 'touchy beggar!' thought swithin. "of course," he stammered, "if you put it in that way--" the hungarian bowed, murmuring, "forgive me!" they had not gone a dozen steps before a youth, with a beardless face and hollow cheeks, accosted them. "for the love of christ, gentlemen," he said, "help me!" "are you a german?" asked boleskey. "yes," said the youth. "then you may rot!" "master, look here!" tearing open his coat, the youth displayed his skin, and a leather belt drawn tight round it. again swithin felt that desire to take to his heels. he was filled with horrid forebodings--a sense of perpending intimacy with things such as no gentleman had dealings with. the hungarian crossed himself. "brother," he said to the youth, "come you in!" swithin looked at them askance, and followed. by a dim light they groped their way up some stairs into a large room, into which the moon was shining through a window bulging over the street. a lamp burned low; there was a smell of spirits and tobacco, with a faint, peculiar scent, as of rose leaves. in one corner stood a czymbal, in another a great pile of newspapers. on the wall hung some old-fashioned pistols, and a rosary of yellow beads. everything was tidily arranged, but dusty. near an open fireplace was a table with the remains of a meal. the ceiling, floor, and walls were all of dark wood. in spite of the strange disharmony, the room had a sort of refinement. the hungarian took a bottle out of a cupboard and, filling some glasses, handed one to swithin. swithin put it gingerly to his nose. 'you never know your luck! come!' he thought, tilting it slowly into his mouth. it was thick, too sweet, but of a fine flavour. "brothers!" said the hungarian, refilling, "your healths!" the youth tossed off his wine. and swithin this time did the same; he pitied this poor devil of a youth now. "come round to-morrow!" he said, "i'll give you a shirt or two." when the youth was gone, however, he remembered with relief that he had not given his address. 'better so,' he reflected. 'a humbug, no doubt.' "what was that you said to him?" he asked of the hungarian. "i said," answered boleskey, "'you have eaten and drunk; and now you are my enemy!'" "quite right!" said swithin, "quite right! a beggar is every man's enemy." "you do not understand," the hungarian replied politely. "while he was a beggar--i, too, have had to beg" (swithin thought, 'good god! this is awful!'), "but now that he is no longer hungry, what is he but a german? no austrian dog soils my floors!" his nostrils, as it seemed to swithin, had distended in an unpleasant fashion; and a wholly unnecessary raucousness invaded his voice. "i am an exile--all of my blood are exiles. those godless dogs!" swithin hurriedly assented. as he spoke, a face peeped in at the door. "rozsi!" said the hungarian. a young girl came in. she was rather short, with a deliciously round figure and a thick plait of hair. she smiled, and showed her even teeth; her little, bright, wide-set grey eyes glanced from one man to the other. her face was round, too, high in the cheekbones, the colour of wild roses, with brows that had a twist-up at the corners. with a gesture of alarm, she put her hand to her cheek, and called, "margit!" an older girl appeared, taller, with fine shoulders, large eyes, a pretty mouth, and what swithin described to himself afterwards as a "pudding" nose. both girls, with little cooing sounds, began attending to their father's face. swithin turned his back to them. his arm pained him. 'this is what comes of interfering,' he thought sulkily; 'i might have had my neck broken!' suddenly a soft palm was placed in his, two eyes, half-fascinated, half-shy, looked at him; then a voice called, "rozsi!" the door was slammed, he was alone again with the hungarian, harassed by a sense of soft disturbance. "your daughter's name is rosy?" he said; "we have it in england--from rose, a flower." "rozsi (rozgi)," the hungarian replied; "your english is a hard tongue, harder than french, german, or czechish, harder than russian, or roumanian--i know no more." "what?" said swithin, "six languages?" privately he thought, 'he knows how to lie, anyway.' "if you lived in a country like mine," muttered the hungarian, "with all men's hands against you! a free people--dying--but not dead!" swithin could not imagine what he was talking of. this man's face, with its linen bandage, gloomy eyes, and great black wisps of beard, his fierce mutterings, and hollow cough, were all most unpleasant. he seemed to be suffering from some kind of mental dog-bite. his emotion indeed appeared so indecent, so uncontrolled and open, that its obvious sincerity produced a sort of awe in swithin. it was like being forced to look into a furnace. boleskey stopped roaming up and down. "you think it's over?" he said; "i tell you, in the breast of each one of us magyars there is a hell. what is sweeter than life? what is more sacred than each breath we draw? ah! my country!" these words were uttered so slowly, with such intense mournfulness, that swithin's jaw relaxed; he converted the movement to a yawn. "tell me," said boleskey, "what would you do if the french conquered you?" swithin smiled. then suddenly, as though something had hurt him, he grunted, "the 'froggies'? let 'em try!" "drink!" said boleskey--"there is nothing like it"; he filled swithin's glass. "i will tell you my story." swithin rose hurriedly. "it's late," he said. "this is good stuff, though; have you much of it?" "it is the last bottle." "what?" said swithin; "and you gave it to a beggar?" "my name is boleskey--stefan," the hungarian said, raising his head; "of the komorn boleskeys." the simplicity of this phrase--as who shall say: what need of further description?--made an impression on swithin; he stopped to listen. boleskey's story went on and on. "there were many abuses," boomed his deep voice, "much wrong done--much cowardice. i could see clouds gathering--rolling over our plains. the austrian wished to strangle the breath of our mouths--to take from us the shadow of our liberty--the shadow--all we had. two years ago--the year of ' , when every man and boy answered the great voice--brother, a dog's life!--to use a pen when all of your blood are fighting, but it was decreed for me! my son was killed; my brothers taken--and myself was thrown out like a dog--i had written out my heart, i had written out all the blood that was in my body!" he seemed to tower, a gaunt shadow of a man, with gloomy, flickering eyes staring at the wall. swithin rose, and stammered, "much obliged--very interesting." boleskey made no effort to detain him, but continued staring at the wall. "good-night!" said swithin, and stamped heavily downstairs. iii when at last swithin reached the goldene alp, he found his brother and friend standing uneasily at the door. traquair, a prematurely dried-up man, with whiskers and a scotch accent, remarked, "ye're airly, man!" swithin growled something unintelligible, and swung up to bed. he discovered a slight cut on his arm. he was in a savage temper--the elements had conspired to show him things he did not want to see; yet now and then a memory of rozsi, of her soft palm in his, a sense of having been stroked and flattered, came over him. during breakfast next morning his brother and traquair announced their intention of moving on. james forsyte, indeed, remarked that it was no place for a "collector," since all the "old" shops were in the hands of jews or very grasping persons--he had discovered this at once. swithin pushed his cup aside. "you may do what you like," he said, "i'm staying here." james forsyte replied, tumbling over his own words: "why! what do you want to stay here for? there's nothing for you to do here--there's nothing to see here, unless you go up the citadel, an' you won't do that." swithin growled, "who says so?" having gratified his perversity, he felt in a better temper. he had slung his arm in a silk sash, and accounted for it by saying he had slipped. later he went out and walked on to the bridge. in the brilliant sunshine spires were glistening against the pearly background of the hills; the town had a clean, joyous air. swithin glanced at the citadel and thought, 'looks a strong place! shouldn't wonder if it were impregnable!' and this for some occult reason gave him pleasure. it occurred to him suddenly to go and look for the hungarian's house. about noon, after a hunt of two hours, he was gazing about him blankly, pale with heat, but more obstinate than ever, when a voice above him called, "mister!" he looked up and saw rozsi. she was leaning her round chin on her round hand, gazing down at him with her deepset, clever eyes. when swithin removed his hat, she clapped her hands. again he had the sense of being admired, caressed. with a careless air, that sat grotesquely on his tall square person, he walked up to the door; both girls stood in the passage. swithin felt a confused desire to speak in some foreign tongue. "maam'selles," he began, "er--bong jour-er, your father--pare, comment?" "we also speak english," said the elder girl; "will you come in, please?" swithin swallowed a misgiving, and entered. the room had a worn appearance by daylight, as if it had always been the nest of tragic or vivid lives. he sat down, and his eyes said: "i am a stranger, but don't try to get the better of me, please--that is impossible." the girls looked at him in silence. rozsi wore a rather short skirt of black stuff, a white shirt, and across her shoulders an embroidered yoke; her sister was dressed in dark green, with a coral necklace; both girls had their hair in plaits. after a minute rozsi touched the sleeve of his hurt arm. "it's nothing!" muttered swithin. "father fought with a chair, but you had no chair," she said in a wondering voice. he doubled the fist of his sound arm and struck a blow at space. to his amazement she began to laugh. nettled at this, he put his hand beneath the heavy table and lifted it. rozsi clapped her hands. "ah i now i see--how strong you are!" she made him a curtsey and whisked round to the window. he found the quick intelligence of her eyes confusing; sometimes they seemed to look beyond him at something invisible--this, too, confused him. from margit he learned that they had been two years in england, where their father had made his living by teaching languages; they had now been a year in salzburg. "we wait," suddenly said. rozsi; and margit, with a solemn face, repeated, "we wait." swithin's eyes swelled a little with his desire to see what they were waiting for. how queer they were, with their eyes that gazed beyond him! he looked at their figures. 'she would pay for dressing,' he thought, and he tried to imagine rozsi in a skirt with proper flounces, a thin waist, and hair drawn back over her ears. she would pay for dressing, with that supple figure, fluffy hair, and little hands! and instantly his own hands, face, and clothes disturbed him. he got up, examined the pistols on the wall, and felt resentment at the faded, dusty room. 'smells like a pot-house!' he thought. he sat down again close to rozsi. "do you love to dance?" she asked; "to dance is to live. first you hear the music--how your feet itch! it is wonderful! you begin slow, quick--quicker; you fly--you know nothing--your feet are in the air. it is wonderful!" a slow flush had mounted into swithin's face. "ah!" continued rozsi, her eyes fixed on him, "when i am dancing--out there i see the plains--your feet go one--two--three--quick, quick, quick, quicker--you fly." she stretched herself, a shiver seemed to pass all down her. "margit! dance!" and, to swithin's consternation, the two girls--their hands on each other's shoulders--began shuffling their feet and swaying to and fro. their heads were thrown back, their eyes half-closed; suddenly the step quickened, they swung to one side, then to the other, and began whirling round in front of him. the sudden fragrance of rose leaves enveloped him. round they flew again. while they were still dancing, boleskey came into the room. he caught swithin by both hands. "brother, welcome! ah! your arm is hurt! i do not forget." his yellow face and deep-set eyes expressed a dignified gratitude. "let me introduce to you my friend baron kasteliz." swithin bowed to a man with a small forehead, who had appeared softly, and stood with his gloved hands touching his waist. swithin conceived a sudden aversion for this catlike man. about boleskey there was that which made contempt impossible--the sense of comradeship begotten in the fight; the man's height; something lofty and savage in his face; and an obscure instinct that it would not pay to show distaste; but this kasteliz, with his neat jaw, low brow, and velvety, volcanic look, excited his proper english animosity. "your friends are mine," murmured kasteliz. he spoke with suavity, and hissed his s's. a long, vibrating twang quavered through the room. swithin turned and saw rozsi sitting at the czymbal; the notes rang under the little hammers in her hands, incessant, metallic, rising and falling with that strange melody. kasteliz had fixed his glowing eyes on her; boleskey, nodding his head, was staring at the floor; margit, with a pale face, stood like a statue. 'what can they see in it?' thought swithin; 'it's not a tune.' he took up his hat. rozsi saw him and stopped; her lips had parted with a faintly dismayed expression. his sense of personal injury diminished; he even felt a little sorry for her. she jumped up from her seat and twirled round with a pout. an inspiration seized on swithin. "come and dine with me," he said to boleskey, "to-morrow--the goldene alp--bring your friend." he felt the eyes of the whole room on him--the hungarian's fine eyes; margit's wide glance; the narrow, hot gaze of kasteliz; and lastly--rozsi's. a glow of satisfaction ran down his spine. when he emerged into the street he thought gloomily, 'now i've done it!' and not for some paces did he look round; then, with a forced smile, turned and removed his hat to the faces at the window. notwithstanding this moment of gloom, however, he was in an exalted state all day, and at dinner kept looking at his brother and traquair enigmatically. 'what do they know of life?' he thought; 'they might be here a year and get no farther.' he made jokes, and pinned the menu to the waiter's coat-tails. "i like this place," he said, "i shall spend three weeks here." james, whose lips were on the point of taking in a plum, looked at him uneasily. iv on the day of the dinner swithin suffered a good deal. he reflected gloomily on boleskey's clothes. he had fixed an early hour--there would be fewer people to see them. when the time approached he attired himself with a certain neat splendour, and though his arm was still sore, left off the sling.... nearly three hours afterwards he left the goldene alp between his guests. it was sunset, and along the riverbank the houses stood out, unsoftened by the dusk; the streets were full of people hurrying home. swithin had a hazy vision of empty bottles, of the ground before his feet, and the accessibility of all the world. dim recollections of the good things he had said, of his brother and traquair seated in the background eating ordinary meals with inquiring, acid visages, caused perpetual smiles to break out on his face, and he steered himself stubbornly, to prove that he was a better man than either' of his guests. he knew, vaguely, that he was going somewhere with an object; rozsi's face kept dancing before him, like a promise. once or twice he gave kasteliz a glassy stare. towards boleskey, on the other hand, he felt quite warm, and recalled with admiration the way he had set his glass down empty, time after time. 'i like to see him take his liquor,' he thought; 'the fellow's a gentleman, after all.' boleskey strode on, savagely inattentive to everything; and kasteliz had become more like a cat than ever. it was nearly dark when they reached a narrow street close to the cathedral. they stopped at a door held open by an old woman. the change from the fresh air to a heated corridor, the noise of the door closed behind him, the old woman's anxious glances, sobered swithin. "i tell her," said boleskey, "that i reply for you as for my son." swithin was angry. what business had this man to reply for him! they passed into a large room, crowded with men all women; swithin noticed that they all looked fit him. he stared at them in turn--they seemed of all classes, some in black coats or silk dresses, others in the clothes of work-people; one man, a cobbler, still wore his leather apron, as if he had rushed there straight from his work. laying his hand on swithin's arm, boleskey evidently began explaining who he was; hands were extended, people beyond reach bowed to him. swithin acknowledged the greetings with a stiff motion of his head; then seeing other people dropping into seats, he, too, sat down. some one whispered his name--margit and rozsi were just behind him. "welcome!" said margit; but swithin was looking at rozsi. her face was so alive and quivering! 'what's the excitement all about?' he thought. 'how pretty she looks!' she blushed, drew in her hands with a quick tense movement, and gazed again beyond him into the room. 'what is it?' thought swithin; he had a longing to lean back and kiss her lips. he tried angrily to see what she was seeing in those faces turned all one way. boleskey rose to speak. no one moved; not a sound could be heard but the tone of his deep voice. on and on he went, fierce and solemn, and with the rise of his voice, all those faces-fair or swarthy--seemed to be glowing with one and the same feeling. swithin felt the white heat in those faces--it was not decent! in that whole speech he only understood the one word--"magyar" which came again and again. he almost dozed off at last. the twang of a czymbal woke him. 'what?' he thought, 'more of that infernal music!' margit, leaning over him, whispered: "listen! racoczy! it is forbidden!" swithin saw that rozsi was no longer in her seat; it was she who was striking those forbidden notes. he looked round--everywhere the same unmoving faces, the same entrancement, and fierce stillness. the music sounded muffled, as if it, too, were bursting its heart in silence. swithin felt within him a touch of panic. was this a den of tigers? the way these people listened, the ferocity of their stillness, was frightful...! he gripped his chair and broke into a perspiration; was there no chance to get away? 'when it stops,' he thought, 'there'll be a rush!' but there was only a greater silence. it flashed across him that any hostile person coming in then would be torn to pieces. a woman sobbed. the whole thing was beyond words unpleasant. he rose, and edged his way furtively towards the doorway. there was a cry of "police!" the whole crowd came pressing after him. swithin would soon have been out, but a little behind he caught sight of rozsi swept off her feet. her frightened eyes angered him. 'she doesn't deserve it,' he thought sulkily; 'letting all this loose!' and forced his way back to her. she clung to him, and a fever went stealing through his veins; he butted forward at the crowd, holding her tight. when they were outside he let her go. "i was afraid," she said. "afraid!" muttered swithin; "i should think so." no longer touching her, he felt his grievance revive. "but you are so strong," she murmured. "this is no place for you," growled swithin, "i'm going to see you home." "oh!" cried rozsi; "but papa and--margit!" "that's their look-out!" and he hurried her away. she slid her hand under his arm; the soft curves of her form brushed him gently, each touch only augmented his ill-humour. he burned with a perverse rage, as if all the passions in him were simmering and ready to boil over; it was as if a poison were trying to work its way out of him, through the layers of his stolid flesh. he maintained a dogged silence; rozsi, too, said nothing, but when they reached the door, she drew her hand away. "you are angry!" she said. "angry," muttered swithin; "no! how d'you make that out?" he had a torturing desire to kiss her. "yes, you are angry," she repeated; "i wait here for papa and margit." swithin also waited, wedged against the wall. once or twice, for his sight was sharp, he saw her steal a look at him, a beseeching look, and hardened his heart with a kind of pleasure. after five minutes boleskey, margit, and kasteliz appeared. seeing rozsi they broke into exclamations of relief, and kasteliz, with a glance at swithin, put his lips to her hand. rozsi's look said, "wouldn't you like to do that?" swithin turned short on his heel, and walked away. v all night he hardly slept, suffering from fever, for the first time in his life. once he jumped out of bed, lighted a candle, and going to the glass, scrutinised himself long and anxiously. after this he fell asleep, but had frightful dreams. his first thought when he woke was, 'my liver's out of order!' and, thrusting his head into cold water, he dressed hastily and went out. he soon left the house behind. dew covered everything; blackbirds whistled in the bushes; the air was fresh and sweet. he had not been up so early since he was a boy. why was he walking through a damp wood at this hour of the morning? something intolerable and unfamiliar must have sent him out. no fellow in his senses would do such a thing! he came to a dead stop, and began unsteadily to walk back. regaining the hotel, he went to bed again, and dreamed that in some wild country he was living in a room full of insects, where a housemaid--rozsi--holding a broom, looked at him with mournful eyes. there seemed an unexplained need for immediate departure; he begged her to forward his things; and shake them out carefully before she put them into the trunk. he understood that the charge for sending would be twenty-two shillings, thought it a great deal, and had the horrors of indecision. "no," he muttered, "pack, and take them myself." the housemaid turned suddenly into a lean creature; and he awoke with a sore feeling in his heart. his eye fell on his wet boots. the whole thing was scaring, and jumping up, he began to throw his clothes into his trunks. it was twelve o'clock before he went down, and found his brother and traquair still at the table arranging an itinerary; he surprised them by saying that he too was coming; and without further explanation set to work to eat. james had heard that there were salt-mines in the neighbourhood--his proposal was to start, and halt an hour or so on the road for their inspection; he said: "everybody'll ask you if you've seen the salt-mines: i shouldn't like to say i hadn't seen the salt-mines. what's the good, they'd say, of your going there if you haven't seen the salt-mines?" he wondered, too, if they need fee the second waiter--an idle chap! a discussion followed; but swithin ate on glumly, conscious that his mind was set on larger affairs. suddenly on the far side of the street rozsi and her sister passed, with little baskets on their arms. he started up, and at that moment rozsi looked round--her face was the incarnation of enticement, the chin tilted, the lower lip thrust a little forward, her round neck curving back over her shoulder. swithin muttered, "make your own arrangements--leave me out!" and hurried from the room, leaving james beside himself with interest and alarm. when he reached the street, however, the girls had disappeared. he hailed a carriage. "drive!" he called to the man, with a flourish of his stick, and as soon as the wheels had begun to clatter on the stones he leaned back, looking sharply to right and left. he soon had to give up thought of finding them, but made the coachman turn round and round again. all day he drove about, far into the country, and kept urging the driver to use greater speed. he was in a strange state of hurry and elation. finally, he dined at a little country inn; and this gave the measure of his disturbance--the dinner was atrocious. returning late in the evening he found a note written by traquair. "are you in your senses, man?" it asked; "we have no more time to waste idling about here. if you want to rejoin us, come on to danielli's hotel, venice." swithin chuckled when he read it, and feeling frightfully tired, went to bed and slept like a log. vi three weeks later he was still in salzburg, no longer at the goldene alp, but in rooms over a shop near the boleskeys'. he had spent a small fortune in the purchase of flowers. margit would croon over them, but rozsi, with a sober "many tanks!" as if they were her right, would look long at herself in the glass, and pin one into her hair. swithin ceased to wonder; he ceased to wonder at anything they did. one evening he found boleskey deep in conversation with a pale, dishevelled-looking person. "our friend mr. forsyte--count d....," said boleskey. swithin experienced a faint, unavoidable emotion; but looking at the count's trousers, he thought: 'doesn't look much like one!' and with an ironic bow to the silent girls, he turned, and took his hat. but when he had reached the bottom of the dark stairs he heard footsteps. rozsi came running down, looked out at the door, and put her hands up to her breast as if disappointed; suddenly with a quick glance round she saw him. swithin caught her arm. she slipped away, and her face seemed to bubble with defiance or laughter; she ran up three steps, stopped, looked at him across her shoulder, and fled on up the stairs. swithin went out bewildered and annoyed. 'what was she going to say to me?' he kept thinking. during these three weeks he had asked himself all sorts of questions: whether he were being made a fool of; whether she were in love with him; what he was doing there, and sometimes at night, with all his candles burning as if he wanted light, the breeze blowing on him through the window, his cigar, half-smoked, in his hand, he sat, an hour or more, staring at the wall. 'enough of this!' he thought every morning. twice he packed fully--once he ordered his travelling carriage, but countermanded it the following day. what definitely he hoped, intended, resolved, he could not have said. he was always thinking of rozsi, he could not read the riddle in her face--she held him in a vice, notwithstanding that everything about her threatened the very fetishes of his existence. and boleskey! whenever he looked at him he thought, 'if he were only clean?' and mechanically fingered his own well-tied cravatte. to talk with the fellow, too, was like being forced to look at things which had no place in the light of day. freedom, equality, self-sacrifice! 'why can't he settle down at some business,' he thought, 'instead of all this talk?' boleskey's sudden diffidences, self-depreciation, fits of despair, irritated him. "morbid beggar!" he would mutter; "thank god i haven't a thin skin." and proud too! extraordinary! an impecunious fellow like that! one evening, moreover, boleskey had returned home drunk. swithin had hustled him away into his bedroom, helped him to undress, and stayed until he was asleep. 'too much of a good thing!' he thought, 'before his own daughters, too!' it was after this that he ordered his travelling carriage. the other occasion on which he packed was one evening, when not only boleskey, but rozsi herself had picked chicken bones with her fingers. often in the mornings he would go to the mirabell garden to smoke his cigar; there, in stolid contemplation of the statues--rows of half-heroic men carrying off half-distressful females--he would spend an hour pleasantly, his hat tilted to keep the sun off his nose. the day after rozsi had fled from him on the stairs, he came there as usual. it was a morning of blue sky and sunlight glowing on the old prim garden, on its yew-trees, and serio-comic statues, and walls covered with apricots and plums. when swithin approached his usual seat, who should be sitting there but rozsi--"good-morning," he stammered; "you knew this was my seat then?" rozsi looked at the ground. "yes," she answered. swithin felt bewildered. "do you know," he said, "you treat me very funnily?" to his surprise rozsi put her little soft hand down and touched his; then, without a word, sprang up and rushed away. it took him a minute to recover. there were people present; he did not like to run, but overtook her on the bridge, and slipped her hand beneath his arm. "you shouldn't have done that," he said; "you shouldn't have run away from me, you know." rozsi laughed. swithin withdrew his arm; a desire to shake her seized him. he walked some way before he said, "will you have the goodness to tell me what you came to that seat for?" rozsi flashed a look at him. "to-morrow is the fete," she answered. swithin muttered, "is that all?" "if you do not take us, we cannot go." "suppose i refuse," he said sullenly, "there are plenty of others." rozsi bent her head, scurrying along. "no," she murmured, "if you do not go--i do not wish." swithin drew her hand back within his arm. how round and soft it was! he tried to see her face. when she was nearly home he said goodbye, not wishing, for some dark reason, to be seen with her. he watched till she had disappeared; then slowly retraced his steps to the mirabell garden. when he came to where she had been sitting, he slowly lighted his cigar, and for a long time after it was smoked out remained there in the silent presence of the statues. vii a crowd of people wandered round the booths, and swithin found himself obliged to give the girls his arms. 'like a little cockney clerk!' he thought. his indignation passed unnoticed; they talked, they laughed, each sight and sound in all the hurly-burly seemed to go straight into their hearts. he eyed them ironically--their eager voices, and little coos of sympathy seemed to him vulgar. in the thick of the crowd he slipped his arm out of margit's, but, just as he thought that he was free, the unwelcome hand slid up again. he tried again, but again margit reappeared, serene, and full of pleasant humour; and his failure this time appeared to him in a comic light. but when rozsi leaned across him, the glow of her round cheek, her curving lip, the inscrutable grey gleam of her eyes, sent a thrill of longing through him. he was obliged to stand by while they parleyed with a gipsy, whose matted locks and skinny hands inspired him with a not unwarranted disgust. "folly!" he muttered, as rozsi held out her palm. the old woman mumbled, and shot a malignant look at him. rozsi drew back her hand, and crossed herself. 'folly!' swithin thought again; and seizing the girls' arms, he hurried them away. "what did the old hag say?" he asked. rozsi shook her head. "you don't mean that you believe?" her eyes were full of tears. "the gipsies are wise," she murmured. "come, what did she tell you?" this time rozsi looked hurriedly round, and slipped away into the crowd. after a hunt they found her, and swithin, who was scared, growled: "you shouldn't do such things--it's not respectable." on higher ground, in the centre of a clear space, a military band was playing. for the privilege of entering this charmed circle swithin paid three kronen, choosing naturally the best seats. he ordered wine, too, watching rozsi out of the corner of his eye as he poured it out. the protecting tenderness of yesterday was all lost in this medley. it was every man for himself, after all! the colour had deepened again in her cheeks, she laughed, pouting her lips. suddenly she put her glass aside. "thank you, very much," she said, "it is enough!" margit, whose pretty mouth was all smiles, cried, "lieber gott! is it not good-life?" it was not a question swithin could undertake to answer. the band began to play a waltz. "now they will dance. lieber gott! and are the lights not wonderful?" lamps were flickering beneath the trees like a swarm of fireflies. there was a hum as from a gigantic beehive. passers-by lifted their faces, then vanished into the crowd; rozsi stood gazing at them spellbound, as if their very going and coming were a delight. the space was soon full of whirling couples. rozsi's head began to beat time. "o margit!" she whispered. swithin's face had assumed a solemn, uneasy expression. a man raising his hat, offered his arm to margit. she glanced back across her shoulder to reassure swithin. "it is a friend," she said. swithin looked at rozsi--her eyes were bright, her lips tremulous. he slipped his hand along the table and touched her fingers. then she flashed a look at him--appeal, reproach, tenderness, all were expressed in it. was she expecting him to dance? did she want to mix with the rift-raff there; wish him to make an exhibition of himself in this hurly-burly? a voice said, "good-evening!" before them stood kasteliz, in a dark coat tightly buttoned at the waist. "you are not dancing, rozsi kozsanony?" (miss rozsi). "let me, then, have the pleasure." he held out his arm. swithin stared in front of him. in the very act of going she gave him a look that said as plain as words: "will you not?" but for answer he turned his eyes away, and when he looked again she was gone. he paid the score and made his way into the crowd. but as he went she danced by close to him, all flushed and panting. she hung back as if to stop him, and he caught the glistening of tears. then he lost sight of her again. to be deserted the first minute he was alone with her, and for that jackanapes with the small head and the volcanic glances! it was too much! and suddenly it occurred to him that she was alone with kasteliz--alone at night, and far from home. 'well,' he thought, 'what do i care?' and shouldered his way on through the crowd. it served him right for mixing with such people here. he left the fair, but the further he went, the more he nursed his rage, the more heinous seemed her offence, the sharper grew his jealousy. "a beggarly baron!" was his thought. a figure came alongside--it was boleskey. one look showed swithin his condition. drunk again! this was the last straw! unfortunately boleskey had recognised him. he seemed violently excited. "where--where are my daughters?" he began. swithin brushed past, but boleskey caught his arm. "listen--brother!" he said; "news of my country! after to-morrow...." "keep it to yourself!" growled swithin, wrenching his arm free. he went straight to his lodgings, and, lying on the hard sofa of his unlighted sitting-room, gave himself up to bitter thoughts. but in spite of all his anger, rozsi's supply-moving figure, with its pouting lips, and roguish appealing eyes, still haunted him. viii next morning there was not a carriage to be had, and swithin was compelled to put off his departure till the morrow. the day was grey and misty; he wandered about with the strained, inquiring look of a lost dog in his eyes. late in the afternoon he went back to his lodgings. in a corner of the sitting-room stood rozsi. the thrill of triumph, the sense of appeasement, the emotion, that seized on him, crept through to his lips in a faint smile. rozsi made no sound, her face was hidden by her hands. and this silence of hers weighed on swithin. she was forcing him to break it. what was behind her hands? his own face was visible! why didn't she speak? why was she here? alone? that was not right surely. suddenly rozsi dropped her hands; her flushed face was quivering--it seemed as though a word, a sign, even, might bring a burst of tears. he walked over to the window. 'i must give her time!' he thought; then seized by unreasoning terror at this silence, spun round, and caught her by the arms. rozsi held back from him, swayed forward and buried her face on his breast.... half an hour later swithin was pacing up and down his room. the scent of rose leaves had not yet died away. a glove lay on the floor; he picked it up, and for a long time stood weighing it in his hand. all sorts of confused thoughts and feelings haunted him. it was the purest and least selfish moment of his life, this moment after she had yielded. but that pure gratitude at her fiery, simple abnegation did not last; it was followed by a petty sense of triumph, and by uneasiness. he was still weighing the little glove in his hand, when he had another visitor. it was kasteliz. "what can i do for you?" swithin asked ironically. the hungarian seemed suffering from excitement. why had swithin left his charges the night before? what excuse had he to make? what sort of conduct did he call this? swithin, very like a bull-dog at that moment, answered: what business was it of his? the business of a gentleman! what right had the englishman to pursue a young girl? "pursue?" said swithin; "you've been spying, then?" "spying--i--kasteliz--maurus johann--an insult!" "insult!" sneered swithin; "d'you mean to tell me you weren't in the street just now?" kasteliz answered with a hiss, "if you do not leave the city i will make you, with my sword--do you understand?" "and if you do not leave my room i will throw you out of the window!" for some minutes kasteliz spoke in pure hungarian while swithin waited, with a forced smile and a fixed look in his eye. he did not understand hungarian. "if you are still in the city to-morrow evening," said kasteliz at last in english, "i will spit you in the street." swithin turned to the window and watched his visitor's retiring back with a queer mixture of amusement, stubbornness, and anxiety. 'well,' he thought, 'i suppose he'll run me through!' the thought was unpleasant; and it kept recurring, but it only served to harden his determination. his head was busy with plans for seeing rozsi; his blood on fire with the kisses she had given him. ix swithin was long in deciding to go forth next day. he had made up his mind not to go to rozsi till five o'clock. 'mustn't make myself too cheap,' he thought. it was a little past that hour when he at last sallied out, and with a beating heart walked towards boleskey's. he looked up at the window, more than half expecting to see rozsi there; but she was not, and he noticed with faint surprise that the window was not open; the plants, too, outside, looked singularly arid. he knocked. no one came. he beat a fierce tattoo. at last the door was opened by a man with a reddish beard, and one of those sardonic faces only to be seen on shoemakers of teutonic origin. "what do you want, making all this noise?" he asked in german. swithin pointed up the stairs. the man grinned, and shook his head. "i want to go up," said swithin. the cobbler shrugged his shoulders, and swithin rushed upstairs. the rooms were empty. the furniture remained, but all signs of life were gone. one of his own bouquets, faded, stood in a glass; the ashes of a fire were barely cold; little scraps of paper strewed the hearth; already the room smelt musty. he went into the bedrooms, and with a feeling of stupefaction stood staring at the girls' beds, side by side against the wall. a bit of ribbon caught his eye; he picked it up and put it in his pocket--it was a piece of evidence that she had once existed. by the mirror some pins were dropped about; a little powder had been spilled. he looked at his own disquiet face and thought, 'i've been cheated!' the shoemaker's voice aroused him. "tausend teufel! eilen sie, nur! zeit is geld! kann nich' langer warten!" slowly he descended. "where have they gone?" asked swithin painfully. "a pound for every english word you speak. a pound!" and he made an o with his fingers. the corners of the shoemaker's lips curled. "geld! mf! eilen sie, nur!" but in swithin a sullen anger had begun to burn. "if you don't tell me," he said, "it'll be the worse for you." "sind ein komischer kerl!" remarked the shoemaker. "hier ist meine frau!" a battered-looking woman came hurrying down the passage, calling out in german, "don't let him go!" with a snarling sound the shoemaker turned his back, and shambled off. the woman furtively thrust a letter into swithin's hand, and furtively waited. the letter was from rozsi. "forgive me"--it ran--"that i leave you and do not say goodbye. to-day our father had the call from our dear father-town so long awaited. in two hours we are ready. i pray to the virgin to keep you ever safe, and that you do not quite forget me.--your unforgetting good friend, rozsi" when swithin read it his first sensation was that of a man sinking in a bog; then his obstinacy stiffened. 'i won't be done,' he thought. taking out a sovereign he tried to make the woman comprehend that she could earn it, by telling him where they had gone. he got her finally to write the words out in his pocket-book, gave her the sovereign, and hurried to the goldene alp, where there was a waiter who spoke english. the translation given him was this: "at three o'clock they start in a carriage on the road to linz--they have bad horses--the herr also rides a white horse." swithin at once hailed a carriage and started at full gallop on the road to linz. outside the mirabell garden he caught sight of kasteliz and grinned at him. 'i've sold him anyway,' he thought; 'for all their talk, they're no good, these foreigners!' his spirits rose, but soon fell again. what chance had he of catching them? they had three hours' start! still, the roads were heavy from the rain of the last two nights--they had luggage and bad horses; his own were good, his driver bribed--he might overtake them by ten o'clock! but did he want to? what a fool he had been not to bring his luggage; he would then have had a respectable position. what a brute he would look without a change of shirt, or anything to shave with! he saw himself with horror, all bristly, and in soiled linen. people would think him mad. 'i've given myself away,' flashed across him, 'what the devil can i say to them?' and he stared sullenly at the driver's back. he read rozsi's letter again; it had a scent of her. and in the growing darkness, jolted by the swinging of the carriage, he suffered tortures from his prudence, tortures from his passion. it grew colder and dark. he turned the collar of his coat up to his ears. he had visions of piccadilly. this wild-goose chase appeared suddenly a dangerous, unfathomable business. lights, fellowship, security! 'never again!' he brooded; 'why won't they let me alone?' but it was not clear whether by 'they' he meant the conventions, the boleskeys, his passions, or those haunting memories of rozsi. if he had only had a bag with him! what was he going to say? what was he going to get by this? he received no answer to these questions. the darkness itself was less obscure than his sensations. from time to time he took out his watch. at each village the driver made inquiries. it was past ten when he stopped the carriage with a jerk. the stars were bright as steel, and by the side of the road a reedy lake showed in the moonlight. swithin shivered. a man on a horse had halted in the centre of the road. "drive on!" called swithin, with a stolid face. it turned out to be boleskey, who, on a gaunt white horse, looked like some winged creature. he stood where he could bar the progress of the carriage, holding out a pistol. 'theatrical beggar!' thought swithin, with a nervous smile. he made no sign of recognition. slowly boleskey brought his lean horse up to the carriage. when he saw who was within he showed astonishment and joy. "you?" he cried, slapping his hand on his attenuated thigh, and leaning over till his beard touched swithin. "you have come? you followed us?" "it seems so," swithin grunted out. "you throw in your lot with us. is it possible? you--you are a knight-errant then!" "good god!" said swithin. boleskey, flogging his dejected steed, cantered forward in the moonlight. he came back, bringing an old cloak, which he insisted on wrapping round swithin's shoulders. he handed him, too, a capacious flask. "how cold you look!" he said. "wonderful! wonderful! you english!" his grateful eyes never left swithin for a moment. they had come up to the heels of the other carriage now, but swithin, hunched in the cloak, did not try to see what was in front of him. to the bottom of his soul he resented the hungarian's gratitude. he remarked at last, with wasted irony: "you're in a hurry, it seems!" "if we had wings," boleskey answered, "we would use them." "wings!" muttered swithin thickly; "legs are good enough for me." x arrived at the inn where they were to pass the night, swithin waited, hoping to get into the house without a "scene," but when at last he alighted the girls were in the doorway, and margit greeted him with an admiring murmur, in which, however, he seemed to detect irony. rozsi, pale and tremulous, with a half-scared look, gave him her hand, and, quickly withdrawing it, shrank behind her sister. when they had gone up to their room swithin sought boleskey. his spirits had risen remarkably. "tell the landlord to get us supper," he said; "we'll crack a bottle to our luck." he hurried on the landlord's preparations. the window of the, room faced a wood, so near that he could almost touch the trees. the scent from the pines blew in on him. he turned away from that scented darkness, and began to draw the corks of winebottles. the sound seemed to conjure up boleskey. he came in, splashed all over, smelling slightly of stables; soon after, margit appeared, fresh and serene, but rozsi did not come. "where is your sister?" swithin said. rozsi, it seemed, was tired. "it will do her good to eat," said swithin. and boleskey, murmuring, "she must drink to our country," went out to summon her, margit followed him, while swithin cut up a chicken. they came back without her. she had "a megrim of the spirit." swithin's face fell. "look here!" he said, "i'll go and try. don't wait for me." "yes," answered boleskey, sinking mournfully into a chair; "try, brother, try-by all means, try." swithin walked down the corridor with an odd, sweet, sinking sensation in his chest; and tapped on rozsi's door. in a minute, she peeped forth, with her hair loose, and wondering eyes. "rozsi," he stammered, "what makes you afraid of me, now?" she stared at him, but did not answer. "why won't you come?" still she did not speak, but suddenly stretched out to him her bare arm. swithin pressed his face to it. with a shiver, she whispered above him, "i will come," and gently shut the door. swithin stealthily retraced his steps, and paused a minute outside the sitting-room to regain his self-control. the sight of boleskey with a bottle in his hand steadied him. "she is coming," he said. and very soon she did come, her thick hair roughly twisted in a plait. swithin sat between the girls; but did not talk, for he was really hungry. boleskey too was silent, plunged in gloom; rozsi was dumb; margit alone chattered. "you will come to our father-town? we shall have things to show you. rozsi, what things we will show him!" rozsi, with a little appealing movement of her hands, repeated, "what things we will show you!" she seemed suddenly to find her voice, and with glowing cheeks, mouths full, and eyes bright as squirrels', they chattered reminiscences of the "dear father-town," of "dear friends," of the "dear home." 'a poor place!' swithin could not help thinking. this enthusiasm seemed to him common; but he was careful to assume a look of interest, feeding on the glances flashed at him from rozsi's restless eyes. as the wine waned boleskey grew more and more gloomy, but now and then a sort of gleaming flicker passed over his face. he rose to his feet at last. "let us not forget," he said, "that we go perhaps to ruin, to death; in the face of all this we go, because our country needs--in this there is no credit, neither to me nor to you, my daughters; but for this noble englishman, what shall we say? give thanks to god for a great heart. he comes--not for country, not for fame, not for money, but to help the weak and the oppressed. let us drink, then, to him; let us drink again and again to heroic forsyte!" in the midst of the dead silence, swithin caught the look of suppliant mockery in rozsi's eyes. he glanced at the hungarian. was he laughing at him? but boleskey, after drinking up his wine, had sunk again into his seat; and there suddenly, to the surprise of all, he began to snore. margit rose and, bending over him like a mother, murmured: "he is tired--it is the ride!" she raised him in her strong arms, and leaning on her shoulder boleskey staggered from the room. swithin and rozsi were left alone. he slid his hand towards her hand that lay so close, on the rough table-cloth. it seemed to await his touch. something gave way in him, and words came welling up; for the moment he forgot himself, forgot everything but that he was near her. her head dropped on his shoulder, he breathed the perfume of her hair. "good-night!" she whispered, and the whisper was like a kiss; yet before he could stop her she was gone. her footsteps died away in the passage, but swithin sat gazing intently at a single bright drop of spilt wine quivering on the table's edge. in that moment she, in her helplessness and emotion, was all in all to him--his life nothing; all the real things--his conventions, convictions, training, and himself--all seemed remote, behind a mist of passion and strange chivalry. carefully with a bit of bread he soaked up the bright drop; and suddenly he thought: 'this is tremendous!' for a long time he stood there in the window, close to the dark pine-trees. xi in the early morning he awoke, full of the discomfort of this strange place and the medley of his dreams. lying, with his nose peeping over the quilt, he was visited by a horrible suspicion. when he could bear it no longer, he started up in bed. what if it were all a plot to get him to marry her? the thought was treacherous, and inspired in him a faint disgust. still, she might be ignorant of it! but was she so innocent? what innocent girl would have come to his room like that? what innocent girl? her father, who pretended to be caring only for his country? it was not probable that any man was such a fool; it was all part of the game-a scheming rascal! kasteliz, too--his threats! they intended him to marry her! and the horrid idea was strengthened by his reverence for marriage. it was the proper, the respectable condition; he was genuinely afraid of this other sort of liaison--it was somehow too primitive! and yet the thought of that marriage made his blood run cold. considering that she had already yielded, it would be all the more monstrous! with the cold, fatal clearness of the morning light he now for the first time saw his position in its full bearings. and, like a fish pulled out of water, he gasped at what was disclosed. sullen resentment against this attempt to force him settled deep into his soul. he seated himself on the bed, holding his head in his hands, solemnly thinking out what such marriage meant. in the first place it meant ridicule, in the next place ridicule, in the last place ridicule. she would eat chicken bones with her fingers--those fingers his lips still burned to kiss. she would dance wildly with other men. she would talk of her "dear father-town," and all the time her eyes would look beyond him, some where or other into some d--d place he knew nothing of. he sprang up and paced the room, and for a moment thought he would go mad. they meant him to marry her! even she--she meant him to marry her! her tantalising inscrutability; her sudden little tendernesses; her quick laughter; her swift, burning kisses; even the movements of her hands; her tears--all were evidence against her. not one of these things that nature made her do counted on her side, but how they fanned his longing, his desire, and distress! he went to the glass and tried to part his hair with his fingers, but being rather fine, it fell into lank streaks. there was no comfort to be got from it. he drew his muddy boots on. suddenly he thought: 'if i could see her alone, i could arrive at some arrangement!' then, with a sense of stupefaction, he made the discovery that no arrangement could possibly be made that would not be dangerous, even desperate. he seized his hat, and, like a rabbit that has been fired at, bolted from the room. he plodded along amongst the damp woods with his head down, and resentment and dismay in his heart. but, as the sun rose, and the air grew sweet with pine scent, he slowly regained a sort of equability. after all, she had already yielded; it was not as if...! and the tramp of his own footsteps lulled him into feeling that it would all come right. 'look at the thing practically,' he thought. the faster he walked the firmer became his conviction that he could still see it through. he took out his watch--it was past seven--he began to hasten back. in the yard of the inn his driver was harnessing the horses; swithin went up to him. "who told you to put them in?" he asked. the driver answered, "der herr." swithin turned away. 'in ten minutes,' he thought, 'i shall be in that carriage again, with this going on in my head! driving away from england, from all i'm used to-driving to-what?' could he face it? could he face all that he had been through that morning; face it day after day, night after night? looking up, he saw rozsi at her open window gazing down at him; never had she looked sweeter, more roguish. an inexplicable terror seized on him; he ran across the yard and jumped into his carriage. "to salzburg!" he cried; "drive on!" and rattling out of the yard without a look behind, he flung a sovereign at the hostler. flying back along the road faster even than he had come, with pale face, and eyes blank and staring like a pug-dog's, swithin spoke no single word; nor, till he had reached the door of his lodgings, did he suffer the driver to draw rein. xii towards evening, five days later, swithin, yellow and travel-worn, was ferried in a gondola to danielli's hotel. his brother, who was on the steps, looked at him with an apprehensive curiosity. "why, it's you!" he mumbled. "so you've got here safe?" "safe?" growled swithin. james replied, "i thought you wouldn't leave your friends!" then, with a jerk of suspicion, "you haven't brought your friends?" "what friends?" growled swithin. james changed the subject. "you don't look the thing," he said. "really!" muttered swithin; "what's that to you?" he appeared at dinner that night, but fell asleep over his coffee. neither traquair nor james asked him any further question, nor did they allude to salzburg; and during the four days which concluded the stay in venice swithin went about with his head up, but his eyes half-closed like a dazed man. only after they had taken ship at genoa did he show signs of any healthy interest in life, when, finding that a man on board was perpetually strumming, he locked the piano up and pitched the key into the sea. that winter in london he behaved much as usual, but fits of moroseness would seize on him, during which he was not pleasant to approach. one evening when he was walking with a friend in piccadilly, a girl coming from a side-street accosted him in german. swithin, after staring at her in silence for some seconds, handed her a five-pound note, to the great amazement of his friend; nor could he himself have explained the meaning of this freak of generosity. of rozsi he never heard again.... this, then, was the substance of what he remembered as he lay ill in bed. stretching out his hand he pressed the bell. his valet appeared, crossing the room like a cat; a swede, who had been with swithin many years; a little man with a dried face and fierce moustache, morbidly sharp nerves, and a queer devotion to his master. swithin made a feeble gesture. "adolf," he said, "i'm very bad." "yes, sir!" "why do you stand there like a cow?" asked swithin; "can't you see i'm very bad?" "yes, sir!" the valet's face twitched as though it masked the dance of obscure emotions. "i shall feel better after dinner. what time is it?" "five o'clock." "i thought it was more. the afternoons are very long." "yes, sir!" swithin sighed, as though he had expected the consolation of denial. "very likely i shall have a nap. bring up hot water at half-past six and shave me before dinner." the valet moved towards the door. swithin raised himself. "what did mr. james say to you?" "he said you ought to have another doctor; two doctors, he said, better than one. he said, also, he would look in again on his way 'home.'" swithin grunted, "umph! what else did he say?" "he said you didn't take care of yourself." swithin glared. "has anybody else been to see me?" the valet turned away his eyes. "mrs. thomas forsyte came last monday fortnight." "how long have i been ill?" "five weeks on saturday." "do you think i'm very bad?" adolf's face was covered suddenly with crow's-feet. "you have no business to ask me question like that! i am not paid, sir, to answer question like that." swithin said faintly: "you're a peppery fool! open a bottle of champagne!" adolf took a bottle of champagne--from a cupboard and held nippers to it. he fixed his eyes on swithin. "the doctor said--" "open the bottle!" "it is not--" "open the bottle--or i give you warning." adolf removed the cork. he wiped a glass elaborately, filled it, and bore it scrupulously to the bedside. suddenly twirling his moustaches, he wrung his hands, and burst out: "it is poison." swithin grinned faintly. "you foreign fool!" he said. "get out!" the valet vanished. 'he forgot himself!' thought swithin. slowly he raised the glass, slowly put it back, and sank gasping on his pillows. almost at once he fell asleep. he dreamed that he was at his club, sitting after dinner in the crowded smoking-room, with its bright walls and trefoils of light. it was there that he sat every evening, patient, solemn, lonely, and sometimes fell asleep, his square, pale old face nodding to one side. he dreamed that he was gazing at the picture over the fireplace, of an old statesman with a high collar, supremely finished face, and sceptical eyebrows--the picture, smooth, and reticent as sealing-wax, of one who seemed for ever exhaling the narrow wisdom of final judgments. all round him, his fellow members were chattering. only he himself, the old sick member, was silent. if fellows only knew what it was like to sit by yourself and feel ill all the time! what they were saying he had heard a hundred times. they were talking of investments, of cigars, horses, actresses, machinery. what was that? a foreign patent for cleaning boilers? there was no such thing; boilers couldn't be cleaned, any fool knew that! if an englishman couldn't clean a boiler, no foreigner could clean one. he appealed to the old statesman's eyes. but for once those eyes seemed hesitating, blurred, wanting in finality. they vanished. in their place were rozsi's little deep-set eyes, with their wide and far-off look; and as he gazed they seemed to grow bright as steel, and to speak to him. slowly the whole face grew to be there, floating on the dark background of the picture; it was pink, aloof, unfathomable, enticing, with its fluffy hair and quick lips, just as he had last seen it. "are you looking for something?" she seemed to say: "i could show you." "i have everything safe enough," answered swithin, and in his sleep he groaned. he felt the touch of fingers on his forehead. 'i'm dreaming,' he thought in his dream. she had vanished; and far away, from behind the picture, came a sound of footsteps. aloud, in his sleep, swithin muttered: "i've missed it." again he heard the rustling of those light footsteps, and close in his ear a sound, like a sob. he awoke; the sob was his own. great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. 'what is it?' he thought; 'what have i lost?' slowly his mind travelled over his investments; he could not think of any single one that was unsafe. what was it, then, that he had lost? struggling on his pillows, he clutched the wine-glass. his lips touched the wine. 'this isn't the "heidseck"!' he thought angrily, and before the reality of that displeasure all the dim vision passed away. but as he bent to drink, something snapped, and, with a sigh, swithin forsyte died above the bubbles.... when james forsyte came in again on his way home, the valet, trembling took his hat and stick. "how's your master?" "my master is dead, sir!" "dead! he can't be! i left him safe an hour ago." on the bed swithin's body was doubled like a sack; his hand still grasped the glass. james forsyte paused. "swithin!" he said, and with his hand to his ear he waited for an answer; but none came, and slowly in the glass a last bubble rose and burst. december . to my sister mabel edith reynolds the silence i in a car of the naples express a mining expert was diving into a bag for papers. the strong sunlight showed the fine wrinkles on his brown face and the shabbiness of his short, rough beard. a newspaper cutting slipped from his fingers; he picked it up, thinking: 'how the dickens did that get in here?' it was from a colonial print of three years back; and he sat staring, as if in that forlorn slip of yellow paper he had encountered some ghost from his past. these were the words he read: "we hope that the setback to civilisation, the check to commerce and development, in this promising centre of our colony may be but temporary; and that capital may again come to the rescue. where one man was successful, others should surely not fail? we are convinced that it only needs...." and the last words: "for what can be sadder than to see the forest spreading its lengthening shadows, like symbols of defeat, over the untenanted dwellings of men; and where was once the merry chatter of human voices, to pass by in the silence...." on an afternoon, thirteen years before, he had been in the city of london, at one of those emporiums where mining experts perch, before fresh flights, like sea-gulls on some favourite rock. a clerk said to him: "mr. scorrier, they are asking for you downstairs--mr. hemmings of the new colliery company." scorrier took up the speaking tube. "is that you, mr. scorrier? i hope you are very well, sir, i am--hemmings--i am--coming up." in two minutes he appeared, christopher hemmings, secretary of the new colliery company, known in the city-behind his back--as "down-by-the-starn" hemmings. he grasped scorrier's hand--the gesture was deferential, yet distinguished. too handsome, too capable, too important, his figure, the cut of his iron-grey beard, and his intrusively fine eyes, conveyed a continual courteous invitation to inspect their infallibilities. he stood, like a city "atlas," with his legs apart, his coat-tails gathered in his hands, a whole globe of financial matters deftly balanced on his nose. "look at me!" he seemed to say. "it's heavy, but how easily i carry it. not the man to let it down, sir!" "i hope i see you well, mr. scorrier," he began. "i have come round about our mine. there is a question of a fresh field being opened up--between ourselves, not before it's wanted. i find it difficult to get my board to take a comprehensive view. in short, the question is: are you prepared to go out for us, and report on it? the fees will be all right." his left eye closed. "things have been very--er--dicky; we are going to change our superintendent. i have got little pippin--you know little pippin?" scorrier murmured, with a feeling of vague resentment: "oh yes. he's not a mining man!" hemmings replied: "we think that he will do." 'do you?' thought scorrier; 'that's good of you!' he had not altogether shaken off a worship he had felt for pippin --"king" pippin he was always called, when they had been boys at the camborne grammar-school. "king" pippin! the boy with the bright colour, very bright hair, bright, subtle, elusive eyes, broad shoulders, little stoop in the neck, and a way of moving it quickly like a bird; the boy who was always at the top of everything, and held his head as if looking for something further to be the top of. he remembered how one day "king" pippin had said to him in his soft way, "young scorrie, i'll do your sums for you"; and in answer to his dubious, "is that all right?" had replied, "of course--i don't want you to get behind that beast blake, he's not a cornishman" (the beast blake was an irishman not yet twelve). he remembered, too, an occasion when "king" pippin with two other boys fought six louts and got a licking, and how pippin sat for half an hour afterwards, all bloody, his head in his hands, rocking to and fro, and weeping tears of mortification; and how the next day he had sneaked off by himself, and, attacking the same gang, got frightfully mauled a second time. thinking of these things he answered curtly: "when shall i start?" "down-by-the-starn" hemmings replied with a sort of fearful sprightliness: "there's a good fellow! i will send instructions; so glad to see you well." conferring on scorrier a look--fine to the verge of vulgarity--he withdrew. scorrier remained, seated; heavy with insignificance and vague oppression, as if he had drunk a tumbler of sweet port. a week later, in company with pippin, he was on board a liner. the "king" pippin of his school-days was now a man of forty-four. he awakened in scorrier the uncertain wonder with which men look backward at their uncomplicated teens; and staggering up and down the decks in the long atlantic roll, he would steal glances at his companion, as if he expected to find out from them something about himself. pippin had still "king" pippin's bright, fine hair, and dazzling streaks in his short beard; he had still a bright colour and suave voice, and what there were of wrinkles suggested only subtleties of humour and ironic sympathy. from the first, and apparently without negotiation, he had his seat at the captain's table, to which on the second day scorrier too found himself translated, and had to sit, as he expressed it ruefully, "among the big-wigs." during the voyage only one incident impressed itself on scorrier's memory, and that for a disconcerting reason. in the forecastle were the usual complement of emigrants. one evening, leaning across the rail to watch them, he felt a touch on his arm; and, looking round, saw pippin's face and beard quivering in the lamplight. "poor people!" he said. the idea flashed on scorrier that he was like some fine wire sound-recording instrument. 'suppose he were to snap!' he thought. impelled to justify this fancy, he blurted out: "you're a nervous chap. the way you look at those poor devils!" pippin hustled him along the deck. "come, come, you took me off my guard," he murmured, with a sly, gentle smile, "that's not fair." he found it a continual source of wonder that pippin, at his age, should cut himself adrift from the associations and security of london life to begin a new career in a new country with dubious prospect of success. 'i always heard he was doing well all round,' he thought; 'thinks he'll better himself, perhaps. he's a true cornishman.' the morning of arrival at the mines was grey and cheerless; a cloud of smoke, beaten down by drizzle, clung above the forest; the wooden houses straggled dismally in the unkempt semblance of a street, against a background of endless, silent woods. an air of blank discouragement brooded over everything; cranes jutted idly over empty trucks; the long jetty oozed black slime; miners with listless faces stood in the rain; dogs fought under their very legs. on the way to the hotel they met no one busy or serene except a chinee who was polishing a dish-cover. the late superintendent, a cowed man, regaled them at lunch with his forebodings; his attitude toward the situation was like the food, which was greasy and uninspiring. alone together once more, the two newcomers eyed each other sadly. "oh dear!" sighed pippin. "we must change all this, scorrier; it will never do to go back beaten. i shall not go back beaten; you will have to carry me on my shield;" and slyly: "too heavy, eh? poor fellow!" then for a long time he was silent, moving his lips as if adding up the cost. suddenly he sighed, and grasping scorrier's arm, said: "dull, aren't i? what will you do? put me in your report, 'new superintendent--sad, dull dog--not a word to throw at a cat!'" and as if the new task were too much for him, he sank back in thought. the last words he said to scorrier that night were: "very silent here. it's hard to believe one's here for life. but i feel i am. mustn't be a coward, though!" and brushing his forehead, as though to clear from it a cobweb of faint thoughts, he hurried off. scorrier stayed on the veranda smoking. the rain had ceased, a few stars were burning dimly; even above the squalor of the township the scent of the forests, the interminable forests, brooded. there sprang into his mind the memory of a picture from one of his children's fairy books--the picture of a little bearded man on tiptoe, with poised head and a great sword, slashing at the castle of a giant. it reminded him of pippin. and suddenly, even to scorrier--whose existence was one long encounter with strange places--the unseen presence of those woods, their heavy, healthy scent, the little sounds, like squeaks from tiny toys, issuing out of the gloomy silence, seemed intolerable, to be shunned, from the mere instinct of self-preservation. he thought of the evening he had spent in the bosom of "down-by-the-starn" hemmings' family, receiving his last instructions--the security of that suburban villa, its discouraging gentility; the superior acidity of the miss hemmings; the noble names of large contractors, of company promoters, of a peer, dragged with the lightness of gun-carriages across the conversation; the autocracy of hemmings, rasped up here and there, by some domestic contradiction. it was all so nice and safe--as if the whole thing had been fastened to an anchor sunk beneath the pink cabbages of the drawing-room carpet! hemmings, seeing him off the premises, had said with secrecy: "little pippin will have a good thing. we shall make his salary l----. he'll be a great man-quite a king. ha-ha!" scorrier shook the ashes from his pipe. 'salary!' he thought, straining his ears; 'i wouldn't take the place for five thousand pounds a year. and yet it's a fine country,' and with ironic violence he repeated, 'a dashed fine country!' ten days later, having finished his report on the new mine, he stood on the jetty waiting to go abroad the steamer for home. "god bless you!" said pippin. "tell them they needn't be afraid; and sometimes when you're at home think of me, eh?" scorrier, scrambling on board, had a confused memory of tears in his eyes, and a convulsive handshake. ii it was eight years before the wheels of life carried scorrier back to that disenchanted spot, and this time not on the business of the new colliery company. he went for another company with a mine some thirty miles away. before starting, however, he visited hemmings. the secretary was surrounded by pigeon-holes and finer than ever; scorrier blinked in the full radiance of his courtesy. a little man with eyebrows full of questions, and a grizzled beard, was seated in an arm-chair by the fire. "you know mr. booker," said hemmings--"one of my directors. this is mr. scorrier, sir--who went out for us." these sentences were murmured in a way suggestive of their uncommon value. the director uncrossed his legs, and bowed. scorrier also bowed, and hemmings, leaning back, slowly developed the full resources of his waistcoat. "so you are going out again, scorrier, for the other side? i tell mr. scorrier, sir, that he is going out for the enemy. don't find them a mine as good as you found us, there's a good man." the little director asked explosively: "see our last dividend? twenty per cent; eh, what?" hemmings moved a finger, as if reproving his director. "i will not disguise from you," he murmured, "that there is friction between us and--the enemy; you know our position too well--just a little too well, eh? 'a nod's as good as a wink.'" his diplomatic eyes flattered scorrier, who passed a hand over his brow--and said: "of course." "pippin doesn't hit it off with them. between ourselves, he's a leetle too big for his boots. you know what it is when a man in his position gets a sudden rise!" scorrier caught himself searching on the floor for a sight of hemmings' boots; he raised his eyes guiltily. the secretary continued: "we don't hear from him quite as often as we should like, in fact." to his own surprise scorrier murmured: "it's a silent place!" the secretary smiled. "very good! mr. scorrier says, sir, it's a silent place; ha-ha! i call that very good!" but suddenly a secret irritation seemed to bubble in him; he burst forth almost violently: "he's no business to let it affect him; now, has he? i put it to you, mr. scorrier, i put it to you, sir!" but scorrier made no reply, and soon after took his leave: he had been asked to convey a friendly hint to pippin that more frequent letters would be welcomed. standing in the shadow of the royal exchange, waiting to thread his way across, he thought: 'so you must have noise, must you--you've got some here, and to spare....' on his arrival in the new world he wired to pippin asking if he might stay with him on the way up country, and received the answer: "be sure and come." a week later he arrived (there was now a railway) and found pippin waiting for him in a phaeton. scorrier would not have known the place again; there was a glitter over everything, as if some one had touched it with a wand. the tracks had given place to roads, running firm, straight, and black between the trees under brilliant sunshine; the wooden houses were all painted; out in the gleaming harbour amongst the green of islands lay three steamers, each with a fleet of busy boats; and here and there a tiny yacht floated, like a sea-bird on the water. pippin drove his long-tailed horses furiously; his eyes brimmed with subtle kindness, as if according scorrier a continual welcome. during the two days of his stay scorrier never lost that sense of glamour. he had every opportunity for observing the grip pippin had over everything. the wooden doors and walls of his bungalow kept out no sounds. he listened to interviews between his host and all kinds and conditions of men. the voices of the visitors would rise at first--angry, discontented, matter-of-fact, with nasal twang, or guttural drawl; then would come the soft patter of the superintendent's feet crossing and recrossing the room. then a pause, the sound of hard breathing, and quick questions--the visitor's voice again, again the patter, and pippin's ingratiating but decisive murmurs. presently out would come the visitor with an expression on his face which scorrier soon began to know by heart, a kind of pleased, puzzled, helpless look, which seemed to say, "i've been done, i know--i'll give it to myself when i'm round the corner." pippin was full of wistful questions about "home." he wanted to talk of music, pictures, plays, of how london looked, what new streets there were, and, above all, whether scorrier had been lately in the west country. he talked of getting leave next winter, asked whether scorrier thought they would "put up with him at home"; then, with the agitation which had alarmed scorrier before, he added: "ah! but i'm not fit for home now. one gets spoiled; it's big and silent here. what should i go back to? i don't seem to realise." scorrier thought of hemmings. "'tis a bit cramped there, certainly," he muttered. pippin went on as if divining his thoughts. "i suppose our friend hemmings would call me foolish; he's above the little weaknesses of imagination, eh? yes; it's silent here. sometimes in the evening i would give my head for somebody to talk to--hemmings would never give his head for anything, i think. but all the same, i couldn't face them at home. spoiled!" and slyly he murmured: "what would the board say if they could hear that?" scorrier blurted out: "to tell you the truth, they complain a little of not hearing from you." pippin put out a hand, as if to push something away. "let them try the life here!" he broke out; "it's like sitting on a live volcano--what with our friends, 'the enemy,' over there; the men; the american competition. i keep it going, scorrier, but at what a cost--at what a cost!" "but surely--letters?" pippin only answered: "i try--i try!" scorrier felt with remorse and wonder that he had spoken the truth. the following day he left for his inspection, and while in the camp of "the enemy" much was the talk he heard of pippin. "why!" said his host, the superintendent, a little man with a face somewhat like an owl's, "d'you know the name they've given him down in the capital--'the king'--good, eh? he's made them 'sit up' all along this coast. i like him well enough--good--hearted man, shocking nervous; but my people down there can't stand him at any price. sir, he runs this colony. you'd think butter wouldn't melt in that mouth of his; but he always gets his way; that's what riles 'em so; that and the success he's making of his mine. it puzzles me; you'd think he'd only be too glad of a quiet life, a man with his nerves. but no, he's never happy unless he's fighting, something where he's got a chance to score a victory. i won't say he likes it, but, by jove, it seems he's got to do it. now that's funny! i'll tell you one thing, though shouldn't be a bit surprised if he broke down some day; and i'll tell you another," he added darkly, "he's sailing very near the wind, with those large contracts that he makes. i wouldn't care to take his risks. just let them have a strike, or something that shuts them down for a spell--and mark my words, sir--it'll be all up with them. but," he concluded confidentially, "i wish i had his hold on the men; it's a great thing in this country. not like home, where you can go round a corner and get another gang. you have to make the best you can out of the lot you have; you won't, get another man for love or money without you ship him a few hundred miles." and with a frown he waved his arm over the forests to indicate the barrenness of the land. scorrier finished his inspection and went on a shooting trip into the forest. his host met him on his return. "just look at this!" he said, holding out a telegram. "awful, isn't it?" his face expressed a profound commiseration, almost ludicrously mixed with the ashamed contentment that men experience at the misfortunes of an enemy. the telegram, dated the day before, ran thus "frightful explosion new colliery this morning, great loss of life feared." scorrier had the bewildered thought: 'pippin will want me now.' he took leave of his host, who called after him: "you'd better wait for a steamer! it's a beastly drive!" scorrier shook his head. all night, jolting along a rough track cut through the forest, he thought of pippin. the other miseries of this calamity at present left him cold; he barely thought of the smothered men; but pippin's struggle, his lonely struggle with this hydra-headed monster, touched him very nearly. he fell asleep and dreamed of watching pippin slowly strangled by a snake; the agonised, kindly, ironic face peeping out between two gleaming coils was so horribly real, that he awoke. it was the moment before dawn: pitch-black branches barred the sky; with every jolt of the wheels the gleams from the lamps danced, fantastic and intrusive, round ferns and tree-stems, into the cold heart of the forest. for an hour or more scorrier tried to feign sleep, and hide from the stillness, and overmastering gloom of these great woods. then softly a whisper of noises stole forth, a stir of light, and the whole slow radiance of the morning glory. but it brought no warmth; and scorrier wrapped himself closer in his cloak, feeling as though old age had touched him. close on noon he reached the township. glamour seemed still to hover over it. he drove on to the mine. the winding-engine was turning, the pulley at the top of the head-gear whizzing round; nothing looked unusual. 'some mistake!' he thought. he drove to the mine buildings, alighted, and climbed to the shaft head. instead of the usual rumbling of the trolleys, the rattle of coal discharged over the screens, there was silence. close by, pippin himself was standing, smirched with dirt. the cage, coming swift and silent from below, shot open its doors with a sharp rattle. scorrier bent forward to look. there lay a dead man, with a smile on his face. "how many?" he whispered. pippin answered: "eighty-four brought up--forty-seven still below," and entered the man's name in a pocket-book. an older man was taken out next; he too was smiling--there had been vouchsafed to him, it seemed, a taste of more than earthly joy. the sight of those strange smiles affected scorrier more than all the anguish or despair he had seen scored on the faces of other dead men. he asked an old miner how long pippin had been at work. "thirty hours. yesterday he wer' below; we had to nigh carry mun up at last. he's for goin' down again, but the chaps won't lower mun;" the old man gave a sigh. "i'm waiting for my boy to come up, i am." scorrier waited too--there was fascination about those dead, smiling faces. the rescuing of these men who would never again breathe went on and on. scorrier grew sleepy in the sun. the old miner woke him, saying: "rummy stuff this here chokedamp; see, they all dies drunk!" the very next to be brought up was the chief engineer. scorrier had known him quite well, one of those scotsmen who are born at the age of forty and remain so all their lives. his face--the only one that wore no smile--seemed grieving that duty had deprived it of that last luxury. with wide eyes and drawn lips he had died protesting. late in the afternoon the old miner touched scorrier's arm, and said: "there he is--there's my boy!" and he departed slowly, wheeling the body on a trolley. as the sun set, the gang below came up. no further search was possible till the fumes had cleared. scorrier heard one man say: "there's some we'll never get; they've had sure burial" another answered him: "'tis a gude enough bag for me!" they passed him, the whites of their eyes gleaming out of faces black as ink. pippin drove him home at a furious pace, not uttering a single word. as they turned into the main street, a young woman starting out before the horses obliged pippin to pull up. the glance he bent on scorrier was ludicrously prescient of suffering. the woman asked for her husband. several times they were stopped thus by women asking for their husbands or sons. "this is what i have to go through," pippin whispered. when they had eaten, he said to scorrier: "it was kind of you to come and stand by me! they take me for a god, poor creature that i am. but shall i ever get the men down again? their nerve's shaken. i wish i were one of those poor lads, to die with a smile like that!" scorrier felt the futility of his presence. on pippin alone must be the heat and burden. would he stand under it, or would the whole thing come crashing to the ground? he urged him again and again to rest, but pippin only gave him one of his queer smiles. "you don't know how strong i am!" he said. iv he himself slept heavily; and, waking at dawn, went down. pippin was still at his desk; his pen had dropped; he was asleep. the ink was wet; scorrier's eye caught the opening words: "gentlemen,--since this happened i have not slept...." he stole away again with a sense of indignation that no one could be dragged in to share that fight. the london board-room rose before his mind. he imagined the portentous gravity of hemmings; his face and voice and manner conveying the impression that he alone could save the situation; the six directors, all men of commonsense and certainly humane, seated behind large turret-shaped inkpots; the concern and irritation in their voices, asking how it could have happened; their comments: "an awful thing!" "i suppose pippin is doing the best he can!" "wire him on no account to leave the mine idle!" "poor devils!" "a fund? of course, what ought we to give?" he had a strong conviction that nothing of all this would disturb the commonsense with which they would go home and eat their mutton. a good thing too; the less it was taken to heart the better! but scorrier felt angry. the fight was so unfair! a fellow all nerves--with not a soul to help him! well, it was his own lookout! he had chosen to centre it all in himself, to make himself its very soul. if he gave way now, the ship must go down! by a thin thread, scorrier's hero-worship still held. 'man against nature,' he thought, 'i back the man.' the struggle in which he was so powerless to give aid, became intensely personal to him, as if he had engaged his own good faith therein. the next day they went down again to the pit-head; and scorrier himself descended. the fumes had almost cleared, but there were some places which would never be reached. at the end of the day all but four bodies had been recovered. "in the day o' judgment," a miner said, "they four'll come out of here." those unclaimed bodies haunted scorrier. he came on sentences of writing, where men waiting to be suffocated had written down their feelings. in one place, the hour, the word "sleepy," and a signature. in another, "a. f.--done for." when he came up at last pippin was still waiting, pocket-book in hand; they again departed at a furious pace. two days later scorrier, visiting the shaft, found its neighbourhood deserted--not a living thing of any sort was there except one chinaman poking his stick into the rubbish. pippin was away down the coast engaging an engineer; and on his return, scorrier had not the heart to tell him of the desertion. he was spared the effort, for pippin said: "don't be afraid--you've got bad news? the men have gone on strike." scorrier sighed. "lock, stock, and barrel" "i thought so--see what i have here!" he put before scorrier a telegram: "at all costs keep working--fatal to stop--manage this somehow. --hemmings." breathing quickly, he added: "as if i didn't know! 'manage this somehow'--a little hard!" "what's to be done?" asked scorrier. "you see i am commanded!" pippin answered bitterly. "and they're quite right; we must keep working--our contracts! now i'm down--not a soul will spare me!" the miners' meeting was held the following day on the outskirts of the town. pippin had cleared the place to make a public recreation-ground--a sort of feather in the company's cap; it was now to be the spot whereon should be decided the question of the company's life or death. the sky to the west was crossed by a single line of cloud like a bar of beaten gold; tree shadows crept towards the groups of men; the evening savour, that strong fragrance of the forest, sweetened the air. the miners stood all round amongst the burnt tree-stumps, cowed and sullen. they looked incapable of movement or expression. it was this dumb paralysis that frightened scorrier. he watched pippin speaking from his phaeton, the butt of all those sullen, restless eyes. would he last out? would the wires hold? it was like the finish of a race. he caught a baffled look on pippin's face, as if he despaired of piercing that terrible paralysis. the men's eyes had begun to wander. 'he's lost his hold,' thought scorrier; 'it's all up!' a miner close beside him muttered: "look out!" pippin was leaning forward, his voice had risen, the words fell like a whiplash on the faces of the crowd: "you shan't throw me over; do you think i'll give up all i've done for you? i'll make you the first power in the colony! are you turning tail at the first shot? you're a set of cowards, my lads!" each man round scorrier was listening with a different motion of the hands--one rubbed them, one clenched them, another moved his closed fist, as if stabbing some one in the back. a grisly-bearded, beetle-browed, twinkling-eyed old cornishman muttered: "a'hm not troublin' about that." it seemed almost as if pippin's object was to get the men to kill him; they had gathered closer, crouching for a rush. suddenly pippin's voice dropped to a whisper: "i'm disgraced men, are you going back on me?" the old miner next scorrier called out suddenly: "anny that's cornishmen here to stand by the superintendent?" a group drew together, and with murmurs and gesticulation the meeting broke up. in the evening a deputation came to visit pippin; and all night long their voices and the superintendent's footsteps could be heard. in the morning, pippin went early to the mine. before supper the deputation came again; and again scorrier had to listen hour after hour to the sound of voices and footsteps till he fell asleep. just before dawn he was awakened by a light. pippin stood at his bedside. "the men go down to-morrow," he said: "what did i tell you? carry me home on my shield, eh?" in a week the mine was in full work. v two years later, scorrier heard once more of pippin. a note from hemmings reached him asking if he could make it convenient to attend their board meeting the following thursday. he arrived rather before the appointed time. the secretary received him, and, in answer to inquiry, said: "thank you, we are doing well--between ourselves, we are doing very well." "and pippin?" the secretary frowned. "ah, pippin! we asked you to come on his account. pippin is giving us a lot of trouble. we have not had a single line from him for just two years!" he spoke with such a sense of personal grievance that scorrier felt quite sorry for him. "not a single line," said hemmings, "since that explosion--you were there at the time, i remember! it makes it very awkward; i call it personal to me." "but how--" scorrier began. "we get--telegrams. he writes to no one, not even to his family. and why? just tell me why? we hear of him; he's a great nob out there. nothing's done in the colony without his finger being in the pie. he turned out the last government because they wouldn't grant us an extension for our railway--shows he can't be a fool. besides, look at our balance-sheet!" it turned out that the question on which scorrier's opinion was desired was, whether hemmings should be sent out to see what was the matter with the superintendent. during the discussion which. ensued, he was an unwilling listener to strictures on pippin's silence. "the explosion," he muttered at last, "a very trying time!" mr. booker pounced on him. "a very trying time! so it was--to all of us. but what excuse is that--now, mr. scorrier, what excuse is that?" scorrier was obliged to admit that it was none. "business is business--eh, what?" scorrier, gazing round that neat board-room, nodded. a deaf director, who had not spoken for some months, said with sudden fierceness: "it's disgraceful!" he was obviously letting off the fume of long-unuttered disapprovals. one perfectly neat, benevolent old fellow, however, who had kept his hat on, and had a single vice--that of coming to the board-room with a brown paper parcel tied up with string--murmured: "we must make all allowances," and started an anecdote about his youth. he was gently called to order by his secretary. scorrier was asked for his opinion. he looked at hemmings. "my importance is concerned," was written all over the secretary's face. moved by an impulse of loyalty to pippin, scorrier answered, as if it were all settled: "well, let me know when you are starting, hemmings--i should like the trip myself." as he was going out, the chairman, old jolyon forsyte, with a grave, twinkling look at hemmings, took him aside. "glad to hear you say that about going too, mr. scorrier; we must be careful--pippin's such a good fellow, and so sensitive; and our friend there--a bit heavy in the hand, um?" scorrier did in fact go out with hemmings. the secretary was sea-sick, and his prostration, dignified but noisy, remained a memory for ever; it was sonorous and fine--the prostration of superiority; and the way in which he spoke of it, taking casual acquaintances into the caves of his experience, was truly interesting. pippin came down to the capital to escort them, provided for their comforts as if they had been royalty, and had a special train to take them to the mines. he was a little stouter, brighter of colour, greyer of beard, more nervous perhaps in voice and breathing. his manner to hemmings was full of flattering courtesy; but his sly, ironical glances played on the secretary's armour like a fountain on a hippopotamus. to scorrier, however, he could not show enough affection: the first evening, when hemmings had gone to his room, he jumped up like a boy out of school. "so i'm going to get a wigging," he said; "i suppose i deserve it; but if you knew--if you only knew...! out here they've nicknamed me 'the king'--they say i rule the colony. it's myself that i can't rule"; and with a sudden burst of passion such as scorrier had never seen in him: "why did they send this man here? what can he know about the things that i've been through?" in a moment he calmed down again. "there! this is very stupid; worrying you like this!" and with a long, kind look into scorrier's face, he hustled him off to bed. pippin did not break out again, though fire seemed to smoulder behind the bars of his courteous irony. intuition of danger had evidently smitten hemmings, for he made no allusion to the object of his visit. there were moments when scorrier's common-sense sided with hemmings--these were moments when the secretary was not present. 'after all,' he told himself, 'it's a little thing to ask--one letter a month. i never heard of such a case.' it was wonderful indeed how they stood it! it showed how much they valued pippin! what was the matter with him? what was the nature of his trouble? one glimpse scorrier had when even hemmings, as he phrased it, received "quite a turn." it was during a drive back from the most outlying of the company's trial mines, eight miles through the forest. the track led through a belt of trees blackened by a forest fire. pippin was driving. the secretary seated beside him wore an expression of faint alarm, such as pippin's driving was warranted to evoke from almost any face. the sky had darkened strangely, but pale streaks of light, coming from one knew not where, filtered through the trees. no breath was stirring; the wheels and horses' hoofs made no sound on the deep fern mould. all around, the burnt tree-trunks, leafless and jagged, rose like withered giants, the passages between them were black, the sky black, and black the silence. no one spoke, and literally the only sound was pippin's breathing. what was it that was so terrifying? scorrier had a feeling of entombment; that nobody could help him; the feeling of being face to face with nature; a sensation as if all the comfort and security of words and rules had dropped away from him. and-nothing happened. they reached home and dined. during dinner he had again that old remembrance of a little man chopping at a castle with his sword. it came at a moment when pippin had raised his hand with the carving-knife grasped in it to answer some remark of hemmings' about the future of the company. the optimism in his uplifted chin, the strenuous energy in his whispering voice, gave scorrier a more vivid glimpse of pippin's nature than he had perhaps ever had before. this new country, where nothing but himself could help a man--that was the castle! no wonder pippin was impatient of control, no wonder he was out of hand, no wonder he was silent--chopping away at that! and suddenly he thought: 'yes, and all the time one knows, nature must beat him in the end!' that very evening hemmings delivered himself of his reproof. he had sat unusually silent; scorrier, indeed, had thought him a little drunk, so portentous was his gravity; suddenly, however he rose. it was hard on a man, he said, in his position, with a board (he spoke as of a family of small children), to be kept so short of information. he was actually compelled to use his imagination to answer the shareholders' questions. this was painful and humiliating; he had never heard of any secretary having to use his imagination! he went further--it was insulting! he had grown grey in the service of the company. mr. scorrier would bear him out when he said he had a position to maintain--his name in the city was a high one; and, by george! he was going to keep it a high one; he would allow nobody to drag it in the dust--that ought clearly to be understood. his directors felt they were being treated like children; however that might be, it was absurd to suppose that he (hemmings) could be treated like a child...! the secretary paused; his eyes seemed to bully the room. "if there were no london office," murmured pippin, "the shareholders would get the same dividends." hemmings gasped. "come!" he said, "this is monstrous!" "what help did i get from london when i first came here? what help have i ever had?" hemmings swayed, recovered, and with a forced smile replied that, if this were true, he had been standing on his head for years; he did not believe the attitude possible for such a length of time; personally he would have thought that he too had had a little something to say to the company's position, but no matter...! his irony was crushing.... it was possible that mr. pippin hoped to reverse the existing laws of the universe with regard to limited companies; he would merely say that he must not begin with a company of which he (hemmings) happened to be secretary. mr. scorrier had hinted at excuses; for his part, with the best intentions in the world, he had great difficulty in seeing them. he would go further --he did not see them! the explosion...! pippin shrank so visibly that hemmings seemed troubled by a suspicion that he had gone too far. "we know," he said, "that it was trying for you...." "trying!" "burst out pippin. "no one can say," hemmings resumed soothingly, "that we have not dealt liberally." pippin made a motion of the head. "we think we have a good superintendent; i go further, an excellent superintendent. what i say is: let's be pleasant! i am not making an unreasonable request!" he ended on a fitting note of jocularity; and, as if by consent, all three withdrew, each to his own room, without another word. in the course of the next day pippin said to scorrier: "it seems i have been very wicked. i must try to do better"; and with a touch of bitter humour, "they are kind enough to think me a good superintendent, you see! after that i must try hard." scorrier broke in: "no man could have done so much for them;" and, carried away by an impulse to put things absolutely straight, went on "but, after all, a letter now and then--what does it amount to?" pippin besieged him with a subtle glance. "you too?" he said--"i must indeed have been a wicked man!" and turned away. scorrier felt as if he had been guilty of brutality; sorry for pippin, angry with himself; angry with pippin, sorry for himself. he earnestly desired to see the back of hemmings. the secretary gratified the wish a few days later, departing by steamer with ponderous expressions of regard and the assurance of his goodwill. pippin gave vent to no outburst of relief, maintaining a courteous silence, making only one allusion to his late guest, in answer to a remark of scorrier: "ah! don't tempt me! mustn't speak behind his back." a month passed, and scorrier still--remained pippin's guest. as each mail-day approached he experienced a queer suppressed excitement. on one of these occasions pippin had withdrawn to his room; and when scorrier went to fetch him to dinner he found him with his head leaning on his hands, amid a perfect fitter of torn paper. he looked up at scorrier. "i can't do it," he said, "i feel such a hypocrite; i can't put myself into leading-strings again. why should i ask these people, when i've settled everything already? if it were a vital matter they wouldn't want to hear--they'd simply wire, 'manage this somehow!'" scorrier said nothing, but thought privately 'this is a mad business!' what was a letter? why make a fuss about a letter? the approach of mail-day seemed like a nightmare to the superintendent; he became feverishly nervous like a man under a spell; and, when the mail had gone, behaved like a respited criminal. and this had been going on two years! ever since that explosion. why, it was monomania! one day, a month after hemmings' departure, pippin rose early from dinner; his face was flushed, he had been drinking wine. "i won't be beaten this time," he said, as he passed scorrier. the latter could hear him writing in the next room, and looked in presently to say that he was going for a walk. pippin gave him a kindly nod. it was a cool, still evening: innumerable stars swarmed in clusters over the forests, forming bright hieroglyphics in the middle heavens, showering over the dark harbour into the sea. scorrier walked slowly. a weight seemed lifted from his mind, so entangled had he become in that uncanny silence. at last pippin had broken through the spell. to get that, letter sent would be the laying of a phantom, the rehabilitation of commonsense. now that this silence was in the throes of being broken, he felt curiously tender towards pippin, without the hero-worship of old days, but with a queer protective feeling. after all, he was different from other men. in spite of his feverish, tenacious energy, in spite of his ironic humour, there was something of the woman in him! and as for this silence, this horror of control--all geniuses had "bees in their bonnets," and pippin was a genius in his way! he looked back at the town. brilliantly lighted it had a thriving air-difficult to believe of the place he remembered ten years back; the sounds of drinking, gambling, laughter, and dancing floated to his ears. 'quite a city!' he thought. with this queer elation on him he walked slowly back along the street, forgetting that he was simply an oldish mining expert, with a look of shabbiness, such as clings to men who are always travelling, as if their "nap" were for ever being rubbed off. and he thought of pippin, creator of this glory. he had passed the boundaries of the town, and had entered the forest. a feeling of discouragement instantly beset him. the scents and silence, after the festive cries and odours of the town, were undefinably oppressive. notwithstanding, he walked a long time, saying to himself that he would give the letter every chance. at last, when he thought that pippin must have finished, he went back to the house. pippin had finished. his forehead rested on the table, his arms hung at his sides; he was stone-dead! his face wore a smile, and by his side lay an empty laudanum bottle. the letter, closely, beautifully written, lay before him. it was a fine document, clear, masterly, detailed, nothing slurred, nothing concealed, nothing omitted; a complete review of the company's position; it ended with the words: "your humble servant, richard pippin." scorrier took possession of it. he dimly understood that with those last words a wire had snapped. the border-line had been overpassed; the point reached where that sense of proportion, which alone makes life possible, is lost. he was certain that at the moment of his death pippin could have discussed bimetallism, or any intellectual problem, except the one problem of his own heart; that, for some mysterious reason, had been too much for him. his death had been the work of a moment of supreme revolt--a single instant of madness on a single subject! he found on the blotting-paper, scrawled across the impress of the signature, "can't stand it!" the completion of that letter had been to him a struggle ungraspable by scorrier. slavery? defeat? a violation of nature? the death of justice? it were better not to think of it! pippin could have told--but he would never speak again. nature, at whom, unaided, he had dealt so many blows, had taken her revenge...! in the night scorrier stole down, and, with an ashamed face, cut off a lock of the fine grey hair. 'his daughter might like it!' he thought.... he waited till pippin was buried, then, with the letter in his pocket, started for england. he arrived at liverpool on a thursday morning, and travelling to town, drove straight to the office of the company. the board were sitting. pippin's successor was already being interviewed. he passed out as scorrier came in, a middle-aged man with a large, red beard, and a foxy, compromising face. he also was a cornishman. scorrier wished him luck with a very heavy heart. as an unsentimental man, who had a proper horror of emotion, whose living depended on his good sense, to look back on that interview with the board was painful. it had excited in him a rage of which he was now heartily ashamed. old jolyon forsyte, the chairman, was not there for once, guessing perhaps that the board's view of this death would be too small for him; and little mr. booker sat in his place. every one had risen, shaken hands with scorrier, and expressed themselves indebted for his coming. scorrier placed pippin's letter on the table, and gravely the secretary read out to his board the last words of their superintendent. when he had finished, a director said, "that's not the letter of a madman!" another answered: "mad as a hatter; nobody but a madman would have thrown up such a post." scorrier suddenly withdrew. he heard hemmings calling after him. "aren't you well, mr. scorrier? aren't you well, sir?" he shouted back: "quite sane, i thank you...." the naples "express" rolled round the outskirts of the town. vesuvius shone in the sun, uncrowned by smoke. but even as scorrier looked, a white puff went soaring up. it was the footnote to his memories. february . the end. saints progress by john galsworthy part i i such a day made glad the heart. all the flags of july were waving; the sun and the poppies flaming; white butterflies spiring up and twining, and the bees busy on the snapdragons. the lime-trees were coming into flower. tall white lilies in the garden beds already rivaled the delphiniums; the york and lancaster roses were full-blown round their golden hearts. there was a gentle breeze, and a swish and stir and hum rose and fell above the head of edward pierson, coming back from his lonely ramble over tintern abbey. he had arrived at kestrel, his brother robert's home on the bank of the wye only that morning, having stayed at bath on the way down; and now he had got his face burnt in that parti-coloured way peculiar to the faces of those who have been too long in london. as he came along the narrow, rather overgrown avenue, the sound of a waltz thrummed out on a piano fell on his ears, and he smiled, for music was the greatest passion he had. his dark grizzled hair was pushed back off his hot brow, which he fanned with his straw hat. though not broad, that brow was the broadest part of a narrow oval face whose length was increased by a short, dark, pointed beard--a visage such as vandyk might have painted, grave and gentle, but for its bright grey eyes, cinder-lashed and crow's-footed, and its strange look of not seeing what was before it. he walked quickly, though he was tired and hot; tall, upright, and thin, in a grey parsonical suit, on whose black kerseymere vest a little gold cross dangled. above his brother's house, whose sloping garden ran down to the railway line and river, a large room had been built out apart. pierson stood where the avenue forked, enjoying the sound of the waltz, and the cool whipping of the breeze in the sycamores and birches. a man of fifty, with a sense of beauty, born and bred in the country, suffers fearfully from nostalgia during a long unbroken spell of london; so that his afternoon in the old abbey had been almost holy. he had let his senses sink into the sunlit greenery of the towering woods opposite; he had watched the spiders and the little shining beetles, the flycatchers, and sparrows in the ivy; touched the mosses and the lichens; looked the speedwells in the eye; dreamed of he knew not what. a hawk had been wheeling up there above the woods, and he had been up there with it in the blue. he had taken a real spiritual bath, and washed the dusty fret of london off his soul. for a year he had been working his parish single-handed--no joke--for his curate had gone for a chaplain; and this was his first real holiday since the war began, two years ago; his first visit, too, to his brother's home. he looked down at the garden, and up at the trees of the avenue. bob had found a perfect retreat after his quarter of a century in ceylon. dear old bob! and he smiled at the thought of his elder brother, whose burnt face and fierce grey whiskers somewhat recalled a bengal tiger; the kindest fellow that ever breathed! yes, he had found a perfect home for thirza and himself. and edward pierson sighed. he too had once had a perfect home, a perfect wife; the wound of whose death, fifteen years ago, still bled a little in his heart. their two daughters, gratian and noel, had not "taken after" her; gratian was like his own mother, and noel's fair hair and big grey eyes always reminded him of his cousin leila, who--poor thing!--had made that sad mess of her life, and now, he had heard, was singing for a living, in south africa. ah! what a pretty girl she had been! drawn by that eternal waltz tune he reached the doorway of the music-room. a chintz curtain hung there, and to the sound of feet slipping on polished boards, he saw his daughter noel waltzing slowly in the arms of a young officer in khaki: round and round they went, circling, backing, moving sideways with curious steps which seemed to have come in recently, for he did not recognise them. at the piano sat his niece eve, with a teasing smile on her rosy face. but it was at his young daughter that edward pierson looked. her eyes were half-closed, her cheeks rather pale, and her fair hair, cut quite short, curled into her slim round neck. quite cool she seemed, though the young man in whose arms she was gliding along looked fiery hot; a handsome boy, with blue eyes and a little golden down on the upper lip of his sunny red-cheeked face. edward pierson thought: 'nice couple!' and had a moment's vision of himself and leila, dancing at that long-ago cambridge may week--on her seventeenth birthday, he remembered, so that she must have been a year younger than nollie was now! this would be the young man she had talked of in her letters during the last three weeks. were they never going to stop? he passed into view of those within, and said: "aren't you very hot, nollie?" she blew him a kiss; the young man looked startled and self-conscious, and eve called out: "it's a bet, uncle. they've got to dance me down." pierson said mildly: "a bet? my dears!" noel murmured over her shoulder: "it's all right, daddy!" and the young man gasped: "she's bet us one of her puppies against one of mine, sir!" pierson sat down, a little hypnotized by the sleepy strumming, the slow giddy movement of the dancers, and those half-closed swimming eyes of his young daughter, looking at him over her shoulder as she went by. he sat with a smile on his lips. nollie was growing up! now that gratian was married, she had become a great responsibility. if only his dear wife had lived! the smile faded from his lips; he looked suddenly very tired. the struggle, physical and spiritual, he had been through, these fifteen years, sometimes weighed him almost to the ground: most men would have married again, but he had always felt it would be sacrilege. real unions were for ever, even though the church permitted remarriage. he watched his young daughter with a mixture of aesthetic pleasure and perplexity. could this be good for her? to go on dancing indefinitely with one young man could that possibly be good for her? but they looked very happy; and there was so much in young creatures that he did not understand. noel, so affectionate, and dreamy, seemed sometimes possessed of a little devil. edward pierson was naif; attributed those outbursts of demonic possession to the loss of her mother when she was such a mite; gratian, but two years older, had never taken a mother's place. that had been left to himself, and he was more or less conscious of failure. he sat there looking up at her with a sort of whimsical distress. and, suddenly, in that dainty voice of hers, which seemed to spurn each word a little, she said: "i'm going to stop!" and, sitting down beside him, took up his hat to fan herself. eve struck a triumphant chord. "hurrah i've won!" the young man muttered: "i say, noel, we weren't half done!" "i know; but daddy was getting bored, weren't you, dear? this is cyril morland." pierson shook the young man's hand. "daddy, your nose is burnt!" "my dear; i know." "i can give you some white stuff for it. you have to sleep with it on all night. uncle and auntie both use it." "nollie!" "well, eve says so. if you're going to bathe, cyril, look out for that current!" the young man, gazing at her with undisguised adoration, muttered: "rather!" and went out. noel's eyes lingered after him; eve broke a silence. "if you're going to have a bath before tea, nollie, you'd better hurry up." "all right. was it jolly in the abbey, daddy?" "lovely; like a great piece of music." "daddy always puts everything into music. you ought to see it by moonlight; it's gorgeous then. all right, eve; i'm coming." but she did not get up, and when eve was gone, cuddled her arm through her father's and murmured: "what d'you think of cyril?" "my dear, how can i tell? he seems a nice-looking young man." "all right, daddy; don't strain yourself. it's jolly down here, isn't it?" she got up, stretched herself a little, and moved away, looking like a very tall child, with her short hair curling in round her head. pierson, watching her vanish past the curtain, thought: 'what a lovely thing she is!' and he got up too, but instead of following, went to the piano, and began to play mendelssohn's prelude and fugue in e minor. he had a fine touch, and played with a sort of dreamy passion. it was his way out of perplexities, regrets, and longings; a way which never quite failed him. at cambridge, he had intended to take up music as a profession, but family tradition had destined him for holy orders, and an emotional church revival of that day had caught him in its stream. he had always had private means, and those early years before he married had passed happily in an east-end parish. to have not only opportunity but power to help in the lives of the poor had been fascinating; simple himself, the simple folk of his parish had taken hold of his heart. when, however, he married agnes heriot, he was given a parish of his own on the borders of east and west, where he had been ever since, even after her death had nearly killed him. it was better to go on where work and all reminded him of one whom he had resolved never to forget in other ties. but he knew that his work had not the zest it used to have in her day, or even before her day. it may well be doubted whether he, who had been in holy orders twenty-six years, quite knew now what he believed. everything had become circumscribed, and fixed, by thousands of his own utterances; to have taken fresh stock of his faith, to have gone deep into its roots, would have been like taking up the foundations of a still-standing house. some men naturally root themselves in the inexpressible--for which one formula is much the same as another; though edward pierson, gently dogmatic, undoubtedly preferred his high-church statement of the inexpressible to that of, say, the zoroastrians. the subtleties of change, the modifications by science, left little sense of inconsistency or treason on his soul. sensitive, charitable, and only combative deep down, he instinctively avoided discussion on matters where he might hurt others or they hurt him. and, since explanation was the last thing which o could be expected of one who did not base himself on reason, he had found but scant occasion ever to examine anything. just as in the old abbey he had soared off into the infinite with the hawk, the beetles, and the grasses, so now, at the piano, by these sounds of his own making, he was caught away again into emotionalism, without realising that he was in one of his, most religious moods. "aren't you coming to tea, edward?" the woman standing behind him, in a lilac-coloured gown, had one of those faces which remain innocent to the end of the chapter, in spite of the complete knowledge of life which appertains to mothers. in days of suffering and anxiety, like these of the great war, thirza pierson was a valuable person. without ever expressing an opinion on cosmic matters, she reconfirmed certain cosmic truths, such as that though the whole world was at war, there was such a thing as peace; that though all the sons of mothers were being killed, there remained such a thing as motherhood; that while everybody was living for the future, the present still existed. her tranquil, tender, matter-of-fact busyness, and the dew in her eyes, had been proof against twenty-three years of life on a tea-plantation in the hot part of ceylon; against bob pierson; against the anxiety of having two sons at the front, and the confidences of nearly every one she came across. nothing disturbed her. she was like a painting of "goodness" by an old master, restored by kate greenaway. she never went to meet life, but when it came, made the best of it. this was her secret, and pierson always felt rested in her presence. he rose, and moved by her side, over the lawn, towards the big tree at the bottom of the garden. "how d'you think noel is looking, edward?" "very pretty. that young man, thirza?" "yes; i'm afraid he's over head and ears in love with her." at the dismayed sound he uttered, she slipped her soft round arm within his. "he's going to the front soon, poor boy!" "have they talked to you?" "he has. nollie hasn't yet." "nollie is a queer child, thirza." "nollie is a darling, but rather a desperate character, edward." pierson sighed. in a swing under the tree, where the tea-things were set out, the "rather desperate character" was swaying. "what a picture she is!" he said, and sighed again. the voice of his brother came to them,--high and steamy, as though corrupted by the climate of ceylon: "you incorrigible dreamy chap, ted! we've eaten all the raspberries. eve, give him some jam; he must be dead! phew! the heat! come on, my dear, and pour out his tea. hallo, cyril! had a good bathe? by george, wish my head was wet! squattez-vous down over there, by nollie; she'll swing, and keep the flies off you." "give me a cigarette, uncle bob--" "what! your father doesn't--" "just for the flies. you don't mind, daddy?" "not if it's necessary, my dear." noel smiled, showing her upper teeth, and her eyes seemed to swim under their long lashes. "it isn't necessary, but it's nice." "ah, ha!" said bob pierson. "here you are, nollie!" but noel shook her head. at that moment she struck her father as startlingly grown-up-so composed, swaying above that young man at her feet, whose sunny face was all adoration. 'no longer a child!' he thought. 'dear nollie!' ii awakened by that daily cruelty, the advent of hot water, edward pierson lay in his chintz-curtained room, fancying himself back in london. a wild bee hunting honey from the bowl of flowers on the window-sill, and the scent of sweetbrier, shattered that illusion. he drew the curtain, and, kneeling on the window-seat thrust his head out into the morning. the air was intoxicatingly sweet. haze clung over the river and the woods beyond; the lawn sparkled with dew, and two wagtails strutted in the dewy sunshine. 'thank god for loveliness!' he thought. 'those poor boys at the front!' and kneeling with his elbows on the sill, he began to say his prayers. the same feeling which made him beautify his church, use vestments, good music, and incense, filled him now. god was in the loveliness of his world, as well as in his churches. one could worship him in a grove of beech trees, in a beautiful garden, on a high hill, by the banks of a bright river. god was in the rustle of the leaves, and the hum of a bee, in the dew on the grass, and the scent of flowers; god was in everything! and he added to his usual prayer this whisper: "i give thee thanks for my senses, o lord. in all of us, keep them bright, and grateful for beauty." then he remained motionless, prey to a sort of happy yearning very near, to melancholy. great beauty ever had that effect on him. one could capture so little of it--could never enjoy it enough! who was it had said not long ago: "love of beauty is really only the sex instinct, which nothing but complete union satisfies." ah! yes, george--gratian's husband. george laird! and a little frown came between his brows, as though at some thorn in the flesh. poor george! but then, all doctors were materialists at heart--splendid fellows, though; a fine fellow, george, working himself to death out there in france. one must not take them too seriously. he plucked a bit of sweetbrier and put it to his nose, which still retained the shine of that bleaching ointment noel had insisted on his using. the sweet smell of those little rough leaves stirred up an acute aching. he dropped them, and drew back. no longings, no melancholy; one ought to be out, this beautiful morning! it was sunday; but he had not to take three services and preach at least one sermon; this day of rest was really to be his own, for once. it was almost disconcerting; he had so long felt like the cab horse who could not be taken out of the shafts lest he should fall down. he dressed with extraordinary deliberation, and had not quite finished when there came a knock on his door, and noel's voice said: "can i come in, daddy?" in her flax-blue frock, with a gloire de dijon rose pinned where it met on her faintly browned neck, she seemed to her father a perfect vision of freshness. "here's a letter from gratian; george has been sent home ill, and he's gone to our house. she's got leave from her hospital to come home and nurse him." pierson read the letter. "poor george!" "when are you going to let me be a nurse, daddy?" "we must wait till you're eighteen, nollie." "i could easily say i was. it's only a month; and i look much more." pierson smiled. "don't i?" "you might be anything from fifteen to twenty-five, my dear, according as you behave." "i want to go out as near the front as possible." her head was poised so that the sunlight framed her face, which was rather broad--the brow rather too broad--under the waving light-brown hair, the nose short and indeterminate; cheeks still round from youth, almost waxen-pale, and faintly hollowed under the eyes. it was her lips, dainty yet loving, and above all her grey eyes, big and dreamily alive, which made her a swan. he could not imagine her in nurse's garb. "this is new, isn't it, nollie?" "cyril morland's sisters are both out; and he'll be going soon. everybody goes." "gratian hasn't got out yet: it takes a long time to get trained." "i know; all the more reason to begin." she got up, looked at him, looked at her hands, seemed about to speak, but did not. a little colour had come into her cheeks. then, obviously making conversation, she asked: "are you going to church? it's worth anything to hear uncle bob read the lessons, especially when he loses his place. no; you're not to put on your long coat till just before church time. i won't have it!" obediently pierson resigned his long coat. "now, you see, you can have my rose. your nose is better!" she kissed his nose, and transferred her rose to the buttonhole of his short coat. "that's all. come along!" and with her arm through his, they went down. but he knew she had come to say something which she had not said. bob pierson, in virtue of greater wealth than the rest of the congregation, always read the lessons, in his high steamy voice, his breathing never adjusted to the length of any period. the congregation, accustomed, heard nothing peculiar; he was the necessary gentry with the necessary finger in the pie. it was his own family whom he perturbed. in the second row, noel, staring solemnly at the profile of her father in the front row, was thinking: 'poor daddy! his eyes look as if they were coming out. oh, daddy! smile! or it'll hurt you!' young morland beside her, rigid in his tunic, was thinking: 'she isn't thinking of me!' and just then her little finger crooked into his. edward pierson was thinking: 'oh! my dear old bob! oh!' and, beside him, thirza thought: 'poor dear ted i how nice for him to be having a complete rest! i must make him eat he's so thin!' and eve was thinking: 'oh, father! mercy!' but bob pierson was thinking: 'cheer oh! only another three verses!' noel's little finger unhooked itself, but her eyes stole round to young morland's eyes, and there was a light in them which lingered through the singing and the prayers. at last, in the reverential rustle of the settling congregation, a surpliced figure mounted the pulpit. "i come not to bring peace, but a sword." pierson looked up. he felt deep restfulness. there was a pleasant light in this church; the hum of a country bluebottle made all the difference to the quality of silence. no critical thought stirred within him, nor any excitement. he was thinking: 'now i shall hear something for my good; a fine text; when did i preach from it last?' turned a little away from the others, he saw nothing but the preacher's homely face up there above the carved oak; it was so long since he had been preached to, so long since he had had a rest! the words came forth, dropped on his forehead, penetrated, met something which absorbed them, and disappeared. 'a good plain sermon!' he thought. 'i suppose i'm stale; i don't seem--' "let us not, dear brethren," droned the preacher's earnest voice, "think that our dear lord, in saying that he brought a sword, referred to a physical sword. it was the sword of the spirit to which he was undoubtedly referring, that bright sword of the spirit which in all ages has cleaved its way through the fetters imposed on men themselves by their own desires, imposed by men on other men in gratification of their ambitions, as we have had so striking an example in the invasion by our cruel enemies of a little neighbouring country which had done them no harm. dear brethren, we may all bring swords." pierson's chin jerked; he raised his hand quickly and passed it over his face. 'all bring swords,' he thought, 'swords--i wasn't asleep--surely!' "but let us be sure that our swords are bright; bright with hope, and bright with faith, that we may see them flashing among the carnal desires of this mortal life, carving a path for us towards that heavenly kingdom where alone is peace, perfect peace. let us pray." pierson did not shut his eyes; he opened them as he fell on his knees. in the seat behind, noel and young morland had also fallen on their knees their faces covered each with a single hand; but her left hand and his right hung at their sides. they prayed a little longer than any others and, on rising, sang the hymn a little louder. no paper came on sundays--not even the local paper, which had so long and so nobly done its bit with headlines to win the war. no news whatever came, of men blown up, to enliven the hush of the hot july afternoon, or the sense of drugging--which followed aunt thirza's sunday lunch. some slept, some thought they were awake; but noel and young morland walked upward through the woods towards a high common of heath and furze, crowned by what was known as kestrel rocks. between these two young people no actual word of love had yet been spoken. their lovering had advanced by glance and touch alone. young morland was a school and college friend of the two pierson boys now at the front. he had no home of his own, for his parents were dead; and this was not his first visit to kestrel. arriving three weeks ago, for his final leave before he should go out, he had found a girl sitting in a little wagonette outside the station, and had known his fate at once. but who knows when noel fell in love? she was--one supposes--just ready for that sensation. for the last two years she had been at one of those high-class finishing establishments where, in spite of the healthy curriculum, perhaps because of it, there is ever an undercurrent of interest in the opposing sex; and not even the gravest efforts to eliminate instinct are quite successful. the disappearance of every young male thing into the maw of the military machine put a premium on instinct. the thoughts of noel and her school companions were turned, perforce, to that which, in pre-war freedom of opportunity they could afford to regard as of secondary interest. love and marriage and motherhood, fixed as the lot of women by the countless ages, were threatened for these young creatures. they not unnaturally pursued what they felt to be receding. when young morland showed, by following her about with his eyes, what was happening to him, noel was pleased. from being pleased, she became a little excited; from being excited she became dreamy. then, about a week before her father's arrival, she secretly began to follow the young man about with her eyes; became capricious too, and a little cruel. if there had been another young man to favour--but there was not; and she favoured uncle bob's red setter. cyril morland grew desperate. during those three days the demon her father dreaded certainly possessed her. and then, one evening, while they walked back together from the hay-fields, she gave him a sidelong glance; and he gasped out: "oh! noel, what have i done?" she caught his hand, and gave it a quick squeeze. what a change! what blissful alteration ever since! through the wood young morland mounted silently, screwing himself up to put things to the touch. noel too mounted silently, thinking: 'i will kiss him if he kisses me!' eagerness, and a sort of languor, were running in her veins; she did not look at him from under her shady hat. sun light poured down through every chink in the foliage; made the greenness of the steep wood marvellously vivid and alive; flashed on beech leaves, ash leaves, birch leaves; fell on the ground in little runlets; painted bright patches on trunks and grass, the beech mast, the ferns; butterflies chased each other in that sunlight, and myriads of ants and gnats and flies seemed possessed by a frenzy of life. the whole wood seemed possessed, as if the sunshine were a happy being which had come to dwell therein. at a half-way spot, where the trees opened and they could see, far below them, the gleam of the river, she sat down on the bole of a beech-tree, and young morland stood looking at her. why should one face and not an other, this voice and not that, make a heart beat; why should a touch from one hand awaken rapture, and a touch from another awaken nothing? he knelt down and pressed his lips to her foot. her eyes grew very bright; but she got up and ran on--she had not expected him to kiss her foot. she heard him hurrying after her, and stopped, leaning against a birch trunk. he rushed to her, and, without a word spoken, his lips were on her lips. the moment in life, which no words can render, had come for them. they had found their enchanted spot, and they moved no further, but sat with their arms round each other, while the happy being of the wood watched. a marvellous speeder-up of love is war. what might have taken six months, was thus accomplished in three weeks. a short hour passed, then noel said: "i must tell daddy, cyril. i meant to tell him something this morning, only i thought i'd better wait, in case you didn't." morland answered: "oh, noel!" it was the staple of his conversation while they sat there. again a short hour passed, and morland said: "i shall go off my chump if we're not married before i go out." "how long does it take?" "no time, if we hurry up. i've got six days before i rejoin, and perhaps the chief will give me another week, if i tell him." "poor daddy! kiss me again; a long one." when the long one was over, she said: "then i can come and be near you till you go out? oh, cyril!" "oh, noel!" "perhaps you won't go so soon. don't go if you can help it!" "not if i can help it, darling; but i shan't be able." "no, of course not; i know." young morland clutched his hair. "everyone's in the same boat, but it can't last for ever; and now we're engaged we can be together all the time till i've got the licence or whatever it is. and then--!" "daddy won't like our not being married in a church; but i don't care!" looking down at her closed eyes, and their lashes resting on her cheeks, young morland thought: 'my god! i'm in heaven!' another short hour passed before she freed herself. "we must go, cyril. kiss me once more!" it was nearly dinner-time, and they ran down. edward pierson, returning from the evening service, where he had read the lessons, saw them in the distance, and compressed his lips. their long absence had vexed him. what ought he to do? in the presence of love's young dream, he felt strange and helpless. that night, when he opened the door of his room, he saw noel on the window-seat, in her dressing-gown, with the moonlight streaming in on her. "don't light up, daddy; i've got something to say." she took hold of the little gold cross on his vest, and turned it over. "i'm engaged to cyril; we want to be married this week." it was exactly as if someone had punched him in the ribs; and at the sound he made she hurried on: "you see, we must be; he may be going out any day." in the midst of his aching consternation, he admitted a kind of reason in her words. but he said: "my dear, you're only a child. marriage is the most serious thing in life; you've only known him three weeks." "i know all that, daddy" her voice sounded so ridiculously calm; "but we can't afford to wait. he might never come back, you see, and then i should have missed him." "but, noel, suppose he never did come back; it would only be much worse for you." she dropped the little cross, and took hold of his hand, pressing it against her heart. but still her voice was calm: "no; much better, daddy; you think i don't know my own feelings, but i do,"' the man in pierson softened; the priest hardened. "nollie, true marriage is the union of souls; and for that, time is wanted. time to know that you feel and think the same, and love the same things." "yes, i know; but we do." "you can't tell that, my dear; no one could in three weeks." "but these aren't ordinary times, are they? people have to do things in a hurry. oh, daddy! be an angel! mother would have understood, and let me, i know!" pierson drew away his hand; the words hurt, from reminder of his loss, from reminder of the poor substitute he was. "look, nollie!" he said. "after all these years since she left us, i'm as lonely as ever, because we were really one. if you marry this young man without knowing more of your own hearts than you can in such a little time, you may regret it dreadfully; you may find it turn out, after all, nothing but a little empty passion; or again, if anything happens to him before you've had any real married life together, you'll have a much greater grief and sense of loss to put up with than if you simply stay engaged till after the war. besides, my child, you're much too young." she sat so still that he looked at her in alarm. "but i must!" he bit his lips, and said sharply: "you can't, nollie!" she got up, and before he could stop her, was gone. with the closing of the door, his anger evaporated, and distress took its place. poor child! what to do with this wayward chicken just out of the egg, and wanting to be full-fledged at once? the thought that she would be lying miserable, crying, perhaps, beset him so that he went out into the passage and tapped on her door. getting no answer, he went in. it was dark but for a streak of moonlight, and in that he saw her, lying on her bed, face down; and stealing up laid his hand on her head. she did not move; and, stroking her hair, he said gently: "nollie dear, i didn't mean to be harsh. if i were your mother, i should know how to make you see, but i'm only an old bumble-daddy." she rolled over, scrambling into a cross-legged posture on the bed. he could see her eyes shining. but she did not speak; she seemed to know that in silence was her strength. he said with a sort of despair: "you must let me talk it over with your aunt. she has a lot of good sense." "yes." he bent over and kissed her hot forehead. "good night, my dear; don't cry. promise me!" she nodded, and lifted her face; he felt her hot soft lips on his forehead, and went away a little comforted. but noel sat on her bed, hugging her knees, listening to the night, to the emptiness and silence; each minute so much lost of the little, little time left, that she might have been with him. iii pierson woke after a troubled and dreamful night, in which he had thought himself wandering in heaven like a lost soul. after regaining his room last night nothing had struck him more forcibly than the needlessness of his words: "don't cry, nollie!" for he had realised with uneasiness that she had not been near crying. no; there was in her some emotion very different from the tearful. he kept seeing her cross-legged figure on the bed in that dim light; tense, enigmatic, almost chinese; kept feeling the feverish touch of her lips. a good girlish burst of tears would have done her good, and been a guarantee. he had the uncomfortable conviction that his refusal had passed her by, as if unspoken. and, since he could not go and make music at that time of night, he had ended on his knees, in a long search for guidance, which was not vouchsafed him. the culprits were demure at breakfast; no one could have told that for the last hour they had been sitting with their arms round each other, watching the river flow by, talking but little, through lips too busy. pierson pursued his sister-in-law to the room where she did her flowers every morning. he watched her for a minute dividing ramblers from pansies, cornflowers from sweet peas, before he said: "i'm very troubled, thirza. nollie came to me last night. imagine! they want to get married--those two!" accepting life as it came, thirza showed no dismay, but her cheeks grew a little pinker, and her eyes a little rounder. she took up a sprig of mignonette, and said placidly: "oh, my dear!" "think of it, thirza--that child! why, it's only a year or two since she used to sit on my knee and tickle my face with her hair." thirza went on arranging her flowers. "noel is older than you think, edward; she is more than her age. and real married life wouldn't begin for them till after--if it ever began." pierson experienced a sort of shock. his sister-in-law's words seemed criminally light-hearted. "but--but--" he stammered; "the union, thirza! who can tell what will happen before they come together again!" she looked at his quivering face, and said gently: "i know, edward; but if you refuse, i should be afraid, in these days, of what noel might do. i told you there's a streak of desperation in her." "noel will obey me." "i wonder! there are so many of these war marriages now." pierson turned away. "i think they're dreadful. what do they mean--just a momentary gratification of passion. they might just as well not be." "they mean pensions, as a rule," said thirza calmly. "thirza, that is cynical; besides, it doesn't affect this case. i can't bear to think of my little nollie giving herself for a moment which may come to nothing, or may turn out the beginning of an unhappy marriage. who is this boy--what is he? i know nothing of him. how can i give her to him--it's impossible! if they had been engaged some time and i knew something of him--yes, perhaps; even at her age. but this hasty passionateness--it isn't right, it isn't decent. i don't understand, i really don't--how a child like that can want it. the fact is, she doesn't know what she's asking, poor little nollie. she can't know the nature of marriage, and she can't realise its sacredness. if only her mother were here! talk to her, thirza; you can say things that i can't!" thirza looked after the retreating figure. in spite of his cloth, perhaps a little because of it, he seemed to her like a child who had come to show her his sore finger. and, having finished the arrangement of her flowers, she went out to find her niece. she had not far to go; for noel was standing in the hall, quite evidently lying in wait. they went out together to the avenue. the girl began at once: "it isn't any use talking to me, auntie; cyril is going to get a license." "oh! so you've made up your minds?" "quite." "do you think that's fair by me, nollie? should i have asked him here if i'd thought this was going to happen?" noel only smiled. "have you the least idea what marriage means?" noel nodded. "really?" "of course. gratian is married. besides, at school--" "your father is dead against it. this is a sad thing for him. he's a perfect saint, and you oughtn't to hurt him. can't you wait, at least till cyril's next leave?" "he might never have one, you see." the heart of her whose boys were out there too, and might also never have another leave; could not but be responsive to those words. she looked at her niece, and a dim appreciation of this revolt of life menaced by death, of youth threatened with extinction, stirred in her. noel's teeth were clenched, her lips drawn back, and she was staring in front of her. "daddy oughtn't to mind. old people haven't to fight, and get killed; they oughtn't to mind us taking what we can. they've had their good time." it was such a just little speech that thirza answered: "yes; perhaps he hasn't quite realised that." "i want to make sure of cyril, auntie; i want everything i can have with him while there's the chance. i don't think it's much to ask, when perhaps i'll never have any more of him again." thirza slipped her hand through the girl's arm. "i understand," she said. "only, nollie, suppose, when all this is over, and we breathe and live naturally once more, you found you'd made a mistake?" noel shook her head. "i haven't." "we all think that, my dear; but thousands of mistakes are made by people who no more dream they're making them than you do now; and then it's a very horrible business. it would be especially horrible for you; your father believes heart and soul in marriage being for ever." "daddy's a darling; but i don't always believe what he believes, you know. besides, i'm not making a mistake, auntie! i love cyril ever so." thirza gave her waist a squeeze. "you mustn't make a mistake. we love you too much, nollie. i wish we had gratian here." "gratian would back me up," said noel; "she knows what the war is. and you ought to, auntie. if rex or harry wanted to be married, i'm sure you'd never oppose them. and they're no older than cyril. you must understand what it means to me auntie dear, to feel that we belong to each other properly before--before it all begins for him, and--and there may be no more. daddy doesn't realise. i know he's awfully good, but--he's forgotten." "my dear, i think he remembers only too well. he was desperately attached to your mother." noel clenched her hands. "was he? well, so am i to cyril, and he to me. we wouldn't be unreasonable if it wasn't--wasn't necessary. talk, to cyril, auntie; then you'll understand. there he is; only, don't keep him long, because i want him. oh! auntie; i want him so badly!" she turned; and slipped back into the house; and thirza, conscious of having been decoyed to this young man, who stood there with his arms folded, like napoleon before a battle, smiled and said: "well, cyril, so you've betrayed me!" even in speaking she was conscious of the really momentous change in this sunburnt, blue-eyed, lazily impudent youth since the day he arrived, three weeks ago, in their little wagonette. he took her arm, just as noel had, and made her sit down beside him on the rustic bench, where he had evidently been told to wait. "you see, mrs. pierson," he said, "it's not as if noel were an ordinary girl in an ordinary time, is it? noel is the sort of girl one would knock one's brains out for; and to send me out there knowing that i could have been married to her and wasn't, will take all the heart out of me. of course i mean to come back, but chaps do get knocked over, and i think it's cruel that we can't take what we can while we can. besides, i've got money; and that would be hers anyway. so, do be a darling, won't you?" he put his arm round her waist, just as if he had been her son, and her heart, which wanted her own boys so badly, felt warmed within her. "you see, i don't know mr. pierson, but he seems awfully gentle and jolly, and if he could see into me he wouldn't mind, i know. we don't mind risking our lives and all that, but we do think we ought to have the run of them while we're alive. i'll give him my dying oath or anything, that i could never change towards noel, and she'll do the same. oh! mrs. pierson, do be a jolly brick, and put in a word for me, quick! we've got so few days!" "but, my dear boy," said thirza feebly, "do you think it's fair to such a child as noel?" "yes, i do. you don't understand; she's simply had to grow up. she is grown-up--all in this week; she's quite as old as i am, really--and i'm twenty-two. and you know it's going to be--it's got to be--a young world, from now on; people will begin doing things much earlier. what's the use of pretending it's like what it was, and being cautious, and all that? if i'm going to be killed, i think we've got a right to be married first; and if i'm not, then what does it matter?" "you've known each other twenty-one days, cyril." "no; twenty-one years! every day's a year when oh! mrs. pierson, this isn't like you, is it? you never go to meet trouble, do you?" at that shrewd remark, thirza put her hand on the hand which still clasped her waist, and pressed it closer. "well, my dear," she said softly, "we must see what can be done." cyril morland kissed her cheek. "i will bless you for ever," he said. "i haven't got any people, you know, except my two sisters." and something like tears started up on thirza's eyelashes. they seemed to her like the babes in the wood--those two! iv in the dining-room of her father's house in that old london square between east and west, gratian laird, in the outdoor garb of a nurse, was writing a telegram: "reverend edward pierson, kestrel, tintern, monmouthshire. george terribly ill. please come if you can. gratian." giving it to a maid, she took off her long coat and sat down for a moment. she had been travelling all night, after a full day's work, and had only just arrived, to find her husband between life and death. she was very different from noel; not quite so tall, but of a stronger build; with dark chestnut-coloured hair, clear hazel eyes, and a broad brow. the expression of her face was earnest, with a sort of constant spiritual enquiry; and a singularly truthful look: she was just twenty; and of the year that she had been married, had only spent six weeks with her husband; they had not even a house of their own as yet. after resting five minutes, she passed her hand vigorously over her face, threw back her head, and walked up stairs to the room where he lay. he was not conscious, and there was nothing to be done but sit and watch him. 'if he dies,' she thought, 'i shall hate god for his cruelty. i have had six weeks with george; some people have sixty years.' she fixed her eyes on his face, short and broad, with bumps of "observation" on the brows. he had been sunburnt. the dark lashes of his closed eyes lay on deathly yellow cheeks; his thick hair grew rather low on his broad forehead. the lips were just open and showed strong white teeth. he had a little clipped moustache, and hair had grown on his clean-cut jaw. his pyjama jacket had fallen open. gratian drew it close. it was curiously still, for a london day, though the window was wide open. anything to break this heavy stupor, which was not only george's, but her own, and the very world's! the cruelty of it--when she might be going to lose him for ever, in a few hours or days! she thought of their last parting. it had not been very loving, had come too soon after one of those arguments they were inclined to have, in which they could not as yet disagree with suavity. george had said there was no future life for the individual; she had maintained there was. they had grown hot and impatient. even in the cab on the way to his train they had pursued the wretched discussion, and the last kiss had been from lips on lips yet warm from disagreement. ever since, as if in compunction, she had been wavering towards his point of view; and now, when he was perhaps to solve the problem--find out for certain--she had come to feel that if he died, she would never see him after. it was cruel that such a blight should have come on her belief at this, of all moments. she laid her hand on his. it was warm, felt strong, although so motionless and helpless. george was so vigorous, so alive, and strong-willed; it seemed impossible that life might be going to play him false. she recalled the unflinching look of his steel-bright eyes, his deep, queerly vibrating voice, which had no trace of self-consciousness or pretence. she slipped her hand on to his heart, and began very slowly, gently rubbing it. he, as doctor, and she, as nurse, had both seen so much of death these last two years! yet it seemed suddenly as if she had never seen death, and that the young faces she had seen, empty and white, in the hospital wards, had just been a show. death would appear to her for the first time, if this face which she loved were to be drained for ever of light and colour and movement and meaning. a humblebee from the square garden boomed in and buzzed idly round the room. she caught her breath in a little sob.... pierson received that telegram at midday, returning from a lonely walk after his talk with thirza. coming from gratian so self-reliant--it meant the worst. he prepared at once to catch the next train. noel was out, no one knew where: so with a sick feeling he wrote: "dearest child, "i am going up to gratian; poor george is desperately ill. if it goes badly you should be with your sister. i will wire to-morrow morning early. i leave you in your aunt's hands, my dear. be reasonable and patient. god bless you. "your devoted "daddy." he was alone in his third-class compartment, and, leaning forward, watched the ruined abbey across the river till it was out of sight. those old monks had lived in an age surely not so sad as this. they must have had peaceful lives, remote down here, in days when the church was great and lovely, and men laid down their lives for their belief in her, and built everlasting fanes to the glory of god! what a change to this age of rush and hurry, of science, trade, material profit, and this terrible war! he tried to read his paper, but it was full of horrors and hate. 'when will it end?' he thought. and the train with its rhythmic jolting seemed grinding out the answer: "never--never!" at chepstow a soldier got in, followed by a woman with a very flushed face and curious, swimmy eyes; her hair was in disorder, and her lip bleeding, as if she had bitten it through. the soldier, too, looked strained and desperate. they sat down, far apart, on the seat opposite. pierson, feeling that he was in their way, tried to hide himself behind his paper; when he looked again, the soldier had taken off his tunic and cap and was leaning out of the window. the woman, on the seat's edge, sniffing and wiping her face, met his glance with resentful eyes, then, getting up, she pulled the man's sleeve. "sit dahn; don't 'ang out o' there." the soldier flung himself back on the seat and looked at pierson. "the wife an' me's 'ad a bit of a row," he said companionably. "gits on me nerves; i'm not used to it. she was in a raid, and 'er nerves are all gone funny; ain't they, old girl? makes me feel me 'ead. i've been wounded there, you know; can't stand much now. i might do somethin' if she was to go on like this for long." pierson looked at the woman, but her eyes still met his resentfully. the soldier held out a packet of cigarettes. "take one," he said. pierson took one and, feeling that the soldier wanted him to speak, murmured: "we all have these troubles with those we're fond of; the fonder we are of people, the more we feel them, don't we? i had one with my daughter last night." "ah!" said the soldier; "that's right. the wife and me'll make it up. 'ere, come orf it, old girl." from behind his paper he soon became conscious of the sounds of reconciliation--reproaches because someone had been offered a drink, kisses mixed with mild slappings, and abuse. when they got out at bristol the soldier shook his hand warmly, but the woman still gave him her resentful stare, and he thought dreamily: 'the war! how it affects everyone!' his carriage was invaded by a swarm of soldiers, and the rest of the journey was passed in making himself small. when at last he reached home, gratian met him in the hall. "just the same. the doctor says we shall know in a few hours now. how sweet of you to come! you must be tired, in this heat. it was dreadful to spoil your holiday." "my dear! as if may i go up and see him?" george laird was still lying in that stupor. and pierson stood gazing down at him compassionately. like most parsons, he had a wide acquaintance with the sick and dying; and one remorseless fellowship with death. death! the commonest thing in the world, now--commoner than life! this young doctor must have seen many die in these last two years, saved many from death; and there he lay, not able to lift a finger to save himself. pierson looked at his daughter; what a strong, promising young couple they were! and putting his arm round her, he led her away to the sofa, whence they could see the sick man. "if he dies, dad--" she whispered. "he will have died for the country, my love, as much as ever our soldiers do." "i know; but that's no comfort. i've been watching here all day; i've been thinking; men will be just as brutal afterwards--more brutal. the world will go on the same." "we must hope not. shall we pray, gracie?" gratian shook her head. "if i could believe that the world--if i could believe anything! i've lost the power, dad; i don't even believe in a future life. if george dies, we shall never meet again." pierson stared at her without a word. gratian went on: "the last time we talked, i was angry with george because he laughed at my belief; now that i really want belief, i feel that he was right." pierson said tremulously: "no, no, my dear; it's only that you're overwrought. god in his mercy will give you back belief." "there is no god, dad" "my darling child, what are you saying?" "no god who can help us; i feel it. if there were any god who could take part in our lives, alter anything without our will, knew or cared what we did--he wouldn't let the world go on as it does." "but, my dear, his purposes are inscrutable. we dare not say he should not do this or that, or try to fathom to what ends he is working." "then he's no good to us. it's the same as if he didn't exist. why should i pray for george's life to one whose ends are just his own? i know george oughtn't to die. if there's a god who can help, it will be a wicked shame if george dies; if there's a god who can help, it's a wicked shame when babies die, and all these millions of poor boys. i would rather think there's no god than a helpless or a wicked god--" her father had suddenly thrown up his hands to his ears. she moved closer, and put her arm round him. "dad dear, i'm sorry. i didn't mean to hurt you." pierson pressed her face down to his shoulder; and said in a dull voice: "what do you think would have happened to me, gracie, if i had lost belief when your mother died? i have never lost belief. pray god i never shall!" gratian murmured: "george would not wish me to pretend i believe--he would want me to be honest. if i'm not honest, i shan't deserve that he should live. i don't believe, and i can't pray." "my darling, you're overtired." "no, dad." she raised her head from his shoulder and, clasping her hands round her knees, looked straight before her. "we can only help ourselves; and i can only bear it if i rebel." pierson sat with trembling lips, feeling that nothing he could say would touch her just then. the sick man's face was hardly visible now in the twilight, and gratian went over to his bed. she stood looking down at him a long time. "go and rest, dad; the doctor's coming again at eleven. i'll call you if i want anything. i shall lie down a little, beside him." pierson kissed her, and went out. to lie there beside him would be the greatest comfort she could get. he went to the bare narrow little room he had occupied ever since his wife died; and, taking off his boots, walked up and down, with a feeling of almost crushing loneliness. both his daughters in such trouble, and he of no use to them! it was as if life were pushing him utterly aside! he felt confused, helpless, bewildered. surely if gratian loved george, she had not left god's side, whatever she might say. then, conscious of the profound heresy of this thought, he stood still at the open window. earthly love--heavenly love; was there any analogy between them? from the square gardens the indifferent whisper of the leaves answered; and a newsvendor at the far end, bawling his nightly tale of murder. george laird passed the crisis of his illness that night, and in the morning was pronounced out of danger. he had a splendid constitution, and--scotsman on his father's side--a fighting character. he came back to life very weak, but avid of recovery; and his first words were: "i've been hanging over the edge, gracie!" a very high cliff, and his body half over, balancing; one inch, the merest fraction of an inch more, and over he would have gone. deuced rum sensation! but not so horrible as it would have been in real life. with the slip of that last inch he felt he would have passed at once into oblivion, without the long horror of a fall. so this was what it was for all the poor fellows he had seen slip in the past two years! mercifully, at the end, one was not alive enough to be conscious of what one was leaving, not alive enough even to care. if he had been able to take in the presence of his young wife, able to realise that he was looking at her face, touching her for the last time--it would have been hell; if he had been up to realising sunlight, moonlight, the sound of the world's life outside, the softness of the bed he lay on--it would have meant the most poignant anguish of defraudment. life was a rare good thing, and to be squashed out of it with your powers at full, a wretched mistake in nature's arrangements, a wretched villainy on the part of man--for his own death, like all those other millions of premature deaths, would have been due to the idiocy and brutality of men! he could smile now, with gratian looking down at him, but the experience had heaped fuel on a fire which had always smouldered in his doctor's soul against that half emancipated breed of apes, the human race. well, now he would get a few days off from his death-carnival! and he lay, feasting his returning senses on his wife. she made a pretty nurse, and his practised eye judged her a good one--firm and quiet. george laird was thirty. at the opening of the war he was in an east-end practice, and had volunteered at once for service with the army. for the first nine months he had been right up in the thick of it. a poisoned arm; rather than the authorities, had sent him home. during that leave he married gratian. he had known the piersons some time; and, made conscious of the instability of life, had resolved to marry her at the first chance he got. for his father-in-law he had respect and liking, ever mixed with what was not quite contempt and not quite pity. the blend of authority with humility, cleric with dreamer, monk with artist, mystic with man of action, in pierson, excited in him an interested, but often irritated, wonder. he saw things so differently himself, and had little of the humorous curiosity which enjoys what is strange simply because it is strange. they could never talk together without soon reaching a point when he wanted to say: "if we're not to trust our reason and our senses for what they're worth, sir--will you kindly tell me what we are to trust? how can we exert them to the utmost in some matters, and in others suddenly turn our backs on them?" once, in one of their discussions, which often bordered on acrimony, he had expounded himself at length. "i grant," he had said, "that there's a great ultimate mystery, that we shall never know anything for certain about the origin of life and the principle of the universe; but why should we suddenly shut up our enquiring apparatus and deny all the evidence of our reason--say, about the story of christ, or the question of a future life, or our moral code? if you want me to enter a temple of little mysteries, leaving my reason and senses behind--as a mohammedan leaves his shoes--it won't do to say to me simply: 'there it is! enter!' you must show me the door; and you can't! and i'll tell you why, sir. because in your brain there's a little twist which is not in mine, or the lack of a little twist which is in mine. nothing more than that divides us into the two main species of mankind, one of whom worships, and one of whom doesn't. oh, yes! i know; you won't admit that, because it makes your religions natural instead of what you call supernatural. but i assure you there's nothing more to it. your eyes look up or they look down--they never look straight before them. well, mine do just the opposite." that day pierson had been feeling very tired, and though to meet this attack was vital, he had been unable to meet it. his brain had stammered. he had turned a little away, leaning his cheek on his hand, as if to cover that momentary break in his defences. some days later he had said: "i am able now to answer your questions, george. i think i can make you understand." laird had answered: "all right, sir; go ahead." "you begin by assuming that the human reason is the final test of all things. what right have you to assume that? suppose you were an ant. you would take your ant's reason as the final test, wouldn't you? would that be the truth?" and a smile had fixed itself on his lips above his little grave beard. george laird also had smiled. "that seems a good point, sir," he said, "until you recognise that i don't take, the human reason as final test in any absolute sense. i only say it's the highest test we can apply; and that, behind that test all is quite dark and unknowable." "revelation, then, means nothing to you?" "nothing, sir." "i don't think we can usefully go on, george." "i don't think we can, sir. in talking with you, i always feel like fighting a man with one hand tied behind his back." "and i, perhaps, feel that i am arguing with one who was blind from birth." for all that, they had often argued since; but never without those peculiar smiles coming on their faces. still, they respected each other, and pierson had not opposed his daughter's marriage to this heretic, whom he knew to be an honest and trustworthy man. it had taken place before laird's arm was well, and the two had snatched a month's honeymoon before he went back to france, and she to her hospital in manchester. since then, just one february fortnight by the sea had been all their time together.... in the afternoon he had asked for beef tea, and, having drunk a cup, said: "i've got something to tell your father." but warned by the pallor of his smiling lips, gratian answered: "tell me first, george." "our last talk, gracie; well--there's nothing--on the other side. i looked over; it's as black as your hat." gratian shivered. "i know. while you were lying here last night, i told father." he squeezed her hand, and said: "i also want to tell him." "dad will say the motive for life is gone." "i say it leaps out all the more, gracie. what a mess we make of it--we angel-apes! when shall we be men, i wonder? you and i, gracie, will fight for a decent life for everybody. no hands-upping about that! bend down! it's good to touch you again; everything's good. i'm going to have a sleep...." after the relief of the doctor's report in the early morning pierson had gone through a hard struggle. what should he wire to noel? he longed to get her back home, away from temptation to the burning indiscretion of this marriage. but ought he to suppress reference to george's progress? would that be honest? at last he sent this telegram: "george out of danger but very weak. come up." by the afternoon post, however, he received a letter from thirza: "i have had two long talks with noel and cyril. it is impossible to budge them. and i really think, dear edward, that it will be a mistake to oppose it rigidly. he may not go out as soon as we think. how would it be to consent to their having banns published?--that would mean another three weeks anyway, and in absence from each other they might be influenced to put it off. i'm afraid this is the only chance, for if you simply forbid it, i feel they will run off and get married somewhere at a registrar's." pierson took this letter out with him into the square garden, for painful cogitation. no man can hold a position of spiritual authority for long years without developing the habit of judgment. he judged noel's conduct to be headlong and undisciplined, and the vein of stubbornness in his character fortified the father and the priest within him. thirza disappointed him; she did not seem to see the irretrievable gravity of this hasty marriage. she seemed to look on it as something much lighter than it was, to consider that it might be left to chance, and that if chance turned out unfavourable, there would still be a way out. to him there would be no way out. he looked up at the sky, as if for inspiration. it was such a beautiful day, and so bitter to hurt his child, even for her good! what would her mother have advised? surely agnes had felt at least as deeply as himself the utter solemnity of marriage! and, sitting there in the sunlight, he painfully hardened his heart. he must do what he thought right, no matter what the consequences. so he went in and wrote that he could not agree, and wished noel to come back home at once. v but on the same afternoon, just about that hour, noel was sitting on the river-bank with her arms folded tight across her chest, and by her side cyril morland, with despair in his face, was twisting a telegram "rejoin tonight. regiment leaves to-morrow." what consolation that a million such telegrams had been read and sorrowed over these last two years! what comfort that the sun was daily blotted dim for hundreds of bright eyes; the joy of life poured out and sopped up by the sands of desolation! "how long have we got, cyril?" "i've engaged a car from the inn, so i needn't leave till midnight. i've packed already, to have more time." "let's have it to ourselves, then. let's go off somewhere. i've got some chocolate." morland answered miserably: "i can send the car up here for my things, and have it pick me up at the inn, if you'll say goodbye to them for me, afterwards. we'll walk down the line, then we shan't meet anyone." and in the bright sunlight they walked hand in hand on each side of a shining rail. about six they reached the abbey. "let's get a boat," said noel. "we can come back here when it's moonlight. i know a way of getting in, after the gate's shut." they hired a boat, rowed over to the far bank, and sat on the stern seat, side by side under the trees where the water was stained deep green by the high woods. if they talked, it was but a word of love now and then, or to draw each other's attention to a fish, a bird, a dragon-fly. what use making plans--for lovers the chief theme? longing paralysed their brains. they could do nothing but press close to each other, their hands enlaced, their lips meeting now and then. on noel's face was a strange fixed stillness, as if she were waiting--expecting! they ate their chocolates. the sun set, dew began to fall; the river changed, and grew whiter; the sky paled to the colour of an amethyst; shadows lengthened, dissolved slowly. it was past nine already; a water-rat came out, a white owl flew over the river, towards the abbey. the moon had come up, but shed no light as yet. they saw no beauty in all this--too young, too passionate, too unhappy. noel said: "when she's over those trees, cyril, let's go. it'll be half dark." they waited, watching the moon, which crept with infinite slowness up and up, brightening ever so little every minute. "now!" said noel. and morland rowed across. they left the boat, and she led the way past an empty cottage, to a shed with a roof sloping up to the abbey's low outer wall. "we can get over here," she whispered. they clambered up, and over, to a piece of grassy courtyard, and passed on to an inner court, under the black shadow of the high walls. "what's the time?" said noel. "half-past ten." "already! let's sit here in the dark, and watch for the moon." they sat down close together. noel's face still had on it that strange look of waiting; and morland sat obedient, with his hand on her heart, and his own heart beating almost to suffocation. they sat, still as mice, and the moon crept up. it laid a first vague greyness on the high wall, which spread slowly down, and brightened till the lichen and the grasses up there were visible; then crept on, silvering the dark above their heads. noel pulled his sleeve, and whispered: "see!" there came the white owl, soft as a snowflake, drifting across in that unearthly light, as if flying to the moon. and just then the top of the moon itself looked over the wall, a shaving of silvery gold. it grew, became a bright spread fan, then balanced there, full and round, the colour of pale honey. "ours!" noel whispered. from the side of the road noel listened till the sound of the car was lost in the folds of the valley. she did not cry, but passed her hands over her face, and began to walk home, keeping to the shadow of the trees. how many years had been added to her age in those six hours since the telegram came! several times in that mile and a half she stepped into a patch of brighter moonlight, to take out and kiss a little photograph, then slip it back next her heart, heedless that so warm a place must destroy any effigy. she felt not the faintest compunction for the recklessness of her love--it was her only comfort against the crushing loneliness of the night. it kept her up, made her walk on with a sort of pride, as if she had got the best of fate. he was hers for ever now, in spite of anything that could be done. she did not even think what she would say when she got in. she came to the avenue, and passed up it still in a sort of dream. her uncle was standing before the porch; she could hear his mutterings. she moved out of the shadow of the trees, went straight up to him, and, looking in his perturbed face, said calmly: "cyril asked me to say good-bye to you all, uncle. good night!" "but, i say, nollie look here you!" she had passed on. she went up to her room. there, by the door, her aunt was standing, and would have kissed her. she drew back: "no, auntie. not to-night!" and, slipping by, she locked her door. bob and thirza pierson, meeting in their own room, looked at each other askance. relief at their niece's safe return was confused by other emotions. bob pierson expressed his first: "phew! i was beginning to think we should w have to drag the river. what girls are coming to!" "it's the war, bob." "i didn't like her face, old girl. i don't know what it was, but i didn't like her face." neither did thirza, but she would not admit it, and encourage bob to take it to heart. he took things so hardly, and with such a noise! she only said: "poor young things! i suppose it will be a relief to edward!" "i love nollie!" said bob pierson suddenly. "she's an affectionate creature. d-nit, i'm sorry about this. it's not so bad for young morland; he's got the excitement--though i shouldn't like to be leaving nollie, if i were young again. thank god, neither of our boys is engaged. by george! when i think of them out there, and myself here, i feel as if the top of my head would come off. and those politician chaps spouting away in every country--how they can have the cheek!" thirza looked at him anxiously. "and no dinner!" he said suddenly. "what d'you think they've been doing with themselves?" "holding each other's hands, poor dears! d'you know what time it is, bob? nearly one o'clock." "well, all i can say is, i've had a wretched evening. get to bed, old girl. you'll be fit for nothing." he was soon asleep, but thirza lay awake, not exactly worrying, for that was not her nature, but seeing noel's face, pale, languid, passionate, possessed by memory. vi noel reached her father's house next day late in the afternoon. there was a letter in the hall for her. she tore it open, and read: "my darling love, "i got back all right, and am posting this at once to tell you we shall pass through london, and go from charing cross, i expect about nine o'clock to-night. i shall look out for you, there, in case you are up in time. every minute i think of you, and of last night. oh! noel! "your devoted lover, "c." she looked at the wrist-watch which, like every other little patriot, she possessed. past seven! if she waited, gratian or her father would seize on her. "take my things up, dinah. i've got a headache from travelling; i'm going to walk it off. perhaps i shan't be in till past nine or so. give my love to them all." "oh, miss noel, you can't,--" but noel was gone. she walked towards charing cross; and, to kill time, went into a restaurant and had that simple repast, coffee and a bun, which those in love would always take if society did not forcibly feed them on other things. food was ridiculous to her. she sat there in the midst of a perfect hive of creatures eating hideously. the place was shaped like a modern prison, having tiers of gallery round an open space, and in the air was the smell of viands and the clatter of plates and the music of a band. men in khaki everywhere, and noel glanced from form to form to see if by chance one might be that which represented, for her, life and the british army. at half-past eight she went out and made her way: through the crowd, still mechanically searching "khaki" for what she wanted; and it was perhaps fortunate that there was about her face and walk something which touched people. at the station she went up to an old porter, and, putting a shilling into his astonished hand, asked him to find out for her whence morland's regiment would start. he came back presently, and said: "come with me, miss." noel went. he was rather lame, had grey whiskers, and a ghostly thin resemblance to her uncle bob, which perhaps had been the reason why she had chosen him. "brother goin' out, miss?" noel nodded. "ah! it's a crool war. i shan't be sorry when it's over. goin' out and comin' in, we see some sad sights 'ere. wonderful spirit they've got, too. i never look at the clock now but what i think: 'there you go, slow-coach! i'd like to set you on to the day the boys come back!' when i puts a bag in: 'another for 'ell' i thinks. and so it is, miss, from all i can 'ear. i've got a son out there meself. it's 'ere they'll come along. you stand quiet and keep a lookout, and you'll get a few minutes with him when he's done with 'is men. i wouldn't move, if i were you; he'll come to you, all right--can't miss you, there.' and, looking at her face, he thought: 'astonishin' what a lot o' brothers go. wot oh! poor little missy! a little lady, too. wonderful collected she is. it's 'ard!'" and trying to find something consoling to say, he mumbled out: "you couldn't be in a better place for seen'im off. good night, miss; anything else i can do for you?" "no, thank you; you're very kind." he looked back once or twice at her blue-clad figure standing very still. he had left her against a little oasis of piled-up empty milk-cans, far down the platform where a few civilians in similar case were scattered. the trainway was empty as yet. in the grey immensity of the station and the turmoil of its noise, she felt neither lonely nor conscious of others waiting; too absorbed in the one thought of seeing him and touching him again. the empty train began backing in, stopped, and telescoped with a series of little clattering bangs, backed on again, and subsided to rest. noel turned her eyes towards the station arch ways. already she felt tremulous, as though the regiment were sending before it the vibration of its march. she had not as yet seen a troop-train start, and vague images of brave array, of a flag fluttering, and the stir of drums, beset her. suddenly she saw a brown swirling mass down there at the very edge, out of which a thin brown trickle emerged towards her; no sound of music, no waved flag. she had a longing to rush down to the barrier, but remembering the words of the porter, stayed where she was, with her hands tightly squeezed together. the trickle became a stream, a flood, the head of which began to reach her. with a turbulence of voices, sunburnt men, burdened up to the nose, passed, with rifles jutting at all angles; she strained her eyes, staring into that stream as one might into a walking wood, to isolate a single tree. her head reeled with the strain of it, and the effort to catch his voice among the hubbub of all those cheery, common, happy-go-lucky sounds. some who saw her clucked their tongues, some went by silent, others seemed to scan her as though she might be what they were looking for. and ever the stream and the hubbub melted into the train, and yet came pouring on. and still she waited motionless, with an awful fear. how could he ever find her, or she him? then she saw that others of those waiting had found their men. and the longing to rush up and down the platform almost overcame her; but still she waited. and suddenly she saw him with two other officer boys, close to the carriages, coming slowly down towards her. she stood with her eyes fixed on his face; they passed, and she nearly cried out. then he turned, broke away from the other two, and came straight to her. he had seen her before she had seen him. he was very flushed, had a little fixed frown between his blue eyes and a set jaw. they stood looking at each other, their hands hard gripped; all the emotion of last night welling up within them, so that to speak would have been to break down. the milk-cans formed a kind of shelter, and they stood so close together that none could see their faces. noel was the first to master her power of speech; her words came out, dainty as ever, through trembling lips: "write to me as much as ever you can, cyril. i'm going to be a nurse at once. and the first leave you get, i shall come to you--don't forget." "forget! move a little back, darling; they can't see us here. kiss me!" she moved back, thrust her face forward so that he need not stoop, and put her lips up to his. then, feeling that she might swoon and fall over among the cans, she withdrew her mouth, leaving her forehead against his lips. he murmured: "was it all right when you got in last night?" "yes; i said good-bye for you." "oh! noel--i've been afraid--i oughtn't--i oughtn't--" "yes, yes; nothing can take you from me now." "you have got pluck. more than!" along whistle sounded. morland grasped her hands convulsively: "good-bye, my little wife! don't fret. goodbye! i must go. god bless you, noel!" "i love you." they looked at each other, just another moment, then she took her hands from his and stood back in the shadow of the milk-cans, rigid, following him with her eyes till he was lost in the train. every carriage window was full of those brown figures and red-brown faces, hands were waving vaguely, voices calling vaguely, here and there one cheered; someone leaning far out started to sing: "if auld acquaintance--" but noel stood quite still in the shadow of the milk-cans, her lips drawn in, her hands hard clenched in front of her; and young morland at his window gazed back at her. how she came to be sitting in trafalgar square she did not know. tears had formed a mist between her and all that seething, summer-evening crowd. her eyes mechanically followed the wandering search-lights, those new milky ways, quartering the heavens and leading nowhere. all was wonderfully beautiful, the sky a deep dark blue, the moonlight whitening the spire of st. martin's, and everywhere endowing the great blacked-out buildings with dream-life. even the lions had come to life, and stared out over this moonlit desert of little human figures too small to be worth the stretching out of a paw. she sat there, aching dreadfully, as if the longing of every bereaved heart in all the town had settled in her. she felt it tonight a thousand times worse; for last night she had been drugged on the new sensation of love triumphantly fulfilled. now she felt as if life had placed her in the corner of a huge silent room, blown out the flame of joy, and locked the door. a little dry sob came from her. the hay-fields and cyril, with shirt unbuttoned at the neck, pitching hay and gazing at her while she dabbled her fork in the thin leavings. the bright river, and their boat grounded on the shallows, and the swallows flitting over them. and that long dance, with the feel of his hand between her shoulder-blades! memories so sweet and sharp that she almost cried out. she saw again their dark grassy courtyard in the abbey, and the white owl flying over them. the white owl! flying there again to-night, with no lovers on the grass below! she could only picture cyril now as a brown atom in that swirling brown flood of men, flowing to a huge brown sea. those cruel minutes on the platform, when she had searched and searched the walking wood for her, one tree, seemed to have burned themselves into her eyes. cyril was lost, she could not single him out, all blurred among those thousand other shapes. and suddenly she thought: 'and i--i'm lost to him; he's never seen me at home, never seen me in london; he won't be able to imagine me. it's all in the past, only the past--for both of us. is there anybody so unhappy?' and the town's voices-wheels, and passing feet, whistles, talk, laughter--seemed to answer callously: 'not one.' she looked at her wrist-watch; like his, it had luminous hands: 'half-past ten' was greenishly imprinted there. she got up in dismay. they would think she was lost, or run over, or something silly! she could not find an empty taxi, and began to walk, uncertain of her way at night. at last she stopped a policeman, and said: "which is the way towards bloomsbury, please? i can't find a taxi." the man looked at her, and took time to think it over; then he said: "they're linin' up for the theatres," and looked at her again. something seemed to move in his mechanism: "i'm goin' that way, miss. if you like, you can step along with me." noel stepped along. "the streets aren't what they ought to be," the policeman said. "what with the darkness, and the war turning the girls heads--you'd be surprised the number of them that comes out. it's the soldiers, of course." noel felt her cheeks burning. "i daresay you wouldn't have noticed it," the policeman went on: "but this war's a funny thing. the streets are gayer and more crowded at night than i've ever seen them; it's a fair picnic all the time. what we're goin' to settle down to when peace comes, i don't know. i suppose you find it quiet enough up your way, miss?" "yes," said noel; "quite quiet." "no soldiers up in bloomsbury. you got anyone in the army, miss?" noel nodded. "ah! it's anxious times for ladies. what with the zeps, and their brothers and all in france, it's 'arassin'. i've lost a brother meself, and i've got a boy out there in the garden of eden; his mother carries on dreadful about him. what we shall think of it when it's all over, i can't tell. these huns are a wicked tough lot!" noel looked at him; a tall man, regular and orderly, with one of those perfectly decent faces so often seen in the london police. "i'm sorry you've lost someone," she said. "i haven't lost anyone very near, yet." "well, let's 'ope you won't, miss. these times make you feel for others, an' that's something. i've noticed a great change in folks you'd never think would feel for anyone. and yet i've seen some wicked things too; we do, in the police. some of these english wives of aliens, and 'armless little german bakers, an' austrians, and what-not: they get a crool time. it's their misfortune, not their fault, that's what i think; and the way they get served--well, it makes you ashamed o' bein' english sometimes--it does straight: and the women are the worst. i said to my wife only last night, i said: 'they call themselves christians,' i said, 'but for all the charity that's in 'em they might as well be huns.' she couldn't see it-not she!' well, why do they drop bombs?' she says. 'what!' i said, 'those english wives and bakers drop bombs? don't be silly,' i said. 'they're as innocent as we.' it's the innocent that gets punished for the guilty. 'but they're all spies,' she says. 'oh!' i said, 'old lady! now really! at your time of life!' but there it is; you can't get a woman to see reason. it's readin' the papers. i often think they must be written by women--beggin' your pardon, miss--but reely, the 'ysterics and the 'atred--they're a fair knockout. d'you find much hatred in your household, miss?" noel shook her head. "no; my father's a clergyman, you see." "ah!" said the policeman. and in the glance he bestowed on her could be seen an added respect. "of course," he went on, "you're bound to have a sense of justice against these huns; some of their ways of goin' on have been above the limit. but what i always think is--of course i don't say these things--no use to make yourself unpopular--but to meself i often think: take 'em man for man, and you'd find 'em much the same as we are, i daresay. it's the vicious way they're brought up, of actin' in the mass, that's made 'em such a crool lot. i see a good bit of crowds in my profession, and i've a very low opinion of them. crowds are the most blunderin' blighted things that ever was. they're like an angry woman with a bandage over her eyes, an' you can't have anything more dangerous than that. these germans, it seems, are always in a crowd. they get a state o' mind read out to them by bill kaser and all that bloody-minded lot, an' they never stop to think for themselves." "i suppose they'd be shot if they did," said noel. "well, there is that," said the policeman reflectively. "they've brought discipline to an 'igh pitch, no doubt. an' if you ask me,"--he lowered his voice till it was almost lost in his chin-strap, "we'll be runnin' 'em a good second 'ere, before long. the things we 'ave to protect now are gettin' beyond a joke. there's the city against lights, there's the streets against darkness, there's the aliens, there's the aliens' shops, there's the belgians, there's the british wives, there's the soldiers against the women, there's the women against the soldiers, there's the peace party, there's 'orses against croolty, there's a cabinet minister every now an' then; and now we've got these conchies. and, mind you, they haven't raised our pay; no war wages in the police. so far as i can see, there's only one good result of the war--the burglaries are off. but there again, you wait a bit and see if we don't have a prize crop of 'm, or my name's not 'arris." "you must have an awfully exciting life!" said noel. the policeman looked down at her sideways, without lowering his face, as only a policeman can, and said indulgently: "we're used to it, you see; there's no excitement in what you're used to. they find that in the trenches, i'm told. take our seamen--there's lots of 'em been blown up over and over again, and there they go and sign on again next day. that's where the germans make their mistake! england in war-time! i think a lot, you know, on my go; you can't 'elp it--the mind will work--an' the more i think, the more i see the fightin' spirit in the people. we don't make a fuss about it like bill kaser. but you watch a little shopman, one o' those fellows who's had his house bombed; you watch the way he looks at the mess--sort of disgusted. you watch his face, and you see he's got his teeth into it. you watch one of our tommies on 'is crutches, with the sweat pourin' off his forehead an' 'is eyes all strainy, stumpin' along--that gives you an idea! i pity these peace fellows, reely i pity them; they don't know what they're up against. i expect there's times when you wish you was a man, don't you, miss? i'm sure there's times when i feel i'd like to go in the trenches. that's the worst o' my job; you can't be a human bein'--not in the full sense of the word. you mustn't let your passions rise, you mustn't drink, you mustn't talk; it's a narrow walk o' life. well, here you are, miss; your square's the next turnin' to the right. good night and thank you for your conversation." noel held out her hand. "good night!" she said. the policeman took her hand with a queer, flattered embarrassment. "good night, miss," he said again. "i see you've got a trouble; and i'm sure i hope it'll turn out for the best." noel gave his huge hand a squeeze; her eyes had filled with tears, and she turned quickly up towards the square, where a dark figure was coming towards her, in whom she recognised her father. his face was worn and harassed; he walked irresolutely, like a man who has lost something. "nollie!" he said. "thank god!" in his voice was an infinite relief. "my child, where have you been?" "it's all right, daddy. cyril has just gone to the front. i've been seeing him off from charing cross." pierson slipped his arm round her. they entered the house without speaking.... by the rail of his transport, as far--about two feet--as he could get from anyone, cyril morland stood watching calais, a dream city, brighten out of the heat and grow solid. he could hear the guns already, the voice of his new life-talking in the distance. it came with its strange excitement into a being held by soft and marvellous memories, by one long vision of noel and the moonlit grass, under the dark abbey wall. this moment of passage from wonder to wonder was quite too much for a boy unused to introspection, and he stood staring stupidly at calais, while the thunder of his new life came rolling in on that passionate moonlit dream. vii after the emotions of those last three days pierson woke with the feeling a ship must have when it makes landfall. such reliefs are natural, and as a rule delusive; for events are as much the parents of the future as they were the children of the past. to be at home with both his girls, and resting--for his holiday would not be over for ten days--was like old times. now george was going on so well gratian would be herself again; now cyril morland was gone noel would lose that sudden youthful love fever. perhaps in two or three days if george continued to progress, one might go off with noel somewhere for one's last week. in the meantime the old house, wherein was gathered so much remembrance of happiness and pain, was just as restful as anywhere else, and the companionship of his girls would be as sweet as on any of their past rambling holidays in wales or ireland. and that first morning of perfect idleness--for no one knew he was back in london--pottering, and playing the piano in the homely drawing-room where nothing to speak of was changed since his wife's day, was very pleasant. he had not yet seen the girls, for noel did not come down to breakfast, and gratian was with george. discovery that there was still a barrier between him and them came but slowly in the next two days. he would not acknowledge it, yet it was there, in their voices, in their movements--rather an absence of something old than the presence of something new. it was as if each had said to him: "we love you, but you are not in our secrets--and you must not be, for you would try to destroy them." they showed no fear of him, but seemed to be pushing him unconsciously away, lest he should restrain or alter what was very dear to them. they were both fond of him, but their natures had set foot on definitely diverging paths. the closer the affection, the more watchful they were against interference by that affection. noel had a look on her face, half dazed, half proud, which touched, yet vexed him. what had he done to forfeit her confidence--surely she must see how natural and right his opposition had been! he made one great effort to show the real sympathy he felt for her. but she only said: "i can't talk of cyril, daddy; i simply can't!" and he, who easily shrank into his shell, could not but acquiesce in her reserve. with gratian it was different. he knew that an encounter was before him; a struggle between him and her husband--for characteristically he set the change in her, the defection of her faith, down to george, not to spontaneous thought and feeling in herself. he dreaded and yet looked forward to this encounter. it came on the third day, when laird was up, lying on that very sofa where pierson had sat listening to gratian's confession of disbelief. except for putting in his head to say good morning, he had not yet seen his son-in-law: the young doctor could not look fragile, the build of his face, with that law and those heavy cheekbones was too much against it, but there was about him enough of the look of having come through a hard fight to give pierson's heart a squeeze. "well, george," he said, "you gave us a dreadful fright! i thank god's mercy." with that half-mechanical phrase he had flung an unconscious challenge. laird looked up whimsically. "so you really think god merciful, sir?" "don't let us argue, george; you're not strong enough." "oh! i'm pining for something to bite on." pierson looked at gratian, and said softly: "god's mercy is infinite, and you know it is." laird also looked at gratian, before he answered: "god's mercy is surely the amount of mercy man has succeeded in arriving at. how much that is, this war tells you, sir." pierson flushed. "i don't follow you," he said painfully. "how can you say such things, when you yourself are only just no; i refuse to argue, george; i refuse." laird stretched out his hand to his wife, who came to him, and stood clasping it with her own. "well, i'm going to argue," he said; "i'm simply bursting with it. i challenge you, sir, to show me where there's any sign of altruistic pity, except in man. mother love doesn't count--mother and child are too much one." the curious smile had come already, on both their faces. "my dear george, is not man the highest work of god, and mercy the highest quality in man?" "not a bit. if geological time be taken as twenty-four hours, man's existence on earth so far equals just two seconds of it; after a few more seconds, when man has been frozen off the earth, geological time will stretch for as long again, before the earth bumps into something, and becomes nebula once more. god's hands haven't been particularly full, sir, have they--two seconds out of twenty-four hours--if man is his pet concern? and as to mercy being the highest quality in, man, that's only a modern fashion of talking. man's highest quality is the sense of proportion, for that's what keeps him alive; and mercy, logically pursued, would kill him off. it's a sort of a luxury or by-product." "george! you can have no music in your soul! science is such a little thing, if you could only see." "show me a bigger, sir." "faith." "in what?" "in what has been revealed to us." "ah! there it is again! by whom--how? "by god himself--through our lord." a faint flush rose in laird's yellow face, and his eyes brightened. "christ," he said; "if he existed, which some people, as you know, doubt, was a very beautiful character; there have been others. but to ask us to believe in his supernaturalness or divinity at this time of day is to ask us to walk through the world blindfold. and that's what you do, don't you?" again pierson looked at his daughter's face. she was standing quite still, with her eyes fixed on her husband. somehow he was aware that all these words of the sick man's were for her benefit. anger, and a sort of despair rose within him, and he said painfully: "i cannot explain. there are things that i can't make clear, because you are wilfully blind to all that i believe in. for what do you imagine we are fighting this great war, if it is not to reestablish the belief in love as the guiding principle of life?" laird shook his head. "we are fighting to redress a balance, which was in danger of being lost." "the balance of power?" "heavens!--no! the balance of philosophy." pierson smiled. "that sounds very clever, george; but again, i don't follow you." "the balance between the sayings: 'might is right,' and 'right is might.' they're both half-truth, but the first was beating the other out of the field. all the rest of it is cant, you know. and by the way, sir, your church is solid for punishment of the evildoer. where's mercy there? either its god is not merciful, or else it doesn't believe in its god." "just punishment does not preclude mercy, george." "it does in nature." "ah! nature, george--always nature. god transcends nature." "then why does he give it a free rein? a man too fond of drink, or women--how much mercy does he get from nature? his overindulgence brings its exact equivalent of penalty; let him pray to god as much as he likes--unless he alters his ways he gets no mercy. if he does alter his ways, he gets no mercy either; he just gets nature's due reward. we english who have neglected brain and education--how much mercy are we getting in this war? mercy's a man-made ornament, disease, or luxury--call it what you will. except that, i've nothing to say against it. on the contrary, i am all for it." once more pierson looked at his daughter. something in her face hurt him--the silent intensity with which she was hanging on her husband's words, the eager search of her eyes. and he turned to the door, saying: "this is bad for you, george." he saw gratian put her hand on her husband's forehead, and thought--jealously: 'how can i save my poor girl from this infidelity? are my twenty years of care to go for nothing, against this modern spirit?' down in his study, the words went through his mind: "holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!" and going to the little piano in the corner, he opened it, and began playing the hymn. he played it softly on the shabby keys of this thirty-year old friend, which had been with him since college days; and sang it softly in his worn voice. a sound made him look up. gratian had come in. she put her hand on his shoulder, and said: "i know it hurts you, dad. but we've got to find out for ourselves, haven't we? all the time you and george were talking, i felt that you didn't see that it's i who've changed. it's not what he thinks, but what i've come to think of my own accord. i wish you'd understand that i've got a mind of my own, dad." pierson looked up with amazement. "of course you have a mind." gratian shook her head. "no, you thought my mind was yours; and now you think it's george's. but it's my own. when you were my age weren't you trying hard to find the truth yourself, and differing from your father?" pierson did not answer. he could not remember. it was like stirring a stick amongst a drift of last year's leaves, to awaken but a dry rustling, a vague sense of unsubstantiality. searched? no doubt he had searched, but the process had brought him nothing. knowledge was all smoke! emotional faith alone was truth--reality! "ah, gracie!" he said, "search if you must, but where will you find bottom? the well is too deep for us. you will come back to god, my child, when you're tired out; the only rest is there." "i don't want to rest. some people search all their lives, and die searching. why shouldn't i. "you will be most unhappy, my child." "if i'm unhappy, dad, it'll be because the world's unhappy. i don't believe it ought to be; i think it only is, because it shuts its eyes." pierson got up. "you think i shut my eyes?" gratian nodded. "if i do, it is because there is no other way to happiness." "are you happy; dad?" "as happy as my nature will let me be. i miss your mother. if i lose you and noel--" "oh, but we won't let you!" pierson smiled. "my dear," he said, "i think i have!" viii some wag, with a bit of chalk, had written the word "peace" on three successive doors of a little street opposite buckingham palace. it caught the eye of jimmy fort, limping home to his rooms from a very late discussion at his club, and twisted his lean shaven lips into a sort of smile. he was one of those rolling-stone englishmen, whose early lives are spent in all parts of the world, and in all kinds of physical conflict--a man like a hickory stick, tall, thin, bolt-upright, knotty, hard as nails, with a curved fighting back to his head and a straight fighting front to his brown face. his was the type which becomes, in a generation or so, typically colonial or american; but no one could possibly have taken jimmy fort for anything but an englishman. though he was nearly forty, there was still something of the boy in his face, something frank and curly-headed, gallant and full of steam, and his small steady grey eyes looked out on life with a sort of combative humour. he was still in uniform, though they had given him up as a bad job after keeping him nine months trying to mend a wounded leg which would never be sound again; and he was now in the war office in connection with horses, about which he knew. he did not like it, having lived too long with all sorts and conditions of men who were neither english nor official, a combination which he found trying. his life indeed, just now, bored him to distraction, and he would ten times rather have been back in france. this was why he found the word "peace" so exceptionally tantalising. reaching his rooms, he threw off his tunic, to whose stiff regularity he still had a rooted aversion; and, pulling out a pipe, filled it and sat down at his window. moonshine could not cool the hot town, and it seemed sleeping badly--the seven million sleepers in their million homes. sound lingered on, never quite ceased; the stale odours clung in the narrow street below, though a little wind was creeping about to sweeten the air. 'curse the war!' he thought. 'what wouldn't i give to be sleeping out, instead of in this damned city!' they who slept in the open, neglecting morality, would certainly have the best of it tonight, for no more dew was falling than fell into jimmy fort's heart to cool the fret of that ceaseless thought: 'the war! the cursed war!' in the unending rows of little grey houses, in huge caravanserais, and the mansions of the great, in villas, and high slum tenements; in the government offices, and factories, and railway stations where they worked all night; in the long hospitals where they lay in rows; in the camp prisons of the interned; in bar racks, work-houses, palaces--no head, sleeping or waking, would be free of that thought: 'the, cursed war!' a spire caught his eye, rising ghostly over the roofs. ah! churches alone, void of the human soul, would be unconscious! but for the rest, even sleep would not free them! here a mother would be whispering the name of her boy; there a merchant would snore and dream he was drowning, weighted with gold; and a wife would be turning to stretch out her arms to-no one; and a wounded soldier wake out of a dream trench with sweat on his brow; and a newsvendor in his garret mutter hoarsely. by thousands the bereaved would be tossing, stifling their moans; by thousands the ruined would be gazing into the dark future; and housewives struggling with sums; and soldiers sleeping like logs--for to morrow they died; and children dreaming of them; and prostitutes lying in stale wonder at the busyness of their lives; and journalists sleeping the sleep of the just. and over them all, in the moonlight that thought 'the cursed war!' flapped its black wings, like an old crow! "if christ were real," he mused, "he'd reach that moon down, and go chalking 'peace' with it on every door of every house, all over europe. but christ's not real, and hindenburg and harmsworth are!" as real they were as two great bulls he had once seen in south africa, fighting. he seemed to hear again the stamp and snort and crash of those thick skulls, to see the beasts recoiling and driving at each other, and the little red eyes of them. and pulling a letter out of his pocket, he read it again by the light of the moon: " , camelot mansions, "st. john's wood. "dear mr. fort, "i came across your club address to-night, looking at some old letters. did you know that i was in london? i left steenbok when my husband died, five years ago. i've had a simply terrific time since. while the german south west campaign was on i was nursing out there, but came back about a year ago to lend a hand here. it would be awfully nice to meet you again, if by any chance you are in england. i'm working in a v. a. d. hospital in these parts, but my evenings are usually free. do you remember that moonlit night at grape harvest? the nights here aren't scented quite like that. listerine! oh! this war! "with all good remembrances, "leila lynch." a terrific time! if he did not mistake, leila lynch had always had a terrific time. and he smiled, seeing again the stoep of an old dutch house at high constantia, and a woman sitting there under the white flowers of a sweet-scented creeper--a pretty woman, with eyes which could put a spell on you, a woman he would have got entangled with if he had not cut and run for it! ten years ago, and here she was again, refreshing him out of the past. he sniffed the fragrance of the little letter. how everybody always managed to work into a letter what they were doing in the war! if he answered her he would be sure to say: "since i got lamed, i've been at the war office, working on remounts, and a dull job it is!" leila lynch! women didn't get younger, and he suspected her of being older than himself. but he remembered agreeably her white shoulders and that turn of her neck when she looked at you with those big grey eyes of hers. only a five-day acquaintanceship, but they had crowded much into it as one did in a strange land. the episode had been a green and dangerous spot, like one of those bright mossy bits of bog when you were snipe-shooting, to set foot on which was to let you down up to the neck, at least. well, there was none of that danger now, for her husband was dead-poor chap! it would be nice, in these dismal days, when nobody spent any time whatever except in the service of the country, to improve his powers of service by a few hours' recreation in her society. 'what humbugs we are!' he thought: 'to read the newspapers and the speeches you'd believe everybody thought of nothing but how to get killed for the sake of the future. drunk on verbiage! what heads and mouths we shall all have when we wake up some fine morning with peace shining in at the window! ah! if only we could; and enjoy ourselves again!' and he gazed at the moon. she was dipping already, reeling away into the dawn. water carts and street sweepers had come out into the glimmer; sparrows twittered in the eaves. the city was raising a strange unknown face to the grey light, shuttered and deserted as babylon. jimmy fort tapped out his pipe, sighed, and got into bed. coming off duty at that very moment, leila lynch decided to have her hour's walk before she went home. she was in charge of two wards, and as a rule took the day watches; but some slight upset had given her this extra spell. she was, therefore, at her worst, or perhaps at her best, after eighteen hours in hospital. her cheeks were pale, and about her eyes were little lines, normally in hiding. there was in this face a puzzling blend of the soft and hard, for the eyes, the rather full lips, and pale cheeks, were naturally soft; but they were hardened by the self-containment which grows on women who have to face life for themselves, and, conscious of beauty, intend to keep it, in spite of age. her figure was contradictory, also; its soft modelling a little too rigidified by stays. in this desert of the dawn she let her long blue overcoat flap loose, and swung her hat on a finger, so that her light-brown, touched-up hair took the morning breeze with fluffy freedom. though she could not see herself, she appreciated her appearance, swaying along like that, past lonely trees and houses. a pity there was no one to see her in that round of regent's park, which took her the best part of an hour, walking in meditation, enjoying the colour coming back into the world, as if especially for her. there was character in leila lynch, and she had lived an interesting life from a certain point of view. in her girlhood she had fluttered the hearts of many besides cousin edward pierson, and at eighteen had made a passionate love match with a good-looking young indian civilian, named fane. they had loved each other to a standstill in twelve months. then had begun five years of petulance, boredom, and growing cynicism, with increasing spells of simla, and voyages home for her health which was really harmed by the heat. all had culminated, of course, in another passion for a rifleman called lynch. divorce had followed, remarriage, and then the boer war, in which he had been badly wounded. she had gone out and nursed him back to half his robust health, and, at twenty-eight, taken up life with him on an up-country farm in cape colony. this middle period had lasted ten years, between the lonely farm and an old dutch house at high constantia. lynch was not a bad fellow, but, like most soldiers of the old army, had been quite carefully divested of an aesthetic sense. and it was leila's misfortune to have moments when aesthetic sense seemed necessary. she had struggled to overcome this weakness, and that other weakness of hers--a liking for men's admiration; but there had certainly been intervals when she had not properly succeeded. her acquaintance with jimmy fort had occurred during one of these intervals, and when he went back to england so abruptly, she had been feeling very tenderly towards him. she still remembered him with a certain pleasure. before lynch died, these "intervals" had been interrupted by a spell of returning warmth for the invalided man to whom she had joined her life under the romantic conditions of divorce. he had failed, of course, as a farmer, and his death left her with nothing but her own settled income of a hundred and fifty pounds a year. faced by the prospect of having almost to make her living, at thirty-eight, she felt but momentary dismay--for she had real pluck. like many who have played with amateur theatricals, she fancied herself as an actress; but, after much effort, found that only her voice and the perfect preservation of her legs were appreciated by the discerning managers and public of south africa; and for three chequered years she made face against fortune with the help of them, under an assumed name. what she did--keeping a certain bloom of refinement, was far better than the achievements of many more respectable ladies in her shoes. at least she never bemoaned her "reduced circumstances," and if her life was irregular and had at least three episodes, it was very human. she bravely took the rough with the smooth, never lost the power of enjoying herself, and grew in sympathy with the hardships of others. but she became deadly tired. when the war broke out, remembering that she was a good nurse, she took her real name again and a change of occupation. for one who liked to please men, and to be pleased by them, there was a certain attraction about that life in war-time; and after two years of it she could still appreciate the way her tommies turned their heads to look at her when she passed their beds. but in a hard school she had learned perfect self-control; and though the sour and puritanical perceived her attraction, they knew her to be forty-three. besides, the soldiers liked her; and there was little trouble in her wards. the war moved her in simple ways; for she was patriotic in the direct fashion of her class. her father had been a sailor, her husbands an official and a soldier; the issue for her was uncomplicated by any abstract meditation. the country before everything! and though she had tended during those two years so many young wrecked bodies, she had taken it as all in the a day's work, lavishing her sympathy on the individual, without much general sense of pity and waste. yes, she had worked really hard, had "done her bit"; but of late she had felt rising within her the old vague craving for "life," for pleasure, for something more than the mere negative admiration bestowed on her by her "tommies." those old letters--to look them through them had been a sure sign of this vague craving--had sharpened to poignancy the feeling that life was slipping away from her while she was still comely. she had been long out of england, and so hard-worked since she came back that there were not many threads she could pick up suddenly. two letters out of that little budget of the past, with a far cry between them, had awakened within her certain sentimental longings. "dear lady of the starry flowers, "exiturus (sic) to saluto! the tender carries you this message of good-bye. simply speaking, i hate leaving south africa. and of all my memories, the last will live the longest. grape harvest at constantia, and you singing: 'if i could be the falling dew: if ever you and your husband come to england, do let me know, that i may try and repay a little the happiest five days i've spent out here. "your very faithful servant, "timmy fort." she remembered a very brown face, a tall slim figure, and something gallant about the whole of him. what was he like after ten years? grizzled, married, with a large family? an odious thing--time! and cousin edward's little yellow letter. good heavens! twenty-six years ago--before he was a parson, or married or anything! such a good partner, really musical; a queer, dear fellow, devoted, absentminded, easily shocked, yet with flame burning in him somewhere. 'dear leila, "after our last dance i went straight off'--i couldn't go in. i went down to the river, and walked along the bank; it was beautiful, all grey and hazy, and the trees whispered, and the cows looked holy; and i walked along and thought of you. and a farmer took me for a lunatic, in my dress clothes. dear leila, you were so pretty last night, and i did love our dances. i hope you are not tired, and that i shall see you soon again: "your affectionate cousin, "edward pierson." and then he had gone and become a parson, and married, and been a widower fifteen years. she remembered the death of his wife, just before she left for south africa, at that period of disgrace when she had so shocked her family by her divorce. poor edward--quite the nicest of her cousins! the only one she would care to see again. he would be very old and terribly good and proper, by now. her wheel of regent's park was coming full circle, and the sun was up behind the houses, but still no sound of traffic stirred. she stopped before a flower-bed where was some heliotrope, and took a long, luxurious sniff: she could not resist plucking a sprig, too, and holding it to her nose. a sudden want of love had run through every nerve and fibre of her; she shivered, standing there with her eyes half closed, above the pale violet blossom. then, noting by her wrist-watch that it was four o'clock, she hurried on, to get to her bed, for she would have to be on duty again at noon. oh! the war! she was tired! if only it were over, and one could live!... somewhere by twickenham the moon had floated down; somewhere up from kentish town the sun came soaring; wheels rolled again, and the seven million sleepers in their million houses woke from morning sleep to that same thought.... ix edward pierson, dreaming over an egg at breakfast, opened a letter in a handwriting which he did not recognise. "v. a. d. hospital, "mulberry road, st. john's wood n. w. "dear cousin edward, "do you remember me, or have i gone too far into the shades of night? i was leila pierson once upon a time, and i often think of you and wonder what you are like now, and what your girls are like. i have been here nearly a year, working for our wounded, and for a year before that was nursing in south africa. my husband died five years ago out there. though we haven't met for i dare not think how long, i should awfully like to see you again. would you care to come some day and look over my hospital? i have two wards under me; our men are rather dears. "your forgotten but still affectionate cousin "leila lynch." "p. s. i came across a little letter you once wrote me; it brought back old days." no! he had not forgotten. there was a reminder in the house. and he looked up at noel sitting opposite. how like the eyes were! and he thought: 'i wonder what leila has become. one mustn't be uncharitable. that man is dead; she has been nursing two years. she must be greatly changed; i should certainly like to see her. i will go!' again he looked at noel. only yesterday she had renewed her request to be allowed to begin her training as a nurse. "i'm going to see a hospital to-day, nollie," he said; "if you like, i'll make enquiries. i'm afraid it'll mean you have to begin by washing up." "i know; anything, so long as i do begin." "very well; i'll see about it." and he went back to his egg. noel's voice roused him. "do you feel the war much, daddy? does it hurt you here?" she had put her hand on her heart. "perhaps it doesn't, because you live half in the next world, don't you?" the words: "god forbid," sprang to pierson's lips; he did not speak them, but put his egg-spoon down, hurt and bewildered. what did the child mean? not feel the war! he smiled. "i hope i'm able to help people sometimes, nollie," and was conscious that he had answered his own thoughts, not her words. he finished his breakfast quickly, and very soon went out. he crossed the square, and passed east, down two crowded streets to his church. in the traffic of those streets, all slipshod and confused, his black-clothed figure and grave face, with its vandyk beard, had a curious remote appearance, like a moving remnant of a past civilisation. he went in by the side door. only five days he had been away, but they had been so full of emotion that the empty familiar building seemed almost strange to him. he had come there unconsciously, groping for anchorage and guidance in this sudden change of relationship between him and his daughters. he stood by the pale brazen eagle, staring into the chancel. the choir were wanting new hymn-books--he must not forget to order them! his eyes sought the stained-glass window he had put in to the memory of his wife. the sun, too high to slant, was burnishing its base, till it glowed of a deep sherry colour. "in the next world!" what strange words of noel's! his eyes caught the glimmer of the organ-pipes; and, mounting to the loft, he began to play soft chords wandering into each other. he finished, and stood gazing down. this space within high walls, under high vaulted roof, where light was toned to a perpetual twilight, broken here and there by a little glow of colour from glass and flowers, metal, and dark wood, was his home, his charge, his refuge. nothing moved down there, and yet--was not emptiness mysteriously living, the closed-in air imprinted in strange sort, as though the drone of music and voices in prayer and praise clung there still? had not sanctity a presence? outside, a barrel-organ drove its tune along; a wagon staggered on the paved street, and the driver shouted to his horses; some distant guns boomed out in practice, and the rolling of wheels on wheels formed a net of sound. but those invading noises were transmuted to a mere murmuring in here; only the silence and the twilight were real to pierson, standing there, a little black figure in a great empty space. when he left the church, it was still rather early to go to leila's hospital; and, having ordered the new hymn-books, he called in at the house of a parishioner whose son had been killed in france. he found her in her kitchen; an oldish woman who lived by charing. she wiped a seat for the vicar. "i was just makin' meself a cup o' tea, sir." "ah! what a comfort tea is, mrs. soles!" and he sat down, so that she should feel "at home." "yes; it gives me 'eart-burn; i take eight or ten cups a day, now. i take 'em strong, too. i don't seem able to get on without it. i 'ope the young ladies are well, sir?" "very well, thank you. miss noel is going to begin nursing, too." "deary-me! she's very young; but all the young gells are doin' something these days. i've got a niece in munitions-makin' a pretty penny she is. i've been meanin' to tell you--i don't come to church now; since my son was killed, i don't seem to 'ave the 'eart to go anywhere--'aven't been to a picture-palace these three months. any excitement starts me cryin'." "i know; but you'd find rest in church." mrs. soles shook her head, and the small twisted bob of her discoloured hair wobbled vaguely. "i can't take any recreation," she said. "i'd rather sit 'ere, or be at work. my son was a real son to me. this tea's the only thing that does me any good. i can make you a fresh cup in a minute." "thank you, mrs. soles, but i must be getting on. we must all look forward to meeting our beloved again, in god's mercy. and one of these days soon i shall be seeing you in church, shan't i." mrs. soles shifted her weight from one slippered foot to the other. "well! let's 'ope so," she said. "but i dunno when i shall 'ave the spirit. good day, sir, and thank you kindly for calling, i'm sure." pierson walked away with a very faint smile. poor queer old soul!--she was no older than himself, but he thought of her as ancient--cut off from her son, like so many--so many; and how good and patient! the melody of an anthem began running in his head. his fingers moved on the air beside him, and he stood still, waiting for an omnibus to take him to st. john's wood. a thousand people went by while he was waiting, but he did not notice them, thinking of that anthem, of his daughters, and the mercy of god; and on the top of his 'bus, when it came along, he looked lonely and apart, though the man beside him was so fat that there was hardly any seat left to sit on. getting down at lord's cricket-ground, he asked his way of a lady in a nurse's dress. "if you'll come with me," she said, "i'm just going there." "oh! do you happen to know a mrs. lynch who nurses" "i am mrs. lynch. why, you're edward pierson!" he looked into her face, which he had not yet observed. "leila!" he said. "yes, leila! how awfully nice of you to come, edward!" they continued to stand, searching each for the other's youth, till she murmured: "in spite of your beard, i should have known you anywhere!" but she thought: 'poor edward! he is old, and monk-like!' and pierson, in answer, murmured: "you're very little changed, leila! we haven't, seen each other since my youngest girl was born. she's just a little like you." but he thought: 'my nollie! so much more dewy; poor leila!' they walked on, talking of his daughters, till they reached the hospital. "if you'll wait here a minute, i'll take you over my wards." she had left him in a bare hall, holding his hat in one hand and touching his gold cross with the other; but she soon came hack, and a little warmth crept about his heart. how works of mercy suited women! she looked so different, so much softer, beneath the white coif, with a white apron over the bluish frock. at the change in his face, a little warmth crept about leila, too, just where the bib of her apron stopped; and her eyes slid round at him while they went towards what had once been a billiard-room. "my men are dears," she said; "they love to be talked to." under a skylight six beds jutted out from a green distempered wall, opposite to six beds jutting out from another green distempered wall, and from each bed a face was turned towards them young faces, with but little expression in them. a nurse, at the far end, looked round, and went on with her work. the sight of the ward was no more new to pierson than to anyone else in these days. it was so familiar, indeed, that it had practically no significance. he stood by the first bed, and leila stood alongside. the man smiled up when she spoke, and did not smile when he spoke, and that again was familiar to him. they passed from bed to bed, with exactly the same result, till she was called away, and he sat down by a young soldier with a long, very narrow head and face, and a heavily bandaged shoulder. touching the bandage reverently, pierson said: "well, my dear fellow-still bad?" "ah!" replied the soldier. "shrapnel wound: it's cut the flesh properly." "but not the spirit, i can see!" the young soldier gave him a quaint look, as much as to say: "not 'arf bad!" and a gramophone close to the last bed began to play: "god bless daddy at the war!" "are you fond of music?" "i like it well enough. passes the time." "i'm afraid the time hangs heavy in hospital." "yes; it hangs a bit 'eavy; it's just 'orspital life. i've been wounded before, you see. it's better than bein' out there. i expect i'll lose the proper use o' this arm. i don't worry; i'll get my discharge." "you've got some good nurses here." "yes; i like mrs. lynch; she's the lady i like." "my cousin." "i see you come in together. i see everything 'ere. i think a lot, too. passes the time." "do they let you smoke?" "oh, yes! they let us smoke." "have one of mine?" the young soldier smiled for the first time. "thank you; i've got plenty." the nurse came by, and smiled at pierson. "he's one of our blase ones; been in before, haven't you, simson?" pierson looked at the young man, whose long, narrow face; where one sandy-lashed eyelid drooped just a little, seemed armoured with a sort of limited omniscience. the gramophone had whirred and grunted into "sidi brahim." the nurse passed on. "'seedy abram,'" said the young soldier. "the frenchies sing it; they takes it up one after the other, ye know." "ah!" murmured pierson; "it's pretty." and his fingers drummed on the counterpane, for the tune was new to him. something seemed to move in the young man's face, as if a blind had been drawn up a little. "i don't mind france," he said abruptly; "i don't mind the shells and that; but i can't stick the mud. there's a lot o' wounded die in the mud; can't get up--smothered." his unwounded arm made a restless movement. "i was nearly smothered myself. just managed to keep me nose up." pierson shuddered. "thank god you did!" "yes; i didn't like that. i told mrs. lynch about that one day when i had the fever. she's a nice lady; she's seen a lot of us boys: that mud's not right, you know." and again his unwounded arm made that restless movement; while the gramophone struck up: "the boys in brown." the movement of the arm affected pierson horribly; he rose and, touching the bandaged shoulder, said: "good-bye; i hope you'll soon be quite recovered." the young soldier's lips twisted in the semblance of a smile; his drooped eyelid seemed to try and raise itself. "good day, sir," he said; "and thank you." pierson went back to the hall. the sunlight fell in a pool just inside the open door, and an uncontrollable impulse made him move into it, so that it warmed him up to the waist. the mud! how ugly life was! life and death! both ugly! poor boys! poor boys! a voice behind him said: "oh! there you are, edward! would you like to see the other ward, or shall i show you our kitchen?" pierson took her hand impulsively. "you're doing a noble work, leila. i wanted to ask you: could you arrange for noel to come and get trained here? she wants to begin at once. the fact is, a boy she is attracted to has just gone out to the front." "ah!" murmured leila, and her eyes looked very soft. "poor child! we shall be wanting an extra hand next week. i'll see if she could come now. i'll speak to our matron, and let you know to-night." she squeezed his hand hard. "dear edward, i'm so glad to see you again. you're the first of our family i've seen for sixteen years. i wonder if you'd bring noel to have supper at my flat to-night--just nothing to eat, you know! it's a tiny place. there's a captain fort coming; a nice man." pierson accepted, and as he walked away he thought: 'dear leila! i believe it was providence. she wants sympathy. she wants to feel the past is the past. how good women are!' and the sun, blazing suddenly out of a cloud, shone on his black figure and the little gold cross, in the middle of portland place. x men, even if they are not artistic, who have been in strange places and known many nooks of the world, get the scenic habit, become open to pictorial sensation. it was as a picture or series of pictures that jimmy fort ever afterwards remembered his first supper at leila's. he happened to have been all day in the open, motoring about to horse farms under a hot sun; and leila's hock cup possessed a bland and subtle strength. the scenic sense derived therefrom had a certain poignancy, the more so because the tall child whom he met there did not drink it, and her father seemed but to wet his lips, so that leila and he had all the rest. rather a wonderful little scene it made in his mind, very warm, glowing, yet with a strange dark sharpness to it, which came perhaps from the black walls. the flat had belonged to an artist who was at the war. it was but a pocket dwelling on the third floor. the two windows of the little square sitting-room looked out on some trees and a church. but leila, who hated dining by daylight, had soon drawn curtains of a deep blue over them. the picture which fort remembered was this: a little four-square table of dark wood, with a chinese mat of vivid blue in the centre, whereon stood a silver lustre bowl of clove carnations; some greenish glasses with hock cup in them; on his left, leila in a low lilac frock, her neck and shoulders very white, her face a little powdered, her eyes large, her lips smiling; opposite him a black-clothed padre with a little gold cross, over whose thin darkish face, with its grave pointed beard, passed little gentle smiles, but whose deep sunk grey eyes were burnt and bright; on his right, a girl in a high grey frock, almost white, just hollowed at the neck, with full sleeves to the elbow, so that her slim arms escaped; her short fair hair a little tumbled; her big grey eyes grave; her full lips shaping with a strange daintiness round every word--and they not many; brilliant red shades over golden lights dotting the black walls; a blue divan; a little black piano flush with the wall; a dark polished floor; four japanese prints; a white ceiling. he was conscious that his own khaki spoiled something as curious and rare as some old chinese tea-chest. he even remembered what they ate; lobster; cold pigeon pie; asparagus; st. ivel cheese; raspberries and cream. he did not remember half so well what they talked of, except that he himself told them stories of the boer war, in which he had served in the yeomanry, and while he was telling them, the girl, like a child listening to a fairy-tale, never moved her eyes from his face. he remembered that after supper they all smoked cigarettes, even the tall child, after the padre had said to her mildly, "my dear!" and she had answered: "i simply must, daddy, just one." he remembered leila brewing turkish coffee--very good, and how beautiful her white arms looked, hovering about the cups. he remembered her making the padre sit down at the piano, and play to them. and she and the girl on the divan together, side by side, a strange contrast; with just as strange a likeness to each other. he always remembered how fine and rare that music sounded in the little room, flooding him with a dreamy beatitude. then--he remembered--leila sang, the padre standing-by; and the tall child on the divan bending forward over her knees, with her chin on her hands. he remembered rather vividly how leila turned her neck and looked up, now at the padre, now at himself; and, all through, the delightful sense of colour and warmth, a sort of glamour over all the evening; and the lingering pressure of leila's hand when he said good-bye and they went away, for they all went together. he remembered talking a great deal to the padre in the cab, about the public school they had both been at, and thinking: 'it's a good padre--this!' he remembered how their taxi took them to an old square which he did not know, where the garden trees looked densely black in the starshine. he remembered that a man outside the house had engaged the padre in earnest talk, while the tall child and himself stood in the open doorway, where the hall beyond was dark. very exactly he remembered the little conversation which then took place between them, while they waited for her father. "is it very horrid in the trenches, captain fort?" "yes, miss pierson; it is very horrid, as a rule." "is it dangerous all the time?" "pretty well." "do officers run more risks than the men?" "not unless there's an attack." "are there attacks very often?" it had seemed to him so strangely primitive a little catechism, that he had smiled. and, though it was so dark, she had seen that smile, for her face went proud and close all of a sudden. he had cursed himself, and said gently: "have you a brother out there?" she shook her head. "but someone?" "yes." someone! he had heard that answer with a little shock. this child--this fairy princess of a child already to have someone! he wondered if she went about asking everyone these questions, with that someone in her thoughts. poor child! and quickly he said: "after all, look at me! i was out there a year, and here i am with only half a game leg; times were a lot worse, then, too. i often wish i were back there. anything's better than london and the war office." but just then he saw the padre coming, and took her hand. "good night, miss pierson. don't worry. that does no good, and there isn't half the risk you think." her hand stirred, squeezed his gratefully, as a child's would squeeze. "good night," she murmured; "thank you awfully." and, in the dark cab again, he remembered thinking: 'fancy that child! a jolly lucky boy, out there! too bad! poor little fairy princess!' part ii i to wash up is not an exciting operation. to wash up in august became for noel a process which taxed her strength and enthusiasm. she combined it with other forms of instruction in the art of nursing, had very little leisure, and in the evenings at home would often fall asleep curled up in a large chintz-covered chair. george and gratian had long gone back to their respective hospitals, and she and her father had the house to themselves. she received many letters from cyril which she carried about with her and read on her way to and from the hospital; and every other day she wrote to him. he was not yet in the firing line; his letters were descriptive of his men, his food, or the natives, or reminiscent of kestrel; hers descriptive of washing up, or reminiscent of kestrel. but in both there was always some little word of the longing within them. it was towards the end of august when she had the letter which said that he had been moved up. from now on he would be in hourly danger! that evening after dinner she did not go to sleep in the chair, but sat under the open window, clenching her hands, and reading "pride and prejudice" without understanding a word. while she was so engaged her father came up and said: "captain fort, nollie. will you give him some coffee? i'm afraid i must go out." when he had gone, noel looked at her visitor drinking his coffee. he had been out there, too, and he was alive; with only a little limp. the visitor smiled and said: "what were you thinking about when we came in?" "only the war." "any news of him?" noel frowned, she hated to show her feelings. "yes! he's gone to the front. won't you have a cigarette?" "thanks. will you?" "i want one awfully. i think sitting still and waiting is more dreadful than anything in the world." "except, knowing that others are waiting. when i was out there i used to worry horribly over my mother. she was ill at the time. the cruelest thing in war is the anxiety of people about each other--nothing touches that." the words exactly summed up noel's hourly thought. he said nice things, this man with the long legs and the thin brown bumpy face! "i wish i were a man," she said, "i think women have much the worst time in the war. is your mother old?" but of course she was old why he was old himself! "she died last christmas." "oh! i'm so sorry!" "you lost your mother when you were a babe, didn't you?" "yes. that's her portrait." at the end of the room, hanging on a strip of black velvet was a pastel, very faint in colouring, as though faded, of a young woman, with an eager, sweet face, dark eyes, and bent a little forward, as if questioning her painter. fort went up to it. "it's not a bit like you. but she must have been a very sweet woman." "it's a sort of presence in the room. i wish i were like her!" fort turned. "no," he said; "no. better as you are. it would only have spoiled a complete thing." "she was good." "and aren't you?" "oh! no. i get a devil." "you! why, you're out of a fairy-tale!" "it comes from daddy--only he doesn't know, because he's a perfect saint; but i know he's had a devil somewhere, or he couldn't be the saint he is." "h'm!" said fort. "that's very deep: and i believe it's true--the saints did have devils." "poor daddy's devil has been dead ages. it's been starved out of him, i think." "does your devil ever get away with you?" noel felt her cheeks growing red under his stare, and she turned to the window: "yes. it's a real devil." vividly there had come before her the dark abbey, and the moon balancing over the top of the crumbling wall, and the white owl flying across. and, speaking to the air, she said: "it makes you do things that you want to do." she wondered if he would laugh--it sounded so silly. but he did not. "and damn the consequences? i know. it's rather a jolly thing to have." noel shook her head. "here's daddy coming back!" fort held out his hand. "i won't stay. good night; and don't worry too much, will you?" he kept her hand rather a long time, and gave it a hard squeeze. don't worry! what advice! ah! if she could see cyril just for a minute! in september, , saturday still came before sunday, in spite of the war. for edward pierson this saturday had been a strenuous day, and even now, at nearly midnight, he was still conning his just-completed sermon. a patriot of patriots, he had often a passionate longing to resign his parish, and go like his curate for a chaplain at the front. it seemed to him that people must think his life idle and sheltered and useless. even in times of peace he had been sensitive enough to feel the cold draughty blasts which the church encounters in a material age. he knew that nine people out of ten looked on him as something of a parasite, with no real work in the world. and since he was nothing if not conscientious, he always worked himself to the bone. to-day he had risen at half-past six, and after his bath and exercises, had sat down to his sermon--for, even now, he wrote a new sermon once a month, though he had the fruits of twenty-six years to choose from. true, these new sermons were rather compiled than written, because, bereft of his curate, he had not time enough for fresh thought on old subjects. at eight he had breakfasted with noel, before she went off to her hospital, whence she would return at eight in the evening. nine to ten was his hour for seeing parishioners who had troubles, or wanted help or advice, and he had received three to-day who all wanted help, which he had given. from ten to eleven he had gone back to his sermon, and had spent from eleven to one at his church, attending to small matters, writing notices, fixing hymns, holding the daily half-hour service instituted during wartime, to which but few ever came. he had hurried back to lunch, scamping it so that he might get to his piano for an hour of forgetfulness. at three he had christened a very noisy baby, and been detained by its parents who wished for information on a variety of topics. at half-past four he had snatched a cup of tea, reading the paper; and had spent from five to seven visiting two parish clubs, and those whose war-pension matters he had in hand, and filling up forms which would be kept in official places till such time as the system should be changed and a fresh set of forms issued. from seven to eight he was at home again, in case his flock wanted to see him; to-day four sheep had come, and gone away, he was afraid, but little the wiser. from half-past eight to half-past nine he had spent in choir practice, because the organist was on his holiday. slowly in the cool of the evening he had walked home, and fallen asleep in his chair on getting in. at eleven he had woken with a start, and, hardening his heart, had gone back to his sermon. and now, at nearly midnight, it was still less than twenty minutes long. he lighted one of his rare cigarettes, and let thought wander. how beautiful those pale pink roses were in that old silver bowl-like a little strange poem, or a piece of debussy music, or a mathieu maris picture-reminding him oddly of the word leila. was he wrong in letting noel see so much of leila? but then she was so improved--dear leila!... the pink roses were just going to fall! and yet how beautiful!... it was quiet to-night; he felt very drowsy.... did nollie still think of that young man, or had it passed? she had never confided in him since! after the war, it would be nice to take her to italy, to all the little towns. they would see the assisi of st. francis. the little flowers of st. francis. the little flowers!... his hand dropped, the cigarette went out. he slept with his face in shadow. slowly into the silence of his sleep little sinister sounds intruded. short concussions, dragging him back out of that deep slumber. he started up. noel was standing at the door, in a long coat. she said in her calm voice: "zeps, daddy!" "yes, my dear. where are the maids?" an irish voice answered from the hall: "here, sir; trustin' in god; but 'tis better on the ground floor." he saw a huddle of three figures, queerly costumed, against the stairs. "yes, yes, bridgie; you're safe down here." then he noticed that noel was gone. he followed her out into the square, alive with faces faintly luminous in the darkness, and found her against the garden railings. "you must come back in, nollie." "oh, no! cyril has this every day." he stood beside her; not loth, for excitement had begun to stir his blood. they stayed there for some minutes, straining their eyes for sight of anything save the little zagged splashes of bursting shrapnel, while voices buzzed, and muttered: "look! there! there! there it is!" but the seers had eyes of greater faith than pierson's, for he saw nothing: he took her arm at last, and led her in. in the hall she broke from him. "let's go up on the roof, daddy!" and ran upstairs. again he followed, mounting by a ladder, through a trapdoor on to the roof. "it's splendid up here!" she cried. he could see her eyes blazing, and thought: 'how my child does love excitement--it's almost terrible!' over the wide, dark, star-strewn sky travelling searchlights, were lighting up the few little clouds; the domes and spires rose from among the spread-out roofs, all fine and ghostly. the guns had ceased firing, as though puzzled. one distant bang rumbled out. "a bomb! oh! if we could only get one of the zeps!" a furious outburst of firing followed, lasting perhaps a minute, then ceased as if by magic. they saw two searchlights converge and meet right overhead. "it's above us!" murmured noel. pierson put his arm round her waist. 'she feels no fear!' he thought. the search-lights switched apart; and suddenly, from far away, came a confusion of weird sounds. "what is it? they're cheering. oh! daddy, look!" there in the heavens, towards the east, hung a dull red thing, lengthening as they gazed. "they've got it. it's on fire! hurrah!" through the dark firmament that fiery orange shape began canting downward; and the cheering swelled in a savage frenzy of sound. and pierson's arm tightened on her waist. "thank god!" he muttered. the bright oblong seemed to break and spread, tilted down below the level of the roofs; and suddenly the heavens flared, as if some huge jug of crimson light had been flung out on them. something turned over in pierson's heart; he flung up his hand to his eyes. "the poor men in it!" he said. "how terrible!" noel's voice answered, hard and pitiless: "they needn't have come. they're murderers!" yes, they were murderers--but how terrible! and he stood quivering, with his hands pressed to his face, till the cheering had died out into silence. "let's pray, nollie!" he whispered. "o god, who in thy great mercy hath delivered us from peril, take into thy keeping the souls of these our enemies, consumed by thy wrath before our eyes; give us the power to pity them--men like ourselves." but even while he prayed he could see noel's face flame-white in the darkness; and, as that glow in the sky faded out, he felt once more the thrill of triumph. they went down to tell the maids, and for some time after sat up together, talking over what they had seen, eating biscuits and drinking milk, which they warmed on an etna. it was nearly two o'clock before they went to bed. pierson fell asleep at once, and never turned till awakened at half-past six by his alarum. he had holy communion to administer at eight, and he hurried to get early to his church and see that nothing untoward had happened to it. there it stood in the sunlight; tall, grey, quiet, unharmed, with bell gently ringing. and at that hour cyril morland, under the parapet of his trench, tightening his belt, was looking at his wrist-watch for the hundredth time, calculating exactly where he meant to put foot and hand for the going over: 'i absolutely mustn't let those chaps get in front of me,' he thought. so many yards before the first line of trenches, so many yards to the second line, and there stop. so his rehearsals had gone; it was the performance now! another minute before the terrific racket of the drum-fire should become the curtain-fire, which would advance before them. he ran his eye down the trench. the man next him was licking his two first fingers, as if he might be going to bowl at cricket. further down, a man was feeling his puttees. a voice said: "wot price the orchestra nah!" he saw teeth gleam in faces burnt almost black. then he looked up; the sky was blue beyond the brownish film of dust raised by the striking shells. noel! noel! noel!... he dug his fingers deep into the left side of his tunic till he could feel the outline of her photograph between his dispatch-case and his heart. his heart fluttered just as it used when he was stretched out with hand touching the ground, before the start of the "hundred yards" at school. out of the corner of his eye he caught the flash of a man's "briquet" lighting a cigarette. all right for those chaps, but not for him; he wanted all his breath--this rifle, and kit were handicap enough! two days ago he had been reading in some paper how men felt just before an attack. and now he knew. he just felt nervous. if only the moment would come, and get itself over! for all the thought he gave to the enemy there might have been none--nothing but shells and bullets, with lives of their own. he heard the whistle; his foot was on the spot he had marked down; his hand where he had seen it; he called out: "now, boys!" his head was over the top, his body over; he was conscious of someone falling, and two men neck and neck beside him. not to try and run, not to break out of a walk; to go steady, and yet keep ahead! d--n these holes! a bullet tore through his sleeve, grazing his arm--a red-hot sensation, like the touch of an iron. a british shell from close over his head burst sixty yards ahead; he stumbled, fell flat, picked himself up. three ahead of him now! he walked faster, and drew alongside. two of them fell. 'what luck!' he thought; and gripping his rifle harder, pitched headlong into a declivity. dead bodies lay there! the first german trench line, and nothing alive in it, nothing to clean up, nothing of it left! he stopped, getting his wind; watching the men panting and stumbling in. the roar of the guns was louder than ever again, barraging the second line. so far, good! and here was his captain! "ready, boys? on, then!" this time he moved more slowly still, over terrible going, all holes and hummocks. half consciously he took cover all he could. the air was alive with the whistle from machine-gun fire storming across zigzag fashion-alive it was with bullets, dust, and smoke. 'how shall i tell her?' he thought. there would be nothing to tell but just a sort of jagged brown sensation. he kept his eyes steadily before him, not wanting to seethe men falling, not wanting anything to divert him from getting there. he felt the faint fanning of the passing bullets. the second line must be close now. why didn't that barrage lift? was this new dodge of firing till the last second going to do them in? another hundred yards and he would be bang into it. he flung himself flat and waited; looking at his wrist-watch he noted that his arm was soaked with blood. he thought: 'a wound! now i shall go home. thank god! oh, noel!' the passing bullets whirled above him; he could hear them even through the screech and thunder of the shell-fire. 'the beastly things!' he thought: a voice beside him gasped out: "it's lifted, sir." he called: "come on, boys!" and went forward, stooping. a bullet struck his rifle. the shock made him stagger and sent an electric shock spinning up his arm. 'luck again!' he thought. 'now for it! i haven't seen a german yet!' he leaped forward, spun round, flung up his arms, and fell on his back, shot through and through.... the position was consolidated, as they say, and in the darkness stretcher-bearers were out over the half-mile. like will-o'-the-wisps, with their shaded lanterns, they moved, hour after hour, slowly quartering the black honeycomb which lay behind the new british line. now and then in the light of some star-shell their figures were disclosed, bending and raising the forms of the wounded, or wielding pick and shovel. "officer." "dead?" "sure." "search." from the shaded lantern, lowered to just above the body, a yellowish glare fell on face and breast. the hands of the searcher moved in that little pool of light. the bearer who was taking notes bent down. "another boy," he said. "that all he has?" the searcher raised himself. "just those, and a photo." "dispatch-case; pound loose; cigarette-case; wristwatch; photo. let's see it." the searcher placed the photo in the pool of light. the tiny face of a girl stared up at them, unmoved, from its short hair. "noel," said the searcher, reading. "h'm! take care of it. stick it in his case. come on!" the pool of light dissolved, and darkness for ever covered cyril morland. ii when those four took their seats in the grand circle at queen's hall the programme was already at the second number, which, in spite of all the efforts of patriotism, was of german origin--a brandenburg concerto by bach. more curious still, it was encored. pierson did not applaud, he was too far gone in pleasure, and sat with a rapt smile on his face, oblivious of his surroundings. he remained thus removed from mortal joys and sorrows till the last applause had died away, and leila's voice said in his ear: "isn't it a wonderful audience, edward? look at all that khaki. who'd have thought those young men cared for music--good music--german music, too?" pierson looked down at the patient mass of standing figures in straw hats and military caps, with faces turned all one way, and sighed. "i wish i could get an audience like that in my church." a smile crept out at the corner of leila's lips. she was thinking: 'ah! your church is out of date, my dear, and so are you! your church, with its smell of mould and incense, its stained-glass, and narrowed length and droning organ. poor edward, so out of the world!' but she only pressed his arm, and whispered: "look at noel!" the girl was talking to jimmy fort. her cheeks were gushed, and she looked prettier than pierson had seen her look for a long time now, ever since kestrel, indeed. he heard leila sigh. "does she get news of her boy? do you remember that may week, edward? we were very young then; even you were young. that was such a pretty little letter you wrote me. i can see you still-wandering in your dress clothes along the river, among the 'holy' cows." but her eyes slid round again, watching her other neighbour and the girl. a violinist had begun to play the cesar franck sonata. it was pierson's favourite piece of music, bringing him, as it were, a view of heaven, of devotional blue air where devout stars were shining in a sunlit noon, above ecstatic trees and waters where ecstatic swans were swimming. "queer world, mr. pierson! fancy those boys having to go back to barrack life after listening to that! what's your feeling? are we moving back to the apes? did we touch top note with that sonata?" pierson turned and contemplated his questioner shrewdly. "no, captain fort, i do not think we are moving back to the apes; if we ever came from them. those boys have the souls of heroes!" "i know that, sir, perhaps better than you do." "ah! yes," said pierson humbly, "i forgot, of course." but he still looked at his neighbour doubtfully. this captain fort, who was a friend of leila's, and who had twice been to see them, puzzled him. he had a frank face, a frank voice, but queer opinions, or so it seemed to, pierson--little bits of moslemism, little bits of the backwoods, and the veldt; queer unexpected cynicisms, all sorts of side views on england had lodged in him, and he did not hide them. they came from him like bullets, in that frank voice, and drilled little holes in the listener. those critical sayings flew so much more poignantly from one who had been through the same educational mill as himself, than if they had merely come from some rough diamond, some artist, some foreigner, even from a doctor like george. and they always made him uncomfortable, like the touch of a prickly leaf; they did not amuse him. certainly edward pierson shrank from the rough touches of a knock-about philosophy. after all, it was but natural that he should. he and noel left after the first part of the concert, parting from the other two at the door. he slipped his hand through her arm; and, following out those thoughts of his in the concert-hall, asked: "do you like captain fort, nollie?" "yes; he's a nice man." "he seems a nice man, certainly; he has a nice smile, but strange views, i'm afraid." "he thinks the germans are not much worse than we are; he says that a good many of us are bullies too." "yes, that is the sort of thing i mean." "but are we, daddy?" "surely not." "a policeman i talked to once said the same. captain fort says that very few men can stand having power put into their hands without being spoiled. he told me some dreadful stories. he says we have no imagination, so that we often do things without seeing how brutal they are." "we're not perfect, nollie; but on the whole i think we're a kind people." noel was silent a moment, then said suddenly: "kind people often think others are kind too, when they really aren't. captain fort doesn't make that mistake." "i think he's a little cynical, and a little dangerous." "are all people dangerous who don't think like others, daddy?" pierson, incapable of mockery, was not incapable of seeing when he was being mocked. he looked at his daughter with a smile. "not quite so bad as that, nollie; but mr. fort is certainly subversive. i think perhaps he has seen too many queer sides of life." "i like him the better for that." "well, well," pierson answered absently. he had work to do in preparation for a confirmation class, and sought his study on getting in. noel went to the dining-room to drink her hot milk. the curtains were not drawn, and bright moonlight was coming in. without lighting up, she set the etna going, and stood looking at the moon-full for the second time since she and cyril had waited for it in the abbey. and pressing her hands to her breast, she shivered. if only she could summon him from the moonlight out there; if only she were a witch-could see him, know where he was, what doing! for a fortnight now she had received no letter. every day since he had left she had read the casualty lists, with the superstitious feeling that to do so would keep him out of them. she took up the times. there was just enough light, and she read the roll of honour--till the moon shone in on her, lying on the floor, with the dropped journal.... but she was proud, and soon took grief to her room, as on that night after he left her, she had taken love. no sign betrayed to the house her disaster; the journal on the floor, and the smell of the burnt milk which had boiled over, revealed nothing. after all, she was but one of a thousand hearts which spent that moonlit night in agony. each night, year in, year out, a thousand faces were buried in pillows to smother that first awful sense of desolation, and grope for the secret spirit-place where bereaved souls go, to receive some feeble touch of healing from knowledge of each other's trouble.... in the morning she got up from her sleepless bed, seemed to eat her breakfast, and went off to her hospital. there she washed up plates and dishes, with a stony face, dark under the eyes. the news came to pierson in a letter from thirza, received at lunch-time. he read it with a dreadful aching. poor, poor little nollie! what an awful trouble for her! and he, too, went about his work with the nightmare thought that he had to break the news to her that evening. never had he felt more lonely, more dreadfully in want of the mother of his children. she would have known how to soothe, how to comfort. on her heart the child could have sobbed away grief. and all that hour, from seven to eight, when he was usually in readiness to fulfil the functions of god's substitute to his parishioners, he spent in prayer of his own, for guidance how to inflict and heal this blow. when, at last, noel came, he opened. the door to her himself, and, putting back the hair from her forehead, said: "come in here a moment, my darling!" noel followed him into the study, and sat down. "i know already, daddy." pierson was more dismayed by this stoicism than he would have been by any natural out burst. he stood, timidly stroking her hair, murmuring to her what he had said to gratian, and to so many others in these days: "there is no death; look forward to seeing him again; god is merciful" and he marvelled at the calmness of that pale face--so young. "you are very brave, my child!" he said. "there's nothing else to be, is there?" "isn't there anything i can do for you, nollie?" "no, daddy." "when did you see it?" "last night." she had already known for twenty-four hours without telling him! "have you prayed, my darling?" "no." "try, nollie!" "no." "ah, try!" "it would be ridiculous, daddy; you don't know." grievously upset and bewildered, pierson moved away from her, and said: "you look dreadfully tired. would you like a hot bath, and your dinner in bed?" "i'd like some tea; that's all." and she went out. when he had seen that the tea had gone up to her, he too went out; and, moved by a longing for woman's help, took a cab to leila's flat. iii on leaving the concert leila and jimmy fort had secured a taxi; a vehicle which, at night, in wartime, has certain advantages for those who desire to become better acquainted. vibration, sufficient noise, darkness, are guaranteed; and all that is lacking for the furtherance of emotion is the scent of honeysuckle and roses, or even of the white flowering creeper which on the stoep at high constantia had smelled so much sweeter than petrol. when leila found herself with fort in that loneliness to which she had been looking forward, she was overcome by an access of nervous silence. she had been passing through a strange time for weeks past. every night she examined her sensations without quite understanding them as yet. when a woman comes to her age, the world-force is liable to take possession, saying: "you were young, you were beautiful, you still have beauty, you are not, cannot be, old. cling to youth, cling to beauty; take all you can get, before your face gets lines and your hair grey; it is impossible that you have been loved for the last time." to see jimmy fort at the concert, talking to noel, had brought this emotion to a head. she was not of a grudging nature, and could genuinely admire noel, but the idea that jimmy fort might also admire disturbed her greatly. he must not; it was not fair; he was too old--besides, the girl had her boy; and she had taken care that he should know it. so, leaning towards him, while a bare-shouldered young lady sang, she had whispered: "penny?" and he had whispered back: "tell you afterwards." that had comforted her. she would make him take her home. it was time she showed her heart. and now, in the cab, resolved to make her feelings known, in sudden shyness she found it very difficult. love, to which for quite three years she had been a stranger, was come to life within her. the knowledge was at once so sweet, and so disturbing, that she sat with face averted, unable to turn the precious minutes to account. they arrived at the flat without having done more than agree that the streets were dark, and the moon bright. she got out with a sense of bewilderment, and said rather desperately: "you must come up and have a cigarette. it's quite early, still." he went up. "wait just a minute," said leila. sitting there with his drink and his cigarette, he stared at some sunflowers in a bowl--famille rose--and waited just ten; smiling a little, recalling the nose of the fairy princess, and the dainty way her lips shaped the words she spoke. if she had not had that lucky young devil of a soldier boy, one would have wanted to buckle her shoes, lay one's coat in the mud for her, or whatever they did in fairytales. one would have wanted--ah! what would one not have wanted! hang that soldier boy! leila said he was twenty-two. by george! how old it made a man feel who was rising forty, and tender on the off-fore! no fairy princesses for him! then a whiff of perfume came to his nostrils; and, looking up, he saw leila standing before him, in a long garment of dark silk, whence her white arms peeped out. "another penny? do you remember these things, jimmy? the malay women used to wear them in cape town. you can't think what a relief it is to get out of my slave's dress. oh! i'm so sick of nursing! jimmy, i want to live again a little!" the garment had taken fifteen years off her age, and a gardenia, just where the silk crossed on her breast, seemed no whiter than her skin. he wondered whimsically whether it had dropped to her out of the dark! "live?" he said. "why! don't you always?" she raised her hands so that the dark silk fell, back from the whole length of those white arms. "i haven't lived for two years. oh, jimmy! help me to live a little! life's so short, now." her eyes disturbed him, strained and pathetic; the sight of her arms; the scent of the flower disturbed him; he felt his cheeks growing warm, and looked down. she slipped suddenly forward on to her knees at his feet, took his hand, pressed it with both of hers, and murmured: "love me a little! what else is there? oh! jimmy, what else is there?" and with the scent of the flower, crushed by their hands, stirring his senses, fort thought: 'ah, what else is there, in these forsaken days?' to jimmy fort, who had a sense of humour, and was in some sort a philosopher, the haphazard way life settled things seldom failed to seem amusing. but when he walked away from leila's he was pensive. she was a good sort, a pretty creature, a sportswoman, an enchantress; but--she was decidedly mature. and here he was--involved in helping her to "live"; involved almost alarmingly, for there had been no mistaking the fact that she had really fallen in love with him. this was flattering and sweet. times were sad, and pleasure scarce, but--! the roving instinct which had kept him, from his youth up, rolling about the world, shied instinctively at bonds, however pleasant, the strength and thickness of which he could not gauge; or, was it that perhaps for the first time in his life he had been peeping into fairyland of late, and this affair with leila was by no means fairyland? he had another reason, more unconscious, for uneasiness. his heart, for all his wanderings, was soft, he had always found it difficult to hurt anyone, especially anyone who did him the honour to love him. a sort of presentiment weighed on him while he walked the moonlit streets at this most empty hour, when even the late taxis had ceased to run. would she want him to marry her? would it be his duty, if she did? and then he found himself thinking of the concert, and that girl's face, listening to the tales he was telling her. 'deuced queer world,' he thought, 'the way things go! i wonder what she would think of us, if she knew--and that good padre! phew!' he made such very slow progress, for fear of giving way in his leg, and having to spend the night on a door-step, that he had plenty of time for rumination; but since it brought him no confidence whatever, he began at last to feel: 'well; it might be a lot worse. take the goods the gods send you and don't fuss!' and suddenly he remembered with extreme vividness that night on the stoep at high constantia, and thought with dismay: 'i could have plunged in over head and ears then; and now--i can't! that's life all over! poor leila! me miserum, too, perhaps--who knows!' iv when leila opened her door to edward pierson, her eyes were smiling, and her lips were soft. she seemed to smile and be soft all over, and she took both his hands. everything was a pleasure to her that day, even the sight of this sad face. she was in love and was loved again; had a present and a future once more, not only her own full past; and she must finish with edward in half an hour, for jimmy was coming. she sat down on the divan, took his hand in a sisterly way, and said: "tell me, edward; i can see you're in trouble. what is it?" "noel. the boy she was fond of has been killed." she dropped his hand. "oh, no! poor child! it's too cruel!" tears started up in her grey eyes, and she touched them with a tiny handkerchief. "poor, poor little noel! was she very fond of him?" "a very sudden, short engagement; but i'm afraid she takes it desperately to heart. i don't know how to comfort her; only a woman could. i came to ask you: do you think she ought to go on with her work? what do you think, leila? i feel lost!" leila, gazing at him, thought: 'lost? yes, you look lost, my poor edward!' "i should let her go on," she said: "it helps; it's the only thing that does help. i'll see if i can get them to let her come into the wards. she ought to be in touch with suffering and the men; that kitchen work will try her awfully just now: was he very young?" "yes. they wanted to get married. i was opposed to it." leila's lip curled ever so little. 'you would be!' she thought. "i couldn't bear to think of nollie giving herself hastily, like that; they had only known each other three weeks. it was very hard for me, leila. and then suddenly he was sent to the front." resentment welled up in leila. the kill-joys! as if life didn't kill joy fast enough! her cousin's face at that moment was almost abhorrent to her, its gentle perplexed goodness darkened and warped by that monkish look. she turned away, glanced at the clock over the hearth, and thought: 'yes, and he would stop jimmy and me! he would say: "oh, no! dear leila--you mustn't love--it's sin!" how i hate that word!' "i think the most dreadful thing in life," she said abruptly, "is the way people suppress their natural instincts; what they suppress in themselves they make other people suppress too, if they can; and that's the cause of half the misery in this world." then at the surprise on his face at this little outburst, whose cause he could not know, she added hastily: "i hope noel will get over it quickly, and find someone else." "yes. if they had been married--how much worse it would have been. thank god, they weren't!" "i don't know. they would have had an hour of bliss. even an hour of bliss is worth something in these days." "to those who only believe in this 'life--perhaps." 'ten minutes more!' she thought: 'oh, why doesn't he go?' but at that very moment he got up, and instantly her heart went out to him again. "i'm so sorry, edward. if i can help in any way--i'll try my best with noel to-morrow; and do come to me whenever you feel inclined." she took his hand in hers; afraid that he would sit down again, she yet could not help a soft glance into his eyes, and a little rush of pitying warmth in the pressure of her hand. pierson smiled; the smile which always made her sorry for him. "good-bye, leila; you're very good and kind to me. good-bye." her bosom swelled with relief and compassion; and--she let him out. running upstairs again she thought: 'i've just time. what shall i put on? poor edward, poor noel! what colour does jimmy like? oh! why didn't i keep him those ten years ago--what utter waste!' and, feverishly adorning herself, she came back to the window, and stood there in the dark to watch, while some jasmine which grew below sent up its scent to her. 'would i marry him?' she thought, 'if he asked me? but he won't ask me--why should he now? besides, i couldn't bear him to feel i wanted position or money from him. i only want love--love--love!' the silent repetition of that word gave her a wonderful sense of solidity and comfort. so long as she only wanted love, surely he would give it. a tall figure turned down past the church, coming towards her. it was he! and suddenly she bethought herself. she went to the little black piano, sat down, and began to sing the song she had sung to him ten years ago: "if i could be the falling dew and fall on thee all day!" she did not even look round when he came in, but continued to croon out the words, conscious of him just behind her shoulder in the dark. but when she had finished, she got up and threw her arms round him, strained him to her, and burst into tears on his shoulder; thinking of noel and that dead boy, thinking of the millions of other boys, thinking of her own happiness, thinking of those ten years wasted, of how short was life, and love; thinking--hardly knowing what she thought! and jimmy fort, very moved by this emotion which he only half understood, pressed her tightly in his arms, and kissed her wet cheeks and her neck, pale and warm in the darkness. v noel went on with her work for a month, and then, one morning, fainted over a pile of dishes. the noise attracted attention, and mrs. lynch was summoned. the sight of her lying there so deadly white taxed leila's nerves severely. but the girl revived quickly, and a cab was sent for. leila went with her, and told the driver to stop at camelot mansions. why take her home in this state, why not save the jolting, and let her recover properly? they went upstairs arm in arm. leila made her lie down on the divan, and put a hot-water bottle to her feet. noel was still so passive and pale that even to speak to her seemed a cruelty. and, going to her little sideboard, leila stealthily extracted a pint bottle of some champagne which jimmy fort had sent in, and took it with two glasses and a corkscrew into her bedroom. she drank a little herself, and came out bearing a glass to the girl. noel shook her head, and her eyes seemed to say: "do you really think i'm so easily mended?" but leila had been through too much in her time to despise earthly remedies, and she held it to the girl's lips until she drank. it was excellent champagne, and, since noel had never yet touched alcohol, had an instantaneous effect. her eyes brightened; little red spots came up in her cheeks. and suddenly she rolled over and buried her face deep in a cushion. with her short hair, she looked so like a child lying there, that leila knelt down, stroking her head, and saying: "there, there; my love! there, there!" at last the girl raised herself; now that the pallid, masklike despair of the last month was broken, she seemed on fire, and her face had a wild look. she withdrew herself from leila's touch, and, crossing her arms tightly across her chest, said: "i can't bear it; i can't sleep. i want him back; i hate life--i hate the world. we hadn't done anything--only just loved each other. god likes punishing; just because we loved each other; we had only one day to love each other--only one day--only one!" leila could see the long white throat above those rigid arms straining and swallowing; it gave her a choky feeling to watch it. the voice, uncannily dainty for all the wildness of the words and face, went on: "i won't--i don't want to live. if there's another life, i shall go to him. and if there isn't--it's just sleep." leila put out her hand to ward of these wild wanderings. like most women who live simply the life of their senses and emotions, she was orthodox; or rather never speculated on such things. "tell me about yourself and him," she said. noel fastened her great eyes on her cousin. "we loved each other; and children are born, aren't they, after you've loved? but mine won't be!" from the look on her face rather than from her words, the full reality of her meaning came to leila, vanished, came again. nonsense! but--what an awful thing, if true! that which had always seemed to her such an exaggerated occurrence in the common walks of life--why! now, it was a tragedy! instinctively she raised herself and put her arms round the girl. "my poor dear!" she said; "you're fancying things!" the colour had faded out of noel's face, and, with her head thrown back and her eyelids half-closed, she looked like a scornful young ghost. "if it is--i shan't live. i don't mean to--it's easy to die. i don't mean daddy to know." "oh! my dear, my dear!" was all leila could stammer. "was it wrong, leila?" "wrong? i don't know--wrong? if it really is so--it was--unfortunate. but surely, surely--you're mistaken?" noel shook her head. "i did it so that we should belong to each other. nothing could have taken him from me." leila caught at the girl's words. "then, my dear--he hasn't quite gone from you, you see?" noel's lips formed a "no" which was inaudible. "but daddy!" she whispered. edward's face came before leila so vividly that she could hardly see the girl for the tortured shape of it. then the hedonist in her revolted against that ascetic vision. her worldly judgment condemned and deplored this calamity, her instinct could not help applauding that hour of life and love, snatched out of the jaws of death. "need he ever know?" she said. "i could never lie to daddy. but it doesn't matter. why should one go on living, when life is rotten?" outside the sun was shining brightly, though it was late october. leila got up from her knees. she stood at the window thinking hard. "my dear," she said at last, "you mustn't get morbid. look at me! i've had two husbands, and--and--well, a pretty stormy up and down time of it; and i daresay i've got lots of trouble before me. but i'm not going to cave in. nor must you. the piersons have plenty of pluck; you mustn't be a traitor to your blood. that's the last thing. your boy would have told you to stick it. these are your 'trenches,' and you're not going to be downed, are you?" after she had spoken there was a long silence, before noel said: "give me a cigarette, leila." leila produced the little flat case she carried. "that's brave," she said. "nothing's incurable at your age. only one thing's incurable--getting old." noel laughed. "that's curable too, isn't it?" "not without surrender." again there was a silence, while the blue fume from two cigarettes fast-smoked, rose towards the low ceiling. then noel got up from the divan, and went over to the piano. she was still in her hospital dress of lilac-coloured linen, and while she stood there touching the keys, playing a chord now, and then, leila's heart felt hollow from compassion; she was so happy herself just now, and this child so very wretched! "play to me," she said; "no--don't; i'll play to you." and sitting down, she began to play and sing a little french song, whose first line ran: "si on est jolie, jolie comme vous." it was soft, gay, charming. if the girl cried, so much the better. but noel did not cry. she seemed suddenly to have recovered all her self-possession. she spoke calmly, answered leila's questions without emotion, and said she would go home. leila went out with her, and walked some way in the direction of her home; distressed, but frankly at a loss. at the bottom of portland place noel stopped and said: "i'm quite all right now, leila; thank you awfully. i shall just go home and lie down. and i shall come to-morrow, the same as usual. goodbye!" leila could only grasp the girl's hand, and say: "my dear, that's splendid. there's many a slip--besides, it's war-time." with that saying, enigmatic even to herself, she watched the girl moving slowly away; and turned back herself towards her hospital, with a disturbed and compassionate heart. but noel did not go east; she walked down regent street. she had received a certain measure of comfort, been steadied by her experienced cousin's vitality, and the new thoughts suggested by those words: "he hasn't quite gone from you, has he?" "besides, it's war-time." leila had spoken freely, too, and the physical ignorance in which the girl had been groping these last weeks was now removed. like most proud natures, she did not naturally think much about the opinion of other people; besides, she knew nothing of the world, its feelings and judgments. her nightmare was the thought of her father's horror and grief. she tried to lessen that nightmare by remembering his opposition to her marriage, and the resentment she had felt. he had never realised, never understood, how she and cyril loved. now, if she were really going to have a child, it would be cyril's--cyril's son--cyril over again. the instinct stronger than reason, refinement, tradition, upbringing, which had pushed her on in such haste to make sure of union--the irrepressible pulse of life faced with annihilation--seemed to revive within her, and make her terrible secret almost precious. she had read about "war babies" in the papers, read with a dull curiosity; but now the atmosphere, as it were, of those writings was illumined for her. these babies were wrong, were a "problem," and yet, behind all that, she seemed now to know that people were glad of them; they made up, they filled the gaps. perhaps, when she had one, she would be proud, secretly proud, in spite of everyone, in spite of her father! they had tried to kill cyril--god and everyone; but they hadn't been able, he was alive within her! a glow came into her face, walking among the busy shopping crowd, and people turned to look at her; she had that appearance of seeing no one, nothing, which is strange and attractive to those who have a moment to spare from contemplation of their own affairs. fully two hours she wandered thus, before going in, and only lost that exalted feeling when, in her own little room, she had taken up his photograph, and was sitting on her bed gazing at it. she had a bad breakdown then. locked in there, she lay on her bed, crying, dreadfully lonely, till she fell asleep exhausted, with the tear-stained photograph clutched in her twitching fingers. she woke with a start. it was dark, and someone was knocking on her door. "miss noel!" childish perversity kept her silent. why couldn't they leave her alone? they would leave her alone if they knew. then she heard another kind of knocking, and her father's voice: "nollie! nollie!" she scrambled up, and opened. he looked scared, and her heart smote her. "it's all right, daddy; i was asleep." "my dear, i'm sorry, but dinner's ready." "i don't want any dinner; i think i'll go to bed." the frown between his brows deepened. "you shouldn't lock your door, nollie: i was quite frightened. i went round to the hospital to bring you home, and they told me about your fainting. i want you to see a doctor." noel shook her head vigorously. "oh, no! it's nothing!" "nothing? to faint like that? come, my child. to please me." he took her face in his hands. noel shrank away. "no, daddy. i won't see a doctor. extravagance in wartime! i won't. it's no good trying to make me. i'll come down if you like; i shall be all right to-morrow." with this pierson had to be content; but, often that evening, she saw him looking at her anxiously. and when she went up, he came out of his study, followed to her room, and insisted on lighting her fire. kissing her at the door, he said very quietly: "i wish i could be a mother to you, my child!" for a moment it flashed through noel: 'he knows!' then, by the puzzled look on his face, she knew that he did not. if only he did know; what a weight it would be off her mind! but she answered quietly too; "good night, daddy dear!" kissed him, and shut the door. she sat down before the little new fire, and spread her hands out to it; all was so cold and wintry in her heart. and the firelight flickered on her face, where shadows lay thick under her eyes, for all the roundness of her cheeks, and on her slim pale hands, and the supple grace of her young body. and out in the night, clouds raced over the moon, which had come full once more. vi pierson went back to his study, and wrote to gratian. "if you can get leave for a few days, my dear, i want you at home. i am troubled about nollie. ever since that disaster happened to her she has been getting paler; and to-day she fainted. she won't see a doctor, but perhaps you could get her to see george. if you come up, he will surely be able to run up to us for a day or two. if not, you must take her down to him at the sea. i have just seen the news of your second cousin charlie pierson's death; he was killed in one of the last attacks on the somme; he was nephew of my cousin leila whom, as you know, noel sees every day at her hospital. bertram has the d. s. o. i have been less hard-pressed lately; lauder has been home on leave and has taken some services for me. and now the colder weather has come, i am feeling much fresher. try your best to come. i am seriously concerned for our beloved child. "your affectionate father "edward pierson." gratian answered that she could get week-end leave, and would come on friday. he met her at the station, and they drove thence straight to the hospital, to pick up noel. leila came to them in the waiting-room, and pierson, thinking they would talk more freely about noel's health if he left them alone, went into the recreation room, and stood watching a game of bagatelle between two convalescents. when he returned to the little sitting-room they were still standing by the hearth, talking in low voices. gratian must surely have been stooping over the fire, for her face was red, almost swollen, and her eyes looked as if she had scorched them. leila said lightly: "well, edward, aren't the men delightful? when are we going to another concert together?" she, too, was flushed and looking almost young. "ah! if we could do the things we want to. "that's very pretty, edward; but you should, you know--for a tonic." he shook his head and smiled. "you're a temptress, leila. will you let nollie know, please, that we can take her back with us? can you let her off to-morrow?" "for as long as you like; she wants a rest. i've been talking to gratian. we oughtn't to have let her go on after a shock like that--my fault, i'm afraid. i thought that work might be best." pierson was conscious of gratian walking past him out of the room. he held out his hand to leila, and followed. a small noise occurred behind him such as a woman makes when she has put a foot through her own skirt, or has other powerful cause for dismay. then he saw noel in the hall, and was vaguely aware of being the centre of a triangle of women whose eyes were playing catch-glance. his daughters kissed each other; and he became seated between them in the taxi. the most unobservant of men, he parted from them in the hall without having perceived anything except that they were rather silent; and, going to his study, he took up a life of sir thomas more. there was a passage therein which he itched to show george laird, who was coming up that evening. gratian and noel had mounted the stairs with lips tight set, and eyes averted; both were very pale. when they reached the door of gratian's room the room which had been their mother's--noel was for passing on, but gratian caught her by the arm, and said: "come in." the fire was burning brightly in there, and the two sisters stood in front of it, one on each side, their hands clutching the mantel-shelf, staring at the flames. at last noel put one hand in front of her eyes, and said: "i asked her to tell you." gratian made the movement of one who is gripped by two strong emotions, and longs to surrender to one or to the other. "it's too horrible," was all she said. noel turned towards the door. "stop, nollie!" noel stopped with her hand on the door knob. "i don't want to be forgiven and sympathised with. i just want to be let alone." "how can you be let alone?" the tide of misery surged up in noel, and she cried out passionately: "i hate sympathy from people who can't understand. i don't want anyone's. i can always go away, and lose myself." the words "can't understand" gave gratian a shock. "i can understand," she said. "you can't; you never saw him. you never saw--" her lips quivered so that she had to stop and bite them, to keep back a rush of tears. "besides you would never have done it yourself." gratian went towards her, but stopped, and sat down on the bed. it was true. she would never have done it herself; it was just that which, for all her longing to help her sister, iced her love and sympathy. how terrible, wretched, humiliating! her own sister, her only sister, in the position of all those poor, badly brought up girls, who forgot themselves! and her father--their father! till that moment she had hardly thought of him, too preoccupied by the shock to her own pride. the word: "dad!" was forced from her. noel shuddered. "that boy!" said gratian suddenly; "i can't forgive him. if you didn't know--he did. it was--it was--" she stopped at the sight of noel's face. "i did know," she said. "it was i. he was my husband, as much as yours is. if you say a word against him, i'll never speak to you again: i'm glad, and you would be, if you were going to have one. what's the difference, except that you've had luck, and i--haven't." her lips quivered again, and she was silent. gratian stared up at her. she had a longing for george--to know what he thought and felt. "do you mind if i tell george?" she said. noel shook her head. "no! not now. tell anybody." and suddenly the misery behind the mask of her face went straight to gratian's heart. she got up and put her arms round her sister. "nollie dear, don't look like that!" noel suffered the embrace without response, but when it was over, went to her own room. gratian stayed, sorry, sore and vexed, uncertain, anxious. her pride was deeply wounded, her heart torn; she was angry with herself. why couldn't she have been more sympathetic? and yet, now that noel was no longer there, she again condemned the dead. what he had done was unpardonable. nollie was such--a child! he had committed sacrilege. if only george would come, and she could talk it all out with him! she, who had married for love and known passion, had insight enough to feel that noel's love had been deep--so far as anything, of course, could be deep in such a child. gratian was at the mature age of twenty. but to have forgotten herself like that! and this boy! if she had known him, that feeling might have been mitigated by the personal element, so important to all human judgment; but never having seen him, she thought of his conduct as "caddish." and she knew that this was, and would be, the trouble between her and her sister. however she might disguise it, noel would feel that judgment underneath. she stripped off her nurse's garb, put on an evening frock, and fidgeted about the room. anything rather than go down and see her father again before she must. this, which had happened, was beyond words terrible for him; she dreaded the talk with him about noel's health which would have to come. she could say nothing, of course, until noel wished; and, very truthful by nature, the idea, of having to act a lie distressed her. she went down at last, and found them both in the drawing-room already; noel in a frilly evening frock, sitting by the fire with her chin on her hand, while her father was reading out the war news from the evening paper. at sight of that cool, dainty, girlish figure brooding over the fire, and of her father's worn face, the tragedy of this business thrust itself on her with redoubled force. poor dad! poor nollie! awful! then noel turned, and gave a little shake of her head, and her eyes said, almost as plainly as lips could have said it: 'silence!' gratian nodded, and came forward to the fire. and so began one of those calm, domestic evenings, which cover sometimes such depths of heartache. noel stayed up until her father went to bed, then went upstairs at once. she had evidently determined that they should not talk about her. gratian sat on alone, waiting for her husband! it was nearly midnight when he came, and she did not tell him the family news till next morning. he received it with a curious little grunt. gratian saw his eyes contract, as they might have, perhaps, looking at some bad and complicated wound, and then stare steadily at the ceiling. though they had been married over a year, she did not yet know what he thought about many things, and she waited with a queer sinking at her heart. this skeleton in the family cupboard was a test of his affection for herself, a test of the quality of the man she had married. he did not speak for a little, and her anxiety grew. then his hand sought hers, and gave it a hard squeeze. "poor little nollie! this is a case for mark tapleyism. but cheer up, gracie! we'll get her through somehow." "but father! it's impossible to keep it from him, and impossible to tell him! oh george! i never knew what family pride was till now. it's incredible. that wretched boy!" "'de mortuis.' come, gracie! in the midst of death we are in life! nollie was a plumb little idiot. but it's the war--the war! your father must get used to it; it's a rare chance for his christianity." "dad will be as sweet as anything--that's what makes it so horrible!" george laird redoubled his squeeze. "quite right! the old-fashioned father could let himself go. but need he know? we can get her away from london, and later on, we must manage somehow. if he does hear, we must make him feel that nollie was 'doing her bit.'" gratian withdrew her hand. "don't!" she said in a muffled voice. george laird turned and looked at her. he was greatly upset himself, realising perhaps more truly than his young wife the violence of this disaster; he was quite capable, too, of feeling how deeply she was stirred and hurt; but, a born pragmatist, confronting life always in the experimental spirit, he was impatient of the: "how awful!" attitude. and this streak of her father's ascetic traditionalism in gratian always roused in him a wish to break it up. if she had not been his wife he would have admitted at once that he might just as well try and alter the bone-formation of her head, as break down such a fundamental trait of character, but, being his wife, he naturally considered alteration as possible as putting a new staircase in a house, or throwing two rooms into one. and, taking her in his arms, he said: "i know; but it'll all come right, if we put a good face on it. shall i talk to nollie?" gratian assented, from the desire to be able to say to her father: "george is seeing her!" and so stay the need for a discussion. but the whole thing seemed to her more and more a calamity which nothing could lessen or smooth away. george laird had plenty of cool courage, invaluable in men who have to inflict as well as to alleviate pain, but he did not like his mission "a little bit" as he would have said; and he proposed a walk because he dreaded a scene. noel accepted for the same reason. she liked george, and with the disinterested detachment of a sister-in-law, and the shrewdness of extreme youth, knew him perhaps better than did his wife. she was sure, at all events, of being neither condemned nor sympathised with. they might have gone, of course, in any direction, but chose to make for the city. such deep decisions are subconscious. they sought, no doubt, a dry, unemotional region; or perhaps one where george, who was in uniform, might rest his arm from the automatic-toy game which the military play. they had reached cheapside before he was conscious to the full of the bizarre nature of this walk with his pretty young sister-in-law among all the bustling, black-coated mob of money-makers. 'i wish the devil we hadn't come out!' he thought; 'it would have been easier indoors, after all.' he cleared his throat, however, and squeezing her arm gently, began: "gratian's told me, nollie. the great thing is to keep your spirit up, and not worry." "i suppose you couldn't cure me." the words, in that delicate spurning voice, absolutely staggered george; but he said quickly: "out of the question, nollie; impossible! what are you thinking of?" "daddy." the words: "d--n daddy!" rose to his teeth; he bit them off, and said: "bless him! we shall have to see to all that. do you really want to keep it from him? it must be one way or the other; no use concealing it, if it's to come out later." "no." he stole a look at her. she was gazing straight before her. how damnably young she was, how pretty! a lump came up in his throat. "i shouldn't do anything yet," he said; "too early. later on, if you'd like me to tell him. but that's entirely up to you, my dear; he need never know." "no." he could not follow her thought. then she said: "gratian condemns cyril. don't let her. i won't have him badly thought of. it was my doing. i wanted to make sure of him." george answered stoutly: "gracie's upset, of course, but she'll soon be all right. you mustn't let it come between you. the thing you've got to keep steadily before you is that life's a huge wide adaptable thing. look at all these people! there's hardly one of them who hasn't got now, or hasn't had, some personal difficulty or trouble before them as big as yours almost; bigger perhaps. and here they are as lively as fleas. that's what makes the fascination of life--the jolly irony of it all. it would do you good to have a turn in france, and see yourself in proportion to the whole." he felt her fingers suddenly slip under his arm, and went on with greater confidence: "life's going to be the important thing in the future, nollie; not comfort and cloistered virtue and security; but living, and pressure to the square inch. do you twig? all the old hard-and-fast traditions and drags on life are in the melting-pot. death's boiling their bones, and they'll make excellent stock for the new soup. when you prune and dock things, the sap flows quicker. regrets and repinings and repressions are going out of fashion; we shall have no time or use for them in the future. you're going to make life--well, that's something to be thankful for, anyway. you've kept cyril morland alive. and--well, you know, we've all been born; some of us properly, and some improperly, and there isn't a ha'porth of difference in the value of the article, or the trouble of bringing it into the world. the cheerier you are the better your child will be, and that's all you've got to think about. you needn't begin to trouble at all for another couple of months, at least; after that, just let us know where you'd like to go, and i'll arrange it somehow." she looked round at him, and under that young, clear, brooding gaze he had the sudden uncomfortable feeling of having spoken like a charlatan. had he really touched the heart of the matter? what good were his generalities to this young, fastidiously nurtured girl, brought up to tell the truth, by a father so old-fashioned and devoted, whom she loved? it was george's nature, too, to despise words; and the conditions of his life these last two years had given him a sort of horror of those who act by talking. he felt inclined to say: 'don't pay the slightest attention to me; it's all humbug; what will be will be, and there's an end of it: then she said quietly: "shall i tell daddy or not?" he wanted to say: "no," but somehow couldn't. after all, the straightforward course was probably the best. for this would have to be a lifelong concealment. it was impossible to conceal a thing for ever; sooner or later he would find out. but the doctor rose up in him, and he said: "don't go to meet trouble, nollie; it'll be time enough in two months. then tell him, or let me." she shook her head. "no; i will, if it is to be done." he put his hand on hers, within his arm, and gave it a squeeze. "what shall i do till then?" she asked. "take a week's complete rest, and then go on where you are." noel was silent a minute, then said: "yes; i will." they spoke no more on the subject, and george exerted himself to talk about hospital experiences, and that phenomenon, the british soldier. but just before they reached home he said: "look here, nollie! if you're not ashamed of yourself, no one will be ashamed of you. if you put ashes on your own head, your fellow-beings will, assist you; for of such is their charity." and, receiving another of those clear, brooding looks, he left her with the thought: 'a lonely child!' vii noel went back to her hospital after a week's rest. george had done more for her than he suspected, for his saying: "life's a huge wide adaptable thing!" had stuck in her mind. did it matter what happened to her? and she used to look into the faces of the people she met, and wonder what was absorbing them. what secret griefs and joys were they carrying about with them? the loneliness of her own life now forced her to this speculation concerning others, for she was extraordinarily lonely; gratian and george were back at work, her father must be kept at bay; with leila she felt ill at ease, for the confession had hurt her pride; and family friends and acquaintances of all sorts she shunned like the plague. the only person she did not succeed in avoiding was jimmy fort, who came in one evening after dinner, bringing her a large bunch of hothouse violets. but then, he did not seem to matter--too new an acquaintance, too detached. something he said made her aware that he had heard of her loss, and that the violets were a token of sympathy. he seemed awfully kind that evening, telling her "tales of araby," and saying nothing which would shock her father. it was wonderful to be a man and roll about the world as he had, and see all life, and queer places, and people--chinamen, and gauchos, and boers, and mexicans. it gave her a kind of thirst. and she liked to watch his brown, humorous face; which seemed made of dried leather. it gave her the feeling that life and experience were all that mattered, doing and seeing things; it made her own trouble seem smaller; less important. she squeezed his hand when she said good night: "thank you for my violets and for coming; it was awfully kind of you! i wish i could have adventures!" and he answered: "you will, my dear fairy princess!" he said it queerly and very kindly. fairy princess! what a funny thing to call her! if he had only known! there were not many adventures to be had in those regions where she washed up. not much "wide and adaptable life" to take her thoughts off herself. but on her journeys to and from the hospital she had more than one odd little experience. one morning she noticed a poorly dressed woman with a red and swollen face, flapping along regent street like a wounded bird, and biting strangely at her hand. hearing her groan, noel asked her what the matter was. the woman held out the hand. "oh!" she moaned, "i was scrubbin' the floor and i got this great needle stuck through my 'and, and it's broke off, and i can't get it out. oh! oh!" she bit at the needle-end, not quite visible, but almost within reach of teeth, and suddenly went very white. in dismay, noel put an arm round her, and turned her into a fine chemist's shop. several ladies were in there, buying perfumes, and they looked with acerbity at this disordered dirty female entering among them. noel went up to a man behind the counter. "please give me something quick, for this poor woman, i think she's going to faint. she's run a needle through her hand, and can't get it out." the man gave her "something quick," and noel pushed past two of the dames back to where the woman was sitting. she was still obstinately biting at her hand, and suddenly her chin flew up, and there, between her teeth, was the needle. she took it from them with her other hand, stuck it proudly in the front of her dress, and out tumbled the words: "oh! there--i've got it!" when she had swallowed the draught, she looked round her, bewildered, and said: "thank you kindly, miss!" and shuffled out. noel paid for the draught, and followed; and, behind her, the shining shop seemed to exhale a perfumed breath of relief. "you can't go back to work," she said to the woman. "where do you live?" "'ornsey, miss." "you must take a 'bus and go straight home, and put your hand at once into weak condy's fluid and water. it's swelling. here's five shillings." "yes, miss; thank you, miss, i'm sure. it's very kind of you. it does ache cruel." "if it's not better this afternoon, you must go to a doctor. promise!" "oh, dear, yes. 'ere's my 'bus. thank you kindly, miss." noel saw her borne away, still sucking at her dirty swollen hand. she walked on in a glow of love for the poor woman, and hate for the ladies in the chemist's shop, and forgot her own trouble till she had almost reached the hospital. another november day, a saturday, leaving early, she walked to hyde park. the plane-trees were just at the height of their spotted beauty. few--very few-yellow leaves still hung; and the slender pretty trees seemed rejoicing in their freedom from summer foliage. all their delicate boughs and twigs were shaking and dancing in the wind; and their rain-washed leopard-like bodies had a lithe un-english gaiety. noel passed down their line, and seated herself on a bench. close by, an artist was painting. his easel was only some three yards away from her, and she could see the picture; a vista of the park lane houses through, the gay plane-tree screen. he was a tall man, about forty, evidently foreign, with a thin, long, oval, beardless face, high brow, large grey eyes which looked as if he suffered from headaches and lived much within himself. he cast many glances at her, and, pursuant of her new interest in "life" she watched him discreetly; a little startled however, when, taking off his broad-brimmed squash hat, he said in a broken accent: "forgive me the liberty i take, mademoiselle, but would you so very kindly allow me to make a sketch of you sitting there? i work very quick. i beg you will let me. i am belgian, and have no manners, you see." and he smiled. "if you like," said noel. "i thank you very much:" he shifted his easel, and began to draw. she felt flattered, and a little fluttered. he was so pale, and had a curious, half-fed look, which moved her. "have you been long in england?" she said presently. "ever since the first months of the war." "do you like it?" "i was very homesick at first. but i live in my pictures; there are wonderful things in london." "why did you want to sketch me?" the painter smiled again. "mademoiselle, youth is so mysterious. those young trees i have been painting mean so much more than the old big trees. your eyes are seeing things that have not yet happened. there is fate in them, and a look of defending us others from seeing it. we have not such faces in my country; we are simpler; we do not defend our expressions. the english are very mysterious. we are like children to them. yet in some ways you are like children to us. you are not people of the world at all. you english have been good to us, but you do not like us." "and i suppose you do not like us, either?" he smiled again, and she noticed how white his teeth were. "well, not very much. the english do things from duty, but their hearts they keep to themselves. and their art--well, that is really amusing!" "i don't know much about art," noel murmured. "it is the world to me," said the painter, and was silent, drawing with increased pace and passion. "it is so difficult to get subjects," he remarked abruptly. "i cannot afford to pay models, and they are not fond of me painting out of doors. if i had always a subject like you! you--you have a grief, have you not?" at that startling little question, noel looked up, frowning. "everybody has, now." the painter grasped his chin; his eyes had suddenly become tragical. "yes," he said, "everybody. tragedy is daily bread. i have lost my family; they are in belgium. how they live i do not know." "i'm sorry; very sorry, too, if we aren't nice to you, here. we ought to be." he shrugged his shoulders. "what would you have? we are different. that is unpardonable. an artist is always lonely, too; he has a skin fewer than other people, and he sees things that they do not. people do not like you to be different. if ever in your life you act differently from others, you will find it so, mademoiselle." noel felt herself flushing. was he reading her secret? his eyes had such a peculiar, secondsighted look. "have you nearly finished?" she asked. "no, mademoiselle; i could go on for hours; but i do not wish to keep you. it is cold for you, sitting there." noel got up. "may i look?" "certainly." she did not quite recognise herself--who does?--but she saw a face which affected her oddly, of a girl looking at something which was, and yet was not, in front of her. "my name is lavendie," the painter said; "my wife and i live here," and he gave her a card. noel could not help answering: "my name is noel pierson; i live with my father; here's the address"--she found her case, and fished out a card. "my father is a clergyman; would you care to come and see him? he loves music and painting." "it would be a great pleasure; and perhaps i might be allowed to paint you. alas! i have no studio." noel drew back. "i'm afraid that i work in a hospital all day, and--and i don't want to be painted, thank you. but, daddy would like to meet you, i'm sure." the painter bowed again; she saw that he was hurt. "of course i can see that you're a very fine painter," she said quickly; "only--only--i don't want to, you see. perhaps you'd like to paint daddy; he's got a most interesting face." the painter smiled. "he is your father, mademoiselle. may i ask you one question? why do you not want to be painted?" "because--because i don't, i'm afraid." she held out her hand. the painter bowed over it. "au revoir, mademoiselle." "thank you," said noel; "it was awfully interesting." and she walked away. the sky had become full of clouds round the westerly sun; and the foreign crinkled tracery of the plane-tree branches against that french-grey, golden-edged mass, was very lovely. beauty, and the troubles of others, soothed her. she felt sorry for the painter, but his eyes saw too much! and his words: "if ever you act differently from others," made her feel him uncanny. was it true that people always disliked and condemned those who acted differently? if her old school-fellows now knew what was before her, how would they treat her? in her father's study hung a little reproduction of a tiny picture in the louvre, a "rape of europa," by an unknown painter--a humorous delicate thing, of an enraptured; fair-haired girl mounted on a prancing white bull, crossing a shallow stream, while on the bank all her white girl-companions were gathered, turning half-sour, half-envious faces away from that too-fearful spectacle, while one of them tried with timid desperation to mount astride of a sitting cow, and follow. the face of the girl on the bull had once been compared by someone with her own. she thought of this picture now, and saw her school fellows-a throng of shocked and wondering girls. suppose one of them had been in her position! 'should i have been turning my face away, like the rest? i wouldn't no, i wouldn't,' she thought; 'i should have understood!' but she knew there was a kind of false emphasis in her thought. instinctively she felt the painter right. one who acted differently from others, was lost. she told her father of the encounter, adding: "i expect he'll come, daddy." pierson answered dreamily: "poor fellow, i shall be glad to see him if he does." "and you'll sit to him, won't you?" "my dear--i?" "he's lonely, you know, and people aren't nice to him. isn't it hateful that people should hurt others, because they're foreign or different?" she saw his eyes open with mild surprise, and went on: "i know you think people are charitable, daddy, but they aren't, of course." "that's not exactly charitable, nollie." "you know they're not. i think sin often just means doing things differently. it's not real sin when it only hurts yourself; but that doesn't prevent people condemning you, does it?" "i don't know what you mean, nollie." noel bit her lips, and murmured: "are you sure we're really christians, daddy?" the question was so startling, from his own daughter, that pierson took refuge in an attempt at wit. "i should like notice of that question, nollie, as they say in parliament." "that means you don't." pierson flushed. "we're fallible enough; but, don't get such ideas into your head, my child. there's a lot of rebellious talk and writing in these days...." noel clasped her hands behind her head. "i think," she said, looking straight before her, and speaking to the air, "that christianity is what you do, not what you think or say. and i don't believe people can be christians when they act like others--i mean, when they join together to judge and hurt people." pierson rose and paced the room. "you have not seen enough of life to talk like that," he said. but noel went on: "one of the men in her hospital told gratian about the treatment of conscientious objectors--it was horrible. why do they treat them like that, just because they disagree? captain fort says it's fear which makes people bullies. but how can it be fear when they're hundreds to one? he says man has domesticated his animals but has never succeeded in domesticating himself. man must be a wild beast, you know, or the world couldn't be so awfully brutal. i don't see much difference between being brutal for good reasons, and being brutal for bad ones." pierson looked down at her with a troubled smile. there was something fantastic to him in this sudden philosophising by one whom he had watched grow up from a tiny thing. out of the mouths of babes and sucklings--sometimes! but then the young generation was always something of a sealed book to him; his sensitive shyness, and, still more, his cloth, placed a sort of invisible barrier between him and the hearts of others, especially the young. there were so many things of which he was compelled to disapprove, or which at least he couldn't discuss. and they knew it too well. until these last few months he had never realised that his own daughters had remained as undiscovered by him as the interior of brazil. and now that he perceived this, he was bewildered, yet could not imagine how to get on terms with them. and he stood looking at noel, intensely puzzled, suspecting nothing of the hard fact which was altering her--vaguely jealous, anxious, pained. and when she had gone up to bed, he roamed up and down the room a long time, thinking. he longed for a friend to confide in, and consult; but he knew no one. he shrank from them all, as too downright, bluff, and active; too worldly and unaesthetic; or too stiff and narrow. amongst the younger men in his profession he was often aware of faces which attracted him, but one could not confide deep personal questions to men half one's age. but of his own generation, or his elders, he knew not one to whom he could have gone. viii leila was deep in her new draught of life. when she fell in love it had always been over head and ears, and so far her passion had always burnt itself out before that of her partner. this had been, of course, a great advantage to her. not that leila had ever expected her passions to burn themselves out. when she fell in love she had always thought it was for always. this time she was sure it was, surer than she had ever been. jimmy fort seemed to her the man she had been looking for all her life. he was not so good-looking as either farie or lynch, but beside him these others seemed to her now almost ridiculous. indeed they did not figure at all, they shrank, they withered, they were husks, together with the others for whom she had known passing weaknesses. there was only one man in the world for her now, and would be for evermore. she did not idealise him either, it was more serious than that; she was thrilled by his voice, and his touch, she dreamed of him, longed for him when he was not with her. she worried, too, for she was perfectly aware that he was not half as fond of her as she was of him. such a new experience puzzled her, kept her instincts painfully on the alert. it was perhaps just this uncertainty about his affection which made him seem more precious than any of the others. but there was ever the other reason, too-consciousness that time was after her, and this her last grand passion. she watched him as a mother-cat watches her kitten, without seeming to, of course, for she had much experience. she had begun to have a curious secret jealousy of noel though why she could not have said. it was perhaps merely incidental to her age, or sprang from that vague resemblance between her and one who outrivalled even what she had been as a girl; or from the occasional allusions fort made to what he called "that little fairy princess." something intangible, instinctive, gave her that jealousy. until the death of her young cousin's lover she had felt safe, for she knew that jimmy fort would not hanker after another man's property; had he not proved that in old days, with herself, by running away from her? and she had often regretted having told him of cyril morland's death. one day she determined to repair that error. it was at the zoo, where they often went on sunday afternoons. they were standing before a creature called the meercat, which reminded them both of old days on the veldt. without turning her head she said, as if to the little animal: "do you know that your fairy princess, as you call her, is going to have what is known as a war-baby?" the sound of his "what!" gave her quite a stab. it was so utterly horrified. she said stubbornly: "she came and told me all about it. the boy is dead, as you know. yes, terrible, isn't it?" and she looked at him. his face was almost comic, so wrinkled up with incredulity. "that lovely child! but it's impossible!" "the impossible is sometimes true, jimmy." "i refuse to believe it." "i tell you it is so," she said angrily. "what a ghastly shame!" "it was her own doing; she said so, herself." "and her father--the padre! my god!" leila was suddenly smitten with a horrible doubt. she had thought it would disgust him, cure him of any little tendency to romanticise that child; and now she perceived that it was rousing in him, instead, a dangerous compassion. she could have bitten her tongue out for having spoken. when he got on the high horse of some championship, he was not to be trusted, she had found that out; was even finding it out bitterly in her own relations with him, constantly aware that half her hold on him, at least, lay in his sense of chivalry, aware that he knew her lurking dread of being flung on the beach, by age. only ten minutes ago he had uttered a tirade before the cage of a monkey which seemed unhappy. and now she had roused that dangerous side of him in favour of noel. what an idiot she had been! "don't look like that, jimmy. i'm sorry i told you." his hand did not answer her pressure in the least, but he muttered: "well, i do think that's the limit. what's to be done for her?" leila answered softly: "nothing, i'm afraid. do you love me?" and she pressed his hand hard. "of course." but leila thought: 'if i were that meercat he'd have taken more notice of my paw!' her heart began suddenly to ache, and she walked on to the next cage with head up, and her mouth hard set. jimmy fort walked away from camelot mansions that evening in extreme discomfort of mind. leila had been so queer that he had taken leave immediately after supper. she had refused to talk about noel; had even seemed angry when he had tried to. how extraordinary some women were! did they think that a man could hear of a thing like that about such a dainty young creature without being upset! it was the most perfectly damnable news! what on earth would she do--poor little fairy princess! down had come her house of cards with a vengeance! the whole of her life--the whole of her life! with her bringing-up and her father and all--it seemed inconceivable that she could ever survive it. and leila had been almost callous about the monstrous business. women were hard to each other! bad enough, these things, when it was a simple working girl, but this dainty, sheltered, beautiful child! no, it was altogether too strong--too painful! and following an impulse which he could not resist, he made his way to the old square. but having reached the house, he nearly went away again. while he stood hesitating with his hand on the bell, a girl and a soldier passed, appearing as if by magic out of the moonlit november mist, blurred and solid shapes embraced, then vanished into it again, leaving the sound of footsteps. fort jerked the bell. he was shown into what seemed, to one coming out of that mist, to be a brilliant, crowded room, though in truth there were but two lamps and five people in it. they were sitting round the fire, talking, and paused when he came in. when he had shaken hands with pierson and been introduced to "my daughter gratian" and a man in khaki "my son-in-law george laird," to a tall thin-faced, foreign-looking man in a black stock and seemingly no collar, he went up to noel, who had risen from a chair before the fire. 'no!' he thought, 'i've dreamed it, or leila has lied!' she was so perfectly the self-possessed, dainty maiden he remembered. even the feel of her hand was the same-warm and confident; and sinking into a chair, he said: "please go on, and let me chip in." "we were quarrelling about the universe, captain fort," said the man in khaki; "delighted to have your help. i was just saying that this particular world has no particular importance, no more than a newspaper-seller would accord to it if it were completely destroyed tomorrow--''orrible catastrophe, total destruction of the world--six o'clock edition-pyper!' i say that it will become again the nebula out of which it was formed, and by friction with other nebula re-form into a fresh shape and so on ad infinitum--but i can't explain why. my wife wonders if it exists at all except in the human mind--but she can't explain what the human mind is. my father-in-law thinks that it is god's hobby--but he can't explain who or what god is. nollie is silent. and monsieur lavendie hasn't yet told us what he thinks. what do you think, monsieur?" the thin-faced, big-eyed man put up his hand to his high, veined brow as if he had a headache, reddened, and began to speak in french, which fort followed with difficulty. "for me the universe is a limitless artist, monsieur, who from all time and to all time is ever expressing himself in differing forms--always trying to make a masterpiece, and generally failing. for me this world, and all the worlds, are like ourselves, and the flowers and trees--little separate works of art, more or less perfect, whose little lives run their course, and are spilled or powdered back into this creative artist, whence issue ever fresh attempts at art. i agree with monsieur laird, if i understand him right; but i agree also with madame laird, if i understand her. you see, i think mind and matter are one, or perhaps there is no such thing as either mind or matter, only growth and decay and growth again, for ever and ever; but always conscious growth--an artist expressing himself in millions of ever-changing forms; decay and death as we call them, being but rest and sleep, the ebbing of the tide, which must ever come between two rising tides, or the night which comes between two days. but the next day is never the same as the day before, nor the tide as the last tide; so the little shapes of the world and of ourselves, these works of art by the eternal artist, are never renewed in the same form, are never twice alike, but always fresh-fresh worlds, fresh individuals, fresh flowers, fresh everything. i do not see anything depressing in that. to me it would be depressing to think that i would go on living after death, or live again in a new body, myself yet not myself. how stale that would be! when i finish a picture it is inconceivable to me that this picture should ever become another picture, or that one can divide the expression from the mind-stuff it has expressed. the great artist who is the whole of everything, is ever in fresh effort to achieve new things. he is as a fountain who throws up new drops, no two ever alike, which fall back into the water, flow into the pipe, and so are thrown up again in fresh-shaped drops. but i cannot explain why there should be this eternal energy, ever expressing itself in fresh individual shapes, this eternal working artist, instead of nothing at all--just empty dark for always; except indeed that it must be one thing or the other, either all or nothing; and it happens to be this and not that, the all and not the nothing." he stopped speaking, and his big eyes, which had fixed themselves on fort's face, seemed to the latter not to be seeing him at all, but to rest on something beyond. the man in khaki, who had risen and was standing with his hand on his wife's shoulder, said: "bravo, monsieur; jolly well put from the artist's point of view. the idea is pretty, anyway; but is there any need for an idea at all? things are; and we have just to take them." fort had the impression of something dark and writhing; the thin black form of his host, who had risen and come close to the fire. "i cannot admit," he was saying, "the identity of the creator with the created. god exists outside ourselves. nor can i admit that there is no defnite purpose and fulfilment. all is shaped to his great ends. i think we are too given to spiritual pride. the world has lost reverence; i regret it, i bitterly regret it." "i rejoice at it," said the man in khaki. "now, captain fort, your turn to bat!" fort, who had been looking at noel, gave himself a shake, and said: "i think what monsieur calls expression, i call fighting. i suspect the universe of being simply a long fight, a sum of conquests and defeats. conquests leading to defeats, defeats to conquests. i want to win while i'm alive, and because i want to win, i want to live on after death. death is a defeat. i don't want to admit it. while i have that instinct, i don't think i shall really die; when i lose it, i think i shall." he was conscious of noel's face turning towards him, but had the feeling that she wasn't really listening. "i suspect that what we call spirit is just the fighting instinct; that what we call matter is the mood of lying down. whether, as mr. pierson says, god is outside us, or, as monsieur thinks, we are all part of god, i don't know, i'm sure." "ah! there we are!" said the man in khaki. "we all speak after our temperaments, and none of us know. the religions of the world are just the poetic expressions of certain strongly marked temperaments. monsieur was a poet just now, and his is the only temperament which has never yet been rammed down the world's throat in the form of religion. go out and proclaim your views from the housetops, monsieur, and see what happens." the painter shook his head with a smile which seemed to fort very bright on the surface, and very sad underneath. "non, monsieur," he said; "the artist does not wish to impose his temperament. difference of temperament is the very essence of his joy, and his belief in life. without difference there would be no life for him. 'tout casse, tout lasse,' but change goes on for ever: we artists reverence change, monsieur; we reverence the newness of each morning, of each night, of each person, of each expression of energy. nothing is final for us; we are eager for all and always for more. we are in love, you see, even with-death." there was a silence; then fort heard pierson murmur: "that is beautiful, monsieur; but oh! how wrong!" "and what do you think, nollie?" said the man in khaki suddenly. the girl had been sitting very still in her low chair, with her hands crossed in her lap, her eyes on the fire, and the lamplight shining down on her fair hair; she looked up, startled, and her eyes met fort's. "i don't know; i wasn't listening." something moved in him, a kind of burning pity, a rage of protection. he said quickly: "these are times of action. philosophy seems to mean nothing nowadays. the one thing is to hate tyranny and cruelty, and protect everything that's weak and lonely. it's all that's left to make life worth living, when all the packs of all the world are out for blood." noel was listening now, and he went on fervently: "why! even we who started out to fight this prussian pack, have caught the pack feeling--so that it's hunting all over the country, on every sort of scent. it's a most infectious thing." "i cannot see that we are being infected, captain fort." "i'm afraid we are, mr. pierson. the great majority of people are always inclined to run with the hounds; the pressure's great just now; the pack spirit's in the air." pierson shook his head. "no, i cannot see it," he repeated; "it seems to me that we are all more brotherly, and more tolerant." "ah! monsieur le cure," fort heard the painter say very gently, "it is difficult for a good man to see the evil round him. there are those whom the world's march leaves apart, and reality cannot touch. they walk with god, and the bestialities of us animals are fantastic to them. the spirit of the pack, as monsieur says, is in the air. i see all human nature now, running with gaping mouths and red tongues lolling out, their breath and their cries spouting thick before them. on whom they will fall next--one never knows; the innocent with the guilty. perhaps if you were to see some one dear to you devoured before your eyes, monsieur le cure, you would feel it too; and yet i do not know." fort saw noel turn her face towards her father; her expression at that moment was very strange, searching, half frightened. no! leila had not lied, and he had not dreamed! that thing was true! when presently he took his leave, and was out again in the square, he could see nothing but her face and form before him in the moonlight: its soft outline, fair colouring, slender delicacy, and the brooding of the big grey eyes. he had already crossed new oxford street and was some way down towards the strand, when a voice behind him murmured: "ah! c'est vous, monsieur!" and the painter loomed up at his elbow. "are you going my way?" said fort. "i go slowly, i'm afraid." "the slower the better, monsieur. london is so beautiful in the dark. it is the despair of the painter--these moonlit nights. there are moments when one feels that reality does not exist. all is in dreams--like the face of that young lady." fort stared sharply round at him. "oh! she strikes you like that, does she?" "ah! what a charming figure! what an atmosphere of the past and future round her! and she will not let me paint her! well, perhaps only mathieu maris." he raised his broad bohemian hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. "yes," said fort, "she'd make a wonderful picture. i'm not a judge of art, but i can see that." the painter smiled, and went on in his rapid french: "she has youth and age all at once--that is rare. her father is an interesting man, too; i am trying to paint him; he is very difficult. he sits lost in some kind of vacancy of his own; a man whose soul has gone before him somewhere, like that of his church, escaped from this age of machines, leaving its body behind--is it not? he is so kind; a saint, i think. the other clergymen i see passing in the street are not at all like him; they look buttoned-up and busy, with faces of men who might be schoolmasters or lawyers, or even soldiers--men of this world. do you know this, monsieur--it is ironical, but it is true, i think a man cannot be a successful priest unless he is a man of this world. i do not see any with that look of monsieur pierson, a little tortured within, and not quite present. he is half an artist, really a lover of music, that man. i am painting him at the piano; when he is playing his face is alive, but even then, so far away. to me, monsieur, he is exactly like a beautiful church which knows it is being deserted. i find him pathetic. je suis socialiste, but i have always an aesthetic admiration for that old church, which held its children by simple emotion. the times have changed; it can no longer hold them so; it stands in the dusk, with its spire to a heaven which exists no more, its bells, still beautiful but out of tune with the music of the streets. it is something of that which i wish to get into my picture of monsieur pierson; and sapristi! it is difficult!" fort grunted assent. so far as he could make out the painter's words, it seemed to him a large order. "to do it, you see," went on the painter, "one should have the proper background--these currents of modern life and modern types, passing him and leaving him untouched. there is no illusion, and no dreaming, in modern life. look at this street. la, la!" in the darkened strand, hundreds of khaki-clad figures and girls were streaming by, and all their voices had a hard, half-jovial vulgarity. the motor-cabs and buses pushed along remorselessly; newspaper-sellers muttered their ceaseless invitations. again the painter made his gesture of despair: "how am i to get into my picture this modern life, which washes round him as round that church, there, standing in the middle of the street? see how the currents sweep round it, as if to wash it away; yet it stands, seeming not to see them. if i were a phantasist, it would be easy enough: but to be a phantasist is too simple for me--those romantic gentlemen bring what they like from anywhere, to serve their ends. moi, je suis realiste. and so, monsieur, i have invented an idea. i am painting over his head while he sits there at the piano a picture hanging on the wall--of one of these young town girls who have no mysteriousness at all, no youth; nothing but a cheap knowledge and defiance, and good humour. he is looking up at it, but he does not see it. i will make the face of that girl the face of modern life, and he shall sit staring at it, seeing nothing. what do you think of my idea?" but fort had begun to feel something of the revolt which the man of action so soon experiences when he listens to an artist talking. "it sounds all right," he said abruptly; "all the same, monsieur, all my sympathy is with modern life. take these young girls, and these tommies. for all their feather-pated vulgarity and they are damned vulgar, i must say--they're marvellous people; they do take the rough with the smooth; they're all 'doing their bit,' you know, and facing this particularly beastly world. aesthetically, i daresay, they're deplorable, but can you say that on the whole their philosophy isn't an advance on anything we've had up till now? they worship nothing, it's true; but they keep their ends up marvellously." the painter, who seemed to feel the wind blowing cold on his ideas, shrugged his shoulders. "i am not concerned with that, monsieur; i set down what i see; better or worse, i do not know. but look at this!" and he pointed down the darkened and moonlit street. it was all jewelled and enamelled with little spots and splashes of subdued red and green-blue light, and the downward orange glow of the high lamps--like an enchanted dream-street peopled by countless moving shapes, which only came to earth-reality when seen close to. the painter drew his breath in with a hiss. "ah!" he said, "what beauty! and they don't see it--not one in a thousand! pity, isn't it? beauty is the holy thing!" fort, in his turn, shrugged his shoulders. "every man to his vision!" he said. "my leg's beginning to bother me; i'm afraid i must take a cab. here's my address; any time you like to come. i'm often in about seven. i can't take you anywhere, i suppose?" "a thousand thanks, monsieur; but i go north. i loved your words about the pack. i often wake at night and hear the howling of all the packs of the world. those who are by nature gentle nowadays feel they are strangers in a far land. good night, monsieur!" he took off his queer hat, bowed low, and crossed out into the strand, like one who had come in a dream, and faded out with the waking. fort hailed a cab, and went home, still seeing noel's face. there was one, if you liked, waiting to be thrown to the wolves, waiting for the world's pack to begin howling round her--that lovely child; and the first, the loudest of all the pack, perhaps, must be her own father, the lean, dark figure with the gentle face, and the burnt bright eyes. what a ghastly business! his dreams that night were not such as leila would have approved. ix when in the cupboard there is a real and very bony skeleton, carefully kept from the sight of a single member of the family, the position of that member is liable to become lonely. but pierson, who had been lonely fifteen years, did not feel it so much, perhaps, as most men would have. in his dreamy nature there was a curious self-sufficiency, which only violent shocks disturbed, and he went on with his routine of duty, which had become for him as set as the pavements he trod on his way to and from it. it was not exactly true, as the painter had said, that this routine did not bring him into touch with life. after all he saw people when they were born, when they married, when they died. he helped them when they wanted money, and when they were ill; he told their children bible stories on sunday afternoons; he served those who were in need with soup and bread from his soup kitchen. he never spared himself in any way, and his ears were always at the service of their woes. and yet he did not understand them, and they knew that. it was as though he, or they, were colour-blind. the values were all different. he was seeing one set of objects, they another. one street of his parish touched a main line of thoroughfare, and formed a little part of the new hunting-grounds of women, who, chased forth from their usual haunts by the authorities under pressure of the country's danger, now pursued their calling in the dark. this particular evil had always been a sort of nightmare to pierson. the starvation which ruled his own existence inclined him to a particularly severe view and severity was not his strong point. in consequence there was ever within him a sort of very personal and poignant struggle going on beneath that seeming attitude of rigid disapproval. he joined the hunters, as it were, because he was afraid-not, of course, of his own instincts, for he was fastidious, a gentleman, and a priest, but of being lenient to a sin, to something which god abhorred: he was, as it were, bound to take a professional view of this particular offence. when in his walks abroad he passed one of these women, he would unconsciously purse his lips, and frown. the darkness of the streets seemed to lend them such power, such unholy sovereignty over the night. they were such a danger to the soldiers, too; and in turn, the soldiers were such a danger to the lambs of his flock. domestic disasters in his parish came to his ears from time to time; cases of young girls whose heads were turned by soldiers, so that they were about to become mothers. they seemed to him pitiful indeed; but he could not forgive them for their giddiness, for putting temptation in the way of brave young men, fighting, or about to fight. the glamour which surrounded soldiers was not excuse enough. when the babies were born, and came to his notice, he consulted a committee he had formed, of three married and two maiden ladies, who visited the mothers, and if necessary took the babies into a creche; for those babies had a new value to the country, and were not--poor little things!--to be held responsible for their mothers' faults. he himself saw little of the young mothers; shy of them, secretly afraid, perhaps, of not being censorious enough. but once in a way life set him face to face with one. on new year's eve he was sitting in his study after tea, at that hour which he tried to keep for his parishioners, when a mrs. mitchett was announced, a small bookseller's wife, whom he knew for an occasional communicant. she came in, accompanied by a young dark-eyed girl in a loose mouse-coloured coat. at his invitation they sat down in front of the long bookcase on the two green leather chairs which had grown worn in the service of the parish; and, screwed round in his chair at the bureau, with his long musician's fingers pressed together, he looked at them and waited. the woman had taken out her handkerchief, and was wiping her eyes; but the girl sat quiet, as the mouse she somewhat resembled in that coat. "yes, mrs. mitchett?" he said gently, at last. the woman put away her handkerchief, sniffed resolutely, and began: "it's 'ilda, sir. such a thing mitchett and me never could 'ave expected, comin' on us so sudden. i thought it best to bring 'er round, poor girl. of course, it's all the war. i've warned 'er a dozen times; but there it is, comin' next month, and the man in france." pierson instinctively averted his gaze from the girl, who had not moved her eyes from his face, which she scanned with a seeming absence of interest, as if she had long given up thinking over her lot, and left it now to others. "that is sad," he said; "very, very sad." "yes," murmured mrs. mitchett; "that's what i tell 'ilda." the girl's glance, lowered for a second, resumed its impersonal scrutiny of pierson's face. "what is the man's name and regiment? perhaps we can get leave for him to come home and marry hilda at once." mrs. mitchett sniffed. "she won't give it, sir. now, 'ilda, give it to mr. pierson." and her voice had a real note of entreaty. the girl shook her head. mrs. mitchett murmured dolefully: "that's 'ow she is, sir; not a word will she say. and as i tell her, we can only think there must 'ave been more than one. and that does put us to shame so!" but still the girl made no sign. "you speak to her, sir; i'm really at my wit's end." "why won't you tell us?" said pierson. "the man will want to do the right thing, 'i'm sure." the girl shook her head, and spoke for the first time. "i don't know his name." mrs. mitchett's face twitched. "oh, dear!" she said: "think of that! she's never said as much to us." "not know his name?" pierson murmured. "but how--how could you--" he stopped, but his face had darkened. "surely you would never have done such a thing without affection? come, tell me!" "i don't know it," the girl repeated. "it's these parks," said mrs. mitchett, from behind her handkerchief. "and to think that this'll be our first grandchild and all! 'ilda is difficult; as quiet, as quiet; but that stubborn--" pierson looked at the girl, who seemed, if anything, less interested than ever. this impenetrability and something mulish in her attitude annoyed him. "i can't think," he said, "how you could so have forgotten yourself. it's truly grievous." mrs. mitchett murmured: "yes, sir; the girls gets it into their heads that there's going to be no young men for them." "that's right," said the girl sullenly. pierson's lips grew tighter. "well, what can i do for you, mrs. mitchett?" he said. "does your daughter come to church?" mrs. mitchett shook her head mournfully. "never since she had her byke." pierson rose from his chair. the old story! control and discipline undermined, and these bitter apples the result! "well," he said, "if you need our creche, you have only to come to me," and he turned to the girl. "and you--won't you let this dreadful experience move your heart? my dear girl, we must all master ourselves, our passions, and our foolish wilfulness, especially in these times when our country needs us strong, and self-disciplined, not thinking of ourselves. i'm sure you're a good girl at heart." the girl's dark eyes, unmoved from his face, roused in him a spasm of nervous irritation. "your soul is in great danger, and you're very unhappy, i can see. turn to god for help, and in his mercy everything will be made so different for you--so very different! come!" the girl said with a sort of surprising quietness: "i don't want the baby!" the remark staggered him, almost as if she had uttered a hideous oath. "'ilda was in munitions," said her mother in an explanatory voice: "earnin' a matter of four pound a week. oh! dear, it is a waste an' all!" a queer, rather terrible little smile curled pierson's lips. "a judgment!" he said. "good evening, mrs. mitchett. good evening, hilda. if you want me when the time comes, send for me." they stood up; he shook hands with them; and was suddenly aware that the door was open, and noel standing there. he had heard no sound; and how long she had been there he could not tell. there was a singular fixity in her face and attitude. she was staring at the girl, who, as she passed, lifted her face, so that the dark eyes and the grey eyes met. the door was shut, and noel stood there alone with him. "aren't you early, my child?" said pierson. "you came in very quietly." "yes; i heard." a slight shock went through him at the tone of her voice; her face had that possessed look which he always dreaded. "what did you hear?" he said. "i heard you say: 'a judgment!' you'll say the same to me, won't you? only, i do want my baby." she was standing with her back to the door, over which a dark curtain hung; her face looked young and small against its stuff, her eyes very large. with one hand she plucked at her blouse, just over her heart. pierson stared at her, and gripped the back of the chair he had been sitting in. a lifetime of repression served him in the half-realised horror of that moment. he stammered out the single word-- "nollie!" "it's quite true," she said, turned round, and went out. pierson had a sort of vertigo; if he had moved, he must have fallen down. nollie! he slid round and sank into his chair, and by some horrible cruel fiction of his nerves, he seemed to feel noel on his knee, as, when a little girl, she had been wont to sit, with her fair hair fluffing against his cheek. he seemed to feel that hair tickling his skin; it used to be the greatest comfort he had known since her mother died. at that moment his pride shrivelled like a flower held to a flame; all that abundant secret pride of a father who loves and admires, who worships still a dead wife in the children she has left him; who, humble by nature, yet never knows how proud he is till the bitter thing happens; all the long pride of the priest who, by dint of exhortation and remonstrance has coated himself in a superiority he hardly suspects--all this pride shrivelled in him. then something writhed and cried within, as a tortured beast cries, at loss to know why it is being tortured. how many times has not a man used those words: "my god! my god! why hast thou forsaken me!" he sprang up and tried to pace his way out of this cage of confusion: his thoughts and feelings made the strangest medley, spiritual and worldly--social ostracism--her soul in peril--a trial sent by god! the future! imagination failed him. he went to his little piano, opened it, closed it again; took his hat, and stole out. he walked fast, without knowing where. it was very cold--a clear, bitter evening. silent rapid motion in the frosty air was some relief. as noel had fled from him, having uttered her news, so did he fly from her. the afflicted walk fast. he was soon down by the river, and turned west along its wall. the moon was up, bright and nearly full, and the steel-like shimmer of its light burnished the ebbing water. a cruel night! he came to the obelisk, and leaned against it, overcome by a spasm of realisation. he seemed to see his dead wife's face staring at him out of the past, like an accusation. "how have you cared for nollie, that she should have come to this?" it became the face of the moonlit sphinx, staring straight at him, the broad dark face with wide nostrils, cruel lips, full eyes blank of pupils, all livened and whitened by the moonlight--an embodiment of the marvellous unseeing energy of life, twisting and turning hearts without mercy. he gazed into those eyes with a sort of scared defiance. the great clawed paws of the beast, the strength and remorseless serenity of that crouching creature with human head, made living by his imagination and the moonlight, seemed to him like a temptation to deny god, like a refutation of human virtue. then, the sense of beauty stirred in him; he moved where he could see its flanks coated in silver by the moonlight, the ribs and the great muscles, and the tail with tip coiled over the haunch, like the head of a serpent. it was weirdly living; fine and cruel, that great man-made thing. it expressed something in the soul of man, pitiless and remote from love--or rather, the remorselessness which man had seen, lurking within man's fate. pierson recoiled from it, and resumed his march along the embankment, almost deserted in the bitter cold. he came to where, in the opening of the underground railway, he could see the little forms of people moving, little orange and red lights glowing. the sight arrested him by its warmth and motion. was it not all a dream? that woman and her daughter, had they really come? had not noel been but an apparition, her words a trick which his nerves had played him? then, too vividly again, he saw her face against the dark stuff of the curtain, the curve of her hand plucking at her blouse, heard the sound of his own horrified: "nollie!" no illusion, no deception! the edifice of his life was in the dust. and a queer and ghastly company of faces came about him; faces he had thought friendly, of good men and women whom he knew, yet at that moment did not know, all gathered round noel, with fingers pointing at her. he staggered back from that vision, could not bear it, could not recognise this calamity. with a sort of comfort, yet an aching sense of unreality, his mind flew to all those summer holidays spent in scotland, ireland, cornwall, wales, by mountain and lake, with his two girls; what sunsets, and turning leaves, birds, beasts, and insects they had watched together! from their youthful companionship, their eagerness, their confidence in him, he had known so much warmth and pleasure. if all those memories were true, surely this could not be true. he felt suddenly that he must hurry back, go straight to noel, tell her that she had been cruel to him, or assure himself that, for the moment, she had been insane: his temper rose suddenly, took fire. he felt anger against her, against every one he knew, against life itself. thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his thin black overcoat, he plunged into that narrow glowing tunnel of the station booking-office, which led back to the crowded streets. but by the time he reached home his anger had evaporated; he felt nothing but utter lassitude. it was nine o'clock, and the maids had cleared the dining table. in despair noel had gone up to her room. he had no courage left, and sat down supperless at his little piano, letting his fingers find soft painful harmonies, so that noel perhaps heard the faint far thrumming of that music through uneasy dreams. and there he stayed, till it became time for him to go forth to the old year's midnight service. when he returned, pierson wrapped himself in a rug and lay down on the old sofa in his study. the maid, coming in next morning to "do" the grate, found him still asleep. she stood contemplating him in awe; a broad-faced, kindly, fresh-coloured girl. he lay with his face resting on his hand, his dark, just grizzling hair unruffled, as if he had not stirred all night; his other hand clutched the rug to his chest, and his booted feet protruded beyond it. to her young eyes he looked rather appallingly neglected. she gazed with interest at the hollows in his cheeks, and the furrows in his brow, and the lips, dark-moustached and bearded, so tightly compressed, even in. sleep. being holy didn't make a man happy, it seemed! what fascinated her were the cindery eyelashes resting on the cheeks, the faint movement of face and body as he breathed, the gentle hiss of breath escaping through the twitching nostrils. she moved nearer, bending down over him, with the childlike notion of counting those lashes. her lips parted in readiness to say: "oh!" if he waked. something in his face, and the little twitches which passed over it, made her feel "that sorry" for him. he was a gentleman, had money, preached to her every sunday, and was not so very old--what more could a man want? and yet--he looked so tired, with those cheeks. she pitied him; helpless and lonely he seemed to her, asleep there instead of going to bed properly. and sighing, she tiptoed towards the door. "is that you, bessie?" the girl turned: "yes, sir. i'm sorry i woke you, sir. 'appy new year, sir!" "ah, yes. a happy new year, bessie." she saw his usual smile, saw it die, and a fixed look come on his face; it scared her, and she hurried away. pierson had remembered. for full five minutes he lay there staring at nothing. then he rose, folded the rug mechanically, and looked at the clock. eight! he went upstairs, knocked on noel's door, and entered. the blinds were drawn up, but she was still in bed. he stood looking down at her. "a happy new year, my child!" he said; and he trembled all over, shivering visibly. she looked so young and innocent, so round-faced and fresh, after her night's sleep, that the thought sprang up in him again: 'it must have been a dream!' she did not move, but a slow flush came up in her cheeks. no dream--dream! he said tremulously: "i can't realise. i--i hoped i had heard wrong. didn't i, nollie? didn't i?" she just shook her head. "tell me--everything," he said; "for god's sake!" he saw her lips moving, and caught the murmur: "there 's nothing more. gratian and george know, and leila. it can't be undone, daddy. perhaps i wouldn't have wanted to make sure, if you hadn't tried to stop cyril and me--and i'm glad sometimes, because i shall have something of his--" she looked up at him. "after all, it's the same, really; only, there's no ring. it's no good talking to me now, as if i hadn't been thinking of this for ages. i'm used to anything you can say; i've said it to myself, you see. there's nothing but to make the best of it." her hot hand came out from under the bedclothes, and clutched his very tight. her flush had deepened, and her eyes seemed to him to glitter. "oh, daddy! you do look tired! haven't you been to bed? poor daddy!" that hot clutch, and the words: "poor daddy!" brought tears into his eyes. they rolled slowly down to his beard, and he covered his face with the other hand. her grip tightened convulsively; suddenly she dragged it to her lips, kissed it, and let it drop. "don't!" she said, and turned away her face. pierson effaced his emotion, and said quite calmly: "shall you wish to be at home, my dear, or to go elsewhere?" noel had begun to toss her head on her pillow, like a feverish child whose hair gets in its eyes and mouth. "oh! i don't know; what does it matter?" "kestrel; would you like to go there? your aunt--i could write to her." noel stared at him a moment; a struggle seemed going on within her. "yes," she said, "i would. only, not uncle bob." "perhaps your uncle would come up here, and keep me company." she turned her face away, and that tossing movement of the limbs beneath the clothes began again. "i don't care," she said; "anywhere--it doesn't matter." pierson put his chilly hand on her forehead. "gently!" he said, and knelt down by the bed. "merciful father," he murmured, "give us strength to bear this dreadful trial. keep my beloved child safe, and bring her peace; and give me to understand how i have done wrong, how i have failed towards thee, and her. in all things chasten and strengthen her, my child, and me." his thoughts moved on in the confused, inarticulate suspense of prayer, till he heard her say: "you haven't failed; why do you talk of failing--it isn't true; and don't pray for me, daddy." pierson raised himself, and moved back from the bed. her words confounded him, yet he was afraid to answer. she pushed her head deep into the pillow, and lay looking up at the ceiling. "i shall have a son; cyril won't quite have died. and i don't want to be forgiven." he dimly perceived what long dumb processes of thought and feeling had gone on in her to produce this hardened state of mind, which to him seemed almost blasphemous. and in the very midst of this turmoil in his heart, he could not help thinking how lovely her face looked, lying back so that the curve of her throat was bared, with the short tendrils of hair coiling about it. that flung-back head, moving restlessly from side to side in the heat of the soft pillow, had such a passion of protesting life in it! and he kept silence. "i want you to know it was all me. but i can't pretend. of course i'll try and not let it hurt you more than i possibly can. i'm sorry for you, poor daddy; oh! i'm sorry for you!" with a movement incredibly lithe and swift, she turned and pressed her face down in the pillow, so that all he could see was her tumbled hair and the bedclothes trembling above her shoulders. he tried to stroke that hair, but she shook her head free, and he stole out. she did not come to breakfast; and when his own wretched meal was over, the mechanism of his professional life caught him again at once. new year's day! he had much to do. he had, before all, to be of a cheerful countenance before his flock, to greet all and any with an air of hope and courage. x thirza pierson, seeing her brother-in-law's handwriting, naturally said: "here's a letter from ted." bob pierson, with a mouth full of sausage, as naturally responded: "what does he say?" in reading on, she found that to answer that question was one of the most difficult tasks ever set her. its news moved and disturbed her deeply. under her wing this disaster had happened! down here had been wrought this most deplorable miracle, fraught with such dislocation of lives! noel's face, absorbed and passionate, outside the door of her room on the night when cyril morland went away--her instinct had been right! "he wants you to go up and stay with him, bob." "why not both of us?" "he wants nollie to come down to me; she's not well." "not well? what's the matter?" to tell him seemed disloyalty to her sex; not to tell him, disloyalty to her husband. a simple consideration of fact and not of principle, decided her. he would certainly say in a moment: 'here! pitch it over!' and she would have to. she said tranquilly: "you remember that night when cyril morland went away, and noel behaved so strangely. well, my dear; she is going to have a child at the beginning of april. the poor boy is dead, bob; he died for the country." she saw the red tide flow up into his face. "what!" "poor edward is dreadfully upset. we must do what we can. i blame myself." by instinct she used those words. "blame yourself? stuff! that young--!" he stopped. thirza said quietly: "no, bob; of the two, i'm sure it was noel; she was desperate that day. don't you remember her face? oh! this war! it's turned the whole world upside down. that's the only comfort; nothing's normal" bob pierson possessed beyond most men the secret of happiness, for he was always absorbed in the moment, to the point of unself-consciousness. eating an egg, cutting down a tree, sitting on a tribunal, making up his accounts, planting potatoes, looking at the moon, riding his cob, reading the lessons--no part of him stood aside to see how he was doing it, or wonder why he was doing it, or not doing it better. he grew like a cork-tree, and acted like a sturdy and well-natured dog. his griefs, angers, and enjoyments were simple as a child's, or as his somewhat noisy slumbers. they were notably well-suited, for thirza had the same secret of happiness, though her, absorption in the moment did not--as became a woman--prevent her being conscious of others; indeed, such formed the chief subject of her absorptions. one might say that they neither of them had philosophy yet were as philosophic a couple as one could meet on this earth of the self-conscious. daily life to these two was still of simple savour. to be absorbed in life--the queer endless tissue of moments and things felt and done and said and made, the odd inspiriting conjunctions of countless people--was natural to them; but they never thought whether they were absorbed or not, or had any particular attitude to life or death--a great blessing at the epoch in which they were living. bob pierson, then, paced the room, so absorbed in his dismay and concern, that he was almost happy. "by jove!" he said, "what a ghastly thing! "nollie, of all people! i feel perfectly wretched, thirza; wretched beyond words." but with each repetition his voice grew cheerier, and thirza felt that he was already over the worst. "your coffee's getting cold!" she said. "what do you advise? shall i go up, heh?" "i think you'll be a godsend to poor ted; you'll keep his spirits up. eve won't get any leave till easter; and i can be quite alone, and see to nollie here. the servants can have a holiday--, nurse and i will run the house together. i shall enjoy it." "you're a good woman, thirza!" taking his wife's hand, he put it to his lips. "there isn't another woman like you in the world." thirza's eyes smiled. "pass me your cup; i'll give you some fresh coffee." it was decided to put the plan into operation at mid-month, and she bent all her wits to instilling into her husband the thought that a baby more or less was no great matter in a world which already contained twelve hundred million people. with a man's keener sense of family propriety, he could not see that this baby would be the same as any other baby. "by heaven!" he would say, "i simply can't get used to it; in our family! and ted a parson! what the devil shall we do with it?" "if nollie will let us, why shouldn't we adopt it? it'll be something to take my thoughts off the boys." "that's an idea! but ted's a funny fellow. he'll have some doctrine of atonement, or other in his bonnet." "oh, bother!" said thirza with asperity. the thought of sojourning in town for a spell was not unpleasant to bob pierson. his tribunal work was over, his early, potatoes in, and he had visions of working for the country, of being a special constable, and dining at his club. the nearer he was to the front, and the more he could talk about the war, the greater the service he felt he would be doing. he would ask for a job where his brains would be of use. he regretted keenly that thirza wouldn't be with him; a long separation like this would be a great trial. and he would sigh and run his fingers through his whiskers. still for the country, and for nollie, one must put up with it! when thirza finally saw him into the train, tears stood in the eyes of both, for they were honestly attached, and knew well enough that this job, once taken in hand, would have to be seen through; a three months' separation at least. "i shall write every day." "so shall i, bob." "you won't fret, old girl?" "only if you do." "i shall be up at . , and she'll be down at . . give us a kiss--damn the porters. god bless you! i suppose she'd mind if--i--were to come down now and then?" "i'm afraid she would. it's--it's--well, you know." "yes, yes; i do." and he really did; for underneath, he had true delicacy. her last words: "you're very sweet, bob," remained in his ears all the way to severn junction. she went back to the house, emptied of her husband, daughter, boys, and maids; only the dogs left and the old nurse whom she had taken into confidence. even in that sheltered, wooded valley it was very cold this winter. the birds hid themselves, not one flower bloomed, and the red-brown river was full and swift. the sound of trees being felled for trench props, in the wood above the house resounded all day long in the frosty air. she meant to do the cooking herself; and for the rest of the morning and early afternoon she concocted nice things, and thought out how she herself would feel if she were noel and noel she, so as to smooth out of the way anything which would hurt the girl. in the afternoon she went down to the station in the village car, the same which had borne cyril morland away that july night, for their coachman had been taken for the army, and the horses were turned out. noel looked tired and white, but calm--too calm. her face seemed to thirza to have fined down, and with those brooding eyes, to be more beautiful. in the car she possessed herself of the girl's hand, and squeezed it hard; their only allusion to the situation, except noel's formal: "thank you so much, auntie, for having me; it's most awfully sweet of you and uncle bob." "there's no one in the house, my dear, except old nurse. it'll be very dull for you; but i thought i'd teach you to cook; it's rather useful." the smile which slipped on to noel's face gave thirza quite a turn. she had assigned the girl a different room, and had made it extraordinarily cheerful with a log fire, chrysanthemums, bright copper candlesticks, warming-pans, and such like. she went up with her at bedtime, and standing before the fire, said: "you know, nollie, i absolutely refuse to regard this as any sort of tragedy. to bring life into the worlds in these days, no matter how, ought to make anyone happy. i only wish i could do it again, then i should feel some use. good night dear; and if you want anything, knock on the wall. i'm next door. bless you!" she saw that the girl was greatly moved, underneath her pale mask; and went out astonished at her niece's powers of self-control. but she did not sleep at all well; for in imagination, she kept on seeing noel turning from side to side in the big bed, and those great eyes of hers staring at the dark. the meeting of the brothers pierson took place at the dinner-hour, and was characterised by a truly english lack of display. they were so extremely different, and had been together so little since early days in their old buckinghamshire home, that they were practically strangers, with just the potent link of far-distant memories in common. it was of these they talked, and about the war. on this subject they agreed in the large, and differed in the narrow. for instance, both thought they knew about germany and other countries, and neither of course had any real knowledge of any country outside their own; for, though both had passed through considerable tracts of foreign ground at one time or another, they had never remarked anything except its surface,--its churches, and its sunsets. again, both assumed that they were democrats, but neither knew the meaning of the word, nor felt that the working man could be really trusted; and both revered church and, king: both disliked conscription, but considered it necessary. both favoured home rule for ireland, but neither thought it possible to grant it. both wished for the war to end, but were for prosecuting it to victory, and neither knew what they meant by that word. so much for the large. on the narrower issues, such as strategy, and the personality of their country's leaders, they were opposed. edward was a westerner, robert an easterner, as was natural in one who had lived twenty-five years in ceylon. edward favoured the fallen government, robert the risen. neither had any particular reasons for their partisanship except what he had read in the journals. after all--what other reasons could they have had? edward disliked the harmsworth press; robert thought it was doing good. robert was explosive, and rather vague; edward dreamy, and a little didactic. robert thought poor ted looking like a ghost; edward thought poor bob looking like the setting sun. their faces were indeed as curiously contrasted as their views and voices; the pale-dark, hollowed, narrow face of edward, with its short, pointed beard, and the red-skinned, broad, full, whiskered face of robert. they parted for the night with an affectionate hand-clasp. so began a queer partnership which consisted, as the days went on, of half an hour's companionship at breakfast, each reading the paper; and of dinner together perhaps three times a week. each thought his brother very odd, but continued to hold the highest opinion of him. and, behind it all, the deep tribal sense that they stood together in trouble, grew. but of that trouble they never spoke, though not seldom robert would lower his journal, and above the glasses perched on his well-shaped nose, contemplate his brother, and a little frown of sympathy would ridge his forehead between his bushy eyebrows. and once in a way he would catch edward's eyes coming off duty from his journal, to look, not at his brother, but at--the skeleton; when that happened, robert would adjust his glasses hastily, damn the newspaper type, and apologise to edward for swearing. and he would think: 'poor ted! he ought to drink port, and--and enjoy himself, and forget it. what a pity he's a parson!' in his letters to thirza he would deplore edward's asceticism. "he eats nothing, he drinks nothing, he smokes a miserable cigarette once in a blue moon. he's as lonely as a coot; it's a thousand pities he ever lost his wife. i expect to see his wings sprout any day; but--dash it all i--i don't believe he's got the flesh to grow them on. send him up some clotted cream; i'll see if i can get him to eat it." when the cream came, he got edward to eat some the first morning, and at tea time found that he had finished it himself. "we never talk about nollie," he wrote, "i'm always meaning to have it out with him and tell him to buck up, but when it comes to the point i dry up; because, after all, i feel it too; it sticks in my gizzard horribly. we piersons are pretty old, and we've always been respectable, ever since st. bartholomew, when that huguenot chap came over and founded us. the only black sheep i ever heard of is cousin leila. by the way, i saw her the other day; she came round here to see ted. i remember going to stay with her and her first husband; young fane, at simla, when i was coming home, just before we were married. phew! that was a queer menage; all the young chaps fluttering round her, and young fane looking like a cynical ghost. even now she can't help setting her cap a little at ted, and he swallows her whole; thinks her a devoted creature reformed to the nines with her hospital and all that. poor old ted; he is the most dreamy chap that ever was." "we have had gratian and her husband up for the week-end," he wrote a little later; "i don't like her so well as nollie; too serious and downright for me. her husband seems a sensible fellow, though; but the devil of a free-thinker. he and poor ted are like cat and dog. we had leila in to dinner again on saturday, and a man called fort came too. she's sweet on him, i could see with half an eye, but poor old ted can't. the doctor and ted talked up hill and down dale. the doctor said a thing which struck me. 'what divides us from the beasts? will power: nothing else. what's this war, really, but a death carnival of proof that man's will is invincible?' i stuck it down to tell you, when i got upstairs. he's a clever fellow. i believe in god, as you know, but i must say when it comes to an argument, poor old ted does seem a bit weak, with his: 'we're told this,' and 'we're told that: nobody mentioned nollie. i must have the whole thing out with ted; we must know how to act when it's all over." but not till the middle of march, when the brothers had been sitting opposite each other at meals for two months, was the subject broached between them, and then not by robert. edward, standing by the hearth after dinner, in his familiar attitude, one foot on the fender, one hand grasping the mantel-shelf, and his eyes fixed on the flames, said: "i've never asked your forgiveness, bob." robert, lingering at the table over his glass of port, started, looked at edward's back in its parson's coat, and answered: "my dear old chap!" "it has been very difficult to speak of this." "of course, of course!" and there was a silence, while robert's eyes travelled round the walls for inspiration. they encountered only the effigies of past piersons very oily works, and fell back on the dining-table. edward went on speaking to the fire: "it still seems to me incredible. day and night i think of what it's my duty to do." "nothing!" ejaculated robert. "leave the baby with thirza; we'll take care of it, and when nollie's fit, let her go back to work in a hospital again. she'll soon get over it." he saw his brother shake his head, and thought: 'ah! yes; now there's going to be some d--d conscientious complication.' edward turned round on him: "that is very sweet of you both, but it would be wrong and cowardly for me to allow it." the resentment which springs up in fathers when other fathers dispose of young lives, rose in robert. "dash it all, my dear ted, that's for nollie to say. she's a woman now, remember." a smile went straying about in the shadows of his brother's face. "a woman? little nollie! bob, i've made a terrible mess of it with my girls." he hid his lips with his hand, and turned again to the flames. robert felt a lump in his throat. "oh! hang it, old boy, i don't think that. what else could you have done? you take too much on yourself. after all, they're fine girls. i'm sure nollie's a darling. it's these modern notions, and this war. cheer up! it'll all dry straight." he went up to his brother and put a hand on his shoulder. edward seemed to stiffen under that touch. "nothing comes straight," he said, "unless it's faced; you know that, bob." robert's face was a study at that moment. his cheeks filled and collapsed again like a dog's when it has been rebuked. his colour deepened, and he rattled some money in a trouser pocket. "something in that, of course," he said gruffly. "all the same, the decision's with nollie. we'll see what thirza says. anyway, there's no hurry. it's a thousand pities you're a parson; the trouble's enough without that:" edward shook his head. "my position is nothing; it's the thought of my child, my wife's child. it's sheer pride; and i can't subdue it. i can't fight it down. god forgive me, i rebel." and robert thought: 'by george, he does take it to heart! well, so should i! i do, as it is!' he took out his pipe, and filled it, pushing the tobacco down and down. "i'm not a man of the world," he heard his brother say; "i'm out of touch with many things. it's almost unbearable to me to feel that i'm joining with the world to condemn my own daughter; not for their reasons, perhaps--i don't know; i hope not, but still, i'm against her." robert lit his pipe. "steady, old man!" he said. "it's a misfortune. but if i were you i should feel: 'she's done a wild, silly thing, but, hang it, if anybody says a word against her, i'll wring his neck.' and what's more, you'll feel much the same, when it comes to the point." he emitted a huge puff of smoke, which obscured his brother's face, and the blood, buzzing in his temples, seemed to thicken the sound of edward's voice. "i don't know; i've tried to see clearly. i have prayed to be shown what her duty is, and mine. it seems to me there can be no peace for her until she has atoned, by open suffering; that the world's judgment is her cross, and she must bear it; especially in these days, when all the world is facing suffering so nobly. and then it seems so hard-so bitter; my poor little nollie!" there was a silence, broken only by the gurgling of robert's pipe, till he said abruptly: "i don't follow you, ted; no, i don't. i think a man should screen his children all he can. talk to her as you like, but don't let the world do it. dash it, the world's a rotten gabbling place. i call myself a man of the world, but when it comes to private matters--well, then i draw the line. it seems to me it seems to me inhuman. what does george laird think about it? he's a knowing chap. i suppose you've--no, i suppose you haven't--" for a peculiar smile had come on edward's face. "no," he said, "i should hardly ask george laird's opinion." and robert realised suddenly the stubborn loneliness of that thin black figure, whose fingers were playing with a little gold cross. 'by jove!' he thought, 'i believe old ted's like one of those eastern chaps who go into lonely places. he's got himself surrounded by visions of things that aren't there. he lives in unreality--something we can't understand. i shouldn't be surprised if he heard voices, like--'who was it? tt, tt! what a pity!' ted was deceptive. he was gentle and--all that, a gentleman of course, and that disguised him; but underneath; what was there--a regular ascetic, a fakir! and a sense of bewilderment, of dealing with something which he could not grasp, beset bob pierson, so that he went back to the table, and sat down again beside his port. "it seems to me," he said rather gruffly, "that the chicken had better be hatched before we count it." and then, sorry for his brusqueness, emptied his glass. as the fluid passed over his palate, he thought: 'poor old ted! he doesn't even drink--hasn't a pleasure in life, so far as i can see, except doing his duty, and doesn't even seem to know what that is. there aren't many like him--luckily! and yet i love him--pathetic chap!' the "pathetic chap" was still staring at the flames. and at this very hour, when the brothers were talking--for thought and feeling do pass mysteriously over the invisible wires of space cyril morland's son was being born of noel, a little before his time. part iii i down by the river wye, among plum-trees in blossom, noel had laid her baby in a hammock, and stood reading a letter: "my dearest nollie, "now that you are strong again, i feel that i must put before you my feeling as to your duty in this crisis of your life. your aunt and uncle have made the most kind and generous offer to adopt your little boy. i have known that this was in their minds for some time, and have thought it over day and night for weeks. in the worldly sense it would be the best thing, no doubt. but this is a spiritual matter. the future of our souls depends on how we meet the consequences of our conduct. and painful, dreadful, indeed, as they must be, i am driven to feel that you can only reach true peace by facing them in a spirit of brave humility. i want you to think and think--till you arrive at a certainty which satisfies your conscience. if you decide, as i trust you will, to come back to me here with your boy, i shall do all in my power to make you happy while we face the future together. to do as your aunt and uncle in their kindness wish, would, i am sore afraid, end in depriving you of the inner strength and happiness which god only gives to those who do their duty and try courageously to repair their errors. i have confidence in you, my dear child. "ever your most loving father, "edward pierson." she read it through a second time, and looked at her baby. daddy seemed to think that she might be willing to part from this wonderful creature! sunlight fell through the plum blossom, in an extra patchwork quilt over the bundle lying there, touched the baby's nose and mouth, so that he sneezed. noel laughed, and put her lips close to his face. 'give you up!' she thought: 'oh, no! and i'm going to be happy too. they shan't stop me: in answer to the letter she said simply that she was coming up; and a week later she went, to the dismay of her uncle and aunt. the old nurse went too. everything had hitherto been so carefully watched and guarded against by thirza, that noel did not really come face to face with her position till she reached home. gratian, who had managed to get transferred to a london hospital, was now living at home. she had provided the house with new maids against her sister's return; and though noel was relieved not to meet her old familiars, she encountered with difficulty the stolid curiosity of new faces. that morning before she left kestrel, her aunt had come into her room while she was dressing, taken her left hand and slipped a little gold band on to its third finger. "to please me, nollie, now that you're going, just for the foolish, who know nothing about you." noel had suffered it with the thought: 'it's all very silly!' but now, when the new maid was pouring out her hot water, she was suddenly aware of the girl's round blue eyes wandering, as it were, mechanically to her hand. this little hoop of gold, then, had an awful power! a rush of disgust came over her. all life seemed suddenly a thing of forms and sham. everybody then would look at that little ring; and she was a coward, saving herself from them! when she was alone again, she slipped it off, and laid it on the washstand, where the sunlight fell. only this little shining band of metal, this little yellow ring, stood between her and the world's hostile scorn! her lips trembled. she took up the ring, and went to the open window; to throw it out. but she did not, uncertain and unhappy--half realising the cruelty of life. a knock at the door sent her flying back to the washstand. the visitor was gratian. "i've been looking at him," she said softly; "he's like you, nollie, except for his nose." "he's hardly got one yet. but aren't his eyes intelligent? i think they're wonderful." she held up the ring: "what shall i do about this, gratian?" gratian flushed. "wear it. i don't see why outsiders should know. for the sake of dad i think you ought. there's the parish." noel slipped the ring back on to her finger. "would you?" "i can't tell. i think i would." noel laughed suddenly. "i'm going to get cynical; i can feel it in my bones. how is daddy looking?" "very thin; mr. lauder is back again from the front for a bit, and taking some of the work now." "do i hurt him very much still?" "he's awfully pleased that you've come. he's as sweet as he can be about you." "yes," murmured noel, "that's what's dreadful. i'm glad he wasn't in when i came. has he told anyone?" gratian shook her head. "i don't think anybody knows; unless--perhaps captain fort. he came in again the other night; and somehow--" noel flushed. "leila!" she said enigmatically. "have you seen her?" "i went to her flat last week with dad--he likes her." "delilah is her real name, you know. all men like her. and captain fort is her lover." gratian gasped. noel would say things sometimes which made her feel the younger of the two. "of course he is," went on noel in a hard voice. "she has no men friends; her sort never have, only lovers. why do you think he knows about me?" "when he asked after you he looked--" "yes; i've seen him look like that when he's sorry for anything. i don't care. has monsieur lavendie been in lately?" "yes; he looks awfully unhappy." "his wife drugs." "oh, nollie! how do you know?" "i saw her once; i'm sure she does; there was a smell; and she's got wandering eyes that go all glassy. he can paint me now, if he likes. i wouldn't let him before. does he know?" "of course not." "he knows there was something; he's got second sight, i think. but i mind him less than anybody. is his picture of daddy good?" "powerful, but it hurts, somehow." "let's go down and see it." the picture was hung in the drawing-room, and its intense modernity made that old-fashioned room seem lifeless and strange. the black figure, with long pale fingers touching the paler piano keys, had a frightening actuality. the face, three-quarters full, was raised as if for inspiration, and the eyes rested, dreamy and unseeing, on the face of a girl painted and hung on a background of wall above the piano. "it's the face of that girl," said gratian, when they had looked at the picture for some time in silence: "no," said noel, "it's the look in his eyes." "but why did he choose such a horrid, common girl? isn't she fearfully alive, though? she looks as if she were saying: 'cheerio!'" "she is; it's awfully pathetic, i think. poor daddy!" "it's a libel," said gratian stubbornly. "no. that's what hurts. he isn't quite--quite all there. will he be coming in soon?" gratian took her arm, and pressed it hard. "would you like me at dinner or not; i can easily be out?" noel shook her head. "it's no good to funk it. he wanted me, and now he's got me. oh! why did he? it'll be awful for him." gratian sighed. "i've tried my best, but he always said: 'i've thought so long about it all that i can't think any longer. i can only feel the braver course is the best. when things are bravely and humbly met, there will be charity and forgiveness.'" "there won't," said noel, "daddy's a saint, and he doesn't see." "yes, he is a saint. but one must think for oneself--one simply must. i can't believe as he does, any more; can you, nollie?" "i don't know. when i was going through it, i prayed; but i don't know whether i really believed. i don't think i mind much about that, one way or the other." "i mind terribly," said gratian, "i want the truth." "i don't know what i want," said noel slowly, "except that sometimes i want--life; awfully." and the two sisters were silent, looking at each other with a sort of wonder. noel had a fancy to put on a bright-coloured blue frock that evening, and at her neck she hung a breton cross of old paste, which had belonged to her mother. when she had finished dressing she went into the nursery and stood by the baby's cot. the old nurse who was sitting there beside him, got up at once and said: "he's sleeping beautiful--the lamb. i'll go down and get a cup o' tea, and come up, ma'am, when the gong goes." in the way peculiar to those who have never to initiate, but only to support positions in which they are placed by others, she had adopted for herself the theory that noel was a real war-widow. she knew the truth perfectly; for she had watched that hurried little romance at kestrel, but by dint of charity and blurred meditations it was easy for her to imagine the marriage ceremony which would and should have taken place; and she was zealous that other people should imagine it too. it was so much more regular and natural like that, and "her" baby invested with his proper dignity. she went downstairs to get a "cup o' tea," thinking: 'a picture they make--that they do, bless his little heart; and his pretty little mother--no more than a child, all said and done.' noel had been standing there some minutes in the failing light, absorbed in the face of the sleeping baby, when, raising her eyes, she saw in a mirror the refection of her father's dark figure by the door. she could hear him breathing as if the ascent of the stairs had tired him; and moving to the head of the cot, she rested her hand on it, and turned her face towards him. he came up and stood beside her, looking silently down at the baby. she saw him make the sign of the cross above it, and the movement of his lips in prayer. love for her father, and rebellion against this intercession for her perfect baby fought so hard in the girl's heart that she felt suffocated, and glad of the dark, so that he could not see her eyes. then he took her hand and put it to his lips, but still without a word; and for the life of her she could not speak either. in silence, he kissed her forehead; and there mounted in noel a sudden passion of longing to show him her pride and love for her baby. she put her finger down and touched one of his hands. the tiny sleeping fingers uncurled and, like some little sea anemone, clutched round it. she heard her father draw his breath in; saw him turn away quickly, silently, and go out. and she stayed, hardly breathing, with the hand of her baby squeezing her finger. ii when edward pierson, afraid of his own emotion, left the twilit nursery, he slipped into his own room, and fell on his knees beside his bed, absorbed in the vision he had seen. that young figure in madonna blue, with the halo of bright hair; the sleeping babe in the fine dusk; the silence, the adoration in that white room! he saw, too; a vision of the past, when noel herself had been the sleeping babe within her mother's arm, and he had stood beside them, wondering and giving praise. it passed with its other-worldliness and the fine holiness which belongs to beauty, passed and left the tormenting realism of life. ah! to live with only the inner meaning, spiritual and beautifed, in a rare wonderment such as he had experienced just now! his alarum clock, while he knelt in his narrow, monkish little room--ticked the evening hour away into darkness. and still he knelt, dreading to come back into it all, to face the world's eyes, and the sound of the world's tongue, and the touch of the rough, the gross, the unseemly. how could he guard his child? how preserve that vision in her life, in her spirit, about to enter such cold, rough waters? but the gong sounded; he got up, and went downstairs. but this first family moment, which all had dreaded, was relieved, as dreaded moments so often are, by the unexpected appearance of the belgian painter. he had a general invitation, of which he often availed himself; but he was so silent, and his thin, beardless face, which seemed all eyes and brow, so mournful, that all three felt in the presence of a sorrow deeper even than their own family grief. during the meal he gazed silently at noel. once he said: "you will let me paint you now, mademoiselle, i hope?" and his face brightened a little when she nodded. there was never much talk when he came, for any depth of discussion, even of art, brought out at once too wide a difference. and pierson could never avoid a vague irritation with one who clearly had spirituality, but of a sort which he could not understand. after dinner he excused himself, and went off to his study. monsieur would be happier alone with the two girls! gratian, too, got up. she had remembered noel's words: "i mind him less than anybody." it was a chance for nollie to break the ice. "i have not seen you for a long time, mademoiselle," said the painter, when they were alone. noel was sitting in front of the empty drawing-room hearth, with her arms stretched out as if there had been a fire there. "i've been away. how are you going to paint me, monsieur?" "in that dress, mademoiselle; just as you are now, warming yourself at the fire of life." "but it isn't there." "yes, fires soon go out. mademoiselle, will you come and see my wife? she is ill." "now?" asked noel, startled. "yes, now. she is really ill, and i have no one there. that is what i came to ask of your sister; but--now you are here, it's even better. she likes you." noel got up. "wait one minute!" she said, and ran upstairs. her baby was asleep, and the old nurse dozing. putting on a cloak and cap of grey rabbit's fur, she ran down again to the hall where the painter was waiting; and they went out together. "i do not know if i am to blame," he said, "my wife has been no real wife to me since she knew i had a mistress and was no real husband to her." noel stared round at his face lighted by a queer, smile. "yes," he went on, "from that has come her tragedy. but she should have known before i married her. nothing was concealed. bon dieu! she should have known! why cannot a woman see things as they are? my mistress, mademoiselle, is not a thing of flesh. it is my art. it has always been first with me, and always will. she has never accepted that, she is incapable of accepting it. i am sorry for her. but what would you? i was a fool to marry her. chere mademoiselle, no troubles are anything beside the trouble which goes on day and night, meal after meal, year, after year, between two people who should never have married, because one loves too much and requires all, and the other loves not at all--no, not at all, now, it is long dead--and can give but little." "can't you separate?" asked noel, wondering. "it is hard to separate from one who craves for you as she craves her drugs--yes, she takes drugs now, mademoiselle. it is impossible for one who has any compassion in his soul. besides, what would she do? we live from hand to mouth, in a strange land. she has no friends here, not one. how could i leave her while this war lasts? as well could two persons on a desert island separate. she is killing herself, too, with these drugs, and i cannot stop her." "poor madame!" murmured noel. "poor monsieur!" the painter drew his hand across his eyes. "i cannot change my nature," he said in a stifled voice, "nor she hers. so we go on. but life will stop suddenly some day for one of us. after all, it is much worse for her than for me. enter, mademoiselle. do not tell her i am going to paint you; she likes you, because you refused to let me." noel went up the stairs, shuddering; she had been there once before, and remembered that sickly scent of drugs. on the third floor they entered a small sitting-room whose walls were covered with paintings and drawings; from one corner a triangular stack of canvases jutted out. there was little furniture save an old red sofa, and on this was seated a stoutish man in the garb of a belgian soldier, with his elbows on his knees and his bearded cheeks resting on his doubled fists. beside him on the sofa, nursing a doll, was a little girl, who looked up at noel. she had a most strange, attractive, pale little face, with pointed chin and large eyes, which never moved from this apparition in grey rabbits' skins. "ah, barra! you here!" said the painter: "mademoiselle, this is monsieur barra, a friend of ours from the front; and this is our landlady's little girl. a little refugee, too, aren't you, chica?" the child gave him a sudden brilliant smile and resumed her grave scrutiny of the visitor. the soldier, who had risen heavily, offered noel one of his podgy hands, with a sad and heavy giggle. "sit down, mademoiselle," said lavendie, placing a chair for her: "i will bring my wife in," and he went out through some double doors. noel sat down. the soldier had resumed his old attitude, and the little girl her nursing of the doll, though her big eyes still watched the visitor. overcome by strangeness, noel made no attempt to talk. and presently through the double doors the painter and his wife came in. she was a thin woman in a red wrapper, with hollow cheeks, high cheek-bones, and hungry eyes; her dark hair hung loose, and one hand played restlessly with a fold of her gown. she took noel's hand; and her uplifted eyes seemed to dig into the girl's face, to let go suddenly, and flutter. "how do you do?" she said in english. "so pierre brought you, to see me again. i remember you so well. you would not let him paint you. ah! que c'est drole! you are so pretty, too. hein, monsieur barra, is not mademoiselle pretty?" the soldier gave his heavy giggle, and resumed his scrutiny of the floor. "henriette," said lavendie, "sit down beside chica--you must not stand. sit down, mademoiselle, i beg." "i'm so sorry you're not well," said noel, and sat down again. the painter stood leaning against the wall, and his wife looked up at his tall, thin figure, with eyes which had in them anger, and a sort of cunning. "a great painter, my husband, is he not?" she said to noel. "you would not imagine what that man can do. and how he paints--all day long; and all night in his head. and so you would not let him paint you, after all?" lavendie said impatiently: "voyons, henriette, causez d'autre chose." his wife plucked nervously at a fold in her red gown, and gave him the look of a dog that has been rebuked. "i am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, i never leave the house. here i live day after day--my husband is always painting. who would go out alone under this grey sky of yours, and the hatreds of the war in every face? i prefer to keep my room. my husband goes painting; every face he sees interests him, except that which he sees every day. but i am a prisoner. monsieur barra is our first visitor for a long time." the soldier raised his face from his fists. "prisonnier, madame! what would you say if you were out there?" and he gave his thick giggle. "we are the prisoners, we others. what would you say to imprisonment by explosion day and night; never a minute free. bom! bom! bom! ah! les tranchees! it's not so free as all that, there." "every one has his own prison," said lavendie bitterly. "mademoiselle even, has her prison--and little chica, and her doll. every one has his prison, barra. monsieur barra is also a painter, mademoiselle." "moi!" said barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. "i paint puddles, star-bombs, horses' ribs--i paint holes and holes and holes, wire and wire and wire, and water--long white ugly water. i paint splinters, and men's souls naked, and men's bodies dead, and nightmare--nightmare--all day and all night--i paint them in my head." he suddenly ceased speaking and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, with his bearded cheeks resting on his fists. "and their souls as white as snow, les camarades," he added suddenly and loudly, "millions of belgians, english, french, even the boches, with white souls. i paint those souls!" a little shiver ran through noel, and she looked appealingly at lavendie. "barra," he said, as if the soldier were not there, "is a great painter, but the front has turned his head a little. what he says is true, though. there is no hatred out there. it is here that we are prisoners of hatred, mademoiselle; avoid hatreds--they are poison!" his wife put out her hand and touched the child's shoulder. "why should we not hate?" she said. "who killed chica's father, and blew her home to-rags? who threw her out into this horrible england--pardon, mademoiselle, but it is horrible. ah! les boches! if my hatred could destroy them there would not be one left. even my husband was not so mad about his painting when we lived at home. but here--!" her eyes darted at his face again, and then sank as if rebuked. noel saw the painter's lips move. the sick woman's whole figure writhed. "it is mania, your painting!" she looked at noel with a smile. "will you have some tea, mademoiselle? monsieur barra, some tea?" the soldier said thickly: "no, madame; in the trenches we have tea enough. it consoles us. but when we get away--give us wine, le bon vin; le bon petit vin!" "get some wine, pierre!" noel saw from the painter's face that there was no wine, and perhaps no money to get any; but he went quickly out. she rose and said: "i must be going, madame." madame lavendie leaned forward and clutched her wrist. "wait a little, mademoiselle. we shall have some wine, and pierre shall take you back presently. you cannot go home alone--you are too pretty. is she not, monsieur barra?" the soldier looked up: "what would you say," he said, "to bottles of wine bursting in the air, bursting red and bursting white, all day long, all night long? great steel bottles, large as chica: bits of bottles, carrying off men's heads? bsum, garra-a-a, and a house comes down, and little bits of people ever so small, ever so small, tiny bits in the air and all over the ground. great souls out there, madame. but i will tell you a secret," and again he gave his heavy giggle, "all a little, little mad; nothing to speak of--just a little bit mad; like a watch, you know, that you can wind for ever. that is the discovery of this war, mademoiselle," he said, addressing noel for the first time, "you cannot gain a great soul till you are a little mad." and lowering his piggy grey eyes at once, he resumed his former attitude. "it is that madness i shall paint some day," he announced to the carpet; "lurking in one tiny corner of each soul of all those millions, as it creeps, as it peeps, ever so sudden, ever so little when we all think it has been put to bed, here--there, now--then, when you least think; in and out like a mouse with bright eyes. millions of men with white souls, all a little mad. a great subject, i think," he added heavily. involuntarily noel put her hand to her heart, which was beating fast. she felt quite sick. "how long have you been at the front, monsieur?" "two years, mademoiselle. time to go home and paint, is it not? but art--!" he shrugged his heavy round shoulders, his whole bear-like body. "a little mad," he muttered once more. "i will tell you a story. once in winter after i had rested a fortnight, i go back to the trenches at night, and i want some earth to fill up a hole in the ground where i was sleeping; when one has slept in a bed one becomes particular. well, i scratch it from my parapet, and i come to something funny. i strike my briquet, and there is a boche's face all frozen and earthy and dead and greeny-white in the flame from my briquet." "oh, no!" "oh! but yes, mademoiselle; true as i sit here. very useful in the parapet--dead boche. once a man like me. but in the morning i could not stand him; we dug him out and buried him, and filled the hole up with other things. but there i stood in the night, and my face as close to his as this"--and he held his thick hand a foot before his face. "we talked of our homes; he had a soul, that man. 'il me disait des choses', how he had suffered; and i, too, told him my sufferings. dear god, we know all; we shall never know more than we know out there, we others, for we are mad--nothing to speak of, but just a little, little mad. when you see us, mademoiselle, walking the streets, remember that." and he dropped his face on to his fists again. a silence had fallen in the room-very queer and complete. the little girl nursed her doll, the soldier gazed at the floor, the woman's mouth moved stealthily, and in noel the thought rushed continually to the verge of action: 'couldn't i get up and run downstairs?' but she sat on, hypnotised by that silence, till lavendie reappeared with a bottle and four glasses. "to drink our health, and wish us luck, mademoiselle," he said. noel raised the glass he had given her. "i wish you all happiness." "and you, mademoiselle," the two men murmured. she drank a little, and rose. "and now, mademoiselle," said lavendie, "if you must go, i will see you home." noel took madame lavendie's hand; it was cold, and returned no pressure; her eyes had the glazed look that she remembered. the soldier had put his empty glass down on the floor, and was regarding it unconscious of her. noel turned quickly to the door; the last thing she saw was the little girl nursing her doll. in the street the painter began at once in his rapid french: 'i ought not to have asked you to come, mademoiselle; i did not know our friend barra was there. besides, my wife is not fit to receive a lady; vous voyez qu'il y a de la manie dans cette pauvre tote. i should not have asked you; but i was so miserable." "oh!" murmured noel, "i know." "in our home over there she had interests. in this great town she can only nurse her grief against me. ah! this war! it seems to me we are all in the stomach of a great coiling serpent. we lie there, being digested. in a way it is better out there in the trenches; they are beyond hate, they have attained a height that we have not. it is wonderful how they still can be for going on till they have beaten the boche; that is curious and it is very great. did barra tell you how, when they come back--all these fighters--they are going to rule, and manage the future of the world? but it will not be so. they will mix in with life, separate--be scattered, and they will be ruled as they were before. the tongue and the pen will rule them: those who have not seen the war will rule them." "oh!"' cried noel, "surely they will be the bravest and strongest in the future." the painter smiled. "war makes men simple," he said, "elemental; life in peace is neither simple nor elemental, it is subtle, full of changing environments, to which man must adapt himself; the cunning, the astute, the adaptable, will ever rule in times of peace. it is pathetic, the belief of those brave soldiers that the-future is theirs." "he said, a strange thing," murmured noel; "that they were all a little mad." "he is a man of queer genius--barra; you should see some of his earlier pictures. mad is not quite the word, but something is loosened, is rattling round in them, they have lost proportion, they are being forced in one direction. i tell you, mademoiselle, this war is one great forcing-house; every living plant is being made to grow too fast, each quality, each passion; hate and love, intolerance and lust and avarice, courage and energy; yes, and self-sacrifice--all are being forced and forced beyond their strength, beyond the natural flow of the sap, forced till there has come a great wild luxuriant crop, and then--psum! presto! the change comes, and these plants will wither and rot and stink. but we who see life in forms of art are the only ones who feel that; and we are so few. the natural shape of things is lost. there is a mist of blood before all eyes. men are afraid of being fair. see how we all hate not only our enemies, but those who differ from us. look at the streets too--see how men and women rush together, how venus reigns in this forcing-house. is it not natural that youth about to die should yearn for pleasure, for love, for union, before death?" noel stared up at him. 'now!' she thought: i will.' "yes," she said, "i know that's true, because i rushed, myself. i'd like you to know. we couldn't be married--there wasn't time. and--he was killed. but his son is alive. that's why i've been away so long. i want every one to know." she spoke very calmly, but her cheeks felt burning hot. the painter had made an upward movement of his hands, as if they had been jerked by an electric current, then he said quite quietly: "my profound respect, mademoiselle, and my great sympathy. and your father?" "it's awful for him." the painter said gently: "ah! mademoiselle, i am not so sure. perhaps he does not suffer so greatly. perhaps not even your trouble can hurt him very much. he lives in a world apart. that, i think, is his true tragedy to be alive, and yet not living enough to feel reality. do you know anatole france's description of an old woman: 'elle vivait, mais si peu.' would that not be well said of the church in these days: 'elle vivait, mais si peu.' i see him always like a rather beautiful dark spire in the night-time when you cannot see how it is attached to the earth. he does not know, he never will know, life." noel looked round at him. "what do you mean by life, monsieur? i'm always reading about life, and people talk of seeing life! what is it--where is it? i never see anything that you could call life." the painter smiled. "to 'see life'!" he said. "ah! that is different. to enjoy yourself! well, it is my experience that when people are 'seeing life' as they call it, they are not enjoying themselves. you know when one is very thirsty one drinks and drinks, but the thirst remains all the same. there are places where one can see life as it is called, but the only persons you will see enjoying themselves at such places are a few humdrums like myself, who go there for a talk over a cup of coffee. perhaps at your age, though, it is different." noel clasped her hands, and her eyes seemed to shine in the gloom. "i want music and dancing and light, and beautiful things and faces; but i never get them." "no, there does not exist in this town, or in any other, a place which will give you that. fox-trots and ragtime and paint and powder and glare and half-drunken young men, and women with red lips you can get them in plenty. but rhythm and beauty and charm never. in brussels when i was younger i saw much 'life' as they call it, but not one lovely thing unspoiled; it was all as ashes in the mouth. ah! you may smile, but i know what i am talking of. happiness never comes when you are looking for it, mademoiselle; beauty is in nature and in real art, never in these false silly make believes. there is a place just here where we belgians go; would you like to see how true my words are? "oh, yes!" "tres-bien! let us go in?" they passed into a revolving doorway with little glass compartments which shot them out into a shining corridor. at the end of this the painter looked at noel and seemed to hesitate, then he turned off from the room they were about to enter into a room on the right. it was large, full of gilt and plush and marble tables, where couples were seated; young men in khaki and older men in plain clothes, together or with young women. at these last noel looked, face after face, while they were passing down a long way to an empty table. she saw that some were pretty, and some only trying to be, that nearly all were powdered and had their eyes darkened and their lips reddened, till she felt her own face to be dreadfully ungarnished: up in a gallery a small band was playing an attractive jingling hollow little tune; and the buzz of talk and laughter was almost deafening. "what will you have, mademoiselle?" said the painter. "it is just nine o'clock; we must order quickly." "may i have one of those green things?" "deux cremes de menthe," said lavendie to the waiter. noel was too absorbed to see the queer, bitter little smile hovering about his face. she was busy looking at the faces of women whose eyes, furtively cold and enquiring, were fixed on her; and at the faces of men with eyes that were furtively warm and wondering. "i wonder if daddy was ever in a place like this?" she said, putting the glass of green stuff to her lips. "is it nice? it smells of peppermint." "a beautiful colour. good luck, mademoiselle!" and he chinked his glass with hers. noel sipped, held it away, and sipped again. "it's nice; but awfully sticky. may i have a cigarette?" "des cigarettes," said lavendie to the waiter, "et deux cafes noirs. now, mademoiselle," he murmured when they were brought, "if we imagine that we have drunk a bottle of wine each, we shall have exhausted all the preliminaries of what is called vice. amusing, isn't it?" he shrugged his shoulders. his face struck noel suddenly as tarnished and almost sullen. "don't be angry, monsieur, it's all new to me, you see." the painter smiled, his bright, skin-deep smile. "pardon! i forget myself. only, it hurts me to see beauty in a place like this. it does not go well with that tune, and these voices, and these faces. enjoy yourself, mademoiselle; drink it all in! see the way these people look at each other; what love shines in their eyes! a pity, too, we cannot hear what they are saying. believe me, their talk is most subtle, tres-spirituel. these young women are 'doing their bit,' as you call it; bringing le plaisir to all these who are serving their country. eat, drink, love, for tomorrow we die. who cares for the world simple or the world beautiful, in days like these? the house of the spirit is empty." he was looking at her sidelong as if he would enter her very soul. noel got up. "i'm ready to go, monsieur." he put her cloak on her shoulders, paid the bill, and they went out, threading again through the little tables, through the buzz of talk and laughter and the fumes of tobacco, while another hollow little tune jingled away behind them. "through there," said the painter, pointing to another door, "they dance. so it goes. london in war-time! well, after all, it is never very different; no great town is. did you enjoy your sight of 'life,' mademoiselle?" "i think one must dance, to be happy. is that where your friends go?" "oh, no! to a room much rougher, and play dominoes, and drink coffee and beer, and talk. they have no money to throw away." "why didn't you show me?" "mademoiselle, in that room you might see someone perhaps whom one day you would meet again; in the place we visited you were safe enough at least i hope so." noel shrugged. "i suppose it doesn't matter now, what i do." and a rush of emotion caught at her throat--a wave from the past--the moonlit night, the dark old abbey, the woods and the river. two tears rolled down her cheeks. "i was thinking of--something," she said in a muffled voice. "it's all right." "chere mademoiselle!" lavendie murmured; and all the way home he was timid and distressed. shaking his hand at the door, she murmured: "i'm sorry i was such a fool; and thank you awfully, monsieur. good night." "good night; and better dreams. there is a good time coming--peace and happiness once more in the world. it will not always be this forcing-house. good night, chere mademoiselle!" noel went up to the nursery, and stole in. a night-light was burning, nurse and baby were fast asleep. she tiptoed through into her own room. once there, she felt suddenly so tired that she could hardly undress; and yet curiously rested, as if with that rush of emotion, cyril and the past had slipped from her for ever. iii noel's first encounter with opinion took place the following day. the baby had just come in from its airing; she had seen it comfortably snoozing, and was on her way downstairs, when a voice from the hall said: "how do you do?" and she saw the khaki-clad figure of adrian lauder, her father's curate! hesitating just a moment, she finished her descent, and put her fingers in his. he was a rather heavy, dough-coloured young man of nearly thirty, unsuited by khaki, with a round white collar buttoned behind; but his aspiring eyes redeemed him, proclaiming the best intentions in the world, and an inclination towards sentiment in the presence of beauty. "i haven't seen you for ages," he said rather fatuously, following her into her father's study. "no," said noel. "how--do you like being at the front?" "ah!" he said, "they're wonderful!" and his eyes shone. "it's so nice to see you again." "is it?" he seemed puzzled by that answer; stammered, and said: "i didn't know your sister had a baby. a jolly baby." "she hasn't." lauder's mouth opened. 'a silly mouth,' she thought. "oh!" he said. "is it a protegee--belgian or something?" "no, it's mine; my own." and, turning round, she slipped the little ring off her finger. when she turned back to him, his face had not recovered from her words. it had a hapless look, as of one to whom such a thing ought not to have happened. "don't look like that," said noel. "didn't you understand? it's mine-mine." she put out her left hand. "look! there's no ring." he stammered: "i say, you oughtn't to--you oughtn't to--!" "what?" "joke about--about such things; ought you?" "one doesn't joke if one's had a baby without being married, you know." lauder went suddenly slack. a shell might have burst a few paces from him. and then, just as one would in such a case, he made an effort, braced himself, and said in a curious voice, both stiff and heavy: "i can't--one doesn't--it's not--" "it is," said noel. "if you don't believe me, ask daddy." he put his hand up to his round collar; and with the wild thought that he was going to tear it off, she cried: "don't!" "you!" he said. "you! but--" noel turned away from him to the window: she stood looking out, but saw nothing whatever. "i don't want it hidden," she said without turning round, "i want every one to know. it's stupid as it is--stupid!" and she stamped her foot. "can't you see how stupid it is--everybody's mouth falling open!" he uttered a little sound which had pain in it, and she felt a real pang of compunction. he had gripped the back of a chair; his face had lost its heaviness. a dull flush coloured his cheeks. noel had a feeling, as if she had been convicted of treachery. it was his silence, the curious look of an impersonal pain beyond power of words; she felt in him something much deeper than mere disapproval--something which echoed within herself. she walked quickly past him and escaped. she ran upstairs and threw herself on her bed. he was nothing: it was not that! it was in herself, the awful feeling, for the first time developed and poignant, that she had betrayed her caste, forfeited the right to be thought a lady, betrayed her secret reserve and refinement, repaid with black ingratitude the love lavished on her up bringing, by behaving like any uncared-for common girl. she had never felt this before--not even when gratian first heard of it, and they had stood one at each end of the hearth, unable to speak. then she still had her passion, and her grief for the dead. that was gone now as if it had never been; and she had no defence, nothing between her and this crushing humiliation and chagrin. she had been mad! she must have been mad! the belgian barra was right: "all a little mad" in this "forcing-house" of a war! she buried her face deep in the pillow, till it almost stopped her power of breathing; her head and cheeks and ears seemed to be on fire. if only he had shown disgust, done something which roused her temper, her sense of justice, her feeling that fate had been too cruel to her; but he had just stood there, bewilderment incarnate, like a creature with some very deep illusion shattered. it was horrible! then, feeling that she could not stay still, must walk, run, get away somehow from this feeling of treachery and betrayal, she sprang up. all was quiet below, and she slipped downstairs and out, speeding along with no knowledge of direction, taking the way she had taken day after day to her hospital. it was the last of april, trees and shrubs were luscious with blossom and leaf; the dogs ran gaily; people had almost happy faces in the sunshine. 'if i could get away from myself, i wouldn't care,' she thought. easy to get away from people, from london, even from england perhaps; but from oneself--impossible! she passed her hospital; and looked at it dully, at the red cross flag against its stucco wall, and a soldier in his blue slops and red tie, coming out. she had spent many miserable hours there, but none quite so miserable as this. she passed the church opposite to the flats where leila lived, and running suddenly into a tall man coming round the corner, saw fort. she bent her head, and tried to hurry past. but his hand was held out, she could not help putting hers into it; and looking up hardily, she said: "you know about me, don't you?" his face, naturally so frank, seemed to clench up, as if he were riding at a fence. 'he'll tell a lie,' she thought bitterly. but he did not. "yes, leila told me." and she thought: 'i suppose he'll try and pretend that i've not been a beast!' "i admire your pluck," he said. "i haven't any." "we never know ourselves, do we? i suppose you wouldn't walk my pace a minute or two, would you? i'm going the same way." "i don't know which way i'm going." "that is my case, too." they walked on in silence. "i wish to god i were back in france," said fort abruptly. "one doesn't feel clean here." noel's heart applauded. ah! to get away--away from oneself! but at the thought of her baby, her heart fell again. "is your leg quite hopeless?" she said. "quite." "that must be horrid." "hundreds of thousands would look on it as splendid luck; and so it is if you count it better to be alive than dead, which i do, in spite of the blues." "how is cousin leila?" "very well. she goes on pegging away at the hospital; she's a brick." but he did not look at her, and again there was silence, till he stopped by lord's cricket-ground. "i mustn't keep you crawling along at this pace." "oh, i don't mind!" "i only wanted to say that if i can be of any service to you at any time in any way whatever, please command me." he gave her hand a squeeze, took his hat off; and noel walked slowly on. the little interview, with its suppressions, and its implications, had but exasperated her restlessness, and yet, in a way, it had soothed the soreness of her heart. captain fort at all events did not despise her; and he was in trouble like herself. she felt that somehow by the look of his face, and the tone of his voice when he spoke of leila. she quickened her pace. george's words came back to her: "if you're not ashamed of yourself, no one will be of you!" how easy to say! the old days, her school, the little half grown-up dances she used to go to, when everything was happy. gone! all gone! but her meetings with opinion were not over for the day, for turning again at last into the home square, tired out by her three hours' ramble, she met an old lady whom she and gratian had known from babyhood--a handsome dame, the widow of an official, who spent her days, which showed no symptom of declining, in admirable works. her daughter, the widow of an officer killed at the marne, was with her, and the two greeted noel with a shower of cordial questions: so she was back from the country, and was she quite well again? and working at her hospital? and how was her dear father? they had thought him looking very thin and worn. but now gratian was at home--how dreadfully the war kept husbands and wives apart! and whose was the dear little baby they had in the house? "mine," said noel, walking straight past them with her head up. in every fibre of her being she could feel the hurt, startled, utterly bewildered looks of those firm friendly persons left there on the pavement behind her; could feel the way they would gather themselves together, and walk on, perhaps without a word, and then round the corner begin: "what has come to noel? what did she mean?" and taking the little gold hoop out of her pocket, she flung it with all her might into the square garden. the action saved her from a breakdown; and she went in calmly. lunch was long over, but her father had not gone out, for he met her in the hall and drew her into the dining-room. "you must eat, my child," he said. and while she was swallowing down what he had caused to be kept back for her, he stood by the hearth in that favourite attitude of his, one foot on the fender, and one hand gripping the mantel-shelf. "you've got your wish, daddy," she said dully: "everybody knows now. i've told mr. lauder, and monsieur, and the dinnafords." she saw his fingers uncrisp, then grip the shelf again. "i'm glad," he said. "aunt thirza gave me a ring to wear, but i've thrown it away." "my dearest child," he began, but could not go on, for the quivering of his lips. "i wanted to say once more, daddy, that i'm fearfully sorry about you. and i am ashamed of myself; i thought i wasn't, but i am--only, i think it was cruel, and i'm not penitent to god; and it's no good trying to make me." pierson turned and looked at her. for a long time after, she could not get that look out of her memory. jimmy fort had turned away from noel feeling particularly wretched. ever since the day when leila had told him of the girl's misfortune he had been aware that his liaison had no decent foundation, save a sort of pity. one day, in a queer access of compunction, he had made leila an offer of marriage. she had refused; and he had respected her the more, realising by the quiver in her voice and the look in her eyes that she refused him, not because she did not love him well enough, but because she was afraid of losing any of his affection. she was a woman of great experience. to-day he had taken advantage of the luncheon interval to bring her some flowers, with a note to say that he could not come that evening. letting himself in with his latchkey, he had carefully put those japanese azaleas in the bowl "famille rose," taking water from her bedroom. then he had sat down on the divan with his head in his hands. though he had rolled so much about the world, he had never had much to do with women. and there was nothing in him of the frenchman, who takes what life puts in his way as so much enjoyment on the credit side, and accepts the ends of such affairs as they naturally and rather rapidly arrive. it had been a pleasure, and was no longer a pleasure; but this apparently did not dissolve it, or absolve him. he felt himself bound by an obscure but deep instinct to go on pretending that he was not tired of her, so long as she was not tired of him. and he sat there trying to remember any sign, however small, of such a consummation, quite without success. on the contrary, he had even the wretched feeling that if only he had loved her, she would have been much more likely to have tired of him by now. for her he was still the unconquered, in spite of his loyal endeavour to seem conquered. he had made a fatal mistake, that evening after the concert at queen's hall, to let himself go, on a mixed tide of desire and pity! his folly came to him with increased poignancy after he had parted from noel. how could he have been such a base fool, as to have committed himself to leila on an evening when he had actually been in the company of that child? was it the vague, unseizable likeness between them which had pushed him over the edge? 'i've been an ass,' he thought; 'a horrible ass.' i would always have given every hour i've ever spent with leila, for one real smile from that girl.' this sudden sight of noel after months during which he had tried loyally to forget her existence, and not succeeded at all, made him realise as he never had yet that he was in love with her; so very much in love with her that the thought of leila was become nauseating. and yet the instincts of a gentleman seemed to forbid him to betray that secret to either of them. it was an accursed coil! he hailed a cab, for he was late; and all the way back to the war office he continued to see the girl's figure and her face with its short hair. and a fearful temptation rose within him. was it not she who was now the real object for chivalry and pity? had he not the right to consecrate himself to championship of one in such a deplorable position? leila had lived her life; but this child's life--pretty well wrecked--was all before her. and then he grinned from sheer disgust. for he knew that this was jesuitry. not chivalry was moving him, but love! love! love of the unattainable! and with a heavy heart, indeed, he entered the great building, where, in a small room, companioned by the telephone, and surrounded by sheets of paper covered with figures, he passed his days. the war made everything seem dreary, hopeless. no wonder he had caught at any distraction which came along--caught at it, till it had caught him! iv to find out the worst is, for human nature, only a question of time. but where the "worst" is attached to a family haloed, as it were, by the authority and reputation of an institution like the church, the process of discovery has to break through many a little hedge. sheer unlikelihood, genuine respect, the defensive instinct in those identified with an institution, who will themselves feel weaker if its strength be diminished, the feeling that the scandal is too good to be true--all these little hedges, and more, had to be broken through. to the dinnafords, the unholy importance of what noel had said to them would have continued to keep them dumb, out of self-protection; but its monstrosity had given them the feeling that there must be some mistake, that the girl had been overtaken by a wild desire to "pull their legs" as dear charlie would say. with the hope of getting this view confirmed, they lay in wait for the old nurse who took the baby out, and obtained the information, shortly imparted: "oh, yes; miss noel's. her 'usband was killed--poor lamb!" and they felt rewarded. they had been sure there was some mistake. the relief of hearing that word "'usband" was intense. one of these hasty war marriages, of which the dear vicar had not approved, and so it had been kept dark. quite intelligible, but so sad! enough misgiving however remained in their minds, to prevent their going to condole with the dear vicar; but not enough to prevent their roundly contradicting the rumours and gossip already coming to their ears. and then one day, when their friend mrs. curtis had said too positively: "well, she doesn't wear a wedding-ring, that i'll swear, because i took very good care to look!" they determined to ask mr. lauder. he would--indeed must--know; and, of course, would not tell a story. when they asked him it was so manifest that he did know, that they almost withdrew the question. the poor young man had gone the colour of a tomato. "i prefer not to answer," he said. the rest of a very short interview was passed in exquisite discomfort. indeed discomfort, exquisite and otherwise, within a few weeks of noel's return, had begun to pervade all the habitual congregation of pierson's church. it was noticed that neither of the two sisters attended service now. certain people who went in the sincere hope of seeing noel, only fell off again when she did not appear. after all, she would not have the face! and gratian was too ashamed, no doubt. it was constantly remarked that the vicar looked very grave and thin, even for him. as the rumours hardened into certainty, the feeling towards him became a curious medley of sympathy and condemnation. there was about the whole business that which english people especially resent. by the very fact of his presence before them every sunday, and his public ministrations, he was exhibiting to them, as it were, the seamed and blushing face of his daughter's private life, besides affording one long and glaring demonstration of the failure of the church to guide its flock: if a man could not keep his own daughter in the straight path--whom could he? resign! the word began to be thought about, but not yet spoken. he had been there so long; he had spent so much money on the church and the parish; his gentle dreamy manner was greatly liked. he was a gentleman; and had helped many people; and, though his love of music and vestments had always caused heart-burnings, yet it had given a certain cachet to the church. the women, at any rate, were always glad to know that the church they went to was capable of drawing their fellow women away from other churches. besides, it was war-time, and moral delinquency which in time of peace would have bulked too large to neglect, was now less insistently dwelt on, by minds preoccupied by food and air-raids. things, of course, could not go on as they were; but as yet they did go on. the talked-about is always the last to hear the talk; and nothing concrete or tangible came pierson's way. he went about his usual routine without seeming change. and yet there was a change, secret and creeping. wounded almost to death himself, he felt as though surrounded by one great wound in others; but it was some weeks before anything occurred to rouse within him the weapon of anger or the protective impulse. and then one day a little swift brutality shook him to the very soul. he was coming home from a long parish round, and had turned into the square, when a low voice behind him said: "wot price the little barstard?" a cold, sick feeling stifled his very breathing; he gasped, and spun round, to see two big loutish boys walking fast away. with swift and stealthy passion he sprang after them, and putting his hands on their two neighbouring shoulders, wrenched them round so that they faced him, with mouths fallen open in alarm. shaking them with all his force, he said: "how dare you--how dare you use that word?" his face and voice must have been rather terrible, for the scare in their faces brought him to sudden consciousness of his own violence, and he dropped his hands. in two seconds they were at the corner. they stopped there for a second; one of them shouted "gran'pa"; then they vanished. he was left with lips and hands quivering, and a feeling that he had not known for years--the weak white empty feeling one has after yielding utterly to sudden murderous rage. he crossed over, and stood leaning against the garden railings, with the thought: 'god forgive me! i could have killed them--i could have killed them!' there had been a devil in him. if he had had something in his hand, he might now have been a murderer: how awful! only one had spoken; but he could have killed them both! and the word was true, and was in all mouths--all low common mouths, day after day, of his own daughter's child! the ghastliness of this thought, brought home so utterly, made him writhe, and grasp the railings as if he would have bent them. from that day on, a creeping sensation of being rejected of men, never left him; the sense of identification with noel and her tiny outcast became ever more poignant, more real; the desire to protect them ever more passionate; and the feeling that round about there were whispering voices, pointing fingers, and a growing malevolence was ever more sickening. he was beginning too to realise the deep and hidden truth: how easily the breath of scandal destroys the influence and sanctity of those endowed therewith by vocation; how invaluable it is to feel untarnished, and how difficult to feel that when others think you tarnished. he tried to be with noel as much as possible; and in the evenings they sometimes went walks together, without ever talking of what was always in their minds. between six and eight the girl was giving sittings to lavendie in the drawing-room, and sometimes pierson would come there and play to them. he was always possessed now by a sense of the danger noel ran from companionship with any man. on three occasions, jimmy fort made his appearance after dinner. he had so little to say that it was difficult to understand why he came; but, sharpened by this new dread for his daughter, pierson noticed his eyes always following her. 'he admires her,' he thought; and often he would try his utmost to grasp the character of this man, who had lived such a roving life. 'is he--can he be the sort of man i would trust nollie to?' he would think. 'oh, that i should have to hope like this that some good man would marry her--my little nollie, a child only the other day!' in these sad, painful, lonely weeks he found a spot of something like refuge in leila's sitting-room, and would go there often for half an hour when she was back from her hospital. that little black-walled room with its japanese prints and its flowers, soothed him. and leila soothed him, innocent as he was of any knowledge of her latest aberration, and perhaps conscious that she herself was not too happy. to watch her arranging flowers, singing her little french songs, or to find her beside him, listening to his confidences, was the only real pleasure he knew in these days. and leila, in turn, would watch him and think: 'poor edward! he has never lived; and never will; now!' but sometimes the thought would shoot through her: 'perhaps he's to be envied. he doesn't feel what i feel, anyway. why did i fall in love again?' they did not speak of noel as a rule, but one evening she expressed her views roundly. "it was a great mistake to make noel come back. edward. it was quixotic. you'll be lucky if real mischief doesn't come of it. she's not a patient character; one day she'll do something rash. and, mind you, she'll be much more likely to break out if she sees the world treating you badly than if it happens to herself. i should send her back to the country, before she makes bad worse." "i can't do that, leila. we must live it down together." "wrong, edward. you should take things as they are." with a heavy sigh pierson answered: "i wish i could see her future. she's so attractive. and her defences are gone. she's lost faith, and belief in all that a good woman should be. the day after she came back she told me she was ashamed of herself. but since--she's not given a sign. she's so proud--my poor little nollie. i see how men admire her, too. our belgian friend is painting her. he's a good man; but he finds her beautiful, and who can wonder. and your friend captain fort. fathers are supposed to be blind, but they see very clear sometimes." leila rose and drew down a blind. "this sun," she said. "does jimmy fort come to you--often?" "oh! no; very seldom. but still--i can see." 'you bat--you blunderer!' thought leila: 'see! you can't even see this beside you!' "i expect he's sorry for her," she said in a queer voice. "why should he be sorry? he doesn't know:" "oh, yes! he knows; i told him." "you told him!" "yes," leila repeated stubbornly; "and he's sorry for her." and even then "this monk" beside her did not see, and went blundering on. "no, no; it's not merely that he's sorry. by the way he looks at her, i know i'm not mistaken. i've wondered--what do you think, leila. he's too old for her; but he seems an honourable, kind man." "oh! a most honourable, kind man." but only by pressing her hand against her lips had she smothered a burst of bitter laughter. he, who saw nothing, could yet notice fort's eyes when he looked at noel, and be positive that he was in love with her! how plainly those eyes must speak! her control gave way. "all this is very interesting," she said, spurning her words like noel, "considering that he's more than my friend, edward." it gave her a sort of pleasure to see him wince. 'these blind bats!' she thought, terribly stung that he should so clearly assume her out of the running. then she was sorry, his face had become so still and wistful. and turning away, she said: "oh! i shan't break my heart; i'm a good loser. and i'm a good fighter, too; perhaps i shan't lose." and snapping off a sprig of geranium, she pressed it to her lips. "forgive me," said pierson slowly; "i didn't know. i'm stupid. i thought your love for your poor soldiers had left no room for other feelings." leila uttered a shrill laugh. "what have they to do with each other? did you never hear of passion, edward? oh! don't look at me like that. do you think a woman can't feel passion at my age? as much as ever, more than ever, because it's all slipping away." she took her hand from her lips, but a geranium petal was left clinging there, like a bloodstain. "what has your life been all these years," she went on vehemently--"suppression of passion, nothing else! you monks twist nature up with holy words, and try to disguise what the eeriest simpleton can see. well, i haven't suppressed passion, edward. that's all." "and are you happier for that?" "i was; and i shall be again." a little smile curled pierson's lips. "shall be?" he said. "i hope so. it's just two ways of looking at things, leila." "oh, edward! don't be so gentle! i suppose you don't think a person like me can ever really love?" he was standing before her with his head down, and a sense that, naive and bat-like as he was, there was something in him she could not reach or understand, made her cry out: "i've not been nice to you. forgive me, edward! i'm so unhappy." "there was a greek who used to say: 'god is the helping of man by man.' it isn't true, but it's beautiful. good-bye, dear leila, and don't be sorrowful" she squeezed his hand, and turned to the window. she stood there watching his black figure cross the road in the sunshine, and pass round the corner by the railings of the church. he walked quickly, very upright; there was something unseeing even about that back view of him; or was it that he saw-another world? she had never lost the mental habits of her orthodox girlhood, and in spite of all impatience, recognised his sanctity. when he had disappeared she went into her bedroom. what he had said, indeed, was no discovery. she had known. oh! she had known. 'why didn't i accept jimmy's offer? why didn't i marry him? is it too late?' she thought. 'could i? would he--even now?' but then she started away from her own thought. marry him! knowing his heart was with this girl? she looked long at her face in the mirror, studying with a fearful interest the little hard lines and markings there beneath their light coating of powder. she examined the cunning touches of colouring matter here and there in her front hair. were they cunning enough? did they deceive? they seemed to her suddenly to stare out. she fingered and smoothed the slight looseness and fulness of the skin below her chin. she stretched herself, and passed her hands down over her whole form, searching as it were for slackness, or thickness. and she had the bitter thought: 'i'm all out. i'm doing all i can.' the lines of a little poem fort had showed her went thrumming through her head: "time, you old gipsy man will you not stay put up your caravan just for a day?" what more could she do? he did not like to see her lips reddened. she had marked his disapprovals, watched him wipe his mouth after a kiss, when he thought she couldn't see him. 'i need'nt!' she thought. 'noel's lips are no redder, really. what has she better than i? youth--dew on the grass!' that didn't last long! but long enough to "do her in" as her soldier-men would say. and, suddenly she revolted against herself, against fort, against this chilled and foggy country; felt a fierce nostalgia for african sun, and the african flowers; the happy-go-lucky, hand-to-mouth existence of those five years before the war began. high constantia at grape harvest! how many years ago--ten years, eleven years! ah! to have before her those ten years, with him! ten years in the sun! he would have loved her then, and gone on loving her! and she would not have tired of him, as she had tired of those others. 'in half an hour,' she thought, 'he'll be here, sit opposite me; i shall see him struggling forcing himself to seem affectionate! it's too humbling! but i don't care; i want him!' she searched her wardrobe, for some garment or touch of colour, novelty of any sort, to help her. but she had tried them all--those little tricks--was bankrupt. and such a discouraged, heavy mood came on her, that she did not even "change," but went back in her nurse's dress and lay down on the divan, pretending to sleep, while the maid set out the supper. she lay there moody and motionless, trying to summon courage, feeling that if she showed herself beaten she was beaten; knowing that she only held him by pity. but when she heard his footstep on the stairs she swiftly passed her hands over her cheeks, as if to press the blood out of them, and lay absolutely still. she hoped that she was white, and indeed she was, with finger-marks under the eyes, for she had suffered greatly this last hour. through her lashes she saw him halt, and look at her in surprise. asleep, or-ill, which? she did not move. she wanted to watch him. he tiptoed across the room and stood looking down at her. there was a furrow between his eyes. 'ah!' she thought, 'it would suit you, if i were dead, my kind friend.' he bent a little towards her; and she wondered suddenly whether she looked graceful lying there, sorry now that she had not changed her dress. she saw him shrug his shoulders ever so faintly with a puzzled little movement. he had not seen that she was shamming. how nice his face was--not mean, secret, callous! she opened her eyes, which against her will had in them the despair she was feeling. he went on his knees, and lifting her hand to his lips, hid them with it. "jimmy," she said gently, "i'm an awful bore to you. poor jimmy! no! don't pretend! i know what i know!" 'oh, god! what am i saying?' she thought. 'it's fatal-fatal. i ought never!' and drawing his head to her, she put it to her heart. then, instinctively aware that this moment had been pressed to its uttermost, she scrambled up, kissed his forehead, stretched herself, and laughed. "i was asleep, dreaming; dreaming you loved me. wasn't it funny? come along. there are oysters, for the last time this season." all that evening, as if both knew they had been looking over a precipice, they seemed to be treading warily, desperately anxious not to rouse emotion in each other, or touch on things which must bring a scene. and leila talked incessantly of africa. "don't you long for the sun, jimmy? couldn't we--couldn't you go? oh! why doesn't this wretched war end? all that we've got here at home every scrap of wealth, and comfort, and age, and art, and music, i'd give it all for the light and the sun out there. wouldn't you?" and fort said he would, knowing well of one thing which he would not give. and she knew that, as well as he. they were both gayer than they had been for a long time; so that when he had gone, she fell back once more on to the divan, and burying her face in a cushion, wept bitterly. v it was not quite disillusionment that pierson felt while he walked away. perhaps he had not really believed in leila's regeneration. it was more an acute discomfort, an increasing loneliness. a soft and restful spot was now denied him; a certain warmth and allurement had gone out of his life. he had not even the feeling that it was his duty to try and save leila by persuading her to marry fort. he had always been too sensitive, too much as it were of a gentleman, for the robuster sorts of evangelism. such delicacy had been a stumbling-block to him all through professional life. in the eight years when his wife was with him, all had been more certain, more direct and simple, with the help of her sympathy, judgment; and companionship. at her death a sort of mist had gathered in his soul. no one had ever spoken plainly to him. to a clergyman, who does? no one had told him in so many words that he should have married again--that to stay unmarried was bad for him, physically and spiritually, fogging and perverting life; not driving him, indeed, as it drove many, to intolerance and cruelty, but to that half-living dreaminess, and the vague unhappy yearnings which so constantly beset him. all these celibate years he had really only been happy in his music, or in far-away country places, taking strong exercise, and losing himself in the beauties of nature; and since the war began he had only once, for those three days at kestrel, been out of london. he walked home, going over in his mind very anxiously all the evidence he had of fort's feeling for noel. how many times had he been to them since she came back? only three times--three evening visits! and he had not been alone with her a single minute! before this calamity befell his daughter, he would never have observed anything in fort's demeanour; but, in his new watchfulness, he had seen the almost reverential way he looked at her, noticed the extra softness of his voice when he spoke to her, and once a look of sudden pain, a sort of dulling of his whole self, when noel had got up and gone out of the room. and the girl herself? twice he had surprised her gazing at fort when he was not looking, with a sort of brooding interest. he remembered how, as a little girl, she would watch a grown-up, and then suddenly one day attach herself to him, and be quite devoted. yes, he must warn her, before she could possibly become entangled. in his fastidious chastity, the opinion he had held of fort was suddenly lowered. he, already a free-thinker, was now revealed as a free-liver. poor little nollie! endangered again already! every man a kind of wolf waiting to pounce on her! he found lavendie and noel in the drawing-room, standing before the portrait which was nearing completion. he looked at it for a long minute, and turned away: "don't you think it's like me, daddy?" "it's like you; but it hurts me. i can't tell why." he saw the smile of a painter whose picture is being criticised come on lavendie's face. "it is perhaps the colouring which does not please you, monsieur?" "no, no; deeper. the expression; what is she waiting for?" the defensive smile died on lavendie's lips. "it is as i see her, monsieur le cure." pierson turned again to the picture, and suddenly covered his eyes. "she looks 'fey,"' he said, and went out of the room. lavendie and noel remained staring at the picture. "fey? what does that mean, mademoiselle?" "possessed, or something." and they continued to stare at the picture, till lavendie said: "i think there is still a little too much light on that ear." the same evening, at bedtime, pierson called noel back. "nollie, i want you to know something. in all but the name, captain fort is a married man." he saw her flush, and felt his own face darkening with colour. she said calmly: "i know; to leila." "do you mean she has told you?" noel shook her head. "then how?" "i guessed. daddy, don't treat me as a child any more. what's the use, now?" he sat down in the chair before the hearth, and covered his face with his hands. by the quivering of those hands, and the movement of his shoulders, she could tell that he was stifling emotion, perhaps even crying; and sinking down on his knees she pressed his hands and face to her, murmuring: "oh, daddy dear! oh, daddy dear!" he put his arms round her, and they sat a long time with their cheeks pressed together, not speaking a word. vi the day after that silent outburst of emotion in the drawing-room was a sunday. and, obeying the longing awakened overnight to be as good as she could to her father; noel said to him: "would you like me to come to church?" "of course, nollie." how could he have answered otherwise? to him church was the home of comfort and absolution, where people must bring their sins and troubles--a haven of sinners, the fount of charity, of forgiveness, and love. not to have believed that, after all these years, would have been to deny all his usefulness in life, and to cast a slur on the house of god. and so noel walked there with him, for gratian had gone down to george, for the week-end. she slipped quietly up the side aisle to their empty pew, under the pulpit. never turning her eyes from the chancel, she remained unconscious of the stir her presence made, during that hour and twenty minutes. behind her, the dumb currents of wonder, disapproval, and resentment ran a stealthy course. on her all eyes were fixed sooner or later, and every mind became the play ground of judgments. from every soul, kneeling, standing, or sitting, while the voice of the service droned, sang, or spoke, a kind of glare radiated on to that one small devoted head, which seemed so ludicrously devout. she disturbed their devotions, this girl who had betrayed her father, her faith, her class. she ought to repent, of course, and church was the right place; yet there was something brazen in her repenting there before their very eyes; she was too palpable a flaw in the crystal of the church's authority, too visible a rent in the raiment of their priest. her figure focused all the uneasy amazement and heart searchings of these last weeks. mothers quivered with the knowledge that their daughters could see her; wives with the idea that their husbands were seeing her. men experienced sensations varying from condemnation to a sort of covetousness. young folk wondered, and felt inclined to giggle. old maids could hardly bear to look. here and there a man or woman who had seen life face to face, was simply sorry! the consciousness of all who knew her personally was at stretch how to behave if they came within reach of her in going out. for, though only half a dozen would actually rub shoulders with her, all knew that they might be, and many felt it their duty to be, of that half-dozen, so as to establish their attitude once for all. it was, in fact, too severe a test for human nature and the feelings which church ought to arouse. the stillness of that young figure, the impossibility of seeing her face and judging of her state of mind thereby; finally, a faint lurking shame that they should be so intrigued and disturbed by something which had to do with sex, in this house of worship--all combined to produce in every mind that herd-feeling of defence, which so soon becomes, offensive. and, half unconscious, half aware of it all, noel stood, and sat, and knelt. once or twice she saw her father's eyes fixed on her; and, still in the glow of last night's pity and remorse, felt a kind of worship for his thin grave face. but for the most part, her own wore the expression lavendie had translated to his canvas--the look of one ever waiting for the extreme moments of life, for those few and fleeting poignancies which existence holds for the human heart. a look neither hungry nor dissatisfied, but dreamy and expectant, which might blaze into warmth and depth at any moment, and then go back to its dream. when the last notes of the organ died away she continued to sit very still, without looking round. there was no second service, and the congregation melted out behind her, and had dispersed into the streets and squares long before she came forth. after hesitating whether or no to go to the vestry door, she turned away and walked home alone. it was this deliberate evasion of all contact which probably clinched the business. the absence of vent, of any escape-pipe for the feelings, is always dangerous. they felt cheated. if noel had come out amongst all those whose devotions her presence had disturbed, if in that exit, some had shown and others had witnessed one knows not what of a manifested ostracism, the outraged sense of social decency might have been appeased and sleeping dogs allowed to lie, for we soon get used to things; and, after all, the war took precedence in every mind even over social decency. but none of this had occurred, and a sense that sunday after sunday the same little outrage would happen to them, moved more than a dozen quite unrelated persons, and caused the posting that evening of as many letters, signed and unsigned, to a certain quarter. london is no place for parish conspiracy, and a situation which in the country would have provoked meetings more or less public, and possibly a resolution, could perhaps only thus be dealt with. besides, in certain folk there is ever a mysterious itch to write an unsigned letter--such missives satisfy some obscure sense of justice, some uncontrollable longing to get even with those who have hurt or disturbed them, without affording the offenders chance for further hurt or disturbance. letters which are posted often reach their destination. on wednesday morning pierson was sitting in his study at the hour devoted to the calls of his parishioners, when the maid announced, "canon rushbourne, sir," and he saw before him an old college friend whom he had met but seldom in recent years. his visitor was a short, grey-haired man of rather portly figure, whose round, rosy, good-humoured face had a look of sober goodness, and whose light-blue eyes shone a little. he grasped pierson's hand, and said in a voice to whose natural heavy resonance professional duty had added a certain unction: "my dear edward, how many years it is since we met! do you remember dear old blakeway? i saw him only yesterday. he's just the same. i'm delighted to see you again," and he laughed a little soft nervous laugh. then for a few moments he talked of the war and old college days, and pierson looked at him and thought: 'what has he come for?' "you've something to say to me, alec," he said, at last. canon rushbourne leaned forward in his chair, and answered with evident effort: "yes; i wanted to have a little talk with you, edward. i hope you won't mind. i do hope you won't." "why should i mind?" canon rushbourne's eyes shone more than ever, there was real friendliness in his face. "i know you've every right to say to me: 'mind your own business.' but i made up my mind to come as a friend, hoping to save you from--er" he stammered, and began again: "i think you ought to know of the feeling in your parish that--er--that--er--your position is very delicate. without breach of confidence i may tell you that letters have been sent to headquarters; you can imagine perhaps what i mean. do believe, my dear friend, that i'm actuated by my old affection for you; nothing else, i do assure you." in the silence, his breathing could be heard, as of a man a little touched with asthma, while he continually smoothed his thick black knees, his whole face radiating an anxious kindliness. the sun shone brightly on those two black figures, so very different, and drew out of their well-worn garments the faint latent green mossiness which. underlies the clothes of clergymen. at last pierson said: "thank you, alec; i understand." the canon uttered a resounding sigh. "you didn't realise how very easily people misinterpret her being here with you; it seems to them a kind--a kind of challenge. they were bound, i think, to feel that; and i'm afraid, in consequence--" he stopped, moved by the fact that pierson had closed his eyes. "i am to choose, you mean, between my daughter and my parish?" the canon seemed, with a stammer of words, to try and blunt the edge of that clear question. "my visit is quite informal, my dear fellow; i can't say at all. but there is evidently much feeling; that is what i wanted you to know. you haven't quite seen, i think, that--" pierson raised his hand. "i can't talk of this." the canon rose. "believe me, edward, i sympathise deeply. i felt i had to warn you." he held out his hand. "good-bye, my dear friend, do forgive me"; and he went out. in the hall an adventure befell him so plump, and awkward, that he could barely recite it to mrs. rushbourne that night. "coming out from my poor friend," he said, "i ran into a baby's perambulator and that young mother, whom i remember as a little thing"--he held his hand at the level of his thigh--"arranging it for going out. it startled me; and i fear i asked quite foolishly: 'is it a boy?' the poor young thing looked up at me. she has very large eyes, quite beautiful, strange eyes. 'have you been speaking to daddy about me?' 'my dear young lady,' i said, 'i'm such an old friend, you see. you must forgive me.' and then she said: 'are they going to ask him to resign?' 'that depends on you,' i said. why do i say these things, charlotte? i ought simply to have held my tongue. poor young thing; so very young! and the little baby!" "she has brought it on herself, alec," mrs, rushbourne replied. vii the moment his visitor had vanished, pierson paced up and down the study, with anger rising in his, heart. his daughter or his parish! the old saw, "an englishman's house is his castle!" was being attacked within him. must he not then harbour his own daughter, and help her by candid atonement to regain her inward strength and peace? was he not thereby acting as a true christian, in by far the hardest course he and she could pursue? to go back on that decision and imperil his daughter's spirit, or else resign his parish--the alternatives were brutal! this was the centre of his world, the only spot where so lonely a man could hope to feel even the semblance of home; a thousand little threads tethered him to his church, his parishioners, and this house--for, to live on here if he gave up his church was out of the question. but his chief feeling was a bewildered anger that for doing what seemed to him his duty, he should be attacked by his parishioners. a passion of desire to know what they really thought and felt--these parishioners of his, whom he had befriended, and for whom he had worked so long--beset him now, and he went out. but the absurdity of his quest struck him before he had gone the length of the square. one could not go to people and say: "stand and deliver me your inmost judgments." and suddenly he was aware of how far away he really was from them. through all his ministrations had he ever come to know their hearts? and now, in this dire necessity for knowledge, there seemed no way of getting it. he went at random into a stationer's shop; the shopman sang bass in his choir. they had met sunday after sunday for the last seven years. but when, with this itch for intimate knowledge on him, he saw the man behind the counter, it was as if he were looking on him for the first time. the russian proverb, "the heart of another is a dark forest," gashed into his mind, while he said: "well, hodson, what news of your son?" "nothing more, mr. pierson, thank you, sir, nothing more at present." and it seemed to pierson, gazing at the man's face clothed in a short, grizzling beard cut rather like his own, that he must be thinking: 'ah! sir, but what news of your daughter?' no one would ever tell him to his face what he was thinking. and buying two pencils, he went out. on the other side of the road was a bird-fancier's shop, kept by a woman whose husband had been taken for the army. she was not friendly towards him, for it was known to her that he had expostulated with her husband for keeping larks, and other wild birds. and quite deliberately he crossed the road, and stood looking in at the window, with the morbid hope that from this unfriendly one he might hear truth. she was in her shop, and came to the door. "have you any news of your husband, mrs. cherry?" "no, mr. pierson, i 'ave not; not this week." "he hasn't gone out yet?" "no, mr. pierson; 'e 'as not." there was no expression on her face, perfectly blank it was--pierson had a mad longing to say 'for god's sake, woman, speak out what's in your mind; tell me what you think of me and my daughter. never mind my cloth!' but he could no more say it than the woman could tell him what was in her mind. and with a "good morning" he passed on. no man or woman would tell him anything, unless, perhaps, they were drunk. he came to a public house, and for a moment even hesitated before it, but the thought of insult aimed at noel stopped him, and he passed that too. and then reality made itself known to him. though he had come out to hear what they were thinking, he did not really want to hear it, could not endure it if he did. he had been too long immune from criticism, too long in the position of one who may tell others what he thinks of them. and standing there in the crowded street, he was attacked by that longing for the country which had always come on him when he was hard pressed. he looked at his memoranda. by stupendous luck it was almost a blank day. an omnibus passed close by which would take him far out. he climbed on to it, and travelled as far as hendon; then getting down, set forth on foot. it was bright and hot, and the may blossom in full foam. he walked fast along the perfectly straight road till he came to the top of elstree hill. there for a few moments he stood gazing at the school chapel, the cricket-field, the wide land beyond. all was very quiet, for it was lunch-time. a horse was tethered there, and a strolling cat, as though struck by the tall black incongruity of his figure, paused in her progress, then, slithering under the wicket gate, arched her back and rubbed herself against his leg, crinkling and waving the tip of her tail. pierson bent down and stroked the creature's head; but uttering a faint miaou, the cat stepped daintily across the road, pierson too stepped on, past the village, and down over the stile, into a field path. at the edge of the young clover, under a bank of hawthorn, he lay down on his back, with his hat beside him and his arms crossed over his chest, like the effigy of some crusader one may see carved on an old tomb. though he lay quiet as that old knight, his eyes were not closed, but fixed on the blue, where a lark was singing. its song refreshed his spirit; its passionate light-heartedness stirred all the love of beauty in him, awoke revolt against a world so murderous and uncharitable. oh! to pass up with that song into a land of bright spirits, where was nothing ugly, hard, merciless, and the gentle face of the saviour radiated everlasting love! the scent of the mayflowers, borne down by the sun shine, drenched his senses; he closed his eyes, and, at once, as if resenting that momentary escape, his mind resumed debate with startling intensity. this matter went to the very well-springs, had a terrible and secret significance. if to act as conscience bade him rendered him unfit to keep his parish, all was built on sand, had no deep reality, was but rooted in convention. charity, and the forgiveness of sins honestly atoned for--what became of them? either he was wrong to have espoused straightforward confession and atonement for her, or they were wrong in chasing him from that espousal. there could be no making those extremes to meet. but if he were wrong, having done the hardest thing already--where could he turn? his church stood bankrupt of ideals. he felt as if pushed over the edge of the world, with feet on space, and head in some blinding cloud. 'i cannot have been wrong,' he thought; 'any other course was so much easier. i sacrificed my pride, and my poor girl's pride; i would have loved to let her run away. if for this we are to be stoned and cast forth, what living force is there in the religion i have loved; what does it all come to? have i served a sham? i cannot and will not believe it. something is wrong with me, something is wrong--but where--what?' he rolled over, lay on his face, and prayed. he prayed for guidance and deliverance from the gusts of anger which kept sweeping over him; even more for relief from the feeling of personal outrage, and the unfairness of this thing. he had striven to be loyal to what he thought the right, had sacrificed all his sensitiveness, all his secret fastidious pride in his child and himself. for that he was to be thrown out! whether through prayer, or in the scent and feel of the clover, he found presently a certain rest. away in the distance he could see the spire of harrow church. the church! no! she was not, could not be, at fault. the fault was in himself. 'i am unpractical,' he thought. 'it is so, i know. agnes used to say so, bob and thirza think so. they all think me unpractical and dreamy. is it a sin--i wonder?' there were lambs in the next field; he watched their gambollings and his heart relaxed; brushing the clover dust off his black clothes, he began to retrace his steps. the boys were playing cricket now, and he stood a few minutes watching them. he had not seen cricket played since the war began; it seemed almost otherworldly, with the click of the bats, and the shrill young 'voices, under the distant drone of that sky-hornet threshing along to hendon. a boy made a good leg hit. "well played!" he called. then, suddenly conscious of his own incongruity and strangeness in that green spot, he turned away on the road back to london. to resign; to await events; to send noel away--of those three courses, the last alone seemed impossible. 'am i really so far from them,' he thought, 'that they can wish me to go, for this? if so, i had better go. it will be just another failure. but i won't believe it yet; i can't believe it.' the heat was sweltering, and he became very tired before at last he reached his omnibus, and could sit with the breeze cooling his hot face. he did not reach home till six, having eaten nothing since breakfast. intending to have a bath and lie down till dinner, he went upstairs. unwonted silence reigned. he tapped on the nursery door. it was deserted; he passed through to noel's room; but that too was empty. the wardrobe stood open as if it had been hastily ransacked, and her dressing-table was bare. in alarm he went to the bell and pulled it sharply. the old-fashioned ring of it jingled out far below. the parlour-maid came up. "where are miss noel and nurse, susan?" "i didn't know you were in, sir. miss noel left me this note to give you. they--i--" pierson stopped her with his hand. "thank you, susan; get me some tea, please." with the note unopened in his hand, he waited till she was gone. his head was going round, and he sat down on the side of noel's bed to read: "darling daddy, "the man who came this morning told me of what is going to happen. i simply won't have it. i'm sending nurse and baby down to kestrel at once, and going to leila's for the night, until i've made up my mind what to do. i knew it was a mistake my coming back. i don't care what happens to me, but i won't have you hurt. i think it's hateful of people to try and injure you for my fault. i've had to borrow money from susan--six pounds. oh! daddy dear, forgive me. "your loving "nollie." he read it with unutterable relief; at all events he knew where she was--poor, wilful, rushing, loving-hearted child; knew where she was, and could get at her. after his bath and some tea, he would go to leila's and bring her back. poor little nollie, thinking that by just leaving his house she could settle this deep matter! he did not hurry, feeling decidedly exhausted, and it was nearly eight before he set out, leaving a message for gratian, who did not as a rule come in from her hospital till past nine. the day was still glowing, and now, in the cool of evening, his refreshed senses soaked up its beauty. 'god has so made this world,' he thought, 'that, no matter what our struggles and sufferings, it's ever a joy to live when the sun shines, or the moon is bright, or the night starry. even we can't spoil it.' in regent's park the lilacs and laburnums were still in bloom though june had come, and he gazed at them in passing, as a lover might at his lady. his conscience pricked him suddenly. mrs. mitchett and the dark-eyed girl she had brought to him on new year's eve, the very night he had learned of his own daughter's tragedy--had he ever thought of them since? how had that poor girl fared? he had been too impatient of her impenetrable mood. what did he know of the hearts of others, when he did not even know his own, could not rule his feelings of anger and revolt, had not guided his own daughter into the waters of safety! and leila! had he not been too censorious in thought? how powerful, how strange was this instinct of sex, which hovered and swooped on lives, seized them, bore them away, then dropped them exhausted and defenceless! some munition-wagons, painted a dull grey, lumbered past, driven by sunburned youths in drab. life-force, death-force--was it all one; the great unknowable momentum from which there was but the one escape, in the arms of their heavenly father? blake's little old stanzas came into his mind: "and we are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love; and these black bodies and this sunburnt face are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. "for when our souls have learned the heat to bear, the cloud will vanish, we shall hear his voice, saying: come out from the grove, my love and care, and round my golden tent like lambs rejoice!" learned the heat to bear! those lambs he had watched in a field that afternoon, their sudden little leaps and rushes, their funny quivering wriggling tails, their tiny nuzzling black snouts--what little miracles of careless joy among the meadow flowers! lambs, and flowers, and sunlight! famine, lust, and the great grey guns! a maze, a wilderness; and but for faith, what issue, what path for man to take which did not keep him wandering hopeless, in its thicket? 'god preserve our faith in love, in charity, and the life to come!' he thought. and a blind man with a dog, to whose neck was tied a little deep dish for pennies, ground a hurdy-gurdy as he passed. pierson put a shilling in the dish. the man stopped playing, his whitish eyes looked up. "thank you kindly, sir; i'll go home now. come on, dick!" he tapped his way round the corner, with his dog straining in front. a blackbird hidden among the blossoms of an acacia, burst into evening song, and another great grey munition-wagon rumbled out through the park gate. the church-clock was striking nine when he reached leila's flat, went up, and knocked. sounds from-a piano ceased; the door was opened by noel. she recoiled when she saw who it was, and said: "why did you come, daddy? it was much better not." "are you alone here?" "yes; leila gave me her key. she has to be at the hospital till ten to-night" "you must come home with me, my dear." noel closed the piano, and sat down on the divan. her face had the same expression as when he had told her that she could not marry cyril morland. "come, nollie," he said; "don't be unreasonable. we must see this through together." "no." "my dear, that's childish. do you think the mere accident of your being or not being at home can affect my decision as to what my duty is?" "yes; it's my being there that matters. those people don't care, so long as it isn't an open scandal" "nollie!" "but it is so, daddy. of course it's so, and you know it. if i'm away they'll just pity you for having a bad daughter. and quite right too. i am a bad daughter." pierson smiled. "just like when you were a tiny." "i wish i were a tiny again, or ten years older. it's this half age--but i'm not coming back with you, daddy; so it's no good." pierson sat down beside her. "i've been thinking this over all day," he said quietly. "perhaps in my pride i made a mistake when i first knew of your trouble. perhaps i ought to have accepted the consequences of my failure, then, and have given up, and taken you away at once. after all, if a man is not fit to have the care of souls, he should have the grace to know it." "but you are fit," cried noel passionately; "daddy, you are fit!" "i'm afraid not. there is something wanting in me, i don't know exactly what; but something very wanting." "there isn't. it's only that you're too good--that's why!" pierson shook his head. "don't, nollie!" "i will," cried noel. "you're too gentle, and you're too good. you're charitable, and you're simple, and you believe in another world; that's what's the matter with you, daddy. do you think they do, those people who want to chase us out? they don't even begin to believe, whatever they say or think. i hate them, and sometimes i hate the church; either it's hard and narrow, or else it's worldly." she stopped at the expression on her father's face, the most strange look of pain, and horror, as if an unspoken treachery of his own had been dragged forth for his inspection. "you're talking wildly," he said, but his lips were trembling. "you mustn't say things like that; they're blasphemous and wicked." noel bit her lips, sitting very stiff and still, against a high blue cushion. then she burst out again: "you've slaved for those people years and years, and you've had no pleasure and you've had no love; and they wouldn't care that if you broke your heart. they don't care for anything, so long as it all seems proper. daddy, if you let them hurt you, i won't forgive you!" "and what if you hurt me now, nollie?" noel pressed his hand against her warm cheek. "oh, no! oh, no! i don't--i won't. not again. i've done that already." "very well, my dear! then come home with me, and we'll see what's best to be done. it can't be settled by running away." noel dropped his hand. "no. twice i've done what you wanted, and it's been a mistake. if i hadn't gone to church on sunday to please you, perhaps it would never have come to this. you don't see things, daddy. i could tell, though i was sitting right in front. i knew what their faces were like, and what they were thinking." "one must do right, nollie, and not mind." "yes; but what is right? it's not right for me to hurt you, and i'm not going to." pierson understood all at once that it was useless to try and move her. "what are you going to do, then?" "i suppose i shall go to kestrel to-morrow. auntie will have me, i know; i shall talk to leila." "whatever you do, promise to let me know." noel nodded. "daddy, you--look awfully, awfully tired. i'm going to give you some medicine." she went to a little three-cornered cupboard, and bent down. medicine! the medicine he wanted was not for the body; knowledge of what his duty was--that alone could heal him! the loud popping of a cork roused him. "what are you doing, nollie?" noel rose with a flushed face, holding in one hand a glass of champagne, in the other a biscuit. "you're to take this; and i'm going to have some myself." "my dear," said pierson bewildered; "it's not yours." "drink it; daddy! don't you know that leila would never forgive me if i let you go home looking like that. besides, she told me i was to eat. drink it. you can send her a nice present. drink it!" and she stamped her foot. pierson took the glass, and sat there nibbling and sipping. it was nice, very! he had not quite realised how much he needed food and drink. noel returned from the cupboard a second time; she too had a glass and a biscuit. "there, you look better already. now you're to go home at once, in a cab if you can get one; and tell gratian to make you feed up, or you won't have a body at all; you can't do your duty if you haven't one, you know." pierson smiled, and finished the champagne. noel took the glass from him. "you're my child to-night, and i'm going to send you to bed. don't worry, daddy; it'll all come right." and, taking his arm, she went downstairs with him, and blew him a kiss from the doorway. he walked away in a sort of dream. daylight was not quite gone, but the moon was up, just past its full, and the search-lights had begun their nightly wanderings. it was a sky of ghosts and shadows, fitting to the thought which came to him. the finger of providence was in all this, perhaps! why should he not go out to france! at last; why not? some better man, who understood men's hearts, who knew the world, would take his place; and he could go where death made all things simple, and he could not fail. he walked faster and faster, full of an intoxicating relief. thirza and gratian would take care of nollie far better than he. yes, surely it was ordained! moonlight had the town now; and all was steel blue, the very air steel-blue; a dream-city of marvellous beauty, through which he passed, exalted. soon he would be where that poor boy, and a million others, had given their lives; with the mud and the shells and the scarred grey ground, and the jagged trees, where christ was daily crucified--there where he had so often longed to be these three years past. it was ordained! and two women whom he met looked at each other when he had gone by, and those words 'the blighted crow' which they had been about to speak, died on their lips. viii noel felt light-hearted too, as if she had won a victory. she found some potted meat, spread it on another biscuit, ate it greedily, and finished the pint bottle of champagne. then she hunted for the cigarettes, and sat down at the piano. she played old tunes--"there is a tavern in the town," "once i loved a maiden fair," "mowing the barley," "clementine," "lowlands," and sang to them such words as she remembered. there was a delicious running in her veins, and once she got up and danced. she was kneeling at the window, looking out, when she heard the door open, and without getting up, cried out: "isn't it a gorgeous night! i've had daddy here. i gave him some of your champagne, and drank the rest--" then was conscious of a figure far too tall for leila, and a man's voice saying: "i'm awfully sorry. it's only i, jimmy fort." noel scrambled up. "leila isn't in; but she will be directly--it's past ten." he was standing stock-still in the middle of the room. "won't you sit down? oh! and won't you have a cigarette?" "thanks." by the flash of his briquette she saw his face clearly; the look on it filled her with a sort of malicious glee. "i'm going now," she said. "would you mind telling leila that i found i couldn't stop?" she made towards the divan to get her hat. when she had put it on, she found him standing just in front of her. "noel-if you don't mind me calling you that?" "not a bit." "don't go; i'm going myself." "oh, no! not for worlds." she tried to slip past, but he took hold of her wrist. "please; just one minute!" noel stayed motionless, looking at him, while his hand still held her wrist. he said quietly: "do you mind telling me why you came here?" "oh, just to see leila." "things have come to a head at home, haven't they?" noel shrugged her shoulders. "you came for refuge, didn't you?" "from whom?" "don't be angry; from the need of hurting your father." she nodded. "i knew it would come to that. what are you going to do?" "enjoy myself." she was saying something fatuous, yet she meant it. "that's absurd. don't be angry! you're quite right. only, you must begin at the right end, mustn't you? sit down!" noel tried to free her wrist. "no; sit down, please." noel sat down; but as he loosed her wrist, she laughed. this was where he sat with leila, where they would sit when she was gone. "it's awfully funny, isn't it?" she said. "funny?" he muttered savagely. "most things are, in this funny world." the sound of a taxi stopping not far off had come to her ears, and she gathered her feet under her, planting them firmly. if she sprang up, could she slip by him before he caught her arm again, and get that taxi? "if i go now," he said, "will you promise me to stop till you've seen leila?" "no." "that's foolish. come, promise!" noel shook her head. she felt a perverse pleasure at his embarrassment. "leila's lucky, isn't she? no children, no husband, no father, no anything. lovely!" she saw his arm go up as if to ward off a blow. "poor leila!" he said. "why are you sorry for her? she has freedom! and she has you!" she knew it would hurt; but she wanted to hurt him. "you needn't envy her for that." he had just spoken, when noel saw a figure over by the door. she jumped up, and said breathlessly: "oh, here you are, leila! father's been here, and we've had some of your champagne!" "capital! you are in the dark!" noel felt the blood rush into her cheeks. the light leaped up, and leila came forward. she looked extremely pale, calm, and self-contained, in her nurse's dress; her full lips were tightly pressed together, but noel could see her breast heaving violently. a turmoil of shame and wounded pride began raging in the girl. why had she not flown long ago? why had she let herself be trapped like this? leila would think she had been making up to him! horrible! disgusting! why didn't he--why didn't some one, speak? then leila said: "i didn't expect you, jimmy; i'm glad you haven't been dull. noel is staying here to-night. give me a cigarette. sit down, both of you. i'm awfully tired!" she sank into a chair, leaning back, with her knees crossed; and at that moment noel admired her. she had said it beautifully; she looked so calm. fort was lighting her cigarette; his hand was shaking, his face all sorry and mortified. "give noel one, too, and draw the curtains, jimmy. quick! not that it makes any difference; it's as light as day. sit down, dear." but noel remained standing. "what have you been talking of? love and chinese lanterns, or only me?" at those words fort, who was drawing the last curtain, turned round; his tall figure was poised awkwardly against the wall, his face, unsuited to diplomacy, had a look as of flesh being beaten. if weals had started up across it, noel would not have been surprised. he said with painful slowness: "i don't exactly know; we had hardly begun, had we?" "the night is young," said leila. "go on while i just take off my things." she rose with the cigarette between her lips, and went into the inner room. in passing, she gave noel a look. what there was in that look, the girl could never make clear even to herself. perhaps a creature shot would gaze like that, with a sort of profound and distant questioning, reproach, and anger, with a sort of pride, and the quiver of death. as the door closed, fort came right across the room. "go to her;" cried noel; "she wants you. can't you see, she wants you?" and before he could move, she was at the door. she flew downstairs, and out into the moonlight. the taxi, a little way off, was just beginning to move away; she ran towards it, calling out: "anywhere! piccadilly!" and jumping in, blotted herself against the cushions in the far corner. she did not come to herself, as it were, for several minutes, and then feeling she 'could no longer bear the cab, stopped it, and got out. where was she? bond street! she began, idly, wandering down its narrow length; the fullest street by day, the emptiest by night. oh! it had been horrible! nothing said by any of them--nothing, and yet everything dragged out--of him, of leila, of herself! she seemed to have no pride or decency left, as if she had been caught stealing. all her happy exhilaration was gone, leaving a miserable recklessness. nothing she did was right, nothing turned out well, so what did it all matter? the moonlight flooding down between the tall houses gave her a peculiar heady feeling. "fey" her father had called her. she laughed. 'but i'm not going home,' she thought. bored with the street's length; she turned off, and was suddenly in hanover square. there was the church, grey-white, where she had been bridesmaid to a second cousin, when she was fifteen. she seemed to see it all again--her frock, the lilies in her hand, the surplices of the choir, the bride's dress, all moonlight-coloured, and unreal. 'i wonder what's become of her!' she thought. 'he's dead, i expect, like cyril!' she saw her father's face as he was marrying them, heard his voice: "for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part." and the moonlight on the church seemed to shift and quiver-some pigeons perhaps had been disturbed up there. then instead of that wedding vision, she saw monsieur barra, sitting on his chair, gazing at the floor, and chica nursing her doll. "all mad, mademoiselle, a little mad. millions of men with white souls, but all a little tiny bit mad, you know." then leila's face came before her, with that look in her eyes. she felt again the hot clasp of fort's fingers on her wrist, and walked on, rubbing it with the other hand. she turned into regent street. the wide curve of the quadrant swept into a sky of unreal blue, and the orange-shaded lamps merely added to the unreality. 'love and chinese lanterns! i should like some coffee,' she thought suddenly. she was quite close to the place where lavendie had taken her. should she go in there? why not? she must go somewhere. she turned into the revolving cage of glass. but no sooner was she imprisoned there than in a flash lavendie's face of disgust; and the red-lipped women, the green stuff that smelled of peppermint came back, filling her with a rush of dismay. she made the full circle in the revolving cage; and came out into the street again with a laugh. a tall young man in khaki stood there: "hallo!" he said. "come in and dance!" she started, recoiled from him and began to walk away as fast as ever she could. she passed a woman whose eyes seemed to scorch her. a woman like a swift vision of ruin with those eyes, and thickly powdered cheeks, and loose red mouth. noel shuddered and fled along, feeling that her only safety lay in speed. but she could not walk about all night. there would be no train for kestrel till the morning--and did she really want to go there, and eat her heart out? suddenly she thought of george. why should she not go down to him? he would know what was best for her to do. at the foot of the steps below the waterloo column she stood still. all was quiet there and empty, the great buildings whitened, the trees blurred and blue; and sweeter air was coming across their flowering tops. the queer "fey" moony sensation was still with her; so that she felt small and light, as if she could have floated through a ring. faint rims of light showed round the windows of the admiralty. the war! however lovely the night, however sweet the lilac smelt-that never stopped! she turned away and passed out under the arch, making for the station. the train of the wounded had just come in, and she stood in the cheering crowd watching the ambulances run out. tears of excited emotion filled her eyes, and trickled down. steady, smooth, grey, one after the other they came gliding, with a little burst of cheers greeting each one. all were gone now, and she could pass in. she went to the buffet and got a large cup of coffee, and a bun. then, having noted the time of her early morning train, she sought the ladies' waiting-room, and sitting down in a corner, took out her purse and counted her money. two pounds fifteen-enough to go to the hotel, if she liked. but, without luggage--it was so conspicuous, and she could sleep in this corner all right, if she wanted. what did girls do who had no money, and no friends to go to? tucked away in the corner of that empty, heavy, varnished room, she seemed to see the cruelty and hardness of life as she had never before seen it, not even when facing her confinement. how lucky she had been, and was! everyone was good to her. she had no real want or dangers, to face. but, for women--yes, and men too--who had no one to fall back on, nothing but their own hands and health and luck, it must be awful. that girl whose eyes had scorched her--perhaps she had no one--nothing. and people who were born ill, and the millions of poor women, like those whom she had gone visiting with gratian sometimes in the poorer streets of her father's parish--for the first time she seemed to really know and feel the sort of lives they led. and then, leila's face came back to her once more--leila whom she had robbed. and the worst of it was, that, alongside her remorseful sympathy, she felt a sort of satisfaction. she could not help his not loving leila, she could not help it if he loved herself! and he did--she knew it! to feel that anyone loved her was so comforting. but it was all awful! and she--the cause of it! and yet--she had never done or said anything to attract him. no! she could not have helped it. she had begun to feel drowsy, and closed her eyes. and gradually there came on her a cosey sensation, as if she were leaning up against someone with her head tucked in against his shoulder, as she had so often leaned as a child against her father, coming back from some long darkening drive in wales or scotland. she seemed even to feel the wet soft westerly air on her face and eyelids, and to sniff the scent of a frieze coat; to hear the jog of hoofs and the rolling of the wheels; to feel the closing in of the darkness. then, so dimly and drowsily, she seemed to know that it was not her father, but someone--someone--then no more, no more at all. ix she was awakened by the scream of an engine, and looked around her amazed. her neck had fallen sideways while she slept, and felt horridly stiff; her head ached, and she was shivering. she saw by the clock that it was past five. 'if only i could get some tea!' she thought. 'anyway i won't stay here any longer!' when she had washed, and rubbed some of the stiffness out of her neck, the tea renewed her sense of adventure wonderfully. her train did not start for an hour; she had time for a walk, to warm herself, and went down to the river. there was an early haze, and all looked a little mysterious; but people were already passing on their way to work. she walked along, looking at the water flowing up under the bright mist to which the gulls gave a sort of hovering life. she went as far as blackfriars bridge, and turning back, sat down on a bench under a plane-tree, just as the sun broke through. a little pasty woman with a pinched yellowish face was already sitting there, so still, and seeming to see so little, that noel wondered of what she could be thinking. while she watched, the woman's face began puckering, and tears rolled slowly, down, trickling from pucker to pucker, till, summoning up her courage, noel sidled nearer, and said: "oh! what's the matter?" the tears seemed to stop from sheer surprise; little grey eyes gazed round, patient little eyes from above an almost bridgeless nose. "i'ad a baby. it's dead.... its father's dead in france.... i was goin' in the water, but i didn't like the look of it, and now i never will." that "now i never will," moved noel terribly. she slid her arm along the back of the bench and clasped the skinniest of shoulders. "don't cry!" "it was my first. i'm thirty-eight. i'll never 'ave another. oh! why didn't i go in the water?" the face puckered again, and the squeezed-out tears ran down. 'of course she must cry,' thought noel; 'cry and cry till it feels better.' and she stroked the shoulder of the little woman, whose emotion was disengaging the scent of old clothes. "the father of my baby was killed in france, too," she said at last. the little sad grey eyes looked curiously round. "was 'e? 'ave you got your baby still?" "yes, oh, yes!" "i'm glad of that. it 'urts so bad, it does. i'd rather lose me 'usband than me baby, any day." the sun was shining now on a cheek of that terribly patient face; its brightness seemed cruel perching there. "can i do anything to help you?" noel murmured. "no, thank you, miss. i'm goin' 'ome now. i don't live far. thank you kindly." and raising her eyes for one more of those half-bewildered looks, she moved away along the embankment wall. when she was out of sight, noel walked back to the station. the train was in, and she took her seat. she had three fellow passengers, all in khaki; very silent and moody, as men are when they have to get up early. one was tall, dark, and perhaps thirty-five; the second small, and about fifty, with cropped, scanty grey hair; the third was of medium height and quite sixty-five, with a long row of little coloured patches on his tunic, and a bald, narrow, well-shaped head, grey hair brushed back at the sides, and the thin, collected features and drooping moustache of the old school. it was at him that noel looked. when he glanced out of the window, or otherwise retired within himself, she liked his face; but when he turned to the ticket-collector or spoke to the others, she did not like it half so much. it was as if the old fellow had two selves, one of which he used when alone, the other in which he dressed every morning to meet the world. they had begun to talk about some tribunal on which they had to sit. noel did not listen, but a word or two carried to her now and then. "how many to-day?" she heard the old fellow ask, and the little cropped man answering: "hundred and fourteen." fresh from the sight of the poor little shabby woman and her grief, she could not help a sort of shrinking from that trim old soldier, with his thin, regular face, who held the fate of a "hundred and fourteen" in his firm, narrow grasp, perhaps every day. would he understand their troubles or wants? of course he wouldn't! then, she saw him looking at her critically with his keen eyes. if he had known her secret, he would be thinking: 'a lady and act like that! oh, no! quite-quite out of the question!' and she felt as if she could, sink under the seat with shame. but no doubt he was only thinking: 'very young to be travelling by herself at this hour of the morning. pretty too!' if he knew the real truth of her--how he would stare! but why should this utter stranger, this old disciplinarian, by a casual glance, by the mere form of his face, make her feel more guilty and ashamed than she had yet felt? that puzzled her. he was, must be, a narrow, conventional old man; but he had this power to make her feel ashamed, because she felt that he had faith in his gods, and was true to them; because she knew he would die sooner than depart from his creed of conduct. she turned to the window, biting her lips-angry and despairing. she would never--never get used to her position; it was no good! and again she had the longing of her dream, to tuck her face away into that coat, smell the scent of the frieze, snuggle in, be protected, and forget. 'if i had been that poor lonely little woman,' she thought, 'and had lost everything, i should have gone into the water. i should have rushed and jumped. it's only luck that i'm alive. i won't look at that old man again: then i shan't feel so bad.' she had bought some chocolate at the station, and nibbled it, gazing steadily at the fields covered with daisies and the first of the buttercups and cowslips. the three soldiers were talking now in carefully lowered voices. the words: "women," "under control," "perfect plague," came to her, making her ears burn. in the hypersensitive mood caused by the strain of yesterday, her broken night, and the emotional meeting with the little woman, she felt as if they were including her among those "women." 'if we stop, i'll get out,' she thought. but when the train did stop it was they who got out. she felt the old general's keen veiled glance sum her up for the last time, and looked full at him just for a moment. he touched his cap, and said: "will you have the window up or down?" and lingered to draw it half-way up.' his punctiliousness made her feel worse than ever. when the train had started again she roamed up and down her empty carriage; there was no more a way out of her position than out of this rolling cushioned carriage! and then she seemed to hear fort's voice saying: 'sit down, please!' and to feel his fingers clasp her wrist, oh! he was nice and comforting; he would never reproach or remind her! and now, probably, she would never see him again. the train drew up at last. she did not know where george lodged, and would have to go to his hospital. she planned to get there at half past nine, and having eaten a sort of breakfast at the station, went forth into the town. the seaside was still wrapped in the early glamour which haunts chalk of a bright morning. but the streets were very much alive. here was real business of the war. she passed houses which had been wrecked. trucks clanged and shunted, great lorries rumbled smoothly by. sea--and air-planes were moving like great birds far up in the bright haze, and khaki was everywhere. but it was the sea noel wanted. she made her way westward to a little beach; and, sitting down on a stone, opened her arms to catch the sun on her face and chest. the tide was nearly up, with the wavelets of a blue bright sea. the great fact, the greatest fact in the world, except the sun; vast and free, making everything human seem small and transitory! it did her good, like a tranquillising friend. the sea might be cruel and terrible, awful things it could do, and awful things were being done on it; but its wide level line, its never-ending song, its sane savour, were the best medicine she could possibly have taken. she rubbed the shelly sand between her fingers in absurd ecstasy; took off her shoes and stockings, paddled, and sat drying her legs in the sun. when she left the little beach, she felt as if someone had said to her: 'your troubles are very little. there's the sun, the sea, the air; enjoy them. they can't take those from you.' at the hospital she had to wait half an hour in a little bare room before george came. "nollie! splendid. i've got an hour. let's get out of this cemetery. we'll have time for a good stretch on the tops. jolly of you to have come to me. tell us all about it." when she had finished, he squeezed her arm. "i knew it wouldn't do. your dad forgot that he's a public figure, and must expect to be damned accordingly. but though you've cut and run, he'll resign all the same, nollie." "oh, no!" cried noel. george shook his head. "yes, he'll resign, you'll see, he's got no worldly sense; not a grain." "then i shall have spoiled his life, just as if--oh, no!" "let's sit down here. i must be back at eleven." they sat down on a bench, where the green cliff stretched out before them, over a sea quite clear of haze, far down and very blue. "why should he resign," cried noel again, "now that i've gone? he'll be lost without it all." george smiled. "found, my dear. he'll be where he ought to be, nollie, where the church is, and the churchmen are not--in the air!" "don't!" cried noel passionately. "no, no, i'm not chaffing. there's no room on earth for saints in authority. there's use for a saintly symbol, even if one doesn't hold with it, but there's no mortal use for those who try to have things both ways--to be saints and seers of visions, and yet to come the practical and worldly and rule ordinary men's lives. saintly example yes; but not saintly governance. you've been his deliverance, nollie." "but daddy loves his church." george frowned. "of course, it'll be a wrench. a man's bound to have a cosey feeling about a place where he's been boss so long; and there is something about a church--the drone, the scent, the half darkness; there's beauty in it, it's a pleasant drug. but he's not being asked to give up the drug habit; only to stop administering drugs to others. don't worry, nollie; i don't believe that's ever suited him, it wants a thicker skin than he's got." "but all the people he helps?" "no reason he shouldn't go on helping people, is there?" "but to go on living there, without--mother died there, you know!" george grunted. "dreams, nollie, all round him; of the past and the future, of what people are and what he can do with them. i never see him without a skirmish, as you know, and yet i'm fond of him. but i should be twice as fond, and half as likely to skirmish, if he'd drop the habits of authority. then i believe he'd have some real influence over me; there's something beautiful about him, i know that quite well." "yes," murmured noel fervently. "he's such a queer mixture," mused george. "clean out of his age; chalks above most of the parsons in a spiritual sense and chalks below most of them in the worldly. and yet i believe he's in the right of it. the church ought to be a forlorn hope, nollie; then we should believe in it. instead of that, it's a sort of business that no one can take too seriously. you see, the church spiritual can't make good in this age--has no chance of making good, and so in the main it's given it up for vested interests and social influence. your father is a symbol of what the church is not. but what about you, my dear? there's a room at my boarding-house, and only one old lady besides myself, who knits all the time. if grace can get shifted we'll find a house, and you can have the baby. they'll send your luggage on from paddington if you write; and in the meantime gracie's got some things here that you can have." "i'll have to send a wire to daddy." "i'll do that. you come to my diggings at half past one, and i'll settle you in. until then, you'd better stay up here." when he had gone she roamed a little farther, and lay down on the short grass, where the chalk broke through in patches. she could hear a distant rumbling, very low, travelling in that grass, the long mutter of the flanders guns. 'i wonder if it's as beautiful a day there,' she thought. 'how dreadful to see no green, no butterflies, no flowers-not even sky-for the dust of the shells. oh! won't it ever, ever end?' and a sort of passion for the earth welled up in her, the warm grassy earth along which she lay, pressed so close that she could feel it with every inch of her body, and the soft spikes of the grass against her nose and lips. an aching sweetness tortured her, she wanted the earth to close its arms about her, she wanted the answer to her embrace of it. she was alive, and wanted love. not death--not loneliness--not death! and out there, where the guns muttered, millions of men would be thinking that same thought! x pierson had passed nearly the whole night with the relics of his past, the records of his stewardship, the tokens of his short married life. the idea which had possessed him walking home in the moonlight sustained him in that melancholy task of docketing and destruction. there was not nearly so much to do as one would have supposed, for, with all his dreaminess, he had been oddly neat and businesslike in all parish matters. but a hundred times that night he stopped, overcome by memories. every corner, drawer, photograph, paper was a thread in the long-spun web of his life in this house. some phase of his work, some vision of his wife or daughters started forth from each bit of furniture, picture, doorway. noiseless, in his slippers, he stole up and down between the study, diningroom, drawing-room, and anyone seeing him at his work in the dim light which visited the staircase from above the front door and the upper-passage window, would have thought: 'a ghost, a ghost gone into mourning for the condition of the world.' he had to make this reckoning to-night, while the exaltation of his new idea was on him; had to rummage out the very depths of old association, so that once for all he might know whether he had strength to close the door on the past. five o'clock struck before he had finished, and, almost dropping from fatigue, sat down at his little piano in bright daylight. the last memory to beset him was the first of all; his honeymoon, before they came back to live in this house, already chosen, furnished, and waiting for them. they had spent it in germany--the first days in baden-baden, and each morning had been awakened by a chorale played down in the gardens of the kurhaus, a gentle, beautiful tune, to remind them that they were in heaven. and softly, so softly that the tunes seemed to be but dreams he began playing those old chorales, one after another, so that the stilly sounds floated out, through the opened window, puzzling the early birds and cats and those few humans who were abroad as yet..... he received the telegram from noel in the afternoon of the same day, just as he was about to set out for leila's to get news of her; and close on the top of it came lavendie. he found the painter standing disconsolate in front of his picture. "mademoiselle has deserted me?" "i'm afraid we shall all desert you soon, monsieur." "you are going?" "yes, i am leaving here. i hope to go to france." "and mademoiselle?" "she is at the sea with my son-in-law." the painter ran his hands through his hair, but stopped them half-way, as if aware that he was being guilty of ill-breeding. "mon dieu!" he said: "is this not a calamity for you, monsieur le cure?" but his sense of the calamity was so patently limited to his unfinished picture that pierson could not help a smile. "ah, monsieur!" said the painter, on whom nothing was lost. "comme je suis egoiste! i show my feelings; it is deplorable. my disappointment must seem a bagatelle to you, who will be so distressed at leaving your old home. this must be a time of great trouble. believe me; i understand. but to sympathise with a grief which is not shown would be an impertinence, would it not? you english gentlefolk do not let us share your griefs; you keep them to yourselves." pierson stared. "true," he said. "quite true!" "i am no judge of christianity, monsieur, but for us artists the doors of the human heart stand open, our own and others. i suppose we have no pride--c'est tres-indelicat. tell me, monsieur, you would not think it worthy of you to speak to me of your troubles, would you, as i have spoken of mine?" pierson bowed his head, abashed. "you preach of universal charity and love," went on lavendie; "but how can there be that when you teach also secretly the keeping of your troubles to yourselves? man responds to example, not to teaching; you set the example of the stranger, not the brother. you expect from others what you do not give. frankly, monsieur, do you not feel that with every revelation of your soul and feelings, virtue goes out of you? and i will tell you why, if you will not think it an offence. in opening your hearts you feel that you lose authority. you are officers, and must never forget that. is it not so?" pierson grew red. "i hope there is another feeling too. i think we feel that to speak of our sufferings or, deeper feelings is to obtrude oneself, to make a fuss, to be self-concerned, when we might be concerned with others." "monsieur, au fond we are all concerned with self. to seem selfless is but your particular way of cultivating the perfection of self. you admit that not to obtrude self is the way to perfect yourself. eh bien! what is that but a deeper concern with self? to be free of this, there is no way but to forget all about oneself in what one is doing, as i forget everything when i am painting. but," he added, with a sudden smile, "you would not wish to forget the perfecting of self--it would not be right in your profession. so i must take away this picture, must i not? it is one of my best works: i regret much not to have finished it." "some day, perhaps--" "some day! the picture will stand still, but mademoiselle will not. she will rush at something, and behold! this face will be gone. no; i prefer to keep it as it is. it has truth now." and lifting down the canvas, he stood it against the wall and folded up the easel. "bon soir, monsieur, you have been very good to me." he wrung pierson's hand; and his face for a moment seemed all eyes and spirit. "adieu!" "good-bye," pierson murmured. "god bless you!" "i don't know if i have great confidence in him," replied lavendie, "but i shall ever remember that so good a man as you has wished it. to mademoiselle my distinguished salutations, if you please. if you will permit me, i will come back for my other things to-morrow." and carrying easel and canvas, he departed. pierson stayed in the old drawing-room, waiting for gratian to come in, and thinking over the painter's words. had his education and position really made it impossible for him to be brotherly? was this the secret of the impotence which he sometimes felt; the reason why charity and love were not more alive in the hearts of his congregation? 'god knows i've no consciousness of having felt myself superior,' he thought; 'and yet i would be truly ashamed to tell people of my troubles and of my struggles. can it be that christ, if he were on earth, would count us pharisees, believing ourselves not as other men? but surely it is not as christians but rather as gentlemen that we keep ourselves to ourselves. officers, he called us. i fear--i fear it is true.' ah, well! there would not be many more days now. he would learn out there how to open the hearts of others, and his own. suffering and death levelled all barriers, made all men brothers. he was still sitting there when gratian came in; and taking her hand, he said: "noel has gone down to george, and i want you to get transferred and go to them, gracie. i'm giving up the parish and asking for a chaplaincy." "giving up? after all this time? is it because of nollie?" "no, i think not; i think the time has come. i feel my work here is barren." "oh, no! and even if it is, it's only because--" pierson smiled. "because of what, gracie?" "dad, it's what i've felt in myself. we want to think and decide things for ourselves, we want to own our consciences, we can't take things at second-hand any longer." pierson's face darkened. "ah!" he said, "to have lost faith is a grievous thing." "we're gaining charity," cried gratian. "the two things are not opposed, my dear." "not in theory; but in practice i think they often are. oh, dad! you look so tired. have you really made up your mind? won't you feel lost?" "for a little. i shall find myself, out there." but the look on his face was too much for gratian's composure, and she turned away. pierson went down to his study to write his letter of resignation. sitting before that blank sheet of paper, he realised to the full how strongly he had resented the public condemnation passed on his own flesh and blood, how much his action was the expression of a purely mundane championship of his daughter; of a mundane mortification. 'pride,' he thought. 'ought i to stay and conquer it?' twice he set his pen down, twice took it up again. he could not conquer it. to stay where he was not wanted, on a sort of sufferance--never! and while he sat before that empty sheet of paper he tried to do the hardest thing a man can do--to see himself as others see him; and met with such success as one might expect--harking at once to the verdicts, not of others at all, but of his own conscience; and coming soon to that perpetual gnawing sense which had possessed him ever since the war began, that it was his duty to be dead. this feeling that to be alive was unworthy of him when so many of his flock had made the last sacrifice, was reinforced by his domestic tragedy and the bitter disillusionment it had brought. a sense of having lost caste weighed on him, while he sat there with his past receding from him, dusty and unreal. he had the queerest feeling of his old life falling from him, dropping round his feet like the outworn scales of a serpent, rung after rung of tasks and duties performed day after day, year after year. had they ever been quite real? well, he had shed them now, and was to move out into life illumined by the great reality-death! and taking up his pen, he wrote his resignation. xi the last sunday, sunny and bright! though he did not ask her to go, gratian went to every service that day. and the sight of her, after this long interval, in their old pew, where once he had been wont to see his wife's face, and draw refreshment therefrom, affected pierson more than anything else. he had told no one of his coming departure, shrinking from the falsity and suppression which must underlie every allusion and expression of regret. in the last minute of his last sermon he would tell them! he went through the day in a sort of dream. truly proud and sensitive, under this social blight, he shrank from all alike, made no attempt to single out supporters or adherents from those who had fallen away. he knew there would be some, perhaps many, seriously grieved that he was going; but to try and realise who they were, to weigh them in the scales against the rest and so forth, was quite against his nature. it was all or nothing. but when for the last time of all those hundreds, he mounted the steps of his dark pulpit, he showed no trace of finality, did not perhaps even feel it yet. for so beautiful a summer evening the congregation was large. in spite of all reticence, rumour was busy and curiosity still rife. the writers of the letters, anonymous and otherwise, had spent a week, not indeed in proclaiming what they had done, but in justifying to themselves the secret fact that they had done it. and this was best achieved by speaking to their neighbours of the serious and awkward situation of the poor vicar. the result was visible in a better attendance than had been seen since summer-time began. pierson had never been a great preacher, his voice lacked resonance and pliancy, his thought breadth and buoyancy, and he was not free from, the sing-song which mars the utterance of many who have to speak professionally. but he always made an impression of goodness and sincerity. on this last sunday evening he preached again the first sermon he had ever preached from that pulpit, fresh from the honeymoon with his young wife. "solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." it lacked now the happy fervour of that most happy of all his days, yet gained poignancy, coming from so worn a face and voice. gratian, who knew that he was going to end with his farewell, was in a choke of emotion long before he came to it. she sat winking away her tears, and not till he paused, for so long that she thought his strength had failed, did she look up. he was leaning a little forward, seeming to see nothing; but his hands, grasping the pulpit's edge, were quivering. there was deep silence in the church, for the look of his face and figure was strange, even to gratian. when his lips parted again to speak, a mist covered her eyes, and she lost sight of him. "friends, i am leaving you; these are the last words i shall ever speak in this place. i go to other work. you have been very good to me. god has been very good to me. i pray with my whole heart that he may bless you all. amen! amen!" the mist cleared into tears, and she could see him again gazing down at her. was it at her? he was surely seeing something--some vision sweeter than reality, something he loved more dearly. she fell on her knees, and buried her face in her hand. all through the hymn she knelt, and through his clear slow benediction: "the peace of god, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of god, and of his son jesus christ our lord; and the blessing of god almighty, the father, the son, and the holy ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always." and still she knelt on; till she was alone in the church. then she rose and stole home. he did not come in; she did not expect him. 'it's over,' she kept thinking; 'all over. my beloved daddy! now he has no home; nollie and i have pulled him down. and yet i couldn't help it, and perhaps she couldn't. poor nollie!...' pierson had stayed in the vestry, talking with his choir and wardens; there was no hitch, for his resignation had been accepted, and he had arranged with a friend to carry on till the new vicar was appointed. when they were gone he went back into the empty church, and mounted to the organ-loft. a little window up there was open, and he stood leaning against the stone, looking out, resting his whole being. only now that it was over did he know what stress he had been through. sparrows were chirping, but sound of traffic had almost ceased, in that quiet sunday hour of the evening meal. finished! incredible that he would never come up here again, never see those roof-lines, that corner of square garden, and hear this familiar chirping of the sparrows. he sat down at the organ and began to play. the last time the sound would roll out and echo 'round the emptied house of god. for a long time he played, while the building darkened slowly down there below him. of all that he would leave, he would miss this most--the right to come and play here in the darkening church, to release emotional sound in this dim empty space growing ever more beautiful. from chord to chord he let himself go deeper and deeper into the surge and swell of those sound waves, losing all sense of actuality, till the music and the whole dark building were fused in one rapturous solemnity. away down there the darkness crept over the church, till the pews, the altar-all was invisible, save the columns; and the walls. he began playing his favourite slow movement from beethoven's seventh symphony--kept to the end, for the visions it ever brought him. and a cat, which had been stalking the sparrows, crept in through the little window, and crouched, startled, staring at him with her green eyes. he closed the organ, went quickly down, and locked up his church for the last time. it was warmer outside than in, and lighter, for daylight was not quite gone. he moved away a few yards, and stood looking up. walls, buttresses, and spire were clothed in milky shadowy grey. the top of the spire seemed to touch a star. 'goodbye, my church!' he thought. 'good-bye, good-bye!' he felt his face quiver; clenched his teeth, and turned away. xii when noel fled, fort had started forward to stop her; then, realising that with his lameness he could never catch her, he went back and entered leila's bedroom. she had taken off her dress, and was standing in front of her glass, with the cigarette still in her mouth; and the only movement was the curling of its blue smoke. he could see her face reflected, pale, with a little spot of red in each cheek, and burning red ears. she had not seemed to hear him coming in, but he saw her eyes change when they caught his reflection in the mirror. from lost and blank, they became alive and smouldering. "noel's gone!" he said. she answered, as if to his reflection in the glass "and you haven't gone too? ah, no! of course--your leg! she fled, i suppose? it was rather a jar, my coming in, i'm afraid." "no; it was my coming in that was the jar." leila turned round. "jimmy! i wonder you could discuss me. the rest--" she shrugged her shoulders--"but that!" "i was not discussing you. i merely said you were not to be envied for having me. are you?" the moment he had spoken, he was sorry. the anger in her eyes changed instantly, first to searching, then to misery. she cried out: "i was to be envied. oh! jimmy; i was!" and flung herself face down on the bed. through fort's mind went the thought: 'atrocious!' how could he soothe--make her feel that he loved her, when he didn't--that he wanted her, when he wanted noel. he went up to the bedside and touched her timidly: "leila, what is it? you're overtired. what's the matter? i couldn't help the child's being here. why do you let it upset you? she's gone. it's all right. things are just as they were." "yes!" came the strangled echo; "just!" he knelt down and stroked her arm. it shivered under the touch, seemed to stop shivering and wait for the next touch, as if hoping it might be warmer; shivered again. "look at me!" he said. "what is it you want? i'm ready to do anything." she turned and drew herself up on the bed, screwing herself back against the pillow as if for support, with her knees drawn under her. he was astonished at the strength of her face and figure, thus entrenched. "my dear jimmy!" she said, "i want you to do nothing but get me another cigarette. at my age one expects no more than one gets!" she held out her thumb and finger: "do you mind?" fort turned away to get the cigarette. with what bitter restraint and curious little smile she had said that! but no sooner was he out of the room and hunting blindly for the cigarettes, than his mind was filled with an aching concern for noel, fleeing like that, reckless and hurt, with nowhere to go. he found the polished birch-wood box which held the cigarettes, and made a desperate effort to dismiss the image of the girl before he again reached leila. she was still sitting there, with her arms crossed, in the stillness of one whose every nerve and fibre was stretched taut. "have one yourself," she said. "the pipe of peace." fort lit the cigarettes, and sat down on the edge of the bed; and his mind at once went back to noel. "yes," she said suddenly; "i wonder where she's gone. can you see her? she might do something reckless a second time. poor jimmy! it would be a pity. and so that monk's been here, and drunk champagne. good idea! get me some, jimmy!" again fort went, and with him the image of the girl. when he came back the second time; she had put on that dark silk garment in which she had appeared suddenly radiant the fatal night after the queen's hall concert. she took the wineglass, and passed him, going into the sitting-room. "come and sit down," she said. "is your leg hurting you?" "not more than usual," and he sat down beside her. "won't you have some? 'in vino veritas;' my friend." he shook his head, and said humbly: "i admire you, leila." "that's lucky. i don't know anyone else who, would." and she drank her champagne at a draught. "don't you wish," she said suddenly, "that i had been one of those wonderful new women, all brain and good works. how i should have talked the universe up and down, and the war, and causes, drinking tea, and never boring you to try and love me. what a pity!" but to fort there had come noel's words: "it's awfully funny, isn't it?" "leila," he said suddenly, "something's got to be done. so long as you don't wish me to, i'll promise never to see that child again." "my dear boy, she's not a child. she's ripe for love; and--i'm too ripe for love. that's what's the matter, and i've got to lump it." she wrenched her hand out of his and, dropping the empty glass, covered her face. the awful sensation which visits the true englishman when a scene stares him in the face spun in fort's brain. should he seize her hands, drag them down, and kiss her? should he get up and leave her alone? speak, or keep silent; try to console; try to pretend? and he did absolutely nothing. so far as a man can understand that moment in a woman's life when she accepts the defeat of youth and beauty, he understood perhaps; but it was only a glimmering. he understood much better how she was recognising once for all that she loved where she was not loved. 'and i can't help that,' he thought dumbly; 'simply can't help that!' nothing he could say or do would alter it. no words can convince a woman when kisses have lost reality. then, to his infinite relief, she took her hands from her face, and said: "this is very dull. i think you'd better go, jimmy." he made an effort to speak, but was too afraid of falsity in his voice. "very nearly a scene!" said leila. "my god! "how men hate them! so do i. i've had too many in my time; nothing comes of them but a headache next morning. i've spared you that, jimmy. give me a kiss for it." he bent down and put his lips to hers. with all his heart he tried to answer the passion in her kiss. she pushed him away suddenly, and said faintly: "thank you; you did try!" fort dashed his hand across his eyes. the sight of her face just then moved him horribly. what a brute he felt! he took her limp hand, put it to his lips, and murmured: "i shall come in to-morrow. we'll go to the theatre, shall we? good night, leila!" but, in opening the door, he caught sight of her face, staring at him, evidently waiting for him to turn; the eyes had a frightened look. they went suddenly soft, so soft as to give his heart a squeeze. she lifted her hand, blew him a kiss, and he saw her smiling. without knowing what his own lips answered, he went out. he could not make up his mind to go away, but, crossing to the railings, stood leaning against them, looking up at her windows. she had been very good to him. he felt like a man who has won at cards, and sneaked away without giving the loser his revenge. if only she hadn't loved him; and it had been a soulless companionship, a quite sordid business. anything rather than this! english to the backbone, he could not divest himself of a sense of guilt. to see no way of making up to her, of straightening it out, made him feel intensely mean. 'shall i go up again?' he thought. the window-curtain moved. then the shreds of light up there vanished. 'she's gone to bed,' he thought. 'i should only upset her worse. where is noel, now, i wonder? i shall never see her again, i suppose. altogether a bad business. my god, yes! a bad-bad business!' and, painfully, for his leg was hurting him, he walked away. leila was only too well aware of a truth that feelings are no less real, poignant, and important to those outside morality's ring fence than to those within. her feelings were, indeed, probably even more real and poignant, just as a wild fruit's flavour is sharper than that of the tame product. opinion--she knew--would say, that having wilfully chosen a position outside morality she had not half the case for brokenheartedness she would have had if fort had been her husband: opinion--she knew--would say she had no claim on him, and the sooner an illegal tie was broken, the better! but she felt fully as wretched as if she had been married. she had not wanted to be outside morality; never in her life wanted to be that. she was like those who by confession shed their sins and start again with a clear conscience. she never meant to sin, only to love, and when she was in love, nothing else mattered for the moment. but, though a gambler, she had always so far paid up. only, this time the stakes were the heaviest a woman can put down. it was her last throw; and she knew it. so long as a woman believed in her attraction, there was hope, even when the curtain fell on a love-affair! but for leila the lamp of belief had suddenly gone out, and when this next curtain dropped she felt that she must sit in the dark until old age made her indifferent. and between forty-four and real old age a gulf is fixed. this was the first time a man had tired of her. why! he had been tired before he began, or so she felt. in one swift moment as of a drowning person, she saw again all the passages of their companionship, knew with certainty that it had never been a genuine flame. shame ran, consuming, in her veins. she buried her face in the cushions. this girl had possessed his real heart all the time. with a laugh she thought: 'i put my money on the wrong horse; i ought to have backed edward. i could have turned that poor monk's head. if only i had never seen jimmy again; if i had torn his letter up, i could have made poor edward love me!' ifs! what folly! things happened as they must! and, starting up, she began to roam the little room. without jimmy she would be wretched, with him she would be wretched too! 'i can't bear to see his face,' she thought; 'and i can't live here without him! it's really funny!' the thought of her hospital filled her with loathing. to go there day after day with this despair eating at her heart--she simply could not. she went over her resources. she had more money than she thought; jimmy had given her a christmas present of five hundred pounds. she had wanted to tear up the cheque, or force him to take it back; but the realities of the previous five years had prevailed with her, and she had banked it. she was glad now. she had not to consider money. her mind sought to escape in the past. she thought of her first husband, ronny fane; of their mosquito-curtained rooms in that ghastly madras heat. poor ronny! what a pale, cynical young ghost started up under that name. she thought of lynch, his horsey, matter-of-fact solidity. she had loved them both--for a time. she thought of the veldt, of constantia, and the loom of table mountain under the stars; and the first sight of jimmy, his straight look, the curve of his crisp head, the kind, fighting-schoolboy frankness of his face. even now, after all those months of their companionship, that long-ago evening at grape harvest, when she sang to him under the scented creepers, was the memory of him most charged with real feeling. that one evening at any rate he had longed for her, eleven: years ago, when she was in her prime. she could have held her own then; noel would have come in vain. to think that this girl had still fifteen years before she would be even in her prime. fifteen years of witchery; and then another ten before she was on the shelf. why! if noel married jimmy, he would be an old man doting on her still, by the time she had reached this fatal age of forty-four: she felt as if she must scream, and; stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth, turned out the light. darkness cooled her, a little. she pulled aside the curtains, and let in the moon light. jimmy and that girl were out in it some where, seeking each other, if not in body, then in thought. and soon, somehow, somewhere, they would come together--come together because fate meant them to! fate which had given her young cousin a likeness to herself; placed her, too, in just such a hopeless position as appealed to jimmy, and gave him a chance against younger men. she saw it with bitter surety. good gamblers cut their losses! yes, and proud women did not keep unwilling lovers! if she had even an outside chance, she would trail her pride, drag it through the mud, through thorns! but she had not. and she clenched her fist, and struck out at the night, as though at the face of that fate which one could never reach--impalpable, remorseless, surrounding fate with its faint mocking smile, devoid of all human warmth. nothing could set back the clock, and give her what this girl had. time had "done her in," as it "did in" every woman, one by one. and she saw herself going down the years, powdering a little more, painting a little more, touching up her hair, till it was all artifice, holding on by every little device--and all, to what end? to see his face get colder and colder, hear his voice more and more constrained to gentleness; and know that underneath, aversion was growing with the thought 'you are keeping me from life, and love!' till one evening, in sheer nerve-break, she would say or do some fearful thing, and he would come no more. 'no, jimmy!' she thought; 'find her, and stay with her. you're not worth all that!' and puffing to the curtains, as though with that gesture she could shut out her creeping fate, she turned up the light and sat down at her writing table. she stayed some minutes motionless, her chin resting on her hands, the dark silk fallen down from her arms. a little mirror, framed in curiously carved ivory, picked up by her in an indian bazaar twenty-five years ago, hung on a level with her face and gave that face back to her. 'i'm not ugly,' she thought passionately, 'i'm not. i still have some looks left. if only that girl hadn't come. and it was all my doing. oh, what made me write to both of them, edward and jimmy?' she turned the mirror aside, and took up a pen. "my dear jimmy," she wrote: "it will be better for us both if you take a holiday from here. don't come again till i write for you. i'm sorry i made you so much disturbance to-night. have a good time, and a good rest; and don't worry. "your--" so far she had written when a tear dropped on the page, and she had to tear it up and begin again. this time she wrote to the end--"your leila." 'i must post it now,' she thought, 'or he may not get it before to-morrow evening. i couldn't go through with this again.' she hurried out with it and slipped it in a pillar box. the night smelled of flowers; and, hastening back, she lay down, and stayed awake for hours, tossing, and staring at the dark. xiii leila had pluck, but little patience. her one thought was to get away and she at once began settling up her affairs and getting a permit to return to south africa. the excitements of purchase and preparation were as good an anodyne as she could have taken. the perils of the sea were at full just then, and the prospect of danger gave her a sort of pleasure. 'if i go down,' she thought, 'all the better; brisk, instead of long and dreary.' but when she had the permit and her cabin was booked, the irrevocability of her step came to her with full force. should she see him again or no? her boat started in three days, and she must decide. if in compunction he were to be affectionate, she knew she would never keep to her decision, and then the horror would begin again, till again she was forced to this same action. she let the hours go and go till the very day before, when the ache to see him and the dread of it had become so unbearable that she could not keep quiet. late that afternoon--everything, to the last label, ready--she went out, still undecided. an itch to turn the dagger in her wound, to know what had become of noel, took her to edward's house. almost unconsciously she had put on her prettiest frock, and spent an hour before the glass. a feverishness of soul, more than of body, which had hung about her ever since that night, gave her colour. she looked her prettiest; and she bought a gardenia at a shop in baker street and fastened it in her dress. reaching the old square, she was astonished to see a board up with the words: "to let," though the house still looked inhabited. she rang, and was shown into the drawing-room. she had only twice been in this house before; and for some reason, perhaps because of her own unhappiness, the old, rather shabby room struck her as pathetic, as if inhabited by the past. 'i wonder what his wife was like,' she thought: and then she saw, hanging against a strip of black velvet on the wall, that faded colour sketch of the slender young woman leaning forward, with her hands crossed in her lap. the colouring was lavender and old ivory, with faint touches of rose. the eyes, so living, were a little like gratian's; the whole face delicate, eager, good. 'yes,' she thought, 'he must have loved you very much. to say good-bye must have been hard.' she was still standing before it when pierson came in. "that's a dear face, edward. i've come to say good-bye. i'm leaving for south africa to-morrow." and, as her hand touched his, she thought: 'i must have been mad to think i could ever have made him love me.' "are you--are you leaving him?" leila nodded: "that's very brave, and wonderful." "oh! no. needs must when the devil drives--that's all. i don't give up happiness of my own accord. that's not within a hundred miles of the truth. what i shall become, i don't know, but nothing better, you may be sure. i give up because i can't keep, and you know why. where is noel?" "down at the sea, with george and gratian." he was looking at her in wonder; and the pained, puzzled expression on his face angered her. "i see the house is to let. who'd have thought a child like that could root up two fossils like us? never mind, edward, there's the same blood in us. we'll keep our ends up in our own ways. where are you going?" "they'll give me a chaplaincy in the east, i think." for a wild moment leila thought: 'shall i offer to go with him--the two lost dogs together?' "what would have happened, edward, if you had proposed to me that may week, when we were--a little bit in love? which would it have been, worst for, you or me?" "you wouldn't have taken me, leila." "oh, one never knows. but you'd never have been a priest then, and you'd never have become a saint." "don't use that silly word. if you knew--" "i do; i can see that you've been half burned alive; half burned and half buried! well, you have your reward, whatever it is, and i mine. good-bye, edward!" she took his hand. "you might give me your blessing; i want it." pierson put his other hand on her shoulder and, bending forward, kissed her forehead. the tears rushed up in leila's eyes. "ah me!" she said, "it's a sad world!" and wiping the quivering off her lips with the back of her gloved hand, she went quickly past him to the door. she looked back from there. he had not stirred, but his lips were moving. 'he's praying for me!' she thought. 'how funny!' the moment she was outside, she forgot him; the dreadful ache for fort seemed to have been whipped up within her, as if that figure of lifelong repression had infuriated the love of life and pleasure in her. she must and would see jimmy again, if she had to wait and seek for him all night! it was nearly seven, he would surely have finished at the war office; he might be at his club or at his rooms. she made for the latter. the little street near buckingham gate, where no wag had chalked "peace" on the doors for nearly a year now, had an arid look after a hot day's sun. the hair-dresser's shop below his rooms was still open, and the private door ajar: 'i won't ring,' she thought; 'i'll go straight up.' while she was mounting the two flights of stairs, she stopped twice, breathless, from a pain in her side. she often had that pain now, as if the longing in her heart strained it physically. on the modest landing at the top, outside his rooms, she waited, leaning against the wall, which was covered with a red paper. a window at the back was open and the confused sound of singing came in--a chorus "vive-la, vive-la, vive-la ve. vive la compagnie." so it came to her. 'o god!' she thought: 'let him be in, let him be nice to me. it's the last time.' and, sick from anxiety, she opened the door. he was in--lying on a wicker-couch against the wall in the far corner, with his arms crossed behind his head, and a pipe in his mouth; his eyes were closed, and he neither moved, nor opened them, perhaps supposing her to be the servant. noiseless as a cat, leila crossed the room till she stood above him. and waiting for him to come out of that defiant lethargy, she took her fill of his thin, bony face, healthy and hollow at the same time. with teeth clenched on the pipe it had a look of hard resistance, as of a man with his head back, his arms pinioned to his sides, stiffened against some creature, clinging and climbing and trying to drag him down. the pipe was alive, and dribbled smoke; and his leg, the injured one, wriggled restlessly, as if worrying him; but the rest of him was as utterly and obstinately still as though he were asleep. his hair grew thick and crisp, not a thread of grey in it, the teeth which held the pipe glinted white and strong. his face was young; so much younger than hers. why did she love it--the face of a man who couldn't love her? for a second she felt as if she could seize the cushion which had slipped down off the couch, and smother him as he lay there, refusing, so it seemed to her, to come to consciousness. love despised! humiliation! she nearly turned and stole away. then through the door, left open, behind her, the sound of that chorus: "vive-la, vive-la, vive-la ve!" came in and jolted her nerves unbearably. tearing the gardenia from her breast, she flung it on to his upturned face. "jimmy!" fort struggled up, and stared at her. his face was comic from bewilderment, and she broke into a little nervous laugh. "you weren't dreaming of me, dear jimmy, that's certain. in what garden were you wandering?" "leila! you! how--how jolly!" "how--how jolly! i wanted to see you, so i came. and i have seen you, as you are, when you aren't with me. i shall remember it; it was good for me--awfully good for me." "i didn't hear you." "far, far away, my dear. put my gardenia in, your buttonhole. stop, i'll pin it in. have you had a good rest all this week? do you like my dress? it's new. you wouldn't have noticed it, would you?" "i should have noticed. i think it's charming. "jimmy, i believe that nothing--nothing will ever shake your chivalry." "chivalry? i have none." "i am going to shut the door, do you mind?" but he went to the door himself, shut it, and came back to her. leila looked up at him. "jimmy, if ever you loved me a little bit, be nice to me today. and if i say things--if i'm bitter--don't mind; don't notice it. promise!" "i promise." she took off her hat and sat leaning against him on the couch, so that she could not see his face. and with his arm round her, she let herself go, deep into the waters of illusion; down-down, trying to forget there was a surface to which she must return; like a little girl she played that game of make-believe. 'he loves me-he loves me--he loves me!' to lose herself like that for, just an hour, only an hour; she felt that she would give the rest of the time vouchsafed to her; give it all and willingly. her hand clasped his against her heart, she turned her face backward, up to his, closing her eyes so as still not to see his face; the scent of the gardenia in his coat hurt her, so sweet and strong it was. when with her hat on she stood ready to go, it was getting dark. she had come out of her dream now, was playing at make-believe no more. and she stood with a stony smile, in the half-dark, looking between her lashes at the mortified expression on his unconscious face. "poor jimmy!" she said; "i'm not going to keep you from dinner any longer. no, don't come with me. i'm going alone; and don't light up, for heaven's sake." she put her hand on the lapel of his coat. "that flower's gone brown at the edges. throw it away; i can't bear faded flowers. nor can you. get yourself a fresh one tomorrow." she pulled the flower from his buttonhole and, crushing it in her hand, held her face up. "well, kiss me once more; it won't hurt you." for one moment her lips clung to his with all their might. she wrenched them away, felt for the handle blindly, opened the door, and, shutting it in his face, went slowly, swaying a little, down the stairs. she trailed a gloved hand along the wall, as if its solidity could help her. at the last half-landing, where a curtain hung, dividing off back premises, she stopped and listened. there wasn't a sound. 'if i stand here behind this curtain,' she thought, 'i shall see him again.' she slipped behind the curtain, close drawn but for a little chink. it was so dark there that she could not see her own hand. she heard the door open, and his slow footsteps coming down the stairs. his feet, knees, whole figure came into sight, his face just a dim blur. he passed, smoking a cigarette. she crammed her hand against her mouth to stop herself from speaking and the crushed gardenia filled her nostrils with its cold, fragrant velvet. he was gone, the door below was shut. a wild, half-stupid longing came on her to go up again, wait till he came in, throw herself upon him, tell him she was going, beg him to keep her with him. ah! and he would! he would look at her with that haggard pity she could not bear, and say, "of course, leila, of course." no! by god, no! "i am going quietly home," she muttered; "just quietly home! come along, be brave; don't be a fool! come along!" and she went down into the street: at the entrance to the park she saw him, fifty yards in front, dawdling along. and, as if she had been his shadow lengthened out to that far distance, she moved behind him. slowly, always at that distance, she followed him under the plane-trees, along the park railings, past st. james's palace, into pall mall. he went up some steps, and vanished into his club. it was the end. she looked up at the building; a monstrous granite tomb, all dark. an emptied cab was just moving from the door. she got in. "camelot mansions, st. john's wood." and braced against the cushions, panting, and clenching her hands, she thought: 'well, i've seen him again. hard crust's better than no bread. oh, god! all finished--not a crumb, not a crumb! vive-la, vive-la, vive-la ve. vive-la compagnie!' xiv fort had been lying there about an hour, sleeping and awake, before that visit: he had dreamed a curious and wonderfully emotionalising dream. a long grey line, in a dim light, neither of night nor morning, the whole length of the battle-front in france, charging in short drives, which carried the line a little forward, with just a tiny pause and suck-back; then on again irresistibly, on and on; and at each rush, every voice, his own among them, shouted "hooray! the english! hooray! the english!" the sensation of that advancing tide of dim figures in grey light, the throb and roar, the wonderful, rhythmic steady drive of it, no more to be stopped than the waves of an incoming tide, was gloriously fascinating; life was nothing, death nothing. "hooray, the english!" in that dream, he was his country, he was every one of that long charging line, driving forward in. those great heaving pulsations, irresistible, on and on. out of the very centre of this intoxicating dream he had been dragged by some street noise, and had closed his eyes again, in the vain hope that he might dream it on to its end. but it came no more; and lighting his pipe, he lay there wondering at its fervid, fantastic realism. death was nothing, if his country lived and won. in waking hours he never had quite that single-hearted knowledge of himself. and what marvellously real touches got mixed into the fantastic stuff of dreams, as if something were at work to convince the dreamer in spite of himself--"hooray!" not "hurrah!" just common "hooray!" and "the english," not the literary "british." and then the soft flower had struck his forehead, and leila's voice cried: "jimmy!" when she left him, his thought was just a tired: 'well, so it's begun again!' what did it matter, since common loyalty and compassion cut him off from what his heart desired; and that desire was absurd, as little likely of attainment as the moon. what did it matter? if it gave her any pleasure to love him, let it go on! yet, all the time that he was walking across under the plane trees, noel seemed to walk in front of him, just out of reach, so that he ached with the thought that he would never catch her up, and walk beside her. two days later, on reaching his rooms in the evening, he found this letter on ship's note-paper, with the plymouth postmark-- "fare thee well, and if for ever, then for ever fare thee well" "leila" he read it with a really horrible feeling, for all the world as if he had been accused of a crime and did not know whether he had committed it or not. and, trying to collect his thoughts, he took a cab and drove to her fiat. it was closed, but her address was given him; a bank in cape town. he had received his release. in his remorse and relief, so confusing and so poignant, he heard the driver of the cab asking where he wanted to go now. "oh, back again!" but before they had gone a mile he corrected the address, in an impulse of which next moment he felt thoroughly ashamed. what he was doing indeed, was as indecent as if he were driving from the funeral of his wife to the boudoir of another woman. when he reached the old square, and the words "to let" stared him in the face, he felt a curious relief, though it meant that he would not see her whom to see for ten minutes he felt he would give a year of life. dismissing his cab, he stood debating whether to ring the bell. the sight of a maid's face at the window decided him. mr. pierson was out, and the young ladies were away. he asked for mrs. laird's address, and turned away, almost into the arms of pierson himself. the greeting was stiff and strange. 'does he know that leila's gone?' he thought. 'if so, he must think me the most awful skunk. and am i? am i?' when he reached home, he sat down to write to leila. but having stared at the paper for an hour and written these three lines-- "my dear leila, "i cannot express to you the feelings with which i received your letter--" he tore it up. nothing would be adequate, nothing would be decent. let the dead past bury its dead--the dead past which in his heart had never been alive! why pretend? he had done his best to keep his end up. why pretend? part iv i in the boarding-house, whence the lairds had not yet removed, the old lady who knitted, sat by the fireplace, and light from the setting sun threw her shadow on the wall, moving spidery and grey, over the yellowish distemper, in time to the tune of her needles. she was a very old lady--the oldest lady in the world, noel thought--and she knitted without stopping, without breathing, so that the girl felt inclined to scream. in the evening when george and gratian were not in, noel would often sit watching the needles, brooding over her as yet undecided future. and now and again the old lady would look up above her spectacles; move the corners of her lips ever so slightly, and drop her gaze again. she had pitted herself against fate; so long as she knitted, the war could not stop--such was the conclusion noel had come to. this old lady knitted the epic of acquiescence to the tune of her needles; it was she who kept the war going such a thin old lady! 'if i were to hold her elbows from behind,' the girl used to think, 'i believe she'd die. i expect i ought to; then the war would stop. and if the war stopped, there'd be love and life again.' then the little silvery tune would click itself once more into her brain, and stop her thinking. in her lap this evening lay a letter from her father. "my dearest nollie, "i am glad to say i have my chaplaincy, and am to start for egypt very soon. i should have wished to go to france, but must take what i can get, in view of my age, for they really don't want us who are getting on, i fear. it is a great comfort to me to think that gratian is with you, and no doubt you will all soon be in a house where my little grandson can join you. i have excellent accounts of him in a letter from your aunt, just received: my child, you must never again think that my resignation has been due to you. it is not so. you know, or perhaps you don't, that ever since the war broke out, i have chafed over staying at home, my heart has been with our boys out there, and sooner or later it must have come to this, apart from anything else. monsieur lavendie has been round in the evening, twice; he is a nice man, i like him very much, in spite of our differences of view. he wanted to give me the sketch he made of you in the park, but what can i do with it now? and to tell you the truth, i like it no better than the oil painting. it is not a likeness, as i know you. i hope i didn't hurt his feelings, the feelings of an artist are so very easily wounded. there is one thing i must tell you. leila has gone back to south africa; she came round one evening about ten days ago, to say goodbye. she was very brave, for i fear it means a great wrench for her. i hope and pray she may find comfort and tranquillity out there. and now, my dear, i want you to promise me not to see captain fort. i know that he admires you. but, apart from the question of his conduct in regard to leila, he made the saddest impression on me by coming to our house the very day after her departure. there is something about that which makes me feel he cannot be the sort of man in whom i could feel any confidence. i don't suppose for a moment that he is in your thoughts, and yet before going so far from you, i feel i must warn you. i should rejoice to see you married to a good man; but, though i don't wish to think hardly of anyone, i cannot believe captain fort is that. "i shall come down to you before i start, which may be in quite a short time now. my dear love to you and gracie, and best wishes to george. "your ever loving father, "edward pierson across this letter lying on her knees, noel gazed at the spidery movement on the wall. was it acquiescence that the old lady knitted, or was it resistance--a challenge to death itself, a challenge dancing to the tune of the needles like the grey ghost of human resistance to fate! she wouldn't give in, this oldest lady in the world, she meant to knit till she fell into the grave. and so leila had gone! it hurt her to know that; and yet it pleased her. acquiescence--resistance! why did daddy always want to choose the way she should go? so gentle he was, yet he always wanted to! and why did he always make her feel that she must go the other way? the sunlight ceased to stream in, the old lady's shadow faded off the wall, but the needles still sang their little tune. and the girl said: "do you enjoy knitting, mrs. adam?" the old lady looked at her above the spectacles. "enjoy, my dear? it passes the time." "but do you want the time to pass?" there was no answer for a moment, and noel thought: 'how dreadful of me to have said that!' "eh?" said the old lady. "i said: isn't it very tiring?" "not when i don't think about it, my dear." "what do you think about?" the old lady cackled gently. "oh--well!" she said. and noel thought: 'it must be dreadful to grow old, and pass the time!' she took up her father's letter, and bent it meditatively against her chin. he wanted her to pass the time--not to live, not to enjoy! to pass the time. what else had he been doing himself, all these years, ever since she could remember, ever since her mother died, but just passing the time? passing the time because he did not believe in this life; not living at all, just preparing for the life he did believe in. denying himself everything that was exciting and nice, so that when he died he might pass pure and saintly to his other world. he could not believe captain fort a good man, because he had not passed the time, and resisted leila; and leila was gone! and now it was a sin for him to love someone else; he must pass the time again. 'daddy doesn't believe in life,' she thought; 'it's monsieur's picture. daddy's a saint; but i don't want to be a saint, and pass the time. he doesn't mind making people unhappy, because the more they're repressed, the saintlier they'll be. but i can't bear to be unhappy, or to see others unhappy. i wonder if i could bear to be unhappy to save someone else--as leila is? i admire her! oh! i admire her! she's not doing it because she thinks it good for her soul; only because she can't bear making him unhappy. she must love him very much. poor leila! and she's done it all by herself, of her own accord.' it was like what george said of the soldiers; they didn't know why they were heroes, it was not because they'd been told to be, or because they believed in a future life. they just had to be, from inside somewhere, to save others. 'and they love life as much as i do,' she thought. 'what a beast it makes one feel!' those needles! resistance--acquiescence? both perhaps. the oldest lady in the world, with her lips moving at the corners, keeping things in, had lived her life, and knew it. how dreadful to live on when you were of no more interest to anyone, but must just "pass the time" and die. but how much more dreadful to "pass the time" when you were strong, and life and love were yours for the taking! 'i shan't answer daddy,' she thought. ii the maid, who one saturday in july opened the door to jimmy fort, had never heard the name of laird, for she was but a unit in the ceaseless procession which pass through the boarding-houses of places subject to air-raids. placing him in a sitting-room, she said she would find miss 'allow. there he waited, turning the leaves of an illustrated journal, wherein society beauties; starving servians, actresses with pretty legs, prize dogs, sinking ships, royalties, shells bursting, and padres reading funeral services, testified to the catholicity of the public taste, but did not assuage his nerves. what if their address were not known here? why, in his fear of putting things to the test, had he let this month go by? an old lady was sitting by the hearth, knitting, the click of whose needles blended with the buzzing of a large bee on the window-pane. 'she may know,' he thought, 'she looks as if she'd been here for ever.' and approaching her, he said: "i can assure you those socks are very much appreciated, ma'am." the old lady bridled over her spectacles. "it passes the time," she said. "oh, more than that; it helps to win the war, ma'am." the old lady's lips moved at the corners; she did not answer. 'deaf!' he thought. "may i ask if you knew my friends, doctor and mrs. laird, and miss pierson?" the old lady cackled gently. "oh, yes! a pretty young girl; as pretty as life. she used to sit with me. quite a pleasure to watch her; such large eyes she had." "where have they gone? can you tell me?" "oh, i don't know at all." it was a little cold douche on his heart. he longed to say: 'stop knitting a minute, please. it's my life, to know.' but the tune of the needles answered: 'it's my life to knit.' and he turned away to the window. "she used to sit just there; quite still; quite still." fort looked down at the window-seat. so, she used to sit just here, quite still. "what a dreadful war this is!" said the old lady. "have you been at the front?" "yes." "to think of the poor young girls who'll never have husbands! i'm sure i think it's dreadful." "yes," said fort; "it's dreadful--" and then a voice from the doorway said: "did you want doctor and mrs. laird, sir? east bungalow their address is; it's a little way out on the north road. anyone will tell you." with a sigh of relief fort looked gratefully at the old lady who had called noel as pretty as life. "good afternoon, ma'am." "good afternoon." the needles clicked, and little movements occurred at the corners of her mouth. fort went out. he could not find a vehicle, and was a long time walking. the bungalow was ugly, of yellow brick pointed with red. it lay about two-thirds up between the main road and cliffs, and had a rock-garden and a glaring, brand-new look, in the afternoon sunlight. he opened the gate, uttering one of those prayers which come so glibly from unbelievers when they want anything. a baby's crying answered it, and he thought with ecstasy: 'heaven, she is here!' passing the rock-garden he could see a lawn at the back of the house and a perambulator out there under a holm-oak tree, and noel--surely noel herself! hardening his heart, he went forward. in a lilac sunbonnet she was bending over the perambulator. he trod softly on the grass, and was quite close before she heard him. he had prepared no words, but just held out his hand. the baby, interested in the shadow failing across its pram, ceased crying. noel took his hand. under the sunbonnet, which hid her hair, she seemed older and paler, as if she felt the heat. he had no feeling that she was glad to see him. "how do you do? have you seen gratian; she ought to be in." "i didn't come to see her; i came to see you." noel turned to the baby. "here he is." fort stood at the end of the perambulator, and looked at that other fellow's baby. in the shade of the hood, with the frilly clothes, it seemed to him lying with its head downhill. it had scratched its snub nose and bumpy forehead, and it stared up at its mother with blue eyes, which seemed to have no underlids so fat were its cheeks. "i wonder what they think about," he said. noel put her finger into the baby's fist. "they only think when they want some thing." "that's a deep saying: but his eyes are awfully interested in you." noel smiled; and very slowly the baby's curly mouth unclosed, and discovered his toothlessness. "he's a darling," she said in a whisper. 'and so are you,' he thought, 'if only i dared say it!' "daddy is here," she said suddenly, without looking up. "he's sailing for egypt the day after to-morrow. he doesn't like you." fort's heart gave a jump. why did she tell him that, unless--unless she was just a little on his side? "i expected that," he said. "i'm a sinner, as you know." noel looked up at him. "sin!" she said, and bent again over her baby. the word, the tone in which she said it, crouching over her baby, gave him the thought: 'if it weren't for that little creature, i shouldn't have a dog's chance.' he said, "i'll go and see your father. is he in?" "i think so." "may i come to-morrow?" "it's sunday; and daddy's last day." "ah! of course." he did not dare look back, to see if her gaze was following him, but he thought: 'chance or no chance, i'm going to fight for her tooth and nail.' in a room darkened against the evening sun pierson was sitting on a sofa reading. the sight of that figure in khaki disconcerted fort, who had not realised that there would be this metamorphosis. the narrow face, clean-shaven now, with its deep-set eyes and compressed lips, looked more priestly than ever, in spite of this brown garb. he felt his hope suddenly to be very forlorn indeed. and rushing at the fence, he began abruptly: "i've come to ask you, sir, for your permission to marry noel, if she will have me." he had thought pierson's face gentle; it was not gentle now. "did you know i was here, then, captain fort?" "i saw noel in the garden. i've said nothing to her, of course. but she told me you were starting to-morrow for egypt, so i shall have no other chance." "i am sorry you have come. it is not for me to judge, but i don't think you will make noel happy." "may i ask you why, sir?" "captain fort, the world's judgment of these things is not mine; but since you ask me. i will tell you frankly. my cousin leila has a claim on you. it is her you should ask to marry you." "i did ask her; she refused." "i know. she would not refuse you again if you went out to her." "i am not free to go out to her; besides, she would refuse. she knows i don't love her, and never have." "never have?" "no." "then why--" "because i'm a man, i suppose, and a fool" "if it was simply, 'because you are a man' as you call it, it is clear that no principle or faith governs you. and yet you ask me to give you noel; my poor noel, who wants the love and protection not of a 'man' but of a good man. no, captain fort, no!" fort bit his lips. "i'm clearly not a good man in your sense of the word; but i love her terribly, and i would protect her. i don't in the least know whether she'll have me. i don't expect her to, naturally. but i warn you that i mean to ask her, and to wait for her. i'm so much in love that i can do nothing else." "the man who is truly in love does what is best for the one he loves." fort bent his head; he felt as if he were at school again, confronting his head-master. "that's true," he said. "and i shall never trade on her position. if she can't feel anything for me now or in the future, i shan't trouble her, you may be sure of that. but if by some wonderful chance she should, i know i can make her happy, sir." "she is a child." "no, she's not a child," said fort stubbornly. pierson touched the lapel of his new tunic. "captain fort, i am going far away from her, and leaving her without protection. i trust to your chivalry not to ask her, till i come back." fort threw back his head. "no, no, i won't accept that position. with or without your presence the facts will be the same. either she can love me, or she can't. if she can, she'll be happier with me. if she can't, there's an end of it." pierson came slowly up to him. "in my view," he said, "you are as bound to leila as if you were married to her." "you can't, expect me to take the priest's view, sir." pierson's lips trembled. "you call it a priest's view; i think it is only the view of a man of honour." fort reddened. "that's for my conscience," he said stubbornly. "i can't tell you, and i'm not going to, how things began. i was a fool. but i did my best, and i know that leila doesn't think i'm bound. if she had, she would never have gone. when there's no feeling--there never was real feeling on my side--and when there's this terribly real feeling for noel, which i never sought, which i tried to keep down, which i ran away from--" "did you?" "yes. to go on with the other was foul. i should have thought you might have seen that, sir; but i did go on with it. it was leila who made an end." "leila behaved nobly, i think." "she was splendid; but that doesn't make me a brute.". pierson turned away to the window, whence he must see noel. "it is repugnant to me," he said. "is there never to be any purity in her life?" "is there never to be any life for her? at your rate, sir, there will be none. i'm no worse than other men, and i love her more than they could." for fully a minute pierson stood silent, before he said: "forgive me if i've spoken harshly. i didn't mean to. i love her intensely; i wish for nothing but her good. but all my life i have believed that for a man there is only one woman--for a woman only one man." "then, sir," fort burst out, "you wish her--" pierson had put his hand up, as if to ward off a blow; and, angry though he was, fort stopped. "we are all made of flesh and blood," he continued coldly, "and it seems to me that you think we aren't." "we have spirits too, captain fort." the voice was suddenly so gentle that fort's anger evaporated. "i have a great respect for you, sir; but a greater love for noel, and nothing in this world will prevent me trying to give my life to her." a smile quivered over pierson's face. "if you try, then i can but pray that you will fail." fort did not answer, and went out. he walked slowly away from the bungalow, with his head down, sore, angry, and yet-relieved. he knew where he stood; nor did he feel that he had been worsted--those strictures had not touched him. convicted of immorality, he remained conscious of private justifications, in a way that human beings have. only one little corner of memory, unseen and uncriticised by his opponent, troubled him. he pardoned himself the rest; the one thing he did not pardon was the fact that he had known noel before his liaison with leila commenced; had even let leila sweep him away on, an evening when he had been in noel's company. for that he felt a real disgust with himself. and all the way back to the station he kept thinking: 'how could i? i deserve to lose her! still, i shall try; but not now--not yet!' and, wearily enough, he took the train back to town. iii both girls rose early that last day, and went with their father to communion. as gratian had said to george: "it's nothing to me now, but it will mean a lot to him out there, as a memory of us. so i must go." and he had answered: "quite right, my dear. let him have all he can get of you both to-day. i'll keep out of the way, and be back the last thing at night." their father's smile when he saw them waiting for him went straight to both their hearts. it was a delicious day, and the early freshness had not yet dried out of the air, when they were walking home to breakfast. each girl had slipped a hand under his arm. 'it's like moses or was it aaron?' noel thought absurdly memory had complete hold of her. all the old days! nursery hours on sundays after tea, stories out of the huge bible bound in mother-o'pearl, with photogravures of the holy land--palms, and hills, and goats, and little eastern figures, and funny boats on the sea of galilee, and camels--always camels. the book would be on his knee, and they one on each arm of his chair, waiting eagerly for the pages to be turned so that a new picture came. and there would be the feel of his cheek, prickly against theirs; and the old names with the old glamour--to gratian, joshua, daniel, mordecai, peter; to noel absalom because of his hair, and haman because she liked the sound, and ruth because she was pretty and john because he leaned on jesus' breast. neither of them cared for job or david, and elijah and elisha they detested because they hated the name eliza. and later days by firelight in the drawing-room, roasting chestnuts just before evening church, and telling ghost stories, and trying to make daddy eat his share. and hours beside him at the piano, each eager for her special hymns--for gratian, "onward, christian soldiers," "lead, kindly light," and "o god our help"; for noel, "nearer, my god, to thee," the one with "the hosts of midian" in it, and "for those in peril on the sea." and carols! ah! and choristers! noel had loved one deeply--the word "chorister" was so enchanting; and because of his whiteness, and hair which had no grease on it, but stood up all bright; she had never spoken to him--a far worship, like that for a star. and always, always daddy had been gentle; sometimes angry, but always gentle; and they sometimes not at all! and mixed up with it all, the dogs they had had, and the cats they had had, and the cockatoo, and the governesses, and their red cloaks, and the curates, and the pantomimes, and "peter pan," and "alice in wonderland"--daddy sitting between them, so that one could snuggle up. and later, the school-days, the hockey, the prizes, the holidays, the rush into his arms; and the great and wonderful yearly exodus to far places, fishing and bathing; walks and drives; rides and climbs, always with him. and concerts and shakespeare plays in the christmas and easter holidays; and the walk home through the streets--all lighted in those days--one on each side of him. and this was the end! they waited on him at breakfast: they kept stealing glances at him, photographing him in their minds. gratian got her camera and did actually photograph him in the morning sunlight with noel, without noel, with the baby; against all regulations for the defence of the realm. it was noel who suggested: "daddy, let's take lunch out and go for all day on the cliffs, us three, and forget there's a war." so easy to say, so difficult to do, with the boom of the guns travelling to their ears along the grass, mingled with the buzz of insects. yet that hum of summer, the innumerable voices of tiny lives, gossamer things all as alive as they, and as important to their frail selves; and the white clouds, few and so slow-moving, and the remote strange purity which clings to the chalky downs, all this white and green and blue of land and sea had its peace, which crept into the spirits of those three alone with nature, this once more, the last time for--who could say how long? they talked, by tacit agreement, of nothing but what had happened before the war began, while the flock of the blown dandelions drifted past. pierson sat cross-legged on the grass, without his cap, suffering a little still from the stiffness of his unwonted garments. and the girls lay one on each side of him, half critical, and half admiring. noel could not bear his collar. "if you had a soft collar you'd be lovely, daddy. perhaps out there they'll let you take it off. it must be fearfully hot in egypt. oh! i wish i were going. i wish i were going everywhere in the world. some day!" presently he read to them, murray's "hippolytus" of euripides. and now and then gratian and he discussed a passage. but noel lay silent, looking at the sky. whenever his voice ceased, there was the song of the larks, and very faint, the distant mutter of the guns. they stayed up there till past six, and it was time to go and have tea before evening service. those hours in the baking sun had drawn virtue out of them; they were silent and melancholy all the evening. noel was the first to go up to her bedroom. she went without saying good night--she knew her father would come to her room that last evening. george had not yet come in; and gratian was left alone with pierson in the drawing-room, round whose single lamp, in spite of close-drawn curtains, moths were circling: she moved over to him on the sofa. "dad, promise me not to worry about nollie; we'll take care of her." "she can only take care of herself, gracie, and will she? did you know that captain fort was here yesterday?" "she told me." "what is her feeling about him?" "i don't think she knows. nollie dreams along, and then suddenly rushes." "i wish she were safe from that man." "but, dad, why? george likes him and so do i." a big grey moth was fluttering against the lamp. pierson got up and caught it in the curve of his palm. "poor thing! you're like my nollie; so soft, and dreamy, so feckless, so reckless." and going to the curtains, he thrust his hand through, and released the moth. "dad!" said gratian suddenly, "we can only find out for ourselves, even if we do singe our wings in doing it. we've been reading james's 'pragmatism.' george says the only chapter that's important is missing--the one on ethics, to show that what we do is not wrong till it's proved wrong by the result. i suppose he was afraid to deliver that lecture." pierson's face wore the smile which always came on it when he had to deal with george, the smile which said: "ah, george, that's very clever; but i know." "my dear," he said, "that doctrine is the most dangerous in the world. i am surprised at george." "i don't think george is in danger, dad." "george is a man of wide experience and strong judgment and character; but think how fatal it would be for nollie, my poor nollie, whom a little gust can blow into the candle." "all the same," said gratian stubbornly, "i don't think anyone can be good or worth anything unless they judge for themselves and take risks." pierson went close to her; his face was quivering. "don't let us differ on this last night; i must go up to nollie for a minute, and then to bed. i shan't see you to-morrow; you mustn't get up; i can bear parting better like this. and my train goes at eight. god bless you, gracie; give george my love. i know, i have always known that he's a good man, though we do fight so. good-bye, my darling." he went out with his cheeks wet from gratian's tears, and stood in the porch a minute to recover his composure. the shadow of the house stretched velvet and blunt over the rock-garden. a night-jar was spinning; the churring sound affected him oddly. the last english night-bird he would hear. england! what a night-to say good-bye! 'my country!' he thought; 'my beautiful country!' the dew was lying thick and silvery already on the little patch of grass-the last dew, the last scent of an english night. the call of a bugle floated out. "england!" he prayed; "god be about you!" a little sound answered from across the grass, like an old man's cough, and the scrape and rattle of a chain. a face emerged at the edge of the house's shadow; bearded and horned like that of pan, it seemed to stare at him. and he saw the dim grey form of the garden goat, heard it scuttle round the stake to which it was tethered, as though alarmed at this visitor to its' domain. he went up the half-flight of stairs to noel's narrow little room, next the nursery. no voice answered his tap. it was dark, but he could see her at the window, leaning far out, with her chin on her hands. "nollie!" she answered without turning: "such a lovely night, daddy. come and look! i'd like to set the goat free, only he'd eat the rock plants. but it is his night, isn't it? he ought to be running and skipping in it: it's such a shame to tie things up. did you never, feel wild in your heart, daddy?" "always, i think, nollie; too wild. it's been hard to tame oneself." noel slipped her hand through his arm. "let's go and take the goat and skip together on the hills. if only we had a penny whistle! did you hear the bugle? the bugle and the goat!" pierson pressed the hand against him. "nollie, be good while i'm away. you know what i don't want. i told you in my letter." he looked at her cheek, and dared say no more. her face had its "fey" look again. "don't you feel," she said suddenly, "on a night like this, all the things, all the things--the stars have lives, daddy, and the moon has a big life, and the shadows have, and the moths and the birds and the goats and the trees, and the flowers, and all of us--escaped? oh! daddy, why is there a war? and why are people so bound and so unhappy? don't tell me it's god--don't!" pierson could not answer, for there came into his mind the greek song he had been reading aloud that afternoon-- "o for a deep and dewy spring, with runlets cold to draw and drink, and a great meadow blossoming, long-grassed, and poplars in a ring, to rest me by the brink. o take me to the mountain, o, past the great pines and through the wood, up where the lean hounds softly go, a-whine for wild things' blood, and madly flies the dappled roe, o god, to shout and speed them there; an arrow by my chestnut hair drawn tight and one keen glimmering spear ah! if i could!" all that in life had been to him unknown, of venture and wild savour; all the emotion he had stifled; the swift pan he had denied; the sharp fruits, the burning suns, the dark pools, the unearthly moonlight, which were not of god--all came with the breath of that old song, and the look on the girl's face. and he covered his eyes. noel's hand tugged at his arm. "isn't beauty terribly alive," she murmured, "like a lovely person? it makes you ache to kiss it." his lips felt parched. "there is a beauty beyond all that," he said stubbornly. "where?" "holiness, duty, faith. o nollie, my love!" but noel's hand tightened on his arm. "shall i tell you what i should like?" she whispered. "to take god's hand and show him things. i'm certain he's not seen everything." a shudder went through pierson, one of those queer sudden shivers, which come from a strange note in a voice, or a new sharp scent or sight. "my dear, what things you say!" "but he hasn't, and it's time he did. we'd creep, and peep, and see it all for once, as he can't in his churches. daddy, oh! daddy! i can't bear it any more; to think of them being killed on a night like this; killed and killed so that they never see it all again--never see it--never see it!" she sank down, and covered her face with her arms. "i can't, i can't! oh! take it all away, the cruelty! why does it come--why the stars and the flowers, if god doesn't care any more than that?" horribly affected he stood bending over her, stroking her head. then the habit of a hundred death-beds helped him. "come, nollie! this life is but a minute. we must all die." "but not they--not so young!" she clung to his knees, and looked up. "daddy, i don't want you to go; promise me to come back!" the childishness of those words brought back his balance. "my dear sweetheart, of course! come, nollie, get up. the sun's been too much for you." noel got up, and put her hands on her father's shoulders. "forgive me for all my badness, and all my badness to come, especially all my badness to come!" pierson smiled. "i shall always forgive you, nollie; but there won't be--there mustn't be any badness to come. i pray god to keep you, and make you like your mother." "mother never had a devil, like you and me." he was silent from surprise. how did this child know the devil of wild feeling he had fought against year after year; until with the many years he had felt it weakening within him! she whispered on: "i don't hate my devil. "why should i?--it's part of me. every day when the sun sets, i'll think of you, daddy; and you might do the same--that'll keep me good. i shan't come to the station tomorrow, i should only cry. and i shan't say good-bye now. it's unlucky." she flung her arms round him; and half smothered by that fervent embrace, he kissed her cheeks and hair. freed of each other at last, he stood for a moment looking at her by the moonlight. "there never was anyone more loving than you; nollie!" he said quietly. "remember my letter. and good night, my love!" then, afraid to stay another second, he went quickly out of the dark little room.... george laird, returning half an hour later, heard a voice saying softly: "george, george!" looking up, he saw a little white blur at the window, and noel's face just visible. "george, let the goat loose, just for to-night, to please me." something in that voice, and in the gesture of her stretched-out arm moved george in a queer way, although, as pierson had once said, he had no music in his soul. he loosed the goat. iv in the weeks which succeeded pierson's departure, gratian and george often discussed noel's conduct and position by the light of the pragmatic theory. george held a suitably scientific view. just as he would point out to his wife--in the physical world, creatures who diverged from the normal had to justify their divergence in competition with their environments, or else go under, so in the ethical world it was all a question of whether nollie could make good her vagary. if she could, and grew in strength of character thereby, it was ipso facto all right, her vagary would be proved an advantage, and the world enriched. if not, the world by her failure to make good would be impoverished, and her vagary proved wrong. the orthodox and academies--he insisted--were always forgetting the adaptability of living organisms; how every action which was out of the ordinary, unconsciously modified all the other actions together with the outlook, and philosophy of the doer. "of course nollie was crazy," he said, "but when she did what she did, she at once began to think differently about life and morals. the deepest instinct we all have is the instinct that we must do what we must, and think that what we've done is really all right; in fact the--instinct of self-preservation. we're all fighting animals; and we feel in our bones that if we admit we're beaten--we are beaten; but that every fight we win, especially against odds, hardens those bones. but personally i don't think she can make good on her own." gratian, whose pragmatism was not yet fully baked, responded doubtfully: "no, i don't think she can. and if she could i'm not sure. but isn't pragmatism a perfectly beastly word, george? it has no sense of humour in it at all." "it is a bit thick, and in the hands of the young, deuced likely to become prigmatism; but not with nollie." they watched the victim of their discussions with real anxiety. the knowledge that she would never be more sheltered than she was with them, at all events until she married, gravely impeded the formation of any judgment as to whether or no she could make good. now and again there would come to gratian who after all knew her sister better than george--the disquieting thought that whatever conclusion noel led them to form, she would almost certainly force them to abandon sooner or later. three days after her father's departure noel had declared that she wanted to work on the land. this george had promptly vetoed. "you aren't strong enough yet, my dear: wait till the harvest begins. then you can go and help on the farm here. if you can stand that without damage, we'll think about it." but the weather was wet and harvest late, and noel had nothing much to do but attend to her baby, already well attended to by nurse, and dream and brood, and now and then cook an omelette or do some housework for the sake of a gnawing conscience. since gratian and george were away in hospital all day, she was very much alone. several times in the evenings gratian tried to come at the core of her thoughts, twice she flew the kite of leila. the first time noel only answered: "yes, she's a brick." the second time, she said: "i don't want to think about her." but, hardening her heart, gratian went on: "don't you think it's queer we've never heard from captain fort since he came down?" in her calmest voice noel answered: "why should we, after being told that he wasn't liked?" "who told him that?" "i told him, that daddy didn't; but i expect daddy said much worse things." she gave a little laugh, then softly added: "daddy's wonderful, isn't he?" "how?" "the way he drives one to do the other thing. if he hadn't opposed my marriage to cyril, you know, that wouldn't have happened, it just made all the difference. it stirred me up so fearfully." gratian stared at her, astonished that she could see herself so clearly. towards the end of august she had a letter from fort. "dear mrs. laird, "you know all about things, of course, except the one thing which to me is all important. i can't go on without knowing whether i have a chance with your sister. it is against your father's expressed wish that she should have anything to do with me, but i told him that i could not and would not promise not to ask her. i get my holiday at the end of this month, and am coming down to put it to the touch. it means more to me than you can possibly imagine. "i am, dear mrs. laird, "your very faithful servant, "james fort." she discussed the letter with george, whose advice was: "answer it politely, but say nothing; and nothing to nollie. i think it would be a very good thing. of course it's a bit of a make-shift--twice her age; but he's a genuine man, if not exactly brilliant." gratian answered almost sullenly: "i've always wanted the very best for nollie." george screwed up his steel-coloured eyes, as he might have looked at one on whom he had to operate. "quite so," he said. "but you must remember, gracie, that out of the swan she was, nollie has made herself into a lame duck. fifty per cent at least is off her value, socially. we must look at things as they are." "father is dead against it." george smiled, on the point of saying: 'that makes me feel it must be a good thing!' but he subdued the impulse. "i agree that we're bound by his absence not to further it actively. still nollie knows his wishes, and it's up to her and no one else. after all, she's no longer a child." his advice was followed. but to write that polite letter, which said nothing, cost gratian a sleepless night, and two or three hours' penmanship. she was very conscientious. knowledge of this impending visit increased the anxiety with which she watched her sister, but the only inkling she obtained of noel's state of mind was when the girl showed her a letter she had received from thirza, asking her to come back to kestrel. a postscript, in uncle bob's handwriting, added these words: "we're getting quite fossilised down here; eve's gone and left us again. we miss you and the youngster awfully. come along down, nollie there's a dear!" "they're darlings," noel said, "but i shan't go. i'm too restless, ever since daddy went; you don't know how restless. this rain simply makes me want to die." the weather improved next day, and at the end of that week harvest began. by what seemed to noel a stroke of luck the farmer's binder was broken; he could not get it repaired, and wanted all the human binders he could get. that first day in the fields blistered her hands, burnt her face and neck, made every nerve and bone in her body ache; but was the happiest day she had spent for weeks, the happiest perhaps since cyril morland left her, over a year ago. she had a bath and went to bed the moment she got in. lying there nibbling chocolate and smoking a cigarette, she luxuriated in the weariness which had stilled her dreadful restlessness. watching the smoke of her cigarette curl up against the sunset glow which filled her window, she mused: if only she could be tired out like this every day! she would be all right then, would lose the feeling of not knowing what she wanted, of being in a sort o of large box, with the lid slammed down, roaming round it like a dazed and homesick bee in an overturned tumbler; the feeling of being only half alive, of having a wing maimed so that she could only fly a little way, and must then drop. she slept like a top that night. but the next day's work was real torture, and the third not much better. by the end of the week, however, she was no longer stiff. saturday was cloudless; a perfect day. the field she was working in lay on a slope. it was the last field to be cut, and the best wheat yet, with a glorious burnt shade in its gold and the ears blunt and full. she had got used now to the feel of the great sheaves in her arms, and the binding wisps drawn through her hand till she held them level, below the ears, ready for the twist. there was no new sensation in it now; just steady, rather dreamy work, to keep her place in the row, to the swish-swish of the cutter and the call of the driver to his horses at the turns; with continual little pauses, to straighten and rest her back a moment, and shake her head free from the flies, or suck her finger, sore from the constant pushing of the straw ends under. so the hours went on, rather hot and wearisome, yet with a feeling of something good being done, of a job getting surely to its end. and gradually the centre patch narrowed, and the sun slowly slanted down. when they stopped for tea, instead of running home as usual, she drank it cold out of a flask she had brought, ate a bun and some chocolate, and lay down on her back against the hedge. she always avoided that group of her fellow workers round the tea-cans which the farmer's wife brought out. to avoid people, if she could, had become habitual to her now. they must know about her, or would soon if she gave them the chance. she had never lost consciousness of her ring-finger, expecting every eye to fall on it as a matter of course. lying on her face, she puffed her cigarette into the grass, and watched a beetle, till one of the sheep-dogs, scouting for scraps, came up, and she fed him with her second bun. having finished the bun, he tried to eat the beetle, and, when she rescued it, convinced that she had nothing more to give him, sneezed at her, and went away. pressing the end of her cigarette out against the bank, she turned over. already the driver was perched on his tiny seat, and his companion, whose business it was to free the falling corn, was getting up alongside. swish-swish! it had begun again. she rose, stretched herself, and went back to her place in the row. the field would be finished to-night; she would have a lovely rest-all sunday i towards seven o'clock a narrow strip, not twenty yards broad, alone was left. this last half hour was what noel dreaded. to-day it was worse, for the farmer had no cartridges left, and the rabbits were dealt with by hullabaloo and sticks and chasing dogs. rabbits were vermin, of course, and ate the crops, and must be killed; besides, they were good food, and fetched two shillings apiece; all this she knew but to see the poor frightened things stealing out, pounced on, turned, shouted at, chased, rolled over by great swift dogs, fallen on by the boys and killed and carried with their limp grey bodies upside down, so dead and soft and helpless, always made her feel quite sick. she stood very still, trying not to see or hear, and in the corn opposite to her a rabbit stole along, crouched, and peeped. 'oh!' she thought, 'come out here, bunny. i'll let you away--can't you see i will? it's your only chance. come out!' but the rabbit crouched, and gazed, with its little cowed head poked forward, and its ears laid flat; it seemed trying to understand whether this still thing in front of it was the same as those others. with the thought, 'of course it won't while i look at it,' noel turned her head away. out of the corner of her eye she could see a man standing a few yards off. the rabbit bolted out. now the man would shout and turn it. but he did not, and the rabbit scuttled past him and away to the hedge. she heard a shout from the end of the row, saw a dog galloping. too late! hurrah! and clasping her hands, she looked at the man. it was fort! with the queerest feeling--amazement, pleasure, the thrill of conspiracy, she saw him coming up to her. "i did want that rabbit to get off," she sighed out; "i've been watching it. thank you!" he looked at her. "my goodness!" was all he said. noel's hands flew up to her cheeks. "yes, i know; is my nose very red?" "no; you're as lovely as ruth, if she was lovely." swish-swish! the cutter came by; noel started forward to her place in the row; but catching her arm, he said: "no, let me do this little bit. i haven't had a day in the fields since the war began. talk to me while i'm binding." she stood watching him. he made a different, stronger twist from hers, and took larger sheaves, so that she felt a sort of jealousy. "i didn't know you knew about this sort of thing." "oh, lord, yes! i had a farm once out west. nothing like field-work, to make you feel good. i've been watching you; you bind jolly well." noel gave a sigh of pleasure. "where have you come from?" she asked. "straight from the station. i'm on my holiday." he looked up at her, and they both fell silent. swish-swish! the cutter was coming again. noel went to the beginning of her portion of the falling corn, he to the end of it. they worked towards each other, and met before the cutter was on them a third time. "will you come in to supper?" "i'd love to." "then let's go now, please. i don't want to see any more rabbits killed." they spoke very little on the way to the bungalow, but she felt his eyes on her all the time. she left him with george and gratian who had just come in, and went up for her bath. supper had been laid out in the verandah, and it was nearly dark before they had finished. in rhyme with the failing of the light noel became more and more silent. when they went in, she ran up to her baby. she did not go down again, but as on the night before her father went away, stood at her window, leaning out. a dark night, no moon; in the starlight she could only just see the dim garden, where no goat was grazing. now that her first excitement had worn off, this sudden reappearance of fort filled her with nervous melancholy: she knew perfectly well what he had come for, she had always known. she had no certain knowledge of her own mind; but she knew that all these weeks she had been between his influence and her father's, listening to them, as it were, pleading with her. and, curiously, the pleading of each, instead of drawing her towards the pleader, had seemed dragging her away from him, driving her into the arms of the other. to the protection of one or the other she felt she must go; and it humiliated her to think that in all the world there was no other place for her. the wildness of that one night in the old abbey seemed to have power to govern all her life to come. why should that one night, that one act, have this uncanny power to drive her this way or that, to those arms or these? must she, because of it, always need protection? standing there in the dark it was almost as if they had come up behind her, with their pleadings; and a shiver ran down her back. she longed to turn on them, and cry out: "go away; oh; go away! i don't want either of you; i just want to be left alone!" then something, a moth perhaps, touched her neck. she gasped and shook herself. how silly! she heard the back door round the corner of the house opening; a man's low voice down in the dark said: "who's the young lady that comes out in the fields?" another voice--one of the maids--answered: "the missis's sister." "they say she's got a baby." "never you mind what she's got." noel heard the man's laugh. it seemed to her the most odious laugh she had ever heard. she thought swiftly and absurdly: 'i'll get away from all this.' the window was only a few feet up. she got out on to the ledge, let herself down, and dropped. there was a flower-bed below, quite soft, with a scent of geranium-leaves and earth. she brushed herself, and went tiptoeing across the gravel and the little front lawn, to the gate. the house was quite dark, quite silent. she walked on, down the road. 'jolly!' she thought. 'night after night we sleep, and never see the nights: sleep until we're called, and never see anything. if they want to catch me they'll have to run.' and she began running down the road in her evening frock and shoes, with nothing on her head. she stopped after going perhaps three hundred yards, by the edge of the wood. it was splendidly dark in there, and she groped her way from trunk to trunk, with a delicious, half-scared sense of adventure and novelty. she stopped at last by a thin trunk whose bark glimmered faintly. she felt it with her cheek, quite smooth--a birch tree; and, with her arms round it, she stood perfectly still. wonderfully, magically silent, fresh and sweet-scented and dark! the little tree trembled suddenly within her arms, and she heard the low distant rumble, to which she had grown so accustomed--the guns, always at work, killing--killing men and killing trees, little trees perhaps like this within her arms, little trembling trees! out there, in this dark night, there would not be a single unscarred tree like this smooth quivering thing, no fields of corn, not even a bush or a blade of grass, no leaves to rustle and smell sweet, not a bird, no little soft-footed night beasts, except the rats; and she shuddered, thinking of the belgian soldier-painter. holding the tree tight, she squeezed its smooth body against her. a rush of the same helpless, hopeless revolt and sorrow overtook her, which had wrung from her that passionate little outburst to her father, the night before he went away. killed, torn, and bruised; burned, and killed, like cyril! all the young things, like this little tree. rumble! rumble! quiver! quiver! and all else so still, so sweet and still, and starry, up there through the leaves.... 'i can't bear it!' she thought. she pressed her lips, which the sun had warmed all day, against the satiny smooth bark. but the little tree stood within her arms insentient, quivering only to the long rumbles. with each of those dull mutterings, life and love were going out, like the flames of candles on a christmas-tree, blown, one by one. to her eyes, accustomed by now to the darkness in there, the wood seemed slowly to be gathering a sort of life, as though it were a great thing watching her; a great thing with hundreds of limbs and eyes, and the power of breathing. the little tree, which had seemed so individual and friendly, ceased to be a comfort and became a part of the whole living wood, absorbed in itself, and coldly watching her, this intruder of the mischievous breed, the fatal breed which loosed those rumblings on the earth. noel unlocked her arms, and recoiled. a bough scraped her neck, some leaves flew against her eyes; she stepped aside, tripped over a root, and fell. a bough had hit her too, and she lay a little dazed, quivering at such dark unfriendliness. she held her hands up to her face for the mere pleasure of seeing something a little less dark; it was childish, and absurd, but she was frightened. the wood seemed to have so many eyes, so many arms, and all unfriendly; it seemed waiting to give her other blows, other falls, and to guard her within its darkness until--! she got up, moved a few steps, and stood still, she had forgotten from where she had come in. and afraid of moving deeper into the unfriendly wood, she turned slowly round, trying to tell which way to go. it was all just one dark watching thing, of limbs on the ground and in the air. 'any way,' she thought; 'any way of course will take me out!' and she groped forward, keeping her hands up to guard her face. it was silly, but she could not help the sinking, scattered feeling which comes to one bushed, or lost in a fog. if the wood had not been so dark, so,--alive! and for a second she had the senseless, terrifying thought of a child: 'what if i never get out!' then she laughed at it, and stood still again, listening. there was no sound to guide her, no sound at all except that faint dull rumble, which seemed to come from every side, now. and the trees watched her. 'ugh!' she thought; 'i hate this wood!' she saw it now, its snaky branches, its darkness, and great forms, as an abode of giants and witches. she groped and scrambled on again, tripped once more, and fell, hitting her forehead against a trunk. the blow dazed and sobered her. 'it's idiotic,' she thought; 'i'm a baby! i'll just walk very slowly till i reach the edge. i know it isn't a large wood!' she turned deliberately to face each direction; solemnly selected that from which the muttering of the guns seemed to come, and started again, moving very slowly with her hands stretched out. something rustled in the undergrowth, quite close; she saw a pair of green eyes shining. her heart jumped into her mouth. the thing sprang--there was a swish of ferns and twigs, and silence. noel clasped her breast. a poaching cat! and again she moved forward. but she had lost direction. 'i'm going round and round,' she thought. 'they always do.' and the sinking scattered feeling of the "bushed" clutched at her again. 'shall i call?' she thought. 'i must be near the road. but it's so babyish.' she moved on again. her foot struck something soft. a voice muttered a thick oath; a hand seized her ankle. she leaped, and dragged and wrenched it free; and, utterly unnerved, she screamed, and ran forward blindly. v no one could have so convinced a feeling as jimmy fort that he would be a 'bit of a makeshift' for noel. he had spent the weeks after his interview with her father obsessed by her image, often saying to himself "it won't do. it's playing it too low down to try and get that child, when i know that, but for her trouble, i shouldn't have a chance." he had never had much opinion of his looks, but now he seemed to himself absurdly old and dried-up in this desert of a london. he loathed the office job to which they had put him, and the whole atmosphere of officialdom. another year of it, and he would shrivel like an old apple! he began to look at himself anxiously, taking stock of his physical assets now that he had this dream of young beauty. he would be forty next month, and she was nineteen! but there would be times too when he would feel that, with her, he could be as much of a "three-year-old" as the youngster she had loved. having little hope of winning her, he took her "past" but lightly. was it not that past which gave him what chance he had? on two things he was determined: he would not trade on her past. and if by any chance she took him, he would never show her that he remembered that she had one. after writing to gratian he had spent the week before his holiday began, in an attempt to renew the youthfulness of his appearance, which made him feel older, leaner, bonier and browner than ever. he got up early, rode in the rain, took turkish baths, and did all manner of exercises; neither smoked nor drank, and went to bed early, exactly as if he had been going to ride a steeplechase. on the afternoon, when at last he left on that terrific pilgrimage, he gazed at his face with a sort of despair, it was so lean, and leather-coloured, and he counted almost a dozen grey hairs. when he reached the bungalow, and was told that she was working in the corn-fields, he had for the first time a feeling that fate was on his side. such a meeting would be easier than any other! he had been watching her for several minutes before she saw him, with his heart beating more violently than it had ever beaten in the trenches; and that new feeling of hope stayed with him--all through the greeting, throughout supper, and even after she had left them and gone upstairs. then, with the suddenness of a blind drawn down, it vanished, and he sat on, trying to talk, and slowly getting more and more silent and restless. "nollie gets so tired, working," gratian said: he knew she meant it kindly but that she should say it at all was ominous. he got up at last, having lost hope of seeing noel again, conscious too that he had answered the last three questions at random. in the porch george said: "you'll come in to lunch tomorrow, won't you?" "oh, thanks, i'm afraid it'll bore you all." "not a bit. nollie won't be so tired." again--so well meant. they were very kind. he looked up from the gate, trying to make out which her window might be; but all was dark. a little way down the road he stopped to light a cigarette; and, leaning against a gate, drew the smoke of it deep into his lungs, trying to assuage the ache in his heart. so it was hopeless! she had taken the first, the very first chance, to get away from him! she knew that he loved her, could not help knowing, for he had never been able to keep it out of his eyes and voice. if she had felt ever so little for him, she would not have avoided him this first evening. 'i'll go back to that desert,' he thought; 'i'm not going to whine and crawl. i'll go back, and bite on it; one must have some pride. oh, why the hell am i crocked-up like this? if only i could get out to france again!' and then noel's figure bent over the falling corn formed before him. 'i'll have one more try,' he thought; 'one more--tomorrow somewhere, i'll get to know for certain. and if i get what leila's got i shall deserve it, i suppose. poor leila! where is she? back at high constantia?' what was that? a cry--of terror--in that wood! crossing to the edge, he called "coo-ee!" and stood peering into its darkness. he heard the sound of bushes being brushed aside, and whistled. a figure came bursting out, almost into his arms. "hallo!" he said; "what's up?" a voice gasped: "oh! it's--it's nothing!" he saw noel. she had swayed back, and stood about a yard away. he could dimly see her covering her face with her arms. feeling instinctively that she wanted to hide her fright, he said quietly: "what luck! i was just passing. it's awfully dark." "i--i got lost; and a man--caught my foot, in there!" moved beyond control by the little gulps and gasps of her breathing, he stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. he held her lightly, without speaking, terrified lest he should wound her pride. "i-i got in there," she gasped, "and the trees--and i stumbled over a roan asleep, and he--" "yes, yes, i know," he murmured, as if to a child. she had dropped her arms now, and he could see her face, with eyes unnaturally dilated, and lips quivering. then moved again beyond control, he drew her so close that he could feel the throbbing of her heart, and put his lips to her forehead all wet with heat. she closed her eyes, gave a little choke, and buried her face against his coat. "there, there, my darling!" he kept on saying. "there, there, my darling!" he could feel the snuggling of her cheek against his shoulder. he had got her--had got her! he was somehow certain that she would not draw back now. and in the wonder and ecstasy of that thought, all the world above her head, the stars in their courses, the wood which had frightened her, seemed miracles of beauty and fitness. by such fortune as had never come to man, he had got her! and he murmured over and over again: "i love you!" she was resting perfectly quiet against him, while her heart ceased gradually to beat so fast. he could feel her cheek rubbing against his coat of harris tweed. suddenly she sniffed at it, and whispered: "it smells good." vi when summer sun has burned all egypt, the white man looks eagerly each day for evening, whose rose-coloured veil melts opalescent into the dun drift, of the hills, and iridescent above, into the slowly deepening blue. pierson stood gazing at the mystery of the desert from under the little group of palms and bougainvillea which formed the garden of the hospital. even-song was in full voice: from the far wing a gramophone was grinding out a music-hall ditty; two aeroplanes, wheeling exactly like the buzzards of the desert, were letting drip the faint whir of their flight; metallic voices drifted from the arab village; the wheels of the water-wells creaked; and every now and then a dry rustle was stirred from the palm-leaves by puffs of desert wind. on either hand an old road ran out, whose line could be marked by the little old watch-towers of another age. for how many hundred years had human life passed along it to east and west; the brown men and their camels, threading that immemorial track over the desert, which ever filled him with wonder, so still it was, so wide, so desolate, and every evening so beautiful! he sometimes felt that he could sit for ever looking at it; as though its cruel mysterious loveliness were--home; and yet he never looked at it without a spasm of homesickness. so far his new work had brought him no nearer to the hearts of men. or at least he did not feel it had. both at the regimental base, and now in this hospital--an intermediate stage--waiting for the draft with which he would be going into palestine, all had been very nice to him, friendly, and as it were indulgent; so might schoolboys have treated some well-intentioned dreamy master, or business men a harmless idealistic inventor who came visiting their offices. he had even the feeling that they were glad to have him about, just as they were glad to have their mascots and their regimental colours; but of heart-to-heart simple comradeship--it seemed they neither wanted it of him nor expected him to give it, so that he had a feeling that he would be forward and impertinent to offer it. moreover, he no longer knew how. he was very lonely. 'when i come face to face with death,' he would think, 'it will be different. death makes us all brothers. i may be of real use to them then.' they brought him a letter while he stood there listening to that even-song, gazing at the old desert road. "darling dad, "i do hope this will reach you before you move on to palestine. you said in your last--at the end of september, so i hope you'll just get it. there is one great piece of news, which i'm afraid will hurt and trouble you; nollie is married to jimmy fort. they were married down here this afternoon, and have just gone up to town. they have to find a house of course. she has been very restless, lonely, and unhappy ever since you went, and i'm sure it is really for the best: she is quite another creature, and simply devoted, headlong. it's just like nollie. she says she didn't know what she wanted, up to the last minute. but now she seems as if she could never want anything else. "dad dear, nollie could never have made good by herself. it isn't her nature, and it's much better like this, i feel sure, and so does george. of course it isn't ideal--and one wanted that for her; but she did break her wing, and he is so awfully good and devoted to her, though you didn't believe it, and perhaps won't, even now. the great thing is to feel her happy again, and know she's safe. nollie is capable of great devotion; only she must be anchored. she was drifting all about; and one doesn't know what she might have done, in one of her moods. i do hope you won't grieve about it. she's dreadfully anxious about how you'll feel. i know it will be wretched for you, so far off; but do try and believe it's for the best.... she's out of danger; and she was really in a horrible position. it's so good for the baby, too, and only fair to him. i do think one must take things as they are, dad dear. it was impossible to mend nollie's wing. if she were a fighter, and gloried in it, or if she were the sort who would 'take the veil'--but she isn't either. so it is all right, dad. she's writing to you herself. i'm sure leila didn't want jimmy fort to be unhappy because he couldn't love her; or she would never have gone away. george sends you his love; we are both very well. and nollie is looking splendid still, after her harvest work. all, all my love, dad dear. is there anything we can get, and send you? do take care of your blessed self, and don't grieve about nollie. "gratian." a half-sheet of paper fluttered down; he picked it up from among the parched fibre of dead palm-leaves. "daddy darling, "i've done it. forgive me-i'm so happy. "your nollie." the desert shimmered, the palm-leaves rustled, and pierson stood trying to master the emotion roused in him by those two letters. he felt no anger, not even vexation; he felt no sorrow, but a loneliness so utter and complete that he did not know how to bear it. it seemed as if some last link with life had' snapped. 'my girls are happy,' he thought. 'if i am not--what does it matter? if my faith and my convictions mean nothing to them--why should they follow? i must and will not feel lonely. i ought to have the sense of god present, to feel his hand in mine. if i cannot, what use am i--what use to the poor fellows in there, what use in all the world?' an old native on a donkey went by, piping a soudanese melody on a little wooden arab flute. pierson turned back into the hospital humming it. a nurse met him there. "the poor boy at the end of a ward is sinking fast, sir; i expect he'd like to see you," he went into a ward, and walked down between the beds to the west window end, where two screens had been put, to block off the cot. another nurse, who was sitting beside it, rose at once. "he's quite conscious," she whispered; "he can still speak a little. he's such a dear." a tear rolled down her cheek, and she passed out behind the screens. pierson looked down at the boy; perhaps he was twenty, but the unshaven down on his cheeks was soft and almost colourless. his eyes were closed. he breathed regularly, and did not seem in pain; but there was about him that which told he was going; something resigned, already of the grave. the window was wide open, covered by mosquito-netting, and a tiny line of sunlight, slanting through across the foot of the cot, crept slowly backwards over the sheets and the boy's body, shortening as it crept. in the grey whiteness of the walls; the bed, the boy's face, just that pale yellow bar of sunlight, and one splash of red and blue from a little flag on the wall glowed out. at this cooler hour, the ward behind the screens was almost empty, and few sounds broke the stillness; but from without came that intermittent rustle of dry palm-leaves. pierson waited in silence, watching the sun sink. if the boy might pass like this, it would be god's mercy. then he saw the boy's eyes open, wonderfully clear eyes of the lighted grey which has dark rims; his lips moved, and pierson bent down to hear. "i'm goin' west, zurr." the whisper had a little soft burr; the lips quivered; a pucker as of a child formed on his face, and passed. through pierson's mind there flashed the thought: 'o god! let me be some help to him!' "to god, my dear son!" he said. a flicker of humour, of ironic question, passed over the boy's lips. terribly moved, pierson knelt down, and began softly, fervently praying. his whispering mingled with the rustle of the palm-leaves, while the bar of sunlight crept up the body. in the boy's smile had been the whole of stoic doubt, of stoic acquiescence. it had met him with an unconscious challenge; had seemed to know so much. pierson took his hand, which lay outside the sheet. the boy's lips moved, as though in thanks; he drew a long feeble breath, as if to suck in the thread of sunlight; and his eyes closed. pierson bent over the hand. when he looked up the boy was dead. he kissed his forehead and went quietly out. the sun had set, and he walked away from the hospital to a hillock beyond the track on the desert's edge, and stood looking at the afterglow. the sun and the boy--together they had gone west, into that wide glowing nothingness. the muezzin call to sunset prayer in the arab village came to him clear and sharp, while he sat there, unutterably lonely. why had that smile so moved him? other death smiles had been like this evening smile on the desert hills--a glowing peace, a promise of heaven. but the boy's smile had said: 'waste no breath on me--you cannot help. who knows--who knows? i have no hope, no faith; but i am adventuring. good-bye!' poor boy! he had braved all things, and moved out uncertain, yet undaunted! was that, then, the uttermost truth, was faith a smaller thing? but from that strange notion he. recoiled with horror. 'in faith i have lived, in faith i will die!' he thought, 'god helping me!' and the breeze, ruffling the desert sand, blew the grains against the palms of his hands, outstretched above the warm earth. the end. the island pharisees by john galsworthy "but this is a worshipful society" king john preface each man born into the world is born like shelton in this book--to go a journey, and for the most part he is born on the high road. at first he sits there in the dust, with his little chubby hands reaching at nothing, and his little solemn eyes staring into space. as soon as he can toddle, he moves, by the queer instinct we call the love of life, straight along this road, looking neither to the right nor left, so pleased is he to walk. and he is charmed with everything--with the nice flat road, all broad and white, with his own feet, and with the prospect he can see on either hand. the sun shines, and he finds the road a little hot and dusty; the rain falls, and he splashes through the muddy puddles. it makes no matter--all is pleasant; his fathers went this way before him; they made this road for him to tread, and, when they bred him, passed into his fibre the love of doing things as they themselves had done them. so he walks on and on, resting comfortably at nights under the roofs that have been raised to shelter him, by those who went before. suddenly one day, without intending to, he notices a path or opening in the hedge, leading to right or left, and he stands, looking at the undiscovered. after that he stops at all the openings in the hedge; one day, with a beating heart, he tries one. and this is where the fun begins. out of ten of him that try the narrow path, nine of him come back to the broad road, and, when they pass the next gap in the hedge, they say: "no, no, my friend, i found you pleasant for a while, but after that-ah! after that! the way my fathers went is good enough for me, and it is obviously the proper one; for nine of me came back, and that poor silly tenth--i really pity him!" and when he comes to the next inn, and snuggles in his well-warmed, bed, he thinks of the wild waste of heather where he might have had to spend the night alone beneath the stars; nor does it, i think, occur to him that the broad road he treads all day was once a trackless heath itself. but the poor silly tenth is faring on. it is a windy night that he is travelling through a windy night, with all things new around, and nothing to help him but his courage. nine times out of ten that courage fails, and he goes down into the bog. he has seen the undiscovered, and--like ferrand in this book--the undiscovered has engulfed him; his spirit, tougher than the spirit of the nine that burned back to sleep in inns, was yet not tough enough. the tenth time he wins across, and on the traces he has left others follow slowly, cautiously--a new road is opened to mankind! a true saying goes: whatever is, is right! and if all men from the world's beginning had said that, the world would never have begun--at all. not even the protoplasmic jelly could have commenced its journey; there would have been no motive force to make it start. and so, that other saying had to be devised before the world could set up business: whatever is, is wrong! but since the cosmic spirit found that matters moved too fast if those that felt "all things that are, are wrong" equalled in number those that felt "all things that are, are right," it solemnly devised polygamy (all, be it said, in a spiritual way of speaking); and to each male spirit crowing "all things that are, are wrong" it decreed nine female spirits clucking "all things that are, are right." the cosmic spirit, who was very much an artist, knew its work, and had previously devised a quality called courage, and divided it in three, naming the parts spiritual, moral, physical. to all the male-bird spirits, but to no female (spiritually, not corporeally speaking), it gave courage that was spiritual; to nearly all, both male and female, it gave courage that was physical; to very many hen-bird spirits it gave moral courage too. but, because it knew that if all the male-bird spirits were complete, the proportion of male to female--one to ten--would be too great, and cause upheavals, it so arranged that only one in ten male-bird spirits should have all three kinds of courage; so that the other nine, having spiritual courage, but lacking either in moral or in physical, should fail in their extensions of the poultry-run. and having started them upon these lines, it left them to get along as best they might. thus, in the subdivision of the poultry-run that we call england, the proportion of the others to the complete male-bird spirit, who, of course, is not infrequently a woman, is ninety-nine to one; and with every island pharisee, when he or she starts out in life, the interesting question ought to be, "am i that one?" ninety very soon find out that they are not, and, having found it out, lest others should discover, they say they are. nine of the other ten, blinded by their spiritual courage, are harder to convince; but one by one they sink, still proclaiming their virility. the hundredth pharisee alone sits out the play. now, the journey of this young man shelton, who is surely not the hundredth pharisee, is but a ragged effort to present the working of the truth "all things that are, are wrong," upon the truth "all things that are, are right." the institutions of this country, like the institutions of all other countries, are but half-truths; they are the working daily clothing of the nation; no more the body's permanent dress than is a baby's frock. slowly but surely they wear out, or are outgrown; and in their fashion they are always thirty years at least behind the fashions of those spirits who are concerned with what shall take their place. the conditions that dictate our education, the distribution of our property, our marriage laws, amusements, worship, prisons, and all other things, change imperceptibly from hour to hour; the moulds containing them, being inelastic, do not change, but hold on to the point of bursting, and then are hastily, often clumsily, enlarged. the ninety desiring peace and comfort for their spirit, the ninety of the well-warmed beds, will have it that the fashions need not change, that morality is fixed, that all is ordered and immutable, that every one will always marry, play, and worship in the way that they themselves are marrying, playing, worshipping. they have no speculation, and they hate with a deep hatred those who speculate with thought. this is the function they were made for. they are the dough, and they dislike that yeasty stuff of life which comes and works about in them. the yeasty stuff--the other ten--chafed by all things that are, desirous ever of new forms and moulds, hate in their turn the comfortable ninety. each party has invented for the other the hardest names that it can think of: philistines, bourgeois, mrs. grundy, rebels, anarchists, and ne'er-do-weels. so we go on! and so, as each of us is born to go his journey, he finds himself in time ranged on one side or on the other, and joins the choruses of name-slingers. but now and then--ah! very seldom--we find ourselves so near that thing which has no breadth, the middle line, that we can watch them both, and positively smile to see the fun. when this book was published first, many of its critics found that shelton was the only pharisee, and a most unsatisfactory young man--and so, no doubt, he is. belonging to the comfortable ninety, they felt, in fact, the need of slinging names at one who obviously was of the ten. others of its critics, belonging to the ten, wielded their epithets upon antonia, and the serried ranks behind her, and called them pharisees; as dull as ditch-water--and so, i fear, they are. one of the greatest charms of authorship is the privilege it gives the author of studying the secret springs of many unseen persons, of analysing human nature through the criticism that his work evokes--criticism welling out of the instinctive likings or aversions, out of the very fibre of the human being who delivers it; criticism that often seems to leap out against the critic's will, startled like a fawn from some deep bed, of sympathy or of antipathy. and so, all authors love to be abused--as any man can see. in the little matter of the title of this book, we are all pharisees, whether of the ninety or the ten, and we certainly do live upon an island. john galsworthy. january , part i the town chapter i society a quiet, well-dressed man named shelton, with a brown face and a short, fair beard, stood by the bookstall at dover station. he was about to journey up to london, and had placed his bag in the corner of a third-class carriage. after his long travel, the flat-vowelled voice of the bookstall clerk offering the latest novel sounded pleasant--pleasant the independent answers of a bearded guard, and the stodgy farewell sayings of a man and wife. the limber porters trundling their barrows, the greyness of the station and the good stolid humour clinging to the people, air, and voices, all brought to him the sense of home. meanwhile he wavered between purchasing a book called market hayborough, which he had read and would certainly enjoy a second time, and carlyle's french revolution, which he had not read and was doubtful of enjoying; he felt that he ought to buy the latter, but he did not relish giving up the former. while he hesitated thus, his carriage was beginning to fill up; so, quickly buying both, he took up a position from which he could defend his rights. "nothing," he thought, "shows people up like travelling." the carriage was almost full, and, putting his bag, up in the rack, he took his seat. at the moment of starting yet another passenger, a girl with a pale face, scrambled in. "i was a fool to go third," thought shelton, taking in his neighbours from behind his journal. they were seven. a grizzled rustic sat in the far corner; his empty pipe, bowl downwards, jutted like a handle from his face, all bleared with the smear of nothingness that grows on those who pass their lives in the current of hard facts. next to him, a ruddy, heavy-shouldered man was discussing with a grey-haired, hatchet-visaged person the condition of their gardens; and shelton watched their eyes till it occurred to him how curious a look was in them--a watchful friendliness, an allied distrust--and that their voices, cheerful, even jovial, seemed to be cautious all the time. his glance strayed off, and almost rebounded from the semi-roman, slightly cross, and wholly self-complacent face of a stout lady in a black-and-white costume, who was reading the strand magazine, while her other, sleek, plump hand, freed from its black glove, and ornamented with a thick watch-bracelet, rested on her lap. a younger, bright-cheeked, and self-conscious female was sitting next her, looking at the pale girl who had just got in. "there's something about that girl," thought shelton, "they don't like." her brown eyes certainly looked frightened, her clothes were of a foreign cut. suddenly he met the glance of another pair of eyes; these eyes, prominent and blue, stared with a sort of subtle roguery from above a thin, lopsided nose, and were at once averted. they gave shelton the impression that he was being judged, and mocked, enticed, initiated. his own gaze did not fall; this sanguine face, with its two-day growth of reddish beard, long nose, full lips, and irony, puzzled him. "a cynical face!" he thought, and then, "but sensitive!" and then, "too cynical," again. the young man who owned it sat with his legs parted at the knees, his dusty trouser-ends and boots slanting back beneath the seat, his yellow finger-tips crisped as if rolling cigarettes. a strange air of detachment was about that youthful, shabby figure, and not a scrap of luggage filled the rack above his head. the frightened girl was sitting next this pagan personality; it was possibly the lack of fashion in his looks that caused, her to select him for her confidence. "monsieur," she asked, "do you speak french?" "perfectly." "then can you tell me where they take the tickets? "the young man shook his head. "no," said he, "i am a foreigner." the girl sighed. "but what is the matter, ma'moiselle?" the girl did not reply, twisting her hands on an old bag in her lap. silence had stolen on the carriage--a silence such as steals on animals at the first approach of danger; all eyes were turned towards the figures of the foreigners. "yes," broke out the red-faced man, "he was a bit squiffy that evening--old tom." "ah!" replied his neighbour, "he would be." something seemed to have destroyed their look of mutual distrust. the plump, sleek hand of the lady with the roman nose curved convulsively; and this movement corresponded to the feeling agitating shelton's heart. it was almost as if hand and heart feared to be asked for something. "monsieur," said the girl, with a tremble in her voice, "i am very unhappy; can you tell me what to do? i had no money for a ticket." the foreign youth's face flickered. "yes?" he said; "that might happen to anyone, of course." "what will they do to me?" sighed the girl. "don't lose courage, ma'moiselle." the young man slid his eyes from left to right, and rested them on shelton. "although i don't as yet see your way out." "oh, monsieur!" sighed the girl, and, though it was clear that none but shelton understood what they were saying, there was a chilly feeling in the carriage. "i wish i could assist you," said the foreign youth; "unfortunately----" he shrugged his shoulders, and again his eyes returned to shelton. the latter thrust his hand into his pocket. "can i be of any use?" he asked in english. "certainly, sir; you could render this young lady the greatest possible service by lending her the money for a ticket." shelton produced a sovereign, which the young man took. passing it to the girl, he said: "a thousand thanks--'voila une belle action'!" the misgivings which attend on casual charity crowded up in shelton's mind; he was ashamed of having them and of not having them, and he stole covert looks at this young foreigner, who was now talking to the girl in a language that he did not understand. though vagabond in essence, the fellow's face showed subtle spirit, a fortitude and irony not found upon the face of normal man, and in turning from it to the other passengers shelton was conscious of revolt, contempt, and questioning, that he could not define. leaning back with half-closed eyes, he tried to diagnose this new sensation. he found it disconcerting that the faces and behaviour of his neighbours lacked anything he could grasp and secretly abuse. they continued to converse with admirable and slightly conscious phlegm, yet he knew, as well as if each one had whispered to him privately, that this shady incident had shaken them. something unsettling to their notions of propriety-something dangerous and destructive of complacency--had occurred, and this was unforgivable. each had a different way, humorous or philosophic, contemptuous, sour, or sly, of showing this resentment. but by a flash of insight shelton saw that at the bottom of their minds and of his own the feeling was the same. because he shared in their resentment he was enraged with them and with himself. he looked at the plump, sleek hand of the woman with the roman nose. the insulation and complacency of its pale skin, the passive righteousness about its curve, the prim separation from the others of the fat little finger, had acquired a wholly unaccountable importance. it embodied the verdict of his fellow-passengers, the verdict of society; for he knew that, whether or no repugnant to the well-bred mind, each assemblage of eight persons, even in a third-class carriage, contains the kernel of society. but being in love, and recently engaged, shelton had a right to be immune from discontent of any kind, and he reverted to his mental image of the cool, fair face, quick movements, and the brilliant smile that now in his probationary exile haunted his imagination; he took out his fiancee's last letter, but the voice of the young foreigner addressing him in rapid french caused him to put it back abruptly. "from what she tells me, sir," he said, bending forward to be out of hearing of the girl, "hers is an unhappy case. i should have been only too glad to help her, but, as you see"--and he made a gesture by which shelton observed that he had parted from his waistcoat--"i am not rothschild. she has been abandoned by the man who brought her over to dover under promise of marriage. look"--and by a subtle flicker of his eyes he marked how the two ladies had edged away from the french girl "they take good care not to let their garments touch her. they are virtuous women. how fine a thing is virtue, sir! and finer to know you have it, especially when you are never likely to be tempted." shelton was unable to repress a smile; and when he smiled his face grew soft. "haven't you observed," went on the youthful foreigner, "that those who by temperament and circumstance are worst fitted to pronounce judgment are usually the first to judge? the judgments of society are always childish, seeing that it's composed for the most part of individuals who have never smelt the fire. and look at this: they who have money run too great a risk of parting with it if they don't accuse the penniless of being rogues and imbeciles." shelton was startled, and not only by an outburst of philosophy from an utter stranger in poor clothes, but at this singular wording of his own private thoughts. stifling his sense of the unusual for the queer attraction this young man inspired, he said: "i suppose you're a stranger over here?" "i've been in england seven months, but not yet in london," replied the other. "i count on doing some good there--it is time!" a bitter and pathetic smile showed for a second on his lips. "it won't be my fault if i fail. you are english, sir?" shelton nodded. "forgive my asking; your voice lacks something i've nearly always noticed in the english a kind of--'comment cela s'appelle'--cocksureness, coming from your nation's greatest quality." "and what is that?" asked shelton with a smile. "complacency," replied the youthful foreigner. "complacency!" repeated shelton; "do you call that a great quality?" "i should rather say, monsieur, a great defect in what is always a great people. you are certainly the most highly-civilised nation on the earth; you suffer a little from the fact. if i were an english preacher my desire would be to prick the heart of your complacency." shelton, leaning back, considered this impertinent suggestion. "hum!" he said at last, "you'd be unpopular; i don't know that we're any cockier than other nations." the young foreigner made a sign as though confirming this opinion. "in effect," said he, "it is a sufficiently widespread disease. look at these people here"--and with a rapid glance he pointed to the inmates of the carnage,--"very average persons! what have they done to warrant their making a virtuous nose at those who do not walk as they do? that old rustic, perhaps, is different--he never thinks at all--but look at those two occupied with their stupidities about the price of hops, the prospects of potatoes, what george is doing, a thousand things all of that sort--look at their faces; i come of the bourgeoisie myself--have they ever shown proof of any quality that gives them the right to pat themselves upon the back? no fear! outside potatoes they know nothing, and what they do not understand they dread and they despise--there are millions of that breed. 'voila la societe'! the sole quality these people have shown they have is cowardice. i was educated by the jesuits," he concluded; "it has given me a way of thinking." under ordinary circumstances shelton would have murmured in a well-bred voice, "ah! quite so," and taken refuge in the columns of the daily telegraph. in place of this, for some reason that he did not understand, he looked at the young foreigner, and asked, "why do you say all this to me?" the tramp--for by his boots he could hardly have been better--hesitated. "when you've travelled like me," he said, as if resolved to speak the truth, "you acquire an instinct in choosing to whom and how you speak. it is necessity that makes the law; if you want to live you must learn all that sort of thing to make face against life." shelton, who himself possessed a certain subtlety, could not but observe the complimentary nature of these words. it was like saying "i'm not afraid of you misunderstanding me, and thinking me a rascal just because i study human nature." "but is there nothing to be done for that poor girl?" his new acquaintance shrugged his shoulders. "a broken jug," said he; "--you'll never mend her. she's going to a cousin in london to see if she can get help; you've given her the means of getting there--it's all that you can do. one knows too well what'll become of her." shelton said gravely, "oh! that's horrible! could n't she be induced to go back home? i should be glad--" the foreign vagrant shook his head. "mon cher monsieur," he said, "you evidently have not yet had occasion to know what the 'family' is like. 'the family' does not like damaged goods; it will have nothing to say to sons whose hands have dipped into the till or daughters no longer to be married. what the devil would they do with her? better put a stone about her neck and let her drown at once. all the world is christian, but christian and good samaritan are not quite the same." shelton looked at the girl, who was sitting motionless, with her hands crossed on her bag, and a revolt against the unfair ways of life arose within him. "yes," said the young foreigner, as if reading all his thoughts, "what's called virtue is nearly always only luck." he rolled his eyes as though to say: "ah! la, conventions? have them by all means--but don't look like peacocks because you are preserving them; it is but cowardice and luck, my friends--but cowardice and luck!" "look here," said shelton, "i'll give her my address, and if she wants to go back to her family she can write to me." "she'll never go back; she won't have the courage." shelton caught the cringing glance of the girl's eyes; in the droop of her lip there was something sensuous, and the conviction that the young man's words were true came over him. "i had better not give them my private address," he thought, glancing at the faces opposite; and he wrote down the following: "richard paramor shelton, c/o paramor and herring, lincoln's inn fields." "you're very good, sir. my name is louis ferrand; no address at present. i'll make her understand; she's half stupefied just now." shelton returned to the perusal of his paper, too disturbed to read; the young vagrant's words kept sounding in his ears. he raised his eyes. the plump hand of the lady with the roman nose still rested on her lap; it had been recased in its black glove with large white stitching. her frowning gaze was fixed on him suspiciously, as if he had outraged her sense of decency. "he did n't get anything from me," said the voice of the red-faced man, ending a talk on tax-gatherers. the train whistled loudly, and shelton reverted to his paper. this time he crossed his legs, determined to enjoy the latest murder; once more he found himself looking at the vagrant's long-nosed, mocking face. "that fellow," he thought, "has seen and felt ten times as much as i, although he must be ten years younger." he turned for distraction to the landscape, with its april clouds, trim hedgerows, homely coverts. but strange ideas would come, and he was discontented with himself; the conversation he had had, the personality of this young foreigner, disturbed him. it was all as though he had made a start in some fresh journey through the fields of thought. chapter ii antonia five years before the journey just described shelton had stood one afternoon on the barge of his old college at the end of the summer races. he had been "down" from oxford for some years, but these olympian contests still attracted him. the boats were passing, and in the usual rush to the barge side his arm came in contact with a soft young shoulder. he saw close to him a young girl with fair hair knotted in a ribbon, whose face was eager with excitement. the pointed chin, long neck, the fluffy hair, quick gestures, and the calm strenuousness of her grey-blue eyes, impressed him vividly. "oh, we must bump them!" he heard her sigh. "do you know my people, shelton?" said a voice behind his back; and he was granted a touch from the girl's shy, impatient hand, the warmer fingers of a lady with kindly eyes resembling a hare's, the dry hand-clasp of a gentleman with a thin, arched nose, and a quizzical brown face. "are you the mr. shelton who used to play the 'bones' at eton?" said the lady. "oh; we so often heard of you from bernard! he was your fag, was n't he? how distressin' it is to see these poor boys in the boats!" "mother, they like it!" cried the girl. "antonia ought to be rowing, herself," said her father, whose name was dennant. shelton went back with them to their hotel, walking beside antonia through the christchurch meadows, telling her details of his college life. he dined with them that evening, and, when he left, had a feeling like that produced by a first glass of champagne. the dennants lived at holm oaks, within six miles of oxford, and two days later he drove over and paid a call. amidst the avocations of reading for the bar, of cricket, racing, shooting, it but required a whiff of some fresh scent--hay, honeysuckle, clover--to bring antonia's face before him, with its uncertain colour and its frank, distant eyes. but two years passed before he again saw her. then, at an invitation from bernard dennant, he played cricket for the manor of holm oaks against a neighbouring house; in the evening there was dancing oh the lawn. the fair hair was now turned up, but the eyes were quite unchanged. their steps went together, and they outlasted every other couple on the slippery grass. thence, perhaps, sprang her respect for him; he was wiry, a little taller than herself, and seemed to talk of things that interested her. he found out she was seventeen, and she found out that he was twenty-nine. the following two years shelton went to holm oaks whenever he was asked; to him this was a period of enchanted games, of cub-hunting, theatricals, and distant sounds of practised music, and during it antonia's eyes grew more friendly and more curious, and his own more shy, and schooled, more furtive and more ardent. then came his father's death, a voyage round the world, and that peculiar hour of mixed sensations when, one march morning, abandoning his steamer at marseilles, he took train for hyeres. he found her at one of those exclusive hostelries amongst the pines where the best english go, in common with americans, russian princesses, and jewish families; he would not have been shocked to find her elsewhere, but he would have been surprised. his sunburnt face and the new beard, on which he set some undefined value, apologetically displayed, were scanned by those blue eyes with rapid glances, at once more friendly and less friendly. "ah!" they seemed to say, "here you are; how glad i am! but--what now?" he was admitted to their sacred table at the table d'hote, a snowy oblong in an airy alcove, where the honourable mrs. dennant, miss dennant, and the honourable charlotte penguin, a maiden aunt with insufficient lungs, sat twice a day in their own atmosphere. a momentary weakness came on shelton the first time he saw them sitting there at lunch. what was it gave them their look of strange detachment? mrs. dennant was bending above a camera. "i'm afraid, d' you know, it's under-exposed," she said. "what a pity! the kitten was rather nice!" the maiden aunt, placing the knitting of a red silk tie beside her plate, turned her aspiring, well-bred gaze on shelton. "look, auntie," said antonia in her clear, quick voice, "there's the funny little man again!" "oh," said the maiden aunt--a smile revealed her upper teeth; she looked for the funny little man (who was not english)--"he's rather nice!" shelton did not look for the funny little man; he stole a glance that barely reached antonia's brow, where her eyebrows took their tiny upward slant at the outer corners, and her hair was still ruffled by a windy walk. from that moment he became her slave. "mr. shelton, do you know anything about these periscopic binoculars?" said mrs. dennant's voice; "they're splendid for buildin's, but buildin's are so disappointin'. the thing is to get human interest, isn't it?" and her glance wandered absently past shelton in search of human interest. "you haven't put down what you've taken, mother." from a little leather bag mrs. dennant took a little leather book. "it's so easy to forget what they're about," she said, "that's so annoyin'." shelton was not again visited by his uneasiness at their detachment; he accepted them and all their works, for there was something quite sublime about the way that they would leave the dining-room, unconscious that they themselves were funny to all the people they had found so funny while they had been sitting there, and he would follow them out unnecessarily upright and feeling like a fool. in the ensuing fortnight, chaperoned by the maiden aunt, for mrs. dennant disliked driving, he sat opposite to antonia during many drives; he played sets of tennis with her; but it was in the evenings after dinner--those long evenings on a parquet floor in wicker chairs dragged as far as might be from the heating apparatus--that he seemed so very near her. the community of isolation drew them closer. in place of a companion he had assumed the part of friend, to whom she could confide all her home-sick aspirations. so that, even when she was sitting silent, a slim, long foot stretched out in front, bending with an air of cool absorption over some pencil sketches which she would not show him--even then, by her very attitude, by the sweet freshness that clung about her, by her quick, offended glances at the strange persons round, she seemed to acknowledge in some secret way that he was necessary. he was far from realising this; his intellectual and observant parts were hypnotised and fascinated even by her failings. the faint freckling across her nose, the slim and virginal severeness of her figure, with its narrow hips and arms, the curve of her long neck-all were added charms. she had the wind and rain look, a taste of home; and over the glaring roads, where the palm-tree shadows lay so black, she seemed to pass like the very image of an english day. one afternoon he had taken her to play tennis with some friends, and afterwards they strolled on to her favourite view. down the toulon road gardens and hills were bathed in the colour of ripe apricot; an evening crispness had stolen on the air; the blood, released from the sun's numbing, ran gladly in the veins. on the right hand of the road was a frenchman playing bowls. enormous, busy, pleased, and upright as a soldier, pathetically trotting his vast carcass from end to end, he delighted shelton. but antonia threw a single look at the huge creature, and her face expressed disgust. she began running up towards the ruined tower. shelton let her keep in front, watching her leap from stone to stone and throw back defiant glances when he pressed behind. she stood at the top, and he looked up at her. over the world, gloriously spread below, she, like a statue, seemed to rule. the colour was brilliant in her cheeks, her young bosom heaved, her eyes shone, and the flowing droop of her long, full sleeves gave to her poised figure the look of one who flies. he pulled himself up and stood beside her; his heart choked him, all the colour had left his cheeks. "antonia," he said, "i love you." she started, as if his whisper had intruded on her thoughts; but his face must have expressed his hunger, for the resentment in her eyes vanished. they stood for several minutes without speaking, and then went home. shelton painfully revolved the riddle of the colour in her face. had he a chance then? was it possible? that evening the instinct vouchsafed at times to lovers in place of reason caused him to pack his bag and go to cannes. on returning, two days later, and approaching the group in the centre of the winter garden, the voice of the maiden aunt reading aloud an extract from the morning post reached him across the room. "don't you think that's rather nice?" he heard her ask, and then: "oh, here you aye! it's very nice to see you back!" shelton slipped into a wicker chair. antonia looked up quickly from her sketch-book, put out a hand, but did not speak. he watched her bending head, and his eagerness was changed to gloom. with desperate vivacity he sustained the five intolerable minutes of inquiry, where had he been, what had he been doing? then once again the maiden aunt commenced her extracts from the morning post. a touch on his sleeve startled him. antonia was leaning forward; her cheeks were crimson above the pallor of her neck. "would you like to see my sketches?" to shelton, bending above those sketches, that drawl of the well-bred maiden aunt intoning the well-bred paper was the most pleasant sound that he had ever listened to. "my dear dick," mrs. dennant said to him a fortnight later, "we would rather, after you leave here, that you don't see each other again until july. of course i know you count it an engagement and all that, and everybody's been writin' to congratulate you. but algie thinks you ought to give yourselves a chance. young people don't always know what they're about, you know; it's not long to wait." "three months!" gasped shelton. he had to swallow down this pill with what grace he could command. there was no alternative. antonia had acquiesced in the condition with a queer, grave pleasure, as if she expected it to do her good. "it'll be something to look forward to, dick," she said. he postponed departure as long as possible, and it was not until the end of april that he left for england. she came alone to see him off. it was drizzling, but her tall, slight figure in the golf cape looked impervious to cold and rain amongst the shivering natives. desperately he clutched her hand, warm through the wet glove; her smile seemed heartless in its brilliancy. he whispered "you will write?" "of course; don't be so stupid, you old dick!" she ran forward as the train began to move; her clear "good-bye!" sounded shrill and hard above the rumble of the wheels. he saw her raise her hand, an umbrella waving, and last of all, vivid still amongst receding shapes, the red spot of her scarlet tam-o'-shanter. chapter iii a zoological garden after his journey up from dover, shelton was still fathering his luggage at charing cross, when the foreign girl passed him, and, in spite of his desire to say something cheering, he could get nothing out but a shame-faced smile. her figure vanished, wavering into the hurly-burly; one of his bags had gone astray, and so all thought of her soon faded from his mind. his cab, however, overtook the foreign vagrant marching along towards pall mall with a curious, lengthy stride--an observant, disillusioned figure. the first bustle of installation over, time hung heavy on his hands. july loomed distant, as in some future century; antonia's eyes beckoned him faintly, hopelessly. she would not even be coming back to england for another month. . . . i met a young foreigner in the train from dover [he wrote to her]--a curious sort of person altogether, who seems to have infected me. everything here has gone flat and unprofitable; the only good things in life are your letters . . . . john noble dined with me yesterday; the poor fellow tried to persuade me to stand for parliament. why should i think myself fit to legislate for the unhappy wretches one sees about in the streets? if people's faces are a fair test of their happiness, i' d rather not feel in any way responsible . . . . the streets, in fact, after his long absence in the east, afforded him much food for thought: the curious smugness of the passers-by; the utterly unending bustle; the fearful medley of miserable, over-driven women, and full-fed men, with leering, bull-beef eyes, whom he saw everywhere--in club windows, on their beats, on box seats, on the steps of hotels, discharging dilatory duties; the appalling chaos of hard-eyed, capable dames with defiant clothes, and white-cheeked hunted-looking men; of splendid creatures in their cabs, and cadging creatures in their broken hats--the callousness and the monotony! one afternoon in may he received this letter couched in french: , blank row westminster. my dear sir, excuse me for recalling to your memory the offer of assistance you so kindly made me during the journey from dover to london, in which i was so fortunate as to travel with a man like you. having beaten the whole town, ignorant of what wood to make arrows, nearly at the end of my resources, my spirit profoundly discouraged, i venture to avail myself of your permission, knowing your good heart. since i saw you i have run through all the misfortunes of the calendar, and cannot tell what door is left at which i have not knocked. i presented myself at the business firm with whose name you supplied me, but being unfortunately in rags, they refused to give me your address. is this not very much in the english character? they told me to write, and said they would forward the letter. i put all my hopes in you. believe me, my dear sir, (whatever you may decide) your devoted louis ferrand. shelton looked at the envelope, and saw, that it, bore date a week ago. the face of the young vagrant rose before him, vital, mocking, sensitive; the sound of his quick french buzzed in his ears, and, oddly, the whole whiff of him had a power of raising more vividly than ever his memories of antonia. it had been at the end of the journey from hyeres to london that he had met him; that seemed to give the youth a claim. he took his hat and hurried, to blank row. dismissing his cab at the corner of victoria street he with difficulty found the house in question. it was a doorless place, with stone-flagged corridor--in other words, a "doss-house." by tapping on a sort of ticket-office with a sliding window, he attracted the attention of a blowsy woman with soap-suds on her arms, who informed him that the person he was looking for had gone without leaving his address. "but isn't there anybody," asked shelton, "of whom i can make inquiry?" "yes; there's a frenchman." and opening an inner door she bellowed: "frenchy! wanted!" and disappeared. a dried-up, yellow little man, cynical and weary in the face, as if a moral steam-roller had passed over it, answered this call, and stood, sniffing, as it were, at shelton, on whom he made the singular impression of some little creature in a cage. "he left here ten days ago, in the company of a mulatto. what do you want with him, if i may ask?" the little man's yellow cheeks were wrinkled with suspicion. shelton produced the letter. "ah! now i know you"--a pale smile broke through the frenchman's crow's-feet--"he spoke of you. 'if i can only find him,' he used to say, 'i 'm saved.' i liked that young man; he had ideas." "is there no way of getting at him through his consul?" the frenchman shook his head. "might as well look for diamonds at the bottom of the sea." "do you think he will come back here? but by that time i suppose, you'll hardly be here yourself?" a gleam of amusement played about the frenchman's teeth: "i? oh, yes, sir! once upon a time i cherished the hope of emerging; i no longer have illusions. i shave these specimens for a living, and shall shave them till the day of judgment. but leave a letter with me by all means; he will come back. there's an overcoat of his here on which he borrowed money--it's worth more. oh, yes; he will come back--a youth of principle. leave a letter with me; i'm always here." shelton hesitated, but those last three words, "i'm always here," touched him in their simplicity. nothing more dreadful could be said. "can you find me a sheet of paper, then?" he asked; "please keep the change for the trouble i am giving you." "thank you," said the frenchman simply; "he told me that your heart was good. if you don't mind the kitchen, you could write there at your ease." shelton wrote his letter at the table of this stone-flagged kitchen in company with an aged, dried-up gentleman; who was muttering to himself; and shelton tried to avoid attracting his attention, suspecting that he was not sober. just as he was about to take his leave, however, the old fellow thus accosted him: "did you ever go to the dentist, mister?" he said, working at a loose tooth with his shrivelled fingers. "i went to a dentist once, who professed to stop teeth without giving pain, and the beggar did stop my teeth without pain; but did they stay in, those stoppings? no, my bhoy; they came out before you could say jack robinson. now, i shimply ask you, d'you call that dentistry?" fixing his eyes on shelton's collar, which had the misfortune to be high and clean, he resumed with drunken scorn: "ut's the same all over this pharisaical counthry. talk of high morality and anglo-shaxon civilisation! the world was never at such low ebb! phwhat's all this morality? ut stinks of the shop. look at the condition of art in this counthry! look at the fools you see upon th' stage! look at the pictures and books that sell! i know what i'm talking about, though i am a sandwich man. phwhat's the secret of ut all? shop, my bhoy! ut don't pay to go below a certain depth! scratch the skin, but pierce ut--oh! dear, no! we hate to see the blood fly, eh?" shelton stood disconcerted, not knowing if he were expected to reply; but the old gentleman, pursing up his lips, went on: "sir, there are no extremes in this fog-smitten land. do ye think blanks loike me ought to exist? whoy don't they kill us off? palliatives--palliatives--and whoy? because they object to th' extreme course. look at women: the streets here are a scandal to the world. they won't recognise that they exist--their noses are so dam high! they blink the truth in this middle-class counthry. my bhoy"--and he whispered confidentially--"ut pays 'em. eh? you say, why shouldn't they, then?" (but shelton had not spoken.) "well, let'em! let 'em! but don't tell me that'sh morality, don't tell me that'sh civilisation! what can you expect in a counthry where the crimson, emotions are never allowed to smell the air? and what'sh the result? my bhoy, the result is sentiment, a yellow thing with blue spots, like a fungus or a stilton cheese. go to the theatre, and see one of these things they call plays. tell me, are they food for men and women? why, they're pap for babes and shop-boys! i was a blanky actor moyself!" shelton listened with mingled feelings of amusement and dismay, till the old actor, having finished, resumed his crouching posture at the table. "you don't get dhrunk, i suppose?" he said suddenly--"too much of 'n englishman, no doubt." "very seldom," said shelton. "pity! think of the pleasures of oblivion! oi 'm dhrunk every night." "how long will you last at that rate?" "there speaks the englishman! why should oi give up me only pleasure to keep me wretched life in? if you've anything left worth the keeping shober for, keep shober by all means; if not, the sooner you are dhrunk the better--that stands to reason." in the corridor shelton asked the frenchman where the old man came from. "oh, and englishman! yes, yes, from belfast very drunken old man. you are a drunken nation"--he made a motion with his hands "he no longer eats--no inside left. it is unfortunate-a man of spirit. if you have never seen one of these palaces, monsieur, i shall be happy to show you over it." shelton took out his cigarette case. "yes, yes," said the frenchman, making a wry nose and taking a cigarette; "i'm accustomed to it. but you're wise to fumigate the air; one is n't in a harem." and shelton felt ashamed of his fastidiousness. "this," said the guide, leading him up-stairs and opening a door, "is a specimen of the apartments reserved for these princes of the blood." there were four empty beds on iron legs, and, with the air of a showman, the frenchman twitched away a dingy quilt. "they go out in the mornings, earn enough to make them drunk, sleep it off, and then begin again. that's their life. there are people who think they ought to be reformed. 'mon cher monsieur', one must face reality a little, even in this country. it would be a hundred times better for these people to spend their time reforming high society. your high society makes all these creatures; there's no harvest without cutting stalks. 'selon moi'," he continued, putting back the quilt, and dribbling cigarette smoke through his nose, "there's no grand difference between your high society and these individuals here; both want pleasure, both think only of themselves, which is very natural. one lot have had the luck, the other--well, you see." he shrugged. "a common set! i've been robbed here half a dozen times. if you have new shoes, a good waistcoat, an overcoat, you want eyes in the back of your head. and they are populated! change your bed, and you'll run all the dangers of not sleeping alone. 'v'la ma clientele'! the half of them don't pay me!" he, snapped his yellow sticks of fingers. "a penny for a shave, twopence a cut! 'quelle vie'! here," he continued, standing by a bed, "is a gentleman who owes me fivepence. here's one who was a soldier; he's done for! all brutalised; not one with any courage left! but, believe me, monsieur," he went on, opening another door, "when you come down to houses of this sort you must have a vice; it's as necessary as breath is to the lungs. no matter what, you must have a vice to give you a little solace--'un peu de soulagement'. ah, yes! before you judge these swine, reflect on life! i've been through it. monsieur, it is not nice never to know where to get your next meal. gentlemen who have food in their stomachs, money in their pockets, and know where to get more, they never think. why should they--'pas de danger'! all these cages are the same. come down, and you shall see the pantry." he took shelton through the kitchen, which seemed the only sitting-room of the establishment, to an inner room furnished with dirty cups and saucers, plates, and knives. another fire was burning there. "we always have hot water," said the frenchman, "and three times a week they make a fire down there"--he pointed to a cellar--"for our clients to boil their vermin. oh, yes, we have all the luxuries." shelton returned to the kitchen, and directly after took leave of the little frenchman, who said, with a kind of moral button-holing, as if trying to adopt him as a patron: "trust me, monsieur; if he comes back--that young man--he shall have your letter without fail. my name is carolan jules carolan; and i am always at your service." chapter iv the play shelton walked away; he had been indulging in a nightmare. "that old actor was drunk," thought he, "and no doubt he was an irishman; still, there may be truth in what he said. i am a pharisee, like all the rest who are n't in the pit. my respectability is only luck. what should i have become if i'd been born into his kind of life?" and he stared at a stream of people coming from the stares, trying to pierce the mask of their serious, complacent faces. if these ladies and gentlemen were put into that pit into which he had been looking, would a single one of them emerge again? but the effort of picturing them there was too much for him; it was too far--too ridiculously far. one particular couple, a large; fine man and wife, who, in the midst of all the dirt and rumbling hurry, the gloomy, ludicrous, and desperately jovial streets, walked side by side in well-bred silence, had evidently bought some article which pleased them. there was nothing offensive in their manner; they seemed quite unconcerned at the passing of the other people. the man had that fine solidity of shoulder and of waist, the glossy self-possession that belongs to those with horses, guns, and dressing-bags. the wife, her chin comfortably settled in her fur, kept her grey eyes on the ground, and, when she spoke, her even and unruffled voice reached shelton's ears above all the whirring of the traffic. it was leisurely precise, as if it had never hurried, had never been exhausted, or passionate, or afraid. their talk, like that of many dozens of fine couples invading london from their country places, was of where to dine, what theatre they should go to, whom they had seen, what they should buy. and shelton knew that from day's end to end, and even in their bed, these would be the subjects of their conversation. they were the best-bred people of the sort he met in country houses and accepted as of course, with a vague discomfort at the bottom of his soul. antonia's home, for instance, had been full of them. they were the best-bred people of the sort who supported charities, knew everybody, had clear, calm judgment, and intolerance of all such conduct as seemed to them "impossible," all breaches of morality, such as mistakes of etiquette, such as dishonesty, passion, sympathy (except with a canonised class of objects--the legitimate sufferings, for instance, of their own families and class). how healthy they were! the memory of the doss-house worked in shelton's mind like poison. he was conscious that in his own groomed figure, in the undemonstrative assurance of his walk, he bore resemblance to the couple he apostrophised. "ah!" he thought, "how vulgar our refinement is!" but he hardly believed in his own outburst. these people were so well mannered, so well conducted, and so healthy, he could not really understand what irritated him. what was the matter with them? they fulfilled their duties, had good appetites, clear consciences, all the furniture of perfect citizens; they merely lacked-feelers, a loss that, he had read, was suffered by plants and animals which no longer had a need for using them. some rare national faculty of seeing only the obvious and materially useful had destroyed their power of catching gleams or scents to right or left. the lady looked up at her husband. the light of quiet, proprietary affection shone in her calm grey eyes, decorously illumining her features slightly reddened by the wind. and the husband looked back at her, calm, practical, protecting. they were very much alike. so doubtless he looked when he presented himself in snowy shirt-sleeves for her to straighten the bow of his white tie; so nightly she would look, standing before the full-length mirror, fixing his gifts upon her bosom. calm, proprietary, kind! he passed them and walked behind a second less distinguished couple, who manifested a mutual dislike as matter-of-fact and free from nonsense as the unruffled satisfaction of the first; this dislike was just as healthy, and produced in shelton about the same sensation. it was like knocking at a never-opened door, looking at a circle--couple after couple all the same. no heads, toes, angles of their souls stuck out anywhere. in the sea of their environments they were drowned; no leg braved the air, no arm emerged wet and naked waving at the skies; shop-persons, aristocrats, workmen, officials, they were all respectable. and he himself as respectable as any. he returned, thus moody, to his rooms and, with the impetuosity which distinguished him when about to do an unwise thing, he seized a pen and poured out before antonia some of his impressions: . . . . mean is the word, darling; we are mean, that's what 's the matter with us, dukes and dustmen, the whole human species--as mean as caterpillars. to secure our own property and our own comfort, to dole out our sympathy according to rule just so that it won't really hurt us, is what we're all after. there's something about human nature that is awfully repulsive, and the healthier people are, the more repulsive they seem to me to be . . . . he paused, biting his pen. had he one acquaintance who would not counsel him to see a doctor for writing in that style? how would the world go round, how could society exist, without common-sense, practical ability, and the lack of sympathy? he looked out of the open window. down in the street a footman was settling the rug over the knees of a lady in a carriage, and the decorous immovability of both their faces, which were clearly visible to him, was like a portion of some well-oiled engine. he got up and walked up and down. his rooms, in a narrow square skirting belgravia, were unchanged since the death of his father had made him a man of means. selected for their centrality, they were furnished in a very miscellaneous way. they were not bare, but close inspection revealed that everything was damaged, more or less, and there was absolutely nothing that seemed to have an interest taken in it. his goods were accidents, presents, or the haphazard acquisitions of a pressing need. nothing, of course, was frowsy, but everything was somewhat dusty, as if belonging to a man who never rebuked a servant. above all, there was nothing that indicated hobbies. three days later he had her answer to his letter: . . . i don't think i understand what you mean by "the healthier people are, the more repulsive they seem to be"; one must be healthy to be perfect, must n't one? i don't like unhealthy people. i had to play on that wretched piano after reading your letter; it made me feel unhappy. i've been having a splendid lot of tennis lately, got the back-handed lifting stroke at last--hurrah! . . . by the same post, too, came the following note in an autocratic writing: dear bird [for this was shelton's college nickname], my wife has gone down to her people, so i'm 'en garcon' for a few days. if you've nothing better to do, come and dine to-night at seven, and go to the theatre. it's ages since i saw you. yours as ever, b. m. halidome. shelton had nothing better to do, for pleasant were his friend halidome's well-appointed dinners. at seven, therefore, he went to chester square. his friend was in his study, reading matthew arnold by the light of an electric lamp. the walls of the room were hung with costly etchings, arranged with solid and unfailing taste; from the carving of the mantel-piece to the binding of the books, from the miraculously-coloured meerschaums to the chased fire-irons, everything displayed an unpretentious luxury, an order and a finish significant of life completely under rule of thumb. everything had been collected. the collector rose as shelton entered, a fine figure of a man, clean shaven,--with dark hair, a roman nose, good eyes, and the rather weighty dignity of attitude which comes from the assurance that one is in the right. taking shelton by the lapel, he drew him into the radius of the lamp, where he examined him, smiling a slow smile. "glad to see you, old chap. i rather like your beard," he said with genial brusqueness; and nothing, perhaps, could better have summed up his faculty for forming independent judgments which shelton found so admirable. he made no apology for the smallness of the dinner, which, consisting of eight courses and three wines, served by a butler and one footman, smacked of the same perfection as the furniture; in fact, he never apologised for anything, except with a jovial brusqueness that was worse than the offence. the suave and reasonable weight of his dislikes and his approvals stirred shelton up to feel ironical and insignificant; but whether from a sense of the solid, humane, and healthy quality of his friend's egoism, or merely from the fact that this friendship had been long in bottle, he did not resent his mixed sensations. "by the way, i congratulate you, old chap," said halidome, while driving to the theatre; there was no vulgar hurry about his congratulations, no more than about himself. "they're awfully nice people, the dennants." a sense of having had a seal put on his choice came over shelton. "where are you going to live? you ought to come down and live near us; there are some ripping houses to be had down there; it's really a ripping neighbourhood. have you chucked the bar? you ought to do something, you know; it'll be fatal for you to have nothing to do. i tell you what, bird: you ought to stand for the county council." but before shelton had replied they reached the theatre, and their energies were spent in sidling to their stalls. he had time to pass his neighbours in review before the play began. seated next to him was a lady with large healthy shoulders, displayed with splendid liberality; beyond her a husband, red-cheeked, with drooping, yellow-grey moustache and a bald head; beyond him again two men whom he had known at eton. one of them had a clean-shaved face, dark hair, and a weather-tanned complexion; his small mouth with its upper lip pushed out above the lower, his eyelids a little drooped over his watchful eyes, gave him a satirical and resolute expression. "i've got hold of your tail, old fellow," he seemed to say, as though he were always busy with the catching of some kind of fox. the other's goggling eyes rested on shelton with a chaffing smile; his thick, sleek hair, brushed with water and parted in the middle, his neat moustache and admirable waistcoat, suggested the sort of dandyism that despises women. from his recognition of these old schoolfellows shelton turned to look at halidome, who, having cleared his throat, was staring straight before him at the curtain. antonia's words kept running in her lover's head, "i don't like unhealthy people." well, all these people, anyway, were healthy; they looked as if they had defied the elements to endow them with a spark of anything but health. just then the curtain rose. slowly, unwillingly, for he was of a trustful disposition, shelton recognised that this play was one of those masterpieces of the modern drama whose characters were drawn on the principle that men were made for morals rather than morals made by men, and he watched the play unfold with all its careful sandwiching of grave and gay. a married woman anxious to be ridded of her husband was the pivot of the story, and a number of scenes, ingeniously contrived, with a hundred reasons why this desire was wrong and inexpedient, were revealed to shelton's eyes. these reasons issued mainly from the mouth of a well-preserved old gentleman who seemed to play the part of a sort of moral salesman. he turned to halidome and whispered: "can you stand that old woman?" his friend fixed his fine eyes on him wonderingly. "what old woman?" "why, the old ass with the platitudes!" halidome's countenance grew cold, a little shocked, as though he had been assailed in person. "do you mean pirbright?" he said. "i think he's ripping." shelton turned to the play rebuffed; he felt guilty of a breach of manners, sitting as he was in one of his friend's stalls, and he naturally set to work to watch the play more critically than ever. antonia's words again recurred to him, "i don't like unhealthy people," and they seemed to throw a sudden light upon this play. it was healthy! the scene was a drawing-room, softly lighted by electric lamps, with a cat (shelton could not decide whether she was real or not) asleep upon the mat. the husband, a thick-set, healthy man in evening dress, was drinking off neat whisky. he put down his tumbler, and deliberately struck a match; then with even greater deliberation he lit a gold-tipped cigarette.... shelton was no inexperienced play-goer. he shifted his elbows, for he felt that something was about to happen; and when the match was pitched into the fire, he leaned forward in his seat. the husband poured more whisky out, drank it at a draught, and walked towards the door; then, turning to the audience as if to admit them to the secret of some tremendous resolution, he puffed at them a puff of smoke. he left the room, returned, and once more filled his glass. a lady now entered, pale of face and dark of eye--his wife. the husband crossed the stage, and stood before the fire, his legs astride, in the attitude which somehow shelton had felt sure he would assume. he spoke: "come in, and shut the door." shelton suddenly perceived that he was face to face with one of those dumb moments in which two people declare their inextinguishable hatred--the hatred underlying the sexual intimacy of two ill-assorted creatures--and he was suddenly reminded of a scene he had once witnessed in a restaurant. he remembered with extreme minuteness how the woman and the man had sat facing each other across the narrow patch of white, emblazoned by a candle with cheap shades and a thin green vase with yellow flowers. he remembered the curious scornful anger of their voices, subdued so that only a few words reached him. he remembered the cold loathing in their eyes. and, above all, he remembered his impression that this sort of scene happened between them every other day, and would continue so to happen; and as he put on his overcoat and paid his bill he had asked himself, "why in the name of decency do they go on living together?" and now he thought, as he listened to the two players wrangling on the stage: "what 's the good of all this talk? there's something here past words." the curtain came down upon the act, and he looked at the lady next him. she was shrugging her shoulders at her husband, whose face was healthy and offended. "i do dislike these unhealthy women," he was saying, but catching shelton's eye he turned square in his seat and sniffed ironically. the face of shelton's friend beyond, composed, satirical as ever, was clothed with a mask of scornful curiosity, as if he had been listening to something that had displeased him not a little. the goggle-eyed man was yawning. shelton turned to halidome: "can you stand this sort of thing?" said he. "no; i call that scene a bit too hot," replied his friend. shelton wriggled; he had meant to say it was not hot enough. "i'll bet you anything," he said, "i know what's going to happen now. you'll have that old ass--what's his name?--lunching off cutlets and champagne to fortify himself--for a lecture to the wife. he'll show her how unhealthy her feelings are--i know him--and he'll take her hand and say, 'dear lady, is there anything in this poor world but the good opinion of society?' and he'll pretend to laugh at himself for saying it; but you'll see perfectly well that the old woman means it. and then he'll put her into a set of circumstances that are n't her own but his version of them, and show her the only way of salvation is to kiss her husband"; and shelton grinned. "anyway, i'll bet you anything he takes her hand and says, 'dear lady.'" halidome turned on him the disapproval of his eyes, and again he said, "i think pirbright 's ripping!" but as shelton had predicted, so it turned out, amidst great applause. chapter v the good citizen leaving the theatre, they paused a moment in the hall to don their coats; a stream of people with spotless bosoms eddied round the doors, as if in momentary dread of leaving this hothouse of false morals and emotions for the wet, gusty streets, where human plants thrive and die, human weeds flourish and fade under the fresh, impartial skies. the lights revealed innumerable solemn faces, gleamed innumerably on jewels, on the silk of hats, then passed to whiten a pavement wet with newly-fallen rain, to flare on horses, on the visages of cabmen, and stray, queer objects that do not bear the light. "shall we walk?" asked halidome. "has it ever struck you," answered shelton, "that in a play nowadays there's always a 'chorus of scandalmongers' which seems to have acquired the attitude of god?" halidome cleared his throat, and there was something portentous in the sound. "you're so d---d fastidious," was his answer. "i've a prejudice for keeping the two things separate," went on shelton. "that ending makes me sick." "why?" replied halidome. "what other end is possible? you don't want a play to leave you with a bad taste in your mouth." "but this does." halidome increased his stride, already much too long; for in his walk, as in all other phases of his life, he found it necessary to be in front. "how do you mean?" he asked urbanely; "it's better than the woman making a fool of herself." "i'm thinking of the man." "what man?" "the husband." "what 's the matter with him? he was a bit of a bounder, certainly." "i can't understand any man wanting to live with a woman who doesn't want him." some note of battle in shelton's voice, rather than the sentiment itself, caused his friend to reply with dignity: "there's a lot of nonsense talked about that sort of thing. women don't really care; it's only what's put into their heads." "that's much the same as saying to a starving man: 'you don't really want anything; it's only what's put into your head!' you are begging the question, my friend." but nothing was more calculated to annoy halidome than to tell him he was "begging the question," for he prided himself on being strong in logic. "that be d---d," he said. "not at all, old chap. here is a case where a woman wants her freedom, and you merely answer that she dogs n't want it." "women like that are impossible; better leave them out of court." shelton pondered this and smiled; he had recollected an acquaintance of his own, who, when his wife had left him, invented the theory that she was mad, and this struck him now as funny. but then he thought: "poor devil! he was bound to call her mad! if he didn't, it would be confessing himself distasteful; however true, you can't expect a man to consider himself that." but a glance at his friend's eye warned him that he, too, might think his wife mad in such a case. "surely," he said, "even if she's his wife, a man's bound to behave like a gentleman." "depends on whether she behaves like a lady." "does it? i don't see the connection." halidome paused in the act of turning the latch-key in his door; there was a rather angry smile in his fine eyes. "my dear chap," he said, "you're too sentimental altogether." the word "sentimental" nettled shelton. "a gentleman either is a gentleman or he is n't; what has it to do with the way other people behave?" halidome turned the key in the lock and opened the door into his hall, where the firelight fell on the decanters and huge chairs drawn towards the blaze. "no, bird," he said, resuming his urbanity, and gathering his coat-tails in his hands; "it's all very well to talk, but wait until you're married. a man must be master, and show it, too." an idea occurred to shelton. "look here, hal," he said: "what should you do if your wife got tired of you?" the expression on halidome's face was a mixture of amusement and contempt. "i don't mean anything personal, of course, but apply the situation to yourself." halidome took out a toothpick, used it brusquely, and responded: "i shouldn't stand any humbug--take her travelling; shake her mind up. she'd soon come round." "but suppose she really loathed you?" halidome cleared his throat; the idea was so obviously indecent. how could anybody loathe him? with great composure, however, regarding shelton as if he were a forward but amusing child, he answered: "there are a great many things to be taken into consideration." "it appears to me," said shelton, "to be a question of common pride. how can you, ask anything of a woman who doesn't want to give it." his friend's voice became judicial. "a man ought not to suffer," he said, poring over his whisky, "because a woman gets hysteria. you have to think of society, your children, house, money arrangements, a thousand things. it's all very well to talk. how do you like this whisky?" "the part of the good citizen, in fact," said shelton, "self-preservation!" "common-sense," returned his friend; "i believe in justice before sentiment." he drank, and callously blew smoke at shelton. "besides, there are many people with religious views about it." "it's always seemed to me," said shelton, "to be quaint that people should assert that marriage gives them the right to 'an eye for an eye,' and call themselves christians. did you ever know anybody stand on their rights except out of wounded pride or for the sake of their own comfort? let them call their reasons what they like, you know as well as i do that it's cant." "i don't know about that," said halidome, more and more superior as shelton grew more warm; "when you stand on your rights, you do it for the sake of society as well as for your own. if you want to do away with marriage, why don't you say so?" "but i don't," said shelton, "is it likely? why, i'm going--" he stopped without adding the words "to be married myself," for it suddenly occurred to him that the reason was not the most lofty and philosophic in the world. "all i can say is," he went on soberly, "that you can't make a horse drink by driving him. generosity is the surest way of tightening the knot with people who've any sense of decency; as to the rest, the chief thing is to prevent their breeding." halidome smiled. "you're a rum chap," he said. shelton jerked his cigarette into the fire. "i tell you what"--for late at night a certain power of vision came to him--"it's humbug to talk of doing things for the sake of society; it's nothing but the instinct to keep our own heads above the water." but halidome remained unruffled. "all right," he said, "call it that. i don't see why i should go to the wall; it wouldn't do any good." "you admit, then," said shelton, "that our morality is the sum total of everybody's private instinct of self-preservation?" halidome stretched his splendid frame and yawned. "i don't know," he began, "that i should quite call it that--" but the compelling complacency of his fine eyes, the dignified posture of his healthy body, the lofty slope of his narrow forehead, the perfectly humane look of his cultivated brutality, struck shelton as ridiculous. "hang it, hall" he cried, jumping from his chair, "what an old fraud you are! i'll be off." "no, look here!" said halidome; the faintest shade of doubt had appeared upon his face; he took shelton by a lapel: "you're quite wrong--" "very likely; good-night, old chap!" shelton walked home, letting the spring wind into him. it was saturday, and he passed many silent couples. in every little patch of shadow he could see two forms standing or sitting close together, and in their presence words the impostors seemed to hold their tongues. the wind rustled the buds; the stars, one moment bright as diamonds, vanished the next. in the lower streets a large part of the world was under the influence of drink, but by this shelton was far from being troubled. it seemed better than drama, than dressing-bagged men, unruffled women, and padded points of view, better than the immaculate solidity of his friend's possessions. "so," he reflected, "it's right for every reason, social, religious, and convenient, to inflict one's society where it's not desired. there are obviously advantages about the married state; charming to feel respectable while you're acting in a way that in any other walk of life would bring on you contempt. if old halidome showed that he was tired of me, and i continued to visit him, he'd think me a bit of a cad; but if his wife were to tell him she couldn't stand him, he'd still consider himself a perfect gentleman if he persisted in giving her the burden of his society; and he has the cheek to bring religion into it--a religion that says, 'do unto others!'" but in this he was unjust to halidome, forgetting how impossible it was for him to believe that a woman could not stand him. he reached his rooms, and, the more freely to enjoy the clear lamplight, the soft, gusty breeze, and waning turmoil of the streets, waited a moment before entering. "i wonder," thought he, "if i shall turn out a cad when i marry, like that chap in the play. it's natural. we all want our money's worth, our pound of flesh! pity we use such fine words--'society, religion, morality.' humbug!" he went in, and, throwing his window open, remained there a long time, his figure outlined against the lighted room for the benefit of the dark square below, his hands in his pockets, his head down, a reflective frown about his eyes. a half-intoxicated old ruffian, a policeman, and a man in a straw hat had stopped below, and were holding a palaver. "yus," the old ruffian said, "i'm a rackety old blank; but what i say is, if we wus all alike, this would n't be a world!" they went their way, and before the listener's eyes there rose antonia's face, with its unruffled brow; halidome's, all health and dignity; the forehead of the goggle-eyed man, with its line of hair parted in the centre, and brushed across. a light seemed to illumine the plane of their existence, as the electric lamp with the green shade had illumined the pages of the matthew arnold; serene before shelton's vision lay that elysium, untouched by passion or extremes of any kind, autocratic; complacent, possessive, and well-kept as any midland landscape. healthy, wealthy, wise! no room but for perfection, self-preservation, the survival of the fittest! "the part of the good citizen," he thought: "no, if we were all alike, this would n't be a world!" chapter vi marriage settlement "my dear richard" (wrote shelton's uncle the next day), "i shall be glad to see you at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon upon the question of your marriage settlement...." at that hour accordingly shelton made his way to lincoln's inn fields, where in fat black letters the names "paramor and herring (commissioners for oaths)" were written on the wall of a stone entrance. he ascended the solid steps with nervousness, and by a small red-haired boy was introduced to a back room on the first floor. here, seated at a table in the very centre, as if he thereby better controlled his universe, a pug-featured gentleman, without a beard, was writing. he paused. "ow, mr. richard!" he said; "glad to see you, sir. take a chair. your uncle will be disengaged in 'arf a minute"; and in the tone of his allusion to his employer was the satirical approval that comes with long and faithful service. "he will do everything himself," he went on, screwing up his sly, greenish, honest eyes, "and he 's not a young man." shelton never saw his uncle's clerk without marvelling at the prosperity deepening upon his face. in place of the look of harassment which on most faces begins to grow after the age of fifty, his old friend's countenance, as though in sympathy with the nation, had expanded--a little greasily, a little genially, a little coarsely--every time he met it. a contemptuous tolerance for people who were not getting on was spreading beneath its surface; it left each time a deeper feeling that its owner could never be in the wrong. "i hope you're well, sir," he resumed: "most important for you to have your health now you're going-to"--and, feeling for the delicate way to put it, he involuntarily winked--"to become a family man. we saw it in the paper. my wife said to me the other morning at breakfast: 'bob, here's a mr. richard paramor shelton goin' to be married. is that any relative of your mr. shelton?' 'my dear,' i said to her, 'it's the very man!'" it disquieted shelton to perceive that his old friend did not pass the whole of his life at that table writing in the centre of the room, but that somewhere (vistas of little grey houses rose before his eyes) he actually lived another life where someone called him "bob." bob! and this, too, was a revelation. bob! why, of course, it was the only name for him! a bell rang. "that's your uncle"; and again the head clerk's voice sounded ironical. "good-bye, sir." he seemed to clip off intercourse as one clips off electric light. shelton left him writing, and preceded the red-haired boy to an enormous room in the front where his uncle waited. edmund paramor was a medium-sized and upright man of seventy, whose brown face was perfectly clean-shaven. his grey, silky hair was brushed in a cock's comb from his fine forehead, bald on the left side. he stood before the hearth facing the room, and his figure had the springy abruptness of men who cannot fatten. there was a certain youthfulness, too, in his eyes, yet they had a look as though he had been through fire; and his mouth curled at the corners in surprising smiles. the room was like the man--morally large, void of red-tape and almost void of furniture; no tin boxes were ranged against the walls, no papers littered up the table; a single bookcase contained a complete edition of the law reports, and resting on the law directory was a single red rose in a glass of water. it looked the room of one with a sober magnanimity, who went to the heart of things, despised haggling, and before whose smiles the more immediate kinds of humbug faded. "well, dick," said he, "how's your mother?" shelton replied that his mother was all right. "tell her that i'm going to sell her easterns after all, and put into this brass thing. you can say it's safe, from me." shelton made a face. "mother," said he, "always believes things are safe." his uncle looked through him with his keen, half-suffering glance, and up went the corners of his mouth. "she's splendid," he said. "yes," said shelton, "splendid." the transaction, however, did not interest him; his uncle's judgment in such matters had a breezy soundness he would never dream of questioning. "well, about your settlement"; and, touching a bell three times, mr. paramor walked up and down the room. "bring me the draft of mr. richard's marriage settlement." the stalwart commissionaire reappearing with a document--"now then, dick," said mr. paramor. "she 's not bringing anything into settlement, i understand; how 's that?" "i did n't want it," replied shelton, unaccountably ashamed. mr. paramor's lips quivered; he drew the draft closer, took up a blue pencil, and, squeezing shelton's arm, began to read. the latter, following his uncle's rapid exposition of the clauses, was relieved when he paused suddenly. "if you die and she marries again," said mr. paramor, "she forfeits her life interest--see?" "oh!" said shelton; "wait a minute, uncle ted." mr. paramor waited, biting his pencil; a smile flickered on his mouth, and was decorously subdued. it was shelton's turn to walk about. "if she marries again," he repeated to himself. mr. paramor was a keen fisherman; he watched his nephew as he might have watched a fish he had just landed. "it's very usual," he remarked. shelton took another turn. "she forfeits," thought he; "exactly." when he was dead, he would have no other way of seeing that she continued to belong to him. exactly! mr. paramor's haunting eyes were fastened on his nephew's face. "well, my dear," they seemed to say, "what 's the matter?" exactly! why should she have his money if she married again? she would forfeit it. there was comfort in the thought. shelton came back and carefully reread the clause, to put the thing on a purely business basis, and disguise the real significance of what was passing in his mind. "if i die and she marries again," he repeated aloud, "she forfeits." what wiser provision for a man passionately in love could possibly have been devised? his uncle's eye travelled beyond him, humanely turning from the last despairing wriggles of his fish. "i don't want to tie her," said shelton suddenly. the corners of mr. paramour's mouth flew up. "you want the forfeiture out?" he asked. the blood rushed into shelton's face; he felt he had been detected in a piece of sentiment. "ye-es," he stammered. "sure?" "quite!" the answer was a little sulky. her uncle's pencil descended on the clause, and he resumed the reading of the draft, but shelton could not follow it; he was too much occupied in considering exactly why mr. paramor had been amused, and to do this he was obliged to keep his eyes upon him. those features, just pleasantly rugged; the springy poise of the figure; the hair neither straight nor curly, neither short nor long; the haunting look of his eyes and the humorous look of his mouth; his clothes neither shabby nor dandified; his serviceable, fine hands; above all, the equability of the hovering blue pencil, conveyed the impression of a perfect balance between heart and head, sensibility and reason, theory and its opposite. "'during coverture,'" quoted mr. paramor, pausing again, "you understand, of course, if you don't get on, and separate, she goes on taking?" if they didn't get on! shelton smiled. mr. paramor did not smile, and again shelton had the sense of having knocked up against something poised but firm. he remarked irritably: "if we 're not living together, all the more reason for her having it." this time his uncle smiled. it was difficult for shelton to feel angry at that ironic merriment, with its sudden ending; it was too impersonal to irritate: it was too concerned with human nature. "if--hum--it came to the other thing," said mr. paramor, "the settlement's at an end as far as she 's concerned. we 're bound to look at every case, you know, old boy." the memory of the play and his conversation with halidome was still strong in shelton. he was not one of those who could not face the notion of transferred affections--at a safe distance. "all right, uncle ted," said he. for one mad moment he was attacked by the desire to "throw in" the case of divorce. would it not be common chivalry to make her independent, able to change her affections if she wished, unhampered by monetary troubles? you only needed to take out the words "during coverture." almost anxiously he looked into his uncle's face. there was no meanness there, but neither was there encouragement in that comprehensive brow with its wide sweep of hair. "quixotism," it seemed to say, "has merits, but--" the room, too, with its wide horizon and tall windows, looking as if it dealt habitually in common-sense, discouraged him. innumerable men of breeding and the soundest principles must have bought their wives in here. it was perfumed with the atmosphere of wisdom and law-calf. the aroma of precedent was strong; shelton swerved his lance, and once more settled down to complete the purchase of his wife. "i can't conceive what you're--in such a hurry for; you 're not going to be married till the autumn," said mr. paramor, finishing at last. replacing the blue pencil in the rack, he took the red rose from the glass, and sniffed at it. "will you come with me as far as pall mall? i 'm going to take an afternoon off; too cold for lord's, i suppose?" they walked into the strand. "have you seen this new play of borogrove's?" asked shelton, as they passed the theatre to which he had been with halidome. "i never go to modern plays," replied mr. paramor; "too d---d gloomy." shelton glanced at him; he wore his hat rather far back on his head, his eyes haunted the street in front; he had shouldered his umbrella. "psychology 's not in your line, uncle ted?" "is that what they call putting into words things that can't be put in words?" "the french succeed in doing it," replied shelton, "and the russians; why should n't we?" mr. paramor stopped to look in at a fishmonger's. "what's right for the french and russians, dick," he said "is wrong for us. when we begin to be real, we only really begin to be false. i should like to have had the catching of that fellow; let's send him to your mother." he went in and bought a salmon: "now, my dear," he continued, as they went on, "do you tell me that it's decent for men and women on the stage to writhe about like eels? is n't life bad enough already?" it suddenly struck shelton that, for all his smile, his uncle's face had a look of crucifixion. it was, perhaps, only the stronger sunlight in the open spaces of trafalgar square. "i don't know," he said; "i think i prefer the truth." "bad endings and the rest," said mr. paramor, pausing under one of nelson's lions and taking shelton by a button. "truth 's the very devil!" he stood there, very straight, his eyes haunting his nephew's face; there seemed to shelton a touching muddle in his optimism--a muddle of tenderness and of intolerance, of truth and second-handedness. like the lion above him, he seemed to be defying life to make him look at her. "no, my dear," he said, handing sixpence to a sweeper; "feelings are snakes! only fit to be kept in bottles with tight corks. you won't come to my club? well, good-bye, old boy; my love to your mother when you see her"; and turning up the square, he left shelton to go on to his own club, feeling that he had parted, not from his uncle, but from the nation of which they were both members by birth and blood and education. chapter vii the club he went into the library of his club, and took up burke's peerage. the words his uncle had said to him on hearing his engagement had been these: "dennant! are those the holm oaks dennants? she was a penguin." no one who knew mr. paramor connected him with snobbery, but there had been an "ah! that 's right; this is due to us" tone about the saying. shelton hunted for the name of baltimore: "charles penguin, fifth baron baltimore. issue: alice, b. -, m. -algernon dennant, esq., of holm oaks, cross eaton, oxfordshire." he put down the peerage and took up the 'landed gentry': "dennant, algernon cuffe, eldest son of the late algernon cuffe dennant, esq., j. p., and irene, nd daur. of the honble. philip and lady lillian march mallow; ed. eton and ch. ch., oxford, j. p. for oxfordshire. residence, holm oaks," etc., etc. dropping the 'landed gentry', he took up a volume of the 'arabian nights', which some member had left reposing on the book-rest of his chair, but instead of reading he kept looking round the room. in almost every seat, reading or snoozing, were gentlemen who, in their own estimation, might have married penguins. for the first time it struck him with what majestic leisureliness they turned the pages of their books, trifled with their teacups, or lightly snored. yet no two were alike--a tall man-with dark moustache, thick hair, and red, smooth cheeks; another, bald, with stooping shoulders; a tremendous old buck, with a grey, pointed beard and large white waistcoat; a clean-shaven dapper man past middle age, whose face was like a bird's; a long, sallow, misanthrope; and a sanguine creature fast asleep. asleep or awake, reading or snoring, fat or thin, hairy or bald, the insulation of their red or pale faces was complete. they were all the creatures of good form. staring at them or reading the arabian nights shelton spent the time before dinner. he had not been long seated in the dining-room when a distant connection strolled up and took the next table. "ah, shelton! back? somebody told me you were goin' round the world." he scrutinised the menu through his eyeglass. "clear soup! . . . read jellaby's speech? amusing the way he squashes all those fellows. best man in the house, he really is." shelton paused in the assimilation of asparagus; he, too, had been in the habit of admiring jellaby, but now he wondered why. the red and shaven face beside him above a broad, pure shirt-front was swollen by good humour; his small, very usual, and hard eyes were fixed introspectively on the successful process of his eating. "success!" thought shelton, suddenly enlightened--"success is what we admire in jellaby. we all want success . . . . yes," he admitted, "a successful beast." "oh!" said his neighbour, "i forgot. you're in the other camp?" "not particularly. where did you get that idea?" his neighbour looked round negligently. "oh," said he, "i somehow thought so"; and shelton almost heard him adding, "there's something not quite sound about you." "why do you admire jellaby?" he asked. "knows his own mind," replied his neighbour; "it 's more than the others do . . . . this whitebait is n't fit for cats! clever fellow, jellaby! no nonsense about him! have you ever heard him speak? awful good sport to watch him sittin' on the opposition. a poor lot they are!" and he laughed, either from appreciation of jellaby sitting on a small minority, or from appreciation of the champagne bubbles in his glass. "minorities are always depressing," said shelton dryly. "eh? what?" "i mean," said shelton, "it's irritating to look at people who have n't a chance of success--fellows who make a mess of things, fanatics, and all that." his neighbour turned his eyes inquisitively. "er--yes, quite," said he; "don't you take mint sauce? it's the best part of lamb, i always think." the great room with its countless little tables, arranged so that every man might have the support of the gold walls to his back, began to regain its influence on shelton. how many times had he not sat there, carefully nodding to acquaintances, happy if he got the table he was used to, a paper with the latest racing, and someone to gossip with who was not a bounder; while the sensation of having drunk enough stole over him. happy! that is, happy as a horse is happy who never leaves his stall. "look at poor little bing puffin' about," said his neighbour, pointing to a weazened, hunchy waiter. "his asthma's awf'ly bad; you can hear him wheezin' from the street." he seemed amused. "there 's no such thing as moral asthma, i suppose?" said shelton. his neighbour dropped his eyeglass. "here, take this away; it's overdone;" said he. "bring me some lamb." shelton pushed his table back. "good-night," he said; "the stilton's excellent!" his neighbour raised his brows, and dropped his eyes again upon his plate. in the hall shelton went from force of habit to the weighing-scales and took his weight. "eleven stone!" he thought; "gone up!" and, clipping a cigar, he sat down in the smoking-room with a novel. after half an hour he dropped the book. there seemed something rather fatuous about this story, for though it had a thrilling plot, and was full of well-connected people, it had apparently been contrived to throw no light on anything whatever. he looked at the author's name; everyone was highly recommending it. he began thinking, and staring at the fire . . . . looking up, he saw antonia's second brother, a young man in the rifles, bending over him with sunny cheeks and lazy smile, clearly just a little drunk. "congratulate you, old chap! i say, what made you grow that b-b-eastly beard?" shelton grinned. "pillbottle of the duchess!" read young dennant, taking up the book. "you been reading that? rippin', is n't it?" "oh, ripping!" replied shelton. "rippin' plot! when you get hold of a novel you don't want any rot about--what d'you call it?--psychology, you want to be amused." "rather!" murmured shelton. "that's an awfully good bit where the president steals her diamonds there's old benjy! hallo, benjy!" "hallo, bill, old man!" this benjy was a young, clean-shaven creature, whose face and voice and manner were a perfect blend of steel and geniality. in addition to this young man who was so smooth and hard and cheery, a grey, short-bearded gentleman, with misanthropic eyes, called stroud, came up; together with another man of shelton's age, with a moustache and a bald patch the size of a crown-piece, who might be seen in the club any night of the year when there was no racing out of reach of london. "you know," began young dennant, "that this bounder"--he slapped the young man benjy on the knee--"is going to be spliced to-morrow. miss casserol--you know the casserols--muncaster gate." "by jove!" said shelton, delighted to be able to say something they would understand. "young champion's the best man, and i 'm the second best. i tell you what, old chap, you 'd better come with me and get your eye in; you won't get such another chance of practice. benjy 'll give you a card." "delighted!" murmured benjy. "where is it?" "st. briabas; two-thirty. come and see how they do the trick. i'll call for you at one; we'll have some lunch and go together"; again he patted benjy's knee. shelton nodded his assent; the piquant callousness of the affair had made him shiver, and furtively he eyed the steely benjy, whose suavity had never wavered, and who appeared to take a greater interest in some approaching race than in his coming marriage. but shelton knew from his own sensations that this could not really be the case; it was merely a question of "good form," the conceit of a superior breeding, the duty not to give oneself away. and when in turn he marked the eyes of stroud fixed on benjy, under shaggy brows, and the curious greedy glances of the racing man, he felt somehow sorry for him. "who 's that fellow with the game leg--i'm always seeing him about?" asked the racing man. and shelton saw a sallow man, conspicuous for a want of parting in his hair and a certain restlessness of attitude. "his name is bayes," said stroud; "spends half his time among the chinese--must have a grudge against them! and now he 's got his leg he can't go there any more." "chinese? what does he do to them?" "bibles or guns. don't ask me! an adventurer." "looks a bit of a bounder," said the racing man. shelton gazed at the twitching eyebrows of old stroud; he saw at once how it must annoy a man who had a billet in the "woods and forests," and plenty of time for "bridge" and gossip at his club, to see these people with untidy lives. a minute later the man with the "game leg" passed close behind his chair, and shelton perceived at once how intelligible the resentment of his fellow-members was. he had eyes which, not uncommon in this country, looked like fires behind steel bars; he seemed the very kind of man to do all sorts of things that were "bad form," a man who might even go as far as chivalry. he looked straight at shelton, and his uncompromising glance gave an impression of fierce loneliness; altogether, an improper person to belong to such a club. shelton remembered the words of an old friend of his father's: "yes, dick, all sorts of fellows belong here, and they come here for all sorts o' reasons, and a lot of em come because they've nowhere else to go, poor beggars"; and, glancing from the man with the "game leg" to stroud, it occurred to shelton that even he, old stroud, might be one of these poor beggars. one never knew! a look at benjy, contained and cheery, restored him. ah, the lucky devil! he would not have to come here any more! and the thought of the last evening he himself would be spending before long flooded his mind with a sweetness that was almost pain. "benjy, i'll play you a hundred up!" said young bill dennant. stroud and the racing man went to watch the game; shelton was left once more to reverie. "good form!" thought he; "that fellow must be made of steel. they'll go on somewhere; stick about half the night playing poker, or some such foolery." he crossed over to the window. rain had begun to fall; the streets looked wild and draughty. the cabmen were putting on their coats. two women scurried by, huddled under one umbrella, and a thin-clothed, dogged-looking scarecrow lounged past with a surly, desperate step. shelton, returning to his chair, threaded his way amongst his fellow-members. a procession of old school and college friends came up before his eyes. after all, what had there been in his own education, or theirs, to give them any other standard than this "good form"? what had there been to teach them anything of life? their imbecility was incredible when you came to think of it. they had all the air of knowing everything, and really they knew nothing--nothing of nature, art, or the emotions; nothing of the bonds that bind all men together. why, even such words were not "good form"; nothing outside their little circle was "good form." they had a fixed point of view over life because they came of certain schools, and colleges, and regiments! and they were those in charge of the state, of laws, and science, of the army, and religion. well, it was their system--the system not to start too young, to form healthy fibre, and let the after-life develop it! "successful!" he thought, nearly stumbling over a pair of patent-leather boots belonging to a moon-faced, genial-looking member with gold nose-nippers; "oh, it 's successful!" somebody came and picked up from the table the very volume which had originally inspired this train of thought, and shelton could see his solemn pleasure as he read. in the white of his eye there was a torpid and composed abstraction. there was nothing in that book to startle him or make him think. the moon-faced member with the patent boots came up and began talking of his recent visit to the south of france. he had a scandalous anecdote or two to tell, and his broad face beamed behind his gold nose-nippers; he was a large man with such a store of easy, worldly humour that it was impossible not to appreciate his gossip, he gave so perfect an impression of enjoying life, and doing himself well. "well, good-night!" he murmured--"an engagement!"--and the certainty he left behind that his engagement must be charming and illicit was pleasant to the soul. and, slowly taking up his glass, shelton drank; the sense of well-being was upon him. his superiority to these his fellow-members soothed him. he saw through all the sham of this club life, the meanness of this worship of success, the sham of kid-gloved novelists, "good form," and the terrific decency of our education. it was soothing thus to see through things, soothing thus to be superior; and from the soft recesses of his chair he puffed out smoke and stretched his limbs toward the fire; and the fire burned back at him with a discreet and venerable glow. chapter viii the wedding puncutal to his word, bill dennant called for shelton at one o'clock. "i bet old benjy's feeling a bit cheap," said he, as they got out of their cab at the church door and passed between the crowded files of unelect, whose eyes, so curious and pitiful, devoured them from the pavement. the ashen face of a woman, with a baby in her arms and two more by her side, looked as eager as if she had never experienced the pangs of ragged matrimony. shelton went in inexplicably uneasy; the price of his tie was their board and lodging for a week. he followed his future brother-in-law to a pew on the bridegroom's side, for, with intuitive perception of the sexes' endless warfare, each of the opposing parties to this contract had its serried battalion, the arrows of whose suspicion kept glancing across and across the central aisle. bill dennant's eyes began to twinkle. "there's old benjy!" he whispered; and shelton looked at the hero of the day. a subdued pallor was traceable under the weathered uniformity of his shaven face; but the well-bred, artificial smile he bent upon the guests had its wonted steely suavity. about his dress and his neat figure was that studied ease which lifts men from the ruck of common bridegrooms. there were no holes in his armour through which the impertinent might pry. "good old benjy!" whispered young dennant; "i say, they look a bit short of class, those casserols." shelton, who was acquainted with this family, smiled. the sensuous sanctity all round had begun to influence him. a perfume of flowers and dresses fought with the natural odour of the church; the rustle of whisperings and skirts struck through the native silence of the aisles, and shelton idly fixed his eyes on a lady in the pew in front; without in the least desiring to make a speculation of this sort, he wondered whether her face was as charming as the lines of her back in their delicate, skin-tight setting of pearl grey; his glance wandered to the chancel with its stacks of flowers, to the grave, business faces of the presiding priests, till the organ began rolling out the wedding march. "they're off!" whispered young dermant. shelton was conscious of a shiver running through the audience which reminded him of a bullfight he had seen in spain. the bride came slowly up the aisle. "antonia will look like that," he thought, "and the church will be filled with people like this . . . . she'll be a show to them!" the bride was opposite him now, and by an instinct of common chivalry he turned away his eyes; it seemed to him a shame to look at that downcast head above the silver mystery of her perfect raiment; the modest head full, doubtless, of devotion and pure yearnings; the stately head where no such thought as "how am i looking, this day of all days, before all london?" had ever entered; the proud head, which no such fear as "how am i carrying it off?" could surely be besmirching. he saw below the surface of this drama played before his eyes, and set his face, as a man might who found himself assisting at a sacrifice. the words fell, unrelenting, on his ears: "for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health--" and opening the prayer book he found the marriage service, which he had not looked at since he was a boy, and as he read he had some very curious sensations. all this would soon be happening to himself! he went on reading in a kind of stupor, until aroused by his companion whispering, "no luck!" all around there rose a rustling of skirts; he saw a tall figure mount the pulpit and stand motionless. massive and high-featured, sunken of eye, he towered, in snowy cambric and a crimson stole, above the blackness of his rostrum; it seemed he had been chosen for his beauty. shelton was still gazing at the stitching of his gloves, when once again the organ played the wedding march. all were smiling, and a few were weeping, craning their heads towards the bride. "carnival of second-hand emotions!" thought shelton; and he, too, craned his head and brushed his hat. then, smirking at his friends, he made his way towards the door. in the casserols' house he found himself at last going round the presents with the eldest casserol surviving, a tall girl in pale violet, who had been chief bridesmaid. "did n't it go off well, mr. shelton?" she was saying "oh, awfully!" "i always think it's so awkward for the man waiting up there for the bride to come." "yes," murmured shelton. "don't you think it's smart, the bridesmaids having no hats?" shelton had not noticed this improvement, but he agreed. "that was my idea; i think it 's very chic. they 've had fifteen tea-sets-so dull, is n't it?" "by jove!" shelton hastened to remark. "oh, its fearfully useful to have a lot of things you don't want; of course, you change them for those you do." the whole of london seemed to have disgorged its shops into this room; he looked at miss casserol's face, and was greatly struck by the shrewd acquisitiveness of her small eyes. "is that your future brother-in-law?" she asked, pointing to bill dennant with a little movement of her chin; "i think he's such a bright boy. i want you both to come to dinner, and help to keep things jolly. it's so deadly after a wedding." and shelton said they would. they adjourned to the hall now, to wait for the bride's departure. her face as she came down the stairs was impassive, gay, with a furtive trouble in the eyes, and once more shelton had the odd sensation of having sinned against his manhood. jammed close to him was her old nurse, whose puffy, yellow face was pouting with emotion, while tears rolled from her eyes. she was trying to say something, but in the hubbub her farewell was lost. there was a scamper to the carriage, a flurry of rice and flowers; the shoe was flung against the sharply drawn-up window. then benjy's shaven face was seen a moment, bland and steely; the footman folded his arms, and with a solemn crunch the brougham wheels rolled away. "how splendidly it went off!" said a voice on shelton's right. "she looked a little pale," said a voice on shelton's left. he put his hand up to his forehead; behind him the old nurse sniffed. "dick," said young dennant in his ear, "this isn't good enough; i vote we bolt." shelton assenting, they walked towards the park; nor could he tell whether the slight nausea he experienced was due to afternoon champagne or to the ceremony that had gone so well. "what's up with you?" asked dennant; "you look as glum as any m-monkey." "nothing," said shelton; "i was only thinking what humbugs we all are!" bill dennant stopped in the middle of the crossing, and clapped his future brother-in-law upon the shoulder. "oh," said he, "if you're going to talk shop, i 'm off." chapter ix the dinner the dinner at the casserols' was given to those of the bride's friends who had been conspicuous in the day's festivities. shelton found himself between miss casserol and a lady undressed to much the same degree. opposite sat a man with a single diamond stud, a white waistcoat, black moustache, and hawk-like face. this was, in fact, one of those interesting houses occupied by people of the upper middle class who have imbibed a taste for smart society. its inhabitants, by nature acquisitive and cautious, economical, tenacious, had learnt to worship the word "smart." the result was a kind of heavy froth, an air of thoroughly domestic vice. in addition to the conventionally fast, shelton had met there one or two ladies, who, having been divorced, or having yet to be, still maintained their position in "society." divorced ladies who did not so maintain their place were never to be found, for the casserols had a great respect for marriage. he had also met there american ladies who were "too amusing"--never, of course, american men, mesopotamians of the financial or the racing type, and several of those gentlemen who had been, or were about to be, engaged in a transaction which might or again might not, "come off," and in conduct of an order which might, or again might not be spotted. the line he knew, was always drawn at those in any category who were actually found out, for the value of these ladies and these gentlemen was not their claim to pity--nothing so sentimental--but their "smartness," clothes, jokes, racing tips, their "bridge parties," and their motors. in sum, the house was one whose fundamental domesticity attracted and sheltered those who were too "smart" to keep their heads for long above the water. his host, a grey, clean-shaven city man, with a long upper lip, was trying to understand a lady the audacity of whose speech came ringing down the table. shelton himself had given up the effort with his neighbours, and made love to his dinner, which, surviving the incoherence of the atmosphere, emerged as a work of art. it was with surprise that he found miss casserol addressing him. "i always say that the great thing is to be jolly. if you can't find anything to make you laugh, pretend you do; it's so much 'smarter to be amusin'. now don't you agree?" the philosophy seemed excellent. "we can't all be geniuses, but we can all look jolly." shelton hastened to look jolly. "i tell the governor, when he 's glum, that i shall put up the shutters and leave him. what's the good of mopin' and lookin' miserable? are you going to the four-in-hand meet? we're making a party. such fun; all the smart people!" the splendour of her shoulders, her frizzy hair (clearly not two hours out of the barber's hands), might have made him doubtful; but the frank shrewdness in her eyes, and her carefully clipped tone of voice, were guarantees that she was part of the element at the table which was really quite respectable. he had never realised before how "smart" she was, and with an effort abandoned himself to a sort of gaiety that would have killed a frenchman. and when she left him, he reflected upon the expression of her eyes when they rested on a lady opposite, who was a true bird-of-prey. "what is it," their envious, inquisitive glance had seemed to say, "that makes you so really 'smart'?" and while still seeking for the reason, he noticed his host pointing out the merits of his port to the hawk-like man, with a deferential air quite pitiful to see, for the hawk-like man was clearly a "bad hat." what in the name of goodness did these staid bourgeois mean by making up to vice? was it a craving to be thought distinguished, a dread of being dull, or merely an effect of overfeeding? again he looked at his host, who had not yet enumerated all the virtues of his port, and again felt sorry for him. "so you're going to marry antonia dennant?" said a voice on his right, with that easy coarseness which is a mark of caste. "pretty girl! they've a nice place, the, dennants. d' ye know, you're a lucky feller!" the speaker was an old baronet, with small eyes, a dusky, ruddy face, and peculiar hail-fellow-well-met expression, at once morose and sly. he was always hard up, but being a man of enterprise knew all the best people, as well as all the worst, so that he dined out every night. "you're a lucky feller," he repeated; "he's got some deuced good shootin', dennant! they come too high for me, though; never touched a feather last time i shot there. she's a pretty girl. you 're a lucky feller!" "i know that," said shelton humbly. "wish i were in your shoes. who was that sittin' on the other side of you? i'm so dashed short-sighted. mrs. carruther? oh, ay!" an expression which, if he had not been a baronet, would have been a leer, came on his lips. shelton felt that he was referring to the leaf in his mental pocket-book covered with the anecdotes, figures, and facts about that lady. "the old ogre means," thought he, "that i'm lucky because his leaf is blank about antonia." but the old baronet had turned, with his smile, and his sardonic, well-bred air, to listen to a bit of scandal on the other side. the two men to shelton's left were talking. "what! you don't collect anything? how's that? everybody collects something. i should be lost without my pictures." "no, i don't collect anything. given it up; i was too awfully had over my walkers." shelton had expected a more lofty reason; he applied himself to the madeira in his glass. that, had been "collected" by his host, and its price was going up! you couldn't get it every day; worth two guineas a bottle! how precious the idea that other people couldn't get it, made it seem! liquid delight; the price was going up! soon there would be none left; immense! absolutely no one, then, could drink it! "wish i had some of this," said the old baronet, "but i have drunk all mine." "poor old chap!" thought shelton; "after all, he's not a bad old boy. i wish i had his pluck. his liver must be splendid." the drawing-room was full of people playing a game concerned with horses ridden by jockeys with the latest seat. and shelton was compelled to help in carrying on this sport till early in the morning. at last he left, exhausted by his animation. he thought of the wedding; he thought over his dinner and the wine that he had drunk. his mood of satisfaction fizzled out. these people were incapable of being real, even the smartest, even the most respectable; they seemed to weigh their pleasures in the scales and to get the most that could be gotten for their money. between the dark, safe houses stretching for miles and miles, his thoughts were of antonia; and as he reached his rooms he was overtaken by the moment when the town is born again. the first new air had stolen down; the sky was living, but not yet alight; the trees were quivering faintly; no living creature stirred, and nothing spoke except his heart. suddenly the city seemed to breathe, and shelton saw that he was not alone; an unconsidered trifle with inferior boots was asleep upon his doorstep. chapter x an alien the individual on the doorstep had fallen into slumber over his own knees. no greater air of prosperity clung about him than is conveyed by a rusty overcoat and wisps of cloth in place of socks. shelton endeavoured to pass unseen, but the sleeper woke. "ah, it's you, monsieur!" he said "i received your letter this evening, and have lost no time." he looked down at himself and tittered, as though to say, "but what a state i 'm in!" the young foreigner's condition was indeed more desperate than on the occasion of their first meeting, and shelton invited him upstairs. "you can well understand," stammered ferrand, following his host, "that i did n't want to miss you this time. when one is like this--" and a spasm gripped his face. "i 'm very glad you came," said shelton doubtfully. his visitor's face had a week's growth of reddish beard; the deep tan of his cheeks gave him a robust appearance at variance with the fit of, trembling which had seized on him as soon as he had entered. "sit down-sit down," said shelton; "you 're feeling ill!" ferrand smiled. "it's nothing," said he; "bad nourishment." shelton left him seated on the edge of an armchair, and brought him in some whisky. "clothes," said ferrand, when he had drunk, "are what i want. these are really not good enough." the statement was correct, and shelton, placing some garments in the bath-room, invited his visitor to make himself at home. while the latter, then, was doing this, shelton enjoyed the luxuries of self-denial, hunting up things he did not want, and laying them in two portmanteaus. this done, he waited for his visitor's return. the young foreigner at length emerged, unshaved indeed, and innocent of boots, but having in other respects an air of gratifying affluence. "this is a little different," he said. "the boots, i fear"--and, pulling down his, or rather shelton's, socks he exhibited sores the size of half a crown. "one does n't sow without reaping some harvest or another. my stomach has shrunk," he added simply. "to see things one must suffer. 'voyager, c'est plus fort que moi'!" shelton failed to perceive that this was one way of disguising the human animal's natural dislike of work--there was a touch of pathos, a suggestion of god-knows-what-might-have-been, about this fellow. "i have eaten my illusions," said the young foreigner, smoking a cigarette. "when you've starved a few times, your eyes are opened. 'savoir, c'est mon metier; mais remarquez ceci, monsieur': it 's not always the intellectuals who succeed." "when you get a job," said shelton, "you throw it away, i suppose." "you accuse me of restlessness? shall i explain what i think about that? i'm restless because of ambition; i want to reconquer an independent position. i put all my soul into my trials, but as soon as i see there's no future for me in that line, i give it up and go elsewhere. 'je ne veux pas etre rond de cuir,' breaking my back to economise sixpence a day, and save enough after forty years to drag out the remains of an exhausted existence. that's not in my character." this ingenious paraphrase of the words "i soon get tired of things" he pronounced with an air of letting shelton into a precious secret. "yes; it must be hard," agreed the latter. ferrand shrugged his shoulders. "it's not all butter," he replied; "one is obliged to do things that are not too delicate. there's nothing i pride myself on but frankness." like a good chemist, however, he administered what shelton could stand in a judicious way. "yes, yes," he seemed to say, "you'd like me to think that you have a perfect knowledge of life: no morality, no prejudices, no illusions; you'd like me to think that you feel yourself on an equality with me, one human animal talking to another, without any barriers of position, money, clothes, or the rest--'ca c'est un peu trop fort'! you're as good an imitation as i 've come across in your class, notwithstanding your unfortunate education, and i 'm grateful to you, but to tell you everything, as it passes through my mind would damage my prospects. you can hardly expect that." in one of shelton's old frock-coats he was impressive, with his air of natural, almost sensitive refinement. the room looked as if it were accustomed to him, and more amazing still was the sense of familiarity that he inspired, as, though he were a part of shelton's soul. it came as a shock to realise that this young foreign vagabond had taken such a place within his thoughts. the pose of his limbs and head, irregular but not ungraceful; his disillusioned lips; the rings of smoke that issued from them--all signified rebellion, and the overthrow of law and order. his thin, lopsided nose, the rapid glances of his goggling, prominent eyes, were subtlety itself; he stood for discontent with the accepted. "how do i live when i am on the tramp?" he said, "well, there are the consuls. the system is not delicate, but when it's a question of starving, much is permissible; besides, these gentlemen were created for the purpose. there's a coterie of german jews in paris living entirely upon consuls." he hesitated for the fraction of a second, and resumed: "yes, monsieur; if you have papers that fit you, you can try six or seven consuls in a single town. you must know a language or two; but most of these gentlemen are not too well up in the tongues of the country they represent. obtaining money under false pretences? well, it is. but what's the difference at bottom between all this honourable crowd of directors, fashionable physicians, employers of labour, ferry-builders, military men, country priests, and consuls themselves perhaps, who take money and give no value for it, and poor devils who do the same at far greater risk? necessity makes the law. if those gentlemen were in my position, do you think that they would hesitate?" shelton's face remaining doubtful, ferrand went on instantly: "you're right; they would, from fear, not principle. one must be hard pressed before committing these indelicacies. look deep enough, and you will see what indelicate things are daily done by the respectable for not half so good a reason as the want of meals." shelton also took a cigarette--his own income was derived from property for which he gave no value in labour. "i can give you an instance," said ferrand, "of what can be done by resolution. one day in a german town, 'etant dans la misere', i decided to try the french consul. well, as you know, i am a fleming, but something had to be screwed out somewhere. he refused to see me; i sat down to wait. after about two hours a voice bellowed: 'has n't the brute gone?' and my consul appears. 'i 've nothing for fellows like you,' says he; 'clear out!' "'monsieur,' i answered, 'i am skin and bone; i really must have assistance.' "'clear out,' he says, 'or the police shall throw you out!' "i don't budge. another hour passes, and back he comes again. "'still here?' says he. 'fetch a sergeant.' "the sergeant comes. "'sergeant,' says the consul, 'turn this creature out.' "'sergeant,' i say, 'this house is france!' naturally, i had calculated upon that. in germany they're not too fond of those who undertake the business of the french. "'he is right,' says the sergeant; 'i can do nothing.' "'you refuse?' "'absolutely.' and he went away. "'what do you think you'll get by staying?' says my consul. "'i have nothing to eat or drink, and nowhere to sleep,' says i. "'what will you go for?' "'ten marks.' "'here, then, get out!' i can tell you, monsieur, one must n't have a thin skin if one wants to exploit consuls." his yellow fingers slowly rolled the stump of his cigarette, his ironical lips flickered. shelton thought of his own ignorance of life. he could not recollect ever having gone without a meal. "i suppose," he said feebly, "you've often starved." for, having always been so well fed, the idea of starvation was attractive. ferrand smiled. "four days is the longest," said he. "you won't believe that story. . . . it was in paris, and i had lost my money on the race-course. there was some due from home which didn't come. four days and nights i lived on water. my clothes were excellent, and i had jewellery; but i never even thought of pawning them. i suffered most from the notion that people might guess my state. you don't recognise me now?" "how old were you then?" said shelton. "seventeen; it's curious what one's like at that age." by a flash of insight shelton saw the well-dressed boy, with sensitive, smooth face, always on the move about the streets of paris, for fear that people should observe the condition of his stomach. the story was a valuable commentary. his thoughts were brusquely interrupted; looking in ferrand's face, he saw to his dismay tears rolling down his cheeks. "i 've suffered too much," he stammered; "what do i care now what becomes of me?" shelton was disconcerted; he wished 'to say something sympathetic,' but, being an englishman, could only turn away his eyes. "your turn 's coming," he said at last. "ah! when you've lived my life," broke out his visitor, "nothing 's any good. my heart's in rags. find me anything worth keeping, in this menagerie." moved though he was, shelton wriggled in his chair, a prey to racial instinct, to an ingrained over-tenderness, perhaps, of soul that forbade him from exposing his emotions, and recoiled from the revelation of other people's. he could stand it on the stage, he could stand it in a book, but in real life he could not stand it. when ferrand had gone off with a portmanteau in each hand, he sat down and told antonia: . . . the poor chap broke down and sat crying like a child; and instead of making me feel sorry, it turned me into stone. the more sympathetic i wanted to be, the gruffer i grew. is it fear of ridicule, independence, or consideration, for others that prevents one from showing one's feelings? he went on to tell her of ferrand's starving four days sooner than face a pawnbroker; and, reading the letter over before addressing it, the faces of the three ladies round their snowy cloth arose before him--antonia's face, so fair and calm and wind-fresh; her mother's face, a little creased by time and weather; the maiden aunt's somewhat too thin-and they seemed to lean at him, alert and decorous, and the words "that's rather nice!" rang in his ears. he went out to post the letter, and buying a five-shilling order enclosed it to the little barber, carolan, as a reward for delivering his note to ferrand. he omitted to send his address with this donation, but whether from delicacy or from caution he could not have said. beyond doubt, however, on receiving through ferrand the following reply, he felt ashamed and pleased. , blank row, westminster. from every well-born soul humanity is owing. a thousand thanks. i received this morning your postal order; your heart henceforth for me will be placed beyond all praise. j. carolan. chapter xi the vision a few days later he received a letter from antonia which filled him with excitement: . . . aunt charlotte is ever so much better, so mother thinks we can go home-hurrah! but she says that you and i must keep to our arrangement not to see each other till july. there will be something fine in being so near and having the strength to keep apart . . . all the english are gone. i feel it so empty out here; these people are so funny-all foreign and shallow. oh, dick! how splendid to have an ideal to look up to! write at once to brewer's hotel and tell me you think the same . . . . we arrive at charing cross on sunday at half-past seven, stay at brewer's for a couple of nights, and go down on tuesday to holm oaks. always your antonia. "to-morrow!" he thought; "she's coming tomorrow!" and, leaving his neglected breakfast, he started out to walk off his emotion. his square ran into one of those slums that still rub shoulders with the most distinguished situations, and in it he came upon a little crowd assembled round a dogfight. one of the dogs was being mauled, but the day was muddy, and shelton, like any well-bred englishman, had a horror of making himself conspicuous even in a decent cause; he looked for a policeman. one was standing by, to see fair play, and shelton made appeal to him. the official suggested that he should not have brought out a fighting dog, and advised him to throw cold water over them. "it is n 't my dog," said shelton. "then i should let 'em be," remarked the policeman with evident surprise. shelton appealed indefinitely to the lower orders. the lower orders, however, were afraid of being bitten. "i would n't meddle with that there job if i was you," said one. "nasty breed o' dawg is that." he was therefore obliged to cast away respectability, spoil his trousers and his gloves, break his umbrella, drop his hat in the mud, and separate the dogs. at the conclusion of the "job," the lower orders said to him in a rather shamefaced spanner: "well, i never thought you'd have managed that, sir"; but, like all men of inaction, shelton after action was more dangerous. "d----n it!" he said, "one can't let a dog be killed"; and he marched off, towing the injured dog with his pocket-handkerchief, and looking scornfully at harmless passers-by. having satisfied for once the smouldering fires within him, he felt entitled to hold a low opinion of these men in the street. "the brutes," he thought, "won't stir a finger to save a poor dumb creature, and as for policemen--" but, growing cooler, he began to see that people weighted down by "honest toil" could not afford to tear their trousers or get a bitten hand, and that even the policeman, though he had looked so like a demi-god, was absolutely made of flesh and blood. he took the dog home, and, sending for a vet., had him sewn up. he was already tortured by the doubt whether or no he might venture to meet antonia at the station, and, after sending his servant with the dog to the address marked on its collar, he formed the resolve to go and see his mother, with some vague notion that she might help him to decide. she lived in kensington, and, crossing the brompton road, he was soon amongst that maze of houses into the fibre of whose structure architects have wrought the motto: "keep what you have--wives, money, a good address, and all the blessings of a moral state!" shelton pondered as he passed house after house of such intense respectability that even dogs were known to bark at them. his blood was still too hot; it is amazing what incidents will promote the loftiest philosophy. he had been reading in his favourite review an article eulogising the freedom and expansion which had made the upper middle class so fine a body; and with eyes wandering from side to side he nodded his head ironically. "expansion and freedom," ran his thoughts: "freedom and expansion!" each house-front was cold and formal, the shell of an owner with from three to five thousand pounds a year, and each one was armoured against the opinion of its neighbours by a sort of daring regularity. "conscious of my rectitude; and by the strict observance of exactly what is necessary and no more, i am enabled to hold my head up in the world. the person who lives in me has only four thousand two hundred and fifty-five pounds each year, after allowing for the income tax." such seemed the legend of these houses. shelton passed ladies in ones and twos and threes going out shopping, or to classes of drawing, cooking, ambulance. hardly any men were seen, and they were mostly policemen; but a few disillusioned children were being wheeled towards the park by fresh-cheeked nurses, accompanied by a great army of hairy or of hairless dogs. there was something of her brother's large liberality about mrs. shelton, a tiny lady with affectionate eyes, warm cheeks, and chilly feet; fond as a cat of a chair by the fire, and full of the sympathy that has no insight. she kissed her son at once with rapture, and, as usual, began to talk of his engagement. for the first time a tremor of doubt ran through her son; his mother's view of it grated on him like the sight of a blue-pink dress; it was too rosy. her splendid optimism, damped him; it had too little traffic with the reasoning powers. "what right," he asked himself, "has she to be so certain? it seems to me a kind of blasphemy." "the dear!" she cooed. "and she is coming back to-morrow? hurrah! how i long to see her!" "but you know, mother, we've agreed not to meet again until july." mrs. shelton rocked her foot, and, holding her head on one side like a little bird, looked at her son with shining eyes. "dear old dick!" she said, "how happy you must be!" half a century of sympathy with weddings of all sorts--good, bad, indifferent--beamed from her. "i suppose," said shelton gloomily, "i ought not to go and see her at the station." "cheer up!" replied the mother, and her son felt dreadfully depressed. that "cheer-up!"--the panacea which had carried her blind and bright through every evil--was as void of meaning to him as wine without a flavour. "and how is your sciatica?" he asked. "oh, pretty bad," returned his mother; "i expect it's all right, really. cheer up!" she stretched her little figure, canting her head still more. "wonderful woman!" shelton thought. she had, in fact, like many of her fellow-countrymen, mislaid the darker side of things, and, enjoying the benefits of orthodoxy with an easy conscience, had kept as young in heart as any girl of thirty. shelton left her house as doubtful whether he might meet antonia as when he entered it. he spent a restless afternoon. the next day--that of her arrival--was a sunday. he had made ferrand a promise to go with him to hear a sermon in the slums, and, catching at any diversion which might allay excitement, he fulfilled it. the preacher in question--an amateur, so ferrand told him--had an original method of distributing the funds that he obtained. to male sheep he gave nothing, to ugly female sheep a very little, to pretty female sheep the rest. ferrand hazarded an inference, but he was a foreigner. the englishman preferred to look upon the preacher as guided by a purely abstract love of beauty. his eloquence, at any rate, was unquestionable, and shelton came out feeling sick. it was not yet seven o'clock, so, entering an italian restaurant to kill the half-hour before antonia's arrival, he ordered a bottle of wine for his companion, a cup of coffee for himself, and, lighting a cigarette, compressed his lips. there was a strange, sweet sinking in his heart. his companion, ignorant of this emotion, drank his wine, crumbled his roll, and blew smoke through his nostrils, glancing caustically at the rows of little tables, the cheap mirrors, the hot, red velvet, the chandeliers. his juicy lips seemed to be murmuring, "ah! if you only knew of the dirt behind these feathers!" shelton watched him with disgust. though his clothes were now so nice, his nails were not quite clean, and his fingertips seemed yellow to the bone. an anaemic waiter in a shirt some four days old, with grease-spots on his garments and a crumpled napkin on his arm, stood leaning an elbow amongst doubtful fruits, and reading an italian journal. resting his tired feet in turn, he looked like overwork personified, and when he moved, each limb accused the sordid smartness of the walls. in the far corner sat a lady eating, and, mirrored opposite, her feathered hat, her short, round face, its coat of powder, and dark eyes, gave shelton a shiver of disgust. his companion's gaze rested long and subtly on her. "excuse me, monsieur," he said at length. "i think i know that lady!" and, leaving his host, he crossed the room, bowed, accosted her, and sat down. with pharisaic delicacy, shelton refrained from looking. but presently ferrand came back; the lady rose and left the restaurant; she had been crying. the young foreigner was flushed, his face contorted; he did not touch his wine. "i was right," he said; "she is the wife of an old friend. i used to know her well." he was suffering from emotion, but someone less absorbed than shelton might have noticed a kind of relish in his voice, as though he were savouring life's dishes, and glad to have something new, and spiced with tragic sauce, to set before his patron. "you can find her story by the hundred in your streets, but nothing hinders these paragons of virtue"--he nodded at the stream of carriages--"from turning up their eyes when they see ladies of her sort pass. she came to london--just three years ago. after a year one of her little boys took fever--the shop was avoided--her husband caught it, and died. there she was, left with two children and everything gone to pay the debts. she tried to get work; no one helped her. there was no money to pay anyone to stay with the children; all the work she could get in the house was not enough to keep them alive. she's not a strong woman. well, she put the children out to nurse, and went to the streets. the first week was frightful, but now she's used to it--one gets used to anything." "can nothing be done?" asked shelton, startled. "no," returned his companion. "i know that sort; if they once take to it all's over. they get used to luxury. one does n't part with luxury, after tasting destitution. she tells me she does very nicely; the children are happy; she's able to pay well and see them sometimes. she was a girl of good family, too, who loved her husband, and gave up much for him. what would you have? three quarters of your virtuous ladies placed in her position would do the same if they had the necessary looks." it was evident that he felt the shock of this discovery, and shelton understood that personal acquaintance makes a difference, even in a vagabond. "this is her beat," said the young foreigner, as they passed the illuminated crescent, where nightly the shadows of hypocrites and women fall; and shelton went from these comments on christianity to the station of charing cross. there, as he stood waiting in the shadow, his heart was in his mouth; and it struck him as odd that he should have come to this meeting fresh from a vagabond's society. presently, amongst the stream of travellers, he saw antonia. she was close to her mother, who was parleying with a footman; behind them were a maid carrying a bandbox and a porter with the travelling-bags. antonia's figure, with its throat settled in the collar of her cape, slender, tall, severe, looked impatient and remote amongst the bustle. her eyes, shadowed by the journey, glanced eagerly about, welcoming all she saw; a wisp of hair was loose above her ear, her cheeks glowed cold and rosy. she caught sight of shelton, and bending her neck, stag-like, stood looking at him; a brilliant smile parted her lips, and shelton trembled. here was the embodiment of all he had desired for weeks. he could not tell what was behind that smile of hers--passionate aching or only some ideal, some chaste and glacial intangibility. it seemed to be shining past him into the gloomy station. there was no trembling and uncertainty, no rage of possession in that brilliant smile; it had the gleam of fixedness, like the smiling of a star. what did it matter? she was there, beautiful as a young day, and smiling at him; and she was his, only divided from him by a space of time. he took a step; her eyes fell at once, her face regained aloofness; he saw her, encircled by mother, footman, maid, and porter, take her seat and drive away. it was over; she had seen him, she had smiled, but alongside his delight lurked another feeling, and, by a bitter freak, not her face came up before him but the face of that lady in the restaurant--short, round, and powdered, with black-circled eyes. what right had we to scorn them? had they mothers, footmen, porters, maids? he shivered, but this time with physical disgust; the powdered face with dark-fringed eyes had vanished; the fair, remote figure of the railway-station came back again. he sat long over dinner, drinking, dreaming; he sat long after, smoking, dreaming, and when at length he drove away, wine and dreams fumed in his brain. the dance of lamps, the cream-cheese moon, the rays of clean wet light on his horse's harness, the jingling of the cab bell, the whirring wheels, the night air and the branches--it was all so good! he threw back the hansom doors to feel the touch of the warm breeze. the crowds on the pavement gave him strange delight; they were like shadows, in some great illusion, happy shadows, thronging, wheeling round the single figure of his world. chapter xii rotten row with a headache and a sense of restlessness, hopeful and unhappy, shelton mounted his hack next morning for a gallop in the park. in the sky was mingled all the languor and the violence of the spring. the trees and flowers wore an awakened look in the gleams of light that came stealing down from behind the purple of the clouds. the air was rain-washed, and the passers by seemed to wear an air of tranquil carelessness, as if anxiety were paralysed by their responsibility of the firmament. thronged by riders, the row was all astir. near to hyde park corner a figure by the rails caught shelton's eye. straight and thin, one shoulder humped a little, as if its owner were reflecting, clothed in a frock-coat and a brown felt hat pinched up in lawless fashion, this figure was so detached from its surroundings that it would have been noticeable anywhere. it belonged to ferrand, obviously waiting till it was time to breakfast with his patron. shelton found pleasure in thus observing him unseen, and sat quietly on his horse, hidden behind a tree. it was just at that spot where riders, unable to get further, are for ever wheeling their horses for another turn; and there ferrand, the bird of passage, with his head a little to one side, watched them cantering, trotting, wheeling up and down. three men walking along the rails were snatching off their hats before a horsewoman at exactly the same angle and with precisely the same air, as though in the modish performance of this ancient rite they were satisfying some instinct very dear to them. shelton noted the curl of ferrand's lip as he watched this sight. "many thanks, gentlemen," it seemed to say; "in that charming little action you have shown me all your souls." what a singular gift the fellow had of divesting things and people of their garments, of tearing away their veil of shams, and their phylacteries! shelton turned and cantered on; his thoughts were with antonia, and he did not want the glamour stripped away. he was glancing at the sky, that every moment threatened to discharge a violent shower of rain, when suddenly he heard his name called from behind, and who should ride up to him on either side but bill dennant and--antonia herself! they had been galloping; and she was flushed--flushed as when she stood on the old tower at hyeres, but with a joyful radiance different from the calm and conquering radiance of that other moment. to shelton's delight they fell into line with him, and all three went galloping along the strip between the trees and rails. the look she gave him seemed to say, "i don't care if it is forbidden!" but she did not speak. he could not take his eyes off her. how lovely she looked, with the resolute curve of her figure, the glimpse of gold under her hat, the glorious colour in her cheeks, as if she had been kissed. "it 's so splendid to be at home! let 's go faster, faster!" she cried out. "take a pull. we shall get run in," grumbled her brother, with a chuckle. they reined in round the bend and jogged more soberly down on the far side; still not a word from her to shelton, and shelton in his turn spoke only to bill dennant. he was afraid to speak to her, for he knew that her mind was dwelling on this chance forbidden meeting in a way quite different from his own. approaching hyde park corner, where ferrand was still standing against the rails, shelton, who had forgotten his existence, suffered a shock when his eyes fell suddenly on that impassive figure. he was about to raise his hand, when he saw that the young foreigner, noting his instinctive feeling, had at once adapted himself to it. they passed again without a greeting, unless that swift inquisition; followed by unconsciousness in ferrand's eyes, could so be called. but the feeling of idiotic happiness left shelton; he grew irritated at this silence. it tantalised him more and more, for bill dennant had lagged behind to chatter to a friend; shelton and antonia were alone, walking their horses, without a word, not even looking at each other. at one moment he thought of galloping ahead and leaving her, then of breaking the vow of muteness she seemed to be imposing on him, and he kept thinking: "it ought to be either one thing or the other. i can't stand this." her calmness was getting on his nerves; she seemed to have determined just how far she meant to go, to have fixed cold-bloodedly a limit. in her happy young beauty and radiant coolness she summed up that sane consistent something existing in nine out of ten of the people shelton knew. "i can't stand it long," he thought, and all of a sudden spoke; but as he did so she frowned and cantered on. when he caught her she was smiling, lifting her face to catch the raindrops which were falling fast. she gave him just a nod, and waved her hand as a sign for him to go; and when he would not, she frowned. he saw bill dennant, posting after them, and, seized by a sense of the ridiculous, lifted his hat, and galloped off. the rain was coming down in torrents now, and every one was scurrying for shelter. he looked back from the bend, and could still make out antonia riding leisurely, her face upturned, and revelling in the shower. why had n't she either cut him altogether or taken the sweets the gods had sent? it seemed wicked to have wasted such a chance, and, ploughing back to hyde park corner, he turned his head to see if by any chance she had relented. his irritation was soon gone, but his longing stayed. was ever anything so beautiful as she had looked with her face turned to the rain? she seemed to love the rain. it suited her--suited her ever so much better than the sunshine of the south. yes, she was very english! puzzling and fretting, he reached his rooms. ferrand had not arrived, in fact did not turn up that day. his non-appearance afforded shelton another proof of the delicacy that went hand in hand with the young vagrant's cynicism. in the afternoon he received a note. . . . you see, dick [he read], i ought to have cut you; but i felt too crazy--everything seems so jolly at home, even this stuffy old london. of course, i wanted to talk to you badly--there are heaps of things one can't say by letter--but i should have been sorry afterwards. i told mother. she said i was quite right, but i don't think she took it in. don't you feel that the only thing that really matters is to have an ideal, and to keep it so safe that you can always look forward and feel that you have been--i can't exactly express my meaning. shelton lit a cigarette and frowned. it seemed to him queer that she should set more store by an "ideal" than by the fact that they had met for the first and only time in many weeks. "i suppose she 's right," he thought--"i suppose she 's right. i ought not to have tried to speak to her!" as a matter of fact, he did not at all feel that she was right. chapter xiii an "at home" on tuesday morning he wandered off to paddington, hoping for a chance view of her on her way down to holm oaks; but the sense of the ridiculous, on which he had been nurtured, was strong enough to keep him from actually entering the station and lurking about until she came. with a pang of disappointment he retraced his steps from praed street to the park, and once there tried no further to waylay her. he paid a round of calls in the afternoon, mostly on her relations; and, seeking out aunt charlotte, he dolorously related his encounter in the row. but she found it "rather nice," and on his pressing her with his views, she murmured that it was "quite romantic, don't you know." "still, it's very hard," said shelton; and he went away disconsolate. as he was dressing for dinner his eye fell on a card announcing the "at home" of one of his own cousins. her husband was a composer, and he had a vague idea that he would find at the house of a composer some quite unusually free kind of atmosphere. after dining at the club, therefore, he set out for chelsea. the party was held in a large room on the ground-floor, which was already crowded with people when shelton entered. they stood or sat about in groups with smiles fixed on their lips, and the light from balloon-like lamps fell in patches on their heads and hands and shoulders. someone had just finished rendering on the piano a composition of his own. an expert could at once have picked out from amongst the applauding company those who were musicians by profession, for their eyes sparkled, and a certain acidity pervaded their enthusiasm. this freemasonry of professional intolerance flew from one to the other like a breath of unanimity, and the faint shrugging of shoulders was as harmonious as though one of the high windows had been opened suddenly, admitting a draught of chill may air. shelton made his way up to his cousin--a fragile, grey-haired woman in black velvet and venetian lace, whose starry eyes beamed at him, until her duties, after the custom of these social gatherings, obliged her to break off conversation just as it began to interest him. he was passed on to another lady who was already talking to two gentlemen, and, their volubility being greater than his own, he fell into the position of observer. instead of the profound questions he had somehow expected to hear raised, everybody seemed gossiping, or searching the heart of such topics as where to go this summer, or how to get new servants. trifling with coffee-cups, they dissected their fellow artists in the same way as his society friends of the other night had dissected the fellow--"smart"; and the varnish on the floor, the pictures, and the piano were reflected on all the faces around. shelton moved from group to group disconsolate. a tall, imposing person stood under a japanese print holding the palm of one hand outspread; his unwieldy trunk and thin legs wobbled in concert to his ingratiating voice. "war," he was saying, "is not necessary. war is not necessary. i hope i make myself clear. war is not necessary; it depends on nationality, but nationality is not necessary." he inclined his head to one side, "why do we have nationality? let us do away with boundaries--let us have the warfare of commerce. if i see france looking at brighton"--he laid his head upon one side, and beamed at shelton,--"what do i do? do i say 'hands off'? no. 'take it,' i say--take it!'" he archly smiled. "but do you think they would?" and the softness of his contours fascinated shelton. "the soldier," the person underneath the print resumed, "is necessarily on a lower plane--intellectually--oh, intellectually--than the philanthropist. his sufferings are less acute; he enjoys the compensations of advertisement--you admit that?" he breathed persuasively. "for instance--i am quite impersonal--i suffer; but do i talk about it?" but, someone gazing at his well-filled waistcoat, he put his thesis in another form: "i have one acre and one cow, my brother has one acre and one cow: do i seek to take them away from him?" shelton hazarded, "perhaps you 're weaker than your brother." "come, come! take the case of women: now, i consider our marriage laws are barbarous." for the first time shelton conceived respect for them; he made a comprehensive gesture, and edged himself into the conversation of another group, for fear of having all his prejudices overturned. here an irish sculptor, standing in a curve, was saying furiously, "bees are not bhumpkins, d---n their sowls!" a scotch painter, who listened with a curly smile, seemed trying to compromise this proposition, which appeared to have relation to the middle classes; and though agreeing with the irishman, shelton felt nervous over his discharge of electricity. next to them two american ladies, assembled under the tent of hair belonging to a writer of songs, were discussing the emotions aroused in them by wagner's operas. "they produce a strange condition of affairs in me," said the thinner one. "they 're just divine," said the fatter. "i don't know if you can call the fleshly lusts divine," replied the thinner, looking into the eyes of the writer of the songs. amidst all the hum of voices and the fumes of smoke, a sense of formality was haunting shelton. sandwiched between a dutchman and a prussian poet, he could understand neither of his neighbours; so, assuming an intelligent expression, he fell to thinking that an assemblage of free spirits is as much bound by the convention of exchanging their ideas as commonplace people are by the convention of having no ideas to traffic in. he could not help wondering whether, in the bulk, they were not just as dependent on each other as the inhabitants of kensington; whether, like locomotives, they could run at all without these opportunities for blowing off the steam, and what would be left when the steam had all escaped. somebody ceased playing the violin, and close to him a group began discussing ethics. aspirations were in the air all round, like a lot of hungry ghosts. he realised that, if tongue be given to them, the flavour vanishes from ideas which haunt the soul. again the violinist played. "cock gracious!" said the prussian poet, falling into english as the fiddle ceased: "colossal! 'aber, wie er ist grossartig'!" "have you read that thing of besom's?" asked shrill voice behind. "oh, my dear fellow! too horrid for words; he ought to be hanged!" "the man's dreadful," pursued the voice, shriller than ever; "nothing but a volcanic eruption would cure him." shelton turned in alarm to look at the authors of these statements. they were two men of letters talking of a third. "'c'est un grand naif, vous savez,'" said the second speaker. "these fellows don't exist," resumed the first; his small eyes gleamed with a green light, his whole face had a look as if he gnawed himself. though not a man of letters, shelton could not help recognising from those eyes what joy it was to say those words: "these fellows don't exist!" "poor besom! you know what moulter said . . ." shelton turned away, as if he had been too close to one whose hair smelt of cantharides; and, looking round the room, he frowned. with the exception of his cousin, he seemed the only person there of english blood. americans, mesopotamians, irish, italians, germans, scotch, and russians. he was not contemptuous of them for being foreigners; it was simply that god and the climate had made him different by a skin or so. but at this point his conclusions were denied (as will sometimes happen) by his introduction to an englishman--a major somebody, who, with smooth hair and blond moustache, neat eyes and neater clothes, seemed a little anxious at his own presence there. shelton took a liking to him, partly from a fellow-feeling, and partly because of the gentle smile with which he was looking at his wife. almost before he had said "how do you do?" he was plunged into a discussion on imperialism. "admitting all that," said shelton, "what i hate is the humbug with which we pride ourselves on benefiting the whole world by our so-called civilising methods." the soldier turned his reasonable eyes. "but is it humbug?" shelton saw his argument in peril. if we really thought it, was it humbug? he replied, however: "why should we, a small portion of the world's population, assume that our standards are the proper ones for every kind of race? if it 's not humbug, it 's sheer stupidity." the soldier, without taking his hands out of his pockets, but by a forward movement of his face showing that he was both sincere and just, re-replied: "well, it must be a good sort of stupidity; it makes us the nation that we are." shelton felt dazed. the conversation buzzed around him; he heard the smiling prophet saying, "altruism, altruism," and in his voice a something seemed to murmur, "oh, i do so hope i make a good impression!" he looked at the soldier's clear-cut head with its well-opened eyes, the tiny crow's-feet at their corners, the conventional moustache; he envied the certainty of the convictions lying under that well-parted hair. "i would rather we were men first and then englishmen," he muttered; "i think it's all a sort of national illusion, and i can't stand illusions." "if you come to that," said the soldier, "the world lives by illusions. i mean, if you look at history, you'll see that the creation of illusions has always been her business, don't you know." this shelton was unable to deny. "so," continued the soldier (who was evidently a highly cultivated man), "if you admit that movement, labour, progress, and all that have been properly given to building up these illusions, that--er--in fact, they're what you might call--er--the outcome of the world's crescendo," he rushed his voice over this phrase as if ashamed of it--"why do you want to destroy them?" shelton thought a moment, then, squeezing his body with his folded arms, replied: "the past has made us what we are, of course, and cannot be destroyed; but how about the future? it 's surely time to let in air. cathedrals are very fine, and everybody likes the smell of incense; but when they 've been for centuries without ventilation you know what the atmosphere gets like." the soldier smiled. "by your own admission," he said, "you'll only be creating a fresh set of illusions." "yes," answered shelton, "but at all events they'll be the honest necessities of the present." the pupils of the soldier's eyes contracted; he evidently felt the conversation slipping into generalities; he answered: "i can't see how thinking small beer of ourselves is going to do us any good!" an "at home!" shelton felt in danger of being thought unpractical in giving vent to the remark: "one must trust one's reason; i never can persuade myself that i believe in what i don't." a minute later, with a cordial handshake, the soldier left, and shelton watched his courteous figure shepherding his wife away. "dick, may i introduce you to mr. wilfrid curly?" said his cousin's voice behind, and he found his hand being diffidently shaken by a fresh-cheeked youth with a dome-like forehead, who was saying nervously: "how do you do? yes, i am very well, thank you!" he now remembered that when he had first come in he had watched this youth, who had been standing in a corner indulging himself in private smiles. he had an uncommon look, as though he were in love with life--as though he regarded it as a creature to whom one could put questions to the very end--interesting, humorous, earnest questions. he looked diffident, and amiable, and independent, and he, too, was evidently english. "are you good at argument?" said shelton, at a loss for a remark. the youth smiled, blushed, and, putting back his hair, replied: "yes--no--i don't know; i think my brain does n't work fast enough for argument. you know how many motions of the brain-cells go to each remark. it 's awfully interesting"; and, bending from the waist in a mathematical position, he extended the palm of one hand, and started to explain. shelton stared at the youth's hand, at his frowns and the taps he gave his forehead while he found the expression of his meaning; he was intensely interested. the youth broke off, looked at his watch, and, blushing brightly, said: "i 'm afraid i have to go; i have to be at the 'den' before eleven." "i must be off, too," said shelton. making their adieux together, they sought their hats and coats. chapter xiv the night club "may i ask," said shelton, as he and the youth came out into the chilly street, "what it is you call the 'den'?" his companion smilingly answered: "oh, the night club. we take it in turns. thursday is my night. would you like to come? you see a lot of types. it's only round the corner." shelton digested a momentary doubt, and answered: "yes, immensely." they reached the corner house in an angle of a, dismal street, through the open door of which two men had just gone in. following, they ascended some wooden, fresh-washed stairs, and entered a large boarded room smelling of sawdust, gas, stale coffee, and old clothes. it was furnished with a bagatelle board, two or three wooden tables, some wooden forms, and a wooden bookcase. seated on these wooden chairs, or standing up, were youths, and older men of the working class, who seemed to shelton to be peculiarly dejected. one was reading, one against the wall was drinking coffee with a disillusioned air, two were playing chess, and a group of four made a ceaseless clatter with the bagatelle. a little man in a dark suit, with a pale face, thin lips, and deep-set, black-encircled eyes, who was obviously in charge, came up with an anaemic smile. "you 're rather late," he said to curly, and, looking ascetically at shelton, asked, without waiting for an introduction: "do you play chess? there 's young smith wants a game." a youth with a wooden face, already seated before a fly-blown chess-board, asked him drearily if he would have black or white. shelton took white; he was oppressed by the virtuous odour of this room. the little man with the deep blue eyes came up, stood in an uneasy attitude, and watched: "your play's improving, young smith," he said; "i should think you'd be able to give banks a knight." his eyes rested on shelton, fanatical and dreary; his monotonous voice was suffering and nasal; he was continually sucking in his lips, as though determined to subdue 'the flesh. "you should come here often," he said to shelton, as the latter received checkmate; "you 'd get some good practice. we've several very fair players. you're not as good as jones or bartholomew," he added to shelton's opponent, as though he felt it a duty to put the latter in his place. "you ought to come here often," he repeated to shelton; "we have a lot of very good young fellows"; and, with a touch of complacence, he glanced around the dismal room. "there are not so many here tonight as usual. where are toombs and body?" shelton, too, looked anxiously around. he could not help feeling sympathy with toombs and body. "they 're getting slack, i'm afraid," said the little deep-eyed man. "our principle is to amuse everyone. excuse me a minute; i see that carpenter is doing nothing." he crossed over to the man who had been drinking coffee, but shelton had barely time to glance at his opponent and try to think of a remark, before the little man was back. "do you know anything about astronomy?" he asked of shelton. "we have several very interested in astronomy; if you could talk to them a little it would help." shelton made a motion of alarm. "please-no," said he; "i--" "i wish you'd come sometimes on wednesdays; we have most interesting talks, and a service afterwards. we're always anxious to get new blood"; and his eyes searched shelton's brown, rather tough-looking face, as though trying to see how much blood there was in it. "young curly says you 've just been around the world; you could describe your travels." "may i ask," said shelton, "how your club is made up?" again a look of complacency, and blessed assuagement, visited the little man. "oh," he said, "we take anybody, unless there 's anything against them. the day society sees to that. of course, we shouldn't take anyone if they were to report against them. you ought to come to our committee meetings; they're on mondays at seven. the women's side, too--" "thank you," said shelton; "you 're very kind--" "we should be pleased," said the little man; and his face seemed to suffer more than ever. "they 're mostly young fellows here to-night, but we have married men, too. of course, we 're very careful about that," he added hastily, as though he might have injured shelton's prejudices--"that, and drink, and anything criminal, you know." "and do you give pecuniary assistance, too?" "oh yes," replied the little man; "if you were to come to our committee meetings you would see for yourself. everything is most carefully gone into; we endeavour to sift the wheat from the chaff." "i suppose," said shelton, "you find a great deal of chaff?" the little man smiled a suffering smile. the twang of his toneless voice sounded a trifle shriller. "i was obliged to refuse a man to-day--a man and a woman, quite young people, with three small children. he was ill and out of work; but on inquiry we found that they were not man and wife." there was a slight pause; the little man's eyes were fastened on his nails, and, with an appearance of enjoyment, he began to bite them. shelton's face had grown a trifle red. "and what becomes of the woman and the children in a case like that?" he said. the little man's eyes began to smoulder. "we make a point of not encouraging sin, of course. excuse me a minute; i see they've finished bagatelle." he hurried off, and in a moment the clack of bagatelle began again. he himself was playing with a cold and spurious energy, running after the balls and exhorting the other players, upon whom a wooden acquiescence seemed to fall. shelton crossed the room, and went up to young curly. he was sitting on a bench, smiling to himself his private smiles. "are you staying here much longer?" shelton asked. young curly rose with nervous haste. "i 'm afraid," he said, "there 's nobody very interesting here to-night." "oh, not at all!" said shelton; "on the contrary. only i 've had a rather tiring day, and somehow i don't feel up to the standard here." his new acquaintance smiled. "oh, really! do you think--that is--" but he had not time to finish before the clack of bagatelle balls ceased, and the voice of the little deep-eyed man was heard saying: "anybody who wants a book will put his name down. there will be the usual prayer-meeting on wednesday next. will you all go quietly? i am going to turn the lights out." one gas-jet vanished, and the remaining jet flared suddenly. by its harder glare the wooden room looked harder too, and disenchanting. the figures of its occupants began filing through the door. the little man was left in the centre of the room, his deep eyes smouldering upon the backs of the retreating members, his thumb and finger raised to the turncock of the metre. "do you know this part?" asked young curly as they emerged into the street. "it 's really jolly; one of the darkest bits in london--it is really. if you care, i can take you through an awfully dangerous place where the police never go." he seemed so anxious for the honour that shelton was loath to disappoint him. "i come here pretty often," he went on, as they ascended a sort of alley rambling darkly between a wall and row of houses. "why?" asked shelton; "it does n't smell too nice." the young man threw up his nose and sniffed, as if eager to add any new scent that might be about to his knowledge of life. "no, that's one of the reasons, you know," he said; "one must find out. the darkness is jolly, too; anything might happen here. last week there was a murder; there 's always the chance of one." shelton stared; but the charge of morbidness would not lie against this fresh-cheeked stripling. "there's a splendid drain just here," his guide resumed; "the people are dying like flies of typhoid in those three houses"; and under the first light he turned his grave, cherubic face to indicate the houses. "if we were in the east end, i could show you other places quite as good. there's a coffee-stall keeper in one that knows all the thieves in london; he 's a splendid type, but," he added, looking a little anxiously at shelton, "it might n't be safe for you. with me it's different; they 're beginning to know me. i've nothing to take, you see." "i'm afraid it can't be to-night," said shelton; "i must get back." "do you mind if i walk with you? it's so jolly now the stars are out." "delighted," said shelton; "do you often go to that club?" his companion raised his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. "they 're rather too high-class for me," he said. "i like to go where you can see people eat--school treats, or somewhere in the country. it does one good to see them eat. they don't get enough, you see, as a rule, to make bone; it's all used up for brain and muscle. there are some places in the winter where they give them bread and cocoa; i like to go to those." "i went once," said shelton, "but i felt ashamed for putting my nose in." "oh, they don't mind; most of them are half-dead with cold, you know. you see splendid types; lots of dipsomaniacs . . . . it 's useful to me," he went on as they passed a police-station, "to walk about at night; one can take so much more notice. i had a jolly night last week in hyde park; a chance to study human nature there." "and do you find it interesting?" asked shelton. his companion smiled. "awfully," he replied; "i saw a fellow pick three pockets." "what did you do?" "i had a jolly talk with him." shelton thought of the little deep-eyed man; who made a point of not encouraging sin. "he was one of the professionals from notting hill, you know; told me his life. never had a chance, of course. the most interesting part was telling him i 'd seen him pick three pockets--like creeping into a cave, when you can't tell what 's inside." "well?" "he showed me what he 'd got--only fivepence halfpenny." "and what became of your friend?" asked shelton. "oh, went off; he had a splendidly low forehead." they had reached shelton's rooms. "will you come in," said the latter, "and have a drink?" the youth smiled, blushed, and shook his head. "no, thank you," he said; "i have to walk to whitechapel. i 'm living on porridge now; splendid stuff for making bone. i generally live on porridge for a week at the end of every month. it 's the best diet if you're hard up"; once more blushing and smiling, he was gone. shelton went upstairs and sat down on his bed. he felt a little miserable. sitting there, slowly pulling out the ends of his white tie, disconsolate, he had a vision of antonia with her gaze fixed wonderingly on him. and this wonder of hers came as a revelation--just as that morning, when, looking from his window, he had seen a passer-by stop suddenly and scratch his leg; and it had come upon him in a flash that that man had thoughts and feelings of his own. he would never know what antonia really felt and thought. "till i saw her at the station, i did n't know how much i loved her or how little i knew her"; and, sighing deeply, he hurried into bed. chapter xv pole to pole the waiting in london for july to come was daily more unbearable to shelton, and if it had not been for ferrand, who still came to breakfast, he would have deserted the metropolis. on june first the latter presented himself rather later than was his custom, and announced that, through a friend, he had heard of a position as interpreter to an hotel at folkestone. "if i had money to face the first necessities," he said, swiftly turning over a collection of smeared papers with his yellow fingers, as if searching for his own identity, "i 'd leave today. this london blackens my spirit." "are you certain to get this place," asked shelton. "i think so," the young foreigner replied; "i 've got some good enough recommendations." shelton could not help a dubious glance at the papers in his hand. a hurt look passed on to ferrand's curly lips beneath his nascent red moustache. "you mean that to have false papers is as bad as theft. no, no; i shall never be a thief--i 've had too many opportunities," said he, with pride and bitterness. "that's not in my character. i never do harm to anyone. this"--he touched the papers--"is not delicate, but it does harm to no one. if you have no money you must have papers; they stand between you and starvation. society, has an excellent eye for the helpless--it never treads on people unless they 're really down." he looked at shelton. "you 've made me what i am, amongst you," he seemed to say; "now put up with me!" "but there are always the workhouses," shelton remarked at last. "workhouses!" returned ferrand; "certainly there are--regular palaces: i will tell you one thing: i've never been in places so discouraging as your workhouses; they take one's very heart out." "i always understood," said shelton coldly; "that our system was better than that of other countries." ferrand leaned over in his chair, an elbow on his knee, his favourite attitude when particularly certain of his point. "well," he replied, "it 's always permissible to think well of your own country. but, frankly, i've come out of those places here with little strength and no heart at all, and i can tell you why." his lips lost their bitterness, and he became an artist expressing the result of his experience. "you spend your money freely, you have fine buildings, self-respecting officers, but you lack the spirit of hospitality. the reason is plain; you have a horror of the needy. you invite us--and when we come you treat us justly enough, but as if we were numbers, criminals, beneath contempt--as if we had inflicted a personal injury on you; and when we get out again, we are naturally degraded." shelton bit his lips. "how much money will you want for your ticket, and to make a start?" he asked. the nervous gesture escaping ferrand at this juncture betrayed how far the most independent thinkers are dependent when they have no money in their pockets. he took the note that shelton proffered him. "a thousand thanks," said he; "i shall never forget what you have done for me"; and shelton could not help feeling that there was true emotion behind his titter of farewell. he stood at the window watching ferrand start into the world again; then looked back at his own comfortable room, with the number of things that had accumulated somehow--the photographs of countless friends, the old arm-chairs, the stock of coloured pipes. into him restlessness had passed with the farewell clasp of the foreigner's damp hand. to wait about in london was unbearable. he took his hat, and, heedless of direction, walked towards the river. it was a clear, bright day, with a bleak wind driving showers before it. during one of such shelton found himself in little blank street. "i wonder how that little frenchman that i saw is getting on!" he thought. on a fine day he would probably have passed by on the other side; he now entered and tapped upon the wicket. no. little blank street had abated nothing of its stone-flagged dreariness; the same blowsy woman answered his inquiry. yes, carolan was always in; you could never catch him out--seemed afraid to go into the street! to her call the little frenchman made his appearance as punctually as if he had been the rabbit of a conjurer. his face was as yellow as a guinea. "ah! it's you, monsieur!" he said. "yes," said shelton; "and how are you?" "it 's five days since i came out of hospital," muttered the little frenchman, tapping on his chest; "a crisis of this bad atmosphere. i live here, shut up in a box; it does me harm, being from the south. if there's anything i can do for you, monsieur, it will give me pleasure." "nothing," replied shelton, "i was just passing, and thought i should like to hear how you were getting on." "come into the kitchen,--monsieur, there is nobody in there. 'brr! il fait un froid etonnant'!" "what sort of customers have you just now?" asked shelton, as they passed into the kitchen. "always the same clientele," replied the little man; "not so numerous, of course, it being summer." "could n't you find anything better than this to do?" the barber's crow's-feet radiated irony. "when i first came to london," said he, "i secured an engagement at one of your public institutions. i thought my fortune made. imagine, monsieur, in that sacred place i was obliged to shave at the rate of ten a penny! here, it's true, they don't pay me half the time; but when i'm paid, i 'm paid. in this, climate, and being 'poitrinaire', one doesn't make experiments. i shall finish my days here. have you seen that young man who interested you? there 's another! he has spirit, as i had once--'il fait de la philosophie', as i do--and you will see, monsieur, it will finish him. in this world what you want is to have no spirit. spirit ruins you." shelton looked sideways at the little man with his sardonic, yellow, half-dead face, and the incongruity of the word "spirit" in his mouth struck him so sharply that he smiled a smile with more pity in it than any burst of tears. "shall we 'sit down?" he said, offering a cigarette. "merci, monsieur, it is always a pleasure to smoke a good cigarette. you remember, that old actor who gave you a jeremiad? well, he's dead. i was the only one at his bedside; 'un vrai drole'. he was another who had spirit. and you will see, monsieur, that young man in whom you take an interest, he'll die in a hospital, or in some hole or other, or even on the highroad; having closed his eyes once too often some cold night; and all because he has something in him which will not accept things as they are, believing always that they should be better. 'il n'y a riens de plus tragique'!" "according to you, then," said shelton--and the conversation seemed to him of a sudden to have taken too personal a turn--"rebellion of any sort is fatal." "ah!" replied the little man, with the eagerness of one whose ideal it is to sit under the awning of a cafe, and talk life upside down, "you pose me a great problem there! if one makes rebellion; it is always probable that one will do no good to any one and harm one's self. the law of the majority arranges that. but i would draw your attention to this"--and he paused; as if it were a real discovery to blow smoke through his nose--"if you rebel it is in all likelihood because you are forced by your nature to rebel; this is one of the most certain things in life. in any case, it is necessary to avoid falling between two stools--which is unpardonable," he ended with complacence. shelton thought he had never seen a man who looked more completely as if he had fallen between two stools, and he had inspiration enough to feel that the little barber's intellectual rebellion and the action logically required by it had no more than a bowing acquaintanceship. "by nature," went on the little man, "i am an optimist; it is in consequence of this that i now make pessimism. i have always had ideals; seeing myself cut off from them for ever, i must complain; to complain, monsieur, is very sweet!" shelton wondered what these ideals had been, but had no answer ready; so he nodded, and again held out his cigarettes, for, like a true southerner, the little man had thrown the first away, half smoked. "the greatest pleasure in life," continued the frenchman, with a bow, "is to talk a little to a being who is capable of understanding you. at present we have no one here, now that that old actor's dead. ah! there was a man who was rebellion incarnate! he made rebellion as other men make money, 'c'etait son metier'; when he was no longer capable of active revolution, he made it getting drunk. at the last this was his only way of protesting against society. an interesting personality, 'je le regrette beaucoup'. but, as you see, he died in great distress, without a soul to wave him farewell, because as you can well understand, monsieur, i don't count myself. he died drunk. 'c'etait un homme'!" shelton had continued staring kindly at the little man; the barber added hastily: "it's difficult to make an end like that one has moments of weakness." "yes," assented shelton, "one has indeed." the little barber looked at him with cynical discretion. "oh!" he said, "it 's to the destitute that such things are important. when one has money, all these matters--" he shrugged his shoulders. a smile had lodged amongst his crow's-feet; he waved his hand as though to end the subject. a sense of having been exposed came over shelton. "you think, then," said he, "that discontent is peculiar to the destitute?" "monsieur," replied the little barber, "a plutocrat knows too well that if he mixes in that 'galere' there 's not a dog in the streets more lost than he." shelton rose. "the rain is over. i hope you 'll soon be better; perhaps you 'll accept this in memory of that old actor," and he slipped a sovereign into the little frenchman's hand. the latter bowed. "whenever you are passing, monsieur," he said eagerly, "i shall be charmed to see you." and shelton walked away. "'not a dog in the streets more lost,'" thought he; "now what did he mean by that?" something of that "lost dog" feeling had gripped his spirit. another month of waiting would kill all the savour of anticipation, might even kill his love. in the excitement of his senses and his nerves, caused by this strain of waiting, everything seemed too vivid; all was beyond life size; like art--whose truths; too strong for daily use, are thus, unpopular with healthy people. as will the, bones in a worn face, the spirit underlying things had reached the surface; the meanness and intolerable measure of hard facts, were too apparent. some craving for help, some instinct, drove him into kensington, for he found himself before his, mother's house. providence seemed bent on flinging him from pole to pole. mrs. shelton was in town; and, though it was the first of june, sat warming her feet before a fire; her face, with its pleasant colour, was crow's-footed like the little barber's, but from optimism, not rebellion. she, smiled when she saw her son; and the wrinkles round her eyes twinkled, with vitality. "well, my dear boy," she said, "it's lovely to see you. and how is that sweet girl?" "very well, thank you," replied shelton. "she must be such a dear!" "mother," stammered shelton, "i must give it up." "give it up? my dear dick, give what up? you look quite worried. come and sit down, and have a cosy chat. cheer up!" and mrs. shelton; with her head askew, gazed at her son quite irrepressibly. "mother," said shelton, who, confronted by her optimism, had never, since his time of trial began, felt so wretchedly dejected, "i can't go on waiting about like this." "my dear boy, what is the matter?"; "everything is wrong!" "wrong?" cried mrs. shelton. "come, tell me all, about it!" but shelton, shook his head. "you surely have not had a quarrel----" mrs. shelton stopped; the question seemed so vulgar--one might have asked it of a groom. "no," said shelton, and his answer sounded like a groan. "you know, my dear old dick," murmured his mother, "it seems a little mad." "i know it seems mad." "come!" said mrs. shelton, taking his hand between her own; "you never used to be like this." "no," said shelton, with a laugh; "i never used to be like this." mrs. shelton snuggled in her chuda shawl. "oh," she said, with cheery sympathy, "i know exactly how you feel!" shelton, holding his head, stared at the fire, which played and bubbled like his mother's face. "but you're so fond of each other," she began again. "such a sweet girl!" "you don't understand," muttered shelton gloomily; "it 's not her--it's nothing--it's--myself!" mrs. shelton again seized his hand, and this time pressed it to her soft, warm cheek, that had lost the elasticity of youth. "oh!" she cried again; "i understand. i know exactly what you 're feeling." but shelton saw from the fixed beam in her eyes that she had not an inkling. to do him justice, he was not so foolish as to try to give her one. mrs. shelton sighed. "it would be so lovely if you could wake up to-morrow and think differently. if i were you, my dear, i would have a good long walk, and then a turkish bath; and then i would just write to her, and tell her all about it, and you'll see how beautifully it'll all come straight"; and in the enthusiasm of advice mrs. shelton rose, and, with a faint stretch of her tiny figure, still so young, clasped her hands together. "now do, that 's a dear old dick! you 'll just see how lovely it'll be!" shelton smiled; he had not the heart to chase away this vision. "and give her my warmest love, and tell her i 'm longing for the wedding. come, now, my dear boy, promise me that's what you 'll do." and shelton said: "i'll think about it." mrs. shelton had taken up her stand with one foot on the fender, in spite of her sciatica. "cheer up!" she cried; her eyes beamed as if intoxicated by her sympathy. wonderful woman! the uncomplicated optimism that carried her through good and ill had not descended to her son. from pole to pole he had been thrown that day, from the french barber, whose intellect accepted nothing without carping, and whose little fingers worked all day, to save himself from dying out, to his own mother, whose intellect accepted anything presented with sufficient glow, but who, until she died, would never stir a finger. when shelton reached his rooms, he wrote to antonia: i can't wait about in london any longer; i am going down to bideford to start a walking tour. i shall work my way to oxford, and stay there till i may come to holm oaks. i shall send you my address; do write as usual. he collected all the photographs he had of her--amateur groups, taken by mrs. dennant--and packed them in the pocket of his shooting-jacket. there was one where she was standing just below her little brother, who was perched upon a wall. in her half-closed eyes, round throat, and softly tilted chin, there was something cool and watchful, protecting the ragamuffin up above her head. this he kept apart to be looked at daily, as a man says his prayers. part ii the country chapter xvi the indian civilian one morning then, a week later, shelton found himself at the walls of princetown prison. he had seen this lugubrious stone cage before. but the magic of his morning walk across the moor, the sight of the pagan tors, the songs of the last cuckoo, had unprepared him for that dreary building. he left the street, and, entering the fosse, began a circuit, scanning the walls with morbid fascination. this, then, was the system by which men enforced the will of the majority, and it was suddenly borne in on him that all the ideas and maxims which his christian countrymen believed themselves to be fulfilling daily were stultified in every cellule of the social honeycomb. such teachings as "he that is without sin amongst you" had been pronounced unpractical by peers and judges, bishops, statesmen, merchants, husbands--in fact, by every truly christian person in the country. "yes," thought shelton, as if he had found out something new, "the more christian the nation, the less it has to do with the christian spirit." society was a charitable organisation, giving nothing for nothing, little for sixpence; and it was only fear that forced it to give at all! he took a seat on a wall, and began to watch a warder who was slowly paring a last year's apple. the expression of his face, the way he stood with his solid legs apart, his head poked forward and his lower jaw thrust out, all made him a perfect pillar of society. he was undisturbed by shelton's scrutiny, watching the rind coil down below the apple; until in a springing spiral it fell on the path and collapsed like a toy snake. he took a bite; his teeth were jagged; and his mouth immense. it was obvious that he considered himself a most superior man. shelton frowned, got down slowly, from the wall, and proceeded on his way. a little further down the hill he stopped again to watch a group of convicts in a field. they seemed to be dancing in a slow and sad cotillon, while behind the hedge on every side were warders armed with guns. just such a sight, substituting spears could have been seen in roman times. while he thus stood looking, a man, walking, rapidly, stopped beside him, and asked how many miles it was to exeter. his round visage; and long, brown eyes, sliding about beneath their, brows, his cropped hair and short neck, seemed familiar. "your name is crocker, is n't it?" "why! it's the bird!" exclaimed the traveller; putting out his hand. "have n't seen you since we both went down." shelton returned his handgrip. crocker had lived above his head at college, and often kept him, sleepless half the night by playing on the hautboy. "where have you sprung from?" "india. got my long leave. i say, are you going this way? let's go together." they went, and very fast; faster and faster every minute. "where are you going at this pace?" asked shelton. "london." "oh! only as far as london?" "i 've set myself to do it in a week." "are you in training?" "no." "you 'll kill yourself." crocker answered with a chuckle. shelton noted with alarm the expression of his eye; there was a sort of stubborn aspiration in it. "still an idealist!" he thought; "poor fellow!" "well," he inquired, "what sort of a time have you had in india?" "oh," said the indian civilian absently, "i've, had the plague." "good god!" crocker smiled, and added: "caught it on famine duty." "i see," said shelton; "plague and famine! i suppose you fellows really think you 're doing good out there?" his companion looked at him surprised, then answered modestly: "we get very good screws." "that 's the great thing," responded shelton. after a moment's silence, crocker, looking straight before him, asked: "don't you think we are doing good?" "i 'm not an authority; but, as a matter of fact, i don't." crocker seemed disconcerted. "why?" he bluntly asked. shelton was not anxious to explain his views, and he did not reply. his friend repeated: "why don't you think we're doing good in india?" "well," said shelton gruffly, "how can progress be imposed on nations from outside?" the indian civilian, glancing at shelton in an affectionate and doubtful way, replied: "you have n't changed a bit, old chap." "no, no," said shelton; "you 're not going to get out of it that way. give me a single example of a nation, or an individual, for that matter, who 's ever done any good without having worked up to it from within." crocker, grunting, muttered, "evils." "that 's it," said shelton; "we take peoples entirely different from our own, and stop their natural development by substituting a civilisation grown for our own use. suppose, looking at a tropical fern in a hothouse, you were to say: 'this heat 's unhealthy for me; therefore it must be bad for the fern, i 'll take it up and plant it outside in the fresh air.'" "do you know that means giving up india?" said the indian civilian shrewdly. "i don't say that; but to talk about doing good to india is--h'm!" crocker knitted his brows, trying to see the point of view his friend was showing him. "come, now! should we go on administering india if it were dead loss? no. well, to talk about administering the country for the purpose of pocketing money is cynical, and there 's generally some truth in cynicism; but to talk about the administration of a country by which we profit, as if it were a great and good thing, is cant. i hit you in the wind for the benefit of myself--all right: law of nature; but to say it does you good at the same time is beyond me." "no, no," returned crocker, grave and anxious; "you can't persuade me that we 're not doing good." "wait a bit. it's all a question of horizons; you look at it from too close. put the horizon further back. you hit india in the wind, and say it's virtuous. well, now let's see what happens. either the wind never comes back, and india gasps to an untimely death, or the wind does come back, and in the pant of reaction your blow--that's to say your labour--is lost, morally lost labour that you might have spent where it would n't have been lost." "are n't you an imperialist?" asked crocker, genuinely concerned. "i may be, but i keep my mouth shut about the benefits we 're conferring upon other people." "then you can't believe in abstract right, or justice?" "what on earth have our ideas of justice or right got to do with india?" "if i thought as you do," sighed the unhappy crocker, "i should be all adrift." "quite so. we always think our standards best for the whole world. it's a capital belief for us. read the speeches of our public men. does n't it strike you as amazing how sure they are of being in the right? it's so charming to benefit yourself and others at the same time, though, when you come to think of it, one man's meat is usually another's poison. look at nature. but in england we never look at nature--there's no necessity. our national point of view has filled our pockets, that's all that matters." "i say, old chap, that's awfully bitter," said crocker, with a sort of wondering sadness. "it 's enough to make any one bitter the way we pharisees wax fat, and at the same time give ourselves the moral airs of a balloon. i must stick a pin in sometimes, just to hear the gas escape." shelton was surprised at his own heat, and for some strange reason thought of antonia--surely, she was not a pharisee. his companion strode along, and shelton felt sorry for the signs of trouble on his face. "to fill your pockets," said crocker, "is n't the main thing. one has just got to do things without thinking of why we do them." "do you ever see the other side to any question?" asked shelton. "i suppose not. you always begin to act before you stop thinking, don't you?" crocker grinned. "he's a pharisee, too," thought shelton, "without a pharisee's pride. queer thing that!" after walking some distance, as if thinking deeply, crocker chuckled out: "you 're not consistent; you ought to be in favour of giving up india." shelton smiled uneasily. "why should n't we fill our pockets? i only object to the humbug that we talk." the indian civilian put his hand shyly through his arm. "if i thought like you," he said, "i could n't stay another day in india." and to this shelton made no reply. the wind had now begun to drop, and something of the morning's magic was stealing again upon the moor. they were nearing the outskirt fields of cultivation. it was past five when, dropping from the level of the tors, they came into the sunny vale of monkland. "they say," said crocker, reading from his guide-book--"they say this place occupies a position of unique isolation." the two travellers, in tranquil solitude, took their seats under an old lime-tree on the village green. the smoke of their pipes, the sleepy air, the warmth from the baked ground, the constant hum, made shelton drowsy. "do you remember," his companion asked, "those 'jaws' you used to have with busgate and old halidome in my rooms on sunday evenings? how is old halidome?" "married," replied shelton. crocker sighed. "and are you?" he asked. "not yet," said shelton grimly; "i 'm--engaged." crocker took hold of his arm above the elbow, and, squeezing it, he grunted. shelton had not received congratulations that pleased him more; there was the spice of envy in them. "i should like to get married while i 'm home," said the civilian after a long pause. his legs were stretched apart, throwing shadows on the green, his hands deep thrust into his pockets, his head a little to one side. an absent-minded smile played round his mouth. the sun had sunk behind a tor, but the warmth kept rising from the ground, and the sweet-briar on a cottage bathed them with its spicy perfume. from the converging lanes figures passed now and then, lounged by, staring at the strangers, gossiping amongst themselves, and vanished into the cottages that headed the incline. a clock struck seven, and round the shady lime-tree a chafer or some heavy insect commenced its booming rushes. all was marvellously sane and slumbrous. the soft air, the drawling voices, the shapes and murmurs, the rising smell of wood-smoke from fresh-kindled fires--were full of the spirit of security and of home. the outside world was far indeed. typical of some island nation was this nest of refuge--where men grew quietly tall, fattened, and without fuss dropped off their perches; where contentment flourished, as sunflowers flourished in the sun. crocker's cap slipped off; he was nodding, and shelton looked at him. from a manor house in some such village he had issued; to one of a thousand such homes he would find his way at last, untouched by the struggles with famines or with plagues, uninfected in his fibre, his prejudices, and his principles, unchanged by contact with strange peoples, new conditions, odd feelings, or queer points of view! the chafer buzzed against his shoulder, gathered flight again, and boomed away. crocker roused himself, and, turning his amiable face, jogged shelton's arm. "what are you thinking about, bird?" he asked. chapter xvii a parson shelton continued to travel with his college friend, and on wednesday night, four days after joining company, they reached the village of dowdenhame. all day long the road had lain through pastureland, with thick green hedges and heavily feathered elms. once or twice they had broken the monotony by a stretch along the towing-path of a canal, which, choked with water-lily plants and shining weeds, brooded sluggishly beside the fields. nature, in one of her ironic moods, had cast a grey and iron-hard cloak over all the country's bland luxuriance. from dawn till darkness fell there had been no movement in the steely distant sky; a cold wind ruffed in the hedge-tops, and sent shivers through the branches of the elms. the cattle, dappled, pied, or bay, or white, continued grazing with an air of grumbling at their birthright. in a meadow close to the canal shelton saw five magpies, and about five o'clock the rain began, a steady, coldly-sneering rain, which crocker, looking at the sky, declared was going to be over in a minute. but it was not over in a minute; they were soon drenched. shelton was tired, and it annoyed him very much that his companion, who was also tired, should grow more cheerful. his thoughts kept harping upon ferrand: "this must be something like what he described to me, tramping on and on when you're dead-beat, until you can cadge up supper and a bed." and sulkily he kept on ploughing through the mud with glances at the exasperating crocker, who had skinned one heel and was limping horribly. it suddenly came home to him that life for three quarters of the world meant physical exhaustion every day, without a possibility of alternative, and that as soon as, for some cause beyond control, they failed thus to exhaust themselves, they were reduced to beg or starve. "and then we, who don't know the meaning of the word exhaustion, call them 'idle scamps,'" he said aloud. it was past nine and dark when they reached dowdenhame. the street yielded no accommodation, and while debating where to go they passed the church, with a square tower, and next to it a house which was certainly the parsonage. "suppose," said crocker, leaning on his arms upon the gate, "we ask him where to go"; and, without waiting for shelton's answer, he rang the bell. the door was opened by the parson, a bloodless and clean-shaven man, whose hollow cheeks and bony hands suggested a perpetual struggle. ascetically benevolent were his grey eyes; a pale and ghostly smile played on the curves of his thin lips. "what can i do for you?" he asked. "inn? yes, there's the blue chequers, but i 'm afraid you 'll find it shut. they 're early people, i 'm glad to say"; and his eyes seemed to muse over the proper fold for these damp sheep. "are you oxford men, by any chance?" he asked, as if that might throw some light upon the matter. "of mary's? really! i'm of paul's myself. ladyman--billington ladyman; you might remember my youngest brother. i could give you a room here if you could manage without sheets. my housekeeper has two days' holiday; she's foolishly taken the keys." shelton accepted gladly, feeling that the intonation in the parson's voice was necessary unto his calling, and that he did not want to patronise. "you 're hungry, i expect, after your tramp. i'm very much afraid there 's--er--nothing in the house but bread; i could boil you water; hot lemonade is better than nothing." conducting them into the kitchen, he made a fire, and put a kettle on to boil; then, after leaving them to shed their soaking clothes, returned with ancient, greenish coats, some carpet slippers, and some blankets. wrapped in these, and carrying their glasses, the travellers followed to the study, where, by doubtful lamp-light, he seemed, from books upon the table, to have been working at his sermon. "we 're giving you a lot of trouble," said shelton, "it's really very good of you." "not at all," the parson answered; "i'm only grieved the house is empty." it was a truly dismal contrast to the fatness of the land they had been passing through, and the parson's voice issuing from bloodless lips, although complacent, was pathetic. it was peculiar, that voice of his, seeming to indicate an intimate acquaintanceship with what was fat and fine, to convey contempt for the vulgar need of money, while all the time his eyes--those watery, ascetic eyes--as plain as speech they said, "oh, to know what it must be like to have a pound or two to spare just once a year, or so!" everything in the room had been bought for cheapness; no luxuries were there, and necessaries not enough. it was bleak and bare; the ceiling cracked, the wall-paper discoloured, and those books--prim, shining books, fat-backed, with arms stamped on them--glared in the surrounding barrenness. "my predecessor," said the parson, "played rather havoc with the house. the poor fellow had a dreadful struggle, i was told. you can, unfortunately, expect nothing else these days, when livings have come down so terribly in value! he was a married man--large family!" crocker, who had drunk his steaming lemonade, was smiling and already nodding in his chair; with his black garment buttoned closely round his throat, his long legs rolled up in a blanket, and stretched towards the feeble flame of the newly-lighted fire, he had a rather patchy air. shelton, on the other hand, had lost his feeling of fatigue; the strangeness of the place was stimulating his brain; he kept stealing glances at the scantiness around; the room, the parson, the furniture, the very fire, all gave him the feeling caused by seeing legs that have outgrown their trousers. but there was something underlying that leanness of the landscape, something superior and academic, which defied all sympathy. it was pure nervousness which made him say: "ah! why do they have such families?" a faint red mounted to the parson's cheeks; its appearance there was startling, and crocker chuckled, as a sleepy man will chuckle who feels bound to show that he is not asleep. "it's very unfortunate," murmured the parson, "certainly, in many cases." shelton would now have changed the subject, but at this moment the unhappy crocker snored. being a man of action, he had gone to sleep. "it seems to me," said shelton hurriedly, as he saw the parson's eyebrows rising at the sound, "almost what you might call wrong." "dear me, but how can it be wrong?" shelton now felt that he must justify his saying somehow. "i don't know," he said, "only one hears of such a lot of cases--clergymen's families; i've two uncles of my own, who--" a new expression gathered on the parson's face; his mouth had tightened, and his chin receded slightly. "why, he 's like a mule!" thought shelton. his eyes, too, had grown harder, greyer, and more parroty. shelton no longer liked his face. "perhaps you and i," the parson said, "would not understand each other on such matters." and shelton felt ashamed. "i should like to ask you a question in turn, however," the parson said, as if desirous of meeting shelton on his low ground: "how do you justify marriage if it is not to follow the laws of nature?" "i can only tell you what i personally feel." "my dear sir, you forget that a woman's chief delight is in her motherhood." "i should have thought it a pleasure likely to pall with too much repetition. motherhood is motherhood, whether of one or of a dozen." "i 'm afraid," replied the parson, with impatience, though still keeping on his guest's low ground, "your theories are not calculated to populate the world." "have you ever lived in london?" shelton asked. "it always makes me feel a doubt whether we have any right to have children at all." "surely," said the parson with wonderful restraint, and the joints of his fingers cracked with the grip he had upon his chair, "you are leaving out duty towards the country; national growth is paramount!" "there are two ways of looking at that. it depends on what you want your country to become." "i did n't know," said the parson--fanaticism now had crept into his smile--"there could be any doubt on such a subject." the more shelton felt that commands were being given him, the more controversial he naturally became--apart from the merits of this subject, to which he had hardly ever given thought. "i dare say i'm wrong," he said, fastening his eyes on the blanket in which his legs were wrapped; "but it seems to me at least an open question whether it's better for the country to be so well populated as to be quite incapable of supporting itself." "surely," said the parson, whose face regained its pallor, "you're not a little englander?" on shelton this phrase had a mysterious effect. resisting an impulse to discover what he really was, he answered hastily: "of course i'm not!" the parson followed up his triumph, and, shifting the ground of the discussion from shelton's to his own, he gravely said: "surely you must see that your theory is founded in immorality. it is, if i may say so, extravagant, even wicked." but shelton, suffering from irritation at his own dishonesty, replied with heat: "why not say at once, sir, 'hysterical, unhealthy'? any opinion which goes contrary to that of the majority is always called so, i believe." "well," returned the parson, whose eyes seemed trying to bind shelton to his will, "i must say your ideas do seem to me both extravagant and unhealthy. the propagation of children is enjoined of marriage." shelton bowed above his blanket, but the parson did not smile. "we live in very dangerous times," he said, "and it grieves me when a man of your standing panders to these notions." "those," said shelton, "whom the shoe does n't pinch make this rule of morality, and thrust it on to such as the shoe does pinch." "the rule was never made," said the parson; "it was given us." "oh!" said shelton, "i beg your pardon." he was in danger of forgetting the delicate position he was in. "he wants to ram his notions down my throat," he thought; and it seemed to him that the parson's face had grown more like a mule's, his accent more superior, his eyes more dictatorial: to be right in this argument seemed now of great importance, whereas, in truth, it was of no importance whatsoever. that which, however, was important was the fact that in nothing could they ever have agreed. but crocker had suddenly ceased to snore; his head had fallen so that a peculiar whistling arose instead. both shelton and the parson looked at him, and the sight sobered them. "your friend seems very tired," said the parson. shelton forgot all his annoyance, for his host seemed suddenly pathetic, with those baggy garments, hollow cheeks, and the slightly reddened nose that comes from not imbibing quite enough. a kind fellow, after all! the kind fellow rose, and, putting his hands behind his back, placed himself before the blackening fire. whole centuries of authority stood behind him. it was an accident that the mantelpiece was chipped and rusty, the fire-irons bent and worn, his linen frayed about the cuffs. "i don't wish to dictate," said he, "but where it seems to me that you are wholly wrong in that your ideas foster in women those lax views of the family life that are so prevalent in society nowadays." thoughts of antonia with her candid eyes, the touch of freckling on her pink-white skin, the fair hair gathered back, sprang up in shelton, and that word--"lax" seemed ridiculous. and the women he was wont to see dragging about the streets of london with two or three small children, women bent beneath the weight of babies that they could not leave, women going to work with babies still unborn, anaemic-looking women, impecunious mothers in his own class, with twelve or fourteen children, all the victims of the sanctity of marriage, and again the word "lax" seemed to be ridiculous. "we are not put into the world to exercise our wits,"--muttered shelton. "our wanton wills," the parson said severely. "that, sir, may have been all right for the last generation, the country is more crowded now. i can't see why we should n't decide it for ourselves." "such a view of morality," said the parson, looking down at crocker with a ghostly smile, "to me is unintelligible." cracker's whistling grew in tone and in variety. "what i hate," said shelton, "is the way we men decide what women are to bear, and then call them immoral, decadent, or what you will, if they don't fall in with our views." "mr. shelton," said the parson, "i think we may safely leave it in the hands of god." shelton was silent. "the questions of morality," said the parson promptly, "have always lain through god in the hands of men, not women. we are the reasonable sex." shelton stubbornly replied "we 're certainly the greater humbugs, if that 's the same." "this is too bad," exclaimed the parson with some heat. "i 'm sorry, sir; but how can you expect women nowadays to have the same views as our grandmothers? we men, by our commercial enterprise, have brought about a different state of things; yet, for the sake of our own comfort, we try to keep women where they were. it's always those men who are most keen about their comfort"--and in his heat the sarcasm of using the word "comfort" in that room was lost on him--"who are so ready to accuse women of deserting the old morality." the parson quivered with impatient irony. "old morality! new morality!" he said. "these are strange words." "forgive me," explained shelton; "we 're talking of working morality, i imagine. there's not a man in a million fit to talk of true morality." the eyes of his host contracted. "i think," he said--and his voice sounded as if he had pinched it in the endeavour to impress his listener--"that any well-educated man who honestly tries to serve his god has the right humbly--i say humbly--to claim morality." shelton was on the point of saying something bitter, but checked himself. "here am i," thought he, "trying to get the last word, like an old woman." at this moment there was heard a piteous mewing; the parson went towards the door. "excuse me a moment; i 'm afraid that's one of my cats out in the wet." he returned a minute later with a wet cat in his arms. "they will get out," he said to shelton, with a smile on his thin face, suffused by stooping. and absently he stroked the dripping cat, while a drop of wet ran off his nose. "poor pussy, poor pussy!" the sound of that "poor pussy!" like nothing human in its cracked superiority, the softness of that smile, like the smile of gentleness itself, haunted shelton till he fell asleep. chapter xviii academic the last sunlight was playing on the roofs when the travellers entered that high street grave and holy to all oxford men. the spirit hovering above the spires was as different from its concretions in their caps and gowns as ever the spirit of christ was from church dogmas. "shall we go into grinnings'?" asked shelton, as they passed the club. but each looked at his clothes, for two elegant young men in flannel suits were coming out. "you go," said crocker, with a smirk. shelton shook his head. never before had he felt such love for this old city. it was gone now from out his life, but everything about it seemed so good and fine; even its exclusive air was not ignoble. clothed in the calm of history, the golden web of glorious tradition, radiant with the alchemy of memories, it bewitched him like the perfume of a woman's dress. at the entrance of a college they glanced in at the cool grey patch of stone beyond, and the scarlet of a window flowerbox--secluded, mysteriously calm--a narrow vision of the sacred past. pale and trencher-capped, a youth with pimply face and random nose, grabbing at his cloven gown, was gazing at the noticeboard. the college porter--large man, fresh-faced, and small-mouthed--stood at his lodge door in a frank and deferential attitude. an image of routine, he looked like one engaged to give a decorous air to multitudes of pecadilloes. his blue eyes rested on the travellers. "i don't know you, sirs, but if you want to speak i shall be glad to hear the observations you may have to make," they seemed to say. against the wall reposed a bicycle with tennis-racquet buckled to its handle. a bull-dog bitch, working her snout from side to side, was snuffling horribly; the great iron-studded door to which her chain was fastened stayed immovable. through this narrow mouth, human metal had been poured for centuries--poured, moulded, given back. "come along," said shelton. they now entered the bishop's head, and had their dinner in the room where shelton had given his derby dinner to four-and-twenty well-bred youths; here was the picture of the racehorse that the wineglass, thrown by one of them, had missed when it hit the waiter; and there, serving crocker with anchovy sauce, was the very waiter. when they had finished, shelton felt the old desire to rise with difficulty from the table; the old longing to patrol the streets with arm hooked in some other arm; the old eagerness to dare and do something heroic--and unlawful; the old sense that he was of the forest set, in the forest college, of the forest country in the finest world. the streets, all grave and mellow in the sunset, seemed to applaud this after-dinner stroll; the entrance quad of his old college--spaciously majestic, monastically modern, for years the heart of his universe, the focus of what had gone before it in his life, casting the shadow of its grey walls over all that had come after-brought him a sense of rest from conflict, and trust in his own important safety. the garden-gate, whose lofty spikes he had so often crowned with empty water-bottles, failed to rouse him. nor when they passed the staircase where he had flung a leg of lamb at some indelicate disturbing tutor, did he feel remorse. high on that staircase were the rooms in which he had crammed for his degree, upon the system by which the scholar simmers on the fire of cramming, boils over at the moment of examination, and is extinct for ever after. his coach's face recurred to him, a man with thrusting eyes, who reeled off knowledge all the week, and disappeared to town on sundays. they passed their tutor's staircase. "i wonder if little turl would remember us?" said crocker; "i should like to see him. shall we go and look him up?" "little turl?" said shelton dreamily. mounting, they knocked upon a solid door. "come in," said the voice of sleep itself. a little man with a pink face and large red ears was sitting in a fat pink chair, as if he had been grown there. "what do you want?" he asked of them, blinking. "don't you know me, sir?" "god bless me! crocker, isn't it? i didn't recognise you with a beard." crocker, who had not been shaved since starting on his travels, chuckled feebly. "you remember shelton, sir?" he said. "shelton? oh yes! how do you do, shelton? sit down; take a cigar"; and, crossing his fat little legs, the little gentleman looked them up and down with drowsy interest, as who should say, "now, after, all you know, why come and wake me up like this?" shelton and crocker took two other chairs; they too seemed thinking, "yes, why did we come and wake him up like this?" and shelton, who could not tell the reason why, took refuge in the smoke of his cigar. the panelled walls were hung with prints of celebrated greek remains; the soft, thick carpet on the floor was grateful to his tired feet; the backs of many books gleamed richly in the light of the oil lamps; the culture and tobacco smoke stole on his senses; he but vaguely comprehended crocker's amiable talk, vaguely the answers of his little host, whose face, blinking behind the bowl of his huge meerschaum pipe, had such a queer resemblance to a moon. the door was opened, and a tall creature, whose eyes were large and brown, whose face was rosy and ironical, entered with a manly stride. "oh!" he said, looking round him with his chin a little in the air, "am i intruding, turl?" the little host, blinking more than ever, murmured, "not at all, berryman--take a pew!" the visitor called berryman sat down, and gazed up at the wall with his fine eyes. shelton had a faint remembrance of this don, and bowed; but the newcomer sat smiling, and did not notice the salute. "trimmer and washer are coming round," he said, and as he spoke the door opened to admit these gentlemen. of the same height, but different appearance, their manner was faintly jocular, faintly supercilious, as if they tolerated everything. the one whose name was trimmer had patches of red on his large cheek-bones, and on his cheeks a bluish tint. his lips were rather full, so that he had a likeness to a spider. washer, who was thin and pale, wore an intellectual smile. the little fat host moved the hand that held the meerschaum. "crocker, shelton," he said. an awkward silence followed. shelton tried to rouse the cultured portion of his wits; but the sense that nothing would be treated seriously paralysed his faculties; he stayed silent, staring at the glowing tip of his cigar. it seemed to him unfair to have intruded on these gentlemen without its having been made quite clear to them beforehand who and what he was; he rose to take his leave, but washer had begun to speak. "madame bovary!" he said quizzically, reading the title of the book on the little fat man's bookrest; and, holding it closer to his boiled-looking eyes, he repeated, as though it were a joke, "madame bovary!" "do you mean to say, turl, that you can stand that stuff?" said berryman. as might have been expected, this celebrated novel's name had galvanised him into life; he strolled over to the bookcase, took down a book, opened it, and began to read, wandering in a desultory way about the room. "ha! berryman," said a conciliatory voice behind--it came from trimmer, who had set his back against the hearth, and grasped with either hand a fistful of his gown--"the book's a classic!" "classic!" exclaimed berryman, transfixing shelton with his eyes; "the fellow ought to have been horsewhipped for writing such putridity!" a feeling of hostility instantly sprang up in shelton; he looked at his little host, who, however, merely blinked. "berryman only means," explains washer, a certain malice in his smile, "that the author is n't one of his particular pets." "for god's sake, you know, don't get berryman on his horse!" growled the little fat man suddenly. berryman returned his volume to the shelf and took another down. there was something almost godlike in his sarcastic absent-mindedness. "imagine a man writing that stuff," he said, "if he'd ever been at eton! what do we want to know about that sort of thing? a writer should be a sportsman and a gentleman"; and again he looked down over his chin at shelton, as though expecting him to controvert the sentiment. "don't you--" began the latter. but berryman's attention had wandered to the wall. "i really don't care," said he, "to know what a woman feels when she is going to the dogs; it does n't interest me." the voice of trimmer made things pleasant: "question of moral standards, that, and nothing more." he had stretched his legs like compasses,--and the way he grasped his gown-wings seemed to turn him to a pair of scales. his lowering smile embraced the room, deprecating strong expressions. "after all," he seemed to say, "we are men of the world; we know there 's not very much in anything. this is the modern spirit; why not give it a look in?" "do i understand you to say, berryman, that you don't enjoy a spicy book?" asked washer with his smile; and at this question the little fat man sniggered, blinking tempestuously, as if to say, "nothing pleasanter, don't you know, before a hot fire in cold weather." berryman paid no attention to the impertinent inquiry, continuing to dip into his volume and walk up and down. "i've nothing to say," he remarked, stopping before shelton, and looking down, as if at last aware of him, "to those who talk of being justified through art. i call a spade a spade." shelton did not answer, because he could not tell whether berryman was addressing him or society at large. and berryman went on: "do we want to know about the feelings of a middle-class woman with a taste for vice? tell me the point of it. no man who was in the habit of taking baths would choose such a subject." "you come to the question of-ah-subjects," the voice of trimmer genially buzzed he had gathered his garments tight across his back--"my dear fellow, art, properly applied, justifies all subjects." "for art," squeaked berryman, putting back his second volume and taking down a third, "you have homer, cervantes, shakespeare, ossian; for garbage, a number of unwashed gentlemen." there was a laugh; shelton glanced round at all in turn. with the exception of crocker, who was half asleep and smiling idiotically, they wore, one and all, a look as if by no chance could they consider any subject fit to move their hearts; as if, one and all, they were so profoundly anchored on the sea of life that waves could only seem impertinent. it may have been some glimmer in this glance of shelton's that brought trimmer once more to the rescue with his compromising air. "the french," said he, "have quite a different standard from ourselves in literature, just as they have a different standard in regard to honour. all this is purely artificial." what he, meant, however, shelton found it difficult to tell. "honour," said washer, "'l'honneur, die ehre' duelling, unfaithful wives--" he was clearly going to add to this, but it was lost; for the little fat man, taking the meerschaum with trembling fingers, and holding it within two inches of his chin, murmured: "you fellows, berryman's awf'ly strong on honour." he blinked twice, and put the meerschaum back between his lips. without returning the third volume to its shelf, berryman took down a fourth; with chest expanded, he appeared about to use the books as dumb-bells. "quite so," said trimmer; "the change from duelling to law courts is profoundly--" whether he were going to say "significant" or "insignificant," in shelton's estimate he did not know himself. fortunately berryman broke in: "law courts or not, when a man runs away with a wife of mine, i shall punch his head!" "come, come!" said turner, spasmodically grasping his two wings. shelton had a gleam of inspiration. "if your wife deceived you," he thought, looking at trimmer's eyes, "you 'd keep it quiet, and hold it over her." washer passed his hand over his pale chaps: his smile had never wavered; he looked like one for ever lost in the making of an epigram. the punching theorist stretched his body, holding the books level with his shoulders, as though to stone his hearers with his point of view. his face grew paler, his fine eyes finer, his lips ironical. almost painful was this combination of the "strong" man and the student who was bound to go to pieces if you hit him a smart blow. "as for forgiving faithless wives," he said, "and all that sort of thing, i don't believe in sentiment." the words were high-pitched and sarcastic. shelton looked hastily around. all their faces were complacent. he grew red, and suddenly remarked, in a soft; clear voice: "i see!" he was conscious that he had never before made an impression of this sort, and that he never would again. the cold hostility flashing out all round was most enlightening; it instantly gave way to the polite, satirical indulgence peculiar to highly-cultivated men. crocker rose nervously; he seemed scared, and was obviously relieved when shelton, following his example, grasped the little fat man's hand, who said good-night in a voice shaken by tobacco. "who are your unshaven friends?" he heard as the door was closed behind them. chapter xix an incident "eleven o'clock," said crocker, as they went out of college. "i don't feel sleepy; shall we stroll along the 'high' a bit?" shelton assented; he was too busy thinking of his encounter with the dons to heed the soreness of his feet. this, too, was the last day of his travels, for he had not altered his intention of waiting at oxford till july. "we call this place the heart of knowledge," he said, passing a great building that presided, white and silent, over darkness; "it seems to me as little that, as society is the heart of true gentility." crocker's answer was a grunt; he was looking at the stars, calculating possibly in how long he could walk to heaven. "no," proceeded shelton; "we've too much common-sense up here to strain our minds. we know when it's time to stop. we pile up news of papias and all the verbs in 'ui' but as for news of life or of oneself! real seekers after knowledge are a different sort. they fight in the dark--no quarter given. we don't grow that sort up here." "how jolly the limes smell!" said crocker. he had halted opposite a garden, and taken hold of shelton by a button of his coat. his eyes, like a dog's, stared wistfully. it seemed as though he wished to speak, but feared to give offence. "they tell you," pursued shelton, "that we learn to be gentlemen up here. we learn that better through one incident that stirs our hearts than we learn it here in all the time we're up." "hum!" muttered crocker, twisting at the button; "those fellows who seemed the best sorts up here have turned out the best sorts afterwards." "i hope not," said shelton gloomily; "i was a snob when i was up here. i believed all i was told, anything that made things pleasant; my "set" were nothing but--" crocker smiled in the darkness; he had been too "cranky" to belong to shelton's "set." "you never were much like your 'set,' old chap," he said. shelton turned away, sniffing the perfume of the limes. images were thronging through his mind. the faces of his old friends strangely mixed with those of people he had lately met--the girl in the train, ferrand, the lady with the short, round, powdered face, the little barber; others, too, and floating, mysterious,--connected with them all, antonia's face. the scent of the lime-trees drifted at him with its magic sweetness. from the street behind, the footsteps of the passers-by sounded muffled, yet exact, and on the breeze was borne the strain: "for he's a jolly good fellow!" "for he's a jolly good fellow! for he's a jolly good fe-ellow! and so say all of us!" "ah!" he said, "they were good chaps." "i used to think," said crocker dreamily, "that some of them had too much side." and shelton laughed. "the thing sickens me," said he, "the whole snobbish, selfish business. the place sickens me, lined with cotton-wool-made so beastly comfortable." crocker shook his head. "it's a splendid old place," he said, his eyes fastening at last on shelton's boots. "you know, old chap," he stammered, "i think you--you ought to take care!" "take care? what of?" crocker pressed his arm convulsively. "don't be waxy, old boy," he said; "i mean that you seem somehow--to be--to be losing yourself." "losing myself! finding myself, you mean!" crocker did not answer; his face was disappointed. of what exactly was he thinking? in shelton's heart there was a bitter pleasure in knowing that his friend was uncomfortable on his account, a sort of contempt, a sort of aching. crocker broke the silence. "i think i shall do a bit more walking to-night," he said; "i feel very fit. don't you really mean to come any further with me, bird?" and there was anxiety in his voice, as though shelton were in danger of missing something good. the latter's feet had instantly begun to ache and burn. "no!"? he said; "you know what i'm staying here for." crocker nodded. "she lives near here. well, then, i'll say good-bye. i should like to do another ten miles to-night." "my dear fellow, you're tired and lame." crocker chuckled. "no," he said; "i want to get on. see you in london. good-bye!" and, gripping shelton's hand, he turned and limped away. shelton called after him: "don't be an idiot: you 'll only knock yourself up." but the sole answer was the pale moon of crocker's face screwed round towards him in the darkness, and the waving of his stick. shelton strolled slowly on; leaning over the bridge, he watched the oily gleam of lamps, on the dark water underneath the trees. he felt relieved, yet sorry. his thoughts were random, curious, half mutinous, half sweet. that afternoon five years ago, when he had walked back from the river with antonia across the christchurch meadows, was vivid to his mind; the scent of that afternoon had never died away from him-the aroma of his love. soon she would be his wife--his wife! the faces of the dons sprang up before him. they had wives, perhaps. fat, lean, satirical, and compromising--what was it that through diversity they had in common? cultured intolerance! . . . honour! . . . a queer subject to discuss. honour! the honour that made a fuss, and claimed its rights! and shelton smiled. "as if man's honour suffered when he's injured!" and slowly he walked along the echoing, empty street to his room at the bishop's head. next morning he received the following wire: thirty miles left eighteen hours heel bad but going strong crocker he passed a fortnight at the bishop's head, waiting for the end of his probation, and the end seemed long in coming. to be so near antonia, and as far as if he lived upon another planet, was worse than ever. each day he took a sculling skiff, and pulled down to near holm oaks, on the chance of her being on the river; but the house was two miles off, and the chance but slender. she never came. after spending the afternoons like this he would return, pulling hard against the stream, with a queer feeling of relief, dine heartily, and fall a-dreaming over his cigar. each morning he awoke in an excited mood, devoured his letter if he had one, and sat down to write to her. these letters of his were the most amazing portion of that fortnight. they were remarkable for failing to express any single one of his real thoughts, but they were full of sentiments which were not what he was truly feeling; and when he set himself to analyse, he had such moments of delirium that he was scared, and shocked, and quite unable to write anything. he made the discovery that no two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel, except, perhaps, in situations with which he could not connect antonia's ice-blue eyes and brilliant smile. all the world was too engaged in planning decency. absorbed by longings, he but vaguely realised the turmoil of commemoration, which had gathered its hundreds for their annual cure of salmon mayonnaise and cheap champagne. in preparation for his visit to holm oaks he shaved his beard and had some clothes sent down from london. with them was forwarded a letter from ferrand, which ran as follows: imperial peacock hotel, folkestone, june . my dear sir, forgive me for not having written to you before, but i have been so bothered that i have felt no taste for writing; when i have the time, i have some curious stories to tell you. once again i have encountered that demon of misfortune which dogs my footsteps. being occupied all day and nearly all night upon business which brings me a heap of worries and next to no profit, i have no chance to look after my things. thieves have entered my room, stolen everything, and left me an empty box. i am once again almost without clothes, and know not where to turn to make that figure necessary for the fulfilment of my duties. you see, i am not lucky. since coming to your country, the sole piece of fortune i have had was to tumble on a man like you. excuse me for not writing more at this moment. hoping that you are in good health, and in affectionately pressing your hand, i am, always your devoted louis ferrand. upon reading this letter shelton had once more a sense of being exploited, of which he was ashamed; he sat down immediately and wrote the following reply: bishops head hotel, oxford, june . my dear ferrand, i am grieved to hear of your misfortunes. i was much hoping that you had made a better start. i enclose you post office orders for four pounds. always glad to hear from you. yours sincerely, richard shelton. he posted it with the satisfaction that a man feels who nobly shakes off his responsibilities. three days before july he met with one of those disturbing incidents which befall no persons who attend quietly to their, property and reputation. the night was unbearably hot, and he had wandered out with his cigar; a woman came sidling up and spoke to him. he perceived her to be one of those made by men into mediums for their pleasure, to feel sympathy with whom was sentimental. her face was flushed, her whisper hoarse; she had no attractions but the curves of a tawdry figure. shelton was repelled by her proprietary tone, by her blowzy face, and by the scent of patchouli. her touch on his arm startled him, sending a shiver through his marrow; he almost leaped aside, and walked the faster. but her breathing as she followed sounded laboured; it suddenly seemed pitiful that a woman should be panting after him like that. "the least i can do," he thought, "is to speak to her." he stopped, and, with a mixture of hardness and compassion, said, "it 's impossible." in spite of her smile, he saw by her disappointed eyes that she accepted the impossibility. "i 'm sorry," he said. she muttered something. shelton shook his head. "i 'm sorry," he said once more. "good.-night." the woman bit her lower lip. "good-night," she answered dully. at the corner of the street he turned his head. the woman was hurrying uneasily; a policeman coming from behind had caught her by the arm. his heart began to beat. "heavens!" he thought, "what shall i do now?" his first impulse was to walk away, and think no more about it--to act, indeed, like any averagely decent man who did not care to be concerned in such affairs. he retraced his steps, however, and halted half a dozen paces from their figures. "ask the gentleman! he spoke to me," she was saying in her brassy voice, through the emphasis of which shelton could detect her fear. "that's all right," returned the policeman, "we know all about that." "you--police!" cried the woman tearfully; "i 've got to get my living, have n't i, the same as you?" shelton hesitated, then, catching the expression in her frightened face, stepped forward. the policeman turned, and at the sight of his pale, heavy jowl, cut by the cheek-strap, and the bullying eyes, he felt both hate and fear, as if brought face to face with all that he despised and loathed, yet strangely dreaded. the cold certainty of law and order upholding the strong, treading underfoot the weak, the smug front of meanness that only the purest spirits may attack, seemed to be facing him. and the odd thing was, this man was only carrying out his duty. shelton moistened his lips. "you're not going to charge her?" "aren't i?" returned the policeman. "look here; constable, you 're making a mistake." the policeman took out his note-book. "oh, i 'm making a mistake? i 'll take your name and address, please; we have to report these things." "by all means," said shelton, angrily giving it. "i spoke to her first." "perhaps you'll come up to the court tomorrow morning, and repeat that," replied the policeman, with incivility. shelton looked at him with all the force at his command. "you had better be careful, constable," he said; but in the act of uttering these words he thought how pitiable they sounded. "we 're not to be trifled with," returned the policeman in a threatening voice. shelton could think of nothing but to repeat: "you had better be careful, constable." "you're a gentleman," replied the policeman. "i'm only a policeman. you've got the riches, i've got the power." grasping the woman's arm, he began to move along with her. shelton turned, and walked away. he went to grinnings' club, and flung himself down upon a sofa. his feeling was not one of pity for the woman, nor of peculiar anger with the policeman, but rather of dissatisfaction with himself. "what ought i to have done?" he thought, "the beggar was within his rights." he stared at the pictures on the wall, and a tide of disgust surged up in him. "one or other of us," he reflected, "we make these women what they are. and when we've made them, we can't do without them; we don't want to; but we give them no proper homes, so that they're reduced to prowl about the streets, and then we run them in. ha! that's good--that's excellent! we run them in! and here we sit and carp. but what do we do? nothing! our system is the most highly moral known. we get the benefit without soiling even the hem of our phylacteries--the women are the only ones that suffer. and why should n't they--inferior things?" he lit a cigarette, and ordered the waiter to bring a drink. "i'll go to the court," he thought; but suddenly it occurred to him that the case would get into the local papers. the press would never miss so nice a little bit of scandal--"gentleman v. policeman!" and he had a vision of antonia's father, a neighbouring and conscientious magistrate, solemnly reading this. someone, at all events, was bound to see his name and make a point of mentioning it too good to be missed! and suddenly he saw with horror that to help the woman he would have to assert again that he had spoken to her first. "i must go to the court!" he kept thinking, as if to assure himself that he was not a coward. he lay awake half the night worrying over this dilemma. "but i did n't speak to her first," he told himself; "i shall only be telling a lie, and they 'll make me swear it, too!" he tried to persuade himself that this was against his principles, but at the bottom of his heart he knew that he would not object to telling such a lie if only guaranteed immune from consequences; it appeared to him, indeed, but obvious humanity. "but why should i suffer?" he thought; "i've done nothing. it's neither reasonable nor just." he hated the unhappy woman who was causing him these horrors of uncertainty. whenever he decided one way or other, the policeman's face, with its tyrannical and muddy eyes, rose before him like a nightmare, and forced him to an opposite conviction. he fell asleep at last with the full determination to go and see what happened. he woke with a sense of odd disturbance. "i can do no good by going," he thought, remembering, aid lying very still; "they 're certain to believe the policeman; i shall only blacken myself for nothing;" and the combat began again within him, but with far less fury. it was not what other people thought, not even the risk of perjury that mattered (all this he made quite clear)--it was antonia. it was not fair to her to put himself in such a false position; in fact, not decent. he breakfasted. in the room were some americans, and the face of one young girl reminded him a little of antonia. fainter and fainter grew the incident; it seemed to have its right proportions. two hours later, looking at the clock, he found that it was lunch-time. he had not gone, had not committed perjury; but he wrote to a daily paper, pointing out the danger run by the community from the power which a belief in their infallibility places in the hands of the police--how, since they are the sworn abettors of right and justice, their word is almost necessarily taken to be gospel; how one and all they hang together, from mingled interest and esprit de corps. was it not, he said, reasonable to suppose that amongst thousands of human beings invested with such opportunities there would be found bullies who would take advantage of them, and rise to distinction in the service upon the helplessness of the unfortunate and the cowardice of people with anything to lose? those who had in their hands the sacred duties of selecting a practically irresponsible body of men were bound, for the sake of freedom and humanity, to exercise those duties with the utmost care and thoroughness . . . . however true, none of this helped him to think any better of himself at heart, and he was haunted by the feeling that a stout and honest bit of perjury was worth more than a letter to a daily paper. he never saw his letter printed, containing, as it did, the germs of an unpalatable truth. in the afternoon he hired a horse, and galloped on port meadow. the strain of his indecision over, he felt like a man recovering from an illness, and he carefully abstained from looking at the local papers. there was that within him, however, which resented the worsting of his chivalry. chapter xx holm oaks holm oaks stood back but little from the road--an old manor-house, not set upon display, but dwelling close to its barns, stables, and walled gardens, like a good mother; long, flat-roofed, red, it had queen anne windows, on whose white-framed diamond panes the sunbeams glinted. in front of it a fringe of elms, of all trees the tree of most established principle, bordered the stretch of turf between the gravel drive and road; and these elms were the homes of rooks of all birds the most conventional. a huge aspen--impressionable creature--shivered and shook beyond, apologising for appearance among such imperturbable surroundings. it was frequented by a cuckoo, who came once a year to hoot at the rules of life, but seldom made long stay; for boys threw stones at it, exasperated by the absence of its morals. the village which clustered in the dip had not yet lost its dread of motor-cars. about this group of flat-faced cottages with gabled roofs the scent of hay, manure, and roses clung continually; just now the odour of the limes troubled its servile sturdiness. beyond the dip, again, a square-towered church kept within grey walls the record of the village flock, births, deaths, and marriages--even the births of bastards, even the deaths of suicides--and seemed to stretch a hand invisible above the heads of common folk to grasp the forgers of the manor-house. decent and discreet, the two roofs caught the eye to the exclusion of all meaner dwellings, seeming to have joined in a conspiracy to keep them out of sight. the july sun had burned his face all the way from oxford, yet pale was shelton when he walked up the drive and rang the bell. "mrs. dennant at home, dobson?" he asked of the grave butler, who, old servant that he was, still wore coloured trousers (for it was not yet twelve o'clock, and he regarded coloured trousers up to noon as a sacred distinction between the footmen and himself). "mrs. dennant," replied this personage, raising his round and hairless face, while on his mouth appeared that apologetic pout which comes of living with good families--"mrs. dennant has gone into the village, sir; but miss antonia is in the morning-room." shelton crossed the panelled, low-roofed hall, through whose far side the lawn was visible, a vision of serenity. he mounted six wide, shallow steps, and stopped. from behind a closed door there came the sound of scales, and he stood, a prey to his emotions, the notes mingling in his ears with the beating of his heart. he softly turned the handle, a fixed smile on his lips. antonia was at the piano; her head was bobbing to the movements of her fingers, and pressing down the pedals were her slim monotonously moving feet. she had been playing tennis, for a racquet and her tam-o'-shanter were flung down, and she was dressed in a blue skirt and creamy blouse, fitting collarless about her throat. her face was flushed, and wore a little frown; and as her fingers raced along the keys, her neck swayed, and the silk clung and shivered on her arms. shelton's eyes fastened on the silent, counting lips, on the fair hair about her forehead, the darker eyebrows slanting down towards the nose, the undimpled cheeks with the faint finger-marks beneath the ice-blue eyes, the softly-pouting and undimpled chin, the whole remote, sweet, suntouched, glacial face. she turned her head, and, springing up, cried: "dick! what fun!" she gave him both her hands, but her smiling face said very plainly, "oh; don't let us be sentimental!" "are n't you glad to see me?" muttered shelton. "glad to see you! you are funny, dick!--as if you did n't know! why, you 've shaved your beard! mother and sybil have gone into the village to see old mrs. hopkins. shall we go out? thea and the boys are playing tennis. it's so jolly that you 've come!" she caught up the tam-o'-shanter, and pinned it to her hair. almost as tall as shelton, she looked taller, with arms raised and loose sleeves quivering like wings to the movements of her fingers. "we might have a game before lunch; you can have my other racquet." "i've got no things," said shelton blankly. her calm glance ran over him. "you can have some of old bernard's; he's got any amount. i'll wait for you." she swung her racquet, looked at shelton, cried, "be quick!" and vanished. shelton ran up-stairs, and dressed in the undecided way of men assuming other people's clothes. she was in the hall when he descended, humming a tune and prodding at her shoe; her smile showed all her pearly upper teeth. he caught hold of her sleeve and whispered: "antonia!" the colour rushed into her cheeks; she looked back across her shoulder. "come along, old dick!" she cried; and, flinging open the glass door, ran into the garden. shelton followed. the tennis-ground was divided by tall netting from a paddock. a holm oak tree shaded one corner, and its thick dark foliage gave an unexpected depth to the green smoothness of the scene. as shelton and antonia came up, bernard dennant stopped and cordially grasped shelton's hand. from the far side of the net thea, in a shortish skirt, tossed back her straight fair hair, and, warding off the sun, came strolling up to them. the umpire, a small boy of twelve, was lying on his stomach, squealing and tickling a collie. shelton bent and pulled his hair. "hallo, toddles! you young ruffian!" one and all they stood round shelton, and there was a frank and pitiless inquiry in their eyes, in the angle of their noses something chaffing and distrustful, as though about him were some subtle poignant scent exciting curiosity and disapproval. when the setts were over, and the girls resting in the double hammock underneath the holm oak, shelton went with bernard to the paddock to hunt for the lost balls. "i say, old chap," said his old school-fellow, smiling dryly, "you're in for a wigging from the mater." "a wigging?" murmured shelton. "i don't know much about it, but from something she let drop it seems you've been saying some queer things in your letters to antonia"; and again he looked at shelton with his dry smile. "queer things?" said the latter angrily. "what d' you mean?" "oh, don't ask me. the mater thinks she's in a bad way--unsettled, or what d' you call at. you've been telling her that things are not what they seem. that's bad, you know"; and still smiling he shook his head. shelton dropped his eyes. "well, they are n't!" he said. "oh, that's all right! but don't bring your philosophy down here, old chap." "philosophy!" said shelton, puzzled. "leave us a sacred prejudice or two." "sacred! nothing's sacred, except--" but shelton did not finish his remark. "i don't understand," he said. "ideals, that sort of thing! you've been diving down below the line of 'practical politics,' that's about the size of it, my boy"; and, stooping suddenly, he picked up the last ball. "there is the mater!" shelton saw mrs. dennant coming down the lawn with her second daughter, sybil. by the time they reached the holm oak the three girls had departed towards the house, walking arm in arm, and mrs. dennant was standing there alone, in a grey dress, talking to an undergardener. her hands, cased in tan gauntlets, held a basket which warded off the bearded gardener from the severe but ample lines of her useful-looking skirt. the collie, erect upon his haunches, looked at their two faces, pricking his ears in his endeavour to appreciate how one of these two bipeds differed from the other. "thank you; that 'll do, bunyan. ah, dick! charmin' to see you here, at last!" in his intercourse with mrs. dennant, shelton never failed to mark the typical nature of her personality. it always seemed to him that he had met so many other ladies like her. he felt that her undoubtable quality had a non-individual flavour, as if standing for her class. she thought that standing for herself was not the thing; yet she was full of character. tall, with nose a trifle beaked, long, sloping chin, and an assured, benevolent mouth, showing, perhaps, too many teeth--though thin, she was not unsubstantial. her accent in speaking showed her heritage; it was a kind of drawl which disregarded vulgar merits such as tone; leaned on some syllables, and despised the final 'g'--the peculiar accent, in fact, of aristocracy, adding its deliberate joys to life. shelton knew that she had many interests; she was never really idle, from the time ( a.m.) when her maid brought her a little china pot of tea with a single biscuit and her pet dog, tops, till eleven o'clock at night, when she lighted a wax candle in a silver candlestick, and with this in one hand, and in the other a new novel, or, better still, one of those charming volumes written by great people about the still greater people they have met, she said good-night to her children and her guests. no! what with photography, the presidency of a local league, visiting the rich, superintending all the poor, gardening, reading, keeping all her ideas so tidy that no foreign notions might stray in, she was never idle. the information she collected from these sources was both vast and varied, but she never let it flavour her opinions, which lacked sauce, and were drawn from some sort of dish into which, with all her class, she dipped her fingers. he liked her. no one could help liking her. she was kind, and of such good quality, with a suggestion about her of thin, excellent, and useful china; and she was scented, too--not with verbena, violets, or those essences which women love, but with nothing, as if she had taken stand against all meretricity. in her intercourse with persons not "quite the thing" (she excepted the vicar from this category, though his father had dealt in haberdashery), her refinement, gently, unobtrusively, and with great practical good sense, seemed continually to murmur, "i am, and you--well, are you, don't you know?" but there was no self-consciousness about this attitude, for she was really not a common woman. she simply could not help it; all her people had done this. their nurses breathed above them in their cradles something that, inhaled into their systems, ever afterwards prevented them from taking good, clear breaths. and her manner! ah! her manner--it concealed the inner woman so as to leave doubt of her existence! shelton listened to the kindly briskness with which she dwelt upon the under-gardener. "poor bunyan! he lost his wife six months ago, and was quite cheerful just at first, but now he 's really too distressin'. i 've done all i can to rouse him; it's so melancholy to see him mopin'. and, my dear dick, the way he mangles the new rose-trees! i'm afraid he's goin' mad; i shall have to send him away; poor fellow!" it was clear that she sympathised with bunyan, or, rather, believed him entitled to a modicum of wholesome grief, the loss of wives being a canonised and legal, sorrow. but excesses! o dear, no! "i 've told him i shall raise his wages," she sighed. "he used to be such a splendid gardener! that reminds me, my dear dick; i want to have a talk with you. shall we go in to lunch?" consulting the memorandum-book in which she had been noting the case of mrs. hopkins, she slightly preceded shelton to the house. it was somewhat late that afternoon when shelton had his "wigging"; nor did it seem to him, hypnotised by the momentary absence of antonia, such a very serious affair. "now, dick," the honourable mrs. dennant said, in her decisive drawl, "i don't think it 's right to put ideas into antonia's head." "ideas!" murmured shelton in confusion. "we all know," continued mrs. dennant, "that things are not always what they ought to be." shelton looked at her; she was seated at her writing-table, addressing in her large, free writing a dinner invitation to a bishop. there was not the faintest trace of awkwardness about her, yet shelton could not help a certain sense of shock. if she--she--did not think things were what they ought to be--in a bad way things must be indeed! "things!" he muttered. mrs. dennant looked at him firmly but kindly with the eyes that would remind him of a hare's. "she showed me some of your letters, you know. well, it 's not a bit of use denyin', my dear dick, that you've been thinkin' too much lately." shelton perceived that he had done her an injustice; she handled "things" as she handled under-gardeners--put them away when they showed signs of running to extremes. "i can't help that, i 'm afraid," he answered. "my dear boy! you'll never get on that way. now, i want you to promise me you won't talk to antonia about those sort of things." shelton raised his eyebrows. "oh, you know what i mean!" he saw that to press mrs. dennant to say what she meant by "things" would really hurt her sense of form; it would be cruel to force her thus below the surface! he therefore said, "quite so!" to his extreme surprise, flushing the peculiar and pathetic flush of women past their prime, she drawled out: "about the poor--and criminals--and marriages--there was that wedding, don't you know?" shelton bowed his head. motherhood had been too strong for her; in her maternal flutter she had committed the solecism of touching in so many words on "things." "does n't she really see the fun," he thought, "in one man dining out of gold and another dining in the gutter; or in two married people living on together in perfect discord 'pour encourages les autres', or in worshipping jesus christ and claiming all her rights at the same time; or in despising foreigners because they are foreigners; or in war; or in anything that is funny?" but he did her a certain amount of justice by recognising that this was natural, since her whole life had been passed in trying not to see the fun in all these things. but antonia stood smiling in the doorway. brilliant and gay she looked, yet resentful, as if she knew they had been talking of her. she sat down by shelton's side, and began asking him about the youthful foreigner whom he had spoken of; and her eyes made him doubt whether she, too, saw the fun that lay in one human being patronising others. "but i suppose he's really good," she said, "i mean, all those things he told you about were only--" "good!" he answered, fidgeting; "i don't really know what the word means." her eyes clouded. "dick, how can you?" they seemed to say. shelton stroked her sleeve. "tell us about mr. crocker," she said, taking no heed of his caress. "the lunatic!" he said. "lunatic! why, in your letters he was splendid." "so he is," said shelton, half ashamed; "he's not a bit mad, really--that is, i only wish i were half as mad." "who's that mad?" queried mrs. dennant from behind the urn--"tom crocker? ah, yes! i knew his mother; she was a springer." "did he do it in the week?" said thea, appearing in the window with a kitten. "i don't know," shelton was obliged to answer. thea shook back her hair. "i call it awfully slack of you not to have found out," she said. antonia frowned. "you were very sweet to that young foreigner, dick," she murmured with a smile at shelton. "i wish that we could see him." but shelton shook his head. "it seems to me," he muttered, "that i did about as little for him as i could." again her face grew thoughtful, as though his words had chilled her. "i don't see what more you could have done," she answered. a desire to get close to her, half fear, half ache, a sense of futility and bafflement, an inner burning, made him feel as though a flame were licking at his heart. chapter xxi english just as shelton was starting to walk back to oxford he met mr. dennant coming from a ride. antonia's father was a spare man of medium height, with yellowish face, grey moustache, ironical eyebrows, and some tiny crow's-feet. in his old, short grey coat, with a little slit up the middle of the back, his drab cord breeches, ancient mahogany leggings, and carefully blacked boats, he had a dry, threadbare quality not without distinction. "ah, shelton!" he said, in his quietly festive voice; "glad to see the pilgrim here, at last. you're not off already?" and, laying his hand on shelton's arm, he proposed to walk a little way with him across the fields. this was the first time they had met since the engagement; and shelton began to nerve himself to express some sentiment, however bald, about it. he squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and looked askance at mr. dennant. that gentleman was walking stiffly, his cord breeches faintly squeaking. he switched a yellow, jointed cane against his leggings, and after each blow looked at his legs satirically. he himself was rather like that yellow cane-pale, and slim, and jointed, with features arching just a little, like the arching of its handle. "they say it'll be a bad year for fruit," shelton said at last. "my dear fellow, you don't know your farmer, i 'm afraid. we ought to hang some farmers--do a world of good. dear souls! i've got some perfect strawberries." "i suppose," said shelton, glad to postpone the evil moment, "in a climate like this a man must grumble." "quite so, quite so! look at us poor slaves of land-owners; if i couldn't abuse the farmers i should be wretched. did you ever see anything finer than this pasture? and they want me to lower their rents!" and mr. dennant's glance satirically wavered, rested on shelton, and whisked back to the ground as though he had seen something that alarmed him. there was a pause. "now for it!" thought the younger man. mr. dennant kept his eyes fixed on his boots. "if they'd said, now," he remarked jocosely, "that the frost had nipped the partridges, there 'd have been some sense in it; but what can you expect? they've no consideration, dear souls!" shelton took a breath, and, with averted eyes, he hurriedly began: "it's awfully hard, sir, to--" mr. dennant switched his cane against his shin. "yes," he said, "it 's awfully hard to put up with, but what can a fellow do? one must have farmers. why, if it was n't for the farmers, there 'd be still a hare or two about the place!" shelton laughed spasmodically; again he glanced askance at his future father-in-law. what did the waggling of his head mean, the deepening of his crow's-feet, the odd contraction of the mouth? and his eye caught mr. dennant's eye; its expression was queer above the fine, dry nose (one of the sort that reddens in a wind). "i've never had much to do with farmers," he said at last. "have n't you? lucky fellow! the most--yes, quite the most trying portion of the human species--next to daughters." "well, sir, you can hardly expect me--" began shelton. "i don't--oh, i don't! d 'you know, i really believe we're in for a ducking." a large black cloud had covered up the sun, and some drops were spattering on mr. dennant's hard felt hat. shelton welcomed the shower; it appeared to him an intervention on the part of providence. he would have to say something, but not now, later. "i 'll go on," he said; "i don't mind the rain. but you'd better get back, sir." "dear me! i've a tenant in this cottage," said mr. dennant in his, leisurely, dry manner "and a beggar he is to poach, too. least we can do 's to ask for a little shelter; what do you think?" and smiling sarcastically, as though deprecating his intention to keep dry, he rapped on the door of a prosperous-looking cottage. it was opened by a girl of antonia's age and height. "ah, phoebe! your father in?" "no," replied the girl, fluttering; "father's out, mr. dennant." "so sorry! will you let us bide a bit out of the rain?" the sweet-looking phoebe dusted them two chairs, and, curtseying, left them in the parlour. "what a pretty girl!" said shelton. "yes, she's a pretty girl; half the young fellows are after her, but she won't leave her father. oh, he 's a charming rascal is that fellow!" this remark suddenly brought home to shelton the conviction that he was further than ever from avoiding the necessity for speaking. he walked over to the window. the rain was coming down with fury, though a golden line far down the sky promised the shower's quick end. "for goodness' sake," he thought, "let me say something, however idiotic, and get it over!" but he did not turn; a kind of paralysis had seized on him. "tremendous heavy rain!" he said at last; "coming down in waterspouts." it would have been just as easy to say: "i believe your daughter to be the sweetest thing on earth; i love her, and i 'm going to make her happy!" just as easy, just about the same amount of breath required; but he couldn't say it! he watched the rain stream and hiss against the leaves and churn the dust on the parched road with its insistent torrent; and he noticed with precision all the details of the process going on outside how the raindrops darted at the leaves like spears, and how the leaves shook themselves free a hundred times a minute, while little runnels of water, ice-clear, rolled over their edges, soft and quick. he noticed, too, the mournful head of a sheltering cow that was chewing at the hedge. mr. dennant had not replied to his remark about the rain. so disconcerting was this silence that shelton turned. his future father-in-law, upon his wooden chair, was staring at his well-blacked boots, bending forward above his parted knees, and prodding at the carpet; a glimpse at his face disturbed shelton's resolution. it was not forbidding, stern, discouraging--not in the least; it had merely for the moment ceased to look satirical. this was so startling that shelton lost his chance of speaking. there seemed a heart to mr. dennant's gravity; as though for once he were looking grave because he felt so. but glancing up at shelton, his dry jocosity reappeared at once. "what a day for ducks!" he said; and again there was unmistakable alarm about the eye. was it possible that he, too, dreaded something? "i can't express--" began shelton hurriedly. "yes, it's beastly to get wet," said mr. dennant, and he sang-- "for we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump out anywhere." "you 'll be with us for that dinner-party next week, eh? capital! there's the bishop of blumenthal and old sir jack buckwell; i must get my wife to put you between them--" "for it's my delight of a starry night--" "the bishop's a great anti-divorce man, and old buckwell 's been in the court at least twice--" "in the season of the year!" "will you please to take some tea, gentlemen?" said the voice of phoebe in the doorway. "no, thank you, phoebe. that girl ought to get married," went on mr. dennant, as phoebe blushingly withdrew. a flush showed queerly on his sallow cheeks. "a shame to keep her tied like this to her father's apron-strings--selfish fellow, that!" he looked up sharply, as if he had made a dangerous remark. the keeper he was watching us, for him we did n't care! shelton suddenly felt certain that antonia's father was just as anxious to say something expressive of his feelings, and as unable as himself. and this was comforting. "you know, sir--" he began. but mr. dennant's eyebrows rose, his crow's-feet twinkled; his personality seemed to shrink together. "by jove!" he said, "it's stopped! now's our chance! come along, my dear fellow; delays are dangerous!" and with his bantering courtesy he held the door for shelton to pass out. "i think we'll part here," he said--"i almost think so. good luck to you!" he held out his dry, yellow hand. shelton seized it, wrung it hard, and muttered the word: "grateful!" again mr. dennant's eyebrows quivered as if they had been tweaked; he had been found out, and he disliked it. the colour in his face had died away; it was calm, wrinkled, dead-looking under the flattened, narrow brim of his black hat; his grey moustache drooped thinly; the crow's-feet hardened round his eyes; his nostrils were distended by the queerest smile. "gratitude!" he said; "almost a vice, is n't it? good-night!" shelton's face quivered; he raised his hat, and, turning as abruptly as his senior, proceeded on his way. he had been playing in a comedy that could only have been played in england. he could afford to smile now at his past discomfort, having no longer the sense of duty unfulfilled. everything had been said that was right and proper to be said, in the way that we such things should say. no violence had been done; he could afford to smile--smile at himself, at mr. dennant, at to-morrow; smile at the sweet aroma of the earth, the shy, unwilling sweetness that only rain brings forth. chapter xxii the country house the luncheon hour at holm oaks, was, as in many well-bred country houses--out of the shooting season, be it understood--the soulful hour. the ferment of the daily doings was then at its full height, and the clamour of its conversation on the weather, and the dogs, the horses, neighbours, cricket, golf, was mingled with a literary murmur; for the dennants were superior, and it was quite usual to hear remarks like these "have you read that charmin' thing of poser's?" or, "yes, i've got the new edition of old bablington: delightfully bound--so light." and it was in july that holm oaks, as a gathering-place of the elect, was at its best. for in july it had become customary to welcome there many of those poor souls from london who arrived exhausted by the season, and than whom no seamstress in a two-pair back could better have earned a holiday. the dennants themselves never went to london for the season. it was their good pleasure not to. a week or fortnight of it satisfied them. they had a radical weakness for fresh air, and antonia, even after her presentation two seasons back, had insisted on returning home, stigmatising london balls as "stuffy things." when shelton arrived the stream had only just begun, but every day brought fresh, or rather jaded, people to occupy the old, dark, sweet-smelling bedrooms. individually, he liked his fellow-guests, but he found himself observing them. he knew that, if a man judged people singly, almost all were better than himself; only when judged in bulk were they worthy of the sweeping criticisms he felt inclined to pass on them. he knew this just as he knew that the conventions, having been invented to prevent man following his natural desires, were merely the disapproving sums of innumerable individual approvals. it was in the bulk; then, that he found himself observing. but with his amiability and dread of notoriety he remained to all appearance a well-bred, docile creature, and he kept his judgments to himself. in the matter of intellect he made a rough division of the guests--those who accepted things without a murmur, those who accepted them with carping jocularity; in the matter of morals he found they all accepted things without the semblance of a kick. to show sign of private moral judgment was to have lost your soul, and, worse, to be a bit of an outsider. he gathered this by intuition rather than from conversation; for conversation naturally tabooed such questions, and was carried on in the loud and cheerful tones peculiar to people of good breeding. shelton had never been able to acquire this tone, and he could not help feeling that the inability made him more or less an object of suspicion. the atmosphere struck him as it never had before, causing him to feel a doubt of his gentility. could a man suffer from passion, heart-searchings, or misgivings, and remain a gentleman? it seemed improbable. one of his fellow-guests, a man called edgbaston, small-eyed and semi-bald, with a dark moustache and a distinguished air of meanness, disconcerted him one day by remarking of an unknown person, "a half-bred lookin' chap; did n't seem to know his mind." shelton was harassed by a horrid doubt. everything seemed divided into classes, carefully docketed and valued. for instance, a briton was of more value than a man, and wives than women. those things or phases of life with which people had no personal acquaintance were regarded with a faint amusement and a certain disapproval. the principles of the upper class, in fact, were strictly followed. he was in that hypersenstive and nervous state favourable for recording currents foreign to itself. things he had never before noticed now had profound effect on him, such as the tone in which men spoke of women--not precisely with hostility, nor exactly with contempt best, perhaps, described as cultured jeering; never, of course, when men spoke of their own wives, mothers, sisters, or immediate friends, but merely when they spoke of any other women. he reflected upon this, and came to the conclusion that, among the upper classes, each man's own property was holy, while other women were created to supply him with gossip, jests, and spice. another thing that struck him was the way in which the war then going on was made into an affair of class. in their view it was a baddish business, because poor hack blank and peter blank-blank had lost their lives, and poor teddy blank had now one arm instead of two. humanity in general was omitted, but not the upper classes, nor, incidentally, the country which belonged to them. for there they were, all seated in a row, with eyes fixed on the horizon of their lawns. late one evening, billiards and music being over and the ladies gone, shelton returned from changing to his smoking-suit, and dropped into one of the great arm-chairs that even in summer made a semicircle round the fendered hearth. fresh from his good-night parting with antonia, he sat perhaps ten minutes before he began to take in all the figures in their parti-coloured smoking jackets, cross-legged, with glasses in their hands, and cigars between their teeth. the man in the next chair roused him by putting down his tumbler with a tap, and seating himself upon the cushioned fender. through the mist of smoke, with shoulders hunched, elbows and knees crooked out, cigar protruding, beak-ways, below his nose, and the crimson collar of his smoking jacket buttoned close as plumage on his breast, he looked a little like a gorgeous bird. "they do you awfully well," he said. a voice from the chair on shelton's right replied, "they do you better at verado's." "the veau d'or 's the best place; they give you turkish baths for nothing!" drawled a fat man with a tiny mouth. the suavity of this pronouncement enfolded all as with a blessing. and at once, as if by magic, in the old, oak-panelled room, the world fell naturally into its three departments: that where they do you well; that where they do you better; and that where they give you turkish baths for nothing. "if you want turkish baths," said a tall youth with clean red face, who had come into the room, and stood, his mouth a little open, and long feet jutting with sweet helplessness in front of him, "you should go, you know, to buda pesth; most awfully rippin' there." shelton saw an indescribable appreciation rise on every face, as though they had been offered truffles or something equally delicious. "oh no, poodles," said the man perched on the fender. "a johnny i know tells me they 're nothing to sofia." his face was transfigured by the subtle gloating of a man enjoying vice by proxy. "ah!" drawled the small-mouthed man, "there 's nothing fit to hold a candle to baghda-ad." once again his utterance enfolded all as with a blessing, and once again the world fell into its three departments: that where they do you well; that where they do you better; and--baghdad. shelton thought to himself: "why don't i know a place that's better than baghdad?" he felt so insignificant. it seemed that he knew none of these delightful spots; that he was of no use to any of his fellow-men; though privately he was convinced that all these speakers were as ignorant as himself, and merely found it warming to recall such things as they had heard, with that peculiar gloating look. alas! his anecdotes would never earn for him that prize of persons in society, the label of a "good chap" and "sportsman." "have you ever been in baghdad?" he feebly asked. the fat man did not answer; he had begun an anecdote, and in his broad expanse of face his tiny mouth writhed like a caterpillar. the anecdote was humorous. with the exception of antonia, shelton saw but little of the ladies, for, following the well-known custom of the country house, men and women avoided each other as much as might be. they met at meals, and occasionally joined in tennis and in croquet; otherwise it seemed--almost orientally--agreed that they were better kept apart. chancing one day to enter the withdrawing room, while searching for antonia, he found that he had lighted on a feminine discussion; he would have beaten a retreat, of course, but it seemed too obvious that he was merely looking for his fiancee, so, sitting down, he listened. the honourable charlotte penguin, still knitting a silk tie--the sixth since that she had been knitting at hyeres--sat on the low window-seat close to a hydrangea, the petals of whose round flowers almost kissed her sanguine cheek. her eyes were fixed with languid aspiration on the lady who was speaking. this was a square woman of medium height, with grey hair brushed from her low forehead, the expression of whose face was brisk and rather cross. she was standing with a book, as if delivering a sermon. had she been a man she might have been described as a bright young man of business; for, though grey, she never could be old, nor ever lose the power of forming quick decisions. her features and her eyes were prompt and slightly hard, tinged with faith fanatical in the justice of her judgments, and she had that fussy simpleness of dress which indicates the right to meddle. not red, not white, neither yellow nor quite blue, her complexion was suffused with a certain mixture of these colours, adapted to the climate; and her smile had a strange sour sweetness, like nothing but the flavour of an apple on the turn. "i don't care what they tell you," she was saying--not offensively, though her voice seemed to imply that she had no time to waste in pleasing--"in all my dealings with them i've found it best to treat them quite like children." a lady, behind the times, smiled; her mouth--indeed, her whole hard, handsome face--was reminiscent of dappled rocking-horses found in the soho bazaar. she crossed her feet, and some rich and silk stuff rustled. her whole personality seemed to creak as, without looking, she answered in harsh tones: "i find the poor are most delightful persons." sybil dennant, seated on the sofa, with a feathery laugh shot a barking terrier dog at shelton. "here's dick," she said. "well, dick, what's your opinion?" shelton looked around him, scared. the elder ladies who had spoken had fixed their eyes on him, and in their gaze he read his utter insignificance. "oh, that young man!" they seemed to say. "expect a practical remark from him? now, come!" "opinion," he stammered, "of the poor? i haven't any." the person on her feet, whose name was mrs. mattock, directing her peculiar sweet-sour smile at the distinguished lady with the times, said: "perhaps you 've not had experience of them in london, lady bonington?" lady bonington, in answer, rustled. "oh, do tell us about the slums, mrs. mattock!" cried sybil. "slumming must be splendid! it's so deadly here--nothing but flannel petticoats." "the poor, my dear," began mrs. mattock, "are not the least bit what you think them--" "oh, d' you know, i think they're rather nice!" broke in aunt charlotte close to the hydrangea. "you think so?" said mrs. mattock sharply. "i find they do nothing but grumble." "they don't grumble at me: they are delightful persons", and lady bonington gave shelton a grim smile. he could not help thinking that to grumble in the presence of that rich, despotic personality would require a superhuman courage. "they're the most ungrateful people in the world," said mrs. mattock. "why, then," thought shelton, "do you go amongst them?" she continued, "one must do them good, one, must do one's duty, but as to getting thanks--" lady bonington sardonically said, "poor things! they have a lot to bear." "the little children!" murmured aunt charlotte, with a flushing cheek and shining eyes; "it 's rather pathetic." "children indeed!" said mrs. mattock. "it puts me out of all patience to see the way that they neglect them. people are so sentimental about the poor." lady bonington creaked again. her splendid shoulders were wedged into her chair; her fine dark hair, gleaming with silver, sprang back upon her brow; a ruby bracelet glowed on the powerful wrist that held the journal; she rocked her copper-slippered foot. she did not appear to be too sentimental. "i know they often have a very easy time," said mrs. mattock, as if some one had injured her severely. and shelton saw, not without pity, that fate had scored her kind and squashed-up face with wrinkles, whose tiny furrows were eloquent of good intentions frustrated by the unpractical and discontented poor. "do what you will, they are never satisfied; they only resent one's help, or else they take the help and never thank you for it!" "oh!" murmured aunt charlotte, "that's rather hard." shelton had been growing, more uneasy. he said abruptly: "i should do the same if i were they." mrs. mattock's brown eyes flew at him; lady bonington spoke to the times; her ruby bracelet and a bangle jingled. "we ought to put ourselves in their places." shelton could not help a smile; lady bonington in the places of the poor! "oh!" exclaimed mrs. mattock, "i put myself entirely in their place. i quite understand their feelings. but ingratitude is a repulsive quality." "they seem unable to put themselves in your place," murmured shelton; and in a fit of courage he took the room in with a sweeping glance. yes, that room was wonderfully consistent, with its air of perfect second-handedness, as if each picture, and each piece of furniture, each book, each lady present, had been made from patterns. they were all widely different, yet all (like works of art seen in some exhibitions) had the look of being after the designs of some original spirit. the whole room was chaste, restrained, derived, practical, and comfortable; neither in virtue nor in work, neither in manner, speech, appearance, nor in theory, could it give itself away. chapter xxiii the stained-glass man still looking for antonia, shelton went up to the morning-room. thea dennant and another girl were seated in the window, talking. from the look they gave him he saw that he had better never have been born; he hastily withdrew. descending to the hall, he came on mr. dennant crossing to his study, with a handful of official-looking papers. "ah, shelton!" said he, "you look a little lost. is the shrine invisible?" shelton grinned, said "yes," and went on looking. he was not fortunate. in the dining-room sat mrs. dennant, making up her list of books. "do give me your opinion, dick," she said. "everybody 's readin' this thing of katherine asterick's; i believe it's simply because she's got a title." "one must read a book for some reason or other," answered shelton. "well," returned mrs. dennant, "i hate doin' things just because other people do them, and i sha'n't get it." "good!" mrs. dennant marked the catalogue. "here 's linseed's last, of course; though i must say i don't care for him, but i suppose we ought to have it in the house. and there's quality's 'the splendid diatribes': that 's sure to be good, he's always so refined. but what am i to do about this of arthur baal's? they say that he's a charlatan, but everybody reads him, don't you know"; and over the catalogue shelton caught the gleam of hare-like eyes. decision had vanished from her face, with its arched nose and slightly sloping chin, as though some one had suddenly appealed to her to trust her instincts. it was quite pathetic. still, there was always the book's circulation to form her judgment by. "i think i 'd better mark it," she said, "don't you? were you lookin' for antonia? if you come across bunyan in the garden, dick, do say i want to see him; he's gettin' to be a perfect nuisance. i can understand his feelin's, but really he 's carryin' it too far." primed with his message to the under-gardener, shelton went. he took a despairing look into the billiard-room. antonia was not there. instead, a tall and fat-cheeked gentleman with a neat moustache, called mabbey, was practising the spot-stroke. he paused as shelton entered, and, pouting like a baby, asked in a sleepy voice, "play me a hundred up?" shelton shook his head, stammered out his sorrow, and was about to go. the gentleman called mabbey, plaintively feeling the places where his moustaches joined his pink and glossy cheeks, asked with an air of some surprise, "what's your general game, then?" "i really don't know," said shelton. the gentleman called mabbey chalked his cue, and, moving his round, knock-kneed legs in their tight trousers, took up his position for the stroke. "what price that?" he said, as he regained the perpendicular; and his well-fed eyes followed shelton with sleepy inquisition. "curious dark horse, shelton," they seemed to say. shelton hurried out, and was about to run down the lower lawn, when he was accosted by another person walking in the sunshine--a slight-built man in a turned-down collar, with a thin and fair moustache, and a faint bluish tint on one side of his high forehead, caused by a network of thin veins. his face had something of the youthful, optimistic, stained-glass look peculiar to the refined english type. he walked elastically, yet with trim precision, as if he had a pleasant taste in furniture and churches, and held the spectator in his hand. "ah, shelton!" he said in high-tuned tones, halting his legs in such an easy attitude that it was impossible to interrupt it: "come to take the air?" shelton's own brown face, nondescript nose, and his amiable but dogged chin contrasted strangely with the clear-cut features of the stained-glass man. "i hear from halidome that you're going to stand for parliament," the latter said. shelton, recalling halidome's autocratic manner of settling other people's business, smiled. "do i look like it?" he asked. the eyebrows quivered on the stained-glass man. it had never occurred to him, perhaps, that to stand for parliament a man must look like it; he examined shelton with some curiosity. "ah, well," he said, "now you mention it, perhaps not." his eyes, so carefully ironical, although they differed from the eyes of mabbey, also seemed to ask of shelton what sort of a dark horse he was. "you 're still in the domestic office, then?" asked shelton. the stained-glass man stooped to sniff a rosebush. "yes," he said; "it suits me very well. i get lots of time for my art work." "that must be very interesting," said shelton, whose glance was roving for antonia; "i never managed to begin a hobby." "never had a hobby!" said the stained-glass man, brushing back his hair (he was walking with no hat); "why, what the deuce d' you do?" shelton could not answer; the idea had never troubled him. "i really don't know," he said, embarrassed; "there's always something going on, as far as i can see." the stained-glass man placed his hands within his pockets, and his bright glance swept over his companion. "a fellow must have a hobby to give him an interest in life," he said. "an interest in life?" repeated shelton grimly; "life itself is good enough for me." "oh!" replied the stained-glass man, as though he disapproved of regarding life itself as interesting. "that's all very well, but you want something more than that. why don't you take up woodcarving?" "wood-carving?" "the moment i get fagged with office papers and that sort of thing i take up my wood-carving; good as a game of hockey." "i have n't the enthusiasm." the eyebrows of the stained-glass man twitched; he twisted his moustache. "you 'll find not having a hobby does n't pay," he said; "you 'll get old, then where 'll you be?" it came as a surprise that he should use the words "it does n't pay," for he had a kind of partially enamelled look, like that modern jewellery which really seems unconscious of its market value. "you've given up the bar? don't you get awfully bored having nothing to do?" pursued the stained-glass man, stopping before an ancient sundial. shelton felt a delicacy, as a man naturally would, in explaining that being in love was in itself enough to do. to do nothing is unworthy of a man! but he had never felt as yet the want of any occupation. his silence in no way disconcerted his acquaintance. "that's a nice old article of virtue," he said, pointing with his chin; and, walking round the sundial, he made its acquaintance from the other side. its grey profile cast a thin and shortening shadow on the turf; tongues of moss were licking at its sides; the daisies clustered thick around its base; it had acquired a look of growing from the soil. "i should like to get hold of that," the stained-glass man remarked; "i don't know when i 've seen a better specimen," and he walked round it once again. his eyebrows were still ironically arched, but below them his eyes were almost calculating, and below them, again, his mouth had opened just a little. a person with a keener eye would have said his face looked greedy, and even shelton was surprised, as though he had read in the spectator a confession of commercialism. "you could n't uproot a thing like that," he said; "it would lose all its charm." his companion turned impatiently, and his countenance looked wonderfully genuine. "couldn't i?" he said. "by jove! i thought so. ! the best period." he ran his forger round the sundial's edge. "splendid line-clean as the day they made it. you don't seem to care much about that sort of thing"; and once again, as though accustomed to the indifference of vandals, his face regained its mask. they strolled on towards the kitchen gardens, shelton still busy searching every patch of shade. he wanted to say "can't stop," and hurry off; but there was about the stained-glass man a something that, while stinging shelton's feelings, made the showing of them quite impossible. "feelings!" that person seemed to say; "all very well, but you want more than that. why not take up wood-carving? . . . . feelings! i was born in england, and have been at cambridge." "are you staying long?" he asked shelton. "i go on to halidome's to-morrow; suppose i sha'n't see you there? good, chap, old halidome! collection of etchings very fine!" "no; i 'm staying on," said shelton. "ah!" said the stained-glass man, "charming people, the dennants!" shelton, reddening slowly, turned his head away; he picked a gooseberry, and muttered, "yes." "the eldest girl especially; no nonsense about her. i thought she was a particularly nice girl." shelton heard this praise of antonia with an odd sensation; it gave him the reverse of pleasure, as though the words had cast new light upon her. he grunted hastily, "i suppose you know that we 're engaged?" "really!" said the stained-glass man, and again his bright, clear, iron-committal glance swept over shelton--"really! i didn't know. congratulate you!" it was as if he said: "you're a man of taste; i should say she would go well in almost any drawing-room!" "thanks," said shelton; "there she' is. if you'll excuse me, i want to speak to her." chapter xxiv paradise antonia, in a sunny angle of the old brick wall, amid the pinks and poppies and cornflowers, was humming to herself. shelton saw the stained-glass man pass out of sight, then, unobserved, he watched her smelling at the flowers, caressing her face with each in turn, casting away spoiled blossoms, and all the time humming that soft tune. in two months, or three, all barriers between himself and this inscrutable young eve would break; she would be a part of him, and he a part of her; he would know all her thoughts, and she all his; together they would be as one, and all would think of them, and talk of them, as one; and this would come about by standing half an hour together in a church, by the passing of a ring, and the signing of their names. the sun was burnishing her hair--she wore no hat flushing her cheeks, sweetening and making sensuous her limbs; it had warmed her through and through, so that, like the flowers and bees, the sunlight and the air, she was all motion, light, and colour. she turned and saw shelton standing there. "oh, dick!" she said: "lend me your hand-kerchief to put these flowers in, there 's a good boy!" her candid eyes, blue as the flowers in her hands, were clear and cool as ice, but in her smile was all the warm profusion of that corner; the sweetness had soaked into her, and was welling forth again. the sight of those sun-warmed cheeks, and fingers twining round the flower-stalks, her pearly teeth, and hair all fragrant, stole the reason out of shelton. he stood before her, weak about the knees. "found you at last!" he said. curving back her neck, she cried out, "catch!" and with a sweep of both her hands flung the flowers into shelton's arms. under the rain of flowers, all warm and odorous, he dropped down on his knees, and put them one by one together, smelling at the pinks, to hide the violence of his feelings. antonia went on picking flowers, and every time her hand was full she dropped them on his hat, his shoulder, or his arms, and went on plucking more; she smiled, and on her lips a little devil danced, that seemed to know what he was suffering. and shelton felt that she did know. "are you tired?" she asked; "there are heaps more wanted. these are the bedroom-flowers--fourteen lots. i can't think how people can live without flowers, can you?" and close above his head she buried her face in pinks. he kept his eyes on the plucked flowers before him on the grass, and forced himself to answer, "i think i can hold out." "poor old dick!" she had stepped back. the sun lit the clear-cut profile of her cheek, and poured its gold over the bosom of her blouse. "poor old dick! awfully hard luck, is n't it?" burdened with mignonette, she came so close again that now she touched his shoulder, but shelton did not look; breathless, with wildly beating heart, he went on sorting out the flowers. the seeds of mignonette rained on his neck, and as she let the blossoms fall, their perfume fanned his face. "you need n't sort them out!" she said. was she enticing him? he stole a look; but she was gone again, swaying and sniffing at the flowers. "i suppose i'm only hindering you," he growled; "i 'd better go." she laughed. "i like to see you on your knees, you look so funny!" and as she spoke she flung a clove carnation at him. "does n't it smell good?" "too good oh, antonia! why are you doing this?" "why am i doing what?" "don't you know what you are doing?" "why, picking flowers!" and once more she was back, bending and sniffing at the blossoms. "that's enough." "oh no," she called; "it's not not nearly. "keep on putting them together, if you love me." "you know i love you," answered shelton, in a smothered voice. antonia gazed at him across her shoulder; puzzled and inquiring was her face. "i'm not a bit like you," she said. "what will you have for your room?" "choose!" "cornflowers and clove pinks. poppies are too frivolous, and pinks too--" "white," said shelton. "and mignonette too hard and--" "sweet. why cornflowers?" antonia stood before him with her hands against her sides; her figure was so slim and young, her face uncertain and so grave. "because they're dark and deep." "and why clove pinks?" antonia did not answer. "and why clove pinks?" "because," she said, and, flushing, touched a bee that had settled on her skirt, "because of something in you i don't understand." "ah! and what flowers shall t give you?" she put her hands behind her. "there are all the other flowers for me." shelton snatched from the mass in front of him an iceland poppy with straight stem and a curved neck, white pinks, and sprigs of hard, sweet mignonette, and held it out to her. "there," he said, "that's you." but antonia did not move. "oh no, it is n't!" and behind her back her fingers slowly crushed the petals of a blood-red poppy. she shook her head, smiling a brilliant smile. the blossoms fell, he flung his arms around her, and kissed her on the lips. but his hands dropped; not fear exactly, nor exactly shame, had come to him. she had not resisted, but he had kissed the smile away; had kissed a strange, cold, frightened look, into her eyes. "she did n't mean to tempt me, then," he thought, in surprise and anger. "what did she mean?" and, like a scolded dog, he kept his troubled watch upon her face. chapter xxv the ride "where now?" antonia asked, wheeling her chestnut mare, as they turned up high street, oxford city. "i won't go back the same way, dick!" "we could have a gallop on port meadow, cross the upper river twice, and get home that way; but you 'll be tired." antonia shook her head. aslant her cheek the brim of a straw hat threw a curve of shade, her ear glowed transparent in the sun. a difference had come in their relations since that kiss; outwardly she was the same good comrade, cool and quick. but as before a change one feels the subtle difference in the temper of the wind, so shelton was affected by the inner change in her. he had made a blot upon her candour; he had tried to rub it out again, but there was left a mark, and it was ineffaceable. antonia belonged to the most civilised division of the race most civilised in all the world, whose creed is "let us love and hate, let us work and marry, but let us never give ourselves away; to give ourselves away is to leave a mark, and that is past forgive ness. let our lives be like our faces, free from every kind of wrinkle, even those of laughter; in this way alone can we be really civilised." he felt that she was ruffled by a vague discomfort. that he should give himself away was natural, perhaps, and only made her wonder, but that he should give her the feeling that she had given herself away was a very different thing. "do you mind if i just ask at the bishop's head for letters?" he said, as they passed the old hotel. a dirty and thin envelope was brought to him, addressed "mr. richard shelton, esq.," in handwriting that was passionately clear, as though the writer had put his soul into securing delivery of the letter. it was dated three days back, and, as they rode away, shelton read as follows: imperial peacock hotel, folkestone. mon cher monsieur shelton, this is already the third time i have taken up pen to write to you, but, having nothing but misfortune to recount, i hesitated, awaiting better days. indeed, i have been so profoundly discouraged that if i had not thought it my duty to let you know of my fortunes i know not even now if i should have found the necessary spirit. 'les choses vont de mal en mal'. from what i hear there has never been so bad a season here. nothing going on. all the same, i am tormented by a mob of little matters which bring me not sufficient to support my life. i know not what to do; one thing is certain, in no case shall i return here another year. the patron of this hotel, my good employer, is one of those innumerable specimens who do not forge or steal because they have no need, and if they had would lack the courage; who observe the marriage laws because they have been brought up to believe in them, and know that breaking them brings risk and loss of reputation; who do not gamble because they dare not; do not drink because it disagrees with them; go to church because their neighbours go, and to procure an appetite for the mid-day meal; commit no murder because, not transgressing in any other fashion, they are not obliged. what is there to respect in persons of this sort? yet they are highly esteemed, and form three quarters of society. the rule with these good gentlemen is to shut their eyes, never use their thinking powers, and close the door on all the dogs of life for fear they should get bitten. shelton paused, conscious of antonia's eyes fixed on him with the inquiring look that he had come to dread. in that chilly questioning she seemed to say: "i am waiting. i am prepared to be told things--that is, useful things--things that help one to believe without the risk of too much thinking." "it's from that young foreigner," he said; and went on reading to himself. i have eyes, and here i am; i have a nose 'pour, flairer le humbug'. i see that amongst the value of things nothing is the equal of "free thought." everything else they can take from me, 'on ne pent pas m'oter cela'! i see no future for me here, and certainly should have departed long ago if i had had the money, but, as i have already told you, all that i can do barely suffices to procure me 'de quoi vivre'. 'je me sens ecceuye'. do not pay too much attention to my jeremiads; you know what a pessimist i am. 'je ne perds pas courage'. hoping that you are well, and in the cordial pressing of your hand, i subscribe myself, your very devoted louis ferrand. he rode with the letter open in his hand, frowning at the curious turmoil which ferrand excited in his heart. it was as though this foreign vagrant twanged within him a neglected string, which gave forth moans of a mutiny. "what does he say?" antonia asked. should he show it to her? if he might not, what should he do when they were married? "i don't quite know," he said at last; "it 's not particularly cheering."' "what is he like, dick--i mean, to look at? like a gentleman, or what?" shelton stifled a desire to laugh. "he looks very well in a frock-coat," he replied; "his father was a wine merchant." antonia flicked her whip against her skirt. "of course," she murmured, "i don't want to hear if there's anything i ought not." but instead of soothing shelton, these words had just the opposite effect. his conception of the ideal wife was not that of one from whom the half of life must be excluded. "it's only," he stammered again, "that it's not cheerful." "oh, all right!" she cried, and, touching her horse, flew off in front. "i hate dismal things." shelton bit his lips. it was not his fault that half the world was dark. he knew her words were loosed against himself, and, as always at a sign of her displeasure, was afraid. he galloped after her on the scorched turf. "what is it?" he said. "you 're angry with me!" "oh no!" "darling, i can't help it if things are n't cheerful. we have eyes," he added, quoting from the letter. antonia did not look at him; but touched her horse again. "well, i don't want to see the gloomy side," she said, "and i can't see why you should. it's wicked to be discontented;" and she galloped off. it was not his fault if there were a thousand different kinds of men, a thousand different points of view, outside the fence of her experience! "what business," he thought, digging in his dummy spurs, "has our class to patronise? we 're the only people who have n't an idea of what life really means." chips of dried turf and dust came flying back, stinging his face. he gained on her, drew almost within reach, then, as though she had been playing with him, was left hopelessly behind. she stooped under the far hedge, fanning her flushed face with dock-leaves: "aha, dick! i knew you'd never catch me" and she patted the chestnut mare, who turned her blowing muzzle with contemptuous humour towards shelton's steed, while her flanks heaved rapturously, gradually darkening with sweat. "we'd better take them steadily," grunted shelton, getting off and loosening his girths, "if we mean to get home at all." "don't be cross, dick!" "we oughtn't to have galloped them like this; they 're not in condition. we'd better go home the way we came." antonia dropped the reins, and straightened her back hair. "there 's no fun in that," she said. "out and back again; i hate a dog's walk." "very well," said shelton; he would have her longer to himself! the road led up and up a hill, and from the top a vision of saxonia lay disclosed in waves of wood and pasture. their way branched down a gateless glade, and shelton sidled closer till his knee touched the mare's off-flank. antonia's profile conjured up visions. she was youth itself; her eyes so brilliant, and so innocent, her cheeks so glowing, and her brow unruffled; but in her smile and in the setting of her jaw lurked something resolute and mischievous. shelton put his hand out to the mare's mane. "what made you promise to marry me?" he said. she smiled. "well, what made you?" "i?" cried shelton. she slipped her hand over his hand. "oh, dick!" she said. "i want," he stammered, "to be everything to you. do you think i shall?" "of course!" of course! the words seemed very much or very little. she looked down at the river, gleaming below the glade in a curving silver line. "dick, there are such a lot of splendid things that we might do." did she mean, amongst those splendid things, that they might understand each other; or were they fated to pretend to only, in the old time-honoured way? they crossed the river by a ferry, and rode a long time in silence, while the twilight slowly fell behind the aspens. and all the beauty of the evening, with its restless leaves, its grave young moon, and lighted campion flowers, was but a part of her; the scents, the witchery and shadows, the quaint field noises, the yokels' whistling, and the splash of water-fowl, each seemed to him enchanted. the flighting bats, the forms of the dim hayricks, and sweet-brier perfume-she summed them all up in herself. the fingermarks had deepened underneath her eyes, a languor came upon her; it made her the more sweet and youthful. her shoulders seemed to bear on them the very image of our land--grave and aspiring, eager yet contained--before there came upon that land the grin of greed, the folds of wealth, the simper of content. fair, unconscious, free! and he was silent, with a beating heart. chapter xxvi the bird 'of passage that night, after the ride, when shelton was about to go to bed, his eyes fell on ferrand's letter, and with a sleepy sense of duty he began to read it through a second time. in the dark, oak-panelled bedroom, his four-post bed, with back of crimson damask and its dainty sheets, was lighted by the candle glow; the copper pitcher of hot water in the basin, the silver of his brushes, and the line of his well-polished boots all shone, and shelton's face alone was gloomy, staring at the yellowish paper in his hand. "the poor chap wants money, of course," he thought. but why go on for ever helping one who had no claim on him, a hopeless case, incurable--one whom it was his duty to let sink for the good of the community at large? ferrand's vagabond refinement had beguiled him into charity that should have been bestowed on hospitals, or any charitable work but foreign missions. to give a helping hand, a bit of himself, a nod of fellowship to any fellow-being irrespective of a claim, merely because he happened to be down, was sentimental nonsense! the line must be drawn! but in the muttering of this conclusion he experienced a twinge of honesty. "humbug! you don't want to part with your money, that's all!" so, sitting down in shirt-sleeves at his writing table, he penned the following on paper stamped with the holm oaks address and crest: my dear ferrand, i am sorry you are having such a bad spell. you seem to be dead out of luck. i hope by the time you get this things will have changed for the better. i should very much like to see you again and have a talk, but shall be away for some time longer, and doubt even when i get back whether i should be able to run down and look you up. keep me 'au courant' as to your movements. i enclose a cheque. yours sincerely, richard shelton. before he had written out the cheque, a moth fluttering round the candle distracted his attention, and by the time he had caught and put it out he had forgotten that the cheque was not enclosed. the letter, removed with his clothes before he was awake, was posted in an empty state. one morning a week later he was sitting in the smoking-room in the company of the gentleman called mabbey, who was telling him how many grouse he had deprived of life on august last year, and how many he intended to deprive of life on august this year, when the door was opened, and the butler entered, carrying his head as though it held some fatal secret. "a young man is asking for you, sir," he said to shelton, bending down discreetly; "i don't know if you would wish to see him, sir." "a young man!" repeated shelton; "what sort of a young man?" "i should say a sort of foreigner, sir," apologetically replied the butler. "he's wearing a frock-coat, but he looks as if he had been walking a good deal." shelton rose with haste; the description sounded to him ominous. "where is he?" "i put him in the young ladies' little room, sir." "all right," said shelton; "i 'll come and see him. now, what the deuce!" he thought, running down the stairs. it was with a queer commingling of pleasure and vexation that he entered the little chamber sacred to the birds, beasts, racquets, golf-clubs, and general young ladies' litter. ferrand was standing underneath the cage of a canary, his hands folded on his pinched-up hat, a nervous smile upon his lips. he was dressed in shelton's old frock-coat, tightly buttoned, and would have cut a stylish figure but far his look of travel. he wore a pair of pince-nez, too, which somewhat veiled his cynical blue eyes, and clashed a little with the pagan look of him. in the midst of the strange surroundings he still preserved that air of knowing, and being master of, his fate, which was his chief attraction. "i 'm glad to see you," said shelton, holding out his hand. "forgive this liberty," began ferrand, "but i thought it due to you after all you've done for me not to throw up my efforts to get employment in england without letting you know first. i'm entirely at the end of my resources." the phrase struck shelton as one that he had heard before. "but i wrote to you," he said; "did n't you get my letter?" a flicker passed across the vagrant's face; he drew the letter from his pocket and held it out. "here it is, monsieur." shelton stared at it. "surely," said he, "i sent a cheque?" ferrand did not smile; there was a look about him as though shelton by forgetting to enclose that cheque had done him a real injury. shelton could not quite hide a glance of doubt. "of course," he said, "i--i--meant to enclose a cheque." too subtle to say anything, ferrand curled his lip. "i am capable of much, but not of that," he seemed to say; and at once shelton felt the meanness of his doubt. "stupid of me," he said. "i had no intention of intruding here," said ferrand; "i hoped to see you in the neighbourhood, but i arrive exhausted with fatigue. i've eaten nothing since yesterday at noon, and walked thirty miles." he shrugged his shoulders. "you see, i had no time to lose before assuring myself whether you were here or not." "of course--" began shelton, but again he stopped. "i should very much like," the young foreigner went on, "for one of your good legislators to find himself in these country villages with a penny in his pocket. in other countries bakers are obliged to sell you an equivalent of bread for a penny; here they won't sell you as much as a crust under twopence. you don't encourage poverty." "what is your idea now?" asked shelton, trying to gain time. "as i told you," replied ferrand, "there 's nothing to be done at folkestone, though i should have stayed there if i had had the money to defray certain expenses"; and again he seemed to reproach his patron with the omission of that cheque. "they say things will certainly be better at the end of the month. now that i know english well, i thought perhaps i could procure a situation for teaching languages." "i see," said shelton. as a fact, however, he was far from seeing; he literally did not know what to do. it seemed so brutal to give ferrand money and ask him to clear out; besides, he chanced to have none in his pocket. "it needs philosophy to support what i 've gone through this week," said ferrand, shrugging his shoulders. "on wednesday last, when i received your letter, i had just eighteen-pence, and at once i made a resolution to come and see you; on that sum i 've done the journey. my strength is nearly at an end." shelton stroked his chin. "well," he had just begun, "we must think it over," when by ferrand's face he saw that some one had come in. he turned, and saw antonia in the doorway. "excuse me," he stammered, and, going to antonia, drew her from the room. with a smile she said at once: "it's the young foreigner; i'm certain. oh, what fun!" "yes," answered shelton slowly; "he's come to see me about getting some sort of tutorship or other. do you think your mother would mind if i took him up to have a wash? he's had a longish walk. and might he have some breakfast? he must be hungry." "of course! i'll tell dobson. shall i speak to mother? he looks nice, dick." he gave her a grateful, furtive look, and went back to his guest; an impulse had made him hide from her the true condition of affairs. ferrand was standing where he had been left his face still clothed in mordant impassivity. "come up to my room!" said shelton; and while his guest was washing, brushing, and otherwise embellishing his person, he stood reflecting that ferrand was by no means unpresentable, and he felt quite grateful to him. he took an opportunity, when the young man's back was turned, of examining his counterfoils. there was no record, naturally, of a cheque drawn in ferrand's favour. shelton felt more mean than ever. a message came from mrs. dennant; so he took the traveller to the dining-room and left him there, while he himself went to the lady of the house. he met antonia coming down. "how many days did you say he went without food that time--you know?" she asked in passing. "four." "he does n't look a bit common, dick." shelton gazed at her dubiously. "they're surely not going to make a show of him!" he thought. mrs. dennant was writing, in a dark-blue dress starred over with white spots, whose fine lawn collar was threaded with black velvet. "have you seen the new hybrid algy's brought me back from kidstone? is n't it charmin'?" and she bent her face towards this perfect rose. "they say unique; i'm awfully interested to find out if that's true. i've told algy i really must have some." shelton thought of the unique hybrid breakfasting downstairs; he wished that mrs. dennant would show in him the interest she had manifested in the rose. but this was absurd of him, he knew, for the potent law of hobbies controlled the upper classes, forcing them to take more interest in birds, and roses, missionaries, or limited and highly-bound editions of old books (things, in a word, in treating which you knew exactly where you were) than in the manifestations of mere life that came before their eyes. "oh, dick, about that young frenchman. antonia says he wants a tutorship; now, can you really recommend him? there's mrs. robinson at the gateways wants someone to teach her boys languages; and, if he were quite satisfactory, it's really time toddles had a few lessons in french; he goes to eton next half." shelton stared at the rose; he had suddenly realised why it was that people take more interest in roses than in human beings--one could do it with a quiet heart. "he's not a frenchman, you know," he said to gain a little time. "he's not a german, i hope," mrs. dennant answered, passing her forgers round a petal, to impress its fashion on her brain; "i don't like germans. is n't he the one you wrote about--come down in the world? such a pity with so young a fellow! his father was a merchant, i think you told us. antonia says he 's quite refined to look at." "oh, yes," said shelton, feeling on safe ground; "he's refined enough to look at." mrs. dennant took the rose and put it to her nose. "delicious perfume! that was a very touchin' story about his goin' without food in paris. old mrs. hopkins has a room to let; i should like to do her a good turn. i'm afraid there's a hole in the ceilin', though. or there's the room here in the left wing on the ground-floor where john the footman used to sleep. it's quite nice; perhaps he could have that." "you 're awfully kind," said shelton, "but--" "i should like to do something to restore his self-respect,", went on mrs. dennant, "if, as you say, he 's clever and all that. seein' a little refined life again might make a world of difference to him. it's so sad when a young man loses self-respect." shelton was much struck by the practical way in which she looked at things. restore his self-respect! it seemed quite a splendid notion! he smiled, and said, "you're too kind. i think--" "i don't believe in doin' things by halves," said mrs. dennant; "he does n't drink, i suppose?" "oh, no," said shelton. "he's rather a tobacco maniac, of course." "well, that's a mercy! you would n't believe the trouble i 've had with drink, especially over cooks and coachmen. and now bunyan's taken to it." "oh, you'd have no trouble with ferrand," returned shelton; "you couldn't tell him from a gentleman as far as manners go." mrs. dennant smiled one of her rather sweet and kindly smiles. "my dear dick," she said, "there's not much comfort in that. look at poor bobby surcingle, look at oliver semples and victor medallion; you could n't have better families. but if you 're sure he does n't drink! algy 'll laugh, of course; that does n't matter--he laughs at everything." shelton felt guilty; being quite unprepared for so rapid an adoption of his client. "i really believe there's a lot of good in him," he stammered; "but, of course, i know very little, and from what he tells me he's had a very curious life. i shouldn't like--" "where was he educated?" inquired mrs. dennant. "they have no public schools in france, so i 've been told; but, of course, he can't help that, poor young fellow! oh, and, dick, there 's one thing--has he relations? one has always to be so careful about that. it 's one thing to help a young fellow, but quite another to help his family too. one sees so many cases of that where men marry girls without money, don't you know." "he has told me," answered shelton, "his only relations are some cousins, and they are rich." mrs. dennant took out her handkerchief, and, bending above the rose, removed a tiny insect. "these green-fly get in everywhere," she said. "very sad story; can't they do anything for him?" and she made researches in the rose's heart. "he's quarrelled with them, i believe," said shelton; "i have n't liked to press him, about that." "no, of course not," assented mrs. dennant absently--she had found another green-fly "i always think it's painful when a young man seems so friendless." shelton was silent; he was thinking deeply. he had never before felt so distrustful of the youthful foreigner. "i think," he said at last, "the best thing would be for you to see him for yourself." "very well," said mrs. dennant. "i should be so glad if you would tell him to come up. i must say i do think that was a most touchin' story about paris. i wonder whether this light's strong enough now for me to photograph this rose." shelton withdrew and went down-stairs. ferrand was still at breakfast. antonia stood at the sideboard carving beef for him, and in the window sat thea with her persian kitten. both girls were following the traveller's movements with inscrutable blue eyes. a shiver ran down shelton's spine. to speak truth, he cursed the young man's coming, as though it affected his relations with antonia. chapter xxvii sub rosa from the interview, which shelton had the mixed delight of watching, between ferrand and the honourable mrs. dennant, certain definite results accrued, the chief of which was the permission accorded the young wanderer to occupy the room which had formerly been tenanted by the footman john. shelton was lost in admiration of ferrand's manner in this scene.. its subtle combination of deference and dignity was almost paralysing; paralysing, too, the subterranean smile upon his lips. "charmin' young man, dick," said mrs. dennant, when shelton lingered to say once more that he knew but very little of him; "i shall send a note round to mrs. robinson at once. they're rather common, you know--the robinsons. i think they'll take anyone i recommend." "i 'm sure they will," said shelton; "that's why i think you ought to know--" but mrs. dennant's eyes, fervent, hare-like, were fixed on something far away; turning, he saw the rose in a tall vase on a tall and spindly stool. it seemed to nod towards them in the sunshine. mrs. dennant dived her nose towards her camera. "the light's perfect now," she said, in a voice muffled by the cloth. "i feel sure that livin' with decent people will do wonders for him. of course, he understands that his meals will be served to him apart." shelton, doubly anxious, now that his efforts had lodged his client in a place of trust, fell, back on hoping for the best; his instinct told him that, vagabond as ferrand was, he had a curious self-respect, that would save him from a mean ingratitude. in fact, as mrs. dennant, who was by no means void of common-sense, foresaw, the arrangement worked all right. ferrand entered on his duties as french tutor to the little robinsons. in the dennants' household he kept himself to his own room, which, day and night, he perfumed with tobacco, emerging at noon into the garden, or, if wet, into the study, to teach young toddles french. after a time it became customary for him to lunch with the house-party, partly through a mistake of toddles, who seemed to think that it was natural, and partly through john noble, one of shelton's friends, who had come to stay, and discovered ferrand to be a most awfully interesting person he was always, indeed, discovering the most awfully interesting persons. in his grave and toneless voice, brushing his hair from off his brow, he descanted upon ferrand with enthusiasm, to which was joined a kind of shocked amusement, as who should say, "of course, i know it's very odd, but really he 's such an awfully interesting person." for john noble was a politician, belonging to one of those two peculiar parties, which, thoroughly in earnest, of an honesty above suspicion, and always very busy, are constitutionally averse to anything peculiar for fear of finding they have overstepped the limit of what is practical in politics. as such he inspired confidence, not caring for things unless he saw some immediate benefit to be had from them, having a perfect sense of decency, and a small imagination. he discussed all sorts of things with ferrand; on one occasion shelton overheard them arguing on anarchism. "no englishman approves of murder," noble was saying, in the gloomy voice that contrasted with the optimistic cast of his fine head, "but the main principle is right. equalisation of property is bound to come. i sympathise with then, not with their methods." "forgive me," struck in ferrand; "do you know any anarchists?" "no," returned noble; "i certainly do not." "you say you sympathise with them, but the first time it comes to action--" "well?" "oh, monsieur! one doesn't make anarchism with the head." shelton perceived that he had meant to add, "but with the heart, the lungs, the liver." he drew a deeper meaning from the saying, and seemed to see, curling with the smoke from ferrand's lips, the words: "what do you, an english gentleman, of excellent position, and all the prejudices of your class, know about us outcasts? if you want to understand us you must be an outcast too; we are not playing at the game." this talk took place upon the lawn, at the end of one of toddles's french lessons, and shelton left john noble maintaining to the youthful foreigner, with stubborn logic, that he, john noble, and the anarchists had much, in common. he was returning to the house, when someone called his name from underneath the holm oak. there, sitting turkish fashion on the grass, a pipe between his teeth, he found a man who had arrived the night before, and impressed him by his friendly taciturnity. his name was whyddon, and he had just returned from central africa; a brown-faced, large-jawed man, with small but good and steady eyes, and strong, spare figure. "oh, mr. shelton!" he said, "i wondered if you could tell me what tips i ought to give the servants here; after ten years away i 've forgotten all about that sort of thing." shelton sat down beside him; unconsciously assuming, too, a cross-legged attitude, which caused him much discomfort. "i was listening," said his new acquaintance, "to the little chap learning his french. i've forgotten mine. one feels a hopeless duffer knowing no, languages." "i suppose you speak arabic?" said shelton. "oh, arabic, and a dialect or two; they don't count. that tutor has a curious face." "you think so?" said shelton, interested. "he's had a curious life." the traveller spread his hands, palms downwards, on the grass and looked at shelton with, a smile. "i should say he was a rolling stone," he said. "it 's odd, i' ve seen white men in central africa with a good deal of his look about them. "your diagnosis is a good one," answered shelton. "i 'm always sorry for those fellows. there's generally some good in them. they are their own enemies. a bad business to be unable to take pride in anything one does!" and there was a look of pity on his face. "that's exactly it," said shelton. "i 've often tried to put it into words. is it incurable?" "i think so." "can you tell me why?" whyddon pondered. "i rather think," he said at last, "it must be because they have too strong a faculty of criticism. you can't teach a man to be proud of his own work; that lies in his blood "; folding his arms across his breast, he heaved a sigh. under the dark foliage, his eyes on the sunlight, he was the type of all those englishmen who keep their spirits bright and wear their bodies out in the dark places of hard work. "you can't think," he said, showing his teeth in a smile, "how delightful it is to be at home! you learn to love the old country when you're away from it." shelton often thought, afterwards; of this diagnosis of the vagabond, for he was always stumbling on instances of that power of subtle criticism which was the young foreigner's prime claim to be "a most awfully interesting" and perhaps a rather shocking person. an old school-fellow of shelton's and his wife were staying in the house, who offered to the eye the picture of a perfect domesticity. passionless and smiling, it was impossible to imagine they could ever have a difference. shelton, whose bedroom was next to theirs, could hear them in the mornings talking in exactly the tones they used at lunch, and laughing the same laughs. their life seemed to accord them perfect satisfaction; they were supplied with their convictions by society just as, when at home, they were supplied with all the other necessaries of life by some co-operative stores. their fairly handsome faces, with the fairly kind expressions, quickly and carefully regulated by a sense of compromise, began to worry him so much that when in the same room he would even read to avoid the need of looking at them. and yet they were kind--that is, fairly kind--and clean and quiet in the house, except when they laughed, which was often, and at things which made him want to howl as a dog howls at music. "mr. shelton," ferrand said one day, "i 'm not an amateur of marriage--never had the chance, as you may well suppose; but, in any case, you have some people in the house who would make me mark time before i went committing it. they seem the ideal young married people--don't quarrel, have perfect health, agree with everybody, go to church, have children--but i should like to hear what is beautiful in their life," and he grimaced. "it seems to me so ugly that i can only gasp. i would much rather they ill-treated each other, just to show they had the corner of a soul between them. if that is marriage, 'dieu m'en garde!'" but shelton did not answer; he was thinking deeply. the saying of john noble's, "he's really a most interesting person," grew more and more upon his nerves; it seemed to describe the dennant attitude towards this stranger within their gates. they treated him with a sort of wonder on the "don't touch" system, like an object in an exhibition. the restoration, however, of, his self-respect proceeded with success. for all the semblance of having grown too big for shelton's clothes, for all his vividly burnt face, and the quick but guarded play of cynicism on his lips--he did much credit to his patrons. he had subdued his terror of a razor, and looked well in a suit of shelton's flannels. for, after all, he had only been eight years exiled from middle-class gentility, and he had been a waiter half that time. but shelton wished him at the devil. not for his manners' sake--he was never tired of watching how subtly the vagabond adapted his conduct to the conduct of his hosts, while keeping up his critical detachment--but because that critical detachment was a constant spur to his own vision, compelling him to analyse the life into which, he had been born and was about to marry. this process was disturbing; and to find out when it had commenced, he had to go back to his meeting with ferrand on the journey up from dover. there was kindness in a hospitality which opened to so strange a bird; admitting the kindness, shelton fell to analysing it. to himself, to people of his class, the use of kindness was a luxury, not significant of sacrifice, but productive of a pleasant feeling in the heart, such as massage will setup in the legs. "everybody's kind," he thought; "the question is, what understanding is there, what real sympathy?" this problem gave him food for thought. the progress, which mrs. dennant not unfrequently remarked upon, in ferrand's conquest of his strange position, seemed to shelton but a sign that he was getting what he could out of his sudden visit to green pastures; under the same circumstances, shelton thought that he himself would do the same. he felt that the young foreigner was making a convenient bow to property, but he had more respect for the sarcastic smile on the lips of ferrand's heart. it was not long before the inevitable change came in the spirit of the situation; more and more was shelton conscious of a quaint uneasiness in the very breathing of the household. "curious fellow you've got hold of there, shelton," mr. dennant said to him during a game of croquet; "he 'll never do any good for himself, i'm afraid." "in one sense i'm afraid not," admitted shelton. "do you know his story? i will bet you sixpence"--and mr. dennant paused to swing his mallet with a proper accuracy "that he's been in prison." "prison!" ejaculated shelton. "i think," said mr. dennant, with bent knees carefully measuring his next shot, "that you ought to make inquiries--ah! missed it! awkward these hoops! one must draw the line somewhere." "i never could draw," returned shelton, nettled and uneasy; "but i understand--i 'll give him a hint to go." "don't," said mr. dennant, moving after his second ball, which shelton had smitten to the farther end, "be offended, my dear shelton, and by no means give him a hint; he interests me very much--a very clever, quiet young fellow." that this was not his private view shelton inferred by studying mr. dennant's manner in the presence of the vagabond. underlying the well-bred banter of the tranquil voice, the guarded quizzicality of his pale brown face, it could be seen that algernon cuffe dennant, esq., j.p., accustomed to laugh at other people, suspected that he was being laughed at. what more natural than that he should grope about to see how this could be? a vagrant alien was making himself felt by an english justice of the peace--no small tribute, this, to ferrand's personality. the latter would sit silent through a meal, and yet make his effect. he, the object of their kindness, education, patronage, inspired their fear. there was no longer any doubt; it was not of ferrand that they were afraid, but of what they did not understand in him; of horrid subtleties meandering in the brain under that straight, wet-looking hair; of something bizarre popping from the curving lips below that thin, lopsided nose. but to shelton in this, as in all else, antonia was what mattered. at first, anxious to show her lover that she trusted him, she seemed never tired of doing things for his young protege, as though she too had set her heart on his salvation; but, watching her eyes when they rested on the vagabond, shelton was perpetually reminded of her saying on the first day of his visit to holm oaks, "i suppose he 's really good--i mean all these things you told me about were only...." curiosity never left her glance, nor did that story of his four days' starving leave her mind; a sentimental picturesqueness clung about that incident more valuable by far than this mere human being with whom she had so strangely come in contact. she watched ferrand, and shelton watched her. if he had been told that he was watching her, he would have denied it in good faith; but he was bound to watch her, to find out with what eyes she viewed this visitor who embodied all the rebellious under-side of life, all that was absent in herself. "dick," she said to him one day, "you never talk to me of monsieur ferrand." "do you want to talk of him?" "don't you think that he's improved?" "he's fatter." antonia looked grave. "no, but really?" "i don't know," said shelton; "i can't judge him." antonia turned her face away, and something in her attitude alarmed him. "he was once a sort of gentleman," she said; "why shouldn't he become one again?" sitting on the low wall of the kitchen-garden, her head was framed by golden plums. the sun lay barred behind the foliage of the holm oak, but a little patch filtering through a gap had rested in the plum-tree's heart. it crowned the girl. her raiment, the dark leaves, the red wall, the golden plums, were woven by the passing glow to a block of pagan colour. and her face above it, chaste, serene, was like the scentless summer evening. a bird amongst the currant bushes kept a little chant vibrating; and all the plum-tree's shape and colour seemed alive. "perhaps he does n't want to be a gentleman," said shelton. antonia swung her foot. "how can he help wanting to?" "he may have a different philosophy of life." antonia was slow to answer. "i know nothing about philosophies of life," she said at last. shelton answered coldly, "no two people have the same." with the falling sun-glow the charm passed off the tree. chilled and harder, yet less deep, it was no more a block of woven colour, warm and impassive, like a southern goddess; it was now a northern tree, with a grey light through its leaves. "i don't understand you in the least," she said; "everyone wishes to be good." "and safe?" asked shelton gently. antonia stared. "suppose," he said--"i don't pretend to know, i only suppose--what ferrand really cares for is doing things differently from other people? if you were to load him with a character and give him money on condition that he acted as we all act, do you think he would accept it?" "why not?" "why are n't cats dogs; or pagans christians?" antonia slid down from the wall. "you don't seem to think there 's any use in trying," she said, and turned away. shelton made a movement as if he would go after her, and then stood still, watching her figure slowly pass, her head outlined above the wall, her hands turned back across her narrow hips. she halted at the bend, looked back, then, with an impatient gesture, disappeared. antonia was slipping from him! a moment's vision from without himself would have shown him that it was he who moved and she who was standing still, like the figure of one watching the passage of a stream with clear, direct, and sullen eyes. chapter xxviii the river one day towards the end of august shelton took antonia on the river--the river that, like soft music, soothes the land; the river of the reeds and poplars, the silver swan-sails, sun and moon, woods, and the white slumbrous clouds; where cuckoos, and the wind, the pigeons, and the weirs are always singing; and in the flash of naked bodies, the play of waterlily leaves, queer goblin stumps, and the twilight faces of the twisted tree-roots, pan lives once more. the reach which shelton chose was innocent of launches, champagne bottles and loud laughter; it was uncivilised, and seldom troubled by these humanising influences. he paddled slowly, silent and absorbed, watching antonia. an unaccustomed languor clung about her; her eyes had shadows, as though she had not slept; colour glowed softly in her cheeks, her frock seemed all alight with golden radiance. she made shelton pull into the reeds, and plucked two rounded lilies sailing like ships against slow-moving water. "pull into the shade, please," she said; "it's too hot out here." the brim of her linen hat kept the sun from her face, but her head was drooping like a flower's head at noon. shelton saw that the heat was really harming her, as too hot a day will dim the icy freshness of a northern plant. he dipped his sculls, the ripples started out and swam in grave diminuendo till they touched the banks. he shot the boat into a cleft, and caught the branches of an overhanging tree. the skiff rested, balancing with mutinous vibration, like a living thing. "i should hate to live in london," said antonia suddenly; "the slums must be so awful. what a pity, when there are places like this! but it's no good thinking." "no," answered shelton slowly! "i suppose it is no good." "there are some bad cottages at the lower end of cross eaton. i went them one day with miss truecote. the people won't help themselves. it's so discouraging to help people who won't help themselves." she was leaning her elbows on her knees, and, with her chin resting on her hands, gazed up at shelton. all around them hung a tent of soft, thick leaves, and, below, the water was deep-dyed with green refraction. willow boughs, swaying above the boat, caressed antonia's arms and shoulders; her face and hair alone were free. "so discouraging," she said again. a silence fell.... antonia seemed thinking deeply. "doubts don't help you," she said suddenly; "how can you get any good from doubts? the thing is to win victories." "victories?" said shelton. "i 'd rather understand than conquer!" he had risen to his feet, and grasped stunted branch, canting the boat towards the bank. "how can you let things slide like that, dick? it's like ferrand." "have you such a bad opinion of him, then?" asked shelton. he felt on the verge of some, discovery. she buried her chin deeper in her hands. "i liked him at first," she said; "i thought that he was different. i thought he couldn't really be--" "really be what?" antonia did not answer. "i don't know," she said at last. "i can't explain. i thought--" shelton still stood, holding to the branch, and the oscillation of the boat freed an infinity of tiny ripples. "you thought--what?" he said. he ought to have seen her face grow younger, more childish, even timid. she said in a voice smooth, round, and young: "you know, dick, i do think we ought to try. i know i don't try half hard enough. it does n't do any good to think; when you think, everything seems so mixed, as if there were nothing to lay hold of. i do so hate to feel like that. it is n't as if we didn't know what's right. sometimes i think, and think, and it 's all no good, only a waste of time, and you feel at the end as if you had been doing wrong." shelton frowned. "what has n't been through fire's no good," he said; and, letting go the branch, sat down. freed from restraint, the boat edged out towards the current. "but what about ferrand?" "i lay awake last night wondering what makes you like him so. he's so bitter; he makes me feel unhappy. he never seems content with anything. and he despises"--her face hardened--"i mean, he hates us all!" "so should i if i were he," said shelton. the boat was drifting on, and gleams of sunlight chased across their faces. antonia spoke again. "he seems to be always looking at dark things, or else he seems as if--as if he could--enjoy himself too much. i thought--i thought at first," she stammered, "that we could do him good." "do him good! ha, ha!" a startled rat went swimming for its life against the stream; and shelton saw that he had done a dreadful thing: he had let antonia with a jerk into a secret not hitherto admitted even by himself--the secret that her eyes were not his eyes, her way of seeing things not his nor ever would be. he quickly muffled up his laughter. antonia had dropped her gaze; her face regained its languor, but the bosom of her dress was heaving. shelton watched her, racking his brains to find excuses for that fatal laugh; none could he find. it was a little piece of truth. he paddled slowly on, close to the bank, in the long silence of the river. the breeze had died away, not a fish was rising; save for the lost music of the larks no birds were piping; alone, a single pigeon at brief intervals cooed from the neighbouring wood. they did not stay much longer in the boat. on the homeward journey in the pony-cart, rounding a corner of the road, they came on ferrand in his pince-nez, holding a cigarette between his fingers and talking to a tramp, who was squatting on the bank. the young foreigner recognised them, and at once removed his hat. "there he is," said shelton, returning the salute. antonia bowed. "oh!" she, cried, when they were out of hearing, "i wish he 'd go. i can't bear to see him; it's like looking at the dark." chapter xxix on the wing that night, having gone up to his room, shelton filled his pipe for his unpleasant duty. he had resolved to hint to ferrand that he had better go. he was still debating whether to write or go himself to the young foreigner, when there came a knock and ferrand himself appeared. "i should be sorry," he said, breaking an awkward silence, "if you were to think me ungrateful, but i see no future for me here. it would be better for me to go. i should never be content to pass my life in teaching languages 'ce n'est guere dans mon caractre'." as soon as what he had been cudgelling his brains to find a way of saying had thus been said for him, shelton experienced a sense of disapproval. "what do you expect to get that's better?" he said, avoiding ferrand's eyes. "thanks to your kindness," replied the latter, "i find myself restored. i feel that i ought to make some good efforts to dominate my social position." "i should think it well over, if i were you!" said shelton. "i have, and it seems to me that i'm wasting my time. for a man with any courage languages are no career; and, though i 've many defects, i still have courage." shelton let his pipe go out, so pathetic seemed to him this young man's faith in his career; it was no pretended faith, but neither was it, he felt, his true motive for departure. "he's tired," he thought; "that 's it. tired of one place." and having the instinctive sense that nothing would keep ferrand, he redoubled his advice. "i should have thought," he said, "that you would have done better to have held on here and saved a little before going off to god knows what." "to save," said ferrand, "is impossible for me, but, thanks to you and your good friends, i 've enough to make front to first necessities. i'm in correspondence with a friend; it's of great importance for me to reach paris before all the world returns. i 've a chance to get, a post in one of the west african companies. one makes fortunes out there--if one survives, and, as you know, i don't set too much store by life." "we have a proverb," said shelton, "'a bird in the hand is worth two birds in the bush!'" "that," returned ferrand, "like all proverbs, is just half true. this is an affair of temperament. it 's not in my character to dandle one when i see two waiting to be caught; 'voyager, apprendre, c'est plus fort que moi'." he paused; then, with a nervous goggle of the eyes and an ironic smile he said: "besides, 'mon cher monsieur', it is better that i go. i have never been one to hug illusions, and i see pretty clearly that my presence is hardly acceptable in this house." "what makes you say that?" asked, shelton, feeling that the murder was now out." "my dear sir, all the world has not your understanding and your lack of prejudice, and, though your friends have been extremely kind to me, i am in a false position; i cause them embarrassment, which is not extraordinary when you reflect what i have been, and that they know my history." "not through me," said shelton quickly, "for i don't know it myself." "it's enough," the vagrant said, "that they feel i'm not a bird of their feather. they cannot change, neither can i. i have never wanted to remain where i 'm not welcome." shelton turned to the window, and stared into the darkness; he would never quite understand this vagabond, so delicate, so cynical, and he wondered if ferrand had been swallowing down the words, "why, even you won't be sorry to see my back!" "well," he said at last, "if you must go, you must. when do you start?" "i 've arranged with a man to carry my things to the early train. i think it better not to say good-bye. i 've written a letter instead; here it is. i left it open for you to read if you should wish," "then," said shelton, with a curious mingling of relief, regret, good-will, "i sha'n't see you again?" ferrand gave his hand a stealthy rub, and held it out. "i shall never forget what you have done for me," he said. "mind you write," said shelton. "yes, yes"--the, vagrant's face was oddly twisted--"you don't know what a difference it makes to have a correspondent; it gives one courage. i hope to remain a long time in correspondence with you." "i dare say you do," thought shelton grimly, with a certain queer emotion. "you will do me the justice to remember that i have never asked you for anything," said ferrand. "thank you a thousand times. good-bye!" he again wrung his patron's hand in his damp grasp, and, going out, left shelton with an odd sensation in his throat. "you will do me the justice to remember that i have never asked you for anything." the phrase seemed strange, and his mind flew back over all this queer acquaintanceship. it was a fact: from the beginning to the end the youth had never really asked for anything. shelton sat down on his bed, and began to read the letter in his hand. it was in french. dear madame (it ran), it will be insupportable to me, after your kindness, if you take me for ungrateful. unfortunately, a crisis has arrived which plunges me into the necessity of leaving your hospitality. in all lives, as you are well aware, there arise occasions that one cannot govern, and i know that you will pardon me that i enter into no explanation on an event which gives me great chagrin, and, above all, renders me subject to an imputation of ingratitude, which, believe me, dear madame, by no means lies in my character. i know well enough that it is a breach of politeness to leave you without in person conveying the expression of my profound reconnaissance, but if you consider how hard it is for me to be compelled to abandon all that is so distinguished in domestic life, you will forgive my weakness. people like me, who have gone through existence with their eyes open, have remarked that those who are endowed with riches have a right to look down on such as are not by wealth and breeding fitted to occupy the same position. i shall never dispute a right so natural and salutary, seeing that without this distinction, this superiority, which makes of the well-born and the well-bred a race apart, the rest of the world would have no standard by which to rule their lives, no anchor to throw into the depths of that vast sea of fortune and of misfortune on which we others drive before the wind. it is because of this, dear madame, that i regard myself so doubly fortunate to have been able for a few minutes in this bitter pilgrimage called life, to sit beneath the tree of safety. to have been able, if only for an hour, to sit and set the pilgrims pass, the pilgrims with the blistered feet and ragged clothes, and who yet, dear madame, guard within their hearts a certain joy in life, illegal joy, like the desert air which travellers will tell you fills men as with wine to be able thus to sit an hour, and with a smile to watch them pass, lame and blind, in all the rags of their deserved misfortunes, can you not conceive, dear madame, how that must be for such as i a comfort? whatever one may say, it is sweet, from a position of security, to watch the sufferings of others; it gives one a good sensation in the heart. in writing this, i recollect that i myself once had the chance of passing all my life in this enviable safety, and as you may suppose, dear madame, i curse myself that i should ever have had the courage to step beyond the boundaries of this fine tranquil state. yet, too, there have been times when i have asked myself: "do we really differ from the wealthy--we others, birds of the fields, who have our own philosophy, grown from the pains of needing bread--we who see that the human heart is not always an affair of figures, or of those good maxims that one finds in copy-books--do we really differ?" it is with shame that i confess to have asked myself a question so heretical. but now, when for these four weeks i have had the fortune of this rest beneath your roof, i see how wrong i was to entertain such doubts. it is a great happiness to have decided once for all this point, for it is not in my character to pass through life uncertain--mistaken, perhaps--on psychological matters such as these. no, madame; rest happily assured that there is a great difference, which in the future will be sacred for me. for, believe me, madame, it would be calamity for high society if by chance there should arise amongst them any understanding of all that side of life which--vast as the plains and bitter as the sea, black as the ashes of a corpse, and yet more free than any wings of birds who fly away--is so justly beyond the grasp of their philosophy. yes, believe me, dear madame, there is no danger in the world so much to be avoided by all the members of that circle, most illustrious, most respectable, called high society. from what i have said you may imagine how hard it is for me to take my flight. i shall always keep for you the most distinguished sentiments. with the expression of my full regard for you and your good family, and of a gratitude as sincere as it is badly worded, believe me, dear madame, your devoted louis ferrand. shelton's first impulse was to tear the letter up, but this he reflected he had no right to do. remembering, too, that mrs. dennant's french was orthodox, he felt sure she would never understand the young foreigner's subtle innuendoes. he closed the envelope and went to bed, haunted still by ferrand's parting look. it was with no small feeling of embarrassment, however, that, having sent the letter to its destination by an early footman, he made his appearance at the breakfast-table. behind the austrian coffee-urn, filled with french coffee, mrs. dennant, who had placed four eggs in a german egg-boiler, said "good-morning," with a kindly smile. "dick, an egg?" she asked him, holding up a fifth. "no, thank you," replied shelton, greeting the table and fitting down. he was a little late; the buzz of conversation rose hilariously around. "my dear," continued mr. dennant, who was talking to his youngest daughter, "you'll have no chance whatever--not the least little bit of chance." "father, what nonsense! you know we shall beat your heads off!" "before it 's too late, then, i will eat a muffin. shelton, pass the muffins!" but in making this request, mr. dennant avoided looking in his face. antonia, too, seemed to keep her eyes away from him. she was talking to a connoisseur on art of supernatural appearances, and seemed in the highest spirits. shelton rose, and, going to the sideboard, helped himself to grouse. "who was the young man i saw yesterday on the lawn?" he heard the connoisseur remark. "struck me as having an--er--quite intelligent physiog." his own intelligent physiog, raised at a slight slant so that he might look the better through his nose-nippers, was the very pattern of approval. "it's curious how one's always meeting with intelligence;" it seemed to say. mrs. dennant paused in the act of adding cream, and shelton scrutinised her face; it was hare-like, and superior as ever. thank goodness she had smelt no rat! he felt strangely disappointed. "you mean monsieur ferrand, teachin' toddles french? dobson, the professor's cup." "i hope i shall see him again," cooed the connoisseur; "he was quite interesting on the subject of young german working men. it seems they tramp from place to place to learn their trades. what nationality was he, may i ask?" mr. dennant, of whom he asked this question, lifted his brows, and said, "ask shelton." "half dutch, half french." "very interesting breed; i hope i shall see him again." "well, you won't," said thea suddenly; "he's gone." shelton saw that their good breeding alone prevented all from adding, "and thank goodness, too!" "gone? dear me, it's very--" "yes," said mr. dennant, "very sudden." "now, algie," murmured mrs. dennant, "it 's quite a charmin' letter. must have taken the poor young man an hour to write." "oh, mother!" cried antonia. and shelton felt his face go crimson. he had suddenly remembered that her french was better than her mother's. "he seems to have had a singular experience," said the connoisseur. "yes," echoed mr. dennant; "he 's had some singular experience. if you want to know the details, ask friend shelton; it's quite romantic. in the meantime, my dear; another cup?" the connoisseur, never quite devoid of absent-minded malice, spurred his curiosity to a further effort; and, turning his well-defended eyes on shelton, murmured, "well, mr. shelton, you are the historian, it seems." "there is no history," said shelton, without looking up. "ah, that's very dull," remarked the connoisseur. "my dear dick," said mrs. dennant, "that was really a most touchin' story about his goin' without food in paris." shelton shot another look at antonia; her face was frigid. "i hate your d---d superiority!" he thought, staring at the connoisseur. "there's nothing," said that gentleman, "more enthralling than starvation. come, mr shelton." "i can't tell stories," said shelton; "never could." he cared not a straw for ferrand, his coming, going, or his history; for, looking at antonia, his heart was heavy. chapter xxx the lady from beyond the morning was sultry, brooding, steamy. antonia was at her music, and from the room where shelton tried to fix attention on a book he could hear her practising her scales with a cold fury that cast an added gloom upon his spirit. he did not see her until lunch, and then she again sat next the connoisseur. her cheeks were pale, but there was something feverish in her chatter to her neighbour; she still refused to look at shelton. he felt very miserable. after lunch, when most of them had left the table, the rest fell to discussing country neighbours. "of course," said mrs. dennant, "there are the foliots; but nobody calls on them." "ah!" said the connoisseur, "the foliots--the foliots--the people--er--who--quite so!" "it's really distressin'; she looks so sweet ridin' about. many people with worse stories get called on," continued mrs. dennant, with that large frankness of intrusion upon doubtful subjects which may be made by certain people in a certain way, "but, after all, one couldn't ask them to meet anybody." "no," the connoisseur assented. "i used to know foliot. thousand pities. they say she was a very pretty woman." "oh, not pretty!" said mrs. dennant! "more interestin than pretty, i should say." shelton, who knew the lady slightly, noticed that they spoke of her as in the past. he did not look towards antonia; for, though a little troubled at her presence while such a subject was discussed, he hated his conviction that her face, was as unruffled as though the foliots had been a separate species. there was, in fact, a curiosity about her eyes, a faint impatience on her lips; she was rolling little crumbs of bread. suddenly yawning, she muttered some remark, and rose. shelton stopped her at the door. "where are you going?" "for a walk." "may n't i come?". she shook her head. "i 'm going to take toddles." shelton held the door open, and went back to the table. "yes," the connoisseur said, sipping at his sherry, "i 'm afraid it's all over with young foliot." "such a pity!" murmured mrs. dennant, and her kindly face looked quite disturbed. "i've known him ever since he was a boy. of course, i think he made a great mistake to bring her down here. not even bein' able to get married makes it doubly awkward. oh, i think he made a great mistake!" "ah!" said the connoisseur, "but d' you suppose that makes much difference? even if what 's--his-name gave her a divorce, i don't think, don't you know, that--" "oh, it does! so many people would be inclined to look over it in time. but as it is it's hopeless, quite. so very awkward for people, too, meetin' them about. the telfords and the butterwicks--by the way, they're comin' here to dine to-night--live near them, don't you know." "did you ever meet her before-er-before the flood?" the connoisseur inquired; and his lips parting and unexpectedly revealing teeth gave him a shadowy resemblance to a goat. "yes; i did meet her once at the branksomes'. i thought her quite a charmin' person." "poor fellow!" said the connoisseur; "they tell me he was going to take the hounds." "and there are his delightful coverts, too. algie often used to shoot there, and now they say he just has his brother down to shoot with him. it's really quite too melancholy! did you know him, dick?" "foliot?" replied shelton absently. "no; i never met him: i've seen her once or twice at ascot." through the window he could see antonia in her scarlet tam-o'-shanter, swinging her stick, and he got up feigning unconcern. just then toddles came bounding up against his sister. they went off arm in arm. she had seen him at the window, yet she gave no friendly glance; shelton felt more miserable than ever. he stepped out upon the drive. there was a lurid, gloomy canopy above; the elm-trees drooped their heavy blackish green, the wonted rustle of the aspen-tree was gone, even the rooks were silent. a store of force lay heavy on the heart of nature. he started pacing slowly up and down, his pride forbidding him to follow her, and presently sat down on an old stone seat that faced the road. he stayed a long time staring at the elms, asking himself what he had done and what he ought to do. and somehow he was frightened. a sense of loneliness was on him, so real, so painful, that he shivered in the sweltering heat. he was there, perhaps, an hour, alone, and saw nobody pass along the road. then came the sound of horse's hoofs, and at the same time he heard a motor-car approaching from the opposite direction. the rider made appearance first, riding a grey horse with an arab's high set head and tail. she was holding him with difficulty, for the whirr of the approaching car grew every moment louder. shelton rose; the car flashed by. he saw the horse stagger in the gate-way, crushing its rider up against the gatepost. he ran, but before he reached the gate the lady was on foot, holding the plunging horse's bridle. "are you hurt?" cried shelton breathlessly, and he, too, grabbed the bridle. "those beastly cars!" "i don't know," she said. "please don't; he won't let strangers touch him." shelton let go, and watched her coax the horse. she was rather tall, dressed in a grey habit, with a grey russian cap upon her head, and he suddenly recognised the mrs. foliot whom they had been talking of at lunch. "he 'll be quiet now," she said, "if you would n't mind holding him a minute." she gave the reins to him, and leaned against the gate. she was very pale. "i do hope he has n't hurt you," shelton said. he was quite close to her, well able to see her face--a curious face with high cheek-bones and a flatfish moulding, enigmatic, yet strangely passionate for all its listless pallor. her smiling, tightened lips were pallid; pallid, too, her grey and deep-set eyes with greenish tints; above all, pale the ashy mass of hair coiled under her grey cap. "th-thanks!" she said; "i shall be all right directly. i'm sorry to have made a fuss." she bit her lips and smiled. "i 'm sure you're hurt; do let me go for--" stammered shelton. "i can easily get help." "help!" she said, with a stony little laugh; "oh, no, thanks!" she left the gate, and crossed the road to where he held the horse. shelton, to conceal embarrassment, looked at the horse's legs, and noticed that the grey was resting one of them. he ran his hand down. "i 'm afraid," he said, "your horse has knocked his off knee; it's swelling." she smiled again. "then we're both cripples." "he'll be lame when he gets cold. would n't you like to put him in the stable here? i 'm sure you ought to drive home." "no, thanks; if i 'm able to ride him he can carry me. give me a hand up." her voice sounded as though something had offended her. rising from inspection of the horse's leg, shelton saw antonia and toddles standing by. they had come through a wicketgate leading from the fields. the latter ran up to him at once. "we saw it," he whispered--"jolly smash-up. can't i help?" "hold his bridle," answered shelton, and he looked from one lady to the other. there are moments when the expression of a face fixes itself with painful clearness; to shelton this was such a moment. those two faces close together, under their coverings of scarlet and of grey, showed a contrast almost cruelly vivid. antonia was flushed, her eyes had grown deep blue; her look of startled doubt had passed and left a question in her face. "would you like to come in and wait? we could send you home, in the brougham," she said. the lady called mrs. foliot stood, one arm across the crupper of her saddle, biting her lips and smiling still her enigmatic smile, and it was her face that stayed most vividly on shelton's mind, its ashy hail, its pallor, and fixed, scornful eyes. "oh, no, thanks! you're very kind." out of antonia's face the timid, doubting friendliness had fled, and was replaced by enmity. with a long, cold look at both of them she turned away. mrs. foliot gave a little laugh, and raised her foot for shelton's help. he heard a hiss of pain as he swung her up, but when he looked at her she smiled. "anyway," he said impatiently, "let me come and see you don't break down." she shook her head. "it 's only two miles. i'm not made of sugar." "then i shall simply have to follow." she shrugged her shoulders, fixing her resolute eyes on him. "would that boy like to come?" she asked. toddles left the horse's head. "by jove!" he cried. "would n't i just!" "then," she said, "i think that will be best. you 've been so kind." she bowed, smiled inscrutably once more, touched the arab with her whip, and started, toddles trotting at her side. shelton was left with antonia underneath the elms. a sudden puff of tepid air blew in their faces, like a warning message from the heavy, purple heat clouds; low rumbling thunder travelled slowly from afar. "we're going to have a storm," he said. antonia nodded. she was pale now, and her face still wore its cold look of offence. "i 've got a headache," she said, "i shall go in and lie down." shelton tried to speak, but something kept him silent--submission to what was coming, like the mute submission of the fields and birds to the menace of the storm. he watched her go, and went back to his seat. and the silence seemed to grow; the flowers ceased to exude their fragrance, numbed by the weighty air. all the long house behind him seemed asleep, deserted. no noise came forth, no laughter, the echo of no music, the ringing of no bell; the heat had wrapped it round with drowsiness. and the silence added to the solitude within him. what an unlucky chance, that woman's accident! designed by providence to put antonia further from him than before! why was not the world composed of the immaculate alone? he started pacing up and down, tortured by a dreadful heartache. "i must get rid of this," he thought. "i 'll go for a good tramp, and chance the storm." leaving the drive he ran on toddles, returning in the highest spirits. "i saw her home," he crowed. "i say, what a ripper, isn't she? she 'll be as lame as a tree to-morrow; so will the gee. jolly hot!" this meeting showed shelton that he had been an hour on the stone seat; he had thought it some ten minutes, and the discovery alarmed him. it seemed to bring the import of his miserable fear right home to him. he started with a swinging stride, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, the perspiration streaming down his face. chapter xxxi the storm it was seven and more when shelton returned, from his walk; a few heat drops had splashed the leaves, but the storm had not yet broken. in brooding silence the world seemed pent beneath the purple firmament. by rapid walking in the heat shelton had got rid of his despondency. he felt like one who is to see his mistress after long estrangement. he, bathed, and, straightening his tie-ends, stood smiling at the glass. his fear, unhappiness, and doubts seemed like an evil dream; how much worse off would he not have been, had it all been true? it was dinner-party night, and when he reached the drawing-room the guests were there already, chattering of the coming storm. antonia was not yet down, and shelton stood by the piano waiting for her entry. red faces, spotless shirt-fronts, white arms; and freshly-twisted hair were all around him. some one handed him a clove carnation, and, as he held it to his nose, antonia came in, breathless, as though she had rushed down-stairs, her cheeks were pale no longer; her hand kept stealing to her throat. the flames of the coming storm seemed to have caught fire within her, to be scorching her in her white frock; she passed him close, and her fragrance whipped his senses. she had never seemed to him so lovely. never again will shelton breathe the perfume of melons and pineapples without a strange emotion. from where he sat at dinner he could not see antonia, but amidst the chattering of voices, the clink of glass and silver, the sights and sounds and scents of feasting, he thought how he would go to her and say that nothing mattered but her love. he drank the frosted, pale-gold liquid of champagne as if it had been water. the windows stood wide open in the heat; the garden lay in thick, soft shadow, where the pitchy shapes of trees could be discerned. there was not a breath of air to fan the candle-flames above the flowers; but two large moths, fearful of the heavy dark, flew in and wheeled between the lights over the diners' heads. one fell scorched into a dish of fruit, and was removed; the other, eluding all the swish of napkins and the efforts of the footmen, continued to make soft, fluttering rushes till shelton rose and caught it in his hand. he took it to the window and threw it out into the darkness, and he noticed that the air was thick and tepid to his face. at a sign from mr. dennant the muslin curtains were then drawn across the windows, and in gratitude, perhaps, for this protection, this filmy barrier between them and the muffled threats of nature, everyone broke out in talk. it was such a night as comes in summer after perfect weather, frightening in its heat, and silence, which was broken by the distant thunder travelling low along the ground like the muttering of all dark places on the earth--such a night as seems, by very breathlessness, to smother life, and with its fateful threats to justify man's cowardice. the ladies rose at last. the circle of the rosewood dining-table, which had no cloth, strewn with flowers and silver gilt, had a likeness to some autumn pool whose brown depths of oily water gleam under the sunset with red and yellow leaves; above it the smoke of cigarettes was clinging, like a mist to water when the sun goes down. shelton became involved in argument with his neighbour on the english character. "in england we've mislaid the recipe of life," he said. "pleasure's a lost art. we don't get drunk, we're ashamed of love, and as to beauty, we've lost the eye for' it. in exchange we have got money, but what 's the good of money when we don't know how to spend it?" excited by his neighbour's smile, he added: "as to thought, we think so much of what our neighbours think that we never think at all.... have you ever watched a foreigner when he's listening to an englishman? we 're in the habit of despising foreigners; the scorn we have for them is nothing to the scorn they have for us. and they are right! look at our taste! what is the good of owning riches if we don't know how to use them?" "that's rather new to me," his neighbour said. "there may be something in it.... did you see that case in the papers the other day of old hornblower, who left the port that fetched a guinea a bottle? when the purchaser--poor feller!--came to drink it he found eleven bottles out of twelve completely ullaged--ha! ha! well, there's nothing wrong with this"; and he drained his glass. "no," answered shelton. when they rose to join the ladies, he slipped out on the lawn. at once he was enveloped in a bath of heat. a heavy odour, sensual, sinister, was in the air, as from a sudden flowering of amorous shrubs. he stood and drank it in with greedy nostrils. putting his hand down, he felt the grass; it was dry, and charged with electricity. then he saw, pale and candescent in the blackness, three or four great lilies, the authors of that perfume. the blossoms seemed to be rising at him through the darkness; as though putting up their faces to be kissed. he straightened himself abruptly and went in. the guests were leaving when shelton, who was watching; saw antonia slip through the drawing-room window. he could follow the white glimmer of her frock across the lawn, but lost it in the shadow of the trees; casting a hasty look to see that he was not observed, he too slipped out. the blackness and the heat were stifling he took great breaths of it as if it were the purest mountain air, and, treading softly on the grass, stole on towards the holm oak. his lips were dry, his heart beat painfully. the mutter of the distant thunder had quite ceased; waves of hot air came wheeling in his face, and in their midst a sudden rush of cold. he thought, "the storm is coming now!" and stole on towards the tree. she was lying in the hammock, her figure a white blur in, the heart of the tree's shadow, rocking gently to a little creaking of the branch. shelton held his breath; she had not heard him. he crept up close behind the trunk till he stood in touch of her. "i mustn't startle her," he thought. "antonia!" there was a faint stir in the hammock, but no answer. he stood over her, but even then he could not see her face; he only, had a sense of something breathing and alive within a yard of him--of something warm and soft. he whispered again, "antonia!" but again there came no answer, and a sort of fear and frenzy seized on him. he could no longer hear her breathe; the creaking of the branch had ceased. what was passing in that silent, living creature there so close? and then he heard again the sound of breathing, quick and scared, like the fluttering of a bird; in a moment he was staring in the dark at an empty hammock. he stayed beside the empty hammock till he could bear uncertainty no longer. but as he crossed the lawn the sky was rent from end to end by jagged lightning, rain spattered him from head to foot, and with a deafening crack the thunder broke. he sought the smoking-room, but, recoiling at the door, went to his own room, and threw himself down on the bed. the thunder groaned and sputtered in long volleys; the lightning showed him the shapes of things within the room, with a weird distinctness that rent from them all likeness to the purpose they were made for, bereaved them of utility, of their matter-of-factness, presented them as skeletons, abstractions, with indecency in their appearance, like the naked nerves and sinews of a leg preserved in, spirit. the sound of the rain against the house stunned his power of thinking, he rose to shut his windows; then, returning to his bed, threw himself down again. he stayed there till the storm was over, in a kind of stupor; but when the boom of the retreating thunder grew every minute less distinct, he rose. then for the first time he saw something white close by the door. it was a note: i have made a mistake. please forgive me, and go away.--antonia. chapter xxxii wilderness when he had read this note, shelton put it down beside his sleeve-links on his dressing table, stared in the mirror at himself, and laughed. but his lips soon stopped him laughing; he threw himself upon his bed and pressed his face into the pillows. he lay there half-dressed throughout the night, and when he rose, soon after dawn, he had not made his mind up what to do. the only thing he knew for certain was that he must not meet antonia. at last he penned the following: i have had a sleepless night with toothache, and think it best to run up to the dentist at once. if a tooth must come out, the sooner the better. he addressed it to mrs. dennant, and left it on his table. after doing this he threw himself once more upon his bed, and this time fell into a doze. he woke with a start, dressed, and let himself quietly out. the likeness of his going to that of ferrand struck him. "both outcasts now," he thought. he tramped on till noon without knowing or caring where he went; then, entering a field, threw himself down under the hedge, and fell asleep. he was awakened by a whirr. a covey of partridges, with wings glistening in the sun, were straggling out across the adjoining field of mustard. they soon settled in the old-maidish way of partridges, and began to call upon each other. some cattle had approached him in his sleep, and a beautiful bay cow, with her head turned sideways, was snuffing at him gently, exhaling her peculiar sweetness. she was as fine in legs and coat as any race-horse. she dribbled at the corners of her black, moist lips; her eye was soft and cynical. breathing the vague sweetness of the mustard-field, rubbing dry grasp-stalks in his fingers, shelton had a moment's happiness--the happiness of sun and sky, of the eternal quiet, and untold movements of the fields. why could not human beings let their troubles be as this cow left the flies that clung about her eyes? he dozed again, and woke up with a laugh, for this was what he dreamed: he fancied he was in a room, at once the hall and drawing-room of some country house. in the centre of this room a lady stood, who was looking in a hand-glass at her face. beyond a door or window could be seen a garden with a row of statues, and through this door people passed without apparent object. suddenly shelton saw his mother advancing to the lady with the hand-glass, whom now he recognised as mrs. foliot. but, as he looked, his mother changed to mrs. dennant, and began speaking in a voice that was a sort of abstract of refinement. "je fais de la philosophic," it said; "i take the individual for what she's worth. i do not condemn; above all, one must have spirit!" the lady with the mirror continued looking in the glass; and, though he could not see her face, he could see its image-pale, with greenish eyes, and a smile like scorn itself. then, by a swift transition, he was walking in the garden talking to mrs. dennant. it was from this talk that he awoke with laughter. "but," she had been saying, "dick, i've always been accustomed to believe what i was told. it was so unkind of her to scorn me just because i happen to be second-hand." and her voice awakened shelton's pity; it was like a frightened child's. "i don't know what i shall do if i have to form opinions for myself. i was n't brought up to it. i 've always had them nice and secondhand. how am i to go to work? one must believe what other people do; not that i think much of other people, but, you do know what it is--one feels so much more comfortable," and her skirts rustled. "but, dick, whatever happens"--her voice entreated--"do let antonia get her judgments secondhand. never mind for me--if i must form opinions for myself, i must--but don't let her; any old opinions so long as they are old. it 's dreadful to have to think out new ones for oneself." and he awoke. his dream had had in it the element called art, for, in its gross absurdity, mrs. dennant had said things that showed her soul more fully than anything she would have said in life. "no," said a voice quite close, behind the hedge, "not many frenchmen, thank the lord! a few coveys of hungarians over from the duke's. sir james, some pie?" shelton raised himself with drowsy curiosity--still half asleep--and applied his face to a gap in the high, thick osiers of the hedge. four men were seated on camp-stools round a folding-table, on which was a pie and other things to eat. a game-cart, well-adorned with birds and hares, stood at a short distance; the tails of some dogs were seen moving humbly, and a valet opening bottles. shelton had forgotten that it was "the first." the host was a soldierly and freckled man; an older man sat next him, square-jawed, with an absent-looking eye and sharpened nose; next him, again, there was a bearded person whom they seemed to call the commodore; in the fourth, to his alarm, shelton recognised the gentleman called mabbey. it was really no matter for surprise to meet him miles from his own place, for he was one of those who wander with a valet and two guns from the twelfth of august to the end of january, and are then supposed to go to monte carlo or to sleep until the twelfth of august comes again. he was speaking. "did you hear what a bag we made on the twelfth, sir james?" "ah! yes; what was that? have you sold your bay horse, glennie?" shelton had not decided whether or no to sneak away, when the commodore's thick voice began: "my man tellsh me that mrs. foliot--haw--has lamed her arab. does she mean to come out cubbing?" shelton observed the smile that came on all their faces. "foliot 's paying for his good time now; what a donkey to get caught!" it seemed to say. he turned his back and shut his eyes. "cubbing?" replied glennie; "hardly." "never could shee anything wonderful in her looks," went on the commodore; "so quiet, you never knew that she was in the room. i remember sayin' to her once, 'mrs. lutheran, now what do you like besht in all the world?' and what do you think she answered? 'music!' haw!" the voice of mabbey said: "he was always a dark horse, foliot: it 's always the dark horses that get let in for this kind of thing"; and there was a sound as though he licked his lips. "they say," said the voice of the host, "he never gives you back a greeting now. queer fish; they say that she's devoted to him." coming so closely on his meeting with this lady, and on the dream from which he had awakened, this conversation mesmerised the listener behind the hedge. "if he gives up his huntin' and his shootin', i don't see what the deuce he 'll do; he's resigned his clubs; as to his chance of parliament--" said the voice of mabbey. "thousand pities," said sir james; "still, he knew what to expect." "very queer fellows, those foliots," said the commodore. "there was his father: he 'd always rather talk to any scarecrow he came across than to you or me. wonder what he'll do with all his horses; i should like that chestnut of his." "you can't tell what a fellow 'll do," said the voice of mabbey--"take to drink or writin' books. old charlie wayne came to gazin' at stars, and twice a week he used to go and paddle round in whitechapel, teachin' pothooks--" "glennie," said sir james, "what 's become of smollett, your old keeper?" "obliged to get rid of him." shelton tried again to close his ears, but again he listened. "getting a bit too old; lost me a lot of eggs last season." "ah!" said the commodore, "when they oncesh begin to lose eggsh--" "as a matter of fact, his son--you remember him, sir james, he used to load for you?--got a girl into trouble; when her people gave her the chuck old smollet took her in; beastly scandal it made, too. the girl refused to marry smollett, and old smollett backed her up. naturally, the parson and the village cut up rough; my wife offered to get her into one of those reformatory what-d' you-call-'ems, but the old fellow said she should n't go if she did n't want to. bad business altogether; put him quite off his stroke. i only got five hundred pheasants last year instead of eight." there was a silence. shelton again peeped through the hedge. all were eating pie. "in warwickshire," said the commodore, "they always marry--haw--and live reshpectable ever after." "quite so," remarked the host; "it was a bit too thick, her refusing to marry him. she said he took advantage of her." "she's sorry by this time," said sir james; "lucky escape for young smollett. queer, the obstinacy of some of these old fellows!" "what are we doing after lunch?" asked the commodore. "the next field," said the host, "is pasture. we line up along the hedge, and drive that mustard towards the roots; there ought to be a good few birds." "shelton rose, and, crouching, stole softly to the gate: "on the twelfth, shootin' in two parties," followed the voice of mabbey from the distance. whether from his walk or from his sleepless night, shelton seemed to ache in every limb; but he continued his tramp along the road. he was no nearer to deciding what to do. it was late in the afternoon when he reached maidenhead, and, after breaking fast, got into a london train and went to sleep. at ten o'clock that evening he walked into st. james's park and there sat down. the lamplight dappled through the tired foliage on to these benches which have rested many vagrants. darkness has ceased to be the lawful cloak of the unhappy; but mother night was soft and moonless, and man had not despoiled her of her comfort, quite. shelton was not alone upon the seat, for at the far end was sitting a young girl with a red, round, sullen face; and beyond, and further still, were dim benches and dim figures sitting on them, as though life's institutions had shot them out in an endless line of rubbish. "ah!" thought shelton, in the dreamy way of tired people; "the institutions are all right; it's the spirit that's all--" "wrong?" said a voice behind him; "why, of course! you've taken the wrong turn, old man." he saw a policeman, with a red face shining through the darkness, talking to a strange old figure like some aged and dishevelled bird. "thank you, constable," the old man said, "as i've come wrong i'll take a rest." chewing his gums, he seemed to fear to take the liberty of sitting down. shelton made room, and the old fellow took the vacant place. "you'll excuse me, sir, i'm sure," he said in shaky tones, and snatching at his battered hat; "i see you was a gentleman"--and lovingly he dwelt upon the word--"would n't disturb you for the world. i'm not used to being out at night, and the seats do get so full. old age must lean on something; you'll excuse me, sir, i 'm sure." "of course," said shelton gently. "i'm a respectable old man, really," said his neighbour; "i never took a liberty in my life. but at my age, sir, you get nervous; standin' about the streets as i been this last week, an' sleepin' in them doss-houses--oh, they're dreadful rough places--a dreadful rough lot there! yes," the old man said again, as shelton turned to look at him, struck by the real self-pity in his voice, "dreadful rough places!" a movement of his head, which grew on a lean, plucked neck like that of an old fowl, had brought his face into the light. it was long, and run to seed, and had a large, red nose; its thin, colourless lips were twisted sideways and apart, showing his semi-toothless mouth; and his eyes had that aged look of eyes in which all colour runs into a thin rim round the iris; and over them kept coming films like the films over parrots' eyes. he was, or should have been, clean-shaven. his hair--for he had taken off his hat was thick and lank, of dusty colour, as far as could be seen, without a speck of grey, and parted very beautifully just about the middle. "i can put up with that," he said again. "i never interferes with nobody, and nobody don't interfere with me; but what frightens me"--his voice grew steady, as if too terrified to shake, is never knowin' day to day what 's to become of yer. oh, that 'a dreadful, that is!" "it must be," answered shelton. "ah! it is," the old man said; "and the winter cumin' on. i never was much used to open air, bein' in domestic service all my life; but i don't mind that so long as i can see my way to earn a livin'. well, thank god! i've got a job at last"; and his voice grew cheerful suddenly. "sellin' papers is not what i been accustomed to; but the westminister, they tell me that's one of the most respectable of the evenin' papers--in fact, i know it is. so now i'm sure to get on; i try hard." "how did you get the job?" asked shelton. "i 've got my character," the old fellow said, making a gesture with a skinny hand towards his chest, as if it were there he kept his character. "thank god, nobody can't take that away! i never parts from that"; and fumbling, he produced a packet, holding first one paper to the light, and then another, and he looked anxiously at shelton. "in that house where i been sleepin' they're not honest; they 've stolen a parcel of my things--a lovely shirt an' a pair of beautiful gloves a gentleman gave me for holdin' of his horse. now, would n't you prosecute 'em, sir?" "it depends on what you can prove." "i know they had 'em. a man must stand up for his rights; that's only proper. i can't afford to lose beautiful things like them. i think i ought to prosecute, now, don't you, sir?" shelton restrained a smile. "there!" said the old man, smoothing out a piece of paper shakily, "that's sir george!" and his withered finger-tips trembled on the middle of the page: 'joshua creed, in my service five years as butler, during which time i have found him all that a servant should be.' and this 'ere'--he fumbled with another--"this 'ere 's lady glengow: 'joshua creed--' i thought i'd like you to read 'em since you've been so kind." "will you have a pipe?" "thank ye, sir," replied the aged butler, filling his clay from shelton's pouch; then, taking a front tooth between his finger and his thumb, he began to feel it tenderly, working it to and fro with a sort of melancholy pride. "my teeth's a-comin' out," he said; "but i enjoys pretty good health for a man of my age." "how old is that?" "seventy-two! barrin' my cough, and my rupture, and this 'ere affliction"--he passed his hand over his face--"i 've nothing to complain of; everybody has somethink, it seems. i'm a wonder for my age, i think." shelton, for all his pity, would have given much to laugh. "seventy-two!" he said; "yes, a great age. you remember the country when it was very different to what it is now?" "ah!" said the old butler, "there was gentry then; i remember them drivin' down to newmarket (my native place, sir) with their own horses. there was n't so much o' these here middle classes then. there was more, too, what you might call the milk o' human kindness in people then--none o' them amalgamated stores, every man keepin' his own little shop; not so eager to cut his neighbour's throat, as you might say. and then look at the price of bread! o dear! why, it is n't a quarter what it was!" "and are people happier now than they were then?" asked shelton. the old butler sucked his pipe. "no," he answered, shaking his old head; "they've lost the contented spirit. i see people runnin' here and runnin' there, readin' books, findin' things out; they ain't not so self-contented as they were." "is that possible?" thought shelton. "no," repeated the old man, again sucking at his pipe, and this time blowing out a lot of smoke; "i don't see as much happiness about, not the same look on the faces. 't isn't likely. see these 'ere motorcars, too; they say 'orses is goin' out"; and, as if dumbfounded at his own conclusion, he sat silent for some time, engaged in the lighting and relighting of his pipe. the girl at the far end stirred, cleared her throat, and settled down again; her movement disengaged a scent of frowsy clothes. the policeman had approached and scrutinised these ill-assorted faces; his glance was jovially contemptuous till he noticed shelton, and then was modified by curiosity. "there's good men in the police," the aged butler said, when the policeman had passed on--"there's good men in the police, as good men as you can see, and there 's them that treats you like the dirt--a dreadful low class of man. oh dear, yes! when they see you down in the world, they think they can speak to you as they like; i don't give them no chance to worry me; i keeps myself to myself, and speak civil to all the world. you have to hold the candle to them; for, oh dear! if they 're crossed--some of them--they 're a dreadful unscrup'lous lot of men!" "are you going to spend the night here?" "it's nice and warm to-night," replied the aged butler. "i said to the man at that low place i said: 'don't you ever speak to me again,' i said, 'don't you come near me!' straightforward and honest 's been my motto all my life; i don't want to have nothing to say to them low fellows"--he made an annihilating gesture--"after the way they treated me, takin' my things like that. tomorrow i shall get a room for three shillin's a week, don't you think so, sir? well, then i shall be all right. i 'm not afraid now; the mind at rest. so long as i ran keep myself, that's all i want. i shall do first-rate, i think"; and he stared at shelton, but the look in his eyes and the half-scared optimism of his voice convinced the latter that he lived in dread. "so long as i can keep myself," he said again, "i sha'n't need no workhouse nor lose respectability." "no," thought shelton; and for some time sat without a word. "when you can;" he said at last, "come and see me; here's my card." the aged butler became conscious with a jerk, for he was nodding. "thank ye, sir; i will," he said, with pitiful alacrity. "down by belgravia? oh, i know it well; i lived down in them parts with a gentleman of the name of bateson--perhaps you knew him; he 's dead now--the honourable bateson. thank ye, sir; i'll be sure to come"; and, snatching at his battered hat, he toilsomely secreted shelton's card amongst his character. a minute later he began again to nod. the policeman passed a second time; his gaze seemed to say, "now, what's a toff doing on that seat with those two rotters?" and shelton caught his eye. "ah!" he thought; "exactly! you don't know what to make of me--a man of my position sitting here! poor devil! to spend your days in spying on your fellow-creatures! poor devil! but you don't know that you 're a poor devil, and so you 're not one." the man on the next bench sneezed--a shrill and disapproving sneeze. the policeman passed again, and, seeing that the lower creatures were both dozing, he spoke to shelton: "not very safe on these 'ere benches, sir," he said; "you never know who you may be sittin' next to. if i were you, sir, i should be gettin' on--if you 're not goin' to spend the night here, that is"; and he laughed, as at an admirable joke. shelton looked at him, and itched to say, "why shouldn't i?" but it struck him that it would sound very odd. "besides," he thought, "i shall only catch a cold"; and, without speaking, he left the seat, and went along towards his rooms. chapter xxxiii the end he reached his rooms at midnight so exhausted that, without waiting to light up, he dropped into a chair. the curtains and blinds had been removed for cleaning, and the tall windows admitted the night's staring gaze. shelton fixed his eyes on that outside darkness, as one lost man might fix his eyes upon another. an unaired, dusty odour clung about the room, but, like some god-sent whiff of grass or flowers wafted to one sometimes in the streets, a perfume came to him, the spice from the withered clove carnation still clinging, to his button-hole; and he suddenly awoke from his queer trance. there was a decision to be made. he rose to light a candle; the dust was thick on everything he touched. "ugh!" he thought, "how wretched!" and the loneliness that had seized him on the stone seat at holm oaks the day before returned with fearful force. on his table, heaped without order, were a pile of bills and circulars. he opened them, tearing at their covers with the random haste of men back from their holidays. a single long envelope was placed apart. my dear dick [he read], i enclose you herewith the revised draft of your marriage settlement. it is now shipshape. return it before the end of the week, and i will have it engrossed for signature. i go to scotland next wednesday for a month; shall be back in good time for your wedding. my love to your mother when you see her. your-affectionate uncle, edmund paramor. shelton smiled and took out the draft. "this indenture made the___day of _, between richard paramor shelton--" he put it down and sank back in his chair, the chair in which the foreign vagrant had been wont to sit on mornings when he came to preach philosophy. he did not stay there long, but in sheer unhappiness got up, and, taking his candle, roamed about the room, fingering things, and gazing in the mirror at his face, which seemed to him repulsive in its wretchedness. he went at last into the hall and opened the door, to go downstairs again into the street; but the sudden certainty that, in street or house, in town or country, he would have to take his trouble with him, made him shut it to. he felt in the letterbox, drew forth a letter, and with this he went back to the sitting-room. it was from antonia. and such was his excitement that he was forced to take three turns between the window and the wall before he could read; then, with a heart beating so that he could hardly hold the paper, he began: i was wrong to ask you to go away. i see now that it was breaking my promise, and i did n't mean to do that. i don't know why things have come to be so different. you never think as i do about anything. i had better tell you that that letter of monsieur ferrand's to mother was impudent. of course you did n't know what was in it; but when professor brayne was asking you about him at breakfast, i felt that you believed that he was right and we were wrong, and i can't understand it. and then in the afternoon, when that woman hurt her horse, it was all as if you were on her side. how can you feel like that? i must say this, because i don't think i ought to have asked you to go away, and i want you to believe that i will keep my promise, or i should feel that you and everybody else had a right to condemn me. i was awake all last night, and have a bad headache this morning. i can't write any more. antonia. his first sensation was a sort of stupefaction of relief that had in it an element of anger. he was reprieved! she would not break her promise; she considered herself bound! in the midst of the exaltation of this thought he smiled, and that smile was strange. he read it through again, and, like a judge, began to weigh what she had written, her thoughts when she was writing, the facts which had led up to this. the vagrant's farewell document had done the business. true to his fatal gift of divesting things of clothing, ferrand had not vanished without showing up his patron in his proper colours; even to shelton those colours were made plain. antonia had felt her lover was a traitor. sounding his heart even in his stress of indecision, shelton knew that this was true. "then in the afternoon, when that woman hurt her horse-" that woman! "it was as if you were on her side!" he saw too well her mind, its clear rigidity, its intuitive perception of that with which it was not safe to sympathise, its instinct for self-preservation, its spontaneous contempt for those without that instinct. and she had written these words considering herself bound to him--a man of sentiment, of rebellious sympathies, of untidiness of principle! here was the answer to the question he had asked all day: "how have things come to such a pass?" and he began to feel compassion for her. poor child! she could not jilt him; there was something vulgar in the word! never should it be said that antonia dennant had accented him and thrown him over. no lady did these things! they were impossible! at the bottom of his heart he had a queer, unconscious sympathy with, this impossibility. once again he read the letter, which seemed now impregnated with fresh meaning, and the anger which had mingled with his first sensation of relief detached itself and grew in force. in that letter there was something tyrannous, a denial of his right to have a separate point of view. it was like a finger pointed at him as an unsound person. in marrying her he would be marrying not only her, but her class--his class. she would be there always to make him look on her and on himself, and all the people that they knew and all the things they did, complacently; she would be there to make him feel himself superior to everyone whose life was cast in other moral moulds. to feel himself superior, not blatantly, not consciously, but with subconscious righteousness. but his anger, which was like the paroxysm that two days before had made him mutter at the connoisseur, "i hate your d---d superiority," struck him all at once as impotent and ludicrous. what was the good of being angry? he was on the point of losing her! and the anguish of that thought, reacting on his anger, intensified it threefold. she was so certain of herself, so superior to her emotions, to her natural impulses--superior to her very longing to be free from him. of that fact, at all events, shelton had no longer any doubt. it was beyond argument. she did not really love him; she wanted to be free of him! a photograph hung in his bedroom at holm oaks of a group round the hall door; the honourable charlotte penguin, mrs. dennant, lady bonington, halidome, mr. dennant, and the stained-glass man--all were there; and on the left-hand side, looking straight in front of her, antonia. her face in its youthfulness, more than all those others, expressed their point of view: behind those calm young eyes lay a world of safety and tradition. "i am not as others are," they seemed to say. and from that photograph mr. and mrs. dennant singled themselves out; he could see their faces as they talked--their faces with a peculiar and uneasy look on them; and he could hear their voices, still decisive, but a little acid, as if they had been quarrelling: "he 's made a donkey of himself!" "ah! it's too distressin'!" they, too, thought him unsound, and did n't want him; but to save the situation they would be glad to keep him. she did n't want him, but she refused to lose her right to say, "commoner girls may break their promises; i will not!" he sat down at the table between the candles, covering his face. his grief and anger grew and grew within him. if she would not free herself, the duty was on him! she was ready without love to marry him, as a sacrifice to her ideal of what she ought to be! but she had n't, after all, the monopoly of pride! as if she stood before him, he could see the shadows underneath her eyes that he had dreamed of kissing, the eager movements of her lips. for several minutes he remained, not moving hand or limb. then once more his anger blazed. she was going to sacrifice herself and--him! all his manhood scoffed at such a senseless sacrifice. that was not exactly what he wanted! he went to the bureau, took a piece of paper and an envelope, and wrote as follows: there never was, is not, and never would have been any question of being bound between us. i refuse to trade on any such thing. you are absolutely free. our engagement is at an end by mutual consent. richard shelton. he sealed it, and, sitting with his hands between his knees, he let his forehead droop lower and lower to the table, till it rested on his marriage settlement. and he had a feeling of relief, like one who drops exhausted at his journey's end. the end. the country house by john galsworthy chapter i a party at worsted skeynes the year was , the month october, the day monday. in the dark outside the railway-station at worsted skeynes mr. horace pendyce's omnibus, his brougham, his luggage-cart, monopolised space. the face of mr. horace pendyce's coachman monopolised the light of the solitary station lantern. rosy-gilled, with fat close-clipped grey whiskers and inscrutably pursed lips, it presided high up in the easterly air like an emblem of the feudal system. on the platform within, mr. horace pendyce's first footman and second groom in long livery coats with silver buttons, their appearance slightly relieved by the rakish cock of their top-hats, awaited the arrival of the . . the first footman took from his pocket a half-sheet of stamped and crested notepaper covered with mr. horace pendyce's small and precise calligraphy. he read from it in a nasal, derisive voice: "hon. geoff, and mrs. winlow, blue room and dress; maid, small drab. mr. george, white room. mrs. jaspar bellew, gold. the captain, red. general pendyce, pink room; valet, back attic. that's the lot." the groom, a red-cheeked youth, paid no attention. "if this here ambler of mr. george's wins on wednesday," he said, "it's as good as five pounds in my pocket. who does for mr. george?" "james, of course." the groom whistled. "i'll try an' get his loadin' to-morrow. are you on, tom?" the footman answered: "here's another over the page. green room, right wing--that foxleigh; he's no good. 'take all you can and give nothing' sort! but can't he shoot just! that's why they ask him!" from behind a screen of dark trees the train ran in. down the platform came the first passengers--two cattlemen with long sticks, slouching by in their frieze coats, diffusing an odour of beast and black tobacco; then a couple, and single figures, keeping as far apart as possible, the guests of mr. horace pendyce. slowly they came out one by one into the loom of the carriages, and stood with their eyes fixed carefully before them, as though afraid they might recognise each other. a tall man in a fur coat, whose tall wife carried a small bag of silver and shagreen, spoke to the coachman: "how are you, benson? mr. george says captain pendyce told him he wouldn't be down till the . . i suppose we'd better----" like a breeze tuning through the frigid silence of a fog, a high, clear voice was heard: "oh, thanks; i'll go up in the brougham." followed by the first footman carrying her wraps, and muffled in a white veil, through which the hon. geoffrey winlow's leisurely gaze caught the gleam of eyes, a lady stepped forward, and with a backward glance vanished into the brougham. her head appeared again behind the swathe of gauze. "there's plenty of room, george." george pendyce walked quickly forward, and disappeared beside her. there was a crunch of wheels; the brougham rolled away. the hon. geoffrey winlow raised his face again. "who was that, benson?" the coachman leaned over confidentially, holding his podgy white-gloved hand outspread on a level with the hon. geoffrey's hat. "mrs. jaspar bellew, sir. captain bellew's lady, of the firs." "but i thought they weren't---" "no, sir; they're not, sir." "ah!" a calm rarefied voice was heard from the door of the omnibus: "now, geoff!" the hon. geoffrey winlow followed his wife, mr. foxleigh, and general pendyce into the omnibus, and again mrs. winlow's voice was heard: "oh, do you mind my maid? get in, tookson!" mr. horace pendyce's mansion, white and long and low, standing well within its acres, had come into the possession of his great-great-great-grandfather through an alliance with the last of the worsteds. originally a fine property let in smallish holdings to tenants who, having no attention bestowed on them, did very well and paid excellent rents, it was now farmed on model lines at a slight loss. at stated intervals mr. pendyce imported a new kind of cow, or partridge, and built a wing to the schools. his income was fortunately independent of this estate. he was in complete accord with the rector and the sanitary authorities, and not infrequently complained that his tenants did not stay on the land. his wife was a totteridge, and his coverts admirable. he had been, needless to say, an eldest son. it was his individual conviction that individualism had ruined england, and he had set himself deliberately to eradicate this vice from the character of his tenants. by substituting for their individualism his own tastes, plans, and sentiments, one might almost say his own individualism, and losing money thereby, he had gone far to demonstrate his pet theory that the higher the individualism the more sterile the life of the community. if, however, the matter was thus put to him he grew both garrulous and angry, for he considered himself not an individualist, but what he called a "tory communist." in connection with his agricultural interests he was naturally a fair trader; a tax on corn, he knew, would make all the difference in the world to the prosperity of england. as he often said: "a tax of three or four shillings on corn, and i should be farming my estate at a profit." mr. pendyce had other peculiarities, in which he was not too individual. he was averse to any change in the existing order of things, made lists of everything, and was never really so happy as when talking of himself or his estate. he had a black spaniel dog called john, with a long nose and longer ears, whom he had bred himself till the creature was not happy out of his sight. in appearance mr. pendyce was rather of the old school, upright and active, with thin side-whiskers, to which, however, for some years past he had added moustaches which drooped and were now grizzled. he wore large cravats and square-tailed coats. he did not smoke. at the head of his dining-table loaded with flowers and plate, he sat between the hon. mrs. winlow and mrs. jaspar bellew, nor could he have desired more striking and contrasted supporters. equally tall, full-figured, and comely, nature had fixed between these two women a gulf which mr. pendyce, a man of spare figure, tried in vain to fill. the composure peculiar to the ashen type of the british aristocracy wintered permanently on mrs. winlow's features like the smile of a frosty day. expressionless to a degree, they at once convinced the spectator that she was a woman of the best breeding. had an expression ever arisen upon these features, it is impossible to say what might have been the consequences. she had followed her nurse's adjuration: "lor, miss truda, never you make a face--you might grow so!" never since that day had gertrude winlow, an honourable in her own right and in that of her husband, made a face, not even, it is believed, when her son was born. and then to find on the other side of mr. pendyce that puzzling mrs. bellew with the green-grey eyes, at which the best people of her own sex looked with instinctive disapproval! a woman in her position should avoid anything conspicuous, and nature had given her a too-striking appearance. people said that when, the year before last, she had separated from captain bellew, and left the firs, it was simply because they were tired of one another. they said, too, that it looked as if she were encouraging the attentions of george, mr. pendyce's eldest son. lady maiden had remarked to mrs. winlow in the drawing-room before dinner: "what is it about that mrs. bellew? i never liked her. a woman situated as she is ought to be more careful. i don't understand her being asked here at all, with her husband still at the firs, only just over the way. besides, she's very hard up. she doesn't even attempt to disguise it. i call her almost an adventuress." mrs. winlow had answered: "but she's some sort of cousin to mrs. pendyce. the pendyces are related to everybody! it's so boring. one never knows---" lady maiden replied: "did you know her when she was living down here? i dislike those hard-riding women. she and her husband were perfectly reckless. one heard of nothing else but what she had jumped and how she had jumped it; and she bets and goes racing. if george pendyce is not in love with her, i'm very much mistaken. he's been seeing far too much of her in town. she's one of those women that men are always hanging about!" at the head of his dinner-table, where before each guest was placed a menu carefully written in his eldest daughter's handwriting, horace pendyce supped his soup. "this soup," he said to mrs. bellew, "reminds me of your dear old father; he was extraordinarily fond of it. i had a great respect for your father--a wonderful man! i always said he was the most determined man i'd met since my own dear father, and he was the most obstinate man in the three kingdoms!" he frequently made use of the expression "in the three kingdoms," which sometimes preceded a statement that his grandmother was descended from richard iii., while his grandfather came down from the cornish giants, one of whom, he would say with a disparaging smile, had once thrown a cow over a wall. "your father was too much of an individualist, mrs. bellew. i have a lot of experience of individualism in the management of my estate, and i find that an individualist is never contented. my tenants have everything they want, but it's impossible to satisfy them. there's a fellow called peacock, now, a most pig-headed, narrowminded chap. i don't give in to him, of course. if he had his way, he'd go back to the old days, farm the land in his own fashion. he wants to buy it from me. old vicious system of yeoman farming. says his grandfather had it. he's that sort of man. i hate individualism; it's ruining england. you won't fend better cottages, or better farm-buildings anywhere than on my estate. i go in for centralisation. i dare say you know what i call myself--a 'tory communist.' to my mind, that's the party of the future. now, your father's motto was: 'every man for himself!' on the land that would never do. landlord and tenant must work together. you'll come over to newmarket with us on wednesday? george has a very fine horse running in the rutlandshire a very fine horse. he doesn't bet, i'm glad to say. if there's one thing i hate more than another, it's gambling!" mrs. bellew gave him a sidelong glance, and a little ironical smile peeped out on her full red lips. but mr. pendyce had been called away to his soup. when he was ready to resume the conversation she was talking to his son, and the squire, frowning, turned to the hon. mrs. winlow. her attention was automatic, complete, monosyllabic; she did not appear to fatigue herself by an over-sympathetic comprehension, nor was she subservient. mr. pendyce found her a competent listener. "the country is changing," he said, "changing every day. country houses are not what they were. a great responsibility rests on us landlords. if we go, the whole thing goes." what, indeed, could be more delightful than this country-house life of mr. pendyce; its perfect cleanliness, its busy leisure, its combination of fresh air and scented warmth, its complete intellectual repose, its essential and professional aloofness from suffering of any kind, and its soup--emblematically and above all, its soup--made from the rich remains of pampered beasts? mr. pendyce thought this life the one right life; those who lived it the only right people. he considered it a duty to live this life, with its simple, healthy, yet luxurious curriculum, surrounded by creatures bred for his own devouring, surrounded, as it were, by a sea of soup! and that people should go on existing by the million in the towns, preying on each other, and getting continually out of work, with all those other depressing concomitants of an awkward state, distressed him. while suburban life, that living in little rows of slate-roofed houses so lamentably similar that no man of individual taste could bear to see them, he much disliked. yet, in spite of his strong prejudice in favour of country-house life, he was not a rich man, his income barely exceeding ten thousand a year. the first shooting-party of the season, devoted to spinneys and the outlying coverts, had been, as usual, made to synchronise with the last newmarket meeting, for newmarket was within an uncomfortable distance of worsted skeynes; and though mr. pendyce had a horror of gaming, he liked to figure there and pass for a man interested in sport for sport's sake, and he was really rather proud of the fact that his son had picked up so good a horse as the ambler promised to be for so little money, and was racing him for pure sport. the guests had been carefully chosen. on mrs. winlow's right was thomas brandwhite (of brown and brandwhite), who had a position in the financial world which could not well be ignored, two places in the country, and a yacht. his long, lined face, with very heavy moustaches, wore habitually a peevish look. he had retired from his firm, and now only sat on the boards of several companies. next to him was mrs. hussell barter, with that touching look to be seen on the faces of many english ladies, that look of women who are always doing their duty, their rather painful duty; whose eyes, above cheeks creased and withered, once rose-leaf hued, now over-coloured by strong weather, are starry and anxious; whose speech is simple, sympathetic, direct, a little shy, a little hopeless, yet always hopeful; who are ever surrounded by children, invalids, old people, all looking to them for support; who have never known the luxury of breaking down--of these was mrs. hussell barter, the wife of the reverend hussell barter, who would shoot to-morrow, but would not attend the race-meeting on the wednesday. on her other hand was gilbert foxleigh, a lean-flanked man with a long, narrow head, strong white teeth, and hollow, thirsting eyes. he came of a county family of foxleighs, and was one of six brothers, invaluable to the owners of coverts or young, half-broken horses in days when, as a foxleigh would put it, "hardly a johnny of the lot could shoot or ride for nuts." there was no species of beast, bird, or fish, that he could not and did not destroy with equal skill and enjoyment. the only thing against him was his income, which was very small. he had taken in mrs. brandwhite, to whom, however, he talked but little, leaving her to general pendyce, her neighbour on the other side. had he been born a year before his brother, instead of a year after, charles pendyce would naturally have owned worsted skeynes, and horace would have gone into the army instead. as it was, having almost imperceptibly become a major-general, he had retired, taking with him his pension. the third brother, had he chosen to be born, would have gone into the church, where a living awaited him; he had elected otherwise, and the living had passed perforce to a collateral branch. between horace and charles, seen from behind, it was difficult to distinguish. both were spare, both erect, with the least inclination to bottle shoulders, but charles pendyce brushed his hair, both before and behind, away from a central parting, and about the back of his still active knees there was a look of feebleness. seen from the front they could readily be differentiated, for the general's whiskers broadened down his cheeks till they reached his moustaches, and there was in his face and manner a sort of formal, though discontented, effacement, as of an individualist who has all his life been part of a system, from which he has issued at last, unconscious indeed of his loss, but with a vague sense of injury. he had never married, feeling it to be comparatively useless, owing to horace having gained that year on him at the start, and he lived with a valet close to his club in pall mall. in lady maiden, whom he had taken in to dinner, worsted skeynes entertained a good woman and a personality, whose teas to working men in the london season were famous. no working man who had attended them had ever gone away without a wholesome respect for his hostess. she was indeed a woman who permitted no liberties to be taken with her in any walk of life. the daughter of a rural dean, she appeared at her best when seated, having rather short legs. her face was well-coloured, her mouth, firm and rather wide, her nose well-shaped, her hair dark. she spoke in a decided voice, and did not mince her words. it was to her that her husband, sir james, owed his reactionary principles on the subject of woman. round the corner at the end of the table the hon. geoffrey winlow was telling his hostess of the balkan provinces, from a tour in which he had just returned. his face, of the norman type, with regular, handsome features, had a leisurely and capable expression. his manner was easy and pleasant; only at times it became apparent that his ideas were in perfect order, so that he would naturally not care to be corrected. his father, lord montrossor, whose seat was at coldingham six miles away, would ultimately yield to him his place in the house of lords. and next him sat mrs. pendyce. a portrait of this lady hung over the sideboard at the end of the room, and though it had been painted by a fashionable painter, it had caught a gleam of that "something" still in her face these twenty years later. she was not young, her dark hair was going grey; but she was not old, for she had been married at nineteen and was still only fifty-two. her face was rather long and very pale, and her eyebrows arched and dark and always slightly raised. her eyes were dark grey, sometimes almost black, for the pupils dilated when she was moved; her lips were the least thing parted, and the expression of those lips and eyes was of a rather touching gentleness, of a rather touching expectancy. and yet all this was not the "something"; that was rather the outward sign of an inborn sense that she had no need to ask for things, of an instinctive faith that she already had them. by that "something," and by her long, transparent hands, men could tell that she had been a totteridge. and her voice, which was rather slow, with a little, not unpleasant, trick of speech, and her eyelids by second nature just a trifle lowered, confirmed this impression. over her bosom, which hid the heart of a lady, rose and fell a piece of wonderful old lace. round the corner again sir james maiden and bee pendyce (the eldest daughter) were talking of horses and hunting--bee seldom from choice spoke of anything else. her face was pleasant and good, yet not quite pretty, and this little fact seemed to have entered into her very nature, making her shy and ever willing to do things for others. sir james had small grey whiskers and a carved, keen visage. he came of an old kentish family which had migrated to cambridgeshire; his coverts were exceptionally fine; he was also a justice of the peace, a colonel of yeomanry, a keen churchman, and much feared by poachers. he held the reactionary views already mentioned, being a little afraid of lady malden. beyond miss pendyce sat the reverend hussell barter, who would shoot to-morrow, but would not attend the race-meeting on wednesday. the rector of worsted skeynes was not tall, and his head had been rendered somewhat bald by thought. his broad face, of very straight build from the top of the forehead to the base of the chin, was well-coloured, clean-shaven, and of a shape that may be seen in portraits of the georgian era. his cheeks were full and folded, his lower lip had a habit of protruding, and his eyebrows jutted out above his full, light eyes. his manner was authoritative, and he articulated his words in a voice to which long service in the pulpit had imparted remarkable carrying-power--in fact, when engaged in private conversation, it was with difficulty that he was not overheard. perhaps even in confidential matters he was not unwilling that what he said should bear fruit. in some ways, indeed, he was typical. uncertainty, hesitation, toleration--except of such opinions as he held--he did not like. imagination he distrusted. he found his duty in life very clear, and other people's perhaps clearer, and he did not encourage his parishioners to think for themselves. the habit seemed to him a dangerous one. he was outspoken in his opinions, and when he had occasion to find fault, spoke of the offender as "a man of no character," "a fellow like that," with such a ring of conviction that his audience could not but be convinced of the immorality of that person. he had a bluff jolly way of speaking, and was popular in his parish--a good cricketer, a still better fisherman, a fair shot, though, as he said, he could not really afford time for shooting. while disclaiming interference in secular matters, he watched the tendencies of his flock from a sound point of view, and especially encouraged them to support the existing order of things--the british empire and the english church. his cure was hereditary, and he fortunately possessed some private means, for he had a large family. his partner at dinner was norah, the younger of the two pendyce girls, who had a round, open face, and a more decided manner than her sister bee. her brother george, the eldest son, sat on her right. george was of middle height, with a red-brown, clean-shaved face and solid jaw. his eyes were grey; he had firm lips, and darkish, carefully brushed hair, a little thin on the top, but with that peculiar gloss seen on the hair of some men about town. his clothes were unostentatiously perfect. such men may be seen in piccadilly at any hour of the day or night. he had been intended for the guards, but had failed to pass the necessary examination, through no fault of his own, owing to a constitutional inability to spell. had he been his younger brother gerald, he would probably have fulfilled the pendyce tradition, and passed into the army as a matter of course. and had gerald (now captain pendyce) been george the elder son, he might possibly have failed. george lived at his club in town on an allowance of six hundred a year, and sat a great deal in a bay-window reading ruff's "guide to the turf." he raised his eyes from the menu and looked stealthily round. helen bellew was talking to his father, her white shoulder turned a little away. george was proud of his composure, but there was a strange longing in his face. she gave, indeed, just excuse for people to consider her too good-looking for the position in which she was placed. her figure was tall and supple and full, and now that she no longer hunted was getting fuller. her hair, looped back in loose bands across a broad low brow, had a peculiar soft lustre. there was a touch of sensuality about her lips. the face was too broad across the brow and cheekbones, but the eyes were magnificent--ice-grey, sometimes almost green, always luminous, and set in with dark lashes. there was something pathetic in george's gaze, as of a man forced to look against his will. it had been going on all that past summer, and still he did not know where he stood. sometimes she seemed fond of him, sometimes treated him as though he had no chance. that which he had begun as a game was now deadly earnest. and this in itself was tragic. that comfortable ease of spirit which is the breath of life was taken away; he could think of nothing but her. was she one of those women who feed on men's admiration, and give them no return? was she only waiting to make her conquest more secure? these riddles he asked of her face a hundred times, lying awake in the dark. to george pendyce, a man of the world, unaccustomed to privation, whose simple creed was "live and enjoy," there was something terrible about a longing which never left him for a moment, which he could not help any more than he could help eating, the end of which he could not see. he had known her when she lived at the firs, he had known her in the hunting-field, but his passion was only of last summer's date. it had sprung suddenly out of a flirtation started at a dance. a man about town does not psychologise himself; he accepts his condition with touching simplicity. he is hungry; he must be fed. he is thirsty; he must drink. why he is hungry, when he became hungry, these inquiries are beside the mark. no ethical aspect of the matter troubled him; the attainment of a married woman, not living with her husband, did not impinge upon his creed. what would come after, though full of unpleasant possibilities, he left to the future. his real disquiet, far nearer, far more primitive and simple, was the feeling of drifting helplessly in a current so strong that he could not keep his feet. "ah yes; a bad case. dreadful thing for the sweetenhams! that young fellow's been obliged to give up the army. can't think what old sweetenham was about. he must have known his son was hit. i should say bethany himself was the only one in the dark. there's no doubt lady rose was to blame!" mr. pendyce was speaking. mrs. bellew smiled. "my sympathies are all with lady rose. what do you say, george?" george frowned. "i always thought," he said, "that bethany was an ass." "george," said mr. pendyce, "is immoral. all young men are immoral. i notice it more and more. you've given up your hunting, i hear." mrs. bellew sighed. "one can't hunt on next to nothing!" "ah, you live in london. london spoils everybody. people don't take the interest in hunting and farming they used to. i can't get george here at all. not that i'm a believer in apron-strings. young men will be young men!" thus summing up the laws of nature, the squire resumed his knife and fork. but neither mrs. bellew nor george followed his example; the one sat with her eyes fixed on her plate and a faint smile playing on her lips, the other sat without a smile, and his eyes, in which there was such a deep resentful longing, looked from his father to mrs. bellew, and from mrs. bellew to his mother. and as though down that vista of faces and fruits and flowers a secret current had been set flowing, mrs. pendyce nodded gently to her son. chapter ii the covert shoot at the head of the breakfast-table sat mr. pendyce, eating methodically. he was somewhat silent, as became a man who has just read family prayers; but about that silence, and the pile of half-opened letters on his right, was a hint of autocracy. "be informal--do what you like, dress as you like, sit where you like, eat what you like, drink tea or coffee, but----" each glance of his eyes, each sentence of his sparing, semi-genial talk, seemed to repeat that "but." at the foot of the breakfast-table sat mrs. pendyce behind a silver urn which emitted a gentle steam. her hands worked without ceasing amongst cups, and while they worked her lips worked too in spasmodic utterances that never had any reference to herself. pushed a little to her left and entirely neglected, lay a piece of dry toast on a small white plate. twice she took it up, buttered a bit of it, and put it down again. once she rested, and her eyes, which fell on mrs. bellow, seemed to say: "how very charming you look, my dear!" then, taking up the sugar-tongs, she began again. on the long sideboard covered with a white cloth reposed a number of edibles only to be found amongst that portion of the community which breeds creatures for its own devouring. at one end of this row of viands was a large game pie with a triangular gap in the pastry; at the other, on two oval dishes, lay four cold partridges in various stages of decomposition. behind them a silver basket of openwork design was occupied by three bunches of black, one bunch of white grapes, and a silver grape-cutter, which performed no function (it was so blunt), but had once belonged to a totteridge and wore their crest. no servants were in the room, but the side-door was now and again opened, and something brought in, and this suggested that behind the door persons were collected, only waiting to be called upon. it was, in fact, as though mr. pendyce had said: "a butler and two footmen at least could hand you things, but this is a simple country house." at times a male guest rose, napkin in hand, and said to a lady: "can i get you anything from the sideboard?" being refused, he went and filled his own plate. three dogs--two fox-terriers and a decrepit skye circled round uneasily, smelling at the visitors' napkins. and there went up a hum of talk in which sentences like these could be distinguished: "rippin' stand that, by the wood. d'you remember your rockettin' woodcock last year, jerry?" "and the dear old squire never touched a feather! did you, squire?" "dick--dick! bad dog!--come and do your tricks. trust-trust! paid for! isn't he rather a darling?" on mr. pendyce's foot, or by the side of his chair, whence he could see what was being eaten, sat the spaniel john, and now and then mr. pendyce, taking a small portion of something between his finger and thumb, would say: "john!--make a good breakfast, sir james; i always say a half-breakfasted man is no good!" and mrs. pendyce, her eyebrows lifted, would look anxiously up and down the table, murmuring: "another cup, dear; let me see--are you sugar?" when all had finished a silence fell, as if each sought to get away from what he had been eating, as if each felt he had been engaged in an unworthy practice; then mr. pendyce, finishing his last grape, wiped his mouth. "you've a quarter of an hour, gentlemen; we start at ten-fifteen." mrs. pendyce, left seated with a vague, ironical smile, ate one mouthful of her buttered toast, now very old and leathery, gave the rest to "the dear dogs," and called: "george! you want a new shooting tie, dear boy; that green one's quite faded. i've been meaning to get some silks down for ages. have you had any news of your horse this morning?" "yes, blacksmith says he's fit as a fiddle." "i do so hope he'll win that race for you. your uncle hubert once lost four thousand pounds over the rutlandshire. i remember perfectly; my father had to pay it. i'm so glad you don't bet, dear boy!" "my dear mother, i do bet." "oh, george, i hope not much! for goodness' sake, don't tell your father; he's like all the pendyces, can't bear a risk." "my dear mother, i'm not likely to; but, as a matter of fact, there is no risk. i stand to win a lot of money to nothing." "but, george, is that right?" "of course it's all right." "oh, well, i don't understand." mrs. pendyce dropped her eyes, a flush came into her white cheeks; she looked up again and said quickly: "george, i should like just a little bet on your horse--a real bet, say about a sovereign." george pendyce's creed permitted the show of no emotion. he smiled. "all right, mother, i'll put it on for you. it'll be about eight to one." "does that mean that if he wins i shall get eight?" george nodded. mrs. pendyce looked abstractedly at his tie. "i think it might be two sovereigns; one seems very little to lose, because i do so want him to win. isn't helen bellew perfectly charming this morning! it's delightful to see a woman look her best in the morning." george turned, to hide the colour in his cheeks. "she looks fresh enough, certainly." mrs. pendyce glanced up at him; there was a touch of quizzicality in one of her lifted eyebrows. "i mustn't keep you, dear; you'll be late for the shooting." mr. pendyce, a sportsman of the old school, who still kept pointers, which, in the teeth of modern fashion, he was unable to employ, set his face against the use of two guns. "any man," he would say, "who cares to shoot at worsted skeynes must do with one gun, as my dear old father had to do before me. he'll get a good day's sport--no barndoor birds" (for he encouraged his pheasants to remain lean, that they might fly the better), "but don't let him expect one of these battues--sheer butchery, i call them." he was excessively fond of birds--it was, in fact, his hobby, and he had collected under glass cases a prodigious number of specimens of those species which are in danger of becoming extinct, having really, in some pendycean sort of way, a feeling that by this practice he was doing them a good turn, championing them, as it were, to a world that would soon be unable to look upon them in the flesh. he wished, too, that his collection should become an integral part of the estate, and be passed on to his son, and his son's son after him. "look at this dartford warbler," he would say; "beautiful little creature--getting rarer every day. i had the greatest difficulty in procuring this specimen. you wouldn't believe me if i told you what i had to pay for him!" some of his unique birds he had shot himself, having in his youth made expeditions to foreign countries solely with this object, but the great majority he had been compelled to purchase. in his library were row upon row of books carefully arranged and bearing on this fascinating subject; and his collection of rare, almost extinct, birds' eggs was one of the finest in the "three kingdoms." one egg especially he would point to with pride as the last obtainable of that particular breed. "this was procured," he would say, "by my dear old gillie angus out of the bird's very nest. there was just the single egg. the species," he added, tenderly handling the delicate, porcelain-like oval in his brown hand covered with very fine, blackish hairs, "is now extinct." he was, in fact, a true bird-lover, strongly condemning cockneys, or rough, ignorant persons who, with no collections of their own, wantonly destroyed kingfishers, or scarce birds of any sort, out of pure stupidity. "i would have them flogged," he would say, for he believed that no such bird should be killed except on commission, and for choice--barring such extreme cases as that dartford warbler--in some foreign country or remoter part of the british isles. it was indeed illustrative of mr. pendyce's character and whole point of view that whenever a rare, winged stranger appeared on his own estate it was talked of as an event, and preserved alive with the greatest care, in the hope that it might breed and be handed down with the property; but if it were personally known to belong to mr. fuller or lord quarryman, whose estates abutted on worsted skeynes, and there was grave and imminent danger of its going back, it was promptly shot and stuffed, that it might not be lost to posterity. an encounter with another landowner having the same hobby, of whom there were several in his neighbourhood, would upset him for a week, making him strangely morose, and he would at once redouble his efforts to add something rarer than ever to his own collection. his arrangements for shooting were precisely conceived. little slips of paper with the names of the "guns" written thereon were placed in a hat, and one by one drawn out again, and this he always did himself. behind the right wing of the house he held a review of the beaters, who filed before him out of the yard, each with a long stick in his hand, and no expression on his face. five minutes of directions to the keeper, and then the guns started, carrying their own weapons and a sufficiency of cartridges for the first drive in the old way. a misty radiance clung over the grass as the sun dried the heavy dew; the thrushes hopped and ran and hid themselves, the rooks cawed peacefully in the old elms. at an angle the game cart, constructed on mr. pendyce's own pattern, and drawn by a hairy horse in charge of an aged man, made its way slowly to the end of the first beat: george lagged behind, his hands deep in his pockets, drinking in the joy of the tranquil day, the soft bird sounds, so clear and friendly, that chorus of wild life. the scent of the coverts stole to him, and he thought: 'what a ripping day for shooting!' the squire, wearing a suit carefully coloured so that no bird should see him, leather leggings, and a cloth helmet of his own devising, ventilated by many little holes, came up to his son; and the spaniel john, who had a passion for the collection of birds almost equal to his master's, came up too. "you're end gun, george," he said; "you'll get a nice high bird!" george felt the ground with his feet, and blew a speck of dust off his barrels, and the smell of the oil sent a delicious tremor darting through him. everything, even helen bellew, was forgotten. then in the silence rose a far-off clamour; a cock pheasant, skimming low, his plumage silken in the sun, dived out of the green and golden spinney, curled to the right, and was lost in undergrowth. some pigeons passed over at a great height. the tap-tap of sticks beating against trees began; then with a fitful rushing noise a pheasant came straight out. george threw up his gun and pulled. the bird stopped in mid-air, jerked forward, and fell headlong into the grass sods with a thud. in the sunlight the dead bird lay, and a smirk of triumph played on george's lips. he was feeling the joy of life. during his covert shoots the squire had the habit of recording his impressions in a mental note-book. he put special marks against such as missed, or shot birds behind the waist, or placed lead in them to the detriment of their market value, or broke only one leg of a hare at a time, causing the animal to cry like a tortured child, which some men do not like; or such as, anxious for fame, claimed dead creatures that they had not shot, or peopled the next beat with imaginary slain, or too frequently "wiped an important neighbour's eye," or shot too many beaters in the legs. against this evidence, however, he unconsciously weighed the more undeniable social facts, such as the title of winlow's father; sir james malden's coverts, which must also presently be shot; thomas brandwhite's position in the financial world; general pendyce's relationship to himself; and the importance of the english church. against foxleigh alone he could put no marks. the fellow destroyed everything that came within reach with utter precision, and this was perhaps fortunate, for foxleigh had neither title, coverts, position, nor cloth! and the squire weighed one thing else besides--the pleasure of giving them all a good day's sport, for his heart was kind. the sun had fallen well behind the home wood when the guns stood waiting for the last drive of the day. from the keeper's cottage in the hollow, where late threads of crimson clung in the brown network of virginia creeper, rose a mist of wood smoke, dispersed upon the breeze. sound there was none, only that faint stir--the far, far callings of men and beasts and birds--that never quite dies of a country evening. high above the wood some startled pigeons were still wheeling, no other life in sight; but a gleam of sunlight stole down the side of the covert and laid a burnish on the turned leaves till the whole wood seemed quivering with magic. out of that quivering wood a wounded rabbit had stolen and was dying. it lay on its side on the slope of a tussock of grass, its hind legs drawn under it, its forelegs raised like the hands of a praying child. motionless as death, all its remaining life was centred in its black soft eyes. uncomplaining, ungrudging, unknowing, with that poor soft wandering eye, it was going back to mother earth. there foxleigh, too, some day must go, asking of nature why she had murdered him. chapter iii the blissful hour it was the hour between tea and dinner, when the spirit of the country house was resting, conscious of its virtue, half asleep. having bathed and changed, george pendyce took his betting-book into the smoking-room. in a nook devoted to literature, protected from draught and intrusion by a high leather screen, he sat down in an armchair and fell into a doze. with legs crossed, his chin resting on one hand, his comely figure relaxed, he exhaled a fragrance of soap, as though in this perfect peace his soul were giving off its natural odour. his spirit, on the borderland of dreams, trembled with those faint stirrings of chivalry and aspiration, the outcome of physical well-being after a long day in the open air, the outcome of security from all that is unpleasant and fraught with danger. he was awakened by voices. "george is not a bad shot!" "gave a shocking exhibition at the last stand; mrs. bellew was with him. they were going over him like smoke; he couldn't touch a feather." it was winlow's voice. a silence, then thomas brandwhite's: "a mistake, the ladies coming out. i never will have them myself. what do you say, sir james?" "bad principle--very bad!" a laugh--thomas brandwhite's laugh, the laugh of a man never quite sure of himself. "that fellow bellew is a cracked chap. they call him the 'desperate character' about here. drinks like a fish, and rides like the devil. she used to go pretty hard, too. i've noticed there's always a couple like that in a hunting country. did you ever see him? thin, high-shouldered, white-faced chap, with little dark eyes and a red moustache." "she's still a young woman?" "thirty or thirty-two." "how was it they didn't get on?" the sound of a match being struck. "case of the kettle and the pot." "it's easy to see she's fond of admiration. love of admiration plays old harry with women!" winlow's leisurely tones again "there was a child, i believe, and it died. and after that--i know there was some story; you never could get to the bottom of it. bellew chucked his regiment in consequence. she's subject to moods, they say, when nothing's exciting enough; must skate on thin ice, must have a man skating after her. if the poor devil weighs more than she does, in he goes." "that's like her father, old cheriton. i knew him at the club--one of the old sort of squires; married his second wife at sixty and buried her at eighty. old 'claret and piquet,' they called him; had more children under the rose than any man in devonshire. i saw him playing half-crown points the week before he died. it's in the blood. what's george's weight?--ah, ha!" "it's no laughing matter, brandwhite. there's time for a hundred up before dinner if you care for a game, winlow?" the sound of chairs drawn back, of footsteps, and the closing of a door. george was alone again, a spot of red in either of his cheeks. those vague stirrings of chivalry and aspiration were gone, and gone that sense of well-earned ease. he got up, came out of his corner, and walked to and fro on the tiger-skin before the fire. he lit a cigarette, threw it away, and lit another. skating on thin ice! that would not stop him! their gossip would not stop him, nor their sneers; they would but send him on the faster! he threw away the second cigarette. it was strange for him to go to the drawing-room at this hour of the day, but he went. opening the door quietly, he saw the long, pleasant room lighted with tall oil-lamps, and mrs. bellew seated at the piano, singing. the tea-things were still on a table at one end, but every one had finished. as far away as might be, in the embrasure of the bay-window, general pendyce and bee were playing chess. grouped in the centre of the room, by one of the lamps, lady maiden, mrs. winlow, and mrs. brandwhite had turned their faces towards the piano, and a sort of slight unwillingness or surprise showed on those faces, a sort of "we were having a most interesting talk; i don't think we ought to have been stopped" expression. before the fire, with his long legs outstretched, stood gerald pendyce. and a little apart, her dark eyes fixed on the singer, and a piece of embroidery in her lap, sat mrs. pendyce, on the edge of whose skirt lay roy, the old skye terrier. "but had i wist, before i lost, that love had been sae ill to win; i had lockt my heart in a case of gowd and pinn'd it with a siller pin.... o waly! waly! but love be bonny a little time while it is new, but when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades awa' like morning dew!" this was the song george heard, trembling and dying to the chords of the fine piano that was a little out of tune. he gazed at the singer, and though he was not musical, there came a look into his eyes that he quickly hid away. a slight murmur occurred in the centre of the room, and from the fireplace gerald called out, "thanks; that's rippin!" the voice of general pendyce rose in the bay-window: "check!" mrs. pendyce, taking up her embroidery, on which a tear had dropped, said gently: "thank you, dear; most charming!" mrs. bellew left the piano, and sat down beside her. george moved into the bay-window. he knew nothing of chess-indeed, he could not stand the game; but from here, without attracting attention, he could watch mrs. bellew. the air was drowsy and sweet-scented; a log of cedarwood had just been put on the fire; the voices of his mother and mrs. bellew, talking of what he could not hear, the voices of lady malden, mrs. brandwhite, and gerald, discussing some neighbours, of mrs. winlow dissenting or assenting in turn, all mingled in a comfortable, sleepy sound, clipped now and then by the voice of general pendyce calling, "check!" and of bee saying, "oh, uncle!" a feeling of rage rose in george. why should they all be so comfortable and cosy while this perpetual fire was burning in himself? and he fastened his moody eyes on her who was keeping him thus dancing to her pipes. he made an awkward movement which shook the chess-table. the general said behind him: "look out, george! what--what!" george went up to his mother. "let's have a look at that, mother." mrs. pendyce leaned back in her chair and handed up her work with a smile of pleased surprise. "my dear boy, you won't understand it a bit. it's for the front of my new frock." george took the piece of work. he did not understand it, but turning and twisting it he could breathe the warmth of the woman he loved. in bending over the embroidery he touched mrs. bellew's shoulder; it was not drawn away, a faint pressure seemed to answer his own. his mother's voice recalled him: "oh, my needle, dear! it's so sweet of you, but perhaps" george handed back the embroidery. mrs. pendyce received it with a grateful look. it was the first time he had ever shown an interest in her work. mrs. bellew had taken up a palm-leaf fan to screen her face from the fire. she said slowly: "if we win to-morrow i'll embroider you something, george." "and if we lose?" mrs. bellew raised her eyes, and involuntarily george moved so that his mother could not see the sort of slow mesmerism that was in them. "if we lose," she said, "i shall sink into the earth. we must win, george." he gave an uneasy little laugh, and glanced quickly at his mother. mrs. pendyce had begun to draw her needle in and out with a half-startled look on her face. "that's a most haunting little song you sang, dear," she said. mrs. bellew answered: "the words are so true, aren't they?" george felt her eyes on him, and tried to look at her, but those half-smiling, half-threatening eyes seemed to twist and turn him about as his hands had twisted and turned about his mother's embroidery. again across mrs. pendyce's face flitted that half-startled look. suddenly general pendyce's voice was heard saying very loud, "stale? nonsense, bee, nonsense! why, damme, so it is!" a hum of voices from the centre of the room covered up that outburst, and gerald, stepping to the hearth, threw another cedar log upon the fire. the smoke came out in a puff. mrs. pendyce leaned back in her chair smiling, and wrinkling her fine, thin nose. "delicious!" she said, but her eyes did not leave her son's face, and in them was still that vague alarm. chapter iv the happy hunting-ground of all the places where, by a judicious admixture of whip and spur, oats and whisky, horses are caused to place one leg before another with unnecessary rapidity, in order that men may exchange little pieces of metal with the greater freedom, newmarket heath is "the topmost, and merriest, and best." this museum of the state of flux--the secret reason of horse-racing being to afford an example of perpetual motion (no proper racing-man having ever been found to regard either gains or losses in the light of an accomplished fact)--this museum of the state of flux has a climate unrivalled for the production of the british temperament. not without a due proportion of that essential formative of character, east wind, it has at once the hottest sun, the coldest blizzards, the wettest rain, of any place of its size in the "three kingdoms." it tends--in advance even of the city of london--to the nurture and improvement of individualism, to that desirable "i'll see you d---d" state of mind which is the proud objective of every englishman, and especially of every country gentleman. in a word--a mother to the self-reliant secretiveness which defies intrusion and forms an integral part in the christianity of this country--newmarket heath is beyond all others the happy hunting-ground of the landed classes. in the paddock half an hour before the rutlandshire handicap was to be run numbers of racing-men were gathered in little knots of two and three, describing to each other with every precaution the points of strength in the horses they had laid against, the points of weakness in the horses they had backed, or vice versa, together with the latest discrepancies of their trainers and jockeys. at the far end george pendyce, his trainer blacksmith, and his jockey swells, were talking in low tones. many people have observed with surprise the close-buttoned secrecy of all who have to do with horses. it is no matter for wonder. the horse is one of those generous and somewhat careless animals that, if not taken firmly from the first, will surely give itself away. essential to a man who has to do with horses is a complete closeness of physiognomy, otherwise the animal will never know what is expected of him. the more that is expected of him, the closer must be the expression of his friends, or a grave fiasco may have to be deplored. it was for these reasons that george's face wore more than its habitual composure, and the faces of his trainer and his jockey were alert, determined, and expressionless. blacksmith, a little man, had in his hand a short notched cane, with which, contrary to expectation, he did not switch his legs. his eyelids drooped over his shrewd eyes, his upper lip advanced over the lower, and he wore no hair on his face. the jockey swells' pinched-up countenance, with jutting eyebrows and practically no cheeks, had under george's racing-cap of "peacock blue" a subfusc hue like that of old furniture. the ambler had been bought out of the stud of colonel dorking, a man opposed on high grounds to the racing of two-year-olds, and at the age of three had never run. showing more than a suspicion of form in one or two home trials, he ran a bye in the fane stakes, when obviously not up to the mark, and was then withdrawn from the public gaze. the stable had from the start kept its eye on the rutlandshire handicap, and no sooner was goodwood over than the commission was placed in the hands of barney's, well known for their power to enlist at the most appropriate moment the sympathy of the public in a horse's favour. almost coincidentally with the completion of the stable commission it was found that the public were determined to support the ambler at any price over seven to one. barney's at once proceeded judiciously to lay off the stable money, and this having been done, george found that he stood to win four thousand pounds to nothing. if he had now chosen to bet this sum against the horse at the then current price of eight to one, it is obvious that he could have made an absolute certainty of five hundred pounds, and the horse need never even have started. but george, who would have been glad enough of such a sum, was not the man to do this sort of thing. it was against the tenets of his creed. he believed, too, in his horse; and had enough of the totteridge in him to like a race for a race's sake. even when beaten there was enjoyment to be had out of the imperturbability with which he could take that beating, out of a sense of superiority to men not quite so sportsmanlike as himself. "come and see the nag saddled," he said to his brother gerald. in one of the long line of boxes the ambler was awaiting his toilette, a dark-brown horse, about sixteen hands, with well-placed shoulders, straight hocks, a small head, and what is known as a rat-tail. but of all his features, the most remarkable was his eye. in the depths of that full, soft eye was an almost uncanny gleam, and when he turned it, half-circled by a moon of white, and gave bystanders that look of strange comprehension, they felt that he saw to the bottom of all this that was going on around him. he was still but three years old, and had not yet attained the age when people apply to action the fruits of understanding; yet there was little doubt that as he advanced in years he would manifest his disapproval of a system whereby men made money at his expense. and with that eye half-circled by the moon he looked at george, and in silence george looked back at him, strangely baffled by the horse's long, soft, wild gaze. on this heart beating deep within its warm, dark satin sheath, on the spirit gazing through that soft, wild eye, too much was hanging, and he turned away. "mount, jockeys!" through the crowd of hard-looking, hatted, muffled, two-legged men, those four-legged creatures in their chestnut, bay, and brown, and satin nakedness, most beautiful in all the world, filed proudly past, as though going forth to death. the last vanished through the gate, the crowd dispersed. down by the rails of tattersall's george stood alone. he had screwed himself into a corner, whence he could watch through his long glasses that gay-coloured, shifting wheel at the end of the mile and more of turf. at this moment, so pregnant with the future, he could not bear the company of his fellows. "they're off!" he looked no longer, but hunched his shoulders, holding his elbows stiff, that none might see what he was feeling. behind him a man said: "the favourite's beat. what's that in blue on the rails?" out by himself on the far rails, out by himself, sweeping along like a home-coming bird, was the ambler. and george's heart leaped, as a fish leaps of a summer evening out of a dark pool. "they'll never catch him. the ambler wins! it's a walk-over! the ambler!" silent amidst the shouting throng, george thought: 'my horse! my horse!' and tears of pure emotion sprang into his eyes. for a full minute he stood quite still; then, instinctively adjusting hat and tie, made his way calmly to the paddock. he left it to his trainer to lead the ambler back, and joined him at the weighing-room. the little jockey was seated, nursing his saddle, negligent and saturnine, awaiting the words "all right." blacksmith said quietly: "well, sir, we've pulled it off. four lengths. i've told swells he does no more riding for me. there's a gold-mine given away. what on earth was he about to come in by himself like that? we shan't get into the 'city' now under nine stone. it's enough to make a man cry!" and, looking at his trainer, george saw the little man's lips quiver. in his stall, streaked with sweat, his hind-legs outstretched, fretting under the ministrations of the groom, the ambler stayed the whisking of his head to look at his owner, and once more george met that long, proud, soft glance. he laid his gloved hand on the horse's lather-flecked neck. the ambler tossed his head and turned it away. george came out into the open, and made his way towards the stand. his trainer's words had instilled a drop of poison into his cup. "a goldmine given away!" he went up to swells. on his lips were the words: "what made you give the show away like that?" he did not speak them, for in his soul he felt it would not become him to ask his jockey why he had not dissembled and won by a length. but the little jockey understood at once. "mr. blacksmith's been at me, sir. you take my tip: he's a queer one, that 'orse. i thought it best to let him run his own race. mark my words, he knows what's what. when they're like that, they're best let alone." a voice behind him said: "well, george, congratulate you! not the way i should have ridden the race myself. he should have lain off to the distance. remarkable turn of speed that horse. there's no riding nowadays!" the squire and general pendyce were standing there. erect and slim, unlike and yet so very much alike, the eyes of both of them seemed saying: 'i shall differ from you; there are no two opinions about it. i shall differ from you!' behind them stood mrs. bellew. her eyes could not keep still under their lashes, and their light and colour changed continually. george walked on slowly at her side. there was a look of triumph and softness about her; the colour kept deepening in her cheeks, her figure swayed. they did not look at each other. against the paddock railings stood a man in riding-clothes, of spare figure, with a horseman's square, high shoulders, and thin long legs a trifle bowed. his narrow, thin-lipped, freckled face, with close-cropped sandy hair and clipped red moustache, was of a strange dead pallor. he followed the figures of george and his companion with little fiery dark-brown eyes, in which devils seemed to dance. someone tapped him on the arm. "hallo, bellew! had a good race?" "devil take you, no! come and have a drink?" still without looking at each other, george and mrs. bellew walked towards the gate. "i don't want to see any more," she said. "i should like to get away at once." "we'll go after this race," said george. "there's nothing running in the last." at the back of the grand stand, in the midst of all the hurrying crowd, he stopped. "helen?" he said. mrs. bellew raised her eyes and looked full into his. long and cross-country is the drive from royston railway station to worsted skeynes. to george pendyce, driving the dog cart, with helen bellew beside him, it seemed but a minute--that strange minute when the heaven is opened and a vision shows between. to some men that vision comes but once, to some men many times. it comes after long winter, when the blossom hangs; it comes after parched summer, when the leaves are going gold; and of what hues it is painted--of frost-white and fire, of wine and purple, of mountain flowers, or the shadowy green of still deep pools--the seer alone can tell. but this is certain--the vision steals from him who looks on it all images of other things, all sense of law, of order, of the living past, and the living present. it is the future, fair-scented, singing, jewelled, as when suddenly between high banks a bough of apple-blossom hangs quivering in the wind loud with the song of bees. george pendyce gazed before him at this vision over the grey mare's back, and she who sat beside him muffled in her fur was touching his arm with hers. and back to them the second groom, hugging himself above the road that slipped away beneath, saw another kind of vision, for he had won five pounds, and his eyes were closed. and the grey mare saw a vision of her warm light stall, and the oats dropping between her manger bars, and fled with light hoofs along the lanes where the side-lamps shot two moving gleams over dark beech-hedges that rustled crisply in the northeast wind. again and again she sneezed in the pleasure of that homeward flight, and the light foam of her nostrils flicked the faces of those behind. and they sat silent, thrilling at the touch of each other's arms, their cheeks glowing in the windy darkness, their eyes shining and fixed before them. the second groom awoke suddenly from his dream. "if i owned that 'orse, like mr. george, and had such a topper as this 'ere mrs. bellew beside me, would i be sittin' there without a word?" chapter v mrs. pendyce's dance mrs. pendyce believed in the practice of assembling county society for the purpose of inducing it to dance, a hardy enterprise in a county where the souls, and incidentally the feet, of the inhabitants were shaped for more solid pursuits. men were her chief difficulty, for in spite of really national discouragement, it was rare to find a girl who was not "fond of dancing." "ah, dancing; i did so love it! oh, poor cecil tharp!" and with a queer little smile she pointed to a strapping red-faced youth dancing with her daughter. "he nearly trips bee up every minute, and he hugs her so, as if he were afraid of falling on his head. oh, dear, what a bump! it's lucky she's so nice and solid. i like to see the dear boy. here come george and helen bellew. poor george is not quite up to her form, but he's better than most of them. doesn't she look lovely this evening?" lady maiden raised her glasses to her eyes by the aid of a tortoise-shell handle. "yes, but she's one of those women you never can look at without seeing that she has a--a--body. she's too-too--d'you see what i mean? it's almost--almost like a frenchwoman!" mrs. bellew had passed so close that the skirt of her seagreen dress brushed their feet with a swish, and a scent as of a flower-bed was wafted from it. mrs. pendyce wrinkled her nose. "much nicer. her figure's so delicious," she said. lady maiden pondered. "she's a dangerous woman. james quite agrees with me." mrs. pendyce raised her eyebrows; there was a touch of scorn in that gentle gesture. "she's a very distant cousin of mine," she said. "her father was quite a wonderful man. it's an old devonshire family. the cheritons of bovey are mentioned in twisdom. i like young people to enjoy. themselves." a smile illumined softly the fine wrinkles round her eyes. beneath her lavender satin bodice, with strips of black velvet banding it at intervals, her heart was beating faster than usual. she was thinking of a night in her youth, when her old playfellow, young trefane of the blues, danced with her nearly all the evening, and of how at her window she saw the sun rise, and gently wept because she was married to horace pendyce. "i always feel sorry for a woman who can dance as she does. i should have liked to have got some men from town, but horace will only have the county people. it's not fair to the girls. it isn't so much their dancing, as their conversation--all about the first meet, and yesterday's cubbing, and to-morrow's covert-shooting, and their fox-terriers (though i'm awfully fond of the dear dogs), and then that new golf course. really, it's quite distressing to me at times." again mrs. pendyce looked out into the room with her patient smile, and two little lines of wrinkles formed across her forehead between the regular arching of her eyebrows that were still dark-brown. "they don't seem able to be gay. i feel they don't really care about it. they're only just waiting till to-morrow morning, so that they can go out and kill something. even bee's like that!" mrs. pendyce was not exaggerating. the guests at worsted skeynes on the night of the rutlandshire handicap were nearly all county people, from the hon. gertrude winlow, revolving like a faintly coloured statue, to young tharp, with his clean face and his fair bullety head, who danced as though he were riding at a bullfinch. in a niche old lord quarryman, the master of the gaddesdon, could be discerned in conversation with sir james malden and the reverend hussell barter. mrs. pendyce said: "your husband and lord quarryman are talking of poachers; i can tell that by the look of their hands. i can't help sympathising a little with poachers." lady malden dropped her eyeglasses. "james takes a very just view of them," she said. "it's such an insidious offence. the more insidious the offence the more important it is to check it. it seems hard to punish people for stealing bread or turnips, though one must, of course; but i've no sympathy with poachers. so many of them do it for sheer love of sport!" mrs. pendyce answered: "that's captain maydew dancing with her now. he is a good dancer. don't their steps fit? don't they look happy? i do like people to enjoy themselves! there is such a dreadful lot of unnecessary sadness and suffering in the world. i think it's really all because people won't make allowances for each other." lady malden looked at her sideways, pursing her lips; but mrs. pendyce, by race a totteridge, continued to smile. she had been born unconscious of her neighbours' scrutinies. "helen bellew," she said, "was such a lovely girl. her grandfather was my mother's cousin. what does that make her? anyway, my cousin, gregory vigil, is her first cousin once removed--the hampshire vigils. do you know him?" lady malden answered: "gregory vigil? the man with a lot of greyish hair? i've had to do with him in the s.r.w.c." but mrs. pendyce was dancing mentally. "such a good fellow! what is that--the----?" lady malden gave her a sharp look. "society for the rescue of women and children, of course. surely you know about that?" mrs. pendyce continued to smile. "ah, yes, that is nice! what a beautiful figure she has! it's so refreshing. i envy a woman with a figure like that; it looks as if it would never grow old. 'society for the regeneration of women'? gregory's so good about that sort of thing. but he never seems quite successful, have you noticed? there was a woman he was very interested in this spring. i think she drank." "they all do," said lady malden; "it's the curse of the day." mrs. pendyce wrinkled her forehead. "most of the totteridges," she said, "were great drinkers. they ruined their constitutions. do you know jaspar bellew?" "no." "it's such a pity he drinks. he came to dinner here once, and i'm afraid he must have come intoxicated. he took me in; his little eyes quite burned me up. he drove his dog cart into a ditch on the way home. that sort of thing gets about so. it's such a pity. he's quite interesting. horace can't stand him." the music of the waltz had ceased. lady maiden put her glasses to her eyes. from close beside them george and mrs. bellew passed by. they moved on out of hearing, but the breeze of her fan had touched the arching hair on lady maiden's forehead, the down on her upper lip. "why isn't she with her husband?" she asked abruptly. mrs. pendyce lifted her brows. "do you concern yourself to ask that which a well-bred woman leaves unanswered?" she seemed to say, and a flush coloured her cheeks. lady maiden winced, but, as though it were forced through her mouth by some explosion in her soul, she said: "you have only to look and see how dangerous she is!" the colour in mrs. pendyce's cheeks deepened to a blush like a girl's. "every man," she said, "is in love with helen bellew. she's so tremendously alive. my cousin gregory has been in love with her for years, though he is her guardian or trustee, or whatever they call them now. it's quite romantic. if i were a man i should be in love with her myself." the flush vanished and left her cheeks to their true colour, that of a faded rose. once more she was listening to the voice of young trefane, "ah, margery, i love you!"--to her own half whispered answer, "poor boy!" once more she was looking back through that forest of her life where she had wandered so long, and where every tree was horace pendyce. "what a pity one can't always be young!" she said. through the conservatory door, wide open to the lawn, a full moon flooded the country with pale gold light, and in that light the branches of the cedar-trees seemed printed black on the grey-blue paper of the sky; all was cold, still witchery out there, and not very far away an owl was hooting. the reverend husell barter, about to enter the conservatory for a breath of air, was arrested by the sight of a couple half-hidden by a bushy plant; side by side they were looking at the moonlight, and he knew them for mrs. bellew and george pendyce. before he could either enter or retire, he saw george seize her in his arms. she seemed to bend her head back, then bring her face to his. the moonlight fell on it, and on the full, white curve of her neck. the rector of worsted skeynes saw, too, that her eyes were closed, her lips parted. chapter vi influence of the reverend hussell barter along the walls of the smoking-room, above a leather dado, were prints of horsemen in night-shirts and nightcaps, or horsemen in red coats and top-hats, with words underneath such as: "'yeoicks' says thruster; 'yeoicks' says dick. 'my word! these d---d quornites shall now see the trick!'" two pairs of antlers surmounted the hearth, mementoes of mr. pendyce's deer-forest, strathbegally, now given up, where, with the assistance of his dear old gillie angus mcbane, he had secured the heads of these monarchs of the glen. between them was the print of a personage in trousers, with a rifle under his arm and a smile on his lips, while two large deerhounds worried a dying stag, and a lady approached him on a pony. the squire and sir james malden had retired; the remaining guests were seated round the fire. gerald pendyce stood at a side-table, on which was a tray of decanters, glasses, and mineral water. "who's for a dhrop of the craythur? a wee dhrop of the craythur? rector, a dhrop of the craythur? george, a dhrop--" george shook his head. a smile was on his lips, and that smile had in it a quality of remoteness, as though it belonged to another sphere, and had strayed on to the lips of this man of the world against his will. he seemed trying to conquer it, to twist his face into its habitual shape, but, like the spirit of a strange force, the smile broke through. it had mastered him, his thoughts, his habits, and his creed; he was stripped of fashion, as on a thirsty noon a man stands stripped for a cool plunge from which he hardly cares if he come up again. and this smile, not by intrinsic merit, but by virtue of its strangeness, attracted the eye of each man in the room; so, in a crowd, the most foreign-looking face will draw all glances. the reverend husell barter with a frown watched that smile, and strange thoughts chased through his mind. "uncle charles, a dhrop of the craythur a wee dhrop of the craythur?" general pendyce caressed his whisker. "the least touch," he said, "the least touch! i hear that our friend sir percival is going to stand again." mr. barter rose and placed his back before the fire. "outrageous!" he said. "he ought to be told at once that we can't have him." the hon. geoffrey winlow answered from his chair: "if he puts up, he'll get in; they can't afford to lose him." and with a leisurely puff of smoke: "i must say, sir, i don't quite see what it has to do with his public life." mr. barter thrust forth his lower lip. "an impenitent man," he said. "but a woman like that! what chance has a fellow if she once gets hold of him?" "when i was stationed at halifax," began general pendyce, "she was the belle of the place---" again mr. barter thrust out his lower lip. "don't let's talk of her---the jade!" then suddenly to george: "let's hear your opinion, george. dreaming of your victories, eh?" and the tone of his voice was peculiar. but george got up. "i'm too sleepy," he said; "good-night." curtly nodding, he left the room. outside the door stood a dark oak table covered with silver candlesticks; a single candle burned thereon, and made a thin gold path in the velvet blackness. george lighted his candle, and a second gold path leaped out in front; up this he began to ascend. he carried his candle at the level of his breast, and the light shone sideways and up over his white shirt-front and the comely, bulldog face above it. it shone, too, into his eyes, 'grey and slightly bloodshot, as though their surfaces concealed passions violently struggling for expression. at the turning platform of the stair he paused. in darkness above and in darkness below the country house was still; all the little life of its day, its petty sounds, movements, comings, goings, its very breathing, seemed to have fallen into sleep. the forces of its life had gathered into that pool of light where george stood listening. the beating of his heart was the only sound; in that small sound was all the pulse of this great slumbering space. he stood there long, motionless, listening to the beating of his heart, like a man fallen into a trance. then floating up through the darkness came the echo of a laugh. george started. "the d----d parson!" he muttered, and turned up the stairs again; but now he moved like a man with a purpose, and held his candle high so that the light fell far out into the darkness. he went beyond his own room, and stood still again. the light of the candle showed the blood flushing his forehead, beating and pulsing in the veins at the side of his temples; showed, too, his lips quivering, his shaking hand. he stretched out that hand and touched the handle of a door, then stood again like a man of stone, listening for the laugh. he raised the candle, and it shone into every nook; his throat clicked, as though he found it hard to swallow.... it was at barnard scrolls, the next station to worsted skeynes, on the following afternoon, that a young man entered a first-class compartment of the . train to town. the young man wore a newmarket coat, natty white gloves, and carried an eyeglass. his face was well coloured, his chestnut moustache well brushed, and his blue eyes with their loving expression seemed to say, "look at me--come, look at me--can anyone be better fed?" his valise and hat-box, of the best leather, bore the inscription, "e. maydew, th lancers." there was a lady leaning back in a corner, wrapped to the chin in a fur garment, and the young man, encountering through his eyeglass her cool, ironical glance, dropped it and held out his hand. "ah, mrs. bellew, great pleasure t'see you again so soon. you goin' up to town? jolly dance last night, wasn't it? dear old sort, the squire, and mrs. pendyce such an awf'ly nice woman." mrs. bellew took his hand, and leaned back again in her corner. she was rather paler than usual, but it became her, and captain maydew thought he had never seen so charming a creature. "got a week's leave, thank goodness. most awf'ly slow time of year. cubbin's pretty well over, an' we don't open till the first." he turned to the window. there in the sunlight the hedgerows ran golden and brown away from the clouds of trailing train smoke. young maydew shook his head at their beauty. "the country's still very blind," he said. "awful pity you've given up your huntin'." mrs. bellew did not trouble to answer, and it was just that certainty over herself, the cool assurance of a woman who has known the world, her calm, almost negligent eyes, that fascinated this young man. he looked at her quite shyly. 'i suppose you will become my slave,' those eyes seemed to say, 'but i can't help you, really.' "did you back george's horse? i had an awf'ly good race. i was at school with george. charmin' fellow, old george." in mrs. bellew's eyes something seemed to stir down in the depths, but young maydew was looking at his glove. the handle of the carriage had left a mark that saddened him. "you know him well, i suppose, old george?" "very well." "some fellows, if they have a good thing, keep it so jolly dark. you fond of racin', mrs. bellew?" "passionately." "so am i" and his eyes continued, 'it's ripping to like what you like,' for, hypnotised, they could not tear themselves away from that creamy face, with its full lips and the clear, faintly smiling eyes above the high collar of white fur. at the terminus his services were refused, and rather crestfallen, with his hat raised, he watched her walk away. but soon, in his cab, his face regained its normal look, his eyes seemed saying to the little mirror, 'look at me come, look at me--can anyone be better fed?' chapter vii sabbath at worsted skeynes in the white morning-room which served for her boudoir mrs. pendyce sat with an opened letter in her lap. it was her practice to sit there on sunday mornings for an hour before she went to her room adjoining to put on her hat for church. it was her pleasure during that hour to do nothing but sit at the window, open if the weather permitted, and look over the home paddock and the squat spire of the village church rising among a group of elms. it is not known what she thought about at those times, unless of the countless sunday mornings she had sat there with her hands in her lap waiting to be roused at . by the squire's entrance and his "now, my dear, you'll be late!" she had sat there till her hair, once dark-brown, was turning grey; she would sit there until it was white. one day she would sit there no longer, and, as likely as not, mr. pendyce, still well preserved, would enter and say, "now, my dear, you'll be late!" having for the moment forgotten. but this was all to be expected, nothing out of the common; the same thing was happening in hundreds of country houses throughout the "three kingdoms," and women were sitting waiting for their hair to turn white, who, long before, at the altar of a fashionable church, had parted with their imaginations and all the changes and chances of this mortal life. round her chair "the dear dogs" lay--this was their practice too, and now and again the skye (he was getting very old) would put out a long tongue and lick her little pointed shoe. for mrs. pendyce had been a pretty woman, and her feet were as small as ever. beside her on a spindley table stood a china bowl filled with dried rose-leaves, whereon had been scattered an essence smelling like sweetbriar, whose secret she had learned from her mother in the old warwickshire home of the totteridges, long since sold to mr. abraham brightman. mrs. pendyce, born in the year , loved sweet perfumes, and was not ashamed of using them. the indian summer sun was soft and bright; and wistful, soft, and bright were mrs. pendyce's eyes, fixed on the letter in her lap. she turned it over and began to read again. a wrinkle visited her brow. it was not often that a letter demanding decision or involving responsibility came to her hands past the kind and just censorship of horace pendyce. many matters were under her control, but were not, so to speak, connected with the outer world. thus ran the letter: "s.r.w.c., hanover square, "november , . "dear margery, "i want to see you and talk something over, so i'm running down on sunday afternoon. there is a train of sorts. any loft will do for me to sleep in if your house is full, as it may be, i suppose, at this time of year. on second thoughts i will tell you what i want to see you about. you know, of course, that since her father died i am helen bellew's only guardian. her present position is one in which no woman should be placed; i am convinced it ought to be put an end to. that man bellew deserves no consideration. i cannot write of him coolly, so i won't write at all. it is two years now since they separated, entirely, as i consider, through his fault. the law has placed her in a cruel and helpless position all this time; but now, thank god, i believe we can move for a divorce. you know me well enough to realise what i have gone through before coming to this conclusion. heaven knows if i could hit on some other way in which her future could be safeguarded, i would take it in preference to this, which is most repugnant; but i cannot. you are the only woman i can rely on to be interested in her, and i must see bellew. let not the fat and just benson and his estimable horses be disturbed on my account; i will walk up and carry my toothbrush. "affectionately your cousin, "gregory vigil." mrs. pendyce smiled. she saw no joke, but she knew from the wording of the last sentence that gregory saw one, and she liked to give it a welcome; so smiling and wrinkling her forehead, she mused over the letter. her thoughts wandered. the last scandal--lady rose bethany's divorce--had upset the whole county, and even now one had to be careful what one said. horace would not like the idea of another divorce-suit, and that so close to worsted skeynes. when helen left on thursday he had said: "i'm not sorry she's gone. her position is a queer one. people don't like it. the maidens were quite----" and mrs. pendyce remembered with a glow at her heart how she had broken in: "ellen maiden is too bourgeoise for anything!" nor had mr. pendyce's look of displeasure effaced the comfort of that word. poor horace! the children took after him, except george, who took after her brother hubert. the dear boy had gone back to his club on friday--the day after helen and the others went. she wished he could have stayed. she wished----the wrinkle deepened on her brow. too much london was bad for him! too much----her fancy flew to the london which she saw now only for three weeks in june and july, for the sake of the girls, just when her garden was at its best, and when really things were such a whirl that she never knew whether she was asleep or awake. it was not like london at all--not like that london under spring skies, or in early winter lamplight, where all the passers-by seemed so interesting, living all sorts of strange and eager lives, with strange and eager pleasures, running all sorts of risks, hungry sometimes, homeless even--so fascinating, so unlike-- "now, my dear, you'll be late!" mr. pendyce, in his norfolk jacket, which he was on his way to change for a black coat, passed through the room, followed by the spaniel john. he turned at the door, and the spaniel john turned too. "i hope to goodness barter'll be short this morning. i want to talk to old fox about that new chaff-cutter." round their mistress the three terriers raised their heads; the aged skye gave forth a gentle growl. mrs. pendyce leaned over and stroked his nose. "roy, roy, how can you, dear?" mr. pendyce said: "the old dog's losing all his teeth; he'll have to be put away." his wife flushed painfully. "oh no, horace--oh no!" the squire coughed. "we must think of the dog!" he said. mrs. pendyce rose, and crumpling the letter nervously, followed him from the room. a narrow path led through the home paddock towards the church, and along it the household were making their way. the maids in feathers hurried along guiltily by twos and threes; the butler followed slowly by himself. a footman and a groom came next, leaving trails of pomatum in the air. presently general pendyce, in a high square-topped bowler hat, carrying a malacca cane, and prayer-book, appeared walking between bee and norah, also carrying prayer-books, with fox-terriers by their sides. lastly, the squire in a high hat, six or seven paces in advance of his wife, in a small velvet toque. the rooks had ceased their wheeling and their cawing; the five-minutes bell, with its jerky, toneless tolling, alone broke the sunday hush. an old horse, not yet taken up from grass, stood motionless, resting a hind-leg, with his face turned towards the footpath. within the churchyard wicket the rector, firm and square, a low-crowned hat tilted up on his bald forehead, was talking to a deaf old cottager. he raised his hat and nodded to the ladies; then, leaving his remark unfinished, disappeared within the vestry. at the organ mrs. barter was drawing out stops in readiness to play her husband into church, and her eyes, half-shining and half-anxious, were fixed intently on the vestry door. the squire and mrs. pendyce, now almost abreast, came down the aisle and took their seats beside their daughters and the general in the first pew on the left. it was high and cushioned. they knelt down on tall red hassocks. mrs. pendyce remained over a minute buried in thought; mr. pendyce rose sooner, and looking down, kicked the hassock that had been put too near the seat. fixing his glasses on his nose, he consulted a worn old bible, then rising, walked to the lectern and began to find the lessons. the bell ceased; a wheezing, growling noise was heard. mrs. barter had begun to play; the rector, in a white surplice, was coming in. mr. pendyce, with his back turned, continued to find the lessons. the service began. through a plain glass window high up in the right-hand aisle the sun shot a gleam athwart the pendyces' pew. it found its last resting-place on mrs. barter's face, showing her soft crumpled cheeks painfully flushed, the lines on her forehead, and those shining eyes, eager and anxious, travelling ever from her husband to her music and back again. at the least fold or frown on his face the music seemed to quiver, as to some spasm in the player's soul. in the pendyces' pew the two girls sang loudly and with a certain sweetness. mr. pendyce, too, sang, and once or twice he looked in surprise at his brother, as though he were not making a creditable noise. mrs. pendyce did not sing, but her lips moved, and her eyes followed the millions of little dust atoms dancing in the long slanting sunbeam. its gold path canted slowly from her, then, as by magic, vanished. mrs. pendyce let her eyes fall. something had fled from her soul with the sunbeam; her lips moved no more. the squire sang two loud notes, spoke three, sang two again; the psalms ceased. he left his seat, and placing his hands on the lectern's sides, leaned forward and began to read the lesson. he read the story of abraham and lot, and of their flocks and herds, and how they could not dwell together, and as he read, hypnotised by the sound of his own voice, he was thinking: 'this lesson is well read by me, horace pendyce. i am horace pendyce--horace pendyce. amen, horace pendyce!' and in the first pew on the left mrs. pendyce fixed her eyes upon him, for this was her habit, and she thought how, when the spring came again, she would run up to town, alone, and stay at green's hotel, where she had always stayed with her father when a girl. george had promised to look after her, and take her round the theatres. and forgetting that she had thought this every autumn for the last ten years, she gently smiled and nodded. mr. pendyce said: "'and i will make thy seed as the dust of the earth; so that if a man can number the dust of the earth, then shall thy seed also be numbered. arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for i will give it unto thee. then abram removed his tent, and came and dwelt in the plain of mamre, which is in hebron, and built there an altar unto the lord.' here endeth the first lesson." the sun, reaching the second window, again shot a gold pathway athwart the church; again the millions of dust atoms danced, and the service went on. there came a hush. the spaniel john, crouched close to the ground outside, poked his long black nose under the churchyard gate; the fox-terriers, seated patient in the grass, pricked their ears. a voice speaking on one note broke the hush. the spaniel john sighed, the fox-terriers dropped their ears, and lay down heavily against each other. the rector had begun to preach. he preached on fruitfulness, and in the first right-hand pew six of his children at once began to fidget. mrs. barter, sideways and unsupported on her seat, kept her starry eyes fixed on his cheek; a line of perplexity furrowed her brow. now and again she moved as though her back ached. the rector quartered his congregation with his gaze, lest any amongst them should incline to sleep. he spoke in a loud-sounding voice. god-he said-wished men to be fruitful, intended them to be fruitful, commanded them to be fruitful. god--he said--made men, and made the earth; he made man to be fruitful in the earth; he made man neither to question nor answer nor argue; he made him to be fruitful and possess the land. as they had heard in that beautiful lesson this morning, god had set bounds, the bounds of marriage, within which man should multiply; within those bounds it was his duty to multiply, and that exceedingly--even as abraham multiplied. in these days dangers, pitfalls, snares, were rife; in these days men went about and openly, unashamedly advocated shameful doctrines. let them beware. it would be his sacred duty to exclude such men from within the precincts of that parish entrusted to his care by god. in the language of their greatest poet, "such men were dangerous"--dangerous to christianity, dangerous to their country, and to national life. they were not brought into this world to follow sinful inclination, to obey their mortal reason. god demanded sacrifices of men. patriotism demanded sacrifices of men, it demanded that they should curb their inclinations and desires. it demanded of them their first duty as men and christians, the duty of being fruitful and multiplying, in order that they might till this fruitful earth, not selfishly, not for themselves alone. it demanded of them the duty of multiplying in order that they and their children might be equipped to smite the enemies of their queen and country, and uphold the name of england in whatever quarrel, against all who rashly sought to drag her flag in the dust. the squire opened his eyes and looked at his watch. folding his arms, he coughed, for he was thinking of the chaff-cutter. beside him mrs. pendyce, with her eyes on the altar, smiled as if in sleep. she was thinking, 'skyward's in bond street used to have lovely lace. perhaps in the spring i could----or there was goblin's, their point de venise----' behind them, four rows back, an aged cottage woman, as upright as a girl, sat with a rapt expression on her carved old face. she never moved, her eyes seemed drinking in the movements of the rector's lips, her whole being seemed hanging on his words. it is true her dim eyes saw nothing but a blur, her poor deaf ears could not hear one word, but she sat at the angle she was used to, and thought of nothing at all. and perhaps it was better so, for she was near her end. outside the churchyard, in the sun-warmed grass, the fox-terriers lay one against the other, pretending to shiver, with their small bright eyes fixed on the church door, and the rubbery nostrils of the spaniel john worked ever busily beneath the wicket gate. chapter viii gregory vigil proposes about three o'clock that afternoon a tall man walked up the avenue at worsted skeynes, in one hand carrying his hat, in the other a small brown bag. he stopped now and then, and took deep breaths, expanding the nostrils of his straight nose. he had a fine head, with wings of grizzled hair. his clothes were loose, his stride was springy. standing in the middle of the drive, taking those long breaths, with his moist blue eyes upon the sky, he excited the attention of a robin, who ran out of a rhododendron to see, and when he had passed began to whistle. gregory vigil turned, and screwed up his humorous lips, and, except that he was completely lacking in embonpoint, he had a certain resemblance to this bird, which is supposed to be peculiarly british. he asked for mrs. pendyce in a high, light voice, very pleasant to the ear, and was at once shown to the white morning-room. she greeted him affectionately, like many women who have grown used to hearing from their husbands the formula "oh! your people!"--she had a strong feeling for her kith and kin. "you know, grig," she said, when her cousin was seated, "your letter was rather disturbing. her separation from captain bellew has caused such a lot of talk about here. yes; it's very common, i know, that sort of thing, but horace is so----! all the squires and parsons and county people we get about here are just the same. of course, i'm very fond of her, she's so charming to look at; but, gregory, i really don't dislike her husband. he's a desperate sort of person--i think that's rather, refreshing; and you know i do think she's a little like him in that!" the blood rushed up into gregory vigil's forehead; he put his hand to his head, and said: "like him? like that man? is a rose like an artichoke?" mrs. pendyce went on: "i enjoyed having her here immensely. it's the first time she's been here since she left the firs. how long is that? two years? but you know, grig, the maidens were quite upset about her. do you think a divorce is really necessary?" gregory vigil answered: "i'm afraid it is." mrs. pendyce met her cousin's gaze serenely; if anything, her brows were uplifted more than usual; but, as at the stirring of secret trouble, her fingers began to twine and twist. before her rose a vision of george and mrs. bellew side by side. it was a vague maternal feeling, an instinctive fear. she stilled her fingers, let her eyelids droop, and said: "of course, dear grig, if i can help you in any way--horace does so dislike anything to do with the papers." gregory vigil drew in his breath. "the papers!" he said. "how hateful it is! to think that our civilisation should allow women to be cast to the dogs! understand, margery, i'm thinking of her. in this matter i'm not capable of considering anything else." mrs. pendyce murmured: "of course, dear grig, i quite understand." "her position is odious; a woman should not have to live like that, exposed to everyone's foul gossip." "but, dear grig, i don't think she minds; she seemed to me in such excellent spirits." gregory ran his fingers through his hair. "nobody understands her," he said; "she's so plucky!" mrs. pendyce stole a glance at him, and a little ironical smile flickered over her face. "no one can look at her without seeing her spirit. but, grig, perhaps you don't quite understand her either!" gregory vigil put his hand to his head. "i must open the window a moment," he said. again mrs. pendyce's fingers began twisting, again she stilled them. "we were quite a large party last week, and now there's only charles. even george has gone back; he'll be so sorry to have missed you!" gregory neither turned nor answered, and a wistful look came into mrs. pendyce's face. "it was so nice for the dear boy to win that race! i'm afraid he bets rather! it's such a comfort horace doesn't know." still gregory did not speak. mrs. pendyce's face lost its anxious look, and gained a sort of gentle admiration. "dear grig," she said, "where do you go about your hair? it is so nice and long and wavy!" gregory turned with a blush. "i've been wanting to get it cut for ages. do you really mean, margery, that your husband can't realise the position she's placed in?" mrs. pendyce fixed her eyes on her lap. "you see, grig," she began, "she was here a good deal before she left the firs, and, of course, she's related to me--though it's very distant. with those horrid cases, you never know what will happen. horace is certain to say that she ought to go back to her husband; or, if that's impossible, he'll say she ought to think of society. lady rose bethany's case has shaken everybody, and horace is nervous. i don't know how it is, there's a great feeling amongst people about here against women asserting themselves. you should hear mr. barter and sir james maiden, and dozens of others; the funny thing is that the women take their side. of course, it seems odd to me, because so many of the totteridges ran away, or did something funny. i can't help sympathising with her, but i have to think of--of----in the country, you don't know how things that people do get about before they've done them! there's only that and hunting to talk of." gregory vigil clutched at his head. "well, if this is what chivalry has come to, thank god i'm not a squire!" mrs. pendyce's eyes flickered. "ah!" she said, "i've thought like that so often." gregory broke the silence. "i can't help the customs of the country. my duty's plain. there's nobody else to look after her." mrs. pendyce sighed, and, rising from her chair, said: "very well, dear grig; do let us go and have some tea." tea at worsted skeynes was served in the hall on sundays, and was usually attended by the rector and his wife. young cecil tharp had walked over with his dog, which could be heard whimpering faintly outside the front-door. general pendyce, with his knees crossed and the tips of his fingers pressed together, was leaning back in his chair and staring at the wall. the squire, who held his latest bird's-egg in his hand, was showing its spots to the rector. in a corner by a harmonium, on which no one ever played, norah talked of the village hockey club to mrs. barter, who sat with her eyes fixed on her husband. on the other side of the fire bee and young tharp, whose chairs seemed very close together, spoke of their horses in low tones, stealing shy glances at each other. the light was failing, the wood logs crackled, and now and then over the cosy hum of talk there fell short, drowsy silences--silences of sheer warmth and comfort, like the silence of the spaniel john asleep against his master's boot. "well," said gregory softly, "i must go and see this man." "is it really necessary, grig, to see him at all? i mean--if you've made up your mind----" gregory ran his hand through his hair. "it's only fair, i think!" and crossing the hall, he let himself out so quietly that no one but mrs. pendyce noticed he had gone. an hour and a half later, near the railway-station, on the road from the village back to worsted skeynes, mr. pendyce and his daughter bee were returning from their sunday visit to their old butler, bigson. the squire was talking. "he's failing, bee-dear old bigson's failing. i can't hear what he says, he mumbles so; and he forgets. fancy his forgetting that i was at oxford. but we don't get servants like him nowadays. that chap we've got now is a sleepy fellow. sleepy! he's----what's that in the road? they've no business to be coming at that pace. who is it? i can't see." down the middle of the dark road a dog cart was approaching at top speed. bee seized her father's arm and pulled it vigorously, for mr. pendyce was standing stock-still in disapproval. the dog cart passed within a foot of him and vanished, swinging round into the station. mr. pendyce turned in his tracks. "who was that? disgraceful! on sunday, too! the fellow must be drunk; he nearly ran over my legs. did you see, bee, he nearly ran over----" bee answered: "it was captain bellew, father; i saw his face." "bellew? that drunken fellow? i shall summons him. did you see, bee, he nearly ran over my----" "perhaps he's had bad news," said bee. "there's the train going out now; i do hope he caught it!" "bad news! is that an excuse for driving over me? you hope he caught it? i hope he's thrown himself out. the ruffian! i hope he's killed himself." in this strain mr. pendyce continued until they reached the church. on their way up the aisle they passed gregory vigil leaning forward with his elbows on the desk and his hand covering his eyes.... at eleven o'clock that night a man stood outside the door of mrs. bellew's flat in chelsea violently ringing the bell. his face was deathly white, but his little dark eyes sparkled. the door was opened, and helen bellew in evening dress stood there holding a candle in her hand. "who are you? what do you want?" the man moved into the light. "jaspar! you? what on earth----" "i want to talk." "talk? do you know what time it is?" "time--there's no such thing. you might give me a kiss after two years. i've been drinking, but i'm not drunk." mrs. bellew did not kiss him, neither did she draw back her face. no trace of alarm showed in her ice-grey eyes. she said: "if i let you in, will you promise to say what you want to say quickly, and go away?" the little brown devils danced in bellew's face. he nodded. they stood by the hearth in the sitting-room, and on the lips of both came and went a peculiar smile. it was difficult to contemplate too seriously a person with whom one had lived for years, with whom one had experienced in common the range of human passion, intimacy, and estrangement, who knew all those little daily things that men and women living together know of each other, and with whom in the end, without hatred, but because of one's nature, one had ceased to live. there was nothing for either of them to find out, and with a little smile, like the smile of knowledge itself, jaspar bellew and helen his wife looked at each other. "well," she said again; "what have you come for?" bellew's face had changed. its expression was furtive; his mouth twitched; a furrow had come between his eyes. "how--are--you?" he said in a thick, muttering voice. mrs. bellew's clear voice answered: "now, jaspar, what is it that you want?" the little brown devils leaped up again in jaspar's face. "you look very pretty to-night!" his wife's lips curled. "i'm much the same as i always was," she said. a violent shudder shook bellew. he fixed his eyes on the floor a little beyond her to the left; suddenly he raised them. they were quite lifeless. "i'm perfectly sober," he murmured thickly; then with startling quickness his eyes began to sparkle again. he came a step nearer. "you're my wife!" he said. mrs. bellew smiled. "come," she answered, "you must go!" and she put out her bare arm to push him back. but bellew recoiled of his own accord; his eyes were fixed again on the floor a little beyond her to the left. "what's that?" he stammered. "what's that--that black----?" the devilry, mockery, admiration, bemusement, had gone out of his face; it was white and calm, and horribly pathetic. "don't turn me out," he stammered; "don't turn me out!" mrs. bellew looked at him hard; the defiance in her eyes changed to a sort of pity. she took a quick step and put her hand on his shoulder. "it's all right, old boy--all right!" she said. "there's nothing there!" chapter ix mr. paramor disposes mrs. pendyce, who, in accordance with her husband's wish, still occupied the same room as mr. pendyce, chose the ten minutes before he got up to break to him gregory's decision. the moment was auspicious, for he was only half awake. "horace," she said, and her face looked young and anxious, "grig says that helen bellew ought not to go on in her present position. of course, i told him that you'd be annoyed, but grig says that she can't go on like this, that she simply must divorce captain bellew." mr. pendyce was lying on his back. "what's that?" he said. mrs. pendyce went on "i knew it would worry you; but really"--she fixed her eyes on the ceiling--"i suppose we ought only to think of her." the squire sat up. "what was that," he said, "about bellew?" mrs. pendyce went on in a languid voice and without moving her eyes: "don't be angrier than you can help, dear; it is so wearing. if grig says she ought to divorce captain bellew, then i'm sure she ought." horace pendyce subsided on his pillow with a bounce, and he too lay with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "divorce him!" he said--"i should think so! he ought to be hanged, a fellow like that. i told you last night he nearly drove over me. living just as he likes, setting an example of devilry to the whole neighbourhood! if i hadn't kept my head he'd have bowled me over like a ninepin, and bee into the bargain." mrs. pendyce sighed. "it was a narrow escape," she said. "divorce him!" resumed mr. pendyce--"i should think so! she ought to have divorced him long ago. it was the nearest thing in the world; another foot and i should have been knocked off my feet!" mrs. pendyce withdrew her glance from the ceiling. "at first," she said, "i wondered whether it was quite--but i'm very glad you've taken it like this." "taken it! i can tell you, margery, that sort of thing makes one think. all the time barter was preaching last night i was wondering what on earth would have happened to this estate if--if----" and he looked round with a frown. "even as it is, i barely make the two ends of it meet. as to george, he's no more fit at present to manage it than you are; he'd make a loss of thousands." "i'm afraid george is too much in london. that's the reason i wondered whether--i'm afraid he sees too much of----" mrs. pendyce stopped; a flush suffused her cheeks; she had pinched herself violently beneath the bedclothes. "george," said mr. pendyce, pursuing his own thoughts, "has no gumption. he'd never manage a man like peacock--and you encourage him! he ought to marry and settle down." mrs. pendyce, the flush dying in her cheeks, said: "george is very like poor hubert." horace pendyce drew his watch from beneath his pillow. "ah!" but he refrained from adding, "your people!" for hubert totteridge had not been dead a year. "ten minutes to eight! you keep me talking here; it's time i was in my bath." clad in pyjamas with a very wide blue stripe, grey-eyed, grey-moustached, slim and erect, he paused at the door. "the girls haven't a scrap of imagination. what do you think bee said? 'i hope he hasn't lost his train.' lost his train! good god! and i might have--i might have----" the squire did not finish his sentence; no words but what seemed to him violent and extreme would have fulfilled his conception of the danger he had escaped, and it was against his nature and his training to exaggerate a physical risk. at breakfast he was more cordial than usual to gregory, who was going up by the first train, for as a rule mr. pendyce rather distrusted him, as one would a wife's cousin, especially if he had a sense of humour. "a very good fellow," he was wont to say of him, "but an out-and-out radical." it was the only label he could find for gregory's peculiarities. gregory departed without further allusion to the object of his visit. he was driven to the station in a brougham by the first groom, and sat with his hat off and his head at the open window, as if trying to get something blown out of his brain. indeed, throughout the whole of his journey up to town he looked out of the window, and expressions half humorous and half puzzled played on his face. like a panorama slowly unrolled, country house after country house, church after church, appeared before his eyes in the autumn sunlight, among the hedgerows and the coverts that were all brown and gold; and far away on the rising uplands the slow ploughman drove, outlined against the sky: he took a cab from the station to his solicitors' in lincoln's inn fields. he was shown into a room bare of all legal accessories, except a series of law reports and a bunch of violets in a glass of fresh water. edmund paramor, the senior partner of paramor and herring, a clean-shaven man of sixty, with iron-grey hair brushed in a cockscomb off his forehead, greeted him with a smile. "ah, vigil, how are you? up from the country?" "from worsted skeynes." "horace pendyce is a client of mine. well, what can we do for you? your society up a tree?" gregory vigil, in the padded leather chair that had held so many aspirants for comfort, sat a full minute without speaking; and mr. paramor, too, after one keen glance at his client that seemed to come from very far down in his soul, sat motionless and grave. there was at that moment something a little similar in the eyes of these two very different men, a look of kindred honesty and aspiration. gregory spoke at last. "it's a painful subject to me." mr. paramor drew a face on his blotting-paper. "i have come," went on gregory, "about a divorce for my ward." "mrs. jaspar bellew?" "yes; her position is intolerable." mr. paramor gave him a searching look. "let me see: i think she and her husband have been separated for some time." "yes, for two years." "you're acting with her consent, of course?" "i have spoken to her." "you know the law of divorce, i suppose?" gregory answered with a painful smile: "i'm not very clear about it; i hardly ever look at those cases in the paper. i hate the whole idea." mr. paramor smiled again, became instantly grave, and said: "we shall want evidence of certain things, have you got any evidence?" gregory ran his hand through his hair. "i don't think there'll be any difficulty," he said. "bellew agrees --they both agree!" mr. paramor stared. "what's that to do with it?" gregory caught him up. "surely, where both parties are anxious, and there's no opposition, it can't be difficult." "good lord!" said mr. paramor. "but i've seen bellew; i saw him yesterday. i'm sure i can get him to admit anything you want!" mr. paramor drew his breath between his teeth. "did you ever," he said drily, "hear of what's called collusion?" gregory got up and paced the room. "i don't know that i've ever heard anything very exact about the thing at all," he said. "the whole subject is hateful to me. i regard marriage as sacred, and when, which god forbid, it proves unsacred, it is horrible to think of these formalities. this is a christian country; we are all flesh and blood. what is this slime, paramor?" with this outburst he sank again into the chair, and leaned his head on his hand. and oddly, instead of smiling, mr. paramor looked at him with haunting eyes. "two unhappy persons must not seem to agree to be parted," he said. "one must be believed to desire to keep hold of the other, and must pose as an injured person. there must be evidence of misconduct, and in this case of cruelty or of desertion. the evidence must be impartial. this is the law." gregory said without looking up: "but why?" mr. paramor took his violets out of the water, and put them to his nose. "how do you mean--why?" "i mean, why this underhand, roundabout way?" mr. paramor's face changed with startling speed from its haunting look back to his smile. "well," he said, "for the preservation of morality. what do you suppose?" "do you call it moral so to imprison people that you drive them to sin in order to free themselves?" mr. paramor obliterated the face on his blotting-pad. "where's your sense of humour?" he said. "i see no joke, paramor." mr. paramor leaned forward. "my dear friend," he said earnestly, "i don't say for a minute that our system doesn't cause a great deal of quite unnecessary suffering; i don't say that it doesn't need reform. most lawyers and almost any thinking man will tell you that it does. but that's a wide question which doesn't help us here. we'll manage your business for you, if it can be done. you've made a bad start, that's all. the first thing is for us to write to mrs. bellew, and ask her to come and see us. we shall have to get bellew watched." gregory said: "that's detestable. can't it be done without that?" mr. paramor bit his forefinger. "not safe," he said. "but don't bother; we'll see to all that." gregory rose and went to the window. he said suddenly: "i can't bear this underhand work." mr. paramor smiled. "every honest man," he said, "feels as you do. but, you see, we must think of the law." gregory burst out again: "can no one get a divorce, then, without making beasts or spies of themselves?" mr. paramor said gravely "it is difficult, perhaps impossible. you see, the law is based on certain principles." "principles?" a smile wreathed mr. paramor's mouth, but died instantly. "ecclesiastical principles, and according to these a person desiring a divorce 'ipso facto' loses caste. that they should have to make spies or beasts of themselves is not of grave importance." gregory came back to the table, and again buried his head in his hands. "don't joke, please, paramor," he said; "it's all so painful to me." mr. paramor's eyes haunted his client's bowed head. "i'm not joking," he said. "god forbid! do you read poetry?" and opening a drawer, he took out a book bound in red leather. "this is a man i'm fond of: "'life is mostly froth and bubble; two things stand like stone-- kindness in another's trouble, courage in your own.' "that seems to me the sum of all philosophy." "paramor," said gregory, "my ward is very dear to me; she is dearer to me than any woman i know. i am here in a most dreadful dilemma. on the one hand there is this horrible underhand business, with all its publicity; and on the other there is her position--a beautiful woman, fond of gaiety, living alone in this london, where every man's instincts and every woman's tongue look upon her as fair game. it has been brought home to me only too painfully of late. god forgive me! i have even advised her to go back to bellew, but that seems out of the question. what am i to do?" mr. paramor rose. "i know," he said--"i know. my dear friend, i know!" and for a full minute he remained motionless, a little turned from gregory. "it will be better," he said suddenly, "for her to get rid of him. i'll go and see her myself. we'll spare her all we can. i'll go this afternoon, and let you know the result." as though by mutual instinct, they put out their hands, which they shook with averted faces. then gregory, seizing his hat, strode out of the room. he went straight to the rooms of his society in hanover square. they were on the top floor, higher than the rooms of any other society in the building--so high, in fact, that from their windows, which began five feet up, you could practically only see the sky. a girl with sloping shoulders, red cheeks, and dark eyes, was working a typewriter in a corner, and sideways to the sky at a bureau littered with addressed envelopes, unanswered letters, and copies of the society's publications, was seated a grey-haired lady with a long, thin, weatherbeaten face and glowing eyes, who was frowning at a page of manuscript. "oh, mr. vigil," she said, "i'm so glad you've come. this paragraph mustn't go as it is. it will never do." gregory took the manuscript and read the paragraph in question. "this case of eva nevill is so horrible that we ask those of our women readers who live in the security, luxury perhaps, peace certainly, of their country homes, what they would have done, finding themselves suddenly in the position of this poor girl--in a great city, without friends, without money, almost without clothes, and exposed to all the craft of one of those fiends in human form who prey upon our womankind. let each one ask herself: should i have resisted where she fell?" "it will never do to send that out," said the lady again. "what is the matter with it, mrs. shortman?" "it's too personal. think of lady maiden, or most of our subscribers. you can't expect them to imagine themselves like poor eva. i'm sure they won't like it." gregory clutched at his hair. "is it possible they can't stand that?" he said. "it's only because you've given such horrible details of poor eva." gregory got up and paced the room. mrs. shortman went on "you've not lived in the country for so long, mr. vigil, that you don't remember. you see, i know. people don't like to be harrowed. besides, think how difficult it is for them to imagine themselves in such a position. it'll only shock them, and do our circulation harm." gregory snatched up the page and handed it to the girl who sat at the typewriter in the corner. "read that, please, miss mallow." the girl read without raising her eyes. "well, is it what mrs. shortman says?" the girl handed it back with a blush. "it's perfect, of course, in itself, but i think mrs. shortman is right. it might offend some people." gregory went quickly to the window, threw it up, and stood gazing at the sky. both women looked at his back. mrs. shortman said gently: "i would only just alter it like this, from after 'country homes': 'whether they do not pity and forgive this poor girl in a great city, without friends, without money, almost without clothes, and exposed to all the craft of one of those fiends in human form who prey upon our womankind,' and just stop there." gregory returned to the table. "not 'forgive,"' he said, "not 'forgive'!" mrs. shortman raised her pen. "you don't know," she said, "what a strong feeling there is. mind, it has to go to numbers of parsonages, mr. vigil. our principle has always been to be very careful. and you have been plainer than usual in stating the case. it's not as if they really could put themselves in her position; that's impossible. not one woman in a hundred could, especially among those who live in the country and have never seen life. i'm a squire's daughter myself." "and i a parson's," said gregory, with a smile. mrs. shortman looked at him reproachfully. "joking apart, mr. vigil, it's touch and go with our paper as it is; we really can't afford it. i've had lots of letters lately complaining that we put the cases unnecessarily strongly. here's one: "'bournefield rectory, "'november . "'dear madam, "'while sympathising with your good work, i am afraid i cannot become a subscriber to your paper while it takes its present form, as i do not feel that it is always fit reading for my girls. i cannot think it either wise or right that they should become acquainted with such dreadful aspects of life, however true they may be. "'i am, dear madam, "'respectfully yours, "'winifred tuddenham. "'p.s.--i could never feel sure, too, that my maids would not pick it up, and perhaps take harm.'" "i had that only this morning." gregory buried his face in his hands, and sitting thus he looked so like a man praying that no one spoke. when he raised his face it was to say: "not 'forgive,' mrs. shortman, not 'forgive'!" mrs. shortman ran her pen through the word. "very well, mr. vigil," she said; "it's a risk." the sound of the typewriter, which had been hushed, began again from the corner. "that case of drink, mr. vigil--millicent porter--i'm afraid there's very little hope there." gregory asked: "what now?" "relapsed again; it's the fifth time." gregory turned his face to the window, and looked at the sky. "i must go and see her. just give me her address." mrs. shortman read from a green book: "'mrs. porter, bilcock buildings, bloomsbury.' mr. vigil!" "yes." "mr. vigil, i do sometimes wish you would not persevere so long with those hopeless cases; they never seem to come to anything, and your time is so valuable." "how can i give them up, mrs. shortman? there's no choice." "but, mr. vigil, why is there no choice? you must draw the line somewhere. do forgive me for saying that i think you sometimes waste your time." gregory turned to the girl at the typewriter. "miss mallow, is mrs. shortman right? do i waste my time?" the girl at the typewriter blushed vividly, and, without looking round, said: "how can i tell, mr. vigil? but it does worry one." a humorous and perplexed smile passed over gregory's lips. "now i know i shall cure her," he said. " bilcock buildings." and he continued to look at the sky. "how's your neuralgia, mrs. shortman?" mrs. shortman smiled. "awful!" gregory turned quickly. "you feel that window, then; i'm so sorry." mrs. shortman shook her head. "no, but perhaps molly does." the girl at the typewriter said: "oh no; please, mr. vigil, don't shut it for me." "truth and honour?" "truth and honour," replied both women. and all three for a moment sat looking at the sky. then mrs. shortman said: "you see, you can't get to the root of the evil--that husband of hers." gregory turned. "ah," he said, "that man! if she could only get rid of him! that ought to have been done long ago, before he drove her to drink like this. why didn't she, mrs. shortman, why didn't she?" mrs. shortman raised her eyes, which had such a peculiar spiritual glow. "i don't suppose she had the money," she said; "and she must have been such a nice woman then. a nice woman doesn't like to divorce--" gregory looked at her. "what, mrs. shortman, you too, you too among the pharisees?" mrs. shortman flushed. "she wanted to save him," she said; "she must have wanted to save him." "then you and i----" but gregory did not finish, and turned again to the window. mrs. shortman, too, biting her lips, looked anxiously at the sky. miss mallow at the typewriter, with a scared face, plied her fingers faster than ever. gregory was the first to speak. "you must please forgive me," he said gently. "a personal matter; i forgot myself." mrs. shortman withdrew her gaze from the sky. "oh, mr. vigil, if i had known----" gregory gregory smiled. "don't, don't!" he said; "we've quite frightened poor miss mallow!" miss mallow looked round at him, he looked at her, and all three once more looked at the sky. it was the chief recreation of this little society. gregory worked till nearly three, and walked out to a bun-shop, where he lunched off a piece of cake and a cup of coffee. he took an omnibus, and getting on the top, was driven west with a smile on his face and his hat in his hand. he was thinking of helen bellew. it had become a habit with him to think of her, the best and most beautiful of her sex--a habit in which he was growing grey, and with which, therefore, he could not part. and those women who saw him with his uncovered head smiled, and thought: 'what a fine-looking man!' but george pendyce, who saw him from the window of the stoics' club, smiled a different smile; the sight of him was always a little unpleasant to george. nature, who had made gregory vigil a man, had long found that he had got out of her hands, and was living in celibacy, deprived of the comfort of woman, even of those poor creatures whom he befriended; and nature, who cannot bear that man should escape her control, avenged herself through his nerves and a habit of blood to the head. extravagance, she said, i cannot have, and when i made this man i made him quite extravagant enough. for his temperament (not uncommon in a misty climate) had been born seven feet high; and as a man cannot add a cubit to his stature, so neither can he take one off. gregory could not bear that a yellow man must always remain a yellow man, but trusted by care and attention some day to see him white. there lives no mortal who has not a philosophy as distinct from every other mortal's as his face is different from their faces; but gregory believed that philosophers unfortunately alien must gain in time a likeness to himself if he were careful to tell them often that they had been mistaken. other men in this great britain had the same belief. to gregory's reforming instinct it was a constant grief that he had been born refined. a natural delicacy would interfere and mar his noblest efforts. hence failures deplored by mrs. pendyce to lady maiden the night they danced at worsted skeynes. he left his bus near to the flat where mrs. bellow lived; with reverence he made the tour of the building and back again. he had long fixed a rule, which he never broke, of seeing her only once a fortnight; but to pass her windows he went out of his way most days and nights. and having made this tour, not conscious of having done anything ridiculous, still smiling, and with his hat on his knee, perhaps really happier because he had not seen her, was driven east, once more passing george pendyce in the bow-window of the stoics' club, and once more raising on his face a jeering smile. he had been back at his rooms in buckingham street half an hour when a club commissionaire arrived with mr. paramor's promised letter. he opened it hastily. "the nelson club, "trafalgar square. "my dear vigil, "i've just come from seeing your ward. an embarrassing complexion is lent to affairs by what took place last night. it appears that after your visit to him yesterday afternoon her husband came up to town, and made his appearance at her flat about eleven o'clock. he was in a condition bordering on delirium tremens, and mrs. bellew was obliged to keep him for the night. 'i could not,' she said to me, 'have refused a dog in such a state.' the visit lasted until this afternoon--in fact, the man had only just gone when i arrived. it is a piece of irony, of which i must explain to you the importance. i think i told you that the law of divorce is based on certain principles. one of these excludes any forgiveness of offences by the party moving for a divorce. in technical language, any such forgiveness or overlooking is called condonation, and it is a complete bar to further action for the time being. the court is very jealous of this principle of non-forgiveness, and will regard with grave suspicion any conduct on the part of the offended party which might be construed as amounting to condonation. i fear that what your ward tells me will make it altogether inadvisable to apply for a divorce on any evidence that may lie in the past. it is too dangerous. in other words, the court would almost certainly consider that she has condoned offences so far. any further offence, however, will in technical language 'revive' the past, and under these circumstances, though nothing can be done at present, there may be hope in the future. after seeing your ward, i quite appreciate your anxiety in the matter, though i am by no means sure that you are right in advising this divorce. if you remain in the same mind, however, i will give the matter my best personal attention, and my counsel to you is not to worry. this is no matter for a layman, especially not for one who, like you, judges of things rather as they ought to be than as they are. "i am, my dear vigil, "very sincerely yours, "edmund paramor. "gregory vigil, esq. "if you want to see me, i shall be at my club all the evening.-e. p." when gregory had read this note he walked to the window, and stood looking out over the lights on the river. his heart beat furiously, his temples were crimson. he went downstairs, and took a cab to the nelson club. mr. paramor, who was about to dine, invited his visitor to join him. gregory shook his head. "no, thanks," he said; "i don't feel like dining. what is this, paramor? surely there's some mistake? do you mean to tell me that because she acted like a christian to that man she is to be punished for it in this way?" mr. paramor bit his finger. "don't confuse yourself by dragging in christianity. christianity has nothing to do with law." "you talked of principles," said gregory--"ecclesiastical" "yes, yes; i meant principles imported from the old ecclesiastical conception of marriage, which held man and wife to be undivorceable. that conception has been abandoned by the law, but the principles still haunt----" "i don't understand." mr. paramor said slowly: "i don't know that anyone does. it's our usual muddle. but i know this, vigil--in such a case as your ward's we must tread very carefully. we must 'save face,' as the chinese say. we must pretend we don't want to bring this divorce, but that we have been so injured that we are obliged to come forward. if bellew says nothing, the judge will have to take what's put before him. but there's always the queen's proctor. i don't know if you know anything about him?" "no," said gregory, "i don't." "well, if he can find out anything against our getting this divorce, he will. it is not my habit to go into court with a case in which anybody can find out anything." "do you mean to say" "i mean to say that she must not ask for a divorce merely because she is miserable, or placed in a position that no woman should be placed in, but only if she has been offended in certain technical ways; and if--by condonation, for instance--she has given the court technical reason for refusing her a divorce, that divorce will be refused her. to get a divorce, vigil, you must be as hard as nails and as wary as a cat. now do you understand?" gregory did not answer. mr. paramor looked searchingly and rather pityingly in his face. "it won't do to go for it at present," he said. "are you still set on this divorce? i told you in my letter that i am not sure you are right." "how can you ask me, paramor? after that man's conduct last night, i am more than ever set on it." "then," said mr. paramor, "we must keep a sharp eye on bellew, and hope for the best." gregory held out his hand. "you spoke of morality," he said. "i can't tell you how inexpressibly mean the whole thing seems to me. goodnight." and, turning rather quickly, he went out. his mind was confused and his heart torn. he thought of helen bellew as of the woman dearest to him in the coils of a great slimy serpent, and the knowledge that each man and woman unhappily married was, whether by his own, his partner's, or by no fault at all, in the same embrace, afforded him no comfort whatsoever. it was long before he left the windy streets to go to his home. chapter x at blafard's there comes now and then to the surface of our modern civilisation one of those great and good men who, unconscious, like all great and good men, of the goodness and greatness of their work, leave behind a lasting memorial of themselves before they go bankrupt. it was so with the founder of the stoics' club. he came to the surface in the year -, with nothing in the world but his clothes and an idea. in a single year he had floated the stoics' club, made ten thousand pounds, lost more, and gone down again. the stoics' club lived after him by reason of the immortal beauty of his idea. in it was a strong and corporate body, not perhaps quite so exclusive as it had been, but, on the whole, as smart and aristocratic as any club in london, with the exception of that one or two into which nobody ever got. the idea with which its founder had underpinned the edifice was, like all great ideas, simple, permanent, and perfect--so simple, permanent, and perfect that it seemed amazing no one had ever thought of it before. it was embodied in no. of the members' rules: "no member of this club shall have any occupation whatsoever." hence the name of a club renowned throughout london for the excellence of its wines and cuisine. its situation was in piccadilly, fronting the green park, and through the many windows of its ground-floor smoking-room the public were privileged to see at all hours of the day numbers of stoics in various attitudes reading the daily papers or gazing out of the window. some of them who did not direct companies, grow fruit, or own yachts, wrote a book, or took an interest in a theatre. the greater part eked out existence by racing horses, hunting foxes, and shooting birds. individuals among them, however, had been known to play the piano, and take up the roman catholic religion. many explored the same spots of the continent year after year at stated seasons. some belonged to the yeomanry; others called themselves barristers; once in a way one painted a picture or devoted himself to good works. they were, in fact, of all sorts and temperaments, but their common characteristic was an independent income, often so settled by providence that they could not in any way get rid of it. but though the principle of no occupation overruled all class distinctions, the stoics were mainly derived from the landed gentry. an instinct that the spirit of the club was safest with persons of this class guided them in their elections, and eldest sons, who became members almost as a matter of course, lost no time in putting up their younger brothers, thereby keeping the wine as pure as might be, and preserving that fine old country-house flavour which is nowhere so appreciated as in london. after seeing gregory pass on the top of a bus, george pendyce went into the card-room, and as it was still empty, set to contemplation of the pictures on the walls. they were effigies of all those members of the stoics' club who from time to time had come under the notice of a celebrated caricaturist in a celebrated society paper. whenever a stoic appeared, he was at once cut out, framed, glassed, and hung alongside his fellows in this room. and george moved from one to another till he came to the last. it was himself. he was represented in very perfectly cut clothes, with slightly crooked elbows, and race-glasses slung across him. his head, disproportionately large, was surmounted by a black billycock hat with a very flat brim. the artist had thought long and carefully over the face. the lips and cheeks and chin were moulded so as to convey a feeling of the unimaginative joy of life, but to their shape and complexion was imparted a suggestion of obstinacy and choler. to the eyes was given a glazed look, and between them set a little line, as though their owner were thinking: 'hard work, hard work! noblesse oblige. i must keep it going!' underneath was written: "the ambler." george stood long looking at the apotheosis of his fame. his star was high in the heavens. with the eye of his mind he saw a long procession of turf triumphs, a long vista of days and nights, and in them, round them, of them--helen bellow; and by an odd coincidence, as he stood there, the artist's glazed look came over his eyes, the little line sprang up between them. he turned at the sound of voices and sank into a chair. to have been caught thus gazing at himself would have jarred on his sense of what was right. it was twenty minutes past seven, when, in evening dress, he left the club, and took a shilling's-worth to buckingham gate. here he dismissed his cab, and turned up the large fur collar of his coat. between the brim of his opera-hat and the edge of that collar nothing but his eyes were visible. he waited, compressing his lips, scrutinising each hansom that went by. in the soft glow of one coming fast he saw a hand raised to the trap. the cab stopped; george stepped out of the shadow and got in. the cab went on, and mrs. bellew's arm was pressed against his own. it was their simple formula for arriving at a restaurant together. in the third of several little rooms, where the lights were shaded, they sat down at a table in a corner, facing each a wall, and, underneath, her shoe stole out along the floor and touched his patent leather boot. in their eyes, for all their would-be wariness, a light smouldered which would not be put out. an habitue, sipping claret at a table across the little room, watched them in a mirror, and there came into his old heart a glow of warmth, half ache, half sympathy; a smile of understanding stirred the crow's-feet round his eyes. its sweetness ebbed, and left a little grin about his shaven lips. behind the archway in the neighbouring room two waiters met, and in their nods and glances was that same unconscious sympathy, the same conscious grin. and the old habitue thought: 'how long will it last?'.... "waiter, some coffee and my bill!" he had meant to go to the play, but he lingered instead to look at mrs. bellew's white shoulders and bright eyes in the kindly mirror. and he thought: 'young days at present. ah, young days!'.... "waiter, a benedictine!" and hearing her laugh, o his old heart ached. 'no one,' he thought, 'will ever laugh like that for me again!'.... "here, waiter, how's this? you've charged me for an ice!" but when the waiter had gone he glanced back into the mirror, and saw them clink their glasses filled with golden bubbling wine, and he thought: 'wish you good luck! for a flash of those teeth, my dear, i'd give----' but his eyes fell on the paper flowers adorning his little table--yellow and red and green; hard, lifeless, tawdry. he saw them suddenly as they were, with the dregs of wine in his glass, the spill of gravy on the cloth, the ruin of the nuts that he had eaten. wheezing and coughing, 'this place is not what it was,' he thought; 'i shan't come here again!' he struggled into his coat to go, but he looked once more in the mirror, and met their eyes resting on himself. in them he read the careless pity of the young for the old. his eyes answered the reflection of their eyes, 'wait, wait! it is young days yet! i wish you no harm, my dears!' and limping-for one of his legs was lame--he went away. but george and his partner sat on, and with every glass of wine the light in their eyes grew brighter. for who was there now in the room to mind? not a living soul! only a tall, dark young waiter, a little cross-eyed, who was in consumption; only the little wine-waiter, with a pallid face, and a look as if he suffered. and the whole world seemed of the colour of the wine they had been drinking; but they talked of indifferent things, and only their eyes, bemused and shining, really spoke. the dark young waiter stood apart, unmoving, and his cross-eyed glance, fixed on her shoulders, had all unconsciously the longing of a saint in some holy picture. unseen, behind the serving screen, the little wine-waiter poured out and drank a glass from a derelict bottle. through a chink of the red blinds an eye peered in from the chill outside, staring and curious, till its owner passed on in the cold. it was long after nine when they rose. the dark young waiter laid her cloak upon her with adoring hands. she looked back at him, and in her eyes was an infinite indulgence. 'god knows,' she seemed to say, 'if i could make you happy as well, i would. why should one suffer? life is strong and good!' the young waiter's cross-eyed glance fell before her, and he bowed above the money in his hand. quickly before them the little wine-waiter hurried to the door, his suffering face screwed into one long smile. "good-night, madam; good-night, sir. thank you very much!" and he, too, remained bowed over his hand, and his smile relaxed. but in the cab george's arm stole round her underneath the cloak, and they were borne on in the stream of hurrying hansoms, carrying couples like themselves, cut off from all but each other's eyes, from all but each other's touch; and with their eyes turned in the half-dark they spoke together in low tones. part ii chapter i gregory reopens the campaign at one end of the walled garden which mr. pendyce had formed in imitation of that at dear old strathbegally, was a virgin orchard of pear and cherry trees. they blossomed early, and by the end of the third week in april the last of the cherries had broken into flower. in the long grass, underneath, a wealth of daffodils, jonquils, and narcissus, came up year after year, and sunned their yellow stars in the light which dappled through the blossom. and here mrs. pendyce would come, tan gauntlets on her hands, and stand, her face a little flushed with stooping, as though the sight of all that bloom was restful. it was due to her that these old trees escaped year after year the pruning and improvements which the genius of the squire would otherwise have applied. she had been brought up in an old totteridge tradition that fruit-trees should be left to themselves, while her husband, possessed of a grasp of the subject not more than usually behind the times, was all for newer methods. she had fought for those trees. they were as yet the only things she had fought for in her married life, and horace pendyce still remembered with a discomfort robbed by time of poignancy how she had stood with her back to their bedroom door and said, "if you cut those poor trees, horace, i won't live here!" he had at once expressed his determination to have them pruned; but, having put off the action for a day or two, the trees still stood unpruned thirty-three years later. he had even come to feel rather proud of the fact that they continued to bear fruit, and would speak of them thus: "queer fancy of my wife's, never been cut. and yet, remarkable thing, they do better than any of the others!" this spring, when all was so forward, and the cuckoos already in full song, when the scent of young larches in the new plantation (planted the year of george's birth) was in the air like the perfume of celestial lemons, she came to the orchard more than usual, and her spirit felt the stirring, the old, half-painful yearning for she knew not what, that she had felt so often in her first years at worsted skeynes. and sitting there on a green-painted seat under the largest of the cherry-trees, she thought even more than her wont of george, as though her son's spirit, vibrating in its first real passion, were calling to her for sympathy. he had been down so little all that winter, twice for a couple of days' shooting, once for a week-end, when she had thought him looking thinner and rather worn. he had missed christmas for the first time. with infinite precaution she had asked him casually if he had seen helen bellew, and he had answered, "oh yes, i see her once in a way!" secretly all through the winter she consulted the times newspaper for mention of george's horse, and was disappointed not to find any. one day, however, in february, discovering him absolutely at the head of several lists of horses with figures after them, she wrote off at once with a joyful heart. of five lists in which the ambler's name appeared, there was only one in which he was second. george's answer came in the course of a week or so. "my dear mother, "what you saw were the weights for the spring handicaps. they've simply done me out of everything. in great haste, "your affectionate son, "george pendyce." as the spring approached, the vision of her independent visit to london, which had sustained her throughout the winter, having performed its annual function, grew mistier and mistier, and at last faded away. she ceased even to dream of it, as though it had never been, nor did george remind her, and as usual, she ceased even to wonder whether he would remind her. she thought instead of the season visit, and its scurry of parties, with a sort of languid fluttering. for worsted skeynes, and all that worsted skeynes stood for, was like a heavy horseman guiding her with iron hands along a narrow lane; she dreamed of throwing him in the open, but the open she never reached. she woke at seven with her tea, and from seven to eight made little notes on tablets, while on his back mr. pendyce snored lightly. she rose at eight. at nine she poured out coffee. from half-past nine to ten she attended to the housekeeper and her birds. from ten to eleven she attended to the gardener and her dress. from eleven to twelve she wrote invitations to persons for whom she did not care, and acceptances to persons who did not care for her; she drew out also and placed in due sequence cheques for mr. pendyce's signature; and secured receipts, carefully docketed on the back, within an elastic band; as a rule, also, she received a visit from mrs. husell barter. from twelve to one she walked with her and "the dear dogs" to the village, where she stood hesitatingly in the cottage doors of persons who were shy of her. from half-past one to two she lunched. from two to three she rested on a sofa in the white morning-room with the newspaper in her hand, trying to read the parliamentary debate, and thinking of other things. from three to half-past four she went to her dear flowers, from whom she was liable to be summoned at any moment by the arrival of callers; or, getting into the carriage, was driven to some neighbour's mansion, where she sat for half an hour and came away. at half-past four she poured out tea. at five she knitted a tie, or socks, for george or gerald, and listened with a gentle smile to what was going on. from six to seven she received from the squire his impressions of parliament and things at large. from seven to seven-thirty she changed to a black low dress, with old lace about the neck. at seven-thirty she dined. at a quarter to nine she listened to norah playing two waltzes of chopin's, and a piece called "serenade du printemps" by baff, and to bee singing "the mikado," or the "saucy girl" from nine to ten thirty she played a game called piquet, which her father had taught her, if she could get anyone with whom to play; but as this was seldom, she played as a rule patience by herself. at ten-thirty she went to bed. at eleven-thirty punctually the squire woke her. at one o'clock she went to sleep. on mondays she wrote out in her clear totteridge hand, with its fine straight strokes, a list of library books, made up without distinction of all that were recommended in the ladies' paper that came weekly to worsted skeynes. periodically mr. pendyce would hand her a list of his own, compiled out of the times and the field in the privacy of his study; this she sent too. thus was the household supplied with literature unerringly adapted to its needs; nor was it possible for any undesirable book to find its way into the house--not that this would have mattered much to mrs. pendyce, for as she often said with gentle regret, "my dear, i have no time to read." this afternoon it was so warm that the bees were all around among the blossoms, and two thrushes, who had built in a yew-tree that watched over the scotch garden, were in a violent flutter because one of their chicks had fallen out of the nest. the mother bird, at the edge of the long orchard grass, was silent, trying by example to still the tiny creature's cheeping, lest it might attract some large or human thing. mrs. pendyce, sitting under the oldest cherry-tree, looked for the sound, and when she had located it, picked up the baby bird, and, as she knew the whereabouts of all the nests, put it back into its cradle, to the loud terror and grief of the parent birds. she went back to the bench and sat down again. she had in her soul something of the terror of the mother thrush. the maidens had been paying the call that preceded their annual migration to town, and the peculiar glow which lady maiden had the power of raising had not yet left her cheeks. true, she had the comfort of the thought, 'ellen maiden is so bourgeoise,' but to-day it did not still her heart. accompanied by one pale daughter who never left her, and two pale dogs forced to run all the way, now lying under the carriage with their tongues out, lady maiden had come and stayed full time; and for three-quarters of that time she had seemed, as it were, labouring under a sense of duty unfulfilled; for the remaining quarter mrs. pendyce had laboured under a sense of duty fulfilled. "my dear," lady maiden had said, having told the pale daughter to go into the conservatory, "i'm the last person in the world to repeat gossip, as you know; but i think it's only right to tell you that i've been hearing things. you see, my boy fred" (who would ultimately become sir frederick maiden) "belongs to the same club as your son george--the stoics. all young men belong there of course-i mean, if they're anybody. i'm sorry to say there's no doubt about it; your son has been seen dining at--perhaps i ought not to mention the name--blafard's, with mrs. bellew. i dare say you don't know what sort of a place blafard's is--a lot of little rooms where people go when they don't want to be seen. i've never been there, of course; but i can imagine it perfectly. and not once, but frequently. i thought i would speak to you, because i do think it's so scandalous of her in her position." an azalea in a blue and white pot had stood between them, and in this plant mrs. pendyce buried her cheeks and eyes; but when she raised her face her eyebrows were lifted to their utmost limit, her lips trembled with anger. "oh," she said, "didn't you know? there's nothing in that; it's the latest thing!" for a moment lady maiden wavered, then duskily flushed; her temperament and principles had recovered themselves. "if that," she said with some dignity, "is the latest thing, i think it is quite time we were back in town." she rose, and as she rose, such was her unfortunate conformation, it flashed through mrs. pendyce's mind 'why was i afraid? she's only--' and then as quickly: 'poor woman! how can she help her legs being short?' but when she was gone, side by side with the pale daughter, the pale dogs once more running behind the carriage, margery pendyce put her hand to her heart. and out here amongst the bees and blossom, where the blackbirds were improving each minute their new songs, and the air was so fainting sweet with scents, her heart would not be stilled, but throbbed as though danger were coming on herself; and she saw her son as a little boy again in a dirty holland suit with a straw hat down the back of his neck, flushed and sturdy, as he came to her from some adventure. and suddenly a gush of emotion from deep within her heart and the heart of the spring day, a sense of being severed from him by a great, remorseless power, came over her; and taking out a tiny embroidered handkerchief, she wept. round her the bees hummed carelessly, the blossom dropped, the dappled sunlight covered her with a pattern as of her own fine lace. from the home farm came the lowing of the cows on their way to milking, and, strange sound in that well-ordered home, a distant piping on a penny flute .... "mother, mother, mo-o-ther!" mrs. pendyce passed her handkerchief across her eyes, and instinctively obeying the laws of breeding, her face lost all trace of its emotion. she waited, crumpling the tiny handkerchief in her gauntleted hand. "mother! oh, there you are! here's gregory vigil!" norah, a fox-terrier on either side, was coming down the path; behind her, unhatted, showed gregory's sanguine face between his wings of grizzled hair. "i suppose you're going to talk. i'm going over to the rectory. ta-to!" and preceded by her dogs, norah went on. mrs. pendyce put out her hand. "well, grig," she said, "this is a surprise." gregory seated himself beside her on the bench. "i've brought you this," he said. "i want you to look at it before i answer." mrs. pendyce, who vaguely felt that he would want her to see things as he was seeing them, took a letter from him with a sinking heart. "private. "lincoln's inn fields, "april , . "my dear vigil, "i have now secured such evidence as should warrant our instituting a suit. i've written your ward to that effect, and am awaiting her instructions. unfortunately, we have no act of cruelty, and i've been obliged to draw her attention to the fact that, should her husband defend the suit, it will be very difficult to get the court to accept their separation in the light of desertion on his part--difficult indeed, even if he doesn't defend the suit. in divorce cases one has to remember that what has to be kept out is often more important than what has to be got in, and it would be useful to know, therefore, whether there is likelihood of opposition. i do not advise any direct approaching of the husband, but if you are possessed of the information you might let me know. i hate humbug, my dear vigil, and i hate anything underhand, but divorce is always a dirty business, and while the law is shaped as at present, and the linen washed in public, it will remain impossible for anyone, guilty or innocent, and even for us lawyers, to avoid soiling our hands in one way or another. i regret it as much as you do. "there is a new man writing verse in the tertiary, some of it quite first-rate. you might look at the last number. my blossom this year is magnificent. "with kind regards, i am, "very sincerely yours, "edmund paramor. "gregory vigil, esq." mrs. pendyce dropped the letter in her lap, and looked at her cousin. "he was at harrow with horace. i do like him. he is one of the very nicest men i know." it was clear that she was trying to gain time. gregory began pacing up and down. "paramor is a man for whom i have the highest respect. i would trust him before anyone." it was clear that he, too, was trying to gain time. "oh, mind my daffodils, please!" gregory went down on his knees, and raised the bloom that he had trodden on. he then offered it to mrs. pendyce. the action was one to which she was so unaccustomed that it struck her as slightly ridiculous. "my dear grig, you'll get rheumatism, and spoil that nice suit; the grass comes off so terribly!" gregory got up, and looked shamefacedly at his knees. "the knee is not what it used to be," he said. mrs. pendyce smiled. "you should keep your knees for helen bellow, grig. i was always five years older than you." gregory rumpled up his hair. "kneeling's out of fashion, but i thought in the country you wouldn't mind!" "you don't notice things, dear grig. in the country it's still more out of fashion. you wouldn't find a woman within thirty miles of here who would like a man to kneel to her. we've lost the habit. she would think she was being made fun of. we soon grow out of vanity!" "in london," said gregory, "i hear all women intend to be men; but in the country i thought----" "in the country, grig, all women would like to be men, but they don't dare to try. they trot behind." as if she had been guilty of thoughts too insightful, mrs. pendyce blushed. gregory broke out suddenly: "i can't bear to think of women like that!" again mrs. pendyce smiled. "you see, grig dear, you are not married." "i detest the idea that marriage changes our views, margery; i loathe it." "mind my daffodils!" murmured mrs. pendyce. she was thinking all the time: 'that dreadful letter! what am i to do?' and as though he knew her thoughts, gregory said: "i shall assume that bellew will not defend the case. if he has a spark of chivalry in him he will be only too glad to see her free. i will never believe that any man could be such a soulless clod as to wish to keep her bound. i don't pretend to understand the law, but it seems to me that there's only one way for a man to act and after all bellew's a gentleman. you'll see that he will act like one!" mrs. pendyce looked at the daffodil in her lap. "i have only seen him three or four times, but it seemed to me, grig, that he was a man who might act in one way today and another tomorrow. he is so very different from all the men about here." "when it comes to the deep things of life," said gregory, "one man is much as another. is there any man you know who would be so lacking in chivalry as to refuse in these circumstances?" mrs. pendyce looked at him with a confused expression--wonder, admiration, irony, and even fear, struggled in her eyes. "i can think of dozens." gregory clutched his forehead. "margery," he said, "i hate your cynicism. i don't know where you get it from." "i'm so sorry; i didn't mean to be cynical--i didn't, really. i only spoke from what i've seen." "seen?" said gregory. "if i were to go by what i saw daily, hourly, in london in the course of my work i should commit suicide within a week." "but what else can one go by?" without answering, gregory walked to the edge of the orchard, and stood gazing over the scotch garden, with his face a little tilted towards the sky. mrs. pendyce felt he was grieving that she failed to see whatever it was he saw up there, and she was sorry. he came back, and said: "we won't discuss it any more." very dubiously she heard those words, but as she could not express the anxiety and doubt torturing her soul, she told him tea was ready. but gregory would not come in just yet out of the sun. in the drawing-room beatrix was already giving tea to young tharp and the reverend husell barter. and the sound of these well-known voices restored to mrs. pendyce something of her tranquillity. the rector came towards her at once with a teacup in his hand. "my wife has got a headache," he said. "she wanted to come over with me, but i made her lie down. nothing like lying down for a headache. we expect it in june, you know. let me get you your tea." mrs. pendyce, already aware even to the day of what he expected in june, sat down, and looked at mr. barter with a slight feeling of surprise. he was really a very good fellow; it was nice of him to make his wife lie down! she thought his broad, red-brown face, with its protecting, not unhumorous, lower lip, looked very friendly. roy, the skye terrier at her feet, was smelling at the reverend gentleman's legs with a slow movement of his tail. "the old dog likes me," said the rector; "they know a dog-lover when they see one wonderful creatures, dogs! i'm sometimes tempted to think they may have souls!" mrs. pendyce answered: "horace says he's getting too old." the dog looked up in her face, and her lip quivered. the rector laughed. "don't you worry about that; there's plenty of life in him." and he added unexpectedly: "i couldn't bear to put a dog away, the friend of man. no, no; let nature see to that." over at the piano bee and young tharp were turning the pages of the "saucy girl"; the room was full of the scent of azaleas; and mr. barter, astride of a gilt chair, looked almost sympathetic, gazing tenderly at the old skye. mrs. pendyce felt a sudden yearning to free her mind, a sudden longing to ask a man's advice. "oh, mr. barter," she said, "my cousin, gregory vigil, has just brought me some news; it is confidential, please. helen bellew is going to sue for a divorce. i wanted to ask you whether you could tell me----" looking in the rector's face, she stopped. "a divorce! h'm! really!" a chill of terror came over mrs. pendyce. "of course you will not mention it to anyone, not even to horace. it has nothing to do with us." mr. barter bowed; his face wore the expression it so often wore in school on sunday mornings. "h'm!" he said again. it flashed through mrs. pendyce that this man with the heavy jowl and menacing eyes, who sat so square on that flimsy chair, knew something. it was as though he had answered: "this is not a matter for women; you will be good enough to leave it to me." with the exception of those few words of lady malden's, and the recollection of george's face when he had said, "oh yes, i see her now and then," she had no evidence, no knowledge, nothing to go on; but she knew from some instinctive source that her son was mrs. bellew's lover. so, with terror and a strange hope, she saw gregory entering the room. "perhaps," she thought, "he will make grig stop it." she poured out gregory's tea, followed bee and cecil tharp into the conservatory, and left the two men together: chapter ii continued influence of the reverend hussell barter to understand and sympathise with the feelings and action of the rector of worsted skeynes, one must consider his origin and the circumstances of his life. the second son of an old suffolk family, he had followed the routine of his house, and having passed at oxford through certain examinations, had been certificated at the age of twenty-four as a man fitted to impart to persons of both sexes rules of life and conduct after which they had been groping for twice or thrice that number of years. his character, never at any time undecided, was by this fortunate circumstance crystallised and rendered immune from the necessity for self-search and spiritual struggle incidental to his neighbours. since he was a man neither below nor above the average, it did not occur to him to criticise or place himself in opposition to a system which had gone on so long and was about to do him so much good. like all average men, he was a believer in authority, and none the less because authority placed a large portion of itself in his hands. it would, indeed, have been unwarrantable to expect a man of his birth, breeding, and education to question the machine of which he was himself a wheel. he had dropped, therefore, at the age of twenty-six, insensibly, on the death of an uncle, into the family living at worsted skeynes. he had been there ever since. it was a constant and natural grief to him that on his death the living would go neither to his eldest nor his second son, but to the second son of his elder brother, the squire. at the age of twenty-seven he had married miss rose twining, the fifth daughter of a huntingdonshire parson, and in less than eighteen years begotten ten children, and was expecting the eleventh, all healthy and hearty like him self. a family group hung over the fireplace in the study, under the framed and illuminated text, "judge not, that ye be not judged," which he had chosen as his motto in the first year of his cure, and never seen any reason to change. in that family group mr. barter sat in the centre with his dog between his legs; his wife stood behind him, and on both sides the children spread out like the wings of a fan or butterfly. the bills of their schooling were beginning to weigh rather heavily, and he complained a good deal; but in principle he still approved of the habit into which he had got, and his wife never complained of anything. the study was furnished with studious simplicity; many a boy had been, not unkindly, caned there, and in one place the old turkey carpet was rotted away, but whether by their tears or by their knees, not even mr. barter knew. in a cabinet on one side of the fire he kept all his religious books, many of them well worn; in a cabinet on the other side he kept his bats, to which he was constantly attending; a fishing-rod and a gun-case stood modestly in a corner. the archway between the drawers of his writing-table held a mat for his bulldog, a prize animal, wont to lie there and guard his master's legs when he was writing his sermons. like those of his dog, the rector's good points were the old english virtues of obstinacy, courage, intolerance, and humour; his bad points, owing to the circumstances of his life, had never been brought to his notice. when, therefore, he found himself alone with gregory vigil, he approached him as one dog will approach another, and came at once to the matter in hand. "it's some time since i had the pleasure of meeting you, mr. vigil," he said. "mrs. pendyce has been giving me in confidence the news you've brought down. i'm bound to tell you at once that i'm surprised." gregory made a little movement of recoil, as though his delicacy had received a shock. "indeed!" he said, with a sort of quivering coldness. the rector, quick to note opposition, repeated emphatically: "more than surprised; in fact, i think there must be some mistake." "indeed?" said gregory again. a change came over mr. barter's face. it had been grave, but was now heavy and threatening. "i have to say to you," he said, "that somehow--somehow, this divorce must be put a stop to." gregory flushed painfully. "on what grounds? i am not aware that my ward is a parishioner of yours, mr. barter, or that if she were----" the rector closed in on him, his head thrust forward, his lower lip projecting. "if she were doing her duty," he said, "she would be. i'm not considering her--i'm considering her husband; he is a parishioner of mine, and i say this divorce must be stopped." gregory retreated no longer. "on what grounds?" he said again, trembling all over. "i've no wish to enter into particulars," said mr. barter, "but if you force me to, i shall not hesitate." "i regret that i must," answered gregory. "without mentioning names, then, i say that she is not a fit person to bring a suit for divorce!" "you say that?" said gregory. "you----" he could not go on. "you will not move me, mr. vigil," said the rector, with a grim little smile. "i have my duty to do." gregory recovered possession of himself with an effort. "you have said that which no one but a clergyman could say with impunity," he said freezingly. "be so good as to explain yourself." "my explanation," said mr. barter, "is what i have seen with my own eyes." he raised those eyes to gregory. their pupils were contracted to pin-points, the light-grey irises around had a sort of swimming glitter, and round these again the whites were injected with blood. "if you must know, with my own eyes i've seen her in that very conservatory over there kissing a man." gregory threw up his hand. "how dare you!" he whispered. again mr. barter's humorous under-lip shot out. "i dare a good deal more than that, mr. vigil," he said, "as you will find; and i say this to you--stop this divorce, or i'll stop it myself!" gregory turned to the window. when he came back he was outwardly calm. "you have been guilty of indelicacy," he said. "continue in your delusion, think what you like, do what you like. the matter will go on. good-evening, sir." and turning on his heel, he left the room. mr. barter stepped forward. the words, "you have been guilty of indelicacy," whirled round his brain till every blood vessel in his face and neck was swollen to bursting, and with a hoarse sound like that of an animal in pain he pursued gregory to the door. it was shut in his face. and since on taking orders he had abandoned for ever the use of bad language, he was very near an apoplectic fit. suddenly he became aware that mrs. pendyce was looking at him from the conservatory door. her face was painfully white, her eyebrows lifted, and before that look mr. barter recovered a measure of self-possession. "is anything the matter, mr. barter?" the rector smiled grimly. "nothing, nothing," he said. "i must ask you to excuse me, that's all. i've a parish matter to attend to." when he found himself in the drive, the feeling of vertigo and suffocation passed, but left him unrelieved. he had, in fact, happened on one of those psychological moments which enable a man's true nature to show itself. accustomed to say of himself bluffly, "yes, yes; i've a hot temper, soon over," he had never, owing to the autocracy of his position, had a chance of knowing the tenacity of his soul. so accustomed and so able for many years to vent displeasure at once, he did not himself know the wealth of his old english spirit, did not know of what an ugly grip he was capable. he did not even know it at this minute, conscious only of a sort of black wonder at this monstrous conduct to a man in his position, doing his simple duty. the more he reflected, the more intolerable did it seem that a woman like this mrs. bellew should have the impudence to invoke the law of the land in her favour a woman who was no better than a common baggage--a woman he had seen kissing george pendyce. to have suggested to mr. barter that there was something pathetic in this black wonder of his, pathetic in the spectacle of his little soul delivering its little judgments, stumbling its little way along with such blind certainty under the huge heavens, amongst millions of organisms as important as itself, would have astounded him; and with every step he took the blacker became his wonder, the more fixed his determination to permit no such abuse of morality, no such disregard of hussell barter. "you have been guilty of indelicacy!" this indictment had a wriggling sting, and lost no venom from the fact that he could in no wise have perceived where the indelicacy of his conduct lay. but he did not try to perceive it. against himself, clergyman and gentleman, the monstrosity of the charge was clear. this was a point of morality. he felt no anger against george; it was the woman that excited his just wrath. for so long he had been absolute among women, with the power, as it were, over them of life and death. this was flat immorality! he had never approved of her leaving her husband; he had never approved of her at all! he turned his steps towards the firs. from above the hedges the sleepy cows looked down; a yaffle laughed a field or two away; in the sycamores, which had come out before their time, the bees hummed. under the smile of the spring the innumerable life of the fields went carelessly on around that square black figure ploughing along the lane with head bent down under a wide-brimmed hat. george pendyce, in a fly drawn by an old grey horse, the only vehicle that frequented the station at worsted skeynes, passed him in the lane, and leaned back to avoid observation. he had not forgotten the tone of the rector's voice in the smoking-room on the night of the dance. george was a man who could remember as well as another. in the corner of the old fly, that rattled and smelled of stables and stale tobacco, he fixed his moody eyes on the driver's back and the ears of the old grey horse, and never stirred till they set him down at the hall door. he went at once to his room, sending word that he had come for the night. his mother heard the news with feelings of joy and dread, and she dressed quickly for dinner, that she might see him the sooner. the squire came into her room just as she was going down. he had been engaged all day at sessions, and was in one of the moods of apprehension as to the future which but seldom came over him. "why didn't you keep vigil to dinner?" he said. "i could have given him things for the night. i wanted to talk to him about insuring my life; he knows, about that. there'll be a lot of money wanted, to pay my death-duties. and if the radicals get in i shouldn't be surprised if they put them up fifty per cent." "i wanted to keep him," said mrs. pendyce, "but he went away without saying good-bye." "he's an odd fellow!" for some moments mr. pendyce made reflections on this breach of manners. he had a nice standard of conduct in all social affairs. "i'm having trouble with that man peacock again. he's the most pig-headed----what are you in such a hurry for, margery?" "george is here!" "george? well, i suppose he can wait till dinner. i have a lot of things i want to tell you about. we had a case of arson to-day. old quarryman was away, and i was in the chair. it was that fellow woodford that we convicted for poaching--a very gross case. and this is what he does when he comes out. they tried to prove insanity. it's the rankest case of revenge that ever came before me. we committed him, of course. he'll get a swinging sentence. of all dreadful crimes, arson is the most----" mr. pendyce could find no word to characterise his opinion of this offence, and drawing his breath between his teeth, passed into his dressing-room. mrs. pendyce hastened quietly out, and went to her son's room. she found george in his shirtsleeves, inserting the links of his cuffs. "let me do that for you, my dear boy! how dreadfully they starch your cuffs! it is so nice to do something for you sometimes!" george answered her: "well, mother, and how have you been?" over mrs. pendyce's face came a look half sorrowful, half arch, but wholly pathetic. 'what! is it beginning already? oh, don't put me away from you!' she seemed to say. "very well, thank you, dear. and you?" george did not meet her eyes. "so-so," he said. "i took rather a nasty knock over the 'city' last week." "is that a race?" asked mrs. pendyce. and by some secret process she knew that he had hurried out that piece of bad news to divert her attention from another subject, for george had never been a "crybaby." she sat down on the edge of the sofa, and though the gong was about to sound, incited him to dawdle and stay with her. "and have you any other news, dear? it seems such an age since we've seen you. i think i've told you all our budget in my letters. you know there's going to be another event at the rectory?" "another? i passed barter on the way up. i thought he looked a bit blue." a look of pain shot into mrs. pendyce's eyes. "oh, i'm afraid that couldn't have been the reason, dear." and she stopped, but to still her own fears hurried on again. "if i'd known you'd been coming, i'd have kept cecil tharp. vic has had such dear little puppies. would you like one? they've all got that nice black smudge round the eye." she was watching him as only a mother can watch-stealthily, minutely, longingly, every little movement, every little change of his face, and more than all, that fixed something behind which showed the abiding temper and condition of his heart. 'something is making him unhappy,' she thought. 'he is changed since i saw him last, and i can't get at it. i seem to be so far from him--so far!' and somehow she knew he had come down this evening because he was lonely and unhappy, and instinct had made him turn to her. but she knew that trying to get nearer would only make him put her farther off, and she could not bear this, so she asked him nothing, and bent all her strength on hiding from him the pain she felt. she went downstairs with her arm in his, and leaned very heavily on it, as though again trying to get close to him, and forget the feeling she had had all that winter--the feeling of being barred away, the feeling of secrecy and restraint. mr. pendyce and the two girls were in the drawing-room. "well, george," said the squire dryly, "i'm glad you've come. how you can stick in london at this time of year! now you're down you'd better stay a couple of days. i want to take you round the estate; you know nothing about anything. i might die at any moment, for all you can tell. just make up your mind to stay." george gave him a moody look. "sorry," he said; "i've got an engagement in town." mr. pendyce rose and stood with his back to the fire. "that's it," he said: "i ask you to do a simple thing for your own good--and--you've got an engagement. it's always like that, and your mother backs you up. bee, go and play me something." the squire could not bear being played to, but it was the only command likely to be obeyed that came into his head. the absence of guests made little difference to a ceremony esteemed at worsted skeynes the crowning blessing of the day. the courses, however, were limited to seven, and champagne was not drunk. the squire drank a glass or so of claret, for, as he said, "my dear old father took his bottle of port every night of his life, and it never gave him a twinge. if i were to go on at that rate it would kill me in a year." his daughters drank water. mrs. pendyce, cherishing a secret preference for champagne, drank sparingly of a spanish burgundy, procured for her by mr. pendyce at a very reasonable price, and corked between meals with a special cork. she offered it to george. "try some of my burgundy, dear; it's so nice." but george refused and asked for whisky-and-soda, glancing at the butler, who brought it in a very yellow state. under the influence of dinner the squire recovered equanimity, though he still dwelt somewhat sadly on the future. "you young fellows," he said, with a friendly look at george, "are such individualists. you make a business of enjoying yourselves. with your piquet and your racing and your billiards and what not, you'll be used up before you're fifty. you don't let your imaginations work. a green old age ought to be your ideal, instead of which it seems to be a green youth. ha!" mr. pendyce looked at his daughters till they said: "oh, father, how can you!" norah, who had the more character of the two, added: "isn't father rather dreadful, mother?" but mrs. pendyce was looking at her son. she had longed so many evenings to see him sitting there. "we'll have a game of piquet to-night, george." george looked up and nodded with a glum smile. on the thick, soft carpet round the table the butler and second footman moved. the light of the wax candles fell lustrous and subdued on the silver and fruit and flowers, on the girls' white necks, on george's well-coloured face and glossy shirt-front, gleamed in the jewels on his mother's long white fingers, showed off the squire's erect and still spruce figure; the air was languorously sweet with the perfume of azaleas and narcissus bloom. bee, with soft eyes, was thinking of young tharp, who to-day had told her that he loved her, and wondering if father would object. her mother was thinking of george, stealing timid glances at his moody face. there was no sound save the tinkle of forks and the voices of norah and the squire, talking of little things. outside, through the long opened windows, was the still, wide country; the full moon, tinted apricot and figured like a coin, hung above the cedar-trees, and by her light the whispering stretches of the silent fields lay half enchanted, half asleep, and all beyond that little ring of moonshine, unfathomed and unknown, was darkness--a great darkness wrapping from their eyes the restless world. chapter iii the sinister night on the day of the big race at kempton park, in which the ambler, starting favourite, was left at the post, george pendyce had just put his latch-key in the door of the room he had taken near mrs. bellew, when a man, stepping quickly from behind, said: "mr. george pendyce, i believe." george turned. "yes; what do you want?" the man put into george's hand a long envelope. "from messrs. frost and tuckett." george opened it, and read from the top of a slip of paper: "'admiralty, probate, and divorce. the humble petition of jaspar bellew-----'" he lifted his eyes, and his look, uncannily impassive, unresenting, unangered, dogged, caused the messenger to drop his gaze as though he had hit a man who was down. "thanks. good-night!" he shut the door, and read the document through. it contained some precise details, and ended in a claim for damages, and george smiled. had he received this document three months ago, he would not have taken it thus. three months ago he would have felt with rage that he was caught. his thoughts would have run thus 'i have got her into a mess; i have got myself into a mess. i never thought this would happen. this is the devil! i must see someone--i must stop it. there must be a way out.' having but little imagination, his thoughts would have beaten their wings against this cage, and at once he would have tried to act. but this was not three months ago, and now---- he lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa, and the chief feeling in his heart was a strange hope, a sort of funereal gladness. he would have to go and see her at once, that very night; an excuse--no need to wait in here--to wait--wait on the chance of her coming. he got up and drank some whisky, then went back to the sofa and sat down again. 'if she is not here by eight,' he thought, 'i will go round.' opposite was a full-length mirror, and he turned to the wall to avoid it. there was fixed on his face a look of gloomy determination, as though he were thinking, 'i'll show them all that i'm not beaten yet.' at the click of a latch-key he scrambled off the sofa, and his face resumed its mask. she came in as usual, dropped her opera cloak, and stood before him with bare shoulders. looking in her face, he wondered if she knew. "i thought i'd better come," she said. "i suppose you've had the same charming present?" george nodded. there was a minute's silence. "it's really rather funny. i'm sorry for you, george." george laughed too, but his laugh was different. "i will do all i can," he said. mrs. bellew came close to him. "i've seen about the kempton race. what shocking luck! i suppose you've lost a lot. poor boy! it never rains but it pours." george looked down. "that's all right; nothing matters when i have you." he felt her arms fasten behind his neck, but they were cool as marble; he met her eyes, and they were mocking and compassionate. their cab, wheeling into the main thoroughfare, joined in the race of cabs flying as for life toward the east--past the park, where the trees, new-leafed, were swinging their skirts like ballet-dancers in the wind; past the stoics' and the other clubs, rattling, jingling, jostling for the lead, shooting past omnibuses that looked cosy in the half-light with their lamps and rows of figures solemnly opposed. at blafard's the tall dark young waiter took her cloak with reverential fingers; the little wine-waiter smiled below the suffering in his eyes. the same red-shaded lights fell on her arms and shoulders, the same flowers of green and yellow grew bravely in the same blue vases. on the menu were written the same dishes. the same idle eye peered through the chink at the corner of the red blinds with its stare of apathetic wonder. often during that dinner george looked at her face by stealth, and its expression baffled him, so careless was it. and, unlike her mood of late, that had been glum and cold, she was in the wildest spirits. people looked round from the other little tables, all full now that the season had begun, her laugh was so infectious; and george felt a sort of disgust. what was it in this woman that made her laugh, when his own heart was heavy? but he said nothing; he dared not even look at her, for fear his eyes should show his feeling. 'we ought to be squaring our accounts,' he thought--'looking things in the face. something must be done; and here she is laughing and making everyone stare!' done! but what could be done, when it was all like quicksand? the other little tables emptied one by one. "george," she said, "take me somewhere where we can dance!" george stared at her. "my dear girl, how can i? there is no such place!" "take me to your bohemians!" "you can't possibly go to a place like that." "why not? who cares where we go, or what we do?" "i care!" "ah, my dear george, you and your sort are only half alive!" sullenly george answered: "what do you take me for? a cad?" but there was fear, not anger, in his heart. "well, then, let's drive into the east end. for goodness' sake, let's do something not quite proper!" they took a hansom and drove east. it was the first time either had ever been in that unknown land. "close your cloak, dear; it looks odd down here." mrs. bellew laughed. "you'll be just like your father when you're sixty, george." and she opened her cloak the wider. round a barrel-organ at the corner of a street were girls in bright colours dancing. she called to the cabman to stop. "let's watch those children!" "you'll only make a show of us." mrs. bellew put her hands on the cab door. "i've a good mind to get out and dance with them!" "you're mad to-night," said george. "sit still!" he stretched out his arm and barred her way. the passers-by looked curiously at the little scene. a crowd began to collect. "go on!" cried george. there was a cheer from the crowd; the driver whipped his horse; they darted east again. it was striking twelve when the cab put them down at last near the old church on chelsea embankment, and they had hardly spoken for an hour. and all that hour george was feeling: 'this is the woman for whom i've given it all up. this is the woman to whom i shall be tied. this is the woman i cannot tear myself away from. if i could, i would never see her again. but i can't live without her. i must go on suffering when she's with me, suffering when she's away from me. and god knows how it's all to end!' he took her hand in the darkness; it was cold and unresponsive as a stone. he tried to see her face, but could read nothing in those greenish eyes staring before them, like a cat's, into the darkness. when the cab was gone they stood looking at each other by the light of a street lamp. and george thought: 'so i must leave her like this, and what then?' she put her latch-key in the door, and turned round to him. in the silent, empty street, where the wind was rustling and scraping round the corners of tall houses, and the lamplight flickered, her face and figure were so strange, motionless, sphinx-like. only her eyes seemed alive, fastened on his own. "good-night!" he muttered. she beckoned. "take what you can of me, george!" she said. chapter iv mr. pendyce's head mr. pendyce's head, seen from behind at his library bureau, where it was his practice to spend most mornings from half-past nine to eleven or even twelve, was observed to be of a shape to throw no small light upon his class and character. its contour was almost national. bulging at the back, and sloping rapidly to a thin and wiry neck, narrow between the ears and across the brow, prominent in the jaw, the length of a line drawn from the back headland to the promontory at the chin would have been extreme. upon the observer there was impressed the conviction that here was a skull denoting, by surplusage of length, great precision of character and disposition to action, and, by deficiency of breadth, a narrow tenacity which might at times amount to wrong-headedness. the thin cantankerous neck, on which little hairs grew low, and the intelligent ears, confirmed this impression; and when his face, with its clipped hair, dry rosiness, into which the east wind had driven a shade of yellow and the sun a shade of brown, and grey, rather discontented eyes, came into view, the observer had no longer any hesitation in saying that he was in the presence of an englishman, a landed proprietor, and, but for mr. pendyce's rooted belief to the contrary, an individualist. his head, indeed, was like nothing so much as the admiralty pier at dover--that strange long narrow thing, with a slight twist or bend at the end, which first disturbs the comfort of foreigners arriving on these shores, and strikes them with a sense of wonder and dismay. he sat very motionless at his bureau, leaning a little over his papers like a man to whom things do not come too easily; and every now and then he stopped to refer to the calendar at his left hand, or to a paper in one of the many pigeonholes. open, and almost out of reach, was a back volume of punch, of which periodical, as a landed proprietor, he had an almost professional knowledge. in leisure moments it was one of his chief recreations to peruse lovingly those aged pictures, and at the image of john bull he never failed to think: 'fancy making an englishman out a fat fellow like that!' it was as though the artist had offered an insult to himself, passing him over as the type, and conferring that distinction on someone fast going out of fashion. the rector, whenever he heard mr. pendyce say this, strenuously opposed him, for he was himself of a square, stout build, and getting stouter. with all their aspirations to the character of typical englishmen, mr. pendyce and mr. barter thought themselves far from the old beef and beer, port and pigskin types of the georgian and early victorian era. they were men of the world, abreast of the times, who by virtue of a public school and 'varsity training had acquired a manner, a knowledge of men and affairs, a standard of thought on which it had really never been needful to improve. both of them, but especially mr. pendyce, kept up with all that was going forward by visiting the metropolis six or seven or even eight times a year. on these occasions they rarely took their wives, having almost always important business in hand--old college, church, or conservative dinners, cricket-matches, church congress, the gaiety theatre, and for mr. barter the lyceum. both, too, belonged to clubs--the rector to a comfortable, old-fashioned place where he could get a rubber without gambling, and mr. pendyce to the temple of things as they had been, as became a man who, having turned all social problems over in his mind, had decided that there was no real safety but in the past. they always went up to london grumbling, but this was necessary, and indeed salutary, because of their wives; and they always came back grumbling, because of their livers, which a good country rest always fortunately reduced in time for the next visit. in this way they kept themselves free from the taint of provincialism. in the silence of his master's study the spaniel john, whose head, too, was long and narrow, had placed it over his paw, as though suffering from that silence, and when his master cleared his throat he guttered his tail and turned up an eye with a little moon of white, without stirring his chin. the clock ticked at the end of the long, narrow room; the sunlight through the long, narrow windows fell on the long, narrow backs of books in the glassed book-case that took up the whole of one wall; and this room, with its slightly leathery smell, seemed a fitting place for some long, narrow ideal to be worked out to its long and narrow ending. but mr. pendyce would have scouted the notion of an ending to ideals having their basis in the hereditary principle. "let me do my duty and carry on the estate as my dear old father did, and hand it down to my son enlarged if possible," was sometimes his saying, very, very often his thought, not seldom his prayer. "i want to do no more than that." the times were bad and dangerous. there was every chance of a radical government being returned, and the country going to the dogs. it was but natural and human that he should pray for the survival of the form of things which he believed in and knew, the form of things bequeathed to him, and embodied in the salutary words "horace pendyce." it was not his habit to welcome new ideas. a new idea invading the country of the squire's mind was at once met with a rising of the whole population, and either prevented from landing, or if already on shore instantly taken prisoner. in course of time the unhappy creature, causing its squeaks and groans to penetrate the prison walls, would be released from sheer humaneness and love of a quiet life, and even allowed certain privileges, remaining, however, "that poor, queer devil of a foreigner." one day, in an inattentive moment, the natives would suffer it to marry, or find that in some disgraceful way it had caused the birth of children unrecognised by law; and their respect for the accomplished fact, for something that already lay in the past, would then prevent their trying to unmarry it, or restoring the children to an unborn state, and very gradually they would tolerate this intrusive brood. such was the process of mr. pendyce's mind. indeed, like the spaniel john, a dog of conservative instincts, at the approach of any strange thing he placed himself in the way, barking and showing his teeth; and sometimes truly he suffered at the thought that one day horace pendyce would no longer be there to bark. but not often, for he had not much imagination. all the morning he had been working at that old vexed subject of common rights on worsted scotton, which his father had fenced in and taught him once for all to believe was part integral of worsted skeynes. the matter was almost beyond doubt, for the cottagers--in a poor way at the time of the fencing, owing to the price of bread--had looked on apathetically till the very last year required by law to give the old squire squatter's rights, when all of a sudden that man, peacock's father, had made a gap in the fence and driven in beasts, which had reopened the whole unfortunate question. this had been in ' , and ever since there had been continual friction bordering on a law suit. mr. pendyce never for a moment allowed it to escape his mind that the man peacock was at the bottom of it all; for it was his way to discredit all principles as ground of action, and to refer everything to facts and persons; except, indeed, when he acted himself, when he would somewhat proudly admit that it was on principle. he never thought or spoke on an abstract question; partly because his father had avoided them before him, partly because he had been discouraged from doing so at school, but mainly because he temperamentally took no interest in such unpractical things. it was, therefore, a source of wonder to him that tenants of his own should be ungrateful. he did his duty by them, as the rector, in whose keeping were their souls, would have been the first to affirm; the books of his estate showed this, recording year by year an average gross profit of some sixteen hundred pounds, and (deducting raw material incidental to the upkeep of worsted skeynes) a net loss of three. in less earthly matters, too, such as non-attendance at church, a predisposition to poaching, or any inclination to moral laxity, he could say with a clear conscience that the rector was sure of his support. a striking instance had occurred within the last month, when, discovering that his under-keeper, an excellent man at his work, had got into a scrape with the postman's wife, he had given the young fellow notice, and cancelled the lease of his cottage. he rose and went to the plan of the estate fastened to the wall, which he unrolled by pulling a green silk cord, and stood there scrutinising it carefully and placing his finger here and there. his spaniel rose too, and settled himself unobtrusively on his master's foot. mr. pendyce moved and trod on him. the spaniel yelped. "d--n the dog! oh, poor fellow, john!" said mr. pendyce. he went back to his seat, but since he had identified the wrong spot he was obliged in a minute to return again to the plan. the spaniel john, cherishing the hope that he had been justly treated, approached in a half circle, fluttering his tail; he had scarcely reached mr. pendyce's foot when the door was opened, and the first footman brought in a letter on a silver salver. mr. pendyce took the note, read it, turned to his bureau, and said: "no answer." he sat staring at this document in the silent room, and over his face in turn passed anger, alarm, distrust, bewilderment. he had not the power of making very clear his thought, except by speaking aloud, and he muttered to himself. the spaniel john, who still nurtured a belief that he had sinned, came and lay down very close against his leg. mr. pendyce, never having reflected profoundly on the working morality of his times, had the less difficulty in accepting it. of violating it he had practically no opportunity, and this rendered his position stronger. it was from habit and tradition rather than from principle and conviction that he was a man of good moral character. and as he sat reading this note over and over, he suffered from a sense of nausea. it was couched in these terms: "the firs, "may . "dear sir, "you may or may not have heard that i have made your son, mr. george pendyce, correspondent in a divorce suit against my wife. neither for your sake nor your son's, but for the sake of mrs. pendyce, who is the only woman in these parts that i respect, i will withdraw the suit if your son will give his word not to see my wife again. "please send me an early answer. "i am, "your obedient servant, "jaspar bellew." the acceptance of tradition (and to accept it was suitable to the squire's temperament) is occasionally marred by the impingement of tradition on private life and comfort. it was legendary in his class that young men's peccadilloes must be accepted with a certain indulgence. they would, he said, be young men. they must, he would remark, sow their wild oats. such was his theory. the only difficulty he now had was in applying it to his own particular case, a difficulty felt by others in times past, and to be felt again in times to come. but, since he was not a philosopher, he did not perceive the inconsistency between his theory and his dismay. he saw his universe reeling before that note, and he was not a man to suffer tamely; he felt that others ought to suffer too. it was monstrous that a fellow like this bellew, a loose fish, a drunkard, a man who had nearly run over him, should have it in his power to trouble the serenity of worsted skeynes. it was like his impudence to bring such a charge against his son. it was like his d----d impudence! and going abruptly to the bell, he trod on his spaniel's ear. "d---n the dog! oh, poor fellow, john!" but the spaniel john, convinced at last that he had sinned, hid himself in a far corner whence he could see nothing, and pressed his chin closely to the ground. "ask your mistress to come here." standing by the hearth, waiting for his wife, the squire displayed to greater advantage than ever the shape of his long and narrow head; his neck had grown conspicuously redder; his eyes, like those of an offended swan, stabbed, as it were, at everything they saw. it was not seldom that mrs. pendyce was summoned to the study to hear him say: "i want to ask your advice. so-and-so has done such and such.... i have made up my mind." she came, therefore, in a few minutes. in compliance with his "look at that, margery," she read the note, and gazed at him with distress in her eyes, and he looked back at her with wrath in his. for this was tragedy. not to everyone is it given to take a wide view of things--to look over the far, pale streams, the purple heather, and moonlit pools of the wild marches, where reeds stand black against the sundown, and from long distance comes the cry of a curlew--nor to everyone to gaze from steep cliffs over the wine-dark, shadowy sea--or from high mountainsides to see crowned chaos, smoking with mist, or gold-bright in the sun. to most it is given to watch assiduously a row of houses, a back-yard, or, like mrs. and mr. pendyce, the green fields, trim coverts, and scotch garden of worsted skeynes. and on that horizon the citation of their eldest son to appear in the divorce court loomed like a cloud, heavy with destruction. so far as such an event could be realised imagination at worsted skeynes was not too vivid--it spelled ruin to an harmonious edifice of ideas and prejudice and aspiration. it would be no use to say of that event, "what does it matter? let people think what they like, talk as they like." at worsted skeynes (and worsted skeynes was every country house) there was but one set of people, one church, one pack of hounds, one everything. the importance of a clear escutcheon was too great. and they who had lived together for thirty-four years looked at each other with a new expression in their eyes; their feelings were for once the same. but since it is always the man who has the nicer sense of honour, their thoughts were not the same, for mr. pendyce was thinking: 'i won't believe it--disgracing us all!' and mrs. pendyce was thinking: 'my boy!' it was she who spoke first. "oh, horace!" the sound of her voice restored the squire's fortitude. "there you go, margery! d'you mean to say you believe what this fellow says? he ought to be horsewhipped. he knows my opinion of him. "it's a piece of his confounded impudence! he nearly ran over me, and now----" mrs. pendyce broke in: "but, horace, i'm afraid it's true! ellen maiden----" "ellen maiden?" said mr. pendyce. "what business has she----" he was silent, staring gloomily at the plan of worsted skeynes, still unrolled, like an emblem of all there was at stake. "if george has really," he burst out, "he's a greater fool than i took him for! a fool? he's a knave!" again he was silent. mrs. pendyce flushed at that word, and bit her lips. "george could never be a knave!" she said. mr. pendyce answered heavily: "disgracing his name!" mrs. pendyce bit deeper into her lips. "whatever he has done," she said, "george is sure to have behaved like a gentleman!" an angry smile twisted the squire's mouth. "just like a woman!" he said. but the smile died away, and on both their faces came a helpless look. like people who have lived together without real sympathy--though, indeed, they had long ceased to be conscious of that--now that something had occurred in which their interests were actually at one, they were filled with a sort of surprise. it was no good to differ. differing, even silent differing, would not help their son. "i shall write to george," said mr. pendyce at last. "i shall believe nothing till i've heard from him. he'll tell us the truth, i suppose." there was a quaver in his voice. mrs. pendyce answered quickly: "oh, horace, be careful what you say! i'm sure he is suffering!" her gentle soul, disposed to pleasure, was suffering, too, and the tears stole up in her eyes. mr. pendyce's sight was too long to see them. the infirmity had been growing on him ever since his marriage. "i shall say what i think right," he said. "i shall take time to consider what i shall say; i won't be hurried by this ruffian." mrs. pendyce wiped her lips with her lace-edged handkerchief. "i hope you will show me the letter," she said. the squire looked at her, and he realised that she was trembling and very white, and, though this irritated him, he answered almost kindly: "it's not a matter for you, my dear." mrs. pendyce took a step towards him; her gentle face expressed a strange determination. "he is my son, horace, as well as yours." mr. pendyce turned round uneasily. "it's no use your getting nervous, margery. i shall do what's best. you women lose your heads. that d----d fellow's lying! if he isn't----" at these words the spaniel john rose from his corner and advanced to the middle of the floor. he stood there curved in a half-circle, and looked darkly at his master. "confound it!" said mr. pendyce. "it's--it's damnable!" and as if answering for all that depended on worsted skeynes, the spaniel john deeply wagged that which had been left him of his tail. mrs. pendyce came nearer still. "if george refuses to give you that promise, what will you do, horace?" mr. pendyce stared. "promise? what promise?" mrs. pendyce thrust forward the note. "this promise not to see her again." mr. pendyce motioned it aside. "i'll not be dictated to by that fellow bellew," he said. then, by an afterthought: "it won't do to give him a chance. george must promise me that in any case." mrs. pendyce pressed her lips together. "but do you think he will?" "think--think who will? think he will what? why can't you express yourself, margery? if george has really got us into this mess he must get us out again." mrs. pendyce flushed. "he would never leave her in the lurch!" the squire said angrily: "lurch! who said anything about lurch? he owes it to her. not that she deserves any consideration, if she's been----you don't mean to say you think he'll refuse? he'd never be such a donkey?" mrs. pendyce raised her hands and made what for her was a passionate gesture. "oh, horace!" she said, "you don't understand. he's in love with her!" mr. pendyce's lower lip trembled, a sign with him of excitement or emotion. all the conservative strength of his nature, all the immense dumb force of belief in established things, all that stubborn hatred and dread of change, that incalculable power of imagining nothing, which, since the beginning of time, had made horace pendyce the arbiter of his land, rose up within his sorely tried soul. "what on earth's that to do with it?" he cried in a rage. "you women! you've no sense of anything! romantic, idiotic, immoral--i don't know what you're at. for god's sake don't go putting ideas into his head!" at this outburst mrs. pendyce's face became rigid; only the flicker of her eyelids betrayed how her nerves were quivering. suddenly she threw her hands up to her ears. "horace!" she cried, "do----oh, poor john!" the squire had stepped hastily and heavily on to his dog's paw. the creature gave a grievous howl. mr. pendyce went down on his knees and raised the limb. "damn the dog!" he stuttered. "oh, poor fellow, john!" and the two long and narrow heads for a moment were close together. chapter v rector and squire the efforts of social man, directed from immemorial time towards the stability of things, have culminated in worsted skeynes. beyond commercial competition--for the estate no longer paid for living on it--beyond the power of expansion, set with tradition and sentiment, it was an undoubted jewel, past need of warranty. cradled within it were all those hereditary institutions of which the country was most proud, and mr. pendyce sometimes saw before him the time when, for services to his party, he should call himself lord worsted, and after his own death continue sitting in the house of lords in the person of his son. but there was another feeling in the squire's heart--the air and the woods and the fields had passed into his blood a love for this, his home and the home of his fathers. and so a terrible unrest pervaded the whole household after the receipt of jaspar bellew's note. nobody was told anything, yet everybody knew there was something; and each after his fashion, down to the very dogs, betrayed their sympathy with the master and mistress of the house. day after day the girls wandered about the new golf course knocking the balls aimlessly; it was all they could do. even cecil tharp, who had received from bee the qualified affirmative natural under the circumstances, was infected. the off foreleg of her grey mare was being treated by a process he had recently discovered, and in the stables he confided to bee that the dear old squire seemed "off his feed;" he did not think it was any good worrying him at present. bee, stroking the mare's neck, looked at him shyly and slowly. "it's about george," she said; "i know it's about george! oh, cecil! i do wish i had been a boy!" young tharp assented in spite of himself: "yes; it must be beastly to be a girl." a faint flush coloured bee's cheeks. it hurt her a little that he should agree; but her lover was passing his hand down the mare's shin. "father is rather trying," she said. "i wish george would marry." cecil tharp raised his bullet head; his blunt, honest face was extremely red from stooping. "clean as a whistle," he said; "she's all right, bee. i expect george has too good a time." bee turned her face away and murmured: "i should loathe living in london." and she, too, stooped and felt the mare's shin. to mrs. pendyce in these days the hours passed with incredible slowness. for thirty odd years she had waited at once for everything and nothing; she had, so to say, everything she could wish for, and--nothing, so that even waiting had been robbed of poignancy; but to wait like this, in direct suspense, for something definite was terrible. there was hardly a moment when she did not conjure up george, lonely and torn by conflicting emotions; for to her, long paralysed by worsted skeynes, and ignorant of the facts, the proportions of the struggle in her son's soul appeared titanic; her mother instinct was not deceived as to the strength of his passion. strange and conflicting were the sensations with which she awaited the result; at one moment thinking, 'it is madness; he must promise--it is too awful!' at another, 'ah! but how can he, if he loves her so? it is impossible; and she, too--ah! how awful it is!' perhaps, as mr. pendyce had said, she was romantic; perhaps it was only the thought of the pain her boy must suffer. the tooth was too big, it seemed to her; and, as in old days, when she took him to cornmarket to have an aching tooth out, she ever sat with his hand in hers while the little dentist pulled, and ever suffered the tug, too, in her own mouth, so now she longed to share this other tug, so terrible, so fierce. against mrs. bellew she felt only a sort of vague and jealous aching; and this seemed strange even to herself--but, again, perhaps she was romantic. now it was that she found the value of routine. her days were so well and fully occupied that anxiety was forced below the surface. the nights were far more terrible; for then, not only had she to bear her own suspense, but, as was natural in a wife, the fears of horace pendyce as well. the poor squire found this the only time when he could get relief from worry; he came to bed much earlier on purpose. by dint of reiterating dreads and speculation he at length obtained some rest. why had not george answered? what was the fellow about? and so on and so on, till, by sheer monotony, he caused in himself the need for slumber. but his wife's torments lasted till after the birds, starting with a sleepy cheeping, were at full morning chorus. then only, turning softly for fear she should awaken him, the poor lady fell asleep. for george had not answered. in her morning visits to the village mrs. pendyce found herself, for the first time since she had begun this practice, driven by her own trouble over that line of diffident distrust which had always divided her from the hearts of her poorer neighbours. she was astonished at her own indelicacy, asking questions, prying into their troubles, pushed on by a secret aching for distraction; and she was surprised how well they took it--how, indeed, they seemed to like it, as though they knew that they were doing her good. in one cottage, where she had long noticed with pitying wonder a white-faced, black-eyed girl, who seemed to crouch away from everyone, she even received a request. it was delivered with terrified secrecy in a back-yard, out of mrs. barter's hearing. "oh, ma'am! get me away from here! i'm in trouble--it's comin', and i don't know what i shall do." mrs. pendyce shivered, and all the way home she thought: 'poor little soul--poor little thing!' racking her brains to whom she might confide this case and ask for a solution; and something of the white-faced, black-eyed girl's terror and secrecy fell on her, for, she found no one not even mrs. barter, whose heart, though soft, belonged to the rector. then, by a sort of inspiration, she thought of gregory. 'how can i write to him,' she mused, 'when my son----' but she did write, for, deep down, the totteridge instinct felt that others should do things for her; and she craved, too, to allude, however distantly, to what was on her mind. and, under the pendyce eagle and the motto: 'strenuus aureaque penna', thus her letter ran: "dear grig, "can you do anything for a poor little girl in the village here who is 'in trouble'?--you know what i mean. it is such a terrible crime in this part of the country, and she looks so wretched and frightened, poor little thing! she is twenty years old. she wants a hiding-place for her misfortune, and somewhere to go when it is over. nobody, she says, will have anything to do with her where they know; and, really, i have noticed for a long time how white and wretched she looks, with great black frightened eyes. i don't like to apply to our rector, for though he is a good fellow in many ways, he has such strong opinions; and, of course, horace could do nothing. i would like to do something for her, and i could spare a little money, but i can't find a place for her to go, and that makes it difficult. she seems to be haunted, too, by the idea that wherever she goes it will come out. isn't it dreadful? do do something, if you can. i am rather anxious about george. i hope the dear boy is well. if you are passing his club some day you might look in and just ask after him. he is sometimes so naughty about writing. i wish we could see you here, dear grig; the country is looking beautiful just now--the oak-trees especially--and the apple-blossom isn't over, but i suppose you are too busy. how is helen bellew? is she in town? "your affectionate cousin, "margery pendyce." it was four o'clock this same afternoon when the second groom, very much out of breath, informed the butler that there was a fire at peacock's farm. the butler repaired at once to the library. mr. pendyce, who had been on horseback all the morning, was standing in his riding-clothes, tired and depressed, before the plan of worsted skeynes. "what do you want, bester?" "there is a fire at peacock's farm, sir." mr. pendyce stared. "what?" he said. "a fire in broad daylight! nonsense!" "you can see the flames from the front, sir." the worn and querulous look left mr. pendyce's face. "ring the stable-bell!" he said. "tell them all to run with buckets and ladders. send higson off to cornmarket on the mare. go and tell mr. barter, and rouse the village. don't stand there--god bless me! ring the stable-bell!" and snatching up his riding-crop and hat, he ran past the butler, closely followed by the spaniel john. over the stile and along the footpath which cut diagonally across a field of barley he moved at a stiff trot, and his spaniel, who had not grasped the situation, frolicked ahead with a certain surprise. the squire was soon out of breath--it was twenty years or more since he had run a quarter of a mile. he did not, however, relax his speed. ahead of him in the distance ran the second groom; behind him a labourer and a footman. the stable-bell at worsted skeynes began to ring. mr. pendyce crossed the stile and struck into the lane, colliding with the rector, who was running, too, his face flushed to the colour of tomatoes. they ran on, side by side. "you go on!" gasped mr. pendyce at last, "and tell them i'm coming." the rector hesitated--he, too, was very out of breath--and started again, panting. the squire, with his hand to his side, walked painfully on; he had run himself to a standstill. at a gap in the corner of the lane he suddenly saw pale-red tongues of flame against the sunlight. "god bless me!" he gasped, and in sheer horror started to run again. those sinister tongues were licking at the air over a large barn, some ricks, and the roofs of stables and outbuildings. half a dozen figures were dashing buckets of water on the flames. the true insignificance of their efforts did not penetrate the squire's mind. trembling, and with a sickening pain in his lungs, he threw off his coat, wrenched a bucket from a huge agricultural labourer, who resigned it with awe, and joined the string of workers. peacock, the farmer, ran past him; his face and round red beard were the colour of the flames he was trying to put out; tears dropped continually from his eyes and ran down that fiery face. his wife, a little dark woman with a twisted mouth, was working like a demon at the pump. mr. pendyce gasped to her: "this is dreadful, mrs. peacock--this is dreadful!" conspicuous in black clothes and white shirt-sleeves, the rector was hewing with an axe at the boarding of a cowhouse, the door end of which was already in flames, and his voice could be heard above the tumult shouting directions to which nobody paid any heed. "what's in that cow-house?" gasped mr. pendyce. mrs. peacock, in a voice harsh with rage and grief answered: "it's the old horse and two of the cows!" "god bless me!" cried the squire, rushing forward with his bucket. some villagers came running up, and he shouted to these, but what he said neither he nor they could tell. the shrieks and snortings of the horse and cows, the steady whirr of the flames, drowned all lesser sounds. of human cries, the rector's voice alone was heard, between the crashing blows of his axe upon the woodwork. mr. pendyce tripped; his bucket rolled out of his hand; he lay where he had fallen, too exhausted to move. he could still hear the crash of the rector's axe, the sound of his shouts. somebody helped him up, and trembling so that he could hardly stand, he caught an axe out of the hand of a strapping young fellow who had just arrived, and placing himself by the rector's side, swung it feebly against the boarding. the flames and smoke now filled the whole cow-house, and came rushing through the gap that they were making. the squire and the rector stood their ground. with a furious blow mr. barter cleared a way. a cheer rose behind them, but no beast came forth. all three were dead in the smoke and flames. the squire, who could see in, flung down his axe, and covered his eyes with his hands. the rector uttered a sound like a deep oath, and he, too, flung down his axe. two hours later, with torn and blackened clothes, the squire stood by the ruins of the barn. the fire was out, but the ashes were still smouldering. the spaniel john, anxious, panting, was licking his master's boots, as though begging forgiveness that he had been so frightened, and kept so far away. yet something in his eye seemed to be saying: "must you really have these fires, master?" a black hand grasped the squire's arm, a hoarse voice said: "i shan't forget, squire!" "god bless me, peacock!" returned mr. pendyce, "that's nothing! you're insured, i hope?' "aye, i'm insured; but it's the beasts i'm thinking of!" "ah!" said the squire, with a gesture of horror. the brougham took him and the rector back together. under their feet crouched their respective dogs, faintly growling at each other. a cheer from the crowd greeted their departure. they started in silence, deadly tired. mr. pendyce said suddenly: "i can't get those poor beasts out of my head, barter!" the rector put his hand up to his eyes. "i hope to god i shall never see such a sight again! poor brutes, poor brutes!" and feeling secretly for his dog's muzzle, he left his hand against the animal's warm, soft, rubbery mouth, to be licked again and again. on his side of the brougham mr. pendyce, also unseen, was doing precisely the same thing. the carriage went first to the rectory, where mrs. barter and her children stood in the doorway. the rector put his head back into the brougham to say: "good-night, pendyce. you'll be stiff tomorrow. i shall get my wife to rub me with elliman!" mr. pendyce nodded, raised his hat, and the carriage went on. leaning back, he closed his eyes; a pleasanter sensation was stealing over him. true, he would be stiff to-morrow, but he had done his duty. he had shown them all that blood told; done something to bolster up that system which was-himself. and he had a new and kindly feeling towards peacock, too. there was nothing like a little danger for bringing the lower classes closer; then it was they felt the need for officers, for something! the spaniel john's head rose between his knees, turning up eyes with a crimson touch beneath. 'master,' he seemed to say, 'i am feeling old. i know there are things beyond me in this life, but you, who know all things, will arrange that we shall be together even when we die.' the carriage stopped at the entrance of the drive, and the squire's thoughts changed. twenty years ago he would have beaten barter running down that lane. barter was only forty-five. to give him fourteen years and a beating was a bit too much to expect: he felt a strange irritation with barter--the fellow had cut a very good figure! he had shirked nothing. elliman was too strong! homocea was the thing. margery would have to rub him! and suddenly, as though springing naturally from the name of his wife, george came into mr. pendyce's mind, and the respite that he had enjoyed from care was over. but the spaniel john, who scented home, began singing feebly for the brougham to stop, and beating a careless tail against his master's boot. it was very stiffly, with frowning brows and a shaking under-lip, that the squire descended from the brougham, and began sorely to mount the staircase to his wife's room. chapter vi the park there comes a day each year in may when hyde park is possessed. a cool wind swings the leaves; a hot sun glistens on long water, on every bough, on every blade of grass. the birds sing their small hearts out, the band plays its gayest tunes, the white clouds race in the high blue heaven. exactly why and how this day differs from those that came before and those that will come after, cannot be told; it is as though the park said: 'to-day i live; the past is past. i care not for the future!' and on this day they who chance in the park cannot escape some measure of possession. their steps quicken, their skirts swing, their sticks flourish, even their eyes brighten--those eyes so dulled with looking at the streets; and each one, if he has a love, thinks of her, and here and there among the wandering throng he has her with him. to these the park and all sweet-blooded mortals in it nod and smile. there had been a meeting that afternoon at lady maiden's in prince's gate to consider the position of the working-class woman. it had provided a somewhat heated discussion, for a person had got up and proved almost incontestably that the working-class woman had no position whatsoever. gregory vigil and mrs. shortman had left this meeting together, and, crossing the serpentine, struck a line over the grass. "mrs. shortman," said gregory, "don't you think we're all a little mad?" he was carrying his hat in his hand, and his fine grizzled hair, rumpled in the excitement of the meeting, had not yet subsided on his head. "yes, mr. vigil. i don't exactly----" "we are all a little mad! what did that woman, lady maiden, mean by talking as she did? i detest her!" "oh, mr. vigil! she has the best intentions!" "intentions?" said gregory. "i loathe her! what did we go to her stuffy drawing-room for? look at that sky!" mrs. shortman looked at the sky. "but, mr. vigil," she said earnestly, "things would never get done. sometimes i think you look at everything too much in the light of the way it ought to be!" "the milky way," said gregory. mrs. shortman pursed her lips; she found it impossible to habituate herself to gregory's habit of joking. they had scant talk for the rest of their journey to the s. r. w. c., where miss mallow, at the typewriter, was reading a novel. "there are several letters for you, mr. vigil" "mrs. shortman says i am unpractical," answered gregory. "is that true, miss mallow?" the colour in miss mallow's cheeks spread to her sloping shoulders. "oh no. you're most practical, only--perhaps--i don't know, perhaps you do try to do rather impossible things, mr. vigil" "bilcock buildings!" there was a minute's silence. then mrs. shortman at her bureau beginning to dictate, the typewriter started clicking. gregory, who had opened a letter, was seated with his head in his hands. the voice ceased, the typewriter ceased, but gregory did not stir. both women, turning a little in their seats, glanced at him. their eyes caught each other's and they looked away at once. a few seconds later they were looking at him again. still gregory did not stir. an anxious appeal began to creep into the women's eyes. "mr. vigil," said mrs. shortman at last, "mr. vigil, do you think---" gregory raised his face; it was flushed to the roots of his hair. "read that, mrs. shortman." handing her a pale grey letter stamped with an eagle and the motto 'strenuus aureaque penna' he rose and paced the room. and as with his long, light stride he was passing to and fro, the woman at the bureau conned steadily the writing, the girl at the typewriter sat motionless with a red and jealous face. mrs. shortman folded the letter, placed it on the top of the bureau, and said without raising her eyes-- "of course, it is very sad for the poor little girl; but surely, mr. vigil, it must always be, so as to check, to check----" gregory stopped, and his shining eyes disconcerted her; they seemed to her unpractical. sharply lifting her voice, she went on: "if there were no disgrace, there would be no way of stopping it. i know the country better than you do, mr. vigil." gregory put his hands to his ears. "we must find a place for her at once." the window was fully open, so that he could not open it any more, and he stood there as though looking for that place in the sky. and the sky he looked at was very blue, and large white birds of cloud were flying over it. he turned from the window, and opened another letter. "lincoln's inn fields, "may , . "my dear vigil, "i gathered from your ward when i saw her yesterday that she has not told you of what, i fear, will give you much pain. i asked her point-blank whether she wished the matter kept from you, and her answer was, 'he had better know--only i'm sorry for him.' in sum it is this: bellow has either got wind of our watching him, or someone must have put him up to it; he has anticipated us and brought a suit against your ward, joining george pendyce in the cause. george brought the citation to me. if necessary he's prepared to swear there's nothing in it. he takes, in fact, the usual standpoint of the 'man of honour.' "i went at once to see your ward. she admitted that the charge is true. i asked her if she wished the suit defended, and a counter-suit brought against her husband. her answer to that was: 'i absolutely don't care.' i got nothing from her but this, and, though it sounds odd, i believe it to be true. she appears to be in a reckless mood, and to have no particular ill-will against her husband. "i want to see you, but only after you have turned this matter over carefully. it is my duty to put some considerations before you. the suit, if brought, will be a very unpleasant matter for george, a still more unpleasant, even disastrous one, for his people. the innocent in such cases are almost always the greatest sufferers. if the cross-suit is instituted, it will assume at once, considering their position in society, the proportions of a 'cause celebre', and probably occupy the court and the daily presses anything from three days to a week, perhaps more, and you know what that means. on the other hand, not to defend the suit, considering what we know, is, apart from ethics, revolting to my instincts as a fighter. my advice, therefore, is to make every effort to prevent matters being brought into court at all. "i am an older man than you by thirteen years. i have a sincere regard for you, and i wish to save you pain. in the course of our interviews i have observed your ward very closely, and at the risk of giving you offence, i am going to speak out my mind. mrs. bellew is a rather remarkable woman. from two or three allusions that you have made in my presence, i believe that she is altogether different from what you think. she is, in my opinion, one of those very vital persons upon whom our judgments, censures, even our sympathies, are wasted. a woman of this sort, if she comes of a county family, and is thrown by circumstances with society people, is always bound to be conspicuous. if you would realise something of this, it would, i believe, save you a great deal of pain. in short, i beg of you not to take her, or her circumstances, too seriously. there are quite a number of such men and women as her husband and herself, and they are always certain to be more or less before the public eye. whoever else goes down, she will swim, simply because she can't help it. i want you to see things as they are. "i ask you again, my dear vigil, to forgive me for writing thus, and to believe that my sole desire is to try and save you unnecessary suffering. "come and see me as soon as you have reflected: "i am, "your sincere friend, "edmund paramor." gregory made a movement like that of a blind man. both women were on their feet at once. "what is it, mr. vigil? can i get you anything?" "thanks; nothing, nothing. i've had some rather bad news. i'll go out and get some air. i shan't be back to-day." he found his hat and went. he walked towards the park, unconsciously attracted towards the biggest space, the freshest air; his hands were folded behind him, his head bowed. and since, of all things, nature is ironical, it was fitting that he should seek the park this day when it was gayest. and far in the park, as near the centre as might be, he lay down on the grass. for a long time he lay without moving, his hands over his eyes, and in spite of mr. paramor's reminder that his suffering was unnecessary, he suffered. and mostly he suffered from black loneliness, for he was a very lonely man, and now he had lost that which he had thought he had. it is difficult to divide suffering, difficult to say how much he suffered, because, being in love with her, he had secretly thought she must love him a little, and how much he suffered because his private portrait of her, the portrait that he, and he alone, had painted, was scored through with the knife. and he lay first on his face, and then on his back, with his hand always over his eyes. and around him were other men lying on the grass, and some were lonely, and some hungry, and some asleep, and some were lying there for the pleasure of doing nothing and for the sake of the hot sun on their cheeks; and by the side of some lay their girls, and it was these that gregory could not bear to see, for his spirit and his senses were a-hungered. in the plantations close by were pigeons, and never for a moment did they stop cooing; never did the blackbirds cease their courting songs; the sun its hot, sweet burning; the clouds above their love-chase in the sky. it was the day without a past, without a future, when it is not good for man to be alone. and no man looked at him, because it was no man's business, but a woman here and there cast a glance on that long, tweed-suited figure with the hand over the eyes, and wondered, perhaps, what was behind that hand. had they but known, they would have smiled their woman's smile that he should so have mistaken one of their sex. gregory lay quite still, looking at the sky, and because he was a loyal man he did not blame her, but slowly, very slowly, his spirit, like a spring stretched to the point of breaking, came back upon itself, and since he could not bear to see things as they were, he began again to see them as they were not. 'she has been forced into this,' he thought. 'it is george pendyce's fault. to me she is, she must be, the same!' he turned again on to his face. and a small dog who had lost its master sniffed at his boots, and sat down a little way off, to wait till gregory could do something for him, because he smelled that he was that sort of man. chapter vii doubtful position at worsted skeynes then george's answer came at last, the flags were in full bloom round the scotch garden at worsted skeynes. they grew in masses and of all shades, from deep purple to pale grey, and their scent, very penetrating, very delicate, floated on the wind. while waiting for that answer, it had become mr. pendyce's habit to promenade between these beds, his hand to his back, for he was still a little stiff, followed at a distance of seven paces by the spaniel john, very black, and moving his rubbery nostrils uneasily from side to side. in this way the two passed every day the hour from twelve to one. neither could have said why they walked thus, for mr. pendyce had a horror of idleness, and the spaniel john disliked the scent of irises; both, in fact, obeyed that part of themselves which is superior to reason. during this hour, too, mrs. pendyce, though longing to walk between her flowers, also obeyed that part of her, superior to reason, which told her that it would be better not. but george's answer came at last. "stoics' club. "dear father, "yes, bellew is bringing a suit. i am taking steps in the matter. as to the promise you ask for, i can give no promise of the sort. you may tell bellew i will see him d---d first. "your affectionate son, "george pendyce." mr. pendyce received this at the breakfast-table, and while he read it there was a hush, for all had seen the handwriting on the envelope. mr. pendyce read it through twice, once with his glasses on and once without, and when he had finished the second reading he placed it in his breast pocket. no word escaped him; his eyes, which had sunk a little the last few days, rested angrily on his wife's white face. bee and norah looked down, and, as if they understood, the four dogs were still. mr. pendyce pushed his plate back, rose, and left the room. norah looked up. "what's the matter, mother?" mrs. pendyce was swaying. she recovered herself in a moment. "nothing, dear. it's very hot this morning, don't you think? i'll just go to my room and take some sal volatile." she went out, followed by old roy, the skye; the spaniel john, who had been cut off at the door by his master's abrupt exit, preceded her. norah and bee pushed back their plates. "i can't eat, norah," said bee. "it's horrible not to know what's going on." norah answered "it's perfectly brutal not being a man. you might just as well be a dog as a girl, for anything anyone tells you!" mrs. pendyce did not go to her room; she went to the library. her husband, seated at his table, had george's letter before him. a pen was in his hand, but he was not writing. "horace," she said softly, "here is poor john!" mr. pendyce did not answer, but put down the hand that did not hold his pen. the spaniel john covered it with kisses. "let me see the letter, won't you?" mr. pendyce handed it to her without a word. she touched his shoulder gratefully, for his unusual silence went to her heart. mr. pendyce took no notice, staring at his pen as though surprised that, of its own accord, it did not write his answer; but suddenly he flung it down and looked round, and his look seemed to say: 'you brought this fellow into the world; now see the result!' he had had so many days to think and put his finger on the doubtful spots of his son's character. all that week he had become more and more certain of how, without his wife, george would have been exactly like himself. words sprang to his lips, and kept on dying there. the doubt whether she would agree with him, the feeling that she sympathised with her son, the certainty that something even in himself responded to those words: "you can tell bellew i will see him d---d first!"--all this, and the thought, never out of his mind, 'the name--the estate!' kept him silent. he turned his head away, and took up his pen again. mrs. pendyce had read the letter now three times, and instinctively had put it in her bosom. it was not hers, but horace must know it by heart, and in his anger he might tear it up. that letter, for which they had waited so long; told her nothing; she had known all there was to tell. her hand had fallen from mr. pendyce's shoulder, and she did not put it back, but ran her fingers through and through each other, while the sunlight, traversing the narrow windows, caressed her from her hair down to her knees. here and there that stream of sunlight formed little pools in her eyes, giving them a touching, anxious brightness; in a curious heart-shaped locket of carved steel, worn by her mother and her grandmother before her, containing now, not locks of their son's hair, but a curl of george's; in her diamond rings, and a bracelet of amethyst and pearl which she wore for the love of pretty things. and the warm sunlight disengaged from her a scent of lavender. through the library door a scratching noise told that the dear dogs knew she was not in her bedroom. mr. pendyce, too, caught that scent of lavender, and in some vague way it augmented his discomfort. her silence, too, distressed him. it did not occur to him that his silence was distressing her. he put down his pen. "i can't write with you standing there, margery!" mrs. pendyce moved out of the sunlight. "george says he is taking steps. what does that mean, horace?" this question, focusing his doubts, broke down the squire's dumbness. "i won't be treated like this!" he said. "i'll go up and see him myself!" he went by the . , saying that he would be down again by the . soon after seven the same evening a dogcart driven by a young groom and drawn by a raking chestnut mare with a blaze face, swung into the railway-station at worsted skeynes, and drew up before the booking-office. mr. pendyce's brougham, behind a brown horse, coming a little later, was obliged to range itself behind. a minute before the train's arrival a wagonette and a pair of bays, belonging to lord quarryman, wheeled in, and, filing past the other two, took up its place in front. outside this little row of vehicles the station fly and two farmers' gigs presented their backs to the station buildings. and in this arrangement there was something harmonious and fitting, as though providence itself had guided them all and assigned to each its place. and providence had only made one error--that of placing captain bellew's dogcart precisely opposite the booking-office, instead of lord quarryman's wagonette, with mr. pendyce's brougham next. mr. pendyce came out first; he stared angrily at the dogcart, and moved to his own carriage. lord quarryman came out second. his massive sun-burned head--the back of which, sparsely adorned by hairs, ran perfectly straight into his neck--was crowned by a grey top-hat. the skirts of his grey coat were square-shaped, and so were the toes of his boots. "hallo, pendyce!" he called out heartily; "didn't see you on the platform. how's your wife?" mr. pendyce, turning to answer, met the little burning eyes of captain bellew, who came out third. they failed to salute each other, and bellow, springing into his cart, wrenched his mare round, circled the farmers' gigs, and, sitting forward, drove off at a furious pace. his groom, running at full speed, clung to the cart and leaped on to the step behind. lord quarryman's wagonette backed itself into the place left vacant. and the mistake of providence was rectified. "cracked chap, that fellow bellew. d'you see anything of him?" mr. pendyce answered: "no; and i want to see less. i wish he'd take himself off!" his lordship smiled. "a huntin' country seems to breed fellows like that; there's always one of 'em to every pack of hounds. where's his wife now? good-lookin' woman; rather warm member, eh?" it seemed to mr. pendyce that lord quarryman's eyes searched his own with a knowing look, and muttering "god knows!" he vanished into his brougham. lord quarryman looked kindly at his horses. he was not a man who reflected on the whys, the wherefores, the becauses, of this life. the good god had made him lord quarryman, had made his eldest son lord quantock; the good god had made the gaddesdon hounds--it was enough! when mr. pendyce reached home he went to his dressing-room. in a corner by the bath the spaniel john lay surrounded by an assortment of his master's slippers, for it was thus alone that he could soothe in measure the bitterness of separation. his dark brown eye was fixed upon the door, and round it gleamed a crescent moon of white. he came to the squire fluttering his tail, with a slipper in his mouth, and his eye said plainly: 'oh, master, where have you been? why have you been so long? i have been expecting you ever since half-past ten this morning!' mr. pendyce's heart opened a moment and closed again. he said "john!" and began to dress for dinner. mrs. pendyce found him tying his white tie. she had plucked the first rosebud from her garden; she had plucked it because she felt sorry for him, and because of the excuse it would give her to go to his dressing-room at once. "i've brought you a buttonhole, horace. did you see him?" "no." of all answers this was the one she dreaded most. she had not believed that anything would come of an interview; she had trembled all day long at the thought of their meeting; but now that they had not met she knew by the sinking in her heart that anything was better than uncertainty. she waited as long as she could, then burst out: "tell me something, horace!" mr. pendyce gave her an angry glance. "how can i tell you, when there's nothing to tell? i went to his club. he's not living there now. he's got rooms, nobody knows where. i waited all the afternoon. left a message at last for him to come down here to-morrow. i've sent for paramor, and told him to come down too. i won't put up with this sort of thing." mrs. pendyce looked out of the window, but there was nothing to see save the ha-ha, the coverts, the village spire, the cottage roofs, which for so long had been her world. "george won't come down here," she said. "george will do what i tell him." again mrs. pendyce shook her head, knowing by instinct that she was right. mr. pendyce stopped putting on his waist-coat. "george had better take care," he said; "he's entirely dependent on me." and as if with those words he had summed up the situation, the philosophy of a system vital to his son, he no longer frowned. on mrs. pendyce those words had a strange effect. they stirred within her terror. it was like seeing her son's back bared to a lifted whip-lash; like seeing the door shut against him on a snowy night. but besides terror they stirred within her a more poignant feeling yet, as though someone had dared to show a whip to herself, had dared to defy that something more precious than life in her soul, that something which was of her blood, so utterly and secretly passed by the centuries into her fibre that no one had ever thought of defying it before. and there flashed before her with ridiculous concreteness the thought: 'i've got three hundred a year of my own!' then the whole feeling left her, just as in dreams a mordant sensation grips and passes, leaving a dull ache, whose cause is forgotten, behind. "there's the gong, horace," she said. "cecil tharp is here to dinner. i asked the barters, but poor rose didn't feel up to it. of course they are expecting it very soon now. they talk of the th of june." mr. pendyce took from his wife his coat, passing his arms down the satin sleeves. "if i could get the cottagers to have families like that," he said, "i shouldn't have much trouble about labour. they're a pig-headed lot--do nothing that they're told. give me some eau-de-cologne, margery." mrs. pendyce dabbed the wicker flask on her husband's handkerchief. "your eyes look tired," she said. "have you a headache, dear?" chapter viii council at worsted skeynes it was on the following evening--the evening on which he was expecting his son and mr. paramor that the squire leaned forward over the dining-table and asked: "what do you say, barter? i'm speaking to you as a man of the world." the rector bent over his glass of port and moistened his lower lip. "there's no excuse for that woman," he answered. "i always thought she was a bad lot." mr. pendyce went on: "we've never had a scandal in my family. i find the thought of it hard to bear, barter--i find it hard to bear----" the rector emitted a low sound. he had come from long usage to have a feeling like affection for his squire. mr. pendyce pursued his thoughts. "we've gone on," he said, "father and son for hundreds of years. it's a blow to me, barter." again the rector emitted that low sound. "what will the village think?" said mr. pendyce; "and the farmers--i mind that more than anything. most of them knew my dear old father--not that he was popular. it's a bitter thing." the rector said: "well, well, pendyce, perhaps it won't come to that." he looked a little shamefaced, and his light eyes were full of something like contrition. "how does mrs. pendyce take it?" the squire looked at him for the first time. "ah!" he said; "you never know anything about women. i'd as soon trust a woman to be just as i'd--i'd finish that magnum; it'd give me gout in no time." the rector emptied his glass. "i've sent for george and my solicitor," pursued the squire; "they'll be here directly." mr. barter pushed his chair back, and raising his right ankle on to his left leg, clasped his hands round his right knee; then, leaning forward, he stared up under his jutting brows at mr. pendyce. it was the attitude in which he thought best. mr. pendyce ran on: "i've nursed the estate ever since it came to me; i've carried on the tradition as best i could; i've not been as good a man, perhaps, as i should have wished, but i've always tried to remember my old father's words: 'i'm done for, horry; the estate's in your hands now.'" he cleared his throat. for a full minute there was no sound save the ticking of the clock. then the spaniel john, coming silently from under the sideboard, fell heavily down against his master's leg with a lengthy snore of satisfaction. mr. pendyce looked down. "this fellow of mine," he muttered, "is getting fat." it was evident from the tone of his voice that he desired his emotion to be forgotten. something very deep in mr. barter respected that desire. "it's a first-rate magnum," he said. mr. pendyce filled his rector's glass. "i forget if you knew paramor. he was before your time. he was at harrow with me." the rector took a prolonged sip. "i shall be in the way," he said. "i'll take myself off'." the squire put out his hand affectionately. "no, no, barter, don't you go. it's all safe with you. i mean to act. i can't stand this uncertainty. my wife's cousin vigil is coming too--he's her guardian. i wired for him. you know vigil? he was about your time." the rector turned crimson, and set his underlip. having scented his enemy, nothing would now persuade him to withdraw; and the conviction that he had only done his duty, a little shaken by the squire's confidence, returned as though by magic. "yes, i know him." "we'll have it all out here," muttered mr. pendyce, "over this port. there's the carriage. get up, john." the spaniel john rose heavily, looked sardonically at mr. barter, and again flopped down against his master's leg. "get up, john," said mr. pendyce again. the spaniel john snored. 'if i move, you'll move too, and uncertainty will begin for me again,' he seemed to say. mr. pendyce disengaged his leg, rose, and went to the door. before reaching it he turned and came back to the table. "barter," he said, "i'm not thinking of myself--i'm not thinking of myself--we've been here for generations--it's the principle." his face had the least twist to one side, as though conforming to a kink in his philosophy; his eyes looked sad and restless. and the rector, watching the door for the sight of his enemy, also thought: 'i'm not thinking of myself--i'm satisfied that i did right--i'm rector of this parish it's the principle.' the spaniel john gave three short barks, one for each of the persons who entered the room. they were mrs. pendyce, mr. paramor, and gregory vigil. "where's george?" asked the squire, but no one answered him. the rector, who had resumed his seat, stared at a little gold cross which he had taken out of his waistcoat pocket. mr. paramor lifted a vase and sniffed at the rose it contained; gregory walked to the window. when mr. pendyce realised that his son had not come, he went to the door and held it open. "be good enough to take john out, margery," he said. "john!" the spaniel john, seeing what lay before him, rolled over on his back. mrs. pendyce fixed her eyes on her husband, and in those eyes she put all the words which the nature of a lady did not suffer her to speak. 'i claim to be here. let me stay; it is my right. don't send me away.' so her eyes spoke, and so those of the spaniel john, lying on his back, in which attitude he knew that he was hard to move. mr. pendyce turned him over with his foot. "get up, john! be good enough to take john out, margery." mrs. pendyce flushed, but did not move. "john," said mr. pendyce, "go with your mistress." the spaniel john fluttered a drooping tail. mr. pendyce pressed his foot to it. "this is not a subject for women." mrs. pendyce bent down. "come, john," she said. the spaniel john, showing the whites of his eyes, and trying to back through his collar, was assisted from the room. mr. pendyce closed the door behind them. "have a glass of port, vigil; it's the ' . my father laid it down in ' , the year before he died. can't drink it myself--i've had to put down two hogsheads of the jubilee wine. paramor, fill your glass. take that chair next to paramor, vigil. you know barter?" both gregory's face and the rector's were very red. "we're all harrow men here," went on mr. pendyce. and suddenly turning to mr. paramor, he said: "well?" just as round the hereditary principle are grouped the state, the church, law, and philanthropy, so round the dining-table at worsted skeynes sat the squire, the rector, mr. paramor, and gregory vigil, and none of them wished to be the first to speak. at last mr. paramor, taking from his pocket bellew's note and george's answer, which were pinned in strange alliance, returned them to the squire. "i understand the position to be that george refuses to give her up; at the same time he is prepared to defend the suit and deny everything. those are his instructions to me." taking up the vase again, he sniffed long and deep at the rose. mr. pendyce broke the silence. "as a gentleman," he said in a voice sharpened by the bitterness of his feelings, "i suppose he's obliged----" gregory, smiling painfully, added: "to tell lies." mr. pendyce turned on him at once. "i've nothing to say about that, vigil. george has behaved abominably. i don't uphold him; but if the woman wishes the suit defended he can't play the cur--that's what i was brought up to believe." gregory leaned his forehead on his hand. "the whole system is odious----" he was beginning. mr. paramor chimed in. "let us keep to the facts; without the system." the rector spoke for the first time. "i don't know what you mean about the system; both this man and this woman are guilty----" gregory said in a voice that quivered with rage: "be so kind as not to use the expression, 'this woman.'" the rector glowered. "what expression then----" mr. pendyce's voice, to which the intimate trouble of his thoughts lent a certain dignity, broke in: "gentlemen, this is a question concerning the honour of my house." there was another and a longer silence, during which mr. paramor's eyes haunted from face to face, while beyond the rose a smile writhed on his lips. "i suppose you have brought me down here, pendyce, to give you my opinion," he said at last. "well; don't let these matters come into court. if there is anything you can do to prevent it, do it. if your pride stands in the way, put it in your pocket. if your sense of truth stands in the way, forget it. between personal delicacy and our law of divorce there is no relation; between absolute truth and our law of divorce there is no relation. i repeat, don't let these matters come into court. innocent and guilty, you will all suffer; the innocent will suffer more than the guilty, and nobody will benefit. i have come to this conclusion deliberately. there are cases in which i should give the opposite opinion. but in this case, i repeat, there's nothing to be gained by it. once more, then, don't let these matters come into court. don't give people's tongues a chance. take my advice, appeal to george again to give you that promise. if he refuses, well, we must try and bluff bellew out of it." mr. pendyce had listened, as he had formed the habit of listening to edmund paramor, in silence. he now looked up and said: "it's all that red-haired ruffian's spite. i don't know what you were about to stir things up, vigil. you must have put him on the scent." he looked moodily at gregory. mr. barter, too, looked at gregory with a sort of half-ashamed defiance. gregory, who had been staring at his untouched wineglass, turned his face, very flushed, and began speaking in a voice that emotion and anger caused to tremble. he avoided looking at the rector, and addressed himself to mr. paramor. "george can't give up the woman who has trusted herself to him; that would be playing the cur, if you like. let them go and live together honestly until they can be married. why do you all speak as if it were the man who mattered? it is the woman that we should protect!" the rector first recovered speech. "you're talking rank immorality," he said almost good-humouredly. mr. pendyce rose. "marry her!" he cried. "what on earth--that's worse than all--the very thing we're trying to prevent! we've been here, father and son--father and son--for generations!" "all the more shame," burst out gregory, "if you can't stand by a woman at the end of them----!" mr. paramor made a gesture of reproof. "there's moderation in all things," he said. "are you sure that mrs. bellew requires protection? if you are right, i agree; but are you right?" "i will answer for it," said gregory. mr. paramor paused a full minute with his head resting on his hand. "i am sorry," he said at last, "i must trust to my own judgment." the squire looked up. "if the worst comes to the worst, can i cut the entail, paramor?" "no." "what? but that's all wrong--that's----" "you can't have it both ways," said mr. paramor. the squire looked at him dubiously, then blurted out: "if i choose to leave him nothing but the estate, he'll soon find himself a beggar. i beg your pardon, gentlemen; fill your glasses! i'm forgetting everything!" the rector filled his glass. "i've said nothing so far," he began; "i don't feel that it's my business. my conviction is that there's far too much divorce nowadays. let this woman go back to her husband, and let him show her where she's to blame"--his voice and his eyes hardened--"then let them forgive each other like christians. you talk," he said to gregory, "about standing up for the woman. i've no patience with that; it's the way immorality's fostered in these days. i raise my voice against this sentimentalism. i always have, and i always shall!" gregory jumped to his feet. "i've told you once before," he said, "that you were indelicate; i tell you so again." mr. barter got up, and stood bending over the table, crimson in the face, staring at gregory, and unable to speak. "either you or i," he said at last, stammering with passion, "must leave this room!" gregory tried to speak; then turning abruptly, he stepped out on to the terrace, and passed from the view of those within. the rector said: "good-night, pendyce; i'm going, too!" the squire shook the hand held out to him with a face perplexed to sadness. there was silence when mr. barter had left the room. the squire broke it with a sigh. "i wish we were back at oxenham's, paramor. this serves me right for deserting the old house. what on earth made me send george to eton?" mr. paramor buried his nose in the vase. in this saying of his old schoolfellow was the whole of the squire's creed: 'i believe in my father, and his father, and his father's father, the makers and keepers of my estate; and i believe in myself and my son and my son's son. and i believe that we have made the country, and shall keep the country what it is. and i believe in the public schools, and especially the public school that i was at. and i believe in my social equals and the country house, and in things as they are, for ever and ever. amen.' mr. pendyce went on: "i'm not a puritan, paramor; i dare say there are allowances to be made for george. i don't even object to the woman herself; she may be too good for bellew; she must be too good for a fellow like that! but for george to marry her would be ruination. look at lady rose's case! anyone but a star-gazing fellow like vigil must see that! it's taboo! it's sheer taboo! and think--think of my--my grandson! no, no, paramor; no, no, by god!" the squire covered his eyes with his hand. mr. paramor, who had no son himself, answered with feeling: "now, now, old fellow; it won't come to that!" "god knows what it will come to, paramor! my nerve's shaken! you know yourself that if there's a divorce he'll be bound to marry her!" to this mr. paramor made no reply, but pressed his lips together. "there's your poor dog whining," he said. and without waiting for permission he opened the door. mrs. pendyce and the spaniel john came in. the squire looked up and frowned. the spaniel john, panting with delight, rubbed against him. 'i have been through torment, master,' he seemed to say. 'a second separation at present is not possible for me!' mrs. pendyce stood waiting silently, and mr. paramor addressed himself to her. "you can do more than any of us, mrs. pendyce, both with george and with this man bellew--and, if i am not mistaken, with his wife." the squire broke in: "don't think that i'll have any humble pie eaten to that fellow bellew!" the look mr. paramor gave him at those words, was like that of a doctor diagnosing a disease. yet there was nothing in the expression of the squire's face with its thin grey whiskers and moustache, its twist to the left, its swan-like eyes, decided jaw, and sloping brow, different from what this idea might bring on the face of any country gentleman. mrs. pendyce said eagerly "oh, mr. paramor, if i could only see george!" she longed so for a sight of her son that her thoughts carried her no further. "see him!" cried the squire. "you'll go on spoiling him till he's disgraced us all!" mrs. pendyce turned from her husband to his solicitor. excitement had fixed an unwonted colour in her cheeks; her lips twitched as if she wished to speak. mr. paramor answered for her: "no, pendyce; if george is spoilt, the system is to blame." "system!" said the squire. "i've never had a system for him. i'm no believer in systems! i don't know what you're talking of. i have another son, thank god!" mrs. pendyce took a step forward. "horace," she said, "you would never----" mr. pendyce turned from his wife, and said sharply: "paramor, are you sure i can't cut the entail?" "as sure," said mr. paramor, "as i sit here!" chapter ix definition of "pendycitis" gregory walked long in the scotch garden with his eyes on the stars. one, larger than all the rest, over the larches, shone on him ironically, for it was the star of love. and on his beat between the yew-trees that, living before pendyces came to worsted skeynes, would live when they were gone, he cooled his heart in the silver light of that big star. the irises restrained their perfume lest it should whip his senses; only the young larch-trees and the far fields sent him their fugitive sweetness through the dark. and the same brown owl that had hooted when helen bellew kissed george pendyce in the conservatory hooted again now that gregory walked grieving over the fruits of that kiss. his thoughts were of mr. barter, and with the injustice natural to a man who took a warm and personal view of things, he painted the rector in colours darker than his cloth. 'indelicate, meddlesome,' he thought. 'how dare he speak of her like that!' mr. paramor's voice broke in on his meditations. "still cooling your heels? why did you play the deuce with us in there?" "i hate a sham," said gregory. "this marriage of my ward's is a sham. she had better live honestly with the man she really loves!" "so you said just now," returned mr. paramor. "would you apply that to everyone?" "i would." "well," said mr. paramor with a laugh, "there is nothing like an idealist for-making hay! you once told me, if i remember, that marriage was sacred to you!" "those are my own private feelings, paramor. but here the mischief's done already. it is a sham, a hateful sham, and it ought to come to an end!" "that's all very well," replied mr. paramor, "but when you come to put it into practice in that wholesale way it leads to goodness knows what. it means reconstructing marriage on a basis entirely different from the present. it's marriage on the basis of the heart, and not on the basis of property. are you prepared to go to that length?" "i am." "you're as much of an extremist one way as barter is the other. it's you extremists who do all the harm. there's a golden mean, my friend. i agree that something ought to be done. but what you don't see is that laws must suit those they are intended to govern. you're too much in the stars, vigil. medicine must be graduated to the patient. come, man, where's your sense of humour? imagine your conception of marriage applied to pendyce and his sons, or his rector, or his tenants, and the labourers on his estate." "no, no," said gregory; "i refuse to believe----" "the country classes," said mr. paramor quietly, "are especially backward in such matters. they have strong, meat-fed instincts, and what with the county members, the bishops, the peers, all the hereditary force of the country, they still rule the roast. and there's a certain disease--to make a very poor joke, call it 'pendycitis' with which most of these people are infected. they're 'crass.' they do things, but they do them the wrong way! they muddle through with the greatest possible amount of unnecessary labour and suffering! it's part of the hereditary principle. i haven't had to do with them thirty five years for nothing!" gregory turned his face away. "your joke is very poor," he said. "i don't believe they are like that! i won't admit it. if there is such a disease, it's our business to find a remedy." "nothing but an operation will cure it," said mr. paramor; "and before operating there's a preliminary process to be gone through. it was discovered by lister." gregory answered "paramor, i hate your pessimism!" mr. paramor's eyes haunted gregory's back. "but i am not a pessimist," he said. "far from it. "'when daisies pied and violets blue, and lady-smocks all silver-white, and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight, the cuckoo then, on every tree----'" gregory turned on him. "how can you quote poetry, and hold the views you do? we ought to construct----" "you want to build before you've laid your foundations," said mr. paramor. "you let your feelings carry you away, vigil. the state of the marriage laws is only a symptom. it's this disease, this grudging narrow spirit in men, that makes such laws necessary. unlovely men, unlovely laws--what can you expect?" "i will never believe that we shall be content to go on living in a slough of--of----" "provincialism!" said mr. paramor. "you should take to gardening; it makes one recognise what you idealists seem to pass over--that men, my dear friend, are, like plants, creatures of heredity and environment; their growth is slow. you can't get grapes from thorns, vigil, or figs from thistles--at least, not in one generation--however busy and hungry you may be!" "your theory degrades us all to the level of thistles." "social laws depend for their strength on the harm they have it in their power to inflict, and that harm depends for its strength on the ideals held by the man on whom the harm falls. if you dispense with the marriage tie, or give up your property and take to brotherhood, you'll have a very thistley time, but you won't mind that if you're a fig. and so on ad lib. it's odd, though, how soon the thistles that thought themselves figs get found out. there are many things i hate, vigil. one is extravagance, and another humbug!" but gregory stood looking at the sky. "we seem to have wandered from the point," said mr. paramor, "and i think we had better go in. it's nearly eleven." throughout the length of the low white house there were but three windows lighted, three eyes looking at the moon, a fairy shallop sailing the night sky. the cedar-trees stood black as pitch. the old brown owl had ceased his hooting. mr. paramor gripped gregory by the arm. "a nightingale! did you hear him down in that spinney? it's a sweet place, this! i don't wonder pendyce is fond of it. you're not a fisherman, i think? did you ever watch a school of fishes coasting along a bank? how blind they are, and how they follow their leader! in our element we men know just about as much as the fishes do. a blind lot, vigil! we take a mean view of things; we're damnably provincial!" gregory pressed his hands to his forehead. "i'm trying to think," he said, "what will be the consequences to my ward of this divorce." "my friend, listen to some plain speaking. your ward and her husband and george pendyce are just the sort of people for whom our law of divorce is framed. they've all three got courage, they're all reckless and obstinate, and--forgive me--thick-skinned. their case, if fought, will take a week of hard swearing, a week of the public's money and time. it will give admirable opportunities to eminent counsel, excellent reading to the general public, first-rate sport all round. "the papers will have a regular carnival. i repeat, they are the very people for whom our law of divorce is framed. there's a great deal to be said for publicity, but all the same it puts a premium on insensibility, and causes a vast amount of suffering to innocent people. i told you once before, to get a divorce, even if you deserve it, you mustn't be a sensitive person. those three will go through it all splendidly, but every scrap of skin will be torn off you and our poor friends down here, and the result will be a drawn battle at the end! that's if it's fought, and if it comes on i don't see how we can let it go unfought; it's contrary to my instincts. if we let it go undefended, mark my words, your ward and george pendyce will be sick of each other before the law allows them to marry, and george, as his father says, for the sake of 'morality,' will have to marry a woman who is tired of him, or of whom he is tired. now you've got it straight from the shoulder, and i'm going up to bed. it's a heavy dew. lock this door after you." mr. paramor made his way into the conservatory. he stopped and came back. "pendyce," he said, "perfectly understands all i've been telling you. he'd give his eyes for the case not to come on, but you'll see he'll rub everything up the wrong way, and it'll be a miracle if we succeed. that's 'pendycitis'! we've all got a touch of it. good-night!" gregory was left alone outside the country house with his big star. and as his thoughts were seldom of an impersonal kind he did not reflect on "pendycitis," but on helen bellew. and the longer he thought the more he thought of her as he desired to think, for this was natural to him; and ever more ironical grew the twinkling of his star above the spinney where the nightingale was singing. chapter x george goes for the gloves on the thursday of the epsom summer meeting, george pendyce sat in the corner of a first-class railway-carriage trying to make two and two into five. on a sheet of stoics' club note-paper his racing-debts were stated to a penny--one thousand and forty five pounds overdue, and below, seven hundred and fifty lost at the current meeting. below these again his private debts were indicated by the round figure of one thousand pounds. it was round by courtesy, for he had only calculated those bills which had been sent in, and providence, which knows all things, preferred the rounder figure of fifteen hundred. in sum, therefore, he had against him a total of three thousand two hundred and ninety-five pounds. and since at tattersalls and the stock exchange, where men are engaged in perpetual motion, an almost absurd punctiliousness is required in the payment of those sums which have for the moment inadvertently been lost, seventeen hundred and ninety-five of this must infallibly be raised by monday next. indeed, only a certain liking for george, a good loser and a good winner, and the fear of dropping a good customer, had induced the firm of bookmakers to let that debt of one thousand and forty-five stand over the epsom meeting. to set against these sums (in which he had not counted his current trainer's bill, and the expenses, which he could not calculate, of the divorce suit), he had, first, a bank balance which he might still overdraw another twenty pounds; secondly, the ambler and two bad selling platers; and thirdly (more considerable item), x, or that which he might, or indeed must, win over the ambler's race this afternoon. whatever else, it was not pluck that was lacking in the character of george pendyce. this quality was in his fibre, in the consistency of his blood, and confronted with a situation which, to some men, and especially to men not brought up on the hereditary plan, might have seemed desperate, he exhibited no sign of anxiety or distress. into the consideration of his difficulties he imported certain principles: ( ) he did not intend to be posted at tattersalls. sooner than that he would go to the jews; the entail was all he could look to borrow on; the hebrews would force him to pay through the nose. ( ) he did not intend to show the white feather, and in backing his horse meant to "go for the gloves." ( ) he did not intend to think of the future; the thought of the present was quite bad enough. the train bounded and swung as though rushing onwards to a tune, and george sat quietly in his corner. amongst his fellows in the carriage was the hon. geoffrey winlow, who, though not a racing-man, took a kindly interest in our breed of horses, which by attendance at the principal meetings he hoped to improve. "your horse going to run, george?" george nodded. "i shall have a fiver on him for luck. i can't afford to bet. saw your mother at the foxholme garden-party last week. you seen them lately?" george shook his head and felt an odd squeeze: at his heart. "you know they had a fire at old peacock's farm; i hear the squire and barter did wonders. he's as game as a pebble, the squire." again george nodded, and again felt that squeeze at his heart. "aren't they coming to town this season?" "haven't heard," answered george. "have a cigar?" winlow took the cigar, and cutting it with a small penknife, scrutinised george's square face with his leisurely eyes. it needed a physiognomist to penetrate its impassivity. winlow thought to himself: 'i shouldn't be surprised if what they say about old george is true.' . . . "had a good meeting so far?" "so-so." they parted on the racecourse. george went at once to see his trainer and thence into tattersalls' ring. he took with him that equation with x, and sought the society of two gentlemen quietly dressed, one of whom was making a note in a little book with a gold pencil. they greeted him respectfully, for it was to them that he owed the bulk of that seventeen hundred and ninety-five pounds. "what price will you lay against my horse?" "evens, mr. pendyce," replied the gentleman with the gold pencil, "to a monkey." george booked the bet. it was not his usual way of doing business, but to-day everything seemed different, and something stronger than custom was at work. 'i am going for the gloves,' he thought; 'if it doesn't come off', i'm done anyhow.' he went to another quietly dressed gentleman with a diamond pin and a jewish face. and as he went from one quietly dressed gentleman to another there preceded him some subtle messenger, who breathed the words, 'mr. pendyce is going for the gloves,' so that at each visit he found they had greater confidence than ever in his horse. soon he had promised to pay two thousand pounds if the ambler lost, and received the assurance of eminent gentlemen, quietly dressed, that they would pay him fifteen hundred if the ambler won. the odds now stood at two to one on, and he had found it impossible to back the ambler for "a place," in accordance with his custom. 'made a fool of myself,' he thought; 'ought never to have gone into the ring at all; ought to have let barney's work it quietly. it doesn't matter!' he still required to win three hundred pounds to settle on the monday, and laid a final bet of seven hundred to three hundred and fifty pounds upon his horse. thus, without spending a penny, simply by making a few promises, he had solved the equation with x. on leaving the ring, he entered the bar and drank some whisky. he then went to the paddock. the starting-bell for the second race had rung; there was hardly anyone there, but in a far corner the ambler was being led up and down by a boy. george glanced round to see that no acquaintances were near, and joined in this promenade. the ambler turned his black, wild eye, crescented with white, threw up his head, and gazed far into the distance. 'if one could only make him understand!' thought george. when his horse left the paddock for the starting-post george went back to the stand. at the bar he drank some more whisky, and heard someone say: "i had to lay six to four. i want to find pendyce; they say he's backed it heavily." george put down his glass, and instead of going to his usual place, mounted slowly to the top of the stand. 'i don't want them buzzing round me,' he thought. at the top of the stand--that national monument, visible for twenty miles around--he knew himself to be safe. only "the many" came here, and amongst the many he thrust himself till at the very top he could rest his glasses on a rail and watch the colours. besides his own peacock blue there was a straw, a blue with white stripes, a red with white stars. they say that through the minds of drowning men troop ghosts of past experience. it was not so with george; his soul was fastened on that little daub of peacock blue. below the glasses his lips were colourless from hard compression; he moistened them continually. the four little coloured daubs stole into line, the flag fell. "they're off!" that roar, like the cry of a monster, sounded all around. george steadied his glasses on the rail. blue with white stripes was leading, the ambler lying last. thus they came round the further bend. and providence, as though determined that someone should benefit by his absorption, sent a hand sliding under george's elbows, to remove the pin from his tie and slide away. round tattenham corner george saw his horse take the lead. so, with straw closing up, they came into the straight. the ambler's jockey looked back and raised his whip; in that instant, as if by magic, straw drew level; down came the whip on the ambler's flank; again as by magic straw was in front. the saying of his old jockey darted through george's mind: "mark my words, sir, that 'orse knows what's what, and when they're like that they're best let alone." "sit still, you fool!" he muttered. the whip came down again; straw was two lengths in front. someone behind said: "the favourite's beat! no, he's not, by jove!" for as though george's groan had found its way to the jockey's ears, he dropped his whip. the ambler sprang forward. george saw that he was gaining. all his soul went out to his horse's struggle. in each of those fifteen seconds he died and was born again; with each stride all that was loyal and brave in his nature leaped into flame, all that was base sank, for he himself was racing with his horse, and the sweat poured down his brow. and his lips babbled broken sounds that no one heard, for all around were babbling too. locked together, the ambler and straw ran home. then followed a hush, for no one knew which of the two had won. the numbers went up "seven-two-five." "the favourite's second! beaten by a nose!" said a voice. george bowed his head, and his whole spirit felt numb. he closed his glasses and moved with the crowd to the stairs. a voice behind him said: "he'd have won in another stride!" another answered: "i hate that sort of horse. he curled up at the whip." george ground his teeth. "curse you!" he muttered, "you little cockney; what do you know about a horse?" the crowd surged; the speakers were lost to sight. the long descent from the stand gave him time. no trace of emotion showed on his face when he appeared in the paddock. blacksmith the trainer stood by the ambler's stall. "that idiot tipping lost us the race, sir," he began with quivering lips. "if he'd only left him alone, the horse would have won in a canter. what on earth made him use his whip? he deserves to lose his license. he----" the gall and bitterness of defeat surged into george's brain. "it's no good your talking, blacksmith," he said; "you put him up. what the devil made you quarrel with swells?" the little man's chin dropped in sheer surprise. george turned away, and went up to the jockey, but at the sick look on the poor youth's face the angry words died off his tongue. "all right, tipping; i'm not going to rag you." and with the ghost of a smile he passed into the ambler's stall. the groom had just finished putting him to rights; the horse stood ready to be led from the field of his defeat. the groom moved out, and george went to the ambler's head. there is no place, no corner, on a racecourse where a man may show his heart. george did but lay his forehead against the velvet of his horse's muzzle, and for one short second hold it there. the ambler awaited the end of that brief caress, then with a snort threw up his head, and with his wild, soft eyes seemed saying, 'you fools! what do you know of me?' george stepped to one side. "take him away," he said, and his eyes followed the ambler's receding form. a racing-man of a different race, whom he knew and did not like, came up to him as he left the paddock. "i suppothe you won't thell your horse, pendythe?" he said. "i'll give you five thou. for him. he ought never to have lotht; the beating won't help him with the handicappers a little bit." 'you carrion crow!' thought george. "thanks; he's not for sale," he answered. he went back to the stand, but at every step and in each face, he seemed to see the equation which now he could only solve with x . thrice he went into the bar. it was on the last of these occasions that he said to himself: "the horse must go. i shall never have a horse like him again." over that green down which a hundred thousand feet had trodden brown, which a hundred thousand hands had strewn with bits of paper, cigar-ends, and the fragments of discarded food, over the great approaches to the battlefield, where all was pathway leading to and from the fight, those who make livelihood in such a fashion, least and littlest followers, were bawling, hawking, whining to the warriors flushed with victory or wearied by defeat: over that green down, between one-legged men and ragged acrobats, women with babies at the breast, thimble-riggers, touts, walked george pendyce, his mouth hard set and his head bent down. "good luck, captain, good luck to-morrow; good luck, good luck!... for the love of gawd, your lordship!... roll, bowl, or pitch!" the sun, flaming out after long hiding, scorched the back of his neck; the free down wind, fouled by foetid odours, brought to his ears the monster's last cry, "they're off!" a voice hailed him. george turned and saw winlow, and with a curse and a smile he answered: "hallo!" the hon. geoffrey ranged alongside, examining george's face at leisure. "afraid you had a bad race, old chap! i hear you've sold the ambler to that fellow guilderstein." in george's heart something snapped. 'already?' he thought. 'the brute's been crowing. and it's that little bounder that my horse--my horse' he answered calmly: "wanted the money." winlow, who was not lacking in cool discretion, changed the subject. late that evening george sat in the stoics' window overlooking piccadilly. before his eyes, shaded by his hand, the hansoms passed, flying east and west, each with the single pale disc of face, or the twin discs of faces close together; and the gentle roar of the town came in, and the cool air refreshed by night. in the light of the lamps the trees of the green park stood burnished out of deep shadow where nothing moved; and high over all, the stars and purple sky seemed veiled with golden gauze. figures without end filed by. some glanced at the lighted windows and the man in the white shirt-front sitting there. and many thought: 'wish i were that swell, with nothing to do but step into his father's shoes;' and to many no thought came. but now and then some passer murmured to himself: "looks lonely sitting there." and to those faces gazing up, george's lips were grim, and over them came and went a little bitter smile; but on his forehead he felt still the touch of his horse's muzzle, and his eyes, which none could see, were dark with pain. chapter xi mr. barter takes a walk the event at the rectory was expected every moment. the rector, who practically never suffered, disliked the thought and sight of others' suffering. up to this day, indeed, there had been none to dislike, for in answer to inquiries his wife had always said "no, dear, no; i'm all right--really, it's nothing." and she had always said it smiling, even when her smiling lips were white. but this morning in trying to say it she had failed to smile. her eyes had lost their hopelessly hopeful shining, and sharply between her teeth she said: "send for dr. wilson, hussell" the rector kissed her, shutting his eyes, for he was afraid of her face with its lips drawn back, and its discoloured cheeks. in five minutes the groom was hastening to cornmarket on the roan cob, and the rector stood in his study, looking from one to another of his household gods, as though calling them to his assistance. at last he took down a bat and began oiling it. sixteen years ago, when husell was born, he had been overtaken by sounds that he had never to this day forgotten; they had clung to the nerves of his memory, and for no reward would he hear them again. they had never been uttered since, for like most wives, his wife was a heroine; but, used as he was to this event, the rector had ever since suffered from panic. it was as though providence, storing all the anxiety which he might have felt throughout, let him have it with a rush at the last moment. he put the bat back into its case, corked the oil-bottle, and again stood looking at his household gods. none came to his aid. and his thoughts were as they had nine times been before. 'i ought not to go out. i ought to wait for wilson. suppose anything were to happen. still, nurse is with her, and i can do nothing. poor rose--poor darling! it's my duty to----what's that? i'm better out of the way.' softly, without knowing that it was softly, he opened the door; softly, without knowing it was softly, he stepped to the hat-rack and took his black straw hat; softly, without knowing it was softly, he went out, and, unfaltering, hurried down the drive. three minutes later he appeared again, approaching the house faster than he had set forth. he passed the hall door, ran up the stairs, and entered his wife's room. "rose dear, rose, can i do anything?" mrs. barter put out her hand, a gleam of malice shot into her eyes. through her set lips came a vague murmur, and the words: "no, dear, nothing. better go for your walk." mr. barter pressed his lips to her quivering hand, and backed from the room. outside the door he struck at the air with his fist, and, running downstairs, was once more lost to sight. faster and faster he walked, leaving the village behind, and among the country sights and sounds and scents--his nerves began to recover. he was able to think again of other things: of cecil's school report--far from satisfactory; of old hermon in the village, whom he suspected of overdoing his bronchitis with an eye to port; of the return match with coldingham, and his belief that their left-hand bowler only wanted "hitting"; of the new edition of hymn-books, and the slackness of the upper village in attending church--five households less honest and ductile than the rest, a foreign look about them, dark people, un-english. in thinking of these things he forgot what he wanted to forget; but hearing the sound of wheels, he entered a field as though to examine the crops until the vehicle had passed. it was not wilson, but it might have been, and at the next turning he unconsciously branched off the cornmarket road. it was noon when he came within sight of coldingham, six miles from worsted skeynes. he would have enjoyed a glass of beer, but, unable to enter the public-house, he went into the churchyard instead. he sat down on a bench beneath a sycamore opposite the winlow graves, for coldingham was lord montrossor's seat, and it was here that all the winlows lay. bees were busy above them in the branches, and mr. barter thought: 'beautiful site. we've nothing like this at worsted skeynes....' but suddenly he found that he could not sit there and think. suppose his wife were to die! it happened sometimes; the wife of john tharp of bletchingham had died in giving birth to her tenth child! his forehead was wet, and he wiped it. casting an angry glance at the winlow graves, he left the seat. he went down by the further path, and came out on the green. a cricket-match was going on, and in spite of himself the rector stopped. the coldingham team were in the field. mr. barter watched. as he had thought, that left-hand bowler bowled a good pace, and "came in" from the off, but his length was poor, very poor! a determined batsman would soon knock him off! he moved into line with the wickets to see how much the fellow "came in," and he grew so absorbed that he did not at first notice the hon. geoffrey winlow in pads and a blue and green blazer, smoking a cigarette astride of a camp-stool. "ah, winlow, it's your team against the village. afraid i can't stop to see you bat. i was just passing--matter i had to attend to--must get back!" the real solemnity of his face excited winlow's curiosity. "can't you stop and have lunch with us?" "no, no; my wife--must get back!" winlow murmured: "ah yes, of course." his leisurely blue eyes, always in command of the situation, rested on the rector's heated face. "by the way," he said, "i'm afraid george pendyce is rather hard hit. been obliged to sell his horse. i saw him at epsom the week before last." the rector brightened. "i made certain he'd come to grief over that betting," he said. "i'm very sorry--very sorry indeed." "they say," went on winlow, "that he dropped four thousand over the thursday race. "he was pretty well dipped before, i know. poor old george! such an awfully good chap!" "ah," repeated mr. barter, "i'm very sorry--very sorry indeed. things were bad enough as it was." a ray of interest illumined the leisureliness of the hon. geoffrey's eyes. "you mean about mrs.----h'm, yes?" he said. "people are talking; you can't stop that. i'm so sorry for the poor squire, and mrs. pendyce. i hope something'll be done." the rector frowned. "i've done my best," he said. "well hit, sir! i've always said that anyone with a little pluck can knock off that lefthand man you think so much of. he 'comes in' a bit, but he bowls a shocking bad length. here i am dawdling. i must get back!" and once more that real solemnity came over mr. barter's face. "i suppose you'll be playing for coldingham against us on thursday? good-bye!" nodding in response to winlow's salute, he walked away. he avoided the churchyard, and took a path across the fields. he was hungry and thirsty. in one of his sermons there occurred this passage: "we should habituate ourselves to hold our appetites in check. by constantly accustoming our selves to abstinence little abstinences in our daily life--we alone can attain to that true spirituality without which we cannot hope to know god." and it was well known throughout his household and the village that the rector's temper was almost dangerously spiritual if anything detained him from his meals. for he was a man physiologically sane and healthy to the core, whose digestion and functions, strong, regular, and straightforward as the day, made calls upon him which would not be denied. after preaching that particular sermon, he frequently for a week or more denied himself a second glass of ale at lunch, or his after-dinner cigar, smoking a pipe instead. and he was perfectly honest in his belief that he attained a greater spirituality thereby, and perhaps indeed he did. but even if he did not, there was no one to notice this, for the majority of his flock accepted his spirituality as matter of course, and of the insignificant minority there were few who did not make allowance for the fact that he was their pastor by virtue of necessity, by virtue of a system which had placed him there almost mechanically, whether he would or no. indeed, they respected him the more that he was their rector, and could not be removed, and were glad that theirs was no common vicar like that of coldingham, dependent on the caprices of others. for, with the exception of two bad characters and one atheist, the whole village, conservatives or liberals (there were liberals now that they were beginning to believe that the ballot was really secret), were believers in the hereditary system. insensibly the rector directed himself towards bletchingham, where there was a temperance house. at heart he loathed lemonade and gingerbeer in the middle of the day, both of which made his economy cold and uneasy, but he felt he could go nowhere else. and his spirits rose at the sight of bletchingham spire. 'bread and cheese,' he thought. 'what's better than bread and cheese? and they shall make me a cup of coffee.' in that cup of coffee there was something symbolic and fitting to his mental state. it was agitated and thick, and impregnated with the peculiar flavour of country coffee. he swallowed but little, and resumed his march. at the first turning he passed the village school, whence issued a rhythmic but discordant hum, suggestive of some dull machine that had served its time. the rector paused to listen. leaning on the wall of the little play-yard, he tried to make out the words that, like a religious chant, were being intoned within. it sounded like, "twice two's four, twice four's six, twice six's eight," and he passed on, thinking, 'a fine thing; but if we don't take care we shall go too far; we shall unfit them for their stations,' and he frowned. crossing a stile, he took a footpath. the air was full of the singing of larks, and the bees were pulling down the clover-stalks. at the bottom of the field was a little pond overhung with willows. on a bare strip of pasture, within thirty yards, in the full sun, an old horse was tethered to a peg. it stood with its face towards the pond, baring its yellow teeth, and stretching out its head, all bone and hollows, to the water which it could not reach. the rector stopped. he did not know the horse personally, for it was three fields short of his parish, but he saw that the poor beast wanted water. he went up, and finding that the knot of the halter hurt his fingers, stooped down and wrenched at the peg. while he was thus straining and tugging, crimson in the face, the old horse stood still, gazing at him out of his bleary eyes. mr. barter sprang upright with a jerk, the peg in his hand, and the old horse started back. "so ho, boy!" said the rector, and angrily he muttered: "a shame to tie the poor beast up here in the sun. i should like to give his owner a bit of my mind!" he led the animal towards the water. the old horse followed tranquilly enough, but as he had done nothing to deserve his misfortune, neither did he feel any gratitude towards his deliverer. he drank his fill, and fell to grazing. the rector experienced a sense of disillusionment, and drove the peg again into the softer earth under the willows; then raising himself, he looked hard at the old horse. the animal continued to graze. the rector took out his handkerchief, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and frowned. he hated ingratitude in man or beast. suddenly he realised that he was very tired. "it must be over by now," he said to himself, and hastened on in the heat across the fields. the rectory door was open. passing into the study, he sat down a moment to collect his thoughts. people were moving above; he heard a long moaning sound that filled his heart with terror. he got up and rushed to the bell, but did not ring it, and ran upstairs instead. outside his wife's room he met his children's old nurse. she was standing on the mat, with her hands to her ears, and the tears were rolling down her face. "oh, sir!" she said--"oh, sir!" the rector glared. "woman!" he cried--"woman!" he covered his ears and rushed downstairs again. there was a lady in the hall. it was mrs. pendyce, and he ran to her, as a hurt child runs to its mother. "my wife," he said--"my poor wife! god knows what they're doing to her up there, mrs. pendyce!" and he hid his face in his hands. she, who had been a totteridge, stood motionless; then, very gently putting her gloved hand on his thick arm, where the muscles stood out from the clenching of his hands, she said: "dear mr. barter, dr. wilson is so clever! come into the drawing-room!" the rector, stumbling like a blind man, suffered himself to be led. he sat down on the sofa, and mrs. pendyce sat down beside him, her hand still on his arm; over her face passed little quivers, as though she were holding herself in. she repeated in her gentle voice: "it will be all right--it will be all right. come, come!" in her concern and sympathy there was apparent, not aloofness, but a faint surprise that she should be sitting there stroking the rector's arm. mr. barter took his hands from before his face. "if she dies," he said in a voice unlike his own, "i'll not bear it." in answer to those words, forced from him by that which is deeper than habit, mrs. pendyce's hand slipped from his arm and rested on the shiny chintz covering of the sofa, patterned with green and crimson. her soul shrank from the violence in his voice. "wait here," she said. "i will go up and see." to command was foreign to her nature, but mr. barter, with a look such as a little rueful boy might give, obeyed. when she was gone he stood listening at the door for some sound--for any sound, even the sound of her dress--but there was none, for her petticoat was of lawn, and the rector was alone with a silence that he could not bear. he began to pace the room in his thick boots, his hands clenched behind him, his forehead butting the air, his lips folded; thus a bull, penned for the first time, turns and turns, showing the whites of its full eyes. his thoughts drove here and there, fearful, angered, without guidance; he did not pray. the words he had spoken so many times left him as though of malice. "we are all in the hands of god!--we are all in the hands of god!" instead of them he could think of nothing but the old saying mr. paramor had used in the squire's dining-room, "there is moderation in all things," and this with cruel irony kept humming in his ears. "moderation in all things--moderation in all things!" and his wife lying there--his doing, and there was a sound. the rector's face, so brown and red, could not grow pale, but his great fists relaxed. mrs. pendyce was standing in the doorway with a peculiar half-pitiful, half-excited smile. "it's all right--a boy. the poor dear has had a dreadful time!" the rector looked at her, but did not speak; then abruptly he brushed past her in the doorway, hurried into his study and locked the door. then, and then only, he kneeled down, and remained there many minutes, thinking of nothing. chapter xii the squire makes up his mind that same evening at nine o'clock, sitting over the last glass of a pint of port, mr. barter felt an irresistible longing for enjoyment, an impulse towards expansion and his fellow-men. taking his hat and buttoning his coat--for though the june evening was fine the easterly breeze was eager--he walked towards the village. like an emblem of that path to god of which he spoke on sundays, the grey road between trim hedges threaded the shadow of the elm-trees where the rooks had long since gone to bed. a scent of wood-smoke clung in the air; the cottages appeared, the forge, the little shops facing the village green. lights in the doors and windows deepened; a breeze, which hardly stirred the chestnut leaves, fled with a gentle rustling through the aspens. houses and trees, houses and trees! shelter through the past and through the days to come! the rector stopped the first man he saw. "fine weather for the hay, aiken! how's your wife doing--a girl? ah, ha! you want some boys! you heard of our event at the rectory? i'm thankful to say----" from man to man and house to house he soothed his thirst for fellowship, for the lost sense of dignity that should efface again the scar of suffering. and above him the chestnuts in their breathing stillness, the aspens with their tender rustling, seemed to watch and whisper: "oh, little men! oh, little men!" the moon, at the end of her first quarter, sailed out of the shadow of the churchyard--the same young moon that had sailed in her silver irony when the first barter preached, the first pendyce was squire at worsted skeynes; the same young moon that, serene, ineffable, would come again when the last barter slept, the last pendyce was gone, and on their gravestones, through the amethystine air, let fall her gentle light. the rector thought: 'i shall set stedman to work on that corner. we must have more room; the stones there are a hundred and fifty years old if they're a day. you can't read a single word. they'd better be the first to go.' he passed on along the paddock footway leading to the squire's. day was gone, and only the moonbeams lighted the tall grasses. at the hall the long french windows of the dining-room were open; the squire was sitting there alone, brooding sadly above the remnants of the fruit he had been eating. flanking him on either wall hung a silent company, the effigies of past pendyces; and at the end, above the oak and silver of the sideboard, the portrait of his wife was looking at them under lifted brows, with her faint wonder. he raised his head. "ah, barter! how's your wife?" "doing as well as can be expected." "glad to hear that! a fine constitution--wonderful vitality. port or claret?" "thanks; just a glass of port." "very trying for your nerves. i know what it is. we're different from the last generation; they thought nothing of it. when charles was born my dear old father was out hunting all day. when my wife had george, it made me as nervous as a cat!" the squire stopped, then hurriedly added: "but you're so used to it." mr. barter frowned. "i was passing coldingham to-day," he said. "i saw winlow. he asked after you." "ah! winlow! his wife's a very nice woman. they've only the one child, i think?" the rector winced. "winlow tells me," he said abruptly, "that george has sold his horse." the squire's face changed. he glanced suspiciously at mr. barter, but the rector was looking at his glass. "sold his horse! what's the meaning of that? he told you why, i suppose?" the rector drank off his wine. "i never ask for reasons," he said, "where racing-men are concerned. it's my belief they know no more what they're about than so many dumb animals." "ah! racing-men!" said mr. pendyce. "but george doesn't bet." a gleam of humour shot into the rector's eyes. he pressed his lips together. the squire rose. "come now, barter!" he said. the rector blushed. he hated tale-bearing--that is, of course, in the case of a man; the case of a woman was different--and just as, when he went to bellew he had been careful not to give george away, so now he was still more on his guard. "no, no, pendyce." the squire began to pace the room, and mr. barter felt something stir against his foot; the spaniel john emerging at the end, just where the moonlight shone, a symbol of all that was subservient to the squire, gazed up at his master with tragic eyes. 'here, again,' they seemed to say, 'is something to disturb me!' the squire broke the silence. "i've always counted on you, barter; i count on you as i would on my own brother. come, now, what's this about george?" 'after all,' thought the rector, 'it's his father!'--"i know nothing but what they say," he blurted forth; "they talk of his having lost a lot of money. i dare say it's all nonsense. i never set much store by rumour. and if he's sold the horse, well, so much the better. he won't be tempted to gamble again." but horace pendyce made no answer. a single thought possessed his bewildered, angry mind: 'my son a gambler! worsted skeynes in the hands of a gambler!' the rector rose. "it's all rumour. you shouldn't pay any attention. i should hardly think he's been such a fool. i only know that i must get back to my wife. good-night." and, nodding but confused, mr. barter went away through the french window by which he had come. the squire stood motionless. a gambler! to him, whose existence was bound up in worsted skeynes, whose every thought had some direct or indirect connection with it, whose son was but the occupier of that place he must at last vacate, whose religion was ancestor-worship, whose dread was change, no word could be so terrible. a gambler! it did not occur to him that his system was in any way responsible for george's conduct. he had said to mr. paramor: "i never had a system; i'm no believer in systems." he had brought him up simply as a gentleman. he would have preferred that george should go into the army, but george had failed; he would have preferred that george should devote himself to the estate, marry, and have a son, instead of idling away his time in town, but george had failed; and so, beyond furthering his desire to join the yeomanry, and getting him proposed for the stoics' club, what was there he could have done to keep him out of mischief? and now he was a gambler! once a gambler always a gambler! to his wife's face, looking down from the wall, he said: "he gets it from you!" but for all answer the face stared gently. turning abruptly, he left the room, and the spaniel john, for whom he had been too quick, stood with his nose to the shut door, scenting for someone to come and open it. mr. pendyce went to his study, took some papers from a locked drawer, and sat a long time looking at them. one was the draft of his will, another a list of the holdings at worsted skeynes, their acreage and rents, a third a fair copy of the settlement, re-settling the estate when he had married. it was at this piece of supreme irony that mr. pendyce looked longest. he did not read it, but he thought: 'and i can't cut it! paramor says so! a gambler!' that "crassness" common to all men in this strange world, and in the squire intensified, was rather a process than a quality--obedience to an instinctive dread of what was foreign to himself, an instinctive fear of seeing another's point of view, an instinctive belief in precedent. and it was closely allied to his most deep and moral quality--the power of making a decision. those decisions might be "crass" and stupid, conduce to unnecessary suffering, have no relation to morality or reason; but he could make them, and he could stick to them. by virtue of this power he was where he was, had been for centuries, and hoped to be for centuries to come. it was in his blood. by this alone he kept at bay the destroying forces that time brought against him, his order, his inheritance; by this alone he could continue to hand down that inheritance to his son. and at the document which did hand it down he looked with angry and resentful eyes. men who conceive great resolutions do not always bring them forth with the ease and silence which they themselves desire. mr. pendyce went to his bedroom determined to say no word of what he had resolved to do. his wife was asleep. the squire's entrance wakened her, but she remained motionless, with her eyes closed, and it was the sight of that immobility, when he himself was so disturbed, which drew from him the words: "did you know that george was a gambler?" by the light of the candle in his silver candlestick her dark eyes seemed suddenly alive. "he's been betting; he's sold his horse. he'd never have sold that horse unless he were pushed. for all i know, he may be posted at tattersalls!" the sheets shivered as though she who lay within them were struggling. then came her voice, cool and gentle: "all young men bet, horace; you must know that!" the squire at the foot of the bed held up the candle; the movement had a sinister significance. "do you defend him?" it seemed to say. "do you defy me?" gripping the bed-rail, he cried: "i'll have no gambler and profligate for my son! i'll not risk the estate!" mrs. pendyce raised herself, and for many seconds stared at her husband. her heart beat furiously. it had come! what she had been expecting all these days had come! her pale lips answered: "what do you mean? i don't understand you, horace." mr. pendyce's eyes searched here and therefor what, he did not know. "this has decided me," he said. "i'll have no half-measures. until he can show me he's done with that woman, until he can prove he's given up this betting, until--until the heaven's fallen, i'll have no more to do with him!" to margery pendyce, with all her senses quivering, that saying, "until the heaven's fallen," was frightening beyond the rest. on the lips of her husband, those lips which had never spoken in metaphors, never swerved from the direct and commonplace, nor deserted the shibboleth of his order, such words had an evil and malignant sound. he went on: "i've brought him up as i was brought up myself. i never thought to have had a scamp for my son!" mrs. pendyce's heart stopped fluttering. "how dare you, horace!" she cried. the squire, letting go the bed-rail, paced to and fro. there was something savage in the sound of his footsteps through the utter silence. "i've made up my mind," he said. "the estate----" there broke from mrs. pendyce a torrent of words: "you talk of the way you brought george up! you--you never understood him! you--you never did anything for him! he just grew up like you all grow up in this-----" but no word followed, for she did not know herself what was that against which her soul had blindly fluttered its wings. "you never loved him as i do! what do i care about the estate? i wish it were sold! d'you think i like living here? d'you think i've ever liked it? d'you think i've ever----" but she did not finish that saying: d'you think i've ever loved you? "my boy a scamp! i've heard you laugh and shake your head and say a hundred times: 'young men will be young men!' you think i don't know how you'd all go on if you dared! you think i don't know how you talk among yourselves! as for gambling, you'd gamble too, if you weren't afraid! and now george is in trouble----" as suddenly as it had broken forth the torrent of her words dried up. mr. pendyce had come back to the foot of the bed, and once more gripped the rail whereon the candle, still and bright, showed them each other's faces, very changed from the faces that they knew. in the squire's lean brown throat, between the parted points of his stiff collar, a string seemed working. he stammered: "you--you're talking like a madwoman! my father would have cut me off, his father would have cut him off! by god! do you think i'll stand quietly by and see it all played ducks and drakes with, and see that woman here, and see her son, a--a bastard, or as bad as a bastard, in my place? you don't know me!" the last words came through his teeth like the growl of a dog. mrs. pendyce made the crouching movement of one who gathers herself to spring. "if you give him up, i shall go to him; i will never come back!" the squire's grip on the rail relaxed; in the light of the candle, still and steady and bright--his jaw could be seen to fall. he snapped his teeth together, and turning abruptly, said: "don't talk such rubbish!" then, taking the candle, he went into his dressing-room. and at first his feelings were simple enough; he had merely that sore sensation, that sense of raw offence, as at some gross and violent breach of taste. 'what madness,' he thought, 'gets into women! it would serve her right if i slept here!' he looked around him. there was no place where he could sleep, not even a sofa, and taking up the candle, he moved towards the door. but a feeling of hesitation and forlornness rising, he knew not whence, made him pause irresolute before the window. the young moon, riding low, shot her light upon his still, lean figure, and in that light it was strange to see how grey he looked--grey from head to foot, grey, and sad, and old, as though in summary of all the squires who in turn had looked upon that prospect frosted with young moonlight to the boundary of their lands. out in the paddock he saw his old hunter bob, with his head turned towards the house; and from the very bottom of his heart he sighed. in answer to that sigh came a sound of something falling outside against the door. he opened it to see what might be there. the spaniel john, lying on a cushion of blue linen, with his head propped up against the wall, darkly turned his eyes. 'i am here, master,' he seemed to say; 'it is late--i was about to go to sleep; it has done me good, however, to see you;' and hiding his eyes from the light under a long black ear, he drew a stertorous breath. mr. pendyce shut-to the door. he had forgotten the existence of his dog. but, as though with the sight of that faithful creature he had regained belief in all that he was used to, in all that he was master of, in all that was--himself, he opened the bedroom door and took his place beside his wife. and soon he was asleep. part iii chapter i mrs. pendyce's odyssey but mrs. pendyce did not sleep. that blessed anodyne of the long day spent in his farmyards and fields was on her husband's eyes--no anodyne on hers; and through them, all that was deep, most hidden, sacred, was laid open to the darkness. if only those eyes could have been seen that night! but if the darkness had been light, nothing of all this so deep and sacred would have been there to see, for more deep, more sacred still, in margery pendyce, was the instinct of a lady. so elastic and so subtle, so interwoven of consideration for others and consideration for herself, so old, so very old, this instinct wrapped her from all eyes, like a suit of armour of the finest chain. the night must have been black indeed when she took that off and lay without it in the darkness. with the first light she put it on again, and stealing from bed, bathed long and stealthily those eyes which felt as though they had been burned all night; thence went to the open window and leaned out. dawn had passed, the birds were at morning music. down there in the garden her flowers were meshed with the grey dew, and the trees were grey, spun with haze; dim and spectrelike, the old hunter, with his nose on the paddock rail, dozed in the summer mist. and all that had been to her like prison out there, and all that she had loved, stole up on the breath of the unaired morning, and kept beating in her face, fluttering at the white linen above her heart like the wings of birds flying. the first morning song ceased, and at the silence the sun smiled out in golden irony, and everything was shot with colour. a wan glow fell on mrs. pendyce's spirit, that for so many hours had been heavy and grey in lonely resolution. for to her gentle soul, unused to action, shrinking from violence, whose strength was the gift of the ages, passed into it against her very nature, the resolution she had formed was full of pain. yet painful, even terrible in its demand for action, it did not waver, but shone like a star behind the dark and heavy clouds. in margery pendyce (who had been a totteridge) there was no irascible and acrid "people's blood," no fierce misgivings, no ill-digested beer and cider--it was pure claret in her veins--she had nothing thick and angry in her soul to help her; that which she had resolved she must carry out, by virtue of a thin, fine flame, breathing far down in her--so far that nothing could extinguish it, so far that it had little warmth. it was not "i will not be overridden" that her spirit felt, but "i must not be over-ridden, for if i am over-ridden, i, and in me something beyond me, more important than myself, is all undone." and though she was far from knowing this, that something was her country's civilisation, its very soul, the meaning of it all gentleness, balance. her spirit, of that quality so little gross that it would never set up a mean or petty quarrel, make mountains out of mole-hills, distort proportion, or get images awry, had taken its stand unconsciously, no sooner than it must, no later than it ought, and from that stand would not recede. the issue had passed beyond mother love to that self-love, deepest of all, which says: "do this, or forfeit the essence of your soul" and now that she stole to her bed again, she looked at her sleeping husband whom she had resolved to leave, with no anger, no reproach, but rather with a long, incurious look which toad nothing even to herself. so, when the morning came of age and it was time to rise, by no action, look, or sign, did she betray the presence of the unusual in her soul. if this which was before her must be done, it would be carried out as though it were of no import, as though it were a daily action; nor did she force herself to quietude, or pride herself thereon, but acted thus from instinct, the instinct for avoiding fuss and unnecessary suffering that was bred in her. mr. pendyce went out at half-past ten accompanied by his bailiff and the spaniel john. he had not the least notion that his wife still meant the words she had spoken overnight. he had told her again while dressing that he would have no more to do with george, that he would cut him out of his will, that he would force him by sheer rigour to come to heel, that, in short, he meant to keep his word, and it would have been unreasonable in him to believe that a woman, still less his wife, meant to keep hers. mrs. pendyce spent the early part of the morning in the usual way. half an hour after the squire went out she ordered the carriage round, had two small trunks, which she had packed herself, brought down, and leisurely, with her little green bag, got in. to her maid, to the butler bester, to the coachman benson, she said that she was going up to stay with mr. george. norah and bee were at the tharps', so that there was no one to take leave of but old roy, the skye; and lest that leave-taking should prove too much for her, she took him with her to the station. for her husband she left a little note, placing it where she knew he must see it at once, and no one else see it at all. "dear horace, "i have gone up to london to be with george. my address will be green's hotel, bond street. you will remember what i said last night. perhaps you did not quite realise that i meant it. take care of poor old roy, and don't let them give him too much meat this hot weather. jackman knows better than ellis how to manage the roses this year. i should like to be told how poor rose barter gets on. please do not worry about me. i shall write to dear gerald when necessary, but i don't feel like writing to him or the girls at present. "good-bye, dear horace; i am sorry if i grieve you. "your wife, "margery pendyce." just as there was nothing violent in her manner of taking this step, so there was nothing violent in her conception of it. to her it was not running away, a setting of her husband at defiance; there was no concealment of address, no melodramatic "i cannot come back to you." such methods, such pistol-holdings, would have seemed to her ridiculous. it is true that practical details, such as the financial consequences, escaped the grasp of her mind, but even in this, her view, or rather lack of view, was really the wide, the even one. horace would not let her starve: the idea was inconceivable. there was, too, her own three hundred a year. she had, indeed, no idea how much this meant, or what it represented, neither was she concerned, for she said to herself, "i should be quite happy in a cottage with roy and my flowers;" and though, of course, she had not the smallest experience to go by, it was quite possible that she was right. things which to others came only by money, to a totteridge came without, and even if they came not, could well be dispensed with--for to this quality of soul, this gentle self-sufficiency, had the ages worked to bring her. yet it was hastily and with her head bent that she stepped from the carriage at the station, and the old skye, who from the brougham seat could just see out of the window, from the tears on his nose that were not his own, from something in his heart that was, knew this was no common parting and whined behind the glass. mrs. pendyce told her cabman to drive to green's hotel, and it was only after she had arrived, arranged her things, washed, and had lunch, that the beginnings of confusion and home-sickness stirred within her. up to then a simmering excitement had kept her from thinking of how she was to act, or of what she had hoped, expected, dreamed, would come of her proceedings. taking her sunshade, she walked out into bond street. a passing man took off his hat. 'dear me,' she thought, 'who was that? i ought to know!' she had a rather vague memory for faces, and though she could not recall his name, felt more at home at once, not so lonely and adrift. soon a quaint brightness showed in her eyes, looking at the toilettes of the passers-by, and at each shop-front, more engrossing than the last. pleasure, like that which touches the soul of a young girl at her first dance, the souls of men landing on strange shores, touched margery pendyce. a delicious sense of entering the unknown, of braving the unexpected, and of the power to go on doing this delightfully for ever, enveloped her with the gay london air of this bright june day. she passed a perfume shop, and thought she had never smelt anything so nice. and next door she lingered long looking at some lace; and though she said to herself, "i must not buy anything; i shall want all my money for poor george," it made no difference to that sensation of having all things to her hand. a list of theatres, concerts, operas confronted her in the next window, together with the effigies of prominent artistes. she looked at them with an eagerness that might have seemed absurd to anyone who saw her standing there. was there, indeed, all this going on all day and every day, to be seen and heard for so few shillings? every year, religiously, she had visited the opera once, the theatre twice, and no concerts; her husband did not care for music that was "classical." while she was standing there a woman begged of her, looking very tired and hot, with a baby in her arms so shrivelled and so small that it could hardly be seen. mrs. pendyce took out her purse and gave her half a crown, and as she did so felt a gush of feeling which was almost rage. 'poor little baby!' she thought. 'there must be thousands like that, and i know nothing of them!' she smiled to the woman, who smiled back at her; and a fat jewish youth in a shop doorway, seeing them smile, smiled too, as though he found them charming. mrs. pendyce had a feeling that the town was saying pretty things to her, and this was so strange and pleasant that she could hardly believe it, for worsted skeynes had omitted to say that sort of thing to her for over thirty years. she looked in the window of a hat shop, and found pleasure in the sight of herself. the window was kind to her grey linen, with black velvet knots and guipure, though it was two years old; but, then, she had only been able to wear it once last summer, owing to poor hubert's death. the window was kind, too, to her cheeks, and eyes, which had that touching brightness, and to the silver-powdered darkness of her hair. and she thought: 'i don't look so very old!' but her own hat reflected in the hat-shop window displeased her now; it turned down all round, and though she loved that shape, she was afraid it was not fashionable this year. and she looked long in the window of that shop, trying to persuade herself that the hats in there would suit her, and that she liked what she did not like. in other shop windows she looked, too. it was a year since she had seen any, and for thirty-four years past she had only seen them in company with the squire or with her daughters, none of whom cared much for shops. the people, too, were different from the people that she saw when she went about with horace or her girls. almost all seemed charming, having a new, strange life, in which she--margery pendyce--had unaccountably a little part; as though really she might come to know them, as though they might tell her something of themselves, of what they felt and thought, and even might stand listening, taking a kindly interest in what she said. this, too, was strange, and a friendly smile became fixed upon her face, and of those who saw it--shop-girls, women of fashion, coachmen, clubmen, policemen--most felt a little warmth about their hearts; it was pleasant to see on the lips of that faded lady with the silvered arching hair under a hat whose brim turned down all round. so mrs. pendyce came to piccadilly and turned westward towards george's club. she knew it well, for she never failed to look at the windows when she passed, and once--on the occasion of queen victoria's jubilee--had spent a whole day there to see that royal show. she began to tremble as she neared it, for though she did not, like the squire, torture her mind with what might or might not come to pass, care had nested in her heart. george was not in his club, and the porter could not tell her where he was. mrs. pendyce stood motionless. he was her son; how could she ask for his address? the porter waited, knowing a lady when he saw one. mrs. pendyce said gently: "is there a room where i could write a note, or would it be----" "certainly not, ma'am. i can show you to a room at once." and though it was only a mother to a son, the porter preceded her with the quiet discretion of one who aids a mistress to her lover; and perhaps he was right in his view of the relative values of love, for he had great experience, having lived long in the best society. on paper headed with the fat white "stoics' club," so well known on george's letters, mrs. pendyce wrote what she had to say. the little dark room where she sat was without sound, save for the buzzing of a largish fly in a streak of sunlight below the blind. it was dingy in colour; its furniture was old. at the stoics' was found neither the new art nor the resplendent drapings of those larger clubs sacred to the middle classes. the little writing-room had an air of mourning: "i am so seldom used; but be at home in me; you might find me tucked away in almost any country-house!" yet many a solitary stoic had sat there and written many a note to many a woman. george, perhaps, had written to helen bellew at that very table with that very pen, and mrs. pendyce's heart ached jealously. "dearest george" (she wrote), "i have something very particular to tell you. do come to me at green's hotel. come soon, my dear. i shall be lonely and unhappy till i see you. "your loving "margery pendyce." and this note, which was just what she would have sent to a lover, took that form, perhaps unconsciously, because she had never had a lover thus to write to. she slipped the note and half a crown diffidently into the porter's hand; refused his offer of some tea, and walked vaguely towards the park. it was five o'clock; the sun was brighter than ever. people in carriages and people on foot in one leisurely, unending stream were filing in at hyde park corner. mrs. pendyce went, too, and timidly--she was unused to traffic--crossed to the further side and took a chair. perhaps george was in the park and she might see him; perhaps helen bellew was there, and she might see her; and the thought of this made her heart beat and her eyes under their uplifted brows stare gently at each figure-old men and young men, women of the world, fresh young girls. how charming they looked, how sweetly they were dressed! a feeling of envy mingled with the joy she ever felt at seeing pretty things; she was quite unconscious that she herself was pretty under that hat whose brim turned down all round. but as she sat a leaden feeling slowly closed her heart, varied by nervous flutterings, when she saw someone whom she ought to know. and whenever, in response to a salute, she was forced to bow her head, a blush rose in her cheeks, a wan smile seemed to make confession: "i know i look a guy; i know it's odd for me to be sitting here alone!" she felt old--older than she had ever felt before. in the midst of this gay crowd, of all this life and sunshine, a feeling of loneliness which was almost fear--a feeling of being utterly adrift, cut off from all the world--came over her; and she felt like one of her own plants, plucked up from its native earth, with all its poor roots hanging bare, as though groping for the earth to cling to. she knew now that she had lived too long in the soil that she had hated; and was too old to be transplanted. the custom of the country--that weighty, wingless creature born of time and of the earth--had its limbs fast twined around her. it had made of her its mistress, and was not going to let her go. chapter ii the son and the mother harder than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle is it for a man to become a member of the stoics' club, except by virtue of the hereditary principle; for unless he be nourished he cannot be elected, and since by the club's first rule he may have no occupation whatsoever, he must be nourished by the efforts of those who have gone before. and the longer they have gone before the more likely he is to receive no blackballs. yet without entering into the stoics' club it is difficult for a man to attain that supreme outward control which is necessary to conceal his lack of control within; and, indeed, the club is an admirable instance of how nature places the remedy to hand for the disease. for, perceiving how george pendyce and hundreds of other young men "to the manner born" had lived from their birth up in no connection whatever with the struggles and sufferings of life, and fearing lest, when life in her careless and ironical fashion brought them into abrupt contact with ill-bred events they should make themselves a nuisance by their cries of dismay and wonder, nature had devised a mask and shaped it to its highest form within the portals of the stoics' club. with this mask she clothed the faces of these young men whose souls she doubted, and called them--gentlemen. and when she, and she alone, heard their poor squeaks behind that mask, as life placed clumsy feet on them, she pitied them, knowing that it was not they who were in fault, but the unpruned system which had made them what they were. and in her pity she endowed many of them with thick skins, steady feet, and complacent souls, so that, treading in well-worn paths their lives long, they might slumber to their deaths in those halls where their fathers had slumbered to their deaths before them. but sometimes nature (who was not yet a socialist) rustled her wings and heaved a sigh, lest the excesses and excrescences of their system should bring about excesses and excrescences of the opposite sort. for extravagance of all kinds was what she hated, and of that particular form of extravagance which mr. paramor so vulgarly called "pendycitis" she had a horror. it may happen that for long years the likeness between father and son will lie dormant, and only when disintegrating forces threaten the links of the chain binding them together will that likeness leap forth, and by a piece of nature's irony become the main factor in destroying the hereditary principle for which it is the silent, the most worthy, excuse. it is certain that neither george nor his father knew the depth to which this "pendycitis" was rooted in the other; neither suspected, not even in themselves, the amount of essential bulldog at the bottom of their souls, the strength of their determination to hold their own in the way that would cause the greatest amount of unnecessary suffering. they did not deliberately desire to cause unnecessary suffering; they simply could not help an instinct passed by time into their fibre, through atrophy of the reasoning powers and the constant mating, generation after generation, of those whose motto had been, "kings of our own dunghills." and now george came forward, defying his mother's belief that he was a totteridge, as champion of the principle in tail male; for in the totteridges, from whom in this stress he diverged more and more towards his father's line, there was some freer strain, something non-provincial, and this had been so ever since hubert de-totteridge had led his private crusade, from which he had neglected to return. with the pendyces it had been otherwise; from immemorial time "a county family," they had construed the phrase literally, had taken no poetical licences. like innumerable other county families, they were perforce what their tradition decreed--provincial in their souls. george, a man-about-town, would have stared at being called provincial, but a man cannot stare away his nature. he was provincial enough to keep mrs. bellew bound when she herself was tired of him, and consideration for her, and for his own self-respect asked him to give her up. he had been keeping her bound for two months or more. but there was much excuse for him. his heart was sore to breaking-point; he was sick with longing, and deep, angry wonder that he, of all men, should be cast aside like a worn-out glove. men tired of women daily--that was the law. but what was this? his dogged instinct had fought against the knowledge as long as he could, and now that it was certain he fought against it still. george was a true pendyce! to the world, however, he behaved as usual. he came to the club about ten o'clock to eat his breakfast and read the sporting papers. towards noon a hansom took him to the railway-station appropriate to whatever race-meeting was in progress, or, failing that, to the cricket-ground at lord's, or prince's tennis club. half-past six saw him mounting the staircase at the stoics' to that card-room where his effigy still hung, with its look of "hard work, hard work; but i must keep it going!" at eight he dined, a bottle of champagne screwed deep down into ice, his face flushed with the day's sun, his shirt-front and his hair shining with gloss. what happier man in all great london! but with the dark the club's swing-doors opened for his passage into the lighted streets, and till next morning the world knew him no more. it was then that he took revenge for all the hours he wore a mask. he would walk the pavements for miles trying to wear himself out, or in the park fling himself down on a chair in the deep shadow of the trees, and sit there with his arms folded and his head bowed down. on other nights he would go into some music-hall, and amongst the glaring lights, the vulgar laughter, the scent of painted women, try for a moment to forget the face, the laugh, the scent of that woman for whom he craved. and all the time he was jealous, with a dumb, vague jealousy of he knew not whom; it was not his nature to think impersonally, and he could not believe that a woman would drop him except for another man. often he went to her mansions, and walked round and round casting a stealthy stare at her windows. twice he went up to her door, but came away without ringing the bell. one evening, seeing a light in her sitting-room, he rang, but there came no answer. then an evil spirit leaped up in him, and he rang again and again. at last he went away to his room--a studio he had taken near--and began to write to her. he was long composing that letter, and many times tore it up; he despised the expression of feelings in writing. he only tried because his heart wanted relief so badly. and this, in the end, was all that he produced: "i know you were in to-night. it's the only time i've come. why couldn't you have let me in? you've no right to treat me like this. you are leading me the life of a dog." george. the first light was silvering the gloom above the river, the lamps were paling to the day, when george went out and dropped this missive in the letter-box. he came back to the river and lay down on an empty bench under the plane-trees of the embankment, and while he lay there one of those without refuge or home, who lie there night after night, came up unseen and looked at him. but morning comes, and with it that sense of the ridiculous, so merciful to suffering men. george got up lest anyone should see a stoic lying there in his evening clothes; and when it became time he put on his mask and sallied forth. at the club he found his mother's note, and set out for her hotel. mrs. pendyce was not yet down, but sent to ask him to come up. george found her standing in her dressing-gown in the middle of the room, as though she knew not where to place herself for this, their meeting. only when he was quite close did she move and throw her arms round his neck. george could not see her face, and his own was hidden from her, but through the thin dressing-gown he felt her straining to him, and her arms that had pulled his head down quivering; and for a moment it seemed to him as if he were dropping a burden. but only for a moment, for at the clinging of those arms his instinct took fright. and though she was smiling, the tears were in her eyes, and this offended him. "don't, mother!" mrs. pendyce's answer was a long look. george could not bear it, and turned away. "well," he said gruffly, "when you can tell me what's brought you up----" mrs. pendyce sat down on the sofa. she had been brushing her hair; though silvered, it was still thick and soft, and the sight of it about her shoulders struck george. he had never thought of her having hair that would hang down. sitting on the sofa beside her, he felt her fingers stroking his, begging him not to take offence and leave her. he felt her eyes trying to see his eyes, and saw her lips trembling; but a stubborn, almost evil smile was fixed upon his face. "and so, dear--and so," she stammered, "i told your father that i couldn't see that done, and so i came up to you." many sons have found no hardship in accepting all that their mothers do for them as a matter of right, no difficulty in assuming their devotion a matter of course, no trouble in leaving their own affections to be understood; but most sons have found great difficulty in permitting their mothers to diverge one inch from the conventional, to swerve one hair's breadth from the standard of propriety appropriate to mothers of men of their importance. it is decreed of mothers that their birth pangs shall not cease until they die. and george was shocked to hear his mother say that she had left his father to come to him. it affected his self-esteem in a strange and subtle way. the thought that tongues might wag about her revolted his manhood and his sense of form. it seemed strange, incomprehensible, and wholly wrong; the thought, too, gashed through his mind: 'she is trying to put pressure on me!' "if you think i'll give her up, mother----" he said. mrs. pendyce's fingers tightened. "no, dear," she answered painfully; "of course, if she loves you so much, i couldn't ask you. that's why i----" george gave a grim little laugh. "what on earth can you do, then? what's the good of your coming up like this? how are you to get on here all alone? i can fight my own battles. you'd much better go back." mrs. pendyce broke in: "oh, george; i can't see you cast off from us! i must be with you!" george felt her trembling all over. he got up and walked to the window. mrs. pendyce's voice followed: "i won't try to separate you, george; i promise, dear. i couldn't, if she loves you, and you love her so!" again george laughed that grim little laugh. and the fact that he was deceiving her, meant to go on deceiving her, made him as hard as iron. "go back, mother!" he said. "you'll only make things worse. this isn't a woman's business. let father do what he likes; i can hold on!" mrs. pendyce did not answer, and he was obliged to look round. she was sitting perfectly still with her hands in her lap, and his man's hatred of anything conspicuous happening to a woman, to his own mother of all people, took fiercer fire. "go back!" he repeated, "before there's any fuss! what good can you possibly do? you can't leave father; that's absurd! you must go!" mrs. pendyce answered: "i can't do that, dear." george made an angry sound, but she was so motionless and pale that he dimly perceived how she was suffering, and how little he knew of her who had borne him. mrs. pendyce broke the silence: "but you, george dear? what is going to happen? how are you going to manage?" and suddenly clasping her hands: "oh! what is coming?" those words, embodying all that had been in his heart so long, were too much for george. he went abruptly to the door. "i can't stop now," he said; "i'll come again this evening." mrs. pendyce looked up. "oh, george" but as she had the habit of subordinating her feelings to the feelings of others, she said no more, but tried to smile. that smile smote george to the heart. "don't worry, mother; try and cheer up. we'll go to the theatre. you get the tickets!" and trying to smile too, but turning lest he should lose his self-control, he went away. in the hall he came on his uncle, general pendyce. he came on him from behind, but knew him at once by that look of feeble activity about the back of his knees, by his sloping yet upright shoulders, and the sound of his voice, with its dry and querulous precision, as of a man whose occupation has been taken from him. the general turned round. "ah, george," he said, "your mother's here, isn't she? look at this that your father's sent me!" he held out a telegram in a shaky hand. "margery up at green's hotel. go and see her at once. horace." and while george read the general looked at his nephew with eyes that were ringed by little circles of darker pigment, and had crow's-footed purses of skin beneath, earned by serving his country in tropical climes. "what's the meaning of it?" he said. "go and see her? of course, i'll go and see her! always glad to see your mother. but where's all the hurry?" george perceived well enough that his father's pride would not let him write to her, and though it was for himself that his mother had taken this step, he sympathised with his father. the general fortunately gave him little time to answer. "she's up to get herself some dresses, i suppose? i've seen nothing of you for a long time. when are you coming to dine with me? i heard at epsom that you'd sold your horse. what made you do that? what's your father telegraphing to me like this for? it's not like him. your mother's not ill, is she?" george shook his head, and muttering something about "sorry, an engagement--awful hurry," was gone. left thus abruptly to himself, general pendyce summoned a page, slowly pencilled something on his card, and with his back to the only persons in the hall, waited, his hands folded on the handle of his cane. and while he waited he tried as far as possible to think of nothing. having served his country, his time now was nearly all devoted to waiting, and to think fatigued and made him feel discontented, for he had had sunstroke once, and fever several times. in the perfect precision of his collar, his boots, his dress, his figure; in the way from time to time he cleared his throat, in the strange yellow driedness of his face between his carefully brushed whiskers, in the immobility of his white hands on his cane, he gave the impression of a man sucked dry by a system. only his eyes, restless and opinionated, betrayed the essential pendyce that was behind. he went up to the ladies' drawing-room, clutching that telegram. it worried him. there was something odd about it, and he was not accustomed to pay calls in the morning. he found his sister-in-law seated at an open window, her face unusually pink, her eyes rather defiantly bright. she greeted him gently, and general pendyce was not the man to discern what was not put under his nose. fortunately for him, that had never been his practice. "how are you, margery?" he said. "glad to see you in town. how's horace? look here what he's sent me!" he offered her the telegram, with the air of slightly avenging an offence; then added in surprise, as though he had lust thought of it: "is there anything i can do for you?" mrs. pendyce read the telegram, and she, too, like george, felt sorry for the sender. "nothing, thanks, dear charles," she said slowly. "i'm all right. horace gets so nervous!" general pendyce looked at her; for a moment his eyes flickered, then, since the truth was so improbable and so utterly in any case beyond his philosophy, he accepted her statement. "he shouldn't go sending telegrams like this," he said. "you might have been ill for all i could tell. it spoiled my breakfast!" for though, as a fact, it had not prevented his completing a hearty meal, he fancied that he felt hungry. "when i was quartered at halifax there was a fellow who never sent anything but telegrams. telegraph jo they called him. he commanded the old bluebottles. you know the old bluebottles? if horace is going to take to this sort of thing he'd better see a specialist; it's almost certain to mean a breakdown. you're up about dresses, i see. when do you come to town? the season's getting on." mrs. pendyce was not afraid of her husband's brother, for though punctilious and accustomed to his own way with inferiors, he was hardly a man to inspire awe in his social equals. it was, therefore, not through fear that she did not tell him the truth, but through an instinct for avoiding all unnecessary suffering too strong for her, and because the truth was really untellable. even to herself it seemed slightly ridiculous, and she knew the poor general would take it so dreadfully to heart. "i don't know about coming up this season. the garden is looking so beautiful, and there's bee's engagement. the dear child is so happy!" the general caressed a whisker with his white hand. "ah yes," he said--"young tharp! let's see, he's not the eldest. his brother's in my old corps. what does this young fellow do with himself?" mrs. pendyce answered: "he's only farming. i'm afraid he'll have nothing to speak of, but he's a dear good boy. it'll be a long engagement. of course, there's nothing in farming, and horace insists on their having a thousand a year. it depends so much on mr. tharp. i think they could do perfectly well on seven hundred to start with, don't you, charles?" general pendyce's answer was not more conspicuously to the point than usual, for he was a man who loved to pursue his own trains of thought. "what about george?", he said. "i met him in the hall as i was coming in, but he ran off in the very deuce of a hurry. they told me at epsom that he was hard hit." his eyes, distracted by a fly for which he had taken a dislike, failed to observe his sister-in-law's face. "hard hit?" she repeated. "lost a lot of money. that won't do, you know, margery--that won't do. a little mild gambling's one thing." mrs. pendyce said nothing; her face was rigid: it was the face of a woman on the point of saying: "do not compel me to hint that you are boring me!" the general went on: "a lot of new men have taken to racing that no one knows anything about. that fellow who bought george's horse, for instance; you'd never have seen his nose in tattersalls when i was a young man. i find when i go racing i don't know half the colours. it spoils the pleasure. it's no longer the close borough that it was. george had better take care what he's about. i can't imagine what we're coming to!" on margery pendyce's hearing, those words, "i can't imagine what we're coming to," had fallen for four-and-thirty years, in every sort of connection, from many persons. it had become part of her life, indeed, to take it for granted that people could imagine nothing; just as the solid food and solid comfort of worsted skeynes and the misty mornings and the rain had become part of her life. and it was only the fact that her nerves were on edge and her heart bursting that made those words seem intolerable that morning; but habit was even now too strong, and she kept silence. the general, to whom an answer was of no great moment, pursued his thoughts. "and you mark my words, margery; the elections will go against us. the country's in a dangerous state." mrs. pendyce said: "oh, do you think the liberals will really get in?" from custom there was a shade of anxiety in her voice which she did not feel. "think?" repeated general pendyce. "i pray every night to god they won't!" folding both hands on the silver knob of his malacca cane, he stared over them at the opposing wall; and there was something universal in that fixed stare, a sort of blank and not quite selfish apprehension. behind his personal interests his ancestors had drilled into him the impossibility of imagining that he did not stand for the welfare of his country. mrs. pendyce, who had so often seen her husband look like that, leaned out of the window above the noisy street. the general rose. "well," he said, "if i can't do anything for you, margery, i'll take myself off; you're busy with your dressmakers. give my love to horace, and tell him not to send me another telegram like that." and bending stiffly, he pressed her hand with a touch of real courtesy and kindness, took up his hat, and went away. mrs. pendyce, watching him descend the stairs, watching his stiff sloping shoulders, his head with its grey hair brushed carefully away from the centre parting, the backs of his feeble, active knees, put her hand to her breast and sighed, for with him she seemed to see descending all her past life, and that one cannot see unmoved. chapter iii mrs. bellew squares her accounts mrs. bellew sat on her bed smoothing out the halves of a letter; by her side was her jewel-case. taking from it an amethyst necklet, an emerald pendant, and a diamond ring, she wrapped them in cottonwool, and put them in an envelope. the other jewels she dropped one by one into her lap, and sat looking at them. at last, putting two necklets and two rings back into the jewel-case, she placed the rest in a little green box, and taking that and the envelope, went out. she called a hansom, drove to a post-office, and sent a telegram: pendyce, stoics' club. "be at studio six to seven.--h." from the post-office she drove to her jeweller's, and many a man who saw her pass with the flush on her cheeks and the smouldering look in her eyes, as though a fire were alight within her, turned in his tracks and bitterly regretted that he knew not who she was, or whither going. the jeweller took the jewels from the green box, weighed them one by one, and slowly examined each through his lens. he was a little man with a yellow wrinkled face and a weak little beard, and having fixed in his mind the sum that he would give, he looked at his client prepared to mention less. she was sitting with her elbows on the counter, her chin resting in her hands, and her eyes were fixed on him. he decided somehow to mention the exact sum. "is that all?" "yes, madam; that is the utmost." "very well, but i must have it now in cash!" the jeweller's eyes flickered. "it's a large sum," he said--"most unusual. i haven't got such a sum in the place." "then please send out and get it, or i must go elsewhere." the jeweller brought his hands together, and washed them nervously. "excuse me a moment; i'll consult my partner." he went away, and from afar he and his partner spied her nervously. he came back with a forced smile. mrs. bellew was sitting as he had left her. "it's a fortunate chance; i think we can just do it, madam." "give me notes, please, and a sheet of paper." the jeweller brought them. mrs. bellew wrote a letter, enclosed it with the bank notes in the bulky envelope she had brought, addressed it, and sealed the whole. "call a cab, please!" the jeweller called a cab. "chelsea embankment!" the cab bore her away. again in the crowded streets so full of traffic, people turned to look after her. the cabman, who put her down at the albert bridge, gazed alternately at the coins in his hands and the figure of his fare, and wheeling his cab towards the stand, jerked his thumb in her direction. mrs. bellew walked fast down a street till, turning a corner, she came suddenly on a small garden with three poplar-trees in a row. she opened its green gate without pausing, went down a path, and stopped at the first of three green doors. a young man with a beard, resembling an artist, who was standing behind the last of the three doors, watched her with a knowing smile on his face. she took out a latch-key, put it in the lock, opened the door, and passed in. the sight of her face seemed to have given the artist an idea. propping his door open, he brought an easel and canvas, and setting them so that he could see the corner where she had gone in, began to sketch. an old stone fountain with three stone frogs stood in the garden near that corner, and beyond it was a flowering currant-bush, and beyond this again the green door on which a slanting gleam of sunlight fell. he worked for an hour, then put his easel back and went out to get his tea. mrs. bellew came out soon after he was gone. she closed the door behind her, and stood still. taking from her pocket the bulky envelope, she slipped it into the letter-box; then bending down, picked up a twig, and placed it in the slit, to prevent the lid falling with a rattle. having done this, she swept her hands down her face and breast as though to brush something from her, and walked away. beyond the outer gate she turned to the left, and took the same street back to the river. she walked slowly, luxuriously, looking about her. once or twice she stopped, and drew a deep breath, as though she could not have enough of the air. she went as far as the embankment, and stood leaning her elbows on the parapet. between the finger and thumb of one hand she held a small object on which the sun was shining. it was a key. slowly, luxuriously, she stretched her hand out over the water, parted her thumb and finger, and let it fall. chapter iv mrs. pendyce's inspiration but george did not come to take his mother to the theatre, and she whose day had been passed in looking forward to the evening, passed that evening in a drawing-room full of furniture whose history she did not know, and a dining-room full of people eating in twos and threes and fours, at whom she might look, but to whom she must not speak, to whom she did not even want to speak, so soon had the wheel of life rolled over her wonder and her expectation, leaving it lifeless in her breast. and all that night, with one short interval of sleep, she ate of bitter isolation and futility, and of the still more bitter knowledge: "george does not want me; i'm no good to him!" her heart, seeking consolation, went back again and again to the time when he had wanted her; but it was far to go, to the days of holland suits, when all those things that he desired--slices of pineapple, benson's old carriage-whip, the daily reading out of "tom brown's school-days," the rub with elliman when he sprained his little ankle, the tuck-up in bed--were in her power alone to give. this night she saw with fatal clearness that since he went to school he had never wanted her at all. she had tried so many years to believe that he did, till it had become part of her life, as it was part of her life to say her prayers night and morning; and now she found it was all pretence. but, lying awake, she still tried to believe it, because to that she had been bound when she brought him, firstborn, into the world. her other son, her daughters, she loved them too, but it was not the same thing, quite; she had never wanted them to want her, because that part of her had been given once for all to george. the street noises died down at last; she had slept two hours when they began again. she lay listening. and the noises and her thoughts became tangled in her exhausted brain--one great web of weariness, a feeling that it was all senseless and unnecessary, the emanation of cross-purposes and cross-grainedness, the negation of that gentle moderation, her own most sacred instinct. and an early wasp, attracted by the sweet perfumes of her dressing-table, roused himself from the corner where he had spent the night, and began to hum and hover over the bed. mrs. pendyce was a little afraid of wasps, so, taking a moment when he was otherwise engaged, she stole out, and fanned him with her nightdress-case till, perceiving her to be a lady, he went away. lying down again, she thought: 'people will worry them until they sting, and then kill them; it's so unreasonable,' not knowing that she was putting all her thoughts on suffering in a single nutshell. she breakfasted upstairs, unsolaced by any news from george. then with no definite hope, but a sort of inner certainty, she formed the resolution to call on mrs. bellew. she determined, however, first to visit mr. paramor, and, having but a hazy notion of the hour when men begin to work, she did not dare to start till past eleven, and told her cabman to drive her slowly. he drove her, therefore, faster than his wont. in leicester square the passage of a personage between two stations blocked the traffic, and on the footways were gathered a crowd of simple folk with much in their hearts and little in their stomachs, who raised a cheer as the personage passed. mrs. pendyce looked eagerly from her cab, for she too loved a show. the crowd dispersed, and the cab went on. it was the first time she had ever found herself in the business apartment of any professional man less important than a dentist. from the little waiting-room, where they handed her the times, which she could not read from excitement, she caught sight of rooms lined to the ceilings with leather books and black tin boxes, initialed in white to indicate the brand, and of young men seated behind lumps of paper that had been written on. she heard a perpetual clicking noise which roused her interest, and smelled a peculiar odour of leather and disinfectant which impressed her disagreeably. a youth with reddish hair and a pen in his hand passed through and looked at her with a curious stare immediately averted. she suddenly felt sorry for him and all those other young men behind the lumps of paper, and the thought went flashing through her mind, 'i suppose it's all because people can't agree.' she was shown in to mr. paramor at last. in his large empty room, with its air of past grandeur, she sat gazing at three la france roses in a tumbler of water with the feeling that she would never be able to begin. mr. paramor's eyebrows, which jutted from his clean, brown face like little clumps of pothooks, were iron-grey, and iron-grey his hair brushed back from his high forehead. mrs. pendyce wondered why he looked five years younger than horace, who was his junior, and ten years younger than charles, who, of course, was younger still. his eyes, which from iron-grey some inner process of spiritual manufacture had made into steel colour, looked young too, although they were grave; and the smile which twisted up the corners of his mouth looked very young. "well," he said, "it's a great pleasure to see you." mrs. pendyce could only answer with a smile. mr. paramor put the roses to his nose. "not so good as yours," he said, "are they? but the best i can do." mrs. pendyce blushed with pleasure. "my garden is looking so beautiful----" then, remembering that she no longer had a garden, she stopped; but remembering also that, though she had lost her garden, mr. paramor still had his, she added quickly: "and yours, mr. paramor--i'm sure it must be looking lovely." mr. paramor drew out a kind of dagger with which he had stabbed some papers to his desk, and took a letter from the bundle. "yes," he said, "it's looking very nice. you'd like to see this, i expect." "bellew v. bellew and pendyce" was written at the top. mrs. pendyce stared at those words as though fascinated by their beauty; it was long before she got beyond them. for the first time the full horror of these matters pierced the kindly armour that lies between mortals and what they do not like to think of. two men and a woman wrangling, fighting, tearing each other before the eyes of all the world. a woman and two men stripped of charity and gentleness, of moderation and sympathy-stripped of all that made life decent and lovable, squabbling like savages before the eyes of all the world. two men, and one of them her son, and between them a woman whom both of them had loved! "bellew v. bellew and pendyce"! and this would go down to fame in company with the pitiful stories she had read from time to time with a sort of offended interest; in company with "snooks v. snooks and stiles," "horaday v. horaday," "bethany v. bethany and sweetenham." in company with all those cases where everybody seemed so dreadful, yet where she had often and often felt so sorry, as if these poor creatures had been fastened in the stocks by some malignant, loutish spirit, for all that would to come and jeer at. and horror filled her heart. it was all so mean, and gross, and common. the letter contained but a few words from a firm of solicitors confirming an appointment. she looked up at mr. paramor. he stopped pencilling on his blotting-paper, and said at once: "i shall be seeing these people myself tomorrow afternoon. i shall do my best to make them see reason." she felt from his eyes that he knew what she was suffering, and was even suffering with her. "and if--if they won't?" "then i shall go on a different tack altogether, and they must look out for themselves." mrs. pendyce sank back in her chair; she seemed to smell again that smell of leather and disinfectant, and hear a sound of incessant clicking. she felt faint, and to disguise that faintness asked at random, "what does 'without prejudice' in this letter mean?" mr. paramor smiled. "that's an expression we always use," he said. "it means that when we give a thing away, we reserve to ourselves the right of taking it back again." mrs. pendyce, who did not understand, murmured: "i see. but what have they given away?" paramor put his elbows on the desk, and lightly pressed his finger-tips together. "well," he said, "properly speaking, in a matter like this, the other side and i are cat and dog. "we are supposed to know nothing about each other and to want to know less, so that when we do each other a courtesy we are obliged to save our faces by saying, 'we don't really do you one.' d'you understand?" again mrs. pendyce murmured: "i see." "it sounds a little provincial, but we lawyers exist by reason of provincialism. if people were once to begin making allowances for each other, i don't know where we should be." mrs. pendyce's eyes fell again on those words, "bellew v. bellew and pendyce," and again, as though fascinated by their beauty, rested there. "but you wanted to see me about something else too, perhaps?" said mr. paramor. a sudden panic came over her. "oh no, thank you. i just wanted to know what had been done. i've come up on purpose to see george. you told me that i----" mr. paramor hastened to her aid. "yes, yes; quite right--quite right." "horace hasn't come with me." "good!" "he and george sometimes don't quite----" "hit it off? they're too much alike." "do you think so? i never saw-----" "not in face, not in face; but they've both got----" mr. paramor's meaning was lost in a smile; and mrs. pendyce, who did not know that the word "pendycitis" was on the tip of his tongue, smiled vaguely too. "george is very determined," she said. "do you think--oh, do you think, mr. paramor, that you will be able to persuade captain bellew's solicitors----" mr. paramor threw himself back in his chair, and his hand covered what he had written on his blotting-paper. "yes," he said slowly----"oh yes, yes!" but mrs. pendyce had had her answer. she had meant to speak of her visit to helen bellew, but now her thought was: 'he won't persuade them; i feel it. let me get away!' again she seemed to hear the incessant clicking, to smell leather and disinfectant, to see those words, "bellew v. bellew and, pendyce." she held out her hand. mr. paramor took it in his own and looked at the floor. "good-bye," he said-"good-bye. what's your address--green's hotel? i'll come and tell you what i do. i know--i know!" mrs. pendyce, on whom those words "i know--i know!" had a strange, emotionalising effect, as though no one had ever known before, went away with quivering lips. in her life no one had ever "known"--not indeed that she could or would complain of such a trifle, but the fact remained. and at this moment, oddly, she thought of her husband, and wondered what he was doing, and felt sorry for him. but mr. paramor went back to his seat and stared at what he had written on his blotting paper. it ran thus: "we stand on our petty rights here, and our potty dignity there; we make no allowance for others, they make no allowance for us; we catch hold of them by the ear, they grab hold of us by the hair the result is a bit of a muddle that ends in a bit of a fuss." he saw that it neither rhymed nor scanned, and with a grave face he tore it up. again mrs. pendyce told her cabman to drive slowly, and again he drove her faster than usual; yet that drive to chelsea seemed to last for ever, and interminable were the turnings which the cabman took, each one shorter than the last, as if he had resolved to see how much his horse's mouth could bear. 'poor thing!' thought mrs. pendyce; 'its mouth must be so sore, and it's quite unnecessary.' she put her hand up through the trap. "please take me in a straight line. i don't like corners." the cabman obeyed. it worried him terribly to take one corner instead of the six he had purposed on his way; and when she asked him his fare, he charged her a shilling extra for the distance he had saved by going straight. mrs. pendyce paid it, knowing no better, and gave him sixpence over, thinking it might benefit the horse; and the cabman, touching his hat, said: "thank you, my lady," for to say "my lady" was his principle when he received eighteen pence above his fare. mrs. pendyce stood quite a minute on the pavement, stroking the horse's nose and thinking: 'i must go in; it's silly to come all this way and not go in!' but her heart beat so that she could hardly swallow. at last she rang. mrs. bellew was seated on the sofa in her little drawing-room whistling to a canary in the open window. in the affairs of men there is an irony constant and deep, mingled with the very springs of life. the expectations of mrs. pendyce, those timid apprehensions of this meeting which had racked her all the way, were lamentably unfulfilled. she had rehearsed the scene ever since it came into her head; the reality seemed unfamiliar. she felt no nervousness and no hostility, only a sort of painful interest and admiration. and how could this or any other woman help falling in love with george? the first uncertain minute over, mrs. bellew's eyes were as friendly as if she had been quite within her rights in all she had done; and mrs. pendyce could not help meeting friendliness halfway. "don't be angry with me for coming. george doesn't know. i felt i must come to see you. do you think that you two quite know all you're doing? it seems so dreadful, and it's not only yourselves, is it?" mrs. bellew's smile vanished. "please don't say 'you two,'" she said. mrs. pendyce stammered: "i don't understand." mrs. bellew looked her in the face and smiled; and as she smiled she seemed to become a little coarser. "well, i think it's quite time you did! i don't love your son. i did once, but i don't now. i told him so yesterday, once for all." mrs. pendyce heard those words, which made so vast, so wonderful a difference--words which should have been like water in a wilderness --with a sort of horror, and all her spirit flamed up into her eyes. "you don't love him?" she cried. she felt only a blind sense of insult and affront. this woman tire of george? tire of her son? she looked at mrs. bellew, on whose face was a kind of inquisitive compassion, with eyes that had never before held hatred. "you have tired of him? you have given him up? then the sooner i go to him the better! give me the address of his rooms, please." helen bellew knelt down at the bureau and wrote on an envelope, and the grace of the woman pierced mrs. pendyce to the heart. she took the paper. she had never learned the art of abuse, and no words could express what was in her heart, so she turned and went out. mrs. bellew's voice sounded quick and fierce behind her. "how could i help getting tired? i am not you. now go!" mrs. pendyce wrenched open the outer door. descending the stairs, she felt for the bannister. she had that awful sense of physical soreness and shrinking which violence, whether their own or others', brings to gentle souls. chapter v the mother and the son to mrs. pendyce, chelsea was an unknown land, and to find her way to george's rooms would have taken her long had she been by nature what she was by name, for pendyces never asked their way to anything, or believed what they were told, but found out for themselves with much unnecessary trouble, of which they afterwards complained. a policeman first, and then a young man with a beard, resembling an artist, guided her footsteps. the latter, who was leaning by a gate, opened it. "in here," he said; "the door in the corner on the right." mrs. pendyce walked down the little path, past the ruined fountain with its three stone frogs, and stood by the first green door and waited. and while she waited she struggled between fear and joy; for now that she was away from mrs. bellew she no longer felt a sense of insult. it was the actual sight of her that had aroused it, so personal is even the most gentle heart. she found the rusty handle of a bell amongst the creeper-leaves, and pulled it. a cracked metallic tinkle answered her, but no one came; only a faint sound as of someone pacing to and fro. then in the street beyond the outer gate a coster began calling to the sky, and in the music of his prayers the sound was lost. the young man with a beard, resembling an artist, came down the path. "perhaps you could tell me, sir, if my son is out?" "i've not seen him go out; and i've been painting here all the morning." mrs. pendyce looked with wonder at an easel which stood outside another door a little further on. it seemed to her strange that her son should live in such a place. "shall i knock for you?" said the artist. "all these knockers are stiff." "if you would be so kind!" the artist knocked. "he must be in," he said. "i haven't taken my eyes off his door, because i've been painting it." mrs. pendyce gazed at the door. "i can't get it," said the artist. "it's worrying me to death." mrs. pendyce looked at him doubtfully. "has he no servant?" she said. "oh no," said the artist; "it's a studio. the light's all wrong. i wonder if you would mind standing just as you are for one second; it would help me a lot!" he moved back and curved his hand over his eyes, and through mrs. pendyce there passed a shiver. 'why doesn't george open the door?' she thought. 'what--what is this man doing?' the artist dropped his hand. "thanks so much!" he said. "i'll knock again. there! that would raise the dead!" and he laughed. an unreasoning terror seized on mrs. pendyce. "oh," she stammered, "i must get in--i must get in!" she took the knocker herself, and fluttered it against the door. "you see," said the artist, "they're all alike; these knockers are as stiff' as pokers." he again curved his hand over his eyes. mrs. pendyce leaned against the door; her knees were trembling violently. 'what is happening?' she thought. 'perhaps he's only asleep, perhaps----oh god!' she beat the knocker with all her force. the door yielded, and in the space stood george. choking back a sob, mrs. pendyce went in. he banged the door behind her. for a full minute she did not speak, possessed still by that strange terror and by a sort of shame. she did not even look at her son, but cast timid glances round his room. she saw a gallery at the far end, and a conical roof half made of glass. she saw curtains hanging all the gallery length, a table with tea-things and decanters, a round iron stove, rugs on the floor, and a large full-length mirror in the centre of the wall. a silver cup of flowers was reflected in that mirror. mrs. pendyce saw that they were dead, and the sense of their vague and nauseating odour was her first definite sensation. "your flowers are dead, my darling," she said. "i must get you some fresh!" not till then did she look at george. there were circles under his eyes; his face was yellow; it seemed to her that it had shrunk. this terrified her, and she thought: 'i must show nothing; i must keep my head!' she was afraid--afraid of something desperate in his face, of something desperate and headlong, and she was afraid of his stubbornness, the dumb, unthinking stubbornness that holds to what has been because it has been, that holds to its own when its own is dead. she had so little of this quality herself that she could not divine where it might lead him; but she had lived in the midst of it all her married life, and it seemed natural that her son should be in danger from it now. her terror called up her self-possession. she drew george down on the sofa by her side, and the thought flashed through her: 'how many times has he not sat here with that woman in his arms!' "you didn't come for me last night, dear! i got the tickets, such good ones!" george smiled. "no," he said; "i had something else to see to!" at sight of that smile margery pendyce's heart beat till she felt sick, but she, too, smiled. "what a nice place you have here, darling!" "there's room to walk about." mrs. pendyce remembered the sound she had heard of pacing to and fro. from his not asking her how she had found out where he lived she knew that he must have guessed where she had been, that there was nothing for either of them to tell the other. and though this was a relief, it added to her terror--the terror of that which is desperate. all sorts of images passed through her mind. she saw george back in her bedroom after his first run with the hounds, his chubby cheek scratched from forehead to jaw, and the bloodstained pad of a cub fox in his little gloved hand. she saw him sauntering into her room the last day of the match at lord's, with a battered top-hat, a blackened eye, and a cane with a light-blue tassel. she saw him deadly pale with tightened lips that afternoon after he had escaped from her, half cured of laryngitis, and stolen out shooting by himself, and she remembered his words: "well, mother, i couldn't stand it any longer; it was too beastly slow!" suppose he could not stand it now! suppose he should do something rash! she took out her handkerchief. "it's very hot in here, dear; your forehead is quite wet!" she saw his eyes turn on her suspiciously, and all her woman's wit stole into her own eyes, so that they did not flicker, but looked at him with matter-of-fact concern. "that skylight is what does it," he said. "the sun gets full on there." mrs. pendyce looked at the skylight. "it seems odd to see you here, dear, but it's very nice--so unconventional. you must let me put away those poor flowers!" she went to the silver cup and bent over them. "my dear boy, they're quite nasty! do throw them outside somewhere; it's so dreadful, the smell of old flowers!" she held the cup out, covering her nose with her handkerchief. george took the cup, and like a cat spying a mouse, mrs. pendyce watched him take it out into the garden. as the door closed, quicker, more noiseless than a cat, she slipped behind the curtains. 'i know he has a pistol,' she thought. she was back in an instant, gliding round the room, hunting with her eyes and hands, but she saw nothing, and her heart lightened, for she was terrified of all such things. 'it's only these terrible first hours,' she thought. when george came back she was standing where he had left her. they sat down in silence, and in that silence, the longest of her life, she seemed to feel all that was in his heart, all the blackness and bitter aching, the rage of defeat and starved possession, the lost delight, the sensation of ashes and disgust; and yet her heart was full enough already of relief and shame, compassion, jealousy, love, and deep longing. only twice was the silence broken. once when he asked her whether she had lunched, and she who had eaten nothing all day answered: "yes, dear--yes." once when he said: "you shouldn't have come here, mother; i'm a bit out of sorts!" she watched his face, dearest to her in all the world, bent towards the floor, and she so yearned to hold it to her breast that, since she dared not, the tears stole up, and silently rolled down her cheeks. the stillness in that room, chosen for remoteness, was like the stillness of a tomb, and, as in a tomb, there was no outlook on the world, for the glass of the skylight was opaque. that deathly stillness settled round her heart; her eyes fixed themselves on the skylight, as though beseeching it to break and let in sound. a cat, making a pilgrimage from roof to roof, the four dark moving spots of its paws, the faint blur of its body, was all she saw. and suddenly, unable to bear it any longer, she cried: "oh, george, speak to me! don't put me away from you like this!" george answered: "what do you want me to say, mother?" "nothing--only----" and falling on her knees beside her son, she pulled his head down against her breast, and stayed rocking herself to and fro, silently shifting closer till she could feel his head lie comfortably; so, she had his face against her heart, and she could not bear to let it go. her knees hurt her on the boarded floor, her back and all her body ached; but not for worlds would she relax an inch, believing that she could comfort him with her pain, and her tears fell on his neck. when at last he drew his face away she sank down on the floor, and could not rise, but her fingers felt that the bosom of her dress was wet. he said hoarsely: "it's all right, mother; you needn't worry!" for no reward would she have looked at him just then, but with a deeper certainty than reason she knew that he was safe. stealthily on the sloping skylight the cat retraced her steps, its four paws dark moving spots, its body a faint blur. mrs. pendyce rose. "i won't stay now, darling. may i use your glass?" standing before that mirror, smoothing back her hair, passing her handkerchief over her cheeks and eyes and lips, she thought: 'that woman has stood here! that woman has smoothed her hair, looking in this glass, and wiped his kisses from her cheeks! may god give to her the pain that she has given to my son!' but when she had wished that wish she shivered. she turned to george at the door with a smile that seemed to say: 'it's no good to weep, or try and tell you what is in my heart, and so, you see, i'm smiling. please smile, too, so as to comfort me a little.' george put a small paper parcel in her hand and tried to smile. mrs. pendyce went quickly out. bewildered by the sunlight, she did not look at this parcel till she was beyond the outer gate. it contained an amethyst necklace, an emerald pendant, and a diamond ring. in the little grey street that led to this garden with its poplars, old fountain, and green gate, the jewels glowed and sparkled as though all light and life had settled there. mrs. pendyce, who loved colour and glowing things, saw that they were beautiful. that woman had taken them, used their light and colour, and then flung them back! she wrapped them again in the paper, tied the string, and went towards the river. she did not hurry, but walked with her eyes steadily before her. she crossed the embankment, and stood leaning on the parapet with her hands over the grey water. her thumb and fingers unclosed; the white parcel dropped, floated a second, and then disappeared. mrs. pendyce looked round her with a start. a young man with a beard, whose face was familiar, was raising his hat. "so your son was in," he said. "i'm very glad. i must thank you again for standing to me just that minute; it made all the difference. it was the relation between the figure and the door that i wanted to get. good-morning!" mrs. pendyce murmured "good-morning," following him with startled eyes, as though he had caught her in the commission of a crime. she had a vision of those jewels, buried, poor things! in the grey slime, a prey to gloom, and robbed for ever of their light and colour. and, as though she had sinned, wronged the gentle essence of her nature, she hurried away. chapter vi gregory looks at the sky gregory vigil called mr. paramor a pessimist it was because, like other people, he did not know the meaning of, the term; for with a confusion common to the minds of many persons who have been conceived in misty moments, he thought that, to see things as they were, meant, to try and make them worse. gregory had his own way of seeing things that was very dear to him--so dear that he would shut his eyes sooner than see them any other way. and since things to him were not the same as things to mr. paramor, it cannot, after all, be said that he did not see things as they were. but dirt upon a face that he wished to be clean he could not see--a fluid in his blue eyes dissolved that dirt while the image of the face was passing on to their retinae. the process was unconscious, and has been called idealism. this was why the longer he reflected the more agonisedly certain he became that his ward was right to be faithful to the man she loved, right to join her life to his. and he went about pressing the blade of this thought into his soul. about four o'clock on the day of mrs. pendyce's visit to the studio a letter was brought him by a page-boy. "green's hotel, "thursday. "dear grig, "i have seen helen bellew, and have just come from george. we have all been living in a bad dream. she does not love him--perhaps has never loved him. i do not know; i do not wish to judge. she has given him up. i will not trust myself to say anything about that. from beginning to end it all seems so unnecessary, such a needless, cross-grained muddle. i write this line to tell you how things really are, and to beg you, if you have a moment to spare, to look in at george's club this evening and let me know if he is there and how he seems. there is no one else that i could possibly ask to do this for me. forgive me if this letter pains you. "your affectionate cousin, "margery pendyce." to those with the single eye, the narrow personal view of all things human, by whom the irony underlying the affairs of men is unseen and unenjoyed, whose simple hearts afford that irony its most precious smiles, who; vanquished by that irony, remain invincible--to these no blow of fate, no reversal of their ideas, can long retain importance. the darts stick, quaver, and fall off, like arrows from chain-armour, and the last dart, slipping upwards under the harness, quivers into the heart to the cry of "what--you! no, no; i don't believe you're here!" such as these have done much of what has had to be done in this old world, and perhaps still more of what has had to be undone. when gregory received this letter he was working on the case of a woman with the morphia habit. he put it into his pocket and went on working. it was all he was capable of doing. "here is the memorandum, mrs. shortman. let them take her for six weeks. she will come out a different woman." mrs. shortman, supporting her thin face in her thin hand, rested her glowing eyes on gregory. "i'm afraid she has lost all moral sense," she said. "do you know, mr. vigil, i'm almost afraid she never had any!" "what do you mean?" mrs. shortman turned her eyes away. "i'm sometimes tempted to think," she said, "that there are such people. i wonder whether we allow enough for that. when i was a girl in the country i remember the daughter of our vicar, a very pretty creature. there were dreadful stories about her, even before she was married, and then we heard she was divorced. she came up to london and earned her own living by playing the piano until she married again. i won't tell you her name, but she is very well known, and nobody has ever seen her show the slightest signs of being ashamed. if there is one woman like that there may be dozens, and i sometimes think we waste----" gregory said dryly: "i have heard you say that before." mrs. shortman bit her lips. "i don't think," she said, "that i grudge my efforts or my time." gregory went quickly up, and took her hand. "i know that--oh, i know that," he said with feeling. the sound of miss mallow furiously typing rose suddenly from the corner. gregory removed his hat from the peg on which it hung. "i must go now," he said. "good-night." without warning, as is the way with hearts, his heart had begun to bleed, and he felt that he must be in the open air. he took no omnibus or cab, but strode along with all his might, trying to think, trying to understand. but he could only feel-confused and battered feelings, with now and then odd throbs of pleasure of which he was ashamed. whether he knew it or not, he was making his way to chelsea, for though a man's eyes may be fixed on the stars, his feet cannot take him there, and chelsea seemed to them the best alternative. he was not alone upon this journey, for many another man was going there, and many a man had been and was coming now away, and the streets were the one long streaming crowd of the summer afternoon. and the men he met looked at gregory, and gregory looked at them, and neither saw the other, for so it is written of men, lest they pay attention to cares that are not their own. the sun that scorched his face fell on their backs, the breeze that cooled his back blew on their cheeks. for the careless world, too, was on its way, along the pavement of the universe, one of millions going to chelsea, meeting millions coming away.... "mrs. bellew at home?" he went into a room fifteen feet square and perhaps ten high, with a sulky canary in a small gilt cage, an upright piano with an open operatic score, a sofa with piled-up cushions, and on it a woman with a flushed and sullen face, whose elbows were resting on her knees, whose chin was resting on her hand, whose gaze was fixed on nothing. it was a room of that size, with all these things, but gregory took into it with him some thing that made it all seem different to gregory. he sat down by the window with his eyes care fully averted, and spoke in soft tones broken by something that sounded like emotion. he began by telling her of his woman with the morphia habit, and then he told her that he knew every thing. when he had said this he looked out of the window, where builders had left by inadvertence a narrow strip of sky. and thus he avoided seeing the look on her face, contemptuous, impatient, as though she were thinking: 'you are a good fellow, gregory, but for heaven's sake do see things for once as they are! i have had enough of it.' and he avoided seeing her stretch her arms out and spread the fingers, as an angry cat will stretch and spread its toes. he told her that he did not want to worry her, but that when she wanted him for anything she must send for him--he was always there; and he looked at her feet, so that he did not see her lip curl. he told her that she would always be the same to him, and he asked her to believe that. he did not see the smile which never left her lips again while he was there--the smile he could not read, because it was the smile of life, and of a woman that he did not understand. but he did see on that sofa a beautiful creature for whom he had longed for years, and so he went away, and left her standing at the door with her teeth fastened on her lip: and since with him gregory took his eyes, he did not see her reseated on the sofa, just as she had been before he came in, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hand, her moody eyes like those of a gambler staring into the distance.... in the streets of tall houses leading away from chelsea were many men, some, like gregory, hungry for love, and some hungry for bread--men in twos and threes, in crowds, or by themselves, some with their eyes on the ground, some with their eyes level, some with their eyes on the sky, but all with courage and loyalty of one poor kind or another in their hearts. for by courage and loyalty alone it is written that man shall live, whether he goes to chelsea or whether he comes away. of all these men, not one but would have smiled to hear gregory saying to himself: "she will always be the same to me! she will always be the same to me!" and not one that would have grinned.... it was getting on for the stoics' dinner hour when gregory found himself in piccadilly, and, stoic after stoic, they were getting out of cabs and passing the club doors. the poor fellows had been working hard all day on the racecourse, the cricket-ground, at hurlingham, or in the park; some had been to the royal academy, and on their faces was a pleasant look: "ah, god is good--we can rest at last!" and many of them had had no lunch, hoping to keep their weights down, and many who had lunched had not done themselves as well as might be hoped, and some had done themselves too well; but in all their hearts the trust burned bright that they might do themselves better at dinner, for their god was good, and dwelt between the kitchen and the cellar of the stoics' club. and all--for all had poetry in their souls--looked forward to those hours in paradise when, with cigars between their lips, good wine below, they might dream the daily dream that comes to all true stoics for about fifteen shillings or even less, all told. from a little back slum, within two stones' throw of the god of the stoics' club, there had come out two seamstresses to take the air; one was in consumption, having neglected to earn enough to feed herself properly for some years past, and the other looked as if she would be in consumption shortly, for the same reason. they stood on the pavement, watching the cabs drive up. some of the stoics saw them and thought: 'poor girls! they look awfully bad.' three or four said to themselves: "it oughtn't to be allowed. i mean, it's so painful to see; and it's not as if one could do anything. they're not beggars, don't you know, and so what can one do?" but most of the stoics did not look at them at all, feeling that their soft hearts could not stand these painful sights, and anxious not to spoil their dinners. gregory did not see them either, for it so happened that he was looking at the sky, and just then the two girls crossed the road and were lost among the passers-by, for they were not dogs, who could smell out the kind of man he was. "mr. pendyce is in the club; i will send your name up, sir." and rolling a little, as though gregory's name were heavy, the porter gave it to the boy, who went away with it. gregory stood by the empty hearth and waited, and while he waited, nothing struck him at all, for the stoics seemed very natural, just mere men like himself, except that their clothes were better, which made him think: 'i shouldn't care to belong here and have to dress for dinner every night.' "mr. pendyce is very sorry, sir, but he's engaged." gregory bit his lip, said "thank you," and went away. 'that's all margery wants,' he thought; 'the rest is nothing to me,' and, getting on a bus, he fixed his eyes once more on the sky. but george was not engaged. like a wounded animal taking its hurt for refuge to its lair, he sat in his favourite window overlooking piccadilly. he sat there as though youth had left him, unmoving, never lifting his eyes. in his stubborn mind a wheel seemed turning, grinding out his memories to the last grain. and stoics, who could not bear to see a man sit thus throughout that sacred hour, came up from time to time. "aren't you going to dine, pendyce?" dumb brutes tell no one of their pains; the law is silence. so with george. and as each stoic came up, he only set his teeth and said: "presently, old chap." chapter vii tour with the spaniel john now the spaniel john--whose habit was to smell of heather and baked biscuits when he rose from a night's sleep--was in disgrace that thursday. into his long and narrow head it took time for any new idea to enter, and not till forty hours after mrs. pendyce had gone did he recognise fully that something definite had happened to his master. during the agitated minutes that this conviction took in forming, he worked hard. taking two and a half brace of his master's shoes and slippers, and placing them in unaccustomed spots, he lay on them one by one till they were warm, then left them for some bird or other to hatch out, and returned to mr. pendyce's door. it was for all this that the squire said, "john!" several times, and threatened him with a razorstrop. and partly because he could not bear to leave his master for a single second--the scolding had made him love him so--and partly because of that new idea, which let him have no peace, he lay in the hall waiting. having once in his hot youth inadvertently followed the squire's horse, he could never be induced to follow it again. he both personally disliked this needlessly large and swift form of animal, and suspected it of designs upon his master; for when the creature had taken his master up, there was not a smell of him left anywhere--not a whiff of that pleasant scent that so endeared him to the heart. as soon, therefore, as the horse appeared, the spaniel john would. lie down on his stomach with his forepaws close to his nose, and his nose close to the ground; nor until the animal vanished could he be induced to abandon an attitude in which he resembled a couching sphinx. but this afternoon, with his tail down, his lips pouting, his shoulders making heavy work of it, his nose lifted in deprecation of that ridiculous and unnecessary plane on which his master sat, he followed at a measured distance. in such-wise, aforetime, the village had followed the squire and mr. barter when they introduced into it its one and only drain. mr. pendyce rode slowly; his feet, in their well-blacked boots, his nervous legs in bedford cord and mahogany-coloured leggings, moved in rhyme to the horse's trot. a long-tailed coat fell clean and full over his thighs; his back and shoulders were a wee bit bent to lessen motion, and above his neat white stock under a grey bowler hat his lean, grey-whiskered and moustachioed face, with harassed eyes, was preoccupied and sad. his horse, a brown blood mare, ambled lazily, head raking forward, and bang tail floating outward from her hocks. and so, in the june sunshine, they went, all three, along the leafy lane to worsted scotton.... on tuesday, the day that mrs. pendyce had left, the squire had come in later than usual, for he felt that after their difference of the night before, a little coolness would do her no harm. the first hour of discovery had been as one confused and angry minute, ending in a burst of nerves and the telegram to general pendyce. he took the telegram himself, returning from the village with his head down, a sudden prey to a feeling of shame--an odd and terrible feeling that he never remembered to have felt before, a sort of fear of his fellow-creatures. he would have chosen a secret way, but there was none, only the highroad, or the path across the village green, and through the churchyard to his paddocks. an old cottager was standing at the turnstile, and the squire made for him with his head down, as a bull makes for a fence. he had meant to pass in silence, but between him and this old broken husbandman there was a bond forged by the ages. had it meant death, mr. pendyce could not have passed one whose fathers had toiled for his fathers, eaten his fathers' bread, died with his fathers, without a word and a movement of his hand. "evenin', squire; nice evenin'. faine weather fur th' hay!" the voice was warped and wavery. 'this is my squire,' it seemed to say, 'whatever ther' be agin him!' mr. pendyce's hand went up to his hat. "evenin', hermon. aye, fine weather for the hay! mrs. pendyce has gone up to london. we young bachelors, ha!" he passed on. not until he had gone some way did he perceive why he had made that announcement. it was simply because he must tell everyone, everyone; then no one could be astonished. he hurried on to the house to dress in time for dinner, and show all that nothing was amiss. seven courses would have been served him had the sky fallen; but he ate little, and drank more claret than was his wont. after dinner he sat in his study with the windows open, and in the mingled day and lamp light read his wife's letter over again. as it was with the spaniel john, so with his master--a new idea penetrated but slowly into his long and narrow head. she was cracked about george; she did not know what she was doing; would soon come to her senses. it was not for him to take any steps. what steps, indeed, could he take without confessing that horace pendyce had gone too far, that horace pendyce was in the wrong? that had never been his habit, and he could not alter now. if she and george chose to be stubborn, they must take the consequences, and fend for themselves. in the silence and the lamplight, growing mellower each minute under the green silk shade, he sat confusedly thinking of the past. and in that dumb reverie, as though of fixed malice, there came to him no memories that were not pleasant, no images that were not fair. he tried to think of her unkindly, he tried to paint her black; but with the perversity born into the world when he was born, to die when he was dead, she came to him softly, like the ghost of gentleness, to haunt his fancy. she came to him smelling of sweet scents, with a slight rustling of silk, and the sound of her expectant voice, saying, "yes, dear?" as though she were not bored. he remembered when he brought her first to worsted skeynes thirty-four years ago, "that timid, and like a rose, but a lady every hinch, the love!" as his old nurse had said. he remembered her when george was born, like wax for whiteness and transparency, with eyes that were all pupils, and a hovering smile. so many other times he remembered her throughout those years, but never as a woman faded, old; never as a woman of the past. now that he had not got her, for the first time mr. pendyce realised that she had not grown old, that she was still to him "timid, and like a rose, but a lady every hinch, the love!" and he could not bear this thought; it made him feel so miserable and lonely in the lamplight, with the grey moths hovering round, and the spaniel john asleep upon his foot. so, taking his candle, he went up to bed. the doors that barred away the servants' wing were closed. in all that great remaining space of house his was the only candle, the only sounding footstep. slowly he mounted as he had mounted many thousand times, but never once like this, and behind him, like a shadow, mounted the spaniel john. and she that knows the hearts of men and dogs, the mother from whom all things come, to whom they all go home, was watching, and presently, when they were laid, the one in his deserted bed, the other on blue linen, propped against the door, she gathered them to sleep. but wednesday came, and with it wednesday duties. they who have passed the windows of the stoics' club and seen the stoics sitting there have haunting visions of the idle landed classes. these visions will not let them sleep, will not let their tongues to cease from bitterness, for they so long to lead that "idle" life themselves. but though in a misty land illusions be our cherished lot, that we may all think falsely of our neighbours and enjoy ourselves, the word "idle" is not at all the word. many and heavy tasks weighed on the squire at worsted skeynes. there was the visit to the stables to decide as to firing beldame's hock, or selling the new bay horse because he did not draw men fast enough, and the vexed question of bruggan's oats or beal's, talked out with benson, in a leather belt and flannel shirt-sleeves, like a corpulent, white-whiskered boy. then the long sitting in the study with memorandums and accounts, all needing care, lest so-and-so should give too little for too little, or too little for too much; and the smart walk across to jarvis, the head keeper, to ask after the health of the new hungarian bird, or discuss a scheme whereby in the last drive so many of those creatures he had nurtured from their youth up might be deterred from flying over to his friend lord quarryman. and this took long, for jarvis's feelings forced him to say six times, "well, mr. pendyce, sir, what i say is we didn't oughter lose s'many birds in that last drive;" and mr. pendyce to answer: "no, jarvis, certainly not. well, what do you suggest?" and that other grievous question--how to get plenty of pheasants and plenty of foxes to dwell together in perfect harmony--discussed with endless sympathy, for, as the squire would say, "jarvis is quite safe with foxes." he could not bear his covers to be drawn blank. then back to a sparing lunch, or perhaps no lunch at all, that he might keep fit and hard; and out again at once on horseback or on foot to the home farm or further, as need might take him, and a long afternoon, with eyes fixed on the ribs of bullocks, the colour of swedes, the surfaces of walls or gates or fences. then home again to tea and to the times, which had as yet received. but fleeting glances, with close attention to all those parliamentary measures threatening, remotely, the existing state of things, except, of course, that future tax on wheat so needful to the betterment of worsted skeynes. there were occasions, too, when they brought him tramps to deal with, to whom his one remark would be, "hold out your hands, my man," which, being found unwarped by honest toil, were promptly sent to gaol. when found so warped, mr. pendyce was at a loss, and would walk up and down, earnestly trying to discover what his duty was to them. there were days, too, almost entirely occupied by sessions, when many classes of offenders came before him, to whom he meted justice according to the heinousness of the offence, from poaching at the top down and down to wife-beating at the bottom; for, though a humane man, tradition did not suffer him to look on this form of sport as really criminal--at any rate, not in the country. it was true that all these matters could have been settled in a fraction of the time by a young and trained intelligence, but this would have wronged tradition, disturbed the squire's settled conviction that he was doing his duty, and given cause for slanderous tongues to hint at idleness. and though, further, it was true that all this daily labour was devoted directly or indirectly to interests of his own, what was that but doing his duty to the country and asserting the prerogative of every englishman at all costs to be provincial? but on this wednesday the flavour of the dish was gone. to be alone amongst his acres, quite alone--to have no one to care whether he did anything at all, no one to whom he might confide that beldame's hock was to be fired, that peacock was asking for more gates, was almost more than he could bear. he would have wired to the girls to come home, but he could not bring him self to face their questions. gerald was at gib! george--george was no son of his!--and his pride forbade him to write to her who had left him thus to solitude and shame. for deep down below his stubborn anger it was shame that the squire felt--shame that he should have to shun his neighbours, lest they should ask him questions which, for his own good name and his own pride, he must answer with a lie; shame that he should not be master in his own house--still more, shame that anyone should see that he was not. to be sure, he did not know that he felt shame, being unused to introspection, having always kept it at arm's length. for he always meditated concretely, as, for instance, when he looked up and did not see his wife at breakfast, but saw bester making coffee, he thought, 'that fellow knows all about it, i shouldn't wonder!' and he felt angry for thinking that. when he saw mr. barter coming down the drive he thought, 'confound it! i can't meet him,' and slipped out, and felt angry that he had thus avoided him. when in the scotch garden he came on jackman syringing the rose-trees, he said to him, "your mistress has gone to london," and abruptly turned away, angry that he had been obliged by a mysterious impulse to tell him that: so it was, all through that long, sad day, and the only thing that gave him comfort was to score through, in the draft of his will, bequests to his eldest son, and busy himself over drafting a clause to take their place: "forasmuch as my eldest son, george hubert, has by conduct unbecoming to a gentleman and a pendyce, proved himself unworthy of my confidence, and forasmuch as to my regret i am unable to cut the entail of my estate, i hereby declare that he shall in no way participate in any division of my other property or of my personal effects, conscientiously believing that it is my duty so to do in the interests of my family and of the country, and i make this declaration without anger." for, all the anger that he was balked of feeling against his wife, because he missed her so, was added to that already felt against his son. by the last post came a letter from general pendyce. he opened it with fingers as shaky as his brother's writing. "army and navy club. "dear horace, "what the deuce and all made you send that telegram? it spoiled my breakfast, and sent me off in a tearing hurry, to find margery perfectly well. if she'd been seedy or anything i should have been delighted, but there she was, busy about her dresses and what not, and i dare say she thought me a lunatic for coming at that time in the morning. you shouldn't get into the habit of sending telegrams. a telegram is a thing that means something--at least, i've always thought so. i met george coming away from her in a deuce of a hurry. i can't write any more now. i'm just going to have my lunch. "your affectionate brother, "charles pendyce." she was well. she had been seeing george. with a hardened heart the squire went up to bed. and wednesday came to an end.... and so on the thursday afternoon the brown blood mare carried mr. pendyce along the lane, followed by the spaniel john. they passed the firs, where bellew lived, and, bending sharply to the right, began to mount towards the common; and with them mounted the image of that fellow who was at the bottom of it all--an image that ever haunted the squire's mind nowadays; a ghost, high-shouldered, with little burning eyes, clipped red moustaches, thin bowed legs. a plague spot on that system which he loved, a whipping-post to heredity, a scourge like attila the hun; a sort of damnable caricature of all that a country gentleman should be--of his love of sport and open air, of his "hardness" and his pluck; of his powers of knowing his own mind, and taking his liquor like a man; of his creed, now out of date, of gallantry. yes--a kind of cursed bogey of a man, a spectral follower of the hounds, a desperate character--a man that in old days someone would have shot; a drinking, white-faced devil who despised horace pendyce, whom horace pendyce hated, yet could not quite despise. "always one like that in a hunting country!" a black dog on the shoulders of his order. 'post equitem sedet' jaspar bellew! the squire came out on the top of the rise, and all worsted scotton was in sight. it was a sandy stretch of broom and gorse and heather, with a few scotch firs; it had no value at all, and he longed for it, as a boy might long for the bite someone else had snatched out of his apple. it distressed him lying there, his and yet not his, like a wife who was no wife--as though fortune were enjoying her at his expense. thus was he deprived of the fulness of his mental image; for as with all men, so with the squire, that which he loved and owned took definite form--a some thing that he saw. whenever the words "worsted skeynes" were in his mind--and that was almost always--there rose before him an image defined and concrete, however indescribable; and what ever this image was, he knew that worsted scot ton spoiled it. it was true that he could not think of any use to which to put the common, but he felt deeply that it was pure dog-in-the-mangerism of the cottagers, and this he could not stand. not one beast in two years had fattened on its barrenness. three old donkeys alone eked out the remnants of their days. a bundle of firewood or old bracken, a few peat sods from one especial corner, were all the selfish peasants gathered. but the cottagers were no great matter--he could soon have settled them; it was that fellow peacock whom he could not settle, just because he happened to abut on the common, and his fathers had been nasty before him. mr. pendyce rode round looking at the fence his father had put up, until he came to the portion that peacock's father had pulled down; and here, by a strange fatality--such as will happen even in printed records--he came on peacock himself standing in the gap, as though he had foreseen this visit of the squire's. the mare stopped of her own accord, the spaniel john at a measured distance lay down to think, and all those yards away he could be heard doing it, and now and then swallowing his tongue. peacock stood with his hands in his breeches' pockets. an old straw hat was on his head, his little eyes were turned towards the ground; and his cob, which he had tied to what his father had left standing of the fence, had his eyes, too, turned towards the ground, for he was eating grass. mr. pendyce's fight with his burning stable had stuck in the farmer's "gizzard" ever since. he felt that he was forgetting it day by day--would soon forget it altogether. he felt the old sacred doubts inherited from his fathers rising every hour within him. and so he had come up to see what looking at the gap would do for his sense of gratitude. at sight of the squire his little eyes turned here and there, as a pig's eyes turn when it receives a blow behind. that mr. pendyce should have chosen this moment to come up was as though providence, that knoweth all things, knew the natural thing for mr. pendyce to do. "afternoon, squire. dry weather; rain's badly wanted. i'll get no feed if this goes on." mr. pendyce answered: "afternoon, peacock. why, your fields are first-rate for grass." they hastily turned their eyes away, for at that moment they could not bear to see each other. there was a silence; then peacock said: "what about those gates of mine, squire?" and his voice quavered, as though gratitude might yet get the better of him. the squire's irritable glance swept over the unfenced space to right and left, and the thought flashed through his mind: 'suppose i were to give the beggar those gates, would he--would he let me enclose the scotton again?' he looked at that square, bearded man, and the infallible instinct, christened so wickedly by mr. paramor, guided him. "what's wrong with your gates, man, i should like to know?" peacock looked at him full this time; there was no longer any quaver in his voice, but a sort of rough good-humour. "wy, the 'arf o' them's as rotten as matchwood!" he said; and he took a breath of relief, for he knew that gratitude was dead within his soul. "well, i wish mine at the home farm were half as good. come, john!" and, touching the mare with his heel, mr. pendyce turned; but before he had gone a dozen paces he was back. "mrs. peacock well, i hope? mrs. pendyce has gone up to london." and touching his hat, without waiting for peacock's answer, he rode away. he took the lane past peacock's farm across the home paddocks, emerging on the cricket-ground, a field of his own which he had caused to be converted. the return match with coldingham was going on, and, motionless on his horse, the squire stopped to watch. a tall figure in the "long field" came leisurely towards him. it was the hon. geoffrey winlow. mr. pendyce subdued an impulse to turn the mare and ride away. "we're going to give you a licking, squire! how's mrs. pendyce? my wife sent her love." on the squire's face in the full sun was more than the sun's flush. "thanks," he said, "she's very well. she's gone up to london." "and aren't you going up yourself this season?" the squire crossed those leisurely eyes with his own. "i don't think so," he said slowly. the hon. geoffrey returned to his duties. "we got poor old barter for a 'blob'!" he said over his shoulder. the squire became aware that mr. barter was approaching from behind. "you see that left-hand fellow?" he said, pouting. "just watch his foot. d'you mean to say that wasn't a no-ball? he bowled me with a no-ball. he's a rank no-batter. that fellow locke's no more an umpire than----" he stopped and looked earnestly at the bowler. the squire 'did not answer, sitting on his mare as though carved in stone. suddenly his throat clicked. "how's your wife?" he said. "margery would have come to see her, but--but she's gone up to london." the rector did not turn his head. "my wife? oh, going on first-rate. there's another! i say, winlow, this is too bad!" the hon. geoffrey's pleasant voice was heard: "please not to speak to the man at the wheel!" the squire turned the mare and rode away; and the spaniel john, who had been watching from a measured distance, followed after, his tongue lolling from his mouth. the squire turned through a gate down the main aisle of the home covert, and the nose and the tail of the spaniel john, who scented creatures to the left and right, were in perpetual motion. it was cool in there. the june foliage made one long colonnade, broken by a winding river of sky. among the oaks and hazels; the beeches and the elms, the ghostly body of a birch-tree shone here and there, captured by those grosser trees which seemed to cluster round her, proud of their prisoner, loth to let her go, that subtle spirit of their wood. they knew that, were she gone, their forest lady, wilder and yet gentler than themselves--they would lose credit, lose the grace and essence of their corporate being. the squire dismounted, tethered his horse, and sat under one of those birch-trees, on the fallen body of an elm. the spaniel john also sat and loved him with his eyes. and sitting there they thought their thoughts, but their thoughts were different. for under this birch-tree horace pendyce had stood and kissed his wife the very day he brought her home to worsted skeynes, and though he did not see the parallel between her and the birch-tree that some poor imaginative creature might have drawn, yet was he thinking of that long past afternoon. but the spaniel john was not thinking of it; his recollection was too dim, for he had been at that time twenty-eight years short of being born. mr. pendyce sat there long with his horse and with his dog, and from out the blackness of the spaniel john, who was more than less asleep, there shone at times an eye turned on his master like some devoted star. the sun, shining too, gilded the stem of the birch-tree. the birds and beasts began their evening stir all through the undergrowth, and rabbits, popping out into the ride, looked with surprise at the spaniel john, and popped in back again. they knew that men with horses had no guns, but could not bring themselves to trust that black and hairy thing whose nose so twitched whenever they appeared. the gnats came out to dance, and at their dancing, every sound and scent and shape became the sounds and scents and shapes of evening; and there was evening in the squire's heart. slowly and stiffly he got up from the log and mounted to ride home. it would be just as lonely when he got there, but a house is better than a wood, where the gnats dance, the birds and creatures stir and stir, and shadows lengthen; where the sun steals upwards on the tree-stems, and all is careless of its owner, man. it was past seven o'clock when he went to his study. there was a lady standing at the window, and mr. pendyce said: "i beg your pardon?" the lady turned; it was his wife. the squire stopped with a hoarse sound, and stood silent, covering his eyes with his hand. chapter viii acute attack of 'pendycitis' mrs. pendyce felt very faint when she hurried away from chelsea. she had passed through hours of great emotion, and eaten nothing. like sunset clouds or the colours in mother-o'-pearl, so, it is written, shall be the moods of men--interwoven as the threads of an embroidery, less certain than an april day, yet with a rhythm of their own that never fails, and no one can quite scan. a single cup of tea on her way home, and her spirit revived. it seemed suddenly as if there had been a great ado about nothing! as if someone had known how stupid men could be, and been playing a fantasia on that stupidity. but this gaiety of spirit soon died away, confronted by the problem of what she should do next. she reached her hotel without making a decision. she sat down in the reading-room to write to gregory, and while she sat there with her pen in her hand a dreadful temptation came over her to say bitter things to him, because by not seeing people as they were he had brought all this upon them. but she had so little practice in saying bitter things that she could not think of any that were nice enough, and in the end she was obliged to leave them out. after finishing and sending off the note she felt better. and it came to her suddenly that, if she packed at once, there was just time to catch the . to worsted skeynes. as in leaving her home, so in returning, she followed her instinct, and her instinct told her to avoid unnecessary fuss and suffering. the decrepit station fly, mouldy and smelling of stables, bore her almost lovingly towards the hall. its old driver, clean-faced, cheery, somewhat like a bird, drove her almost furiously, for, though he knew nothing, he felt that two whole days and half a day were quite long enough for her to be away. at the lodge gate old roy, the skye, was seated on his haunches, and the sight of him set mrs. pendyce trembling as though till then she had not realised that she was coming home. home! the long narrow lane without a turning, the mists and stillness, the driving rain and hot bright afternoons; the scents of wood smoke and hay and the scent of her flowers; the squire's voice, the dry rattle of grass-cutters, the barking of dogs, and distant hum of threshing; and sunday sounds--church bells and rooks, and mr. barter's preaching; the tastes, too, of the very dishes! and all these scents and sounds and tastes, and the feel of the air to her cheeks, seemed to have been for ever in the past, and to be going on for ever in the time to come. she turned red and white by turns, and felt neither joy nor sadness, for in a wave the old life came over her. she went at once to the study to wait for her husband to come in. at the hoarse sound he made, her heart beat fast, while old roy and the spaniel john growled gently at each other. "john," she murmured, "aren't you glad to see me, dear?" the spaniel john, without moving, beat his tail against his master's foot. the squire raised his head at last. "well, margery?" was all he said. it shot through her mind that he looked older, and very tired! the dinner-gong began to sound, and as though attracted by its long monotonous beating, a swallow flew in at one of the narrow windows and fluttered round the room. mrs. pendyce's eyes followed its flight. the squire stepped forward suddenly and took her hand. "don't run away from me again, margery!" he said; and stooping down, he kissed it. at this action, so unlike her husband, mrs. pendyce blushed like a girl. her eyes above his grey and close-cropped head seemed grateful that he did not reproach her, glad of that caress. "i have some news to tell you, horace. helen bellew has given george up!" the squire dropped her hand. "and quite time too," he said. "i dare say george has refused to take his dismissal. he's as obstinate as a mule." "i found him in a dreadful state." mr. pendyce asked uneasily: "what? what's that?" "he looked so desperate." "desperate?" said the squire, with a sort of startled anger. mrs. pendyce went on: "it was dreadful to see his face. i was with him this afternoon-" the squire said suddenly: "he's not ill, is he?" "no, not ill. oh, horace, don't you understand? i was afraid he might do something rash. he was so--miserable." the squire began to walk up and down. "is he is he safe now?" he burst out. mrs. pendyce sat down rather suddenly in the nearest chair. "yes," she said with difficulty, "i--i think so." "think! what's the good of that? what----are you feeling faint, margery?" mrs. pendyce, who had closed her eyes, said: "no dear, it's all right." mr. pendyce came close, and since air and quiet were essential to her at that moment, he bent over and tried by every means in his power to rouse her; and she, who longed to be let alone, sympathised with him, for she knew that it was natural that he should do this. in spite of his efforts the feeling of faintness passed, and, taking his hand, she stroked it gratefully. "what is to be done now, horace?" "done!" cried the squire. "good god! how should i know? here you are in this state, all because of that d---d fellow bellew and his d---d wife! what you want is some dinner." so saying, he put his arm around her, and half leading, half carrying, took her to her room. they did not talk much at dinner, and of indifferent things, of mrs. barter, peacock, the roses, and beldame's hock. only once they came too near to that which instinct told them to avoid, for the squire said suddenly: "i suppose you saw that woman?" and mrs. pendyce murmured: "yes." she soon went to her room, and had barely got into bed when he appeared, saying as though ashamed: "i'm very early." she lay awake, and every now and then the squire would ask her, "are you asleep, margery?" hoping that she might have dropped off, for he himself could not sleep. and she knew that he meant to be nice to her, and she knew, too, that as he lay awake, turning from side to side, he was thinking like herself: 'what's to be done next?' and that his fancy, too, was haunted by a ghost, high-shouldered, with little burning eyes, red hair, and white freckled face. for, save that george was miserable, nothing was altered, and the cloud of vengeance still hung over worsted skeynes. like some weary lesson she rehearsed her thoughts: 'now horace can answer that letter of captain bellow's, can tell him that george will not--indeed, cannot--see her again. he must answer it. but will he?' she groped after the secret springs of her husband's character, turning and turning and trying to understand, that she might know the best way of approaching him. and she could not feel sure, for behind all the little outside points of his nature, that she thought so "funny," yet could comprehend, there was something which seemed to her as unknown, as impenetrable as the dark, a sort of thickness of soul, a sort of hardness, a sort of barbaric-what? and as when in working at her embroidery the point of her needle would often come to a stop against stiff buckram, so now was the point of her soul brought to a stop against the soul of her husband. 'perhaps,' she thought, 'horace feels like that with me.' she need not so have thought, for the squire never worked embroideries, nor did the needle of his soul make voyages of discovery. by lunch-time the next day she had not dared to say a word. 'if i say nothing,' she thought, 'he may write it of his own accord.' without attracting his attention, therefore, she watched every movement of his morning. she saw him sitting at his bureau with a creased and crumpled letter, and knew it was bellew's; and she hovered about, coming softly in and out, doing little things here and there and in the hall, outside. but the squire gave no sign, motionless as the spaniel john couched along the ground with his nose between his paws. after lunch she could bear it no longer. "what do you think ought to be done now, horace?" the squire looked at her fixedly. "if you imagine," he said at last, "that i'll have anything to do with that fellow bellew, you're very much mistaken." mrs. pendyce was arranging a vase of flowers, and her hand shook so that some of the water was spilled over the cloth. she took out her handkerchief and dabbed it up. "you never answered his letter, dear," she said. the squire put his back against the sideboard; his stiff figure, with lean neck and angry eyes, whose pupils were mere pin-points, had a certain dignity. "nothing shall induce me!" he said, and his voice was harsh and strong, as though he spoke for something bigger than himself. "i've thought it over all the morning, and i'm d---d if i do! the man is a ruffian. i won't knuckle under to him!" mrs. pendyce clasped her hands. "oh, horace," she said; "but for the sake of us all! only just give him that assurance." "and let him crow over me!" cried the squire. "by jove, no!" "but, horace, i thought that was what you wanted george to do. you wrote to him and asked him to promise." the squire answered: "you know nothing about it, margery; you know nothing about me. d'you think i'm going to tell him that his wife has thrown my son over--let him keep me gasping like a fish all this time, and then get the best of it in the end? not if i have to leave the county--not if i----" but, as though he had imagined the most bitter fate of all, he stopped. mrs. pendyce, putting her hands on the lapels of his coat, stood with her head bent. the colour had gushed into her cheeks, her eyes were bright with tears. and there came from her in her emotion a warmth and fragrance, a charm, as though she were again young, like the portrait under which they stood. "not if i ask you, horace?" the squire's face was suffused with dusky colour; he clenched his hands and seemed to sway and hesitate. "no, margery," he said hoarsely; "it's--it's--i can't!" and, breaking away from her, he left the room. mrs. pendyce looked after him; her fingers, from which he had torn his coat, began twining the one with the other. chapter ix bellew bows to a lady there was silence at the firs, and in that silent house, where only five rooms were used, an old manservant sat in his pantry on a wooden chair, reading from an article out of rural life. there was no one to disturb him, for the master was asleep, and the housekeeper had not yet come to cook the dinner. he read slowly, through spectacles, engraving the words for ever on the tablets of his mind. he read about the construction and habits of the owl: "in the tawny, or brown, owl there is a manubrial process; the furcula, far from being joined to the keel of the sternum, consists of two stylets, which do not even meet; while the posterior margin of the sternum presents two pairs of projections, with corresponding fissures between." the old manservant paused, resting his blinking eyes on the pale sunlight through the bars of his narrow window, so that a little bird on the window-sill looked at him and instantly flew away. the old manservant read on again: "the pterylological characters of photodilus seem not to have been investigated, but it has been found to want the tarsal loop, as well as the manubrial process, while its clavicles are not joined in a furcula, nor do they meet the keel, and the posterior margin of the sternum has processes and fissures like the tawny section." again he paused, and his gaze was satisfied and bland. up in the little smoking-room in a leather chair his master sat asleep. in front of him were stretched his legs in dusty riding-boots. his lips were closed, but through a little hole at one corner came a tiny puffing sound. on the floor by his side was an empty glass, between his feet a spanish bulldog. on a shelf above his head reposed some frayed and yellow novels with sporting titles, written by persons in their inattentive moments. over the chimneypiece presided the portrait of mr. jorrocks persuading his horse to cross a stream. and the face of jaspar bellew asleep was the face of a man who has ridden far, to get away from himself, and to-morrow will have to ride far again. his sandy eyebrows twitched with his dreams against the dead-white, freckled skin above high cheekbones, and two hard ridges were fixed between his brows; now and then over the sleeping face came the look of one riding at a gate. in the stables behind the house she who had carried him on his ride, having rummaged out her last grains of corn, lifted her nose and poked it through the bars of her loosebox to see what he was doing who had not carried her master that sweltering afternoon, and seeing that he was awake, she snorted lightly, to tell him there was thunder in the air. all else in the stables was deadly quiet; the shrubberies around were still; and in the hushed house the master slept. but on the edge of his wooden chair in the silence of his pantry the old manservant read, "this bird is a voracious feeder," and he paused, blinking his eyes and nervously puckering his lips, for he had partially understood.... mrs. pendyce was crossing the fields. she had on her prettiest frock, of smoky-grey crepe, and she looked a little anxiously at the sky. gathered in the west a coming storm was chasing the whitened sunlight. against its purple the trees stood blackish-green. everything was very still, not even the poplars stirred, yet the purple grew with sinister, unmoving speed. mrs. pendyce hurried, grasping her skirts in both her hands, and she noticed that the cattle were all grouped under the hedge. 'what dreadful-looking clouds!' she thought. 'i wonder if i shall get to the firs before it comes?' but though her frock made her hasten, her heart made her stand still, it fluttered so, and was so full. suppose he were not sober! she remembered those little burning eyes, which had frightened her so the night he dined at worsted skeynes and fell out of his dogcart afterwards. a kind of legendary malevolence clung about his image. 'suppose he is horrid to me!' she thought. she could not go back now; but she wished--how she wished!--that it were over. a heat-drop splashed her glove. she crossed the lane and opened the firs gate. throwing frightened glances at the sky, she hastened down the drive. the purple was couched like a pall on the treetops, and these had begun to sway and moan as though struggling and weeping at their fate. some splashes of warm rain were falling. a streak of lightning tore the firmament. mrs. pendyce rushed into the porch covering her ears with her hands. 'how long will it last?' she thought. 'i'm so frightened!'... a very old manservant, whose face was all puckers, opened the door suddenly to peer out at the storm, but seeing mrs. pendyce, he peered at her instead. "is captain bellew at home?" "yes, ma'am. the captain's in the study. we don't use the drawing-room now. nasty storm coming on, ma'am--nasty storm. will you please to sit down a minute, while i let the captain know?" the hall was low and dark; the whole house was low and dark, and smelled a little of woodrot. mrs. pendyce did not sit down, but stood under an arrangement of three foxes' heads, supporting two hunting-crops, with their lashes hanging down. and the heads of those animals suggested to her the thought: 'poor man! he must be very lonely here.' she started. something was rubbing against her knees: it was only an enormous bulldog. she stooped down to pat it, and having once begun, found it impossible to leave off, for when she took her hand away the creature pressed against her, and she was afraid for her frock. "poor old boy--poor old boy!" she kept on murmuring. "did he want a little attention?" a voice behind her said: "get out, sam! sorry to have kept you waiting. won't you come in here?" mrs. pendyce, blushing and turning pale by turns, passed into a low, small, panelled room, smelling of cigars and spirits. through the window, which was cut up into little panes, she could see the rain driving past, the shrubs bent and dripping from the downpour. "won't you sit down?" mrs. pendyce sat down. she had clasped her hands together; she now raised her eyes and looked timidly at her host. she saw a thin, high-shouldered figure, with bowed legs a little apart, rumpled sandy hair, a pale, freckled face, and little dark blinking eyes. "sorry the room's in such a mess. don't often have the pleasure of seeing a lady. i was asleep; generally am at this time of year!" the bristly red moustache was contorted as though his lips were smiling. mrs. pendyce murmured vaguely. it seemed to her that nothing of this was real, but all some horrid dream. a clap of thunder made her cover her ears. bellew walked to the window, glanced at the sky, and came back to the hearth. his little burning eyes seemed to look her through and through. 'if i don't speak at once,' she thought, 'i never shall speak at all.' "i've come," she began, and with those words she lost her fright; her voice, that had been so uncertain hitherto, regained its trick of speech; her eyes, all pupil, stared dark and gentle at this man who had them all in his power--"i've come to tell you something, captain bellew!" the figure by the hearth bowed, and her fright, like some evil bird, came guttering down on her again. it was dreadful, it was barbarous that she, that anyone, should have to speak of such things; it was barbarous that men and women should so misunderstand each other, and have so little sympathy and consideration; it was barbarous that she, margery pendyce, should have to talk on this subject that must give them both such pain. it was all so mean and gross and common! she took out her handkerchief and passed it over her lips. "please forgive me for speaking. your wife has given my son up, captain bellew!" bellew did not move. "she does not love him; she told me so herself! he will never see her again!" how hateful, how horrible, how odious! and still bellew did not speak, but stood devouring her with his little eyes; and how long this went on she could not tell. he turned his back suddenly, and leaned against the mantelpiece. mrs. pendyce passed her hand over her brow to get rid of a feeling of unreality. "that is all," she said. her voice sounded to herself unlike her own. 'if that is really all,' she thought, 'i suppose i must get up and go!' and it flashed through her mind: 'my poor dress will be ruined!' bellew turned round. "will you have some tea?" mrs. pendyce smiled a pale little smile. "no, thank you; i don't think i could drink any tea." "i wrote a letter to your husband." "yes." "he didn't answer it." "no." mrs. pendyce saw him staring at her, and a desperate struggle began within her. should she not ask him to keep his promise, now that george----? was not that what she had come for? ought she not--ought she not for all their sakes? bellew went up to the table, poured out some whisky, and drank it off. "you don't ask me to stop the proceedings," he said. mrs. pendyce's lips were parted, but nothing came through those parted lips. her eyes, black as sloes in her white face, never moved from his; she made no sound. bellew dashed his hand across his brow. "well, i will!" he said, "for your sake. there's my hand on it. you're the only lady i know!" he gripped her gloved fingers, brushed past her, and she saw that she was alone. she found her own way out, with the tears running down her face. very gently she shut the hall door. 'my poor dress!' she thought. 'i wonder if i might stand here a little? the rain looks nearly over!' the purple cloud had passed, and sunk behind the house, and a bright white sky was pouring down a sparkling rain; a patch of deep blue showed behind the fir-trees in the drive. the thrushes were out already after worms. a squirrel scampering along a branch stopped and looked at mrs. pendyce, and mrs. pendyce looked absently at the squirrel from behind the little handkerchief with which she was drying her eyes. 'that poor man!' she thought 'poor solitary creature! there's the sun!' and it seemed to her that it was the first time the sun had shone all this fine hot year. gathering her dress in both hands, she stepped into the drive, and soon was back again in the fields. every green thing glittered, and the air was so rain-sweet that all the summer scents were gone, before the crystal scent of nothing. mrs. pendyce's shoes were soon wet through. 'how happy i am!' she thought 'how glad and happy i am!' and the feeling, which was not as definite as this, possessed her to the exclusion of all other feelings in the rain-soaked fields. the cloud that had hung over worsted skeynes so long had spent itself and gone. every sound seemed to be music, every moving thing danced. she longed to get to her early roses, and see how the rain had treated them. she had a stile to cross, and when she was safely over she paused a minute to gather her skirts more firmly. it was a home-field she was in now, and right before her lay the country house. long and low and white it stood in the glamourous evening haze, with two bright panes, where the sunlight fell, watching, like eyes, the confines of its acres; and behind it, to the left, broad, square, and grey among its elms, the village church. around, above, beyond, was peace--the sleepy, misty peace of the english afternoon. mrs. pendyce walked towards her garden. when she was near it, away to the right, she saw the squire and mr. barter. they were standing together looking at a tree and--symbol of a subservient under-world--the spaniel john was seated on his tail, and he, too, was looking at the tree. the faces of the rector and mr. pendyce were turned up at the same angle, and different as those faces and figures were in their eternal rivalry of type, a sort of essential likeness struck her with a feeling of surprise. it was as though a single spirit seeking for a body had met with these two shapes, and becoming confused, decided to inhabit both. mrs. pendyce did not wave to them, but passed quickly, between the yew-trees, through the wicket-gate.... in her garden bright drops were falling one by one from every rose-leaf, and in the petals of each rose were jewels of water. a little down the path a weed caught her eye; she looked closer, and saw that there were several. 'oh,' she thought, 'how dreadfully they've let the weeds i must really speak to jackman!' a rose-tree, that she herself had planted, rustled close by, letting fall a shower of drops. mrs. pendyce bent down, and took a white rose in her fingers. with her smiling lips she kissed its face. . the end. fraternity by john galsworthy chapter i the shadow in the afternoon of the last day of april, -, a billowy sea of little broken clouds crowned the thin air above high street, kensington. this soft tumult of vapours, covering nearly all the firmament, was in onslaught round a patch of blue sky, shaped somewhat like a star, which still gleamed--a single gentian flower amongst innumerable grass. each of these small clouds seemed fitted with a pair of unseen wings, and, as insects flight on their too constant journeys, they were setting forth all ways round this starry blossom which burned so clear with the colour of its far fixity. on one side they were massed in fleecy congeries, so crowding each other that no edge or outline was preserved; on the other, higher, stronger, emergent from their fellow-clouds, they seemed leading the attack on that surviving gleam of the ineffable. infinite was the variety of those million separate vapours, infinite the unchanging unity of that fixed blue star. down in the street beneath this eternal warring of the various soft-winged clouds on the unmisted ether, men, women, children, and their familiars--horses, dogs, and cats--were pursuing their occupations with the sweet zest of the spring. they streamed along, and the noise of their frequenting rose in an unbroken roar: "i, i--i, i!" the crowd was perhaps thickest outside the premises of messrs. rose and thorn. every kind of being, from the highest to the lowest, passed in front of the hundred doors of this establishment; and before the costume window a rather tall, slight, graceful woman stood thinking: "it really is gentian blue! but i don't know whether i ought to buy it, with all this distress about!" her eyes, which were greenish-grey, and often ironical lest they should reveal her soul, seemed probing a blue gown displayed in that window, to the very heart of its desirability. "and suppose stephen doesn't like me in it!" this doubt set her gloved fingers pleating the bosom of her frock. into that little pleat she folded the essence of herself, the wish to have and the fear of having, the wish to be and the fear of being, and her veil, falling from the edge of her hat, three inches from her face, shrouded with its tissue her half-decided little features, her rather too high cheek-bones, her cheeks which were slightly hollowed, as though time had kissed them just too much. the old man, with a long face, eyes rimmed like a parrot's, and discoloured nose, who, so long as he did not sit down, was permitted to frequent the pavement just there and sell the 'westminster gazette', marked her, and took his empty pipe out of his mouth. it was his business to know all the passers-by, and his pleasure too; his mind was thus distracted from the condition of his feet. he knew this particular lady with the delicate face, and found her puzzling; she sometimes bought the paper which fate condemned him, against his politics, to sell. the tory journals were undoubtedly those which her class of person ought to purchase. he knew a lady when he saw one. in fact, before life threw him into the streets, by giving him a disease in curing which his savings had disappeared, he had been a butler, and for the gentry had a respect as incurable as was his distrust of "all that class of people" who bought their things at "these 'ere large establishments," and attended "these 'ere subscription dances at the town 'all over there." he watched her with special interest, not, indeed, attempting to attract attention, though conscious in every fibre that he had only sold five copies of his early issues. and he was sorry and surprised when she passed from his sight through one of the hundred doors. the thought which spurred her into messrs. rose and thorn's was this: "i am thirty-eight; i have a daughter of seventeen. i cannot afford to lose my husband's admiration. the time is on me when i really must make myself look nice!" before a long mirror, in whose bright pool there yearly bathed hundreds of women's bodies, divested of skirts and bodices, whose unruffled surface reflected daily a dozen women's souls divested of everything, her eyes became as bright as steel; but having ascertained the need of taking two inches off the chest of the gentian frock, one off its waist, three off its hips, and of adding one to its skirt, they clouded again with doubt, as though prepared to fly from the decision she had come to. resuming her bodice, she asked: "when could you let me have it?" "at the end of the week, madam." "not till then?" "we are very pressed, madam." "oh, but you must let me have it by thursday at the latest, please." the fitter sighed: "i will do my best." "i shall rely on you. mrs. stephen dallison, , the old square." going downstairs she thought: "that poor girl looked very tired; it's a shame they give them such long hours!" and she passed into the street. a voice said timidly behind her: "westminister, marm?" "that's the poor old creature," thought cecilia dallison, "whose nose is so unpleasant. i don't really think i--" and she felt for a penny in her little bag. standing beside the "poor old creature" was a woman clothed in worn but neat black clothes, and an ancient toque which had once known a better head. the wan remains of a little bit of fur lay round her throat. she had a thin face, not without refinement, mild, very clear brown eyes, and a twist of smooth black hair. beside her was a skimpy little boy, and in her arms a baby. mrs. dallison held out two-pence for the paper, but it was at the woman that she looked. "oh, mrs. hughs," she said, "we've been expecting you to hem the curtains!" the woman slightly pressed the baby. "i am very sorry, ma'am. i knew i was expected, but i've had such trouble." cecilia winced. "oh, really?" "yes, m'm; it's my husband." "oh, dear!" cecilia murmured. "but why didn't you come to us?" "i didn't feel up to it, ma'am; i didn't really--" a tear ran down her cheek, and was caught in a furrow near the mouth. mrs. dallison said hurriedly: "yes, yes; i'm very sorry." "this old gentleman, mr. creed, lives in the same house with us, and he is going to speak to my husband." the old man wagged his head on its lean stalk of neck. "he ought to know better than be'ave 'imself so disrespectable," he said. cecilia looked at him, and murmured: "i hope he won't turn on you!" the old man shuffled his feet. "i likes to live at peace with everybody. i shall have the police to 'im if he misdemeans hisself with me!... westminister, sir?" and, screening his mouth from mrs. dallison, he added in a loud whisper: "execution of the shoreditch murderer!" cecilia felt suddenly as though the world were listening to her conversation with these two rather seedy persons. "i don't really know what i can do for you, mrs. hughs. i'll speak to mr. dallison, and to mr. hilary too." "yes, ma'am; thank you, ma'am." with a smile which seemed to deprecate its own appearance, cecilia grasped her skirts and crossed the road. "i hope i wasn't unsympathetic," she thought, looking back at the three figures on the edge of the pavement--the old man with his papers, and his discoloured nose thrust upwards under iron-rimmed spectacles; the seamstress in her black dress; the skimpy little boy. neither speaking nor moving, they were looking out before them at the traffic; and something in cecilia revolted at this sight. it was lifeless, hopeless, unaesthetic. "what can one do," she thought, "for women like mrs. hughs, who always look like that? and that poor old man! i suppose i oughtn't to have bought that dress, but stephen is tired of this." she turned out of the main street into a road preserved from commoner forms of traffic, and stopped at a long low house half hidden behind the trees of its front garden. it was the residence of hilary dallison, her husband's brother, and himself the husband of bianca, her own sister. the queer conceit came to cecilia that it resembled hilary. its look was kindly and uncertain; its colour a palish tan; the eyebrows of its windows rather straight than arched, and those deep-set eyes, the windows, twinkled hospitably; it had, as it were, a sparse moustache and beard of creepers, and dark marks here and there, like the lines and shadows on the faces of those who think too much. beside it, and apart, though connected by a passage, a studio stood, and about that studio--of white rough-cast, with a black oak door, and peacock-blue paint--was something a little hard and fugitive, well suited to bianca, who used it, indeed, to paint in. it seemed to stand, with its eyes on the house, shrinking defiantly from too close company, as though it could not entirely give itself to anything. cecilia, who often worried over the relations between her sister and her brother-in-law, suddenly felt how fitting and symbolical this was. but, mistrusting inspirations, which, experience told her, committed one too much, she walked quickly up the stone-flagged pathway to the door. lying in the porch was a little moonlight-coloured lady bulldog, of toy breed, who gazed up with eyes like agates, delicately waving her bell-rope tail, as it was her habit to do towards everyone, for she had been handed down clearer and paler with each generation, till she had at last lost all the peculiar virtues of dogs that bait the bull. speaking the word "miranda!" mrs. stephen dallison tried to pat this daughter of the house. the little bulldog withdrew from her caress, being also unaccustomed to commit herself.... mondays were blanca's "days," and cecilia made her way towards the studio. it was a large high room, full of people. motionless, by himself, close to the door, stood an old man, very thin and rather bent, with silvery hair, and a thin silvery beard grasped in his transparent fingers. he was dressed in a suit of smoke-grey cottage tweed, which smelt of peat, and an oxford shirt, whose collar, ceasing prematurely, exposed a lean brown neck; his trousers, too, ended very soon, and showed light socks. in his attitude there was something suggestive of the patience and determination of a mule. at cecilia's approach he raised his eyes. it was at once apparent why, in so full a room, he was standing alone. those blue eyes looked as if he were about to utter a prophetic statement. "they have been speaking to me of an execution," he said. cecilia made a nervous movement. "yes, father?" "to take life," went on the old man in a voice which, though charged with strong emotion, seemed to be speaking to itself, "was the chief mark of the insensate barbarism still prevailing in those days. it sprang from that most irreligious fetish, the belief in the permanence of the individual ego after death. from the worship of that fetish had come all the sorrows of the human race." cecilia, with an involuntary quiver of her little bag, said: "father, how can you?" "they did not stop to love each other in this life; they were so sure they had all eternity to do it in. the doctrine was an invention to enable men to act like dogs with clear consciences. love could never come to full fruition till it was destroyed." cecilia looked hastily round; no one had heard. she moved a little sideways, and became merged in another group. her father's lips continued moving. he had resumed the patient attitude which so slightly suggested mules. a voice behind her said: "i do think your father is such an interesting man, mrs. dallison." cecilia turned and saw a woman of middle height, with her hair done in the early italian fashion, and very small, dark, lively eyes, which looked as though her love of living would keep her busy each minute of her day and all the minutes that she could occupy of everybody else's days. "mrs. tallents smallpeace? oh! how do you do? i've been meaning to come and see you for quite a long time, but i know you're always so busy." with doubting eyes, half friendly and half defensive, as though chaffing to prevent herself from being chaffed, cecilia looked at mrs. tallents smallpeace, whom she had met several times at bianca's house. the widow of a somewhat famous connoisseur, she was now secretary of the league for educating orphans who have lost both parents, vice-president of the forlorn hope for maids in peril, and treasurer to thursday hops for working girls. she seemed to know every man and woman who was worth knowing, and some besides; to see all picture-shows; to hear every new musician; and attend the opening performance of every play. with regard to literature, she would say that authors bored her; but she was always doing them good turns, inviting them to meet their critics or editors, and sometimes--though this was not generally known--pulling them out of the holes they were prone to get into, by lending them a sum of money--after which, as she would plaintively remark; she rarely saw them more. she had a peculiar spiritual significance to mrs. stephen dallison, being just on the borderline between those of bianca's friends whom cecilia did not wish and those whom she did wish to come to her own house, for stephen, a barrister in an official position, had a keen sense of the ridiculous. since hilary wrote books and was a poet, and bianca painted, their friends would naturally be either interesting or queer; and though for stephen's sake it was important to establish which was which, they were so very often both. such people stimulated, taken in small doses, but neither on her husband's account nor on her daughter's did cecilia desire that they should come to her in swarms. her attitude of mind towards them was, in fact, similar-a sort of pleasurable dread-to that in which she purchased the westminster gazette to feel the pulse of social progress. mrs. tallents smallpeace's dark little eyes twinkled. "i hear that mr. stone--that is your father's name, i think--is writing a book which will create quite a sensation when it comes out." cecilia bit her lips. "i hope it never will come out," she was on the point of saying. "what will it be called?" asked mrs. tallents smallpeace. "i gather that it's a book of universal brotherhood. that's so nice!" cecilia made a movement of annoyance. "who told you?" "ah!" said mrs. tallents smallpeace, "i do think your sister gets such attractive people at her at homes. they all take such interest in things." a little surprised at herself, cecilia answered "too much for me!" mrs. tallents smallpeace smiled. "i mean in art and social questions. surely one can't be too interested in them?" cecilia said rather hastily: "oh no, of course not." and both ladies looked around them. a buzz of conversation fell on cecilia's ears. "have you seen the 'aftermath'? it's really quite wonderful!" "poor old chap! he's so rococo...." "there's a new man. "she's very sympathetic. "but the condition of the poor.... "is that mr. balladyce? oh, really. "it gives you such a feeling of life. "bourgeois!..." the voice of mrs. tallents smallpeace broke through: "but do please tell me who is that young girl with the young man looking at the picture over there. she's quite charming!" cecilia's cheeks went a very pretty pink. "oh, that's my little daughter." "really! have you a daughter as big as that? why, she must be seventeen!" "nearly eighteen!" "what is her name?" "thyme," said cecilia, with a little smile. she felt that mrs. tallents smallpeace was about to say: 'how charming!' mrs. tallents smallpeace saw her smile and paused. "who is the young man with her?" "my nephew, martin stone." "the son of your brother who was killed with his wife in that dreadful alpine accident? he looks a very decided sort of young man. he's got that new look. what is he?" "he's very nearly a doctor. i never know whether he's quite finished or not." "i thought perhaps he might have something to do with art." "oh no, he despises art." "and does your daughter despise it, too?" "no; she's studying it." "oh, really! how interesting! i do think the rising generation amusing, don't you? they're so independent." cecilia looked uneasily at the rising generation. they were standing side by side before the picture, curiously observant and detached, exchanging short remarks and glances. they seemed to watch all these circling, chatting, bending, smiling people with a sort of youthful, matter-of-fact, half-hostile curiosity. the young man had a pale face, clean-shaven, with a strong jaw, a long, straight nose, a rather bumpy forehead which did not recede, and clear grey eyes. his sarcastic lips were firm and quick, and he looked at people with disconcerting straightness. the young girl wore a blue-green frock. her face was charming, with eager, hazel-grey eyes, a bright colour, and fluffy hair the colour of ripe nuts. "that's your sister's picture, 'the shadow,' they're looking at, isn't it?" asked mrs. tallents smallpeace. "i remember seeing it on christmas day, and the little model who was sitting for it--an attractive type! your brother-in-law told me how interested you all were in her. quite a romantic story, wasn't it, about her fainting from want of food when she first came to sit?" cecilia murmured something. her hands were moving nervously; she looked ill at ease. these signs passed unperceived by mrs. tallents smallpeace, whose eyes were busy. "in the f.h.m.p., of course, i see a lot of young girls placed in delicate positions, just on the borders, don't you know? you should really join the f.h.m.p., mrs. dallison. it's a first-rate thing--most absorbing work." the doubting deepened in cecilia's eyes. "oh, it must be!" she said. "i've so little time." mrs. tallents smallpeace went on at once. "don't you think that we live in the most interesting days? there are such a lot of movements going on. it's quite exciting. we all feel that we can't shut our eyes any longer to social questions. i mean the condition of the people alone is enough to give one nightmare!" "yes, yes," said cecilia; "it is dreadful, of course. "politicians and officials are so hopeless, one can't look for anything from them." cecilia drew herself up. "oh, do you think so?" she said. "i was just talking to mr. balladyce. he says that art and literature must be put on a new basis altogether." "yes," said cecilia; "really? is he that funny little man?" "i think he's so monstrously clever." cecilia answered quickly: "i know--i know. of course, something must be done." "yes," said mrs. tallents smallpeace absently, "i think we all feel that. oh, do tell me! i've been talking to such a delightful person--just the type you see when you go into the city--thousands of them, all in such good black coats. it's so unusual to really meet one nowadays; and they're so refreshing, they have such nice simple views. there he is, standing just behind your sister." cecilia by a nervous gesture indicated that she recognized the personality alluded to. "oh, yes," she said; "mr. purcey. i don't know why he comes to see us." "i think he's so delicious!" said mrs. tallents smallpeace dreamily. her little dark eyes, like bees, had flown to sip honey from the flower in question--a man of broad build and medium height, dressed. with accuracy, who seemed just a little out of his proper bed. his mustachioed mouth wore a set smile; his cheerful face was rather red, with a forehead of no extravagant height or breadth, and a conspicuous jaw; his hair was thick and light in colour, and his eyes were small, grey, and shrewd. he was looking at a picture. "he's so delightfully unconscious," murmured mrs. tallents smallpeace. "he didn't even seem to know that there was a problem of the lower classes." "did he tell you that he had a picture?" asked cecilia gloomily. "oh yes, by harpignies, with the accent on the 'pig.' it's worth three times what he gave for it. it's so nice to be made to feel that there is still all that mass of people just simply measuring everything by what they gave for it." "and did he tell you my grandfather carfax's dictum in the banstock case?" muttered cecilia. "oh yes: 'the man who does not know his own mind should be made an irishman by act of parliament.' he said it was so awfully good." "he would," replied cecilia. "he seems to depress you, rather!" "oh no; i believe he's quite a nice sort of person. one can't be rude to him; he really did what he thought a very kind thing to my father. that's how we came to know him. only it's rather trying when he will come to call regularly. he gets a little on one's nerves." "ah, that's just what i feel is so jolly about him; no one would ever get on his nerves. i do think we've got too many nerves, don't you? here's your brother-in-law. he's such an uncommon-looking man; i want to have a talk with him about that little model. a country girl, wasn't she?" she had turned her head towards a tall man with a very slight stoop and a brown, thin, bearded face, who was approaching from the door. she did not see that cecilia had flushed, and was looking at her almost angrily. the tall thin man put his hand on cecilia's arm, saying gently: "hallo cis! stephen here yet?" cecilia shook her head. "you know mrs. tallents smallpeace, hilary?" the tall man bowed. his hazel-coloured eyes were shy, gentle, and deep-set; his eyebrows, hardly ever still, gave him a look of austere whimsicality. his dark brown hair was very lightly touched with grey, and a frequent kindly smile played on his lips. his unmannerismed manner was quiet to the point of extinction. he had long, thin, brown hands, and nothing peculiar about his dress. "i'll leave you to talk to mrs. tallents smallpeace," cecilia said. a knot of people round mr. balladyce prevented her from moving far, however, and the voice of mrs. smallpeace travelled to her ears. "i was talking about that little model. it was so good of you to take such interest in the girl. i wondered whether we could do anything for her." cecilia's hearing was too excellent to miss the tone of hilary's reply: "oh, thank you; i don't think so." "i fancied perhaps you might feel that our society---hers is an unsatisfactory profession for young girls!" cecilia saw the back of hilary's neck grow red. she turned her head away. "of course, there are many very nice models indeed," said the voice of mrs. tallents smallpeace. "i don't mean that they are necessarily at all--if they're girls of strong character; and especially if they don't sit for the--the altogether." hilary's dry, staccato answer came to cecilia's ears: "thank you; it's very kind of you." "oh, of course, if it's not necessary. your wife's picture was so clever, mr. dallison--such an interesting type." without intention cecilia found herself before that picture. it stood with its face a little turned towards the wall, as though somewhat in disgrace, portraying the full-length figure of a girl standing in deep shadow, with her arms half outstretched, as if asking for something. her eyes were fixed on cecilia, and through her parted lips breath almost seemed to come. the only colour in the picture was the pale blue of those eyes, the pallid red of those parted lips, the still paler brown of the hair; the rest was shadow. in the foreground light was falling as though from a street-lamp. cecilia thought: "that girl's eyes and mouth haunt me. whatever made blanca choose such a subject? it is clever, of course--for her." chapter ii a family discussion the marriage of sylvanus stone, professor of the natural sciences, to anne, daughter of mr. justice carfax, of the well-known county family--the carfaxes of spring deans, hants--was recorded in the sixties. the baptisms of martin, cecilia, and bianca, son and daughters of sylvanus and anne stone, were to be discovered registered in kensington in the three consecutive years following, as though some single-minded person had been connected with their births. after this the baptisms of no more offspring were to be found anywhere, as if that single mind had encountered opposition. but in the eighties there was noted in the register of the same church the burial of "anne, nee carfax, wife of sylvanus stone." in that "nee carfax" there was, to those who knew, something more than met the eye. it summed up the mother of cecilia and bianca, and, in more subtle fashion, cecilia and bianca, too. it summed up that fugitive, barricading look in their bright eyes, which, though spoken of in the family as "the carfax eyes," were in reality far from coming from old mr. justice carfax. they had been his wife's in turn, and had much annoyed a man of his decided character. he himself had always known his mind, and had let others know it, too; reminding his wife that she was an impracticable woman, who knew not her own mind; and devoting his lawful gains to securing the future of his progeny. it would have disturbed him if he had lived to see his grand-daughters and their times. like so many able men of his generation, far-seeing enough in practical affairs, he had never considered the possibility that the descendants of those who, like himself, had laid up treasure for their children's children might acquire the quality of taking time, balancing pros and cons, looking ahead, and not putting one foot down before picking the other up. he had not foreseen, in deed, that to wobble might become an art, in order that, before anything was done, people might know the full necessity for doing some thing, and how impossible it would be to do indeed, foolish to attempt to do--that which would fully meet the case. he, who had been a man of action all his life, had not perceived how it would grow to be matter of common instinct that to act was to commit oneself, and that, while what one had was not precisely what one wanted, what one had not (if one had it) would be as bad. he had never been self-conscious--it was not the custom of his generation--and, having but little imagination, had never suspected that he was laying up that quality for his descendants, together with a competence which secured them a comfortable leisure. of all the persons in his grand-daughter's studio that afternoon, that stray sheep mr. purcey would have been, perhaps, the only one whose judgments he would have considered sound. no one had laid up a competence for mr. purcey, who had been in business from the age of twenty. it is uncertain whether the mere fact that he was not in his own fold kept this visitor lingering in the studio when all other guests were gone; or whether it was simply the feeling that the longer he stayed in contact with really artistic people the more distinguished he was becoming. probably the latter, for the possession of that harpignies, a good specimen, which he had bought by accident, and subsequently by accident discovered to have a peculiar value, had become a factor in his life, marking him out from all his friends, who went in more for a neat type of royal academy landscape, together with reproductions of young ladies in eighteenth-century costumes seated on horseback, or in scotch gardens. a junior partner in a banking-house of some importance, he lived at wimbledon, whence he passed up and down daily in his car. to this he owed his acquaintance with the family of dallison. for one day, after telling his chauffeur to meet him at the albert gate, he had set out to stroll down rotten row, as he often did on the way home, designing to nod to anybody that he knew. it had turned out a somewhat barren expedition. no one of any consequence had met his eye; and it was with a certain almost fretful longing for distraction that in kensington gardens he came on an old man feeding birds out of a paper bag. the birds having flown away on seeing him, he approached the feeder to apologize. "i'm afraid i frightened your birds, sir," he began. this old man, who was dressed in smoke-grey tweeds which exhaled a poignant scent of peat, looked at him without answering. "i'm afraid your birds saw me coming," mr. purcey said again. "in those days," said the aged stranger, "birds were afraid of men." mr. purcey's shrewd grey eyes perceived at once that he had a character to deal with. "ah, yes!" he said; "i see--you allude to the present time. that's very nice. ha, ha!" the old man answered: "the emotion of fear is inseparably connected with a primitive state of fratricidal rivalry." this sentence put mr. purcey on his guard. 'the old chap,' he thought, 'is touched. he evidently oughtn't to be out here by himself.' he debated, therefore, whether he should hasten away toward his car, or stand by in case his assistance should be needed. being a kind-hearted man, who believed in his capacity for putting things to rights, and noticing a certain delicacy--a "sort of something rather distinguished," as he phrased it afterwards--in the old fellow's face and figure, he decided to see if he could be of any service. they walked along together, mr. purcey watching his new friend askance, and directing the march to where he had ordered his chauffeur to await him. "you are very fond of birds, i suppose," he said cautiously. "the birds are our brothers." the answer was of a nature to determine mr. purcey in his diagnosis of the case. "i've got my car here," he said. "let me give you a lift home." this new but aged acquaintance did not seem to hear; his lips moved as though he were following out some thought. "in those days," mr. purcey heard him say, "the congeries of men were known as rookeries. the expression was hardly just towards that handsome bird." mr. purcey touched him hastily on the arm. "i've got my car here, sir," he said. "do let me put you down!" telling the story afterwards, he had spoken thus: "the old chap knew where he lived right enough; but dash me if i believe he noticed that i was taking him there in my car--i had the a.i. damyer out. that's how i came to make the acquaintance of these dallisons. he's the writer, you know, and she paints--rather the new school--she admires harpignies. well, when i got there in the car i found dallison in the garden. of course i was careful not to put my foot into it. i told him: 'i found this old gentleman wandering about. i've just brought him back in my car.' who should the old chap turn out to be but her father! they were awfully obliged to me. charmin' people, but very what d'you call it 'fin de siecle'--like all these professors, these artistic pigs--seem to know rather a queer set, advanced people, and all that sort of cuckoo, always talkin' about the poor, and societies, and new religions, and that kind of thing." though he had since been to see them several times, the dallisons had never robbed him of the virtuous feeling of that good action--they had never let him know that he had brought home, not, as he imagined, a lunatic, but merely a philosopher. it had been somewhat of a quiet shock to him to find mr. stone close to the doorway when he entered bianca's studio that afternoon; for though he had seen him since the encounter in kensington gardens, and knew that he was writing a book, he still felt that he was not quite the sort of old man that one ought to meet about. he had at once begun to tell him of the hanging of the shoreditch murderer, as recorded in the evening papers. mr. stone's reception of that news had still further confirmed his original views. when all the guests were gone--with the exception of mr. and mrs. stephen dallison and miss dallison, "that awfully pretty girl," and the young man "who was always hangin' about her"--he had approached his hostess for some quiet talk. she stood listening to him, very well bred, with just that habitual spice of mockery in her smile, which to mr. purcey's eyes made her "a very strikin'-lookin' woman, but rather---" there he would stop, for it required a greater psychologist than he to describe a secret disharmony which a little marred her beauty. due to some too violent cross of blood, to an environment too unsuited, to what not--it was branded on her. those who knew bianca dallison better than mr. purcey were but too well aware of this fugitive, proud spirit permeating one whose beauty would otherwise have passed unquestioned. she was a little taller than cecilia, her figure rather fuller and more graceful, her hair darker, her eyes, too, darker and more deeply set, her cheek-bones higher, her colouring richer. that spirit of the age, disharmony, must have presided when a child so vivid and dark-coloured was christened bianca. mr. purcey, however, was not a man who allowed the finest shades of feeling to interfere with his enjoyments. she was a "strikin'-lookin' woman," and there was, thanks to harpignies, a link between them. "your father and i, mrs. dallison, can't quite understand each other," he began. "our views of life don't seem to hit it off exactly." "really," murmured bianca; "i should have thought that you'd have got on so well." "he's a little bit too--er--scriptural for me, perhaps," said mr. purcey, with some delicacy. "did we never tell you," bianca answered softly, "that my father was a rather well--known man of science before his illness?" "ah!" replied mr. purcey, a little puzzled; "that, of course. d'you know, of all your pictures, mrs. dallison, i think that one you call 'the shadow' is the most rippin'. there's a something about it that gets hold of you. that was the original, wasn't it, at your christmas party--attractive girl--it's an awf'ly good likeness." bianca's face had changed, but mr. purcey was not a man to notice a little thing like that. "if ever you want to part with it," he said, "i hope you'll give me a chance. i mean it'd be a pleasure to me to have it. i think it'll be worth a lot of money some day." bianca did not answer, and mr. purcey, feeling suddenly a little awkward, said: "i've got my car waiting. i must be off--really." shaking hands with all of them, he went away. when the door had closed behind his back, a universal sigh went up. it was followed by a silence, which hilary broke. "we'll smoke, stevie, if cis doesn't mind." stephen dallison placed a cigarette between his moustacheless lips, always rather screwed up, and ready to nip with a smile anything that might make him feel ridiculous. "phew!" he said. "our friend purcey becomes a little tedious. he seems to take the whole of philistia about with him." "he's a very decent fellow," murmured hilary. "a bit heavy, surely!" stephen dallison's face, though also long and narrow, was not much like his brother's. his eyes, though not unkind, were far more scrutinising, inquisitive, and practical; his hair darker, smoother. letting a puff of smoke escape, he added: "now, that's the sort of man to give you a good sound opinion. you should have asked him, cis." cecilia answered with a frown: "don't chaff, stephen; i'm perfectly serious about mrs. hughs." "well, i don't see what i can do for the good woman, my dear. one can't interfere in these domestic matters." "but it seems dreadful that we who employ her should be able to do nothing for her. don't you think so, b.?" "i suppose we could do something for her if we wanted to badly enough." bianca's voice, which had the self-distrustful ring of modern music, suited her personality. a glance passed between stephen and his wife. "that's b. all over!" it seemed to say.... "hound street, where they live, is a horrid place." it was thyme who spoke, and everybody looked round at her. "how do you know that?" asked cecilia. "i went to see." "with whom?" "martin." the lips of the young man whose name she mentioned curled sarcastically. hilary asked gently: "well, my dear, what did you see?" "most of the doors are open---" bianca murmured: "that doesn't tell us much." "on the contrary," said martin suddenly, in a deep bass voice, "it tells you everything. go on." "the hughs live on the top floor at no. . it's the best house in the street. on the ground-floor are some people called budgen; he's a labourer, and she's lame. they've got one son. the hughs have let off the first-floor front-room to an old man named creed---" "yes, i know," cecilia muttered. "he makes about one and tenpence a day by selling papers. the back-room on that floor they let, of course, to your little model, aunt b." "she is not my model now." there was a silence such as falls when no one knows how far the matter mentioned is safe to, touch on. thyme proceeded with her report. "her room's much the best in the house; it's airy, and it looks out over someone's garden. i suppose she stays there because it's so cheap. the hughs' rooms are---" she stopped, wrinkling her straight nose. "so that's the household," said hilary. "two married couples, one young man, one young girl"--his eyes travelled from one to another of the two married couples, the young man, and the young girl, collected in this room--"and one old man," he added softly. "not quite the sort of place for you to go poking about in, thyme," stephen said ironically. "do you think so, martin?" "why not?" stephen raised his brows, and glanced towards his wife. her face was dubious, a little scared. there was a silence. then bianca spoke: "well?" that word, like nearly all her speeches, seemed rather to disconcert her hearers. "so hughs ill-treats her?" said hilary. "she says so," replied cecilia--"at least, that's what i understood. of course, i don't know any details." "she had better get rid of him, i should think," bianca murmured. out of the silence that followed thyme's clear voice was heard saying: "she can't get a divorce; she could get a separation." cecilia rose uneasily. these words concreted suddenly a wealth of half-acknowledged doubts about her little daughter. this came of letting her hear people talk, and go about with martin! she might even have been listening to her grandfather--such a thought was most disturbing. and, afraid, on the one hand, of gainsaying the liberty of speech, and, on the other, of seeming to approve her daughter's knowledge of the world, she looked at her husband. but stephen did not speak, feeling, no doubt, that to pursue the subject would be either to court an ethical, even an abstract, disquisition, and this one did not do in anybody's presence, much less one's wife's or daughter's; or to touch on sordid facts of doubtful character, which was equally distasteful in the circumstances. he, too, however, was uneasy that thyme should know so much. the dusk was gathering outside; the fire threw a flickering light, fitfully outlining their figures, making those faces, so familiar to each other, a little mysterious. at last stephen broke the silence. "of course, i'm very sorry for her, but you'd better let it alone--you can't tell with that sort of people; you never can make out what they want--it's safer not to meddle. at all events, it's a matter for a society to look into first!" cecilia answered: "but she's, on my conscience, stephen." "they're all on my conscience," muttered hilary. bianca looked at him for the first time; then, turning to her nephew, said: "what do you say, martin?" the young man, whose face was stained by the firelight the colour of pale cheese, made no answer. but suddenly through the stillness came a voice: "i have thought of something." everyone turned round. mr. stone was seen emerging from behind "the shadow"; his frail figure, in its grey tweeds, his silvery hair and beard, were outlined sharply against the wall. "why, father," cecilia said, "we didn't know that you were here!" mr. stone looked round bewildered; it seemed as if he, too, had been ignorant of that fact. "what is it that you've thought of?" the firelight leaped suddenly on to mr. stone's thin yellow hand. "each of us," he said, "has a shadow in those places--in those streets." there was a vague rustling, as of people not taking a remark too seriously, and the sound of a closing door. chapter iii hilary's brown study "what do you really think, uncle hilary?" turning at his writing-table to look at the face of his young niece, hilary dallison answered: "my dear, we have had the same state of affairs since the beginning of the world. there is no chemical process; so far as my knowledge goes, that does not make waste products. what your grandfather calls our 'shadows' are the waste products of the social process. that there is a submerged tenth is as certain as that there is an emerged fiftieth like ourselves; exactly who they are and how they come, whether they can ever be improved away, is, i think, as uncertain as anything can be." the figure of the girl seated in the big armchair did not stir. her lips pouted contemptuously, a frown wrinkled her forehead. "martin says that a thing is only impossible when we think it so." "faith and the mountain, i'm afraid." thyme's foot shot forth; it nearly came into contact with miranda, the little bulldog. "oh, duckie!" but the little moonlight bulldog backed away. "i hate these slums, uncle; they're so disgusting!" hilary leaned his face on his thin hand; it was his characteristic attitude. "they are hateful, disgusting, and heartrending. that does not make the problem any the less difficult, does it?" "i believe we simply make the difficulties ourselves by seeing them." hilary smiled. "does martin say that too?" "of course he does." "speaking broadly," murmured hilary, "i see only one difficulty--human nature." thyme rose. "i think it horrible to have a low opinion of human nature." "my dear," said hilary, "don't you think perhaps that people who have what is called a low opinion of human nature are really more tolerant of it, more in love with it, in fact, than those who, looking to what human nature might be, are bound to hate what human nature is." the look which thyme directed at her uncle's amiable, attractive face, with its pointed beard, high forehead, and special little smile, seemed to alarm hilary. "i don't want you to have an unnecessarily low opinion of me, my dear. i'm not one of those people who tell you that everything's all right because the rich have their troubles as well as the poor. a certain modicum of decency and comfort is obviously necessary to man before we can begin to do anything but pity him; but that doesn't make it any easier to know how you're going to insure him that modicum of decency and comfort, does it?" "we've got to do it," said thyme; "it won't wait any longer." "my dear," said hilary, "think of mr. purcey! what proportion of the upper classes do you imagine is even conscious of that necessity? we, who have got what i call the social conscience, rise from the platform of mr. purcey; we're just a gang of a few thousands to mr. purcey's tens of thousands, and how many even of us are prepared, or, for the matter of that, fitted, to act on our consciousness? in spite of your grandfather's ideas, i'm afraid we're all too much divided into classes; man acts, and always has acted, in classes." "oh--classes!" answered thyme--"that's the old superstition, uncle." "is it? i thought one's class, perhaps, was only oneself exaggerated--not to be shaken off. for instance, what are you and i, with our particular prejudices, going to do?" thyme gave him the cruel look of youth, which seemed to say: 'you are my very good uncle, and a dear; but you are more than twice my age. that, i think, is conclusive!' "has something been settled about mrs. hughs?" she asked abruptly. "what does your father say this morning?" thyme picked up her portfolio of drawings, and moved towards the door. "father's hopeless. he hasn't an idea beyond referring her to the s.p.b." she was gone; and hilary, with a sigh, took his pen up, but he wrote nothing down .... hilary and stephen dallison were grandsons of that canon dallison, well known as friend, and sometime adviser, of a certain victorian novelist. the canon, who came of an old oxfordshire family, which for three hundred years at least had served the church or state, was himself the author of two volumes of "socratic dialogues." he had bequeathed to his son--a permanent official in the foreign office--if not his literary talent, the tradition at all events of culture. this tradition had in turn been handed on to hilary and stephen. educated at a public school and cambridge, blessed with competent, though not large, independent incomes, and brought up never to allude to money if it could possibly be helped, the two young men had been turned out of the mint with something of the same outward stamp on them. both were kindly, both fond of open-air pursuits, and neither of them lazy. both, too, were very civilised, with that bone-deep decency, that dislike of violence, nowhere so prevalent as in the upper classes of a country whose settled institutions are as old as its roads, or the walls which insulate its parks. but as time went on, the one great quality which heredity and education, environment and means, had bred in both of them--self-consciousness--acted in these two brothers very differently. to stephen it was preservative, keeping him, as it were, in ice throughout hot-weather seasons, enabling him to know exactly when he was in danger of decomposition, so that he might nip the process in the bud; it was with him a healthy, perhaps slightly chemical, ingredient, binding his component parts, causing them to work together safely, homogeneously. in hilary the effect seemed to have been otherwise; like some slow and subtle poison, this great quality, self-consciousness, had soaked his system through and through; permeated every cranny of his spirit, so that to think a definite thought, or do a definite deed, was obviously becoming difficult to him. it took in the main the form of a sort of gentle desiccating humour. "it's a remarkable thing," he had one day said to stephen, "that by the process of assimilating little bits of chopped-up cattle one should be able to form the speculation of how remarkable a thing it is." stephen had paused a second before answering--they were lunching off roast beef in the law courts--he had then said: "you're surely not going to eschew the higher mammals, like our respected father-in-law?" "on the contrary," said hilary, "to chew them; but it is remarkable, for all that; you missed my point." it was clear that a man who could see anything remarkable in such a thing was far gone, and stephen had murmured: "my dear old chap, you're getting too introspective." hilary, having given his brother the special retiring smile, which seemed not only to say; "don't let me bore you," but also, "well, perhaps you had better wait outside," the conversation closed. that smile of hilary's, which jibbed away from things, though disconcerting and apt to put an end to intercourse, was natural enough. a sensitive man, who had passed his life amongst cultivated people in the making of books, guarded from real wants by modest, not vulgar, affluence, had not reached the age of forty-two without finding his delicacy sharpened to the point of fastidiousness. even his dog could see the sort of man he was. she knew that he would take no liberties, either with her ears or with her tail. she knew that he would never hold her mouth ajar, and watch her teeth, as some men do; that when she was lying on her back he would gently rub her chest without giving her the feeling that she was doing wrong, as women will; and if she sat, as she was sitting now, with her eyes fixed on his study fire, he would never, she knew, even from afar, prevent her thinking of the nothing she loved to think on. in his study, which smelt of a particular mild tobacco warranted to suit the nerves of any literary man, there was a bust of socrates, which always seemed to have a strange attraction for its owner. he had once described to a fellow-writer the impression produced on him by that plaster face, so capaciously ugly, as though comprehending the whole of human life, sharing all man's gluttony and lust, his violence and rapacity, but sharing also his strivings toward love and reason and serenity. "he's telling us," said hilary, "to drink deep, to dive down and live with mermaids, to lie out on the hills under the sun, to sweat with helots, to know all things and all men. no seat, he says, among the wise, unless we've been through it all before we climb! that's how he strikes me--not too cheering for people of our sort!" under the shadow of this bust hilary rested his forehead on his hand. in front of him were three open books and a pile of manuscript, and pushed to one side a little sheaf of pieces of green-white paper, press-cuttings of his latest book. the exact position occupied by his work in the life of such a man is not too easy to define. he earned an income by it, but he was not dependent on that income. as poet, critic, writer of essays, he had made himself a certain name--not a great name, but enough to swear by. whether his fastidiousness could have stood the conditions of literary existence without private means was now and then debated by his friends; it could probably have done so better than was supposed, for he sometimes startled those who set him down as a dilettante by a horny way of retiring into his shell for the finish of a piece of work. try as he would that morning to keep his thoughts concentrated on his literary labour, they wandered to his conversation with his niece and to the discussion on mrs. hughs; the family seamstress, in his wife's studio the day before. stephen had lingered behind cecilia and thyme when they went away after dinner, to deliver a last counsel to his brother at the garden gate. "never meddle between man and wife--you know what the lower classes are!" and across the dark garden he had looked back towards the house. one room on the ground-floor alone was lighted. through its open window the head and shoulders of mr. stone could be seen close to a small green reading-lamp. stephen shook his head, murmuring: "but, i say, our old friend, eh? 'in those places--in those streets!' it's worse than simple crankiness--the poor old chap is getting almost---" and, touching his forehead lightly with two fingers, he had hurried off with the ever-springy step of one whose regularity habitually controls his imagination. pausing a minute amongst the bushes, hilary too had looked at the lighted window which broke the dark front of his house, and his little moonlight bulldog, peering round his legs, had gazed up also. mr. stone was still standing, pen in hand, presumably deep in thought. his silvered head and beard moved slightly to the efforts of his brain. he came over to the window, and, evidently not seeing his son-in-law, faced out into the night. in that darkness were all the shapes and lights and shadows of a london night in spring: the trees in dark bloom; the wan yellow of the gas-lamps, pale emblems of the self-consciousness of towns; the clustered shades of the tiny leaves, spilled, purple, on the surface of the road, like bunches of black grapes squeezed down into the earth by the feet of the passers-by. there, too, were shapes of men and women hurrying home, and the great blocked shapes of the houses where they lived. a halo hovered above the city--a high haze of yellow light, dimming the stars. the black, slow figure of a policeman moved noiselessly along the railings opposite. from then till eleven o'clock, when he would make himself some cocoa on a little spirit-lamp, the writer of the "book of universal brotherhood" would alternate between his bent posture above his manuscript and his blank consideration of the night.... with a jerk, hilary came back to his reflections beneath the bust of socrates. "each of us has a shadow in those places--in those streets!" there certainly was a virus in that notion. one must either take it as a jest, like stephen; or, what must one do? how far was it one's business to identify oneself with other people, especially the helpless--how far to preserve oneself intact--'integer vita'? hilary was no young person, like his niece or martin, to whom everything seemed simple; nor was he an old person like their grandfather, for whom life had lost its complications. and, very conscious of his natural disabilities for a decision on a like, or indeed on any, subject except, perhaps, a point of literary technique, he got up from his writing-table, and, taking his little bulldog, went out. his intention was to visit mrs. hughs in hound street, and see with his own eyes the state of things. but he had another reason, too, for wishing to go there .... chapter iv the little model when in the preceding autumn bianca began her picture called "the shadow," nobody was more surprised than hilary that she asked him to find her a model for the figure. not knowing the nature of the picture, nor having been for many years--perhaps never--admitted into the workings of his wife's spirit, he said: "why don't you ask thyme to sit for you?" blanca answered: "she's not the type at all--too matter-of-fact. besides, i don't want a lady; the figure's to be half draped." hilary smiled. blanca knew quite well that he was smiling at this distinction between ladies and other women, and understood that he was smiling, not so much at her, but at himself, for secretly agreeing with the distinction she had made. and suddenly she smiled too. there was the whole history of their married life in those two smiles. they meant so much: so many thousand hours of suppressed irritation, so many baffled longings and earnest efforts to bring their natures together. they were the supreme, quiet evidence of the divergence of two lives--that slow divergence which had been far from being wilful, and was the more hopeless in that it had been so gradual and so gentle. they had never really had a quarrel, having enlightened views of marriage; but they had smiled. they had smiled so often through so many years that no two people in the world could very well be further from each other. their smiles had banned the revelation even to themselves of the tragedy of their wedded state. it is certain that neither could help those smiles, which were not intended to wound, but came on their faces as naturally as moonlight falls on water, out of their inimically constituted souls. hilary spent two afternoons among his artist friends, trying, by means of the indications he had gathered, to find a model for "the shadow." he had found one at last. her name, barton, and address had been given him by a painter of still life, called french. "she's never sat to me," he said; "my sister discovered her in the west country somewhere. she's got a story of some sort. i don't know what. she came up about three months ago, i think." "she's not sitting to your sister now?" hilary asked. "no," said the painter of still life; "my sister's married and gone out to india. i don't know whether she'd sit for the half-draped, but i should think so. she'll have to, sooner or later; she may as well begin, especially to a woman. there's a something about her that's attractive--you might try her!" and with these words he resumed the painting of still life which he had broken off to talk to hilary. hilary had written to this girl to come and see him. she had come just before dinner the same day. he found her standing in the middle of his study, not daring, as it seemed, to go near the furniture, and as there was very little light, he could hardly see her face. she was resting a foot, very patient, very still, in an old brown skirt, an ill-shaped blouse, and a blue-green tam-o'-shanter cap. hilary turned up the light. he saw a round little face with broad cheekbones, flower-blue eyes, short lamp-black lashes, and slightly parted lips. it was difficult to judge of her figure in those old clothes, but she was neither short nor tall; her neck was white and well set on, her hair pale brown and abundant. hilary noted that her chin, though not receding, was too soft and small; but what he noted chiefly was her look of patient expectancy, as though beyond the present she were seeing something, not necessarily pleasant, which had to come. if he had not known from the painter of still life that she was from the country, he would have thought her a town-bred girl, she looked so pale. her appearance, at all events, was not "too matter-of-fact." her speech, however, with its slight west-country burr, was matter-of-fact enough, concerned entirely with how long she would have to sit, and the pay she was to get for it. in the middle of their conversation she sank down on the floor, and hilary was driven to restore her with biscuits and liqueur, which in his haste he took for brandy. it seemed she had not eaten since her breakfast the day before, which had consisted of a cup of tea. in answer to his remonstrance, she made this matter-of-fact remark: "if you haven't money, you can't buy things.... there's no one i can ask up here; i'm a stranger." "then you haven't been getting work?" "no," the little model answered sullenly; "i don't want to sit as most of them want me to till i'm obliged." the blood rushed up in her face with startling vividness, then left it white again. 'ah!' thought hilary, 'she has had experience already.' both he and his wife were accessible to cases of distress, but the nature of their charity was different. hilary was constitutionally unable to refuse his aid to anything that held out a hand for it. bianca (whose sociology was sounder), while affirming that charity was wrong, since in a properly constituted state no one should need help, referred her cases, like stephen, to the "society for the prevention of begging," which took much time and many pains to ascertain the worst. but in this case what was of importance was that the poor girl should have a meal, and after that to find out if she were living in a decent house; and since she appeared not to be, to recommend her somewhere better. and as in charity it is always well to kill two birds with one expenditure of force, it was found that mrs. hughs, the seamstress, had a single room to let unfurnished, and would be more than glad of four shillings, or even three and six, a week for it. furniture was also found for her: a bed that creaked, a washstand, table, and chest of drawers; a carpet, two chairs, and certain things to cook with; some of those old photographs and prints that hide in cupboards, and a peculiar little clock, which frequently forgot the time of day. all these and some elementary articles of dress were sent round in a little van, with three ferns whose time had nearly come, and a piece of the plant called "honesty." soon after this she came to "sit." she was a very quiet and passive little model, and was not required to pose half-draped, bianca having decided that, after all, "the shadow" was better represented fully clothed; for, though she discussed the nude, and looked on it with freedom, when it came to painting unclothed people, she felt a sort of physical aversion. hilary, who was curious, as a man naturally would be, about anyone who had fainted from hunger at his feet, came every now and then to see, and would sit watching this little half-starved girl with kindly and screwed-up eyes. about his personality there was all the evidence of that saying current among those who knew him: "hilary would walk a mile sooner than tread on an ant." the little model, from the moment when he poured liqueur between her teeth, seemed to feel he had a claim on her, for she reserved her small, matter-of-fact confessions for his ears. she made them in the garden, coming in or going out; or outside, and, now and then, inside his study, like a child who comes and shows you a sore finger. thus, quite suddenly: "i've four shillings left over this week, mr. dallison," or, "old mr. creed's gone to the hospital to-day, mr. dallison." her face soon became less bloodless than on that first evening, but it was still pale, inclined to colour in wrong places on cold days, with little blue veins about the temples and shadows under the eyes. the lips were still always a trifle parted, and she still seemed to be looking out for what was coming, like a little madonna, or venus, in a botticelli picture. this look of hers, coupled with the matter-of-factness of her speech, gave its flavour to her personality.... on christmas day the picture was on view to mr. purcey, who had chanced to "give his car a run," and to other connoisseurs. bianca had invited her model to be present at this function, intending to get her work. but, slipping at once into a corner, the girl had stood as far as possible behind a canvas. people, seeing her standing there, and noting her likeness to the picture, looked at her with curiosity, and passed on, murmuring that she was an interesting type. they did not talk to her, either because they were afraid she could not talk of the things they could talk of, or that they could not talk of the things she could talk of, or because they were anxious not to seem to patronize her. she talked to one, therefore. this occasioned hilary some distress. he kept coming up and smiling at her, or making tentative remarks or jests, to which she would reply, "yes, mr. dallison," or "no, mr. dallison," as the case might be. seeing him return from one of these little visits, an art critic standing before the picture had smiled, and his round, clean-shaven, sensual face had assumed a greenish tint in eyes and cheeks, as of the fat in turtle soup. the only two other people who had noticed her particularly were those old acquaintances, mr. purcey and mr. stone. mr. purcey had thought, 'rather a good-lookin' girl,' and his eyes strayed somewhat continually in her direction. there was something piquant and, as it were, unlawfully enticing to him in the fact that she was a real artist's model. mr. stone's way of noticing her had been different. he had approached in his slightly inconvenient way, as though seeing but one thing in the whole world. "you are living by yourself?" he had said. "i shall come and see you." made by the art critic or by mr. purcey, that somewhat strange remark would have had one meaning; made by mr. stone it obviously had another. having finished what he had to say, the author of the book of "universal brotherhood" had bowed and turned to go. perceiving that he saw before him the door and nothing else, everybody made way for him at once. the remarks that usually arose behind his back began to be heard--"extraordinary old man!" "you know, he bathes in the serpentine all the year round?" "and he cooks his food himself, and does his own room, they say; and all the rest of his time he writes a book!" "a perfect crank!" chapter v the comedy begins the art critic who had smiled was--like all men--a subject for pity rather than for blame. an irishman of real ability, he had started life with high ideals and a belief that he could live with them. he had hoped to serve art, to keep his service pure; but, having one day let his acid temperament out of hand to revel in an orgy of personal retaliation, he had since never known when she would slip her chain and come home smothered in mire. moreover, he no longer chastised her when she came. his ideals had left him, one by one; he now lived alone, immune from dignity and shame, soothing himself with whisky. a man of rancour, meet for pity, and, in his cups, contented. he had lunched freely before coming to blanca's christmas function, but by four o'clock, the gases which had made him feel the world a pleasant place had nearly all evaporated, and he was suffering from a wish to drink again. or it may have been that this girl, with her soft look, gave him the feeling that she ought to have belonged to him; and as she did not, he felt, perhaps, a natural irritation that she belonged, or might belong, to somebody else. or, again, it was possibly his natural male distaste for the works of women painters which induced an awkward frame of mind. two days later in a daily paper over no signature, appeared this little paragraph: "we learn that 'the shadow,' painted by bianca stone, who is not generally known to be the wife of the writer, mr. hilary dallison, will soon be exhibited at the bencox gallery. this very 'fin-de-siecle' creation, with its unpleasant subject, representing a woman (presumably of the streets) standing beneath a gas-lamp, is a somewhat anaemic piece of painting. if mr. dallison, who finds the type an interesting one, embodies her in one of his very charming poems, we trust the result will be less bloodless." the little piece of green-white paper containing this information was handed to hilary by his wife at breakfast. the blood mounted slowly in his cheeks. bianca's eyes fastened themselves on that flush. whether or no--as philosophers say--little things are all big with the past, of whose chain they are the latest links, they frequently produce what apparently are great results. the marital relations of hilary and his wife, which till then had been those of, at all events, formal conjugality, changed from that moment. after ten o'clock at night their lives became as separate as though they lived in different houses. and this change came about without expostulations, reproach, or explanation, just by the turning of a key; and even this was the merest symbol, employed once only, to save the ungracefulness of words. such a hint was quite enough for a man like hilary, whose delicacy, sense of the ridiculous, and peculiar faculty of starting back and retiring into himself, put the need of anything further out of the question. both must have felt, too, that there was nothing that could be explained. an anonymous double entendre was not precisely evidence on which to found a rupture of the marital tie. the trouble was so much deeper than that--the throbbing of a woman's wounded self-esteem, of the feeling that she was no longer loved, which had long cried out for revenge. one morning in the middle of the week after this incident the innocent author of it presented herself in hilary's study, and, standing in her peculiar patient attitude, made her little statements. as usual, they were very little ones; as usual, she seemed helpless, and suggested a child with a sore finger. she had no other work; she owed the week's rent; she did not know what would happen to her; mrs. dallison did not want her any more; she could not tell what she had done! the picture was finished, she knew, but mrs. dallison had said she was going to paint her again in another picture.... hilary did not reply. "....that old gentleman, mr.--mr. stone, had been to see her. he wanted her to come and copy out his book for two hours a day, from four to six, at a shilling an hour. ought she to come, please? he said his book would take him years." before answering her hilary stood for a full minute staring at the fire. the little model stole a look at him. he suddenly turned and faced her. his glance was evidently disconcerting to the girl. it was, indeed, a critical and dubious look, such as he might have bent on a folio of doubtful origin. "don't you think," he said at last, "that it would be much better for you to go back into the country?" the little model shook her head vehemently. "oh no!" "well, but why not? this is a most unsatisfactory sort of life." the girl stole another look at him, then said sullenly: "i can't go back there." "what is it? aren't your people nice to you?" she grew red. "no; and i don't want to go"; then, evidently seeing from hilary's face that his delicacy forbade his questioning her further, she brightened up, and murmured: "the old gentleman said it would make me independent." "well," replied hilary, with a shrug, "you'd better take his offer." she kept turning her face back as she went down the path, as though to show her gratitude. and presently, looking up from his manuscript, he saw her face still at the railings, peering through a lilac bush. suddenly she skipped, like a child let out of school. hilary got up, perturbed. the sight of that skipping was like the rays of a lantern turned on the dark street of another human being's life. it revealed, as in a flash, the loneliness of this child, without money and without friends, in the midst of this great town. the months of january, february, march passed, and the little model came daily to copy the "book of universal brotherhood." mr. stone's room, for which he insisted on paying rent, was never entered by a servant. it was on the ground-floor, and anyone passing the door between the hours of four and six could hear him dictating slowly, pausing now and then to spell a word. in these two hours it appeared to be his custom to read out, for fair copying, the labours of the other seven. at five o'clock there was invariably a sound of plates and cups, and out of it the little model's voice would rise, matter-of-fact, soft, monotoned, making little statements; and in turn mr. stone's, also making statements which clearly lacked cohesion with those of his young friend. on one occasion, the door being open, hilary heard distinctly the following conversation: the little model: "mr. creed says he was a butler. he's got an ugly nose." (a pause.) mr. stone: "in those days men were absorbed in thinking of their individualities. their occupations seemed to them important---" the little model: "mr. creed says his savings were all swallowed up by illness." mr. stone: "---it was not so." the little model: "mr. creed says he was always brought up to go to church." mr. stone (suddenly): "there has been no church worth going to since a. d. ." the little model: "but he doesn't go." and with a flying glance through the just open door hilary saw her holding bread-and-butter with inky fingers, her lips a little parted, expecting the next bite, and her eyes fixed curiously on mr. stone, whose transparent hand held a teacup, and whose eyes were immovably fixed on distance. it was one day in april that mr. stone, heralded by the scent of harris tweed and baked potatoes which habitually encircled him, appeared at five o'clock in hilary's study doorway. "she has not come," he said. hilary laid down his pen. it was the first real spring day. "will you come for a walk with me, sir, instead?" he asked. "yes," said mr. stone. they walked out into kensington gardens, hilary with his head rather bent towards the ground, and mr. stone, with eyes fixed on his far thoughts, slightly poking forward his silver beard. in their favourite firmaments the stars of crocuses and daffodils were shining. almost every tree had its pigeon cooing, every bush its blackbird in full song. and on the paths were babies in perambulators. these were their happy hunting-grounds, and here they came each day to watch from a safe distance the little dirty girls sitting on the grass nursing little dirty boys, to listen to the ceaseless chatter of these common urchins, and learn to deal with the great problem of the lowest classes. and babies sat in their perambulators, thinking and sucking india-rubber tubes. dogs went before them, and nursemaids followed after. the spirit of colour was flying in the distant trees, swathing them with brownish-purple haze; the sky was saffroned by dying sunlight. it was such a day as brings a longing to the heart, like that which the moon brings to the hearts of children. mr. stone and hilary sat down in the broad walk. "elm-trees!" said mr. stone. "it is not known when they assumed their present shape. they have one universal soul. it is the same with man." he ceased, and hilary looked round uneasily. they were alone on the bench. mr. stone's voice rose again. "their form and balance is their single soul; they have preserved it from century to century. this is all they live for. in those days"--his voice sank; he had plainly forgotten that he was not alone--"when men had no universal conceptions, they would have done well to look at the trees. instead of fostering a number of little souls on the pabulum of varying theories of future life, they should have been concerned to improve their present shapes, and thus to dignify man's single soul" "elms were always considered dangerous trees, i believe," said hilary. mr. stone turned, and, seeing his son-in-law beside him, asked: "you spoke to me, i think?" "yes, sir." mr. stone said wistfully: "shall we walk?" they rose from the bench and walked on.... the explanation of the little model's absence was thus stated by herself to hilary: "i had an appointment." "more work?" "a friend of mr. french." "yes--who?" "mr. lennard. he's a sculptor; he's got a studio in chelsea. he wants me to pose to him." "ah!" she stole a glance at hilary, and hung her head. hilary turned to the window. "you know what posing to a sculptor means, of course?" the little model's voice sounded behind him, matter-of-fact as ever: "he said i was just the figure he was looking for." hilary continued to stare through the window. "i thought you didn't mean to begin standing for the nude." "i don't want to stay poor always." hilary turned round at the strange tone of these unexpected words. the girl was in a streak of sunlight; her pale cheeks flushed; her pale, half-opened lips red; her eyes, in their setting of short black lashes, wide and mutinous; her young round bosom heaving as if she had been running. "i don't want to go on copying books all my life." "oh, very well." "mr. dallison! i didn't mean that--i didn't really! i want to do what you tell me to do--i do!" hilary stood contemplating her with the dubious, critical look, as though asking: "what is there behind you? are you really a genuine edition, or what?" which had so disconcerted her before. at last he said: "you must do just as you like. i never advise anybody." "but you don't want me to--i know you don't. of course, if you don't want me to, then it'll be a pleasure not to!" hilary smiled. "don't you like copying for mr. stone?" the little model made a face. "i like mr. stone--he's such a funny old gentleman." "that is the general opinion," answered hilary. "but mr. stone, you know, thinks that we are funny." the little model smiled faintly, too; the streak of sunlight had slanted past her, and, standing there behind its glamour and million floating specks of gold-dust, she looked for the moment like the young shade of spring, watching with expectancy for what the year would bring her. with the words "i am ready," spoken from the doorway, mr. stone interrupted further colloquy.... but though the girl's position in the household had, to all seeming, become established, now and then some little incident--straws blowing down the wind--showed feelings at work beneath the family's apparent friendliness, beneath that tentative and almost apologetic manner towards the poor or helpless, which marks out those who own what hilary had called the "social conscience." only three days, indeed, before he sat in his brown study, meditating beneath the bust of socrates, cecilia, coming to lunch, had let fall this remark: "of course, i know nobody can read his handwriting; but i can't think why father doesn't dictate to a typist, instead of to that little girl. she could go twice the pace!" blanca's answer, deferred for a few seconds, was: "hilary perhaps knows." "do you dislike her coming here?" asked hilary. "not particularly. why?" "i thought from your tone you did." "i don't dislike her coming here for that purpose." "does she come for any other?" cecilia, dropping her quick glance to her fork, said just a little hastily: "father is extraordinary, of course." but the next three days hilary was out in the afternoon when the little model came. this, then, was the other reason, on the morning of the first of may, which made him not averse to go and visit mrs. hughs in hound street, kensington. chapter vi first pilgrimage to hound street hilary and his little bulldog entered hound street from its eastern end. it was a grey street of three-storied houses, all in one style of architecture. nearly all their doors were open, and on the doorsteps babes and children were enjoying easter holidays. they sat in apathy, varied by sudden little slaps and bursts of noise. nearly all were dirty; some had whole boots, some half boots, and two or three had none. in the gutters more children were at play; their shrill tongues and febrile movements gave hilary the feeling that their "caste" exacted of them a profession of this faith: "to-day we live; to-morrow--if there be one--will be like to-day." he had unconsciously chosen the very centre of the street to walk in, and miranda, who had never in her life demeaned herself to this extent, ran at his heels, turning up her eyes, as though to say: 'one thing i make a point of--no dog must speak to me!' fortunately, there were no dogs; but there were many cats, and these cats were thin. through the upper windows of the houses hilary had glimpses of women in poor habiliments doing various kinds of work, but stopping now and then to gaze into the street. he walked to the end, where a wall stopped him, and, still in the centre of the road, he walked the whole length back. the children stared at his tall figure with indifference; they evidently felt that he was not of those who, like themselves, had no to-morrow. no. , hound street, abutting on the garden of a house of better class, was distinctly the show building of the street. the door, however, was not closed, and pulling the remnant of a bell, hilary walked in. the first thing that he noticed was a smell; it was not precisely bad, but it might have been better. it was a smell of walls and washing, varied rather vaguely by red herrings. the second thing he noticed was his moonlight bulldog, who stood on the doorstep eyeing a tiny sandy cat. this very little cat, whose back was arched with fury, he was obliged to chase away before his bulldog would come in. the third thing he noticed was a lame woman of short stature, standing in the doorway of a room. her face, with big cheek-bones, and wide-open, light grey, dark-lashed eyes, was broad and patient; she rested her lame leg by holding to the handle of the door. "i dunno if you'll find anyone upstairs. i'd go and ask, but my leg's lame." "so i see," said hilary; "i'm sorry." the woman sighed: "been like that these five years"; and turned back into her room. "is there nothing to be done for it?" "well, i did think so once," replied the woman, "but they say the bone's diseased; i neglected it at the start." "oh dear!" "we hadn't the time to give to it," the woman said defensively, retiring into a room so full of china cups, photographs, coloured prints, waxwork fruits, and other ornaments, that there seemed no room for the enormous bed. wishing her good-morning, hilary began to mount the stairs. on the first floor he paused. here, in the back room, the little model lived. he looked around him. the paper on the passage walls was of a dingy orange colour, the blind of the window torn, and still pursuing him, pervading everything, was the scent of walls and washing and red herrings. there came on him a sickness, a sort of spiritual revolt. to live here, to pass up these stairs, between these dingy, bilious walls, on this dirty carpet, with this--ugh! every day; twice, four times, six times, who knew how many times a day! and that sense, the first to be attracted or revolted, the first to become fastidious with the culture of the body, the last to be expelled from the temple of the pure-spirit; that sense to whose refinement all breeding and all education is devoted; that sense which, ever an inch at least in front of man, is able to retard the development of nations, and paralyse all social schemes--this sense of smell awakened within him the centuries of his gentility, the ghosts of all those dallisons who, for three hundred years and more, had served church or state. it revived the souls of scents he was accustomed to, and with them, subtly mingled, the whole live fabric of aestheticism, woven in fresh air and laid in lavender. it roused the simple, non-extravagant demand of perfect cleanliness. and though he knew that chemists would have certified the composition of his blood to be the same as that of the dwellers in this house, and that this smell, composed of walls and washing and red herrings, was really rather healthy, he stood frowning fixedly at the girl's door, and the memory of his young niece's delicately wrinkled nose as she described the house rose before him. he went on upstairs, followed by his moonlight bulldog. hilary's tall thin figure appearing in the open doorway of the top-floor front, his kind and worried face, and the pale agate eyes of the little bulldog peeping through his legs, were witnessed by nothing but a baby, who was sitting in a wooden box in the centre of the room. this baby, who was very like a piece of putty to which nature had by some accident fitted two movable black eyes, was clothed in a woman's knitted undervest, spreading beyond his feet and hands, so that nothing but his head was visible. this vest divided him from the wooden shavings on which he sat, and, since he had not yet attained the art of rising to his feet, the box divided him from contacts of all other kinds. as completely isolated from his kingdom as a czar of all the russias, he was doing nothing. in this realm there was a dingy bed, two chairs, and a washstand, with one lame leg, supported by an aged footstool. clothes and garments were hanging on nails, pans lay about the hearth, a sewing-machine stood on a bare deal table. over the bed was hung an oleograph, from a christmas supplement, of the birth of jesus, and above it a bayonet, under which was printed in an illiterate hand on a rough scroll of paper: "gave three of em what for at elandslaagte. s. hughs." some photographs adorned the walls, and two drooping ferns stood on the window-ledge. the room withal had a sort of desperate tidiness; in a large cupboard, slightly open, could be seen stowed all that must not see the light of day. the window of the baby's kingdom was tightly closed; the scent was the scent of walls and washing and red herrings, and--of other things. hilary looked at the baby, and the baby looked at him. the eyes of that tiny scrap of grey humanity seemed saying: 'you are not my mother, i believe?' he stooped down and touched its cheek. the baby blinked its black eyes once. 'no,' it seemed, to say again, 'you are not my mother.' a lump rose in hilary's throat; he turned and went downstairs. pausing outside the little model's door, he knocked, and, receiving no answer, turned the handle. the little square room was empty; it was neat and clean enough, with a pink-flowered paper of comparatively modern date. through its open window could be seen a pear-tree in full bloom. hilary shut the door again with care, ashamed of having opened it. on the half-landing, staring up at him with black eyes like the baby's, was a man of medium height and active build, whose short face, with broad cheekbones, cropped dark hair, straight nose, and little black moustache, was burnt a dark dun colour. he was dressed in the uniform of those who sweep the streets--a loose blue blouse, and trousers tucked into boots reaching half-way up his calves; he held a peaked cap in his hand. after some seconds of mutual admiration, hilary said: "mr. hughs, i believe?" yes. "i've been up to see your wife." "have you?" "you know me, i suppose?" "yes, i know you." "unfortunately, there's only your baby at home." hughs motioned with his cap towards the little model's room. "i thought perhaps you'd been to see her," he said. his black eyes smouldered; there was more than class resentment in the expression of his face. flushing slightly and giving him a keen look, hilary passed down the stairs without replying. but miranda had not followed. she stood, with one paw delicately held up above the topmost step. 'i don't know this man,' she seemed to say, 'and i don't like his looks.' hughs grinned. "i never hurt a dumb animal," he said; "come on, tykie!" stimulated by a word she had never thought to hear, miranda descended rapidly. 'he meant that for impudence,' thought hilary as he walked away. "westminister, sir? oh dear!" a skinny trembling hand was offering him a greenish newspaper. "terrible cold wind for the time o' year!" a very aged man in black-rimmed spectacles, with a distended nose and long upper lip and chin, was tentatively fumbling out change for sixpence. "i seem to know your face," said hilary. "oh dear, yes. you deals with this 'ere shop--the tobacco department. i've often seen you when you've a-been agoin' in. sometimes you has the pell mell off o' this man here." he jerked his head a trifle to the left, where a younger man was standing armed with a sheaf of whiter papers. in that gesture were years of envy, heart-burning, and sense of wrong. 'that's my paper,' it seemed to say, 'by all the rights of man; and that low-class fellow sellin' it, takin' away my profits!' "i sells this 'ere westminister. i reads it on sundays--it's a gentleman's paper, 'igh-class paper--notwithstandin' of its politics. but, lor', sir, with this 'ere man a-sellin' the pell mell"--lowering his voice, he invited hilary to confidence--"so many o' the gentry takes that; an' there ain't too many o' the gentry about 'ere--i mean, not o' the real gentry--that i can afford to 'ave 'em took away from me." hilary, who had stopped to listen out of delicacy, had a flash of recollection. "you live in hound street?" the old man answered eagerly: "oh dear! yes, sir--no. , name of creed. you're the gentleman where the young person goes for to copy of a book!" "it's not my book she copies." "oh no; it's an old gentleman; i know 'im. he come an' see me once. he come in one sunday morning. 'here's a pound o' tobacca for you!' 'e says. 'you was a butler,' 'e says. 'butlers!' 'e says, 'there'll be no butlers in fifty years.' an' out 'e goes. not quite"--he put a shaky hand up to his head--"not quite--oh dear!" "some people called hughs live in your house, i think?" "i rents my room off o' them. a lady was a-speakin' to me yesterday about 'em; that's not your lady, i suppose, sir?" his eyes seemed to apostrophise hilary's hat, which was of soft felt: 'yes, yes--i've seen your sort a-stayin' about in the best houses. they has you down because of your learnin'; and quite the manners of a gentleman you've got.' "my wife's sister, i expect." "oh dear! she often has a paper off o' me. a real lady--not one o' these"--again he invited hilary to confidence--"you know what i mean, sir--that buys their things a' ready-made at these 'ere large establishments. oh, i know her well." "the old gentleman who visited you is her father." "is he? oh dear!" the old butler was silent, evidently puzzled. hilary's eyebrows began to execute those intricate manoeuvres which always indicated that he was about to tax his delicacy. "how-how does hughs treat the little girl who lives in the next room to you?" the old butler replied in a rather gloomy tone: "she takes my advice, and don't 'ave nothin' to say to 'im. dreadful foreign-lookin' man 'e is. wherever 'e was brought up i can't think!" "a soldier, wasn't he?" "so he says. he's one o' these that works for the vestry; an' then 'e'll go an' get upon the drink, an' when that sets 'im off, it seems as if there wasn't no respect for nothing in 'im; he goes on against the gentry, and the church, and every sort of institution. i never met no soldiers like him. dreadful foreign--welsh, they tell me." "what do you think of the street you're living in?" "i keeps myself to myself; low class o' street it is; dreadful low class o' person there--no self-respect about 'em." "ah!" said hilary. "these little 'ouses, they get into the hands o' little men, and they don't care so long as they makes their rent out o' them. they can't help themselves--low class o' man like that; 'e's got to do the best 'e can for 'imself. they say there's thousands o' these 'ouses all over london. there's some that's for pullin' of 'em down, but that's talkin' rubbish; where are you goin' to get the money for to do it? these 'ere little men, they can't afford not even to put a paper on the walls, and the big ground landlords-you can't expect them to know what's happenin' behind their backs. there's some ignorant fellers like this hughs talks a lot o' wild nonsense about the duty o' ground landlords; but you can't expect the real gentry to look into these sort o' things. they've got their estates down in the country. i've lived with them, and of course i know." the little bulldog, incommoded by the passers-by, now took the opportunity of beating with her tail against the old butler's legs. "oh dear! what's this? he don't bite, do 'e? good sambo!" miranda sought her master's eye at once. 'you see what happens to her if a lady loiters in the streets,' she seemed to say. "it must be hard standing about here all day, after the life you've led," said hilary. "i mustn't complain; it's been the salvation o' me." "do you get shelter?" again the old butler seemed to take him into confidence. "sometimes of a wet night they lets me stand up in the archway there; they know i'm respectable. 't wouldn't never do for that man"--he nodded at his rival--"or any of them boys to get standin' there, obstructin' of the traffic." "i wanted to ask you, mr. creed, is there anything to be done for mrs. hughs?" the frail old body quivered with the vindictive force of his answer. "accordin' to what she says, if i'm a-to believe 'er, i'd have him up before the magistrate, sure as my name's creed, an' get a separation, an' i wouldn't never live with 'im again: that's what she ought to do. an' if he come to go for her after that, i'd have 'im in prison, if 'e killed me first! i've no patience with a low class o' man like that! he insulted of me this morning." "prison's a dreadful remedy," murmured hilary. the old butler answered stoutly: "there ain't but one way o' treatin' them low fellers--ketch hold o' them until they holler!" hilary was about to reply when he found himself alone. at the edge of the pavement some yards away, creed, his face upraised to heaven, was embracing with all his force the second edition of the westminster gazette, which had been thrown him from a cart. 'well,' thought hilary, walking on, 'you know your own mind, anyway!' and trotting by his side, with her jaw set very firm, his little bulldog looked up above her eyes, and seemed to say: 'it was time we left that man of action!' chapter vii cecilia's scattered thoughts in her morning room mrs. stephen dallison sat at an old oak bureau collecting her scattered thoughts. they lay about on pieces of stamped notepaper, beginning "dear cecilia," or "mrs. tallents smallpeace requests," or on bits of pasteboard headed by the names of theatres, galleries, or concert-halls; or, again, on paper of not quite so good a quality, commencing, "dear friend," and ending with a single well-known name like "wessex," so that no suspicion should attach to the appeal contained between the two. she had before her also sheets of her own writing-paper, headed " , the old square, kensington," and two little books. one of these was bound in marbleised paper, and on it written: "please keep this book in safety"; across the other, cased in the skin of some small animal deceased, was inscribed the solitary word "engagements." cecilia had on a persian-green silk blouse with sleeves that would have hidden her slim hands, but for silver buttons made in the likeness of little roses at her wrists; on her brow was a faint frown, as though she were wondering what her thoughts were all about. she sat there every morning catching those thoughts, and placing them in one or other of her little books. only by thus working hard could she keep herself, her husband, and daughter, in due touch with all the different movements going on. and that the touch might be as due as possible, she had a little headache nearly every day. for the dread of letting slip one movement, or of being too much taken with another, was very real to her; there were so many people who were interesting, so many sympathies of hers and stephen's which she desired to cultivate, that it was a matter of the utmost import not to cultivate any single one too much. then, too, the duty of remaining feminine with all this going forward taxed her constitution. she sometimes thought enviously of the splendid isolation now enjoyed by blanca, of which some subtle instinct, rather than definite knowledge, had informed her; but not often, for she was a loyal little person, to whom stephen and his comforts were of the first moment. and though she worried somewhat because her thoughts would come by every post, she did not worry very much--hardly more than the persian kitten on her lap, who also sat for hours trying to catch her tail, with a line between her eyes, and two small hollows in her cheeks. when she had at last decided what concerts she would be obliged to miss, paid her subscription to the league for the suppression of tinned milk, and accepted an invitation to watch a man fall from a balloon, she paused. then, dipping her pen in ink, she wrote as follows: "mrs. stephen dallison would be glad to have the blue dress ordered by her yesterday sent home at once without alteration.--messrs. rose and thorn, high street, kensington." ringing the bell, she thought: 'it will be a job for mrs. hughs, poor thing. i believe she'll do it quite as well as rose and thorn.'--"would you please ask mrs. hughs to come to me?--oh, is that you, mrs. hughs? come in." the seamstress, who had advanced into the middle of the room, stood with her worn hands against her sides, and no sign of life but the liquid patience in her large brown eyes. she was an enigmatic figure. her presence always roused a sort of irritation in cecilia, as if she had been suddenly confronted with what might possibly have been herself if certain little accidents had omitted to occur. she was so conscious that she ought to sympathise, so anxious to show that there was no barrier between them, so eager to be all she ought to be, that her voice almost purred. "are you getting on with the curtains, mrs. hughs?" "yes, m'm, thank you, m'm." "i shall have another job for you to-morrow--altering a dress. can you come?" "yes, m'm, thank you, m'm." "is the baby well?" "yes, m'm, thank you, m'm." there was a silence. 'it's no good talking of her domestic matters,' thought cecilia; 'not that i don't care!' but the silence getting on her nerves, she said quickly: "is your husband behaving himself better?" there was no answer; cecilia saw a tear trickle slowly down the woman's cheek. 'oh dear, oh dear,' she thought; 'poor thing! i'm in for it!' mrs. hughs' whispering voice began: "he's behaving himself dreadful, m'm. i was going to speak to you. it's ever since that young girl"--her face hardened--"come to live down in my room there; he seem to--he seem to--just do nothing but neglect me." cecilia's heart gave the little pleasurable flutter which the heart must feel at the love dramas of other people, however painful. "you mean the little model?" she said. the seamstress answered in an agitated voice: "i don't want to speak against her, but she's put a spell on him, that's what she has; he don't seem able to do nothing but talk of her, and hang about her room. it was that troubling me when i saw you the other day. and ever since yesterday midday, when mr. hilary came--he's been talking that wild--and he pushed me--and--and---" her lips ceased to form articulate words, but, since it was not etiquette to cry before her superiors, she used them to swallow down her tears, and something in her lean throat moved up and down. at the mention of hilary's name the pleasurable sensation in cecilia had undergone a change. she felt curiosity, fear, offence. "i don't quite understand you," she said. the seamstress plaited at her frock. "of course, i can't help the way he talks, m'm. i'm sure i don't like to repeat the wicked things he says about mr. hilary. it seems as if he were out of his mind when he gets talkin' about that young girl." the tone of those last three words was almost fierce. cecilia was on the point of saying: 'that will do, please; i want to hear no more.' but her curiosity and queer subtle fear forced her instead to repeat: "i don't understand. do you mean he insinuates that mr. hilary has anything to do with--with this girl, or what?" and she thought: 'i'll stop that, at any rate.' the seamstress's face was distorted by her efforts to control her voice. "i tell him he's wicked to say such things, m'm, and mr. hilary such a kind gentleman. and what business is it of his, i say, that's got a wife and children of his own? i've seen him in the street, i've watched him hanging about mrs. hilary's house when i've been working there waiting for that girl, and following her--home---" again her lips refused to do service, except in the swallowing of her tears. cecilia thought: 'i must tell stephen at once. that man is dangerous.' a spasm gripped her heart, usually so warm and snug; vague feelings she had already entertained presented themselves now with startling force; she seemed to see the face of sordid life staring at the family of dallison. mrs. hughs' voice, which did not dare to break, resumed: "i've said to him: 'whatever are you thinking of? and after mrs. hilary's been so kind to me! but he's like a madman when he's in liquor, and he says he'll go to mrs. hilary---" "go to my sister? what about? the ruffian!" at hearing her husband called a ruffian by another woman the shadow of resentment passed across mrs. hughs' face, leaving it quivering and red. the conversation had already made a strange difference in the manner of these two women to each other. it was as though each now knew exactly how much sympathy and confidence could be expected of the other, as though life had suddenly sucked up the mist, and shown them standing one on either side of a deep trench. in mrs. hughs' eyes there was the look of those who have long discovered that they must not answer back for fear of losing what little ground they have to stand on; and cecilia's eyes were cold and watchful. 'i sympathise,' they seemed to say, 'i sympathise; but you must please understand that you cannot expect sympathy if your affairs compromise the members of my family.' her, chief thought now was to be relieved of the company of this woman, who had been betrayed into showing what lay beneath her dumb, stubborn patience. it was not callousness, but the natural result of being fluttered. her heart was like a bird agitated in its gilt-wire cage by the contemplation of a distant cat. she did not, however, lose her sense of what was practical, but said calmly: "your husband was wounded in south africa, you told me? it looks as if he wasn't quite.... i think you should have a doctor!" the seamstress's answer, slow and matter-of-fact, was worse than her emotion. "no, m'm, he isn't mad." crossing to the hearth-whose persian-blue tiling had taken her so long to find--cecilia stood beneath a reproduction of botticelli's "primavera," and looked doubtfully at mrs. hughs. the persian kitten, sleepy and disturbed on the bosom of her blouse, gazed up into her face. 'consider me,' it seemed to say; 'i am worth consideration; i am of a piece with you, and everything round you. we are both elegant and rather slender; we both love warmth and kittens; we both dislike interference with our fur. you took a long time to buy me, so as to get me perfect. you see that woman over there! i sat on her lap this morning while she was sewing your curtains. she has no right in here; she's not what she seems; she can bite and scratch, i know; her lap is skinny; she drops water from her eyes. she made me wet all down my back. be careful what you're doing, or she'll make you wet down yours!' all that was like the little persian kitten within cecilia--cosiness and love of pretty things, attachment to her own abode with its high-art lining, love for her mate and her own kitten, thyme, dread of disturbance--all made her long to push this woman from the room; this woman with the skimpy figure, and eyes that, for all their patience, had in them something virago-like; this woman who carried about with her an atmosphere of sordid grief, of squalid menaces, and scandal. she longed all the more because it could well be seen from the seamstress's helpless attitude that she too would have liked an easy life. to dwell on things like this was to feel more than thirty-eight! cecilia had no pocket, providence having removed it now for some time past, but from her little bag she drew forth the two essentials of gentility. taking her nose, which she feared was shining, gently within one, she fumbled in the other. and again she looked doubtfully at mrs. hughs. her heart said: 'give the poor woman half a sovereign; it might comfort her!' but her brain said: 'i owe her four-and-six; after what she's just been saying about her husband and that girl and hilary, it mayn't be safe to give her more.' she held out two half-crowns, and had an inspiration: "i shall mention to my sister what you've said; you can tell your husband that!" no sooner had she said this, however, than she saw, from a little smile devoid of merriment and quickly extinguished, that mrs. hughs did not believe she would do anything of the kind; from which she concluded that the seamstress was convinced of hilary's interest in the little model. she said hastily: "you can go now, mrs. hughs." mrs. hughs went, making no noise or sign of any sort. cecilia returned to her scattered thoughts. they lay there still, with a gleam of sun from the low window smearing their importance; she felt somehow that it did not now matter very much whether she and stephen, in the interests of science, saw that man fall from his balloon, or, in the interests of art, heard herr von kraaffe sing his polish songs; she experienced, too, almost a revulsion in favour of tinned milk. after meditatively tearing up her note to messrs. rose and thorn, she lowered the bureau lid and left the room. mounting the stairs, whose old oak banisters on either side were a real joy, she felt she was stupid to let vague, sordid rumours, which, after all, affected her but indirectly, disturb her morning's work. and entering stephen's dressing-room she stood looking at his boots. inside each one of them was a wooden soul; none had any creases, none had any holes. the moment they wore out, their wooden souls were taken from them and their bodies given to the poor, whilst--in accordance with that theory, to hear a course of lectures on which a scattered thought was even now inviting her--the wooden souls migrated instantly to other leathern bodies. looking at that polished row of boots, cecilia felt lonely and unsatisfied. stephen worked in the law courts, thyme worked at art; both were doing something definite. she alone, it seemed, had to wait at home, and order dinner, answer letters, shop, pay calls, and do a dozen things that failed to stop her thoughts from dwelling on that woman's tale. she was not often conscious of the nature of her life, so like the lives of many hundred women in this london, which she said she could not stand, but which she stood very well. as a rule, with practical good sense, she kept her doubting eyes fixed friendlily on every little phase in turn, enjoying well enough fitting the chinese puzzle of her scattered thoughts, setting out on each small adventure with a certain cautious zest, and taking stephen with her as far as he allowed. this last year or so, now that thyme was a grown girl, she had felt at once a loss of purpose and a gain of liberty. she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. it freed her for the tasting of more things, more people, and more stephen; but it left a little void in her heart, a little soreness round it. what would thyme think if she heard this story about her uncle? the thought started a whole train of doubts that had of late beset her. was her little daughter going to turn out like herself? if not, why not? stephen joked about his daughter's skirts, her hockey, her friendship with young men. he joked about the way thyme refused to let him joke about her art or about her interest in "the people." his joking was a source of irritation to cecilia. for, by woman's instinct rather than by any reasoning process, she was conscious of a disconcerting change. amongst the people she knew, young men were not now attracted by girls as they had been in her young days. there was a kind of cool and friendly matter-of-factness in the way they treated them, a sort of almost scientific playfulness. and cecilia felt uneasy as to how far this was to go. she seemed left behind. if young people were really becoming serious, if youths no longer cared about the colour of thyme's eyes, or dress, or hair, what would there be left to care for--that is, up to the point of definite relationship? not that she wanted her daughter to be married. it would be time enough to think of that when she was twenty-five. but her own experiences had been so different. she had spent so many youthful hours in wondering about men, had seen so many men cast furtive looks at her; and now there did not seem in men or girls anything left worth the other's while to wonder or look furtive about. she was not of a philosophic turn of mind, and had attached no deep meaning to stephen's jest--"if young people will reveal their ankles, they'll soon have no ankles to reveal." to cecilia the extinction of the race seemed threatened; in reality her species of the race alone was vanishing, which to her, of course, was very much the same disaster. with her eyes on stephen's boots she thought: 'how shall i prevent what i've heard from coming to bianca's ears? i know how she would take it! how shall i prevent thyme's hearing? i'm sure i don't know what the effect would be on her! i must speak to stephen. he's so fond of hilary.' and, turning away from stephen's boots, she mused: 'of course it's nonsense. hilary's much too--too nice, too fastidious, to be more than just interested; but he's so kind he might easily put himself in a false position. and--it's ugly nonsense! b. can be so disagreeable; even now she's not--on terms with him!' and suddenly the thought of mr. purcey leaped into her mind--mr. purcey, who, as mrs. tallents smallpeace had declared, was not even conscious that there was a problem of the poor. to think of him seemed somehow at that moment comforting, like rolling oneself in a blanket against a draught. passing into her room, she opened her wardrobe door. 'bother the woman!' she thought. 'i do want that gentian dress got ready, but now i simply can't give it to her to do.' chapter viii the single mind of mr. stone since in the flutter of her spirit caused by the words of mrs. hughs, cecilia felt she must do something, she decided to change her dress. the furniture of the pretty room she shared with stephen had not been hastily assembled. conscious, even fifteen years ago, when they moved into this house, of the grave philistinism of the upper classes, she and stephen had ever kept their duty to aestheticism green; and, in the matter of their bed, had lain for two years on two little white affairs, comfortable, but purely temporary, that they might give themselves a chance. the chance had come at last--a bed in real keeping with the period they had settled on, and going for twelve pounds. they had not let it go, and now slept in it--not quite so comfortable, perhaps, but comfortable enough, and conscious of duty done. for fifteen years cecilia had been furnishing her house; the process approached completion. the only things remaining on her mind--apart, that is, from thyme's development and the condition of the people--were: item, a copper lantern that would allow some light to pass its framework; item, an old oak washstand not going back to cromwell's time. and now this third anxiety had come! she was rather touching, as she stood before the wardrobe glass divested of her bodice, with dimples of exertion in her thin white arms while she hooked her skirt behind, and her greenish eyes troubled, so anxious to do their best for everyone, and save risk of any sort. having put on a bramble-coloured frock, which laced across her breast with silver lattice-work, and a hat (without feathers, so as to encourage birds) fastened to her head with pins (bought to aid a novel school of metal-work), she went to see what sort of day it was. the window looked out at the back over some dreary streets, where the wind was flinging light drifts of smoke athwart the sunlight. they had chosen this room, not indeed for its view over the condition of the people, but because of the sky effects at sunset, which were extremely fine. for the first time, perhaps, cecilia was conscious that a sample of the class she was so interested in was exposed to view beneath her nose. 'the hughs live somewhere there,' she thought. 'after all i think b. ought to know about that man. she might speak to father, and get him to give up having the girl to copy for him--the whole thing's so worrying.' in pursuance of this thought, she lunched hastily, and went out, making her way to hilary's. with every step she became more uncertain. the fear of meddling too much, of not meddling enough, of seeming meddlesome; timidity at touching anything so awkward; distrust, even ignorance, of her sister's character, which was like, yet so very unlike, her own; a real itch to get the matter settled, so that nothing whatever should come of it--all this she felt. she hurried, dawdled, finished the adventure almost at a run, then told the servant not to announce her. the vision of bianca's eyes, while she listened to this tale, was suddenly too much for cecilia. she decided to pay a visit to her father first. mr. stone was writing, attired in his working dress--a thick brown woollen gown, revealing his thin neck above the line of a blue shirt, and tightly gathered round the waist with tasselled cord; the lower portions of grey trousers were visible above woollen-slippered feet. his hair straggled over his thin long ears. the window, wide open, admitted an east wind; there was no fire. cecilia shivered. "come in quickly," said mr. stone. turning to a big high desk of stained deal which occupied the middle of one wall, he began methodically to place the inkstand, a heavy paper-knife, a book, and stones of several sizes, on his guttering sheets of manuscript. cecilia looked about her; she had not been inside her father's room for several months. there was nothing in it but that desk, a camp bed in the far corner (with blankets, but no sheets), a folding washstand, and a narrow bookcase, the books in which cecilia unconsciously told off on the fingers of her memory. they never varied. on the top shelf the bible and the works of plautus and diderot; on the second from the top the plays of shakespeare in a blue edition; on the third from the bottom don quixote, in four volumes, covered with brown paper; a green milton; the "comedies of aristophanes"; a leather book, partially burned, comparing the philosophy of epicurus with the philosophy of spinoza; and in a yellow binding mark twain's "huckleberry finn." on the second from the bottom was lighter literature: "the iliad"; a "life of francis of assisi"; speke's "discovery of the sources of the nile"; the "pickwick papers"; "mr. midshipman easy"; the verses of theocritus, in a very old translation; renan's "life of christ"; and the "autobiography of benvenuto cellini." the bottom shelf of all was full of books on natural science. the walls were whitewashed, and, as cecilia knew, came off on anybody who leaned against them. the floor was stained, and had no carpet. there was a little gas cooking-stove, with cooking things ranged on it; a small bare table; and one large cupboard. no draperies, no pictures, no ornaments of any kind; but by the window an ancient golden leather chair. cecilia could never bear to sit in that oasis; its colour in this wilderness was too precious to her spirit. "it's an east wind, father; aren't you terribly cold without a fire?" mr. stone came from his writing-desk, and stood so that light might fall on a sheet of paper in his hand. cecilia noted the scent that went about with him of peat and baked potatoes. he spoke: "listen to this: 'in the condition of society, dignified in those days with the name of civilisation, the only source of hope was the persistence of the quality called courage. amongst a thousand nerve-destroying habits, amongst the dramshops, patent medicines, the undigested chaos of inventions and discoveries, while hundreds were prating in their pulpits of things believed in by a negligible fraction of the population, and thousands writing down today what nobody would want to read in two days' time; while men shut animals in cages, and made bears jig to please their children, and all were striving one against the other; while, in a word, like gnats above a stagnant pool on a summer's evening, man danced up and down without the faintest notion why--in this condition of affairs the quality of courage was alive. it was the only fire within that gloomy valley.'" he stopped, though evidently anxious to go on, because he had read the last word on that sheet of paper. he moved towards the writing-desk. cecilia said hastily: "do you mind if i shut the window, father?" mr. stone made a movement of his head, and cecilia saw that he held a second sheet of paper in his hand. she rose, and, going towards him, said: "i want to talk to you, dad!" taking up the cord of his dressing-gown, she pulled it by its tassel. "don't!" said mr. stone; "it secures my trousers." cecilia dropped the cord. 'father is really terrible!' she thought. mr. stone, lifting the second sheet of paper, began again: "'the reason, however, was not far to seek---" cecilia said desperately: "it's about that girl who comes to copy for you." mr. stone lowered the sheet of paper, and stood, slightly curved from head to foot; his ears moved as though he were about to lay them back; his blue eyes, with little white spots of light alongside the tiny black pupils, stared at his daughter. cecilia thought: 'he's listening now.' she made haste. "must you have her here? can't you do without her?" "without whom?" said mr. stone. "without the girl who comes to copy for you." "why?" "for this very good reason---" mr. stone dropped his eyes, and cecilia saw that he had moved the sheet of paper up as far as his waist. "does she copy better than any other girl could?" she asked hastily. "no," said mr. stone. "then, father, i do wish, to please me, you'd get someone else. i know what i'm talking about, and i---" cecilia stopped; her father's lips and eyes were moving; he was obviously reading to himself. 'i've no patience with him,' she thought; 'he thinks of nothing but his wretched book.' aware of his daughter's silence, mr. stone let the sheet of paper sink, and waited patiently again. "what do you want, my dear?" he said. "oh, father, do listen just a minute!" "yes, yes." "it's about that girl who comes to copy for you. is there any reason why she should come instead of any other girl?" "yes," said mr. stone. "what reason?" "because she has no friends." so awkward a reply was not expected by cecilia; she looked at the floor, forced to search within her soul. silence lasted several seconds; then mr. stone's voice rose above a whisper: "'the reason was not far to seek. man, differentiated from the other apes by his desire to know, was from the first obliged to steel himself against the penalties of knowledge. like animals subjected to the rigours of an arctic climate, and putting forth more fur with each reduction in the temperature, man's hide of courage thickened automatically to resist the spear-thrusts dealt him by his own insatiate curiosity. in those days of which we speak, when undigested knowledge, in a great invading horde, had swarmed all his defences, man, suffering from a foul dyspepsia, with a nervous system in the latest stages of exhaustion, and a reeling brain, survived by reason of his power to go on making courage. little heroic as (in the then general state of petty competition) his deeds appeared to be, there never had yet been a time when man in bulk was more courageous, for there never had yet been a time when he had more need to be. signs were not wanting that this desperate state of things had caught the eyes of the community. a little sect---'" mr. stone stopped; his eyes had again tumbled over the bottom edge; he moved hurriedly towards the desk. just as his hand removed a stone and took up a third sheet, cecilia cried out: "father!" mr. stone stopped, and turned towards her. his daughter saw that he had gone quite pink; her annoyance vanished. "father! about that girl---" mr. stone seemed to reflect. "yes, yes," he said. "i don't think bianca likes her coming here." mr. stone passed his hand across his brow. "forgive me for reading to you, my dear," he said; "it's a great relief to me at times." cecilia went close to him, and refrained with difficulty from taking up the tasselled cord. "of course, dear," she said: "i quite understand that." mr. stone looked full in her face, and before a gaze which seemed to go through her and see things the other side, cecilia dropped her eyes. "it is strange," he said, "how you came to be my daughter!" to cecilia, too, this had often seemed a problem. "there is a great deal in atavism," said mr. stone, "that we know nothing of at present." cecilia cried with heat, "i do wish you would attend a minute, father; it's really an important matter," and she turned towards the window, tears being very near her eyes. the voice of mr. stone said humbly: "i will try, my dear." but cecilia thought: 'i must give him a good lesson. he really is too self-absorbed'; and she did not move, conveying by the posture of her shoulders how gravely she was vexed. she could see nursemaids wheeling babies towards the gardens, and noted their faces gazing, not at the babies, but, uppishly, at other nursemaids, or, with a sort of cautious longing, at men who passed. how selfish they looked! she felt a little glow of satisfaction that she was making this thin and bent old man behind her conscious of his egoism. 'he will know better another time,' she thought. suddenly she heard a whistling, squeaking sound--it was mr. stone whispering the third page of his manuscript: "'---animated by some admirable sentiments, but whose doctrines--riddled by the fact that life is but the change of form to form--were too constricted for the evils they designed to remedy; this little sect, who had as yet to learn the meaning of universal love, were making the most strenuous efforts, in advance of the community at large, to understand themselves. the necessary, movement which they voiced--reaction against the high-tide of the fratricidal system then prevailing--was young, and had the freshness and honesty of youth....'" without a word cecilia turned round and hurried to the door. she saw her father drop the sheet of paper; she saw his face, all pink and silver, stooping after it; and remorse visited her anger. in the corridor outside she was arrested by a noise. the uncertain light of london halls fell there; on close inspection the sufferer was seen to be miranda, who, unable to decide whether she wanted to be in the garden or the house, was seated beneath the hatrack snuffling to herself. on seeing cecilia she came out. "what do you want, you little beast?" peering at her over the tops of her eyes, miranda vaguely lifted a white foot. 'why ask me that?' she seemed to say. 'how am i to know? are we not all like this?' her conduct, coming at that moment, over-tried cecilia's nerves. she threw open hilary's study-door, saying sharply: "go in and find your master!" miranda did not move, but hilary came out instead. he had been correcting proofs to catch the post, and wore the look of a man abstracted, faintly contemptuous of other forms of life. cecilia, once more saved from the necessity of approaching her sister, the mistress of the house, so fugitive, haunting, and unseen, yet so much the centre of this situation, said: "can i speak to you a minute, hilary?" they went into his study, and miranda came creeping in behind. to cecilia her brother-in-law always seemed an amiable and more or less pathetic figure. in his literary preoccupations he allowed people to impose on him. he looked unsubstantial beside the bust of socrates, which moved cecilia strangely--it was so very massive and so very ugly! she decided not to beat about the bush. "i've been hearing some odd things from mrs. hughs about that little model, hilary." hilary's smile faded from his eyes, but remained clinging to his lips. "indeed!" cecilia went on nervously: "mrs. hughs says it's because of her that hughs behaves so badly. i don't want to say anything against the girl, but she seems--she seems to have---" "yes?" said hilary. "to have cast a spell on hughs, as the woman puts it." "on hughs!" repeated hilary. cecilia found her eyes resting on the bust of socrates, and hastily proceeded: "she says he follows her about, and comes down here to lie in wait for her. it's a most strange business altogether. you went to see them, didn't you?" hilary nodded. "i've been speaking to father," cecilia murmured; "but he's hopeless--i, couldn't get him to pay the least attention." hilary seemed thinking deeply. "i wanted him," she went on, "to get some other girl instead to come and copy for him." "why?" under the seeming impossibility of ever getting any farther, without saying what she had come to say, cecilia blurted out: "mrs. hughs says that hughs has threatened you." hilary's face became ironical. "really!" he said. "that's good of him! what for?" the frightful indelicacy of her situation at this moment, the feeling of unfairness that she should be placed in it, almost overwhelmed cecilia. "goodness knows i don't want to meddle. i never meddle in anything-it's horrible!" hilary took her hand. "my dear cis," he said, "of course! but we'd better have this out!" grateful for the pressure of his hand, she gave it a convulsive squeeze. "it's so sordid, hilary!" "sordid! h'm! let's get it over, then." cecilia had grown crimson. "do you want me to tell you everything?" "certainly." "well, hughs evidently thinks you're interested in the girl. you can't keep anything from servants and people who work about your house; they always think the worst of everything--and, of course, they know that you and b. don't--aren't---" hilary nodded. "mrs. hughs actually said the man meant to go to b.!" again the vision of her sister seemed to float into the room, and she went on desperately: "and, hilary, i can see mrs. hughs really thinks you are interested. of course, she wants to, for if you were, it would mean that a man like her husband could have no chance." astonished at this flash of cynical inspiration, and ashamed of such plain speaking, she checked herself. hilary had turned away. cecilia touched his arm. "hilary, dear," she said, "isn't there any chance of you and b---" hilary's lips twitched. "i should say not." cecilia looked sadly at the floor. not since stephen was bad with pleurisy had she felt so worried. the sight of hilary's face brought back her doubts with all their force. it might, of course, be only anger at the man's impudence, but it might be--she hardly liked to frame her thought--a more personal feeling. "don't you think," she said, "that, anyway, she had better not come here again?" hilary paced the room. "it's her only safe and certain piece of work; it keeps her independent. it's much more satisfactory than this sitting. i can't have any hand in taking it away from her." cecilia had never seen him moved like this. was it possible that he was not incorrigibly gentle, but had in him some of that animality which she, in a sense, admired? this uncertainty terribly increased the difficulties of the situation. "but, hilary," she said at last, "are you satisfied about the girl--i mean, are you satisfied that she really is worth helping?" "i don't understand." "i mean," murmured cecilia, "that we don't know anything about her past." and, seeing from the movement of his eyebrows that she was touching on what had evidently been a doubt with him, she went on with great courage: "where are her friends and relations? i mean, she may have had a--adventures." hilary withdrew into himself. "you can hardly expect me," he said, "to go into that with her." his reply made cecilia feel ridiculous. "well," she said in a hard little voice, "if this is what comes of helping the poor, i don't see the use of it." the outburst evoked no reply from hilary; she felt more tremulous than ever. the whole thing was so confused, so unnatural. what with the dark, malignant hughs and that haunting vision of bianca, the matter seemed almost italian. that a man of hughs' class might be affected by the passion of love had somehow never come into her head. she thought of the back streets she had looked out on from her bedroom window. could anything like passion spring up in those dismal alleys? the people who lived there, poor downtrodden things, had enough to do to keep themselves alive. she knew all about them; they were in the air; their condition was deplorable! could a person whose condition was deplorable find time or strength for any sort of lurid exhibition such as this? it was incredible. she became aware that hilary was speaking. "i daresay the man is dangerous!" hearing her fears confirmed, and in accordance with the secret vein of hardness which kept her living, amid all her sympathies and hesitations, cecilia felt suddenly that she had gone as far as it was in her to go. "i shall have no more to do with them," she said; "i've tried my best for mrs. hughs. i know quite as good a needlewoman, who'll be only too glad to come instead. any other girl will do as well to copy father's book. if you take my advice, hilary, you'll give up trying to help them too." hilary's smile puzzled and annoyed her. if she had known, this was the smile that stood between him and her sister. "you may be right," he said, and shrugged his shoulders: "very well," said cecilia, "i've done all i can. i must go now. good-bye." during her progress to the door she gave one look behind. hilary was standing by the bust of socrates. her heart smote her to leave him thus embarrassed. but again the vision of bianca--fugitive in her own house, and with something tragic in her mocking immobility--came to her, and she hastened away. a voice said: "how are you, mrs. dallison? your sister at home?" cecilia saw before her mr. purcey, rising and falling a little with the oscillation of his a.i. damyer. a sense as of having just left a house visited by sickness or misfortune made cecilia murmur: "i'm afraid she's not." "bad luck!" said mr. purcey. his face fell as far as so red and square a face could fall. "i was hoping perhaps i might be allowed to take them for a run. she's wanting exercise." mr. purcey laid his hand on the flank of his palpitating car. "know these a.i. damyers, mrs. dallison? best value you can get, simply rippin' little cars. wish you'd try her." the a.i. damyer, diffusing an aroma of the finest petrol, leaped and trembled, as though conscious of her master's praise. cecilia looked at her. "yes," she said, "she's very sweet." "now do!" said mr. purcey. "let me give you a run--just to please me, i mean. i'm sure you'll like her." a little compunction, a little curiosity, a sudden revolt against all the discomfiture and sordid doubts she had been suffering from, made cecilia glance softly at mr. purcey's figure; almost before she knew it, she was seated in the a.i. damyer. it trembled, emitted two small sounds, one large scent, and glided forward. mr. purcey said: "that's rippin' of you!" a postman, dog, and baker's cart, all hurrying at top speed, seemed to stand still; cecilia felt the wind beating her cheeks. she gave a little laugh. "you must just take me home, please." mr. purcey touched the chauffeur's elbow. "round the park," he said. "let her have it." the a.i. damyer uttered a tiny shriek. cecilia, leaning back in her padded corner, glanced askance at mr. purcey leaning back in his; an unholy, astonished little smile played on her lips. 'what am i doing?' it seemed to say. 'the way he got me here--really! and now i am here i'm just going to enjoy it!' there were no hughs, no little model--all that sordid life had vanished; there was nothing but the wind beating her cheeks and the a.i. damyer leaping under her. mr. purcey said: "it just makes all the difference to me; keeps my nerves in order." "oh," cecilia murmured, "have you got nerves." mr. purcey smiled. when he smiled his cheeks formed two hard red blocks, his trim moustache stood out, and many little wrinkles ran from his light eyes. "chock full of them," he said; "least thing upsets me. can't bear to see a hungry-lookin' child, or anything." a strange feeling of admiration for this man had come upon cecilia. why could not she, and thyme, and hilary, and stephen, and all the people they knew and mixed with, be like him, so sound and healthy, so unravaged by disturbing sympathies, so innocent of "social conscience," so content? as though jealous of these thoughts about her master, the a.i. damyer stopped of her own accord. "hallo," said mr. purcey, "hallo, i say! don't you get out; she'll be all right directly." "oh," said cecilia, "thanks; but i must go in here, anyhow; i think i'll say good-bye. thank you so much. i have enjoyed it." from the threshold of a shop she looked back. mr. purcey, on foot, was leaning forward from the waist, staring at his a.i. damyer with profound concentration. chapter ix hilary gives chase the ethics of a man like hilary were not those of the million pure bred purceys of this life, founded on a sense of property in this world and the next; nor were they precisely the morals and religion of the aristocracy, who, though aestheticised in parts, quietly used, in bulk, their fortified position to graft on mr. purcey's ethics the principle of 'you be damned!' in the eyes of the majority he was probably an immoral and irreligious man; but in fact his morals and religion were those of his special section of society--the cultivated classes, "the professors, the artistic pigs, advanced people, and all that sort of cuckoo," as mr. purcey called them--a section of society supplemented by persons, placed beyond the realms of want, who speculated in ideas. had he been required to make confession of his creed he would probably have framed it in some such way as this: "i disbelieve in all church dogmas, and do not go to church; i have no definite ideas about a future state, and do not want to have; but in a private way i try to identify myself as much as possible with what i see about me, feeling that if i could ever really be at one with the world i live in i should be happy. i think it foolish not to trust my senses and my reason; as for what my senses and my reason will not tell me, i assume that all is as it had to be, for if one could get to know the why of everything in one would be the universe. i do not believe that chastity is a virtue in itself, but only so far as it ministers to the health and happiness of the community. i do not believe that marriage confers the rights of ownership, and i loathe all public wrangling on such matters; but i am temperamentally averse to the harming of my neighbours, if in reason it can be avoided. as to manners, i think that to repeat a bit of scandal, and circulate backbiting stories, are worse offences than the actions that gave rise to them. if i mentally condemn a person, i feel guilty of moral lapse. i hate self-assertion; i am ashamed of self-advertisement. i dislike loudness of any kind. probably i have too much tendency to negation of all sorts. small-talk bores me to extinction, but i will discuss a point of ethics or psychology half the night. to make capital out of a person's weakness is repugnant to me. i want to be a decent man, but--i really can't take myself too seriously." though he had preserved his politeness towards cecilia, he was in truth angry, and grew angrier every minute. he was angry with her, himself, and the man hughs; and suffered from this anger as only they can who are not accustomed to the rough-and-tumble of things. such a retiring man as hilary was seldom given the opportunity for an obvious display of chivalry. the tenor of his life removed him from those situations. such chivalry as he displayed was of a negative order. and confronted suddenly with the conduct of hughs, who, it seemed, knocked his wife about, and dogged the footsteps of a helpless girl, he took it seriously to heart. when the little model came walking up the garden on her usual visit, he fancied her face looked scared. quieting the growling of miranda, who from the first had stubbornly refused to know this girl, he sat down with a book to wait for her to go away. after sitting an hour or more, turning over pages, and knowing little of their sense, he saw a man peer over his garden gate. he was there for half a minute, then lounged across the road, and stood hidden by some railings. 'so?' thought hilary. 'shall i go out and warn the fellow to clear off, or shall i wait to see what happens when she goes away?' he determined on the latter course. presently she came out, walking with her peculiar gait, youthful and pretty, but too matter-of-fact, and yet, as it were, too purposeless to be a lady's. she looked back at hilary's window, and turned uphill. hilary took his hat and stick and waited. in half a minute hughs came out from under cover of the railings and followed. then hilary, too, set forth. there is left in every man something of the primeval love of stalking. the delicate hilary, in cooler blood, would have revolted at the notion of dogging people's footsteps. he now experienced the holy pleasures of the chase. certain that hughs was really following the girl, he had but to keep him in sight and remain unseen. this was not hard for a man given to mountain-climbing, almost the only sport left to one who thought it immoral to hurt anybody but himself. taking advantage of shop-windows, omnibuses, passers-by, and other bits of cover, he prosecuted the chase up the steepy heights of campden hill. but soon a nearly fatal check occurred; for, chancing to take his eyes off hughs, he saw the little model returning on her tracks. ready enough in physical emergencies, hilary sprang into a passing omnibus. he saw her stopping before the window of a picture-shop. from the expression of her face and figure, she evidently had no idea that she was being followed, but stood with a sort of slack-lipped wonder, lost in admiration of a well-known print. hilary had often wondered who could possibly admire that picture--he now knew. it was obvious that the girl's aesthetic sense was deeply touched. while this was passing through his mind, he caught sight of hughs lurking outside a public-house. the dark man's face was sullen and dejected, and looked as if he suffered. hilary felt a sort of pity for him. the omnibus leaped forward, and he sat down smartly almost on a lady's lap. this was the lap of mrs. tallents smallpeace, who greeted him with a warm, quiet smile, and made a little room. "your sister-in-law has just been to see me, mr. dallison. she's such a dear-so interested in everything. i tried to get her to come on to my meeting with me." raising his hat, hilary frowned. for once his delicacy was at fault. he said: "ah, yes! excuse me!" and got out. mrs. tallents smallpeace looked after him, and then glanced round the omnibus. his conduct was very like the conduct of a man who had got in to keep an assignation with a lady, and found that lady sitting next his aunt. she was unable to see a soul who seemed to foster this view, and sat thinking that he was "rather attractive." suddenly her dark busy eyes lighted on the figure of the little model strolling along again. 'oh!' she thought. 'ah! yes, really! how very interesting!' hilary, to avoid meeting the girl point-blank, had turned up a by-street, and, finding a convenient corner, waited. he was puzzled. if this man were persecuting her with his attentions, why had he not gone across when she was standing at the picture-shop? she passed across the opening of the by-street, still walking in the slack way of one who takes the pleasures of the streets. she passed from view; hilary strained his eyes to see if hughs were following. he waited several minutes. the man did not appear. the chase was over! and suddenly it flashed across him that hughs had merely dogged her to see that she had no assignation with anybody. they had both been playing the same game! he flushed up in that shady little street, in which he was the only person to be seen. cecilia was right! it was a sordid business. a man more in touch with facts than hilary would have had some mental pigeonhole into which to put an incident like this; but, being by profession concerned mainly with ideas and thoughts, he did not quite know where he was. the habit of his mind precluded him from thinking very definitely on any subject except his literary work--precluded him especially in a matter of this sort, so inextricably entwined with that delicate, dim question, the impact of class on class. pondering deeply, he ascended the leafy lane that leads between high railings from notting hill to kensington. it was so far from traffic that every tree on either side was loud with the spring songs of birds; the scent of running sap came forth shyly as the sun sank low. strange peace, strange feeling of old mother earth up there above the town; wild tunes, and the quiet sight of clouds. man in this lane might rest his troubled thoughts, and for a while trust the goodness of the scheme that gave him birth, the beauty of each day, that laughs or broods itself into night. some budding lilacs exhaled a scent of lemons; a sandy cat on the coping of a garden wall was basking in the setting sun. in the centre of the lane a row of elm-trees displayed their gnarled, knotted roots. human beings were seated there, whose matted hair clung round their tired faces. their gaunt limbs were clothed in rags; each had a stick, and some sort of dirty bundle tied to it. they were asleep. on a bench beyond, two toothless old women sat, moving their eyes from side to side, and a crimson-faced woman was snoring. under the next tree a cockney youth and his girl were sitting side by side-pale young things, with loose mouths, and hollow cheeks, and restless eyes. their arms were enlaced; they were silent. a little farther on two young men in working clothes were looking straight before them, with desperately tired faces. they, too, were silent. on the last bench of all hilary came on the little model, seated slackly by herself. chapter x the trousseau this the first time these two had each other at large, was clearly not a comfortable event for either of them. the girl blushed, and hastily got off her seat. hilary, who raised his hat and frowned, sat down on it. "don't get up," he said; "i want to talk to you." the little model obediently resumed her seat. a silence followed. she had on the old brown skirt and knitted jersey, the old blue-green tam-o'-shanter cap, and there were marks of weariness beneath her eyes. at last hilary remarked: "how are you getting on?" the little model looked at her feet. "pretty well, thank you, mr. dallison." "i came to see you yesterday." she slid a look at him which might have meant nothing or meant much, so perfect its shy stolidity. "i was out," she said, "sitting to miss boyle." "so you have some work?" "it's finished now." "then you're only getting the two shillings a day from mr. stone?" she nodded. "h'm!" the unexpected fervour of this grunt seemed to animate the little model. "three and sixpence for my rent, and breakfast costs threepence nearly--only bread-and-butter--that's five and two; and washing's always at least tenpence--that's six; and little things last week was a shilling--even when i don't take buses--seven; that leaves five shillings for my dinners. mr. stone always gives me tea. it's my clothes worries me." she tucked her feet farther beneath the seat, and hilary refrained from looking down. "my hat is awful, and i do want some---" she looked hilary in the face for the first time. "i do wish i was rich." "i don't wonder." the little model gritted her teeth, and, twisting at her dirty gloves, said: "mr. dallison, d'you know the first thing i'd buy if i was rich?" "no." "i'd buy everything new on me from top to toe, and i wouldn't ever wear any of these old things again." hilary got up: "come with me now, and buy everything new from top to toe." "oh!" hilary had already perceived that he had made an awkward, even dangerous, proposal; short, however, of giving her money, the idea of which offended his sense of delicacy, there was no way out of it. he said brusquely: "come along!" the little model rose obediently. hilary noticed that her boots were split, and this--as though he had seen someone strike a child--so moved his indignation that he felt no more qualms, but rather a sort of pleasant glow, such as will come to the most studious man when he levels a blow at the conventions. he looked down at his companion--her eyes were lowered; he could not tell at all what she was thinking of. "this is what i was going to speak to you about," he said: "i don't like that house you're in; i think you ought to be somewhere else. what do you say?" "yes, mr. dallison." "you'd better make a change, i think; you could find another room, couldn't you?" the little model answered as before: "yes, mr. dallison." "i'm afraid that hughs is-a dangerous sort of fellow." "he's a funny man." "does he annoy you?" her expression baffled hilary; there seemed a sort of slow enjoyment in it. she looked up knowingly. "i don't mind him--he won't hurt me. mr. dallison, do you think blue or green?" hilary answered shortly: "bluey-green." she clasped her hands, changed her feet with a hop, and went on walking as before. "listen to me," said hilary; "has mrs. hughs been talking to you about her husband?" the little model smiled again. "she goes on," she said. hilary bit his lips. "mr. dallison, please--about my hat?" "what about your hat?" "would you like me to get a large one or a small one?" "for god's sake," answered hilary, "a small one--no feathers." "oh!" "can you attend to me a minute? have either hughs or mrs. hughs spoken to you about--coming to my house, about--me?" the little model's face remained impassive, but by the movement of her fingers hilary saw that she was attending now. "i don't care what they say." hilary looked away; an angry flush slowly mounted in his face. with surprising suddenness the little model said: "of course, if i was a lady, i might mind!" "don't talk like that!" said hilary; "every woman is a lady." the stolidity of the girl's face, more mocking far than any smile, warned him of the cheapness of this verbiage. "if i was a lady," she repeated simply, "i shouldn't be livin' there, should i?" "no," said hilary; "and you had better not go on living there, anyway." the little model making no answer, hilary did not quite know what to say. it was becoming apparent to him that she viewed the situation with a very different outlook from himself, and that he did not understand that outlook. he felt thoroughly at sea, conscious that this girl's life contained a thousand things he did not know, a thousand points of view he did not share. their two figures attracted some attention in the crowded street, for hilary-tall and slight, with his thin, bearded face and soft felt hat--was what is known as "a distinguished-looking man"; and the little model, though not "distinguished-looking" in her old brown skirt and tam-o'shanter cap, had the sort of face which made men and even women turn to look at her. to men she was a little bit of strangely interesting, not too usual, flesh and blood; to women, she was that which made men turn to look at her. yet now and again there would rise in some passer-by a feeling more impersonal, as though the god of pity had shaken wings overhead, and dropped a tiny feather. so walking, and exciting vague interest, they reached the first of the hundred doors of messrs. rose and thorn. hilary had determined on this end door, for, as the adventure grew warmer, he was more alive to its dangers. to take this child into the very shop frequented by his wife and friends seemed a little mad; but that same reason which caused them to frequent it--the fact that there was no other shop of the sort half so handy--was the reason which caused hilary to go there now. he had acted on impulse; he knew that if he let his impulse cool he would not act at all. the bold course was the wise one; this was why he chose the end door round the corner. standing aside for her to go in first, he noticed the girl's brightened eyes and cheeks; she had never looked so pretty. he glanced hastily round; the department was barren for their purposes, filled entirely with pyjamas. he felt a touch on his arm. the little model, rather pink, was looking up at him. "mr. dallison, am i to get more than one set of--underthings?" "three-three," muttered hilary; and suddenly he saw that they were on the threshold of that sanctuary. "buy them," he said, "and bring me the bill." he waited close beside a man with a pink face, a moustache, and an almost perfect figure, who was standing very still, dressed from head to foot in blue-and-white stripes. he seemed the apotheosis of what a man should be, his face composed in a deathless simper: "long, long have been the struggles of man, but civilization has produced me at last. further than this it cannot go. nothing shall make me continue my line. in me the end is reached. see my back: 'the amateur. this perfect style, s. d. great reduction.'" he would not talk to hilary, and the latter was compelled to watch the shopmen. it was but half an hour to closing time; the youths were moving languidly, bickering a little, in the absence of their customers--like flies on a pane unable to get out into the sun. two of them came and asked him what they might serve him with; they were so refined and pleasant that hilary was on the point of buying what he did not want. the reappearance of the little model saved him. "it's thirty shillings; five and eleven was the cheapest, and stockings, and i bought some sta---" hilary produced the money hastily. "this is a very dear shop," she said. when she had paid the bill, and hilary had taken from her a large brown-paper parcel, they journeyed on together. he had armoured his face now in a slightly startled quizzicality, as though, himself detached, he were watching the adventure from a distance. on the central velvet seat of the boot and shoe department, a lady, with an egret in her hat, was stretching out a slim silk-stockinged foot, waiting for a boot. she looked with negligent amusement at this common little girl and her singular companion. this look of hers seemed to affect the women serving, for none came near the little model. hilary saw them eyeing her boots, and, suddenly forgetting his role of looker-on, he became very angry. taking out his watch, he went up to the eldest woman. "if somebody," he said, "does not attend this young lady within a minute, i shall make a personal complaint to mr. thorn." the hand of the watch, however, had not completed its round before a woman was at the little model's side. hilary saw her taking off her boot, and by a sudden impulse he placed himself between her and the lady. in doing this, he so far forgot his delicacy as to fix his eyes on the little model's foot. the sense of physical discomfort which first attacked him became a sort of aching in his heart. that brown, dingy stocking was darned till no stocking, only darning, and one toe and two little white bits of foot were seen, where the threads refused to hold together any longer. the little model wagged the toe uneasily--she had hoped, no doubt, that it would not protrude, then concealed it with her skirt. hilary moved hastily away; when he looked again, it was not at her, but at the lady. her face had changed; it was no longer amused and negligent, but stamped with an expression of offence. 'intolerable,' it seemed to say, 'to bring a girl like that into a shop like this! i shall never come here again!' the expression was but the outward sign of that inner physical discomfort hilary himself had felt when he first saw the little model's stocking. this naturally did not serve to lessen his anger, especially as he saw her animus mechanically reproduced on the faces of the serving women. he went back to the little model, and sat down by her side. "does it fit? you'd better walk in it and see." the little model walked. "it squeezes me," she said. "try another, then," said hilary. the lady rose, stood for a second with her eyebrows raised and her nostrils slightly distended, then went away, and left a peculiarly pleasant scent of violets behind. the second pair of boots not "squeezing" her, the little model was soon ready to go down. she had all her trousseau now, except the dress--selected and, indeed, paid for, but which, as she told hilary, she was coming back to try on tomorrow, when--when---. she had obviously meant to say when she was all new underneath. she was laden with one large and two small parcels, and in her eyes there was a holy look. outside the shop she gazed up in his face. "well, you are happy now?" asked hilary. between the short black lashes were seen two very bright, wet shining eyes; her parted lips began to quiver. "good-night, then," he said abruptly, and walked away. but looking round, he saw her still standing there, half buried in parcels, gazing after him. raising his hat, he turned into the high street towards home.... the old man, known to that low class of fellow with whom he was now condemned to associate as "westminister," was taking a whiff or two out of his old clay pipe, and trying to forget his feet. he saw hilary coming, and carefully extended a copy of the last edition. "good-evenin', sir! quite seasonable to-day for the time of year! ho, yes! 'westminister!'" his eyes followed hilary's retreat. he thought: "oh dear! he's a-given me an 'arf-a-crown. he does look well--i like to see 'im look as well as that--quite young! oh dear!" the sun-that smoky, faring ball, which in its time had seen so many last editions of the westminster gazette--was dropping down to pass the night in shepherd's bush. it made the old butler's eyelids blink when he turned to see if the coin really was a half-crown, or too good to be true. and all the spires and house-roofs, and the spaces up above and underneath them, glittered and swam, and men and horses looked as if they had been powdered with golden dust. chapter xi pear blossom weighed down by her three parcels, the little model pursued her way to hound street. at the door of no. the son of the lame woman, a tall weedy youth with a white face, was resting his legs alternately, and smoking a cigarette. closing one eye, he addressed her thus: "'allo, miss! kerry your parcels for you?" the little model gave him a look. 'mind your own business!' it said; but there was that in the flicker of her eyelashes which more than nullified this snub. entering her room, she deposited the parcels on her bed, and untied the strings with quick, pink fingers. when she had freed the garments from wrappings and spread them out, she knelt down, and began to touch them, putting her nose down once or twice to sniff the linen and feel its texture. there were little frills attached here and there, and to these she paid particular attention, ruffling their edges with the palms of her hands, while the holy look came back to her face. rising at length, she locked the door, drew down the blind, undressed from head to foot, and put on the new garments. letting her hair down, she turned herself luxuriously round and round before the too-small looking-glass. there was utter satisfaction in each gesture of that whole operation, as if her spirit, long starved, were having a good meal. in this rapt contemplation of herself, all childish vanity and expectancy, and all that wonderful quality found in simple unspiritual natures of delighting in the present moment, were perfectly displayed. so, motionless, with her hair loose on her neck, she was like one of those half-hours of spring that have lost their restlessness and are content just to be. presently, however, as though suddenly remembering that her happiness was not utterly complete, she went to a drawer, took out a packet of pear-drops, and put one in her mouth. the sun, near to setting, had found its way through a hole in the blind, and touched her neck. she turned as though she had received a kiss, and, raising a corner of the blind, peered out. the pear-tree, which, to the annoyance of its proprietor, was placed so close to the back court of this low-class house as almost to seem to belong to it, was bathed in slanting sunlight. no tree in all the world could have looked more fair than it did just then in its garb of gilded bloom. with her hand up to her bare neck, and her cheeks indrawn from sucking the sweet, the little model fixed her eyes on the tree. her expression did not change; she showed no signs of admiration. her gaze passed on to the back windows of the house that really owned the pear-tree, spying out whether anyone could see her--hoping, perhaps, someone would see her while she was feeling so nice and new. then, dropping the blind, she went back to the glass and began to pin her hair up. when this was done she stood for a long minute looking at her old brown skirt and blouse, hesitating to defile her new-found purity. at last she put them on and drew up the blind. the sunlight had passed off the pear-tree; its bloom was now white, and almost as still as snow. the little model put another sweet into her mouth, and producing from her pocket an ancient leather purse, counted out her money. evidently discovering that it was no more than she expected, she sighed, and rummaged out of a top drawer an old illustrated magazine. she sat down on the bed, and, turning the leaves rapidly till she reached a certain page, rested the paper in her lap. her eyes were fixed on a photograph in the left-hand corner-one of those effigies of writers that appear occasionally in the public press. under it were printed the words: "mr. hilary dallison." and suddenly she heaved a sigh. the room grew darker; the wind, getting up as the sun went down, blew a few dropped petals of the pear-tree against the window-pane. chapter xii ships in sail in due accord with the old butler's comment on his looks, hilary had felt so young that, instead of going home, he mounted an omnibus, and went down to his club--the "pen and ink," so called because the man who founded it could not think at the moment of any other words. this literary person had left the club soon after its initiation, having conceived for it a sudden dislike. it had indeed a certain reputation for bad cooking, and all its members complained bitterly at times that you never could go in without meeting someone you knew. it stood in dover street. unlike other clubs, it was mainly used to talk in, and had special arrangements for the safety of umbrellas and such books as had not yet vanished from the library; not, of course, owing to any peculative tendency among its members, but because, after interchanging their ideas, those members would depart, in a long row, each grasping some material object in his hand. its. maroon-coloured curtains, too, were never drawn, because, in the heat of their discussions, the members were always drawing them. on the whole, those members did not like each other much; wondering a little, one by one, why the others wrote; and when the printed reasons were detailed to them, reading them with irritation. if really compelled to hazard an opinion about each other's merits, they used to say that, no doubt "so-and-so" was "very good," but they had never read him! for it had early been established as the principle underlying membership not to read the writings of another man, unless you could be certain he was dead, lest you might have to tell him to his face that you disliked his work. for they were very jealous of the purity of their literary consciences. exception was made, however, in the case of those who lived by written criticism, the opinions of such persons being read by all, with a varying smile, and a certain cerebral excitement. now and then, however, some member, violating every sense of decency, would take a violent liking for another member's books. this he would express in words, to the discomfort of his fellows, who, with a sudden chilly feeling in the stomach, would wonder why it was not their books that he was praising. almost every year, and generally in march, certain aspirations would pass into the club; members would ask each other why there was no academy of british letters; why there was no concerted movement to limit the production of other authors' books; why there was no prize given for the best work of the year. for a little time it almost seemed as if their individualism were in danger; but, the windows having been opened wider than usual some morning, the aspirations would pass out, and all would feel secretly as a man feels when he has swallowed the mosquito that has been worrying him all night--relieved, but just a little bit embarrassed. socially sympathetic in their dealings with each other--they were mostly quite nice fellows--each kept a little fame-machine, on which he might be seen sitting every morning about the time the papers and his correspondence came, wondering if his fame were going up. hilary stayed in the club till half-past nine; then, avoiding a discussion which was just setting in, he took his own umbrella, and bent his steps towards home. it was the moment of suspense in piccadilly; the tide had flowed up to the theatres, and had not yet begun to ebb. the tranquil trees, still feathery, draped their branches along the farther bank of that broad river, resting from their watch over the tragi-comedies played on its surface by men, their small companions. the gentle sighs which distilled from their plume-like boughs seemed utterances of the softest wisdom. not far beyond their trunks it was all dark velvet, into which separate shapes, adventuring, were lost, as wild birds vanishing in space, or the souls of men received into their mother's heart. hilary walked, hearing no sighs of wisdom, noting no smooth darkness, wrapped in thought. the mere fact of having given pleasure was enough to produce a warm sensation in a man so naturally kind. but, as with all self-conscious, self-distrustful, natures, that sensation had not lasted. he was left with a feeling of emptiness and disillusionment, as of having given himself a good mark without reason. while walking, he was a target for the eyes of many women, who passed him rapidly, like ships in sail. the special fastidious shyness of his face attracted those accustomed to another kind of face. and though he did not precisely look at them, they in turn inspired in him the compassionate, morbid curiosity which persons who live desperate lives necessarily inspire in the leisured, speculative mind. one of them deliberately approached him from a side-street. though taller and fuller, with heightened colour, frizzy hair, and a hat with feathers; she was the image of the little model--the same shape of face, broad cheek-bones, mouth a little open; the same flower-coloured eyes and short black lashes, all coarsened and accentuated as art coarsens and accentuates the lines of life. looking boldly into hilary's startled face, she laughed. hilary winced and walked on quickly. he reached home at half-past ten. the lamp was burning in mr. stone's room, and his window was, as usual, open; that which was not usual, however, was a light in hilary's own bedroom. he went gently up. through the door-ajar-he saw, to his surprise, the figure of his wife. she was reclining in a chair, her elbows on its arms, the tips of her fingers pressed together. her face, with its dark hair, vivid colouring, and sharp lines, was touched with shadows, her head turned as though towards somebody beside her; her neck gleamed white. so--motionless, dimly seen--she was like a woman sitting alongside her own life, scrutinising, criticising, watching it live, taking no part in it. hilary wondered whether to go in or slip away from his strange visitor. "ah! it's you," she said. hilary approached her. for all her mocking of her own charms, this wife of his was strangely graceful. after nineteen years in which to learn every line of her face and body, every secret of her nature, she still eluded him; that elusiveness, which had begun by being such a charm, had got on his nerves, and extinguished the flame it had once lighted. he had so often tried to see, and never seen, the essence of her soul. why was she made like this? why was she for ever mocking herself, himself, and every other thing? why was she so hard to her own life, so bitter a foe to her own happiness? leonardo da vinci might have painted her, less sensual and cruel than his women, more restless and disharmonic, but physically, spiritually enticing, and, by her refusals to surrender either to her spirit or her senses, baffling her own enticements. "i don't know why i came," she said. hilary found no better answer than: "i am sorry i was out to dinner." "has the wind gone round? my room is cold." "yes, north-east. stay here." her hand touched his; that warm and restless clasp was agitating. "it's good of you to ask me; but we'd better not begin what we can't keep up." "stay here," said hilary again, kneeling down beside her chair. and suddenly he began to kiss her face and neck. he felt her answering kisses; for a moment they were clasped together in a fierce embrace. then, as though by mutual consent, their arms relaxed; their eyes grew furtive, like the eyes of children who have egged each other on to steal; and on their lips appeared the faintest of faint smiles. it was as though those lips were saying: "yes, but we are not quite animals!" hilary got up and sat down on his bed. blanca stayed in the chair, looking straight before her, utterly inert, her head thrown back, her white throat gleaming, on her lips and in her eyes that flickering smile. not a word more, nor a look, passed between them. then rising, without noise, she passed behind him and went out. hilary had a feeling in his mouth as though he had been chewing ashes. and a phrase--as phrases sometimes fill the spirit of a man without rhyme or reason--kept forming on his lips: "the house of harmony!" presently he went to her door, and stood there listening. he could hear no sound whatever. if she had been crying if she had been laughing--it would have been better than this silence. he put his hands up to his ears and ran down-stairs. chapter xiii sound in the night he passed his study door, and halted at mr. stone's; the thought of the old man, so steady and absorbed in the face of all external things, refreshed him. still in his brown woollen gown, mr. stone was sitting with his eyes fixed on something in the corner, whence a little perfumed steam was rising. "shut the door," he said; "i am making cocoa; will you have a cup?" "am i disturbing you?" asked hilary. mr. stone looked at him steadily before answering: "if i work after cocoa, i find it clogs the liver." "then, if you'll let me, sir, i'll stay a little." "it is boiling," said mr. stone. he took the saucepan off the flame, and, distending his frail cheeks, blew. then, while the steam mingled with his frosty beard, he brought two cups from a cupboard, filled one of them, and looked at hilary. "i should like you," he said, "to hear three or four pages i have just completed; you may perhaps be able to suggest a word or two." he placed the saucepan back on the stove, and grasped the cup he had filled. "i will drink my cocoa, and read them to you." going to the desk, he stood, blowing at the cup. hilary turned up the collar of his coat against the night wind which was visiting the room, and glanced at the empty cup, for he was rather hungry. he heard a curious sound: mr. stone was blowing his own tongue. in his haste to read, he had drunk too soon and deeply of the cocoa. "i have burnt my mouth," he said. hilary moved hastily towards him: "badly? try cold milk, sir." mr. stone lifted the cup. "there is none," he said, and drank again. 'what would i not give,' thought hilary, 'to have his singleness of heart!' there was the sharp sound of a cup set down. then, out of a rustling of papers, a sort of droning rose: "'the proletariat--with a cynicism natural to those who really are in want, and even amongst their leaders only veiled when these attained a certain position in the public eye--desired indeed the wealth and leisure of their richer neighbours, but in their long night of struggle with existence they had only found the energy to formulate their pressing needs from day to day. they were a heaving, surging sea of creatures, slowly, without consciousness or real guidance, rising in long tidal movements to set the limits of the shore a little farther back, and cast afresh the form of social life; and on its pea-green bosom '" mr. stone paused. "she has copied it wrong," he said; "the word is 'seagreen.' 'and on its sea-green bosom sailed a fleet of silver cockle-shells, wafted by the breath of those not in themselves driven by the wind of need. the voyage of these silver cockle-shells, all heading across each other's bows, was, in fact, the advanced movement of that time. in the stern of each of these little craft, blowing at the sails, was seated a by-product of the accepted system. these by-products we should now examine." mr. stone paused, and looked into his cup. there were some grounds in it. he drank them, and went on: "'the fratricidal principle of the survival of the fittest, which in those days was england's moral teaching, had made the country one huge butcher's shop. amongst the carcasses of countless victims there had fattened and grown purple many butchers, physically strengthened by the smell of blood and sawdust. these had begotten many children. following out the laws of nature providing against surfeit, a proportion of these children were born with a feeling of distaste for blood and sawdust; many of them, compelled for the purpose of making money to follow in their fathers' practices, did so unwillingly; some, thanks to their fathers' butchery, were in a position to abstain from practising; but whether in practice or at leisure, distaste for the scent of blood and sawdust was the common feature that distinguished them. qualities hitherto but little known, and generally despised--not, as we shall see, without some reason--were developed in them. self-consciousness, aestheticism, a dislike for waste, a hatred of injustice; these--or some one of these, when coupled with that desire natural to men throughout all ages to accomplish something--constituted the motive forces which enabled them to work their bellows. in practical affairs those who were under the necessity of labouring were driven, under the then machinery of social life, to the humaner and less exacting kinds of butchery, such as the arts, education, the practice of religions and medicine, and the paid representation of their fellow-creatures. those not so driven occupied themselves in observing and complaining of the existing state of thing. each year saw more of their silver cockleshells putting out from port, and the cheeks of those who blew the sails more violently distended. looking back on that pretty voyage, we see the reason why those ships were doomed never to move, but, seated on the sea-green bosom of that sea, to heave up and down, heading across each other's bows in the self-same place for ever. that reason, in few words, was this: 'the man who blew should have been in the sea, not on the ship.'" the droning ceased. hilary saw that mr. stone was staring fixedly at his sheet of paper, as though the merits of this last sentence were surprising him. the droning instantly began again: "'in social effort, as in the physical processes of nature, there had ever been a single fertilising agent--the mysterious and wonderful attraction known as love. to this--that merging of one being in another--had been due all the progressive variance of form, known by man under the name of life. it was this merger, this mysterious, unconscious love, which was lacking to the windy efforts of those who tried to sail that fleet. they were full of reason, conscience, horror, full of impatience, contempt, revolt; but they did not love the masses of their fellow-men. they could not fling themselves into the sea. their hearts were glowing; but the wind which made them glow was not the salt and universal zephyr: it was the desert wind of scorn. as with the flowering of the aloe-tree--so long awaited, so strange and swift when once it comes--man had yet to wait for his delirious impulse to universal brotherhood, and the forgetfulness of self.'" mr. stone had finished, and stood gazing at his visitor with eyes that clearly saw beyond him. hilary could not meet those eyes; he kept his own fixed on the empty cocoa cup. it was not, in fact, usual for those who heard mr. stone read his manuscript to look him in the face. he stood thus absorbed so long that hilary rose at last, and glanced into the saucepan. there was no cocoa in it. mr. stone had only made enough for one. he had meant it for his visitor, but self-forgetfulness had supervened. "you know what happens to the aloe, sir, when it has flowered?" asked hilary with malice. mr. stone moved, but did not answer. "it dies," said hilary. "no," said mr. stone; "it is at peace." "when is self at peace, sir? the individual is surely as immortal as the universal. that is the eternal comedy of life." "what is?" said mr. stone. "the fight or game between the two." mr. stone stood a moment looking wistfully at his son-in-law. he laid down the sheet of manuscript. "it is time for me to do my exercises." so saying, he undid the tasselled cord tied round the middle of his gown. hilary hastened to the door. from that point of vantage he looked back. divested of his gown and turned towards the window, mr. stone was already rising on his toes, his arms were extended, his palms pressed hard together in the attitude of prayer, his trousers slowly slipping down. "one, two, three, four, five!" there was a sudden sound of breath escaping.... in the corridor upstairs, flooded with moonlight from a window at the end, hilary stood listening again. the only sound that came to him was the light snoring of miranda, who slept in the bathroom, not caring to lie too near to anyone. he went to his room, and for a long time sat buried in thought; then, opening the side window, he leaned out. on the trees of the next garden, and the sloping roofs of stables and outhouses, the moonlight had come down like a flight of milk-white pigeons; with outspread wings, vibrating faintly as though yet in motion, they covered everything. nothing stirred. a clock was striking two. past that flight of milk-white pigeons were black walls as yet unvisited. then, in the stillness, hilary seemed to hear, deep and very faint, the sound as of some monster breathing, or the far beating of muffed drums. from every side of the pale sleeping town it seemed to come, under the moon's cold glamour. it rose, and fell, and rose, with a weird, creepy rhythm, like a groaning of the hopeless and hungry. a hansom cab rattled down the high street; hilary strained his ears after the failing clatter of hoofs and bell. they died; there was silence. creeping nearer, drumming, throbbing, he heard again the beating of that vast heart. it grew and grew. his own heart began thumping. then, emerging from that sinister dumb groan, he distinguished a crunching sound, and knew that it was no muttering echo of men's struggles, but only the waggons journeying to covent garden market. chapter xiv a walk abroad thyme dallison, in the midst of her busy life, found leisure to record her recollections and ideas in the pages of old school notebooks. she had no definite purpose in so doing, nor did she desire the solace of luxuriating in her private feelings--this she would have scorned as out of date and silly. it was done from the fulness of youthful energy, and from the desire to express oneself that was "in the air." it was everywhere, that desire: among her fellow-students, among her young men friends, in her mother's drawing-room, and her aunt's studio. like sentiment and marriage to the victorian miss, so was this duty to express herself to thyme; and, going hand-in-hand with it, the duty to have a good and jolly youth. she never read again the thoughts which she recorded, she took no care to lock them up, knowing that her liberty, development, and pleasure were sacred things which no one would dream of touching--she kept them stuffed down in a drawer among her handkerchiefs and ties and blouses, together with the indelible fragment of a pencil. this journal, naive and slipshod, recorded without order the current impression of things on her mind. in the early morning of the th of may she sat, night-gowned, on the foot of her white bed, with chestnut hair all fluffy about her neck, eyes bright and cheeks still rosy with sleep, scribbling away and rubbing one bare foot against the other in the ecstasy of self-expression. now and then, in the middle of a sentence, she would stop and look out of the window, or stretch herself deliciously, as though life were too full of joy for her to finish anything. "i went into grandfather's room yesterday, and stayed while he was dictating to the little model. i do think grandfather's so splendid. martin says an enthusiast is worse than useless; people, he says, can't afford to dabble in ideas or dreams. he calls grandfather's idea paleolithic. i hate him to be laughed at. martin's so cocksure. i don't think he'd find many men of eighty who'd bathe in the serpentine all the year round, and do his own room, cook his own food, and live on about ninety pounds a year out of his pension of three hundred, and give all the rest away. martin says that's unsound, and the 'book of universal brotherhood' rot. i don't care if it is; it's fine to go on writing it as he does all day. martin admits that. that's the worst of him: he's so cool, you can't score him off; he seems to be always criticising you; it makes me wild.... that little model is a hopeless duffer. i could have taken it all down in half the time. she kept stopping and looking up with that mouth of hers half open, as if she had all day before her. grandfather's so absorbed he doesn't notice; he likes to read the thing over and over, to hear how the words sound. that girl would be no good at any sort of work, except 'sitting,' i suppose. aunt b. used to say she sat well. there's something queer about her face; it reminds me a little of that botticelli madonna in the national gallery, the full-face one; not so much in the shape as in the expression--almost stupid, and yet as if things were going to happen to her. her hands and arms are pretty, and her feet are smaller than mine. she's two years older than me. i asked her why she went in for being a model, which is beastly work. she said she was glad to get anything! i asked her why she didn't go into a shop or into service. she didn't answer at once, and then said she hadn't had any recommendations--didn't know where to try; then, all of a sudden, she grew quite sulky, and said she didn't want to...." thyme paused to pencil in a sketch of the little model's profile.... "she had on a really pretty frock, quite simple and well made--it must have cost three or four pounds. she can't be so very badly off, or somebody gave it her...." and again thyme paused. "she looked ever so much prettier in it than she used to in her old brown skirt, i thought .... uncle hilary came to dinner last night. we talked of social questions; we always discuss things when he comes. i can't help liking uncle hilary; he has such kind eyes, and he's so gentle that you never lose your temper with him. martin calls him weak and unsatisfactory because he's not in touch with life. i should say it was more as if he couldn't bear to force anyone to do anything; he seems to see both sides of every question, and he's not good at making up his mind, of course. he's rather like hamlet might have been, only nobody seems to know now what hamlet was really like. i told him what i thought about the lower classes. one can talk to him. i hate father's way of making feeble little jokes, as if nothing were serious. i said i didn't think it was any use to dabble; we ought to go to the root of everything. i said that money and class distinctions are two bogeys we have got to lay. martin says, when it comes to real dealing with social questions and the poor, all the people we know are amateurs. he says that we have got to shake ourselves free of all the old sentimental notions, and just work at putting everything to the test of health. father calls martin a 'sanitist'; and uncle hilary says that if you wash people by law they'll all be as dirty again tomorrow...." thyme paused again. a blackbird in the garden of the square was uttering a long, low, chuckling trill. she ran to the window and peeped out. the bird was on a plane-tree, and, with throat uplifted, was letting through his yellow beak that delicious piece of self-expression. all things he seemed to praise--the sky, the sun, the trees, the dewy grass, himself: 'you darling!' thought thyme. with a shudder of delight she dropped her notebook back into the drawer, flung off her nightgown, and flew into her bath. that same morning she slipped out quietly at ten o'clock. her saturdays were free of classes, but she had to run the gauntlet of her mother's liking for her company and her father's wish for her to go with him to richmond and play golf. for on saturdays stephen almost always left the precincts of the courts before three o'clock. then, if he could induce his wife or daughter to accompany him, he liked to get a round or two in preparation for sunday, when he always started off at half-past ten and played all day. if cecilia and thyme failed him, he would go to his club, and keep himself in touch with every kind of social movement by reading the reviews. thyme walked along with her head up and a wrinkle in her brow, as though she were absorbed in serious reflection; if admiring glances were flung at her, she did not seem aware of them. passing not far from hilary's, she entered the broad walk, and crossed it to the farther end. on a railing, stretching out his long legs and observing the passers-by, sat her cousin, martin stone. he got down as she came up. "late again," he said. "come on!" "where are we going first?" thyme asked. "the notting hill district's all we can do to-day if we're to go again to mrs. hughs'. i must be down at the hospital this afternoon." thyme frowned. "i do envy you living by yourself, martin. it's silly having to live at home." martin did not answer, but one nostril of his long nose was seen to curve, and thyme acquiesced in this without remark. they walked for some minutes between tall houses, looking about them calmly. then martin said: "all purceys round here." thyme nodded. again there was silence; but in these pauses there was no embarrassment, no consciousness apparently that it was silence, and their eyes--those young, impatient, interested eyes--were for ever busy observing. "boundary line. we shall be in a patch directly." "black?" asked thyme. "dark blue--black farther on." they were passing down a long, grey, curving road, whose narrow houses, hopelessly unpainted, showed marks of grinding poverty. the spring wind was ruffling straw and little bits of paper in the gutters; under the bright sunlight a bleak and bitter struggle seemed raging. thyme said: "this street gives me a hollow feeling." martin nodded. "worse than the real article. there's half a mile of this. here it's all grim fighting. farther on they've given it up." and still they went on up the curving street, with its few pinched shops and its unending narrow grimness. at the corner of a by-street martin said: "we'll go down here." thyme stood still, wrinkling her nose. martin eyed her. "don't funk!" "i'm not funking, martin, only i can't stand the smells." "you'll have to get used to them." "yes, i know; but--but i forgot my eucalyptus." the young man took out a handkerchief which had not yet been unfolded. "here, take mine." "they do make me feel so--it's a shame to take yours," and she took the handkerchief. "that's all right," said martin. "come on!" the houses of this narrow street, inside and out, seemed full of women. many of them had babies in their arms; they were working or looking out of windows or gossiping on doorsteps. and all stopped to stare as the young couple passed. thyme stole a look at her companion. his long stride had not varied; there was the usual pale, observant, sarcastic expression on his face. clenching the handkerchief in readiness, and trying to imitate his callous air, she looked at a group of five women on the nearest doorstep. three were seated and two were standing. one of these, a young woman with a round, open face, was clearly very soon to have a child; the other, with a short, dark face and iron-grey, straggling hair, was smoking a clay pipe. of the three seated, one, quite young, had a face as grey white as a dirty sheet, and a blackened eye; the second, with her ragged dress disarranged, was nursing a baby; the third, in the centre, on the top step, with red arms akimbo, her face scored with drink, was shouting friendly obscenities to a neighbour in the window opposite. in thyme's heart rose the passionate feeling, 'how disgusting! how disgusting!' and since she did not dare to give expression to it, she bit her lips and turned her head from them, resenting, with all a young girl's horror, that her sex had given her away. the women stared at her, and in those faces, according to their different temperaments, could be seen first the same vague, hard interest that had been thyme's when she first looked at them, then the same secret hostility and criticism, as though they too felt that by this young girl's untouched modesty, by her gushed cheeks and unsoiled clothes, their sex had given them away. with contemptuous movements of their lips and bodies, on that doorstep they proclaimed their emphatic belief in the virtue and reality of their own existences and in the vice and unreality of her intruding presence. "give the doll to bill; 'e'd make 'er work for once, the---" in a burst of laughter the epithet was lost. martin's lips curled. "purple just here," he said. thyme's cheeks were crimson. at the end of the little street he stopped before a shop. "come on," he said, "you'll see the sort of place where they buy their grub." in the doorway were standing a thin brown spaniel, a small fair woman with a high, bald forehead, from which the hair was gleaned into curlpapers, and a little girl with some affection of the skin. nodding coolly, martin motioned them aside. the shop was ten feet square; its counters, running parallel to two of the walls, were covered with plates of cake, sausages, old ham-bones, peppermint sweets, and household soap; there was also bread, margarine, suet in bowls, sugar, bloaters--many bloaters--captain's biscuits, and other things besides. two or three dead rabbits hung against the wall. all was uncovered, so that what flies there were sat feeding socialistically. behind the counter a girl of seventeen was serving a thin-faced woman with portions of a cheese which she was holding down with her strong, dirty hand, while she sawed it with a knife. on the counter, next the cheese, sat a quiet-looking cat. they all glanced round at the two young people, who stood and waited. "finish what you're at," said martin, "then give me three pennyworth of bull's-eyes." the girl, with a violent effort, finished severing the cheese. the thin-faced woman took it, and, coughing above it, went away. the girl, who could not take her eyes off thyme, now served them with three pennyworth of bull's-eyes, which she took out with her fingers, for they had stuck. putting them in a screw of newspaper, she handed them to martin. the young man, who had been observing negligently, touched thyme's elbow. she, who had stood with eyes cast down, now turned. they went out, martin handing the bull's-eyes to the little girl with an affection of the skin. the street now ended in a wide road formed of little low houses. "black," said martin, "here; all down this road-casual labour, criminals, loafers, drunkards, consumps. look at the faces!" thyme raised her eyes obediently. in this main thoroughfare it was not as in the by-street, and only dull or sullen glances, or none at all, were bent on her. some of the houses had ragged plants on the window-sills; in one window a canary was singing. then, at a bend, they came into a blacker reach of human river. here were outbuildings, houses with broken windows, houses with windows boarded up, fried-fish shops, low public-houses, houses without doors. there were more men here than women, and those men were wheeling barrows full of rags and bottles, or not even full of rags and bottles; or they were standing by the public-houses gossiping or quarrelling in groups of three or four; or very slowly walking in the gutters, or on the pavements, as though trying to remember if they were alive. then suddenly some young man with gaunt violence in his face would pass, pushing his barrow desperately, striding fiercely by. and every now and then, from a fried-fish or hardware shop, would come out a man in a dirty apron to take the sun and contemplate the scene, not finding in it, seemingly, anything that in any way depressed his spirit. amongst the constant, crawling, shifting stream of passengers were seen women carrying food wrapped up in newspaper, or with bundles beneath their shawls. the faces of these women were generally either very red and coarse or of a sort of bluish-white; they wore the expression of such as know themselves to be existing in the way that providence has arranged they should exist. no surprise, revolt, dismay, or shame was ever to be seen on those faces; in place of these emotions a drab and brutish acquiescence or mechanical coarse jocularity. to pass like this about their business was their occupation each morning of the year; it was needful to accept it. not having any hope of ever, being different, not being able to imagine any other life, they were not so wasteful of their strength as to attempt either to hope or to imagine. here and there, too, very slowly passed old men and women, crawling along, like winter bees who, in some strange and evil moment, had forgotten to die in the sunlight of their toil, and, too old to be of use, had been chivied forth from their hive to perish slowly in the cold twilight of their days. down the centre of the street thyme saw a brewer's dray creeping its way due south under the sun. three horses drew it, with braided tails and beribboned manes, the brass glittering on their harness. high up, like a god, sat the drayman, his little slits of eyes above huge red cheeks fixed immovably on his horses' crests. behind him, with slow, unceasing crunch, the dray rolled, piled up with hogsheads, whereon the drayman's mate lay sleeping. like the slumbrous image of some mighty unrelenting power, it passed, proud that its monstrous bulk contained all the joy and blessing those shadows on the pavement had ever known. the two young people emerged on to the high road running east and west. "cross here," said martin, "and cut down into kensington. nothing more of interest now till we get to hound street. purceys and purceys all round about this part." thyme shook herself. "o martin, let's go down a road where there's some air. i feel so dirty." she put her hand up to her chest. "there's one here," said martin. they turned to the left into a road that had many trees. now that she could breathe and look about her, thyme once more held her head erect and began to swing her arms. "martin, something must be done!" the young doctor did not reply; his face still wore its pale, sarcastic, observant look. he gave her arm a squeeze with a half-contemptuous smile. chapter xv second pilgrimage to hound street arriving in hound street, martin stone and his companion went straight up to mrs. hughs' front room. they found her doing the week's washing, and hanging out before a scanty fire part of the little that the week had been suffered to soil. her arms were bare, her face and eyes red; the steam of soapsuds had congealed on them. attached to the bolster by a towel, under his father's bayonet and the oleograph depicting the nativity, sat the baby. in the air there was the scent of him, of walls, and washing, and red herrings. the two young people took their seat on the window-sill. "may we open the window, mrs. hughs?" said thyme. "or will it hurt the baby?" "no, miss." "what's the matter with your wrists?" asked martin. the seamstress, muffing her arms with the garment she was dipping in soapy water, did not answer. "don't do that. let me have a look." mrs. hughs held out her arms; the wrists were swollen and discoloured. "the brute!" cried thyme. the young doctor muttered: "done last night. got any arnica?" "no, sir." "of course not." he laid a sixpence on the sill. "get some and rub it in. mind you don't break the skin." thyme suddenly burst out: "why don't you leave him, mrs. hughs? why do you live with a brute like that?" martin frowned. "any particular row," he said, "or only just the ordinary?" mrs. hughs turned her face to the scanty fire. her shoulders heaved spasmodically. thus passed three minutes, then she again began rubbing the soapy garment. "if you don't mind, i'll smoke," said martin. "what's your baby's name? bill? here, bill!" he placed his little finger in the baby's hand. "feeding him yourself?" "yes, sir." "what's his number?" "i've lost three, sir; there's only his brother stanley now." "one a year?" "no, sir. i missed two years in the war, of course." "hughs wounded out there?" "yes, sir--in the head." "ah! and fever?" "yes, sir." martin tapped his pipe against his forehead. "least drop of liquor goes to it, i suppose?" mrs. hughs paused in the dipping of a cloth; her tear-stained face expressed resentment, as though she had detected an attempt to find excuses for her husband. "he didn't ought to treat me as he does," she said. all three now stood round the bed, over which the baby presided with solemn gaze. thyme said: "i wouldn't care what he did, mrs. hughs; i wouldn't stay another day if i were you. it's your duty as a woman." to hear her duty as a woman mrs. hughs turned; slow vindictiveness gathered on her thin face. "yes, miss?" she said. "i don't know what to do. "take the children and go. what's the good of waiting? we'll give you money if you haven't got enough." but mrs. hughs did not answer. "well?" said martin, blowing out a cloud of smoke. thyme burst out again: "just go, the very minute your little boy comes back from school. hughs 'll never find you. it 'll serve him right. no woman ought to put up with what you have; it's simply weakness, mrs. hughs." as though that word had forced its way into her very heart and set the blood free suddenly, mrs. hughs' face turned the colour of tomatoes. she poured forth words: "and leave him to that young girl--and leave him to his wickedness! after i've been his wife eight years and borne him five! after i've done what i have for him! i never want no better husband than what he used to be, till she came with her pale face and her prinky manners, and--and her mouth that you can tell she's bad by. let her keep to her profession--sitting naked's what she's fit for--coming here to decent folk---" and holding out her wrists to thyme, who had shrunk back, she cried: "he's never struck me before. i got these all because of her new clothes!" hearing his mother speak with such strange passion, the baby howled. mrs. hughs stopped, and took him up. pressing him close to her thin bosom, she looked above his little dingy head at the two young people. "i got my wrists like this last night, wrestling with him. he swore he'd go and leave me, but i held him, i did. and don't you ever think that i'll let him go to that young girl--not if he kills me first!" with those words the passion in her face died down. she was again a meek, mute woman. during this outbreak, thyme, shrinking, stood by the doorway with lowered eyes. she now looked up at martin, clearly asking him to come away. the latter had kept his gaze fixed on mrs. hughs, smoking silently. he took his pipe out of his mouth, and pointed with it at the baby. "this gentleman," he said, "can't stand too much of that." in silence all three bent their eyes on the baby. his little fists, and nose, and forehead, even his little naked, crinkled feet, were thrust with all his feeble strength against his mother's bosom, as though he were striving to creep into some hole away from life. there was a sort of dumb despair in that tiny pushing of his way back to the place whence he had come. his head, covered with dingy down, quivered with his effort to escape. he had been alive so little; that little had sufficed. martin put his pipe back into his mouth. "this won't do, you know," he said. "he can't stand it. and look here! if you stop feeding him, i wouldn't give that for him tomorrow!" he held up the circle of his thumb and finger. "you're the best judge of what sort of chance you've got of going on in your present state of mind!" then, motioning to thyme, he went down the stairs. chapter xvi beneath the elms spring was in the hearts of men, and their tall companions, trees. their troubles, the stiflings of each other's growth, and all such things, seemed of little moment. spring had them by the throat. it turned old men round, and made them stare at women younger than themselves. it made young men and women walking side by side touch each other, and every bird on the branches tune his pipe. flying sunlight speckled the fluttered leaves, and gushed the cheeks of crippled boys who limped into the gardens, till their pale cockney faces shone with a strange glow. in the broad walk, beneath those dangerous trees, the elms, people sat and took the sun--cheek by jowl, generals and nursemaids, parsons and the unemployed. above, in that spring wind, the elm-tree boughs were swaying, rustling, creaking ever so gently, carrying on the innumerable talk of trees--their sapient, wordless conversation over the affairs of men. it was pleasant, too, to see and hear the myriad movement of the million little separate leaves, each shaped differently, flighting never twice alike, yet all obedient to the single spirit of their tree. thyme and martin were sitting on a seat beneath the largest of all the elms. their manner lacked the unconcern and dignity of the moment, when, two hours before, they had started forth on their discovery from the other end of the broad walk. martin spoke: "it's given you the hump! first sight of blood, and you're like all the rest of them!" "i'm not, martin. how perfectly beastly of you!" "oh yes, you are. there's plenty of aestheticism about you and your people--plenty of good intentions--but not an ounce of real business!" "don't abuse my people; they're just as kind as you!" "oh, they're kind enough, and they can see what's wrong. it's not that which stops them. but your dad's a regular official. he's got so much sense of what he ought not to do that he never does anything; just as hilary's got so much consciousness of what he ought to do that he never does anything. you went to that woman's this morning with your ideas of helping her all cut and dried, and now that you find the facts aren't what you thought, you're stumped!" "one can't believe anything they say. that's what i hate. i thought hughs simply knocked her about. i didn't know it was her jealousy--" "of course you didn't. do you imagine those people give anything away to our sort unless they're forced? they know better." "well, i hate the whole thing--it's all so sordid!" "o lord!" "well, it is! i don't feel that i want to help a woman who can say and feel such horrid things, or the girl, or any of them." "who cares what they say or feel? that's not the point. it's simply a case of common sense: your people put that girl there, and they must get her to clear out again sharp. it's just a question of what's healthy." "well, i know it's not healthy for me to have anything to do with, and i won't! i don't believe you can help people unless they want to be helped." martin whistled. "you're rather a brute, i think," said thyme. "a brute, not rather a brute. that's all the difference." "for the worse!" "i don't think so, thyme!" there was no answer. "look at me." very slowly thyme turned her eyes. "well?" "are you one of us, or are you not?" "of course i am." "you're not!" "i am." "well, don't let's fight about it. give me your hand." he dropped his hand on hers. her face had flushed rose colour. suddenly she freed herself. "here's uncle hilary!" it was indeed hilary, with miranda, trotting in advance. his hands were crossed behind him, his face bent towards the ground. the two young people on the bench sat looking at him. "buried in self-contemplation," murmured martin; "that's the way he always walks. i shall tell him about this!" the colour of thyme's face deepened from rose to crimson. "no!" "why not?" "well--those new---" she could not bring out that word "clothes." it would have given her thoughts away. hilary seemed making for their seat, but miranda, aware of martin, stopped. "a man of action!" she appeared to say. "the one who pulls my ears." and turning, as though unconscious, she endeavoured to lead hilary away. her master, however, had already seen his niece. he came and sat down on the bench beside her. "we wanted you!" said martin, eyeing him slowly, as a young dog will eye another of a different age and breed. "thyme and i have been to see the hughs in hound street. things are blowing up for a mess. you, or whoever put the girl there, ought to get her away again as quick as possible." hilary seemed at once to withdraw into himself. "well," he said, "let us hear all about it." "the woman's jealous of her: that's all the trouble!" "oh!" said hilary; "that's all the trouble?" thyme murmured: "i don't see a bit why uncle hilary should bother. if they will be so horrid--i didn't think the poor were like that. i didn't think they had it in them. i'm sure the girl isn't worth it, or the woman either!" "i didn't say they were," growled martin. "it's a question of what's healthy." hilary looked from one of his young companions to the other. "i see," he said. "i thought perhaps the matter was more delicate." martin's lip curled.' "ah, your precious delicacy! what's the good of that? what did it ever do? it's the curse that you're all suffering from. why don't you act? you could think about it afterwards." a flush came into hilary's sallow cheeks. "do you never think before you act, martin?" martin got up and stood looking down on hilary. "look here!" he said; "i don't go in for your subtleties. i use my eyes and nose. i can see that the woman will never be able to go on feeding the baby in the neurotic state she's in. it's a matter of health for both of them." "is everything a matter of health with you?" "it is. take any subject that you like. take the poor themselves --what's wanted? health. nothing on earth but health! the discoveries and inventions of the last century have knocked the floor out of the old order; we've got to put a new one in, and we're going to put it in, too--the floor of health. the crowd doesn't yet see what it wants, but they're looking for it, and when we show it them they'll catch on fast enough." "but who are 'you'?" murmured hilary. "who are we? i'll tell you one thing. while all the reformers are pecking at each other we shall quietly come along and swallow up the lot. we've simply grasped this elementary fact, that theories are no basis for reform. we go on the evidence of our eyes and noses; what we see and smell is wrong we correct by practical and scientific means." "will you apply that to human nature?" "it's human nature to want health." "i wonder! it doesn't look much like it at present." "take the case of this woman." "yes," said hilary, "take her case. you can't make this too clear to me, martin." "she's no use--poor sort altogether. the man's no use. a man who's been wounded in the head, and isn't a teetotaller, is done for. the girl's no use--regular pleasure-loving type!" thyme flushed crimson, and, seeing that flood of colour in his niece's face, hilary bit his lips. "the only things worth considering are the children. there's this baby-well, as i said, the important thing is that the mother should be able to look after it properly. get hold of that, and let the other facts go hang." "forgive me, but my difficulty is to isolate this question of the baby's health from all the other circumstances of the case." martin grinned. "and you'll make that an excuse, i'm certain, for doing nothing." thyme slipped her hand into hilary's. "you are a brute, martin," she-murmured. the young man turned on her a look that said: 'it's no use calling me a brute; i'm proud of being one. besides, you know you don't dislike it.' "it's better to be a brute than an amateur," he said. thyme, pressing close to hilary, as though he needed her protection, cried out: "martin, you really are a goth!" hilary was still smiling, but his face quivered. "not at all," he said. "martin's powers of diagnosis do him credit." and, raising his hat, he walked away. the two young people, both on their feet now, looked after him. martin's face was a queer study of contemptuous compunction; thyme's was startled, softened, almost tearful. "it won't do him any harm," muttered the young man. "it'll shake him up." thyme flashed a vicious look at him. "i hate you sometimes," she said. "you're so coarse-grained--your skin's just like leather." martin's hand descended on her wrist. "and yours," he said, "is tissue-paper. you're all the same, you amateurs." "i'd rather be an amateur than a--than a bounder!" martin made a queer movement of his jaw, then smiled. that smile seemed to madden thyme. she wrenched her wrist away and darted after hilary. martin impassively looked after her. taking out his pipe, he filled it with tobacco, slowly pressing the golden threads down into the bowl with his little finger. chapter xvii two brothers if has been said that stephen dallison, when unable to get his golf on saturdays, went to his club, and read reviews. the two forms of exercise, in fact, were very similar: in playing golf you went round and round; in reading reviews you did the same, for in course of time you were assured of coming to articles that, nullified articles already read. in both forms of sport the balance was preserved which keeps a man both sound and young. and to be both sound and young was to stephen an everyday necessity. he was essentially a cambridge man, springy and undemonstrative, with just that air of taking a continual pinch of really perfect snuff. underneath this manner he was a good worker, a good husband, a good father, and nothing could be urged against him except his regularity and the fact that he was never in the wrong. where he worked, and indeed in other places, many men were like him. in one respect he resembled them, perhaps, too much--he disliked leaving the ground unless he knew precisely where he was coming down again. he and cecilia had "got on" from the first. they had both desired to have one child--no more; they had both desired to keep up with the times--no more; they now both considered hilary's position awkward--no more; and when cecilia, in the special jacobean bed, and taking care to let him have his sleep out first, had told him of this matter of the hughs, they had both turned it over very carefully, lying on their backs, and speaking in grave tones. stephen was of opinion that poor old hilary must look out what he was doing. beyond this he did not go, keeping even from his wife the more unpleasant of what seemed to him the possibilities. then, in the words she had used to hilary, cecilia spoke: "it's so sordid, stephen." he looked at her, and almost with one accord they both said: "but it's all nonsense!" these speeches, so simultaneous, stimulated them to a robuster view. what was this affair, if real, but the sort of episode that they read of in their papers? what was it, if true, but a duplicate of some bit of fiction or drama which they daily saw described by that word "sordid"? cecilia, indeed, had used this word instinctively. it had come into her mind at once. the whole affair disturbed her ideals of virtue and good taste--that particular mental atmosphere mysteriously, inevitably woven round the soul by the conditions of special breeding and special life. if, then, this affair were real it was sordid, and if it were sordid it was repellent to suppose that her family could be mixed up in it; but her people were mixed up in it, therefore it must be--nonsense! so the matter rested until thyme came back from her visit to her grandfather, and told them of the little model's new and pretty clothes. when she detailed this news they were all sitting at dinner, over the ordering of which cecilia's loyalty had been taxed till her little headache came, so that there might be nothing too conventional to over-nourish stephen or so essentially aesthetic as not to nourish him at all. the man servant being in the room, they neither of them raised their eyes. but when he was gone to fetch the bird, each found the other looking furtively across the table. by some queer misfortune the word "sordid" had leaped into their minds again. who had given her those clothes? but feeling that it was sordid to pursue this thought, they looked away, and, eating hastily, began pursuing it. being man and woman, they naturally took a different line of chase, cecilia hunting in one grove and stephen in another. thus ran stephen's pack of meditations: 'if old hilary has been giving her money and clothes and that sort of thing, he's either a greater duffer than i took him for, or there's something in it. b.'s got herself to thank, but that won't help to keep hughs quiet. he wants money, i expect. oh, damn!' cecilia's pack ran other ways: 'i know the girl can't have bought those things out of her proper earnings. i believe she's a really bad lot. i don't like to think it, but it must be so. hilary can't have been so stupid after what i said to him. if she really is bad, it simplifies things very much; but hilary is just the sort of man who will never believe it. oh dear!' it was, to be quite fair, immensely difficult for stephen and his wife--or any of their class and circle--in spite of genuinely good intentions, to really feel the existence of their "shadows," except in so far as they saw them on the pavements. they knew that these people lived, because they saw them, but they did not feel it--with such extraordinary care had the web of social life been spun. they were, and were bound to be, as utterly divorced from understanding of, or faith in, all that shadowy life, as those "shadows" in their by-streets were from knowledge or belief that gentlefolk really existed except in so far as they had money from them. stephen and cecilia, and their thousands, knew these "shadows" as "the people," knew them as slums, as districts, as sweated industries, of different sorts of workers, knew them in the capacity of persons performing odd jobs for them; but as human beings possessing the same faculties and passions with themselves, they did not, could not, know them. the reason, the long reason, extending back through generations, was so plain, so very simple, that it was never mentioned--in their heart of hearts, where there was no room for cant, they knew it to be just a little matter of the senses. they knew that, whatever they might say, whatever money they might give, or time devote, their hearts could never open, unless--unless they closed their ears, and eyes, and noses. this little fact, more potent than all the teaching of philosophers, than every act of parliament, and all the sermons ever preached, reigned paramount, supreme. it divided class from class, man from his shadow--as the great underlying law had set dark apart from light. on this little fact, too gross to mention, they and their kind had in secret built and built, till it was not too much to say that laws, worship, trade, and every art were based on it, if not in theory, then in fact. for it must not be thought that those eyes were dull or that nose plain--no, no, those eyes could put two and two together; that nose, of myriad fancy, could imagine countless things unsmelled which must lie behind a state of life not quite its own. it could create, as from the scent of an old slipper dogs create their masters. so stephen and cecilia sat, and their butler brought in the bird. it was a nice one, nourished down in surrey, and as he cut it into portions the butler's soul turned sick within him--not because he wanted some himself, or was a vegetarian, or for any sort of principle, but because he was by natural gifts an engineer, and deadly tired of cutting up and handing birds to other people and watching while they ate them. without a glimmer of expression on his face he put the portions down before the persons who, having paid him to do so, could not tell his thoughts. that same night, after working at a report on the present laws of bankruptcy, which he was then drawing up, stephen entered the joint apartment with excessive caution, having first made all his dispositions, and, stealing to the bed, slipped into it. he lay there, offering himself congratulations that he had not awakened cecilia, and cecilia, who was wide awake, knew by his unwonted carefulness that he had come to some conclusion which he did not wish to impart to her. devoured, therefore, by disquiet, she lay sleepless till the clock struck two. the conclusion to which stephen had come was this: having twice gone through the facts--hilary's corporeal separation from bianca (communicated to him by cecilia), cause unknowable; hilary's interest in the little model, cause unknown; her known poverty; her employment by mr. stone; her tenancy of mrs. hughs' room; the latter's outburst to cecilia; hughs' threat; and, finally, the girl's pretty clothes--he had summed it up as just a common "plant," to which his brother's possibly innocent, but in any case imprudent, conduct had laid him open. it was a man's affair. he resolutely tried to look on the whole thing as unworthy of attention, to feel that nothing would occur. he failed dismally, for three reasons. first, his inherent love of regularity, of having everything in proper order; secondly, his ingrained mistrust of and aversion from bianca; thirdly, his unavowed conviction, for all his wish to be sympathetic to them, that the lower classes always wanted something out of you. it was a question of how much they would want, and whether it were wise to give them anything. he decided that it would not be wise at all. what then? impossible to say. it worried him. he had a natural horror of any sort of scandal, and he was very fond of hilary. if only he knew the attitude bianca would take up! he could not even guess it. thus, on that saturday afternoon, the th of may, he felt for once such a positive aversion from the reading of reviews, as men will feel from their usual occupations when their nerves have been disturbed. he stayed late at chambers, and came straight home outside an omnibus. the tide of life was flowing in the town. the streets were awash with wave on wave of humanity, sucked into a thousand crossing currents. here men and women were streaming out from the meeting of a religious congress, there streaming in at the gates of some social function; like bright water confined within long shelves of rock and dyed with myriad scales of shifting colour, they thronged rotten row, and along the closed shop-fronts were woven into an inextricable network of little human runlets. and everywhere amongst this sea of men and women could be seen their shadows, meandering like streaks of grey slime stirred up from the lower depths by some huge, never-ceasing finger. the innumerable roar of that human sea climbed out above the roofs and trees, and somewhere in illimitable space blended, and slowly reached the meeting-point of sound and silence--that heart where life, leaving its little forms and barriers, clasps death, and from that clasp springs forth new-formed, within new barriers. above this crowd of his fellow-creatures, stephen drove, and the same spring wind which had made the elm-trees talk, whispered to him, and tried to tell him of the million flowers it had fertilised, the million leaves uncurled, the million ripples it had awakened on the sea, of the million flying shadows flung by it across the downs, and how into men's hearts its scent had driven a million longings and sweet pains. it was but moderately successful, for stephen, like all men of culture and neat habits, took nature only at those moments when he had gone out to take her, and of her wild heart he had a secret fear. on his own doorstep he encountered hilary coming out. "i ran across thyme and martin in the gardens," the latter said. "thyme brought me back to lunch, and here i've been ever since." "did she bring our young sanitist in too?" asked stephen dubiously. "no," said hilary. "good! that young man gets on my nerves." taking his elder brother by the arm, he added: "will you come in again, old boy, or shall we go for a stroll?" "a stroll," said hilary. though different enough, perhaps because they were so different, these two brothers had the real affection for each other which depends on something deeper and more elementary than a similarity of sentiments, and is permanent because unconnected with the reasoning powers. it depended on the countless times they had kissed and wrestled as tiny boys, slept in small beds alongside, refused-to "tell" about each other, and even now and then taken up the burden of each other's peccadilloes. they might get irritated or tired of being in each other's company, but it would have been impossible for either to have been disloyal to the other in any circumstances, because of that traditional loyalty which went back to their cribs. preceded by miranda, they walked along the flower walk towards the park, talking of indifferent things, though in his heart each knew well enough what was in the other's. stephen broke through the hedge. "cis has been telling me," he said, "that this man hughs is making trouble of some sort." hilary nodded. stephen glanced a little anxiously at his brother's face; it struck him as looking different, neither so gentle nor so impersonal as usual. "he's a ruffian, isn't he?" "i can't tell you," hilary answered. "probably not." "he must be, old chap," murmured stephen. then, with a friendly pressure of his brother's arm, he added: "look here, old boy, can i be of any use?" "in what?" asked hilary. stephen took a hasty mental view of his position; he had been in danger of letting hilary see that he suspected him. frowning slightly, and with some colour in his clean-shaven face, he said: "of course, there's nothing in it." "in what?" said hilary again. "in what this ruffian says." "no," said hilary, "there's nothing in it, though what there may be if people give me credit for what there isn't, is another thing." stephen digested this remark, which hurt him. he saw that his suspicions had been fathomed, and this injured his opinion of his own diplomacy. "you mustn't lose your head, old man," he said at last. they were crossing the bridge over the serpentine. on the bright waters, below, young clerks were sculling their inamoratas up and down; the ripples set free by their oars gleamed beneath the sun, and ducks swam lazily along the banks. hilary leaned over. "look here, stephen, i take an interest in this child--she's a helpless sort of little creature, and she seems to have put herself under my protection. i can't help that. but that's all. do you understand?" this speech produced a queer turmoil in stephen, as though his brother had accused him of a petty view of things. feeling that he must justify himself somehow, he began: "oh, of course i understand, old boy! but don't think, anyway, that i should care a damn--i mean as far as i'm concerned--even if you had gone as far as ever you liked, considering what you have to put up with. what i'm thinking of is the general situation." by this clear statement of his point of view stephen felt he had put things back on a broad basis, and recovered his position as a man of liberal thought. he too leaned over, looking at the ducks. there was a silence. then hilary said: "if bianca won't get that child into some fresh place, i shall." stephen looked at his brother in surprise, amounting almost to dismay; he had spoken with such unwonted resolution. "my dear old chap," he said, "i wouldn't go to b. women are so funny." hilary smiled. stephen took this for a sign of restored impersonality. "i'll tell you exactly how the thing appeals to me. it'll be much better for you to chuck it altogether. let cis see to it!" hilary's eyes became bright with angry humour. "many thanks," he said, "but this is entirely our affair." stephen answered hastily: "that's exactly what makes it difficult for you to look at it all round. that fellow hughs could make himself quite nasty. i wouldn't give him any sort of chance. i mean to say--giving the girl clothes and that kind of thing---" "i see," said hilary. "you know, old man," stephen went on hastily, "i don't think you'll get bianca to look at things in your light. if you were on--on terms, of course it would be different. i mean the girl, you know, is rather attractive in her way." hilary roused himself from contemplation of the ducks, and they moved on towards the powder magazine. stephen carefully abstained from looking at his brother; the respect he had for hilary--result, perhaps, of the latter's seniority, perhaps of the feeling that hilary knew more of him than he of hilary--was beginning to assert itself in a way he did not like. with every word, too, of this talk, the ground, instead of growing firmer, felt less and less secure. hilary spoke: "you mistrust my powers of action?" "no, no," said stephen. "i don't want you to act at all." hilary laughed. hearing that rather bitter laugh, stephen felt a little ache about his heart. "come, old boy," he said, "we can trust each other, anyway." hilary gave his brother's arm a squeeze. moved by that pressure, stephen spoke: "i hate you to be worried over such a rotten business." the whizz of a motor-car rapidly approaching them became a sort of roar, and out of it a voice shouted: "how are you?" a hand was seen to rise in salute. it was mr. purcey driving his a.i. damyer back to wimbledon. before him in the sunlight a little shadow fled; behind him the reek of petrol seemed to darken the road. "there's a symbol for you," muttered hilary. "how do you mean?" said stephen dryly. the word "symbol" was distasteful to him. "the machine in the middle moving on its business; shadows like you and me skipping in front; oil and used-up stuff dropping behind. society-body, beak, and bones." stephen took time to answer. "that's rather far-fetched," he said. "you mean these hughs and people are the droppings?" "quite so," was hilary's sardonic answer. "there's the body of that fellow and his car between our sort and them--and no getting over it, stevie." "well, who wants to? if you're thinking of our old friend's fraternity, i'm not taking any." and stephen suddenly added: "look here, i believe this affair is all 'a plant.'" "you see that powder magazine?" said hilary. "well, this business that you call a 'plant' is more like that. i don't want to alarm you, but i think you as well as our young friend martin, are inclined to underrate the emotional capacity of human nature." disquietude broke up the customary mask on stephen's face: "i don't understand," he stammered. "well, we're none of us machines, not even amateurs like me--not even under-dogs like hughs. i fancy you may find a certain warmth, not to say violence, about this business. i tell you frankly that i don't live in married celibacy quite with impunity. i can't answer for anything, in fact. you had better stand clear, stephen--that's all." stephen marked his thin hands quivering, and this alarmed him as nothing else had done. they walked on beside the water. stephen spoke quietly, looking at the ground. "how can i stand clear, old man, if you are going to get into a mess? that's impossible." he saw at once that this shot, which indeed was from his heart, had gone right home to hilary's. he sought within him how to deepen the impression. "you mean a lot to us," he said. "cis and thyme would feel it awfully if you and b.---" he stopped. hilary was looking at him; that faintly smiling glance, searching him through and through, suddenly made stephen feel inferior. he had been detected trying to extract capital from the effect of his little piece of brotherly love. he was irritated at his brother's insight. "i have no right to give advice, i suppose," he said; "but in my opinion you should drop it--drop it dead. the girl is not worth your looking after. turn her over to that society--mrs. tallents smallpeace's thing whatever it's called." at a sound as of mirth stephen, who was not accustomed to hear his brother laugh, looked round. "martin," said hilary, "also wants the case to be treated on strictly hygienic grounds." nettled by this, stephen answered: "don't confound me with our young sanitist, please; i simply think there are probably a hundred things you don't know about the girl which ought to be cleared up." "and then?" "then," said stephen, "they could--er--deal with her accordingly." hilary shrank so palpably at this remark that he added rather hastily: "you call that cold-blooded, i suppose; but i think, you know, old chap, that you're too sensitive." hilary stopped rather abruptly. "if you don't mind, stevie," he said, "we'll part here. i want to think it over." so saying, he turned back, and sat down on a seat that faced the sun. chapter xviii the perfect dog hilary sat long in the sun, watching the pale bright waters and many well-bred ducks circling about the shrubs, searching with their round, bright eyes for worms. between the bench where he was sitting and the spiked iron railings people passed continually--men, women, children of all kinds. every now and then a duck would stop and cast her knowing glance at these creatures, as though comparing the condition of their forms and plumage with her own. 'if i had had the breeding of you,' she seemed to say, 'i could have made a better fist of it than that. a worse-looking lot of ducks, take you all round. i never wish to see!' and with a quick but heavy movement of her shoulders, she would turn away and join her fellows. hilary, however, got small distraction from the ducks. the situation gradually developing was something of a dilemma to a man better acquainted with ideas than facts, with the trimming of words than with the shaping of events. he turned a queer, perplexed, almost quizzical eye on it. stephen had irritated him profoundly. he had such a way of pettifying things! yet, in truth, the affair would seem ridiculous enough to an ordinary observer. what would a man of sound common sense, like mr. purcey, think of it? why not, as stephen had suggested, drop it? here, however, hilary approached the marshy ground of feeling. to give up befriending a helpless girl the moment he found himself personally menaced was exceedingly distasteful. but would she be friendless? were there not, in stephen's words, a hundred things he did not know about her? had she not other resources? had she not a story? but here, too, he was hampered by his delicacy: one did not pry into the private lives of others! the matter, too, was hopelessly complicated by the domestic troubles of the hughs family. no conscientious man--and whatever hilary lacked, no one ever accused him of a lack of conscience--could put aside that aspect of the case. wandering among these reflections were his thoughts about bianca. she was his wife. however he might feel towards her now, whatever their relations, he must not put her in a false position. far from wishing to hurt her, he desired to preserve her, and everyone, from trouble and annoyance. he had told stephen that his interest in the girl was purely protective. but since the night when, leaning out into the moonlight, he heard the waggons coming in to covent garden market, a strange feeling had possessed him--the sensation of a man who lies, with a touch of fever on him, listening to the thrum of distant music--sensuous, not unpleasurable. those who saw him sitting there so quietly, with his face resting on his hand, imagined, no doubt, that he was wrestling with some deep, abstract proposition, some great thought to be given to mankind; for there was that about hilary which forced everyone to connect him instantly with the humaner arts. the sun began to leave the long pale waters. a nursemaid and two children came and sat down beside him. then it was that, underneath his seat, miranda found what she had been looking for all her life. it had no smell, made no movement, was pale-grey in colour, like herself. it had no hair that she could find; its tail was like her own; it took no liberties, was silent, had no passions, committed her to nothing. standing a few inches from its head, closer than she had ever been of her free will to any dog, she smelt its smellessness with a long, delicious snuffling, wrinkling up the skin on her forehead, and through her upturned eyes her little moonlight soul looked forth. 'how unlike you are,' she seemed to say, 'to all the other dogs i know! i would love to live with you. shall i ever find a dog like you again? "the latest-sterilised cloth--see white label underneath: s. d.!"' suddenly she slithered out her slender grey-pink tongue and licked its nose. the creature moved a little way and stopped. miranda saw that it had wheels. she lay down close to it, for she knew it was the perfect dog. hilary watched the little moonlight lady lying vigilant, affectionate, beside this perfect dog, who could not hurt her. she panted slightly, and her tongue showed between her lips. presently behind his seat he saw another idyll. a thin white spaniel had come running up. she lay down in the grass quite close, and three other dogs who followed, sat and looked at her. a poor, dirty little thing she was, who seemed as if she had not seen a home for days. her tongue lolled out, she panted piteously, and had no collar. every now and then she turned her eyes, but though they were so tired and desperate, there was a gleam in them. 'for all its thirst and hunger and exhaustion, this is life!' they seemed to say. the three dogs, panting too, and watching till it should be her pleasure to begin to run again, seemed with their moist, loving eyes to echo: 'this is life!' because of this idyll, people near were moving on. and suddenly the thin white spaniel rose, and, like a little harried ghost, slipped on amongst the trees, and the three dogs followed her. chapter xix bianca in her studio that afternoon blanca stood before her picture of the little model--the figure with parted pale-red lips and haunting, pale-blue eyes, gazing out of shadow into lamplight. she was frowning, as though resentful of a piece of work which had the power to kill her other pictures. what force had moved her to paint like that? what had she felt while the girl was standing before her, still as some pale flower placed in a cup of water? not love--there was no love in the presentment of that twilight figure; not hate--there was no hate in the painting of her dim appeal. yet in the picture of this shadow girl, between the gloom and glimmer, was visible a spirit, driving the artist on to create that which had the power to haunt the mind. blanca turned away and went up to a portrait of her husband, painted ten years before. she looked from one picture to the other, with eyes as hard and stabbing as the points of daggers. in the more poignant relationships of human life there is a point beyond which men and women do not quite truthfully analyse their feelings--they feel too much. it was blanca's fortune, too, to be endowed to excess with that quality which, of all others, most obscures the real significance of human issues. her pride had kept her back from hilary, till she had felt herself a failure. her pride had so revolted at that failure that she had led the way to utter estrangement. her pride had forced her to the attitude of one who says "live your own life; i should be ashamed to let you see that i care what happens between us." her pride had concealed from her the fact that beneath her veil of mocking liberality there was an essential woman tenacious of her dues, avid of affection and esteem. her pride prevented the world from guessing that there was anything amiss. her pride even prevented hilary from really knowing what had spoiled his married life--this ungovernable itch to be appreciated, governed by ungovernable pride. hundreds of times he had been baffled by the hedge round that disharmonic nature. with each failure something had shrivelled in him, till the very roots of his affection had dried up. she had worn out a man who, to judge from his actions and appearance, was naturally long-suffering to a fault. beneath all manner of kindness and consideration for each other--for their good taste, at all events, had never given way--this tragedy of a woman, who wanted to be loved, slowly killing the power of loving her in the man, had gone on year after year. it had ceased to be tragedy, as far as hilary was concerned; the nerve of his love for her was quite dead, slowly frozen out of him. it was still active tragedy with bianca, the nerve of whose jealous desire for his appreciation was not dead. her instinct, too, ironically informed her that, had he been a man with some brutality, a man who had set himself to ride and master her, instead of one too delicate, he might have trampled down the hedge. this gave her a secret grudge against him, a feeling that it was not she who was to blame. pride was bianca's fate, her flavour, and her charm. like a shadowy hill-side behind glamorous bars of waning sunlight, she was enveloped in smiling pride--mysterious; one thinks, even to herself. this pride of hers took part even in her many generous impulses, kind actions which she did rather secretly and scoffed at herself for doing. she scoffed at herself continually, even for putting on dresses of colours which hilary was fond of. she would not admit her longing to attract him. standing between those two pictures, pressing her mahl-stick against her bosom, she suggested somewhat the image of an italian saint forcing the dagger of martyrdom into her heart. that other person, who had once brought the thought of italy into cecilia's mind--the man hughs--had been for the last eight hours or so walking the streets, placing in a cart the refuses of life; nor had he at all suggested the aspect of one tortured by the passions of love and hate: for the first two hours he had led the horse without expression of any sort on his dark face, his neat soldier's figure garbed in the costume which had made "westminister" describe him as a "dreadful foreign-lookin' man." now and then he had spoken to the horse; save for those speeches, of no great importance, he had been silent. for the next two hours, following the cart, he had used a shovel, and still his square, short face, with little black moustache and still blacker eyes, had given no sign of conflict in his breast. so he had passed the day. apart from the fact, indeed, that men of any kind are not too given to expose private passions to public gaze, the circumstances of a life devoted from the age of twenty onwards to the service of his country, first as a soldier, now in the more defensive part of vestry scavenger, had given him a kind of gravity. life had cloaked him with passivity--the normal look of men whose bread and cheese depends on their not caring much for anything. had hughs allowed his inclinations play, or sought to express himself, he could hardly have been a private soldier; still less, on his retirement from that office with an honourable wound, would he have been selected out of many others as a vestry scavenger. for such an occupation as the lifting from the streets of the refuses of life--a calling greatly sought after, and, indeed, one of the few open to a man who had served his country--charm of manner, individuality, or the engaging quality of self-expression, were perhaps out of place. he had never been trained in the voicing of his thoughts, and, ever since he had been wounded, felt at times a kind of desperate looseness in his head. it was not, therefore, remarkable that he should be liable to misconstruction, more especially by those who had nothing in common with him, except that somewhat negligible factor, common humanity. the dallisons had misconstrued him as much as, but no more than, he had misconstrued them when, as "westminister" had informed hilary, he "went on against the gentry." he was, in fact, a ragged screen, a broken vessel, that let light through its holes. a glass or two of beer, the fumes of which his wounded head no longer dominated, and he at once became "dreadful foreign." unfortunately, it was his custom, on finishing his work, to call at the "green glory." on this particular afternoon the glass had become three, and in sallying forth he had felt a confused sense of duty urging him to visit the house where this girl for whom he had conceived his strange infatuation "carried on her games." the "no-tale-bearing" tradition of a soldier fought hard with this sense of duty; his feelings were mixed when he rang the bell and asked for mrs. dallison. habit, however, masked his face, and he stood before her at "attention," his black eyes lowered, clutching his peaked cap. blanca noted curiously the scar on the left side of his cropped black head. whatever hughs had to say was not said easily. "i've come," he began at last in a dogged voice, "to let you know. i never wanted to come into this house. i never wanted to see no one." blanca could see his lips and eyelids quivering in a way strangely out of keeping with his general stolidity. "my wife has told you tales of me, i suppose. she's told you i knock her about, i daresay. i don't care what she tells you or any o' the people that she works for. but this i'll say: i never touched her but she touched me first. look here! that's marks of hers!" and, drawing up his sleeve he showed a scratch on his sinewy tattooed forearm. "i've not come here about her; that's no business of anyone's." bianca turned towards her pictures. "well?" she said, "but what have you come about, please? you see i'm busy." hughs' face changed. its stolidity vanished, the eyes became as quick, passionate, and leaping as a dark torrent. he was more violently alive than she had ever seen a man. had it been a woman she would have felt--as cecilia had felt with mrs. hughs--the indecency, the impudence of this exhibition; but from that male violence the feminine in her derived a certain satisfaction. so in spring, when all seems lowering and grey, the hedges and trees suddenly flare out against the purple clouds, their twigs all in flame. the next moment that white glare is gone, the clouds are no longer purple, fiery light no longer quivers and leaps along the hedgerows. the passion in hughs' face was gone as soon. bianca felt a sense of disappointment, as though she could have wished her life held a little more of that. he stole a glance at her out of his dark eyes, which, when narrowed, had a velvety look, like the body of a wild bee, then jerked his thumb at the picture of the little model. "it's about her i come to speak." blanca faced him frigidly. "i have not the slightest wish to hear." hughs looked round, as though to find something that would help him to proceed; his eyes lighted on hilary's portrait. "ah! i'd put the two together if i was you," he said. blanca walked past him to the door. "either you or i must leave the room." the man's face was neither sullen now nor passionate, but simply miserable. "look here, lady," he said, "don't take it hard o' me coming here. i'm not out to do you a harm. i've got a wife of my own, and gawd knows i've enough to put up with from her about this girl. i'll be going in the water one of these days. it's him giving her them clothes that set me coming here." blanca opened the door. "please go," she said. "i'll go quiet enough," he muttered, and, hanging his head, walked out. having seen him through the side door out into the street, blanca went back to where she had been standing before he came. she found some difficulty in swallowing; for once there was no armour on her face. she stood there a long time without moving, then put the pictures back into their places and went down the little passage to the house. listening outside her father's door, she turned the handle quietly and went in. mr. stone, holding some sheets of paper out before him, was dictating to the little model, who was writing laboriously with her face close above her arm. she stopped at blanca's entrance. mr. stone did not stop, but, holding up his other hand, said: "i will take you through the last three pages again. follow!" blanca sat down at the window. her father's voice, so thin and slow, with each syllable disjointed from the other, rose like monotony itself. "'there were tra-cea-able indeed, in those days, certain rudi-men-tary at-tempts to f-u-s-e the classes....'" it went on unwavering, neither rising high nor falling low, as though the reader knew he had yet far to go, like a runner that brings great news across mountains, plains, and rivers. to blanca that thin voice might have been the customary sighing of the wind, her attention was so fast fixed on the girl, who sat following the words down the pages with her pen's point. mr. stone paused. "have you got the word 'insane'?" he asked. the little model raised her face. "yes, mr. stone." "strike it out." with his eyes fixed on the trees he stood breathing audibly. the little model moved her fingers, freeing them from cramp. blanca's curious, smiling scrutiny never left her, as though trying to fix an indelible image on her mind. there was something terrifying in that stare, cruel to herself, cruel to the girl. "the precise word," said mr. stone, "eludes me. leave a blank. follow!... 'neither that sweet fraternal interest of man in man, nor a curiosity in phenomena merely as phenomena....'" his voice pursued its tenuous path through spaces, frozen by the calm eternal presence of his beloved idea, which, like a golden moon, far and cold, presided glamorously above the thin track of words. and still the girl's pen-point traced his utterance across the pages: mr. stone paused again, and looking at his daughter as though surprised to see her sitting there, asked: "do you wish to speak to me, my dear?" blanca shook her head. "follow!" said mr. stone. but the little model's glance had stolen round to meet the scrutiny fixed on her. a look passed across her face which seemed to say: 'what have i done to you, that you should stare at me like this?' furtive and fascinated, her eyes remained fixed on bianca, while her hand moved, mechanically ticking the paragraphs. that silent duel of eyes went on--the woman's fixed, cruel, smiling; the girl's uncertain, resentful. neither of them heard a word that mr. stone was reading. they treated it as, from the beginning, life has treated philosophy--and to the end will treat it. mr. stone paused again, seeming to weigh his last sentences. "that, i think," he murmured to himself, "is true." and suddenly he addressed his daughter. "do you agree with me, my dear?" he was evidently waiting with anxiety for her answer, and the little silver hairs that straggled on his lean throat beneath his beard were clearly visible. "yes, father, i agree." "ah!" said mr. stone, "i am glad that you confirm me. i was anxious. follow!" bianca rose. burning spots of colour had settled in her cheeks. she went towards the door, and the little model pursued her figure with a long look, cringing, mutinous, and wistful. chapter xx the husband and the wife it was past six o'clock when hilary at length reached home, preceded a little by miranda, who almost felt within her the desire to eat. the lilac bushes, not yet in flower, were giving forth spicy fragrance. the sun still netted their top boughs, as with golden silk, and a blackbird, seated on a low branch of the acacia-tree, was summoning the evening. mr. stone, accompanied by the little model, dressed in her new clothes, was coming down the path. they were evidently going for a walk, for mr. stone wore his hat, old and soft and black, with a strong green tinge, and carried a paper parcel, which leaked crumbs of bread at every step. the girl grew very red. she held her head down, as though afraid of hilary's inspection of her new clothes. at the gate she suddenly looked up. his face said: 'yes, you look very nice!' and into her eyes a look leaped such as one may see in dogs' eyes lifted in adoration to their masters' faces. manifestly disconcerted, hilary turned to mr. stone. the old man was standing very still; a thought had evidently struck him. "i have not, i think," he said, "given enough consideration to the question whether force is absolutely, or only relatively, evil. if i saw a man ill-treat a cat, should i be justified in striking him?" accustomed to such divagations, hilary answered: "i don't know whether you would be justifed, but i believe that you would strike him." "i am not sure," said mr. stone. "we are going to feed the birds." the little model took the paper bag. "it's all dropping out," she said. from across the road she turned her head....'won't you come, too?' she seemed to say. but hilary passed rather hastily into the garden and shut the gate behind him. he sat in his study, with miranda near him, for fully an hour, without doing anything whatever, sunk in a strange, half-pleasurable torpor. at this hour he should have been working at his book; and the fact that his idleness did not trouble him might well have given him uneasiness. many thoughts passed through his mind, imaginings of things he had thought left behind forever--sensations and longings which to the normal eye of middle age are but dried forms hung in the museum of memory. they started up at the whip of the still-living youth, the lost wildness at the heart of every man. like the reviving flame of half-spent fires, longing for discovery leaped and flickered in hilary--to find out once again what things were like before he went down the hill of age. no trivial ghost was beckoning him; it was the ghost, with unseen face and rosy finger, which comes to men when youth has gone. miranda, hearing him so silent, rose. at this hour it was her master's habit to scratch paper. she, who seldom scratched anything, because it was not delicate, felt dimly that this was what he should be doing. she held up a slim foot and touched his knee. receiving no discouragement, she delicately sprang into his lap, and, forgetting for once her modesty, placed her arms on his chest, and licked his face all over. it was while receiving this embrace that hilary saw mr. stone and the little model returning across the garden. the old man was walking very rapidly, holding out the fragment of a broken stick. he was extremely pink. hilary went to meet them. "what's the matter, sir?" he said. "i cut him over the legs," said mr. stone. "i do not regret it"; and he walked on to his room. hilary turned to the little model. "it was a little dog. the man kicked it, and mr. stone hit him. he broke his stick. there were several men; they threatened us." she looked up at hilary. "i-i was frightened. oh! mr. dallison, isn't he funny?" "all heroes are funny," murmured hilary. "he wanted to hit them again, after his stick was broken. then a policeman came, and they all ran away." "that was quite as it should be," said hilary. "and what did you do?" perceiving that she had not as yet made much effect, the little model cast down her eyes. "i shouldn't have been frightened if you had been there!" "heavens!" muttered hilary. "mr. stone is far more valiant than i." "i don't think he is," she replied stubbornly, and again looked up at him. "well, good-night!" said hilary hastily. "you must run off...." that same evening, driving with his wife back from a long, dull dinner, hilary began: "i've something to say to you." an ironic "yes?" came from the other corner of the cab. "there is some trouble with the little model." "really!" "this man hughs has become infatuated with her. he has even said, i believe, that he was coming to see you." "what about?" "me." "and what is he going to say about you?" "i don't know; some vulgar gossip--nothing true." there was a silence, and in the darkness hilary moistened his dry lips. bianca spoke: "may i ask how you knew of this?" "cecilia told me." a curious noise, like a little strangled laugh, fell on hilary's ears. "i am very sorry," he muttered. presently bianca said: "it was good of you to tell me, considering that we go our own ways. what made you?" "i thought it right." "and--of course, the man might have come to me!" "that you need not have said." "one does not always say what one ought." "i have made the child a present of some clothes which she badly needed. so far as i know, that's all i've done!" "of course!" this wonderful "of course" acted on hilary like a tonic. he said dryly: "what do you wish me to do?" "i?" no gust of the east wind, making the young leaves curl and shiver, the gas jets flare and die down in their lamps, could so have nipped the flower of amity. through hilary's mind flashed stephen's almost imploring words: "oh, i wouldn't go to her! women are so funny!" he looked round. a blue gauze scarf was wrapped over his wife's dark head. there, in her corner, as far away from him as she could get, she was smiling. for a moment hilary had the sensation of being stiffed by fold on fold of that blue gauze scarf, as if he were doomed to drive for ever, suffocated, by the side of this woman who had killed his love for her. "you will do what you like, of course," she said suddenly. a desire to laugh seized hilary. "what do you wish me to do?" "you will do what you like, of course!" could civilised restraint and tolerance go further? "b." he said, with an effort, "the wife is jealous. we put the girl into that house--we ought to get her out." blanca's reply came slowly. "from the first," she said, "the girl has been your property; do what you like with her. i shall not meddle." "i am not in the habit of regarding people as my property." "no need to tell me that--i have known you twenty years." doors sometimes slam in the minds of the mildest and most restrained of men. "oh, very well! i have told you; you can see hughs when he comes--or not, as you like." "i have seen him." hilary smiled. "well, was his story very terrible?" "he told me no story." "how was that?" blanca suddenly sat forward, and threw back the blue scarf, as though she, too, were stifling. in her flushed face her eyes were bright as stars; her lips quivered. "is it likely," she said, "that i should listen? that's enough, please, of these people." hilary bowed. the cab, bearing them fast home, turned into the last short cut. this narrow street was full of men and women circling round barrows and lighted booths. the sound of coarse talk and laughter floated out into air thick with the reek of paraffin and the scent of frying fish. in every couple of those men and women hilary seemed to see the hughs, that other married couple, going home to wedded happiness above the little model's head. the cab turned out of the gay alley. "enough, please, of these people!" that same night, past one o'clock, he was roused from sleep by hearing bolts drawn back. he got up, hastened to the window, and looked out. at first he could distinguish nothing. the moonless night; like a dark bird, had nested in the garden; the sighing of the lilac bushes was the only sound. then, dimly, just below him, on the steps of the front door, he saw a figure standing. "who is that?" he called. the figure did not move. "who are you?" said hilary again. the figure raised its face, and by the gleam of his white beard hilary knew that it was mr. stone. "what is it, sir?" he said. "can i do anything?" "no," answered mr. stone. "i am listening to the wind. it has visited everyone to-night." and lifting his hand, he pointed out into the darkness. chapter xxi a day of rest cecilia's house in the old square was steeped from roof to basement in the peculiar atmosphere brought by sunday to houses whose inmates have no need of religion or of rest. neither she nor stephen had been to church since thyme was christened; they did not expect to go again till she was married, and they felt that even to go on these occasions was against their principles; but for the sake of other people's feelings they had made the sacrifice, and they meant to make it once more, when the time came. each sunday, therefore, everything tried to happen exactly as it happened on every other day, with indifferent success. this was because, for all cecilia's resolutions, a joint of beef and yorkshire pudding would appear on the luncheon-table, notwithstanding the fact that mr. stone--who came when he remembered that it was sunday--did not devour the higher mammals. every week, when it appeared, cecilia, who for some reason carved on sundays, regarded it with a frown. next week she would really discontinue it; but when next week came, there it was, with its complexion that reminded her so uncomfortably of cabmen. and she would partake of it with unexpected heartiness. something very old and deep, some horrible whole-hearted appetite, derived, no doubt, from mr. justice carfax, rose at that hour precisely every week to master her. having given thyme the second helping which she invariably took, cecilia, who detested carving, would look over the fearful joint at a piece of glass procured by her in venice, and at the daffodils standing upright in it, apparently without support. had it not been for this joint of beef, which had made itself smelt all the morning, and would make itself felt all the afternoon, it need never have come into her mind at all that it was sunday--and she would cut herself another slice. to have told cecilia that there was still a strain of the puritan in her would have been to occasion her some uneasiness, and provoked a strenuous denial; yet her way of observing sunday furnished indubitable evidence of this singular fact. she did more that day than any other. for, in the morning she invariably "cleared off" her correspondence; at lunch she carved the beef; after lunch she cleared off the novel or book on social questions she was reading; went to a concert, clearing off a call on the way back; and on first sundays--a great bore--stayed at home to clear off the friends who came to visit her. in the evening she went to some play or other, produced by societies for the benefit of persons compelled, like her, to keep a sunday with which they felt no sympathy. on this particular "first sunday," having made the circuit of her drawing-room, which extended the whole breadth of her house, and through long, low windows cut into leaded panes, looked out both back and front, she took up mr. balladyce's latest book. she sat, with her paper-knife pressed against the tiny hollow in her flushed cheek, and pretty little bits of lace and real old jewellery nestling close to her. and while she turned the pages of mr. balladyce's book thyme sat opposite in a bright blue frock, and turned the pages of darwin's work on earthworms. regarding her "little daughter," who was so much more solid than herself, cecilia's face wore a very sweet, faintly surprised expression. 'my kitten is a bonny thing,' it seemed to say. 'it is queer that i should have a thing so large.' outside in the square gardens a shower, the sunlight, and blossoms, were entangled. it was the time of year when all the world had kittens; young things were everywhere--soft, sweet, uncouth. cecilia felt this in her heart. it brought depth into her bright, quick eyes. what a secret satisfaction it was that she had once so far committed herself as to have borne a child! what a queer vague feeling she sometimes experienced in the spring--almost amounting to a desire to bear another! so one may mark the warm eye of a staid mare, following with her gaze the first strayings of her foal. 'i must get used to it,' she seems to say. 'i certainly do miss the little creature, though i used to threaten her with my hoofs, to show i couldn't be bullied by anything of that age. and there she goes! ah, well!' remembering suddenly, however, that she was sitting there to clear off mr. balladyce, because it was so necessary to keep up with what he wrote, cecilia dropped her gaze to the page before her; and instantly, by uncomfortable chance, not the choice pastures of mr. balladyce appeared, where women might browse at leisure, but a vision of the little model. she had not thought of her for quite an hour; she had tired herself out with thinking-not, indeed, of her, but of all that hinged on her, ever since stephen had spoken of his talk with hilary. things hilary had said seemed to cecilia's delicate and rather timid soul so ominous, so unlike himself. was there really going to be complete disruption between him and bianca--worse, an ugly scandal? she, who knew her sister better, perhaps, than anyone, remembered from schoolroom days bianca's moody violence when anything had occurred to wound her--remembered, too, the long fits of brooding that followed. this affair, which she had tried to persuade herself was exaggerated, loomed up larger than ever. it was not an isolated squib; it was a lighted match held to a train of gunpowder. this girl of the people, coming from who knew where, destined for who knew what--this young, not very beautiful, not even clever child, with nothing but a sort of queer haunting naivete' to give her charm--might even be a finger used by fate! cecilia sat very still before that sudden vision of the girl. there was no staid mare to guard that foal with the dark devotion of her eye. there was no wise whinnying to answer back those tiny whinnies; no long look round to watch the little creature nodding to sleep on its thin trembling legs in the hot sunlight; no ears to prick up and hoofs to stamp at the approach of other living things. these thoughts passed through cecilia's mind and were gone, being too far and pale to stay. turning the page which she had not been reading, she heaved a sigh. thyme sighed also. "these worms are fearfully interesting," she said. "is anybody coming in this afternoon?" "mrs. tallents smallpeace was going to bring a young man in, a signor pozzi-egregio pozzi, or some such name. she says he is the coming pianist." cecilia's face was spiced with faint amusement. some strain of her breeding (the carfax strain, no doubt) still heard such names and greeted such proclivities with an inclination to derision. thyme snatched up her book. "well," she said, "i shall be in the attic. if anyone interesting comes you might send up to me." she stood, luxuriously stretching, and turning slowly round in a streak of sunlight so as to bathe her body in it. then, with a long soft yawn, she flung up her chin till the sun streamed on her face. her eyelashes rested on cheeks already faintly browned; her lips were parted; little shivers of delight ran down her; her chestnut hair glowed, burnished by the kisses of the sun. 'ah!' cecilia thought, 'if that other girl were like this, now, i could understand well enough!' "oh, lord!" said thyme, "there they are!" she flew towards the door. "my dear," murmured cecilia, "if you must go, do please tell father." a minute later mrs. tallents smallpeace came in, followed by a young man with an interesting, pale face and a crop of dusky hair. let us consider for a minute the not infrequent case of a youth cursed with an italian mother and a father of the name of potts, who had baptised him william. had he emanated from the lower classes, he might with impunity have ground an organ under the name of bill; but springing from the bourgeoisie, and playing chopin at the age of four, his friends had been confronted with a problem of no mean difficulty. heaven, on the threshold of his career, had intervened to solve it. hovering, as it were, with one leg raised before the gladiatorial arena of musical london, where all were waiting to turn their thumbs down on the figure of the native potts, he had received a letter from his mother's birthplace. it was inscribed: "egregio signor pozzi." he was saved. by the simple inversion of the first two words, the substitution of z's for t's, without so fortunately making any difference in the sound, and the retention of that i, all london knew him now to be the rising pianist. he was a quiet, well-mannered youth, invaluable just then to mrs. tallents smallpeace, a woman never happy unless slightly leading a genius in strings. cecilia, while engaging them to right and left in her half-sympathetic, faintly mocking way--as if doubting whether they really wanted to see her or she them--heard a word of fear. "mr. purcey." 'oh heaven!' she thought. mr. purcey, whose a.i. damyer could be heard outside, advanced in his direct and simple way. "i thought i'd give my car a run," he said. "how's your sister?" and seeing mrs. tallents smallpeace, he added: "how do you do? we met the other day." "we did," said mrs. tallents smallpeace, whose little eyes were sparkling. "we talked about the poor, do you remember?" mr. purcey, a sensitive man if you could get through his skin, gave her a shrewd look. 'i don't quite cotton to this woman,' he seemed saying; 'there's a laugh about her i don't like.' "ah! yes--you were tellin' me about them." "oh, mr. purcey, but you had heard of them, you remember!" mr. purcey made a movement of his face which caused it to seem all jaw. it was a sort of unconscious declaration of a somewhat formidable character. so one may see bulldogs, those amiable animals, suddenly disclose their tenacity. "it's rather a blue subject," he said bluntly. something in cecilia fluttered at those words. it was like the saying of a healthy man looking at a box of pills which he did not mean to open. why could not she and stephen keep that lid on, too? and at this moment, to her deep astonishment, stephen entered. she had sent for him, it is true, but had never expected he would come. his entrance, indeed, requires explanation. feeling, as he said, a little "off colour," stephen had not gone to richmond to play golf. he had spent the day instead in the company of his pipe and those ancient coins, of which he had the best collection of any man he had ever met. his thoughts had wandered from them, more than he thought proper, to hilary and that girl. he had felt from the beginning that he was so much more the man to deal with an affair like this than poor old hilary. when, therefore, thyme put her head into his study and said, "father, mrs. tallents smallpeace!" he had first thought, 'that busybody!' and then, 'i wonder--perhaps i'd better go and see if i can get anything out of her.' in considering stephen's attitude towards a woman so firmly embedded in the various social movements of the day, it must be remembered that he represented that large class of men who, unhappily too cultivated to put aside, like mr. purcey, all blue subjects, or deny the need for movements to make them less blue, still could not move, for fear of being out of order. he was also temperamentally distrustful of anything too feminine; and mrs. tallents smallpeace was undoubtedly extremely feminine. her merit, in his eyes, consisted of her attachment to societies. so long as mankind worked through societies, stephen, who knew the power of rules and minute books, did not despair of too little progress being made. he sat down beside her, and turned the conversation on her chief work--"the maids in peril." searching his face with those eyes so like little black bees sipping honey from all the flowers that grew, mrs. tallents smallpeace said: "why don't you get your wife to take an interest in our work?" to stephen this question was naturally both unexpected and annoying, one's wife being the last person he wished to interest in other people's movements. he kept his head. "ah well!" he said, "we haven't all got a talent for that sort of thing." the voice of mr. purcey travelled suddenly across the room. "do tell me! how do you go to work to worm things out of them?" mrs. tallents smallpeace, prone to laughter, bubbled. "oh, that is such a delicious expression, mr. purcey! i almost think we ought to use it in our report. thank you!" mr. purcey bowed. "not at all!" he said. mrs. tallents smallpeace turned again to stephen. "we have our trained inquirers. that is the advantage of societies such as ours; so that we don't personally have the unpleasantness. some cases do baffle everybody. it's such very delicate work." "you sometimes find you let in a rotter?" said mr. purcey, "or, i should say, a rotter lets you in! ha, ha!" mrs. tallents smallpeace's eyes flew deliciously down his figure. "not often," she said; and turning rather markedly once more to stephen: "have you any special case that you are interested in, mr. dallison?" stephen consulted cecilia with one of those masculine half-glances so discreet that mrs. tallents smallpeace intercepted it without looking up. she found it rather harder to catch cecilia's reply, but she caught it before stephen did. it was, 'you'd better wait, perhaps,' conveyed by a tiny raising of the left eyebrow and a slight movement to the right of the lower lip. putting two and two together, she felt within her bones that they were thinking of the little model. and she remembered the interesting moment in the omnibus when that attractive-looking man had got out so hastily. there was no danger whatever from mrs. tallents smallpeace feeling anything. the circle in which she moved did not now talk scandal, or, indeed, allude to matters of that sort without deep sympathy; and in the second place she was really far too good a fellow, with far too dear a love of life, to interfere with anybody else's love of it. at the same time it was interesting. "that little model, now," she said, "what about her?" "is that the girl i saw?" broke in mr. purcey, with his accustomed shrewdness. stephen gave him the look with which he was accustomed to curdle the blood of persons who gave evidence before commissions. 'this fellow is impossible,' he thought. the little black bees flying below mrs. tallents smallpeace's dark hair, done in the early italian fashion, tranquilly sucked honey from stephen's face. "she seemed to me," she answered, "such a very likely type." "ah!" murmured stephen, "there would be, i suppose, a danger---" and he looked angrily at cecilia. without ceasing to converse with mr. purcey and signor egregio pozzi, she moved her left eye upwards. mrs. tallents smallpeace understood this to mean: 'be frank, and guarded!' stephen, however, interpreted it otherwise. to him it signified: 'what the deuce do you look at me for?' and he felt justly hurt. he therefore said abruptly: "what would you do in a case like that?" mrs. tallents smallpeace, sliding her face sideways, with a really charming little smile, asked softly: "in a case like what?" and her little eyes fled to thyme, who had slipped into the room, and was whispering to her mother. cecilia rose. "you know my daughter," she said. "will you excuse me just a minute? i'm so very sorry." she glided towards the door, and threw a flying look back. it was one of those social moments precious to those who are escaping them. mrs. tallents smallpeace was smiling, stephen frowning at his boots; mr. purcey stared admiringly at thyme, and thyme, sitting very upright, was calmly regarding the unfortunate egregio pozzi, who apparently could not bring himself to speak. when cecilia found herself outside, she stood still a moment to compose her nerves. thyme had told her that hilary was in the dining-room, and wanted specially to see her. as in most women of her class and bringing-up, cecilia's qualities of reticence and subtlety, the delicate treading of her spirit, were seen to advantage in a situation such as this. unlike stephen, who had shown at once that he had something on his mind, she received hilary with that exact shade of friendly, intimate, yet cool affection long established by her as the proper manner towards her husband's brother. it was not quite sisterly, but it was very nearly so. it seemed to say: 'we understand each other as far as it is right and fitting that we should; we even sympathise with the difficulties we have each of us experienced in marrying the other's sister or brother, as the case may be. we know the worst. and we like to see each other, too, because there are bars between us, which make it almost piquant.' giving him her soft little hand, she began at once to talk of things farthest from her heart. she saw that she was deceiving hilary, and this feather in the cap of her subtlety gave her pleasure. but her nerves fluttered at once when he said: "i want to speak to you, cis. you know that stephen and i had a talk yesterday, i suppose?" cecilia nodded. "i have spoken to b.!" "oh!" cecilia murmured. she longed to ask what bianca had said, but did not dare, for hilary had his armour on, the retired, ironical look he always wore when any subject was broached for which he was too sensitive. she waited. "the whole thing is distasteful to me," he said; "but i must do something for this child. i can't leave her completely in the lurch." cecilia had an inspiration. "hilary," she said softly, "mrs. tallents smallpeace is in the drawing-room. she was just speaking of the girl to stephen. won't you come in, and arrange with her quietly?" hilary looked at his sister-in-law for a moment without speaking, then said: "i draw the line there. no, thank you. i'll see this through myself." cecilia fluttered out: "oh, but, hilary, what do you mean?" "i am going to put an end to it." it needed all cecilia's subtlety to hide her consternation. end to what? did he mean that he and b. were going to separate? "i won't have all this vulgar gossip about the poor girl. i shall go and find another room for her." cecilia sighed with relief. "would you-would you like me to come too, hilary?" "it's very good of you," said hilary dryly. "my actions appear to rouse suspicions." cecilia blushed. "oh, that's absurd! still, no one could think anything if i come with you. hilary, have you thought that if she continues coming to father---" "i shall tell her that she mustn't!" cecilia's heart gave two thumps, the first with pleasure, the second with sympathy. "it will be horrid for you," she said. "you hate doing anything of that sort." hilary nodded. "but i'm afraid it's the only way," went on cecilia, rather hastily. "and, of course, it will be no good saying anything to father; one must simply let him suppose that she has got tired of it." again hilary nodded. "he will think it very funny,", murmured cecilia pensively. "oh, and have you thought that taking her away from where she is will only make those people talk the more?" hilary shrugged his shoulders. "it may make that man furious," cecilia added. "it will." "oh, but then, of course, if you don't see her afterwards, they will have no--no excuse at all." "i shall not see her afterwards," said hilary, "if i can avoid it." cecilia looked at him. "it's very sweet of you, hilary." "what is sweet?" asked hilary stonily. "why, to take all this trouble. is it really necessary for you to do anything?" but looking in his face, she went on hastily: "yes, yes, it's best. let's go at once. oh, those people in the drawing-room! do wait ten minutes." a little later, running up to put her hat on, she wondered why it was that hilary always made her want to comfort him. stephen never affected her like this. having little or no notion where to go, they walked in the direction of bayswater. to place the park between hound street and the little model was the first essential. on arriving at the other side of the broad walk, they made instinctively away from every sight of green. in a long, grey street of dismally respectable appearance they found what they were looking for, a bed-sitting room furnished, advertised on a card in the window. the door was opened by the landlady, a tall woman of narrow build, with a west-country accent, and a rather hungry sweetness running through her hardness. they stood talking with her in a passage, whose oilcloth of variegated pattern emitted a faint odour. the staircase could be seen climbing steeply up past walls covered with a shining paper cut by narrow red lines into small yellow squares. an almanack, of so floral a design that nobody would surely want to steal it, hung on the wall; below it was an umbrella stand without umbrellas. the dim little passage led past two grimly closed doors painted rusty red to two half-open doors with dull glass in their panels. outside, in the street from which they had mounted by stone steps, a shower of sleet had begun to fall. hilary shut the door, but the cold spirit of that shower had already slipped into the bleak, narrow house. "this is the apartment, m'm," said the landlady, opening the first of the rusty-coloured doors. the room, which had a paper of blue roses on a yellow ground, was separated from another room by double doors. "i let the rooms together sometimes, but just now that room's taken--a young gentleman in the city; that's why i'm able to let this cheap." cecilia looked at hilary. "i hardly think---" the landlady quickly turned the handles of the doors, showing that they would not open. "i keep the key," she said. "there's a bolt on both sides." reassured, cecilia walked round the room as far as this was possible, for it was practically all furniture. there was the same little wrinkle across her nose as across thyme's nose when she spoke of hound street. suddenly she caught sight of hilary. he was standing with his back against the door. on his face was a strange and bitter look, such as a man might have on seeing the face of ugliness herself, feeling that she was not only without him, but within--a universal spirit; the look of a man who had thought that he was chivalrous, and found that he was not; of a leader about to give an order that he would not himself have executed. seeing that look, cecilia said with some haste: "it's all very nice and clean; it will do very well, i think. seven shillings a week, i believe you said. we will take it for a fortnight, at all events." the first glimmer of a smile appeared on the landlady's grim face, with its hungry eyes, sweetened by patience. "when would she be coming in?" she asked. "when do you think, hilary?" "i don't know," muttered hilary. "the sooner the better--if it must be. to-morrow, or the day after." and with one look at the bed, covered by a piece of cheap red-and-yellow tasselled tapestry, he went out into the street. the shower was over, but the house faced north, and no sun was shining on it. chapter xxii hilary puts an end to it like flies caught among the impalpable and smoky threads of cobwebs, so men struggle in the webs of their own natures, giving here a start, there a pitiful small jerking, long sustained, and failing into stillness. enmeshed they were born, enmeshed they die, fighting according to their strength to the end; to fight in the hope of freedom, their joy; to die, not knowing they are beaten, their reward. nothing, too, is more to be remarked than the manner in which life devises for each man the particular dilemmas most suited to his nature; that which to the man of gross, decided, or fanatic turn of mind appears a simple sum, to the man of delicate and speculative temper seems to have no answer. so it was with hilary in that special web wherein his spirit struggled, sunrise unto sunset, and by moonlight afterward. inclination, and the circumstances of a life which had never forced him to grips with either men or women, had detached him from the necessity for giving or taking orders. he had almost lost the faculty. life had been a picture with blurred outlines melting into a softly shaded whole. not for years had anything seemed to him quite a case for "yes" or "no." it had been his creed, his delight, his business, too, to try and put himself in everybody's place, so that now there were but few places where he did not, speculatively speaking, feel at home. putting himself into the little model's place gave him but small delight. making due allowance for the sentiment men naturally import into their appreciation of the lives of women, his conception of her place was doubtless not so very wrong. here was a child, barely twenty years of age, country bred, neither a lady nor quite a working-girl, without a home or relatives, according to her own account--at all events, without those who were disposed to help her--without apparently any sort of friend; helpless by nature, and whose profession required a more than common wariness--this girl he was proposing to set quite adrift again by cutting through the single slender rope which tethered her. it was like digging up a little rose-tree planted with one's own hands in some poor shelter, just when it had taken root, and setting it where the full winds would beat against it. to do so brusque and, as it seemed to hilary, so inhumane a thing was foreign to his nature. there was also the little matter of that touch of fever--the distant music he had been hearing since the waggons came in to covent garden. with a feeling that was almost misery, therefore, he waited for her on monday afternoon, walking to and fro in his study, where all the walls were white, and all the woodwork coloured like the leaf of a cigar; where the books were that colour too, in hilary's special deerskin binding; where there were no flowers nor any sunlight coming through the windows, but plenty of sheets of paper--a room which youth seemed to have left for ever, the room of middle age! he called her in with the intention of at once saying what he had to say, and getting it over in the fewest words. but he had not reckoned fully either with his own nature or with woman's instinct. nor had he allowed--being, for all his learning, perhaps because of it, singularly unable to gauge the effects of simple actions--for the proprietary relations he had established in the girl's mind by giving her those clothes. as a dog whose master has it in his mind to go away from him, stands gazing up with tragic inquiry in his eyes, scenting to his soul that coming cruelty--as a dog thus soon to be bereaved, so stood the little model. by the pose of every limb, and a fixed gaze bright as if tears were behind it, and by a sort of trembling, she seemed to say: 'i know why you have sent for me.' when hilary saw her stand like that he felt as a man might when told to flog his fellow-creature. to gain time he asked her what she did with herself all day. the little model evidently tried to tell herself that her foreboding had been needless. now that the mornings were nice--she said with some animation--she got up much earlier, and did her needlework first thing; she then "did out" the room. there were mouse-holes in her room, and she had bought a trap. she had caught a mouse last night. she hadn't liked to kill it; she had put it in a tin box, and let it go when she went out. quick to see that hilary was interested in this, as well he might be, she told him that she could not bear to see cats hungry or lost dogs, especially lost dogs, and she described to him one that she had seen. she had not liked to tell a policeman; they stared so hard. those words were of strange omen, and hilary turned his head away. the little model, perceiving that she had made an effect of some sort, tried to deepen it. she had heard they did all sorts of things to people--but, seeing at once from hilary's face that she was not improving her effect, she broke off suddenly, and hastily began to tell him of her breakfast, of how comfortable she was now she had got her clothes; how she liked her room; how old mr. creed was very funny, never taking any notice of her when he met her in the morning. then followed a minute account of where she had been trying to get work; of an engagement promised; mr. lennard, too, still wanted her to pose to him. at this she gashed a look at hilary, then cast down her eyes. she could get plenty of work if she began that way. but she hadn't, because he had told her not, and, of course, she didn't want to; she liked coming to mr. stone so much. and she got on very well, and she liked london, and she liked the shops. she mentioned neither hughs nor mrs. hughs. in all this rigmarole, told with such obvious purpose, stolidity was strangely mingled with almost cunning quickness to see the effect made; but the dog-like devotion was never quite out of her eyes when they were fixed on hilary. this look got through the weakest places in what little armour nature had bestowed on him. it touched one of the least conceited and most amiable of men profoundly. he felt it an honour that anything so young as this should regard him in that way. he had always tried to keep out of his mind that which might have given him the key to her special feeling for himself--those words of the painter of still life: "she's got a story of some sort." but it flashed across him suddenly like an inspiration: if her story were the simplest of all stories--the direct, rather brutal, love affair of a village boy and girl--would not she, naturally given to surrender, be forced this time to the very antithesis of that young animal amour which had brought on her such, sharp consequences? but, wherever her devotion came from, it seemed to hilary the grossest violation of the feelings of a gentleman to treat it ungratefully. yet it was as if for the purpose of saying, "you are a nuisance to me, or worse!" that he had asked her to his study. her presence had hitherto chiefly roused in him the half-amused, half-tender feelings of one who strokes a foal or calf, watching its soft uncouthness; now, about to say good-bye to her, there was the question of whether that was the only feeling. miranda, stealing out between her master and his visitor, growled. the little model, who was stroking a china ash-tray with her ungloved, inky fingers, muttered, with a smile, half pathetic, half cynical: "she doesn't like me! she knows i don't belong here. she hates me to come. she's jealous!" hilary said abruptly: "tell me! have you made any friends since you've been in london?" the girl flashed a look at him that said: 'could i make you jealous?' then, as though guilty of afar too daring thought, drooped her head, and answered: "no." "not one?" the little model repeated almost passionately: "no. i don't want any friends; i only want to be let alone." hilary began speaking rapidly. "but these hughs have not left you alone. i told you, i thought you ought to move; i've taken another room for you quite away from them. leave your furniture with a week's rent, and take your trunk quietly away to-morrow in a cab without saying a word to anyone. this is the new address, and here's the money for your expenses. they're dangerous for you, those people." the little model muttered desperately: "but i don't care what they do!" hilary went on: "listen! you mustn't come here again, or the man will trace you. we will take care you have what's necessary till you can get other work." the little model looked up at him without a word. now that the thin link which bound her to some sort of household gods had snapped, all the patience and submission bred in her by village life, by the hard facts of her story, and by these last months in london, served her well enough. she made no fuss. hilary saw a tear roll down her cheek. he turned his head away, and said: "don't cry, my child!" quite obediently the little model swallowed the tear. a thought seemed to strike her: "but i could see you, mr. dallison, couldn't i, sometimes?" seeing from his face that this was not in the programme, she stood silent again, looking up at him. it was a little difficult for hilary to say: "i can't see you because my wife is jealous!" it was cruel to tell her: "i don't want to see you!" besides, it was not true. "you'll soon be making friends," he said at last, "and you can always write to me"; and with a queer smile he added: "you're only just beginning life; you mustn't take these things to heart; you'll find plenty of people better able to advise and help you than ever i shall be!" the little model answered this by seizing his hand with both of hers. she dropped it again at once, as if guilty of presumption, and stood with her head bent. hilary, looking down on the little hat which, by his special wish, contained no feathers, felt a lump rise in his throat. "it's funny," he said; "i don't know your christian name." "ivy," muttered the little model. "ivy! well, i'll write to you. but you must promise me to do exactly as i said." the girl looked up; her face was almost ugly--like a child's in whom a storm of feeling is repressed. "promise!" repeated hilary. with a bitter droop of her lower lip, she nodded, and suddenly put her hand to her heart. that action, of which she was clearly unconscious, so naively, so almost automatically was it done, nearly put an end to hilary's determination. "now you must go," he said. the little model choked, grew very red, and then quite white. "aren't i even to say good-bye to mr. stone?" hilary shook his head. "he'll miss me," she said desperately. "he will. i know he will!" "so shall i," said hilary. "we can't help that." the little model drew herself up to her full height; her breast heaved beneath the clothes which had made her hilary's. she was very like "the shadow" at that moment, as though whatever hilary might do there she would be--a little ghost, the spirit of the helpless submerged world, for ever haunting with its dumb appeal the minds of men. "give me your hand," said hilary. the little model put out her not too white, small hand. it was soft, clinging: and as hot as fire. "good-bye, my dear, and bless you!" the little model gave him a look with who-knows-what of reproach in it, and, faithful to her training, went submissively away. hilary did not look after her, but, standing by the lofty mantelpiece above the ashes of the fire, rested his forehead on his arm. not even a fly's buzzing broke the stillness. there was sound for all that-not of distant music, but of blood beating in his ears and temples. chapter xxiii the "book of universal brotherhood" it is fitting that a few words should be said about the writer of the "book of universal brotherhood." sylvanus stone, having graduated very highly at the london university, had been appointed at an early age lecturer to more than one public institution. he had soon received the professorial robes due to a man of his profound learning in the natural sciences, and from that time till he was seventy his life had flowed on in one continual round of lectures, addresses, disquisitions, and arguments on the subjects in which he was a specialist. at the age of seventy, long after his wife's death and the marriages of his three children, he had for some time been living by himself, when a very serious illness--the result of liberties taken with an iron constitution by a single mind--prostrated him. during the long convalescence following this illness the power of contemplation, which the professor had up to then given to natural science, began to fix itself on life at large. but the mind which had made of natural science an idea, a passion, was not content with vague reflections on life. slowly, subtly, with irresistible centrifugal force--with a force which perhaps it would not have acquired but for that illness--the idea, the passion of universal brotherhood had sucked into itself all his errant wonderings on the riddle of existence. the single mind of this old man, divorced by illness from his previous existence, pensioned and permanently shelved, began to worship a new star, that with every week and month and year grew brighter, till all other stars had lost their glimmer and died out. at the age of seventy-four he had begun his book. under the spell of his subject and of advancing age, his extreme inattention to passing matters became rapidly accentuated. his figure had become almost too publicly conspicuous before bianca, finding him one day seated on the roof of his lonely little top-story flat, the better to contemplate his darling universe, had inveigled him home with her, and installed him in a room in her own house. after the first day or two he had not noticed any change to speak of. his habits in his new home were soon formed, and once formed, they varied not at all; for he admitted into his life nothing which took him from the writing of his book. on the afternoon following hilary's dismissal of the little model, being disappointed of his amanuensis, mr. stone had waited for an hour, reading his pages over and over to himself. he had then done his exercises. at the usual time for tea he had sat down, and, with his cup and brown bread-and-butter alternately at his lips, had looked long and fixedly at the place where the girl was wont to sit. having finished, he left the room and went about the house. he found no one but miranda, who, seated in the passage leading to the studio, was trying to keep one eye on the absence of her master and the other on the absence of her mistress. she joined mr. stone, maintaining a respect-compelling interval behind him when he went before, and before him when he went behind. when they had finished hunting, mr. stone went down to the garden gate. here bianca found him presently motionless, without a hat, in the full sun, craning his white head in the direction from which he knew the little model habitually came. the mistress of the house was herself returning from her annual visit to the royal academy, where she still went, as dogs, from some perverted sense, will go and sniff round other dogs to whom they have long taken a dislike. a loose-hanging veil depended from her mushroom-shaped and coloured hat. her eyes were brightened by her visit. mr. stone soon seemed to take in who she was, and stood regarding her a minute without speaking. his attitude towards his daughters was rather like that of an old drake towards two swans whom he has inadvertently begotten--there was inquiry in it, disapproval, admiration, and faint surprise. "why has she not come?" he said. bianca winced behind her veil. "have you asked hilary?" "i cannot find him," answered mr. stone. something about his patient stooping figure and white head, on which the sunlight was falling, made bianca slip her hand through his arm. "come in, dad. i'll do your copying." mr. stone looked at her intently, and shook his head. "it would be against my principles; i cannot take an unpaid service. but if you would come, my dear, i should like to read to you. it is stimulating." at that request bianca's eyes grew dim. pressing mr. stone's shaggy arm against her breast, she moved with him towards the house. "i think i may have written something that will interest you," mr. stone said, as they went along. "i am sure you have," bianca murmured. "it is universal," said mr. stone; "it concerns birth. sit at the table. i will begin, as usual, where i left off yesterday." bianca took the little model's seat, resting her chin on her hand, as motionless as any of the statues she had just been viewing. it almost seemed as if mr. stone were feeling nervous. he twice arranged his papers; cleared his throat; then, lifting a sheet suddenly, took three steps, turned his back on her, and began to read. "'in that slow, incessant change of form to form, called life, men, made spasmodic by perpetual action, had seized on a certain moment, no more intrinsically notable than any other moment, and had called it birth. this habit of honouring one single instant of the universal process to the disadvantage of all the other instants had done more, perhaps, than anything to obfuscate the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux. as well might such as watch the process of the green, unfolding earth, emerging from the brumous arms of winter, isolate a single day and call it spring. in the tides of rhythm by which the change of form to form was governed'"--mr. stone's voice, which had till then been but a thin, husky murmur, gradually grew louder and louder, as though he were addressing a great concourse--"'the golden universal haze in which men should have flown like bright wing-beats round the sun gave place to the parasitic halo which every man derived from the glorifying of his own nativity. to this primary mistake could be traced his intensely personal philosophy. slowly but surely there had dried up in his heart the wish to be his brother.'" he stopped reading suddenly. "i see him coming in," he said. the next minute the door opened, and hilary entered. "she has not come," said mr. stone; and bianca murmured: "we miss her!" "her eyes," said mr. stone, "have a peculiar look; they help me to see into the future. i have noticed the same look in the eyes of female dogs." with a little laugh, bianca murmured again: "that is good!" "there is one virtue in dogs," said hilary, "which human beings lack --they are incapable of mockery." but bianca's lips, parted, indrawn, seemed saying: 'you ask too much! i no longer attract you. am i to sympathise in the attraction this common little girl has for you?' mr. stone's gaze was fixed intently on the wall. "the dog," he said, "has lost much of its primordial character." and, moving to his desk, he took up his quill pen. hilary and bianca made no sound, nor did they look at one another; and in this silence, so much more full of meaning than any talk, the scratching of the quill went on. mr. stone put it down at last, and, seeing two persons in the room, read: "'looking back at those days when the doctrine of evolution had reached its pinnacle, one sees how the human mind, by its habit of continual crystallisations, had destroyed all the meaning of the process. witness, for example, that sterile phenomenon, the pagoda of 'caste'! like this chinese building, so was society then formed. men were living there in layers, as divided from each other, class from class---'" he took up the quill, and again began to write. "you understand, i suppose," said hilary in a low voice, "that she has been told not to come?" bianca moved her shoulders. with a most unwonted look of anger, he added: "is it within the scope of your generosity to credit me with the desire to meet your wishes?" bianca's answer was a laugh so strangely hard, so cruelly bitter, that hilary involuntarily turned, as though to retrieve the sound before it reached the old man's ears. mr. stone had laid down his pen. "i shall write no more to-day," he said; "i have lost my feeling--i am not myself." he spoke in a voice unlike his own. very tired and worn his old figure looked; as some lean horse, whose sun has set, stands with drooped head, the hollows in his neck showing under his straggling mane. and suddenly, evidently quite oblivious that he had any audience, he spoke: "o great universe, i am an old man of a faint spirit, with no singleness of purpose. help me to write on--help me to write a book such as the world has never seen!" a dead silence followed that strange prayer; then bianca, with tears rolling down her face, got up and rushed out of the room. mr. stone came to himself. his mute, white face had suddenly grown scared and pink. he looked at hilary. "i fear that i forgot myself. have i said anything peculiar?" not feeling certain of his voice, hilary shook his head, and he, too, moved towards the door. chapter xxiv shadowland "each of us has a shadow in those places--in those streets." that saying of mr. stone's, which--like so many of his sayings--had travelled forth to beat the air, might have seemed, even "in those days," not altogether without meaning to anyone who looked into the room of mr. joshua creed in hound street. this aged butler lay in bed waiting for the inevitable striking of a small alarum clock placed in the very centre of his mantelpiece. flanking that round and ruthless arbiter, which drove him day by day to stand up on feet whose time had come to rest, were the effigies of his past triumphs. on the one hand, in a papier-mache frame, slightly tinged with smuts, stood a portrait of the "honorable bateson," in the uniform of his yeomanry. creed's former master's face wore that dare-devil look with which he had been wont to say: "d---n it, creed! lend me a pound. i've got no money!" on the other hand, in a green frame which had once been plush, and covered by a glass with a crack in the left-hand corner, was a portrait of the dowager countess of glengower, as this former mistress of his appeared, conceived by the local photographer, laying the foundation-stone of the local almshouse. during the wreck of creed's career, which, following on a lengthy illness, had preceded his salvation by the westminster gazette, these two household gods had lain at the bottom of an old tin trunk, in the possession of the keeper of a lodging-house, waiting to be bailed out. the "honorable bateson" was now dead, nor had he paid as yet the pounds he had borrowed. lady glengower, too, was in heaven, remembering that she had forgotten all her servants in her will. he who had served them was still alive, and his first thought, when he had secured his post on the "westminister," was to save enough to rescue them from a dishonourable confinement. it had taken him six months. he had found them keeping company with three pairs of woollen drawers; an old but respectable black tail-coat; a plaid cravat; a bible; four socks, two of which had toes and two of which had heels; some darning-cotton and a needle; a pair of elastic-sided boots; a comb and a sprig of white heather, wrapped up with a little piece of shaving-soap and two pipe-cleaners in a bit of the globe newspaper; also two collars, whose lofty points, separated by gaps of quite two inches, had been wont to reach their master's gills; the small alarum clock aforesaid; and a tiepin formed in the likeness of queen victoria at the date of her first jubilee. how many times had he not gone in thought over those stores of treasure while he was parted from them! how many times since they had come back to him had he not pondered with a slow but deathless anger on the absence of a certain shirt, which he could have sworn had been amongst them. but now he lay in bed waiting to hear the clock go off, with his old bristly chin beneath the bedclothes, and his old discoloured nose above. he was thinking the thoughts which usually came into his mind about this hour--that mrs. hughs ought not to scrape the butter off his bread for breakfast in the way she did; that she ought to take that sixpence off his rent; that the man who brought his late editions in the cart ought to be earlier, letting 'that man' get his pell mells off before him, when he himself would be having the one chance of his day; that, sooner than pay the ninepence which the bootmaker had proposed to charge for resoling him, he would wait until the summer came 'low class o' feller' as he was, he'd be glad enough to sole him then for sixpence. and the high-souled critic, finding these reflections sordid, would have thought otherwise, perhaps, had he been standing on those feet (now twitching all by themselves beneath the bedclothes) up to eleven o'clock the night before, because there were still twelve numbers of the late edition that nobody would buy. no one knew more surely than joshua creed himself that, if he suffered himself to entertain any large and lofty views of life, he would infallibly find himself in that building to keep out of which he was in the habit of addressing to god his only prayer to speak of. fortunately, from a boy up, together with a lengthy, oblong, square-jawed face, he had been given by nature a single-minded view of life. in fact, the mysterious, stout tenacity of a soul born in the neighbourhood of newmarket could not have been done justice to had he constitutionally seen--any more than mr. stone himself--two things at a time. the one thing he had seen, for the five years that he had now stood outside messrs. rose and thorn's, was the workhouse; and, as he was not going there so long as he was living, he attended carefully to all little matters of expense in this somewhat sordid way. while attending thus, he heard a scream. having by temperament considerable caution, but little fear, he waited till he heard another, and then got out of bed. taking the poker in his hand, and putting on his spectacles, he hurried to the door. many a time and oft in old days had he risen in this fashion to defend the plate of the "honorable bateson" and the dowager countess of glengower from the periodical attacks of his imagination. he stood with his ancient nightgown flapping round his still more ancient legs, slightly shivering; then, pulling the door open, he looked forth. on the stairs just above him mrs. hughs, clasping her baby with one arm, was holding the other out at full length between herself and hughs. he heard the latter say: "you've drove me to it; i'll do a swing for you!" mrs. hughs' thin body brushed past into his room; blood was dripping from her wrist. creed saw that hughs had his bayonet in his hand. with all his might he called out: "ye ought to be ashamed of yourself!" raising the poker to a position of defence. at this moment--more really dangerous than any he had ever known--it was remarkable that he instinctively opposed to it his most ordinary turns of speech. it was as though the extravagance of this un-english violence had roused in him the full measure of a native moderation. the sight of the naked steel deeply disgusted him; he uttered a long sentence. what did hughs call this--disgracin' of the house at this time in the mornin'? where was he brought up? call 'imself a soldier, attackin' of old men and women in this way? he ought to be ashamed! while these words were issuing between the yellow stumps of teeth in that withered mouth, hughs stood silent, the back of his arm covering his eyes. voices and a heavy tread were heard. distinguishing in that tread the advancing footsteps of the law, creed said: "you attack me if you dare!" hughs dropped his arm. his short, dark face had a desperate look, as of a caged rat; his eyes were everywhere at once. "all right, daddy," he said; "i won't hurt you. she's drove my head all wrong again. catch hold o' this; i can't trust myself." he held out the bayonet. "westminister" took it gingerly in his shaking hand. "to use a thing like that!" he said. "an' call yourself an englishman! i'll ketch me death standin' here, i will." hughs made no answer leaning against the wall. the old butler regarded him severely. he did not take a wide or philosophic view of him, as a tortured human being, driven by the whips of passion in his dark blood; a creature whose moral nature was the warped, stunted tree his life had made it; a poor devil half destroyed by drink and by his wound. the old butler took a more single-minded and old-fashioned line. 'ketch 'old of 'im!' he thought. 'with these low fellers there's nothin' else to be done. ketch 'old of 'im until he squeals.' nodding his ancient head, he said: "here's an orficer. i shan't speak for yer; you deserves all you'll get, and more." later, dressed in an old newmarket coat, given him by some client, and walking towards the police-station alongside mrs. hughs, he was particularly silent, presenting a front of some austerity, as became a man mixed up in a low class of incident like this. and the seamstress, very thin and scared, with her wounded wrist slung in a muffler of her husband's, and carrying the baby on her other arm, because the morning's incident had upset the little thing, slipped along beside him, glancing now and then into his face. only once did he speak, and to himself: "i don't know what they'll say to me down at the orffice, when i go again-missin' my day like this! oh dear, what a misfortune! what put it into him to go on like that?" at this, which was far from being intended as encouragement, the waters of speech broke up and flowed from mrs. hughs. she had only told hughs how that young girl had gone, and left a week's rent, with a bit of writing to say she wasn't coming back; it wasn't her fault that she was gone--that ought never to have come there at all, a creature that knew no better than to come between husband and wife. she couldn't tell no more than he could where that young girl had gone! the tears, stealing forth, chased each other down the seamstress's thin cheeks. her face had now but little likeness to the face with which she had stood confronting hughs when she informed him of the little model's flight. none of the triumph which had leaped out of her bruised heart, none of the strident malice with which her voice, whether she would or no, strove to avenge her wounded sense of property; none of that unconscious abnegation, so very near to heroism, with which she had rushed and caught up her baby from beneath the bayonet, when, goaded by her malice and triumph, hughs had rushed to seize that weapon. none of all that, but, instead, a pitiable terror of the ordeal before her--a pitiful, mute, quivering distress, that this man, against whom, two hours before, she had felt such a store of bitter rancour, whose almost murderous assault she had so narrowly escaped, should now be in this plight. the sight of her emotion penetrated through his spectacles to something lying deep in the old butler. "don't you take on," he said; "i'll stand by yer. he shan't treat yer with impuniness." to his uncomplicated nature the affair was still one of tit for tat. mrs. hughs became mute again. her torn heart yearned to cancel the penalty that would fall on all of them, to deliver hughs from the common enemy--the law; but a queer feeling of pride and bewilderment, and a knowledge, that, to demand an eye for an eye was expected of all self-respecting persons, kept her silent. thus, then, they reached the great consoler, the grey resolver of all human tangles, haven of men and angels, the police court. it was situated in a back street. like trails of ooze, when the tide, neither ebb nor flow, is leaving and making for some estuary, trails of human beings were moving to and from it. the faces of these shuffling "shadows" wore a look as though masked with some hard but threadbare stuff-the look of those whom life has squeezed into a last resort. within the porches lay a stagnant marsh of suppliants, through whose centre trickled to and fro that stream of ooze. an old policeman, too, like some grey lighthouse, marked the entrance to the port of refuge. close to that lighthouse the old butler edged his way. the love of regularity, and of an established order of affairs, born in him and fostered by a life passed in the service of the "honorable bateson" and the other gentry, made him cling instinctively to the only person in this crowd whom he could tell for certain to be on the side of law and order. something in his oblong face and lank, scanty hair parted precisely in the middle, something in that high collar supporting his lean gills, not subservient exactly, but as it were suggesting that he was in league against all this low-class of fellow, made the policeman say to him: "what's your business, daddy?" "oh!" the old butler answered. "this poor woman. i'm a witness to her battery." the policeman cast his not unkindly look over the figure of the seamstress. "you stand here," he said; "i'll pass you in directly." and soon by his offices the two were passed into the port of refuge. they sat down side by side on the edge of a long, hard, wooden bench; creed fixing his eyes, whose colour had run into a brownish rim round their centres, on the magistrate, as in old days sun-worshippers would sit blinking devoutly at the sun; and mrs. hughs fixing her eyes on her lap, while tears of agony trickled down her face. on her unwounded arm the baby slept. in front of them, and unregarded, filed one by one those shadows who had drunk the day before too deeply of the waters of forgetfulness. to-day, instead, they were to drink the water of remembrance, poured out for them with no uncertain hand. and somewhere very far away, it may have been that justice sat with her ironic smile watching men judge their shadows. she had watched them so long about that business. with her elementary idea that hares and tortoises should not be made to start from the same mark she had a little given up expecting to be asked to come and lend a hand; they had gone so far beyond her. perhaps she knew, too, that men no longer punished, but now only reformed, their erring brothers, and this made her heart as light as the hearts of those who had been in the prisons where they were no longer punished. the old butler, however, was not thinking of her; he had thoughts of a simpler order in his mind. he was reflecting that he had once valeted the nephew of the late lord justice hawthorn, and in the midst of this low-class business the reminiscence brought him refreshment. over and over to himself he conned these words: "i interpylated in between them, and i says, 'you ought to be ashamed of yourself; call yourself an englishman, i says, attackin' of old men and women with cold steel, i says!'" and suddenly he saw that hughs was in the dock. the dark man stood with his hands pressed to his sides, as though at attention on parade. a pale profile, broken by a line of black moustache, was all "westminister" could see of that impassive face, whose eyes, fixed on the magistrate, alone betrayed the fires within. the violent trembling of the seamstress roused in joshua creed a certain irritation, and seeing the baby open his black eyes, he nudged her, whispering: "ye've woke the baby!" responding to words, which alone perhaps could have moved her at such a moment, mrs. hughs rocked this dumb spectator of the drama. again the old butler nudged her. "they want yer in the box," he said. mrs. hughs rose, and took her place. he who wished to read the hearts of this husband and wife who stood at right angles, to have their wounds healed by law, would have needed to have watched the hundred thousand hours of their wedded life, known and heard the million thoughts and words which had passed in the dim spaces of their world, to have been cognisant of the million reasons why they neither of them felt that they could have done other than they had done. reading their hearts by the light of knowledge such as this, he would not have been surprised that, brought into this place of remedy, they seemed to enter into a sudden league. a look passed between them. it was not friendly, it had no appeal; but it sufficed. there seemed to be expressed in it the knowledge bred by immemorial experience and immemorial time: this law before which we stand was not made by us! as dogs, when they hear the crack of a far whip, will shrink, and in their whole bearing show wary quietude, so hughs and mrs. hughs, confronted by the questionings of law, made only such answers as could be dragged from them. in a voice hardly above a whisper mrs. hughs told her tale. they had fallen out. what about? she did not know. had he attacked her? he had had it in his hand. what then? she had slipped, and hurt her wrist against the point. at this statement hughs turned his eyes on her, and seemed to say: "you drove me to it; i've got to suffer, for all your trying to get me out of what i've done. i gave you one, and i don't want your help. but i'm glad you stick to me against this law!" then, lowering his eyes, he stood motionless during her breathless little outburst. he was her husband; she had borne him five; he had been wounded in the war. she had never wanted him brought here. no mention of the little model.... the old butler dwelt on this reticence of mrs. hughs, when, two hours afterwards, in pursuance of his instinctive reliance on the gentry, he called on hilary. the latter, surrounded by books and papers--for, since his dismissal of the girl, he had worked with great activity--was partaking of lunch, served to him in his study on a tray. "there's an old gentleman to see you, sir; he says you know him; his name is creed." "show him in," said hilary. appearing suddenly from behind the servant in the doorway, the old butler came in at a stealthy amble; he looked round, and, seeing a chair, placed his hat beneath it, then advanced, with nose and spectacles upturned, to hilary. catching sight of the tray, he stopped, checked in an evident desire to communicate his soul. "oh dear," he said, "i'm intrudin' on your luncheon. i can wait; i'll go and sit in the passage." hilary, however, shook his hand, faded now to skin and bone, and motioned him to a chair. he sat down on the edge of it, and again said: "i'm intrudin' on yer." "not at all. is there anything i can do?" creed took off his spectacles, wiped them to help himself to see more clearly what he had to say, and put them on again. "it's a-concerning of these domestic matters," he said. "i come up to tell yer, knowing as you're interested in this family." "well," said hilary. "what has happened?" "it's along of the young girl's having left them, as you may know." "ah!" "it's brought things to a crisax," explained creed. "indeed, how's that?" the old butler related the facts of the assault. "i took 'is bayonet away from him," he ended; "he didn't frighten me." "is he out of his mind?" asked hilary. "i've no conscience of it," replied creed. "his wife, she's gone the wrong way to work with him, in my opinion, but that's particular to women. she's a-goaded of him respecting a certain party. i don't say but what that young girl's no better than what she ought to be; look at her profession, and her a country girl, too! she must be what she oughtn't to. but he ain't the sort o' man you can treat like that. you can't get thorns from figs; you can't expect it from the lower orders. they only give him a month, considerin' of him bein' wounded in the war. it'd been more if they'd a-known he was a-hankerin' after that young girl--a married man like him; don't ye think so, sir?" hilary's face had assumed its retired expression. 'i cannot go into that with you,' it seemed to say. quick to see the change, creed rose. "but i'm intrudin' on your dinner," he said--"your luncheon, i should say. the woman goes on irritatin' of him, but he must expect of that, she bein' his wife. but what a misfortune! he'll be back again in no time, and what'll happen then? it won't improve him, shut up in one of them low prisons!" then, raising his old face to hilary: "oh dear! it's like awalkin' on a black night, when ye can't see your 'and before yer." hilary was unable to find a suitable answer to this simile. the impression made on him by the old butler's recital was queerly twofold; his more fastidious side felt distinct relief that he had severed connection with an episode capable of developments so sordid and conspicuous. but all the side of him--and hilary was a complicated product--which felt compassion for the helpless, his suppressed chivalry, in fact, had also received its fillip. the old butler's references to the girl showed clearly how the hands of all men and women were against her. she was that pariah, a young girl without property or friends, spiritually soft, physically alluring. to recompense "westminister" for the loss of his day's work, to make a dubious statement that nights were never so black as they appeared to be, was all that he could venture to do. creed hesitated in the doorway. "oh dear," he said, "there's a-one thing that the woman was a-saying that i've forgot to tell you. it's a-concernin' of what this 'ere man was boastin' in his rage. 'let them,' he says, 'as is responsive for the movin' of her look out,' he says; 'i ain't done with them!' that's conspiracy, i should think!" smiling away this diagnosis of hughs' words, hilary shook the old man's withered hand, and closed the door. sitting down again at his writing-table, he buried himself almost angrily in his work. but the queer, half-pleasurable, fevered feeling, which had been his, since the night he walked down piccadilly, and met the image of the little model, was unfavourable to the austere process of his thoughts. chapter xxv mr. stone in waiting that same afternoon, while mr. stone was writing, he heard a voice saying: "dad, stop writing just a minute, and talk to me." recognition came into his eyes. it was his younger daughter. "my dear," he said, "are you unwell?" keeping his hand, fragile and veined and chill, under her own warm grasp, bianca answered: "lonely." mr. stone looked straight before him. "loneliness," he said, "is man's chief fault"; and seeing his pen lying on the desk, he tried to lift his hand. bianca held it down. at that hot clasp something seemed to stir in mr. stone. his cheeks grew pink. "kiss me, dad." mr. stone hesitated. then his lips resolutely touched her eye. "it is wet," he said. he seemed for a moment struggling to grasp the meaning of moisture in connection with the human eye. soon his face again became serene. "the heart," he said, "is a dark well; its depth unknown. i have lived eighty years. i am still drawing water." "draw a little for me, dad." this time mr. stone looked at his daughter anxiously, and suddenly spoke, as if afraid that if he waited he might forget. "you are unhappy!" bianca put her face down to his tweed sleeve. "how nice your coat smells!" she murmured. "you are unhappy," repeated mr. stone. bianca dropped his hand, and moved away. mr. stone followed her. "why?" he said. then, grasping his brow, he added: "if it would do you any good, my dear, to hear a page or two, i could read to you." bianca shook her head. "no; talk to me!" mr. stone answered simply: "i have forgotten." "you talk to that little girl," murmured bianca. mr. stone seemed to lose himself in reverie. "if that is true," he said, following out his thoughts, "it must be due to the sex instinct not yet quite extinct. it is stated that the blackcock will dance before his females to a great age, though i have never seen it." "if you dance before her," said bianca, with her face averted, "can't you even talk to me?" "i do not dance, my dear," said mr. stone; "i will do my best to talk to you." there was a silence, and he began to pace the room. bianca, by the empty fireplace, watched a shower of rain driving past the open window. "this is the time of year," said mr. stone suddenly; "when lambs leap off the ground with all four legs at a time." he paused as though for an answer; then, out of the silence, his voice rose again--it sounded different: "there is nothing in nature more symptomatic of that principle which should underlie all life. live in the future; regret nothing; leap! a lamb which has left earth with all four legs at once is the symbol of true life. that she must come down again is but an inevitable accident. 'in those days men were living on their pasts. they leaped with one, or, at the most, two legs at a time; they never left the ground, or in leaving, they wished to know the reason why. it was this paralysis'"--mr. stone did not pause, but, finding himself close beside his desk, took up his pen--"'it was this paralysis of the leaping nerve which undermined their progress. instead of millions of leaping lambs, ignorant of why they leaped, they were a flock of sheep lifting up one leg and asking whether it was or was not worth their while to lift another.'" the words were followed by a silence, broken only by the scratching of the quill with which mr. stone was writing. having finished, he again began to pace the room, and coming suddenly on his daughter, stopped short. touching her shoulder timidly, he said: "i was talking to you, i think, my dear; where were we?" bianca rubbed her cheek against his hand. "in the air, i think." "yes, yes," said mr. stone, "i remember. you must not let me wander from the point again." "no, dear." "lambs," said mr. stone, "remind me at times of that young girl who comes to copy for me. i make her skip to promote her circulation before tea. i myself do this exercise." leaning against the wall, with his feet twelve inches from it, he rose slowly on his toes. "do you know that exercise? it is excellent for the calves of the legs, and for the lumbar regions." so saying, mr. stone left the wall, and began again to pace the room; the whitewash had also left the wall, and clung in a large square patch on his shaggy coat. "i have seen sheep in spring," he said, "actually imitate their lambs in rising from the ground with all four legs at once." he stood still. a thought had evidently struck him. "if life is not all spring, it is of no value whatsoever; better to die, and to begin again. life is a tree putting on a new green gown; it is a young moon rising--no, that is not so, we do not see the young moon rising--it is a young moon setting, never younger than when we are about to die--" bianca cried out sharply: "don't, father! don't talk like that; it's so untrue! life is all autumn, it seems to me!" mr. stone's eyes grew very blue. "that is a foul heresy," he stammered; "i cannot listen to it. life is the cuckoo's song; it is a hill-side bursting into leaf; it is the wind; i feel it in me every day!" he was trembling like a leaf in the wind he spoke of, and bianca moved hastily towards him, holding out her arms. suddenly his lips began to move; she heard him mutter: "i have lost force; i will boil some milk. i must be ready when she comes." and at those words her heart felt like a lump of ice. always that girl! and without again attracting his attention she went away. as she passed out through the garden she saw him at the window holding a cup of milk, from which the steam was rising. chapter xxvi third pilgrimage to hound street like water, human character will find its level; and nature, with her way of fitting men to their environment, had made young martin stone what stephen called a "sanitist." there had been nothing else for her to do with him. this young man had come into the social scheme at a moment when the conception of existence as a present life corrected by a life to come, was tottering; and the conception of the world as an upper-class preserve somewhat seriously disturbed. losing his father and mother at an early age, and brought up till he was fourteen by mr. stone, he had formed the habit of thinking for himself. this had rendered him unpopular, and added force to the essential single-heartedness transmitted to him through his grandfather. a particular aversion to the sights and scenes of suffering, which had caused him as a child to object to killing flies, and to watching rabbits caught in traps, had been regulated by his training as a doctor. his fleshly horror of pain and ugliness was now disciplined, his spiritual dislike of them forced into a philosophy. the peculiar chaos surrounding all young men who live in large towns and think at all, had made him gradually reject all abstract speculation; but a certain fire of aspiration coming, we may suppose, through mr. stone, had nevertheless impelled him to embrace something with all his might. he had therefore embraced health. and living, as he did, in the euston road, to be in touch with things, he had every need of the health which he embraced. late in the afternoon of the day when hughs had committed his assault, having three hours of respite from his hospital, martin dipped his face and head into cold water, rubbed them with a corrugated towel, put on a hard bowler hat, took a thick stick in his hand, and went by underground to kensington. with his usual cool, high-handed air he entered his aunt's house, and asked for thyme. faithful to his definite, if somewhat crude theory, that stephen and cecilia and all their sort were amateurs, he never inquired for them, though not unfrequently he would, while waiting, stroll into cecilia's drawing-room, and let his sarcastic glance sweep over the pretty things she had collected, or, lounging in some luxurious chair, cross his long legs, and fix his eyes on the ceiling. thyme soon came down. she wore a blouse of some blue stuff bought by cecilia for the relief of people in the balkan states, a skirt of purplish tweed woven by irish gentlewomen in distress, and held in her hand an open envelope addressed in cecilia's writing to mrs. tallents smallpeace. "hallo!" she said. martin answered by a look that took her in from head to foot. "get on a hat! i haven't got much time. that blue thing's new." "it's pure flax. mother bought it." "it's rather decent. hurry up!" thyme raised her chin; that lazy movement showed her round, creamy neck in all its beauty. "i feel rather slack," she said; "besides, i must get back to dinner, martin." "dinner!" thyme turned quickly to the door. "oh, well, i'll come," and ran upstairs. when they had purchased a postal order for ten shillings, placed it in the envelope addressed to mrs. tallents smallpeace, and passed the hundred doors of messrs. rose and thorn, martin said: "i'm going to see what that precious amateur has done about the baby. if he hasn't moved the girl, i expect to find things in a pretty mess." thyme's face changed at once. "just remember," she said, "that i don't want to go there. i don't see the good, when there's such a tremendous lot waiting to be done." "every other case, except the one in hand!" "it's not my case. you're so disgustingly unfair, martin. i don't like those people." "oh, you amateur!" thyme flushed crimson. "look here!" she said, speaking with dignity, "i don't care what you call me, but i won't have you call uncle hilary an amateur." "what is he, then?" "i like him." "that's conclusive." "yes, it is." martin did not reply, looking sideways at thyme with his queer, protective smile. they were passing through a street superior to hound street in its pretensions to be called a slum. "look here!" he said suddenly; "a man like hilary's interest in all this sort of thing is simply sentimental. it's on his nerves. he takes philanthropy just as he'd take sulphonal for sleeplessness." thyme looked shrewdly up at him. "well," she said, "it's just as much on your nerves. you see it from the point of view of health; he sees it from the point of view of sentiment, that's all." "oh! you think so?" "you just treat all these people as if they were in hospital." the young man's nostrils quivered. "well, and how should they be treated?" "how would you like to be looked at as a 'case'?" muttered thyme. martin moved his hand in a slow half-circle. "these houses and these people," he said, "are in the way--in the way of you and me, and everyone." thyme's eyes followed that slow, sweeping movement of her cousin's hand. it seemed to fascinate her. "yes, of course; i know," she murmured. "something must be done!" and she reared her head up, looking from side to side, as if to show him that she, too, could sweep away things. very straight, and solid, fair, and fresh, she looked just then. thus, in the hypnotic silence of high thoughts, the two young "sanitists" arrived in hound street. in the doorway of no. the son of the lame woman, mrs. budgen--the thin, white youth as tall as martin, but not so broad-stood, smoking a dubious-looking cigarette. he turned his lack-lustre, jeering gaze on the visitors. "who d'you want?" he said. "if it's the girl, she's gone away, and left no address." "i want mrs. hughs," said martin. the young man coughed. "right-o! you'll find her; but for him, apply wormwood scrubs." "prison! what for?" "stickin' her through the wrist with his bayonet;" and the young man let a long, luxurious fume of smoke trickle through his nose. "how horrible!" said thyme. martin regarded the young man, unmoved. "that stuff' you're smoking's rank," he said. "have some of mine; i'll show you how to make them. it'll save you one and three per pound of baccy, and won't rot your lungs." taking out his pouch, he rolled a cigarette. the white young man bent his dull wink on thyme, who, wrinkling her nose, was pretending to be far away. mounting the narrow stairs that smelt of walls and washing and red herrings, thyme spoke: "now, you see, it wasn't so simple as you thought. i don't want to go up; i don't want to see her. i shall wait for you here." she took her stand in the open doorway of the little model's empty room. martin ascended to the second floor. there, in the front room, mrs. hughs was seen standing with the baby in her arms beside the bed. she had a frightened and uncertain air. after examining her wrist, and pronouncing it a scratch, martin looked long at the baby. the little creature's toes were stiffened against its mother's waist, its eyes closed, its tiny fingers crisped against her breast. while mrs. hughs poured forth her tale, martin stood with his eyes still fixed on the baby. it could not be gathered from his face what he was thinking, but now and then he moved his jaw, as though he were suffering from toothache. in truth, by the look of mrs. hughs and her baby, his recipe did not seem to have achieved conspicuous success. he turned away at last from the trembling, nerveless figure of the seamstress, and went to the window. two pale hyacinth plants stood on the inner edge; their perfume penetrated through the other savours of the room--and very strange they looked, those twin, starved children of the light and air. "these are new," he said. "yes, sir," murmured mrs. hughs. "i brought them upstairs. i didn't like to see the poor things left to die." from the bitter accent of these words martin understood that they had been the little model's. "put them outside," he said; "they'll never live in here. they want watering, too. where are your saucers?" mrs. hughs laid the baby down, and, going to the cupboard where all the household gods were kept, brought out two old, dirty saucers. martin raised the plants, and as he held them, from one close, yellow petal there rose up a tiny caterpillar. it reared a green, transparent body, feeling its way to a new resting-place. the little writhing shape seemed, like the wonder and the mystery of life, to mock the young doctor, who watched it with eyebrows raised, having no hand at liberty to remove it from the plant. "she came from the country. there's plenty of men there for her!" martin put the plants down, and turned round to the seamstress. "look here!" he said, "it's no good crying over spilt milk. what you've got to do is to set to and get some work." "yes, sir." "don't say it in that sort of way," said martin; "you must rise to the occasion." "yes, sir." "you want a tonic. take this half-crown, and get in a dozen pints of stout, and drink one every day." and again mrs. hughs said, "yes, sir." "and about that baby." motionless, where it had been placed against the footrail of the bed, the baby sat with its black eyes closed. the small grey face was curled down on the bundle of its garments. "it's a silent gentleman," martin muttered. "it never was a one to cry," said mrs. hughs. "that's lucky, anyway. when did you feed it last?" mrs. hughs did not reply at first. "about half-past six last evening, sir." "what?" "it slept all night; but to-day, of course, i've been all torn to pieces; my milk's gone. i've tried it with the bottle, but it wouldn't take it." martin bent down to the baby's face, and put his finger on its chin; bending lower yet, he raised the eyelid of the tiny eye.... "it's dead," he said. at the word "dead" mrs. hughs, stooping behind him, snatched the baby to her throat. with its drooping head close to her she, she clutched and rocked it without sound. full five minutes this desperate mute struggle with eternal silence lasted--the feeling, and warming, and breathing on the little limbs. then, sitting down, bent almost double over her baby, she moaned. that single sound was followed by utter silence. the tread of footsteps on the creaking stairs broke it. martin, rising from his crouching posture by the bed, went towards the door. his grandfather was standing there, with thyme behind him. "she has left her room," said mr. stone. "where has she gone?" martin, understanding that he meant the little model, put his finger to his lips, and, pointing to mrs. hughs, whispered: "this woman's baby has just died." mr. stone's face underwent the queer discoloration which marked the sudden summoning of his far thoughts. he stepped past martin, and went up to mrs. hughs. he stood there a long time gazing at the baby, and at the dark head bending over it with such despair. at last he spoke: "poor woman! he is at peace." mrs. hughs looked up, and, seeing that old face, with its hollows and thin silver hair, she spoke: "he's dead, sir." mr. stone put out his veined and fragile hand, and touched the baby's toes. "he is flying; he is everywhere; he is close to the sun--little brother!" and turning on his heel, he went out. thyme followed him as he walked on tiptoe down stairs which seemed to creak the louder for his caution. tears were rolling down her cheeks. martin sat on, with the mother and her baby, in the close, still room, where, like strange visiting spirits, came stealing whiffs of the perfume of hyacinths. chapter xxvii stephen's private life mr. stone and thyme, going out, again passed the tall, white young man. he had thrown away the hand-made cigarette, finding that it had not enough saltpetre to make it draw, and was smoking one more suited to the action of his lungs. he directed towards them the same lack-lustre, jeering stare. unconscious, seemingly, of where he went, mr. stone walked with his eyes fixed on space. his head jerked now and then, as a dried flower will shiver in a draught. scared at these movements, thyme took his arm. the touch of that soft young arm squeezing his own brought speech back to mr. stone. "in those places...." he said, "in those streets! ...i shall not see the flowering of the aloe--i shall not see the living peace! 'as with dogs, each couched over his proper bone, so men were living then!'" thyme, watching him askance, pressed still closer to his side, as though to try and warm him back to every day. 'oh!' went her guttered thoughts. 'i do wish grandfather would say something one could understand. i wish he would lose that dreadful stare.' mr. stone spoke in answer to his granddaughter's thoughts. "i have seen a vision of fraternity. a barren hillside in the sun, and on it a man of stone talking to the wind. i have heard an owl hooting in the daytime; a cuckoo singing in the night." "grandfather, grandfather!" to that appeal mr. stone responded: "yes, what is it?" but thyme, thus challenged, knew not what to say, having spoken out of terror. "if the poor baby had lived," she stammered out, "it would have grown up.... it's all for the best, isn't it?" "everything is for the best," said mr. stone. "'in those days men, possessed by thoughts of individual life, made moan at death, careless of the great truth that the world was one unending song.'" thyme thought: 'i have never seen him as bad as this!' she drew him on more quickly. with deep relief she saw her father, latchkey in hand, turning into the old square. stephen, who was still walking with his springy step, though he had come on foot the whole way from the temple, hailed them with his hat. it was tall and black, and very shiny, neither quite oval nor positively round, and had a little curly brim. in this and his black coat, cut so as to show the front of him and cover the behind, he looked his best. the costume suited his long, rather narrow face, corrugated by two short parallel lines slanting downwards from his eyes and nostrils on either cheek; suited his neat, thin figure and the close-lipped corners of his mouth. his permanent appointment in the world of law had ousted from his life (together with all uncertainty of income) the need for putting on a wig and taking his moustache off; but he still preferred to go clean-shaved. "where have you two sprung from?" he inquired, admitting them into the hall. mr. stone gave him no answer, but passed into the drawing-room, and sat down on the verge of the first chair he came across, leaning forward with his hands between his knees. stephen, after one dry glance at him, turned to his daughter. "my child," he said softly, "what have you brought the old boy here for? if there happens to be anything of the high mammalian order for dinner, your mother will have a fit." thyme answered: "don't chaff, father!" stephen, who was very fond of her, saw that for some reason she was not herself. he examined her with unwonted gravity. thyme turned away from him. he heard, to his alarm, a little gulping sound. "my dear!" he said. conscious of her sentimental weakness, thyme made a violent effort. "i've seen a baby dead," she cried in a quick, hard voice; and, without another word, she ran upstairs. in stephen there was a horror of emotion amounting almost to disease. it would have been difficult to say when he had last shown emotion; perhaps not since thyme was born, and even then not to anyone except himself, having first locked the door, and then walked up and down, with his teeth almost meeting in the mouthpiece of his favourite pipe. he was unaccustomed, too, to witness this weakness on the part of other people. his looks and speech unconsciously discouraged it, so that if cecilia had been at all that way inclined, she must long ago have been healed. fortunately, she never had been, having too much distrust of her own feelings to give way to them completely. and thyme, that healthy product of them both, at once younger for her age, and older, than they had ever been, with her incapacity for nonsense, her love for open air and facts--that fresh, rising plant, so elastic and so sane--she had never given them a single moment of uneasiness. stephen, close to his hat-rack, felt soreness in his heart. such blows as fortune had dealt, and meant to deal him, he had borne, and he could bear, so long as there was nothing in his own manner, or in that of others, to show him they were blows. hurriedly depositing his hat, he ran to cecilia. he still preserved the habit of knocking on her door before he entered, though she had never, so far, answered, "don't come in!" because she knew his knock. the custom gave, in fact, the measure of his idealism. what he feared, or what he thought he feared, after nineteen years of unchecked entrance, could never have been ascertained; but there it was, that flower of something formal and precise, of something reticent, within his soul. this time, for once, he did not knock, and found cecilia hooking up her tea-gown and looking very sweet. she glanced at him with mild surprise. "what's this, cis," he said, "about a baby dead? thyme's quite upset about it; and your dad's in the drawing-room!" with the quick instinct that was woven into all her gentle treading, cecilia's thoughts flew--she could not have told why--first to the little model, then to mrs. hughs. "dead?" she said. "oh, poor woman!" "what woman?" stephen asked. "it must be mrs. hughs." the thought passed darkly through stephen's mind: 'those people again! what now?' he did not express it, being neither brutal nor lacking in good taste. a short silence followed, then cecilia said suddenly: "did you say that father was in the drawing-room? there's fillet of beef, stephen!" stephen turned away. "go and see thyme!" he said. outside thyme's door cecilia paused, and, hearing no sound, tapped gently. her knock not being answered, she slipped in. on the bed of that white room, with her face pressed into the pillow, her little daughter lay. cecilia stood aghast. thyme's whole body was quivering with suppressed sobs. "my darling!" said cecilia, "what is it?" thyme's answer was inarticulate. cecilia sat down on the bed and waited, drawing her fingers through the girl's hair, which had fallen loose; and while she sat there she experienced all that sore, strange feeling--as of being skinned--which comes to one who watches the emotion of someone near and dear without knowing the exact cause. 'this is dreadful,' she thought. 'what am i to do?' to see one's child cry was bad enough, but to see her cry when that child's whole creed of honour and conduct for years past had precluded this relief as unfeminine, was worse than disconcerting. thyme raised herself on her elbow, turning her face carefully away. "i don't know what's the matter with me," she said, choking. "it's --it's purely physical" "yes, darling," murmured cecilia; "i know." "oh, mother!" said thyme suddenly, "it looked so tiny." "yes, yes, my sweet." thyme faced round; there was a sort of passion in her darkened eyes, rimmed pink with grief, and in all her gushed, wet face. "why should it have been choked out like that? it's--it's so brutal!" cecilia slid an arm round her. "i'm so distressed you saw it, dear," she said. "and grandfather was so--" a long sobbing quiver choked her utterance. "yes, yes," said cecilia; "i'm sure he was." clasping her hands together in her lap, thyme muttered: "he called him 'little brother.'" a tear trickled down cecilia's cheek, and dropped on her daughter's wrist. feeling that it was not her own tear, thyme started up. "it's weak and ridiculous," she said. "i won't!" "oh, go away, mother, please. i'm only making you feel bad, too. you'd better go and see to grandfather." cecilia saw that she would cry no more, and since it was the sight of tears which had so disturbed her, she gave the girl a little hesitating stroke, and went away. outside she thought: 'how dreadfully unlucky and pathetic; and there's father in the drawing-room!' then she hurried down to mr. stone. he was sitting where he had first placed himself, motionless. it struck her suddenly how frail and white he looked. in the shadowy light of her drawing-room, he was almost like a spirit sitting there in his grey tweed--silvery from head to foot. her conscience smote her. it is written of the very old that they shall pass, by virtue of their long travel, out of the country of the understanding of the young, till the natural affections are blurred by creeping mists such as steal across the moors when the sun is going down. cecilia's heart ached with a little ache for all the times she had thought: 'if father were only not quite so---'; for all the times she had shunned asking him to come to them, because he was so---; for all the silences she and stephen had maintained after he had spoken; for all the little smiles she had smiled. she longed to go and kiss his brow, and make him feel that she was aching. but she did not dare; he seemed so far away; it would be ridiculous. coming down the room, and putting her slim foot on the fender with a noise, so that if possible he might both see and hear her, she turned her anxious face towards him, and said: "father!" mr. stone looked up, and seeing somebody who seemed to be his elder daughter, answered "yes, my dear?" "are you sure you're feeling quite the thing? thyme said she thought seeing that poor baby had upset you." mr. stone felt his body with his hand. "i am not conscious of any pain," he said. "then you'll stay to dinner, dear, won't you?" mr. stone's brow contracted as though he were trying to recall his past. "i have had no tea," he said. then, with a sudden, anxious look at his daughter: "the little girl has not come to me. i miss her. where is she?" the ache within cecilia became more poignant. "it is now two days," said mr. stone, "and she has left her room in that house--in that street." cecilia, at her wits' end, answered: "do you really miss her, father?" "yes," said mr. stone. "she is like--" his eyes wandered round the room as though seeking something which would help him to express himself. they fixed themselves on the far wall. cecilia, following their gaze, saw a little solitary patch of sunlight dancing and trembling there. it had escaped the screen of trees and houses, and, creeping through some chink, had quivered in. "she is like that," said mr. stone, pointing with his finger. "it is gone!" his finger dropped; he uttered a deep sigh. 'how dreadful this is!' cecilia thought. 'i never expected him to feel it, and yet i can do nothing!' hastily she asked: "would it do if you had thyme to copy for you? i'm sure she'd love to come." "she is my grand-daughter," mr. stone said simply. "it would not be the same." cecilia could think of nothing now to say but: "would you like to wash your hands, dear?" "yes," said mr. stone. "then will you go up to stephen's dressing-room for hot water, or will you wash them in the lavatory?" "in the lavatory," said mr. stone. "i shall be freer there." when he had gone cecilia thought: 'oh dear, how shall i get through the evening? poor darling, he is so single-minded!' at the sounding of the dinner-gong they all assembled--thyme from her bedroom with cheeks and eyes still pink, stephen with veiled inquiry in his glance, mr. stone from freedom in the lavatory--and sat down, screened, but so very little, from each other by sprays of white lilac. looking round her table, cecilia felt rather like one watching a dew-belled cobweb, most delicate of all things in the world, menaced by the tongue of a browsing cow. both soup and fish had been achieved, however, before a word was spoken. it was stephen who, after taking a mouthful of dry sherry, broke the silence. "how are you getting on with your book, sir?" cecilia heard that question with something like dismay. it was so bald; for, however inconvenient mr. stone's absorption in his manuscript might be, her delicacy told her how precious beyond life itself that book was to him. to her relief, however, her father was eating spinach. "you must be getting near the end, i should think," proceeded stephen. cecilia spoke hastily: "isn't this white lilac lovely, dad?" mr. stone looked up. "it is not white; it is really pink. the test is simple." he paused with his eyes fixed on the lilac. 'ah!' thought cecilia, 'now, if i can only keep him on natural science he used to be so interesting.' "all flowers are one!" said mr. stone. his voice had changed. 'oh!' thought cecilia, 'he is gone!' "they have but a single soul. in those days men divided, and subdivided them, oblivious of the one pale spirit which underlay those seemingly separate forms." cecilia's glance passed swiftly from the manservant to stephen. she saw one of her husband's eyes rise visibly. stephen did so hate one thing to be confounded with another. "oh, come, sir," she heard him say; "you don't surely tell us that dandelions and roses have the same pale spirit!" mr. stone looked at him wistfully. "did i say that?" he said. "i had no wish to be dogmatic." "not at all, sir, not at all," murmured stephen. thyme, leaning over to her mother, whispered "oh, mother, don't let grandfather be queer; i can't bear it to-night!" cecilia, at her wits' end, said hurriedly: "dad, will you tell us what sort of character you think that little girl who comes to you has?" mr. stone paused in the act of drinking water; his attention had evidently been riveted; he did not, however, speak. and cecilia, seeing that the butler, out of the perversity which she found so conspicuous in her servants, was about to hand him beef, made a desperate movement with her lips. "no, charles, not there, not there!" the butler, tightening his lips, passed on. mr. stone spoke: "i had not considered that. she is rather of a celtic than an anglo-saxon type; the cheekbones are prominent; the jaw is not massive; the head is broad--if i can remember i will measure it; the eyes are of a peculiar blue, resembling chicory flowers; the mouth---," mr. stone paused. cecilia thought: 'what a lucky find! now perhaps he will go on all right!' "i do not know," mr. stone resumed, speaking in a far-off voice, "whether she would be virtuous." cecilia heard stephen drinking sherry; thyme, too, was drinking something; she herself drank nothing, but, pink and quiet, for she was a well-bred woman, said: "you have no new potatoes, dear. charles, give mr. stone some new potatoes." by the almost vindictive expression on stephen's face she saw, however, that her failure had decided him to resume command of the situation. "talking of brotherhood, sir," he said dryly, "would you go so far as to say that a new potato is the brother of a bean?" mr. stone, on whose plate these two vegetables reposed, looked almost painfully confused. "i do not perceive," he stammered, "any difference between them." "it's true," said stephen; "the same pale spirit can be extracted from them both." mr. stone looked up at him. "you laugh at me," he said. "i cannot help it; but you must not laugh at life--that is blasphemy." before the piercing wistfulness of that sudden gaze stephen was abashed. cecilia saw him bite his lower lip. "we're talking too much," he said; "we really must let your father eat!" and the rest of the dinner was achieved in silence. when mr. stone, refusing to be accompanied, had taken his departure, and thyme had gone to bed, stephen withdrew to his study. this room, which had a different air from any other portion of the house, was sacred to his private life. here, in specially designed compartments, he kept his golf clubs, pipes, and papers. nothing was touched by anyone except himself, and twice a week by one particular housemaid. here was no bust of socrates, no books in deerskin bindings, but a bookcase filled with treatises on law, blue books, reviews, and the novels of sir walter scott; two black oak cabinets stood side by side against the wall filled with small drawers. when these cabinets were opened and the drawers drawn forward there emerged a scent of metal polish. if the green-baize covers of the drawers were lifted, there were seen coins, carefully arranged with labels--as one may see plants growing in rows, each with its little name tied on. to these tidy rows of shining metal discs stephen turned in moments when his spirit was fatigued. to add to them, touch them, read their names, gave him the sweet, secret feeling which comes to a man who rubs one hand against the other. like a dram-drinker, stephen drank--in little doses--of the feeling these coins gave him. they were his creative work, his history of the world. to them he gave that side of him which refused to find its full expression in summarising law, playing golf, or reading the reviews; that side of a man which aches, he knows not wherefore, to construct something ere he die. from rameses to george iv. the coins lay within those drawers--links of the long unbroken chain of authority. putting on an old black velvet jacket laid out for him across a chair, and lighting the pipe that he could never bring himself to smoke in his formal dinner clothes, he went to the right-hand cabinet, and opened it. he stood with a smile, taking up coins one by one. in this particular drawer they were of the best byzantine dynasty, very rare. he did not see that cecilia had stolen in, and was silently regarding him. her eyes seemed doubting at that moment whether or no she loved him who stood there touching that other mistress of his thoughts--that other mistress with whom he spent so many evening hours. the little green-baize cover fell. cecilia said suddenly: "stephen, i feel as if i must tell father where that girl is!" stephen turned. "my dear child," he answered in his special voice, which, like champagne, seemed to have been dried by artifice, "you don't want to reopen the whole thing?" "but i can see he really is upset about it; he's looking so awfully white and thin." "he ought to give up that bathing in the serpentine. at his age it's monstrous. and surely any other girl will do just as well?" "he seems to set store by reading to her specially." stephen shrugged his shoulders. it had happened to him on one occasion to be present when mr. stone was declaiming some pages of his manuscript. he had never forgotten the discomfort of the experience. "that crazy stuff," as he had called it to cecilia afterwards, had remained on his mind, heavy and damp, like a cold linseed poultice. his wife's father was a crank, and perhaps even a little more than a crank, a wee bit "touched"--that she couldn't help, poor girl; but any allusion to his cranky produce gave stephen pain. nor had he forgotten his experience at dinner. "he seems to have grown fond of her," murmured cecilia. "but it's absurd at his time of life!" "perhaps that makes him feel it more; people do miss things when they are old!" stephen slid the drawer back into its socket. there was dry decision in that gesture. "look here! let's exercise a little common sense; it's been sacrificed to sentiment all through this wretched business. one wants to be kind, of course; but one's got to draw the line." "ah!" said cecilia; "where?" "the thing," went on stephen, "has been a mistake from first to last. it's all very well up to a certain point, but after that it becomes destructive of all comfort. it doesn't do to let these people come into personal contact with you. there are the proper channels for that sort of thing." cecilia's eyes were lowered, as though she did not dare to let him see her thoughts. "it seems so horrid," she said; "and father is not like other people." "he is not," said stephen dryly; "we had a pretty good instance of that this evening. but hilary and your sister are. there's something most distasteful to me, too, about thyme's going about slumming. you see what she's been let in for this afternoon. the notion of that baby being killed through the man's treatment of his wife, and that, no doubt, arising from the girl's leaving them, is most repulsive!" to these words cecilia answered with a sound almost like a gasp. "i hadn't thought of that. then we're responsible; it was we who advised hilary to make her change her lodging." stephen stared; he regretted sincerely that his legal habit of mind had made him put the case so clearly. "i can't imagine," he said, almost violently, "what possesses everybody! we--responsible! good gracious! because we gave hilary some sound advice! what next?" cecilia turned to the empty hearth. "thyme has been telling me about that poor little thing. it seems so dreadful, and i can't get rid of the feeling that we're--we're all mixed up with it!" "mixed up with what?" "i don't know; it's just a feeling like--like being haunted." stephen took her quietly by the arm. "my dear old girl," he said, "i'd no idea that you were run down like this. to-morrow's thursday, and i can get away at three. we'll motor down to richmond, and have a round or two!" cecilia quivered; for a moment it seemed that she was about to burst out crying. stephen stroked her shoulder steadily. cecilia must have felt his dread; she struggled loyally with her emotion. "that will be very jolly," she said at last. stephen drew a deep breath. "and don't you worry, dear," he said, "about your dad; he'll have forgotten the whole thing in a day or two; he's far too wrapped up in his book. now trot along to bed; i'll be up directly." before going out cecilia looked back at him. how wonderful was that look, which stephen did not--perhaps intentionally--see. mocking, almost hating, and yet thanking him for having refused to let her be emotional and yield herself up for once to what she felt, showing him too how clearly she saw through his own masculine refusal to be made to feel, and how she half-admired it--all this was in that look, and more. then she went out. stephen glanced quickly at the door, and, pursing up his lips, frowned. he threw the window open, and inhaled the night air. 'if i don't look out,' he thought, 'i shall be having her mixed up with this. i was an ass ever to have spoken to old hilary. i ought to have ignored the matter altogether. it's a lesson not to meddle with people in those places. i hope to god she'll be herself tomorrow!' outside, under the soft black foliage of the square, beneath the slim sickle of the moon, two cats were hunting after happiness; their savage cries of passion rang in the blossom-scented air like a cry of dark humanity in the jungle of dim streets. stephen, with a shiver of disgust, for his nerves were on edge, shut the window with a slam. chapter xxviii hilary hears the cuckoo sing it was not left to cecilia alone to remark how very white mr. stone looked in these days. the wild force which every year visits the world, driving with its soft violence snowy clouds and their dark shadows, breaking through all crusts and sheaths, covering the earth in a fierce embrace; the wild force which turns form to form, and with its million leapings, swift as the flight of swallows and the arrow-darts of the rain, hurries everything on to sweet mingling--this great, wild force of universal life, so-called the spring, had come to mr. stone, like new wine to some old bottle. and hilary, to whom it had come, too, watching him every morning setting forth with a rough towel across his arm, wondered whether the old man would not this time leave his spirit swimming in the chill waters of the serpentine--so near that spirit seemed to breaking through its fragile shell. four days had gone by since the interview at which he had sent away the little model, and life in his household--that quiet backwater choked with lilies--seemed to have resumed the tranquillity enjoyed before this intrusion of rude life. the paper whiteness of mr. stone was the only patent evidence that anything disturbing had occurred--that and certain feelings about which the strictest silence was preserved. on the morning of the fifth day, seeing the old man stumble on the level flagstones of the garden, hilary finished dressing hastily, and followed. he overtook him walking forward feebly beneath the candelabra of flowering chestnut-trees, with a hail-shower striking white on his high shoulders; and, placing himself alongside, without greeting--for forms were all one to mr. stone--he said: "surely you don't mean to bathe during a hail storm, sir! make an exception this once. you're not looking quite yourself." mr. stone shook his head; then, evidently following out a thought which hilary had interrupted, he remarked: "the sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value. i have not as yet succeeded in relating it to universal brotherhood." "how is that, sir?" "in so far," said mr. stone, "as it consists in fidelity to principle, one might assume it worthy of conjunction. the difficulty arises when we consider the nature of the principle .... there is a family of young thrushes in the garden. if one of them finds a worm, i notice that his devotion to that principle of self-preservation which prevails in all low forms of life forbids his sharing it with any of the other little thrushes." mr. stone had fixed his eyes on distance. "so it is, i fear," he said, "with 'honour.' in those days men looked on women as thrushes look on worms." he paused, evidently searching for a word; and hilary, with a faint smile, said: "and how did women look on men, sir?" mr. stone observed him with surprise. "i did not perceive that it was you," he said. "i have to avoid brain action before bathing." they had crossed the road dividing the gardens from the park, and, seeing that mr. stone had already seen the water where he was about to bathe, and would now see nothing else, hilary stopped beside a little lonely birch-tree. this wild, small, graceful visitor, who had long bathed in winter, was already draping her bare limbs in a scarf of green. hilary leaned against her cool, pearly body. below were the chilly waters, now grey, now starch-blue, and the pale forms of fifteen or twenty bathers. while he stood shivering in the frozen wind, the sun, bursting through the hail-cloud, burned his cheeks and hands. and suddenly he heard, clear, but far off, the sound which, of all others, stirs the hearts of men: "cuckoo, cuckoo!" four times over came the unexpected call. whence had that ill-advised, indelicate grey bird flown into this great haunt of men and shadows? why had it come with its arrowy flight and mocking cry to pierce the heart and set it aching? there were trees enough outside the town, cloud-swept hollows, tangled brakes of furze just coming into bloom, where it could preside over the process of spring. what solemn freak was this which made it come and sing to one who had no longer any business with the spring? with a real spasm in his heart hilary turned away from that distant bird, and went down to the water's edge. mr. stone was swimming, slower than man had ever swum before. his silver head and lean arms alone were visible, parting the water feebly; suddenly he disappeared. he was but a dozen yards from the shore; and hilary, alarmed at not seeing him reappear, ran in. the water was not deep. mr. stone, seated at the bottom, was doing all he could to rise. hilary took him by his bathing-dress, raised him to the surface, and supported him towards the land. by the time they reached the shore he could just stand on his legs. with the assistance of a policeman, hilary enveloped him in garments and got him to a cab. he had regained some of his vitality, but did not seem aware of what had happened. "i was not in as long as usual," he mused, as they passed out into the high road. "oh, i think so, sir." mr. stone looked troubled. "it is odd," he said. "i do not recollect leaving the water." he did not speak again till he was being assisted from the cab. "i wish to recompense the man. i have half a crown indoors." "i will get it, sir," said hilary. mr. stone, who shivered violently now that he was on his feet, turned his face up to the cabman. "nothing is nobler than the horse," he said; "take care of him." the cabman removed his hat. "i will, sir," he answered. walking by himself, but closely watched by hilary, mr. stone reached his room. he groped about him as though not distinguishing objects too well through the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux. "if i might advise you," said hilary, "i would get back into bed for a few minutes. you seem a little chilly." mr. stone, who was indeed shaking so that he could hardly stand, allowed hilary to assist him into bed and tuck the blankets round him. "i must be at work by ten o'clock," he said. hilary, who was also shivering, hastened to bianca's room. she was just coming down, and exclaimed at seeing him all wet. when he had told her of the episode she touched his shoulder. "what about you?" "a hot bath and drink will set me right. you'd better go to him." he turned towards the bathroom, where miranda stood, lifting a white foot. compressing her lips, bianca ran downstairs. startled by his tale, she would have taken his wet body in her arms; if the ghosts of innumerable moments had not stood between. so this moment passed too, and itself became a ghost. mr. stone, greatly to his disgust, had not succeeded in resuming work at ten o'clock. failing simply because he could not stand on his legs, he had announced his intention of waiting until half-past three, when he should get up, in preparation for the coming of the little girl. having refused to see a doctor, or have his temperature taken, it was impossible to tell precisely what degree of fever he was in. in his cheeks, just visible over the blankets, there was more colour than there should have been; and his eyes, fixed on the ceiling, shone with suspicious brilliancy. to the dismay of bianca--who sat as far out of sight as possible, lest he should see her, and fancy that she was doing him a service--he pursued his thoughts aloud: "words--words--they have taken away brotherhood!" bianca shuddered, listening to that uncanny sound. "'in those days of words they called it death--pale death--mors pallida. they saw that word like a gigantic granite block suspended over them, and slowly coming down. some, turning up their faces at the sight, trembled painfully, awaiting their obliteration. others, unable, while they still lived, to face the thought of nothingness, inflated by some spiritual wind, and thinking always of their individual forms, called out unceasingly that those selves of theirs would and must survive this word--that in some fashion, which no man could understand, each self-conscious entity reaccumulated after distribution. drunk with this thought, these, too, passed away. some waited for it with grim, dry eyes, remarking that the process was molecular, and thus they also met their so-called death.'" his voice ceased, and in place of it rose the sound of his tongue moistening his palate. bianca, from behind, placed a glass of barley-water to his lips. he drank it with a slow, clucking noise; then, seeing that a hand held the glass, said: "is that you? are you ready for me? follow. 'in those days no one leaped up to meet pale riding death; no one saw in her face that she was brotherhood incarnate; no one with a heart as light as gossamer kissed her feet, and, smiling, passed into the universe.'" his voice died away, and when next he spoke it was in a quick, husky whisper: "i must--i must--i must---" there was silence; then he added: "give me my trousers." bianca placed them by his bed. the sight seemed to reassure him. he was once more silent. for more than an hour after this he was so absolutely still that bianca rose continually to look at him. each time, his eyes, wide open, were fixed on a little dark mark across the ceiling; his face had a look of the most singular determination, as though his spirit were slowly, relentlessly, regaining mastery over his fevered body. he spoke suddenly: "who is there?" "bianca." "help me out of bed!" the flush had left his face, the brilliance had faded from his eyes; he looked just like a ghost. with a sort of terror bianca helped him out of bed. this weird display of mute white will-power was unearthly. when he was dressed in his woollen gown and seated before the fire, she gave him a cup of strong beef-tea, with brandy. he swallowed it with great avidity. "i should like some more of that," he said, and fell asleep. while he was asleep cecilia came, and the two sisters watched his slumber, and, watching it, felt nearer to each other than they had for many years. before she went away cecilia whispered-- "b. if he seems to want that little girl while he's like this, don't you think she ought to come?" bianca answered: "i don't know where she is." "i do." "ah!" said bianca; "of course!" and she turned her head away. disconcerted by that sarcastic little speech, cecilia was silent; then, summoning all her courage, she said: "here's the address, b. i've written it down for you;" and, with puckers of anxiety in her face, she left the room. bianca sat on in the old golden chair, watching the deep hollows beneath the sleeper's temples, the puffs of breath stirring the silver round his mouth. her ears burned crimson. carried out of herself by the sight of that old form, dearer to her than she had thought, fighting its great battle for the sake of its idea, her spirit grew all tremulous and soft within her. with eagerness she embraced the thought of self-effacement. it did not seem to matter whether she were first with hilary. her spirit should so manifest its capacity for sacrifice that she would be first with him through sheer nobility. at this moment she could almost have taken that common little girl into her arms and kissed her. so would all disquiet end! some harmonious messenger had fluttered to her for a second--the gold-winged bird of peace. in this sensuous exaltation her nerves vibrated like the strings of a violin. when mr. stone woke it was past three o'clock and bianca at once handed him another cup of strong beef-tea. he swallowed it, and said: "what is this?" "beef-tea." mr. stone looked at the empty cup. "i must not drink it. the cow and the sheep are on the same plane as man." "but how do you feel, dear?" "i feel," said mr. stone, "able to dictate what i have already written--not more. has she come?" "not yet; but i will go and find her if you like." mr. stone looked at his daughter wistfully. "that will be taking up your time," he said. bianca answered: "my time is of no consequence." mr. stone stretched his hands out to the fire. "i will not consent," he said, evidently to himself, "to be a drag on anyone. if that has come, then i must go!" bianca, placing herself beside him on her knees, pressed her hot cheek against his temple. "but it has not come, dad." "i hope not," said mr. stone. "i wish to end my book first." the sudden grim coherence of his last two sayings terrified bianca more than all his feverish, utterances. "i rely on your sitting quite still," she said, "while i go and find her." and with a feeling in her heart as though two hands had seized and were pulling it asunder, she went out. some half-hour later hilary slipped quietly in, and stood watching at the door. mr. stone, seated on the very verge of his armchair, with his hands on its arms, was slowly rising to his feet, and slowly falling back again, not once, but many times, practising a standing posture. as hilary came into his line of sight, he said: "i have succeeded twice." "i am very glad," said hilary. "won't you rest now, sir?" "it is my knees," said mr. stone. "she has gone to find her." hilary heard those words with bewilderment, and, sitting down on the other chair, waited. "i have fancied," said mr. stone, looking at him wistfully, "that when we pass away from life we may become the wind. is that your opinion?" "it is a new thought to me," said hilary. "it is not tenable," said mr. stone. "but it is restful. the wind is everywhere and nowhere, and nothing can be hidden from it. when i have missed that little girl, i have tried, in a sense, to become the wind; but i have found it difficult." his eyes left hilary's face, whose mournful smile he had not noticed, and fixed themselves on the bright fire. "'in those days,"' he said, "'men's relation to the eternal airs was the relation of a billion little separate draughts blowing against the south-west wind. they did not wish to merge themselves in that soft, moon-uttered sigh, but blew in its face through crevices, and cracks, and keyholes, and were borne away on the pellucid journey, whistling out their protests.'" he again tried to stand, evidently wishing to get to his desk to record this thought, but, failing, looked painfully at hilary. he seemed about to ask for something, but checked himself. "if i practise hard," he murmured, "i shall master it." hilary rose and brought him paper and a pencil. in bending, he saw that mr. stone's eyes were dim with moisture. this sight affected him so that he was glad to turn away and fetch a book to form a writing-pad. when mr. stone had finished, he sat back in his chair with closed eyes. a supreme silence reigned in the bare room above those two men of different generations and of such strange dissimilarity of character. hilary broke that silence. "i heard the cuckoo sing to-day," he said, almost in a whisper, lest mr. stone should be asleep. "the cuckoo," replied mr. stone, "has no sense of brotherhood." "i forgive him-for his song," murmured hilary. "his song," said mr. stone, "is alluring; it excites the sexual instinct." then to himself he added: "she has not come, as yet!" even as he spoke there was heard by hilary a faint tapping on the door. he rose and opened it. the little model stood outside. chapter xxix return of the little model that same afternoon in high street, kensington, "westminister," with his coat-collar raised against the inclement wind, his old hat spotted with rain, was drawing at a clay pipe and fixing his iron-rimmed gaze on those who passed him by. it had been a day when singularly few as yet had bought from him his faintly green-tinged journal, and the low class of fellow who sold the other evening prints had especially exasperated him. his single mind, always torn to some extent between an ingrained loyalty to his employers and those politics of his which differed from his paper's, had vented itself twice since coming on his stand; once in these words to the seller of "pell mells": "i stupulated with you not to come beyond the lamp-post. don't you never speak to me again--a-crowdin' of me off my stand"; and once to the younger vendors of the less expensive journals, thus: "oh, you boys! i'll make you regret of it--a-snappin' up my customers under my very nose! wait until ye're old!" to which the boys had answered: "all right, daddy; don't you have a fit. you'll be a deader soon enough without that, y'know!" it was now his time for tea, but "pell mell" having gone to partake of this refreshment, he waited on, hoping against hope to get a customer or two of that low fellow's. and while in black insulation he stood there a timid voice said at his elbow-- "mr. creed!" the aged butler turned, and saw the little model. "oh," he said dryly, "it's you, is it?" his mind, with its incessant love of rank, knowing that she earned her living as a handmaid to that disorderly establishment, the house of art, had from the first classed her as lower than a lady's-maid. recent events had made him think of her unkindly. her new clothes, which he had not been privileged to see before, while giving him a sense of sunday, deepened his moral doubts. "and where are you living now?" he said in tones incorporating these feelings. "i'm not to tell you." "oh, very well. keep yourself to yourself." the little model's lower lip drooped more than ever. there were dark marks beneath her eyes; her face was altogether rather pinched and pitiful. "won't you tell me any news?" she said in her matter-of-fact voice. the old butler gave a strange grunt. "ho!" he said. "the baby's dead, and buried to-morrer." "dead!" repeated the little model. "i'm a-goin' to the funeral--brompton cemetery. half-past nine i leave the door. and that's a-beginnin' at the end. the man's in prison, and the woman's gone a shadder of herself." the little model rubbed her hands against her skirt. "what did he go to prison for?" "for assaultin' of her; i was witness to his battery." "why did he assault her?" creed looked at her, and, wagging his head, answered: "that's best known to them as caused of it." the little model's face went the colour of carnations. "i can't help what he does," she said. "what should i want him for--a man like that? it wouldn't be him i'd want!" the genuine contempt in that sharp burst of anger impressed the aged butler. "i'm not a-sayin' anything," he said; "it's all a-one to me. i never mixes up with no other people's business. but it's very ill-convenient. i don't get my proper breakfast. that poor woman--she's half off her head. when the baby's buried i'll have to go and look out for another room before he gets a-comin' out." "i hope they'll keep him there," muttered the little model suddenly. "they give him a month," said creed. "only a month!" the old butler looked at her. 'there's more stuff' in you,' he seemed to say, 'than ever i had thought.' "because of his servin' of his country," he remarked aloud. "i'm sorry about the poor little baby," said the little model in her stolid voice. "westminister" shook his head. "i never suspected him of goin' to live," he said. the girl, biting the finger-tip of her white cotton glove, was staring out at the traffic. like a pale ray of light entering the now dim cavern of the old man's mind, the thought came to creed that he did not quite understand her. he had in his time had occasion to class many young persons, and the feeling that he did not quite know her class of person was like the sensation a bat might have, surprised by daylight. suddenly, without saying good-bye to him, she walked away. 'well,' he thought, looking after her, 'your manners ain't improved by where you're living, nor your appearance neither, for all your new clothes.' and for some time he stood thinking of the stare in her eyes and that abrupt departure. through the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux the mind could see at that same moment bianca leaving her front gate. her sensuous exaltation, her tremulous longing after harmony, had passed away; in her heart, strangely mingled, were these two thoughts: 'if only she were a lady!' and, 'i am glad she is not a lady!' of all the dark and tortuous places of this life, the human heart is the most dark and tortuous; and of all human hearts none are less clear, more intricate than the hearts of all that class of people among whom bianca had her being. pride was a simple quality when joined with a simple view of life, based on the plain philosophy of property; pride was no simple quality when the hundred paralysing doubts and aspirations of a social conscience also hedged it round. in thus going forth with the full intention of restoring the little model to her position in the household, her pride fought against her pride, and her woman's sense of ownership in the man whom she had married wrestled with the acquired sentiments of freedom, liberality, equality, good taste. with her spirit thus confused, and her mind so at variance with itself, she was really acting on the simple instinct of compassion. she had run upstairs from mr. stone's room, and now walked fast, lest that instinct, the most physical, perhaps, of all--awakened by sights and sounds, and requiring constant nourishment--should lose its force. rapidly, then, she made her way to the grey street in bayswater where cecilia had told her that the girl now lived. the tall, gaunt landlady admitted her. "have you a miss barton lodging here?" bianca asked. "yes," said the landlady, "but i think she's out." she looked into the little model's room. "yes," she said; "she's out; but if you'd like to leave a note you could write in here. if you're looking for a model, she wants work, i believe." that modern faculty of pressing on an aching nerve was assuredly not lacking to bianca. to enter the girl's room was jabbing at the nerve indeed. she looked round her. the mental vacuity of that little room! there was not one single thing--with the exception of a torn copy of tit-bits--which suggested that a mind of any sort lived there. for all that, perhaps because of that, it was neat enough. "yes," said the landlady, "she keeps her room tidy. of course, she's a country girl--comes from down my way." she said this with a dry twist of her grim, but not unkindly, features. "if it weren't for that," she went on, "i don't think i should care to let to one of her profession." her hungry eyes, gazing at bianca, had in them the aspirations of all nonconformity. bianca pencilled on her card: "if you can come to my father to-day or tomorrow, please do." "will you give her this, please? it will be quite enough." "i'll give it her," the landlady said; "she'll be glad of it, i daresay. i see her sitting here. girls like that, if they've got nothing to do--see, she's been moping on her bed...." the impress of a form was, indeed, clearly visible on the red and yellow tasselled tapestry of the bed. bianca cast a look at it. "thank you," she said; "good day." with the jabbed nerve aching badly she came slowly homewards. before the garden gate the little model herself was gazing at the house, as if she had been there some time. approaching from across the road, bianca had an admirable view of that young figure, now very trim and neat, yet with something in its lines--more supple, perhaps, but less refined--which proclaimed her not a lady; a something fundamentally undisciplined or disciplined by the material facts of life alone, rather than by a secret creed of voluntary rules. it showed here and there in ways women alone could understand; above all, in the way her eyes looked out on that house which she was clearly longing to enter. not 'shall i go in?' was in that look, but 'dare i go in?' suddenly she saw bianca. the meeting of these two was very like the ordinary meeting of a mistress and her maid. bianca's face had no expression, except the faint, distant curiosity which seems to say: 'you are a sealed book to me; i have always found you so. what you really think and do i shall never know.' the little model's face wore a half-caught-out, half-stolid look. "please go in," bianca said; "my father will be glad to see you." she held the garden gate open for the girl to pass through. her feeling at that moment was one of slight amusement at the futility of her journey. not even this small piece of generosity was permitted her, it seemed. "how are you getting on?" the little model made an impulsive movement at such an unexpected question. checking it at once, she answered: "very well, thank you; that is, not very---" "you will find my father tired to-day; he has caught a chill. don't let him read too much, please." the little model seemed to try and nerve herself to make some statement, but, failing, passed into the house. bianca did not follow, but stole back into the garden, where the sun was still falling on a bed of wallflowers at the far end. she bent down over these flowers till her veil touched them. two wild bees were busy there, buzzing with smoky wings, clutching with their black, tiny legs at the orange petals, plunging their black, tiny tongues far down into the honeyed centres. the flowers quivered beneath the weight of their small dark bodies. bianca's face quivered too, bending close to them, nor making the slightest difference to their hunt. hilary, who, it has been seen, lived in thoughts about events rather than in events themselves, and to whom crude acts and words had little meaning save in relation to what philosophy could make of them, greeted with a startled movement the girl's appearance in the corridor outside mr. stone's apartment. but the little model, who mentally lived very much from hand to mouth, and had only the philosophy of wants, acted differently. she knew that for the last five days, like a spaniel dog shut away from where it feels it ought to be, she had wanted to be where she was now standing; she knew that, in her new room with its rust-red doors, she had bitten her lips and fingers till blood came, and, as newly caged birds will flutter, had beaten her wings against those walls with blue roses on a yellow ground. she remembered how she had lain, brooding, on that piece of red and yellow tapestry, twisting its tassels, staring through half-closed eyes at nothing. there was something different in her look at hilary. it had lost some of its childish devotion; it was bolder, as if she had lived and felt, and brushed a good deal more down off her wings during those few days. "mrs. dallison told me to come," she said. "i thought i might. mr. creed told me about him being in prison." hilary made way for her, and, following her into mr. stone's presence, shut the door. "the truant has returned," he said. hearing herself called so unjustly by that name, the little model gushed deeply, and tried to speak. she stopped at the smile on hilary's face, and gazed from him to mr. stone and back again, the victim of mingled feelings. mr. stone was seen to have risen to his feet, and to be very slowly moving towards his desk. he leaned both arms on his papers for support, and, seeming to gather strength, began sorting out his manuscript. through the open window the distant music of a barrel-organ came drifting in. faint, and much too slow, was the sound of the waltz it played, but there was invitation, allurement, in that tune. the little model turned towards it, and hilary looked hard at her. the girl and that sound together-there, quite plain, was the music he had heard for many days, like a man lying with the touch of fever on him. "are you ready?" said mr. stone. the little model dipped her pen in ink. her eyes crept towards the door, where hilary was still standing with the same expression on his face. he avoided her eyes, and went up to mr. stone. "must you read to-day, sir?" mr. stone looked at him with anger. "why not?" he said. "you are hardly strong enough." mr. stone raised his manuscript. "we are three days behind;" and very slowly he began dictating: "'bar-ba-rous ha-bits in those days, such as the custom known as war ---'" his voice died away; it was apparent that his elbows, leaning on the desk, alone prevented his collapse. hilary moved the chair, and, taking him beneath the arms, lowered him gently into it. noticing that he was seated, mr. stone raised his manuscript and read on: "'---were pursued regardless of fraternity. it was as though a herd of horn-ed cattle driven through green pastures to that gate, where they must meet with certain dissolution, had set about to prematurely gore and disembowel each other, out of a passionate devotion to those individual shapes which they were so soon to lose. so men--tribe against tribe, and country against country--glared across the valleys with their ensanguined eyes; they could not see the moonlit wings, or feel the embalming airs of brotherhood.'" slower and slower came his sentences, and as the last word died away he was heard to be asleep, breathing through a tiny hole left beneath the eave of his moustache. hilary, who had waited for that moment, gently put the manuscript on the desk, and beckoned to the girl. he did not ask her to his study, but spoke to her in the hall. "while mr. stone is like this he misses you. you will come, then, at present, please, so long as hughs is in prison. how do you like your room?" the little model answered simply: "not very much." "why not?" "it's lonely there. i shan't mind, now i'm coming here again." "only for the present," was all hilary could find to say. the little model's eyes were lowered. "mrs. hughs' baby's to be buried to-morrow," she said suddenly. "where?" "in brompton cemetery. mr. creed's going." "what time is the funeral?" the girl looked up stealthily. "mr. creed's going to start at half-past nine." "i should like to go myself," said hilary. a gleam of pleasure passing across her face was instantly obscured behind the cloud of her stolidity. then, as she saw hilary move nearer to the door, her lip began to droop. "well, good-bye," he said. the little model flushed and quivered. 'you don't even look at me,' she seemed to say; 'you haven't spoken kindly to me once.' and suddenly she said in a hard voice: "now i shan't go to mr. lennard's any more." "oh, then you have been to him!" triumph at attracting his attention, fear of what she had admitted, supplication, and a half-defiant shame--all this was in her face. "yes," she said. hilary did not speak. "i didn't care any more when you told me i wasn't to come here." still hilary did not speak. "i haven't done anything wrong," she said, with tears in her voice. "no, no," said hilary; "of course not!" the little model choked. "it's my profession." "yes, yes," said hilary; "it's all right." "i don't care what he thinks; i won't go again so long as i can come here." hilary touched her shoulder. "well, well," he said, and opened the front door. the little model, tremulous, like' a flower kissed by the sun after rain, went out with a light in her eyes. the master of the house returned to mr. stone. long he sat looking at the old man's slumber. "a thinker meditating upon action!" so might hilary's figure, with its thin face resting on its hand, a furrow between the brows, and that painful smile, have been entitled in any catalogue of statues. chapter xxx funeral of a baby following out the instinct planted so deeply in human nature for treating with the utmost care and at great expense when dead those, who, when alive, have been served with careless parsimony, there started from the door of no. in hound street a funeral procession of three four-wheeled cabs. the first bore the little coffin, on which lay a great white wreath (gift of cecilia and thyme). the second bore mrs. hughs, her son stanley, and joshua creed. the third bore martin stone. in the first cab silence was presiding with the scent of lilies over him who in his short life had made so little noise, the small grey shadow which had crept so quietly into being, and, taking his chance when he was not noticed, had crept so quietly out again. never had he felt so restful, so much at home, as in that little common coffin, washed as he was to an unnatural whiteness, and wrapped in his mother's only spare sheet. away from all the strife of men he was journeying to a greater peace. his little aloe-plant had flowered; and, between the open windows of the only carriage he had ever been inside, the wind--which, who knows? he had perhaps become--stirred the fronds of fern and the flowers of his funeral wreath. thus he was going from that world where all men were his brothers. from the second cab the same wind was rigidly excluded, and there was silence, broken by the aged butler's breathing. dressed in his newmarket coat, he was recalling with a certain sense of luxury past, journeys in four-wheeled cabs--occasions when, seated beside a box corded and secured with sealing-wax, he had taken his master's plate for safety to the bank; occasions when, under a roof piled up with guns and boxes, he had sat holding the "honorable bateson's" dog; occasions when, with some young person by his side, he had driven at the tail of a baptismal, nuptial, or funeral cortege. these memories of past grandeur came back to him with curious poignancy, and for some reason the words kept rising in his mind: 'for richer or poorer, for better or worser, in health and in sick places, till death do us part.' but in the midst of the exaltation of these recollections the old heart beneath his old red flannel chest-protector--that companion of his exile--twittering faintly at short intervals, made him look at the woman by his side. he longed to convey to her some little of the satisfaction he felt in the fact that this was by no means the low class of funeral it might have been. he doubted whether, with her woman's mind, she was getting all the comfort she could out of three four-wheeled cabs and a wreath of lilies. the seamstress's thin face, with its pinched, passive look, was indeed thinner, quieter, than ever. what she was thinking of he could not tell. there were so many things she might be thinking of. she, too, no doubt, had seen her grandeur, if but in the solitary drive away from the church where, eight years ago, she and hughs had listened to the words now haunting creed. was she thinking of that; of her lost youth and comeliness, and her man's dead love; of the long descent to shadowland; of the other children she had buried; of hughs in prison; of the girl that had "put a spell on him"; or only of the last precious tugs the tiny lips at rest in the first four-wheeled cab had given at her breast? or was she, with a nicer feeling for proportion, reflecting that, had not people been so kind, she might have had to walk behind a funeral provided by the parish? the old butler could not tell, but he--whose one desire now, coupled with the wish to die outside a workhouse, was to save enough to bury his own body without the interference of other people--was inclined to think she must be dwelling on the brighter side of things; and, designing to encourage her, he said: "wonderful improvement in these 'ere four-wheel cabs! oh dear, yes! i remember of them when they were the shadders of what they are at the present time of speakin'." the seamstress answered in her quiet voice: "very comfortable this is. sit still, stanley!" her little son, whose feet did not reach the floor, was drumming his heels against the seat. he stopped and looked at her, and the old butler addressed him. "you'll a-remember of this occasion," he said, "when you gets older." the little boy turned his black eyes from his mother to him who had spoken last. "it's a beautiful wreath," continued creed. "i could smell of it all the way up the stairs. there's been no expense spared; there's white laylock in it--that's a class of flower that's very extravagant." a train of thought having been roused too strong for his discretion, he added: "i saw that young girl yesterday. she came interrogatin' of me in the street." on mrs. hughs' face, where till now expression had been buried, came such a look as one may see on the face of an owl-hard, watchful, cruel; harder, more cruel, for the softness of the big dark eyes. "she'd show a better feeling," she said, "to keep a quiet tongue. sit still, stanley!" once more the little boy stopped drumming his heels, and shifted his stare from the old butler back to her who spoke. the cab, which had seemed to hesitate and start, as though jibbing at something in the road, resumed its ambling pace. creed looked through the well-closed window. there before him, so long that it seemed to have no end, like a building in a nightmare, stretched that place where he did not mean to end his days. he faced towards the horse again. the colour had deepened in his nose. he spoke: "if they'd a-give me my last edition earlier, 'stead of sending of it down after that low-class feller's taken all my customers, that'd make a difference to me o' two shillin's at the utmost in the week, and all clear savin's." to these words, dark with hidden meaning, he received no answer save the drumming of the small boy's heels; and, reverting to the subject he had been distracted from, he murmured: "she was a-wearin' of new clothes." he was startled by the fierce tone of a voice he hardly knew. "i don't want to hear about her; she's not for decent folk to talk of." the old butler looked round askance. the seamstress was trembling violently. her fierceness at such a moment shocked him. "'dust to dust,'" he thought. "don't you be considerate of it," he said at last, summoning all his knowledge of the world; "she'll come to her own place." and at the sight of a slow tear trickling over her burning cheek, he added hurriedly: "think of your baby--i'll see yer through. sit still, little boy--sit still! ye're disturbin' of your mother." once more the little boy stayed the drumming of his heels to look at him who spoke; and the closed cab rolled on with its slow, jingling sound. in the third four-wheeled cab, where the windows again were wide open, martin stone, with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, and his long legs crossed, sat staring at the roof, with a sort of twisted scorn on his pale face. just inside the gate, through which had passed in their time so many dead and living shadows, hilary stood waiting. he could probably not have explained why he had come to see this tiny shade committed to the earth--in memory, perhaps, of those two minutes when the baby's eyes had held parley with his own, or in the wish to pay a mute respect to her on whom life had weighed so hard of late. for whatever reason he had come, he was keeping quietly to one side. and unobserved, he, too, had his watcher--the little model, sheltering behind a tall grave. two men in rusty black bore the little coffin; then came the white-robed chaplain; then mrs. hughs and her little son; close behind, his head thrust forward with trembling movements from side to side, old creed; and, last of all, young martin stone. hilary joined the young doctor. so the five mourners walked. before a small dark hole in a corner of the cemetery they stopped. on this forest of unflowered graves the sun was falling; the east wind, with its faint reek, touched the old butler's plastered hair, and brought moisture to the corners of his eyes, fixed with absorption on the chaplain. words and thoughts hunted in his mind. 'he's gettin' christian burial. who gives this woman away? i do. ashes to ashes. i never suspected him of livin'.' the conning of the burial service, shortened to fit the passing of that tiny shade, gave him pleasurable sensation; films came down on his eyes; he listened like some old parrot on its perch, his head a little to one side. 'them as dies young,' he thought, 'goes straight to heaven. we trusts in god--all mortal men; his godfathers and his godmothers in his baptism. well, so it is! i'm not afeared o' death!' seeing the little coffin tremble above the hole, he craned his head still further forward. it sank; a smothered sobbing rose. the old butler touched the arm in front of him with shaking fingers. "don't 'e," he whispered; "he's a-gone to glory." but, hearing the dry rattle of the earth, he took out his own handkerchief and put it to his nose. 'yes, he's a-gone,' he thought; 'another little baby. old men an' maidens, young men an' little children; it's a-goin' on all the time. where 'e is now there'll be no marryin', no, nor givin' out in marriage; till death do us part.' the wind, sweeping across the filled-in hole, carried the rustle of his husky breathing, the dry, smothered sobbing of the seamstress, out across the shadows' graves, to those places, to those streets.... from the baby's funeral hilary and martin walked away together, and far behind them, across the road, the little model followed. for some time neither spoke; then hilary, stretching out his hand towards a squalid alley, said: "they haunt us and drag us down. a long, dark passage. is there a light at the far end, martin?" "yes," said martin gruffly. "i don't see it." martin looked at him. "hamlet!" hilary did not reply. the young man watched him sideways. "it's a disease to smile like that!" hilary ceased to smile. "cure me, then," he said, with sudden anger, "you man of health!" the young "sanitist's" sallow cheeks flushed. "atrophy of the nerve of action," he muttered; "there's no cure for that!" "ah!" said hilary: "all kinds of us want social progress in our different ways. you, your grandfather, my brother, myself; there are four types for you. will you tell me any one of us is the right man for the job? for instance, action's not natural to me." "any act," answered martin, "is better than no act." "and myopia is natural to you, martin. your prescription in this case has not been too successful, has it?" "i can't help it if people will be d---d fools." "there you hit it. but answer me this question: isn't a social conscience, broadly speaking, the result of comfort and security?" martin shrugged his shoulders. "and doesn't comfort also destroy the power of action?" again martin shrugged. "then, if those who have the social conscience and can see what is wrong have lost their power of action, how can you say there is any light at the end of this dark passage?" martin took his pipe out, filled it, and pressed the filling with his thumb. "there is light," he said at last, "in spite of all invertebrates. good-bye! i've wasted enough time," and he abruptly strode away. "and in spite of myopia?" muttered hilary. a few minutes later, coming out from messrs. rose and thorn's, where he had gone to buy tobacco, he came suddenly on the little model, evidently waiting. "i was at the funeral," she, said; and her face added plainly: 'i've followed you.' uninvited, she walked on at his side. 'this is not the same girl,' he thought, 'that i sent away five days ago. she has lost something, gained something. i don't know her.' there seemed such a stubborn purpose in her face and manner. it was like the look in a dog's eyes that says: 'master, you thought to shut me up away from you; i know now what that is like. do what you will, i mean in future to be near you.' this look, by its simplicity, frightened one to whom the primitive was strange. desiring to free himself of his companion, yet not knowing how, hilary sat down in kensington gardens on the first bench they came to. the little model sat down beside him. the quiet siege laid to him by this girl was quite uncanny. it was as though someone were binding him with toy threads, swelling slowly into rope before his eyes. in this fear of hilary's there was at first much irritation. his fastidiousness and sense of the ridiculous were roused. what did this little creature with whom he had no thoughts and no ideas in common, whose spirit and his could never hope to meet, think that she could get from him? was she trying to weave a spell over him too, with her mute, stubborn adoration? was she trying to change his protective weakness for her to another sort of weakness? he turned and looked; she dropped her eyes at once, and sat still as a stone figure. as in her spirit, so in her body, she was different; her limbs looked freer, rounder; her breath seemed stirring her more deeply; like a flower of early june she was opening before his very eyes. this, though it gave him pleasure, also added to his fear. the strange silence, in its utter naturalness--for what could he talk about with her?--brought home to him more vividly than anything before, the barriers of class. all he thought of was how not to be ridiculous! she was inviting him in some strange, unconscious, subtle way to treat her as a woman, as though in spirit she had linked her round young arms about his neck, and through her half-closed lips were whispering the eternal call of sex to sex. and he, a middle-aged and cultivated man, conscious of everything, could not even speak for fear of breaking through his shell of delicacy. he hardly breathed, disturbed to his very depths by the young figure sitting by his side, and by the dread of showing that disturbance. beside the cultivated plant the self-sown poppy rears itself; round the stem of a smooth tree the honeysuckle twines; to a trim wall the ivy clings. in her new-found form and purpose this girl had gained a strange, still power; she no longer felt it mattered whether he spoke or looked at her; her instinct, piercing through his shell, was certain of the throbbing of his pulses, the sweet poison in his blood. the perception of this still power, more than all else, brought fear to hilary. he need not speak; she would not care! he need not even look at her; she had but to sit there silent, motionless, with the breath of youth coming through her parted lips, and the light of youth stealing through her half-closed eyes. and abruptly he got up and walked away. chapter xxxi swan song the new wine, if it does not break the old bottle, after fierce effervescence seethes and bubbles quietly. it was so in mr. stone's old bottle, hour by hour and day by day, throughout the month. a pinker, robuster look came back to his cheeks; his blue eyes, fixed on distance, had in them more light; his knees regained their powers; he bathed, and, all unknown to him, for he only saw the waters he cleaved with his ineffably slow stroke, hilary and martin, on alternate weeks, and keeping at a proper distance, for fear he should see them doing him a service, attended at that function in case mr. stone should again remain too long seated at the bottom of the serpentine. each morning after his cocoa and porridge he could be heard sweeping out his room with extraordinary vigour, and as ten o'clock came near anyone who listened would remark a sound of air escaping, as he moved up and down on his toes in preparation for the labours of the day. no letters, of course, nor any newspapers disturbed the supreme and perfect self-containment of this life devoted to fraternity--no letters, partly because he lacked a known address, partly because for years he had not answered them; and with regard to newspapers, once a month he went to a public library, and could be seen with the last four numbers of two weekly reviews before him, making himself acquainted with the habits of those days, and moving his lips as though in prayer. at ten each morning anyone in the corridor outside his room was startled by the whirr of an alarum clock; perfect silence followed; then rose a sound of shuffling, whistling, rustling, broken by sharply muttered words; soon from this turbid lake of sound the articulate, thin fluting of an old man's voice streamed forth. this, alternating with the squeak of a quill pen, went on till the alarum clock once more went off. then he who stood outside could smell that mr. stone would shortly eat; if, stimulated by that scent, he entered; he might see the author of the "book of universal brotherhood" with a baked potato in one hand and a cup of hot milk in the other; on the table, too, the ruined forms of eggs, tomatoes, oranges, bananas, figs, prunes, cheese, and honeycomb, which had passed into other forms already, together with a loaf of wholemeal bread. mr. stone would presently emerge in his cottage-woven tweeds, and old hat of green-black felt; or, if wet, in a long coat of yellow gaberdine, and sou'wester cap of the same material; but always with a little osier fruit-bag in his hand. thus equipped, he walked down to rose and thorn's, entered, and to the first man he saw handed the osier fruit-bag, some coins, and a little book containing seven leaves, headed "food: monday, tuesday, wednesday," and so forth. he then stood looking through the pickles in some jar or other at things beyond, with one hand held out, fingers upwards, awaiting the return of his little osier fruit-bag. feeling. presently that it had been restored to him, he would turn and walk out of the shop. behind his back, on the face of the department, the same protecting smile always rose. long habit had perfected it. all now felt that, though so very different from themselves, this aged customer was dependent on them. by not one single farthing or one pale slip of cheese would they have defrauded him for all the treasures of the moon, and any new salesman who laughed at that old client was promptly told to "shut his head." mr. stone's frail form, bent somewhat to one side by the increased gravamen of the osier bag, was now seen moving homewards. he arrived perhaps ten minutes before the three o'clock alarum, and soon passing through preliminary chaos, the articulate, thin fluting of his voice streamed forth again, broken by the squeaking and spluttering of his quill. but towards four o'clock signs of cerebral excitement became visible; his lips would cease to utter sounds, his pen to squeak. his face, with a flushed forehead, would appear at the open window. as soon as the little model came in sight--her eyes fixed, not on his window, but on hilary's--he turned his back, evidently waiting for her to enter by the door. his first words were uttered in a tranquil voice: "i have several pages. i have placed your chair. are you ready? follow!" except for that strange tranquillity of voice and the disappearance of the flush on his brow, there was no sign of the rejuvenescence that she brought, of such refreshment as steals on the traveller who sits down beneath a lime-tree toward the end of along day's journey; no sign of the mysterious comfort distilled into his veins by the sight of her moody young face, her young, soft limbs. so from some stimulant men very near their end will draw energy, watching, as it were, a shape beckoning them forward, till suddenly it disappears in darkness. in the quarter of an hour sacred to their tea and conversation he never noticed that she was always listening for sounds beyond; it was enough that in her presence he felt singleness of purpose strong within him. when she had gone, moving languidly, moodily away, her eyes darting about for signs of hilary, mr. stone would sit down rather suddenly and fall asleep, to dream, perhaps, of youth--youth with its scent of sap, its close beckonings; youth with its hopes and fears; youth that hovers round us so long after it is dead! his spirit would smile behind its covering--that thin china of his face; and, as dogs hunting in their sleep work their feet, so he worked the fingers resting on his woollen knees. the seven o'clock alarum woke him to the preparation of the evening meal. this eaten, he began once more to pace up and down, to pour words out into the silence, and to drive his squeaking quill. so was being written a book such as the world had never seen! but the girl who came so moodily to bring him refreshment, and went so moodily away, never in these days caught a glimpse of that which she was seeking. since the morning when he had left her abruptly, hilary had made a point of being out in the afternoons and not returning till past six o'clock. by this device he put off facing her and himself, for he could no longer refuse to see that he had himself to face. in the few minutes of utter silence when the girl sat beside him, magnetic, quivering with awakening force, he had found that the male in him was far from dead. it was no longer vague, sensuous feeling; it was warm, definite desire. the more she was in his thoughts, the less spiritual his feeling for this girl of the people had become. in those days he seemed much changed to such as knew him well. instead of the delicate, detached, slightly humorous suavity which he had accustomed people to expect from him, the dry kindliness which seemed at once to check confidence and yet to say, 'if you choose to tell me anything, i should never think of passing judgment on you, whatever you have done'--instead of that rather abstracted, faintly quizzical air, his manner had become absorbed and gloomy. he seemed to jib away from his friends. his manner at the "pen and ink" was wholly unsatisfying to men who liked to talk. he was known to be writing a new book; they suspected him of having "got into a hat"--this victorian expression, found by mr. balladyce in some chronicle of post-thackerayan manners, and revived by him in his incomparable way, as who should say, 'what delicious expressions those good bourgeois had!' now flourished in second childhood. in truth, hilary's difficulty with his new book was merely the one of not being able to work at it at all. even the housemaid who "did" his study noticed that day after day she was confronted by chapter xxiv., in spite of her employer's staying in, as usual, every morning. the change in his manner and face, which had grown strained and harassed, had been noticed by bianca, though she would have died sooner than admit she had noticed anything about him. it was one of those periods in the lives of households like an hour of a late summer's day--brooding, electric, as yet quiescent, but charged with the currents of coming storms. twice only in those weeks while hughs was in prison did hilary see the girl. once he met her when he was driving home; she blushed crimson and her eyes lighted up. and one morning, too, he passed her on the bench where they had sat together. she was staring straight before her, the corners of her mouth drooping discontentedly. she did not see him. to a man like hilary-for whom running after women had been about the last occupation in the world, who had, in fact, always fought shy of them and imagined that they would always fight shy of him--there was an unusual enticement and dismay in the feeling that a young girl really was pursuing him. it was at once too good, too unlikely, and too embarrassing to be true. his sudden feeling for her was the painful sensation of one who sees a ripe nectarine hanging within reach. he dreamed continually of stretching out his hand, and so he did not dare, or thought he did not dare, to pass that way. all this did not favour the tenor of a studious, introspective life; it also brought a sense of unreality which made him avoid his best friends. this, partly, was why stephen came to see him one sunday, his other reason for the visit being the calculation that hughs would be released on the following wednesday. 'this girl,' he thought, 'is going to the house still, and hilary will let things drift till he can't stop them, and there'll be a real mess.' the fact of the man's having been in prison gave a sinister turn to an affair regarded hitherto as merely sordid by stephen's orderly and careful mind. crossing the garden, he heard mr. stone's voice issuing through the open window. 'can't the old crank stop even on sundays?' he thought. he found hilary in his study, reading a book on the civilisation of the maccabees, in preparation for a review. he gave stephen but a dubious welcome. stephen broke ground gently. "we haven't seen you for an age. i hear our old friend at it. is he working double tides to finish his magnum opus? i thought he observed the day of rest." "he does as a rule," said hilary. "well, he's got the girl there now dictating." hilary winced. stephen continued with greater circumspection "you couldn't get the old boy to finish by wednesday, i suppose? he must be quite near the end by now." the notion of mr. stone's finishing his book by wednesday procured a pale smile from hilary. "could you get your law courts," he said, "to settle up the affairs of mankind for good and all by wednesday?" "by jove! is it as bad as that? i thought, at any rate, he must be meaning to finish some day." "when men are brothers," said hilary, "he will finish." stephen whistled. "look here, dear boy!" he said, "that ruffian comes out on wednesday. the whole thing will begin over again." hilary rose and paced the room. "i refuse," he said, "to consider hughs a ruffian. what do we know about him, or any of them?" "precisely! what do we know of this girl?" "i am not going to discuss that," hilary said shortly. for a moment the faces of the two brothers wore a hard, hostile look, as though the deep difference between their characters had at last got the better of their loyalty. they both seemed to recognise this, for they turned their heads away. "i just wanted to remind you," stephen said, "though you know your own business best, of course." and at hilary's nod he thought: 'that's just exactly what he doesn't!' he soon left, conscious of an unwonted awkwardness in his brother's presence. hilary watched him out through the wicket gate, then sat down on the solitary garden bench. stephen's visit had merely awakened perverse desires in him. strong sunlight was falling on that little london garden, disclosing its native shadowiness; streaks, and smudges such as life smears over the faces of those who live too consciously. hilary, beneath the acacia-tree not yet in bloom, marked an early butterfly flitting over the geraniums blossoming round an old sundial. blackbirds were holding evensong; the late perfume of the lilac came stealing forth into air faintly smeeched with chimney smoke. there was brightness, but no glory, in that little garden; scent, but no strong air blown across golden lakes of buttercups, from seas of springing clover, or the wind-silver of young wheat; music, but no full choir of sound, no hum. like the face and figure of its master, so was this little garden, whose sundial the sun seldom reached-refined, self-conscious, introspective, obviously a creature of the town. at that moment, however, hilary was not looking quite himself; his face was flushed, his eyes angry, almost as if he had been a man of action. the voice of mr. stone was still audible, fitfully quavering out into the air, and the old man himself could now and then be seen holding up his manuscript, his profile clear-cut against the darkness of the room. a sentence travelled out across the garden: "'amidst the tur-bu-lent dis-cov-eries of those days, which, like cross-currented and multibillowed seas, lapped and hollowed every rock '" a motor-car dashing past drowned the rest, and when the voice rose again it was evidently dictating another paragraph. "'in those places, in those streets, the shadows swarmed, whispering and droning like a hive of dying bees, who, their honey eaten, wander through the winter day seeking flowers that are frozen and dead."' a great bee which had been busy with the lilac began to circle, booming, round his hair. suddenly hilary saw mr. stone raise both his arms. "'in huge congeries, crowded, devoid of light and air, they were assembled, these bloodless imprints from forms of higher caste. they lay, like the reflection of leaves which, fluttering free in the sweet winds, let fall to the earth wan resemblances. imponderous, dark ghosts, wandering ones chained to the ground, they had no hope of any lovely city, nor knew whence they had come. men cast them on the pavements and marched on. they did not in universal brotherhood clasp their shadows to sleep within their hearts--for the sun was not then at noon, when no man has a shadow.'" as those words of swan song died away he swayed and trembled, and suddenly disappeared below the sight-line, as if he had sat down. the little model took his place in the open window. she started at seeing hilary; then, motionless, stood gazing at him. out of the gloom of the opening her eyes were all pupil, two spots of the surrounding darkness imprisoned in a face as pale as any flower. rigid as the girl herself, hilary looked up at her. a voice behind him said: "how are you? i thought i'd give my car a run." mr. purcey was coming from the gate, his eyes fixed on the window where the girl stood. "how is your wife?" he added. the bathos of this visit roused an acid fury in hilary. he surveyed mr. purcey's figure from his cloth-topped boots to his tall hat, and said: "shall we go in and find her?" as they went along mr. purcey said: "that's the young--the--er--model i met in your wife's studio, isn't it? pretty girl!" hilary compressed his lips. "now, what sort of living do those girls make?" pursued mr. purcey. "i suppose they've most of them other resources. eh, what?" "they make the living god will let them, i suppose, as other people do." mr. purcey gave him a sharp look. it was almost as if dallison had meant to snub him. "oh, exactly! i should think this girl would have no difficulty." and suddenly he saw a curious change come over "that writing fellow," as he always afterwards described hilary. instead of a mild, pleasant-looking chap enough, he had become a regular cold devil. "my wife appears to be out," hilary said. "i also have an engagement." in his surprise and anger mr. purcey said with great simplicity, "sorry i'm 'de trop'!" and soon his car could be heard bearing him away with some unnecessary noise. chapter xxxii behind bianca's veil but bianca was not out. she had been a witness of hilary's long look at the little model. coming from her studio through the glass passage to the house, she could not, of course, see what he was gazing at, but she knew as well as if the girl had stood before her in the dark opening of the window. hating herself for having seen, she went to her room, and lay on her bed with her hands pressed to her eyes. she was used to loneliness--that necessary lot of natures such as hers; but the bitter isolation of this hour was such as to drive even her lonely nature to despair. she rose at last, and repaired the ravages made in her face and dress, lest anyone should see that she was suffering. then, first making sure that hilary had left the garden, she stole out. she wandered towards hyde park. it was whitsuntide, a time of fear to the cultivated londoner. the town seemed all arid jollity and paper bags whirled on a dusty wind. people swarmed everywhere in clothes which did not suit them; desultory, dead-tired creatures who, in these few green hours of leisure out of the sandy eternity of their toil, were not suffered to rest, but were whipped on by starved instincts to hunt pleasures which they longed for too dreadfully to overtake. bianca passed an old tramp asleep beneath a tree. his clothes had clung to him so long and lovingly that they were falling off, but his face was calm as though masked with the finest wax. forgotten were his sores and sorrows; he was in the blessed fields of sleep. bianca hastened away from the sight of such utter peace. she wandered into a grove of trees which had almost eluded the notice of the crowd. they were limes, guarding still within them their honey bloom. their branches of light, broad leaves, near heart-shaped, were spread out like wide skirts. the tallest of these trees, a beautiful, gay creature, stood tremulous, like a mistress waiting for her tardy lover. what joy she seemed to promise, what delicate enticement, with every veined quivering leaf! and suddenly the sun caught hold of her, raised her up to him, kissed her all over; she gave forth a sigh of happiness, as though her very spirit had travelled through her lips up to her lover's heart. a woman in a lilac frock came stealing through the trees towards bianca, and sitting down not far off, kept looking quickly round under her sunshade. presently bianca saw what she was looking for. a young man in black coat and shining hat came swiftly up and touched her shoulder. half hidden by the foliage they sat, leaning forward, prodding gently at the ground with stick and parasol; the stealthy murmur of their talk, so soft and intimate that no word was audible, stole across the grass; and secretly he touched her hand and arm. they were not of the holiday crowd, and had evidently chosen out this vulgar afternoon for a stolen meeting. bianca rose and hurried on amongst the trees. she left the park. in the streets many couples, not so careful to conceal their intimacy, were parading arm-in-arm. the sight of them did not sting her like the sight of those lovers in the park; they were not of her own order. but presently she saw a little boy and girl asleep on the doorstep of a mansion, with their cheeks pressed close together and their arms round each other, and again she hurried on. in the course of that long wandering she passed the building which "westminister" was so anxious to avoid. in its gateway an old couple were just about to separate, one to the men's, the other to the women's quarters. their toothless mouths were close together. "well, goodnight, mother!" "good-night, father, good-night-take care o' yourself!" once more bianca hurried on. it was past nine when she turned into the old square, and rang the bell of her sister's house with the sheer physical desire to rest--somewhere that was not her home. at one end of the long, low drawing-room stephen, in evening dress, was reading aloud from a review. cecilia was looking dubiously at his sock, where she seemed to see a tiny speck of white that might be stephen. in the window at the far end thyme and martin were exchanging speeches at short intervals; they made no move at bianca's entrance; and their faces said: "we have no use for that handshaking nonsense!" receiving cecilia's little, warm, doubting kiss and stephen's polite, dry handshake, bianca motioned to him not to stop reading. he resumed. cecilia, too, resumed her scrutiny of stephen's sock. 'oh dear!' she thought. 'i know b.'s come here because she's unhappy. poor thing! poor hilary! it's that wretched business again, i suppose.' skilled in every tone of stephen's voice, she knew that bianca's entry had provoked the same train of thought in him; to her he seemed reading out these words: 'i disapprove--i disapprove. she's cis's sister. but if it wasn't for old hilary i wouldn't have the subject in the house!' bianca, whose subtlety recorded every shade of feeling, could see that she was not welcome. leaning back with veil raised, she seemed listening to stephen's reading, but in fact she was quivering at the sight of those two couples. couples, couples--for all but her! what crime had she committed? why was the china of her cup flawed so that no one could drink from it? why had she been made so that nobody could love her? this, the most bitter of all thoughts, the most tragic of all questionings, haunted her. the article which stephen read--explaining exactly how to deal with people so that from one sort of human being they might become another, and going on to prove that if, after this conversion, they showed signs of a reversion, it would then be necessary to know the reason why--fell dryly on ears listening to that eternal question: why is it with me as it is? it is not fair!--listening to the constant murmuring of her pride: i am not wanted here or anywhere. better to efface myself! from their end of the room thyme and martin scarcely looked at her. to them she was aunt b., an amateur, the mockery of whose eyes sometimes penetrated their youthful armour; they were besides too interested in their conversation to perceive that she was suffering. the skirmish of that conversation had lasted now for many days--ever since the death of the hughs' baby. "well," martin was saying, "what are you going to do? it's no good to base it on the baby; you must know your own mind all round. you can't go rushing into real work on mere sentiment." "you went to the funeral, martin. it's bosh to say you didn't feel it too!" martin deigned no answer to this insinuation. "we've gone past the need for sentiment," he said: "it's exploded; so is justice, administered by an upper class with a patch over one eye and a squint in the other. when you see a dying donkey in a field, you don't want to refer the case to a society, as your dad would; you don't want an essay of hilary's, full of sympathy with everybody, on 'walking in a field: with reflections on the end of donkeys'--you want to put a bullet in the donkey." "you're always down on uncle hilary," said thyme. "i don't mind hilary himself; i object to his type." "well, he objects to yours," said thyme. "i'm not so sure of that," said martin slowly; "he hasn't got character enough." thyme raised her chin, and, looking at him through half-closed eyes, said: "well, i do think, of all the conceited persons i ever met you're the worst." martin's nostril curled. "are you prepared," he said, "to put a bullet in the donkey, or are you not?" "i only see one donkey, and not a dying one!" martin stretched out his hand and gripped her arm below the elbow. retaining it luxuriously, he said: "don't wander!" thyme tried to free her arm. "let go!" martin was looking straight into her eyes. a flush had risen in his cheeks. thyme, too, went the colour of the old-rose curtain behind which she sat. "let go!" "i won't! i'll make you know your mind. what do you mean to do? are you coming in a fit of sentiment, or do you mean business?" suddenly, half-hypnotised, the young girl ceased to struggle. her face had the strangest expression of submission and defiance--a sort of pain, a sort of delight. so they sat full half a minute staring at each other's eyes. hearing a rustling sound, they looked, and saw bianca moving to the door. cecilia, too, had risen. "what is it, b.?" bianca, opening the door, went out. cecilia followed swiftly, too late to catch even a glimpse of her sister's face behind the veil... in mr. stone's room the green lamp burned dimly, and he who worked by it was sitting on the edge of his campbed, attired in his old brown woollen gown and slippers. and suddenly it seemed to him that he was not alone. "i have finished for to-night," he said. "i am waiting for the moon to rise. she is nearly full; i shall see her face from here." a form sat down by him on the bed, and a voice said softly: "like a woman's." mr. stone saw his younger daughter. "you have your hat on. are you going out, my dear?" "i saw your light as i came in." "the moon," said mr. stone, "is an arid desert. love is unknown there." "how can you bear to look at her, then?" bianca whispered. mr. stone raised his finger. "she has risen." the wan moon had slipped out into the darkness. her light stole across the garden and through the open window to the bed where they were sitting. "where there is no love, dad," bianca said, "there can be no life, can there?" mr. stone's eyes seemed to drink the moonlight. "that," he said, "is the great truth. the bed is shaking!" with her arms pressed tight across her breast, bianca was struggling with violent, noiseless sobbing. that desperate struggle seemed to be tearing her to death before his eyes, and mr. stone sat silent, trembling. he knew not what to do. from his frosted heart years of universal brotherhood had taken all knowledge of how to help his daughter. he could only sit touching her tremulously with thin fingers. the form beside him, whose warmth he felt against his arm, grew stiller, as though, in spite of its own loneliness, his helplessness had made it feel that he, too; was lonely. it pressed a little closer to him. the moonlight, gaining pale mastery over the flickering lamp, filled the whole room. mr. stone said: "i want her mother!" the form beside him ceased to struggle. finding out an old, forgotten way, mr. stone's arm slid round that quivering body. "i do not know what to say to her," he muttered, and slowly he began to rock himself. "motion," he said, "is soothing." the moon passed on. the form beside him sat so still that mr. stone ceased moving. his daughter was no longer sobbing. suddenly her lips seared his forehead. trembling from that desperate caress, he raised his fingers to the spot and looked round. she was gone. chapter xxxiii hilary deals with the situation to understand the conduct of hilary and bianca at what "westminister" would have called this "crisax," not only their feelings as sentient human beings, but their matrimonial philosophy, must be taken into account. by education and environment they belonged to a section of society which had "in those days" abandoned the more old-fashioned views of marriage. such as composed this section, finding themselves in opposition, not only to the orthodox proprietary creed, but even to their own legal rights, had been driven to an attitude of almost blatant freedom. like all folk in opposition, they were bound, as a simple matter of principle, to disagree with those in power, to view with a contemptuous resentment that majority which said, "i believe the thing is mine, and mine it shall remain"--a majority which by force of numbers made this creed the law. unable legally to, be other than the proprietors of wife or husband, as the case might be, they were obliged, even in the most happy unions, to be very careful not to become disgusted with their own position. their legal status was, as it were, a goad, spurring them on to show their horror of it. they were like children sent to school with trousers that barely reached their knees, aware that they could neither reduce their stature to the proportions of their breeches nor make their breeches grow. they were furnishing an instance of that immemorial "change of form to form" to which mr. stone had given the name of life. in a past age thinkers and dreamers and "artistic pigs" rejecting the forms they found, had given unconscious shape to this marriage law, which, after they had become the wind, had formed itself out of their exiled pictures and thoughts and dreams. and now this particular law in turn was the dried rind, devoid of pips or speculation; and the thinkers and dreamers and "artistic pigs" were again rejecting it, and again themselves in exile. this exiled faith, this honour amongst thieves, animated a little conversation between hilary and bianca on the tuesday following the night when mr. stone sat on his bed to watch the rising moon. quietly bianca said: "i think i shall be going away for a time." "wouldn't you rather that i went instead?" "you are wanted; i am not." that ice-cold, ice-clear remark contained the pith of the whole matter; and hilary said: "you are not going at once?" "at the end of the week, i think." noting his eyes fixed on her, she added: "yes; we're neither of us looking quite our best." "i am sorry." "i know you are." this had been all. it had been sufficient to bring hilary once more face to face with the situation. its constituent elements remained the same; relative values had much changed. the temptations of st. anthony were becoming more poignant every hour. he had no "principles" to pit against them: he had merely the inveterate distaste for hurting anybody, and a feeling that if he yielded to his inclination he would be faced ultimately with a worse situation than ever. it was not possible for him to look at the position as mr. purcey might have done, if his wife had withdrawn from him and a girl had put herself in his way. neither hesitation because of the defenceless position of the girl, nor hesitation because of his own future with her, would have troubled mr. purcey. he--good man--in his straightforward way, would have only thought about the present--not, indeed, intending to have a future with a young person of that class. consideration for a wife who had withdrawn from the society of mr. purcey would also naturally have been absent from the equation. that hilary worried over all these questions was the mark of his 'fin de sieclism.' and in the meantime the facts demanded a decision. he had not spoken to this girl since the day of the baby's funeral, but in that long look from the garden he had in effect said: 'you are drawing me to the only sort of union possible to us!' and she in effect had answered: 'do what you like with me!' there were other facts, too, to be reckoned with. hughs would be released to-morrow; the little model would not stop her visits unless forced to; mr. stone could not well do without her; bianca had in effect declared that she was being driven out of her own house. it was this situation which hilary, seated beneath the bust of socrates, turned over and over in his mind. long and painful reflection brought him back continually to the thought that he himself, and not bianca, had better go away. he was extremely bitter and contemptuous towards himself that he had not done so long ago. he made use of the names martin had given him. "hamlet," "amateur," "invertebrate." they gave him, unfortunately, little comfort. in the afternoon he received a visit. mr. stone came in with his osier fruit-bag in his hand. he remained standing, and spoke at once. "is my daughter happy?" at this unexpected question hilary walked over to the fireplace. "no," he said at last; "i am afraid she is not." "why?" hilary was silent; then, facing the old man, he said: "i think she will be glad, for certain reasons, if i go away for a time." "when are you going?" asked mr. stone. "as soon as i can." mr. stone's eyes, wistfully bright, seemed trying to see through heavy fog. "she came to me, i think," he said; "i seem to recollect her crying. you are good to her?" "i have tried to be," said hilary. mr. stone's face was discoloured by a flush. "you have no children," he said painfully; "do you live together?" hilary shook his head. "you are estranged?" said mr. stone. hilary bowed. there was a long silence. mr. stone's eyes had travelled to the window. "without love there cannot be life," he said at last; and fixing his wistful gaze on hilary, asked: "does she love another?" again hilary shook his head. when mr. stone next spoke it was clearly to himself. "i do not know why i am glad. do you love another?" at this question hilary's eyebrows settled in a frown. "what do you mean by love?" he said. mr. stone did not reply; it was evident that he was reflecting deeply. his lips began to move: "by love i mean the forgetfulness of self. unions are frequent in which only the sexual instincts, or the remembrance of self, are roused---" "that is true," muttered hilary. mr. stone looked up; painful traces of confusion showed in his face. "we were discussing something." "i was telling you," said hilary, "that it would be better for your daughter--if i go away for a time." "yes," said mr. stone; "you are estranged." hilary went back to his stand before the empty fireplace. "there is one thing, sir," he said, "on my conscience to say before i go, and i must leave it to you to decide. the little girl who comes to you no longer lives where she used to live." "in that street...." said mr. stone. hilary went on quickly. "she was obliged to leave because the husband of the woman with whom she used to lodge became infatuated with her. he has been in prison, and comes out tomorrow. if she continues to come here he will, of course, be able to find her. i'm afraid he will pursue her again. have i made it clear to you?" "no," said mr. stone. "the man," resumed hilary patiently, "is a poor, violent creature, who has been wounded in the head; he is not quite responsible. he may do the girl an injury." "what injury?" "he has stabbed his wife already." "i will speak to him," said mr. stone. hilary smiled. "i am afraid that words will hardly meet the case. she ought to disappear." there was silence. "my book!" said mr. stone. it smote hilary to see how white his face had become. 'it's better,' he thought, 'to bring his will-power into play; she will never come here, anyway, after i'm gone.' but, unable to bear the tragedy in the old man's eyes, he touched him on the arm. "perhaps she will take the risk, sir, if you ask her." mr. stone did not answer, and, not knowing what more to say, hilary went back to the window. miranda was slumbering lightly out there in the speckled shade, where it was not too warm and not too cold, her cheek resting on her paw and white teeth showing. mr. stone's voice rose again. "you are right; i cannot ask her to run a risk like that!" "she is just coming up the garden," hilary said huskily. "shall i tell her to come in?" "yes," said mr. stone. hilary beckoned. the girl came in, carrying a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley; her face fell at sight of mr. stone; she stood still, raising the lilies to her breast. nothing could have been more striking than the change from her look of guttered expectancy to a sort of hard dismay. a spot of red came into both her cheeks. she gazed from mr. stone to hilary and back again. both were staring at her. no one spoke. the little model's bosom began heaving as though she had been running; she said faintly: "look; i brought you this, mr. stone!" and held out to him the bunch of lilies. but mr. stone made no sign. "don't you like them?" mr. stone's eyes remained fastened on her face. to hilary this suspense was, evidently, most distressing. "come, will you tell her, sir," he said, "or shall i?" mr. stone spoke. "i shall try and write my book without you. you must not run this risk. i cannot allow it." the little model turned her eyes from side to side. "but i like to copy out your book," she said. "the man will injure you," said mr. stone. the little model looked at hilary. "i don't care if he does; i'm not afraid of him. i can look after myself; i'm used to it." "i am going away," said hilary quietly. after a desperate look, that seemed to ask, 'am i going, too?' the little model stood as though frozen. wishing to end the painful scene, hilary went up to mr. stone. "do you want to dictate to her this afternoon, sir?" "no," said mr. stone. "nor to-morrow?" "will you come a little walk with me?" mr. stone bowed. hilary turned to the little model. "it is goodbye, then," he said. she did not take his hand. her eyes, turned sideways, glinted; her teeth were fastened on her lower lip. she dropped the lilies, suddenly looked up at him, gulped, and slunk away. in passing she had smeared the lilies with her foot. hilary picked up the fragments of the flowers, and dropped them into the grate. the fragrance of the bruised blossoms remained clinging to the air. "shall we get ready for our walk?" he said. mr. stone moved feebly to the door, and very soon they were walking silently towards the gardens. chapter xxxiv thyme's adventure this same afternoon thyme, wheeling a bicycle and carrying a light valise, was slipping into a back street out of the old square. putting her burden down at the pavement's edge, she blew a whistle. a hansom-cab appeared, and a man in ragged clothes, who seemed to spring out of the pavement, took hold of her valise. his lean, unshaven face was full of wolfish misery. "get off with you!" the cabman said. "let him do it!" murmured thyme. the cab-runner hoisted up the trunk, then waited motionless beside the cab. thyme handed him two coppers. he looked at them in silence, and went away. 'poor man,' she thought; 'that's one of the things we've got to do away with!' the cab now proceeded in the direction of the park, thyme following on her bicycle, and trying to stare about her calmly. 'this,' she thought, 'is the end of the old life. i won't be romantic, and imagine i'm doing anything special; i must take it all as a matter of course.' she thought of mr. purcey's face--'that person!'--if he could have seen her at this moment turning her back on comfort. 'the moment i get there,' she mused, 'i shall let mother know; she can come out to-morrow, and see for herself. i can't have hysterics about my disappearance, and all that. they must get used to the idea that i mean to be in touch with things. i can't be stopped by what anybody thinks!' an approaching motor-car brought a startled frown across her brow. was it 'that person'? but though it was not mr. purcey and his a.i. damyer, it was somebody so like him as made no difference. thyme uttered a little laugh. in the park a cool light danced and glittered on the trees and water, and the same cool, dancing glitter seemed lighting the girl's eyes. the cabman, unseen, took an admiring look at her. 'nice little bit, this!' it said. 'grandfather bathes here,' thought thyme. 'poor darling! i pity everyone that's old.' the cab passed on under the shade of trees out into the road. 'i wonder if we have only one self in us,' thought thyme. 'i sometimes feel that i have two--uncle hilary would understand what i mean. the pavements are beginning to smell horrid already, and it's only june to-morrow. will mother feel my going very much? how glorious if one didn't feel!' the cab turned into a narrow street of little shops. 'it must be dreadful to have to serve in a small shop. what millions of people there are in the world! can anything be of any use? martin says what matters is to do one's job; but what is one's job?' the cab emerged into a broad, quiet square. 'but i'm not going to think of anything,' thought thyme; 'that's fatal. suppose father stops my allowance; i should have to earn my living as a typist, or something of that sort; but he won't, when he sees i mean it. besides, mother wouldn't let him.' the cab entered the euston road, and again the cabman's broad face was turned towards thyme with an inquiring stare. 'what a hateful road!' thyme thought. 'what dull, ugly, common-looking faces all the people seem to have in london! as if they didn't care for anything but just to get through their day somehow. i've only seen two really pretty faces!' the cab stopped before a small tobacconist's on the south side of the road. 'have i got to live here?' thought thyme. through the open door a narrow passage led to a narrow staircase covered with oilcloth. she raised her bicycle and wheeled it in. a jewish-looking youth emerging from the shop accosted her. "your gentleman friend says you are to stay in your rooms, please, until he comes." his warm red-brown eyes dwelt on her lovingly. "shall i take your luggage up, miss?" "thank you; i can manage." "it's the first floor," said the young man. the little rooms which thyme entered were stuffy, clean, and neat. putting her trunk down in her bedroom, which looked out on a bare yard, she went into the sitting-room and threw the window up. down below the cabman and tobacconist were engaged in conversation. thyme caught the expression on their faces--a sort of leering curiosity. 'how disgusting and horrible men are!' she thought, moodily staring at the traffic. all seemed so grim, so inextricable, and vast, out there in the grey heat and hurry, as though some monstrous devil were sporting with a monstrous ant-heap. the reek of petrol and of dung rose to her nostrils. it was so terribly big and hopeless; it was so ugly! 'i shall never do anything,' thought thyme-'never--never! why doesn't martin come?' she went into her bedroom and opened her valise. with the scent of lavender that came from it, there sprang up a vision of her white bedroom at home, and the trees of the green garden and the blackbirds on the grass. the sound of footsteps on the stairs brought her back into the sitting-room. martin was standing in the doorway. thyme ran towards him, but stopped abruptly. "i've come, you see. what made you choose this place?" "i'm next door but two; and there's a girl here--one of us. she'll show you the ropes." "is she a lady?" martin raised his shoulders. "she is what is called a lady," he said; "but she's the right sort, all the same. nothing will stop her." at this proclamation of supreme virtue, the look on thyme's face was very queer. 'you don't trust me,' it seemed to say, 'and you trust that girl. you put me here for her to watch over me!...' "i 'want to send this telegram," she said martin read the telegram. "you oughtn't to have funked telling your mother what you meant to do." thyme crimsoned. "i'm not cold-blooded, like you." "this is a big matter," said martin. "i told you that you had no business to come at all if you couldn't look it squarely in the face." "if you want me to stay you had better be more decent to me, martin." "it must be your own affair," said martin. thyme stood at the window, biting her lips to keep the tears back from her eyes. a very pleasant voice behind her said: "i do think it's so splendid of you to come!" a girl in grey was standing there--thin, delicate, rather plain, with a nose ever so little to one side, lips faintly smiling, and large, shining, greenish eyes. "i am mary daunt. i live above you. have you had some tea?" in the gentle question of this girl with the faintly smiling lips and shining eyes thyme fancied that she detected mockery. "yes, thanks. i want to be shown what my work's to be, at once, please." the grey girl looked at martin. "oh! won't to-morrow do for all that sort of thing? i'm sure you must be tired. mr. stone, do make her rest!" martin's glance seemed to say: 'please leave your femininities!' "if you mean business, your work will be the same as hers," he said; "you're not qualified. all you can do will be visiting, noting the state of the houses and the condition of the children." the girl in grey said gently: "you see, we only deal with sanitation and the children. it seems hard on the grown people and the old to leave them out; but there's sure to be so much less money than we want, so that it must all go towards the future." there was a silence. the girl with the shining eyes added softly: " !" " !" repeated martin. it seemed to be some formula of faith. "i must send this telegram!" muttered thyme. martin took it from her and went out. left alone in the little room, the two girls did not at first speak. the girl in grey was watching thyme half timidly, as if she could not tell what to make of this young creature who looked so charming, and kept shooting such distrustful glances. "i think it's so awfully sweet of you to come," she said at last. "i know what a good time you have at home; your cousin's often told me. don't you think he's splendid?" to that question thyme made no answer. "isn't this work horrid," she said--"prying into people's houses?" the grey girl smiled. "it is rather awful sometimes. i've been at it six months now. you get used to it. i've had all the worst things said to me by now, i should think." thyme shuddered. "you see," said the grey girl's faintly smiling lips, "you soon get the feeling of having to go through with it. we all realise it's got to be done, of course. your cousin's one of the best of us; nothing seems to put him out. he has such a nice sort of scornful kindness. i'd rather work with him than anyone." she looked past her new associate into that world outside, where the sky seemed all wires and yellow heat-dust. she did not notice thyme appraising her from head to foot, with a stare hostile and jealous, but pathetic, too, as though confessing that this girl was her superior. "i'm sure i can't do that work!" she said suddenly. the grey girl smiled. "oh, i thought that at first." then, with an admiring look: "but i do think it's rather a shame for you, you're so pretty. perhaps they'd put you on to tabulation work, though that's awfully dull. we'll ask your cousin." "no; i'll do the whole or nothing." "well," said the grey girl, "i've got one house left to-day. would you like to come and see the sort of thing?" she took a small notebook from a side pocket in her skirt. "i can't get on without a pocket. you must have something that you can't leave behind. i left four little bags and two dozen handkerchiefs in five weeks before i came back to pockets. it's rather a horrid house, i'm afraid!" "i shall be all right," said thyme shortly. in the shop doorway the young tobacconist was taking the evening air. he greeted them with his polite but constitutionally leering smile. "good-evening, mith," he said; "nithe evening!" "he's rather an awful little man," the grey girl said when they had achieved the crossing of the street; "but he's got quite a nice sense of humour." "ah!" said thyme. they had turned into a by-street, and stopped before a house which had obviously seen better days. its windows were cracked, its doors unpainted, and down in the basement could be seen a pile of rags, an evil-looking man seated by it, and a blazing fire. thyme felt a little gulping sensation. there was a putrid scent as of burning refuse. she looked at her companion. the grey girl was consulting her notebook, with a faint smile on her lips. and in thyme's heart rose a feeling almost of hatred for this girl, who was so business-like in the presence of such sights and scents. the door was opened by a young red-faced woman, who looked as if she had been asleep. the grey girl screwed up her shining eyes. "oh, do you mind if we come in a minute?" she said. "it would be so good of you. we're making a report." "there's nothing to report here," the young woman answered. but the grey girl had slipped as gently past as though she had been the very spirit of adventure. "of course, i see that, but just as a matter of form, you know." "i've parted with most of my things," the young woman said defensively, "since my husband died. it's a hard life." "yes, yes, but not worse than mine--always poking my nose into other people's houses." the young woman was silent, evidently surprised. "the landlord ought to keep you in better repair," said the grey girl. "he owns next door, too, doesn't he?" the young woman nodded. "he's a bad landlord. all down the street 'ere it's the same. can't get nothing done." the grey girl had gone over to a dirty bassinette where a half-naked child sprawled. an ugly little girl with fat red cheeks was sitting on a stool beside it, close to an open locker wherein could be seen a number of old meat bones.' "your chickabiddies?" said the grey girl. "aren't they sweet?" the young woman's face became illumined by a smile. "they're healthy," she said. "that's more than can be said for all the children in the house, i expect," murmured the grey girl. the young woman replied emphatically, as though voicing an old grievance: "the three on the first floor's not so bad, but i don't let 'em 'ave anything to do with that lot at the top." thyme saw her new friend's hand hover over the child's head like some pale dove. in answer to that gesture, the mother nodded. "just that; you've got to clean 'em every time they go near them children at the top." the grey girl looked at thyme. 'that's where we've got to go, evidently,' she seemed to say. "a dirty lot!" muttered the young woman. "it's very hard on you." "it is. i'm workin' at the laundry all day when i can get it. i can't look after the children--they get everywhere." "very hard," murmured the grey girl. "i'll make a note of that." together with the little book, in which she was writing furiously, she had pulled out her handkerchief, and the sight of this handkerchief reposing on the floor gave thyme a queer satisfaction, such as comes when one remarks in superior people the absence of a virtue existing in oneself. "well, we mustn't keep you, mrs.--mrs.--?" "cleary." "cleary. how old's this little one? four? and the other? two? they are ducks. good-bye!" in the corridor outside the grey girl whispered: "i do like the way we all pride ourselves on being better than someone else. i think it's so hopeful and jolly. shall we go up and see the abyss at the top?" chapter xxxv a young girl's mind a young girl's mind is like a wood in spring--now a rising mist of bluebells and flakes of dappled sunlight; now a world of still, wan, tender saplings, weeping they know not why. through the curling twigs of boughs just green, its wings fly towards the stars; but the next moment they have drooped to mope beneath the damp bushes. it is ever yearning for and trembling at the future; in its secret places all the countless shapes of things that are to be are taking stealthy counsel of how to grow up without letting their gown of mystery fall. they rustle, whisper, shriek suddenly, and as suddenly fall into a delicious silence. from the first hazel-bush to the last may-tree it is an unending meeting-place of young solemn things eager to find out what they are, eager to rush forth to greet the kisses of the wind and sun, and for ever trembling back and hiding their faces. the spirit of that wood seems to lie with her ear close to the ground, a pale petal of a hand curved like a shell behind it, listening for the whisper of her own life. there she lies, white and supple, with dewy, wistful eyes, sighing: 'what is my meaning? ah, i am everything! is there in all the world a thing so wonderful as i?... oh, i am nothing--my wings are heavy; i faint, i die!' when thyme, attended by the grey girl, emerged from the abyss at the top, her cheeks were flushed and her hands clenched. she said nothing. the grey girl, too, was silent, with a look such as a spirit divested of its body by long bathing in the river of reality might bend on one who has just come to dip her head. thyme's quick eyes saw that look, and her colour deepened. she saw, too, the glance of the jewish youth when martin joined them in the doorway. 'two girls now,' he seemed to say. 'he goes it, this young man!' supper was laid in her new friend's room--pressed beef, potato salad, stewed prunes, and ginger ale. martin and the grey girl talked. thyme ate in silence, but though her eyes seemed fastened on her plate, she saw every glance that passed between them, heard every word they said. those glances were not remarkable, nor were those words particularly important, but they were spoken in tones that seemed important to thyme. 'he never talks to me like that,' she thought. when supper was over they went out into the streets to walk, but at the door the grey girl gave thyme's arm a squeeze, her cheek a swift kiss, and turned back up the stairs. "aren't you coming?" shouted martin. her voice was heard answering from above: "no, not tonight." with the back of her hand thyme rubbed off the kiss. the two cousins walked out amongst the traffic. the evening was very warm and close; no breeze fanned the reeking town. speaking little, they wandered among endless darkening streets, whence to return to the light and traffic of the euston road seemed like coming back to heaven. at last, close again to her new home, thyme said: "why should one bother? it's all a horrible great machine, trying to blot us out; people are like insects when you put your thumb on them and smear them on a book. i hate--i loathe it!" "they might as well be healthy insects while they last," answered martin. thyme faced round at him. "i shan't sleep tonight, martin; get out my bicycle for me." martin scrutinised her by the light of the street lamp. "all right," he said; "i'll come too." there are, say moralists, roads that lead to hell, but it was on a road that leads to hampstead that the two young cyclists set forth towards eleven o'clock. the difference between the character of the two destinations was soon apparent, for whereas man taken in bulk had perhaps made hell, hampstead had obviously been made by the upper classes. there were trees and gardens, and instead of dark canals of sky banked by the roofs of houses and hazed with the yellow scum of london lights, the heavens spread out in a wide trembling pool. from that rampart of the town, the spaniard's road, two plains lay exposed to left and right; the scent of may-tree blossom had stolen up the hill; the rising moon clung to a fir-tree bough. over the country the far stars presided, and sleep's dark wings were spread above the fields--silent, scarce breathing, lay the body of the land. but to the south, where the town, that restless head, was lying, the stars seemed to have fallen and were sown in the thousand furrows of its great grey marsh, and from the dark miasma of those streets there travelled up a rustle, a whisper, the far allurement of some deathless dancer, dragging men to watch the swirl of her black, spangled drapery, the gleam of her writhing limbs. like the song of the sea in a shell was the murmur of that witch of motion, clasping to her the souls of men, drawing them down into a soul whom none had ever known to rest. above the two young cousins, scudding along that ridge between the country and the town, three thin white clouds trailed slowly towards the west-like tired seabirds drifting exhausted far out from land on a sea blue to blackness with unfathomable depth. for an hour those two rode silently into the country. "have we come far enough?" martin said at last. thyme shook her head. a long, steep hill beyond a little sleeping village had brought them to a standstill. across the shadowy fields a pale sheet of water gleamed out in moonlight. thyme turned down towards it. "i'm hot," she said; "i want to bathe my face. stay here. don't come with me." she left her bicycle, and, passing through a gate, vanished among the trees. martin stayed leaning against the gate. the village clock struck one. the distant call of a hunting owl, "qu-wheek, qu-wheek!" sounded through the grave stillness of this last night of may. the moon at her curve's summit floated at peace on the blue surface of the sky, a great closed water-lily. and martin saw through the trees scimitar-shaped reeds clustering black along the pool's shore. all about him the may-flowers were alight. it was such a night as makes dreams real and turns reality to dreams. 'all moonlit nonsense!' thought the young man, for the night had disturbed his heart. but thyme did not come back. he called to her, and in the death-like silence following his shouts he could hear his own heart beat. he passed in through the gate. she was nowhere to be seen. why was she playing him this trick? he turned up from the water among the trees, where the incense of the may-flowers hung heavy in the air. 'never look for a thing!' he thought, and stopped to listen. it was so breathless that the leaves of a low bough against his cheek did not stir while he stood there. presently he heard faint sounds, and stole towards them. under a beech-tree he almost stumbled over thyme, lying with her face pressed to the ground. the young doctor's heart gave a sickening leap; he quickly knelt down beside her. the girl's body, pressed close to the dry beech-mat, was being shaken by long sobs. from head to foot it quivered; her hat had been torn off, and the fragrance of her hair mingled with the fragrance of the night. in martin's heart something seemed to turn over and over, as when a boy he had watched a rabbit caught in a snare. he touched her. she sat up, and, dashing her hand across her eyes, cried: "go away! oh, go away!" he put his arm round her and waited. five minutes passed. the air was trembling with a sort of pale vibration, for the moonlight had found a hole in the dark foliage and flooded on to the ground beside them, whitening the black beech-husks. some tiny bird, disturbed by these unwonted visitors, began chirruping and fluttering, but was soon still again. to martin, so strangely close to this young creature in the night, there came a sense of utter disturbance. 'poor little thing!' he thought; 'be careful of her, comfort her!' hardness seemed so broken out of her, and the night so wonderful! and there came into the young man's heart a throb of the knowledge--very rare with him, for he was not, like hilary, a philosophising person--that she was as real as himself--suffering, hoping, feeling, not his hopes and feelings, but her own. his fingers kept pressing her shoulder through her thin blouse. and the touch of those fingers was worth more than any words, as this night, all moonlit dreams, was worth more than a thousand nights of sane reality. thyme twisted herself away from him at last. "i can't," she sobbed. "i'm not what you thought me--i'm not made for it!" a scornful little smile curled martin's lip. so that was it! but the smile soon died away. one did not hit what was already down! thyme's voice wailed through the silence. "i thought i could--but i want beautiful things. i can't bear it all so grey and horrible. i'm not like that girl. i'm-an-amateur!" 'if i kissed her---' martin thought. she sank down again, burying her face in the dark beech-mat. the moonlight had passed on. her voice came faint and stiffed, as out of the tomb of faith. "i'm no good. i never shall be. i'm as bad as mother!" but to martin there was only the scent of her hair. "no," murmured thyme's voice, "i'm only fit for miserable art.... i'm only fit for--nothing!" they were so close together on the dark beech mat that their bodies touched, and a longing to clasp her in his arms came over him. "i'm a selfish beast!" moaned the smothered voice. "i don't really care for all these people--i only care because they're ugly for me to see!" martin reached his hand out to her hair. if she had shrunk away he would have seized her, but as though by instinct she let it rest there. and at her sudden stillness, strange and touching, martin's quick passion left him. he slipped his arm round her and raised her up, as if she had been a child, and for a long time sat listening with a queer twisted smile to the moanings of her lost illusions. the dawn found them still sitting there against the bole of the beech-tree. her lips were parted; the tears had dried on her sleeping face, pillowed against his shoulder, while he still watched her sideways with the ghost of that twisted smile. and beyond the grey water, like some tired wanton, the moon in an orange hood was stealing down to her rest between the trees. chapter xxxvi stephen signs cheques cecilia received the mystic document containing these words "am quite all right. address, , euston road, three doors off martin. letter follows explaining. thyme," she had not even realised her little daughter's departure. she went up to thyme's room at once, and opening all the drawers and cupboards, stared into them one by one. the many things she saw there allayed the first pangs of her disquiet. 'she has only taken one little trunk,' she thought, 'and left all her evening frocks.' this act of independence alarmed rather than surprised her, such had been her sense of the unrest in the domestic atmosphere during the last month. since the evening when she had found thyme in foods of tears because of the hughs' baby, her maternal eyes had not failed to notice something new in the child's demeanour--a moodiness, an air almost of conspiracy, together with an emphatic increase of youthful sarcasm: fearful of probing deep, she had sought no confidence, nor had she divulged her doubts to stephen. amongst the blouses a sheet of blue ruled paper, which had evidently escaped from a notebook, caught her eye. sentences were scrawled on it in pencil. cecilia read: "that poor little dead thing was so grey and pinched, and i seemed to realise all of a sudden how awful it is for them. i must--i must--i will do something!" cecilia dropped the sheet of paper; her hand was trembling. there was no mystery in that departure now, and stephen's words came into her mind: "it's all very well up to a certain point, and nobody sympathises with them more than i do; but after that it becomes destructive of all comfort, and that does no good to anyone." the sound sense of those words had made her feel queer when they were spoken; they were even more sensible than she had thought. did her little daughter, so young and pretty, seriously mean to plunge into the rescue work of dismal slums, to cut herself adrift from sweet sounds and scents and colours, from music and art, from dancing, flowers, and all that made life beautiful? the secret forces of fastidiousness, an inborn dread of the fanatical, and all her real ignorance of what such a life was like, rose in cecilia with a force which made her feel quite sick. better that she herself should do this thing than that her own child should be deprived of air and light and all the just environment of her youth and beauty. 'she must come back--she must listen to me!' she thought. 'we will begin together; we will start a nice little creche of our own, or--perhaps mrs. tallents smallpeace could find us some regular work on one of her committees.' then suddenly she conceived a thought which made her blood run positively cold. what if it were a matter of heredity? what if thyme had inherited her grandfather's single-mindedness? martin was giving proof of it. things, she knew, often skipped a generation and then set in again. surely, surely, it could not have done that! with longing, yet with dread, she waited for the sound of stephen's latchkey. it came at its appointed time. even in her agitation cecilia did not forget to spare him, all she could. she began by giving him a kiss, and then said casually: "thyme has got a whim into her head." "what whim?" "it's rather what you might expect," faltered cecilia, "from her going about so much with martin." stephen's face assumed at once an air of dry derision; there was no love lost between him and his young nephew-in-law. "the sanitist?" he said; "ah! well?" "she has gone off to do work-some place in the euston road. i've had a telegram. oh, and i found this, stephen." she held out to him half-heartedly the two bits of paper, one pinkish-brown, the other blue. stephen saw that she was trembling. he took them from her, read them, and looked at her again. he had a real affection for his wife, and the tradition of consideration for other people's feelings was bred in him, so that at this moment, so vitally disturbing, the first thing he did was to put his hand on her shoulder and give it a reassuring squeeze. but there was also in stephen a certain primitive virility, pickled, it is true, at cambridge, and in the law courts dried, but still preserving something of its possessive and assertive quality, and the second thing he did was to say, "no, i'm damned!" in that little sentence lay the whole psychology of his attitude towards this situation and all the difference between two classes of the population. mr. purcey would undoubtedly have said: "well, i'm damned!" stephen, by saying "no, i'm damned!" betrayed that before he could be damned he had been obliged to wrestle and contend with something, and cecilia, who was always wrestling too, knew this something to be that queer new thing, a social conscience, the dim bogey stalking pale about the houses of those who, through the accidents of leisure or of culture, had once left the door open to the suspicion: is it possible that there is a class of people besides my own, or am i dreaming? happy the millions, poor or rich, not yet condemned to watch the wistful visiting or hear the husky mutter of that ghost, happy in their homes, blessed by a less disquieting god. such were cecilia's inner feelings. even now she did not quite plumb the depths of stephen's; she felt his struggle with the ghost; she felt and admired his victory. what she did not, could not, perhaps, realise, was the precise nature of the outrage inflicted on him by thyme's action. with her--being a woman--the matter was more practical; she did not grasp, had never grasped, the architectural nature of stephen's mind--how really hurt he was by what did not seem to him in due and proper order. he spoke: "why on earth, if she felt like that, couldn't she have gone to work in the ordinary way? she could have put herself in connection with some proper charitable society--i should never have objected to that. it's all that young sanitary idiot!" "i believe," cecilia faltered, "that martin's is a society. it's a kind of medical socialism, or something of that sort. he has tremendous faith in it." stephen's lip curled. "he may have as much faith as he likes," he said, with the restraint that was one of his best qualities, "so long as he doesn't infect my daughter with it." cecilia said suddenly: "oh! what are we to do, stephen? shall i go over there to-night?" as one may see a shadow pass down on a cornfield, so came the cloud on stephen's face. it was as though he had not realised till then the full extent of what this meant. for a minute he was silent. "better wait for her letter," he said at last. "he's her cousin, after all, and mrs. grundy's dead--in the euston road, at all events." so, trying to spare each other all they could of anxiety, and careful to abstain from any hint of trouble before the servants, they dined and went to bed. at that hour between the night and morning, when man's vitality is lowest, and the tremors of his spirit, like birds of ill omen, fly round and round him, beating their long plumes against his cheeks, stephen woke. it was very still. a bar of pearly-grey dawn showed between the filmy curtains, which stirred with a regular, faint movement, like the puffing of a sleeper's lips. the tide of the wind, woven in mr. stone's fancy of the souls of men, was at low ebb. feebly it fanned the houses and hovels where the myriad forms of men lay sleeping, unconscious of its breath; so faint life's pulse, that men and shadows seemed for that brief moment mingled in the town's sleep. over the million varied roofs, over the hundred million little different shapes of men and things, the wind's quiet, visiting wand had stilled all into the wonder state of nothingness, when life is passing into death, death into new life, and self is at its feeblest. and stephen's self, feeling the magnetic currents of that ebb-tide drawing it down into murmurous slumber, out beyond the sand-bars of individuality and class, threw up its little hands and began to cry for help. the purple sea of self-forgetfulness, under the dim, impersonal sky, seemed to him so cold and terrible. it had no limit that he could see, no rules but such as hung too far away, written in the hieroglyphics of paling stars. he could feel no order in the lift and lap of the wan waters round his limbs. where would those waters carry him? to what depth of still green silence? was his own little daughter to go down into this sea that knew no creed but that of self-forgetfulness, that respected neither class nor person--this sea where a few wandering streaks seemed all the evidence of the precious differences between mankind? god forbid it! and, turning on his elbow, he looked at her who had given him this daughter. in the mystery of his wife's sleeping face--the face of her most near and dear to him--he tried hard not to see a likeness to mr. stone. he fell back somewhat comforted with the thought: 'that old chap has his one idea--his universal brotherhood. he's absolutely absorbed in it. i don't see it in cis's face a bit. quite the contrary.' but suddenly a flash of clear, hard cynicism amounting to inspiration utterly disturbed him: the old chap, indeed, was so wrapped up in himself and his precious book as to be quite unconscious that anyone else was alive. could one be everybody's brother if one were blind to their existence? but this freak of thyme's was an actual try to be everybody's sister. for that, he supposed, one must forget oneself. why, it was really even a worse case than that of mr. stone! and to stephen there was something awful in this thought. the first small bird of morning, close to the open window, uttered a feeble chirrup. into stephen's mind there leaped without reason recollection of the morning after his first term at school, when, awakened by the birds, he had started up and fished out from under his pillow his catapult and the box of shot he had brought home and taken to sleep with him. he seemed to see again those leaden shot with their bluish sheen, and to feel them, round, and soft, and heavy, rolling about his palm. he seemed to hear hilary's surprised voice saying: "hallo, stevie! you awake?" no one had ever had a better brother than old hilary. his only fault was that he had always been too kind. it was his kindness that had done for him, and made his married life a failure. he had never asserted himself enough with that woman, his wife. stephen turned over on his other side. 'all this confounded business,' he thought, 'comes from over-sympathising. that's what's the matter with thyme, too.' long he lay thus, while the light grew stronger, listening to cecilia's gentle breathing, disturbed to his very marrow by these thoughts. the first post brought no letter from thyme, and the announcement soon after, that mr. hilary had come to breakfast, was received by both stephen and cecilia with a welcome such as the anxious give to anything which shows promise of distracting them. stephen made haste down. hilary, with a very grave and harassed face, was in the dining-room. it was he, however, who, after one look at stephen, said: "what's the matter, stevie?" stephen took up the standard. in spite of his self-control, his hand shook a little. "it's a ridiculous business," he said. "that precious young sanitist has so worked his confounded theories into thyme that she has gone off to the euston road to put them into practice, of all things!" at the half-concerned amusement on hilary's face his quick and rather narrow eyes glinted. "it's not exactly for you to laugh, hilary," he said. "it's all of a piece with your cursed sentimentality about those hughs, and that girl. i knew it would end in a mess." hilary answered this unjust and unexpected outburst by a look, and stephen, with the strange feeling of inferiority which would come to him in hilary's presence against his better judgment, lowered his own glance. "my dear boy," said hilary, "if any bit of my character has crept into thyme, i'm truly sorry." stephen took his brother's hand and gave it a good grip; and, cecilia coming in, they all sat down. cecilia at once noted what stephen in his preoccupation had not--that hilary had come to tell them something. but she did not like to ask him what it was, though she knew that in the presence of their trouble hilary was too delicate to obtrude his own. she did not like, either, to talk of her trouble in the presence of his. they all talked, therefore, of indifferent things--what music they had heard, what plays they had seen--eating but little, and drinking tea. in the middle of a remark about the opera, stephen, looking up, saw martin himself standing in the doorway. the young sanitist looked pale, dusty, and dishevelled. he advanced towards cecilia, and said with his usual cool determination: "i've brought her back, aunt cis." at that moment, fraught with such relief, such pure joy, such desire to say a thousand things, cecilia could only murmur: "oh, martin!" stephen, who had jumped up, asked: "where is she?" "gone to her room." "then perhaps," said stephen, regaining at once his dry composure, "you will give us some explanation of this folly." "she's no use to us at present." "indeed!" "none." "then," said stephen, "kindly understand that we have no use for you in future, or any of your sort." martin looked round the table, resting his eyes on each in turn. "you're right," he said. "good-bye!" hilary and cecilia had risen, too. there was silence. stephen crossed to the door. "you seem to me," he said suddenly, in his driest voice, "with your new manners and ideas, quite a pernicious youth." cecilia stretched her hands out towards martin, and there was a faint tinkling as of chains. "you must know, dear," she said, "how anxious we've all been. of course, your uncle doesn't mean that." the same scornful tenderness with which he was wont to look at thyme passed into martin's face. "all right, aunt cis," he said; "if stephen doesn't mean it, he ought to. to mean things is what matters." he stooped and kissed her forehead. "give that to thyme for me," he said. "i shan't see her for a bit." "you'll never see her, sir," said stephen dryly, "if i can help it! the liquor of your sanitism is too bright and effervescent." martin's smile broadened. "for old bottles," he said, and with another slow look round went out. stephen's mouth assumed its driest twist. "bumptious young devil!" he said. "if that is the new young man, defend us!" over the cool dining-room, with its faint scent of pinks, of melon, and of ham, came silence. suddenly cecilia glided from the room. her light footsteps were heard hurrying, now that she was not visible, up to thyme. hilary, too, had moved towards the door. in spite of his preoccupation, stephen could not help noticing how very worn his brother looked. "you look quite seedy, old boy," he said. "will you have some brandy?" hilary shook his head. "now that you've got thyme back," he said, "i'd better let you know my news. i'm going abroad to-morrow. i don't know whether i shall come back again to live with b." stephen gave a low whistle; then, pressing hilary's arm, he said: "anything you decide, old man, i'll always back you in, but--" "i'm going alone." in his relief stephen violated the laws of reticence. "thank heaven for that! i was afraid you were beginning to lose your head about that girl" "i'm not quite fool enough," said hilary, "to imagine that such a liaison would be anything but misery in the long-run. if i took the child i should have to stick to her; but i'm not proud of leaving her in the lurch, stevie." the tone of his voice was so bitter that stephen seized his hand. "my dear old man, you're too kind. why, she's no hold on you--not the smallest in the world!" "except the hold of this devotion i've roused in her, god knows how, and her destitution." "you let these people haunt you," said stephen. "it's quite a mistake--it really is." "i had forgotten to mention that i am not an iceberg," muttered hilary. stephen looked into his face without speaking, then with the utmost earnestness he said: "however much you may be attracted, it's simply unthinkable for a man like you to go outside his class." "class! yes!" muttered hilary: "good-bye!" and with a long grip of his brother's hand he went away. stephen turned to the window. for all the care and contrivance bestowed on the view, far away to the left the back courts of an alley could be seen; and as though some gadfly had planted in him its small poisonous sting, he moved back from the sight at once. 'confusion!' he thought. 'are we never to get rid of these infernal people?' his eyes lighted on the melon. a single slice lay by itself on a blue-green dish. leaning over a plate, with a desperation quite unlike himself, he took an enormous bite. again and again he bit the slice, then almost threw it from him, and dipped his fingers in a bowl. 'thank god!' he thought, 'that's over! what an escape!' whether he meant hilary's escape or thyme's was doubtful, but there came on him a longing to rush up to his little daughter's room, and hug her. he suppressed it, and sat down at the bureau; he was suddenly experiencing a sensation such as he had sometimes felt on a perfect day, or after physical danger, of too much benefit, of something that he would like to return thanks for, yet knew not how. his hand stole to the inner pocket of his black coat. it stole out again; there was a cheque-book in it. before his mind's eye, starting up one after the other, he saw the names of the societies he supported, or meant sometime, if he could afford it, to support. he reached his hand out for a pen. the still, small noise of the nib travelling across the cheques mingled with the buzzing of a single fly. these sounds cecilia heard, when, from the open door, she saw the thin back of her husband's neck, with its softly graduated hair, bent forward above the bureau. she stole over to him, and pressed herself against his arm. stephen, staying the progress of his pen, looked up at her. their eyes met, and, bending down, cecilia put her cheek to his. chapter xxxvii the flowering of the aloe this same day, returning through kensington gardens, from his preparations for departure, hilary came suddenly on bianca standing by the shores of the round pond. to the eyes of the frequenters of these elysian fields, where so many men and shadows daily steal recreation, to the eyes of all drinking in those green gardens their honeyed draught of peace, this husband and wife appeared merely a distinguished-looking couple, animated by a leisured harmony. for the time was not yet when men were one, and could tell by instinct what was passing in each other's hearts. in truth, there were not too many people in london who, in their situation, would have behaved with such seemliness--not too many so civilised as they! estranged, and soon to part, they retained the manner of accord up to the last. not for them the matrimonial brawl, the solemn accusation and recrimination, the pathetic protestations of proprietary rights. for them no sacred view that at all costs they must make each other miserable--not even the belief that they had the right to do so. no, there was no relief for their sore hearts. they walked side by side, treating each other's feelings with respect, as if there had been no terrible heart-turnings throughout the eighteen years in which they had first loved, then, through mysterious disharmony, drifted apart; as if there were now between them no question of this girl. presently hilary said: "i've been into town and made my preparations; i'm starting tomorrow for the mountains. there will be no necessity for you to leave your father." "are you taking her?" it was beautifully uttered, without a trace of bias or curiosity, with an unforced accent, neither indifferent nor too interested--no one could have told whether it was meant for generosity or malice. hilary took it for the former. "thank you," he said; "but that comedy is finished." close to the edge of the round pond a swanlike cutter was putting out to sea; in the wake of this fair creature a tiny scooped-out bit of wood, with three feathers for masts, bobbed and trembled; and the two small ragged boys who owned that little galley were stretching bits of branch out towards her over the bright waters. bianca looked, without seeing, at this proof of man's pride in his own property. a thin gold chain hung round her neck; suddenly she thrust it into the bosom of her dress. it had broken into two, between her fingers. they reached home without another word. at the door of hilary's study sat miranda. the little person answered his caress by a shiver of her sleek skin, then curled herself down again on the spot she had already warmed. "aren't you coming in with me?" he said. miranda did not move. the reason for her refusal was apparent when hilary had entered. close to the long bookcase, behind the bust of socrates, stood the little model. very still, as if fearing to betray itself by sound or movement, was her figure in its blue-green frock, and a brimless toque of brown straw, with two purplish roses squashed together into a band of darker velvet. beside those roses a tiny peacock's feather had been slipped in--unholy little visitor, slanting backward, trying, as it were, to draw all eyes, yet to escape notice. and, wedged between the grim white bust and the dark bookcase, the girl herself was like some unlawful spirit which had slid in there, and stood trembling and vibrating, ready to be shuttered out. before this apparition hilary recoiled towards the door, hesitated, and returned. "you should not have come here," he muttered, "after what we said to you yesterday." the little model answered quickly: "but i've seen hughs, mr. dallison. he's found out where i live. oh, he does look dreadful; he frightens me. i can't ever stay there now." she had come a little out of her hiding-place, and stood fidgeting her hands and looking down. 'she's not speaking the truth,' thought hilary. the little model gave him a furtive glance. "i did see him," she said. "i must go right away now; it wouldn't be safe, would it?" again she gave him that swift look. hilary thought suddenly: 'she is using my own weapon against me. if she has seen the man, he didn't frighten her. it serves me right!' with a dry laugh, he turned his back. there was a rustling round. the little model had moved out of her retreat, and stood between him and the door. at this stealthy action, hilary felt once more the tremor which had come over him when he sat beside her in the broad walk after the baby's funeral. outside in the garden a pigeon was pouring forth a continuous love song; hilary heard nothing of it, conscious only of the figure of the girl behind him--that young figure which had twined itself about his senses. "well, what is it you want?" he said at last. the little model answered by another question. 'are you really going away, mr. dallison?" "i am." she raised her hands to the level of her breast, as though she meant to clasp them together; without doing so, however, she dropped them to her sides. they were cased in very worn suede gloves, and in this dire moment of embarrassment hilary's eyes fastened themselves on those slim hands moving against her skirt. the little model tried at once to slip them away behind her. suddenly she said in her matter-of-fact voice: "i only wanted to ask--can't i come too?" at this question, whose simplicity might have made an angel smile, hilary experienced a sensation as if his bones had been turned to water. it was strange--delicious--as though he had been suddenly offered all that he wanted of her, without all those things that he did not want. he stood regarding her silently. her cheeks and neck were red; there was a red tinge, too, in her eyelids, deepening the "chicory-flower" colour of her eyes. she began to speak, repeating a lesson evidently learned by heart. "i wouldn't be in your way. i wouldn't cost much. i could do everything you wanted. i could learn typewriting. i needn't live too near, or that; if you didn't want me, because of people talking; i'm used to being alone. oh, mr. dallison, i could do everything for you. i wouldn't mind anything, and i'm not like some girls; i do know what i'm talking about." "do you?" the little model put her hands up, and, covering her face, said: "if you'd try and see!" hilary's sensuous feeling almost vanished; a lump rose in his throat instead. "my child," he said, "you are too generous!" the little model seemed to know instinctively that by touching his spirit she had lost ground. uncovering her face, she spoke breathlessly, growing very pale: "oh no, i'm not. i want to be let come; i don't want to stay here. i know i'll get into mischief if you don't take me--oh, i know i will!" "if i were to let you come with me," said hilary, "what then? what sort of companion should i be to you, or you to me? you know very well. only one sort. it's no use pretending, child, that we've any interests in common." the little model came closer. "i know what i am," she said, "and i don't want to be anything else. i can do what you tell me to, and i shan't ever complain. i'm not worth any more!" "you're worth more," muttered hilary, "than i can ever give you, and i'm worth more than you can ever give me." the little model tried to answer, but her words would not pass her throat; she threw her head back trying to free them, and stood, swaying. seeing her like this before him, white as a sheet, with her eyes closed and her lips parted, as though about to faint, hilary seized her by the shoulders. at the touch of those soft shoulders, his face became suffused with blood, his lips trembled. suddenly her eyes opened ever so little between their lids, and looked at him. and the perception that she was not really going to faint, that it was a little desperate wile of this child delilah, made him wrench away his hands. the moment she felt that grasp relax she sank down and clasped his knees, pressing them to her bosom so that he could not stir. closer and closer she pressed them to her, till it seemed as though she must be bruising her flesh. her breath came in sobs; her eyes were closed; her lips quivered upwards. in the clutch of her clinging body there seemed suddenly the whole of woman's power of self-abandonment. it was just that, which, at this moment, so horribly painful to him, prevented hilary from seizing her in his arms just that queer seeming self-effacement, as though she were lost to knowledge of what she did. it seemed too brutal, too like taking advantage of a child. from calm is born the wind, the ripple from the still pool, self out of nothingness--so all passes imperceptibly, no man knows how. the little model's moment of self-oblivion passed, and into her wet eyes her plain, twisting spirit suddenly writhed up again, for all the world as if she had said: 'i won't let you go; i'll keep you--i'll keep you.' hilary broke away from her, and she fell forward on her face. "get up, child," he said--"get up; for god's sake, don't lie there!" she rose obediently, choking down her sobs, mopping her face with a small, dirty handkerchief. suddenly, taking a step towards him, she clenched both her hands and struck them downwards. "i'll go to the bad," she said---"i will--if you don't take me!" and, her breast heaving, her hair all loose, she stared straight into his face with her red-rimmed eyes. hilary turned suddenly, took a book up from the writing-table, and opened it. his face was again suffused with blood; his hands and lips trembled; his eyes had a queer fixed stare. "not now, not now," he muttered; "go away now. i'll come to you to-morrow." the little model gave him the look a dog gives you when it asks if you are deceiving him. she made a sign on her breast, as a catholic might make the sign of his religion, drawing her fingers together, and clutching at herself with them, then passed her little dirty handkerchief once more over her eyes, and, turning round, went out. hilary remained standing where he was, reading the open book without apprehending what it was. there was a wistful sound, as of breath escaping hurriedly. mr. stone was standing in the open doorway. "she has been here," he said. "i saw her go away." hilary dropped the book; his nerves were utterly unstrung. then, pointing to a chair, he said: "won't you sit down, sir?" mr. stone came close up to his son-in-law. "is she in trouble?" "yes," murmured hilary. "she is too young to be in trouble. did you tell her that?" hilary shook his head. "has the man hurt her?" again hilary shook his head. "what is her trouble, then?" said mr. stone. the closeness of this catechism, the intent stare of the old man's eyes, were more than hilary could bear. he turned away. "you ask me something that i cannot answer. "why?" "it is a private matter." with the blood still beating in his temples, his lips still quivering, and the feeling of the girl's clasp round his knees, he almost hated this old man who stood there putting such blind questions. then suddenly in mr. stone's eyes he saw a startling change, as in the face of a man who regains consciousness after days of vacancy. his whole countenance had become alive with a sort of jealous understanding. the warmth which the little model brought to his old spirit had licked up the fog of his idea, and made him see what was going on before his eyes. at that look hilary braced himself against the wall. a flush spread slowly over mr. stone's face. he spoke with rare hesitation. in this sudden coming back to the world of men and things he seemed astray. "i am not going," he stammered, "to ask you any more. i could not pry into a private matter. that would not be---" his voice failed; he looked down. hilary bowed, touched to the quick by the return to life of this old man, so long lost to facts, and by the delicacy in that old face. "i will not intrude further on your trouble," said mr. stone, "whatever it may be. i am sorry that you are unhappy, too." very slowly, and without again looking up at his son-in-law, he went out. hilary remained standing where he had been left against the wall. chapter xxxviii the home-coming of hughs hilary had evidently been right in thinking the little model was not speaking the truth when she said she had seen hughs, for it was not until early on the following morning that three persons traversed the long winding road leading from wormwood scrubs to kensington. they preserved silence, not because there was nothing in their hearts to be expressed, but because there was too much; and they walked in the giraffe-like formation peculiar to the lower classes--hughs in front; mrs. hughs to the left, a foot or two behind; and a yard behind her, to the left again, her son stanley. they made no sign of noticing anyone in the road besides themselves, and no one in the road gave sign of noticing that they were there; but in their three minds, so differently fashioned, a verb was dumbly, and with varying emotion, being conjugated: "i've been in prison." "you've been in prison. he's been in prison." beneath the seeming acquiescence of a man subject to domination from his birth up, those four words covered in hughs such a whirlpool of surging sensation, such ferocity of bitterness, and madness, and defiance, that no outpouring could have appreciably relieved its course. the same four words summed up in mrs. hughs so strange a mingling of fear, commiseration, loyalty, shame, and trembling curiosity at the new factor which had come into the life of all this little family walking giraffe-like back to kensington that to have gone beyond them would have been like plunging into a wintry river. to their son the four words were as a legend of romance, conjuring up no definite image, lighting merely the glow of wonder. "don't lag, stanley. keep up with your father." the little boy took three steps at an increased pace, then fell behind again. his black eyes seemed to answer: 'you say that because you don't know what else to say.' and without alteration in their giraffe-like formation, but again in silence, the three proceeded. in the heart of the seamstress doubt and fear were being slowly knit into dread of the first sound to pass her husband's lips. what would he ask? how should she answer? would he talk wild, or would he talk sensible? would he have forgotten that young girl, or had he nursed and nourished his wicked fancy in the house of grief and silence? would he ask where the baby was? would he speak a kind word to her? but alongside her dread there was guttering within her the undying resolution not to 'let him go from her, if it were ever so, to that young girl' "don't lag, stanley!" at the reiteration of those words hughs spoke. "let the boy alone! you'll be nagging at the baby next!" hoarse and grating, like sounds issuing from a damp vault, was this first speech. the seamstress's eyes brimmed over. "i won't get the chance," she stammered out. "he's gone!" hughs' teeth gleamed like those of a dog at bay. "who's taken him? you let me know the name." tears rolled down the seamstress's cheeks; she could not answer. her little son's thin voice rose instead: "baby's dead. we buried him in the ground. i saw it. mr. creed came in the cab with me." white flecks appeared suddenly at the corners of hughs' lips. he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and once more, giraffe-like, the little family marched on.... "westminister," in his threadbare summer jacket--for the day was warm--had been standing for some little time in mrs. budgen's doorway on the ground floor at hound street. knowing that hughs was to be released that morning early, he had, with the circumspection and foresight of his character, reasoned thus: 'i shan't lie easy in my bed, i shan't hev no peace until i know that low feller's not a-goin' to misdemean himself with me. it's no good to go a-puttin' of it off. i don't want him comin' to my room attackin' of old men. i'll be previous with him in the passage. the lame woman 'll let me. i shan't trouble her. she'll be palliable between me and him, in case he goes for to attack me. i ain't afraid of him.' but, as the minutes of waiting went by, his old tongue, like that of a dog expecting chastisement, appeared ever more frequently to moisten his twisted, discoloured lips. 'this comes of mixin' up with soldiers,' he thought, 'and a lowclass o' man like that. i ought to ha' changed my lodgin's. he'll be askin' me where that young girl is, i shouldn't wonder, an' him lost his character and his job, and everything, and all because o' women!' he watched the broad-faced woman, mrs. budgen, in whose grey eyes the fighting light so fortunately never died, painfully doing out her rooms, and propping herself against the chest of drawers whereon clustered china cups and dogs as thick as toadstools on a bank. "i've told my charlie," she said, "to keep clear of hughs a bit. they comes out as prickly as hedgehogs. pick a quarrel as soon as look at you, they will." 'oh dear,' thought creed, 'she's full o' cold comfort.' but, careful of his dignity, he answered, "i'm a-waitin' here to engage the situation. you don't think he'll attack of me with definition at this time in the mornin'?" the lame woman shrugged her shoulders. "he'll have had a drop of something," she said, "before he comes home. they gets a cold feelin' in the stomach in them places, poor creatures!" the old butler's heart quavered up into his mouth. he lifted his shaking hand, and put it to his lips, as though to readjust himself. "oh yes," he said; "i ought to ha' given notice, and took my things away; but there, poor woman, it seemed a-hittin' of her when she was down. and i don't want to make no move. i ain't got no one else that's interested in me. this woman's very good about mendin' of my clothes. oh dear, yes; she don't grudge a little thing like that!" the lame woman hobbled from her post of rest, and began to make the bed with the frown that always accompanied a task which strained the contracted muscles of her leg. "if you don't help your neighbour, your neighbour don't help you," she said sententiously. creed fixed his iron-rimmed gaze on her in silence. he was considering perhaps how he stood with regard to hughs in the light of that remark. "i attended of his baby's funeral," he said. "oh dear, he's here a'ready!" the family of hughs, indeed, stood in the doorway. the spiritual process by which "westminister" had gone through life was displayed completely in the next few seconds. 'it's so important for me to keep alive and well,' his eyes seemed saying. 'i know the class of man you are, but now you're here it's not a bit o' use my bein' frightened. i'm bound to get up-sides with you. ho! yes; keep yourself to yourself, and don't you let me hev any o' your nonsense, 'cause i won't stand it. oh dear, no!' beads of perspiration stood thick on his patchily coloured forehead; with lips stiffening, and intently staring eyes, he waited for what the released prisoner would say. hughs, whose face had blanched in the prison to a sallow grey-white hue, and whose black eyes seemed to have sunk back into his head, slowly looked the old man up and down. at last he took his cap off, showing his cropped hair. "you got me that, daddy," he said, "but i don't bear you malice. come up and have a cup o' tea with us." and, turning on his heel, he began to mount the stairs, followed by his wife and child. breathing hard, the old butler mounted too. in the room on the second floor, where the baby no longer lived, a haddock on the table was endeavouring to be fresh; round it were slices of bread on plates, a piece of butter in a pie-dish, a teapot, brown sugar in a basin, and, side by side a little jug of cold blue milk and a half-empty bottle of red vinegar. close to one plate a bunch of stocks and gilly flowers reposed on the dirty tablecloth, as though dropped and forgotten by the god of love. their faint perfume stole through the other odours. the old butler fixed his eyes on it. 'the poor woman bought that,' he thought, 'hopin' for to remind him of old days. "she had them flowers on her weddin'-day, i shouldn't wonder!" this poetical conception surprising him, he turned towards the little boy, and said "this 'll be a memorial to you, as you gets older." and without another word all sat down. they ate in silence, and the old butler thought 'that 'addick ain't what it was; but a beautiful cup o' tea. he don't eat nothing; he's more ameniable to reason than i expected. there's no one won't be too pleased to see him now!' his eyes, travelling to the spot from which the bayonet had been removed, rested on the print of the nativity. "'suffer little children to come unto me,'" he thought, "'and forbid them not." he'll be glad to hear there was two carriages followed him home.' and, taking his time, he cleared his throat in preparation for speech. but before the singular muteness of this family sounds would not come. finishing his tea, he tremblingly arose. things that he might have said jostled in his mind. 'very pleased to 'a seen you. hope you're in good health at the present time of speaking. don't let me intrude on you. we've all a-got to die some time or other!' they remained unuttered. making a vague movement of his skinny hand, he walked feebly but quickly to the door. when he stood but half-way within the room, he made his final effort. "i'm not a-goin' to say nothing," he said; "that'd be superlative! i wish you a good-morning." outside he waited a second, then grasped the banister. 'for all he sets so quiet, they've done him no good in that place,' he thought. 'them eyes of his!' and slowly he descended, full of a sort of very deep surprise. 'i misjudged of him,' he was thinking; 'he never was nothing but a 'armless human being. we all has our predijuices--i misjudged of him. they've broke his 'eart between 'em--that they have.' the silence in the room continued after his departure. but when the little boy had gone to school, hughs rose and lay down on the bed. he rested there, unmoving, with his face towards the wall, his arms clasped round his head to comfort it. the seamstress, stealing about her avocations, paused now and then to look at him. if he had raged at her, if he had raged at everything, it would not have been so terrifying as this utter silence, which passed her comprehension--this silence as of a man flung by the sea against a rock, and pinned there with the life crushed out of him. all her inarticulate longing, now that her baby was gone, to be close to something in her grey life, to pass the unfranchisable barrier dividing her from the world, seemed to well up, to flow against this wall of silence and to recoil. twice or three times she addressed him timidly by name, or made some trivial remark. he did not answer, as though in very truth he had been the shadow of a man lying there. and the injustice of this silence seemed to her so terrible. was she not his wife? had she not borne him five, and toiled to keep him from that girl? was it her fault if she had made his life a hell with her jealousy, as he had cried out that morning before he went for her, and was "put away"? he was her "man." it had been her right--nay, more, her duty! and still he lay there silent. from the narrow street where no traffic passed, the cries of a coster and distant whistlings mounted through the unwholesome air. some sparrows in the eave were chirruping incessantly. the little sandy house-cat had stolen in, and, crouched against the doorpost, was fastening her eyes on the plate which, held the remnants of the fish. the seamstress bowed her forehead to the flowers on the table; unable any longer to bear the mystery of this silence, she wept. but the dark figure on the bed only pressed his arms closer round his head, as though there were within him a living death passing the speech of men. the little sandy cat, creeping across the floor, fixed its claws in the backbone of the fish, and drew it beneath the bed. chapter xxxix the duel bianca did not see her husband after their return together from the round pond. she dined out that evening, and in the morning avoided any interview. when hilary's luggage was brought down and the cab summoned, she slipped up to take shelter in her room. presently the sound of his footsteps coming along the passage stopped outside her door. he tapped. she did not answer. good-bye would be a mockery! let him go with the words unsaid! and as though the thought had found its way through the closed door, she heard his footsteps recede again. she saw him presently go out to the cab with his head bent down, saw him stoop and pat miranda. hot tears sprang into her eyes. she heard the cab-wheels roll away. the heart is like the face of an eastern woman--warm and glowing, behind swathe on swathe of fabric. at each fresh touch from the fingers of life, some new corner, some hidden curve or angle, comes into view, to be seen last of all perhaps never to be seen by the one who owns them. when the cab had driven away there came into bianca's heart a sense of the irreparable, and, mysteriously entwined with that arid ache, a sort of bitter pity: what would happen to this wretched girl now that he was gone? would she go completely to the bad--till she became one of those poor creatures like the figure in "the shadow," who stood beneath lampposts in the streets? out of this speculation, which was bitter as the taste of aloes, there came to her a craving for some palliative, some sweetness, some expression of that instinct of fellow-feeling deep in each human breast, however disharmonic. but even with that craving was mingled the itch to justify herself, and prove that she could rise above jealousy. she made her way to the little model's lodging. a child admitted her into the bleak passage that served for hall. the strange medley of emotions passing through bianca's breast while she stood outside the girl's door did not show in her face, which wore its customary restrained, half-mocking look. the little model's voice faintly said: "come in." the room was in disorder, as though soon to be deserted. a closed and corded trunk stood in the centre of the floor; the bed, stripped of clothing, lay disclosed in all the barrenness of discoloured ticking. the china utensils of the washstand were turned head downwards. beside that washstand the little model, with her hat on--the hat with the purplish-pink roses and the little peacock's feather-stood in the struck, shrinking attitude of one who, coming forward in the expectation of a kiss, has received a blow. "you are leaving here, then?" bianca said quietly. "yes," the girl murmured. "don't you like this part? is it too far from your work?" again the little model whispered: "yes." bianca's eyes travelled slowly over the blue beflowered walls and rust-red doors; through the dusty closeness of this dismantled room a rank scent of musk and violets rose, as though a cheap essence had been scattered as libation. a small empty scent-bottle stood on the shabby looking-glass. "have you found new lodgings?" the little model edged closer to the window. a stealthy watchfulness was creeping into her shrinking, dazed face. she shook her head. "i don't know where i'm going." obeying a sudden impulse to see more clearly, bianca lifted her veil. "i came to tell you," she said, "that i shall always be ready to help you." the girl did not answer, but suddenly through her black lashes she stole a look upward at her visitor. 'can you,' it seemed to say, 'you--help me? oh no; i think not!' and, as though she had been stung by that glance, bianca said with deadly slowness: "it is my business, of course, entirely, now that mr. dallison has gone abroad." the little model received this saying with a quivering jerk. it might have been an arrow transfixing her white throat. for a moment she seemed almost about to fall, but, gripping the window-sill, held herself erect. her eyes, like an animal's in pain, darted here, there, everywhere, then rested on her visitor's breast, quite motionless. this stare, which seemed to see nothing, but to be doing, as it were, some fateful calculation, was uncanny. colour came gradually back into her lips and eyes and cheeks; she seemed to have succeeded in her calculation, to be reviving from that stab. and suddenly bianca understood. this was the meaning of the packed trunk, the dismantled room. he was going to take her, after all! in the turmoil of this discovery two words alone escaped her: "i see!" they were enough. the girl's face at once lost all trace of its look of desperate calculation, brightened, became guilty, and from guilty sullen. the antagonism of all the long past months was now declared between these two--bianca's pride could no longer conceal, the girl's submissiveness no longer obscure it. they stood like duellists, one on each side of the trunk--that common, brown-japanned, tin trunk, corded with rope. bianca looked at it. "you," she said, "and he? ha, ha; ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!" against that cruel laughter--more poignant than a hundred homilies on caste, a thousand scornful words--the little model literally could not stand; she sat down in the low chair where she had evidently been sitting to watch the street. but as a taste of blood will infuriate a hound, so her own laughter seemed to bereave bianca of all restraint. "what do you imagine he's taking you for, girl? only out of pity! it's not exactly the emotion to live on in exile. in exile--but that you do not understand!" the little model staggered to her feet again. her face had grown painfully red. "he wants me!" she said. "wants you? as he wants his dinner. and when he's eaten it--what then? no, of course he'll never abandon you; his conscience is too tender. but you'll be round his neck--like this!" bianca raised her arms, looped, and dragged them slowly down, as a mermaid's arms drag at a drowning sailor. the little model stammered: "i'll do what he tells me! i'll do what he tells me!" bianca stood silent, looking at the girl, whose heaving breast and little peacock's feather, whose small round hands twisting in front of her, and scent about her clothes, all seemed an offence. "and do you suppose that he'll tell you what he wants? do you imagine he'll have the necessary brutality to get rid of you? he'll think himself bound to keep you till you leave him, as i suppose you will some day!" the girl dropped her hands. "i'll never leave him--never!" she cried out passionately. "then heaven help him!" said bianca. the little model's eyes seemed to lose all pupil, like two chicory flowers that have no dark centres. through them, all that she was feeling struggled to find an outlet; but, too deep for words, those feelings would not pass her lips, utterly unused to express emotion. she could only stammer: "i'm not--i'm not--i will---" and press her hands again to her breast. bianca's lip curled. "i see; you imagine yourself capable of sacrifice. well, you have your chance. take it!" she pointed to the corded trunk. "now's your time; you have only to disappear!" the little model shrank back against the windowsill. "he wants me!" she muttered. "i know he wants me." bianca bit her lips till the blood came. "your idea of sacrifice," she said, "is perfect! if you went now, in a month's time he'd never think of you again." the girl gulped. there was something so pitiful in the movements of her hands that bianca turned away. she stood for several seconds staring at the door, then, turning round again, said: "well?" but the girl's whole face had changed. all tear-stained, indeed, she had already masked it with a sort of immovable stolidity. bianca went swiftly up to the trunk. "you shall!" she said. "take that thing and go." the little model did not move. "so you won't?" the girl trembled violently all over. she moistened her lips, tried to speak, failed, again moistened them, and this time murmured; "i'll only--i'll only--if he tells me!" "so you still imagine he will tell you!" the little model merely repeated: "i won't--won't do anything without he tells me!" bianca laughed. "why, it's like a dog!" she said. but the girl had turned abruptly to the window. her lips were parted. she was shrinking, fluttering, trembling at what she saw. she was indeed like a spaniel dog who sees her master coming. bianca had no need of being told that hilary was outside. she went into the passage and opened the front door. he was coming up the steps, his face worn like that of a man in fever, and at the sight of his wife he stood quite still, looking into her face. without the quiver of an eyelid, without the faintest trace of emotion, or the slightest sign that she knew him to be there, bianca passed and slowly walked away. chapter xl finish of the comedy those who may have seen hilary driving towards the little model's lodgings saw one who, by a fixed red spot on either cheek, and the over-compression of his quivering lips, betrayed the presence of that animality which underlies even the most cultivated men. after eighteen hours of the purgatory of indecision, he had not so much decided to pay that promised visit on which hung the future of two lives, as allowed himself to be borne towards the girl. there was no one in the passage to see him after he had passed bianca in the doorway, but it was with a face darkened by the peculiar stabbing look of wounded egoism that he entered the little model's room. the sight of it coming so closely on the struggle she had just been through was too much for the girl's self-control. instead of going up to him, she sat down on the corded trunk and began to sob. it was the sobbing of a child whose school-treat has been cancelled, of a girl whose ball-dress has not come home in time. it only irritated hilary, whose nerves had already borne all they could bear. he stood literally trembling, as though each one of these common little sobs were a blow falling on the drum-skin of his spirit; and through every fibre he took in the features of the dusty, scent-besprinkled room--the brown tin trunk, the dismantled bed, the rust-red doors. and he realised that she had burned her boats to make it impossible for a man of sensibility to disappoint her! the little model raised her face and looked at him. what she saw must have been less reassuring even than the first sight had been, for it stopped her sobbing. she rose and turned to the window, evidently trying with handkerchief and powder-puff to repair the ravages caused by her tears; and when she had finished she still stood there with her back to him. her deep breathing made her young form quiver from her waist up to the little peacock's feather in her hat; and with each supple movement it seemed offering itself to hilary. in the street a barrel-organ had begun to play the very waltz it had played the afternoon when mr. stone had been so ill. those two were neither of them conscious of that tune, too absorbed in their emotions; and yet, quietly, it was bringing something to the girl's figure like the dowering of scent that the sun brings to a flower. it was bringing the compression back to hilary's lips, the flush to his ears and cheeks, as a draught of wind will blow to redness a fire that has been choked. without knowing it, without sound, inch by inch he moved nearer to her; and as though, for all there was no sign of his advance, she knew of it, she stayed utterly unmoving except for the deep breathing that so stirred the warm youth in her. in that stealthy progress was the history of life and the mystery of sex. inch by inch he neared her; and she swayed, mesmerising his arms to fold round her thus poised, as if she must fall backward; mesmerising him to forget that there was anything there, anything in all the world, but just her young form waiting for him--nothing but that! the barrel-organ stopped; the spell had broken! she turned round to him. as a wind obscures with grey wrinkles the still green waters of enchantment into which some mortal has been gazing, so hilary's reason suddenly swept across the situation, and showed it once more as it was. quick to mark every shade that passed across his face, the girl made as though she would again burst into tears; then, since tears had been so useless, she pressed her hand over her eyes. hilary looked at that round, not too cleanly hand. he could see her watching him between her fingers. it was uncanny, almost horrible, like the sight of a cat watching a bird; and he stood appalled at the terrible reality of his position, at the sight of his own future with this girl, with her traditions, customs, life, the thousand and one things that he did not know about her, that he would have to live with if he once took her. a minute passed, which seemed eternity, for into it was condensed every force of her long pursuit, her instinctive clutching at something that she felt to be security, her reaching upwards, her twining round him. conscious of all this, held back by that vision of his future, yet whipped towards her by his senses, hilary swayed like a drunken man. and suddenly she sprang at him, wreathed her arms round his neck, and fastened her mouth to his. the touch of her lips was moist and hot. the scent of stale violet powder came from her, warmed by her humanity. it penetrated to hilary's heart. he started back in sheer physical revolt. thus repulsed, the girl stood rigid, her breast heaving, her eyes unnaturally dilated, her mouth still loosened by the kiss. snatching from his pocket a roll of notes, hilary flung them on the bed. "i can't take you!" he almost groaned. "it's madness! it's impossible!" and he went out into the passage. he ran down the steps and got into his cab. an immense time seemed to pass before it began to move. it started at last, and hilary sat back in it, his hands clenched, still as a dead man. his mortified face was recognised by the landlady, returning from her morning's visit to the shops. the gentleman looked, she thought, as if he had received bad news! she not unnaturally connected his appearance with her lodger. tapping on the girl's door, and receiving no answer, she went in. the little model was lying on the dismantled bed, pressing her face into the blue and white ticking of the bolster. her shoulders shook, and a sound of smothered sobbing came from her. the landlady stood staring silently. coming of cornish chapel-going stock, she had never liked this girl, her instinct telling her that she was one for whom life had already been too much. those for whom life had so early been too much, she knew, were always "ones for pleasure!" her experience of village life had enabled her to construct the little model's story--that very simple, very frequent little story. sometimes, indeed, trouble of that sort was soon over and forgotten; but sometimes, if the young man didn't do the right thing by her, and the girl's folk took it hardly, well, then---! so had run the reasoning of this good woman. being of the same class, she had looked at her lodger from the first without obliquity of vision. but seeing her now apparently so overwhelmed, and having something soft and warm down beneath her granitic face and hungry eyes, she touched her on the back. "come, now!" she said; "you mustn't take on! what is it?" the little model shook off the hand as a passionate child shakes itself free of consolation. "let me alone!" she muttered. the landlady drew back. "has anyone done you a harm?" she said. the little model shook her head. baffled by this dumb grief, the landlady was silent; then, with the stolidity of those whose lives are one long wrestling with fortune, she muttered: "i don't like to see anyone cry like that!" and finding that the girl remained obstinately withdrawn from sight or sympathy, she moved towards the door. "well," she said, with ironical compassion, "if you want me, i'll be in the kitchen." the little model remained lying on her bed. every now and then she gulped, like a child flung down on the grass apart from its comrades, trying to swallow down its rage, trying to bury in the earth its little black moment of despair. slowly those gulps grew fewer, feebler, and at last died away. she sat up, sweeping hilary's bundle of notes, on which she had been lying, to the floor. at sight of that bundle she broke out afresh, flinging herself down sideways with her cheek on the wet bolster; and, for some time after her sobs had ceased again, still lay there. at last she rose and dragged herself over to the looking-glass, scrutinising her streaked, discoloured face, the stains in the cheeks, the swollen eyelids, the marks beneath her eyes; and listlessly she tidied herself. then, sitting down on the brown tin trunk, she picked the bundle of notes off the floor. they gave forth a dry peculiar crackle. fifteen ten-pound notes--all hilary's travelling money. her eyes opened wider and wider as she counted; and tears, quite suddenly, rolled down on to those thin slips of paper. then slowly she undid her dress, and forced them down till they rested, with nothing but her vest between them and the quivering warm flesh which hid her heart. chapter xli the house of harmony at half-past ten that evening stephen walked up the stone-flagged pathway of his brother's house. "can i see mrs. hilary?" "mr. hilary went abroad this morning, sir, and mrs. hilary has not yet come in." "will you give her this letter? no, i'll wait. i suppose i can wait for her in the garden?" "oh yes, sit!" "very well." "i'll leave the door open, sir, in case you want to come in." stephen walked across to the rustic bench and sat down. he stared gloomily through the dusk at his patent-leather boots, and every now and then he flicked his evening trousers with the letter. across the dark garden, where the boughs hung soft, unmoved by wind, the light from mr. stone's open window flowed out in a pale river; moths, born of the sudden heat, were fluttering up this river to its source. stephen looked irritably at the figure of mr. stone, which could be seen, bowed, and utterly still, beside his desk; so, by lifting the spy-hole thatch, one may see a convict in his cell stand gazing at his work, without movement, numb with solitude. 'he's getting awfully broken up,' thought stephen. 'poor old chap! his ideas are killing him. they're not human nature, never will be.' again he flicked his trousers with the letter, as though that document emphasised the fact. 'i can't help being sorry for the sublime old idiot!' he rose, the better to see his father-in-law's unconscious figure. it looked as lifeless and as cold as though mr. stone had followed some thought below the ground, and left his body standing there to await his return. its appearance oppressed stephen. 'you might set the house on fire,' he thought; 'he'd never notice.' mr. stone's figure moved; the sound of along sigh came out to stephen in the windless garden. he turned his eyes away, with the sudden feeling that it was not the thing to watch the old chap like this; then, getting up, he went indoors. in his brother's study he stood turning over the knick-knacks on the writing-table. 'i warned hilary that he was burning his fingers,' he thought. at the sound of the latch-key he went back to the hall. however much he had secretly disapproved of her from the beginning, because she had always seemed to him such an uncomfortable and tantalising person, stephen was impressed that night by the haunting unhappiness of bianca's face; as if it had been suddenly disclosed to him that she could not help herself. this was disconcerting, being, in a sense, a disorderly way of seeing things. "you look tired, b.," he said. "i'm sorry, but i thought it better to bring this round tonight." bianca glanced at the letter. "it is to you," she said. "i don't wish to read it, thank you." stephen compressed his lips. "but i wish you to hear it, please," he said. "i'll read it out, if you'll allow me. "'charing cross station. "'dear stevie, "'i told you yesterday morning that i was going abroad alone. afterwards i changed my mind--i meant to take her. i went to her lodgings for the purpose. i have lived too long amongst sentiments for such a piece of reality as that. class has saved me; it has triumphed over my most primitive instincts. "'i am going alone--back to my sentiments. no slight has been placed on bianca--but my married life having become a mockery, i shall not return to it. the following address will find me, and i shall ask you presently to send on my household gods. "'please let bianca know the substance of this letter. "'ever your affectionate brother, "'hilary dallison."' with a frown stephen folded up the letter, and restored it to his breast pocket. 'it's more bitter than i thought,' he reflected; 'and yet he's done the only possible thing!' bianca was leaning her elbow on the mantelpiece with her face turned to the wall. her silence irritated stephen, whose loyalty to his brother longed to fend a vent. "i'm very much relieved, of course," he said at last. "it would have been fatal" she did not move, and stephen became increasingly aware that this was a most awkward matter to touch on. "of course," he began again. "but, b., i do think you--rather--i mean---" and again he stopped before her utter silence, her utter immobility. then, unable to go away without having in some sort expressed his loyalty to hilary, he tried once more: "hilary is the kindest man i know. it's not his fault if he's out of touch with life--if he's not fit to deal with things. he's negative!" and having thus in a single word, somewhat to his own astonishment, described his brother, he held out his hand. the hand which bianca placed in it was feverishly hot. stephen felt suddenly compunctious. "i'm awfully sorry," he stammered, "about the whole thing. i'm awfully sorry for you---" bianca drew back her hand. with a little shrug stephen turned away. 'what are you to do with women like that?' was his thought, and saying dryly, "good-night, b.," he went. for some time bianca sat in hilary's chair. then, by the faint glimmer coming through the half-open door, she began to wander round the room, touching the walls, the books, the prints, all the familiar things among which he had lived so many years.... in that dim continual journey she was like a disharmonic spirit traversing the air above where its body lies. the door creaked behind her. a voice said sharply: "what are you doing in this house?" mr. stone was standing beside the bust of socrates. bianca went up to him. "father!" mr. stone stared. "it is you! i thought it was a thief! where is hilary?" "gone away." "alone?" bianca bowed her head. "it is very late, dad," she whispered. mr. stone's hand moved as though he would have stroked her. "the human heart," he murmured, "is the tomb of many feelings." bianca put her arm round him. "you must go to bed, dad," she said, trying to get him to the door, for in her heart something seemed giving way. mr. stone stumbled; the door swung to; the room was plunged in darkness. a hand, cold as ice, brushed her cheek. with all her force she stiffed a scream. "i am here," mr. stone said. his hand, wandering downwards, touched her shoulder, and she seized it with her own burning hand. thus linked, they groped their way out into the passage towards his room. "good-night, dear," bianca murmured. by the light of his now open door mr. stone seemed to try and see her face, but she would not show it him. closing the door gently, she stole upstairs. sitting down in her bedroom by the open window, it seemed to her that the room was full of people--her nerves were so unstrung. it was as if walls had not the power this night to exclude human presences. moving, or motionless, now distinct, then covered suddenly by the thick veil of some material object, they circled round her quiet figure, lying back in the chair with shut eyes. these disharmonic shadows flitting in the room made a stir like the rubbing of dry straw or the hum of bees among clover stalks. when she sat up they vanished, and the sounds became the distant din of homing traffic; but the moment she closed her eyes, her visitors again began to steal round her with that dry, mysterious hum. she fell asleep presently, and woke with a start. there, in a glimmer of pale light, stood the little model, as in the fatal picture bianca had painted of her. her face was powder white, with shadows beneath the eyes. breath seemed coming through her parted lips, just touched with colour. in her hat lay the tiny peacock's feather beside the two purplish-pink roses. a scent came from her, too--but faint, as ever was the scent of chicory flower. how long had she been standing there? bianca started to her feet, and as she rose the vision vanished. she went towards the spot. there was nothing in that corner but moonlight; the scent she had perceived was merely that of the trees drifting in. but so vivid had that vision been that she stood at the window, panting for air, passing her hand again and again across her eyes. outside, over the dark gardens, the moon hung full and almost golden. its honey-pale light filtered down on every little shape of tree, and leaf, and sleeping flower. that soft, vibrating radiance seemed to have woven all into one mysterious whole, stilling disharmony, so that each little separate shape had no meaning to itself. bianca looked long at the rain of moonlight falling on the earth's carpet, like a covering shower of blossom which bees have sucked and spilled. then, below her, out through candescent space, she saw a shadow dart forth along the grass, and to her fright a voice rose, tremulous and clear, seeming to seek enfranchisement beyond the barrier of the dark trees: "my brain is clouded. great universe! i cannot write! i can no longer discover to my brothers that they are one. i am not worthy to stay here. let me pass into you, and die!" bianca saw her father's fragile arms stretch out into the night through the sleeves of his white garment, as though expecting to be received at once into the universal brotherhood of the thin air. there ensued a moment, when, by magic, every little dissonance in all the town seemed blended into a harmony of silence, as it might be the very death of self upon the earth. then, breaking that trance, mr. stone's voice rose again, trembling out into the night, as though blown through a reed. "brothers!" he said. behind the screen of lilac bushes at the gate bianca saw the dark helmet of a policeman. he stood there staring steadily in the direction of that voice. raising his lantern, he flashed it into every corner of the garden, searching for those who had been addressed. satisfied, apparently, that no one was there, he moved it to right and left, lowered it to the level of his breast, and walked slowly on. the end. the patrician by john galsworthy chapter i light, entering the vast room--a room so high that its carved ceiling refused itself to exact scrutiny--travelled, with the wistful, cold curiosity of the dawn, over a fantastic storehouse of time. light, unaccompanied by the prejudice of human eyes, made strange revelation of incongruities, as though illuminating the dispassionate march of history. for in this dining hall--one of the finest in england--the caradoc family had for centuries assembled the trophies and records of their existence. round about this dining hall they had built and pulled down and restored, until the rest of monkland court presented some aspect of homogeneity. here alone they had left virgin the work of the old quasi-monastic builders, and within it unconsciously deposited their souls. for there were here, meeting the eyes of light, all those rather touching evidences of man's desire to persist for ever, those shells of his former bodies, the fetishes and queer proofs of his faiths, together with the remorseless demonstration of their treatment at the hands of time. the annalist might here have found all his needed confirmations; the analyst from this material formed the due equation of high birth; the philosopher traced the course of aristocracy, from its primeval rise in crude strength or subtlety, through centuries of power, to picturesque decadence, and the beginnings of its last stand. even the artist might here, perchance, have seized on the dry ineffable pervading spirit, as one visiting an old cathedral seems to scent out the constriction of its heart. from the legendary sword of that welsh chieftain who by an act of high, rewarded treachery had passed into the favour of the conquering william, and received, with the widow of a norman, many lands in devonshire, to the cup purchased for geoffrey caradoc; present earl of valleys, by subscription of his devonshire tenants on the occasion of his marriage with the lady gertrude semmering--no insignia were absent, save the family portraits in the gallery of valleys house in london. there was even an ancient duplicate of that yellow tattered scroll royally, reconfirming lands and title to john, the most distinguished of all the caradocs, who had unfortunately neglected to be born in wedlock, by one of those humorous omissions to be found in the genealogies of most old families. yes, it was there, almost cynically hung in a corner; for this incident, though no doubt a burning question in the fifteenth century, was now but staple for an ironical little tale, in view of the fact that descendants of john's 'own' brother edmund were undoubtedly to be found among the cottagers of a parish not far distant. light, glancing from the suits of armour to the tiger skins beneath them, brought from india but a year ago by bertie caradoc, the younger son, seemed recording, how those, who had once been foremost by virtue of that simple law of nature which crowns the adventuring and strong, now being almost washed aside out of the main stream of national life, were compelled to devise adventure, lest they should lose belief in their own strength. the unsparing light of that first half-hour of summer morning recorded many other changes, wandering from austere tapestries to the velvety carpets, and dragging from the contrast sure proof of a common sense which denied to the present earl and countess the asceticisms of the past. and then it seemed to lose interest in this critical journey, as though longing to clothe all in witchery. for the sun had risen, and through the eastern windows came pouring its level and mysterious joy. and with it, passing in at an open lattice, came a wild bee to settle among the flowers on the table athwart the eastern end, used when there was only a small party in the house. the hours fled on silent, till the sun was high, and the first visitors came--three maids, rosy, not silent, bringing brushes. they passed, and were followed by two footmen--scouts of the breakfast brigade, who stood for a moment professionally doing nothing, then soberly commenced to set the table. then came a little girl of six, to see if there were anything exciting--little ann shropton, child of sir william shropton by his marriage with lady agatha, and eldest daughter of the house, the only one of the four young caradocs as yet wedded. she came on tiptoe, thinking to surprise whatever was there. she had a broad little face, and wide frank hazel eyes over a little nose that came out straight and sudden. encircled by a loose belt placed far below the waist of her holland frock, as if to symbolize freedom, she seemed to think everything in life good fun. and soon she found the exciting thing. "here's a bumble bee, william. do you think i could tame it in my little glass bog?" "no, i don't, miss ann; and look out, you'll be stung!" "it wouldn't sting me." "why not?" "because it wouldn't." "of course--if you say so----" "what time is the motor ordered?" "nine o'clock." "i'm going with grandpapa as far as the gate." "suppose he says you're not?" "well, then i shall go all the same." "i see." "i might go all the way with him to london! is auntie babs going?" "no, i don't think anybody is going with his lordship." "i would, if she were. william!" "yes." "is uncle eustace sure to be elected?" "of course he is." "do you think he'll be a good member of parliament?" "lord miltoun is very clever, miss ann." "is he?" "well, don't you think so?" "does charles think so?" "ask him." "william!" "yes." "i don't like london. i like here, and i like cotton, and i like home pretty well, and i love pendridny--and--i like ravensham." "his lordship is going to ravensham to-day on his way up, i heard say." "oh! then he'll see great-granny. william----" "here's miss wallace." from the doorway a lady with a broad pale patient face said: "come, ann." "all right! hallo, simmons!" the entering butler replied: "hallo, miss ann!" "i've got to go." "i'm sure we're very sorry." "yes." the door banged faintly, and in the great room rose the busy silence of those minutes which precede repasts. suddenly the four men by the breakfast fable stood back. lord valleys had come in. he approached slowly, reading a blue paper, with his level grey eyes divided by a little uncharacteristic frown. he had a tanned yet ruddy, decisively shaped face, with crisp hair and moustache beginning to go iron-grey--the face of a man who knows his own mind and is contented with that knowledge. his figure too, well-braced and upright, with the back of the head carried like a soldier's, confirmed the impression, not so much of self-sufficiency, as of the sufficiency of his habits of life and thought. and there was apparent about all his movements that peculiar unconsciousness of his surroundings which comes to those who live a great deal in the public eye, have the material machinery of existence placed exactly to their hands, and never need to consider what others think of them. taking his seat, and still perusing the paper, he at once began to eat what was put before him; then noticing that his eldest daughter had come in and was sitting down beside him, he said: "bore having to go up in such weather!" "is it a cabinet meeting?" "yes. this confounded business of the balloons." but the rather anxious dark eyes of agatha's delicate narrow face were taking in the details of a tray for keeping dishes warm on a sideboard, and she was thinking: "i believe that would be better than the ones i've got, after all. if william would only say whether he really likes these large trays better than single hot-water dishes!" she contrived how-ever to ask in her gentle voice--for all her words and movements were gentle, even a little timid, till anything appeared to threaten the welfare of her husband or children: "do you think this war scare good for eustace's prospects, father?" but her father did not answer; he was greeting a new-comer, a tall, fine-looking young man, with dark hair and a fair moustache, between whom and himself there was no relationship, yet a certain negative resemblance. claud fresnay, viscount harbinger, was indeed also a little of what is called the 'norman' type--having a certain firm regularity of feature, and a slight aquilinity of nose high up on the bridge--but that which in the elder man seemed to indicate only an unconscious acceptance of self as a standard, in the younger man gave an impression at once more assertive and more uneasy, as though he were a little afraid of not chaffing something all the time. behind him had come in a tall woman, of full figure and fine presence, with hair still brown--lady valleys herself. though her eldest son was thirty, she was, herself, still little more than fifty. from her voice, manner, and whole personality, one might suspect that she had been an acknowledged beauty; but there was now more than a suspicion of maturity about her almost jovial face, with its full grey-blue eyes; and coarsened complexion. good comrade, and essentially 'woman of the world,' was written on every line of her, and in every tone of her voice. she was indeed a figure suggestive of open air and generous living, endowed with abundant energy, and not devoid of humour. it was she who answered agatha's remark. "of course, my dear, the very best thing possible." lord harbinger chimed in: "by the way, brabrook's going to speak on it. did you ever hear him, lady agatha? 'mr. speaker, sir, i rise--and with me rises the democratic principle----'" but agatha only smiled, for she was thinking: "if i let ann go as far as the gate, she'll only make it a stepping-stone to something else to-morrow." taking no interest in public affairs, her inherited craving for command had resorted for expression to a meticulous ordering of household matters. it was indeed a cult with her, a passion--as though she felt herself a sort of figurehead to national domesticity; the leader of a patriotic movement. lord valleys, having finished what seemed necessary, arose. "any message to your mother, gertrude?" "no, i wrote last night." "tell miltoun to keep--an eye on that mr. courtier. i heard him speak one day--he's rather good." lady valleys, who had not yet sat down, accompanied her husband to the door. "by the way, i've told mother about this woman, geoff." "was it necessary?" "well, i think so; i'm uneasy--after all, mother has some influence with miltoun." lord valleys shrugged his shoulders, and slightly squeezing his wife's arm, went out. though himself vaguely uneasy on that very subject, he was a man who did not go to meet disturbance. he had the nerves which seem to be no nerves at all--especially found in those of his class who have much to do with horses. he temperamentally regarded the evil of the day as quite sufficient to it. moreover, his eldest son was a riddle that he had long given up, so far as women were concerned. emerging into the outer hall, he lingered a moment, remembering that he had not seen his younger and favourite daughter. "lady barbara down yet?" hearing that she was not, he slipped into the motor coat held for him by simmons, and stepped out under the white portico, decorated by the caradoc hawks in stone. the voice of little ann reached him, clear and high above the smothered whirring of the car. "come on, grandpapa!" lord valleys grimaced beneath his crisp moustache--the word grandpapa always fell queerly on the ears of one who was but fifty-six, and by no means felt it--and jerking his gloved hand towards ann, he said: "send down to the lodge gate for this." the voice of little ann answered loudly: "no; i'm coming back by myself." the car starting, drowned discussion. lord valleys, motoring, somewhat pathetically illustrated the invasion of institutions by their destroyer, science. a supporter of the turf, and not long since master of foxhounds, most of whose soul (outside politics) was in horses, he had been, as it were, compelled by common sense, not only to tolerate, but to take up and even press forward the cause of their supplanters. his instinct of self-preservation was secretly at work, hurrying him to his own destruction; forcing him to persuade himself that science and her successive victories over brute nature could be wooed into the service of a prestige which rested on a crystallized and stationary base. all this keeping pace with the times, this immersion in the results of modern discoveries, this speeding-up of existence so that it was all surface and little root--the increasing volatility, cosmopolitanism, and even commercialism of his life, on which he rather prided himself as a man of the world--was, with a secrecy too deep for his perception, cutting at the aloofness logically demanded of one in his position. stubborn, and not spiritually subtle, though by no means dull in practical matters, he was resolutely letting the waters bear him on, holding the tiller firmly, without perceiving that he was in the vortex of a whirlpool. indeed, his common sense continually impelled him, against the sort of reactionaryism of which his son miltoun had so much, to that easier reactionaryism, which, living on its spiritual capital, makes what material capital it can out of its enemy, progress. he drove the car himself, shrewd and self-contained, sitting easily, with his cap well drawn over those steady eyes; and though this unexpected meeting of the cabinet in the whitsuntide recess was not only a nuisance, but gave food for anxiety, he was fully able to enjoy the swift smooth movement through the summer air, which met him with such friendly sweetness under the great trees of the long avenue. beside him, little ann was silent, with her legs stuck out rather wide apart. motoring was a new excitement, for at home it was forbidden; and a meditative rapture shone in her wide eyes above her sudden little nose. only once she spoke, when close to the lodge the car slowed down, and they passed the lodge-keeper's little daughter. "hallo, susie!" there was no answer, but the look on susie's small pale face was so humble and adoring that lord valleys, not a very observant man, noticed it with a sort of satisfaction. "yes," he thought, somewhat irrelevantly, "the country is sound at heart!" chapter ii at ravensham house on the borders of richmond park, suburban seat of the casterley family, ever since it became usual to have a residence within easy driving distance of westminster--in a large conservatory adjoining the hall, lady casterley stood in front of some japanese lilies. she was a slender, short old woman, with an ivory-coloured face, a thin nose, and keen eyes half-veiled by delicate wrinkled lids. very still, in her grey dress, and with grey hair, she gave the impression of a little figure carved out of fine, worn steel. her firm, spidery hand held a letter written in free somewhat sprawling style: monkland court, "devon. "my dear, mother, "geoffrey is motoring up to-morrow. he'll look in on you on the way if he can. this new war scare has taken him up. i shan't be in town myself till miltoun's election is over. the fact is, i daren't leave him down here alone. he sees his 'anonyma' every day. that mr. courtier, who wrote the book against war--rather cool for a man who's been a soldier of fortune, don't you think?--is staying at the inn, working for the radical. he knows her, too--and, one can only hope, for miltoun's sake, too well--an attractive person, with red moustaches, rather nice and mad. bertie has just come down; i must get him to have a talk with miltoun, and see if he cant find out how the land lies. one can trust bertie--he's really very astute. i must say, that she's quite a sweet-looking woman; but absolutely nothing's known of her here except that she divorced her husband. how does one find out about people? miltoun's being so extraordinarily strait-laced makes it all the more awkward. the earnestness of this rising generation is most remarkable. i don't remember taking such a serious view of life in my youth." lady casterley lowered the coronetted sheet of paper. the ghost of a grimace haunted her face--she had not forgotten her daughter's youth. raising the letter again, she read on: "i'm sure geoffrey and i feel years younger than either miltoun or agatha, though we did produce them. one doesn't feel it with bertie or babs, luckily. the war scare is having an excellent effect on miltoun's candidature. claud harbinger is with us, too, working for miltoun; but, as a matter of fact, i think he's after babs. it's rather melancholy, when you think that babs isn't quite twenty--still, one can't expect anything else, i suppose, with her looks; and claud is rather a fine specimen. they talk of him a lot now; he's quite coming to the fore among the young tories." lady casterley again lowered the letter, and stood listening. a prolonged, muffled sound as of distant cheering and groans had penetrated the great conservatory, vibrating among the pale petals of the lilies and setting free their scent in short waves of perfume. she passed into the hall; where, stood an old man with sallow face and long white whiskers. "what was that noise, clifton?" "a posse of socialists, my lady, on their way to putney to hold a demonstration; the people are hooting them. they've got blocked just outside the gates." "are they making speeches?" "they are talking some kind of rant, my lady." "i'll go and hear them. give me my black stick." above the velvet-dark, flat-toughed cedar trees, which rose like pagodas of ebony on either side of the drive, the sky hung lowering in one great purple cloud, endowed with sinister life by a single white beam striking up into it from the horizon. beneath this canopy of cloud a small phalanx of dusty, dishevelled-looking men and women were drawn up in the road, guarding, and encouraging with cheers, a tall, black-coated orator. before and behind this phalanx, a little mob of men and boys kept up an accompaniment of groans and jeering. lady casterley and her 'major-domo' stood six paces inside the scrolled iron gates, and watched. the slight, steel-coloured figure with steel-coloured hair, was more arresting in its immobility than all the vociferations and gestures of the mob. her eyes alone moved under their half-drooped lids; her right hand clutched tightly the handle of her stick. the speaker's voice rose in shrill protest against the exploitation of 'the people'; it sank in ironical comment on christianity; it demanded passionately to be free from the continuous burden of 'this insensate militarist taxation'; it threatened that the people would take things info their own hands. lady casterley turned her head: "he is talking nonsense, clifton. it is going to rain. i shall go in." under the stone porch she paused. the purple cloud had broken; a blind fury of rain was deluging the fast-scattering crowd. a faint smile came on lady casterley's lips. "it will do them good to have their ardour damped a little. you will get wet, clifton--hurry! i expect lord valleys to dinner. have a room got ready for him to dress. he's motoring from monkland." chapter iii in a very high, white-panelled room, with but little furniture, lord valleys greeted his mother-in-law respectfully. "motored up in nine hours, ma'am--not bad going." "i am glad you came. when is miltoun's election?" "on the twenty-ninth." "pity! he should be away from monkland, with that--anonymous woman living there." "ah! yes; you've heard of her!" lady casterley replied sharply: "you're too easy-going, geoffrey." lord valleys smiled. "these war scares," he said, "are getting a bore. can't quite make out what the feeling of the country is about them." lady casterley rose: "it has none. when war comes, the feeling will be all right. it always is. give me your arm. are you hungry?"... when lord valleys spoke of war, he spoke as one who, since he arrived at years of discretion, had lived within the circle of those who direct the destinies of states. it was for him--as for the lilies in the great glass house--impossible to see with the eyes, or feel with the feelings of a flower of the garden outside. soaked in the best prejudices and manners of his class, he lived a life no more shut off from the general than was to be expected. indeed, in some sort, as a man of facts and common sense, he was fairly in touch with the opinion of the average citizen. he was quite genuine when he said that he believed he knew what the people wanted better than those who prated on the subject; and no doubt he was right, for temperamentally he was nearer to them than their own leaders, though he would not perhaps have liked to be told so. his man-of-the-world, political shrewdness had been superimposed by life on a nature whose prime strength was its practicality and lack of imagination. it was his business to be efficient, but not strenuous, or desirous of pushing ideas to their logical conclusions; to be neither narrow nor puritanical, so long as the shell of 'good form' was preserved intact; to be a liberal landlord up to the point of not seriously damaging his interests; to be well-disposed towards the arts until those arts revealed that which he had not before perceived; it was his business to have light hands, steady eyes, iron nerves, and those excellent manners that have no mannerisms. it was his nature to be easy-going as a husband; indulgent as a father; careful and straightforward as a politician; and as a man, addicted to pleasure, to work, and to fresh air. he admired, and was fond of his wife, and had never regretted his marriage. he had never perhaps regretted anything, unless it were that he had not yet won the derby, or quite succeeded in getting his special strain of blue-ticked pointers to breed absolutely true to type. his mother-in-law he respected, as one might respect a principle. there was indeed in the personality of that little old lady the tremendous force of accumulated decision--the inherited assurance of one whose prestige had never been questioned; who, from long immunity, and a certain clear-cut matter-of-factness, bred by the habit of command, had indeed lost the power of perceiving that her prestige ever could be questioned. her knowledge of her own mind was no ordinary piece of learning, had not, in fact, been learned at all, but sprang full-fledged from an active dominating temperament. fortified by the necessity, common to her class, of knowing thoroughly the more patent side of public affairs; armoured by the tradition of a culture demanded by leadership; inspired by ideas, but always the same ideas; owning no master, but in servitude to her own custom of leading, she had a mind, formidable as the two-edged swords wielded by her ancestors the fitz-harolds, at agincourt or poitiers--a mind which had ever instinctively rejected that inner knowledge of herself or of the selves of others; produced by those foolish practices of introspection, contemplation, and understanding, so deleterious to authority. if lord valleys was the body of the aristocratic machine, lady casterley was the steel spring inside it. all her life studiously unaffected and simple in attire; of plain and frugal habit; an early riser; working at something or other from morning till night, and as little worn-out at seventy-eight as most women of fifty, she had only one weak spot--and that was her strength--blindness as to the nature and size of her place in the scheme of things. she was a type, a force. wonderfully well she went with the room in which they were dining, whose grey walls, surmounted by a deep frieze painted somewhat in the style of fragonard, contained many nymphs and roses now rather dim; with the furniture, too, which had a look of having survived into times not its own. on the tables were no flowers, save five lilies in an old silver chalice; and on the wall over the great sideboard a portrait of the late lord casterley. she spoke: "i hope miltoun is taking his own line?" "that's the trouble. he suffers from swollen principles--only wish he could keep them out of his speeches." "let him be; and get him away from that woman as soon as his election's over. what is her real name?" "mrs. something lees noel." "how long has she been there?" "about a year, i think." "and you don't know anything about her?" lord valleys raised his shoulders. "ah!" said lady casterley; "exactly! you're letting the thing drift. i shall go down myself. i suppose gertrude can have me? what has that mr. courtier to do with this good lady?" lord valleys smiled. in this smile was the whole of his polite and easy-going philosophy. "i am no meddler," it seemed to say; and at sight of that smile lady casterley tightened her lips. "he is a firebrand," she said. "i read that book of his against war--most inflammatory. aimed at grant-and rosenstern, chiefly. i've just seen, one of the results, outside my own gates. a mob of anti-war agitators." lord valleys controlled a yawn. "really? i'd no idea courtier had any influence." "he is dangerous. most idealists are negligible-his book was clever." "i wish to goodness we could see the last of these scares, they only make both countries look foolish," muttered lord valleys. lady casterley raised her glass, full of a bloody red wine. "the war would save us," she said. "war is no joke." "it would be the beginning of a better state of things." "you think so?" "we should get the lead again as a nation, and democracy would be put back fifty years." lord valleys made three little heaps of salt, and paused to count them; then, with a slight uplifting of his eyebrows, which seemed to doubt what he was going to say, he murmured: "i should have said that we were all democrats nowadays.... what is it, clifton?" "your chauffeur would like to know, what time you will have the car?" "directly after dinner." twenty minutes later, he was turning through the scrolled iron gates into the road for london. it was falling dark; and in the tremulous sky clouds were piled up, and drifted here and there with a sort of endless lack of purpose. no direction seemed to have been decreed unto their wings. they had met together in the firmament like a flock of giant magpies crossing and re-crossing each others' flight. the smell of rain was in the air. the car raised no dust, but bored swiftly on, searching out the road with its lamps. on putney bridge its march was stayed by a string of waggons. lord valleys looked to right and left. the river reflected the thousand lights of buildings piled along her sides, lamps of the embankments, lanterns of moored barges. the sinuous pallid body of this great creature, for ever gliding down to the sea, roused in his mind no symbolic image. he had had to do with her, years back, at the board of trade, and knew her for what she was, extremely dirty, and getting abominably thin just where he would have liked her plump. yet, as he lighted a cigar, there came to him a queer feeling--as if he were in the presence of a woman he was fond of. "i hope to god," he thought, "nothing'll come of these scares!" the car glided on into the long road, swarming with traffic, towards the fashionable heart of london. outside stationers' shops, however, the posters of evening papers were of no reassuring order. 'the plot thickens.' 'more revelations.' 'grave situation threatened.' and before each poster could be seen a little eddy in the stream of the passers-by--formed by persons glancing at the news, and disengaging themselves, to press on again. the earl of valleys caught himself wondering what they thought of it! what was passing behind those pale rounds of flesh turned towards the posters? did they think at all, these men and women in the street? what was their attitude towards this vaguely threatened cataclysm? face after face, stolid and apathetic, expressed nothing, no active desire, certainly no enthusiasm, hardly any dread. poor devils! the thing, after all, was no more within their control than it was within the power of ants to stop the ruination of their ant-heap by some passing boy! it was no doubt quite true, that the people had never had much voice in the making of war. and the words of a radical weekly, which as an impartial man he always forced himself to read, recurred to him. "ignorant of the facts, hypnotized by the words 'country' and 'patriotism'; in the grip of mob-instinct and inborn prejudice against the foreigner; helpless by reason of his patience, stoicism, good faith, and confidence in those above him; helpless by reason of his snobbery, mutual distrust, carelessness for the morrow, and lack of public spirit-in the face of war how impotent and to be pitied is the man in the street!" that paper, though clever, always seemed to him intolerably hifalutin'! it was doubtful whether he would get to ascot this year. and his mind flew for a moment to his promising two-year-old casetta; then dashed almost violently, as though in shame, to the admiralty and the doubt whether they were fully alive to possibilities. he himself occupied a softer spot of government, one of those almost nominal offices necessary to qualify into the cabinet certain tried minds, for whom no more strenuous post can for the moment be found. from the admiralty again his thoughts leaped to his mother-in-law. wonderful old woman! what a statesman she would have made! too reactionary! deuce of a straight line she had taken about mrs. lees noel! and with a connoisseur's twinge of pleasure he recollected that lady's face and figure seen that morning as he passed her cottage. mysterious or not, the woman was certainly attractive! very graceful head with its dark hair waved back from the middle over either temple--very charming figure, no lumber of any sort! bouquet about her! some story or other, no doubt--no affair of his! always sorry for that sort of woman! a regiment of territorials returning from a march stayed the progress of his car. he leaned forward watching them with much the same contained, shrewd, critical look he would have bent on a pack of hounds. all the mistiness and speculation in his mind was gone now. good stamp of man, would give a capital account of themselves! their faces, flushed by a day in the open, were masked with passivity, or, with a half-aggressive, half-jocular self-consciousness; they were clearly not troubled by abstract doubts, or any visions of the horrors of war. someone raised a cheer 'for the terriers!' lord valleys saw round him a little sea of hats, rising and falling, and heard a sound, rather shrill and tentative, swell into hoarse, high clamour, and suddenly die out. "seem keen enough!" he thought. "very little does it! plenty of fighting spirit in the country." and again a thrill of pleasure shot through him. then, as the last soldier passed, his car slowly forged its way through the straggling crowd, pressing on behind the regiment--men of all ages, youths, a few women, young girls, who turned their eyes on him with a negligent stare as if their lives were too remote to permit them to take interest in this passing man at ease. chapter iv at monkland, that same hour, in the little whitewashed 'withdrawing-room' of a thatched, whitewashed cottage, two men sat talking, one on either side of the hearth; and in a low chair between them a dark-eyed woman leaned back, watching, the tips of her delicate thin fingers pressed together, or held out transparent towards the fire. a log, dropping now and then, turned up its glowing underside; and the firelight and the lamplight seemed so to have soaked into the white walls that a wan warmth exuded. silvery dun moths, fluttering in from the dark garden, kept vibrating, like spun shillings, over a jade-green bowl of crimson roses; and there was a scent, as ever in that old thatched cottage, of woodsmoke, flowers, and sweetbriar. the man on the left was perhaps forty, rather above middle height, vigorous, active, straight, with blue eyes and a sanguine face that glowed on small provocation. his hair was very bright, almost red, and his fiery moustaches which descended to the level of his chin, like don quixote's seemed bristling and charging. the man on the right was nearer thirty, evidently tall, wiry, and very thin. he sat rather crumpled, in his low armchair, with hands clasped round a knee; and a little crucified smile haunted the lips of his lean face, which, with its parchmenty, tanned, shaven cheeks, and deep-set, very living eyes, had a certain beauty. these two men, so extravagantly unlike, looked at each other like neighbouring dogs, who, having long decided that they are better apart, suddenly find that they have met at some spot where they cannot possibly have a fight. and the woman watched; the owner, as it were, of one, but who, from sheer love of dogs, had always stroked and patted the other. "so, mr. courtier," said the younger man, whose dry, ironic voice, like his smile, seemed defending the fervid spirit in his eyes; "all you say only amounts, you see, to a defence of the so-called liberal spirit; and, forgive my candour, that spirit, being an importation from the realms of philosophy and art, withers the moment it touches practical affairs." the man with the red moustaches laughed; the sound was queer--at once so genial and so sardonic. "well put!" he said: "and far be it from me to gainsay. but since compromise is the very essence of politics, high-priests of caste and authority, like you, lord miltoun, are every bit as much out of it as any liberal professor." "i don't agree!" "agree or not, your position towards public affairs is very like the church's attitude towards marriage and divorce; as remote from the realities of life as the attitude of the believer in free love, and not more likely to catch on. the death of your point of view lies in itself--it's too dried-up and far from things ever to understand them. if you don't understand you can never rule. you might just as well keep your hands in your pockets, as go into politics with your notions!" "i fear we must continue to agree to differ." "well; perhaps i do pay you too high a compliment. after all, you are a patrician." "you speak in riddles, mr. courtier." the dark-eyed woman stirred; her hands gave a sort of flutter, as though in deprecation of acerbity. rising at once, and speaking in a deferential voice, the elder man said: "we're tiring mrs. noel. good-night, audrey, it's high time i was off." against the darkness of the open french window, he turned round to fire a parting shot. "what i meant, lord miltoun, was that your class is the driest and most practical in the state--it's odd if it doesn't save you from a poet's dreams. good-night!" he passed out on to the lawn, and vanished. the young man sat unmoving; the glow of the fire had caught his face, so that a spirit seemed clinging round his lips, gleaming out of his eyes. suddenly he said: "do you believe that, mrs. noel?" for answer audrey noel smiled, then rose and went over to the window. "look at my dear toad! it comes here every evening!" on a flagstone of the verandah, in the centre of the stream of lamplight, sat a little golden toad. as miltoun came to look, it waddled to one side, and vanished. "how peaceful your garden is!" he said; then taking her hand, he very gently raised it to his lips, and followed his opponent out into the darkness. truly peace brooded over that garden. the night seemed listening--all lights out, all hearts at rest. it watched, with a little white star for every tree, and roof, and slumbering tired flower, as a mother watches her sleeping child, leaning above him and counting with her love every hair of his head, and all his tiny tremors. argument seemed child's babble indeed under the smile of night. and the face of the woman, left alone at her window, was a little like the face of this warm, sweet night. it was sensitive, harmonious; and its harmony was not, as in some faces, cold--but seemed to tremble and glow and flutter, as though it were a spirit which had found its place of resting. in her garden,--all velvety grey, with black shadows beneath the yew-trees, the white flowers alone seemed to be awake, and to look at her wistfully. the trees stood dark and still. not even the night birds stirred. alone, the little stream down in the bottom raised its voice, privileged when day voices were hushed. it was not in audrey noel to deny herself to any spirit that was abroad; to repel was an art she did not practise. but this night, though the spirit of peace hovered so near, she did not seem to know it. her hands trembled, her cheeks were burning; her breast heaved, and sighs fluttered from her lips, just parted. chapter v eustace cardoc, viscount miltoun, had lived a very lonely life, since he first began to understand the peculiarities of existence. with the exception of clifton, his grandmother's 'majordomo,' he made, as a small child, no intimate friend. his nurses, governesses, tutors, by their own confession did not understand him, finding that he took himself with unnecessary seriousness; a little afraid, too, of one whom they discovered to be capable of pushing things to the point of enduring pain in silence. much of that early time was passed at ravensham, for he had always been lady casterley's favourite grandchild. she recognized in him the purposeful austerity which had somehow been omitted from the composition of her daughter. but only to clifton, then a man of fifty with a great gravity and long black whiskers, did eustace relieve his soul. "i tell you this, clifton," he would say, sitting on the sideboard, or the arm of the big chair in clifton's room, or wandering amongst the raspberries, "because you are my friend." and clifton, with his head a little on one side, and a sort of wise concern at his 'friend's' confidences, which were sometimes of an embarrassing description, would answer now and then: "of course, my lord," but more often: "of course, my dear." there was in this friendship something fine and suitable, neither of these 'friends' taking or suffering liberties, and both being interested in pigeons, which they would stand watching with a remarkable attention. in course of time, following the tradition of his family, eustace went to harrow. he was there five years--always one of those boys a little out at wrists and ankles, who may be seen slouching, solitary, along the pavement to their own haunts, rather dusty, and with one shoulder slightly raised above the other, from the habit of carrying something beneath one arm. saved from being thought a 'smug,' by his title, his lack of any conspicuous scholastic ability, his obvious independence of what was thought of him, and a sarcastic tongue, which no one was eager to encounter, he remained the ugly duckling who refused to paddle properly in the green ponds of public school tradition. he played games so badly that in sheer self-defence his fellows permitted him to play without them. of 'fives' they made an exception, for in this he attained much proficiency, owing to a certain windmill-like quality of limb. he was noted too for daring chemical experiments, of which he usually had one or two brewing, surreptitiously at first, and afterwards by special permission of his house-master, on the principle that if a room must smell, it had better smell openly. he made few friendships, but these were lasting. his latin was so poor, and his greek verse so vile, that all had been surprised when towards the finish of his career he showed a very considerable power of writing and speaking his own language. he left school without a pang. but when in the train he saw the old hill and the old spire on the top of it fading away from him, a lump rose in his throat, he swallowed violently two or three times, and, thrusting himself far back into the carriage corner, appeared to sleep. at oxford, he was happier, but still comparatively lonely; remaining, so long as custom permitted, in lodgings outside his college, and clinging thereafter to remote, panelled rooms high up, overlooking the gardens and a portion of the city wall. it was at oxford that he first developed that passion for self-discipline which afterwards distinguished him. he took up rowing; and, though thoroughly unsuited by nature to this pastime, secured himself a place in his college 'torpid.' at the end of a race he was usually supported from his stretcher in a state of extreme extenuation, due to having pulled the last quarter of the course entirely with his spirit. the same craving for self-discipline guided him in the choice of schools; he went out in 'greats,' for which, owing to his indifferent mastery of greek and latin, he was the least fitted. with enormous labour he took a very good degree. he carried off besides, the highest distinctions of the university for english essays. the ordinary circles of college life knew nothing of him. not once in the whole course of his university career, was he the better for wine. he, did not hunt; he never talked of women, and none talked of women in his presence. but now and then he was visited by those gusts which come to the ascetic, when all life seemed suddenly caught up and devoured by a flame burning night and day, and going out mercifully, he knew not why, like a blown candle. however unsocial in the proper sense of the word, he by no means lacked company in these oxford days. he knew many, both dons and undergraduates. his long stride, and determined absence of direction, had severely tried all those who could stomach so slow a pastime as walking for the sake of talking. the country knew him--though he never knew the country--from abingdon to bablock hythe. his name stood high, too, at the union, where he made his mark during his first term in a debate on a 'censorship of literature' which he advocated with gloom, pertinacity, and a certain youthful brilliance that might well have carried the day, had not an irishman got up and pointed out the danger hanging over the old testament. to that he had retorted: "better, sir, it should run a risk than have no risk to run." from which moment he was notable. he stayed up four years, and went down with a sense of bewilderment and loss. the matured verdict of oxford on this child of hers, was "eustace miltoun! ah! queer bird! will make his mark!" he had about this time an interview with his father which confirmed the impression each had formed of the other. it took place in the library at monkland court, on a late november afternoon. the light of eight candles in thin silver candlesticks, four on either side of the carved stone hearth, illumined that room. their gentle radiance penetrated but a little way into the great dark space lined with books, panelled and floored with black oak, where the acrid fragrance of leather and dried roseleaves seemed to drench the, very soul with the aroma of the past. above the huge fireplace, with light falling on one side of his shaven face, hung a portrait--painter unknown--of that cardinal caradoc who suffered for his faith in the sixteenth century. ascetic, crucified, with a little smile clinging to the lips and deep-set eyes, he presided, above the bluefish flames of a log fire. father and son found some difficulty in beginning. each of those two felt as though he were in the presence of someone else's very near relation. they had, in fact, seen extremely little of each other, and not seen that little long. lord valleys uttered the first remark: "well, my dear fellow, what are you going to do now? i think we can make certain of this seat down here, if you like to stand." miltoun had answered: "thanks, very much; i don't think so at present." through the thin fume of his cigar lord valleys watched that long figure sunk deep in the chair opposite. "why not?" he said. "you can't begin too soon; unless you think you ought to go round the world." "before i can become a man of it?" lord valleys gave a rather disconcerted laugh. "there's nothing in politics you can't pick up as you go along," he said. "how old are you?" "twenty-four." "you look older." a faint line, as of contemplation, rose between his eyes. was it fancy that a little smile was hovering about miltoun's lips? "i've got a foolish theory," came from those lips, "that one must know the conditions first. i want to give at least five years to that." lord valleys raised his eyebrows. "waste of time," he said. "you'd know more at the end of it, if you went into the house at once. you take the matter too seriously." "no doubt." for fully a minute lord valleys made no answer; he felt almost ruffled. waiting till the sensation had passed, he said: "well, my dear fellow, as you please." miltoun's apprenticeship to the profession of politics was served in a slum settlement; on his father's estates; in chambers at the temple; in expeditions to germany, america, and the british colonies; in work at elections; and in two forlorn hopes to capture a constituency which could be trusted not to change its principles. he read much, slowly, but with conscientious tenacity, poetry, history, and works on philosophy, religion, and social matters. fiction, and especially foreign fiction, he did not care for. with the utmost desire to be wide and impartial, he sucked in what ministered to the wants of his nature, rejecting unconsciously all that by its unsuitability endangered the flame of his private spirit. what he read, in fact, served only to strengthen those profounder convictions which arose from his temperament. with a contempt of the vulgar gewgaws of wealth and rank he combined a humble but intense and growing conviction of his capacity for leadership, of a spiritual superiority to those whom he desired to benefit. there was no trace, indeed, of the common pharisee in miltoun, he was simple and direct; but his eyes, his gestures, the whole man, proclaimed the presence of some secret spring of certainty, some fundamental well into which no disturbing glimmers penetrated. he was not devoid of wit, but he was devoid of that kind of wit which turns its eyes inward, and sees something of the fun that lies in being what you are. miltoun saw the world and all the things thereof shaped like spires--even when they were circles. he seemed to have no sense that the universe was equally compounded of those two symbols, whose point of reconciliation had not yet been discovered. such was he, then, when the member for his native division was made a peer. he had reached the age of thirty without ever having been in love, leading a life of almost savage purity, with one solitary breakdown. women were afraid of him. and he was perhaps a little afraid of woman. she was in theory too lovely and desirable--the half-moon in a summer sky; in practice too cloying, or too harsh. he had an affection for barbara, his younger sister; but to his mother, his grandmother, or his elder sister agatha, he had never felt close. it was indeed amusing to see lady valleys with her first-born. her fine figure, the blown roses of her face, her grey-blue eyes which had a slight tendency to roll, as though amusement just touched with naughtiness bubbled behind them; were reduced to a queer, satirical decorum in miltoun's presence. thoughts and sayings verging on the risky were characteristic of her robust physique, of her soul which could afford to express almost all that occurred to it. miltoun had never, not even as a child, given her his confidence. she bore him no resentment, being of that large, generous build in body and mind, rarely--never in her class--associated with the capacity for feeling aggrieved or lowered in any estimation, even its own. he was, and always had been, an odd boy, and there was an end of it! nothing had perhaps so disconcerted lady valleys as his want of behaviour in regard to women. she felt it abnormal, just as she recognized the essential if duly veiled normality of her husband and younger son. it was this feeling which made her realize almost more vividly than she had time for, in the whirl of politics and fashion, the danger of his friendship with this lady to whom she alluded so discreetly as 'anonyma.' pure chance had been responsible for the inception of that friendship. going one december afternoon to the farmhouse of a tenant, just killed by a fall from his horse, miltoun had found the widow in a state of bewildered grief, thinly cloaked in the manner of one who had almost lost the power to express her feelings, and quite lost it in presence of 'the gentry.' having assured the poor soul that she need have no fear about her tenancy, he was just leaving, when he met, in the stone-flagged entrance, a lady in a fur cap and jacket, carrying in her arms a little crying boy, bleeding from a cut on the forehead. taking him from her and placing him on a table in the parlour, miltoun looked at this lady, and saw that she was extremely grave, and soft, and charming. he inquired of her whether the mother should be told. she shook her head. "poor thing, not just now: let's wash it, and bind it up first." together therefore they washed and bound up the cut. having finished, she looked at miltoun, and seemed to say: "you would do the telling so much better than i." he, therefore, told the mother and was rewarded by a little smile from the grave lady. from that meeting he took away the knowledge of her name, audrey lees noel, and the remembrance of a face, whose beauty, under a cap of squirrel's fur, pursued him. some days later passing by the village green, he saw her entering a garden gate. on this occasion he had asked her whether she would like her cottage re-thatched; an inspection of the roof had followed; he had stayed talking a long time. accustomed to women--over the best of whom, for all their grace and lack of affectation, high-caste life had wrapped the manner which seems to take all things for granted--there was a peculiar charm for miltoun in this soft, dark-eyed lady who evidently lived quite out of the world, and had so poignant, and shy, a flavour. thus from a chance seed had blossomed swiftly one of those rare friendships between lonely people, which can in short time fill great spaces of two lives. one day she asked him: "you know about me, i suppose?" miltoun made a motion of his head, signifying that he did. his informant had been the vicar. "yes, i am told, her story is a sad one--a divorce." "do you mean that she has been divorced, or----" for the fraction of a second the vicar perhaps had hesitated. "oh! no--no. sinned against, i am sure. a nice woman, so far as i have seen; though i'm afraid not one of my congregation." with this, miltoun, in whom chivalry had already been awakened, was content. when she asked if he knew her story, he would not for the world have had her rake up what was painful. whatever that story, she could not have been to blame. she had begun already to be shaped by his own spirit; had become not a human being as it was, but an expression of his aspiration.... on the third evening after his passage of arms with courtier, he was again at her little white cottage sheltering within its high garden walls. smothered in roses, and with a black-brown thatch overhanging the old-fashioned leaded panes of the upper windows, it had an air of hiding from the world. behind, as though on guard, two pine trees spread their dark boughs over the outhouses, and in any south-west wind could be heard speaking gravely about the weather. tall lilac bushes flanked the garden, and a huge lime-tree in the adjoining field sighed and rustled, or on still days let forth the drowsy hum of countless small dusky bees who frequented that green hostelry. he found her altering a dress, sitting over it in her peculiar delicate fashion--as if all objects whatsoever, dresses, flowers, books, music, required from her the same sympathy. he had come from a long day's electioneering, had been heckled at two meetings, and was still sore from the experience. to watch her, to be soothed, and ministered to by her had never been so restful; and stretched out in a long chair he listened to her playing. over the hill a pierrot moon was slowly moving up in a sky the colour of grey irises. and in a sort of trance miltoun stared at the burnt-out star, travelling in bright pallor. across the moor a sea of shallow mist was rolling; and the trees in the valley, like browsing cattle, stood knee-deep in whiteness, with all the air above them wan from an innumerable rain as of moondust, falling into that white sea. then the moon passed behind the lime-tree, so that a great lighted chinese lantern seemed to hang blue-black from the sky. suddenly, jarring and shivering the music, came a sound of hooting. it swelled, died away, and swelled again. miltoun rose. "that has spoiled my vision," he said. "mrs. noel, i have something i want to say." but looking down at her, sitting so still, with her hands resting on the keys, he was silent in sheer adoration. a voice from the door ejaculated: "oh! ma'am--oh! my lord! they're devilling a gentleman on the green!" chapter vi when the immortal don set out to ring all the bells of merriment, he was followed by one clown. charles courtier on the other hand had always been accompanied by thousands, who really could not understand the conduct of this man with no commercial sense. but though he puzzled his contemporaries, they did not exactly laugh at him, because it was reported that he had really killed some men, and loved some women. they found such a combination irresistible, when coupled with an appearance both vigorous and gallant. the son of an oxfordshire clergyman, and mounted on a lost cause, he had been riding through the world ever since he was eighteen, without once getting out of the saddle. the secret of this endurance lay perhaps in his unconsciousness that he was in the saddle at all. it was as much his natural seat as office stools to other mortals. he made no capital out of errantry, his temperament being far too like his red-gold hair, which people compared to flames, consuming all before them. his vices were patent; too incurable an optimism; an admiration for beauty such as must sometimes have caused him to forget which woman he was most in love with; too thin a skin; too hot a heart; hatred of humbug, and habitual neglect of his own interest. unmarried, and with many friends, and many enemies, he kept his body like a sword-blade, and his soul always at white heat. that one who admitted to having taken part in five wars should be mixing in a by-election in the cause of peace, was not so inconsistent as might be supposed; for he had always fought on the losing side, and there seemed to him at the moment no side so losing as that of peace. no great politician, he was not an orator, nor even a glib talker; yet a quiet mordancy of tongue, and the white-hot look in his eyes, never failed to make an impression of some kind on an audience. there was, however, hardly a corner of england where orations on behalf of peace had a poorer chance than the bucklandbury division. to say that courtier had made himself unpopular with its matter-of-fact, independent, stolid, yet quick-tempered population, would be inadequate. he had outraged their beliefs, and roused the most profound suspicions. they could not, for the life of them, make out what he was at. though by his adventures and his book, "peace-a lost cause," he was, in london, a conspicuous figure, they had naturally never heard of him; and his adventure to these parts seemed to them an almost ludicrous example of pure idea poking its nose into plain facts--the idea that nations ought to, and could live in peace being so very pure; and the fact that they never had, so very plain! at monkland, which was all court estate, there were naturally but few supporters of miltoun's opponent, mr. humphrey chilcox, and the reception accorded to the champion of peace soon passed from curiosity to derision, from derision to menace, till courtier's attitude became so defiant, and his sentences so heated that he was only saved from a rough handling by the influential interposition of the vicar. yet when he began to address them he had felt irresistibly attracted. they looked such capital, independent fellows. waiting for his turn to speak, he had marked them down as men after his own heart. for though courtier knew that against an unpopular idea there must always be a majority, he never thought so ill of any individual as to suppose him capable of belonging to that ill-omened body. surely these fine, independent fellows were not to be hoodwinked by the jingoes! it had been one more disillusion. he had not taken it lying down; neither had his audience. they dispersed without forgiving; they came together again without having forgotten. the village inn, a little white building whose small windows were overgrown with creepers, had a single guest's bedroom on the upper floor, and a little sitting-room where courtier took his meals. the rest of the house was but stone-floored bar with a long wooden bench against the back wall, whence nightly a stream of talk would issue, all harsh a's, and sudden soft u's; whence too a figure, a little unsteady, would now and again emerge, to a chorus of 'gude naights,' stand still under the ash-trees to light his pipe, then move slowly home. but on that evening, when the trees, like cattle, stood knee-deep in the moon-dust, those who came out from the bar-room did not go away; they hung about in the shadows, and were joined by other figures creeping furtively through the bright moonlight, from behind the inn. presently more figures moved up from the lanes and the churchyard path, till thirty or more were huddled there, and their stealthy murmur of talk distilled a rare savour of illicit joy. unholy hilarity, indeed, seemed lurking in the deep tree-shadow, before the wan inn, whence from a single lighted window came forth the half-chanting sound of a man's voice reading out loud. laughter was smothered, talk whispered. "he'm a-practisin' his spaches." "smoke the cunnin' old vox out!" "red pepper's the proper stuff." "see men sneeze! we've a-screed up the door." then, as a face showed at the lighted window, a burst of harsh laughter broke the hush. he at the window was seen struggling violently to wrench away a bar. the laughter swelled to hooting. the prisoner forced his way through, dropped to the ground, rose, staggered, and fell. a voice said sharply: "what's this?" out of the sounds of scuffling and scattering came the whisper: "his lordship!" and the shade under the ash-trees became deserted, save by the tall dark figure of a man, and a woman's white shape. "is that you, mr. courtier? are you hurt?" a chuckle rose from the recumbent figure. "only my knee. the beggars! they precious nearly choked me, though." chapter vii bertie caradoc, leaving the smoking-room at monkland court that same evening,--on his way to bed, went to the georgian corridor, where his pet barometer was hanging. to look at the glass had become the nightly habit of one who gave all the time he could spare from his profession to hunting in the winter and to racing in the summer.' the hon. hubert caradoc, an apprentice to the calling of diplomacy, more completely than any living caradoc embodied the characteristic strength and weaknesses of that family. he was of fair height, and wiry build. his weathered face, under sleek, dark hair, had regular, rather small features, and wore an expression of alert resolution, masked by impassivity. over his inquiring, hazel-grey eyes the lids were almost religiously kept half drawn. he had been born reticent, and great, indeed, was the emotion under which he suffered when the whole of his eyes were visible. his nose was finely chiselled, and had little flesh. his lips, covered by a small, dark moustache, scarcely opened to emit his speeches, which were uttered in a voice singularly muffled, yet unexpectedly quick. the whole personality was that of a man practical, spirited, guarded, resourceful, with great power of self-control, who looked at life as if she were a horse under him, to whom he must give way just so far as was necessary to keep mastery of her. a man to whom ideas were of no value, except when wedded to immediate action; essentially neat; demanding to be 'done well,' but capable of stoicism if necessary; urbane, yet always in readiness to thrust; able only to condone the failings and to compassionate the kinds of distress which his own experience had taught him to understand. such was miltoun's younger brother at the age of twenty-six. having noted that the glass was steady, he was about to seek the stairway, when he saw at the farther end of the entrance-hall three figures advancing arm-in-arm. habitually both curious and wary, he waited till they came within the radius of a lamp; then, seeing them to be those of miltoun and a footman, supporting between them a lame man, he at once hastened forward. "have you put your knee out, sir? hold on a minute! get a chair, charles." seating the stranger in this chair, bertie rolled up the trouser, and passed his fingers round the knee. there was a sort, of loving-kindness in that movement, as of a hand which had in its time felt the joints and sinews of innumerable horses. "h'm!" he said; "can you stand a bit of a jerk? catch hold of him behind, eustace. sit down on the floor, charles, and hold the legs of the chair. now then!" and taking up the foot, he pulled. there was a click, a little noise of teeth ground together; and bertie said: "good man--shan't have to have the vet. to you, this time." having conducted their lame guest to a room in the georgian corridor hastily converted to a bedroom, the two brothers presently left him to the attentions of the footman. "well, old man," said bertie, as they sought their rooms; "that's put paid to his name--won't do you any more harm this journey. good plucked one, though!" the report that courtier was harboured beneath their roof went the round of the family before breakfast, through the agency of one whose practice it was to know all things, and to see that others partook of that knowledge, little ann, paying her customary morning visit to her mother's room, took her stand with face turned up and hands clasping her belt, and began at once. "uncle eustace brought a man last night with a wounded leg, and uncle bertie pulled it out straight. william says that charles says he only made a noise like this"--there was a faint sound of small chumping teeth: "and he's the man that's staying at the inn, and the stairs were too narrow to carry him up, william says; and if his knee was put out he won't be able to walk without a stick for a long time. can i go to father?" agatha, who was having her hair brushed, thought: "i'm not sure whether belts so low as that are wholesome," murmured: "wait a minute!" but little ann was gone; and her voice could be heard in the dressing-room climbing up towards sir william, who from the sound of his replies, was manifestly shaving. when agatha, who never could resist a legitimate opportunity of approaching her husband, looked in, he was alone, and rather thoughtful--a tall man with a solid, steady face and cautious eyes, not in truth remarkable except to his own wife. "that fellow courtier's caught by the leg," he said. "don't know what your mother will say to an enemy in the camp." "isn't he a freethinker, and rather----" sir william, following his own thoughts, interrupted: "just as well, of course, so far as miltoun's concerned, to have got him here." agatha sighed: "well, i suppose we shall have to be nice to him. i'll tell mother." sir william smiled. "ann will see to that," he said. ann was seeing to that. seated in the embrasure of the window behind the looking-glass, where lady valleys was still occupied, she was saying: "he fell out of the window because of the red pepper. miss wallace says he is a hostage--what does hostage mean, granny?" when six years ago that word had first fallen on lady valleys' ears, she had thought: "oh! dear! am i really granny?" it had been a shock, had seemed the end of so much; but the matter-of-fact heroism of women, so much quicker to accept the inevitable than men, had soon come to her aid, and now, unlike her husband, she did not care a bit. for all that she answered nothing, partly because it was not necessary to speak in order to sustain a conversation with little ann, and partly because she was deep in thought. the man was injured! hospitality, of course--especially since their own tenants had committed the outrage! still, to welcome a man who had gone out of his way to come down here and stump the country against her own son, was rather a tall order. it might have been worse, no doubt. if; for instance, he had been some 'impossible' nonconformist radical! this mr. courtier was a free lance--rather a well-known man, an interesting creature. she must see that he felt 'at home' and comfortable. if he were pumped judiciously, no doubt one could find out about this woman. moreover, the acceptance of their 'salt' would silence him politically if she knew anything of that type of man, who always had something in him of the arab's creed. her mind, that of a capable administrator, took in all the practical significance of this incident, which, although untoward, was not without its comic side to one disposed to find zest and humour in everything that did not absolutely run counter to her interests and philosophy. the voice of little ann broke in on her reflections. "i'm going to auntie babs now." "very well; give me a kiss first." little ann thrust up her face, so that its sudden little nose penetrated lady valleys' soft curving lips.... when early that same afternoon courtier, leaning on a stick, passed from his room out on to the terrace, he was confronted by three sunlit peacocks marching slowly across a lawn towards a statue of diana. with incredible dignity those birds moved, as if never in their lives had they been hurried. they seemed indeed to know that when they got there, there would be nothing for them to do but to come back again. beyond them, through the tall trees, over some wooded foot-hills of the moorland and a promised land of pinkish fields, pasture, and orchards, the prospect stretched to the far sea. heat clothed this view with a kind of opalescence, a fairy garment, transmuting all values, so that the four square walls and tall chimneys of the pottery-works a few miles down the valley seemed to courtier like a vision of some old fortified italian town. his sensations, finding himself in this galley, were peculiar. for his feeling towards miltoun, whom he had twice met at mrs. noel's, was, in spite of disagreements, by no means unfriendly; while his feeling towards miltoun's family was not yet in existence. having lived from hand to mouth, and in many countries, since he left westminster school, he had now practically no class feelings. an attitude of hostility to aristocracy because it was aristocracy, was as incomprehensible to him as an attitude of deference. his sensations habitually shaped themselves in accordance with those two permanent requirements of his nature, liking for adventure, and hatred of tyranny. the labourer who beat his wife, the shopman who sweated his 'hands,' the parson who consigned his parishioners to hell, the peer who rode roughshod--all were equally odious to him. he thought of people as individuals, and it was, as it were, by accident that he had conceived the class generalization which he had fired back at miltoun from mrs. noel's window. sanguine, accustomed to queer environments, and always catching at the moment as it flew, he had not to fight with the timidities and irritations of a nervous temperament. his cheery courtesy was only disturbed when he became conscious of some sentiment which appeared to him mean or cowardly. on such occasions, not perhaps infrequent, his face looked as if his heart were physically fuming, and since his shell of stoicism was never quite melted by this heat, a very peculiar expression was the result, a sort of calm, sardonic, desperate, jolly look. his chief feeling, then, at the outrage which had laid him captive in the enemy's camp, was one of vague amusement, and curiosity. people round about spoke fairly well of this caradoc family. there did not seem to be any lack of kindly feeling between them and their tenants; there was said to be no griping destitution, nor any particular ill-housing on their estate. and if the inhabitants were not encouraged to improve themselves, they were at all events maintained at a certain level, by steady and not ungenerous supervision. when a roof required thatching it was thatched; when a man became too old to work, he was not suffered to lapse into the workhouse. in bad years for wool, or beasts, or crops, the farmers received a graduated remission of rent. the pottery-works were run on a liberal if autocratic basis. it was true that though lord valleys was said to be a staunch supporter of a 'back to the land' policy, no disposition was shown to encourage people to settle on these particular lands, no doubt from a feeling that such settlers would not do them so much justice as their present owner. indeed so firmly did this conviction seemingly obtain, that lord valleys' agent was not unfrequently observed to be buying a little bit more. but, since in this life one notices only what interests him, all this gossip, half complimentary, half not, had fallen but lightly on the ears of the champion of peace during his campaign, for he was, as has, been said, but a poor politician, and rode his own horse very much his own way. while he stood there enjoying the view, he heard a small high voice, and became conscious of a little girl in a very shady hat so far back on her brown hair that it did not shade her; and of a small hand put out in front. he took the hand, and answered: "thank you, i am well--and you?" perceiving the while that a pair of wide frank eyes were examining his leg. "does it hurt?" "not to speak of." "my pony's leg was blistered. granny is coming to look at it." "i see." "i have to go now. i hope you'll soon be better. good-bye!" then, instead of the little girl, courtier saw a tall and rather florid woman regarding him with a sort of quizzical dignity. she wore a stiffish fawn-coloured dress that seemed to be cut a little too tight round her substantial hips, for it quite neglected to embrace her knees. she had on no hat, no gloves, no ornaments, except the rings on her fingers, and a little jewelled watch in a leather bracelet on her wrist. there was, indeed, about her whole figure an air of almost professional escape from finery. stretching out a well-shaped but not small hand, she said: "i most heartily apologize to you, mr. courtier." "not at all." "i do hope you're comfortable. have they given you everything you want?" "more than everything." "it really was disgraceful! however it's brought us the pleasure of making your acquaintance. i've read your book, of course." to courtier it seemed that on this lady's face had come a look which seemed to say: yes, very clever and amusing, quite enjoyable! but the ideas----what? you know very well they won't do--in fact they mustn't do! "that's very nice of you." but into lady valleys' answer, "i don't agree with it a bit, you know!" there had crept a touch of asperity, as though she knew that he had smiled inside. "what we want preached in these days are the warlike virtues--especially by a warrior." "believe me, lady valleys, the warlike virtues are best left to men of more virgin imagination." he received a quick look, and the words: "anyway, i'm sure you don't care a rap for politics. you know mrs. lees noel, don't you? what a pretty woman she is!" but as she spoke courtier saw a young girl coming along the terrace. she had evidently been riding, for she wore high boots and a skirt which had enabled her to sit astride. her eyes were blue, and her hair--the colour of beech-leaves in autumn with the sun shining through--was coiled up tight under a small soft hat. she was tall, and moved towards them like one endowed with great length from the hip joint to the knee. joy of life, serene, unconscious vigour, seemed to radiate from her whole face and figure. at lady valleys' words: "ah, babs! my daughter barbara--mr. courtier," he put out his hand, received within it some gauntleted fingers held out with a smile, and heard her say: "miltoun's gone up to town, mother; i was going to motor in to bucklandbury with a message he gave me; so i can fetch granny out from the station:" "you had better take ann, or she'll make our lives a burden; and perhaps mr. courtier would like an airing. is your knee fit, do you think?" glancing at the apparition, courtier replied: "it is." never since the age of seven had he been able to look on feminine beauty without a sense of warmth and faint excitement; and seeing now perhaps the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld, he desired to be with her wherever she might be going. there was too something very fascinating in the way she smiled, as if she had a little seen through his sentiments. "well then," she said, "we'd better look for ann." after short but vigorous search little ann was found--in the car, instinct having told her of a forward movement in which it was her duty to take part. and soon they had started, ann between them in that peculiar state of silence to which she became liable when really interested. from the monkland estate, flowered, lawned, and timbered, to the open moor, was like passing to another world; for no sooner was the last lodge of the western drive left behind, than there came into sudden view the most pagan bit of landscape in all england. in this wild parliament-house, clouds, rocks, sun, and winds met and consulted. the 'old' men, too, had left their spirits among the great stones, which lay couched like lions on the hill-tops, under the white clouds, and their brethren, the hunting buzzard hawks. here the very rocks were restless, changing form, and sense, and colour from day to day, as though worshipping the unexpected, and refusing themselves to law. the winds too in their passage revolted against their courses, and came tearing down wherever there were combes or crannies, so that men in their shelters might still learn the power of the wild gods. the wonders of this prospect were entirely lost on little ann, and somewhat so on courtier, deeply engaged in reconciling those two alien principles, courtesy, and the love of looking at a pretty face. he was wondering too what this girl of twenty, who had the self-possession of a woman of forty, might be thinking. it was little ann who broke the silence. "auntie babs, it wasn't a very strong house, was it?" courtier looked in the direction of her small finger. there was the wreck of a little house, which stood close to a stone man who had obviously possessed that hill before there were men of flesh. over one corner of the sorry ruin, a single patch of roof still clung, but the rest was open. "he was a silly man to build it, wasn't he, ann? that's why they call it ashman's folly." "is he alive?" "not quite--it's just a hundred years ago." "what made him build it here?" "he hated women, and--the roof fell in on him." "why did he hate women?" "he was a crank." "what is a crank?" "ask mr. courtier." under this girl's calm quizzical glance, courtier endeavoured to find an answer to that question. "a crank," he said slowly, "is a man like me." he heard a little laugh, and became acutely conscious of ann's dispassionate examining eyes. "is uncle eustace a crank?" "you know now, mr. courtier, what ann thinks of you. you think a good deal of uncle eustace, don't you, ann?" "yes," said ann, and fixed her eyes before her. but courtier gazed sideways--over her hatless head. his exhilaration was increasing every moment. this girl reminded him of a two-year-old filly he had once seen, stepping out of ascot paddock for her first race, with the sun glistening on her satin chestnut skin, her neck held high, her eyes all fire--as sure to win, as that grass was green. it was difficult to believe her miltoun's sister. it was difficult to believe any of those four young caradocs related. the grave ascetic miltoun, wrapped in the garment of his spirit; mild, domestic, strait-laced agatha; bertie, muffled, shrewd, and steely; and this frank, joyful conquering barbara--the range was wide. but the car had left the moor, and, down a steep hill, was passing the small villas and little grey workmen's houses outside the town of bucklandbury. "ann and i have to go on to miltoun's headquarters. shall i drop you at the enemy's, mr. courtier? stop, please, frith." and before courtier could assent, they had pulled up at a house on which was inscribed with extraordinary vigour: "chilcox for bucklandbury." hobbling into the committee-room of mr. humphrey chilcox, which smelled of paint, courtier took with him the scented memory of youth, and ambergris, and harris tweed. in that room three men were assembled round a table; the eldest of whom, endowed with little grey eyes, a stubbly beard, and that mysterious something only found in those who have been mayors, rose at once and came towards him. "mr. courtier, i believe," he said bluffly. "glad to see you, sir. most distressed to hear of this outrage. though in a way, it's done us good. yes, really. grossly against fair play. shouldn't be surprised if it turned a couple of hundred votes. you carry the effects of it about with you, i see." a thin, refined man, with wiry hair, also came up, holding a newspaper in his hand. "it has had one rather embarrassing effect," he said. "read this "'outrage on a distinguished visitor. "'lord miltoun's evening adventure.'" courtier read a paragraph. the man with the little eyes broke the ominous silence which ensued. "one of our side must have seen the whole thing, jumped on his bicycle and brought in the account before they went to press. they make no imputation on the lady--simply state the facts. quite enough," he added with impersonal grimness; "i think he's done for himself, sir." the man with the refined face added nervously: "we couldn't help it, mr. courtier; i really don't know what we can do. i don't like it a bit." "has your candidate seen this?" courtier asked. "can't have," struck in the third committee-man; "we hadn't seen it ourselves until an hour ago." "i should never have permitted it," said the man with the refined face; "i blame the editor greatly." "come to that----" said the little-eyed man, "it's a plain piece of news. if it makes a stir, that's not our fault. the paper imputes nothing, it states. position of the lady happens to do the rest. can't help it, and moreover, sir, speaking for self, don't want to. we'll have no loose morals in public life down here, please god!" there was real feeling in his words; then, catching sight of courtier's face, he added: "do you know this lady?" "ever since she was a child. anyone who speaks evil of her, has to reckon with me." the man with the refined face said earnestly: "believe me, mr. courtier, i entirely sympathize. we had nothing to do with the paragraph. it's one of those incidents where one benefits against one's will. most unfortunate that she came out on to the green with lord miltoun; you know what people are." "it's the head-line that does it;" said the third committee-man; "they've put what will attract the public." "i don't know, i don't know," said the little-eyed man stubbornly; "if lord miltoun will spend his evenings with lonely ladies, he can't blame anybody but himself." courtier looked from face to face. "this closes my connection with the campaign," he said: "what's the address of this paper?" and without waiting for an answer, he took up the journal and hobbled from the room. he stood a minute outside finding the address, then made his way down the street. chapter viii by the side of little ann, barbara sat leaning back amongst the cushions of the car. in spite of being already launched into high-caste life which brings with it an early knowledge of the world, she had still some of the eagerness in her face which makes children lovable. yet she looked negligently enough at the citizens of bucklandbury, being already a little conscious of the strange mixture of sentiment peculiar to her countrymen in presence of herself--that curious expression on their faces resulting from the continual attempt to look down their noses while slanting their eyes upwards. yes, she was already alive to that mysterious glance which had built the national house and insured it afterwards--foe to cynicism, pessimism, and anything french or russian; parent of all the national virtues, and all the national vices; of idealism and muddle-headedness, of independence and servility; fosterer of conduct, murderer of speculation; looking up, and looking down, but never straight at anything; most high, most deep, most queer; and ever bubbling-up from the essential well of emulation. surrounded by that glance, waiting for courtier, barbara, not less british than her neighbours, was secretly slanting her own eyes up and down over the absent figure of her new acquaintance. she too wanted something she could look up to, and at the same time see damned first. and in this knight-errant it seemed to her that she had got it. he was a creature from another world. she had met many men, but not as yet one quite of this sort. it was rather nice to be with a clever man, who had none the less done so many outdoor things, been through so many bodily adventures. the mere writers, or even the 'bohemians,' whom she occasionally met, were after all only 'chaplains to the court,' necessary to keep aristocracy in touch with the latest developments of literature and art. but this mr. courtier was a man of action; he could not be looked on with the amused, admiring toleration suited to men remarkable only for ideas, and the way they put them into paint or ink. he had used, and could use, the sword, even in the cause of peace. he could love, had loved, or so they said: if barbara had been a girl of twenty in another class, she would probably never have heard of this, and if she had heard, it might very well have dismayed or shocked her. but she had heard, and without shock, because she had already learned that men were like that, and women too sometimes. it was with quite a little pang of concern that she saw him hobbling down the street towards her; and when he was once more seated, she told the chauffeur: "to the station, frith. quick, please!" and began: "you are not to be trusted a bit. what were you doing?" but courtier smiled grimly over the head of ann, in silence. at this, almost the first time she had ever yet encountered a distinct rebuff, barbara quivered, as though she had been touched lightly with a whip. her lips closed firmly, her eyes began to dance. "very well, my dear," she thought. but presently stealing a look at him, she became aware of such a queer expression on his face, that she forgot she was offended. "is anything wrong, mr. courtier?" "yes, lady barbara, something is very wrong--that miserable mean thing, the human tongue." barbara had an intuitive knowledge of how to handle things, a kind of moral sangfroid, drawn in from the faces she had watched, the talk she had heard, from her youth up. she trusted those intuitions, and letting her eyes conspire with his over ann's brown hair, she said: "anything to do with mrs. n-----?" seeing "yes" in his eyes, she added quickly: "and m-----?" courtier nodded. "i thought that was coming. let them babble! who cares?" she caught an approving glance, and the word, "good!" but the car had drawn up at bucklandbury station. the little grey figure of lady casterley, coming out of the station doorway, showed but slight sign of her long travel. she stopped to take the car in, from chauffeur to courtier. "well, frith!--mr. courtier, is it? i know your book, and i don't approve of you; you're a dangerous man--how do you do? i must have those two bags. the cart can bring the rest.... randle, get up in front, and don't get dusty. ann!" but ann was already beside the chauffeur, having long planned this improvement. "h'm! so you've hurt your leg, sir? keep still! we can sit three.... now, my dear, i can kiss you! you've grown!" lady casterley's kiss, once received, was never forgotten; neither perhaps was barbara's. yet they were different. for, in the case of lady casterley, the old eyes, bright and investigating, could be seen deciding the exact spot for the lips to touch; then the face with its firm chin was darted forward; the lips paused a second, as though to make quite certain, then suddenly dug hard and dry into the middle of the cheek, quavered for the fraction of a second as if trying to remember to be soft, and were relaxed like the elastic of a catapult. and in the case of barbara, first a sort of light came into her eyes, then her chin tilted a little, then her lips pouted a little, her body quivered, as if it were getting a size larger, her hair breathed, there was a small sweet sound; it was over. thus kissing her grandmother, barbara resumed her seat, and looked at courtier. 'sitting three' as they were, he was touching her, and it seemed to her somehow that he did not mind. the wind had risen, blowing from the west, and sunshine was flying on it. the call of the cuckoos--a little sharpened--followed the swift-travelling car. and that essential sweetness of the moor, born of the heather roots and the south-west wind, was stealing out from under the young ferns. with her thin nostrils distended to this scent, lady casterley bore a distinct resemblance to a small, fine game-bird. "you smell nice down here," she said. "now, mr. courtier, before i forget--who is this mrs. lees noel that i hear so much of?" at that question, barbara could not help sliding her eyes round. how would he stand up to granny? it was the moment to see what he was made of. granny was terrific! "a very charming woman, lady casterley." "no doubt; but i am tired of hearing that. what is her story?" "has she one?" "ha!" said lady casterley. ever so slightly barbara let her arm press against courtiers. it was so delicious to hear granny getting no forwarder. "i may take it she has a past, then?" "not from me, lady casterley." again barbara gave him that imperceptible and flattering touch. "well, this is all very mysterious. i shall find out for myself. you know her, my dear. you must take me to see her." "dear granny! if people hadn't pasts, they wouldn't have futures." lady casterley let her little claw-like hand descend on her grand-daughter's thigh. "don't talk nonsense, and don't stretch like that!" she said; "you're too large already...." at dinner that night they were all in possession of the news. sir william had been informed by the local agent at staverton, where lord harbinger's speech had suffered from some rude interruptions. the hon. geoffrey winlow; having sent his wife on, had flown over in his biplane from winkleigh, and brought a copy of 'the rag' with him. the one member of the small house-party who had not heard the report before dinner was lord dennis fitz-harold, lady casterley's brother. little, of course, was said. but after the ladies had withdrawn, harbinger, with that plain-spoken spontaneity which was so unexpected, perhaps a little intentionally so, in connection with his almost classically formed face, uttered words to the effect that, if they did not fundamentally kick that rumour, it was all up with miltoun. really this was serious! and the beggars knew it, and they were going to work it. and miltoun had gone up to town, no one knew what for. it was the devil of a mess! in all the conversation of this young man there was that peculiar brand of voice, which seems ever rebutting an accusation of being serious--a brand of voice and manner warranted against anything save ridicule; and in the face of ridicule apt to disappear. the words, just a little satirically spoken: "what is, my dear young man?" stopped him at once. looking for the complement and counterpart of lady casterley, one would perhaps have singled out her brother. all her abrupt decision was negated in his profound, ironical urbanity. his voice and look and manner were like his velvet coat, which had here and there a whitish sheen, as if it had been touched by moonlight. his hair too had that sheen. his very delicate features were framed in a white beard and moustache of elizabethan shape. his eyes, hazel and still clear, looked out very straight, with a certain dry kindliness. his face, though unweathered and unseamed, and much too fine and thin in texture, had a curious affinity to the faces of old sailors or fishermen who have lived a simple, practical life in the light of an overmastering tradition. it was the face of a man with a very set creed, and inclined to be satiric towards innovations, examined by him and rejected full fifty years ago. one felt that a brain not devoid either of subtlety or aesthetic quality had long given up all attempts to interfere with conduct; that all shrewdness of speculation had given place to shrewdness of practical judgment based on very definite experience. owing to lack of advertising power, natural to one so conscious of his dignity as to have lost all care for it, and to his devotion to a certain lady, only closed by death, his life had been lived, as it were, in shadow. still, he possessed a peculiar influence in society, because it was known to be impossible to get him to look at things in a complicated way. he was regarded rather as a last resort, however. "bad as that? well, there's old fitz-harold! try him! he won't advise you, but he'll say something." and in the heart of that irreverent young man, harbinger, there stirred a sort of misgiving. had he expressed himself too freely? had he said anything too thick? he had forgotten the old boy! stirring bertie up with his foot, he murmured "forgot you didn't know, sir. bertie will explain." thus called on, bertie, opening his lips a very little way, and fixing his half-closed eyes on his great-uncle, explained. there was a lady at the cottage--a nice woman--mr. courtier knew her--old miltoun went there sometimes--rather late the other evening--these devils were making the most of it--suggesting--lose him the election, if they didn't look out. perfect rot, of course! in his opinion, old miltoun, though as steady as time, had been a flat to let the woman come out with him on to the green, showing clearly where he had been, when he ran to courtier's rescue. you couldn't play about with women who had no form that anyone knew anything of, however promising they might look. then, out of a silence winlow asked: what was to be done? should miltoun be wired for? a thing like this spread like wildfire! sir william--a man not accustomed to underrate difficulties--was afraid it was going to be troublesome. harbinger expressed the opinion that the editor ought to be kicked. did anybody know what courtier had done when he heard of it. where was he--dining in his room? bertie suggested that if miltoun was at valleys house, it mightn't be too late to wire to him. the thing ought to be stemmed at once! and in all this concern about the situation there kept cropping out quaint little outbursts of desire to disregard the whole thing as infernal insolence, and metaphorically to punch the beggars' heads, natural to young men of breeding. then, out of another silence came the voice of lord dennis: "i am thinking of this poor lady." turning a little abruptly towards that dry suave voice, and recovering the self-possession which seldom deserted him, harbinger murmured: "quite so, sir; of course!" chapter ix in the lesser withdrawing room, used when there was so small a party, mrs. winlow had gone to the piano and was playing to herself, for lady casterley, lady valleys, and her two daughters had drawn together as though united to face this invading rumour. it was curious testimony to miltoun's character that, no more here than in the dining-hall, was there any doubt of the integrity of his relations with mrs. noel. but whereas, there the matter was confined to its electioneering aspect, here that aspect was already perceived to be only the fringe of its importance. those feminine minds, going with intuitive swiftness to the core of anything which affected their own males, had already grasped the fact that the rumour would, as it were, chain a man of miltoun's temper to this woman. but they were walking on such a thin crust of facts, and there was so deep a quagmire of supposition beneath, that talk was almost painfully difficult. never before perhaps had each of these four women realized so clearly how much miltoun--that rather strange and unknown grandson, son, and brother--counted in the scheme of existence. their suppressed agitation was manifested in very different ways. lady casterley, upright in her chair, showed it only by an added decision of speech, a continual restless movement of one hand, a thin line between her usually smooth brows. lady valleys wore a puzzled look, as if a little surprised that she felt serious. agatha looked frankly anxious. she was in her quiet way a woman of much character, endowed with that natural piety, which accepts without questioning the established order in life and religion. the world to her being home and family, she had a real, if gently expressed, horror of all that she instinctively felt to be subversive of this ideal. people judged her a little quiet, dull, and narrow; they compared her to a hen for ever clucking round her chicks. the streak of heroism that lay in her nature was not perhaps of patent order. her feeling about her brother's situation however was sincere and not to be changed or comforted. she saw him in danger of being damaged in the only sense in which she could conceive of a man--as a husband and a father. it was this that went to her heart, though her piety proclaimed to her also the peril of his soul; for she shared the high church view of the indissolubility of marriage. as to barbara, she stood by the hearth, leaning her white shoulders against the carved marble, her hands behind her, looking down. now and then her lips curled, her level brows twitched, a faint sigh came from her; then a little smile would break out, and be instantly suppressed. she alone was silent--youth criticizing life; her judgment voiced itself only in the untroubled rise and fall of her young bosom, the impatience of her brows, the downward look of her blue eyes, full of a lazy, inextinguishable light: lady valleys sighed. "if only he weren't such a queer boy! he's quite capable of marrying her from sheer perversity." "what!" said lady casterley. "you haven't seen her, my dear. a most unfortunately attractive creature--quite a charming face." agatha said quietly: "mother, if she was divorced, i don't think eustace would." "there's that, certainly," murmured lady valleys; "hope for the best!" "don't you even know which way it was?" said lady casterley. "well, the vicar says she did the divorcing. but he's very charitable; it may be as agatha hopes." "i detest vagueness. why doesn't someone ask the woman?" "you shall come with me, granny dear, and ask her yourself; you will do it so nicely." lady casterley looked up. "we shall see," she said. something struggled with the autocratic criticism in her eyes. no more than the rest of the world could she help indulging barbara. as one who believed in the divinity of her order, she liked this splendid child. she even admired--though admiration was not what she excelled in--that warm joy in life, as of some great nymph, parting the waves with bare limbs, tossing from her the foam of breakers. she felt that in this granddaughter, rather than in the good agatha, the patrician spirit was housed. there were points to agatha, earnestness and high principle; but something morally narrow and over-anglican slightly offended the practical, this-worldly temper of lady casterley. it was a weakness, and she disliked weakness. barbara would never be squeamish over moral questions or matters such as were not really, essential to aristocracy. she might, indeed, err too much the other way from sheer high spirits. as the impudent child had said: "if people had no pasts, they would have no futures." and lady casterley could not bear people without futures. she was ambitious; not with the low ambition of one who had risen from nothing, but with the high passion of one on the top, who meant to stay there. "and where have you been meeting this--er--anonymous creature?" she asked. barbara came from the hearth, and bending down beside lady casterley's chair, seemed to envelop her completely. "i'm all right, granny; she couldn't corrupt me." lady casterley's face peered out doubtfully from that warmth, wearing a look of disapproving pleasure. "i know your wiles!" she said. "come, now!" "i see her about. she's nice to look at. we talk." again with that hurried quietness agatha said: "my dear babs, i do think you ought to wait." "my dear angel, why? what is it to me if she's had four husbands?" agatha bit her lips, and lady valleys murmured with a laugh: "you really are a terror, babs." but the sound of mrs. winlow's music had ceased--the men had come in. and the faces of the four women hardened, as if they had slipped on masks; for though this was almost or quite a family party, the winlows being second cousins, still the subject was one which each of these four in their very different ways felt to be beyond general discussion. talk, now, began glancing from the war scare--winlow had it very specially that this would be over in a week--to brabrook's speech, in progress at that very moment, of which harbinger provided an imitation. it sped to winlow's flight--to andrew grant's articles in the 'parthenon'--to the caricature of harbinger in the 'cackler', inscribed 'the new tory. lord h-rb-ng-r brings social reform beneath the notice of his friends,' which depicted him introducing a naked baby to a number of coroneted old ladies. thence to a dancer. thence to the bill for universal assurance. then back to the war scare; to the last book of a great french writer; and once more to winlow's flight. it was all straightforward and outspoken, each seeming to say exactly what came into the head. for all that, there was a curious avoidance of the spiritual significances of these things; or was it perhaps that such significances were not seen? lord dennis, at the far end of the room, studying a portfolio of engravings, felt a touch on his cheek; and conscious of a certain fragrance, said without turning his head: "nice things, these, babs!" receiving no answer he looked up. there indeed stood barbara. "i do hate sneering behind people's backs!" there had always been good comradeship between these two, since the days when barbara, a golden-haired child, astride of a grey pony, had been his morning companion in the row all through the season. his riding days were past; he had now no outdoor pursuit save fishing, which he followed with the ironic persistence of a self-contained, high-spirited nature, which refuses to admit that the mysterious finger of old age is laid across it. but though she was no longer his companion, he still had a habit of expecting her confidences; and he looked after her, moving away from him to a window, with surprised concern. it was one of those nights, dark yet gleaming, when there seems a flying malice in the heavens; when the stars, from under and above the black clouds, are like eyes frowning and flashing down at men with purposed malevolence. the great sighing trees even had caught this spirit, save one, a dark, spire-like cypress, planted three hundred and fifty years before, whose tall form incarnated the very spirit of tradition, and neither swayed nor soughed like the others. from her, too close-fibred, too resisting, to admit the breath of nature, only a dry rustle came. still almost exotic, in spite of her centuries of sojourn, and now brought to life by the eyes of night, she seemed almost terrifying, in her narrow, spear-like austerity, as though something had dried and died within her soul. barbara came back from the window. "we can't do anything in our lives, it seems to me," she said, "but play at taking risks!" lord dennis replied dryly: "i don't think i understand, my dear." "look at mr. courtier!" muttered barbara. "his life's so much more risky altogether than any of our men folk lead. and yet they sneer at him." "let's see, what has he done?" "oh! i dare say not very much; but it's all neck or nothing. but what does anything matter to harbinger, for instance? if his social reform comes to nothing, he'll still be harbinger, with fifty thousand a year." lord dennis looked up a little queerly. "what! is it possible you don't take the young man seriously, babs?" barbara shrugged; a strap slipped a little off one white shoulder. "it's all play really; and he knows it--you can tell that from his voice. he can't help its not mattering, of course; and he knows that too." "i have heard that he's after you, babs; is that true?" "he hasn't caught me yet." "will he?" barbara's answer was another shrug; and, for all their statuesque beauty, the movement of her shoulders was like the shrug of a little girl in her pinafore. "and this mr. courtier," said lord dennis dryly: "are you after him?" "i'm after everything; didn't you know that, dear?" "in reason, my child." "in reason, of course--like poor eusty!" she stopped. harbinger himself was standing there close by, with an air as nearly approaching reverence as was ever to be seen on him. in truth, the way in which he was looking at her was almost timorous. "will you sing that song i like so much, lady babs?" they moved away together; and lord dennis, gazing after that magnificent young couple, stroked his beard gravely. chapter x miltoun's sudden journey to london had been undertaken in pursuance of a resolve slowly forming from the moment he met mrs. noel in the stone flagged passage of burracombe farm. if she would have him and since last evening he believed she would--he intended to marry her. it has been said that except for one lapse his life had been austere, but this is not to assert that he had no capacity for passion. the contrary was the case. that flame which had been so jealously guarded smouldered deep within him--a smothered fire with but little air to feed on. the moment his spirit was touched by the spirit of this woman, it had flared up. she was the incarnation of all that he desired. her hair, her eyes, her form; the tiny tuck or dimple at the corner of her mouth just where a child places its finger; her way of moving, a sort of unconscious swaying or yielding to the air; the tone in her voice, which seemed to come not so much from happiness of her own as from an innate wish to make others happy; and that natural, if not robust, intelligence, which belongs to the very sympathetic, and is rarely found in women of great ambitions or enthusiasms--all these things had twined themselves round his heart. he not only dreamed of her, and wanted her; he believed in her. she filled his thoughts as one who could never do wrong; as one who, though a wife would remain a mistress, and though a mistress, would always be the companion of his spirit. it has been said that no one spoke or gossiped about women in miltoun's presence, and the tale of her divorce was present to his mind simply in the form of a conviction that she was an injured woman. after his interview with the vicar, he had only once again alluded to it, and that in answer to the speech of a lady staying at the court: "oh! yes, i remember her case perfectly. she was the poor woman who----" "did not, i am certain, lady bonington." the tone of his voice had made someone laugh uneasily; the subject was changed. all divorce was against his convictions, but in a blurred way he admitted that there were cases where release was unavoidable. he was not a man to ask for confidences, or expect them to be given him. he himself had never confided his spiritual struggles to any living creature; and the unspiritual struggle had little interest for miltoun. he was ready at any moment to stake his life on the perfection of the idol he had set up within his soul, as simply and straightforwardly as he would have placed his body in front of her to shield her from harm. the same fanaticism, which looked on his passion as a flower by itself, entirely apart from its suitability to the social garden, was also the driving force which sent him up to london to declare his intention to his father before he spoke to mrs. noel. the thing should be done simply, and in right order. for he had the kind of moral courage found in those who live retired within the shell of their own aspirations. yet it was not perhaps so much active moral courage as indifference to what others thought or did, coming from his inbred resistance to the appreciation of what they felt. that peculiar smile of the old tudor cardinal--which had in it invincible self-reliance, and a sort of spiritual sneer--played over his face when he speculated on his father's reception of the coming news; and very soon he ceased to think of it at all, burying himself in the work he had brought with him for the journey. for he had in high degree the faculty, so essential to public life, of switching off his whole attention from one subject to another. on arriving at paddington he drove straight to valleys house. this large dwelling with its pillared portico, seemed to wear an air of faint surprise that, at the height of the season, it was not more inhabited. three servants relieved miltoun of his little luggage; and having washed, and learned that his father would be dining in, he went for a walk, taking his way towards his rooms in the temple. his long figure, somewhat carelessly garbed, attracted the usual attention, of which he was as usual unaware. strolling along, he meditated deeply on a london, an england, different from this flatulent hurly-burly, this 'omniuin gatherum', this great discordant symphony of sharps and flats. a london, an england, kempt and self-respecting; swept and garnished of slums, and plutocrats, advertisement, and jerry-building, of sensationalism, vulgarity, vice, and unemployment. an england where each man should know his place, and never change it, but serve in it loyally in his own caste. where every man, from nobleman to labourer, should be an oligarch by faith, and a gentleman by practice. an england so steel-bright and efficient that the very sight should suffice to impose peace. an england whose soul should be stoical and fine with the stoicism and fineness of each soul amongst her many million souls; where the town should have its creed and the country its creed, and there should be contentment and no complaining in her streets. and as he walked down the strand, a little ragged boy cheeped out between his legs: "bloodee discoveree in a bank--grite sensytion! pi-er!" miltoun paid no heed to that saying; yet, with it, the wind that blows where man lives, the careless, wonderful, unordered wind, had dispersed his austere and formal vision. great was that wind--the myriad aspiration of men and women, the praying of the uncounted multitude to the goddess of sensation--of chance, and change. a flowing from heart to heart, from lip to lip, as in spring the wistful air wanders through a wood, imparting to every bush and tree the secrets of fresh life, the passionate resolve to grow, and become--no matter what! a sighing, as eternal as the old murmuring of the sea, as little to be hushed, as prone to swell into sudden roaring! miltoun held on through the traffic, not looking overmuch at the present forms of the thousands he passed, but seeing with the eyes of faith the forms he desired to see. near st. paul's he stopped in front of an old book-shop. his grave, pallid, not unhandsome face, was well-known to william rimall, its small proprietor, who at once brought out his latest acquisition--a mores 'utopia.' that particular edition (he assured miltoun) was quite unprocurable--he had never sold but one other copy, which had been literally, crumbling away. this copy was in even better condition. it could hardly last another twenty years--a genuine book, a bargain. there wasn't so much movement in more as there had been a little time back. miltoun opened the tome, and a small book-louse who had been sleeping on the word 'tranibore,' began to make its way slowly towards the very centre of the volume. "i see it's genuine," said miltoun. "it's not to read, my lord," the little man warned him: "hardly safe to turn the pages. as i was saying--i've not had a better piece this year. i haven't really!" "shrewd old dreamer," muttered miltoun; "the socialists haven't got beyond him, even now." the little man's eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of thomas more. "well," he said, "i suppose he was one of them. i forget if your lordship's very strong on politics?" miltoun smiled. "i want to see an england, rimall, something like the england of mores dream. but my machinery will be different. i shall begin at the top." the little man nodded. "quite so, quite so," he said; "we shall come to that, i dare say." "we must, rimall." and miltoun turned the page. the little man's face quivered. "i don't think," he said, "that book's quite strong enough for you, my lord, with your taste for reading. now i've a most curious old volume here--on chinese temples. it's rare--but not too old. you can peruse it thoroughly. it's what i call a book to browse on just suit your palate. funny principle they built those things on," he added, opening the volume at an engraving, "in layers. we don't build like that in england." miltoun looked up sharply; the little man's face wore no signs of understanding. "unfortunately we don't, rimall," he said; "we ought to, and we shall. i'll take this book." placing his finger on the print of the pagoda, he added: "a good symbol." the little bookseller's eye strayed down the temple to the secret price mark. "exactly, my lord," he said; "i thought it'd be your fancy. the price to you will be twenty-seven and six." miltoun, pocketing the bargain, walked out. he made his way into the temple, left the book at his chambers, and passed on down to the bank of mother thames. the sun was loving her passionately that afternoon; he had kissed her into warmth and light and colour. and all the buildings along her banks, as far as the towers at westminster, seemed to be smiling. it was a great sight for the eyes of a lover. and another vision came haunting miltoun, of a soft-eyed woman with a low voice, bending amongst her flowers. nothing would be complete without her; no work bear fruit; no scheme could have full meaning. lord valleys greeted his son at dinner with good fellowship and a faint surprise. "day off, my dear fellow? or have you come up to hear brabrook pitch into us? he's rather late this time--we've got rid of that balloon business no trouble after all." and he eyed miltoun with that clear grey stare of his, so cool, level, and curious. now, what sort of bird is this? it seemed saying. certainly not the partridge i should have expected from its breeding! miltoun's answer: "i came up to tell you some thing, sir," riveted his father's stare for a second longer than was quite urbane. it would not be true to say that lord valleys was afraid of his son. fear was not one of his emotions, but he certainly regarded him with a respectful curiosity that bordered on uneasiness. the oligarchic temper of miltoun's mind and political convictions almost shocked one who knew both by temperament and experience how to wait in front. this instruction he had frequently had occasion to give his jockeys when he believed his horses could best get home first in that way. and it was an instruction he now longed to give his son. he himself had 'waited in front' for over fifty years, and he knew it to be the finest way of insuring that he would never be compelled to alter this desirable policy--for something in lord valleys' character made him fear that, in real emergency, he would exert himself to the point of the gravest discomfort sooner than be left to wait behind. a fellow like young harbinger, of course, he understood--versatile, 'full of beans,' as he expressed it to himself in his more confidential moments, who had imbibed the new wine (very intoxicating it was) of desire for social reform. he would have to be given his head a little--but there would be no difficulty with him, he would never 'run out'--light handy build of horse that only required steadying at the corners. he would want to hear himself talk, and be let feel that he was doing something. all very well, and quite intelligible. but with miltoun (and lord valleys felt this to be no, mere parental fancy) it was a very different business. his son had a way of forcing things to their conclusions which was dangerous, and reminded him of his mother-in-law. he was a baby in public affairs, of course, as yet; but as soon as he once got going, the intensity of his convictions, together with his position, and real gift--not of the gab, like harbinger's--but of restrained, biting oratory, was sure to bring him to the front with a bound in the present state of parties. and what were those convictions? lord valleys had tried to understand them, but up to the present he had failed. and this did not surprise him exactly, since, as he often said, political convictions were not, as they appeared on the surface, the outcome of reason, but merely symptoms of temperament. and he could not comprehend, because he could not sympathize with, any attitude towards public affairs that was not essentially level, attached to the plain, common-sense factors of the case as they appeared to himself. not that he could fairly be called a temporizer, for deep down in him there was undoubtedly a vein of obstinate, fundamental loyalty to the traditions of a caste which prized high spirit beyond all things. still he did feel that miltoun was altogether too much the 'pukka' aristocrat--no better than a socialist, with his confounded way of seeing things all cut and dried; his ideas of forcing reforms down people's throats and holding them there with the iron hand! with his way too of acting on his principles! why! he even admitted that he acted on his principles! this thought always struck a very discordant note in lord valleys' breast. it was almost indecent; worse-ridiculous! the fact was, the dear fellow had unfortunately a deeper habit of thought than was wanted in politics--dangerous--very! experience might do something for him! and out of his own long experience the earl of valleys tried hard to recollect any politician whom the practice of politics had left where he was when he started. he could not think of one. but this gave him little comfort; and, above a piece of late asparagus his steady eyes sought his son's. what had he come up to tell him? the phrase had been ominous; he could not recollect miltoun's ever having told him anything. for though a really kind and indulgent father, he had--like so many men occupied with public and other lives--a little acquired towards his offspring the look and manner: is this mine? of his four children, barbara alone he claimed with conviction. he admired her; and, being a man who savoured life, he was unable to love much except where he admired. but, the last person in the world to hustle any man or force a confidence, he waited to hear his son's news, betraying no uneasiness. miltoun seemed in no hurry. he described courtier's adventure, which tickled lord valleys a good deal. "ordeal by red pepper! shouldn't have thought them equal to that," he said. "so you've got him at monkland now. harbinger still with you?" "yes. i don't think harbinger has much stamina. "politically?" miltoun nodded. "i rather resent his being on our side--i don't think he does us any good. you've seen that cartoon, i suppose; it cuts pretty deep. i couldn't recognize you amongst the old women, sir." lord valleys smiled impersonally. "very clever thing. by the way; i shall win the eclipse, i think." and thus, spasmodically, the conversation ran till the last servant had left the room. then miltoun, without preparation, looked straight at his father and said: "i want to marry mrs. noel, sir." lord valleys received the shot with exactly the same expression as that with which he was accustomed to watch his horses beaten. then he raised his wineglass to his lips; and set it down again untouched. this was the only sign he gave of interest or discomfiture. "isn't this rather sudden?" miltoun answered: "i've wanted to from the moment i first saw her." lord valleys, almost as good a judge of a man and a situation as of a horse or a pointer dog, leaned back in his chair, and said with faint sarcasm: "my dear fellow, it's good of you to have told me this; though, to be quite frank, it's a piece of news i would rather not have heard." a dusky flush burned slowly up in miltoun's cheeks. he had underrated his father; the man had coolness and courage in a crisis. "what is your objection, sir?" and suddenly he noticed that a wafer in lord valleys' hand was quivering. this brought into his eyes no look of compunction, but such a smouldering gaze as the old tudor churchman might have bent on an adversary who showed a sign of weakness. lord valleys, too, noticed the quivering of that wafer, and ate it. "we are men of the world," he said. miltoun answered: "i am not." showing his first real symptom of impatience lord valleys rapped out: "so be it! i am." "yes?", said miltoun. "eustace!" nursing one knee, miltoun faced that appeal without the faintest movement. his eyes continued to burn into his father's face. a tremor passed over lord valleys' heart. what intensity of feeling there was in the fellow, that he could look like this at the first breath of opposition! he reached out and took up the cigar-box; held it absently towards his son, and drew it quickly back. "i forgot," he said; "you don't." and lighting a cigar, he smoked gravely, looking straight before him, a furrow between his brows. he spoke at last: "she looks like a lady. i know nothing else about her." the smile deepened round miltoun's mouth. "why should you want to know anything else?" lord valleys shrugged. his philosophy had hardened. "i understand for one thing," he said coldly; "that there is a matter of a divorce. i thought you took the church's view on that subject." "she has not done wrong." "you know her story, then?" "no." lord valleys raised his brows, in irony and a sort of admiration. "chivalry the better part of discretion?" miltoun answered: "you don't, i think, understand the kind of feeling i have for mrs. noel. it does not come into your scheme of things. it is the only feeling, however, with which i should care to marry, and i am not likely to feel it for anyone again." lord valleys felt once more that uncanny sense of insecurity. was this true? and suddenly he felt yes, it is true! the face before him was the face of one who would burn in his own fire sooner than depart from his standards. and a sudden sense of the utter seriousness of this dilemma dumbed him. "i can say no more at the moment," he muttered and got up from the table. chapter xi lady casterley was that inconvenient thing--an early riser. no woman in the kingdom was a better judge of a dew carpet. nature had in her time displayed before her thousands of those pretty fabrics, where all the stars of the past night, dropped to the dark earth, were waiting to glide up to heaven again on the rays of the sun. at ravensham she walked regularly in her gardens between half-past seven and eight, and when she paid a visit, was careful to subordinate whatever might be the local custom to this habit. when therefore her maid randle came to barbara's maid at seven o'clock, and said: "my old lady wants lady babs to get up," there was no particular pain in the breast of barbara's maid, who was doing up her corsets. she merely answered "i'll see to it. lady babs won't be too pleased!" and ten minutes later she entered that white-walled room which smelled of pinks-a temple of drowsy sweetness, where the summer light was vaguely stealing through flowered chintz curtains. barbara was sleeping with her cheek on her hand, and her tawny hair, gathered back, streaming over the pillow. her lips were parted; and the maid thought: "i'd like to have hair and a mouth like that!" she could not help smiling to herself with pleasure; lady babs looked so pretty--prettier asleep even than awake! and at sight of that beautiful creature, sleeping and smiling in her sleep, the earthy, hothouse fumes steeping the mind of one perpetually serving in an atmosphere unsuited to her natural growth, dispersed. beauty, with its queer touching power of freeing the spirit from all barriers and thoughts of self, sweetened the maid's eyes, and kept her standing, holding her breath. for barbara asleep was a symbol of that golden age in which she so desperately believed. she opened her eyes, and seeing the maid, said: "is it eight o'clock, stacey?" "no, but lady casterley wants you to walk with her." "oh! bother! i was having such a dream!" "yes; you were smiling." "i was dreaming that i could fly." "fancy!" "i could see everything spread out below me, as close as i see you; i was hovering like a buzzard hawk. i felt that i could come down exactly where i wanted. it was fascinating. i had perfect power, stacey." and throwing her neck back, she closed her eyes again. the sunlight streamed in on her between the half-drawn curtains. the queerest impulse to put out a hand and stroke that full white throat shot through the maid's mind. "these flying machines are stupid," murmured barbara; "the pleasure's in one's body---wings!" "i can see lady casterley in the garden." barbara sprang out of bed. close by the statue of diana lady casterley was standing, gazing down at some flowers, a tiny, grey figure. barbara sighed. with her, in her dream, had been another buzzard hawk, and she was filled with a sort of surprise, and queer pleasure that ran down her in little shivers while she bathed and dressed. in her haste she took no hat; and still busy with the fastening of her linen frock, hurried down the stairs and georgian corridor, towards the garden. at the end of it she almost ran into the arms of courtier. awakening early this morning, he had begun first thinking of audrey noel, threatened by scandal; then of his yesterday's companion, that glorious young creature, whose image had so gripped and taken possession of him. in the pleasure of this memory he had steeped himself. she was youth itself! that perfect thing, a young girl without callowness. and his words, when she nearly ran into him, were: "the winged victory!" barbara's answer was equally symbolic: "a buzzard hawk! do you know, i dreamed we were flying, mr. courtier." courtier gravely answered "if the gods give me that dream----" from the garden door barbara turned her head, smiled, and passed through. lady casterley, in the company of little ann, who had perceived that it was novel to be in the garden at this hour, had been scrutinizing some newly founded colonies of a flower with which she was not familiar. on seeing her granddaughter approach, she said at once: "what is this thing?" "nemesia." "never heard of it." "it's rather the fashion, granny." "nemesia?" repeated lady casterley. "what has nemesis to do with flowers? i have no patience with gardeners, and these idiotic names. where is your hat? i like that duck's egg colour in your frock. there's a button undone." and reaching up her little spidery hand, wonderfully steady considering its age, she buttoned the top button but one of barbara's bodice. "you look very blooming, my dear," she said. "how far is it to this woman's cottage? we'll go there now." "she wouldn't be up." lady casterley's eyes gleamed maliciously. "you tell me she's so nice," she said. "no nice unencumbered woman lies in bed after half-past seven. which is the very shortest way? no, ann, we can't take you." little ann, after regarding her great-grandmother rather too intently, replied: "well, i can't come, you see, because i've got to go." "very well," said lady casterley, "then trot along." little ann, tightening her lips, walked to the next colony of nemesia, and bent over the colonists with concentration, showing clearly that she had found something more interesting than had yet been encountered. "ha!" said lady casterley, and led on at her brisk pace towards the avenue. all the way down the drive she discoursed on woodcraft, glancing sharply at the trees. forestry--she said-like building, and all other pursuits which required, faith and patient industry, was a lost art in this second-hand age. she had made barbara's grandfather practise it, so that at catton (her country place) and even at ravensham, the trees were worth looking at. here, at monkland, they were monstrously neglected. to have the finest italian cypress in the country, for example, and not take more care of it, was a downright scandal! barbara listened, smiling lazily. granny was so amusing in her energy and precision, and her turns of speech, so deliberately homespun, as if she--than whom none could better use a stiff and polished phrase, or the refinements of the french language--were determined to take what liberties she liked. to the girl, haunted still by the feeling that she could fly, almost drunk on the sweetness of the air that summer morning, it seemed funny that anyone should be like that. then for a second she saw her grandmother's face in repose, off guard, grim with anxious purpose, as if questioning its hold on life; and in one of those flashes of intuition which come to women--even when young and conquering like barbara--she felt suddenly sorry, as though she had caught sight of the pale spectre never yet seen by her. "poor old dear," she thought; "what a pity to be old!" but they had entered the footpath crossing three long meadows which climbed up towards mrs. noel's. it was so golden-sweet here amongst the million tiny saffron cups frosted with lingering dewshine; there was such flying glory in the limes and ash-trees; so delicate a scent from the late whins and may-flower; and, on every tree a greybird calling to be sorry was not possible! in the far corner of the first field a chestnut mare was standing, with ears pricked at some distant sound whose charm she alone perceived. on viewing the intruders, she laid those ears back, and a little vicious star gleamed out at the corner of her eye. they passed her and entered the second field. half way across, barbara said quietly: "granny, that's a bull!" it was indeed an enormous bull, who had been standing behind a clump of bushes. he was moving slowly towards them, still distant about two hundred yards; a great red beast, with the huge development of neck and front which makes the bull, of all living creatures, the symbol of brute force. lady casterley envisaged him severely. "i dislike bulls," she said; "i think i must walk backward." "you can't; it's too uphill." "i am not going to turn back," said lady casterley. "the bull ought not to be here. whose fault is it? i shall speak to someone. stand still and look at him. we must prevent his coming nearer." they stood still and looked at the bull, who continued to approach. "it doesn't stop him," said lady casterley. "we must take no notice. give me your arm, my dear; my legs feel rather funny." barbara put her arm round the little figure. they walked on. "i have not been used to bulls lately," said lady casterley. the bull came nearer. "granny," said barbara, "you must go quietly on to the stile. when you're over i'll come too." "certainly not," said lady casterley, "we will go together. take no notice of him; i have great faith in that." "granny darling, you must do as i say, please; i remember this bull, he is one of ours." at those rather ominous words lady casterley gave her a sharp glance. "i shall not go," she said. "my legs feel quite strong now. we can run, if necessary." "so can the bull," said barbara. "i'm not going to leave you," muttered lady casterley. "if he turns vicious i shall talk to him. he won't touch me. you can run faster than i; so that's settled." "don't be absurd, dear," answered barbara; "i am not afraid of bulls." lady casterley flashed a look at her which had a gleam of amusement. "i can feel you," she said; "you're just as trembly as i am." the bull was now distant some eighty yards, and they were still quite a hundred from the stile. "granny," said barbara, "if you don't go on as i tell you, i shall just leave you, and go and meet him! you mustn't be obstinate!" lady casterley's answer was to grip her granddaughter round the waist; the nervous force of that thin arm was surprising. "you will do nothing of the sort," she said. "i refuse to have anything more to do with this bull; i shall simply pay no attention." the bull now began very slowly ambling towards them. "take no notice," said lady casterley, who was walking faster than she had ever walked before. "the ground is level now," said barbara; "can you run?" "i think so," gasped lady casterley; and suddenly she found herself half-lifted from the ground, and, as it were, flying towards the stile. she heard a noise behind; then barbara's voice: "we must stop. he's on us. get behind me." she felt herself caught and pinioned by two arms that seemed set on the wrong way. instinct, and a general softness told her that she was back to back with her granddaughter. "let me go!" she gasped; "let me go!" and suddenly she felt herself being propelled by that softness forward towards the stile. "shoo!" she said; "shoo!" "granny," barbara's voice came, calm and breathless, "don't! you only excite him! are we near the stile?" "ten yards," panted lady casterley. "look out, then!" there was a sort of warm flurry round her, a rush, a heave, a scramble; she was beyond the stile. the bull and barbara, a yard or two apart, were just the other side. lady casterley raised her handkerchief and fluttered it. the bull looked up; barbara, all legs and arms, came slipping down beside her. without wasting a moment lady casterley leaned forward and addressed the bull: "you awful brute!" she said; "i will have you well flogged." gently pawing the ground, the bull snuffled. "are you any the worse, child?" "not a scrap," said barbara's serene, still breathless voice. lady casterley put up her hands, and took the girl's face between them. "what legs you have!" she said. "give me a kiss!" having received a hot, rather quivering kiss, she walked on, holding somewhat firmly to barbara's arm. "as for that bull," she murmured, "the brute--to attack women!" barbara looked down at her. "granny," she said, "are you sure you're not shaken?" lady casterley, whose lips were quivering, pressed them together very hard. "not a b-b-bit." "don't you think," said barbara, "that we had better go back, at once--the other way?" "certainly not. there are no more bulls, i suppose, between us and this woman?" "but are you fit to see her?" lady casterley passed her handkerchief over her lips, to remove their quivering. "perfectly," she answered. "then, dear," said barbara, "stand still a minute, while i dust you behind." this having been accomplished, they proceeded in the direction of mrs. noel's cottage. at sight of it, lady casterley said: "i shall put my foot down. it's out of the question for a man of miltoun's prospects. i look forward to seeing him prime minister some day." hearing barbara's voice murmuring above her, she paused: "what's that you say?" "i said: what is the use of our being what we are, if we can't love whom we like?" "love!" said lady casterley; "i was talking of marriage." "i am glad you admit the distinction, granny dear." "you are pleased to be sarcastic," said lady casterley. "listen to me! it's the greatest nonsense to suppose that people in our caste are free to do as they please. the sooner you realize that, the better, babs. i am talking to you seriously. the preservation of our position as a class depends on our observing certain decencies. what do you imagine would happen to the royal family if they were allowed to marry as they liked? all this marrying with gaiety girls, and american money, and people with pasts, and writers, and so forth, is most damaging. there's far too much of it, and it ought to be stopped. it may be tolerated for a few cranks, or silly young men, and these new women, but for eustace--" lady casterley paused again, and her fingers pinched barbara's arm, "or for you--there's only one sort of marriage possible. as for eustace, i shall speak to this good lady, and see that he doesn't get entangled further." absorbed in the intensity of her purpose, she did not observe a peculiar little smile playing round barbara's lips. "you had better speak to nature, too, granny!" lady casterley stopped short, and looked up in her granddaughter's face. "now what do you mean by that?" she said "tell me!" but noticing that barbara's lips had closed tightly, she gave her arm a hard--if unintentional-pinch, and walked on. chapter xii lady casterley's rather malicious diagnosis of audrey noel was correct. the unencumbered woman was up and in her garden when barbara and her grandmother appeared at the wicket gate; but being near the lime-tree at the far end she did not hear the rapid colloquy which passed between them. "you are going to be good, granny?" "as to that--it will depend." "you promised." "h'm!" lady casterley could not possibly have provided herself with a better introduction than barbara, whom mrs. noel never met without the sheer pleasure felt by a sympathetic woman when she sees embodied in someone else that 'joy in life' which fate has not permitted to herself. she came forward with her head a little on one side, a trick of hers not at all affected, and stood waiting. the unembarrassed barbara began at once: "we've just had an encounter with a bull. this is my grandmother, lady casterley." the little old lady's demeanour, confronted with this very pretty face and figure was a thought less autocratic and abrupt than usual. her shrewd eyes saw at once that she had no common adventuress to deal with. she was woman of the world enough, too, to know that 'birth' was not what it had been in her young days, that even money was rather rococo, and that good looks, manners, and a knowledge of literature, art, and music (and this woman looked like one of that sort), were often considered socially more valuable. she was therefore both wary and affable. "how do you do?" she said. "i have heard of you. may we sit down for a minute in your garden? the bull was a wretch!" but even in speaking, she was uneasily conscious that mrs. noel's clear eyes were seeing very well what she had come for. the look in them indeed was almost cynical; and in spite of her sympathetic murmurs, she did not somehow seem to believe in the bull. this was disconcerting. why had barbara condescended to mention the wretched brute? and she decided to take him by the horns. "babs," she said, "go to the inn and order me a 'fly.' i shall drive back, i feel very shaky," and, as mrs. noel offered to send her maid, she added: "no, no, my granddaughter will go." barbara having departed with a quizzical look, lady casterley patted the rustic seat, and said: "do come and sit down, i want to talk to you:" mrs. noel obeyed. and at once lady casterley perceived that "she had a most difficult task before her. she had not expected a woman with whom one could take no liberties. those clear dark eyes, and that soft, perfectly graceful manner--to a person so 'sympathetic' one should be able to say anything, and--one couldn't! it was awkward. and suddenly she noticed that mrs. noel was sitting perfectly upright, as upright--more upright, than she was herself. a bad, sign--a very bad sign! taking out her handkerchief, she put it to her lips. "i suppose you think," she said, "that we were not chased by a bull." "i am sure you were." "indeed! ah! but i've something else to talk to you about." mrs. noel's face quivered back, as a flower might when it was going to be plucked; and again lady casterley put her handkerchief to her lips. this time she rubbed them hard. there was nothing to come off; to do so, therefore, was a satisfaction. "i am an old woman," she said, "and you mustn't mind what i say." mrs. noel did not answer, but looked straight at her visitor; to whom it seemed suddenly that this was another person. what was it about that face, staring at her! in a weird way it reminded her of a child that one had hurt--with those great eyes and that soft hair, and the mouth thin, in a line, all of a sudden. and as if it had been jerked out of her, she said: "i don't want to hurt you, my dear. it's about my grandson, of course." but mrs. noel made neither sign nor motion; and the feeling of irritation which so rapidly attacks the old when confronted by the unexpected, came to lady casterley's aid. "his name," she said, "is being coupled with yours in a way that's doing him a great deal of harm. you don't wish to injure him, i'm sure." mrs. noel shook her head, and lady casterley went on: "i don't know what they're not saying since the evening your friend mr. courtier hurt his knee. miltoun has been most unwise. you had not perhaps realized that." mrs. noel's answer was bitterly distinct: "i didn't know anyone was sufficiently interested in my doings." lady casterley suffered a gesture of exasperation to escape her. "good heavens!" she said; "every common person is interested in a woman whose position is anomalous. living alone as you do, and not a widow, you're fair game for everybody, especially in the country." mrs. noel's sidelong glance, very clear and cynical, seemed to say: "even for you." "i am not entitled to ask your story," lady casterley went on, "but if you make mysteries you must expect the worst interpretation put on them. my grandson is a man of the highest principle; he does not see things with the eyes of the world, and that should have made you doubly careful not to compromise him, especially at a time like this." mrs. noel smiled. this smile startled lady casterley; it seemed, by concealing everything, to reveal depths of strength and subtlety. would the woman never show her hand? and she said abruptly: "anything serious, of course, is out of the question." "quite." that word, which of all others seemed the right one, was spoken so that lady casterley did not know in the least what it meant. though occasionally employing irony, she detested it in others. no woman should be allowed to use it as a weapon! but in these days, when they were so foolish as to want votes, one never knew what women would be at. this particular woman, however, did not look like one of that sort. she was feminine--very feminine--the sort of creature that spoiled men by being too nice to them. and though she had come determined to find out all about everything and put an end to it, she saw barbara re-entering the wicket gate with considerable relief. "i am ready to walk home now," she said. and getting up from the rustic seat, she made mrs. noel a satirical little bow. "thank you for letting me rest. give me your arm, child." barbara gave her arm, and over her shoulder threw a swift smile at mrs. noel, who did not answer it, but stood looking quietly after them, her eyes immensely dark and large. out in the lane lady casterley walked on, very silent, digesting her emotions. "what about the 'fly,' granny?" "what 'fly'?" "the one you told me to order." "you don't mean to say that you took me seriously?" "no," said barbara. "ha!" they proceeded some little way farther before lady casterley said suddenly: "she is deep." "and dark," said barbara. "i am afraid you were not good!" lady casterley glanced upwards. "i detest this habit," she said, "amongst you young people, of taking nothing seriously. not even bulls," she added, with a grim smile. barbara threw back her head and sighed. "nor 'flys,'" she said. lady casterley saw that she had closed her eyes and opened her lips. and she thought: "she's a very beautiful girl. i had no idea she was so beautiful--but too big!" and she added aloud: "shut your mouth! you will get one down!" they spoke no more till they had entered the avenue; then lady casterley said sharply: "who is this coming down the drive?" "mr. courtier, i think." "what does he mean by it, with that leg?" "he is coming to talk to you, granny." lady casterley stopped short. "you are a cat," she said; "a sly cat. now mind, babs, i won't have it!" "no, darling," murmured barbara; "you shan't have it--i'll take him off your hands." "what does your mother mean," stammered lady casterley, "letting you grow up like this! you're as bad as she was at your age!" "worse!" said barbara. "i dreamed last night that i could fly!" "if you try that," said lady casterley grimly, "you'll soon come to grief. good-morning, sir; you ought to be in bed!" courtier raised his hat. "surely it is not for me to be where you are not!" and he added gloomily: "the war scare's dead!" "ah!" said lady casterley: "your occupation's gone then. you'll go back to london now, i suppose." looking suddenly at barbara she saw that the girl's eyes were half-closed, and that she was smiling; it seemed to lady casterley too or was it fancy?--that she shook her head. chapter xiii thanks to lady valleys, a patroness of birds, no owl was ever shot on the monkland court estate, and those soft-flying spirits of the dusk hooted and hunted, to the great benefit of all except the creeping voles. by every farm, cottage, and field, they passed invisible, quartering the dark air. their voyages of discovery stretched up on to the moor as far as the wild stone man, whose origin their wisdom perhaps knew. round audrey noel's cottage they were as thick as thieves, for they had just there two habitations in a long, old, holly-grown wall, and almost seemed to be guarding the mistress of that thatched dwelling--so numerous were their fluttering rushes, so tenderly prolonged their soft sentinel callings. now that the weather was really warm, so that joy of life was in the voles, they found those succulent creatures of an extraordinarily pleasant flavour, and on them each pair was bringing up a family of exceptionally fine little owls, very solemn, with big heads, bright large eyes, and wings as yet only able to fly downwards. there was scarcely any hour from noon of the day (for some of them had horns) to the small sweet hours when no one heard them, that they forgot to salute the very large, quiet, wingless owl whom they could espy moving about by day above their mouse-runs, or preening her white and sometimes blue and sometimes grey feathers morning and evening in a large square hole high up in the front wall. and they could not understand at all why no swift depredating graces nor any habit of long soft hooting belonged to that lady-bird. on the evening of the day when she received that early morning call, as soon as dusk had fallen, wrapped in a long thin cloak, with black lace over her dark hair, audrey noel herself fluttered out into the lanes, as if to join the grave winged hunters of the invisible night. those far, continual sounds, not stilled in the country till long after the sun dies, had but just ceased from haunting the air, where the late may-scent clung as close as fragrance clings to a woman's robe. there was just the barking of a dog, the boom of migrating chafers, the song of the stream, and of the owls, to proclaim the beating in the heart of this sweet night. nor was there any light by which night's face could be seen; it was hidden, anonymous; so that when a lamp in a cottage threw a blink over the opposite bank, it was as if some wandering painter had wrought a picture of stones and leaves on the black air, framed it in purple, and left it hanging. yet, if it could only have been come at, the night was as full of emotion as this woman who wandered, shrinking away against the banks if anyone passed, stopping to cool her hot face with the dew on the ferns, walking swiftly to console her warm heart. anonymous night seeking for a symbol could have found none better than this errant figure, to express its hidden longings, the fluttering, unseen rushes of its dark wings, and all its secret passion of revolt against its own anonymity.... at monkland court, save for little ann, the morning passed but dumbly, everyone feeling that something must be done, and no one knowing what. at lunch, the only allusion to the situation had been harbinger's inquiry: "when does miltoun return?" he had wired, it seemed, to say that he was motoring down that night. "the sooner the better," sir william murmured: "we've still a fortnight." but all had felt from the tone in which he spoke these words, how serious was the position in the eyes of that experienced campaigner. what with the collapse of the war scare, and this canard about mrs. noel, there was indeed cause for alarm. the afternoon post brought a letter from lord valleys marked express. lady valleys opened it with a slight grimace, which deepened as she read. her handsome, florid face wore an expression of sadness seldom seen there. there was, in fact, more than a touch of dignity in her reception of the unpalatable news. "eustace declares his intention of marrying this mrs. noel"--so ran her husband's letter--"i know, unfortunately, of no way in which i can prevent him. if you can discover legitimate means of dissuasion, it would be well to use them. my dear, it's the very devil." it was the very devil! for, if miltoun had already made up his mind to marry her, without knowledge of the malicious rumour, what would not be his determination now? and the woman of the world rose up in lady valleys. this marriage must not come off. it was contrary to almost every instinct of one who was practical not only by character, but by habit of life and training. her warm and full-blooded nature had a sneaking sympathy with love and pleasure, and had she not been practical, she might have found this side of her a serious drawback to the main tenor of a life so much in view of the public eye. her consciousness of this danger in her own case made her extremely alive to the risks of an undesirable connection--especially if it were a marriage--to any public man. at the same time the mother-heart in her was stirred. eustace had never been so deep in her affection as bertie, still he was her first-born; and in face of news which meant that he was lost to her--for this must indeed be 'the marriage of two minds' (or whatever that quotation was)--she felt strangely jealous of a woman, who had won her son's love, when she herself had never won it. the aching of this jealousy gave her face for a moment almost a spiritual expression, then passed away into impatience. why should he marry her? things could be arranged. people spoke of it already as an illicit relationship; well then, let people have what they had invented. if the worst came to the worst, this was not the only constituency in england; and a dissolution could not be far off. better anything than a marriage which would handicap him all his life! but would it be so great a handicap? after all, beauty counted for much! if only her story were not too conspicuous! but what was her story? not to know it was absurd! that was the worst of people who were not in society, it was so difficult to find out! and there rose in her that almost brutal resentment, which ferments very rapidly in those who from their youth up have been hedged round with the belief that they and they alone are the whole of the world. in this mood lady valleys passed the letter to her daughters. they read, and in turn handed it to bertie, who in silence returned it to his mother. but that evening, in the billiard-room, having manoeuvred to get him to herself, barbara said to courtier: "i wonder if you will answer me a question, mr. courtier?" "if i may, and can." her low-cut dress was of yew-green, with, little threads of flame-colour, matching her hair, so that there was about her a splendour of darkness and whiteness and gold, almost dazzling; and she stood very still, leaning back against the lighter green of the billiard-table, grasping its edge so tightly that the smooth strong backs of her hands quivered. "we have just heard that miltoun is going to ask mrs. noel to marry him. people are never mysterious, are they, without good reason? i wanted you to tell me--who is she?" "i don't think i quite grasp the situation," murmured courtier. "you said--to marry him?" seeing that she had put out her hand, as if begging for the truth, he added: "how can your brother marry her--she's married!" "oh!" "i'd no idea you didn't know that much." "we thought there was a divorce." the expression of which mention has been made--that peculiar white-hot sardonically jolly look--visited courtier's face at once. "hoist with their own petard! the usual thing. let a pretty woman live alone--the tongues of men will do the rest." "it was not so bad as that," said barbara dryly; "they said she had divorced her husband." caught out thus characteristically riding past the hounds courtier bit his lips. "you had better hear the story now. her father was a country parson, and a friend of my father's; so that i've known her from a child. stephen lees noel was his curate. it was a 'snap' marriage--she was only twenty, and had met hardly any men. her father was ill and wanted to see her settled before he died. well, she found out almost directly, like a good many other people, that she'd made an utter mistake." barbara came a little closer. "what was the man like?" "not bad in his way, but one of those narrow, conscientious pig-headed fellows who make the most trying kind of husband--bone egoistic. a parson of that type has no chance at all. every mortal thing he has to do or say helps him to develop his worst points. the wife of a man like that's no better than a slave. she began to show the strain of it at last; though she's the sort who goes on till she snaps. it took him four years to realize. then, the question was, what were they to do? he's a very high churchman, with all their feeling about marriage; but luckily his pride was wounded. anyway, they separated two years ago; and there she is, left high and dry. people say it was her fault. she ought to have known her own mind--at twenty! she ought to have held on and hidden it up somehow. confound their thick-skinned charitable souls, what do they know of how a sensitive woman suffers? forgive me, lady barbara--i get hot over this." he was silent; then seeing her eyes fixed on him, went on: "her mother died when she was born, her father soon after her marriage. she's enough money of her own, luckily, to live on quietly. as for him, he changed his parish and runs one somewhere in the midlands. one's sorry for the poor devil, too, of course! they never see each other; and, so far as i know, they don't correspond. that, lady barbara, is the simple history." barbara, said, "thank you," and turned away; and he heard her mutter: "what a shame!" but he could not tell whether it was mrs. noel's fate, or the husband's fate, or the thought of miltoun that had moved her to those words. she puzzled him by her self-possession, so almost hard, her way of refusing to show feeling.' yet what a woman she would make if the drying curse of high-caste life were not allowed to stereotype and shrivel her! if enthusiasm were suffered to penetrate and fertilize her soul! she reminded him of a great tawny lily. he had a vision of her, as that flower, floating, freed of roots and the mould of its cultivated soil, in the liberty of the impartial air. what a passionate and noble thing she might become! what radiance and perfume she would exhale! a spirit fleur-de-lys! sister to all the noble flowers of light that inhabited the wind! leaning in the deep embrasure of his window, he looked at anonymous night. he could hear the owls hoot, and feel a heart beating out there somewhere in the darkness, but there came no answer to his wondering. would she--this great tawny lily of a girl--ever become unconscious of her environment, not in manner merely, but in the very soul, so that she might be just a woman, breathing, suffering, loving, and rejoicing with the poet soul of all mankind? would she ever be capable of riding out with the little company of big hearts, naked of advantage? courtier had not been inside a church for twenty years, having long felt that he must not enter the mosques of his country without putting off the shoes of freedom, but he read the bible, considering it a very great poem. and the old words came haunting him: 'verily i say unto you, it is harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.' and now, looking into the night, whose darkness seemed to hold the answer to all secrets, he tried to read the riddle of this girl's future, with which there seemed so interwoven that larger enigma, how far the spirit can free itself, in this life, from the matter that encompasseth. the night whispered suddenly, and low down, as if rising from the sea, came the moon, dropping a wan robe of light till she gleamed out nude against the sky-curtain. night was no longer anonymous. there in the dusky garden the statue of diana formed slowly before his eyes, and behind her--as it were, her temple--rose the tall spire of the cypress tree. chapter xiv a copy of the bucklandbury news, containing an account of his evening adventure, did not reach miltoun till he was just starting on his return journey. it came marked with blue pencil together with a note. "my dear eustace, "the enclosed--however unwarranted and impudent--requires attention. but we shall do nothing till you come back. "yours ever, "william shropton." the effect on miltoun might perhaps have been different had he not been so conscious of his intention to ask audrey noel to be his wife; but in any circumstances it is doubtful whether he would have done more than smile, and tear the paper up. truly that sort of thing had so little power to hurt or disturb him personally, that he was incapable of seeing how it could hurt or disturb others. if those who read it were affected, so much the worse for them. he had a real, if unobtrusive, contempt for groundlings, of whatever class; and it never entered his head to step an inch out of his course in deference to their vagaries. nor did it come home to him that mrs. noel, wrapped in the glamour which he cast about her, could possibly suffer from the meanness of vulgar minds. shropton's note, indeed, caused him the more annoyance of those two documents. it was like his brother-in-law to make much of little! he hardly dozed at all during his swift journey through the sleeping country; nor when he reached his room at monkland did he go to bed. he had the wonderful, upborne feeling of man on the verge of achievement. his spirit and senses were both on fire--for that was the quality of this woman, she suffered no part of him to sleep, and he was glad of her exactions. he drank some tea; went out, and took a path up to the moor. it was not yet eight o'clock when he reached the top of the nearest tor. and there, below him, around, and above, was a land and sky transcending even his exaltation. it was like a symphony of great music; or the nobility of a stupendous mind laid bare; it was god up there, in his many moods. serenity was spread in the middle heavens, blue, illimitable, and along to the east, three huge clouds, like thoughts brooding over the destinies below, moved slowly toward the sea, so that great shadows filled the valleys. and the land that lay under all the other sky was gleaming, and quivering with every colour, as it were, clothed with the divine smile. the wind, from the north, whereon floated the white birds of the smaller clouds, had no voice, for it was above barriers, utterly free. before miltoun, turning to this wind, lay the maze of the lower lands, the misty greens, rose pinks, and browns of the fields, and white and grey dots and strokes of cottages and church towers, fading into the blue veil of distance, confined by a far range of hills. behind him there was nothing but the restless surface of the moor, coloured purplish-brown. on that untamed sea of graven wildness could be seen no ship of man, save one, on the far horizon--the grim hulk, dartmoor prison. there was no sound, no scent, and it seemed to miltoun as if his spirit had left his body, and become part of the solemnity of god. yet, as he stood there, with his head bared, that strange smile which haunted him in moments of deep feeling, showed that he had not surrendered to the universal, that his own spirit was but being fortified, and that this was the true and secret source of his delight. he lay down in a scoop of the stones. the sun entered there, but no wind, so that a dry sweet scent exuded from the young shoots of heather. that warmth and perfume crept through the shield of his spirit, and stole into his blood; ardent images rose before him, the vision of an unending embrace. out of an embrace sprang life, out of that the world was made, this world, with its innumerable forms, and natures--no two alike! and from him and her would spring forms to take their place in the great pattern. this seemed wonderful, and right-for they would be worthy forms, who would hand on those traditions which seemed to him so necessary and great. and then there broke on him one of those delirious waves of natural desire, against which he had so often fought, so often with great pain conquered. he got up, and ran downhill, leaping over the stones, and the thicker clumps of heather. audrey noel, too, had been early astir, though she had gone late enough to bed. she dressed languidly, but very carefully, being one of those women who put on armour against fate, because they are proud, and dislike the thought that their sufferings should make others suffer; because, too, their bodies are to them as it were sacred, having been given them in trust, to cause delight. when she had finished, she looked at herself in the glass rather more distrustfully than usual. she felt that her sort of woman was at a discount in these days, and being sensitive, she was never content either with her appearance, or her habits. but, for all that, she went on behaving in unsatisfactory ways, because she incorrigibly loved to look as charming as she could; and even if no one were going to see her, she never felt that she looked charming enough. she was--as lady casterley had shrewdly guessed--the kind of woman who spoils men by being too nice to them; of no use to those who wish women to assert themselves; yet having a certain passive stoicism, very disconcerting. with little or no power of initiative, she would do what she was set to do with a thoroughness that would shame an initiator; temperamentally unable to beg anything of anybody, she required love as a plant requires water; she could give herself completely, yet remain oddly incorruptible; in a word, hopeless, and usually beloved of those who thought her so. with all this, however, she was not quite what is called a 'sweet woman--a phrase she detested--for there was in her a queer vein of gentle cynicism. she 'saw' with extraordinary clearness, as if she had been born in italy and still carried that clear dry atmosphere about her soul. she loved glow and warmth and colour; such mysticism as she felt was pagan; and she had few aspirations--sufficient to her were things as they showed themselves to be. this morning, when she had made herself smell of geraniums, and fastened all the small contrivances that hold even the best of women together, she went downstairs to her little dining-room, set the spirit lamp going, and taking up her newspaper, stood waiting to make tea. it was the hour of the day most dear to her. if the dew had been brushed off her life, it was still out there every morning on the face of nature, and on the faces of her flowers; there was before her all the pleasure of seeing how each of those little creatures in the garden had slept; how many children had been born since the dawn; who was ailing, and needed attention. there was also the feeling, which renews itself every morning in people who live lonely lives, that they are not lonely, until, the day wearing on, assures them of the fact. not that she was idle, for she had obtained through courtier the work of reviewing music in a woman's paper, for which she was intuitively fitted. this, her flowers, her own music, and the affairs of certain families of cottagers, filled nearly all her time. and she asked no better fate than to have every minute occupied, having that passion for work requiring no initiation, which is natural to the owners of lazy minds. suddenly she dropped her newspaper, went to the bowl of flowers on the breakfast-table, and plucked forth two stalks of lavender; holding them away from her, she went out into the garden, and flung them over the wall. this strange immolation of those two poor sprigs, born so early, gathered and placed before her with such kind intention by her maid, seemed of all acts the least to be expected of one who hated to hurt people's feelings, and whose eyes always shone at the sight of flowers. but in truth the smell of lavender--that scent carried on her husband's handkerchief and clothes--still affected her so strongly that she could not bear to be in a room with it. as nothing else did, it brought before her one, to live with whom had slowly become torture. and freed by that scent, the whole flood of memory broke in on her. the memory of three years when her teeth had been set doggedly, on her discovery that she was chained to unhappiness for life; the memory of the abrupt end, and of her creeping away to let her scorched nerves recover. of how during the first year of this release which was not freedom, she had twice changed her abode, to get away from her own story--not because she was ashamed of it, but because it reminded her of wretchedness. of how she had then come to monkland, where the quiet life had slowly given her elasticity again. and then of her meeting with miltoun; the unexpected delight of that companionship; the frank enjoyment of the first four months. and she remembered all her secret rejoicing, her silent identification of another life with her own, before she acknowledged or even suspected love. and just three weeks ago now, helping to tie up her roses, he had touched her, and she had known. but even then, until the night of courtier's accident, she had not dared to realize. more concerned now for him than for herself, she asked herself a thousand times if she had been to blame. she had let him grow fond of her, a woman out of court, a dead woman! an unpardonable sin! yet surely that depended on what she was prepared to give! and she was frankly ready to give everything, and ask for nothing. he knew her position, he had told her that he knew. in her love for him she gloried, would continue to glory; would suffer for it without regret. miltoun was right in believing that newspaper gossip was incapable of hurting her, though her reasons for being so impervious were not what he supposed. she was not, like him, secured from pain because such insinuations about the private affairs of others were mean and vulgar and beneath notice; it had not as yet occurred to her to look at the matter in so lofty and general a light; she simply was not hurt, because she was already so deeply miltoun's property in spirit, that she was almost glad that they should assign him all the rest of her. but for miltoun's sake she was disturbed to the soul. she had tarnished his shield in the eyes of men; and (for she was oddly practical, and saw things in very clear proportion) perhaps put back his career, who knew how many years! she sat down to drink her tea. not being a crying woman, she suffered quietly. she felt that miltoun would be coming to her. she did not know at all what she should say when he did come. he could not care for her so much as she cared for him! he was a man; men soon forget! ah! but he was not like most men. one could not look at his eyes without feeling that he could suffer terribly! in all this her own reputation concerned her not at all. life, and her clear way of looking at things, had rooted in her the conviction that to a woman the preciousness of her reputation was a fiction invented by men entirely for man's benefit; a second-hand fetish insidiously, inevitably set-up by men for worship, in novels, plays, and law-courts. her instinct told her that men could not feel secure in the possession of their women unless they could believe that women set tremendous store by sexual reputation. what they wanted to believe, that they did believe! but she knew otherwise. such great-minded women as she had met or read of had always left on her the impression that reputation for them was a matter of the spirit, having little to do with sex. from her own feelings she knew that reputation, for a simple woman, meant to stand well in the eyes of him or her whom she loved best. for worldly women--and there were so many kinds of those, besides the merely fashionable--she had always noted that its value was not intrinsic, but commercial; not a crown of dignity, but just a marketable asset. she did not dread in the least what people might say of her friendship with miltoun; nor did she feel at all that her indissoluble marriage forbade her loving him. she had secretly felt free as soon as she had discovered that she had never really loved her husband; she had only gone on dutifully until the separation, from sheer passivity, and because it was against her nature to cause pain to anyone. the man who was still her husband was now as dead to her as if he had never been born. she could not marry again, it was true; but she could and did love. if that love was to be starved and die away, it would not be because of any moral scruples. she opened her paper languidly; and almost the first words she read, under the heading of election news, were these: 'apropos of the outrage on mr. courtier, we are requested to state that the lady who accompanied lord miltoun to the rescue of that gentleman was mrs. lees noel, wife of the rev. stephen lees noel, vicar of clathampton, warwickshire.' this dubious little daub of whitewash only brought a rather sad smile to her lips. she left her tea, and went out into the air. there at the gate was miltoun coming in. her heart leaped. but she went forward quietly, and greeted him with cast-down eyes, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. chapter xv exaltation had not left miltoun. his sallow face was flushed, his eyes glowed with a sort of beauty; and audrey noel who, better than most women, could read what was passing behind a face, saw those eyes with the delight of a moth fluttering towards a lamp. but in a very unemotional voice she said: "so you have come to breakfast. how nice of you!" it was not in miltoun to observe the formalities of attack. had he been going to fight a duel there would have been no preliminary, just a look, a bow, and the swords crossed. so in this first engagement of his with the soul of a woman! he neither sat down nor suffered her to sit, but stood looking intently into her face, and said: "i love you." now that it had come, with this disconcerting swiftness, she was strangely calm, and unashamed. the elation of knowing for sure that she was loved was like a wand waving away all tremors, stilling them to sweetness. since nothing could take away that knowledge, it seemed that she could never again be utterly unhappy. then, too, in her nature, so deeply, unreasoningly incapable of perceiving the importance of any principle but love, there was a secret feeling of assurance, of triumph. he did love her! and she, him! well! and suddenly panic-stricken, lest he should take back those words, she put her hand up to his breast, and said: "and i love you." the feel of his arms round her, the strength and passion of that moment, were so terribly sweet, that she died to thought, just looking up at him, with lips parted and eyes darker with the depth of her love than he had ever dreamed that eyes could be. the madness of his own feeling kept him silent. and they stood there, so merged in one another that they knew and cared nothing for any other mortal thing. it was very still in the room; the roses and carnations in the lustre bowl, seeming to know that their mistress was caught up into heaven, had let their perfume steal forth and occupy every cranny of the abandoned air; a hovering bee, too, circled round the lovers' heads, scenting, it seemed, the honey in their hearts. it has been said that miltoun's face was not unhandsome; for audrey noel at this moment when his eyes were so near hers, and his lips touching her, he was transfigured, and had become the spirit of all beauty. and she, with heart beating fast against him, her eyes, half closing from delight, and her hair asking to be praised with its fragrance, her cheeks fainting pale with emotion, and her arms too languid with happiness to embrace him--she, to him, was the incarnation of the woman that visits dreams. so passed that moment. the bee ended it; who, impatient with flowers that hid their honey so deep, had entangled himself in audrey's hair. and then, seeing that words, those dreaded things, were on his lips, she tried to kiss them back. but they came: "when will you marry me?" it all swayed a little. and with marvellous rapidity the whole position started up before her. she saw, with preternatural insight, into its nooks and corners. something he had said one day, when they were talking of the church view of marriage and divorce, lighted all up. so he had really never known about her! at this moment of utter sickness, she was saved from fainting by her sense of humour--her cynicism. not content to let her be, people's tongues had divorced her; he had believed them! and the crown of irony was that he should want to marry her, when she felt so utterly, so sacredly his, to do what he liked with sans forms or ceremonies. a surge of bitter feeling against the man who stood between her and miltoun almost made her cry out. that man had captured her before she knew the world or her own soul, and she was tied to him, till by some beneficent chance he drew his last breath when her hair was grey, and her eyes had no love light, and her cheeks no longer grew pale when they were kissed; when twilight had fallen, and the flowers, and bees no longer cared for her. it was that feeling, the sudden revolt of the desperate prisoner, which steeled her to put out her hand, take up the paper, and give it to miltoun. when he had read the little paragraph, there followed one of those eternities which last perhaps two minutes. he said, then: "it's true, i suppose?" and, at her silence, added: "i am sorry." this queer dry saying was so much more terrible than any outcry, that she remained, deprived even of the power of breathing, with her eyes still fixed on miltoun's face. the smile of the old cardinal had come up there, and was to her like a living accusation. it seemed strange that the hum of the bees and flies and the gentle swishing of the limetree should still go on outside, insisting that there was a world moving and breathing apart from her, and careless of her misery. then some of her courage came back, and with it her woman's mute power. it came haunting about her face, perfectly still, about her lips, sensitive and drawn, about her eyes, dark, almost mutinous under their arched brows. she stood, drawing him with silence and beauty. at last he spoke: "i have made a foolish mistake, it seems. i believed you were free." her lips just moved for the words to pass: "i thought you knew. i never, dreamed you would want to marry me." it seemed to her natural that he should be thinking only of himself, but with the subtlest defensive instinct, she put forward her own tragedy: "i suppose i had got too used to knowing i was dead." "is there no release?" "none. we have neither of us done wrong; besides with him, marriage is--for ever." "my god!" she had broken his smile, which had been cruel without meaning to be cruel; and with a smile of her own that was cruel too, she said: "i didn't know that you believed in release either." then, as though she had stabbed herself in stabbing him, her face quivered. he looked at her now, conscious at last that she was suffering. and she felt that he was holding himself in with all his might from taking her again into his arms. seeing this, the warmth crept back to her lips, and a little light into her eyes, which she kept hidden from him. though she stood so proudly still, some wistful force was coming from her, as from a magnet, and miltoun's hands and arms and face twitched as though palsied. this struggle, dumb and pitiful, seemed never to be coming to an end in the little white room, darkened by the thatch of the verandah, and sweet with the scent of pinks and of a wood fire just lighted somewhere out at the back. then, without a word, he turned and went out. she heard the wicket gate swing to. he was gone. chapter xvi lord denis was fly-fishing--the weather just too bright to allow the little trout of that shallow, never silent stream to embrace with avidity the small enticements which he threw in their direction. nevertheless he continued to invite them, exploring every nook of their watery pathway with his soft-swishing line. in a rough suit and battered hat adorned with those artificial and other flies, which infest harris tweed, he crept along among the hazel bushes and thorn-trees, perfectly happy. like an old spaniel, who has once gloried in the fetching of hares, rabbits, and all manner of fowl, and is now glad if you will but throw a stick for him, so one, who had been a famous fisher before the lord, who had harried the waters of scotland and norway, florida and iceland, now pursued trout no bigger than sardines. the glamour of a thousand memories hallowed the hours he thus spent by that brown water. he fished unhasting, religious, like some good catholic adding one more to the row of beads already told, as though he would fish himself, gravely, without complaint, into the other world. with each fish caught he experienced a solemn satisfaction. though he would have liked barbara with him that morning, he had only looked at her once after breakfast in such a way that she could not see him, and with a dry smile gone off by himself. down by the stream it was dappled, both cool and warm, windless; the trees met over the river, and there were many stones, forming little basins which held up the ripple, so that the casting of a fly required much cunning. this long dingle ran for miles through the foot-growth of folding hills. it was beloved of jays; but of human beings there were none, except a chicken-farmer's widow, who lived in a house thatched almost to the ground, and made her livelihood by directing tourists, with such cunning that they soon came back to her for tea. it was while throwing a rather longer line than usual to reach a little dark piece of crisp water that lord dennis heard the swishing and crackling of someone advancing at full speed. he frowned slightly, feeling for the nerves of his fishes, whom he did not wish startled. the invader was miltoun, hot, pale, dishevelled, with a queer, hunted look on his face. he stopped on seeing his great-uncle, and instantly assumed the mask of his smile. lord dennis was not the man to see what was not intended for him, and he merely said: "well, eustace!" as he might have spoken, meeting his nephew in the hall of one of his london clubs. miltoun, no less polite, murmured: "hope i haven't lost you anything." lord dennis shook his head, and laying his rod on the bank, said: "sit down and have a chat, old fellow. you don't fish, i think?" he had not, in the least, missed the suffering behind miltoun's mask; his eyes were still good, and there was a little matter of some twenty years' suffering of his own on account of a woman--ancient history now--which had left him quaintly sensitive, for an old man, to signs of suffering in others. miltoun would not have obeyed that invitation from anyone else, but there was something about lord dennis which people did not resist; his power lay in a dry ironic suavity which could not but persuade people that impoliteness was altogether too new and raw a thing to be indulged in. the two sat side by side on the roots of trees. at first they talked a little of birds, and then were dumb, so dumb that the invisible creatures of the woods consulted together audibly. lord dennis broke that silence. "this place," he said, "always reminds me of mark twain's writings--can't tell why, unless it's the ever-greenness. i like the evergreen philosophers, twain and meredith. there's no salvation except through courage, though i never could stomach the 'strong man'--captain of his soul, henley and nietzsche and that sort--goes against the grain with me. what do you say, eustace?" "they meant well," answered miltoun, "but they protested too much." lord dennis moved his head in assent. "to be captain of your soul!" continued miltoun in a bitter voice; "it's a pretty phrase!" "pretty enough," murmured lord dennis. miltoun looked at him. "and suitable to you," he said. "no, my dear," lord dennis answered dryly, "a long way off that, thank god!" his eyes were fixed intently on the place where a large trout had risen in the stillest toffee-coloured pool. he knew that fellow, a half-pounder at least, and his thoughts began flighting round the top of his head, hovering over the various merits of the flies. his fingers itched too, but he made no movement, and the ash-tree under which he sat let its leaves tremble, as though in sympathy. "see that hawk?" said miltoun. at a height more than level with the tops of the hills a buzzard hawk was stationary in the blue directly over them. inspired by curiosity at their stillness, he was looking down to see whether they were edible; the upcurved ends of his great wings flirted just once to show that he was part of the living glory of the air--a symbol of freedom to men and fishes. lord dennis looked at his great-nephew. the boy--for what else was thirty to seventy-six?--was taking it hard, whatever it might be, taking it very hard! he was that sort--ran till he dropped. the worst kind to help--the sort that made for trouble--that let things gnaw at them! and there flashed before the old man's mind the image of prometheus devoured by the eagle. it was his favourite tragedy, which he still read periodically, in the greek, helping himself now and then out of his old lexicon to the meaning of some word which had flown to erebus. yes, eustace was a fellow for the heights and depths! he said quietly: "you don't care to talk about it, i suppose?" miltoun shook his head, and again there was silence. the buzzard hawk having seen them move, quivered his wings like a moth's, and deserted that plane of air. a robin from the dappled warmth of a mossy stone, was regarding them instead. there was another splash in the pool. lord dennis said gently: "that fellow's risen twice; i believe he'd take a 'wistman's treasure.'" extracting from his hat its latest fly, and binding it on, he began softly to swish his line. "i shall have him yet!" he muttered. but miltoun had stolen away.... the further piece of information about mrs. noel, already known by barbara, and diffused by the 'bucklandbury news', had not become common knowledge at the court till after lord dennis had started out to fish. in combination with the report that miltoun had arrived and gone out without breakfast, it had been received with mingled feelings. bertie, harbinger, and shropton, in a short conclave, after agreeing that from the point of view of the election it was perhaps better than if she had been a divorcee, were still inclined to the belief that no time was to be lost--in doing what, however, they were unable to determine. apart from the impossibility of knowing how a fellow like miltoun would take the matter, they were faced with the devilish subtlety of all situations to which the proverb 'least said, soonest mended' applies. they were in the presence of that awe-inspiring thing, the power of scandal. simple statements of simple facts, without moral drawn (to which no legal exception could be taken) laid before the public as pieces of interesting information, or at the worst exposed in perfect good faith, lest the public should blindly elect as their representative one whose private life might not stand the inspection of daylight--what could be more justifiable! and yet miltoun's supporters knew that this simple statement of where he spent his evenings had a poisonous potency, through its power of stimulating that side of the human imagination the most easily excited. they recognized only too well, how strong was a certain primitive desire, especially in rural districts, by yielding to which the world was made to go, and how remarkably hard it, was not to yield to it, and how interesting and exciting to see or hear of others yielding to it, and how (though here, of course, men might differ secretly) reprehensible of them to do so! they recognized, too well, how a certain kind of conscience would appreciate this rumour; and how the puritans would lick their lengthened chops. they knew, too, how irresistible to people of any imagination at all, was the mere combination of a member of a class, traditionally supposed to be inclined to having what it wanted, with a lady who lived alone! as harbinger said: it was really devilish awkward! for, to take any notice of it would be to make more people than ever believe it true. and yet, that it was working mischief, they felt by the secret voice in their own souls, telling them that they would have believed it if they had not known better. they hung about, waiting for miltoun to come in. the news was received by lady valleys with a sigh of intense relief, and the remark that it was probably another lie. when barbara confirmed it, she only said: "poor eustace!" and at once wrote off to her husband to say that 'anonyma' was still married, so that the worst fortunately could not happen. miltoun came in to lunch, but from his face and manner nothing could be guessed. he was a thought more talkative than usual, and spoke of brabrook's speech--some of which he had heard. he looked at courtier meaningly, and after lunch said to him: "will you come round to my den?" in that room, the old withdrawing-room of the elizabethan wing--where once had been the embroideries, tapestries, and missals of beruffled dames were now books, pamphlets, oak-panels, pipes, fencing gear, and along one wall a collection of red indian weapons and ornaments brought back by miltoun from the united states. high on the wall above these reigned the bronze death-mask of a famous apache chief, cast from a plaster taken of the face by a professor of yale college, who had declared it to be a perfect specimen of the vanishing race. that visage, which had a certain weird resemblance to dante's, presided over the room with cruel, tragic stoicism. no one could look on it without feeling that, there, the human will had been pushed to its farthest limits of endurance. seeing it for the first time, courtier said: "fine thing--that! only wants a soul." miltoun nodded: "sit down," he said. courtier sat down. there followed one of those silences in which men whose spirits, though different, have a certain bigness in common--can say so much to one another: at last miltoun spoke: "i have been living in the clouds, it seems. you are her oldest friend. the immediate question is how to make it easiest for her in face of this miserable rumour!" not even courtier himself could have put such whip-lash sting into the word 'miserable.' he answered: "oh! take no notice of that. let them stew in their own juice. she won't care." miltoun listened, not moving a muscle of his face. "your friends here," went on courtier with a touch of contempt, "seem in a flutter. don't let them do anything, don't let them say a word. treat the thing as it deserves to be treated. it'll die." miltoun, however, smiled. "i'm not sure," he said, "that the consequences will be as you think, but i shall do as you say." "as for your candidature, any man with a spark of generosity in his soul will rally to you because of it." "possibly," said miltoun. "it will lose me the election, for all that." then, dimly conscious that their last words had revealed the difference of their temperaments and creeds, they stared at one another. "no," said courtier, "i never will believe that people can be so mean!" "until they are." "anyway, though we get at it in different ways, we agree." miltoun leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece, and shading his face with his hand, said: "you know her story. is there any way out of that, for her?" on courtier's face was the look which so often came when he was speaking for one of his lost causes--as if the fumes from a fire in his heart had mounted to his head. "only the way," he answered calmly, "that i should take if i were you." "and that?" "the law into your own hands." miltoun unshaded his face. his gaze seemed to have to travel from an immense distance before it reached courtier. he answered: "yes, i thought you would say that." chapter xvii when everything, that night, was quiet, barbara, her hair hanging loose outside her dressing gown, slipped from her room into the dim corridor. with bare feet thrust into fur-crowned slippers which made no noise, she stole along looking at door after door. through a long gothic window, uncurtained, the mild moonlight was coming. she stopped just where that moonlight fell, and tapped. there came no answer. she opened the door a little way, and said: "are you asleep, eusty?" there still came no answer, and she went in. the curtains were drawn, but a chink of moonlight peering through fell on the bed. this was empty. barbara stood uncertain, listening. in the heart of that darkness there seemed to be, not sound, but, as it were, the muffled soul of sound, a sort of strange vibration, like that of a flame noiselessly licking the air. she put her hand to her heart, which beat as though it would leap through the thin silk covering. from what corner of the room was that mute tremor coming? stealing to the window, she parted the curtains, and stared back into the shadows. there, on the far side, lying on the floor with his arms pressed tightly round his head and his face to the wall, was miltoun. barbara let fall the curtains, and stood breathless, with such a queer sensation in her breast as she had never felt; a sense of something outraged-of scarred pride. it was gone at once, in a rush of pity. she stepped forward quickly in the darkness, was visited by fear, and stopped. he had seemed absolutely himself all the evening. a little more talkative, perhaps, a little more caustic than usual. and now to find him like this! there was no great share of reverence in barbara, but what little she possessed had always been kept for her eldest brother. he had impressed her, from a child, with his aloofness, and she had been proud of kissing him because he never seemed to let anybody else do so. those caresses, no doubt, had the savour of conquest; his face had been the undiscovered land for her lips. she loved him as one loves that which ministers to one's pride; had for him, too, a touch of motherly protection, as for a doll that does not get on too well with the other dolls; and withal a little unaccustomed awe. dared she now plunge in on this private agony? could she have borne that anyone should see herself thus prostrate? he had not heard her, and she tried to regain the door. but a board creaked; she heard him move, and flinging away her fears, said: "it's me! babs!" and dropped on her knees beside him. if it had not been so pitch dark she could never have done that. she tried at once to take his head into her arms, but could not see it, and succeeded indifferently. she could but stroke his arm continually, wondering whether he would hate her ever afterwards, and blessing the darkness, which made it all seem as though it were not happening, yet so much more poignant than if it had happened. suddenly she felt him slip away from her, and getting up, stole out. after the darkness of that room, the corridor seemed full of grey filmy light, as though dream-spiders had joined the walls with their cobwebs, in which innumerable white moths, so tiny that they could not be seen, were struggling. small eerie noises crept about. a sudden frightened longing for warmth, and light, and colour came to barbara. she fled back to her room. but she could not sleep. that terrible mute unseen vibration in the unlighted room-like the noiseless licking of a flame at bland air; the touch of miltoun's hand, hot as fire against her cheek and neck; the whole tremulous dark episode, possessed her through and through. thus had the wayward force of love chosen to manifest itself to her in all its wistful violence. at this fiat sight of the red flower of passion her cheeks burned; up and down her, between the cool sheets, little hot cruel shivers ran; she lay, wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling. she thought, of the woman whom he so loved, and wondered if she too were lying sleepless, flung down on a bare floor, trying to cool her forehead and lips against a cold wall. not for hours did she fall asleep, and then dreamed of running desperately through fields full of tall spiky asphodel-like flowers, and behind her was running herself. in the morning she dreaded to go down. could she meet miltoun now that she knew of the passion in him, and he knew that she knew it? she had her breakfast brought upstairs. before she had finished miltoun himself came in. he looked more than usually self-contained, not to say ironic, and only remarked: "if you're going to ride you might take this note for me over to old haliday at wippincott." by his coming she knew that he was saying all he ever meant to say about that dark incident. and sympathizing completely with a reticence which she herself felt to be the only possible way out for both of them, barbara looked at him gratefully, took the note and said: "all right!" then, after glancing once or twice round the room, miltoun went away. he left her restless, divested of the cloak 'of course,' in a strange mood of questioning, ready as it were for the sight of the magpie wings of life, and to hear their quick flutterings. talk jarred on her that morning, with its sameness and attachment to the facts of the present and the future, its essential concern with the world as it was-she avoided all companionship on her ride. she wanted to be told of things that were not, yet might be, to peep behind the curtain, and see the very spirit of mortal happenings escaped from prison. and this was all so unusual with barbara, whose body was too perfect, too sanely governed by the flow of her blood not to revel in the moment and the things thereof. she knew it was unusual. after her ride she avoided lunch, and walked out into the lanes. but about two o'clock, feeling very hungry, she went into a farmhouse, and asked for milk. there, in the kitchen, like young jackdaws in a row with their mouths a little open, were the three farm boys, seated on a bench gripped to the alcove of the great fire-way, munching bread and cheese. above their heads a gun was hung, trigger upwards, and two hams were mellowing in the smoke. at the feet of a black-haired girl, who was slicing onions, lay a sheep dog of tremendous age, with nose stretched out on paws, and in his little blue eyes a gleam of approaching immortality. they all stared at, barbara. and one of the boys, whose face had the delightful look of him who loses all sense of other things in what he is seeing at the moment, smiled, and continued smiling, with sheer pleasure. barbara drank her milk, and wandered out again; passing through a gate at the bottom of a steep, rocky tor, she sat down on a sun-warmed stone. the sunlight fell greedily on her here, like an invisible swift hand touching her all over, and specially caressing her throat and face. a very gentle wind, which dived over the tor tops into the young fern; stole down at her, spiced with the fern sap. all was warmth and peace, and only the cuckoos on the far thorn trees--as though stationed by the wistful master himself--were there to disturb her heart: but all the sweetness and piping of the day did not soothe her. in truth, she could not have said what was the matter, except that she felt so discontented, and as it were empty of all but a sort of aching impatience with--what exactly she could not say. she had that rather dreadful feeling of something slipping by which she could not catch. it was so new to her to feel like that--for no girl was less given to moods and repinings. and all the time a sort of contempt for this soft and almost sentimental feeling made her tighten her lips and frown. she felt distrustful and sarcastic towards a mood so utterly subversive of that fetich 'hardness,' to the unconscious worship of which she had been brought up. to stand no sentiment or nonsense either in herself or others was the first article of faith; not to slop-over anywhere. so that to feel as she did was almost horrible to barbara. yet she could not get rid of the sensation. with sudden recklessness she tried giving herself up to it entirely. undoing the scarf at her throat, she let the air play on her bared neck, and stretched out her arms as if to hug the wind to her; then, with a sigh, she got up, and walked on. and now she began thinking of 'anonyma'; turning her position over and over. the idea that anyone young and beautiful should thus be clipped off in her life, roused her impatient indignation. let them try it with her! they would soon see! for all her cultivated 'hardness,' barbara really hated anything to suffer. it seemed to her unnatural. she never went to that hospital where lady valleys had a ward, nor to their summer camp for crippled children, nor to help in their annual concert for sweated workers, without a feeling of such vehement pity that it was like being seized by the throat: once, when she had been singing to them, the rows of wan, pinched faces below had been too much for her; she had broken down, forgotten her words, lost memory of the tune, and just ended her performance with a smile, worth more perhaps to her audience than those lost verses. she never came away from such sights and places without a feeling of revolt amounting almost to rage; and she only continued to go because she dimly knew that it was expected of her not to turn her back on such things, in her section of society. but it was not this feeling which made her stop before mrs. noel's cottage; nor was it curiosity. it was a quite simple desire to squeeze her hand. 'anonyma' seemed taking her trouble as only those women who are no good at self-assertion can take things--doing exactly as she would have done if nothing had happened; a little paler than usual, with lips pressed rather tightly together. they neither of them spoke at first, but stood looking, not at each other's faces, but at each other's breasts. at last barbara stepped forward impulsively and kissed her. after that, like two children who kiss first, and then make acquaintance, they stood apart, silent, faintly smiling. it had been given and returned in real sweetness and comradeship, that kiss, for a sign of womanhood making face against the world; but now that it was over, both felt a little awkward. would that kiss have been given if fate had been auspicious? was it not proof of misery? so mrs. noel's smile seemed saying, and barbara's smile unwillingly admitted. perceiving that if they talked it could only be about the most ordinary things, they began speaking of music, flowers, and the queerness of bees' legs. but all the time, barbara, though seemingly unconscious, was noting with her smiling eyes, the tiny movement's, by which one woman can tell what is passing in another. she saw a little quiver tighten the corner of the lips, the eyes suddenly grow large and dark, the thin blouse desperately rise and fall. and her fancy, quickened by last night's memory, saw this woman giving herself up to the memory of love in her thoughts. at this sight she felt a little of that impatience which the conquering feel for the passive, and perhaps just a touch of jealousy. whatever miltoun decided, that would this woman accept! such resignation, while it simplified things, offended the part of barbara which rebelled against all inaction, all dictation, even from her favourite brother. she said suddenly: "are you going to do nothing? aren't you going to try and free yourself? if i were in your position, i would never rest till i'd made them free me." but mrs. noel did not answer; and sweeping her glance from that crown of soft dark hair, down the soft white figure, to the very feet, barbara cried: "i believe you are a fatalist." soon after that, not knowing what more to say, she went away. but walking home across the fields, where full summer was swinging on the delicious air and there was now no bull but only red cows to crop short the 'milk-maids' and buttercups, she suffered from this strange revelation of the strength of softness and passivity--as though she had seen in the white figure of 'anonyma,' and heard in her voice something from beyond, symbolic, inconceivable, yet real. chapter xviii lord valleys, relieved from official pressure by subsidence of the war scare, had returned for a long week-end. to say that he had been intensely relieved by the news that mrs. noel was not free, would be to put it mildly. though not old-fashioned, like his mother-in-law, in regard to the mixing of the castes, prepared to admit that exclusiveness was out of date, to pass over with a shrug and a laugh those numerous alliances by which his order were renewing the sinews of war, and indeed in his capacity of an expert, often pointing out the dangers of too much in-breeding--yet he had a peculiar personal feeling about his own family, and was perhaps a little extra sensitive because of agatha; for shropton, though a good fellow, and extremely wealthy, was only a third baronet, and had originally been made of iron. it was inadvisable to go outside the inner circle where there was no material necessity for so doing. he had not done it himself. moreover there was a sentiment about these things! on the morning after his arrival, visiting the kennels before breakfast, he stood chatting with his head man, and caressing the wet noses of his two favourite pointers,--with something of the feeling of a boy let out of school. those pleasant creatures, cowering and quivering with pride against his legs, and turning up at him their yellow chinese eyes, gave him that sense of warmth and comfort which visits men in the presence of their hobbies. with this particular pair, inbred to the uttermost, he had successfully surmounted a great risk. it was now touch and go whether he dared venture on one more cross to the original strain, in the hope of eliminating the last clinging of liver colour. it was a gamble--and it was just that which rendered it so vastly interesting. a small voice diverted his attention; he looked round and saw little ann. she had been in bed when he arrived the night before, and he was therefore the newest thing about. she carried in her arms a guinea-pig, and began at once: "grandpapa, granny wants you. she's on the terrace; she's talking to mr. courtier. i like him--he's a kind man. if i put my guinea-pig down, will they bite it? poor darling--they shan't! isn't it a darling!" lord valleys, twirling his moustache, regarded the guinea-pig without favour; he had rather a dislike for all senseless kinds of beasts. pressing the guinea-pig between her hands, as it might be a concertina, little ann jigged it gently above the pointers, who, wrinkling horribly their long noses, gazed upwards, fascinated. "poor darlings, they want it--don't they? grandpapa" "yes." "do you think the next puppies will be spotted quite all over?" continuing to twirl his moustache, lord valleys answered: "i think it is not improbable, ann." "why do you like them spotted like that? oh! they're kissing sambo--i must go!" lord valleys followed her, his eyebrows a little raised. as he approached the terrace his wife came, towards him. her colour was, deeper than usual, and she had the look, higher and more resolute, peculiar to her when she had been opposed. in truth she had just been through a passage of arms with courtier, who, as the first revealer of mrs. noel's situation, had become entitled to a certain confidence on this subject. it had arisen from what she had intended as a perfectly natural and not unkind remark, to the effect that all the trouble had come from mrs. noel not having made her position clear to miltoun from the first. he had at once grown very red. "it's easy, lady valleys, for those who have never been in the position of a lonely woman, to blame her." unaccustomed to be withstood, she had looked at him intently: "i am the last person to be hard on a woman for conventional reasons. but i think it showed lack of character." courtier's reply had been almost rude. "plants are not equally robust, lady valleys. some, as we know, are actually sensitive." she had retorted with decision "if you like to so dignify the simpler word 'weak'" he had become very rigid at that, biting deeply into his moustache. "what crimes are not committed under the sanctity of that creed 'survival of the fittest,' which suits the book of all you fortunate people so well!" priding herself on her restraint, lady valleys answered: "ah! we must talk that out. on the face of them your words sound a little unphilosophic, don't they?" he had looked straight at her with a queer, unpleasant smile; and she had felt at once disturbed and angry. it was all very well to pet and even to admire these original sort of men, but there were limits. remembering, however, that he was her guest, she had only said: "perhaps after all we had better not talk it out;" and moving away, she heard him answer: "in any case, i'm certain audrey noel never wilfully kept your son in the dark; she's much too proud." though rude, she could not help liking the way he stuck up for this woman; and she threw back at him the words: "you and i, mr. courtier, must have a good fight some day!" she went towards her husband conscious of the rather pleasurable sensation which combat always roused in her. these two were very good comrades. theirs had been a love match, and making due allowance for human nature beset by opportunity, had remained, throughout, a solid and efficient alliance. taking, as they both did, such prominent parts in public and social matters, the time they spent together was limited, but productive of mutual benefit and reinforcement. they had not yet had an opportunity of discussing their son's affair; and, slipping her hand through his arm, lady valleys drew him away from the house. "i want to talk to you about miltoun, geoff." "h'm!" said lord valleys; "yes. the boy's looking worn. good thing when this election's over." "if he's beaten and hasn't something new and serious to concentrate himself on, he'll fret his heart out over that woman." lord valleys meditated a little before replying. "i don't think that, gertrude. he's got plenty of spirit." "of course! but it's a real passion. and, you know, he's not like most boys, who'll take what they can." she said this rather wistfully. "i'm sorry for the woman," mused lord valleys; "i really am." "they say this rumour's done a lot of harm." "our influence is strong enough to survive that." "it'll be a squeak; i wish i knew what he was going to do. will you ask him?" "you're clearly the person to speak to him," replied lord valleys. "i'm no hand at that sort of thing." but lady valleys, with genuine discomfort, murmured: "my dear, i'm so nervous with eustace. when he puts on that smile of his i'm done for, at once." "this is obviously a woman's business; nobody like a mother." "if it were only one of the others," muttered lady valleys: "eustace has that queer way of making you feel lumpy." lord valleys looked at her askance. he had that kind of critical fastidiousness which a word will rouse into activity. was she lumpy? the idea had never struck him. "well, i'll do it, if i must," sighed lady valleys. when after breakfast she entered miltoun's 'den,' he was buckling on his spurs preparatory, to riding out to some of the remoter villages. under the mask of the apache chief, bertie was standing, more inscrutable and neat than ever, in a perfectly tied cravatte, perfectly cut riding breeches, and boots worn and polished till a sooty glow shone through their natural russet. not specially dandified in his usual dress, bertie caradoc would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse. his eyes, the sharper because they had only half the space of the ordinary eye to glance from, at once took in the fact that his mother wished to be alone with 'old miltoun,' and he discreetly left the room. that which disconcerted all who had dealings with miltoun was the discovery made soon or late, that they could not be sure how anything would strike him. in his mind, as in his face, there was a certain regularity, and then--impossible to say exactly where--it would, shoot off and twist round a corner. this was the legacy no doubt of the hard-bitten individuality, which had brought to the front so many of his ancestors; for in miltoun was the blood not only of the caradocs and fitz-harolds, but of most other prominent families in the kingdom, all of whom, in those ages before money made the man, must have had a forbear conspicuous by reason of qualities, not always fine, but always poignant. and now, though lady valleys had the audacity of her physique, and was not customarily abashed, she began by speaking of politics, hoping her son would give her an opening. but he gave her none, and she grew nervous. at last, summoning all her coolness, she said: "i'm dreadfully sorry about this affair, dear boy. your father told me of your talk with him. try not to take it too hard." miltoun did not answer, and silence being that which lady valleys habitually most dreaded, she took refuge in further speech, outlining for her son the whole episode as she saw it from her point of view, and ending with these words: "surely it's not worth it." miltoun heard her with his peculiar look, as of a man peering through a vizor. then smiling, he said: "thank you;" and opened the door. lady valleys, without quite knowing whether he intended her to do so, indeed without quite knowing anything at the moment, passed out, and miltoun closed the door behind her. ten minutes later he and bertie were seen riding down the drive. chapter xix that afternoon the wind, which had been rising steadily, brought a flurry of clouds up from the south-west. formed out on the heart of the atlantic, they sailed forward, swift and fleecy at first, like the skirmishing white shallops of a great fleet; then, in serried masses, darkened the sun. about four o'clock they broke in rain, which the wind drove horizontally with a cold whiffling murmur. as youth and glamour die in a face before the cold rains of life, so glory died on the moor. the tors, from being uplifted wild castles, became mere grey excrescences. distance failed. the cuckoos were silent. there was none of the beauty that there is in death, no tragic greatness--all was moaning and monotony. but about seven the sun tore its way back through the swathe, and flared out. like some huge star, whose rays were stretching down to the horizon, and up to the very top of the hill of air, it shone with an amazing murky glamour; the clouds splintered by its shafts, and tinged saffron, piled themselves up as if in wonder. under the sultry warmth of this new great star, the heather began to steam a little, and the glitter of its wet unopened bells was like that of innumerable tiny smoking fires. the two brothers were drenched as they cantered silently home. good friends always, they had never much to say to one another. for miltoun was conscious that he thought on a different plane from bertie; and bertie grudged even to his brother any inkling of what was passing in his spirit, just as he grudged parting with diplomatic knowledge, or stable secrets, or indeed anything that might leave him less in command of life. he grudged it, because in a private sort of way it lowered his estimation of his own stoical self-sufficiency; it hurt something proud in the withdrawing-room of his soul. but though he talked little, he had the power of contemplation--often found in men of decided character, with a tendency to liver. once in nepal, where he had gone to shoot, he had passed a month quite happily with only a ghoorka servant who could speak no english. to those who asked him if he had not been horribly bored, he had always answered: "not a bit; did a lot of thinking." with miltoun's trouble he had the professional sympathy of a brother and the natural intolerance of a confirmed bachelor. women were to him very kittle-cattle. he distrusted from the bottom of his soul those who had such manifest power to draw things from you. he was one of those men in whom some day a woman might awaken a really fine affection; but who, until that time, would maintain the perfectly male attitude to the entire sex, and, after it, to all the sex but one. women were, like life itself, creatures to be watched, carefully used, and kept duly subservient. the only allusion therefore that he made to miltoun's trouble was very sudden. "old man, i hope you're going to cut your losses." the words were followed by undisturbed silence: but passing mrs. noel's cottage miltoun said: "take my horse on; i want to go in here.".... she was sitting at her piano with her hands idle, looking at a line of music.... she had been sitting thus for many minutes, but had not yet taken in the notes. when miltoun's shadow blotted the light by which she was seeing so little, she gave a slight start, and got up. but she neither went towards him, nor spoke. and he, without a word, came in and stood by the hearth, looking down at the empty grate. a tortoise-shell cat which had been watching swallows, disturbed by his entrance, withdrew from the window beneath a chair. this silence, in which the question of their future lives was to be decided, seemed to both interminable; yet, neither could end it. at last, touching his sleeve, she said: "you're wet!" miltoun shivered at that timid sign of possession. and they again stood in silence broken only by the sound of the cat licking its paws. but her faculty for dumbness was stronger than his, and--he had to speak first. "forgive me for coming; something must be settled. this--rumour----" "oh! that!" she said. "is there anything i can do to stop the harm to you?" it was the turn of miltoun's lips to curl. "god! no; let them talk!" their eyes had come together now, and, once together, seemed unable to part. mrs. noel said at last: "will you ever forgive me?" "what for--it was my fault." "no; i should have known you better." the depth of meaning in those words--the tremendous and subtle admission they contained of all that she had been ready to do, the despairing knowledge in them that he was not, and never had been, ready to 'bear it out even to the edge of doom'--made miltoun wince away. "it is not from fear--believe that, anyway." "i do." there followed another long, long silence! but though so close that they were almost touching, they no longer looked at one another. then miltoun said: "there is only to say good-bye, then." at those clear words spoken by lips which, though just smiling, failed so utterly to hide his misery, mrs. noel's face became colourless as her white gown. but her eyes, which had grown immense, seemed from the sheer lack of all other colour, to have drawn into them the whole of her vitality; to be pouring forth a proud and mournful reproach. shivering, and crushing himself together with his arms, miltoun walked towards the window. there was not the faintest sound from her, and he looked back. she was following him with her eyes. he threw his hand up over his face, and went quickly out. mrs. noel stood for a little while where he had left her; then, sitting down once more at the piano, began again to con over the line of music. and the cat stole back to the window to watch the swallows. the sunlight was dying slowly on the top branches of the lime-tree; a, drizzling rain began to fall. chapter xx claud fresnay, viscount harbinger was, at the age of thirty-one, perhaps the least encumbered peer in the united kingdom. thanks to an ancestor who had acquired land, and departed this life one hundred and thirty years before the town of nettlefold was built on a small portion of it, and to a father who had died in his son's infancy, after judiciously selling the said town, he possessed a very large income independently of his landed interests. tall and well-built, with handsome, strongly-marked features, he gave at first sight an impression of strength--which faded somewhat when he began to talk. it was not so much the manner of his speech--with its rapid slang, and its way of turning everything to a jest--as the feeling it produced, that the brain behind it took naturally the path of least resistance. he was in fact one of those personalities who are often enough prominent in politics and social life, by reason of their appearance, position, assurance, and of a certain energy, half genuine, and half mere inherent predilection for short cuts. certainly he was not idle, had written a book, travelled, was a captain of yeomanry, a justice of the peace, a good cricketer, and a constant and glib speaker. it would have been unfair to call his enthusiasm for social reform spurious. it was real enough in its way, and did certainly testify that he was not altogether lacking either in imagination or good-heartedness. but it was over and overlaid with the public-school habit--that peculiar, extraordinarily english habit, so powerful and beguiling that it becomes a second nature stronger than the first--of relating everything in the universe to the standards and prejudices of a single class. since practically all his intimate associates were immersed in it, he was naturally not in the least conscious of this habit; indeed there was nothing he deprecated so much in politics as the narrow and prejudiced outlook, such as he had observed in the nonconformist, or labour politician. he would never have admitted for a moment that certain doors had been banged-to at his birth, bolted when he went to eton, and padlocked at cambridge. no one would have denied that there was much that was valuable in his standards--a high level of honesty, candour, sportsmanship, personal cleanliness, and self-reliance, together with a dislike of such cruelty as had been officially (so to speak) recognized as cruelty, and a sense of public service to a state run by and for the public schools; but it would have required far more originality than he possessed ever to look at life from any other point of view than that from which he had been born and bred to watch her. to fully understand harbinger, one must, and with unprejudiced eyes and brain, have attended one of those great cricket matches in which he had figured conspicuously as a boy, and looking down from some high impartial spot have watched the ground at lunch time covered from rope to rope and stand to stand with a marvellous swarm, all walking in precisely the same manner, with precisely the same expression on their faces, under precisely the same hats--a swarm enshrining the greatest identity of, creed and habit ever known since the world began. no, his environment had not been favourable to originality. moreover he was naturally rapid rather than deep, and life hardly ever left him alone or left him silent. brought into contact day and night with people to whom politics were more or less a game; run after everywhere; subjected to no form of discipline--it was a wonder that he was as serious as he was. nor had he ever been in love, until, last year, during her first season, barbara had, as he might have expressed it--in the case of another 'bowled him middle stump. though so deeply smitten, he had not yet asked her to marry him--had not, as it were, had time, nor perhaps quite the courage, or conviction. when he was near her, it seemed impossible that he could go on longer without knowing his fate; when he was away from her it was almost a relief, because there were so many things to be done and said, and so little time to do or say them in. but now, during this fortnight, which, for her sake, he had devoted to miltoun's cause, his feeling had advanced beyond the point of comfort. he did not admit that the reason of this uneasiness was courtier, for, after all, courtier was, in a sense, nobody, and 'an extremist' into the bargain, and an extremist always affected the centre of harbinger's anatomy, causing it to give off a peculiar smile and tone of voice. nevertheless, his eyes, whenever they fell on that sanguine, steady, ironic face, shone with a sort of cold inquiry, or were even darkened by the shade of fear. they met seldom, it is true, for most of his day was spent in motoring and speaking, and most of courtier's in writing and riding, his leg being still too weak for walking. but once or twice in the smoking room late at night, he had embarked on some bantering discussion with the champion of lost causes; and very soon an ill-concealed impatience had crept into his voice. why a man should waste his time, flogging dead horses on a journey to the moon, was incomprehensible! facts were facts, human nature would never be anything but human nature! and it was peculiarly galling to see in courtier's eye a gleam, to catch in his voice a tone, as if he were thinking: "my young friend, your soup is cold!" on a morning after one of these encounters, seeing barbara sally forth in riding clothes, he asked if he too might go round the stables, and started forth beside her, unwontedly silent, with an odd feeling about his heart, and his throat unaccountably dry. the stables at monkland court were as large as many country houses. accommodating thirty horses, they were at present occupied by twenty-one, including the pony of little ann. for height, perfection of lighting, gloss, shine, and purity of atmosphere they were unequalled in the county. it seemed indeed impossible that any horse could ever so far forget himself in such a place as to remember that he was a horse. every morning a little bin of carrots, apples, and lumps of sugar, was set close to the main entrance, ready for those who might desire to feed the dear inhabitants. reined up to a brass ring on either side of their stalls with their noses towards the doors, they were always on view from nine to ten, and would stand with their necks arched, ears pricked, and coats gleaming, wondering about things, soothed by the faint hissing of the still busy grooms, and ready to move their noses up and down the moment they saw someone enter. in a large loose-box at the end of the north wing barbara's favourite chestnut hunter, all but one saving sixteenth of whom had been entered in the stud book, having heard her footstep, was standing quite still with his neck turned. he had been crumping up an apple placed amongst his feed, and his senses struggled between the lingering flavour of that delicacy,--and the perception of a sound with which he connected carrots. when she unlatched his door, and said "hal," he at once went towards his manger, to show his independence, but when she said: "oh! very well!" he turned round and came towards her. his eyes, which were full and of a soft brilliance, under thick chestnut lashes, explored her all over. perceiving that her carrots were not in front, he elongated his neck, let his nose stray round her waist, and gave her gauntletted hand a nip with his lips. not tasting carrot, he withdrew his nose, and snuffled. then stepping carefully so as not to tread on her foot, he bunted her gently with his shoulder, till with a quick manoeuvre he got behind her and breathed low and long on her neck. even this did not smell of carrots, and putting his muzzle over her shoulder against her cheek, he slobbered a very little. a carrot appeared about the level of her waist, and hanging his head over, he tried to reach it. feeling it all firm and soft under his chin, he snuffled again, and gave her a gentle dig with his knee. but still unable to reach the carrot, he threw his head up, withdrew, and pretended not to see her. and suddenly he felt two long substances round his neck, and something soft against his nose. he suffered this in silence, laying his ears back. the softness began puffing on his muzzle. pricking his ears again, he puffed back a little harder, with more curiosity, and the softness was withdrawn. he perceived suddenly that he had a carrot in his mouth. harbinger had witnessed this episode, oddly pale, leaning against the loose-box wall. he spoke, as it came to an end: "lady babs!" the tone of his voice must have been as strange as it sounded to himself, for barbara spun round. "yes?" "how long am i going on like this?" neither changing colour nor dropping her eyes, she regarded him with a faintly inquisitive interest. it was not a cruel look, had not a trace of mischief, or sex malice, and yet it frightened him by its serene inscrutability. impossible to tell what was going on behind it. he took her hand, bent over it, and said in a low voice: "you know what i feel; don't be cruel to me!" she did not pull away her hand; it was as if she had not thought of it. "i am not a bit cruel." looking up, he saw her smiling. "then--babs!" his face was close to hers, but barbara did not shrink back. she just shook her head; and harbinger flushed up. "why?" he asked; and as though the enormous injustice of that rejecting gesture had suddenly struck him, he dropped her hand. "why?" he said again, sharply. but the silence was only broken by the cheeping of sparrows outside the round window, and the sound of the horse, hal, munching the last morsel of his carrot. harbinger was aware in his every nerve of the sweetish, slightly acrid, husky odour of the loosebox, mingling with the scent of barbara's hair and clothes. and rather miserably, he said for the third time: "why?" but folding her hands away behind her back she answered gently: "my dear, how should i know why?" she was calmly exposed to his embrace if he had only dared; but he did not dare, and went back to the loose-box wall. biting his finger, he stared at her gloomily. she was stroking the muzzle of her horse; and a sort of dry rage began whisking and rustling in his heart. she had refused him--harbinger! he had not known, had not suspected how much he wanted her. how could there be anybody else for him, while that young, calm, sweet-scented, smiling thing lived, to make his head go round, his senses ache, and to fill his heart with longing! he seemed to himself at that moment the most unhappy of all men. "i shall not give you up," he muttered. barbara's answer was a smile, faintly curious, compassionate, yet almost grateful, as if she had said: "thank you--who knows?" and rather quickly, a yard or so apart, and talking of horses, they returned to the house. it was about noon, when, accompanied by courtier, she rode forth. the sou-westerly spell--a matter of three days--had given way before radiant stillness; and merely to be alive was to feel emotion. at a little stream running beside the moor under the wild stone man, the riders stopped their horses, just to listen, and, inhale the day. the far sweet chorus of life was tuned to a most delicate rhythm; not one of those small mingled pipings of streams and the lazy air, of beasts, men; birds, and bees, jarred out too harshly through the garment of sound enwrapping the earth. it was noon--the still moment--but this hymn to the sun, after his too long absence, never for a moment ceased to be murmured. and the earth wore an under-robe of scent, delicious, very finely woven of the young fern sap, heather buds; larch-trees not yet odourless, gorse just going brown, drifted woodsmoke, and the breath of hawthorn. above earth's twin vestments of sound and scent, the blue enwrapping scarf of air, that wistful wide champaign, was spanned only by the wings of freedom. after that long drink of the day, the riders mounted almost in silence to the very top of the moor. there again they sat quite still on their horses, examining the prospect. far away to south and east lay the sea, plainly visible. two small groups of wild ponies were slowly grazing towards each other on the hillside below. courtier said in a low voice: "'thus will i sit and sing, with love in my arms; watching our two herds mingle together, and below us the far, divine, cerulean sea.'" and, after another silence, looking steadily in barbara's face, he added: "lady barbara, i am afraid this is the last time we shall be alone together. while i have the chance, therefore, i must do homage.... you will always be the fixed star for my worship. but your rays are too bright; i shall worship from afar. from your seventh heaven, therefore, look down on me with kindly eyes, and do not quite forget me:" under that speech, so strangely compounded of irony and fervour, barbara sat very still, with glowing cheeks. "yes," said courtier, "only an immortal must embrace a goddess. outside the purlieus of authority i shall sit cross-legged, and prostrate myself three times a day." but barbara answered nothing. "in the early morning," went on courtier, "leaving the dark and dismal homes of freedom i shall look towards the temples of the great; there with the eye of faith i shall see you." he stopped, for barbara's lips were moving. "don't hurt me, please." courtier leaned over, took her hand, and put it to his lips. "we will now ride on...." that night at dinner lord dennis, seated opposite his great-niece, was struck by her appearance. "a very beautiful child," he thought, "a most lovely young creature!" she was placed between courtier and harbinger. and the old man's still keen eyes carefully watched those two. though attentive to their neighbours on the other side, they were both of them keeping the corner of an eye on barbara and on each other. the thing was transparent to lord dennis, and a smile settled in that nest of gravity between his white peaked beard and moustaches. but he waited, the instinct of a fisherman bidding him to neglect no piece of water, till he saw the child silent and in repose, and watched carefully to see what would rise. although she was so calmly, so healthily eating, her eyes stole round at courtier. this quick look seemed to lord dennis perturbed, as if something were exciting her. then harbinger spoke, and she turned to answer him. her face was calm now, faintly smiling, a little eager, provocative in its joy of life. it made lord dennis think of his own youth. what a splendid couple! if babs married young harbinger there would not be a finer pair in all england. his eyes travelled back to courtier. manly enough! they called him dangerous! there was a look of effervescence, carefully corked down--might perhaps be attractive to a girl! to his essentially practical and sober mind, a type like courtier was puzzling. he liked the look of him, but distrusted his ironic expression, and that appearance of blood to the head. fellow--no doubt--that would ride off on his ideas, humanitarian! to lord dennis there was something queer about humanitarians. they offended perhaps his dry and precise sense of form. they were always looking out for cruelty or injustice; seemed delighted when they found it--swelled up, as it were, when they scented it, and as there was a good deal about, were never quite of normal size. men who lived for ideas were, in fact, to one for whom facts sufficed always a little worrying! a movement from barbara brought him back to actuality. was the possessor of that crown of hair and those divine young shoulders the little babs who had ridden with him in the row? time was certainly the devil! her eyes were searching for something; and following the direction of that glance, lord dennis found himself observing miltoun. what a difference between those two! both no doubt in the great trouble of youth; which sometimes, as he knew too well, lasted on almost to old age. it was a curious look the child was giving her brother, as if asking him to help her. lord dennis had seen in his day many young creatures leave the shelter of their freedom and enter the house of the great lottery; many, who had drawn a prize and thereat lost forever the coldness of life; many too, the light of whose eyes had faded behind the shutters of that house, having drawn a blank. the thought of 'little' babs on the threshold of that inexorable saloon, filled him with an eager sadness; and the sight of the two men watching for her, waiting for her, like hunters, was to him distasteful. in any case, let her not, for heaven's sake, go ranging as far as that red fellow of middle age, who might have ideas, but had no pedigree; let her stick to youth and her own order, and marry the--young man, confound him, who looked like a greek god, of the wrong period, having grown a moustache. he remembered her words the other evening about these two and the different lives they lived. some romantic notion or other was working in her! and again he looked at courtier. a quixotic type--the sort that rode slap-bang at everything! all very well--but not for babs! she was not like the glorious garibaldi's glorious anita! it was truly characteristic of lord dennis--and indeed of other people--that to him champions of liberty when dead were far dearer than champions of liberty when living. yes, babs would want more, or was it less, than just a life of sleeping under the stars for the man she loved, and the cause he fought for. she would want pleasure, and, not too much effort, and presently a little power; not the uncomfortable after-fame of a woman who went through fire, but the fame and power of beauty, and society prestige. this, fancy of hers, if it were a fancy, could be nothing but the romanticism of a young girl. for the sake of a passing shadow, to give up substance? it wouldn't do! and again lord dennis fixed his shrewd glance on his great-niece. those eyes, that smile! yes! she would grow out of this. and take the greek god, the dying gaul--whichever that young man was! chapter xxi it was not till the morning of polling day itself that courtier left monkland court. he had already suffered for some time from bad conscience. for his knee was practically cured, and he knew well that it was barbara, and barbara alone, who kept him staying there. the atmosphere of that big house with its army of servants, the impossibility of doing anything for himself, and the feeling of hopeless insulation from the vivid and necessitous sides of life, galled him greatly. he felt a very genuine pity for these people who seemed to lead an existence as it were smothered under their own social importance. it was not their fault. he recognized that they did their best. they were good specimens of their kind; neither soft nor luxurious, as things went in a degenerate and extravagant age; they evidently tried to be simple--and this seemed to him to heighten the pathos of their situation. fate had been too much for them. what human spirit could emerge untrammelled and unshrunken from that great encompassing host of material advantage? to a bedouin like courtier, it was as though a subtle, but very terrible tragedy was all the time being played before his eyes; and in, the very centre of this tragedy was the girl who so greatly attracted him. every night when he retired to that lofty room, which smelt so good, and where, without ostentation, everything was so perfectly ordered for his comfort, he thought: "my god, to-morrow i'll be off!" but every morning when he met her at breakfast his thought was precisely the same, and there were moments when he caught himself wondering: "am i falling under the spell of this existence--am i getting soft?" he recognized as never before that the peculiar artificial 'hardness' of the patrician was a brine or pickle, in which, with the instinct of self-preservation they deliberately soaked themselves, to prevent the decay of their overprotected fibre. he perceived it even in barbara--a sort of sentiment-proof overall, a species of mistrust of the emotional or lyrical, a kind of contempt of sympathy and feeling. and every day he was more and more tempted to lay rude hands on this garment; to see whether he could not make her catch fire, and flare up with some emotion or idea. in spite of her tantalizing, youthful self-possession, he saw that she felt this longing in him, and now and then he caught a glimpse of a streak of recklessness in her which lured him on: and yet, when at last he was saying good-bye on the night before polling day, he could not flatter himself that he had really struck any spark from her. certainly she gave him no chance, at that final interview, but stood amongst the other women, calm and smiling, as if determined that he should not again mock her with his ironical devotion. he got up very early the next morning, intending to pass away unseen. in the car put at his disposal; he found a small figure in a holland-frock, leaning back against the cushions so that some sandalled toes pointed up at the chauffeur's back. they belonged to little ann, who in the course of business had discovered the vehicle before the door. her sudden little voice under her sudden little nose, friendly but not too friendly, was comforting to courtier. "are you going? i can come as, far as the gate." "that is lucky." "yes. is that all your luggage?" "i'm afraid it is." "oh! it's quite a lot, really, isn't it?" "as much as i deserve." "of course you don't have to take guinea-pigs about with you?" "not as a rule." "i always do. there's great-granny!" there certainly was lady casterley, standing a little back from the drive, and directing a tall gardener how to deal with an old oak-tree. courtier alighted, and went towards her to say good-bye. she greeted him with a certain grim cordiality. "so you are going! i am glad of that, though you quite understand that i like you personally." "quite!" her eyes gleamed maliciously. "men who laugh like you are dangerous, as i've told you before!" then, with great gravity; she added "my granddaughter will marry lord harbinger. i mention that, mr. courtier, for your peace of mind. you are a man of honour; it will go no further." courtier, bowing over her hand, answered: "he will be lucky." the little old lady regarded him unflinchingly. "he will, sir. good-bye!" courtier smilingly raised his hat. his cheeks were burning. regaining the car, he looked round. lady casterley was busy once more exhorting the tall gardener. the voice of little ann broke in on his thoughts: "i hope you'll come again. because i expect i shall be here at christmas; and my brothers will be here then, that is, jock and tiddy, not christopher because he's young. i must go now. good-bye! hallo, susie!" courtier saw her slide away, and join the little pale adoring figure of the lodge-keeper's daughter. the car passed out into the lane. if lady casterley had planned this disclosure, which indeed she had not, for the impulse had only come over her at the sound of courtier's laugh, she could not have, devised one more effectual, for there was deep down in him all a wanderer's very real distrust, amounting almost to contempt, of people so settled and done for; as aristocrats or bourgeois, and all a man of action's horror of what he called puking and muling. the pursuit of barbara with any other object but that of marriage had naturally not occurred to one who had little sense of conventional morality, but much self-respect; and a secret endeavour to cut out harbinger, ending in a marriage whereat he would figure as a sort of pirate, was quite as little to the taste of a man not unaccustomed to think himself as good as other people. he caused the car to deviate up the lane that led to audrey noel's, hating to go away without a hail of cheer to that ship in distress. she came out to him on the verandah. from the clasp of her hand, thin and faintly browned--the hand of a woman never quite idle--he felt that she relied on him to understand and sympathize; and nothing so awakened the best in courtier as such mute appeals to his protection. he said gently: "don't let them think you're down;" and, squeezing her hand hard: "why should you be wasted like this? it's a sin and shame!" but he stopped in what he felt to be an unlucky speech at sight of her face, which without movement expressed so much more than his words. he was protesting as a civilized man; her face was the protest of nature, the soundless declaration of beauty wasted against its will, beauty that was life's invitation to the embrace which gave life birth. "i'm clearing out, myself," he said: "you and i, you know, are not good for these people. no birds of freedom allowed!" pressing his hand, she turned away into the house, leaving courtier gazing at the patch of air where her white figure had stood. he had always had a special protective feeling for audrey noel, a feeling which with but little encouragement might have become something warmer. but since she had been placed in her anomalous position, he would not for the world have brushed the dew off her belief that she could trust him. and, now that he had fixed his own gaze elsewhere, and she was in this bitter trouble, he felt on her account the rancour that a brother feels when justice and pity have conspired to flout his sister. the voice of frith the chauffeur roused him from gloomy reverie. "lady barbara, sir!" following the man's eyes, courtier saw against the sky-line on the for above ashman's folly, an equestrian statue. he stopped the car at once, and got out. he reached her at the ruin, screened from the road, by that divine chance which attends on men who take care that it shall. he could not tell whether she knew of his approach, and he would have given all he had, which was not much, to have seen through the stiff grey of her coat, and the soft cream of her body, into that mysterious cave, her heart. to have been for a moment, like ashman, done for good and all with material things, and living the white life where are no barriers between man and woman. the smile on her lips so baffled him, puffed there by her spirit, as a first flower is puffed through the sur face of earth to mock at the spring winds. how tell what it signified! yet he rather prided himself on his knowledge of women, of whom he had seen something. but all he found to say was: "i'm glad of this chance." then suddenly looking up, he found her strangely pale and quivering. "i shall see you in london!" she said; and, touching her horse with her whip, without looking back, she rode away over the hill. courtier returned to the moor road, and getting into the car, muttered: "faster, please, frith!".... chapter xxii polling was already in brisk progress when courtier arrived in bucklandbury; and partly from a not unnatural interest in the result, partly from a half-unconscious clinging to the chance of catching another glimpse of barbara, he took his bag to the hotel, determined to stay for the announcement of the poll. strolling out into the high street he began observing the humours of the day. the bloom of political belief had long been brushed off the wings of one who had so flown the world's winds. he had seen too much of more vivid colours to be capable now of venerating greatly the dull and dubious tints of blue and yellow. they left him feeling extremely philosophic. yet it was impossible to get away from them, for the very world that day seemed blue and yellow, nor did the third colour of red adopted by both sides afford any clear assurance that either could see virtue in the other; rather, it seemed to symbolize the desire of each to have his enemy's blood. but courtier soon observed by the looks cast at his own detached, and perhaps sarcastic, face, that even more hateful to either side than its antagonist, was the philosophic eye. unanimous was the longing to heave half a brick at it whenever it showed itself. with its d---d impartiality, its habit of looking through the integument of things to see if there might be anything inside, he felt that they regarded it as the real adversary--the eternal foe to all the little fat 'facts,' who, dressed up in blue and yellow, were swaggering and staggering, calling each other names, wiping each other's eyes, blooding each other's noses. to these little solemn delicious creatures, all front and no behind, the philosophic eye, with its habit of looking round the corner, was clearly detestable. the very yellow and very blue bodies of these roistering small warriors with their hands on their tin swords and their lips on their tin trumpets, started up in every window and on every wall confronting each citizen in turn, persuading him that they and they alone were taking him to westminster. nor had they apparently for the most part much trouble with electors, who, finding uncertainty distasteful, passionately desired to be assured that the country could at once be saved by little yellow facts or little blue facts, as the case might be; who had, no doubt, a dozen other good reasons for being on the one side or the other; as, for instance, that their father had been so before them; that their bread was buttered yellow or buttered blue; that they had been on the other side last time; that they had thought it over and made up their minds; that they had innocent blue or naive yellow beer within; that his lordship was the man; or that the words proper to their mouths were 'chilcox for bucklandbury'; and, above all, the one really creditable reason, that, so far as they could tell with the best of their intellect and feelings, the truth at the moment was either blue or yellow. the narrow high street was thronged with voters. tall policemen stationed there had nothing to do. the certainty of all, that they were going to win, seemed to keep everyone in good humour. there was as yet no need to break anyone's head, for though the sharpest lookout was kept for any signs of the philosophic eye, it was only to be found--outside courtier--in the perambulators of babies, in one old man who rode a bicycle waveringly along the street and stopped to ask a policeman what was the matter in the town, and in two rather green-faced fellows who trundled barrows full of favours both blue and yellow. but though courtier eyed the 'facts' with such suspicion, the keenness of everyone about the business struck him as really splendid. they went at it with a will. having looked forward to it for months, they were going to look back on it for months. it was evidently a religious ceremony, summing up most high feelings; and this seemed to one who was himself a man of action, natural, perhaps pathetic, but certainly no matter for scorn. it was already late in the afternoon when there came debouching into the high street a long string of sandwichmen, each bearing before and behind him a poster containing these words beautifully situated in large dark blue letters against a pale blue ground: "new complications. danger not past. vote for miltoun and the government, and save the empire." courtier stopped to look at them with peculiar indignation. not only did this poster tramp in again on his cherished convictions about peace, but he saw in it something more than met the unphilosophic eye. it symbolized for him all that was catch-penny in the national life-an epitaph on the grave of generosity, unutterably sad. yet from a party point of view what could be more justifiable? was it not desperately important that every blue nerve should be strained that day to turn yellow nerves, if not blue, at all events green, before night fell? was it not perfectly true that the empire could only be saved by voting blue? could they help a blue paper printing the words, 'new complications,' which he had read that morning? no more than the yellows could help a yellow journal printing the words 'lord miltoun's evening adventure.' their only business was to win, ever fighting fair. the yellows had not fought fair, they never did, and one of their most unfair tactics was the way they had of always accusing the blues of unfair fighting, an accusation truly ludicrous! as for truth! that which helped the world to be blue, was obviously true; that which didn't, as obviously not. there was no middle policy! the man who saw things neither was a softy, and no proper citizen. and as for giving the yellows credit for sincerity--the yellows never gave them credit! but though courtier knew all that, this poster seemed to him particularly damnable, and he could not for the life of him resist striking one of the sandwich-boards with his cane. the resounding thwack startled a butcher's pony standing by the pavement. it reared, and bolted forward, with courtier, who had naturally seized the rein, hanging on. a dog dashed past. courtier tripped and fell. the pony, passing over, struck him on the head with a hoof. for a moment he lost consciousness; then coming to himself, refused assistance, and went to his hotel. he felt very giddy, and, after bandaging a nasty cut, lay down on his bed. miltoun, returning from that necessary exhibition of himself, the crowning fact, at every polling centre, found time to go and see him. "that last poster of yours!" courtier began, at once. "i'm having it withdrawn." "it's done the trick--congratulations--you'll get in!" "i knew nothing of it." "my dear fellow, i didn't suppose you did." "when there is a desert, courtier, between a man and the sacred city, he doesn't renounce his journey because he has to wash in dirty water on the way: the mob--how i loathe it!" there was such pent-up fury in those words as to astonish even one whose life had been passed in conflict with majorities. "i hate its mean stupidities, i hate the sound of its voice, and the look on its face--it's so ugly, it's so little. courtier, i suffer purgatory from the thought that i shall scrape in by the votes of the mob. there is sin in using this creature and i am expiating it." to this strange outburst, courtier at first made no reply. "you've been working too hard," he said at last, "you're off your balance. after all, the mob's made up of men like you and me." "no, courtier, the mob is not made up of men like you and me. if it were it would not be the mob." "it looks," courtier answered gravely, "as if you had no business in this galley. i've always steered clear of it myself." "you follow your feelings. i have not that happiness." so saying, miltoun turned to the door. courtier's voice pursued him earnestly. "drop your politics--if you feel like this about them; don't waste your life following whatever it is you follow; don't waste hers!" but miltoun did not answer. it was a wondrous still night, when, a few minutes before twelve, with his forehead bandaged under his hat, the champion of lost causes left the hotel and made his way towards the grammar school for the declaration of the poll. a sound as of some monster breathing guided him, till, from a steep empty street he came in sight of a surging crowd, spread over the town square, like a dark carpet patterned by splashes of lamplight. high up above that crowd, on the little peaked tower of the grammar school, a brightly lighted clock face presided; and over the passionate hopes in those thousands of hearts knit together by suspense the sky had lifted; and showed no cloud between them and the purple fields of air. to courtier descending towards the square, the swaying white faces, turned all one way, seemed like the heads of giant wild flowers in a dark field, shivered by wind. the night had charmed away the blue and yellow facts, and breathed down into that throng the spirit of emotion. and he realized all at once the beauty and meaning of this scene--expression of the quivering forces, whose perpetual flux, controlled by the spirit of balance, was the soul of the world. thousands of hearts with the thought of self lost in one over-mastering excitement! an old man with a long grey beard, standing close to his elbow, murmured: "'tis anxious work--i wouldn't ha' missed this for anything in the world." "fine, eh?" answered courtier. "aye," said the old man, "'tis fine. i've not seen the like o' this since the great year--forty-eight. there they are--the aristocrats!" following the direction of that skinny hand courtier saw on a balcony lord and lady valleys, side by side, looking steadily down at the crowd. there too, leaning against a window and talking to someone behind, was barbara. the old man went on muttering, and courtier could see that his eyes had grown very bright, his whole face transfigured by intense hostility; he felt drawn to this old creature, thus moved to the very soul. then he saw barbara looking down at him, with her hand raised to her temple to show that she saw his bandaged head. he had the presence of mind not to lift his hat. the old man spoke again. "you wouldn't remember forty-eight, i suppose. there was a feeling in the people then--we would ha' died for things in those days. i'm eighty-four," and he held his shaking hand up to his breast, "but the spirit's alive here yet! god send the radical gets in!" there was wafted from him a scent as of potatoes. far behind, at the very edge of the vast dark throng, some voices began singing: "way down upon the swanee ribber." the tune floated forth, ceased, spurted up once more, and died. then, in the very centre of the square a stentorian baritone roared forth: "should auld acquaintance be forgot!" the song swelled, till every kind of voice, from treble to the old chartist's quavering bass, was chanting it; here and there the crowd heaved with the movement of linked arms. courtier found the soft fingers of a young woman in his right hand, the old chartist's dry trembling paw in his left. he himself sang loudly. the grave and fearful music sprang straight up into they air, rolled out right and left, and was lost among the hills. but it had no sooner died away than the same huge baritone yelled "god save our gracious king!" the stature of the crowd seemed at once to leap up two feet, and from under that platform of raised hats rose a stupendous shouting. "this," thought courtier, "is religion!" they were singing even on the balconies; by the lamplight he could see lord valleys mouth not opened quite enough, as though his voice were just a little ashamed of coming out, and barbara with her head flung back against the pillar, pouring out her heart. no mouth in all the crowd was silent. it was as though the soul of the english people were escaping from its dungeon of reserve, on the pinions of that chant. but suddenly, like a shot bird closing wings, the song fell silent and dived headlong back to earth. out from under the clock-face had moved a thin dark figure. more figures came behind. courtier could see miltoun. a voice far away cried: "up; chilcox!" a huge: "husill" followed; then such a silence, that the sound of an engine shunting a mile away could be heard plainly. the dark figure moved forward, and a tiny square of paper gleamed out white against the black of his frock-coat. "ladies and gentlemen. result of the poll: "miltoun four thousand eight hundred and ninety-eight. chilcox four thousand eight hundred and two." the silence seemed to fall to earth, and break into a thousand pieces. through the pandemonium of cheers and groaning, courtier with all his strength forced himself towards the balcony. he could see lord valleys leaning forward with a broad smile; lady valleys passing her hand across her eyes; barbara with her hand in harbinger's, looking straight into his face. he stopped. the old chartist was still beside him, tears rolling down his cheeks into his beard. courtier saw miltoun come forward, and stand, unsmiling, deathly pale. part ii chapter i at three o'clock in the afternoon of the nineteenth of july little ann shropton commenced the ascent of the main staircase of valleys house, london. she climbed slowly, in the very middle, an extremely small white figure on those wide and shining stairs, counting them aloud. their number was never alike two days running, which made them attractive to one for whom novelty was the salt of life. coming to that spot where they branched, she paused to consider which of the two flights she had used last, and unable to remember, sat down. she was the bearer of a message. it had been new when she started, but was already comparatively old, and likely to become older, in view of a design now conceived by her of travelling the whole length of the picture gallery. and while she sat maturing this plan, sunlight flooding through a large window drove a white refulgence down into the heart of the wide polished space of wood and marble, whence she had come. the nature of little ann habitually rejected fairies and all fantastic things, finding them quite too much in the air, and devoid of sufficient reality and 'go'; and this refulgence, almost unearthly in its travelling glory, passed over her small head and played strangely with the pillars in the hall, without exciting in her any fancies or any sentiment. the intention of discovering what was at the end of the picture gallery absorbed the whole of her essentially practical and active mind. deciding on the left-hand flight of stairs, she entered that immensely long, narrow, and--with blinds drawn--rather dark saloon. she walked carefully, because the floor was very slippery here, and with a kind of seriousness due partly to the darkness and partly to the pictures. they were indeed, in this light, rather formidable, those old caradocs black, armoured creatures, some of them, who seemed to eye with a sort of burning, grim, defensive greed the small white figure of their descendant passing along between them. but little ann, who knew they were only pictures, maintained her course steadily, and every now and then, as she passed one who seemed to her rather uglier than the others, wrinkled her sudden little nose. at the end, as she had thought; appeared a door. she opened it, and passed on to a landing. there was a stone staircase in the corner, and there were two doors. it would be nice to go up the staircase, but it would also be nice to open the doors. going towards the first door, with a little thrill, she turned the handle. it was one of those rooms, necessary in houses, for which she had no great liking; and closing this door rather loudly she opened the other one, finding herself in a chamber not resembling the rooms downstairs, which were all high and nicely gilded, but more like where she had lessons, low, and filled with books and leather chairs. from the end of the room which she could not see, she heard a sound as of someone kissing something, and instinct had almost made her turn to go away when the word: "hallo!" suddenly opened her lips. and almost directly she saw that granny and grandpapa were standing by the fireplace. not knowing quite whether they were glad to see her, she went forward and began at once: "is this where you sit, grandpapa?" "it is." "it's nice, isn't it, granny? where does the stone staircase go to?" "to the roof of the tower, ann." "oh! i have to give a message, so i must go now." "sorry to lose you." "yes; good-bye!" hearing the door shut behind her, lord and lady valleys looked at each other with a dubious smile. the little interview which she had interrupted, had arisen in this way. accustomed to retire to this quiet and homely room, which was not his official study where he was always liable to the attacks of secretaries, lord valleys had come up here after lunch to smoke and chew the cud of a worry. the matter was one in connection with his pendridny estate, in cornwall. it had long agitated both his agent and himself, and had now come to him for final decision. the question affected two villages to the north of the property, whose inhabitants were solely dependent on the working of a large quarry, which had for some time been losing money. a kindly man, he was extremely averse to any measure which would plunge his tenants into distress, and especially in cases where there had been no question of opposition between himself and them. but, reduced to its essentials, the matter stood thus: apart from that particular quarry the pendridny estate was not only a going, but even a profitable concern, supporting itself and supplying some of the sinews of war towards valleys house and the racing establishment at newmarket and other general expenses; with this quarry still running, allowing for the upkeep of pendridny, and the provision of pensions to superannuated servants, it was rather the other way. sitting there, that afternoon, smoking his favourite pipe, he had at last come to the conclusion that there was nothing for it but to close down. he had not made this resolution lightly; though, to do him justice, the knowledge that the decision would be bound to cause an outcry in the local, and perhaps the national press, had secretly rather spurred him on to the resolve than deterred him from it. he felt as if he were being dictated to in advance, and he did not like dictation. to have to deprive these poor people of their immediate living was, he knew, a good deal more irksome to him than to those who would certainly make a fuss about it, his conscience was clear, and he could discount that future outcry as mere party spite. he had very honestly tried to examine the thing all round; and had reasoned thus: if i keep this quarry open, i am really admitting the principle of pauperization, since i naturally look to each of my estates to support its own house, grounds, shooting, and to contribute towards the support of this house, and my family, and racing stable, and all the people employed about them both. to allow any business to be run on my estates which does not contribute to the general upkeep, is to protect and really pauperize a portion of my tenants at the expense of the rest; it must therefore be false economics and a secret sort of socialism. further, if logically followed out, it might end in my ruin, and to allow that, though i might not personally object, would be to imply that i do not believe that i am by virtue of my traditions and training, the best machinery through which the state can work to secure the welfare of the people.... when he had reached that point in his consideration of the question, his mind, or rather perhaps, his essential self, had not unnaturally risen up and said: which is absurd! impersonality was in fashion, and as a rule he believed in thinking impersonally. there was a point, however, where the possibility of doing so ceased, without treachery to oneself, one's order, and the country. and to the argument which he was quite shrewd enough to put to himself, sooner than have it put by anyone else, that it was disproportionate for a single man by a stroke of the pen to be able to dispose of the livelihood of hundreds whose senses and feelings were similar to his own--he had answered: "if i didn't, some plutocrat or company would--or, worse still, the state!" cooperative enterprise being, in his opinion, foreign to the spirit of the country, there was, so far as he could see, no other alternative. facts were facts and not to be got over! notwithstanding all this, the necessity for the decision made him sorry, for if he had no great sense of proportion, he was at least humane. he was still smoking his pipe and staring at a sheet of paper covered with small figures when his wife entered. though she had come to ask his advice on a very different subject, she saw at once that he was vexed, and said: "what's the matter, geoff?" lord valleys rose, went to the hearth, deliberately tapped out his pipe, then held out to her the sheet of paper. "that quarry! nothing for it--must go!" lady valleys' face changed. "oh, no! it will mean such dreadful distress." lord valleys stared at his nails. "it's putting a drag on the whole estate," he said. "i know, but how could we face the people--i should never be able to go down there. and most of them have such enormous families." since lord valleys continued to bend on his nails that slow, thought-forming stare, she went on earnestly: "rather than that i'd make sacrifices. i'd sooner pendridny were let than throw all those people out of work. i suppose it would let." "let? best woodcock shooting in the world." lady valleys, pursuing her thoughts, went on: "in time we might get the people drafted into other things. have you consulted miltoun?" "no," said lord valleys shortly, "and don't mean to--he's too unpractical." "he always seems to know what he wants very well." "i tell you," repeated lord valleys, "miltoun's no good in a matter of this sort--he and his ideas throw back to the middle ages." lady valleys went closer, and took him by the lapels of his collar. "geoff-really, to please me; some other way!" lord valleys frowned, staring at her for some time; and at last answered: "to please you--i'll leave it over another year." "you think that's better than letting?" "i don't like the thought of some outsider there. time enough to come to that if we must. take it as my christmas present." lady valleys, rather flushed, bent forward and kissed his ear. it was at this moment that little ann had entered. when she was gone, and they had exchanged that dubious look, lady valleys said: "i came about babs. i don't know what to make of her since we came up. she's not putting her heart into things." lord valleys answered almost sulkily: "it's the heat probably--or claud harbinger." in spite of his easy-going parentalism, he disliked the thought of losing the child whom he so affectionately admired. "ah!" said lady valleys slowly, "i'm not so sure." "how do you mean?" "there's something queer about her. i'm by no means certain she hasn't got some sort of feeling for that mr. courtier." "what!" said lord valleys, growing most unphilosophically red. "exactly!" "confound it, gertrude, miltoun's business was quite enough for one year." "for twenty," murmured lady valleys. "i'm watching her. he's going to persia, they say." "and leaving his bones there, i hope," muttered lord valleys. "really, it's too much. i should think you're all wrong, though." lady valleys raised her eyebrows. men were very queer about such things! very queer and worse than helpless! "well," she said, "i must go to my meeting. i'll take her, and see if i can get at something," and she went away. it was the inaugural meeting of the society for the promotion of the birth rate, over which she had promised to preside. the scheme was one in which she had been prominent from the start, appealing as it did to her large and full-blooded nature. many movements, to which she found it impossible to refuse her name, had in themselves but small attraction; and it was a real comfort to feel something approaching enthusiasm for one branch of her public work. not that there was any academic consistency about her in the matter, for in private life amongst her friends she was not narrowly dogmatic on the duty of wives to multiply exceedingly. she thought imperially on the subject, without bigotry. large, healthy families, in all cases save individual ones! the prime idea at the back of her mind was--national expansion! her motto, and she intended if possible to make it the motto of the league, was: 'de l'audace, et encore de l'audace!' it was a question of the full realization of the nation. she had a true, and in a sense touching belief in 'the flag,' apart from what it might cover. it was her idealism. "you may talk," she would say, "as much as you like about directing national life in accordance with social justice! what does the nation care about social justice? the thing is much bigger than that. it's a matter of sentiment. we must expand!" on the way to the meeting, occupied with her speech, she made no attempt to draw barbara into conversation. that must wait. the child, though languid, and pale, was looking so beautiful that it was a pleasure to have her support in such a movement. in a little dark room behind the hall the committee were already assembled, and they went at once on to the platform. chapter ii unmoved by the stares of the audience, barbara sat absorbed in moody thoughts. into the three weeks since miltoun's election there had been crowded such a multitude of functions that she had found, as it were, no time, no energy to know where she stood with herself. since that morning in the stable, when he had watched her with the horse hal, harbinger had seemed to live only to be close to her. and the consciousness of his passion gave her a tingling sense of pleasure. she had been riding and dancing with him, and sometimes this had been almost blissful. but there were times too, when she felt--though always with a certain contempt of herself, as when she sat on that sunwarmed stone below the tor--a queer dissatisfaction, a longing for something outside a world where she had to invent her own starvations and simplicities, to make-believe in earnestness. she had seen courtier three times. once he had come to dine, in response to an invitation from lady valleys worded in that charming, almost wistful style, which she had taught herself to use to those below her in social rank, especially if they were intelligent; once to the valleys house garden party; and next day, having told him what time she would be riding, she had found him in the row, not mounted, but standing by the rail just where she must pass, with that look on his face of mingled deference and ironic self-containment, of which he was a master. it appeared that he was leaving england; and to her questions why, and where, he had only shrugged his shoulders. up on this dusty platform, in the hot bare hall, facing all those people, listening to speeches whose sense she was too languid and preoccupied to take in, the whole medley of thoughts, and faces round her, and the sound of the speakers' voices, formed a kind of nightmare, out of which she noted with extreme exactitude the colour of her mother's neck beneath a large black hat, and the expression on the face of a committee man to the right, who was biting his fingers under cover of a blue paper. she realized that someone was speaking amongst the audience, casting forth, as it were, small bunches of words. she could see him--a little man in a black coat, with a white face which kept jerking up and down. "i feel that this is terrible," she heard him say; "i feel that this is blasphemy. that we should try to tamper with the greatest force, the greatest and the most sacred and secret-force, that--that moves in the world, is to me horrible. i cannot bear to listen; it seems to make everything so small!" she saw him sit down, and her mother rising to answer. "we must all sympathize with the sincerity and to a certain extent with the intention of our friend in the body of the hall. but we must ask ourselves: "have we the right to allow ourselves the luxury, of private feelings in a matter which concerns the national expansion. we must not give way to sentiment. our friend in the body of the hall spoke--he will forgive me for saying so--like a poet, rather than a serious reformer. i am afraid that if we let ourselves drop into poetry, the birth rate of this country will very soon drop into poetry too. and that i think it is impossible for us to contemplate with folded hands. the resolution i was about to propose when our friend in the body of the hall----" but barbara's attention, had wandered off again into that queer medley of thoughts, and feelings, out of which the little man had so abruptly roused her. then she realized that the meeting was breaking up, and her mother saying: "now, my dear, it's hospital day. we've just time." when they were once more in the car, she leaned back very silent, watching the traffic. lady valleys eyed her sidelong. "what a little bombshell," she said, "from that small person! he must have got in by mistake. i hear mr. courtier has a card for helen gloucester's ball to-night, babs." "poor man!" "you will be there," said lady valleys dryly. barbara drew back into her corner. "don't tease me, mother!" an expression of compunction crossed lady valleys' face; she tried to possess herself of barbara's hand. but that languid hand did not return her squeeze. "i know the mood you're in, dear. it wants all one's pluck to shake it off; don't let it grow on you. you'd better go down to uncle dennis to-morrow. you've been overdoing it." barbara sighed. "i wish it were to-morrow." the car had stopped, and lady valleys said: "will you come in, or are you too tired? it always does them good to see you." "you're twice as tired as me," barbara answered; "of course i'll come." at the entrance of the two ladies, there rose at once a faint buzz and murmur. lady valleys, whose ample presence radiated suddenly a businesslike and cheery confidence, went to a bedside and sat down. but barbara stood in a thin streak of the july sunlight, uncertain where to begin, amongst the faces turned towards her. the poor dears looked so humble, and so wistful, and so tired. there was one lying quite flat, who had not even raised her head to see who had come in. that slumbering, pale, high cheek-boned face had a frailty as if a touch, a breath, would shatter it; a wisp of the blackest hair, finer than silk, lay across the forehead; the closed eyes were deep sunk; one hand, scarred almost to the bone with work, rested above her breast. she breathed between lips which had no colour. about her, sleeping, was a kind of beauty. and there came over the girl a queer rush of emotion. the sleeper seemed so apart from everything there, from all the formality and stiffness of the ward. to look at her swept away the languid, hollow feeling with which she had come in; it made her think of the tors at home, when the wind was blowing, and all was bare, and grand, and sometimes terrible. there was something elemental in that still sleep. and the old lady in the next led, with a brown wrinkled face and bright black eyes brimful of life, seemed almost vulgar beside such remote tranquillity, while she was telling barbara that a little bunch of heather in the better half of a soap-dish on the window-sill had come from wales, because, as she explained: "my mother was born in stirling, dearie; so i likes a bit of heather, though i never been out o' bethnal green meself." but when barbara again passed, the sleeping woman was sitting up, and looked but a poor ordinary thing--her strange fragile beauty all withdrawn. it was a relief when lady valleys said: "my dear, my naval bazaar at five-thirty; and while i'm there you must go home and have a rest, and freshen yourself up for the evening. we dine at plassey house." the duchess of gloucester's ball, a function which no one could very well miss, had been fixed for this late date owing to the duchess's announced desire to prolong the season and so help the hackney cabmen; and though everybody sympathized, it had been felt by most that it would be simpler to go away, motor up on the day of the ball, and motor down again on the following morning. and throughout the week by which the season was thus prolonged, in long rows at the railway stations, and on their stands, the hackney cabmen, unconscious of what was being done for them, waited, patient as their horses. but since everybody was making this special effort, an exceptionally large, exclusive, and brilliant company reassembled at gloucester house. in the vast ballroom over the medley of entwined revolving couples, punkahs had been fixed, to clear and freshen the languid air, and these huge fans, moving with incredible slowness, drove a faint refreshing draught down over the sea of white shirt-fronts and bare necks, and freed the scent from innumerable flowers. late in the evening, close by one of the great clumps of bloom, a very pretty woman stood talking to bertie caradoc. she was his cousin, lily malvezin, sister of geoffrey winlow, and wife of a liberal peer, a charming creature, whose pink cheeks, bright eyes, quick lips, and rounded figure, endowed her with the prettiest air of animation. and while she spoke she kept stealing sly glances at her partner, trying as it were to pierce the armour of that self-contained young man. "no, my dear," she said in her mocking voice, "you'll never persuade me that miltoun is going to catch on. 'il est trop intransigeant'. ah! there's babs!" for the girl had come gliding by, her eyes wandering lazily, her lips just parted; her neck, hardly less pale than her white frock; her face pale, and marked with languor, under the heavy coil of her tawny hair; and her swaying body seeming with each turn of the waltz to be caught by the arms of her partner from out of a swoon. with that immobility of lips, learned by all imprisoned in society, lily malvezin murmured: "who's that she's dancing with? is it the dark horse, bertie?" through lips no less immobile bertie answered: "forty to one, no takers." but those inquisitive bright eyes still followed barbara, drifting in the dance, like a great waterlily caught in the swirl of a mill pool; and the thought passed through that pretty head: "she's hooked him. it's naughty of babs, really!" and then she saw leaning against a pillar another whose eyes also were following those two; and she thought: "h'm! poor claud--no wonder he's looking like that. oh! babs!" by one of the statues on the terrace barbara and her partner stood, where trees, disfigured by no gaudy lanterns, offered the refreshment of their darkness and serenity. wrapped in her new pale languor, still breathing deeply from the waltz, she seemed to courtier too utterly moulded out of loveliness. to what end should a man frame speeches to a vision! she was but an incarnation of beauty imprinted on the air, and would fade out at a touch-like the sudden ghosts of enchantment that came to one under the blue, and the starlit snow of a mountain night, or in a birch wood all wistful golden! speech seemed but desecration! besides, what of interest was there for him to say in this world of hers, so bewildering and of such glib assurance--this world that was like a building, whose every window was shut and had a blind drawn down. a building that admitted none who had not sworn, as it were, to believe it the world, the whole world, and nothing but the world, outside which were only the nibbled remains of what had built it. this, world of society, in which he felt like one travelling through a desert, longing to meet a fellow-creature. the voice of harbinger behind them said: "lady-babs!" long did the punkahs waft their breeze over that brave-hued wheel of pleasure, and the sound of the violins quaver and wail out into the morning. then quickly, as the spangles of dew vanish off grass when the sun rises, all melted away; and in the great rooms were none but flunkeys presiding over the polished surfaces like flamingoes by some lakeside at dawn. chapter iii a brick dower-house of the fitz-harolds, just outside the little seaside town of nettlefold, sheltered the tranquil days of lord dennis. in that south-coast air, sanest and most healing in all england, he raged very slowly, taking little thought of death, and much quiet pleasure in his life. like the tall old house with its high windows and squat chimneys, he was marvellously self-contained. his books, for he somewhat passionately examined old civilizations, and described their habits from time to time with a dry and not too poignant pen in a certain old-fashioned magazine; his microscope, for he studied infusoria; and the fishing boat of his friend john bogle, who had long perceived that lord dennis was the biggest fish he ever caught; all these, with occasional visitors, and little runs to london, to monkland, and other country houses, made up the sum of a life which, if not desperately beneficial, was uniformly kind and harmless, and, by its notorious simplicity, had a certain negative influence not only on his own class but on the relations of that class with the country at large. it was commonly said in nettlefold, that he was a gentleman; if they were all like him there wasn't much in all this talk against the lords. the shop people and lodging-house keepers felt that the interests of the country were safer in his hands: than in the hands of people who wanted to meddle with everything for the good of those who were only anxious to be let alone. a man too who could so completely forget he was the son of a duke, that other people never forgot it, was the man for their money. it was true that he had never had a say in public affairs; but this was overlooked, because he could have had it if he liked, and the fact that he did not like, only showed once more that he was a gentleman. just as he was the one personality of the little town against whom practically nothing was ever, said, so was his house the one house which defied criticism. time had made it utterly suitable. the ivied walls, and purplish roof lichened yellow in places, the quiet meadows harbouring ponies and kine, reaching from it to the sea--all was mellow. in truth it made all the other houses of the town seem shoddy--standing alone beyond them, like its, master, if anything a little too esthetically remote from common wants. he had practically no near neighbours of whom he saw anything, except once in a way young harbinger three miles distant at whitewater. but since he had the faculty of not being bored with his own society, this did not worry him. of local charity, especially to the fishers of the town, whose winter months were nowadays very bare of profit, he was prodigal to the verge of extravagance, for his income was not great. but in politics, beyond acting as the figure-head of certain municipal efforts, he took little or no part. his toryism indeed was of the mild order, that had little belief in the regeneration of the country by any means but those of kindly feeling between the classes. when asked how that was to be brought about, he would answer with his dry, slightly malicious, suavity, that if you stirred hornets' nests with sticks the hornets would come forth. having no land, he was shy of expressing himself on that vexed question; but if resolutely attacked would give utterance to some such sentiment as this: "the land's best in our hands on the whole, but we want fewer dogs-in-the-manger among us." he had, as became one of his race, a feeling for land, tender and protective, and could not bear to think of its being put out to farm with that cold mother, the state. he was ironical over the views of radicals or socialists, but disliked to hear such people personally abused behind their backs. it must be confessed, however, that if contradicted he increased considerably the ironical decision of his sentiments. withdrawn from all chance in public life of enforcing his views on others, the natural aristocrat within him was forced to find some expression. each year, towards the end of july, he placed his house at the service of lord valleys, who found it a convenient centre for attending goodwood. it was on the morning after the duchess of gloucester's ball, that he received this note: "valleys house. "dearest uncle dennis, "may i come down to you a little before time and rest? london is so terribly hot. mother has three functions still to stay for, and i shall have to come back again for our last evening, the political one--so i don't want to go all the way to monkland; and anywhere else, except with you, would be rackety. eustace looks so seedy. i'll try and bring him, if i may. granny is terribly well. "best love, dear, from your. "babs." the same afternoon she came, but without miltoun, driving up from the station in a fly. lord dennis met her at the gate; and, having kissed her, looked at her somewhat anxiously, caressing his white peaked beard. he had never yet known babs sick of anything, except when he took her out in john bogle's boat. she was certainly looking pale, and her hair was done differently--a fact disturbing to one who did not discover it. slipping his arm through hers he led her out into a meadow still full of buttercups, where an old white pony, who had carried her in the row twelve years ago, came up to them and rubbed his muzzle against her waist. and suddenly there rose in lord dennis the thoroughly discomforting and strange suspicion that, though the child was not going to cry, she wanted time to get over the feeling that she was. without appearing to separate himself from her, he walked to the wall at the end of the field, and stood looking at the sea. the tide was nearly up; the south wind driving over it brought him the scent of the sea-flowers, and the crisp rustle of little waves swimming almost to his feet. far out, where the sunlight fell, the smiling waters lay white and mysterious in july haze, giving him a queer feeling. but lord dennis, though he had his moments of poetic sentiment, was on the whole quite able to keep the sea in its proper place--for after all it was the english channel; and like a good englishman he recognized that if you once let things get away from their names, they ceased to be facts, and if they ceased to be facts, they became--the devil! in truth he was not thinking much of the sea, but of barbara. it was plain that she was in trouble of some kind. and the notion that babs could find trouble in life was extraordinarily queer; for he felt, subconsciously, what a great driving force of disturbance was necessary to penetrate the hundred folds of the luxurious cloak enwrapping one so young and fortunate. it was not death; therefore it must be love; and he thought at once of that fellow with the red moustaches. ideas were all very well--no one would object to as many as you liked, in their proper place--the dinner-table, for example. but to fall in love, if indeed it were so, with a man who not only had ideas, but an inclination to live up to them, and on them, and on nothing else, seemed to lord dennis 'outre'. she had followed him to the wall, and he looked--at her dubiously. "to rest in the waters of lethe, babs? by the way, seen anything of our friend mr. courtier? very picturesque--that quixotic theory of life!" and in saying that, his voice (like so many refined voices which have turned their backs on speculation) was triple-toned-mocking at ideas, mocking at itself for mocking at ideas, yet showing plainly that at bottom it only mocked at itself for mocking at ideas, because it would be, as it were, crude not to do so. but barbara did not answer his question, and began to speak of other things. and all that afternoon and evening she talked away so lightly that lord dennis, but for his instinct, would have been deceived. that wonderful smiling mask--the inscrutability of youth--was laid aside by her at night. sitting at her window, under the moon, 'a gold-bright moth slow-spinning up the sky,' she watched the darkness hungrily, as though it were a great thought into whose heart she was trying to see. now and then she stroked herself, getting strange comfort out of the presence of her body. she had that old unhappy feeling of having two selves within her. and this soft night full of the quiet stir of the sea, and of dark immensity, woke in her a terrible longing to be at one with something, somebody, outside herself. at the ball last night the 'flying feeling' had seized on her again; and was still there--a queer manifestation of her streak of recklessness. and this result of her contacts with courtier, this 'cacoethes volandi', and feeling of clipped wings, hurt her--as being forbidden hurts a child. she remembered how in the housekeeper's room at monkland there lived a magpie who had once sought shelter in an orchid-house from some pursuer. as soon as they thought him wedded to civilization, they had let him go, to see whether he would come back. for hours he had sat up in a high tree, and at last come down again to his cage; whereupon, fearing lest the rooks should attack him when he next took this voyage of discovery, they clipped one of his wings. after that the twilight bird, though he lived happily enough, hopping about his cage and the terrace which served him for exercise yard, would seem at times restive and frightened, moving his wings as if flying in spirit, and sad that he must stay on earth. so, too, at her window barbara fluttered her wings; then, getting into bed, lay sighing and tossing. a clock struck three; and seized by an intolerable impatience at her own discomfort, she slipped a motor coat over her night-gown, put on slippers, and stole out into the passage. the house was very still. she crept downstairs, smothering her footsteps. groping her way through the hall, inhabited by the thin ghosts of would-be light, she slid back the chain of the door, and fled towards the sea. she made no more noise running in the dew, than a bird following the paths of air; and the two ponies, who felt her figure pass in the darkness, snuffled, sending out soft sighs of alarm amongst the closed buttercups. she climbed the wall over to the beach. while she was running, she had fully meant to dash into the sea and cool herself, but it was so black, with just a thin edging scarf of white, and the sky was black, bereft of lights, waiting for the day! she stood, and looked. and all the leapings and pulsings of flesh and spirit slowly died in that wide dark loneliness, where the only sound was the wistful breaking of small waves. she was well used to these dead hours--only last night, at this very time, harbinger's arm had been round her in a last waltz! but here the dead hours had such different faces, wide-eyed, solemn, and there came to barbara, staring out at them, a sense that the darkness saw her very soul, so that it felt little and timid within her. she shivered in her fur-lined coat, as if almost frightened at finding herself so marvellously nothing before that black sky and dark sea, which seemed all one, relentlessly great.... and crouching down, she waited for the dawn to break. it came from over the downs, sweeping a rush of cold air on its wings, flighting towards the sea. with it the daring soon crept back into her blood. she stripped, and ran down into the dark water, fast growing pale. it covered her jealously, and she set to work to swim. the water was warmer than the air. she lay on her back and splashed, watching the sky flush. to bathe like this in the half-dark, with her hair floating out, and no wet clothes clinging to her limbs, gave her the joy of a child doing a naughty thing. she swam out of her depth, then scared at her own adventure, swam in again as the sun rose. she dashed into her two garments, climbed the wall, and scurried back to the house. all her dejection, and feverish uncertainty were gone; she felt keen, fresh, terribly hungry, and stealing into the dark dining-room, began rummaging for food. she found biscuits, and was still munching, when in the open doorway she saw lord dennis, a pistol in one hand and a lighted candle in the other. with his carved features and white beard above an old blue dressing-gown, he looked impressive, having at the moment a distinct resemblance to lady casterley, as though danger had armoured him in steel. "you call this resting!" he said, dryly; then, looking at her drowned hair, added: "i see you have already entrusted your trouble to the waters of lethe." but without answer barbara vanished into the dim hall and up the stairs. chapter iv while barbara was swimming to meet the dawn, miltoun was bathing in those waters of mansuetude and truth which roll from wall to wall in the british house of commons. in that long debate on the land question, for which he had waited to make his first speech, he had already risen nine times without catching the speaker's eye, and slowly a sense of unreality was creeping over him. surely this great chamber, where without end rose the small sound of a single human voice, and queer mechanical bursts of approbation and resentment, did not exist at all but as a gigantic fancy of his own! and all these figures were figments of his brain! and when he at last spoke, it would be himself alone that he addressed! the torpid air tainted with human breath, the unwinking stare of the countless lights, the long rows of seats, the queer distant rounds of pale listening flesh perched up so high, they were all emanations of himself! even the coming and going in the gangway was but the coming and going of little wilful parts of him! and rustling deep down in this titanic creature of his fancy was 'the murmuration' of his own unspoken speech, sweeping away the puff balls of words flung up by that far-away, small, varying voice. then, suddenly all that dream creature had vanished; he was on his feet, with a thumping heart, speaking. soon he had no tremors, only a dim consciousness that his words sounded strange, and a queer icy pleasure in flinging them out into the silence. round him there seemed no longer men, only mouths and eyes. and he had enjoyment in the feeling that with these words of his he was holding those hungry mouths and eyes dumb and unmoving. then he knew that he had reached the end of what he had to say, and sat down, remaining motionless in the centre of a various sound; staring at the back of the head in front of him, with his hands clasped round his knee. and soon, when that little faraway voice was once more speaking, he took his hat, and glancing neither to right nor left, went out. instead of the sensation of relief and wild elation which fills the heart of those who have taken the first plunge, miltoun had nothing in his deep dark well but the waters of bitterness. in truth, with the delivery of that speech he had but parted with what had been a sort of anodyne to suffering. he had only put the fine point on his conviction, of how vain was his career now that he could not share it with audrey noel. he walked slowly towards the temple, along the riverside, where the lamps were paling into nothingness before that daily celebration of divinity, the meeting of dark and light. for miltoun was not one of those who take things lying down; he took things desperately, deeply, and with revolt. he took them like a rider riding himself, plunging at the dig of his own spurs, chafing and wincing at the cruel tugs of his own bitt; bearing in his friendless, proud heart all the burden of struggles which shallower or more genial natures shared with others. he looked hardly less haggard, walking home, than some of those homeless ones who slept nightly by the river, as though they knew that to lie near one who could so readily grant oblivion, alone could save them from seeking that consolation. he was perhaps unhappier than they, whose spirits, at all events, had long ceased to worry them, having oozed out from their bodies under the foot of life: now that audrey noel was lost to him, her loveliness and that indescribable quality which made her lovable, floated before him, the very torture-flowers of a beauty never to be grasped--yet, that he could grasp, 'if he only would! that was the heart and fervour of his suffering. to be grasped if he only would! he was suffering, too, physically from a kind of slow fever, the result of his wetting on the day when he last saw her. and through that latent fever, things and feelings, like his sensations in the house before his speech, were all as it were muffled in a horrible way, as if they all came to him wrapped in a sort of flannel coating, through which he could not cut. and all the time there seemed to be within him two men at mortal grips with one another; the man of faith in divine sanction and authority, on which all his beliefs had hitherto hinged, and a desperate warm-blooded hungry creature. he was very miserable, craving strangely for the society of someone who could understand what he was feeling, .and, from long habit of making no confidants, not knowing how to satisfy that craving. it was dawn when he reached his rooms; and, sure that he would not sleep, he did not even go to bed, but changed his clothes, made himself some coffee, and sat down at the window which overlooked the flowered courtyard. in middle temple hall a ball was still in progress, though the glamour from its chinese lanterns was already darkened and gone. miltoun saw a man and a girl, sheltered by an old fountain, sitting out their last dance. her head had sunk on her partner's shoulder; their lips were joined. and there floated up to the window the scent of heliotrope, with the tune of the waltz that those two should have been dancing. this couple so stealthily enlaced, the gleam of their furtively turned eyes, the whispering of their lips, that stony niche below the twittering sparrows, so cunningly sought out--it was the world he had abjured! when he looked again, they--like a vision seen--had stolen away and gone; the music too had ceased, there was no scent of heliotrope. in the stony niche crouched a stray cat watching the twittering sparrows. miltoun went out, and, turning into the empty strand, walked on--without heeding where, till towards five o'clock he found himself on putney bridge. he rested there, leaning over the parapet, looking down at the grey water. the sun was just breaking through the heat haze; early waggons were passing, and already men were coming in to work. to what end did the river wander up and down; and a human river flow across it twice every day? to what end were men and women suffering? of the full current of this life miltoun could no more see the aim, than that of the wheeling gulls in the early sunlight. leaving the bridge he made towards barnes common. the night was still ensnared there on the gorse bushes grey with cobwebs and starry dewdrops. he passed a tramp family still sleeping, huddled all together. even the homeless lay in each other's arms! from the common he emerged on the road near the gates of ravensham; turning in there, he found his way to the kitchen garden, and sat down on a bench close to the raspberry bushes. they were protected from thieves, but at miltoun's approach two blackbirds flustered out through the netting and flew away. his long figure resting so motionless impressed itself on the eyes of a gardener, who caused a report to be circulated that his young lordship was in the fruit garden. it reached the ears of clifton, who himself came out to see what this might mean. the old man took his stand in front of miltoun very quietly. "you have come to breakfast, my lord?" "if my grandmother will have me, clifton." "i understood your lordship was speaking last night." "i was." "you find the house of commons satisfactory, i hope." "fairly, thank you, clifton." "they are not what they were in the great days of your grandfather, i believe. he had a very good opinion of them. they vary, no doubt." "tempora mutantur." "that is so. i find quite anew spirit towards public affairs. the ha'penny press; one takes it in, but one hardly approves. i shall be anxious to read your speech. they say a first speech is a great strain." "it is rather." "but you had no reason to be anxious. i'm sure it was beautiful." miltoun saw that the old man's thin sallow cheeks had flushed to a deep orange between his snow-white whiskers. "i have looked forward to this day," he stammered, "ever since i knew your lordship--twenty-eight years. it is the beginning." "or the end, clifton." the old man's face fell in a look of deep and concerned astonishment. "no, no," he said; "with your antecedents, never." miltoun took his hand. "sorry, clifton--didn't mean to shock you." and for a minute neither spoke, looking at their clasped hands as if surprised. "would your lordship like a bath--breakfast is still at eight. i can procure you a razor." when miltoun entered the breakfast room, his grandmother, with a copy of the times in her hands, was seated before a grape fruit, which, with a shredded wheat biscuit, constituted her first meal. her appearance hardly warranted barbara's description of 'terribly well'; in truth she looked a little white, as if she had been feeling the heat. but there was no lack of animation in her little steel-grey eyes, nor of decision in her manner. "i see," she said, "that you've taken a line of your own, eustace. i've nothing to say against that; in fact, quite the contrary. but remember this, my dear, however you may change you mustn't wobble. only one thing counts in that place, hitting the same nail on the head with the same hammer all the time. you aren't looking at all well." miltoun, bending to kiss her, murmured: "thanks, i'm all right." "nonsense," replied lady casterley. "they don't look after you. was your mother in the house?" "i don't think so." "exactly. and what is barbara about? she ought to be seeing to you." "barbara is down with uncle dennis." lady casterley set her jaw; then looking her grandson through and through, said: "i shall take you down there this very day. i shall have the sea to you. what do you say, clifton?" "his lordship does look pale." "have the carriage, and we'll go from clapham junction. thomas can go in and fetch you some clothes. or, better, though i dislike them, we can telephone to your mother for a car. it's very hot for trains. arrange that, please, clifton!" to this project miltoun raised no objection. and all through the drive he remained sunk in an indifference and lassitude which to lady casterley seemed in the highest degree ominous. for lassitude, to her, was the strange, the unpardonable, state. the little great lady--casket of the aristocratic principle--was permeated to the very backbone with the instinct of artificial energy, of that alert vigour which those who have nothing socially to hope for are forced to develop, lest they should decay and be again obliged to hope. to speak honest truth, she could not forbear an itch to run some sharp and foreign substance into her grandson, to rouse him somehow, for she knew the reason of his state, and was temperamentally out of patience with such a cause for backsliding. had it been any other of her grandchildren she would not have hesitated, but there was that in miltoun which held even lady casterley in check, and only once during the four hours of travel did she attempt to break down his reserve. she did it in a manner very soft for her--was he not of all living things the hope and pride of her heart? tucking her little thin sharp hand under his arm, she said quietly: "my dear, don't brood over it. that will never do." but miltoun removed her hand gently, and laid it back on the dust rug, nor did he answer, or show other sign of having heard. and lady casterley, deeply wounded, pressed her faded lips together, and said sharply: "slower, please, frith!" chapter v it was to barbara that miltoun unfolded, if but little, the trouble of his spirit, lying that same afternoon under a ragged tamarisk hedge with the tide far out. he could never have done this if there had not been between them the accidental revelation of that night at monkland; nor even then perhaps had he not felt in this young sister of his the warmth of life for which he was yearning. in such a matter as love barbara was the elder of these two. for, besides the motherly knowledge of the heart peculiar to most women, she had the inherent woman-of-the-worldliness to be expected of a daughter of lord and lady valleys. if she herself were in doubt as to the state of her affections, it was not as with miltoun, on the score of the senses and the heart, but on the score of her spirit and curiosity, which courtier had awakened and caused to flap their wings a little. she worried over miltoun's forlorn case; it hurt her too to think of mrs. noel eating her heart out in that lonely cottage. a sister so--good and earnest as agatha had ever inclined barbara to a rebellious view of morals, and disinclined her altogether to religion. and so, she felt that if those two could not be happy apart, they should be happy together, in the name of all the joy there was in life! and while her brother lay face to the sky under the tamarisks, she kept trying to think of how to console him, conscious that she did not in the least understand the way he thought about things. over the fields behind, the larks were hymning the promise of the unripe corn; the foreshore was painted all colours, from vivid green to mushroom pink; by the edge of the blue sea little black figures stooped, gathering sapphire. the air smelled sweet in the shade of the tamarisk; there was ineffable peace. and barbara, covered by the network of sunlight, could not help impatience with a suffering which seemed to her so corrigible by action. at last she ventured: "life is short, eusty!" miltoun's answer, given without movement, startled her: "persuade me that it is, babs, and i'll bless you. if the singing of these larks means nothing, if that blue up there is a morass of our invention, if we are pettily, creeping on furthering nothing, if there's no purpose in our lives, persuade me of it, for god's sake!" carried suddenly beyond her depth, barbara could only put out her hand, and say: "oh! don't take things so hard!" "since you say that life is short," miltoun muttered, with his smile, "you shouldn't spoil it by feeling pity! in old days we went to the tower for our convictions. we can stand a little private roasting, i hope; or has the sand run out of us altogether?" stung by his tone, barbara answered in rather a hard voice: "what we must bear, we must, i suppose. but why should we make trouble? that's what i can't stand!" "o profound wisdom!" barbara flushed. "i love life!" she said. the galleons of the westering sun were already sailing in a broad gold fleet straight for that foreshore where the little black stooping figures had not yet finished their toil, the larks still sang over the unripe corn--when harbinger, galloping along the sands from whitewater to sea house, came on that silent couple walking home to dinner. it would not be safe to say of this young man that he readily diagnosed a spiritual atmosphere, but this was the less his demerit, since everything from his cradle up had conspired to keep the spiritual thermometer of his surroundings at in the shade. and the fact that his own spiritual thermometer had now run up so that it threatened to burst the bulb, rendered him less likely than ever to see what was happening with other people's. yet, he did notice that barbara was looking pale, and--it seemed--sweeter than ever.... with her eldest brother he always somehow felt ill at ease. he could not exactly afford to despise an uncompromising spirit in one of his own order, but he was no more impervious than others to miltoun's caustic, thinly-veiled contempt for the commonplace; and having a full-blooded belief in himself---usual with men of fine physique, whose lots are so cast that this belief can never or almost never be really shaken--he greatly disliked the feeling of being a little looked down on. it was an intense relief, when, saying that he wanted a certain magazine, miltoun strode off into the town. to harbinger, no less than to miltoun and barbara, last night had been bitter and restless. the sight of that pale swaying figure, with the parted lips, whirling round in courtier's arms, had clung to his vision ever since, the ball. during his own last dance with her he had been almost savagely silent; only by a great effort restraining his tongue from mordant allusions to that 'prancing, red-haired fellow,' as he secretly called the champion of lost causes. in fact, his sensations there and since had been a revelation, or would have teen if he could have stood apart to see them. true, he had gone about next day with his usual cool, off-hand manner, because one naturally did not let people see, but it was with such an inner aching and rage of want and jealousy as to really merit pity. men of his physically big, rather rushing, type, are the last to possess their souls in patience. walking home after the ball he had determined to follow her down to the sea, where she had said, so maliciously; that she was going. after a second almost sleepless night he had no longer any hesitation. he must see her! after all, a man might go to his own 'place' with impunity; he did not care if it were a pointed thing to do.... pointed! the more pointed the better! there was beginning to be roused in him an ugly stubbornness of male determination. she should not escape him! but now that he was walking at her side, all that determination and assurance melted to perplexed humility. he marched along by his horse with his head down, just feeling the ache of being so close to her and yet so far; angry with his own silence and awkwardness, almost angry with her for her loveliness, and the pain it made him suffer. when they reached the house, and she left him at the stable-yard, saying she was going to get some flowers, he jerked the beast's bridle and swore at it for its slowness in entering the stable. he, was terrified that she would be gone before he could get into the garden; yet half afraid of finding her there. but she was still plucking carnations by the box hedge which led to the conservatories. and as she rose from gathering those blossoms, before he knew what he was doing, harbinger had thrown his arm around her, held her as in a vice, kissed her unmercifully. she seemed to offer no resistance, her smooth cheeks growing warmer and warmer, even her lips passive; but suddenly he recoiled, and his heart stood still at his own outrageous daring. what had he done? he saw her leaning back almost buried in the clipped box hedge, and heard her say with a sort of faint mockery: "well!" he would have flung himself down on his knees to ask for pardon but for the thought that someone might come. he muttered hoarsely: "by god, i was mad!" and stood glowering in sullen suspense between hardihood and fear. he heard her say, quietly: "yes, you were-rather." then seeing her put her hand up to her lips as if he had hurt them, he muttered brokenly: "forgive me, babs!" there was a full minute's silence while he stood there, no longer daring to look at her, beaten all over by his emotions. then, with bewilderment, he heard her say: "i didn't mind it--for once!" he looked up at that. how could she love him, and speak so coolly! how could she not mind, if she did not love him! she was passing her hands over her face and neck and hair, repairing the damage of his kisses. "now shall we go in?" she said. harbinger took a step forward. "i love you so," he said; "i will put my life in your hands, and you shall throw it away." at those words, of whose exact nature he had very little knowledge, he saw her smile. "if i let you come within three yards, will you be good?" he bowed; and, in silence, they walked towards the house. dinner that evening was a strange, uncomfortable meal. but its comedy, too subtly played for miltoun and lord dennis, seemed transparent to the eyes of lady casterley; for, when harbinger had sallied forth to ride back along the sands, she took her candle and invited barbara to retire. then, having admitted her granddaughter to the apartment always reserved for herself, and specially furnished with practically nothing, she sat down opposite that tall, young, solid figure, as it were taking stock of it, and said: "so you are coming to your senses, at all events. kiss me!" barbara, stooping to perform this rite, saw a tear stealing down the carved fine nose. knowing that to notice it would be too dreadful, she raised herself, and went to the window. there, staring out over the dark fields and dark sea, by the side of which harbinger was riding home, she put her hand up to her, lips, and thought for the hundredth time: "so that's what it's like!" chapter vi three days after his first, and as he promised himself, his last society ball, courtier received a note from audrey noel, saying that she had left monkland for the present, and come up to a little flat--on the riverside not far from westminster. when he made his way there that same july day, the houses of parliament were bright under a sun which warmed all the grave air emanating from their counsels of perfection: courtier passed by dubiously. his feelings in the presence of those towers were always a little mixed. there was not so much of the poet in him as to cause him to see nothing there at all save only same lines against the sky, but there was enough of the poet to make him long to kick something; and in this mood he wended his way to the riverside. mrs. noel was not at home, but since the maid informed him that she would be in directly, he sat down to wait. her flat, which was on--the first floor, overlooked the river and had evidently been taken furnished, for there were visible marks of a recent struggle with an edwardian taste which, flushed from triumph over victorianism, had filled the rooms with early georgian remains. on the only definite victory, a rose-coloured window seat of great comfort and little age, courtier sat down, and resigned himself to doing nothing with the ease of an old soldier. to the protective feeling he had once had for a very graceful, dark-haired child, he joined not only the championing pity of a man of warm heart watching a woman in distress, but the impatience of one, who, though temperamentally incapable of feeling oppressed himself, rebelled at sight of all forms of tyranny affecting others. the sight of the grey towers, still just visible, under which miltoun and his father sat, annoyed him deeply; symbolizing to him, authority--foe to his deathless mistress, the sweet, invincible lost cause of liberty. but presently the river; bringing up in flood the unbound water that had bathed every shore, touched all sands, and seen the rising and falling of each mortal star, so soothed him with its soundless hymn to freedom, that audrey noel coming in with her hands full of flowers, found him sleeping firmly, with his mouth shut. noiselessly putting down the flowers, she waited for his awakening. that sanguine visage, with its prominent chin, flaring moustaches, and eyebrows raised rather v-shaped above his closed eyes, wore an expression of cheery defiance even in sleep; and perhaps no face in all london was so utterly its obverse, as that of this dark, soft-haired woman, delicate, passive, and tremulous with pleasure at sight of the only person in the world from whom she felt she might learn of miltoun, without losing her self-respect. he woke at last, and manifesting no discomfiture, said: "it was like you not to wake me." they sat for a long while talking, the riverside traffic drowsily accompanying their voices, the flowers drowsily filling the room with scent; and when courtier left, his heart was sore. she had not spoken of herself at all, but had talked nearly all the time of barbara, praising her beauty and high spirit; growing pale once or twice, and evidently drinking in with secret avidity every allusion to miltoun. clearly, her feelings had not changed, though she would not show them! courtier's pity for her became well-nigh violent. it was in such a mood, mingled with very different feelings, that he donned evening clothes and set out to attend the last gathering of the season at valleys house, a function which, held so late in july, was perforce almost perfectly political. mounting the wide and shining staircase, that had so often baffled the arithmetic of little ann, he was reminded of a picture entitled 'the steps to heaven' in his nursery four-and-thirty years before. at the top of this staircase, and surrounded by acquaintances, he came on harbinger, who nodded curtly. the young man's handsome face and figure appeared to courtier's jaundiced eye more obviously successful and complacent than ever; so that he passed him by sardonically, and manoeuvred his way towards lady valleys, whom he could perceive stationed, like a general, in a little cleared space, where to and fro flowed constant streams of people, like the rays of a star. she was looking her very best, going well with great and highly-polished spaces; and she greeted courtier with a special cordiality of tone, which had in it, besides kindness towards one who must be feeling a strange bird, a certain diplomatic quality, compounded of desire, as it were, to 'warn him off,' and fear of saying something that might irritate and make him more dangerous. she had heard, she said, that he was bound for persia; she hoped he was not going to try and make things more difficult there; then with the words: "so good of you to have come!" she became once more the centre of her battlefield. perceiving that he was finished with, courtier stood back against a wall and watched. thus isolated, he was like a solitary cuckoo contemplating the gyrations of a flock of rooks. their motions seemed a little meaningless to one so far removed from all the fetishes and shibboleths of westminster. he heard them discussing miltoun's speech, the real significance of which apparently had only just been grasped. the words 'doctrinaire,' 'extremist,' came to his ears, together with the saying 'a new force.' people were evidently puzzled, disturbed, not pleased--as if some star not hitherto accounted for had suddenly appeared amongst the proper constellations. searching this crowd for barbara, courtier had all the time an uneasy sense of shame. what business had he to come amongst these people so strange to him, just for the sake of seeing her! what business had he to be hankering after this girl at all, knowing in his heart that he could not stand the atmosphere she lived in for a week, and that she was utterly unsuited for any atmosphere that he could give her; to say nothing of the unlikelihood that he could flutter the pulses of one half his age! a voice, behind him said: "mr. courtier!" he turned, and there was barbara. "i want to talk to you about something serious: will you come into the picture gallery?" when at last they were close to a family group of georgian caradocs, and could as it were shut out the throng sufficiently for private speech, she began: "miltoun's so horribly unhappy; i don't know what to do for him: he's making himself ill!" and she suddenly looked up, in courtier's face. she seemed to him very young, and touching, at that moment. her eyes had a gleam of faith in them, like a child's eyes; as if she relied on him to straighten out this tangle, to tell her not only about miltoun's trouble, but about all life, its meaning, and the secret of its happiness: and he said gently: "what can i do? mrs. noel is in town. but that's no good, unless--" not knowing how to finish this sentence; he was silent. "i wish i were miltoun," she muttered. at that quaint saying, courtier was hard put to it not to take hold of the hands so close to him. this flash of rebellion in her had quickened all his blood. but she seemed to have seen what had passed in him, for her next speech was chilly. "it's no good; stupid of me to be worrying you." "it is quite impossible for you to worry me." her eyes lifted suddenly from her glove, and looked straight into his. "are you really going to persia?" "yes." "but i don't want you to, not yet!" and turning suddenly, she left him. strangely disturbed, courtier remained motionless, consulting the grave stare of the group of georgian caradocs. a voice said: "good painting, isn't it?" behind him was lord harbinger. and once more the memory of lady casterley's words; the memory of the two figures with joined hands on the balcony above the election crowd; all his latent jealousy of this handsome young colossus, his animus against one whom he could, as it were, smell out to be always fighting on the winning side; all his consciousness too of what a lost cause his own was, his doubt whether he were honourable to look on it as a cause at all, flared up in courtier, so that his answer was a stare. on harbinger's face, too, there had come a look of stubborn violence slowly working up towards the surface. "i said: 'good, isn't it?' mr. courtier." "i heard you." "and you were pleased to answer?" "nothing." "with the civility which might be expected of your habits." coldly disdainful, courtier answered: "if you want to say that sort of thing, please choose a place where i can reply to you," and turned abruptly on his heel. but he ground his teeth as he made his way out into the street. in hyde park the grass was parched and dewless under a sky whose stars were veiled by the heat and dust haze. never had courtier so bitterly wanted the sky's consolation--the blessed sense of insignificance in the face of the night's dark beauty, which, dwarfing all petty rage and hunger, made men part of its majesty, exalted them to a sense of greatness. chapter vii it was past four o'clock the following day when barbara issued from valleys house on foot; clad in a pale buff frock, chosen for quietness, she attracted every eye. very soon entering a taxi-cab, she drove to the temple, stopped at the strand entrance, and walked down the little narrow lane into the heart of the law. its votaries were hurrying back from the courts, streaming up from their chambers for tea, or escaping desperately to lord's or the park--young votaries, unbound as yet by the fascination of fame or fees. and each, as he passed, looked at barbara, with his fingers itching to remove his hat, and a feeling that this was she. after a day spent amongst precedents and practice, after six hours at least of trying to discover what chance a had of standing on his rights, or b had of preventing him, it was difficult to feel otherwise about that calm apparition--like a golden slim tree walking. one of them, asked by her the way to miltoun's staircase, preceded her with shy ceremony, and when she had vanished up those dusty stairs, lingered on, hoping that she might find her visitee out, and be obliged to return and ask him the way back. but she did not come, and he went sadly away, disturbed to the very bottom of all that he owned in fee simple. in fact, no one answered barbara's knock, and discovering that the door yielded, she walked through the lobby past the clerk's den, converted to a kitchen, into the sitting-room. it was empty. she had never been to miltoun's rooms before, and she stared about her curiously. since he did not practise, much of the proper gear was absent. the room indeed had a worn carpet, a few old chairs, and was lined from floor to ceiling with books. but the wall space between the windows was occupied by an enormous map of england, scored all over with figures and crosses; and before this map stood an immense desk, on which were piles of double foolscap covered with miltoun's neat and rather pointed writing. barbara examined them, puckering up her forehead; she knew that he was working at a book on the land question; but she had never realized that the making of a book requited so much writing. papers, too, and blue books littered a large bureau on which stood bronze busts of aeschylus and dante. "what an uncomfortable place!" she thought. the room, indeed, had an atmosphere, a spirit, which depressed her horribly. seeing a few flowers down in the court below, she had a longing to get out to them. then behind her she heard the sound of someone talking. but there was no one in the room; and the effect of this disrupted soliloquy, which came from nowhere, was so uncanny, that she retreated to the door. the sound, as of two spirits speaking in one voice, grew louder, and involuntarily she glanced at the busts. they seemed quite blameless. though the sound had been behind her when she was at the window, it was again behind her now that she was at the door; and she suddenly realized that it was issuing from a bookcase in the centre of the wall. barbara had her father's nerve, and walking up to the bookcase she perceived that it had been affixed to, and covered, a door that was not quite closed. she pulled it towards her, and passed through. across the centre of an unkempt bedroom miltoun was striding, dressed only in his shirt and trousers. his feet were bare, and his head and hair dripping wet; the look on his thin dark face went to barbara's heart. she ran forward, and took his hand. this was burning hot, but the sight of her seemed to have frozen his tongue and eyes. and the contrast of his burning hand with this frozen silence, frightened barbara horribly. she could think of nothing but to put her other hand to his forehead. that too was burning hot! "what brought you here?" he said. she could only murmur: "oh! eusty! are you ill?" miltoun took hold of her wrists. "it's all right, i've been working too hard; got a touch of fever." "so i can feel," murmured barbara. "you ought to be in bed. come home with me." miltoun smiled. "it's not a case for leeches." the look of his smile, the sound of his voice, sent a shudder through her. "i'm not going to leave you here alone." but miltoun's grasp tightened on her wrists. "my dear babs, you will do what i tell you. go home, hold your tongue, and leave me to burn out in peace." barbara sustained that painful grip without wincing; she had regained her calmness. "you must come! you haven't anything here, not even a cool drink." "my god! barley water!" the scorn he put into those two words was more withering than a whole philippic against redemption by creature comforts. and feeling it dart into her, barbara closed her lips tight. he had dropped her wrists, and again, begun pacing up and down; suddenly he stopped: "'the stars, sun, moon all shrink away, a desert vast, without a bound, and nothing left to eat or drink, "and a dark desert all around.' "you should read your blake, audrey." barbara turned quickly, and went out frightened. she passed through the sitting-room and corridor on to the staircase. he was ill-raving! the fever in miltoun's veins seemed to have stolen through the clutch of his hands into her own veins. her face was burning, she thought confusedly, breathed unevenly. she felt sore, and at the same time terribly sorry; and withal there kept rising in her the gusty memory of harbingers kiss. she hurried down the stairs, turned by instinct down-hill and found herself on the embankment. and suddenly, with her inherent power of swift decision, she hailed a cab, and drove to the nearest telephone office. chapter viii to a woman like audrey noel, born to be the counterpart and complement of another,--whose occupations and effort were inherently divorced from the continuity of any stiff and strenuous purpose of her own, the uprooting she had voluntarily undergone was a serious matter. bereaved of the faces of her flowers, the friendly sighing of her lime-tree, the wants of her cottagers; bereaved of that busy monotony of little home things which is the stay and solace of lonely women, she was extraordinarily lost. even music for review seemed to have failed her. she had never lived in london, so that she had not the refuge of old haunts and habits, but had to make her own--and to make habits and haunts required a heart that could at least stretch out feelers and lay hold of things, and her heart was not now able. when she had struggled with her edwardian flat, and laid down her simple routine of meals, she was as stranded as ever was, convict let out of prison. she had not even that great support, the necessity of hiding her feelings for fear of disturbing others. she was planted there, with her longing and grief, and nothing, nobody, to take her out of herself. having wilfully embraced this position, she tried to make the best of it, feeling it less intolerable, at all events, than staying on at monkland, where she had made that grievous, and unpardonable error--falling in love. this offence, on the part of one who felt within herself a great capacity to enjoy and to confer happiness, had arisen--like the other grievous and unpardonable offence, her marriage--from too much disposition to yield herself to the personality of another. but it was cold comfort to know that the desire to give and to receive love had twice over left her--a dead woman. whatever the nature of those immature sensations with which, as a girl of twenty, she had accepted her husband, in her feeling towards miltoun there was not only abandonment, but the higher flame of self-renunciation. she wanted to do the best for him, and had not even the consolation of the knowledge that she had sacrificed herself for his advantage. all had been taken out of her hands! yet with characteristic fatalism she did not feel rebellious. if it were ordained that she should, for fifty, perhaps sixty years, repent in sterility and ashes that first error of her girlhood, rebellion was, none the less, too far-fetched. if she rebelled, it would not be in spirit, but in action. general principles were nothing to her; she lost no force brooding over the justice or injustice of her situation, but merely tried to digest its facts. the whole day, succeeding courtier's visit, was spent by her in the national gallery, whose roof, alone of all in london, seemed to offer her protection. she had found one painting, by an italian master, the subject of which reminded her of miltoun; and before this she sat for a very long time, attracting at last the gouty stare of an official. the still figure of this lady, with the oval face and grave beauty, both piqued his curiosity, and stimulated certain moral qualms. she, was undoubtedly waiting for her lover. no woman, in his experience, had ever sat so long before a picture without ulterior motive; and he kept his eyes well opened to see what this motive would be like. it gave him, therefore, a sensation almost amounting to chagrin when coming round once more, he found they had eluded him and gone off together without coming under his inspection. feeling his feet a good deal, for he had been on them all day, he sat down in the hollow which she had left behind her; and against his will found himself also looking at the picture. it was painted in a style he did not care for; the face of the subject, too, gave him the queer feeling that the gentleman was being roasted inside. he had not been sitting there long, however, before he perceived the lady standing by the picture, and the lips of the gentleman in the picture moving. it seemed to him against the rules, and he got up at once, and went towards it; but as he did so, he found that his eyes were shut, and opened them hastily. there was no one there. from the national gallery, audrey had gone into an a.b.c. for tea, and then home. before the mansions was a taxi-cab, and the maid met her with the news that 'lady caradoc' was in the sitting-room. barbara was indeed standing in the middle of the room with a look on her face such as her father wore sometimes on the racecourse, in the hunting field, or at stormy cabinet meetings, a look both resolute and sharp. she spoke at once: "i got your address from mr. courtier. my brother is ill. i'm afraid it'll be brain fever, i think you had better go and see him at his rooms in the temple; there's no time to be lost." to audrey everything in the room seemed to go round; yet all her senses were preternaturally acute, so that she could distinctly smell the mud of the river at low tide. she said, with a shudder: "oh! i will go; yes, i will go at once." "he's quite alone. he hasn't asked for you; but i think your going is the only chance. he took me for you. you told me once you were a good nurse." "yes." the room was steady enough now, but she had lost the preternatural acuteness of her senses, and felt confused. she heard barbara say: "i can take you to the door in my cab," and murmuring: "i will get ready," went into her bedroom. for a moment she was so utterly bewildered that she did nothing. then every other thought was lost in a strange, soft, almost painful delight, as if some new instinct were being born in her; and quickly, but without confusion or hurry, she began packing. she put into a valise her own toilet things; then flannel, cotton-wool, eau de cologne, hot-water bottle, etna, shawls, thermometer, everything she had which could serve in illness. changing to a plain dress, she took up the valise and returned to barbara. they went out together to the cab. the moment it began to bear her to this ordeal at once so longed-for and so terrible, fear came over her again, so that she screwed herself into the corner, very white and still. she was aware of barbara calling to the driver: "go by the strand, and stop at a poulterer's for ice!" and, when the bag of ice had been handed in, heard her saying: "i will bring you all you want--if he is really going to be ill." then, as the cab stopped, and the open doorway of the staircase was before her, all her courage came back. she felt the girl's warm hand against her own, and grasping her valise and the bag of ice, got out, and hurried up the steps. chapter ix on leaving nettlefold, miltoun had gone straight back to his rooms, and begun at once to work at his book on the land question. he worked all through that night--his third night without sleep, and all the following day. in the evening, feeling queer in the head, he went out and walked up and down the embankment. then, fearing to go to bed and lie sleepless, he sat down in his arm-chair. falling asleep there, he had fearful dreams, and awoke unrefreshed. after his bath, he drank coffee, and again forced himself to work. by the middle of the day he felt dizzy and exhausted, but utterly disinclined to eat. he went out into the hot strand, bought himself a necessary book, and after drinking more coffee, came back and again began to work. at four o'clock he found that he was not taking in the words. his head was burning hot, and he went into his bedroom to bathe it. then somehow he began walking up and down, talking to himself, as barbara had found him. she had no sooner gone, than he felt utterly exhausted. a small crucifix hung over his bed, and throwing himself down before it, he remained motionless with his face buried in the coverlet, and his arms stretched out towards the wall. he did not pray, but merely sought rest from sensation. across his half-hypnotized consciousness little threads of burning fancy kept shooting. then he could feel nothing but utter physical sickness, and against this his will revolted. he resolved that he would not be ill, a ridiculous log for women to hang over. but the moments of sickness grew longer and more frequent; and to drive them away he rose from his knees, and for some time again walked up and down; then, seized with vertigo, he was obliged to sit on the bed to save himself from falling. from being burning hot he had become deadly cold, glad to cover himself with the bedclothes. the heat soon flamed up in him again; but with a sick man's instinct he did not throw off the clothes, and stayed quite still. the room seemed to have turned to a thick white substance like a cloud, in which he lay enwrapped, unable to move hand or foot. his sense of smell and hearing had become unnaturally acute; he smelled the distant streets, flowers, dust, and the leather of his books, even the scent left by barbara's clothes, and a curious odour of river mud. a clock struck six, he counted each stroke; and instantly the whole world seemed full of striking clocks, the sound of horses' hoofs, bicycle bells, people's footfalls. his sense of vision, on the contrary, was absorbed in consciousness of this white blanket of cloud wherein he was lifted above the earth, in the midst of a dull incessant hammering. on the surface of the cloud there seemed to be forming a number of little golden spots; these spots were moving, and he saw that they were toads. then, beyond them, a huge face shaped itself, very dark, as if of bronze, with eyes burning into his brain. the more he struggled to get away from these eyes, the more they bored and burned into him. his voice was gone, so that he was unable to cry out, and suddenly the face marched over him. when he recovered consciousness his head was damp with moisture trickling from something held to his forehead by a figure leaning above him. lifting his hand he touched a cheek; and hearing a sob instantly suppressed, he sighed. his hand was gently taken; he felt kisses on it. the room was so dark, that he could scarcely see her face--his sight too was dim; but he could hear her breathing and the least sound of her dress and movements--the scent too of her hands and hair seemed to envelop him, and in the midst of all the acute discomfort of his fever, he felt the band round his brain relax. he did not ask how long she had been there, but lay quite still, trying to keep his eyes on her, for fear of that face, which seemed lurking behind the air, ready to march on him again. then feeling suddenly that he could not hold it back, he beckoned, and clutched at her, trying to cover himself with the protection of her breast. this time his swoon was not so deep; it gave way to delirium, with intervals when he knew that she was there, and by the shaded candle light could see her in a white garment, floating close to him, or sitting still with her hand on his; he could even feel the faint comfort of the ice cap, and of the scent of eau de cologne. then he would lose all consciousness of her presence, and pass through into the incoherent world, where the crucifix above his bed seemed to bulge and hang out, as if it must fall on him. he conceived a violent longing to tear it down, which grew till he had struggled up in bed and wrenched it from off the wall. yet a mysterious consciousness of her presence permeated even his darkest journeys into the strange land; and once she seemed to be with him, where a strange light showed them fields and trees, a dark line of moor, and a bright sea, all whitened, and flashing with sweet violence. soon after dawn he had a long interval of consciousness, and took in with a sort of wonder her presence in the low chair by his bed. so still she sat in a white loose gown, pale with watching, her eyes immovably fixed on him, her lips pressed together, and quivering at his faintest motion. he drank in desperately the sweetness of her face, which had so lost remembrance of self. chapter x barbara gave the news of her brother's illness to no one else, common sense telling her to run no risk of disturbance. of her own initiative, she brought a doctor, and went down twice a day to hear reports of miltoun's progress. as a fact, her father and mother had gone to lord dennis, for goodwood, and the chief difficulty had been to excuse her own neglect of that favourite meeting. she had fallen back on the half-truth that eustace wanted her in town; and, since lord and lady valleys had neither of them shaken off a certain uneasiness about their son, the pretext sufficed: it was not until the sixth day, when the crisis was well past and miltoun quite free from fever, that she again went down to nettlefold. on arriving she at once sought out her mother, whom she found in her bedroom, resting. it had been very hot at goodwood. barbara was not afraid of her--she was not, indeed, afraid of anyone, except miltoun, and in some strange way, a little perhaps of courtier; yet, when the maid had gone, she did not at once begin her tale. lady valleys, who at goodwood had just heard details of a society scandal, began a carefully expurgated account of it suitable to her daughter's ears--for some account she felt she must give to somebody. "mother," said barbara suddenly, "eustace has been ill. he's out of danger now, and going on all right." then, looking hard at the bewildered lady, she added: "mrs. noel is nursing him." the past tense in which illness had been mentioned, checking at the first moment any rush of panic in lady valleys, left her confused by the situation conjured up in barbara's last words. instead of feeding that part of man which loves a scandal, she was being fed, always an unenviable sensation. a woman did not nurse a man under such circumstances without being everything to him, in the world's eyes. her daughter went on: "i took her to him. it seemed the only thing to do--since it's all through fretting for her. nobody knows, of course, except the doctor, and--stacey." "heavens!" muttered lady valleys. "it has saved him." the mother instinct in lady valleys took sudden fright. "are you telling me the truth, babs? is he really out of danger? how wrong of you not to let me know before?" but barbara did not flinch; and her mother relapsed into rumination. "stacey is a cat!" she said suddenly. the expurgated details of the scandal she had been retailing to her daughter had included the usual maid. she could not find it in her to enjoy the irony of this coincidence. then, seeing barbara smile, she said tartly: "i fail to see the joke." "only that i thought you'd enjoy my throwing stacey in, dear." "what! you mean she doesn't know?" "not a word." lady valleys smiled. "what a little wretch you are, babs!" maliciously she added: "claud and his mother are coming over from whitewater, with bertie and lily malvezin, you'd better go and dress;" and her eyes searched her daughter's so shrewdly, that a flush rose to the girl's cheeks. when she had gone, lady valleys rang for her maid again, and relapsed into meditation. her first thought was to consult her husband; her second that secrecy was strength. since no one knew but barbara, no one had better know. her astuteness and experience comprehended the far-reaching probabilities of this affair. it would not do to take a single false step. if she had no one's action to control but her own and barbara's, so much the less chance of a slip. her mind was a strange medley of thoughts and feelings, almost comic, well-nigh tragic; of worldly prudence, and motherly instinct; of warm-blooded sympathy with all love-affairs, and cool-blooded concern for her son's career. it was not yet too late perhaps to prevent real mischief; especially since it was agreed by everyone that the woman was no adventuress. whatever was done, they must not forget that she had nursed him--saved him, barbara had said! she must be treated with all kindness and consideration. hastening her toilette, she in turn went to her daughter's room. barbara was already dressed, leaning out of her window towards the sea. lady valleys began almost timidly: "my dear, is eustace out of bed yet?" "he was to get up to-day for an hour or two." "i see. now, would there be any danger if you and i went up and took charge over from mrs. noel?" "poor eusty!" "yes, yes! but, exercise your judgment. would it harm him?" barbara was silent. "no," she said at last, "i don't suppose it would, now; but it's for the doctor to say." lady valleys exhibited a manifest relief. "we'll see him first, of course. eustace will have to have an ordinary nurse, i suppose, for a bit." looking stealthily at barbara, she added: "i mean to be very nice to her; but one mustn't be romantic, you know, babs." from the little smile on barbara's lips she derived no sense of certainty; indeed she was visited by all her late disquietude about her young daughter, by all the feeling that she, as well as miltoun, was hovering on the verge of some folly. "well, my dear," she said, "i am going down." but barbara lingered a little longer in that bedroom where ten nights ago she had lain tossing, till in despair she went and cooled herself in the dark sea. her last little interview with courtier stood between her and a fresh meeting with harbinger, whom at the valleys house gathering she had not suffered to be alone with her. she came down late. that same evening, out on the beach road, under a sky swarming with stars, the people were strolling--folk from the towns, down for their fortnight's holiday. in twos and threes, in parties of six or eight, they passed the wall at the end of lord dennis's little domain; and the sound of their sparse talk and laughter, together with the sighing of the young waves, was blown over the wall to the ears of harbinger, bertie, barbara, and lily malvezin, when they strolled out after dinner to sniff the sea. the holiday-makers stared dully at the four figures in evening dress looking out above their heads; they had other things than these to think of, becoming more and more silent as the night grew dark. the four young people too were rather silent. there was something in this warm night, with its sighing, and its darkness, and its stars, that was not favourable to talk, so that presently they split into couples, drifting a little apart. standing there, gripping the wall, it seemed to harbinger that there were no words left in the world. not even his worst enemy could have called this young man romantic; yet that figure beside him, the gleam of her neck and her pale cheek in the dark, gave him perhaps the most poignant glimpse of mystery that he had ever had. his mind, essentially that of a man of affairs, by nature and by habit at home amongst the material aspects of things, was but gropingly conscious that here, in this dark night, and the dark sea, and the pale figure of this girl whose heart was dark to him and secret, there was perhaps something--yes, something--which surpassed the confines of his philosophy, something beckoning him on out of his snug compound into the desert of divinity. if so, it was soon gone in the aching of his senses at the scent of her hair, and the longing to escape from this weird silence. "babs," he said; "have you forgiven me?" her answer came, without turn of head, natural, indifferent: "yes--i told you so." "is that all you have to say to a fellow?" "what shall we talk about--the running of casetta?" deep down within him harbinger uttered a noiseless oath. something sinister was making her behave like this to him! it was that fellow--that fellow! and suddenly he said: "tell me this----" then speech seemed to stick in his throat. no! if there were anything in that, he preferred not to hear it. there was a limit! down below, a pair of lovers passed, very silent, their arms round each other's waists. barbara turned and walked away towards the house. chapter xi the days when miltoun was first allowed out of bed were a time of mingled joy and sorrow to her who had nursed him. to see him sitting up, amazed at his own weakness, was happiness, yet to think that he would be no more wholly dependent, no more that sacred thing, a helpless creature, brought her the sadness of a mother whose child no longer needs her. with every hour he would now get farther from her, back into the fastnesses of his own spirit. with every hour she would be less his nurse and comforter, more the woman he loved. and though that thought shone out in the obscure future like a glamorous flower, it brought too much wistful uncertainty to the present. she was very tired, too, now that all excitement was over--so tired that she hardly knew what she did or where she moved. but a smile had become so faithful to her eyes that it clung there above the shadows of fatigue, and kept taking her lips prisoner. between the two bronze busts she had placed a bowl of lilies of the valley; and every free niche in that room of books had a little vase of roses to welcome miltoun's return. he was lying back in his big leather chair, wrapped in a turkish gown of lord valleys'--on which barbara had laid hands, having failed to find anything resembling a dressing-gown amongst her brother's austere clothing. the perfume of lilies had overcome the scent of books, and a bee, dusky, adventurer, filled the room with his pleasant humming. they did not speak, but smiled faintly, looking at one another. in this still moment, before passion had returned to claim its own, their spirits passed through the sleepy air, and became entwined, so that neither could withdraw that soft, slow, encountering glance. in mutual contentment, each to each, close as music to the strings of a violin, their spirits clung--so lost, the one in the other, that neither for that brief time seemed to know which was self. in fulfilment of her resolution, lady valleys, who had returned to town by a morning train, started with barbara for the temple about three in the after noon, and stopped at the doctor's on the way. the whole thing would be much simpler if eustace were fit to be moved at once to valleys house; and with much relief she found that the doctor saw no danger in this course. the recovery had been remarkable--touch and go for bad brain fever just avoided! lord miltoun's constitution was extremely sound. yes, he would certainly favour a removal. his rooms were too confined in this weather. well nursed--(decidedly) oh; yes! quite! and the doctor's eyes became perhaps a trifle more intense. not a professional, he understood. it might be as well to have another nurse, if they were making the change. they would have this lady knocking up. just so! yes, he would see to that. an ambulance carriage he thought advisable. that could all be arranged for this afternoon--at once--he himself would look to it. they might take lord miltoun off just as he was; the men would know what to do. and when they had him at valleys house, the moment he showed interest in his food, down to the sea-down to the sea! at this time of year nothing like it! then with regard to nourishment, he would be inclined already to shove in a leetle stimulant, a thimbleful perhaps four times a day with food--not without--mixed with an egg, with arrowroot, with custard. a week would see him on his legs, a fortnight at the sea make him as good a man as ever. overwork--burning the candle--a leetlemore would have seen a very different state of things! quite so! quite so! would come round himself before dinner, and make sure. his patient might feel it just at first! he bowed lady valleys out; and when she had gone, sat down at his telephone with a smile flickering on his clean-cut lips, greatly fortified by this interview, lady valleys rejoined her daughter in the ear; but while it slid on amongst the multitudinous traffic, signs of unwonted nervousness began to start out through the placidity of her face. "i wish, my dear," she said suddenly, "that someone else had to do this. suppose eustace refuses!" "he won't," barbara answered; "she looks so tired, poor dear. besides----" lady valleys gazed with curiosity at that young face, which had flushed pink. yes, this daughter of hers was a woman already, with all a woman's intuitions. she said gravely: "it was a rash stroke of yours, babs; let's hope it won't lead to disaster." barbara bit her lips. "if you'd seen him as i saw him! and, what disaster? mayn't they love each other, if they want?" lady valleys swallowed a grimace. it was so exactly her own point of view. and yet----! "that's only the beginning," she said; "you forget the sort of boy eustace is." "why can't the poor thing be let out of her cage?" cried barbara. "what good does it do to anyone? mother, if ever, when i am married, i want to get free, i will!" the tone of her voice was so quivering, and unlike the happy voice of barbara, that lady valleys involuntarily caught hold of her hand and squeezed it hard. "my dear sweet," she said, "don't let's talk of such gloomy things." "i mean it. nothing shall stop me." but lady valleys' face had suddenly become rather grim. "so we think, child; it's not so simple." "it can't be worse, anyway," muttered barbara, "than being buried alive as that wretched woman is." for answer lady valleys only murmured: "the doctor promised that ambulance carriage at four o'clock. what am i going to say?" "she'll understand when you look at her. she's that sort." the door was opened to them by mrs. noel herself. it was the first time lady valleys had seen her in a house, and there was real curiosity mixed with the assurance which masked her nervousness. a pretty creature, even lovely! but the quite genuine sympathy in her words: "i am truly grateful. you must be quite worn out," did not prevent her adding hastily: "the doctor says he must be got home out of these hot rooms. we'll wait here while you tell him." and then she saw that it was true; this woman was the sort who understood. left in the dark passage, she peered round at barbara. the girl was standing against the wall with her head thrown back. lady valleys could not see her face; but she felt all of a sudden exceedingly uncomfortable, and whispered: "two murders and a theft, babs; wasn't it 'our mutual friend'?" "mother!" "what?" "her face! when you're going to throw away a flower, it looks at you!" "my dear!" murmured lady valleys, thoroughly distressed, "what things you're saying to-day!" this lurking in a dark passage, this whispering girl--it was all queer, unlike an experience in proper life. and then through the reopened door she saw miltoun, stretched out in a chair, very pale, but still with that look about his eyes and lips, which of all things in the world had a chastening effect on lady valleys, making her feel somehow incurably mundane. she said rather timidly: "i'm so glad you're better, dear. what a time you must have had! it's too bad that i knew nothing till yesterday!" but miltoun's answer was, as usual, thoroughly disconcerting. "thanks, yes! i have had a perfect time--and have now to pay for it, i suppose." held back by his smile from bending to kiss him, poor lady valleys fidgeted from head to foot. a sudden impulse of sheer womanliness caused a tear to fall on his hand. when miltoun perceived that moisture, he said: "it's all right, mother. i'm quite willing to come." still wounded by his voice, lady valleys hardened instantly. and while preparing for departure she watched the two furtively. they hardly looked at one another, and when they did, their eyes baffled her. the expression was outside her experience, belonging as it were to a different world, with its faintly smiling, almost shining, gravity. vastly relieved when miltoun, covered with a fur, had been taken down to the carriage, she lingered to speak to mrs. noel. "we owe you a great debt. it might have been so much worse. you mustn't be disconsolate. go to bed and have a good long rest." and from the door, she murmured again: "he will come and thank you, when he's well." descending the stone stairs, she thought: "'anonyma'--'anonyma'--yes, it was quite the name." and suddenly she saw barbara come running up again. "what is it, babs?" barbara answered: "eustace would like some of those lilies." and, passing lady valleys, she went on up to miltoun's chambers. mrs. noel was not in the sitting-room, and going to the bedroom door, the girl looked in. she was standing by the bed, drawing her hand over and over the white surface of the pillow. stealing noiselessly back, barbara caught up the bunch of lilies, and fled. chapter xii miltoun, whose constitution, had the steel-like quality of lady casterley's, had a very rapid convalescence. and, having begun to take an interest in his food, he was allowed to travel on the seventh day to sea house in charge of barbara. the two spent their time in a little summer-house close to the sea; lying out on the beach under the groynes; and, as miltoun grew stronger, motoring and walking on the downs. to barbara, keeping a close watch, he seemed tranquilly enough drinking in from nature what was necessary to restore balance after the struggle, and breakdown of the past weeks. yet she could never get rid of a queer feeling that he was not really there at all; to look at him was like watching an uninhabited house that was waiting for someone to enter. during a whole fortnight he did not make a single allusion to mrs. noel, till, on the very last morning, as they were watching the sea, he said with his queer smile: "it almost makes one believe her theory, that the old gods are not dead. do you ever see them, babs; or are you, like me, obtuse?" certainly about those lithe invasions of the sea-nymph waves, with ashy, streaming hair, flinging themselves into the arms of the land, there was the old pagan rapture, an inexhaustible delight, a passionate soft acceptance of eternal fate, a wonderful acquiescence in the untiring mystery of life. but barbara, ever disconcerted by that tone in his voice, and by this quick dive into the waters of unaccustomed thought, failed to find an answer. miltoun went on: "she says, too, we can hear apollo singing. shall we try." but all that came was the sigh of the sea, and of the wind in the tamarisk. "no," muttered miltoun at last, "she alone can hear it." and barbara saw, once more on his face that look, neither sad nor impatient, but as of one uninhabited and waiting. she left sea house next day to rejoin her mother, who, having been to cowes, and to the duchess of gloucester's, was back in town waiting for parliament to rise, before going off to scotland. and that same afternoon the girl made her way to mrs. noel's flat. in paying this visit she was moved not so much by compassion, as by uneasiness, and a strange curiosity. now that miltoun was well again, she was seriously disturbed in mind. had she made a mistake in summoning mrs. noel to nurse him? when she went into the little drawing-room audrey was sitting in the deep-cushioned window-seat with a book on her knee; and by the fact that it was open at the index, barbara judged that she had not been reading too attentively. she showed no signs of agitation at the sight of her visitor, nor any eagerness to hear news of miltoun. but the girl had not been five minutes in the room before the thought came to her: "why! she has the same look as eustace!" she, too, was like an empty tenement; without impatience, discontent, or grief--waiting! barbara had scarcely realized this with a curious sense of discomposure, when courtier was announced. whether there was in this an absolute coincidence or just that amount of calculation which might follow on his part from receipt of a note written from sea house--saying that miltoun was well again, that she was coming up and meant to go and thank mrs. noel--was not clear, nor were her own sensations; and she drew over her face that armoured look which she perhaps knew courtier could not bear to see. his face, at all events, was very red when he shook hands. he had come, he told mrs. noel, to say good-bye. he was definitely off next week. fighting had broken out; the revolutionaries were greatly outnumbered. indeed he ought to have been there long before! barbara had gone over to the window; she turned suddenly, and said: "you were preaching peace two months ago!" courtier bowed. "we are not all perfectly consistent, lady barbara. these poor devils have a holy cause." barbara held out her hand to mrs. noel. "you only think their cause holy because they happen to be weak. good-bye, mrs. noel; the world is meant for the strong, isn't it!" she intended that to hurt him; and from the tone of his voice, she knew it had. "don't, lady barbara; from your mother, yes; not from you!" "it's what i believe. good-bye!" and she went out. she had told him that she did not want him to go--not yet; and he was going! but no sooner had she got outside, after that strange outburst, than she bit her lips to keep back an angry, miserable feeling. he had been rude to her, she had been rude to him; that was the way they had said good-bye! then, as she emerged into the sunlight, she thought: "oh! well; he doesn't care, and i'm sure i don't!" she heard a voice behind her. "may i get you a cab?" and at once the sore feeling began to die away; but she did not look round, only smiled, and shook her head, and made a little room for him on the pavement. but though they walked, they did not at first talk. there was rising within barbara a tantalizing devil of desire to know the feelings that really lay behind that deferential gravity, to make him show her how much he really cared. she kept her eyes demurely lowered, but she let the glimmer of a smile flicker about her lips; she knew too that her cheeks were glowing, and for that she was not sorry. was she not to have any--any--was he calmly to go away--without----and she thought: "he shall say something! he shall show me, without that horrible irony of his!" she said suddenly: "those two are just waiting--something will happen!" "it is probable," was his grave answer. she looked at him then--it pleased her to see him quiver as if that glance had gone right into him; and she said softly: "and i think they will be quite right." she knew those were reckless words, nor cared very much what they meant; but she knew the revolt in them would move him. she saw from his face that it had; and after a little pause, said: "happiness is the great thing," and with soft, wicked slowness: "isn't it, mr. courtier?" but all the cheeriness had gone out of his face, which had grown almost pale. he lifted his hand, and let it drop. then she felt sorry. it was just as if he had asked her to spare him. "as to that," he said: "the rough, unfortunately, has to be taken with the smooth. but life's frightfully jolly sometimes." "as now?" he looked at her with firm gravity, and answered "as now." a sense of utter mortification seized on barbara. he was too strong for her--he was quixotic--he was hateful! and, determined not to show a sign, to be at least as strong as he, she said calmly: "now i think i'll have that cab!" when she was in the cab, and he was standing with his hat lifted, she looked at him in the way that women can, so that he did not realize that she had looked. chapter xiii when miltoun came to thank her, audrey noel was waiting in the middle of the room, dressed in white, her lips smiling, her dark eyes smiling, still as a flower on a windless day. in that first look passing between them, they forgot everything but happiness. swallows, on the first day of summer, in their discovery of the bland air, can neither remember that cold winds blow, nor imagine the death of sunlight on their feathers, and, flitting hour after hour over the golden fields, seem no longer birds, but just the breathing of a new season--swallows were no more forgetful of misfortune than were those two. his gaze was as still as her very self; her look at him had in at the quietude of all emotion. when they' sat down to talk it was as if they had gone back to those days at monkland, when he had come to her so often to discuss everything in heaven and earth. and yet, over that tranquil eager drinking--in of each other's presence, hovered a sort of awe. it was the mood of morning before the sun has soared. the dew-grey cobwebs enwrapped the flowers of their hearts--yet every prisoned flower could be seen. and he and she seemed looking through that web at the colour and the deep-down forms enshrouded so jealously; each feared too much to unveil the other's heart. they were like lovers who, rambling in a shy wood, never dare stay their babbling talk of the trees and birds and lost bluebells, lest in the deep waters of a kiss their star of all that is to come should fall and be drowned. to each hour its familiar--and the spirit of that hour was the spirit of the white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill above her head. they spoke of monk-land, and miltoun's illness; of his first speech, his impressions of the house of commons; of music, barbara, courtier, the river. he told her of his health, and described his days down by the sea. she, as ever, spoke little of herself, persuaded that it could not interest even him; but she described a visit to the opera; and how she had found a picture in the national gallery which reminded her of him. to all these trivial things and countless others, the tone of their voices--soft, almost murmuring, with a sort of delighted gentleness--gave a high, sweet importance, a halo that neither for the world would have dislodged from where it hovered. it was past six when he got up to go, and there had not been a moment to break the calm of that sacred feeling in both their hearts. they parted with another tranquil look, which seemed to say: 'it is well with us--we have drunk of happiness.' and in this same amazing calm miltoun remained after he had gone away, till about half-past nine in the evening, he started forth, to walk down to the house. it was now that sort of warm, clear night, which in the country has firefly magic, and even over the town spreads a dark glamour. and for miltoun, in the delight of his new health and well-being, with every sense alive and clean, to walk through the warmth and beauty of this night was sheer pleasure. he passed by way of st. james's park, treading down the purple shadows of plane-tree leaves into the pools of lamplight, almost with remorse--so beautiful, and as if alive, were they. there were moths abroad, and gnats, born on the water, and scent of new-mown grass drifted up from the lawns. his heart felt light as a swallow he had seen that morning; swooping at a grey feather, carrying it along, letting it flutter away, then diving to seize it again. such was his elation, this beautiful night! nearing the house of commons, he thought he would walk a little longer, and turned westward to the river: on that warm evening the water, without movement at turn of tide, was like the black, snake-smooth hair of nature streaming out on her couch of earth, waiting for the caress of a divine hand. far away on the further; bank throbbed some huge machine, not stilled as yet. a few stars were out in the dark sky, but no moon to invest with pallor the gleam of the lamps. scarcely anyone passed. miltoun strolled along the river wall, then crossed, and came back in front of the mansions where she lived. by the railing he stood still. in the sitting-room of her little flat there was no light, but the casement window was wide open, and the crown of white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill still gleamed out in the darkness like a crescent moon lying on its face. suddenly, he saw two pale hands rise--one on either side of that bowl, lift it, and draw it in. and he quivered, as though they had touched him. again those two hands came floating up; they were parted now by darkness; the moon of flowers was gone, in its place had been set handfuls of purple or crimson blossoms. and a puff of warm air rising quickly out of the night drifted their scent of cloves into his face, so that he held his breath for fear of calling out her name. again the hands had vanished--through the open window there was nothing to be seen but darkness; and such a rush of longing seized on miltoun as stole from him all power of movement. he could hear her playing, now. the murmurous current of that melody was like the night itself, sighing, throbbing, languorously soft. it seemed that in this music she was calling him, telling him that she, too, was longing; her heart, too, empty. it died away; and at the window her white figure appeared. from that vision he could not, nor did he try to shrink, but moved out into the, lamplight. and he saw her suddenly stretch out her hands to him, and withdraw them to her breast. then all save the madness of his longing deserted miltoun. he ran down the little garden, across the hall, up the stairs. the door was open. he passed through. there, in the sitting-room, where the red flowers in the window scented all the air, it was dark, and he could not at first see her, till against the piano he caught the glimmer of her white dress. she was sitting with hands resting on the pale notes. and falling on his knees, he buried his face against her. then, without looking up, he raised his hands. her tears fell on them covering her heart, that throbbed as if the passionate night itself were breathing in there, and all but the night and her love had stolen forth. chapter xiv on a spur of the sussex downs, inland from nettle-cold, there stands a beech-grove. the traveller who enters it out of the heat and brightness, takes off the shoes of his spirit before its, sanctity; and, reaching the centre, across the clean beech-mat, he sits refreshing his brow with air, and silence. for the flowers of sunlight on the ground under those branches are pale and rare, no insects hum, the birds are almost mute. and close to the border trees are the quiet, milk-white sheep, in congregation, escaping from noon heat. here, above fields and dwellings, above the ceaseless network of men's doings, and the vapour of their talk, the traveller feels solemnity. all seems conveying divinity--the great white clouds moving their wings above him, the faint longing murmur of the boughs, and in far distance, the sea.... and for a space his restlessness and fear know the peace of god. so it was with miltoun when he reached this temple, three days after that passionate night, having walked for hours, alone and full of conflict. during those three days he had been borne forward on the flood tide; and now, tearing himself out of london, where to think was impossible, he had come to the solitude of the downs to walk, and face his new position. for that position he saw to be very serious. in the flush of full realization, there was for him no question of renunciation. she was his, he hers; that was determined. but what, then, was he to do? there was no chance of her getting free. in her husband's view, it seemed, under no circumstances was marriage dissoluble. nor, indeed, to miltoun would divorce have made things easier, believing as he did that he and she were guilty, and that for the guilty there could be no marriage. she, it was true, asked nothing but just to be his in secret; and that was the course he knew most men would take, without further thought. there was no material reason in the world why he should not so act, and maintain unchanged every other current of his life. it would be easy, usual. and, with her faculty for self-effacement, he knew she would not be unhappy. but conscience, in miltoun, was a terrible and fierce thing. in the delirium of his illness it had become that great face which had marched over him. and, though during the weeks of his recuperation, struggle of all kind had ceased, now that he had yielded to his passion, conscience, in a new and dismal shape, had crept up again to sit above his heart: he must and would let this man, her husband, know; but even if that caused no open scandal, could he go on deceiving those who, if they knew of an illicit love, would no longer allow him to be their representative? if it were known that she was his mistress, he could no longer maintain his position in public life--was he not therefore in honour bound; of his own accord, to resign it? night and day he was haunted by the thought: how can i, living in defiance of authority, pretend to authority over my fellows? how can i remain in public life? but if he did not remain in public life, what was he to do? that way of life was in his blood; he had been bred and born into it; had thought of nothing else since he was a boy. there was no other occupation or interest that could hold him for a moment--he saw very plainly that he would be cast away on the waters of existence. so the battle raged in his proud and twisted spirit, which took everything so hard--his nature imperatively commanding him to keep his work and his power for usefulness; his conscience telling him as urgently that if he sought to wield authority, he must obey it. he entered the beech-grove at the height of this misery, flaming with rebellion against the dilemma which fate had placed before him; visited by gusts of resentment against a passion, which forced him to pay the price, either of his career, or of his self-respect; gusts, followed by remorse that he could so for one moment regret his love for that tender creature. the face of lucifer was not more dark, more tortured, than miltoun's face in the twilight of the grove, above those kingdoms of the world, for which his ambition and his conscience fought. he threw himself down among the trees; and stretching out his arms, by chance touched a beetle trying to crawl over the grassless soil. some bird had maimed it. he took the little creature up. the beetle truly could no longer work, but it was spared the fate lying before himself. the beetle was not, as he would be, when his power of movement was destroyed, conscious of his own wasted life. the world would not roll away down there. he would still see himself cumbering the ground, when his powers were taken, from him. this thought was torture. why had he been suffered to meet her, to love her, and to be loved by her? what had made him so certain from the first moment, if she were not meant for him? if he lived to be a hundred, he would never meet another. why, because of his love, must he bury the will and force of a man? if there were no more coherence in god's scheme than this, let him too be incoherent! let him hold authority, and live outside authority! why stifle his powers for the sake of a coherence which did not exist! that would indeed be madness greater than that of a mad world! there was no answer to his thoughts in the stillness of the grove, unless it were the cooing of a dove, or the faint thudding of the sheep issuing again into sunlight. but slowly that stillness stole into miltoun's spirit. "is it like this in the grave?" he thought. "are the boughs of those trees the dark earth over me? and the sound in them the sound the dead hear when flowers are growing, and the wind passing through them? and is the feel of this earth how it feels to lie looking up for ever at nothing? is life anything but a nightmare, a dream; and is not this the reality? and why my fury, my insignificant flame, blowing here and there, when there is really no wind, only a shroud of still air, and these flowers of sunlight that have been dropped on me! why not let my spirit sleep, instead of eating itself away with rage; why not resign myself at once to wait for the substance, of which this is but the shadow!" and he lay scarcely breathing, looking up at the unmoving branches setting with their darkness the pearls of the sky. "is not peace enough?" he thought. "is not love enough? can i not be reconciled, like a woman? is not that salvation, and happiness? what is all the rest, but 'sound and fury, signifying nothing?" and as though afraid to lose his hold of that thought, he got up and hurried from the grove. the whole wide landscape of field and wood, cut by the pale roads, was glimmering under the afternoon sun, here was no wild, wind-swept land, gleaming red and purple, and guarded by the grey rocks; no home of the winds, and the wild gods. it was all serene and silver-golden. in place of the shrill wailing pipe of the hunting buzzard-hawks half lost up in the wind, invisible larks were letting fall hymns to tranquillity; and even the sea--no adventuring spirit sweeping the shore with its wing--seemed to lie resting by the side of the land. chapter xv when on the afternoon of that same day miltoun did not come, all the chilly doubts which his presence alone kept away, crowded thick and fast into the mind of one only too prone to distrust her own happiness. it could not last--how could it? his nature and her own were so far apart! even in that giving of herself which had been such happiness, she had yet doubted; for there was so much in him that was to her mysterious. all that he loved in poetry and nature, had in it something craggy and culminating. the soft and fiery, the subtle and harmonious, seemed to leave him cold. he had no particular love for all those simple natural things, birds, bees, animals, trees, and flowers, that seemed to her precious and divine. though it was not yet four o'clock she was already beginning to droop like a flower that wants water. but she sat down to her piano, resolutely, till tea came; playing on and on with a spirit only half present, the other half of her wandering in the town, seeking for miltoun. after tea she tried first to read, then to sew, and once more came back to her piano. the clock struck six; and as if its last stroke had broken the armour of her mind, she felt suddenly sick with anxiety. why was he so long? but she kept on playing, turning the pages without taking in the notes, haunted by the idea that he might again have fallen ill. should she telegraph? what good, when she could not tell in the least where he might be? and all the unreasoning terror of not knowing where the loved one is, beset her so that her hands, in sheer numbness, dropped from the keys. unable to keep still, now, she wandered from window to door, out into the little hall, and back hastily to the window. over her anxiety brooded a darkness, compounded of vague growing fears. what if it were the end? what if he had chosen this as the most merciful way of leaving her? but surely he would never be so cruel! close on the heels of this too painful thought came reaction; and she told herself that she was a fool. he was at the house; something quite ordinary was keeping him. it was absurd to be anxious! she would have to get used to this now. to be a drag on him would be dreadful. sooner than that she would rather--yes--rather he never came back! and she took up her book, determined to read quietly till he came. but the moment she sat down her fears returned with redoubled force-the cold sickly horrible feeling of uncertainty, of the knowledge that she could do nothing but wait till she was relieved by something over which she had no control. and in the superstition that to stay there in the window where she could see him come, was keeping him from her, she went into her bedroom. from there she could watch the sunset clouds wine-dark over the river. a little talking wind shivered along the houses; the dusk began creeping in. she would not turn on the light, unwilling to admit that it was really getting late, but began to change her dress, lingering desperately over every little detail of her toilette, deriving therefrom a faint, mysterious comfort, trying to make herself feel beautiful. from sheer dread of going back before he came, she let her hair fall, though it was quite smooth and tidy, and began brushing it. suddenly she thought with horror of her efforts at adornment--by specially preparing for him, she must seem presumptuous to fate. at any little sound she stopped and stood listening--save for her hair and eyes, as white from head to foot as a double narcissus flower in the dusk, bending towards some faint tune played to it somewhere oft in the fields. but all those little sounds ceased, one after another--they had meant nothing; and each time, her spirit returning--within the pale walls of the room, began once more to inhabit her lingering fingers. during that hour in her bedroom she lived through years. it was dark when she left it. chapter xvi when miltoun at last came it was past nine o'clock. silent, but quivering all over; she clung to him in the hall; and this passion of emotion, without sound to give it substance, affected him profoundly. how terribly sensitive and tender she was! she seemed to have no armour. but though so stirred by her emotion, he was none the less exasperated. she incarnated at that moment the life to which he must now resign himself--a life of unending tenderness, consideration, and passivity. for a long time he could not bring himself to speak of his decision. every look of her eyes, every movement of her body, seemed pleading with him to keep silence. but in miltoun's character there was an element of rigidity, which never suffered him to diverge from an objective once determined. when he had finished telling her, she only said: "why can't we go on in secret?" and he felt with a sort of horror that he must begin his struggle over again. he got up, and threw open the window. the sky was dark above the river; the wind had risen. that restless murmuration, and the width of the night with its scattered stars, seemed to come rushing at his face. he withdrew from it, and leaning on the sill looked down at her. what flower-like delicacy she had! there flashed across him the memory of a drooping blossom, which, in the spring, he had seen her throw into the flames; with the words: "i can't bear flowers to fade, i always want to burn them." he could see again those waxen petals yield to the fierce clutch of the little red creeping sparks, and the slender stalk quivering, and glowing, and writhing to blackness like a live thing. and, distraught, he began: "i can't live a lie. what right have i to lead, if i can't follow? i'm not like our friend courtier who believes in liberty. i never have, i never shall. liberty? what is liberty? but only those who conform to authority have the right to wield authority. a man is a churl who enforces laws, when he himself has not the strength to observe them. i will not be one of whom it can be said: 'he can rule others, himself----!" "no one will know." miltoun turned away. "i shall know," he said; but he saw clearly that she did not understand him. her face had a strange, brooding, shut-away look, as though he had frightened her. and the thought that she could not understand, angered him. he said, stubbornly: "no, i can't remain in public life." "but what has it to do with politics? it's such a little thing." "if it had been a little thing to me, should i have left you at monkland, and spent those five weeks in purgatory before my illness? a little thing!" she exclaimed with sudden fire: "circumstances aye the little thing; it's love that's the great thing." miltoun stared at her, for the first time understanding that she had a philosophy as deep and stubborn as his own. but he answered cruelly: "well! the great thing has conquered me!" and then he saw her looking at him, as if, seeing into the recesses of his soul, she had made some ghastly discovery. the look was so mournful, so uncannily intent that he turned away from it. "perhaps it is a little thing," he muttered; "i don't know. i can't see my way. i've lost my bearings; i must find them again before i can do anything." but as if she had not heard, or not taken in the sense of his words, she said again: "oh! don't let us alter anything; i won't ever want what you can't give." and this stubbornness, when he was doing the very thing that would give him to her utterly, seemed to him unreasonable. "i've had it out with myself," he said. "don't let's talk about it any more." again, with a sort of dry anguish, she murmured: "no, no! let us go on as we are!" feeling that he had borne all he could, miltoun put his hands on her shoulders, and said: "that's enough!" then, in sudden remorse, he lifted her, and clasped her to him. but she stood inert in his arms, her eyes closed, not returning his kisses. chapter xvii on the last day before parliament rose, lord valleys, with a light heart, mounted his horse for a gallop in the row. though she was a blood mare he rode her with a plain snaffle, having the horsemanship of one who has hunted from the age of seven, and been for twenty years a colonel of yeomanry. greeting affably everyone he knew, he maintained a frank demeanour on all subjects, especially of government policy, secretly enjoying the surmises and prognostications, so pleasantly wide of the mark, and the way questions and hints perished before his sphinx-like candour. he spoke cheerily too of miltoun, who was 'all right again,' and 'burning for the fray' when the house met again in the autumn. and he chaffed lord malvezin about his wife. if anything--he said--could make bertie take an interest in politics, it would be she. he had two capital gallops, being well known to the police: the day was bright, and he was sorry to turn home. falling in with harbinger, he asked him to come back to lunch. there had seemed something different lately, an almost morose look, about young harbinger; and his wife's disquieting words about barbara came back to lord valleys with a shock. he had seen little of the child lately, and in the general clearing up of this time of year had forgotten all about the matter. agatha, who was still staying at valleys house with little ann, waiting to travel up to scotland with her mother, was out, and there was no one at lunch except lady valleys and barbara herself. conversation flagged; for the young people were extremely silent, lady valleys was considering the draft of a report which had to be settled before she left, and lord valleys himself was rather carefully watching his daughter. the news that lord miltoun was in the study came as a surprise, and somewhat of a relief to all. to an exhortation to luring him in to lunch; the servant replied that lord miltoun had lunched, and would wait. "does he know there's no one here?" "yes, my lady." lady valleys pushed back her plate, and rose: "oh, well!" she said, "i've finished." lord valleys also got up, and they went out together, leaving barbara, who had risen, looking doubtfully at the door. lord valleys had recently been told of the nursing episode, and had received the news with the dubious air of one hearing something about an eccentric person, which, heard about anyone else, could have had but one significance. if eustace had been a normal young man his father would have shrugged his shoulder's, and thought: "oh, well! there it is!" as it was, he had literally not known what to think. and now, crossing the saloon which intervened between the dining-room and the study, he said to his wife uneasily: "is it this woman again, gertrude--or what?" lady valleys answered with a shrug: "goodness knows, my dear." miltoun was standing in the embrasure of a window above the terrace. he looked well, and his greeting was the same as usual. "well, my dear fellow," said lord valleys, "you're all right again evidently--what's the news?" "only that i've decided to resign my seat." lord valleys stared. "what on earth for?" but lady valleys, with the greater quickness of women, divining already something of the reason, had flushed a deep pink. "nonsense, my dear," she said; "it can't possibly be necessary, even if----" recovering herself, she added dryly: "give us some reason." "the reason is simply that i've joined my life to mrs. noel's, and i can't go on as i am, living a lie. if it were known i should obviously have to resign at once." "good god!" exclaimed lord valleys. lady valleys made a rapid movement. in the face of what she felt to be a really serious crisis between these two utterly different creatures of the other sex, her husband and her son, she had dropped her mask and become a genuine woman. unconsciously both men felt this change, and in speaking, turned towards her. "i can't argue it," said miltoun; "i consider myself bound in honour." "and then?" she asked. lord valleys, with a note of real feeling, interjected: "by heaven! i did think you put your country above your private affairs." "geoff!" said lady valleys. but lord valleys went on: "no, eustace, i'm out of touch with your view of things altogether. i don't even begin to understand it." "that is true," said miltoun. "listen to me, both of you!" said lady valleys: "you two are altogether different; and you must not quarrel. i won't have that. now, eustace, you are our son, and you have got to be kind and considerate. sit down, and let's talk it over." and motioning her husband to a chair, she sat down in the embrasure of a window. miltoun remained standing. visited by a sudden dread, lady valleys said: "is it--you've not--there isn't going to be a scandal?" miltoun smiled grimly. "i shall tell this man, of course, but you may make your minds easy, i imagine; i understand that his view of marriage does not permit of divorce in any case whatever." lady valleys sighed with an utter and undisguised relief. "well, then, my dear boy," she began, "even if you do feel you must tell him, there is surely no reason why it should not otherwise be kept secret." lord valleys interrupted her: "i should be glad if you would point out the connection between your honour and the resignation of your seat," he said stiffly. miltoun shook his head. "if you don't see already, it would be useless." "i do not see. the whole matter is--is unfortunate, but to give up your work, so long as there is no absolute necessity, seems to me far-fetched and absurd. how many men are, there into whose lives there has not entered some such relation at one time or another? this idea would disqualify half the nation." his eyes seemed in that crisis both to consult and to avoid his wife's, as though he were at once asking her endorsement of his point of view, and observing the proprieties. and for a moment in the midst of her anxiety, her sense of humour got the better of lady valleys. it was so funny that geoff should have to give himself away; she could not for the life of her help fixing him with her eyes. "my dear," she murmured, "you underestimate three-quarters, at the very least!" but lord valleys, confronted with danger, was growing steadier. "it passes my comprehension;" he said, "why you should want to mix up sex and politics at all." miltoun's answer came very slowly, as if the confession were hurting his lips: "there is--forgive me for using the word--such a thing as one's religion. i don't happen to regard life as divided into public and private departments. my vision is gone--broken--i can see no object before me now in public life--no goal--no certainty." lady valleys caught his hand: "oh! my dear," she said, "that's too dreadfully puritanical!" but at miltoun's queer smile, she added hastily: "logical--i mean." "consult your common sense, eustace, for goodness' sake," broke in lord valleys. "isn't it your simple duty to put your scruples in your pocket, and do the best you can for your country with the powers that have been given you?" "i have no common sense." "in that case, of course, it may be just as well that you should leave public life." miltoun bowed. "nonsense!" cried lady valleys. "you don't understand, geoffrey. i ask you again, eustace, what will you do afterwards?" "i don't know." "you will eat your heart out." "quite possibly." "if you can't come to a reasonable arrangement with your conscience," again broke in lord valleys, "for heaven's sake give her up, like a man, and cut all these knots." "i beg your pardon, sir!" said miltoun icily. lady valleys laid her hand on his arm. "you must allow us a little logic too, my dear. you don't seriously imagine that she would wish you to throw away your life for her? i'm not such a bad judge of character as that." she stopped before the expression on miltoun's face. "you go too fast," he said; "i may become a free spirit yet." to this saying, which seemed to her cryptic and sinister, lady valleys did not know what to answer. "if you feel, as you say," lord valleys began once more, "that the bottom has been knocked out of things for you by this--this affair, don't, for goodness' sake, do anything in a hurry. wait! go abroad! get your balance back! you'll find the thing settle itself in a few months. don't precipitate matters; you can make your health an excuse to miss the autumn session." lady valleys chimed in eagerly "you really are seeing the thing out of all proportion. what is a love-affair. my dear boy, do you suppose for a moment anyone would think the worse of you, even if they knew? and really not a soul need know." "it has not occurred to me to consider what they would think." "then," cried lady valleys, nettled, "it's simply your own pride." "you have said." lord valleys, who had turned away, spoke in an almost tragic voice "i did not think that on a point of honour i should differ from my son." catching at the word honour, lady valleys cried suddenly: "eustace, promise me, before you do anything, to consult your uncle dennis." miltoun smiled. "this becomes comic," he said. at that word, which indeed seemed to them quite wanton, lord and lady valleys turned on their son, and the three stood staring, perfectly silent. a little noise from the doorway interrupted them. chapter xviii left by her father and mother to the further entertainment of harbinger, barbara had said: "let's have coffee in here," and passed into the withdrawing room. except for that one evening, when together by the sea wall they stood contemplating the populace, she had not been alone with him since he kissed her under the shelter of the box hedge. and now, after the first moment, she looked at him calmly, though in her breast there was a fluttering, as if an imprisoned bird were struggling ever so feebly against that soft and solid cage. her last jangled talk with courtier had left an ache in her heart. besides, did she not know all that harbinger could give her? like a nymph pursued by a faun who held dominion over the groves, she, fugitive, kept looking back. there was nothing in that fair wood of his with which she was not familiar, no thicket she had not travelled, no stream she had not crossed, no kiss she could not return. his was a discovered land, in which, as of right, she would reign. she had nothing to hope from him but power, and solid pleasure. her eyes said: how am i to know whether i shall not want more than you; feel suffocated in your arms; be surfeited by all that you will bring me? have i not already got all that? she knew, from his downcast gloomy face, how cruel she seemed, and was sorry. she wanted to be good to him, and said almost shyly: "are you angry with me, claud?" harbinger looked up. "what makes you so cruel?" "i am not cruel." "you are. where is your heart?" "here!" said barbara, touching her breast. "ah!" muttered harbinger; "i'm not joking." she said gently:' "is it as bad as that, my dear?" but the softness of her voice seemed to fan the smouldering fires in him. "there's something behind all this," he stammered, "you've no right to make a fool of me!" "and what is the something, please?" "that's for you to say. but i'm not blind. what about this fellow courtier?" at that moment there was revealed to barbara a new acquaintance--the male proper. no, to live with him would not be quite lacking in adventure! his face had darkened; his eyes were dilated, his whole figure seemed to have grown. she suddenly noticed the hair which covered his clenched fists. all his suavity had left him. he came very close. how long that look between them lasted, and of all there was in it, she had no clear knowledge; thought after thought, wave after wave of feeling, rushed through her. revolt and attraction, contempt and admiration, queer sensations of disgust and pleasure, all mingled--as on a may day one may see the hail fall, and the sun suddenly burn through and steam from the grass. then he said hoarsely: "oh! babs, you madden me so!" smoothing her lips, as if to regain control of them, she answered: "yes, i think i have had enough," and went out into her father's study. the sight of lord and lady valleys so intently staring at miltoun restored hex self-possession. it struck her as slightly comic, not knowing that the little scene was the outcome of that word. in truth, the contrast between miltoun and his parents at this moment was almost ludicrous. lady valleys was the first to speak. "better comic than romantic. i suppose barbara may know, considering her contribution to this matter. your brother is resigning his seat, my dear; his conscience will not permit him to retain it, under certain circumstances that have arisen." "oh!" cried barbara: "but surely----" "the matter has been argued, babs," lord valleys said shortly; "unless you have some better reason to advance than those of ordinary common sense, public spirit, and consideration for one's family, it will hardly be worth your while to reopen the discussion." barbara looked up at miltoun, whose face, all but the eyes, was like a mask. "oh, eusty!" she said, "you're not going to spoil your life like this! just think how i shall feel." miltoun answered stonily: "you did what you thought right; as i am doing." "does she want you to?" "no." "there is, i should imagine," put in lord valleys, "not a solitary creature in the whole world except your brother himself who would wish for this consummation. but with him such a consideration does not weigh!" "oh!" sighed barbara; "think of granny!" "i prefer not to think of her," murmured lady valleys. "she's so wrapped up in you, eusty. she always has believed in you intensely." miltoun sighed. and, encouraged by that sound, barbara went closer. it was plain enough that, behind his impassivity, a desperate struggle was going on in miltoun. he spoke at last: "if i have not already yielded to one who is naturally more to me than anything, when she begged and entreated, it is because i feel this in a way you don't realize. i apologize for using the word comic just now, i should have said tragic. i'll enlighten uncle dennis, if that will comfort you; but this is not exactly a matter for anyone, except myself." and, without another look or word, he went out. as the door closed, barbara ran towards it; and, with a motion strangely like the wringing of hands, said: "oh, dear! oh! dear!" then, turning away to a bookcase, she began to cry. this ebullition of feeling, surpassing even their own, came as a real shock to lady and lord valleys, ignorant of how strung-up she had been before she entered the room. they had not seen barbara cry since she was a tiny girl. and in face of her emotion any animus they might have shown her for having thrown miltoun into mrs. noel's arms, now melted away. lord valleys, especially moved, went up to his daughter, and stood with her in that dark corner, saying nothing, but gently stroking her hand. lady valleys, who herself felt very much inclined to cry, went out of sight into the embrasure of the window. barbara's sobbing was soon subdued. "it's his face," she said: "and why? why? it's so unnecessary!" lord valleys, continually twisting his moustache, muttered: "exactly! he makes things for himself!" "yes," murmured lady valleys from the window, "he was always uncomfortable, like that. i remember him as a baby. bertie never was." and then the silence was only broken by the little angry sounds of barbara blowing her nose. "i shall go and see mother," said lady valleys, suddenly: "the boy's whole life may be ruined if we can't stop this. are you coming, child?" but barbara refused. she went to her room, instead. this crisis in miltoun's life had strangely shaken her. it was as if fate had suddenly revealed all that any step out of the beaten path might lead to, had brought her sharply up against herself. to wing out into the blue! see what it meant! if miltoun kept to his resolve, and gave up public life, he was lost! and she herself! the fascination of courtier's chivalrous manner, of a sort of innate gallantry, suggesting the quest of everlasting danger--was it not rather absurd? and--was she fascinated? was it not simply that she liked the feeling of fascinating him? through the maze of these thoughts, darted the memory of harbinger's face close to her own, his clenched hands, the swift revelation of his dangerous masculinity. it was all a nightmare of scaring queer sensations, of things that could never be settled. she was stirred for once out of all her normal conquering philosophy. her thoughts flew back to miltoun. that which she had seen in their faces, then, had come to pass! and picturing agatha's horror, when she came to hear of it, barbara could not help a smile. poor eustace! why did he take things so hardly? if he really carried out his resolve--and he never changed his mind--it would be tragic! it would mean the end of everything for him! perhaps now he would get tired of mrs. noel. but she was not the sort of woman a man would get tired of. even barbara in her inexperience felt that. she would always be too delicately careful never to cloy him, never to exact anything from him, or let him feel that he was bound to her by so much as a hair. ah! why couldn't they go on as if nothing had happened? could nobody persuade him? she thought again of courtier. if he, who knew them both, and was so fond of mrs. noel, would talk to miltoun, about the right to be happy, the right to revolt? eustace ought to revolt! it was his duty. she sat down to write; then, putting on her hat, took the note and slipped downstairs. chapter xix the flowers of summer in the great glass house at ravensham were keeping the last afternoon-watch when clifton summoned lady casterley with the words: "lady valleys in the white room." since the news of miltoun's illness, and of mrs. noel's nursing, the little old lady had possessed her soul in patience; often, it is true, afflicted with poignant misgivings as to this new influence in the life of her favourite, affected too by a sort of jealousy, not to be admitted, even in her prayers, which, though regular enough, were perhaps somewhat formal. having small liking now for leaving home, even for catton, her country place, she was still at ravensham, where lord dennis had come up to stay with her as soon as miltoun had left sea house. but lady casterley was never very dependent on company. she retained unimpaired her intense interest in politics, and still corresponded freely with prominent men. of late, too, a slight revival of the june war scare had made its mark on her in a certain rejuvenescence, which always accompanied her contemplation of national crises, even when such were a little in the air. at blast of trumpet her spirit still leaped forward, unsheathed its sword, and stood at the salute. at such times, she rose earlier, went to bed later, was far less susceptible to draughts, and refused with asperity any food between meals. she wrote too with her own hand letters which she would otherwise have dictated to her secretary. unfortunately the scare had died down again almost at once; and the passing of danger always left her rather irritable. lady valleys' visit came as a timely consolation. she kissed her daughter critically; for there was that about her manner which she did not like. "yes, of course i am well!" she said. "why didn't you bring barbara?" "she was tired!" "h'm! afraid of meeting me, since she committed that piece of folly over eustace. you must be careful of that child, gertrude, or she will be doing something silly herself. i don't like the way she keeps claud harbinger hanging in the wind." her daughter cut her short: "there is bad news about eustace." lady casterley lost the little colour in her cheeks; lost, too, all her superfluity of irritable energy. "tell me, at once!" having heard, she said nothing; but lady valleys noticed with alarm that over her eyes had come suddenly the peculiar filminess of age. "well, what do you advise?" she asked. herself tired, and troubled, she was conscious of a quite unwonted feeling of discouragement before this silent little figure, in the silent white room. she had never before seen her mother look as if she heard defeat passing on its dark wings. and moved by sudden tenderness for the little frail body that had borne her so long ago, she murmured almost with surprise: "mother, dear!" "yes," said lady casterley, as if speaking to herself, "the boy saves things up; he stores his feelings--they burst and sweep him away. first his passion; now his conscience. there are two men in him; but this will be the death of one of them." and suddenly turning on her daughter, she said: "did you ever hear about him at oxford, gertrude? he broke out once, and ate husks with the gadarenes. you never knew. of course--you never have known anything of him." resentment rose in lady valleys, that anyone should knew her son better than herself; but she lost it again looking at the little figure, and said, sighing: "well?" lady casterley murmured: "go away, child; i must think. you say he's to consult' dennis? do you know her address? ask barbara when you get back and telephone it to me. and at her daughter's kiss, she added grimly: "i shall live to see him in the saddle yet, though i am seventy-eight." when the sound of her daughter's car had died away, she rang the bell. "if lady valleys rings up, clifton, don't take the message, but call me." and seeing that clifton did not move she added sharply: "well?" "there is no bad news of his young lordship's health, i hope?" "no." "forgive me, my lady, but i have had it on my mind for some time to ask you something." and the old man raised his hand with a peculiar dignity, seeming to say: you will excuse me that for the moment i am a human being speaking to a human being. "the matter of his attachment," he went on, "is known to me; it has given me acute anxiety, knowing his lordship as i do, and having heard him say something singular when he was here in july. i should be grateful if you would assure--me that there is to be no hitch in his career, my lady." the expression on lady casterley's face was strangely compounded of surprise, kindliness, defence, and impatience as with a child. "not if i can prevent it, clifton," she said shortly; "in fact, you need not concern yourself." clifton bowed. "excuse me mentioning it, my lady;" a quiver ran over his face between its long white whiskers, "but his young lordship's career is more to me than my own." when he had left her, lady casterley sat down in a little low chair--long she sat there by the empty hearth, till the daylight, was all gone. chapter xx not far from the dark-haloed indeterminate limbo where dwelt that bugbear of charles courtier, the great half-truth authority, he himself had a couple of rooms at fifteen shillings a week. their chief attraction was that the great half-truth liberty had recommended them. they tied him to nothing, and were ever at his disposal when he was in london; for his landlady, though not bound by agreement so to do, let them in such a way, that she could turn anyone else out at a week's notice. she was a gentle soul, married to a socialistic plumber twenty years her senior. the worthy man had given her two little boys, and the three of them kept her in such permanent order that to be in the presence of courtier was the greatest pleasure she knew. when he disappeared on one of his nomadic missions, explorations, or adventures, she enclosed the whole of his belongings in two tin trunks and placed them in a cupboard which smelled a little of mice. when he reappeared the trunks were reopened, and a powerful scent of dried rose-leaves would escape. for, recognizing the mortality of things human, she procured every summer from her sister, the wife of a market gardener, a consignment of this commodity, which she passionately sewed up in bags, and continued to deposit year by year, in courtier's trunks. this, and the way she made his toast--very crisp--and aired his linen--very dry, were practically the only things she could do for a man naturally inclined to independence, and accustomed from his manner of life to fend for himself. at first signs of his departure she would go into some closet or other, away from the plumber and the two marks of his affection, and cry quietly; but never in courtier's presence did she dream of manifesting grief--as soon weep in the presence of death or birth, or any other fundamental tragedy or joy. in face of the realities of life she had known from her youth up the value of the simple verb 'sto--stare-to stand fast.' and to her courtier was a reality, the chief reality of life, the focus of her aspiration, the morning and the evening star. the request, then five days after his farewell visit to mrs. noel--for the elephant-hide trunk which accompanied his rovings, produced her habitual period of seclusion, followed by her habitual appearance in his sitting-room bearing a note, and some bags of dried rose--leaves on a tray. she found him in his shirt sleeves, packing. "well, mrs. benton; off again!" mrs. benton, plaiting her hands, for she had not yet lost something of the look and manner of a little girl, answered in her flat, but serene voice: "yes, sir; and i hope you're not going anywhere very dangerous this time. i always think you go to such dangerous places." "to persia, mrs. benton, where the carpets come from." "oh! yes, sir. your washing's just come home." her, apparently cast-down, eyes stored up a wealth of little details; the way his hair grew, the set of his back, the colour of his braces. but suddenly she said in a surprising voice: "you haven't a photograph you could spare, sir, to leave behind? mr. benton was only saying to me yesterday, we've nothing to remember him by, in case he shouldn't come back." "here's an old one." mrs. benton took the photograph. "oh!" she said; "you can see who it is." and holding it perhaps too tightly, for her fingers trembled, she added: "a note, please, sir; and the messenger boy is waiting for--an answer." while he read the note she noticed with concern how packing had brought the blood into his head.... when, in response to that note, courtier entered the well-known confectioner's called gustard's, it was still not quite tea-time, and there seemed to him at first no one in the room save three middle-aged women packing sweets; then in the corner he saw barbara. the blood was no longer in his head; he was pale, walking down that mahogany-coloured room impregnated with the scent of wedding-cake. barbara, too, was pale. so close to her that he could count her every eyelash, and inhale the scent of her hair and clothes to listen to her story of miltoun, so hesitatingly, so wistfully told, seemed very like being kept waiting with the rope already round his neck, to hear about another person's toothache. he felt this to have been unnecessary on the part of fate! and there came to him perversely the memory of that ride over the sun-warmed heather, when he had paraphrased the old sicilian song: 'here will i sit and sing.' he was a long way from singing now; nor was there love in his arms. there was instead a cup of tea; and in his nostrils the scent of cake, with now and then a whiff of orange-flower water. "i see," he said, when she had finished telling him: "'liberty's a glorious feast!' you want me to go to your brother, and quote bums? you know, of course, that he regards me as dangerous." "yes; but he respects and likes you." "and i respect and like him," answered courtier. one of the middle-aged females passed, carrying a large white card-board box; and the creaking of her stays broke the hush. "you have been very sweet to me," said barbara, suddenly. courtier's heart stirred, as if it were turning over within him; and gazing into his teacup, he answered-- "all men are decent to the evening star. i will go at once and find your brother. when shall i bring you news?" "to-morrow at five i'll be at home." and repeating, "to-morrow at five," he rose. looking back from the door, he saw her face puzzled, rather reproachful, and went out gloomily. the scent of cake, and orange-flower water, the creaking of the female's stays, the colour of mahogany, still clung to his nose and ears, and eyes; but within him it was all dull baffled rage. why had he not made the most of this unexpected chance; why had he not made desperate love to her? a conscientious ass! and yet--the whole thing was absurd! she was so young! god knew he would be glad to be out of it. if he stayed he was afraid that he would play the fool. but the memory of her words: "you have been very sweet to me!" would not leave him; nor the memory of her face, so puzzled, and reproachful. yes, if he stayed he would play the fool! he would be asking her to marry a man double her age, of no position but that which he had carved for himself, and without a rap. and he would be asking her in such a way that she might possibly have some little difficulty in refusing. he would be letting himself go. and she was only twenty--for all her woman-of-the-world air, a child! no! he would be useful to her, if possible, this once, and then clear out! chapter xxi when miltoun left valleys house he walked in the direction of westminster. during the five days that he had been back in london he had not yet entered the house of commons. after the seclusion of his illness, he still felt a yearning, almost painful, towards the movement and stir of the town. everything he heard and saw made an intensely vivid impression. the lions in trafalgar square, the great buildings of whitehall, filled him with a sort of exultation. he was like a man, who, after a long sea voyage, first catches sight of land, and stands straining his eyes, hardly breathing, taking in one by one the lost features of that face. he walked on to westminster bridge, and going to an embrasure in the very centre, looked back towards the towers. it was said that the love of those towers passed into the blood. it was said that he who had sat beneath them could never again be quite the same. miltoun knew that it was true--desperately true, of himself. in person he had sat there but three weeks, but in soul he seemed to have been sitting there hundreds of years. and now he would sit there no more! an almost frantic desire to free himself from this coil rose up within him. to be held a prisoner by that most secret of all his instincts, the instinct for authority! to be unable to wield authority because to wield authority was to insult authority. god! it was hard! he turned his back on the towers; and sought distraction in the faces of the passers-by. each of these, he knew, had his struggle to keep self-respect! or was it that they were unconscious of struggle or of self-respect, and just let things drift? they looked like that, most of them! and all his inherent contempt for the average or common welled up as he watched them. yes, they looked like that! ironically, the sight of those from whom he had desired the comfort of compromise, served instead to stimulate that part of him which refused to let him compromise. they looked soft, soggy, without pride or will, as though they knew that life was too much for them, and had shamefully accepted the fact. they so obviously needed to be told what they might do, and which way they should, go; they would accept orders as they accepted their work, or pleasures: and the thought that he was now debarred from the right to give them orders, rankled in him furiously. they, in their turn, glanced casually at his tall figure leaning against the parapet, not knowing how their fate was trembling in the balance. his thin, sallow face, and hungry eyes gave one or two of them perhaps a feeling of interest or discomfort; but to most he was assuredly no more than any other man or woman in the hurly-burly. that dark figure of conscious power struggling in the fetters of its own belief in power, was a piece of sculpture they had neither time nor wish to understand, having no taste for tragedy--for witnessing the human spirit driven to the wall. it was five o'clock before miltoun left the bridge, and passed, like an exile, before the gates of church and state, on his way to his uncle's club. he stopped to telegraph to audrey the time he would be coming to-morrow afternoon; and on leaving the post-office, noticed in the window of the adjoining shop some reproductions of old italian masterpieces, amongst them one of botticelli's 'birth of venus.' he had never seen that picture; and, remembering that she had told him it was her favourite, he stopped to look at it. averagely well versed in such matters, as became one of his caste, miltoun had not the power of letting a work of art insidiously steal the private self from his soul, and replace it with the self of all the world; and he examined this far-famed presentment of the heathen goddess with aloofness, even irritation. the drawing of the body seemed to him crude, the whole picture a little flat and early; he did not like the figure of the flora. the golden serenity, and tenderness, of which she had spoken, left him cold. then he found himself looking at the face, and slowly, but with uncanny certainty, began to feel that he was looking at the face of audrey herself. the hair was golden and different, the eyes grey and different, the mouth a little fuller; yet--it was her face; the same oval shape, the same far-apart, arched brows, the same strangely tender, elusive spirit. and, as though offended, he turned and walked on. in the window of that little shop was the effigy of her for whom he had bartered away his life--the incarnation of passive and entwining love, that gentle creature, who had given herself to him so utterly, for whom love, and the flowers, and trees, and birds, music, the sky, and the quick-flowing streams, were all-sufficing; and who, like the goddess in the picture, seemed wondering at her own existence. he had a sudden glimpse of understanding, strange indeed in one who had so little power of seeing into others' hearts: ought she ever to have been born into a world like this? but the flash of insight yielded quickly to that sickening consciousness of his own position, which never left him now. whatever else he did, he must get rid of that malaise! but what could he do in that coming life? write books? what sort of books could he write? only such as expressed his views of citizenship, his political and social beliefs. as well remain sitting and speaking beneath those towers! he could never join the happy band of artists, those soft and indeterminate spirits, for whom barriers had no meaning, content-to understand, interpret, and create. what should he be doing in that galley? the thought was inconceivable. a career at the bar--yes, he might take that up; but to what end? to become a judge! as well continue to sit beneath those towers! too late for diplomacy. too late for the army; besides, he had not the faintest taste for military glory. bury himself in the country like uncle dennis, and administer one of his father's estates? it would be death. go amongst the poor? for a moment he thought he had found a new vocation. but in what capacity--to order their lives, when he himself could not order his own; or, as a mere conduit pipe for money, when he believed that charity was rotting the nation to its core? at the head of every avenue stood an angel or devil with drawn sword. and then there came to him another thought. since he was being cast forth from church and state, could he not play the fallen spirit like a man--be lucifer, and destroy! and instinctively he at once saw himself returning to those towers, and beneath them crossing the floor; joining the revolutionaries, the radicals, the freethinkers, scourging his present party, the party of authority and institutions. the idea struck him as supremely comic, and he laughed out loud in the street.... the club which lord dennis frequented was in st. james's untouched by the tides of the waters of fashion--steadily swinging to its moorings in a quiet backwater, and miltoun found his uncle in the library. he was reading a volume of burton's travels, and drinking tea. "nobody comes here," he said, "so, in spite of that word on the door, we shall talk. waiter, bring some more tea, please." impatiently, but with a sort of pity, miltoun watched lord dennis's urbane movements, wherein old age was, pathetically, trying to make each little thing seem important, if only to the doer. nothing his great-uncle could say would outweigh the warning of his picturesque old figure! to be a bystander; to see it all go past you; to let your sword rust in its sheath, as this poor old fellow had done! the notion of explaining what he had come about was particularly hateful to miltoun; but since he had given his word, he nerved himself with secret anger, and began: "i promised my mother to ask you a question, uncle dennis. you know of my attachment, i believe?" lord dennis nodded. "well, i have joined my life to this lady's. there will be no scandal, but i consider it my duty to resign my seat, and leave public life alone. is that right or wrong according to, your view?" lord dennis looked at his nephew in silence. a faint flush coloured his brown cheeks. he had the appearance of one travelling in mind over the past. "wrong, i think," he said, at last. "why, if i may ask?" "i have not the pleasure of knowing this lady, and am therefore somewhat in the dark; but it appears to me that your decision is not fair to her." "that is beyond me," said miltoun. lord dennis answered firmly: "you have asked me a frank question, expecting a frank answer, i suppose?" miltoun nodded. "then, my dear, don't blame me if what i say is unpalatable." "i shall not." "good! you say you are going to give up public life for the sake of your conscience. i should have no criticism to make if it stopped there." he paused, and for quite a minute remained silent, evidently searching for words to express some intricate thread of thought. "but it won't, eustace; the public man in you is far stronger than the other. you want leadership more than you want love. your sacrifice will kill your affection; what you imagine is your loss and hurt, will prove to be this lady's in the end." miltoun smiled. lord dennis continued very dryly and with a touch of malice: "you are not listening to me; but i can see very well that the process has begun already underneath. there's a curious streak of the jesuit in you, eustace. what you don't want to see, you won't look at." "you advise me, then, to compromise?" "on the contrary, i point out that you will be compromising if you try to keep both your conscience and your love. you will be seeking to have, it both ways." "that is interesting." "and you will find yourself having it neither," said lord dennis sharply. miltoun rose. "in other words, you, like the others, recommend me to desert this lady who loves me, and whom i love. and yet, uncle, they say that in your own case----" but lord dennis had risen, too, having lost all the appanage and manner of old age. "of my own case," he said bluntly, "we won't talk. i don't advise you to desert anyone; you quite mistake me. i advise you to know yourself. and i tell you my opinion of you--you were cut out by nature for a statesman, not a lover! there's something dried-up in you, eustace; i'm not sure there isn't something dried-up in all our caste. we've had to do with forms and ceremonies too long. we're not good at taking the lyrical point of view." "unfortunately," said miltoun, "i cannot, to fit in with a theory of yours, commit a baseness." lord dennis began pacing up and down. he was keeping his lips closed very tight. "a man who gives advice," he said at last, "is always something of a fool. for all that, you have mistaken mine. i am not so presumptuous as to attempt to enter the inner chamber of your spirit. i have merely told you that, in my opinion, it would be more honest to yourself, and fairer to this lady, to compound with your conscience, and keep both your love and your public life, than to pretend that you were capable of sacrificing what i know is the stronger element in you for the sake of the weaker. you remember the saying, democritus i think: 'each man's nature or character is his fate or god'. i recommend it to you." for a full minute miltoun stood without replying, then said: "i am sorry to have troubled you, uncle dennis. a middle policy is no use to me. good-bye!" and without shaking hands, he went out. chapter xxii in the hall someone rose from a sofa, and came towards him. it was courtier. "run you to earth at last," he said; "i wish you'd come and dine with me. i'm leaving england to-morrow night, and there are things i want to say." there passed through miltoun's mind the rapid thought: 'does he know?' he assented, however, and they went out together. "it's difficult to find a quiet place," said courtier; "but this might do." the place chosen was a little hostel, frequented by racing men, and famed for the excellence of its steaks. and as they sat down opposite each other in the almost empty room, miltoun thought: yes, he does know! can i stand any more of this? he waited almost savagely for the attack he felt was coming. "so you are going to give up your seat?" said courtier. miltoun looked at him for some seconds, before replying. "from what town-crier did you hear that?" but there was that in courtier's face which checked his anger; its friendliness was transparent. "i am about her only friend," courtier proceeded earnestly; "and this is my last chance--to say nothing of my feeling towards you, which, believe me, is very cordial." "go on, then," miltoun muttered. "forgive me for putting it bluntly. have you considered what her position was before she met you?" miltoun felt the blood rushing to his face, but he sat still, clenching his nails into the palms of his hands. "yes, yes," said courtier, "but that attitude of mind--you used to have it yourself--which decrees either living death, or spiritual adultery to women, makes my blood boil. you can't deny that those were the alternatives, and i say you had the right fundamentally to protest against them, not only in words but deeds. you did protest, i know; but this present decision of yours is a climb down, as much as to say that your protest was wrong." miltoun rose from his seat. "i cannot discuss this," he said; "i cannot." "for her sake, you must. if you give up your public work, you'll spoil her life a second time." miltoun again sat down. at the word 'must' a steely feeling had come to his aid; his eyes began to resemble the old cardinal's. "your nature and mine, courtier," he said, "are too far apart; we shall never understand each other." "never mind that," answered courtier. "admitting those two alternatives to be horrible, which you never would have done unless the facts had been brought home to you personally--" "that," said miltoun icily, "i deny your right to say." "anyway, you do admit them--if you believe you had not the right to rescue her, on what principle do you base that belief?" miltoun placed his elbow on the table, and leaning his chin on his hand, regarded the champion of lost causes without speaking. there was such a turmoil going on within him that with difficulty he could force his lips to obey him. "by what right do you ask me that?" he said at last. he saw courtier's face grow scarlet, and his fingers twisting furiously at those flame-like moustaches; but his answer was as steadily ironical as usual. "well, i can hardly sit still, my last evening in england, without lifting a finger, while you immolate a woman to whom i feel like a brother. i'll tell you what your principle is: authority, unjust or just, desirable or undesirable, must be implicitly obeyed. to break a law, no matter on what provocation, or for whose sake, is to break the commandment" "don't hesitate--say, of god." "of an infallible fixed power. is that a true definition of your principle?" "yes," said miltoun, between his teeth, "i think so." "exceptions prove the rule." "hard cases make bad law." courtier smiled: "i knew you were coming out with that. i deny that they do with this law, which is altogether behind the times. you had the right to rescue this woman." "no, courtier, if we must fight, let us fight on the naked facts. i have not rescued anyone. i have merely stolen sooner than starve. that is why i cannot go on pretending to be a pattern. if it were known, i could not retain my seat an hour; i can't take advantage of an accidental secrecy. could you?" courtier was silent; and with his eyes miltoun pressed on him, as though he would despatch him with that glance. "i could," said courtier at last. "when this law, by enforcing spiritual adultery on those who have come to hate their mates, destroys the sanctity of the married state--the very sanctity it professes to uphold, you must expect to have it broken by reasoning men and women without their feeling shame, or losing self-respect." in miltoun there was rising that vast and subtle passion for dialectic combat, which was of his very fibre. he had almost lost the feeling that this was his own future being discussed. he saw before him in this sanguine man, whose voice and eyes had such a white-hot sound and look, the incarnation of all that he temperamentally opposed. "that," he said, "is devil's advocacy. i admit no individual as judge in his own case." "ah! now we're coming to it. by the way, shall we get out of this heat?" they were no sooner in the cooler street, than the voice of courtier began again: "distrust of human nature, fear--it's the whole basis of action for men of your stamp. you deny the right of the individual to judge, because you've no faith in the essential goodness of men; at heart you believe them bad. you give them no freedom, you allow them no consent, because you believe that their decisions would move downwards, and not upwards. well, it's the whole difference between the aristocratic and the democratic view of life. as you once told me, you hate and fear the crowd." miltoun eyed that steady sanguine face askance: "yes," he said, "i do believe that men are raised in spite of themselves." "you're honest. by whom?" again miltoun felt rising within him a sort of fury. once for all he would slay this red-haired rebel; he answered with almost savage irony: "strangely enough, by that being to mention whom you object--working through the medium of the best." "high-priest! look at that girl slinking along there, with her eye on us; suppose, instead of withdrawing your garment, you went over and talked to her, got her to tell you what she really felt and thought, you'd find things that would astonish you. at bottom, mankind is splendid. and they're raised, sir, by the aspiration that's in all of them. haven't you ever noticed that public sentiment is always in advance of the law?" "and you," said miltoun, "are the man who is never on the side of the majority?" the champion of lost causes uttered a short laugh. "not so logical as all that," he answered; "the wind still blows; and life's not a set of rules hung up in an office. let's see, where are we?" they had been brought to a stand-still by a group on the pavement in front of the queen's hall: "shall we go in, and hear some music, and cool our tongues?" miltoun nodded, and they went in. the great lighted hall, filled with the faint bluefish vapour from hundreds of little rolls of tobacco leaf, was crowded from floor to ceiling. taking his stand among the straw-hatted throng, miltoun heard that steady ironical voice behind him: "profanum vulgus! come to listen to the finest piece of music ever written! folk whom you wouldn't trust a yard to know what was good for them! deplorable sight, isn't it?" he made no answer. the first slow notes of the seventh symphony of beethoven had begun to steal forth across the bank of flowers; and, save for the steady rising of that bluefish vapour, as it were incense burnt to the god of melody, the crowd had become deathly still, as though one mind, one spirit, possessed each pale face inclined towards that music rising and falling like the sighing of the winds, that welcome from death the freed spirits of the beautiful. when the last notes had died away, he turned and walked out. "well," said the voice behind him, "hasn't that shown you how things swell and grow; how splendid the world is?" miltoun smiled. "it has shown me how beautiful the world can be made by a great man." and suddenly, as if the music had loosened some band within him, he began to pour forth words: "look at the crowd in this street, courtier, which of all crowds in the whole world can best afford to be left to itself; secure from pestilence, earthquake, cyclone, drought, from extremes of heat and cold, in the heart of the greatest and safest city in the world; and yet-see the figure of that policeman! running through all the good behaviour of this crowd, however safe and free it looks, there is, there always must be, a central force holding it together. where does that central force come from? from the crowd itself, you say. i answer: no. look back at the origin of human states. from the beginnings of things, the best man has been the unconscious medium of authority, of the controlling principle, of the divine force; he felt that power within him--physical, at first--he used it to take the lead, he has held the lead ever since, he must always hold it. all your processes of election, your so-called democratic apparatus, are only a blind to the inquiring, a sop to the hungry, a salve to the pride of the rebellious. they are merely surface machinery; they cannot prevent the best man from coming to the top; for the best man stands nearest to the deity, and is the first to receive the waves that come from him. i'm not speaking of heredity. the best man is not necessarily born in my class, and i, at all events, do not believe he is any more frequent there than in other classes." he stopped as suddenly as he had begun. "you needn't be afraid," answered courtier, "that i take you for an average specimen. you're at one end, and i at the other, and we probably both miss the golden mark. but the world is not ruled by power, and the fear which power produces, as you think, it's ruled by love. society is held together by the natural decency in man, by fellow-feeling. the democratic principle, which you despise, at root means nothing at all but that. man left to himself is on the upward lay. if it weren't so, do you imagine for a moment your 'boys in blue' could keep order? a man knows unconsciously what he can and what he can't do, without losing his self-respect. he sucks that knowledge in with every breath. laws and authority are not the be-all and end-all, they are conveniences, machinery, conduit pipes, main roads. they're not of the structure of the building--they're only scaffolding." miltoun lunged out with the retort "without which no building could be built." courtier parried. "that's rather different, my friend, from identifying them with the building. they are things to be taken down as fast as ever they can be cleared away, to make room for an edifice that begins on earth, not in the sky. all the scaffolding of law is merely there to save time, to prevent the temple, as it mounts, from losing its way, and straying out of form." "no," said miltoun, "no! the scaffolding, as you call it, is the material projection of the architect's conception, without which the temple does not and cannot rise; and the architect is god, working through the minds and spirits most akin to himself." "we are now at the bed-rock," cried courtier, "your god is outside this world. mine within it." "and never the twain shall meet!" in the silence that followed miltoun saw that they were in leicester square, all quiet as yet before the theatres had disgorged; quiet yet waiting, with the lights, like yellow stars low-driven from the dark heavens, clinging to the white shapes of music-halls and cafes, and a sort of flying glamour blanching the still foliage of the plane trees. "a 'whitely wanton'--this square!" said courtier: "alive as a face; no end to its queer beauty! and, by jove, if you went deep enough, you'd find goodness even here." "and you'd ignore the vice," miltoun answered. he felt weary all of a sudden, anxious to get to his rooms, unwilling to continue this battle of words, that brought him no nearer to relief. it was with strange lassitude that he heard the voice still speaking: "we must make a night of it, since to-morrow we die.... you would curb licence from without--i from within. when i get up and when i go to bed, when i draw a breath, see a face, or a flower, or a tree--if i didn't feel that i was looking on the deity, i believe i should quit this palace of varieties, from sheer boredom. you, i understand, can't look on your god, unless you withdraw into some high place. isn't it a bit lonely there?" "there are worse things than loneliness." and they walked on, in silence; till suddenly miltoun broke out: "you talk of tyranny! what tyranny could equal this tyranny of your freedom? what tyranny in the world like that of this 'free' vulgar, narrow street, with its hundred journals teeming like ants' nests, to produce-what? in the entrails of that creature of your freedom, courtier, there is room neither for exaltation, discipline, nor sacrifice; there is room only for commerce, and licence." there was no answer for a moment; and from those tall houses, whose lighted windows he had apostrophized, miltoun turned away towards the river. "no," said the voice beside him, "for all its faults, the wind blows in that street, and there's a chance for everything. by god, i would rather see a few stars struggle out in a black sky than any of your perfect artificial lighting." and suddenly it seemed to miltoun that he could never free himself from the echoes of that voice--it was not worth while to try. "we are repeating ourselves," he said, dryly. the river's black water was making stilly, slow recessional under a half-moon. beneath the cloak of night the chaos on the far bank, the forms of cranes, high buildings, jetties, the bodies of the sleeping barges, a--million queer dark shapes, were invested with emotion. all was religious out there, all beautiful, all strange. and over this great quiet friend of man, lamps--those humble flowers of night, were throwing down the faint continual glamour of fallen petals; and a sweet-scented wind stole along from the west, very slow as yet, bringing in advance the tremor and perfume of the innumerable trees and fields which the river had loved as she came by. a murmur that was no true sound, but like the whisper of a heart to a heart, accompanied this voyage of the dark water. then a small blunt skiff--manned by two rowers came by under the wall, with the thudding and the creak of oars. "so 'to-morrow we die'?" said miltoun: "you mean, i suppose, that 'public life' is the breath of my nostrils, and i must die, because i give it up?" courtier nodded. "am i right in thinking that it was my young sister who sent you on this crusade?" courtier did not answer. "and so," miltoun went on, looking him through and through; "to-morrow is to be your last day, too? well, you're right to go. she is not an ugly duckling, who can live out of the social pond; she'll always want her native element. and now, we'll say goodbye! whatever happens to us both, i shall remember this evening." smiling, he put out his hand 'moriturus te saluto.' chapter xxiii courtier sat in hyde park waiting for five o'clock. the day had recovered somewhat from a grey morning, as though the glow of that long hot summer were too burnt-in on the air to yield to the first assault. the sun, piercing the crisped clouds, those breast feathers of heavenly doves, darted its beams at the mellowed leaves, and showered to the ground their delicate shadow stains. the first, too early, scent from leaves about to fall, penetrated to the heart. and sorrowful sweet birds were tuning their little autumn pipes, blowing into them fragments of spring odes to liberty. courtier thought of miltoun and his mistress. by what a strange fate had those two been thrown together; to what end was their love coming? the seeds of grief were already sown, what flowers of darkness, or of tumult would come up? he saw her again as a little, grave, considering child, with her soft eyes, set wide apart under the dark arched brows, and the little tuck at the corner of her mouth that used to come when he teased her. and to that gentle creature who would sooner die than force anyone to anything, had been given this queer lover; this aristocrat by birth and nature, with the dried fervent soul, whose every fibre had been bred and trained in and to the service of authority; this rejecter of the unity of life; this worshipper of an old god! a god that stood, whip in hand, driving men to obedience. a god that even now courtier could conjure up staring at him from the walls of his nursery. the god his own father had believed in. a god of the old testament, knowing neither sympathy nor understanding. strange that he should be alive still; that there should still be thousands who worshipped him. yet, not so very strange, if, as they said, man made god in his own image! here indeed was a curious mating of what the philosophers would call the will to love, and the will to power! a soldier and his girl came and sat down on a bench close by. they looked askance at this trim and upright figure with the fighting face; then, some subtle thing informing them that he was not of the disturbing breed called officer, they ceased to regard him, abandoning themselves to dumb and inexpressive felicity. arm in arm, touching each other, they seemed to courtier very jolly, having that look of living entirely in the moment, which always especially appealed to one whose blood ran too fast to allow him to speculate much upon the future or brood much over the past. a leaf from the bough above him, loosened by the sun's kisses, dropped, and fell yellow at his feet. the leaves were turning very soon? it was characteristic of this man, who could be so hot over the lost causes of others, that, sitting there within half an hour of the final loss of his own cause, he could be so calm, so almost apathetic. this apathy was partly due to the hopelessness, which nature had long perceived, of trying to make him feel oppressed, but also to the habits of a man incurably accustomed to carrying his fortunes in his hand, and that hand open. it did not seem real to him that he was actually going to suffer a defeat, to have to confess that he had hankered after this girl all these past weeks, and that to-morrow all would be wasted, and she as dead to him as if he had never seen her. no, it was not exactly resignation, it was rather sheer lack of commercial instinct. if only this had been the lost cause of another person. how gallantly he would have rushed to the assault, and taken her by storm! if only he himself could have been that other person, how easily, how passionately could he not have pleaded, letting forth from him all those words which had knocked at his teeth ever since he knew her, and which would have seemed so ridiculous and so unworthy, spoken on his own behalf. yes, for that other person he could have cut her out from under the guns of the enemy; he could have taken her, that fairest prize. and in queer, cheery-looking apathy--not far removed perhaps from despair--he sat, watching the leaves turn over and fall, and now and then cutting with his stick at the air, where autumn was already riding. and, if in imagination he saw himself carrying her away into the wilderness, and with his devotion making her happiness to grow, it was so far a flight, that a smile crept about his lips, and once or twice he snapped his jaws. the soldier and his girl rose, passing in front of him down the row. he watched their scarlet and blue figures, moving slowly towards the sun, and another couple close to the rails, crossing those receding forms. very straight and tall, there was something exhilarating in the way this new couple swung along, holding their heads up, turning towards each other, to exchange words or smiles. even at that distance they could be seen to be of high fashion; in their gait was the almost insolent poise of those who are above doubts and cares, certain of the world and of themselves. the girl's dress was tawny brown, her hair and hat too of the same hue, and the pursuing sunlight endowed her with a hazy splendour. then, courtier saw who they were--that couple! except for an unconscious grinding of his teeth, he made no sound or movement, so that they went by without seeing him. her voice, though not the words, came to him distinctly. he saw her hand slip up under harbinger's arm and swiftly down again. a smile, of whose existence he was unaware, settled on his lips. he got up, shook himself, as a dog shakes off a beating, and walked away, with his mouth set very firm. chapter xxiv left alone among the little mahogany tables of gustard's, where the scent of cake and of orange-flower water made happy all the air, barbara had sat for some minutes, her eyes cast down--as a child from whom a toy has been taken contemplates the ground, not knowing precisely what she is feeling. then, paying one of the middle-aged females, she went out into the square. there a german band was playing delibes' coppelia; and the murdered tune came haunting her, a very ghost of incongruity. she went straight back to valleys house. in the room where three hours ago she had been left alone after lunch with harbinger, her sister was seated in the window, looking decidedly upset. in fact, agatha had just spent an awkward hour. chancing, with little ann, into that confectioner's where she could best obtain a particularly gummy sweet which she believed wholesome for her children, she had been engaged in purchasing a pound, when looking down, she perceived ann standing stock-still, with her sudden little nose pointed down the shop, and her mouth opening; glancing in the direction of those frank, enquiring eyes, agatha saw to her amazement her sister, and a man whom she recognized as courtier. with a readiness which did her complete credit, she placed a sweet in ann's mouth, and saying to the middle-aged female: "then you'll send those, please. come, ann!" went out. shocks never coming singly, she had no sooner reached home, than from her father she learned of the development of miltoun's love affair. when barbara returned, she was sitting, unfeignedly disturbed and grieved; unable to decide whether or no she ought to divulge what she herself had seen, but withal buoyed-up by that peculiar indignation of the essentially domestic woman, whose ideals have been outraged. judging at once from the expression of her face that she must have heard the news of miltoun, barbara said: "well, my dear angel, any lecture for me?" agatha answered coldly: "i think you were quite mad to take mrs. noel to him." "the whole duty of woman," murmured barbara, "includes a little madness." agatha looked at her in silence. "i can't make you out," she said at last; "you're not a fool!" "only a knave." "you may think it right to joke over the ruin of miltoun's life," murmured agatha; "i don't." barbara's eyes grew bright; and in a hard voice she answered: "the world is not your nursery, angel!" agatha closed her lips very tightly, as who should imply: "then it ought to be!" but she only answered: "i don't think you know that i saw you just now in gustard's." barbara eyed her for a moment in amazement, and began to laugh. "i see," she said; "monstrous depravity--poor old gustard's!" and still laughing that dangerous laugh, she turned on her heel and went out. at dinner and afterwards that evening she was very silent, having on her face the same look that she wore out hunting, especially when in difficulties of any kind, or if advised to 'take a pull.' when she got away to her own room she had a longing to relieve herself by some kind of action that would hurt someone, if only herself. to go to bed and toss about in a fever--for she knew herself in these thwarted moods--was of no use! for a moment she thought of going out. that would be fun, and hurt them, too; but it was difficult. she did not want to be seen, and have the humiliation of an open row. then there came into her head the memory of the roof of the tower, where she had once been as a little girl. she would be in the air there, she would be able to breathe, to get rid of this feverishness. with the unhappy pleasure of a spoiled child taking its revenge, she took care to leave her bedroom door open, so that her maid would wonder where she was, and perhaps be anxious, and make them anxious. slipping through the moonlit picture gallery on to the landing, outside her father's sanctum, whence rose the stone staircase leading to the roof, she began to mount. she was breathless when, after that unending flight of stairs she emerged on to the roof at the extreme northern end of the big house, where, below her, was a sheer drop of a hundred feet. at first she stood, a little giddy, grasping the rail that ran round that garden of lead, still absorbed in her brooding, rebellious thoughts. gradually she lost consciousness of everything save the scene before her. high above all neighbouring houses, she was almost appalled by the majesty of what she saw. this night-clothed city, so remote and dark, so white-gleaming and alive, on whose purple hills and valleys grew such myriad golden flowers of light, from whose heart came this deep incessant murmur--could it possibly be the same city through which she had been walking that very day! from its sleeping body the supreme wistful spirit had emerged in dark loveliness, and was low-flying down there, tempting her. barbara turned round, to take in all that amazing prospect, from the black glades of hyde park, in front, to the powdery white ghost of a church tower, away to the east. how marvellous was this city of night! and as, in presence of that wide darkness of the sea before dawn, her spirit had felt little and timid within her--so it felt now, in face of this great, brooding, beautiful creature, whom man had made. she singled out the shapes of the piccadilly hotels, and beyond them the palaces and towers of westminster and whitehall; and everywhere the inextricable loveliness of dim blue forms and sinuous pallid lines of light, under an indigo-dark sky. near at hand, she could see plainly the still-lighted windows, the motorcars gliding by far down, even the tiny shapes of people walking; and the thought that each of them meant someone like herself, seemed strange. drinking of this wonder-cup, she began to experience a queer intoxication, and lost the sense of being little; rather she had the feeling of power, as in her dream at monkland. she too, as well as this great thing below her, seemed to have shed her body, to be emancipated from every barrier-floating deliciously identified with air. she seemed to be one with the enfranchised spirit of the city, drowned in perception of its beauty. then all that feeling went, and left her frowning, shivering, though the wind from the west was warm. her whole adventure of coming up here seemed bizarre, ridiculous. very stealthily she crept down, and had reached once more the door into 'the picture gallery, when she heard her mother's voice say in amazement: "that you, babs?" and turning, saw her coming from the doorway of the sanctum. of a sudden very cool, with all her faculties about her, barbara smiled, and stood looking at lady valleys, who said with hesitation: "come in here, dear, a minute, will you?" in that room resorted to for comfort, lord valleys was standing with his back to the hearth, and an expression on his face that wavered between vexation and decision. the doubt in agatha's mind whether she should tell or no, had been terribly resolved by little ann, who in a pause of conversation had announced: "we saw auntie babs and mr. courtier in gustard's, but we didn't speak to them." upset by the events of the afternoon, lady valleys had not shown her usual 'savoir faire'. she had told her husband. a meeting of this sort in a shop celebrated for little save its wedding cakes was in a sense of no importance; but, being disturbed already by the news of miltoun, it seemed to them both nothing less than sinister, as though the heavens were in league for the demolition of their house. to lord valleys it was peculiarly mortifying, because of his real admiration for his daughter, and because he had paid so little attention to his wife's warning of some weeks back. in consultation, however, they had only succeeded in deciding that lady valleys should talk with her. though without much spiritual insight, they had, each of them, a certain cool judgment; and were fully alive to the danger of thwarting barbara. this had not prevented lord valleys from expressing himself strongly on the 'confounded unscrupulousness of that fellow,' and secretly forming his own plan for dealing with this matter. lady valleys, more deeply conversant with her daughter's nature, and by reason of femininity more lenient towards the other sex, had not tried to excuse courtier, but had thought privately: 'babs is rather a flirt.' for she could not altogether help remembering herself at the same age. summoned thus unexpectedly, barbara, her lips very firmly pressed together, took her stand, coolly enough, by her father's writing-table. seeing her suddenly appear, lord valleys instinctively relaxed his frown; his experience of men and things, his thousands of diplomatic hours, served to give him an air of coolness and detachment which he was very far from feeling. in truth he would rather have faced a hostile mob than his favourite daughter in such circumstances. his tanned face with its crisp grey moustache, his whole head indeed, took on, unconsciously, a more than ordinarily soldier-like appearance. his eyelids drooped a little, his brows rose slightly. she was wearing a blue wrap over her evening frock, and he seized instinctively on that indifferent trifle to begin this talk. "ah! babs, have you been out?" alive to her very finger-nails, with every nerve tingling, but showing no sign, barbara answered: "no; on the roof of the tower." it gave her a real malicious pleasure to feel the perplexity beneath her father's dignified exterior. and detecting that covert mockery, lord valleys said dryly: "star-gazing?" then, with that sudden resolution peculiar to him, as though he were bored with having to delay and temporize, he added: "do you know, i doubt whether it's wise to make appointments in confectioner's shops when ann is in london." the dangerous little gleam in barbara's eyes escaped his vision but not that of lady valleys, who said at once: "no doubt you had the best of reasons, my dear." barbara curled her lip. had it not been for the scene they had been through that day with miltoun, and for their very real anxiety, both would have seen, then, that while their daughter was in this mood, least said was soonest mended. but their nerves were not quite within control; and with more than a touch of impatience lord valleys ejaculated: "it doesn't appear to you, i suppose, to require any explanation?" barbara answered: "no." "ah!" said lord valleys: "i see. an explanation can be had no doubt from the gentleman whose sense of proportion was such as to cause him to suggest such a thing." "he did not suggest it. i did." lord valleys' eyebrows rose still higher. "indeed!" he said. "geoffrey!" murmured lady valleys, "i thought i was to talk to babs." "it would no doubt be wiser." in barbara, thus for the first time in her life seriously reprimanded, there was at work the most peculiar sensation she had ever felt, as if something were scraping her very skin--a sick, and at the same time devilish, feeling. at that moment she could have struck her father dead. but she showed nothing, having lowered the lids of her eyes. "anything else?" she said. lord valleys' jaw had become suddenly more prominent. "as a sequel to your share in miltoun's business, it is peculiarly entrancing." "my dear," broke in lady valleys very suddenly, "babs will tell me. it's nothing, of course." barbara's calm voice said again: "anything else?" the repetition of this phrase in that maddening, cool voice almost broke down her father's sorely tried control. "nothing from you," he said with deadly coldness. "i shall have the honour of telling this gentleman what i think of him." at those words barbara drew herself together, and turned her eyes from one face to the other. under that gaze, which for all its cool hardness, was so furiously alive, neither lord nor lady valleys could keep quite still. it was as if she had stripped from them the well-bred mask of those whose spirits, by long unquestioning acceptance of themselves, have become inelastic, inexpansive, commoner than they knew. in fact a rather awful moment! then barbara said: "if there's nothing else, i'm going to bed. goodnight!" and as calmly as she had come in, she went out. when she had regained her room, she locked the door, threw off her cloak, and looked at herself in the glass. with pleasure she saw how firmly her teeth were clenched, how her breast was heaving, and how her eyes seemed to be stabbing herself. and all the time she thought: "very well! my dears! very well!" chapter xxv in that mood of rebellious mortification she fell asleep. and, curiously enough, dreamed not of him whom she had in mind been so furiously defending, but of harbinger. she fancied herself in prison, lying in a cell fashioned like the drawing-room at sea house; and in the next cell, into which she could somehow look, harbinger was digging at the wall with his nails. she could distinctly see the hair on the back of his hands, and hear him breathing. the hole he was making grew larger and larger. her heart began to beat furiously; she awoke. she rose with a new and malicious resolution to show no sign of rebellion, to go through the day as if nothing had happened, to deceive them all, and then--! exactly what 'and then' meant, she did not explain even to herself. in accordance with this plan of action she presented an untroubled front at breakfast, went out riding with little ann, and shopping with her mother afterwards. owing to this news of miltoun the journey to scotland had been postponed. she parried with cool ingenuity each attempt made by lady valleys to draw her into conversation on the subject of that meeting at gustard's, nor would she talk of her brother; in every other way she was her usual self. in the afternoon she even volunteered to accompany her mother to old lady harbinger's in the neighbourhood of prince's gate. she knew that harbinger would be there, and with the thought of meeting that other at 'five o'clock,' had a cynical pleasure in thus encountering him. it was so complete a blind to them all! then, feeling that she was accomplishing a masterstroke; she even told him, in her mother's hearing, that she would walk home, and he might come if he cared. he did care. but when once she had begun to swing along in the mellow afternoon, under the mellow trees, where the air was sweetened by the south-west wind, all that mutinous, reckless mood of hers vanished, she felt suddenly happy and kind, glad to be walking with him. to-day too he was cheerful, as if determined not to spoil her gaiety; and she was grateful for this. once or twice she even put her hand up and touched his sleeve, calling his attention to birds or trees, friendly, and glad, after all those hours of bitter feelings, to be giving happiness. when they parted at the door of valleys house, she looked back at him with a queer, half-rueful smile. for, now the hour had come! in a little unfrequented ante-room, all white panels and polish, she sat down to wait. the entrance drive was visible from here; and she meant to encounter courtier casually in the hall. she was excited, and a little scornful of her own excitement. she had expected him to be punctual, but it was already past five; and soon she began to feel uneasy, almost ridiculous, sitting in this room where no one ever came. going to the window, she looked out. a sudden voice behind her, said: "auntie babs!". turning, she saw little ann regarding her with those wide, frank, hazel eyes. a shiver of nerves passed through barbara. "is this your room? it's a nice room, isn't it?" she answered: "quite a nice room, ann." "yes. i've never been in here before. there's somebody just come, so i must go now." barbara involuntarily put her hands up to her cheeks, and quickly passed with her niece into the hall. at the very door the footman william handed her a note. she looked at the superscription. it was from courtier. she went back into the room. through its half-closed door the figure of little ann could be seen, with her legs rather wide apart, and her hands clasped on her low-down belt, pointing up at william her sudden little nose. barbara shut the door abruptly, broke the seal, and read: "dear lady barbara, "i am sorry to say my interview with your brother was fruitless. "i happened to be sitting in the park just now, and i want to wish you every happiness before i go. it has been the greatest pleasure to know you. i shall never have a thought of you that will not be my pride; nor a memory that will not help me to believe that life is good. if i am tempted to feel that things are dark, i shall remember that you are breathing this same mortal air. and to beauty and joy' i shall take off my hat with the greater reverence, that once i was permitted to walk and talk, with you. and so, good-bye, and god bless you. "your faithful servant, "charles courtier." her cheeks burned, quick sighs escaped her lips; she read the letter again, but before getting to the end could not see the words for mist. if in that letter there had been a word of complaint or even of regret! she could not let him go like this, without good-bye, without any explanation at all. he should not think of her as a cold, stony flirt, who had been merely stealing a few weeks' amusement out of him. she would explain to him at all events that it had not been that. she would make him understand that it was not what he thought--that something in her wanted--wanted----! her mind was all confused. "what was it?" she thought: "what did i do?" and sore with anger at herself, she screwed the letter up in her glove, and ran out. she walked swiftly down to piccadilly, and crossed into the green park. there she passed lord malvezin and a friend strolling up towards hyde park corner, and gave them a very faint bow. the composure of those two precise and well-groomed figures sickened her just then. she wanted to run, to fly to this meeting that should remove from him the odious feelings he must have, that she, barbara caradoc, was a vulgar enchantress, a common traitress and coquette! and his letter--without a syllable of reproach! her cheeks burned so, that she could not help trying to hide them from people who passed. as she drew nearer to his rooms she walked slower, forcing herself to think what she should do, what she should let him do! but she continued resolutely forward. she would not shrink now--whatever came of it! her heart fluttered, seemed to stop beating, fluttered again. she set her teeth; a sort of desperate hilarity rose in her. it was an adventure! then she was gripped by the feeling that had come to her on the roof. the whole thing was bizarre, ridiculous! she stopped, and drew the letter from her glove. it might be ridiculous, but it was due from her; and closing her lips very tight, she walked on. in thought she was already standing close to him, her eyes shut, waiting, with her heart beating wildly, to know what she would feel when his lips had spoken, perhaps touched her face or hand. and she had a sort of mirage vision of herself, with eyelashes resting on her cheeks, lips a little parted, arms helpless at her sides. yet, incomprehensibly, his figure was invisible. she discovered then that she was standing before his door. she rang the bell calmly, but instead of dropping her hand, pressed the little bare patch of palm left open by the glove to her face, to see whether it was indeed her own cheek flaming so. the door had been opened by some unseen agency, disclosing a passage and flight of stairs covered by a red carpet, at the foot of which lay an old, tangled, brown-white dog full of fleas and sorrow. unreasoning terror seized on barbara; her body remained rigid, but her spirit began flying back across the green park, to the very hall of valleys house. then she saw coming towards her a youngish woman in a blue apron, with mild, reddened eyes. "is this where mr. courtier lives?" "yes, miss." the teeth of the young woman were few in number and rather black; and barbara could only stand there saying nothing, as if her body had been deserted between the sunlight and this dim red passage, which led to-what? the woman spoke again: "i'm sorry if you was wanting him, miss, he's just gone away." barbara felt a movement in her heart, like the twang and quiver of an elastic band, suddenly relaxed. she bent to stroke the head of the old dog, who was smelling her shoes. the woman said: "and, of course, i can't give you his address, because he's gone to foreign parts." with a murmur, of whose sense she knew nothing, barbara hurried out into the sunshine. was she glad? was she sorry? at the corner of the street she turned and looked back; the two heads, of the woman and the dog, were there still, poked out through the doorway. a horrible inclination to laugh seized her, followed by as horrible a desire to cry. chapter xxvi by the river the west wind, whose murmuring had visited courtier and miltoun the night before, was bringing up the first sky of autumn. slow-creeping and fleecy grey, the clouds seemed trying to overpower a sun that shone but fitfully even thus early in the day. while audrey noel was dressing sunbeams danced desperately on the white wall, like little lost souls with no to-morrow, or gnats that wheel and wheel in brief joy, leaving no footmarks on the air. through the chinks of a side window covered by a dark blind some smoky filaments of light were tethered to the back of her mirror. compounded of trembling grey spirals, so thick to the eye that her hand felt astonishment when it failed to grasp them, and so jealous as ghosts of the space they occupied, they brought a moment's distraction to a heart not happy. for how could she be happy, her lover away from her now thirty hours, without having overcome with his last kisses the feeling of disaster which had settled on her when he told her of his resolve. her eyes had seen deeper than his; her instinct had received a message from fate. to be the dragger-down, the destroyer of his usefulness; to be not the helpmate, but the clog; not the inspiring sky, but the cloud! and because of a scruple which she could not understand! she had no anger with that unintelligible scruple; but her fatalism, and her sympathy had followed it out into his future. things being so, it could not be long before he felt that her love was maiming him; even if he went on desiring her, it would be only with his body. and if, for this scruple, he were capable of giving up his public life, he would be capable of living on with her after his love was dead! this thought she could not bear. it stung to the very marrow of her nerves. and yet surely life could not be so cruel as to have given her such happiness meaning to take it from her! surely her love was not to be only one summer's day; his love but an embrace, and then--for ever nothing! this morning, fortified by despair, she admitted her own beauty. he would, he must want her more than that other life, at the very thought of which her face darkened. that other life so hard, and far from her! so loveless, formal, and yet--to him so real, so desperately, accursedly real! if he must indeed give up his career, then surely the life they could live together would make up to him--a life among simple and sweet things, all over the world, with music and pictures, and the flowers and all nature, and friends who sought them for themselves, and in being kind to everyone, and helping the poor and the unfortunate, and loving each other! but he did not want that sort of life! what was the good of pretending that he did? it was right and natural he should want, to use his powers! to lead and serve! she would not have him otherwise: with these thoughts hovering and darting within her, she went on twisting and coiling her dark hair, and burying her heart beneath its lace defences. she noted too, with her usual care, two fading blossoms in the bowl of flowers on her dressing-table, and, removing their, emptied out the water and refilled the bowl. before she left her bedroom the sunbeams had already ceased to dance, the grey filaments of light were gone. autumn sky had come into its own. passing the mirror in the hall which was always rough with her, she had not courage to glance at it. then suddenly a woman's belief in the power of her charm came to her aid; she felt almost happy--surely he must love her better than his conscience! but that confidence was very tremulous, ready to yield to the first rebuff. even the friendly fresh--cheeked maid seemed that morning to be regarding her with compassion; and all the innate sense, not of 'good form,' but of form, which made her shrink from anything that should disturb or hurt another, or make anyone think she was to be pitied, rose up at once within her; she became more than ever careful to show nothing even to herself. so she passed the morning, mechanically doing the little usual things. an overpowering longing was with her all the time, to get him away with her from england, and see whether the thousand beauties she could show him would not fire him with love of the things she loved. as a girl she had spent nearly three years abroad. and eustace had never been to italy, nor to her beloved mountain valleys! then, the remembrance of his rooms at the temple broke in on that vision, and shattered it. no titian's feast of gentian, tawny brown, and alpen-rose could intoxicate the lover of those books, those papers, that great map. and the scent of leather came to her now as poignantly as if she were once more flitting about noiselessly on her business of nursing. then there rushed through her again the warm wonderful sense that had been with her all those precious days--of love that knew secretly of its approaching triumph and fulfilment; the delicious sense of giving every minute of her time, every thought, and movement; and all the sweet unconscious waiting for the divine, irrevocable moment when at last she would give herself and be his. the remembrance too of how tired, how sacredly tired she had been, and of how she had smiled all the time with her inner joy of being tired for him. the sound of the bell startled her. his telegram had said, the afternoon! she determined to show nothing of the trouble darkening the whole world for her, and drew a deep breath, waiting for his kiss. it was not miltoun, but lady casterley. the shock sent the blood buzzing into her temples. then she noticed that the little figure before her was also trembling; drawing up a chair, she said: "won't you sit down?" the tone of that old voice, thanking her, brought back sharply the memory of her garden, at monkland, bathed in the sweetness and shimmer of summer, and of barbara standing at her gate towering above this little figure, which now sat there so silent, with very white face. those carved features, those keen, yet veiled eyes, had too often haunted her thoughts; they were like a bad dream come true. "my grandson is not here, is he?" audrey shook her head. "we have heard of his decision. i will not beat about the bush with you. it is a disaster for me a calamity. i have known and loved him since he was born, and i have been foolish enough to dream, dreams about him. i wondered perhaps whether you knew how much we counted on him. you must forgive an old woman's coming here like this. at my age there are few things that matter, but they matter very much." and audrey thought: "and at my age there is but one thing that matters, and that matters worse than death." but she did not speak. to whom, to what should she speak? to this hard old woman, who personified the world? of what use, words? "i can say to you," went on the voice of the little figure, that seemed so to fill the room with its grey presence, "what i could not bring myself to say to others; for you are not hard-hearted." a quiver passed up from the heart so praised to the still lips. no, she was not hard-hearted! she could even feel for this old woman from whose voice anxiety had stolen its despotism. "eustace cannot live without his career. his career is himself, he must be doing, and leading, and spending his powers. what he has given you is not his true self. i don't want to hurt you, but the truth is the truth, and we must all bow before it. i may be hard, but i can respect sorrow." to respect sorrow! yes, this grey visitor could do that, as the wind passing over the sea respects its surface, as the air respects the surface of a rose, but to penetrate to the heart, to understand her sorrow, that old age could not do for youth! as well try to track out the secret of the twistings in the flight of those swallows out there above the river, or to follow to its source the faint scent of the lilies in that bowl! how should she know what was passing in here--this little old woman whose blood was cold? and audrey had the sensation of watching someone pelt her with the rind and husks of what her own spirit had long devoured. she had a longing to get up, and take the hand, the chill, spidery hand of age, and thrust it into her breast, and say: "feel that, and cease!" but, withal, she never lost her queer dull compassion for the owner of that white carved face. it was not her visitor's fault that she had come! again lady casterley was speaking. "it is early days. if you do not end it now, at once, it will only come harder on you presently. you know how determined he is. he will not change his mind. if you cut him off from his work in life, it will but recoil on you. i can only expect your hatred, for talking like this, but believe me, it's for your good, as well as his, in the long run." a tumultuous heart-beating of ironical rage seized on the listener to that speech. her good! the good of a corse that the breath is just abandoning; the good of a flower beneath a heel; the good of an old dog whose master leaves it for the last time! slowly a weight like lead stopped all that fluttering of her heart. if she did not end it at once! the words had now been spoken that for so many hours, she knew, had lain unspoken within her own breast. yes, if she did not, she could never know a moment's peace, feeling that she was forcing him to a death in life, desecrating her own love and pride! and the spur had been given by another! the thought that someone--this hard old woman of the hard world--should have shaped in words the hauntings of her love and pride through all those ages since miltoun spoke to her of his resolve; that someone else should have had to tell her what her heart had so long known it must do--this stabbed her like a knife! this, at all events, she could not bear! she stood up, and said: "please leave me now! i have a great many things to do, before i go." with a sort of pleasure she saw a look of bewilderment cover that old face; with a sort of pleasure she marked the trembling of the hands raising their owner from the chair; and heard the stammering in the voice: "you are going? before-before he comes? you-you won't be seeing him again?" with a sort of pleasure she marked the hesitation, which did not know whether to thank, or bless, or just say nothing and creep away. with a sort of pleasure she watched the flush mount in the faded cheeks, the faded lips pressed together. then, at the scarcely whispered words: "thank you, my dear!" she turned, unable to bear further sight or sound. she went to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass, trying to think of nothing. she heard the sound of wheels-lady casterley had gone. and then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can know, she experienced the worst: she could not cry! at this most bitter and deserted moment of her life, she felt strangely calm, foreseeing clearly, exactly; what she must do, and where go. quickly it must be done, or it would never be done! quickly! and without fuss! she put some things together, sent the maid out for a cab, and sat down to write. she must do and say nothing that could excite him, and bring back his illness. let it all be sober, reasonable! it would be easy to let him know where she was going, to write a letter that would bring him flying after her. but to write the calm, reasonable words that would keep him waiting and thinking, till he never again came to her, broke her heart. when she had finished and sealed the letter, she sat motionless with a numb feeling in hands and brain, trying to realize what she had next to do. to go, and that was all! her trunks had been taken down already. she chose the little hat that he liked her best in, and over it fastened her thickest veil. then, putting on her travelling coat and gloves, she looked in the long mirror, and seeing that there was nothing more to keep her, lifted her dressing bag, and went down. over on the embankment a child was crying; and the passionate screaming sound, broken by the gulping of tears, made her cover her lips, as though she had heard her own escaped soul wailing out there. she leaned out of the cab to say to the maid: "go and comfort that crying, ella." only when she was alone in the train, secure from all eyes, did she give way to desperate weeping. the white smoke rolling past the windows was not more evanescent than her joy had been. for she had no illusions--it was over! from first to last--not quite a year! but even at this moment, not for all the world would she have been without her love, gone to its grave, like a dead child that evermore would be touching her breast with its wistful fingers. chapter xxvii barbara returning from her visit to courtier's deserted rooms, was met at valleys house with the message: would she please go at once to lady casterley? when, in obedience, she reached ravensham, she found her grandmother and lord-dennis in the white room. they were standing by one of the tall windows, apparently contemplating the view. they turned indeed at sound of barbara's approach, but neither of them spoke or nodded. not having seen her grandfather since before miltoun's illness, barbara found it strange to be so treated; she too took her stand silently before the window. a very large wasp was crawling up the pane, then slipping down with a faint buzz. suddenly lady casterley spoke. "kill that thing!" lord dennis drew forth his handkerchief. "not with that, dennis. it will make a mess. take a paper knife." "i was going to put it out," murmured lord dennis. "let barbara with her gloves." barbara moved towards the pane. "it's a hornet, i think," she said. "so he is!" said lord dennis, dreamily: "nonsense," murmured lady casterley, "it's a common wasp." "i know it's a hornet, granny. the rings are darker." lady casterley bent down; when she raised herself she had a slipper in her hand. "don't irritate him!" cried barbara, catching her wrist. but lady casterley freed her hand. "i will," she said, and brought the sole of the slipper down on the insect, so that it dropped on the floor, dead. "he has no business in here." and, as if that little incident had happened to three other people, they again stood silently looking through the window. then lady casterley turned to barbara. "well, have you realized the mischief that you've done?" "ann!" murmured lord dennis. "yes, yes; she is your favourite, but that won't save her. this woman--to her great credit--i say to her great credit--has gone away, so as to put herself out of eustace's reach, until he has recovered his senses." with a sharp-drawn breath barbara said: "oh! poor thing!" but on lady casterley's face had come an almost cruel look. "ah!" she said: "exactly. but, curiously enough, i am thinking of eustace." her little figure was quivering from head to foot: "this will be a lesson to you not to play with fire!" "ann!" murmured lord dennis again, slipping his arm through barbara's. "the world," went on lady casterley, "is a place of facts, not of romantic fancies. you have done more harm than can possibly be repaired. i went to her myself. i was very much moved.' if it hadn't been for your foolish conduct----" "ann!" said lord dennis once more. lady casterley paused, tapping the floor with her little foot. barbara's eyes were gleaming. "is there anything else you would like to squash, dear?" "babs!" murmured lord dennis; but, unconsciously pressing his hand against her heart, the girl went on. "you are lucky to be abusing me to-day--if it had been yesterday----" at these dark words lady casterley turned away, her shoes leaving little dull stains on the polished floor. barbara raised to her cheek the fingers which she had been so convulsively embracing. "don't let her go on, uncle," she whispered, "not just now!" "no, no, my dear," lord dennis murmured, "certainly not--it is enough." "it has been your sentimental folly," came lady casterley's voice from a far corner, "which has brought this on the boy." responding to the pressure of the hand, back now at her waist, barbara did not answer; and the sound of the little feet retracing their steps rose in the stillness. neither of those two at the window turned their heads; once more the feet receded, and again began coming back. suddenly barbara, pointing to the floor, cried: "oh! granny, for heaven's sake, stand still; haven't you squashed the hornet enough, even if he did come in where he hadn't any business?" lady casterley looked down at the debris of the insect. "disgusting!" she said; but when she next spoke it was in a less hard, more querulous voice. "that man--what was his name--have you got rid of him?" barbara went crimson. "abuse my friends, and i will go straight home and never speak to you again." for a moment lady casterley looked almost as if she might strike her granddaughter; then a little sardonic smile broke out on her face. "a creditable sentiment!" she said. letting fall her uncle's hand, barbara cried: "in any case, i'd better go. i don't know why you sent for me." lady casterley answered coldly: "to let you and your mother know of this woman's most unselfish behaviour; to put you on the 'qui vive' for what eustace may do now; to give you a chance to make up for your folly. moreover to warn you against----" she paused. "yes?" "let me----" interrupted lord dennis. "no, uncle dennis, let granny take her shoe!" she had withdrawn against the wall, tall, and as it were, formidable, with her head up. lady casterley remained silent. "have you got it ready?" cried barbara: "unfortunately he's flown!" a voice said: "lord miltoun." he had come in quietly and quickly, preceding the announcement, and stood almost touching that little group at the window before they caught sight of him. his face had the rather ghastly look of sunburnt faces from which emotion has driven the blood; and his eyes, always so much the most living part of him, were full of such stabbing anger, that involuntarily they all looked down. "i want to speak to you alone," he said to lady casterley. visibly, for perhaps the first time in her life, that indomitable little figure flinched. lord dennis drew barbara away, but at the door he whispered: "stay here quietly, babs; i don't like the look of this." unnoticed, barbara remained hovering. the two voices, low, and so far off in the long white room, were uncannily distinct, emotion charging each word with preternatural power of penetration; and every movement of the speakers had to the girl's excited eyes a weird precision, as of little figures she had once seen at a paris puppet show. she could hear miltoun reproaching his grandmother in words terribly dry and bitter. she edged nearer and nearer, till, seeing that they paid no more heed to her than if she were an attendant statue, she had regained her position by the window. lady casterley was speaking. "i was not going to see you ruined before my eyes, eustace. i did what i did at very great cost. i did my best for you." barbara saw miltoun's face transfigured by a dreadful smile--the smile of one defying his torturer with hate. lady casterley went on: "yes, you stand there looking like a devil. hate me if you like--but don't betray us, moaning and moping because you can't have the moon. put on your armour, and go down into the battle. don't play the coward, boy!" miltoun's answer cut like the lash of a whip. "by god! be silent!" and weirdly, there was silence. it was not the brutality of the words, but the sight of force suddenly naked of all disguise--like a fierce dog let for a moment off its chain--which made barbara utter a little dismayed sound. lady casterley had dropped into a chair, trembling. and without a look miltoun passed her. if their grandmother had fallen dead, barbara knew he would not have stopped to see. she ran forward, but the old woman waved her away. "go after him," she said, "don't let him go alone." and infected by the fear in that wizened voice, barbara flew. she caught her brother as he was entering the taxi-cab in which he had come, and without a word slipped in beside him. the driver's face appeared at the window, but miltoun only motioned with his head, as if to say: anywhere, away from here! the thought flashed through barbara: "if only i can keep him in here with me!" she leaned out, and said quietly: "to nettlefold, in sussex--never mind your petrol--get more on the road. you can have what fare you like. quick!" the man hesitated, looked in her face, and said: "very well; miss. by dorking, ain't it?" barbara nodded. chapter xxviii the clock over the stables was chiming seven when miltoun and barbara passed out of the tall iron gates, in their swift-moving small world, that smelled faintly of petrol. though the cab was closed, light spurts of rain drifted in through the open windows, refreshing the girl's hot face, relieving a little her dread of this drive. for, now that fate had been really cruel, now that it no longer lay in miltoun's hands to save himself from suffering, her heart bled for him; and she remembered to forget herself. the immobility with which he had received her intrusion, was ominous. and though silent in her corner, she was desperately working all her woman's wits to discover a way of breaking into the house of his secret mood. he appeared not even to have noticed that they had turned their backs on london, and passed into richmond park. here the trees, made dark by rain, seemed to watch gloomily the progress of this whirring-wheeled red box, unreconciled even yet to such harsh intruders on their wind-scented tranquillity. and the deer, pursuing happiness on the sweet grasses, raised disquieted noses, as who should say: poisoners of the fern, defilers of the trails of air! barbara vaguely felt the serenity out there in the clouds, and the trees, and wind. if it would but creep into this dim, travelling prison, and help her; if it would but come, like sleep, and steal away dark sorrow, and in one moment make grief-joy. but it stayed outside on its wistful wings; and that grand chasm which yawns between soul and soul remained unbridged. for what could she say? how make him speak of what he was going to do? what alternatives indeed were now before him? would he sullenly resign his seat, and wait till he could find audrey noel again? but even if he did find her, they would only be where they were. she had gone, in order not to be a drag on him--it would only be the same thing all over again! would he then, as granny had urged him, put on his armour, and go down into the fight? but that indeed would mean the end, for if she had had the strength to go away now, she would surely never come back and break in on his life a second time. and a grim thought swooped down on barbara. what if he resigned everything! went out into the dark! men did sometimes--she knew--caught like this in the full flush of passion. but surely not miltoun, with his faith! 'if the lark's song means nothing--if that sky is a morass of our invention--if we are pettily creeping on, furthering nothing--persuade me of it, babs, and i'll bless you.' but had he still that anchorage, to prevent him slipping out to sea? this sudden thought of death to one for whom life was joy, who had never even seen the great stillness, was very terrifying. she fixed her eyes on the back of the chauffeur, in his drab coat with the red collar, finding some comfort in its solidity. they were in a taxi-cab, in richmond park! death--incongruous, incredible death! it was stupid to be frightened! she forced herself to look at miltoun. he seemed to be asleep; his eyes were closed, his arms folded--only a quivering of his eyelids betrayed him. impossible to tell what was going on in that grim waking sleep, which made her feel that she was not there at all, so utterly did he seem withdrawn into himself! he opened his eyes, and said suddenly: "so you think i'm going to lay hands on myself, babs?" horribly startled by this reading of her thoughts, barbara could only edge away and stammer: "no; oh, no!" "where are we going in this thing?" "nettlefold. would you like him stopped?" "it will do as well as anywhere." terrified lest he should relapse into that grim silence, she timidly possessed herself of his hand. it was fast growing dark; the cab, having left the villas of surbiton behind, was flying along at great speed among pine-trees and stretches of heather gloomy with faded daylight. miltoun said presently, in a queer, slow voice "if i want, i have only to open that door and jump. you who believe that 'to-morrow we die'--give me the faith to feel that i can free myself by that jump, and out i go!" then, seeming to pity her terrified squeeze of his hand, he added: "it's all right, babs; we, shall sleep comfortably enough in our beds tonight." but, so desolate to the girl was his voice, that she hoped now for silence. "let us be skinned quietly," muttered miltoun, "if nothing else. sorry to have disturbed you." pressing close up to him, barbara murmured: "if only----talk to me!". but miltoun, though he stroked her hand, was silent. the cab, moving at unaccustomed speed along these deserted roads, moaned dismally; and barbara was possessed now by a desire which she dared not put in practice, to pull his head down, and rock it against her. her heart felt empty, and timid; to have something warm resting on it would have made all the difference. everything real, substantial, comforting, seemed to have slipped away. among these flying dark ghosts of pine-trees--as it were the unfrequented borderland between two worlds--the feeling of a cheek against her breast alone could help muffle the deep disquiet in her, lost like a child in a wood. the cab slackened speed, the driver was lighting his lamps; and his red face appeared at the window. "we'll 'ave to stop here, miss; i'm out of petrol. will you get some dinner, or go through?" "through," answered barbara: while they were passing the little their, buying then petrol, asking the way, she felt less miserable, and even looked about her with a sort of eagerness. then when they had started again, she thought: if i could get him to sleep--the sea will comfort him! but his eyes were staring, wide-open. she feigned sleep herself; letting her head slip a little to one side, causing small sounds of breathing to escape. the whirring of the wheels, the moaning of the cab joints, the dark trees slipping by, the scent of the wet fern drifting in, all these must surely help! and presently she felt that he was indeed slipping into darkness--and then-she felt nothing. when she awoke from the sleep into which she had seen miltoun fall, the cab was slowly mounting a steep hill, above which the moon had risen. the air smelled strong and sweet, as though it had passed over leagues of grass. "the downs!" she thought; "i must have been asleep!" in sudden terror, she looked round for miltoun. but he was still there, exactly as before, leaning back rigid in his corner of the cab, with staring eyes, and no other signs of life. and still only half awake, like a great warm sleepy child startled out of too deep slumber, she clutched, and clung to him. the thought that he had been sitting like that, with his spirit far away, all the time that she had been betraying her watch in sleep, was dreadful. but to her embrace there was no response, and awake indeed now, ashamed, sore, barbara released him, and turned her face to the air. out there, two thin, dense-black, long clouds, shaped like the wings of a hawk, had joined themselves together, so that nothing of the moon showed but a living brightness imprisoned, like the eyes and life of a bird, between those swift sweeps of darkness. this great uncanny spirit, brooding malevolent over the high leagues of moon-wan grass, seemed waiting to swoop, and pluck up in its talons, and devour, all that intruded on the wild loneness of these far-up plains of freedom. barbara almost expected to hear coming from it the lost whistle of the buzzard hawks. and her dream came back to her. where were her wings-the wings that in sleep had borne her to the stars; the wings that would never lift her--waking--from the ground? where too were miltoun's wings? she crouched back into her corner; a tear stole up and trickled out between her closed lids-another and another followed. faster and faster they came. then she felt miltoun's arm round her, and heard him say: "don't cry, babs!" instinct telling her what to do, she laid her head against his chest, and sobbed bitterly. struggling with those sobs, she grew less and less unhappy--knowing that he could never again feel quite so desolate, as before he tried to give her comfort. it was all a bad dream, and they would soon wake from it! and they would be happy; as happy as they had been before--before these last months! and she whispered: "only a little while, eusty!" chapter xxix old lady harbinger dying in the early february of the following year, the marriage of barbara with her son was postponed till june. much of the wild sweetness of spring still clung to the high moor borders of monkland on the early morning of the wedding day. barbara was already up and dressed for riding when her maid came to call her; and noting stacey's astonished eyes fix themselves on her boots, she said: "well, stacey?" "it'll tire you." "nonsense; i'm not going to be hung." refusing the company of a groom, she made her way towards the stretch of high moor where she had ridden with courtier a year ago. here over the short, as yet unflowering, heather, there was a mile or more of level galloping ground. she mounted steadily, and her spirit rode, as it were, before her, longing to get up there among the peewits and curlew, to feel the crisp, peaty earth slip away under her, and the wind drive in her face, under that deep blue sky. carried by this warm-blooded sweetheart of hers, ready to jump out of his smooth hide with pleasure, snuffling and sneezing in sheer joy, whose eye she could see straying round to catch a glimpse of her intentions, from whose lips she could hear issuing the sweet bitt-music, whose vagaries even seemed designed to startle from her a closer embracing--she was filled with a sort of delicious impatience with everything that was not this perfect communing with vigour. reaching the top, she put him into a gallop. with the wind furiously assailing her face and throat, every muscle crisped; and all her blood tingling--this was a very ecstasy of motion! she reined in at the cairn whence she and courtier had looked down at the herds of ponies. it was the merest memory now, vague and a little sweet, like the remembrance of some exceptional spring day, when trees seem to flower before your eyes, and in sheer wantonness exhale a scent of lemons. the ponies were there still, and in distance the shining sea. she sat thinking of nothing, but how good it was to be alive. the fullness and sweetness of it all, the freedom and strength! away to the west over a lonely farm she could see two buzzard hawks hunting in wide circles. she did not envy them--so happy was she, as happy as the morning. and there came to her suddenly the true, the overmastering longing of mountain tops. "i must," she thought; "i simply must!" slipping off her horse she lay down on her back, and at once everything was lost except the sky. over her body, supported above solid earth by the warm, soft heather, the wind skimmed without sound or touch. her spirit became one with that calm unimaginable freedom. transported beyond her own contentment, she no longer even knew whether she was joyful. the horse hal, attempting to eat her sleeve, aroused her. she mounted him, and rode down. near home she took a short cut across a meadow, through which flowed two thin bright streams, forming a delta full of lingering 'milkmaids,' mauve marsh orchis, and yellow flags. from end to end of this long meadow, so varied, so pied with trees and stones, and flowers, and water, the last of the spring was passing. some ponies, shyly curious of barbara and her horse, stole up, and stood at a safe distance, with their noses dubiously stretched out, swishing their lean tails. and suddenly, far up, following their own music, two cuckoos flew across, seeking the thorn-trees out on the moor. while she was watching the arrowy birds, she caught sight of someone coming towards her from a clump of beech-trees, and suddenly saw that it was mrs. noel! she rode forward, flushing. what dared she say? could she speak of her wedding, and betray miltoun's presence? could she open her mouth at all without rousing painful feeling of some sort? then, impatient of indecision, she began: "i'm so glad to see you again. i didn't know you were still down here." "i only came back to england yesterday, and i'm just here to see to the packing of my things." "oh!" murmured barbara. "you know what's happening to me, i suppose?" mrs. noel smiled, looked up, and said: "i heard last night. all joy to you!" a lump rose in barbara's throat. "i'm so glad to have seen you," she murmured once more; "i expect i ought to be getting on," and with the word "good-bye," gently echoed, she rode away. but her mood of delight was gone; even the horse hal seemed to tread unevenly, for all that he was going back to that stable which ever appeared to him desirable ten minutes after he had left it. except that her eyes seemed darker, mrs. noel had not changed. if she had shown the faintest sign of self-pity, the girl would never have felt, as she did now, so sorry and upset. leaving the stables, she saw that the wind was driving up a huge, white, shining cloud. "isn't it going to be fine after all!" she thought. re-entering the house by an old and so-called secret stairway that led straight to the library, she had to traverse that great dark room. there, buried in an armchair in front of the hearth she saw miltoun with a book on his knee, not reading, but looking up at the picture of the old cardinal. she hurried on, tiptoeing over the soft carpet, holding her breath, fearful of disturbing the queer interview, feeling guilty, too, of her new knowledge, which she did not mean to impart. she had burnt her fingers once at the flame between them; she would not do so a second time! through the window at the far end she saw that the cloud had burst; it was raining furiously. she regained her bedroom unseen. in spite of her joy out there on the moor, this last adventure of her girlhood had not been all success; she had again the old sensations, the old doubts, the dissatisfaction which she had thought dead. those two! to shut one's eyes, and be happy--was it possible! a great rainbow, the nearest she had ever seen, had sprung up in the park, and was come to earth again in some fields close by. the sun was shining out already through the wind-driven bright rain. jewels of blue had begun to star the black and white and golden clouds. a strange white light-ghost of spring passing in this last violent outburst-painted the leaves of every tree; and a hundred savage hues had come down like a motley of bright birds on moor and fields. the moment of desperate beauty caught barbara by the throat. its spirit of galloping wildness flew straight into her heart. she clasped her hands across her breast to try and keep that moment. far out, a cuckoo hooted-and the immortal call passed on the wind. in that call all the beauty, and colour, and rapture of life seemed to be flying by. if she could only seize and evermore have it in her heart, as the buttercups out there imprisoned the sun, or the fallen raindrops on the sweetbriars round the windows enclosed all changing light! if only there were no chains, no walls, and finality were dead! her clock struck ten. at this time to-morrow! her cheeks turned hot; in a mirror she could see them burning, her lips scornfully curved, her eyes strange. standing there, she looked long at herself, till, little by little, her face lost every vestige of that disturbance, became solid and resolute again. she ceased to have the galloping wild feeling in her heart, and instead felt cold. detached from herself she watched, with contentment, her own calm and radiant beauty resume the armour it had for that moment put off. after dinner that night, when the men left the dining-hall, miltoun slipped away to his den. of all those present in the little church he had seemed most unemotional, and had been most moved. though it had been so quiet and private a wedding, he had resented all cheap festivity accompanying the passing of his young sister. he would have had that ceremony in the little dark disused chapel at the court; those two, and the priest alone. here, in this half-pagan little country church smothered hastily in flowers, with the raw singing of the half-pagan choir, and all the village curiosity and homage-everything had jarred, and the stale aftermath sickened him. changing his swallow-tail to an old smoking jacket, he went out on to the lawn. in the wide darkness he could rid himself of his exasperation. since the day of his election he had not once been at monkland; since mrs. noel's flight he had never left london. in london and work he had buried himself; by london and work he had saved himself! he had gone down into the battle. dew had not yet fallen, and he took the path across the fields. there was no moon, no stars, no wind; the cattle were noiseless under the trees; there were no owls calling, no night-jars churring, the fly-by-night chafers were not abroad. the stream alone was alive in the quiet darkness. and as miltoun followed the wispy line of grey path cleaving the dim glamour of daisies and buttercups, there came to him the feeling that he was in the presence, not of sleep, but of eternal waiting. the sound of his footfalls seemed desecration. so devotional was that hush, burning the spicy incense of millions of leaves and blades of grass. crossing the last stile he came out, close to her deserted cottage, under her lime-tree, which on the night of courtier's adventure had hung blue-black round the moon. on that side, only a rail, and a few shrubs confined her garden. the house was all dark, but the many tall white flowers, like a bright vapour rising from earth, clung to the air above the beds. leaning against the tree miltoun gave himself to memory. from the silent boughs which drooped round his dark figure, a little sleepy bird uttered a faint cheep; a hedgehog, or some small beast of night, rustled away in the grass close by; a moth flew past, seeking its candle flame. and something in miltoun's heart took wings after it, searching for the warmth and light of his blown candle of love. then, in the hush he heard a sound as of a branch ceaselessly trailed through long grass, fainter and fainter, more and more distinct; again fainter; but nothing could he see that should make that homeless sound. and the sense of some near but unseen presence crept on him, till the hair moved on his scalp. if god would light the moon or stars, and let him see! if god would end the expectation of this night, let one wan glimmer down into her garden, and one wan glimmer into his breast! but it stayed dark, and the homeless noise never ceased. the weird thought came to miltoun that it was made by his own heart, wandering out there, trying to feel warm again. he closed his eyes and at once knew that it was not his heart, but indeed some external presence, unconsoled. and stretching his hands out he moved forward to arrest that sound. as he reached the railing, it ceased. and he saw a flame leap up, a pale broad pathway of light blanching the grass. and, realizing that she was there, within, he gasped. his fingernails bent and broke against the iron railing without his knowing. it was not as on that night when the red flowers on her windowsill had wafted their scent to him; it was no sheer overpowering rush of passion. profounder, more terrible, was this rising up within him of yearning for love--as if, now defeated, it would nevermore stir, but lie dead on that dark grass beneath those dark boughs. and if victorious--what then? he stole back under the tree. he could see little white moths travelling down that path of lamplight; he could see the white flowers quite plainly now, a pale watch of blossoms guarding the dark sleepy ones; and he stood, not reasoning, hardly any longer feeling; stunned, battered by struggle. his face and hands were sticky with the honey-dew, slowly, invisibly distilling from the lime-tree. he bent down and felt the grass. and suddenly there came over him the certainty of her presence. yes, she was there--out on the verandah! he could see her white figure from head to foot; and, not realizing that she could not see him, he expected her to utter some cry. but no sound came from her, no gesture; she turned back into the house. miltoun ran forward to the railing. but there, once more, he stopped--unable to think, unable to feel; as it were abandoned by himself. and he suddenly found his hand up at his mouth, as though there were blood there to be staunched that had escaped from his heart. still holding that hand before his mouth, and smothering the sound of his feet in the long grass, he crept away. chapter xxx in the great glass house at ravensham, lady casterley stood close to some japanese lilies, with a letter in her hand. her face was very white, for it was the first day she had been allowed down after an attack of influenza; nor had the hand in which she held the letter its usual steadiness. she read: "monkland court. "just a line, dear, before the post goes, to tell you that babs has gone off happily. the child looked beautiful. she sent you her love, and some absurd message--that you would be glad to hear, she was perfectly safe, with both feet firmly on the ground." a grim little smile played on lady casterley's pale lips:--yes, indeed, and time too! the child had been very near the edge of the cliffs! very near committing a piece of romantic folly! that was well over! and raising the letter again, she read on: "we were all down for it, of course, and come back tomorrow. geoffrey is quite cut up. things can't be what they were without our babs. i've watched eustace very carefully, and i really believe he's safely over that affair at last. he is doing extraordinarily well in the house just now. geoffrey says his speech on the poor law was head and shoulders the best made." lady casterley let fall the hand which held the letter. safe? yes, he was safe! he had done the right--the natural thing! and in time he would be happy! he would rise now to that pinnacle of desired authority which she had dreamed of for him, ever since he was a tiny thing, ever since his little thin brown hand had clasped hers in their wanderings amongst the flowers, and the furniture of tall rooms. but, as she stood--crumpling the letter, grey-white as some small resolute ghost, among her tall lilies that filled with their scent the great glass house-shadows flitted across her face. was it the fugitive noon sunshine? or was it some glimmering perception of the old greek saying--'character is fate;' some sudden sense of the universal truth that all are in bond to their own natures, and what a man has most desired shall in the end enslave him? the end. the burning spear by john galsworthy being the experiences of mr. john lavender in the time of war recorded by: a. r. p--m [john galsworthy] [note: john galsworthy said of this work: "'the burning spear' was revenge of the nerves. it was bad enough to have to bear the dreads and strains and griefs of war." several years after its first publication he admitted authorship and it was included in the collected edition of his works. d.w.] "with a heart of furious fancies, whereof i am commander, with a burning spear and a horse of air in the wilderness i wander; with a night of ghosts and shadows i summoned am to tourney ten leagues beyond the wide world's end for me it is no journey." tom o'bedlam the burning spear i the hero in the year ---- there dwelt on hampstead heath a small thin gentleman of fifty-eight, gentle disposition, and independent means, whose wits had become somewhat addled from reading the writings and speeches of public men. the castle which, like every englishman, he inhabited was embedded in lilac bushes and laburnums, and was attached to another castle, embedded, in deference to our national dislike of uniformity, in acacias and laurustinus. our gentleman, whose name was john lavender, had until the days of the great war passed one of those curious existences are sometimes to be met with, in doing harm to nobody. he had been brought up to the bar, but like most barristers had never practised, and had spent his time among animals and the wisdom of the past. at the period in which this record opens he owned a young female sheep-dog called blink, with beautiful eyes obscured by hair; and was attended to by a thin and energetic housekeeper, in his estimation above all weakness, whose name was marian petty, and by her husband, his chauffeur, whose name was joe. it was the ambition of our hero to be, like all public men, without fear and without reproach. he drank not, abstained from fleshly intercourse, and habitually spoke the truth. his face was thin, high cheek-boned, and not unpleasing, with one loose eyebrow over which he had no control; his eyes, bright and of hazel hue, looked his fellows in the face without seeing what was in it. though his moustache was still dark, his thick waving hair was permanently white, for his study was lined from floor to ceiling with books, pamphlets, journals, and the recorded utterances of great mouths. he was of a frugal habit, ate what was put before him without question, and if asked what he would have, invariably answered: "what is there?" without listening to the reply. for at mealtimes it was his custom to read the writings of great men. "joe," he would say to his chauffeur, who had a slight limp, a green wandering eye, and a red face, with a rather curved and rather redder nose, "you must read this." and joe would answer: "which one is that, sir?" "hummingtop; a great man, i think, joe." "a brainy chap, right enough, sir." "he has done wonders for the country. listen to this." and mr. lavender would read as follows: "if i had fifty sons i would give them all. if i had forty daughters they should nurse and scrub and weed and fill shells; if i had thirty country-houses they should all be hospitals; if i had twenty pens i would use them all day long; if had ten voices they should never cease to inspire and aid my country." "if 'e had nine lives," interrupted joe, with a certain suddenness, "'e'd save the lot." mr. lavender lowered the paper. "i cannot bear cynicism, joe; there is no quality so unbecoming to a gentleman." "me and 'im don't put in for that, sir." "joe, mr. lavender would say you are, incorrigible...." our gentleman, in common with all worthy of the name, had a bank-book, which, in hopes that it would disclose an unsuspected balance, he would have "made up" every time he read an utterance exhorting people to invest and save their country. one morning at the end of may, finding there was none, he called in his housekeeper and said: "mrs. petty, we are spending too much; we have again been exhorted to save. listen! 'every penny diverted from prosecution of the war is one more spent in the interests of the enemies of mankind. no patriotic person, i am confident; will spend upon him or herself a stiver which could be devoted to the noble ends so near to all our hearts. let us make every spare copper into bullets to strengthen the sinews of war!' a great speech. what can we do without?" "the newspapers, sir." "don't be foolish, mrs. petty. from what else could we draw our inspiration and comfort in these terrible days?" mrs. petty sniffed. "well, you can't eat less than you do," she said; "but you might stop feedin' blink out of your rations--that i do think." "i have not found that forbidden as yet in any public utterance," returned mr. lavender; "but when the earl of betternot tells us to stop, i shall follow his example, you may depend on that. the country comes before everything." mrs. petty tossed her head and murmured darkly-- "do you suppose he's got an example, sir?" "mrs. petty," replied mr. lavender, "that is quite unworthy of you. but, tell me, what can we do without?" "i could do without joe," responded mrs. petty, "now that you're not using him as chauffeur." "please be serious. joe is an institution; besides, i am thinking of offering myself to the government as a speaker now that we may use gas." "ah!" said mrs. petty. "i am going down about it to-morrow." "indeed, sir!" "i feel my energies are not fully employed." "no, sir?" "by the way, there was a wonderful leader on potatoes yesterday. we must dig up the garden. do you know what the subsoil is?" "brickbats and dead cats, i expect, sir." "ah! we shall soon improve that. every inch of land reclaimed is a nail in the coffin of our common enemies." and going over to a bookcase, mr. lavender took out the third from the top of a pile of newspapers. "listen!" he said. "'the problem before us is the extraction of every potential ounce of food. no half measures must content us. potatoes! potatoes! no matter how, where, when the prime national necessity is now the growth of potatoes. all britons should join in raising a plant which may be our very salvation. "fudge!" murmured mrs. petty. mr. lavender read on, and his eyes glowed. "ah!" he thought, "i, too, can do my bit to save england.... it needs but the spark to burn away the dross of this terrible horse-sense which keeps the country back. "mrs. petty!" but mrs. petty was already not. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the grass never grew under the feet of mr. lavender, no sooner had he formed his sudden resolve than he wrote to what he conceived to be the proper quarter, and receiving no reply, went down to the centre of the official world. it was at time of change and no small national excitement; brooms were sweeping clean, and new offices had arisen everywhere. mr. lavender passed bewildered among large stone buildings and small wooden buildings, not knowing where to go. he had bought no clothes since the beginning of the war, except the various volunteer uniforms which the exigencies of a shifting situation had forced the authorities to withdraw from time to time; and his, small shrunken figure struck somewhat vividly on the eye, with elbows and knees shining in the summer sunlight. stopping at last before the only object which seemed unchanged, he said: "can you tell me where the ministry is?" the officer looked down at him. "what for?" "for speaking about the country." "ministry of propagation? first on the right, second door on the left." "thank you. the police are wonderful." "none of that," said the officer coldly. "i only said you were wonderful." "i 'eard you." "but you are. i don't know what the country would do without you. your solid qualities, your imperturbable bonhomie, your truly british tenderness towards----" "pass away!" said the officer. "i am only repeating what we all say of you," rejoined mr. lavender reproachfully. "did you 'ear me say 'move on,'" said the officer; "or must i make you an example?" "you are the example," said mr. lavender warmly. "any more names," returned the officer, "and i take you to the station." and he moved out into the traffic. puzzled by his unfriendliness mr. lavender resumed his search, and, arriving at the door indicated, went in. a dark, dusty, deserted corridor led him nowhere, till he came on a little girl in a brown frock, with her hair down her back. "can you tell me, little one----" he said, laying his hand on her head. "chuck it!" said the little girl. "no, no!" responded mr. lavender, deeply hurt. "can you tell me where i can find the minister?" "'ave you an appointment? "no; but i wrote to him. he should expect me." "wot nyme?" "john lavender. here is my card." "i'll tyke it in. wyte 'ere!" "wonderful!" mused mr. lavender; "the patriotic impulse already stirring in these little hearts! what was the stanza of that patriotic poet? "'lives not a babe who shall not feel the pulse of britain's need beat wild in britain's wrist. and, sacrificial, in the world's convulse put up its lips to be by britain kissed.' "so young to bring their lives to the service of the country!" "come on," said the little girl, reappearing suddenly; "e'll see you." mr. lavender entered a room which had a considerable resemblance to the office of a lawyer save for the absence of tomes. it seemed furnished almost exclusively by the minister, who sat with knees crossed, in a pair of large round tortoiseshell spectacles, which did not, however, veil the keenness of his eyes. he was a man with close cropped grey hair, a broad, yellow, clean-shaven face, and thrusting grey eyes. "mr. lavender," he said, in a raw, forcible voice; "sit down, will you?" "i wrote to you," began our hero, "expressing the wish to offer myself as a speaker." "ah!" said the minister. "let's see--lavender, lavender. here's your letter." and extracting a letter from a file he read it, avoiding with difficulty his tortoise-shell spectacles. "you want to stump the country? m.a., barrister, and fellow of the zoological. are you a good speaker?" "if zeal---" began mr. lavender. "that's it; spark! we're out to win this war, sir." "quite so," began mr. lavender. "if devotion----" "you'll have to use gas," said the minister; and we don't pay." "pay!" cried mr. lavender with horror; "no, indeed!" the minister bent on him a shrewd glance. "what's your line? anything particular, or just general patriotism? i recommend that; but you'll have to put some punch into it, you know." "i have studied all the great orators of the war, sir," said mr. lavender, "and am familiar with all the great writers on, it. i should form myself on them; and if enthusiasm----" "quite!" said the minister. "if you want any atrocities we can give you them. no facts and no figures; just general pat." "i shall endeavour----" began mr. lavender. "well, good-bye," said the minister, rising. "when do you start?" mr. lavender rose too. "to-morrow," he said, "if i can get inflated." the minister rang a bell. "you're on your own, mind," he said. "no facts; what they want is ginger. yes, mr. japes?" and seeing that the minister was looking over his tortoiseshell. spectacles at somebody behind him, mr. lavender turned and went out. in the corridor he thought, "what terseness! how different from the days when dickens wrote his 'circumlocution office'! punch!" and opening the wrong door, he found himself in the presence of six little girls in brown frocks, sitting against the walls with their thumbs in their mouths. "oh!" he said, "i'm afraid i've lost my way." the eldest of the little girls withdrew a thumb. "what d'yer want?" "the door," said mr. lavender. "second on the right." "goodbye," said mr. lavender. the little girls did not answer. and he went out thinking, "these children are really wonderful! what devotion one sees! and yet the country is not yet fully roused!" ii the valet joe petty stood contemplating the car which, purchased some fifteen years before had not been used since the war began. birds had nested in its hair. it smelled of mould inside; it creaked from rust. "the guv'nor must be cracked," he thought, "to think we can get anywhere in this old geyser. well, well, it's summer; if we break down it won't break my 'eart. government job--better than diggin' or drillin'. good old guv!" so musing, he lit his pipe and examined the recesses beneath the driver's seat. "a bottle or three," he thought, "in case our patriotism should get us stuck a bit off the beaten; a loaf or two, some 'oney in a pot, and a good old 'am. "a life on the rollin' road----' 'ow they can give 'im the job i can't think!" his soliloquy was here interrupted by the approach of his wife, bearing a valise. "don't you wish you was comin', old girl?" he remarked to her lightly. "i do not; i'm glad to be shut of you. keep his feet dry. what have you got under there?" joe petty winked. "what a lumbering great thing it looks!" said mrs. petty, gazing upwards. "ah!" returned her husband thoughtfully, we'll 'ave the population round us without advertisement. and taking the heads of two small boys who had come up, he knocked them together in an absent-minded fashion. "well," said mrs. petty, "i can't waste time. here's his extra set of teeth. don't lose them. have you got your own toothbrush? use it, and behave yourself. let me have a line. and don't let him get excited." she tapped her forehead. "go away, you boys; shoo!" the boys, now six in number, raised a slight cheer; for at that moment mr. lavender, in a broad-brimmed grey felt hat and a holland dust-coat, came out through his garden-gate carrying a pile of newspapers and pamphlets so large that his feet, legs, and hat alone were visible. "open the door, joe!" he said, and stumbled into the body of the vehicle. a shrill cheer rose from the eight boys, who could see him through the further window. taking this for an augury of success, mr. lavender removed his hat, and putting his head through the window, thus addressed the ten boys: "i thank you. the occasion is one which i shall ever remember. the government has charged me with the great task of rousing our country in days which demand of each of us the utmost exertions. i am proud to feel that i have here, on the very threshold of my task, an audience of bright young spirits, each one of whom in this democratic country has in him perhaps the makings of a general or even of a prime minister. let it be your earnest endeavour, boys----" at this moment a piece of indiarubber rebounded from mr. lavender's forehead, and he recoiled into the body of the car. "are you right, sir?" said joe, looking in; and without waiting for reply he started the engine. the car moved out amid a volley of stones, balls, cheers, and other missiles from the fifteen boys who pursued it with frenzy. swaying slightly from side to side, with billowing bag, it gathered speed, and, turning a corner, took road for the country. mr. lavender, somewhat dazed, for the indiarubber had been hard, sat gazing through the little back window at the great city he was leaving. his lips moved, expressing unconsciously the sentiments of innumerable lord mayors: "greatest city in the world, queen of commerce, whose full heart i can still hear beating behind me, in mingled pride and regret i leave you. with the most sacred gratitude i lay down my office. i go to other work, whose----joe!" "sir?" "do you see that?" "i see your 'ead, that's all, sir." "we seem to be followed by a little column of dust, which keeps ever at the same distance in the middle of the road. do you think it can be an augury." "no; i should think it's a dog." "in that case, hold hard!" said mr. lavender, who had a weakness for dog's. joe slackened the car's pace, and leaned his head round the corner. the column of dust approached rapidly. "it is a dog," said mr. lavender, "it's blink." the female sheep-dog, almost flat with the ground from speed, emerged from the dust, wild with hair and anxiety, white on the cheeks and chest and top of the head, and grey in the body and the very little tail, and passed them like a streak of lightning. "get on!" cried mr. lavender, excited; "follow her she's trying to catch us up!" joe urged on the car, which responded gallantly, swaying from side to side, while the gas-bag bellied and shook; but the faster it went the faster the sheep-dog flew in front of it. "this is dreadful!" said mr. lavender in anguish, leaning far out. "blink! blink!" his cries were drowned in the roar of the car. "damn the brute!" muttered joe at this rate she'll be over the edge in 'alf a mo'. wherever does she think we are?" "blink! blink!" wailed mr. lavender. "get on, joe, get on! she's gaining on us!" "well i never see anything like this," said joe, "chasin' wot's chasing you! hi! hi!" urged on by their shouts and the noise of the pursuing car, the poor dog redoubled her efforts to rejoin her master, and mr. lavender, joe, and the car, which had begun to emit the most lamentable creaks and odours, redoubled theirs. "i shall bust her up," said joe. "i care not!" cried mr. lavender. "i must recover the dog." they flashed through the outskirts of the garden city. "stop her, stop her!" called mr. lavender to such of the astonished inhabitants as they had already left behind. "this is a nightmare, joe!" "'it's a blinkin' day-dream," returned joe, forcing the car to an expiring spurt. "if she gets to that 'ill before we ketch 'er, we're done; the old geyser can't 'alf crawl up 'ills." "we're gaining," shrieked mr. lavender; "i can see her tongue." as though it heard his voice, the car leaped forward and stopped with a sudden and most formidable jerk; the door burst open, and mr. lavender fell out upon his sheep-dog. fortunately they were in the only bed of nettles in that part of the world, and its softness and that of blink assuaged the severity of his fall, yet it was some minutes before he regained the full measure of his faculties. he came to himself sitting on a milestone, with his dog on her hind legs between his knees, licking his face clean, and panting down his throat. "joe," he said; "where are you"? the voice of joe replied from underneath the car: "here sir. she's popped." "do you mean that our journey is arrested?" "ah! we're in irons. you may as well walk 'ome, sir. it ain't two miles. "no! no!" said mr. lavender. "we passed the garden city a little way back; i could go and hold a meeting. how long will you be?" "a day or two," said joe. mr. lavender sighed, and at this manifestation of his grief his sheep-dog redoubled her efforts to comfort him. "nothing becomes one more than the practice of philosophy," he thought. "i always admired those great public men who in moments of national peril can still dine with a good appetite. we will sit in the car a little, for i have rather a pain, and think over a speech." so musing he mounted the car, followed by his dog, and sat down in considerable discomfort. "what subject can i choose for a garden city?" he thought, and remembering that he had with him the speech of a bishop on the subject of babies, he dived into his bundle of literature, and extracting a pamphlet began to con its periods. a sharp blow from a hammer on the bottom of the car just below where blink was sitting caused him to pause and the dog to rise and examine her tiny tail. "curious," thought mr. lavender dreamily, "how joe always does the right thing in the wrong place. he is very english." the hammering continued, and the dog, who traced it to the omnipotence of her master, got up on the seat where she could lick his face. mr. lavender was compelled to stop. "joe," he said, leaning out and down; "must you?" the face of joe, very red, leaned out and up. "what's the matter now, sir?" "i am preparing a speech; must you hammer?" "no," returned joe, "i needn't." "i don't wish you to waste your time," said mr lavender. "don't worry about that, sir," replied joe; "there's plenty to do." "in that case i shall be glad to finish my speech." mr. lavender resumed his seat and blink her position on the floor, with her head on his feet. the sound of his voice soon rose again in the car like the buzzing of large flies. "'if we are to win this war we must have an ever-increasing population. in town and countryside, in the palace and the slum, above all in the garden city, we must have babies.'" here blink, who had been regarding him with lustrous eyes, leaped on to his knees and licked his mouth. again mr. lavender was compelled to stop. "down, blink, down! i am not speaking to you. 'the future of our country depends on the little citizens born now. i especially appeal to women. it is to them we must look----'" "will you 'ave a glass, sir?" mr. lavender saw before him a tumbler containing a yellow fluid. "joe," he said sadly, "you know my rule----" "'ere's the exception, sir." mr. lavender sighed. "no, no; i must practise what i preach. i shall soon be rousing the people on the liquor question, too." "well, 'ere's luck," said joe, draining the glass. "will you 'ave a slice of 'am?" "that would not be amiss," said mr. lavender, taking joe's knife with the slice of ham upon its point. "'it is to them that we must look,'" he resumed, "'to rejuvenate the empire and make good the losses in the firing-line.'" and he raised the knife to his mouth. no result followed, while blink wriggled on her base and licked her lips. "blink!" said mr. lavender reproachfully. "joe!" "sir!" "when you've finished your lunch and repaired the car you will find me in the town hall or market-place. take care of blink. i'll tie her up. have you some string?" having secured his dog to the handle of the door and disregarded the intensity of her gaze, mr. lavender walked back towards the garden city with a pamphlet in one hand and a crutch-handled stick in the other. restoring the ham to its nest behind his feet, joe finished the bottle of bass. "this is a bit of all right!" he thought dreamily. "lie down, you bitch! quiet! how can i get my nap while you make that row? lie down! that's better." blink was silent, gnawing at her string. the smile deepened on joe's face, his head fell a little one side his mouth fell open a fly flew into it. "ah!" he thought, spitting it out; "dog's quiet now." he slept. iii mr. lavender addresses a crowd of huns "'give them ginger!'" thought mr. lavender, approaching the first houses. "my first task, however, will be to collect them." "can you tell me," he said to a dustman, "where the market-place is?" "ain't none." "the town hall, then?" "likewise." "what place is there, then," said mr. lavender, "where people congregate?" "they don't." "do they never hold public meetings here?" "ah!" said the dustman mysteriously. "i wish to address them on the subject of babies." "bill! gent abaht babies. where'd he better go?" the man addressed, however, who carried a bag of tools, did not stop. "you,'ear?" said the dustman, and urging his horse, passed on. "how rude!" thought mr. lavender. something cold and wet was pressed against his hand, he felt a turmoil, and saw blink moving round and round him, curved like a horseshoe, with a bit of string dangling from her white neck. at that moment of discouragement the sight of one who believed in him gave mr. lavender nothing but pleasure. "how wonderful dogs are!" he murmured. the sheep-dog responded by bounds and ear-splitting barks, so that two boys and a little girl wheeling a perambulator stopped to look and listen. "she is like mercury," thought mr. lavender; and taking advantage of her interest in his hat, which she had knocked off in her effusions, he placed his hand on her head and crumpled her ear. the dog passed into an hypnotic trance, broken by soft grumblings of pleasure. "the most beautiful eyes in the world!" thought mr. lavender, replacing his hat; "the innocence and goodness of her face are entrancing." in his long holland coat, with his wide-brimmed felt hat all dusty, and the crutch-handled stick in his hand, he had already arrested the attention of five boys, the little girl with the perambulator, a postman, a maid-servant, and three old ladies. "what a beautiful dog yours is!" said one of the old ladies; "dear creature! are you a shepherd?" mr. lavender removed his hat. "no, madam," he said; "a public speaker." "how foolish of me!" replied the old lady. "not at all, madam; the folly is mine." and mr. lavender bowed. "i have come here to give an address on babies." the old lady looked at him shrewdly, and, saying something in a low voice to her companions, passed on, to halt again a little way off. in the meantime the rumour that there was a horse down in the clemenceau road had spread rapidly, and more boys, several little girls, and three soldiers in blue, with red ties, had joined the group round mr. lavender, to whom there seemed something more than providential in this rapid assemblage. looking round him for a platform from which to address them, he saw nothing but the low wall of the little villa garden outside which he was standing. mounting on this, therefore, and firmly grasping the branch of a young acacia tree to steady himself, he stood upright, while blink, on her hind legs, scratched at the wall, whining and sniffing his feet. encouraged by the low murmur of astonishment, which swelled idly into a shrill cheer, mr. lavender removed his hat, and spoke as follows: "fellow britons, at this crisis in the history of our country i make no apology for addressing myself to the gathering i see around me. here, in the cradle of patriotism and the very heart of movements, i may safely assume that you are aware of the importance of man-power. at a moment when every man of a certain age and over is wanted at the front, and every woman of marrigeable years is needed in hospitals, in factories, on the land, or where not, we see as never before the paramount necessity of mobilizing the forces racial progress and increasing the numbers of our population. not a man, not a woman can be spared from the great task in which they are now engaged, of defeating the common enemy. side by side with our american cousins, with la belle france, and the queen of the adriatic, we are fighting to avert the greatest menace which ever threatened civilization. our cruel enemies are strong and ruthless. while i have any say in this matter, no man or woman shall be withdrawn from the sacred cause of victory; better they should die to the last unit than that we should take our hands from the plough. but, ladies and gentlemen, we must never forget that in the place of every one who dies we must put two. do not be content with ordinary measures; these are no piping times of peace. never was there in the history of this country such a crying need for--for twins, if i may put it picturesquely. in each family, in each home where there are no families, let there be two babies where there was one, for thus only can we triumph over the devastation of this war." at this moment the now considerable audience, which had hitherto been silent, broke into a shrill "'ear, 'ear!" and mr. lavender, taking his hand from the acacia branch to silence them, fell off the wall into the garden. seeing her master thus vanish, blink, who had never ceased to whine and sniff his toes, leaped over and landed on his chest. rising with difficulty, mr. lavender found himself in front of an elderly man with a commercial cast of countenance, who said: "you're trespassing!" "i am aware of it," returned mr. lavender and i beg your pardon. it was quite inadvertent, however. "rubbish!" said the man. "i fell off the wall." "whose wall do you think it is?" said the man. "how should i know?" said mr. lavender; "i am a stranger." "out you go," said the man, applying his boot to blink. mr. lavender's eyes blazed. "you may insult me," he said, "but you must not kick my dog, or i shall do you an injury." "try!" said the man. "i will," responded mr. lavender, taking off his holland coat. to what extremities he would have proceeded cannot be told, for at this moment the old lady who had taken him for a shepherd appeared on the path, tapping her forehead with finger. "all right!" said the owner of the garden, "take him away." the old lady laced her hand within mr. lavender's arm. "come with me, sir," she said, "and your nice doggie." mr. lavender, whose politeness to ladies was invariable, bowed, and resuming his coat accompanied her through the 'garden gate. "he kicked my dog," he said; "no action could be more despicable." "yes, yes," said the old lady soothingly. "poor doggie!" the crowd, who had hoped for better things, here gave vent to a prolonged jeer. "stop!" said mr. lavender; "i am going to take a collection. "there, there!" said the old lady. "poor man!" "i don't know what you mean by that, madam," said mr. lavender, whose spirit was roused; "i shall certainly take a collection, in the interests of our population." so saying he removed his hat, and disengaging his arm from the old lady's hand, moved out into the throng, extending the hat. a boy took it from him at once, and placing it on his head, ran off, pursued by blink, who, by barking and jumping up increased the boy's speed to one of which he could never have thought himself capable. mr. lavender followed, calling out "blink!" at the top of his voice. the crowd followed mr. lavender, and the old lady followed crowd. thus they proceeded until the boy, arriving at a small piece of communal water, flung the hat into the middle of it, and, scaling the wall, made a strategic detour and became a disinterested spectator among the crowd. the hat, after skimming the surface of the pond, settled like a water-lily, crown downwards, while blink, perceiving in all this the hand of her master, stood barking at it wildly. mr. lavender arrived at the edge of the pond slightly in advance of the crowd. "good blink!" he said. "fetch it! good blink!" blink looked up into his face, and, with the acumen for which her breed is noted, perceiving he desired her to enter the water backed away from it. "she is not a water dog," explained mr. lavender to the three soldiers in blue clothes. "good dog; fetch it!" blink backed into the soldiers, who, bending down, took her by head tail, threw her into the pond, and encouraged her on with small stones pitched at the hat. having taken the plunge, the intelligent animal waded boldly to the hat, and endeavoured by barking and making little rushes at it with her nose, to induce it to return to shore. "she thinks it's a sheep," said mr. lavender; "a striking instance of hereditary instinct." blink, unable to persuade the hat, mounted it with her fore-paws and trod it under. "ooray!" shouted the crowd. "give us a shilling, guv'nor, an' i'll get it for yer?" "thank you, my boy," said mr. lavender, producing a shilling. the boy--the same boy who had thrown it in--stepped into the water and waded towards the hat. but as he approached, blink interposed between him and the hat, growling and showing her teeth. "does she bite?" yelled the boy. "only strangers," cried mr. lavender. excited by her master's appeal, blink seized the jacket of the boy, who made for the shore, while the hat rested in the centre of the pond, the cynosure of the stones with which the soldiers were endeavouring to drive it towards the bank. by this, time the old lady had rejoined mr. lavender. "your nice hat she murmured. "i thank you for your sympathy, madam," lavender, running his hand through his hair; "in moments like these one realizes the deep humanity of the british people. i really believe that in no other race could you find such universal interest and anxiety to recover a hat. say what you will, we are a great nation, who only, need rousing to show our best qualities. do you remember the words of the editor: 'in the spavined and spatch-cocked ruin to which our inhuman enemies have reduced civilization, we of the island shine with undimmed effulgence in all those qualities which mark man out from the ravening beast'?" "but how are you going to get your hat?" asked the old lady. "i know not," returned mr. lavender, still under the influence of the sentiment he had quoted; "but if i had fifteen hats i would take them all off to the virtues which have been ascribed to the british people by all those great men who have written and spoken since the war began." "yes," said the old lady soothingly. "but, i think you had better come under my sunshade. the sun is very strong." "madam," said mr. lavender, "you are very good, but your sunshade is too small. to deprive you of even an inch of its shade would be unworthy of anyone in public life." so saying, he recoiled from the proffered sunshade into the pond, which he had forgotten was behind him. "oh, dear!" said the old lady; "now you've got your feet wet!" "it is nothing," responded mr. lavender gallantly. and seeing that he was already wet, he rolled up his trousers, and holding up the tails of his holland coat, turned round and proceeded towards his hat, to the frantic delight of the crowd. "the war is a lesson to us to make little of little things," he thought, securing the hat and wringing it out. "my feet are wet, but--how much wetter they would be in the trenches, if feet can be wetter than wet through," he mused with some exactitude. "down, blink, down!" for blink was plastering him with the water-marks of joy and anxiety. "nothing is quite so beautiful as the devotion of one's own dog," thought mr. lavender, resuming the hat, and returning towards the shore. the by-now-considerable throng were watching him with every mark of acute enjoyment; and the moment appeared to mr. lavender auspicious for addressing them. without, therefore, emerging from the pond, which he took for his, platform, he spoke as follows: "circumstances over which i have no control have given me the advantage of your presence in numbers which do credit to the heart of the nation to which we all belong. in the midst of the greatest war which ever threatened the principle of liberty, i rejoice to see so many people able to follow the free and spontaneous impulses of their inmost beings. for, while we must remember that our every hour is at the disposal of our country, we must not forget the maxim of our fathers: 'britons never will be slaves.' only by preserving the freedom of individual conscience, and at the same time surrendering it whole-heartedly to every which the state makes on us, can we hope defeat the machinations of the arch enemies of mankind." at this moment a little stone hit him sharply on the hand. "who threw that stone?" said mr. lavender. "let him stand out." the culprit, no other indeed than he who had thrown the hat in, and not fetched it out for a shilling, thus menaced with discovery made use of a masterly device, and called out loudly: "pro-german!" such was the instinctive patriotism of the crowd that the cry was taken up in several quarters; and for the moment mr. lavender remained speechless from astonishment. the cries of "pro-german!" increased in volume, and a stone hitting her on the nose caused blink to utter a yelp; mr. lavender's eyes blazed. "huns!" he cried; "huns! i am coming out." with this prodigious threat he emerged from the pond at the very moment that a car scattered the throng, and a well-known voice said: "well, sir, you 'ave been goin' it!" "joe," said mr. lavender, "don't speak to me!" "get in." "never!" "pro-germans!" yelled the crowd. "get in!" repeated joe. and seizing mr. lavender as if collaring him at football, he knocked off his hat, propelled him into the car, banged the door, mounted, and started at full speed, with blink leaping and barking in front of them. debouching from piave parade into bottomley lane he drove up it till the crowd was but a memory before he stopped to examine the condition his master. mr. lavender was hanging out of window, looking back, and shivering violently. "well, sir," said joe. "i don't think!" "joe," said mr. lavender that crowd ought not to be at large. they were manifestly huns. "the speakin's been a bit too much for you, sir," said joe. "but you've got it off your chest, anyway." mr. lavender regarded him for a moment in silence; then putting his hand to his throat, said hoarsely: "no, on my chest, i think, joe. all public speakers do. it is inseparable from that great calling." "'alf a mo'!" grunted joe, diving into the recesses beneath the driving-seat. "'ere, swig that off, sir." mr. lavender raised the tumbler of fluid to his mouth, and drank it off; only from the dregs left on his moustache did he perceive that it smelled of rum and honey. "joe," he said reproachfully, "you have made me break my pledge." joe smiled. "well, what are they for, sir? you'll sleep at 'ome to-night." "never," said mr. lavender. "i shall sleep at high barnet; i must address them there tomorrow on abstinence during the war." "as you please, sir. but try and 'ave a nap while we go along." and lifting blink into the car, where she lay drenched and exhausted by excitement, with the petal of a purple flower clinging to her black nose, he mounted to his seat and drove off. mr. lavender, for years unaccustomed to spirituous liquor, of which he had swallowed nearly half a pint neat, passed rapidly into a state of coma. nor did he fully regain consciousness till he awoke in bed the next morning. iv into the dangers of a public life "at what time is my meeting?" thought mr. lavender vaguely, gazing at the light filtering through the venetian blind. "blink!" his dog, who was lying beside his bed gnawing a bone which with some presence of mind she had brought in, raised herself and regarded him with the innocence of her species. "she has an air of divine madness," thought mr. lavender, "which is very pleasing to me. i have a terrible headache." and seeing a bellrope near his hand he pulled it. a voice said: "yes, sir." "i wish to see my, servant, joe petty," said lavender. "i shall not require any breakfast thank you. what is the population of high barnet?" "i'm sure i don't know what you're talking about, sir," answered the voice, which seemed to be that of his housekeeper; "but you can't see joe; he's gone out with a flea in his ear. the idea of his letting you get your feet wet like that! "how is this?" said mr. lavender. "i thought you were the chambermaid of the inn at high barnet?" "no, indeed," said mrs. petty soothingly, placing a thermometer in his mouth. "smoke that a minute, sir. oh! look at what this dog's brought in! fie!" and taking the bone between thumb and finger she cast it out of the window; while blink, aware that she was considered in the wrong, and convinced that she was in the right, spread out her left paw, laid her head on her right paw, and pressed her chin hard against it. mrs. petty, returning from the window, stood above her master, who lay gazing up with the thermometer jutting out through the middle of his moustache. "i thought so!" she said, removing it; "a hundred and one. no getting up for you, sir! that joe!" "mrs. petty," said mr. lavender rather feebly, for his head pained him excessively, "bring me the morning papers." "no, sir. the thermometer bursts at an an' ten. i'll bring you the doctor." mr. lavender was about to utter a protest when he reflected that all public men had doctors. "about the bulletin?" he said faintly. "what?" ejaculated mrs. petty, whose face seemed to mr. lavender to have become all cheekbones, eyes, and shadows. joe never said a about a bullet. where? and however did you get it in? "i did not say 'bullet in'," murmured mr. lavender closing his eyes! "i said bulletin. they have it." at this mysterious sentence mrs. petty lifted her hands, and muttering the word "ravin'!" hastened from the room. no sooner had she gone, however, than blink, whose memory was perfect, rose, and going to the window placed her forepaws on the sill. seeing her bone shining on the lawn below, with that disregard of worldly consequence which she shared with all fine characters, she leaped through. the rattle of the venetian blind disturbed mr. lavender from the lethargy to which he had reverted. "mr. john lavender passed a good night," he thought, "but his condition is still critical." and in his disordered imagination he seemed to see people outside tube stations, standing stock-still in the middle of the traffic, reading that bulletin in the evening papers. "let me see," he mused, "how will they run?" to-morrow i shall be better, but not yet able to leave my bed; the day after to-morrow i shall have a slight relapse, and my condition will still give cause for anxiety; on the day following--what is that noise. for a sound like the whiffling of a wind through dry sticks combined with the creaking of a saw had, impinged on his senses. it was succeeded by scratching. "blink!" said mr. lavender. a heartrending whine came from outside the door. mr. lavender rose and opened it. his dog came in carrying her bone, and putting it down by the bed divided her attention between it and her master's legs, revealed by the nightshirt which, in deference to the great disraeli, he had never abandoned in favour of pyjamas. having achieved so erect a posture mr. lavender, whose heated imagination had now carried him to the convalescent stage of his indisposition, felt that a change of air would do him good, and going to the window, leaned out above a lilac-tree. "mr. john lavender," he murmured, "has gone to his seat to recuperate before resuming his public duties." while he stood there his attention was distracted by a tall young lady of fine build and joyous colour, who was watering some sweet-peas in the garden of the adjoining castle: naturally delicate, mr. lavender at once sought a jacket, and, having put it on, resumed his position at the window. he had not watched her more than two minutes before he saw that she was cultivating soil, and, filled with admiration, he leaned still further out, and said: "my dear young madam, you are doing a great work." thus addressed, the young lady, who had those roving grey eyes which see everything and betoken a large nature not devoid of merry genius, looked up and smiled. "believe me," continued mr. lavender, "no task in these days is so important as the cultivation of the soil; now that we are fighting to the last man and the last dollar every woman and child in the islands should put their hands to the plough. and at that word his vision became feverishly enlarged, so that he seemed to see not merely the young lady, but quantities of young ladies, filling the whole garden. "this," he went on, raising his voice, "is the psychological moment, the turning-point in the history of these islands. the defeat of our common enemies imposes on us the sacred duty of feeding ourselves once more. 'there is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to----oh!" for in his desire to stir his audience, mr. lavender had reached out too far, and losing foothold on his polished bedroom floor, was slipping down into the lilac-bush. he was arrested by a jerk from behind; where blink, moved by this sudden elopement of her master, had seized him by the nightshirt tails, and was staying his descent. "is anything up?" said the young lady. "i have lost my balance," thickly answered mr. lavender, whose blood was running to his head, which was now lower than his feet. "fortunately, my dog seems to be holding me from behind. but if someone could assist her it would be an advantage, for i fear that i am slipping." "hold on!" cried the young lady. and breaking through the low privet hedge which separated the domains, she vanished beneath him with a low gurgling sound. mr. lavender, who dared not speak again for fear that blink, hearing his voice, might let go to answer, remained suspended, torn with anxiety about his costume. "if she comes in," he thought, "i shall die from shame. and if she doesn't, i shall die from a broken neck. what a dreadful alternative!" and he firmly grasped the most substantial lilac-boughs within, his reach, listening with the ears of a hare for any sound within the room, in which he no longer was to any appreciable extent. then the thought of what a public man should feel in his position came to his rescue. "we die but once," he mused; "rather than shock that charming lady let me seek oblivion." and the words of his obituary notice at once began to dance before his eyes. "this great public servant honoured his country no less in his death than in his life." then striking out vigorously with his feet he launched his body forward. the words "my goodness!" resounded above him, as all restraining influence was suddenly relaxed; mr. lavender slid into the lilac-bush, turned heels over head, and fell bump on the ground. he lay there at full, length, conscious of everything, and especially of the faces of blink and the young lady looking down on him from the window. "are you hurt?" she called. "no," said mr. lavender, "that is--er--yes," he added, ever scrupulously exact. "i'm coming down," said the young lady. "don't move!" with a great effort mr. lavender arranged his costume, and closed his eyes. "how many lie like this, staring at the blue heavens!" he thought. "where has it got you?" said a voice; and he saw the young lady bending over him. "'in the dorsal region, i think," said mr. lavender. "but i suffer more from the thought that i--that you--" "that's all right," said the young lady; "i'm a v.a.d. it was a bump! let's see if you can----" and taking his hands she raised him to a sitting posture. "does it work?" "yes," said mr. lavender rather faintly. "try and stand," said the young lady, pulling. mr. lavender tried, and stood; but no, sooner was he on his feet than she turned her face away. great tears rolled down her cheeks; and she writhed and shook all over. "don't!" cried mr. lavender, much concerned. "i beg you not to cry. it's nothing, i assure you--nothing!" the young lady with an effort controlled her emotion, and turned her large grey eyes on him. "the angelic devotion of nurses!" murmured mr. lavender, leaning against the wall of the house with his hand to his back. "nothing like it has been seen since the world began." "i shall never forget the sight!" said the young lady, choking. mr. lavender, who took the noises she made for sobbing, was unutterably disturbed. "i can't bear to see you distressed on my account," he said. "i am quite well, i assure you; look--i can walk!" and he started forth up the garden in his nightshirt and norfolk jacket. when he turned round she was no longer there, sounds of uncontrollable emotion were audible from the adjoining garden. going to the privet hedge, he looked aver. she was lying gracefully on the grass, with her face smothered in her hands, and her whole body shaking. "poor thing!" thought mr. lavender. "no doubt she is one of those whose nerves have been destroyed by the terrible sights she has seen!" but at that moment the young lady rose and ran as if demented into her castle. mr. lavender stayed transfixed. "who would not be ill for the pleasure of drinking from a cup held by her hand?" he thought. "i am fortunate to have received injuries in trying to save her from confusion. down, blink, down!" for his dog, who had once more leaped from the window, was frantically endeavouring to lick his face. soothing her, and feeling his anatomy, mr. lavender became conscious that he was not alone. an old lady was standing on the gardenpath which led to the front gate, holding in her hand a hat. mr. lavender sat down at once, and gathering his nightshirt under him, spoke as follows: "there are circumstances, madam, which even the greatest public servants cannot foresee, and i, who am the humblest of them, ask you to forgive me for receiving you in this costume." "i have brought your hat back," said the old lady with a kindling eye; "they told me you lived here and i was anxious to know that you and your dear dog were none the worse." "madam," replied mr. lavender, "i am infinitely obliged to you. would you very kindly hang my, hat up on the--er--weeping willow tree?" at this moment a little white dog, who accompanied the old lady, began sniffing round mr. lavender, and blink, wounded in her proprietary instincts, placed her paws at once on her master's shoulders, so that he fell prone. when he recovered a sitting posture neither the old lady nor the little dog were in sight, but his hat was hanging on a laurel bush. "there seems to be something fateful about this morning," he mused; "i had better go in before the rest of the female population----" and recovering his feet with difficulty, he took his hat, and was about to enter the house when he saw the young lady watching him from an upper window of the adjoining castle. thinking to relieve her anxiety, he said at once: "my dear young lady, i earnestly beg you to believe that such a thing never happens to me, as a rule." her face was instantly withdrawn, and, sighing deeply, mr. lavender entered the house and made his way upstairs. "ah!" he thought, painfully recumbent in his bed once more, "though my bones ache and my head burns i have performed an action not unworthy of the traditions of public life. there is nothing more uplifting than to serve youth and beauty at the peril of one's existence. humanity and chivalry have ever been the leading characteristics of the british race;" and, really half-delirious now, he cried aloud: "this incident will for ever inspire those who have any sense of beauty to the fulfilment of our common task. believe me, we shall never sheathe the sword until the cause of humanity and chivalry is safe once more." blink, ever uneasy about sounds which seemed to her to have no meaning, stood up on her hind legs and endeavoured to stay them by licking his face; and mr. lavender, who had become so stiff that he could not stir without great pain, had to content himself by moving his head feebly from side to side until his dog, having taken her fill, resumed the examination of her bone. perceiving presently that whenever he began to-talk she began to lick his face, he remained silent, with his mouth open and his eyes shut, in an almost unconscious condition, from which he was roused by a voice saying: "he is suffering from alcoholic poisoning." the monstrous injustice of these words restored his faculties, and seeing before him what he took to be a large concourse of people--composed in reality of joe petty, mrs. petty, and the doctor--he thus addressed them in a faint, feverish voice: "the pressure of these times, ladies and gentlemen, brings to the fore the most pushing and obstreperous blackguards. we have amongst us persons who, under the thin disguise of patriotism, do not scruple to bring hideous charges against public men. such but serve the blood-stained cause of our common enemies. conscious of the purity of our private lives, we do not care what is said of us so long as we can fulfil our duty to our country. abstinence from every form of spirituous liquor has been the watchword of all public men since this land was first threatened by the most stupendous cataclysm which ever hung over the heads of a great democracy. we have never ceased to preach the need for it, and those who say the contrary are largely germans or persons lost to a sense of decency." so saying, he threw off all the bedclothes, and fell back with a groan. "easy, easy, my dear sir!" said the voice. "have you a pain in your back?" "i shall not submit," returned our hero, "to the ministrations of a hun; sooner will i breathe my last." "turn him over," said the voice. and mr. lavender found himself on his face. "do you feel that?" said the voice. mr. lavender answered faintly into his pillow: "it is useless for you to torture me. no german hand shall wring from me a groan." "is there mania in his family?" asked the voice. at this cruel insult mr. lavender, who was nearly smothered, made a great effort, and clearing his mouth of the pillow, said: "since we have no god nowadays, i call the god of my fathers to witness that there is no saner public man than i." it was, however, his last effort, for the wriggle he had given to his spine brought on a kind of vertigo, and he relapsed into unconsciousness. v is convicted of a new disease those who were assembled round the bed of mr. lavender remained for a moment staring at him with their mouths open, while blink growled faintly from underneath. "put your hand here," said the doctor at last. "there is a considerable swelling, an appearance of inflammation, and the legs are a curious colour. you gave him three-quarters of a tumbler of rum--how much honey?" thus addressed, joe petty, leaning his head a little to one side, answered: "not 'alf a pot, sir." "um! there are all the signs here of something quite new. he's not had a fall, has he?" "has he?" said mrs. petty severely to her husband. "no," replied joe. "singular!" said the doctor. turn him back again; i want to feel his head. swollen; it may account for his curious way of talking. well, shove in quinine, and keep him quiet, with hot bottles to his feet. i think we have come on a new war disease. i'll send you the quinine. good morning. "wot oh!" said joe to his wife, when they were left alone with the unconscious body of their master. "poor old guv! watch and pray!" "however could you have given him such a thing?" "wet outside, wet your inside," muttered joe sulkily, "'as always been my motto. sorry i give 'im the honey. who'd ha' thought the product of an 'armless insect could 'a done 'im in like this?" fiddle said mrs. petty. "in my belief it's come on through reading those newspapers. if i had my way i'd bum the lot. can i trust you to watch him while i go and get the bottles filled?" joe drooped his lids over his greenish eyes, and, with a whisk of her head, his wife left the room. "gawd 'elp us!" thought joe, gazing at his unconscious master, and fingering his pipe; "'ow funny women are! if i was to smoke in 'ere she'd have a fit. i'll just 'ave a whiff in the window, though!" and, leaning out, he drew the curtains to behind him and lighted his pipe. the sound of blink gnawing her bone beneath the bed alone broke the silence. "i could do with a pint o' bitter," thought joe; and, noticing the form of the weekly gardener down below, he said softly: "'ello, bob!" "'ello?" replied the gardener. "'ow's yours?" "nicely." "goin' to 'ave some rain?" "ah!" "what's the, matter with that?" "good for the crops." "missis well?" "so, so." "wish mine was." "wot's the matter with her?" "busy!" replied joe, sinking his voice. never 'ave a woman permanent; that's my experience. the gardener did not reply, but stood staring at the lilac-bush below joe petty's face. he was a thin man, rather like an old horse. "do you think we can win this war?" resumed joe. "dunno," replied the gardener apathetically. "we seem to be goin' back nicely all the time." joe wagged his head. "you've 'it it," he said. and, jerking his head back towards the room behind him, "guv'nor's got it now." "what?" "the new disease." "what new disease?" "wy, the run-abaht-an-tell-'em-'ow-to-do-it." "ah!" "'e's copped it fair. in bed." "you don't say!" "not 'alf!" joe sank his voice still lower. "wot'll you bet me i don't ketch it soon?" the gardener uttered a low gurgle. "the cats 'ave been in that laylock," he replied, twisting off a broken branch. "i'll knock off now for a bit o' lunch." but at that moment the sound of a voice speaking as it might be from a cavern, caused him and joe petty to stare at each other as if petrified. "wot is it?" whispered joe at last. the gardener jerked his head towards a window on the ground floor. "someone in pain," he said. "sounds like the guv'nor's voice." "ah!" said the gardener. "alf a mo'!" and, drawing in his head, joe peered through the curtains. the bed was empty and the door open. "watch it! 'e's loose!" he called to the gardener, and descended the stairs at a run. in fact, mr. lavender had come out of his coma at the words, "d'you think we can win this war?" and, at once conscious that he had not read the morning papers, had got out of bed. sallying forth just as he was he had made his way downstairs, followed by blink. seeing the journals lying on the chest in the hall, he took all five to where he usually went at this time of the morning, and sat down to read. once there, the pain he was in, added to the disorder occasioned in his brain by the five leaders, caused him to give forth a summary of their contents, while blink pressed his knees with her chin whenever the rising of his voice betokened too great absorption, as was her wont when she wanted him to feed her. joe petty joined the gardener in considerable embarrassment. "shan't i not 'alf cop it from the missis?" he murmured. "the door's locked." the voice of mr. lavender maintained its steady flow, rising and falling with the tides of his pain and his feelings. "what, then, is our duty? is it not plain and simple? we require every man in the army, for that is the 'sine qua non' of victory. we must greatly reinforce the ranks of labour in our shipyards--ships, ships, ships, always more ships; for without them we shall infallibly be defeated. we cannot too often repeat that we must see the great drama that is being played before our eyes steadily, and we must see it whole.... not a man must be taken from the cultivation of our soil, for on that depends our very existence as a nation. without abundant labour of the right sort on the land we cannot hope to cope with the menace of the pirate submarine. we must have the long vision, and not be scuppered by the fears of those who would deplete our most vital industry . . . . in munition works," wailed mr. lavender's voice, as he reached the fourth leader, "we still require the maximum of effort, and a considerable reinforcement of manpower will in that direction be necessary to enable us to establish the overwhelming superiority in the air and in guns which alone can ensure the defeat of our enemies".... he reached the fifth in what was almost a scream. "every man up to sixty must be mobilized but here we would utter the most emphatic caveat. in the end this war will be won by the country whose financial position stands the strain best. the last copper bullet will be the deciding factor. our economic strength must on no account be diminished. we cannot at this time of day afford to deplete the ranks of trade and let out the very life-blood in our veins." "we must see," groaned mr. lavender, "the problem steadily, and see it whole." "poor old geyser!" said the gardener; "'e do seem bad." "old me!" said joe. "i'll get on the sill and see what i can do through the top o' the window." he got up, and, held by the gardener, put his arm through. there was the sound of considerable disturbance, and through the barking of blink, mr. lavender's voice was heard again: "stanch in the middle of the cataclysm, unruffled by the waters of heaven and hell, let us be captains of our souls. down, blink, down!" "he's out!" said joe, rejoining the gardener. "now for it, before my missis comes!" and he ran into the house. mr. lavender was walking dazedly in the hall with the journals held out before him. "joe," he said, catching sight of his servant, "get the car ready. i must be in five places at once, for only thus can we defeat the greatest danger which ever threatened the future of civilization." "right-o, sir," replied joe; and, waiting till his master turned round, he seized him round the legs, and lifting that thin little body ascended the stairs, while mr. lavender, with the journals waving fanlike in his hands, his white hair on end, and his legs kicking, endeavoured to turn his head to see what agency was moving him. at the top of the stairs they came on mrs. petty, who, having scotch blood in her veins, stood against the wall to let them pass, with a hot bottle in either hand. having placed mr. lavender in his bed and drawn the clothes up to his eyes, joe petty passed the back of his hand across his brow, and wrung it out. "phew!" he gasped; "he's artful!" his wife, who had followed them in, was already fastening her eyes on the carpet. "what's that?" she said, sniffing. "that?" repeated joe, picking up his pipe; "why, i had to run to ketch 'im, and it fell out o' me pocket." "and lighted itself," said mrs. petty, darting, at the floor and taking up a glowing quid which had burned a little round hole in the carpet. "you're a pretty one!" "you can't foresee those sort o' things," said joe. "you can't foresee anything," replied his wife; "you might be a government. here! hold the clothes while i get the bottles to his feet. well i never! if he hasn't got----" and from various parts of mr. lavender's body she recovered the five journals. "for putting things in the wrong place, joe petty, i've never seen your like!" "they'll keep 'im warm," said joe. mr. lavender who, on finding himself in bed, had once more fallen into a comatose condition, stirred, and some words fell from his lips. "five in one, and one in five." "what does he say?" said mrs. petty, tucking him up. "it's the odds against candelabra for the derby." "only faith," cried mr. lavender, "can multiply exceedingly." "here, take them away!" muttered mrs. petty, and dealing the journals a smart slap, she handed them to joe. "faith!" repeated mr. lavender, and fell into a doze. "about this new disease," said joe. "d'you think it's ketchin'? i feel rather funny meself." "stuff!" returned his wife. "clear away those papers and that bone, and go and take blink out, and sit on a seat; it's all you're fit for. of all the happy-go-luckys you're the worst." "well, i never could worry," said joe from the doorway; "'tisn't in me. so long!" and, dragging blink by the collar, he withdrew. alone with her patient, mrs. petty, an enthusiast for cleanliness and fresh air, went on her knees, and, having plucked out the charred ring of the little hole in the carpet, opened the window wider to rid the room of the smell of burning. "if it wasn't for me," she thought, leaning out into the air, "i don't know what'd become of them." a voice from a few feet away said: "i hope he's none the worse. what does the doctor say?" looking round in astonishment, mrs. petty saw a young lady leaning out of a window on her right. "we can't tell at present," she said, with a certain reserve he is going on satisfactory. "it's not hydrophobia, is it?" asked the young lady. "you know he fell out of the window? "what!" ejaculated mrs. petty. "where the lilac's broken. if i can give you a hand i shall be very glad. i'm a v.a.d." "thank you, i'm sure," said mrs. petty stiffly, for the passion of jealousy, to which she was somewhat prone, was rising in her, "there is no call." and she thought, "v.a. indeed! i know them." poor dear said the young lady. "he did come a bump. it was awfully funny! is he--er----?" and she touched her forehead, where tendrils of fair hair were blowing in the breeze. inexpressibly outraged by such a question concerning one for whom she had a proprietary reverence, mrs. petty answered acidly: "oh dear no! he is much wiser than some people!" "it was only that he mentioned the last man and the last dollar, you know," said the young lady, as if to herself, "but, of course, that's no real sign." and she uttered a sudden silvery laugh. mrs. petty became aware of something tickling her left ear, and turning round, found her master leaning out beside her, in his dressing-gown. "leave me, mrs. petty," he said with such dignity that she instinctively recoiled. "it may seem to you," continued mr. lavender, addressing the young lady, "indelicate on my part to resume my justification, but as a public man, i suffer, knowing that i have committed a breach of decorum." "don't you think you ought to keep quiet in bed?" mrs. petty heard the young lady ask. "my dear young lady," mr. lavender replied, "the thought of bed is abhorrent to me at a time like this. what more ignoble fate than to die in, one's bed?" "i'm only asking you to live in it," said the young lady, while mrs. petty grasped her master by the skirts of his gown. "down, blink, down!" said mr. lavender, leaning still further out. "for pity's sake," wailed the young lady, "don't fall out again, or i shall burst." "ah, believe me," said mr. lavender in a receding voice, "i would not pain you further for the world----" mrs. petty, exerting all her strength, had hauled him in. "aren't you ashamed of yourself, sir," she said severely, "talking to a young lady like that in your dressing-gown? "mrs. petty," said mr lavender mysteriously, "it might have been worse.... i should like some tea with a little lemon in it." taking this for a sign of returning reason mrs. petty drew him gently towards the bed, and, having seen him get in, tucked him up and said: "now, sir, you never break your word, do you?" "no public man----" began mr. lavender. "oh, bother! now, promise me to stay quiet in bed while i get you that tea." "i certainly shall," replied our hero, "for i feel rather faint." "that's right," said mrs. petty. "i trust you." and, bolting the window, she whisked out of the room and locked the door behind her. mr. lavender lay with his eyes fixed on the, ceiling, clucking his parched tongue. "god," he thought, "for one must use that word when the country is in danger--god be thanked for beauty! but i must not allow it to unsteel my soul. only when the cause of humanity has triumphed, and with the avenging sword and shell we have exterminated that criminal nation, only then shall i be entitled to let its gentle influence creep about my being." and drinking off the tumbler of tea which mrs. petty was holding to his lips, he sank almost immediately into a deep slumber. vi makes a mistake, and meets a moon-cat the old lady, whose name was sinkin, and whose interest in mr. lavender had become so deep, lived in a castle in frognal; and with her lived her young nephew, a boy of forty-five, indissolubly connected with the board of guardians. it was entirely due to her representations that he presented himself at mr. lavender's on the following day, and, sending in his card, was admitted to our hero's presence. mr. lavender, pale and stiff, was sitting in his study, with blink on his feet, reading a speech. "excuse my getting up, sir," he said; "and pray be seated." the nephew, who had a sleepy, hairless face and little chinese eyes, bowed, and sitting down, stared at mr. lavender with a certain embarrassment. "i have come," he said at last, "to ask you a few questions on behalf of--" "by all means," said mr. lavender, perceiving at once that he was being interviewed. "i shall be most happy to give you my views. please take a cigarette, for i believe that is usual. i myself do not smoke. if it is the human touch you want, you may like to know that i gave it up when that appeal in your contemporary flooded the trenches with cigarettes and undermined the nerves of our heroes. by setting an example of abstinence, and at the same time releasing more tobacco for our men, i felt that i was but doing my duty. please don't mention that, though. and while we are on the personal note, which i sincerely deprecate, you might like to stroll round the room and look at the portrait of my father, behind the door, and of my mother, over the fireplace. forgive my not accompanying you. the fact is--this is an interesting touch--i have always been rather subject to lumbago." and seeing the nephew sinkin, who had risen to his suggestion, standing somewhat irresolutely in front of him, he added: "perhaps you would like to look a little more closely at my eyes. every now and then they flash with an almost uncanny insight." for by now he had quite forgotten his modesty in the identification he felt with the journal which was interviewing him. "i am fifty-eight," he added quickly; "but i do not look my years, though my hair, still thick and full of vigour, is prematurely white--so often the case with men whose brains are continually on the stretch. the little home, far from grandiose, which forms the background to this most interesting personality is embowered in trees. cats have made their mark on its lawns, and its owner's love of animals was sharply illustrated by the sheep-dog which lay on his feet clad in turkish slippers. get up, blink!" blink, disturbed by the motion of her master's feet, rose and gazed long into his face. "look!" said mr. lavender, "she has the most beautiful eyes in the world." at this remark, which appeared to him no saner than the others he had heard--so utterly did he misjudge mr. lavender's character--the nephew put down the notebook he had taken out of his pocket, and said: "has there ever been anything--er--remarkable about your family?" "indeed, yes," said mr. lavender. born of poor but lofty parentage in the city of rochester, my father made his living as a publisher; my mother was a true daughter of the bards, the scion of a stock tracing its decent from the druids; her name was originally jones." "ah!" said the nephew sinkin, writing. "she has often told me at her knee," continued mr. lavender, "that there was a strong vein of patriotism in her family." "she did not die--in--in----" "no, indeed," interrupted mr. lavender; she is still living there." "ah!" said the nephew. "and your brothers and sisters?" "one of my brothers," replied mr. lavender, with pardonable pride, "is the editor of cud bits. the other is a clergyman." "eccentric," murmured the nephew absently. "tell me, mr. lavender, do you find your work a great strain? does it----" and he touched the top of his head, covered with moist black hair. mr. lavender sighed. "at a time like this," he said, "we must all be prepared to sacrifice our health. no public man, as you know, can call his head his own for a moment. i should count myself singularly lacking if i stopped to consider--er--such a consideration." "consider--er--such a consideration," repeated the nephew, jotting it down. "he carries on," murmured mr. lavender, once more identifying himself with the journal, "grappling with the intricacies of this enormous problem; happy in the thought that nothing--not even reason itself--is too precious to sacrifice on the altar of his duty to his country. the public may rest confident in the knowledge that he will so carry on till they carry him out on his shield." and aware subconsciously that the interview could go no further than that phrase, mr. lavender was silent, gazing up with rather startled eyes. "i see," said the nephew; "i am very much obliged to you. is your dog safe?" for blink had begun to growl in a low and uneasy manner. "the gentlest creature in the world," replied lavender, "and the most sociable. i sometimes think," he went on in a changed voice, "that we have all gone mad, and that animals alone retain the sweet reasonableness which used to be esteemed a virtue in human society. don't take that down," he added quickly, "we are all subject to moments of weakness. it was just an 'obiter dictum'." "make your mind easy," said the nephew, rising, "it does not serve my purpose. just one thing, mr. lavender." at this moment blink, whose instinct had long been aware of some sinister purpose in this tall and heavy man, whose trousers did not smell of dogs, seeing him approach too near, bit him gently in the calf. the nephew started back. "she's bitten me!" he said, in a hushed voice. "my god!" ejaculated mr. lavender and falling back again, so stiff was he. "is it possible? there must be some good reason. blink!" blink wagged her little tail, thrust her nose into his hand, removed it, and growled again. "she is quite well, i assure you," mr. lavender added hastily, "her nose is icy." "she's bitten me," repeated the nephew, pulling up his trouser leg. "there's no mark, but she distinctly bit me." "treasure!" said mr. lavender, endeavouring to interest him in the dog. "do you notice how dark the rims of her eyes are, and how clear the whites? extraordinarily well bred. blink!" aware that she was being talked of blink continued to be torn between the desire to wag her tail and to growl. unable to make up her mind, she sighed heavily and fell on her side against her side against her master's legs. "wonderful with sheep, too," said mr. lavender; "at least, she would be if they would let her.... you should see her with them on the heath. they simply can't bear her." "you will hear from me again," said the nephew sourly. "thank you," said mr. lavender. "i shall be glad of a proof; it is always safer, i believe." "good morning," said the nephew. blink, who alone perceived the dark meaning in these words, seeing him move towards the door began to bark and run from side to side behind him, for all the world as if he had been a flock of sheep. "keep her off!" said the nephew anxiously. "keep her off. i refuse to be bitten again." "blink!" called mr. lavender in some agony. blink, whose obedience was excessive, came back to him at once, and stood growling from under her master's hand, laid on the white hair which flowed back from her collar, till the nephew's footsteps had died away. "i cannot imagine," thought mr. lavender, "why she should have taken exception to that excellent journalist. perhaps he did not smell quite right? one never knows." and with her moustachioed muzzle pressed to his chin mr. lavender sought for explanation in the innocent and living darkness of his dog's eyes.... on leaving mr. lavender's the nephew forthwith returned to the castle in frognal, and sought his aunt. "mad as a march hare, aunt rosie; and his dog bit me." "that dear doggie?" "they're dangerous." "you were always funny about dogs, dear," said his aunt soothingly. "why, even sealey doesn't really like you." and calling to the little low white dog she quite failed to attract his attention. "did you notice his dress. the first time i took him for a shepherd, and the second time---! what do you think ought to be done?" "he'll have to be watched," said the nephew. "we can't have lunatics at large in hampstead." "but, wilfred," said the old lady, "will our man-power stand it? couldn't they watch each other? or, if it would be any help, i could watch him myself. i took such a fancy to his dear dog." "i shall take steps," said the nephew. "no, don't do that. i'll go and call on the people, next door. their name is scarlet. they'll know about him, no doubt. we mustn't do anything inconsiderate." the nephew, muttering and feeling his calf, withdrew to his study. and the old lady, having put on her bonnet, set forth placidly, unaccompanied by her little white dog. on arriving at the castle embedded in acacias and laurustinus she asked of the maid who opened: "can i see mrs. scarlet?" "no," replied the girl dispassionately; "she's dead." "mr. scarlet, then?" "no," replied the girl he's a major." "oh, dear!" said the old lady. "miss isabel's at home," said the girl, who appeared, like so many people in time of war, to be of a simple, plain-spoken nature; "you'll find her in the garden." and she let the old lady out through a french window. at the far end, under an acacia, mrs. sinkin could see the form of a young lady in a blue dress, lying in a hammock, with a cigarette between her lips and a yellow book in her hands. she approached her thinking, "dear me! how comfortable, in these days!" and, putting her head a little on one side, she said with a smile: "my name is sinkin. i hope i'm not disturbing you." the young lady rose with a vigorous gesture. "oh, no! not a bit." "i do admire some people," said the old lady; "they seem to find time for everything." the young lady stretched herself joyously. "i'm taking it out before going to my new hospital. try it," she said touching the hammock; "it's not bad. will you have a cigarette?" "i'm afraid i'm too old for both," said the old lady, "though i've often thought they must be delightfully soothing. i wanted to speak to you about your neighbour." the young lady rolled her large grey eyes. "ah!" she said, "he's perfectly sweet." "i know," said the old lady, "and has such a dear dog. my nephew's very interested in them. you may have heard of him--wilfred sinkin--a very clever man; on so many committees." "not really?" said the young lady. "oh, yes! he has one of those heads which nothing can disturb; so valuable in these days." "and what sort of a heart?" asked the young lady, emitting a ring of smoke. "just as serene. i oughtn't to say so, but i think he's rather a wonderful machine." "so long as he's not a doctor! you can't think how they get on your nerves when they're, like that. i've bumped up against so many of them. they fired me at last!" "really? where? i thought they only did that to the dear horses. oh, what a pretty laugh you have! it's so pleasant to hear anyone laugh, in these days." "i thought no one did anything else! i mean, what else can you do, except die, don't you know?" "i think that's rather a gloomy view," said the old lady placidly. but about your neighbour. what is his name?" "lavender. but i call him don pickwixote." "dear me, do you indeed? have you noticed anything very eccentric about him?" "that depends on what you call eccentric. wearing a nightshirt, for instance? i don't know what your standard is, you see." the old lady was about to reply when a voice from the adjoining garden was heard saying: "blink! don't touch that charming mooncat!" "hush!" murmured the young lady; and seizing her visitor's arm, she drew her vigorously beneath the acacia tree. sheltered from observation by those thick and delicate branches, they stooped, and applying their eyes to holes in the privet hedge, could see a very little cat, silvery-fawn in colour and far advanced in kittens, holding up its paw exactly like a dog, and gazing with sherry-coloured eyes at mr. lavender, who stood in the middle of his lawn, with blink behind him. "if you see me going to laugh," whispered the young lady, "pinch me hard." "moon-cat," repeated mr. lavender, "where have you come from? and what do you want, holding up your paw like that? what curious little noises you make, duckie!" the cat, indeed, was uttering sounds rather like a duck. it came closer to mr. lavender, circled his legs, drubbed itself against blink's chest, while its tapered tail, barred with silver, brushed her mouth. "this is extraordinary," they heard mr. lavender say; "i would stroke it if i wasn't so stiff. how nice of you little moon-cat to be friendly to my play-girl! for what is there in all the world so pleasant to see as friendliness between a dog and cat!" at those words the old lady, who was a great lover of animals, was so affected that she pinched the young lady by mistake. "not yet!" whispered the latter in some agony. "listen!" "moon-cat," mr. lavender was saying, "arcadia is in your golden eyes. you have come, no doubt, to show us how far we have strayed away from it." and too stiff to reach the cat by bending, mr. lavender let himself slowly down till he could sit. "pan is dead," he said, as he arrived on the grass and crossed his feet, "and christ is not alive. moon-cat!" the little cat had put its head into his hand, while blink was thrusting her nose into his mouth. "i'm going to sneeze!" whispered the old lady, strangely affected. "pull your upper lip down hard, like the german empress, and count nine!" murmured the young. while the old lady was doing this mr. lavender had again begun to speak. "life is now nothing but explosions. gentleness has vanished, and beauty is a dream. when you have your kittens, moon-cat, bring them up in amity, to love milk, dogs, and the sun." the moon-cat, who had now reached his shoulder, brushed the tip of her tail across his loose right eyebrow, while blink's jealous tongue avidly licked his high left cheekbone. with one hand mr. lavender was cuddling the cat's head, with the other twiddling blink's forelock, and the watchers could see his eyes shining, and his white hair standing up all ruffled. "isn't it sweet?" murmured the old lady. "ah! moon-cat," went on mr. lavender, "come and live with us. you shall have your kittens in the bathroom, and forget this age of blood and iron." both the old lady and the young were removing moisture from their eyes when, the voice of mr. lavender, very changed, recalled them to their vigil. his face had become strained and troubled. "never," he was saying, "will we admit that doctrine of our common enemies. might is not right gentlemen those who take the sword shall perish by the sword. with blood and iron we will ourselves stamp out this noxious breed. no stone shall be left standing, and no babe sleeping in that abandoned country. we will restore the tide of humanity, if we have to wade through rivers of blood across mountains of iron." "whom is he calling gentlemen?" whispered the old lady. but blink, by anxiously licking mr. lavender's lips, had produced a silence in which the young-lady did not dare reply. the sound of the little cat's purring broke the hush. "down, blink, down!" said mr. lavender. "watch this little moon-cat and her perfect manners! we may all learn from her how not to be crude. see the light shining through her pretty ears!" the little cat, who had seen a bird, had left mr. lavender's shoulder, and was now crouching and moving the tip of its tail from side to side. "she would like a bird inside her; but let us rather go and find her some milk instead," said mr. lavender, and he began to rise. "do you know, i think he's quite sane," whispered the old lady, "except, perhaps, at intervals. what do you?" "glorious print!" cried mr. lavender suddenly, for a journal had fallen from his pocket, and the sight of it lying there, out of his reach, excited him. "glorious print! i can read you even from here. when the enemy of mankind uses the word god he commits blasphemy! how different from us!" and raising his eyes from the journal mr. lavender fastened them, as it seemed to his anxious listeners, on the tree which sheltered them. "yes! those unseen presences, who search out the workings of our heart, know that even the most jingo among us can say, 'i am not as they are!' come, mooncat!" so murmuring, he turned and moved towards the house, clucking with his tongue, and followed by blink. "did he mean us?" said the old lady nervously. "no; that was one of his intervals. he's not mad; he's just crazy." "is there any difference, my dear?" "why, we're all crazy about something, you know; it's only a question of what." "but what is his what?" "he's got a message. they're in the air, you know." "i haven't come across them," said the old lady. "i fear i live a very quiet life--except for picking over sphagnum moss." "oh, well! there's no hurry." "well, i shall tell my nephew what i've seen," said the old lady. "good-bye." "good-bye," responded the young; and, picking up her yellow book, she got back into the hammock and relighted her cigarette. vii sees and editor, and finds a farmer not for some days after his fall from the window did mr. lavender begin to regain the elasticity of body necessary to the resumption of public life. he spent the hours profitably, however, in digesting the newspapers and storing ardour. on tuesday morning, remembering that no proof of his interview had yet been sent him, and feeling that he ought not to neglect so important a matter, he set forth to the office of the great journal from which, in the occult fashion of the faithful, he was convinced the reporter had come. while he was asking for the editor in the stony entrance, a young man who was passing looked at him attentively and said: "ah, sir, here you are! he's waiting for you. come up, will you?" mr. lavender followed up some stairs, greatly gratified at the thought that he was expected. the young man led him through one or two swing doors into an outer office, where a young woman was typing. mr. lavender shook his head, and sat down on the edge of a green leather chair. the editor, resuming his seat, crossed his legs deferentially, and sinking his chin again on his chest, began: "about your article. my only trouble, of course, is that i'm running that stunt on british prisoners--great success! you've seen it, i suppose?" "yes, indeed," said mr. lavender; i read you every day. the editor made a little movement which showed that he was flattered, and sinking his chin still further into his chest, resumed: "it might run another week, or it might fall down to-morrow--you never can tell. but i'm getting lots of letters. tremendous public interest." "yes, yes," assented mr. lavender, "it's most important." "of course, we might run yours with it," said the editor. "but i don't know; i think it'd kill the other. still----" "i shouldn't like----" began mr. lavender. "i don't believe in giving them more than they want, you know," resumed the editor. "i think i'll have my news editor in," and he blew into a tube. "send me mr. crackamup. this thing of yours is very important, sir. suppose we began to run it on thursday. yes, i should think they'll be tired of british prisoners by then." "don't let me," began mr. lavender. the editor's eye became unveiled for the moment. "you'll be wanting to take it somewhere else if we----quite! well, i think we could run them together. see here, mr. crackamup"--mr. lavender saw a small man like beethoven frowning from behind spectacles--"could we run this german prisoner stunt alongside the british, or d'you think it would kill it?" mr. lavender almost rose from his chair in surprise. "are you----" he said; "is it----" the small man hiccoughed, and said in a raw voice: "the letters are falling off." "ah!" murmured the editor, "i thought we should be through by thursday. we'll start this new stunt thursday. give it all prominence, crackamup. it'll focus fury. all to the good--all to the good. opinion's ripe." then for a moment he seemed to hesitate, and his chin sank back on his chest. "i don't know," he murmured of course it may----" "please," began mr. lavender, rising, while the small man hiccoughed again. the two motions seemed to determine the editor. "that's all right, sir," he said, rising also; "that's quite all right. we'll say thursday, and risk it. thursday, crackamup." and he held out his hand to mr. lavender. "good morning, sir, good morning. delighted to have seen you. you wouldn't put your name to it? well, well, it doesn't matter; only you could have written it. the turn of phrase --immense! they'll tumble all right!" and mr. lavender found himself, with mr. crackamup, in the lobby. "it's bewildering," he thought, "how quickly he settled that. and yet he had such repose. but is there some mistake?" he was about to ask his companion, but with a distant hiccough the small man had vanished. thus deserted, mr. lavender was in two minds whether to ask to be readmitted, when the four gentlemen with notebooks repassed him in single file into the editor's room. "my name is lavender," he said resolutely to the young woman. "is that all right?" "quite," she answered, without looking up. mr. lavender went out slowly, thinking, "i may perhaps have said more in that interview than i remember. next time i really will insist on having a proof. or have they taken me for some other public man?" this notion was so disagreeable, however, that he dismissed it, and passed into the street. on thursday, the day fixed for his fresh tour of public speaking, he opened the great journal eagerly. above the third column was the headline: our vital duty: by a great public man. "that must be it," he thought. the article, which occupied just a column of precious space, began with an appeal so moving that before he had read twenty lines mr. lavender had identified himself completely with the writer; and if anyone had told him that he had not uttered these sentiments, he would have given him the lie direct. working from heat to heat the article finished in a glorious outburst with a passionate appeal to the country to starve all german prisoners. mr. lavender put it down in a glow of exultation. "i shall translate words into action," he thought; "i shall at once visit a rural district where german prisoners are working on the land, and see that the farmers do their duty." and, forgetting in his excitement to eat his breakfast, he put the journal in his pocket, wrapped himself in his dust-coat and broad-brimmed hat, and went out to his car, which was drawn up, with blink, who had not forgotten her last experience, inside. "we will go to a rural district, joe," he said, getting in. "very good, sir," answered joe; and, unnoticed by the population, they glided into the hazy heat of the june morning. "well, what abaht it, sir?" said joe, after they had proceeded for some three hours. "here we are." mr. lavender, who had been lost in the beauty of the scenes through which he was passing, awoke from reverie, and said: "i am looking for german prisoners, joe; if you see a farmer, you might stop." "any sort of farmer?" asked joe. "is there more than one sort?" returned mr. lavender, smiling. joe cocked his eye. "ain't you never lived in the country, sir?" "not for more than a few weeks at a time, joe, unless rochester counts. of course, i know eastbourne very well." "i know eastbourne from the inside," said joe discursively. "i was a waiter there once." "an interesting life, a waiter's, joe, i should think." "ah! everything comes to 'im who waits, they say. but abaht farmers --you've got a lot to learn, sir." "i am always conscious of that, joe; the ramifications of public life are innumerable." "i could give you some rummikins abaht farmers. i once travelled in breeches." "you seem to have done a great many things joe." "that's right, sir. i've been a sailor, a 'traveller,' a waiter, a scene-shifter, and a shover, and i don't know which was the cushiest job. but, talking of farmers: there's the old english type that wears bedfords--don't you go near 'im, 'e bites. there's the modern scientific farmer, but it'll take us a week to find 'im. and there's the small-'older, wearin' trahsers, likely as not; i don't think 'e'd be any use to you. "what am i to do then?" asked mr lavender. "ah!" said joe, "'ave lunch." mr. lavender sighed, his hunger quarelling with his sense of duty. "i should like to have found a farmer first," he said. "well, sir, i'll drive up to that clump o'beeches, and you can have a look round for one while i get lunch ready. "that will do admirably." "there's just one thing, sir," said joe, when his master was about to start; "don't you take any house you come across for a farm. they're mostly cottages o' gentility nowadays, in'abited by lunatics." "i shall be very careful," said mr. lavender. "this glorious land!" he thought, walking away from the beech clump, with blink at his heels; "how wonderful to see it being restored to its former fertility under pressure of the war! the farmer must be a happy man, indeed, working so nobly for his country, without thought of his own prosperity. how flowery those beans look already!" he mused, glancing at a field of potatoes. "now that i am here i shall be able to combine my work on german prisoners with an effort to stimulate food production. blink!" for blink was lingering in a gateway. moving back to her, mr. lavender saw that the sagacious animal was staring through the gate at a farmer who was standing in a field perfectly still, with his back turned, about thirty yards away. "have you----" mr. lavender began eagerly; "is it--are you employing any german prisoners, sir?" the farmer did not seem to hear. "he must," thought mr. lavender, "be of the old stolid english variety." the farmer, who was indeed attired in a bowler hat and bedford cords, continued to gaze over his land, unconscious of mr. lavender's presence. "i am asking you a question, sir," resumed the latter in a louder voice." and however patriotically absorbed you may be in cultivating your soil, there is no necessity for rudeness." the farmer did not move a muscle. "sir," began mr. lavender again, very patiently, "though i have always heard that the british farmer is of all men least amenable to influence and new ideas, i have never believed it, and i am persuaded that if you will but listen i shall be able to alter your whole outlook about the agricultural future of this country." for it had suddenly occurred to him that it might be a long time before he had again such an opportunity of addressing a rural audience on the growth of food, and he was loth to throw away the chance. the farmer, however, continued to stand with his hack to the speaker, paying no more heed to his voice than to the buzzing of a fly. "you shall hear me," cried mr. lavender, unconsciously miming a voice from the past, and catching, as he thought, the sound of a titter, he flung his hand out, and exclaimed: "grass, gentlemen, grass is the hub of the matter. we have put our hand to the plough"--and, his imagination taking flight at those words, he went on in a voice calculated to reach the great assembly of farmers which he now saw before him with their backs turned--"and never shall we take it away till we have reduced every acre in the country to an arable condition. in the future not only must we feed ourselves, but our dogs, our horses, and our children, and restore the land to its pristine glory in the front rank of the world's premier industry. but me no buts," he went on with a winning smile, remembering that geniality is essential in addressing a country audience, "and butter me no butter, for in future we shall require to grow our margarine as well. let us, in a word, put behind us all prejudice and pusillanimity till we see this country of ours once more blooming like one great cornfield, covered with cows. sirs, i am no iconoclast; let us do all this without departing in any way from those great principles of free trade, industrialism, and individual liberty which have made our towns the largest, most crowded, and wealthiest under that sun which never sets over the british empire. we do but need to see this great problem steadily and to see it whole, and we shall achieve this revolution in our national life without the sacrifice of a single principle or a single penny. believe me, gentlemen, we shall yet eat our cake and have it." mr. lavender paused for breath, the headlines of his great speech in tomorrow's paper dancing before his eyes: "the climacteric--eats cake and has it--a great conclusion." the wind, which had risen somewhat during mr. lavender's speech, fluttered the farmer's garments at this moment, so that they emitted a sound like the stir which runs through an audience at a moment of strong emotion. "ah!" cried mr. lavender, "i see that i move you, gentlemen. those have traduced you who call you unimpressionable. after all, are you not the backbone of this country up which runs the marrow which feeds the brain; and shall you not respond to an appeal at once so simple and so fundamental? i assure you, gentlemen, it needs no thought; indeed, the less you think about it the better, for to do so will but weaken your purpose and distract your attention. your duty is to go forward with stout hearts, firm steps, and kindling eyes; in this way alone shall we defeat our common enemies. and at those words, which he had uttered at the top of his voice, mr. lavender stood like a clock which has run down, rubbing his eyes. for blink, roaming the field during the speech, and encountering quadruped called rabbit, which she had never seen before, had backed away from it in dismay, brushed against the farmer's legs and caused his breeches to fall down, revealing the sticks on which they had been draped. when mr. lavender saw this he called out in a loud voice sir, you have deceived me. i took you for a human being. i now perceive that you are but a selfish automaton, rooted to your own business, without a particle of patriotic sense. farewell!" viii starves some germans after parting with the scarecrow mr. lavender who felt uncommonly hungry' was about to despair of finding any german prisoners when he saw before him a gravel-pit, and three men working therein. clad in dungaree, and very dusty, they had a cast of countenance so unmistakably teutonic that mr. lavender stood still. they paid little or no attention to him, however, but went on sadly and silently with their work, which was that of sifting gravel. mr. lavender sat down on a milestone opposite, and his heart contracted within him. "they look very thin and sad," he thought, "i should not like to be a prisoner myself far from my country, in the midst of a hostile population, without a woman or a dog to throw me a wag of the tail. poor men! for though it is necessary to hate the germans, it seems impossible to forget that we are all human beings. this is weakness," he added to himself, "which no editor would tolerate for a moment. i must fight against it if i am to fulfil my duty of rousing the population to the task of starving them. how hungry they look already --their checks are hollow! i must be firm. perhaps they have wives and families at home, thinking of them at this moment. but, after all, they are huns. what did the great writer say? 'vermin--creatures no more worthy of pity than the tiger or the rat.' how true! and yet--blink!" for his dog, seated on her haunches, was looking at him with that peculiarly steady gaze which betokened in her the desire for food. "yes," mused mr. lavender, "pity is the mark of the weak man. it is a vice which was at one time rampant in this country; the war has made one beneficial change at least--we are moving more and more towards the manly and unforgiving vigour of the tiger and the rat. to be brutal! this is the one lesson that the germans can teach us, for we had almost forgotten the art. what danger we were in! thank god, we have past masters again among us now!" a frown became fixed between his brows. "yes, indeed, past masters. how i venerate those good journalists and all the great crowd of witnesses who have dominated the mortal weakness, pity. 'the hun must and shall be destroyed--root and branch--hip and thigh--bag and baggage man, woman, and babe--this is the sole duty of the great and humane british people. roll up, ladies and gentlemen, roll up! great thought--great language! and yet----" here mr. lavender broke into a gentle sweat, while the germans went on sifting gravel in front of him, and blink continued to look up into his face with her fixed, lustrous eyes. "what an awful thing," he thought, "to be a man. if only i were just a public man and could, as they do, leave out the human and individual side of everything, how simple it would be! it is the being a man as well which is so troublesome. a man has feelings; it is wrong--wrong! there should be no connection whatever between public duty and the feelings of a man. one ought to be able to starve one's enemy without a quiver, to watch him drown without a wink. in fact, one ought to be a german. we ought all to be germans. blink, we ought all to be germans, dear! i must steel myself!" and mr. lavender wiped his forehead, for, though a great idea had come to him, he still lacked the heroic savagery to put it into execution. "it is my duty," he thought, "to cause those hungry, sad-looking men to follow me and watch me eat my lunch. it is my duty. god give me strength! for unless i make this sacrifice of my gentler nature i shall be unworthy to call myself a public man, or to be reported in the newspapers. 'en avant, de bracy!'" so musing, he rose, and blink with him. crossing the road, he clenched his fists, and said in a voice which anguish made somewhat shrill: "are you hungry, my friends?" the germans stopped sifting gravel, looked up at him, and one of them nodded. "and thirsty?" this time they all three nodded. "come on, then," said mr. lavender. and he led the way back along the road, followed by blink and the three germans. arriving at the beech clump whose great trees were already throwing shadows, denoting that it was long past noon, mr. lavender saw that joe had spread food on the smooth ground, and was, indeed, just finishing his own repast. "what is there to eat?" thought mr. lavender, with a soft of horror. "for i feel as if i were about to devour a meal of human flesh." and he looked round at the three germans slouching up shamefacedly behind him. "sit down, please," he said. the three men sat down. "joe," said mr. lavender to his surprised chauffeur, "serve my lunch. give me a large helping, and a glass of ale." and, paler than his holland dust-coat, he sat resolutely down on the bole of a beech, with blink on her haunches beside him. while joe was filling a plate with pigeon-pie and pouring out a glass of foaming bass, mr. lavender stared at the three germans and suffered the tortures of the damned. "i will not flinch," he thought; "god helping me, i certainly will not flinch. nothing shall prevent my going through with it." and his eyes, more prominent than a hunted rabbit's, watched the approach of joe with the plate and glass. the three men also followed the movements of the chauffeur, and it seemed to mr. lavender that their eyes were watering. "courage!" he murmured to himself, transfixing a succulent morsel with his fork and conveying it to his lips. for fully a minute he revolved the tasty mouthful, which he could not swallow, while the three men's eyes watched him with a sort of lugubrious surprise. "if," he thought with anguish, "if i were a prisoner in germany! come, come! one effort, it's only the first mouthful!" and with a superhuman effort, he swallowed. "look at me!" he cried to the three germans, "look at me! i--i--i'm going to be sick!" and putting down his plate, he rose and staggered forward. "joe," he said in a dying voice, "feed these poor men, feed them; make them drink; feed them!" and rushing headlong to the edge of the grove, he returned what he had swallowed--to the great interest of brink. then, waving away the approach of joe, and consumed with shame and remorse at his lack of heroism, he ran and hid himself in a clump of hazel bushes, trying to slink into the earth. "no," he thought; "no; i am not for public life. i have failed at the first test. was ever so squeamish an exhibition? i have betrayed my country and the honour of public life. these germans are now full of beer and pigeon-pie. what am i but a poltroon, unworthy to lace the shoes of the great leaders of my land? the sun has witnessed my disgrace." how long he stayed there lying on his face he did not know before he heard the voice of joe saying, "wot oh, sir!" "joe," replied mr. lavender faintly, "my body is here, but my spirit has departed." "ah!" said joe, "a rum upset--that there. swig this down, sir!" and he held out to his master, a flask-cup filled with brandy. mr. lavender swallowed it. "have they gone?" he said, gasping. "they 'ave, sir," replied joe, "and not 'alf full neither. where did you pick 'em up?" "in a gravel-pit," said mr. lavender. "i can never forgive myself for this betrayal of my king and country. i have fed three germans. leave me, for i am not fit to mingle with my fellows." "well, i don't think," said joe. "germans?" gazing up into his face mr. lavender read the unmistakable signs of uncontrolled surprise. "why do you look at me like that?" he said. "germans?" repeated joe; "what germans? three blighters workin' on the road, as english as you or me. wot are you talkin' about, sir?" "what!" cried mr. lavender do you tell me they were not germans?" "well, their names was tompkins, 'obson, and brown, and they 'adn't an 'aitch in their 'eads." "god be praised!" said mr. lavender. "i am, then, still an english gentleman. joe, i am very hungry; is there nothing left?" "nothin' whatever, sir," replied joe. "then take me home," said mr. lavender; "i care not, for my spirit has come back to me." so saying, he rose, and supported by joe, made his way towards the car, praising god in his heart that he had not disgraced his country. ix converses with a conscientious objector "yes," said mr. lavender, when they had proceeded some twenty miles along the road for home, "my hunger is excessive. if we come across an hotel, joe, pull up." "right-o, sir," returned joe. "'otels, ain't what they were, but we'll find something. i've got your coupons." mr. lavender, who was seated beside his chauffeur on the driving-seat, while blink occupied in solitude the body of the car, was silent for a minute, revolving a philosophic thought. "do you find," he said suddenly, "that compulsory sacrifice is doing you good, joe?" "it's good for my thirst, sir," replied joe. "never was so powerful thirsty in me life as i've been since they watered beer. there's just 'enough in it to tickle you. that bottle o' bass you would 'ave 'ad at lunch is the last of the old stock at 'ome, sir; an' the sight of it fair gave me the wind up. to think those blighters 'ad it! wish i'd known they was germans--i wouldn't 'ave weakened on it." "do not, i beg," said mr. lavender, "remind me of that episode. i sometimes think," he went on as dreamily as his hunger would permit, "that being forced to deprive oneself awakens one's worst passions; that is, of course, speaking rather as a man than a public man. what do you think will happen, joe, when we are no longer obliged to sacrifice ourselves? "do wot we've been doin all along--sacrifice someone else," said joe lightly. "be serious, joe," said mr. lavender. "well," returned joe, "i don't know what'll 'appen to you, sir, but i shall go on the bust permanent." mr. lavender sighed. "i do so wonder whether i shall, too," he said. joe looked round at him, and a gleam of compassion twinkled in his greenish eyes. "don't you worry, sir," he said; "it's a question of constitootion. a week'd sew you up." "a week!" said mr. lavender with watering lips, "i trust i may not forget myself so long as that. public men do not go 'on the bust,' joe, as you put it." "be careful, sir! i can't drive with one eye." "how can they, indeed?" went on mr. lavender; "they are like athletes, ever in training for their unending conflict with the national life." "well," answered joe indulgently, "they 'as their own kind of intoxication, too--that's true; and the fumes is permanent; they're gassed all the time, and chloroformed the rest. "i don't know to what you allude, joe," said mr. lavender severely. "'aven't you never noticed, sir, that there's two worlds--the world as it is, and the world as it seems to the public man?" "that may be," said mr. lavender with some excitement. "but which is the greater, which is the nobler, joe? and what does the other matter? surely that which flourishes in great minds, and by their utterances is made plain. is it not better to live in a world where nobody shrinks from being starved or killed so long as they can die for their kings and countries, rather than in a world where people merely wish to live?" "ah!" said joe, "we're all ready to die for our countries if we've got to. but we don't look on it, like the public speakers, as a picnic. they're a bit too light-'earted." "joe," said mr. lavender, covering his ears, and instantly uncovering them again, "this is the most horrible blasphemy i have ever listened to." "i can do better than that, sir," answered joe. "shall i get on with it?" "yes," said mr. lavender, clenching his hands, "a public man shrinks from nothing--not even from the gibes of his enemies." "well, wot abaht it, sir? look at the things they say, and at what really is. mind you, i'm not speakin' particular of the public men in this country--or any other country; i'm speakin' of the lot of 'em in every country. they're a sort of secret society, brought up on gas. and every now and then someone sets a match to it, and we get it in the neck. look 'ere, sir. dahn squats one on his backside an' writes something in 'igh words. up pops another and says something in 'igher; an' so they go on poppin' up an' squattin' dahn till you get an atmosphere where you can't breathe; and all the time all we want is to be let alone, and 'uman kindness do the rest. all these fellers 'ave got two weaknesses--one's ideas, and the other's their own importance. they've got to be conspicuous, and without ideas they can't, so it's a vicious circle. when i see a man bein' conspicuous, i says to meself: 'gawd 'elp us, we shall want it!' and sooner or later we always do. i'll tell you what's the curse of the world, sir; it's the gift of expressin' what ain't your real feeling. and--lord! what a lot of us 'ave got it!" "joe," said mr. lavender, whose eyes were almost starting from his head, "your words are the knell of poetry, philosophy, and prose--especially of prose. they are the grave of history, which, as you know, is made up of the wars and intrigues which have originated in the brains of public men. if your sordid views were true, how do you suppose for one minute that in this great epic struggle we could be consoled by the thought that we are 'making history'? has there been a single utterance of any note which has not poured the balm of those words into our ears? think how they have sustained the widow and the orphan, and the wounded lying out in agony under the stars. 'to make history,' 'to act out the great drama' --that thought, ever kept before us, has been our comfort and their stay. and you would take it from us? shame--shame!" repeated mr. lavender. you would destroy all glamour, and be the death of every principle." "give me facts," said joe stubbornly, "an' you may 'ave my principles. as to the other thing, i don't know what it is, but you may 'ave it, too. and 'ere's another thing, sir: haven't you never noticed that when a public man blows off and says something, it does 'im in? no matter what 'appens afterwards, he's got to stick to it or look a fool." "i certainly have not," said mr. lavender. i have never, or very seldom, noticed that narrowness in public men, nor have i ever seen them 'looking fools' as you rudely put it." "where are your eyes, sir?" answered joe; "where are your eyes? i give you my word it's one or the other, though i admit they've brought camouflage to an 'igh art. but, speaking soberly, sir, if that's possible, public men are a good thing' and you can 'ave too much of it. but you began it, sir," he added soothingly, "and 'ere's your hotel. you'll feel better with something inside you." so saying, he brought the car to a standstill before a sign which bore the words, "royal goat." mr. lavender, deep sunk in the whirlpool of feeling which had been stirred in him by his chauffeur's cynicism, gazed at the square redbrick building with bewildered eyes. "it's quite o. k.," said joe; "i used to call here regular when i was travellin' in breeches. where the commercials are gathered together the tap is good," he added, laying a finger against the side of his nose. "and they've a fine brand of pickles. here's your coupon." thus encouraged, mr. lavender descended from the car, and, accompanied by blink, entered the hotel and sought the coffee-room. a maid of robust and comely appearance, with a fine free eye, divested him of his overcoat and the coupon, and pointed to a table and a pale and intellectual-looking young man in spectacles who was eating. "have you any more beef?" said the latter without looking up. "no, sir," replied the maid. "then bring me the ham and eggs," he added. "here's another coupon--and anything else you've got." mr. lavender, whose pangs had leaped in him at the word "beef," gazed at the bare bone of the beef-joint, and sighed. "i, too, will have some ham and a couple of poached eggs," he said. "you can have ham, sir," replied the maid, "but there are only eggs enough for one." "and i am the one," said the young man, looking up for the first time. mr. lavender at once conceived an aversion from him; his appearance was unhealthy, and his eyes ravened from behind the spectacles beneath his high forehead. "i have no wish to deprive you of your eggs, sir," he said, "though i have had nothing to eat all day." "i have had nothing to eat to speak of for six months," replied the young man, "and in a fortnight's time i shall have nothing to eat again for two years." mr. lavender, who habitually spoke, the truth, looked at him with a sort of horror. but the young man had again concentrated his attention on his plate. "how deceptive are appearances," thought mr. lavender; "one would say an intellectual, not to say a spiritual type, and yet he eats like a savage, and lies like a trooper!" and the pinchings of his hunger again attacking him, he said rather acidly: may i ask you, sir, whether you consider it amusing to tell such untruths to a stranger? the young man, who had finished what was on his plate, paused, and with a faint smile said: "i spoke figuratively. you, sir, i expect, have never been in prison." at the word 'prison' mr. lavender's natural kindliness reasserted itself at once. "forgive me," he said gently; "please eat all the ham. i can easily do with bread and cheese. i am extremely sorry you have had that misfortune, and would on no account do anything which might encourage you to incur it again. if it is a question of money or anything of that sort," he went on timidly, "please command me. i abhor prisons; i consider them inhuman; people should only be confined upon their honours." the young man's eyes kindled behind his spectacles. "i have been confined," he said, "not upon my honour, but because of my honour; to break it in." "how is that?" cried mr. lavender, aghast, "to break it in?" "yes," said the young man, cutting a large slice of bread, "there's no other way of putting it with truth. they want me to go back on my word to go back on my faith, and i won't. in a fortnight's time they'll gaol me again, so i must eat--excuse me. i shall want all my strength." and he filled his mouth too full to go on speaking. mr. lavender stared at him, greatly perturbed. "how unjustly i judged him," he thought; and seeing that the maid had placed the end of a ham before him he began carving off what little there was left on it, and, filling a plate, placed it before the young man. the latter thanked him, and without looking up ate rapidly on. mr. lavender watched him with beaming eyes. "it's lovely to see him!" he thought; "poor fellow!" "where are the eggs?" said the young man suddenly. mr. lavender got up and rang the bell. "please bring those eggs for him," he said. "yes, sir," said the maid. "and what are you going to have? there's nothing in the house now." "oh!" said mr. lavender, startled. "a cup of coffee and a slice of bread, thank you. i can always eat at any time." the maid went away muttering to herself, and bringing the eggs, plumped them down before the young man, who ate them more hastily than words could tell. "i mean," he said, "to do all i can in this fort-night to build up my strength. i shall eat almost continuously. they shall never break me." and, reaching out, he took the remainder of the loaf. mr. lavender watched it disappear with a certain irritation which he subdued at once. "how selfish of me," he thought, "even to think of eating while this young hero is still hungry." "are you, then," he said, "the victim of some religious or political plot?" "both," replied the young man, leaning back with a sigh of repletion, and wiping his mouth. "i was released to-day, and, as i said, i shall be court-martialled again to-day fortnight. it'll be two years this time. but they can't break me." mr. lavender gasped, for at the word "courtmartialled" a dreadful doubt had assailed him. "are you," he stammered--"you are not--you cannot be a conscientious objector?" "i can," said the young man. mr. lavender half rose in horror. "i don't approve," he ejaculated; "i do not approve of you." "of course not," said the young man with a little smile at once proud and sad, "who does? if you did i shouldn't have to eat like this, nor should i have the consciousness of spiritual loneliness to sustain me. you look on me as a moral outcast, as a leper. that is my comfort and my strength. for though i have a genuine abhorrence of war, i know full well that i could not stick this if it were not for the feeling that i must not and will not lower myself to the level of mere opportunists like you, and sink myself in the herd of men in the street." at hearing himself thus described mr. lavender flushed. "i yield to no one," he said, "in my admiration of principle. it is because of my principles that i regard you as a----" "shirker," put in the young man calmly. "go on; don't mince words; we're used to them." "yes," said mr. lavender, kindling, "a shirker. excuse me! a renegade from the camp of liberty, a deserter from the ranks of humanity, if you will pardon me." "say a christian, and have done with it," said the young man. "no," said mr. lavender, who had risen to his feet, "i will not go so far as that. you are not a christian, you are a pharisee. i abhor you." "and i abhor you," said the young man suddenly. "i am a christian socialist, but i refuse to consider you my brother. and i can tell you this: some day when through our struggle the triumph of christian socialism and of peace is assured, we shall see that you firebrands and jingoes get no chance to put up your noxious heads and disturb the brotherhood of the world. we shall stamp you out. we shall do you in. we who believe in love will take jolly good care that you apostles of hate get all we've had and more--if you provoke us enough that is." he stopped, for mr. lavender's figure had rigidified on the other side of the table into the semblance of one who is about to address the house of lords. "i can find here," he cried, "no analogy with religious persecution. this is a simple matter. the burden of defending his country falls equally on every citizen. i know not, and i care not, what promises were made to you, or in what spirit the laws of compulsory service were passed. you will either serve or go to prison till you do. i am a plain englishman, expressing the view of my plain countrymen." the young man, tilting back in his chair, rapped on the table with the handle of his dinner-knife. "hear, hear!" he murmured. "and let me tell you this," continued mr. lavender, "you have no right to put a mouthful of food between your lips so long as you are not prepared to die for it. and if the huns came here tomorrow i would not lift a finger to save you from the fate you would undoubtedly receive." during this colloquy their voices had grown so loud that the maid, entering in dismay, had gone into the bar and informed the company that a conscientious objector had eaten all the food and was "carrying on outrageous" in the coffee-room. on hearing this report those who were assembled--being four commercial travellers far gone in liquor--taking up the weapons which came nearest to hand--to wit, four syphons--formed themselves two deep and marched into the coffee-room. aware at once from mr. lavender's white hair and words that he was not the objector in question, they advanced upon the young man, who was still seated, and taking up the four points of the compass, began squirting him unmercifully with soda-water. blinded and dripping, the unfortunate young fellow tried desperately to elude the cordon of his persecutors, only to receive a fresh stream in his face at each attempt. seeing him thus tormented, amid the coarse laughter of these half-drunken "travellers," mr. lavender suffered a moment of the most poignant struggle between his principles and his chivalry. then, almost unconsciously grasping the ham-bone, he advanced and called out loudly: "stop! do not persecute that young man. you are four and he is one. drop it, i tell you--huns that you are!" the commercial fellows, however, laughed; and this infuriating mr. lavender, he dealt one of them a blow with the ham-bone, which, lighting on the funny point of his elbow, caused him to howl and spin round the room. one of the others promptly avenged him with a squirt of syphon in mr. lavender's left eye; whereon he incontinently attacked them all, whirling the ham-bone round his head like a shillelagh. and had it not been that blink and the maid seized his coat-tails he would have done them severe injury. it was at this moment that joe petty, attracted by the hullabaloo, arrived in the doorway, and running up to his master, lifted him from behind and carried him from the room, still brandishing the ham-bone and kicking out with his legs. dumping him into the car, joe mounted hastily and drove off. mr. lavender sat for two or three minutes coming to his senses before full realization of what he had done dawned on him. then, flinging the ham-bone from him, he sank back among the cushions, with his chin buried on his chest. "what have i done?" he thought over and over again. "what have i done? taken up the bone for a conscientious objector--defended a renegade against great odds! my god! i am indeed less than a public man!" and in this state of utter dejection, inanition, and collapse, with blink asleep on his feet, he was driven back to hampstead. x dreams a dream and sees a vision though habitually abstemious, mr. lavender was so very hungry that evening when he sat down to supper that he was unable to leave the lobster which mrs. petty had provided until it was reduced to mere integument. since his principles prevented his lightening it with anything but ginger-beer he went to bed in some discomfort, and, tired out with the emotions of the day, soon fell into a heavy slumber, which at dawn became troubled by a dream of an extremely vivid character. he fancied himself, indeed, dressed in khaki, with a breastplate composed of newspapers containing reports of speeches which he had been charged to deliver to soldiers at the front. he was passing in a winged tank along those scenes of desolation of which he had so often read in his daily papers, and which his swollen fancy now coloured even more vividly than had those striking phrases of the past, when presently the tank turned a somersault, and shot him out into a morass lighted up by countless star-shells whizzing round and above. in this morass were hundreds and thousands of figures sunk like himself up to the waist, and waving their arms above their heads. "these," thought mr. lavender, "must be the soldiers i have come to speak to," and he tore a sheet off his breastplate; but before he could speak from its columns it became thin air in his hand; and he went on tearing off sheet after sheet, hoping to find a speech which would stay solid long enough for him to deliver it. at last a little corner stayed substantial in his hand, and he called out in a loud voice: "heroes!" but at the word the figures vanished with a wail, sinking into the mud, which was left covered with bubbles iridescent in the light of the star-shells. at this moment one of these, bursting over his head, turned into a large bright moon; and mr. lavender saw to his amazement that the bubbles were really butterflies, perched on the liquid moonlit mud, fluttering their crimson wings, and peering up at him with tiny human faces. "who are you?" he cried; "oh! who are you?" the butterflies closed their wings; and on each of their little faces came a look so sad and questioning that mr. lavender's tears rolled down into his breastplate of speeches. a whisper rose from them. "we are the dead." and they flew up suddenly in swarms, and beat his face with their wings. mr. lavender woke up sitting in the middle of the floor, with light shining in on him through a hole in the curtain, and blink licking off the tears which were streaming down his face. "blink," he said, "i have had a horrible dream." and still conscious of that weight on his chest, as of many undelivered speeches, he was afraid to go back to bed; so, putting on some clothes, he went carefully downstairs and out of doors into the morning. he walked with his dog towards the risen sun, alone in the silvery light of hampstead, meditating deeply on his dream. "i have evidently," he thought, "not yet acquired that felicitous insensibility which is needful for successful public speaking. this is undoubtedly the secret of my dream. for the sub-conscious knowledge of my deficiency explains the weight on my chest and the futile tearing of sheet after sheet, which vanished as i tore them away. i lack the self-complacency necessary to the orator in any surroundings, and that golden certainty which has enchanted me in the outpourings of great men, whether in ink or speech. this is, however, a matter which i can rectify with practice." and coming to a little may-tree in full blossom, he thus addressed it: "little tree, be my audience, for i see in you, tipped with the sunlight, a vision of the tranquil and beautiful world, which, according to every authority, will emerge out of this carnival of blood and iron." and the little tree lifted up its voice and answered him with the song of a blackbird. mr. lavender's heart, deeply responsive to the voice of nature, melted within him. "what are the realms of this earth, the dreams of statesmen, and all plots and policies," he said, "compared with the beauty of this little tree? she--or is it a he?--breathes, in her wild and simple dress, just to be lovely and loved. he harbours the blackbird, and shakes fragrance into the morning; and with her blossom catches the rain and the sun drops of heaven. i see in him the witchery of god; and of her prettiness would i make a song of redemption." so saying he knelt down before the little tree, while blink on her haunches, very quiet beside him, looked wiser than many dogs. a familiar gurgling sound roused him from his devotions, and turning his head he saw his young neighbour in the garb of a nurse, standing on the path behind him. "she has dropped from heaven," he thought for all nurses are angels. and, taking off his hat, he said: "you surprised me at a moment of which i am not ashamed; i was communing with beauty. and behold! aurora is with me." "say, rather, borealis," said the young lady. "i was so fed-up with hospital that i had to have a scamper before turning in. if you're going home we might go together?" "it would, indeed, be a joy," said mr. lavender. "the garb of mercy becomes you." "do you think so?" replied the young lady, in whose cheeks a lovely flush had not deepened. "i call it hideous. do you always come out and pray to that tree?" "i am ashamed to say," returned mr. lavender, "that i do not. but i intend to do so in future, since it has brought me such a vision." and he looked with such deferential and shining eyes at his companion that she placed the back of her hand before her mouth, and her breast rose. "i'm most fearfully sleepy," she said. "have you had any adventures lately--you and samjoe? "samjoe?" repeated mr. lavender. "your chauffeur--i call him that. he's very like sam weller and sancho panza, don't you think, don pickwixote? "ah!" said mr. lavender, bewildered; "joe, you mean. a good fellow. he has in him the sort of heroism which i admire more than any other." "which is that?" asked the young lady. "that imperturbable humour in the face of adverse circumstances for which our soldiers are renowned." "you are a great believer in heroics, don pickwixote," said the young lady. "what would life be without them?" returned mr. lavender. "the war could not go on for a minute." "you're right there," said the young lady bitterly. "you surely," said mr. lavender, aghast, cannot wish it to stop until we have destroyed our common enemies?" "well," said the young lady, "i'm not a pacifist; but when you see as many people without arms and legs as i do, heroics get a bit off, don't you know." and she increased her pace until mr. lavender, who was not within four inches of her stature, was almost compelled to trot. "if i were a tommy," she added, "i should want to shoot every man who uttered a phrase. really, at this time of day, they are the limit." "aurora," said mr. lavender, "if you will permit me, who am old enough --alas!--to be your father, to call you that, you must surely be aware that phrases are the very munitions of war, and certainly not less important than mere material explosives. take the word 'liberty,' for instance; would you deprive us of it?" the young lady fixed on him those large grey eyes which had in them the roll of genius. "dear don pickwixote," she said, "i would merely take it from the mouths of those who don't know what it means; and how much do you think would be left? not enough to butter the parsnips of a borough council, or fill one leader in a month of sundays. have you not discovered, don pickwixote, that liberty means the special form of tyranny which one happens to serve under; and that our form of tyranny is gas." "high heaven!" cried mr. lavender, "that i should hear such words from so red lips!" "i've not been a pacifist, so far," continued the young lady, stifling a yawn, "because i hate cruelty, i hate it enough to want to be cruel to it. i want the huns to lap their own sauce. i don't want to be revengeful, but i just can't help it." "my dear young lady," said mr. lavender soothingly, "you are not--you cannot be revengeful; for every great writer and speaker tells us that revengefulness is an emotion alien to the allies, who are merely just. "rats!" at this familiar word, blink who had been following their conversation quietly, threw up her nose and licked the young lady's hand so unexpectedly that she started and added: "darling!" mr. lavender, who took the expression as meant for himself, coloured furiously. "aurora," he said in a faint voice, "the rapture in my heart prevents my taking advantage of your sweet words. forgive me, and let us go quietly in, with the vision i have seen, for i know my place." the young lady's composure seemed to tremble in the balance, and her lips twitched; then holding out her hand she took mr. lavender's and gave it a good squeeze. "you really are a dear," she said. "i think you ought to be in bed. my name's isabel, you know." "not to me," said mr. lavender. you are the dawn; nothing shall persuade me to the contrary. and from henceforth i swear to rise with you every morning." "oh, no!" cried the young lady please don't imagine that i sniff the matutinal as a rule. i just happened to be in a night shift." "no matter," said mr. lavender; "i shall see you with the eye of faith, in your night shifts, and draw from the vision strength to continue my public work beckoned by the fingers of the roseate future." "well," murmured the young lady, "so long for now; and do go back to bed. it's only about five." and waving the tips of those fingers, she ran lightly up the garden-path and disappeared into her house. mr. lavender remained for a moment as if transfigured; then entering his garden, he stood gazing up at her window, until the thought that she might appear there was too much for him, and he went in. xi breaks up a peace meeting while seated at breakfast on the morning after he had seen this vision, mr. lavender, who read his papers as though they had been holy writ, came on an announcement that a meeting would be held that evening at a chapel in holloway under the auspices of the "free speakers' league," an association which his journals had often branded with a reputation, for desiring peace. on reading the names of the speakers mr. lavender felt at once that it would be his duty to attend. "there will," he thought, "very likely be no one there to register a protest. for in this country we have pushed the doctrine of free speech to a limit which threatens the noble virtue of patriotism. this is no doubt a recrudescence of that terrible horse-sense in the british people which used to permit everybody to have his say, no matter what he said. yet i would rather stay at home," he mused "for they will do me violence, i expect; cowardice, however, would not become me, and i must go." he was in a state of flurry all day, thinking of his unpleasant duty towards those violent persons, and garbishing up his memory by reading such past leaders in his five journals as bore on the subject. he spoke no word of his intentions, convinced that he ran a considerable risk at the hands of the pacifists, but too sensible of his honour to assist anyone to put that spoke in his wheel which he could not help longing for. at six o'clock he locked blink into his study, and arming himself with three leaders, set forth on his perilous adventure. seven o'clock saw him hurrying along the dismal road to the chapel, at whose door he met with an unexpected check. "where is your ticket?" said a large man. "i have none," replied mr. lavender, disconcerted; "for this is a meeting of the free speakers' league, and it is for that reason that i have come." the large man looked at him attentively. "no admittance without ticket," he said. "i protest," said mr. lavender. "how can you call yourselves by that name and not let me in?" the large man smiled. "well, he said, you haven't the strength of--of a rabbit--in you go!" mr. lavender found himself inside and some indignation. the meeting had begun, and a tall man at the pulpit end, with the face of a sorrowful bull, was addressing an audience composed almost entirely of women and old men, while his confederates sat behind him trying to look as if they were not present. at the end of a row, about half-way up the chapel, mr. lavender composed himself to listen, thinking, "however eager i may be to fulfil my duty and break up this meeting, it behoves me as a fair-minded man to ascertain first what manner of meeting it is that i am breaking up." but as the speaker progressed, in periods punctuated by applause from what, by his experience at the door, mr. lavender knew to be a packed audience, he grew more and more uneasy. it cannot be said that he took in what the speaker was saying, obsessed as he was by the necessity of formulating a reply, and of revolving, to the exclusion of all else, the flowers and phrases of the leaders which during the day he had almost learned by heart. but by nature polite he waited till the orator was sitting down before he rose, and, with the three leaders firmly grasped in his hand, walked deliberately up to the seated speakers. turning his back on them, he said, in a voice to which nervousness and emotion lent shrillness: "ladies and gentlemen, it is now your turn, in accordance with the tradition of your society, to listen to me. let us not mince matters with mealy mouths. there are in our midst certain viperous persons, like that notorious gentleman who had the sulphurous impudence to have a french father--french! gentlemen; not german, ladies-mark the cunning and audacity of the fellow; like that renegade labour leader, who has never led anything, yet, if he had his will, would lead us all into the pit of destruction; like those other high-brow emasculates who mistake their pettifogging pedantry for pearls of price, and plaster the plain issue before us with perfidious and pacifistic platitudes. we say at once, and let them note it, we will have none of them; we will have----" here his words were drowned by an interruption greater even than that; which was fast gathering among the row of speakers behind him, and the surprised audience in front; and he could see the large man being forced from the door and up the aisle by a posse of noisy youths, till he stood with arms pinioned, struggling to turn round, just in front of mr. lavender. seeing his speech thus endangered, the latter cried out at the top of his voice: "free speech, gentlemen, free speech; i have come here expressly to see that we have nothing of the sort." at this the young men, who now filled the aisle, raised a mighty booing. "gentlemen," shouted mr. lavender, waving his leaders, "gentlemen---" but at this moment the large man was hurled into contact with what served mr. lavender for stomach, and the two fell in confusion. an uproar ensued of which mr. lavender was more than vaguely conscious, for many feet went over him. he managed, however, to creep into a corner, and, getting up, surveyed the scene. the young men who had invaded the meeting, much superior in numbers and strength to the speakers, to the large man, and the three or four other able-bodied persons who had rallied to them from among the audience, were taking every advantage of their superiority; and it went to mr. lavender's heart to see how they thumped and maltreated their opponents. the sight of their brutality, indeed, rendered him so furious that, forgetting all his principles and his purpose in coming to the meeting, he climbed on to a form, and folding his arms tightly on his breast, called out at the top of his voice: "cads! do not thus take advantage of your numbers. cads!" having thus defended what in his calmer moments he would have known to be the wrong, he awaited his own fate calmly. but in the hubbub his words had passed unnoticed. "it is in moments like these," he thought, "that the great speaker asserts his supremacy, quells the storm, and secures himself a hearing." and he began to rack his brains to remember how they did it. "it must require the voice of an ox," he thought, "and the skin of an alligator. alas! how deficient i am in public qualities!" but his self-depreciation was here cut off with the electric light. at this sheer intervention of providence mr. lavender, listening to the disentangling sounds which rose in the black room, became aware that he had a chance such as he had not yet had of being heard. "stay, my friends!" he said; "here in darkness we can see better the true proportions of this great question of free speech. there are some who contend that in a democracy every opinion should be heard; that, just because the good sense of the majority will ever lead the country into the right paths, the minority should be accorded full and fair expression, for they cannot deflect the country's course, and because such expression acts as a healthful safety-valve. moreover, they say there is no way of preventing the minority from speaking save that of force, which is unworthy of a majority, and the negation of what we are fighting for in this war. but i say, following the great leader-writers, that in a time of national danger nobody ought to say anything except what is in accord with the opinions of the majority; for only in this way can we present a front which will seem to be united to our common enemies. i say, and since i am the majority i must be in the right, that no one who disagrees with me must say anything if we are to save the cause of freedom and humanity. i deprecate violence, but i am thoroughly determined to stand no nonsense, and shall not hesitate to suppress by every means in the power of the majority--including, if need be, prussian measures--any whisper from those misguided and unpatriotic persons whose so-called principles induce them to assert their right to have opinions of their own. this has ever been a free country, and they shall not imperil its freedom by their volubility and self-conceit." here mr. lavender paused for breath, and in the darkness a faint noise, as of a mouse scrattling at a wainscot, attracted his attention. "wonderful," he thought, elated by the silence, "that i should so have succeeded in riveting their attention as to be able to hear a mouse gnawing. i must have made a considerable impression." and, fearing to spoil it by further speech, he set to work to grope his way round the chapel wall in the hope of coming to the door. he had gone but a little way when his outstretched hand came into contact with something warm, which shrank away with a squeal. "oh!" cried mr. lavender, while a shiver went down his spine, "what is that?" "me," said a stifled voice. "who are you?" "a public speaker, madam," answered mr. lavender, unutterably relieved. don't be alarmed. "ouch!" whispered the voice. that madman! "i assure you, madam," replied mr. lavender, striving to regain contact, "i wouldn't harm you for the world. can you tell me in what portion of the hall we are?" and crouching down he stretched out his arms and felt about him. no answer came; but he could tell that he was between two rows of chairs, and, holding to the top of one, he began to sidle along, crouching, so as not to lose touch with the chairs behind him. he had not proceeded the length of six chairs in the pitchy darkness when the light was suddenly turned up, and he found himself glaring over the backs of the chairs in front into the eyes of a young woman, who was crouching and glaring back over the same chairs. "dear me," said mr. lavender, as with a certain dignity they both rose to their full height, "i had no conception----" without a word, the young woman put her hand up to her back hair, sidled swiftly down the row of chairs, ran down the aisle, and vanished. there was no one else in the chapel. mr. lavender, after surveying the considerable wreckage, made his way to the door and passed out into the night. "like a dream," he thought; "but i have done my duty, for no meeting was ever more completely broken up. with a clear conscience and a good appetite i can how go home." xii speeds up transport, and sees a doctor greatly cheered by his success at the peace meeting, mr. lavender searched his papers next morning to find a new field for his activities; nor had he to read far before he came on this paragraph: "everything is dependent on transport, and we cannot sufficiently urge that this should be speeded up by every means in our power." "how true!" he thought. and, finishing his breakfast hastily, he went out with blink to think over what he could do to help. "i can exhort," he mused, "anyone engaged in transport who is not exerting himself to the utmost. it will not be pleasant to do so, for it will certainly provoke much ill-feeling. i must not, however, be deterred by that, for it is the daily concomitant of public life, and hard words break no bones, as they say, but rather serve to thicken the skins and sharpen the tongues of us public men, so that, we are able to meet our opponents with their own weapons. i perceive before me, indeed, a liberal education in just those public qualities wherein i am conscious of being as yet deficient." and his heart sank within him, thinking of the carts on the hills of hampstead and the boys who drove them. "what is lacking to them," he mused, "is the power of seeing this problem steadily and seeing it whole. let me endeavour to impart this habit to all who have any connection with transport." he had just completed this reflection when, turning a corner, he came on a large van standing stockstill at the top of an incline. the driver was leaning idly against the hind wheel filling a pipe. mr. lavender glanced at the near horse, and seeing that he was not distressed, he thus addressed the man: "do you not know, my friend, that every minute is of importance in this national crisis? if i could get you to see the question of transport steadily, and to see it whole, i feel convinced that you would not be standing there lighting your pipe when perhaps this half-hour's delay in the delivery of your goods may mean the death of one of your comrades at the front." the man, who was wizened, weathered, and old, with but few teeth, looked up at him from above the curved hands with which he was coaxing the flame of a match into the bowl of his pipe. his brow was wrinkled, and moisture stood at the comers of his eyes. "i assure you," went on mr. lavender, "that we have none of us the right in these days to delay for a single minute the delivery of anything--not even of speeches. when i am tempted to do so, i think of our sons and brothers in the trenches, and how every shell and every word saves their lives, and i deliver----" the old man, who had finished lighting his pipe, took a long pull at it, and said hoarsely: "go on!" "i will," said mr. lavender, "for i perceive that i can effect a revolution in your outlook, so that instead of wasting the country's time by leaning against that wheel you will drive on zealously and help to win the war." the old man looked at him, and one side of his face became drawn up in a smile, which seemed to mr. lavender so horrible that he said: "why do you look at me like that?" "cawn't 'elp it," said the man. "what makes you," continued mr. lavender, "pause here with your job half finished? it is not the hill which keeps you back, for you are at the top, and your horses seem rested." "yes," said the old man, with another contortion of his face, "they're rested--leastways, one of 'em." "then what delays you--if not that british sluggishness which we in public life find such a terrible handicap to our efforts in conducting the war?" "ah!" said the old man. "but out of one you don't make two, guv'nor. git on the offside and you'll see it a bit steadier and a bit 'oler than you 'ave 'itherto." struck by his words, which were accompanied by a painful puckering of the checks, mr. lavender moved round the van looking for some defect in its machinery, and suddenly became aware that the off horse was lying on the ground, with the traces cut. it lay on its side, and did not move. "oh!" cried mr. lavender; "oh!" and going up to the horse's head he knelt down. the animal's eye was glazing. "oh!" he cried again, "poor horse! don't die!" and tears dropped out of his eyes on to the horse's cheek. the eye seemed to give him a look, and became quite glazed. "dead!" said mr lavender in an awed whisper. "this is horrible! what a thin horse--nothing but bones!" and his gaze haunted the ridge and furrow of the horse's carcase, while the living horse looked round and down at its dead fellow, from whose hollow face a ragged forelock drooped in the dust. "i must go and apologize to that old man," said mr. lavender aloud, "for no doubt he is even more distressed than i am." "not 'e, guv'nor," said a voice, and looking beside him he saw the aged driver standing beside him; "not 'e; for of all the crool jobs i ever 'ad--drivin' that 'orse these last three months 'as been the croolest. there 'e lies and 'es aht of it; and that's where they'd all like to be. speed, done 'im in, savin' 'is country's 'time an' 'is country's oats; that done 'im in. a good old 'orse, a willin' old 'orse, 'as broke 'is 'eart tryin' to do 'is bit on 'alf rations. there 'e lies; and i'm glad 'e does." and with the back of his hand the old fellow removed some brown moisture which was trembling on his jaw. mr. lavender rose from his knees. "dreadful!--monstrous!" he cried; "poor horse! who is responsible for this?" "why," said the old driver, "the gents as sees it steady and sees it 'ole from one side o' the van, same as you." so smitten to the heart was mr. lavender by those words that he covered his ears with his hands and almost ran from the scene, nor did he stop till he had reached the shelter of his study, and was sitting in his arm-chair with blink upon his feet. "i will buy a go-cart," he thought, "blink and i will pull our weight and save the poor horses. we can at least deliver our own milk and vegetables." he had not been sitting there for half-an-hour revolving the painful complexities of national life before the voice of mrs. petty recalled him from that sad reverie. "dr. gobang to see you, sir." at sight of the doctor who had attended him for alcoholic poisoning mr. lavender experienced one or those vaguely disagreeable sensations which follow on half-realized insults. "good-morning, sir," said the doctor; thought i'd just look in and make my mind easy about you. that was a nasty attack. do you still feel your back?" "no," said mr. lavender rather coldly, while blink growled. "nor your head?" "i have never felt my head," replied mr. lavender, still more coldly. "i seem to remember----" began the doctor. "doctor," said mr. lavender with dignity, "surely you know that public men--do not feel--their heads--it would not do. they sometimes suffer from their throats, but otherwise they have perfect health, fortunately." the doctor smiled. "well, what do you think of the war?" he asked chattily. "be quiet, blink," said mr. lavender. then, in a far-away voice, he added: "whatever the clouds which have gathered above our heads for the moment, and whatever the blows which fate may have in store for us, we shall not relax our efforts till we have attained our aims and hurled our enemies back. nor shall we stop there," he went on, warming at his own words. "it is but a weak-kneed patriotism which would be content with securing the objects for which we began to fight. we shall not hesitate to sacrifice the last of our men, the last of our money, in the sacred task of achieving the complete ruin of the fiendish power which has brought this great calamity on the world. even if our enemies surrender we will fight on till we have dictated terms on the doorsteps of potsdam." the doctor, who, since mr. lavender began to speak, had been looking at him with strange intensity, dropped his eyes. "quite so," he said heartily, "quite so. well, good-morning. i only just ran in!" and leaving mr. lavender to the exultation he was evidently feeling, this singular visitor went out and closed the door. outside the garden-gate he rejoined the nephew sinkin. "well?" asked the latter. "sane as you or me," said the doctor. "a little pedantic in his way of expressing himself, but quite all there, really." "did his dog bite you?" muttered the nephew. "no," said the doctor absently. "i wish to heaven everyone held his views. so long. i must be getting on." and they parted. but mr. lavender, after pacing the room six times, had sat down again in his chair, with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, such as other men feel on mornings after a debauch. xiii addresses some soldiers on their future on pleasant afternoons mr. lavender would often take his seat on one of the benches which adorned the spaniard's road to enjoy the beams of the sun and the towers of the city confused in smoky distance. and strolling forth with blink on the afternoon of the day on which the doctor had come to see him he sat down to read a periodical, which enjoined on everyone the necessity of taking the utmost interest in soldiers disabled by the war. "yes," he thought, "it is indeed our duty to force them, no matter what their disablements, to continue and surpass the heroism they displayed out there, and become superior to what they once were." and it seemed to him a distinct dispensation of providence when the rest of his bench was suddenly occupied by three soldiers in the blue garments and red ties of hospital life. they had been sitting there for some minutes, divided by the iron bars necessary to the morals of the neighbourhood, while mr. lavender cudgelled his brains for an easy and natural method of approach, before blink supplied the necessary avenue by taking her stand before a soldier and looking up into his eye. "lord!" said the one thus accosted, "what a fyce! look at her moustache! well, cocky, 'oo are you starin' at?" "my dog," said mr. lavender, perceiving his chance, "has an eye for the strange and beautiful. "wow said the soldier, whose face was bandaged, she'll get it 'ere, won't she?" encouraged by the smiles of the soldier and his comrades, mr. lavender went on in the most natural voice he could assume. "i'm sure you appreciate, my friends, the enormous importance of your own futures?" the three soldiers, whose faces were all bandaged, looked as surprised as they could between them, and did not answer. mr. lavender went on, dropping unconsciously into the diction of the article he had been reading: "we are now at the turning-point of the ways, and not a moment is to be lost in impressing on the disabled man the paramount necessity of becoming again the captain of his soul. he who was a hero in the field must again lead us in those qualities of enterprise and endurance which have made him the admiration of the world." the three soldiers had turned what was visible of their faces towards mr. lavender, and, seeing that he had riveted their attention, he proceeded: "the apathy which hospital produces, together with the present scarcity of labour, is largely responsible for the dangerous position in which the disabled man now finds himself. only we who have not to face his future can appreciate what that future is likely to be if he does not make the most strenuous efforts to overcome it. boys," he added earnestly, remembering suddenly that this was the word which those who had the personal touch ever employed, "are you making those efforts? are you equipping your minds? are you taking advantage of your enforced leisure to place yourselves upon some path of life in which you can largely hold your own against all comers?" he paused for a reply. the soldiers, silent for a moment, in what seemed to mr. lavender to be sheer astonishment, began to fidget; then the one next him turned to his neighbour, and said: "are we, alf? are we doin' what the gentleman says?" "i can answer that for you," returned mr. lavender brightly; "for i can tell by your hospitalized faces that you are living in the present; a habit which, according to our best writers, is peculiar to the british. i assure you," he went on with a winning look, "there is no future in that. if you do not at once begin to carve fresh niches for yourselves in the temple of industrialism you will be engulfed by the returning flood, and left high and dry upon the beach of fortune." during these last few words the half of an irritated look on the faces of the soldiers changed to fragments of an indulgent and protective expression. "right you are, guv'nor," said the one in the middle. don't you worry, we'll see you home all right. "it is you," said mr. lavender, "that i must see home. for that is largely the duty of us who have not had the great privilege of fighting for our country." these words, which completed the soldiers' conviction that mr. lavender was not quite all there, caused them to rise. "come on, then," said one; we'll see each other home. we've got to be in by five. you don't have a string to your dog, i see." "oh no!" said mr. lavender puzzled "i am not blind." "balmy," said the soldier soothingly. "come on, sir, an' we can talk abaht it on the way." mr. lavender, delighted at the impression he had made, rose and walked beside them, taking insensibly the direction for home. "what do you advise us to do, then, guv'nor?" said one of the soldiers. "throw away all thought of the present," returned mr. lavender, with intense earnestness; "forget the past entirely, wrap yourselves wholly in the future. do nothing which will give you immediate satisfaction. do not consider your families, or any of those transient considerations such as pleasure, your homes, your condition of health, or your economic position; but place yourselves unreservedly in the hands of those who by hard thinking on this subject are alone in the condition to appreciate the individual circumstances of each of you. for only by becoming a flock of sheep can you be conducted into those new pastures where the grass of your future will be sweet and plentiful. above all, continue to be the heroes which you were under the spur of your country's call, for you must remember that your country is still calling you." "that's right," said the soldier on mr. lavender's left. "puss, puss! does your dog swot cats?" at so irrelevant a remark mr. lavender looked suspiciously from left to right, but what there was of the soldiers' faces told him nothing. "which is your hospital?" he asked. "down the 'ill, on the right," returned the soldier. "which is yours?" "alas! it is not in a hospital that i----" "i know," said the soldier delicately, "don't give it a name; no need. we're all friends 'ere. do you get out much?" "i always take an afternoon stroll," said mr. lavender, "when my public life permits. if you think your comrades would like me to come and lecture to them on their future i should be only too happy." "d'you 'ear, alf?" said the soldier. "d'you think they would?" the soldier, addressed put a finger to the sound side of his mouth and uttered a catcall. "i might effect a radical change in their views," continued mr. lavender, a little puzzled. "let me leave you this periodical. read it, and you will see how extremely vital all that i have been saying is. and then, perhaps, if you would send me a round robin, such as is usual in a democratic country, i could pop over almost any day after five. i sometimes feel"--and here mr. lavender stopped in the middle of the road, overcome by sudden emotion--"that i have really no right to be alive when i see what you have suffered for me." "that's all right, old bean,", said the soldier on his left; "you'd 'a done the same for us but for your disabilities. we don't grudge it you." "boys," said mr. lavender, "you are men. i cannot tell you how much i admire and love you." "well, give it a rest, then; t'ain't good for yer. and, look 'ere! any time they don't treat you fair in there, tip us the wink, and we'll come over and do in your 'ousekeeper." mr. lavender smiled. "my poor housekeeper!" he said. "i thank you all the same for your charming goodwill. this is where i live," he added, stopping at the gate of the little house smothered in lilac and laburnum. "can i offer you some tea?" the three soldiers looked at each other, and mr. lavender, noticing their surprise, attributed it to the word tea. "i regret exceedingly that i am a total abstainer," he said. the remark, completing the soldiers' judgment of his case, increased their surprise at the nature of his residence; it remained unanswered, save by a shuffling of the feet. mr. lavender took off his hat. "i consider it a great privilege," he said, "to have been allowed to converse with you. goodbye, and god bless you!" so saying, he opened the gate and entered his little garden carrying his hat in his hand, and followed by blink. the soldiers watched him disappear within, then continued on their way down the hill in silence. "blimy," said one suddenly, "some of these old civilians 'ave come it balmy on the crumpet since the war began. give me the trenches!" xiv endeavours to intern a german aglow with satisfaction at what he had been able to do for the wounded soldiers, mr. lavender sat down in his study to drink the tea which he found there. "there is nothing in life," he thought, "which gives one such satisfaction as friendliness and being able to do something for others. moon-cat!" the moon-cat, who, since mr. lavender had given her milk, abode in his castle, awaiting her confinement, purred loudly, regarding him with burning eyes, as was her fashion when she wanted milk, mr. lavender put down the saucer and continued his meditations. "everything is vain; the world is full of ghosts and shadows; but in friendliness and the purring of a little cat there is solidity." "a lady has called, sir." looking up, mr. lavender became aware of mrs. petty. "how very agreeable! "i don't know, sir," returned his housekeeper in her decisive voice; "but she wants to see you. name of pullbody." "pullbody," repeated mr. lavender dreamily; "i don't seem----ask her in, mrs. petty, ask her in." "it's on your head, sir," said mrs. petty, and went out. mr. lavender was immediately conscious of a presence in dark green silk, with a long upper lip, a loose lower lip, and a fixed and faintly raddled air, moving stealthily towards him. "sit down, madam, i beg. will you have some tea?" the lady sat down. "thank you, i have had tea. it was on the recommendation of your next-door neighbour, miss isabel scarlet----" "indeed," replied mr. lavender, whose heart began to beat; "command me, for i am entirely at her service." "i have come to see you," began the lady with a peculiar sinuous smile, "as a public man and a patriot." mr. lavender bowed, and the lady went on: i am in very great trouble. the fact is, my sister's husband's sister is married to a german." "is it possible, madam?" murmured mr. lavender, crossing his knees, and joining the tips of his fingers. "yes," resumed the lady, "and what's more, he is still at large." mr. lavender, into whose mind there had instantly rushed a flood of public utterances, stood gazing at her haggard face in silent sympathy. "you may imagine my distress, sir, and the condition of my conscience," pursued the lady, "when i tell you that my sister's husband's sister is a very old friend of mine--and, indeed, so was this german. the two are a very attached young couple, and, being childless, are quite wrapped up in each other. i have come to you, feeling it my duty to secure his internment." mr. lavender, moved by the human element in her words, was about to say, "but why, madam?" when the lady continued: "i have not myself precisely heard him speak well of his country. but the sister of a friend of mine who was having tea in their house distinctly heard him say that there were two sides to every question, and that he could not believe all that was said in the english papers. "dear me!" said mr. lavender, troubled; "that is serious." "yes," went on the lady; "and on another occasion my sister's husband himself heard him remark that a man could not help loving his country and hoping that it would win." "but that is natural," began mr. lavender. "what!" said the lady, nearly rising, "when that country is germany?" the word revived mr. lavender's sense of proportion. "true," he said, "true. i was forgetting for the moment. it is extraordinary how irresponsible one's thoughts are sometimes. have you reason to suppose that he is dangerous?" "i should have thought that what i have said might have convinced you," replied the lady reproachfully; "but i don't wish you to act without satisfying yourself. it is not as if you knew him, of course. i have easily been able to get up an agitation among his friends, but i should not expect an outsider--so i thought if i gave you his address you could form your own opinion." "yes," murmured mr. lavender, "yes. it is in the last degree undesirable that any man of german origin should remain free to work possible harm to our country. there is no question in this of hatred or of mere rabid patriotism," he went on, in a voice growing more and more far-away; it is largely the a. b. c. of common prudence." "i ought to say," interrupted his visitor, "that we all thought him, of course, an honourable man until this war, or we should not have been his friends. he is a dentist," she added, "and, i suppose, may be said to be doing useful work, which makes it difficult. i suggest that you go to him to have a tooth out." mr. lavender quivered, and insensibly felt his teeth. "thank you," he said i will see if i can find one. it is certainly a matter which cannot be left to chance. we public men, madam, often have to do very hard and even inhumane things for no apparent reason. our consciences alone support us. an impression, i am told, sometimes gets abroad that we yield to clamour. those alone who know us realize how unfounded that aspersion is." "this is his address," said the lady, rising, and handing him an envelope. "i shall not feel at rest until he is safely interned. you will not mention my name, of course. it is tragic to be obliged to work against one's friends in the dark. your young neighbour spoke in enthusiastic terms of your zeal, and i am sure that in choosing you for my public man she was not pulling--er--was not making a mistake." mr. lavender bowed. "i hope not, madam, he said humbly i try to do my duty." the lady smiled her sinuous smile and moved towards the door, leaving on the air a faint odour of vinegar and sandalwood. when she was gone mr. lavender sat down on the edge of his chair before the tea-tray and extracted his teeth while blink, taking them for a bone, gazed at them lustrously, and the moon-cat between his feet purred from repletion. "there is reason in all things," he thought, running his finger over what was left in his mouth, "but not in patriotism, for that would prevent us from consummating the destruction of our common enemies. it behoves us public men ever to set an extreme example. which one can i spare, i wonder?" and he fixed upon a large rambling tooth on the left wing of his lower jaw. "it will hurt horribly, i'm afraid; and if i have an anaesthetic there will be someone else present; and not improbably i shall feel ill afterwards, and be unable to form a clear judgment. i must steel myself. blink!" for blink was making tremulous advances to the teeth. "how pleasant to be a dog!" thought mr. lavender, "and know nothing of germans and teeth. i shall be very unhappy till this is out; but aurora recommended me, and i must not complain, but rather consider myself the most fortunate of public men." and, ruffling his hair till it stood up all over his head, while his loose eyebrow worked up and down, he gazed at the moon-cat. "moon-cat," he said suddenly, "we are but creatures of chance, unable to tell from one day to another what fate has in store for us. my tooth is beginning to ache already. that is, perhaps, as it should be, for i shall not forget which one it is." so musing he resumed his teeth; and, going to his bookcase, sought fortitude and inspiration in the records of a parliamentary debate on enemy aliens. it was not without considerable trepidation, however, on the following afternoon that he made his way up welkin street, and rang at the number on the envelope in his hand. "yes sir, doctor is at home," said the maid. mr. lavender's heart was about to fail him when, conjuring up the vision of aurora, he said in a faint voice: "i wish to see him professionally." and, while the maid departed up the stairs, he waited in the narrow hall, alternately taking his hat off and putting it on again, so great was his spiritual confusion. "doctor will see you at once, sir." putting his hat on hastily, mr. lavender followed her upstairs, feeling at his tooth to make quite sure that he remembered which it was. his courage mounted as he came nearer to his fate, and he marched into the room behind the maid holding his hat on firmly with one hand and his tooth in firmly with the other. there, beside a red velvet dentist's chair, he saw a youngish man dressed in a white coat, with round eyes and a domestic face, who said in good english: "what can i do for you, my dear sir? i fear you are in bain." "in great pain," replied mr. lavender faintly, "in great pain." and, indeed, he was; for the nervous crisis from which he was suffering had settled in the tooth, on which he still pressed a finger through his cheek. "sit down, sir, sit down," said the young man, "and perhaps it would be better if you should remove your hat. we shall not hurd you--no, no, we shall not hurd you." at those words, which seemed to cast doubt on his courage, mr. lavender recovered all his presence of mind. he took off his hat, advanced resolutely to the chair, sat down in it, and, looking up, said: "do to me what you will; i shall not flinch, nor depart in any way from the behaviour of those whose duty it is to set an example to others." so saying, he removed his teeth, and placing them in a bowl on the little swinging table which he perceived on his left hand, he closed his eyes, put his finger in his mouth, and articulated: "'ith one." "excuse me, sir," said the young german, "but do you wish a dooth oud?" "'at ish my deshire," said mr. lavender, keeping his finger on his tooth, and his eyes closed. "'at one." "i cannot give you gas without my anaesthedist." "i dow," said mr. lavender; "be wick." and, feeling the little cold spy-glass begin to touch his gums, he clenched his hands and thought: "this is the moment to prove that i, too, can die for a good cause. if i am not man enough to bear for my country so small a woe i can never again look aurora in the face." the voice of the young dentist dragged him rudely from the depth of his resignation. "excuse me, but which dooth did you say?" mr. lavender again inserted his finger, and opened his eyes. the dentist shook his head. "imbossible," he said; "that dooth is perfectly sound. the other two are rotten. but they do not ache?" mr. lavender shook his head and repeated: "at one." "you are my first client this week, sir," said the young german calmly, "but i cannot that dooth dake out." at those words mr. lavender experienced a sensation as if his soul were creeping back up his legs; he spoke as it reached his stomach. "noc?" he said. "no," replied the young german. it is nod the dooth which causes you the bain. mr. lavender, suddenly conscious that he had no pain, took his finger out. "sir," he said, "i perceive that you are an honourable man. there is something sublime in your abnegation if, indeed, you have had no other client this week. "no fear," said the young german. "haf i, cicely?" mr. lavender became conscious for the first time of a young woman leaning up against the wall, with a pair of tweezers in her hand. "take it out, otto," she said in a low voice, "if he wants it." "no no," said mr. lavender sharply, resuming his teeth; "i would not for the world burden your conscience." "my clients are all batriots," said the young dentist, "and my bractice is kaput. we are in a bad way, sir," he added, with a smile, "but we try to do the correct ting." mr. lavender saw the young woman move the tweezers in a manner which caused his blood to run a little cold. "we must live," he heard her say. "young madam," he said, "i honour the impulse which makes you desire to extend your husband's practice. indeed, i perceive you both to be so honourable that i cannot but make you a confession. my tooth is indeed sound, though, since i have been pretending that it isn't, it has caused me much discomfort. i came here largely to form an opinion of your husband's character, with a view to securing his internment." at that word the two young people shrank together till they were standing side by side, staring at mr lavender with eyes full of anxiety and wonder. their hands, which still held the implements of dentistry, insensibly sought each other. "be under no apprehension," cried mr. lavender, much moved; "i can see that you are greatly attached, and even though your husband is a german, he is still a man, and i could never bring myself to separate him from you." "who are you?" said the young woman in a frightened voice, putting her arm round her husband's waist. "just a public man," answered mr. lavender. "i came here from a sense of duty; nothing more, assure you." "who put you up to it?" "that," said mr. lavender, bowing as best he could from the angle he was in, "i am not at liberty to disclose. but, believe me, you have nothing to fear from this visit; i shall never do anything to distress a woman. and please charge me as if the tooth had been extracted." the young german smiled, and shook his head. "sir," he said, "i am grateful to you for coming, for it shows us what danger we are in. the hardest ting to bear has been the uncertainty of our bosition, and the feeling that our friends were working behind our backs. now we know that this is so we shall vordify our souls to bear the worst. but, tell me," he went on, "when you came here, surely you must have subbosed that to tear me away from my wife would be very bainful to her and to myself. you say now you never could do that, how was it, then, you came?" "ah, sir!" cried mr. lavender, running his hands through his hair and staring at the ceiling, "i feared this might seem inconsistent to your logical german mind. but there are many things we public men would never do if we could see them being done. fortunately, as a rule we cannot. believe me, when i leave you i shall do my best to save you from a fate which i perceive to be unnecessary." so saying, he rose from the chair, and, picking up his hat, backed towards the door. "i will not offer you my hand," he said, "for i am acutely conscious that my position is neither dignified nor decent. i owe you a tooth that i shall not readily forget. good-bye!" xv. and backing through the doorway he made his way down the stairs and out into the street, still emotionalized by the picture of the two young people holding each other by the waist. he had not, however, gone far before reason resumed its sway, and he began to see that the red velvet chair in which he had been sitting was in reality a wireless apparatus reaching to berlin, or at least concealed a charge of dynamite to blow up some king or prime minister; and that the looking-glasses, of which he had noticed two at least, were surely used for signalling to gothas or zeppelins. this plunged him into a confusion so poignant that, rather by accident than design, he found himself again at hampstead instead of at scotland yard. "in the society of aurora alone," he thought, "can i free myself from the goadings of conscience, for it was she who sent me on that errand." and, instead of going in, he took up a position on his lawn whence he could attract her attention by waving his arms. he had been doing this for some time, to the delight of blink, who thought it a new game, before he saw her in her nurse's dress coming out of a french-window with her yellow book in her hand. redoubling his efforts till he had arrested her attention, he went up to the privet hedge, and said, in a deep and melancholy voice: "aurora, i have failed in my duty, and the errand on which you sent me is unfulfilled. mrs. pullbody's sister's husband's sister's husband is still, largely speaking, at large." "i knew he would be," replied the young lady, with her joyous smile, "that's why i put her on to you--the cat!" at a loss to understand her meaning, mr. lavender, who had bent forward above the hedge in his eagerness to explain, lost his balance, and, endeavouring to save the hedge, fell over into some geranium pots. "dear don pickwixote," cried the young lady, assisting him to rise, "have you hurt your nose?" "it is not that," said mr. lavender, removing some mould from his hair, and stifling the attentions of blink; "but rather my honour, for i have allowed my duty to my country to be overridden by the common emotion of pity." "hurrah!" cried the young lady. "it'll do you ever so much good." "aurora!" cried mr. lavender aghast, walking at her side. but the young lady only uttered her enchanting laugh. "come and lie down in the hammock!" she said you're looking like a ghost. i'll cover you up with a rug, and smoke a cigarette to keep the midges off you. tuck up your legs; that's right!" "no!" said mr. lavender from the recesses of the hammock, feeling his nose, "let the bidges bide me. i deserve they should devour me alive. "all right," said the young lady. "but have a nap, anyway!" and sitting down in a low chair, she opened her book and lit a cigarette. mr. lavender remained silent, watching her with the eyes of an acolyte, and wondering whether he was in his senses to have alighted on so rare a fortune. nor was it long before he fell into a hypnotic doze. how long mr. lavender had been asleep he could not of course tell before he dreamed that he was caught in a net, the meshes of which were formed of the cries of newspaper boys announcing atrocities by land and sea. he awoke looking into the eyes of aurora, who, to still his struggles, had taken hold of his ankles. "my goodness! you are thin!" were the first words he heard. "no wonder you're lightheaded." mr. lavender, whose returning chivalry struggled with unconscious delight, murmured with difficulty: "let me go, let me go; it is too heavenly! "well, have you finished kicking?" asked the young lady. "yes," returned mr. lavender in a fainting voice----"alas!" the young lady let go of his ankles, and, aiding him to rise from the hammock, said: "i know what's the matter with you now--you're starving yourself. you ought to be kept on your back for three months at least, and fed on butter." mr. lavender, soothing the feelings of blink, who, at his struggles, had begun to pant deeply, answered with watering lips: "everyone in these days must do twice as much as he ought, and i eat half, for only in this way can we compass the defeat of our common enemies." the young lady's answer, which sounded like "bosh!" was lost in mr. lavender's admiration of her magnificent proportions as she bent to pick up her yellow book. "aurora," he said, "i know not what secret you share with the goddesses; suffer me to go in and give thanks for this hour spent in your company." and he was about to recross the privet hedge when she caught him by the coat-tag, saying: "no, don pickwixote, you must dine with us. i want you to meet my father. come along!" and, linking her arm in his, she led him towards her castle. mr. lavender, who had indeed no, option but to obey, such was the vigour of her arm, went with a sense of joy not unmingled with consternation lest the personage she spoke of should have viewed him in the recent extravagance of his dreaming moments. "i don't believe," said the young lady, gazing down at him, "that you weigh an ounce more than seven stone. it's appalling! "not," returned mr. lavender, "by physical weight and force shall we win this war, for it is at bottom a question of morale. right is, ever victorious in the end, and though we have infinitely greater material resources than our foes, we should still triumph were we reduced to the last ounce, because of the inherent nobility of our cause." "you'll be reduced to the last ounce if we don't feed, you up somehow," said the young lady. "would you like to wash your hands?" mr. lavender having signified his assent, she left him alone in a place covered with linoleum. when, at length, followed by blink, he emerged from dreamy ablutions, mr. lavender, saw that she had changed her dress to a flowing blue garment of diaphanous character, which made her appear, like an emanation of the sky. he was about to say so when he noticed a gentleman in khaki scrutinizing him with lively eyes slightly injected with blood. "don pickwixote," said the young lady; "my father, major scarlet." mr. lavender's hand was grasped by one which seemed to him made of iron. "i am honoured, sir," he said painfully, "to meet the father of my charming young neighbour." the major answered in a voice as clipped as his grey bottle-brush moustache, "delighted! dinner's ready. come along!" mr. lavender saw that he had a mouth which seemed to have a bitt in it; several hairs on a finely rounded head; and an air of efficient and truculent bonhomie tanned and wrinkled by the weather. the table at which they became seated seemed to one accustomed to frugality to groan with flowers and china and glass; and mr. lavender had hardly supped his rich and steaming soup before his fancy took fire; nor did he notice that he was drinking from a green glass in which was a yellow fluid. "i get army rations," said the major, holding a morsel of fillet of beef towards blink. "nice dog, mr. lavender." "yes," replied mr. lavender, ever delighted that his favourite should receive attention, "she is an angel." "too light," said the major, "and a bit too narrow in front; but a nice dog. what's your view of the war?" before mr. lavender could reply he felt aurora's foot pressing his, and heard her say: "don pickwixote's views are after your own heart, dad; he's for the complete destruction of the hun." "indeed, yes," cried mr. lavender with shining eyes. "right and justice demand it. we seek to gain nothing!" "but we'll take all we can get," said the major. "they'll never get their colonies back. we'll stick to them fast enough." mr. lavender stared at him for a moment, then, remembering what he had so often read, he murmured: "aggrandizement is not our object; but we can never forget that so long as any territory remains in the hands of our treacherous foe the arteries of our far-flung empire are menaced at the roots." "right-o," said the major, "we've got the chance of our lives, and we're going to take it." mr. lavender sat forward a little on his chair. "i shall never admit," he said, "that we are going to take anything, for that would be contrary to the principles which we are pledged to support, and to our avowed intention of seeking only the benefit of the human race; but our inhuman foes have compelled us to deprive them of the power to injure others." "yes," said the major, "we must just go on killing germans and collaring every bit of their property we can." mr. lavender sat a little further forward on his chair, and the trouble in his eyes grew. "after all's said and done," continued the major; "it's a simple war--us or them! and in the long run it's bound to be us. we've got the cards." mr. lavender started, and said in a weak and wavering voice: "we shall never sheathe the sword until----" "the whole bag of tricks is in our hands. might isn't right, but right's might, mr. lavender; ha, ha!" mr. lavender's eyes lighted on his glass, and he emptied it in his confusion. when he looked up again he could not see the major very well, but could distinctly hear the truculent bonhomie of his voice. "every german ought to be interned; all their property ought to be confiscated; all their submarines' and zeppelins' crews ought to be hung; all german prisoners ought to be treated as they treat our men. we ought to give 'em no quarter. we ought to bomb their towns out of existence. i draw the line at their women. short of that there's nothing too bad for them. i'd treat 'em like rabbits. vermin they were, and vermin they remain." during this speech the most astounding experience befell mr. lavender, so that his eyes nearly started from his head. it seemed to him, indeed, that he was seated at dinner with a prussian, and the major's voice had no sooner ceased its genial rasping than with a bound forward on his chair, he ejaculated: "behold the man--the prussian in his jack-boot!" and, utterly oblivious of the fact that he was addressing aurora's father, he went on with almost terrible incoherence: "although you have conquered this country, sir, never shall you subdue in my breast the sentiments of liberty and generosity which make me an englishman. i abhor you--invader of the world--trampler underfoot of the humanities--enemy of mankind--apostle of force! you have blown out the sparks of love and kindliness, and have for ever robbed the universe. prussian!" the emphasis with which he spoke that word caused his chair, on the edge of which he was sitting, to tilt up under him so that he slid under the table, losing the vision of that figure in helmet and field-grey which he had been apostrophizing. "hold up!" said a voice, while blink joined him nervously beneath the board. "never!" cried mr. lavender. "imprison, maltreat me do what you will. you have subdued her body, but never will i admit that you have conquered the honour of britain and trodden her gentle culture into the mud." and, convinced that he would now be dragged away to be confined in some dungeon on bread and water, he clasped the leg of the dining-table with all his might, while blink, sagaciously aware that something peculiar was occurring to her master, licked the back of his neck. he had been sitting there perhaps half a minute, with his ears stretched to catch the half-whispered sounds above, when he saw a shining object appear under the table, the head, indeed, of the prussian squatting there to look at him. "go up, thou bald-head," he called out at once; "i will make no terms with the destroyer of justice and humanity." "all right, my dear sir," replied the head. "will you let my daughter speak to you?" "prussian blasphemer," responded mr. lavender, shifting his position so as to be further away, and clasping instead of the table leg some soft silken objects, which he was too excited to associate with aurora, "you have no daughter, for no woman would own one whose hated presence poisons this country." "well, well," said the major. "how shall we get him out?" hearing these words, and believing them addressed to a prussian guard, mr. lavender clung closer to the objects, but finding them wriggle in his clasp let go, and, bolting forward like a rabbit on his hands and knees, came into contact with the major's head. the sound of the concussion, the major's oaths, mr. lavender's moans, blink's barking, and the peals of laughter from aurora made up a noise which might have been heard in portugal. the situation was not eased until mr. lavender crawled out, and taking up a dinner-knife, rolled his napkin round his arm, and prepared to defend himself against the german army. "well, i'm damned," said the major when he saw these preparations; "i am damned." aurora, who had been leaning against the wall from laughter, here came forward, gasping: "go away, dad, and leave him to me." "to you!" cried the major. "he's not safe!" "oh yes, he is; it's only you that are exciting him. come along!" and taking her father by the arm she conducted him from the room. closing the door behind him, and putting her back against it, she said, gently: "dear don pickwixote, all danger is past. the enemy has been repulsed, and we are alone in safety. ha, ha, ha!" her voice recalled. mr. lavender from his strange hallucination. "what?" he said weakly. "why? who? where? when?" "you have been dreaming again. let me take you home, and tuck you into bed." and taking from him the knife and napkin, she opened the french-window, and passed out on to the lawn. lavender, who now that his reason had come back, would have followed her to the death, passed out also, accompanied by blink, and watched by the major, who had put his head in again at the door. unfortunately, the spirit moved mr. lavender to turn round at this moment, and seeing the head he cried out in a loud voice: "he is there! he is there! arch enemy of mankind! let me go and die under his jackboot, for never over my living body shall he rule this land." and the infatuated gentleman would certainly have rushed at his host had not aurora stayed him by the slack of his nether garments. the major withdrawing his head, mr. lavender's excitement again passed from him, and he suffered himself to be led dazedly away and committed to the charge of mrs. petty and joe, who did not leave him till he was in bed with a strong bromide to keep him company. xvi fights the fight of faith the strenuous experiences through which mr. lavender had passed resulted in what joe petty called "a fair knock-out," and he was forced to spend three days in the seclusion of his bed, deprived of his newspapers. he instructed mrs. petty, however, on no account to destroy or mislay any journal, but to keep them in a pile in his study. this she did, for though her first impulse was to light the kitchen fire with the five of them every morning, deliberate reflection convinced her that twenty journals read at one sitting would produce on him a more soporific effect than if he came down to a mere five. mr. lavender passed his three days, therefore, in perfect repose, feeding blink, staring at the ceiling, and conversing with joe. an uneasy sense that he had been lacking in restraint caused his mind to dwell on life as seen by the monthly rather than the daily papers, and to hold with his chauffeur discussions of a somewhat philosophical character. "as regards the government of this country, joe," he said, on the last evening of his retirement, "who do you consider really rules? for it is largely on this that our future must depend." "can't say, sir," answered joe, "unless it's botty." "i do not know whom or what you signify by that word," replied mr. lavender; "i am wondering if it is the people who rule." "the people!" replied joe; "the people's like a gent in a lunatic asylum, allowed to 'ave instinks but not to express 'em. one day it'll get aht, and we shall all step lively." "it is, perhaps, public opinion," continued mr. lavender to himself, "as expressed in the press." "not it," said joe the nearest opinion the press gets to expressin' is that of mayors. 'ave you never noticed, sir, that when the press is 'ard up for support of an opinion that the public don't 'old, they go to the mayors, and get 'em in two columns?" "mayors are most valuable public men," said mr. lavender. "i've nothin' against 'em," replied joe; "very average lot in their walk of life; but they ain't the people." mr. lavender sighed. "what, then, is the people, joe?" "i am," replied joe; "i've got no opinions on anything except that i want to live a quiet life--just enough beer and 'baccy, short hours, and no worry." "'if you compare that with the aspirations of mayors you will see how sordid such a standard is," said mr. lavender, gravely. "sordid it may be, sir," replied joe; "but there's, a thing abaht it you 'aven't noticed. i don't want to sacrifice nobody to satisfy my aspirations. why? because i've got none. that's priceless. take the press, take parlyment, take mayors--all mad on aspirations. now it's free trade, now it's imperialism; now it's liberty in europe; now it's slavery in ireland; now it's sacrifice of the last man an' the last dollar. you never can tell what aspiration'll get 'em next. and the 'ole point of an aspiration is the sacrifice of someone else. don't you make a mistake, sir. i defy you to make a public speech which 'asn't got that at the bottom of it." "we are wandering from the point, joe," returned mr. lavender. "who is it that governs, the country?" "a unseen power," replied joe promptly. "how?" "well, sir, we're a democratic country, ain't we? parlyment's elected by the people, and gover'ment's elected by parlyment. all right so far; but what 'appens? gover'ment says 'i'm going to do this.' so long as it meets with the approval of the unseen power, well an' good. but what if it don't? the u.p. gets busy; in an 'undred papers there begins to appear what the u.p. calls public opinion, that's to say the opinion of the people that agree with the u.p. there you 'ave it, sir, only them --and it appears strong. attacks on the gover'ment policy, nasty things said abaht members of it that's indiscreet enough to speak aht what, they think--german fathers, and other secret vices; an' what's more than all, not a peep at any opinion that supports the gover'ment. well, that goes on day after day, playin' on the mind of parlyment, if they've got any, and gittin' on the gover'ment's nerves, which they've got weak, till they says: 'look 'ere, it's no go; public opinion won't stand it. we shall be outed; and that'll never do, because there's no other set of fellows that can save this country.' then they 'ave a meetin' and change their policy. and what they've never seen is that they've never seen public opinion at all. all they've seen is what the u.p. let 'em. now if i was the gover'ment, i'd 'ave it out once for all with the u. p." "ah!" cried mr. lavender, whose eyes were starting from his, head, so profoundly was he agitated by what was to him a new thought. "yes," continued joe, "if i was the gover'ment, next time it 'appened, i'd say: 'all right, old cock, do your damnedest. i ain't responsible to you. attack, suppress, and all the rest of it. we're goin' to do what we say, all the same!' and then i'd do it. and what'd come of it? either the u.p. would go beyond the limits of the law--and then i'd jump on it, suppress its papers, and clap it into quod--or it'd take it lyin' down. whichever 'appened it'd be all up with the u. p. i'd a broke its chain off my neck for good. but i ain't the gover'ment, an gover'ment's got tender feet. i ask you, sir, wot's the good of havin' a constitooshion, and a the bother of electing these fellows, if they can't act according to their judgment for the short term of their natural lives? the u.p. may be patriotic and estimable, and 'ave the best intentions and all that, but its outside the constitooshion; and what's more, i'm not goin' to spend my last blood an' my last money in a democratic country to suit the tastes of any single man, or triumpherate, or wotever it may be made of. if the government's uncertain wot the country wants they can always ask it in the proper way, but they never ought to take it on 'earsay from the papers. that's wot i think." while he was speaking mr. lavender had become excited to the point of fever, for, without intending it, joe had laid bare to him a yawning chasm between his worship of public men and his devotion to the press. and no sooner had his chauffeur finished than he cried: "leave me, joe, for i must think this out." "right, sir," answered joe with his smile, and taking the tea-tray from off his master, he set it where it must infallibly be knocked over, and went out. "can it be possible," thought mr. lavender, when he was alone, "that i am serving god and mammon? and which is god and which is mammon?" he added, letting his thoughts play over the countless speeches and leading articles which had formed his spiritual diet since the war began. "or, indeed, are they not both god or both mammon? if what joe says is true, and nothing is recorded save what seems good to this unseen power, have i not been listening to ghosts and shadows; and am i, indeed, myself anything but the unsubstantial image of a public man? for it is true that i have no knowledge of anything save what is recorded in the papers." and perceiving that the very basis of his faith was endangered, he threw off the bedclothes, and began to pace the room. "are we, then, all," he thought, "being bounded like india-rubber balls by an unseen hand; and is there no one of us strong enough to bounce into the eye of our bounder and overthrow him? my god, i am unhappy; for it is a terrible thing not to know which my god is, and whether i am a public man or an india-rubber ball." and the more he thought the more dreadful it seemed to him, now that he perceived that all those journals, pamphlets, and reports with which his study walls were lined might not be the truth, but merely authorized versions of it. "this," he said aloud, "is a nightmare from which i must awaken or lose all my power of action and my ability to help my country in its peril." and sudden sweat broke out on his brow, for he perceived that he had now no means of telling even whether there was a peril, so strangely had joe's words affected his powers of credulity. "but surely," he thought, steadying himself by gripping his washstand, "there was, at least, a peril once. and yet, how do i know even that, for i have only been told so; and the tellers themselves were only told so by this unseen power; and suppose it has made a mistake or has some private ends to serve! oh! it is terrible, and there is no end to it." and he shook the crockery in the spasms which followed the first awakenings of these religious doubts. "where, then, am i to go," he cried, "for knowledge of the truth? for even books would seem dependent on the good opinion of this unseen power, and would not reach my eyes unless they were well spoken of by it." and the more he thought the more it seemed to him that nothing could help him but to look into the eyes of this unseen power, so that he might see for himself whether it was the angel of truth or some demon jumping on the earth. no sooner had this conviction entered his brain than he perceived how in carrying out such an enterprise he would not only be setting his own mind at rest, and re-establishing or abolishing his faith, but would be doing the greatest service which he could render to his country and to all public men. "thus," he thought, "shall i cannonize my tourney, and serve aurora, who is the dawn of truth and beauty in the world. i am not yet worthy, however, of this adventure, which will, indeed, be far more arduous and distressing to accomplish than any which i have yet undertaken. what can i do to brighten and equip my mind and divest it of all those prejudices in which it may unconsciously have become steeped? if i could leave the earth a short space and commune with the clouds it might be best. i will go to hendon and see if someone will take me up for a consideration; for on earth i can no longer be sure of anything." and having rounded off his purpose with this lofty design, he went back to bed with his head lighter than a puff-ball. xvii addresses the clouds on the morning following his resurrection mr. lavender set out very early for the celebrated flying ground without speaking of his intention to anyone. at the bottom of the hill he found to his annoyance that blink had divined his purpose and was following. this, which compelled him to walk, greatly delayed his arrival. but chance now favoured him, for he found he was expected, and at once conducted to a machine which was about to rise. a taciturn young man, with a long jaw, and wings on his breast, was standing there gazing at it with an introspective eye. "ready, sir?" he said. "yes," replied mr. lavender, enveloped to the eyes in a garment of fur and leather. "will you kindly hold my dog?" he added, stroking blink with the feeling that he was parting for ever with all that was most dear to him. an attendant having taken hold of her by the collar, mr. lavender was heaved into the machine, where the young airman was already seated in front of him. "shall i feel sick?" asked mr. lavender. "probably," said the young airman. "that will not deter me, for the less material i become the better it will be." the young airman turned his head, and mr. lavender caught the surprised yellow of his eye. "hold on," said the airman, "i'm going to touch her off." mr. lavender held on, and the machine moved but at this moment blink, uttering a dismal howl, leapt forward, and, breaking from the attendant's grasp, landed in the machine against mr. lavender's chest. "stop! stop he cried!" my dog. "stuff her down," said the unmoved airman, "between your legs. she's not the first to go up and won't be the last to come down." mr. lavender stuffed her down as best he could. "if we are to be killed," he thought, "it will be together. blink!" the faithful creature, who bitterly regretted her position now that the motion had begun, looked up with a darkened eye at mr. lavender, who was stopping his ears against the horrible noises which had now begun. he too, had become aware of the pit of his stomach; but this sensation soon passed away in the excitement he felt at getting away from the earth, for they were already at the height of a house, and rising rapidly. "it is not at all like a little bird," he thought, "but rather resembles a slow train on the surface of the sea, or a horse on a switchback merry-go-round. i feel, however, that my spirit will soon be free, for the earth is becoming like a board whereon a game is played by an unseen hand, and i am leaving it." and craning his head out a little too far he felt his chin knock against his spine. drawing it in with difficulty he concentrated his attention upon that purification of his spirit which was the object of his journey. "i am now," he thought, "in the transcendent ether. it should give me an amazing power of expression such as only the greatest writers and orators attain; and, divorced as i am rapidly becoming from all sordid reality, truth will appear to me like one of those stars towards which i am undoubtedly flying though i cannot as yet see it." blink, who between his legs had hitherto been unconscious of their departure from the earth, now squirmed irresistibly up till her forepaws were on her master's chest, and gazed lugubriously at the fearful prospect. mr. lavender clasped her convulsively. they were by now rapidly nearing a flock of heavenly sheep, which as they approached became ever more gigantic till they were transformed into monstrous snow-fleeces intersected by wide drifts of blue. "can it be that we are to adventure above them?" thought mr. lavender. "i hope not, for they seem to me fearful." his alarm was soon appeased, for the machine began to take a level course a thousand feet, perhaps, below the clouds, whence little wraiths wandering out now and again dimmed mr. lavender's vision and moistened his brow. blink having retired again between her master's legs, a sense of security and exaltation was succeeding to the natural trepidation of mr. lavender's mood. "i am now," he thought, "lifted above all petty plots and passions on the wings of the morning. soon will great thoughts begin to jostle in my head, and i shall see the truth of all things made clear at last." but the thoughts did not jostle, a curious lethargy began stealing over him instead, so that his head fell back, and his mouth fell open. this might have endured until he returned to earth had not the airman stopped the engines so that they drifted ruminantly in space below the clouds. with the cessation of the noise mr. lavender's brain regained its activity, and he was enchanted to hear the voice of his pilot saying: "how are you getting on, sir?" "as regards the sensation," mr. lavender replied, "it is marvellous, for after the first minute or two, during which the unwonted motion causes a certain inconvenience, one grasps at once the exhilaration and joy of this great adventure. to be in motion towards the spheres, and see the earth laid out like a chess-board below you; to feel the lithe creature beneath your body responding so freely to every call of its gallant young pilot; to be filled with the scream of the engines, as of an eagle at sport; to know that at the least aberration of the intrepid airman we should be dashed into a million pieces; all this is largely to experience an experience so unforgettable that one will never--er--er--forget it." "gosh!" said the young airman. "yes," pursued mr. lavender, who was now unconsciously reading himself in his morning's paper, "one can only compare the emotion to that which the disembodied spirit might feel passing straight from earth to heaven. we saw at a great depth below us on a narrow white riband of road two crawling black specks, and knew that they were human beings, the same and no more than we had been before we left that great common place called earth." "gum!" said the young airman, as lavender paused, "you're getting it fine, sir! where will it appear?" "those great fleecy beings the clouds," went on mr. lavender, without taking on the interruption, "seemed to await our coming in the morning glory of their piled-up snows; and we, with the rarefied air in our lungs, felt that we must shout to them." and so carried away was mr. lavender by his own style that he really did begin to address the clouds: "ghosts of the sky, who creep cold about this wide blue air, we small adventuring mortals great-hearted salute you. humbly proud of our daring have we come to sport with you and the winds of ouranos, and, in the rapturous corridors between you, play hide-and seek, avoiding your glorious moisture with the dips and curves and skimming of our swallow flights--we, the little unconquerable spirits of the squirth!" the surprise which mr. lavender felt at having uttered so peculiar a word, in the middle of such a flow of poetry reduced him to sudden silence. "golly!" said the airman with sudden alarm in his voice. "hold tight!" and they began to shoot towards earth faster than they had risen. they came down, by what seemed a miracle to mr. lavender, who was still contemplative, precisely where they had gone up. a little group was collected there, and as they stepped out a voice said, "i beg your pardon," in a tone so dry that it pierced even the fogged condition in which mr. lavender alighted. the gentleman who spoke had a dark moustache and thick white hair, and, except that he wore a monocle, and was perhaps three inches taller, bore a striking resemblance to himself. "thank you," he replied, "certainly." "no," said the gentleman, "not at all--on the contrary, who the hell are you?" "a public man," said mr. lavender, surprised; "at least," he added conscientiously, "i am not quite certain." "well," said the gentleman, "you've jolly well stolen my stunt." "who, then, are you?" asked mr. lavender. "i?" replied the gentleman, evidently intensely surprised that he was not known; "i--my name----" but at this moment mr. lavender's attention was diverted by the sight of blink making for the horizon, and crying out in a loud voice: "my dog!" he dropped the coat in which he was still enveloped and set off running after her at full speed, without having taken in the identity of the gentleman or disclosed his own. blink, indeed, scenting another flight in the air, had made straight for the entrance of the enclosure, and finding a motor cab there with the door open had bolted into it, taking it for her master's car. mr. lavender sprang in after her. at the shake which this imparted to the cab, the driver, who had been dozing, turned his head. "want to go back, sir?" he said. "yes," replied mr. lavender, breathless; "london." xviii sees truth face to face "i fear," thought mr. lavender, as they sped towards town, "that i have inadvertently taken a joy-ride which belonged to that distinguished person with the eyeglass. no matter, my spirit is now bright for the adventure i have in hand. if only i knew where i could find the unseen power--but possibly its movements may be recorded in these journals." and taking from his pocket his morning papers, which he had not yet had time to peruse, he buried himself in their contents. he was still deeply absorbed when the cab stopped and the driver knocked on the window. mr. lavender got out, followed by blink, and was feeling in his pocket for the fare when an exclamation broke from the driver: "gorblimy! i've brought the wrong baby!" and before mr. lavender had recovered from his surprise, he had whipped the car round and was speeding back towards the flying ground. "how awkward!" thought mr. lavender, who was extremely nice in money matters; "what shall i do now?" and he looked around him. there, as it were by a miracle, was the office of a great journal, whence obviously his distinguished colleague had set forth to the flying grounds, and to which he had been returned in error by the faithful driver. perceiving in all this the finger of providence, mr. lavender walked in. those who have followed his experiences so far will readily understand how no one could look on mr. lavender without perceiving him to be a man of extreme mark, and no surprise need be felt when he was informed that the personage he sought was on the point of visiting brighton to open a hospital, and might yet be overtaken at victoria station. with a beating heart he took up the trail in another taxi-cab, and, arriving at victoria, purchased tickets for himself and blink, and inquired for the brighton train. "hurry up!" replied the official. mr. lavender ran, searching the carriage windows for any indication of his objective. the whistle had been blown, and he was in despair, when his eye caught the label "reserved" on a first-class window, and looking in he saw a single person evidently of the highest consequence smoking a cigar, surrounded by papers. without a moment's hesitation he opened the door, and, preceded by blink, leaped in. "this carriage is reserved, sir," said the personage, as the train moved out. "i know," said mr. lavender, who had fallen on to the edge of the seat opposite; "and only the urgency of my business would have caused me to violate the sanctity of your retreat, for, believe me, i have the instincts if not the habits of a gentleman." the personage, who had made a move of his hand as if to bring the train to a standstill, abandoning his design, replaced his cigar, and contemplated mr. lavender from above it. the latter remained silent, returning that remarkable stare, while blink withdrew beneath the seat and pressed her chin to the ground, savouring the sensation of a new motion. "yes," he thought, "those eyes have an almost superhuman force and cunning. they are the eyes of a spider in the centre of a great web. they seem to draw me." "you are undoubtedly the unseen power, sir," he said suddenly, "and i have reached the heart of the mystery. from your own lips i shall soon know whether i am a puppet or a public man." the personage, who by his movements was clearly under the impression that he had to do with a lunatic, sat forward with his hands on his knees ready to rise at a moment's notice; he kept his cigar in his mouth, however, and an enforced smile on the folds of his face. "what can i do for you, sir?" he said. "will you have a cigar?" "no, thank you," replied mr. lavender, "i must keep the eyes of my spirit clear, and come to the point. do you rule this country or do you not? for it is largely on the answer to this that my future depends. in telling others what to do am i speaking as my conscience or as your conscience dictates; and, further, if indeed i am speaking as your conscience dictates, have you a conscience?" the personage, who had evidently made up his mind to humour the intruder, flipped the ash off his cigar. well, sir, he said, i don't know who the devil you may be, but my conscience is certainly as good as yours." "that," returned mr: lavender with a sigh, is a great relief, for whether you rule the country or not, you are undoubtedly the source from which i, together with the majority of my countrymen, derive our inspirations. you are the fountainhead at which we draw and drink. and to know that your waters are pure, unstained by taint of personal prejudice and the love of power, will fortify us considerably. am i to assume, then, that above all passion and pettiness, you are an impersonal force whose innumerable daily editions reflect nothing but abstract truth, and are in no way the servants of a preconceived and personal view of the situation?" "you want to know too much, don't you think?" said the personage with a smile. "how can that be, sir?" asked mr. lavender: if you are indeed the invisible king swaying the currents of national life, and turning its tides at will, it is essential that we should believe in you; and before we can believe in you must we not know all about you?" "by jove, sir," replied the personage, "that strikes me as being contrary to all the rules of religion. i thought faith was the ticket." by this answer mr. lavender was so impressed that he sat for a moment in silence, with his eyebrow working up and down. "sir," he said at last, "you have given me a new thought. if you are right, to disbelieve in you and the acts which you perform, or rather the editions which you issue, is blasphemy." "i should think so," said the personage, emitting a long whiff of smoke. hadn't that ever occurred to you before?" "no," replied mr. lavender, naively, "for i have never yet disbelieved anything in those journals." the personage coughed heartily. "i have always regarded them," went on mr. lavender, "as i myself should wish to be regarded, 'without fear and without reproach.' for that is, as i understand it, the principle on which a gentleman must live, ever believing of others what he would wish believed of himself. with the exception of germans," he added hastily. "naturally," returned the personage. "and i'll defy you to find anything in them which disagrees with that formula. everything they print refers to germans if not directly then obliquely. germans are the 'idee fixe', and without an 'idee fixe', as you know, there's no such thing as religion. do you get me?" "yes, indeed," cried mr. lavender, enthused, for the whole matter now seemed to him to fall into coherence, and, what was more, to coincide with his preconceptions, so that he had no longer any doubts. "you, sir --the unseen power--are but the crystallized embodiment of the national sentiment in time of war; in serving you, and fulfilling the ideas which you concrete in your journals, we public men are servants of the general animus, which in its turn serves the blind and burning instinct of justice. this is eminently satisfactory to me, who would wish no better fate than to be a humble lackey in that house." he had no sooner, however, spoken those words than joe petty's remarks about public opinion came back to him, and he added: "but are you really the general animus, or are you only the animus of mayors, that is the question?" the personage seemed to follow this thought with difficulty. "what's that?" he said. mr. lavender ran his hands through his hair. "and turns," he said, "on what is the unit of national feeling and intelligence? is it or is it not a mayor?" the personage smiled. "well, what do you think?" he said. "haven't you ever heard them after dinner? there's no question about it. make your mind easy if that's your only trouble." mr. lavender, greatly cheered by the genial certainty in this answer, said: "i thank you, sir. i shall go back and refute that common scoffer, that caster of doubts. i have seen the truth face, to face, and am greatly encouraged to further public effort. with many apologies i can now get out," he added, as the train stopped at south croydon. "blink!" and, followed by his dog, he stepped from the train. the personage, who was indeed no other than the private secretary of the private secretary of it whom mr. lavender had designated as the truth watched him from the window. "well, that was a treat, dear papa!" he murmured to himself, emitting a sigh of smoke after his retreating interlocutor. xix is in peril of the street on the sunday following this interview with the truth mr. lavender, who ever found the day of rest irksome to his strenuous spirit, left his house after an early supper. it, had been raining all day, but the sinking sun had now emerged and struck its level light into the tree tops from a still cloudy distance. followed by blink, he threaded the puddled waste which lies to the west of the spaniard's road, nor was it long before the wild beauty of the scene infected his spirit, and he stood still to admire the world spread out. the smoke rack of misted rain was still drifting above the sunset radiance in an apple-green sky; and behind mr. lavender, as he gazed at those clouds symbolical of the world's unrest, a group of tall, dark pine-trees, wild and witch-like, had collected as if in audience of his cosmic mood. he formed a striking group for a painter, with the west wind flinging back his white hair, and fluttering his dark moustache along his cheeks, while blink, a little in front of him, pointed at the prospect and emitted barks whose vigour tossed her charming head now to this side now to that. "how beautiful is this earth!" thought mr. lavender, "and how simple to be good and happy thereon. yet must we journey ten leagues beyond the wide world's end to find justice and liberty. there are dark powers like lions ever in the path. yes," he continued, turning round to the pinetrees, who were creaking slightly in the wind, "hate and oppression, greed, lust, and ambition! there you stand malevolently regarding me. out upon you, dark witches of evil! if i had but an axe i would lay you lower than the dust." but the poor pine-trees paid no attention save to creak a little louder. and so incensed was mr. lavender by this insensibility on the part of those which his own words had made him perceive were the powers of darkness that he would very likely have barked his knuckles on them if blink by her impatience had not induced him to resume his walk and mount on to the noble rampart of the spaniard's road. along this he wandered and down the hill with the countless ghosts and shadows of his brain, liberating the world in fancy from all the hindrances which beset the paths of public men, till dark fell, and he was compelled to turn towards home. closely attended by the now sobered blink he had reached the tube station when he perceived in the inky war-time dusk that a woman was following him. dimly aware that she was tall and graceful he hurried to avoid her, but before long could but note that she was walking parallel and turning her face towards him. her gloved hand seemed to make a beckoning movement, and perceiving at once that he was the object of that predatory instinct which he knew from the many letters and protests in his journals to be one of the most distressing features of the war, he would have broken into a run if he had not been travelling up-hill; being deprived of this means of escape, his public nature prevailed, and he saw that it was his duty to confront the woman, and strike a blow at, the national evil stalking beside him. but he was in a difficulty, for his natural delicacy towards women seemed to preclude him from treating her as if she were what she evidently was, while his sense of duty--urged him with equal force to do so. a whiff of delicious scent determined him. "madam," he said, without looking in her face, which, indeed, was not visible--so great was the darkness, "it is useless to pursue one who not only has the greatest veneration for women but regards you as a public danger at a time when all the energies of the country should be devoted to the defeat of our common enemies." the woman, uttering a sound like a laugh, edged towards him, and mr. lavender edged away, so that they proceeded up the street crabwise, with blink adhering jealously to her master's heels. "do you know," said mr. lavender, with all the delicacy in his power, "how terribly subversive of the national effort it is to employ your beauty and your grace to snare and slacken the sinews of our glorious youth? the mystery of a woman's glance in times like these should be used solely to beckon our heroes on to death in the field. but you, madam, than whom no one indeed has a more mysterious glance, have turned it to ends which, in the words of a great public man, profane the temple of our--our----" mr. lavender stopped, for his delicacy would not allow him even in so vital a cause to call bodies bodies. the woman here edged so close that he bolted across her in affright, and began to slant back towards the opposite side of the street. "madam," he said, "you must have perceived by now that i am, alas! not privileged by age to be one of the defenders of my country; and though i am prepared to yield to you, if by so doing i can save some young hero from his fate, i wish you to clearly understand that only my sense of duty as a public man would induce me to do any such thing." at this he turned his eyes dreadfully upon her graceful form still sidling towards him, and, conscious again of that delightful scent, felt a swooning sensation which made him lean against a lamp-post. "spare me, madam," he said in a faint voice, "for my country's sake i am ready to do anything, but i must tell you that i worship another of your sex from afar, and if you are a woman you will not seek to make me besmirch that adoration or imperil my chivalry." so saying, he threw his arms round the lamppost and closed his eyes, expecting every moment to be drawn away against his will into a life of vice. a well-known voice, strangled to the pitch almost of inaudibility, said in his ear: "oh, don pickwixote, don pickwixote, you will be the death of me!" electrified, mr. lavender opened his eyes, and in the dull orange rays of the heavily shaded lamp he saw beside him no other than the writhing, choking figure of aurora herself. shocked beyond measure by the mistake he had made, mr. lavender threw up his hands and bolted past her through the gateway of his garden; nor did he cease running till he had reached his bedroom and got under the bed, so terribly was he upset. there, in the company of blink, he spent perhaps the most shame-stricken hours of his existence, cursing the memory of all those bishops and novelists who had caused him to believe that every woman in a dark street was a danger to the state; nor could the persuasion of mrs. petty or joe induce him to come out, so that in despair they were compelled to leave him to pass the night in this penitential position, which he did without even taking out his teeth. xx receives a revelation fully a week elapsed before mr. lavender recovered from the effects of the night which he had spent under his bed and again took his normal interest in the course of national affairs. that which at length tore him from his torpid condition and refixed his imagination was an article in one of, his journals on the league of nations, which caused him suddenly to perceive that this was the most important subject of the day. carefully extracting the address of the society who had the matter in hand, he determined to go down forthwith and learn from their own lips how he could best induce everybody to join them in their noble undertaking. shutting every window, therefore and locking blink carefully into his study, he set forth and took the tube to charing cross. arriving at the premises indicated he made his way in lifts and corridors till he came to the name of this great world undertaking upon the door of room , and paused for a moment to recover from the astonishment he felt that the whole building at least was not occupied by the energies of such a prodigious association. "appearances, however, are deceptive," he thought; "and from a single grain of mustard-seed whole fields will flower." he knocked on the door, therefore, and receiving the reply, "cub id," in a female voice, he entered a room where two young ladies with bad colds were feebly tapping type-writers. "can i see the president?" asked mr. lavender. "dot at the bobent," said one of the young ladies. "will the secretary do?" "yes," replied mr. lavender "for i seek information." the young ladies indulged in secret confabulation, from which the perpetual word "he" alone escaped to mr. lavender's ears. then one of them slipped into an inner room, leaving behind her a powerful trail of eucalyptus. she came back almost directly, saying, "go id." the room which mr lavender entered contained two persons, one seated at a bureau and the other pacing up and down and talking in a powerful bass voice. he paused, looked at mr. lavender from under bushy brows, and at once went on walking and talking, with a sort of added zest. "this must be he," thought mr. lavender, sitting down to listen, for there was something about the gentleman which impressed him at once. he had very large red ears, and hardly a hair on his head, while his full, bearded face and prominent eyes were full of force and genius. "it won't do a little bit, titmarsh," he was saying, "to allow the politicians to meddle in this racket. we want men of genius, whose imaginations carry them beyond the facts of the moment. this is too big a thing for those blasted politicians. they haven't shown a sign so far of paying attention to what i've been telling them all this time. we must keep them out, titmarsh. machinery without mechanism, and a change of heart in the world. it's very simple. a single man of genius from each country, no pettifogging opposition, no petty prejudices." the other gentleman, whom mr. lavender took for the secretary, and who was leaning his head rather wearily on his hand, interjected: "quite so! and whom would you choose besides yourself? in france, for instance?" he who was walking stopped a moment, again looked at mr. lavender intently, and again began to speak as if he were not there. "france?" he said. "there isn't anybody--anatole's too old--there isn't anybody." "america, then?" hazarded the secretary. "america!" replied the other; "they haven't got even half a man. there's that fellow in germany that i used to influence; but i don't know--no, i don't think he'd be any good." "d'annunzio, surely----" began the secretary. "d'annunzio? my god! d'annunzio! no! there's nobody in italy or holland--she's as bankrupt as spain; and there's not a cat in austria. russia might, perhaps, give us someone, but i can't at the moment think of him. no, titmarsh, it's difficult." mr. lavender had been growing more and more excited at each word he overheard, for a scheme of really stupendous proportions was shaping itself within him. he suddenly rose, and said: "i have an idea." the secretary sat up as if he had received a faradic shock, and he who was walking up and down stood still. "the deuce you have, sir," he said. "yes," cried mr. lavender and in concentration and marvellous simplicity, "it has, i am sure, never been surpassed. it is clear to me, sir, that you, and you alone, must be this league of nations. for if it is entirely in your hands there will be no delay. the plan will spring full fledged from the head of jove, and this great and beneficial change in the lot of mankind will at once become an accomplished fact. there will be no need for keeping in touch with human nature, no call for patience and all that laborious upbuilding stone by stone which is so apt to discourage mankind and imperil the fruition of great reforms. no, sir; you--you must be this league, and we will all work to the end that tomorrow at latest there may be perfected this crowning achievement of the human species." the gentleman, who had commenced to walk again, looked furtively from mr. lavender to the secretary, and said: "by jingo! some idea!" "yes," cried mr. lavender, entranced that his grand notion should be at once accepted; "for it is only men like you who can both soaringly conceive and immediately concrete in action; and, what is more, there will be no fear of your tiring of this job and taking up another, for you will be it; and one cannot change oneself." the gentleman looked at mr. lavender very suddenly at the words "tiring of this job," and transferred his gaze to the secretary, who had bent his face down to his papers, and was smothering a snigger with his hand. "who are you, sir?" he said sharply. "merely one," returned mr. lavender, "who wishes to do all in his power to forward a project so fraught with beneficence to all mankind. i count myself fortunate beyond measure to have come here this morning and found the very heart of the matter, the grain of mustard-seed." the gentleman, who had begun to walk again, here muttered words which would have sounded like "damned impudence" if mr. lavender had not been too utterly carried away by his idea to hear them. "i shall go forth at once," he said, "and make known the good tidings that the fields are sown, the league formed. henceforth there are no barriers between nations, and the reign of perpetual peace is assured. it is colossal." the gentleman abruptly raised his boot, but, seeming to think better of it, lowered it again, and turned away to the window. mr. lavender, having bowed to his back, went out, and, urged on by his enthusiasm, directed his steps at once towards trafalgar square. arriving at this hub of the universe he saw that chance was on his side, for a meeting was already in progress, and a crowd of some forty persons assembled round one of the lions. owing to his appearance mr. lavender was able without opposition to climb up on the plinth and join the speaker, a woman of uncertain years. he stood there awaiting his turn and preparing his oration, while she continued her discourse, which seemed to be a protest against any interference with british control of the freedom of the seas. a union jack happened to be leaning against the monument, and when she had at last finished, mr. lavender seized it and came forward to the edge. "great tidings!" he said at once, waving the flag, and without more ado plunged into an oration, which, so far as it went, must certainly be ranked among his masterpieces. "great tidings, friends! i have planted the grain of mustard seed or, in common parlance, have just come from the meeting which has incepted the league of nations; and it will be my task this morning briefly to make known to you the principles which in future must dominate the policy of the world. since it is for the closer brotherhood of man and the reign of perpetual peace that we are struggling, we must first secure the annihilation of our common enemies. those members of the human race whose infamies have largely placed them beyond the pale must be eliminated once for all." loud cheers greeted this utterance, and stimulated by the sound mr. lavender proceeded: "what, however, must the civilized nations do when at last they have clean sheets? in the first place, all petty prejudices and provincial aspirations must be set aside; and though the world must be firmly founded upon the principle of nationality it must also act as one great people. this, my fellow-countrymen, is no mere contradiction in terms, for though in their new solidarities each nation will be prouder of itself, and more jealous of its good name and independence than ever, that will not prevent its' sacrificing its inalienable rights for the good of the whole human nation of which it is a member. friends, let me give you a simple illustration, which in a nutshell will make the whole thing clear. we, here in britain, are justly proud and tenacious of our sea power--in the words of the poet, 'we hold all the gates of the water.' now it is abundantly and convincingly plain that this reinforced principle of nationality bids us to retain and increase them, while internationalism bids us give--them up." his audience--which had hitherto listened with open mouths, here closed them, and a strident voice exclaimed: "give it a name, gov'nor. d'you say we ought to give up gib?" this word pierced mr. lavender, standing where he was, to the very marrow, and he fell into such confusion of spirit that his words became inaudible. "my god!" he thought, appalled; "is it possible that i have not got to the bottom of this question?" and, turning his back on the audience, he gazed in a sort of agony at the figure of nelson towering into the sky above him. he was about to cry out piteously: "countrymen, i know not what i think. oh! i am unhappy!" when he inadvertently stepped back over the edge of the plinth, and, still entangled in the flag, was picked up by two policemen and placed in a dazed condition and a deserted spot opposite the national gallery. it was while he was standing there, encircled by, pigeons and forgotten by his fellow man, that there came to him a spiritual revelation. "strange!" he thought; "i notice a certain inconsistency in myself, and even in my utterances. i am two men, one of whom is me and one not me; and the one which is not me is the one which causes me to fall into the arms of policemen and other troubles. the one which is me loves these pigeons, and desires to live quietly with my dog, not considering public affairs, which, indeed, seem to be suited to persons of another sort. whence, then, comes the one which is not me? can it be that it is derived from the sayings and writings of others, and is but a spurious spirit only meet to be outcast? do i, to speak in the vernacular, care any buttons whether we stick to gibraltar or not so long as men do but live in kindness? and if that is so, have i the right to say i do? ought i not, rather, to be true to my private self and leave the course of public affairs to those who have louder voices and no private selves?" the thought was extremely painful, for it seemed to disclose to him grave inconsistency in the recent management of his life. and, thoroughly mortified, he turned round with a view of entering the national gallery and soothing his spirit with art, when he was arrested by the placard which covered it announcing which town had taken which sum of bonds. this lighted up such a new vista of public utility that his brain would certainly have caught fire again if one of the policemen who had conducted him across the square had not touched him on the arm, and said: "how are you now, sir?" "i am pretty well, thank you, policeman," replied mr. lavender, "and sorry that i occasioned so much disturbance." "don't mention it, sir," answered the policeman; "you came a nasty crump." "tell me," said mr. lavender, suddenly looking up into his face, "do you consider that a man is justified in living a private life? for, as regards my future, it is largely on your opinion that i shall act." the policeman, whose solid face showed traces of astonishment, answered slowly: "as a general thing, a man's private life don't bear lookin' into, as you know, sir." "i have not lived one for some time," said mr. lavender. "well," remarked the policeman, "if you take my advice you won't try it a-gain. i should say you 'adn't the constitution." "i fear you do not catch my meaning," returned mr. lavender, whose whole body was aching from his fall; "it is my public life which tries me." "well, then, i should chuck it," said the policeman. "really?" murmured mr. lavender eagerly, "would you?" "why not?" said the policeman. so excited was mr. lavender by this independent confirmation of his sudden longing that he took out half a crown. "you will oblige me greatly," he said, "by accepting this as a token of my gratitude." "well, sir, i'll humour you," answered the policeman; "though it was no trouble, i'm sure; you're as light as a feather. goin' anywhere in particular?" he added. "yes," said mr. lavender, rather faintly, "the tube station." "come along with me, then." mr. lavender went along, not sorry to have the protection of that stalwart form, for his nerve was shaken, not so much by physical suffering as by the revelation he had received. "if you'll take my tip, sir," said the policeman, parting from him, "you won't try no private life again; you don't look strong." "thank you, policeman," said mr. lavender musingly; "it is kind of you to take an interest in me. good-bye!" safely seated in the tube for hampstead he continued the painful struggle of his meditations. "if, indeed," he thought, "as a public man i do more harm than good, i am prepared to sacrifice all for my country's sake and retire into private life. but the policeman said that would be dangerous for me. what, then, is left? to live neither a public nor a private life!" this thought, at once painful and heroic, began to take such hold of him that he arrived at his house in a high fever of the brain. xxi and ascends to paradise now when mr. lavender once slept over an idea it became so strong that no power on earth could prevent his putting it into execution, and all night long he kept blink awake by tramping up and down his bedroom and planning the details of such a retirement as would meet his unfortunate case. for at once he perceived that to retire from both his lives without making the whole world know of it would be tantamount to not retiring. "only by a public act," he thought, "of so striking a character that nobody can miss it can i bring the moral home to all public and private men." and a hundred schemes swarmed like ants in his brain. nor was it till the cock crew that one adequate to this final occasion occurred to him. "it will want very careful handling," he thought, "for otherwise i shall be prevented, and perhaps even arrested in the middle, which will be both painful and ridiculous. so sublime, however, was his idea that he shed many tears over it, and often paused in his tramping to regard the unconscious blink with streaming eyes. all the next day he went about the house and heath taking a last look at objects which had been dear, and at mealtimes ate and drank even less than usual, absorbed by the pathos of his coming renunciation. he determined to make his preparations for the final act during the night, when mrs. petty would be prevented by joe's snoring from hearing the necessary sounds; and at supper he undertook the delicate and harrowing task of saying good-bye to, his devoted housekeeper without letting her know that he, was doing it. "mrs--petty," he said, trifling with a morsel of cheese, "it is useless to disguise, from you that i may be going a journey, and i feel that i shall not be able to part from all the care you have, bestowed on me without recording in words my heartfelt appreciation of your devotion. i shall miss it, i shall miss it terribly, if, that is, i am permitted to miss anything." mrs. petty, whose mind instantly ran to his bed socks, answered: "don't you worry, sir; i won't forget them. but wherever are you going now?" "ah!" said mr. lavender subtly, "it is all in the air at present; but now that the lime-trees are beginning to smell a certain restlessness is upon me, and you may see some change in my proceedings. whatever happens to me, however, i commit my dear blink to your care; feed her as if she were myself, and love her as if she were joe, for it is largely on food and affection that dogs depend for happiness. "why, good gracious, sir," said mrs. petty, "you talk as if you were going for a month of sundays. are you thinking of eastbourne?" mr. lavender sighed deeply at that word, for the memory of a town where he had spent many happy days added to the gentle melancholy of his feelings on this last evening. "as regards that i shall not inform you at present; for, indeed, i am by no means certain what my destination will be. largely speaking, no pub --public man," he stammered, doubtful whether he was any longer that, "knows where he will be going to-morrow. sufficient unto the day are the intentions in his head. "well, sir," said mrs. petty frankly, "you can't go anywhere without joe or me, that's flat." mr. lavender smiled. "dear mrs. petty," he murmured, "there are sacrifices one cannot demand even of the most faithful friends. but," he went on with calculated playfulness, "we need not consider that point until the day after to-morrow at least, for i have much to do in the meantime." reassured by those words and the knowledge that mr. lavender's plans seldom remained the same for more than two days, mrs. petty tossed her head slightly and went to the door. "well, it is a mystery, i'm sure," she said. "i should like to see joe," said mr. lavender, with a lingering look at his devoted housekeeper. "the beauty!" muttered mrs. petty; "i'll send him," and withdrew. giving the morsel of cheese to blink, who, indeed, had eaten practically the whole of this last meal, mr. lavender took the moon-cat on his shoulder, and abandoned himself for a moment to the caresses of his two favourites. "blink," he said in a voice which trembled slightly, "be good to this moon-cat while i am away; and if i am longer than you expect, darling, do not be unhappy. perhaps some day you will rejoin me; and even if we are not destined to meet again, i would not, in the fashion of cruel men, wish to hinder your second marriage, or to stand in the way of your happy forgetfulness of me. be as light-hearted as you can, my dear, and wear no mourning for your master." so saying, he flung his arms round her, and embraced her warmly, inhaling with the most poignant emotion her sheep-like odour. he was still engaged with her when the door was opened, and joe came in. "joe," said mr. lavender resolutely, "sit down and light your pipe. you will find a bottle of pre-war port in the sideboard. open it, and, drink my health; indeed, i myself will drink it too, for it may give me courage. we have been good friends, joe," he went on while joe was drawing the cork, "and have participated in pleasant and sharp adventures. i have called you in at this moment, which may some day seem to you rather solemn, partly to shake your hand and partly to resume the discussion on public men which we held some days ago, if you remember." "ah!" said joe, with his habitual insouciance, "when i told you that they give me the 'ump." "yes, what abaht it, sir? 'ave they been sayin' anything particular vicious?" his face flying up just then with the cork which he was extracting encountered the expression on mr. lavender's visage, and he added: "don't take wot i say to 'eart, sir; try as you like you'll never be a public man." those words, which seemed to mr. lavender to seal his doom, caused a faint pink flush to invade his cheeks. "no," continued joe, pouring out the wine; you 'aven't got the brass in times like these. i dare say you've noticed, sir, that the times is favourable for bringing out the spots on the body politic. 'ere's 'ealth!" "joe," said mr. lavender, raising the glass to his lips with solemnity, "i wish you a most happy and prosperous life. let us drink to all those qualities which make you par excellence one of that great race, the best hearted in the world, which never thinks of to-morrow, never knows when it is beaten, and seldom loses its sense of humour. "ah!" returned joe enigmatically, half-closing one of his greenish eyes, and laying the glass to one side of his reddish nose. then, with a quick movement, he swallowed its contents and refilled it before mr. lavender had succeeded in absorbing more than a drop. "i don't say," he continued, "but what there's a class o' public man that's got its uses, like the little 'un that keeps us all alive, or the perfect english gentleman what did his job, and told nobody nothin' abaht it. you can 'ave confidence in a man like that----that's why 'e's gone an' retired; 'e's civilized, you see, the finished article; but all this raw material, this 'get-on' or 'get-out' lot, that's come from 'oo knows where, well, i wish they'd stayed there with their tell-you-how-to-do-it and their 'ymns of 'ate." "joe," said mr. lavender, "are you certain that therein does not speak the snob inherent in the national bosom? are you not unconsciously paying deference to the word gentleman?" "why not, sir?" replied joe, tossing off his second glass. "it'd be a fine thing for the country if we was all gentlemen--straight, an' a little bit stupid, and 'ad 'alf a thought for others." and he refilled his master's glass. "i don't measure a gentleman by 'is money, or 'is title, not even by 'is clothes--i measure 'im by whether he can stand 'avin' power in 'is 'ands without gettin' unscrupled or swollen 'eaded, an' whether 'e can do what he thinks right without payin' attention, to clamour. but, mind you, 'e's got to 'ave right thoughts too, and a feelin' 'eart. 'ere's luck, sir." mr. lavender, who, absorbed in his chauffeur's sentiments, had now drunk two glasses, rose from his, chair, and clutching his hair said: "i will not conceal from you, joe, that i have always assumed every public man came up to that standard, at least." "crikey said joe. 'ave you really, sir? my gawd! got any use for the rest of this bottle?" "no, joe, no. i shall never have use for a bottle again." "in that case i might as well," said joe, pouring what remained into a tumbler and drinking it off. "is there any other topic you'd like to mention? if i can 'ave any influence on you, i shall be very glad." "thank you, joe," returned mr. lavender, "what i have most need of at this moment is solitude and your good wishes. and will you kindly take blink away, and when she has had her run, place her in my bedroom, with the window closed. good-night, joe. call me late tomorrow morning. "certainly, sir. good-night, sir." "good-night, joe. shake hands." when joe was gone, accompanied by the unwilling blink, turning her beautiful dark eyes back to the last, mr. lavender sat down at his bureau, and drawing a sheet of paper to him, wrote at the top of it. "my last will and testament." it was a long time before he got further, and then entirely omitted to leave anything in it, completely preoccupied by the preamble, which gradually ran as follows: "i, john lavender, make known to all men by these presents that the act which i contemplate is symbolical, and must in no sense be taken as implying either weariness of life or that surrender to misfortune which is unbecoming to an english public gentleman." (over this description of himself mr. lavender was obliged to pause some time hovering between the two designations, and finally combining them as the only way out of his difficulty.) "long and painful experience has convinced me that only by retiring from the former can i retain the latter character, and only by retiring from both can i point the moral ever demanded by my countrymen. conscious, indeed, that a mere act of private resignation would have no significance to the body politic, nor any deflecting influence on the national life, i have chosen rather to disappear in blue flame, so that every englishman may take to heart my lesson, and learn from my strange fate how to be himself uninfluenced by the verbiage of others. at the same time, with the utmost generosity, i wish to acknowledge in full my debt towards all those great writers and speakers on the war who have exercised so intoxicating an influence on my mind." (here followed an alphabetical list of names beginning with b and ending with s.) "i wish to be dissociated firmly from the views of my chauffeur joe petty, and to go to my last account with an emphatic assertion that my failure to become a perfect public gentleman is due to private idiosyncrasies rather than to any conviction that it is impossible, or to anything but admiration of the great men i have mentioned. if anybody should wish to paint me after i am dead, i desire that i may be represented with my face turned towards the dawn; for it is at that moment so symptomatic of a deep adoration--which i would scorn to make the common property of gossiping tongues--that i intend to depart. if there should be anything left of me--which is less than probable considering the inflammatory character of the material i design for my pyre--i would be obliged if, without giving anybody any trouble, it could be buried in my garden, with the usual hampstead tablet. "'john lavender, the public man, who died for his country's good, lived here.' "in conclusion, i would say a word to that land i have loved and served: 'be not extreme! distrust the words, of others. to yourself be true! as you are strong be gentle, as you are brave be modest! beloved country, farewell!'" having written that final sentence he struggled long with himself before he could lay down the pen. but by this time the port he had drunk had begun to have its usual effect, and he fell into a doze, from which he was awakened five hours later by the beams of a full moon striking in on him. "the hour has come," he thought, and, opening the french-window, he went out on to the lawn, where the dew lay white. the freshness in the air, the glamour of the moonlight, and the fumes of the port combined to make him feel strangely rhumantic, and if he had possessed a musical instrument he would very likely have begun to play on it. he spent some moments tracking to and fro in the dew before he settled on the centre of the lawn as the most suitable spot for the act which he contemplated, for thence he would be able to turn his last looks towards aurora's bedroom-window without interference from foliage. having drawn a twelve-foot circle in the dew with his toe he proceeded in the bright moonlight to the necessary accumulation of his funeral pile, conveying from his study, book by book, journal by journal, pamphlet by pamphlet, the hoarded treasures of the last four years; and as he carefully placed each one, building up at once a firm and cunning structure, he gave a little groan, thinking of the intoxications of the past, and all the glorious thoughts embodied in that literature. underneath, in the heart of the pile, he reserved a space for the most inflammable material, which he selected from a special file of a special journal, and round the circumference of the lofty and tapering mound he carefully deposited the two hundred and four war numbers of a certain weekly, so that a ring of flame might lick well up the sides and permeate the more solid matter on which he would be sitting. for two hours he worked in the waning moonlight till he had completed this weird and heroic erection; and just before the dawn, sat down by the light of the candle with which he meant to apply the finishing touch, to compose that interview with himself whereby he intended to convey to the world the message of his act. "i found him," he began, in the words of the interviewer, "sitting upon a journalistic pile of lovely leaves of thought, which in the dawning of a new day glowed with a certain restrained flamboyance, as though the passion stored within those exotic pages gave itself willingly to the 'eclaircissement' of the situation, and of his lineaments on which suffering had already set their stamp. "'i should like you,' i said, approaching as near as i could, for the sparks, like little fireflies on a riviera evening, were playing profoundly round my trousers, 'i should like to hear from your own lips the reasons which have caused you to resign.' "'certainly,' he replied, with the courtesy which i have always found characteristic of him in moments which would try the suavity of more ordinary men; and with the utmost calm and clarity he began to tell me the inner workings of his mind, while the growing dawn-light irradiated his wasted and expressive features, and the flames slowly roasted his left boot. "'yes,' he said quietly, and his eyes turned inwards, 'i have at last seen the problem clearly, and seen it whole. it is largely because of this that i have elected to seek the seclusion of another world. what that world contains for me i know not, though so many public men have tried to tell me; but it has never been my way to recoil from the unknown, and i am ready for my journey beyond the wide world's end.' "i was greatly struck by the large-hearted way in which he spoke those words, and i interrupted him to ask whether he did not think that there was something fundamental in the british character which would leap as one man at such an act of daring sacrifice and great adventure. "'as regards that,' he replied fearlessly, while in the light of the ever-brightening dawn i could, see the suspender on his right leg gradually charring, so that he must already have been in great pain, 'as regards that, it is largely the proneness of the modern british to leap to verbal extremity which is inducing me to afford them this object-lesson in restraint and commonsense. ouch!' "this momentary ejaculation seemed to escape him in spite of all his iron control; and the smell of burning flesh brought home to me as nothing else, perhaps, could have done the tortures he must have been suffering. "'i feel,' he went on very gravely, 'that extravagance of word and conduct is fatal to my country, and having so profoundly experienced its effects upon myself, i am now endeavouring by a shining example to supply a remedy for a disease which is corroding the vitals and impairing the sanity of my countrymen and making them a race of second-hand spiritual drunkards. ouch!' "i confess that at this moment the tears started to my eyes, for a more sublime show than the spectacle of this devoted man slowly roasting himself to death before my eyes for the good of his country i had seldom seen. it had a strange, an appalling interest, and for nothing on earth could i have torn my gaze away. i now realized to the full for the first time the will-power and heroism of the human species, and i rejoiced with a glorious new feeling that i was of the same breed as this man, made of such stern stuff that not even a tear rolled down his cheeks to quench the flames that leaped around him ever higher and higher. and the dawn came up in the eastern sky; and i knew that a great day was preparing for mankind; and with my eyes fixed upon him as he turned blacker and blacker i let my heart loose in a great thanksgiving that i had lived to see this moment. it was then that he cried out in a loud voice: "'i call aurora to witness that i have died without a falter, grasping a burning spear, to tilt at the malpractice which has sent me mad!' and i saw that he held in his fast-consuming hand a long roll of journals sharpened to a point of burning flame. "'aurora!' he cried again, and with that enigmatic word on his lips was incinerated in the vast and towering belch of the devouring element. "it was among the most inspiring sights i have ever witnessed." when mr. lavender had completed that record, whose actuality and wealth of moving detail had greatly affected him, and marked it "for the press-immediate," he felt very cold. it was, in fact, that hour of dawn when a shiver goes through the world; and, almost with pleasurable anticipation he took up his lighted candle and stole shivering out to his pile, rising ghostly to the height of some five feet in the middle of the dim lawn whereon a faint green tinge was coming with the return of daylight. having reached it, he walked round it twice, and readjusted four volumes of the history of the war as stepping-stones to the top; then lowering the candle, whose flame burned steadily in the stillness, he knelt down in the grey dew and set fire to an article in a sunday paper. then, sighing deeply, he returned to his little ladder and, with some difficulty preserving his balance, mounted to the top, and sat down with his legs towards the house and his eyes fixed on aurora's bedroom-window. he had been there perhaps ten minutes before he realized that nothing was happening below him, and, climbing down again, proceeded to the aperture where he had inserted the burning print. there, by the now considerable daylight, he saw that the flame had gone out at the words "the stage is now set for the last act of this colossal world drama." and convinced that providence had intended that heartening sentence to revive his somewhat drooping courage, he thought, "i, too, shall be making history this morning," and relighting the journal, went on his hands and knees and began manfully to blow the flames. . . . . . now the young lady in the adjoining castle, who had got out of bed, happened, as she sometimes did, to go to the window for a look at the sun rising over parliament hill. attracted by the smell of burning paper she saw mr. lavender in this act of blowing up the flames. "what on earth is the poor dear doing now?" she thought. "this is really the limit!" and slipping on her slippers and blue dressing-gown she ensconced herself behind the curtain to await developments. mr. lavender had now backed away from the flames at which he had been blowing, and remained on his hands and knees, apparently assuring himself that they had really obtained hold. he then rose, and to her intense surprise began climbing up on to the pile. she watched him at first with an amused astonishment, so ludicrous was his light little figure, crowned by stivered-up white hair, and the expression of eager melancholy on his thin, high-cheekboned face upturned towards her window. then, to her dismay, she saw that the flame had really caught, and, suddenly persuaded that he had some crazy intention of injuring himself with the view, perhaps, of attracting her attention, she ran out of her room and down the stairs, and emerging from the back door just as she was, circled her garden, so that she might enter mr. lavender's garden from behind him, ready for any eventuality. she arrived within arm's reach of him without his having heard her, for blink, whose anxious face as she watched her master wasting, could be discerned at the bedroom-window, was whining, and mr. lavender himself had now broken into a strange and lamentable chantey, which, in combination with the creeping flutter of the flames in the weekly journals encircling the base of the funeral pyre, well-nigh made her blood curdle. "aurora," sang mr. lavender, in that most dolorous voice, "aurora, my heart i bring, for i know well it will not burn, oh! when the leaves puff out in spring and when the leaves in autumn turn think, think of me! aurora, i pass away! upon my horse of air i ride; here let my grizzled ashes stay, but take, ah! take my heart inside! aurora! aurora!" at this moment, just as a fit of the most uncontrollable laughter was about to seize her, she saw a flame which had just consumed the word horatio reach mr. lavender's right calf. "oh!" he cried out in desperate tones, stretching up his arms to the sky. "now is my hour come! sweet-sky, open and let me see her face! behold! behold her with the eyes of faith. it is enough. courage, brother; let me now consume in silence!" so saying, he folded his arm tightly across his breast and closed his lips. the flame rising to the bottom of the weekly which had indeed been upside down, here nipped him vigorously, so that with a wholly unconscious movement he threw up his little legs, and, losing his balance, fell backwards into the arms of aurora, watchfully outstretched to receive him. uplifted there, close to that soft blue bosom away from the reek of the flame, he conceived that he was consumed and had passed already from his night of ghosts and shadows into the arms of the morning, and through his swooning lips came forth the words: "i am in paradise." the end. five tales by john galsworthy "life calls the tune, we dance." contents: the first and last the first and last a stoic a stoic the apple tree the apple tree the juryman the juryman indian summer of a forsyte [also posted as etext # ] [in this edition of "five tales" the fifth tale was "indian summer of a forsyte;" in later collections, "indian summer..." became the first section of the second volume of the forsyte saga] the first and last "so the last shall be first, and the first last."--holy writ. it was a dark room at that hour of six in the evening, when just the single oil reading-lamp under its green shade let fall a dapple of light over the turkey carpet; over the covers of books taken out of the bookshelves, and the open pages of the one selected; over the deep blue and gold of the coffee service on the little old stool with its oriental embroidery. very dark in the winter, with drawn curtains, many rows of leather-bound volumes, oak-panelled walls and ceiling. so large, too, that the lighted spot before the fire where he sat was just an oasis. but that was what keith darrant liked, after his day's work--the hard early morning study of his "cases," the fret and strain of the day in court; it was his rest, these two hours before dinner, with books, coffee, a pipe, and sometimes a nap. in red turkish slippers and his old brown velvet coat, he was well suited to that framing of glow and darkness. a painter would have seized avidly on his clear-cut, yellowish face, with its black eyebrows twisting up over eyes--grey or brown, one could hardly tell, and its dark grizzling hair still plentiful, in spite of those daily hours of wig. he seldom thought of his work while he sat there, throwing off with practised ease the strain of that long attention to the multiple threads of argument and evidence to be disentangled--work profoundly interesting, as a rule, to his clear intellect, trained to almost instinctive rejection of all but the essential, to selection of what was legally vital out of the mass of confused tactical and human detail presented to his scrutiny; yet sometimes tedious and wearing. as for instance to-day, when he had suspected his client of perjury, and was almost convinced that he must throw up his brief. he had disliked the weak-looking, white-faced fellow from the first, and his nervous, shifty answers, his prominent startled eyes--a type too common in these days of canting tolerations and weak humanitarianism; no good, no good! of the three books he had taken down, a volume of voltaire--curious fascination that frenchman had, for all his destructive irony!--a volume of burton's travels, and stevenson's "new arabian nights," he had pitched upon the last. he felt, that evening, the want of something sedative, a desire to rest from thought of any kind. the court had been crowded, stuffy; the air, as he walked home, soft, sou'-westerly, charged with coming moisture, no quality of vigour in it; he felt relaxed, tired, even nervy, and for once the loneliness of his house seemed strange and comfortless. lowering the lamp, he turned his face towards the fire. perhaps he would get a sleep before that boring dinner at the tellasson's. he wished it were vacation, and maisie back from school. a widower for many years, he had lost the habit of a woman about him; yet to-night he had a positive yearning for the society of his young daughter, with her quick ways, and bright, dark eyes. curious what perpetual need of a woman some men had! his brother laurence--wasted--all through women--atrophy of willpower! a man on the edge of things; living from hand to mouth; his gifts all down at heel! one would have thought the scottish strain might have saved him; and yet, when a scotsman did begin to go downhill, who could go faster? curious that their mother's blood should have worked so differently in her two sons. he himself had always felt he owed all his success to it. his thoughts went off at a tangent to a certain issue troubling his legal conscience. he had not wavered in the usual assumption of omniscience, but he was by no means sure that he had given right advice. well! without that power to decide and hold to decision in spite of misgiving, one would never have been fit for one's position at the bar, never have been fit for anything. the longer he lived, the more certain he became of the prime necessity of virile and decisive action in all the affairs of life. a word and a blow--and the blow first! doubts, hesitations, sentiment the muling and puking of this twilight age--! and there welled up on his handsome face a smile that was almost devilish--the tricks of firelight are so many! it faded again in sheer drowsiness; he slept.... he woke with a start, having a feeling of something out beyond the light, and without turning his head said: "what's that?" there came a sound as if somebody had caught his breath. he turned up the lamp. "who's there?" a voice over by the door answered: "only i--larry." something in the tone, or perhaps just being startled out of sleep like this, made him shiver. he said: "i was asleep. come in!" it was noticeable that he did not get up, or even turn his head, now that he knew who it was, but waited, his half-closed eyes fixed on the fire, for his brother to come forward. a visit from laurence was not an unmixed blessing. he could hear him breathing, and became conscious of a scent of whisky. why could not the fellow at least abstain when he was coming here! it was so childish, so lacking in any sense of proportion or of decency! and he said sharply: "well, larry, what is it?" it was always something. he often wondered at the strength of that sense of trusteeship, which kept him still tolerant of the troubles, amenable to the petitions of this brother of his; or was it just "blood" feeling, a highland sense of loyalty to kith and kin; an old-time quality which judgment and half his instincts told him was weakness but which, in spite of all, bound him to the distressful fellow? was he drunk now, that he kept lurking out there by the door? and he said less sharply: "why don't you come and sit down?" he was coming now, avoiding the light, skirting along the walls just beyond the radiance of the lamp, his feet and legs to the waist brightly lighted, but his face disintegrated in shadow, like the face of a dark ghost. "are you ill, man?" still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a hand, out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled hair. the scent of whisky was stronger now; and keith thought: 'he really is drunk. nice thing for the new butler to see! if he can't behave--' the figure against the wall heaved a sigh--so truly from an overburdened heart that keith was conscious with a certain dismay of not having yet fathomed the cause of this uncanny silence. he got up, and, back to the fire, said with a brutality born of nerves rather than design: "what is it, man? have you committed a murder, that you stand there dumb as a fish?" for a second no answer at all, not even of breathing; then, just the whisper: "yes." the sense of unreality which so helps one at moments of disaster enabled keith to say vigorously: "by jove! you have been drinking!" but it passed at once into deadly apprehension. "what do you mean? come here, where i can see you. what's the matter with you, larry?" with a sudden lurch and dive, his brother left the shelter of the shadow, and sank into a chair in the circle of light. and another long, broken sigh escaped him. "there's nothing the matter with me, keith! it's true!" keith stepped quickly forward, and stared down into his brother's face; and instantly he saw that it was true. no one could have simulated the look in those eyes--of horrified wonder, as if they would never again get on terms with the face to which they belonged. to see them squeezed the heart-only real misery could look like that. then that sudden pity became angry bewilderment. "what in god's name is this nonsense?" but it was significant that he lowered his voice; went over to the door, too, to see if it were shut. laurence had drawn his chair forward, huddling over the fire--a thin figure, a worn, high-cheekboned face with deep-sunk blue eyes, and wavy hair all ruffled, a face that still had a certain beauty. putting a hand on that lean shoulder, keith said: "come, larry! pull yourself together, and drop exaggeration." "it's true; i tell you; i've killed a man." the noisy violence of that outburst acted like a douche. what was the fellow about--shouting out such words! but suddenly laurence lifted his hands and wrung them. the gesture was so utterly painful that it drew a quiver from keith's face. "why did you come here," he said, "and tell me this?" larry's face was really unearthly sometimes, such strange gleams passed up on to it! "whom else should i tell? i came to know what i'm to do, keith? give myself up, or what?" at that sudden introduction of the practical keith felt his heart twitch. was it then as real as all that? but he said, very quietly: "just tell me--how did it come about, this--affair?" that question linked the dark, gruesome, fantastic nightmare on to actuality. "when did it happen?" "last night." in larry's face there was--there had always been--something childishly truthful. he would never stand a chance in court! and keith said: "how? where? you'd better tell me quietly from the beginning. drink this coffee; it'll clear your head." laurence took the little blue cup and drained it. "yes," he said. "it's like this, keith. there's a girl i've known for some months now--" women! and keith said between his teeth: "well?" "her father was a pole who died over here when she was sixteen, and left her all alone. a man called walenn, a mongrel american, living in the same house, married her, or pretended to--she's very pretty, keith--he left her with a baby six months old, and another coming. that one died, and she did nearly. then she starved till another fellow took her on. she lived with him two years; then walenn turned up again, and made her go back to him. the brute used to beat her black and blue, all for nothing. then he left her again. when i met her she'd lost her elder child, too, and was taking anybody who came along." he suddenly looked up into keith's face. "but i've never met a sweeter woman, nor a truer, that i swear. woman! she's only twenty now! when i went to her last night, that brute--that walenn--had found her out again; and when he came for me, swaggering and bullying--look!"--he touched a dark mark on his forehead--"i took his throat in my hands, and when i let go--" "yes?" "dead. i never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him behind." again he made that gesture-wringing his hands. in a hard voice keith said: "what did you do then?" "we sat by it a long time. then i carried it on my back down the street, round a corner to an archway." "how far?" "about fifty yards." "was anyone--did anyone see?" "no." "what time?" "three." "and then?" "went back to her." "why--in heaven's name?" "she was lonely and afraid; so was i, keith." "where is this place?" "forty-two, borrow street, soho." "and the archway?" "corner of glove lane." "good god! why--i saw it in the paper!" and seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, keith read again that paragraph: "the body of a man was found this morning under an archway in glove lane, soho. from marks about the throat grave suspicions of foul play are entertained. the body had apparently been robbed, and nothing was discovered leading to identification." it was real earnest, then. murder! his own brother! he faced round and said: "you saw this in the paper, and dreamed it. understand--you dreamed it!" the wistful answer came: "if only i had, keith--if only i had!" in his turn, keith very nearly wrung his hands. "did you take anything from the--body?" "this dropped while we were struggling.", it was an empty envelope with a south american post-mark addressed: "patrick walenn, simon's hotel, farrier street, london." again with that twitching in his heart, keith said: "put it in the fire." then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out. by that command--he had--identified himself with this--this--but he did not pluck it out. it blackened, writhed, and vanished. and once more he said: "what in god's name made you come here and tell me?" "you know about these things. i didn't mean to kill him. i love the girl. what shall i do, keith? "simple! how simple! to ask what he was to do! it was like larry! and he said: "you were not seen, you think?" "it's a dark street. there was no one about." "when did you leave this girl the second time?" "about seven o'clock." "where did you go?" "to my rooms." "in fitzroy street?" "yes." "did anyone see you come in?" "no." "what have you done since?" "sat there." "not been out?" "no." "not seen the girl?" "no." "you don't know, then, what she's done since?" "no." "would she give you away?" "never." "would she give herself away--hysteria?" "no." "who knows of your relations with her?" "no one." "no one?" "i don't know who should, keith." "did anyone see you going in last night, when you first went to her?" "no. she lives on the ground floor. i've got keys." "give them to me. what else have you that connects you with her?" "nothing." "in your rooms?" "no." "no photographs. no letters?" "no." "be careful." "nothing." "no one saw you going back to her the second time?" "no." "no one saw you leave her in the morning?" "no." "you were fortunate. sit down again, man. i must think." think! think out this accursed thing--so beyond all thought, and all belief. but he could not think. not a coherent thought would come. and he began again: "was it his first reappearance with her?" "yes." "she told you so?" "yes." "how did he find out where she was?" "i don't know." "how drunk were you?" "i was not drunk." "how much had you drunk?" "about two bottles of claret--nothing." "you say you didn't mean to kill him?" "no-god knows!" "that's something." what made you choose the arch?" "it was the first dark place." "did his face look as if he had been strangled?" "don't!" "did it?" "yes." "very disfigured?" "yes." "did you look to see if his clothes were marked?" "no." "why not?" "why not? my god! if you had done it!" "you say he was disfigured. would he be recognisable?" "i don't know." "when she lived with him last--where was that?" "i don't know for certain. pimlico, i think." "not soho?" "no." "how long has she been at the soho place?" "nearly a year." "always the same rooms?" "yes." "is there anyone living in that house or street who would be likely to know her as his wife?" "i don't think so." "what was he?" "i should think he was a professional 'bully.'" "i see. spending most of his time abroad, then?" "yes." "do you know if he was known to the police?" "i haven't heard of it." "now, listen, larry. when you leave here go straight home, and don't go out till i come to you, to-morrow morning. promise that!" "i promise." "i've got a dinner engagement. i'll think this out. don't drink. don't talk! pull yourself together." "don't keep me longer than you can help, keith!" that white face, those eyes, that shaking hand! with a twinge of pity in the midst of all the turbulence of his revolt, and fear, and disgust keith put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and said: "courage!" and suddenly he thought: 'my god! courage! i shall want it all myself!' ii laurence darrant, leaving his brother's house in the adelphi, walked northwards, rapidly, slowly, rapidly again. for, if there are men who by force of will do one thing only at a time, there are men who from lack of will do now one thing, now another; with equal intensity. to such natures, to be gripped by the nemesis which attends the lack of self-control is no reason for being more self-controlled. rather does it foster their pet feeling: "what matter? to-morrow we die!" the effort of will required to go to keith had relieved, exhausted and exasperated him. in accordance with those three feelings was the progress of his walk. he started from the door with the fixed resolve to go home and stay there quietly till keith came. he was in keith's hands, keith would know what was to be done. but he had not gone three hundred yards before he felt so utterly weary, body and soul, that if he had but had a pistol in his pocket he would have shot himself in the street. not even the thought of the girl--this young unfortunate with her strange devotion, who had kept him straight these last five months, who had roused in him a depth of feeling he had never known before--would have availed against that sudden black defection. why go on--a waif at the mercy of his own nature, a straw blown here and there by every gust which rose in him? why not have done with it for ever, and take it out in sleep? he was approaching the fatal street, where he and the girl, that early morning, had spent the hours clutched together, trying in the refuge of love to forget for a moment their horror and fear. should he go in? he had promised keith not to. why had he promised? he caught sight of himself in a chemist's lighted window. miserable, shadowy brute! and he remembered suddenly a dog he had picked up once in the streets of pera, a black-and-white creature--different from the other dogs, not one of their breed, a pariah of pariahs, who had strayed there somehow. he had taken it home to the house where he was staying, contrary to all custom of the country; had got fond of it; had shot it himself, sooner than leave it behind again to the mercies of its own kind in the streets. twelve years ago! and those sleevelinks made of little turkish coins he had brought back for the girl at the hairdresser's in chancery lane where he used to get shaved--pretty creature, like a wild rose. he had asked of her a kiss for payment. what queer emotion when she put her face forward to his lips--a sort of passionate tenderness and shame, at the softness and warmth of that flushed cheek, at her beauty and trustful gratitude. she would soon have given herself to him--that one! he had never gone there again! and to this day he did not know why he had abstained; to this day he did not know whether he were glad or sorry not to have plucked that rose. he must surely have been very different then! queer business, life--queer, queer business!--to go through it never knowing what you would do next. ah! to be like keith, steady, buttoned-up in success; a brass pot, a pillar of society! once, as a boy, he had been within an ace of killing keith, for sneering at him. once in southern italy he had been near killing a driver who was flogging his horse. and now, that dark-faced, swinish bully who had ruined the girl he had grown to love--he had done it! killed him! killed a man! he who did not want to hurt a fly. the chemist's window comforted him with the sudden thought that he had at home that which made him safe, in case they should arrest him. he would never again go out without some of those little white tablets sewn into the lining of his coat. restful, even exhilarating thought! they said a man should not take his own life. let them taste horror--those glib citizens! let them live as that girl had lived, as millions lived all the world over, under their canting dogmas! a man might rather even take his life than watch their cursed inhumanities. he went into the chemist's for a bromide; and, while the man was mixing it, stood resting one foot like a tired horse. the "life" he had squeezed out of that fellow! after all, a billion living creatures gave up life each day, had it squeezed out of them, mostly. and perhaps not one a day deserved death so much as that loathly fellow. life! a breath--aflame! nothing! why, then, this icy clutching at his heart? the chemist brought the draught. "not sleeping, sir?" "no." the man's eyes seemed to say: 'yes! burning the candle at both ends--i know!' odd life, a chemist's; pills and powders all day long, to hold the machinery of men together! devilish odd trade! in going out he caught the reflection of his face in a mirror; it seemed too good altogether for a man who had committed murder. there was a sort of brightness underneath, an amiability lurking about its shadows; how--how could it be the face of a man who had done what he had done? his head felt lighter now, his feet lighter; he walked rapidly again. curious feeling of relief and oppression all at once! frightful--to long for company, for talk, for distraction; and--to be afraid of it! the girl--the girl and keith were now the only persons who would not give him that feeling of dread. and, of those two--keith was not...! who could consort with one who was never wrong, a successful, righteous fellow; a chap built so that he knew nothing about himself, wanted to know nothing, a chap all solid actions? to be a quicksand swallowing up one's own resolutions was bad enough! but to be like keith--all willpower, marching along, treading down his own feelings and weaknesses! no! one could not make a comrade of a man like keith, even if he were one's brother? the only creature in all the world was the girl. she alone knew and felt what he was feeling; would put up with him and love him whatever he did, or was done to him. he stopped and took shelter in a doorway, to light a cigarette. he had suddenly a fearful wish to pass the archway where he had placed the body; a fearful wish that had no sense, no end in view, no anything; just an insensate craving to see the dark place again. he crossed borrow street to the little lane. there was only one person visible, a man on the far side with his shoulders hunched against the wind; a short, dark figure which crossed and came towards him in the flickering lamplight. what a face! yellow, ravaged, clothed almost to the eyes in a stubbly greyish growth of beard, with blackish teeth, and haunting bloodshot eyes. and what a figure of rags--one shoulder higher than the other, one leg a little lame, and thin! a surge of feeling came up in laurence for this creature, more unfortunate than himself. there were lower depths than his! "well, brother," he said, "you don't look too prosperous!" the smile which gleamed out on the man's face seemed as unlikely as a smile on a scarecrow. "prosperity doesn't come my way," he said in a rusty voice. "i'm a failure--always been a failure. and yet you wouldn't think it, would you?--i was a minister of religion once." laurence held out a shilling. but the man shook his head. "keep your money," he said. "i've got more than you to-day, i daresay. but thank you for taking a little interest. that's worth more than money to a man that's down." "you're right." "yes," the rusty voice went on; "i'd as soon die as go on living as i do. and now i've lost my self-respect. often wondered how long a starving man could go without losing his self-respect. not so very long. you take my word for that." and without the slightest change in the monotony of that creaking voice he added: "did you read of the murder? just here. i've been looking at the place." the words: 'so have i!' leaped up to laurence's lips; he choked them down with a sort of terror. "i wish you better luck," he said. "goodnight!" and hurried away. a sort of ghastly laughter was forcing its way up in his throat. was everyone talking of the murder he had committed? even the very scarecrows? iii there are some natures so constituted that, due to be hung at ten o'clock, they will play chess at eight. such men invariably rise. they make especially good bishops, editors, judges, impresarios, prime ministers, money-lenders, and generals; in fact, fill with exceptional credit any position of power over their fellow-men. they have spiritual cold storage, in which are preserved their nervous systems. in such men there is little or none of that fluid sense and continuity of feeling known under those vague terms, speculation, poetry, philosophy. men of facts and of decision switching imagination on and off at will, subordinating sentiment to reason... one does not think of them when watching wind ripple over cornfields, or swallows flying. keith darrant had need for being of that breed during his dinner at the tellassons. it was just eleven when he issued from the big house in portland place and refrained from taking a cab. he wanted to walk that he might better think. what crude and wanton irony there was in his situation! to have been made father-confessor to a murderer, he--well on towards a judgeship! with his contempt for the kind of weakness which landed men in such abysses, he felt it all so sordid, so "impossible," that he could hardly bring his mind to bear on it at all. and yet he must, because of two powerful instincts--self-preservation and blood-loyalty. the wind had still the sapping softness of the afternoon, but rain had held off so far. it was warm, and he unbuttoned his fur overcoat. the nature of his thoughts deepened the dark austerity of his face, whose thin, well-cut lips were always pressing together, as if, by meeting, to dispose of each thought as it came up. he moved along the crowded pavements glumly. that air of festive conspiracy which drops with the darkness on to lighted streets, galled him. he turned off on a darker route. this ghastly business! convinced of its reality, he yet could not see it. the thing existed in his mind, not as a picture, but as a piece of irrefutable evidence. larry had not meant to do it, of course. but it was murder, all the same. men like larry--weak, impulsive, sentimental, introspective creatures--did they ever mean what they did? this man, this walenn, was, by all accounts, better dead than alive; no need to waste a thought on him! but, crime--the ugliness--justice unsatisfied! crime concealed--and his own share in the concealment! and yet--brother to brother! surely no one could demand action from him! it was only a question of what he was going to advise larry to do. to keep silent, and disappear? had that a chance of success? perhaps if the answers to his questions had been correct. but this girl! suppose the dead man's relationship to her were ferreted out, could she be relied on not to endanger larry? these women were all the same, unstable as water, emotional, shiftless pests of society. then, too, a crime untracked, dogging all his brother's after life; a secret following him wherever he might vanish to; hanging over him, watching for some drunken moment, to slip out of his lips. it was bad to think of. a clean breast of it? but his heart twitched within him. "brother of mr. keith darrant, the well-known king's counsel"--visiting a woman of the town, strangling with his bare hands the woman's husband! no intention to murder, but--a dead man! a dead man carried out of the house, laid under a dark archway! provocation! recommended to mercy--penal servitude for life! was that the advice he was going to give larry to-morrow morning? and he had a sudden vision of shaven men with clay-coloured features, run, as it were, to seed, as he had seen them once in pentonville, when he had gone there to visit a prisoner. larry! whom, as a baby creature, he had watched straddling; whom, as a little fellow, he had fagged; whom he had seen through scrapes at college; to whom he had lent money time and again, and time and again admonished in his courses. larry! five years younger than himself; and committed to his charge by their mother when she died. to become for life one of those men with faces like diseased plants; with no hair but a bushy stubble; with arrows marked on their yellow clothes! larry! one of those men herded like sheep; at the beck and call of common men! a gentleman, his own brother, to live that slave's life, to be ordered here and there, year after year, day in, day out. something snapped within him. he could not give that advice. impossible! but if not, he must make sure of his ground, must verify, must know. this glove lane--this arch way? it would not be far from where he was that very moment. he looked for someone of whom to make enquiry. a policeman was standing at the corner, his stolid face illumined by a lamp; capable and watchful--an excellent officer, no doubt; but, turning his head away, keith passed him without a word. strange to feel that cold, uneasy feeling in presence of the law! a grim little driving home of what it all meant! then, suddenly, he saw that the turning to his left was borrow street itself. he walked up one side, crossed over, and returned. he passed number forty-two, a small house with business names printed on the lifeless windows of the first and second floors; with dark curtained windows on the ground floor, or was there just a slink of light in one corner? which way had larry turned? which way under that grisly burden? fifty paces of this squalid street-narrow, and dark, and empty, thank heaven! glove lane! here it was! a tiny runlet of a street. and here--! he had run right on to the arch, a brick bridge connecting two portions of a warehouse, and dark indeed. "that's right, gov'nor! that's the place!" he needed all his self-control to turn leisurely to the speaker. "'ere's where they found the body--very spot leanin' up 'ere. they ain't got 'im yet. lytest--me lord!" it was a ragged boy holding out a tattered yellowish journal. his lynx eyes peered up from under lanky wisps of hair, and his voice had the proprietary note of one making "a corner" in his news. keith took the paper and gave him twopence. he even found a sort of comfort in the young ghoul's hanging about there; it meant that others besides himself had come morbidly to look. by the dim lamplight he read: "glove lane garrotting mystery. nothing has yet been discovered of the murdered man's identity; from the cut of his clothes he is supposed to be a foreigner." the boy had vanished, and keith saw the figure of a policeman coming slowly down this gutter of a street. a second's hesitation, and he stood firm. nothing obviously could have brought him here save this "mystery," and he stayed quietly staring at the arch. the policeman moved up abreast. keith saw that he was the one whom he had passed just now. he noted the cold offensive question die out of the man's eyes when they caught the gleam of white shirt-front under the opened fur collar. and holding up the paper, he said: "is this where the man was found?" "yes, sir." "still a mystery, i see?" "well, we can't always go by the papers. but i don't fancy they do know much about it, yet." "dark spot. do fellows sleep under here?" the policeman nodded. "there's not an arch in london where we don't get 'em sometimes." "nothing found on him--i think i read?" "not a copper. pockets inside out. there's some funny characters about this quarter. greeks, hitalians--all sorts." queer sensation this, of being glad of a policeman's confidential tone! "well, good-night!" "good-night, sir. good-night!" he looked back from borrow street. the policeman was still standing there holding up his lantern, so that its light fell into the archway, as if trying to read its secret. now that he had seen this dark, deserted spot, the chances seemed to him much better. "pockets inside out!" either larry had had presence of mind to do a very clever thing, or someone had been at the body before the police found it. that was the more likely. a dead backwater of a place. at three o'clock--loneliest of all hours--larry's five minutes' grim excursion to and fro might well have passed unseen! now, it all depended on the girl; on whether laurence had been seen coming to her or going away; on whether, if the man's relationship to her were discovered, she could be relied on to say nothing. there was not a soul in borrow street now; hardly even a lighted window; and he took one of those rather desperate decisions only possible to men daily accustomed to the instant taking of responsibility. he would go to her, and see for himself. he came to the door of forty-two, obviously one of those which are only shut at night, and tried the larger key. it fitted, and he was in a gas-lighted passage, with an oil-clothed floor, and a single door to his left. he stood there undecided. she must be made to understand that he knew everything. she must not be told more than that he was a friend of larry's. she must not be frightened, yet must be forced to give her very soul away. a hostile witness--not to be treated as hostile--a matter for delicate handling! but his knock was not answered. should he give up this nerve-racking, bizarre effort to come at a basis of judgment; go away, and just tell laurence that he could not advise him? and then--what? something must be done. he knocked again. still no answer. and with that impatience of being thwarted, natural to him, and fostered to the full by the conditions of his life, he tried the other key. it worked, and he opened the door. inside all was dark, but a voice from some way off, with a sort of breathless relief in its foreign tones, said: "oh! then it's you, larry! why did you knock? i was so frightened. turn up the light, dear. come in!" feeling by the door for a switch in the pitch blackness he was conscious of arms round his neck, a warm thinly clad body pressed to his own; then withdrawn as quickly, with a gasp, and the most awful terror-stricken whisper: "oh! who is it?" with a glacial shiver down his own spine, keith answered "a friend of laurence. don't be frightened!" there was such silence that he could hear a clock ticking, and the sound of his own hand passing over the surface of the wall, trying to find the switch. he found it, and in the light which leaped up he saw, stiffened against a dark curtain evidently screening off a bedroom, a girl standing, holding a long black coat together at her throat, so that her face with its pale brown hair, short and square-cut and curling up underneath, had an uncanny look of being detached from any body. her face was so alabaster pale that the staring, startled eyes, dark blue or brown, and the faint rose of the parted lips, were like colour stainings on a white mask; and it had a strange delicacy, truth, and pathos, such as only suffering brings. though not susceptible to aesthetic emotion, keith was curiously affected. he said gently: "you needn't be afraid. i haven't come to do you harm--quite the contrary. may i sit down and talk?" and, holding up the keys, he added: "laurence wouldn't have given me these, would he, if he hadn't trusted me?" still she did not move, and he had the impression that he was looking at a spirit--a spirit startled out of its flesh. nor at the moment did it seem in the least strange that he should conceive such an odd thought. he stared round the room--clean and tawdry, with its tarnished gilt mirror, marble-topped side-table, and plush-covered sofa. twenty years and more since he had been in such a place. and he said: "won't you sit down? i'm sorry to have startled you." but still she did not move, whispering: "who are you, please?" and, moved suddenly beyond the realm of caution by the terror in that whisper, he answered: "larry's brother." she uttered a little sigh of relief which went to keith's heart, and, still holding the dark coat together at her throat, came forward and sat down on the sofa. he could see that her feet, thrust into slippers, were bare; with her short hair, and those candid startled eyes, she looked like a tall child. he drew up a chair and said: "you must forgive me coming at such an hour; he's told me, you see." he expected her to flinch and gasp; but she only clasped her hands together on her knees, and said: "yes?" then horror and discomfort rose up in him, afresh. "an awful business!" her whisper echoed him: "yes, oh! yes! awful--it is awful!" and suddenly realising that the man must have fallen dead just where he was sitting, keith became stock silent, staring at the floor. "yes," she whispered; "just there. i see him now always falling!" how she said that! with what a strange gentle despair! in this girl of evil life, who had brought on them this tragedy, what was it which moved him to a sort of unwilling compassion? "you look very young," he said. "i am twenty." "and you are fond of--my brother?" "i would die for him." impossible to mistake the tone of her voice, or the look in her eyes, true deep slav eyes; dark brown, not blue as he had thought at first. it was a very pretty face--either her life had not eaten into it yet, or the suffering of these last hours had purged away those marks; or perhaps this devotion of hers to larry. he felt strangely at sea, sitting there with this child of twenty; he, over forty, a man of the world, professionally used to every side of human nature. but he said, stammering a little: "i--i have come to see how far you can save him. listen, and just answer the questions i put to you." she raised her hands, squeezed them together, and murmured: "oh! i will answer anything." "this man, then--your--your husband--was he a bad man?" "a dreadful man." "before he came here last night, how long since you saw him?" "eighteen months." "where did you live when you saw him last?" "in pimlico." "does anybody about here know you as mrs. walenn?" "no. when i came here, after my little girl died, i came to live a bad life. nobody knows me at all. i am quite alone." "if they discover who he was, they will look for his wife?" "i do not know. he did not let people think i was married to him. i was very young; he treated many, i think, like me." "do you think he was known to the police?" she shook her head. "he was very clever." "what is your name now?" "wanda livinska." "were you known by that name before you were married?" "wanda is my christian name. livinska--i just call myself." "i see; since you came here." "yes." "did my brother ever see this man before last night?" "never." "you had told him about his treatment of you?" "yes. and that man first went for him." "i saw the mark. do you think anyone saw my brother come to you?" "i do not know. he says not." "can you tell if anyone saw him carrying the--the thing away?" "no one in this street--i was looking." "nor coming back?" "no one." "nor going out in the morning?" "i do not think it." "have you a servant?" "only a woman who comes at nine in the morning for an hour." "does she know larry?" "no." "friends, acquaintances?" "no; i am very quiet. and since i knew your brother, i see no one. nobody comes here but him for a long time now." "how long?" "five months." "have you been out to-day?" "no." "what have you been doing?" "crying." it was said with a certain dreadful simplicity, and pressing her hands together, she went on: "he is in danger, because of me. i am so afraid for him." holding up his hand to check that emotion, he said: "look at me!" she fixed those dark eyes on him, and in her bare throat, from which the coat had fallen back, he could see her resolutely swallowing down her agitation. "if the worst comes to the worst, and this man is traced to you, can you trust yourself not to give my brother away?" her eyes shone. she got up and went to the fireplace: "look! i have burned all the things he has given me--even his picture. now i have nothing from him." keith, too, got up. "good! one more question: do the police know you, because--because of your life?" she shook her head, looking at him intently, with those mournfully true eyes. and he felt a sort of shame. "i was obliged to ask. do you know where he lives?" "yes." "you must not go there. and he must not come to you, here." her lips quivered; but she bowed her head. suddenly he found her quite close to him, speaking almost in a whisper: "please do not take him from me altogether. i will be so careful. i will not do anything to hurt him; but if i cannot see him sometimes, i shall die. please do not take him from me." and catching his hand between her own, she pressed it desperately. it was several seconds before keith said: "leave that to me. i will see him. i shall arrange. you must leave that to me." "but you will be kind?" he felt her lips kissing his hand. and the soft moist touch sent a queer feeling through him, protective, yet just a little brutal, having in it a shiver of sensuality. he withdrew his hand. and as if warned that she had been too pressing, she recoiled humbly. but suddenly she turned, and stood absolutely rigid; then almost inaudibly whispered: "listen! someone out--out there!" and darting past him she turned out the light. almost at once came a knock on the door. he could feel--actually feel the terror of this girl beside him in the dark. and he, too, felt terror. who could it be? no one came but larry, she had said. who else then could it be? again came the knock, louder! he felt the breath of her whisper on his cheek: "if it is larry! i must open." he shrank back against the wall; heard her open the door and say faintly: "yes. please! who?" light painted a thin moving line on the wall opposite, and a voice which keith recognised answered: "all right, miss. your outer door's open here. you ought to keep it shut after dark." god! that policeman! and it had been his own doing, not shutting the outer door behind him when he came in. he heard her say timidly in her foreign voice: "thank you, sir!" the policeman's retreating steps, the outer door being shut, and felt her close to him again. that something in her youth and strange prettiness which had touched and kept him gentle, no longer blunted the edge of his exasperation, now that he could not see her. they were all the same, these women; could not speak the truth! and he said brusquely: "you told me they didn't know you!" her voice answered like a sigh: "i did not think they did, sir. it is so long i was not out in the town, not since i had larry." the repulsion which all the time seethed deep in keith welled up at those words. his brother--son of his mother, a gentleman--the property of this girl, bound to her, body and soul, by this unspeakable event! but she had turned up the light. had she some intuition that darkness was against her? yes, she was pretty with that soft face, colourless save for its lips and dark eyes, with that face somehow so touchingly, so unaccountably good, and like a child's. "i am going now," he said. "remember! he mustn't come here; you mustn't go to him. i shall see him to-morrow. if you are as fond of him as you say--take care, take care!" she sighed out, "yes! oh, yes!" and keith went to the door. she was standing with her back to the wall, and to follow him she only moved her head--that dove-like face with all its life in eyes which seemed saying: 'look into us; nothing we hide; all--all is there!' and he went out. in the passage he paused before opening the outer door. he did not want to meet that policeman again; the fellow's round should have taken him well out of the street by now, and turning the handle cautiously, he looked out. no one in sight. he stood a moment, wondering if he should turn to right or left, then briskly crossed the street. a voice to his right hand said: "good-night, sir." there in the shadow of a doorway the policeman was standing. the fellow must have seen him coming out! utterly unable to restrain a start, and muttering "goodnight!" keith walked on rapidly: he went full quarter of a mile before he lost that startled and uneasy feeling in sardonic exasperation that he, keith darrant, had been taken for a frequenter of a lady of the town. the whole thing--the whole thing!--a vile and disgusting business! his very mind felt dirty and breathless; his spirit, drawn out of sheath, had slowly to slide back before he could at all focus and readjust his reasoning faculty. certainly, he had got the knowledge he wanted. there was less danger than he thought. that girl's eyes! no mistaking her devotion. she would not give larry away. yes! larry must clear out--south america--the east--it did not matter. but he felt no relief. the cheap, tawdry room had wrapped itself round his fancy with its atmosphere of murky love, with the feeling it inspired, of emotion caged within those yellowish walls and the red stuff of its furniture. that girl's face! devotion; truth, too, and beauty, rare and moving, in its setting of darkness and horror, in that nest of vice and of disorder!... the dark archway; the street arab, with his gleeful: "they 'ain't got 'im yet!"; the feel of those bare arms round his neck; that whisper of horror in the darkness; above all, again, her child face looking into his, so truthful! and suddenly he stood quite still in the street. what in god's name was he about? what grotesque juggling amongst shadows, what strange and ghastly eccentricity was all this? the forces of order and routine, all the actualities of his daily life, marched on him at that moment, and swept everything before them. it was a dream, a nightmare not real! it was ridiculous! that he--he should thus be bound up with things so black and bizarre! he had come by now to the strand, that street down which every day he moved to the law courts, to his daily work; his work so dignified and regular, so irreproachable, and solid. no! the thing was all a monstrous nightmare! it would go, if he fixed his mind on the familiar objects around, read the names on the shops, looked at the faces passing. far down the thoroughfare he caught the outline of the old church, and beyond, the loom of the law courts themselves. the bell of a fire-engine sounded, and the horses came galloping by, with the shining metal, rattle of hoofs and hoarse shouting. here was a sensation, real and harmless, dignified and customary! a woman flaunting round the corner looked up at him, and leered out: "good-night!" even that was customary, tolerable. two policemen passed, supporting between them a man the worse for liquor, full of fight and expletives; the sight was soothing, an ordinary thing which brought passing annoyance, interest, disgust. it had begun to rain; he felt it on his face with pleasure--an actual thing, not eccentric, a thing which happened every day! he began to cross the street. cabs were going at furious speed now that the last omnibus had ceased to run; it distracted him to take this actual, ordinary risk run so often every day. during that crossing of the strand, with the rain in his face and the cabs shooting past, he regained for the first time his assurance, shook off this unreal sense of being in the grip of something, and walked resolutely to the corner of his home turning. but passing into that darker stretch, he again stood still. a policeman had also turned into that street on the other side. not--surely not! absurd! they were all alike to look at--those fellows! absurd! he walked on sharply, and let himself into his house. but on his way upstairs he could not for the life of him help raising a corner of a curtain and looking from the staircase window. the policeman was marching solemnly, about twenty-five yards away, paying apparently no attention to anything whatever. iv keith woke at five o'clock, his usual hour, without remembrance. but the grisly shadow started up when he entered his study, where the lamp burned, and the fire shone, and the coffee was set ready, just as when yesterday afternoon larry had stood out there against the wall. for a moment he fought against realisation; then, drinking off his coffee, sat down sullenly at the bureau to his customary three hours' study of the day's cases. not one word of his brief could he take in. it was all jumbled with murky images and apprehensions, and for full half an hour he suffered mental paralysis. then the sheer necessity of knowing something of the case which he had to open at half-past ten that morning forced him to a concentration which never quite subdued the malaise at the bottom of his heart. nevertheless, when he rose at half-past eight and went into the bathroom, he had earned his grim satisfaction in this victory of will-power. by half-past nine he must be at larry's. a boat left london for the argentine to-morrow. if larry was to get away at once, money must be arranged for. and then at breakfast he came on this paragraph in the paper: "soho murder. "enquiry late last night established the fact that the police have discovered the identity of the man found strangled yesterday morning under an archway in glove lane. an arrest has been made." by good fortune he had finished eating, for the words made him feel physically sick. at this very minute larry might be locked up, waiting to be charged-might even have been arrested before his own visit to the girl last night. if larry were arrested, she must be implicated. what, then, would be his own position? idiot to go and look at that archway, to go and see the girl! had that policeman really followed him home? accessory after the fact! keith darrant, king's counsel, man of mark! he forced himself by an effort, which had something of the heroic, to drop this panicky feeling. panic never did good. he must face it, and see. he refused even to hurry, calmly collected the papers wanted for the day, and attended to a letter or two, before he set out in a taxi-cab to fitzroy street. waiting outside there in the grey morning for his ring to be answered, he looked the very picture of a man who knew his mind, a man of resolution. but it needed all his will-power to ask without tremor: "mr. darrant in?" to hear without sign of any kind the answer: "he's not up yet, sir." "never mind; i'll go in and see him. mr. keith darrant." on his way to laurence's bedroom, in the midst of utter relief, he had the self-possession to think: 'this arrest is the best thing that could have happened. it'll keep their noses on a wrong scent till larry's got away. the girl must be sent off too, but not with him.' panic had ended in quite hardening his resolution. he entered the bedroom with a feeling of disgust. the fellow was lying there, his bare arms crossed behind his tousled head, staring at the ceiling, and smoking one of many cigarettes whose ends littered a chair beside him, whose sickly reek tainted the air. that pale face, with its jutting cheek-bones and chin, its hollow cheeks and blue eyes far sunk back--what a wreck of goodness! he looked up at keith through the haze of smoke and said quietly: "well, brother, what's the sentence? 'transportation for life, and then to be fined forty pounds?'" the flippancy revolted keith. it was larry all over! last night horrified and humble, this morning, "don't care" and feather-headed. he said sourly: "oh! you can joke about it now?" laurence turned his face to the wall. "must." fatalism! how detestable were natures like that! "i've been to see her," he said. "you?" "last night. she can be trusted." laurence laughed. "that i told you." "i had to see for myself. you must clear out at once, larry. she can come out to you by the next boat; but you can't go together. have you any money?" "no." "i can foot your expenses, and lend you a year's income in advance. but it must be a clean cut; after you get out there your whereabouts must only be known to me." a long sigh answered him. "you're very good to me, keith; you've always been very good. i don't know why." keith answered drily "nor i. there's a boat to the argentine tomorrow. you're in luck; they've made an arrest. it's in the paper." "what?" the cigarette end dropped, the thin pyjama'd figure writhed up and stood clutching at the bedrail. "what?" the disturbing thought flitted through keith's brain: 'i was a fool. he takes it queerly; what now?' laurence passed his hand over his forehead, and sat down on the bed. "i hadn't thought of that," he said; "it does me!" keith stared. in his relief that the arrested man was not laurence, this had not occurred to him. what folly! "why?" he said quickly; "an innocent man's in no danger. they always get the wrong man first. it's a piece of luck, that's all. it gives us time." how often had he not seen that expression on larry's face, wistful, questioning, as if trying to see the thing with his--keith's-eyes, trying to submit to better judgment? and he said, almost gently-- "now, look here, larry; this is too serious to trifle with. don't worry about that. leave it to me. just get ready to be off'. i'll take your berth and make arrangements. here's some money for kit. i can come round between five and six, and let you know. pull yourself together, man. as soon as the girl's joined you out there, you'd better get across to chile, the further the better. you must simply lose yourself: i must go now, if i'm to get to the bank before i go down to the courts." and looking very steadily at his brother, he added: "come! you've got to think of me in this matter as well as of yourself. no playing fast and loose with the arrangements. understand?" but still larry gazed up at him with that wistful questioning, and not till he had repeated, "understand?" did he receive "yes" for answer. driving away, he thought: 'queer fellow! i don't know him, shall never know him!' and at once began to concentrate on the practical arrangements. at his bank he drew out l ; but waiting for the notes to be counted he suffered qualms. a clumsy way of doing things! if there had been more time! the thought: 'accessory after the fact!' now infected everything. notes were traceable. no other way of getting him away at once, though. one must take lesser risks to avoid greater. from the bank he drove to the office of the steamship line. he had told larry he would book his passage. but that would not do! he must only ask anonymously if there were accommodation. having discovered that there were vacant berths, he drove on to the law courts. if he could have taken a morning off, he would have gone down to the police court and seen them charge this man. but even that was not too safe, with a face so well known as his. what would come of this arrest? nothing, surely! the police always took somebody up, to keep the public quiet. then, suddenly, he had again the feeling that it was all a nightmare; larry had never done it; the police had got the right man! but instantly the memory of the girl's awe-stricken face, her figure huddling on the sofa, her words "i see him always falling!" came back. god! what a business! he felt he had never been more clear-headed and forcible than that morning in court. when he came out for lunch he bought the most sensational of the evening papers. but it was yet too early for news, and he had to go back into court no whit wiser concerning the arrest. when at last he threw off wig and gown, and had got through a conference and other necessary work, he went out to chancery lane, buying a paper on the way. then he hailed a cab, and drove once more to fitzroy street. v laurence had remained sitting on his bed for many minutes. an innocent man in no danger! keith had said it--the celebrated lawyer! could he rely on that? go out , miles, he and the girl, and leave a fellow-creature perhaps in mortal peril for an act committed by himself? in the past night he had touched bottom, as he thought: become ready to face anything. when keith came in he would without murmur have accepted the advice: "give yourself up!" he was prepared to pitch away the end of his life as he pitched from him the fag-ends of his cigarettes. and the long sigh he had heaved, hearing of reprieve, had been only half relief. then, with incredible swiftness there had rushed through him a feeling of unutterable joy and hope. clean away--into a new country, a new life! the girl and he! out there he wouldn't care, would rejoice even to have squashed the life out of such a noisome beetle of a man. out there! under a new sun, where blood ran quicker than in this foggy land, and people took justice into their own hands. for it had been justice on that brute even though he had not meant to kill him. and then to hear of this arrest! they would be charging the man to-day. he could go and see the poor creature accused of the murder he himself had committed! and he laughed. go and see how likely it was that they might hang a fellow-man in place of himself? he dressed, but too shaky to shave himself, went out to a barber's shop. while there he read the news which keith had seen. in this paper the name of the arrested man was given: "john evan, no address." to be brought up on the charge at bow street. yes! he must go. once, twice, three times he walked past the entrance of the court before at last he entered and screwed himself away among the tag and bobtail. the court was crowded; and from the murmurs round he could tell that it was his particular case which had brought so many there. in a dazed way he watched charge after charge disposed of with lightning quickness. but were they never going to reach his business? and then suddenly he saw the little scarecrow man of last night advancing to the dock between two policemen, more ragged and miserable than ever by light of day, like some shaggy, wan, grey animal, surrounded by sleek hounds. a sort of satisfied purr was rising all round; and with horror laurence perceived that this--this was the man accused of what he himself had done--this queer, battered unfortunate to whom he had shown a passing friendliness. then all feeling merged in the appalling interest of listening. the evidence was very short. testimony of the hotel-keeper where walenn had been staying, the identification of his body, and of a snake-shaped ring he had been wearing at dinner that evening. testimony of a pawnbroker, that this same ring was pawned with him the first thing yesterday morning by the prisoner. testimony of a policeman that he had noticed the man evan several times in glove lane, and twice moved him on from sleeping under that arch. testimony of another policeman that, when arrested at midnight, evan had said: "yes; i took the ring off his finger. i found him there dead .... i know i oughtn't to have done it.... i'm an educated man; it was stupid to pawn the ring. i found him with his pockets turned inside out." fascinating and terrible to sit staring at the man in whose place he should have been; to wonder when those small bright-grey bloodshot eyes would spy him out, and how he would meet that glance. like a baited raccoon the little man stood, screwed back into a corner, mournful, cynical, fierce, with his ridged, obtuse yellow face, and his stubbly grey beard and hair, and his eyes wandering now and again amongst the crowd. but with all his might laurence kept his face unmoved. then came the word "remanded"; and, more like a baited beast than ever, the man was led away. laurence sat on, a cold perspiration thick on his forehead. someone else, then, had come on the body and turned the pockets inside out before john evan took the ring. a man such as walenn would not be out at night without money. besides, if evan had found money on the body he would never have run the risk of taking that ring. yes, someone else had come on the body first. it was for that one to come forward, and prove that the ring was still on the dead man's finger when he left him, and thus clear evan. he clung to that thought; it seemed to make him less responsible for the little man's position; to remove him and his own deed one step further back. if they found the person who had taken the money, it would prove evan's innocence. he came out of the court in a sort of trance. and a craving to get drunk attacked him. one could not go on like this without the relief of some oblivion. if he could only get drunk, keep drunk till this business was decided and he knew whether he must give himself up or no. he had now no fear at all of people suspecting him; only fear of himself--fear that he might go and give himself up. now he could see the girl; the danger from that was as nothing compared with the danger from his own conscience. he had promised keith not to see her. keith had been decent and loyal to him--good old keith! but he would never understand that this girl was now all he cared about in life; that he would rather be cut off from life itself than be cut off from her. instead of becoming less and less, she was becoming more and more to him--experience strange and thrilling! out of deep misery she had grown happy--through him; out of a sordid, shifting life recovered coherence and bloom, through devotion to him him, of all people in the world! it was a miracle. she demanded nothing of him, adored him, as no other woman ever had--it was this which had anchored his drifting barque; this--and her truthful mild intelligence, and that burning warmth of a woman, who, long treated by men as but a sack of sex, now loves at last. and suddenly, mastering his craving to get drunk, he made towards soho. he had been a fool to give those keys to keith. she must have been frightened by his visit; and, perhaps, doubly miserable since, knowing nothing, imagining everything! keith was sure to have terrified her. poor little thing! down the street where he had stolen in the dark with the dead body on his back, he almost ran for the cover of her house. the door was opened to him before he knocked, her arms were round his neck, her lips pressed to his. the fire was out, as if she had been unable to remember to keep warm. a stool had been drawn to the window, and there she had evidently been sitting, like a bird in a cage, looking out into the grey street. though she had been told that he was not to come, instinct had kept her there; or the pathetic, aching hope against hope which lovers never part with. now that he was there, her first thoughts were for his comfort. the fire was lighted. he must eat, drink, smoke. there was never in her doings any of the "i am doing this for you, but you ought to be doing that for me" which belongs to so many marriages, and liaisons. she was like a devoted slave, so in love with the chains that she never knew she wore them. and to laurence, who had so little sense of property, this only served to deepen tenderness, and the hold she had on him. he had resolved not to tell her of the new danger he ran from his own conscience. but resolutions with him were but the opposites of what was sure to come; and at last the words: "they've arrested someone," escaped him. from her face he knew she had grasped the danger at once; had divined it, perhaps, before he spoke. but she only twined her arms round him and kissed his lips. and he knew that she was begging him to put his love for her above his conscience. who would ever have thought that he could feel as he did to this girl who had been in the arms of many! the stained and suffering past of a loved woman awakens in some men only chivalry; in others, more respectable, it rouses a tigerish itch, a rancorous jealousy of what in the past was given to others. sometimes it will do both. when he had her in his arms he felt no remorse for killing the coarse, handsome brute who had ruined her. he savagely rejoiced in it. but when she laid her head in the hollow of his shoulder, turning to him her white face with the faint colour-staining on the parted lips, the cheeks, the eyelids; when her dark, wide-apart, brown eyes gazed up in the happiness of her abandonment--he felt only tenderness and protection. he left her at five o'clock, and had not gone two streets' length before the memory of the little grey vagabond, screwed back in the far corner of the dock like a baited raccoon, of his dreary, creaking voice, took possession of him again; and a kind of savagery mounted in his brain against a world where one could be so tortured without having meant harm to anyone. at the door of his lodgings keith was getting out of a cab. they went in together, but neither of them sat down; keith standing with his back to the carefully shut door, laurence with his back to the table, as if they knew there was a tug coming. and keith said: "there's room on that boat. go down and book your berth before they shut. here's the money!" "i'm going to stick it, keith." keith stepped forward, and put a roll of notes on the table. "now look here, larry. i've read the police court proceedings. there's nothing in that. out of prison, or in prison for a few weeks, it's all the same to a night-bird of that sort. dismiss it from your mind--there's not nearly enough evidence to convict. this gives you your chance. take it like a man, and make a new life for yourself." laurence smiled; but the smile had a touch of madness and a touch of malice. he took up the notes. "clear out, and save the honour of brother keith. put them back in your pocket, keith, or i'll put them in the fire. come, take them!" and, crossing to the fire, he held them to the bars. "take them, or in they go!" keith took back the notes. "i've still got some kind of honour, keith; if i clear out i shall have none, not the rag of any, left. it may be worth more to me than that--i can't tell yet--i can't tell." there was a long silence before keith answered. "i tell you you're mistaken; no jury will convict. if they did, a judge would never hang on it. a ghoul who can rob a dead body ought to be in prison. what he did is worse than what you did, if you come to that!" laurence lifted his face. "judge not, brother," he said; "the heart is a dark well." keith's yellowish face grew red and swollen, as though he were mastering the tickle of a bronchial cough. "what are you going to do, then? i suppose i may ask you not to be entirely oblivious of our name; or is such a consideration unworthy of your honour?" laurence bent his head. the gesture said more clearly than words: 'don't kick a man when he's down!' "i don't know what i'm going to do--nothing at present. i'm awfully sorry, keith; awfully sorry." keith looked at him, and without another word went out. vi to any, save philosophers, reputation may be threatened almost as much by disgrace to name and family as by the disgrace of self. keith's instinct was always to deal actively with danger. but this blow, whether it fell on him by discovery or by confession, could not be countered. as blight falls on a rose from who knows where, the scandalous murk would light on him. no repulse possible! not even a wriggling from under! brother of a murderer hung or sent to penal servitude! his daughter niece to a murderer! his dead mother-a murderer's mother! and to wait day after day, week after week, not knowing whether the blow would fall, was an extraordinarily atrocious penance, the injustice of which, to a man of rectitude, seemed daily the more monstrous. the remand had produced evidence that the murdered man had been drinking heavily on the night of his death, and further evidence of the accused's professional vagabondage and destitution; it was shown, too, that for some time the archway in glove lane had been his favourite night haunt. he had been committed for trial in january. this time, despite misgivings, keith had attended the police court. to his great relief larry was not there. but the policeman who had come up while he was looking at the archway, and given him afterwards that scare in the girl's rooms, was chief witness to the way the accused man haunted glove lane. though keith held his silk hat high, he still had the uncomfortable feeling that the man had recognised him. his conscience suffered few, if any, twinges for letting this man rest under the shadow of the murder. he genuinely believed that there was not evidence enough to convict; nor was it in him to appreciate the tortures of a vagabond shut up. the scamp deserved what he had got, for robbing a dead body; and in any case such a scarecrow was better off in prison than sleeping out under archways in december. sentiment was foreign to keith's character, and his justice that of those who subordinate the fates of the weak and shiftless to the needful paramountcy of the strong and well established. his daughter came back from school for the christmas holidays. it was hard to look up from her bright eyes and rosy cheeks and see this shadow hanging above his calm and ordered life, as in a glowing room one's eye may catch an impending patch of darkness drawn like a spider's web across a corner of the ceiling. on the afternoon of christmas eve they went, by her desire, to a church in soho, where the christmas oratorio was being given; and coming away passed, by chance of a wrong turning, down borrow street. ugh! how that startled moment, when the girl had pressed herself against him in the dark, and her terror-stricken whisper: "oh! who is it?" leaped out before him! always that business--that ghastly business! after the trial he would have another try to get them both away. and he thrust his arm within his young daughter's, hurrying her on, out of this street where shadows filled all the winter air. but that evening when she had gone to bed he felt uncontrollably restless. he had not seen larry for weeks. what was he about? what desperations were hatching in his disorderly brain? was he very miserable; had he perhaps sunk into a stupor of debauchery? and the old feeling of protectiveness rose up in him; a warmth born of long ago christmas eves, when they had stockings hung out in the night stuffed by a santa claus, whose hand never failed to tuck them up, whose kiss was their nightly waft into sleep. stars were sparkling out there over the river; the sky frosty-clear, and black. bells had not begun to ring as yet. and obeying an obscure, deep impulse, keith wrapped himself once more into his fur coat, pulled a motoring cap over his eyes, and sallied forth. in the strand he took a cab to fitzroy street. there was no light in larry's windows, and on a card he saw the words "to let." gone! had he after all cleared out for good? but how-without money? and the girl? bells were ringing now in the silent frostiness. christmas eve! and keith thought: 'if only this wretched business were off my mind! monstrous that one should suffer for the faults of others!' he took a route which led him past borrow street. solitude brooded there, and he walked resolutely down on the far side, looking hard at the girl's window. there was a light. the curtains just failed to meet, so that a thin gleam shone through. he crossed; and after glancing swiftly up and down, deliberately peered in. he only stood there perhaps twenty seconds, but visual records gleaned in a moment sometimes outlast the visions of hours and days. the electric light was not burning; but, in the centre of the room the girl was kneeling in her nightgown before a little table on which were four lighted candles. her arms were crossed on her breast; the candle-light shone on her fair cropped hair, on the profile of cheek and chin, on her bowed white neck. for a moment he thought her alone; then behind her saw his brother in a sleeping suit, leaning against the wall, with arms crossed, watching. it was the expression on his face which burned the whole thing in, so that always afterwards he was able to see that little scene--such an expression as could never have been on the face of one even faintly conscious that he was watched by any living thing on earth. the whole of larry's heart and feeling seemed to have come up out of him. yearning, mockery, love, despair! the depth of his feeling for this girl, his stress of mind, fears, hopes; the flotsam good and evil of his soul, all transfigured there, exposed and unforgettable. the candle-light shone upward on to his face, twisted by the strangest smile; his eyes, darker and more wistful than mortal eyes should be, seemed to beseech and mock the white-clad girl, who, all unconscious, knelt without movement, like a carved figure of devotion. the words seemed coming from his lips: "pray for us! bravo! yes! pray for us!" and suddenly keith saw her stretch out her arms, and lift her face with a look of ecstasy, and laurence starting forward. what had she seen beyond the candle flames? it is the unexpected which invests visions with poignancy. nothing more strange could keith have seen in this nest of the murky and illicit. but in sheer panic lest he might be caught thus spying he drew back and hurried on. so larry was living there with her! when the moment came he could still find him. before going in, he stood full five minutes leaning on the terrace parapet before his house, gazing at the star-frosted sky, and the river cut by the trees into black pools, oiled over by gleams from the embankment lamps. and, deep down, behind his mere thoughts, he ached-somehow, somewhere ached. beyond the cage of all that he saw and heard and thought, he had perceived something he could not reach. but the night was cold, the bells silent, for it had struck twelve. entering his house, he stole upstairs. vii if for keith those six weeks before the glove lane murder trial came on were fraught with uneasiness and gloom, they were for laurence almost the happiest since his youth. from the moment when he left his rooms and went to the girl's to live, a kind of peace and exaltation took possession of him. not by any effort of will did he throw off the nightmare hanging over him. nor was he drugged by love. he was in a sort of spiritual catalepsy. in face of fate too powerful for his will, his turmoil, anxiety, and even restlessness had ceased; his life floated in the ether of "what must come, will." out of this catalepsy, his spirit sometimes fell headlong into black waters. in one such whirlpool he was struggling on the night of christmas eve. when the girl rose from her knees he asked her: "what did you see?" pressing close to him, she drew him down on to the floor before the fire; and they sat, knees drawn up, hands clasped, like two children trying to see over the edge of the world. "it was the virgin i saw. she stood against the wall and smiled. we shall be happy soon." "when we die, wanda," he said, suddenly, "let it be together. we shall keep each other warm, out there." huddling to him she whispered: "yes, oh, yes! if you die, i could not go on living." it was this utter dependence on him, the feeling that he had rescued something, which gave him sense of anchorage. that, and his buried life in the retreat of these two rooms. just for an hour in the morning, from nine to ten, the charwoman would come, but not another soul all day. they never went out together. he would stay in bed late, while wanda bought what they needed for the day's meals; lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, recalling her face, the movements of her slim, rounded, supple figure, robing itself before his gaze; feeling again the kiss she had left on his lips, the gleam of her soft eyes, so strangely dark in so fair a face. in a sort of trance he would lie till she came back. then get up to breakfast about noon off things which she had cooked, drinking coffee. in the afternoon he would go out alone and walk for hours, any where, so long as it was east. to the east there was always suffering to be seen, always that which soothed him with the feeling that he and his troubles were only a tiny part of trouble; that while so many other sorrowing and shadowy creatures lived he was not cut off. to go west was to encourage dejection. in the west all was like keith, successful, immaculate, ordered, resolute. he would come back tired out, and sit watching her cook their little dinner. the evenings were given up to love. queer trance of an existence, which both were afraid to break. no sign from her of wanting those excitements which girls who have lived her life, even for a few months, are supposed to need. she never asked him to take her anywhere; never, in word, deed, look, seemed anything but almost rapturously content. and yet he knew, and she knew, that they were only waiting to see whether fate would turn her thumb down on them. in these days he did not drink. out of his quarter's money, when it came in, he had paid his debts--their expenses were very small. he never went to see keith, never wrote to him, hardly thought of him. and from those dread apparitions--walenn lying with the breath choked out of him, and the little grey, driven animal in the dock--he hid, as only a man can who must hide or be destroyed. but daily he bought a newspaper, and feverishly, furtively scanned its columns. viii coming out of the law courts on the afternoon of january th, at the triumphant end of a desperately fought will case, keith saw on a poster the words: "glove lane murder: trial and verdict"; and with a rush of dismay he thought: 'good god! i never looked at the paper this morning!' the elation which had filled him a second before, the absorption he had felt for two days now in the case so hardly won, seemed suddenly quite sickeningly trivial. what on earth had he been doing to forget that horrible business even for an instant? he stood quite still on the crowded pavement, unable, really unable, to buy a paper. but his face was like a piece of iron when he did step forward and hold his penny out. there it was in the stop press! "glove lane murder. the jury returned a verdict of guilty. sentence of death was passed." his first sensation was simple irritation. how had they come to commit such an imbecility? monstrous! the evidence--! then the futility of even reading the report, of even considering how they had come to record such a verdict struck him with savage suddenness. there it was, and nothing he could do or say would alter it; no condemnation of this idiotic verdict would help reverse it. the situation was desperate, indeed! that five minutes' walk from the law courts to his chambers was the longest he had ever taken. men of decided character little know beforehand what they will do in certain contingencies. for the imaginations of decided people do not endow mere contingencies with sufficient actuality. keith had never really settled what he was going to do if this man were condemned. often in those past weeks he had said to himself: "of course, if they bring him in guilty, that's another thing!" but, now that they had, he was beset by exactly the same old arguments and feelings, the same instincts of loyalty and protection towards laurence and himself, intensified by the fearful imminence of the danger. and yet, here was this man about to be hung for a thing he had not done! nothing could get over that! but then he was such a worthless vagabond, a ghoul who had robbed a dead body. if larry were condemned in his stead, would there be any less miscarriage of justice? to strangle a brute who had struck you, by the accident of keeping your hands on his throat a few seconds too long, was there any more guilt in that--was there even as much, as in deliberate theft from a dead man? reverence for order, for justice, and established fact, will, often march shoulder to shoulder with jesuitry in natures to whom success is vital. in the narrow stone passage leading to his staircase, a friend had called out: "bravo, darrant! that was a squeak! congratulations!" and with a bitter little smile keith thought: 'congratulations! i!' at the first possible moment the hurried back to the strand, and hailing a cab, he told the man to put him down at a turning near to borrow street. it was the girl who opened to his knock. startled, clasping her hands, she looked strange to keith in her black skirt and blouse of some soft velvety stuff the colour of faded roses. her round, rather long throat was bare; and keith noticed fretfully that she wore gold earrings. her eyes, so pitch dark against her white face, and the short fair hair, which curled into her neck, seemed both to search and to plead. "my brother?" "he is not in, sir, yet." "do you know where he is?" "no." "he is living with you here now?" "yes." "are you still as fond of him as ever, then?" with a movement, as though she despaired of words, she clasped her hands over her heart. and he said: "i see." he had the same strange feeling as on his first visit to her, and when through the chink in the curtains he had watched her kneeling--of pity mingled with some faint sexual emotion. and crossing to the fire he asked: "may i wait for him?" "oh! please! will you sit down?" but keith shook his head. and with a catch in her breath, she said: "you will not take him from me. i should die." he turned round on her sharply. "i don't want him taken from you. i want to help you keep him. are you ready to go away, at any time?" "yes. oh, yes!" "and he?" she answered almost in a whisper: "yes; but there is that poor man." "that poor man is a graveyard thief; a hyena; a ghoul--not worth consideration." and the rasp in his own voice surprised him. "ah!" she sighed. "but i am sorry for him. perhaps he was hungry. i have been hungry--you do things then that you would not. and perhaps he has no one to love; if you have no one to love you can be very bad. i think of him often--in prison." between his teeth keith muttered: "and laurence?" "we do never speak of it, we are afraid." "he's not told you, then, about the trial?" her eyes dilated. "the trial! oh! he was strange last night. this morning, too, he got up early. is it-is it over?" "yes." "what has come?" "guilty." for a moment keith thought she was going to faint. she had closed her eyes, and swayed so that he took a step, and put his hands on her arms. "listen!" he said. "help me; don't let laurence out of your sight. we must have time. i must see what they intend to do. they can't be going to hang this man. i must have time, i tell you. you must prevent his giving himself up." she stood, staring in his face, while he still held her arms, gripping into her soft flesh through the velvety sleeves. "do you understand?" "yes-but if he has already!" keith felt the shiver which ran through her. and the thought rushed into his mind: 'my god! suppose the police come round while i'm here!' if larry had indeed gone to them! if that policeman who had seen him here the night after the murder should find him here again just after the verdict! he said almost fiercely: "can i trust you not to let larry out of your sight? quick! answer!" clasping her hands to her breast, she answered humbly: "i will try." "if he hasn't already done this, watch him like a lynx! don't let him go out without you. i'll come to-morrow morning early. you're a catholic, aren't you? swear to me that you won't let him do anything till he's seen me again." she did not answer, looking past him at the door; and keith heard a key in the latch. there was laurence himself, holding in his hand a great bunch of pink lilies and white narcissi. his face was pale and haggard. he said quietly: "hallo, keith!" the girl's eyes were fastened on larry's face; and keith, looking from one to the other, knew that he had never had more need for wariness. "have you seen?" he said. laurence nodded. his expression, as a rule so tell-tale of his emotions, baffled keith utterly. "well?" "i've been expecting it." "the thing can't stand--that's certain. but i must have time to look into the report. i must have time to see what i can do. d'you understand me, larry--i must have time." he knew he was talking at random. the only thing was to get them away at once out of reach of confession; but he dared not say so. "promise me that you'll do nothing, that you won't go out even till i've seen you to-morrow morning." again laurence nodded. and keith looked at the girl. would she see that he did not break that promise? her eyes were still fixed immovably on larry's face. and with the feeling that he could get no further, keith turned to go. "promise me," he said. laurence answered: "i promise." he was smiling. keith could make nothing of that smile, nor of the expression in the girl's eyes. and saying: "i have your promise, i rely on it!" he went. ix to keep from any woman who loves, knowledge of her lover's mood, is as hard as to keep music from moving the heart. but when that woman has lived in suffering, and for the first time knows the comfort of love, then let the lover try as he may to disguise his heart--no use! yet by virtue of subtler abnegation she will often succeed in keeping it from him that she knows. when keith was gone the girl made no outcry, asked no questions, managed that larry should not suspect her intuition; all that evening she acted as if she knew of nothing preparing within him, and through him, within herself. his words, caresses, the very zest with which he helped her to prepare the feast, the flowers he had brought, the wine he made her drink, the avoidance of any word which could spoil their happiness, all--all told her. he was too inexorably gay and loving. not for her--to whom every word and every kiss had uncannily the desperate value of a last word and kiss--not for her to deprive herself of these by any sign or gesture which might betray her prescience. poor soul--she took all, and would have taken more, a hundredfold. she did not want to drink the wine he kept tilting into her glass, but, with the acceptance learned by women who have lived her life, she did not refuse. she had never refused him anything. so much had been required of her by the detestable, that anything required by a loved one was but an honour. laurence drank deeply; but he had never felt clearer, never seen things more clearly. the wine gave him what he wanted, an edge to these few hours of pleasure, an exaltation of energy. it dulled his sense of pity, too. it was pity he was afraid of--for himself, and for this girl. to make even this tawdry room look beautiful, with firelight and candlelight, dark amber wine in the glasses, tall pink lilies spilling their saffron, exuding their hot perfume he and even himself must look their best. and with a weight as of lead on her heart, she managed that for him, letting him strew her with flowers and crush them together with herself. not even music was lacking to their feast. someone was playing a pianola across the street, and the sound, very faint, came stealing when they were silent--swelling, sinking, festive, mournful; having a far-off life of its own, like the flickering fire-flames before which they lay embraced, or the lilies delicate between the candles. listening to that music, tracing with his finger the tiny veins on her breast, he lay like one recovering from a swoon. no parting. none! but sleep, as the firelight sleeps when flames die; as music sleeps on its deserted strings. and the girl watched him. it was nearly ten when he bade her go to bed. and after she had gone obedient into the bedroom, he brought ink and paper down by the fire. the drifter, the unstable, the good-for-nothing--did not falter. he had thought, when it came to the point, he would fail himself; but a sort of rage bore him forward. if he lived on, and confessed, they would shut him up, take from him the one thing he loved, cut him off from her; sand up his only well in the desert. curse them! and he wrote by firelight which mellowed the white sheets of paper; while, against the dark curtain, the girl, in her nightgown, unconscious of the cold, stood watching. men, when they drown, remember their pasts. like the lost poet he had "gone with the wind." now it was for him to be true in his fashion. a man may falter for weeks and weeks, consciously, subconsciously, even in his dreams, till there comes that moment when the only thing impossible is to go on faltering. the black cap, the little driven grey man looking up at it with a sort of wonder--faltering had ceased! he had finished now, and was but staring into the fire. "no more, no more, the moon is dead, and all the people in it; the poppy maidens strew the bed, we'll come in half a minute." why did doggerel start up in the mind like that? wanda! the weed-flower become so rare he would not be parted from her! the fire, the candles, and the fire--no more the flame and flicker! and, by the dark curtain, the girl watched. x keith went, not home, but to his club; and in the room devoted to the reception of guests, empty at this hour, he sat down and read the report of the trial. the fools had made out a case that looked black enough. and for a long time, on the thick soft carpet which let out no sound of footfall, he paced up and down, thinking. he might see the defending counsel, might surely do that as an expert who thought there had been miscarriage of justice. they must appeal; a petition too might be started in the last event. the thing could--must be put right yet, if only larry and that girl did nothing! he had no appetite, but the custom of dining is too strong. and while he ate, he glanced with irritation at his fellow-members. they looked so at their ease. unjust--that this black cloud should hang over one blameless as any of them! friends, connoisseurs of such things--a judge among them--came specially to his table to express their admiration of his conduct of that will case. tonight he had real excuse for pride, but he felt none. yet, in this well-warmed quietly glowing room, filled with decorously eating, decorously talking men, he gained insensibly some comfort. this surely was reality; that shadowy business out there only the drear sound of a wind one must and did keep out--like the poverty and grime which had no real existence for the secure and prosperous. he drank champagne. it helped to fortify reality, to make shadows seem more shadowy. and down in the smoking-room he sat before the fire, in one of those chairs which embalm after-dinner dreams. he grew sleepy there, and at eleven o'clock rose to go home. but when he had once passed down the shallow marble steps, out through the revolving door which let in no draughts, he was visited by fear, as if he had drawn it in with the breath of the january wind. larry's face; and the girl watching it! why had she watched like that? larry's smile; and the flowers in his hand? buying flowers at such a moment! the girl was his slave-whatever he told her, she would do. but she would never be able to stop him. at this very moment he might be rushing to give himself up! his hand, thrust deep into the pocket of his fur coat, came in contact suddenly with something cold. the keys larry had given him all that time ago. there they had lain forgotten ever since. the chance touch decided him. he turned off towards borrow street, walking at full speed. he could but go again and see. he would sleep better if he knew that he had left no stone unturned. at the corner of that dismal street he had to wait for solitude before he made for the house which he now loathed with a deadly loathing. he opened the outer door and shut it to behind him. he knocked, but no one came. perhaps they had gone to bed. again and again he knocked, then opened the door, stepped in, and closed it carefully. candles lighted, the fire burning; cushions thrown on the floor in front of it and strewn with flowers! the table, too, covered with flowers and with the remnants of a meal. through the half-drawn curtain he could see that the inner room was also lighted. had they gone out, leaving everything like this? gone out! his heart beat. bottles! larry had been drinking! had it really come? must he go back home with this murk on him; knowing that his brother was a confessed and branded murderer? he went quickly, to the half-drawn curtains and looked in. against the wall he saw a bed, and those two in it. he recoiled in sheer amazement and relief. asleep with curtains undrawn, lights left on? asleep through all his knocking! they must both be drunk. the blood rushed up in his neck. asleep! and rushing forward again, he called out: "larry!" then, with a gasp he went towards the bed. "larry!" no answer! no movement! seizing his brother's shoulder, he shook it violently. it felt cold. they were lying in each other's arms, breast to breast, lips to lips, their faces white in the light shining above the dressing-table. and such a shudder shook keith that he had to grasp the brass rail above their heads. then he bent down, and wetting his finger, placed it close to their joined lips. no two could ever swoon so utterly as that; not even a drunken sleep could be so fast. his wet finger felt not the faintest stir of air, nor was there any movement in the pulses of their hands. no breath! no life! the eyes of the girl were closed. how strangely innocent she looked! larry's open eyes seemed to be gazing at her shut eyes; but keith saw that they were sightless. with a sort of sob he drew down the lids. then, by an impulse that he could never have explained, he laid a hand on his brother's head, and a hand on the girl's fair hair. the clothes had fallen down a little from her bare shoulder; he pulled them up, as if to keep her warm, and caught the glint of metal; a tiny gilt crucifix no longer than a thumbnail, on a thread of steel chain, had slipped down from her breast into the hollow of the arm which lay round larry's neck. keith buried it beneath the clothes and noticed an envelope pinned to the coverlet; bending down, he read: "please give this at once to the police.--laurence darrant." he thrust it into his pocket. like elastic stretched beyond its uttermost, his reason, will, faculties of calculation and resolve snapped to within him. he thought with incredible swiftness: 'i must know nothing of this. i must go!' and, almost before he knew that he had moved, he was out again in the street. he could never have told of what he thought while he was walking home. he did not really come to himself till he was in his study. there, with a trembling hand, he poured himself out whisky and drank it off. if he had not chanced to go there, the charwoman would have found them when she came in the morning, and given that envelope to the police! he took it out. he had a right--a right to know what was in it! he broke it open. "i, laurence darrant, about to die by my own hand, declare that this is a solemn and true confession. i committed what is known as the glove lane murder on the night of november the th last in the following way"--on and on to the last words--"we didn't want to die; but we could not bear separation, and i couldn't face letting an innocent man be hung for me. i do not see any other way. i beg that there may be no postmortem on our bodies. the stuff we have taken is some of that which will be found on the dressing-table. please bury us together. "laurence darrant. "january the th, about ten o'clock p.m." full five minutes keith stood with those sheets of paper in his hand, while the clock ticked, the wind moaned a little in the trees outside, the flames licked the logs with the quiet click and ruffle of their intense far-away life down there on the hearth. then he roused himself, and sat down to read the whole again. there it was, just as larry had told it to him-nothing left out, very clear; even to the addresses of people who could identify the girl as having once been walenn's wife or mistress. it would convince. yes! it would convince. the sheets dropped from his hand. very slowly he was grasping the appalling fact that on the floor beside his chair lay the life or death of yet another man; that by taking this confession he had taken into his own hands the fate of the vagabond lying under sentence of death; that he could not give him back his life without incurring the smirch of this disgrace, without even endangering himself. if he let this confession reach the authorities, he could never escape the gravest suspicion that he had known of the whole affair during these two months. he would have to attend the inquest, be recognised by that policeman as having come to the archway to see where the body had lain, as having visited the girl the very evening after the murder. who would believe in the mere coincidence of such visits on the part of the murderer's brother. but apart from that suspicion, the fearful scandal which so sensational an affair must make would mar his career, his life, his young daughter's life! larry's suicide with this girl would make sensation enough as it was; but nothing to that other. such a death had its romance; involved him in no way save as a mourner, could perhaps even be hushed up! the other--nothing could hush that up, nothing prevent its ringing to the house-tops. he got up from his chair, and for many minutes roamed the room unable to get his mind to bear on the issue. images kept starting up before him. the face of the man who handed him wig and gown each morning, puffy and curious, with a leer on it he had never noticed before; his young daughter's lifted eyebrows, mouth drooping, eyes troubled; the tiny gilt crucifix glinting in the hollow of the dead girl's arm; the sightless look in larry's unclosed eyes; even his own thumb and finger pulling the lids down. and then he saw a street and endless people passing, turning to stare at him. and, stopping in his tramp, he said aloud: "let them go to hell! seven days' wonder!" was he not trustee to that confession! trustee! after all he had done nothing to be ashamed of, even if he had kept knowledge dark. a brother! who could blame him? and he picked up those sheets of paper. but, like a great murky hand, the scandal spread itself about him; its coarse malignant voice seemed shouting: "paiper!... paiper!... glove lane murder!... suicide and confession of brother of well-known k.c.... well-known k.c.'s brother.... murder and suicide.... paiper!" was he to let loose that flood of foulness? was he, who had done nothing, to smirch his own little daughter's life; to smirch his dead brother, their dead mother--himself, his own valuable, important future? and all for a sewer rat! let him hang, let the fellow hang if he must! and that was not certain. appeal! petition! he might--he should be saved! to have got thus far, and then, by his own action, topple himself down! with a sudden darting movement he thrust the confession in among the burning coals. and a smile licked at the folds in his dark face, like those flames licking the sheets of paper, till they writhed and blackened. with the toe of his boot he dispersed their scorched and crumbling wafer. stamp them in! stamp in that man's life! burnt! no more doubts, no more of this gnawing fear! burnt? a man--an innocent-sewer rat! recoiling from the fire he grasped his forehead. it was burning hot and seemed to be going round. well, it was done! only fools without will or purpose regretted. and suddenly he laughed. so larry had died for nothing! he had no will, no purpose, and was dead! he and that girl might now have been living, loving each other in the warm night, away at the other end of the world, instead of lying dead in the cold night here! fools and weaklings regretted, suffered from conscience and remorse. a man trod firmly, held to his purpose, no matter what! he went to the window and drew back the curtain. what was that? a gibbet in the air, a body hanging? ah! only the trees--the dark trees--the winter skeleton trees! recoiling, he returned to his armchair and sat down before the fire. it had been shining like that, the lamp turned low, his chair drawn up, when larry came in that afternoon two months ago. bah! he had never come at all! it was a nightmare. he had been asleep. how his head burned! and leaping up, he looked at the calendar on his bureau. "january the th!" no dream! his face hardened and darkened. on! not like larry! on! . a stoic i "aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem:"--horace. in the city of liverpool, on a january day of , the board-room of "the island navigation company" rested, as it were, after the labours of the afternoon. the long table was still littered with the ink, pens, blotting-paper, and abandoned documents of six persons--a deserted battlefield of the brain. and, lonely, in his chairman's seat at the top end old sylvanus heythorp sat, with closed eyes, still and heavy as an image. one puffy, feeble hand, whose fingers quivered, rested on the arm of his chair; the thick white hair on his massive head glistened in the light from a green-shaded lamp. he was not asleep, for every now and then his sanguine cheeks filled, and a sound, half sigh, half grunt, escaped his thick lips between a white moustache and the tiny tuft of white hairs above his cleft chin. sunk in the chair, that square thick trunk of a body in short black-braided coat seemed divested of all neck. young gilbert farney, secretary of "the island navigation company," entering his hushed board-room, stepped briskly to the table, gathered some papers, and stood looking at his chairman. not more than thirty-five, with the bright hues of the optimist in his hair, beard, cheeks, and eyes, he had a nose and lips which curled ironically. for, in his view, he was the company; and its board did but exist to chequer his importance. five days in the week for seven hours a day he wrote, and thought, and wove the threads of its business, and this lot came down once a week for two or three hours, and taught their grandmother to suck eggs. but watching that red-cheeked, white-haired, somnolent figure, his smile was not so contemptuous as might have been expected. for after all, the chairman was a wonderful old boy. a man of go and insight could not but respect him. eighty! half paralysed, over head and ears in debt, having gone the pace all his life--or so they said!--till at last that mine in ecuador had done for him--before the secretary's day, of course, but he had heard of it. the old chap had bought it up on spec'--"de l'audace, toujours de l'audace," as he was so fond of saying--paid for it half in cash and half in promises, and then--the thing had turned out empty, and left him with l , worth of the old shares unredeemed. the old boy had weathered it out without a bankruptcy so far. indomitable old buffer; and never fussy like the rest of them! young farney, though a secretary, was capable of attachment; and his eyes expressed a pitying affection. the board meeting had been long and "snadgy"--a final settling of that pillin business. rum go the chairman forcing it on them like this! and with quiet satisfaction the secretary thought 'and he never would have got it through if i hadn't made up my mind that it really is good business!' for to expand the company was to expand himself. still, to buy four ships with the freight market so depressed was a bit startling, and there would be opposition at the general meeting. never mind! he and the chairman could put it through--put it through. and suddenly he saw the old man looking at him. only from those eyes could one appreciate the strength of life yet flowing underground in that well-nigh helpless carcase--deep-coloured little blue wells, tiny, jovial, round windows. a sigh travelled up through layers of flesh, and he said almost inaudibly: "have they come, mr. farney?" "yes, sir. i've put them in the transfer office; said you'd be with them in a minute; but i wasn't going to wake you." "haven't been asleep. help me up." grasping the edge of the table with his trembling hands, the old man pulled, and, with farney heaving him behind, attained his feet. he stood about five feet ten, and weighed fully fourteen stone; not corpulent, but very thick all through; his round and massive head alone would have outweighed a baby. with eyes shut, he seemed to be trying to get the better of his own weight, then he moved with the slowness of a barnacle towards the door. the secretary, watching him, thought: 'marvellous old chap! how he gets about by himself is a miracle! and he can't retire, they say-lives on his fees!' but the chairman was through the green baize door. at his tortoise gait he traversed the inner office, where the youthful clerks suspended their figuring--to grin behind his back--and entered the transfer office, where eight gentlemen were sitting. seven rose, and one did not. old heythorp raised a saluting hand to the level of his chest and moving to an arm-chair, lowered himself into it. "well, gentlemen?" one of the eight gentlemen got up again. "mr. heythorp, we've appointed mr. brownbee to voice our views. mr. brownbee!" and down he sat. mr. brownbee rose a stoutish man some seventy years of age, with little grey side whiskers, and one of those utterly steady faces only to be seen in england, faces which convey the sense of business from father to son for generations; faces which make wars, and passion, and free thought seem equally incredible; faces which inspire confidence, and awaken in one a desire to get up and leave the room. mr. brownbee rose, and said in a suave voice: "mr. heythorp, we here represent about l , . when we had the pleasure of meeting you last july, you will recollect that you held out a prospect of some more satisfactory arrangement by christmas. we are now in january, and i am bound to say we none of us get younger." from the depths of old heythorp a preliminary rumble came travelling, reached the surface, and materialised-- "don't know about you--feel a boy, myself." the eight gentlemen looked at him. was he going to try and put them off again? mr. brownbee said with unruffled calm: "i'm sure we're very glad to hear it. but to come to the point. we have felt, mr. heythorp, and i'm sure you won't think it unreasonable, that--er--bankruptcy would be the most satisfactory solution. we have waited a long time, and we want to know definitely where we stand; for, to be quite frank, we don't see any prospect of improvement; indeed, we fear the opposite." "you think i'm going to join the majority." this plumping out of what was at the back of their minds produced in mr. brownbee and his colleagues a sort of chemical disturbance. they coughed, moved their feet, and turned away their eyes, till the one who had not risen, a solicitor named ventnor, said bluffly: "well, put it that way if you like." old heythorp's little deep eyes twinkled. "my grandfather lived to be a hundred; my father ninety-six--both of them rips. i'm only eighty, gentlemen; blameless life compared with theirs." "indeed," mr. brownbee said, "we hope you have many years of this life before you." "more of this than of another." and a silence fell, till old heythorp added: "you're getting a thousand a year out of my fees. mistake to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. i'll make it twelve hundred. if you force me to resign my directorships by bankruptcy, you won't get a rap, you know." mr. brownbee cleared his throat: "we think, mr. heythorp, you should make it at least fifteen hundred. in that case we might perhaps consider--" old heythorp shook his head. "we can hardly accept your assertion that we should get nothing in the event of bankruptcy. we fancy you greatly underrate the possibilities. fifteen hundred a year is the least you can do for us." "see you d---d first." another silence followed, then ventnor, the solicitor, said irascibly: "we know where we are, then." brownbee added almost nervously: "are we to understand that twelve hundred a year is your--your last word?" old heythorp nodded. "come again this day month, and i'll see what i can do for you;" and he shut his eyes. round mr. brownbee six of the gentlemen gathered, speaking in low voices; mr. ventnor nursed a leg and glowered at old heythorp, who sat with his eyes closed. mr. brownbee went over and conferred with mr. ventnor, then clearing his throat, he said: "well, sir, we have considered your proposal; we agree to accept it for the moment. we will come again, as you suggest, in a month's time. "we hope that you will by then have seen your way to something more substantial, with a view to avoiding what we should all regret, but which i fear will otherwise become inevitable." old heythorp nodded. the eight gentlemen took their hats, and went out one by one, mr. brownbee courteously bringing up the rear. the old man, who could not get up without assistance, stayed musing in his chair. he had diddled 'em for the moment into giving him another month, and when that month was up-he would diddle 'em again! a month ought to make the pillin business safe, with all that hung on it. that poor funkey chap joe pillin! a gurgling chuckle escaped his red lips. what a shadow the fellow had looked, trotting in that evening just a month ago, behind his valet's announcement: "mr. pillin, sir." what a parchmenty, precise, thread-paper of a chap, with his bird's claw of a hand, and his muffled-up throat, and his quavery: "how do you do, sylvanus? i'm afraid you're not--" "first rate. sit down. have some port." "port! i never drink it. poison to me! poison!" "do you good!" "oh! i know, that's what you always say." you've a monstrous constitution, sylvanus. if i drank port and smoked cigars and sat up till one o'clock, i should be in my grave to-morrow. i'm not the man i was. the fact is, i've come to see if you can help me. i'm getting old; i'm growing nervous...." "you always were as chickeny as an old hen, joe." "well, my nature's not like yours. to come to the point, i want to sell my ships and retire. i need rest. freights are very depressed. i've got my family to think of." "crack on, and go broke; buck you up like anything!" "i'm quite serious, sylvanus." "never knew you anything else, joe." a quavering cough, and out it had come: "now--in a word--won't your 'island navigation company' buy my ships?" a pause, a twinkle, a puff of smoke. "make it worth my while!" he had said it in jest; and then, in a flash, the idea had come to him. rosamund and her youngsters! what a chance to put something between them and destitution when he had joined the majority! and so he said: "we don't want your silly ships." that claw of a hand waved in deprecation. "they're very good ships--doing quite well. it's only my wretched health. if i were a strong man i shouldn't dream...." "what d'you want for 'em?" good lord! how he jumped if you asked him a plain question. the chap was as nervous as a guinea-fowl! "here are the figures--for the last four years. i think you'll agree that i couldn't ask less than seventy thousand." through the smoke of his cigar old heythorp had digested those figures slowly, joe pillin feeling his teeth and sucking lozenges the while; then he said: "sixty thousand! and out of that you pay me ten per cent., if i get it through for you. take it or leave it." "my dear sylvanus, that's almost-cynical." "too good a price--you'll never get it without me." "but a--but a commission! you could never disclose it!" "arrange that all right. think it over. freights'll go lower yet. have some port." "no, no! thank you. no! so you think freights will go lower?" "sure of it." "well, i'll be going. i'm sure i don't know. it's--it's--i must think." "think your hardest." "yes, yes. good-bye. i can't imagine how you still go on smoking those things and drinking port. "see you in your grave yet, joe." what a feeble smile the poor fellow had! laugh-he couldn't! and, alone again, he had browsed, developing the idea which had come to him. though, to dwell in the heart of shipping, sylvanus heythorp had lived at liverpool twenty years, he was from the eastern counties, of a family so old that it professed to despise the conquest. each of its generations occupied nearly twice as long as those of less tenacious men. traditionally of danish origin, its men folk had as a rule bright reddish-brown hair, red cheeks, large round heads, excellent teeth and poor morals. they had done their best for the population of any county in which they had settled; their offshoots swarmed. born in the early twenties of the nineteenth century, sylvanus heythorp, after an education broken by escapades both at school and college, had fetched up in that simple london of the late forties, where claret, opera, and eight per cent. for your money ruled a cheery roost. made partner in his shipping firm well before he was thirty, he had sailed with a wet sheet and a flowing tide; dancers, claret, cliquot, and piquet; a cab with a tiger; some travel--all that delicious early-victorian consciousness of nothing save a golden time. it was all so full and mellow that he was forty before he had his only love affair of any depth--with the daughter of one of his own clerks, a liaison so awkward as to necessitate a sedulous concealment. the death of that girl, after three years, leaving him a, natural son, had been the chief, perhaps the only real, sorrow of his life. five years later he married. what for? god only knew! as he was in the habit of remarking. his wife had been a hard, worldly, well-connected woman, who presented him with two unnatural children, a girl and a boy, and grew harder, more worldly, less handsome, in the process. the migration to liverpool, which took place when he was sixty and she forty-two, broke what she still had of heart, but she lingered on twelve years, finding solace in bridge, and being haughty towards liverpool. old heythorp saw her to her rest without regret. he had felt no love for her whatever, and practically none for her two children--they were in his view colourless, pragmatical, very unexpected characters. his son ernest--in the admiralty--he thought a poor, careful stick. his daughter adela, an excellent manager, delighting in spiritual conversation and the society of tame men, rarely failed to show him that she considered him a hopeless heathen. they saw as little as need be of each other. she was provided for under that settlement he had made on her mother fifteen years ago, well before the not altogether unexpected crisis in his affairs. very different was the feeling he had bestowed on that son of his "under the rose." the boy, who had always gone by his mother's name of larne, had on her death been sent to some relations of hers in ireland, and there brought up. he had been called to the dublin bar, and married, young, a girl half cornish and half irish; presently, having cost old heythorp in all a pretty penny, he had died impecunious, leaving his fair rosamund at thirty with a girl of eight and a boy of five. she had not spent six months of widowhood before coming over from dublin to claim the old man's guardianship. a remarkably pretty woman, like a full-blown rose, with greenish hazel eyes, she had turned up one morning at the offices of "the island navigation company," accompanied by her two children--for he had never divulged to them his private address. and since then they had always been more or less on his hands, occupying a small house in a suburb of liverpool. he visited them there, but never asked them to the house in sefton park, which was in fact his daughter's; so that his proper family and friends were unaware of their existence. rosamund larne was one of those precarious ladies who make uncertain incomes by writing full-bodied storyettes. in the most dismal circumstances she enjoyed a buoyancy bordering on the indecent; which always amused old heythorp's cynicism. but of his grandchildren phyllis and jock (wild as colts) he had become fond. and this chance of getting six thousand pounds settled on them at a stroke had seemed to him nothing but heaven-sent. as things were, if he "went off"--and, of course, he might at any moment, there wouldn't be a penny for them; for he would "cut up" a good fifteen thousand to the bad. he was now giving them some three hundred a year out of his fees; and dead directors unfortunately earned no fees! six thousand pounds at four and a half per cent., settled so that their mother couldn't "blue it," would give them a certain two hundred and fifty pounds a year-better than beggary. and the more he thought the better he liked it, if only that shaky chap, joe pillin, didn't shy off when he'd bitten his nails short over it! four evenings later, the "shaky chap" had again appeared at his house in sefton park. "i've thought it over, sylvanus. i don't like it. "no; but you'll do it." "it's a sacrifice. fifty-four thousand for four ships--it means a considerable reduction in my income." "it means security, my boy." "well, there is that; but you know, i really can't be party to a secret commission. if it came out, think of my name and goodness knows what." "it won't come out." "yes, yes, so you say, but--" "all you've got to do's to execute a settlement on some third parties that i'll name. i'm not going to take a penny of it myself. get your own lawyer to draw it up and make him trustee. you can sign it when the purchase has gone through. i'll trust you, joe. what stock have you got that gives four and a half per cent.?" "midland" "that'll do. you needn't sell." "yes, but who are these people?" "woman and her children i want to do a good turn to." what a face the fellow had made! "afraid of being connected with a woman, joe?" "yes, you may laugh--i am afraid of being connected with someone else's woman. i don't like it--i don't like it at all. i've not led your life, sylvanus." "lucky for you; you'd have been dead long ago. tell your lawyer it's an old flame of yours--you old dog!" "yes, there it is at once, you see. i might be subject to blackmail." "tell him to keep it dark, and just pay over the income, quarterly." "i don't like it, sylvanus--i don't like it." "then leave it, and be hanged to you. have a cigar?" "you know i never smoke. is there no other way?" "yes. sell stock in london, bank the proceeds there, and bring me six thousand pounds in notes. i'll hold 'em till after the general meeting. if the thing doesn't go through, i'll hand 'em back to you." "no; i like that even less." "rather i trusted you, eh!" "no, not at all, sylvanus, not at all. but it's all playing round the law." "there's no law to prevent you doing what you like with your money. what i do's nothing to you. and mind you, i'm taking nothing from it--not a mag. you assist the widowed and the fatherless--just your line, joe!" "what a fellow you are, sylvanus; you don't seem capable of taking anything seriously." "care killed the cat!" left alone after this second interview he had thought: 'the beggar'll jump.' and the beggar had. that settlement was drawn and only awaited signature. the board to-day had decided on the purchase; and all that remained was to get it ratified at the general meeting. let him but get that over, and this provision for his grandchildren made, and he would snap his fingers at brownbee and his crew-the canting humbugs! "hope you have many years of this life before you!" as if they cared for anything but his money--their money rather! and becoming conscious of the length of his reverie, he grasped the arms of his chair, heaved at his own bulk, in an effort to rise, growing redder and redder in face and neck. it was one of the hundred things his doctor had told him not to do for fear of apoplexy, the humbug! why didn't farney or one of those young fellows come and help him up? to call out was undignified. but was he to sit there all night? three times he failed, and after each failure sat motionless again, crimson and exhausted; the fourth time he succeeded, and slowly made for the office. passing through, he stopped and said in his extinct voice: "you young gentlemen had forgotten me." "mr. farney said you didn't wish to be disturbed, sir." "very good of him. give me my hat and coat." "yes, sir." "thank you. what time is it?" "six o'clock, sir." "tell mr. farney to come and see me tomorrow at noon, about my speech for the general meeting." "yes, sir." "good-night to you." "good-night, sir." at his tortoise gait he passed between the office stools to the door, opened it feebly, and slowly vanished. shutting the door behind him, a clerk said: "poor old chairman! he's on his last!" another answered: "gosh! he's a tough old hulk. he'll go down fightin'." issuing from the offices of "the island navigation company," sylvanus heythorp moved towards the corner whence he always took tram to sefton park. the crowded street had all that prosperous air of catching or missing something which characterises the town where london and new york and dublin meet. old heythorp had to cross to the far side, and he sallied forth without regard to traffic. that snail-like passage had in it a touch of the sublime; the old man seemed saying: "knock me down and be d---d to you--i'm not going to hurry." his life was saved perhaps ten times a day by the british character at large, compounded of phlegm and a liking to take something under its protection. the tram conductors on that line were especially used to him, never failing to catch him under the arms and heave him like a sack of coals, while with trembling hands he pulled hard at the rail and strap. "all right, sir?" "thank you." he moved into the body of the tram, where somebody would always get up from kindness and the fear that he might sit down on them; and there he stayed motionless, his little eyes tight closed. with his red face, tuft of white hairs above his square cleft block of shaven chin, and his big high-crowned bowler hat, which yet seemed too petty for his head with its thick hair--he looked like some kind of an idol dug up and decked out in gear a size too small. one of those voices of young men from public schools and exchanges where things are bought and sold, said: "how de do, mr. heythorp?" old heythorp opened his eyes. that sleek cub, joe pillin's son! what a young pup-with his round eyes, and his round cheeks, and his little moustache, his fur coat, his spats, his diamond pin! "how's your father?" he said. "thanks, rather below par, worryin' about his ships. suppose you haven't any news for him, sir?" old heythorp nodded. the young man was one of his pet abominations, embodying all the complacent, little-headed mediocrity of this new generation; natty fellows all turned out of the same mould, sippers and tasters, chaps without drive or capacity, without even vices; and he did not intend to gratify the cub's curiosity. "come to my house," he said; "i'll give you a note for him." "tha-anks; i'd like to cheer the old man up." the old man! cheeky brat! and closing his eyes he relapsed into immobility. the tram wound and ground its upward way, and he mused. when he was that cub's age--twenty-eight or whatever it might be--he had done most things; been up vesuvius, driven four-in-hand, lost his last penny on the derby and won it back on the oaks, known all the dancers and operatic stars of the day, fought a duel with a yankee at dieppe and winged him for saying through his confounded nose that old england was played out; been a controlling voice already in his shipping firm; drunk five other of the best men in london under the table; broken his neck steeple-chasing; shot a burglar in the legs; been nearly drowned, for a bet; killed snipe in chelsea; been to court for his sins; stared a ghost out of countenance; and travelled with a lady of spain. if this young pup had done the last, it would be all he had; and yet, no doubt, he would call himself a "spark." the conductor touched his arm. "'ere you are, sir." "thank you." he lowered himself to the ground, and moved in the bluish darkness towards the gate of his daughter's house. bob pillin walked beside him, thinking: 'poor old josser, he is gettin' a back number!' and he said: "i should have thought you ought to drive, sir. my old guv'nor would knock up at once if he went about at night like this." the answer rumbled out into the misty air: "your father's got no chest; never had." bob pillin gave vent to one of those fat cackles which come so readily from a certain type of man; and old heythorp thought: 'laughing at his father! parrot!' they had reached the porch. a woman with dark hair and a thin, straight face and figure was arranging some flowers in the hall. she turned and said: "you really ought not to be so late, father! it's wicked at this time of year. who is it--oh! mr. pillin, how do you do? have you had tea? won't you come to the drawing-room; or do you want to see my father?" "tha-anks! i believe your father--" and he thought: 'by jove! the old chap is a caution!' for old heythorp was crossing the hall without having paid the faintest attention to his daughter. murmuring again: "tha-anks awfully; he wants to give me something," he followed. miss heythorp was not his style at all; he had a kind of dread of that thin woman who looked as if she could never be unbuttoned. they said she was a great churchgoer and all that sort of thing. in his sanctum old heythorp had moved to his writing-table, and was evidently anxious to sit down. "shall i give you a hand, sir?" receiving a shake of the head, bob pillin stood by the fire and watched. the old "sport" liked to paddle his own canoe. fancy having to lower yourself into a chair like that! when an old johnny got to such a state it was really a mercy when he snuffed out, and made way for younger men. how his companies could go on putting up with such a fossil for chairman was a marvel! the fossil rumbled and said in that almost inaudible voice: "i suppose you're beginning to look forward to your father's shoes?" bob pillin's mouth opened. the voice went on: "dibs and no responsibility. tell him from me to drink port--add five years to his life." to this unwarranted attack bob pillin made no answer save a laugh; he perceived that a manservant had entered the room. "a mrs. larne, sir. will you see her?" at this announcement the old man seemed to try and start; then he nodded, and held out the note he had written. bob pillin received it together with the impression of a murmur which sounded like: "scratch a poll, poll!" and passing the fine figure of a woman in a fur coat, who seemed to warm the air as she went by, he was in the hall again before he perceived that he had left his hat. a young and pretty girl was standing on the bearskin before the fire, looking at him with round-eyed innocence. he thought: 'this is better; i mustn't disturb them for my hat'; and approaching the fire, said: "jolly cold, isn't it?" the girl smiled: "yes-jolly." he noticed that she had a large bunch of violets at her breast, a lot of fair hair, a short straight nose, and round blue-grey eyes very frank and open. "er" he said, "i've left my hat in there." "what larks!" and at her little clear laugh something moved within bob pillin. "you know this house well?" she shook her head. "but it's rather scrummy, isn't it?" bob pillin, who had never yet thought so answered: "quite o.k." the girl threw up her head to laugh again. "o.k.? what's that?" bob pillin saw her white round throat, and thought: 'she is a ripper!' and he said with a certain desperation: "my name's pillin. yours is larne, isn't it? are you a relation here?" "he's our guardy. isn't he a chook?" that rumbling whisper like "scratch a poll, poll!" recurring to bob pillin, he said with reservation: "you know him better than i do." "oh! aren't you his grandson, or something?" bob pillin did not cross himself. "lord! no! my dad's an old friend of his; that's all." "is your dad like him?" "not much." "what a pity! it would have been lovely if they'd been tweedles." bob pillin thought: 'this bit is something new. i wonder what her christian name is.' and he said: "what did your godfather and godmothers in your baptism---?" the girl laughed; she seemed to laugh at everything. "phyllis." could he say: "is my only joy"? better keep it! but-for what? he wouldn't see her again if he didn't look out! and he said: "i live at the last house in the park-the red one. d'you know it? where do you?" "oh! a long way-- , millicent villas. it's a poky little house. i hate it. we have awful larks, though." "who are we?" "mother, and myself, and jock--he's an awful boy. you can't conceive what an awful boy he is. he's got nearly red hair; i think he'll be just like guardy when he gets old. he's awful!" bob pillin murmured: "i should like to see him." "would you? i'll ask mother if you can. you won't want to again; he goes off all the time like a squib." she threw back her head, and again bob pillin felt a little giddy. he collected himself, and drawled: "are you going in to see your guardy?" "no. mother's got something special to say. we've never been here before, you see. isn't he fun, though?" "fun!" "i think he's the greatest lark; but he's awfully nice to me. jock calls him the last of the stoic'uns." a voice called from old heythorp's den: "phyllis!" it had a particular ring, that voice, as if coming from beautifully formed red lips, of which the lower one must curve the least bit over; it had, too, a caressing vitality, and a kind of warm falsity. the girl threw a laughing look back over her shoulder, and vanished through the door into the room. bob pillin remained with his back to the fire and his puppy round eyes fixed on the air that her figure had last occupied. he was experiencing a sensation never felt before. those travels with a lady of spain, charitably conceded him by old heythorp, had so far satisfied the emotional side of this young man; they had stopped short at brighton and scarborough, and been preserved from even the slightest intrusion of love. a calculated and hygienic career had caused no anxiety either to himself or his father; and this sudden swoop of something more than admiration gave him an uncomfortable choky feeling just above his high round collar, and in the temples a sort of buzzing--those first symptoms of chivalry. a man of the world does not, however, succumb without a struggle; and if his hat had not been out of reach, who knows whether he would not have left the house hurriedly, saying to himself: "no, no, my boy; millicent villas is hardly your form, when your intentions are honourable"? for somehow that round and laughing face, bob of glistening hair, those wide-opened grey eyes refused to awaken the beginnings of other intentions--such is the effect of youth and innocence on even the steadiest young men. with a kind of moral stammer, he was thinking: 'can i--dare i offer to see them to their tram? couldn't i even nip out and get the car round and send them home in it? no, i might miss them--better stick it out here! what a jolly laugh! what a tipping face--strawberries and cream, hay, and all that! millicent villas!' and he wrote it on his cuff. the door was opening; he heard that warm vibrating voice: "come along, phyllis!"--the girl's laugh so high and fresh: "right-o! coming!" and with, perhaps, the first real tremor he had ever known, he crossed to the front door. all the more chivalrous to escort them to the tram without a hat! and suddenly he heard: "i've got your hat, young man!" and her mother's voice, warm, and simulating shock: "phyllis, you awful gairl! did you ever see such an awful gairl; mr.---" "pillin, mother." and then--he did not quite know how--insulated from the january air by laughter and the scent of fur and violets, he was between them walking to their tram. it was like an experience out of the "arabian nights," or something of that sort, an intoxication which made one say one was going their way, though one would have to come all the way back in the same beastly tram. nothing so warming had ever happened to him as sitting between them on that drive, so that he forgot the note in his pocket, and his desire to relieve the anxiety of the "old man," his father. at the tram's terminus they all got out. there issued a purr of invitation to come and see them some time; a clear: "jock'll love to see you!" a low laugh: "you awful gairl!" and a flash of cunning zigzagged across his brain. taking off his hat, he said: "thanks awfully; rather!" and put his foot back on the step of the tram. thus did he delicately expose the depths of his chivalry! "oh! you said you were going our way! what one-ers you do tell! oh!" the words were as music; the sight of those eyes growing rounder, the most perfect he had ever seen; and mrs. larne's low laugh, so warm yet so preoccupied, and the tips of the girl's fingers waving back above her head. he heaved a sigh, and knew no more till he was seated at his club before a bottle of champagne. home! not he! he wished to drink and dream. "the old man" would get his news all right to-morrow! the words: "a mrs. larne to see you, sir," had been of a nature to astonish weaker nerves. what had brought her here? she knew she mustn't come! old heythorp had watched her entrance with cynical amusement. the way she whiffed herself at that young pup in passing, the way her eyes slid round! he had a very just appreciation of his son's widow; and a smile settled deep between his chin tuft and his moustache. she lifted his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her splendid bust, and said: "so here i am at last, you see. aren't you surprised?" old heythorp, shook his head. "i really had to come and see you, guardy; we haven't had a sight of you for such an age. and in this awful weather! how are you, dear old guardy?" "never better." and, watching her green-grey eyes, he added: "haven't a penny for you!" her face did not fall; she gave her feather-laugh. "how dreadful of you to think i came for that! but i am in an awful fix, guardy." "never knew you not to be." "just let me tell you, dear; it'll be some relief. i'm having the most terrible time." she sank into a low chair, disengaging an overpowering scent of violets, while melancholy struggled to subdue her face and body. "the most awful fix. i expect to be sold up any moment. we may be on the streets to-morrow. i daren't tell the children; they're so happy, poor darlings. i shall be obliged to take jock away from school. and phyllis will have to stop her piano and dancing; it's an absolute crisis. and all due to those midland syndicate people. i've been counting on at least two hundred for my new story, and the wretches have refused it." with a tiny handkerchief she removed one tear from the corner of one eye. "it is hard, guardy; i worked my brain silly over that story." from old heythorp came a mutter which sounded suspiciously like: "rats!" heaving a sigh, which conveyed nothing but the generosity of her breathing apparatus, mrs. larne went on: "you couldn't, i suppose, let me have just one hundred?" "not a bob." she sighed again, her eyes slid round the room; then in her warm voice she murmured: "guardy, you were my dear philip's father, weren't you? i've never said anything; but of course you were. he was so like you, and so is jock." nothing moved in old heythorp's face. no pagan image consulted with flowers and song and sacrifice could have returned less answer. her dear philip! she had led him the devil of a life, or he was a dutchman! and what the deuce made her suddenly trot out the skeleton like this? but mrs. larne's eyes were still wandering. "what a lovely house! you know, i think you ought to help me, guardy. just imagine if your grandchildren were thrown out into the street!" the old man grinned. he was not going to deny his relationship--it was her look-out, not his. but neither was he going to let her rush him. "and they will be; you couldn't look on and see it. do come to my rescue this once. you really might do something for them." with a rumbling sigh he answered: "wait. can't give you a penny now. poor as a church mouse." "oh! guardy "fact." mrs. larne heaved one of her most buoyant sighs. she certainly did not believe him. "well!" she said; "you'll be sorry when we come round one night and sing for pennies under your window. wouldn't you like to see phyllis? i left her in the hall. she's growing such a sweet gairl. guardy just fifty!" "not a rap." mrs. larne threw up her hands. "well! you'll repent it. i'm at my last gasp." she sighed profoundly, and the perfume of violets escaped in a cloud; then, getting up, she went to the door and called: "phyllis!" when the girl entered old heythorp felt the nearest approach to a flutter of the heart for many years. she had put her hair up! she was like a spring day in january; such a relief from that scented humbug, her mother. pleasant the touch of her lips on his forehead, the sound of her clear voice, the sight of her slim movements, the feeling that she did him credit--clean-run stock, she and that young scamp jock--better than the holy woman, his daughter adela, would produce if anyone were ever fool enough to marry her, or that pragmatical fellow, his son ernest. and when they were gone he reflected with added zest on the six thousand pounds he was getting for them out of joe pillin and his ships. he would have to pitch it strong in his speech at the general meeting. with freights so low, there was bound to be opposition. no dash nowadays; nothing but gabby caution! they were a scrim-shanking lot on the board--he had had to pull them round one by one--the deuce of a tug getting this thing through! and yet, the business was sound enough. those ships would earn money, properly handled-good money his valet, coming in to prepare him for dinner, found him asleep. he had for the old man as much admiration as may be felt for one who cannot put his own trousers on. he would say to the housemaid molly: "he's a game old blighter--must have been a rare one in his day. cocks his hat at you, even now, i see!" to which the girl, irish and pretty, would reply: "well, an' sure i don't mind, if it gives um a pleasure. 'tis better anyway than the sad eye i get from herself." at dinner, old heythorp always sat at one end of the rosewood table and his daughter at the other. it was the eminent moment of the day. with napkin tucked high into his waistcoat, he gave himself to the meal with passion. his palate was undimmed, his digestion unimpaired. he could still eat as much as two men, and drink more than one. and while he savoured each mouthful he never spoke if he could help it. the holy woman had nothing to say that he cared to hear, and he nothing to say that she cared to listen to. she had a horror, too, of what she called "the pleasures of the table"--those lusts of the flesh! she was always longing to dock his grub, he knew. would see her further first! what other pleasures were there at his age? let her wait till she was eighty. but she never would be; too thin and holy! this evening, however, with the advent of the partridge she did speak. "who were your visitors, father?" trust her for nosing anything out! fixing his little blue eyes on her, he mumbled with a very full mouth: "ladies." "so i saw; what ladies?" he had a longing to say: 'part of one of my families under the rose.' as a fact it was the best part of the only one, but the temptation to multiply exceedingly was almost overpowering. he checked himself, however, and went on eating partridge, his secret irritation crimsoning his cheeks; and he watched her eyes, those cold precise and round grey eyes, noting it, and knew she was thinking: 'he eats too much.' she said: "sorry i'm not considered fit to be told. you ought not to be drinking hock." old heythorp took up the long green glass, drained it, and repressing fumes and emotion went on with his partridge. his daughter pursed her lips, took a sip of water, and said: "i know their name is larne, but it conveyed nothing to me; perhaps it's just as well." the old man, mastering a spasm, said with a grin: "my daughter-in-law and my granddaughter." "what! ernest married--oh! nonsense!" he chuckled, and shook his head. "then do you mean to say, father, that you were married before you married my mother?" "no." the expression on her face was as good as a play! she said with a sort of disgust: "not married! i see. i suppose those people are hanging round your neck, then; no wonder you're always in difficulties. are there any more of them?" again the old man suppressed that spasm, and the veins in his neck and forehead swelled alarmingly. if he had spoken he would infallibly have choked. he ceased eating, and putting his hands on the table tried to raise himself. he could not and subsiding in his chair sat glaring at the stiff, quiet figure of his daughter. "don't be silly, father, and make a scene before meller. finish your dinner." he did not answer. he was not going to sit there to be dragooned and insulted! his helplessness had never so weighed on him before. it was like a revelation. a log--that had to put up with anything! a log! and, waiting for his valet to return, he cunningly took up his fork. in that saintly voice of hers she said: "i suppose you don't realise that it's a shock to me. i don't know what ernest will think--" "ernest be d---d." "i do wish, father, you wouldn't swear." old heythorp's rage found vent in a sort of rumble. how the devil had he gone on all these years in the same house with that woman, dining with her day after day! but the servant had come back now, and putting down his fork he said: "help me up!" the man paused, thunderstruck, with the souffle balanced. to leave dinner unfinished--it was a portent! "help me up!" "mr. heythorp's not very well, meller; take his other arm." the old man shook off her hand. "i'm very well. help me up. dine in my own room in future." raised to his feet, he walked slowly out; but in his sanctum he did not sit down, obsessed by this first overwhelming realisation of his helplessness. he stood swaying a little, holding on to the table, till the servant, having finished serving dinner, brought in his port. "are you waiting to sit down, sir?" he shook his head. hang it, he could do that for himself, anyway. he must think of something to fortify his position against that woman. and he said: "send me molly!" "yes, sir." the man put down the port and went. old heythorp filled his glass, drank, and filled again. he took a cigar from the box and lighted it. the girl came in, a grey-eyed, dark-haired damsel, and stood with her hands folded, her head a little to one side, her lips a little parted. the old man said: "you're a human being." "i would hope so, sirr." "i'm going to ask you something as a human being--not a servant--see?" "no, sirr; but i will be glad to do anything you like." "then put your nose in here every now and then, to see if i want anything. meller goes out sometimes. don't say anything; just put your nose in." "oh! an' i will; 'tis a pleasure 'twill be to do ut." he nodded, and when she had gone lowered himself into his chair with a sense of appeasement. pretty girl! comfort to see a pretty face--not a pale, peeky thing like adela's. his anger burned up anew. so she counted on his helplessness, had begun to count on that, had she? she should see that there was life in the old dog yet! and his sacrifice of the uneaten souffle, the still less eaten mushrooms, the peppermint sweet with which he usually concluded dinner, seemed to consecrate that purpose. they all thought he was a hulk, without a shot left in the locker! he had seen a couple of them at the board that afternoon shrugging at each other, as though saying: 'look at him!' and young farney pitying him. pity, forsooth! and that coarse-grained solicitor chap at the creditors' meeting curling his lip as much as to say: 'one foot in the grave!' he had seen the clerks dowsing the glim of their grins; and that young pup bob pillin screwing up his supercilious mug over his dog-collar. he knew that scented humbug rosamund was getting scared that he'd drop off before she'd squeezed him dry. and his valet was always looking him up and down queerly. as to that holy woman--! not quite so fast! not quite so fast! and filling his glass for the fourth time, he slowly sucked down the dark red fluid, with the "old boots" flavour which his soul loved, and, drawing deep at his cigar, closed his eyes. ii the room in the hotel where the general meetings of "the island navigation company" were held was nearly full when the secretary came through the door which as yet divided the shareholders from their directors. having surveyed their empty chairs, their ink and papers, and nodded to a shareholder or two, he stood, watch in hand, contemplating the congregation. a thicker attendance than he had ever seen! due, no doubt, to the lower dividend, and this pillin business. and his tongue curled. for if he had a natural contempt for his board, with the exception of the chairman, he had a still more natural contempt for his shareholders. amusing spectacle when you came to think of it, a general meeting! unique! eighty or a hundred men, and five women, assembled through sheer devotion to their money. was any other function in the world so single-hearted. church was nothing to it--so many motives were mingled there with devotion to one's soul. a well-educated young man--reader of anatole france, and other writers--he enjoyed ironic speculation. what earthly good did they think they got by coming here? half-past two! he put his watch back into his pocket, and passed into the board-room. there, the fumes of lunch and of a short preliminary meeting made cosy the february atmosphere. by the fire four directors were conversing rather restlessly; the fifth was combing his beard; the chairman sat with eyes closed and red lips moving rhythmically in the sucking of a lozenge, the slips of his speech ready in his hand. the secretary said in his cheerful voice: "time, sir." old heythorp swallowed, lifted his arms, rose with help, and walked through to his place at the centre of the table. the five directors followed. and, standing at the chairman's right, the secretary read the minutes, forming the words precisely with his curling tongue. then, assisting the chairman to his feet, he watched those rows of faces, and thought: 'mistake to let them see he can't get up without help. he ought to have let me read his speech--i wrote it.' the chairman began to speak: "it is my duty and my pleasure,' ladies and gentlemen, for the nineteenth consecutive year to present to you the directors' report and the accounts for the past twelve months. you will all have had special notice of a measure of policy on which your board has decided, and to which you will be asked to-day to give your adherence--to that i shall come at the end of my remarks...." "excuse me, sir; we can't hear a word down here." 'ah!' thought the secretary, 'i was expecting that.' the chairman went on, undisturbed. but several shareholders now rose, and the same speaker said testily: "we might as well go home. if the chairman's got no voice, can't somebody read for him?" the chairman took a sip of water, and resumed. almost all in the last six rows were now on their feet, and amid a hubbub of murmurs the chairman held out to the secretary the slips of his speech, and fell heavily back into his chair. the secretary re-read from the beginning; and as each sentence fell from his tongue, he thought: 'how good that is!' 'that's very clear!' 'a neat touch!' 'this is getting them.' it seemed to him a pity they could not know it was all his composition. when at last he came to the pillin sale he paused for a second. "i come now to the measure of policy to which i made allusion at the beginning of my speech. your board has decided to expand your enterprise by purchasing the entire fleet of pillin & co., ltd. by this transaction we become the owners of the four steamships smyrna, damascus, tyre, and sidon, vessels in prime condition with a total freight-carrying capacity of fifteen thousand tons, at the low inclusive price of sixty thousand pounds. gentlemen, de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!"--it was the chairman's phrase, his bit of the speech, and the secretary did it more than justice. "times are bad, but your board is emphatically of the opinion that they are touching bottom; and this, in their view, is the psychological moment for a forward stroke. they confidently recommend your adoption of their policy and the ratification of this purchase, which they believe will, in the not far distant future, substantially increase the profits of the company." the secretary sat down with reluctance. the speech should have continued with a number of appealing sentences which he had carefully prepared, but the chairman had cut them out with the simple comment: "they ought to be glad of the chance." it was, in his view, an error. the director who had combed his beard now rose--a man of presence, who might be trusted to say nothing long and suavely. while he was speaking the secretary was busy noting whence opposition was likely to come. the majority were sitting owl-like-a good sign; but some dozen were studying their copies of the report, and three at least were making notes--westgate, for, instance, who wanted to get on the board, and was sure to make himself unpleasant--the time-honoured method of vinegar; and batterson, who also desired to come on, and might be trusted to support the board--the time-honoured method of oil; while, if one knew anything of human nature, the fellow who had complained that he might as well go home would have something uncomfortable to say. the director finished his remarks, combed his beard with his fingers, and sat down. a momentary pause ensued. then messieurs westgate and batterson rose together. seeing the chairman nod towards the latter, the secretary thought: 'mistake! he should have humoured westgate by giving him precedence.' but that was the worst of the old man, he had no notion of the suaviter in modo! mr. batterson thus unchained--would like, if he might be so allowed, to congratulate the board on having piloted their ship so smoothly through the troublous waters of the past year. with their worthy chairman still at the helm, he had no doubt that in spite of the still low--he would not say falling--barometer, and the-er-unseasonable climacteric, they might rely on weathering the--er--he would not say storm. he would confess that the present dividend of four per cent. was not one which satisfied every aspiration (hear, hear!), but speaking for himself, and he hoped for others--and here mr. batterson looked round--he recognised that in all the circumstances it was as much as they had the right--er--to expect. but following the bold but to his mind prudent development which the board proposed to make, he thought that they might reasonably, if not sanguinely, anticipate a more golden future. ("no, no!") a shareholder said, 'no, no!' that might seem to indicate a certain lack of confidence in the special proposal before the meeting. ("yes!") from that lack of confidence he would like at once to dissociate himself. their chairman, a man of foresight and acumen, and valour proved on many a field and--er--sea, would not have committed himself to this policy without good reason. in his opinion they were in safe hands, and he was glad to register his support of the measure proposed. the chairman had well said in his speech: 'de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!' shareholders would agree with him that there could be no better motto for englishmen. ahem! mr. batterson sat down. and mr. westgate rose: he wanted--he said--to know more, much more, about this proposition, which to his mind was of a very dubious wisdom.... 'ah!' thought the secretary, 'i told the old boy he must tell them more'.... to whom, for instance, had the proposal first been made? to him!--the chairman said. good! but why were pillins selling, if freights were to go up, as they were told? "matter of opinion." "quite so; and in my opinion they are going lower, and pillins were right to sell. it follows that we are wrong to buy." ("hear, hear!" "no, no!") "pillins are shrewd people. what does the chairman say? nerves! does he mean to tell us that this sale was the result of nerves?" the chairman nodded. "that appears to me a somewhat fantastic theory; but i will leave that and confine myself to asking the grounds on which the chairman bases his confidence; in fact, what it is which is actuating the board in pressing on us at such a time what i have no hesitation in stigmatising as a rash proposal. in a word, i want light as well as leading in this matter." mr. westgate sat down. what would the chairman do now? the situation was distinctly awkward--seeing his helplessness and the lukewarmness of the board behind him. and the secretary felt more strongly than ever the absurdity of his being an underling, he who in a few well-chosen words could so easily have twisted the meeting round his thumb. suddenly he heard the long, rumbling sigh which preluded the chairman's speeches. "has any other gentleman anything to say before i move the adoption of the report?" phew! that would put their backs up. yes, sure enough it had brought that fellow, who had said he might as well go home, to his feet! now for something nasty! "mr. westgate requires answering. i don't like this business. i don't impute anything to anybody; but it looks to me as if there were something behind it which the shareholders ought to be told. not only that; but, to speak frankly, i'm not satisfied to be ridden over roughshod in this fashion by one who, whatever he may have been in the past, is obviously not now in the prime of his faculties." with a gasp the secretary thought: 'i knew that was a plain-spoken man!' he heard again the rumbling beside him. the chairman had gone crimson, his mouth was pursed, his little eyes were very blue. "help me up," he said. the secretary helped him, and waited, rather breathless. the chairman took a sip of water, and his voice, unexpectedly loud, broke an ominous hush: "never been so insulted in my life. my best services have been at your disposal for nineteen years; you know what measure of success this company has attained. i am the oldest man here, and my experience of shipping is, i hope, a little greater than that of the two gentlemen who spoke last. i have done my best for you, ladies and gentlemen, and we shall see whether you are going to endorse an indictment of my judgment and of my honour, if i am to take the last speaker seriously. this purchase is for your good. 'there is a tide in the affairs of men'--and i for one am not content, never have been, to stagnate. if that is what you want, however, by all means give your support to these gentlemen and have done with it. i tell you freights will go up before the end of the year; the purchase is a sound one, more than a sound one--i, at any rate, stand or fall by it. refuse to ratify it, if you like; if you do, i shall resign." he sank back into his seat. the secretary, stealing a glance, thought with a sort of enthusiasm: 'bravo! who'd have thought he could rally his voice like that? a good touch, too, that about his honour! i believe he's knocked them. it's still dicky, though, if that fellow at the back gets up again; the old chap can't work that stop a second time. 'ah! here was 'old apple-pie' on his hind legs. that was all right! "i do not hesitate to say that i am an old friend of the chairman; we are, many of us, old friends of the chairman, and it has been painful to me, and i doubt not to others, to hear an attack made on him. if he is old in body, he is young in mental vigour and courage. i wish we were all as young. we ought to stand by him; i say, we ought to stand by him." ("hear, hear! hear, hear!") and the secretary thought: 'that's done it!' and he felt a sudden odd emotion, watching the chairman bobbing his body, like a wooden toy, at old appleby; and old appleby bobbing back. then, seeing a shareholder close to the door get up, thought: 'who's that? i know his face--ah! yes; ventnor, the solicitor--he's one of the chairman's creditors that are coming again this afternoon. what now?' "i can't agree that we ought to let sentiment interfere with our judgment in this matter. the question is simply: how are our pockets going to be affected? i came here with some misgivings, but the attitude of the chairman has been such as to remove them; and i shall support the proposition." the secretary thought: 'that's all right--only, he said it rather queerly--rather queerly.' then, after a long silence, the chairman, without rising, said: "i move the adoption of the report and accounts." "i second that." "those in favour signify the same in the usual way. contrary? carried." the secretary noted the dissentients, six in number, and that mr. westgate did not vote. a quarter of an hour later he stood in the body of the emptying room supplying names to one of the gentlemen of the press. the passionless fellow said: "haythorp, with an 'a'; oh! an 'e'; he seems an old man. thank you. i may have the slips? would you like to see a proof? with an 'a' you said--oh! an 'e.' good afternoon!" and the secretary thought: 'those fellows, what does go on inside them? fancy not knowing the old chairman by now!'... back in the proper office of "the island navigation company" old heythorp sat smoking a cigar and smiling like a purring cat. he was dreaming a little of his triumph, sifting with his old brain, still subtle, the wheat from the chaff of the demurrers: westgate--nothing in that--professional discontent till they silenced him with a place on the board--but not while he held the reins! that chap at the back--an ill-conditioned fellow! "something behind!" suspicious brute! there was something--but--hang it! they might think themselves lucky to get four ships at that price, and all due to him! it was on the last speaker that his mind dwelt with a doubt. that fellow ventnor, to whom he owed money--there had been something just a little queer about his tone--as much as to say, "i smell a rat." well! one would see that at the creditors' meeting in half an hour. "mr. pillin, sir." "show him in!" in a fur coat which seemed to extinguish his thin form, joe pillin entered. it was snowing, and the cold had nipped and yellowed his meagre face between its slight grey whiskering. he said thinly: "how are you, sylvanus? aren't you perished in this cold?" "warm as a toast. sit down. take off your coat." "oh! i should be lost without it. you must have a fire inside you. so-so it's gone through?" old heythorp nodded; and joe pillin, wandering like a spirit, scrutinised the shut door. he came back to the table, and said in a low voice: "it's a great sacrifice." old heythorp smiled. "have you signed the deed poll?" producing a parchment from his pocket joe pillin unfolded it with caution to disclose his signature, and said: "i don't like it--it's irrevocable." a chuckle escaped old heythorp. "as death." joe pillin's voice passed up into the treble clef. "i can't bear irrevocable things. i consider you stampeded me, playing on my nerves." examining the signatures old heythorp murmured: "tell your lawyer to lock it up. he must think you a sad dog, joe." "ah! suppose on my death it comes to the knowledge of my wife!" "she won't be able to make it hotter for you than you'll be already." joe pillin replaced the deed within his coat, emitting a queer thin noise. he simply could not bear joking on such subjects. "well," he said, "you've got your way; you always do. who is this mrs. larne? you oughtn't to keep me in the dark. it seems my boy met her at your house. you told me she didn't come there." old heythorp said with relish: "her husband was my son by a woman i was fond of before i married; her children are my grandchildren. you've provided for them. best thing you ever did." "i don't know--i don't know. i'm sorry you told me. it makes it all the more doubtful. as soon as the transfer's complete, i shall get away abroad. this cold's killing me. i wish you'd give me your recipe for keeping warm." "get a new inside." joe pillin regarded his old friend with a sort of yearning. "and yet," he said, "i suppose, with your full-blooded habit, your life hangs by a thread, doesn't it?" "a stout one, my boy" "well, good-bye, sylvanus. you're a job's comforter; i must be getting home." he put on his hat, and, lost in his fur coat, passed out into the corridor. on the stairs he met a man who said: "how do you do, mr. pillin? i know your son. been' seeing the chairman? i see your sale's gone through all right. i hope that'll do us some good, but i suppose you think the other way?" peering at him from under his hat, joe pillin said: "mr. ventnor, i think? thank you! it's very cold, isn't it?" and, with that cautious remark, he passed on down. alone again, old heythorp thought: 'by george! what a wavering, quavering, thread paper of a fellow! what misery life must be to a chap like that! he walks in fear--he wallows in it. poor devil!' and a curious feeling swelled his heart, of elation, of lightness such as he had not known for years. those two young things were safe now from penury-safe! after dealing with those infernal creditors of his he would go round and have a look at the children. with a hundred and twenty a year the boy could go into the army--best place for a young scamp like that. the girl would go off like hot cakes, of course, but she needn't take the first calf that came along. as for their mother, she must look after herself; nothing under two thousand a year would keep her out of debt. but trust her for wheedling and bluffing her way out of any scrape! watching his cigar-smoke curl and disperse he was conscious of the strain he had been under these last six weeks, aware suddenly of how greatly he had baulked at thought of to-day's general meeting. yes! it might have turned out nasty. he knew well enough the forces on the board, and off, who would be only too glad to shelve him. if he were shelved here his other two companies would be sure to follow suit, and bang would go every penny of his income--he would be a pauper dependant on that holy woman. well! safe now for another year if he could stave off these sharks once more. it might be a harder job this time, but he was in luck--in luck, and it must hold. and taking a luxurious pull at his cigar, he rang the handbell. "bring 'em in here, mr. farney. and let me have a cup of china tea as strong as you can make it." "yes, sir. will you see the proof of the press report, or will you leave it to me?" "to you." "yes, sir. it was a good meeting, wasn't it?" old heythorp nodded. "wonderful how your voice came back just at the right moment. i was afraid things were going to be difficult. the insult did it, i think. it was a monstrous thing to say. i could have punched his head." again old heythorp nodded; and, looking into the secretary's fine blue eyes, he repeated: "bring 'em in." the lonely minute before the entrance of his creditors passed in the thought: 'so that's how it struck him! short shrift i should get if it came out.' the gentlemen, who numbered ten this time, bowed to their debtor, evidently wondering why the deuce they troubled to be polite to an old man who kept them out of their money. then, the secretary reappearing with a cup of china tea, they watched while their debtor drank it. the feat was tremulous. would he get through without spilling it all down his front, or choking? to those unaccustomed to his private life it was slightly miraculous. he put the cup down empty, tremblingly removed some yellow drops from the little white tuft below his lip, refit his cigar, and said: "no use beating about the bush, gentlemen; i can offer you fourteen hundred a year so long as i live and hold my directorships, and not a penny more. if you can't accept that, you must make me bankrupt and get about sixpence in the pound. my qualifying shares will fetch a couple of thousand at market price. i own nothing else. the house i live in, and everything in it, barring my clothes, my wine, and my cigars, belong to my daughter under a settlement fifteen years old. my solicitors and bankers will give you every information. that's the position in a nutshell." in spite of business habits the surprise of the ten gentlemen was only partially concealed. a man who owed them so much would naturally say he owned nothing, but would he refer them to his solicitors and bankers unless he were telling the truth? then mr. ventnor said: "will you submit your pass books?" "no, but i'll authorise my bankers to give you a full statement of my receipts for the last five years--longer, if you like." the strategic stroke of placing the ten gentlemen round the board table had made it impossible for them to consult freely without being overheard, but the low-voiced transference of thought travelling round was summed up at last by mr. brownbee. "we think, mr. heythorp, that your fees and dividends should enable you to set aside for us a larger sum. sixteen hundred, in fact, is what we think you should give us yearly. representing, as we do, sixteen thousand pounds, the prospect is not cheering, but we hope you have some good years before you yet. we understand your income to be two thousand pounds." old heythorp shook his head. "nineteen hundred and thirty pounds in a good year. must eat and drink; must have a man to look after me not as active as i was. can't do on less than five hundred pounds. fourteen hundred's all i can give you, gentlemen; it's an advance of two hundred pounds. that's my last word." the silence was broken by mr. ventnor. "and it's my last word that i'm not satisfied. if these other gentlemen accept your proposition i shall be forced to consider what i can do on my own account." the old man stared at him, and answered: "oh! you will, sir; we shall see." the others had risen and were gathered in a knot at the end of the table; old heythorp and mr. ventnor alone remained seated. the old man's lower lip projected till the white hairs below stood out like bristles. 'you ugly dog,' he was thinking, 'you think you've got something up your sleeve. well, do your worst!' the "ugly dog" rose abruptly and joined the others. and old heythorp closed his eyes, sitting perfectly still, with his cigar, which had gone out, sticking up between his teeth. mr. brownbee turning to voice the decision come to, cleared his throat. "mr. heythorp," he said, "if your bankers and solicitors bear out your statements, we shall accept your offer faute de mieux, in consideration of your--" but meeting the old man's eyes, which said so very plainly: "blow your consideration!" he ended with a stammer: "perhaps you will kindly furnish us with the authorisation you spoke of?" old heythorp nodded, and mr. brownbee, with a little bow, clasped his hat to his breast and moved towards the door. the nine gentlemen followed. mr. ventnor, bringing up the rear, turned and looked back. but the old man's eyes were already closed again. the moment his creditors were gone, old heythorp sounded the hand-bell. "help me up, mr. farney. that ventnor--what's his holding?" "quite small. only ten shares, i think." "ah! what time is it?" "quarter to four, sir." "get me a taxi." after visiting his bank and his solicitors he struggled once more into his cab and caused it to be driven towards millicent villas. a kind of sleepy triumph permeated his whole being, bumped and shaken by the cab's rapid progress. so! he was free of those sharks now so long as he could hold on to his companies; and he would still have a hundred a year or more to spare for rosamund and her youngsters. he could live on four hundred, or even three-fifty, without losing his independence, for there would be no standing life in that holy woman's house unless he could pay his own scot! a good day's work! the best for many a long month! the cab stopped before the villa. there are rooms which refuse to give away their owners, and rooms which seem to say: 'they really are like this.' of such was rosamund larne's--a sort of permanent confession, seeming to remark to anyone who entered: 'her taste? well, you can see--cheerful and exuberant; her habits--yes, she sits here all the morning in a dressing-gown, smoking cigarettes and dropping ink; kindly observe my carpet. notice the piano--it has a look of coming and going, according to the exchequer. this very deep-cushioned sofa is permanent, however; the water-colours on the walls are safe, too--they're by herself. mark the scent of mimosa--she likes flowers, and likes them strong. no clock, of course. examine the bureau--she is obviously always ringing for "the drumstick," and saying: "where's this, ellen, and where's that? you naughty gairl, you've been tidying." cast an eye on that pile of manuscript--she has evidently a genius for composition; it flows off her pen--like shakespeare, she never blots a line. see how she's had the electric light put in, instead of that horrid gas; but try and turn either of them on--you can't; last quarter isn't paid, of course; and she uses an oil lamp, you can tell that by the ceiling: the dog over there, who will not answer to the name of 'carmen,' a pekinese spaniel like a little djin, all prominent eyes rolling their blacks, and no nose between--yes, carmen looks as if she didn't know what was coming next; she's right--it's a pet-and-slap-again life! consider, too, the fittings of the tea-tray, rather soiled, though not quite tin, but i say unto you that no millionaire's in all its glory ever had a liqueur bottle on it.' when old heythorp entered this room, which extended from back to front of the little house, preceded by the announcement "mr. aesop," it was resonant with a very clatter-bodandigo of noises, from phyllis playing the machiche; from the boy jock on the hearthrug, emitting at short intervals the most piercing notes from an ocarina; from mrs. larne on the sofa, talking with her trailing volubility to bob pillin; from bob pillin muttering: "ye-es! qui-ite! ye-es!" and gazing at phyllis over his collar. and, on the window-sill, as far as she could get from all this noise, the little dog carmen was rolling her eyes. at sight of their visitor jock blew one rending screech, and bolting behind the sofa, placed his chin on its top, so that nothing but his round pink unmoving face was visible; and the dog carmen tried to climb the blind cord. encircled from behind by the arms of phyllis, and preceded by the gracious perfumed bulk of mrs. larne, old heythorp was escorted to the sofa. it was low, and when he had plumped down into it, the boy jock emitted a hollow groan. bob pillin was the first to break the silence. "how are you, sir? i hope it's gone through." old heythorp nodded. his eyes were fixed on the liqueur, and mrs. larne murmured: "guardy, you must try our new liqueur. jock, you awful boy, get up and bring guardy a glass." the boy jock approached the tea-table, took up a glass, put it to his eye and filled it rapidly. "you horrible boy, you could see that glass has been used." in a high round voice rather like an angel's, jock answered: "all right, mother; i'll get rid of it," and rapidly swallowing the yellow liquor, took up another glass. mrs. larne laughed. "what am i to do with him?" a loud shriek prevented a response. phyllis, who had taken her brother by the ear to lead him to the door, let him go to clasp her injured self. bob pillin went hastening towards her; and following the young man with her chin, mrs. larne said, smiling: "aren't those children awful? he's such a nice fellow. we like him so much, guardy." the old man grinned. so she was making up to that young pup! rosamund larne, watching him, murmured: "oh! guardy, you're as bad as jock. he takes after you terribly. look at the shape of his head. jock, come here!" the innocent boy approached; with his girlish complexion, his flowery blue eyes, his perfect mouth, he stood before his mother like a large cherub. and suddenly he blew his ocarina in a dreadful manner. mrs. larne launched a box at his ears, and receiving the wind of it he fell prone. "that's the way he behaves. be off with you, you awful boy. i want to talk to guardy." the boy withdrew on his stomach, and sat against the wall cross-legged, fixing his innocent round eyes on old heythorp. mrs. larne sighed. "things are worse and worse, guardy. i'm at my wits' end to tide over this quarter. you wouldn't advance me a hundred on my new story? i'm sure to get two for it in the end." the old man shook his head. "i've done something for you and the children," he said. "you'll get notice of it in a day or two; ask no questions." "oh! guardy! oh! you dear!" and her gaze rested on bob pillin, leaning over the piano, where phyllis again sat. old heythorp snorted. "what are you cultivating that young gaby for? she mustn't be grabbed up by any fool who comes along." mrs. larne murmured at once: "of course, the dear gairl is much too young. phyllis, come and talk to guardy!" when the girl was installed beside him on the sofa, and he had felt that little thrill of warmth the proximity of youth can bring, he said: "been a good girl?" she shook her head. "can't, when jock's not at school. mother can't pay for him this term." hearing his name, the boy jock blew his ocarina till mrs. larne drove him from the room, and phyllis went on: "he's more awful than anything you can think of. was my dad at all like him, guardy? mother's always so mysterious about him. i suppose you knew him well." old heythorp, incapable of confusion, answered stolidly: "not very." "who was his father? i don't believe even mother knows." "man about town in my day." "oh! your day must have been jolly. did you wear peg-top trousers, and dundreary's?" old heythorp nodded. "what larks! and i suppose you had lots of adventures with opera dancers and gambling. the young men are all so good now." her eyes rested on bob pillin. "that young man's a perfect stick of goodness." old heythorp grunted. "you wouldn't know how good he was," phyllis went on musingly, "unless you'd sat next him in a tunnel. the other day he had his waist squeezed and he simply sat still and did nothing. and then when the tunnel ended, it was jock after all, not me. his face was--oh! ah! ha! ha! ah! ha!" she threw back her head, displaying all her white, round throat. then edging near, she whispered: "he likes to pretend, of course, that he's fearfully lively. he's promised to take mother and me to the theatre and supper afterwards. won't it be scrummy! only, i haven't anything to go in." old heythorp said: "what do you want? irish poplin?" her mouth opened wide: "oh! guardy! soft white satin!" "how many yards'll go round you?" "i should think about twelve. we could make it ourselves. you are a chook!" a scent of hair, like hay, enveloped him, her lips bobbed against his nose,--and there came a feeling in his heart as when he rolled the first sip of a special wine against his palate. this little house was a rumty-too affair, her mother was a humbug, the boy a cheeky young rascal, but there was a warmth here he never felt in that big house which had been his wife's and was now his holy daughter's. and once more he rejoiced at his day's work, and the success of his breach of trust, which put some little ground beneath these young feet, in a hard and unscrupulous world. phyllis whispered in his ear: "guardy, do look; he will stare at me like that. isn't it awful--like a boiled rabbit?" bob pillin, attentive to mrs. larne, was gazing with all his might over her shoulder at the girl. the young man was moonstruck, that was clear! there was something almost touching in the stare of those puppy dog's eyes. and he thought 'young beggar--wish i were his age!' the utter injustice of having an old and helpless body, when your desire for enjoyment was as great as ever! they said a man was as old as he felt! fools! a man was as old as his legs and arms, and not a day younger. he heard the girl beside him utter a discomfortable sound, and saw her face cloud as if tears were not far off; she jumped up, and going to the window, lifted the little dog and buried her face in its brown and white fur. old heythorp thought: 'she sees that her humbugging mother is using her as a decoy.' but she had come back, and the little dog, rolling its eyes horribly at the strange figure on the sofa, in a desperate effort to escape succeeded in reaching her shoulder, where it stayed perched like a cat, held by one paw and trying to back away into space. old heythorp said abruptly: "are you very fond of your mother?" "of course i am, guardy. i adore her." "h'm! listen to me. when you come of age or marry, you'll have a hundred and twenty a year of your own that you can't get rid of. don't ever be persuaded into doing what you don't want. and remember: your mother's a sieve, no good giving her money; keep what you'll get for yourself--it's only a pittance, and you'll want it all--every penny." phyllis's eyes had opened very wide; so that he wondered if she had taken in his words. "oh! isn't money horrible, guardy?" "the want of it." "no, it's beastly altogether. if only we were like birds. or if one could put out a plate overnight, and have just enough in the morning to use during the day." old heythorp sighed. "there's only one thing in life that matters--independence. lose that, and you lose everything. that's the value of money. help me up." phyllis stretched out her hands, and the little dog, running down her back, resumed its perch on the window-sill, close to the blind cord. once on his feet, old heythorp said: "give me a kiss. you'll have your satin tomorrow." then looking at bob pillin, he remarked: "going my way? i'll give you a lift." the young man, giving phyllis one appealing look, answered dully: "tha-anks!" and they went out together to the taxi. in that draughtless vehicle they sat, full of who knows what contempt of age for youth; and youth for age; the old man resenting this young pup's aspiration to his granddaughter; the young man annoyed that this old image had dragged him away before he wished to go. old heythorp said at last: "well?" thus expected to say something, bob pillin muttered "glad your meetin' went off well, sir. you scored a triumph i should think." "why?" "oh! i don't know. i thought you had a good bit of opposition to contend with." old heythorp looked at him. "your grandmother!" he said; then, with his habitual instinct of attack, added: "you make the most of your opportunities, i see." at this rude assault bob pillin's red-cheeked face assumed a certain dignity. "i don't know what you mean, sir. mrs. larne is very kind to me." "no doubt. but don't try to pick the flowers." thoroughly upset, bob pillin preserved a dogged silence. this fortnight, since he had first met phyllis in old heythorp's hall, had been the most singular of his existence up to now. he would never have believed that a fellow could be so quickly and completely bowled, could succumb without a kick, without even wanting to kick. to one with his philosophy of having a good time and never committing himself too far, it was in the nature of "a fair knock-out," and yet so pleasurable, except for the wear and tear about one's chances. if only he knew how far the old boy really counted in the matter! to say: "my intentions are strictly honourable" would be old-fashioned; besides--the old fellow might have no right to hear it. they called him guardy, but without knowing more he did not want to admit the old curmudgeon's right to interfere. "are you a relation of theirs, sir?" old heythorp nodded. bob pillin went on with desperation: "i should like to know what your objection to me is." the old man turned his head so far as he was able; a grim smile bristled the hairs about his lips, and twinkled in his eyes. what did he object to? why--everything! object to! that sleek head, those puppy-dog eyes, fattish red cheeks, high collars, pearl pin, spats, and drawl-pah! the imbecility, the smugness of his mug; no go, no devil in any of his sort, in any of these fish-veined, coddled-up young bloods, nothing but playing for safety! and he wheezed out: "milk and water masquerading as port wine." bob pillin frowned. it was almost too much for the composure even of a man of the world. that this paralytic old fellow should express contempt for his virility was really the last thing in jests. luckily he could not take it seriously. but suddenly he thought: 'what if he really has the power to stop my going there, and means to turn them against me!' and his heart quailed. "awfully sorry, sir," he said, "if you don't think i'm wild enough. anything i can do for you in that line--" the old man grunted; and realising that he had been quite witty, bob pillin went on: "i know i'm not in debt, no entanglements, got a decent income, pretty good expectations and all that; but i can soon put that all right if i'm not fit without." it was perhaps his first attempt at irony, and he could not help thinking how good it was. but old heythorp preserved a deadly silence. he looked like a stuffed man, a regular aunt sally sitting there, with the fixed red in his cheeks, his stivered hair, square block of a body, and no neck that you could see-only wanting the pipe in his mouth! could there really be danger from such an old idol? the idol spoke: "i'll give you a word of advice. don't hang round there, or you'll burn your fingers. remember me to your father. good-night!" the taxi had stopped before the house in sefton park. an insensate impulse to remain seated and argue the point fought in bob pillin with an impulse to leap out, shake his fist in at the window, and walk off. he merely said, however: "thanks for the lift. good-night!" and, getting out deliberately, he walked off. old heythorp, waiting for the driver to help him up, thought 'fatter, but no more guts than his father!' in his sanctum he sank at once into his chair. it was wonderfully still there every day at this hour; just the click of the coals, just the faintest ruffle from the wind in the trees of the park. and it was cosily warm, only the fire lightening the darkness. a drowsy beatitude pervaded the old man. a good day's work! a triumph--that young pup had said. yes! something of a triumph! he had held on, and won. and dinner to look forward to, yet. a nap--a nap! and soon, rhythmic, soft, sonorous, his breathing rose, with now and then that pathetic twitching of the old who dream. iii when bob pillin emerged from the little front garden of , millicent villas ten days later, his sentiments were ravelled, and he could not get hold of an end to pull straight the stuff of his mind. he had found mrs. larne and phyllis in the sitting-room, and phyllis had been crying; he was sure she had been crying; and that memory still infected the sentiments evoked by later happenings. old heythorp had said: "you'll burn your fingers." the process had begun. having sent her daughter away on a pretext really a bit too thin, mrs. larne had installed him beside her scented bulk on the sofa, and poured into his ear such a tale of monetary woe and entanglement, such a mass of present difficulties and rosy prospects, that his brain still whirled, and only one thing emerged clearly-that she wanted fifty pounds, which she would repay him on quarter-day; for their guardy had made a settlement by which, until the dear children came of age, she would have sixty pounds every quarter. it was only a question of a few weeks; he might ask messrs. scriven and coles; they would tell him the security was quite safe. he certainly might ask messrs. scriven and coles--they happened to be his father's solicitors; but it hardly seemed to touch the point. bob pillin had a certain shrewd caution, and the point was whether he was going to begin to lend money to a woman who, he could see, might borrow up to seventy times seven on the strength of his infatuation for her daughter. that was rather too strong! yet, if he didn't she might take a sudden dislike to him, and where would he be then? besides, would not a loan make his position stronger? and then--such is the effect of love even on the younger generation--that thought seemed to him unworthy. if he lent at all, it should be from chivalry--ulterior motives might go hang! and the memory of the tear-marks on phyllis's pretty pale-pink cheeks; and her petulantly mournful: "oh! young man, isn't money beastly!" scraped his heart, and ravished his judgment. all the same, fifty pounds was fifty pounds, and goodness knew how much more; and what did he know of mrs. larne, after all, except that she was a relative of old heythorp's and wrote stories--told them too, if he was not mistaken? perhaps it would be better to see scrivens'. but again that absurd nobility assaulted him. phyllis! phyllis! besides, were not settlements always drawn so that they refused to form security for anything? thus, hampered and troubled, he hailed a cab. he was dining with the ventnors on the cheshire side, and would be late if he didn't get home sharp to dress. driving, white-tied--and waist-coated, in his father's car, he thought with a certain contumely of the younger ventnor girl, whom he had been wont to consider pretty before he knew phyllis. and seated next her at dinner, he quite enjoyed his new sense of superiority to her charms, and the ease with which he could chaff and be agreeable. and all the time he suffered from the suppressed longing which scarcely ever left him now, to think and talk of phyllis. ventnor's fizz was good and plentiful, his old madeira absolutely first chop, and the only other man present a teetotal curate, who withdrew with the ladies to talk his parish shop. favoured by these circumstances, and the perception that ventnor was an agreeable fellow, bob pillin yielded to his secret itch to get near the subject of his affections. "do you happen," he said airily, "to know a mrs. larne--relative of old heythorp's--rather a handsome woman-she writes stories." mr. ventnor shook his head. a closer scrutiny than bob pillin's would have seen that he also moved his ears. "of old heythorp's? didn't know he had any, except his daughter, and that son of his in the admiralty." bob pillin felt the glow of his secret hobby spreading within him. "she is, though--lives rather out of town; got a son and daughter. i thought you might know her stories--clever woman." mr. ventnor smiled. "ah!" he said enigmatically, "these lady novelists! does she make any money by them?" bob pillin knew that to make money by writing meant success, but that not to make money by writing was artistic, and implied that you had private means, which perhaps was even more distinguished. and he said: "oh! she has private means, i know." mr. ventnor reached for the madeira. "so she's a relative of old heythorp's," he said. "he's a very old friend of your father's. he ought to go bankrupt, you know." to bob pillin, glowing with passion and madeira, the idea of bankruptcy seemed discreditable in connection with a relative of phyllis. besides, the old boy was far from that! had he not just made this settlement on mrs. larne? and he said: "i think you're mistaken. that's of the past." mr. ventnor smiled. "will you bet?" he said. bob pillin also smiled. "i should be bettin' on a certainty." mr. ventnor passed his hand over his whiskered face. "don't you believe it; he hasn't a mag to his name. fill your glass." bob pillin said, with a certain resentment: "well, i happen to know he's just made a settlement of five or six thousand pounds. don't know if you call that being bankrupt." "what! on this mrs. larne?" confused, uncertain whether he had said something derogatory or indiscreet, or something which added distinction to phyllis, bob pillin hesitated, then gave a nod. mr. ventnor rose and extended his short legs before the fire. "no, my boy," he said. "no!" unaccustomed to flat contradiction, bob pillin reddened. "i'll bet you a tenner. ask scrivens." mr. ventnor ejaculated: "scrivens---but they're not--" then, staring rather hard, he added: "i won't bet. you may be right. scrivens are your father's solicitors too, aren't they? always been sorry he didn't come to me. shall we join the ladies?" and to the drawing-room he preceded a young man more uncertain in his mind than on his feet.... charles ventnor was not one to let you see that more was going on within than met the eye. but there was a good deal going on that evening, and after his conversation with young bob he had occasion more than once to turn away and rub his hands together. when, after that second creditors' meeting, he had walked down the stairway which led to the offices of "the island navigation company," he had been deep in thought. short, squarely built, rather stout, with moustache and large mutton-chop whiskers of a red brown, and a faint floridity in face and dress, he impressed at first sight only by a certain truly british vulgarity. one felt that here was a hail-fellow--well-met man who liked lunch and dinner, went to scarborough for his summer holidays, sat on his wife, took his daughters out in a boat and was never sick. one felt that he went to church every sunday morning, looked upwards as he moved through life, disliked the unsuccessful, and expanded with his second glass of wine. but then a clear look into his well-clothed face and red-brown eyes would give the feeling: 'there's something fulvous here; he might be a bit too foxy.' a third look brought the thought: 'he's certainly a bully.' he was not a large creditor of old heythorp. with interest on the original, he calculated his claim at three hundred pounds--unredeemed shares in that old ecuador mine. but he had waited for his money eight years, and could never imagine how it came about that he had been induced to wait so long. there had been, of course, for one who liked "big pots," a certain glamour about the personality of old heythorp, still a bit of a swell in shipping circles, and a bit of an aristocrat in liverpool. but during the last year charles ventnor had realised that the old chap's star had definitely set--when that happens, of course, there is no more glamour, and the time has come to get your money. weakness in oneself and others is despicable! besides, he had food for thought, and descending the stairs he chewed it: he smelt a rat--creatures for which both by nature and profession he had a nose. through bob pillin, on whom he sometimes dwelt in connection with his younger daughter, he knew that old pillin and old heythorp had been friends for thirty years and more. that, to an astute mind, suggested something behind this sale. the thought had already occurred to him when he read his copy of the report. a commission would be a breach of trust, of course, but there were ways of doing things; the old chap was devilish hard pressed, and human nature was human nature! his lawyerish mind habitually put two and two together. the old fellow had deliberately appointed to meet his creditors again just after the general meeting which would decide the purchase--had said he might do something for them then. had that no significance? in these circumstances charles ventnor had come to the meeting with eyes wide open and mouth tight closed. and he had watched. it was certainly remarkable that such an old and feeble man, with no neck at all, who looked indeed as if he might go off with apoplexy any moment, should actually say that he "stood or fell" by this purchase, knowing that if he fell he would be a beggar. why should the old chap be so keen on getting it through? it would do him personally no good, unless--exactly! he had left the meeting, therefore, secretly confident that old heythorp had got something out of this transaction which would enable him to make a substantial proposal to his creditors. so that when the old man had declared that he was going to make none, something had turned sour in his heart, and he had said to himself: "all right, you old rascal! you don't know c. v." the cavalier manner of that beggarly old rip, the defiant look of his deep little eyes, had put a polish on the rancour of one who prided himself on letting no man get the better of him. all that evening, seated on one side of the fire, while mrs. ventnor sat on the other, and the younger daughter played gounod's serenade on the violin--he cogitated. and now and again he smiled, but not too much. he did not see his way as yet, but had little doubt that before long he would. it would not be hard to knock that chipped old idol off his perch. there was already a healthy feeling among the shareholders that he was past work and should be scrapped. the old chap should find that charles v. was not to be defied; that when he got his teeth into a thing, he did not let it go. by hook or crook he would have the old man off his boards, or his debt out of him as the price of leaving him alone. his life or his money--and the old fellow should determine which. with the memory of that defiance fresh within him, he almost hoped it might come to be the first, and turning to mrs. ventnor, he said abruptly: "have a little dinner friday week, and ask young pillin and the curate." he specified the curate, a tee-totaller, because he had two daughters, and males and females must be paired, but he intended to pack him off after dinner to the drawing-room to discuss parish matters while he and bob pillin sat over their wine. what he expected to get out of the young man he did not as yet know. on the day of the dinner, before departing for the office, he had gone to his cellar. would three bottles of perrier jouet do the trick, or must he add one of the old madeira? he decided to be on the safe side. a bottle or so of champagne went very little way with him personally, and young pillin might be another. the madeira having done its work by turning the conversation into such an admirable channel, he had cut it short for fear young pillin might drink the lot or get wind of the rat. and when his guests were gone, and his family had retired, he stood staring into the fire, putting together the pieces of the puzzle. five or six thousand pounds--six would be ten per cent. on sixty! exactly! scrivens--young pillin had said! but crow & donkin, not scriven & coles, were old heythorp's solicitors. what could that mean, save that the old man wanted to cover the tracks of a secret commission, and had handled the matter through solicitors who did not know the state of his affairs! but why pillin's solicitors? with this sale just going through, it must look deuced fishy to them too. was it all a mare's nest, after all? in such circumstances he himself would have taken the matter to a london firm who knew nothing of anybody. puzzled, therefore, and rather disheartened, feeling too that touch of liver which was wont to follow his old madeira, he went up to bed and woke his wife to ask her why the dickens they couldn't always have soup like that! next day he continued to brood over his puzzle, and no fresh light came; but having a matter on which his firm and scrivens' were in touch, he decided to go over in person, and see if he could surprise something out of them. feeling, from experience, that any really delicate matter would only be entrusted to the most responsible member of the firm, he had asked to see scriven himself, and just as he had taken his hat to go, he said casually: "by the way, you do some business for old mr. heythorp, don't you?" scriven, raising his eyebrows a little, murmured: "er--no," in exactly the tone mr. ventnor himself used when he wished to imply that though he didn't as a fact do business, he probably soon would. he knew therefore that the answer was a true one. and non-plussed, he hazarded: "oh! i thought you did, in regard to a mrs. larne." this time he had certainly drawn blood of sorts, for down came scriven's eyebrows, and he said: "mrs. larne--we know a mrs. larne, but not in that connection. why?" "oh! young pillin told me--" "young pillin? why, it's his---!" a little pause, and then: "old mr. heythorp's solicitors are crow & donkin, i believe." mr. ventnor held out his hand. "yes, yes," he said; "goodbye. glad to have got that matter settled up," and out he went, and down the street, important, smiling. by george! he had got it! "it's his father"--scriven had been going to say. what a plant! exactly! oh! neat! old pillin had made the settlement direct; and the solicitors were in the dark; that disposed of his difficulty about them. no money had passed between old pillin and old heythorp not a penny. oh! neat! but not neat enough for charles ventnor, who had that nose for rats. then his smile died, and with a little chill he perceived that it was all based on supposition--not quite good enough to go on! what then? somehow he must see this mrs. larne, or better--old pillin himself. the point to ascertain was whether she had any connection of her own with pillin. clearly young pillin didn't know of it; for, according to him, old heythorp had made the settlement. by jove! that old rascal was deep--all the more satisfaction in proving that he was not as deep as c. v. to unmask the old cheat was already beginning to seem in the nature of a public service. but on what pretext could he visit pillin? a subscription to the windeatt almshouses! that would make him talk in self-defence and he would take care not to press the request to the actual point of getting a subscription. he caused himself to be driven to the pillin residence in sefton park. ushered into a room on the ground floor, heated in american fashion, mr. ventnor unbuttoned his coat. a man of sanguine constitution, he found this hot-house atmosphere a little trying. and having sympathetically obtained joe pillin's reluctant refusal--quite so! one could not indefinitely extend one's subscriptions even for the best of causes!--he said gently: "by the way, you know mrs. larne, don't you?" the effect of that simple shot surpassed his highest hopes. joe pillin's face, never highly coloured, turned a sort of grey; he opened his thin lips, shut them quickly, as birds do, and something seemed to pass with difficulty down his scraggy throat. the hollows, which nerve exhaustion delves in the cheeks of men whose cheekbones are not high, increased alarmingly. for a moment he looked deathly; then, moistening his lips, he said: "larne--larne? no, i don't seem---" mr. ventnor, who had taken care to be drawing on his gloves, murmured: "oh! i thought--your son knows her; a relation of old heythorp's," and he looked up. joe pillin had his handkerchief to his mouth; he coughed feebly, then with more and more vigour: "i'm in very poor health," he said, at last. "i'm getting abroad at once. this cold's killing me. what name did you say?" and he remained with his handkerchief against his teeth. mr. ventnor repeated: "larne. writes stories." joe pillin muttered into his handkerchief "ali! h'm! no--i--no! my son knows all sorts of people. i shall have to try mentone. are you going? good-bye! good-bye! i'm sorry; ah! ha! my cough--ah! ha h'h'm! very distressing. ye-hes! my cough-ah! ha h'h'm! most distressing. ye-hes!" out in the drive mr. ventnor took a deep breath of the frosty air. not much doubt now! the two names had worked like charms. this weakly old fellow would make a pretty witness, would simply crumple under cross-examination. what a contrast to that hoary old sinner heythorp, whose brazenness nothing could affect. the rat was as large as life! and the only point was how to make the best use of it. then--for his experience was wide--the possibility dawned on him, that after all, this mrs. larne might only have been old pillin's mistress--or be his natural daughter, or have some other blackmailing hold on him. any such connection would account for his agitation, for his denying her, for his son's ignorance. only it wouldn't account for young pillin's saying that old heythorp had made the settlement. he could only have got that from the woman herself. still, to make absolutely sure, he had better try and see her. but how? it would never do to ask bob pillin for an introduction, after this interview with his father. he would have to go on his own and chance it. wrote stories did she? perhaps a newspaper would know her address; or the directory would give it--not a common name! and, hot on the scent, he drove to a post office. yes, there it was, right enough! "larne, mrs. r., , millicent villas." and thinking to himself: 'no time like the present,' he turned in that direction. the job was delicate. he must be careful not to do anything which might compromise his power of making public use of his knowledge. yes-ticklish! what he did now must have a proper legal bottom. still, anyway you looked at it, he had a right to investigate a fraud on himself as a shareholder of "the island navigation company," and a fraud on himself as a creditor of old heythorp. quite! but suppose this mrs. larne was really entangled with old pillin, and the settlement a mere reward of virtue, easy or otherwise. well! in that case there'd be no secret commission to make public, and he needn't go further. so that, in either event, he would be all right. only--how to introduce himself? he might pretend he was a newspaper man wanting a story. no, that wouldn't do! he must not represent that he was what he was not, in case he had afterwards to justify his actions publicly, always a difficult thing, if you were not careful! at that moment there came into his mind a question bob pillin had asked the other night. "by the way, you can't borrow on a settlement, can you? isn't there generally some clause against it?" had this woman been trying to borrow from him on that settlement? but at this moment he reached the house, and got out of his cab still undecided as to how he was going to work the oracle. impudence, constitutional and professional, sustained him in saying to the little maid: "mrs. larne at home? say mr. charles ventnor, will you?" his quick brown eyes took in the apparel of the passage which served for hall--the deep blue paper on the walls, lilac-patterned curtains over the doors, the well-known print of a nude young woman looking over her shoulder, and he thought: 'h'm! distinctly tasty!' they noted, too, a small brown-and-white dog cowering in terror at the very end of the passage, and he murmured affably: "fluffy! come here, fluffy!" till carmen's teeth chattered in her head. "will you come in, sir?" mr. ventnor ran his hand over his whiskers, and, entering a room, was impressed at once by its air of domesticity. on a sofa a handsome woman and a pretty young girl were surrounded by sewing apparatus and some white material. the girl looked up, but the elder lady rose. mr. ventnor said easily "you know my young friend, mr. robert pillin, i think." the lady, whose bulk and bloom struck him to the point of admiration, murmured in a full, sweet drawl: "oh! ye-es. are you from messrs. scrivens?" with the swift reflection: 'as i thought!' mr. ventnor answered: "er--not exactly. i am a solicitor though; came just to ask about a certain settlement that mr. pillin tells me you're entitled under." "phyllis dear!" seeing the girl about to rise from underneath the white stuff, mr. ventnor said quickly: "pray don't disturb yourself--just a formality!" it had struck him at once that the lady would have to speak the truth in the presence of this third party, and he went on: "quite recent, i think. this'll be your first interest-on six thousand pounds? is that right?" and at the limpid assent of that rich, sweet voice, he thought: 'fine woman; what eyes!' "thank you; that's quite enough. i can go to scrivens for any detail. nice young fellow, bob pillin, isn't he?" he saw the girl's chin tilt, and mrs. larne's full mouth curling in a smile. "delightful young man; we're very fond of him." and he proceeded: "i'm quite an old friend of his; have you known him long?" "oh! no. how long, phyllis, since we met him at guardy's? about a month. but he's so unaffected--quite at home with us. a nice fellow." mr. ventnor murmured: "very different from his father, isn't he?" "is he? we don't know his father; he's a shipowner, i think." mr. ventnor rubbed his hands: "ye-es," he said, "just giving up--a warm man. young pillin's a lucky fellow--only son. so you met him at old mr. heythorp's. i know him too--relation of yours, i believe." "our dear guardy such a wonderful man." mr. ventnor echoed: "wonderful--regular old roman." "oh! but he's so kind!" mrs. larne lifted the white stuff: "look what he's given this naughty gairl!" mr. ventnor murmured: "charming! charming! bob pillin said, i think, that mr. heythorp was your settlor." one of those little clouds which visit the brows of women who have owed money in their time passed swiftly athwart mrs. larne's eyes. for a moment they seemed saying: 'don't you want to know too much?' then they slid from under it. "won't you sit down?" she said. "you must forgive our being at work." mr. ventnor, who had need of sorting his impressions, shook his head. "thank you; i must be getting on. then messrs. scriven can--a mere formality! goodbye! good-bye, miss larne. i'm sure the dress will be most becoming." and with memories of a too clear look from the girl's eyes, of a warm firm pressure from the woman's hand, mr. ventnor backed towards the door and passed away just in time to avoid hearing in two voices: "what a nice lawyer!" "what a horrid man!" back in his cab, he continued to rub his hands. no, she didn't know old pillin! that was certain; not from her words, but from her face. she wanted to know him, or about him, anyway. she was trying to hook young bob for that sprig of a girl--it was clear as mud. h'm! it would astonish his young friend to hear that he had called. well, let it! and a curious mixture of emotions beset mr. ventnor. he saw the whole thing now so plainly, and really could not refrain from a certain admiration. the law had been properly diddled! there was nothing to prevent a man from settling money on a woman he had never seen; and so old pillin's settlement could probably not be upset. but old heythorp could. it was neat, though, oh! neat! and that was a fine woman--remarkably! he had a sort of feeling that if only the settlement had been in danger, it might have been worth while to have made a bargain--a woman like that could have made it worth while! and he believed her quite capable of entertaining the proposition! her eye! pity--quite a pity! mrs. ventnor was not a wife who satisfied every aspiration. but alas! the settlement was safe. this baulking of the sentiment of love, whipped up, if anything, the longing for justice in mr. ventnor. that old chap should feel his teeth now. as a piece of investigation it was not so bad--not so bad at all! he had had a bit of luck, of course,--no, not luck--just that knack of doing the right thing at the right moment which marks a real genius for affairs. but getting into his train to return to mrs. ventnor, he thought: 'a woman like that would have been--!' and he sighed. with a neatly written cheque for fifty pounds in his pocket bob pillin turned in at , millicent villas on the afternoon after mr. ventnor's visit. chivalry had won the day. and he rang the bell with an elation which astonished him, for he knew he was doing a soft thing. "mrs. larne is out, sir; miss phyllis is at home." his heart leaped. "oh-h! i'm sorry. i wonder if she'd see me?" the little maid answered "i think she's been washin' 'er'air, sir, but it may be dry be now. i'll see." bob pillin stood stock still beneath the young woman on the wall. he could scarcely breathe. if her hair were not dry--how awful! suddenly he heard floating down a clear but smothered "oh! gefoozleme!" and other words which he could not catch. the little maid came running down. "miss phyllis says, sir, she'll be with you in a jiffy. and i was to tell you that master jock is loose, sir." bob pillin answered "tha-anks," and passed into the drawing-room. he went to the bureau, took an envelope, enclosed the cheque, and addressing it: "mrs. larne," replaced it in his pocket. then he crossed over to the mirror. never till this last month had he really doubted his own face; but now he wanted for it things he had never wanted. it had too much flesh and colour. it did not reflect his passion. this was a handicap. with a narrow white piping round his waistcoat opening, and a buttonhole of tuberoses, he had tried to repair its deficiencies. but do what he would, he was never easy about himself nowadays, never up to that pitch which could make him confident in her presence. and until this month to lack confidence had never been his wont. a clear, high, mocking voice said: "oh-h! conceited young man!" and spinning round he saw phyllis in the doorway. her light brown hair was fluffed out on her shoulders, so that he felt a kind of fainting-sweet sensation, and murmured inarticulately: "oh! i say--how jolly!" "lawks! it's awful! have you come to see mother?" balanced between fear and daring, conscious of a scent of hay and verbena and camomile, bob pillin stammered: "ye-es. i--i'm glad she's not in, though." her laugh seemed to him terribly unfeeling. "oh! oh! don't be foolish. sit down. isn't washing one's head awful?" bob pillin answered feebly: "of course, i haven't much experience." her mouth opened. "oh! you are--aren't you?" and he thought desperately: 'dare i--oughtn't i--couldn't i somehow take her hand or put my arm round her, or something?' instead, he sat very rigid at his end of the sofa, while she sat lax and lissom at the other, and one of those crises of paralysis which beset would-be lovers fixed him to the soul. sometimes during this last month memories of a past existence, when chaff and even kisses came readily to the lips, and girls were fair game, would make him think: 'is she really such an innocent? doesn't she really want me to kiss her?' alas! such intrusions lasted but a moment before a blast of awe and chivalry withered them, and a strange and tragic delicacy--like nothing he had ever known--resumed its sway. and suddenly he heard her say: "why do you know such awful men?" "what? i don't know any awful men." "oh yes, you do; one came here yesterday; he had whiskers, and he was awful." "whiskers?" his soul revolted in disclaimer. "i believe i only know one man with whiskers--a lawyer." "yes--that was him; a perfectly horrid man. mother didn't mind him, but i thought he was a beast." "ventnor! came here? how d'you mean?" "he did; about some business of yours, too." her face had clouded over. bob pillin had of late been harassed by the still-born beginning of a poem: "i rode upon my way and saw a maid who watched me from the door." it never grew longer, and was prompted by the feeling that her face was like an april day. the cloud which came on it now was like an april cloud, as if a bright shower of rain must follow. brushing aside the two distressful lines, he said: "look here, miss larne--phyllis--look here!" "all right, i'm looking!" "what does it mean--how did he come? what did he say?" she shook her head, and her hair quivered; the scent of camomile, verbena, hay was wafted; then looking at her lap, she muttered: "i wish you wouldn't--i wish mother wouldn't--i hate it. oh! money! beastly--beastly!" and a tearful sigh shivered itself into bob pillin's reddening ears. "i say--don't! and do tell me, because--" "oh! you know." "i don't--i don't know anything at all. i never---" phyllis looked up at him. "don't tell fibs; you know mother's borrowing money from you, and it's hateful!" a desire to lie roundly, a sense of the cheque in his pocket, a feeling of injustice, the emotion of pity, and a confused and black astonishment about ventnor, caused bob pillin to stammer: "well, i'm d---d!" and to miss the look which phyllis gave him through her lashes--a look saying: "ah! that's better!" "i am d---d! look here! d'you mean to say that ventnor came here about my lending money? i never said a word to him---" "there you see--you are lending!" he clutched his hair. "we've got to have this out," he added. "not by the roots! oh! you do look funny. i've never seen you with your hair untidy. oh! oh!" bob pillin rose and paced the room. in the midst of his emotion he could not help seeing himself sidelong in the mirror; and on pretext of holding his head in both his hands, tried earnestly to restore his hair. then coming to a halt he said: "suppose i am lending money to your mother, what does it matter? it's only till quarter-day. anybody might want money." phyllis did not raise her face. "why are you lending it?" "because--because--why shouldn't i?" and diving suddenly, he seized her hands. she wrenched them free; and with the emotion of despair, bob pillin took out the envelope. "if you like," he said, "i'll tear this up. i don't want to lend it, if you don't want me to; but i thought--i thought--" it was for her alone he had been going to lend this money! phyllis murmured through her hair: "yes! you thought that i--that's what's so hateful!" apprehension pierced his mind. "oh! i never--i swear i never--" "yes, you did; you thought i wanted you to lend it." she jumped up, and brushed past him into the window. so she thought she was being used as a decoy! that was awful--especially since it was true. he knew well enough that mrs. larne was working his admiration for her daughter for all that it was worth. and he said with simple fervour: "what rot!" it produced no effect, and at his wits' end, he almost shouted: "look, phyllis! if you don't want me to--here goes!" phyllis turned. tearing the envelope across he threw the bits into the fire. "there it is," he said. her eyes grew round; she said in an awed voice: "oh!" in a sort of agony of honesty he said: "it was only a cheque. now you've got your way." staring at the fire she answered slowly: "i expect you'd better go before mother comes." bob pillin's mouth fell afar; he secretly agreed, but the idea of sacrificing a moment alone with her was intolerable, and he said hardily: "no, i shall stick it!" phyllis sneezed. "my hair isn't a bit dry," and she sat down on the fender with her back to the fire. a certain spirituality had come into bob pillin's face. if only he could get that wheeze off: "phyllis is my only joy!" or even: "phyllis--do you--won't you--mayn't i?" but nothing came--nothing. and suddenly she said: "oh! don't breathe so loud; it's awful!" "breathe? i wasn't!" "you were; just like carmen when she's dreaming." he had walked three steps towards the door, before he thought: 'what does it matter? i can stand anything from her; and walked the three steps back again. she said softly: "poor young man!" he answered gloomily: "i suppose you realise that this may be the last time you'll see me?" "why? i thought you were going to take us to the theatre." "i don't know whether your mother will--after---" phyllis gave a little clear laugh. "you don't know mother. nothing makes any difference to her." and bob pillin muttered: "i see." he did not, but it was of no consequence. then the thought of ventnor again ousted all others. what on earth-how on earth! he searched his mind for what he could possibly have said the other night. surely he had not asked him to do anything; certainly not given him their address. there was something very odd about it that had jolly well got to be cleared up! and he said: "are you sure the name of that johnny who came here yesterday was ventnor?" phyllis nodded. "and he was short, and had whiskers?" "yes; red, and red eyes." he murmured reluctantly: "it must be him. jolly good cheek; i simply can't understand. i shall go and see him. how on earth did he know your address?" "i expect you gave it him." "i did not. i won't have you thinking me a squirt." phyllis jumped up. "oh! lawks! here's mother!" mrs. larne was coming up the garden. bob pillin made for the door. "good-bye," he said; "i'm going." but mrs. larne was already in the hall. enveloping him in fur and her rich personality, she drew him with her into the drawing-room, where the back window was open and phyllis gone. "i hope," she said, "those naughty children have been making you comfortable. that nice lawyer of yours came yesterday. he seemed quite satisfied." very red above his collar, bob pillin stammered: "i never told him to; he isn't my lawyer. i don't know what it means." mrs. larne smiled. "my dear boy, it's all right. you needn't be so squeamish. i want it to be quite on a business footing." restraining a fearful inclination to blurt out: "it's not going to be on any footing!" bob pillin mumbled: "i must go; i'm late." "and when will you be able---?" "oh! i'll--i'll send--i'll write. good-bye!" and suddenly he found that mrs. larne had him by the lapel of his coat. the scent of violets and fur was overpowering, and the thought flashed through him: 'i believe she only wanted to take money off old joseph in the bible. i can't leave my coat in her hands! what shall i do?' mrs. larne was murmuring: "it would be so sweet of you if you could manage it today"; and her hand slid over his chest. "oh! you have brought your cheque-book--what a nice boy!" bob pillin took it out in desperation, and, sitting down at the bureau, wrote a cheque similar to that which he had torn and burned. a warm kiss lighted on his eyebrow, his head was pressed for a moment to a furry bosom; a hand took the cheque; a voice said: "how delightful!" and a sigh immersed him in a bath of perfume. backing to the door, he gasped: "don't mention it; and--and don't tell phyllis, please. good-bye!" once through the garden gate, he thought: 'by gum! i've done it now. that phyllis should know about it at all! that beast ventnor!' his face grew almost grim. he would go and see what that meant anyway! mr. ventnor had not left his office when his young friend's card was brought to him. tempted for a moment to deny his own presence, he thought: 'no! what's the good? bound to see him some time!' if he had not exactly courage, he had that peculiar blend of self-confidence and insensibility which must needs distinguish those who follow the law; nor did he ever forget that he was in the right. "show him in!" he said. he would be quite bland, but young pillin might whistle for an explanation; he was still tormented, too, by the memory of rich curves and moving lips, and the possibilities of better acquaintanceship. while shaking the young man's hand his quick and fulvous eye detected at once the discomposure behind that mask of cheek and collar, and relapsing into one of those swivel chairs which give one an advantage over men more statically seated, he said: "you look pretty bobbish. anything i can do for you?" bob pillin, in the fixed chair of the consultor, nursed his bowler on his knee. "well, yes, there is. i've just been to see mrs. larne." mr. ventnor did not flinch. "ah! nice woman; pretty daughter, too!" and into those words he put a certain meaning. he never waited to be bullied. bob pillin felt the pressure of his blood increasing. "look here, ventnor," he said, "i want an explanation." "what of?" "why, of your going there, and using my name, and god knows what." mr. ventnor gave his chair two little twiddles before he said "well, you won't get it." bob pillin remained for a moment taken aback; then he muttered resolutely: "it's not the conduct of a gentleman." every man has his illusions, and no man likes them disturbed. the gingery tint underlying mr. ventnor's colouring overlaid it; even the whites of his eyes grew red." "oh!" he said; "indeed! you mind your own business, will you?" "it is my business--very much so. you made use of my name, and i don't choose---" "the devil you don't! now, i tell you what---" mr. ventnor leaned forward--"you'd better hold your tongue, and not exasperate me. i'm a good-tempered man, but i won't stand your impudence." clenching his bowler hat, and only kept in his seat by that sense of something behind, bob pillin ejaculated: "impudence! that's good--after what you did! look here, why did you? it's so extraordinary!" mr. ventnor answered: "oh! is it? you wait a bit, my friend!" still more moved by the mystery of this affair, bob pillin could only mutter: "i never gave you their address; we were only talking about old heythorp." and at the smile which spread between mr. ventnor's whiskers, he jumped up, crying: "it's not the thing, and you're not going to put me off. i insist on an explanation." mr. ventnor leaned back, crossing his stout legs, joining the tips of his thick fingers. in this attitude he was always self-possessed. "you do--do you?" "yes. you must have had some reason." mr. ventnor gazed up at him. "i'll give you a piece of advice, young cock, and charge you nothing for it, too: ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies. and here's another: go away before you forget yourself again." the natural stolidity of bob pilings face was only just proof against this speech. he said thickly: "if you go there again and use my name, i'll well, it's lucky for you you're not my age. anyway i'll relieve you of my acquaintanceship in future. good-evening!" and he went to the door. mr. ventnor had risen. "very well," he said loudly. "good riddance! you wait and see which boot the leg is on!" but bob pillin was gone, leaving the lawyer with a very red face, a very angry heart, and a vague sense of disorder in his speech. not only bob pillin, but his tender aspirations had all left him; he no longer dallied with the memory of mrs. larne, but like a man and a briton thought only of how to get his own back, and punish evildoers. the atrocious words of his young friend, "it's not the conduct of a gentleman," festered in the heart of one who was made gentle not merely by nature but by act of parliament, and he registered a solemn vow to wipe the insult out, if not with blood, with verjuice. it was his duty, and they should d---d well see him do it! iv sylvanus heythorp seldom went to bed before one or rose before eleven. the latter habit alone kept his valet from handing in the resignation which the former habit prompted almost every night. propped on his pillows in a crimson dressing-gown, and freshly shaved, he looked more roman than he ever did, except in his bath. having disposed of coffee, he was wont to read his letters, and the morning post, for he had always been a tory, and could not stomach paying a halfpenny for his news. not that there were many letters--when a man has reached the age of eighty, who should write to him, except to ask for money? it was valentine's day. through his bedroom window he could see the trees of the park, where the birds were in song, though he could not hear them. he had never been interested in nature--full-blooded men with short necks seldom are. this morning indeed there were two letters, and he opened that which smelt of something. inside was a thing like a christmas card, save that the naked babe had in his hands a bow and arrow, and words coming out of his mouth: "to be your valentine." there was also a little pink note with one blue forget-me-not printed at the top. it ran: "dearest guardy,--i'm sorry this is such a mangy little valentine; i couldn't go out to get it because i've got a beastly cold, so i asked jock, and the pig bought this. the satin is simply scrumptious. if you don't come and see me in it some time soon, i shall come and show it to you. i wish i had a moustache, because my top lip feels just like a matchbox, but it's rather ripping having breakfast in bed. mr. pillin's taking us to the theatre the day after to-morrow evening. isn't it nummy! i'm going to have rum and honey for my cold. "good-bye, "your phyllis." so this that quivered in his thick fingers, too insensitive to feel it, was a valentine for him! forty years ago that young thing's grandmother had given him his last. it made him out a very old chap! forty years ago! had that been himself living then? and himself, who, as a youth came on the town in 'forty-five? not a thought, not a feeling the same! they said you changed your body every seven years. the mind with it, too, perhaps! well, he had come to the last of his bodies, now! and that holy woman had been urging him to take it to bath, with her face as long as a tea-tray, and some gammon from that doctor of his. too full a habit--dock his port--no alcohol--might go off in a coma any night! knock off not he! rather die any day than turn tee-totaller! when a man had nothing left in life except his dinner, his bottle, his cigar, and the dreams they gave him--these doctors forsooth must want to cut them off! no, no! carpe diem! while you lived, get something out of it. and now that he had made all the provision he could for those youngsters, his life was no good to any one but himself; and the sooner he went off the better, if he ceased to enjoy what there was left, or lost the power to say: "i'll do this and that, and you be jiggered!" keep a stiff lip until you crashed, and then go clean! he sounded the bell beside him twice-for molly, not his man. and when the girl came in, and stood, pretty in her print frock, her fluffy over-fine dark hair escaping from under her cap, he gazed at her in silence. "yes, sirr?" "want to look at you, that's all." "oh i an' i'm not tidy, sirr." "never mind. had your valentine?" "no, sirr; who would send me one, then?" "haven't you a young man?" "well, i might. but he's over in my country. "what d'you think of this?" he held out the little boy. the girl took the card and scrutinised it reverently; she said in a detached voice: "indeed, an' ut's pretty, too." "would you like it?" "oh i if 'tis not taking ut from you." old heythorp shook his head, and pointed to the dressing-table. "over there--you'll find a sovereign. little present for a good girl." she uttered a deep sigh. "oh! sirr, 'tis too much; 'tis kingly." "take it." she took it, and came back, her hands clasping the sovereign and the valentine, in an attitude as of prayer. the old man's gaze rested on her with satisfaction. "i like pretty faces--can't bear sour ones. tell meller to get my bath ready." when she had gone he took up the other letter--some lawyer's writing, and opening it with the usual difficulty, read: "february , . "sir,--certain facts having come to my knowledge, i deem it my duty to call a special meeting of the shareholders of 'the island navigation coy.,' to consider circumstances in connection with the purchase of mr. joseph pillin's fleet. and i give you notice that at this meeting your conduct will be called in question. "i am, sir, "yours faithfully, "charles ventnor. "sylvanus heythorp, esq." having read this missive, old heythorp remained some minutes without stirring. ventnor! that solicitor chap who had made himself unpleasant at the creditors' meetings! there are men whom a really bad bit of news at once stampedes out of all power of coherent thought and action, and men who at first simply do not take it in. old heythorp took it in fast enough; coming from a lawyer it was about as nasty as it could be. but, at once, with stoic wariness his old brain began casting round. what did this fellow really know? and what exactly could he do? one thing was certain; even if he knew everything, he couldn't upset that settlement. the youngsters were all right. the old man grasped the fact that only his own position was at stake. but this was enough in all conscience; a name which had been before the public fifty odd years--income, independence, more perhaps. it would take little, seeing his age and feebleness, to make his companies throw him over. but what had the fellow got hold of? how decide whether or no to take notice; to let him do his worst, or try and get into touch with him? and what was the fellow's motive? he held ten shares! that would never make a man take all this trouble, and over a purchase which was really first-rate business for the company. yes! his conscience was quite clean. he had not betrayed his company--on the contrary, had done it a good turn, got them four sound ships at a low price--against much opposition. that he might have done the company a better turn, and got the ships at fifty-four thousand, did not trouble him--the six thousand was a deuced sight better employed; and he had not pocketed a penny piece himself! but the fellow's motive? spite? looked like it. spite, because he had been disappointed of his money, and defied into the bargain! h'm! if that were so, he might still be got to blow cold again. his eyes lighted on the pink note with the blue forget-me-not. it marked as it were the high water mark of what was left to him of life; and this other letter in his hand-by jove! low water mark! and with a deep and rumbling sigh he thought: 'no, i'm not going to be beaten by this fellow.' "your bath is ready, sir." crumpling the two letters into the pocket of his dressing-gown, he said: "help me up; and telephone to mr. farney to be good enough to come round." .... an hour later, when the secretary entered, his chairman was sitting by the fire perusing the articles of association. and, waiting for him to look up, watching the articles shaking in that thick, feeble hand, the secretary had one of those moments of philosophy not too frequent with his kind. some said the only happy time of life was when you had no passions, nothing to hope and live for. but did you really ever reach such a stage? the old chairman, for instance, still had his passion for getting his own way, still had his prestige, and set a lot of store by it! and he said: "good morning, sir; i hope you're all right in this east wind. the purchase is completed." "best thing the company ever did. have you heard from a shareholder called ventnor. you know the man i mean?" "no, sir. i haven't." "well! you may get a letter that'll make you open your eyes. an impudent scoundrel! just write at my dictation." "february th, . "charles ventnor, esq. "sir,--i have your letter of yesterday's date, the contents of which i am at a loss to understand. my solicitors will be instructed to take the necessary measures." 'phew what's all this about?' the secretary thought. "yours truly...." "i'll sign." and the shaky letters closed the page: "sylvanus heythorp." "post that as you go." "anything else i can do for you, sir?" "nothing, except to let me know if you hear from this fellow." when the secretary had gone the old man thought: 'so! the ruffian hasn't called the meeting yet. that'll bring him round here fast enough if it's his money he wants-blackmailing scoundrel!' "mr. pillin, sir; and will you wait lunch, or will you have it in the dining-room?" "in the dining-room." at sight of that death's-head of a fellow, old heythorp felt a sort of pity. he looked bad enough already--and this news would make him look worse. joe pillin glanced round at the two closed doors. "how are you, sylvanus? i'm very poorly." he came closer, and lowered his voice: "why did you get me to make that settlement? i must have been mad. i've had a man called ventnor--i didn't like his manner. he asked me if i knew a mrs. larne." "ha! what did you say?" "what could i say? i don't know her. but why did he ask?" "smells a rat." joe pillin grasped the edge of the table with both hands. "oh!" he murmured. "oh! don't say that!" old heythorp held out to him the crumpled letter. when he had read it joe pillin sat down abruptly before the fire. "pull yourself together, joe; they can't touch you, and they can't upset either the purchase or the settlement. they can upset me, that's all." joe pillin answered, with trembling lips: "how you can sit there, and look the same as ever! are you sure they can't touch me?" old heyworth nodded grimly. "they talk of an act, but they haven't passed it yet. they might prove a breach of trust against me. but i'll diddle them. keep your pecker up, and get off abroad." "yes, yes. i must. i'm very bad. i was going to-morrow. but i don't know, i'm sure, with this hanging over me. my son knowing her makes it worse. he picks up with everybody. he knows this man ventnor too. and i daren't say anything to bob. what are you thinking of, sylvanus? you look very funny!" old heythorp seemed to rouse himself from a sort of coma. "i want my lunch," he said. "will you stop and have some?" joe pillin stammered out: "lunch! i don't know when i shall eat again. what are you going to do, sylvanus?" "bluff the beggar out of it." "but suppose you can't?" "buy him off. he's one--of my creditors." joe pillin stared at him afresh. "you always had such nerve," he said yearningly. "do you ever wake up between two and four? i do--and everything's black." "put a good stiff nightcap on, my boy, before going to bed." "yes; i sometimes wish i was less temperate. but i couldn't stand it. i'm told your doctor forbids you alcohol." "he does. that's why i drink it." joe pillin, brooding over the fire, said: "this meeting--d'you think they mean to have it? d'you think this man really knows? if my name gets into the newspapers--" but encountering his old friend's deep little eyes, he stopped. "so you advise me to get off to-morrow, then?" old heythorp nodded. "your lunch is served, sir." joe pillin started violently, and rose. "well, good-bye, sylvanus-good-bye! i don't suppose i shall be back till the summer, if i ever come back!" he sank his voice: "i shall rely on you. you won't let them, will you?" old heythorp lifted his hand, and joe pillin put into that swollen shaking paw his pale and spindly fingers. "i wish i had your pluck," he said sadly. "good-bye, sylvanus," and turning, he passed out. old heythorp thought: 'poor shaky chap. all to pieces at the first shot!' and, going to his lunch, ate more heavily than usual. mr. ventnor, on reaching his office and opening his letters, found, as he had anticipated, one from "that old rascal." its contents excited in him the need to know his own mind. fortunately this was not complicated by a sense of dignity--he only had to consider the position with an eye on not being made to look a fool. the point was simply whether he set more store by his money than by his desire for--er--justice. if not, he had merely to convene the special meeting, and lay before it the plain fact that mr. joseph pillin, selling his ships for sixty thousand pounds, had just made a settlement of six thousand pounds on a lady whom he did not know, a daughter, ward, or what-not--of the purchasing company's chairman, who had said, moreover, at the general meeting, that he stood or fell by the transaction; he had merely to do this, and demand that an explanation be required from the old man of such a startling coincidence. convinced that no explanation would hold water, he felt sure that his action would be at once followed by the collapse, if nothing more, of that old image, and the infliction of a nasty slur on old pillin and his hopeful son. on the other hand, three hundred pounds was money; and, if old heythorp were to say to him: "what do you want to make this fuss for--here's what i owe you!" could a man of business and the world let his sense of justice--however he might itch to have it satisfied--stand in the way of what was after all also his sense of justice?--for this money had been owing to him for the deuce of along time. in this dilemma, the words: "my solicitors will be instructed" were of notable service in helping him to form a decision, for he had a certain dislike of other solicitors, and an intimate knowledge of the law of libel and slander; if by any remote chance there should be a slip between the cup and the lip, charles ventnor might be in the soup--a position which he deprecated both by nature and profession. high thinking, therefore, decided him at last to answer thus: "february th, . "sir,--i have received your note. i think it may be fair, before taking further steps in this matter, to ask you for a personal explanation of the circumstances to which i alluded. i therefore propose with your permission to call on you at your private residence at five o'clock to-morrow afternoon. "yours faithfully, "charles ventnor. "sylvanus heythorp, esq." having sent this missive, and arranged in his mind the damning, if circumstantial, evidence he had accumulated, he awaited the hour with confidence, for his nature was not lacking in the cock-surety of a briton. all the same, he dressed himself particularly well that morning, putting on a blue and white striped waistcoat which, with a cream-coloured tie, set off his fulvous whiskers and full blue eyes; and he lunched, if anything, more fully than his wont, eating a stronger cheese and taking a glass of special club ale. he took care to be late, too, to show the old fellow that his coming at all was in the nature of an act of grace. a strong scent of hyacinths greeted him in the hall; and mr. ventnor, who was an amateur of flowers, stopped to put his nose into a fine bloom and think uncontrollably of mrs. larne. pity! the things one had to give up in life--fine women--one thing and another. pity! the thought inspired in him a timely anger; and he followed the servant, intending to stand no nonsense from this paralytic old rascal. the room he entered was lighted by a bright fire, and a single electric lamp with an orange shade on a table covered by a black satin cloth. there were heavily gleaming oil paintings on the walls, a heavy old brass chandelier without candles, heavy dark red curtains, and an indefinable scent of burnt acorns, coffee, cigars, and old man. he became conscious of a candescent spot on the far side of the hearth, where the light fell on old heythorp's thick white hair. "mr. ventnor, sir." the candescent spot moved. a voice said: "sit down." mr. ventnor sat in an armchair on the opposite side of the fire; and, finding a kind of somnolence creeping over him, pinched himself. he wanted all his wits about him. the old man was speaking in that extinct voice of his, and mr. ventnor said rather pettishly: "beg pardon, i don't get you." old heythorp's voice swelled with sudden force: "your letters are greek to me." "oh! indeed, i think we can soon make them into plain english!" "sooner the better." mr. ventnor passed through a moment of indecision. should he lay his cards on the table? it was not his habit, and the proceeding was sometimes attended with risk. the knowledge, however, that he could always take them up again, seeing there was no third person here to testify that he had laid them down, decided him, and he said: "well, mr. heythorp, the long and short of the matter is this: our friend mr. pillin paid you a commission of ten per cent. on the sale of his ships. oh! yes. he settled the money, not on you, but on your relative mrs. larne and her children. this, as you know, is a breach of trust on your part." the old man's voice: "where did you get hold of that cock-and-bull story?" brought him to his feet before the fire. "it won't do, mr. heythorp. my witnesses are mr. pillin, mrs. larne, and mr. scriven." "what have you come here for, then--blackmail?" mr. ventnor straightened his waistcoat; a rush of conscious virtue had dyed his face. "oh! you take that tone," he said, "do you? you think you can ride roughshod over everything? well, you're very much mistaken. i advise you to keep a civil tongue and consider your position, or i'll make a beggar of you. i'm not sure this isn't a case for a prosecution!" "gammon!" the choler in charles ventnor kept him silent for a moment; then he burst out: "neither gammon nor spinach. you owe me three hundred pounds, you've owed it me for years, and you have the impudence to take this attitude with me, have you? now, i never bluster; i say what i mean. you just listen to me. either you pay me what you owe me at once, or i call this meeting and make what i know public. you'll very soon find out where you are. and a good thing, too, for a more unscrupulous--unscrupulous---" he paused for breath. occupied with his own emotion, he had not observed the change in old heythorp's face. the imperial on that lower lip was bristling, the crimson of those cheeks had spread to the roots of his white hair. he grasped the arms of his chair, trying to rise; his swollen hands trembled; a little saliva escaped one corner of his lips. and the words came out as if shaken by his teeth: "so-so-you-you bully me!" conscious that the interview had suddenly passed from the phase of negotiation, mr. ventnor looked hard at his opponent. he saw nothing but a decrepit, passionate, crimson-faced old man at bay, and all the instincts of one with everything on his side boiled up in him. the miserable old turkey-cock--the apoplectic image! and he said: "and you'll do no good for yourself by getting into a passion. at your age, and in your condition, i recommend a little prudence. now just take my terms quietly, or you know what'll happen. i'm not to be intimidated by any of your airs." and seeing that the old man's rage was such that he simply could not speak, he took the opportunity of going on: "i don't care two straws which you do--i'm out to show you who's master. if you think in your dotage you can domineer any longer--well, you'll find two can play at that game. come, now, which are you going to do?" the old man had sunk back in his chair, and only his little deep-blue eyes seemed living. then he moved one hand, and mr. ventnor saw that he was fumbling to reach the button of an electric bell at the end of a cord. 'i'll show him,' he thought, and stepping forward, he put it out of reach. thus frustrated, the old man remained-motionless, staring up. the word "blackmail" resumed its buzzing in mr. ventnor's ears. the impudence the consummate impudence of it from this fraudulent old ruffian with one foot in bankruptcy and one foot in the grave, if not in the dock. "yes," he said, "it's never too late to learn; and for once you've come up against someone a leetle bit too much for you. haven't you now? you'd better cry 'peccavi.'" then, in the deathly silence of the room, the moral force of his position, and the collapse as it seemed of his opponent, awakening a faint compunction, he took a turn over the turkey carpet to readjust his mind. "you're an old man, and i don't want to be too hard on you. i'm only showing you that you can't play fast and loose as if you were god almighty any longer. you've had your own way too many years. and now you can't have it, see!" then, as the old man again moved forward in his chair, he added: "now, don't get into a passion again; calm yourself, because i warn you--this is your last chance. i'm a man of my word; and what i say, i do." by a violent and unsuspected effort the old man jerked himself up and reached the bell. mr. ventnor heard it ring, and said sharply: "mind you, it's nothing to me which you do. i came for your own good. please yourself. well?" he was answered by the click of the door and the old man's husky voice: "show this hound out! and then come back!" mr. ventnor had presence of mind enough not to shake his fist. muttering: "very well, mr. heythorp! ah! very well!" he moved with dignity to the door. the careful shepherding of the servant renewed the fire of his anger. hound! he had been called a hound! after seeing mr. ventnor off the premises the man meller returned to his master, whose face looked very odd--"all patchy-like," as he put it in the servants' hall, as though the blood driven to his head had mottled for good the snowy whiteness of the forehead. he received the unexpected order: "get me a hot bath ready, and put some pine stuff in it." when the old man was seated there, the valet asked: "how long shall i give you, sir?" "twenty minutes." "very good, sir." lying in that steaming brown fragrant liquid, old heythorp heaved a stertorous sigh. by losing his temper with that ill-conditioned cur he had cooked his goose. it was done to a turn; and he was a ruined man. if only--oh! if only he could have seized the fellow by the neck and pitched him out of the room! to have lived to be so spoken to; to have been unable to lift hand or foot, hardly even his voice--he would sooner have been dead! yes--sooner have been dead! a dumb and measureless commotion was still at work in the recesses of that thick old body, silver-brown in the dark water, whose steam he drew deep into his wheezing lungs, as though for spiritual relief. to be beaten by a cur like that! to have that common cad of a pettifogging lawyer drag him down and kick him about; tumble a name which had stood high, in the dust! the fellow had the power to make him a byword and a beggar! it was incredible! but it was a fact. and to-morrow he would begin to do it--perhaps had begun already. his tree had come down with a crash! eighty years-eighty good years! he regretted none of them-regretted nothing; least of all this breach of trust which had provided for his grandchildren--one of the best things he had ever done. the fellow was a cowardly hound, too! the way he had snatched the bell-pull out of his reach-despicable cur! and a chap like that was to put "paid" to the account of sylvanus heythorp, to "scratch" him out of life--so near the end of everything, the very end! his hand raised above the surface fell back on his stomach through the dark water, and a bubble or two rose. not so fast--not so fast! he had but to slip down a foot, let the water close over his head, and "good-bye" to master ventnor's triumph dead men could not be kicked off the boards of companies. dead men could not be beggared, deprived of their independence. he smiled and stirred a little in the bath till the water reached the white hairs on his lower lip. it smelt nice! and he took a long sniff: he had had a good life, a good life! and with the thought that he had it in his power at any moment to put master ventnor's nose out of joint--to beat the beggar after all, a sense of assuagement and well-being crept over him. his blood ran more evenly again. he closed his eyes. they talked about an after-life--people like that holy woman. gammon! you went to sleep--a long sleep; no dreams. a nap after dinner! dinner! his tongue sought his palate! yes! he could eat a good dinner! that dog hadn't put him off his stroke! the best dinner he had ever eaten was the one he gave to jack herring, chichester, thornworthy, nick treffry and jolyon forsyte at pole's. good lord! in 'sixty--yes--'sixty-five? just before he fell in love with alice larne--ten years before he came to liverpool. that was a dinner! cost twenty-four pounds for the six of them--and forsyte an absurdly moderate fellow. only nick treff'ry and himself had been three-bottle men! dead! every jack man of them. and suddenly he thought: 'my name's a good one--i was never down before--never beaten!' a voice above the steam said: "the twenty minutes is up, sir." "all right; i'll get out. evening clothes." and meller, taking out dress suit and shirt, thought: 'now, what does the old bloomer want dressin' up again for; why can't he go to bed and have his dinner there? when a man's like a baby, the cradle's the place for him.'.... an hour later, at the scene of his encounter with mr. ventnor, where the table was already laid for dinner, old heythorp stood and gazed. the curtains had been drawn back, the window thrown open to air the room, and he could see out there the shapes of the dark trees and a sky grape-coloured, in the mild, moist night. it smelt good. a sensuous feeling stirred in him, warm from his bath, clothed from head to foot in fresh garments. deuce of a time since he had dined in full fig! he would have liked a woman dining opposite--but not the holy woman; no, by george!--would have liked to see light falling on a woman's shoulders once again, and a pair of bright eyes! he crossed, snail-like, towards the fire. there that bullying fellow had stood with his back to it--confound his impudence!--as if the place belonged to him. and suddenly he had a vision of his three secretaries' faces--especially young farney's as they would look, when the pack got him by the throat and pulled him down. his co-directors, too! old heythorp! how are the mighty fallen! and that hound jubilant! his valet passed across the room to shut the window and draw the curtains. this chap too! the day he could no longer pay his wages, and had lost the power to say "shan't want your services any more"--when he could no longer even pay his doctor for doing his best to kill him off! power, interest, independence, all--gone! to be dressed and undressed, given pap, like a baby in arms, served as they chose to serve him, and wished out of the way--broken, dishonoured! by money alone an old man had his being! meat, drink, movement, breath! when all his money was gone the holy woman would let him know it fast enough. they would all let him know it; or if they didn't, it would be out of pity! he had never been pitied yet--thank god! and he said: "get me up a bottle of perrier jouet. what's the menu?" "germane soup, sir; filly de sole; sweetbread; cutlet soubees, rum souffly." "tell her to give me a hors d'oeuvre, and put on a savoury." "yes, sir." when the man had gone, he thought: 'i should have liked an oyster--too late now!' and going over to his bureau, he fumblingly pulled out the top drawer. there was little in it--just a few papers, business papers on his companies, and a schedule of his debts; not even a copy of his will--he had not made one, nothing to leave! letters he had never kept. half a dozen bills, a few receipts, and the little pink note with the blue forget-me-not. that was the lot! an old tree gives up bearing leaves, and its roots dry up, before it comes down in a wind; an old man's world slowly falls away from him till he stands alone in the night. looking at the pink note, he thought: 'suppose i'd married alice--a man never had a better mistress!' he fumbled the drawer to; but still he strayed feebly about the room, with a curious shrinking from sitting down, legacy from the quarter of an hour he had been compelled to sit while that hound worried at his throat. he was opposite one of the pictures now. it gleamed, dark and oily, limning a scots grey who had mounted a wounded russian on his horse, and was bringing him back prisoner from the balaclava charge. a very old friend--bought in 'fifty-nine. it had hung in his chambers in the albany--hung with him ever since. with whom would it hang when he was gone? for that holy woman would scrap it, to a certainty, and stick up some crucifixion or other, some new-fangled high art thing! she could even do that now if she liked--for she owned it, owned every mortal stick in the room, to the very glass he would drink his champagne from; all made over under the settlement fifteen years ago, before his last big gamble went wrong. "de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!" the gamble which had brought him down till his throat at last was at the mercy of a bullying hound. the pitcher and the well! at the mercy---! the sound of a popping cork dragged him from reverie. he moved to his seat, back to the window, and sat down to his dinner. by george! they had got him an oyster! and he said: "i've forgotten my teeth!" while the man was gone for them, he swallowed the oysters, methodically touching them one by one with cayenne, chili vinegar, and lemon. ummm! not quite what they used to be at pimm's in the best days, but not bad--not bad! then seeing the little blue bowl lying before him, he looked up and said: "my compliments to cook on the oysters. give me the champagne." and he lifted his trembling teeth. thank god, he could still put 'em in for himself! the creaming goldenish fluid from the napkined bottle slowly reached the brim of his glass, which had a hollow stem; raising it to his lips, very red between the white hairs above and below, he drank with a gurgling noise, and put the glass down-empty. nectar! and just cold enough! "i frapped it the least bit, sir." "quite right. what's that smell of flowers?" "it's from those 'yacinths on the sideboard, sir. they come from mrs. larne, this afternoon." "put 'em on the table. where's my daughter?" "she's had dinner, sir; goin' to a ball, i think." "a ball!" "charity ball, i fancy, sir." "ummm! give me a touch of the old sherry with the soup." "yes, sir. i shall have to open a bottle:" "very well, then, do!" on his way to the cellar the man confided to molly, who was carrying the soup: "the gov'nor's going it to-night! what he'll be like tomorrow i dunno." the girl answered softly: "poor old man, let um have his pleasure." and, in the hall, with the soup tureen against her bosom, she hummed above the steam, and thought of the ribbons on her new chemises, bought out of the sovereign he had given her. and old heythorp, digesting his osyters, snuffed the scent of the hyacinths, and thought of the st. germain, his favourite soup. it would n't be first-rate, at this time of year--should be made with little young home-grown peas. paris was the place for it. ah! the french were the fellows for eating, and--looking things in the face! not hypocrites--not ashamed of their reason or their senses! the soup came in. he sipped it, bending forward as far as he could, his napkin tucked in over his shirt-front like a bib. he got the bouquet of that sherry to a t--his sense of smell was very keen to-night; rare old stuff it was--more than a year since he had tasted it--but no one drank sherry nowadays, hadn't the constitution for it! the fish came up, and went down; and with the sweetbread he took his second glass of champagne. always the best, that second glass--the stomach well warmed, and the palate not yet dulled. umm! so that fellow thought he had him beaten, did he? and he said suddenly: "the fur coat in the wardrobe, i've no use for it. you can take it away to-night." with tempered gratitude the valet answered: "thank you, sir; much obliged, i'm sure." so the old buffer had found out there was moth in it! "have i worried you much?" "no, sir; not at all, sir--that is, no more than reason." "afraid i have. very sorry--can't help it. you'll find that, when you get like me." "yes, sir; i've always admired your pluck, sir. "um! very good of you to say so." "always think of you keepin' the flag flying', sir." old heythorp bent his body from the waist. "much obliged to you." "not at all, sir. cook's done a little spinach in cream with the soubees." "ah! tell her from me it's a capital dinner, so far." "thank you, sir." alone again, old heythorp sat unmoving, his brain just narcotically touched. "the flag flyin'--the flag flyin'!" he raised his glass and sucked. he had an appetite now, and finished the three cutlets, and all the sauce and spinach. pity! he could have managed a snipe fresh shot! a desire to delay, to lengthen dinner, was strong upon him; there were but the souffle' and the savoury to come. he would have enjoyed, too, someone to talk to. he had always been fond of good company--been good company himself, or so they said--not that he had had a chance of late. even at the boards they avoided talking to him, he had noticed for a long time. well! that wouldn't trouble him again--he had sat through his last board, no doubt. they shouldn't kick him off, though; he wouldn't give them that pleasure--had seen the beggars hankering after his chairman's shoes too long. the souffle was before him now, and lifting his glass, he said: "fill up." "these are the special glasses, sir; only four to the bottle." "fill up." the servant filled, screwing up his mouth. old heythorp drank, and put the glass down empty with a sigh. he had been faithful to his principles, finished the bottle before touching the sweet--a good bottle--of a good brand! and now for the souffle! delicious, flipped down with the old sherry! so that holy woman was going to a ball, was she! how deuced funny! who would dance with a dry stick like that, all eaten up with a piety which was just sexual disappointment? ah! yes, lots of women like that--had often noticed 'em--pitied 'em too, until you had to do with them and they made you as unhappy as themselves, and were tyrants into the bargain. and he asked: "what's the savoury?" "cheese remmykin, sir." his favourite. "i'll have my port with it--the 'sixty-eight." the man stood gazing with evident stupefaction. he had not expected this. the old man's face was very flushed, but that might be the bath. he said feebly: "are you sure you ought, sir?" "no, but i'm going to." "would you mind if i spoke to miss heythorp, sir?" "if you do, you can leave my service." "well, sir, i don't accept the responsibility." "who asked you to?" "no, sir...." "well, get it, then; and don't be an ass." "yes, sir." if the old man were not humoured he would have a fit, perhaps! and the old man sat quietly staring at the hyacinths. he felt happy, his whole being lined and warmed and drowsed--and there was more to come! what had the holy folk to give you compared with the comfort of a good dinner? could they make you dream, and see life rosy for a little? no, they could only give you promissory notes which never would be cashed. a man had nothing but his pluck--they only tried to undermine it, and make him squeal for help. he could see his precious doctor throwing up his hands: "port after a bottle of champagne--you'll die of it!" and a very good death too--none better. a sound broke the silence of the closed-up room. music? his daughter playing the piano overhead. singing too! what a trickle of a voice! jenny lind! the swedish nightingale--he had never missed the nights when she was singing--jenny lind! "it's very hot, sir. shall i take it out of the case?" ah! the ramequin! "touch of butter, and the cayenne!" "yes, sir." he ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful; had never tasted a better. with cheese--port! he drank one glass, and said: "help me to my chair." and settled there before the fire with decanter and glass and hand-bell on the little low table by his side, he murmured: "bring coffee, and my cigar, in twenty minutes." to-night he would do justice to his wine, not smoking till he had finished. as old horace said: "aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem." and, raising his glass, he sipped slowly, spilling a drop or two, shutting his eyes. the faint silvery squealing of the holy woman in the room above, the scent of hyacinths, the drowse of the fire, on which a cedar log had just been laid, the feeling of the port soaking down into the crannies of his being, made up a momentary paradise. then the music stopped; and no sound rose but the tiny groans of the log trying to resist the fire. dreamily he thought: 'life wears you out--wears you out. logs on a fire!' and he filled his glass again. that fellow had been careless; there were dregs at the bottom of the decanter and he had got down to them! then, as the last drop from his tilted glass trickled into the white hairs on his chin, he heard the coffee tray put down, and taking his cigar he put it to his ear, rolling it in his thick fingers. in prime condition! and drawing a first whiff, he said: "open that bottle of the old brandy in the sideboard." "brandy, sir? i really daren't, sir." "are you my servant or not?" "yes, sir, but---" a minute of silence, then the man went hastily to the sideboard, took out the bottle, and drew the cork. the tide of crimson in the old man's face had frightened him. "leave it there." the unfortunate valet placed the bottle on the little table. 'i'll have to tell her,' he thought; 'but if i take away the port decanter and the glass, it won't look so bad.' and, carrying them, he left the room. slowly the old man drank his coffee, and the liqueur of brandy. the whole gamut! and watching his cigar-smoke wreathing blue in the orange glow, he smiled. the last night to call his soul his own, the last night of his independence. send in his resignations to-morrow--not wait to be kicked off! not give that fellow a chance! a voice which seemed to come from far off, said: "father! you're drinking brandy! how can you--you know it's simple poison to you!" a figure in white, scarcely actual, loomed up close. he took the bottle to fill up his liqueur glass, in defiance; but a hand in a long white glove, with another dangling from its wrist, pulled it away, shook it at him, and replaced it in the sideboard. and, just as when mr. ventnor stood there accusing him, a swelling and churning in his throat prevented him from speech; his lips moved, but only a little froth came forth. his daughter had approached again. she stood quite close, in white satin, thin-faced, sallow, with eyebrows raised, and her dark hair frizzed--yes! frizzed--the holy woman! with all his might he tried to say: 'so you bully me, do you--you bully me to-night!' but only the word "so" and a sort of whispering came forth. he heard her speaking. "it's no good your getting angry, father. after champagne--it's wicked!" then her form receded in a sort of rustling white mist; she was gone; and he heard the sputtering and growling of her taxi, bearing her to the ball. so! she tyrannised and bullied, even before she had him at her mercy, did she? she should see! anger had brightened his eyes; the room came clear again. and slowly raising himself he sounded the bell twice, for the girl, not for that fellow meller, who was in the plot. as soon as her pretty black and white-aproned figure stood before him, he said: "help me up." twice her soft pulling was not enough, and he sank back. the third time he struggled to his feet. "thank you; that'll do." then, waiting till she was gone, he crossed the room, fumbled open the sideboard door, and took out the bottle. reaching over the polished oak, he grasped a sherry glass; and holding the bottle with both hands, tipped the liquor into it, put it to his lips and sucked. drop by drop it passed over his palate mild, very old, old as himself, coloured like sunlight, fragrant. to the last drop he drank it, then hugging the bottle to his shirt-front, he moved snail-like to his chair, and fell back into its depths. for some minutes he remained there motionless, the bottle clasped to his chest, thinking: 'this is not the attitude of a gentleman. i must put it down on the table-on the table;' but a thick cloud was between him and everything. it was with his hands he would have to put the bottle on the table! but he could not find his hands, could not feel them. his mind see-sawed in strophe and antistrophe: "you can't move!"--"i will move!" "you're beaten"--"i'm not beat." "give up"--"i won't." that struggle to find his hands seemed to last for ever--he must find them! after that--go down--all standing--after that! everything round him was red. then the red cloud cleared just a little, and he could hear the clock--"tick-tick-tick"; a faint sensation spread from his shoulders down to his wrists, down his palms; and yes--he could feel the bottle! he redoubled his struggle to get forward in his chair; to get forward and put the bottle down. it was not dignified like this! one arm he could move now; but he could not grip the bottle nearly tight enough to put it down. working his whole body forward, inch by inch, he shifted himself up in the chair till he could lean sideways, and the bottle, slipping down his chest, dropped slanting to the edge of the low stool-table. then with all his might he screwed his trunk and arms an inch further, and the bottle stood. he had done it--done it! his lips twitched into a smile; his body sagged back to its old position. he had done it! and he closed his eyes .... at half-past eleven the girl molly, opening the door, looked at him and said softly: "sirr! there's some ladies, and a gentleman!" but he did not answer. and, still holding the door, she whispered out into the hall: "he's asleep, miss." a voice whispered back: "oh! just let me go in, i won't wake him unless he does. but i do want to show him my dress." the girl moved aside; and on tiptoe phyllis passed in. she walked to where, between the lamp-glow and the fire-glow, she was lighted up. white satin--her first low-cut dress--the flush of her first supper party--a gardenia at her breast, another in her fingers! oh! what a pity he was asleep! how red he looked! how funnily old men breathed! and mysteriously, as a child might, she whispered: "guardy!" no answer! and pouting, she stood twiddling the gardenia. then suddenly she thought: 'i'll put it in his buttonhole! when he wakes up and sees it, how he'll jump!' and stealing close, she bent and slipped it in. two faces looked at her from round the door; she heard bob pillin's smothered chuckle; her mother's rich and feathery laugh. oh! how red his forehead was! she touched it with her lips; skipped back, twirled round, danced silently a second, blew a kiss, and like quicksilver was gone. and the whispering, the chuckling, and one little out-pealing laugh rose in the hall. but the old man slept. nor until meller came at his usual hour of half-past twelve, was it known that he would never wake. the apple tree "the apple-tree, the singing and the gold." murray's "hippolytus of euripides." in their silver-wedding day ashurst and his wife were motoring along the outskirts of the moor, intending to crown the festival by stopping the night at torquay, where they had first met. this was the idea of stella ashurst, whose character contained a streak of sentiment. if she had long lost the blue-eyed, flower-like charm, the cool slim purity of face and form, the apple-blossom colouring, which had so swiftly and so oddly affected ashurst twenty-six years ago, she was still at forty-three a comely and faithful companion, whose cheeks were faintly mottled, and whose grey-blue eyes had acquired a certain fullness. it was she who had stopped the car where the common rose steeply to the left, and a narrow strip of larch and beech, with here and there a pine, stretched out towards the valley between the road and the first long high hill of the full moor. she was looking for a place where they might lunch, for ashurst never looked for anything; and this, between the golden furze and the feathery green larches smelling of lemons in the last sun of april--this, with a view into the deep valley and up to the long moor heights, seemed fitting to the decisive nature of one who sketched in water-colours, and loved romantic spots. grasping her paint box, she got out. "won't this do, frank?" ashurst, rather like a bearded schiller, grey in the wings, tall, long-legged, with large remote grey eyes which sometimes filled with meaning and became almost beautiful, with nose a little to one side, and bearded lips just open--ashurst, forty-eight, and silent, grasped the luncheon basket, and got out too. "oh! look, frank! a grave!" by the side of the road, where the track from the top of the common crossed it at right angles and ran through a gate past the narrow wood, was a thin mound of turf, six feet by one, with a moorstone to the west, and on it someone had thrown a blackthorn spray and a handful of bluebells. ashurst looked, and the poet in him moved. at cross-roads--a suicide's grave! poor mortals with their superstitions! whoever lay there, though, had the best of it, no clammy sepulchre among other hideous graves carved with futilities--just a rough stone, the wide sky, and wayside blessings! and, without comment, for he had learned not to be a philosopher in the bosom of his family, he strode away up on to the common, dropped the luncheon basket under a wall, spread a rug for his wife to sit on--she would turn up from her sketching when she was hungry--and took from his pocket murray's translation of the "hippolytus." he had soon finished reading of "the cyprian" and her revenge, and looked at the sky instead. and watching the white clouds so bright against the intense blue, ashurst, on his silver-wedding day, longed for--he knew not what. maladjusted to life--man's organism! one's mode of life might be high and scrupulous, but there was always an, undercurrent of greediness, a hankering, and sense of waste. did women have it too? who could tell? and yet, men who gave vent to their appetites for novelty, their riotous longings for new adventures, new risks, new pleasures, these suffered, no doubt, from the reverse side of starvation, from surfeit. no getting out of it--a maladjusted animal, civilised man! there could be no garden of his choosing, of "the apple-tree, the singing, and the gold," in the words of that lovely greek chorus, no achievable elysium in life, or lasting haven of happiness for any man with a sense of beauty--nothing which could compare with the captured loveliness in a work of art, set down for ever, so that to look on it or read was always to have the same precious sense of exaltation and restful inebriety. life no doubt had moments with that quality of beauty, of unbidden flying rapture, but the trouble was, they lasted no longer than the span of a cloud's flight over the sun; impossible to keep them with you, as art caught beauty and held it fast. they were fleeting as one of the glimmering or golden visions one had of the soul in nature, glimpses of its remote and brooding spirit. here, with the sun hot on his face, a cuckoo calling from a thorn tree, and in the air the honey savour of gorse--here among the little fronds of the young fern, the starry blackthorn, while the bright clouds drifted by high above the hills and dreamy valleys here and now was such a glimpse. but in a moment it would pass--as the face of pan, which looks round the corner of a rock, vanishes at your stare. and suddenly he sat up. surely there was something familiar about this view, this bit of common, that ribbon of road, the old wall behind him. while they were driving he had not been taking notice--never did; thinking of far things or of nothing--but now he saw! twenty-six years ago, just at this time of year, from the farmhouse within half a mile of this very spot he had started for that day in torquay whence it might be said he had never returned. and a sudden ache beset his heart; he had stumbled on just one of those past moments in his life, whose beauty and rapture he had failed to arrest, whose wings had fluttered away into the unknown; he had stumbled on a buried memory, a wild sweet time, swiftly choked and ended. and, turning on his face, he rested his chin on his hands, and stared at the short grass where the little blue milkwort was growing.... i and this is what he remembered. on the first of may, after their last year together at college, frank ashurst and his friend robert garton were on a tramp. they had walked that day from brent, intending to make chagford, but ashurst's football knee had given out, and according to their map they had still some seven miles to go. they were sitting on a bank beside the-road, where a track crossed alongside a wood, resting the knee and talking of the universe, as young men will. both were over six feet, and thin as rails; ashurst pale, idealistic, full of absence; garton queer, round-the-corner, knotted, curly, like some primeval beast. both had a literary bent; neither wore a hat. ashurst's hair was smooth, pale, wavy, and had a way of rising on either side of his brow, as if always being flung back; carton's was a kind of dark unfathomed mop. they had not met a soul for miles. "my dear fellow," garton was saying, "pity's only an effect of self-consciousness; it's a disease of the last five thousand years. the world was happier without." ashurst, following the clouds with his eyes, answered: "it's the pearl in the oyster, anyway." "my dear chap, all our modern unhappiness comes from pity. look at animals, and red indians, limited to feeling their own occasional misfortunes; then look at ourselves--never free from feeling the toothaches of others. let's get back to feeling for nobody, and have a better time." "you'll never practise that." garton pensively stirred the hotch-potch of his hair. "to attain full growth, one mustn't be squeamish. to starve oneself emotionally's a mistake. all emotion is to the good--enriches life." "yes, and when it runs up against chivalry?" "ah! that's so english! if you speak of emotion the english always think you want something physical, and are shocked. they're afraid of passion, but not of lust--oh, no!--so long as they can keep it secret." ashurst did not answer; he had plucked a blue floweret, and was twiddling it against the sky. a cuckoo began calling from a thorn tree. the sky, the flowers, the songs of birds! robert was talking through his hat! and he said: "well, let's go on, and find some farm where we can put up." in uttering those words, he was conscious of a girl coming down from the common just above them. she was outlined against the sky, carrying a basket, and you could see that sky through the crook of her arm. and ashurst, who saw beauty without wondering how it could advantage him, thought: 'how pretty!' the wind, blowing her dark frieze skirt against her legs, lifted her battered peacock tam-o'-shanter; her greyish blouse was worn and old, her shoes were split, her little hands rough and red, her neck browned. her dark hair waved untidy across her broad forehead, her face was short, her upper lip short, showing a glint of teeth, her brows were straight and dark, her lashes long and dark, her nose straight; but her grey eyes were the wonder-dewy as if opened for the first time that day. she looked at ashurst--perhaps he struck her as strange, limping along without a hat, with his large eyes on her, and his hair falling back. he could not take off what was not on his head, but put up his hand in a salute, and said: "can you tell us if there's a farm near here where we could stay the night? i've gone lame." "there's only our farm near, sir." she spoke without shyness, in a pretty soft crisp voice. "and where is that?" "down here, sir." "would you put us up?" "oh! i think we would." "will you show us the way?" "yes, sir." he limped on, silent, and garton took up the catechism. "are you a devonshire girl?" "no, sir." "what then?" "from wales." "ah! i thought you were a celt; so it's not your farm?" "my aunt's, sir." "and your uncle's?" "he is dead." "who farms it, then?" "my aunt, and my three cousins." "but your uncle was a devonshire man?" "yes, sir." "have you lived here long?" "seven years." "and how d'you like it after wales?" "i don't know, sir." "i suppose you don't remember?" "oh, yes! but it is different." "i believe you!" ashurst broke in suddenly: "how old are you?" "seventeen, sir." "and what's your name?" "megan david." "this is robert garton, and i am frank ashurst. we wanted to get on to chagford." "it is a pity your leg is hurting you." ashurst smiled, and when he smiled his face was rather beautiful. descending past the narrow wood, they came on the farm suddenly-a long, low, stone-built dwelling with casement windows, in a farmyard where pigs and fowls and an old mare were straying. a short steep-up grass hill behind was crowned with a few scotch firs, and in front, an old orchard of apple trees, just breaking into flower, stretched down to a stream and a long wild meadow. a little boy with oblique dark eyes was shepherding a pig, and by the house door stood a woman, who came towards them. the girl said: "it is mrs. narracombe, my aunt." "mrs. narracombe, my aunt," had a quick, dark eye, like a mother wild-duck's, and something of the same snaky turn about her neck. "we met your niece on the road," said ashurst; "she thought you might perhaps put us up for the night." mrs. narracombe, taking them in from head to heel, answered: "well, i can, if you don't mind one room. megan, get the spare room ready, and a bowl of cream. you'll be wanting tea, i suppose." passing through a sort of porch made by two yew trees and some flowering-currant bushes, the girl disappeared into the house, her peacock tam-o'-shanter bright athwart that rosy-pink and the dark green of the yews. "will you come into the parlour and rest your leg? you'll be from college, perhaps?" "we were, but we've gone down now." mrs. narracombe nodded sagely. the parlour, brick-floored, with bare table and shiny chairs and sofa stuffed with horsehair, seemed never to have been used, it was so terribly clean. ashurst sat down at once on the sofa, holding his lame knee between his hands, and mrs. narracombe gazed at him. he was the only son of a late professor of chemistry, but people found a certain lordliness in one who was often so sublimely unconscious of them. "is there a stream where we could bathe?" "there's the strame at the bottom of the orchard, but sittin' down you'll not be covered!" "how deep?" "well, 'tis about a foot and a half, maybe." "oh! that'll do fine. which way?" "down the lane, through the second gate on the right, an' the pool's by the big apple tree that stands by itself. there's trout there, if you can tickle them." "they're more likely to tickle us!" mrs. narracombe smiled. "there'll be the tea ready when you come back." the pool, formed by the damming of a rock, had a sandy bottom; and the big apple tree, lowest in the orchard, grew so close that its boughs almost overhung the water; it was in leaf, and all but in flower-its crimson buds just bursting. there was not room for more than one at a time in that narrow bath, and ashurst waited his turn, rubbing his knee and gazing at the wild meadow, all rocks and thorn trees and feld flowers, with a grove of beeches beyond, raised up on a flat mound. every bough was swinging in the wind, every spring bird calling, and a slanting sunlight dappled the grass. he thought of theocritus, and the river cherwell, of the moon, and the maiden with the dewy eyes; of so many things that he seemed to think of nothing; and he felt absurdly happy. during a late and sumptuous tea with eggs to it, cream and jam, and thin, fresh cakes touched with saffron, garton descanted on the celts. it was about the period of the celtic awakening, and the discovery that there was celtic blood about this family had excited one who believed that he was a celt himself. sprawling on a horse hair chair, with a hand-made cigarette dribbling from the corner of his curly lips, he had been plunging his cold pin-points of eyes into ashurst's and praising the refinement of the welsh. to come out of wales into england was like the change from china to earthenware! frank, as a d---d englishman, had not of course perceived the exquisite refinement and emotional capacity of that welsh girl! and, delicately stirring in the dark mat of his still wet hair, he explained how exactly she illustrated the writings of the welsh bard morgan-ap-something in the twelfth century. ashurst, full length on the horsehair sofa, and jutting far beyond its end, smoked a deeply-coloured pipe, and did not listen, thinking of the girl's face when she brought in a relay of cakes. it had been exactly like looking at a flower, or some other pretty sight in nature-till, with a funny little shiver, she had lowered her glance and gone out, quiet as a mouse. "let's go to the kitchen," said garton, "and see some more of her." the kitchen was a white-washed room with rafters, to which were attached smoked hams; there were flower-pots on the window-sill, and guns hanging on nails, queer mugs, china and pewter, and portraits of queen victoria. a long, narrow table of plain wood was set with bowls and spoons, under a string of high-hung onions; two sheep-dogs and three cats lay here and there. on one side of the recessed fireplace sat two small boys, idle, and good as gold; on the other sat a stout, light-eyed, red-faced youth with hair and lashes the colour of the tow he was running through the barrel of a gun; between them mrs. narracombe dreamily stirred some savoury-scented stew in a large pot. two other youths, oblique-eyed, dark-haired, rather sly-faced, like the two little boys, were talking together and lolling against the wall; and a short, elderly, clean-shaven man in corduroys, seated in the window, was conning a battered journal. the girl megan seemed the only active creature-drawing cider and passing with the jugs from cask to table. seeing them thus about to eat, garton said: "ah! if you'll let us, we'll come back when supper's over," and without waiting for an answer they withdrew again to the parlour. but the colour in the kitchen, the warmth, the scents, and all those faces, heightened the bleakness of their shiny room, and they resumed their seats moodily. "regular gipsy type, those boys. there was only one saxon--the fellow cleaning the gun. that girl is a very subtle study psychologically." ashurst's lips twitched. garton seemed to him an ass just then. subtle study! she was a wild flower. a creature it did you good to look at. study! garton went on: "emotionally she would be wonderful. she wants awakening." "are you going to awaken her?" garton looked at him and smiled. 'how coarse and english you are!' that curly smile seemed saying. and ashurst puffed his pipe. awaken her! that fool had the best opinion of himself! he threw up the window and leaned out. dusk had gathered thick. the farm buildings and the wheel-house were all dim and bluish, the apple trees but a blurred wilderness; the air smelled of woodsmoke from the kitchen fire. one bird going to bed later than the others was uttering a half-hearted twitter, as though surprised at the darkness. from the stable came the snuffle and stamp of a feeding horse. and away over there was the loom of the moor, and away and away the shy stars which had not as yet full light, pricking white through the deep blue heavens. a quavering owl hooted. ashurst drew a deep breath. what a night to wander out in! a padding of unshod hoofs came up the lane, and three dim, dark shapes passed--ponies on an evening march. their heads, black and fuzzy, showed above the gate. at the tap of his pipe, and a shower of little sparks, they shied round and scampered. a bat went fluttering past, uttering its almost inaudible "chip, chip." ashurst held out his hand; on the upturned palm he could feel the dew. suddenly from overhead he heard little burring boys' voices, little thumps of boots thrown down, and another voice, crisp and soft--the girl's putting them to bed, no doubt; and nine clear words "no, rick, you can't have the cat in bed"; then came a skirmish of giggles and gurgles, a soft slap, a laugh so low and pretty that it made him shiver a little. a blowing sound, and the glim of the candle which was fingering the dusk above, went out; silence reigned. ashurst withdrew into the room and sat down; his knee pained him, and his soul felt gloomy. "you go to the kitchen," he said; "i'm going to bed." for ashurst the wheel of slumber was wont to turn noiseless and slick and swift, but though he seemed sunk in sleep when his companion came up, he was really wide awake; and long after carton, smothered in the other bed of that low-roofed room, was worshipping darkness with his upturned nose, he heard the owls. barring the discomfort of his knee, it was not unpleasant--the cares of life did not loom large in night watches for this young man. in fact he had none; just enrolled a barrister, with literary aspirations, the world before him, no father or mother, and four hundred a year of his own. did it matter where he went, what he did, or when he did it? his bed, too, was hard, and this preserved him from fever. he lay, sniffing the scent of the night which drifted into the low room through the open casement close to his head. except for a definite irritation with his friend, natural when you have tramped with a man for three days, ashurst's memories and visions that sleepless night were kindly and wistful and exciting. one vision, specially clear and unreasonable, for he had not even been conscious of noting it, was the face of the youth cleaning the gun; its intent, stolid, yet startled uplook at the kitchen doorway, quickly shifted to the girl carrying the cider jug. this red, blue-eyed, light-lashed, tow-haired face stuck as firmly in his memory as the girl's own face, so dewy and simple. but at last, in the square of darkness through the uncurtained casement, he saw day coming, and heard one hoarse and sleepy caw. then followed silence, dead as ever, till the song of a blackbird, not properly awake, adventured into the hush. and, from staring at the framed brightening light, ashurst fell asleep. next day his knee was badly swollen; the walking tour was obviously over. garton, due back in london on the morrow, departed at midday with an ironical smile which left a scar of irritation--healed the moment his loping figure vanished round the corner of the steep lane. all day ashurst rested his knee, in a green-painted wooden chair on the patch of grass by the yew-tree porch, where the sunlight distilled the scent of stocks and gillyflowers, and a ghost of scent from the flowering-currant bushes. beatifically he smoked, dreamed, watched. a farm in spring is all birth-young things coming out of bud and shell, and human beings watching over the process with faint excitement feeding and tending what has been born. so still the young man sat, that a mother-goose, with stately cross-footed waddle, brought her six yellow-necked grey-backed goslings to strop their little beaks against the grass blades at his feet. now and again mrs. narracombe or the girl megan would come and ask if he wanted anything, and he would smile and say: "nothing, thanks. it's splendid here." towards tea-time they came out together, bearing a long poultice of some dark stuff in a bowl, and after a long and solemn scrutiny of his swollen knee, bound it on. when they were gone, he thought of the girl's soft "oh!"--of her pitying eyes, and the little wrinkle in her brow. and again he felt that unreasoning irritation against his departed friend, who had talked such rot about her. when she brought out his tea, he said: "how did you like my friend, megan?" she forced down her upper lip, as if afraid that to smile was not polite. "he was a funny gentleman; he made us laugh. i think he is very clever." "what did he say to make you laugh?" "he said i was a daughter of the bards. what are they?" "welsh poets, who lived hundreds of years ago." "why am i their daughter, please?" "he meant that you were the sort of girl they sang about." she wrinkled her brows. "i think he likes to joke. am i?" "would you believe me, if i told you?" "oh, yes." "well, i think he was right." she smiled. and ashurst thought: 'you are a pretty thing!' "he said, too, that joe was a saxon type. what would that be?" "which is joe? with the blue eyes and red face?" "yes. my uncle's nephew." "not your cousin, then?" "no." "well, he meant that joe was like the men who came over to england about fourteen hundred years ago, and conquered it." "oh! i know about them; but is he?" "garton's crazy about that sort of thing; but i must say joe does look a bit early saxon." "yes." that "yes" tickled ashurst. it was so crisp and graceful, so conclusive, and politely acquiescent in what was evidently. greek to her. "he said that all the other boys were regular gipsies. he should not have said that. my aunt laughed, but she didn't like it, of course, and my cousins were angry. uncle was a farmer--farmers are not gipsies. it is wrong to hurt people." ashurst wanted to take her hand and give it a squeeze, but he only answered: "quite right, megan. by the way, i heard you putting the little ones to bed last night." she flushed a little. "please to drink your tea--it is getting cold. shall i get you some fresh?" "do you ever have time to do anything for yourself?" "oh! yes." "i've been watching, but i haven't seen it yet." she wrinkled her brows in a puzzled frown, and her colour deepened. when she was gone, ashurst thought: 'did she think i was chaffing her? i wouldn't for the world!' he was at that age when to some men "beauty's a flower," as the poet says, and inspires in them the thoughts of chivalry. never very conscious of his surroundings, it was some time before he was aware that the youth whom garton had called "a saxon type" was standing outside the stable door; and a fine bit of colour he made in his soiled brown velvet-cords, muddy gaiters, and blue shirt; red-armed, red-faced, the sun turning his hair from tow to flax; immovably stolid, persistent, unsmiling he stood. then, seeing ashurst looking at him, he crossed the yard at that gait of the young countryman always ashamed not to be slow and heavy-dwelling on each leg, and disappeared round the end of the house towards the kitchen entrance. a chill came over ashurst's mood. clods? with all the good will in the world, how impossible to get on terms with them! and yet--see that girl! her shoes were split, her hands rough; but--what was it? was it really her celtic blood, as garton had said?--she was a lady born, a jewel, though probably she could do no more than just read and write! the elderly, clean-shaven man he had seen last night in the kitchen had come into the yard with a dog, driving the cows to their milking. ashurst saw that he was lame. "you've got some good ones there!" the lame man's face brightened. he had the upward look in his eyes which prolonged suffering often brings. "yeas; they'm praaper buties; gude milkers tu." "i bet they are." "'ope as yure leg's better, zurr." "thank you, it's getting on." the lame man touched his own: "i know what 'tes, meself; 'tes a main worritin' thing, the knee. i've a-'ad mine bad this ten year." ashurst made the sound of sympathy which comes so readily from those who have an independent income, and the lame man smiled again. "mustn't complain, though--they mighty near 'ad it off." "ho!" "yeas; an' compared with what 'twas, 'tes almost so gude as nu." "they've put a bandage of splendid stuff on mine." "the maid she picks et. she'm a gude maid wi' the flowers. there's folks zeem to know the healin' in things. my mother was a rare one for that. 'ope as yu'll zune be better, zurr. goo ahn, therr!" ashurst smiled. "wi' the flowers!" a flower herself! that evening, after his supper of cold duck, junket, and cider, the girl came in. "please, auntie says--will you try a piece of our mayday cake?" "if i may come to the kitchen for it." "oh, yes! you'll be missing your friend." "not i. but are you sure no one minds?" "who would mind? we shall be very pleased." ashurst rose too suddenly for his stiff knee, staggered, and subsided. the girl gave a little gasp, and held out her hands. ashurst took them, small, rough, brown; checked his impulse to put them to his lips, and let her pull him up. she came close beside him, offering her shoulder. and leaning on her he walked across the room. that shoulder seemed quite the pleasantest thing he had ever touched. but, he had presence of mind enough to catch his stick out of the rack, and withdraw his hand before arriving at the kitchen. that night he slept like a top, and woke with his knee of almost normal size. he again spent the morning in his chair on the grass patch, scribbling down verses; but in the afternoon he wandered about with the two little boys nick and rick. it was saturday, so they were early home from school; quick, shy, dark little rascals of seven and six, soon talkative, for ashurst had a way with children. by four o'clock they had shown him all their methods of destroying life, except the tickling of trout; and with breeches tucked up, lay on their stomachs over the trout stream, pretending they had this accomplishment also. they tickled nothing, of course, for their giggling and shouting scared every spotted thing away. ashurst, on a rock at the edge of the beech clump, watched them, and listened to the cuckoos, till nick, the elder and less persevering, came up and stood beside him. "the gipsy bogle zets on that stone," he said. "what gipsy bogie?" "dunno; never zeen 'e. megan zays 'e zets there; an' old jim zeed 'e once. 'e was zettin' there naight afore our pony kicked--in father's 'ead. 'e plays the viddle." "what tune does he play?" "dunno." "what's he like?" "'e's black. old jim zays 'e's all over 'air. 'e's a praaper bogle. 'e don' come only at naight." the little boy's oblique dark eyes slid round. "d'yu think 'e might want to take me away? megan's feared of 'e." "has she seen him?" "no. she's not afeared o' yu." "i should think not. why should she be?" "she zays a prayer for yu." "how do you know that, you little rascal?" "when i was asleep, she said: 'god bless us all, an' mr. ashes.' i yeard 'er whisperin'." "you're a little ruffian to tell what you hear when you're not meant to hear it!" the little boy was silent. then he said aggressively: "i can skin rabbets. megan, she can't bear skinnin' 'em. i like blood." "oh! you do; you little monster!" "what's that?" "a creature that likes hurting others." the little boy scowled. "they'm only dead rabbets, what us eats." "quite right, nick. i beg your pardon." "i can skin frogs, tu." but ashurst had become absent. "god bless us all, and mr. ashes!" and puzzled by that sudden inaccessibility, nick ran back to the stream where the giggling and shouts again uprose at once. when megan brought his tea, he said: "what's the gipsy bogle, megan?" she looked up, startled. "he brings bad things." "surely you don't believe in ghosts?" "i hope i will never see him." "of course you won't. there aren't such things. what old jim saw was a pony." "no! there are bogies in the rocks; they are the men who lived long ago." "they aren't gipsies, anyway; those old men were dead long before gipsies came." she said simply: "they are all bad." "why? if there are any, they're only wild, like the rabbits. the flowers aren't bad for being wild; the thorn trees were never planted--and you don't mind them. i shall go down at night and look for your bogie, and have a talk with him." "oh, no! oh, no!" "oh, yes! i shall go and sit on his rock." she clasped her hands together: "oh, please!" "why! what 'does it matter if anything happens to me?" she did not answer; and in a sort of pet he added: "well, i daresay i shan't see him, because i suppose i must be off soon." "soon?" "your aunt won't want to keep me here." "oh, yes! we always let lodgings in summer." fixing his eyes on her face, he asked: "would you like me to stay?" "yes." "i'm going to say a prayer for you to-night!" she flushed crimson, frowned, and went out of the room. he sat, cursing himself, till his tea was stewed. it was as if he had hacked with his thick boots at a clump of bluebells. why had he said such a silly thing? was he just a towny college ass like robert garton, as far from understanding this girl? ashurst spent the next week confirming the restoration of his leg, by exploration of the country within easy reach. spring was a revelation to him this year. in a kind of intoxication he would watch the pink-white buds of some backward beech tree sprayed up in the sunlight against the deep blue sky, or the trunks and limbs of the few scotch firs, tawny in violent light, or again, on the moor, the gale-bent larches which had such a look of life when the wind streamed in their young green, above the rusty black underboughs. or he would lie on the banks, gazing at the clusters of dog-violets, or up in the dead bracken, fingering the pink, transparent buds of the dewberry, while the cuckoos called and yafes laughed, or a lark, from very high, dripped its beads of song. it was certainly different from any spring he had ever known, for spring was within him, not without. in the daytime he hardly saw the family; and when megan brought in his meals she always seemed too busy in the house or among the young things in the yard to stay talking long. but in the evenings he installed himself in the window seat in the kitchen, smoking and chatting with the lame man jim, or mrs. narracombe, while the girl sewed, or moved about, clearing the supper things away. and sometimes, with the sensation a cat must feel when it purrs, he would become conscious that megan's eyes--those dew-grey eyes--were fixed on him with a sort of lingering soft look which was strangely flattering. it was on sunday week in the evening, when he was lying in the orchard listening to a blackbird and composing a love poem, that he heard the gate swing to, and saw the girl come running among the trees, with the red-cheeked, stolid joe in swift pursuit. about twenty yards away the chase ended, and the two stood fronting each other, not noticing the stranger in the grass--the boy pressing on, the girl fending him off. ashurst could see her face, angry, disturbed; and the youth's--who would have thought that red-faced yokel could look so distraught! and painfully affected by that sight, he jumped up. they saw him then. megan dropped her hands, and shrank behind a tree trunk; the boy gave an angry grunt, rushed at the bank, scrambled over and vanished. ashurst went slowly up to her. she was standing quite still, biting her lip-very pretty, with her fine, dark hair blown loose about her face, and her eyes cast down. "i beg your pardon," he said. she gave him one upward look, from eyes much dilated; then, catching her breath, turned away. ashurst followed. "megan!" but she went on; and taking hold of her arm, he turned her gently round to him. "stop and speak to me." "why do you beg my pardon? it is not to me you should do that." "well, then, to joe." "how dare he come after me?" "in love with you, i suppose." she stamped her foot. ashurst uttered a short laugh. "would you like me to punch his head?" she cried with sudden passion: "you laugh at me-you laugh at us!" he caught hold of her hands, but she shrank back, till her passionate little face and loose dark hair were caught among the pink clusters of the apple blossom. ashurst raised one of her imprisoned hands and put his lips to it. he felt how chivalrous he was, and superior to that clod joe--just brushing that small, rough hand with his mouth i her shrinking ceased suddenly; she seemed to tremble towards him. a sweet warmth overtook ashurst from top to toe. this slim maiden, so simple and fine and pretty, was pleased, then, at the touch of his lips! and, yielding to a swift impulse, he put his arms round her, pressed her to him, and kissed her forehead. then he was frightened--she went so pale, closing her eyes, so that the long, dark lashes lay on her pale cheeks; her hands, too, lay inert at her sides. the touch of her breast sent a shiver through him. "megan!" he sighed out, and let her go. in the utter silence a blackbird shouted. then the girl seized his hand, put it to her cheek, her heart, her lips, kissed it passionately, and fled away among the mossy trunks of the apple trees, till they hid her from him. ashurst sat down on a twisted old tree growing almost along the ground, and, all throbbing and bewildered, gazed vacantly at the blossom which had crowned her hair--those pink buds with one white open apple star. what had he done? how had he let himself be thus stampeded by beauty--pity--or--just the spring! he felt curiously happy, all the same; happy and triumphant, with shivers running through his limbs, and a vague alarm. this was the beginning of--what? the midges bit him, the dancing gnats tried to fly into his mouth, and all the spring around him seemed to grow more lovely and alive; the songs of the cuckoos and the blackbirds, the laughter of the yaflies, the level-slanting sunlight, the apple blossom which had crowned her head! he got up from the old trunk and strode out of the orchard, wanting space, an open sky, to get on terms with these new sensations. he made for the moor, and from an ash tree in the hedge a magpie flew out to herald him. of man--at any age from five years on--who can say he has never been in love? ashurst had loved his partners at his dancing class; loved his nursery governess; girls in school-holidays; perhaps never been quite out of love, cherishing always some more or less remote admiration. but this was different, not remote at all. quite a new sensation; terribly delightful, bringing a sense of completed manhood. to be holding in his fingers such a wild flower, to be able to put it to his lips, and feel it tremble with delight against them! what intoxication, and--embarrassment! what to do with it--how meet her next time? his first caress had been cool, pitiful; but the next could not be, now that, by her burning little kiss on his hand, by her pressure of it to her heart, he knew that she loved him. some natures are coarsened by love bestowed on them; others, like ashurst's, are swayed and drawn, warmed and softened, almost exalted, by what they feel to be a sort of miracle. and up there among the tors he was racked between the passionate desire to revel in this new sensation of spring fulfilled within him, and a vague but very real uneasiness. at one moment he gave himself up completely to his pride at having captured this pretty, trustful, dewy-eyed thing! at the next he thought with factitious solemnity: 'yes, my boy! but look out what you're doing! you know what comes of it!' dusk dropped down without his noticing--dusk on the carved, assyrian-looking masses of the rocks. and the voice of nature said: "this is a new world for you!" as when a man gets up at four o'clock and goes out into a summer morning, and beasts, birds, trees stare at him and he feels as if all had been made new. he stayed up there for hours, till it grew cold, then groped his way down the stones and heather roots to the road, back into the lane, and came again past the wild meadow to the orchard. there he struck a match and looked at his watch. nearly twelve! it was black and unstirring in there now, very different from the lingering, bird-befriended brightness of six hours ago! and suddenly he saw this idyll of his with the eyes of the outer world--had mental vision of mrs. narracombe's snake-like neck turned, her quick dark glance taking it all in, her shrewd face hardening; saw the gipsy-like cousins coarsely mocking and distrustful; joe stolid and furious; only the lame man, jim, with the suffering eyes, seemed tolerable to his mind. and the village pub!--the gossiping matrons he passed on his walks; and then--his own friends--robert carton's smile when he went off that morning ten days ago; so ironical and knowing! disgusting! for a minute he literally hated this earthy, cynical world to which one belonged, willy-nilly. the gate where he was leaning grew grey, a sort of shimmer passed be fore him and spread into the bluish darkness. the moon! he could just see it over the bank be hind; red, nearly round-a strange moon! and turning away, he went up the lane which smelled of the night and cowdung and young leaves. in the straw-yard he could see the dark shapes of cattle, broken by the pale sickles of their horns, like so many thin moons, fallen ends-up. he unlatched the farm gate stealthily. all was dark in the house. muffling his footsteps, he gained the porch, and, blotted against one of the yew trees, looked up at megan's window. it was open. was she sleeping, or lying awake perhaps, disturbed--unhappy at his absence? an owl hooted while he stood there peering up, and the sound seemed to fill the whole night, so quiet was all else, save for the never-ending murmur of the stream running below the orchard. the cuckoos by day, and now the owls--how wonderfully they voiced this troubled ecstasy within him! and suddenly he saw her at her window, looking out. he moved a little from the yew tree, and whispered: "megan!" she drew back, vanished, reappeared, leaning far down. he stole forward on the grass patch, hit his shin against the green-painted chair, and held his breath at the sound. the pale blur of her stretched-down arm and face did not stir; he moved the chair, and noiselessly mounted it. by stretching up his arm he could just reach. her hand held the huge key of the front door, and he clasped that burning hand with the cold key in it. he could just see her face, the glint of teeth between her lips, her tumbled hair. she was still dressed--poor child, sitting up for him, no doubt! "pretty megan!" her hot, roughened fingers clung to his; her face had a strange, lost look. to have been able to reach it--even with his hand! the owl hooted, a scent of sweetbriar crept into his nostrils. then one of the farm dogs barked; her grasp relaxed, she shrank back. "good-night, megan!" "good-night, sir!" she was gone! with a sigh he dropped back to earth, and sitting on that chair, took off his boots. nothing for it but to creep in and go to bed; yet for a long while he sat unmoving, his feet chilly in the dew, drunk on the memory of her lost, half-smiling face, and the clinging grip of her burning fingers, pressing the cold key into his hand. he awoke feeling as if he had eaten heavily overnight, instead of having eaten nothing. and far off, unreal, seemed yesterday's romance! yet it was a golden morning. full spring had burst at last--in one night the "goldie-cups," as the little boys called them, seemed to have made the field their own, and from his window he could see apple blossoms covering the orchard as with a rose and white quilt. he went down almost dreading to see megan; and yet, when not she but mrs. narracombe brought in his breakfast, he felt vexed and disappointed. the woman's quick eye and snaky neck seemed to have a new alacrity this morning. had she noticed? "so you an' the moon went walkin' last night, mr. ashurst! did ye have your supper anywheres?" ashurst shook his head. "we kept it for you, but i suppose you was too busy in your brain to think o' such a thing as that?" was she mocking him, in that voice of hers, which still kept some welsh crispness against the invading burr of the west country? if she knew! and at that moment he thought: 'no, no; i'll clear out. i won't put myself in such a beastly false position.' but, after breakfast, the longing to see megan began and increased with every minute, together with fear lest something should have been said to her which had spoiled everything. sinister that she had not appeared, not given him even a glimpse of her! and the love poem, whose manufacture had been so important and absorbing yesterday afternoon under the apple trees, now seemed so paltry that he tore it up and rolled it into pipe spills. what had he known of love, till she seized his hand and kissed it! and now--what did he not know? but to write of it seemed mere insipidity! he went up to his bedroom to get a book, and his heart began to beat violently, for she was in there making the bed. he stood in the doorway watching; and suddenly, with turbulent joy, he saw her stoop and kiss his pillow, just at the hollow made by his head last night. how let her know he had seen that pretty act of devotion? and yet, if she heard him stealing away, it would be even worse. she took the pillow up, holding it as if reluctant to shake out the impress of his cheek, dropped it, and turned round. "megan!" she put her hands up to her cheeks, but her eyes seemed to look right into him. he had never before realised the depth and purity and touching faithfulness in those dew-bright eyes, and he stammered: "it was sweet of you to wait up for me last night." she still said nothing, and he stammered on: "i was wandering about on the moor; it was such a jolly night. i--i've just come up for a book." then, the kiss he had seen her give the pillow afflicted him with sudden headiness, and he went up to her. touching her eyes with his lips, he thought with queer excitement: 'i've done it! yesterday all was sudden--anyhow; but now--i've done it!' the girl let her forehead rest against his lips, which moved downwards till they reached hers. that first real lover's kiss-strange, wonderful, still almost innocent--in which heart did it make the most disturbance? "come to the big apple tree to-night, after they've gone to bed. megan-promise!" she whispered back: "i promise." then, scared at her white face, scared at everything, he let her go, and went downstairs again. yes! he had done it now! accepted her love, declared his own! he went out to the green chair as devoid of a book as ever; and there he sat staring vacantly before him, triumphant and remorseful, while under his nose and behind his back the work of the farm went on. how long he had been sitting in that curious state of vacancy he had no notion when he saw joe standing a little behind him to the right. the youth had evidently come from hard work in the fields, and stood shifting his feet, breathing loudly, his face coloured like a setting sun, and his arms, below the rolled-up sleeves of his blue shirt, showing the hue and furry sheen of ripe peaches. his red lips were open, his blue eyes with their flaxen lashes stared fixedly at ashurst, who said ironically: "well, joe, anything i can do for you?" "yeas." "what, then?" "yu can goo away from yere. us don' want yu." ashurst's face, never too humble, assumed its most lordly look. "very good of you, but, do you know, i prefer the others should speak for themselves." the youth moved a pace or two nearer, and the scent of his honest heat afflicted ashurst's nostrils. "what d'yu stay yere for?" "because it pleases me." "twon't please yu when i've bashed yure head in!" "indeed! when would you like to begin that?" joe answered only with the loudness of his breathing, but his eyes looked like those of a young and angry bull. then a sort of spasm seemed to convulse his face. "megan don' want yu." a rush of jealousy, of contempt, and anger with this thick, loud-breathing rustic got the better of ashurst's self-possession; he jumped up, and pushed back his chair. "you can go to the devil!" and as he said those simple words, he saw megan in the doorway with a tiny brown spaniel puppy in her arms. she came up to him quickly: "its eyes are blue!" she said. joe turned away; the back of his neck was literally crimson. ashurst put his finger to the mouth of the little brown bullfrog of a creature in her arms. how cosy it looked against her! "it's fond of you already. ah i megan, everything is fond of you." "what was joe saying to you, please?" "telling me to go away, because you didn't want me here." she stamped her foot; then looked up at ashurst. at that adoring look he felt his nerves quiver, just as if he had seen a moth scorching its wings. "to-night!" he said. "don't forget!" "no." and smothering her face against the puppy's little fat, brown body, she slipped back into the house. ashurst wandered down the lane. at the gate of the wild meadow he came on the lame man and his cows. "beautiful day, jim!" "ah! 'tes brave weather for the grass. the ashes be later than th' oaks this year. 'when th' oak before th' ash---'" ashurst said idly: "where were you standing when you saw the gipsy bogie, jim?" "it might be under that big apple tree, as you might say." "and you really do think it was there?" the lame man answered cautiously: "i shouldn't like to say rightly that 't was there. 'twas in my mind as 'twas there." "what do you make of it?" the lame man lowered his voice. "they du zay old master, mist' narracombe come o' gipsy stock. but that's tellin'. they'm a wonderful people, yu know, for claimin' their own. maybe they knu 'e was goin', and sent this feller along for company. that's what i've a-thought about it." "what was he like?" "'e 'ad 'air all over 'is face, an' goin' like this, he was, zame as if 'e 'ad a viddle. they zay there's no such thing as bogies, but i've a-zeen the 'air on this dog standin' up of a dark naight, when i couldn' zee nothin', meself." "was there a moon?" "yeas, very near full, but 'twas on'y just risen, gold-like be'ind them trees." "and you think a ghost means trouble, do you?" the lame man pushed his hat up; his aspiring eyes looked at ashurst more earnestly than ever. "'tes not for me to zay that but 'tes they bein' so unrestin'like. there's things us don' understand, that's zartin, for zure. there's people that zee things, tu, an' others that don't never zee nothin'. now, our joe--yu might putt anything under'is eyes an e'd never zee it; and them other boys, tu, they'm rattlin' fellers. but yu take an' putt our megan where there's suthin', she'll zee it, an' more tu, or i'm mistaken." "she's sensitive, that's why." "what's that?" "i mean, she feels everything." "ah! she'm very lovin'-'earted." ashurst, who felt colour coming into his cheeks, held out his tobacco pouch. "have a fill, jim?" "thank 'ee, sir. she'm one in an 'underd, i think." "i expect so," said ashurst shortly, and folding up his pouch, walked on. "lovin'-hearted!" yes! and what was he doing? what were his intentions--as they say towards this loving-hearted girl? the thought dogged him, wandering through fields bright with buttercups, where the little red calves were feeding, and the swallows flying high. yes, the oaks were before the ashes, brown-gold already; every tree in different stage and hue. the cuckoos and a thousand birds were singing; the little streams were very bright. the ancients believed in a golden age, in the garden of the hesperides!... a queen wasp settled on his sleeve. each queen wasp killed meant two thousand fewer wasps to thieve the apples which would grow from that blossom in the orchard; but who, with love in his heart, could kill anything on a day like this? he entered a field where a young red bull was feeding. it seemed to ashurst that he looked like joe. but the young bull took no notice of this visitor, a little drunk himself, perhaps, on the singing and the glamour of the golden pasture, under his short legs. ashurst crossed out unchallenged to the hillside above the stream. from that slope a for mounted to its crown of rocks. the ground there was covered with a mist of bluebells, and nearly a score of crab-apple trees were in full bloom. he threw himself down on the grass. the change from the buttercup glory and oak-goldened glamour of the fields to this ethereal beauty under the grey for filled him with a sort of wonder; nothing the same, save the sound of running water and the songs of the cuckoos. he lay there a long time, watching the sunlight wheel till the crab-trees threw shadows over the bluebells, his only companions a few wild bees. he was not quite sane, thinking of that morning's kiss, and of to-night under the apple tree. in such a spot as this, fauns and dryads surely lived; nymphs, white as the crab-apple blossom, retired within those trees; fauns, brown as the dead bracken, with pointed ears, lay in wait for them. the cuckoos were still calling when he woke, there was the sound of running water; but the sun had couched behind the tor, the hillside was cool, and some rabbits had come out. 'tonight!' he thought. just as from the earth everything was pushing up, unfolding under the soft insistent fingers of an unseen hand, so were his heart and senses being pushed, unfolded. he got up and broke off a spray from a crab-apple tree. the buds were like megan--shell-like, rose-pink, wild, and fresh; and so, too, the opening flowers, white, and wild; and touching. he put the spray into his coat. and all the rush of the spring within him escaped in a triumphant sigh. but the rabbits scurried away. it was nearly eleven that night when ashurst put down the pocket "odyssey" which for half an hour he had held in his hands without reading, and slipped through the yard down to the orchard. the moon had just risen, very golden, over the hill, and like a bright, powerful, watching spirit peered through the bars of an ash tree's half-naked boughs. in among the apple trees it was still dark, and he stood making sure of his direction, feeling the rough grass with his feet. a black mass close behind him stirred with a heavy grunting sound, and three large pigs settled down again close to each other, under the wall. he listened. there was no wind, but the stream's burbling whispering chuckle had gained twice its daytime strength. one bird, he could not tell what, cried "pippip," "pip-pip," with perfect monotony; he could hear a night-jar spinning very far off; an owl hooting. ashurst moved a step or two, and again halted, aware of a dim living whiteness all round his head. on the dark unstirring trees innumerable flowers and buds all soft and blurred were being bewitched to life by the creeping moonlight. he had the oddest feeling of actual companionship, as if a million white moths or spirits had floated in and settled between dark sky and darker ground, and were opening and shutting their wings on a level with his eyes. in the bewildering, still, scentless beauty of that moment he almost lost memory of why he had come to the orchard. the flying glamour which had clothed the earth all day had not gone now that night had fallen, but only changed into this new form. he moved on through the thicket of stems and boughs covered with that live powdering whiteness, till he reached the big apple tree. no mistaking that, even in the dark, nearly twice the height and size of any other, and leaning out towards the open meadows and the stream. under the thick branches he stood still again, to listen. the same sounds exactly, and a faint grunting from the sleepy pigs. he put his hands on the dry, almost warm tree trunk, whose rough mossy surface gave forth a peaty scent at his touch. would she come--would she? and among these quivering, haunted, moon-witched trees he was seized with doubts of everything! all was unearthly here, fit for no earthly lovers; fit only for god and goddess, faun and nymph not for him and this little country girl. would it not be almost a relief if she did not come? but all the time he was listening. and still that unknown bird went "pip-pip," "pip-pip," and there rose the busy chatter of the little trout stream, whereon the moon was flinging glances through the bars of her tree-prison. the blossom on a level with his eyes seemed to grow more living every moment, seemed with its mysterious white beauty more and more a part of his suspense. he plucked a fragment and held it close--three blossoms. sacrilege to pluck fruit-tree blossom--soft, sacred, young blossom--and throw it away! then suddenly he heard the gate close, the pigs stirring again and grunting; and leaning against the trunk, he pressed his hands to its mossy sides behind him, and held his breath. she might have been a spirit threading the trees, for all the noise she made! then he saw her quite close--her dark form part of a little tree, her white face part of its blossom; so still, and peering towards him. he whispered: "megan!" and held out his hands. she ran forward, straight to his breast. when he felt her heart beating against him, ashurst knew to the full the sensations of chivalry and passion. because she was not of his world, because she was so simple and young and headlong, adoring and defenceless, how could he be other than her protector, in the dark! because she was all simple nature and beauty, as much a part of this spring night as was the living blossom, how should he not take all that she would give him how not fulfil the spring in her heart and his! and torn between these two emotions he clasped her close, and kissed her hair. how long they stood there without speaking he knew not. the stream went on chattering, the owls hooting, the moon kept stealing up and growing whiter; the blossom all round them and above brightened in suspense of living beauty. their lips had sought each other's, and they did not speak. the moment speech began all would be unreal! spring has no speech, nothing but rustling and whispering. spring has so much more than speech in its unfolding flowers and leaves, and the coursing of its streams, and in its sweet restless seeking! and sometimes spring will come alive, and, like a mysterious presence stand, encircling lovers with its arms, laying on them the fingers of enchantment, so that, standing lips to lips, they forget everything but just a kiss. while her heart beat against him, and her lips quivered on his, ashurst felt nothing but simple rapture--destiny meant her for his arms, love could not be flouted! but when their lips parted for breath, division began again at once. only, passion now was so much the stronger, and he sighed: "oh! megan! why did you come?" she looked up, hurt, amazed. "sir, you asked me to." "don't call me 'sir,' my pretty sweet." "what should i be callin" you?" "frank." "i could not. oh, no!" "but you love me--don't you?" "i could not help lovin' you. i want to be with you--that's all." "all!" so faint that he hardly heard, she whispered: "i shall die if i can't be with you." ashurst took a mighty breath. "come and be with me, then!" "oh!" intoxicated by the awe and rapture in that "oh!" he went on, whispering: "we'll go to london. i'll show you the world. "and i will take care of you, i promise, megan. i'll never be a brute to you!" "if i can be with you--that is all." he stroked her hair, and whispered on: "to-morrow i'll go to torquay and get some money, and get you some clothes that won't be noticed, and then we'll steal away. and when we get to london, soon perhaps, if you love me well enough, we'll be married." he could feel her hair shiver with the shake of her head. "oh, no! i could not. i only want to be with you!" drunk on his own chivalry, ashurst went on murmuring, "it's i who am not good enough for you. oh! megan, when did you begin to love me?" "when i saw you in the road, and you looked at me. the first night i loved you; but i never thought you would want me." she slipped down suddenly to her knees, trying to kiss his feet. a shiver of horror went through ashurst; he lifted her up bodily and held her fast--too upset to speak. she whispered: "why won't you let me?" "it's i who will kiss your feet!" her smile brought tears into his eyes. the whiteness of her moonlit face so close to his, the faint pink of her opened lips, had the living unearthly beauty of the apple blossom. and then, suddenly, her eyes widened and stared past him painfully; she writhed out of his arms, and whispered: "look!" ashurst saw nothing but the brightened stream, the furze faintly gilded, the beech trees glistening, and behind them all the wide loom of the moonlit hill. behind him came her frozen whisper: "the gipsy bogie!" "where?" "there--by the stone--under the trees!" exasperated, he leaped the stream, and strode towards the beech clump. prank of the moonlight! nothing! in and out of the boulders and thorn trees, muttering and cursing, yet with a kind of terror, he rushed and stumbled. absurd! silly! then he went back to the apple tree. but she was gone; he could hear a rustle, the grunting of the pigs, the sound of a gate closing. instead of her, only this old apple tree! he flung his arms round the trunk. what a substitute for her soft body; the rough moss against his face--what a substitute for her soft cheek; only the scent, as of the woods, a little the same! and above him, and around, the blossoms, more living, more moonlit than ever, seemed to glow and breathe. descending from the train at torquay station, ashurst wandered uncertainly along the front, for he did not know this particular queen of english watering places. having little sense of what he had on, he was quite unconscious of being remarkable among its inhabitants, and strode along in his rough norfolk jacket, dusty boots, and battered hat, without observing that people gazed at him rather blankly. he was seeking a branch of his london bank, and having found one, found also the first obstacle to his mood. did he know anyone in torquay? no. in that case, if he would wire to his bank in london, they would be happy to oblige him on receipt of the reply. that suspicious breath from the matter-of-fact world somewhat tarnished the brightness of his visions. but he sent the telegram. nearly opposite to the post office he saw a shop full of ladies' garments, and examined the window with strange sensations. to have to undertake the clothing of his rustic love was more than a little disturbing. he went in. a young woman came forward; she had blue eyes and a faintly puzzled forehead. ashurst stared at her in silence. "yes, sir?" "i want a dress for a young lady." the young woman smiled. ashurst frowned the peculiarity of his request struck him with sudden force. the young woman added hastily: "what style would you like--something modish?" "no. simple." "what figure would the young lady be?" "i don't know; about two inches shorter than you, i should say." "could you give me her waist measurement?" megan's waist! "oh! anything usual!" "quite!" while she was gone he stood disconsolately eyeing the models in the window, and suddenly it seemed to him incredible that megan--his megan could ever be dressed save in the rough tweed skirt, coarse blouse, and tam-o'-shanter cap he was wont to see her in. the young woman had come back with several dresses in her arms, and ashurst eyed her laying them against her own modish figure. there was one whose colour he liked, a dove-grey, but to imagine megan clothed in it was beyond him. the young woman went away, and brought some more. but on ashurst there had now come a feeling of paralysis. how choose? she would want a hat too, and shoes, and gloves; and, suppose, when he had got them all, they commonised her, as sunday clothes always commonised village folk! why should she not travel as she was? ah! but conspicuousness would matter; this was a serious elopement. and, staring at the young woman, he thought: 'i wonder if she guesses, and thinks me a blackguard?' "do you mind putting aside that grey one for me?" he said desperately at last. "i can't decide now; i'll come in again this afternoon." the young woman sighed. "oh! certainly. it's a very tasteful costume. i don't think you'll get anything that will suit your purpose better." "i expect not," ashurst murmured, and went out. freed again from the suspicious matter-of-factness of the world, he took a long breath, and went back to visions. in fancy he saw the trustful, pretty creature who was going to join her life to his; saw himself and her stealing forth at night, walking over the moor under the moon, he with his arm round her, and carrying her new garments, till, in some far-off wood, when dawn was coming, she would slip off her old things and put on these, and an early train at a distant station would bear them away on their honeymoon journey, till london swallowed them up, and the dreams of love came true. "frank ashurst! haven't seen you since rugby, old chap!" ashurst's frown dissolved; the face, close to his own, was blue-eyed, suffused with sun--one of those faces where sun from within and without join in a sort of lustre. and he answered: "phil halliday, by jove!" "what are you doing here?" "oh! nothing. just looking round, and getting some money. i'm staying on the moor." "are you lunching anywhere? come and lunch with us; i'm here with my young sisters. they've had measles." hooked in by that friendly arm ashurst went along, up a hill, down a hill, away out of the town, while the voice of halliday, redolent of optimism as his face was of sun, explained how "in this mouldy place the only decent things were the bathing and boating," and so on, till presently they came to a crescent of houses a little above and back from the sea, and into the centre one an hotel--made their way. "come up to my room and have a wash. lunch'll be ready in a jiffy." ashurst contemplated his visage in a looking-glass. after his farmhouse bedroom, the comb and one spare shirt regime of the last fortnight, this room littered with clothes and brushes was a sort of capua; and he thought: 'queer--one doesn't realise but what--he did not quite know. when he followed halliday into the sitting room for lunch, three faces, very fair and blue-eyed, were turned suddenly at the words: "this is frank ashurst my young sisters." two were indeed young, about eleven and ten. the third was perhaps seventeen, tall and fair-haired too, with pink-and-white cheeks just touched by the sun, and eyebrows, rather darker than the hair, running a little upwards from her nose to their outer points. the voices of all three were like halliday's, high and cheerful; they stood up straight, shook hands with a quick movement, looked at ashurst critically, away again at once, and began to talk of what they were going to do in the afternoon. a regular diana and attendant nymphs! after the farm this crisp, slangy, eager talk, this cool, clean, off-hand refinement, was queer at first, and then so natural that what he had come from became suddenly remote. the names of the two little ones seemed to be sabina and freda; of the eldest, stella. presently the one called sabina turned to him and said: "i say, will you come shrimping with us?--it's awful fun!" surprised by this unexpected friendliness, ashurst murmured: "i'm afraid i've got to get back this afternoon." "oh!" "can't you put it off?" ashurst turned to the new speaker, stella, shook his head, and smiled. she was very pretty! sabina said regretfully: "you might!" then the talk switched off to caves and swimming. "can you swim far?" "about two miles." "oh!" "i say!" "how jolly!" the three pairs of blue eyes, fixed on him, made him conscious of his new importance--the sensation was agreeable. halliday said: "i say, you simply must stop and have a bathe. you'd better stay the night." "yes, do!"' but again ashurst smiled and shook his head. then suddenly he found himself being catechised about his physical achievements. he had rowed--it seemed--in his college boat, played in his college football team, won his college mile; and he rose from table a sort of hero. the two little girls insisted that he must see "their" cave, and they set forth chattering like magpies, ashurst between them, stella and her brother a little behind. in the cave, damp and darkish like any other cave, the great feature was a pool with possibility of creatures which might be caught and put into bottles. sabina and freda, who wore no stockings on their shapely brown legs, exhorted ashurst to join them in the middle of it, and help sieve the water. he too was soon bootless and sockless. time goes fast for one who has a sense of beauty, when there are pretty children in a pool and a young diana on the edge, to receive with wonder anything you can catch! ashurst never had much sense of time. it was a shock when, pulling out his watch, he saw it was well past three. no cashing his cheque to-day-the bank would be closed before he could get there. watching his expression, the little girls cried out at once: "hurrah! now you'll have to stay!" ashurst did not answer. he was seeing again megan's face, when at breakfast time he had whispered: "i'm going to torquay, darling, to get everything; i shall be back this evening. if it's fine we can go to-night. be ready." he was seeing again how she quivered and hung on his words. what would she think? then he pulled himself together, conscious suddenly of the calm scrutiny of this other young girl, so tall and fair and diana-like, at the edge of the pool, of her wondering blue eyes under those brows which slanted up a little. if they knew what was in his mind--if they knew that this very night he had meant! well, there would be a little sound of disgust, and he would be alone in the cave. and with a curious mixture of anger, chagrin, and shame, he put his watch back into his pocket and said abruptly: "yes; i'm dished for to-day." "hurrah! now you can bathe with us." it was impossible not to succumb a little to the contentment of these pretty children, to the smile on stella's lips, to halliday's "ripping, old chap! i can lend you things for the night!" but again a spasm of longing and remorse throbbed through ashurst, and he said moodily: "i must send a wire!" the attractions of the pool palling, they went back to the hotel. ashurst sent his wire, addressing it to mrs. narracombe: "sorry, detained for the night, back to-morrow." surely megan would understand that he had too much to do; and his heart grew lighter. it was a lovely afternoon, warm, the sea calm and blue, and swimming his great passion; the favour of these pretty children flattered him, the pleasure of looking at them, at stella, at halliday's sunny face; the slight unreality, yet extreme naturalness of it all--as of a last peep at normality before he took this plunge with megan! he got his borrowed bathing dress, and they all set forth. halliday and he undressed behind one rock, the three girls behind another. he was first into the sea, and at once swam out with the bravado of justifying his self-given reputation. when he turned he could see halliday swimming along shore, and the girls flopping and dipping, and riding the little waves, in the way he was accustomed to despise, but now thought pretty and sensible, since it gave him the distinction of the only deep-water fish. but drawing near, he wondered if they would like him, a stranger, to come into their splashing group; he felt shy, approaching that slim nymph. then sabina summoned him to teach her to float, and between them the little girls kept him so busy that he had no time even to notice whether stella was accustomed to his presence, till suddenly he heard a startled sound from her: she was standing submerged to the waist, leaning a little forward, her slim white arms stretched out and pointing, her wet face puckered by the sun and an expression of fear. "look at phil! is he all right? oh, look!" ashurst saw at once that phil was not all right. he was splashing and struggling out of his depth, perhaps a hundred yards away; suddenly he gave a cry, threw up his arms, and went down. ashurst saw the girl launch herself towards him, and crying out: "go back, stella! go back!" he dashed out. he had never swum so fast, and reached halliday just as he was coming up a second time. it was a case of cramp, but to get him in was not difficult, for he did not struggle. the girl, who had stopped where ashurst told her to, helped as soon as he was in his depth, and once on the beach they sat down one on each side of him to rub his limbs, while the little ones stood by with scared faces. halliday was soon smiling. it was--he said--rotten of him, absolutely rotten! if frank would give him an arm, he could get to his clothes all right now. ashurst gave him the arm, and as he did so caught sight of stella's face, wet and flushed and tearful, all broken up out of its calm; and he thought: 'i called her stella! wonder if she minded?' while they were dressing, halliday said quietly, "you saved my life, old chap!" "rot!" clothed, but not quite in their right minds, they went up all together to the hotel and sat down to tea, except halliday, who was lying down in his room. after some slices of bread and jam, sabina said: "i say, you know, you are a brick!" and freda chimed in: "rather!" ashurst saw stella looking down; he got up in confusion, and went to the window. from there he heard sabina mutter: "i say, let's swear blood bond. where's your knife, freda?" and out of the corner of his eye could see each of them solemnly prick herself, squeeze out a drop of blood and dabble on a bit of paper. he turned and made for the door. "don't be a stoat! come back!" his arms were seized; imprisoned between the little girls he was brought back to the table. on it lay a piece of paper with an effigy drawn in blood, and the three names stella halliday, sabina halliday, freda halliday--also in blood, running towards it like the rays of a star. sabina said: "that's you. we shall have to kiss you, you know." and freda echoed: "oh! blow--yes!" before ashurst could escape, some wettish hair dangled against his face, something like a bite descended on his nose, he felt his left arm pinched, and other teeth softly searching his cheek. then he was released, and freda said: "now, stella." ashurst, red and rigid, looked across the table at a red and rigid stella. sabina giggled; freda cried: "buck up--it spoils everything!" a queer, ashamed eagerness shot through ashurst: then he said quietly: "shut up, you little demons!" again sabina giggled. "well, then, she can kiss her hand, and you can put it against your nose. it is on one side!" to his amazement the girl did kiss her hand and stretch it out. solemnly he took that cool, slim hand and laid it to his cheek. the two little girls broke into clapping, and freda said: "now, then, we shall have to save your life at any time; that's settled. can i have another cup, stella, not so beastly weak?" tea was resumed, and ashurst, folding up the paper, put it in his pocket. the talk turned on the advantages of measles, tangerine oranges, honey in a spoon, no lessons, and so forth. ashurst listened, silent, exchanging friendly looks with stella, whose face was again of its normal sun-touched pink and white. it was soothing to be so taken to the heart of this jolly family, fascinating to watch their faces. and after tea, while the two little girls pressed seaweed, he talked to stella in the window seat and looked at her water-colour sketches. the whole thing was like a pleasurable dream; time and incident hung up, importance and reality suspended. tomorrow he would go back to megan, with nothing of all this left save the paper with the blood of these children, in his pocket. children! stella was not quite that--as old as megan! her talk--quick, rather hard and shy, yet friendly--seemed to flourish on his silences, and about her there was something cool and virginal--a maiden in a bower. at dinner, to which halliday, who had swallowed too much sea-water, did not come, sabina said: "i'm going to call you frank." freda echoed: "frank, frank, franky." ashurst grinned and bowed. "every time stella calls you mr. ashurst, she's got to pay a forfeit. it's ridiculous." ashurst looked at stella, who grew slowly red. sabina giggled; freda cried: "she's 'smoking'--'smoking!'--yah!" ashurst reached out to right and left, and grasped some fair hair in each hand. "look here," he said, "you two! leave stella alone, or i'll tie you together!" freda gurgled: "ouch! you are a beast!" sabina murmured cautiously: "you call her stella, you see!" "why shouldn't i? it's a jolly name!" "all right; we give you leave to!" ashurst released the hair. stella! what would she call him--after this? but she called him nothing; till at bedtime he said, deliberately: "good-night, stella!" "good-night, mr.----good-night, frank! it was jolly of you, you know!" "oh-that! bosh!" her quick, straight handshake tightened suddenly, and as suddenly became slack. ashurst stood motionless in the empty sitting-room. only last night, under the apple tree and the living blossom, he had held megan to him, kissing her eyes and lips. and he gasped, swept by that rush of remembrance. to-night it should have begun-his life with her who only wanted to be with him! and now, twenty-four hours and more must pass, because-of not looking at his watch! why had he made friends with this family of innocents just when he was saying good-bye to innocence, and all the rest of it? 'but i mean to marry her,' he thought; 'i told her so!' he took a candle, lighted it, and went to his bedroom, which was next to halliday's. his friend's voice called, as he was passing: "is that you, old chap? i say, come in." he was sitting up in bed, smoking a pipe and reading. "sit down a bit." ashurst sat down by the open window. "i've been thinking about this afternoon, you know," said halliday rather suddenly. "they say you go through all your past. i didn't. i suppose i wasn't far enough gone." "what did you think of?" halliday was silent for a little, then said quietly "well, i did think of one thing--rather odd--of a girl at cambridge that i might have--you know; i was glad i hadn't got her on my mind. anyhow, old chap, i owe it to you that i'm here; i should have been in the big dark by now. no more bed, or baccy; no more anything. i say, what d'you suppose happens to us?" ashurst murmured: "go out like flames, i expect." "phew!" "we may flicker, and cling about a bit, perhaps." "h'm! i think that's rather gloomy. i say, i hope my young sisters have been decent to you?" "awfully decent." halliday put his pipe down, crossed his hands behind his neck, and turned his face towards the window. "they're not bad kids!" he said. watching his friend, lying there, with that smile, and the candle-light on his face, ashurst shuddered. quite true! he might have been lying there with no smile, with all that sunny look gone out for ever! he might not have been lying there at all, but "sanded" at the bottom of the sea, waiting for resurrection on the ninth day, was it? and that smile of halliday's seemed to him suddenly something wonderful, as if in it were all the difference between life and death--the little flame--the all! he got up, and said softly: "well, you ought to sleep, i expect. shall i blow out?" halliday caught his hand. "i can't say it, you know; but it must be rotten to be dead. good-night, old boy!" stirred and moved, ashurst squeezed the hand, and went downstairs. the hall door was still open, and he passed out on to the lawn before the crescent. the stars were bright in a very dark blue sky, and by their light some lilacs had that mysterious colour of flowers by night which no one can describe. ashurst pressed his face against a spray; and before his closed eyes megan started up, with the tiny brown spaniel pup against her breast. "i thought of a girl that i might have you know. i was glad i hadn't got her on my mind!" he jerked his head away from the lilac, and began pacing up and down over the grass, a grey phantom coming to substance for a moment in the light from the lamp at either end. he was with her again under the living, breathing white ness of the blossom, the stream chattering by, the moon glinting steel-blue on the bathing-pool; back in the rapture of his kisses on her upturned face of innocence and humble passion, back in the suspense and beauty of that pagan night. he stood still once more in the shadow of the lilacs. here the sea, not the stream, was night's voice; the sea with its sigh and rustle; no little bird, no owl, no night-jar called or spun; but a piano tinkled, and the white houses cut the sky with solid curve, and the scent from the lilacs filled the air. a window of the hotel, high up, was lighted; he saw a shadow move across the blind. and most queer sensations stirred within him, a sort of churning, and twining, and turning of a single emotion on itself, as though spring and love, bewildered and confused, seeking the way, were baffled. this girl, who had called him frank, whose hand had given his that sudden little clutch, this girl so cool and pure--what would she think of such wild, unlawful loving? he sank down on the grass, sitting there cross-legged, with his back to the house, motionless as some carved buddha. was he really going to break through innocence, and steal? sniff the scent out of a wild flower, and--perhaps--throw it away? "of a girl at cambridge that i might have--you know!" he put his hands to the grass, one on each side, palms downwards, and pressed; it was just warm still--the grass, barely moist, soft and firm and friendly. 'what am i going to do?' he thought. perhaps megan was at her window, looking out at the blossom, thinking of him! poor little megan! 'why not?' he thought. 'i love her! but do i really love her? or do i only want her because she is so pretty, and loves me? what am i going to do?' the piano tinkled on, the stars winked; and ashurst gazed out before him at the dark sea, as if spell-bound. he got up at last, cramped and rather chilly. there was no longer light in any window. and he went in to bed. out of a deep and dreamless sleep he was awakened by the sound of thumping on the door. a shrill voice called: "hi! breakfast's ready." he jumped up. where was he--? ah! he found them already eating marmalade, and sat down in the empty place between stella and sabina, who, after watching him a little, said: "i say, do buck up; we're going to start at half-past nine." "we're going to berry head, old chap; you must come!" ashurst thought: 'come! impossible. i shall be getting things and going back.' he looked at stella. she said quickly: "do come!" sabina chimed in: "it'll be no fun without you." freda got up and stood behind his chair. "you've got to come, or else i'll pull your hair!" ashurst thought: 'well--one day more--to think it over! one day more!' and he said: "all right! you needn't tweak my mane!" "hurrah!" at the station he wrote a second telegram to the farm, and then tore it up; he could not have explained why. from brixham they drove in a very little wagonette. there, squeezed between sabina and freda, with his knees touching stella's, they played "up, jenkins "; and the gloom he was feeling gave way to frolic. in this one day more to think it over, he did not want to think! they ran races, wrestled, paddled--for to-day nobody wanted to bathe--they sang catches, played games, and ate all they had brought. the little girls fell asleep against him on the way back, and his knees still touched stella's in the narrow wagonette. it seemed incredible that thirty hours ago he had never set eyes on any of those three flaxen heads. in the train he talked to stella of poetry, discovering her favourites, and telling her his own with a pleasing sense of superiority; till suddenly she said, rather low: "phil says you don't believe in a future life, frank. i think that's dreadful." disconcerted, ashurst muttered: "i don't either believe or not believe--i simply don't know." she said quickly: "i couldn't bear that. what would be the use of living?" watching the frown of those pretty oblique brows, ashurst answered: "i don't believe in believing things because a one wants to." "but why should one wish to live again, if one isn't going to?" and she looked full at him. he did not want to hurt her, but an itch to dominate pushed him on to say: "while one's alive one naturally wants to go on living for ever; that's part of being alive. but it probably isn't anything more." "don't you believe in the bible at all, then?" ashurst thought: 'now i shall really hurt her!' "i believe in the sermon on the mount, because it's beautiful and good for all time." "but don't you believe christ was divine?" he shook his head. she turned her face quickly to the window, and there sprang into his mind megan's prayer, repeated by little nick: "god bless us all, and mr. ashes!" who else would ever say a prayer for him, like her who at this moment must be waiting--waiting to see him come down the lane? and he thought suddenly: 'what a scoundrel i am!' all that evening this thought kept coming back; but, as is not unusual, each time with less poignancy, till it seemed almost a matter of course to be a scoundrel. and--strange!--he did not know whether he was a scoundrel if he meant to go back to megan, or if he did not mean to go back to her. they played cards till the children were sent off to bed; then stella went to the piano. from over on the window seat, where it was nearly dark, ashurst watched her between the candles--that fair head on the long, white neck bending to the movement of her hands. she played fluently, without much expression; but what a picture she made, the faint golden radiance, a sort of angelic atmosphere hovering about her! who could have passionate thoughts or wild desires in the presence of that swaying, white-clothed girl with the seraphic head? she played a thing of schumann's called "warum?" then halliday brought out a flute, and the spell was broken. after this they made ashurst sing, stella playing him accompaniments from a book of schumann songs, till, in the middle of "ich grolle nicht," two small figures clad in blue dressing-gowns crept in and tried to conceal themselves beneath the piano. the evening broke up in confusion, and what sabina called "a splendid rag." that night ashurst hardly slept at all. he was thinking, tossing and turning. the intense domestic intimacy of these last two days, the strength of this halliday atmosphere, seemed to ring him round, and make the farm and megan--even megan--seem unreal. had he really made love to her--really promised to take her away to live with him? he must have been bewitched by the spring, the night, the apple blossom! this may madness could but destroy them both! the notion that he was going to make her his mistress--that simple child not yet eighteen--now filled him with a sort of horror, even while it still stung and whipped his blood. he muttered to himself: "it's awful, what i've done--awful!" and the sound of schumann's music throbbed and mingled with his fevered thoughts, and he saw again stella's cool, white, fair-haired figure and bending neck, the queer, angelic radiance about her. 'i must have been--i must be-mad!' he thought. 'what came into me? poor little megan!' "god bless us all, and mr. ashes!" "i want to be with you--only to be with you!" and burying his face in his pillow, he smothered down a fit of sobbing. not to go back was awful! to go back--more awful still! emotion, when you are young, and give real vent to it, loses its power of torture. and he fell asleep, thinking: 'what was it--a few kisses--all forgotten in a month!' next morning he got his cheque cashed, but avoided the shop of the dove-grey dress like the plague; and, instead, bought himself some necessaries. he spent the whole day in a queer mood, cherishing a kind of sullenness against himself. instead of the hankering of the last two days, he felt nothing but a blank--all passionate longing gone, as if quenched in that outburst of tears. after tea stella put a book down beside him, and said shyly: "have you read that, frank?" it was farrar's "life of christ." ashurst smiled. her anxiety about his beliefs seemed to him comic, but touching. infectious too, perhaps, for he began to have an itch to justify himself, if not to convert her. and in the evening, when the children and halliday were mending their shrimping nets, he said: "at the back of orthodox religion, so far as i can see, there's always the idea of reward--what you can get for being good; a kind of begging for favours. i think it all starts in fear." she was sitting on the sofa making reefer knots with a bit of string. she looked up quickly: "i think it's much deeper than that." ashurst felt again that wish to dominate. "you think so," he said; "but wanting the 'quid pro quo' is about the deepest thing in all of us! it's jolly hard to get to the bottom of it!" she wrinkled her brows in a puzzled frown. "i don't think i understand." he went on obstinately: "well, think, and see if the most religious people aren't those who feel that this life doesn't give them all they want. i believe in being good because to be good is good in itself." "then you do believe in being good?" how pretty she looked now--it was easy to be good with her! and he nodded and said: "i say, show me how to make that knot!" with her fingers touching his, in manoeuvring the bit of string, he felt soothed and happy. and when he went to bed he wilfully kept his thoughts on her, wrapping himself in her fair, cool sisterly radiance, as in some garment of protection. next day he found they had arranged to go by train to totnes, and picnic at berry pomeroy castle. still in that resolute oblivion of the past, he took his place with them in the landau beside halliday, back to the horses. and, then, along the sea front, nearly at the turning to the railway station, his heart almost leaped into his mouth. megan--megan herself!--was walking on the far pathway, in her old skirt and jacket and her tam-o'-shanter, looking up into the faces of the passers-by. instinctively he threw his hand up for cover, then made a feint of clearing dust out of his eyes; but between his fingers he could see her still, moving, not with her free country step, but wavering, lost-looking, pitiful-like some little dog which has missed its master and does not know whether to run on, to run back--where to run. how had she come like this?--what excuse had she found to get away?--what did she hope for? but with every turn of the wheels bearing him away from her, his heart revolted and cried to him to stop them, to get out, and go to her! when the landau turned the corner to the station he could stand it no more, and opening the carriage door, muttered: "i've forgotten something! go on--don't wait for me! i'll join you at the castle by the next train!" he jumped, stumbled, spun round, recovered his balance, and walked forward, while the carriage with the astonished hallidays rolled on. from the corner he could only just see megan, a long way ahead now. he ran a few steps, checked himself, and dropped into a walk. with each step nearer to her, further from the hallidays, he walked more and more slowly. how did it alter anything--this sight of her? how make the going to her, and that which must come of it, less ugly? for there was no hiding it--since he had met the hallidays he had become gradually sure that he would not marry megan. it would only be a wild love-time, a troubled, remorseful, difficult time--and then--well, then he would get tired, just because she gave him everything, was so simple, and so trustful, so dewy. and dew--wears off! the little spot of faded colour, her tam-o'-shanter cap, wavered on far in front of him; she was looking up into every face, and at the house windows. had any man ever such a cruel moment to go through? whatever he did, he felt he would be a beast. and he uttered a groan which made a nursemaid turn and stare. he saw megan stop and lean against the sea-wall, looking at the sea; and he too stopped. quite likely she had never seen the sea before, and even in her distress could not resist that sight. 'yes-she's seen nothing,' he thought; 'everything's before her. and just for a few weeks' passion, i shall be cutting her life to ribbons. i'd better go and hang myself rather than do it!' and suddenly he seemed to see stella's calm eyes looking into his, the wave of fluffy hair on her forehead stirred by the wind. ah! it would be madness, would mean giving up all that he respected, and his own self-respect. he turned and walked quickly back towards the station. but memory of that poor, bewildered little figure, those anxious eyes searching the passers-by, smote him too hard again, and once more he turned towards the sea. the cap was no longer visible; that little spot of colour had vanished in the stream of the noon promenaders. and impelled by the passion of longing, the dearth which comes on one when life seems to be whirling something out of reach, he hurried forward. she was nowhere to be seen; for half an hour he looked for her; then on the beach flung himself face downward in the sand. to find her again he knew he had only to go to the station and wait till she returned from her fruitless quest, to take her train home; or to take train himself and go back to the farm, so that she found him there when she returned. but he lay inert in the sand, among the indifferent groups of children with their spades and buckets. pity at her little figure wandering, seeking, was well-nigh merged in the spring-running of his blood; for it was all wild feeling now--the chivalrous part, what there had been of it, was gone. he wanted her again, wanted her kisses, her soft, little body, her abandonment, all her quick, warm, pagan emotion; wanted the wonderful feeling of that night under the moonlit apple boughs; wanted it all with a horrible intensity, as the faun wants the nymph. the quick chatter of the little bright trout-stream, the dazzle of the buttercups, the rocks of the old "wild men"; the calling of the cuckoos and yaffles, the hooting of the owls; and the red moon peeping out of the velvet dark at the living whiteness of the blossom; and her face just out of reach at the window, lost in its love-look; and her heart against his, her lips answering his, under the apple tree--all this besieged him. yet he lay inert. what was it which struggled against pity and this feverish longing, and kept him there paralysed in the warm sand? three flaxen heads--a fair face with friendly blue--grey eyes, a slim hand pressing his, a quick voice speaking his name--"so you do believe in being good?" yes, and a sort of atmosphere as of some old walled-in english garden, with pinks, and cornflowers, and roses, and scents of lavender and lilaccool and fair, untouched, almost holy--all that he had been brought up to feel was clean and good. and suddenly he thought: 'she might come along the front again and see me!' and he got up and made his way to the rock at the far end of the beach. there, with the spray biting into his face, he could think more coolly. to go back to the farm and love megan out in the woods, among the rocks, with everything around wild and fitting--that, he knew, was impossible, utterly. to transplant her to a great town, to keep, in some little flat or rooms, one who belonged so wholly to nature--the poet in him shrank from it. his passion would be a mere sensuous revel, soon gone; in london, her very simplicity, her lack of all intellectual quality, would make her his secret plaything--nothing else. the longer he sat on the rock, with his feet dangling over a greenish pool from which the sea was ebbing, the more clearly he saw this; but it was as if her arms and all of her were slipping slowly, slowly down from him, into the pool, to be carried away out to sea; and her face looking up, her lost face with beseeching eyes, and dark, wet hair-possessed, haunted, tortured him! he got up at last, scaled the low rock-cliff, and made his way down into a sheltered cove. perhaps in the sea he could get back his control--lose this fever! and stripping off his clothes, he swam out. he wanted to tire himself so that nothing mattered and swam recklessly, fast and far; then suddenly, for no reason, felt afraid. suppose he could not reach shore again--suppose the current set him out--or he got cramp, like halliday! he turned to swim in. the red cliffs looked a long way off. if he were drowned they would find his clothes. the hallidays would know; but megan perhaps never--they took no newspaper at the farm. and phil halliday's words came back to him again: "a girl at cambridge i might have glad i haven't got her on my mind!" and in that moment of unreasoning fear he vowed he would not have her on his mind. then his fear left him; he swam in easily enough, dried himself in the sun, and put on his clothes. his heart felt sore, but no longer ached; his body cool and refreshed. when one is as young as ashurst, pity is not a violent emotion. and, back in the hallidays' sitting-room, eating a ravenous tea, he felt much like a man recovered from fever. everything seemed new and clear; the tea, the buttered toast and jam tasted absurdly good; tobacco had never smelt so nice. and walking up and down the empty room, he stopped here and there to touch or look. he took up stella's work-basket, fingered the cotton reels and a gaily-coloured plait of sewing silks, smelt at the little bag filled with woodroffe she kept among them. he sat down at the piano, playing tunes with one finger, thinking: 'to-night she'll play; i shall watch her while she's playing; it does me good to watch her.' he took up the book, which still lay where she had placed it beside him, and tried to read. but megan's little, sad figure began to come back at once, and he got up and leaned in the window, listening to the thrushes in the crescent gardens, gazing at the sea, dreamy and blue below the trees. a servant came in and cleared the tea away, and he still stood, inhaling the evening air, trying not to think. then he saw the hallidays coming through the gate of the crescent, stella a little in front of phil and the children, with their baskets, and instinctively he drew back. his heart, too sore and discomfited, shrank from this encounter, yet wanted its friendly solace--bore a grudge against this influence, yet craved its cool innocence, and the pleasure of watching stella's face. from against the wall behind the piano he saw her come in and stand looking a little blank as though disappointed; then she saw him and smiled, a swift, brilliant smile which warmed yet irritated ashurst. "you never came after us, frank." "no; i found i couldn't." "look! we picked such lovely late violets!" she held out a bunch. ashurst put his nose to them, and there stirred within him vague longings, chilled instantly by a vision of megan's anxious face lifted to the faces of the passers-by. he said shortly: "how jolly!" and turned away. he went up to his room, and, avoiding the children, who were coming up the stairs, threw himself on his bed, and lay there with his arms crossed over his face. now that he felt the die really cast, and megan given up, he hated himself, and almost hated the hallidays and their atmosphere of healthy, happy english homes. why should they have chanced here, to drive away first love--to show him that he was going to be no better than a common seducer? what right had stella, with her fair, shy beauty, to make him know for certain that he would never marry megan; and, tarnishing it all, bring him such bitterness of regretful longing and such pity? megan would be back by now, worn out by her miserable seeking--poor little thing!--expecting, perhaps, to find him there when she reached home. ashurst bit at his sleeve, to stifle a groan of remorseful longing. he went to dinner glum and silent, and his mood threw a dinge even over the children. it was a melancholy, rather ill tempered evening, for they were all tired; several times he caught stella looking at him with a hurt, puzzled expression, and this pleased his evil mood. he slept miserably; got up quite early, and wandered out. he went down to the beach. alone there with the serene, the blue, the sunlit sea, his heart relaxed a little. conceited fool--to think that megan would take it so hard! in a week or two she would almost have forgotten! and he well, he would have the reward of virtue! a good young man! if stella knew, she would give him her blessing for resisting that devil she believed in; and he uttered a hard laugh. but slowly the peace and beauty of sea and sky, the flight of the lonely seagulls, made him feel ashamed. he bathed, and turned homewards. in the crescent gardens stella herself was sitting on a camp stool, sketching. he stole up close behind. how fair and pretty she was, bent diligently, holding up her brush, measuring, wrinkling her brows. he said gently: "sorry i was such a beast last night, stella." she turned round, startled, flushed very pink, and said in her quick way: "it's all right. i knew there was something. between friends it doesn't matter, does it?" ashurst answered: "between friends--and we are, aren't we?" she looked up at him, nodded vehemently, and her upper teeth gleamed again in that swift, brilliant smile. three days later he went back to london, travelling with the hallidays. he had not written to the farm. what was there he could say? on the last day of april in the following year he and stella were married.... such were ashurst's memories, sitting against the wall among the gorse, on his silver-wedding day. at this very spot, where he had laid out the lunch, megan must have stood outlined against the sky when he had first caught sight of her. of all queer coincidences! and there moved in him a longing to go down and see again the farm and the orchard, and the meadow of the gipsy bogle. it would not take long; stella would be an hour yet, perhaps. how well he remembered it all--the little crowning group of pine trees, the steep-up grass hill behind! he paused at the farm gate. the low stone house, the yew-tree porch, the flowering currants--not changed a bit; even the old green chair was out there on the grass under the window, where he had reached up to her that night to take the key. then he turned down the lane, and stood leaning on the orchard gate-grey skeleton of a gate, as then. a black pig even was wandering in there among the trees. was it true that twenty-six years had passed, or had he dreamed and awakened to find megan waiting for him by the big apple tree? unconsciously he put up his hand to his grizzled beard and brought himself back to reality. opening the gate, he made his way down through the docks and nettles till he came to the edge, and the old apple tree itself. unchanged! a little more of the greygreen lichen, a dead branch or two, and for the rest it might have been only last night that he had embraced that mossy trunk after megan's flight and inhaled its woody savour, while above his head the moonlit blossom had seemed to breathe and live. in that early spring a few buds were showing already; the blackbirds shouting their songs, a cuckoo calling, the sunlight bright and warm. incredibly the same-the chattering trout-stream, the narrow pool he had lain in every morning, splashing the water over his flanks and chest; and out there in the wild meadow the beech clump and the stone where the gipsy bogie was supposed to sit. and an ache for lost youth, a hankering, a sense of wasted love and sweetness, gripped ashurst by the throat. surely, on this earth of such wild beauty, one was meant to hold rapture to one's heart, as this earth and sky held it! and yet, one could not! he went to the edge of the stream, and looking down at the little pool, thought: 'youth and spring! what has become of them all, i wonder?' and then, in sudden fear of having this memory jarred by human encounter, he went back to the lane, and pensively retraced his steps to the crossroads. beside the car an old, grey-bearded labourer was leaning on a stick, talking to the chauffeur. he broke off at once, as though guilty of disrespect, and touching his hat, prepared to limp on down the lane. ashurst pointed to the narrow green mound. "can you tell me what this is?" the old fellow stopped; on his face had come a look as though he were thinking: 'you've come to the right shop, mister!' "'tes a grave," he said. "but why out here?" the old man smiled. "that's a tale, as yu may say. an' not the first time as i've a-told et--there's plenty folks asks 'bout that bit o' turf. 'maid's grave' us calls et, 'ereabouts." ashurst held out his pouch. "have a fill?" the old man touched his hat again, and slowly filled an old clay pipe. his eyes, looking upward out of a mass of wrinkles and hair, were still quite bright. "if yu don' mind, zurr, i'll zet down my leg's 'urtin' a bit today." and he sat down on the mound of turf. "there's always a flower on this grave. an' 'tain't so very lonesome, neither; brave lot o' folks goes by now, in they new motor cars an' things--not as 'twas in th' old days. she've a got company up 'ere. 'twas a poor soul killed 'erself." "i see!" said ashurst. "cross-roads burial. i didn't know that custom was kept up." "ah! but 'twas a main long time ago. us 'ad a parson as was very god-fearin' then. let me see, i've a 'ad my pension six year come michaelmas, an' i were just on fifty when t'appened. there's none livin' knows more about et than what i du. she belonged close 'ere; same farm as where i used to work along o' mrs. narracombe 'tes nick narracombe's now; i dus a bit for 'im still, odd times." ashurst, who was leaning against the gate, lighting his pipe, left his curved hands before his face for long after the flame of the match had gone out. "yes?" he said, and to himself his voice sounded hoarse and queer. "she was one in an 'underd, poor maid! i putts a flower 'ere every time i passes. pretty maid an' gude maid she was, though they wouldn't burry 'er up to th' church, nor where she wanted to be burried neither." the old labourer paused, and put his hairy, twisted hand flat down on the turf beside the bluebells. "yes?" said ashurst. "in a manner of speakin'," the old man went on, "i think as 'twas a love-story--though there's no one never knu for zartin. yu can't tell what's in a maid's 'ead but that's wot i think about it." he drew his hand along the turf. "i was fond o' that maid--don' know as there was anyone as wasn' fond of 'er. but she was to lovin'-'earted--that's where 'twas, i think." he looked up. and ashurst, whose lips were trembling in the cover of his beard, murmured again: "yes?" "'twas in the spring, 'bout now as 't might be, or a little later--blossom time--an' we 'ad one o' they young college gentlemen stayin' at the farm-nice feller tu, with 'is 'ead in the air. i liked 'e very well, an' i never see nothin' between 'em, but to my thinkin' 'e turned the maid's fancy." the old man took the pipe out of his mouth, spat, and went on: "yu see, 'e went away sudden one day, an' never come back. they got 'is knapsack and bits o' things down there still. that's what stuck in my mind--'is never sendin' for 'em. 'is name was ashes, or somethen' like that." "yes?" said ashurst once more. the old man licked his lips. "'er never said nothin', but from that day 'er went kind of dazed lukin'; didn'seem rightly therr at all. i never knu a'uman creature so changed in me life--never. there was another young feller at the farm--joe biddaford 'is name wer', that was praaperly sweet on 'er, tu; i guess 'e used to plague 'er wi 'is attentions. she got to luke quite wild. i'd zee her sometimes of an avenin' when i was bringin' up the calves; ther' she'd stand in th' orchard, under the big apple tree, lukin' straight before 'er. 'well,' i used t'think, 'i dunno what 'tes that's the matter wi' yu, but yu'm lukin' pittiful, that yu be!'" the old man refit his pipe, and sucked at it reflectively. "yes?" said ashurst. "i remembers one day i said to 'er: 'what's the matter, megan?'--'er name was megan david, she come from wales same as 'er aunt, ol' missis narracombe. 'yu'm frettin' about somethin'. i says. 'no, jim,' she says, 'i'm not frettin'.' 'yes, yu be!' i says. 'no,' she says, and to tears cam' rollin' out. 'yu'm cryin'--what's that, then?' i says. she putts 'er 'and over 'er 'eart: 'it 'urts me,' she says; 'but 'twill sune be better,' she says. 'but if anything shude 'appen to me, jim, i wants to be burried under this 'ere apple tree.' i laughed. 'what's goin' to 'appen to yu?' i says; 'don't 'ee be fulish.' 'no,' she says, 'i won't be fulish.' well, i know what maids are, an' i never thought no more about et, till two days arter that, 'bout six in the avenin' i was comin' up wi' the calves, when i see somethin' dark lyin' in the strame, close to that big apple tree. i says to meself: 'is that a pig-funny place for a pig to get to!' an' i goes up to et, an' i see what 'twas." the old man stopped; his eyes, turned upward, had a bright, suffering look. "'twas the maid, in a little narrer pool ther' that's made by the stoppin' of a rock--where i see the young gentleman bathin' once or twice. 'er was lyin' on 'er face in the watter. there was a plant o' goldie-cups growin' out o' the stone just above 'er'ead. an' when i come to luke at 'er face, 'twas luvly, butiful, so calm's a baby's--wonderful butiful et was. when the doctor saw 'er, 'e said: 'er culdn' never a-done it in that little bit o' watter ef' er 'adn't a-been in an extarsy.' ah! an' judgin' from 'er face, that was just 'ow she was. et made me cry praaper-butiful et was! 'twas june then, but she'd afound a little bit of apple-blossom left over somewheres, and stuck et in 'er 'air. that's why i thinks 'er must abeen in an extarsy, to go to et gay, like that. why! there wasn't more than a fute and 'arf o' watter. but i tell 'ee one thing--that meadder's 'arnted; i knu et, an' she knu et; an' no one'll persuade me as 'tesn't. i told 'em what she said to me 'bout bein' burried under th' apple tree. but i think that turned 'em--made et luke to much 's ef she'd 'ad it in 'er mind deliberate; an' so they burried 'er up 'ere. parson we 'ad then was very particular, 'e was." again the old man drew his hand over the turf. "'tes wonderful, et seems," he added slowly, "what maids 'll du for love. she 'ad a lovin-'eart; i guess 'twas broken. but us never knu nothin'!" he looked up as if for approval of his story, but ashurst had walked past him as if he were not there. up on the top of the hill, beyond where he had spread the lunch, over, out of sight, he lay down on his face. so had his virtue been rewarded, and "the cyprian," goddess of love, taken her revenge! and before his eyes, dim with tears, came megan's face with the sprig of apple blossom in her dark, wet hair. 'what did i do that was wrong?' he thought. 'what did i do?' but he could not answer. spring, with its rush of passion, its flowers and song-the spring in his heart and megan's! was it just love seeking a victim! the greek was right, then--the words of the "hippolytus" as true to-day! "for mad is the heart of love, and gold the gleam of his wing; and all to the spell thereof bend when he makes his spring. all life that is wild and young in mountain and wave and stream all that of earth is sprung, or breathes in the red sunbeam; yea, and mankind. o'er all a royal throne, cyprian, cyprian, is thine alone!" the greek was right! megan! poor little megan--coming over the hill! megan under the old apple tree waiting and looking! megan dead, with beauty printed on her! a voice said: "oh, there you are! look!" ashurst rose, took his wife's sketch, and stared at it in silence. "is the foreground right, frank?" "yes." "but there's something wanting, isn't there?" ashurst nodded. wanting? the apple tree, the singing, and the gold! and solemnly he put his lips to her forehead. it was his silver-wedding day. the juryman "don't you see, brother, i was reading yesterday the gospel about christ, the little father; how he suffered, how he walked on the earth. i suppose you have heard about it?" "indeed, i have," replied stepanuitch; "but we are people in darkness; we can't read."--tolstoi. mr. henry bosengate, of the london stock exchange, seated himself in his car that morning during the great war with a sense of injury. major in a volunteer corps; member of all the local committees; lending this very car to the neighbouring hospital, at times even driving it himself for their benefit; subscribing to funds, so far as his diminished income permitted--he was conscious of being an asset to the country, and one whose time could not be wasted with impunity. to be summoned to sit on a jury at the local assizes, and not even the grand jury at that! it was in the nature of an outrage. strong and upright, with hazel eyes and dark eyebrows, pinkish-brown cheeks, a forehead white, well-shaped, and getting high, with greyish hair glossy and well-brushed, and a trim moustache, he might have been taken for that colonel of volunteers which indeed he was in a fair way of becoming. his wife had followed him out under the porch, and stood bracing her supple body clothed in lilac linen. red rambler roses formed a sort of crown to her dark head; her ivory-coloured face had in it just a suggestion of the japanese. mr. bosengate spoke through the whirr of the engine: "i don't expect to be late, dear. this business is ridiculous. there oughtn't to be any crime in these days." his wife--her name was kathleen--smiled. she looked very pretty and cool, mr. bosengate thought. to him bound on this dull and stuffy business everything he owned seemed pleasant--the geranium beds beside the gravel drive, his long, red-brick house mellowing decorously in its creepers and ivy, the little clock-tower over stables now converted to a garage, the dovecote, masking at the other end the conservatory which adjoined the billiard-room. close to the red-brick lodge his two children, kate and harry, ran out from under the acacia trees, and waved to him, scrambling bare-legged on to the low, red, ivy-covered wall which guarded his domain of eleven acres. mr. bosengate waved back, thinking: 'jolly couple--by jove, they are!' above their heads, through the trees, he could see right away to some downs, faint in the july heat haze. and he thought: 'pretty a spot as one could have got, so close to town!' despite the war he had enjoyed these last two years more than any of the ten since he built "charmleigh" and settled down to semi-rural domesticity with his young wife. there had been a certain piquancy, a savour added to existence, by the country's peril, and all the public service and sacrifice it demanded. his chauffeur was gone, and one gardener did the work of three. he enjoyed-positively enjoyed, his committee work; even the serious decline of business and increase of taxation had not much worried one continually conscious of the national crisis and his own part therein. the country had wanted waking up, wanted a lesson in effort and economy; and the feeling that he had not spared himself in these strenuous times, had given a zest to those quiet pleasures of bed and board which, at his age, even the most patriotic could retain with a good conscience. he had denied himself many things--new clothes, presents for kathleen and the children, travel, and that pine-apple house which he had been on the point of building when the war broke out; new wine, too, and cigars, and membership of the two clubs which he had never used in the old days. the hours had seemed fuller and longer, sleep better earned--wonderful, the things one could do without when put to it! he turned the car into the high road, driving dreamily for he was in plenty of time. the war was going pretty well now; he was no fool optimist, but now that conscription was in force, one might reasonably hope for its end within a year. then there would be a boom, and one might let oneself go a little. visions of theatres and supper with his wife at the savoy afterwards, and cosy night drives back into the sweet-smelling country behind your own chauffeur once more teased a fancy which even now did not soar beyond the confines of domestic pleasures. he pictured his wife in new dresses by jay--she was fifteen years younger than himself, and "paid for dressing" as they said. he had always delighted--as men older than their wives will--in the admiration she excited from others not privileged to enjoy her charms. her rather queer and ironical beauty, her cool irreproachable wifeliness, was a constant balm to him. they would give dinner parties again, have their friends down from town, and he would once more enjoy sitting at the foot of the dinner table while kathleen sat at the head, with the light soft on her ivory shoulders, behind flowers she had arranged in that original way of hers, and fruit which he had grown in his hot-houses; once more he would take legitimate interest in the wine he offered to his guests--once more stock that chinese cabinet wherein he kept cigars. yes--there was a certain satisfaction in these days of privation, if only from the anticipation they created. the sprinkling of villas had become continuous on either side of the high road; and women going out to shop, tradesmen's boys delivering victuals, young men in khaki, began to abound. now and then a limping or bandaged form would pass--some bit of human wreckage; and mr. bosengate would think mechanically: 'another of those poor devils! wonder if we've had his case before us!' running his car into the best hotel garage of the little town, he made his way leisurely over to the court. it stood back from the market-place, and was already lapped by a sea of persons having, as in the outer ring at race meetings, an air of business at which one must not be caught out, together with a soaked or flushed appearance. mr. bosengate could not resist putting his handkerchief to his nose. he had carefully drenched it with lavender water, and to this fact owed, perhaps, his immunity from the post of foreman on the jury--for, say what you will about the english, they have a deep instinct for affairs. he found himself second in the front row of the jury box, and through the odour of "sanitas" gazed at the judge's face expressionless up there, for all the world like a bewigged bust. his fellows in the box had that appearance of falling between two classes characteristic of jurymen. mr. bosengate was not impressed. on one side of him the foreman sat, a prominent upholsterer, known in the town as "gentleman fox." his dark and beautifully brushed and oiled hair and moustache, his radiant linen, gold watch and chain, the white piping to his waistcoat, and a habit of never saying "sir" had long marked him out from commoner men; he undertook to bury people too, to save them trouble; and was altogether superior. on the other side mr. bosengate had one of those men, who, except when they sit on juries, are never seen without a little brown bag, and the appearance of having been interrupted in a drink. pale and shiny, with large loose eyes shifting from side to side, he had an underdone voice and uneasy flabby hands. mr. bosengate disliked sitting next to him. beyond this commercial traveller sat a dark pale young man with spectacles; beyond him again, a short old man with grey moustache, mutton chops, and innumerable wrinkles; and the front row was completed by a chemist. the three immediately behind, mr. bosengate did not thoroughly master; but the three at the end of the second row he learned in their order of an oldish man in a grey suit, given to winking; an inanimate person with the mouth of a moustachioed codfish, over whose long bald crown three wisps of damp hair were carefully arranged; and a dried, dapperish, clean-shorn man, whose mouth seemed terrified lest it should be surprised without a smile. their first and second verdicts were recorded without the necessity for withdrawal, and mr. bosengate was already sleepy when the third case was called. the sight of khaki revived his drooping attention. but what a weedy-looking specimen! this prisoner had a truly nerveless pitiable dejected air. if he had ever had a military bearing it had shrunk into him during his confinement. his ill-shaped brown tunic, whose little brass buttons seemed trying to keep smiling, struck mr. bosengate as ridiculously short, used though he was to such things. 'absurd,' he thought--'lumbago! just where they ought to be covered!' then the officer and gentleman stirred in him, and he added to himself: 'still, there must be some distinction made!' the little soldier's visage had once perhaps been tanned, but was now the colour of dark dough; his large brown eyes with white showing below the iris, as so often in the eyes of very nervous people--wandered from face to face, of judge, counsel, jury, and public. there were hollows in his cheeks, his dark hair looked damp; around his neck he wore a bandage. the commercial traveller on mr. bosengate's left turned, and whispered: "felo de se! my hat! what a guy!" mr. bosengate pretended not to hear--he could not bear that fellow!--and slowly wrote on a bit of paper: "owen lewis." welsh! well, he looked it--not at all an english face. attempted suicide--not at all an english crime! suicide implied surrender, a putting-up of hands to fate--to say nothing of the religious aspect of the matter. and suicide in khaki seemed to mr. bosengate particularly abhorrent; like turning tail in face of the enemy; almost meriting the fate of a deserter. he looked at the prisoner, trying not to give way to this prejudice. and the prisoner seemed to look at him, though this, perhaps, was fancy. the counsel for the prosecution, a little, alert, grey, decided man, above military age, began detailing the circumstances of the crime. mr. bosengate, though not particularly sensitive to atmosphere, could perceive a sort of current running through the court. it was as if jury and public were thinking rhythmically in obedience to the same unexpressed prejudice of which he himself was conscious. even the caesar-like pale face up there, presiding, seemed in its ironic serenity responding to that current. "gentlemen of the jury, before i call my evidence, i direct your attention to the bandage the accused is still wearing. he gave himself this wound with his army razor, adding, if i may say so, insult to the injury he was inflicting on his country. he pleads not guilty; and before the magistrates he said that absence from his wife was preying on his mind"--the advocate's close lips widened--"well, gentlemen, if such an excuse is to weigh with us in these days, i'm sure i don't know what's to happen to the empire." 'no, by george!' thought mr. bosengate. the evidence of the first witness, a room-mate who had caught the prisoner's hand, and of the sergeant, who had at once been summoned, was conclusive and he began to cherish a hope that they would get through without withdrawing, and he would be home before five. but then a hitch occurred. the regimental doctor failed to respond when his name was called; and the judge having for the first time that day showed himself capable of human emotion, intimated that he would adjourn until the morrow. mr. bosengate received the announcement with equanimity. he would be home even earlier! and gathering up the sheets of paper he had scribbled on, he put them in his pocket and got up. the would-be suicide was being taken out of the court--a shambling drab figure with shoulders hunched. what good were men like that in these days! what good! the prisoner looked up. mr. bosengate encountered in full the gaze of those large brown eyes, with the white showing underneath. what a suffering, wretched, pitiful face! a man had no business to give you a look like that! the prisoner passed on down the stairs, and vanished. mr. bosengate went out and across the market place to the garage of the hotel where he had left his car. the sun shone fiercely and he thought: 'i must do some watering in the garden.' he brought the car out, and was about to start the engine, when someone passing said: "good evenin'. seedy-lookin' beggar that last prisoner, ain't he? we don't want men of that stamp." it was his neighbour on the jury, the commercial traveller, in a straw hat, with a little brown bag already in his hand and the froth of an interrupted drink on his moustache. answering curtly: "good evening!" and thinking: 'nor of yours, my friend!' mr. bosengate started the car with unnecessary clamour. but as if brought back to life by the commercial traveller's remark, the prisoner's figure seemed to speed along too, turning up at mr. bosengate his pitifully unhappy eyes. want of his wife!--queer excuse that for trying to put it out of his power ever to see her again! why! half a loaf, even a slice, was better than no bread. not many of that neurotic type in the army--thank heaven! the lugubrious figure vanished, and mr. bosengate pictured instead the form of his own wife bending over her "gloire de dijon roses" in the rosery, where she generally worked a little before tea now that they were short of gardeners. he saw her, as often he had seen her, raise herself and stand, head to one side, a gloved hand on her slender hip, gazing as it were ironically from under drooped lids at buds which did not come out fast enough. and the word 'caline,' for he was something of a french scholar, shot through his mind: 'kathleen--caline!' if he found her there when he got in, he would steal up on the grass and--ah! but with great care not to crease her dress or disturb her hair! 'if only she weren't quite so self-contained,' he thought; 'it's like a cat you can't get near, not really near!' the car, returning faster than it had come down that morning, had already passed the outskirt villas, and was breasting the hill to where, among fields and the old trees, charmleigh lay apart from commoner life. turning into his drive, mr. bosengate thought with a certain surprise: 'i wonder what she does think of! i wonder!' he put his gloves and hat down in the outer hall and went into the lavatory, to dip his face in cool water and wash it with sweet-smelling soap--delicious revenge on the unclean atmosphere in which he had been stewing so many hours. he came out again into the hall dazed by soap and the mellowed light, and a voice from half-way up the stairs said: "daddy! look!" his little daughter was standing up there with one hand on the banisters. she scrambled on to them and came sliding down, her frock up to her eyes, and her holland knickers to her middle. mr. bosengate said mildly: "well, that's elegant!" "tea's in the summer-house. mummy's waiting. come on!" with her hand in his, mr. bosengate went on, through the drawing-room, long and cool, with sun-blinds down, through the billiard-room, high and cool, through the conservatory, green and sweet-smelling, out on to the terrace and the upper lawn. he had never felt such sheer exhilarated joy in his home surroundings, so cool, glistening and green under the july sun; and he said: "well, kit, what have you all been doing?" "i've fed my rabbits and harry's; and we've been in the attic; harry got his leg through the skylight." mr. bosengate drew in his breath with a hiss. "it's all right, daddy; we got it out again, it's only grazed the skin. and we've been making swabs--i made seventeen, mummy made thirty-three, and then she went to the hospital. did you put many men in prison?" mr. bosengate cleared his throat. the question seemed to him untimely. "only two." "what's it like in prison, daddy?" mr. bosengate, who had no more knowledge than his little daughter, replied in an absent voice: "not very nice." they were passing under a young oak tree, where the path wound round to the rosery and summer-house. something shot down and clawed mr. bosengate's neck. his little daughter began to hop and suffocate with laughter. "oh, daddy! aren't you caught! i led you on purpose!" looking up, mr. bosengate saw his small son lying along a low branch above him--like the leopard he was declaring himself to be (for fear of error), and thought blithely: 'what an active little chap it is!' "let me drop on your shoulders, daddy--like they do on the deer." "oh, yes! do be a deer, daddy!" mr. bosengate did not see being a deer; his hair had just been brushed. but he entered the rosery buoyantly between his offspring. his wife was standing precisely as he had imagined her, in a pale blue frock open at the neck, with a narrow black band round the waist, and little accordion pleats below. she looked her coolest. her smile, when she turned her head, hardly seemed to take mr. bosengate seriously enough. he placed his lips below one of her half-drooped eyelids. she even smelled of roses. his children began to dance round their mother, and mr. bosengate,--firmly held between them, was also compelled to do this, until she said: "when you've quite done, let's have tea!" it was not the greeting he had imagined coming along in the car. earwigs were plentiful in the summer-house--used perhaps twice a year, but indispensable to every country residence--and mr. bosengate was not sorry for the excuse to get out again. though all was so pleasant, he felt oddly restless, rather suffocated; and lighting his pipe, began to move about among the roses, blowing tobacco at the greenfly; in war-time one was never quite idle! and suddenly he said: "we're trying a wretched tommy at the assizes." his wife looked up from a rose. "what for?" "attempted suicide." "why did he?" "can't stand the separation from his wife." she looked at him, gave a low laugh, and said: "oh dear!" mr. bosengate was puzzled. why did she laugh? he looked round, saw that the children were gone, took his pipe from his mouth, and approached her. "you look very pretty," he said. "give me a kiss!" his wife bent her body forward from the waist, and pushed her lips out till they touched his moustache. mr. bosengate felt a sensation as if he had arisen from breakfast, without having eaten marmalade. he mastered it, and said: "that jury are a rum lot." his wife's eyelids flickered. "i wish women sat on juries." "why?" "it would be an experience." not the first time she had used that curious expression! yet her life was far from dull, so far as he could see; with the new interests created by the war, and the constant calls on her time made by the perfection of their home life, she had a useful and busy existence. again the random thought passed through him: 'but she never tells me anything!' and suddenly that lugubrious khaki-clad figure started up among the rose bushes. "we've got a lot to be thankful for!" he said abruptly. "i must go to work!" his wife, raising one eyebrow, smiled. "and i to weep!" mr. bosengate laughed--she had a pretty wit! and stroking his comely moustache where it had been kissed, he moved out into the sunshine. all the evening, throughout his labours, not inconsiderable, for this jury business had put him behind time, he was afflicted by that restless pleasure in his surroundings; would break off in mowing the lower lawn to look at the house through the trees; would leave his study and committee papers, to cross into the drawing-room and sniff its dainty fragrance; paid a special good-night visit to the children having supper in the schoolroom; pottered in and out from his dressing room to admire his wife while she was changing for dinner; dined with his mind perpetually on the next course; talked volubly of the war; and in the billiard room afterwards, smoking the pipe which had taken the place of his cigar, could not keep still, but roamed about, now in conservatory, now in the drawing-room, where his wife and the governess were still making swabs. it seemed to him that he could not have enough of anything. about eleven o'clock he strolled out beautiful night, only just dark enough--under the new arrangement with time--and went down to the little round fountain below the terrace. his wife was playing the piano. mr. bosengate looked at the water and the flat dark water lily leaves which floated there; looked up at the house, where only narrow chinks of light showed, because of the lighting order. the dreamy music drifted out; there was a scent of heliotrope. he moved a few steps back, and sat in the children's swing under an old lime tree. jolly--blissful--in the warm, bloomy dark! of all hours of the day, this before going to bed was perhaps the pleasantest. he saw the light go up in his wife's bed room, unscreened for a full minute, and thought: 'aha! if i did my duty as a special, i should "strafe" her for that.' she came to the window, her figure lighted, hands up to the back of her head, so that her bare arms gleamed. mr. bosengate wafted her a kiss, knowing he could not be seen. 'lucky chap!' he mused; 'she's a great joy!' up went her arm, down came the blind the house was dark again. he drew a long breath. 'another ten minutes,' he thought, 'then i'll go in and shut up. by jove! the limes are beginning to smell already!' and, the better to take in that acme of his well-being, he tilted the swing, lifted his feet from the ground, and swung himself toward the scented blossoms. he wanted to whelm his senses in their perfume, and closed his eyes. but instead of the domestic vision he expected, the face of the little welsh soldier, hare-eyed, shadowy, pinched and dark and pitiful, started up with such disturbing vividness that he opened his eyes again at once. curse! the fellow almost haunted one! where would he be now poor little devil!--lying in his cell, thinking--thinking of his wife! feeling suddenly morbid, mr. bosengate arrested the swing and stood up. absurd!--all his well-being and mood of warm anticipation had deserted him! 'a d---d world!' he thought. 'such a lot of misery! why should i have to sit in judgment on that poor beggar, and condemn him?' he moved up on to the terrace and walked briskly, to rid himself of this disturbance before going in. 'that commercial traveller chap,' he thought, 'the rest of those fellows--they see nothing!' and, abruptly turning up the three stone steps, he entered the conservatory, locked it, passed into the billiard room, and drank his barley water. one of the pictures was hanging crooked; he went up to put it straight. still life. grapes and apples, and--lobsters! they struck him as odd for the first time. why lobsters? the whole picture seemed dead and oily. he turned off the light, and went upstairs, passed his wife's door, into his own room, and undressed. clothed in his pyjamas he opened the door between the rooms. by the light coming from his own he could see her dark head on the pillow. was she asleep? no--not asleep, certainly. the moment of fruition had come; the crowning of his pride and pleasure in his home. but he continued to stand there. he had suddenly no pride, no pleasure, no desire; nothing but a sort of dull resentment against everything. he turned back; shut the door, and slipping between the heavy curtains and his open window, stood looking out at the night. 'full of misery!' he thought. 'full of d---d misery!' ii filing into the jury box next morning, mr. bosengate collided slightly with a short juryman, whose square figure and square head of stiff yellow-red hair he had only vaguely noticed the day before. the man looked angry, and mr. bosengate thought: 'an ill-bred dog, that!' he sat down quickly, and, to avoid further recognition of his fellows, gazed in front of him. his appearance on saturdays was always military, by reason of the route march of his volunteer corps in the afternoon. gentleman fox, who belonged to the corps too, was also looking square; but that commercial traveller on his other side seemed more louche, and as if surprised in immorality, than ever; only the proximity of gentleman fox on the other side kept mr. bosengate from shrinking. then he saw the prisoner being brought in, shadowy and dark behind the brightness of his buttons, and he experienced a sort of shock, this figure was so exactly that which had several times started up in his mind. somehow he had expected a fresh sight of the fellow to dispel and disprove what had been haunting him, had expected to find him just an outside phenomenon, not, as it were, a part of his own life. and he gazed at the carven immobility of the judge's face, trying to steady himself, as a drunken man will, by looking at a light. the regimental doctor, unabashed by the judge's comment on his absence the day before, gave his evidence like a man who had better things to do, and the case for the prosecution was forthwith rounded in by a little speech from counsel. the matter--he said--was clear as daylight. those who wore his majesty's uniform, charged with the responsibility and privilege of defending their country, were no more entitled to desert their regiments by taking their own lives than they were entitled to desert in any other way. he asked for a conviction. mr. bosengate felt a sympathetic shuffle passing through all feet; the judge was speaking: "prisoner, you can either go into the witness box and make your statement on oath, in which case you may be cross-examined on it; or you can make your statement there from the dock, in which case you will not be cross-examined. which do you elect to do?" "from here, my lord." seeing him now full face, and, as it might be, come to life in the effort to convey his feelings, mr. bosengate had suddenly a quite different impression of the fellow. it was as if his khaki had fallen off, and he had stepped out of his own shadow, a live and quivering creature. his pinched clean-shaven face seemed to have an irregular, wilder, hairier look, his large nervous brown eyes darkened and glowed; he jerked his shoulders, his arms, his whole body, like a man suddenly freed from cramp or a suit of armour. he spoke, too, in a quick, crisp, rather high voice, pinching his consonants a little, sharpening his vowels, like a true welshman. "my lord and misters the jury," he said: "i was a hairdresser when the call came on me to join the army. i had a little home and a wife. i never thought what it would be like to be away from them, i surely never did; and i'm ashamed to be speaking it out like this--how it can squeeze and squeeze a man, how it can prey on your mind, when you're nervous like i am. 'tis not everyone that cares for his home--there's lots o' them never wants to see their wives again. but for me 'tis like being shut up in a cage, it is!" mr. bosengate saw daylight between the skinny fingers of the man's hand thrown out with a jerk. "i cannot bear it shut up away from wife and home like what you are in the army. so when i took my razor that morning i was wild--an' i wouldn't be here now but for that man catching my hand. there was no reason in it, i'm willing to confess. it was foolish; but wait till you get feeling like what i was, and see how it draws you. misters the jury, don't send me back to prison; it is worse still there. if you have wives you will know what it is like for lots of us; only some is more nervous than others. i swear to you, sirs, i could not help it---?" again the little man flung out his hand, his whole thin body shook and mr. bosengate felt the same sensation as when he drove his car over a dog--"misters the jury, i hope you may never in your lives feel as i've been feeling." the little man ceased, his eyes shrank back into their sockets, his figure back into its mask of shadowy brown and gleaming buttons, and mr. bosengate was conscious that the judge was making a series of remarks; and, very soon, of being seated at a mahogany table in the jury's withdrawing room, hearing the, voice of the man with hair like an irish terrier's saying: "didn't he talk through his hat, that little blighter!" conscious, too, of the commercial traveller, still on his left--always on his left!--mopping his brow, and muttering: "phew! it's hot in there to-day!" while an effluvium, as of an inside accustomed to whisky came from him. then the man with the underlip and the three plastered wisps of hair said: "don't know why we withdrew, mr. foreman!" mr. bosengate looked round to where, at the head of the table, gentleman fox sat, in defensive gentility and the little white piping to his waistcoat saying blandly: "i shall be happy to take the sense of the jury." there was a short silence, then the chemist murmured: "i should say he must have what they call claustrophobia." "clauster fiddlesticks! the feller's a shirker, that's all. missed his wife--pretty excuse! indecent, i call it!" the speaker was the little wire-haired man; and emotion, deep and angry, stirred in mr. bosengate. that ill-bred little cur! he gripped the edge of the table with both hands. "i think it's d-----d natural!" he muttered. but almost before the words had left his lips he felt dismay. what had he said--he, nearly a colonel of volunteers--endorsing such a want of patriotism! and hearing the commercial traveller murmuring: "'ear, 'ear!" he reddened violently. the wire-headed man said roughly: "there's too many of these blighted shirkers, and too much pampering of them." the turmoil in mr. bosengate increased; he remarked in an icy voice: "i agree to no verdict that'll send the man back to prison." at this a real tremor seemed to go round the table, as if they all saw themselves sitting there through lunch time. then the large grey-haired man given to winking, said: "oh! come, sir--after what the judge said! come, sir! what do you say, mr. foreman?" gentleman fox--as who should say 'this is excellent value, but i don't wish to press it on you!'--answered: "we are only concerned with the facts. did he or did he not try to shorten his life?" "of course he did--said so himself," mr. bosengate heard the wire-haired man snap out, and from the following murmur of assent he alone abstained. guilty! well--yes! there was no way out of admitting that, but his feelings revolted against handing "that poor little beggar" over to the tender mercy of his country's law. his whole soul rose in arms against agreeing with that ill-bred little cur, and the rest of this job-lot. he had an impulse to get up and walk out, saying: "settle it your own way. good morning." "it seems, sir," gentleman fox was saying, "that we're all agreed to guilty, except yourself. if you will allow me, i don't see how you can go behind what the prisoner himself admitted." thus brought up to the very guns, mr. bosengate, red in the face, thrust his hands deep into the side pockets of his tunic, and, staring straight before him, said: "very well; on condition we recommend him to mercy." "what do you say, gentlemen; shall we recommend him to mercy?" "'ear, 'ear!" burst from the commercial traveller, and from the chemist came the murmur: "no harm in that." "well, i think there is. they shoot deserters at the front, and we let this fellow off. i'd hang the cur." mr. bosengate stared at that little wire-haired brute. "haven't you any feeling for others?" he wanted to say. "can't you see that this poor devil suffers tortures?" but the sheer impossibility of doing this before ten other men brought a slight sweat out on his face and hands; and in agitation he smote the table a blow with his fist. the effect was instantaneous. everybody looked at the wire-haired man, as if saying: "yes, you've gone a bit too far there!" the "little brute" stood it for a moment, then muttered surlily: "well, commend 'im to mercy if you like; i don't care." "that's right; they never pay any attention to it," said the grey-haired man, winking heartily. and mr. bosengate filed back with the others into court. but when from the jury box his eyes fell once more on the hare-eyed figure in the dock, he had his worst moment yet. why should this poor wretch suffer so--for no fault, no fault; while he, and these others, and that snapping counsel, and the caesar-like judge up there, went off to their women and their homes, blithe as bees, and probably never thought of him again? and suddenly he was conscious of the judge's voice: "you will go back to your regiment, and endeavour to serve your country with better spirit. you may thank the jury that you are not sent to prison, and your good fortune that you were not at the front when you tried to commit this cowardly act. you are lucky to be alive." a policeman pulled the little soldier by the arm; his drab figure with eyes fixed and lustreless, passed down and away. from his very soul mr. bosengate wanted to lean out and say: "cheer up, cheer up! i understand." it was nearly ten o'clock that evening before he reached home, motoring back from the route march. his physical tiredness was abated, for he had partaken of a snack and a whisky and soda at the hotel; but mentally he was in a curious mood. his body felt appeased, his spirit hungry. tonight he had a yearning, not for his wife's kisses, but for her understanding. he wanted to go to her and say: "i've learnt a lot to-day-found out things i never thought of. life's a wonderful thing, kate, a thing one can't live all to oneself; a thing one shares with everybody, so that when another suffers, one suffers too. it's come to me that what one has doesn't matter a bit--it's what one does, and how one sympathises with other people. it came to me in the most extraordinary vivid way, when i was on that jury, watching that poor little rat of a soldier in his trap; it's the first time i've ever felt--the--the spirit of christ, you know. it's a wonderful thing, kate--wonderful! we haven't been close--really close, you and i, so that we each understand what the other is feeling. it's all in that, you know; understanding--sympathy--it's priceless. when i saw that poor little devil taken down and sent back to his regiment to begin his sorrows all over again--wanting his wife, thinking and thinking of her just as you know i would be thinking and wanting you, i felt what an awful outside sort of life we lead, never telling each other what we really think and feel, never being really close. i daresay that little chap and his wife keep nothing from each other--live each other's lives. that's what we ought to do. let's get to feeling that what really matters is--understanding and loving, and not only just saying it as we all do, those fellows on the jury, and even that poor devil of a judge--what an awful life judging one's fellow-creatures. "when i left that poor little tommy this morning, and ever since, i've longed to get back here quietly to you and tell you about it, and make a beginning. there's something wonderful in this, and i want you to feel it as i do, because you mean such a lot to me." this was what he wanted to say to his wife, not touching, or kissing her, just looking into her eyes, watching them soften and glow as they surely must, catching the infection of his new ardour. and he felt unsteady, fearfully unsteady with the desire to say it all as it should be said: swiftly, quietly, with the truth and fervour of his feeling. the hall was not lit up, for daylight still lingered under the new arrangement. he went towards the drawing-room, but from the very door shied off to his study and stood irresolute under the picture of a "man catching a flea" (dutch school), which had come down to him from his father. the governess would be in there with his wife! he must wait. essential to go straight to kathleen and pour it all out, or he would never do it. he felt as nervous as an undergraduate going up for his viva' voce. this thing was so big, so astoundingly and unexpectedly important. he was suddenly afraid of his wife, afraid of her coolness and her grace, and that something japanese about her--of all those attributes he had been accustomed to admire most; afraid, as it were, of her attraction. he felt young to-night, almost boyish; would she see that he was not really fifteen years older than herself, and she not really a part of his collection, of all the admirable appointments of his home; but a companion spirit to one who wanted a companion badly. in this agitation of his soul he could keep still no more than he could last night in the agitation of his senses; and he wandered into the dining-room. a dainty supper was set out there, sandwiches, and cake, whisky and the cigarettes--even an early peach. mr. bosengate looked at this peach with sorrow rather than disgust. the perfection of it was of a piece with all that had gone before this new and sudden feeling. its delicious bloom seemed to heighten his perception of the hedge around him, that hedge of the things he so enjoyed, carefully planted and tended these many years. he passed it by uneaten, and went to the window. out there all was darkening, the fountain, the lime tree, the flower-beds, and the fields below, with the jersey cows who would come to your call; darkening slowly, losing form, blurring into soft blackness, vanishing, but there none the less--all there--the hedge of his possessions. he heard the door of the drawing-room open, the voices of his wife and the governess in the hall, going up to bed. if only they didn't look in here! if only! the voices ceased. he was safe now--had but to follow in a few minutes, to make sure of kathleen alone. he turned round and stared down the length of the dark dining-room, over the rosewood table, to where in the mirror above the sideboard at the far end, his figure bathed, a stain, a mere blurred shadow; he made his way down to it along the table edge, and stood before himself as close as he could get. his throat and the roof of his mouth felt dry with nervousness; he put out his finger and touched his face in the glass. 'you're an ass!' he thought. 'pull yourself together, and get it over. she will see; of course she will!' he swallowed, smoothed his moustache, and walked out. going up the stairs, his heart beat painfully; but he was in for it now, and marched straight into her room. dressed only in a loose blue wrapper, she was brushing her dark hair before the glass. mr. bosengate went up to her and stood there silent, looking down. the words he had thought of were like a swarm of bees buzzing in his head, yet not one would fly from between his lips. his wife went on brushing her hair under the light which shone on her polished elbows. she looked up at him from beneath one lifted eyebrow. "well, dear--tired?" with a sort of vehemence the single word "no" passed out. a faint, a quizzical smile flitted over her face; she shrugged her shoulders ever so gently. that gesture--he had seen it before! and in desperate desire to make her understand, he put his hand on her lifted arm. "kathleen, stop--listen to me!" his fingers tightened in his agitation and eagerness to make his great discovery known. but before he could get out a word he became conscious of that cool round arm, conscious of her eyes half-closed, sliding round at him, of her half-smiling lips, of her neck under the wrapper. and he stammered: "i want--i must--kathleen, i---" she lifted her shoulders again in that little shrug. "yes--i know; all right!" a wave of heat and shame, and of god knows what came over mr. bosengate; he fell on his knees and pressed his forehead to her arm; and he was silent, more silent than the grave. nothing--nothing came from him but two long sighs. suddenly he felt her hand stroke his cheek--compassionately, it seemed to him. she made a little movement towards him; her lips met his, and he remembered nothing but that.... in his own room mr. bosengate sat at his wide open window, smoking a cigarette; there was no light. moths went past, the moon was creeping up. he sat very calm, puffing the smoke out in to the night air. curious thing-life! curious world! curious forces in it--making one do the opposite of what one wished; always--always making one do the opposite, it seemed! the furtive light from that creeping moon was getting hold of things down there, stealing in among the boughs of the trees. 'there's something ironical,' he thought, 'which walks about. things don't come off as you think they will. i meant, i tried but one doesn't change like that all of a sudden, it seems. fact is, life's too big a thing for one! all the same, i'm not the man i was yesterday--not quite!' he closed his eyes, and in one of those flashes of vision which come when the senses are at rest, he saw himself as it were far down below--down on the floor of a street narrow as a grave, high as a mountain, a deep dark slit of a street walking down there, a black midget of a fellow, among other black midgets--his wife, and the little soldier, the judge, and those jury chaps--fantoches straight up on their tiny feet, wandering down there in that dark, infinitely tall, and narrow street. 'too much for one!' he thought; 'too high for one--no getting on top of it. we've got to be kind, and help one another, and not expect too much, and not think too much. that's--all!' and, squeezing out his cigarette, he took six deep breaths of the night air, and got into bed. indian summer of a forsyte "and summer's lease hath all too short a date." --shakespeare i in the last day of may in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the evening, old jolyon forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace of his house at robin hill. he was waiting for the midges to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. his thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering, long-nailed fingers--a pointed polished nail had survived with him from those earlier victorian days when to touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so distinguished. his domed forehead, great white moustache, lean cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering sunshine by an old brown panama hat. his legs were crossed; in all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man who every morning put eau de cologne upon his silk handkerchief. at his feet lay a woolly brown-and-white dog trying to be a pomeranian--the dog balthasar between whom and old jolyon primal aversion had changed into attachment with the years. close to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was seated one of holly's dolls--called 'duffer alice'--with her body fallen over her legs and her doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. she was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. below the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to the pond, the coppice, and the prospect--'fine, remarkable'--at which swithin forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five years ago when he drove down with irene to look at the house. old jolyon had heard of his brother's exploit--that drive which had become quite celebrated on forsyte 'change. swithin! and the fellow had gone and died, last november, at the age of only seventy-nine, renewing the doubt whether forsytes could live for ever, which had first arisen when aunt ann passed away. died! and left only jolyon and james, roger and nicholas and timothy, julia, hester, susan! and old jolyon thought: 'eighty-five! i don't feel it--except when i get that pain.' his memory went searching. he had not felt his age since he had bought his nephew soames' ill-starred house and settled into it here at robin hill over three years ago. it was as if he had been getting younger every spring, living in the country with his son and his grandchildren--june, and the little ones of the second marriage, jolly and holly; living down here out of the racket of london and the cackle of forsyte 'change,' free of his boards, in a delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of occupation in the perfecting and mellowing of the house and its twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of holly and jolly. all the knots and crankiness, which had gathered in his heart during that long and tragic business of june, soames, irene his wife, and poor young bosinney, had been smoothed out. even june had thrown off her melancholy at last--witness this travel in spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. curiously perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, yet blank, because his son was not there. jo was never anything but a comfort and a pleasure to him nowadays--an amiable chap; but women, somehow--even the best--got a little on one's nerves, unless of course one admired them. far-off a cuckoo called; a wood-pigeon was cooing from the first elm-tree in the field, and how the daisies and buttercups had sprung up after the last mowing! the wind had got into the sou' west, too--a delicious air, sappy! he pushed his hat back and let the sun fall on his chin and cheek. somehow, to-day, he wanted company--wanted a pretty face to look at. people treated the old as if they wanted nothing. and with the un-forsytean philosophy which ever intruded on his soul, he thought: 'one's never had enough. with a foot in the grave one'll want something, i shouldn't be surprised!' down here--away from the exigencies of affairs--his grandchildren, and the flowers, trees, birds of his little domain, to say nothing of sun and moon and stars above them, said, 'open, sesame,' to him day and night. and sesame had opened--how much, perhaps, he did not know. he had always been responsive to what they had begun to call 'nature,' genuinely, almost religiously responsive, though he had never lost his habit of calling a sunset a sunset and a view a view, however deeply they might move him. but nowadays nature actually made him ache, he appreciated it so. every one of these calm, bright, lengthening days, with holly's hand in his, and the dog balthasar in front looking studiously for what he never found, he would stroll, watching the roses open, fruit budding on the walls, sunlight brightening the oak leaves and saplings in the coppice, watching the water-lily leaves unfold and glisten, and the silvery young corn of the one wheat field; listening to the starlings and skylarks, and the alderney cows chewing the cud, flicking slow their tufted tails; and every one of these fine days he ached a little from sheer love of it all, feeling perhaps, deep down, that he had not very much longer to enjoy it. the thought that some day--perhaps not ten years hence, perhaps not five--all this world would be taken away from him, before he had exhausted his powers of loving it, seemed to him in the nature of an injustice brooding over his horizon. if anything came after this life, it wouldn't be what he wanted; not robin hill, and flowers and birds and pretty faces--too few, even now, of those about him! with the years his dislike of humbug had increased; the orthodoxy he had worn in the 'sixties, as he had worn side-whiskers out of sheer exuberance, had long dropped off, leaving him reverent before three things alone--beauty, upright conduct, and the sense of property; and the greatest of these now was beauty. he had always had wide interests, and, indeed could still read the times, but he was liable at any moment to put it down if he heard a blackbird sing. upright conduct, property--somehow, they were tiring; the blackbirds and the sunsets never tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he could not get enough of them. staring into the stilly radiance of the early evening and at the little gold and white flowers on the lawn, a thought came to him: this weather was like the music of 'orfeo,' which he had recently heard at covent garden. a beautiful opera, not like meyerbeer, nor even quite mozart, but, in its way, perhaps even more lovely; something classical and of the golden age about it, chaste and mellow, and the ravogli 'almost worthy of the old days'--highest praise he could bestow. the yearning of orpheus for the beauty he was losing, for his love going down to hades, as in life love and beauty did go--the yearning which sang and throbbed through the golden music, stirred also in the lingering beauty of the world that evening. and with the tip of his cork-soled, elastic-sided boot he involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog balthasar, causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade him of the fact. when he had finished he rubbed the place he had been scratching against his master's calf, and settled down again with his chin over the instep of the disturbing boot. and into old jolyon's mind came a sudden recollection--a face he had seen at that opera three weeks ago--irene, the wife of his precious nephew soames, that man of property! though he had not met her since the day of the 'at home' in his old house at stanhope gate, which celebrated his granddaughter june's ill-starred engagement to young bosinney, he had remembered her at once, for he had always admired her--a very pretty creature. after the death of young bosinney, whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that she had left soames at once. goodness only knew what she had been doing since. that sight of her face--a side view--in the row in front, had been literally the only reminder these three years that she was still alive. no one ever spoke of her. and yet jo had told him something once--something which had upset him completely. the boy had got it from george forsyte, he believed, who had seen bosinney in the fog the day he was run over--something which explained the young fellow's distress--an act of soames towards his wife--a shocking act. jo had seen her, too, that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his description had always lingered in old jolyon's mind--'wild and lost' he had called her. and next day june had gone there--bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished. a tragic business altogether! one thing was certain--soames had never been able to lay hands on her again. and he was living at brighton, and journeying up and down--a fitting fate, the man of property! for when he once took a dislike to anyone--as he had to his nephew--old jolyon never got over it. he remembered still the sense of relief with which he had heard the news of irene's disappearance. it had been shocking to think of her a prisoner in that house to which she must have wandered back, when jo saw her, wandered back for a moment--like a wounded animal to its hole after seeing that news, 'tragic death of an architect,' in the street. her face had struck him very much the other night--more beautiful than he had remembered, but like a mask, with something going on beneath it. a young woman still--twenty-eight perhaps. ah, well! very likely she had another lover by now. but at this subversive thought--for married women should never love: once, even, had been too much--his instep rose, and with it the dog balthasar's head. the sagacious animal stood up and looked into old jolyon's face. 'walk?' he seemed to say; and old jolyon answered: "come on, old chap!" slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations of buttercups and daisies, and entered the fernery. this feature, where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below the level of the lawn so that it might come up again on the level of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity, so important in horticulture. its rocks and earth were beloved of the dog balthasar, who sometimes found a mole there. old jolyon made a point of passing through it because, though it was not beautiful, he intended that it should be, some day, and he would think: 'i must get varr to come down and look at it; he's better than beech.' for plants, like houses and human complaints, required the best expert consideration. it was inhabited by snails, and if accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point to one and tell them the story of the little boy who said: 'have plummers got leggers, mother? 'no, sonny.' 'then darned if i haven't been and swallowed a snileybob.' and when they skipped and clutched his hand, thinking of the snileybob going down the little boy's 'red lane,' his eyes would twinkle. emerging from the fernery, he opened the wicket gate, which just there led into the first field, a large and park-like area, out of which, within brick walls, the vegetable garden had been carved. old jolyon avoided this, which did not suit his mood, and made down the hill towards the pond. balthasar, who knew a water-rat or two, gambolled in front, at the gait which marks an oldish dog who takes the same walk every day. arrived at the edge, old jolyon stood, noting another water-lily opened since yesterday; he would show it to holly to-morrow, when 'his little sweet' had got over the upset which had followed on her eating a tomato at lunch--her little arrangements were very delicate. now that jolly had gone to school--his first term--holly was with him nearly all day long, and he missed her badly. he felt that pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at his left side. he looked back up the hill. really, poor young bosinney had made an uncommonly good job of the house; he would have done very well for himself if he had lived! and where was he now? perhaps, still haunting this, the site of his last work, of his tragic love affair. or was philip bosinney's spirit diffused in the general? who could say? that dog was getting his legs muddy! and he moved towards the coppice. there had been the most delightful lot of bluebells, and he knew where some still lingered like little patches of sky fallen in between the trees, away out of the sun. he passed the cow-houses and the hen-houses there installed, and pursued a path into the thick of the saplings, making for one of the bluebell plots. balthasar, preceding him once more, uttered a low growl. old jolyon stirred him with his foot, but the dog remained motionless, just where there was no room to pass, and the hair rose slowly along the centre of his woolly back. whether from the growl and the look of the dog's stivered hair, or from the sensation which a man feels in a wood, old jolyon also felt something move along his spine. and then the path turned, and there was an old mossy log, and on it a woman sitting. her face was turned away, and he had just time to think: 'she's trespassing--i must have a board put up!' before she turned. powers above! the face he had seen at the opera--the very woman he had just been thinking of! in that confused moment he saw things blurred, as if a spirit--queer effect--the slant of sunlight perhaps on her violet-grey frock! and then she rose and stood smiling, her head a little to one side. old jolyon thought: 'how pretty she is!' she did not speak, neither did he; and he realized why with a certain admiration. she was here no doubt because of some memory, and did not mean to try and get out of it by vulgar explanation. "don't let that dog touch your frock," he said; "he's got wet feet. come here, you!" but the dog balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her hand down and stroked his head. old jolyon said quickly: "i saw you at the opera the other night; you didn't notice me." "oh, yes! i did." he felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: 'do you think one could miss seeing you?' "they're all in spain," he remarked abruptly. "i'm alone; i drove up for the opera. the ravogli's good. have you seen the cow-houses?" in a situation so charged with mystery and something very like emotion he moved instinctively towards that bit of property, and she moved beside him. her figure swayed faintly, like the best kind of french figures; her dress, too, was a sort of french grey. he noticed two or three silver threads in her amber-coloured hair, strange hair with those dark eyes of hers, and that creamy-pale face. a sudden sidelong look from the velvety brown eyes disturbed him. it seemed to come from deep and far, from another world almost, or at all events from some one not living very much in this. and he said mechanically: "where are you living now?" "i have a little flat in chelsea." he did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear anything; but the perverse word came out: "alone?" she nodded. it was a relief to know that. and it came into his mind that, but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress of this coppice, showing these cow-houses to him, a visitor. "all alderneys," he muttered; "they give the best milk. this one's a pretty creature. woa, myrtle!" the fawn-coloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as irene's own, was standing absolutely still, not having long been milked. she looked round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, cynical eyes, and from her grey lips a little dribble of saliva threaded its way towards the straw. the scent of hay and vanilla and ammonia rose in the dim light of the cool cow-house; and old jolyon said: "you must come up and have some dinner with me. i'll send you home in the carriage." he perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, with her memories. but he wanted her company; a pretty face, a charming figure, beauty! he had been alone all the afternoon. perhaps his eyes were wistful, for she answered: "thank you, uncle jolyon. i should like to." he rubbed his hands, and said: "capital! let's go up, then!" and, preceded by the dog balthasar, they ascended through the field. the sun was almost level in their faces now, and he could see, not only those silver threads, but little lines, just deep enough to stamp her beauty with a coin-like fineness--the special look of life unshared with others. "i'll take her in by the terrace," he thought: "i won't make a common visitor of her." "what do you do all day?" he said. "teach music; i have another interest, too." "work!" said old jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, and smoothing its black petticoat. "nothing like it, is there? i don't do any now. i'm getting on. what interest is that?" "trying to help women who've come to grief." old jolyon did not quite understand. "to grief?" he repeated; then realised with a shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he had used that expression. assisting the magdalenes of london! what a weird and terrifying interest! and, curiosity overcoming his natural shrinking, he asked: "why? what do you do for them?" "not much. i've no money to spare. i can only give sympathy and food sometimes." involuntarily old jolyon's hand sought his purse. he said hastily: "how d'you get hold of them?" "i go to a hospital." "a hospital! phew!" "what hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of beauty." old jolyon straightened the doll. "beauty!" he ejaculated: "ha! yes! a sad business!" and he moved towards the house. through a french window, under sun-blinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her into the room where he was wont to study the times and the sheets of an agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of mangold wurzels, and the like, which provided holly with material for her paint brush. "dinner's in half an hour. you'd like to wash your hands! i'll take you to june's room." he saw her looking round eagerly; what changes since she had last visited this house with her husband, or her lover, or both perhaps--he did not know, could not say! all that was dark, and he wished to leave it so. but what changes! and in the hall he said: "my boy jo's a painter, you know. he's got a lot of taste. it isn't mine, of course, but i've let him have his way." she was standing very still, her eyes roaming through the hall and music room, as it now was--all thrown into one, under the great skylight. old jolyon had an odd impression of her. was she trying to conjure somebody from the shades of that space where the colouring was all pearl-grey and silver? he would have had gold himself; more lively and solid. but jo had french tastes, and it had come out shadowy like that, with an effect as of the fume of cigarettes the chap was always smoking, broken here and there by a little blaze of blue or crimson colour. it was not his dream! mentally he had hung this space with those gold-framed masterpieces of still and stiller life which he had bought in days when quantity was precious. and now where were they? sold for a song! that something which made him, alone among forsytes, move with the times had warned him against the struggle to retain them. but in his study he still had 'dutch fishing boats at sunset.' he began to mount the stairs with her, slowly, for he felt his side. "these are the bathrooms," he said, "and other arrangements. i've had them tiled. the nurseries are along there. and this is jo's and his wife's. they all communicate. but you remember, i expect." irene nodded. they passed on, up the gallery and entered a large room with a small bed, and several windows. "this is mine," he said. the walls were covered with the photographs of children and watercolour sketches, and he added doubtfully: "these are jo's. the view's first-rate. you can see the grand stand at epsom in clear weather." the sun was down now, behind the house, and over the 'prospect' a luminous haze had settled, emanation of the long and prosperous day. few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened, away to a loom of downs. "the country's changing," he said abruptly, "but there it'll be when we're all gone. look at those thrushes--the birds are sweet here in the mornings. i'm glad to have washed my hands of london." her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its mournful look. 'wish i could make her look happy!' he thought. 'a pretty face, but sad!' and taking up his can of hot water he went out into the gallery. "this is june's room," he said, opening the next door and putting the can down; "i think you'll find everything." and closing the door behind her he went back to his own room. brushing his hair with his great ebony brushes, and dabbing his forehead with eau de cologne, he mused. she had come so strangely--a sort of visitation; mysterious, even romantic, as if his desire for company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was which fulfilled that sort of thing. and before the mirror he straightened his still upright figure, passed the brushes over his great white moustache, touched up his eyebrows with eau de cologne, and rang the bell. "i forgot to let them know that i have a lady to dinner with me. let cook do something extra, and tell beacon to have the landau and pair at half-past ten to drive her back to town to-night. is miss holly asleep?" the maid thought not. and old jolyon, passing down the gallery, stole on tiptoe towards the nursery, and opened the door whose hinges he kept specially oiled that he might slip in and out in the evenings without being heard. but holly was asleep, and lay like a miniature madonna, of that type which the old painters could not tell from venus, when they had completed her. her long dark lashes clung to her cheeks; on her face was perfect peace--her little arrangements were evidently all right again. and old jolyon, in the twilight of the room, stood adoring her! it was so charming, solemn, and loving--that little face. he had more than his share of the blessed capacity of living again in the young. they were to him his future life--all of a future life that his fundamental pagan sanity perhaps admitted. there she was with everything before her, and his blood--some of it--in her tiny veins. there she was, his little companion, to be made as happy as ever he could make her, so that she knew nothing but love. his heart swelled, and he went out, stilling the sound of his patent-leather boots. in the corridor an eccentric notion attacked him: to think that children should come to that which irene had told him she was helping! women who were all, once, little things like this one sleeping there! 'i must give her a cheque!' he mused; 'can't bear to think of them!' they had never borne reflecting on, those poor outcasts; wounding too deeply the core of true refinement hidden under layers of conformity to the sense of property--wounding too grievously the deepest thing in him--a love of beauty which could give him, even now, a flutter of the heart, thinking of his evening in the society of a pretty woman. and he went downstairs, through the swinging doors, to the back regions. there, in the wine-cellar, was a hock worth at least two pounds a bottle, a steinberg cabinet, better than any johannisberg that ever went down throat; a wine of perfect bouquet, sweet as a nectarine--nectar indeed! he got a bottle out, handling it like a baby, and holding it level to the light, to look. enshrined in its coat of dust, that mellow coloured, slender-necked bottle gave him deep pleasure. three years to settle down again since the move from town--ought to be in prime condition! thirty-five years ago he had bought it--thank god he had kept his palate, and earned the right to drink it. she would appreciate this; not a spice of acidity in a dozen. he wiped the bottle, drew the cork with his own hands, put his nose down, inhaled its perfume, and went back to the music room. irene was standing by the piano; she had taken off her hat and a lace scarf she had been wearing, so that her gold-coloured hair was visible, and the pallor of her neck. in her grey frock she made a pretty picture for old jolyon, against the rosewood of the piano. he gave her his arm, and solemnly they went. the room, which had been designed to enable twenty-four people to dine in comfort, held now but a little round table. in his present solitude the big dining-table oppressed old jolyon; he had caused it to be removed till his son came back. here in the company of two really good copies of raphael madonnas he was wont to dine alone. it was the only disconsolate hour of his day, this summer weather. he had never been a large eater, like that great chap swithin, or sylvanus heythorp, or anthony thornworthy, those cronies of past times; and to dine alone, overlooked by the madonnas, was to him but a sorrowful occupation, which he got through quickly, that he might come to the more spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar. but this evening was a different matter! his eyes twinkled at her across the little table and he spoke of italy and switzerland, telling her stories of his travels there, and other experiences which he could no longer recount to his son and grand-daughter because they knew them. this fresh audience was precious to him; he had never become one of those old men who ramble round and round the fields of reminiscence. himself quickly fatigued by the insensitive, he instinctively avoided fatiguing others, and his natural flirtatiousness towards beauty guarded him specially in his relations with a woman. he would have liked to draw her out, but though she murmured and smiled and seemed to be enjoying what he told her, he remained conscious of that mysterious remoteness which constituted half her fascination. he could not bear women who threw their shoulders and eyes at you, and chattered away; or hard-mouthed women who laid down the law and knew more than you did. there was only one quality in a woman that appealed to him--charm; and the quieter it was, the more he liked it. and this one had charm, shadowy as afternoon sunlight on those italian hills and valleys he had loved. the feeling, too, that she was, as it were, apart, cloistered, made her seem nearer to himself, a strangely desirable companion. when a man is very old and quite out of the running, he loves to feel secure from the rivalries of youth, for he would still be first in the heart of beauty. and he drank his hock, and watched her lips, and felt nearly young. but the dog balthasar lay watching her lips too, and despising in his heart the interruptions of their talk, and the tilting of those greenish glasses full of a golden fluid which was distasteful to him. the light was just failing when they went back into the music-room. and, cigar in mouth, old jolyon said: "play me some chopin." by the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the texture of men's souls. old jolyon could not bear a strong cigar or wagner's music. he loved beethoven and mozart, handel and gluck, and schumann, and, for some occult reason, the operas of meyerbeer; but of late years he had been seduced by chopin, just as in painting he had succumbed to botticelli. in yielding to these tastes he had been conscious of divergence from the standard of the golden age. their poetry was not that of milton and byron and tennyson; of raphael and titian; mozart and beethoven. it was, as it were, behind a veil; their poetry hit no one in the face, but slipped its fingers under the ribs and turned and twisted, and melted up the heart. and, never certain that this was healthy, he did not care a rap so long as he could see the pictures of the one or hear the music of the other. irene sat down at the piano under the electric lamp festooned with pearl-grey, and old jolyon, in an armchair, whence he could see her, crossed his legs and drew slowly at his cigar. she sat a few moments with her hands on the keys, evidently searching her mind for what to give him. then she began and within old jolyon there arose a sorrowful pleasure, not quite like anything else in the world. he fell slowly into a trance, interrupted only by the movements of taking the cigar out of his mouth at long intervals, and replacing it. she was there, and the hock within him, and the scent of tobacco; but there, too, was a world of sunshine lingering into moonlight, and pools with storks upon them, and bluish trees above, glowing with blurs of wine-red roses, and fields of lavender where milk-white cows were grazing, and a woman all shadowy, with dark eyes and a white neck, smiled, holding out her arms; and through air which was like music a star dropped and was caught on a cow's horn. he opened his eyes. beautiful piece; she played well--the touch of an angel! and he closed them again. he felt miraculously sad and happy, as one does, standing under a lime-tree in full honey flower. not live one's own life again, but just stand there and bask in the smile of a woman's eyes, and enjoy the bouquet! and he jerked his hand; the dog balthasar had reached up and licked it. "beautiful!" he said: "go on--more chopin!" she began to play again. this time the resemblance between her and 'chopin' struck him. the swaying he had noticed in her walk was in her playing too, and the nocturne she had chosen and the soft darkness of her eyes, the light on her hair, as of moonlight from a golden moon. seductive, yes; but nothing of delilah in her or in that music. a long blue spiral from his cigar ascended and dispersed. 'so we go out!' he thought. 'no more beauty! nothing?' again irene stopped. "would you like some gluck? he used to write his music in a sunlit garden, with a bottle of rhine wine beside him." "ah! yes. let's have 'orfeo.'" round about him now were fields of gold and silver flowers, white forms swaying in the sunlight, bright birds flying to and fro. all was summer. lingering waves of sweetness and regret flooded his soul. some cigar ash dropped, and taking out a silk handkerchief to brush it off, he inhaled a mingled scent as of snuff and eau de cologne. 'ah!' he thought, 'indian summer--that's all!' and he said: "you haven't played me 'che faro.'" she did not answer; did not move. he was conscious of something--some strange upset. suddenly he saw her rise and turn away, and a pang of remorse shot through him. what a clumsy chap! like orpheus, she of course--she too was looking for her lost one in the hall of memory! and disturbed to the heart, he got up from his chair. she had gone to the great window at the far end. gingerly he followed. her hands were folded over her breast; he could just see her cheek, very white. and, quite emotionalized, he said: "there, there, my love!" the words had escaped him mechanically, for they were those he used to holly when she had a pain, but their effect was instantaneously distressing. she raised her arms, covered her face with them, and wept. old jolyon stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age. the passionate shame she seemed feeling at her abandonment, so unlike the control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had never before broken down in the presence of another being. "there, there--there, there!" he murmured, and putting his hand out reverently, touched her. she turned, and leaned the arms which covered her face against him. old jolyon stood very still, keeping one thin hand on her shoulder. let her cry her heart out--it would do her good. and the dog balthasar, puzzled, sat down on his stern to examine them. the window was still open, the curtains had not been drawn, the last of daylight from without mingled with faint intrusion from the lamp within; there was a scent of new-mown grass. with the wisdom of a long life old jolyon did not speak. even grief sobbed itself out in time; only time was good for sorrow--time who saw the passing of each mood, each emotion in turn; time the layer-to-rest. there came into his mind the words: 'as panteth the hart after cooling streams'--but they were of no use to him. then, conscious of a scent of violets, he knew she was drying her eyes. he put his chin forward, pressed his moustache against her forehead, and felt her shake with a quivering of her whole body, as of a tree which shakes itself free of raindrops. she put his hand to her lips, as if saying: "all over now! forgive me!" the kiss filled him with a strange comfort; he led her back to where she had been so upset. and the dog balthasar, following, laid the bone of one of the cutlets they had eaten at their feet. anxious to obliterate the memory of that emotion, he could think of nothing better than china; and moving with her slowly from cabinet to cabinet, he kept taking up bits of dresden and lowestoft and chelsea, turning them round and round with his thin, veined hands, whose skin, faintly freckled, had such an aged look. "i bought this at jobson's," he would say; "cost me thirty pounds. it's very old. that dog leaves his bones all over the place. this old 'ship-bowl' i picked up at the sale when that precious rip, the marquis, came to grief. but you don't remember. here's a nice piece of chelsea. now, what would you say this was?" and he was comforted, feeling that, with her taste, she was taking a real interest in these things; for, after all, nothing better composes the nerves than a doubtful piece of china. when the crunch of the carriage wheels was heard at last, he said: "you must come again; you must come to lunch, then i can show you these by daylight, and my little sweet--she's a dear little thing. this dog seems to have taken a fancy to you." for balthasar, feeling that she was about to leave, was rubbing his side against her leg. going out under the porch with her, he said: "he'll get you up in an hour and a quarter. take this for your protegees," and he slipped a cheque for fifty pounds into her hand. he saw her brightened eyes, and heard her murmur: "oh! uncle jolyon!" and a real throb of pleasure went through him. that meant one or two poor creatures helped a little, and it meant that she would come again. he put his hand in at the window and grasped hers once more. the carriage rolled away. he stood looking at the moon and the shadows of the trees, and thought: 'a sweet night! she......!' ii two days of rain, and summer set in bland and sunny. old jolyon walked and talked with holly. at first he felt taller and full of a new vigour; then he felt restless. almost every afternoon they would enter the coppice, and walk as far as the log. 'well, she's not there!' he would think, 'of course not!' and he would feel a little shorter, and drag his feet walking up the hill home, with his hand clapped to his left side. now and then the thought would move in him: 'did she come--or did i dream it?' and he would stare at space, while the dog balthasar stared at him. of course she would not come again! he opened the letters from spain with less excitement. they were not returning till july; he felt, oddly, that he could bear it. every day at dinner he screwed up his eyes and looked at where she had sat. she was not there, so he unscrewed his eyes again. on the seventh afternoon he thought: 'i must go up and get some boots.' he ordered beacon, and set out. passing from putney towards hyde park he reflected: 'i might as well go to chelsea and see her.' and he called out: "just drive me to where you took that lady the other night." the coachman turned his broad red face, and his juicy lips answered: "the lady in grey, sir?" "yes, the lady in grey." what other ladies were there! stodgy chap! the carriage stopped before a small three-storied block of flats, standing a little back from the river. with a practised eye old jolyon saw that they were cheap. 'i should think about sixty pound a year,' he mused; and entering, he looked at the name-board. the name 'forsyte' was not on it, but against 'first floor, flat c' were the words: 'mrs. irene heron.' ah! she had taken her maiden name again! and somehow this pleased him. he went upstairs slowly, feeling his side a little. he stood a moment, before ringing, to lose the feeling of drag and fluttering there. she would not be in! and then--boots! the thought was black. what did he want with boots at his age? he could not wear out all those he had. "your mistress at home?" "yes, sir." "say mr. jolyon forsyte." "yes, sir, will you come this way?" old jolyon followed a very little maid--not more than sixteen one would say--into a very small drawing-room where the sun-blinds were drawn. it held a cottage piano and little else save a vague fragrance and good taste. he stood in the middle, with his top hat in his hand, and thought: 'i expect she's very badly off!' there was a mirror above the fireplace, and he saw himself reflected. an old-looking chap! he heard a rustle, and turned round. she was so close that his moustache almost brushed her forehead, just under her hair. "i was driving up," he said. "thought i'd look in on you, and ask you how you got up the other night." and, seeing her smile, he felt suddenly relieved. she was really glad to see him, perhaps. "would you like to put on your hat and come for a drive in the park?" but while she was gone to put her hat on, he frowned. the park! james and emily! mrs. nicholas, or some other member of his precious family would be there very likely, prancing up and down. and they would go and wag their tongues about having seen him with her, afterwards. better not! he did not wish to revive the echoes of the past on forsyte 'change. he removed a white hair from the lapel of his closely-buttoned-up frock coat, and passed his hand over his cheeks, moustache, and square chin. it felt very hollow there under the cheekbones. he had not been eating much lately--he had better get that little whippersnapper who attended holly to give him a tonic. but she had come back and when they were in the carriage, he said: "suppose we go and sit in kensington gardens instead?" and added with a twinkle: "no prancing up and down there," as if she had been in the secret of his thoughts. leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and strolled towards the water. "you've gone back to your maiden name, i see," he said: "i'm not sorry." she slipped her hand under his arm: "has june forgiven me, uncle jolyon?" he answered gently: "yes--yes; of course, why not?" "and have you?" "i? i forgave you as soon as i saw how the land really lay." and perhaps he had; his instinct had always been to forgive the beautiful. she drew a deep breath. "i never regretted--i couldn't. did you ever love very deeply, uncle jolyon?" at that strange question old jolyon stared before him. had he? he did not seem to remember that he ever had. but he did not like to say this to the young woman whose hand was touching his arm, whose life was suspended, as it were, by memory of a tragic love. and he thought: 'if i had met you when i was young i--i might have made a fool of myself, perhaps.' and a longing to escape in generalities beset him. "love's a queer thing," he said, "fatal thing often. it was the greeks--wasn't it?--made love into a goddess; they were right, i dare say, but then they lived in the golden age." "phil adored them." phil! the word jarred him, for suddenly--with his power to see all round a thing, he perceived why she was putting up with him like this. she wanted to talk about her lover! well! if it was any pleasure to her! and he said: "ah! there was a bit of the sculptor in him, i fancy." "yes. he loved balance and symmetry; he loved the whole-hearted way the greeks gave themselves to art." balance! the chap had no balance at all, if he remembered; as for symmetry--clean-built enough he was, no doubt; but those queer eyes of his, and high cheek-bones--symmetry? "you're of the golden age, too, uncle jolyon." old jolyon looked round at her. was she chaffing him? no, her eyes were soft as velvet. was she flattering him? but if so, why? there was nothing to be had out of an old chap like him. "phil thought so. he used to say: 'but i can never tell him that i admire him.'" ah! there it was again. her dead lover; her desire to talk of him! and he pressed her arm, half resentful of those memories, half grateful, as if he recognised what a link they were between herself and him. "he was a very talented young fellow," he murmured. "it's hot; i feel the heat nowadays. let's sit down." they took two chairs beneath a chestnut tree whose broad leaves covered them from the peaceful glory of the afternoon. a pleasure to sit there and watch her, and feel that she liked to be with him. and the wish to increase that liking, if he could, made him go on: "i expect he showed you a side of him i never saw. he'd be at his best with you. his ideas of art were a little new--to me "--he had stiffed the word 'fangled.' "yes: but he used to say you had a real sense of beauty." old jolyon thought: 'the devil he did!' but answered with a twinkle: "well, i have, or i shouldn't be sitting here with you." she was fascinating when she smiled with her eyes, like that! "he thought you had one of those hearts that never grow old. phil had real insight." he was not taken in by this flattery spoken out of the past, out of a longing to talk of her dead lover--not a bit; and yet it was precious to hear, because she pleased his eyes and heart which--quite true!--had never grown old. was that because--unlike her and her dead lover, he had never loved to desperation, had always kept his balance, his sense of symmetry. well! it had left him power, at eighty-four, to admire beauty. and he thought, 'if i were a painter or a sculptor! but i'm an old chap. make hay while the sun shines.' a couple with arms entwined crossed on the grass before them, at the edge of the shadow from their tree. the sunlight fell cruelly on their pale, squashed, unkempt young faces. "we're an ugly lot!" said old jolyon suddenly. "it amazes me to see how--love triumphs over that." "love triumphs over everything!" "the young think so," he muttered. "love has no age, no limit, and no death." with that glow in her pale face, her breast heaving, her eyes so large and dark and soft, she looked like venus come to life! but this extravagance brought instant reaction, and, twinkling, he said: "well, if it had limits, we shouldn't be born; for by george! it's got a lot to put up with." then, removing his top hat, he brushed it round with a cuff. the great clumsy thing heated his forehead; in these days he often got a rush of blood to the head--his circulation was not what it had been. she still sat gazing straight before her, and suddenly she murmured: "it's strange enough that i'm alive." those words of jo's 'wild and lost' came back to him. "ah!" he said: "my son saw you for a moment--that day." "was it your son? i heard a voice in the hall; i thought for a second it was--phil." old jolyon saw her lips tremble. she put her hand over them, took it away again, and went on calmly: "that night i went to the embankment; a woman caught me by the dress. she told me about herself. when one knows that others suffer, one's ashamed." "one of those?" she nodded, and horror stirred within old jolyon, the horror of one who has never known a struggle with desperation. almost against his will he muttered: "tell me, won't you?" "i didn't care whether i lived or died. when you're like that, fate ceases to want to kill you. she took care of me three days--she never left me. i had no money. that's why i do what i can for them, now." but old jolyon was thinking: 'no money!' what fate could compare with that? every other was involved in it. "i wish you had come to me," he said. "why didn't you?" but irene did not answer. "because my name was forsyte, i suppose? or was it june who kept you away? how are you getting on now?" his eyes involuntarily swept her body. perhaps even now she was--! and yet she wasn't thin--not really! "oh! with my fifty pounds a year, i make just enough." the answer did not reassure him; he had lost confidence. and that fellow soames! but his sense of justice stifled condemnation. no, she would certainly have died rather than take another penny from him. soft as she looked, there must be strength in her somewhere--strength and fidelity. but what business had young bosinney to have got run over and left her stranded like this! "well, you must come to me now," he said, "for anything you want, or i shall be quite cut up." and putting on his hat, he rose. "let's go and get some tea. i told that lazy chap to put the horses up for an hour, and come for me at your place. we'll take a cab presently; i can't walk as i used to." he enjoyed that stroll to the kensington end of the gardens--the sound of her voice, the glancing of her eyes, the subtle beauty of a charming form moving beside him. he enjoyed their tea at ruffel's in the high street, and came out thence with a great box of chocolates swung on his little finger. he enjoyed the drive back to chelsea in a hansom, smoking his cigar. she had promised to come down next sunday and play to him again, and already in thought he was plucking carnations and early roses for her to carry back to town. it was a pleasure to give her a little pleasure, if it were pleasure from an old chap like him! the carriage was already there when they arrived. just like that fellow, who was always late when he was wanted! old jolyon went in for a minute to say good-bye. the little dark hall of the flat was impregnated with a disagreeable odour of patchouli, and on a bench against the wall--its only furniture--he saw a figure sitting. he heard irene say softly: "just one minute." in the little drawing-room when the door was shut, he asked gravely: "one of your protegees?" "yes. now thanks to you, i can do something for her." he stood, staring, and stroking that chin whose strength had frightened so many in its time. the idea of her thus actually in contact with this outcast grieved and frightened him. what could she do for them? nothing. only soil and make trouble for herself, perhaps. and he said: "take care, my dear! the world puts the worst construction on everything." "i know that." he was abashed by her quiet smile. "well then--sunday," he murmured: "good-bye." she put her cheek forward for him to kiss. "good-bye," he said again; "take care of yourself." and he went out, not looking towards the figure on the bench. he drove home by way of hammersmith; that he might stop at a place he knew of and tell them to send her in two dozen of their best burgundy. she must want picking-up sometimes! only in richmond park did he remember that he had gone up to order himself some boots, and was surprised that he could have had so paltry an idea. iii the little spirits of the past which throng an old man's days had never pushed their faces up to his so seldom as in the seventy hours elapsing before sunday came. the spirit of the future, with the charm of the unknown, put up her lips instead. old jolyon was not restless now, and paid no visits to the log, because she was coming to lunch. there is wonderful finality about a meal; it removes a world of doubts, for no one misses meals except for reasons beyond control. he played many games with holly on the lawn, pitching them up to her who was batting so as to be ready to bowl to jolly in the holidays. for she was not a forsyte, but jolly was--and forsytes always bat, until they have resigned and reached the age of eighty-five. the dog balthasar, in attendance, lay on the ball as often as he could, and the page-boy fielded, till his face was like the harvest moon. and because the time was getting shorter, each day was longer and more golden than the last. on friday night he took a liver pill, his side hurt him rather, and though it was not the liver side, there is no remedy like that. anyone telling him that he had found a new excitement in life and that excitement was not good for him, would have been met by one of those steady and rather defiant looks of his deep-set iron-grey eyes, which seemed to say: 'i know my own business best.' he always had and always would. on sunday morning, when holly had gone with her governess to church, he visited the strawberry beds. there, accompanied by the dog balthasar, he examined the plants narrowly and succeeded in finding at least two dozen berries which were really ripe. stooping was not good for him, and he became very dizzy and red in the forehead. having placed the strawberries in a dish on the dining-table, he washed his hands and bathed his forehead with eau de cologne. there, before the mirror, it occurred to him that he was thinner. what a 'threadpaper' he had been when he was young! it was nice to be slim--he could not bear a fat chap; and yet perhaps his cheeks were too thin! she was to arrive by train at half-past twelve and walk up, entering from the road past drage's farm at the far end of the coppice. and, having looked into june's room to see that there was hot water ready, he set forth to meet her, leisurely, for his heart was beating. the air smelled sweet, larks sang, and the grand stand at epsom was visible. a perfect day! on just such a one, no doubt, six years ago, soames had brought young bosinney down with him to look at the site before they began to build. it was bosinney who had pitched on the exact spot for the house--as june had often told him. in these days he was thinking much about that young fellow, as if his spirit were really haunting the field of his last work, on the chance of seeing--her. bosinney--the one man who had possessed her heart, to whom she had given her whole self with rapture! at his age one could not, of course, imagine such things, but there stirred in him a queer vague aching--as it were the ghost of an impersonal jealousy; and a feeling, too, more generous, of pity for that love so early lost. all over in a few poor months! well, well! he looked at his watch before entering the coppice--only a quarter past, twenty-five minutes to wait! and then, turning the corner of the path, he saw her exactly where he had seen her the first time, on the log; and realised that she must have come by the earlier train to sit there alone for a couple of hours at least. two hours of her society missed! what memory could make that log so dear to her? his face showed what he was thinking, for she said at once: "forgive me, uncle jolyon; it was here that i first knew." "yes, yes; there it is for you whenever you like. you're looking a little londony; you're giving too many lessons." that she should have to give lessons worried him. lessons to a parcel of young girls thumping out scales with their thick fingers. "where do you go to give them?" he asked. "they're mostly jewish families, luckily." old jolyon stared; to all forsytes jews seem strange and doubtful. "they love music, and they're very kind." "they had better be, by george!" he took her arm--his side always hurt him a little going uphill--and said: "did you ever see anything like those buttercups? they came like that in a night." her eyes seemed really to fly over the field, like bees after the flowers and the honey. "i wanted you to see them--wouldn't let them turn the cows in yet." then, remembering that she had come to talk about bosinney, he pointed to the clock-tower over the stables: "i expect he wouldn't have let me put that there--had no notion of time, if i remember." but, pressing his arm to her, she talked of flowers instead, and he knew it was done that he might not feel she came because of her dead lover. "the best flower i can show you," he said, with a sort of triumph, "is my little sweet. she'll be back from church directly. there's something about her which reminds me a little of you," and it did not seem to him peculiar that he had put it thus, instead of saying: "there's something about you which reminds me a little of her." ah! and here she was! holly, followed closely by her elderly french governess, whose digestion had been ruined twenty-two years ago in the siege of strasbourg, came rushing towards them from under the oak tree. she stopped about a dozen yards away, to pat balthasar and pretend that this was all she had in her mind. old jolyon, who knew better, said: "well, my darling, here's the lady in grey i promised you." holly raised herself and looked up. he watched the two of them with a twinkle, irene smiling, holly beginning with grave inquiry, passing into a shy smile too, and then to something deeper. she had a sense of beauty, that child--knew what was what! he enjoyed the sight of the kiss between them. "mrs. heron, mam'zelle beauce. well, mam'zelle--good sermon?" for, now that he had not much more time before him, the only part of the service connected with this world absorbed what interest in church remained to him. mam'zelle beauce stretched out a spidery hand clad in a black kid glove--she had been in the best families--and the rather sad eyes of her lean yellowish face seemed to ask: "are you well-brrred?" whenever holly or jolly did anything unpleasing to her--a not uncommon occurrence--she would say to them: "the little tayleurs never did that--they were such well-brrred little children." jolly hated the little tayleurs; holly wondered dreadfully how it was she fell so short of them. 'a thin rum little soul,' old jolyon thought her--mam'zelle beauce. luncheon was a successful meal, the mushrooms which he himself had picked in the mushroom house, his chosen strawberries, and another bottle of the steinberg cabinet filled him with a certain aromatic spirituality, and a conviction that he would have a touch of eczema to-morrow. after lunch they sat under the oak tree drinking turkish coffee. it was no matter of grief to him when mademoiselle beauce withdrew to write her sunday letter to her sister, whose future had been endangered in the past by swallowing a pin--an event held up daily in warning to the children to eat slowly and digest what they had eaten. at the foot of the bank, on a carriage rug, holly and the dog balthasar teased and loved each other, and in the shade old jolyon with his legs crossed and his cigar luxuriously savoured, gazed at irene sitting in the swing. a light, vaguely swaying, grey figure with a fleck of sunlight here and there upon it, lips just opened, eyes dark and soft under lids a little drooped. she looked content; surely it did her good to come and see him! the selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on him, for he could still feel pleasure in the pleasure of others, realising that what he wanted, though much, was not quite all that mattered. "it's quiet here," he said; "you mustn't come down if you find it dull. but it's a pleasure to see you. my little sweet is the only face which gives me any pleasure, except yours." from her smile he knew that she was not beyond liking to be appreciated, and this reassured him. "that's not humbug," he said. "i never told a woman i admired her when i didn't. in fact i don't know when i've told a woman i admired her, except my wife in the old days; and wives are funny." he was silent, but resumed abruptly: "she used to expect me to say it more often than i felt it, and there we were." her face looked mysteriously troubled, and, afraid that he had said something painful, he hurried on: "when my little sweet marries, i hope she'll find someone who knows what women feel. i shan't be here to see it, but there's too much topsy-turvydom in marriage; i don't want her to pitch up against that." and, aware that he had made bad worse, he added: "that dog will scratch." a silence followed. of what was she thinking, this pretty creature whose life was spoiled; who had done with love, and yet was made for love? some day when he was gone, perhaps, she would find another mate--not so disorderly as that young fellow who had got himself run over. ah! but her husband? "does soames never trouble you?" he asked. she shook her head. her face had closed up suddenly. for all her softness there was something irreconcilable about her. and a glimpse of light on the inexorable nature of sex antipathies strayed into a brain which, belonging to early victorian civilisation--so much older than this of his old age--had never thought about such primitive things. "that's a comfort," he said. "you can see the grand stand to-day. shall we take a turn round?" through the flower and fruit garden, against whose high outer walls peach trees and nectarines were trained to the sun, through the stables, the vinery, the mushroom house, the asparagus beds, the rosery, the summer-house, he conducted her--even into the kitchen garden to see the tiny green peas which holly loved to scoop out of their pods with her finger, and lick up from the palm of her little brown hand. many delightful things he showed her, while holly and the dog balthasar danced ahead, or came to them at intervals for attention. it was one of the happiest afternoons he had ever spent, but it tired him and he was glad to sit down in the music room and let her give him tea. a special little friend of holly's had come in--a fair child with short hair like a boy's. and the two sported in the distance, under the stairs, on the stairs, and up in the gallery. old jolyon begged for chopin. she played studies, mazurkas, waltzes, till the two children, creeping near, stood at the foot of the piano their dark and golden heads bent forward, listening. old jolyon watched. "let's see you dance, you two!" shyly, with a false start, they began. bobbing and circling, earnest, not very adroit, they went past and past his chair to the strains of that waltz. he watched them and the face of her who was playing turned smiling towards those little dancers thinking: 'sweetest picture i've seen for ages.' a voice said: "hollee! mais enfin--qu'est-ce que tu fais la--danser, le dimanche! viens, donc!" but the children came close to old jolyon, knowing that he would save them, and gazed into a face which was decidedly 'caught out.' "better the day, better the deed, mam'zelle. it's all my doing. trot along, chicks, and have your tea." and, when they were gone, followed by the dog balthasar, who took every meal, he looked at irene with a twinkle and said: "well, there we are! aren't they sweet? have you any little ones among your pupils?" "yes, three--two of them darlings." "pretty?" "lovely!" old jolyon sighed; he had an insatiable appetite for the very young. "my little sweet," he said, "is devoted to music; she'll be a musician some day. you wouldn't give me your opinion of her playing, i suppose?" "of course i will." "you wouldn't like--" but he stifled the words "to give her lessons." the idea that she gave lessons was unpleasant to him; yet it would mean that he would see her regularly. she left the piano and came over to his chair. "i would like, very much; but there is--june. when are they coming back?" old jolyon frowned. "not till the middle of next month. what does that matter?" "you said june had forgiven me; but she could never forget, uncle jolyon." forget! she must forget, if he wanted her to. but as if answering, irene shook her head. "you know she couldn't; one doesn't forget." always that wretched past! and he said with a sort of vexed finality: "well, we shall see." he talked to her an hour or more, of the children, and a hundred little things, till the carriage came round to take her home. and when she had gone he went back to his chair, and sat there smoothing his face and chin, dreaming over the day. that evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet of paper. he stayed for some minutes without writing, then rose and stood under the masterpiece 'dutch fishing boats at sunset.' he was not thinking of that picture, but of his life. he was going to leave her something in his will; nothing could so have stirred the stilly deeps of thought and memory. he was going to leave her a portion of his wealth, of his aspirations, deeds, qualities, work--all that had made that wealth; going to leave her, too, a part of all he had missed in life, by his sane and steady pursuit of wealth. all! what had he missed? 'dutch fishing boats' responded blankly; he crossed to the french window, and drawing the curtain aside, opened it. a wind had got up, and one of last year's oak leaves which had somehow survived the gardener's brooms, was dragging itself with a tiny clicking rustle along the stone terrace in the twilight. except for that it was very quiet out there, and he could smell the heliotrope watered not long since. a bat went by. a bird uttered its last 'cheep.' and right above the oak tree the first star shone. faust in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years of youth. morbid notion! no such bargain was possible, that was real tragedy! no making oneself new again for love or life or anything. nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off while you could, and leave it something in your will. but how much? and, as if he could not make that calculation looking out into the mild freedom of the country night, he turned back and went up to the chimney-piece. there were his pet bronzes--a cleopatra with the asp at her breast; a socrates; a greyhound playing with her puppy; a strong man reining in some horses. 'they last!' he thought, and a pang went through his heart. they had a thousand years of life before them! 'how much?' well! enough at all events to save her getting old before her time, to keep the lines out of her face as long as possible, and grey from soiling that bright hair. he might live another five years. she would be well over thirty by then. 'how much?' she had none of his blood in her! in loyalty to the tenor of his life for forty years and more, ever since he married and founded that mysterious thing, a family, came this warning thought--none of his blood, no right to anything! it was a luxury then, this notion. an extravagance, a petting of an old man's whim, one of those things done in dotage. his real future was vested in those who had his blood, in whom he would live on when he was gone. he turned away from the bronzes and stood looking at the old leather chair in which he had sat and smoked so many hundreds of cigars. and suddenly he seemed to see her sitting there in her grey dress, fragrant, soft, dark-eyed, graceful, looking up at him. why! she cared nothing for him, really; all she cared for was that lost lover of hers. but she was there, whether she would or no, giving him pleasure with her beauty and grace. one had no right to inflict an old man's company, no right to ask her down to play to him and let him look at her--for no reward! pleasure must be paid for in this world. 'how much?' after all, there was plenty; his son and his three grandchildren would never miss that little lump. he had made it himself, nearly every penny; he could leave it where he liked, allow himself this little pleasure. he went back to the bureau. 'well, i'm going to,' he thought, 'let them think what they like. i'm going to!' and he sat down. 'how much?' ten thousand, twenty thousand--how much? if only with his money he could buy one year, one month of youth. and startled by that thought, he wrote quickly: 'dear herring,--draw me a codicil to this effect: "i leave to my niece irene forsyte, born irene heron, by which name she now goes, fifteen thousand pounds free of legacy duty." 'yours faithfully, 'jolyon forsyte.' when he had sealed and stamped the envelope, he went back to the window and drew in a long breath. it was dark, but many stars shone now. iv he woke at half-past two, an hour which long experience had taught him brings panic intensity to all awkward thoughts. experience had also taught him that a further waking at the proper hour of eight showed the folly of such panic. on this particular morning the thought which gathered rapid momentum was that if he became ill, at his age not improbable, he would not see her. from this it was but a step to realisation that he would be cut off, too, when his son and june returned from spain. how could he justify desire for the company of one who had stolen--early morning does not mince words--june's lover? that lover was dead; but june was a stubborn little thing; warm-hearted, but stubborn as wood, and--quite true--not one who forgot! by the middle of next month they would be back. he had barely five weeks left to enjoy the new interest which had come into what remained of his life. darkness showed up to him absurdly clear the nature of his feeling. admiration for beauty--a craving to see that which delighted his eyes. preposterous, at his age! and yet--what other reason was there for asking june to undergo such painful reminder, and how prevent his son and his son's wife from thinking him very queer? he would be reduced to sneaking up to london, which tired him; and the least indisposition would cut him off even from that. he lay with eyes open, setting his jaw against the prospect, and calling himself an old fool, while his heart beat loudly, and then seemed to stop beating altogether. he had seen the dawn lighting the window chinks, heard the birds chirp and twitter, and the cocks crow, before he fell asleep again, and awoke tired but sane. five weeks before he need bother, at his age an eternity! but that early morning panic had left its mark, had slightly fevered the will of one who had always had his own way. he would see her as often as he wished! why not go up to town and make that codicil at his solicitor's instead of writing about it; she might like to go to the opera! but, by train, for he would not have that fat chap beacon grinning behind his back. servants were such fools; and, as likely as not, they had known all the past history of irene and young bosinney--servants knew everything, and suspected the rest. he wrote to her that morning: "my dear irene,--i have to be up in town to-morrow. if you would like to have a look in at the opera, come and dine with me quietly ...." but where? it was decades since he had dined anywhere in london save at his club or at a private house. ah! that new-fangled place close to covent garden.... "let me have a line to-morrow morning to the piedmont hotel whether to expect you there at o'clock." "yours affectionately, "jolyon forsyte." she would understand that he just wanted to give her a little pleasure; for the idea that she should guess he had this itch to see her was instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly that one so old should go out of his way to see beauty, especially in a woman. the journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his lawyer's, tired him. it was hot too, and after dressing for dinner he lay down on the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little. he must have had a sort of fainting fit, for he came to himself feeling very queer; and with some difficulty rose and rang the bell. why! it was past seven! and there he was and she would be waiting. but suddenly the dizziness came on again, and he was obliged to relapse on the sofa. he heard the maid's voice say: "did you ring, sir?" "yes, come here"; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in front of his eyes. "i'm not well, i want some sal volatile." "yes, sir." her voice sounded frightened. old jolyon made an effort. "don't go. take this message to my niece--a lady waiting in the hall--a lady in grey. say mr. forsyte is not well--the heat. he is very sorry; if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner." when she was gone, he thought feebly: 'why did i say a lady in grey--she may be in anything. sal volatile!' he did not go off again, yet was not conscious of how irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling salts to his nose, and pushing a pillow up behind his head. he heard her say anxiously: "dear uncle jolyon, what is it?" was dimly conscious of the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed. "ha!" he said, "it's nothing. how did you get here? go down and dine--the tickets are on the dressing-table. i shall be all right in a minute." he felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all right. "why! you are in grey!" he said. "help me up." once on his feet he gave himself a shake. "what business had i to go off like that!" and he moved very slowly to the glass. what a cadaverous chap! her voice, behind him, murmured: "you mustn't come down, uncle; you must rest." "fiddlesticks! a glass of champagne'll soon set me to rights. i can't have you missing the opera." but the journey down the corridor was troublesome. what carpets they had in these newfangled places, so thick that you tripped up in them at every step! in the lift he noticed how concerned she looked, and said with the ghost of a twinkle: "i'm a pretty host." when the lift stopped he had to hold firmly to the seat to prevent its slipping under him; but after soup and a glass of champagne he felt much better, and began to enjoy an infirmity which had brought such solicitude into her manner towards him. "i should have liked you for a daughter," he said suddenly; and watching the smile in her eyes, went on: "you mustn't get wrapped up in the past at your time of life; plenty of that when you get to my age. that's a nice dress--i like the style." "i made it myself." ah! a woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost her interest in life. "make hay while the sun shines," he said; "and drink that up. i want to see some colour in your cheeks. we mustn't waste life; it doesn't do. there's a new marguerite to-night; let's hope she won't be fat. and mephisto--anything more dreadful than a fat chap playing the devil i can't imagine." but they did not go to the opera after all, for in getting up from dinner the dizziness came over him again, and she insisted on his staying quiet and going to bed early. when he parted from her at the door of the hotel, having paid the cabman to drive her to chelsea, he sat down again for a moment to enjoy the memory of her words: "you are such a darling to me, uncle jolyon!" why! who wouldn't be! he would have liked to stay up another day and take her to the zoo, but two days running of him would bore her to death. no, he must wait till next sunday; she had promised to come then. they would settle those lessons for holly, if only for a month. it would be something. that little mam'zelle beauce wouldn't like it, but she would have to lump it. and crushing his old opera hat against his chest he sought the lift. he drove to waterloo next morning, struggling with a desire to say: 'drive me to chelsea.' but his sense of proportion was too strong. besides, he still felt shaky, and did not want to risk another aberration like that of last night, away from home. holly, too, was expecting him, and what he had in his bag for her. not that there was any cupboard love in his little sweet--she was a bundle of affection. then, with the rather bitter cynicism of the old, he wondered for a second whether it was not cupboard love which made irene put up with him. no, she was not that sort either. she had, if anything, too little notion of how to butter her bread, no sense of property, poor thing! besides, he had not breathed a word about that codicil, nor should he--sufficient unto the day was the good thereof. in the victoria which met him at the station holly was restraining the dog balthasar, and their caresses made 'jubey' his drive home. all the rest of that fine hot day and most of the next he was content and peaceful, reposing in the shade, while the long lingering sunshine showered gold on the lawns and the flowers. but on thursday evening at his lonely dinner he began to count the hours; sixty-five till he would go down to meet her again in the little coppice, and walk up through the fields at her side. he had intended to consult the doctor about his fainting fit, but the fellow would be sure to insist on quiet, no excitement and all that; and he did not mean to be tied by the leg, did not want to be told of an infirmity--if there were one, could not afford to hear of it at his time of life, now that this new interest had come. and he carefully avoided making any mention of it in a letter to his son. it would only bring them back with a run! how far this silence was due to consideration for their pleasure, how far to regard for his own, he did not pause to consider. that night in his study he had just finished his cigar and was dozing off, when he heard the rustle of a gown, and was conscious of a scent of violets. opening his eyes he saw her, dressed in grey, standing by the fireplace, holding out her arms. the odd thing was that, though those arms seemed to hold nothing, they were curved as if round someone's neck, and her own neck was bent back, her lips open, her eyes closed. she vanished at once, and there were the mantelpiece and his bronzes. but those bronzes and the mantelpiece had not been there when she was, only the fireplace and the wall! shaken and troubled, he got up. 'i must take medicine,' he thought; 'i can't be well.' his heart beat too fast, he had an asthmatic feeling in the chest; and going to the window, he opened it to get some air. a dog was barking far away, one of the dogs at gage's farm no doubt, beyond the coppice. a beautiful still night, but dark. 'i dropped off,' he mused, 'that's it! and yet i'll swear my eyes were open!' a sound like a sigh seemed to answer. "what's that?" he said sharply, "who's there?" putting his hand to his side to still the beating of his heart, he stepped out on the terrace. something soft scurried by in the dark. "shoo!" it was that great grey cat. 'young bosinney was like a great cat!' he thought. 'it was him in there, that she--that she was--he's got her still!' he walked to the edge of the terrace, and looked down into the darkness; he could just see the powdering of the daisies on the unmown lawn. here to-day and gone to-morrow! and there came the moon, who saw all, young and old, alive and dead, and didn't care a dump! his own turn soon. for a single day of youth he would give what was left! and he turned again towards the house. he could see the windows of the night nursery up there. his little sweet would be asleep. 'hope that dog won't wake her!' he thought. 'what is it makes us love, and makes us die! i must go to bed.' and across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he passed back within. how should an old man live his days if not in dreaming of his well-spent past? in that, at all events, there is no agitating warmth, only pale winter sunshine. the shell can withstand the gentle beating of the dynamos of memory. the present he should distrust; the future shun. from beneath thick shade he should watch the sunlight creeping at his toes. if there be sun of summer, let him not go out into it, mistaking it for the indian-summer sun! thus peradventure he shall decline softly, slowly, imperceptibly, until impatient nature clutches his wind-pipe and he gasps away to death some early morning before the world is aired, and they put on his tombstone: 'in the fulness of years!' yea! if he preserve his principles in perfect order, a forsyte may live on long after he is dead. old jolyon was conscious of all this, and yet there was in him that which transcended forsyteism. for it is written that a forsyte shall not love beauty more than reason; nor his own way more than his own health. and something beat within him in these days that with each throb fretted at the thinning shell. his sagacity knew this, but it knew too that he could not stop that beating, nor would if he could. and yet, if you had told him he was living on his capital, he would have stared you down. no, no; a man did not live on his capital; it was not done! the shibboleths of the past are ever more real than the actualities of the present. and he, to whom living on one's capital had always been anathema, could not have borne to have applied so gross a phrase to his own case. pleasure is healthful; beauty good to see; to live again in the youth of the young--and what else on earth was he doing! methodically, as had been the way of his whole life, he now arranged his time. on tuesdays he journeyed up to town by train; irene came and dined with him. and they went to the opera. on thursdays he drove to town, and, putting that fat chap and his horses up, met her in kensington gardens, picking up the carriage after he had left her, and driving home again in time for dinner. he threw out the casual formula that he had business in london on those two days. on wednesdays and saturdays she came down to give holly music lessons. the greater the pleasure he took in her society, the more scrupulously fastidious he became, just a matter-of-fact and friendly uncle. not even in feeling, really, was he more--for, after all, there was his age. and yet, if she were late he fidgeted himself to death. if she missed coming, which happened twice, his eyes grew sad as an old dog's, and he failed to sleep. and so a month went by--a month of summer in the fields, and in his heart, with summer's heat and the fatigue thereof. who could have believed a few weeks back that he would have looked forward to his son's and his grand-daughter's return with something like dread! there was such a delicious freedom, such recovery of that independence a man enjoys before he founds a family, about these weeks of lovely weather, and this new companionship with one who demanded nothing, and remained always a little unknown, retaining the fascination of mystery. it was like a draught of wine to him who has been drinking water for so long that he has almost forgotten the stir wine brings to his blood, the narcotic to his brain. the flowers were coloured brighter, scents and music and the sunlight had a living value--were no longer mere reminders of past enjoyment. there was something now to live for which stirred him continually to anticipation. he lived in that, not in retrospection; the difference is considerable to any so old as he. the pleasures of the table, never of much consequence to one naturally abstemious, had lost all value. he ate little, without knowing what he ate; and every day grew thinner and more worn to look at. he was again a 'threadpaper'; and to this thinned form his massive forehead, with hollows at the temples, gave more dignity than ever. he was very well aware that he ought to see the doctor, but liberty was too sweet. he could not afford to pet his frequent shortness of breath and the pain in his side at the expense of liberty. return to the vegetable existence he had led among the agricultural journals with the life-size mangold wurzels, before this new attraction came into his life--no! he exceeded his allowance of cigars. two a day had always been his rule. now he smoked three and sometimes four--a man will when he is filled with the creative spirit. but very often he thought: 'i must give up smoking, and coffee; i must give up rattling up to town.' but he did not; there was no one in any sort of authority to notice him, and this was a priceless boon. the servants perhaps wondered, but they were, naturally, dumb. mam'zelle beauce was too concerned with her own digestion, and too 'wellbrrred' to make personal allusions. holly had not as yet an eye for the relative appearance of him who was her plaything and her god. it was left for irene herself to beg him to eat more, to rest in the hot part of the day, to take a tonic, and so forth. but she did not tell him that she was the a cause of his thinness--for one cannot see the havoc oneself is working. a man of eighty-five has no passions, but the beauty which produces passion works on in the old way, till death closes the eyes which crave the sight of her. on the first day of the second week in july he received a letter from his son in paris to say that they would all be back on friday. this had always been more sure than fate; but, with the pathetic improvidence given to the old, that they may endure to the end, he had never quite admitted it. now he did, and something would have to be done. he had ceased to be able to imagine life without this new interest, but that which is not imagined sometimes exists, as forsytes are perpetually finding to their cost. he sat in his old leather chair, doubling up the letter, and mumbling with his lips the end of an unlighted cigar. after to-morrow his tuesday expeditions to town would have to be abandoned. he could still drive up, perhaps, once a week, on the pretext of seeing his man of business. but even that would be dependent on his health, for now they would begin to fuss about him. the lessons! the lessons must go on! she must swallow down her scruples, and june must put her feelings in her pocket. she had done so once, on the day after the news of bosinney's death; what she had done then, she could surely do again now. four years since that injury was inflicted on her--not christian to keep the memory of old sores alive. june's will was strong, but his was stronger, for his sands were running out. irene was soft, surely she would do this for him, subdue her natural shrinking, sooner than give him pain! the lessons must continue; for if they did, he was secure. and lighting his cigar at last, he began trying to shape out how to put it to them all, and explain this strange intimacy; how to veil and wrap it away from the naked truth--that he could not bear to be deprived of the sight of beauty. ah! holly! holly was fond of her, holly liked her lessons. she would save him--his little sweet! and with that happy thought he became serene, and wondered what he had been worrying about so fearfully. he must not worry, it left him always curiously weak, and as if but half present in his own body. that evening after dinner he had a return of the dizziness, though he did not faint. he would not ring the bell, because he knew it would mean a fuss, and make his going up on the morrow more conspicuous. when one grew old, the whole world was in conspiracy to limit freedom, and for what reason?--just to keep the breath in him a little longer. he did not want it at such cost. only the dog balthasar saw his lonely recovery from that weakness; anxiously watched his master go to the sideboard and drink some brandy, instead of giving him a biscuit. when at last old jolyon felt able to tackle the stairs he went up to bed. and, though still shaky next morning, the thought of the evening sustained and strengthened him. it was always such a pleasure to give her a good dinner--he suspected her of undereating when she was alone; and, at the opera to watch her eyes glow and brighten, the unconscious smiling of her lips. she hadn't much pleasure, and this was the last time he would be able to give her that treat. but when he was packing his bag he caught himself wishing that he had not the fatigue of dressing for dinner before him, and the exertion, too, of telling her about june's return. the opera that evening was 'carmen,' and he chose the last entr'acte to break the news, instinctively putting it off till the latest moment. she took it quietly, queerly; in fact, he did not know how she had taken it before the wayward music lifted up again and silence became necessary. the mask was down over her face, that mask behind which so much went on that he could not see. she wanted time to think it over, no doubt! he would not press her, for she would be coming to give her lesson to-morrow afternoon, and he should see her then when she had got used to the idea. in the cab he talked only of the carmen; he had seen better in the old days, but this one was not bad at all. when he took her hand to say good-night, she bent quickly forward and kissed his forehead. "good-bye, dear uncle jolyon, you have been so sweet to me." "to-morrow then," he said. "good-night. sleep well." she echoed softly: "sleep well" and from the cab window, already moving away, he saw her face screwed round towards him, and her hand put out in a gesture which seemed to linger. he sought his room slowly. they never gave him the same, and he could not get used to these 'spick-and-spandy' bedrooms with new furniture and grey-green carpets sprinkled all over with pink roses. he was wakeful and that wretched habanera kept throbbing in his head. his french had never been equal to its words, but its sense he knew, if it had any sense, a gipsy thing--wild and unaccountable. well, there was in life something which upset all your care and plans--something which made men and women dance to its pipes. and he lay staring from deep-sunk eyes into the darkness where the unaccountable held sway. you thought you had hold of life, but it slipped away behind you, took you by the scruff of the neck, forced you here and forced you there, and then, likely as not, squeezed life out of you! it took the very stars like that, he shouldn't wonder, rubbed their noses together and flung them apart; it had never done playing its pranks. five million people in this great blunderbuss of a town, and all of them at the mercy of that life-force, like a lot of little dried peas hopping about on a board when you struck your fist on it. ah, well! himself would not hop much longer--a good long sleep would do him good! how hot it was up here!--how noisy! his forehead burned; she had kissed it just where he always worried; just there--as if she had known the very place and wanted to kiss it all away for him. but, instead, her lips left a patch of grievous uneasiness. she had never spoken in quite that voice, had never before made that lingering gesture or looked back at him as she drove away. he got out of bed and pulled the curtains aside; his room faced down over the river. there was little air, but the sight of that breadth of water flowing by, calm, eternal, soothed him. 'the great thing,' he thought 'is not to make myself a nuisance. i'll think of my little sweet, and go to sleep.' but it was long before the heat and throbbing of the london night died out into the short slumber of the summer morning. and old jolyon had but forty winks. when he reached home next day he went out to the flower garden, and with the help of holly, who was very delicate with flowers, gathered a great bunch of carnations. they were, he told her, for 'the lady in grey'--a name still bandied between them; and he put them in a bowl in his study where he meant to tackle irene the moment she came, on the subject of june and future lessons. their fragrance and colour would help. after lunch he lay down, for he felt very tired, and the carriage would not bring her from the station till four o'clock. but as the hour approached he grew restless, and sought the schoolroom, which overlooked the drive. the sun-blinds were down, and holly was there with mademoiselle beauce, sheltered from the heat of a stifling july day, attending to their silkworms. old jolyon had a natural antipathy to these methodical creatures, whose heads and colour reminded him of elephants; who nibbled such quantities of holes in nice green leaves; and smelled, as he thought, horrid. he sat down on a chintz-covered windowseat whence he could see the drive, and get what air there was; and the dog balthasar who appreciated chintz on hot days, jumped up beside him. over the cottage piano a violet dust-sheet, faded almost to grey, was spread, and on it the first lavender, whose scent filled the room. in spite of the coolness here, perhaps because of that coolness the beat of life vehemently impressed his ebbed-down senses. each sunbeam which came through the chinks had annoying brilliance; that dog smelled very strong; the lavender perfume was overpowering; those silkworms heaving up their grey-green backs seemed horribly alive; and holly's dark head bent over them had a wonderfully silky sheen. a marvellous cruelly strong thing was life when you were old and weak; it seemed to mock you with its multitude of forms and its beating vitality. he had never, till those last few weeks, had this curious feeling of being with one half of him eagerly borne along in the stream of life, and with the other half left on the bank, watching that helpless progress. only when irene was with him did he lose this double consciousness. holly turned her head, pointed with her little brown fist to the piano--for to point with a finger was not 'well-brrred'--and said slyly: "look at the 'lady in grey,' gran; isn't she pretty to-day?" old jolyon's heart gave a flutter, and for a second the room was clouded; then it cleared, and he said with a twinkle: "who's been dressing her up?" "mam'zelle." "hollee! don't be foolish!" that prim little frenchwoman! she hadn't yet got over the music lessons being taken away from her. that wouldn't help. his little sweet was the only friend they had. well, they were her lessons. and he shouldn't budge shouldn't budge for anything. he stroked the warm wool on balthasar's head, and heard holly say: "when mother's home, there won't be any changes, will there? she doesn't like strangers, you know." the child's words seemed to bring the chilly atmosphere of opposition about old jolyon, and disclose all the menace to his new-found freedom. ah! he would have to resign himself to being an old man at the mercy of care and love, or fight to keep this new and prized companionship; and to fight tired him to death. but his thin, worn face hardened into resolution till it appeared all jaw. this was his house, and his affair; he should not budge! he looked at his watch, old and thin like himself; he had owned it fifty years. past four already! and kissing the top of holly's head in passing, he went down to the hall. he wanted to get hold of her before she went up to give her lesson. at the first sound of wheels he stepped out into the porch, and saw at once that the victoria was empty. "the train's in, sir; but the lady 'asn't come." old jolyon gave him a sharp upward look, his eyes seemed to push away that fat chap's curiosity, and defy him to see the bitter disappointment he was feeling. "very well," he said, and turned back into the house. he went to his study and sat down, quivering like a leaf. what did this mean? she might have lost her train, but he knew well enough she hadn't. 'good-bye, dear uncle jolyon.' why 'good-bye' and not 'good-night'? and that hand of hers lingering in the air. and her kiss. what did it mean? vehement alarm and irritation took possession of him. he got up and began to pace the turkey carpet, between window and wall. she was going to give him up! he felt it for certain--and he defenceless. an old man wanting to look on beauty! it was ridiculous! age closed his mouth, paralysed his power to fight. he had no right to what was warm and living, no right to anything but memories and sorrow. he could not plead with her; even an old man has his dignity. defenceless! for an hour, lost to bodily fatigue, he paced up and down, past the bowl of carnations he had plucked, which mocked him with its scent. of all things hard to bear, the prostration of will-power is hardest, for one who has always had his way. nature had got him in its net, and like an unhappy fish he turned and swam at the meshes, here and there, found no hole, no breaking point. they brought him tea at five o'clock, and a letter. for a moment hope beat up in him. he cut the envelope with the butter knife, and read: "dearest uncle jolyon,--i can't bear to write anything that may disappoint you, but i was too cowardly to tell you last night. i feel i can't come down and give holly any more lessons, now that june is coming back. some things go too deep to be forgotten. it has been such a joy to see you and holly. perhaps i shall still see you sometimes when you come up, though i'm sure it's not good for you; i can see you are tiring yourself too much. i believe you ought to rest quite quietly all this hot weather, and now you have your son and june coming back you will be so happy. thank you a million times for all your sweetness to me. "lovingly your irene." so, there it was! not good for him to have pleasure and what he chiefly cared about; to try and put off feeling the inevitable end of all things, the approach of death with its stealthy, rustling footsteps. not good for him! not even she could see how she was his new lease of interest in life, the incarnation of all the beauty he felt slipping from him. his tea grew cold, his cigar remained unlit; and up and down he paced, torn between his dignity and his hold on life. intolerable to be squeezed out slowly, without a say of your own, to live on when your will was in the hands of others bent on weighing you to the ground with care and love. intolerable! he would see what telling her the truth would do--the truth that he wanted the sight of her more than just a lingering on. he sat down at his old bureau and took a pen. but he could not write. there was something revolting in having to plead like this; plead that she should warm his eyes with her beauty. it was tantamount to confessing dotage. he simply could not. and instead, he wrote: "i had hoped that the memory of old sores would not be allowed to stand in the way of what is a pleasure and a profit to me and my little grand-daughter. but old men learn to forego their whims; they are obliged to, even the whim to live must be foregone sooner or later; and perhaps the sooner the better. "my love to you, "jolyon forsyte." 'bitter,' he thought, 'but i can't help it. i'm tired.' he sealed and dropped it into the box for the evening post, and hearing it fall to the bottom, thought: 'there goes all i've looked forward to!' that evening after dinner which he scarcely touched, after his cigar which he left half-smoked for it made him feel faint, he went very slowly upstairs and stole into the night-nursery. he sat down on the window-seat. a night-light was burning, and he could just see holly's face, with one hand underneath the cheek. an early cockchafer buzzed in the japanese paper with which they had filled the grate, and one of the horses in the stable stamped restlessly. to sleep like that child! he pressed apart two rungs of the venetian blind and looked out. the moon was rising, blood-red. he had never seen so red a moon. the woods and fields out there were dropping to sleep too, in the last glimmer of the summer light. and beauty, like a spirit, walked. 'i've had a long life,' he thought, 'the best of nearly everything. i'm an ungrateful chap; i've seen a lot of beauty in my time. poor young bosinney said i had a sense of beauty. there's a man in the moon to-night!' a moth went by, another, another. 'ladies in grey!' he closed his eyes. a feeling that he would never open them again beset him; he let it grow, let himself sink; then, with a shiver, dragged the lids up. there was something wrong with him, no doubt, deeply wrong; he would have to have the doctor after all. it didn't much matter now! into that coppice the moon-light would have crept; there would be shadows, and those shadows would be the only things awake. no birds, beasts, flowers, insects; just the shadows--moving; 'ladies in grey!' over that log they would climb; would whisper together. she and bosinney! funny thought! and the frogs and little things would whisper too! how the clock ticked, in here! it was all eerie--out there in the light of that red moon; in here with the little steady night-light and, the ticking clock and the nurse's dressing-gown hanging from the edge of the screen, tall, like a woman's figure. 'lady in grey!' and a very odd thought beset him: did she exist? had she ever come at all? or was she but the emanation of all the beauty he had loved and must leave so soon? the violet-grey spirit with the dark eyes and the crown of amber hair, who walks the dawn and the moonlight, and at blue-bell time? what was she, who was she, did she exist? he rose and stood a moment clutching the window-sill, to give him a sense of reality again; then began tiptoeing towards the door. he stopped at the foot of the bed; and holly, as if conscious of his eyes fixed on her, stirred, sighed, and curled up closer in defence. he tiptoed on and passed out into the dark passage; reached his room, undressed at once, and stood before a mirror in his night-shirt. what a scarecrow--with temples fallen in, and thin legs! his eyes resisted his own image, and a look of pride came on his face. all was in league to pull him down, even his reflection in the glass, but he was not down--yet! he got into bed, and lay a long time without sleeping, trying to reach resignation, only too well aware that fretting and disappointment were very bad for him. he woke in the morning so unrefreshed and strengthless that he sent for the doctor. after sounding him, the fellow pulled a face as long as your arm, and ordered him to stay in bed and give up smoking. that was no hardship; there was nothing to get up for, and when he felt ill, tobacco always lost its savour. he spent the morning languidly with the sun-blinds down, turning and re-turning the times, not reading much, the dog balthasar lying beside his bed. with his lunch they brought him a telegram, running thus: 'your letter received coming down this afternoon will be with you at four-thirty. irene.' coming down! after all! then she did exist--and he was not deserted. coming down! a glow ran through his limbs; his cheeks and forehead felt hot. he drank his soup, and pushed the tray-table away, lying very quiet until they had removed lunch and left him alone; but every now and then his eyes twinkled. coming down! his heart beat fast, and then did not seem to beat at all. at three o'clock he got up and dressed deliberately, noiselessly. holly and mam'zelle would be in the schoolroom, and the servants asleep after their dinner, he shouldn't wonder. he opened his door cautiously, and went downstairs. in the hall the dog balthasar lay solitary, and, followed by him, old jolyon passed into his study and out into the burning afternoon. he meant to go down and meet her in the coppice, but felt at once he could not manage that in this heat. he sat down instead under the oak tree by the swing, and the dog balthasar, who also felt the heat, lay down beside him. he sat there smiling. what a revel of bright minutes! what a hum of insects, and cooing of pigeons! it was the quintessence of a summer day. lovely! and he was happy--happy as a sand-boy, whatever that might be. she was coming; she had not given him up! he had everything in life he wanted--except a little more breath, and less weight--just here! he would see her when she emerged from the fernery, come swaying just a little, a violet-grey figure passing over the daisies and dandelions and 'soldiers' on the lawn--the soldiers with their flowery crowns. he would not move, but she would come up to him and say: 'dear uncle jolyon, i am sorry!' and sit in the swing and let him look at her and tell her that he had not been very well but was all right now; and that dog would lick her hand. that dog knew his master was fond of her; that dog was a good dog. it was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him, only make the rest of the world bright so that he could see the grand stand at epsom away out there, very far, and the cows cropping the clover in the field and swishing at the flies with their tails. he smelled the scent of limes, and lavender. ah! that was why there was such a racket of bees. they were excited--busy, as his heart was busy and excited. drowsy, too, drowsy and drugged on honey and happiness; as his heart was drugged and drowsy. summer--summer--they seemed saying; great bees and little bees, and the flies too! the stable clock struck four; in half an hour she would be here. he would have just one tiny nap, because he had had so little sleep of late; and then he would be fresh for her, fresh for youth and beauty, coming towards him across the sunlit lawn--lady in grey! and settling back in his chair he closed his eyes. some thistle-down came on what little air there was, and pitched on his moustache more white than itself. he did not know; but his breathing stirred it, caught there. a ray of sunlight struck through and lodged on his boot. a bumble-bee alighted and strolled on the crown of his panama hat. and the delicious surge of slumber reached the brain beneath that hat, and the head swayed forward and rested on his breast. summer--summer! so went the hum. the stable clock struck the quarter past. the dog balthasar stretched and looked up at his master. the thistledown no longer moved. the dog placed his chin over the sunlit foot. it did not stir. the dog withdrew his chin quickly, rose, and leaped on old jolyon's lap, looked in his face, whined; then, leaping down, sat on his haunches, gazing up. and suddenly he uttered a long, long howl. but the thistledown was still as death, and the face of his old master. summer--summer--summer! the soundless footsteps on the grass! the end. studies and essays, complete by john galsworthy contents: concerning life, part . inn of tranquility magpie over the hill sheep-shearing evolution riding in the mist the procession a christian wind in the rocks my distant relative the black godmother concerning life, part . quality the grand jury gone threshing that old-time place romance--three gleams memories felicity concerning letters a novelist's allegory some platitudes concerning drama meditation on finality wanted--schooling on our dislike of things as they are the windlestraw censorship and art about censorship vague thoughts on art "je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal." --anatole france concerning life table of contents: inn of tranquility magpie over the hill sheep-shearing evolution riding in the mist the procession a christian wind in the rocks my distant relative the black godmother the inn of tranquillity under a burning blue sky, among the pine-trees and junipers, the cypresses and olives of that odyssean coast, we came one afternoon on a pink house bearing the legend: "osteria di tranquillita,"; and, partly because of the name, and partly because we did not expect to find a house at all in those goat-haunted groves above the waves, we tarried for contemplation. to the familiar simplicity of that italian building there were not lacking signs of a certain spiritual change, for out of the olive-grove which grew to its very doors a skittle-alley had been formed, and two baby cypress-trees were cut into the effigies of a cock and hen. the song of a gramophone, too, was breaking forth into the air, as it were the presiding voice of a high and cosmopolitan mind. and, lost in admiration, we became conscious of the odour of a full-flavoured cigar. yes--in the skittle-alley a gentleman was standing who wore a bowler hat, a bright brown suit, pink tie, and very yellow boots. his head was round, his cheeks fat and well-coloured, his lips red and full under a black moustache, and he was regarding us through very thick and half-closed eyelids. perceiving him to be the proprietor of the high and cosmopolitan mind, we accosted him. "good-day!" he replied: "i spik english. been in amurrica yes." "you have a lovely place here." sweeping a glance over the skittle-alley, he sent forth a long puff of smoke; then, turning to my companion (of the politer sex) with the air of one who has made himself perfect master of a foreign tongue, he smiled, and spoke. "too-quiet!" "precisely; the name of your inn, perhaps, suggests----" "i change all that--soon i call it anglo-american hotel." "ah! yes; you are very up-to-date already." he closed one eye and smiled. having passed a few more compliments, we saluted and walked on; and, coming presently to the edge of the cliff, lay down on the thyme and the crumbled leaf-dust. all the small singing birds had long been shot and eaten; there came to us no sound but that of the waves swimming in on a gentle south wind. the wanton creatures seemed stretching out white arms to the land, flying desperately from a sea of such stupendous serenity; and over their bare shoulders their hair floated back, pale in the sunshine. if the air was void of sound, it was full of scent--that delicious and enlivening perfume of mingled gum, and herbs, and sweet wood being burned somewhere a long way off; and a silky, golden warmth slanted on to us through the olives and umbrella pines. large wine-red violets were growing near. on such a cliff might theocritus have lain, spinning his songs; on that divine sea odysseus should have passed. and we felt that presently the goat-god must put his head forth from behind a rock. it seemed a little queer that our friend in the bowler hat should move and breathe within one short flight of a cuckoo from this home of pan. one could not but at first feelingly remember the old boer saying: "o god, what things man sees when he goes out without a gun!" but soon the infinite incongruity of this juxtaposition began to produce within one a curious eagerness, a sort of half-philosophical delight. it began to seem too good, almost too romantic, to be true. to think of the gramophone wedded to the thin sweet singing of the olive leaves in the evening wind; to remember the scent of his rank cigar marrying with this wild incense; to read that enchanted name, "inn of tranquillity," and hear the bland and affable remark of the gentleman who owned it--such were, indeed, phenomena to stimulate souls to speculation. and all unconsciously one began to justify them by thoughts of the other incongruities of existence--the strange, the passionate incongruities of youth and age, wealth and poverty, life and death; the wonderful odd bedfellows of this world; all those lurid contrasts which haunt a man's spirit till sometimes he is ready to cry out: "rather than live where such things can be, let me die!" like a wild bird tracking through the air, one's meditation wandered on, following that trail of thought, till the chance encounter became spiritually luminous. that italian gentleman of the world, with his bowler hat, his skittle-alley, his gramophone, who had planted himself down in this temple of wild harmony, was he not progress itself--the blind figure with the stomach full of new meats and the brain of raw notions? was he not the very embodiment of the wonderful child, civilisation, so possessed by a new toy each day that she has no time to master its use--naive creature lost amid her own discoveries! was he not the very symbol of that which was making economists thin, thinkers pale, artists haggard, statesmen bald--the symbol of indigestion incarnate! did he not, delicious, gross, unconscious man, personify beneath his americo-italian polish all those rank and primitive instincts, whose satisfaction necessitated the million miseries of his fellows; all those thick rapacities which stir the hatred of the humane and thin-skinned! and yet, one's meditation could not stop there--it was not convenient to the heart! a little above us, among the olive-trees, two blue-clothed peasants, man and woman, were gathering the fruit--from some such couple, no doubt, our friend in the bowler hat had sprung; more "virile" and adventurous than his brothers, he had not stayed in the home groves, but had gone forth to drink the waters of hustle and commerce, and come back--what he was. and he, in turn, would beget children, and having made his pile out of his 'anglo-american hotel' would place those children beyond the coarser influences of life, till they became, perhaps, even as our selves, the salt of the earth, and despised him. and i thought: "i do not despise those peasants--far from it. i do not despise myself--no more than reason; why, then, despise my friend in the bowler hat, who is, after all, but the necessary link between them and me?" i did not despise the olive-trees, the warm sun, the pine scent, all those material things which had made him so thick and strong; i did not despise the golden, tenuous imaginings which the trees and rocks and sea were starting in my own spirit. why, then, despise the skittle-alley, the gramophone, those expressions of the spirit of my friend in the billy-cock hat? to despise them was ridiculous! and suddenly i was visited by a sensation only to be described as a sort of smiling certainty, emanating from, and, as it were, still tingling within every nerve of myself, but yet vibrating harmoniously with the world around. it was as if i had suddenly seen what was the truth of things; not perhaps to anybody else, but at all events to me. and i felt at once tranquil and elated, as when something is met with which rouses and fascinates in a man all his faculties. "for," i thought, "if it is ridiculous in me to despise my friend--that perfect marvel of disharmony--it is ridiculous in me to despise anything. if he is a little bit of continuity, as perfectly logical an expression of a necessary phase or mood of existence as i myself am, then, surely, there is nothing in all the world that is not a little bit of continuity, the expression of a little necessary mood. yes," i thought, "he and i, and those olive-trees, and this spider on my hand, and everything in the universe which has an individual shape, are all fit expressions of the separate moods of a great underlying mood or principle, which must be perfectly adjusted, volving and revolving on itself. for if it did not volve and revolve on itself, it would peter out at one end or the other, and the image of this petering out no man with his mental apparatus can conceive. therefore, one must conclude it to be perfectly adjusted and everlasting. but if it is perfectly adjusted and everlasting, we are all little bits of continuity, and if we are all little bits of continuity it is ridiculous for one of us to despise another. so," i thought, "i have now proved it from my friend in the billy-cock hat up to the universe, and from the universe down, back again to my friend." and i lay on my back and looked at the sky. it seemed friendly to my thought with its smile, and few white clouds, saffron-tinged like the plumes of a white duck in sunlight. "and yet," i wondered, "though my friend and i may be equally necessary, i am certainly irritated by him, and shall as certainly continue to be irritated, not only by him, but by a thousand other men and so, with a light heart, you may go on being irritated with your friend in the bowler hat, you may go on loving those peasants and this sky and sea. but, since you have this theory of life, you may not despise any one or any thing, not even a skittle-alley, for they are all threaded to you, and to despise them would be to blaspheme against continuity, and to blaspheme against continuity would be to deny eternity. love you cannot help, and hate you cannot help; but contempt is--for you--the sovereign idiocy, the irreligious fancy!" there was a bee weighing down a blossom of thyme close by, and underneath the stalk a very ugly little centipede. the wild bee, with his little dark body and his busy bear's legs, was lovely to me, and the creepy centipede gave me shudderings; but it was a pleasant thing to feel so sure that he, no less than the bee, was a little mood expressing himself out in harmony with designs tiny thread on the miraculous quilt. and i looked at him with a sudden zest and curiosity; it seemed to me that in the mystery of his queer little creepings i was enjoying the supreme mystery; and i thought: "if i knew all about that wriggling beast, then, indeed, i might despise him; but, truly, if i knew all about him i should know all about everything--mystery would be gone, and i could not bear to live!" so i stirred him with my finger and he went away. "but how"--i thought "about such as do not feel it ridiculous to despise; how about those whose temperaments and religions show them all things so plainly that they know they are right and others wrong? they must be in a bad way!" and for some seconds i felt sorry for them, and was discouraged. but then i thought: "not at all--obviously not! for if they do not find it ridiculous to feel contempt, they are perfectly right to feel contempt, it being natural to them; and you have no business to be sorry for them, for that is, after all, only your euphemism for contempt. they are all right, being the expressions of contemptuous moods, having religions and so forth, suitable to these moods; and the religion of your mood would be greek to them, and probably a matter for contempt. but this only makes it the more interesting. for though to you, for instance, it may seem impossible to worship mystery with one lobe of the brain, and with the other to explain it, the thought that this may not seem impossible to others should not discourage you; it is but another little piece of that mystery which makes life so wonderful and sweet." the sun, fallen now almost to the level of the cliff, was slanting upward on to the burnt-red pine boughs, which had taken to themselves a quaint resemblance to the great brown limbs of the wild men titian drew in his pagan pictures, and down below us the sea-nymphs, still swimming to shore, seemed eager to embrace them in the enchanted groves. all was fused in that golden glow of the sun going down-sea and land gathered into one transcendent mood of light and colour, as if mystery desired to bless us by showing how perfect was that worshipful adjustment, whose secret we could never know. and i said to myself: "none of those thoughts of yours are new, and in a vague way even you have thought them before; but all the same, they have given you some little feeling of tranquillity." and at that word of fear i rose and invited my companion to return toward the town. but as we stealthy crept by the "osteria di tranquillita," our friend in the bowler hat came out with a gun over his shoulder and waved his hand toward the inn. "you come again in two week--i change all that! and now," he added, "i go to shoot little bird or two," and he disappeared into the golden haze under the olive-trees. a minute later we heard his gun go off, and returned homeward with a prayer. . magpie over the hill i lay often that summer on a slope of sand and coarse grass, close to the cornish sea, trying to catch thoughts; and i was trying very hard when i saw them coming hand in hand. she was dressed in blue linen, and a little cloud of honey-coloured hair; her small face had serious eyes the colour of the chicory flowers she was holding up to sniff at--a clean sober little maid, with a very touching upward look of trust. her companion was a strong, active boy of perhaps fourteen, and he, too, was serious--his deep-set, blacklashed eyes looked down at her with a queer protective wonder; the while he explained in a soft voice broken up between two ages, that exact process which bees adopt to draw honey out of flowers. once or twice this hoarse but charming voice became quite fervent, when she had evidently failed to follow; it was as if he would have been impatient, only he knew he must not, because she was a lady and younger than himself, and he loved her. they sat down just below my nook, and began to count the petals of a chicory flower, and slowly she nestled in to him, and he put his arm round her. never did i see such sedate, sweet lovering, so trusting on her part, so guardianlike on his. they were like, in miniature---though more dewy,--those sober couples who have long lived together, yet whom one still catches looking at each other with confidential tenderness, and in whom, one feels, passion is atrophied from never having been in use. long i sat watching them in their cool communion, half-embraced, talking a little, smiling a little, never once kissing. they did not seem shy of that; it was rather as if they were too much each other's to think of such a thing. and then her head slid lower and lower down his shoulder, and sleep buttoned the lids over those chicory-blue eyes. how careful he was, then, not to wake her, though i could see his arm was getting stiff! he still sat, good as gold, holding her, till it began quite to hurt me to see his shoulder thus in chancery. but presently i saw him draw his arm away ever so carefully, lay her head down on the grass, and lean forward to stare at something. straight in front of them was a magpie, balancing itself on a stripped twig of thorn-tree. the agitating bird, painted of night and day, was making a queer noise and flirting one wing, as if trying to attract attention. rising from the twig, it circled, vivid and stealthy, twice round the tree, and flew to another a dozen paces off. the boy rose; he looked at his little mate, looked at the bird, and began quietly to move toward it; but uttering again its queer call, the bird glided on to a third thorn-tree. the boy hesitated then--but once more the bird flew on, and suddenly dipped over the hill. i saw the boy break into a run; and getting up quickly, i ran too. when i reached the crest there was the black and white bird flying low into a dell, and there the boy, with hair streaming back, was rushing helter-skelter down the hill. he reached the bottom and vanished into the dell. i, too, ran down the hill. for all that i was prying and must not be seen by bird or boy, i crept warily in among the trees to the edge of a pool that could know but little sunlight, so thickly arched was it by willows, birch-trees, and wild hazel. there, in a swing of boughs above the water, was perched no pied bird, but a young, dark-haired girl with, dangling, bare, brown legs. and on the brink of the black water goldened, with fallen leaves, the boy was crouching, gazing up at her with all his soul. she swung just out of reach and looked down at him across the pool. how old was she, with her brown limbs, and her gleaming, slanting eyes? or was she only the spirit of the dell, this elf-thing swinging there, entwined with boughs and the dark water, and covered with a shift of wet birch leaves. so strange a face she had, wild, almost wicked, yet so tender; a face that i could not take my eyes from. her bare toes just touched the pool, and flicked up drops of water that fell on the boy's face. from him all the sober steadfastness was gone; already he looked as wild as she, and his arms were stretched out trying to reach her feet. i wanted to cry to him: "go back, boy, go back!" but could not; her elf eyes held me dumb-they looked so lost in their tender wildness. and then my heart stood still, for he had slipped and was struggling in deep water beneath her feet. what a gaze was that he was turning up to her--not frightened, but so longing, so desperate; and hers how triumphant, and how happy! and then he clutched her foot, and clung, and climbed; and bending down, she drew him up to her, all wet, and clasped him in the swing of boughs. i took a long breath then. an orange gleam of sunlight had flamed in among the shadows and fell round those two where they swung over the dark water, with lips close together and spirits lost in one another's, and in their eyes such drowning ecstasy! and then they kissed! all round me pool, and leaves, and air seemed suddenly to swirl and melt--i could see nothing plain! . . . what time passed--i do not know--before their faces slowly again became visible! his face the sober boy's--was turned away from her, and he was listening; for above the whispering of leaves a sound of weeping came from over the hill. it was to that he listened. and even as i looked he slid down from out of her arms; back into the pool, and began struggling to gain the edge. what grief and longing in her wild face then! but she did not wail. she did not try to pull him back; that elfish heart of dignity could reach out to what was coming, it could not drag at what was gone. unmoving as the boughs and water, she watched him abandon her. slowly the struggling boy gained land, and lay there, breathless. and still that sound of lonely weeping came from over the hill. listening, but looking at those wild, mourning eyes that never moved from him, he lay. once he turned back toward the water, but fire had died within him; his hands dropped, nerveless--his young face was all bewilderment. and the quiet darkness of the pool waited, and the trees, and those lost eyes of hers, and my heart. and ever from over the hill came the little fair maiden's lonely weeping. then, slowly dragging his feet, stumbling, half-blinded, turning and turning to look back, the boy groped his way out through the trees toward that sound; and, as he went, that dark spirit-elf, abandoned, clasping her own lithe body with her arms, never moved her gaze from him. i, too, crept away, and when i was safe outside in the pale evening sunlight, peered back into the dell. there under the dark trees she was no longer, but round and round that cage of passion, fluttering and wailing through the leaves, over the black water, was the magpie, flighting on its twilight wings. i turned and ran and ran till i came over the hill and saw the boy and the little fair, sober maiden sitting together once more on the open slope, under the high blue heaven. she was nestling her tear-stained face against his shoulder and speaking already of indifferent things. and he--he was holding her with his arm and watching over her with eyes that seemed to see something else. and so i lay, hearing their sober talk and gazing at their sober little figures, till i awoke and knew i had dreamed all that little allegory of sacred and profane love, and from it had returned to reason, knowing no more than ever which was which. . sheep-shearing from early morning there had been bleating of sheep in the yard, so that one knew the creatures were being sheared, and toward evening i went along to see. thirty or forty naked-looking ghosts of sheep were penned against the barn, and perhaps a dozen still inhabiting their coats. into the wool of one of these bulky ewes the farmer's small, yellow-haired daughter was twisting her fist, hustling it toward fate; though pulled almost off her feet by the frightened, stubborn creature, she never let go, till, with a despairing cough, the ewe had passed over the threshold and was fast in the hands of a shearer. at the far end of the barn, close by the doors, i stood a minute or two before shifting up to watch the shearing. into that dim, beautiful home of age, with its great rafters and mellow stone archways, the june sunlight shone through loopholes and chinks, in thin glamour, powdering with its very strangeness the dark cathedraled air, where, high up, clung a fog of old grey cobwebs so thick as ever were the stalactites of a huge cave. at this end the scent of sheep and wool and men had not yet routed that home essence of the barn, like the savour of acorns and withering beech leaves. they were shearing by hand this year, nine of them, counting the postman, who, though farm-bred, "did'n putt much to the shearin'," but had come to round the sheep up and give general aid. sitting on the creatures, or with a leg firmly crooked over their heads, each shearer, even the two boys, had an air of going at it in his own way. in their white canvas shearing suits they worked very steadily, almost in silence, as if drowsed by the "click-clip, click-clip" of the shears. and the sheep, but for an occasional wriggle of legs or head, lay quiet enough, having an inborn sense perhaps of the fitness of things, even when, once in a way, they lost more than wool; glad too, mayhap, to be rid of their matted vestments. from time to time the little damsel offered each shearer a jug and glass, but no man drank till he had finished his sheep; then he would get up, stretch his cramped muscles, drink deep, and almost instantly sit down again on a fresh beast. and always there was the buzz of flies swarming in the sunlight of the open doorway, the dry rustle of the pollarded lime-trees in the sharp wind outside, the bleating of some released ewe, upset at her own nakedness, the scrape and shuffle of heels and sheep's limbs on the floor, together with the "click-clip, click-clip" of the shears. as each ewe, finished with, struggled up, helped by a friendly shove, and bolted out dazedly into the pen, i could not help wondering what was passing in her head--in the heads of all those unceremoniously treated creatures; and, moving nearer to the postman, i said: "they're really very good, on the whole." he looked at me, i thought, queerly. "yaas," he answered; "mr. molton's the best of them." i looked askance at mr. molton; but, with his knee crooked round a young ewe, he was shearing calmly. "yes," i admitted, "he is certainly good." "yaas," replied the postman. edging back into the darkness, away from that uncomprehending youth, i escaped into the air, and passing the remains of last year's stacks under the tall, toppling elms, sat down in a field under the bank. it seemed to me that i had food for thought. in that little misunderstanding between me and the postman was all the essence of the difference between that state of civilisation in which sheep could prompt a sentiment, and that state in which sheep could not. the heat from the dropping sun, not far now above the moorline, struck full into the ferns and long grass of the bank where i was sitting, and the midges rioted on me in this last warmth. the wind was barred out, so that one had the full sweetness of the clover, fast becoming hay, over which the swallows were wheeling and swooping after flies. and far up, as it were the crown of nature's beautiful devouring circle, a buzzard hawk, almost stationary on the air, floated, intent on something pleasant below him. a number of little hens crept through the gate one by one, and came round me. it seemed to them that i was there to feed them; and they held their neat red or yellow heads to one side and the other, inquiring with their beady eyes, surprised at my stillness. they were pretty with their speckled feathers, and as it seemed to me, plump and young, so that i wondered how many of them would in time feed me. finding, however, that i gave them nothing to eat, they went away, and there arose, in place of their clucking, the thin singing of air passing through some long tube. i knew it for the whining of my dog, who had nosed me out, but could not get through the padlocked gate. and as i lifted him over, i was glad the postman could not see me--for i felt that to lift a dog over a gate would be against the principles of one for whom the connection of sheep with good behaviour had been too strange a thought. and it suddenly rushed into my mind that the time would no doubt come when the conduct of apples, being plucked from the mother tree, would inspire us, and we should say: "they're really very good!" and i wondered, were those future watchers of apple-gathering farther from me than i, watching sheep-shearing, from the postman? i thought, too, of the pretty dreams being dreamt about the land, and of the people who dreamed them. and i looked at that land, covered with the sweet pinkish-green of the clover, and considered how much of it, through the medium of sheep, would find its way into me, to enable me to come out here and be eaten by midges, and speculate about things, and conceive the sentiment of how good the sheep were. and it all seemed queer. i thought, too, of a world entirely composed of people who could see the sheen rippling on that clover, and feel a sort of sweet elation at the scent of it, and i wondered how much clover would be sown then? many things i thought of, sitting there, till the sun sank below the moor line, the wind died off the clover, and the midges slept. here and there in the iris-coloured sky a star crept out; the soft-hooting owls awoke. but still i lingered, watching how, one after another, shapes and colours died into twilight; and i wondered what the postman thought of twilight, that inconvenient state, when things were neither dark nor light; and i wondered what the sheep were thinking this first night without their coats. then, slinking along the hedge, noiseless, unheard by my sleeping spaniel, i saw a tawny dog stealing by. he passed without seeing us, licking his lean chops. "yes, friend," i thought, "you have been after something very unholy; you have been digging up buried lamb, or some desirable person of that kind!" sneaking past, in this sweet night, which stirred in one such sentiment, that ghoulish cur was like the omnivorousness of nature. and it came to me, how wonderful and queer was a world which embraced within it, not only this red gloating dog, fresh from his feast on the decaying flesh of lamb, but all those hundreds of beings in whom the sight of a fly with one leg shortened produced a quiver of compassion. for in this savage, slinking shadow, i knew that i had beheld a manifestation of divinity no less than in the smile of the sky, each minute growing more starry. with what harmony--i thought--can these two be enwrapped in this round world so fast that it cannot be moved! what secret, marvellous, all-pervading principle can harmonise these things! and the old words 'good' and 'evil' seemed to me more than ever quaint. it was almost dark, and the dew falling fast; i roused my spaniel to go in. over the high-walled yard, the barns, the moon-white porch, dusk had brushed its velvet. through an open window came a roaring sound. mr. molton was singing "the happy warrior," to celebrate the finish of the shearing. the big doors into the garden, passed through, cut off the full sweetness of that song; for there the owls were already masters of night with their music. on the dew-whitened grass of the lawn, we came on a little dark beast. my spaniel, liking its savour, stood with his nose at point; but, being called off, i could feel him obedient, still quivering, under my hand. in the field, a wan huddle in the blackness, the dismantled sheep lay under a holly hedge. the wind had died; it was mist-warm. evolution coming out of the theatre, we found it utterly impossible to get a taxicab; and, though it was raining slightly, walked through leicester square in the hope of picking one up as it returned down piccadilly. numbers of hansoms and four-wheelers passed, or stood by the curb, hailing us feebly, or not even attempting to attract our attention, but every taxi seemed to have its load. at piccadilly circus, losing patience, we beckoned to a four-wheeler and resigned ourselves to a long, slow journey. a sou'-westerly air blew through the open windows, and there was in it the scent of change, that wet scent which visits even the hearts of towns and inspires the watcher of their myriad activities with thought of the restless force that forever cries: "on, on!" but gradually the steady patter of the horse's hoofs, the rattling of the windows, the slow thudding of the wheels, pressed on us so drowsily that when, at last, we reached home we were more than half asleep. the fare was two shillings, and, standing in the lamplight to make sure the coin was a half-crown before handing it to the driver, we happened to look up. this cabman appeared to be a man of about sixty, with a long, thin face, whose chin and drooping grey moustaches seemed in permanent repose on the up-turned collar of his old blue overcoat. but the remarkable features of his face were the two furrows down his cheeks, so deep and hollow that it seemed as though that face were a collection of bones without coherent flesh, among which the eyes were sunk back so far that they had lost their lustre. he sat quite motionless, gazing at the tail of his horse. and, almost unconsciously, one added the rest of one's silver to that half-crown. he took the coins without speaking; but, as we were turning into the garden gate, we heard him say: "thank you; you've saved my life." not knowing, either of us, what to reply to such a curious speech, we closed the gate again and came back to the cab. "are things so very bad?" "they are," replied the cabman. "it's done with--is this job. we're not wanted now." and, taking up his whip, he prepared to drive away. "how long have they been as bad as this?" the cabman dropped his hand again, as though glad to rest it, and answered incoherently: "thirty-five year i've been drivin' a cab." and, sunk again in contemplation of his horse's tail, he could only be roused by many questions to express himself, having, as it seemed, no knowledge of the habit. "i don't blame the taxis, i don't blame nobody. it's come on us, that's what it has. i left the wife this morning with nothing in the house. she was saying to me only yesterday: 'what have you brought home the last four months?' 'put it at six shillings a week,' i said. 'no,' she said, 'seven.' well, that's right--she enters it all down in her book." "you are really going short of food?" the cabman smiled; and that smile between those two deep hollows was surely as strange as ever shone on a human face. "you may say that," he said. "well, what does it amount to? before i picked you up, i had one eighteen-penny fare to-day; and yesterday i took five shillings. and i've got seven bob a day to pay for the cab, and that's low, too. there's many and many a proprietor that's broke and gone--every bit as bad as us. they let us down as easy as ever they can; you can't get blood from a stone, can you?" once again he smiled. "i'm sorry for them, too, and i'm sorry for the horses, though they come out best of the three of us, i do believe." one of us muttered something about the public. the cabman turned his face and stared down through the darkness. "the public?" he said, and his voice had in it a faint surprise. "well, they all want the taxis. it's natural. they get about faster in them, and time's money. i was seven hours before i picked you up. and then you was lookin' for a taxi. them as take us because they can't get better, they're not in a good temper, as a rule. and there's a few old ladies that's frightened of the motors, but old ladies aren't never very free with their money--can't afford to be, the most of them, i expect." "everybody's sorry for you; one would have thought that----" he interrupted quietly: "sorrow don't buy bread . . . . i never had nobody ask me about things before." and, slowly moving his long face from side to side, he added: "besides, what could people do? they can't be expected to support you; and if they started askin' you questions they'd feel it very awkward. they know that, i suspect. of course, there's such a lot of us; the hansoms are pretty nigh as bad off as we are. well, we're gettin' fewer every day, that's one thing." not knowing whether or no to manifest sympathy with this extinction, we approached the horse. it was a horse that "stood over" a good deal at the knee, and in the darkness seemed to have innumerable ribs. and suddenly one of us said: "many people want to see nothing but taxis on the streets, if only for the sake of the horses." the cabman nodded. "this old fellow," he said, "never carried a deal of flesh. his grub don't put spirit into him nowadays; it's not up to much in quality, but he gets enough of it." "and you don't?" the cabman again took up his whip. "i don't suppose," he said without emotion, "any one could ever find another job for me now. i've been at this too long. it'll be the workhouse, if it's not the other thing." and hearing us mutter that it seemed cruel, he smiled for the third time. "yes," he said slowly, "it's a bit 'ard on us, because we've done nothing to deserve it. but things are like that, so far as i can see. one thing comes pushin' out another, and so you go on. i've thought about it--you get to thinkin' and worryin' about the rights o' things, sittin' up here all day. no, i don't see anything for it. it'll soon be the end of us now--can't last much longer. and i don't know that i'll be sorry to have done with it. it's pretty well broke my spirit." "there was a fund got up." "yes, it helped a few of us to learn the motor-drivin'; but what's the good of that to me, at my time of life? sixty, that's my age; i'm not the only one--there's hundreds like me. we're not fit for it, that's the fact; we haven't got the nerve now. it'd want a mint of money to help us. and what you say's the truth--people want to see the end of us. they want the taxis--our day's over. i'm not complaining; you asked me about it yourself." and for the third time he raised his whip. "tell me what you would have done if you had been given your fare and just sixpence over?" the cabman stared downward, as though puzzled by that question. "done? why, nothing. what could i have done?" "but you said that it had saved your life." "yes, i said that," he answered slowly; "i was feelin' a bit low. you can't help it sometimes; it's the thing comin' on you, and no way out of it--that's what gets over you. we try not to think about it, as a rule." and this time, with a "thank you, kindly!" he touched his horse's flank with the whip. like a thing aroused from sleep the forgotten creature started and began to draw the cabman away from us. very slowly they travelled down the road among the shadows of the trees broken by lamplight. above us, white ships of cloud were sailing rapidly across the dark river of sky on the wind which smelled of change. and, after the cab was lost to sight, that wind still brought to us the dying sound of the slow wheels. . riding in mist wet and hot, having her winter coat, the mare exactly matched the drenched fox-coloured beech-leaf drifts. as was her wont on such misty days, she danced along with head held high, her neck a little arched, her ears pricked, pretending that things were not what they seemed, and now and then vigorously trying to leave me planted on the air. stones which had rolled out of the lane banks were her especial goblins, for one such had maltreated her nerves before she came into this ball-room world, and she had not forgotten. there was no wind that day. on the beech-trees were still just enough of coppery leaves to look like fires lighted high-up to air the eeriness; but most of the twigs, pearled with water, were patterned very naked against universal grey. berries were few, except the pink spindle one, so far the most beautiful, of which there were more than earth generally vouchsafes. there was no sound in the deep lanes, none of that sweet, overhead sighing of yesterday at the same hour, but there was a quality of silence--a dumb mist murmuration. we passed a tree with a proud pigeon sitting on its top spire, quite too heavy for the twig delicacy below; undisturbed by the mare's hoofs or the creaking of saddle leather, he let us pass, absorbed in his world of tranquil turtledoves. the mist had thickened to a white, infinitesimal rain-dust, and in it the trees began to look strange, as though they had lost one another. the world seemed inhabited only by quick, soundless wraiths as one trotted past. close to a farm-house the mare stood still with that extreme suddenness peculiar to her at times, and four black pigs scuttled by and at once became white air. by now we were both hot and inclined to cling closely together and take liberties with each other; i telling her about her nature, name, and appearance, together with comments on her manners; and she giving forth that sterterous, sweet snuffle, which begins under the star on her forehead. on such days she did not sneeze, reserving those expressions of her joy for sunny days and the crisp winds. at a forking of the ways we came suddenly on one grey and three brown ponies, who shied round and flung away in front of us, a vision of pretty heads and haunches tangled in the thin lane, till, conscious that they were beyond their beat, they faced the bank and, one by one, scrambled over to join the other ghosts out on the dim common. dipping down now over the road, we passed hounds going home. pied, dumb-footed shapes, padding along in that soft-eyed, remote world of theirs, with a tall riding splash of red in front, and a tall splash of riding red behind. then through a gate we came on to the moor, amongst whitened furze. the mist thickened. a curlew was whistling on its invisible way, far up; and that wistful, wild calling seemed the very voice of the day. keeping in view the glint of the road, we galloped; rejoicing, both of us, to be free of the jog jog of the lanes. and first the voice of the curlew died; then the glint of the road vanished; and we were quite alone. even the furze was gone; no shape of anything left, only the black, peaty ground, and the thickening mist. we might as well have been that lonely bird crossing up there in the blind white nothingness, like a human spirit wandering on the undiscovered moor of its own future. the mare jumped a pile of stones, which appeared, as it were, after we had passed over; and it came into my mind that, if we happened to strike one of the old quarry pits, we should infallibly be killed. somehow, there was pleasure in this thought, that we might, or might not, strike that old quarry pit. the blood in us being hot, we had pure joy in charging its white, impalpable solidity, which made way, and at once closed in behind us. there was great fun in this yard-by-yard discovery that we were not yet dead, this flying, shelterless challenge to whatever might lie out there, five yards in front. we felt supremely above the wish to know that our necks were safe; we were happy, panting in the vapour that beat against our faces from the sheer speed of our galloping. suddenly the ground grew lumpy and made up-hill. the mare slackened pace; we stopped. before us, behind, to right and left, white vapour. no sky, no distance, barely the earth. no wind in our faces, no wind anywhere. at first we just got our breath, thought nothing, talked a little. then came a chillness, a faint clutching over the heart. the mare snuffled; we turned and made down-hill. and still the mist thickened, and seemed to darken ever so little; we went slowly, suddenly doubtful of all that was in front. there came into our minds visions, so distant in that darkening vapour, of a warm stall and manger of oats; of tea and a log fire. the mist seemed to have fingers now, long, dark white, crawling fingers; it seemed, too, to have in its sheer silence a sort of muttered menace, a shuddery lurkingness, as if from out of it that spirit of the unknown, which in hot blood we had just now so gleefully mocked, were creeping up at us, intent on its vengeance. since the ground no longer sloped, we could not go down-hill; there were no means left of telling in what direction we were moving, and we stopped to listen. there was no sound, not one tiny noise of water, wind in trees, or man; not even of birds or the moor ponies. and the mist darkened. the mare reached her head down and walked on, smelling at the heather; every time she sniffed, one's heart quivered, hoping she had found the way. she threw up her head, snorted, and stood still; and there passed just in front of us a pony and her foal, shapes of scampering dusk, whisked like blurred shadows across a sheet. hoof-silent in the long heather--as ever were visiting ghosts--they were gone in a flash. the mare plunged forward, following. but, in the feel of her gallop, and the feel of my heart, there was no more that ecstasy of facing the unknown; there was only the cold, hasty dread of loneliness. far asunder as the poles were those two sensations, evoked by this same motion. the mare swerved violently and stopped. there, passing within three yards, from the same direction as before, the soundless shapes of the pony and her foal flew by again, more intangible, less dusky now against the darker screen. were we, then, to be haunted by those bewildering uncanny ones, flitting past ever from the same direction? this time the mare did not follow, but stood still; knowing as well as i that direction was quite lost. soon, with a whimper, she picked her way on again, smelling at the heather. and the mist darkened! then, out of the heart of that dusky whiteness, came a tiny sound; we stood, not breathing, turning our heads. i could see the mare's eye fixed and straining at the vapour. the tiny sound grew till it became the muttering of wheels. the mare dashed forward. the muttering ceased untimely; but she did not stop; turning abruptly to the left, she slid, scrambled, and dropped into a trot. the mist seemed whiter below us; we were on the road. and involuntarily there came from me a sound, not quite a shout, not quite an oath. i saw the mare's eye turn back, faintly derisive, as who should say: alone i did it! then slowly, comfortably, a little ashamed, we jogged on, in the mood of men and horses when danger is over. so pleasant it seemed now, in one short half-hour, to have passed through the circle-swing of the emotions, from the ecstasy of hot recklessness to the clutching of chill fear. but the meeting-point of those two sensations we had left out there on the mysterious moor! why, at one moment, had we thought it finer than anything on earth to risk the breaking of our necks; and the next, shuddered at being lost in the darkening mist with winter night fast coming on? and very luxuriously we turned once more into the lanes, enjoying the past, scenting the future. close to home, the first little eddy of wind stirred, and the song of dripping twigs began; an owl hooted, honey-soft, in the fog. we came on two farm hands mending the lane at the turn of the avenue, and, curled on the top of the bank, their cosy red collie pup, waiting for them to finish work for the day. he raised his sharp nose and looked at us dewily. we turned down, padding softly in the wet fox-red drifts under the beechtrees, whereon the last leaves still flickered out in the darkening whiteness, that now seemed so little eerie. we passed the grey-green skeleton of the farm-yard gate. a hen ran across us, clucking, into the dusk. the maze drew her long, home-coming snuffle, and stood still. . the procession in one of those corners of our land canopied by the fumes of blind industry, there was, on that day, a lull in darkness. a fresh wind had split the customary heaven, or roof of hell; was sweeping long drifts of creamy clouds across a blue still pallid with reek. the sun even shone--a sun whose face seemed white and wondering. and under that rare sun all the little town, among its slag heaps and few tall chimneys, had an air of living faster. in those continuous courts and alleys, where the women worked, smoke from each little forge rose and dispersed into the wind with strange alacrity; amongst the women, too, there was that same eagerness, for the sunshine had crept in and was making pale all those dark-raftered, sooted ceilings which covered them in, together with their immortal comrades, the small open furnaces. about their work they had been busy since seven o'clock; their feet pressing the leather lungs which fanned the conical heaps of glowing fuel, their hands poking into the glow a thin iron rod till the end could be curved into a fiery hook; snapping it with a mallet; threading it with tongs on to the chain; hammering, closing the link; and; without a second's pause, thrusting the iron rod again into the glow. and while they worked they chattered, laughed sometimes, now and then sighed. they seemed of all ages and all types; from her who looked like a peasant of provence, broad, brown, and strong, to the weariest white consumptive wisp; from old women of seventy, with straggling grey hair, to fifteen-year-old girls. in the cottage forges there would be but one worker, or two at most; in the shop forges four, or even five, little glowing heaps; four or five of the grimy, pale lung-bellows; and never a moment without a fiery hook about to take its place on the growing chains, never a second when the thin smoke of the forges, and of those lives consuming slowly in front of them, did not escape from out of the dingy, whitewashed spaces past the dark rafters, away to freedom. but there had been in the air that morning something more than the white sunlight. there had been anticipation. and at two o'clock began fulfilment. the forges were stilled, and from court and alley forth came the women. in their ragged working clothes, in their best clothes--so little different; in bonnets, in hats, bareheaded; with babies born and unborn, they swarmed into the high street and formed across it behind the band. a strange, magpie, jay-like flock; black, white, patched with brown and green and blue, shifting, chattering, laughing, seeming unconscious of any purpose. a thousand and more of them, with faces twisted and scored by those myriad deformings which a desperate town-toiling and little food fasten on human visages; yet with hardly a single evil or brutal face. seemingly it was not easy to be evil or brutal on a wage that scarcely bound soul and body. a thousand and more of the poorest-paid and hardest-worked human beings in the world. on the pavement alongside this strange, acquiescing assembly of revolt, about to march in protest against the conditions of their lives, stood a young woman without a hat and in poor clothes, but with a sort of beauty in her rough-haired, high cheek-boned, dark-eyed face. she was not one of them; yet, by a stroke of nature's irony, there was graven on her face alone of all those faces, the true look of rebellion; a haughty, almost fierce, uneasy look--an untamed look. on all the other thousand faces one could see no bitterness, no fierceness, not even enthusiasm; only a half-stolid, half-vivacious patience and eagerness as of children going to a party. the band played; and they began to march. laughing, talking, waving flags, trying to keep step; with the same expression slowly but surely coming over every face; the future was not; only the present--this happy present of marching behind the discordance of a brass band; this strange present of crowded movement and laughter in open air. we others--some dozen accidentals like myself, and the tall, grey-haired lady interested in "the people," together with those few kind spirits in charge of "the show"--marched too, a little self-conscious, desiring with a vague military sensation to hold our heads up, but not too much, under the eyes of the curious bystanders. these--nearly all men--were well-wishers, it was said, though their faces, pale from their own work in shop or furnace, expressed nothing but apathy. they wished well, very dumbly, in the presence of this new thing, as if they found it queer that women should be doing something for themselves; queer and rather dangerous. a few, indeed, shuffled along between the column and the little hopeless shops and grimy factory sheds, and one or two accompanied their women, carrying the baby. now and then there passed us some better-to-do citizen-a housewife, or lawyer's clerk, or ironmonger, with lips pressed rather tightly together and an air of taking no notice of this disturbance of traffic, as though the whole thing were a rather poor joke which they had already heard too often. so, with laughter and a continual crack of voices our jay-like crew swung on, swaying and thumping in the strange ecstasy of irreflection, happy to be moving they knew not where, nor greatly why, under the visiting sun, to the sound of murdered music. whenever the band stopped playing, discipline became as tatterdemalion as the very flags and garments; but never once did they lose that look of essential order, as if indeed they knew that, being the worst-served creatures in the christian world, they were the chief guardians of the inherent dignity of man. hatless, in the very front row, marched a tall slip of a girl, arrow-straight, and so thin, with dirty fair hair, in a blouse and skirt gaping behind, ever turning her pretty face on its pretty slim neck from side to side, so that one could see her blue eyes sweeping here, there, everywhere, with a sort of flower-like wildness, as if a secret embracing of each moment forbade her to let them rest on anything and break this pleasure of just marching. it seemed that in the never-still eyes of that anaemic, happy girl the spirit of our march had elected to enshrine itself and to make thence its little excursions to each ecstatic follower. just behind her marched a little old woman--a maker of chains, they said, for forty years--whose black slits of eyes were sparkling, who fluttered a bit of ribbon, and reeled with her sense of the exquisite humour of the world. every now and then she would make a rush at one of her leaders to demonstrate how immoderately glorious was life. and each time she spoke the woman next to her, laden with a heavy baby, went off into squeals of laughter. behind her, again, marched one who beat time with her head and waved a little bit of stick, intoxicated by this noble music. for an hour the pageant wound through the dejected street, pursuing neither method nor set route, till it came to a deserted slag-heap, selected for the speech-making. slowly the motley regiment swung into that grim amphitheatre under the pale sunshine; and, as i watched, a strange fancy visited my brain. i seemed to see over every ragged head of those marching women a little yellow flame, a thin, flickering gleam, spiring upward and blown back by the wind. a trick of the sunlight, maybe? or was it that the life in their hearts, the inextinguishable breath of happiness, had for a moment escaped prison, and was fluttering at the pleasure of the breeze? silent now, just enjoying the sound of the words thrown down to them, they stood, unimaginably patient, with that happiness of they knew not what gilding the air above them between the patchwork ribands of their poor flags. if they could not tell very much why they had come, nor believe very much that they would gain anything by coming; if their demonstration did not mean to the world quite all that oratory would have them think; if they themselves were but the poorest, humblest, least learned women in the land--for all that, it seemed to me that in those tattered, wistful figures, so still, so trustful, i was looking on such beauty as i had never beheld. all the elaborated glory of things made, the perfected dreams of aesthetes, the embroideries of romance, seemed as nothing beside this sudden vision of the wild goodness native in humble hearts. . a christian one day that summer, i came away from a luncheon in company of an old college chum. always exciting to meet those one hasn't seen for years; and as we walked across the park together i kept looking at him askance. he had altered a good deal. lean he always was, but now very lean, and so upright that his parson's coat was overhung by the back of his long and narrow head, with its dark grizzled hair, which thought had not yet loosened on his forehead. his clean-shorn face, so thin and oblong, was remarkable only for the eyes: dark-browed and lashed, and coloured like bright steel, they had a fixity in them, a sort of absence, on one couldn't tell what business. they made me think of torture. and his mouth always gently smiling, as if its pinched curly sweetness had been commanded, was the mouth of a man crucified--yes, crucified! tramping silently over the parched grass, i felt that if we talked, we must infallibly disagree; his straight-up, narrow forehead so suggested a nature divided within itself into compartments of iron. it was hot that day, and we rested presently beside the serpentine. on its bright waters were the usual young men, sculling themselves to and fro with their usual sad energy, the usual promenaders loitering and watching them, the usual dog that swam when it did not bark, and barked when it did not swim; and my friend sat smiling, twisting between his thin fingers the little gold cross on his silk vest. then all of a sudden we did begin to talk; and not of those matters of which the well-bred naturally converse--the habits of the rarer kinds of ducks, and the careers of our college friends, but of something never mentioned in polite society. at lunch our hostess had told me the sad story of an unhappy marriage, and i had itched spiritually to find out what my friend, who seemed so far away from me, felt about such things. and now i determined to find out. "tell me," i asked him, "which do you consider most important--the letter or the spirit of christ's teachings?" "my dear fellow," he answered gently, "what a question! how can you separate them?" "well, is it not the essence of his doctrine that the spirit is all important, and the forms of little value? does not that run through all the sermon on the mount?" "certainly." "if, then," i said, "christ's teaching is concerned with the spirit, do you consider that christians are justified in holding others bound by formal rules of conduct, without reference to what is passing in their spirits?" "if it is for their good." "what enables you to decide what is for their good?" "surely, we are told." "not to judge, that ye be not judged." "oh! but we do not, ourselves, judge; we are but impersonal ministers of the rules of god." "ah! do general rules of conduct take account of the variations of the individual spirit?" he looked at me hard, as if he began to scent heresy. "you had better explain yourself more fully," he said. "i really don't follow." "well, let us take a concrete instance. we know christ's saying of the married that they are one flesh! but we know also that there are wives who continue to live the married life with dreadful feelings of spiritual revolt wives who have found out that, in spite of all their efforts, they have no spiritual affinity with their husbands. is that in accordance with the spirit of christ's teaching, or is it not?" "we are told----" he began. "i have admitted the definite commandment: 'they twain shall be one flesh.' there could not be, seemingly, any more rigid law laid down; how do you reconcile it with the essence of christ's teaching? frankly, i want to know: is there or is there not a spiritual coherence in christianity, or is it only a gathering of laws and precepts, with no inherent connected spiritual philosophy?" "of course," he said, in his long-suffering voice, "we don't look at things like that--for us there is no questioning." "but how do you reconcile such marriages as i speak of, with the spirit of christ's teaching? i think you ought to answer me." "oh! i can, perfectly," he answered; "the reconciliation is through suffering. what a poor woman in such a case must suffer makes for the salvation of her spirit. that is the spiritual fulfilment, and in such a case the justification of the law." "so then," i said, "sacrifice or suffering is the coherent thread of christian philosophy?" "suffering cheerfully borne," he answered. "you do not think," i said, "that there is a touch of extravagance in that? would you say, for example, that an unhappy marriage is a more christian thing than a happy one, where there is no suffering, but only love?" a line came between his brows. "well!" he said at last, "i would say, i think, that a woman who crucifies her flesh with a cheerful spirit in obedience to god's law, stands higher in the eyes of god than one who undergoes no such sacrifice in her married life." and i had the feeling that his stare was passing through me, on its way to an unseen goal. "you would desire, then, i suppose, suffering as the greatest blessing for yourself?" "humbly," he said, "i would try to." "and naturally, for others?" "god forbid!" "but surely that is inconsistent." he murmured: "you see, i have suffered." we were silent. at last i said: "yes, that makes much which was dark quite clear to me." "oh?" he asked. i answered slowly: "not many men, you know, even in your profession, have really suffered. that is why they do not feel the difficulty which you feel in desiring suffering for others." he threw up his head exactly as if i had hit him on the jaw: "it's weakness in me, i know," he said. "i should have rather called it weakness in them. but suppose you are right, and that it's weakness not to be able to desire promiscuous suffering for others, would you go further and say that it is christian for those, who have not experienced a certain kind of suffering, to force that particular kind on others?" he sat silent for a full minute, trying evidently to reach to the bottom of my thought. "surely not," he said at last, "except as ministers of god's laws." "you do not then think that it is christian for the husband of such a woman to keep her in that state of suffering--not being, of course, a minister of god?" he began stammering at that: "i--i----" he said. "no; that is, i think not-not christian. no, certainly." "then, such a marriage, if persisted in, makes of the wife indeed a christian, but of the husband--the reverse." "the answer to that is clear," he said quietly: "the husband must abstain." "yes, that is, perhaps, coherently christian, on your theory: they would then both suffer. but the marriage, of course, has become no marriage. they are no longer one flesh." he looked at me, almost impatiently as if to say: do not compel me to enforce silence on you! "but, suppose," i went on, "and this, you know; is the more frequent case, the man refuses to abstain. would you then say it was more christian to allow him to become daily less christian through his unchristian conduct, than to relieve the woman of her suffering at the expense of the spiritual benefit she thence derives? why, in fact, do you favour one case more than the other?" "all question of relief," he replied, "is a matter for caesar; it cannot concern me." there had come into his face a rigidity--as if i might hit it with my questions till my tongue was tired, and it be no more moved than the bench on which we were sitting. "one more question," i said, "and i have done. since the christian teaching is concerned with the spirit and not forms, and the thread in it which binds all together and makes it coherent, is that of suffering----" "redemption by suffering," he put in. "if you will--in one word, self-crucifixion--i must ask you, and don't take it personally, because of what you told me of yourself: in life generally, one does not accept from people any teaching that is not the result of firsthand experience on their parts. do you believe that this christian teaching of yours is valid from the mouths of those who have not themselves suffered--who have not themselves, as it were, been crucified?" he did not answer for a minute; then he said, with painful slowness: "christ laid hands on his apostles and sent them forth; and they in turn, and so on, to our day." "do you say, then, that this guarantees that they have themselves suffered, so that in spirit they are identified with their teaching?" he answered bravely: "no--i do not--i cannot say that in fact it is always so." "is not then their teaching born of forms, and not of the spirit?" he rose; and with a sort of deep sorrow at my stubbornness said: "we are not permitted to know the way of this; it is so ordained; we must have faith." as he stood there, turned from me, with his hat off, and his neck painfully flushed under the sharp outcurve of his dark head, a feeling of pity surged up in me, as if i had taken an unfair advantage. "reason--coherence--philosophy," he said suddenly. "you don't understand. all that is nothing to me--nothing--nothing!" wind in the rocks though dew-dark when we set forth, there was stealing into the frozen air an invisible white host of the wan-winged light--born beyond the mountains, and already, like a drift of doves, harbouring grey-white high up on the snowy skycaves of monte cristallo; and within us, tramping over the valley meadows, was the incredible elation of those who set out before the sun has risen; every minute of the precious day before us--we had not lost one! at the mouth of that enchanted chine, across which for a million years the howdahed rock elephant has marched, but never yet passed from sight, we crossed the stream, and among the trees began our ascent. very far away the first cowbells chimed; and, over the dark heights, we saw the thin, sinking moon, looking like the white horns of some devotional beast watching and waiting up there for the god of light. that god came slowly, stalking across far over our heads from top to top; then, of a sudden, his flame-white form was seen standing in a gap of the valley walls; the trees flung themselves along the ground before him, and censers of pine gum began swinging in the dark aisles, releasing their perfumed steam. throughout these happy ravines where no man lives, he shows himself naked and unashamed, the colour of pale honey; on his golden hair such shining as one has not elsewhere seen; his eyes like old wine on fire. and already he had swept his hand across the invisible strings, for there had arisen, the music of uncurling leaves and flitting things. a legend runs, that, driven from land to land by christians, apollo hid himself in lower austria, but those who ever they saw him there in the thirteenth century were wrong; it was to these enchanted chines, frequented only by the mountain shepherds, that he certainly came. and as we were lying on the grass, of the first alp, with the star gentians--those fallen drops of the sky--and the burnt-brown dandelions, and scattered shrubs of alpen-rose round us, we were visited by one of these very shepherds, passing with his flock--the fiercest-looking man who ever, spoke in a gentle voice; six feet high, with an orange cloak, bare knees; burnt as the very dandelions, a beard blacker than black, and eyes more glorious than if sun and night had dived and were lying imprisoned in their depths. he spoke in an unknown tongue, and could certainly not understand any word of ours; but he smelled of the good earth, and only through interminable watches under sun and stars could so great a gentleman have been perfected. presently, while we rested outside that alpine hut which faces the three sphinx-like mountains, there came back, from climbing the smallest and most dangerous of those peaks, one, pale from heat, and trembling with fatigue; a tall man, with long brown hands, and a long, thin, bearded face. and, as he sipped cautiously of red wine and water, he looked at his little conquered mountain. his kindly, screwed-up eyes, his kindly, bearded lips, even his limbs seemed smiling; and not for the world would we have jarred with words that rapt, smiling man, enjoying the sacred hour of him who has just proved himself. in silence we watched, in silence left him smiling, knowing somehow that we should remember him all our days. for there was in his smile the glamour of adventure just for the sake of danger; all that high instinct which takes a man out of his chair to brave what he need not. between that hut and the three mountains lies a saddle--astride of all beauty and all colour, master of a titanic chaos of deep clefts, tawny heights, red domes, far snow, and the purple of long shadows; and, standing there, we comprehended a little of what earth had been through in her time, to have made this playground for most glorious demons. mother earth! what travail undergone, what long heroic throes, had brought on her face such majesty! hereabout edelweiss was clinging to smoothed-out rubble; but a little higher, even the everlasting plant was lost, there was no more life. and presently we lay down on the mountain side, rather far apart. up here above trees and pasture the wind had a strange, bare voice, free from all outer influence, sweeping along with a cold, whiffing sound. on the warm stones, in full sunlight, uplifted over all the beauty of italy, one felt at first only delight in space and wild loveliness, in the unknown valleys, and the strength of the sun. it was so good to be alive; so ineffably good to be living in this most wonderful world, drinking air nectar. behind us, from the three mountains, came the frequent thud and scuffle of falling rocks, loosened by rains. the wind, mist, and winter snow had ground the powdery stones on which we lay to a pleasant bed, but once on a time they, too, had clung up there. and very slowly, one could not say how or when, the sense of joy began changing to a sense of fear. the awful impersonality of those great rock-creatures, the terrible impartiality of that cold, clinging wind which swept by, never an inch lifted above ground! not one tiny soul, the size of a midge or rock flower, lived here. not one little "i" breathed here, and loved! and we, too, some day would no longer love, having become part of this monstrous, lovely earth, of that cold, whiffling air. to be no longer able to love! it seemed incredible, too grim to bear; yet it was true! to become powder, and the wind; no more to feel the sunlight; to be loved no more! to become a whiffling noise, cold, without one's self! to drift on the breath of that noise, homeless! up here, there were not even those little velvet, grey-white flower-comrades we had plucked. no life! nothing but the creeping wind, and those great rocky heights, whence came the sound of falling-symbols of that cold, untimely state into which we, too, must pass. never more to love, nor to be loved! one could but turn to the earth, and press one's face to it, away from the wild loveliness. of what use loveliness that must be lost; of what use loveliness when one could not love? the earth was warm and firm beneath the palms of the hands; but there still came the sound of the impartial wind, and the careless roar of the stories falling. below, in those valleys amongst the living trees and grass, was the comradeship of unnumbered life, so that to pass out into peace, to step beyond, to die, seemed but a brotherly act, amongst all those others; but up here, where no creature breathed, we saw the heart of the desert that stretches before each little human soul. up here, it froze the spirit; even peace seemed mocking--hard as a stone. yet, to try and hide, to tuck one's head under one's own wing, was not possible in this air so crystal clear, so far above incense and the narcotics of set creeds, and the fevered breath of prayers and protestations. even to know that between organic and inorganic matter there is no gulf fixed, was of no peculiar comfort. the jealous wind came creeping over the lifeless limestone, removing even the poor solace of its warmth; one turned from it, desperate, to look up at the sky, the blue, burning, wide, ineffable, far sky. then slowly, without reason, that icy fear passed into a feeling, not of joy, not of peace, but as if life and death were exalted into what was neither life nor death, a strange and motionless vibration, in which one had been merged, and rested, utterly content, equipoised, divested of desire, endowed with life and death. but since this moment had come before its time, we got up, and, close together, marched on rather silently, in the hot sun. . my distant relative though i had not seen my distant relative for years--not, in fact, since he was obliged to give vancouver island up as a bad job--i knew him at once, when, with head a little on one side, and tea-cup held high, as if, to confer a blessing, he said: "hallo!" across the club smoking-room. thin as a lath--not one ounce heavier--tall, and very upright, with his pale forehead, and pale eyes, and pale beard, he had the air of a ghost of a man. he had always had that air. and his voice--that matter-of-fact and slightly nasal voice, with its thin, pragmatical tone--was like a wraith of optimism, issuing between pale lips. i noticed; too, that his town habiliments still had their unspeakable pale neatness, as if, poor things, they were trying to stare the daylight out of countenance. he brought his tea across to my bay window, with that wistful sociability of his, as of a man who cannot always find a listener. "but what are you doing in town?" i said. "i thought you were in yorkshire with your aunt." over his round, light eyes, fixed on something in the street, the lids fell quickly twice, as the film falls over the eyes of a parrot. "i'm after a job," he answered. "must be on the spot just now." and it seemed to me that i had heard those words from him before. "ah, yes," i said, "and do you think you'll get it?" but even as i spoke i felt sorry, remembering how many jobs he had been after in his time, and how soon they ended when he had got them. he answered: "oh, yes! they ought to give it me," then added rather suddenly: "you never know, though. people are so funny!" and crossing his thin legs, he went on to tell me, with quaint impersonality, a number of instances of how people had been funny in connection with jobs he had not been given. "you see," he ended, "the country's in such a state--capital going out of it every day. enterprise being killed all over the place. there's practically nothing to be had!" "ah!" i said, "you think it's worse, then, than it used to be?" he smiled; in that smile there was a shade of patronage. "we're going down-hill as fast as ever we can. national character's losing all its backbone. no wonder, with all this molly-coddling going on!" "oh!" i murmured, "molly-coddling? isn't that excessive?" "well! look at the way everything's being done for them! the working classes are losing their, self-respect as fast as ever they can. their independence is gone already!" "you think?" "sure of it! i'll give you an instance----" and he went on to describe to me the degeneracy of certain working men employed by his aunt and his eldest brother claud and his youngest brother alan. "they don't do a stroke more than they're obliged," he ended; "they know jolly well they've got their unions, and their pensions, and this insurance, to fall back on." it was evidently a subject on which he felt strongly. "yes," he muttered, "the nation is being rotted down." and a faint thrill of surprise passed through me. for the affairs of the nation moved him so much more strongly than his own. his voice already had a different ring, his eyes a different look. he eagerly leaned forward, and his long, straight backbone looked longer and straighter than ever. he was less the ghost of a man. a faint flush even had come into his pale cheeks, and he moved his well-kept hands emphatically. "oh, yes!" he said: "the country is going to the dogs, right enough; but you can't get them to see it. they go on sapping and sapping the independence of the people. if the working man's to be looked after, whatever he does--what on earth's to become of his go, and foresight, and perseverance?" in his rising voice a certain piquancy was left to its accent of the ruling class by that faint twang, which came, i remembered, from some slight defect in his tonsils. "mark my words! so long as we're on these lines, we shall do nothing. it's going against evolution. they say darwin's getting old-fashioned; all i know is, he's good enough for me. competition is the only thing." "but competition," i said, "is bitter cruel, and some people can't stand against it!" and i looked at him rather hard: "do you object to putting any sort of floor under the feet of people like that?" he let his voice drop a little, as if in deference to my scruples. "ah!" he said; "but if you once begin this sort of thing, there's no end to it. it's so insidious. the more they have, the more they want; and all the time they're losing fighting power. i've thought pretty deeply about this. it's shortsighted; it really doesn't do!" "but," i said, "surely you're not against saving people from being knocked out of time by old age, and accidents like illness, and the fluctuations of trade?" "oh!" he said, "i'm not a bit against charity. aunt emma's splendid about that. and claud's awfully good. i do what i can, myself." he looked at me, so queerly deprecating, that i quite liked him at that moment. at heart--i felt he was a good fellow. "all i think is," he went on, "that to give them something that they can rely on as a matter of course, apart from their own exertions, is the wrong principle altogether," and suddenly his voice began to rise again, and his eyes to stare. "i'm convinced that all this doing things for other people, and bolstering up the weak, is rotten. it stands to reason that it must be." he had risen to his feet, so preoccupied with the wrongness of that principle that he seemed to have forgotten my presence. and as he stood there in the window the light was too strong for him. all the thin incapacity of that shadowy figure was pitilessly displayed; the desperate narrowness in that long, pale face; the wambling look of those pale, well-kept hands--all that made him such a ghost of a man. but his nasal, dogmatic voice rose and rose. "there's nothing for it but bracing up! we must cut away all this state support; we must teach them to rely on themselves. it's all sheer pauperisation." and suddenly there shot through me the fear that he might burst one of those little blue veins in his pale forehead, so vehement had he become; and hastily i changed the subject. "do you like living up there with your aunt?" i asked: "isn't it a bit quiet?" he turned, as if i had awakened him from a dream. "oh, well!" he said, "it's only till i get this job." "let me see--how long is it since you----?" "four years. she's very glad to have me, of course." "and how's your brother claud?" "oh! all right, thanks; a bit worried with the estate. the poor old gov'nor left it in rather a mess, you know." "ah! yes. does he do other work?" "oh! always busy in the parish." "and your brother richard?" "he's all right. came home this year. got just enough to live on, with his pension--hasn't saved a rap, of course." "and willie? is he still delicate?" "yes." "i'm sorry." "easy job, his, you know. and even if his health does give out, his college pals will always find him some sort of sinecure. so jolly popular, old willie!" "and alan? i haven't heard anything of him since his peruvian thing came to grief. he married, didn't he?" "rather! one of the burleys. nice girl--heiress; lot of property in hampshire. he looks after it for her now." "doesn't do anything else, i suppose?" "keeps up his antiquarianism." i had exhausted the members of his family. then, as though by eliciting the good fortunes of his brothers i had cast some slur upon himself, he said suddenly: "if the railway had come, as it ought to have, while i was out there, i should have done quite well with my fruit farm." "of course," i agreed; "it was bad luck. but after all, you're sure to get a job soon, and--so long as you can live up there with your aunt--you can afford to wait, and not bother." "yes," he murmured. and i got up. "well, it's been very jolly to hear about you all!" he followed me out. "awfully glad, old man," he said, "to have seen you, and had this talk. i was feeling rather low. waiting to know whether i get that job--it's not lively." he came down the club steps with me. by the door of my cab a loafer was standing; a tall tatterdemalion with a pale, bearded face. my distant relative fended him away, and leaning through the window, murmured: "awful lot of these chaps about now!" for the life of me i could not help looking at him very straight. but no flicker of apprehension crossed his face. "well, good-by again!" he said: "you've cheered me up a lot!" i glanced back from my moving cab. some monetary transaction was passing between him and the loafer, but, short-sighted as i am, i found it difficult to decide which of those tall, pale, bearded figures was giving the other one a penny. and by some strange freak an awful vision shot up before me--of myself, and my distant relative, and claud, and richard, and willie, and alan, all suddenly relying on ourselves. i took out my handkerchief to mop my brow; but a thought struck me, and i put it back. was it possible for me, and my distant relatives, and their distant relatives, and so on to infinity of those who be longed to a class provided by birth with a certain position, raised by providence on to a platform made up of money inherited, of interest, of education fitting us for certain privileged pursuits, of friends similarly endowed, of substantial homes, and substantial relatives of some sort or other, on whom we could fall back--was it possible for any of us ever to be in the position of having to rely absolutely on ourselves? for several minutes i pondered that question; and slowly i came to the conclusion that, short of crime, or that unlikely event, marooning, it was not possible. never, never--try as we might--could any single one of us be quite in the position of one of those whose approaching pauperisation my distant relative had so vehemently deplored. we were already pauperised. if we served our country, we were pensioned.... if we inherited land, it could not be taken from us. if we went into the church, we were there for life, whether we were suitable or no. if we attempted the more hazardous occupations of the law, medicine, the arts, or business, there were always those homes, those relations, those friends of ours to fall back on, if we failed. no! we could never have to rely entirely on ourselves; we could never be pauperised more than we were already! and a light burst in on me. that explained why my distant relative felt so keenly. it bit him, for he saw, of course, how dreadful it would be for these poor people of the working classes when legislation had succeeded in placing them in the humiliating position in which we already were--the dreadful position of having something to depend on apart from our own exertions, some sort of security in our lives. i saw it now. it was his secret pride, gnawing at him all the time, that made him so rabid on the point. he was longing, doubtless, day and night, not to have had a father who had land, and had left a sister well enough off to keep him while he was waiting for his job. he must be feeling how horribly degrading was the position of claud--inheriting that land; and of richard, who, just because he had served in the indian civil service, had got to live on a pension all the rest of his days; and of willie, who was in danger at any moment, if his health--always delicate--gave out, of having a sinecure found for him by his college friends; and of alan, whose educated charm had enabled him to marry an heiress and live by managing her estates. all, all sapped of go and foresight and perseverance by a cruel providence! that was what he was really feeling, and concealing, be cause he was too well-bred to show his secret grief. and i felt suddenly quite warm toward him, now that i saw how he was suffering. i understood how bound he felt in honour to combat with all his force this attempt to place others in his own distressing situation. at the same time i was honest enough to confess to myself sitting there in the cab--that i did not personally share that pride of his, or feel that i was being rotted by my own position; i even felt some dim gratitude that if my powers gave out at any time, and i had not saved anything, i should still not be left destitute to face the prospect of a bleak and impoverished old age; and i could not help a weak pleasure in the thought that a certain relative security was being guaranteed to those people of the working classes who had never had it before. at the same moment i quite saw that to a prouder and stronger heart it must indeed be bitter to have to sit still under your own security, and even more bitter to have to watch that pauperising security coming closer and closer to others--for the generous soul is always more concerned for others than for himself. no doubt, i thought, if truth were known, my distant relative is consumed with longing to change places with that loafer who tried to open the door of my cab--for surely he must see, as i do, that that is just what he himself--having failed to stand the pressure of competition in his life--would be doing if it were not for the accident of his birth, which has so lamentably insured him against coming to that. "yes," i thought, "you have learnt something to-day; it does not do, you see, hastily to despise those distant relatives of yours, who talk about pauperising and molly-coddling the lower classes. no, no! one must look deeper than that! one must have generosity!" and with that i stopped the cab and got out for i wanted a breath of air. the black godmother sitting out on the lawn at tea with our friend and his retriever, we had been discussing those massacres of the helpless which had of late occurred, and wondering that they should have been committed by the soldiery of so civilised a state, when, in a momentary pause of our astonishment, our friend, who had been listening in silence, crumpling the drooping soft ear of his dog, looked up and said, "the cause of atrocities is generally the violence of fear. panic's at the back of most crimes and follies." knowing that his philosophical statements were always the result of concrete instance, and that he would not tell us what that instance was if we asked him--such being his nature--we were careful not to agree. he gave us a look out of those eyes of his, so like the eyes of a mild eagle, and said abruptly: "what do you say to this, then?..... i was out in the dog-days last year with this fellow of mine, looking for osmunda, and stayed some days in a village--never mind the name. coming back one evening from my tramp, i saw some boys stoning a mealy-coloured dog. i went up and told the young devils to stop it. they only looked at me in the injured way boys do, and one of them called out, 'it's mad, guv'nor!' i told them to clear off, and they took to their heels. the dog followed me. it was a young, leggy, mild looking mongrel, cross--i should say--between a brown retriever and an irish terrier. there was froth about its lips, and its eyes were watery; it looked indeed as if it might be in distemper. i was afraid of infection for this fellow of mine, and whenever it came too close shooed it away, till at last it slunk off altogether. well, about nine o'clock, when i was settling down to write by the open window of my sitting-room--still daylight, and very quiet and warm--there began that most maddening sound, the barking of an unhappy dog. i could do nothing with that continual 'yap yap!' going on, and it was too hot to shut the window; so i went out to see if i could stop it. the men were all at the pub, and the women just finished with their gossip; there was no sound at all but the continual barking of this dog, somewhere away out in the fields. i travelled by ear across three meadows, till i came on a hay-stack by a pool of water. there was the dog sure enough--the same mealy-coloured mongrel, tied to a stake, yapping, and making frantic little runs on a bit of rusty chain; whirling round and round the stake, then standing quite still, and shivering. i went up and spoke to it, but it backed into the hay-stack, and there it stayed shrinking away from me, with its tongue hanging out. it had been heavily struck by something on the head; the cheek was cut, one eye half-closed, and an ear badly swollen. i tried to get hold of it, but the poor thing was beside itself with fear. it snapped and flew round so that i had to give it up, and sit down with this fellow here beside me, to try and quiet it--a strange dog, you know, will generally form his estimate of you from the way it sees you treat another dog. i had to sit there quite half an hour before it would let me go up to it, pull the stake out, and lead it away. the poor beast, though it was so feeble from the blows it had received, was still half-frantic, and i didn't dare to touch it; and all the time i took good care that this fellow here didn't come too near. then came the question what was to be done. there was no vet, of course, and i'd no place to put it except my sitting-room, which didn't belong to me. but, looking at its battered head, and its half-mad eyes, i thought: 'no trusting you with these bumpkins; you'll have to come in here for the night!' well, i got it in, and heaped two or three of those hairy little red rugs landladies are so fond of, up in a corner; and got it on to them, and put down my bread and milk. but it wouldn't eat--its sense of proportion was all gone, fairly destroyed by terror. it lay there moaning, and every now and then it raised its head with a 'yap' of sheer fright, dreadful to hear, and bit the air, as if its enemies were on it again; and this fellow of mine lay in the opposite corner, with his head on his paw, watching it. i sat up for a long time with that poor beast, sick enough, and wondering how it had come to be stoned and kicked and battered into this state; and next day i made it my business to find out." our friend paused, scanned us a little angrily, and then went on: "it had made its first appearance, it seems, following a bicyclist. there are men, you know--save the mark--who, when their beasts get ill or too expensive, jump on their bicycles and take them for a quick run, taking care never to look behind them. when they get back home they say: 'hallo! where's fido?' fido is nowhere, and there's an end! well, this poor puppy gave up just as it got to our village; and, roaming shout in search of water, attached itself to a farm labourer. the man with excellent intentions--as he told me himself--tried to take hold of it, but too abruptly, so that it was startled, and snapped at him. whereon he kicked it for a dangerous cur, and it went drifting back toward the village, and fell in with the boys coming home from school. it thought, no doubt, that they were going to kick it too, and nipped one of them who took it by the collar. thereupon they hullabalooed and stoned it down the road to where i found them. then i put in my little bit of torture, and drove it away, through fear of infection to my own dog. after that it seems to have fallen in with a man who told me: 'well, you see, he came sneakin' round my house, with the children playin', and snapped at them when they went to stroke him, so that they came running in to their mother, an' she' called to me in a fine takin' about a mad dog. i ran out with a shovel and gave 'im one, and drove him out. i'm sorry if he wasn't mad, he looked it right enough; you can't be too careful with strange dogs.' its next acquaintance was an old stone-breaker, a very decent sort. 'well! you see,' the old man explained to me, 'the dog came smellin' round my stones, an' it wouldn' come near, an' it wouldn' go away; it was all froth and blood about the jaw, and its eyes glared green at me. i thought to meself, bein' the dog-days--i don't like the look o' you, you look funny! so i took a stone, an' got it here, just on the ear; an' it fell over. and i thought to meself: well, you've got to finish it, or it'll go bitin' somebody, for sure! but when i come to it with my hammer, the dog it got up--an' you know how it is when there's somethin' you've 'alf killed, and you feel sorry, and yet you feel you must finish it, an' you hit at it blind, you hit at it agen an' agen. the poor thing, it wriggled and snapped, an' i was terrified it'd bite me, an' some'ow it got away."' again our friend paused, and this time we dared not look at him. "the next hospitality it was shown," he went on presently, "was by a farmer, who, seeing it all bloody, drove it off, thinking it had been digging up a lamb that he'd just buried. the poor homeless beast came sneaking back, so he told his men to get rid of it. well, they got hold of it somehow--there was a hole in its neck that looked as if they'd used a pitchfork--and, mortally afraid of its biting them, but not liking, as they told me, to drown it, for fear the owner might come on them, they got a stake and a chain, and fastened it up, and left it in the water by the hay-stack where i found it. i had some conversation with that farmer. 'that's right,' he said, 'but who was to know? i couldn't have my sheep worried. the brute had blood on his muzzle. these curs do a lot of harm when they've once been blooded. you can't run risks."' our friend cut viciously at a dandelion with his stick. "run risks!" he broke out suddenly: "that was it from beginning to end of that poor beast's sufferings, fear! from that fellow on the bicycle, afraid of the worry and expense, as soon as it showed signs of distemper, to myself and the man with the pitch fork--not one of us, i daresay, would have gone out of our way to do it--a harm. but we felt fear, and so by the law of self-preservation, or what ever you like--it all began, till there the poor thing was, with a battered head and a hole in its neck, ravenous with hunger, and too distraught even to lap my bread and milk. yes, and there's something uncanny about a suffering animal--we sat watching it, and again we were afraid, looking at its eyes and the way it bit the air. fear! it's the black godmother of all damnable things!" our friend bent down, crumpling and crumpling at his dog's ears. we, too, gazed at the ground, thinking of, that poor lost puppy, and the horrible inevitability of all that happens, seeing men are what they are; thinking of all the foul doings in the world, whose black godmother is fear. "and what became of the poor dog?" one of us asked at last. "when," said our friend slowly, "i'd had my fill of watching, i covered it with a rug, took this fellow away with me, and went to bed. there was nothing else to do. at dawn i was awakened by three dreadful cries--not like a dog's at all. i hurried down. there was the poor beast--wriggled out from under the rug-stretched on its side, dead. this fellow of mine had followed me in, and he went and sat down by the body. when i spoke to him he just looked round, and wagged his tail along the ground, but would not come away; and there he sat till it was buried, very interested, but not sorry at all." our friend was silent, looking angrily at something in the distance. and we, too, were silent, seeing in spirit that vigil of early morning: the thin, lifeless, sandy-coloured body, stretched on those red mats; and this black creature--now lying at our feet--propped on its haunches like the dog in "the death of procris," patient, curious, ungrieved, staring down at it with his bright, interested eyes. . studies and essays by john galsworthy "je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal." --anatole france concerning life table of contents: quality the grand jury gone threshing that old-time place romance--three gleams memories felicity quality i knew him from the days of my extreme youth, because he made my father's boots; inhabiting with his elder brother two little shops let into one, in a small by-street-now no more, but then most fashionably placed in the west end. that tenement had a certain quiet distinction; there was no sign upon its face that he made for any of the royal family--merely his own german name of gessler brothers; and in the window a few pairs of boots. i remember that it always troubled me to account for those unvarying boots in the window, for he made only what was ordered, reaching nothing down, and it seemed so inconceivable that what he made could ever have failed to fit. had he bought them to put there? that, too, seemed inconceivable. he would never have tolerated in his house leather on which he had not worked himself. besides, they were too beautiful--the pair of pumps, so inexpressibly slim, the patent leathers with cloth tops, making water come into one's mouth, the tall brown riding boots with marvellous sooty glow, as if, though new, they had been worn a hundred years. those pairs could only have been made by one who saw before him the soul of boot--so truly were they prototypes incarnating the very spirit of all foot-gear. these thoughts, of course, came to me later, though even when i was promoted to him, at the age of perhaps fourteen, some inkling haunted me of the dignity of himself and brother. for to make boots--such boots as he made--seemed to me then, and still seems to me, mysterious and wonderful. i remember well my shy remark, one day, while stretching out to him my youthful foot: "isn't it awfully hard to do, mr. gessler?" and his answer, given with a sudden smile from out of the sardonic redness of his beard: "id is an ardt!" himself, he was a little as if made from leather, with his yellow crinkly face, and crinkly reddish hair and beard; and neat folds slanting down his cheeks to the corners of his mouth, and his guttural and one-toned voice; for leather is a sardonic substance, and stiff and slow of purpose. and that was the character of his face, save that his eyes, which were grey-blue, had in them the simple gravity of one secretly possessed by the ideal. his elder brother was so very like him--though watery, paler in every way, with a great industry--that sometimes in early days i was not quite sure of him until the interview was over. then i knew that it was he, if the words, "i will ask my brudder," had not been spoken; and that, if they had, it was his elder brother. when one grew old and wild and ran up bills, one somehow never ran them up with gessler brothers. it would not have seemed becoming to go in there and stretch out one's foot to that blue iron-spectacled glance, owing him for more than--say--two pairs, just the comfortable reassurance that one was still his client. for it was not possible to go to him very often--his boots lasted terribly, having something beyond the temporary--some, as it were, essence of boot stitched into them. one went in, not as into most shops, in the mood of: "please serve me, and let me go!" but restfully, as one enters a church; and, sitting on the single wooden chair, waited--for there was never anybody there. soon, over the top edge of that sort of well--rather dark, and smelling soothingly of leather--which formed the shop, there would be seen his face, or that of his elder brother, peering down. a guttural sound, and the tip-tap of bast slippers beating the narrow wooden stairs, and he would stand before one without coat, a little bent, in leather apron, with sleeves turned back, blinking--as if awakened from some dream of boots, or like an owl surprised in daylight and annoyed at this interruption. and i would say: "how do you do, mr. gessler? could you make me a pair of russia leather boots?" without a word he would leave me, retiring whence he came, or into the other portion of the shop, and i would, continue to rest in the wooden chair, inhaling the incense of his trade. soon he would come back, holding in his thin, veined hand a piece of gold-brown leather. with eyes fixed on it, he would remark: "what a beaudiful biece!" when i, too, had admired it, he would speak again. "when do you wand dem?" and i would answer: "oh! as soon as you conveniently can." and he would say: "to-morrow fordnighd?" or if he were his elder brother: "i will ask my brudder!" then i would murmur: "thank you! good-morning, mr. gessler." "goot-morning!" he would reply, still looking at the leather in his hand. and as i moved to the door, i would hear the tip-tap of his bast slippers restoring him, up the stairs, to his dream of boots. but if it were some new kind of foot-gear that he had not yet made me, then indeed he would observe ceremony--divesting me of my boot and holding it long in his hand, looking at it with eyes at once critical and loving, as if recalling the glow with which he had created it, and rebuking the way in which one had disorganized this masterpiece. then, placing my foot on a piece of paper, he would two or three times tickle the outer edges with a pencil and pass his nervous fingers over my toes, feeling himself into the heart of my requirements. i cannot forget that day on which i had occasion to say to him; "mr. gessler, that last pair of town walking-boots creaked, you know." he looked at me for a time without replying, as if expecting me to withdraw or qualify the statement, then said: "id shouldn'd 'ave greaked." "it did, i'm afraid." "you goddem wed before dey found demselves?" "i don't think so." at that he lowered his eyes, as if hunting for memory of those boots, and i felt sorry i had mentioned this grave thing. "zend dem back!" he said; "i will look at dem." a feeling of compassion for my creaking boots surged up in me, so well could i imagine the sorrowful long curiosity of regard which he would bend on them. "zome boods," he said slowly, "are bad from birdt. if i can do noding wid dem, i dake dem off your bill." once (once only) i went absent-mindedly into his shop in a pair of boots bought in an emergency at some large firm's. he took my order without showing me any leather, and i could feel his eyes penetrating the inferior integument of my foot. at last he said: "dose are nod my boods." the tone was not one of anger, nor of sorrow, not even of contempt, but there was in it something quiet that froze the blood. he put his hand down and pressed a finger on the place where the left boot, endeavouring to be fashionable, was not quite comfortable. "id 'urds you dere,", he said. "dose big virms 'ave no self-respect. drash!" and then, as if something had given way within him, he spoke long and bitterly. it was the only time i ever heard him discuss the conditions and hardships of his trade. "dey get id all," he said, "dey get id by adverdisement, nod by work. dey dake it away from us, who lofe our boods. id gomes to this--bresently i haf no work. every year id gets less you will see." and looking at his lined face i saw things i had never noticed before, bitter things and bitter struggle--and what a lot of grey hairs there seemed suddenly in his red beard! as best i could, i explained the circumstances of the purchase of those ill-omened boots. but his face and voice made so deep impression that during the next few minutes i ordered many pairs. nemesis fell! they lasted more terribly than ever. and i was not able conscientiously to go to him for nearly two years. when at last i went i was surprised to find that outside one of the two little windows of his shop another name was painted, also that of a bootmaker-making, of course, for the royal family. the old familiar boots, no longer in dignified isolation, were huddled in the single window. inside, the now contracted well of the one little shop was more scented and darker than ever. and it was longer than usual, too, before a face peered down, and the tip-tap of the bast slippers began. at last he stood before me, and, gazing through those rusty iron spectacles, said: "mr.-----, isn'd it?" "ah! mr. gessler," i stammered, "but your boots are really too good, you know! see, these are quite decent still!" and i stretched out to him my foot. he looked at it. "yes," he said, "beople do nod wand good hoods, id seems." to get away from his reproachful eyes and voice i hastily remarked: "what have you done to your shop?" he answered quietly: "id was too exbensif. do you wand some boods?" i ordered three pairs, though i had only wanted two, and quickly left. i had, i do not know quite what feeling of being part, in his mind, of a conspiracy against him; or not perhaps so much against him as against his idea of boot. one does not, i suppose, care to feel like that; for it was again many months before my next visit to his shop, paid, i remember, with the feeling: "oh! well, i can't leave the old boy--so here goes! perhaps it'll be his elder brother!" for his elder brother, i knew, had not character enough to reproach me, even dumbly. and, to my relief, in the shop there did appear to be his elder brother, handling a piece of leather. "well, mr. gessler," i said, "how are you?" he came close, and peered at me. "i am breddy well," he said slowly "but my elder brudder is dead." and i saw that it was indeed himself--but how aged and wan! and never before had i heard him mention his brother. much shocked; i murmured: "oh! i am sorry!" "yes," he answered, "he was a good man, he made a good bood; but he is dead." and he touched the top of his head, where the hair had suddenly gone as thin as it had been on that of his poor brother, to indicate, i suppose, the cause of death. "he could nod ged over losing de oder shop. do you wand any hoods?" and he held up the leather in his hand: "id's a beaudiful biece." i ordered several pairs. it was very long before they came--but they were better than ever. one simply could not wear them out. and soon after that i went abroad. it was over a year before i was again in london. and the first shop i went to was my old friend's. i had left a man of sixty, i came back to one of seventy-five, pinched and worn and tremulous, who genuinely, this time, did not at first know me. "oh! mr. gessler," i said, sick at heart; "how splendid your boots are! see, i've been wearing this pair nearly all the time i've been abroad; and they're not half worn out, are they?" he looked long at my boots--a pair of russia leather, and his face seemed to regain steadiness. putting his hand on my instep, he said: "do dey vid you here? i 'ad drouble wid dat bair, i remember." i assured him that they had fitted beautifully. "do you wand any boods?" he said. "i can make dem quickly; id is a slack dime." i answered: "please, please! i want boots all round--every kind!" "i will make a vresh model. your food must be bigger." and with utter slowness, he traced round my foot, and felt my toes, only once looking up to say: "did i dell you my brudder was dead?" to watch him was painful, so feeble had he grown; i was glad to get away. i had given those boots up, when one evening they came. opening the parcel, i set the four pairs out in a row. then one by one i tried them on. there was no doubt about it. in shape and fit, in finish and quality of leather, they were the best he had ever made me. and in the mouth of one of the town walking-boots i found his bill. the amount was the same as usual, but it gave me quite a shock. he had never before sent it in till quarter day. i flew down-stairs, and wrote a cheque, and posted it at once with my own hand. a week later, passing the little street, i thought i would go in and tell him how splendidly the new boots fitted. but when i came to where his shop had been, his name was gone. still there, in the window, were the slim pumps, the patent leathers with cloth tops, the sooty riding boots. i went in, very much disturbed. in the two little shops--again made into one--was a young man with an english face. "mr. gessler in?" i said. he gave me a strange, ingratiating look. "no, sir," he said, "no. but we can attend to anything with pleasure. we've taken the shop over. you've seen our name, no doubt, next door. we make for some very good people." "yes, yes," i said; "but mr. gessler?" "oh!" he answered; "dead." "dead! but i only received these boots from him last wednesday week." "ah!" he said; "a shockin' go. poor old man starved 'imself." "good god!" "slow starvation, the doctor called it! you see he went to work in such a way! would keep the shop on; wouldn't have a soul touch his boots except himself. when he got an order, it took him such a time. people won't wait. he lost everybody. and there he'd sit, goin' on and on--i will say that for him not a man in london made a better boot! but look at the competition! he never advertised! would 'ave the best leather, too, and do it all 'imself. well, there it is. what could you expect with his ideas?" "but starvation----!" "that may be a bit flowery, as the sayin' is--but i know myself he was sittin' over his boots day and night, to the very last. you see i used to watch him. never gave 'imself time to eat; never had a penny in the house. all went in rent and leather. how he lived so long i don't know. he regular let his fire go out. he was a character. but he made good boots." "yes," i said, "he made good boots." and i turned and went out quickly, for i did not want that youth to know that i could hardly see. the grand jury--in two panels and a frame read that piece of paper, which summoned me to sit on the grand jury at the approaching sessions, lying in a scoop of the shore close to the great rollers of the sea--that span of eternal freedom, deprived just there of too great liberty by the word "atlantic." and i remember thinking, as i read, that in each breaking wave was some particle which had visited every shore in all the world--that in each sparkle of hot sunlight stealing that bright water up into the sky, was the microcosm of all change, and of all unity. panel i in answer to that piece of paper, i presented myself at the proper place in due course and with a certain trepidation. what was it that i was about to do? for i had no experience of these things. and, being too early, i walked a little to and fro, looking at all those my partners in this matter of the purification of society. prosecutors, witnesses, officials, policemen, detectives, undetected, pressmen, barristers, loafers, clerks, cadgers, jurymen. and i remember having something of the feeling that one has when one looks into a sink without holding one's nose. there was such uneasy hurry, so strange a disenchanted look, a sort of spiritual dirt, about all that place, and there were--faces! and i thought: to them my face must seem as their faces seem to me! soon i was taken with my accomplices to have my name called, and to be sworn. i do not remember much about that process, too occupied with wondering what these companions of mine were like; but presently we all came to a long room with a long table, where nineteen lists of indictments and nineteen pieces of blotting paper were set alongside nineteen pens. we did not, i recollect, speak much to one another, but sat down, and studied those nineteen lists. we had eighty-seven cases on which to pronounce whether the bill was true or no; and the clerk assured us we should get through them in two days at most. over the top of these indictments i regarded my eighteen fellows. there was in me a hunger of inquiry, as to what they thought about this business; and a sort of sorrowful affection for them, as if we were all a ship's company bound on some strange and awkward expedition. i wondered, till i thought my wonder must be coming through my eyes, whether they had the same curious sensation that i was feeling, of doing something illegitimate, which i had not been born to do, together with a sense of self-importance, a sort of unholy interest in thus dealing with the lives of my fellow men. and slowly, watching them, i came to the conclusion that i need not wonder. all with the exception perhaps of two, a painter and a jew looked such good citizens. i became gradually sure that they were not troubled with the lap and wash of speculation; unclogged by any devastating sense of unity; pure of doubt, and undefiled by an uneasy conscience. but now they began to bring us in the evidence. they brought it quickly. and at first we looked at it, whatever it was, with a sort of solemn excitement. were we not arbiters of men's fates, purifiers of society, more important by far than judge or common jury? for if we did not bring in a true bill there was an end; the accused would be discharged. we set to work, slowly at first, then faster and still faster, bringing in true bills; and after every one making a mark in our lists so that we might know where we were. we brought in true bills for burglary, and false pretences, larceny, and fraud; we brought them in for manslaughter, rape, and arson. when we had ten or so, two of us would get up and bear them away down to the court below and lay them before the judge. "thank you, gentlemen!" he would say, or words to that effect; and we would go up again, and go on bringing in true bills. i noticed that at the evidence of each fresh bill we looked with a little less excitement, and a little less solemnity, making every time a shorter tick and a shorter note in the margin of our lists. all the bills we had--fifty-seven--we brought in true. and the morning and the afternoon made that day, till we rested and went to our homes. next day we were all back in our places at the appointed hour, and, not greeting each other much, at once began to bring in bills. we brought them in, not quite so fast, as though some lurking megrim, some microbe of dissatisfaction with ourselves was at work within us. it was as if we wanted to throw one out, as if we felt our work too perfect. and presently it came. a case of defrauding one sophie liebermann, or laubermann, or some such foreign name, by giving her one of those five-pound christmas-card banknotes just then in fashion, and receiving from her, as she alleged, three real sovereigns change. there was a certain piquancy about the matter, and i well remember noticing how we sat a little forward and turned in our seats when they brought in the prosecutrix to give evidence. pale, self-possessed, dressed in black, and rather comely, neither brazen nor furtive, speaking but poor english, her broad, matter-of-fact face, with its wide-set grey eyes and thickish nose and lips, made on me, i recollect, an impression of rather stupid honesty. i do not think they had told us in so many words what her calling was, nor do i remember whether she actually disclosed it, but by our demeanour i could tell that we had all realized what was the nature of the service rendered to the accused, in return for which he had given her this worthless note. in her rather guttural but pleasant voice she answered all our questions--not very far from tears, i think, but saved by native stolidity, and perhaps a little by the fear that purifiers of society might not be the proper audience for emotion. when she had left us we recalled the detective, and still, as it were, touching the delicate matter with the tips of our tongues, so as not, being men of the world, to seem biassed against anything, we definitely elicited from him her profession and these words: "if she's speaking the truth, gentlemen; but, as you know, these women, they don't always, specially the foreign ones!" when he, too, had gone, we looked at each other in unwonted silence. none of us quite liked, it seemed, to be first to speak. then our foreman said: "there's no doubt, i think, that he gave her the note--mean trick, of course, but we can't have him on that alone--bit too irregular--no consideration in law, i take it." he smiled a little at our smiles, and then went on: "the question, gentlemen, really seems to be, are we to take her word that she actually gave him change?" again, for quite half a minute; we were silent, and then, the fattest one of us said, suddenly: "very dangerous--goin' on the word of these women." and at once, as if he had released something in our souls, we all (save two or three) broke out. it wouldn't do! it wasn't safe! seeing what these women were! it was exactly as if, without word said, we had each been swearing the other to some secret compact to protect society. as if we had been whispering to each other something like this: "these women--of course, we need them, but for all that we can't possibly recognise them as within the law; we can't do that without endangering the safety of every one of us. in this matter we are trustees for all men--indeed, even for ourselves, for who knows at what moment we might not ourselves require their services, and it would be exceedingly awkward if their word were considered the equal of our own!" not one of us, certainly said anything so crude as this; none the less did many of us feel it. then the foreman, looking slowly round the table, said: "well, gentlemen, i think we are all agreed to throw out this bill"; and all, except the painter, the jew, and one other, murmured: "yes." and, as though, in throwing out this bill we had cast some trouble off our minds, we went on with the greater speed, bringing in true bills. about two o'clock we finished, and trooped down to the court to be released. on the stairway the jew came close, and, having examined me a little sharply with his velvety slits of eyes, as if to see that he was not making a mistake, said: "ith fonny--we bring in eighty thix bills true, and one we throw out, and the one we throw out we know it to be true, and the dirtieth job of the whole lot. ith fonny!" "yes," i answered him, "our sense of respectability does seem excessive." but just then we reached the court, where, in his red robe and grey wig, with his clear-cut, handsome face, the judge seemed to shine and radiate, like sun through gloom. "i thank you, gentlemen," he said, in a voice courteous and a little mocking, as though he had somewhere seen us before: "i thank you for the way in which you have performed your duties. i have not the pleasure of assigning to you anything for your services except the privilege of going over a prison, where you will be able to see what sort of existence awaits many of those to whose cases you have devoted so much of your valuable time. you are released, gentlemen." looking at each, other a little hurriedly, and not taking too much farewell, for fear of having to meet again, we separated. i was, then, free--free of the injunction of that piece of paper reposing in my pocket. yet its influence was still upon me. i did not hurry away, but lingered in the courts, fascinated by the notion that the fate of each prisoner had first passed through my hands. at last i made an effort, and went out into the corridor. there i passed a woman whose figure seemed familiar. she was sitting with her hands in her lap looking straight before her, pale-faced and not uncomely, with thickish mouth and nose--the woman whose bill we had thrown out. why was she sitting there? had she not then realised that we had quashed her claim; or was she, like myself, kept here by mere attraction of the law? following i know not what impulse, i said: "your case was dismissed, wasn't it?" she looked up at me stolidly, and a tear, which had evidently been long gathering, dropped at the movement. "i do nod know; i waid to see," she said in her thick voice; "i tink there has been mistake." my face, no doubt, betrayed something of my sentiments about her case, for the thick tears began rolling fast down her pasty cheeks, and her pent-up feeling suddenly flowed forth in words: "i work 'ard; gott! how i work hard! and there gomes dis liddle beastly man, and rob me. and they say: 'ah! yes; but you are a bad woman, we don' trust you--you speak lie.' but i speak druth, i am nod a bad woman--i gome from hamburg." "yes, yes," i murmured; "yes, yes." "i do not know this country well, sir. i speak bad english. is that why they do not drust my word?" she was silent for a moment, searching my face, then broke out again: "it is all 'ard work in my profession, i make very liddle, i cannot afford to be rob. without the men i cannod make my living, i must drust them--and they rob me like this, it is too 'ard." and the slow tears rolled faster and faster from her eyes on to her hands and her black lap. then quietly, and looking for a moment singularly like a big, unhappy child, she asked: "will you blease dell me, sir, why they will not give me the law of that dirty little man?" i knew--and too well; but i could not tell her. "you see," i said, "it's just a case of your word against his." "oh! no; but," she said eagerly, "he give me the note--i would not have taken it if i 'ad not thought it good, would i? that is sure, isn't it? but five pounds it is not my price. it must that i give 'im change! those gentlemen that heard my case, they are men of business, they must know that it is not my price. if i could tell the judge--i think he is a man of business too he would know that too, for sure. i am not so young. i am not so veree beautiful as all that; he must see, mustn't he, sir?" at my wits' end how to answer that most strange question, i stammered out: "but, you know, your profession is outside the law." at that a slow anger dyed her face. she looked down; then, suddenly lifting one of her dirty, ungloved hands, she laid it on her breast with the gesture of one baring to me the truth in her heart. "i am not a bad woman," she said: "dat beastly little man, he do the same as me--i am free-woman, i am not a slave bound to do the same to-morrow night, no more than he. such like him make me what i am; he have all the pleasure, i have all the work. he give me noding--he rob my poor money, and he make me seem to strangers a bad woman. oh, dear! i am not happy!" the impulse i had been having to press on her the money, died within me; i felt suddenly it would be another insult. from the movement of her fingers about her heart i could not but see that this grief of hers was not about the money. it was the inarticulate outburst of a bitter sense of deep injustice; of all the dumb wondering at her own fate that went about with her behind that broad stolid face and bosom. this loss of the money was but a symbol of the furtive, hopeless insecurity she lived with day and night, now forced into the light, for herself and all the world to see. she felt it suddenly a bitter, unfair thing. this beastly little man did not share her insecurity. none of us shared it--none of us, who had brought her down to this. and, quite unable to explain to her how natural and proper it all was, i only murmured: "i am sorry, awfully sorry," and fled away. panel ii it was just a week later when, having for passport my grand jury summons, i presented myself at that prison where we had the privilege of seeing the existence to which we had assisted so many of the eighty-six. "i'm afraid," i said to the guardian of the gate, "that i am rather late in availing myself--the others, no doubt----?" "not at all, sir," he said, smiling. "you're the first, and if you'll excuse me, i think you'll be the last. will you wait in here while i send for the chief warder to take you over?" he showed me then to what he called the warder's library--an iron-barred room, more bare and brown than any i had seen since i left school. while i stood there waiting and staring out into the prison court-yard, there came, rolling and rumbling in, a black maria. it drew up with a clatter, and i saw through the barred door the single prisoner--a young girl of perhaps eighteen--dressed in rusty black. she was resting her forehead against a bar and looking out, her quick, narrow dark eyes taking in her new surroundings with a sort of sharp, restless indifference; and her pale, thin-upped, oval face quite expressionless. behind those bars she seemed to me for all the world like a little animal of the cat tribe being brought in to her zoo. me she did not see, but if she had i felt she would not shrink--only give me the same sharp, indifferent look she was giving all else. the policeman on the step behind had disappeared at once, and the driver now got down from his perch and, coming round, began to gossip with her. i saw her slink her eyes and smile at him, and he smiled back; a large man; not unkindly. then he returned to his horses, and she stayed as before, with her forehead against the bars, just staring out. watching her like that, unseen, i seemed to be able to see right through that tight-lipped, lynx-eyed mask. i seemed to know that little creature through and through, as one knows anything that one surprises off its guard, sunk in its most private moods. i seemed to see her little restless, furtive, utterly unmoral soul, so stripped of all defence, as if she had taken it from her heart and handed it out to me. i saw that she was one of those whose hands slip as indifferently into others' pockets as into their own; incapable of fidelity, and incapable of trusting; quick as cats, and as devoid of application; ready to scratch, ready to purr, ready to scratch again; quick to change, and secretly as unchangeable as a little pebble. and i thought: "here we are, taking her to the zoo (by no means for the first time, if demeanour be any guide), and we shall put her in a cage, and make her sew, and give her good books which she will not read; and she will sew, and walk up and down, until we let her out; then she will return to her old haunts, and at once go prowling and do exactly the same again, what ever it was, until we catch her and lock her up once more. and in this way we shall go on purifying society until she dies." and i thought: if indeed she had been created cat in body as well as in soul, we should not have treated her thus, but should have said: 'go on, little cat, you scratch us sometimes, you steal often, you are as sensual as the night. all this we cannot help. it is your nature. so were you made--we know you cannot change--you amuse us! go on, little cat!' would it not then be better, and less savoury of humbug if we said the same to her whose cat-soul has chanced into this human shape? for assuredly she will but pilfer, and scratch a little, and be mildly vicious, in her little life, and do no desperate harm, having but poor capacity for evil behind that petty, thin-upped mask. what is the good of all this padlock business for such as she; are we not making mountains out of her mole hills? where is our sense of proportion, and our sense of humour? why try to alter the make and shape of nature with our petty chisels? or, if we must take care of her, to save ourselves, in the name of heaven let us do it in a better way than this! and suddenly i remembered that i was a grand juryman, a purifier of society, who had brought her bill in true; and, that i might not think these thoughts unworthy of a good citizen, i turned my eyes away from her and took up my list of indictments. yes, there she was, at least so i decided: number , "pilson, jenny: larceny, pocket-picking." and i turned my memory back to the evidence about her case, but i could not remember a single word. in the margin i had noted: "incorrigible from a child up; bad surroundings." and a mad impulse came over me to go back to my window and call through the bars to her: "jenny pilson! jenny pilson! it was i who bred you and surrounded you with evil! it was i who caught you for being what i made you! i brought your bill in true! i judged you, and i caged you! jenny pilson! jenny pilson!" but just as i reached the window, the door of my waiting-room was fortunately opened, and a voice said: "now, sir; at your service!"... i sat again in that scoop of the shore by the long rolling seas, burying in the sand the piece of paper which had summoned me away to my grand jury; and the same thoughts came to me with the breaking of the waves that had come to me before: how, in every wave was a particle that had known the shore of every land; and in each sparkle of the hot sunlight stealing up that bright water into the sky, the microcosm of all change and of all unity! . gone not possible to conceive of rarer beauty than that which clung about the summer day three years ago when first we had the news of the poor herds. loveliness was a net of golden filaments in which the world was caught. it was gravity itself, so tranquil; and it was a sort of intoxicating laughter. from the top field that we crossed to go down to their cottage, all the far sweep of those outstretched wings of beauty could be seen. very wonderful was the poise of the sacred bird, that moved nowhere but in our hearts. the lime-tree scent was just stealing out into air for some days already bereft of the scent of hay; and the sun was falling to his evening home behind our pines and beeches. it was no more than radiant warm. and, as we went, we wondered why we had not been told before that mrs. herd was so very ill. it was foolish to wonder--these people do not speak of suffering till it is late. to speak, when it means what this meant loss of wife and mother--was to flatter reality too much. to be healthy, or--die! that is their creed. to go on till they drop--then very soon pass away! what room for states between--on their poor wage, in their poor cottages? we crossed the mill-stream in the hollow--to their white, thatched dwelling; silent, already awed, almost resentful of this so-varying scheme of things. at the gateway herd himself was standing, just in from his work. for work in the country does not wait on illness--even death claims from its onlookers but a few hours, birth none at all, and it is as well; for what must be must, and in work alone man rests from grief. sorrow and anxiety had made strange alteration already in herd's face. through every crevice of the rough, stolid mask the spirit was peeping, a sort of quivering suppliant, that seemed to ask all the time: "is it true?" a regular cottager's figure, this of herd's--a labourer of these parts--strong, slow, but active, with just a touch of the untamed somewhere, about the swing and carriage of him, about the strong jaw, and wide thick-lipped mouth; just that something independent, which, in great variety, clings to the natives of these still remote, half-pagan valleys by the moor. we all moved silently to the lee of the outer wall, so that our voices might not carry up to the sick woman lying there under the eaves, almost within hand reach. "yes, sir." "no, sir." "yes, ma'am." this, and the constant, unforgettable supplication of his eyes, was all that came from him; yet he seemed loath to let us go, as though he thought we had some mysterious power to help him--the magic, perhaps, of money, to those who have none. grateful at our promise of another doctor, a specialist, he yet seemed with his eyes to say that he knew that such were only embroideries of fate. and when we had wrung his hand and gone, we heard him coming after us: his wife had said she would like to see us, please. would we come up? an old woman and mrs. herd's sister were in the sitting-room; they showed us to the crazy, narrow stairway. though we lived distant but four hundred yards of a crow's flight, we had never seen mrs. herd before, for that is the way of things in this land of minding one's own business--a slight, dark, girlish-looking woman, almost quite refined away, and with those eyes of the dying, where the spirit is coming through, as it only does when it knows that all is over except just the passing. she lay in a double bed, with clean white sheets. a white-washed room, so low that the ceiling almost touched our heads, some flowers in a bowl, the small lattice window open. though it was hot in there, it was better far than the rooms of most families in towns, living on a wage of twice as much; for here was no sign of defeat in decency or cleanliness. in her face, as in poor herd's, was that same strange mingling of resigned despair and almost eager appeal, so terrible to disappoint. yet, trying not to disappoint it, one felt guilty of treachery: what was the good, the kindness, in making this poor bird flutter still with hope against the bars, when fast prison had so surely closed in round her? but what else could we do? we could not give her those glib assurances that naive souls make so easily to others concerning their after state. secretly, i think, we knew that her philosophy of calm reality, that queer and unbidden growing tranquillity which precedes death, was nearer to our own belief, than would be any gilt-edged orthodoxy; but nevertheless (such is the strength of what is expected), we felt it dreadful that we could not console her with the ordinary presumptions. "you mustn't give up hope," we kept on saying: "the new doctor will do a lot for you; he's a specialist--a very clever man." and she kept on answering: "yes, sir." "yes, ma'am." but still her eyes went on asking, as if there were something else she wanted. and then to one of us came an inspiration: "you mustn't let your husband worry about expense. that will be all right." she smiled then, as if the chief cloud on her soul had been the thought of the arrears her illness and death would leave weighing on him with whom she had shared this bed ten years and more. and with that smile warming the memory of those spirit-haunted eyes, we crept down-stairs again, and out into the fields. it was more beautiful than ever, just touched already with evening mystery--it was better than ever to be alive. and the immortal wonder that has haunted man since first he became man, and haunts, i think, even the animals--the unanswerable question,--why joy and beauty must ever be walking hand in hand with ugliness and pain haunted us across those fields of life and loveliness. it was all right, no doubt, even reasonable, since without dark there is no light. it was part of that unending sum whose answer is not given; the merest little swing of the great pendulum! and yet----! to accept this violent contrast without a sigh of revolt, without a question! no sirs, it was not so jolly as all that! that she should be dying there at thirty, of a creeping malady which she might have checked, perhaps, if she had not had too many things to do for the children and husband, to do anything for herself--if she had not been forced to hold the creed: be healthy, or die! this was no doubt perfectly explicable and in accordance with the supreme equation; yet we, enjoying life, and health, and ease of money, felt horror and revolt on, this evening of such beauty. nor at the moment did we derive great comfort from the thought that life slips in and out of sheath, like sun-sparks on water, and that of all the cloud of summer midges dancing in the last gleam, not one would be alive to-morrow. it was three evenings later that we heard uncertain footfalls on the flagstones of the verandah, then a sort of brushing sound against the wood of the long, open window. drawing aside the curtain, one of us looked out. herd was standing there in the bright moonlight, bareheaded, with roughened hair. he came in, and seeming not to know quite where he went, took stand by the hearth, and putting up his dark hand, gripped the mantelshelf. then, as if recollecting himself, he said: "gude evenin', sir; beg pardon, m'm." no more for a full minute; but his hand, taking some little china thing, turned it over and over without ceasing, and down his broken face tears ran. then, very suddenly, he said: "she's gone." and his hand turned over and over that little china thing, and the tears went on rolling down. then, stumbling, and swaying like a man in drink, he made his way out again into the moonlight. we watched him across the lawn and path, and through the gate, till his footfalls died out there in the field, and his figure was lost in the black shadow of the holly hedge. and the night was so beautiful, so utterly, glamourously beautiful, with its star-flowers, and its silence, and its trees clothed in moonlight. all was tranquil as a dream of sleep. but it was long before our hearts, wandering with poor herd, would let us remember that she had slipped away into so beautiful a dream. the dead do not suffer from their rest in beauty. but the living---! . threshing when the drone of the thresher breaks through the autumn sighing of trees and wind, or through that stillness of the first frost, i get restless and more restless, till, throwing down my pen, i have gone out to see. for there is nothing like the sight of threshing for making one feel good--not in the sense of comfort, but at heart. there, under the pines and the already leafless elms and beech-trees, close to the great stacks, is the big, busy creature, with its small black puffing engine astern; and there, all around it, is that conglomeration of unsentimental labour which invests all the crises of farm work with such fascination. the crew of the farm is only five all told, but to-day they are fifteen, and none strangers, save the owners of the travelling thresher. they are working without respite and with little speech, not at all as if they had been brought together for the benefit of some one else's corn, but as though they, one and all, had a private grudge against time and a personal pleasure in finishing this job, which, while it lasts, is bringing them extra pay and most excellent free feeding. just as after a dilatory voyage a crew will brace themselves for the run in, recording with sudden energy their consciousness of triumph over the elements, so on a farm the harvests of hay and corn, sheep-shearing, and threshing will bring out in all a common sentiment, a kind of sporting energy, a defiant spurt, as it were, to score off nature; for it is only a philosopher here and there among them, i think, who sees that nature is eager to be scored off in this fashion, being anxious that some one should eat her kindly fruits. with ceremonial as grave as that which is at work within the thresher itself, the tasks have been divided. at the root of all things, pitchforking from the stack, stands--the farmer, moustached, and always upright was he not in the yeomanry?--dignified in a hard black hat, no waistcoat, and his working coat so ragged that it would never cling to him but for pure affection. between him and the body of the machine are five more pitch forks, directing the pale flood of raw material. there, amongst them, is poor herd, still so sad from his summer loss, plodding doggedly away. to watch him even now makes one feel how terrible is that dumb grief which has never learned to moan. and there is george yeoford, almost too sober; and murdon plying his pitchfork with a supernatural regularity that cannot quite dim his queer brigand's face of dark, soft gloom shot with sudden humours, his soft, dark corduroys and battered hat. occasionally he stops, and taking off that hat, wipes his corrugated brow under black hair, and seems to brood over his own regularity. down here, too, where i stand, each separate function of the thresher has its appointed slave. here cedric rakes the chaff pouring from the side down into the chaff-shed. carting the straw that streams from the thresher bows, are michelmore and neck--the little man who cannot read, but can milk and whistle the hearts out of his cows till they follow him like dogs. at the thresher's stern is morris, the driver, selected because of that utter reliability which radiates from his broad, handsome face. his part is to attend the sacking of the three kinds of grain for ever sieving out. he murmurs: "busy work, sir!" and opens a little door to show me how "the machinery does it all," holding a sack between his knees and some string in his white teeth. then away goes the sack--four bushels, one hundred and sixty pounds of "genuines, seconds, or seed"--wheeled by cedric on a little trolley thing, to where george-the-gaul or jim-the-early-saxon is waiting to bear it on his back up the stone steps into the corn-chamber. it has been raining in the night; the ground is a churn of straw and mud, and the trees still drip; but now there is sunlight, a sweet air, and clear sky, wine-coloured through the red, naked, beechtwigs tipped with white untimely buds. nothing can be more lovely than this late autumn day, so still, save for the droning of the thresher and the constant tinny chuckle of the grey, thin-headed guinea-fowl, driven by this business away from their usual haunts. and soon the, feeling that i knew would come begins creeping over me, the sense of an extraordinary sanity in this never-ceasing harmonious labour pursued in the autumn air faintly perfumed with wood-smoke, with the scent of chaff, and whiffs from that black puffing-billy; the sense that there is nothing between this clean toil--not too hard but hard enough--and the clean consumption of its clean results; the sense that nobody except myself is in the least conscious of how sane it all is. the brains of these sane ones are all too busy with the real affairs of life, the disposition of their wages, anticipation of dinner, some girl, some junketing, some wager, the last rifle match, and, more than all, with that pleasant rhythmic nothingness, companion of the busy swing and play of muscles, which of all states is secretly most akin to the deep unconsciousness of life itself. thus to work in the free air for the good of all and the hurt of none, without worry or the breath of acrimony--surely no phase of human life so nears the life of the truly civilised community--the life of a hive of bees. not one of these working so sanely--unless it be morris, who will spend his sunday afternoon on some high rock just watching sunlight and shadow drifting on the moors--not one, i think, is distraught by perception of his own sanity, by knowledge of how near he is to harmony, not even by appreciation of the still radiance of this day, or its innumerable fine shades of colour. it is all work, and no moody consciousness--all work, and will end in sleep. i leave them soon, and make my way up the stone steps to the "corn chamber," where tranquillity is crowned. in the whitewashed room the corn lies in drifts and ridges, three to four feet deep, all silvery-dun, like some remote sand desert, lifeless beneath the moon. here it lies, and into it, staggering under the sacks, george-the-gaul and jim-the-early saxon tramp up to their knees, spill the sacks over their heads, and out again; and above where their feet have plunged the patient surface closes again, smooth. and as i stand there in the doorway, looking at that silvery corn drift, i think of the whole process, from seed sown to the last sieving into this tranquil resting-place. i think of the slow, dogged ploughman, with the crows above him on the wind; of the swing of the sower's arm, dark up against grey sky on the steep field. i think of the seed snug-burrowing for safety, and its mysterious ferment under the warm spring rain, of the soft green shoots tapering up so shyly toward the first sun, and hardening in air to thin wiry stalk. i think of the unnumerable tiny beasts that have jangled in that pale forest; of the winged blue jewels of butterfly risen from it to hover on the wild-rustling blades; of that continual music played there by the wind; of the chicory and poppy flowers that have been its lights-o' love, as it grew tawny and full of life, before the appointed date when it should return to its captivity. i think of that slow-travelling hum and swish which laid it low, of the gathering to stack, and the long waiting under the rustle and drip of the sheltering trees, until yesterday the hoot of the thresher blew, and there began the falling into this dun silvery peace. here it will lie with the pale sun narrowly filtering in on it, and by night the pale moon, till slowly, week by week, it is stolen away, and its ridges and drifts sink and sink, and the beasts have eaten it all.... when the dusk is falling, i go out to them again. they have nearly finished now; the chaff in the chaff-shed is mounting hillock-high; only the little barley stack remains unthreshed. mrs. george-the-gaul is standing with a jug to give drink to the tired ones. some stars are already netted in the branches of the pines; the guinea-fowl are silent. but still the harmonious thresher hums and showers from three sides the straw, the chaff, the corn; and the men fork, and rake, and cart, and carry, sleep growing in their muscles, silence on their tongues, and the tranquillity of the long day nearly ended in their souls. they will go on till it is quite dark. . that old-time place "yes, suh--here we are at that old-time place!" and our dark driver drew up his little victoria gently. through the open doorway, into a dim, cavernous, ruined house of new orleans we passed. the mildew and dirt, the dark denuded dankness of that old hostel, rotting down with damp and time! and our guide, the tall, thin, grey-haired dame, who came forward with such native ease and moved before us, touching this fungused wall, that rusting stairway, and telling, as it were, no one in her soft, slow speech, things that any one could see--what a strange and fitting figure! before the smell of the deserted, oozing rooms, before that old creature leading us on and on, negligent of all our questions, and talking to the air, as though we were not, we felt such discomfort that we soon made to go out again into such freshness as there was on that day of dismal heat. then realising, it seemed, that she was losing us, our old guide turned; for the first time looking in our faces, she smiled, and said in her sweet, weak voice, like the sound from the strings of a spinet long unplayed on: "don' you wahnd to see the dome-room: an' all the other rooms right here, of this old-time place?" again those words! we had not the hearts to disappoint her. and as we followed on and on, along the mouldering corridors and rooms where the black peeling papers hung like stalactites, the dominance of our senses gradually dropped from us, and with our souls we saw its soul--the soul of this old-time place; this mustering house of the old south, bereft of all but ghosts and the grey pigeons niched in the rotting gallery round a narrow courtyard open to the sky. "this is the dome-room, suh and lady; right over the slave-market it is. here they did the business of the state--sure; old-time heroes up therein the roof--washington, hamilton, jefferson, davis, lee--there they are! all gone--now! yes, suh!" a fine--yea, even a splendid room, of great height, and carved grandeur, with hand-wrought bronze sconces and a band of metal bordering, all blackened with oblivion. and the faces of those old heroes encircling that domed ceiling were blackened too, and scarred with damp, beyond recognition. here, beneath their gaze, men had banqueted and danced and ruled. the pride and might and vivid strength of things still fluttered their uneasy flags of spirit, moved disherited wings! those old-time feasts and grave discussions--we seemed to see them printed on the thick air, imprisoned in this great chamber built above their dark foundations. the pride and the might and the vivid strength of things--gone, all gone! we became conscious again of that soft, weak voice. "not hearing very well, suh, i have it all printed, lady--beautifully told here--yes, indeed!" she was putting cards into our hands; then, impassive, maintaining ever her impersonal chant, the guardian of past glory led us on. "now we shall see the slave-market--downstairs, underneath! it's wet for the lady the water comes in now yes, suh!" on the crumbling black and white marble floorings the water indeed was trickling into pools. and down in the halls there came to us wandering--strangest thing that ever strayed through deserted grandeur--a brown, broken horse, lean, with a sore flank and a head of tremendous age. it stopped and gazed at us, as though we might be going to give it things to eat, then passed on, stumbling over the ruined marbles. for a moment we had thought him ghost--one of the many. but he was not, since his hoofs sounded. the scrambling clatter of them had died out into silence before we came to that dark, crypt-like chamber whose marble columns were ringed in iron, veritable pillars of foundation. and then we saw that our old guide's hands were full of newspapers. she struck a match; they caught fire and blazed. holding high that torch, she said: "see! up there's his name, above where he stood. the auctioneer. oh yes, indeed! here's where they sold them!" below that name, decaying on the wall, we had the slow, uncanny feeling of some one standing there in the gleam and flicker from that paper torch. for a moment the whole shadowy room seemed full of forms and faces. then the torch lied out, and our old guide, pointing through an archway with the blackened stump of it, said: "'twas here they kept them indeed, yes!" we saw before us a sort of vault, stone-built, and low, and long. the light there was too dim for us to make out anything but walls and heaps of rusting scrap-iron cast away there and mouldering own. but trying to pierce that darkness we became conscious, as it seemed, of innumerable eyes gazing, not at us, but through the archway where we stood; innumerable white eyeballs gleaming out of blackness. from behind us came a little laugh. it floated past through the archway, toward those eyes. who was that? who laughed in there? the old south itself--that incredible, fine, lost soul! that "old-time" thing of old ideals, blindfolded by its own history! that queer proud blend of simple chivalry and tyranny, of piety and the abhorrent thing! who was it laughed there in the old slave-market--laughed at these white eyeballs glaring from out of the blackness of their dark cattle-pen? what poor departed soul in this house of melancholy? but there was no ghost when we turned to look--only our old guide with her sweet smile. "yes, suh. here they all came--'twas the finest hotel--before the war-time; old southern families--buyin' an' sellin' their property. yes, ma'am, very interesting! this way! and here were the bells to all the rooms. broken, you see--all broken!" and rather quickly we passed away, out of that "old-time place"; where something had laughed, and the drip, drip, drip of water down the walls was as the sound of a spirit grieving. . romance--three gleams on that new year's morning when i drew up the blind it was still nearly dark, but for the faintest pink flush glancing out there on the horizon of black water. the far shore of the river's mouth was just soft dusk; and the dim trees below me were in perfect stillness. there was no lap of water. and then--i saw her, drifting in on the tide-the little ship, passaging below me, a happy ghost. like no thing of this world she came, ending her flight, with sail-wings closing and her glowing lantern eyes. there was i know not what of stealthy joy about her thus creeping in to the unexpecting land. and i wished she would never pass, but go on gliding by down there for ever with her dark ropes, and her bright lanterns, and her mysterious felicity, so that i might have for ever in my heart the blessed feeling she brought me, coming like this out of that great mystery the sea. if only she need not change to solidity, but ever be this visitor from the unknown, this sacred bird, telling with her half-seen, trailing-down plume--sails the story of uncharted wonder. if only i might go on trembling, as i was, with the rapture of all i did not know and could not see, yet felt pressing against me and touching my face with its lips! to think of her at anchor in cold light was like flinging-to a door in the face of happiness. and just then she struck her bell; the faint silvery far-down sound fled away before her, and to every side, out into the utter hush, to discover echo. but nothing answered, as if fearing to break the spell of her coming, to brush with reality the dark sea dew from her sail-wings. but within me, in response, there began the song of all unknown things; the song so tenuous, so ecstatic, that seems to sweep and quiver across such thin golden strings, and like an eager dream dies too soon. the song of the secret-knowing wind that has peered through so great forests and over such wild sea; blown on so many faces, and in the jungles of the grass the song of all that the wind has seen and felt. the song of lives that i should never live; of the loves that i should never love singlng to me as though i should! and suddenly i felt that i could not bear my little ship of dreams to grow hard and grey, her bright lanterns drowned in the cold light, her dark ropes spidery and taut, her sea-wan sails all furled, and she no more en chanted; and turning away i let fall the curtain. ii then what happens to the moon? she, who, shy and veiled, slips out before dusk to take the air of heaven, wandering timidly among the columned clouds, and fugitive from the staring of the sun; she, who, when dusk has come, rules the sentient night with such chaste and icy spell--whither and how does she retreat? i came on her one morning--i surprised her. she was stealing into a dark wintry wood, and five little stars were chasing her. she was orange-hooded, a light-o'-love dismissed--unashamed and unfatigued, having taken--all. and she was looking back with her almond eyes, across her dark-ivory shoulder, at night where he still lay drowned in the sleep she had brought him. what a strange, slow, mocking look! so might aphrodite herself have looked back at some weary lover, remembering the fire of his first embrace. insatiate, smiling creature, slipping down to the rim of the world to her bath in the sweet waters of dawn, whence emerging, pure as a water lily, she would float in the cool sky till evening came again! and just then she saw me looking, and hid behind a holm-oak tree; but i could still see the gleam of one shoulder and her long narrow eyes pursuing me. i went up to the tree and parted its dark boughs to take her; but she had slipped behind another. i called to her to stand, if only for one moment. but she smiled and went slip ping on, and i ran thrusting through the wet bushes, leaping the fallen trunks. the scent of rotting leaves disturbed by my feet leaped out into the darkness, and birds, surprised, fluttered away. and still i ran--she slipping ever further into the grove, and ever looking back at me. and i thought: but i will catch you yet, you nymph of perdition! the wood will soon be passed, you will have no cover then! and from her eyes, and the scanty gleam of her flying limbs, i never looked away, not even when i stumbled or ran against tree trunks in my blind haste. and at every clearing i flew more furiously, thinking to seize all of her with my gaze before she could cross the glade; but ever she found some little low tree, some bush of birch ungrown, or the far top branches of the next grove to screen her flying body and preserve allurement. and all the time she was dipping, dipping to the rim of the world. and then i tripped; but, as i rose, i saw that she had lingered for me; her long sliding eyes were full, it seemed to me, of pity, as if she would have liked for me to have enjoyed the sight of her. i stood still, breathless, thinking that at last she would consent; but flinging back, up into the air, one dark-ivory arm, she sighed and vanished. and the breath of her sigh stirred all the birch-tree twigs just coloured with the dawn. long i stood in that thicket gazing at the spot where she had leapt from me over the edge of the world-my heart quivering. iii we embarked on the estuary steamer that winter morning just as daylight came full. the sun was on the wing scattering little white clouds, as an eagle might scatter doves. they scurried up before him with their broken feathers tipped and tinged with gold. in the air was a touch of frost, and a smoky mist-drift clung here and there above the reeds, blurring the shores of the lagoon so that we seemed to be steaming across boundless water, till some clump of trees would fling its top out of the fog, then fall back into whiteness. and then, in that thick vapour, rounding i suppose some curve, we came suddenly into we knew not what--all white and moving it was, as if the mist were crazed; murmuring, too, with a sort of restless beating. we seemed to be passing through a ghost--the ghost of all the life that had sprung from this water and its, shores; we seemed to have left reality, to be travelling through live wonder. and the fantastic thought sprang into my mind: i have died. this is the voyage of my soul in the wild. i am in the final wilderness of spirits--lost in the ghost robe that wraps the earth. there seemed in all this white murmuration to be millions of tiny hands stretching out to me, millions of whispering voices, of wistful eyes. i had no fear, but a curious baked eagerness, the strangest feeling of having lost myself and become part of this around me; exactly as if my own hands and voice and eyes had left me and were groping, and whispering, and gazing out there in the eeriness. i was no longer a man on an estuary steamer, but part of sentient ghostliness. nor did i feel unhappy; it seemed as though i had never been anything but this bedouin spirit wandering. we passed through again into the stillness of plain mist, and all those eerie sensations went, leaving nothing but curiosity to know what this was that we had traversed. then suddenly the sun came flaring out, and we saw behind us thousands and thousands of white gulls dipping, wheeling, brushing the water with their wings, bewitched with sun and mist. that was all. and yet that white-winged legion through whom we had ploughed our way were not, could never be, to me just gulls--there was more than mere sun-glamour gilding their misty plumes; there was the wizardry of my past wonder, the enchantment of romance. . memories we set out to meet him at waterloo station on a dull day of february--i, who had owned his impetuous mother, knowing a little what to expect, while to my companion he would be all original. we stood there waiting (for the salisbury train was late), and wondering with a warm, half-fearful eagerness what sort of new thread life was going to twine into our skein. i think our chief dread was that he might have light eyes--those yellow chinese eyes of the common, parti-coloured spaniel. and each new minute of the train's tardiness increased our anxious compassion: his first journey; his first separation from his mother; this black two-months' baby! then the train ran in, and we hastened to look for him. "have you a dog for us?" "a dog! not in this van. ask the rearguard." "have you a dog for us?" "that's right. from salisbury. here's your wild beast, sir!" from behind a wooden crate we saw a long black muzzled nose poking round at us, and heard a faint hoarse whimpering. i remember my first thought: "isn't his nose too long?" but to my companion's heart it went at once, because it was swollen from crying and being pressed against things that he could not see through. we took him out--soft, wobbly, tearful; set him down on his four, as yet not quite simultaneous legs, and regarded him. or, rather, my companion did, having her head on one side, and a quavering smile; and i regarded her, knowing that i should thereby get a truer impression of him. he wandered a little round our legs, neither wagging his tail nor licking at our hands; then he looked up, and my companion said: "he's an angel!" i was not so certain. he seemed hammer-headed, with no eyes at all, and little connection between his head, his body, and his legs. his ears were very long, as long as his poor nose; and gleaming down in the blackness of him i could see the same white star that disgraced his mother's chest. picking him up, we carried him to a four-wheeled cab, and took his muzzle off. his little dark-brown eyes were resolutely fixed on distance, and by his refusal to even smell the biscuits we had brought to make him happy, we knew that the human being had not yet come into a life that had contained so far only a mother, a wood-shed, and four other soft, wobbly, black, hammer-headed angels, smelling of themselves, and warmth, and wood shavings. it was pleasant to feel that to us he would surrender an untouched love, that is, if he would surrender anything. suppose he did not take to us! and just then something must have stirred in him, for he turned up his swollen nose and stared at my companion, and a little later rubbed the dry pinkness of his tongue against my thumb. in that look, and that unconscious restless lick; he was trying hard to leave unhappiness behind, trying hard to feel that these new creatures with stroking paws and queer scents, were his mother; yet all the time he knew, i am sure, that they were something bigger, more permanently, desperately, his. the first sense of being owned, perhaps (who knows) of owning, had stirred in him. he would never again be quite the same unconscious creature. a little way from the end of our journey we got out and dismissed the cab. he could not too soon know the scents and pavements of this london where the chief of his life must pass. i can see now his first bumble down that wide, back-water of a street, how continually and suddenly he sat down to make sure of his own legs, how continually he lost our heels. he showed us then in full perfection what was afterwards to be an inconvenient--if endearing--characteristic: at any call or whistle he would look in precisely the opposite direction. how many times all through his life have i not seen him, at my whistle, start violently and turn his tail to me, then, with nose thrown searchingly from side to side, begin to canter toward the horizon. in that first walk, we met, fortunately, but one vehicle, a brewer's dray; he chose that moment to attend to the more serious affairs of life, sitting quietly before the horses' feet and requiring to be moved by hand. from the beginning he had his dignity, and was extremely difficult to lift, owing to the length of his middle distance. what strange feelings must have stirred in his little white soul when he first smelled carpet! but it was all so strange to him that day--i doubt if he felt more than i did when i first travelled to my private school, reading "tales of a grandfather," and plied with tracts and sherry by my 'father's man of business. that night, indeed, for several nights, he slept with me, keeping me too warm down my back, and waking me now and then with quaint sleepy whimperings. indeed, all through his life he flew a good deal in his sleep, fighting dogs and seeing ghosts, running after rabbits and thrown sticks; and to the last one never quite knew whether or no to rouse him when his four black feet began to jerk and quiver. his dreams were like our dreams, both good and bad; happy sometimes, sometimes tragic to weeping point. he ceased to sleep with me the day we discovered that he was a perfect little colony, whose settlers were of an active species which i have never seen again. after that he had many beds, for circumstance ordained that his life should be nomadic, and it is to this i trace that philosophic indifference to place or property, which marked him out from most of his own kind. he learned early that for a black dog with long silky ears, a feathered tail, and head of great dignity, there was no home whatsoever, away from those creatures with special scents, who took liberties with his name, and alone of all created things were privileged to smack him with a slipper. he would sleep anywhere, so long as it was in their room, or so close outside it as to make no matter, for it was with him a principle that what he did not smell did not exist. i would i could hear again those long rubber-lipped snufflings of recognition underneath the door, with which each morning he would regale and reassure a spirit that grew with age more and more nervous and delicate about this matter of propinquity! for he was a dog of fixed ideas, things stamped on his mind were indelible; as, for example, his duty toward cats, for whom he had really a perverse affection, which had led to that first disastrous moment of his life, when he was brought up, poor bewildered puppy, from a brief excursion to the kitchen, with one eye closed and his cheek torn! he bore to his grave that jagged scratch across the eye. it was in dread of a repetition of this tragedy that he was instructed at the word "cats" to rush forward with a special "tow-row-rowing," which he never used toward any other form of creature. to the end he cherished a hope that he would reach the cat; but never did; and if he had, we knew he would only have stood and wagged his tail; but i well remember once, when he returned, important, from some such sally, how dreadfully my companion startled a cat-loving friend by murmuring in her most honeyed voice: "well, my darling, have you been killing pussies in the garden?" his eye and nose were impeccable in their sense of form; indeed, he was very english in that matter: people must be just so; things smell properly; and affairs go on in the one right way. he could tolerate neither creatures in ragged clothes, nor children on their hands and knees, nor postmen, because, with their bags, they swelled-up on one side, and carried lanterns on their stomachs. he would never let the harmless creatures pass without religious barks. naturally a believer in authority and routine, and distrusting spiritual adventure, he yet had curious fads that seemed to have nested in him, quite outside of all principle. he would, for instance, follow neither carriages nor horses, and if we tried to make him, at once left for home, where he would sit with nose raised to heaven, emitting through it a most lugubrious, shrill noise. then again, one must not place a stick, a slipper, a glove, or anything with which he could play, upon one's head--since such an action reduced him at once to frenzy. for so conservative a dog, his environment was sadly anarchistic. he never complained in words of our shifting habits, but curled his head round over his left paw and pressed his chin very hard against the ground whenever he smelled packing. what necessity, he seemed continually to be saying, what real necessity is there for change of any kind whatever? here we were all together, and one day was like another, so that i knew where i was--and now you only know what will happen next; and i--i can't tell you whether i shall be with you when it happens! what strange, grieving minutes a dog passes at such times in the underground of his subconsciousness, refusing realisation, yet all the time only too well divining. some careless word, some unmuted compassion in voice, the stealthy wrapping of a pair of boots, the unaccustomed shutting of a door that ought to be open, the removal from a down-stair room of an object always there--one tiny thing, and he knows for certain that he is not going too. he fights against the knowledge just as we do against what we cannot bear; he gives up hope, but not effort, protesting in the only way he knows of, and now and then heaving a great sigh. those sighs of a dog! they go to the heart so much more deeply than the sighs of our own kind, because they are utterly unintended, regardless of effect, emerging from one who, heaving them, knows not that they have escaped him! the words: "yes--going too!" spoken in a certain tone, would call up in his eyes a still-questioning half-happiness, and from his tail a quiet flutter, but did not quite serve to put to rest either his doubt or his feeling that it was all unnecessary--until the cab arrived. then he would pour himself out of door or window, and be found in the bottom of the vehicle, looking severely away from an admiring cabman. once settled on our feet he travelled with philosophy, but no digestion. i think no dog was ever more indifferent to an outside world of human creatures; yet few dogs have made more conquests--especially among strange women, through whom, however, he had a habit of looking--very discouraging. he had, natheless, one or two particular friends, such as him to whom this book is dedicated, and a few persons whom he knew he had seen before, but, broadly speaking, there were in his world of men, only his mistress, and--the almighty. each august, till he was six, he was sent for health, and the assuagement of his hereditary instincts, up to a scotch shooting, where he carried many birds in a very tender manner. once he was compelled by fate to remain there nearly a year; and we went up ourselves to fetch him home. down the long avenue toward the keeper's cottage we walked: it was high autumn; there had been frost already, for the ground was fine with red and yellow leaves; and presently we saw himself coming; professionally questing among those leaves, and preceding his dear keeper with the businesslike self-containment of a sportsman; not too fat, glossy as a raven's wing, swinging his ears and sporran like a little highlander. we approached him silently. suddenly his nose went up from its imagined trail, and he came rushing at our legs. from him, as a garment drops from a man, dropped all his strange soberness; he became in a single instant one fluttering eagerness. he leaped from life to life in one bound, without hesitation, without regret. not one sigh, not one look back, not the faintest token of gratitude or regret at leaving those good people who had tended him for a whole year, buttered oat-cake for him, allowed him to choose each night exactly where he would sleep. no, he just marched out beside us, as close as ever he could get, drawing us on in spirit, and not even attending to the scents, until the lodge gates were passed. it was strictly in accordance with the perversity of things, and something in the nature of calamity that he had not been ours one year, when there came over me a dreadful but overmastering aversion from killing those birds and creatures of which he was so fond as soon as they were dead. and so i never knew him as a sportsman; for during that first year he was only an unbroken puppy, tied to my waist for fear of accidents, and carefully pulling me off every shot. they tell me he developed a lovely nose and perfect mouth, large enough to hold gingerly the biggest hare. i well believe it, remembering the qualities of his mother, whose character, however, in stability he far surpassed. but, as he grew every year more devoted to dead grouse and birds and rabbits, i liked them more and more alive; it was the only real breach between us, and we kept it out of sight. ah! well; it is consoling to reflect that i should infallibly have ruined his sporting qualities, lacking that peculiar habit of meaning what one says, so necessary to keep dogs virtuous. but surely to have had him with me, quivering and alert, with his solemn, eager face, would have given a new joy to those crisp mornings when the hope of wings coming to the gun makes poignant in the sports man as nothing else will, an almost sensual love of nature, a fierce delight in the soft glow of leaves, in the white birch stems and tracery of sparse twigs against blue sky, in the scents of sap and grass and gum and heather flowers; stivers the hair of him with keenness for interpreting each sound, and fills the very fern or moss he kneels on, the very trunk he leans against, with strange vibration. slowly fate prepares for each of us the religion that lies coiled in our most secret nerves; with such we cannot trifle, we do not even try! but how shall a man grudge any one sensations he has so keenly felt? let such as have never known those curious delights, uphold the hand of horror--for me there can be no such luxury. if i could, i would still perhaps be knowing them; but when once the joy of life in those winged and furry things has knocked at the very portals of one's spirit, the thought that by pressing a little iron twig one will rive that joy out of their vitals, is too hard to bear. call it aestheticism, squeamishness, namby-pamby sentimentalism, what you will it is stronger than oneself! yes, after one had once watched with an eye that did not merely see, the thirsty gaping of a slowly dying bird, or a rabbit dragging a broken leg to a hole where he would lie for hours thinking of the fern to which he should never more come forth--after that, there was always the following little matter of arithmetic: given, that all those who had been shooting were "good-fair" shots--which, heaven knew, they never were--they yet missed one at least in four, and did not miss it very much; so that if seventy-five things were slain, there were also twenty-five that had been fired at, and, of those twenty-five, twelve and a half had "gotten it" somewhere in their bodies, and would "likely" die at their great leisure. this was the sum that brought about the only cleavage in our lives; and so, as he grew older, and trying to part from each other we no longer could, he ceased going to scotland. but after that i often felt, and especially when we heard guns, how the best and most secret instincts of him were being stifled. but what was to be done? in that which was left of a clay pigeon he would take not the faintest interest--the scent of it was paltry. yet always, even in his most cosseted and idle days, he managed to preserve the grave preoccupation of one professionally concerned with retrieving things that smell; and consoled himself with pastimes such as cricket, which he played in a manner highly specialised, following the ball up the moment it left the bowler's hand, and sometimes retrieving it before it reached the batsman. when remonstrated with, he would consider a little, hanging out a pink tongue and looking rather too eagerly at the ball, then canter slowly out to a sort of forward short leg. why he always chose that particular position it is difficult to say; possibly he could lurk there better than anywhere else, the batsman's eye not being on him, and the bowler's not too much. as a fieldsman he was perfect, but for an occasional belief that he was not merely short leg, but slip, point, midoff, and wicket-keep; and perhaps a tendency to make the ball a little "jubey." but he worked tremendously, watching every movement; for he knew the game thoroughly, and seldom delayed it more than three minutes when he secured the ball. and if that ball were really lost, then indeed he took over the proceedings with an intensity and quiet vigour that destroyed many shrubs, and the solemn satisfaction which comes from being in the very centre of the stage. but his most passionate delight was swimming in anything except the sea, for which, with its unpleasant noise and habit of tasting salt, he had little affection. i see him now, cleaving the serpentine, with his air of "the world well lost," striving to reach my stick before it had touched water. being only a large spaniel, too small for mere heroism, he saved no lives in the water but his own--and that, on one occasion, before our very eyes, from a dark trout stream, which was trying to wash him down into a black hole among the boulders. the call of the wild-spring running--whatever it is--that besets men and dogs, seldom attained full mastery over him; but one could often see it struggling against his devotion to the scent of us, and, watching that dumb contest, i have time and again wondered how far this civilisation of ours was justifiably imposed on him; how far the love for us that we had so carefully implanted could ever replace in him the satisfaction of his primitive wild yearnings: he was like a man, naturally polygamous, married to one loved woman. it was surely not for nothing that rover is dog's most common name, and would be ours, but for our too tenacious fear of losing something, to admit, even to ourselves, that we are hankering. there was a man who said: strange that two such queerly opposite qualities as courage and hypocrisy are the leading characteristics of the anglo-saxon! but is not hypocrisy just a product of tenacity, which is again the lower part of courage? is not hypocrisy but an active sense of property in one's good name, the clutching close of respectability at any price, the feeling that one must not part, even at the cost of truth, with what he has sweated so to gain? and so we anglo-saxons will not answer to the name of rover, and treat our dogs so that they, too, hardly know their natures. the history of his one wandering, for which no respectable reason can be assigned, will never, of course, be known. it was in london, of an october evening, when we were told he had slipped out and was not anywhere. then began those four distressful hours of searching for that black needle n that blacker bundle of hay. hours of real dismay and suffering for it is suffering, indeed, to feel a loved thing swallowed up in that hopeless haze of london streets. stolen or run over? which was worst? the neighbouring police stations visited, the dog's home notified, an order of five hundred "lost dog" bills placed in the printer's hands, the streets patrolled! and then, in a lull snatched for food, and still endeavouring to preserve some aspect of assurance, we heard the bark which meant: "here is a door i cannot open!" we hurried forth, and there he was on the top doorstep--busy, unashamed, giving no explanations, asking for his supper; and very shortly after him came his five hundred "lost dog" bills. long i sat looking at him that night after my companion had gone up, thinking of the evening, some years before, when there followed as that shadow of a spaniel who had been lost for eleven days. and my heart turned over within me. but he! he was asleep, for he knew not remorse. ah! and there was that other time, when it was reported to me, returning home at night, that he had gone out to find me; and i went forth again, disturbed, and whistling his special call to the empty fields. suddenly out of the darkness i heard a rushing, and he came furiously dashing against my heels from he alone knew where he had been lurking and saying to himself: i will not go in till he comes! i could not scold, there was something too lyrical in the return of that live, lonely, rushing piece of blackness through the blacker night. after all, the vagary was but a variation in his practice when one was away at bed-time, of passionately scratching up his bed in protest, till it resembled nothing; for, in spite of his long and solemn face and the silkiness of his ears, there was much in him yet of the cave bear--he dug graves on the smallest provocations, in which he never buried anything. he was not a "clever" dog; and guiltless of all tricks. nor was he ever "shown." we did not even dream of subjecting him to this indignity. was our dog a clown, a hobby, a fad, a fashion, a feather in our caps that we should subject him to periodic pennings in stuffy halls, that we should harry his faithful soul with such tomfoolery? he never even heard us talk about his lineage, deplore the length of his nose, or call him "clever-looking." we should have been ashamed to let him smell about us the tar-brush of a sense of property, to let him think we looked on him as an asset to earn us pelf or glory. we wished that there should be between us the spirit that was between the sheep dog and that farmer, who, when asked his dog's age, touched the old creature's head, and answered thus: "teresa" (his daughter) "was born in november, and this one in august." that sheep dog had seen eighteen years when the great white day came for him, and his spirit passed away up, to cling with the wood-smoke round the dark rafters of the kitchen where he had lain so vast a time beside his master's boots. no, no! if a man does not soon pass beyond the thought "by what shall this dog profit me?" into the large state of simple gladness to be with dog, he shall never know the very essence of that companion ship which depends not on the points of dog, but on some strange and subtle mingling of mute spirits. for it is by muteness that a dog becomes for one so utterly beyond value; with him one is at peace, where words play no torturing tricks. when he just sits, loving, and knows that he is being loved, those are the moments that i think are precious to a dog; when, with his adoring soul coming through his eyes, he feels that you are really thinking of him. but he is touchingly tolerant of one's other occupations. the subject of these memories always knew when one was too absorbed in work to be so close to him as he thought proper; yet he never tried to hinder or distract, or asked for attention. it dinged his mood, of course, so that the red under his eyes and the folds of his crumply cheeks--which seemed to speak of a touch of bloodhound introduced a long way back into his breeding--drew deeper and more manifest. if he could have spoken at such times, he would have said: "i have been a long time alone, and i cannot always be asleep; but you know best, and i must not criticise." he did not at all mind one's being absorbed in other humans; he seemed to enjoy the sounds of conversation lifting round him, and to know when they were sensible. he could not, for instance, stand actors or actresses giving readings of their parts, perceiving at once that the same had no connection with the minds and real feelings of the speakers; and, having wandered a little to show his disapproval, he would go to the door and stare at it till it opened and let him out. once or twice, it is true, when an actor of large voice was declaiming an emotional passage, he so far relented as to go up to him and pant in his face. music, too, made him restless, inclined to sigh, and to ask questions. sometimes, at its first sound, he would cross to the window and remain there looking for her. at others, he would simply go and lie on the loud pedal, and we never could tell whether it was from sentiment, or because he thought that in this way he heard less. at one special nocturne of chopin's he always whimpered. he was, indeed, of rather polish temperament--very gay when he was gay, dark and brooding when he was not. on the whole, perhaps his life was uneventful for so far-travelling a dog, though it held its moments of eccentricity, as when he leaped through the window of a four-wheeler into kensington, or sat on a dartmoor adder. but that was fortunately of a sunday afternoon--when adder and all were torpid, so nothing happened, till a friend, who was following, lifted him off the creature with his large boot. if only one could have known more of his private life--more of his relations with his own kind! i fancy he was always rather a dark dog to them, having so many thoughts about us that he could not share with any one, and being naturally fastidious, except with ladies, for whom he had a chivalrous and catholic taste, so that they often turned and snapped at him. he had, however, but one lasting love affair, for a liver-coloured lass of our village, not quite of his own caste, but a wholesome if somewhat elderly girl, with loving and sphinx-like eyes. their children, alas, were not for this world, and soon departed. nor was he a fighting dog; but once attacked, he lacked a sense of values, being unable to distinguish between dogs that he could beat and dogs with whom he had "no earthly." it was, in fact, as well to interfere at once, especially in the matter of retrievers, for he never forgot having in his youth been attacked by a retriever from behind. no, he never forgot, and never forgave, an enemy. only a month before that day of which i cannot speak, being very old and ill, he engaged an irish terrier on whose impudence he had long had his eye, and routed him. and how a battle cheered his spirit! he was certainly no christian; but, allowing for essential dog, he was very much a gentleman. and i do think that most of us who live on this earth these days would rather leave it with that label on us than the other. for to be a christian, as tolstoy understood the word--and no one else in our time has had logic and love of truth enough to give it coherent meaning--is (to be quite sincere) not suited to men of western blood. whereas--to be a gentleman! it is a far cry, but perhaps it can be done. in him, at all events, there was no pettiness, no meanness, and no cruelty, and though he fell below his ideal at times, this never altered the true look of his eyes, nor the simple loyalty in his soul. but what a crowd of memories come back, bringing with them the perfume of fallen days! what delights and glamour, what long hours of effort, discouragements, and secret fears did he not watch over--our black familiar; and with the sight and scent and touch of him, deepen or assuage! how many thousand walks did we not go together, so that we still turn to see if he is following at his padding gait, attentive to the invisible trails. not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives. yet, if they find warmth therein, who would grudge them those years that they have so guarded? nothing else of us can they take to lie upon with outstretched paws and chin pressed to the ground; and, whatever they take, be sure they have deserved. do they know, as we do, that their time must come? yes, they know, at rare moments. no other way can i interpret those pauses of his latter life, when, propped on his forefeet, he would sit for long minutes quite motionless--his head drooped, utterly withdrawn; then turn those eyes of his and look at me. that look said more plainly than all words could: "yes, i know that i must go!" if we have spirits that persist--they have. if we know after our departure, who we were they do. no one, i think, who really longs for truth, can ever glibly say which it will be for dog and man persistence or extinction of our consciousness. there is but one thing certain--the childishness of fretting over that eternal question. whichever it be, it must be right, the only possible thing. he felt that too, i know; but then, like his master, he was what is called a pessimist. my companion tells me that, since he left us, he has once come back. it was old year's night, and she was sad, when he came to her in visible shape of his black body, passing round the dining-table from the window-end, to his proper place beneath the table, at her feet. she saw him quite clearly; she heard the padding tap-tap of his paws and very toe-nails; she felt his warmth brushing hard against the front of her skirt. she thought then that he would settle down upon her feet, but something disturbed him, and he stood pausing, pressed against her, then moved out toward where i generally sit, but was not sitting that night. she saw him stand there, as if considering; then at some sound or laugh, she became self-conscious, and slowly, very slowly, he was no longer there. had he some message, some counsel to give, something he would say, that last night of the last year of all those he had watched over us? will he come back again? no stone stands over where he lies. it is on our hearts that his life is engraved. . felicity when god is so good to the fields, of what use are words--those poor husks of sentiment! there is no painting felicity on the wing! no way of bringing on to the canvas the flying glory of things! a single buttercup of the twenty million in one field is worth all these dry symbols--that can never body forth the very spirit of that froth of may breaking over the hedges, the choir of birds and bees, the lost-travelling down of the wind flowers, the white-throated swallows in their odysseys. just here there are no skylarks, but what joy of song and leaf; of lanes lighted with bright trees, the few oaks still golden brown, and the ashes still spiritual! only the blackbirds and thrushes can sing-up this day, and cuckoos over the hill. the year has flown so fast that the apple-trees have dropped nearly all their bloom, and in "long meadow" the "daggers" are out early, beside the narrow bright streams. orpheus sits there on a stone, when nobody is by, and pipes to the ponies; and pan can often be seen dancing with his nymphs in the raised beech-grove where it is always twilight, if you lie still enough against the far bank. who can believe in growing old, so long as we are wrapped in this cloak of colour and wings and song; so long as this unimaginable vision is here for us to gaze at--the soft-faced sheep about us, and the wool-bags drying out along the fence, and great numbers of tiny ducks, so trustful that the crows have taken several. blue is the colour of youth, and all the blue flowers have a "fey" look. everything seems young too young to work. there is but one thing busy, a starling, fetching grubs for its little family, above my head--it must take that flight at least two hundred times a day. the children should be very fat. when the sky is so happy, and the flowers so luminous, it does not seem possible that the bright angels of this day shall pass into dark night, that slowly these wings shall close, and the cuckoo praise himself to sleep, mad midges dance-in the evening; the grass shiver with dew, wind die, and no bird sing . . . . yet so it is. day has gone--the song and glamour and swoop of wings. slowly, has passed the daily miracle. it is night. but felicity has not withdrawn; she has but changed her robe for silence, velvet, and the pearl fan of the moon. everything is sleeping, save only a single star, and the pansies. why they should be more wakeful than the other flowers, i do not know. the expressions of their faces, if one bends down into the dusk, are sweeter and more cunning than ever. they have some compact, no doubt, in hand. what a number of voices have given up the ghost to this night of but one voice--the murmur of the stream out there in darkness! with what religion all has been done! not one buttercup open; the yew-trees already with shadows flung down! no moths are abroad yet; it is too early in the year for nightjars; and the owls are quiet. but who shall say that in this silence, in this hovering wan light, in this air bereft of wings, and of all scent save freshness, there is less of the ineffable, less of that before which words are dumb? it is strange how this tranquillity of night, that seems so final, is inhabited, if one keeps still enough. a lamb is bleating out there on the dim moor; a bird somewhere, a little one, about three fields away, makes the sweetest kind of chirruping; some cows are still cropping. there is a scent, too, underneath the freshness-sweet-brier, i think, and our dutch honeysuckle; nothing else could so delicately twine itself with air. and even in this darkness the roses have colour, more beautiful perhaps than ever. if colour be, as they say, but the effect of light on various fibre, one may think of it as a tune, the song of thanksgiving that each form puts forth, to sun and moon and stars and fire. these moon-coloured roses are singing a most quiet song. i see all of a sudden that there are many more stars beside that one so red and watchful. the flown kite is there with its seven pale worlds; it has adventured very high and far to-night-with a company of others remoter still. . . . this serenity of night! what could seem less likely ever more to move, and change again to day? surely now the world has found its long sleep; and the pearly glimmer from the moon will last, and the precious silence never again yield to clamour; the grape-bloom of this mystery never more pale out into gold . . . . and yet it is not so. the nightly miracle has passed. it is dawn. faint light has come. i am waiting for the first sound. the sky as yet is like nothing but grey paper, with the shadows of wild geese passing. the trees are phantoms. and then it comes--that first call of a bird, startled at discovering day! just one call--and now, here, there, on all the trees, the sudden answers swelling, of that most sweet and careless choir. was irresponsibility ever so divine as this, of birds waking? then--saffron into the sky, and once more silence! what is it birds do after the first chorale? think of their sins and business? or just sleep again? the trees are fast dropping unreality, and the cuckoos begin calling. colour is burning up in the flowers already; the dew smells of them. the miracle is ended, for the starling has begun its job; and the sun is fretting those dark, busy wings with gold. full day has come again. but the face of it is a little strange, it is not like yesterday. queer-to think, no day is like to a day that's past and no night like a night that's coming! why, then, fear death, which is but night? why care, if next day have different face and spirit? the sun has lighted buttercup-field now, the wind touches the lime-tree. something passes over me away up there. it is felicity on her wings! . studies and essays by john galsworthy "je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal." --anatole france concerning letters table of contents: a novelist's allegory some platitudes concerning drama meditation on finality wanted--schooling on our dislike of things as they are the windlestraw a novelist's allegory once upon a time the prince of felicitas had occasion to set forth on a journey. it was a late autumn evening with few pale stars and a moon no larger than the paring of a finger-nail. and as he rode through the purlieus of his city, the white mane of his amber-coloured steed was all that he could clearly see in the dusk of the high streets. his way led through a quarter but little known to him, and he was surprised to find that his horse, instead of ambling forward with his customary gentle vigour, stepped carefully from side to side, stopping now and then to curve his neck and prick his ears--as though at some thing of fear unseen in the darkness; while on either hand creatures could be heard rustling and scuttling, and little cold draughts as of wings fanned the rider's cheeks. the prince at last turned in his saddle, but so great was the darkness that he could not even see his escort. "what is the name of this street?" he said. "sire, it is called the vita publica." "it is very dark." even as he spoke his horse staggered, but, recovering its foothold with an effort, stood trembling violently. nor could all the incitements of its master induce the beast again to move forward. "is there no one with a lanthorn in this street?" asked the prince. his attendants began forthwith to call out loudly for any one who had a lanthorn. now, it chanced that an old man sleeping in a hovel on a pallet of straw was, awakened by these cries. when he heard that it was the prince of felicitas himself, he came hastily, carrying his lanthorn, and stood trembling beside the prince's horse. it was so dark that the prince could not see him. "light your lanthorn, old man," he said. the old man laboriously lit his lanthorn. its pale rays fled out on either hand; beautiful but grim was the vision they disclosed. tall houses, fair court-yards, and a palm grown garden; in front of the prince's horse a deep cesspool, on whose jagged edges the good beast's hoofs were planted; and, as far as the glimmer of the lanthorn stretched, both ways down the rutted street, paving stones displaced, and smooth tesselated marble; pools of mud, the hanging fruit of an orange tree, and dark, scurrying shapes of monstrous rats bolting across from house to house. the old man held the lanthorn higher; and instantly bats flying against it would have beaten out the light but for the thin protection of its horn sides. the prince sat still upon his horse, looking first at the rutted space that he had traversed and then at the rutted space before him. "without a light," he said, "this thoroughfare is dangerous. what is your name, old man?" "my name is cethru," replied the aged churl. "cethru!" said the prince. "let it be your duty henceforth to walk with your lanthorn up and down this street all night and every night,"--and he looked at cethru: "do you understand, old man, what it is you have to do?" the old man answered in a voice that trembled like a rusty flute: "aye, aye!--to walk up and down and hold my lanthorn so that folk can see where they be going." the prince gathered up his reins; but the old man, lurching forward, touched his stirrup. "how long be i to go on wi' thiccy job?" "until you die!" cethru held up his lanthorn, and they could see his long, thin face, like a sandwich of dried leather, jerk and quiver, and his thin grey hairs flutter in the draught of the bats' wings circling round the light. "'twill be main hard!" he groaned; "an' my lanthorn's nowt but a poor thing." with a high look, the prince of felicitas bent and touched the old man's forehead. "until you die, old man," he repeated; and bidding his followers to light torches from cethru's lanthorn, he rode on down the twisting street. the clatter of the horses' hoofs died out in the night, and the scuttling and the rustling of the rats and the whispers of the bats' wings were heard again. cethru, left alone in the dark thoroughfare, sighed heavily; then, spitting on his hands, he tightened the old girdle round his loins, and slinging the lanthorn on his staff, held it up to the level of his waist, and began to make his way along the street. his progress was but slow, for he had many times to stop and rekindle the flame within his lanthorn, which the bats' wings, his own stumbles, and the jostlings of footpads or of revellers returning home, were for ever extinguishing. in traversing that long street he spent half the night, and half the night in traversing it back again. the saffron swan of dawn, slow swimming up the sky-river between the high roof-banks, bent her neck down through the dark air-water to look at him staggering below her, with his still smoking wick. no sooner did cethru see that sunlit bird, than with a great sigh of joy he sat him down, and at once fell asleep. now when the dwellers in the houses of the vita publica first gained knowledge that this old man passed every night with his lanthorn up and down their street, and when they marked those pallid gleams gliding over the motley prospect of cesspools and garden gates, over the sightless hovels and the rich-carved frontages of their palaces; or saw them stay their journey and remain suspended like a handful of daffodils held up against the black stuffs of secrecy--they said: "it is good that the old man should pass like this--we shall see better where we're going; and if the watch have any job on hand, or want to put the pavements in order, his lanthorn will serve their purpose well enough." and they would call out of their doors and windows to him passing: "hola! old man cethru! all's well with our house, and with the street before it?" but, for answer, the old man only held his lanthorn up, so that in the ring of its pale light they saw some sight or other in the street. and his silence troubled them, one by one, for each had expected that he would reply: "aye, aye! all's well with your house, sirs, and with the street before it!" thus they grew irritated with this old man who did not seem able to do anything but just hold his lanthorn up. and gradually they began to dislike his passing by their doors with his pale light, by which they could not fail to see, not only the rich-carved frontages and scrolled gates of courtyards and fair gardens, but things that were not pleasing to the eye. and they murmured amongst themselves: "what is the good of this old man and his silly lanthorn? we can see all we want to see without him; in fact, we got on very well before he came." so, as he passed, rich folk who were supping would pelt him with orange-peel and empty the dregs of their wine over his head; and poor folk, sleeping in their hutches, turned over, as the rays of the lanthorn fell on them, and cursed him for that disturbance. nor did revellers or footpads treat the old man, civilly, but tied him to the wall, where he was constrained to stay till a kind passerby released him. and ever the bats darkened his lanthorn with their wings and tried to beat the flame out. and the old man thought: "this be a terrible hard job; i don't seem to please nobody." but because the prince of felicitas had so commanded him, he continued nightly to pass with his lanthorn up and down the street; and every morning as the saffron swan came swimming overhead, to fall asleep. but his sleep did not last long, for he was compelled to pass many hours each day in gathering rushes and melting down tallow for his lanthorn; so that his lean face grew more than ever like a sandwich of dried leather. now it came to pass that the town watch having had certain complaints made to them that persons had been bitten in the vita publica by rats, doubted of their duty to destroy these ferocious creatures; and they held investigation, summoning the persons bitten and inquiring of them how it was that in so dark a street they could tell that the animals which had bitten them were indeed rats. howbeit for some time no one could be found who could say more than what he had been told, and since this was not evidence, the town watch had good hopes that they would not after all be forced to undertake this tedious enterprise. but presently there came before them one who said that he had himself seen the rat which had bitten him, by the light of an old man's lanthorn. when the town watch heard this they were vexed, for they knew that if this were true they would now be forced to prosecute the arduous undertaking, and they said: "bring in this old man!" cethru was brought before them trembling. "what is this we hear, old man, about your lanthorn and the rat? and in the first place, what were you doing in the vita publica at that time of night?" cethru answered: "i were just passin' with my lanthorn!" "tell us--did you see the rat?" cethru shook his head: "my lanthorn seed the rat, maybe!" he muttered. "old owl!" said the captain of the watch: "be careful what you say! if you saw the rat, why did you then not aid this unhappy citizen who was bitten by it--first, to avoid that rodent, and subsequently to slay it, thereby relieving the public of a pestilential danger?" cethru looked at him, and for some seconds did not reply; then he said slowly: "i were just passin' with my lanthorn." "that you have already told us," said the captain of the watch; "it is no answer." cethru's leathern cheeks became wine-coloured, so desirous was he to speak, and so unable. and the watch sneered and laughed, saying: "this is a fine witness." but of a sudden cethru spoke: "what would i be duin'--killin' rats; tidden my business to kill rats." the captain of the watch caressed his beard, and looking at the old man with contempt, said: "it seems to me, brothers, that this is an idle old vagabond, who does no good to any one. we should be well advised, i think, to prosecute him for vagrancy. but that is not at this moment the matter in hand. owing to the accident--scarcely fortunate--of this old man's passing with his lanthorn, it would certainly appear that citizens have been bitten by rodents. it is then, i fear, our duty to institute proceedings against those poisonous and violent animals." and amidst the sighing of the watch, it was so resolved. cethru was glad to shuffle away, unnoticed, from the court, and sitting down under a camel-date tree outside the city wall, he thus reflected: "they were rough with me! i done nothin', so far's i can see!" and a long time he sat there with the bunches of the camel-dates above him, golden as the sunlight. then, as the scent of the lyric-flowers, released by evening, warned him of the night dropping like a flight of dark birds on the plain, he rose stiffly, and made his way as usual toward the vita publica. he had traversed but little of that black thoroughfare, holding his lanthorn at the level of his breast, when the sound of a splash and cries for help smote his long, thin ears. remembering how the captain of the watch had admonished him, he stopped and peered about, but owing to his proximity to the light of his own lanthorn he saw nothing. presently he heard another splash and the sound of blowings and of puffings, but still unable to see clearly whence they came, he was forced in bewilderment to resume his march. but he had no sooner entered the next bend of that obscure and winding avenue than the most lamentable, lusty cries assailed him. again he stood still, blinded by his own light. somewhere at hand a citizen was being beaten, for vague, quick-moving forms emerged into the radiance of his lanthorn out of the deep violet of the night air. the cries swelled, and died away, and swelled; and the mazed cethru moved forward on his way. but very near the end of his first traversage, the sound of a long, deep sighing, as of a fat man in spiritual pain, once more arrested him. "drat me!" he thought, "this time i will see what 'tis," and he spun round and round, holding his lanthorn now high, now low, and to both sides. "the devil an' all's in it to-night," he murmured to himself; "there's some'at here fetchin' of its breath awful loud." but for his life he could see nothing, only that the higher he held his lanthorn the more painful grew the sound of the fat but spiritual sighing. and desperately, he at last resumed his progress. on the morrow, while he still slept stretched on his straw pallet, there came to him a member of the watch. "old man, you are wanted at the court house; rouse up, and bring your lanthorn." stiffly cethru rose. "what be they wantin' me fur now, mester?" "ah!" replied the watchman, "they are about to see if they can't put an end to your goings-on." cethru shivered, and was silent. now when they reached the court house it was patent that a great affair was forward; for the judges were in their robes, and a crowd of advocates, burgesses, and common folk thronged the careen, lofty hall of justice. when cethru saw that all eyes were turned on him, he shivered still more violently, fixing his fascinated gaze on the three judges in their emerald robes. "this then is the prisoner," said the oldest of the judges; "proceed with the indictment!" a little advocate in snuff-coloured clothes rose on little legs, and commenced to read: "forasmuch as on the seventeenth night of august fifteen hundred years since the messiah's death, one celestine, a maiden of this city, fell into a cesspool in the vita publica, and while being quietly drowned, was espied of the burgess pardonix by the light of a lanthorn held by the old man cethru; and, forasmuch as, plunging in, the said pardonix rescued her, not without grave risk of life and the ruin, of his clothes, and to-day lies ill of fever; and forasmuch as the old man cethru was the cause of these misfortunes to the burgess pardonix, by reason of his wandering lanthorn's showing the drowning maiden, the watch do hereby indict, accuse, and otherwise place charge upon this cethru of 'vagabondage without serious occupation.' "and, forasmuch as on this same night the watchman filepo, made aware, by the light of this said cethru's lanthorn, of three sturdy footpads, went to arrest them, and was set on by the rogues and well-nigh slain, the watch do hereby indict, accuse, and otherwise charge upon cethru complicity in this assault, by reasons, namely, first, that he discovered the footpads to the watchman and the watchman to the footpads by the light of his lanthorn; and, second, that, having thus discovered them, he stood idly by and gave no assistance to the law. "and, forasmuch as on this same night the wealthy burgess pranzo, who, having prepared a banquet, was standing in his doorway awaiting the arrival of his guests, did see, by the light of the said cethru's lanthorn, a beggar woman and her children grovelling in the gutter for garbage, whereby his appetite was lost completely; and, forasmuch as he, pranzo, has lodged a complaint against the constitution for permitting women and children to go starved, the watch do hereby indict, accuse, and otherwise make charge on cethru of rebellion and of anarchy, in that wilfully he doth disturb good citizens by showing to them without provocation disagreeable sights, and doth moreover endanger the laws by causing persons to desire to change them. "these be the charges, reverend judges, so please you!" and having thus spoken, the little advocate resumed his seat. then said the oldest of the judges: "cethru, you have heard; what answer do you make?" but no word, only the chattering of teeth, came from cethru. "have you no defence?" said the judge: "these are grave accusations!" then cethru spoke: "so please your highnesses," he said, "can i help what my lanthorn sees?" and having spoken these words, to all further questions he remained more silent than a headless man. the judges took counsel of each other, and the oldest of them thus addressed himself to cethru: "if you have no defence, old man, and there is no one will say a word for you, we can but proceed to judgment." then in the main aisle of the court there rose a youthful advocate. "most reverend judges," he said in a mellifluous voice, clearer than the fluting of a bell-bird, "it is useless to look for words from this old man, for it is manifest that he himself is nothing, and that his lanthorn is alone concerned in this affair. but, reverend judges, bethink you well: would you have a lanthorn ply a trade or be concerned with a profession, or do aught indeed but pervade the streets at night, shedding its light, which, if you will, is vagabondage? and, sirs, upon the second count of this indictment: would you have a lanthorn dive into cesspools to rescue maidens? would you have a lanthorn to beat footpads? or, indeed, to be any sort of partisan either of the law or of them that break the law? sure, sirs, i think not. and as to this third charge of fostering anarchy let me but describe the trick of this lanthorn's flame. it is distilled, most reverend judges, of oil and wick, together with that sweet secret heat of whose birth no words of mine can tell. and when, sirs, this pale flame has sprung into the air swaying to every wind, it brings vision to the human eye. and, if it be charged on this old man cethru that he and his lanthorn by reason of their showing not only the good but the evil bring no pleasure into the world, i ask, sirs, what in the world is so dear as this power to see whether it be the beautiful or the foul that is disclosed? need i, indeed, tell you of the way this flame spreads its feelers, and delicately darts and hovers in the darkness, conjuring things from nothing? this mechanical summoning, sirs, of visions out of blackness is benign, by no means of malevolent intent; no more than if a man, passing two donkeys in the road, one lean and the other fat, could justly be arraigned for malignancy because they were not both fat. this, reverend judges, is the essence of the matter concerning the rich burgess, pranzo, who, on account of the sight he saw by cethru's lanthorn, has lost the equilibrium of his stomach. for, sirs, the lanthorn did but show that which was there, both fair and foul, no more, no less; and though it is indeed true that pranzo is upset, it was not because the lanthorn maliciously produced distorted images, but merely caused to be seen, in due proportions, things which pranzo had not seen before. and surely, reverend judges, being just men, you would not have this lanthorn turn its light away from what is ragged and ugly because there are also fair things on which its light may fall; how, indeed, being a lanthorn, could it, if it would? and i would have you note this, sirs, that by this impartial discovery of the proportions of one thing to another, this lanthorn must indeed perpetually seem to cloud and sadden those things which are fair, because of the deep instincts of harmony and justice planted in the human breast. however unfair and cruel, then, this lanthorn may seem to those who, deficient in these instincts, desire all their lives to see naught but what is pleasant, lest they, like pranzo, should lose their appetites--it is not consonant with equity that this lanthorn should, even if it could, be prevented from thus mechanically buffeting the holiday cheek of life. i would think, sirs, that you should rather blame the queazy state of pranzo's stomach. the old man has said that he cannot help what his lanthorn sees. this is a just saying. but if, reverend judges, you deem this equipoised, indifferent lanthorn to be indeed blameworthy for having shown in the same moment, side by side, the skull and the fair face, the burdock and the tiger-lily, the butterfly and toad, then, most reverend judges, punish it, but do not punish this old man, for he himself is but a flume of smoke, thistle down dispersed--nothing!" so saying, the young advocate ceased. again the three judges took counsel of each other, and after much talk had passed between them, the oldest spoke: "what this young advocate has said seems to us to be the truth. we cannot punish a lanthorn. let the old man go!" and cethru went out into the sunshine . . . . now it came to pass that the prince of felicitas, returning from his journey, rode once more on his amber-coloured steed down the vita publica. the night was dark as a rook's wing, but far away down the street burned a little light, like a red star truant from heaven. the prince riding by descried it for a lanthorn, with an old man sleeping beside it. "how is this, friend?" said the prince. "you are not walking as i bade you, carrying your lanthorn." but cethru neither moved nor answered: "lift him up!" said the prince. they lifted up his head and held the lanthorn to his closed eyes. so lean was that brown face that the beams from the lanthorn would not rest on it, but slipped past on either side into the night. his eyes did not open. he was dead. and the prince touched him, saying: "farewell, old man! the lanthorn is still alight. go, fetch me another one, and let him carry it!" . some platitudes concerning drama a drama must be shaped so as to have a spire of meaning. every grouping of life and character has its inherent moral; and the business of the dramatist is so to pose the group as to bring that moral poignantly to the light of day. such is the moral that exhales from plays like 'lear', 'hamlet', and 'macbeth'. but such is not the moral to be found in the great bulk of contemporary drama. the moral of the average play is now, and probably has always been, the triumph at all costs of a supposed immediate ethical good over a supposed immediate ethical evil. the vice of drawing these distorted morals has permeated the drama to its spine; discoloured its art, humanity, and significance; infected its creators, actors, audience, critics; too often turned it from a picture into a caricature. a drama which lives under the shadow of the distorted moral forgets how to be free, fair, and fine--forgets so completely that it often prides itself on having forgotten. now, in writing plays, there are, in this matter of the moral, three courses open to the serious dramatist. the first is: to definitely set before the public that which it wishes to have set before it, the views and codes of life by which the public lives and in which it believes. this way is the most common, successful, and popular. it makes the dramatist's position sure, and not too obviously authoritative. the second course is: to definitely set before the public those views and codes of life by which the dramatist himself lives, those theories in which he himself believes, the more effectively if they are the opposite of what the public wishes to have placed before it, presenting them so that the audience may swallow them like powder in a spoonful of jam. there is a third course: to set before the public no cut-and-dried codes, but the phenomena of life and character, selected and combined, but not distorted, by the dramatist's outlook, set down without fear, favour, or prejudice, leaving the public to draw such poor moral as nature may afford. this third method requires a certain detachment; it requires a sympathy with, a love of, and a curiosity as to, things for their own sake; it requires a far view, together with patient industry, for no immediately practical result. it was once said of shakespeare that he had never done any good to any one, and never would. this, unfortunately, could not, in the sense in which the word "good" was then meant, be said of most modern dramatists. in truth, the good that shakespeare did to humanity was of a remote, and, shall we say, eternal nature; something of the good that men get from having the sky and the sea to look at. and this partly because he was, in his greater plays at all events, free from the habit of drawing a distorted moral. now, the playwright who supplies to the public the facts of life distorted by the moral which it expects, does so that he may do the public what he considers an immediate good, by fortifying its prejudices; and the dramatist who supplies to the public facts distorted by his own advanced morality, does so because he considers that he will at once benefit the public by substituting for its worn-out ethics, his own. in both cases the advantage the dramatist hopes to confer on the public is immediate and practical. but matters change, and morals change; men remain--and to set men, and the facts about them, down faithfully, so that they draw for us the moral of their natural actions, may also possibly be of benefit to the community. it is, at all events, harder than to set men and facts down, as they ought, or ought not to be. this, however, is not to say that a dramatist should, or indeed can, keep himself and his temperamental philosophy out of his work. as a man lives and thinks, so will he write. but it is certain, that to the making of good drama, as to the practice of every other art, there must be brought an almost passionate love of discipline, a white-heat of self-respect, a desire to make the truest, fairest, best thing in one's power; and that to these must be added an eye that does not flinch. such qualities alone will bring to a drama the selfless character which soaks it with inevitability. the word "pessimist" is frequently applied to the few dramatists who have been content to work in this way. it has been applied, among others, to euripides, to shakespeare, to ibsen; it will be applied to many in the future. nothing, however, is more dubious than the way in which these two words "pessimist" and "optimist" are used; for the optimist appears to be he who cannot bear the world as it is, and is forced by his nature to picture it as it ought to be, and the pessimist one who cannot only bear the world as it is, but loves it well enough to draw it faithfully. the true lover of the human race is surely he who can put up with it in all its forms, in vice as well as in virtue, in defeat no less than in victory; the true seer he who sees not only joy but sorrow, the true painter of human life one who blinks nothing. it may be that he is also, incidentally, its true benefactor. in the whole range of the social fabric there are only two impartial persons, the scientist and the artist, and under the latter heading such dramatists as desire to write not only for to-day, but for to-morrow, must strive to come. but dramatists being as they are made--past remedy it is perhaps more profitable to examine the various points at which their qualities and defects are shown. the plot! a good plot is that sure edifice which slowly rises out of the interplay of circumstance on temperament, and temperament on circumstance, within the enclosing atmosphere of an idea. a human being is the best plot there is; it may be impossible to see why he is a good plot, because the idea within which he was brought forth cannot be fully grasped; but it is plain that he is a good plot. he is organic. and so it must be with a good play. reason alone produces no good plots; they come by original sin, sure conception, and instinctive after-power of selecting what benefits the germ. a bad plot, on the other hand, is simply a row of stakes, with a character impaled on each--characters who would have liked to live, but came to untimely grief; who started bravely, but fell on these stakes, placed beforehand in a row, and were transfixed one by one, while their ghosts stride on, squeaking and gibbering, through the play. whether these stakes are made of facts or of ideas, according to the nature of the dramatist who planted them, their effect on the unfortunate characters is the same; the creatures were begotten to be staked, and staked they are! the demand for a good plot, not unfrequently heard, commonly signifies: "tickle my sensations by stuffing the play with arbitrary adventures, so that i need not be troubled to take the characters seriously. set the persons of the play to action, regardless of time, sequence, atmosphere, and probability!" now, true dramatic action is what characters do, at once contrary, as it were, to expectation, and yet because they have already done other things. no dramatist should let his audience know what is coming; but neither should he suffer his characters to, act without making his audience feel that those actions are in harmony with temperament, and arise from previous known actions, together with the temperaments and previous known actions of the other characters in the play. the dramatist who hangs his characters to his plot, instead of hanging his plot to his characters, is guilty of cardinal sin. the dialogue! good dialogue again is character, marshalled so as continually to stimulate interest or excitement. the reason good dialogue is seldom found in plays is merely that it is hard to write, for it requires not only a knowledge of what interests or excites, but such a feeling for character as brings misery to the dramatist's heart when his creations speak as they should not speak--ashes to his mouth when they say things for the sake of saying them--disgust when they are "smart." the art of writing true dramatic dialogue is an austere art, denying itself all license, grudging every sentence devoted to the mere machinery of the play, suppressing all jokes and epigrams severed from character, relying for fun and pathos on the fun and tears of life. from start to finish good dialogue is hand-made, like good lace; clear, of fine texture, furthering with each thread the harmony and strength of a design to which all must be subordinated. but good dialogue is also spiritual action. in so far as the dramatist divorces his dialogue from spiritual action--that is to say, from progress of events, or toward events which are significant of character--he is stultifying the thing done; he may make pleasing disquisitions, he is not making drama. and in so far as he twists character to suit his moral or his plot, he is neglecting a first principle, that truth to nature which alone invests art with handmade quality. the dramatist's license, in fact, ends with his design. in conception alone he is free. he may take what character or group of characters he chooses, see them with what eyes, knit them with what idea, within the limits of his temperament; but once taken, seen, and knitted, he is bound to treat them like a gentleman, with the tenderest consideration of their mainsprings. take care of character; action and dialogue will take care of themselves! the true dramatist gives full rein to his temperament in the scope and nature of his subject; having once selected subject and characters, he is just, gentle, restrained, neither gratifying his lust for praise at the expense of his offspring, nor using them as puppets to flout his audience. being himself the nature that brought them forth, he guides them in the course predestined at their conception. so only have they a chance of defying time, which is always lying in wait to destroy the false, topical, or fashionable, all--in a word--that is not based on the permanent elements of human nature. the perfect dramatist rounds up his characters and facts within the ring-fence of a dominant idea which fulfils the craving of his spirit; having got them there, he suffers them to live their own lives. plot, action, character, dialogue! but there is yet another subject for a platitude. flavour! an impalpable quality, less easily captured than the scent of a flower, the peculiar and most essential attribute of any work of art! it is the thin, poignant spirit which hovers up out of a play, and is as much its differentiating essence as is caffeine of coffee. flavour, in fine, is the spirit of the dramatist projected into his work in a state of volatility, so that no one can exactly lay hands on it, here, there, or anywhere. this distinctive essence of a play, marking its brand, is the one thing at which the dramatist cannot work, for it is outside his consciousness. a man may have many moods, he has but one spirit; and this spirit he communicates in some subtle, unconscious way to all his work. it waxes and wanes with the currents of his vitality, but no more alters than a chestnut changes into an oak. for, in truth, dramas are very like unto trees, springing from seedlings, shaping themselves inevitably in accordance with the laws fast hidden within themselves, drinking sustenance from the earth and air, and in conflict with the natural forces round them. so they slowly come to full growth, until warped, stunted, or risen to fair and gracious height, they stand open to all the winds. and the trees that spring from each dramatist are of different race; he is the spirit of his own sacred grove, into which no stray tree can by any chance enter. one more platitude. it is not unfashionable to pit one form of drama against another--holding up the naturalistic to the disadvantage of the epic; the epic to the belittlement of the fantastic; the fantastic to the detriment of the naturalistic. little purpose is thus served. the essential meaning, truth, beauty, and irony of things may be revealed under all these forms. vision over life and human nature can be as keen and just, the revelation as true, inspiring, delight-giving, and thought-provoking, whatever fashion be employed--it is simply a question of doing it well enough to uncover the kernel of the nut. whether the violet come from russia, from parma, or from england, matters little. close by the greek temples at paestum there are violets that seem redder, and sweeter, than any ever seen--as though they have sprung up out of the footprints of some old pagan goddess; but under the april sun, in a devonshire lane, the little blue scentless violets capture every bit as much of the spring. and so it is with drama--no matter what its form it need only be the "real thing," need only have caught some of the precious fluids, revelation, or delight, and imprisoned them within a chalice to which we may put our lips and continually drink. and yet, starting from this last platitude, one may perhaps be suffered to speculate as to the particular forms that our renascent drama is likely to assume. for our drama is renascent, and nothing will stop its growth. it is not renascent because this or that man is writing, but because of a new spirit. a spirit that is no doubt in part the gradual outcome of the impact on our home-grown art, of russian, french, and scandinavian influences, but which in the main rises from an awakened humanity in the conscience of our time. what, then, are to be the main channels down which the renascent english drama will float in the coming years? it is more than possible that these main channels will come to be two in number and situate far apart. the one will be the broad and clear-cut channel of naturalism, down which will course a drama poignantly shaped, and inspired with high intention, but faithful to the seething and multiple life around us, drama such as some are inclined to term photographic, deceived by a seeming simplicity into forgetfulness of the old proverb, "ars est celare artem," and oblivious of the fact that, to be vital, to grip, such drama is in every respect as dependent on imagination, construction, selection, and elimination--the main laws of artistry--as ever was the romantic or rhapsodic play: the question of naturalistic technique will bear, indeed, much more study than has yet been given to it. the aim of the dramatist employing it is obviously to create such an illusion of actual life passing on the stage as to compel the spectator to pass through an experience of his own, to think, and talk, and move with the people he sees thinking, talking, and moving in front of him. a false phrase, a single word out of tune or time, will destroy that illusion and spoil the surface as surely as a stone heaved into a still pool shatters the image seen there. but this is only the beginning of the reason why the naturalistic is the most exacting and difficult of all techniques. it is easy enough to reproduce the exact conversation and movements of persons in a room; it is desperately hard to produce the perfectly natural conversation and movements of those persons, when each natural phrase spoken and each natural movement made has not only to contribute toward the growth and perfection of a drama's soul, but also to be a revelation, phrase by phrase, movement by movement, of essential traits of character. to put it another way, naturalistic art, when alive, indeed to be alive at all, is simply the art of manipulating a procession of most delicate symbols. its service is the swaying and focussing of men's feelings and thoughts in the various departments of human life. it will be like a steady lamp, held up from time to time, in whose light things will be seen for a space clearly and in due proportion, freed from the mists of prejudice and partisanship. and the other of these two main channels will, i think, be a twisting and delicious stream, which will bear on its breast new barques of poetry, shaped, it may be, like prose, but a prose incarnating through its fantasy and symbolism all the deeper aspirations, yearning, doubts, and mysterious stirrings of the human spirit; a poetic prose-drama, emotionalising us by its diversity and purity of form and invention, and whose province will be to disclose the elemental soul of man and the forces of nature, not perhaps as the old tragedies disclosed them, not necessarily in the epic mood, but always with beauty and in the spirit of discovery. such will, i think, be the two vital forms of our drama in the coming generation. and between these two forms there must be no crude unions; they are too far apart, the cross is too violent. for, where there is a seeming blend of lyricism and naturalism, it will on examination be found, i think, to exist only in plays whose subjects or settings--as in synge's "playboy of the western world," or in mr. masefield's "nan"--are so removed from our ken that we cannot really tell, and therefore do not care, whether an absolute illusion is maintained. the poetry which may and should exist in naturalistic drama, can only be that of perfect rightness of proportion, rhythm, shape--the poetry, in fact, that lies in all vital things. it is the ill-mating of forms that has killed a thousand plays. we want no more bastard drama; no more attempts to dress out the simple dignity of everyday life in the peacock's feathers of false lyricism; no more straw-stuffed heroes or heroines; no more rabbits and goldfish from the conjurer's pockets, nor any limelight. let us have starlight, moonlight, sunlight, and the light of our own self-respects. . meditation on finality in the grand canyon of arizona, that most exhilarating of all natural phenomena, nature has for once so focussed her effects, that the result is a framed and final work of art. for there, between two high lines of plateau, level as the sea, are sunk the wrought thrones of the innumerable gods, couchant, and for ever revering, in their million moods of light and colour, the master mystery. having seen this culmination, i realize why many people either recoil before it, and take the first train home, or speak of it as a "remarkable formation." for, though mankind at large craves finality, it does not crave the sort that bends the knee to mystery. in nature, in religion, in art, in life, the common cry is: "tell me precisely where i am, what doing, and where going! let me be free of this fearful untidiness of not knowing all about it!" the favoured religions are always those whose message is most finite. the fashionable professions--they that end us in assured positions. the most popular works of fiction, such as leave nothing to our imagination. and to this craving after prose, who would not be lenient, that has at all known life, with its usual predominance of our lower and less courageous selves, our constant hankering after the cosey closed door and line of least resistance? we are continually begging to be allowed to know for certain; though, if our prayer were granted, and mystery no longer hovered, made blue the hills, and turned day into night, we should, as surely, wail at once to be delivered of that ghastliness of knowing things for certain! now, in art, i would never quarrel with a certain living writer who demands of it the kind of finality implied in what he calls a "moral discovery"--using, no doubt, the words in their widest sense. i would maintain, however, that such finality is not confined to positively discovering the true conclusion of premises laid down; but that it may also distil gradually, negatively from the whole work, in a moral discovery, as it were, of author. in other words, that, permeation by an essential point of view, by emanation of author, may so unify and vitalize a work, as to give it all the finality that need be required of art. for the finality that is requisite to art, be it positive or negative, is not the finality of dogma, nor the finality of fact, it is ever the finality of feeling--of a spiritual light, subtly gleaned by the spectator out of that queer luminous haze which one man's nature must ever be to others. and herein, incidentally, it is that art acquires also that quality of mystery, more needful to it even than finality, for the mystery that wraps a work of art is the mystery of its maker, and the mystery of its maker is the difference between that maker's soul and every other soul. but let me take an illustration of what i mean by these two kinds of finality that art may have, and show that in essence they are but two halves of the same thing. the term "a work of art" will not be denied, i think, to that early novel of m. anatole france, "le lys rouge." now, that novel has positive finality, since the spiritual conclusion from its premises strikes one as true. but neither will the term "a work of art" be denied to the same writer's four "bergeret" volumes, whose negative finality consists only in the temperamental atmosphere wherein they are soaked. now, if the theme of "le lys rouge" had been treated by tolstoy, meredith, or turgenev, we should have had spiritual conclusions from the same factual premises so different from m. france's as prunes from prisms, and yet, being the work of equally great artists, they would, doubtless, have struck us as equally true. is not, then, the positive finality of "le lys rouge," though expressed in terms of a different craftsmanship, the same, in essence, as the negative finality of the "bergeret" volumes? are not both, in fact, merely flower of author true to himself? so long as the scent, colour, form of that flower is strong and fine enough to affect the senses of our spirit, then all the rest, surely, is academic--i would say, immaterial. but here, in regard to art, is where mankind at large comes on the field. "'flower of author,'" it says, "'senses of the spirit!' phew! give me something i can understand! let me know where i am getting to!" in a word, it wants a finality different from that which art can give. it will ask the artist, with irritation, what his solution, or his lesson, or his meaning, really is, having omitted to notice that the poor creature has been giving all the meaning that he can, in every sentence. it will demand to know why it was not told definitely what became of charles or mary in whom it had grown so interested; and will be almost frightened to learn that the artist knows no more than itself. and if by any chance it be required to dip its mind into a philosophy that does not promise it a defined position both in this world and the next, it will assuredly recoil, and with a certain contempt say: "no, sir! this means nothing to me; and if it means anything to you--which i very much doubt--i am sorry for you!" it must have facts, and again facts, not only in the present and the past, but in the future. and it demands facts of that, which alone cannot glibly give it facts. it goes on asking facts of art, or, rather, such facts as art cannot give--for, after all, even "flower of author" is fact in a sort of way. consider, for instance, synge's masterpiece, "the playboy of the western world!" there is flower of author! what is it for mankind at large? an attack on the irish character! a pretty piece of writing! an amusing farce! enigmatic cynicism leading nowhere! a puzzling fellow wrote it! mankind at large has little patience with puzzling fellows. few, in fact, want flower of author. moreover, it is a quality that may well be looked for where it does not exist. to say that the finality which art requires is merely an enwrapping mood, or flower of author, is not by any means to say that any robust fellow, slamming his notions down in ink, can give us these. indeed, no! so long as we see the author's proper person in his work, we do not see the flower of him. let him retreat himself, if he pretend to be an artist. there is no less of subtle skill, no less impersonality, in the "bergeret" volumes than in "le lys rouge." no less labour and mental torturing went to their making, page by page, in order that they might exhale their perfume of mysterious finality, their withdrawn but implicit judgment. flower of author is not quite so common as the buttercup, the californian poppy, or the gay texan gaillardia, and for that very reason the finality it gives off will never be robust enough for a mankind at large that would have things cut and dried, and labelled in thick letters. for, consider--to take one phase alone of this demand for factual finality--how continual and insistent is the cry for characters that can be worshipped; how intense and persistent the desire to be told that charles was a real hero; and how bitter the regret that mary was no better than she should be! mankind at large wants heroes that are heroes, and heroines that are heroines--and nothing so inappropriate to them as unhappy endings. travelling away, i remember, from that grand canyon of arizona were a young man and a young woman, evidently in love. he was sitting very close to her, and reading aloud for her pleasure, from a paper-covered novel, heroically oblivious of us all: "'sir robert,' she murmured, lifting her beauteous eyes, 'i may not tempt you, for you are too dear to me!' sir robert held her lovely face between his two strong hands. 'farewell!' he said, and went out into the night. but something told them both that, when he had fulfilled his duty, sir robert would return . . . ." he had not returned before we reached the junction, but there was finality about that baronet, and we well knew that he ultimately would. and, long after the sound of that young man's faithful reading had died out of our ears, we meditated on sir robert, and compared him with the famous characters of fiction, slowly perceiving that they were none of them so final in their heroism as he. no, none of them reached that apex. for hamlet was a most unfinished fellow, and lear extremely violent. pickwick addicted to punch, and sam weller to lying; bazarof actually a nihilist, and irina----! levin and anna, pierre and natasha, all of them stormy and unsatisfactory at times. "un coeur simple" nothing but a servant, and an old maid at that; "saint julien l'hospitalier" a sheer fanatic. colonel newcome too irritable and too simple altogether. don quixote certified insane. hilda wangel, nora, hedda--sir robert would never even have spoken to such baggages! mon sieur bergeret--an amiable weak thing! d'artagnan--a true swashbuckler! tom jones, faust, don juan--we might not even think of them: and those poor greeks: prometheus--shocking rebel. oedipus for a long time banished by the censor. phaedra and elektra, not even so virtuous as mary, who failed of being what she should be! and coming to more familiar persons joseph and moses, david and elijah, all of them lacked his finality of true heroism--none could quite pass muster beside sir robert . . . . long we meditated, and, reflecting that an author must ever be superior to the creatures of his brain, were refreshed to think that there were so many living authors capable of giving birth to sir robert; for indeed, sir robert and finality like his--no doubtful heroes, no flower of author, and no mystery is what mankind at large has always wanted from letters, and will always want. as truly as that oil and water do not mix, there are two kinds of men. the main cleavage in the whole tale of life is this subtle, all pervading division of mankind into the man of facts and the man of feeling. and not by what they are or do can they be told one from the other, but just by their attitude toward finality. fortunately most of us are neither quite the one nor quite the other. but between the pure-blooded of each kind there is real antipathy, far deeper than the antipathies of race, politics, or religion--an antipathy that not circumstance, love, goodwill, or necessity will ever quite get rid of. sooner shall the panther agree with the bull than that other one with the man of facts. there is no bridging the gorge that divides these worlds. nor is it so easy to tell, of each, to which world he belongs, as it was to place the lady, who held out her finger over that gorge called grand canyon, and said: "it doesn't look thirteen miles; but they measured it just there! excuse my pointing!" . wanted-schooling "et nous jongleurs inutiles, frivoles joueurs de luth!". . . useless jugglers, frivolous players on the lute! must we so describe ourselves, we, the producers, season by season, of so many hundreds of "remarkable" works of fiction?--for though, when we take up the remarkable works of our fellows, we "really cannot read them!" the press and the advertisements of our publishers tell us that they are "remarkable." a story goes that once in the twilight undergrowth of a forest of nut-bearing trees a number of little purblind creatures wandered, singing for nuts. on some of these purblind creatures the nuts fell heavy and full, extremely indigestible, and were quickly swallowed; on others they fell light, and contained nothing, because the kernel had already been eaten up above, and these light and kernel-less nuts were accompanied by sibilations or laughter. on others again no nuts at all, empty or full, came down. but nuts or no nuts, full nuts or empty nuts, the purblind creatures below went on wandering and singing. a traveller one day stopped one of these creatures whose voice was peculiarly disagreeable, and asked "why do you sing like this? is it for pleasure that you do it, or for pain? what do you get out of it? is it for the sake of those up there? is it for your own sake--for the sake of your family--for whose sake? do you think your songs worth listening to? answer!" the creature scratched itself, and sang the louder. "ah! cacoethes! i pity, but do not blame you," said the traveller. he left the creature, and presently came to another which sang a squeaky treble song. it wandered round in a ring under a grove of stunted trees, and the traveller noticed that it never went out of that grove. "is it really necessary," he said, "for you to express yourself thus?" and as he spoke showers of tiny hard nuts came down on the little creature, who ate them greedily. the traveller opened one; it was extremely small and tasted of dry rot. "why, at all events," he said, "need you stay under these trees? the nuts are not good here." but for answer the little creature ran round and round, and round and round. "i suppose," said the traveller, "small bad nuts are better than no bread; if you went out of this grove you would starve?" the purblind little creature shrieked. the traveller took the sound for affirmation, and passed on. he came to a third little creature who, under a tall tree, was singing very loudly indeed, while all around was a great silence, broken only by sounds like the snuffling of small noses. the creature stopped singing as the traveller came up, and at once a storm of huge nuts came down; the traveller found them sweetish and very oily. "why," he said to the creature, "did you sing so loud? you cannot eat all these nuts. you really do sing louder than seems necessary; come, answer me!" but the purblind little creature began to sing again at the top of its voice, and the noise of the snuffling of small noses became so great that the traveller hastened away. he passed many other purblind little creatures in the twilight of this forest, till at last he came to one that looked even blinder than the rest, but whose song was sweet and low and clear, breaking a perfect stillness; and the traveller sat down to listen. for a long time he listened to that song without noticing that not a nut was falling. but suddenly he heard a faint rustle and three little oval nuts lay on the ground. the traveller cracked one of them. it was of delicate flavour. he looked at the little creature standing with its face raised, and said: "tell me, little blind creature, whose song is so charming, where did you learn to sing?" the little creature turned its head a trifle to one side as though listening for the fall of nuts. "ah, indeed!" said the traveller: "you, whose voice is so clear, is this all you get to eat?" the little blind creature smiled . . . . it is a twilight forest in which we writers of fiction wander, and once in a way, though all this has been said before, we may as well remind ourselves and others why the light is so dim; why there is so much bad and false fiction; why the demand for it is so great. living in a world where demand creates supply, we writers of fiction furnish the exception to this rule. for, consider how, as a class, we come into existence. unlike the followers of any other occupation, nothing whatever compels any one of us to serve an apprenticeship. we go to no school, have to pass no examination, attain no standard, receive no diploma. we need not study that which should be studied; we are at liberty to flood our minds with all that should not be studied. like mushrooms, in a single sight we spring up--a pen in our hands, very little in our brains, and who-knows-what in our hearts! few of us sit down in cold blood to write our first stories; we have something in us that we feel we must express. this is the beginning of the vicious circle. our first books often have some thing in them. we are sincere in trying to express that something. it is true we cannot express it, not having learnt how, but its ghost haunts the pages the ghost of real experience and real life--just enough to attract the untrained intelligence, just enough to make a generous press remark: "this shows promise." we have tasted blood, we pant for more. those of us who had a carking occupation hasten to throw it aside, those who had no occupation have now found one; some few of us keep both the old occupation and the new. whichever of these courses we pursue, the hurry with which we pursue it undoes us. for, often we have only that one book in us, which we did not know how to write, and having expressed that which we have felt, we are driven in our second, our third, our fourth, to warm up variations, like those dressed remains of last night's dinner which are served for lunch; or to spin from our usually commonplace imaginations thin extravagances which those who do not try to think for themselves are ever ready to accept as full of inspiration and vitality. anything for a book, we say--anything for a book! from time immemorial we have acted in this immoral manner, till we have accustomed the press and public to expect it. from time immemorial we have allowed ourselves to be driven by those powerful drivers, bread, and praise, and cared little for the quality of either. sensibly, or insensibly, we tune our songs to earn the nuts of our twilight forest. we tune them, not to the key of: "is it good?" but to the key of: "will it pay?" and at each tuning the nuts fall fast! it is all so natural. how can we help it, seeing that we are undisciplined and standardless, seeing that we started without the backbone that schooling gives? here and there among us is a genius, here and there a man of exceptional stability who trains himself in spite of all the forces working for his destruction. but those who do not publish until they can express, and do not express until they have something worth expressing, are so rare that they can be counted on the fingers of three or perhaps four hands; mercifully, we all--or nearly all believe ourselves of that company. it is the fashion to say that the public will have what it wants. certainly the public will have what it wants if what it wants is given to the public. if what it now wants were suddenly withdrawn, the public, the big public, would by an obvious natural law take the lowest of what remained; if that again were withdrawn, it would take the next lowest, until by degrees it took a relatively good article. the public, the big public, is a mechanical and helpless consumer at the mercy of what is supplied to it, and this must ever be so. the public then is not to blame for the supply of bad, false fiction. the press is not to blame, for the press, like the public, must take what is set before it; their critics, for the most part, like ourselves have been to no school, passed no test of fitness, received no certificate; they cannot lead us, it is we who lead them, for without the critics we could live but without us the critics would die. we cannot, therefore, blame the press. nor is the publisher to blame; for the publisher will publish what is set before him. it is true that if he published no books on commission he would deserve the praise of the state, but it is quite unreasonable for us to expect him to deserve the praise of the state, since it is we who supply him with these books and incite him to publish them. we cannot, therefore, lay the blame on the publisher. we must lay the blame where it clearly should be laid, on ourselves. we ourselves create the demand for bad and false fiction. very many of us have private means; for such there is no excuse. very many of us have none; for such, once started on this journey of fiction, there is much, often tragic, excuse--the less reason then for not having trained ourselves before setting out on our way. there is no getting out of it; the fault is ours. if we will not put ourselves to school when we are young; if we must rush into print before we can spell; if we will not repress our natural desires and walk before we run; if we will not learn at least what not to do--we shall go on wandering through the forest, singing our foolish songs. and since we cannot train ourselves except by writing, let us write, and burn what we write; then shall we soon stop writing, or produce what we need not burn! for, as things are now, without compass, without map, we set out into the twilight forest of fiction; without path, without track--and we never emerge. yes, with the french writer, we must say: "et nous jongleurs inutiles, frivoles joueurs de luth!" . . . . reflections on our dislike of things as they are yes! why is this the chief characteristic of our art? what secret instincts are responsible for this inveterate distaste? but, first, is it true that we have it? to stand still and look at a thing for the joy of looking, without reference to any material advantage, and personal benefit, either to ourselves or our neighbours, just simply to indulge our curiosity! is that a british habit? i think not. if, on some november afternoon, we walk into kensington gardens, where they join the park on the bayswater side, and, crossing in front of the ornamental fountain, glance at the semicircular seat let into a dismal little temple of the sun, we shall see a half-moon of apathetic figures. there, enjoying a moment of lugubrious idleness, may be sitting an old countrywoman with steady eyes in a lean, dusty-black dress and an old poke-bonnet; by her side, some gin-faced creature of the town, all blousy and draggled; a hollow-eyed foreigner, far gone in consumption; a bronzed young navvy, asleep, with his muddy boots jutting straight out; a bearded, dreary being, chin on chest; and more consumptives, and more vagabonds, and more people dead-tired, speechless, and staring before them from that crescent-shaped haven where there is no draught at their backs, and the sun occasionally shines. and as we look at them, according to the state of our temper, we think: poor creatures, i wish i could do something for them! or: revolting! they oughtn't to allow it! but do we feel any pleasure in just watching them; any of that intimate sensation a cat entertains when its back is being rubbed; are we curiously enjoying the sight of these people, simply as manifestations of life, as objects fashioned by the ebb and flow of its tides? again, i think, not. and why? either, because we have instantly felt that we ought to do something; that here is a danger in our midst, which one day might affect our own security; and at all events, a sight revolting to us who came out to look at this remarkably fine fountain. or, because we are too humane! though very possibly that frequent murmuring of ours: ah! it's too sad! is but another way of putting the words: stand aside, please, you're too depressing! or, again, is it that we avoid the sight of things as they are, avoid the unedifying, because of what may be called "the uncreative instinct," that safeguard and concomitant of a civilisation which demands of us complete efficiency, practical and thorough employment of every second of our time and every inch of our space? we know, of course, that out of nothing nothing can be made, that to "create" anything a man must first receive impressions, and that to receive impressions requires an apparatus of nerves and feelers, exposed and quivering to every vibration round it, an apparatus so entirely opposed to our national spirit and traditions that the bare thought of it causes us to blush. a robust recognition of this, a steadfast resolve not to be forced out of the current of strenuous civilisation into the sleepy backwater of pure impression ism, makes us distrustful of attempts to foster in ourselves that receptivity and subsequent creativeness, the microbes of which exist in every man: to watch a thing simply because it is a thing, entirely without considering how it can affect us, and without even seeing at the moment how we are to get anything out of it, jars our consciences, jars that inner feeling which keeps secure and makes harmonious the whole concert of our lives, for we feel it to be a waste of time, dangerous to the community, contributing neither to our meat and drink, our clothes and comfort, nor to the stability and order of our lives. of these three possible reasons for our dislike of things as they are, the first two are perhaps contained within the third. but, to whatever our dislike is due, we have it--oh! we have it! with the possible exception of hogarth in his non-preaching pictures, and constable in his sketches of the sky,--i speak of dead men only,--have we produced any painter of reality like manet or millet, any writer like flaubert or maupassant, like turgenev, or tchekov. we are, i think, too deeply civilised, so deeply civilised that we have come to look on nature as indecent. the acts and emotions of life undraped with ethics seem to us anathema. it has long been, and still is, the fashion among the intellectuals of the continent to regard us as barbarians in most aesthetic matters. ah! if they only knew how infinitely barbarous they seem to us in their naive contempt of our barbarism, and in what we regard as their infantine concern with things as they are. how far have we not gone past all that--we of the oldest settled western country, who have so veneered our lives that we no longer know of what wood they are made! whom generations have so soaked with the preserve "good form" that we are impervious to the claims and clamour of that ill-bred creature--life! who think it either dreadful, or 'vieux jeu', that such things as the crude emotions and the raw struggles of fate should be even mentioned, much less presented in terms of art! for whom an artist is 'suspect' if he is not, in his work, a sportsman and a gentleman? who shake a solemn head over writers who will treat of sex; and, with the remark: "worst of it is, there's so much truth in those fellows!" close the book. ah! well! i suppose we have been too long familiar with the unprofitableness of speculation, have surrendered too definitely to action--to the material side of things, retaining for what relaxation our spirits may require, a habit of sentimental aspiration, carefully divorced from things as they are. we seem to have decided that things are not, or, if they are, ought not to be--and what is the good of thinking of things like that? in fact, our national ideal has become the will to health, to material efficiency, and to it we have sacrificed the will to sensibility. it is a point of view. and yet--to the philosophy that craves perfection, to the spirit that desires the golden mean, and hankers for the serene and balanced seat in the centre of the see-saw, it seems a little pitiful, and constricted; a confession of defeat, a hedging and limitation of the soul. need we put up with this, must we for ever turn our eyes away from things as they are, stifle our imaginations and our sensibilities, for fear that they should become our masters, and destroy our sanity? this is the eternal question that confronts the artist and the thinker. because of the inevitable decline after full flowering-point is reached, the inevitable fading of the fire that follows the full flame and glow, are we to recoil from striving to reach the perfect and harmonious climacteric? better to have loved and lost, i think, than never to have loved at all; better to reach out and grasp the fullest expression of the individual and the national soul, than to keep for ever under the shelter of the wall. i would even think it possible to be sensitive without neurasthenia, to be sympathetic without insanity, to be alive to all the winds that blow without getting influenza. god forbid that our letters and our arts should decade into beardsleyism; but between that and their present "health" there lies full flowering-point, not yet, by a long way, reached. to flower like that, i suspect, we must see things just a little more--as they are! - . the windlestraw a certain writer, returning one afternoon from rehearsal of his play, sat down in the hall of the hotel where he was staying. "no," he reflected, "this play of mine will not please the public; it is gloomy, almost terrible. this very day i read these words in my morning paper: 'no artist can afford to despise his public, for, whether he confesses it or not, the artist exists to give the public what it wants.' i have, then, not only done what i cannot afford to do, but i have been false to the reason of my existence." the hall was full of people, for it was the hour of tea; and looking round him, the writer thought "and this is the public--the public that my play is destined not to please!" and for several minutes he looked at them as if he had been hypnotised. presently, between two tables he noticed a waiter standing, lost in his thoughts. the mask of the man's professional civility had come awry, and the expression of his face and figure was curiously remote from the faces and forms of those from whom he had been taking orders; he seemed like a bird discovered in its own haunts, all unconscious as yet of human eyes. and the writer thought: "but if those people at the tables are the public, what is that waiter? how if i was mistaken, and not they, but he were the real public?" and testing this thought, his mind began at once to range over all the people he had lately seen. he thought of the founder's day dinner of a great school, which he had attended the night before. "no," he mused, "i see very little resemblance between the men at that dinner and the men in this hall; still less between them and the waiter. how if they were the real public, and neither the waiter, nor these people here!" but no sooner had he made this reflection, than he bethought him of a gathering of workers whom he had watched two days ago. "again," he mused, "i do not recollect any resemblance at all between those workers and the men at the dinner, and certainly they are not like any one here. what if those workers are the real public, not the men at the dinner, nor the waiter, nor the people in this hall!" and thereupon his mind flew off again, and this time rested on the figures of his own immediate circle of friends. they seemed very different from the four real publics whom he had as yet discovered. "yes," he considered, "when i come to think of it, my associates painters, and writers, and critics, and all that kind of person--do not seem to have anything to speak of in common with any of these people. perhaps my own associates, then, are the real public, and not these others!" perceiving that this would be the fifth real public, he felt discouraged. but presently he began to think: "the past is the past and cannot be undone, and with this play of mine i shall not please the public; but there is always the future! now, i do not wish to do what the artist cannot afford to do, i earnestly desire to be true to the reason of my existence; and since the reason of that existence is to give the public what it wants, it is really vital to discover who and what the public is!" and he began to look very closely at the faces around him, hoping to find out from types what he had failed to ascertain from classes. two men were sitting near, one on each side of a woman. the first, who was all crumpled in his arm-chair, had curly lips and wrinkles round the eyes, cheeks at once rather fat and rather shadowy, and a dimple in his chin. it seemed certain that he was humourous, and kind, sympathetic, rather diffident, speculative, moderately intelligent, with the rudiments perhaps of an imagination. and he looked at the second man, who was sitting very upright, as if he had a particularly fine backbone, of which he was not a little proud. he was extremely big and handsome, with pronounced and regular nose and chin, firm, well-cut lips beneath a smooth moustache, direct and rather insolent eyes, a some what receding forehead, and an air of mastery over all around. it was obvious that he possessed a complete knowledge of his own mind, some brutality, much practical intelligence, great resolution, no imagination, and plenty of conceit. and he looked at the woman. she was pretty, but her face was vapid, and seemed to have no character at all. and from one to the other he looked, and the more he looked the less resemblance he saw between them, till the objects of his scrutiny grew restive.... then, ceasing to examine them, an idea came to him. "no! the public is not this or that class, this or that type; the public is an hypothetical average human being, endowed with average human qualities--a distillation, in fact, of all the people in this hall, the people in the street outside, the people of this country everywhere." and for a moment he was pleased; but soon he began again to feel uneasy. "since," he reflected, "it is necessary for me to supply this hypothetical average human being with what he wants, i shall have to find out how to distil him from all the ingredients around me. now how am i to do that? it will certainly take me more than all my life to collect and boil the souls of all of them, which is necessary if i am to extract the genuine article, and i should then apparently have no time left to supply the precipitated spirit, when i had obtained it, with what it wanted! yet this hypothetical average human being must be found, or i must stay for ever haunted by the thought that i am not supplying him with what he wants!" and the writer became more and more discouraged, for to arrogate to himself knowledge of all the heights and depths, and even of all the virtues and vices, tastes and dislikes of all the people of the country, without having first obtained it, seemed to him to savour of insolence. and still more did it appear impertinent, having taken this mass of knowledge which he had not got, to extract from it a golden mean man, in order to supply him with what he wanted. and yet this was what every artist did who justified his existence--or it would not have been so stated in a newspaper. and he gaped up at the lofty ceiling, as if he might perchance see the public flying up there in the faint bluish mist of smoke. and suddenly he thought: "suppose, by some miracle, my golden-mean bird came flying to me with its beak open for the food with which it is my duty to supply it--would it after all be such a very strange-looking creature; would it not be extremely like my normal self? am i not, in fact, myself the public? for, without the strongest and most reprehensible conceit, can i claim for my normal self a single attribute or quality not possessed by an hypothetical average human being? yes, i am myself the public; or at all events all that my consciousness can ever know of it for certain." and he began to consider deeply. for sitting there in cold blood, with his nerves at rest, and his brain and senses normal, the play he had written did seem to him to put an unnecessary strain upon the faculties. "ah!" he thought, "in future i must take good care never to write anything except in cold blood, with my nerves well clothed, and my brain and senses quiet. i ought only to write when i feel as normal as i do now." and for some minutes he remained motionless, looking at his boots. then there crept into his mind an uncomfortable thought. "but have i ever written anything without feeling a little-abnormal, at the time? have i ever even felt inclined to write anything, until my emotions had been unduly excited, my brain immoderately stirred, my senses unusually quickened, or my spirit extravagantly roused? never! alas, never! i am then a miserable renegade, false to the whole purpose of my being--nor do i see the slightest hope of becoming a better man, a less unworthy artist! for i literally cannot write without the stimulus of some feeling exaggerated at the expense of other feelings. what has been in the past will be in the future: i shall never be taking up my pen when i feel my comfortable and normal self never be satisfying that self which is the public!" and he thought: "i am lost. for, to satisfy that normal self, to give the public what it wants, is, i am told, and therefore must believe, what all artists exist for. aeschylus in his 'choephorae' and his 'prometheus'; sophocles in his 'oedipus tyrannus'; euripides when he wrote 'the trojan women,' 'medea,'--and 'hippolytus'; shakespeare in his 'leer'; goethe in his 'faust'; ibsen in his 'ghosts' and his 'peer gynt'; tolstoy in 'the powers of darkness'; all--all in those great works, must have satisfied their most comfortable and normal selves; all--all must have given to the average human being, to the public, what it wants; for to do that, we know, was the reason of their existence, and who shall say those noble artists were not true to it? that is surely unthinkable. and yet--and yet--we are assured, and, indeed, it is true, that there is no real public in this country for just those plays! therefore aeschylus, sophocles, euripides, shakespeare, goethe, ibsen, tolstoy, in their greatest works did not give the public what it wants, did not satisfy the average human being, their more comfortable and normal selves, and as artists were not true to the reason of their existence. therefore they were not artists, which is unthinkable; therefore i have not yet found the public!" and perceiving that in this impasse his last hope of discovery had foundered, the writer let his head fall on his chest. but even as he did so a gleam of light, like a faint moonbeam, stole out into the garden of his despair. "is it possible," he thought, "that, by a writer, until his play has been performed (when, alas! it is too late), 'the public' is inconceivable--in fact that for him there is no such thing? but if there be no such thing, i cannot exist to give it what it wants. what then is the reason of my existence? am i but a windlestraw?" and wearied out with his perplexity, he fell into a doze. and while he dozed he dreamed that he saw the figure of a woman standing in darkness, from whose face and form came a misty refulgence, such as steals out into the dusk from white campion flowers along summer hedgerows. she was holding her pale hands before her, wide apart, with the palms turned down, quivering as might doves about to settle; and for all it was so dark, her grey eyes were visible-full of light, with black rims round the irises. to gaze at those eyes was almost painful; for though they were beautiful, they seemed to see right through his soul, to pass him by, as though on a far discovering voyage, and forbidden to rest. the dreamer spoke to her: "who are you, standing there in the darkness with those eyes that i can hardly bear to look at? who are you?" and the woman answered: "friend, i am your conscience; i am the truth as best it may be seen by you. i am she whom you exist to serve." with those words she vanished, and the writer woke. a boy was standing before him with the evening papers. to cover his confusion at being caught asleep he purchased one and began to read a leading article. it commenced with these words: "there are certain playwrights taking themselves very seriously; might we suggest to them that they are in danger of becoming ridiculous . . . ." the writer let fall his hand, and the paper fluttered to the ground. "the public," he thought, "i am not able to take seriously, because i cannot conceive what it may be; myself, my conscience, i am told i must not take seriously, or i become ridiculous. yes, i am indeed lost!" and with a feeling of elation, as of a straw blown on every wind, he arose. . studies and essays by john galsworthy "je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal." --anatole france table of contents: about censorship vague thoughts on art about censorship since, time and again, it has been proved, in this country of free institutions, that the great majority of our fellow-countrymen consider the only censorship that now obtains amongst us, namely the censorship of plays, a bulwark for the preservation of their comfort and sensibility against the spiritual researches and speculations of bolder and too active spirits--it has become time to consider whether we should not seriously extend a principle, so grateful to the majority, to all our institutions. for no one can deny that in practice the censorship of drama works with a smooth swiftness--a lack of delay and friction unexampled in any public office. no troublesome publicity and tedious postponement for the purpose of appeal mar its efficiency. it is neither hampered by the law nor by the slow process of popular election. welcomed by the overwhelming majority of the public; objected to only by such persons as suffer from it, and a negligible faction, who, wedded pedantically to liberty of the subject, are resentful of summary powers vested in a single person responsible only to his own 'conscience'--it is amazingly, triumphantly, successful. why, then, in a democratic state, is so valuable a protector of the will, the interests, and pleasure of the majority not bestowed on other branches of the public being? opponents of the censorship of plays have been led by the absence of such other censorships to conclude that this office is an archaic survival, persisting into times that have outgrown it. they have been known to allege that the reason of its survival is simply the fact that dramatic authors, whose reputation and means of livelihood it threatens, have ever been few in number and poorly organised--that the reason, in short, is the helplessness and weakness of the interests concerned. we must all combat with force such an aspersion on our legislature. can it even for a second be supposed that a state which gives trial by jury to the meanest, poorest, most helpless of its citizens, and concedes to the greatest criminals the right of appeal, could have debarred a body of reputable men from the ordinary rights of citizenship for so cynical a reason as that their numbers were small, their interests unjoined, their protests feeble? such a supposition were intolerable! we do not in this country deprive a class of citizens of their ordinary rights, we do not place their produce under the irresponsible control of one not amenable to law, by any sort of political accident! that would indeed be to laugh at justice in this kingdom! that would indeed be cynical and unsound! we must never admit that there is no basic justice controlling the edifice of our civic rights. we do, we must, conclude that a just and well-considered principle underlies this despotic institution; for surely, else, it would not be suffered to survive for a single moment! pom! pom! if, then, the censorship of plays be just, beneficent, and based on a well-considered principle, we must rightly inquire what good and logical reason there is for the absence of censorship in other departments of the national life. if censorship of the drama be in the real interests of the people, or at all events in what the censor for the time being conceives to be their interest--then censorships of art, literature, religion, science, and politics are in the interests of the people, unless it can be proved that there exists essential difference between the drama and these other branches of the public being. let us consider whether there is any such essential difference. it is fact, beyond dispute, that every year numbers of books appear which strain the average reader's intelligence and sensibilities to an unendurable extent; books whose speculations are totally unsuited to normal thinking powers; books which contain views of morality divergent from the customary, and discussions of themes unsuited to the young person; books which, in fine, provide the greater public with no pleasure whatsoever, and, either by harrowing their feelings or offending their good taste, cause them real pain. it is true that, precisely as in the case of plays, the public are protected by a vigilant and critical press from works of this description; that, further, they are protected by the commercial instinct of the libraries, who will not stock an article which may offend their customers--just as, in the case of plays, the public are protected by the common-sense of theatrical managers; that, finally, they are protected by the police and the common law of the land. but despite all these protections, it is no uncommon thing for an average citizen to purchase one of these disturbing or dubious books. has he, on discovering its true nature, the right to call on the bookseller to refund its value? he has not. and thus he runs a danger obviated in the case of the drama which has the protection of a prudential censorship. for this reason alone, how much better, then, that there should exist a paternal authority (some, no doubt, will call it grand-maternal--but sneers must not be confounded with argument) to suppress these books before appearance, and safeguard us from the danger of buying and possibly reading undesirable or painful literature! a specious reason, however, is advanced for exempting literature from the censorship accorded to plays. he--it is said--who attends the performance of a play, attends it in public, where his feelings may be harrowed and his taste offended, cheek by jowl with boys, or women of all ages; it may even chance that he has taken to this entertainment his wife, or the young persons of his household. he--on the other hand--who reads a book, reads it in privacy. true; but the wielder of this argument has clasped his fingers round a two-edged blade. the very fact that the book has no mixed audience removes from literature an element which is ever the greatest check on licentiousness in drama. no manager of a theatre,--a man of the world engaged in the acquisition of his livelihood, unless guaranteed by the license of the censor, dare risk the presentment before a mixed audience of that which might cause an 'emeute' among his clients. it has, indeed, always been observed that the theatrical manager, almost without exception, thoughtfully recoils from the responsibility that would be thrust on him by the abolition of the censorship. the fear of the mixed audience is ever suspended above his head. no such fear threatens the publisher, who displays his wares to one man at a time. and for this very reason of the mixed audience; perpetually and perversely cited to the contrary by such as have no firm grasp of this matter, there is a greater necessity for a censorship on literature than for one on plays. further, if there were but a censorship of literature, no matter how dubious the books that were allowed to pass, the conscience of no reader need ever be troubled. for, that the perfect rest of the public conscience is the first result of censorship, is proved to certainty by the protected drama, since many dubious plays are yearly put before the play-going public without tending in any way to disturb a complacency engendered by the security from harm guaranteed by this beneficent, if despotic, institution. pundits who, to the discomfort of the populace, foster this exemption of literature from discipline, cling to the old-fashioned notion that ulcers should be encouraged to discharge themselves upon the surface, instead of being quietly and decently driven into the system and allowed to fester there. the remaining plea for exempting literature from censorship, put forward by unreflecting persons: that it would require too many censors--besides being unworthy, is, on the face of it, erroneous. special tests have never been thought necessary in appointing examiners of plays. they would, indeed, not only be unnecessary, but positively dangerous, seeing that the essential function of censorship is protection of the ordinary prejudices and forms of thought. there would, then, be no difficulty in securing tomorrow as many censors of literature as might be necessary (say twenty or thirty); since all that would be required of each one of them would be that he should secretly exercise, in his uncontrolled discretion, his individual taste. in a word, this free literature of ours protects advancing thought and speculation; and those who believe in civic freedom subject only to common law, and espouse the cause of free literature, are championing a system which is essentially undemocratic, essentially inimical to the will of the majority, who have certainly no desire for any such things as advancing thought and speculation. such persons, indeed, merely hold the faith that the people, as a whole, unprotected by the despotic judgments of single persons, have enough strength and wisdom to know what is and what is not harmful to themselves. they put their trust in a public press and a common law, which deriving from the conscience of the country, is openly administered and within the reach of all. how absurd, how inadequate this all is we see from the existence of the censorship on drama. having observed that there is no reason whatever for the exemption of literature, let us now turn to the case of art. every picture hung in a gallery, every statue placed on a pedestal, is exposed to the public stare of a mixed company. why, then, have we no censorship to protect us from the possibility of encountering works that bring blushes to the cheek of the young person? the reason cannot be that the proprietors of galleries are more worthy of trust than the managers of theatres; this would be to make an odious distinction which those very managers who uphold the censorship of plays would be the first to resent. it is true that societies of artists and the proprietors of galleries are subject to the prosecution of the law if they offend against the ordinary standards of public decency; but precisely the same liability attaches to theatrical managers and proprietors of theatres, in whose case it has been found necessary and beneficial to add the censorship. and in this connection let it once more be noted how much more easily the ordinary standards of public decency can be assessed by a single person responsible to no one, than by the clumsy (if more open) process of public protest. what, then, in the light of the proved justice and efficiency of the censorship of drama, is the reason for the absence of the censorship of art? the more closely the matter is regarded, the more plain it is, that there is none! at any moment we may have to look upon some painting, or contemplate some statue, as tragic, heart-rending, and dubiously delicate in theme as that censured play "the cenci," by one shelley; as dangerous to prejudice, and suggestive of new thought as the censured "ghosts," by one ibsen. let us protest against this peril suspended over our heads, and demand the immediate appointment of a single person not selected for any pretentiously artistic feelings, but endowed with summary powers of prohibiting the exhibition, in public galleries or places, of such works as he shall deem, in his uncontrolled discretion, unsuited to average intelligence or sensibility. let us demand it in the interest, not only of the young person, but of those whole sections of the community which cannot be expected to take an interest in art, and to whom the purpose, speculations, and achievements of great artists, working not only for to-day but for to-morrow, must naturally be dark riddles. let us even require that this official should be empowered to order the destruction of the works which he has deemed unsuited to average intelligence and sensibility, lest their creators should, by private sale, make a profit out of them, such as, in the nature of the case, dramatic authors are debarred from making out of plays which, having been censured, cannot be played for money. let us ask this with confidence; for it is not compatible with common justice that there should be any favouring of painter over playwright. they are both artists--let them both be measured by the same last! but let us now consider the case of science. it will not, indeed cannot, be contended that the investigations of scientific men, whether committed to writing or to speech, are always suited to the taste and capacities of our general public. there was, for example, the well-known doctrine of evolution, the teachings of charles darwin and alfred russet wallace, who gathered up certain facts, hitherto but vaguely known, into presentments, irreverent and startling, which, at the time, profoundly disturbed every normal mind. not only did religion, as then accepted, suffer in this cataclysm, but our taste and feeling were inexpressibly shocked by the discovery, so emphasised by thomas henry huxley, of man's descent from apes. it was felt, and is felt by many to this day, that the advancement of that theory grossly and dangerously violated every canon of decency. what pain, then, might have been averted, what far-reaching consequences and incalculable subversion of primitive faiths checked, if some judicious censor of scientific thought had existed in those days to demand, in accordance with his private estimate of the will and temper of the majority, the suppression of the doctrine of evolution. innumerable investigations of scientists on subjects such as the date of the world's creation, have from time to time been summarised and inconsiderately sprung on a public shocked and startled by the revelation that facts which they were accustomed to revere were conspicuously at fault. so, too, in the range of medicine, it would be difficult to cite any radical discovery (such as the preventive power of vaccination), whose unchecked publication has not violated the prejudices and disturbed the immediate comfort of the common mind. had these discoveries been judiciously suppressed, or pared away to suit what a censorship conceived to be the popular palate of the time, all this disturbance and discomfort might have been avoided. it will doubtless be contended (for there are no such violent opponents of censorship as those who are threatened with the same) that to compare a momentous disclosure, such as the doctrine of evolution, to a mere drama, were unprofitable. the answer to this ungenerous contention is fortunately plain. had a judicious censorship existed over our scientific matters, such as for two hundred years has existed over our drama, scientific discoveries would have been no more disturbing and momentous than those which we are accustomed to see made on our nicely pruned and tutored stage. for not only would the more dangerous and penetrating scientific truths have been carefully destroyed at birth, but scientists, aware that the results of investigations offensive to accepted notions would be suppressed, would long have ceased to waste their time in search of a knowledge repugnant to average intelligence, and thus foredoomed, and have occupied themselves with services more agreeable to the public taste, such as the rediscovery of truths already known and published. indissolubly connected with the desirability of a censorship of science, is the need for religious censorship. for in this, assuredly not the least important department of the nation's life, we are witnessing week by week and year by year, what in the light of the security guaranteed by the censorship of drama, we are justified in terming an alarming spectacle. thousands of men are licensed to proclaim from their pulpits, sunday after sunday, their individual beliefs, quite regardless of the settled convictions of the masses of their congregations. it is true, indeed, that the vast majority of sermons (like the vast majority of plays) are, and will always be, harmonious with the feelings--of the average citizen; for neither priest nor playwright have customarily any such peculiar gift of spiritual daring as might render them unsafe mentors of their fellows; and there is not wanting the deterrent of common-sense to keep them in bounds. yet it can hardly be denied that there spring up at times men--like john wesley or general booth--of such incurable temperament as to be capable of abusing their freedom by the promulgation of doctrine or procedure, divergent from the current traditions of religion. nor must it be forgotten that sermons, like plays, are addressed to a mixed audience of families, and that the spiritual teachings of a lifetime may be destroyed by ten minutes of uncensored pronouncement from a pulpit, the while parents are sitting, not, as in a theatre vested with the right of protest, but dumb and excoriated to the soul, watching their children, perhaps of tender age, eagerly drinking in words at variance with that which they themselves have been at such pains to instil. if a set of censors--for it would, as in the case of literature, indubitably require more than one (perhaps one hundred and eighty, but, for reasons already given, there should be no difficulty whatever in procuring them) endowed with the swift powers conferred by freedom from the dull tedium of responsibility, and not remarkable for religious temperament, were appointed, to whom all sermons and public addresses on religious subjects must be submitted before delivery, and whose duty after perusal should be to excise all portions not conformable to their private ideas of what was at the moment suitable to the public's ears, we should be far on the road toward that proper preservation of the status quo so desirable if the faiths and ethical standards of the less exuberantly spiritual masses are to be maintained in their full bloom. as things now stand, the nation has absolutely nothing to safeguard it against religious progress. we have seen, then, that censorship is at least as necessary over literature, art, science, and religion as it is over our drama. we have now to call attention to the crowning need--the want of a censorship in politics. if censorship be based on justice, if it be proved to serve the public and to be successful in its lonely vigil over drama, it should, and logically must be, extended to all parallel cases; it cannot, it dare not, stop short at--politics. for, precisely in this supreme branch of the public life are we most menaced by the rule and license of the leading spirit. to appreciate this fact, we need only examine the constitution of the house of commons. six hundred and seventy persons chosen from a population numbering four and forty millions, must necessarily, whatever their individual defects, be citizens of more than average enterprise, resource, and resolution. they are elected for a period that may last five years. many of them are ambitious; some uncompromising; not a few enthusiastically eager to do something for their country; filled with designs and aspirations for national or social betterment, with which the masses, sunk in the immediate pursuits of life, can in the nature of things have little sympathy. and yet we find these men licensed to pour forth at pleasure, before mixed audiences, checked only by common law and common sense political utterances which may have the gravest, the most terrific consequences; utterances which may at any moment let loose revolution, or plunge the country into war; which often, as a fact, excite an utter detestation, terror, and mistrust; or shock the most sacred domestic and proprietary convictions in the breasts of vast majorities of their fellow-countrymen! and we incur this appalling risk for the want of a single, or at the most, a handful of censors, invested with a simple but limitless discretion to excise or to suppress entirely such political utterances as may seem to their private judgments calculated to cause pain or moral disturbance in the average man. the masses, it is true, have their protection and remedy against injudicious or inflammatory politicians in the law and the so-called democratic process of election; but we have seen that theatre audiences have also the protection of the law, and the remedy of boycott, and that in their case, this protection and this remedy are not deemed enough. what, then, shall we say of the case of politics, where the dangers attending inflammatory or subversive utterance are greater a million fold, and the remedy a thousand times less expeditious? our legislators have laid down censorship as the basic principle of justice underlying the civic rights of dramatists. then, let "censorship for all" be their motto, and this country no longer be ridden and destroyed by free institutions! let them not only establish forthwith censorships of literature, art, science, and religion, but also place themselves beneath the regimen with which they have calmly fettered dramatic authors. they cannot deem it becoming to their regard for justice, to their honour; to their sense of humour, to recoil from a restriction which, in a parallel case they have imposed on others. it is an old and homely saying that good officers never place their men in positions they would not themselves be willing to fill. and we are not entitled to believe that our legislators, having set dramatic authors where they have been set, will--now that their duty is made plain--for a moment hesitate to step down and stand alongside. but if by any chance they should recoil, and thus make answer: "we are ready at all times to submit to the law and the people's will, and to bow to their demands, but we cannot and must not be asked to place our calling, our duty, and our honour beneath the irresponsible rule of an arbitrary autocrat, however sympathetic with the generality he may chance to be!" then, we would ask: "sirs, did you ever hear of that great saying: 'do unto others as ye would they should do unto you!'" for it is but fair presumption that the dramatists, whom our legislators have placed in bondage to a despot, are, no less than those legislators, proud of their calling, conscious of their duty, and jealous of their honour. . vague thoughts on art it was on a day of rare beauty that i went out into the fields to try and gather these few thoughts. so golden and sweetly hot it was, that they came lazily, and with a flight no more coherent or responsible than the swoop of the very swallows; and, as in a play or poem, the result is conditioned by the conceiving mood, so i knew would be the nature of my diving, dipping, pale-throated, fork-tailed words. but, after all--i thought, sitting there--i need not take my critical pronouncements seriously. i have not the firm soul of the critic. it is not my profession to know 'things for certain, and to make others feel that certainty. on the contrary, i am often wrong--a luxury no critic can afford. and so, invading as i was the realm of others, i advanced with a light pen, feeling that none, and least of all myself, need expect me to be right. what then--i thought--is art? for i perceived that to think about it i must first define it; and i almost stopped thinking at all before the fearsome nature of that task. then slowly in my mind gathered this group of words: art is that imaginative expression of human energy, which, through technical concretion of feeling and perception, tends to reconcile the individual with the universal, by exciting in him impersonal emotion. and the greatest art is that which excites the greatest impersonal emotion in an hypothecated perfect human being. impersonal emotion! and what--i thought do i mean by that? surely i mean: that is not art, which, while i, am contemplating it, inspires me with any active or directive impulse; that is art, when, for however brief a moment, it replaces within me interest in myself by interest in itself. for, let me suppose myself in the presence of a carved marble bath. if my thoughts be "what could i buy that for?" impulse of acquisition; or: "from what quarry did it come?" impulse of inquiry; or: "which would be the right end for my head?" mixed impulse of inquiry and acquisition--i am at that moment insensible to it as a work of art. but, if i stand before it vibrating at sight of its colour and forms, if ever so little and for ever so short a time, unhaunted by any definite practical thought or impulse--to that extent and for that moment it has stolen me away out of myself and put itself there instead; has linked me to the universal by making me forget the individual in me. and for that moment, and only while that moment lasts, it is to me a work of art. the word "impersonal," then, is but used in this my definition to signify momentary forgetfulness of one's own personality and its active wants. so art--i thought--is that which, heard, read, or looked on, while producing no directive impulse, warms one with unconscious vibration. nor can i imagine any means of defining what is the greatest art, without hypothecating a perfect human being. but since we shall never see, or know if we do see, that desirable creature--dogmatism is banished, "academy" is dead to the discussion, deader than even tolstoy left it after his famous treatise "what is art?" for, having destroyed all the old judges and academies, tolstoy, by saying that the greatest art was that which appealed to the greatest number of living human beings, raised up the masses of mankind to be a definite new judge or academy, as tyrannical and narrow as ever were those whom he had destroyed. this, at all events--i thought is as far as i dare go in defining what art is. but let me try to make plain to myself what is the essential quality that gives to art the power of exciting this unconscious vibration, this impersonal emotion. it has been called beauty! an awkward word--a perpetual begging of the question; too current in use, too ambiguous altogether; now too narrow, now too wide--a word, in fact, too glib to know at all what it means. and how dangerous a word--often misleading us into slabbing with extraneous floridities what would otherwise, on its own plane, be art! to be decorative where decoration is not suitable, to be lyrical where lyricism is out of place, is assuredly to spoil art, not to achieve it. but this essential quality of art has also, and more happily, been called rhythm. and, what is rhythm if not that mysterious harmony between part and part, and part and whole, which gives what is called life; that exact proportion, the mystery of which is best grasped in observing how life leaves an animate creature when the essential relation of part to whole has been sufficiently disturbed. and i agree that this rhythmic relation of part to part, and part to whole--in short, vitality--is the one quality inseparable from a work of art. for nothing which does not seem to a man possessed of this rhythmic vitality, can ever steal him out of himself. and having got thus far in my thoughts, i paused, watching the swallows; for they seemed to me the symbol, in their swift, sure curvetting, all daring and balance and surprise, of the delicate poise and motion of art, that visits no two men alike, in a world where no two things of all the things there be, are quite the same. yes--i thought--and this art is the one form of human energy in the whole world, which really works for union, and destroys the barriers between man and man. it is the continual, unconscious replacement, however fleeting, of oneself by another; the real cement of human life; the everlasting refreshment and renewal. for, what is grievous, dompting, grim, about our lives is that we are shut up within ourselves, with an itch to get outside ourselves. and to be stolen away from ourselves by art is a momentary relaxation from that itching, a minute's profound, and as it were secret, enfranchisement. the active amusements and relaxations of life can only rest certain of our faculties, by indulging others; the whole self is never rested save through that unconsciousness of self, which comes through rapt contemplation of nature or of art. and suddenly i remembered that some believe that art does not produce unconsciousness of self, but rather very vivid self-realisation. ah! but--i though--that is not the first and instant effect of art; the new impetus is the after effect of that momentary replacement of oneself by the self of the work before us; it is surely the result of that brief span of enlargement, enfranchisement, and rest. yes, art is the great and universal refreshment. for art is never dogmatic; holds no brief for itself you may take it or you may leave it. it does not force itself rudely where it is not wanted. it is reverent to all tempers, to all points of view. but it is wilful--the very wind in the comings and goings of its influence, an uncapturable fugitive, visiting our hearts at vagrant, sweet moments; since we often stand even before the greatest works of art without being able quite to lose ourselves! that restful oblivion comes, we never quite know when--and it is gone! but when it comes, it is a spirit hovering with cool wings, blessing us from least to greatest, according to our powers; a spirit deathless and varied as human life itself. and in what sort of age--i thought--are artists living now? are conditions favourable? life is very multiple; full of "movements," "facts," and "news"; with the limelight terribly turned on--and all this is adverse to the artist. yet, leisure is abundant; the facilities for study great; liberty is respected--more or less. but, there is one great reason why, in this age of ours, art, it seems, must flourish. for, just as cross-breeding in nature--if it be not too violent--often gives an extra vitality to the offspring, so does cross-breeding of philosophies make for vitality in art. i cannot help thinking that historians, looking back from the far future, will record this age as the third renaissance. we who are lost in it, working or looking on, can neither tell what we are doing, nor where standing; but we cannot help observing, that, just as in the greek renaissance, worn-out pagan orthodoxy was penetrated by new philosophy; just as in the italian renaissance, pagan philosophy, reasserting itself, fertilised again an already too inbred christian creed; so now orthodoxy fertilised by science is producing a fresh and fuller conception of life--a, love of perfection, not for hope of reward, not for fear of punishment, but for perfection's sake. slowly, under our feet, beneath our consciousness, is forming that new philosophy, and it is in times of new philosophies that art, itself in essence always a discovery, must flourish. those whose sacred suns and moons are ever in the past, tell us that our art is going to the dogs; and it is, indeed, true that we are in confusion! the waters are broken, and every nerve and sinew of the artist is strained to discover his own safety. it is an age of stir and change, a season of new wine and old bottles. yet, assuredly, in spite of breakages and waste, a wine worth the drinking is all the time being made. i ceased again to think, for the sun had dipped low, and the midges were biting me; and the sounds of evening had begun, those innumerable far-travelling sounds of man and bird and beast--so clear and intimate--of remote countrysides at sunset. and for long i listened, too vague to move my pen. new philosophy--a vigorous art! are there not all the signs of it? in music, sculpture, painting; in fiction--and drama; in dancing; in criticism itself, if criticism be an art. yes, we are reaching out to a new faith not yet crystallised, to a new art not yet perfected; the forms still to find-the flowers still to fashion! and how has it come, this slowly growing faith in perfection for perfection's sake? surely like this: the western world awoke one day to find that it no longer believed corporately and for certain in future life for the individual consciousness. it began to feel: i cannot say more than that there may be--death may be the end of man, or death may be nothing. and it began to ask itself in this uncertainty: do i then desire to go on living? now, since it found that it desired to go on living at least as earnestly as ever it did before, it began to inquire why. and slowly it perceived that there was, inborn within it, a passionate instinct of which it had hardly till then been conscious--a sacred instinct to perfect itself, now, as well as in a possible hereafter; to perfect itself because perfection was desirable, a vision to be adored, and striven for; a dream motive fastened within the universe; the very essential cause of everything. and it began to see that this perfection, cosmically, was nothing but perfect equanimity and harmony; and in human relations, nothing but perfect love and justice. and perfection began to glow before the eyes of the western world like a new star, whose light touched with glamour all things as they came forth from mystery, till to mystery they were ready to return. this--i thought is surely what the western world has dimly been rediscovering. there has crept into our minds once more the feeling that the universe is all of a piece, equipoise supreme; and all things equally wonderful, and mysterious, and valuable. we have begun, in fact, to have a glimmering of the artist's creed, that nothing may we despise or neglect--that everything is worth the doing well, the making fair--that our god, perfection, is implicit everywhere, and the revelation of him the business of our art. and as i jotted down these words i noticed that some real stars had crept up into the sky, so gradually darkening above the pollard lime-trees; cuckoos, who had been calling on the thorn-trees all the afternoon, were silent; the swallows no longer flirted past, but a bat was already in career over the holly hedge; and round me the buttercups were closing. the whole form and feeling of the world had changed, so that i seemed to have before me a new picture hanging. ah! i thought art must indeed be priest of this new faith in perfection, whose motto is: "harmony, proportion, balance." for by art alone can true harmony in human affairs be fostered, true proportion revealed, and true equipoise preserved. is not the training of an artist a training in the due relation of one thing with another, and in the faculty of expressing that relation clearly; and, even more, a training in the faculty of disengaging from self the very essence of self--and passing that essence into other selves by so delicate means that none shall see how it is done, yet be insensibly unified? is not the artist, of all men, foe and nullifier of partisanship and parochialism, of distortions and extravagance, the discoverer of that jack-o'-lantern--truth; for, if truth be not spiritual proportion i know not what it is. truth it seems to me--is no absolute thing, but always relative, the essential symmetry in the varying relationships of life; and the most perfect truth is but the concrete expression of the most penetrating vision. life seen throughout as a countless show of the finest works of art; life shaped, and purged of the irrelevant, the gross, and the extravagant; life, as it were, spiritually selected--that is truth; a thing as multiple, and changing, as subtle, and strange, as life itself, and as little to be bound by dogma. truth admits but the one rule: no deficiency, and no excess! disobedient to that rule--nothing attains full vitality. and secretly fettered by that rule is art, whose business is the creation of vital things. that aesthete, to be sure, was right, when he said: "it is style that makes one believe in a thing; nothing but style." for, what is style in its true and broadest sense save fidelity to idea and mood, and perfect balance in the clothing of them? and i thought: can one believe in the decadence of art in an age which, however unconsciously as yet, is beginning to worship that which art worships--perfection-style? the faults of our arts to-day are the faults of zeal and of adventure, the faults and crudities of pioneers, the errors and mishaps of the explorer. they must pass through many fevers, and many times lose their way; but at all events they shall not go dying in their beds, and be buried at kensal green. and, here and there, amid the disasters and wreckage of their voyages of discovery, they will find something new, some fresh way of embellishing life, or of revealing the heart of things. that characteristic of to-day's art--the striving of each branch of art to burst its own boundaries--which to many spells destruction, is surely of happy omen. the novel straining to become the play, the play the novel, both trying to paint; music striving to become story; poetry gasping to be music; painting panting to be philosophy; forms, canons, rules, all melting in the pot; stagnation broken up! in all this havoc there is much to shock and jar even the most eager and adventurous. we cannot stand these new-fangled fellows! they have no form! they rush in where angels fear to tread. they have lost all the good of the old, and given us nothing in its place! and yet--only out of stir and change is born new salvation. to deny that is to deny belief in man, to turn our backs on courage! it is well, indeed, that some should live in closed studies with the paintings and the books of yesterday--such devoted students serve art in their own way. but the fresh-air world will ever want new forms. we shall not get them without faith enough to risk the old! the good will live, the bad will die; and tomorrow only can tell us which is which! yes--i thought--we naturally take a too impatient view of the art of our own time, since we can neither see the ends toward which it is almost blindly groping, nor the few perfected creations that will be left standing amidst the rubble of abortive effort. an age must always decry itself and extol its forbears. the unwritten history of every art will show us that. consider the novel--that most recent form of art! did not the age which followed fielding lament the treachery of authors to the picaresque tradition, complaining that they were not as fielding and smollett were? be sure they did. very slowly and in spite of opposition did the novel attain in this country the fulness of that biographical form achieved under thackeray. very slowly, and in face of condemnation, it has been losing that form in favour of a greater vividness which places before the reader's brain, not historical statements, as it were, of motives and of facts, but word-paintings of things and persons, so chosen and arranged that the reader may see, as if at first hand, the spirit of life at work before him. the new novel has as many bemoaners as the old novel had when it was new. it is no question of better or worse, but of differing forms--of change dictated by gradual suitability to the changing conditions of our social life, and to the ever fresh discoveries of craftsmen, in the intoxication of which, old and equally worthy craftsmanship is--by the way--too often for the moment mislaid. the vested interests of life favour the line of least resistance--disliking and revolting against disturbance; but one must always remember that a spurious glamour is inclined to gather around what is new. and, because of these two deflecting factors, those who break through old forms must well expect to be dead before the new forms they have unconsciously created have found their true level, high or low, in the world of art. when a thing is new how shall it be judged? in the fluster of meeting novelty, we have even seen coherence attempting to bind together two personalities so fundamentally opposed as those of ibsen and bernard shaw dramatists with hardly a quality in common; no identity of tradition, or belief; not the faintest resemblance in methods of construction or technique. yet contemporary; estimate talks of them often in the same breath. they are new! it is enough. and others, as utterly unlike them both. they too are new. they have as yet no label of their own then put on some one else's! and so--i thought it must always be; for time is essential to the proper placing and estimate of all art. and is it not this feeling, that contemporary judgments are apt to turn out a little ludicrous, which has converted much criticism of late from judgment pronounced into impression recorded--recreative statement--a kind, in fact, of expression of the critic's self, elicited through contemplation of a book, a play, a symphony, a picture? for this kind of criticism there has even recently been claimed an actual identity with creation. esthetic judgment and creative power identical! that is a hard saying. for, however sympathetic one may feel toward this new criticism, however one may recognise that the recording of impression has a wider, more elastic, and more lasting value than the delivery of arbitrary judgment based on rigid laws of taste; however one may admit that it approaches the creative gift in so far as it demands the qualities of receptivity and reproduction--is there not still lacking to this "new" critic something of that thirsting spirit of discovery, which precedes the creation--hitherto so-called--of anything? criticism, taste, aesthetic judgment, by the very nature of their task, wait till life has been focussed by the artists before they attempt to reproduce the image which that imprisoned fragment of life makes on the mirror of their minds. but a thing created springs from a germ unconsciously implanted by the direct impact of unfettered life on the whole range, of the creator's temperament; and round the germ thus engendered, the creative artist--ever penetrating, discovering, selecting--goes on building cell on cell, gathered from a million little fresh impacts and visions. and to say that this is also exactly what the recreative critic does, is to say that the interpretative musician is creator in the same sense as is the composer of the music that he interprets. if, indeed, these processes be the same in kind, they are in degree so far apart that one would think the word creative unfortunately used of both.... but this speculation--i thought--is going beyond the bounds of vagueness. let there be some thread of coherence in your thoughts, as there is in the progress of this evening, fast fading into night. return to the consideration of the nature and purposes of art! and recognize that much of what you have thought will seem on the face of it heresy to the school whose doctrine was incarnated by oscar wilde in that admirable apotheosis of half-truths: "the decay of the art of lying." for therein he said: "no great artist ever sees things as they really are." yet, that half-truth might also be put thus: the seeing of things as they really are--the seeing of a proportion veiled from other eyes (together with the power of expression), is what makes a man an artist. what makes him a great artist is a high fervour of spirit, which produces a superlative, instead of a comparative, clarity of vision. close to my house there is a group of pines with gnarled red limbs flanked by beech-trees. and there is often a very deep blue sky behind. generally, that is all i see. but, once in a way, in those trees against that sky i seem to see all the passionate life and glow that titian painted into his pagan pictures. i have a vision of mysterious meaning, of a mysterious relation between that sky and those trees with their gnarled red limbs and life as i know it. and when i have had that vision i always feel, this is reality, and all those other times, when i have no such vision, simple unreality. if i were a painter, it is for such fervent vision i should wait, before moving brush: this, so intimate, inner vision of reality, indeed, seems in duller moments well-nigh grotesque; and hence that other glib half-truth: "art is greater than life itself." art is, indeed, greater than life in the sense that the power of art is the disengagement from life of its real spirit and significance. but in any other sense, to say that art is greater than life from which it emerges, and into which it must remerge, can but suspend the artist over life, with his feet in the air and his head in the clouds--prig masquerading as demi-god. "nature is no great mother who has borne us. she is our creation. it is in our brain that she quickens to life." such is the highest hyperbole of the aesthetic creed. but what is creative instinct, if not an incessant living sympathy with nature, a constant craving like that of nature's own, to fashion something new out of all that comes within the grasp of those faculties with which nature has endowed us? the qualities of vision, of fancy, and of imaginative power, are no more divorced from nature, than are the qualities of common-sense and courage. they are rarer, that is all. but in truth, no one holds such views. not even those who utter them. they are the rhetoric, the over-statement of half-truths, by such as wish to condemn what they call "realism," without being temperamentally capable of understanding what "realism" really is. and what--i thought--is realism? what is the meaning of that word so wildly used? is it descriptive of technique, or descriptive of the spirit of the artist; or both, or neither? was turgenev a realist? no greater poet ever wrote in prose, nor any one who more closely brought the actual shapes of men and things before us. no more fervent idealists than ibsen and tolstoy ever lived; and none more careful to make their people real. were they realists? no more deeply fantastic writer can i conceive than dostoievsky, nor any who has described actual situations more vividly. was he a realist? the late stephen crane was called a realist. than whom no more impressionistic writer ever painted with words. what then is the heart of this term still often used as an expression almost of abuse? to me, at all events--i thought--the words realism, realistic, have no longer reference to technique, for which the words naturalism, naturalistic, serve far better. nor have they to do with the question of imaginative power--as much demanded by realism as by romanticism. for me, a realist is by no means tied to naturalistic technique--he may be poetic, idealistic, fantastic, impressionistic, anything but--romantic; that, in so far as he is a realist, he cannot be. the word, in fact, characterises that artist whose temperamental preoccupation is with revelation of the actual inter-relating spirit of life, character, and thought, with a view to enlighten himself and others; as distinguished from that artist whom i call romantic--whose tempera mental purpose is invention of tale or design with a view to delight himself and others. it is a question of temperamental antecedent motive in the artist, and nothing more. realist--romanticist! enlightenment--delight! that is the true apposition. to make a revelation--to tell a fairy-tale! and either of these artists may use what form he likes--naturalistic, fantastic, poetic, impressionistic. for it is not by the form, but by the purpose and mood of his art that he shall be known, as one or as the other. realists indeed--including the half of shakespeare that was realist not being primarily concerned to amuse their audience, are still comparatively unpopular in a world made up for the greater part of men of action, who instinctively reject all art that does not distract them without causing them to think. for thought makes demands on an energy already in full use; thought causes introspection; and introspection causes discomfort, and disturbs the grooves of action. to say that the object of the realist is to enlighten rather than to delight, is not to say that in his art the realist is not amusing himself as much as ever is the teller of a fairy-tale, though he does not deliberately start out to do so; he is amusing, too, a large part of mankind. for, admitted that the abject, and the test of art, is always the awakening of vibration, of impersonal emotion, it is still usually forgotten that men fall, roughly speaking, into two flocks: those whose intelligence is uninquiring in the face of art, and does not demand to be appeased before their emotions can be stirred; and those who, having a speculative bent of mind, must first be satisfied by an enlightening quality in a work of art, before that work of art can awaken in them feeling. the audience of the realist is drawn from this latter type of man; the much larger audience of the romantic artist from the former; together with, in both cases, those fastidious few for whom all art is style and only style, and who welcome either kind, so long as it is good enough. to me, then--i thought--this division into realism and romance, so understood, is the main cleavage in all the arts; but it is hard to find pure examples of either kind. for even the most determined realist has more than a streak in him of the romanticist, and the most resolute romanticist finds it impossible at times to be quite unreal. guido reni, watteau, leighton were they not perhaps somewhat pure romanticists; rembrandt, hogarth, manet mainly realists; botticelli, titian, raphael, a blend. dumas pere, and scott, surely romantic; flaubert and tolstoy as surely realists; dickens and cervantes, blended. keats and swinburne romantic; browning and whitman--realistic; shakespeare and goethe, both. the greek dramatists--realists. the arabian nights and malory romantic. the iliad, the odyssey, and the old testament, both realism and romance. and if in the vagueness of my thoughts i were to seek for illustration less general and vague to show the essence of this temperamental cleavage in all art, i would take the two novelists turgenev and stevenson. for turgenev expressed himself in stories that must be called romances, and stevenson employed almost always a naturalistic technique. yet no one would ever call turgenev a romanticist, or stevenson a realist. the spirit of the first brooded over life, found in it a perpetual voyage of spiritual adventure, was set on discovering and making clear to himself and all, the varying traits and emotions of human character--the varying moods of nature; and though he couched all this discovery in caskets of engaging story, it was always clear as day what mood it was that drove him to dip pen in ink. the spirit of the second, i think, almost dreaded to discover; he felt life, i believe, too keenly to want to probe into it; he spun his gossamer to lure himself and all away from life. that was his driving mood; but the craftsman in him, longing to be clear and poignant, made him more natural, more actual than most realists. so, how thin often is the hedge! and how poor a business the partisan abuse of either kind of art in a world where each sort of mind has full right to its own due expression, and grumbling lawful only when due expression is not attained. one may not care for a rembrandt portrait of a plain old woman; a graceful watteau decoration may leave another cold but foolish will he be who denies that both are faithful to their conceiving moods, and so proportioned part to part, and part to whole, as to have, each in its own way, that inherent rhythm or vitality which is the hall-mark of art. he is but a poor philosopher who holds a view so narrow as to exclude forms not to his personal taste. no realist can love romantic art so much as he loves his own, but when that art fulfils the laws of its peculiar being, if he would be no blind partisan, he must admit it. the romanticist will never be amused by realism, but let him not for that reason be so parochial as to think that realism, when it achieves vitality, is not art. for what is art but the perfected expression of self in contact with the world; and whether that self be of enlightening, or of fairy-telling temperament, is of no moment whatsoever. the tossing of abuse from realist to romanticist and back is but the sword-play of two one-eyed men with their blind side turned toward each other. shall not each attempt be judged on its own merits? if found not shoddy, faked, or forced, but true to itself, true to its conceiving mood, and fair-proportioned part to whole; so that it lives--then, realistic or romantic, in the name of fairness let it pass! of all kinds of human energy, art is surely the most free, the least parochial; and demands of us an essential tolerance of all its forms. shall we waste breath and ink in condemnation of artists, because their temperaments are not our own? but the shapes and colours of the day were now all blurred; every tree and stone entangled in the dusk. how different the world seemed from that in which i had first sat down, with the swallows flirting past. and my mood was different; for each of those worlds had brought to my heart its proper feeling--painted on my eyes the just picture. and night, that was coming, would bring me yet another mood that would frame itself with consciousness at its own fair moment, and hang before me. a quiet owl stole by in the geld below, and vanished into the heart of a tree. and suddenly above the moor-line i saw the large moon rising. cinnamon-coloured, it made all things swim, made me uncertain of my thoughts, vague with mazy feeling. shapes seemed but drifts of moon-dust, and true reality nothing save a sort of still listening to the wind. and for long i sat, just watching the moon creep up, and hearing the thin, dry rustle of the leaves along the holly hedge. and there came to me this thought: what is this universe--that never had beginning and will never have an end--but a myriad striving to perfect pictures never the same, so blending and fading one into another, that all form one great perfected picture? and what are we--ripples on the tides of a birthless, deathless, equipoised creative-purpose--but little works of art? trying to record that thought, i noticed that my note-book was damp with dew. the cattle were lying down. it was too dark to see. the end. the complete plays of john galsworthy contents: first series: the silver box joy strife second series: the eldest son the little dream justice third series: the fugitive the pigeon the mob fourth series: a bit o' love the foundations the skin game six short plays: the first and the last the little man hall-marked defeat the sun punch and go fifth series: a family man loyalties windows first series: the silver box joy strife the silver box a comedy in three acts persons of the play john barthwick, m.p., a wealthy liberal mrs. barthwick, his wife jack barthwick, their son roper, their solicitor mrs. jones, their charwoman marlow, their manservant wheeler, their maidservant jones, the stranger within their gates mrs. seddon, a landlady snow, a detective a police magistrate an unknown lady, from beyond two little girls, homeless livens, their father a relieving officer a magistrate's clerk an usher policemen, clerks, and others time: the present. the action of the first two acts takes place on easter tuesday; the action of the third on easter wednesday week. act i. scene i. rockingham gate. john barthwick's dining-room. scene ii. the same. scene iii. the same. act ii. scene i. the jones's lodgings, merthyr street. scene ii. john barthwick's dining-room. act iii. a london police court. act i scene i the curtain rises on the barthwick's dining-room, large, modern, and well furnished; the window curtains drawn. electric light is burning. on the large round dining-table is set out a tray with whisky, a syphon, and a silver cigarette-box. it is past midnight. a fumbling is heard outside the door. it is opened suddenly; jack barthwick seems to fall into the room. he stands holding by the door knob, staring before him, with a beatific smile. he is in evening dress and opera hat, and carries in his hand a sky-blue velvet lady's reticule. his boyish face is freshly coloured and clean-shaven. an overcoat is hanging on his arm. jack. hello! i've got home all ri----[defiantly.] who says i sh'd never 've opened th' door without 'sistance. [he staggers in, fumbling with the reticule. a lady's handkerchief and purse of crimson silk fall out.] serve her joll' well right--everything droppin' out. th' cat. i 've scored her off--i 've got her bag. [he swings the reticule.] serves her joly' well right. [he takes a cigarette out of the silver box and puts it in his mouth.] never gave tha' fellow anything! [he hunts through all his pockets and pulls a shilling out; it drops and rolls away. he looks for it.] beastly shilling! [he looks again.] base ingratitude! absolutely nothing. [he laughs.] mus' tell him i've got absolutely nothing. [he lurches through the door and down a corridor, and presently returns, followed by jones, who is advanced in liquor. jones, about thirty years of age, has hollow cheeks, black circles round his eyes, and rusty clothes: he looks as though he might be unemployed, and enters in a hang-dog manner.] jack. sh! sh! sh! don't you make a noise, whatever you do. shu' the door, an' have a drink. [very solemnly.] you helped me to open the door--i 've got nothin, for you. this is my house. my father's name's barthwick; he's member of parliament--liberal member of parliament: i've told you that before. have a drink! [he pours out whisky and drinks it up.] i'm not drunk [subsiding on a sofa.] tha's all right. wha's your name? my name's barthwick, so's my father's; i'm a liberal too--wha're you? jones. [in a thick, sardonic voice.] i'm a bloomin' conservative. my name's jones! my wife works 'ere; she's the char; she works 'ere. jack. jones? [he laughs.] there's 'nother jones at college with me. i'm not a socialist myself; i'm a liberal--there's ve--lill difference, because of the principles of the lib--liberal party. we're all equal before the law--tha's rot, tha's silly. [laughs.] wha' was i about to say? give me some whisky. [jones gives him the whisky he desires, together with a squirt of syphon.] wha' i was goin' tell you was--i 've had a row with her. [he waves the reticule.] have a drink, jonessh 'd never have got in without you--tha 's why i 'm giving you a drink. don' care who knows i've scored her off. th' cat! [he throws his feet up on the sofa.] don' you make a noise, whatever you do. you pour out a drink--you make yourself good long, long drink--you take cigarette--you take anything you like. sh'd never have got in without you. [closing his eyes.] you're a tory--you're a tory socialist. i'm liberal myself--have a drink--i 'm an excel'nt chap. [his head drops back. he, smiling, falls asleep, and jones stands looking at him; then, snatching up jack's glass, he drinks it off. he picks the reticule from off jack's shirt-front, holds it to the light, and smells at it.] jones. been on the tiles and brought 'ome some of yer cat's fur. [he stuffs it into jack's breast pocket.] jack. [murmuring.] i 've scored you off! you cat! [jones looks around him furtively; he pours out whisky and drinks it. from the silver box he takes a cigarette, puffs at it, and drinks more whisky. there is no sobriety left in him.] jones. fat lot o' things they've got 'ere! [he sees the crimson purse lying on the floor.] more cat's fur. puss, puss! [he fingers it, drops it on the tray, and looks at jack.] calf! fat calf! [he sees his own presentment in a mirror. lifting his hands, with fingers spread, he stares at it; then looks again at jack, clenching his fist as if to batter in his sleeping, smiling face. suddenly he tilts the rest o f the whisky into the glass and drinks it. with cunning glee he takes the silver box and purse and pockets them.] i 'll score you off too, that 's wot i 'll do! [he gives a little snarling laugh and lurches to the door. his shoulder rubs against the switch; the light goes out. there is a sound as of a closing outer door.] the curtain falls. the curtain rises again at once. scene ii in the barthwick's dining-room. jack is still asleep; the morning light is coming through the curtains. the time is half-past eight. wheeler, brisk person enters with a dust-pan, and mrs. jones more slowly with a scuttle. wheeler. [drawing the curtains.] that precious husband of yours was round for you after you'd gone yesterday, mrs. jones. wanted your money for drink, i suppose. he hangs about the corner here half the time. i saw him outside the "goat and bells" when i went to the post last night. if i were you i would n't live with him. i would n't live with a man that raised his hand to me. i wouldn't put up with it. why don't you take your children and leave him? if you put up with 'im it'll only make him worse. i never can see why, because a man's married you, he should knock you about. mrs. jones. [slim, dark-eyed, and dark-haired; oval-faced, and with a smooth, soft, even voice; her manner patient, her way of talking quite impersonal; she wears a blue linen dress, and boots with holes.] it was nearly two last night before he come home, and he wasn't himself. he made me get up, and he knocked me about; he didn't seem to know what he was saying or doing. of course i would leave him, but i'm really afraid of what he'd do to me. he 's such a violent man when he's not himself. wheeler. why don't you get him locked up? you'll never have any peace until you get him locked up. if i were you i'd go to the police court tomorrow. that's what i would do. mrs. jones. of course i ought to go, because he does treat me so badly when he's not himself. but you see, bettina, he has a very hard time--he 's been out of work two months, and it preys upon his mind. when he's in work he behaves himself much better. it's when he's out of work that he's so violent. wheeler. well, if you won't take any steps you 'll never get rid of him. mrs. jones. of course it's very wearing to me; i don't get my sleep at nights. and it 's not as if i were getting help from him, because i have to do for the children and all of us. and he throws such dreadful things up at me, talks of my having men to follow me about. such a thing never happens; no man ever speaks to me. and of course, it's just the other way. it's what he does that's wrong and makes me so unhappy. and then he 's always threatenin' to cut my throat if i leave him. it's all the drink, and things preying on his mind; he 's not a bad man really. sometimes he'll speak quite kind to me, but i've stood so much from him, i don't feel it in me to speak kind back, but just keep myself to myself. and he's all right with the children too, except when he's not himself. wheeler. you mean when he's drunk, the beauty. mrs. jones. yes. [without change of voice] there's the young gentleman asleep on the sofa. [they both look silently at jack.] mrs. jones. [at last, in her soft voice.] he does n't look quite himself. wheeler. he's a young limb, that's what he is. it 's my belief he was tipsy last night, like your husband. it 's another kind of bein' out of work that sets him to drink. i 'll go and tell marlow. this is his job. [she goes.] [mrs. jones, upon her knees, begins a gentle sweeping.] jack. [waking.] who's there? what is it? mrs. jones. it's me, sir, mrs. jones. jack. [sitting up and looking round.] where is it--what--what time is it? mrs. jones. it's getting on for nine o'clock, sir. jack. for nine! why--what! [rising, and loosening his tongue; putting hands to his head, and staring hard at mrs. jones.] look here, you, mrs.----mrs. jones--don't you say you caught me asleep here. mrs. jones. no, sir, of course i won't sir. jack. it's quite an accident; i don't know how it happened. i must have forgotten to go to bed. it's a queer thing. i 've got a most beastly headache. mind you don't say anything, mrs. jones. [goes out and passes marlow in the doorway. marlow is young and quiet; he is cleanshaven, and his hair is brushed high from his forehead in a coxcomb. incidentally a butler, he is first a man. he looks at mrs. jones, and smiles a private smile.] marlow. not the first time, and won't be the last. looked a bit dicky, eh, mrs. jones? mrs. jones. he did n't look quite himself. of course i did n't take notice. marlow. you're used to them. how's your old man? mrs. jones. [softly as throughout.] well, he was very bad last night; he did n't seem to know what he was about. he was very late, and he was most abusive. but now, of course, he's asleep. marlow. that's his way of finding a job, eh? mrs. jones. as a rule, mr. marlow, he goes out early every morning looking for work, and sometimes he comes in fit to drop--and of course i can't say he does n't try to get it, because he does. trade's very bad. [she stands quite still, her fan and brush before her, at the beginning and the end of long vistas of experience, traversing them with her impersonal eye.] but he's not a good husband to me--last night he hit me, and he was so dreadfully abusive. marlow. bank 'oliday, eh! he 's too fond of the "goat and bells," that's what's the matter with him. i see him at the corner late every night. he hangs about. mrs. jones. he gets to feeling very low walking about all day after work, and being refused so often, and then when he gets a drop in him it goes to his head. but he shouldn't treat his wife as he treats me. sometimes i 've had to go and walk about at night, when he wouldn't let me stay in the room; but he's sorry for it afterwards. and he hangs about after me, he waits for me in the street; and i don't think he ought to, because i 've always been a good wife to him. and i tell him mrs. barthwick wouldn't like him coming about the place. but that only makes him angry, and he says dreadful things about the gentry. of course it was through me that he first lost his place, through his not treating me right; and that's made him bitter against the gentry. he had a very good place as groom in the country; but it made such a stir, because of course he did n't treat me right. marlow. got the sack? mrs. jones. yes; his employer said he couldn't keep him, because there was a great deal of talk; and he said it was such a bad example. but it's very important for me to keep my work here; i have the three children, and i don't want him to come about after me in the streets, and make a disturbance as he sometimes does. marlow. [holding up the empty decanter.] not a drain! next time he hits you get a witness and go down to the court---- mrs. jones. yes, i think i 've made up my mind. i think i ought to. marlow. that's right. where's the ciga----? [he searches for the silver box; he looks at mrs. jones, who is sweeping on her hands and knees; he checks himself and stands reflecting. from the tray he picks two half-smoked cigarettes, and reads the name on them.] nestor--where the deuce----? [with a meditative air he looks again at mrs. jones, and, taking up jack's overcoat, he searches in the pockets. wheeler, with a tray of breakfast things, comes in.] marlow. [aside to wheeler.] have you seen the cigarette-box? wheeler. no. marlow. well, it's gone. i put it on the tray last night. and he's been smoking. [showing her the ends of cigarettes.] it's not in these pockets. he can't have taken it upstairs this morning! have a good look in his room when he comes down. who's been in here? wheeler. only me and mrs. jones. mrs. jones. i 've finished here; shall i do the drawing-room now? wheeler. [looking at her doubtfully.] have you seen----better do the boudwower first. [mrs. jones goes out with pan and brush. marlow and wheeler look each other in the face.] marlow. it'll turn up. wheeler. [hesitating.] you don't think she---- [nodding at the door.] marlow. [stoutly.] i don't----i never believes anything of anybody. wheeler. but the master'll have to be told. marlow. you wait a bit, and see if it don't turn up. suspicion's no business of ours. i set my mind against it. the curtain falls. the curtain rises again at once. scene iii barthwick and mrs. barthwick are seated at the breakfast table. he is a man between fifty and sixty; quietly important, with a bald forehead, and pince-nez, and the "times" in his hand. she is a lady of nearly fifty, well dressed, with greyish hair, good features, and a decided manner. they face each other. barthwick. [from behind his paper.] the labour man has got in at the by-election for barnside, my dear. mrs. barthwick. another labour? i can't think what on earth the country is about. barthwick. i predicted it. it's not a matter of vast importance. mrs. barthwick. not? how can you take it so calmly, john? to me it's simply outrageous. and there you sit, you liberals, and pretend to encourage these people! barthwick. [frowning.] the representation of all parties is necessary for any proper reform, for any proper social policy. mrs. barthwick. i've no patience with your talk of reform--all that nonsense about social policy. we know perfectly well what it is they want; they want things for themselves. those socialists and labour men are an absolutely selfish set of people. they have no sense of patriotism, like the upper classes; they simply want what we've got. barthwick. want what we've got! [he stares into space.] my dear, what are you talking about? [with a contortion.] i 'm no alarmist. mrs. barthwick. cream? quite uneducated men! wait until they begin to tax our investments. i 'm convinced that when they once get a chance they will tax everything--they 've no feeling for the country. you liberals and conservatives, you 're all alike; you don't see an inch before your noses. you've no imagination, not a scrap of imagination between you. you ought to join hands and nip it in the bud. barthwick. you 're talking nonsense! how is it possible for liberals and conservatives to join hands, as you call it? that shows how absurd it is for women----why, the very essence of a liberal is to trust in the people! mrs. barthwick. now, john, eat your breakfast. as if there were any real difference between you and the conservatives. all the upper classes have the same interests to protect, and the same principles. [calmly.] oh! you're sitting upon a volcano, john. barthwick. what! mrs. barthwick. i read a letter in the paper yesterday. i forget the man's name, but it made the whole thing perfectly clear. you don't look things in the face. barthwick. indeed! [heavily.] i am a liberal! drop the subject, please! mrs. barthwick. toast? i quite agree with what this man says: education is simply ruining the lower classes. it unsettles them, and that's the worst thing for us all. i see an enormous difference in the manner of servants. barthwick, [with suspicious emphasis.] i welcome any change that will lead to something better. [he opens a letter.] h'm! this is that affair of master jack's again. "high street, oxford. sir, we have received mr. john barthwick, senior's, draft for forty pounds!" oh! the letter's to him! "we now enclose the cheque you cashed with us, which, as we stated in our previous letter, was not met on presentation at your bank. we are, sir, yours obediently, moss and sons, tailors." h 'm! [staring at the cheque.] a pretty business altogether! the boy might have been prosecuted. mrs. barthwick. come, john, you know jack did n't mean anything; he only thought he was overdrawing. i still think his bank ought to have cashed that cheque. they must know your position. barthwick. [replacing in the envelope the letter and the cheque.] much good that would have done him in a court of law. [he stops as jack comes in, fastening his waistcoat and staunching a razor cut upon his chin.] jack. [sitting down between them, and speaking with an artificial joviality.] sorry i 'm late. [he looks lugubriously at the dishes.] tea, please, mother. any letters for me? [barthwick hands the letter to him.] but look here, i say, this has been opened! i do wish you would n't---- barthwick. [touching the envelope.] i suppose i 'm entitled to this name. jack. [sulkily.] well, i can't help having your name, father! [he reads the letter, and mutters.] brutes! barthwick. [eyeing him.] you don't deserve to be so well out of that. jack. haven't you ragged me enough, dad? mrs. barthwick. yes, john, let jack have his breakfast. barthwick. if you hadn't had me to come to, where would you have been? it's the merest accident--suppose you had been the son of a poor man or a clerk. obtaining money with a cheque you knew your bank could not meet. it might have ruined you for life. i can't see what's to become of you if these are your principles. i never did anything of the sort myself. jack. i expect you always had lots of money. if you've got plenty of money, of course---- barthwick. on the contrary, i had not your advantages. my father kept me very short of money. jack. how much had you, dad? barthwick. it's not material. the question is, do you feel the gravity of what you did? jack. i don't know about the gravity. of course, i 'm very sorry if you think it was wrong. have n't i said so! i should never have done it at all if i had n't been so jolly hard up. barthwick. how much of that forty pounds have you got left, jack? jack. [hesitating.] i don't know--not much. barthwick. how much? jack. [desperately.] i have n't got any. barthwick. what? jack. i know i 've got the most beastly headache. [he leans his head on his hand.] mrs. barthwick. headache? my dear boy! can't you eat any breakfast? jack. [drawing in his breath.] too jolly bad! mrs. barthwick. i'm so sorry. come with me; dear; i'll give you something that will take it away at once. [they leave the room; and barthwick, tearing up the letter, goes to the fireplace and puts the pieces in the fire. while he is doing this marlow comes in, and looking round him, is about quietly to withdraw.] barthwick. what's that? what d 'you want? marlow. i was looking for mr. john, sir. barthwick. what d' you want mr. john for? marlow. [with hesitation.] i thought i should find him here, sir. barthwick. [suspiciously.] yes, but what do you want him for? marlow. [offhandedly.] there's a lady called--asked to speak to him for a minute, sir. barthwick. a lady, at this time in the morning. what sort of a lady? marlow. [without expression in his voice.] i can't tell, sir; no particular sort. she might be after charity. she might be a sister of mercy, i should think, sir. barthwick. is she dressed like one? marlow. no, sir, she's in plain clothes, sir. barthwick. did n't she say what she wanted? marlow. no sir. barthwick. where did you leave her? marlow. in the hall, sir. barthwick. in the hall? how do you know she's not a thief--not got designs on the house? marlow. no, sir, i don't fancy so, sir. barthwick. well, show her in here; i'll see her myself. [marlow goes out with a private gesture of dismay. he soon returns, ushering in a young pale lady with dark eyes and pretty figure, in a modish, black, but rather shabby dress, a black and white trimmed hat with a bunch of parma violets wrongly placed, and fuzzy-spotted veil. at the sight of mr. barthwick she exhibits every sign of nervousness. marlow goes out.] unknown lady. oh! but--i beg pardon there's some mistake--i [she turns to fly.] barthwick. whom did you want to see, madam? unknown. [stopping and looking back.] it was mr. john barthwick i wanted to see. barthwick. i am john barthwick, madam. what can i have the pleasure of doing for you? unknown. oh! i--i don't [she drops her eyes. barthwick scrutinises her, and purses his lips.] barthwick. it was my son, perhaps, you wished to see? unknown. [quickly.] yes, of course, it's your son. barthwick. may i ask whom i have the pleasure of speaking to? unknown. [appeal and hardiness upon her face.] my name is----oh! it does n't matter--i don't want to make any fuss. i just want to see your son for a minute. [boldly.] in fact, i must see him. barthwick. [controlling his uneasiness.] my son is not very well. if necessary, no doubt i could attend to the matter; be so kind as to let me know---- unknown. oh! but i must see him--i 've come on purpose--[she bursts out nervously.] i don't want to make any fuss, but the fact is, last--last night your son took away--he took away my [she stops.] barthwick. [severely.] yes, madam, what? unknown. he took away my--my reticule. barthwick. your reti----? unknown. i don't care about the reticule; it's not that i want--i 'm sure i don't want to make any fuss--[her face is quivering]--but --but--all my money was in it! barthwick. in what--in what? unknown. in my purse, in the reticule. it was a crimson silk purse. really, i wouldn't have come--i don't want to make any fuss. but i must get my money back--mustn't i? barthwick. do you tell me that my son----? unknown. oh! well, you see, he was n't quite i mean he was [she smiles mesmerically.] barthwick. i beg your pardon. unknown. [stamping her foot.] oh! don't you see--tipsy! we had a quarrel. barthwick. [scandalised.] how? where? unknown. [defiantly.] at my place. we'd had supper at the----and your son---- barthwick. [pressing the bell.] may i ask how you knew this house? did he give you his name and address? unknown. [glancing sidelong.] i got it out of his overcoat. barthwick. [sardonically.] oh! you got it out of his overcoat. and may i ask if my son will know you by daylight? unknown. know me? i should jolly--i mean, of course he will! [marlow comes in.] barthwick. ask mr. john to come down. [marlow goes out, and barthwick walks uneasily about.] and how long have you enjoyed his acquaintanceship? unknown. only since--only since good friday. barthwick. i am at a loss--i repeat i am at a---- [he glances at this unknown lady, who stands with eyes cast down, twisting her hands and suddenly jack appears. he stops on seeing who is here, and the unknown lady hysterically giggles. there is a silence.] barthwick. [portentously.] this young--er--lady says that last night--i think you said last night madam--you took away---- unknown. [impulsively.] my reticule, and all my money was in a crimson silk purse. jack. reticule. [looking round for any chance to get away.] i don't know anything about it. barthwick. [sharply.] come, do you deny seeing this young lady last night? jack. deny? no, of course. [whispering.] why did you give me away like this? what on earth did you come here for? unknown. [tearfully.] i'm sure i didn't want to--it's not likely, is it? you snatched it out of my hand--you know you did--and the purse had all my money in it. i did n't follow you last night because i did n't want to make a fuss and it was so late, and you were so---- barthwick. come, sir, don't turn your back on me--explain! jack. [desperately.] i don't remember anything about it. [in a low voice to his friend.] why on earth could n't you have written? unknown. [sullenly.] i want it now; i must have, it--i 've got to pay my rent to-day. [she looks at barthwick.] they're only too glad to jump on people who are not--not well off. jack. i don't remember anything about it, really. i don't remember anything about last night at all. [he puts his hand up to his head.] it's all--cloudy, and i 've got such a beastly headache. unknown. but you took it; you know you did. you said you'd score me off. jack. well, then, it must be here. i remember now--i remember something. why did i take the beastly thing? barthwick. yes, why did you take the beastly----[he turns abruptly to the window.] unknown. [with her mesmeric smile.] you were n't quite were you? jack. [smiling pallidly.] i'm awfully sorry. if there's anything i can do---- barthwick. do? you can restore this property, i suppose. jack. i'll go and have a look, but i really don't think i 've got it. [he goes out hurriedly. and barthwick, placing a chair, motions to the visitor to sit; then, with pursed lips, he stands and eyes her fixedly. she sits, and steals a look at him; then turns away, and, drawing up her veil, stealthily wipes her eyes. and jack comes back.] jack. [ruefully holding out the empty reticule.] is that the thing? i 've looked all over--i can't find the purse anywhere. are you sure it was there? unknown. [tearfully.] sure? of course i'm sure. a crimson silk purse. it was all the money i had. jack. i really am awfully sorry--my head's so jolly bad. i 've asked the butler, but he has n't seen it. unknown. i must have my money---- jack. oh! of course--that'll be all right; i'll see that that's all right. how much? unknown. [sullenly.] seven pounds-twelve--it's all i 've got in the world. jack. that'll be all right; i'll--send you a cheque. unknown. [eagerly.] no; now, please. give me what was in my purse; i've got to pay my rent this morning. they won't' give me another day; i'm a fortnight behind already. jack. [blankly.] i'm awfully sorry; i really have n't a penny in my pocket. [he glances stealthily at barthwick.] unknown. [excitedly.] come i say you must--it's my money, and you took it. i 'm not going away without it. they 'll turn me out of my place. jack. [clasping his head.] but i can't give you what i have n't got. don't i tell you i have n't a beastly cent. unknown. [tearing at her handkerchief.] oh! do give it me! [she puts her hands together in appeal; then, with sudden fierceness.] if you don't i'll summons you. it's stealing, that's what it is! barthwick. [uneasily.] one moment, please. as a matter of---er --principle, i shall settle this claim. [he produces money.] here is eight pounds; the extra will cover the value of the purse and your cab fares. i need make no comment--no thanks are necessary. [touching the bell, he holds the door ajar in silence. the unknown lady stores the money in her reticule, she looks from jack to barthwick, and her face is quivering faintly with a smile. she hides it with her hand, and steals away. behind her barthwick shuts the door.] barthwick. [with solemnity.] h'm! this is nice thing to happen! jack. [impersonally.] what awful luck! barthwick. so this is the way that forty pounds has gone! one thing after another! once more i should like to know where you 'd have been if it had n't been for me! you don't seem to have any principles. you--you're one of those who are a nuisance to society; you--you're dangerous! what your mother would say i don't know. your conduct, as far as i can see, is absolutely unjustifiable. it's--it's criminal. why, a poor man who behaved as you've done --d' you think he'd have any mercy shown him? what you want is a good lesson. you and your sort are--[he speaks with feeling]--a nuisance to the community. don't ask me to help you next time. you're not fit to be helped. jack. [turning upon his sire, with unexpected fierceness.] all right, i won't then, and see how you like it. you would n't have helped me this time, i know, if you had n't been scared the thing would get into the papers. where are the cigarettes? barthwick. [regarding him uneasily.] well i 'll say no more about it. [he rings the bell.] i 'll pass it over for this once, but---- [marlow comes in.] you can clear away. [he hides his face behind the "times."] jack. [brightening.] i say, marlow, where are the cigarettes? marlow. i put the box out with the whisky last night, sir, but this morning i can't find it anywhere. jack. did you look in my room? marlow. yes, sir; i've looked all over the house. i found two nestor ends in the tray this morning, so you must have been smokin' last night, sir. [hesitating.] i 'm really afraid some one's purloined the box. jack. [uneasily.] stolen it! barthwick. what's that? the cigarette-box! is anything else missing? marlow. no, sir; i 've been through the plate. barthwick. was the house all right this morning? none of the windows open? marlow. no, sir. [quietly to jack.] you left your latch-key in the door last night, sir. [he hands it back, unseen by barthwick] jack. tst! barthwick. who's been in the room this morning? marlow. me and wheeler, and mrs. jones is all, sir, as far as i know. barthwick. have you asked mrs. barthwick? [to jack.] go and ask your mother if she's had it; ask her to look and see if she's missed anything else. [jack goes upon this mission.] nothing is more disquieting than losing things like this. marlow. no, sir. barthwick. have you any suspicions? marlow, no, sir. barthwick. this mrs. jones--how long has she been working here? marlow. only this last month, sir. barthwick. what sort of person? marlow. i don't know much about her, sir; seems a very quiet, respectable woman. barthwick. who did the room this morning? marlow. wheeler and mrs. jones, sir. barthwick. [with his forefinger upraised.] now, was this mrs. jones in the room alone at any time? marlow. [expressionless.] yes, sir. barthwick. how do you know that? marlow. [reluctantly.] i found her here, sir. barthwick. and has wheeler been in the room alone? marlow. no, sir, she's not, sir. i should say, sir, that mrs. jones seems a very honest---- barthwick. [holding up his hand.] i want to know this: has this mrs. jones been here the whole morning? marlow. yes, sir--no, sir--she stepped over to the greengrocer's for cook. barthwick. h'm! is she in the house now? marlow. yes, sir. barthwick. very good. i shall make a point of clearing this up. on principle i shall make a point of fixing the responsibility; it goes to the foundations of security. in all your interests---- marlow. yes, sir. barthwick. what sort of circumstances is this mrs. jones in? is her husband in work? marlow. i believe not, sir. barthwick. very well. say nothing about it to any one. tell wheeler not to speak of it, and ask mrs. jones to step up here. marlow. very good, sir. [marlow goes out, his face concerned; and barthwick stays, his face judicial and a little pleased, as befits a man conducting an inquiry. mrs. barthwick and hey son come in.] barthwick. well, my dear, you've not seen it, i suppose? mrs. barthwick. no. but what an extraordinary thing, john! marlow, of course, is out of the question. i 'm certain none of the maids as for cook! barthwick. oh, cook! mrs. barthwick. of course! it's perfectly detestable to me to suspect anybody. barthwick. it is not a question of one's feelings. it's a question of justice. on principle---- mrs. barthwick. i should n't be a bit surprised if the charwoman knew something about it. it was laura who recommended her. barthwick. [judicially.] i am going to have mrs. jones up. leave it to me; and--er--remember that nobody is guilty until they're proved so. i shall be careful. i have no intention of frightening her; i shall give her every chance. i hear she's in poor circumstances. if we are not able to do much for them we are bound to have the greatest sympathy with the poor. [mrs. jones comes in.] [pleasantly.] oh! good morning, mrs. jones. mrs. jones. [soft, and even, unemphatic.] good morning, sir! good morning, ma'am! barthwick. about your husband--he's not in work, i hear? mrs. jones. no, sir; of course he's not in work just now. barthwick. then i suppose he's earning nothing. mrs. jones. no, sir, he's not earning anything just now, sir. barthwick. and how many children have you? mrs. jones. three children; but of course they don't eat very much sir. [a little silence.] barthwick. and how old is the eldest? mrs. jones. nine years old, sir. barthwick. do they go to school? mrs. jones, yes, sir, they all three go to school every day. barthwick. [severely.] and what about their food when you're out at work? mrs. jones. well, sir, i have to give them their dinner to take with them. of course i 'm not always able to give them anything; sometimes i have to send them without; but my husband is very good about the children when he's in work. but when he's not in work of course he's a very difficult man. barthwick. he drinks, i suppose? mrs. jones. yes, sir. of course i can't say he does n't drink, because he does. barthwick. and i suppose he takes all your money? mrs. jones. no, sir, he's very good about my money, except when he's not himself, and then, of course, he treats me very badly. barthwick. now what is he--your husband? mrs. jones. by profession, sir, of course he's a groom. barthwick. a groom! how came he to lose his place? mrs. jones. he lost his place a long time ago, sir, and he's never had a very long job since; and now, of course, the motor-cars are against him. barthwick. when were you married to him, mrs. jones? mrs. jones. eight years ago, sir that was in---- mrs. barthwick. [sharply.] eight? you said the eldest child was nine. mrs. jones. yes, ma'am; of course that was why he lost his place. he did n't treat me rightly, and of course his employer said he couldn't keep him because of the example. barthwick. you mean he--ahem---- mrs. jones. yes, sir; and of course after he lost his place he married me. mrs. barthwick. you actually mean to say you--you were---- barthwick. my dear---- mrs. barthwick. [indignantly.] how disgraceful! barthwick. [hurriedly.] and where are you living now, mrs. jones? mrs. jones. we've not got a home, sir. of course we've been obliged to put away most of our things. barthwick. put your things away! you mean to--to--er--to pawn them? mrs. jones. yes, sir, to put them away. we're living in merthyr street--that is close by here, sir--at no. . we just have the one room. barthwick. and what do you pay a week? mrs. jones. we pay six shillings a week, sir, for a furnished room. barthwick. and i suppose you're behind in the rent? mrs. jones. yes, sir, we're a little behind in the rent. barthwick. but you're in good work, aren't you? mrs. jones. well, sir, i have a day in stamford place thursdays. and mondays and wednesdays and fridays i come here. but to-day, of course, is a half-day, because of yesterday's bank holiday. barthwick. i see; four days a week, and you get half a crown a day, is that it? mrs. jones. yes, sir, and my dinner; but sometimes it's only half a day, and that's eighteen pence. barthwick. and when your husband earns anything he spends it in drink, i suppose? mrs. jones. sometimes he does, sir, and sometimes he gives it to me for the children. of course he would work if he could get it, sir, but it seems there are a great many people out of work. barthwick. ah! yes. we--er--won't go into that. [sympathetically.] and how about your work here? do you find it hard? mrs. jones. oh! no, sir, not very hard, sir; except of course, when i don't get my sleep at night. barthwick. ah! and you help do all the rooms? and sometimes, i suppose, you go out for cook? mrs. jones. yes, sir. barthwick. and you 've been out this morning? mrs. jones. yes, sir, of course i had to go to the greengrocer's. barthwick. exactly. so your husband earns nothing? and he's a bad character. mrs. jones. no, sir, i don't say that, sir. i think there's a great deal of good in him; though he does treat me very bad sometimes. and of course i don't like to leave him, but i think i ought to, because really i hardly know how to stay with him. he often raises his hand to me. not long ago he gave me a blow here [touches her breast] and i can feel it now. so i think i ought to leave him, don't you, sir? barthwick. ah! i can't help you there. it's a very serious thing to leave your husband. very serious thing. mrs. jones. yes, sir, of course i 'm afraid of what he might do to me if i were to leave him; he can be so very violent. barthwick. h'm! well, that i can't pretend to say anything about. it's the bad principle i'm speaking of---- mrs. jones. yes, sir; i know nobody can help me. i know i must decide for myself, and of course i know that he has a very hard life. and he's fond of the children, and its very hard for him to see them going without food. barthwick. [hastily.] well--er--thank you, i just wanted to hear about you. i don't think i need detain you any longer, mrs. jones. mrs. jones. no, sir, thank you, sir. barthwick. good morning, then. mrs. jones. good morning, sir; good morning, ma'am. barthwick. [exchanging glances with his wife.] by the way, mrs. jones--i think it is only fair to tell you, a silver cigarette-box --er--is missing. mrs. jones. [looking from one face to the other.] i am very sorry, sir. barthwick. yes; you have not seen it, i suppose? mrs. jones. [realising that suspicion is upon her; with an uneasy movement.] where was it, sir; if you please, sir? barthwick. [evasively.] where did marlow say? er--in this room, yes, in this room. mrs. jones. no, sir, i have n't seen it--of course if i 'd seen it i should have noticed it. barthwick. [giving hey a rapid glance.] you--you are sure of that? mrs. jones. [impassively.] yes, sir. [with a slow nodding of her head.] i have not seen it, and of course i don't know where it is. [she turns and goes quietly out.] barthwick. h'm! [the three barthwicks avoid each other's glances.] the curtain falls. act ii scene i the jones's lodgings, merthyr street, at half-past two o'clock. the bare room, with tattered oilcloth and damp, distempered walls, has an air of tidy wretchedness. on the bed lies jones, half-dressed; his coat is thrown across his feet, and muddy boots are lying on the floor close by. he is asleep. the door is opened and mrs. jones comes in, dressed in a pinched black jacket and old black sailor hat; she carries a parcel wrapped up in the "times." she puts her parcel down, unwraps an apron, half a loaf, two onions, three potatoes, and a tiny piece of bacon. taking a teapot from the cupboard, she rinses it, shakes into it some powdered tea out of a screw of paper, puts it on the hearth, and sitting in a wooden chair quietly begins to cry. jones. [stirring and yawning.] that you? what's the time? mrs. jones. [drying her eyes, and in her usual voice.] half-past two. jones. what you back so soon for? mrs. jones. i only had the half day to-day, jem. jones. [on his back, and in a drowsy voice.] got anything for dinner? mrs. jones. mrs. barthwick's cook gave me a little bit of bacon. i'm going to make a stew. [she prepares for cooking.] there's fourteen shillings owing for rent, james, and of course i 've only got two and fourpence. they'll be coming for it to-day. jones. [turning towards her on his elbow.] let 'em come and find my surprise packet. i've had enough o' this tryin' for work. why should i go round and round after a job like a bloomin' squirrel in a cage. "give us a job, sir"--"take a man on"--"got a wife and three children." sick of it i am! i 'd sooner lie here and rot. "jones, you come and join the demonstration; come and 'old a flag, and listen to the ruddy orators, and go 'ome as empty as you came." there's some that seems to like that--the sheep! when i go seekin' for a job now, and see the brutes lookin' me up an' down, it's like a thousand serpents in me. i 'm not arskin' for any treat. a man wants to sweat hisself silly and not allowed that's a rum start, ain't it? a man wants to sweat his soul out to keep the breath in him and ain't allowed--that's justice that's freedom and all the rest of it! [he turns his face towards the wall.] you're so milky mild; you don't know what goes on inside o' me. i'm done with the silly game. if they want me, let 'em come for me! [mrs. jones stops cooking and stands unmoving at the table.] i've tried and done with it, i tell you. i've never been afraid of what 's before me. you mark my words--if you think they've broke my spirit, you're mistook. i 'll lie and rot sooner than arsk 'em again. what makes you stand like that--you long-sufferin', gawd-forsaken image--that's why i can't keep my hands off you. so now you know. work! you can work, but you have n't the spirit of a louse! mrs. jones. [quietly.] you talk more wild sometimes when you're yourself, james, than when you 're not. if you don't get work, how are we to go on? they won't let us stay here; they're looking to their money to-day, i know. jones. i see this barthwick o' yours every day goin' down to pawlyment snug and comfortable to talk his silly soul out; an' i see that young calf, his son, swellin' it about, and goin' on the razzle-dazzle. wot 'ave they done that makes 'em any better than wot i am? they never did a day's work in their lives. i see 'em day after day. mrs. jones. and i wish you wouldn't come after me like that, and hang about the house. you don't seem able to keep away at all, and whatever you do it for i can't think, because of course they notice it. jones. i suppose i may go where i like. where may i go? the other day i went to a place in the edgware road. "gov'nor," i says to the boss, "take me on," i says. "i 'aven't done a stroke o' work not these two months; it takes the heart out of a man," i says; "i 'm one to work; i 'm not afraid of anything you can give me!" "my good man," 'e says, "i 've had thirty of you here this morning. i took the first two," he says, "and that's all i want." "thank you, then rot the world!" i says. "blasphemin'," he says, "is not the way to get a job. out you go, my lad!" [he laughs sardonically.] don't you raise your voice because you're starvin'; don't yer even think of it; take it lyin' down! take it like a sensible man, carn't you? and a little way down the street a lady says to me: [pinching his voice] "d' you want to earn a few pence, my man?" and gives me her dog to 'old outside a shop-fat as a butler 'e was--tons o' meat had gone to the makin' of him. it did 'er good, it did, made 'er feel 'erself that charitable, but i see 'er lookin' at the copper standin' alongside o' me, for fear i should make off with 'er bloomin' fat dog. [he sits on the edge of the bed and puts a boot on. then looking up.] what's in that head o' yours? [almost pathetically.] carn't you speak for once? [there is a knock, and mrs. seddon, the landlady, appears, an anxious, harassed, shabby woman in working clothes.] mrs. seddon. i thought i 'eard you come in, mrs. jones. i 've spoke to my 'usband, but he says he really can't afford to wait another day. jones. [with scowling jocularity.] never you mind what your 'usband says, you go your own way like a proper independent woman. here, jenny, chuck her that. [producing a sovereign from his trousers pocket, he throws it to his wife, who catches it in her apron with a gasp. jones resumes the lacing of his boots.] mrs. jones. [rubbing the sovereign stealthily.] i'm very sorry we're so late with it, and of course it's fourteen shillings, so if you've got six that will be right. [mrs. seddon takes the sovereign and fumbles for the change.] jones. [with his eyes fixed on his boots.] bit of a surprise for yer, ain't it? mrs. seddon. thank you, and i'm sure i'm very much obliged. [she does indeed appear surprised.] i 'll bring you the change. jones. [mockingly.] don't mention it. mrs. seddon. thank you, and i'm sure i'm very much obliged. [she slides away.] [mrs. jones gazes at jones who is still lacing up his boots.] jones. i 've had a bit of luck. [pulling out the crimson purse and some loose coins.] picked up a purse--seven pound and more. mrs. jones. oh, james! jones. oh, james! what about oh, james! i picked it up i tell you. this is lost property, this is! mrs. jones. but is n't there a name in it, or something? jones. name? no, there ain't no name. this don't belong to such as 'ave visitin' cards. this belongs to a perfec' lidy. tike an' smell it. [he pitches her the purse, which she puts gently to her nose.] now, you tell me what i ought to have done. you tell me that. you can always tell me what i ought to ha' done, can't yer? mrs. jones. [laying down the purse.] i can't say what you ought to have done, james. of course the money was n't yours; you've taken somebody else's money. jones. finding's keeping. i 'll take it as wages for the time i 've gone about the streets asking for what's my rights. i'll take it for what's overdue, d' ye hear? [with strange triumph.] i've got money in my pocket, my girl. [mrs. jones goes on again with the preparation of the meal, jones looking at her furtively.] money in my pocket! and i 'm not goin' to waste it. with this 'ere money i'm goin' to canada. i'll let you have a pound. [a silence.] you've often talked of leavin' me. you 've often told me i treat you badly--well i 'ope you 'll be glad when i 'm gone. mrs. jones. [impassively.] you have, treated me very badly, james, and of course i can't prevent your going; but i can't tell whether i shall be glad when you're gone. jones. it'll change my luck. i 've 'ad nothing but bad luck since i first took up with you. [more softly.] and you've 'ad no bloomin' picnic. mrs. jones. of course it would have been better for us if we had never met. we were n't meant for each other. but you're set against me, that's what you are, and you have been for a long time. and you treat me so badly, james, going after that rosie and all. you don't ever seem to think of the children that i 've had to bring into the world, and of all the trouble i 've had to keep them, and what 'll become of them when you're gone. jones. [crossing the room gloomily.] if you think i want to leave the little beggars you're bloomin' well mistaken. mrs. jones. of course i know you're fond of them. jones. [fingering the purse, half angrily.] well, then, you stow it, old girl. the kids 'll get along better with you than when i 'm here. if i 'd ha' known as much as i do now, i 'd never ha' had one o' them. what's the use o' bringin' 'em into a state o' things like this? it's a crime, that's what it is; but you find it out too late; that's what's the matter with this 'ere world. [he puts the purse back in his pocket.] mrs. jones. of course it would have been better for them, poor little things; but they're your own children, and i wonder at you talkin' like that. i should miss them dreadfully if i was to lose them. jones. [sullenly.] an' you ain't the only one. if i make money out there--[looking up, he sees her shaking out his coat--in a changed voice.] leave that coat alone! [the silver box drops from the pocket, scattering the cigarettes upon the bed. taking up the box she stares at it; he rushes at her and snatches the box away.] mrs. jones. [cowering back against the bed.] oh, jem! oh, jem! jones. [dropping the box onto the table.] you mind what you're sayin'! when i go out i 'll take and chuck it in the water along with that there purse. i 'ad it when i was in liquor, and for what you do when you 're in liquor you're not responsible-and that's gawd's truth as you ought to know. i don't want the thing--i won't have it. i took it out o' spite. i 'm no thief, i tell you; and don't you call me one, or it'll be the worse for you. mrs. jones. [twisting her apron strings.] it's mr. barthwick's! you've taken away my reputation. oh, jem, whatever made you? jones. what d' you mean? mrs. jones. it's been missed; they think it's me. oh! whatever made you do it, jem? jones. i tell you i was in liquor. i don't want it; what's the good of it to me? if i were to pawn it they'd only nab me. i 'm no thief. i 'm no worse than wot that young barthwick is; he brought 'ome that purse that i picked up--a lady's purse--'ad it off 'er in a row, kept sayin' 'e 'd scored 'er off. well, i scored 'im off. tight as an owl 'e was! and d' you think anything'll happen to him? mrs. jones. [as though speaking to herself.] oh, jem! it's the bread out of our mouths! jones. is it then? i'll make it hot for 'em yet. what about that purse? what about young barthwick? [mrs. jones comes forward to the table and tries to take the box; jones prevents her.] what do you want with that? you drop it, i say! mrs. jones. i 'll take it back and tell them all about it. [she attempts to wrest the box from him.] jones. ah, would yer? [he drops the box, and rushes on her with a snarl. she slips back past the bed. he follows; a chair is overturned. the door is opened; snow comes in, a detective in plain clothes and bowler hat, with clipped moustaches. jones drops his arms, mrs. jones stands by the window gasping; snow, advancing swiftly to the table, puts his hand on the silver box.] snow. doin' a bit o' skylarkin'? fancy this is what i 'm after. j. b., the very same. [he gets back to the door, scrutinising the crest and cypher on the box. to mrs. jones.] i'm a police officer. are you mrs. jones? mrs. jones. yes, sir. snow. my instructions are to take you on a charge of stealing this box from j. barthwick, esquire, m.p., of , rockingham gate. anything you say may be used against you. well, missis? mrs. jones. [in her quiet voice, still out of breath, her hand upon her breast.] of course i did not take it, sir. i never have taken anything that did n't belong to me; and of course i know nothing about it. snow. you were at the house this morning; you did the room in which the box was left; you were alone in the room. i find the box 'ere. you say you did n't take it? mrs. jones. yes, sir, of course i say i did not take it, because i did not. snow. then how does the box come to be here? mrs. jones. i would rather not say anything about it. snow. is this your husband? mrs. jones. yes, sir, this is my husband, sir. snow. do you wish to say anything before i take her? [jones remains silent, with his head bend down.] well then, missis. i 'll just trouble you to come along with me quietly. mrs. jones. [twisting her hands.] of course i would n't say i had n't taken it if i had--and i did n't take it, indeed i did n't. of course i know appearances are against me, and i can't tell you what really happened: but my children are at school, and they'll be coming home--and i don't know what they'll do without me. snow. your 'usband'll see to them, don't you worry. [he takes the woman gently by the arm.] jones. you drop it--she's all right! [sullenly.] i took the thing myself. snow. [eyeing him] there, there, it does you credit. come along, missis. jones. [passionately.] drop it, i say, you blooming teck. she's my wife; she 's a respectable woman. take her if you dare! snow. now, now. what's the good of this? keep a civil tongue, and it'll be the better for all of us. [he puts his whistle in his mouth and draws the woman to the door.] jones. [with a rush.] drop her, and put up your 'ands, or i 'll soon make yer. you leave her alone, will yer! don't i tell yer, i took the thing myself. snow. [blowing his whistle.] drop your hands, or i 'll take you too. ah, would you? [jones, closing, deals him a blow. a policeman in uniform appears; there is a short struggle and jones is overpowered. mrs. jones raises her hands avid drops her face on them.] the curtain falls. scene ii the barthwicks' dining-room the same evening. the barthwicks are seated at dessert. mrs. barthwick. john! [a silence broken by the cracking of nuts.] john! barthwick. i wish you'd speak about the nuts they're uneatable. [he puts one in his mouth.] mrs. barthwick. it's not the season for them. i called on the holyroods. [barthwick fills his glass with port.] jack. crackers, please, dad. [barthwick passes the crackers. his demeanour is reflective.] mrs. barthwick. lady holyrood has got very stout. i 've noticed it coming for a long time. barthwick. [gloomily.] stout? [he takes up the crackers--with transparent airiness.] the holyroods had some trouble with their servants, had n't they? jack. crackers, please, dad. barthwick. [passing the crackers.] it got into the papers. the cook, was n't it? mrs. barthwick. no, the lady's maid. i was talking it over with lady holyrood. the girl used to have her young man to see her. barthwick. [uneasily.] i'm not sure they were wise---- mrs. barthwick. my dear john, what are you talking about? how could there be any alternative? think of the effect on the other servants! barthwick. of course in principle--i wasn't thinking of that. jack. [maliciously.] crackers, please, dad. [barthwick is compelled to pass the crackers.] mrs. barthwick. lady holyrood told me: "i had her up," she said; "i said to her, 'you'll leave my house at once; i think your conduct disgraceful. i can't tell, i don't know, and i don't wish to know, what you were doing. i send you away on principle; you need not come to me for a character.' and the girl said: 'if you don't give me my notice, my lady, i want a month's wages. i'm perfectly respectable. i've done nothing.'"'--done nothing! barthwick. h'm! mrs. barthwick. servants have too much license. they hang together so terribly you never can tell what they're really thinking; it's as if they were all in a conspiracy to keep you in the dark. even with marlow, you feel that he never lets you know what's really in his mind. i hate that secretiveness; it destroys all confidence. i feel sometimes i should like to shake him. jack. marlow's a most decent chap. it's simply beastly every one knowing your affairs. barthwick. the less you say about that the better! mrs. barthwick. it goes all through the lower classes. you can not tell when they are speaking the truth. to-day when i was shopping after leaving the holyroods, one of these unemployed came up and spoke to me. i suppose i only had twenty yards or so to walk to the carnage, but he seemed to spring up in the street. barthwick. ah! you must be very careful whom you speak to in these days. mrs. barthwick. i did n't answer him, of course. but i could see at once that he wasn't telling the truth. barthwick. [cracking a nut.] there's one very good rule--look at their eyes. jack. crackers, please, dad. barthwick. [passing the crackers.] if their eyes are straight-forward i sometimes give them sixpence. it 's against my principles, but it's most difficult to refuse. if you see that they're desperate, and dull, and shifty-looking, as so many of them are, it's certain to mean drink, or crime, or something unsatisfactory. mrs. barthwick. this man had dreadful eyes. he looked as if he could commit a murder. "i 've 'ad nothing to eat to-day," he said. just like that. barthwick. what was william about? he ought to have been waiting. jack. [raising his wine-glass to his nose.] is this the ' , dad? [barthwick, holding his wine-glass to his eye, lowers it and passes it before his nose.] mrs. barthwick. i hate people that can't speak the truth. [father and son exchange a look behind their port.] it 's just as easy to speak the truth as not. i've always found it easy enough. it makes it impossible to tell what is genuine; one feels as if one were continually being taken in. barthwick. [sententiously.] the lower classes are their own enemies. if they would only trust us, they would get on so much better. mrs. barthwick. but even then it's so often their own fault. look at that mrs. jones this morning. barthwick. i only want to do what's right in that matter. i had occasion to see roper this afternoon. i mentioned it to him. he's coming in this evening. it all depends on what the detective says. i've had my doubts. i've been thinking it over. mrs. barthwick. the woman impressed me most unfavourably. she seemed to have no shame. that affair she was talking about--she and the man when they were young, so immoral! and before you and jack! i could have put her out of the room! barthwick. oh! i don't want to excuse them, but in looking at these matters one must consider---- mrs. barthwick. perhaps you'll say the man's employer was wrong in dismissing him? barthwick. of course not. it's not there that i feel doubt. what i ask myself is---- jack. port, please, dad. barthwick. [circulating the decanter in religious imitation of the rising and setting of the sun.] i ask myself whether we are sufficiently careful in making inquiries about people before we engage them, especially as regards moral conduct. jack. pass the-port, please, mother! mrs. barthwick. [passing it.] my dear boy, are n't you drinking too much? [jack fills his glass.] marlow. [entering.] detective snow to see you, sir. barthwick. [uneasily.] ah! say i'll be with him in a minute. mrs. barthwick. [without turning.] let him come in here, marlow. [snow enters in an overcoat, his bowler hat in hand.] barthwick. [half-rising.] oh! good evening! snow. good evening, sir; good evening, ma'am. i 've called round to report what i 've done, rather late, i 'm afraid--another case took me away. [he takes the silver box out o f his pocket, causing a sensation in the barthwick family.] this is the identical article, i believe. barthwick. certainly, certainly. snow. havin' your crest and cypher, as you described to me, sir, i 'd no hesitation in the matter. barthwick. excellent. will you have a glass of [he glances at the waning port]--er--sherry-[pours out sherry]. jack, just give mr. snow this. [jack rises and gives the glass to snow; then, lolling in his chair, regards him indolently.] snow. [drinking off wine and putting down the glass.] after seeing you i went round to this woman's lodgings, sir. it's a low neighborhood, and i thought it as well to place a constable below --and not without 'e was wanted, as things turned out. barthwick. indeed! snow. yes, sir, i 'ad some trouble. i asked her to account for the presence of the article. she could give me no answer, except to deny the theft; so i took her into custody; then her husband came for me, so i was obliged to take him, too, for assault. he was very violent on the way to the station--very violent--threatened you and your son, and altogether he was a handful, i can till you. mrs. barthwick. what a ruffian he must be! snow. yes, ma'am, a rough customer. jack. [sipping his mine, bemused.] punch the beggar's head. snow. given to drink, as i understand, sir. mrs. barthwick. it's to be hoped he will get a severe punishment. snow. the odd thing is, sir, that he persists in sayin' he took the box himself. barthwick. took the box himself! [he smiles.] what does he think to gain by that? snow. he says the young gentleman was intoxicated last night [jack stops the cracking of a nut, and looks at snow.] [barthwick, losing his smile, has put his wine-glass down; there is a silence--snow, looking from face to face, remarks] --took him into the house and gave him whisky; and under the influence of an empty stomach the man says he took the box. mrs. barthwick. the impudent wretch! barthwick. d' you mean that he--er--intends to put this forward to-morrow? snow. that'll be his line, sir; but whether he's endeavouring to shield his wife, or whether [he looks at jack] there's something in it, will be for the magistrate to say. mrs. barthwick. [haughtily.] something in what? i don't understand you. as if my son would bring a man like that into the house! barthwick. [from the fireplace, with an effort to be calm.] my son can speak for himself, no doubt. well, jack, what do you say? mrs. barthwick. [sharply.] what does he say? why, of course, he says the whole story's stuff! jack. [embarrassed.] well, of course, i--of course, i don't know anything about it. mrs. barthwick. i should think not, indeed! [to snow.] the man is an audacious ruffian! barthwick. [suppressing jumps.] but in view of my son's saying there's nothing in this--this fable--will it be necessary to proceed against the man under the circumstances? snow. we shall have to charge him with the assault, sir. it would be as well for your son to come down to the court. there'll be a remand, no doubt. the queer thing is there was quite a sum of money found on him, and a crimson silk purse. [barthwick starts; jack rises and sits dozen again.] i suppose the lady has n't missed her purse? barthwick. [hastily.] oh, no! oh! no! jack. no! mrs. barthwick. [dreamily.] no! [to snow.] i 've been inquiring of the servants. this man does hang about the house. i shall feel much safer if he gets a good long sentence; i do think we ought to be protected against such ruffians. barthwick. yes, yes, of course, on principle but in this case we have a number of things to think of. [to snow.] i suppose, as you say, the man must be charged, eh? snow. no question about that, sir. barthwick. [staring gloomily at jack.] this prosecution goes very much against the grain with me. i have great sympathy with the poor. in my position i 'm bound to recognise the distress there is amongst them. the condition of the people leaves much to be desired. d' you follow me? i wish i could see my way to drop it. mrs. barthwick. [sharply.] john! it's simply not fair to other people. it's putting property at the mercy of any one who likes to take it. barthwick. [trying to make signs to her aside.] i 'm not defending him, not at all. i'm trying to look at the matter broadly. mrs. barthwick. nonsense, john, there's a time for everything. snow. [rather sardonically.] i might point out, sir, that to withdraw the charge of stealing would not make much difference, because the facts must come out [he looks significantly at jack] in reference to the assault; and as i said that charge will have to go forward. barthwick. [hastily.] yes, oh! exactly! it's entirely on the woman's account--entirely a matter of my own private feelings. snow. if i were you, sir, i should let things take their course. it's not likely there'll be much difficulty. these things are very quick settled. barthwick. [doubtfully.] you think so--you think so? jack. [rousing himself.] i say, what shall i have to swear to? snow. that's best known to yourself, sir. [retreating to the door.] better employ a solicitor, sir, in case anything should arise. we shall have the butler to prove the loss of the article. you'll excuse me going, i 'm rather pressed to-night. the case may come on any time after eleven. good evening, sir; good evening, ma'am. i shall have to produce the box in court to-morrow, so if you'll excuse me, sir, i may as well take it with me. [he takes the silver box and leaves them with a little bow.] [barthwick makes a move to follow him, then dashing his hands beneath his coat tails, speaks with desperation.] barthwick. i do wish you'd leave me to manage things myself. you will put your nose into matters you know nothing of. a pretty mess you've made of this! mrs. barthwick. [coldly.] i don't in the least know what you're talking about. if you can't stand up for your rights, i can. i 've no patience with your principles, it's such nonsense. barthwick. principles! good heavens! what have principles to do with it for goodness sake? don't you know that jack was drunk last night! jack. dad! mrs. barthwick. [in horror rising.] jack! jack. look here, mother--i had supper. everybody does. i mean to say--you know what i mean--it's absurd to call it being drunk. at oxford everybody gets a bit "on" sometimes---- mrs. barthwick. well, i think it's most dreadful! if that is really what you do at oxford? jack. [angrily.] well, why did you send me there? one must do as other fellows do. it's such nonsense, i mean, to call it being drunk. of course i 'm awfully sorry. i 've had such a beastly headache all day. barthwick. tcha! if you'd only had the common decency to remember what happened when you came in. then we should know what truth there was in what this fellow says--as it is, it's all the most confounded darkness. jack. [staring as though at half-formed visions.] i just get a-- and then--it 's gone---- mrs. barthwick. oh, jack! do you mean to say you were so tipsy you can't even remember---- jack. look here, mother! of course i remember i came--i must have come---- barthwick. [unguardedly, and walking up and down.] tcha!--and that infernal purse! good heavens! it'll get into the papers. who on earth could have foreseen a thing like this? better to have lost a dozen cigarette-boxes, and said nothing about it. [to his wife.] it's all your doing. i told you so from the first. i wish to goodness roper would come! mrs. barthwick. [sharply.] i don't know what you're talking about, john. barthwick. [turning on her.] no, you--you--you don't know anything! [sharply.] where the devil is roper? if he can see a way out of this he's a better man than i take him for. i defy any one to see a way out of it. i can't. jack. look here, don't excite dad--i can simply say i was too beastly tired, and don't remember anything except that i came in and [in a dying voice] went to bed the same as usual. barthwick. went to bed? who knows where you went--i 've lost all confidence. for all i know you slept on the floor. jack. [indignantly.] i did n't, i slept on the---- barthwick. [sitting on the sofa.] who cares where you slept; what does it matter if he mentions the--the--a perfect disgrace? mrs. barthwick. what? [a silence.] i insist on knowing. jack. oh! nothing. mrs. barthwick. nothing? what do you mean by nothing, jack? there's your father in such a state about it! jack. it's only my purse. mrs. barthwick. your purse! you know perfectly well you have n't got one. jack. well, it was somebody else's--it was all a joke--i did n't want the beastly thing. mrs. barthwick. do you mean that you had another person's purse, and that this man took it too? barthwick. tcha! of course he took it too! a man like that jones will make the most of it. it'll get into the papers. mrs. barthwick. i don't understand. what on earth is all the fuss about? [bending over jack, and softly.] jack now, tell me dear! don't be afraid. what is it? come! jack. oh, don't mother! mrs. barthwick. but don't what, dear? jack. it was pure sport. i don't know how i got the thing. of course i 'd had a bit of a row--i did n't know what i was doing--i was--i was--well, you know--i suppose i must have pulled the bag out of her hand. mrs. barthwick. out of her hand? whose hand? what bag--whose bag? jack. oh! i don't know--her bag--it belonged to--[in a desperate and rising voice] a woman. mrs. barthwick. a woman? oh! jack! no! jack. [jumping up.] you would have it. i did n't want to tell you. it's not my fault. [the door opens and marlow ushers in a man of middle age, inclined to corpulence, in evening dress. he has a ruddy, thin moustache, and dark, quick-moving little eyes. his eyebrows aye chinese.] marlow. mr. roper, sir. [he leaves the room.] roper. [with a quick look round.] how do you do? [but neither jack nor mrs. barthwick make a sign.] barthwick. [hurrying.] thank goodness you've come, roper. you remember what i told you this afternoon; we've just had the detective here. roper. got the box? barthwick. yes, yes, but look here--it was n't the charwoman at all; her drunken loafer of a husband took the things--he says that fellow there [he waves his hand at jack, who with his shoulder raised, seems trying to ward off a blow] let him into the house last night. can you imagine such a thing. [roper laughs. ] barthwick. [with excited emphasis.]. it's no laughing matter, roper. i told you about that business of jack's too--don't you see the brute took both the things--took that infernal purse. it'll get into the papers. roper. [raising his eyebrows.] h'm! the purse! depravity in high life! what does your son say? barthwick. he remembers nothing. d--n! did you ever see such a mess? it 'll get into the papers. mrs. barthwick. [with her hand across hey eyes.] oh! it's not that---- [barthwick and roper turn and look at her.] barthwick. it's the idea of that woman--she's just heard---- [roper nods. and mrs. barthwick, setting her lips, gives a slow look at jack, and sits down at the table.] what on earth's to be done, roper? a ruffian like this jones will make all the capital he can out of that purse. mrs. barthwick. i don't believe that jack took that purse. barthwick. what--when the woman came here for it this morning? mrs. barthwick. here? she had the impudence? why was n't i told? [she looks round from face to face--no one answers hey, there is a pause.] barthwick. [suddenly.] what's to be done, roper? roper. [quietly to jack.] i suppose you did n't leave your latch-key in the door? jack. [sullenly.] yes, i did. barthwick. good heavens! what next? mrs. barthwick. i 'm certain you never let that man into the house, jack, it's a wild invention. i'm sure there's not a word of truth in it, mr. roper. roper. [very suddenly.] where did you sleep last night? jack. [promptly.] on the sofa, there--[hesitating]--that is--i---- barthwick. on the sofa? d' you mean to say you did n't go to bed? jack.[sullenly.] no. barthwick. if you don't remember anything, how can you remember that? jack. because i woke up there in the morning. mrs. barthwick. oh, jack! barthwick. good gracious! jack. and mrs. jones saw me. i wish you would n't bait me so. roper. do you remember giving any one a drink? jack. by jove, i do seem to remember a fellow with--a fellow with [he looks at roper.] i say, d' you want me----? roper. [quick as lightning.] with a dirty face? jack. [with illumination.] i do--i distinctly remember his---- [barthwick moves abruptly; mrs. barthwick looks at roper angrily, and touches her son's arm.] mrs. barthwick. you don't remember, it's ridiculous! i don't believe the man was ever here at all. barthwick. you must speak the truth, if it is the truth. but if you do remember such a dirty business, i shall wash my hands of you altogether. jack. [glaring at them.] well, what the devil---- mrs. barthwick. jack! jack. well, mother, i--i don't know what you do want. mrs. barthwick. we want you to speak the truth and say you never let this low man into the house. barthwick. of course if you think that you really gave this man whisky in that disgraceful way, and let him see what you'd been doing, and were in such a disgusting condition that you don't remember a word of it---- roper. [quick.] i've no memory myself--never had. barthwick. [desperately.] i don't know what you're to say. roper. [to jack.] say nothing at all! don't put yourself in a false position. the man stole the things or the woman stole the things, you had nothing to do with it. you were asleep on the sofa. mrs. barthwick. your leaving the latch-key in the door was quite bad enough, there's no need to mention anything else. [touching his forehead softly.] my dear, how hot your head is! jack. but i want to know what i 'm to do. [passionately.] i won't be badgered like this. [mrs. barthwick recoils from him.] roper. [very quickly.] you forget all about it. you were asleep. jack. must i go down to the court to-morrow? roper. [shaking his head.] no. barthwick. [in a relieved voice.] is that so? roper. yes. barthwick. but you'll go, roper. roper. yes. jack. [with wan cheerfulness.] thanks, awfully! so long as i don't have to go. [putting his hand up to his head.] i think if you'll excuse me--i've had a most beastly day. [he looks from his father to his mother.] mrs. barthwick. [turning quickly.] goodnight, my boy. jack. good-night, mother. [he goes out. mrs. barthwick heaves a sigh. there is a silence.] barthwick. he gets off too easily. but for my money that woman would have prosecuted him. roper. you find money useful. barthwick. i've my doubts whether we ought to hide the truth---- roper. there'll be a remand. barthwick. what! d' you mean he'll have to appear on the remand. roper. yes. barthwick. h'm, i thought you'd be able to----look here, roper, you must keep that purse out of the papers. [roper fixes his little eyes on him and nods.] mrs. barthwick. mr. roper, don't you think the magistrate ought to be told what sort of people these jones's are; i mean about their immorality before they were married. i don't know if john told you. roper. afraid it's not material. mrs. barthwick. not material? roper. purely private life! may have happened to the magistrate. barthwick. [with a movement as if to shift a burden.] then you'll take the thing into your hands? roper. if the gods are kind. [he holds his hand out.] barthwick. [shaking it dubiously.] kind eh? what? you going? roper. yes. i've another case, something like yours--most unexpected. [he bows to mrs. barthwick, and goes out, followed by barthwick, talking to the last. mrs. barthwick at the table bursts into smothered sobs. barthwick returns.] barthwick. [to himself.] there'll be a scandal! mrs. barthwick. [disguising her grief at once.] i simply can't imagine what roper means by making a joke of a thing like that! barthwick. [staring strangely.] you! you can't imagine anything! you've no more imagination than a fly! mrs. barthwick. [angrily.] you dare to tell me that i have no imagination. barthwick. [flustered.] i--i 'm upset. from beginning to end, the whole thing has been utterly against my principles. mrs. barthwick. rubbish! you have n't any! your principles are nothing in the world but sheer fright! barthwick. [walking to the window.] i've never been frightened in my life. you heard what roper said. it's enough to upset one when a thing like this happens. everything one says and does seems to turn in one's mouth--it's--it's uncanny. it's not the sort of thing i've been accustomed to. [as though stifling, he throws the window open. the faint sobbing of a child comes in.] what's that? [they listen.] mrs. barthwick. [sharply.] i can't stand that crying. i must send marlow to stop it. my nerves are all on edge. [she rings the bell.] barthwick. i'll shut the window; you'll hear nothing. [he shuts the window. there is silence.] mrs. barthwick. [sharply.] that's no good! it's on my nerves. nothing upsets me like a child's crying. [marlow comes in.] what's that noise of crying, marlow? it sounds like a child. barthwick. it is a child. i can see it against the railings. marlow. [opening the window, and looking out quietly.] it's mrs. jones's little boy, ma'am; he came here after his mother. mrs. barthwick. [moving quickly to the window.] poor little chap! john, we ought n't to go on with this! barthwick. [sitting heavily in a chair.] ah! but it's out of our hands! [mrs. barthwick turns her back to the window. there is an expression of distress on hey face. she stands motionless, compressing her lips. the crying begins again. barthwick coveys his ears with his hands, and marlow shuts the window. the crying ceases.] the curtain falls. act iii eight days have passed, and the scene is a london police court at one o'clock. a canopied seat of justice is surmounted by the lion and unicorn. before the fire a worn-looking magistrate is warming his coat-tails, and staring at two little girls in faded blue and orange rags, who are placed before the dock. close to the witness-box is a relieving officer in an overcoat, and a short brown beard. beside the little girls stands a bald police constable. on the front bench are sitting barthwick and roper, and behind them jack. in the railed enclosure are seedy-looking men and women. some prosperous constables sit or stand about. magistrate. [in his paternal and ferocious voice, hissing his s's.] now let us dispose of these young ladies. usher. theresa livens, maud livens. [the bald constable indicates the little girls, who remain silent, disillusioned, inattentive.] relieving officer! [the relieving officer steps into the witness-box.] usher. the evidence you give to the court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you god! kiss the book! [the book is kissed.] relieving officer. [in a monotone, pausing slightly at each sentence end, that his evidence may be inscribed.] about ten o'clock this morning, your worship, i found these two little girls in blue street, fulham, crying outside a public-house. asked where their home was, they said they had no home. mother had gone away. asked about their father. their father had no work. asked where they slept last night. at their aunt's. i 've made inquiries, your worship. the wife has broken up the home and gone on the streets. the husband is out of work and living in common lodging-houses. the husband's sister has eight children of her own, and says she can't afford to keep these little girls any longer. magistrate. [returning to his seat beneath the canopy of justice.] now, let me see. you say the mother is on the streets; what evidence have you of that? relieving officer. i have the husband here, your worship. magistrate. very well; then let us see him. [there are cries of "livens." the magistrate leans forward, and stares with hard compassion at the little girls. livens comes in. he is quiet, with grizzled hair, and a muffler for a collar. he stands beside the witness-box.] and you, are their father? now, why don't you keep your little girls at home. how is it you leave them to wander about the streets like this? livens. i've got no home, your worship. i'm living from 'and to mouth. i 've got no work; and nothin' to keep them on. magistrate. how is that? livens. [ashamedly.] my wife, she broke my 'ome up, and pawned the things. magistrate. but what made you let her? levins. your worship, i'd no chance to stop 'er, she did it when i was out lookin' for work. magistrate. did you ill-treat her? livens. [emphatically.] i never raised my 'and to her in my life, your worship. magistrate. then what was it--did she drink? livens. yes, your worship. magistrate. was she loose in her behaviour? livens. [in a low voice.] yes, your worship. magistrate. and where is she now? livens. i don't know your worship. she went off with a man, and after that i---- magistrate. yes, yes. who knows anything of her? [to the bald constable.] is she known here? relieving officer. not in this district, your worship; but i have ascertained that she is well known---- magistrate. yes--yes; we'll stop at that. now [to the father] you say that she has broken up your home, and left these little girls. what provision can you make for them? you look a strong man. livens. so i am, your worship. i'm willin' enough to work, but for the life of me i can't get anything to do. magistrate. but have you tried? livens. i've tried everything, your worship--i 've tried my 'ardest. magistrate. well, well---- [there is a silence.] relieving officer. if your worship thinks it's a case, my people are willing to take them. magistrate. yes, yes, i know; but i've no evidence that this man is not the proper guardian for his children. [he rises oval goes back to the fire.] relieving officer. the mother, your worship, is able to get access to them. magistrate. yes, yes; the mother, of course, is an improper person to have anything to do with them. [to the father.] well, now what do you say? livens. your worship, i can only say that if i could get work i should be only too willing to provide for them. but what can i do, your worship? here i am obliged to live from 'and to mouth in these 'ere common lodging-houses. i 'm a strong man--i'm willing to work --i'm half as alive again as some of 'em--but you see, your worship, my 'airs' turned a bit, owing to the fever--[touches his hair]--and that's against me; and i don't seem to get a chance anyhow. magistrate. yes-yes. [slowly.] well, i think it 's a case. [staring his hardest at the little girls.] now, are you willing that these little girls should be sent to a home. livens. yes, your worship, i should be very willing. magistrate. well, i'll remand them for a week. bring them again to-day week; if i see no reason against it then, i 'll make an order. relieving officer. to-day week, your worship. [the bald constable takes the little girls out by the shoulders. the father follows them. the magistrate, returning to his seat, bends over and talks to his clerk inaudibly.] barthwick. [speaking behind his hand.] a painful case, roper; very distressing state of things. roper. hundreds like this in the police courts. barthwick. most distressing! the more i see of it, the more important this question of the condition of the people seems to become. i shall certainly make a point of taking up the cudgels in the house. i shall move---- [the magistrate ceases talking to his clerk.] clerk. remands! [barthwick stops abruptly. there is a stir and mrs. jones comes in by the public door; jones, ushered by policemen, comes from the prisoner's door. they file into the dock.] clerk. james jones, jane jones. usher. jane jones! barthwick. [in a whisper.] the purse--the purse must be kept out of it, roper. whatever happens you must keep that out of the papers. [roper nods.] bald constable. hush! [mrs. jones, dressed in hey thin, black, wispy dress, and black straw hat, stands motionless with hands crossed on the front rail of the dock. jones leans against the back rail of the dock, and keeps half turning, glancing defiantly about him. he is haggard and unshaven.] clerk. [consulting with his papers.] this is the case remanded from last wednesday, sir. theft of a silver cigarette-box and assault on the police; the two charges were taken together. jane jones! james jones! magistrate. [staring.] yes, yes; i remember. clerk. jane jones. mrs. jones. yes, sir. clerk. do you admit stealing a silver cigarette-box valued at five pounds, ten shillings, from the house of john barthwick, m.p., between the hours of p.m. on easter monday and . a.m. on easter tuesday last? yes, or no? mrs. jones. [in a logy voice.] no, sir, i do not, sir. clerk. james jones? do you admit stealing a silver cigarette-box valued at five pounds, ten shillings, from the house of john barthwick, m.p., between the hours of p.m. on easter monday and . a.m. on easter tuesday last. and further making an assault on the police when in the execution of their duty at p.m. on easter tuesday? yes or no? jones. [sullenly.] yes, but i've got a lot to say about it. magistrate. [to the clerk.] yes--yes. but how comes it that these two people are charged with the same offence? are they husband and wife? clerk. yes, sir. you remember you ordered a remand for further evidence as to the story of the male prisoner. magistrate. have they been in custody since? clerk. you released the woman on her own recognisances, sir. magistrate. yes, yes, this is the case of the silver box; i remember now. well? clerk. thomas marlow. [the cry of "thomas marlow" is repeated marlow comes in, and steps into the witness-box.] usher. the evidence you give to the court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you god. kiss the book. [the book is kissed. the silver box is handed up, and placed on the rail.] clerk. [reading from his papers.] your name is thomas marlow? are you, butler to john barthwick, m.p., of , rockingham gate? marlow. yes, sir. clerk. is that the box? marlow. yes sir. clerk. and did you miss the same at . on the following morning, on going to remove the tray? marlow. yes, sir. clerk. is the female prisoner known to you? [marlow nods.] is she the charwoman employed at , rockingham gate? [again marlow nods.] did you at the time of your missing the box find her in the room alone? marlow. yes, sir. clerk. did you afterwards communicate the loss to your employer, and did he send you to the police station? marlow. yes, sir. clerk. [to mrs. jones.] have you anything to ask him? mrs. jones. no, sir, nothing, thank you, sir. clerk. [to jones.] james jones, have you anything to ask this witness? jones. i don't know 'im. magistrate. are you sure you put the box in the place you say at the time you say? marlow. yes, your worship. magistrate. very well; then now let us have the officer. [marlow leaves the box, and snow goes into it.] usher. the evidence you give to the court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you god. [the book is kissed.] clerk. [reading from his papers.] your name is robert allow? you are a detective in the x. b. division of the metropolitan police force? according to instructions received did you on easter tuesday last proceed to the prisoner's lodgings at , merthyr street, st. soames's? and did you on entering see the box produced, lying on the table? snow. yes, sir. clerk. is that the box? snow. [fingering the box.] yes, sir. clerk. and did you thereupon take possession of it, and charge the female prisoner with theft of the box from , rockingham gate? and did she deny the same? snow. yes, sir. clerk. did you take her into custody? snow. yes, sir. magistrate. what was her behaviour? snow. perfectly quiet, your worship. she persisted in the denial. that's all. magistrate. do you know her? snow. no, your worship. magistrate. is she known here? bald constable. no, your worship, they're neither of them known, we 've nothing against them at all. clerk. [to mrs. jones.] have you anything to ask the officer? mrs. jones. no, sir, thank you, i 've nothing to ask him. magistrate. very well then--go on. clerk. [reading from his papers.] and while you were taking the female prisoner did the male prisoner interpose, and endeavour to hinder you in the execution of your duty, and did he strike you a blow? snow. yes, sir. clerk. and did he say, "you, let her go, i took the box myself"? snow. he did. clerk. and did you blow your whistle and obtain the assistance of another constable, and take him into custody? snow. i did. clerk. was he violent on the way to the station, and did he use bad language, and did he several times repeat that he had taken the box himself? [snow nods.] did you thereupon ask him in what manner he had stolen the box? and did you understand him to say he had entered the house at the invitation of young mr. barthwick [barthwick, turning in his seat, frowns at roper.] after midnight on easter monday, and partaken of whisky, and that under the influence of the whisky he had taken the box? snow. i did, sir. clerk. and was his demeanour throughout very violent? snow. it was very violent. jones. [breaking in.] violent---of course it was! you put your 'ands on my wife when i kept tellin' you i took the thing myself. magistrate. [hissing, with protruded neck.] now--you will have your chance of saying what you want to say presently. have you anything to ask the officer? jones. [sullenly.] no. magistrate. very well then. now let us hear what the female prisoner has to say first. mrs. jones. well, your worship, of course i can only say what i 've said all along, that i did n't take the box. magistrate. yes, but did you know that it was taken? mrs. jones. no, your worship. and, of course, to what my husband says, your worship, i can't speak of my own knowledge. of course, i know that he came home very late on the monday night. it was past one o'clock when he came in, and he was not himself at all. magistrate. had he been drinking? mrs. jones. yes, your worship. magistrate. and was he drunk? mrs. jones. yes, your worship, he was almost quite drunk. magistrate. and did he say anything to you? mrs. jones. no, your worship, only to call me names. and of course in the morning when i got up and went to work he was asleep. and i don't know anything more about it until i came home again. except that mr. barthwick--that 's my employer, your worship--told me the box was missing. magistrate. yes, yes. mrs. jones. but of course when i was shaking out my husband's coat the cigarette-box fell out and all the cigarettes were scattered on the bed. magistrate. you say all the cigarettes were scattered on the bed? [to snow.] did you see the cigarettes scattered on the bed? snow. no, your worship, i did not. magistrate. you see he says he did n't see them. jones. well, they were there for all that. snow. i can't say, your worship, that i had the opportunity of going round the room; i had all my work cut out with the male prisoner. magistrate. [to mrs. jones.] well, what more have you to say? mrs. jones. of course when i saw the box, your worship, i was dreadfully upset, and i could n't think why he had done such a thing; when the officer came we were having words about it, because it is ruin to me, your worship, in my profession, and i have three little children dependent on me. magistrate. [protruding his neck]. yes--yes--but what did he say to you? mrs. jones. i asked him whatever came over him to do such a thing --and he said it was the drink. he said he had had too much to drink, and something came over him. and of course, your worship, he had had very little to eat all day, and the drink does go to the head when you have not had enough to eat. your worship may not know, but it is the truth. and i would like to say that all through his married life, i have never known him to do such a thing before, though we have passed through great hardships and [speaking with soft emphasis] i am quite sure he would not have done it if he had been himself at the time. magistrate. yes, yes. but don't you know that that is no excuse? mrs. jones. yes, your worship. i know that it is no excuse. [the magistrate leans over and parleys with his clerk.] jack. [leaning over from his seat behind.] i say, dad---- barthwick. tsst! [sheltering his mouth he speaks to roper.] roper, you had better get up now and say that considering the circumstances and the poverty of the prisoners, we have no wish to proceed any further, and if the magistrate would deal with the case as one of disorder only on the part of---- bald constable. hssshh! [roper shakes his head.] magistrate. now, supposing what you say and what your husband says is true, what i have to consider is--how did he obtain access to this house, and were you in any way a party to his obtaining access? you are the charwoman employed at the house? mrs. jones. yes, your worship, and of course if i had let him into the house it would have been very wrong of me; and i have never done such a thing in any of the houses where i have been employed. magistrate. well--so you say. now let us hear what story the male prisoner makes of it. jones. [who leans with his arms on the dock behind, speaks in a slow, sullen voice.] wot i say is wot my wife says. i 've never been 'ad up in a police court before, an' i can prove i took it when in liquor. i told her, and she can tell you the same, that i was goin' to throw the thing into the water sooner then 'ave it on my mind. magistrate. but how did you get into the house? jones. i was passin'. i was goin' 'ome from the "goat and bells." magistrate. the "goat and bells,"--what is that? a public-house? jones. yes, at the corner. it was bank 'oliday, an' i'd 'ad a drop to drink. i see this young mr. barthwick tryin' to find the keyhole on the wrong side of the door. magistrate. well? jones. [slowly and with many pauses.] well---i 'elped 'im to find it--drunk as a lord 'e was. he goes on, an' comes back again, and says, i 've got nothin' for you, 'e says, but come in an' 'ave a drink. so i went in just as you might 'ave done yourself. we 'ad a drink o' whisky just as you might have 'ad, 'nd young mr. barthwick says to me, "take a drink 'nd a smoke. take anything you like, 'e says." and then he went to sleep on the sofa. i 'ad some more whisky--an' i 'ad a smoke--and i 'ad some more whisky--an' i carn't tell yer what 'appened after that. magistrate. do you mean to say that you were so drunk that you can remember nothing? jack. [softly to his father.] i say, that's exactly what---- barthwick. tssh! jones. that's what i do mean. magistrate. and yet you say you stole the box? jones. i never stole the box. i took it. magistrate. [hissing with protruded neck.] you did not steal it-- you took it. did it belong to you--what is that but stealing? jones. i took it. magistrate. you took it--you took it away from their house and you took it to your house---- jones. [sullenly breaking in.] i ain't got a house. magistrate. very well, let us hear what this young man mr.--mr. barthwick has to say to your story. [snow leaves the witness-box. the bald constable beckons jack, who, clutching his hat, goes into the witness-box. roper moves to the table set apart for his profession.] swearing clerk. the evidence you give to the court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you god. kiss the book. [the book is kissed.] roper. [examining.] what is your name? jack. [in a low voice.] john barthwick, junior. [the clerk writes it down.] roper. where do you live? jack. at , rockingham gate. [all his answers are recorded by the clerk.] roper. you are the son of the owner? jack. [in a very low voice.] yes. roper. speak up, please. do you know the prisoners? jack. [looking at the joneses, in a low voice.] i 've seen mrs. jones. i [in a loud voice] don't know the man. jones. well, i know you! bald constable. hssh! roper. now, did you come in late on the night of easter monday? jack. yes. roper. and did you by mistake leave your latch key in the door? jack. yes. magistrate. oh! you left your latch-key in the door? roper. and is that all you can remember about your coming in? jack. [in a loud voice.] yes, it is. magistrate. now, you have heard the male prisoner's story, what do you say to that? jack. [turning to the magistrate, speaks suddenly in a confident, straight-forward voice.] the fact of the matter is, sir, that i 'd been out to the theatre that night, and had supper afterwards, and i came in late. magistrate. do you remember this man being outside when you came in? jack. no, sir. [he hesitates.] i don't think i do. magistrate. [somewhat puzzled.] well, did he help you to open the door, as he says? did any one help you to open the door? jack. no, sir--i don't think so, sir--i don't know. magistrate. you don't know? but you must know. it is n't a usual thing for you to have the door opened for you, is it? jack. [with a shamefaced smile.] no. magistrate. very well, then---- jack. [desperately.] the fact of the matter is, sir, i'm afraid i'd had too much champagne that night. magistrate. [smiling.] oh! you'd had too much champagne? jones. may i ask the gentleman a question? magistrate. yes--yes--you may ask him what questions you like. jones. don't you remember you said you was a liberal, same as your father, and you asked me wot i was? jack. [with his hand against his brow.] i seem to remember---- jones. and i said to you, "i'm a bloomin' conservative," i said; an' you said to me, "you look more like one of these 'ere socialists. take wotever you like," you said. jack. [with sudden resolution.] no, i don't. i don't remember anything of the sort. jones. well, i do, an' my word's as good as yours. i 've never been had up in a police court before. look 'ere, don't you remember you had a sky-blue bag in your 'and [barthwick jumps.] roper. i submit to your worship that these questions are hardly to the point, the prisoner having admitted that he himself does not remember anything. [there is a smile on the face of justice.] it is a case of the blind leading the blind. jones. [violently.] i've done no more than wot he 'as. i'm a poor man; i've got no money an' no friends--he 's a toff--he can do wot i can't. magistrate: now, now? all this won't help you--you must be quiet. you say you took this box? now, what made you take it? were you pressed for money? jones. i'm always pressed for money. magistrate. was that the reason you took it? jones. no. magistrate. [to snow.] was anything found on him? snow. yes, your worship. there was six pounds twelve shillin's found on him, and this purse. [the red silk purse is handed to the magistrate. barthwick rises his seat, but hastily sits down again.] magistrate. [staring at the purse.] yes, yes--let me see [there is a silence.] no, no, i 've nothing before me as to the purse. how did you come by all that money? jones. [after a long pause, suddenly.] i declines to say. magistrate. but if you had all that money, what made you take this box? jones. i took it out of spite. magistrate. [hissing, with protruded neck.] you took it out of spite? well now, that's something! but do you imagine you can go about the town taking things out of spite? jones. if you had my life, if you'd been out of work---- magistrate. yes, yes; i know--because you're out of work you think it's an excuse for everything. jones. [pointing at jack.] you ask 'im wot made 'im take the---- roper. [quietly.] does your worship require this witness in the box any longer? magistrate. [ironically.] i think not; he is hardly profitable. [jack leaves the witness-box, and hanging his head, resumes his seat.] jones. you ask 'im wot made 'im take the lady's---- [but the bald constable catches him by the sleeve.] bald constable. sssh! magistrate. [emphatically.] now listen to me. i 've nothing to do with what he may or may not have taken. why did you resist the police in the execution of their duty? jones. it war n't their duty to take my wife, a respectable woman, that 'ad n't done nothing. magistrate. but i say it was. what made you strike the officer a blow? jones. any man would a struck 'im a blow. i'd strike 'im again, i would. magistrate. you are not making your case any better by violence. how do you suppose we could get on if everybody behaved like you? jones. [leaning forward, earnestly.] well, wot, about 'er; who's to make up to 'er for this? who's to give 'er back 'er good name? mrs. jones. your worship, it's the children that's preying on his mind, because of course i 've lost my work. and i've had to find another room owing to the scandal. magistrate. yes, yes, i know--but if he had n't acted like this nobody would have suffered. jones. [glaring round at jack.] i 've done no worse than wot 'e 'as. wot i want to know is wot 's goin' to be done to 'im. [the bald constable again says "hssh"] roper. mr. barthwick wishes it known, your worship, that considering the poverty of the prisoners, he does not press the charge as to the box. perhaps your worship would deal with the case as one of disorder. jones. i don't want it smothered up, i want it all dealt with fair --i want my rights---- magistrate. [rapping his desk.] now you have said all you have to say, and you will be quiet. [there is a silence; the magistrate bends over and parleys with his clerk.] yes, i think i may discharge the woman. [in a kindly voice he addresses mrs. jones, who stands unmoving with her hands crossed on the rail.] it is very unfortunate for you that this man has behaved as he has. it is not the consequences to him but the consequences to you. you have been brought here twice, you have lost your work-- [he glares at jones]--and this is what always happens. now you may go away, and i am very sorry it was necessary to bring you here at all. mrs. jones. [softly.] thank you very much, your worship. [she leaves the dock, and looking back at jones, twists her fingers and is still.] magistrate. yes, yes, but i can't pass it over. go away, there's a good woman. [mrs. jones stands back. the magistrate leans his head on his hand; then raising it he speaks to jones.] now, listen to me. do you wish the case to be settled here, or do you wish it to go before a jury? jones. [muttering.] i don't want no jury. magistrate. very well then, i will deal with it here. [after a pause.] you have pleaded guilty to stealing this box---- jones. not to stealin'---- bald constable. hssshh! magistrate. and to assaulting the police---- jones. any man as was a man---- magistrate. your conduct here has been most improper. you give the excuse that you were drunk when you stole the box. i tell you that is no excuse. if you choose to get drunk and break the law afterwards you must take the consequences. and let me tell you that men like you, who get drunk and give way to your spite or whatever it is that's in you, are--are--a nuisance to the community. jack. [leaning from his seat.] dad! that's what you said to me! barthwick. tsst! [there is a silence, while the magistrate consults his clerk; jones leans forward waiting.] magistrate. this is your first offence, and i am going to give you a light sentence. [speaking sharply, but without expression.] one month with hard labour. [he bends, and parleys with his clerk. the bald constable and another help jones from the dock.] jones. [stopping and twisting round.] call this justice? what about 'im? 'e got drunk! 'e took the purse--'e took the purse but [in a muffled shout] it's 'is money got 'im off--justice! [the prisoner's door is shut on jones, and from the seedy-looking men and women comes a hoarse and whispering groan.] magistrate. we will now adjourn for lunch! [he rises from his seat.] [the court is in a stir. roper gets up and speaks to the reporter. jack, throwing up his head, walks with a swagger to the corridor; barthwick follows.] mrs. jones. [turning to him zenith a humble gesture.] oh! sir! [barthwick hesitates, then yielding to his nerves, he makes a shame-faced gesture of refusal, and hurries out of court. mrs. jones stands looking after him.] the curtain falls. joy a play on the letter "i" in three acts persons of the play colonel hope, r.a., retired mrs. hope, his wife miss beech, their old governess letty, their daughter ernest blunt, her husband mrs. gwyn, their niece joy, her daughter dick merton, their young friend hon. maurice lever, their guest rose, their parlour-maid time: the present. the action passes throughout midsummer day on the lawn of colonel hope's house, near the thames above oxford. act i the time is morning, and the scene a level lawn, beyond which the river is running amongst fields. a huge old beech tree overshadows everything, in the darkness of whose hollow many things are hidden. a rustic seat encircles it. a low wall clothed in creepers, with two openings, divides this lawn from the flowery approaches to the house. close to the wall there is a swing. the sky is clear and sunny. colonel hope is seated in a garden-chair, reading a newspaper through pince-nez. he is fifty-five and bald, with drooping grey moustaches and a weather-darkened face. he wears a flannel suit and a hat from panama; a tennis racquet leans against his chair. mrs. hope comes quickly through the opening of the wall, with roses in her hands. she is going grey; she wears tan gauntlets, and no hat. her manner is decided, her voice emphatic, as though aware that there is no nonsense in its owner's composition. screened from sight, miss beech is seated behind the hollow tree; and joy is perched on a lower branch hidden by foliage. mrs. hope. i told molly in my letter that she'd have to walk up, tom. colonel. walk up in this heat? my dear, why didn't you order benson's fly? mrs. hope. expense for nothing! bob can bring up her things in the barrow. i've told joy i won't have her going down to meet the train. she's so excited about her mother's coming there's no doing anything with her. colonel. no wonder, after two months. mrs. hope. well, she's going home to-morrow; she must just keep herself fresh for the dancing tonight. i'm not going to get people in to dance, and have joy worn out before they begin. colonel. [dropping his paper.] i don't like molly's walking up. mrs. hope. a great strong woman like molly gwyn! it isn't half a mile. colonel. i don't like it, nell; it's not hospitable. mrs. hope. rubbish! if you want to throw away money, you must just find some better investment than those wretched per cents. of yours. the greenflies are in my roses already! did you ever see anything so disgusting? [they bend over the roses they have grown, and lose all sense of everything.] where's the syringe? i saw you mooning about with it last night, tom. colonel. [uneasily.] mooning! [he retires behind his paper. mrs. hope enters the hollow of the tree.] there's an account of that west australian swindle. set of ruffians! listen to this, nell! "it is understood that amongst the share-holders are large numbers of women, clergymen, and army officers." how people can be such fools! [becoming aware that his absorption is unobserved, he drops his glasses, and reverses his chair towards the tree.] mrs. hope. [reappearing with a garden syringe.] i simply won't have dick keep his fishing things in the tree; there's a whole potful of disgusting worms. i can't touch them. you must go and take 'em out, tom. [in his turn the colonel enters the hollow of the tree.] mrs. hope. [personally.] what on earth's the pleasure of it? i can't see! he never catches anything worth eating. [the colonel reappears with a paint pot full of worms; he holds them out abstractedly.] mrs. hope. [jumping.] don't put them near me! miss beech. [from behind the tree.] don't hurt the poor creatures. colonel. [turning.] hallo, peachey? what are you doing round there? [he puts the worms down on the seat.] mrs. hope. tom, take the worms off that seat at once! colonel. [somewhat flurried.] good gad! i don't know what to do with the beastly worms! mrs. hope. it's not my business to look after dick's worms. don't put them on the ground. i won't have them anywhere where they can crawl about. [she flicks some greenflies off her roses.] colonel. [looking into the pot as though the worms could tell him where to put them.] dash! miss beech. give them to me. mrs. hope. [relieved.] yes, give them to peachey. [there comes from round the tree miss beech, old-fashioned, barrel-shaped, balloony in the skirts. she takes the paint pot, and sits beside it on the rustic seat.] miss beech. poor creatures! mrs. hope. well, it's beyond me how you can make pets of worms- wriggling, crawling, horrible things! [rose, who is young and comely, in a pale print frock, comes from the house and places letters before her on a silver salver.] [taking the letters.] what about miss joy's frock, rose? rose. please, 'm, i can't get on with the back without miss joy. mrs. hope. well, then you must just find her. i don't know where she is. rose. [in a slow, sidelong manner.] if you please, mum, i think miss joy's up in the---- [she stops, seeing miss beech signing to her with both hands.] mrs. hope. [sharply.] what is it, peachey? miss beech. [selecting a finger.] pricked meself! mrs. hope. let's look! [she bends to look, but miss beech places the finger in her mouth.] rose. [glancing askance at the colonel.] if you please, mum, it's below the waist; i think i can manage with the dummy. mrs. hope. well, you can try. [opening her letter as rose retires.] here's molly about her train. miss beech. is there a letter for me? mrs. hope. no, peachey. miss beech. there never is. colonel. what's that? you got four by the first post. miss beech. exceptions! colonel. [looking over his glasses.] why! you know, you get 'em every day! mrs. hope. molly says she'll be down by the eleven thirty. [in an injured voice.] she'll be here in half an hour! [reading with disapproval from the letter.] "maurice lever is coming down by the same train to see mr. henty about the tocopala gold mine. could you give him a bed for the night?" [silence, slight but ominous.] colonel. [calling into his aid his sacred hospitality.] of course we must give him a bed! mrs. hope. just like a man! what room i should like to know! colonel. pink. mrs. hope. as if molly wouldn't have the pink! colonel. [ruefully.] i thought she'd have the blue! mrs. hope. you know perfectly well it's full of earwigs, tom. i killed ten there yesterday morning. miss beech. poor creatures! mrs. hope. i don't know that i approve of this mr. lever's dancing attendance. molly's only thirty-six. colonel. [in a high voice.] you can't refuse him a bed; i never heard of such a thing. mrs. hope. [reading from the letter.] "this gold mine seems to be a splendid chance. [she glances at the colonel.] i've put all my spare cash into it. they're issuing some preference shares now; if uncle tom wants an investment"--[she pauses, then in a changed, decided voice ]--well, i suppose i shall have to screw him in somehow. colonel. what's that about gold mines? gambling nonsense! molly ought to know my views. mrs. hope. [folding the letter away out of her consciousness.] oh! your views! this may be a specially good chance. miss beech. ahem! special case! mrs. hope. [paying no attention.] i 'm sick of these per cent. dividends. when you've only got so little money, to put it all into that india stock, when it might be earning per cent. at least, quite safely! there are ever so many things i want. colonel. there you go! mrs. hope. as to molly, i think it's high time her husband came home to look after her, instead of sticking out there in that hot place. in fact [miss beech looks up at the tree and exhibits cerebral excitement] i don't know what geoff's about; why doesn't he find something in england, where they could live together. colonel. don't say anything against molly, nell! mrs. hope. well, i don't believe in husband and wife being separated. that's not my idea of married life. [the colonel whistles quizzically.] ah, yes, she's your niece, not mime! molly's very---- miss beech. ouch! [she sucks her finger.] mrs. hope. well, if i couldn't sew at your age, peachey, without pricking my fingers! tom, if i have mr. lever here, you'll just attend to what i say and look into that mine! colonel. look into your grandmother! i have n't made a study of geology for nothing. for every ounce you take out of a gold mine, you put an ounce and a half in. any fool knows that, eh, peachey? miss beech. i hate your horrid mines, with all the poor creatures underground. mrs. hope. nonsense, peachey! as if they'd go there if they did n't want to! colonel. why don't you read your paper, then you'd see what a lot of wild-cat things there are about. mrs. hope. [abstractedly.] i can't put ernest and letty in the blue room, there's only the single bed. suppose i put mr. lever there, and say nothing about the earwigs. i daresay he'll never notice. colonel. treat a guest like that! mrs. hope. then where am i to put him for goodness sake? colonel. put him in my dressing-room, i'll turn out. mrs. hope. rubbish, tom, i won't have you turned out, that's flat. he can have joy's room, and she can sleep with the earwigs. joy. [from her hiding-place upon a lower branch of the hollow tree.] i won't. [mrs. hope and the colonel jump.] colonel. god bless my soul! mrs. hope. you wretched girl! i told you never to climb that tree again. did you know, peachey? [miss beech smiles.] she's always up there, spoiling all her frocks. come down now, joy; there's a good child! joy. i don't want to sleep with earwigs, aunt nell. miss beech. i'll sleep with the poor creatures. mrs. hope, [after a pause.] well, it would be a mercy if you would for once, peachey. colonel. nonsense, i won't have peachey---- mrs. hope. well, who is to sleep there then? joy. [coaxingly.] let me sleep with mother, aunt nell, do! mrs. hope. litter her up with a great girl like you, as if we'd only one spare room! tom, see that she comes down--i can't stay here, i must manage something. [she goes away towards the house.] colonel. [moving to the tree, and looking up.] you heard what your aunt said? joy. [softly.] oh, uncle tom! colonel. i shall have to come up after you. joy. oh, do, and peachey too! colonel. [trying to restrain a smile.] peachey, you talk to her. [without waiting for miss beech, however, he proceeds.] what'll your aunt say to me if i don't get you down? miss beech. poor creature! joy. i don't want to be worried about my frock. colonel. [scratching his bald head.] well, i shall catch it. joy. oh, uncle tom, your head is so beautiful from here! [leaning over, she fans it with a leafy twig.] miss beech. disrespectful little toad! colonel. [quickly putting on his hat.] you'll fall out, and a pretty mess that'll make on--[he looks uneasily at the ground]--my lawn! [a voice is heard calling "colonel! colonel!]" joy. there's dick calling you, uncle tom. [she disappears.] dick. [appearing in the opening of the wall.] ernie's waiting to play you that single, colonel! [he disappears.] joy. quick, uncle tom! oh! do go, before he finds i 'm up here. miss. beech. secret little creature! [the colonel picks up his racquet, shakes his fist, and goes away.] joy. [calmly.] i'm coming down now, peachey. [climbing down.] look out! i'm dropping on your head. miss beech. [unmoved.] don't hurt yourself! [joy drops on the rustic seat and rubs her shin. told you so!] [she hunts in a little bag for plaster.] let's see! joy. [seeing the worms.] ugh! miss beech. what's the matter with the poor creatures? joy. they're so wriggly! [she backs away and sits down in the swing. she is just seventeen, light and slim, brown-haired, fresh-coloured, and grey-eyed; her white frock reaches to her ankles, she wears a sunbonnet.] peachey, how long were you mother's governess. miss beech. five years. joy. was she as bad to teach as me? miss beech. worse! [joy claps her hands.] she was the worst girl i ever taught. joy. then you weren't fond of her? miss beech. oh! yes, i was. joy. fonder than of me? miss beech. don't you ask such a lot of questions. joy. peachey, duckie, what was mother's worst fault? miss beech. doing what she knew she oughtn't. joy. was she ever sorry? miss beech. yes, but she always went on doin' it. joy. i think being sorry 's stupid! miss beech. oh, do you? joy. it isn't any good. was mother revengeful, like me? miss beech. ah! wasn't she? joy. and jealous? miss beech. the most jealous girl i ever saw. joy. [nodding.] i like to be like her. miss beech. [regarding her intently.] yes! you've got all your troubles before you. joy. mother was married at eighteen, wasn't she, peachey? was she-- was she much in love with father then? miss beech. [with a sniff.] about as much as usual. [she takes the paint pot, and walking round begins to release the worms.] joy. [indifferently.] they don't get on now, you know. miss beech. what d'you mean by that, disrespectful little creature? joy. [in a hard voice.] they haven't ever since i've known them. miss beech. [looks at her, and turns away again.] don't talk about such things. joy. i suppose you don't know mr. lever? [bitterly.] he's such a cool beast. he never loses his temper. miss beech. is that why you don't like him? joy. [frowning.] no--yes--i don't know. miss beech. oh! perhaps you do like him? joy. i don't; i hate him. miss beech. [standing still.] fie! naughty temper! joy. well, so would you! he takes up all mother's time. miss beech. [in a peculiar voice.] oh! does he? joy. when he comes i might just as well go to bed. [passionately.] and now he's chosen to-day to come down here, when i haven't seen her for two months! why couldn't he come when mother and i'd gone home. it's simply brutal! miss beech. but your mother likes him? joy. [sullenly.] i don't want her to like him. miss beech. [with a long look at joy.] i see! joy. what are you doing, peachey? miss beech. [releasing a worm.] letting the poor creatures go. joy. if i tell dick he'll never forgive you. miss beech. [sidling behind the swing and plucking off joy's sunbonnet. with devilry.] ah-h-h! you've done your hair up; so that's why you wouldn't come down! joy. [springing up, anal pouting.] i didn't want any one to see before mother. you are a pig, peachey! miss beech. i thought there was something! joy. [twisting round.] how does it look? miss beech. i've seen better. joy. you tell any one before mother comes, and see what i do! miss beech. well, don't you tell about my worms, then! joy. give me my hat! [backing hastily towards the tree, and putting her finger to her lips.] look out! dick! miss beech. oh! dear! [she sits down on the swing, concealing the paint pot with her feet and skirts.] joy. [on the rustic seat, and in a violent whisper.] i hope the worms will crawl up your legs! [dick, in flannels and a hard straw hat comes in. he is a quiet and cheerful boy of twenty. his eyes are always fixed on joy.] dick. [grimacing.] the colonel's getting licked. hallo! peachey, in the swing? joy. [chuckling.] swing her, dick! miss beech. [quivering with emotion.] little creature! joy. swing her! [dick takes the ropes.] miss beech. [quietly.] it makes me sick, young man. dick. [patting her gently on the back.] all right, peachey. miss beech. [maliciously.] could you get me my sewing from the seat? just behind joy. joy. [leaning her head against the tree.] if you do, i won't dance with you to-night. [dick stands paralysed. miss beech gets off the swing, picks up the paint pot, and stands concealing it behind her.] joy. look what she's got behind her, sly old thing! miss beech. oh! dear! joy. dance with her, dick! miss beech. if he dare! joy. dance with her, or i won't dance with you to-night. [she whistles a waltz.] dick. [desperately.] come on then, peachey. we must. joy. dance, dance! [dick seizes miss beech by the waist. she drops the paint pot. they revolve.] [convulsed.] oh, peachey, oh! [miss beech is dropped upon the rustic seat. dick seizes joy's hands and drags her up.] no, no! i won't! miss beech. [panting.] dance, dance with the poor young man! [she moves her hands.] la la-la-la la-la la la! [dick and joy dance.] dick. by jove, joy! you've done your hair up. i say, how jolly! you do look---- joy. [throwing her hands up to her hair.] i did n't mean you to see! dick. [in a hurt voice.] oh! didn't you? i'm awfully sorry! joy. [flashing round.] oh, you old peachey! [she looks at the ground, and then again at dick.] miss beech. [sidling round the tree.] oh! dear! joy. [whispering.] she's been letting out your worms. [miss beech disappears from view.] look! dick. [quickly.] hang the worms! joy, promise me the second and fourth and sixth and eighth and tenth and supper, to-night. promise! do! [joy shakes her head.] it's not much to ask. joy. i won't promise anything. dick. why not? joy. because mother's coming. i won't make any arrangements. dick. [tragically.] it's our last night. joy. [scornfully.] you don't understand! [dancing and clasping her hands.] mother's coming, mother's coming! dick. [violently.] i wish----promise, joy! joy. [looking over her shoulder.] sly old thing! if you'll pay peachey out, i'll promise you supper! miss beech. [from behind the tree.] i hear you. joy. [whispering.] pay her out, pay her out! she's let out all your worms! dick. [looking moodily at the paint pot.] i say, is it true that maurice lever's coming with your mother? i've met him playing cricket, he's rather a good sort. joy. [flashing out.] i hate him. dick. [troubled.] do you? why? i thought--i didn't know--if i'd known of course, i'd have---- [he is going to say "hated him too!" but the voices of ernest blunt and the colonel are heard approaching, in dispute.] joy. oh! dick, hide me, i don't want my hair seen till mother comes. [she springs into the hollow tree. the colonel and ernest appear in the opening of the wall.] ernest. the ball was out, colonel. colonel. nothing of the sort. ernest. a good foot out. colonel. it was not, sir. i saw the chalk fly. [ernest is twenty-eight, with a little moustache, and the positive cool voice of a young man who knows that he knows everything. he is perfectly calm.] ernest. i was nearer to it than you. colonel. [in a high, hot voice.] i don't care where you were, i hate a fellow who can't keep cool. miss beech. [from behind the hollow tree.] fie! fie! ernest. we're two to one, letty says the ball was out. colonel. letty's your wife, she'd say anything. ernest. well, look here, colonel, i'll show you the very place it pitched. colonel. gammon! you've lost your temper, you don't know what you're talking about. ernest. [coolly.] i suppose you'll admit the rule that one umpires one's own court. colonel. [hotly.] certainly not, in this case! miss beech. [from behind the hollow tree.] special case! ernest. [moving chin in collar--very coolly.] well, of course if you won't play the game! colonel. [in a towering passion.] if you lose your temper like this, i 'll never play with you again. [to letty, a pretty soul in a linen suit, approaching through the wall.] do you mean to say that ball was out, letty? letty. of course it was, father. colonel. you say that because he's your husband. [he sits on the rustic seat.] if your mother'd been there she'd have backed me up! letty. mother wants joy, dick, about her frock. dick. i--i don't know where she is. miss beech. [from behind the hollow tree.] ahem! letty. what's the matter, peachey? miss beech. swallowed a fly. poor creature! ernest. [returning to his point.] why i know the ball was out, colonel, was because it pitched in a line with that arbutus tree. colonel. [rising.] arbutus tree! [to his daughter.] where's your mother? letty. in the blue room, father. ernest. the ball was a good foot out; at the height it was coming when it passed me. colonel. [staring at him.] you're a--you're aa theorist! from where you were you could n't see the ball at all. [to letty.] where's your mother? letty. [emphatically.] in the blue room, father! [the colonel glares confusedly, and goes away towards the blue room.] ernest. [in the swing, and with a smile.] your old dad'll never be a sportsman! letty. [indignantly.] i wish you wouldn't call father old, ernie! what time's molly coming, peachey? [rose has come from the house, and stands waiting for a chance to speak.] ernest. [breaking in.] your old dad's only got one fault: he can't take an impersonal view of things. miss beech. can you find me any one who can? ernest. [with a smile.] well, peachey! miss beech. [ironically.] oh! of course, there's you! ernest. i don't know about that! but---- rose. [to letty,] please, miss, the missis says will you and mr. ernest please to move your things into miss peachey's room. ernest. [vexed.] deuce of a nuisance havin' to turn out for this fellow lever. what did molly want to bring him for? miss beech. course you've no personal feeling in the matter! rose. [speaking to miss beech.] the missis says you're to please move your things into the blue room, please miss. letty. aha, peachey! that settles you! come on, ernie! [she goes towards the house. ernest, rising from the swing, turns to miss beech, who follows.] ernest. [smiling, faintly superior.] personal, not a bit! i only think while molly 's out at grass, she oughtn't to---- miss beech. [sharply.] oh! do you? [she hustles ernest out through the wall, but his voice is heard faintly from the distance: "i think it's jolly thin."] rose. [to dick.] the missis says you're to take all your worms and things, sir, and put them where they won't be seen. dick. [shortly.] have n't got any! rose. the missis says she'll be very angry if you don't put your worms away; and would you come and help kill earwigs in the blue----? dick. hang! [he goes, and rose is left alone.] rose. [looking straight before her.] please, miss joy, the missis says will you go to her about your frock. [there is a little pause, then from the hollow tree joy's voice is heard.] joy. no-o! rose. if you did n't come, i was to tell you she was going to put you in the blue. [joy looks out of the tree.] [immovable, but smiling.] oh, miss joy, you've done your hair up! [joy retires into the tree.] please, miss, what shall i tell the missis? joy. [joy's voice is heard.] anything you like. rose. [over her shoulder.] i shall be drove to tell her a story, miss. joy. all right! tell it. [rose goes away, and joy comes out. she sits on the rustic seat and waits. dick, coming softly from the house, approaches her.] dick. [looking at her intently.] joy! i wanted to say something [joy does not look at him, but twists her fingers.] i shan't see you again you know after to-morrow till i come up for the 'varsity match. joy. [smiling.] but that's next week. dick. must you go home to-morrow? [joy nods three times.] [coming closer.] i shall miss you so awfully. you don't know how i---- [joy shakes her head.] do look at me! [joy steals a look.] oh! joy! [again joy shakes her head.] joy. [suddenly.] don't! dick. [seizing her hand.] oh, joy! can't you---- joy. [drawing the hand away.] oh! don't. dick. [bending his head.] it's--it's--so---- joy. [quietly.] don't, dick! dick. but i can't help it! it's too much for me, joy, i must tell you---- [mrs. gwyn is seen approaching towards the house.] joy. [spinning round.] it's mother--oh, mother! [she rushes at her.] [mrs. gwyn is a handsome creature of thirty-six, dressed in a muslin frock. she twists her daughter round, and kisses her.] mrs. gwyn. how sweet you look with your hair up, joy! who 's this? [glancing with a smile at dick.] joy. dick merton--in my letters you know. [she looks at dick as though she wished him gone.] mrs. gwyn. how do you do? dick. [shaking hands.] how d 'you do? i think if you'll excuse me --i'll go in. [he goes uncertainly.] mrs. gwyn. what's the matter with him? joy. oh, nothing! [hugging her.] mother! you do look such a duck. why did you come by the towing-path, was n't it cooking? mrs. gwyn. [avoiding her eyes.] mr. lever wanted to go into mr. henty's. [her manner is rather artificially composed.] joy. [dully.] oh! is he-is he really coming here, mother? mrs. gwyn. [whose voice has hardened just a little.] if aunt nell's got a room for him--of course--why not? joy. [digging her chin into her mother's shoulder.] [why couldn't he choose some day when we'd gone? i wanted you all to myself.] mrs. gwyn. you are a quaint child--when i was your age---- joy. [suddenly looking up.] oh! mother, you must have been a chook! mrs. gwyn. well, i was about twice as old as you, i know that. joy. had you any--any other offers before you were married, mother? mrs. gwyn. [smilingly.] heaps! joy. [reflectively.] oh! mrs. gwyn. why? have you been having any? joy. [glancing at mrs. gwyn, and then down.] n-o, of course not! mrs. gwyn. where are they all? where's peachey? joy. fussing about somewhere; don't let's hurry! oh! you duckie-- duckie! aren't there any letters from dad? mrs. gwyn. [in a harder voice.] yes, one or two. joy. [hesitating.] can't i see? mrs. gwyn. i didn't bring them. [changing the subject obviously.] help me to tidy--i'm so hot i don't know what to do. [she takes out a powder-puff bag, with a tiny looking-glass.] joy. how lovely it'll be to-morrow-going home! mrs. gwyn. [with an uneasy look.] london's dreadfully stuffy, joy. you 'll only get knocked up again. joy. [with consternation.] oh! but mother, i must come. mrs. gwyn. (forcing a smile.) oh, well, if you must, you must! [joy makes a dash at her.] don't rumple me again. here's uncle tom. joy. [quickly.] mother, we're going to dance tonight; promise to dance with me--there are three more girls than men, at least--and don't dance too much with--with--you know--because i'm--[dropping her voice and very still]--jealous. mrs. gwyn. [forcing a laugh.] you are funny! joy. [very quickly.] i haven't made any engagements because of you. [the colonel approaches through the wall.] mrs. gwyn. well, uncle tom? colonel. [genially.] why, molly! [he kisses her.] what made you come by the towing-path? joy. because it's so much cooler, of course. colonel. hallo! what's the matter with you? phew! you've got your hair up! go and tell your aunt your mother's on the lawn. cut along! [joy goes, blowing a kiss.] cracked about you, molly! simply cracked! we shall miss her when you take her off to-morrow. [he places a chair for her.] sit down, sit down, you must be tired in this heat. i 've sent bob for your things with the wheelbarrow; what have you got?--only a bag, i suppose. mrs. gwyn. [sitting, with a smile.] that's all, uncle tom, except-- my trunk and hat-box. colonel. phew! and what's-his-name brought a bag, i suppose? mrs. gwyn. they're all together. i hope it's not too much, uncle tom. colonel. [dubiously.] oh! bob'll manage! i suppose you see a good deal of--of--lever. that's his brother in the guards, isn't it? mrs. gwyn. yes. colonel. now what does this chap do? mrs. gwyn. what should he do, uncle tom? he's a director. colonel. guinea-pig! [dubiously.] your bringing him down was a good idea. [mrs. gwyn, looking at him sidelong, bites her lips.] i should like to have a look at him. but, i say, you know, molly-- mines, mines! there are a lot of these chaps about, whose business is to cook their own dinners. your aunt thinks---- mrs. gwyn. oh! uncle tom, don't tell me what aunt nell thinks! colonel. well-well! look here, old girl! it's my experience never to--what i mean is--never to trust too much to a man who has to do with mining. i've always refused to have anything to do with mines. if your husband were in england, of course, i'd say nothing. mrs. gwyn. [very still.] we'd better keep him out of the question, had n't we? colonel. of course, if you wish it, my dear. mrs. gwyn. unfortunately, i do. colonel. [nervously.] ah! yes, i know; but look here, molly, your aunt thinks you're in a very delicate position-in fact, she thinks you see too much of young lever. mrs. gwyn. [stretching herself like an angry cat.] does she? and what do you think? colonel. i? i make a point of not thinking. i only know that here he is, and i don't want you to go burning your fingers, eh? [mrs. gwyn sits with a vindictive smile.] a gold mine's a gold mine. i don't mean he deliberately--but they take in women and parsons, and--and all sorts of fools. [looking down.] and then, you know, i can't tell your feelings, my dear, and i don't want to; but a man about town 'll compromise a woman as soon as he'll look at her, and [softly shaking his head] i don't like that, molly! it 's not the thing! [mrs. gwyn sits unmoved, smiling the same smile, and the colonel gives her a nervous look.] if--if you were any other woman i should n't care--and if--if you were a plain woman, damme, you might do what you liked! i know you and geoff don't get on; but here's this child of yours, devoted to you, and--and don't you see, old girl? eh? mrs. gwyn. [with a little hard laugh.] thanks! perfectly! i suppose as you don't think, uncle tom, it never occurred to you that i have rather a lonely time of it. colonel. [with compunction.] oh! my dear, yes, of course i know it must be beastly. mrs. gwyn. [stonily.] it is. colonel. yes, yes! [speaking in a surprised voice.] i don't know what i 'm talking like this for! it's your aunt! she goes on at me till she gets on my nerves. what d' you think she wants me to do now? put money into this gold mine! did you ever hear such folly? mrs. gwyn. [breaking into laughter.] oh! uncle tom! colonel. all very well for you to laugh, molly! mrs. gwyn. [calmly.] and how much are you going to put in? colonel. not a farthing! why, i've got nothing but my pension and three thousand india stock! mrs. gwyn. only ninety pounds a year, besides your pension! d' you mean to say that's all you've got, uncle tom? i never knew that before. what a shame! colonel. [feelingly.] it is a, d--d shame! i don't suppose there's another case in the army of a man being treated as i've been. mrs. gwyn. but how on earth do you manage here on so little? colonel. [brooding.] your aunt's very funny. she's a born manager. she 'd manage the hind leg off a donkey; but if i want five shillings for a charity or what not, i have to whistle for it. and then all of a sudden, molly, she'll take it into her head to spend goodness knows what on some trumpery or other and come to me for the money. if i have n't got it to give her, out she flies about per cent., and worries me to invest in some wild-cat or other, like your friend's thing, the jaco what is it? i don't pay the slightest attention to her. mrs. hope. [from the direction of the house.] tom! colonel. [rising.] yes, dear! [then dropping his voice.] i say, molly, don't you mind what i said about young lever. i don't want you to imagine that i think harm of people--you know i don't--but so many women come to grief, and--[hotly]--i can't stand men about town; not that he of course---- mrs. hope, [peremptorily.] tom! colonel. [in hasty confidence.] i find it best to let your aunt run on. if she says anything---- mrs. hope. to-om! colonel. yes, dear! [he goes hastily. mrs. gwyn sits drawing circles on the ground with her charming parasol. suddenly she springs to her feet, and stands waiting like an animal at bay. the colonel and mrs. hope approach her talking.] mrs. hope. well, how was i to know? colonel. did n't joy come and tell you? mrs. hope. i don't know what's the matter with that child? well, molly, so here you are. you're before your time--that train's always late. mrs. gwyn. [with faint irony.] i'm sorry, aunt nell! [they bob, seem to take fright, and kiss each other gingerly.] mrs. hope. what have you done with mr. lever? i shall have to put him in peachey's room. tom's got no champagne. colonel. they've a very decent brand down at the george, molly, i'll send bob over---- mrs. hope. rubbish, tom! he'll just have to put up with what he can get! mrs. gwyn. of course! he's not a snob! for goodness sake, aunt nell, don't put yourself out! i'm sorry i suggested his coming. colonel. my dear, we ought to have champagne in the house--in case of accident. mrs. gwyn. [shaking him gently by the coat.] no, please, uncle tom! mrs. hope. [suddenly.] now, i've told your uncle, molly, that he's not to go in for this gold mine without making certain it's a good thing. mind, i think you've been very rash. i'm going to give you a good talking to; and that's not all--you ought n't to go about like this with a young man; he's not at all bad looking. i remember him perfectly well at the fleming's dance. [on mrs. gwyn's lips there comes a little mocking smile.] colonel. [pulling his wife's sleeve.] nell! mrs. hope. no, tom, i'm going to talk to molly; she's old enough to know better. mrs. gwyn. yes? mrs. hope. yes, and you'll get yourself into a mess; i don't approve of it, and when i see a thing i don't approve of---- colonel. [walking about, and pulling his moustache.] nell, i won't have it, i simply won't have it. mrs. hope. what rate of interest are these preference shares to pay? mrs. gwyn. [still smiling.] ten per cent. mrs. hope. what did i tell you, tom? and are they safe? mrs. gwyn. you'd better ask maurice. mrs. hope. there, you see, you call him maurice! now supposing your uncle went in for some of them---- colonel. [taking off his hat-in a high, hot voice] i'm not going in for anything of the sort. mrs. hope. don't swing your hat by the brim! go and look if you can see him coming! [the colonel goes.] [in a lower voice.] your uncle's getting very bald. i 've only shoulder of lamb for lunch, and a salad. it's lucky it's too hot to eat. [miss beech has appeared while she is speaking.] here she is, peachey! miss beech. i see her. [she kisses mrs. gwyn, and looks at her intently.] mrs. gwyn. [shrugging her shoulders.] well, peachey! what d 'you make of me? colonel. [returning from his search.] there's a white hat crossing the second stile. is that your friend, molly? [mrs. gwyn nods.] mrs. hope. oh! before i forget, peachey--letty and ernest can move their things back again. i'm going to put mr. lever in your room. [catching sight o f the paint pot on the ground.] there's that disgusting paint pot! take it up at once, tom, and put it in the tree. [the colonel picks up the pot and bears it to the hollow tree followed by mrs. hope; he enters.] mrs. hope. [speaking into the tree.] not there! colonel. [from within.] well, where then? mrs. hope. why--up--oh! gracious! [mrs. gwyn, standing alone, is smiling. lever approaches from the towing-path. he is a man like a fencer's wrist, supple and steely. a man whose age is difficult to tell, with a quick, good-looking face, and a line between his brows; his darkish hair is flecked with grey. he gives the feeling that he has always had to spurt to keep pace with his own life.] mrs. hope. [also entering the hollow tree.] no-oh! colonel. [from the depths, in a high voice.] well, dash it then! what do you want? mrs. gwyn. peachey, may i introduce mr. lever to you? miss beech, my old governess. [they shake each other by the hand.] lever. how do you do? [his voice is pleasant, his manner easy.] miss beech. pleased to meet you. [her manner is that of one who is not pleased. she watches.] mrs. gwyn. [pointing to the tree-maliciously.] this is my uncle and my aunt. they're taking exercise, i think. [the colonel and mrs. hope emerge convulsively. they are very hot. lever and mrs. gwyn are very cool.] mrs. hope. [shaking hands with him.] so you 've got here! are n't you very hot?--tom! colonel. brought a splendid day with you! splendid! [as he speaks, joy comes running with a bunch of roses; seeing lever, she stops and stands quite rigid.] miss beech. [sitting in the swing.] thunder! colonel. thunder? nonsense, peachey, you're always imagining something. look at the sky! miss beech. thunder! [mrs. gwyn's smile has faded. ] mrs. hope. [turning.] joy, don't you see mr. lever? [joy, turning to her mother, gives her the roses. with a forced smile, lever advances, holding out his hand.] lever. how are you, joy? have n't seen you for an age! joy. [without expression.] i am very well, thank you. [she raises her hand, and just touches his. mrs. gwyn's eyes are fixed on her daughter. miss beech is watching them intently. mrs. hope is buttoning the colonel's coat.] the curtain falls. act ii it is afternoon, and at a garden-table placed beneath the hollow tree, the colonel is poring over plans. astride of a garden-chair, lever is smoking cigarettes. dick is hanging chinese lanterns to the hollow tree. lever. of course, if this level [pointing with his cigarette] peters out to the west we shall be in a tightish place; you know what a mine is at this stage, colonel hope. colonel. [absently.] yes, yes. [tracing a line.] what is there to prevent its running out here to the east? lever. well, nothing, except that as a matter of fact it doesn't. colonel. [with some excitement.] i'm very glad you showed me these papers, very glad! i say that it's a most astonishing thing if the ore suddenly stops there. [a gleam of humour visits lever's face.] i'm not an expert, but you ought to prove that ground to the east more thoroughly. lever. [quizzically.] of course, sir, if you advise that---- colonel. if it were mine, i'd no more sit down under the belief that the ore stopped there than i 'd---there's a harmony in these things. never. i can only tell you what our experts say. colonel. ah! experts! no faith in them--never had! miners, lawyers, theologians, cowardly lot--pays them to be cowardly. when they have n't their own axes to grind, they've got their theories; a theory's a dangerous thing. [he loses himself in contemplation of the papers.] now my theory is, you 're in strata here of what we call the triassic age. lever. [smiling faintly.] ah! colonel. you've struck a fault, that's what's happened. the ore may be as much as thirty or forty yards out; but it 's there, depend on it. lever. would you back that opinion, sir? colonel. [with dignity.] i never give an opinion that i'm not prepared to back. i want to get to the bottom of this. what's to prevent the gold going down indefinitely? lever. nothing, so far as i know. colonel. [with suspicion.] eh! lever. all i can tell you is: this is as far as we've got, and we want more money before we can get any farther. colonel. [absently.] yes, yes; that's very usual. lever. if you ask my personal opinion i think it's very doubtful that the gold does go down. colonel. [smiling.] oh! a personal opinion a matter of this sort! lever. [as though about to take the papers.] perhaps we'd better close the sitting, sir; sorry to have bored you. colonel. now, now! don't be so touchy! if i'm to put money in, i'm bound to look at it all round. lever. [with lifted brows.] please don't imagine that i want you to put money in. colonel. confound it, sir! d 'you suppose i take you for a company promoter? lever. thank you! colonel. [looking at him doubtfully.] you've got irish blood in you--um? you're so hasty! lever. if you 're really thinking of taking shares--my advice to you is, don't! colonel. [regretfully.] if this were an ordinary gold mine, i wouldn't dream of looking at it, i want you to understand that. nobody has a greater objection to gold mines than i. lever. [looks down at his host with half-closed eyes.] but it is a gold mine, colonel hope. colonel. i know, i know; but i 've been into it for myself; i've formed my opinion personally. now, what 's the reason you don't want me to invest? lever. well, if it doesn't turn out as you expect, you'll say it's my doing. i know what investors are. colonel. [dubiously.] if it were a westralian or a kaffir i would n't touch it with a pair of tongs! it 's not as if i were going to put much in! [he suddenly bends above the papers as though magnetically attracted.] i like these triassic formations! [dick, who has hung the last lantern, moodily departs.] lever. [looking after him.] that young man seems depressed. colonel. [as though remembering his principles.] i don't like mines, never have! [suddenly absorbed again.] i tell you what, lever--this thing's got tremendous possibilities. you don't seem to believe in it enough. no mine's any good without faith; until i see for myself, however, i shan't commit myself beyond a thousand. lever. are you serious, sir? colonel. certainly! i've been thinking it over ever since you told me henty had fought shy. i 've a poor opinion of henty. he's one of those fellows that says one thing and does another. an opportunist! lever. [slowly.] i'm afraid we're all that, more or less. [he sits beneath the hollow tree.] colonel. a man never knows what he is himself. there 's my wife. she thinks she 's----by the way, don't say anything to her about this, please. and, lever [nervously], i don't think, you know, this is quite the sort of thing for my niece. lever. [quietly.] i agree. i mean to get her out of it. colonel. [a little taken aback.] ah! you know, she--she's in a very delicate position, living by herself in london. [lever looks at him ironically.] you [very nervously] see a good deal of her? if it had n't been for joy growing so fast, we shouldn't have had the child down here. her mother ought to have her with her. eh! don't you think so? lever. [forcing a smile.] mrs. gwyn always seems to me to get on all right. colonel. [as though making a discovery.] you know, i've found that when a woman's living alone and unprotected, the very least thing will set a lot of hags and jackanapes talking. [hotly.] the more unprotected and helpless a woman is, the more they revel in it. if there's anything i hate in this world, it's those wretched creatures who babble about their neighbours' affairs. lever. i agree with you. colonel. one ought to be very careful not to give them--that is---- [checks himself confused; then hurrying on]--i suppose you and joy get on all right? lever. [coolly.] pretty well, thanks. i'm not exactly in joy's line; have n't seen very much of her, in fact. [miss beech and joy have been approaching from the house. but seeing lever, joy turns abruptly, hesitates a moment, and with an angry gesture goes away.] colonel [unconscious.] wonderfully affectionate little thing! well, she'll be going home to-morrow! miss beech. [who has been gazing after joy.] talkin' business, poor creatures? lever. oh, no! if you'll excuse me, i'll wash my hands before tea. [he glances at the colonel poring over papers, and, shrugging his shoulders, strolls away.] miss beech. [sitting in the swing.] i see your horrid papers. colonel. be quiet, peachey! miss beech. on a beautiful summer's day, too. colonel. that'll do now. miss beech. [unmoved.] for every ounce you take out of a gold mine you put two in. colonel. who told you that rubbish? miss beech. [with devilry.] you did! colonel. this is n't an ordinary gold mine. miss beech. oh! quite a special thing. [colonel stares at her, but subsiding at hey impassivity, he pores again over the papers.] [rosy has approached with a tea cloth.] rose. if you please, sir, the missis told me to lay the tea. colonel. go away! ten fives fifty. ten ths, peachey? miss beech. i hate your nasty sums! [rose goes away. the colonel writes. mrs. hope's voice is heard, "now then, bring those chairs, you two. not that one, ernest." ernest and letty appear through the openings of the wall, each with a chair.] colonel. [with dull exasperation.] what do you want? letty. tea, father. [she places her chair and goes away.] ernest. that johnny-bird lever is too cocksure for me, colonel. those south american things are no good at all. i know all about them from young scrotton. there's not one that's worth a red cent. if you want a flutter---- colonel. [explosively.] flutter! i'm not a gambler, sir! ernest. well, colonel [with a smile], i only don't want you to chuck your money away on a stiff 'un. if you want anything good you should go to mexico. colonel. [jumping up and holding out the map.] go to [he stops in time.] what d'you call that, eh? m-e-x---- ernest. [not to be embarrassed.] it all depend on what part. colonel. you think you know everything--you think nothing's right unless it's your own idea! be good enough to keep your advice to yourself. ernest. [moving with his chair, and stopping with a smile.] if you ask me, i should say it wasn't playing the game to put molly into a thing like that. colonel. what do you mean, sir? ernest. any juggins can see that she's a bit gone on our friend. colonel. [freezingly.] indeed! ernest. he's not at all the sort of johnny that appeals to me. colonel. really? ernest. [unmoved.] if i were you, colonel, i should tip her the wink. he was hanging about her at ascot all the time. it 's a bit thick! [mrs. hope followed by rose appears from the house.] colonel. [stammering with passion.] jackanapes! mrs. hope. don't stand there, tom; clear those papers, and let rose lay the table. now, ernest, go and get another chair. [the colonel looks wildly round and sits beneath the hollow tree, with his head held in his hands. rose lays the cloth.] mrs. beech. [sitting beside the colonel.] poor creature! ernest. [carrying his chair about with him.] ask any johnny in the city, he 'll tell you mexico's a very tricky country--the people are awful rotters mrs. hope. put that chair down, ernest. [ernest looks at the chair, puts it down, opens his mouth, and goes away. rose follows him.] what's he been talking about? you oughtn't to get so excited, tom; is your head bad, old man? here, take these papers! [she hands the papers to the colonel.] peachey, go in and tell them tea 'll be ready in a minute, there 's a good soul? oh! and on my dressing table you'll find a bottle of eau de cologne. mrs. beech. don't let him get in a temper again. that 's three times to-day! [she goes towards the house. ] colonel. never met such a fellow in my life, the most opinionated, narrow-minded--thinks he knows everything. whatever letty could see in him i can't think. pragmatical beggar! mrs. hope. now tom! what have you been up to, to get into a state like this? colonel. [avoiding her eyes.] i shall lose my temper with him one of these days. he's got that confounded habit of thinking nobody can be right but himself. mrs. hope. that's enough! i want to talk to you seriously! dick's in love. i'm perfectly certain of it. colonel. love! who's he in love with--peachey? mrs. hope. you can see it all over him. if i saw any signs of joy's breaking out, i'd send them both away. i simply won't have it. colonel. why, she's a child! mrs. hope. [pursuing her own thoughts.] but she isn't--not yet. i've been watching her very carefully. she's more in love with her mother than any one, follows her about like a dog! she's been quite rude to mr. lever. colonel. [pursuing his own thoughts.] i don't believe a word of it. [he rises and walks about] mrs. hope. don't believe a word of what? [the colonel is silent.] [pursuing his thoughts with her own.] if i thought there was anything between molly and mr. lever, d 'you suppose i'd have him in the house? [the colonel stops, and gives a sort of grunt.] he's a very nice fellow; and i want you to pump him well, tom, and see what there is in this mine. colonel. [uneasily.] pump! mrs. hope. [looking at him curiously.] yes, you 've been up to something! now what is it? colonel. pump my own guest! i never heard of such a thing! mrs. hope. there you are on your high horse! i do wish you had a little common-sense, tom! colonel. i'd as soon you asked me to sneak about eavesdropping! pump! mrs. hope. well, what were you looking at these papers for? it does drive me so wild the way you throw away all the chances you have of making a little money. i've got you this opportunity, and you do nothing but rave up and down, and talk nonsense! colonel. [in a high voice] much you know about it! i 've taken a thousand shares in this mine [he stops dead. there is a silence. ] mrs. hope. you 've--what? without consulting me? well, then, you 'll just go and take them out again! colonel. you want me to----? mrs. hope. the idea! as if you could trust your judgment in a thing like that! you 'll just go at once and say there was a mistake; then we 'll talk it over calmly. colonel. [drawing himself up.] go back on what i 've said? not if i lose every penny! first you worry me to take the shares, and then you worry me not--i won't have it, nell, i won't have it! mrs. hope. well, if i'd thought you'd have forgotten what you said this morning and turned about like this, d'you suppose i'd have spoken to you at all? now, do you? colonel. rubbish! if you can't see that this is a special opportunity! [he walks away followed by mrs. hope, who endeavors to make him see her point of view. ernest and letty are now returning from the house armed with a third chair.] letty. what's the matter with everybody? is it the heat? ernest. [preoccupied and sitting in the swing.] that sportsman, lever, you know, ought to be warned off. letty. [signing to ernest.] where's miss joy, rose? rose. don't know, miss. [putting down the tray, she goes.] [rose, has followed with the tea tray.] letty. ernie, be careful, you never know where joy is. ernest. [preoccupied with his reflections.] your old dad 's as mad as a hatter with me. letty. why? ernest. well, i merely said what i thought, that molly ought to look out what's she's doing, and he dropped on me like a cartload of bricks. letty. the dad's very fond of molly. ernest. but look here, d'you mean to tell me that she and lever are n't---- letty. don't! suppose they are! if joy were to hear it'd be simply awful. i like molly. i 'm not going to believe anything against her. i don't see the use of it. if it is, it is, and if it is n't, it is n't. ernest. well, all i know is that when i told her the mine was probably a frost she went for me like steam. letty. well, so should i. she was only sticking up for her friends. ernest. ask the old peachey-bird. she knows a thing or two. look here, i don't mind a man's being a bit of a sportsman, but i think molly's bringin' him down here is too thick. your old dad's got one of his notions that because this josser's his guest, he must keep him in a glass case, and take shares in his mine, and all the rest of it. letty. i do think people are horrible, always thinking things. it's not as if molly were a stranger. she's my own cousin. i 'm not going to believe anything about my own cousin. i simply won't. ernest. [reluctantly realising the difference that this makes.] i suppose it does make a difference, her bein' your cousin. letty. of course it does! i only hope to goodness no one will make joy suspect---- [she stops and buts her finger to her lips, for joy is coming towards them, as the tea-bell sounds. she is followed by dick and miss beech with the eau de cologne. the colonel and mrs. hope are also coming back, discussing still each other's point of view.] joy. where 's mother? isn't she here? mrs. hope. now joy, come and sit down; your mother's been told tea's ready; if she lets it get cold it's her lookout. dick. [producing a rug, and spreading it beneath the tree.] plenty of room, joy. joy. i don't believe mother knows, aunt nell. [mrs. gwyn and lever appear in the opening of the wall.] letty. [touching ernest's arm.] look, ernie! four couples and peachey---- ernest. [preoccupied.] what couples? joy. oh! mums, here you are! [seizing her, she turns her back on lever. they sit in various seats, and mrs. hope pours out the tea.] mrs. hope. hand the sandwiches to mr. lever, peachey. it's our own jam, mr. lever. lever. thanks. [he takes a bite.] it's splendid! mrs. gwyn. [with forced gaiety.] it's the first time i've ever seen you eat jam. lever. [smiling a forced smile.] really! but i love it. mrs. gwyn. [with a little bow.] you always refuse mine. joy. [who has been staring at her enemy, suddenly.] i'm all burnt up! are n't you simply boiled, mother? [she touches her mother's forehead.] mrs. gwyn. ugh! you're quite clammy, joy. joy. it's enough to make any one clammy. [her eyes go back to lever's face as though to stab him.] ernest. [from the swing.] i say, you know, the glass is going down. lever. [suavely.] the glass in the hall's steady enough. ernest. oh, i never go by that; that's a rotten old glass. colonel. oh! is it? ernest. [paying no attention.] i've got a little ripper--never puts you in the cart. bet you what you like we have thunder before tomorrow night. miss beech. [removing her gaze from joy to lever.] you don't think we shall have it before to-night, do you? lever. [suavely.] i beg your pardon; did you speak to me? miss beech. i said, you don't think we shall have the thunder before to-night, do you? [she resumes her watch on joy.] lever. [blandly.] really, i don't see any signs of it. [joy, crossing to the rug, flings herself down. and dick sits cross-legged, with his eyes fast fixed on her.] miss beech. [eating.] people don't often see what they don't want to, do they? [lever only lifts his brows.] mrs. gwyn. [quickly breaking ivy.] what are you talking about? the weather's perfect. miss beech. isn't it? mrs. hope. you'd better make a good tea, peachey; nobody'll get anything till eight, and then only cold shoulder. you must just put up with no hot dinner, mr. lever. lever. [bowing.] whatever is good enough for miss beech is good enough for me. miss beech. [sardonically-taking another sandwich.] so you think! mrs. gwyn. [with forced gaiety.] don't be so absurd, peachey. [miss beech, grunts slightly.] colonel. [once more busy with his papers.] i see the name of your engineer is rodriguez--italian, eh? lever. portuguese. colonel. don't like that! lever. i believe he was born in england. colonel. [reassured.] oh, was he? ah! ernest. awful rotters, those portuguese! colonel. there you go! letty. well, father, ernie only said what you said. mrs. hope. now i want to ask you, mr. lever, is this gold mine safe? if it isn't--i simply won't allow tom to take these shares; he can't afford it. lever. it rather depends on what you call safe, mrs. hope. mrs. hope. i don't want anything extravagant, of course; if they're going to pay their per cent, regularly, and tom can have his money out at any time--[there is a faint whistle from the swing.] i only want to know that it's a thoroughly genuine thing. mrs. gwyn. [indignantly.] as if maurice would be a director if it was n't? mrs. hope. now molly, i'm simply asking---- mrs. gwyn. yes, you are! colonel. [rising.] i'll take two thousand of those shares, lever. to have my wife talk like that--i 'm quite ashamed. lever. oh, come, sir, mrs. hope only meant---- [mrs. gwyn looks eagerly at lever.] dick. [quietly.] let's go on the river, joy. [joy rises, and goes to her mother's chair.] mrs. hope. of course! what rubbish, tom! as if any one ever invested money without making sure! lever. [ironically.] it seems a little difficult to make sure in this case. there isn't the smallest necessity for colonel hope to take any shares, and it looks to me as if he'd better not. [he lights a cigarette.] mrs. hope. now, mr. lever, don't be offended! i'm very anxious for tom to take the shares if you say the thing's so good. lever. i 'm afraid i must ask to be left out, please. joy. [whispering.] mother, if you've finished, do come, i want to show you my room. mrs. hope. i would n't say a word, only tom's so easily taken in. mrs. gwyn. [fiercely.] aunt nell, how can't you? [joy gives a little savage laugh.] letty. [hastily.] ernie, will you play dick and me? come on, dick! [all three go out towards the lawn.] mrs. hope. you ought to know your uncle by this time, molly. he's just like a child. he'd be a pauper to-morrow if i did n't see to things. colonel. understand once for all that i shall take two thousand shares in this mine. i 'm--i 'm humiliated. [he turns and goes towards the house.] mrs. hope. well, what on earth have i said? [she hurries after him. ] mrs. gwyn. [in a low voice as she passes.] you need n't insult my friends! [lever, shrugging his shoulders, has strolled aside. joy, with a passionate movement seen only by miss beech, goes off towards the house. miss beech and mrs. gwyn aye left alone beside the remnants of the feast.] miss beech. molly! [mrs. gwyn looks up startled.] take care, molly, take care! the child! can't you see? [apostrophising lever.] take care, molly, take care! lever. [coming back.] awfully hot, is n't it? miss beech. ah! and it'll be hotter if we don't mind. lever. [suavely.] do we control these things? [miss beech looking from face to face, nods her head repeatedly; then gathering her skirts she walks towards the house. mrs. gwyn sits motionless, staying before her.] extraordinary old lady! [he pitches away his cigarette.] what's the matter with her, molly? mrs. gwyn, [with an effort.] oh! peachey's a character! lever. [frowning.] so i see! [there is a silence.] mrs. gwyn. maurice! lever. yes. mrs. gwyn. aunt nell's hopeless, you mustn't mind her. lever. [in a dubious and ironic voice.] my dear girl, i 've too much to bother me to mind trifles like that. mrs. gwyn. [going to him suddenly.] tell me, won't you? [lever shrugs his shoulders.] a month ago you'd have told me soon enough! lever. now, molly! mrs. gwyn. ah! [with a bitter smile.] the spring's soon over. lever. it 's always spring between us. mrs. gwyn. is it? lever. you did n't tell me what you were thinking about just now when you sat there like stone. mrs. gwyn. it does n't do for a woman to say too much. lever. have i been so bad to you that you need feel like that, molly? mrs. gwyn. [with a little warm squeeze of his arm.] oh! my dear, it's only that i'm so--- [she stops.] lever. [gently]. so what? mrs. gwyn. [in a low voice.] it's hateful here. lever. i didn't want to come. i don't understand why you suggested it. [mrs. gwyn is silent.] it's been a mistake. mrs. gwyn. [her eyes fixed on the ground.] joy comes home to-morrow. i thought if i brought you here--i should know---- lever. [vexedly.] um! mrs. gwyn. [losing her control.] can't you see? it haunts me? how are we to go on? i must know--i must know! lever. i don't see that my coming---- mrs. gwyn. i thought i should have more confidence; i thought i should be able to face it better in london, if you came down here openly--and now--i feel i must n't speak or look at you. lever. you don't think your aunt---- mrs. gwyn. [scornfully.] she! it's only joy i care about. lever. [frowning.] we must be more careful, that's all. we mustn't give ourselves away again, as we were doing just now. mrs. gwyn. when any one says anything horrid to you, i can't help it. [she puts her hand on the label of his coat.] lever. my dear child, take care! [mrs. gwyn drops her hand. she throws her head back, and her throat is seen to work as though she were gulping down a bitter draught. she moves away.] [following hastily.] don't dear, don't! i only meant--come, molly, let's be sensible. i want to tell you something about the mine. mrs. gwyn. [with a quavering smile.] yes-let 's talk sensibly, and walk properly in this sensible, proper place. [lever is seen trying to soothe her, and yet to walk properly. as they disappear, they are viewed by joy, who, like the shadow parted from its figure, has come to join it again. she stands now, foiled, a carnation in her hand; then flings herself on a chair, and leans her elbows on the table.] joy. i hate him! pig! rose. [who has come to clear the tea things.] did you call, miss? joy. not you! rose. [motionless.] no, miss! joy. [leaning back and tearing the flower.] oh! do hurry up, rose! rose. [collects the tea things.] mr. dick's coming down the path! aren't i going to get you to do your frock, miss joy? joy. no. rose. what will the missis say? joy. oh, don't be so stuck, rose! [rose goes, but dick has come.] dick. come on the river, joy, just for half an hour, as far as the kingfishers--do! [joy shakes her head.] why not? it 'll be so jolly and cool. i'm most awfully sorry if i worried you this morning. i didn't mean to. i won't again, i promise. [joy slides a look at him, and from that look he gains a little courage.] do come! it'll be the last time. i feel it awfully, joy. joy. there's nothing to hurt you! dick. [gloomily.] isn't there--when you're like this? joy. [in a hard voice.] if you don't like me, why do you follow me about? dick. what is the matter? joy. [looking up, as if for want of air.] oh! don't! dick. oh, joy, what is the matter? is it the heat? joy. [with a little laugh.] yes. dick. have some eau de cologne. i 'll make you a bandage. [he takes the eau de cologne, and makes a bandage with his handkerchief.] it's quite clean. joy. oh, dick, you are so funny! dick. [bandaging her forehead.] i can't bear you to feel bad; it puts me off completely. i mean i don't generally make a fuss about people, but when it 's you---- joy. [suddenly.] i'm all right. dick. is that comfy? joy. [with her chin up, and her eyes fast closed.] quite. dick. i'm not going to stay and worry you. you ought to rest. only, joy! look here! if you want me to do anything for you, any time---- joy. [half opening her eyes.] only to go away. [dick bites his lips and walks away.] dick--[softly]--dick! [dick stops.] i didn't mean that; will you get me some water-irises for this evening? dick. won't i? [he goes to the hollow tree and from its darkness takes a bucket and a boat-hook.] i know where there are some rippers! [joy stays unmoving with her eyes half closed.] are you sure you 're all right. joy? you 'll just rest here in the shade, won't you, till i come back?--it 'll do you no end of good. i shan't be twenty minutes. [he goes, but cannot help returning softly, to make sure.] you're quite sure you 're all right? [joy nods. he goes away towards the river. but there is no rest for joy. the voices of mrs. gwyn and lever are heard returning.] joy. [with a gesture of anger.] hateful! hateful! [she runs away.] [mrs. gwyn and lever are seen approaching; they pass the tree, in conversation.] mrs. gwyn. but i don't see why, maurice. lever. we mean to sell the mine; we must do some more work on it, and for that we must have money. mrs. gwyn. if you only want a little, i should have thought you could have got it in a minute in the city. lever. [shaking his head.] no, no; we must get it privately. mrs. gwyn. [doubtfully.] oh! [she slowly adds.] then it isn't such a good thing! [and she does not look at him.] lever. well, we mean to sell it. mrs. gwyn. what about the people who buy? lever. [dubiously regarding her.] my dear girl, they've just as much chance as we had. it 's not my business to think of them. there's your thousand pounds---- mrs. gwyn. [softly.] don't bother about my money, maurice. i don't want you to do anything not quite---- lever. [evasively.] oh! there's my brother's and my sister's too. i 'm not going to let any of you run any risk. when we all went in for it the thing looked splendid; it 's only the last month that we 've had doubts. what bothers me now is your uncle. i don't want him to take these shares. it looks as if i'd come here on purpose. mrs. gwyn. oh! he mustn't take them! lever. that 's all very well; but it 's not so simple. mrs. gwyn. [shyly.] but, maurice, have you told him about the selling? lever. [gloomily, under the hollow tree.] it 's a board secret. i'd no business to tell even you. mrs. gwyn. but he thinks he's taking shares in a good--a permanent thing. lever. you can't go into a mining venture without some risk. mrs. gwyn. oh yes, i know--but--but uncle tom is such a dear! lever. [stubbornly.] i can't help his being the sort of man he is. i did n't want him to take these shares; i told him so in so many words. put yourself in my place, molly: how can i go to him and say, "this thing may turn out rotten," when he knows i got you to put your money into it? [but joy, the lost shadow, has come back. she moves forward resolutely. they are divided from her by the hollow tree; she is unseen. she stops.] mrs. gwyn. i think he ought to be told about the selling; it 's not fair. lever. what on earth made him rush at the thing like that? i don't understand that kind of man. mrs. gwyn. [impulsively.] i must tell him, maurice; i can't let him take the shares without---- [she puts her hand on his arm.] [joy turns, as if to go back whence she came, but stops once more.] lever. [slowly and very quietly.] i did n't think you'd give me away, molly. mrs. gwyn. i don't think i quite understand. lever. if you tell the colonel about this sale the poor old chap will think me a man that you ought to have nothing to do with. do you want that? [mrs. gwyn, giving her lover a long look, touches his sleeve. joy, slipping behind the hollow tree, has gone.] you can't act in a case like this as if you 'd only a principle to consider. it 's the--the special circumstances. mrs. gwyn. [with a faint smile.] but you'll be glad to get the money won't you? lever. by george! if you're going to take it like this, molly mrs. gwyn. don't! lever. we may not sell after all, dear, we may find it turn out trumps. mrs. gwyn. [with a shiver.] i don't want to hear any more. i know women don't understand. [impulsively.] it's only that i can't bear any one should think that you---- lever. [distressed.] for goodness sake don't look like that, molly! of course, i'll speak to your uncle. i'll stop him somehow, even if i have to make a fool of myself. i 'll do anything you want---- mrs. gwyn. i feel as if i were being smothered here. lever. it 's only for one day. mrs. gwyn. [with sudden tenderness.] it's not your fault, dear. i ought to have known how it would be. well, let's go in! [she sets her lips, and walks towards the house with lever following. but no sooner has she disappeared than joy comes running after; she stops, as though throwing down a challenge. her cheeks and ears are burning.] joy. mother! [after a moment mrs. gwyn reappears in the opening of the wall.] mrs. gwyn. oh! here you are! joy. [breathlessly.] yes. mrs. gwyn. [uncertainly.] where--have you been? you look dreadfully hot; have you been running? joy. yes----no. mrs. gwyn. [looking at her fixedly.] what's the matter--you 're trembling! [softly.] are n't you well, dear? joy. yes--i don't know. mrs. gwyn. what is it, darling? joy. [suddenly clinging to her.] oh! mother! mrs. gwyn. i don't understand. joy. [breathlessly.] oh, mother, let me go back home with you now at once---- mrs. gwyn. [her face hardening.] why? what on earth---- joy. i can't stay here. mrs. gwyn. but why? joy. i want to be with you--oh! mother, don't you love me? mrs. gwyn. [with a faint smile.] of course i love you, joy. joy. ah! but you love him more. mrs. gwyn. love him--whom? joy. oh! mother, i did n't--[she tries to take her mother's hand, but fails.] oh! don't. mrs. gwyn. you'd better explain what you mean, i think. joy. i want to get you to--he--he 's--he 'snot----! mrs. gwyn. [frigidly.] really, joy! joy. [passionately.] i'll fight against him, and i know there's something wrong about---- [she stops.] mrs. gwyn. about what? joy. let's tell uncle tom, mother, and go away. mrs. gwyn. tell uncle--tom--what? joy. [looking down and almost whispering.] about--about--the mine. mrs. gwyn. what about the mine? what do you mean? [fiercely.] have you been spying on me? joy. [shrinking.] no! oh, no! mrs. gwyn. where were you? joy. [just above her breath.] i--i heard something. mrs. gwyn. [bitterly.] but you were not spying? joy. i was n't--i wasn't! i didn't want--to hear. i only heard a little. i couldn't help listening, mother. mrs. gwyn. [with a little laugh.] couldn't help listening? joy. [through her teeth.] i hate him. i didn't mean to listen, but i hate him. mrs. gwyn. i see. why do you hate him? [there is a silence.] joy. he--he----[she stops.] mrs. gwyn. yes? joy. [with a sort of despair.] i don't know. oh! i don't know! but i feel---- mrs. gwyn. i can't reason with you. as to what you heard, it 's-- ridiculous. joy. it 's not that. it 's--it 's you! mrs. gwyn. [stonily.] i don't know what you mean. joy. [passionately.] i wish dad were here! mrs. gwyn. do you love your father as much as me? joy. oh! mother, no-you know i don't. mrs. gwyn. [resentfully.] then why do you want him? joy. [almost under her breath.] because of that man. mrs. gwyn. indeed! joy. i will never--never make friends with him. mrs. gwyn. [cuttingly.] i have not asked you to. joy. [with a blind movement of her hand.] oh, mother! [mrs. gwyn half turns away.] mother--won't you? let's tell uncle tom and go away from him? mrs. gwyn. if you were not, a child, joy, you wouldn't say such things. joy. [eagerly.] i'm not a child, i'm--i'm a woman. i am. mrs. gwyn. no! you--are--not a woman, joy. [she sees joy throw up her arms as though warding off a blow, and turning finds that lever is standing in the opening of the wall.] lever. [looking from face to face.] what's the matter? [there is no answer.] what is it, joy? joy. [passionately.] i heard you, i don't care who knows. i'd listen again. lever. [impassively.] ah! and what did i say that was so very dreadful? joy. you're a--a--you 're a--coward! mrs. gwyn. [with a sort of groan.] joy! lever. [stepping up to joy, and standing with his hands behind him-- in a low voice.] now hit me in the face--hit me--hit me as hard as you can. go on, joy, it'll do you good. [joy raises her clenched hand, but drops it, and hides her face.] why don't you? i'm not pretending! [joy makes no sign.] come, joy; you'll make yourself ill, and that won't help, will it? [but joy still makes no sign.] [with determination.] what's the matter? now come--tell me! joy. [in a stifled, sullen voice.] will you leave my mother alone? mrs. gwyn. oh! my dear joy, don't be silly! joy. [wincing; then with sudden passion.] i defy you--i defy you! [she rushes from their sight.] mrs. gwyn. [with a movement of distress.] oh! lever. [turning to mrs. gwyn with a protecting gesture.] never mind, dear! it'll be--it'll be all right! [but the expression of his face is not the expression of his words.] the curtain falls. act iii it is evening; a full yellow moon is shining through the branches of the hollow tree. the chinese lanterns are alight. there is dancing in the house; the music sounds now loud, now soft. miss beech is sitting on the rustic seat in a black bunchy evening dress, whose inconspicuous opening is inlaid with white. she slowly fans herself. dick comes from the house in evening dress. he does not see miss beech. dick. curse! [a short silence.] curse! miss beech. poor young man! dick. [with a start.] well, peachey, i can't help it [he fumbles off his gloves.] miss beech. did you ever know any one that could? dick. [earnestly.] it's such awfully hard lines on joy. i can't get her out of my head, lying there with that beastly headache while everybody's jigging round. miss beech. oh! you don't mind about yourself--noble young man! dick. i should be a brute if i did n't mind more for her. miss beech. so you think it's a headache, do you? dick. did n't you hear what mrs. gwyn said at dinner about the sun? [with inspiration.] i say, peachey, could n't you--could n't you just go up and give her a message from me, and find out if there 's anything she wants, and say how brutal it is that she 's seedy; it would be most awfully decent of you. and tell her the dancing's no good without her. do, peachey, now do! ah! and look here! [he dives into the hollow of the tree, and brings from out of it a pail of water in which are placed two bottles of champagne, and some yellow irises--he takes the irises.] you might give her these. i got them specially for her, and i have n't had a chance. miss beech. [lifting a bottle.] what 's this? dick. fizz. the colonel brought it from the george. it 's for supper; he put it in here because of--[smiling faintly]--mrs. hope, i think. peachey, do take her those irises. miss. beech. d' you think they'll do her any good? dick. [crestfallen.] i thought she'd like--i don't want to worry her--you might try. [miss beech shakes her head.] why not? miss beech. the poor little creature won't let me in. dick. you've been up then! miss beech. [sharply.] of course i've been up. i've not got a stone for my heart, young man! dick. all right! i suppose i shall just have to get along somehow. miss beech. [with devilry.] that's what we've all got to do. dick. [gloomily.] but this is too brutal for anything! miss beech. worse than ever happened to any one! dick. i swear i'm not thinking of myself. miss beech. did y' ever know anybody that swore they were? dick. oh! shut up! miss beech. you'd better go in and get yourself a partner. dick. [with pale desperation.] look here, peachey, i simply loathe all those girls. miss beech. ah-h! [ironically.] poor lot, are n't they? dick. all right; chaff away, it's good fun, isn't it? it makes me sick to dance when joy's lying there. her last night, too! miss beech. [sidling to him.] you're a good young man, and you 've got a good heart. [she takes his hand, and puts it to her cheek.] dick. peachey--i say, peachey d' you think there 's--i mean d' you think there'll ever be any chance for me? miss beech. i thought that was coming! i don't approve of your making love at your time of life; don't you think i 'm going to encourage you. dick. but i shall be of age in a year; my money's my own, it's not as if i had to ask any one's leave; and i mean, i do know my own mind. miss beech. of course you do. nobody else would at your age, but you do. dick. i would n't ask her to promise, it would n't be fair when she 's so young, but i do want her to know that i shall never change. miss beech. and suppose--only suppose--she's fond of you, and says she'll never change. dick. oh! peachey! d' you think there's a chance of that--do you? miss beech. a-h-h! dick. i wouldn't let her bind herself, i swear i wouldn't. [solemnly.] i'm not such a selfish brute as you seem to think. miss beech. [sidling close to him and in a violent whisper.] well-- have a go! dick. really? you are a brick, peachey! [he kisses her.] miss beach. [yielding pleasurably; then remembering her principles.] don't you ever say i said so! you're too young, both of you. dick. but it is exceptional--i mean in my case, is n't it? [the colonel and mrs. gwyn are coming down the lawn.] miss beech. oh! very! [she sits beneath the tree and fans herself.] colonel. the girls are all sitting out, dick! i've been obliged to dance myself. phew! [he mops his brow.] [dick swinging round goes rushing off towards the house.] [looking after him.] hallo! what's the matter with him? cooling your heels, peachey? by george! it's hot. fancy the poor devils in london on a night like this, what? [he sees the moon.] it's a full moon. you're lucky to be down here, molly. mrs. gwyn. [in a low voice.] very! miss beech. oh! so you think she's lucky, do you? colonel. [expanding his nostrils.] delicious scent to-night! hay and roses--delicious. [he seats himself between them.] a shame that poor child has knocked up like this. don't think it was the sun myself--more likely neuralgic--she 's subject to neuralgia, molly. mrs. gwyn. [motionless.] i know. colonel. got too excited about your coming. i told nell not to keep worrying her about her frock, and this is the result. but your aunt --you know--she can't let a thing alone! miss beech. ah! 't isn't neuralgia. [mrs. gwyn looks at her quickly and averts her eyes.] colonel. excitable little thing. you don't understand her, peachey. miss beech. don't i? colonel. she's all affection. eh, molly? i remember what i was like at her age, a poor affectionate little rat, and now look at me! miss beech. [fanning herself.] i see you. colonel. [a little sadly.] we forget what we were like when we were young. she's been looking forward to to-night ever since you wrote; and now to have to go to bed and miss the, dancing. too bad! mrs. gwyn. don't, uncle tom! colonel. [patting her hand.] there, there, old girl, don't think about it. she'll be all right tomorrow. miss beech. if i were her mother i'd soon have her up. colonel. have her up with that headache! what are you talking about, peachey? miss beech. i know a remedy. colonel. well, out with it. miss beech. oh! molly knows it too! mrs. gwyn. [staring at the ground.] it's easy to advise. colonel. [fidgetting.] well, if you're thinking of morphia for her, don't have anything to do with it. i've always set my face against morphia; the only time i took it was in burmah. i'd raging neuralgia for two days. i went to our old doctor, and i made him give me some. "look here, doctor," i said, "i hate the idea of morphia, i 've never taken it, and i never want to." miss beech. [looking at mrs. gwyn.] when a tooth hurts, you should have it out. it 's only puttin' off the evil day. colonel. you say that because it was n't your own. miss beech. well, it was hollow, and you broke your principles! colonel. hollow yourself, peachey; you're as bad as any one! miss beech [with devilry.] well, i know that! [she turns to mrs. gwyn.] he should have had it out! shouldn't he, molly? mrs. gwyn. i--don't--judge for other people. [she gets up suddenly, as though deprived of air.] colonel. [alarmed.] hallo, molly! are n't you feeling the thing, old girl? miss beech. let her get some air, poor creature! colonel. [who follows anxiously.] your aunt's got some first-rate sal volatile. mrs. gwyn. it's all right, uncle tom. i felt giddy, it's nothing, now. colonel. that's the dancing. [he taps his forehead.] i know what it is when you're not used to it. mrs. gwyn. [with a sudden bitter outburst.] i suppose you think i 'm a very bad mother to be amusing myself while joy's suffering. colonel. my dear girl, whatever put such a thought into your head? we all know if there were anything you could do, you'd do it at once, would n't she, peachey? [miss beech turns a slow look on mrs. gwyn.] mrs. gwyn. ah! you see, peachey knows me better. colonel. [following up his thoughts.] i always think women are wonderful. there's your aunt, she's very funny, but if there's anything the matter with me, she'll sit up all night; but when she's ill herself, and you try to do anything for her, out she raps at once. mrs. gwyn. [in a low voice.] there's always one that a woman will do anything for. colonel. exactly what i say. with your aunt it's me, and by george! molly, sometimes i wish it was n't. miss beech, [with meaning.] but is it ever for another woman! colonel. you old cynic! d' you mean to say joy wouldn't do anything on earth for her mother, or molly for joy? you don't know human nature. what a wonderful night! have n't seen such a moon for years, she's like a great, great lamp! [mrs. gwyn hiding from miss beech's eyes, rises and slips her arm through his; they stand together looking at the moon.] don't like these chinese lanterns, with that moon-tawdry! eh! by jove, molly, i sometimes think we humans are a rubbishy lot--each of us talking and thinking of nothing but our own petty little affairs; and when you see a great thing like that up there--[sighs.] but there's your aunt, if i were to say a thing like that to her she 'd-- she'd think me a lunatic; and yet, you know, she 's a very good woman. mrs. gwyn. [half clinging to him.] do you think me very selfish, uncle tom? colonel. my dear--what a fancy! think you selfish--of course i don't; why should i? mrs. gwyn. [dully.] i don't know. colonel. [changing the subject nervously.] i like your friend, lever, molly. he came to me before dinner quite distressed about your aunt, beggin' me not to take those shares. she 'll be the first to worry me, but he made such a point of it, poor chap--in the end i was obliged to say i wouldn't. i thought it showed very' nice feeling. [ruefully.] it's a pretty tight fit to make two ends meet on my income--i've missed a good thing, all owing to your aunt. [dropping his voice.] i don't mind telling you, molly, i think they've got a much finer mine there than they've any idea of. [mrs. gwyn gives way to laughter that is very near to sobs.] [with dignity.] i can't see what there is to laugh at. mrs. gwyn. i don't know what's the matter with me this evening. miss beech. [in a low voice.] i do. colonel. there, there! give me a kiss, old girl! [he kisses her on the brow.] why, your forehead's as hot as fire. i know--i know-you 're fretting about joy. never mind--come! [he draws her hand beneath his arm.] let's go and have a look at the moon on the river. we all get upset at times; eh! [lifting his hand as if he had been stung.] why, you 're not crying, molly! i say! don't do that, old girl, it makes me wretched. look here, peachey. [holding out the hand on which the tear has dropped.] this is dreadful! mrs. gwyn. [with a violent effort.] it's all right, uncle tom! [miss beech wipes her own eyes stealthily. from the house is heard the voice of mrs. hope, calling "tom."] miss beech. some one calling you. colonel. there, there, my dear, you just stay here, and cool yourself--i 'll come back--shan't be a minute. [he turns to go.] [mrs. hope's voice sounds nearer.] [turning back.] and molly, old girl, don't you mind anything i said. i don't remember what it was--it must have been something, i suppose. [he hastily retreats.] mrs. gwyn. [in a fierce low voice.] why do you torture me? miss beech. [sadly.] i don't want to torture you. mrs. gwyn, but you do. d' you think i haven't seen this coming--all these weeks. i knew she must find out some time! but even a day counts---- miss beech. i don't understand why you brought him down here. mrs. gwyn. [after staring at her, bitterly.] when day after day and night after night you've thought of nothing but how to keep them both, you might a little want to prove that it was possible, mightn't you? but you don't understand--how should you? you've never been a mother! [and fiercely.] you've never had a lov---- [miss beech raises her face-it is all puckered.] [impulsively.] oh, i did n't mean that, peachey! miss beech. all right, my dear. mrs. gwyn. i'm so dragged in two! [she sinks into a chair.] i knew it must come. miss beech. does she know everything, molly? mrs. gwyn. she guesses. miss beech. [mournfully.] it's either him or her then, my dear; one or the other you 'll have to give up. mrs. gwyn. [motionless.] life's very hard on women! miss beech. life's only just beginning for that child, molly. mrs. gwyn. you don't care if it ends for me! miss beech. is it as bad as that? mrs. gwyn. yes. miss beech. [rocking hey body.] poor things! poor things! mrs. gwyn. are you still fond of me? miss beech. yes, yes, my dear, of course i am. mrs. gwyn. in spite of my-wickedness? [she laughs.] miss beech. who am i to tell what's wicked and what is n't? god knows you're both like daughters to me! mrs. gwyn. [abruptly.] i can't. miss beech. molly. mrs. gwyn. you don't know what you're asking. miss beech. if i could save you suffering, my dear, i would. i hate suffering, if it 's only a fly, i hate it. mrs. gwyn. [turning away from her.] life is n't fair. peachey, go in and leave me alone. [she leans back motionless.] [miss beech gets off her seat, and stroking mrs. gwyn's arm in passing goes silently away. in the opening of the wall she meets lever who is looking for his partner. they make way for each other.] lever. [going up to mrs. gwyn--gravely.] the next is our dance, molly. mrs. gwyn. [unmoving.] let's sit it out here, then. [lever sits down.] lever. i've made it all right with your uncle. mrs. gwyn. [dully.] oh? lever. i spoke to him about the shares before dinner. mrs. gwyn. yes, he told me, thank you. lever. there 's nothing to worry over, dear. mrs. gwyn. [passionately.] what does it matter about the wretched shares now? i 'm stifling. [she throws her scarf off.] lever. i don't understand what you mean by "now." mrs. gwyn. don't you? lever. we were n't--joy can't know--why should she? i don't believe for a minute---- mrs. gwyn. because you don't want to. lever. do you mean she does? mrs. gwyn. her heart knows. [lever makes a movement of discomfiture; suddenly mrs. gwyn looks at him as though to read his soul.] i seem to bring you nothing but worry, maurice. are you tired of me? lever. [meeting her eyes.] no, i am not. mrs. gwyn. ah, but would you tell me if you were? lever. [softly.] sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. [mrs. gwyn struggles to look at him, then covers her face with her hands.] mrs. gwyn. if i were to give you up, you'd forget me in a month. lever. why do you say such things? mrs. gwyn. if only i could believe i was necessary to you! lever. [forcing the fervour of his voice.] but you are! mrs. gwyn. am i? [with the ghost of a smile.] midsummer day! [she gives a laugh that breaks into a sob.] [the music o f a waltz sounds from the house.] lever. for god's sake, don't, molly--i don't believe in going to meet trouble. mrs. gwyn. it's staring me in the face. lever. let the future take care of itself! [mrs. gwyn has turned away her face, covering it with her hands.] don't, molly! [trying to pull her hands away.] don't! mrs. gwyn. oh! what shall i do? [there is a silence; the music of the waltz sounds louder from the house.] [starting up.] listen! one can't sit it out and dance it too. which is it to be, maurice, dancing--or sitting out? it must be one or the other, must n't it? lever. molly! molly! mrs. gwyn. ah, my dear! [standing away from him as though to show herself.] how long shall i keep you? this is all that 's left of me. it 's time i joined the wallflowers. [smiling faintly.] it's time i played the mother, is n't it? [in a whisper.] it'll be all sitting out then. lever. don't! let's go and dance, it'll do you good. [he puts his hands on her arms, and in a gust of passion kisses her lips and throat.] mrs. gwyn. i can't give you up--i can't. love me, oh! love me! [for a moment they stand so; then, with sudden remembrance of where they are, they move apart.] lever. are you all right now, darling? mrs. gwyn. [trying to smile.] yes, dear--quite. lever. then let 's go, and dance. [they go.] [for a few seconds the hollow tree stands alone; then from the house rose comes and enters it. she takes out a bottle of champagne, wipes it, and carries it away; but seeing mrs. gwyn's scarf lying across the chair, she fingers it, and stops, listening to the waltz. suddenly draping it round her shoulders, she seizes the bottle of champagne, and waltzes with abandon to the music, as though avenging a long starvation of her instincts. thus dancing, she is surprised by dick, who has come to smoke a cigarette and think, at the spot where he was told to "have a go." rose, startled, stops and hugs the bottle.] dick. it's not claret, rose, i should n't warm it. [rose, taking off the scarf, replaces it on the chair; then with the half-warmed bottle, she retreats. dick, in the swing, sits thinking of his fate. suddenly from behind the hollow tree he sees joy darting forward in her day dress with her hair about her neck, and her skirt all torn. as he springs towards her, she turns at bay.] dick. joy! joy. i want uncle tom. dick. [in consternation.] but ought you to have got up--i thought you were ill in bed; oughtn't you to be lying down? joy. if have n't been in bed. where's uncle tom? dick. but where have you been?-your dress is all torn. look! [he touches the torn skirt.] joy. [tearing it away.] in the fields. where's uncle tom? dick. are n't you really ill then? [joy shakes her head.] dick, [showing her the irises.] look at these. they were the best i could get. joy. don't! i want uncle tom! dick. won't you take them? joy. i 've got something else to do. dick. [with sudden resolution.] what do you want the colonel for? joy. i want him. dick. alone? joy. yes. dick. joy, what is the matter? joy. i 've got something to tell him. dick. what? [with sudden inspiration.] is it about lever? joy. [in a low voice.] the mine. dick. the mine? joy. it 's not--not a proper one. dick. how do you mean, joy? joy. i overheard. i don't care, i listened. i would n't if it had been anybody else, but i hate him. dick. [gravely.] what did you hear? joy. he 's keeping back something uncle tom ought to know. dick. are you sure? [joy makes a rush to pass him.] [barring the way.] no, wait a minute--you must! was it something that really matters?--i don't want to know what. joy. yes, it was. dick. what a beastly thing--are you quite certain, joy? joy. [between her teeth.] yes. dick. then you must tell him, of course, even if you did overhear. you can't stand by and see the colonel swindled. whom was he talking to? joy. i won't tell you. dick. [taking her wrist.] was it was it your mother? [joy bends her head.] but if it was your mother, why does n't she---- joy. let me go! dick. [still holding her.] i mean i can't see what---- joy. [passionately.] let me go! dick. [releasing her.] i'm thinking of your mother, joy. she would never---- joy. [covering her face.] that man! dick. but joy, just think! there must be some mistake. it 's so queer--it 's quite impossible! joy. he won't let her. dick. won't let her--won't let her? but [stopping dead, and in a very different voice.] oh! joy. [passionately.] why d' you look at me like that? why can't you speak? [she waits for him to speak, but he does not.] i'm going to show what he is, so that mother shan't speak to him again. i can--can't i--if i tell uncle tom?--can't i----? dick. but joy--if your mother knows a thing like--that---- joy. she wanted to tell--she begged him--and he would n't. dick. but, joy, dear, it means---- joy. i hate him, i want to make her hate him, and i will. dick. but, joy, dear, don't you see--if your mother knows a thing like that, and does n't speak of it, it means that she--it means that you can't make her hate him--it means----if it were anybody else-- but, well, you can't give your own mother away! joy. how dare you! how dare you! [turning to the hollow tree.] it is n't true--oh! it is n't true! dick. [in deep distress.] joy, dear, i never meant, i didn't really! [he tries to pull her hands down from her face.] joy. [suddenly.] oh! go away, go away! [mrs. gwyn is seen coming back. joy springs into the tree. dick quickly steals away. mrs. gwyn goes up to the chair and takes the scarf that she has come for, and is going again when joy steals out to her.] mother! [mrs. gwyn stands looking at her with her teeth set on her lower lip.] oh! mother, it is n't true? mrs. gwyn. [very still.] what is n't true? joy. that you and he are---- [searching her mother's face, which is deadly still. in a whisper.] then it is true. oh! mrs. gwyn. that's enough, joy! what i am is my affair--not yours-- do you understand? joy. [low and fierce.] yes, i do. mrs. gwyn. you don't. you're only a child. joy. [passionately.] i understand that you've hurt [she stops.] mrs. gwyn. do you mean your father? joy. [bowing her head.] yes, and--and me. [she covers her face.] i'm--i'm ashamed. mrs. gwyn. i brought you into the world, and you say that to me? have i been a bad mother to you? joy. [in a smothered voice.] oh! mother! mrs. gwyn. ashamed? am i to live all my life like a dead woman because you're ashamed? am i to live like the dead because you 're a child that knows nothing of life? listen, joy, you 'd better understand this once for all. your father has no right over me and he knows it. we 've been hateful to each other for years. can you understand that? don't cover your face like a child--look at me. [joy drops her hands, and lifts her face. mrs. gwyn looks back at her, her lips are quivering; she goes on speaking with stammering rapidity.] d' you think--because i suffered when you were born and because i 've suffered since with every ache you ever had, that that gives you the right to dictate to me now? [in a dead voice.] i've been unhappy enough and i shall be unhappy enough in the time to come. [meeting the hard wonder in joy's face.] oh! you untouched things, you're as hard and cold as iron! joy. i would do anything for you, mother. mrs. gwyn. except--let me live, joy. that's the only thing you won't do for me, i quite understand. joy. oh! mother, you don't understand--i want you so; and i seem to be nothing to you now. mrs. gwyn. nothing to me? [she smiles.] joy. mother, darling, if you're so unhappy let's forget it all, let's go away and i 'll be everything to you, i promise. mrs. gwyn. [with the ghost of a laugh.] ah, joy! joy. i would try so hard. mrs. gwyn. [with the same quivering smile.] my darling, i know you would, until you fell in love yourself. joy. oh, mother, i wouldn't, i never would, i swear it. mrs. gwyn. there has never been a woman, joy, that did not fall in love. joy. [in a despairing whisper.] but it 's wrong of you it's wicked! mrs. gwyn. if it's wicked, i shall pay for it, not you! joy. but i want to save you, mother! mrs. gwyn. save me? [breaking into laughter.] joy. i can't bear it that you--if you 'll only--i'll never leave you. you think i don't know what i 'm saying, but i do, because even now i--i half love somebody. oh, mother! [pressing her breast.] i feel--i feel so awful--as if everybody knew. mrs. gwyn. you think i'm a monster to hurt you. ah! yes! you'll understand better some day. joy. [in a sudden outburst of excited fear.] i won't believe it-- i--i--can't--you're deserting me, mother. mrs. gwyn. oh, you untouched things! you---- [joy' looks up suddenly, sees her face, and sinks down on her knees.] joy. mother--it 's for me! gwyn. ask for my life, joy--don't be afraid. [joy turns her face away. mrs. gwyn bends suddenly and touches her daughter's hair; joy shrinks from that touch.] [recoiling as though she had been stung.] i forgot--i 'm deserting you. [and swiftly without looking back she goes away. joy, left alone under the hollow tree, crouches lower, and her shoulders shake. here dick finds her, when he hears no longer any sound o f voices. he falls on his knees beside her.] dick. oh! joy; dear, don't cry. it's so dreadful to see you! i 'd do anything not to see you cry! say something. [joy is still for a moment, then the shaking of the shoulders begins again.] joy, darling! it's so awful, you 'll make yourself ill, and it is n't worth it, really. i 'd do anything to save you pain--won't you stop just for a minute? [joy is still again.] nothing in the world 's worth your crying, joy. give me just a little look! joy. [looking; in a smothered voice.] don't! dick. you do look so sweet! oh, joy, i'll comfort you, i'll take it all on myself. i know all about it. [joy gives a sobbing laugh] i do. i 've had trouble too, i swear i have. it gets better, it does really. joy. you don't know--it's--it's---- dick. don't think about it! no, no, no! i know exactly what it's like. [he strokes her arm.] joy. [shrinking, in a whisper.] you mustn't. [the music of a waltz is heard again.] dick. look here, joy! it's no good, we must talk it over calmly. joy. you don't see! it's the--it 's the disgrace---- dick. oh! as to disgrace--she's your mother, whatever she does; i'd like to see anybody say anything about her--[viciously]--i'd punch his head. joy. [gulping her tears.] that does n't help. dick. but if she doesn't love your father---- joy. but she's married to him! dick. [hastily.] yes, of course, i know, marriage is awfully important; but a man understands these things. [joy looks at him. seeing the impression he has made, he tries again.] i mean, he understands better than a woman. i've often argued about moral questions with men up at oxford. joy. [catching at a straw.] but there's nothing to argue about. dick. [hastily.] of course, i believe in morals. [they stare solemnly at each other.] some men don't. but i can't help seeing marriage is awfully important. joy. [solemnly.] it's sacred. dick. yes, i know, but there must be exceptions, joy. joy. [losing herself a little in the stress of this discussion.] how can there be exceptions if a thing 's sacred? dick. [earnestly.] all rules have exceptions; that's true, you know; it's a proverb. joy. it can't be true about marriage--how can it when----? dick. [with intense earnestness.] but look here, joy, i know a really clever man--an author. he says that if marriage is a failure people ought to be perfectly free; it isn't everybody who believes that marriage is everything. of course, i believe it 's sacred, but if it's a failure, i do think it seems awful--don't you? joy. i don't know--yes--if--[suddenly] but it's my own mother! dick. [gravely.] i know, of course. i can't expect you to see it in your own case like this. [with desperation.] but look here, joy, this'll show you! if a person loves a person, they have to decide, have n't they? well, then, you see, that 's what your mother's done. joy. but that does n't show me anything! dick. but it does. the thing is to look at it as if it was n't yourself. if it had been you and me in love, joy, and it was wrong, like them, of course [ruefully] i know you'd have decided right. [fiercely.] but i swear i should have decided wrong. [triumphantly.] that 's why i feel i understand your mother. joy. [brushing her sleeve across her eyes.] oh, dick, you are so sweet--and--and--funny! dick. [sliding his arm about her.] i love you, joy, that 's why, and i 'll love you till you don't feel it any more. i will. i'll love you all day and every day; you shan't miss anything, i swear it. it 's such a beautiful night--it 's on purpose. look' [joy looks; he looks at her.] but it 's not so beautiful as you. joy. [bending her head.] you mustn't. i don't know--what's coming? dick. [sidling closer.] are n't your knees tired, darling? i--i can't get near you properly. joy. [with a sob.] oh! dick, you are a funny--comfort! dick. we'll stick together, joy, always; nothing'll matter then. [they struggle to their feet-the waltz sounds louder.] you're missing it all! i can't bear you to miss the dancing. it seems so queer! couldn't we? just a little turn? joy. no, no? dick. oh! try! [he takes her gently by the waist, she shrinks back.] joy. [brokenly.] no-no! oh! dick-to-morrow 'll be so awful. dick. to-morrow shan't hurt you, joy; nothing shall ever hurt you again. [she looks at him, and her face changes; suddenly she buries it against his shoulder.] [they stand so just a moment in the moon light; then turning to the river move slowly out of sight. again the hollow tree is left alone. the music of the waltz has stopped. the voices of miss beech and the colonel are heard approaching from the house. they appear in the opening of the wall. the colonel carries a pair of field glasses with which to look at the moon.] colonel. charming to see molly dance with lever, their steps go so well together! i can always tell when a woman's enjoying herself, peachey. miss beech. [sharply.] can you? you're very clever. colonel. wonderful, that moon! i'm going to have a look at her! splendid glasses these, peachy [he screws them out], not a better pair in england. i remember in burmah with these glasses i used to be able to tell a man from a woman at two miles and a quarter. and that's no joke, i can tell you. [but on his way to the moon, he has taken a survey of the earth to the right along the river. in a low but excited voice] i say, i say--is it one of the maids--the baggage! why! it's dick! by george, she's got her hair down, peachey! it's joy! [miss beech goes to look. he makes as though to hand the glasses to her, but puts them to his own eyes instead-- excitedly.] it is! what about her headache? by george, they're kissing. i say, peachey! i shall have to tell nell! miss beech. are you sure they're kissing? well, that's some comfort. colonel. they're at the stile now. oughtn't i to stop them, eh? [he stands on tiptoe.] we must n't spy on them, dash it all. [he drops the glasses.] they're out of sight now. miss beech. [to herself.] he said he wouldn't let her. colonel. what! have you been encouraging them! miss beech. don't be in such a hurry! [she moves towards the hollow tree.] colonel. [abstractedly.] by george, peachey, to think that nell and i were once--poor nell! i remember just such a night as this [he stops, and stares before him, sighing.] miss beech, [impressively.] it's a comfort she's got that good young man. she's found out that her mother and this mr. lever are--you know. colonel. [losing all traces of his fussiness, and drawing himself up as though he were on parade.] you tell me that my niece? miss beech. out of her own mouth! colonel. [bowing his head.] i never would have believed she'd have forgotten herself. miss beech. [very solemnly.] ah, my dear! we're all the same; we're all as hollow as that tree! when it's ourselves it's always a special case! [the colonel makes a movement of distress, and miss beech goes to him.] don't you take it so to heart, my dear! [a silence.] colonel. [shaking his head.] i couldn't have believed molly would forget that child. miss beech. [sadly.] they must go their own ways, poor things! she can't put herself in the child's place, and the child can't put herself in molly's. a woman and a girl--there's the tree of life between them! colonel. [staring into the tree to see indeed if that were the tree alluded to.] it's a grief to me, peachey, it's a grief! [he sinks into a chair, stroking his long moustaches. then to avenge his hurt.] shan't tell nell--dashed if i do anything to make the trouble worse! miss beech. [nodding.] there's suffering enough, without adding to it with our trumpery judgments! if only things would last between them! colonel. [fiercely.] last! by george, they'd better---- [he stops, and looking up with a queer sorry look.] i say, peachey life's very funny! miss beech. men and women are! [touching his forehead tenderly.] there, there--take care of your poor, dear head! tsst! the blessed innocents! [she pulls the colonel's sleeve. they slip away towards the house, as joy and dick come back. they are still linked together, and stop by the hollow tree.] joy. [in a whisper.] dick, is love always like this? dick. [putting his arms around her, with conviction.] it's never been like this before. it's you and me! [he kisses her on the lips.] the curtain falls. strife a drama in three acts persons of the play john anthony, chairman of the trenartha tin plate works edgar anthony, his son frederic h. wilder, | william scantlebury,| directors of the same oliver wanklin, | henry tench, secretary of the same francis underwood, c.e., manager of the same simon harness, a trades union official david roberts, | james green, | john bulgin, | the workmen's committee henry thomas, | george rous, | henry rous, | lewis, | jago, | evans, | workman at the trenartha tin plate works a blacksmith, | davies, | a red-haired youth. | brown | frost, valet to john anthony enid underwood, wife of francis underwood, daughter of john anthony annie roberts, wife of david roberts madge thomas, daughter of henry thomas mrs. rous, mother of george and henry rous mrs. bulgin, wife of john bulgin mrs. yeo, wife of a workman a parlourmaid to the underwoods jan, madge's brother, a boy of ten a crowd of men on strike act i. the dining-room of the manager's house. act ii, scene i. the kitchen of the roberts's cottage near the works. scene ii. a space outside the works. act iii. the drawing-room of the manager's house. the action takes place on february th between the hours of noon and six in the afternoon, close to the trenartha tin plate works, on the borders of england and wales, where a strike has been in progress throughout the winter. act i it is noon. in the underwoods' dining-room a bright fire is burning. on one side of the fireplace are double-doors leading to the drawing-room, on the other side a door leading to the hall. in the centre of the room a long dining-table without a cloth is set out as a board table. at the head of it, in the chairman's seat, sits john anthony, an old man, big, clean-shaven, and high-coloured, with thick white hair, and thick dark eyebrows. his movements are rather slow and feeble, but his eyes are very much alive. there is a glass of water by his side. on his right sits his son edgar, an earnest-looking man of thirty, reading a newspaper. next him wanklin, a man with jutting eyebrows, and silver-streaked light hair, is bending over transfer papers. tench, the secretary, a short and rather humble, nervous man, with side whiskers, stands helping him. on wanklin's right sits underwood, the manager, a quiet man, with along, stiff jaw, and steady eyes. back to the fire is scantlebury, a very large, pale, sleepy man, with grey hair, rather bald. between him and the chairman are two empty chairs. wilder. [who is lean, cadaverous, and complaining, with drooping grey moustaches, stands before the fire.] i say, this fire's the devil! can i have a screen, tench? scantlebury. a screen, ah! tench. certainly, mr. wilder. [he looks at underwood.] that is-- perhaps the manager--perhaps mr. underwood---- scantlebury. these fireplaces of yours, underwood---- underwood. [roused from studying some papers.] a screen? rather! i'm sorry. [he goes to the door with a little smile.] we're not accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now. [he speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly, ironically.] wilder. [in an injured voice.] you mean the men. h'm! [underwood goes out.] scantlebury. poor devils! wilder. it's their own fault, scantlebury. edgar. [holding out his paper.] there's great distress among them, according to the trenartha news. wilder. oh, that rag! give it to wanklin. suit his radical views. they call us monsters, i suppose. the editor of that rubbish ought to be shot. edgar. [reading.] "if the board of worthy gentlemen who control the trenartha tin plate works from their arm-chairs in london would condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing amongst their work-people during this strike----" wilder. well, we have come. edgar. [continuing.] "we cannot believe that even their leg-of-mutton hearts would remain untouched." [wanklin takes the paper from him.] wilder. ruffian! i remember that fellow when he had n't a penny to his name; little snivel of a chap that's made his way by black-guarding everybody who takes a different view to himself. [anthony says something that is not heard.] wilder. what does your father say? edgar. he says "the kettle and the pot." wilder. h'm! [he sits down next to scantlebury.] scantlebury. [blowing out his cheeks.] i shall boil if i don't get that screen. [underwood and enid enter with a screen, which they place before the fire. enid is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is twenty-eight years old.] enid. put it closer, frank. will that do, mr. wilder? it's the highest we've got. wilder. thanks, capitally. scantlebury. [turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] ah! merci, madame! enid. is there anything else you want, father? [anthony shakes his head.] edgar--anything? edgar. you might give me a "j" nib, old girl. enid. there are some down there by mr. scantlebury. scantlebury. [handing a little box of nibs.] ah! your brother uses "j's." what does the manager use? [with expansive politeness.] what does your husband use, mrs. underwood? underwood. a quill! scantlebury. the homely product of the goose. [he holds out quills.] underwood. [drily.] thanks, if you can spare me one. [he takes a quill.] what about lunch, enid? enid. [stopping at the double-doors and looking back.] we're going to have lunch here, in the drawing-room, so you need n't hurry with your meeting. [wanklin and wilder bow, and she goes out.] scantlebury. [rousing himself, suddenly.] ah! lunch! that hotel-- dreadful! did you try the whitebait last night? fried fat! wilder. past twelve! are n't you going to read the minutes, tench? tench. [looking for the chairman's assent, reads in a rapid and monotonous voice.] "at a board meeting held the st of january at the company's offices, , cannon street, e.c. present--mr. anthony in the chair, messrs. f. h. wilder, william scantlebury, oliver wanklin, and edgar anthony. read letters from the manager dated january th, d, th, th, relative to the strike at the company's works. read letters to the manager of january st, th, th, th. read letter from mr. simon harness, of the central union, asking for an interview with the board. read letter from the men's committee, signed david roberts, james green, john bulgin, henry thomas, george rous, desiring conference with the board; and it was resolved that a special board meeting be called for february th at the house of the manager, for the purpose of discussing the situation with mr. simon harness and the men's committee on the spot. passed twelve transfers, signed and sealed nine certificates and one balance certificate." [he pushes the book over to the chairman.] anthony. [with a heavy sigh.] if it's your pleasure, sign the same. [he signs, moving the pen with difficulty. ] wanklin. what's the union's game, tench? they have n't made up their split with the men. what does harness want this interview for? tench. hoping we shall come to a compromise, i think, sir; he's having a meeting with the men this afternoon. wilder. harness! ah! he's one of those cold-blooded, cool-headed chaps. i distrust them. i don't know that we didn't make a mistake to come down. what time'll the men be here? underwood. any time now. wilder. well, if we're not ready, they'll have to wait--won't do them any harm to cool their heels a bit. scantlebury. [slowly.] poor devils! it's snowing. what weather! underwood. [with meaning slowness.] this house'll be the warmest place they've been in this winter. wilder. well, i hope we're going to settle this business in time for me to catch the . . i've got to take my wife to spain to-morrow. [chattily.] my old father had a strike at his works in ' ; just such a february as this. they wanted to shoot him. wanklin. what! in the close season? wilder. by george, there was no close season for employers then! he used to go down to his office with a pistol in his pocket. scantlebury. [faintly alarmed.] not seriously? wilder. [with finality.] ended in his shootin' one of 'em in the legs. scantlebury. [unavoidably feeling his thigh.] no? which? anthony. [lifting the agenda paper.] to consider the policy of the board in relation to the strike. [there is a silence.] wilder. it's this infernal three-cornered duel--the union, the men, and ourselves. wanklin. we need n't consider the union. wilder. it's my experience that you've always got to, consider the union, confound them! if the union were going to withdraw their support from the men, as they've done, why did they ever allow them to strike at all? edgar. we've had that over a dozen times. wilder. well, i've never understood it! it's beyond me. they talk of the engineers' and furnace-men's demands being excessive--so they are--but that's not enough to make the union withdraw their support. what's behind it? underwood. fear of strikes at harper's and tinewell's. wilder. [with triumph.] afraid of other strikes--now, that's a reason! why could n't we have been told that before? underwood. you were. tench. you were absent from the board that day, sir. scantlebury. the men must have seen they had no chance when the union gave them up. it's madness. underwood. it's roberts! wilder. just our luck, the men finding a fanatical firebrand like roberts for leader. [a pause.] wanklin. [looking at anthony.] well? wilder. [breaking in fussily.] it's a regular mess. i don't like the position we're in; i don't like it; i've said so for a long time. [looking at wanklin.] when wanklin and i came down here before christmas it looked as if the men must collapse. you thought so too, underwood. underwood. yes. wilder. well, they haven't! here we are, going from bad to worse losing our customers--shares going down! scantlebury. [shaking his head.] m'm! m'm! wanklin. what loss have we made by this strike, tench? tench. over fifty thousand, sir! scantlebury, [pained.] you don't say! wilder. we shall never got it back. tench. no, sir. wilder. who'd have supposed the men were going to stick out like this--nobody suggested that. [looking angrily at tench.] scantlebury. [shaking his head.] i've never liked a fight--never shall. anthony. no surrender! [all look at him.] wilder. who wants to surrender? [anthony looks at him.] i--i want to act reasonably. when the men sent roberts up to the board in december--then was the time. we ought to have humoured him; instead of that the chairman--[dropping his eyes before anthony's]--er--we snapped his head off. we could have got them in then by a little tact. anthony. no compromise! wilder. there we are! this strike's been going on now since october, and as far as i can see it may last another six months. pretty mess we shall be in by then. the only comfort is, the men'll be in a worse! edgar. [to underwood.] what sort of state are they really in, frank? underwood. [without expression.] damnable! wilder. well, who on earth would have thought they'd have held on like this without support! underwood. those who know them. wilder. i defy any one to know them! and what about tin? price going up daily. when we do get started we shall have to work off our contracts at the top of the market. wanklin. what do you say to that, chairman? anthony. can't be helped! wilder. shan't pay a dividend till goodness knows when! scantlebury. [with emphasis.] we ought to think of the shareholders. [turning heavily.] chairman, i say we ought to think of the shareholders. [anthony mutters.] scantlebury. what's that? tench. the chairman says he is thinking of you, sir. scantlebury. [sinking back into torpor.] cynic! wilder. it's past a joke. i don't want to go without a dividend for years if the chairman does. we can't go on playing ducks and drakes with the company's prosperity. edgar. [rather ashamedly.] i think we ought to consider the men. [all but anthony fidget in their seats.] scantlebury. [with a sigh.] we must n't think of our private feelings, young man. that'll never do. edgar. [ironically.] i'm not thinking of our feelings. i'm thinking of the men's. wilder. as to that--we're men of business. wanklin. that is the little trouble. edgar. there's no necessity for pushing things so far in the face of all this suffering--it's--it's cruel. [no one speaks, as though edgar had uncovered something whose existence no man prizing his self-respect could afford to recognise.] wanklin. [with an ironical smile.] i'm afraid we must n't base our policy on luxuries like sentiment. edgar. i detest this state of things. anthony. we did n't seek the quarrel. edgar. i know that sir, but surely we've gone far enough. anthony. no. [all look at one another.] wanklin. luxuries apart, chairman, we must look out what we're doing. anthony. give way to the men once and there'll be no end to it. wanklin. i quite agree, but---- [anthony shakes his head] you make it a question of bedrock principle? [anthony nods.] luxuries again, chairman! the shares are below par. wilder. yes, and they'll drop to a half when we pass the next dividend. scantlebury. [with alarm.] come, come! not so bad as that. wilder. [grimly.] you'll see! [craning forward to catch anthony's speech.] i didn't catch---- tench. [hesitating.] the chairman says, sir, "fais que--que--devra." edgar. [sharply.] my father says: "do what we ought--and let things rip." wilder. tcha! scantlebury. [throwing up his hands.] the chairman's a stoic--i always said the chairman was a stoic. wilder. much good that'll do us. wanklin. [suavely.] seriously, chairman, are you going to let the ship sink under you, for the sake of--a principle? anthony. she won't sink. scantlebury. [with alarm.] not while i'm on the board i hope. anthony. [with a twinkle.] better rat, scantlebury. scantlebury. what a man! anthony. i've always fought them; i've never been beaten yet. wanklin. we're with you in theory, chairman. but we're not all made of cast-iron. anthony. we've only to hold on. wilder. [rising and going to the fire.] and go to the devil as fast as we can! anthony. better go to the devil than give in! wilder. [fretfully.] that may suit you, sir, but it does n't suit me, or any one else i should think. [anthony looks him in the face-a silence.] edgar. i don't see how we can get over it that to go on like this means starvation to the men's wives and families. [wilder turns abruptly to the fire, and scantlebury puts out a hand to push the idea away.] wanklin. i'm afraid again that sounds a little sentimental. edgar. men of business are excused from decency, you think? wilder. nobody's more sorry for the men than i am, but if they [lashing himself] choose to be such a pig-headed lot, it's nothing to do with us; we've quite enough on our hands to think of ourselves and the shareholders. edgar. [irritably.] it won't kill the shareholders to miss a dividend or two; i don't see that that's reason enough for knuckling under. scantlebury. [with grave discomfort.] you talk very lightly of your dividends, young man; i don't know where we are. wilder. there's only one sound way of looking at it. we can't go on ruining ourselves with this strike. anthony. no caving in! scantlebury. [with a gesture of despair.] look at him! [anthony's leaning back in his chair. they do look at him.] wilder. [returning to his seat.] well, all i can say is, if that's the chairman's view, i don't know what we've come down here for. anthony. to tell the men that we've got nothing for them---- [grimly.] they won't believe it till they hear it spoken in plain english. wilder. h'm! shouldn't be a bit surprised if that brute roberts had n't got us down here with the very same idea. i hate a man with a grievance. edgar. [resentfully.] we didn't pay him enough for his discovery. i always said that at the time. wilder. we paid him five hundred and a bonus of two hundred three years later. if that's not enough! what does he want, for goodness' sake? tench. [complainingly.] company made a hundred thousand out of his brains, and paid him seven hundred--that's the way he goes on, sir. wilder. the man's a rank agitator! look here, i hate the unions. but now we've got harness here let's get him to settle the whole thing. anthony. no! [again they look at him.] underwood. roberts won't let the men assent to that. scantlebury. fanatic! fanatic! wilder. [looking at anthony.] and not the only one! [frost enters from the hall.] frost. [to anthony.] mr. harness from the union, waiting, sir. the men are here too, sir. [anthony nods. underwood goes to the door, returning with harness, a pale, clean-shaven man with hollow cheeks, quick eyes, and lantern jaw--frost has retired.] underwood. [pointing to tench's chair.] sit there next the chairman, harness, won't you? [at harness's appearance, the board have drawn together, as it were, and turned a little to him, like cattle at a dog.] harness. [with a sharp look round, and a bow.] thanks! [he sits--- his accent is slightly nasal.] well, gentlemen, we're going to do business at last, i hope. wilder. depends on what you call business, harness. why don't you make the men come in? harness. [sardonically.] the men are far more in the right than you are. the question with us is whether we shan't begin to support them again. [he ignores them all, except anthony, to whom he turns in speaking.] anthony. support them if you like; we'll put in free labour and have done with it. harness. that won't do, mr. anthony. you can't get free labour, and you know it. anthony. we shall see that. harness. i'm quite frank with you. we were forced to withhold our support from your men because some of their demands are in excess of current rates. i expect to make them withdraw those demands to-day: if they do, take it straight from me, gentlemen, we shall back them again at once. now, i want to see something fixed upon before i go back to-night. can't we have done with this old-fashioned tug-of-war business? what good's it doing you? why don't you recognise once for all that these people are men like yourselves, and want what's good for them just as you want what's good for you [bitterly.] your motor-cars, and champagne, and eight-course dinners. anthony. if the men will come in, we'll do something for them. harness. [ironically.] is that your opinion too, sir--and yours-- and yours? [the directors do not answer.] well, all i can say is: it's a kind of high and mighty aristocratic tone i thought we'd grown out of--seems i was mistaken. anthony. it's the tone the men use. remains to be seen which can hold out longest--they without us, or we without them. harness. as business men, i wonder you're not ashamed of this waste of force, gentlemen. you know what it'll all end in. anthony. what? harness. compromise--it always does. scantlebury. can't you persuade the men that their interests are the same as ours? harness. [turning, ironically.] i could persuade them of that, sir, if they were. wilder. come, harness, you're a clever man, you don't believe all the socialistic claptrap that's talked nowadays. there 's no real difference between their interests and ours. harness. there's just one very simple question i'd like to put to you. will you pay your men one penny more than they force you to pay them? [wilder is silent.] wanklin. [chiming in.] i humbly thought that not to pay more than was necessary was the a b c of commerce. harness. [with irony.] yes, that seems to be the a b c of commerce, sir; and the a b c of commerce is between your interests and the men's. scantlebury. [whispering.] we ought to arrange something. harness. [drily.] am i to understand then, gentlemen, that your board is going to make no concessions? [wanklin and wilder bend forward as if to speak, but stop.] anthony. [nodding.] none. [wanklin and wilder again bend forward, and scantlebury gives an unexpected grunt.] harness. you were about to say something, i believe? [but scantlebury says nothing.] edgar. [looking up suddenly.] we're sorry for the state of the men. harness. [icily.] the men have no use for your pity, sir. what they want is justice. anthony. then let them be just. harness. for that word "just" read "humble," mr. anthony. why should they be humble? barring the accident of money, are n't they as good men as you? anthony. cant! harness. well, i've been five years in america. it colours a man's notions. scantlebury. [suddenly, as though avenging his uncompleted grunt.] let's have the men in and hear what they've got to say! [anthony nods, and underwood goes out by the single door.] harness. [drily.] as i'm to have an interview with them this afternoon, gentlemen, i 'll ask you to postpone your final decision till that's over. [again anthony nods, and taking up his glass drinks.] [underwood comes in again, followed by roberts, green, bulgin, thomas, rous. they file in, hat in hand, and stand silent in a row. roberts is lean, of middle height, with a slight stoop. he has a little rat-gnawn, brown-grey beard, moustaches, high cheek-bones, hollow cheeks, small fiery eyes. he wears an old and grease-stained blue serge suit, and carries an old bowler hat. he stands nearest the chairman. green, next to him, has a clean, worn face, with a small grey goatee beard and drooping moustaches, iron spectacles, and mild, straightforward eyes. he wears an overcoat, green with age, and a linen collar. next to him is bulgin, a tall, strong man, with a dark moustache, and fighting jaw, wearing a red muffler, who keeps changing his cap from one hand to the other. next to him is thomas, an old man with a grey moustache, full beard, and weatherbeaten, bony face, whose overcoat discloses a lean, plucked-looking neck. on his right, rous, the youngest of the five, looks like a soldier; he has a glitter in his eyes.] underwood. [pointing.] there are some chairs there against the wall, roberts; won't you draw them up and sit down? roberts. thank you, mr. underwood--we'll stand in the presence of the board. [he speaks in a biting and staccato voice, rolling his r's, pronouncing his a's like an italian a, and his consonants short and crisp.] how are you, mr. harness? did n't expect t' have the pleasure of seeing you till this afternoon. harness. [steadily.] we shall meet again then, roberts. roberts. glad to hear that; we shall have some news for you to take to your people. anthony. what do the men want? roberts. [acidly.] beg pardon, i don't quite catch the chairman's remark. tench. [from behind the chairman's chair.] the chairman wishes to know what the men have to say. roberts. it's what the board has to say we've come to hear. it's for the board to speak first. anthony. the board has nothing to say. roberts. [looking along the line of men.] in that case we're wasting the directors' time. we'll be taking our feet off this pretty carpet. [he turns, the men move slowly, as though hypnotically influenced.] wanklin: [suavely.] come, roberts, you did n't give us this long cold journey for the pleasure of saying that. thomas. [a pure welshman.] no, sir, an' what i say iss---- roberts.[bitingly.] go on, henry thomas, go on. you 're better able to speak to the--directors than me. [thomas is silent.] tench. the chairman means, roberts, that it was the men who asked for the conference, the board wish to hear what they have to say. roberts. gad! if i was to begin to tell ye all they have to say, i wouldn't be finished to-day. and there'd be some that'd wish they'd never left their london palaces. harness. what's your proposition, man? be reasonable. roberts. you want reason mr. harness? take a look round this afternoon before the meeting. [he looks at the men; no sound escapes them.] you'll see some very pretty scenery. harness. all right my friend; you won't put me off. roberts. [to the men.] we shan't put mr. harness off. have some champagne with your lunch, mr. harness; you'll want it, sir. harness. come, get to business, man! thomas. what we're asking, look you, is just simple justice. roberts. [venomously.] justice from london? what are you talking about, henry thomas? have you gone silly? [thomas is silent.] we know very well what we are--discontented dogs--never satisfied. what did the chairman tell me up in london? that i did n't know what i was talking about. i was a foolish, uneducated man, that knew nothing of the wants of the men i spoke for, edgar. do please keep to the point. anthony. [holding up his hand.] there can only be one master, roberts. roberts. then, be gad, it'll be us. [there is a silence; anthony and roberts stare at one another.] underwood. if you've nothing to say to the directors, roberts, perhaps you 'll let green or thomas speak for the men. [green and thomas look anxiously at roberts, at each other, and the other men.] green. [an englishman.] if i'd been listened to, gentlemen---- thomas. what i'fe got to say iss what we'fe all got to say---- roberts. speak for yourself, henry thomas. scantlebury. [with a gesture of deep spiritual discomfort.] let the poor men call their souls their own! roberts. aye, they shall keep their souls, for it's not much body that you've left them, mr. [with biting emphasis, as though the word were an offence] scantlebury! [to the men.] well, will you speak, or shall i speak for you? rous. [suddenly.] speak out, roberts, or leave it to others. roberts. [ironically.] thank you, george rous. [addressing himself to anthony.] the chairman and board of directors have honoured us by leaving london and coming all this way to hear what we've got to say; it would not be polite to keep them any longer waiting. wilder. well, thank god for that! roberts. ye will not dare to thank him when i have done, mr. wilder, for all your piety. may be your god up in london has no time to listen to the working man. i'm told he is a wealthy god; but if he listens to what i tell him, he will know more than ever he learned in kensington. harness. come, roberts, you have your own god. respect the god of other men. roberts. that's right, sir. we have another god down here; i doubt he is rather different to mr. wilder's. ask henry thomas; he will tell you whether his god and mr. wilder's are the same. [thomas lifts his hand, and cranes his head as though to prophesy.] wanklin. for goodness' sake, let 's keep to the point, roberts. roberts. i rather think it is the point, mr. wanklin. if you can get the god of capital to walk through the streets of labour, and pay attention to what he sees, you're a brighter man than i take you for, for all that you're a radical. anthony. attend to me, roberts! [roberts is silent.] you are here to speak for the men, as i am here to speak for the board. [he looks slowly round.] [wilder, wanklin, and scantlebury make movements of uneasiness, and edgar gazes at the floor. a faint smile comes on harness's face.] now then, what is it? roberts. right, sir! [throughout all that follows, he and anthony look fixedly upon each other. men and directors show in their various ways suppressed uneasiness, as though listening to words that they themselves would not have spoken.] the men can't afford to travel up to london; and they don't trust you to believe what they say in black and white. they know what the post is [he darts a look at underwood and tench], and what directors' meetings are: "refer it to the manager--let the manager advise us on the men's condition. can we squeeze them a little more?" underwood. [in a low voice.] don't hit below the belt, roberts! roberts. is it below the belt, mr. underwood? the men know. when i came up to london, i told you the position straight. an' what came of it? i was told i did n't know what i was talkin' about. i can't afford to travel up to london to be told that again. anthony. what have you to say for the men? roberts. i have this to say--and first as to their condition. ye shall 'ave no need to go and ask your manager. ye can't squeeze them any more. every man of us is well-nigh starving. [a surprised murmur rises from the men. roberts looks round.] ye wonder why i tell ye that? every man of us is going short. we can't be no worse off than we've been these weeks past. ye need n't think that by waiting yell drive us to come in. we'll die first, the whole lot of us. the men have sent for ye to know, once and for all, whether ye are going to grant them their demands. i see the sheet of paper in the secretary's hand. [tench moves nervously.] that's it, i think, mr. tench. it's not very large. tench. [nodding.] yes. roberts. there's not one sentence of writing on that paper that we can do without. [a movement amongst the men. roberts turns on them sharply.] isn't that so? [the men assent reluctantly. anthony takes from tench the paper and peruses it.] not one single sentence. all those demands are fair. we have not. asked anything that we are not entitled to ask. what i said up in london, i say again now: there is not anything on that piece of paper that a just man should not ask, and a just man give. [a pause.] anthony. there is not one single demand on this paper that we will grant. [in the stir that follows on these words, roberts watches the directors and anthony the men. wilder gets up abruptly and goes over to the fire.] roberts. d' ye mean that? anthony. i do. [wilder at the fire makes an emphatic movement of disgust.] roberts. [noting it, with dry intensity.] ye best know whether the condition of the company is any better than the condition of the men. [scanning the directors' faces.] ye best know whether ye can afford your tyranny--but this i tell ye: if ye think the men will give way the least part of an inch, ye're making the worst mistake ye ever made. [he fixes his eyes on scantlebury.] ye think because the union is not supporting us--more shame to it!--that we'll be coming on our knees to you one fine morning. ye think because the men have got their wives an' families to think of--that it's just a question of a week or two---- anthony. it would be better if you did not speculate so much on what we think. roberts. aye! it's not much profit to us! i will say this for you, mr. anthony--ye know your own mind! [staying at anthony.] i can reckon on ye! anthony. [ironically.] i am obliged to you! roberts. and i know mine. i tell ye this: the men will send their wives and families where the country will have to keep them; an' they will starve sooner than give way. i advise ye, mr. anthony, to prepare yourself for the worst that can happen to your company. we are not so ignorant as you might suppose. we know the way the cat is jumping. your position is not all that it might be--not exactly! anthony. be good enough to allow us to judge of our position for ourselves. go back, and reconsider your own. roberts. [stepping forward.] mr. anthony, you are not a young man now; from the time i remember anything ye have been an enemy to every man that has come into your works. i don't say that ye're a mean man, or a cruel man, but ye've grudged them the say of any word in their own fate. ye've fought them down four times. i've heard ye say ye love a fight--mark my words--ye're fighting the last fight ye'll ever fight! [tench touches roberts's sleeve.] underwood. roberts! roberts! roberts. roberts! roberts! i must n't speak my mind to the chairman, but the chairman may speak his mind to me! wilder. what are things coming to? anthony, [with a grim smile at wilder.] go on, roberts; say what you like! roberts. [after a pause.] i have no more to say. anthony. the meeting stands adjourned to five o'clock. wanklin. [in a low voice to underwood.] we shall never settle anything like this. roberts. [bitingly.] we thank the chairman and board of directors for their gracious hearing. [he moves towards the door; the men cluster together stupefied; then rous, throwing up his head, passes roberts and goes out. the others follow.] roberts. [with his hand on the door--maliciously.] good day, gentlemen! [he goes out.] harness. [ironically.] i congratulate you on the conciliatory spirit that's been displayed. with your permission, gentlemen, i'll be with you again at half-past five. good morning! [he bows slightly, rests his eyes on anthony, who returns his stare unmoved, and, followed by underwood, goes out. there is a moment of uneasy silence. underwood reappears in the doorway.] wilder. [with emphatic disgust.] well! [the double-doors are opened.] enid. [standing in the doorway.] lunch is ready. [edgar, getting up abruptly, walks out past his sister.] wilder. coming to lunch, scantlebury? scantlebury. [rising heavily.] i suppose so, i suppose so. it's the only thing we can do. [they go out through the double-doors.] wanklin. [in a low voice.] do you really mean to fight to a finish, chairman? [anthony nods.] wanklin. take care! the essence of things is to know when to stop. [anthony does not answer.] wanklin. [very gravely.] this way disaster lies. the ancient trojans were fools to your father, mrs. underwood. [he goes out through the double-doors.] enid. i want to speak to father, frank. [underwood follows wanklin out. tench, passing round the table, is restoring order to the scattered pens and papers.] enid. are n't you coming, dad? [anthony shakes his head. enid looks meaningly at tench.] enid. won't you go and have some lunch, mr. tench? tench. [with papers in his hand.] thank you, ma'am, thank you! [he goes slowly, looking back.] enid. [shutting the doors.] i do hope it's settled, father! anthony. no! enid. [very disappointed.] oh! have n't you done anything! [anthony shakes his head.] enid. frank says they all want to come to a compromise, really, except that man roberts. anthony. i don't. enid. it's such a horrid position for us. if you were the wife of the manager, and lived down here, and saw it all. you can't realise, dad! anthony. indeed? enid. we see all the distress. you remember my maid annie, who married roberts? [anthony nods.] it's so wretched, her heart's weak; since the strike began, she has n't even been getting proper food. i know it for a fact, father. anthony. give her what she wants, poor woman! enid. roberts won't let her take anything from us. anthony. [staring before him.] i can't be answerable for the men's obstinacy. enid. they're all suffering. father! do stop it, for my sake! anthony. [with a keen look at her.] you don't understand, my dear. enid. if i were on the board, i'd do something. anthony. what would you do? enid. it's because you can't bear to give way. it's so---- anthony. well? enid. so unnecessary. anthony. what do you know about necessity? read your novels, play your music, talk your talk, but don't try and tell me what's at the bottom of a struggle like this. enid. i live down here, and see it. anthony. what d' you imagine stands between you and your class and these men that you're so sorry for? enid. [coldly.] i don't know what you mean, father. anthony. in a few years you and your children would be down in the condition they're in, but for those who have the eyes to see things as they are and the backbone to stand up for themselves. enid. you don't know the state the men are in. anthony. i know it well enough. enid. you don't, father; if you did, you would n't anthony. it's you who don't know the simple facts of the position. what sort of mercy do you suppose you'd get if no one stood between you and the continual demands of labour? this sort of mercy-- [he puts his hand up to his throat and squeezes it.] first would go your sentiments, my dear; then your culture, and your comforts would be going all the time! enid. i don't believe in barriers between classes. anthony. you--don't--believe--in--barriers--between the classes? enid. [coldly.] and i don't know what that has to do with this question. anthony. it will take a generation or two for you to understand. enid. it's only you and roberts, father, and you know it! [anthony thrusts out his lower lip.] it'll ruin the company. anthony. allow me to judge of that. enid. [resentfully.] i won't stand by and let poor annie roberts suffer like this! and think of the children, father! i warn you. anthony. [with a grim smile.] what do you propose to do? enid. that's my affair. [anthony only looks at her.] enid. [in a changed voice, stroking his sleeve.] father, you know you oughtn't to have this strain on you--you know what dr. fisher said! anthony. no old man can afford to listen to old women. enid. but you have done enough, even if it really is such a matter of principle with you. anthony. you think so? enid. don't dad! [her face works.] you--you might think of us! anthony. i am. enid. it'll break you down. anthony. [slowly.] my dear, i am not going to funk; on that you may rely. [re-enter tench with papers; he glances at them, then plucking up courage.] tench. beg pardon, madam, i think i'd rather see these papers were disposed of before i get my lunch. [enid, after an impatient glance at him, looks at her father, turns suddenly, and goes into the drawing-room.] tench. [holding the papers and a pen to anthony, very nervously.] would you sign these for me, please sir? [anthony takes the pen and signs.] tench. [standing with a sheet of blotting-paper behind edgar's chair, begins speaking nervously.] i owe my position to you, sir. anthony. well? tench. i'm obliged to see everything that's going on, sir; i--i depend upon the company entirely. if anything were to happen to it, it'd be disastrous for me. [anthony nods.] and, of course, my wife's just had another; and so it makes me doubly anxious just now. and the rates are really terrible down our way. anthony. [with grim amusement.] not more terrible than they are up mine. tench. no, sir? [very nervously.] i know the company means a great deal to you, sir. anthony. it does; i founded it. tench. yes, sir. if the strike goes on it'll be very serious. i think the directors are beginning to realise that, sir. anthony. [ironically.] indeed? tench. i know you hold very strong views, sir, and it's always your habit to look things in the face; but i don't think the directors-- like it, sir, now they--they see it. anthony. [grimly.] nor you, it seems. tench. [with the ghost of a smile.] no, sir; of course i've got my children, and my wife's delicate; in my position i have to think of these things. [anthony nods.] it was n't that i was going to say, sir, if you'll excuse me---- [hesitates] anthony. out with it, then! tench. i know--from my own father, sir, that when you get on in life you do feel things dreadfully---- anthony. [almost paternally.] come, out with it, trench! tench. i don't like to say it, sir. anthony. [stonily.] you must. tench. [after a pause, desperately bolting it out.] i think the directors are going to throw you over, sir. anthony. [sits in silence.] ring the bell! [tench nervously rings the bell and stands by the fire.] tench. excuse me for saying such a thing. i was only thinking of you, sir. [frost enters from the hall, he comes to the foot of the table, and looks at anthony; tench coveys his nervousness by arranging papers.] anthony. bring me a whiskey and soda. frost. anything to eat, sir? [anthony shakes his head. frost goes to the sideboard, and prepares the drink.] tench. [in a low voice, almost supplicating.] if you could see your way, sir, it would be a great relief to my mind, it would indeed. [he looks up at anthony, who has not moved.] it does make me so very anxious. i haven't slept properly for weeks, sir, and that's a fact. [anthony looks in his face, then slowly shakes his head.] [disheartened.] no, sir? [he goes on arranging papers.] [frost places the whiskey and salver and puts it down by anthony's right hand. he stands away, looking gravely at anthony.] frost. nothing i can get you, sir? [anthony shakes his head.] you're aware, sir, of what the doctor said, sir? anthony. i am. [a pause. frost suddenly moves closer to him, and speaks in a low voice.] frost. this strike, sir; puttin' all this strain on you. excuse me, sir, is it--is it worth it, sir? [anthony mutters some words that are inaudible.] very good, sir! [he turns and goes out into the hall. tench makes two attempts to speak; but meeting his chairman's gaze he drops his eyes, and, turning dismally, he too goes out. anthony is left alone. he grips the glass, tilts it, and drinks deeply; then sets it down with a deep and rumbling sigh, and leans back in his chair.] the curtain falls. act ii scene i it is half-past three. in the kitchen of roberts's cottage a meagre little fire is burning. the room is clean and tidy, very barely furnished, with a brick floor and white-washed walls, much stained with smoke. there is a kettle on the fire. a door opposite the fireplace opens inward from a snowy street. on the wooden table are a cup and saucer, a teapot, knife, and plate of bread and cheese. close to the fireplace in an old arm-chair, wrapped in a rug, sits mrs. roberts, a thin and dark-haired woman about thirty-five, with patient eyes. her hair is not done up, but tied back with a piece of ribbon. by the fire, too, is mrs. yeo; a red-haired, broad-faced person. sitting near the table is mrs. rous, an old lady, ashen-white, with silver hair; by the door, standing, as if about to go, is mrs. bulgin, a little pale, pinched-up woman. in a chair, with her elbows resting on the table, avid her face resting in her hands, sits madge thomas, a good-looking girl, of twenty-two, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark untidy hair. she is listening to the talk, but she neither speaks nor moves. mrs. yeo. so he give me a sixpence, and that's the first bit o' money i seen this week. there an't much 'eat to this fire. come and warm yerself mrs. rous, you're lookin' as white as the snow, you are. mrs. rous. [shivering--placidly.] ah! but the winter my old man was took was the proper winter. seventy-nine that was, when none of you was hardly born--not madge thomas, nor sue bulgin. [looking at them in turn.] annie roberts, 'ow old were you, dear? mrs roberts. seven, mrs. rous. mrs. rous. seven--well, there! a tiny little thing! mrs. yeo. [aggressively.] well, i was ten myself, i remembers it. mrs. rous. [placidly.] the company hadn't been started three years. father was workin' on the acid, that's 'ow he got 'is pisoned-leg. i kep' sayin' to 'im, "father, you've got a pisoned leg." "well," 'e said, "mother, pison or no pison, i can't afford to go a-layin' up." an' two days after, he was on 'is back, and never got up again. it was providence! there was n't none o' these compensation acts then. mrs. yeo. ye had n't no strike that winter! [with grim humour.] this winter's 'ard enough for me. mrs. roberts, you don't want no 'arder winter, do you? wouldn't seem natural to 'ave a dinner, would it, mrs. bulgin? mrs. bulgin. we've had bread and tea last four days. mrs. yeo. you got that friday's laundry job? mrs. bulgin. [dispiritedly.] they said they'd give it me, but when i went last friday, they were full up. i got to go again next week. mrs. yeo. ah! there's too many after that. i send yeo out on the ice to put on the gentry's skates an' pick up what 'e can. stops 'im from broodin' about the 'ouse. mrs. bulgin. [in a desolate, matter-of-fact voice.] leavin' out the men--it's bad enough with the children. i keep 'em in bed, they don't get so hungry when they're not running about; but they're that restless in bed they worry your life out. mrs. yeo. you're lucky they're all so small. it 's the goin' to school that makes 'em 'ungry. don't bulgin give you anythin'? mrs. bulgin. [shakes her head, then, as though by afterthought.] would if he could, i s'pose. mrs. yeo. [sardonically.] what! 'ave n't 'e got no shares in the company? mrs. rous. [rising with tremulous cheerfulness.] well, good-bye, annie roberts, i'm going along home. mrs. roberts. stay an' have a cup of tea, mrs. rous? mrs. rous. [with the faintest smile.] roberts 'll want 'is tea when he comes in. i'll just go an' get to bed; it's warmer there than anywhere. [she moves very shakily towards the door.] mrs. yeo. [rising and giving her an arm.] come on, mother, take my arm; we're all going' the same way. mrs. rous. [taking the arm.]thank you, my dearies! [they go out, followed by mrs. bulgin.] madge. [moving for the first time.] there, annie, you see that! i told george rous, "don't think to have my company till you've made an end of all this trouble. you ought to be ashamed," i said, "with your own mother looking like a ghost, and not a stick to put on the fire. so long as you're able to fill your pipes, you'll let us starve." "i 'll take my oath, madge," he said, "i 've not had smoke nor drink these three weeks!" "well, then, why do you go on with it?" "i can't go back on roberts!" . . . that's it! roberts, always roberts! they'd all drop it but for him. when he talks it's the devil that comes into them. [a silence. mrs. roberts makes a movement of pain.] ah! you don't want him beaten! he's your man. with everybody like their own shadows! [she makes a gesture towards mrs. roberts.] if rous wants me he must give up roberts. if he gave him up--they all would. they're only waiting for a lead. father's against him-- they're all against him in their hearts. mrs. roberts. you won't beat roberts! [they look silently at each other.] madge. won't i? the cowards--when their own mothers and their own children don't know where to turn. mrs. roberts. madge! madge. [looking searchingly at mrs. roberts.] i wonder he can look you in the face. [she squats before the fire, with her hands out to the flame.] harness is here again. they'll have to make up their minds to-day. mrs. roberts. [in a soft, slow voice, with a slight west-country burr.] roberts will never give up the furnace-men and engineers. 't wouldn't be right. madge. you can't deceive me. it's just his pride. [a tapping at the door is heard, the women turn as enid enters. she wears a round fur cap, and a jacket of squirrel's fur. she closes the door behind her.] enid. can i come in, annie? mrs. roberts. [flinching.] miss enid! give mrs. underwood a chair, madge! [madge gives enid the chair she has been sitting on.] enid. thank you! enid. are you any better? mrs. roberts. yes, m'm; thank you, m'm. enid. [looking at the sullen madge as though requesting her departure.] why did you send back the jelly? i call that really wicked of you! mrs. roberts. thank you, m'm, i'd no need for it. enid. of course! it was roberts's doing, wasn't it? how can he let all this suffering go on amongst you? madge. [suddenly.] what suffering? enid. [surprised.] i beg your pardon! madge. who said there was suffering? mrs. roberts. madge! madge. [throwing her shawl over her head.] please to let us keep ourselves to ourselves. we don't want you coming here and spying on us. enid. [confronting her, but without rising.] i did n't speak to you. madge. [in a low, fierce voice.] keep your kind feelings to yourself. you think you can come amongst us, but you're mistaken. go back and tell the manager that. enid. [stonily.] this is not your house. madge. [turning to the door.] no, it is not my house; keep clear of my house, mrs. underwood. [she goes out. enid taps her fingers on the table.] mrs. roberts. please to forgive madge thomas, m'm; she's a bit upset to-day. [a pause.] enid. [looking at her.] oh, i think they're so stupid, all of them. mrs. roberts. [with a faint smile]. yes, m'm. enid. is roberts out? mrs. roberts. yes, m'm. enid. it is his doing, that they don't come to an agreement. now is n't it, annie? mrs. roberts. [softly, with her eyes on enid, and moving the fingers of one hand continually on her breast.] they do say that your father, m'm---- enid. my father's getting an old man, and you know what old men are. mrs. roberts. i am sorry, m'm. enid. [more softly.] i don't expect you to feel sorry, annie. i know it's his fault as well as roberts's. mrs. roberts. i'm sorry for any one that gets old, m'm; it 's dreadful to get old, and mr. anthony was such a fine old man, i always used to think. enid. [impulsively.] he always liked you, don't you remember? look here, annie, what can i do? i do so want to know. you don't get what you ought to have. [going to the fire, she takes the kettle off, and looks for coals.] and you're so naughty sending back the soup and things. mrs. roberts. [with a faint smile.] yes, m'm? enid. [resentfully.] why, you have n't even got coals? mrs. roberts. if you please, m'm, to put the kettle on again; roberts won't have long for his tea when he comes in. he's got to meet the men at four. enid. [putting the kettle on.] that means he'll lash them into a fury again. can't you stop his going, annie? [mrs. roberts smiles ironically.] have you tried? [a silence.] does he know how ill you are? mrs. roberts. it's only my weak 'eard, m'm. enid. you used to be so well when you were with us. mrs. roberts. [stiffening.] roberts is always good to me. enid. but you ought to have everything you want, and you have nothing! mrs. roberts. [appealingly.] they tell me i don't look like a dyin' woman? enid. of course you don't; if you could only have proper--- will you see my doctor if i send him to you? i'm sure he'd do you good. mrs. roberts. [with faint questioning.] yes, m'm. enid. madge thomas ought n't to come here; she only excites you. as if i did n't know what suffering there is amongst the men! i do feel for them dreadfully, but you know they have gone too far. mrs. roberts. [continually moving her fingers.] they say there's no other way to get better wages, m'm. enid. [earnestly.] but, annie, that's why the union won't help them. my husband's very sympathetic with the men, but he says they are not underpaid. mrs. roberts. no, m'm? enid. they never think how the company could go on if we paid the wages they want. mrs. roberts. [with an effort.] but the dividends having been so big, m'm. enid. [takes aback.] you all seem to think the shareholders are rich men, but they're not--most of them are really no better off than working men. [mrs. roberts smiles.] they have to keep up appearances. mrs. roberts. yes, m'm? enid. you don't have to pay rates and taxes, and a hundred other things that they do. if the men did n't spend such a lot in drink and betting they'd be quite well off! mrs. roberts. they say, workin' so hard, they must have some pleasure. enid. but surely not low pleasure like that. mrs. roberts. [a little resentfully.] roberts never touches a drop; and he's never had a bet in his life. enid. oh! but he's not a com----i mean he's an engineer---- a superior man. mrs. roberts. yes, m'm. roberts says they've no chance of other pleasures. enid. [musing.] of course, i know it's hard. mrs. roberts. [with a spice of malice.] and they say gentlefolk's just as bad. enid. [with a smile.] i go as far as most people, annie, but you know, yourself, that's nonsense. mrs. roberts. [with painful effort.] a lot 'o the men never go near the public; but even they don't save but very little, and that goes if there's illness. enid. but they've got their clubs, have n't they? mrs. roberts. the clubs only give up to eighteen shillin's a week, m'm, and it's not much amongst a family. roberts says workin' folk have always lived from hand to mouth. sixpence to-day is worth more than a shillin' to-morrow, that's what they say. enid. but that's the spirit of gambling. mrs. roberts. [with a sort of excitement.] roberts says a working man's life is all a gamble, from the time 'e 's born to the time 'e dies. [enid leans forward, interested. mrs. roberts goes on with a growing excitement that culminates in the personal feeling of the last words.] he says, m'm, that when a working man's baby is born, it's a toss-up from breath to breath whether it ever draws another, and so on all 'is life; an' when he comes to be old, it's the workhouse or the grave. he says that without a man is very near, and pinches and stints 'imself and 'is children to save, there can't be neither surplus nor security. that's why he wouldn't have no children [she sinks back], not though i wanted them. enid. yes, yes, i know! mrs. roberts. no you don't, m'm. you've got your children, and you'll never need to trouble for them. enid. [gently.] you oughtn't to be talking so much, annie. [then, in spite of herself.] but roberts was paid a lot of money, was n't he, for discovering that process? mrs. roberts. [on the defensive.] all roberts's savin's have gone. he 's always looked forward to this strike. he says he's no right to a farthing when the others are suffering. 't is n't so with all o' them! some don't seem to care no more than that--so long as they get their own. enid. i don't see how they can be expected to when they 're suffering like this. [in a changed voice.] but roberts ought to think of you! it's all terrible----! the kettle's boiling. shall i make the tea? [she takes the teapot and, seeing tea there, pours water into it.] won't you have a cup? mrs. roberts. no, thank you, m'm. [she is listening, as though for footsteps.] i'd--sooner you did n't see roberts, m'm, he gets so wild. enid. oh! but i must, annie; i'll be quite calm, i promise. mrs. roberts. it's life an' death to him, m'm. enid. [very gently.] i'll get him to talk to me outside, we won't excite you. mrs. roberts. [faintly.] no, m'm. [she gives a violent start. roberts has come in, unseen.] roberts. [removing his hat--with subtle mockery.] beg pardon for coming in; you're engaged with a lady, i see. enid. can i speak to you, mr. roberts? roberts. whom have i the pleasure of addressing, ma'am? enid. but surely you know me! i 'm mrs. underwood. roberts. [with a bow of malice.] the daughter of our chairman. enid. [earnestly.] i've come on purpose to speak to you; will you come outside a minute? [she looks at mrs. roberts.] roberts. [hanging up his hat.] i have nothing to say, ma'am. enid. but i must speak to you, please. [she moves towards the door.] roberts. [with sudden venom.] i have not the time to listen! mrs. roberts. david! enid. mr. roberts, please! roberts. [taking off his overcoat.] i am sorry to disoblige a lady --mr. anthony's daughter. enid. [wavering, then with sudden decision.] mr. roberts, i know you've another meeting of the men. [roberts bows.] i came to appeal to you. please, please, try to come to some compromise; give way a little, if it's only for your own sakes! roberts. [speaking to himself.] the daughter of mr. anthony begs me to give way a little, if it's only for our own sakes! enid. for everybody's sake; for your wife's sake. roberts. for my wife's sake, for everybody's sake--for the sake of mr. anthony. enid. why are you so bitter against my father? he has never done anything to you. roberts. has he not? enid. he can't help his views, any more than you can help yours. roberts. i really did n't know that i had a right to views! enid. he's an old man, and you---- [seeing his eyes fixed on her, she stops.] roberts. [without raising his voice.] if i saw mr. anthony going to die, and i could save him by lifting my hand, i would not lift the little finger of it. enid. you--you----[she stops again, biting her lips.] roberts. i would not, and that's flat! enid. [coldly.] you don't mean what you say, and you know it! roberts. i mean every word of it. enid. but why? roberts. [with a flash.] mr. anthony stands for tyranny! that's why! enid. nonsense! [mrs. roberts makes a movement as if to rise, but sinks back in her chair.] enid. [with an impetuous movement.] annie! roberts. please not to touch my wife! enid. [recoiling with a sort of horror.] i believe--you are mad. roberts. the house of a madman then is not the fit place for a lady. enid. i 'm not afraid of you. roberts. [bowing.] i would not expect the daughter of mr. anthony to be afraid. mr. anthony is not a coward like the rest of them. enid. [suddenly.] i suppose you think it brave, then, to go on with the struggle. roberts. does mr. anthony think it brave to fight against women and children? mr. anthony is a rich man, i believe; does he think it brave to fight against those who have n't a penny? does he think it brave to set children crying with hunger, an' women shivering with cold? enid. [putting up her hand, as though warding off a blow.] my father is acting on his principles, and you know it! roberts. and so am i! enid. you hate us; and you can't bear to be beaten! roberts. neither can mr. anthony, for all that he may say. enid. at any rate you might have pity on your wife. [mrs. roberts who has her hand pressed to her heart, takes it away, and tries to calm her breathing.] roberts. madam, i have no more to say. [he takes up the loaf. there is a knock at the door, and underwood comes in. he stands looking at them, enid turns to him, then seems undecided.] underwood. enid! roberts. [ironically.] ye were not needing to come for your wife, mr. underwood. we are not rowdies. underwood. i know that, roberts. i hope mrs. roberts is better. [roberts turns away without answering. come, enid!] enid. i make one more appeal to you, mr. roberts, for the sake of your wife. roberts. [with polite malice.] if i might advise ye, ma'am--make it for the sake of your husband and your father. [enid, suppressing a retort, goes out. underwood opens the door for her and follows. roberts, going to the fire, holds out his hands to the dying glow.] roberts. how goes it, my girl? feeling better, are you? [mrs. roberts smiles faintly. he brings his overcoat and wraps it round her.] [looking at his watch.] ten minutes to four! [as though inspired.] i've seen their faces, there's no fight in them, except for that one old robber. mrs. roberts. won't you stop and eat, david? you've 'ad nothing all day! roberts. [putting his hand to his throat.] can't swallow till those old sharks are out o' the town: [he walks up and down.] i shall have a bother with the men--there's no heart in them, the cowards. blind as bats, they are--can't see a day before their noses. mrs. roberts. it's the women, david. roberts. ah! so they say! they can remember the women when their own bellies speak! the women never stop them from the drink; but from a little suffering to themselves in a sacred cause, the women stop them fast enough. mrs. roberts. but think o' the children, david. roberts. ah! if they will go breeding themselves for slaves, without a thought o' the future o' them they breed---- mrs. roberts. [gasping.] that's enough, david; don't begin to talk of that--i won't--i can't---- roberts. [staring at her.] now, now, my girl! mrs. roberts. [breathlessly.] no, no, david--i won't! roberts. there, there! come, come! that's right! [bitterly.] not one penny will they put by for a day like this. not they! hand to mouth--gad!--i know them! they've broke my heart. there was no holdin' them at the start, but now the pinch 'as come. mrs. roberts. how can you expect it, david? they're not made of iron. roberts. expect it? wouldn't i expect what i would do meself? wouldn't i starve an' rot rather than give in? what one man can do, another can. mrs. roberts. and the women? roberts. this is not women's work. mrs. roberts. [with a flash of malice.] no, the women may die for all you care. that's their work. roberts. [averting his eyes.] who talks of dying? no one will die till we have beaten these---- [he meets her eyes again, and again turns his away. excitedly.] this is what i've been waiting for all these months. to get the old robbers down, and send them home again without a farthin's worth o' change. i 've seen their faces, i tell you, in the valley of the shadow of defeat. [he goes to the peg and takes down his hat.] mrs. roberts. [following with her eyes-softly.] take your overcoat, david; it must be bitter cold. roberts. [coming up to her-his eyes are furtive.] no, no! there, there, stay quiet and warm. i won't be long, my girl. mrs. roberts. [with soft bitterness.] you'd better take it. [she lifts the coat. but roberts puts it back, and wraps it round her. he tries to meet her eyes, but cannot. mrs. roberts stays huddled in the coat, her eyes, that follow him about, are half malicious, half yearning. he looks at his watch again, and turns to go. in the doorway he meets jan thomas, a boy of ten in clothes too big for him, carrying a penny whistle.] roberts. hallo, boy! [he goes. jan stops within a yard of mrs. roberts, and stares at her without a word.] mrs. roberts. well, jan! jan. father 's coming; sister madge is coming. [he sits at the table, and fidgets with his whistle; he blows three vague notes; then imitates a cuckoo.] [there is a tap on the door. old thomas comes in.] thomas. a very coot tay to you, ma'am. it is petter that you are. mrs. roberts. thank you, mr. thomas. thomas. [nervously.] roberts in? mrs. roberts. just gone on to the meeting, mr. thomas. thomas. [with relief, becoming talkative.] this is fery unfortunate, look you! i came to tell him that we must make terms with london. it is a fery great pity he is gone to the meeting. he will be kicking against the pricks, i am thinking. mrs. roberts. [half rising.] he'll never give in, mr. thomas. thomas. you must not be fretting, that is very pat for you. look you, there iss hartly any mans for supporting him now, but the engineers and george rous. [solemnly.] this strike is no longer going with chapel, look you! i have listened carefully, an' i have talked with her. [jan blows.] sst! i don't care what th' others say, i say that chapel means us to be stopping the trouple, that is what i make of her; and it is my opinion that this is the fery best thing for all of us. if it was n't my opinion, i ton't say but it is my opinion, look you. mrs. roberts. [trying to suppress her excitement.] i don't know what'll come to roberts, if you give in. thomas. it iss no disgrace whateffer! all that a mortal man coult do he hass tone. it iss against human nature he hass gone; fery natural any man may do that; but chapel has spoken and he must not go against her. [jan imitates the cuckoo.] ton't make that squeaking! [going to the door.] here iss my daughter come to sit with you. a fery goot day, ma'am--no fretting --rememper! [madge comes in and stands at the open door, watching the street.] madge. you'll be late, father; they're beginning. [she catches him by the sleeve.] for the love of god, stand up to him, father--this time! thomas. [detaching his sleeve with dignity.] leave me to do what's proper, girl! [he goes out. madge, in the centre of the open doorway, slowly moves in, as though before the approach of some one.] rous. [appearing in the doorway.] madge! [madge stands with her back to mrs. roberts, staring at him with her head up and her hands behind her.] rous. [who has a fierce distracted look.] madge! i'm going to the meeting. [madge, without moving, smiles contemptuously.] d' ye hear me? [they speak in quick low voices.] madge. i hear! go, and kill your own mother, if you must. [rous seizes her by both her arms. she stands rigid, with her head bent back. he releases her, and he too stands motionless.] rous. i swore to stand by roberts. i swore that! ye want me to go back on what i've sworn. madge. [with slow soft mockery.] you are a pretty lover! rous. madge! madge. [smiling.] i've heard that lovers do what their girls ask them-- [jan sounds the cuckoo's notes] --but that's not true, it seems! rous. you'd make a blackleg of me! madge. [with her eyes half-closed.] do it for me! rous. [dashing his hand across his brow.] damn! i can't! madge. [swiftly.] do it for me! rous. [through his teeth.] don't play the wanton with me! madge. [with a movement of her hand towards jan--quick and low.] i would be that for the children's sake! rous. [in a fierce whisper.] madge! oh, madge! madge. [with soft mockery.] but you can't break your word for me! rous. [with a choke.] then, begod, i can! [he turns and rushes off.] [madge stands, with a faint smile on her face, looking after him. she turns to mrs. roberts.] madge. i have done for roberts! mrs. roberts. [scornfully.] done for my man, with that----! [she sinks back.] madge. [running to her, and feeling her hands.] you're as cold as a stone! you want a drop of brandy. jan, run to the "lion"; say, i sent you for mrs. roberts. mrs. roberts. [with a feeble movement.] i'll just sit quiet, madge. give jan--his--tea. madge. [giving jan a slice of bread.] there, ye little rascal. hold your piping. [going to the fire, she kneels.] it's going out. mrs. roberts. [with a faint smile.] 't is all the same! [jan begins to blow his whistle.] madge. tsht! tsht!--you [jan stops.] mrs. roberts. [smiling.] let 'im play, madge. madge. [on her knees at the fire, listening.] waiting an' waiting. i've no patience with it; waiting an' waiting--that's what a woman has to do! can you hear them at it--i can! [jan begins again to play his whistle; madge gets up; half tenderly she ruffles his hair; then, sitting, leans her elbows on the table, and her chin on her hands. behind her, on mrs. roberts's face the smile has changed to horrified surprise. she makes a sudden movement, sitting forward, pressing her hands against her breast. then slowly she sinks' back; slowly her face loses the look of pain, the smile returns. she fixes her eyes again on jan, and moves her lips and finger to the tune.] the curtain falls. scene ii it is past four. in a grey, failing light, an open muddy space is crowded with workmen. beyond, divided from it by a barbed-wire fence, is the raised towing-path of a canal, on which is moored a barge. in the distance are marshes and snow-covered hills. the "works" high wall runs from the canal across the open space, and ivy the angle of this wall is a rude platform of barrels and boards. on it, harness is standing. roberts, a little apart from the crowd, leans his back against the wall. on the raised towing-path two bargemen lounge and smoke indifferently. harness. [holding out his hand.] well, i've spoken to you straight. if i speak till to-morrow i can't say more. jago. [a dark, sallow, spanish-looking man with a short, thin beard.] mister, want to ask you! can they get blacklegs? bulgin. [menacing.] let 'em try. [there are savage murmurs from the crowd.] brown. [a round-faced man.] where could they get 'em then? evans. [a small, restless, harassed man, with a fighting face.] there's always blacklegs; it's the nature of 'em. there's always men that'll save their own skins. [another savage murmur. there is a movement, and old thomas, joining the crowd, takes his stand in front.] harness. [holding up his hand.] they can't get them. but that won't help you. now men, be reasonable. your demands would have brought on us the burden of a dozen strikes at a time when we were not prepared for them. the unions live by justice, not to one, but all. any fair man will tell you--you were ill-advised! i don't say you go too far for that which you're entitled to, but you're going too far for the moment; you've dug a pit for yourselves. are you to stay there, or are you to climb out? come! lewis. [a clean-cut welshman with a dark moustache.] you've hit it, mister! which is it to be? [another movement in the crowd, and rous, coming quickly, takes his stand next thomas.] harness. cut your demands to the right pattern, and we 'll see you through; refuse, and don't expect me to waste my time coming down here again. i 'm not the sort that speaks at random, as you ought to know by this time. if you're the sound men i take you for--no matter who advises you against it--[he fixes his eyes on roberts] you 'll make up your minds to come in, and trust to us to get your terms. which is it to be? hands together, and victory--or--the starvation you've got now? [a prolonged murmur from the crowd.] jago. [sullenly.] talk about what you know. harness. [lifting his voice above the murmur.] know? [with cold passion.] all that you've been through, my friend, i 've been through--i was through it when i was no bigger than [pointing to a youth] that shaver there; the unions then were n't what they are now. what's made them strong? it's hands together that 's made them strong. i 've been through it all, i tell you, the brand's on my soul yet. i know what you 've suffered--there's nothing you can tell me that i don't know; but the whole is greater than the part, and you are only the part. stand by us, and we will stand by you. [quartering them with his eyes, he waits. the murmuring swells; the men form little groups. green, bulgin, and lewis talk together.] lewis. speaks very sensible, the union chap. green. [quietly.] ah! if i 'd a been listened to, you'd 'ave 'eard sense these two months past. [the bargemen are seen laughing. ] lewis. [pointing.] look at those two blanks over the fence there! bulgin. [with gloomy violence.] they'd best stop their cackle, or i 'll break their jaws. jago. [suddenly.] you say the furnace men's paid enough? harness. i did not say they were paid enough; i said they were paid as much as the furnace men in similar works elsewhere. evans. that's a lie! [hubbub.] what about harper's? harness. [with cold irony.] you may look at home for lies, my man. harper's shifts are longer, the pay works out the same. henry rous. [a dark edition of his brother george.] will ye support us in double pay overtime saturdays? harness. yes, we will. jago. what have ye done with our subscriptions? harness. [coldly.] i have told you what we will do with them. evans. ah! will, it's always will! ye'd have our mates desert us. [hubbub.] bulgin. [shouting.] hold your row! [evans looks round angrily.] harness. [lifting his voice.] those who know their right hands from their lefts know that the unions are neither thieves nor traitors. i 've said my say. figure it out, my lads; when you want me you know where i shall be. [he jumps down, the crowd gives way, he passes through them, and goes away. a bargeman looks after him jerking his pipe with a derisive gesture. the men close up in groups, and many looks are cast at roberts, who stands alone against the wall.] evans. he wants ye to turn blacklegs, that's what he wants. he wants ye to go back on us. sooner than turn blackleg--i 'd starve, i would. bulgin. who's talkin' o' blacklegs--mind what you're saying, will you? blacksmith. [a youth with yellow hair and huge arms.] what about the women? evans. they can stand what we can stand, i suppose, can't they? blacksmith. ye've no wife? evans. an' don't want one! thomas. [raising his voice.] aye! give us the power to come to terms with london, lads. davies. [a dark, slow-fly, gloomy man.] go up the platform, if you got anything to say, go up an' say it. [there are cries of "thomas!" he is pushed towards the platform; he ascends it with difficulty, and bares his head, waiting for silence. a hush.] red-haired youth. [suddenly.] coot old thomas! [a hoarse laugh; the bargemen exchange remarks; a hush again, and thomas begins speaking.] thomas. we are all in the tepth together, and it iss nature that has put us there. henry rous. it's london put us there! evans. it's the union. thomas. it iss not lonton; nor it iss not the union--it iss nature. it iss no disgrace whateffer to a potty to give in to nature. for this nature iss a fery pig thing; it is pigger than what a man is. there iss more years to my hett than to the hett of any one here. it is fery pat, look you, this going against nature. it is pat to make other potties suffer, when there is nothing to pe cot py it. [a laugh. thomas angrily goes on.] what are ye laughing at? it is pat, i say! we are fighting for a principle; there is no potty that shall say i am not a peliever in principle. putt when nature says "no further," then it is no coot snapping your fingers in her face. [a laugh from roberts, and murmurs of approval.] this nature must pe humort. it is a man's pisiness to pe pure, honest, just, and merciful. that's what chapel tells you. [to roberts, angrily.] and, look you, david roberts, chapel tells you ye can do that without going against nature. jago. what about the union? thomas. i ton't trust the union; they haf treated us like tirt. "do what we tell you," said they. i haf peen captain of the furnace-men twenty years, and i say to the union--[excitedly]--"can you tell me then, as well as i can tell you, what iss the right wages for the work that these men do?" for fife and twenty years i haf paid my moneys to the union and--[with great excitement]--for nothings! what iss that but roguery, for all that this mr. harness says! evans. hear, hear. henry rous. get on with you! cut on with it then! thomas. look you, if a man toes not trust me, am i going to trust him? jago. that's right. thomas. let them alone for rogues, and act for ourselves. [murmurs.] blacksmith. that's what we been doin', haven't we? thomas. [with increased excitement.] i wass brought up to do for meself. i wass brought up to go without a thing, if i hat not moneys to puy it. there iss too much, look you, of doing things with other people's moneys. we haf fought fair, and if we haf peen beaten, it iss no fault of ours. gif us the power to make terms with london for ourself; if we ton't succeed, i say it iss petter to take our peating like men, than to tie like togs, or hang on to others' coat-tails to make them do our pisiness for us! evans. [muttering.] who wants to? thomas. [craning.] what's that? if i stand up to a potty, and he knocks me town, i am not to go hollering to other potties to help me; i am to stand up again; and if he knocks me town properly, i am to stay there, is n't that right? [laughter.] jago. no union! henry rous. union! [murmurs.] [others take up the shout.] evans. blacklegs! [bulgin and the blacksmith shake their fists at evans.] thomas. [with a gesture.] i am an olt man, look you. [a sudden silence, then murmurs again.] lewis. olt fool, with his "no union!" bulgin. them furnace chaps! for twopence i 'd smash the faces o' the lot of them. green. if i'd a been listened to at the first! thomas. [wiping his brow.] i'm comin' now to what i was going to say---- davies. [muttering.] an' time too! thomas. [solemnly.] chapel says: ton't carry on this strife! put an end to it! jago. that's a lie! chapel says go on! thomas. [scornfully.] inteet! i haf ears to my head. red-haired youth. ah! long ones! [a laugh.] jago. your ears have misbeled you then. thomas. [excitedly.] ye cannot be right if i am, ye cannot haf it both ways. red-haired youth. chapel can though! ["the shaver" laughs; there are murmurs from the crowd.] thomas. [fixing his eyes on "the shaver."] ah! ye 're going the roat to tamnation. an' so i say to all of you. if ye co against chapel i will not pe with you, nor will any other got-fearing man. [he steps down from the platform. jago makes his way towards it. there are cries of "don't let 'im go up!"] jago. don't let him go up? that's free speech, that is. [he goes up.] i ain't got much to say to you. look at the matter plain; ye 've come the road this far, and now you want to chuck the journey. we've all been in one boat; and now you want to pull in two. we engineers have stood by you; ye 're ready now, are ye, to give us the go-by? if we'd aknown that before, we'd not a-started out with you so early one bright morning! that's all i 've got to say. old man thomas a'n't got his bible lesson right. if you give up to london, or to harness, now, it's givin' us the chuck--to save your skins--you won't get over that, my boys; it's a dirty thing to do. [he gets down; during his little speech, which is ironically spoken, there is a restless discomfort in the crowd. rous, stepping forward, jumps on the platform. he has an air of fierce distraction. sullen murmurs of disapproval from the crowd.] rous. [speaking with great excitement.] i'm no blanky orator, mates, but wot i say is drove from me. what i say is yuman nature. can a man set an' see 'is mother starve? can 'e now? roberts. [starting forward.] rous! rous. [staring at him fiercely.] sim 'arness said fair! i've changed my mind! roberts. ah! turned your coat you mean! [the crowd manifests a great surprise.] lewis. [apostrophising rous.] hallo! what's turned him round? rous. [speaking with intense excitement.] 'e said fair. "stand by us," 'e said, "and we'll stand by you." that's where we've been makin' our mistake this long time past; and who's to blame fort? [he points at roberts] that man there! "no," 'e said, "fight the robbers," 'e said, "squeeze the breath out o' them!" but it's not the breath out o' them that's being squeezed; it's the breath out of us and ours, and that's the book of truth. i'm no orator, mates, it's the flesh and blood in me that's speakin', it's the heart o' me. [with a menacing, yet half-ashamed movement towards roberts.] he'll speak to you again, mark my words, but don't ye listen. [the crowd groans.] it's hell fire that's on that man's tongue. [roberts is seen laughing.] sim 'arness is right. what are we without the union--handful o' parched leaves--a puff o' smoke. i'm no orator, but i say: chuck it up! chuck it up! sooner than go on starving the women and the children. [the murmurs of acquiescence almost drown the murmurs of dissent.] evans. what's turned you to blacklegging? rous. [with a furious look.] sim 'arness knows what he's talking about. give us power to come to terms with london; i'm no orator, but i say--have done wi' this black misery! [he gives his muter a twist, jerks his head back, and jumps off the platform. the crowd applauds and surges forward. amid cries of "that's enough!" "up union!" "up harness!" roberts quietly ascends the platform. there is a moment of silence.] blacksmith. we don't want to hear you. shut it! henry rous. get down! [amid such cries they surge towards the platform.] evans. [fiercely.] let 'im speak! roberts! roberts! bulgin. [muttering.] he'd better look out that i don't crack his skull. [roberts faces the crowd, probing them with his eyes till they gradually become silent. he begins speaking. one of the bargemen rises and stands.] roberts. you don't want to hear me, then? you'll listen to rous and to that old man, but not to me. you'll listen to sim harness of the union that's treated you so fair; maybe you'll listen to those men from london? ah! you groan! what for? you love their feet on your necks, don't you? [then as bulgin elbows his way towards the platform, with calm bathos.] you'd like to break my jaw, john bulgin. let me speak, then do your smashing, if it gives you pleasure. [bulgin stands motionless and sullen.] am i a liar, a coward, a traitor? if only i were, ye'd listen to me, i'm sure. [the murmurings cease, and there is now dead silence.] is there a man of you here that has less to gain by striking? is there a man of you that had more to lose? is there a man of you that has given up eight hundred pounds since this trouble here began? come now, is there? how much has thomas given up--ten pounds or five, or what? you listened to him, and what had he to say? "none can pretend," he said, "that i'm not a believer in principle--[with biting irony]--but when nature says: 'no further, 't es going agenst nature.'" i tell you if a man cannot say to nature: "budge me from this if ye can!"-- [with a sort of exaltation]his principles are but his belly. "oh, but," thomas says, "a man can be pure and honest, just and merciful, and take off his hat to nature!" i tell you nature's neither pure nor honest, just nor merciful. you chaps that live over the hill, an' go home dead beat in the dark on a snowy night--don't ye fight your way every inch of it? do ye go lyin' down an' trustin' to the tender mercies of this merciful nature? try it and you'll soon know with what ye've got to deal. 't es only by that--[he strikes a blow with his clenched fist]--in nature's face that a man can be a man. "give in," says thomas, "go down on your knees; throw up your foolish fight, an' perhaps," he said, "perhaps your enemy will chuck you down a crust." jago. never! evans. curse them! thomas. i nefer said that. roberts. [bitingly.] if ye did not say it, man, ye meant it. an' what did ye say about chapel? "chapel's against it," ye said. "she 's against it!" well, if chapel and nature go hand in hand, it's the first i've ever heard of it. that young man there-- [pointing to rous]--said i 'ad 'ell fire on my tongue. if i had i would use it all to scorch and wither this talking of surrender. surrendering 's the work of cowards and traitors. henry rous. [as george rous moves forward.] go for him, george-- don't stand his lip! roberts. [flinging out his finger.] stop there, george rous, it's no time this to settle personal matters. [rous stops.] but there was one other spoke to you--mr. simon harness. we have not much to thank mr. harness and the union for. they said to us "desert your mates, or we'll desert you." an' they did desert us. evans. they did. roberts. mr. simon harness is a clever man, but he has come too late. [with intense conviction.] for all that mr. simon harness says, for all that thomas, rous, for all that any man present here can say--we've won the fight! [the crowd sags nearer, looking eagerly up.] [with withering scorn.] you've felt the pinch o't in your bellies. you've forgotten what that fight 'as been; many times i have told you; i will tell you now this once again. the fight o' the country's body and blood against a blood-sucker. the fight of those that spend themselves with every blow they strike and every breath they draw, against a thing that fattens on them, and grows and grows by the law of merciful nature. that thing is capital! a thing that buys the sweat o' men's brows, and the tortures o' their brains, at its own price. don't i know that? wasn't the work o' my brains bought for seven hundred pounds, and has n't one hundred thousand pounds been gained them by that seven hundred without the stirring of a finger. it is a thing that will take as much and give you as little as it can. that's capital! a thing that will say--"i'm very sorry for you, poor fellows--you have a cruel time of it, i know," but will not give one sixpence of its dividends to help you have a better time. that's capital! tell me, for all their talk, is there one of them that will consent to another penny on the income tax to help the poor? that's capital! a white-faced, stony-hearted monster! ye have got it on its knees; are ye to give up at the last minute to save your miserable bodies pain? when i went this morning to those old men from london, i looked into their very 'earts. one of them was sitting there--mr. scantlebury, a mass of flesh nourished on us: sittin' there for all the world like the shareholders in this company, that sit not moving tongue nor finger, takin' dividends a great dumb ox that can only be roused when its food is threatened. i looked into his eyes and i saw he was afraid--afraid for himself and his dividends; afraid for his fees, afraid of the very shareholders he stands for; and all but one of them's afraid--like children that get into a wood at night, and start at every rustle of the leaves. i ask you, men--[he pauses, holding out his hand till there is utter silence]--give me a free hand to tell them: "go you back to london. the men have nothing for you!" [a murmuring.] give me that, an' i swear to you, within a week you shall have from london all you want. evans, jago, and others. a free hand! give him a free hand! bravo --bravo! roberts. 't is not for this little moment of time we're fighting [the murmuring dies], not for ourselves, our own little bodies, and their wants, 't is for all those that come after throughout all time. [with intense sadness.] oh! men--for the love o' them, don't roll up another stone upon their heads, don't help to blacken the sky, an' let the bitter sea in over them. they're welcome to the worst that can happen to me, to the worst that can happen to us all, are n't they--are n't they? if we can shake [passionately] that white-faced monster with the bloody lips, that has sucked the life out of ourselves, our wives, and children, since the world began. [dropping the note of passion but with the utmost weight and intensity.] if we have not the hearts of men to stand against it breast to breast, and eye to eye, and force it backward till it cry for mercy, it will go on sucking life; and we shall stay forever what we are [in almost a whisper], less than the very dogs. [an utter stillness, and roberts stands rocking his body slightly, with his eyes burning the faces of the crowd.] evans and jago. [suddenly.] roberts! [the shout is taken up.] [there is a slight movement in the crowd, and madge passing below the towing-path, stops by the platform, looking up at roberts. a sudden doubting silence.] roberts. "nature," says that old man, "give in to nature." i tell you, strike your blow in nature's face--an' let it do its worst! [he catches sight of madge, his brows contract, he looks away.] madge. [in a low voice-close to the platform.] your wife's dying! [roberts glares at her as if torn from some pinnacle of exaltation.] roberts. [trying to stammer on.] i say to you--answer them--answer them---- [he is drowned by the murmur in the crowd.] thomas. [stepping forward.] ton't you hear her, then? roberts. what is it? [a dead silence.] thomas. your wife, man! [roberts hesitates, then with a gesture, he leaps down, and goes away below the towing-path, the men making way for him. the standing bargeman opens and prepares to light a lantern. daylight is fast failing.] madge. he need n't have hurried! annie roberts is dead. [then in the silence, passionately.] you pack of blinded hounds! how many more women are you going to let to die? [the crowd shrinks back from her, and breaks up in groups, with a confused, uneasy movement. madge goes quickly away below the towing-path. there is a hush as they look after her.] lewis. there's a spitfire, for ye! bulgin. [growling.] i'll smash 'er jaw. green. if i'd a-been listened to, that poor woman---- thomas. it's a judgment on him for going against chapel. i tolt him how 't would be! evans. all the more reason for sticking by 'im. [a cheer.] are you goin' to desert him now 'e 's down? are you going to chuck him over, now 'e 's lost 'is wife? [the crowd is murmuring and cheering all at once.] rous. [stepping in front of platform.] lost his wife! aye! can't ye see? look at home, look at your own wives! what's to save them? ye'll have the same in all your houses before long! lewis. aye, aye! henry rous. right! george, right! [there are murmurs of assent.] rous. it's not us that's blind, it's roberts. how long will ye put up with 'im! henry, rous, bulgin, davies. give 'im the chuck! [the cry is taken up.] evans. [fiercely.] kick a man that's down? down? henry rous. stop his jaw there! [evans throws up his arm at a threat from bulgin. the bargeman, who has lighted the lantern, holds it high above his head.] rous. [springing on to the platform.] what brought him down then, but 'is own black obstinacy? are ye goin' to follow a man that can't see better than that where he's goin'? evans. he's lost 'is wife. rous. an' who's fault's that but his own. 'ave done with 'im, i say, before he's killed your own wives and mothers. davies. down 'im! henry rous. he's finished! brown. we've had enough of 'im! blacksmith. too much! [the crowd takes up these cries, excepting only evans, jago, and green, who is seen to argue mildly with the blacksmith.] rous. [above the hubbub.] we'll make terms with the union, lads. [cheers.] evans. [fiercely.] ye blacklegs! bulgin. [savagely-squaring up to him.] who are ye callin' blacklegs, rat? [evans throws up his fists, parries the blow, and returns it. they fight. the bargemen are seen holding up the lantern and enjoying the sight. old thomas steps forward and holds out his hands.] thomas. shame on your strife! [the blacksmith, brown, lewis, and the red-haired youth pull evans and bulgin apart. the stage is almost dark.] the curtain falls. act iii it is five o'clock. in the underwoods' drawing-room, which is artistically furnished, enid is sitting on the sofa working at a baby's frock. edgar, by a little spindle-legged table in the centre of the room, is fingering a china-box. his eyes are fixed on the double-doors that lead into the dining-room. edgar. [putting down the china-box, and glancing at his watch.] just on five, they're all in there waiting, except frank. where's he? enid. he's had to go down to gasgoyne's about a contract. will you want him? edgar. he can't help us. this is a director's job. [motioning towards a single door half hidden by a curtain.] father in his room? enid. yes. edgar. i wish he'd stay there, enid. [enid looks up at him. this is a beastly business, old girl?] [he takes up the little box again and turns it over and over.] enid. i went to the roberts's this afternoon, ted. edgar. that was n't very wise. enid. he's simply killing his wife. edgar. we are you mean. enid. [suddenly.] roberts ought to give way! edgar. there's a lot to be said on the men's side. enid. i don't feel half so sympathetic with them as i did before i went. they just set up class feeling against you. poor annie was looking dread fully bad--fire going out, and nothing fit for her to eat. [edgar walks to and fro.] but she would stand up for roberts. when you see all this wretchedness going on and feel you can do nothing, you have to shut your eyes to the whole thing. edgar. if you can. enid. when i went i was all on their side, but as soon as i got there i began to feel quite different at once. people talk about sympathy with the working classes, they don't know what it means to try and put it into practice. it seems hopeless. edgar. ah! well. enid. it's dreadful going on with the men in this state. i do hope the dad will make concessions. edgar. he won't. [gloomily.] it's a sort of religion with him. curse it! i know what's coming! he'll be voted down. enid. they would n't dare! edgar. they will--they're in a funk. enid. [indignantly.] he'd never stand it! edgar. [with a shrug.] my dear girl, if you're beaten in a vote, you've got to stand it. enid. oh! [she gets up in alarm.] but would he resign? edgar. of course! it goes to the roots of his beliefs. enid. but he's so wrapped up in this company, ted! there'd be nothing left for him! it'd be dreadful! [edgar shrugs his shoulders.] oh, ted, he's so old now! you must n't let them! edgar. [hiding his feelings in an outburst.] my sympathies in this strike are all on the side of the men. enid. he's been chairman for more than thirty years! he made the whole thing! and think of the bad times they've had; it's always been he who pulled them through. oh, ted, you must! edgar. what is it you want? you said just now you hoped he'd make concessions. now you want me to back him in not making them. this is n't a game, enid! enid. [hotly.] it is n't a game to me that the dad's in danger of losing all he cares about in life. if he won't give way, and he's beaten, it'll simply break him down! edgar. did n't you say it was dreadful going on with the men in this state? enid. but can't you see, ted, father'll never get over it! you must stop them somehow. the others are afraid of him. if you back him up---- edgar. [putting his hand to his head.] against my convictions-- against yours! the moment it begins to pinch one personally---- enid. it is n't personal, it's the dad! edgar. your family or yourself, and over goes the show! enid. [resentfully.] if you don't take it seriously, i do. edgar. i am as fond of him as you are; that's nothing to do with it. enid. we can't tell about the men; it's all guess-work. but we know the dad might have a stroke any day. d' you mean to say that he isn't more to you than---- edgar. of course he is. enid. i don't understand you then. edgar. h'm! enid. if it were for oneself it would be different, but for our own father! you don't seem to realise. edgar. i realise perfectly. enid. it's your first duty to save him. edgar. i wonder. enid. [imploring.] oh, ted? it's the only interest he's got left; it'll be like a death-blow to him! edgar. [restraining his emotion.] i know. enid. promise! edgar. i'll do what i can. [he turns to the double-doors.] [the curtained door is opened, and anthony appears. edgar opens the double-doors, and passes through.] [scantlebury's voice is faintly heard: "past five; we shall never get through--have to eat another dinner at that hotel!" the doors are shut. anthony walks forward.] anthony. you've been seeing roberts, i hear. enid. yes. anthony. do you know what trying to bridge such a gulf as this is like? [enid puts her work on the little table, and faces him.] filling a sieve with sand! enid. don't! anthony. you think with your gloved hands you can cure the trouble of the century. [he passes on. ] enid. father! [anthony stops at the double doors.] i'm only thinking of you! anthony. [more softly.] i can take care of myself, my dear. enid. have you thought what'll happen if you're beaten-- [she points]--in there? anthony. i don't mean to be. enid. oh! father, don't give them a chance. you're not well; need you go to the meeting at all? anthony. [with a grim smile.] cut and run? enid. but they'll out-vote you! anthony. [putting his hand on the doors.] we shall see! enid. i beg you, dad! won't you? [anthony looks at her softly.] [anthony shakes his head. he opens the doors. a buzz of voices comes in.] scantlebury. can one get dinner on that . train up? tench. no, sir, i believe not, sir. wilder. well, i shall speak out; i've had enough of this. edgar. [sharply.] what? [it ceases instantly. anthony passes through, closing the doors behind him. enid springs to them with a gesture of dismay. she puts her hand on the knob, and begins turning it; then goes to the fireplace, and taps her foot on the fender. suddenly she rings the bell. frost comes in by the door that leads into the hall.] frost. yes, m'm? enid. when the men come, frost, please show them in here; the hall 's cold. frost. i could put them in the pantry, m'm. enid. no. i don't want to--to offend them; they're so touchy. frost. yes, m'm. [pause.] excuse me, mr. anthony's 'ad nothing to eat all day. enid. i know frost. frost. nothin' but two whiskies and sodas, m'm. enid. oh! you oughtn't to have let him have those. frost. [gravely.] mr. anthony is a little difficult, m'm. it's not as if he were a younger man, an' knew what was good for 'im; he will have his own way. enid. i suppose we all want that. frost. yes, m'm. [quietly.] excuse me speakin' about the strike. i'm sure if the other gentlemen were to give up to mr. anthony, and quietly let the men 'ave what they want, afterwards, that'd be the best way. i find that very useful with him at times, m'm. [enid shakes hey head.] if he's crossed, it makes him violent. [with an air of discovery], and i've noticed in my own case, when i'm violent i'm always sorry for it afterwards. enid. [with a smile.] are you ever violent, frost? frost. yes, m'm; oh! sometimes very violent. enid. i've never seen you. frost. [impersonally.] no, m'm; that is so. [enid fidgets towards the back of the door.] [with feeling.] bein' with mr. anthony, as you know, m'm, ever since i was fifteen, it worries me to see him crossed like this at his age. i've taken the liberty to speak to mr. wanklin [dropping his voice]-- seems to be the most sensible of the gentlemen--but 'e said to me: "that's all very well, frost, but this strike's a very serious thing," 'e said. "serious for all parties, no doubt," i said, "but yumour 'im, sir," i said, "yumour 'im. it's like this, if a man comes to a stone wall, 'e does n't drive 'is 'ead against it, 'e gets over it." "yes," 'e said, "you'd better tell your master that." [frost looks at his nails.] that's where it is, m'm. i said to mr. anthony this morning: "is it worth it, sir?" "damn it," he said to me, "frost! mind your own business, or take a month's notice!" beg pardon, m'm, for using such a word. enid. [moving to the double-doors, and listening.] do you know that man roberts, frost? frost. yes, m'm; that's to say, not to speak to. but to look at 'im you can tell what he's like. enid. [stopping.] yes? frost. he's not one of these 'ere ordinary 'armless socialists. 'e's violent; got a fire inside 'im. what i call "personal." a man may 'ave what opinions 'e likes, so long as 'e 's not personal; when 'e 's that 'e 's not safe. enid. i think that's what my father feels about roberts. frost. no doubt, m'm, mr. anthony has a feeling against him. [enid glances at him sharply, but finding him in perfect earnest, stands biting her lips, and looking at the double-doors.] it 's, a regular right down struggle between the two. i've no patience with this roberts, from what i 'ear he's just an ordinary workin' man like the rest of 'em. if he did invent a thing he's no worse off than 'undreds of others. my brother invented a new kind o' dumb-waiter--nobody gave him anything for it, an' there it is, bein' used all over the place. [enid moves closer to the double-doors.] there's a kind o' man that never forgives the world, because 'e wasn't born a gentleman. what i say is--no man that's a gentleman looks down on another because 'e 'appens to be a class or two above 'im, no more than if 'e 'appens to be a class or two below. enid. [with slight impatience.] yes, i know, frost, of course. will you please go in and ask if they'll have some tea; say i sent you. frost. yes, m'm. [he opens the doors gently and goes in. there is a momentary sound of earnest, gather angry talk.] wilder. i don't agree with you. wanklin. we've had this over a dozen times. edgar. [impatiently.] well, what's the proposition? scantlebury. yes, what does your father say? tea? not for me, not for me! wanklin. what i understand the chairman to say is this---- [frost re-enters closing the door behind him.] enid. [moving from the door.] won't they have any tea, frost? [she goes to the little table, and remains motionless, looking at the baby's frock.] [a parlourmaid enters from the hall.] parlourmaid. a miss thomas, m'm enid. [raising her head.] thomas? what miss thomas--d' you mean a----? parlourmaid. yes, m'm. enid. [blankly.] oh! where is she? parlourmaid. in the porch. enid. i don't want----[she hesitates.] frost. shall i dispose of her, m'm? enid. i 'll come out. no, show her in here, ellen. [the parlour maid and frost go out. enid pursing her lips, sits at the little table, taking up the baby's frock. the parlourmaid ushers in madge thomas and goes out; madge stands by the door.] enid. come in. what is it. what have you come for, please? madge. brought a message from mrs. roberts. enid. a message? yes. madge. she asks you to look after her mother. enid. i don't understand. madge. [sullenly.] that's the message. enid. but--what--why? madge. annie roberts is dead. [there is a silence.] enid. [horrified.] but it's only a little more than an hour since i saw her. madge. of cold and hunger. enid. [rising.] oh! that's not true! the poor thing's heart---- what makes you look at me like that? i tried to help her. madge. [with suppressed savagery.] i thought you'd like to know. enid. [passionately.] it's so unjust! can't you see that i want to help you all? madge. i never harmed any one that had n't harmed me first. enid. [coldly.] what harm have i done you? why do you speak to me like that? madge. [with the bitterest intensity.] you come out of your comfort to spy on us! a week of hunger, that's what you want! enid. [standing her ground.] don't talk nonsense! madge. i saw her die; her hands were blue with the cold. enid. [with a movement of grief.] oh! why wouldn't she let me help her? it's such senseless pride! madge. pride's better than nothing to keep your body warm. enid. [passionately.] i won't talk to you! how can you tell what i feel? it's not my fault that i was born better off than you. madge. we don't want your money. enid. you don't understand, and you don't want to; please to go away! madge. [balefully.] you've killed her, for all your soft words, you and your father! enid. [with rage and emotion.] that's wicked! my father is suffering himself through this wretched strike. madge. [with sombre triumph.] then tell him mrs. roberts is dead! that 'll make him better. enid. go away! madge. when a person hurts us we get it back on them. [she makes a sudden and swift movement towards enid, fixing her eyes on the child's frock lying across the little table. enid snatches the frock up, as though it were the child itself. they stand a yard apart, crossing glances.] madge. [pointing to the frock with a little smile.] ah! you felt that! lucky it's her mother--not her children--you've to look after, is n't it. she won't trouble you long! enid. go away! madge. i've given you the message. [she turns and goes out into the hall. enid, motionless till she has gone, sinks down at the table, bending her head over the frock, which she is still clutching to her. the double-doors are opened, and anthony comes slowly in; he passes his daughter, and lowers himself into an arm-chair. he is very flushed.] enid. [hiding her emotion-anxiously.] what is it, dad? [anthony makes a gesture, but does not speak.] who was it? [anthony does not answer. enid going to the double-doors meets edgar coming in. they speak together in low tones.] what is it, ted? edgar. that fellow wilder! taken to personalities! he was downright insulting. enid. what did he say? edgar. said, father was too old and feeble to know what he was doing! the dad's worth six of him! enid. of course he is. [they look at anthony.] [the doors open wider, wanklin appears with scantlebury.] scantlebury. [sotto voce.] i don't like the look of this! wanklin. [going forward.] come, chairman! wilder sends you his apologies. a man can't do more. [wilder, followed by tench, comes in, and goes to anthony.] wilder. [glumly.] i withdraw my words, sir. i'm sorry. [anthony nods to him.] enid. you have n't come to a decision, mr. wanklin? [wanklin shakes his head.] wanklin. we're all here, chairman; what do you say? shall we get on with the business, or shall we go back to the other room? scantlebury. yes, yes; let's get on. we must settle something. [he turns from a small chair, and settles himself suddenly in the largest chair with a sigh of comfort.] [wilder and wanklin also sit; and tench, drawing up a straight-backed chair close to his chairman, sits on the edge of it with the minute-book and a stylographic pen.] enid. [whispering.] i want to speak to you a minute, ted. [they go out through the double-doors.] wanklin. really, chairman, it's no use soothing ourselves with a sense of false security. if this strike's not brought to an end before the general meeting, the shareholders will certainly haul us over the coals. scantlebury. [stirring.] what--what's that? wanklin. i know it for a fact. anthony. let them! wilder. and get turned out? wanklin. [to anthony.] i don't mind martyrdom for a policy in which i believe, but i object to being burnt for some one else's principles. scantlebury. very reasonable--you must see that, chairman. anthony. we owe it to other employers to stand firm. wanklin. there's a limit to that. anthony. you were all full of fight at the start. scantlebury. [with a sort of groan.] we thought the men would give in, but they-have n't! anthony. they will! wilder. [rising and pacing up and down.] i can't have my reputation as a man of business destroyed for the satisfaction of starving the men out. [almost in tears.] i can't have it! how can we meet the shareholders with things in the state they are? scantlebury. hear, hear--hear, hear! wilder. [lashing himself.] if any one expects me to say to them i've lost you fifty thousand pounds and sooner than put my pride in my pocket i'll lose you another. [glancing at anthony.] it's--it's unnatural! i don't want to go against you, sir. wanklin. [persuasively.] come chairman, we 're not free agents. we're part of a machine. our only business is to see the company earns as much profit as it safely can. if you blame me for want of principle: i say that we're trustees. reason tells us we shall never get back in the saving of wages what we shall lose if we continue this struggle--really, chairman, we must bring it to an end, on the best terms we can make. anthony. no. [there is a pause of general dismay.] wilder. it's a deadlock then. [letting his hands drop with a sort of despair.] now i shall never get off to spain! wanklin. [retaining a trace of irony.] you hear the consequences of your victory, chairman? wilder. [with a burst of feeling.] my wife's ill! scantlebury. dear, dear! you don't say so. wilder. if i don't get her out of this cold, i won't answer for the consequences. [through the double-doors edgar comes in looking very grave.] edgar. [to his father.] have you heard this, sir? mrs. roberts is dead! [every one stages at him, as if trying to gauge the importance of this news.] enid saw her this afternoon, she had no coals, or food, or anything. it's enough! [there is a silence, every one avoiding the other's eyes, except anthony, who stares hard at his son.] scantlebury. you don't suggest that we could have helped the poor thing? wilder. [flustered.] the woman was in bad health. nobody can say there's any responsibility on us. at least--not on me. edgar. [hotly.] i say that we are responsible. anthony. war is war! edgar. not on women! wanklin. it not infrequently happens that women are the greatest sufferers. edgar. if we knew that, all the more responsibility rests on us. anthony. this is no matter for amateurs. edgar. call me what you like, sir. it's sickened me. we had no right to carry things to such a length. wilder. i don't like this business a bit--that radical rag will twist it to their own ends; see if they don't! they'll get up some cock and bull story about the poor woman's dying from starvation. i wash my hands of it. edgar. you can't. none of us can. scantlebury. [striking his fist on the arm of his chair.] but i protest against this! edgar. protest as you like, mr. scantlebury, it won't alter facts. anthony. that's enough. edgar. [facing him angrily.] no, sir. i tell you exactly what i think. if we pretend the men are not suffering, it's humbug; and if they're suffering, we know enough of human nature to know the women are suffering more, and as to the children--well--it's damnable! [scantlebury rises from his chair.] i don't say that we meant to be cruel, i don't say anything of the sort; but i do say it's criminal to shut our eyes to the facts. we employ these men, and we can't get out of it. i don't care so much about the men, but i'd sooner resign my position on the board than go on starving women in this way. [all except anthony are now upon their feet, anthony sits grasping the arms of his chair and staring at his son.] scantlebury. i don't--i don't like the way you're putting it, young sir. wanklin. you're rather overshooting the mark. wilder. i should think so indeed! edgar. [losing control.] it's no use blinking things! if you want to have the death of women on your hands--i don't! scantlebury. now, now, young man! wilder. on our hands? not on mine, i won't have it! edgar. we are five members of this board; if we were four against it, why did we let it drift till it came to this? you know perfectly well why--because we hoped we should starve the men out. well, all we've done is to starve one woman out! scantlebury. [almost hysterically.] i protest, i protest! i'm a humane man--we're all humane men! edgar. [scornfully.] there's nothing wrong with our humanity. it's our imaginations, mr. scantlebury. wilder. nonsense! my imagination's as good as yours. edgar. if so, it is n't good enough. wilder. i foresaw this! edgar. then why didn't you put your foot down! wilder. much good that would have done. [he looks at anthony.] edgar. if you, and i, and each one of us here who say that our imaginations are so good-- scantlebury. [flurried.] i never said so. edgar. [paying no attention.]--had put our feet down, the thing would have been ended long ago, and this poor woman's life wouldn't have been crushed out of her like this. for all we can tell there may be a dozen other starving women. scantlebury. for god's sake, sir, don't use that word at a--at a board meeting; it's--it's monstrous. edgar. i will use it, mr. scantlebury. scantlebury. then i shall not listen to you. i shall not listen! it's painful to me. [he covers his ears.] wanklin. none of us are opposed to a settlement, except your father. edgar. i'm certain that if the shareholders knew---- wanklin. i don't think you'll find their imaginations are any better than ours. because a woman happens to have a weak heart---- edgar. a struggle like this finds out the weak spots in everybody. any child knows that. if it hadn't been for this cut-throat policy, she need n't have died like this; and there would n't be all this misery that any one who is n't a fool can see is going on. [throughout the foregoing anthony has eyed his son; he now moves as though to rise, but stops as edgar speaks again.] i don't defend the men, or myself, or anybody. wanklin. you may have to! a coroner's jury of disinterested sympathisers may say some very nasty things. we mustn't lose sight of our position. scantlebury. [without uncovering his ears.] coroner's jury! no, no, it's not a case for that! edgar. i 've had enough of cowardice. wanklin. cowardice is an unpleasant word, mr. edgar anthony. it will look very like cowardice if we suddenly concede the men's demands when a thing like this happens; we must be careful! wilder. of course we must. we've no knowledge of this matter, except a rumour. the proper course is to put the whole thing into the hands of harness to settle for us; that's natural, that's what we should have come to any way. scantlebury. [with dignity.] exactly! [turning to edgar.] and as to you, young sir, i can't sufficiently express my--my distaste for the way you've treated the whole matter. you ought to withdraw! talking of starvation, talking of cowardice! considering what our views are! except your own is--is one of goodwill--it's most irregular, it's most improper, and all i can say is it's--it's given me pain---- [he places his hand over his heart.] edgar. [stubbornly.] i withdraw nothing. [he is about to say mote when scantlebury once more coveys up his ears. tench suddenly makes a demonstration with the minute-book. a sense of having been engaged in the unusual comes over all of them, and one by one they resume their seats. edgar alone remains on his feet.] wilder. [with an air of trying to wipe something out.] i pay no attention to what young mr. anthony has said. coroner's jury! the idea's preposterous. i--i move this amendment to the chairman's motion: that the dispute be placed at once in the hands of mr. simon harness for settlement, on the lines indicated by him this morning. any one second that? [tench writes in his book.] wanklin. i do. wilder. very well, then; i ask the chairman to put it to the board. anthony. [with a great sigh-slowly.] we have been made the subject of an attack. [looking round at wilder and scantlebury with ironical contempt.] i take it on my shoulders. i am seventy-six years old. i have been chairman of this company since its inception two-and-thirty years ago. i have seen it pass through good and evil report. my connection with it began in the year that this young man was born. [edgar bows his head. anthony, gripping his chair, goes on.] i have had do to with "men" for fifty years; i've always stood up to them; i have never been beaten yet. i have fought the men of this company four times, and four times i have beaten them. it has been said that i am not the man i was. [he looks at wilder.] however that may be, i am man enough to stand to my guns. [his voice grows stronger. the double-doors are opened. enid slips in, followed by underwood, who restrains her.] the men have been treated justly, they have had fair wages, we have always been ready to listen to complaints. it has been said that times have changed; if they have, i have not changed with them. neither will i. it has been said that masters and men are equal! cant! there can only be one master in a house! where two men meet the better man will rule. it has been said that capital and labour have the same interests. cant! their interests are as wide asunder as the poles. it has been said that the board is only part of a machine. cant! we are the machine; its brains and sinews; it is for us to lead and to determine what is to be done, and to do it without fear or favour. fear of the men! fear of the shareholders! fear of our own shadows! before i am like that, i hope to die. [he pauses, and meeting his son's eyes, goes on.] there is only one way of treating "men"--with the iron hand. this half and half business, the half and half manners of this generation, has brought all this upon us. sentiment and softness, and what this young man, no doubt, would call his social policy. you can't eat cake and have it! this middle-class sentiment, or socialism, or whatever it may be, is rotten. masters are masters, men are men! yield one demand, and they will make it six. they are [he smiles grimly] like oliver twist, asking for more. if i were in their place i should be the same. but i am not in their place. mark my words: one fine morning, when you have given way here, and given way there--you will find you have parted with the ground beneath your feet, and are deep in the bog of bankruptcy; and with you, floundering in that bog, will be the very men you have given way to. i have been accused of being a domineering tyrant, thinking only of my pride--i am thinking of the future of this country, threatened with the black waters of confusion, threatened with mob government, threatened with what i cannot see. if by any conduct of mine i help to bring this on us, i shall be ashamed to look my fellows in the face. [anthony stares before him, at what he cannot see, and there is perfect stillness. frost comes in from the hall, and all but anthony look round at him uneasily.] frost. [to his master.] the men are here, sir. [anthony makes a gesture of dismissal.] shall i bring them in, sir? anthony. wait! [frost goes out, anthony turns to face his son.] i come to the attack that has been made upon me. [edgar, with a gesture of deprecation, remains motionless with his head a little bowed.] a woman has died. i am told that her blood is on my hands; i am told that on my hands is the starvation and the suffering of other women and of children. edgar. i said "on our hands," sir. anthony. it is the same. [his voice grows stronger and stronger, his feeling is more and more made manifest.] i am not aware that if my adversary suffer in a fair fight not sought by me, it is my fault. if i fall under his feet--as fall i may--i shall not complain. that will be my look-out--and this is--his. i cannot separate, as i would, these men from their women and children. a fair fight is a fair fight! let them learn to think before they pick a quarrel! edgar. [in a low voice.] but is it a fair fight, father? look at them, and look at us! they've only this one weapon! anthony. [grimly.] and you're weak-kneed enough to teach them how to use it! it seems the fashion nowadays for men to take their enemy's side. i have not learnt that art. is it my fault that they quarrelled with their union too? edgar. there is such a thing as mercy. anthony. and justice comes before it. edgar. what seems just to one man, sir, is injustice to another. anthony. [with suppressed passion.] you accuse me of injustice--of what amounts to inhumanity--of cruelty? [edgar makes a gesture of horror--a general frightened movement.] wanklin. come, come, chairman. anthony. [in a grim voice.] these are the words of my own son. they are the words of a generation that i don't understand; the words of a soft breed. [a general murmur. with a violent effort anthony recovers his control.] edgar. [quietly.] i said it of myself, too, father. [a long look is exchanged between them, and anthony puts out his hand with a gesture as if to sweep the personalities away; then places it against his brow, swaying as though from giddiness. there is a movement towards him. he moves them back.] anthony. before i put this amendment to the board, i have one more word to say. [he looks from face to face.] if it is carried, it means that we shall fail in what we set ourselves to do. it means that we shall fail in the duty that we owe to all capital. it means that we shall fail in the duty that we owe ourselves. it means that we shall be open to constant attack to which we as constantly shall have to yield. be under no misapprehension--run this time, and you will never make a stand again! you will have to fly like curs before the whips of your own men. if that is the lot you wish for, you will vote for this amendment. [he looks again, from face to face, finally resting his gaze on edgar; all sit with their eyes on the ground. anthony makes a gesture, and tench hands him the book. he reads.] "moved by mr. wilder, and seconded by mr. wanklin: 'that the men's demands be placed at once in the hands of mr. simon harness for settlement on the lines indicated by him this morning.'" [with sudden vigour.] those in favour: signify the same in the usual way! [for a minute no one moves; then hastily, just as anthony is about to speak, wilder's hand and wanklin's are held up, then scantlebury's, and last edgar's who does not lift his head.] [anthony lifts his own hand.] [in a clear voice.] the amendment is carried. i resign my position on this board. [enid gasps, and there is dead silence. anthony sits motionless, his head slowly drooping; suddenly he heaves as though the whole of his life had risen up within him.] contrary? fifty years! you have disgraced me, gentlemen. bring in the men! [he sits motionless, staring before him. the board draws hurriedly together, and forms a group. tench in a frightened manner speaks into the hall. underwood almost forces enid from the room.] wilder. [hurriedly.] what's to be said to them? why isn't harness here? ought we to see the men before he comes? i don't---- tench. will you come in, please? [enter thomas, green, bulgin, and rous, who file up in a row past the little table. tench sits down and writes. all eyes are foxed on anthony, who makes no sign.] wanklin. [stepping up to the little table, with nervous cordiality.] well, thomas, how's it to be? what's the result of your meeting? rous. sim harness has our answer. he'll tell you what it is. we're waiting for him. he'll speak for us. wanklin. is that so, thomas? thomas. [sullenly.] yes. roberts will not pe coming, his wife is dead. scantlebury. yes, yes! poor woman! yes! yes! frost. [entering from the hall.] mr. harness, sir! [as harness enters he retires.] [harness has a piece of paper in his hand, he bows to the directors, nods towards the men, and takes his stand behind the little table in the very centre of the room.] harness. good evening, gentlemen. [tench, with the paper he has been writing, joins him, they speak together in low tones.] wilder. we've been waiting for you, harness. hope we shall come to some---- frost. [entering from the hall.] roberts! [he goes.] [roberts comes hastily in, and stands staring at anthony. his face is drawn and old.] roberts. mr. anthony, i am afraid i am a little late, i would have been here in time but for something that--has happened. [to the men.] has anything been said? thomas. no! but, man, what made ye come? roberts. ye told us this morning, gentlemen, to go away and reconsider our position. we have reconsidered it; we are here to bring you the men's answer. [to anthony.] go ye back to london. we have nothing for you. by no jot or tittle do we abate our demands, nor will we until the whole of those demands are yielded. [anthony looks at him but does not speak. there is a movement amongst the men as though they were bewildered.] harness. roberts! roberts. [glancing fiercely at him, and back to anthony.] is that clear enough for ye? is it short enough and to the point? ye made a mistake to think that we would come to heel. ye may break the body, but ye cannot break the spirit. get back to london, the men have nothing for ye? [pausing uneasily he takes a step towards the unmoving anthony.] edgar. we're all sorry for you, roberts, but---- roberts. keep your sorrow, young man. let your father speak! harness. [with the sheet of paper in his hand, speaking from behind the little table.] roberts! robert. [to anthony, with passionate intensity.] why don't ye answer? harness. roberts! roberts. [turning sharply.] what is it? harness. [gravely.] you're talking without the book; things have travelled past you. [he makes a sign to tench, who beckons the directors. they quickly sign his copy of the terms.] look at this, man! [holding up his sheet of paper.] "demands conceded, with the exception of those relating to the engineers and furnace-men. double wages for saturday's overtime. night-shifts as they are." these terms have been agreed. the men go back to work again to-morrow. the strike is at an end. roberts. [reading the paper, and turning on the men. they shrink back from him, all but rous, who stands his ground. with deadly stillness.] ye have gone back on me? i stood by ye to the death; ye waited for that to throw me over! [the men answer, all speaking together.] rous. it's a lie! thomas. ye were past endurance, man. green. if ye'd listen to me! bulgin. (under his breath.) hold your jaw! roberts. ye waited for that! harness. [taking the director's copy of the terms, and handing his own to tench.] that's enough, men. you had better go. [the men shuffle slowly, awkwardly away.] wilder. [in a low, nervous voice.] there's nothing to stay for now, i suppose. [he follows to the door.] i shall have a try for that train! coming, scantlebury? scantlebury. [following with wanklin.] yes, yes; wait for me. [he stops as roberts speaks.] roberts. [to anthony.] but ye have not signed them terms! they can't make terms without their chairman! ye would never sign them terms! [anthony looks at him without speaking.] don't tell me ye have! for the love o' god! [with passionate appeal.] i reckoned on ye! harness. [holding out the director's copy of the teems.] the board has signed! [roberts looks dully at the signatures--dashes the paper from him, and covers up his eyes.] scantlebury. [behind his hand to tench.] look after the chairman! he's not well; he's not well--he had no lunch. if there's any fund started for the women and children, put me down for--for twenty pounds. [he goes out into the hall, in cumbrous haste; and wanklin, who has been staring at roberts and anthony with twitchings of his face, follows. edgar remains seated on the sofa, looking at the ground; tench, returning to the bureau, writes in his minute-- book. harness stands by the little table, gravely watching roberts.] roberts. then you're no longer chairman of this company! [breaking into half-mad laughter.] ah! ha-ah, ha, ha! they've thrown ye over thrown over their chairman: ah-ha-ha! [with a sudden dreadful calm.] so--they've done us both down, mr. anthony? [enid, hurrying through the double-doors, comes quickly to her father.] anthony. both broken men, my friend roberts! harness. [coming down and laying his hands on roberts's sleeve.] for shame, roberts! go home quietly, man; go home! roberts. [tearing his arm away.] home? [shrinking together--in a whisper.] home! enid. [quietly to her father.] come away, dear! come to your room [anthony rises with an effort. he turns to roberts who looks at him. they stand several seconds, gazing at each other fixedly; anthony lifts his hand, as though to salute, but lets it fall. the expression of roberts's face changes from hostility to wonder. they bend their heads in token of respect. anthony turns, and slowly walks towards the curtained door. suddenly he sways as though about to fall, recovers himself, and is assisted out by edgar and enid; underwood follows, but stops at the door. roberts remains motionless for several seconds, staring intently after anthony, then goes out into the hall.] tench. [approaching harness.] it's a great weight off my mind, mr. harness! but what a painful scene, sir! [he wipes his brow.] [harness, pale and resolute, regards with a grim half-smile the quavering.] tench. it's all been so violent! what did he mean by: "done us both down?" if he has lost his wife, poor fellow, he oughtn't to have spoken to the chairman like that! harness. a woman dead; and the two best men both broken! tench. [staring at him-suddenly excited.] d'you know, sir--these terms, they're the very same we drew up together, you and i, and put to both sides before the fight began? all this--all this--and--and what for? harness. [in a slow grim voice.] that's where the fun comes in! [underwood without turning from the door makes a gesture of assent.] the curtain falls. the end galsworthy plays--second series--no. contents: the eldest son the little dream justice the eldest son by john galsworthy persons of the play sir william cheshire, a baronet lady cheshire, his wife bill, their eldest son harold, their second son ronald keith(in the lancers), their son-in-law christine (his wife), their eldest daughter dot, their second daughter joan, their third daughter mabel lanfarne, their guest the reverend john latter, engaged to joan old studdenham, the head-keeper freda studdenham, the lady's-maid young dunning, the under-keeper rose taylor, a village girl jackson, the butler charles, a footman time: the present. the action passes on december and at the cheshires' country house, in one of the shires. act i scene i. the hall; before dinner. scene ii. the hall; after dinner. act ii. lady cheshire's morning room; after breakfast. act iii. the smoking-room; tea-time. a night elapses between acts i. and ii. act i scene i the scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall, with an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak staircase. the dining-room, drawing-room, billiard-room, all open into it; and under the staircase a door leads to the servants' quarters. in a huge fireplace a log fire is burning. there are tiger-skins on the floor, horns on the walls; and a writing-table against the wall opposite the fireplace. freda studdenham, a pretty, pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid, is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white roses in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. a door closes above, and sir william cheshire, in evening dress, comes downstairs. he is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build, rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. he speaks before he reaches the bottom. sir william. well, freda! nice roses. who are they for? freda. my lady told me to give the yellow to mrs. keith, sir william, and the white to miss lanfarne, for their first evening. sir william. capital. [passing on towards the drawing-room] your father coming up to-night? freda. yes. sir william. be good enough to tell him i specially want to see him here after dinner, will you? freda. yes, sir william. sir william. by the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if he's got it. he goes out into the drawing-room; and freda stands restlessly tapping her foot against the bottom stair. with a flutter of skirts christine keith comes rapidly down. she is a nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a low-necked dress. christine. hullo, freda! how are you? freda. quite well, thank you, miss christine--mrs. keith, i mean. my lady told me to give you these. christine. [taking the roses] oh! thanks! how sweet of mother! freda. [in a quick, toneless voice] the others are for miss lanfarne. my lady thought white would suit her better. christine. they suit you in that black dress. [freda lowers the roses quickly.] what do you think of joan's engagement? freda. it's very nice for her. christine. i say, freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals? freda. every day. miss dot gets very cross, stage-managing. christine. i do hate learning a part. thanks awfully for unpacking. any news? freda. [in the same quick, dull voice] the under-keeper, dunning, won't marry rose taylor, after all. christine. what a shame! but i say that's serious. i thought there was--she was--i mean---- freda. he's taken up with another girl, they say. christine. too bad! [pinning the roses] d'you know if mr. bill's come? freda. [with a swift upward look] yes, by the six-forty. ronald keith comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and the air of a horseman. keith. hallo! roses in december. i say, freda, your father missed a wigging this morning when they drew blank at warnham's spinney. where's that litter of little foxes? freda. [smiling faintly] i expect father knows, captain keith. keith. you bet he does. emigration? or thin air? what? christine. studdenham'd never shoot a fox, ronny. he's been here since the flood. keith. there's more ways of killing a cat--eh, freda? christine. [moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] young dunning won't marry that girl, ronny. keith. phew! wouldn't be in his shoes, then! sir william'll never keep a servant who's made a scandal in the village, old girl. bill come? as they disappear from the hall, john latter in a clergyman's evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven, and a drawing-room. he passes freda with a formal little nod. harold, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three steps at a time. harold. hallo, freda! patience on the monument. let's have a sniff! for miss lanfarne? bill come down yet? freda. no, mr. harold. harold crosses the hall, whistling, and follows latter into the drawing-room. there is the sound of a scuffle above, and a voice crying: "shut up, dot!" and joan comes down screwing her head back. she is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes. joan. am i all right behind, freda? that beast, dot! freda. quite, miss joan. dot's face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters. she too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a rebel. dot. you little being! joan. [flying towards the drawing-roam, is overtaken at the door] oh! dot! you're pinching! as they disappear into the drawing-room, mabel lanfarne, a tall girl with a rather charming irish face, comes slowly down. and at sight of her freda's whole figure becomes set and meaningfull. freda. for you, miss lanfarne, from my lady. mabel. [in whose speech is a touch of wilful irishry] how sweet! [fastening the roses] and how are you, freda? freda. very well, thank you. mabel. and your father? hope he's going to let me come out with the guns again. freda. [stolidly] he'll be delighted, i'm sure. mabel. ye-es! i haven't forgotten his face-last time. freda. you stood with mr. bill. he's better to stand with than mr. harold, or captain keith? mabel. he didn't touch a feather, that day. freda. people don't when they're anxious to do their best. a gong sounds. and mabel lanfarne, giving freda a rather inquisitive stare, moves on to the drawing-room. left alone without the roses, freda still lingers. at the slamming of a door above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back against the stairs. bill runs down, and comes on her suddenly. he is a tall, good-looking edition of his father, with the same stubborn look of veiled choler. bill. freda! [and as she shrinks still further back] what's the matter? [then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws away from her] aren't you glad to see me? freda. i've something to say to you, mr. bill. after dinner. bill. mister----? she passes him, and rushes away upstairs. and bill, who stands frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the drawing-room door is opened, and sir william and miss lanfarne come forth, followed by keith, dot, harold, christine, latter, and joan, all leaning across each other, and talking. by herself, behind them, comes lady cheshire, a refined-looking woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at once gentle, and ironic. they move across the hall towards the dining-room. sir william. ah! bill. mabel. how do you do? keith. how are you, old chap? dot. [gloomily] do you know your part? harold. hallo, old man! christine gives her brother a flying kiss. joan and latter pause and look at him shyly without speech. bill. [putting his hand on joan's shoulder] good luck, you two! well mother? lady cheshire. well, my dear boy! nice to see you at last. what a long time! she draws his arm through hers, and they move towards the dining-room. the curtain falls. the curtain rises again at once. scene ii christine, lady cheshire, dot, mabel lanfarne, and joan, are returning to the hall after dinner. christine. [in a low voice] mother, is it true about young dunning and rose taylor? lady cheshire. i'm afraid so, dear. christine. but can't they be---- dot. ah! ah-h! [christine and her mother are silent.] my child, i'm not the young person. christine. no, of course not--only--[nodding towards joan and mable]. dot. look here! this is just an instance of what i hate. lady cheshire. my dear? another one? dot. yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't understand, because you know you do. christine. instance? of what? joan and mabel have ceased talking, and listen, still at the fire. dot. humbug, of course. why should you want them to marry, if he's tired of her? christine. [ironically] well! if your imagination doesn't carry you as far as that! dot. when people marry, do you believe they ought to be in love with each other? christine. [with a shrug] that's not the point. dot. oh? were you in love with ronny? christine. don't be idiotic! dot. would you have married him if you hadn't been? christine. of course not! joan. dot! you are!---- dot. hallo! my little snipe! lady cheshire. dot, dear! dot. don't shut me up, mother! [to joan.] are you in love with john? [joan turns hurriedly to the fire.] would you be going to marry him if you were not? christine. you are a brute, dot. dot. is mabel in love with--whoever she is in love with? mabel. and i wonder who that is. dot. well, would you marry him if you weren't? mabel. no, i would not. dot. now, mother; did you love father? christine. dot, you really are awful. dot. [rueful and detached] well, it is a bit too thick, perhaps. joan. dot! dot. well, mother, did you--i mean quite calmly? lady cheshire. yes, dear, quite calmly. dot. would you have married him if you hadn't? [lady cheshire shakes her head] then we're all agreed! mabel. except yourself. dot. [grimly] even if i loved him, he might think himself lucky if i married him. mabel. indeed, and i'm not so sure. dot. [making a face at her] what i was going to---- lady cheshire. but don't you think, dear, you'd better not? dot. well, i won't say what i was going to say, but what i do say is--why the devil---- lady cheshire. quite so, dot! dot. [a little disconcerted.] if they're tired of each other, they ought not to marry, and if father's going to make them---- christine. you don't understand in the least. it's for the sake of the---- dot. out with it, old sweetness! the approaching infant! god bless it! there is a sudden silence, for keith and latter are seen coming from the dining-room. latter. that must be so, ronny. keith. no, john; not a bit of it! latter. you don't think! keith. good gad, who wants to think after dinner! dot. come on! let's play pool. [she turns at the billiard-room door.] look here! rehearsal to-morrow is directly after breakfast; from "eccles enters breathless" to the end. mabel. whatever made you choose "caste," dot? you know it's awfully difficult. dot. because it's the only play that's not too advanced. [the girls all go into the billiard-room.] lady cheshire. where's bill, ronny? keith. [with a grimace] i rather think sir william and he are in committee of supply--mem-sahib. lady cheshire. oh! she looks uneasily at the dining-room; then follows the girls out. latter. [in the tone of one resuming an argument] there can't be two opinions about it, ronny. young dunning's refusal is simply indefensible. keith. i don't agree a bit, john. latter. of course, if you won't listen. keith. [clipping a cigar] draw it mild, my dear chap. we've had the whole thing over twice at least. latter. my point is this---- keith. [regarding latter quizzically with his halfclosed eyes] i know--i know--but the point is, how far your point is simply professional. latter. if a man wrongs a woman, he ought to right her again. there's no answer to that. keith. it all depends. latter. that's rank opportunism. keith. rats! look here--oh! hang it, john, one can't argue this out with a parson. latter. [frigidly] why not? harold. [who has entered from the dining-room] pull devil, pull baker! keith. shut up, harold! latter. "to play the game" is the religion even of the army. keith. exactly, but what is the game? latter. what else can it be in this case? keith. you're too puritanical, young john. you can't help it--line of country laid down for you. all drag-huntin'! what! latter. [with concentration] look here! harold. [imitating the action of a man pulling at a horse's head] 'come hup, i say, you hugly beast!' keith. [to latter] you're not going to draw me, old chap. you don't see where you'd land us all. [he smokes calmly] latter. how do you imagine vice takes its rise? from precisely this sort of thing of young dunning's. keith. from human nature, i should have thought, john. i admit that i don't like a fellow's leavin' a girl in the lurch; but i don't see the use in drawin' hard and fast rules. you only have to break 'em. sir william and you would just tie dunning and the girl up together, willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but there'll be the deuce to pay in a year's time. you can take a horse to the water, you can't make him drink. latter. i entirely and absolutely disagree with you. harold. good old john! latter. at all events we know where your principles take you. keith. [rather dangerously] where, please? [harold turns up his eyes, and points downwards] dry up, harold! latter. did you ever hear the story of faust? keith. now look here, john; with all due respect to your cloth, and all the politeness in the world, you may go to-blazes. latter. well, i must say, ronny--of all the rude boors----[he turns towards the billiard-room.] keith. sorry i smashed the glass, old chap. latter passes out. there comes a mingled sound through the opened door, of female voices, laughter, and the click of billiard balls, dipped of by the sudden closing of the door. keith. [impersonally] deuced odd, the way a parson puts one's back up! because you know i agree with him really; young dunning ought to play the game; and i hope sir william'll make him. the butler jackson has entered from the door under the stairs followed by the keeper studdenham, a man between fifty and sixty, in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches, and gaiters; he has a steady self respecting weathered face, with blue eyes and a short grey beard, which has obviously once been red. keith. hullo! studdenham! studdenham. [touching his forehead] evenin', captain keith. jackson. sir william still in the dining-room with mr. bill, sir? harold. [with a grimace] he is, jackson. jackson goes out to the dining-room. keith. you've shot no pheasants yet, studdenham? studdenham. no, sir. only birds. we'll be doin' the spinneys and the home covert while you're down. keith. i say, talkin' of spinneys---- he breaks off sharply, and goes out with harold into the billiard-room. sir william enters from the dining-room, applying a gold toothpick to his front teeth. sir william. ah! studdenham. bad business this, about young dunning! studdenham. yes, sir william. sir william. he definitely refuses to marry her? studdenham. he does that. sir william. that won't do, you know. what reason does he give? studdenham. won't say other than that he don't want no more to do with her. sir william. god bless me! that's not a reason. i can't have a keeper of mine playing fast and loose in the village like this. [turning to lady cheshire, who has come in from the billiard-room] that affair of young dunning's, my dear. lady cheshire. oh! yes! i'm so sorry, studdenham. the poor girl! studdenham. [respectfully] fancy he's got a feeling she's not his equal, now, my lady. lady cheshire. [to herself] yes, i suppose he has made her his superior. sir william. what? eh! quite! quite! i was just telling studdenham the fellow must set the matter straight. we can't have open scandals in the village. if he wants to keep his place he must marry her at once. lady cheshire. [to her husband in a low voice] is it right to force them? do you know what the girl wishes, studdenham? studdenham. shows a spirit, my lady--says she'll have him--willin' or not. lady cheshire. a spirit? i see. if they marry like that they're sure to be miserable. sir william. what! doesn't follow at all. besides, my dear, you ought to know by this time, there's an unwritten law in these matters. they're perfectly well aware that when there are consequences, they have to take them. studdenham. some o' these young people, my lady, they don't put two and two together no more than an old cock pheasant. sir william. i'll give him till to-morrow. if he remains obstinate, he'll have to go; he'll get no character, studdenham. let him know what i've said. i like the fellow, he's a good keeper. i don't want to lose him. but this sort of thing i won't have. he must toe the mark or take himself off. is he up here to-night? studdenham. hangin' partridges, sir william. will you have him in? sir william. [hesitating] yes--yes. i'll see him. studdenham. good-night to you, my lady. lady cheshire. freda's not looking well, studdenham. studdenham. she's a bit pernickitty with her food, that's where it is. lady cheshire. i must try and make her eat. sir william. oh! studdenham. we'll shoot the home covert first. what did we get last year? studdenham. [producing the game-book; but without reference to it] two hundred and fifty-three pheasants, eleven hares, fifty-two rabbits, three woodcock, sundry. sir william. sundry? didn't include a fox did it? [gravely] i was seriously upset this morning at warnham's spinney---- suddenham. [very gravely] you don't say, sir william; that four-year-old he du look a handful! sir william. [with a sharp look] you know well enough what i mean. studdenham. [unmoved] shall i send young dunning, sir william? sir william gives a short, sharp nod, and studdenham retires by the door under the stairs. sir william. old fox! lady cheshire. don't be too hard on dunning. he's very young. sir william. [patting her arm] my dear, you don't understand young fellows, how should you? lady cheshire. [with her faint irony] a husband and two sons not counting. [then as the door under the stairs is opened] bill, now do---- sir william. i'll be gentle with him. [sharply] come in! lady cheshire retires to the billiard-room. she gives a look back and a half smile at young dunning, a fair young man dressed in broom cords and leggings, and holding his cap in his hand; then goes out. sir william. evenin', dunning. dunning. [twisting his cap] evenin', sir william. sir william. studdenham's told you what i want to see you about? dunning. yes, sir. sir william. the thing's in your hands. take it or leave it. i don't put pressure on you. i simply won't have this sort of thing on my estate. dunning. i'd like to say, sir william, that she [he stops]. sir william. yes, i daresay-six of one and half a dozen of the other. can't go into that. dunning. no, sir william. sir william. i'm quite mild with you. this is your first place. if you leave here you'll get no character. dunning. i never meant any harm, sir. sir william. my good fellow, you know the custom of the country. dunning. yes, sir william, but---- sir william. you should have looked before you leaped. i'm not forcing you. if you refuse you must go, that's all. dunning. yes. sir william. sir william. well, now go along and take a day to think it over. bill, who has sauntered moody from the diningroom, stands by the stairs listening. catching sight of him, dunning raises his hand to his forelock. dunning. very good, sir william. [he turns, fumbles, and turns again] my old mother's dependent on me---- sir william. now, dunning, i've no more to say. [dunning goes sadly away under the stairs.] sir william. [following] and look here! just understand this [he too goes out....] bill, lighting a cigarette, has approached the writing-table. he looks very glum. the billiard-room door is flung open. mabel lanfarne appears, and makes him a little curtsey. mabel. against my will i am bidden to bring you in to pool. bill. sorry! i've got letters. mabel. you seem to have become very conscientious. bill. oh! i don't know. mabel. do you remember the last day of the covert shooting? bits. i do. mabel. [suddenly] what a pretty girl freda studdenham's grown! bill. has she? mabel. "she walks in beauty." bill. really? hadn't noticed. mabel. have you been taking lessons in conversation? bill. don't think so. mabel. oh! [there is a silence] mr. cheshire! bill. miss lanfarne! mabel. what's the matter with you? aren't you rather queer, considering that i don't bite, and was rather a pal! bill. [stolidly] i'm sorry. then seeing that his mother has came in from the billiard-room, he sits down at the writing-table. lady cheshire. mabel, dear, do take my cue. won't you play too, bill, and try and stop ronny, he's too terrible? bill. thanks. i've got these letters. mabel taking the cue passes back into the billiard-room, whence comes out the sound of talk and laughter. lady cheshire. [going over and standing behind her son's chair] anything wrong, darling? bill. nothing, thanks. [suddenly] i say, i wish you hadn't asked that girl here. lady cheshire. mabel! why? she's wanted for rehearsals. i thought you got on so well with her last christmas. bill. [with a sort of sullen exasperation.] a year ago. lady cheshire. the girls like her, so does your father; personally i must say i think she's rather nice and irish. bill. she's all right, i daresay. he looks round as if to show his mother that he wishes to be left alone. but lady cheshire, having seen that he is about to look at her, is not looking at him. lady cheshire. i'm afraid your father's been talking to you, bill. bill. he has. lady cheshire. debts? do try and make allowances. [with a faint smile] of course he is a little---- bill. he is. lady cheshire. i wish i could---- bill. oh, lord! don't you get mixed up in it! lady cheshire. it seems almost a pity that you told him. bill. he wrote and asked me point blank what i owed. lady cheshire. oh! [forcing herself to speak in a casual voice] i happen to have a little money, bill--i think it would be simpler if---- bill. now look here, mother, you've tried that before. i can't help spending money, i never shall be able, unless i go to the colonies, or something of the kind. lady cheshire. don't talk like that, dear! bill. i would, for two straws! lady cheshire. it's only because your father thinks such a lot of the place, and the name, and your career. the cheshires are all like that. they've been here so long; they're all--root. bill. deuced funny business my career will be, i expect! lady cheshire. [fluttering, but restraining herself lest he should see] but, bill, why must you spend more than your allowance? bill. why--anything? i didn't make myself. lady cheshire. i'm afraid we did that. it was inconsiderate, perhaps. bill. yes, you'd better have left me out. lady cheshire. but why are you so--only a little fuss about money! bill. ye-es. lady cheshire. you're not keeping anything from me, are you? bill. [facing her] no. [he then turns very deliberately to the writing things, and takes up a pen] i must write these letters, please. lady cheshire. bill, if there's any real trouble, you will tell me, won't you? bill. there's nothing whatever. he suddenly gets up and walks about. lady cheshire, too, moves over to the fireplace, and after an uneasy look at him, turns to the fire. then, as if trying to switch of his mood, she changes the subject abruptly. lady cheshire. isn't it a pity about young dunning? i'm so sorry for rose taylor. there is a silence. stealthily under the staircase freda has entered, and seeing only bill, advances to speak to him. bill. [suddenly] oh! well,--you can't help these things in the country. as he speaks, freda stops dead, perceiving that he is not alone; bill, too, catching sight of her, starts. lady cheshire. [still speaking to the fire] it seems dreadful to force him. i do so believe in people doing things of their own accord. [then seeing freda standing so uncertainly by the stairs] do you want me, freda? freda. only your cloak, my lady. shall i--begin it? at this moment sir william enters from the drawing-room. lady cheshire. yes, yes. sir william. [genially] can you give me another five minutes, bill? [pointing to the billiard-room] we'll come directly, my dear. freda, with a look at bill, has gone back whence she came; and lady cheshire goes reluctantly away into the billiard-room. sir william. i shall give young dunning short shrift. [he moves over to the fireplace and divides hip coat-tails] now, about you, bill! i don't want to bully you the moment you come down, but you know, this can't go on. i've paid your debts twice. shan't pay them this time unless i see a disposition to change your mode of life. [a pause] you get your extravagance from your mother. she's very queer--[a pause]--all the winterleighs are like that about money.... bill. mother's particularly generous, if that's what you mean. sir william. [drily] we will put it that way. [a pause] at the present moment you owe, as i understand it, eleven hundred pounds. bill. about that. sir william. mere flea-bite. [a pause] i've a proposition to make. bill. won't it do to-morrow, sir? sir william. "to-morrow" appears to be your motto in life. bill. thanks! sir william. i'm anxious to change it to-day. [bill looks at him in silence] it's time you took your position seriously, instead of hanging about town, racing, and playing polo, and what not. bill. go ahead! at something dangerous in his voice, sir william modifies his attitude. sir, william. the proposition's very simple. i can't suppose anything so rational and to your advantage will appeal to you, but [drily] i mention it. marry a nice girl, settle down, and stand for the division; you can have the dower house and fifteen hundred a year, and i'll pay your debts into the bargain. if you're elected i'll make it two thousand. plenty of time to work up the constituency before we kick out these infernal rads. carpetbagger against you; if you go hard at it in the summer, it'll be odd if you don't manage to get in your three days a week, next season. you can take rocketer and that four-year-old--he's well up to your weight, fully eight and a half inches of bone. you'll only want one other. and if miss--if your wife means to hunt---- bill. you've chosen my wife, then? sir william. [with a quick look] i imagine, you've some girl in your mind. bill. ah! sir william: used not to be unnatural at your age. i married your mother at twenty-eight. here you are, eldest son of a family that stands for something. the more i see of the times the more i'm convinced that everybody who is anybody has got to buckle to, and save the landmarks left. unless we're true to our caste, and prepared to work for it, the landed classes are going to go under to this infernal democratic spirit in the air. the outlook's very serious. we're threatened in a hundred ways. if you mean business, you'll want a wife. when i came into the property i should have been lost without your mother. bill. i thought this was coming. sir william. [with a certain geniality] my dear fellow, i don't want to put a pistol to your head. you've had a slack rein so far. i've never objected to your sowing a few wild oats-so long as you --er--[unseen by sir william, bill makes a sudden movement] short of that--at all events, i've not inquired into your affairs. i can only judge by the--er--pecuniary evidence you've been good enough to afford me from time to time. i imagine you've lived like a good many young men in your position--i'm not blaming you, but there's a time for all things. bill. why don't you say outright that you want me to marry mabel lanfarne? sits william. well, i do. girl's a nice one. good family--got a little money--rides well. isn't she good-looking enough for you, or what? bill. quite, thanks. sir william. i understood from your mother that you and she were on good terms. bill. please don't drag mother into it. sir william. [with dangerous politeness] perhaps you'll be good enough to state your objections. bill. must we go on with this? sir william. i've never asked you to do anything for me before; i expect you to pay attention now. i've no wish to dragoon you into this particular marriage. if you don't care for miss lanfarne, marry a girl you're fond of. bill. i refuse. sir william. in that case you know what to look out for. [with a sudden rush of choler] you young.... [he checks himself and stands glaring at bill, who glares back at him] this means, i suppose, that you've got some entanglement or other. bill. suppose what you like, sir. sits william. i warn you, if you play the blackguard---- bill. you can't force me like young dunning. hearing the raised voices lady cheshire has come back from the billiard-room. lady cheshire. [closing the door] what is it? sir william. you deliberately refuse! go away, dorothy. lady cheshire. [resolutely] i haven't seen bill for two months. sir william. what! [hesitating] well--we must talk it over again. lady cheshire. come to the billiard-room, both of you! bill, do finish those letters! with a deft movement she draws sir william toward the billiard-room, and glances back at bill before going out, but he has turned to the writing-table. when the door is closed, bill looks into the drawing-room, them opens the door under the stairs; and backing away towards the writing-table, sits down there, and takes up a pen. freda who has evidently been waiting, comes in and stands by the table. bill. i say, this is dangerous, you know. freda. yes--but i must. bill. well, then--[with natural recklessness] aren't you going to kiss me? without moving she looks at him with a sort of miserable inquiry. bill. do you know you haven't seen me for eight weeks? freda. quite--long enough--for you to have forgotten. bill. forgotten! i don't forget people so soon. freda. no? bill. what's the matter with you, freda? freda. [after a long look] it'll never be as it was. bill. [jumping up] how d'you mean? freda. i've got something for you. [she takes a diamond ring out of her dress and holds it out to him] i've not worn it since cromer. bill. now, look here freda. i've had my holiday; i shan't get another in a hurry. bill. freda! freda. you'll be glad to be free. that fortnight's all you really loved me in. bill. [putting his hands on her arms] i swear---- freda. [between her teeth] miss lanfarne need never know about me. bill. so that's it! i've told you a dozen times--nothing's changed. [freda looks at him and smiles.] bill. oh! very well! if you will make yourself miserable. freda. everybody will be pleased. bill. at what? freda. when you marry her. bill. this is too bad. freda. it's what always happens--even when it's not a--gentleman. bill. that's enough. freda. but i'm not like that girl down in the village. you needn't be afraid i'll say anything when--it comes. that's what i had to tell you. bill. what! freda. i can keep a secret. bill. do you mean this? [she bows her head.] bill. good god! freda. father brought me up not to whine. like the puppies when they hold them up by their tails. [with a sudden break in her voice] oh! bill! bill. [with his head down, seizing her hands] freda! [he breaks away from her towards the fire] good god! she stands looking at him, then quietly slips away by the door under the staircase. bill turns to speak to her, and sees that she has gone. he walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantelpiece. bill. by jove! this is----! the curtain falls. act ii the scene is lady cheshire's morning room, at ten o'clock on the following day. it is a pretty room, with white panelled walls; and chrysanthemums and carmine lilies in bowls. a large bow window overlooks the park under a sou'-westerly sky. a piano stands open; a fire is burning; and the morning's correspondence is scattered on a writing-table. doors opposite each other lead to the maid's workroom, and to a corridor. lady cheshire is standing in the middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak, which freda is holding out. lady cheshire. well, freda, suppose you just give it up! freda. i don't like to be beaten. lady cheshire. you're not to worry over your work. and by the way, i promised your father to make you eat more. [freda smiles.] lady cheshire. it's all very well to smile. you want bracing up. now don't be naughty. i shall give you a tonic. and i think you had better put that cloak away. freda. i'd rather have one more try, my lady. lady cheshire. [sitting doom at her writing-table] very well. freda goes out into her workroom, as jackson comes in from the corridor. jackson. excuse me, my lady. there's a young woman from the village, says you wanted to see her. lady cheshire. rose taylor? ask her to come in. oh! and jackson the car for the meet please at half-past ten. jackson having bowed and withdrawn, lady cheshire rises with worked signs of nervousness, which she has only just suppressed, when rose taylor, a stolid country girl, comes in and stands waiting by the door. lady cheshire. well, rose. do come in! [rose advances perhaps a couple of steps.] lady cheshire. i just wondered whether you'd like to ask my advice. your engagement with dunning's broken off, isn't it? rose. yes--but i've told him he's got to marry me. lady cheshire. i see! and you think that'll be the wisest thing? rose. [stolidly] i don't know, my lady. he's got to. lady cheshire. i do hope you're a little fond of him still. rose. i'm not. he don't deserve it. lady cheshire: and--do you think he's quite lost his affection for you? rose. i suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as he's done. he's after that--that--he didn't ought to treat me as if i was dead. lady cheshire. no, no--of course. but you will think it all well over, won't you? rose. i've a--got nothing to think over, except what i know of. lady cheshire. but for you both t marry in that spirit! you know it's for life, rose. [looking into her face] i'm always ready to help you. rose. [dropping a very slight curtsey] thank you, my lady, but i think he ought to marry me. i've told him he ought. lady cheshire. [sighing] well, that's all i wanted to say. it's a question of your self-respect; i can't give you any real advice. but just remember that if you want a friend---- rose. [with a gulp] i'm not so 'ard, really. i only want him to do what's right by me. lady cheshire. [with a little lift of her eyebrow--gently] yes, yes--i see. rose. [glancing back at the door] i don't like meeting the servants. lady cheshire. come along, i'll take you out another way. [as they reach the door, dot comes in.] dot. [with a glance at rose] can we have this room for the mouldy rehearsal, mother? lady cheshire. yes, dear, you can air it here. holding the door open for rose she follows her out. and dot, with a book of "caste" in her hand, arranges the room according to a diagram. dot. chair--chair--table--chair--dash! table--piano--fire--window! [producing a pocket comb] comb for eccles. cradle?--cradle--[she viciously dumps a waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool into it] brat! [then reading from the book gloomily] "enter eccles breathless. esther and polly rise-esther puts on lid of bandbox." bandbox! searching for something to represent a bandbox, she opens the workroom door. dot. freda? freda comes in. dot. i say, freda. anything the matter? you seem awfully down. [freda does not answer.] dot. you haven't looked anything of a lollipop lately. freda. i'm quite all right, thank you, miss dot. dot. has mother been givin' you a tonic? freda. [smiling a little] not yet. dot. that doesn't account for it then. [with a sudden warm impulse] what is it, freda? freda. nothing. dot. [switching of on a different line of thought] are you very busy this morning? freda. only this cloak for my lady. dot. oh! that can wait. i may have to get you in to prompt, if i can't keep 'em straight. [gloomily] they stray so. would you mind? freda. [stolidly] i shall be very glad, miss dot. dot. [eyeing her dubiously] all right. let's see--what did i want? joan has come in. joan. look here, dot; about the baby in this scene. i'm sure i ought to make more of it. dot. romantic little beast! [she plucks the footstool out by one ear, and holds it forth] let's see you try! joan. [recoiling] but, dot, what are we really going to have for the baby? i can't rehearse with that thing. can't you suggest something, freda? freda. borrow a real one, miss joan. there are some that don't count much. joan. freda, how horrible! dot. [dropping the footstool back into the basket] you'll just put up with what you're given. then as christine and mabel lanfarne come in, freda turns abruptly and goes out. dot. buck up! where are bill and harold? [to joan] go and find them, mouse-cat. but bill and harold, followed by latter, are already in the doorway. they come in, and latter, stumbling over the waste-paper basket, takes it up to improve its position. dot. drop that cradle, john! [as he picks the footstool out of it] leave the baby in! now then! bill, you enter there! [she points to the workroom door where bill and mabel range themselves close to the piano; while harold goes to the window] john! get off the stage! now then, "eccles enters breathless, esther and polly rise." wait a minute. i know now. [she opens the workroom door] freda, i wanted a bandbox. harold. [cheerfully] i hate beginning to rehearse, you know, you feel such a fool. dot. [with her bandbox-gloomily] you'll feel more of a fool when you have begun. [to bill, who is staring into the workroom] shut the door. now. [bill shuts the door.] latter. [advancing] look here! i want to clear up a point of psychology before we start. dot. good lord! latter. when i bring in the milk--ought i to bring it in seriously-- as if i were accustomed--i mean, i maintain that if i'm---- joan. oh! john, but i don't think it's meant that you should---- dot. shut up! go back, john! blow the milk! begin, begin, begin! bill! latter. [turning round and again advancing] but i think you underrate the importance of my entrance altogether. mabel. oh! no, mr. latter! latter. i don't in the least want to destroy the balance of the scene, but i do want to be clear about the spirit. what is the spirit? dot. [with gloom] rollicking! latter. well, i don't think so. we shall run a great risk, with this play, if we rollick. dot. shall we? now look here----! mabel. [softly to bill] mr. cheshire! bill. [desperately] let's get on! dot. [waving latter back] begin, begin! at last! [but jackson has came in.] jackson. [to christine] studdenham says, mm, if the young ladies want to see the spaniel pups, he's brought 'em round. joan. [starting up] oh! come 'on, john! [she flies towards the door, followed by latter.] dot. [gesticulating with her book] stop! you---- [christine and harold also rush past.] dot. [despairingly] first pick! [tearing her hair] pigs! devils! [she rushes after them. bill and mabel are left alone.] mabel. [mockingly] and don't you want one of the spaniel pups? bill. [painfully reserved and sullen, and conscious of the workroom door] can't keep a dog in town. you can have one, if you like. the breeding's all right. mabel. sixth pick? bill. the girls'll give you one of theirs. they only fancy they want 'em. mann. [moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped behind her] you know, you remind me awfully of your father. except that you're not nearly so polite. i don't understand you english-lords of the soil. the way you have of disposing of your females. [with a sudden change of voice] what was the matter with you last night? [softly] won't you tell me? bill. nothing to tell. mabel. ah! no, mr. bill. bill. [almost succumbing to her voice--then sullenly] worried, i suppose. mabel. [returning to her mocking] quite got over it? bill. don't chaff me, please. mabel. you really are rather formidable. bill. thanks. mabel, but, you know, i love to cross a field where there's a bull. bill. really! very interesting. mabel. the way of their only seeing one thing at a time. [she moves back as he advances] and overturning people on the journey. bill. hadn't you better be a little careful? mabel. and never to see the hedge until they're stuck in it. and then straight from that hedge into the opposite one. bill. [savagely] what makes you bait me this morning of all mornings? mabel. the beautiful morning! [suddenly] it must be dull for poor freda working in there with all this fun going on? bill. [glancing at the door] fun you call it? mabel, to go back to you,--now--mr. cheshire. bill. no. mabel, you always make me feel so irish. is it because you're so english, d'you think? ah! i can see him moving his ears. now he's pawing the ground--he's started! bill. miss lanfarne! mabel. [still backing away from him, and drawing him on with her eyes and smile] you can't help coming after me! [then with a sudden change to a sort of sierra gravity] can you? you'll feel that when i've gone. they stand quite still, looking into each other's eyes and freda, who has opened the door of the workroom stares at them. mabel. [seeing her] here's the stile. adieu, monsieur le taureau! she puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and slips through, leaving bill to turn, following the direction of her eyes, and see freda with the cloak still in her hand. bill. [slowly walking towards her] i haven't slept all night. freda. no? bill. have you been thinking it over? [freda gives a bitter little laugh.] bill. don't! we must make a plan. i'll get you away. i won't let you suffer. i swear i won't. freda. that will be clever. bill. i wish to heaven my affairs weren't in such a mess. freda. i shall be--all--right, thank you. bill. you must think me a blackguard. [she shakes her head] abuse me--say something! don't look like that! freda. were you ever really fond of me? bill. of course i was, i am now. give me your hands. she looks at him, then drags her hands from his, and covers her face. bill. [clenching his fists] look here! i'll prove it. [then as she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and clings to him] there, there! there is a click of a door handle. they start away from each other, and see lady cheshire regarding them. lady cheshire. [without irony] i beg your pardon. she makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted intrusion, but suddenly turning, stands, with lips pressed together, waiting. lady cheshire. yes? freda has muffled her face. but bill turns and confronts his mother. bill. don't say anything against her! lady cheshire. [tries to speak to him and fails--then to freda] please-go! bill. [taking freda's arm] no. lady cheshire, after a moment's hesitation, herself moves towards the door. bill. stop, mother! lady cheshire. i think perhaps not. bill. [looking at freda, who is cowering as though from a blow] it's a d---d shame! lady cheshire. it is. bill. [with sudden resolution] it's not as you think. i'm engaged to be married to her. [freda gives him a wild stare, and turns away.] lady cheshire. [looking from one to the other] i don't think i--quite--understand. bill. [with the brutality of his mortification] what i said was plain enough. lady cheshire. bill! bill. i tell you i am going to marry her. lady cheshire. [to freda] is that true? [freda gulps and remains silent.] bill. if you want to say anything, say it to me, mother. lady cheshire. [gripping the edge of a little table] give me a chair, please. [bill gives her a chair.] lady cheshire. [to freda] please sit down too. freda sits on the piano stool, still turning her face away. lady cheshire. [fixing her eyes on freda] now! bill. i fell in love with her. and she with me. lady cheshire. when? bill. in the summer. lady cheshire. ah! bill. it wasn't her fault. lady cheshire. no? bill. [with a sort of menace] mother! lady cheshire. forgive me, i am not quite used to the idea. you say that you--are engaged? bill. yes. lady cheshire. the reasons against such an engagement have occurred to you, i suppose? [with a sudden change of tone] bill! what does it mean? bill. if you think she's trapped me into this---- lady cheshire. i do not. neither do i think she has been trapped. i think nothing. i understand nothing. bill. [grimly] good! lady cheshire. how long has this-engagement lasted? bill. [after a silence] two months. lady cheshire. [suddenly] this is-this is quite impossible. bill. you'll find it isn't. lady cheshire. it's simple misery. bill. [pointing to the workroom] go and wait in there, freda. lady cheshire. [quickly] and are you still in love with her? freda, moving towards the workroom, smothers a sob. bill. of course i am. freda has gone, and as she goes, lady cheshire rises suddenly, forced by the intense feeling she has been keeping in hand. lady cheshire. bill! oh, bill! what does it all mean? [bill, looking from side to aide, only shrugs his shoulders] you are not in love with her now. it's no good telling me you are. bill. i am. lady cheshire. that's not exactly how you would speak if you were. bill. she's in love with me. lady cheshire. [bitterly] i suppose so. bill. i mean to see that nobody runs her down. lady cheshire. [with difficulty] bill! am i a hard, or mean woman? bill. mother! lady cheshire. it's all your life--and--your father's--and--all of us. i want to understand--i must understand. have you realised what an awful thins this would be for us all? it's quite impossible that it should go on. bill. i'm always in hot water with the governor, as it is. she and i'll take good care not to be in the way. lady cheshire. tell me everything! bill. i have. lady cheshire. i'm your mother, bill. bill. what's the good of these questions? lady cheshire. you won't give her away--i see! bill. i've told you all there is to tell. we're engaged, we shall be married quietly, and--and--go to canada. lady cheshire. if there weren't more than that to tell you'd be in love with her now. bill. i've told you that i am. lady cheshire. you are not. [almost fiercely] i know--i know there's more behind. bill. there--is--nothing. lady cheshire. [baffled, but unconvinced] do you mean that your love for her has been just what it might have been for a lady? bill. [bitterly] why not? lady cheshire. [with painful irony] it is not so as a rule. bill. up to now i've never heard you or the girls say a word against freda. this isn't the moment to begin, please. lady cheshire. [solemnly] all such marriages end in wretchedness. you haven't a taste or tradition in common. you don't know what marriage is. day after day, year after year. it's no use being sentimental--for people brought up as we are to have different manners is worse than to have different souls. besides, it's poverty. your father will never forgive you, and i've practically nothing. what can you do? you have no profession. how are you going to stand it; with a woman who--? it's the little things. bill. i know all that, thanks. lady cheshire. nobody does till they've been through it. marriage is hard enough when people are of the same class. [with a sudden movement towards him] oh! my dear-before it's too late! bill. [after a struggle] it's no good. lady cheshire. it's not fair to her. it can only end in her misery. bill. leave that to me, please. lady cheshire. [with an almost angry vehemence] only the very finest can do such things. and you don't even know what trouble's like. bill. drop it, please, mother. lady cheshire. bill, on your word of honour, are you acting of your own free will? bill. [breaking away from her] i can't stand any more. [he goes out into the workroom.] lady cheshire. what in god's name shall i do? in her distress she walks up and doom the room, then goes to the workroom door, and opens it. lady cheshire. come in here, please, freda. after a seconds pause, freda, white and trembling, appears in the doorway, followed by bill. lady cheshire. no, bill. i want to speak to her alone. bill, does not move. lady cheshire. [icily] i must ask you to leave us. bill hesitates; then shrugging his shoulders, he touches freda's arms, and goes back into the workroom, closing the door. there is silence. lady cheshire. how did it come about? freda. i don't know, my lady. lady cheshire. for heaven's sake, child, don't call me that again, whatever happens. [she walks to the window, and speaks from there] i know well enough how love comes. i don't blame you. don't cry. but, you see, it's my eldest son. [freda puts her hand to her breast] yes, i know. women always get the worst of these things. that's natural. but it's not only you is it? does any one guess? freda. no. lady cheshire. not even your father? [freda shakes her head] there's nothing more dreadful than for a woman to hang like a stone round a man's neck. how far has it gone? tell me! freda. i can't. lady cheshire. come! freda. i--won't. lady cheshire. [smiling painfully]. won't give him away? both of you the same. what's the use of that with me? look at me! wasn't he with you when you went for your holiday this summer? freda. he's--always--behaved--like--a--gentleman. lady cheshire. like a man you mean! freda. it hasn't been his fault! i love him so. lady cheshire turns abruptly, and begins to walk up and down the room. then stopping, she looks intently at freda. lady cheshire. i don't know what to say to you. it's simple madness! it can't, and shan't go on. freda. [sullenly] i know i'm not his equal, but i am--somebody. lady cheshire. [answering this first assertion of rights with a sudden steeliness] does he love you now? freda. that's not fair--it's not fair. lady cheshire. if men are like gunpowder, freda, women are not. if you've lost him it's been your own fault. freda. but he does love me, he must. it's only four months. lady cheshire. [looking down, and speaking rapidly] listen to me. i love my son, but i know him--i know all his kind of man. i've lived with one for thirty years. i know the way their senses work. when they want a thing they must have it, and then--they're sorry. freda. [sullenly] he's not sorry. lady cheshire. is his love big enough to carry you both over everything?.... you know it isn't. freda. if i were a lady, you wouldn't talk like that. lady cheshire. if you were a lady there'd be no trouble before either of you. you'll make him hate you. freda. i won't believe it. i could make him happy--out there. lady cheshire. i don't want to be so odious as to say all the things you must know. i only ask you to try and put yourself in our position. freda. ah, yes! lady cheshire. you ought to know me better than to think i'm purely selfish. freda. would you like to put yourself in my position? lady cheshire. what! freda. yes. just like rose. lady cheshire. [in a low, horror-stricken voice] oh! there is a dead silence, then going swiftly up to her, she looks straight into freda's eyes. freda. [meeting her gaze] oh! yes--it's the truth. [then to bill who has come in from the workroom, she gasps out] i never meant to tell. bill. well, are you satisfied? lady cheshire. [below her breath] this is terrible! bill. the governor had better know. lady cheshire. oh! no; not yet! bill. waiting won't cure it! the door from the corridor is thrown open; christine and dot run in with their copies of the play in their hands; seeing that something is wrong, they stand still. after a look at his mother, bill turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom. lady cheshire moves towards the window. joan. [following her sisters] the car's round. what's the matter? dot. shut up! sir william's voice is heard from the corridor calling "dorothy!" as lady cheshire, passing her handkerchief over her face, turns round, he enters. he is in full hunting dress: well-weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops. sir william. just off, my dear. [to his daughters, genially] rehearsin'? what! [he goes up to freda holding out his gloved right hand] button that for me, freda, would you? it's a bit stiff! freda buttons the glove: lady cheshire and the girls watching in hypnotic silence. sir william. thank you! "balmy as may"; scent ought to be first-rate. [to lady cheshire] good-bye, my dear! sampson's gorse --best day of the whole year. [he pats joan on the shoulder] wish you were cumin' out, joan. he goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the chink of his spurs die away, freda turns and rushes into the workroom. christine. mother! what----? but lady cheshire waves the question aside, passes her daughter, and goes out into the corridor. the sound of a motor car is heard. joan. [running to the window] they've started--! chris! what is it? dot? dot. bill, and her! joan. but what? dot. [gloomily] heaven knows! go away, you're not fit for this. joan. [aghast] i am fit. dot. i think not. joan. chris? christine. [in a hard voice] mother ought to have told us. joan. it can't be very awful. freda's so good. dot. call yourself in love, you milk-and-water-kitten! christine. it's horrible, not knowing anything! i wish runny hadn't gone. joan. shall i fetch john? dot. john! christine. perhaps harold knows. joan. he went out with studdenham. dot. it's always like this, women kept in blinkers. rose-leaves and humbug! that awful old man! joan. dot! christine. don't talk of father like that! dot. well, he is! and bill will be just like him at fifty! heaven help freda, whatever she's done! i'd sooner be a private in a german regiment than a woman. joan. dot, you're awful. dot. you-mouse-hearted-linnet! christine. don't talk that nonsense about women! dot. you're married and out of it; and ronny's not one of these terrific john bulls. [to joan who has opened the door] looking for john? no good, my dear; lath and plaster. joan. [from the door, in a frightened whisper] here's mabel! dot. heavens, and the waters under the earth! christine. if we only knew! mabel comes in, the three girls are silent, with their eyes fixed on their books. mabel. the silent company. dot. [looking straight at her] we're chucking it for to-day. mabel. what's the matter? christine. oh! nothing. dot. something's happened. mabel. really! i am sorry. [hesitating] is it bad enough for me to go? christine. oh! no, mabel! dot. [sardonically] i should think very likely. while she is looking from face to face, bill comes in from the workroom. he starts to walk across the room, but stops, and looks stolidly at the four girls. bill. exactly! fact of the matter is, miss lanfarne, i'm engaged to my mother's maid. no one moves or speaks. suddenly mabel lanfarne goes towards him, holding out her hand. bill does not take her hand, but bows. then after a swift glance at the girls' faces mabel goes out into the corridor, and the three girls are left staring at their brother. bill. [coolly] thought you might like to know. [he, too, goes out into the corridor.] christine. great heavens! joan. how awful! christine. i never thought of anything as bad as that. joan. oh! chris! something must be done! dot. [suddenly to herself] ha! when father went up to have his glove buttoned! there is a sound, jackson has came in from the corridor. jackson. [to dot] if you please, miss, studdenham's brought up the other two pups. he's just outside. will you kindly take a look at them, he says? there is silence. dot. [suddenly] we can't. christine. not just now, jackson. jackson. is studdenham and the pups to wait, mm? dot shakes her head violently. but studdenham is seen already standing in the doorway, with a spaniel puppy in either side-pocket. he comes in, and jackson stands waiting behind him. studdenham. this fellow's the best, miss dot. [he protrudes the right-hand pocket] i was keeping him for my girl--a, proper greedy one--takes after his father. the girls stare at him in silence. dot. [hastily] thanks, studdenham, i see. studdenham. i won't take 'em out in here. they're rather bold yet. christine. [desperately] no, no, of course. studdenham. then you think you'd like him, miss dot? the other's got a white chest; she's a lady. [he protrudes the left-hand pocket.] dot. oh, yes! studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. studdenham. wonderful faithful creatures; follow you like a woman. you can't shake 'em off anyhow. [he protrudes the right-hand pocket] my girl, she'd set her heart on him, but she'll just have to do without. dot. [as though galvanised] oh! no, i can't take it away from her. studdenham. bless you, she won't mind! that's settled, then. [he turns to the door. to the puppy] ah! would you! tryin' to wriggle out of it! regular young limb! [he goes out, followed by jackson.] christine. how ghastly! dot. [suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] "caste!" [she gives vent to a short sharp laugh.] the curtain falls. act iii it is five o'clock of the same day. the scene is the smoking-room, with walls of leander red, covered by old steeplechase and hunting prints. armchairs encircle a high ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. the curtains are not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is burning. there are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard-room, the other to a corridor. bill is pacing up and doom; harold, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with commiseration. bill. what's the time? harold. nearly five. they won't be in yet, if that's any consolation. always a tough meet--[softly] as the tiger said when he ate the man. bill. by jove! you're the only person i can stand within a mile of me, harold. harold. old boy! do you seriously think you're going to make it any better by marrying her? [bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.] bill. look here! i'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things. harold. no, old man. bill. but i've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think it! harold. my dear old chap! bill. this is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, i suppose--one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so high. i see it now that--i've got over the attack. harold. but, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, bill! do apply your reason, old boy. there is silence; while bill again paces up and dozen. bill. if you think i care two straws about the morality of the thing. harold. oh! my dear old man! of course not! bill. it's simply that i shall feel such a d---d skunk, if i leave her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. try it yourself; you'd soon see! harold. poor old chap! bill. it's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. and she's a soft little thing. why i ever made such a sickening ass of myself, i can't think. i never meant---- harold. no, i know! but, don't do anything rash, bill; keep your head, old man! bill. i don't see what loss i should be, if i did clear out of the country. [the sound of cannoning billiard balls is heard] who's that knocking the balls about? harold. john, i expect. [the sound ceases.] bill. he's coming in here. can't stand that! as latter appears from the billiard-room, he goes hurriedly out. latter. was that bill? harold. yes. latter. well? harold. [pacing up and down in his turn] rat in a cage is a fool to him. this is the sort of thing you read of in books, john! what price your argument with runny now? well, it's not too late for you luckily. latter. what do you mean? harold. you needn't connect yourself with this eccentric family! latter. i'm not a bounder, harold. harold. good! latter. it's terrible for your sisters. harold. deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people staying here! poor mother! john, i feel awfully bad about this. if something isn't done, pretty mess i shall be in. latter. how? harold. there's no entail. if the governor cuts bill off, it'll all come to me. latter. oh! harold. poor old bill! i say, the play! nemesis! what? moral! caste don't matter. got us fairly on the hop. latter. it's too bad of bill. it really is. he's behaved disgracefully. harold. [warningly] well! there are thousands of fellows who'd never dream of sticking to the girl, considering what it means. latter. perfectly disgusting! harold. hang you, john! haven't you any human sympathy? don't you know how these things come about? it's like a spark in a straw-yard. latter. one doesn't take lighted pipes into strawyards unless one's an idiot, or worse. harold. h'm! [with a grin] you're not allowed tobacco. in the good old days no one would hive thought anything of this. my great-grandfather---- latter. spare me your great-grandfather. harold. i could tell you of at least a dozen men i know who've been through this same business, and got off scot-free; and now because bill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up. latter. why didn't he play the game at the beginning? harold. i can't stand your sort, john. when a thing like this happens, all you can do is to cry out: why didn't he--? why didn't she--? what's to be done--that's the point! latter. of course he'll have to----. harold. ha! latter. what do you mean by--that? harold. look here, john! you feel in your bones that a marriage'll be hopeless, just as i do, knowing bill and the girl and everything! now don't you? latter. the whole thing is--is most unfortunate. harold. by jove! i should think it was! as he speaks christine and keith come in from the billiard-room. he is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally weathered, thin-lipped, reticent. he lights a cigarette and sinks into an armchair. behind them dot and joan have come stealing in. christine. i've told ronny. joan. this waiting for father to be told is awful. harold. [to keith] where did you leave the old man? keith. clackenham. he'll be home in ten minutes. dot. mabel's going. [they all stir, as if at fresh consciousness of discomfiture]. she walked into gracely and sent herself a telegram. harold. phew! dot. and we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened. harold. it's up to you, ronny. keith, looking at joan, slowly emits smoke; and latter passing his arm through joan's, draws her away with him into the billiard-room. keith. dot? dot. i'm not a squeamy squirrel. keith. anybody seen the girl since? dot. yes. harold. well? dot. she's just sitting there. christine. [in a hard voice] as we're all doing. dot. she's so soft, that's what's so horrible. if one could only feel----! keith. she's got to face the music like the rest of us. dot. music! squeaks! ugh! the whole thing's like a concertina, and some one jigging it! they all turn as the door opens, and a footman enters with a tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. in dead silence the footman puts the tray down. harold. [forcing his voice] did you get a run, ronny? [as keith nods] what point? keith. eight mile. footman. will you take tea, sir? keith. no, thanks, charles! in dead silence again the footman goes out, and they all look after him. harold. [below his breath] good gad! that's a squeeze of it! keith. what's our line of country to be? christine. all depends on father. keith. sir william's between the devil and the deep sea, as it strikes me. christine. he'll simply forbid it utterly, of course. keith. h'm! hard case! man who reads family prayers, and lessons on sunday forbids son to---- christine, ronny! keith. great scott! i'm not saying bill ought to marry her. she's got to stand the racket. but your dad will have a tough job to take up that position. dot. awfully funny! christine. what on earth d'you mean, dot? dot. morality in one eye, and your title in the other! christine. rubbish! harold. you're all reckoning without your bill. keith. ye-es. sir william can cut him off; no mortal power can help the title going down, if bill chooses to be such a---- [he draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.] harold. i won't take what bill ought to have; nor would any of you girls, i should think. christine and dot. of course not! keith. [patting his wife's arm] hardly the point, is it? dot. if it wasn't for mother! freda's just as much of a lady as most girls. why shouldn't he marry her, and go to canada? it's what he's really fit for. harold. steady on, dot! dot. well, imagine him in parliament! that's what he'll come to, if he stays here--jolly for the country! christine. don't be cynical! we must find a way of stopping bill. dot. me cynical! christine. let's go and beg him, ronny! keith. no earthly! the only hope is in the girl. dot. she hasn't the stuff in her! harold. i say! what price young dunning! right about face! poor old dad! christine. it's past joking, harold! dot. [gloomily] old studdenham's better than most relations by marriage! keith. thanks! christine. it's ridiculous--monstrous! it's fantastic! harold. [holding up his hand] there's his horse going round. he's in! they turn from listening to the sound, to see lady cheshire coming from the billiard-room. she is very pale. they all rise and dot puts an arm round her; while keith pushes forward his chair. joan and latter too have come stealing back. lady cheshire. thank you, ronny! [she sits down.] dot. mother, you're shivering! shall i get you a fur? lady cheshire. no, thanks, dear! dot. [in a low voice] play up, mother darling! lady cheshire. [straightening herself] what sort of a run, ronny? keith. quite fair, m'm. brazier's to caffyn's dyke, good straight line. lady cheshire. and the young horse? keith. carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [putting his hand on her shoulder] cheer up, mem-sahib! christine. mother, must anything be said to father? ronny thinks it all depends on her. can't you use your influence? [lady cheshire shakes her head.] christine. but, mother, it's desperate. dot. shut up, chris! of course mother can't. we simply couldn't beg her to let us off! christine. there must be some way. what do you think in your heart, mother? dot. leave mother alone! christine. it must be faced, now or never. dot. [in a low voice] haven't you any self-respect? christine. we shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county. oh! mother do speak to her! you know it'll be misery for both of them. [lady cheshire bows her head] well, then? [lady cheshire shakes her head.] christine. not even for bill's sake? dot. chris! christine. well, for heaven's sake, speak to bill again, mother! we ought all to go on our knees to him. lady cheshire. he's with your father now. harold. poor old bill! christine. [passionately] he didn't think of us! that wretched girl! lady cheshire. chris! christine. there are limits! lady cheshire. not to self-control. christine. no, mother! i can't i never shall--something must be done! you know what bill is. he rushes at things so, when he gets his head down. oh! do try! it's only fair to her, and all of us! lady cheshire. [painfully] there are things one can't do. christine. but it's bill! i know you can make her give him up, if you'll only say all you can. and, after all, what's coming won't affect her as if she'd been a lady. only you can do it, mother: do back me up, all of you! it's the only way! hypnotised by their private longing for what christine has been urging they have all fixed their eyes on lady cheshire, who looks from, face to face, and moves her hands as if in physical pain. christine. [softly] mother! lady cheshire suddenly rises, looking towards the billiard-room door, listening. they all follow her eyes. she sits down again, passing her hand over her lips, as sir william enters. his hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim and set. he walks to the fore without a glance at any one, and stands looking down into it. very quietly, every one but lady cheshire steals away. lady cheshire. what have you done? sir william. you there! lady cheshire. don't keep me in suspense! sir william. the fool! my god! dorothy! i didn't think i had a blackguard for a son, who was a fool into the bargain. lady cheshire. [rising] if he were a blackguard he would not be what you call a fool. sir william. [after staring angrily, makes her a slight bow] very well! lady cheshire. [in a low voice] bill, don't be harsh. it's all too terrible. sir william. sit down, my dear. [she resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire.] sir william. in all my life i've never been face to face with a thing like this. [gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his hands and arms are seen shaking] you ask me to be calm. i am trying to be. be good enough in turn not to take his part against me. lady cheshire. bill! sir william. i am trying to think. i understand that you've known this--piece of news since this morning. i've known it ten minutes. give me a little time, please. [then, after a silence] where's the girl? lady cheshire. in the workroom. sir william. [raising his clenched fist] what in god's name is he about? lady cheshire. what have you said to him? sir william. nothing-by a miracle. [he breaks away from the fire and walks up and down] my family goes back to the thirteenth century. nowadays they laugh at that! i don't! nowadays they laugh at everything--they even laugh at the word lady. i married you, and i don't .... married his mother's maid! by george! dorothy! i don't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! i'm not prepared to sit down and wait for it. by gad! i am not. [with sudden fierceness] there are plenty in these days who'll be glad enough for this to happen; plenty of these d---d socialists and radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't the bowels to sees a--tragedy. i say it would be a tragedy; for you, and me, and all of us. you and i were brought up, and we've brought the children up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. a man's past--his traditions--he can't get rid of them. they're--they're himself! [suddenly] it shan't go on. lady cheshire. what's to prevent it? sir william. i utterly forbid this piece of madness. i'll stop it. lady cheshire. but the thing we can't stop. sir william. provision must be made. lady cheshire. the unwritten law! sir william. what! [suddenly perceiving what she is alluding to] you're thinking of young--young----[shortly] i don't see the connection. lady cheshire. what's so awful, is that the boy's trying to do what's loyal--and we--his father and mother----! sir william. i'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. i must think this out. lady cheshire. [beneath her breath] i've tried that--it doesn't help. sir william. this girl, who was born on the estate, had the run of the house--brought up with money earned from me--nothing but kindness from all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude and decency--she lured him on, i haven't a doubt! lady cheshire. [to herself] in a way, i suppose. sir william. what! it's ruin. we've always been here. who the deuce are we if we leave this place? d'you think we could stay? go out and meet everybody just as if nothing had happened? good-bye to any prestige, political, social, or anything! this is the sort of business nothing can get over. i've seen it before. as to that other matter--it's soon forgotten--constantly happening--why, my own grandfather----! lady cheshire. does he help? sir william. [stares before him in silence-suddenly] you must go to the girl. she's soft. she'll never hold out against you. lady cheshire. i did before i knew what was in front of her--i said all i could. i can't go again now. i can't do it, bill. sir william. what are you going to do, then--fold your hands? [then as lady cheshire makes a move of distress.] if he marries her, i've done with him. as far as i'm concerned he'll cease to exist. the title--i can't help. my god! does that meet your wishes? lady cheshire. [with sudden fire] you've no right to put such an alternative to me. i'd give ten years of my life to prevent this marriage. i'll go to bill. i'll beg him on my knees. sir william. then why can't you go to the girl? she deserves no consideration. it's not a question of morality: morality be d---d! lady cheshire. but not self-respect.... sir william. what! you're his mother! lady cheshire. i've tried; i [putting her hand to her throat] can't get it out. sir william. [staring at her] you won't go to her? it's the only chance. [lady cheshire turns away.] sir william. in the whole course of our married life, dorothy, i've never known you set yourself up against me. i resent this, i warn you--i resent it. send the girl to me. i'll do it myself. with a look back at him lady cheshire goes out into the corridor. sir william. this is a nice end to my day! he takes a small china cup from of the mantel-piece; it breaks with the pressure of his hand, and falls into the fireplace. while he stands looking at it blankly, there is a knock. sir william. come in! freda enters from the corridor. sir william. i've asked you to be good enough to come, in order that--[pointing to chair]--you may sit down. but though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit down. sir william. this is a sad business. freda. [below her breath] yes, sir william. sir william. [becoming conscious of the depths of feeling before him] i--er--are you attached to my son? freda. [in a whisper] yes. sir william. it's very painful to me to have to do this. [he turns away from her and speaks to the fire.] i sent for you--to--ask-- [quickly] how old are you? freda. twenty-two. sir william. [more resolutely] do you expect me to sanction such a mad idea as a marriage? freda. i don't expect anything. sir william. you know--you haven't earned the right to be considered. freda. not yet! sir william. what! that oughtn't to help you! on the contrary. now brace yourself up, and listen to me! she stands waiting to hear her sentence. sir william looks at her; and his glance gradually wavers. sir william. i've not a word to say for my son. he's behaved like a scamp. freda. oh! no! sir william. [with a silencing gesture] at the same, time--what made you forget yourself? you've no excuse, you know. freda. no. sir william. you'll deserve all you'll get. confound it! to expect me to--it's intolerable! do you know where my son is? freda. [faintly] i think he's in the billiard-room with my lady. sir william. [with renewed resolution] i wanted to--to put it to you--as a--as a--what! [seeing her stand so absolutely motionless, looking at him, he turns abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door] i'll speak to him first. come in here, please! [to freda] go in, and wait! lady cheshire and bill come in, and freda passing them, goes into the billiard-room to wait. sir william. [speaking with a pause between each sentence] your mother and i have spoken of this--calamity. i imagine that even you have some dim perception of the monstrous nature of it. i must tell you this: if you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. you'll receive nothing from me now or hereafter. i consider that only due to the position our family has always held here. your brother will take your place. we shall--get on as best we can without you. [there is a dead silence till he adds sharply] well! bill. i shall marry her. lady cheshire. oh! bill! without love-without anything! bill. all right, mother! [to sir william] you've mistaken your man, sir. because i'm a rotter in one way, i'm not necessarily a rotter in all. you put the butt end of the pistol to dunning's head yesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. well! [he turns round to go out] let the d---d thing off! lady cheshire. bill! bill. [turning to her] i'm not going to leave her in the lurch. sir william. do me the justice to admit that i have not attempted to persuade you to. bill. no! you've chucked me out. i don't see what else you could have done under the circumstances. it's quite all right. but if you wanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work, that's all; neither you nor i are very good at seeing consequences. sir william. do you realise your position? bilk. [grimly] i've a fair notion of it. sir william. [with a sudden outburst] you have none--not the faintest, brought up as you've been. bill. i didn't bring myself up. sir william. [with a movement of uncontrolled anger, to which his son responds] you--ungrateful young dog! lady cheshire. how can you--both? [they drop their eyes, and stand silent.] sir william. [with grimly suppressed emotion] i am speaking under the stress of very great pain--some consideration is due to me. this is a disaster which i never expected to have to face. it is a matter which i naturally can never hope to forget. i shall carry this down to my death. we shall all of us do that. i have had the misfortune all my life to believe in our position here--to believe that we counted for something--that the country wanted us. i have tried to do my duty by that position. i find in one moment that it is gone-- smoke--gone. my philosophy is not equal to that. to countenance this marriage would be unnatural. bill. i know. i'm sorry. i've got her into this--i don't see any other way out. it's a bad business for me, father, as well as for you---- he stops, seeing that jackson has route in, and is standing there waiting. jackson. will you speak to studdenham, sir william? it's about young dunning. after a moment of dead silence, sir william nods, and the butler withdraws. bill. [stolidly] he'd better be told. sir william. he shall be. studdenham enters, and touches his forehead to them all with a comprehensive gesture. studdenham. good evenin', my lady! evenin', sir william! studdenham. glad to be able to tell you, the young man's to do the proper thing. asked me to let you know, sir william. banns'll be up next sunday. [struck by the silence, he looks round at all three in turn, and suddenly seeing that lady cheshire is shivering] beg pardon, my lady, you're shakin' like a leaf! bill. [blurting it out] i've a painful piece of news for you, studdenham; i'm engaged to your daughter. we're to be married at once. studdenham. i--don't--understand you--sir. bill. the fact is, i've behaved badly; but i mean to put it straight. studdenham. i'm a little deaf. did you say--my daughter? sir william. there's no use mincing matters, studdenham. it's a thunderbolt--young dunning's case over again. studdenham. i don't rightly follow. she's--you've--! i must see my daughter. have the goodness to send for her, m'lady. lady cheshire goes to the billiard-room, and calls: "freda, come here, please." studdenham. [to sir william] you tell me that my daughter's in the position of that girl owing to your son? men ha' been shot for less. bill. if you like to have a pot at me, studdenham you're welcome. studdenham. [averting his eyes from bill at the sheer idiocy of this sequel to his words] i've been in your service five and twenty years, sir william; but this is man to man--this is! sir william. i don't deny that, studdenham. studdenham. [with eyes shifting in sheer anger] no--'twouldn't be very easy. did i understand him to say that he offers her marriage? sir william. you did. studdenham. [into his beard] well--that's something! [moving his hands as if wringing the neck of a bird] i'm tryin' to see the rights o' this. sir william. [bitterly] you've all your work cut out for you, studdenham. again studdenham makes the unconscious wringing movement with his hands. lady cheshire. [turning from it with a sort of horror] don't, studdenham! please! studdenham. what's that, m'lady? lady cheshire. [under her breath] your--your--hands. while studdenham is still staring at her, freda is seen standing in the doorway, like a black ghost. studdenham. come here! you! [freda moves a few steps towards her father] when did you start this? freda. [almost inaudibly] in the summer, father. lady cheshire. don't be harsh to her! studdenham. harsh! [his eyes again move from side to side as if pain and anger had bewildered them. then looking sideways at freda, but in a gentler voice] and when did you tell him about--what's come to you? freda. last night. studdenham. oh! [with sudden menace] you young--! [he makes a convulsive movement of one hand; then, in the silence, seems to lose grip of his thoughts, and pits his hand up to his head] i want to clear me mind a bit--i don't see it plain at all. [without looking at bill] 'tis said there's been an offer of marriage? bill. i've made it, i stick to it. studdenham. oh! [with slow, puzzled anger] i want time to get the pith o' this. you don't say anything, sir william? sir william. the facts are all before you. studdenham. [scarcely moving his lips] m'lady? lady cheshire is silent. studdenham. [stammering] my girl was--was good enough for any man. it's not for him that's--that's to look down on her. [to freda] you hear the handsome offer that's been made you? well? [freda moistens her lips and tries to speak, but cannot] if nobody's to speak a word, we won't get much forrarder. i'd like for you to say what's in your mind, sir william. sir william. i--if my son marries her he'll have to make his own way. studdenham. [savagely] i'm not puttin' thought to that. sir william. i didn't suppose you were, studdenham. it appears to rest with your daughter. [he suddenly takes out his handkerchief, and puts it to his forehead] infernal fires they make up here! lady cheshire, who is again shivering desperately, as if with intense cold, makes a violent attempt to control her shuddering. studdenham. [suddenly] there's luxuries that's got to be paid for. [to freda] speak up, now. freda turns slowly and looks up at sir william; he involuntarily raises his hand to his mouth. her eyes travel on to lady cheshire, who faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as if she were going to faint. the girl's gaze passes on to bill, standing rigid, with his jaw set. freda. i want--[then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turns from him] no! sir william. ah! at that sound of profound relief, studdenham, whose eyes have been following his daughter's, moves towards sir william, all his emotion turned into sheer angry pride. studdenham. don't be afraid, sir william! we want none of you! she'll not force herself where she's not welcome. she may ha' slipped her good name, but she'll keep her proper pride. i'll have no charity marriage in my family. sir william. steady, studdenham! studdenham. if the young gentleman has tired of her in three months, as a blind man can see by the looks of him--she's not for him! bill. [stepping forward] i'm ready to make it up to her. studdenham. keep back, there? [he takes hold of freda, and looks around him] well! she's not the first this has happened to since the world began, an' she won't be the last. come away, now, come away! taking freda by the shoulders, he guides her towards the door. sir william. d---n 'it, studdenham! give us credit for something! studdenham. [turning his face and eyes lighted up by a sort of smiling snarl] ah! i do that, sir william. but there's things that can't be undone! he follows freda out. as the door closes, sir william's calm gives way. he staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, as though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. bill, following freda and studdenham, has stopped at the shut door. lady cheshire moves swiftly close to him. the door of the billiard-room is opened, and dot appears. with a glance round, she crosses quickly to her mother. dot. [in a low voice] mabel's just going, mother! [almost whispering] where's freda? is it--has she really had the pluck? lady cheshire bending her head for "yes," goes out into the billiard-room. dot clasps her hands together, and standing there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her father, from her father to her brother. a quaint little pitying smile comes on her lips. she gives a faint shrug of her shoulders. the curtain falls. the little dream an allegory in six scenes characters seelchen, a mountain girl lamond, a climber felsman, a glide characters in the dream the great horn | the cow horn | mountains the wine horn | the edelweiss | the alpenrose | flowers the gentian | the mountain dandelion | voices and figures in the dream cowbells mountain air far view of italy distant flume of steam things in books moth children three dancing youths three dancing girls the forms of workers the forms of what is made by work death by slumber death by drowning flower children goatherd goat boys goat god the forms of sleep scene i it is just after sunset of an august evening. the scene is a room in a mountain hut, furnished only with a table, benches. and a low broad window seat. through this window three rocky peaks are seen by the light of a moon which is slowly whitening the last hues of sunset. an oil lamp is burning. seelchen, a mountain girl, eighteen years old, is humming a folk-song, and putting away in a cupboard freshly washed soup-bowls and glasses. she is dressed in a tight-fitting black velvet bodice. square-cut at the neck and partly filled in with a gay handkerchief, coloured rose-pink, blue, and golden, like the alpen-rose, the gentian, and the mountain dandelion; alabaster beads, pale as edelweiss, are round her throat; her stiffened. white linen sleeves finish at the elbow; and her full well-worn skirt is of gentian blue. the two thick plaits of her hair are crossed, and turned round her head. as she puts away the last bowl, there is a knock; and lamond opens the outer door. he is young, tanned, and good-looking, dressed like a climber, and carries a plaid, a ruck-sack, and an ice-axe. lamond. good evening! seelchen. good evening, gentle sir! lamond. my name is lamond. i'm very late i fear. seelchen. do you wish to sleep here? lamond. please. seelchen. all the beds are full--it is a pity. i will call mother. lamond. i've come to go up the great horn at sunrise. seelchen. [awed] the great horn! but he is impossible. lamond. i am going to try that. seelchen. there is the wine horn, and the cow horn. lamond. i have climbed them. seelchen. but he is so dangerous--it is perhaps--death. lamond. oh! that's all right! one must take one's chance. seelchen. and father has hurt his foot. for guide, there is only mans felsman. lamond. the celebrated felsman? seelchen. [nodding; then looking at him with admiration] are you that herr lamond who has climbed all our little mountains this year? lamond. all but that big fellow. seelchen. we have heard of you. will you not wait a day for father's foot? lamond. ah! no. i must go back home to-morrow. seelchen. the gracious sir is in a hurry. lamond. [looking at her intently] alas! seelchen. are you from london? is it very big? lamond. six million souls. seelchen. oh! [after a little pause] i have seen cortina twice. lamond. do you live here all the year? seelchen. in winter in the valley. lamond. and don't you want to see the world? seelchen. sometimes. [going to a door, she calls softly] hans! [then pointing to another door] there are seven german gentlemen asleep in there! lamond. oh god! seelchen. please? they are here to see the sunrise. [she picks up a little book that has dropped from lamond's pocket] i have read several books. lamond. this is by the great english poet. do you never make poetry here, and dream dreams, among your mountains? seelchen. [slowly shaking her head] see! it is the full moon. while they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in loden. seelchen. hans! felsman. [in a deep voice] the gentleman wishes me? seelchen. [awed] the great horn for to-morrow! [whispering to him] it is the celebrated london one. felsman. the great horn is not possible. lamond. you say that? and you're the famous felsman? felsman. [grimly] we start at dawn. seelchen. it is the first time for years! lamond. [placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] can i sleep here? seelchen. i will see; perhaps-- [she runs out up some stairs] felsman. [taking blankets from the cupboard and spreading them on the window seat] so! as he goes out into the air. seelchen comes slipping in again with a lighted candle. seelchen. there is still one bed. this is too hard for you. lamond. oh! thanks; but that's all right. seelchen. to please me! lamond. may i ask your name? seelchen. seelchen. lamond. little soul, that means--doesn't it? to please you i would sleep with seven german gentlemen. seelchen. oh! no; it is not necessary. lamond. [with. a grave bow] at your service, then. [he prepares to go] seelchen. is it very nice in towns, in the world, where you come from? lamond. when i'm there i would be here; but when i'm here i would be there. seelchen. [clasping her hands] that is like me but i am always here. lamond. ah! yes; there is no one like you in towns. seelchen. in two places one cannot be. [suddenly] in the towns there are theatres, and there is beautiful fine work, and--dancing, and--churches--and trains--and all the things in books--and-- lamond. misery. seelchen. but there is life. lamond. and there is death. seelchen. to-morrow, when you have climbed--will you not come back? lamond. no. seelchen. you have all the world; and i have nothing. lamond. except felsman, and the mountains. seelchen. it is not good to eat only bread. lamond. [looking at her hard] i would like to eat you! seelchen. but i am not nice; i am full of big wants--like the cheese with holes. lamond. i shall come again. seelchen. there will be no more hard mountains left to climb. and if it is not exciting, you do not care. lamond. o wise little soul! seelchen. no. i am not wise. in here it is always aching. lamond. for the moon? seelchen. yes. [then suddenly] from the big world you will remember? lamond. [taking her hand] there is nothing in the big world so sweet as this. seelchen. [wisely] but there is the big world itself. lamond. may i kiss you, for good-night? she puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and, suddenly, her lips. then as she draws away. lamond. i am sorry, little soul. seelchen. that's all right! lamond. [taking the candle] dream well! goodnight! seelchen. [softly] good-night! felsman. [coming in from the air, and eyeing them] it is cold--it will be fine. lamond still looking back goes up the stairs; and felsman waits for him to pass. seelchen. [from the window seat] it was hard for him here. i thought. he goes up to her, stays a moment looking down then bends and kisses her hungrily. seelchen. art thou angry? he does not answer, but turning out the lamp, goes into an inner room. seelchen sits gazing through the window at the peaks bathed in full moonlight. then, drawing the blankets about her, she snuggles doom on the window seat. seelchen. [in a sleepy voice] they kissed me--both. [she sleeps] the scene falls quite dark scene ii the scene is slowly illumined as by dawn. seelchen is still lying on the window seat. she sits up, freeing her face and hands from the blankets, changing the swathings of deep sleep for the filmy coverings of a dream. the wall of the hut has vanished; there is nothing between her and the three mountains veiled in mist, save a through of darkness. there, as the peaks of the mountains brighten, they are seen to have great faces. seelchen. oh! they have faces! the face of the wine horn is the profile of a beardless youth. the face of the cow horn is that of a mountain shepherd. solemn, and broom, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard. between them the great horn, whose hair is of snow, has a high. beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, serene, without cruelty. far down below the faces of the peaks. above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little heads of the flowers of edelweiss, and gentian, mountain dandelion, and alpenrose; on their heads are crowns made of their several flowers, all powdered with dewdrops; and when the flowers lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring. all around the peaks there is nothing but blue sky. edelweiss. [in a tiny voice] would you? would you? would you? ah! ha! gentian, m. dandelion, alpenrose [with their bells ranging enviously] oo-oo-oo! from behind the cow horn are heard the voices of cowbells and mountain air: "clinkel-clink! clinkel-clink!" "mountain air! mountain air!" from behind the wine horn rise the rival voices of view of italy, flume of steam, and things in books: "i am italy! italy!" "see me--steam in the distance!" "o remember the things in books!" and all call out together, very softly, with the flowers ringing their bells. then far away like an echo comes a sighing: "mountain air! mountain air!" and suddenly the peak of the cow horn speaks in a voice as of one unaccustomed. the cow horn. amongst kine and my black-brown sheep i live; i am silence, and monotony; i am the solemn hills. i am fierceness, and the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. look in my eyes. love me alone! seelchen. [breathless] the cow horn! he is speaking for felsman and the mountains. it is the half of my heart! the flowers laugh happily. the cow horn. i stalk the eternal hills--i drink the mountain snows. my eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. the lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running of the torrents; no other talk know i. thoughts simple, and blood hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity. seelchen. yes. yes! i want him. he is strong! the voices of cowbells and mountain air cry out together: "clinkel-clink! clinkel-clink!" "mountain air! mountain air!" the cow horn. little soul! hold to me! love me! live with me under the stars! seelchen. [below her breath] i am afraid. and suddenly the peak of the wine horn speaks in a youth's voice. the wine horn. i am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the streets; i am the cooing dove of towns, from the plane trees and the chestnuts' shade. from day to day all changes, where i burn my incense to my thousand little gods. in white palaces i dwell, and passionate dark alleys. the life of men in crowds is mine--of lamplight in the streets at dawn. [softly] i have a thousand loves. and never one too long; for i am nimbler than your heifers playing in the sunshine. the flowers, ringing in alarm, cry: "we know them!" the wine horn. i hear the rustlings of the birth and death of pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. i hear the hungry oaths of men; and love kisses in the airless night. without me, little soul, you starve and die, seelchen. he is speaking for the gentle sir, and the big world of the town. it pulls my heart. the wine horn. my thoughts surpass in number the flowers in your meadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind. i drink the wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. thus am i never dull! the voices of view of italy, flume of steam, and things in books are heard calling out together: "i am italy, italy!" "see me--steam in the distance!" "o remember, remember!" the wine horn. love me, little soul! i paint life fifty colours. i make a thousand pretty things! i twine about your heart! seelchen. he is honey! the flowers ring their bells jealously and cry: "bitter! bitter!" the cow horn. stay with me, seelchen! i wake thee with the crystal air. the voices of cowbells and mountain air tiny out far away: "clinkel-clink! clinkel-clink!" "mountain air! mountain air!" and the flowers laugh happily. the wine horn. come with me, seelchen! my fan, variety, shall wake you! the voices of view of italy, flume of steam and things in books chant softly: "i am italy! italy!" "see me--steam in the distance!" "o remember, remember!" and the flowers moan. seelchen. [in grief] my heart! it is torn! the wine horn. with me, little soul, you shall race in the streets. and peep at all secrets. we will hold hands, and fly like the thistle-down. m. dandelion. my puff-balls fly faster! the wine horn. i will show you the sea. gentian. my blue is deeper! the wine horn. i will shower on you blushes. alpenrose. i can blush redder! the wine horn. little soul, listen! my jewels! silk! velvet! edelweiss. i am softer than velvet! the wine horn. [proudly] my wonderful rags! the flowers. [moaning] of those we have none. seelchen. he has all things. the cow horn. mine are the clouds with the dark silvered wings; mine are the rocks on fire with the sun; and the dewdrops cooler than pearls. away from my breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt droop, little soul. the wine horn. the dark clove is my fragrance! the flowers ring eagerly, and turning up their faces, cry: "we too, smell sweet." but the voices of view of italy, flume of steam, and things in books cry out: "i am italy! italy!" "see me--steam in the distance!" "o remember! remember!" seelchen. [distracted] oh! it is hard! the cow horn. i will never desert thee. the wine horn. a hundred times i will desert you, a hundred times come back, and kiss you. seelchen. [whispering] peace for my heart! the cow horn. with me thou shalt lie on the warm wild thyme. the flowers laugh happily. the wine horn. with me you shall lie on a bed of dove's feathers. the flowers moan. the wine horn. i will give you old wine. the cow horn. i will give thee new milk. the wine horn. hear my song! from far away comes the sound as of mandolins. seelchen. [clasping her breast] my heart--it is leaving me! the cow horn. hear my song! from the distance floats the piping of a shepherd's reed. seelchen. [curving her hand at her ears] the piping! ah! the cow horn. stay with me, seelchen! the wine horn. come with me, seelchen! the cow horn. i give thee certainty! the wine horn. i give you chance! the cow horn. i give thee peace. the wine horn. i give you change. the cow horn. i give thee stillness. the wine horn. i give you voice. the cow horn. i give thee one love. the wine horn. i give you many. seelchen. [as if the words were torn from her heart] both, both--i will love! and suddenly the peak of the great horn speaks. the great horn. and both thou shalt love, little soul! thou shalt lie on the hills with silence; and dance in the cities with knowledge. both shall possess thee! the sun and the moon on the mountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings. small moth! each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seem as thy grave! thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the other. but be not afraid! for the life of a man is for all loves in turn. 'tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; a tune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born babe, half courage and half sleep. there is a hidden rhythm. change. quietude. chance. certainty. the one. the many. burn on--thou pretty flame, trying to eat the world! thou shaft come to me at last, my little soul! the voices and the flower-bells peal out. seelchen, enraptured, stretches her arms to embrace the sight and sound, but all fades slowly into dark sleep. scene iii the dark scene again becomes glamorous. seelchen is seen with her hand stretched out towards the piazza of a little town, with a plane tree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway of an inn a pale path of light. over the inn hangs a full golden moon. against the wall, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the face of the wine horn, in a crimson dock, thrumming a mandolin, and singing: "little star soul through the frost fields of night roaming alone, disconsolate-- from out the cold i call thee in striking my dark mandolin beneath this moon of gold." from the inn comes a burst of laughter, and the sound of dancing. seelchen: [whispering] it is the big world! the youth of the wine horn sings on: "pretty grey moth, where the strange candles shine, seeking for warmth, so desperate-- ah! fluttering dove i bid thee win striking my dark mandolin the crimson flame of love." seelchen. [gazing enraptured at the inn] they are dancing! as she speaks, from either side come moth-children, meeting and fluttering up the path of light to the inn doorway; then wheeling aside, they form again, and again flutter forward. seelchen. [holding out her hands] they are real! their wings are windy. the youth of the wine horn sings on; "lips of my song, to the white maiden's heart go ye, and whisper, passionate. these words that burn 'o listening one! love that flieth past is gone nor ever may return!'" seelchen runs towards him--but the light above him fades; he has become shadow. she turns bewildered to the dancing moth-children --but they vanish before her. at the door of the inn stands lamond in a dark cloak. seelchen. it is you! lamond. without my little soul i am cold. come! [he holds out his arms to her] seelchen. shall i be safe? lamond. what is safety? are you safe in your mountains? seelchen. where am i, here? lamond. the town. smiling, he points to the doorway. and silent as shadows there come dancing out, two by two, two girls and two youths. the first girl is dressed in white satin and jewels; and the first youth in black velvet. the second girl is in rags, and a shawl; and the second youth in shirt and corduroys. they dance gravely, each couple as if in a world apart. seelchen. [whispering] in the mountains all dance together. do they never change partners? lamond. how could they, little one? those are rich, these poor. but see! a corybantic couple come dancing forth. the girl has bare limbs. a flame-coloured shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the youth wears a panther-skin. they pursue not only each other. but the other girls and youths. for a moment all is a furious medley. then the corybantic couple vanish into the inn, and the first two couples are left, slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from each other as before. seelchen. [shuddering] shall i one day dance like that? the youth of the wine horn appears again beneath the lamp. he strikes a loud chord; then as seelchen moves towards that sound the lamp goes out; there is again only blue shadow; but the couples have disappeared into the inn, and the doorway has grown dark. seelchen. ah! what i do not like, he will not let me see. lamond. will you not come, then, little soul? seelchen. always to dance? lamond: not so! the shutters of the houses are suddenly thrown wide. in a lighted room on one aide of the inn are seen two pale men and a woman, amongst many clicking machines. on the other side of the inn, in a forge, are visible two women and a man, but half clothed, making chains. seelchen. [recoiling from both sights, in turn] how sad they look --all! what are they making? in the dark doorway of the inn a light shines out, and in it is seen a figure, visible only from the waist up, clad in gold-cloth studded with jewels, with a flushed complacent face, holding in one hand a glass of golden wine. seelchen. it is beautiful. what is it? lamond. luxury. seelchen. what is it standing on? i cannot see. unseen, the wine horn's mandolin twangs out. lamond. for that do not look, little soul. seelchen. can it not walk? [he shakes his head] is that all they make here with their sadness? but again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the houses; the door of the inn grows dark. lamond. what is it, then, you would have? is it learning? there are books here, that, piled on each other, would reach to the stars! [but seelchen shakes her head] there is religion so deep that no man knows what it means. [but seelchen shakes her head] there is religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle. we have everything. seelchen. is god here? lamond. who knows? is god with your goats? [but seelchen shakes her head] what then do you want? seelchen. life. the mandolin twangs out. lamond. [pointing to his breast] there is but one road to life. seelchen. ah! but i do not love. lamond. when a feather dies, is it not loving the wind--the unknown? when the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow. if darkness and light did not change, could we breathe? child! to live is to love, to love is to live-seeking for wonder. [and as she draws nearer] see! to love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the little grey flower, to climb down! it has wings; it has flown--again you must climb; it shivers, 'tis but air in your hand--you must crawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and not there--for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its wings is all you shall catch. but your eyes shall be shining, your cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting--ah! little heart! [the scene falls darker] and when the night comes--there it is still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands will reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shall you grasp that wanton thing--but life shall be lovely. [his voice dies to a whisper. he stretches out his arms] seelchen. [touching his breast] i will come. lamond. [drawing her to the dark doorway] love me! seelchen. i love! the mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a moment is all glamorous; and they pass through. illumined by the glimmer of the lamp the youth of the wine hour is seen again. and slowly to the chords of his mandolin he begins to sing: "the windy hours through darkness fly canst hear them little heart? new loves are born, and old loves die, and kissing lips must part. "the dusky bees of passing years canst see them, soul of mine-- from flower and flower supping tears, and pale sweet honey wine? [his voice grown strange and passionate] "o flame that treads the marsh of time. flitting for ever low. where, through the black enchanted slime. we, desperate, following go untimely fire, we bid thee stay! into dark air above. the golden gipsy thins away-- so has it been with love!" while he is singing, the moon grows pale, and dies. it falls dark, save for the glimmer of the lamp beneath which he stands. but as his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, the lamp goes out--the wine horn becomes shadow. then from the doorway of the inn, in the shrill grey light seelchen comes forth. she is pale, as if wan with living; her eyes like pitch against the powdery whiteness of her face. seelchen. my heart is old. but as she speaks, from far away is heard a faint chiming of cowbells; and while she stands listening, lamond appears in the doorway of the inn. lamond. little soul! seelchen. you! always you! lamond. i have new wonders. seelchen. [mournfully] no. lamond. i swear it! you have not tired of me, that am never the same? it cannot be. seelchen. listen! the chime of the cowbells is heard again. lamond. [jealously] the music' of dull sleep! has life, then, with me been sorrow? seelchen. i do not regret. lamond. come! seelchen. [pointing-to her breast] the bird is tired with flying. [touching her lips] the flowers have no dew. lamond. would you leave me? seelchen. see! there, in a streak of the dawn, against the plane tree is seen the shepherd of the cow horn, standing wrapped in his mountain cloak. lamond. what is it? seelchen. he! lamond. there is nothing. [he holds her fast] i have shown you the marvels of my town--the gay, the bitter wonders. we have known life. if with you i may no longer live, then let us die! see! here are sweet deaths by slumber and by drowning! the mandolin twangs out, and from the dim doorway of the inn come forth the shadowy forms. death by slumber, and death by drowning. who to a ghostly twanging of mandolins dance slowly towards seelchen. stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance away. seelchen. [following] yes. they are good and sweet. while she moves towards the inn. lamond's face becomes transfigured with joy. but just as she reaches the doorway. there is a distant chiming of bells and blowing of pipes, and the shepherd of the cow horn sings: "to the wild grass come, and the dull far roar of the falling rock; to the flowery meads of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar, and the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds. to the alp, where i, in the pale light crowned with the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam; to the silent sky, and the wistful sound of the rosy dawns---my daughter, come!" while he sings, the sun has risen; and seelchen has turned. with parted lips, and hands stretched out; and the forms of death have vanished. seelchen. i come. lamond. [clasping her knees] little soul! must i then die, like a gnat when the sun goes down? without you i am nothing. seelchen. [releasing herself] poor heart--i am gone! lamond. it is dark. [he covers his face with his cloak]. then as seelchen reaches the shepherd of the cow horn, there is blown a long note of a pipe; the scene falls back; and there rises a far, continual, mingled sound of cowbells, and flower bells, and pipes. scene iv the scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of dawn. seelchen stands on a green alp, with all around, nothing but blue sky. a slip of a crescent moon is lying on her back. on a low rock sits a brown faced goatherd blowing on a pipe, and the four flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey white. and blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. their bells are ringing. as they pelt each other with flowers of their own colours; and each in turn, wheeling, flings one flower at seelchen, who puts them to her lips and eyes. seelchen. the dew! [she moves towards the rock] goatherd! but the flowers encircle him; and when they wheel away he has vanished. she turns to the flowers, but they too vanish. the veils of mist are rising. seelchen. gone! [she rubs her eyes; then turning once more to the rock, sees felsman standing there, with his arms folded] thou! felsman. so thou hast come--like a sick heifer to be healed. was it good in the town--that kept thee so long? seelchen. i do not regret. felsman. why then return? seelchen. i was tired. felsman. never again shalt thou go from me! seelchen. [mocking] with what wilt thou keep me? felsman. [grasping her] thus. seelchen. i have known change--i am no timid maid. felsman. [moodily] aye, thou art different. thine eyes are hollow --thou art white-faced. seelchen. [still mocking] then what hast thou here that shall keep me? felsman. the sun. seelchen. to burn me. felsman. the air. there is a faint wailing of wind. seelchen. to freeze me. felsman. the silence. the noise of the wind dies away. seelchen. yes, it is lonely. felsman. wait! and the flowers shall dance to thee. and to a ringing of their bells. the flowers come dancing; till, one by one, they cease, and sink down, nodding, falling asleep. seelchen. see! even they grow sleepy here! felsman. i will call the goats to wake them. the goatherd is seen again sitting upright on his rock and piping. and there come four little brown, wild-eyed, naked boys, with goat's legs and feet, who dance gravely in and out of the sleeping flowers; and the flowers wake, spring up, and fly. till each goat, catching his flower has vanished, and the goatherd has ceased to pipe, and lies motionless again on his rock. felsman. love me! seelchen. thou art rude! felsman. love me! seelchen. thou art grim! felsman. aye. i have no silver tongue. listen! this is my voice. [sweeping his arm round all the still alp] it is quiet. from dawn to the first star all is fast. [laying his hand on her heart] and the wings of the birds shall be still. seelchen. [touching his eyes] thine eyes are fierce. in them i see the wild beasts crouching. in them i see the distance. are they always fierce? felsman. never--to look on thee, my flower. seelchen. [touching his hands] thy hands are rough to pluck flowers. [she breaks away from him to the rock where the goatherd is lying] see! nothing moves! the very day stands still. boy! [but the goatherd neither stirs nor answers] he is lost in the blue. [passionately] boy! he will not answer me. no one will answer me here. felsman. [with fierce longing] am i then no one? seelchen. thou? [the scene darkens with evening] see! sleep has stolen the day! it is night already. there come the female shadow forms of sleep, in grey cobweb garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her. seelchen. are you sleep? dear sleep! smiling, she holds out her arms to felsman. he takes her swaying form. they vanish, encircled by the forms of sleep. it is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly grown bright. then on his rock, to a faint gaping the goatherd sings: "my goat, my little speckled one. my yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling. let moon and wind and golden sun and stars beyond all telling make, every day, a sweeter grass. and multiply thy leaping! and may the mountain foxes pass and never scent thee sleeping! oh! let my pipe be clear and far. and let me find sweet water! no hawk nor udder-seeking jar come near thee, little daughter! may fiery rocks defend, at noon, thy tender feet from slipping! oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon-- great master, goat-god--skipping!" there passes in the thin moonlight the goat-good pan; and with a long wail of the pipe the goatherd boy is silent. then the moon fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the false dawn creeping up, seelchen is seen rising from the side of the sleeping felsman. the goatherd boy has gone; but by the rock stands the shepherd of the cow horn in his dock. seelchen. years, years i have slept. my spirit is hungry. [then as she sees the shepherd of the cow horn standing there] i know thee now--life of the earth--the smell of thee, the sight of thee, the taste of thee, and all thy music. i have passed thee and gone by. [she moves away] felsman. [waking] where wouldst thou go? seelchen. to the edge of the world. felsman. [rising and trying to stay her] thou shalt not leave me! [but against her smiling gesture he struggles as though against solidity] seelchen. friend! the time is on me. felsman. were my kisses, then, too rude? was i too dull? seelchen. i do not regret. the youth of the wine horn is seen suddenly standing opposite the motionless shepherd of the cow horn; and his mandolin twangs out. felsman. the cursed music of the town! is it back to him thou wilt go? [groping for sight of the hated figure] i cannot see. seelchen. fear not! i go ever onward. felsman. do not leave me to the wind in the rocks! without thee love is dead, and i must die. seelchen. poor heart! i am gone. felsman. [crouching against the rock] it is cold. at the blowing of the shepherd's pipe, the cow horn stretches forth his hand to her. the mandolin twangs out, and the wine horn holds out his hand. she stands unmoving. seelchen. companions. i must go. in a moment it will be dawn. in silence the cow horn and the wine horn, cover their faces. the false dawn dies. it falls quite dark. scene v then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of the great horn, and streams forth on seelchen. to either aide of that path of light, like shadows. the cow horn and the wine horn stand with cloaked heads. seelchen. great one! i come! the peak of the great horn speaks in a far-away voice, growing, with the light, clearer and stronger. wandering flame, thou restless fever burning all things, regretting none; the winds of fate are stilled for ever-- thy little generous life is done. and all its wistful wonderings cease! thou traveller to the tideless sea, where light and dark, and change and peace, are one--come, little soul, to mystery! seelchen falling on her knees, bows her head to the ground. the glow slowly fades till the scene is black. scene vi then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the false dawn filtering through the window of the mountain hut. lamond and felsman are seen standing beside seelchen looking down at her asleep on the window seat. felsman. [putting out his hand to wake her] in a moment it will be dawn. she stirs, and her lips move, murmuring. lamond. let her sleep. she's dreaming. felsman raises a lantern, till its light falls on her face. then the two men move stealthily towards the door, and, as she speaks, pass out. seelchen. [rising to her knees, and stretching out her hands with ecstasy] great one. i come! [waking, she looks around, and struggles to her feet] my little dream! through the open door, the first flush of dawn shows in the sky. there is a sound of goat-bells passing. the curtain falls. justice persons of the play james how, solicitor walter how, solicitor robert cokeson, their managing clerk william falder, their junior clerk sweedle, their office-boy wister, a detective cowley, a cashier mr. justice floyd, a judge harold cleaver, an old advocate hector frome, a young advocate captain danson, v.c., a prison governor the rev. hugh miller, a prison chaplain edward clement, a prison doctor wooder, a chief warder moaney, convict clifton, convict o'cleary, convict ruth honeywill, a woman a number of barristers, soliciters, spectators, ushers, reporters, jurymen, warders, and prisoners time: the present. act i. the office of james and walter how. morning. july. act ii. assizes. afternoon. october. act iii. a prison. december. scene i. the governor's office. scene ii. a corridor. scene iii. a cell. act iv. the office of james and walter how. morning. march, two years later. cast of the first production at the duke of york's theatre, february , james how mr. sydney valentine walter how mr. charles maude cokeson mr. edmund gwenn falder mr. dennis eadie the office-boy mr. george hersee the detective mr. leslie carter the cashier mr. c. e. vernon the judge mr. dion boucicault the old advocate mr. oscar adye the young advocate mr. charles bryant the prison governor mr. grendon bentley the prison chaplain mr. hubert harben the prison doctor mr. lewis casson wooder mr. frederick lloyd moaney mr. robert pateman clipton mr. o. p. heggie o'cleary mr. whitford kane ruth honeywill miss edyth olive act i the scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of james and walter how, on a july morning. the room is old fashioned, furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and estate plans. it has three doors. two of them are close together in the centre of a wall. one of these two doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of the building. the other of these two centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. the third door is that leading to the partners' room. the managing clerk, cokeson, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. he is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. he is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. cokeson. and five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [he ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. he again makes a tick. the outer office door is opened, and sweedle, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. he is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. cokeson. [with grumpy expectation] and carry one. sweedle. there's a party wants to see falder, mr. cokeson. cokeson. five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry two. send him to morris's. what name? sweedle. honeywill. cokeson. what's his business? sweedle. it's a woman. cokeson. a lady? sweedle. no, a person. cokeson. ask her in. take this pass-book to mr. james. [he closes the pass-book.] sweedle. [reopening the door] will you come in, please? ruth honeywill comes in. she is a tall woman, twenty-six years old, unpretentiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. she stands very still, having a natural dignity of pose and gesture. sweedle goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. cokeson. [looking round at ruth] the young man's out. [suspiciously] state your business, please. ruth. [who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight west-country accent] it's a personal matter, sir. cokeson. we don't allow private callers here. will you leave a message? ruth. i'd rather see him, please. she narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. cokeson. [expanding] it's all against the rules. suppose i had my friends here to see me! it'd never do! ruth. no, sir. cokeson. [a little taken aback] exactly! and here you are wanting to see a junior clerk! ruth. yes, sir; i must see him. cokeson. [turning full round to her with a sort of outraged interest] but this is a lawyer's office. go to his private address. ruth. he's not there. cokeson. [uneasy] are you related to the party? ruth. no, sir. cokeson. [in real embarrassment] i don't know what to say. it's no affair of the office. ruth. but what am i to do? cokeson. dear me! i can't tell you that. sweedle comes back. he crosses to the outer office and passes through into it, with a quizzical look at cokeson, carefully leaving the door an inch or two open. cokeson. [fortified by this look] this won't do, you know, this won't do at all. suppose one of the partners came in! an incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer door of the outer office. sweedle. [putting his head in] there's some children outside here. ruth. they're mine, please. sweedle. shall i hold them in check? ruth. they're quite small, sir. [she takes a step towards cokeson] cokeson. you mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk short as it is. ruth. it's a matter of life and death. cokeson. [again outraged] life and death! sweedle. here is falder. falder has entered through the outer office. he is a pale, good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. he moves towards the door of the clerks' office, and stands there irresolute. cokeson. well, i'll give you a minute. it's not regular. taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' room. ruth. [in a low, hurried voice] he's on the drink again, will. he tried to cut my throat last night. i came out with the children before he was awake. i went round to you. falder. i've changed my digs. ruth. is it all ready for to-night? falder. i've got the tickets. meet me . at the booking office. for god's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [looking at her with tragic intensity] ruth! ruth. you're not afraid of going, are you? falder. have you got your things, and the children's? ruth. had to leave them, for fear of waking honeywill, all but one bag. i can't go near home again. falder. [wincing] all that money gone for nothing. how much must you have? ruth. six pounds--i could do with that, i think. falder. don't give away where we're going. [as if to himself] when i get out there i mean to forget it all. ruth. if you're sorry, say so. i'd sooner he killed me than take you against your will. falder. [with a queer smile] we've got to go. i don't care; i'll have you. ruth. you've just to say; it's not too late. falder. it is too late. here's seven pounds. booking office . to-night. if you weren't what you are to me, ruth----! ruth. kiss me! they cling together passionately, there fly apart just as cokeson re-enters the room. ruth turns and goes out through the outer office. cokeson advances deliberately to his chair and seats himself. cokeson. this isn't right, falder. falder. it shan't occur again, sir. cokeson. it's an improper use of these premises. falder. yes, sir. cokeson. you quite understand-the party was in some distress; and, having children with her, i allowed my feelings----[he opens a drawer and produces from it a tract] just take this! "purity in the home." it's a well-written thing. falder. [taking it, with a peculiar expression] thank you, sir. cokeson. and look here, falder, before mr. walter comes, have you finished up that cataloguing davis had in hand before he left? falder. i shall have done with it to-morrow, sir--for good. cokeson. it's over a week since davis went. now it won't do, falder. you're neglecting your work for private life. i shan't mention about the party having called, but---- falder. [passing into his room] thank you, sir. cokeson stares at the door through which falder has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when walter how comes in through the outer office. he is a rather refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apologetic voice. walter. good-morning, cokeson. cokeson. morning, mr. walter. walter. my father here? cokeson. [always with a certain patronage as to a young man who might be doing better] mr. james has been here since eleven o'clock. walter. i've been in to see the pictures, at the guildhall. cokeson. [looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be expected] have you now--ye--es. this lease of boulter's--am i to send it to counsel? walter. what does my father say? cokeson. 'aven't bothered him. walter. well, we can't be too careful. cokeson. it's such a little thing--hardly worth the fees. i thought you'd do it yourself. walter. send it, please. i don't want the responsibility. cokeson. [with an indescribable air of compassion] just as you like. this "right-of-way" case--we've got 'em on the deeds. walter. i know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit of common ground. cokeson. we needn't worry about that. we're the right side of the law. walter. i don't like it, cokeson. [with an indulgent smile] we shan't want to set ourselves up against the law. your father wouldn't waste his time doing that. as he speaks james how comes in from the partners' room. he is a shortish man, with white side-whiskers, plentiful grey hair, shrewd eyes, and gold pince-nez. james. morning, walter. walter. how are you, father? cokeson. [looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though deprecating their size] i'll just take boulter's lease in to young falder to draft the instructions. [he goes out into falder's room.] walter. about that right-of-way case? james. oh, well, we must go forward there. i thought you told me yesterday the firm's balance was over four hundred. walter. so it is. james. [holding out the pass-book to his son] three--five--one, no recent cheques. just get me out the cheque-book. walter goes to a cupboard, unlocks a drawer and produces a cheque-book. james. tick the pounds in the counterfoils. five, fifty-four, seven, five, twenty-eight, twenty, ninety, eleven, fifty-two, seventy-one. tally? walter. [nodding] can't understand. made sure it was over four hundred. james. give me the cheque-book. [he takes the check-book and cons the counterfoils] what's this ninety? walter. who drew it? james. you. walter. [taking the cheque-book] july th? that's the day i went down to look over the trenton estate--last friday week; i came back on the tuesday, you remember. but look here, father, it was nine i drew a cheque for. five guineas to smithers and my expenses. it just covered all but half a crown. james. [gravely] let's look at that ninety cheque. [he sorts the cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] seems all right. there's no nine here. this is bad. who cashed that nine-pound cheque? walter. [puzzled and pained] let's see! i was finishing mrs. reddy's will--only just had time; yes--i gave it to cokeson. james. look at that 't' 'y': that yours? walter. [after consideration] my y's curl back a little; this doesn't. james. [as cokeson re-enters from falder's room] we must ask him. just come here and carry your mind back a bit, cokeson. d'you remember cashing a cheque for mr. walter last friday week--the day he went to trenton? cokeson. ye-es. nine pounds. james. look at this. [handing him the cheque.] cokeson. no! nine pounds. my lunch was just coming in; and of course i like it hot; i gave the cheque to davis to run round to the bank. he brought it back, all gold--you remember, mr. walter, you wanted some silver to pay your cab. [with a certain contemptuous compassion] here, let me see. you've got the wrong cheque. he takes cheque-book and pass-book from walter. walter. afraid not. cokeson. [having seen for himself] it's funny. james. you gave it to davis, and davis sailed for australia on monday. looks black, cokeson. cokeson. [puzzled and upset] why this'd be a felony! no, no! there's some mistake. james. i hope so. cokeson. there's never been anything of that sort in the office the twenty-nine years i've been here. james. [looking at cheque and counterfoil] this is a very clever bit of work; a warning to you not to leave space after your figures, walter. walter. [vexed] yes, i know--i was in such a tearing hurry that afternoon. cokeson. [suddenly] this has upset me. james. the counterfoil altered too--very deliberate piece of swindling. what was davis's ship? walter. 'city of rangoon'. james. we ought to wire and have him arrested at naples; he can't be there yet. cokeson. his poor young wife. i liked the young man. dear, oh dear! in this office! walter. shall i go to the bank and ask the cashier? james. [grimly] bring him round here. and ring up scotland yard. walter. really? he goes out through the outer office. james paces the room. he stops and looks at cokeson, who is disconsolately rubbing the knees of his trousers. james. well, cokeson! there's something in character, isn't there? cokeson. [looking at him over his spectacles] i don't quite take you, sir. james. your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't know you. cokeson. ye-es! [he laughs. then with a sudden gravity] i'm sorry for that young man. i feel it as if it was my own son, mr. james. james. a nasty business! cokeson. it unsettles you. all goes on regular, and then a thing like this happens. shan't relish my lunch to-day. james. as bad as that, cokeson? cokeson. it makes you think. [confidentially] he must have had temptation. james. not so fast. we haven't convicted him yet. cokeson. i'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen. [he broods.] james. i hope that fellow will hurry up. cokeson. [keeping things pleasant for the cashier] it isn't fifty yards, mr. james. he won't be a minute. james. the idea of dishonesty about this office it hits me hard, cokeson. he goes towards the door of the partners' room. sweedle. [entering quietly, to cokeson in a low voice] she's popped up again, sir-something she forgot to say to falder. cokeson. [roused from his abstraction] eh? impossible. send her away! james. what's that? cokeson. nothing, mr. james. a private matter. here, i'll come myself. [he goes into the outer office as james passes into the partners' room] now, you really mustn't--we can't have anybody just now. ruth. not for a minute, sir? cokeson. reely! reely! i can't have it. if you want him, wait about; he'll be going out for his lunch directly. ruth. yes, sir. walter, entering with the cashier, passes ruth as she leaves the outer office. cokeson. [to the cashier, who resembles a sedentary dragoon] good-morning. [to walter] your father's in there. walter crosses and goes into the partners' room. cokeson. it's a nahsty, unpleasant little matter, mr. cowley. i'm quite ashamed to have to trouble you. cowley. i remember the cheque quite well. [as if it were a liver] seemed in perfect order. cokeson. sit down, won't you? i'm not a sensitive man, but a thing like this about the place--it's not nice. i like people to be open and jolly together. cowley. quite so. cokeson. [buttonholing him, and glancing toward the partners' room] of course he's a young man. i've told him about it before now-- leaving space after his figures, but he will do it. cowley. i should remember the person's face--quite a youth. cokeson. i don't think we shall be able to show him to you, as a matter of fact. james and walter have come back from the partners' room. james. good-morning, mr. cowley. you've seen my son and myself, you've seen mr. cokeson, and you've seen sweedle, my office-boy. it was none of us, i take it. the cashier shakes his head with a smile. james. be so good as to sit there. cokeson, engage mr. cowley in conversation, will you? he goes toward falder's room. cokeson. just a word, mr. james. james. well? cokeson. you don't want to upset the young man in there, do you? he's a nervous young feller. james. this must be thoroughly cleared up, cokeson, for the sake of falder's name, to say nothing of yours. cokeson. [with some dignity] that'll look after itself, sir. he's been upset once this morning; i don't want him startled again. james. it's a matter of form; but i can't stand upon niceness over a thing like this--too serious. just talk to mr. cowley. he opens the door of falder's room. james. bring in the papers in boulter's lease, will you, falder? cokeson. [bursting into voice] do you keep dogs? the cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer. cokeson. you haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare me, i suppose? at the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to see falder standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on cowley, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake. falder. [advancing with the papers] here they are, sir! james. [taking them] thank you. falder. do you want me, sir? james. no, thanks! falder turns and goes back into his own room. as he shuts the door james gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the cashier nods. james. sure? this isn't as we suspected. cowley. quite. he knew me. i suppose he can't slip out of that room? cokeson. [gloomily] there's only the window--a whole floor and a basement. the door of falder's room is quietly opened, and falder, with his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office. james. [quietly] where are you going, falder? falder. to have my lunch, sir. james. wait a few minutes, would you? i want to speak to you about this lease. falder. yes, sir. [he goes back into his room.] cowley. if i'm wanted, i can swear that's the young man who cashed the cheque. it was the last cheque i handled that morning before my lunch. these are the numbers of the notes he had. [he puts a slip of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] good-morning! james. good-morning, mr. cowley! cowley. [to cokeson] good-morning. cokeson. [with stupefaction] good-morning. the cashier goes out through the outer office. cokeson sits down in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the morass of his feelings. walter. what are you going to do? james. have him in. give me the cheque and the counterfoil. cokeson. i don't understand. i thought young davis---- james. we shall see. walter. one moment, father: have you thought it out? james. call him in! cokeson. [rising with difficulty and opening falder's door; hoarsely] step in here a minute. falder. [impassively] yes, sir? james. [turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] you know this cheque, falder? falder. no, sir. jades. look at it. you cashed it last friday week. falder. oh! yes, sir; that one--davis gave it me. james. i know. and you gave davis the cash? falder. yes, sir. james. when davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this? falder. yes, i think so, sir. james. you know that mr. walter drew that cheque for nine pounds? falder. no, sir--ninety. james. nine, falder. falder. [faintly] i don't understand, sir. james. the suggestion, of course, is that the cheque was altered; whether by you or davis is the question. falder. i--i cokeson. take your time, take your time. falder. [regaining his impassivity] not by me, sir. james. the cheque was handed to--cokeson by mr. walter at one o'clock; we know that because mr. cokeson's lunch had just arrived. cokeson. i couldn't leave it. james. exactly; he therefore gave the cheque to davis. it was cashed by you at . . we know that because the cashier recollects it for the last cheque he handled before his lunch. falder. yes, sir, davis gave it to me because some friends were giving him a farewell luncheon. james. [puzzled] you accuse davis, then? falder. i don't know, sir--it's very funny. walter, who has come close to his father, says something to him in a low voice. james. davis was not here again after that saturday, was he? cokeson. [anxious to be of assistance to the young man, and seeing faint signs of their all being jolly once more] no, he sailed on the monday. james. was he, falder? falder. [very faintly] no, sir. james. very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after tuesday? cokeson. [surprised] how's that? falder gives a sort of lurch; he tries to pull himself together, but he has gone all to pieces. james. [very grimly] out, i'm afraid, cokeson. the cheque-book remained in mr. walter's pocket till he came back from trenton on tuesday morning. in the face of this, falder, do you still deny that you altered both cheque and counterfoil? falder. no, sir--no, mr. how. i did it, sir; i did it. cokeson. [succumbing to his feelings] dear, dear! what a thing to do! falder. i wanted the money so badly, sir. i didn't know what i was doing. cokeson. however such a thing could have come into your head! falder. [grasping at the words] i can't think, sir, really! it was just a minute of madness. james. a long minute, falder. [tapping the counterfoil] four days at least. falder. sir, i swear i didn't know what i'd done till afterwards, and then i hadn't the pluck. oh! sir, look over it! i'll pay the money back--i will, i promise. james. go into your room. falder, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room. there is silence. james. about as bad a case as there could be. cokeson. to break the law like that-in here! walter. what's to be done? james. nothing for it. prosecute. walter. it's his first offence. james. [shaking his head] i've grave doubts of that. too neat a piece of swindling altogether. cokeson. i shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted. james. life's one long temptation, cokeson. cokeson. ye-es, but i'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, mr. james. there was a woman come to see him this morning. walter. the woman we passed as we came in just now. is it his wife? cokeson. no, no relation. [restraining what in jollier circumstances would have been a wink] a married person, though. walter. how do you know? cokeson. brought her children. [scandalised] there they were outside the office. james. a real bad egg. walter. i should like to give him a chance. james. i can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work-- counting on our suspecting young davis if the matter came to light. it was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket. walter. it must have been the temptation of a moment. he hadn't time. james. a man doesn't succumb like that in a moment, if he's a clean mind and habits. he's rotten; got the eyes of a man who can't keep his hands off when there's money about. walter. [dryly] we hadn't noticed that before. james. [brushing the remark aside] i've seen lots of those fellows in my time. no doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. they've got a blind spat. walter. it's penal servitude. cokeson. they're nahsty places-prisons. james. [hesitating] i don't see how it's possible to spare him. out of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua non'. cokeson. [hypnotised] of course it is. james. equally out of the question to send him out amongst people who've no knowledge of his character. one must think of society. walter. but to brand him like this? james. if it had been a straightforward case i'd give him another chance. it's far from that. he has dissolute habits. cokeson. i didn't say that--extenuating circumstances. james. same thing. he's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. if that's not a case for the law to take its course, i don't know what is. walter. for the sake of his future, though. james. [sarcastically] according to you, no one would ever prosecute. walter. [nettled] i hate the idea of it. cokeson. that's rather 'ex parte', mr. walter! we must have protection. james. this is degenerating into talk. he moves towards the partners' room. walter. put yourself in his place, father. james. you ask too much of me. walter. we can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him. james. you may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't nothing'll make him. walter. he'll never do it again. cokeson. [fatuously] s'pose i were to have a talk with him. we don't want to be hard on the young man. james. that'll do, cokeson. i've made up my mind. [he passes into the partners' room.] cokeson. [after a doubtful moment] we must excuse your father. i don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right. walter. confound it, cokeson! why don't you back me up? you know you feel---- cokeson. [on his dignity] i really can't say what i feel. walter. we shall regret it. cokeson. he must have known what he was doing. walter. [bitterly] "the quality of mercy is not strained." cokeson. [looking at him askance] come, come, mr. walter. we must try and see it sensible. sweedle. [entering with a tray] your lunch, sir. cokeson. put it down! while sweedle is putting it down on cokeson's table, the detective, wister, enters the outer office, and, finding no one there, comes to the inner doorway. he is a square, medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong boots. cokeson. [hoarsely] here! here! what are we doing? wister. [to walter] from scotland yard, sir. detective-sergeant blister. walter. [askance] very well! i'll speak to my father. he goes into the partners' room. james enters. james. morning! [in answer to an appealing gesture from cokeson] i'm sorry; i'd stop short of this if i felt i could. open that door. [sweedle, wondering and scared, opens it] come here, mr. falder. as falder comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a sign from james, slips his hand out and grasps his arm. falder. [recoiling] oh! no,--oh! no! walter. come, come, there's a good lad. james. i charge him with felony. falter. oh, sir! there's some one--i did it for her. let me be till to-morrow. james motions with his hand. at that sign of hardness, falder becomes rigid. then, turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip. james follows, stiff and erect. sweedle, rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the outer office into the corridor. when they have all disappeared cokeson spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer office. cokeson: [hoarsely] here! what are we doing? there is silence. he takes out his handkerchief and mops the sweat from his face. going back blindly to his table, sits down, and stares blankly at his lunch. the curtain falls. act ii a court of justice, on a foggy october afternoon crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. sitting in the large, solid dock is falder, with a warder on either side of him, placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and unconscious of his presence. falder is sitting exactly opposite to the judge, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems unconscious of and indifferent to everything. harold cleaver, the counsel for the crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. hector frome, the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a very white wig. among the spectators, having already given their evidence, are james and walter how, and cowley, the cashier. wister, the detective, is just leaving the witness-box. cleaver. that is the case for the crown, me lud! gathering his robes together, he sits down. frome. [rising and bowing to the judge] if it please your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. i am not going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered this cheque, but i am going to put before you evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his actions at the time. i am going to show you, in fact, that he did this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. i shall call before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to this act. you will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has inspired the prisoner. this woman, gentlemen, has been leading a miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from whom she actually goes in terror of her life. i am not, of course, saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her from an ogre-like husband. i'm not saying anything of the sort. but we all know the power of the passion of love; and i would ask you to remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear that her husband is guilty. judge. is this relevant, mr. frome? frome. my lord, i submit, extremely--i shall be able to show your lordship that directly. judge. very well. frome. in these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? she could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her life; or she could apply to the court for a separation order. well, gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her either to the workhouse or the streets--for it's not easy, as she is now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to support herself and her children without resorting either to the poor law or--to speak quite plainly--to the sale of her body. judge. you are ranging rather far, mr. frome. frome. i shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord. judge. let us hope so. frome. now, gentlemen, mark--and this is what i have been leading up to--this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. she saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. this was a desperate and, as my friend mr. cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were constantly turned towards it. one wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation possibly have the right to hold up their hands--as to that i prefer to say nothing. but whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part of the prisoner's story--whatever opinion you form of the right of these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into their own hands--the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did conceive this--if you like-- reprehensible design of going away together. now, for that, of course, they required money, and--they had none. as to the actual events of the morning of july th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which i rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility --i shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the lips of my witness. robert cokeson. [he turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and waits.] cokeson is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. the oath is administered to him. frome. what is your name? cokeson. robert cokeson. frome. are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ the prisoner? cokeson. ye-es. frome. how long had the prisoner been in their employ? cokeson. two years. no, i'm wrong there--all but seventeen days. frome. had you him under your eye all that time? cokeson. except sundays and holidays. frome. quite so. let us hear, please, what you have to say about his general character during those two years. cokeson. [confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised at being asked] he was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. i'd no fault to find with him--quite the contrary. it was a great surprise to me when he did a thing like that. frome. did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty? cokeson. no! to have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do. frome. i'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, mr. cokeson. cokeson. every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua non'. frome. do you give him a good character all round, or do you not? cokeson. [turning to the judge] certainly. we were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this happened. quite upset me. frome. now, coming to the morning of the th of july, the morning on which the cheque was altered. what have you to say about his demeanour that morning? cokeson. [to the jury] if you ask me, i don't think he was quite compos when he did it. the judge. [sharply] are you suggesting that he was insane? cokeson. not compos. the judge. a little more precision, please. frome. [smoothly] just tell us, mr. cokeson. cokeson. [somewhat outraged] well, in my opinion--[looking at the judge]--such as it is--he was jumpy at the time. the jury will understand my meaning. frome. will you tell us how you came to that conclusion? cokeson. ye-es, i will. i have my lunch in from the restaurant, a chop and a potato--saves time. that day it happened to come just as mr. walter how handed me the cheque. well, i like it hot; so i went into the clerks' office and i handed the cheque to davis, the other clerk, and told him to get change. i noticed young falder walking up and down. i said to him: "this is not the zoological gardens, falder." frome. do you remember what he answered? cokeson. ye-es: "i wish to god it were!" struck me as funny. frome. did you notice anything else peculiar? cokeson. i did. frome. what was that? cokeson. his collar was unbuttoned. now, i like a young man to be neat. i said to him: "your collar's unbuttoned." frome. and what did he answer? cokeson. stared at me. it wasn't nice. the judge. stared at you? isn't that a very common practice? cokeson. ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. i can't explain my meaning--it was funny. frome. had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before? cokeson. no. if i had i should have spoken to the partners. we can't have anything eccentric in our profession. the judge. did you speak to them on that occasion? cokeson. [confidentially] well, i didn't like to trouble them about prime facey evidence. frome. but it made a very distinct impression on your mind? cokeson. ye-es. the clerk davis could have told you the same. frome. quite so. it's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the forgery was made? that would be the th. did anything happen that morning? cokeson. [with his hand to his ear] i'm a little deaf. frome. was there anything in the course of that morning--i mean before the discovery--that caught your attention? cokeson. ye-es--a woman. the judge. how is this relevant, mr. frome? frome. i am trying to establish the state of mind in which the prisoner committed this act, my lord. the judge. i quite appreciate that. but this was long after the act. frome. yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention. the judge. well! frome. you say a woman. do you mean that she came to the office? cokeson. ye-es. frome. what for? cokeson. asked to see young falder; he was out at the moment. frome. did you see her? cokeson. i did. frome. did she come alone? cokeson. [confidentially] well, there you put me in a difficulty. i mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me. frome. quite so, mr. cokeson, quite so---- cokeson. [breaking in with an air of "you are young--leave it to me"] but i think we can get round it. in answer to a question put to her by a third party the woman said to me: "they're mine, sir." the judge. what are? what were? cokeson. her children. they were outside. the judge. how do you know? cokeson. your lordship mustn't ask me that, or i shall have to tell you what i was told--and that'd never do. the judge. [smiling] the office-boy made a statement. cokeson. egg-zactly. frome. what i want to ask you, mr. cokeson, is this. in the course of her appeal to see falder, did the woman say anything that you specially remember? cokeson. [looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the sentence] a leetle more, sir. frome. or did she not? cokeson. she did. i shouldn't like you to have led me to the answer. frome. [with an irritated smile] will you tell the jury what it was? cokeson. "it's a matter of life and death." foreman of the jury. do you mean the woman said that? cokeson. [nodding] it's not the sort of thing you like to have said to you. frome. [a little impatiently] did falder come in while she was there? [cokeson nods] and she saw him, and went away? cokeson. ah! there i can't follow you. i didn't see her go. frome. well, is she there now? cokeson. [with an indulgent smile] no! frome. thank you, mr. cokeson. [he sits down.] cleaver. [rising] you say that on the morning of the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by that word? cokeson. [indulgently] i want you to understand. have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master? he was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes. cleaver. thank you; i was coming to his eyes. you called them "funny." what are we to understand by that? strange, or what? cokeson. ye-es, funny. cokeson. [sharply] yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury. did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or what? cokeson. you make it very hard for me. i give you the word, and you want me to give you another. cleaver. [rapping his desk] does "funny" mean mad? cleaver. not mad, fun---- cleaver. very well! now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? was it a hot day? cokeson. ye-es; i think it was. cleaver. and did he button it when you called his attention to it? cokeson. ye-es, i think he did. cleaver. would you say that that denoted insanity? he sits downs. cokeson, who has opened his mouth to reply, is left gaping. frome. [rising hastily] have you ever caught him in that dishevelled state before? cokeson. no! he was always clean and quiet. frome. that will do, thank you. cokeson turns blandly to the judge, as though to rebuke counsel for not remembering that the judge might wish to have a chance; arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next to james and walter. frome. ruth honeywill. ruth comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the witness-box. she is sworn. frome. what is your name, please? ruth. ruth honeywill. frome. how old are you? ruth. twenty-six. frome. you are a married woman, living with your husband? a little louder. ruth. no, sir; not since july. frome. have you any children? ruth. yes, sir, two. frome. are they living with you? ruth. yes, sir. frome. you know the prisoner? ruth. [looking at him] yes. frome. what was the nature of your relations with him? ruth. we were friends. the judge. friends? ruth. [simply] lovers, sir. the judge. [sharply] in what sense do you use that word? ruth. we love each other. the judge. yes, but---- ruth. [shaking her head] no, your lordship--not yet. the judge. 'not yet! h'm! [he looks from ruth to falder] well! frome. what is your husband? ruth. traveller. frome. and what was the nature of your married life? ruth. [shaking her head] it don't bear talking about. frome. did he ill-treat you, or what? ruth. ever since my first was born. frome. in what way? ruth. i'd rather not say. all sorts of ways. the judge. i am afraid i must stop this, you know. ruth. [pointing to falder] he offered to take me out of it, sir. we were going to south america. frome. [hastily] yes, quite--and what prevented you? ruth. i was outside his office when he was taken away. it nearly broke my heart. frome. you knew, then, that he had been arrested? ruth. yes, sir. i called at his office afterwards, and [pointing to cokeson] that gentleman told me all about it. frome. now, do you remember the morning of friday, july th? ruth. yes. frome. why? ruth. my husband nearly strangled me that morning. the judge. nearly strangled you! ruth. [bowing her head] yes, my lord. frome. with his hands, or----? ruth. yes, i just managed to get away from him. i went straight to my friend. it was eight o'clock. the judge. in the morning? your husband was not under the influence of liquor then? ruth. it wasn't always that. frome. in what condition were you? ruth. in very bad condition, sir. my dress was torn, and i was half choking. frome. did you tell your friend what had happened? ruth. yes. i wish i never had. frome. it upset him? ruth. dreadfully. frome. did he ever speak to you about a cheque? ruth. never. froze. did he ever give you any money? ruth. yes. frome. when was that? ruth. on saturday. frome. the th? ruth. to buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to start. frome. did that surprise you, or not? ruth. what, sir? frome. that he had money to give you. ring. yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. he told me afterwards he'd come into a windfall. frome. and when did you last see him? ruth. the day he was taken away, sir. it was the day we were to have started. frome. oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. well, did you see him at all between the friday and that morning? [ruth nods] what was his manner then? ruth. dumb--like--sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word. frome. as if something unusual had happened to him? ruth. yes. frome. painful, or pleasant, or what? ruth. like a fate hanging over him. frome. [hesitating] tell me, did you love the prisoner very much? ruth. [bowing her head] yes. frome. and had he a very great affection for you? ruth. [looking at falder] yes, sir. frome. now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his actions? ruth. yes. frome. his reason, even? ruth. for a moment like, i think it would. frome. was he very much upset that friday morning, or was he fairly calm? ruth. dreadfully upset. i could hardly bear to let him go from me. frome. do you still love him? ruth. [with her eyes on falder] he's ruined himself for me. frome. thank you. he sits down. ruth remains stoically upright in the witness-box. cleaver. [in a considerate voice] when you left him on the morning of friday the th you would not say that he was out of his mind, i suppose? ruth. no, sir. cleaver. thank you; i've no further questions to ask you. ruth. [bending a little forward to the jury] i would have done the same for him; i would indeed. the judge. please, please! you say your married life is an unhappy one? faults on both sides? ruth. only that i never bowed down to him. i don't see why i should, sir, not to a man like that. the judge. you refused to obey him? ruth. [avoiding the question] i've always studied him to keep things nice. the judge. until you met the prisoner--was that it? ruth. no; even after that. the judge. i ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner. ruth. [hesitating] i--i do. it's the only thing in my life now. the judge. [staring at her hard] well, step down, please. ruth looks at falder, then passes quietly down and takes her seat among the witnesses. frome. i call the prisoner, my lord. falder leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly sworn. frome. what is your name? falder. william falder. frome. and age? falder. twenty-three. frome. you are not married? falder shakes his head frome. how long have you known the last witness? falder. six months. frome. is her account of the relationship between you a correct one? falder. yes. frome. you became devotedly attached to her, however? falder. yes. the judge. though you knew she was a married woman? falder. i couldn't help it, your lordship. the judge. couldn't help it? falder. i didn't seem able to. the judge slightly shrugs his shoulders. frome. how did you come to know her? falder. through my married sister. frome. did you know whether she was happy with her husband? falder. it was trouble all the time. frome. you knew her husband? falder. only through her--he's a brute. the judge. i can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not present. frome. [bowing] if your lordship pleases. [to falder] you admit altering this cheque? falder bows his head. frome. carry your mind, please, to the morning of friday, july the th, and tell the jury what happened. falder. [turning to the jury] i was having my breakfast when she came. her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes dreadfully. it frightened me, and then when she told me, i felt--i felt--well--it was too much for me! [hardening suddenly] if you'd seen it, having the feelings for her that i had, you'd have felt the same, i know. frome. yes? falder. when she left me--because i had to go to the office--i was out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what i could do. i couldn't work--all the morning i was like that--simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. i couldn't think at all. i seemed to have to keep moving. when davis--the other clerk--gave me the cheque--he said: "it'll do you good, will, to have a run with this. you seem half off your chump this morning." then when i had it in my hand--i don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if i put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her away. it just came and went--i never thought of it again. then davis went out to his luncheon, and i don't really remember what i did till i'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. i remember his saying "gold or notes?" then i suppose i knew what i'd done. anyway, when i got outside i wanted to chuck myself under a bus; i wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed i was in for it, so i thought at any rate i'd save her. of course the tickets i took for the passage and the little i gave her's been wasted, and all, except what i was obliged to spend myself, i've restored. i keep thinking over and over however it was i came to do it, and how i can't have it all again to do differently! falder is silent, twisting his hands before him. frome. how far is it from your office to the bank? falder. not more than fifty yards, sir. frome. from the time davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed the cheque, how long do you say it must have been? falder. it couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because i ran all the way. frome. during those four minutes you say you remember nothing? falder. no, sir; only that i ran. frome. not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?' falder. no, sir. i don't really. frome sits down, and cleaver rises. cleaver. but you remember running, do you? falder. i was all out of breath when i got to the bank. cleaver. and you don't remember altering the cheque? falder. [faintly] no, sir. cleaver. divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? come. falder. i was half frantic all that morning, sir. cleaver. now, now! you don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the cashier? falder. it was an accident. cleaver. [cheerfully] queer sort of accident, wasn't it? on which day did you alter the counterfoil? falder. [hanging his head] on the wednesday morning. cleaver. was that an accident too? falder. [faintly] no. cleaver. to do that you had to watch your opportunity, i suppose? falder. [almost inaudibly] yes. cleaver. you don't suggest that you were suffering under great excitement when you did that? falder. i was haunted. cleaver. with the fear of being found out? falder. [very low] yes. the judge. didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do was to confess to your employers, and restore the money? falder. i was afraid. [there is silence] cleaver. you desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of taking this woman away? falder. when i found i'd done a thing like that, to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. i might just as well have chucked myself into the river. cleaver. you knew that the clerk davis was about to leave england --didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on him? falder. it was all done in a moment. i thought of it afterwards. cleaver. and that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done? falder. [sullenly] i meant to write when i got out there--i would have repaid the money. the judge. but in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have been prosecuted. falder. i knew he was a long way off, your lordship. i thought there'd be time. i didn't think they'd find it out so soon. frome. i might remind your lordship that as mr. walter how had the cheque-book in his pocket till after davis had sailed, if the discovery had been made only one day later falder himself would have left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to davis, from the beginning. the judge. the question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not on davis. [to falder sharply] did you know that mr. walter how had the cheque-book till after davis had sailed? falder. i--i--thought--he---- the judge. now speak the truth-yes or no! falder. [very low] no, my lord. i had no means of knowing. the judge. that disposes of your point, mr. frome. [frome bows to the judge] cleaver. has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before? falder. [faintly] no, sir. cleaver. you had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that afternoon? falder. yes, i had to take the money back. cleaver. you mean the nine pounds. your wits were sufficiently keen for you to remember that? and you still persist in saying you don't remember altering this cheque. [he sits down] falder. if i hadn't been mad i should never have had the courage. frome. [rising] did you have your lunch before going back? falder. i never ate a thing all day; and at night i couldn't sleep. frome. now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between davis's going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect nothing during those four minutes? falder. [after a moment] i remember thinking of mr. cokeson's face. frome. of mr. cokeson's face! had that any connection with what you were doing? falder. no, sir. frome. was that in the office, before you ran out? falder. yes, and while i was running. frome. and that lasted till the cashier said: "will you have gold or notes?" falder. yes, and then i seemed to come to myself--and it was too late. frome. thank you. that closes the evidence for the defence, my lord. the judge nods, and falder goes back to his seat in the dock. frome. [gathering up notes] if it please your lordship--gentlemen of the jury,--my friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and i am free to admit that nothing i can say will move you, if the evidence has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. my friend has alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which i have sought to invest this case. gentlemen, i have done nothing of the kind. i have merely shown you the background of "life"--that palpitating life which, believe me--whatever my friend may say--always lies behind the commission of a crime. now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. but when we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love--what then? just think of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the prisoner's age; and then look at him. well! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly attached. yes, gentlemen, look at him! he has not a strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. he is just the sort of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. you have heard the description of his eyes. my friend may laugh at the word "funny"--i think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which could have been used. i don't pretend, mind you, that his mental irresponsibility--was more than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent and treated as a patient. i admit that this is a plea which might well be abused. it is a matter for discretion. but here you have a case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. you heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four fatal minutes. what was his answer? "i thought of mr. cokeson's face!" gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped with truth. you have seen the great affection [legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. it is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he committed this act. we well know what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak and highly nervous people. it was all the work of a moment. the rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done. once this cheque was altered and presented, the work of four minutes--four mad minutes --the rest has been silence. but in those four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never again quite lets a man go--the cage of the law. his further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence--not of deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from which these subsequent acts arose; no--they are merely evidence of the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. but is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. if the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one. i beg you not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. gentlemen, justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself. is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of weakness? is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? is that to be his voyage-from which so few return? or is he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will come back? i urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! for, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face. he can be saved now. imprison him as a criminal, and i affirm to you that he will be lost. he has neither the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has undergone. the latter is ten times heavier already. he has lain in prison under this charge for more than two months. is he likely ever to forget that? imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. he has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. the rolling of the chariot-wheels of justice over this boy began when it was decided to prosecute him. we are now already at the second stage. if you permit it to go on to the third i would not give--that for him. he holds up finger and thumb in the form of a circle, drops his hand, and sits dozen. the jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards the counsel for the crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then towards the jury. cleaver. may it please your lordship--[rising on his toes] gentlemen of the jury,--the facts in this case are not disputed, and the defence, if my friend will allow me to say so, is so thin that i don't propose to waste the time of the court by taking you over the evidence. the plea is one of temporary insanity. well, gentlemen, i daresay it is clearer to me than it is to you why this rather--what shall we call it?--bizarre defence has been set up. the alternative would have been to plead guilty. now, gentlemen, if the prisoner had pleaded guilty my friend would have had to rely on a simple appeal to his lordship. instead of that, he has gone into the byways and hedges and found this--er--peculiar plea, which has enabled him to show you the proverbial woman, to put her in the box--to give, in fact, a romantic glow to this affair. i compliment my friend; i think it highly ingenious of him. by these means, he has--to a certain extent--got round the law. he has brought the whole story of motive and stress out in court, at first hand, in a way that he would not otherwise have been able to do. but when you have once grasped that fact, gentlemen, you have grasped everything. [with good-humoured contempt] for look at this plea of insanity; we can't put it lower than that. you have heard the woman. she has every reason to favour the prisoner, but what did she say? she said that the prisoner was not insane when she left him in the morning. if he were going out of his mind through distress, that was obviously the moment when insanity would have shown itself. you have heard the managing clerk, another witness for the defence. with some difficulty i elicited from him the admission that the prisoner, though jumpy [a word that he seemed to think you would understand, gentlemen, and i'm sure i hope you do], was not mad when the cheque was handed to davis. i agree with my friend that it's unfortunate that we have not got davis here, but the prisoner has told you the words with which davis in turn handed him the cheque; he obviously, therefore, was not mad when he received it, or he would not have remembered those words. the cashier has told you that he was certainly in his senses when he cashed it. we have therefore the plea that a man who is sane at ten minutes past one, and sane at fifteen minutes past, may, for the purposes of avoiding the consequences of a crime, call himself insane between those points of time. really, gentlemen, this is so peculiar a proposition that i am not disposed to weary you with further argument. you will form your own opinion of its value. my friend has adopted this way of saying a great deal to you--and very eloquently--on the score of youth, temptation, and the like. i might point out, however, that the offence with which the prisoner is charged is one of the most serious known to our law; and there are certain features in this case, such as the suspicion which he allowed to rest on his innocent fellow-clerk, and his relations with this married woman, which will render it difficult for you to attach too much importance to such pleading. i ask you, in short, gentlemen, for that verdict of guilty which, in the circumstances, i regard you as, unfortunately, bound to record. letting his eyes travel from the judge and the jury to frome, he sits down. the judge. [bending a little towards the jury, and speaking in a business-like voice] gentlemen, you have heard the evidence, and the comments on it. my only business is to make clear to you the issues you have to try. the facts are admitted, so far as the alteration of this cheque and counterfoil by the prisoner. the defence set up is that he was not in a responsible condition when he committed the crime. well, you have heard the prisoner's story, and the evidence of the other witnesses--so far as it bears on the point of insanity. if you think that what you have heard establishes the fact that the prisoner was insane at the time of the forgery, you will find him guilty, but insane. if, on the other hand, you conclude from what you have seen and heard that the prisoner was sane--and nothing short of insanity will count--you will find him guilty. in reviewing the testimony as to his mental condition you must bear in mind very carefully the evidence as to his demeanour and conduct both before and after the act of forgery--the evidence of the prisoner himself, of the woman, of the witness--er--cokeson, and--er--of the cashier. and in regard to that i especially direct your attention to the prisoner's admission that the idea of adding the 'ty' and the nought did come into his mind at the moment when the cheque was handed to him; and also to the alteration of the counterfoil, and to his subsequent conduct generally. the bearing of all this on the question of premeditation [and premeditation will imply sanity] is very obvious. you must not allow any considerations of age or temptation to weigh with you in the finding of your verdict. before you can come to a verdict of guilty but insane you must be well and thoroughly convinced that the condition of his mind was such as would have qualified him at the moment for a lunatic asylum. [he pauses, then, seeing that the jury are doubtful whether to retire or no, adds:] you may retire, gentlemen, if you wish to do so. the jury retire by a door behind the judge. the judge bends over his notes. falder, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly to his solicitor, pointing dawn at ruth. the solicitor in turn speaks to frome. frome. [rising] my lord. the prisoner is very anxious that i should ask you if your lordship would kindly request the reporters not to disclose the name of the woman witness in the press reports of these proceedings. your lordship will understand that the consequences might be extremely serious to her. the judge. [pointedly--with the suspicion of a smile] well, mr. frome, you deliberately took this course which involved bringing her here. frome. [with an ironic bow] if your lordship thinks i could have brought out the full facts in any other way? the judge. h'm! well. frome. there is very real danger to her, your lordship. the judge. you see, i have to take your word for all that. frome. if your lordship would be so kind. i can assure your lordship that i am not exaggerating. the judge. it goes very much against the grain with me that the name of a witness should ever be suppressed. [with a glance at falder, who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at ruth, who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on falder] i'll consider your application. it must depend. i have to remember that she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf. frome. your lordship, i really---- the judge. yes, yes--i don't suggest anything of the sort, mr. frome. leave it at that for the moment. as he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the box. clerk of assize. gentlemen, are you agreed on your verdict? foreman. we are. clerk of assize. is it guilty, or guilty but insane? foreman. guilty. the judge nods; then, gathering up his notes, sits looking at falder, who stands motionless. frome. [rising] if your lordship would allow me to address you in mitigation of sentence. i don't know if your lordship thinks i can add anything to what i have said to the jury on the score of the prisoner's youth, and the great stress under which he acted. the judge. i don't think you can, mr. frome. frome. if your lordship says so--i do most earnestly beg your lordship to give the utmost weight to my plea. [he sits down.] the judge. [to the clerk] call upon him. the clerk. prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. have you anything to say for yourself, why the court should not give you judgment according to law? [falder shakes his head] the judge. william falder, you have been given fair trial and found guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [he pauses; then, consulting his notes, goes on] the defence was set up that you were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing this crime. there is no, doubt, i think, that this was a device to bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you succumbed. for throughout the trial your counsel was in reality making an appeal for mercy. the setting up of this defence of course enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that direction. whether he was well advised to so is another matter. he claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a criminal. and this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march of justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing the process of criminality. now, in considering how far i should allow weight to his appeal; i have a number of factors to take into account. i have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to my mind, is a very grave point--and finally i have to consider the necessity of deterring others from following your example. on the other hand, i have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if i am to believe your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some emotional excitement when you committed this crime. i have every wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the community--to treat you with leniency. and this brings me to what are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your case. you are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. it is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. the story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--mrs. honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were in effect based. now what is that story? it is that you, a young man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an attachment, which you both say--with what truth i am unable to gauge --had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit was about to result in such relationship. your counsel has made an attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he describes, i think, as "a hopeless position." as to that i can express no opinion. she is a married woman, and the fact is patent that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral design. now, however i might wish, i am not able to justify to my conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality. it is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for the completion of this immoral project. your counsel has made an attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. i do not follow him in these flights. the law is what it is--a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another. i am concerned only with its administration. the crime you have committed is a very serious one. i cannot feel it in accordance with my duty to society to exercise the powers i have in your favour. you will go to penal servitude for three years. falder, who throughout the judge's speech has looked at him steadily, lets his head fall forward on his breast. ruth starts up from her seat as he is taken out by the warders. there is a bustle in court. the judge. [speaking to the reporters] gentlemen of the press, i think that the name of the female witness should not be reported. the reporters bow their acquiescence. the judge. [to ruth, who is staring in the direction in which falder has disappeared] do you understand, your name will not be mentioned? cokeson. [pulling her sleeve] the judge is speaking to you. ruth turns, stares at the judge, and turns away. the judge. i shall sit rather late to-day. call the next case. clerk of assize. [to a warder] put up john booley. to cries of "witnesses in the case of booley": the curtain falls. act iii scene i a prison. a plainly furnished room, with two large barred windows, overlooking the prisoners' exercise yard, where men, in yellow clothes marked with arrows, and yellow brimless caps, are seen in single file at a distance of four yards from each other, walking rapidly on serpentine white lines marked on the concrete floor of the yard. two warders in blue uniforms, with peaked caps and swords, are stationed amongst them. the room has distempered walls, a bookcase with numerous official-looking books, a cupboard between the windows, a plan of the prison on the wall, a writing-table covered with documents. it is christmas eve. the governor, a neat, grave-looking man, with a trim, fair moustache, the eyes of a theorist, and grizzled hair, receding from the temples, is standing close to this writing-table looking at a sort of rough saw made out of a piece of metal. the hand in which he holds it is gloved, for two fingers are missing. the chief warder, wooder, a tall, thin, military-looking man of sixty, with grey moustache and melancholy, monkey-like eyes, stands very upright two paces from him. the governor. [with a faint, abstracted smile] queer-looking affair, mr. wooder! where did you find it? wooder. in his mattress, sir. haven't come across such a thing for two years now. the governor. [with curiosity] had he any set plan? wooder. he'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [he holds up his thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart] the governor. i'll see him this afternoon. what's his name? moaney! an old hand, i think? wooder. yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. you'd think an old lag like him would have had more sense by now. [with pitying contempt] occupied his mind, he said. breaking in and breaking out--that's all they think about. the governor. who's next him? wooder. o'cleary, sir. the governor. the irishman. wooder. next him again there's that young fellow, falder--star class--and next him old clipton. the governor. ah, yes! "the philosopher." i want to see him about his eyes. wooder. curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of these tries at escape going on. it makes them restive--there's a regular wave going through them just now. the governor. [meditatively] odd things--those waves. [turning to look at the prisoners exercising] seem quiet enough out here! wooder. that irishman, o'cleary, began banging on his door this morning. little thing like that's quite enough to upset the whole lot. they're just like dumb animals at times. the governor. i've seen it with horses before thunder--it'll run right through cavalry lines. the prison chaplain has entered. he is a dark-haired, ascetic man, in clerical undress, with a peculiarly steady, tight-lipped face and slow, cultured speech. the governor. [holding up the saw] seen this, miller? the chaplain. useful-looking specimen. the governor. do for the museum, eh! [he goes to the cupboard and opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and metal tools with labels tied on them] that'll do, thanks, mr. wooder. wooder. [saluting] thank you, sir. [he goes out] the governor. account for the state of the men last day or two, miller? seems going through the whole place. the chaplain. no. i don't know of anything. the governor. by the way, will you dine with us on christmas day? the chaplain. to-morrow. thanks very much. the governor. worries me to feel the men discontented. [gazing at the saw] have to punish this poor devil. can't help liking a man who tries to escape. [he places the saw in his pocket and locks the cupboard again] the chaplain. extraordinary perverted will-power--some of them. nothing to be done till it's broken. the governor. and not much afterwards, i'm afraid. ground too hard for golf? wooder comes in again. wooder. visitor who's been seeing q asks to speak to you, sir. i told him it wasn't usual. the governor. what about? wooder. shall i put him off, sir? the governor. [resignedly] no, no. let's see him. don't go, miller. wooder motions to some one without, and as the visitor comes in withdraws. the visitor is cokeson, who is attired in a thick overcoat to the knees, woollen gloves, and carries a top hat. cokeson. i'm sorry to trouble you. i've been talking to the young man. the governor. we have a good many here. cokeson. name of falder, forgery. [producing a card, and handing it to the governor] firm of james and walter how. well known in the law. the governor. [receiving the card-with a faint smile] what do you want to see me about, sir? cokeson. [suddenly seeing the prisoners at exercise] why! what a sight! the governor. yes, we have that privilege from here; my office is being done up. [sitting down at his table] now, please! cokeson. [dragging his eyes with difficulty from the window] i wanted to say a word to you; i shan't keep you long. [confidentially] fact is, i oughtn't to be here by rights. his sister came to me--he's got no father and mother--and she was in some distress. "my husband won't let me go and see him," she said; "says he's disgraced the family. and his other sister," she said, "is an invalid." and she asked me to come. well, i take an interest in him. he was our junior--i go to the same chapel--and i didn't like to refuse. and what i wanted to tell you was, he seems lonely here. the governor. not unnaturally. cokeson. i'm afraid it'll prey on my mind. i see a lot of them about working together. the governor. those are local prisoners. the convicts serve their three months here in separate confinement, sir. cokeson. but we don't want to be unreasonable. he's quite downhearted. i wanted to ask you to let him run about with the others. the governor. [with faint amusement] ring the bell-would you, miller? [to cokeson] you'd like to hear what the doctor says about him, perhaps. the chaplain. [ringing the bell] you are not accustomed to prisons, it would seem, sir. cokeson. no. but it's a pitiful sight. he's quite a young fellow. i said to him: "before a month's up" i said, "you'll be out and about with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "a month!" he said --like that! "come!" i said, "we mustn't exaggerate. what's a month? why, it's nothing!" "a day," he said, "shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as i do, it's longer than a year outside. i can't help it," he said; "i try--but i'm built that way, mr. cokeson." and, he held his hand up to his face. i could see the tears trickling through his fingers. it wasn't nice. the chaplain. he's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn't he? not church of england, i think? cokeson. no. the chaplain. i know. the governor. [to wooder, who has come in] ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a minute. [wooder salutes, and goes out] let's see, he's not married? cokeson. no. [confidentially] but there's a party he's very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fa. it's a sad story. the chaplain. if it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison might be closed. cokeson. [looking at the chaplain over his spectacles] ye-es, but i wanted to tell you about that, special. he had hopes they'd have let her come and see him, but they haven't. of course he asked me questions. i did my best, but i couldn't tell the poor young fellow a lie, with him in here--seemed like hitting him. but i'm afraid it's made him worse. the governor. what was this news then? cokeson. like this. the woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a husband, and she'd left him. fact is, she was going away with our young friend. it's not nice--but i've looked over it. well, when he was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for him to come out. that was a great consolation to him. but after a month she came to me--i don't know her personally--and she said: "i can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--i've got no friends. i'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my husband'd get to know where i was. i'm very much reduced," she said. and she has lost flesh. "i'll have to go in the workhouse!" it's a painful story. i said to her: "no," i said, "not that! i've got a wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that i'll spare you a little myself." "really," she said--she's a nice creature--"i don't like to take it from you. i think i'd better go back to my husband." well, i know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but i didn't like to persuade her not to. the chaplain. surely, no. cokeson. ye-es, but i'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow dreadfully. and what i wanted to say was: he's got his three years to serve. i want things to be pleasant for him. the chaplain. [with a touch of impatience] the law hardly shares your view, i'm afraid. cokeson. but i can't help thinking that to shut him up there by himself'll turn him silly. and nobody wants that, i s'pose. i don't like to see a man cry. the chaplain. it's a very rare thing for them to give way like that. cokeson. [looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] i keep dogs. the chaplain. indeed? cokeson. ye-es. and i say this: i wouldn't shut one of them up all by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over. the chaplain. unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong. cokeson. but that's not the way to make him feel it. the chaplain. ah! there i'm afraid we must differ. cokeson. it's the same with dogs. if you treat 'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage. the chaplain. surely you should allow those who have had a little more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners. cokeson. [doggedly] i know this young feller, i've watched him for years. he's eurotic--got no stamina. his father died of consumption. i'm thinking of his future. if he's to be kept there shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him harm. i said to him: "where do you feel it?" "i can't tell you, mr. cokeson," he said, "but sometimes i could beat my head against the wall." it's not nice. during this speech the doctor has entered. he is a medium-sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye. he stands leaning against the window. the governor. this gentleman thinks the separate is telling on q --falder, young thin fellow, star class. what do you say, doctor clements? the doctor. he doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm. cokeson. but he's told me. the doctor. of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. he's lost no weight since he's been here. cokeson. it's his state of mind i'm speaking of. the doctor. his mind's all right so far. he's nervous, rather melancholy. i don't see signs of anything more. i'm watching him carefully. cokeson. [nonplussed] i'm glad to hear you say that. the chaplain. [more suavely] it's just at this period that we are able to make some impression on them, sir. i am speaking from my special standpoint. cokeson. [turning bewildered to the governor] i don't want to be unpleasant, but having given him this news, i do feel it's awkward. the governor. i'll make a point of seeing him to-day. cokeson. i'm much obliged to you. i thought perhaps seeing him every day you wouldn't notice it. the governor. [rather sharply] if any sign of injury to his health shows itself his case will be reported at once. that's fully provided for. [he rises] cokeson. [following his own thoughts] of course, what you don't see doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, i don't want to have him on my mind. the governor. i think you may safely leave it to us, sir. cokeson. [mollified and apologetic] i thought you'd understand me. i'm a plain man--never set myself up against authority. [expanding to the chaplain] nothing personal meant. good-morning. as he goes out the three officials do not look at each other, but their faces wear peculiar expressions. the chaplain. our friend seems to think that prison is a hospital. cokeson. [returning suddenly with an apologetic air] there's just one little thing. this woman--i suppose i mustn't ask you to let him see her. it'd be a rare treat for them both. he's thinking about her all the time. of course she's not his wife. but he's quite safe in here. they're a pitiful couple. you couldn't make an exception? the governor. [wearily] as you say, my dear sir, i couldn't make an exception; he won't be allowed another visit of any sort till he goes to a convict prison. cokeson. i see. [rather coldly] sorry to have troubled you. [he again goes out] the chaplain. [shrugging his shoulders] the plain man indeed, poor fellow. come and have some lunch, clements? he and the doctor go out talking. the governor, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a pen. the curtain falls. scene ii part of the ground corridor of the prison. the walls are coloured with greenish distemper up to a stripe of deeper green about the height of a man's shoulder, and above this line are whitewashed. the floor is of blackened stones. daylight is filtering through a heavily barred window at the end. the doors of four cells are visible. each cell door has a little round peep-hole at the level of a man's eye, covered by a little round disc, which, raised upwards, affords a view o f the cell. on the wall, close to each cell door, hangs a little square board with the prisoner's name, number, and record. overhead can be seen the iron structures of the first-floor and second-floor corridors. the warder instructor, a bearded man in blue uniform, with an apron, and some dangling keys, is just emerging from one of the cells. instructor. [speaking from the door into the cell] i'll have another bit for you when that's finished. o'cleary. [unseen--in an irish voice] little doubt o' that, sirr. instructor. [gossiping] well, you'd rather have it than nothing, i s'pose. o'cleary. an' that's the blessed truth. sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of approaching footsteps. instructor. [in a sharp, changed voice] look alive over it! he shuts the cell door, and stands at attention. the governor comes walking down the corridor, followed by wooder. the governor. anything to report? instructor. [saluting] q [he points to a cell] is behind with his work, sir. he'll lose marks to-day. the governor nods and passes on to the end cell. the instructor goes away. the governor. this is our maker of saws, isn't it? he takes the saw from his pocket as wooder throws open the door of the cell. the convict moaney is seen lying on his bed, athwart the cell, with his cap on. he springs up and stands in the middle of the cell. he is a raw-boned fellow, about fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce, staring, steel-coloured eyes. wooder. cap off! [moaney removes his cap] out here! [moaney comes to the door] the governor. [beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private] anything to say about this, my man? [moaney is silent] come! moaney. it passed the time. the governor. [pointing into the cell] not enough to do, eh? moaney. it don't occupy your mind. the governor. [tapping the saw] you might find a better way than this. moaney. [sullenly] well! what way? i must keep my hand in against the time i get out. what's the good of anything else to me at my time of life? [with a gradual change to civility, as his tongue warms] ye know that, sir. i'll be in again within a year or two, after i've done this lot. i don't want to disgrace meself when i'm out. you've got your pride keeping the prison smart; well, i've got mine. [seeing that the governor is listening with interest, he goes on, pointing to the saw] i must be doin' a little o' this. it's no harm to any one. i was five weeks makin' that saw--a, bit of all right it is, too; now i'll get cells, i suppose, or seven days' bread and water. you can't help it, sir, i know that--i quite put meself in your place. the governor. now, look here, moaney, if i pass it over will you give me your word not to try it on again? think! [he goes into the cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the window-bars] the governor. [returning] well? moaney. [who has been reflecting] i've got another six weeks to do in here, alone. i can't do it and think o' nothing. i must have something to interest me. you've made me a sporting offer, sir, but i can't pass my word about it. i shouldn't like to deceive a gentleman. [pointing into the cell] another four hours' steady work would have done it. the governor. yes, and what then? caught, brought back, punishment. five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while they put anew bar to your window. is it worth it, moaney? moaney. [with a sort of fierceness] yes, it is. the governor. [putting his hand to his brow] oh, well! two days' cells-bread and water. moaney. thank 'e, sir. he turns quickly like an animal and slips into his cell. the governor looks after him and shakes his head as wooder closes and locks the cell door. the governor. open clipton's cell. wooder opens the door of clipton's cell. clipton is sitting on a stool just inside the door, at work on a pair of trousers. he is a small, thick, oldish man, with an almost shaven head, and smouldering little dark eyes behind smoked spectacles. he gets up and stands motionless in the doorway, peering at his visitors. the governor. [beckoning] come out here a minute, clipton. clipton, with a sort of dreadful quietness, comes into the corridor, the needle and thread in his hand. the governor signs to wooder, who goes into the cell and inspects it carefully. the governor. how are your eyes? clifton. i don't complain of them. i don't see the sun here. [he makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] there's just one thing, mr. governor, as you're speaking to me. i wish you'd ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter. the governor. what's the matter? i don't want any tales, clipton. clipton. he keeps me awake. i don't know who he is. [with contempt] one of this star class, i expect. oughtn't to be here with us. the governor. [quietly] quite right, clipton. he'll be moved when there's a cell vacant. clipton. he knocks about like a wild beast in the early morning. i'm not used to it--stops me getting my sleep out. in the evening too. it's not fair, mr. governor, as you're speaking to me. sleep's the comfort i've got here; i'm entitled to take it out full. wooder comes out of the cell, and instantly, as though extinguished, clipton moves with stealthy suddenness back into his cell. wooder. all right, sir. the governor nods. the door is closed and locked. the governor. which is the man who banged on his door this morning? wooder. [going towards o'cleary's cell] this one, sir; o'cleary. he lifts the disc and glances through the peephole. the governor. open. wooder throws open the door. o'cleary, who is seated at a little table by the door as if listening, springs up and stands at attention jest inside the doorway. he is a broad-faced, middle-aged man, with a wide, thin, flexible mouth, and little holes under his high cheek-bones. the governor. where's the joke, o'cleary? o'cleary. the joke, your honour? i've not seen one for a long time. the governor. banging on your door? o'cleary. oh! that! the governor. it's womanish. o'cleary. an' it's that i'm becoming this two months past. the governor. anything to complain of? o'cleary. no, sirr. the governor. you're an old hand; you ought to know better. o'cleary. yes, i've been through it all. the governor. you've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him. o'cleary. it cam' over me, your honour. i can't always be the same steady man. the governor. work all right? o'cleary. [taking up a rush mat he is making] oh! i can do it on me head. it's the miserablest stuff--don't take the brains of a mouse. [working his mouth] it's here i feel it--the want of a little noise --a terrible little wud ease me. the governor. you know as well as i do that if you were out in the shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk. o'cleary. [with a look of profound meaning] not with my mouth. the governor. well, then? o'cleary. but it's the great conversation i'd have. the governor. [with a smile] well, no more conversation on your door. o'cleary. no, sirr, i wud not have the little wit to repeat meself. the governor. [turning] good-night. o'cleary. good-night, your honour. he turns into his cell. the governor shuts the door. the governor. [looking at the record card] can't help liking the poor blackguard. wooder. he's an amiable man, sir. the governor. [pointing down the corridor] ask the doctor to come here, mr. wooder. wooder salutes and goes away down the corridor. the governor goes to the door of falder's cell. he raises his uninjured hand to uncover the peep-hole; but, without uncovering it, shakes his head and drops his hand; then, after scrutinising the record board, he opens the cell door. falder, who is standing against it, lurches forward. the governor. [beckoning him out] now tell me: can't you settle down, falder? falder. [in a breathless voice] yes, sir. the governor. you know what i mean? it's no good running your head against a stone wall, is it? falder. no, sir. the governor. well, come. falder. i try, sir. the governor. can't you sleep? falder. very little. between two o'clock and getting up's the worst time. the governor. how's that? falder. [his lips twitch with a sort of smile] i don't know, sir. i was always nervous. [suddenly voluble] everything seems to get such a size then. i feel i'll never get out as long as i live. the governor. that's morbid, my lad. pull yourself together. falder. [with an equally sudden dogged resentment] yes--i've got to. the governor. think of all these other fellows? falder. they're used to it. the governor. they all had to go through it once for the first time, just as you're doing now. falder. yes, sir, i shall get to be like them in time, i suppose. the governor. [rather taken aback] h'm! well! that rests with you. now come. set your mind to it, like a good fellow. you're still quite young. a man can make himself what he likes. falder. [wistfully] yes, sir. the governor. take a good hold of yourself. do you read? falder. i don't take the words in. [hanging his head] i know it's no good; but i can't help thinking of what's going on outside. in my cell i can't see out at all. it's thick glass, sir. the governor. you've had a visitor. bad news? falder. yes. the governor. you mustn't think about it. falder. [looking back at his cell] how can i help it, sir? he suddenly becomes motionless as wooder and the doctor approach. the governor motions to him to go back into his cell. falder. [quick and low] i'm quite right in my head, sir. [he goes back into his cell.] the governor. [to the doctor] just go in and see him, clements. the doctor goes into the cell. the governor pushes the door to, nearly closing it, and walks towards the window. wooder. [following] sorry you should be troubled like this, sir. very contented lot of men, on the whole. the governor. [shortly] you think so? wooder. yes, sir. it's christmas doing it, in my opinion. the governor. [to himself] queer, that! wooder. beg pardon, sir? the governor. christmas! he turns towards the window, leaving wooder looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety. wooder. [suddenly] do you think we make show enough, sir? if you'd like us to have more holly? the governor. not at all, mr. wooder. wooder. very good, sir. the doctor has come out of falder's cell, and the governor beckons to him. the governor. well? the doctor. i can't make anything much of him. he's nervous, of course. the governor. is there any sort of case to report? quite frankly, doctor. the doctor. well, i don't think the separates doing him any good; but then i could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better in the shops, there's no doubt. the governor. you mean you'd have to recommend others? the doctor. a dozen at least. it's on his nerves. there's nothing tangible. that fellow there [pointing to o'cleary's cell], for instance--feels it just as much, in his way. if i once get away from physical facts--i shan't know where i am. conscientiously, sir, i don't know how to differentiate him. he hasn't lost weight. nothing wrong with his eyes. his pulse is good. talks all right. the governor. it doesn't amount to melancholia? the doctor. [shaking his head] i can report on him if you like; but if i do i ought to report on others. the governor. i see. [looking towards falder's cell] the poor devil must just stick it then. as he says thin he looks absently at wooder. wooder. beg pardon, sir? for answer the governor stares at him, turns on his heel, and walks away. there is a sound as of beating on metal. the governor. [stopping] mr. wooder? wooder. banging on his door, sir. i thought we should have more of that. he hurries forward, passing the governor, who follows closely. the curtain falls. scene iii falder's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. the floor is of shiny blackened bricks. the barred window of opaque glass, with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. in the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. in a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet]. above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. in another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. there is a dark ventilator under the window, and another over the door. falder's work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel "lorna doone" lies open. low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. there is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. three bright round tins are set under the window. in fast-failing daylight, falder, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. he moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. he stops at the door. he is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. he springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless. then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. he stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. he stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. it has grown very nearly dark. suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. there is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. the cell is brightly lighted. falder is seen gasping for breath. a sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. falder shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. but the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. and gradually it seems to hypnotise him. he begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. the banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; falder's hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. he suddenly raises his clenched fists. panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it. the curtain falls. act iv the scene is again cokeson's room, at a few minutes to ten of a march morning, two years later. the doors are all open. sweedle, now blessed with a sprouting moustache, is getting the offices ready. he arranges papers on cokeson's table; then goes to a covered washstand, raises the lid, and looks at himself in the mirror. while he is gazing his full ruth honeywill comes in through the outer office and stands in the doorway. there seems a kind of exultation and excitement behind her habitual impassivity. sweedle. [suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand with a bang] hello! it's you! ruth. yes. sweedle. there's only me here! they don't waste their time hurrying down in the morning. why, it must be two years since we had the pleasure of seeing you. [nervously] what have you been doing with yourself? ruth. [sardonically] living. sweedle. [impressed] if you want to see him [he points to cokeson's chair], he'll be here directly--never misses--not much. [delicately] i hope our friend's back from the country. his time's been up these three months, if i remember. [ruth nods] i was awful sorry about that. the governor made a mistake--if you ask me. ruth. he did. sweedle. he ought to have given him a chanst. and, i say, the judge ought to ha' let him go after that. they've forgot what human nature's like. whereas we know. [ruth gives him a honeyed smile] sweedle. they come down on you like a cartload of bricks, flatten you out, and when you don't swell up again they complain of it. i know 'em--seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. [he shakes his head in the plenitude of wisdom] why, only the other day the governor---- but cokeson has come in through the outer office; brisk with east wind, and decidedly greyer. cokeson. [drawing off his coat and gloves] why! it's you! [then motioning sweedle out, and closing the door] quite a stranger! must be two years. d'you want to see me? i can give you a minute. sit down! family well? ruth. yes. i'm not living where i was. cokeson. [eyeing her askance] i hope things are more comfortable at home. ruth. i couldn't stay with honeywill, after all. cokeson. you haven't done anything rash, i hope. i should be sorry if you'd done anything rash. ruth. i've kept the children with me. cokeson. [beginning to feel that things are not so jolly as ha had hoped] well, i'm glad to have seen you. you've not heard from the young man, i suppose, since he came out? ruth. yes, i ran across him yesterday. cokeson. i hope he's well. ruth. [with sudden fierceness] he can't get anything to do. it's dreadful to see him. he's just skin and bone. cokeson. [with genuine concern] dear me! i'm sorry to hear that. [on his guard again] didn't they find him a place when his time was up? ruth. he was only there three weeks. it got out. cokeson. i'm sure i don't know what i can do for you. i don't like to be snubby. ruth. i can't bear his being like that. cokeson. [scanning her not unprosperous figure] i know his relations aren't very forthy about him. perhaps you can do something for him, till he finds his feet. ruth. not now. i could have--but not now. cokeson. i don't understand. ruth. [proudly] i've seen him again--that's all over. cokeson. [staring at her--disturbed] i'm a family man--i don't want to hear anything unpleasant. excuse me--i'm very busy. ruth. i'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but they've never got over me marrying honeywill. i never was waywise, mr. cokeson, but i'm proud. i was only a girl, you see, when i married him. i thought the world of him, of course . . . he used to come travelling to our farm. cokeson. [regretfully] i did hope you'd have got on better, after you saw me. ruth. he used me worse than ever. he couldn't break my nerve, but i lost my health; and then he began knocking the children about. i couldn't stand that. i wouldn't go back now, if he were dying. cokeson. [who has risen and is shifting about as though dodging a stream of lava] we mustn't be violent, must we? ruth. [smouldering] a man that can't behave better than that-- [there is silence] cokeson. [fascinated in spite of himself] then there you were! and what did you do then? ruth. [with a shrug] tried the same as when i left him before..., making skirts... cheap things. it was the best i could get, but i never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and working all day; i hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. i kept at it for nine months. [fiercely] well, i'm not fit for that; i wasn't made for it. i'd rather die. cokeson. my dear woman! we mustn't talk like that. ruth. it was starvation for the children too--after what they'd always had. i soon got not to care. i used to be too tired. [she is silent] cokeson. [with fearful curiosity] why, what happened then? ruth. [with a laugh] my employer happened then--he's happened ever since. cokeson. dear! oh dear! i never came across a thing like this. ruth. [dully] he's treated me all right. but i've done with that. [suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back of her hand] i never thought i'd see him again, you see. it was just a chance i met him by hyde park. we went in there and sat down, and he told me all about himself. oh! mr. cokeson, give him another chance. cokeson. [greatly disturbed] then you've both lost your livings! what a horrible position! ruth. if he could only get here--where there's nothing to find out about him! cokeson. we can't have anything derogative to the firm. ruth. i've no one else to go to. cokeson. i'll speak to the partners, but i don't think they'll take him, under the circumstances. i don't really. ruth. he came with me; he's down there in the street. [she points to the window.] cokeson. [on his dignity] he shouldn't have done that until he's sent for. [then softening at the look on her face] we've got a vacancy, as it happens, but i can't promise anything. ruth. it would be the saving of him. cokeson. well, i'll do what i can, but i'm not sanguine. now tell him that i don't want him till i see how things are. leave your address? [repeating her] mullingar street? [he notes it on blotting-paper] good-morning. ruth. thank you. she moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not, and goes away. cokeson. [wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton handkerchief] what a business! [then looking amongst his papers, he sounds his bell. sweedle answers it] cokeson. was that young richards coming here to-day after the clerk's place? sweedle. yes. cokeson. well, keep him in the air; i don't want to see him yet. sweedle. what shall i tell him, sir? cokeson. [with asperity] invent something. use your brains. don't stump him off altogether. sweedle. shall i tell him that we've got illness, sir? cokeson. no! nothing untrue. say i'm not here to-day. sweedle. yes, sir. keep him hankering? cokeson. exactly. and look here. you remember falder? i may be having him round to see me. now, treat him like you'd have him treat you in a similar position. sweedle. i naturally should do. cokeson. that's right. when a man's down never hit 'im. 'tisn't necessary. give him a hand up. that's a metaphor i recommend to you in life. it's sound policy. sweedle. do you think the governors will take him on again, sir? cokeson. can't say anything about that. [at the sound of some one having entered the outer office] who's there? sweedle. [going to the door and looking] it's falder, sir. cokeson. [vexed] dear me! that's very naughty of her. tell him to call again. i don't want---- he breaks off as falder comes in. falder is thin, pale, older, his eyes have grown more restless. his clothes are very worn and loose. sweedle, nodding cheerfully, withdraws. cokeson. glad to see you. you're rather previous. [trying to keep things pleasant] shake hands! she's striking while the iron's hot. [he wipes his forehead] i don't blame her. she's anxious. falder timidly takes cokeson's hand and glances towards the partners' door. cokeson. no--not yet! sit down! [falder sits in the chair at the aide of cokeson's table, on which he places his cap] now you are here i'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [looking at him over his spectacles] how's your health? falder. i'm alive, mr. cokeson. cokeson. [preoccupied] i'm glad to hear that. about this matter. i don't like doing anything out of the ordinary; it's not my habit. i'm a plain man, and i want everything smooth and straight. but i promised your friend to speak to the partners, and i always keep my word. falder. i just want a chance, mr. cokeson. i've paid for that job a thousand times and more. i have, sir. no one knows. they say i weighed more when i came out than when i went in. they couldn't weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart, and gives a sort of laugh]. till last night i'd have thought there was nothing in here at all. cokeson. [concerned] you've not got heart disease? falder. oh! they passed me sound enough. cokeson. but they got you a place, didn't they? falser. yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me. i thought i was going to get on first rate. but one day, all of a sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... i couldn't stick it, mr. cokeson, i couldn't, sir. cokeson. easy, my dear fellow, easy! falder. i had one small job after that, but it didn't last. cokeson. how was that? falder. it's no good deceiving you, mr. cokeson. the fact is, i seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. i can't explain it: it's as if i was in a net; as fast as i cut it here, it grows up there. i didn't act as i ought to have, about references; but what are you to do? you must have them. and that made me afraid, and i left. in fact, i'm--i'm afraid all the time now. he bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table. cokeson. i feel for you--i do really. aren't your sisters going to do anything for you? falder. one's in consumption. and the other---- cokeson. ye...es. she told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with you. falder. when i went there--they were at supper--my sister wanted to give me a kiss--i know. but he just looked at her, and said: "what have you come for?" well, i pocketed my pride and i said: "aren't you going to give me your hand, jim? cis is, i know," i said. "look here!" he said, "that's all very well, but we'd better come to an understanding. i've been expecting you, and i've made up my mind. i'll give you fifteen pounds to go to canada with." "i see," i said--"good riddance! no, thanks; keep your fifteen pounds." friendship's a queer thing when you've been where i have. cokeson. i understand. will you take the fifteen pound from me? [flustered, as falder regards him with a queer smile] quite without prejudice; i meant it kindly. falder. i'm not allowed to leave the country. cokeson. oh! ye...es--ticket-of-leave? you aren't looking the thing. falder. i've slept in the park three nights this week. the dawns aren't all poetry there. but meeting her--i feel a different man this morning. i've often thought the being fond of hers the best thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. that's queer, isn't it? cokeson. i'm sure we're all very sorry for you. falder. that's what i've found, mr. cokeson. awfully sorry for me. [with quiet bitterness] but it doesn't do to associate with criminals! cokeson. come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. that never did a man any good. put a face on it. falder. it's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're independent. try it when you're down like me. they talk about giving you your deserts. well, i think i've had just a bit over. cokeson. [eyeing him askance over his spectacles] i hope they haven't made a socialist of you. falder is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he utters a peculiar laugh. cokeson. you must give them credit for the best intentions. really you must. nobody wishes you harm, i'm sure. falder. i believe that, mr. cokeson. nobody wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. this feeling--[he stares round him, as though at something closing in] it's crushing me. [with sudden impersonality] i know it is. cokeson. [horribly disturbed] there's nothing there! we must try and take it quiet. i'm sure i've often had you in my prayers. now leave it to me. i'll use my gumption and take 'em when they're jolly. [as he speaks the two partners come in] cokeson [rather disconcerted, but trying to put them all at ease] i didn't expect you quite so soon. i've just been having a talk with this young man. i think you'll remember him. james. [with a grave, keen look] quite well. how are you, falder? walter. [holding out his hand almost timidly] very glad to see you again, falder. falder. [who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] thank you, sir. cokeson. just a word, mr. james. [to falder, pointing to the clerks' office] you might go in there a minute. you know your way. our junior won't be coming this morning. his wife's just had a little family. falder, goes uncertainly out into the clerks' office. cokeson. [confidentially] i'm bound to tell you all about it. he's quite penitent. but there's a prejudice against him. and you're not seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. it's very trying to go without your dinner. james. is that so, cokeson? cokeson. i wanted to ask you. he's had his lesson. now we know all about him, and we want a clerk. there is a young fellow applying, but i'm keeping him in the air. james. a gaol-bird in the office, cokeson? i don't see it. walter. "the rolling of the chariot-wheels of justice!" i've never got that out of my head. james. i've nothing to reproach myself with in this affair. what's he been doing since he came out? cokeson. he's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. he's sensitive--quite natural. seems to fancy everybody's down on him. james. bad sign. don't like the fellow--never did from the first. "weak character"'s written all over him. walter. i think we owe him a leg up. james. he brought it all on himself. walter. the doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in these days. james. [rather grimly] you'll find it safer to hold it for all that, my boy. walter. for oneself, yes--not for other people, thanks. james. well! i don't want to be hard. cokeson. i'm glad to hear you say that. he seems to see something [spreading his arms] round him. 'tisn't healthy. james. what about that woman he was mixed up with? i saw some one uncommonly like her outside as we came in. cokeson. that! well, i can't keep anything from you. he has met her. james. is she with her husband? cokeson. no. james. falder living with her, i suppose? cokeson. [desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] i don't know that of my own knowledge. 'tisn't my business. james. it's our business, if we're going to engage him, cokeson. cokeson. [reluctantly] i ought to tell you, perhaps. i've had the party here this morning. james. i thought so. [to walter] no, my dear boy, it won't do. too shady altogether! cokeson. the two things together make it very awkward for you--i see that. walter. [tentatively] i don't quite know what we have to do with his private life. james. no, no! he must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come here. walter. poor devil! cokeson. will you--have him in? [and as james nods] i think i can get him to see reason. james. [grimly] you can leave that to me, cokeson. walter. [to james, in a low voice, while cokeson is summoning falder] his whole future may depend on what we do, dad. falder comes in. he has pulled himself together, and presents a steady front. james. now look here, falder. my son and i want to give you another chance; but there are two things i must say to you. in the first place: it's no good coming here as a victim. if you've any notion that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. you can't play fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. if society didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that the better. falder. yes, sir; but--may i say something? james. well? falder. i had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [he stops] cokeson. [encouraging him] i'm sure you did. falder. there were all sorts there. and what i mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of us would ever have got there. james. [shaking his head] i'm afraid i've very grave doubts of that, falder. falder. [with a gleam of malice] yes, sir, so i found. james. my good fellow, don't forget that you began it. falder. i never wanted to do wrong. james. perhaps not. but you did. falder. [with all the bitterness of his past suffering] it's knocked me out of time. [pulling himself up] that is, i mean, i'm not what i was. james. this isn't encouraging for us, falder. cokeson. he's putting it awkwardly, mr. james. falder. [throwing over his caution from the intensity of his feeling] i mean it, mr. cokeson. james. now, lay aside all those thoughts, falder, and look to the future. falder. [almost eagerly] yes, sir, but you don't understand what prison is. it's here it gets you. he grips his chest. cokeson. [in a whisper to james] i told you he wanted nourishment. walter. yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. time's merciful. falder. [with his face twitching] i hope so, sir. james. [much more gently] now, my boy, what you've got to do is to put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady reputation. and that brings me to the second thing. this woman you were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done with that. there's no chance of your keeping straight if you're going to begin your future with such a relationship. falder. [looking from one to the other with a hunted expression] but sir . . . but sir . . . it's the one thing i looked forward to all that time. and she too . . . i couldn't find her before last night. during this and what follows cokeson becomes more and more uneasy. james. this is painful, falder. but you must see for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come back--not otherwise. falder. [after staring at james, suddenly stiffens himself] i couldn't give her up. i couldn't! oh, sir! i'm all she's got to look to. and i'm sure she's all i've got. james. i'm very sorry, falder, but i must be firm. it's for the benefit of you both in the long run. no good can come of this connection. it was the cause of all your disaster. falder. but sir, it means-having gone through all that-getting broken up--my nerves are in an awful state--for nothing. i did it for her. james. come! if she's anything of a woman she'll see it for herself. she won't want to drag you down further. if there were a prospect of your being able to marry her--it might be another thing. falder. it's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him --she would have if she could. that's been the whole trouble from the beginning. [looking suddenly at walter] . . . if anybody would help her! it's only money wants now, i'm sure. cokeson. [breaking in, as walter hesitates, and is about to speak] i don't think we need consider that--it's rather far-fetched. falder. [to walter, appealing] he must have given her full cause since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. walter. i'm inclined to do what you say, falder, if it can be managed. falder. oh, sir! he goes to the window and looks down into the street. cokeson. [hurriedly] you don't take me, mr. walter. i have my reasons. falder. [from the window] she's down there, sir. will you see her? i can beckon to her from here. walter hesitates, and looks from cokeson to james. james. [with a sharp nod] yes, let her come. falder beckons from the window. cokeson. [in a low fluster to james and walter] no, mr. james. she's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young man's been away. she's lost her chance. we can't consult how to swindle the law. falder has come from the window. the three men look at him in a sort of awed silence. falder. [with instinctive apprehension of some change--looking from one to the other] there's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent it . . . . what i said at the trial was true. and last night we only just sat in the park. sweedle comes in from the outer office. cokeson. what is it? sweedle. mrs. honeywill. [there is silence] james. show her in. ruth comes slowly in, and stands stoically with falder on one side and the three men on the other. no one speaks. cokeson turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed groove. james. [sharply] shut the door there. [sweedle shuts the door] we've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be faced in this matter. i understand you have only just met falder again. ruth. yes--only yesterday. james. he's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. i've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. [looking steadily at ruth] this is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. ruth, who is looking at falder, begins to twist her hands in front of her as though prescient of disaster. falder. mr. walter how is good enough to say that he'll help us to get you a divorce. ruth flashes a startled glance at james and walter. james. i don't think that's practicable, falder. falder. but, sir----! james. [steadily] now, mrs. honeywill. you're fond of him. ruth. yes, sir; i love him. she looks miserably at falder. james. then you don't want to stand in his way, do you? ruth. [in a faint voice] i could take care of him. james. the best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. falder. nothing shall make me give you up. you can get a divorce. there's been nothing between us, has there? ruth. [mournfully shaking her head-without looking at him] no. falder. we'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help us--we promise. james. [to ruth] you see the thing plainly, don't you? you see what i mean? ruth. [just above a whisper] yes. cokeson. [to himself] there's a dear woman. james. the situation is impossible. ruth. must i, sir? james. [forcing himself to look at her] i put it to you, ma'am. his future is in your hands. ruth. [miserably] i want to do the best for him. james. [a little huskily] that's right, that's right! falder. i don't understand. you're not going to give me up--after all this? there's something--[starting forward to james] sir, i swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. james. i believe you, falder. come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. falder. just now you were going to help us. [he starts at ruth, who is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on him] what is it? you've not been-- walter. father! james. [hurriedly] there, there! that'll do, that'll do! i'll give you your chance, falder. don't let me know what you do with yourselves, that's all. falder. [as if he has not heard] ruth? ruth looks at him; and falder covers his face with his hands. there is silence. cokeson. [suddenly] there's some one out there. [to ruth] go in here. you'll feel better by yourself for a minute. he points to the clerks' room and moves towards the outer office. falder does not move. ruth puts out her hand timidly. he shrinks back from the touch. she turns and goes miserably into the clerks' room. with a brusque movement he follows, seizing her by the shoulder just inside the doorway. cokeson shuts the door. james. [pointing to the outer office] get rid of that, whoever it is. sweedle. [opening the office door, in a scared voice] detective-sergeant blister. the detective enters, and closes the door behind him. wister. sorry to disturb you, sir. a clerk you had here, two years and a half ago: i arrested him in, this room. james. what about him? wister. i thought perhaps i might get his whereabouts from you. [there is an awkward silence] cokeson. [pleasantly, coming to the rescue] we're not responsible for his movements; you know that. james. what do you want with him? wister. he's failed to report himself this last four weeks. walter. how d'you mean? wister. ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. walter. has he to keep in touch with the police till then? wister. we're bound to know where he sleeps every night. i dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. but we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment with a forged reference. what with the two things together--we must have him. again there is silence. walter and cokeson steal glances at james, who stands staring steadily at the detective. cokeson. [expansively] we're very busy at the moment. if you could make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. james. [decisively] i'm a servant of the law, but i dislike peaching. in fact, i can't do such a thing. if you want him you must find him without us. as he speaks his eye falls on falder's cap, still lying on the table, and his face contracts. wister. [noting the gesture--quietly] very good, sir. i ought to warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering a convict. james. i shelter no one. but you mustn't come here and ask questions which it's not my business to answer. wister. [dryly] i won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. cokeson. i'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. you quite understand, don't you? good-morning! wister turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. cokeson. the other door.... the other door! wister opens the clerks' door. ruths's voice is heard: "oh, do!" and falder's: "i can't!" there is a little pause; then, with sharp fright, ruth says: "who's that?" wister has gone in. the three men look aghast at the door. wister [from within] keep back, please! he comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in falder's. the latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. walter. let him go this time, for god's sake! wister. i couldn't take the responsibility, sir. falder. [with a queer, desperate laugh] good! flinging a look back at ruth, he throws up his head, and goes out through the outer office, half dragging wister after him. walter. [with despair] that finishes him. it'll go on for ever now. sweedle can be seen staring through the outer door. there are sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull thud, a faint "my god!" in wister's voice. james. what's that? sweedle dashes forward. the door swings to behind him. there is dead silence. walter. [starting forward to the inner room] the woman-she's fainting! he and cokeson support the fainting ruth from the doorway of the clerks' room. cokeson. [distracted] here, my dear! there, there! walter. have you any brandy? cokeson. i've got sherry. walter. get it, then. quick! he places ruth in a chair--which james has dragged forward. cokeson. [with sherry] here! it's good strong sherry. [they try to force the sherry between her lips.] there is the sound of feet, and they stop to listen. the outer door is reopened--wister and sweedle are seen carrying some burden. james. [hurrying forward] what is it? they lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and all but ruth cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices. wister. he jumped--neck's broken. walter. good god! wister. he must have been mad to think he could give me the slip like that. and what was it--just a few months! walter. [bitterly] was that all? james. what a desperate thing! [then, in a voice unlike his own] run for a doctor--you! [sweedle rushes from the outer office] an ambulance! wister goes out. on ruth's face an expression of fear and horror has been seen growing, as if she dared not turn towards the voices. she now rises and steals towards them. walter. [turning suddenly] look! the three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into cokeson's room. ruth drops on her knees by the body. ruth. [in a whisper] what is it? he's not breathing. [she crouches over him] my dear! my pretty! in the outer office doorway the figures of men am seen standing. ruth. [leaping to her feet] no, no! no, no! he's dead! [the figures of the men shrink back] cokeson. [stealing forward. in a hoarse voice] there, there, poor dear woman! at the sound behind her ruth faces round at him. cokeson. no one'll touch him now! never again! he's safe with gentle jesus! ruth stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at cokeson, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog. the curtain falls. galsworthy plays--series contents: the fugitive the pigeon the mob the fugitive a play in four acts persons of the play george dedmond, a civilian clare, his wife general sir charles dedmond, k.c.b., his father. lady dedmond, his mother reginald huntingdon, clare's brother edward fullarton, her friend dorothy fullarton, her friend paynter, a manservant burney, a maid twisden, a solicitor haywood, a tobacconist malise, a writer mrs. miler, his caretaker the porter at his lodgings a boy messenger arnaud, a waiter at "the gascony" mr. varley, manager of "the gascony" two ladies with large hats, a lady and gentleman, a languid lord, his companion, a young man, a blond gentleman, a dark gentleman. act i. george dedmond's flat. evening. act ii. the rooms of malise. morning. act iii. scene i. the rooms of malice. late afternoon. scene ii. the rooms of malise. early afternoon. act iv. a small supper room at "the gascony." between acts i and ii three nights elapse. between acts ii and act iii, scene i, three months. between act iii, scene i, and act iii, scene ii, three months. between act iii, scene ii, and act iv, six months. "with a hey-ho chivy hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!" act i the scene is the pretty drawing-room of a flat. there are two doors, one open into the hall, the other shut and curtained. through a large bay window, the curtains of which are not yet drawn, the towers of westminster can be seen darkening in a summer sunset; a grand piano stands across one corner. the man-servant paynter, clean-shaven and discreet, is arranging two tables for bridge. burney, the maid, a girl with one of those flowery botticellian faces only met with in england, comes in through the curtained door, which she leaves open, disclosing the glimpse of a white wall. paynter looks up at her; she shakes her head, with an expression of concern. paynter. where's she gone? burney. just walks about, i fancy. paynter. she and the governor don't hit it! one of these days she'll flit--you'll see. i like her--she's a lady; but these thoroughbred 'uns--it's their skin and their mouths. they'll go till they drop if they like the job, and if they don't, it's nothing but jib--jib--jib. how was it down there before she married him? burney. oh! quiet, of course. paynter. country homes--i know 'em. what's her father, the old rector, like? burney. oh! very steady old man. the mother dead long before i took the place. paynter. not a penny, i suppose? burney. [shaking her head] no; and seven of them. paynter. [at sound of the hall door] the governor! burney withdraws through the curtained door. george dedmond enters from the hall. he is in evening dress, opera hat, and overcoat; his face is broad, comely, glossily shaved, but with neat moustaches. his eyes, clear, small, and blue-grey, have little speculation. his hair is well brushed. george. [handing paynter his coat and hat] look here, paynter! when i send up from the club for my dress things, always put in a black waistcoat as well. paynter. i asked the mistress, sir. george. in future--see? paynter. yes, sir. [signing towards the window] shall i leave the sunset, sir? but george has crossed to the curtained door; he opens it and says: "clare!" receiving no answer, he goes in. paynter switches up the electric light. his face, turned towards the curtained door, is apprehensive. george. [re-entering] where's mrs. dedmond? paynter. i hardly know, sir. george. dined in? paynter. she had a mere nothing at seven, sir. george. has she gone out, since? paynter. yes, sir--that is, yes. the--er--mistress was not dressed at all. a little matter of fresh air, i think; sir. george. what time did my mother say they'd be here for bridge? paynter. sir charles and lady dedmond were coming at half-past nine; and captain huntingdon, too--mr. and mrs. fullarton might be a bit late, sir. george. it's that now. your mistress said nothing? paynter. not to me, sir. george. send burney. paynter. very good, sir. [he withdraws.] george stares gloomily at the card tables. burney comes in front the hall. george. did your mistress say anything before she went out? burney. yes, sir. george. well? burney. i don't think she meant it, sir. george. i don't want to know what you don't think, i want the fact. burney. yes, sir. the mistress said: "i hope it'll be a pleasant evening, burney!" george. oh!--thanks. burney. i've put out the mistress's things, sir. george. ah! burney. thank you, sir. [she withdraws.] george. damn! he again goes to the curtained door, and passes through. paynter, coming in from the hall, announces: "general sir charles and lady dedmond." sir charles is an upright, well-groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with a keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains. lady dedmond has a firm, thin face, full of capability and decision, not without kindliness; and faintly weathered, as if she had faced many situations in many parts of the world. she is fifty five. paynter withdraws. sir charles. hullo! where are they? h'm! as he speaks, george re-enters. lady dedmond. [kissing her son] well, george. where's clare? george. afraid she's late. lady dedmond. are we early? george. as a matter of fact, she's not in. lady dedmond. oh? sir charles. h'm! not--not had a rumpus? george. not particularly. [with the first real sign of feeling] what i can't stand is being made a fool of before other people. ordinary friction one can put up with. but that---- sir charles. gone out on purpose? what! lady dedmond. what was the trouble? george. i told her this morning you were coming in to bridge. appears she'd asked that fellow malise, for music. lady dedmond. without letting you know? george. i believe she did tell me. lady dedmond. but surely---- george. i don't want to discuss it. there's never anything in particular. we're all anyhow, as you know. lady dedmond. i see. [she looks shrewdly at her son] my dear, i should be rather careful about him, i think. sir charles. who's that? lady dedmond. that mr. malise. sir charles. oh! that chap! george. clare isn't that sort. lady dedmond. i know. but she catches up notions very easily. i think it's a great pity you ever came across him. sir charles. where did you pick him up? george. italy--this spring--some place or other where they couldn't speak english. sir charles. um! that's the worst of travellin'. lady dedmond. i think you ought to have dropped him. these literary people---[quietly] from exchanging ideas to something else, isn't very far, george. sir charles. we'll make him play bridge. do him good, if he's that sort of fellow. lady dedmond. is anyone else coming? george. reggie huntingdon, and the fullartons. lady dedmond. [softly] you know, my dear boy, i've been meaning to speak to you for a long time. it is such a pity you and clare--what is it? george. god knows! i try, and i believe she does. sir charles. it's distressin'--for us, you know, my dear fellow-- distressin'. lady dedmond. i know it's been going on for a long time. george. oh! leave it alone, mother. lady dedmond. but, george, i'm afraid this man has brought it to a point--put ideas into her head. george. you can't dislike him more than i do. but there's nothing one can object to. lady dedmond. could reggie huntingdon do anything, now he's home? brothers sometimes---- george. i can't bear my affairs being messed about---- lady dedmond. well! it would be better for you and clare to be supposed to be out together, than for her to be out alone. go quietly into the dining-room and wait for her. sir charles. good! leave your mother to make up something. she'll do it! lady dedmond. that may be he. quick! [a bell sounds.] george goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his haste. lady dedmond, following, calls "paynter!" paynter enters. lady dedmond. don't say anything about your master and mistress being out. i'll explain. paynter. the master, my lady? lady dedmond. yes, i know. but you needn't say so. do you understand? paynter. [in polite dudgeon] just so, my lady. [he goes out.] sir charles. by jove! that fellow smells a rat! lady dedmond. be careful, charles! sir charles. i should think so. lady dedmond. i shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're not to wait bridge for them. sir charles. [listening] he's having a palaver with that man of george's. paynter, reappearing, announces: "captain huntingdon." sir charles and lady dedmond turn to him with relief. lady dedmond. ah! it's you, reginald! huntingdon. [a tall, fair soldier, of thirty] how d'you do? how are you, sir? what's the matter with their man? she charles. what! huntingdon. i was going into the dining-room to get rid of my cigar; and he said: "not in there, sir. the master's there, but my instructions are to the effect that he's not." she charles. i knew that fellow---- lady dedmond. the fact is, reginald, clare's out, and george is waiting for her. it's so important people shouldn't---- huntingdon. rather! they draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of members of their families. lady dedmond. it's getting serious, reginald. i don't know what's to become of them. you don't think the rector--you don't think your father would speak to clare? huntingdon. afraid the governor's hardly well enough. he takes anything of that sort to heart so--especially clare. sir charles. can't you put in a word yourself? huntingdon. don't know where the mischief lies. sir charles. i'm sure george doesn't gallop her on the road. very steady-goin' fellow, old george. huntingdon. oh, yes; george is all right, sir. lady dedmond. they ought to have had children. huntingdon. expect they're pretty glad now they haven't. i really don't know what to say, ma'am. sir charles. saving your presence, you know, reginald, i've often noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. get too much morality and rice puddin'. lady dedmond. [with a clear look] charles! sir charles. what was she like when you were kids? huntingdon. oh, all right. could be rather a little devil, of course, when her monkey was up. sir charles. i'm fond of her. nothing she wants that she hasn't got, is there? huntingdon. never heard her say so. sir charles. [dimly] i don't know whether old george is a bit too matter of fact for her. h'm? [a short silence.] lady dedmond. there's a mr. malise coming here to-night. i forget if you know him. huntingdon. yes. rather a thorough-bred mongrel. lady dedmond. he's literary. [with hesitation] you--you don't think he--puts--er--ideas into her head? huntingdon. i asked greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a bit of an ishmaelite, even among those fellows. can't see clare---- lady dedmond. no. only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be encouraged. listen!--it is her-coming in. i can hear their voices. gone to her room. what a blessing that man isn't here yet! [the door bell rings] tt! there he is, i expect. sir charles. what are we goin' to say? huntingdon. say they're dining out, and we're not to wait bridge for them. sir charles. good! the door is opened, and paynter announces "mr. kenneth malise." malise enters. he is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which seem to have needles in their pupils. his thick hair is rather untidy, and his dress clothes not too new. lady dedmond. how do you do? my son and daughter-in-law are so very sorry. they'll be here directly. [malise bows with a queer, curly smile.] sir charles. [shaking hands] how d'you do, sir? huntingdon. we've met, i think. he gives malise that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn the person bowed to of the sort of person he is. malise's eyes sparkle. lady dedmond. clare will be so grieved. one of those invitations malise. on the spur of the moment. sir charles. you play bridge, sir? malise. afraid not! sir charles. don't mean that? then we shall have to wait for 'em. lady dedmond. i forget, mr. malise--you write, don't you? malise. such is my weakness. lady dedmond. delightful profession. sir charles. doesn't tie you! what! malise. only by the head. sir charles. i'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences. malise. indeed! [there is the sound of a door banged.] sir charles. [hastily] you smoke, mr. malise? malise. too much. sir charles. ah! must smoke when you think a lot. malise. or think when you smoke a lot. sir charles. [genially] don't know that i find that. lady dedmond. [with her clear look at him] charles! the door is opened. clare dedmond in a cream-coloured evening frock comes in from the hall, followed by george. she is rather pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of voice and manner. lady dedmond. well, my dear! sir charles. ah! george. good dinner? george. [giving his hand to malise] how are you? clare! mr. malise! clare. [smiling-in a clear voice with the faintest possible lisp] yes, we met on the door-mat. [pause.] sir charles. deuce you did! [an awkward pause.] lady dedmond. [acidly] mr. malise doesn't play bridge, it appears. afraid we shall be rather in the way of music. sir charles. what! aren't we goin' to get a game? [paynter has entered with a tray.] george. paynter! take that table into the dining room. paynter. [putting down the tray on a table behind the door] yes, sir. malise. let me give you a hand. paynter and malise carry one of the bridge tables out, george making a half-hearted attempt to relieve malise. sir charles. very fine sunset! quite softly clare begins to laugh. all look at her first with surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror. george is about to go up to her, but huntingdon heads him off. huntingdon. bring the tray along, old man. george takes up the tray, stops to look at clare, then allows huntingdon to shepherd him out. lady dedmond. [without looking at clare] well, if we're going to play, charles? [she jerks his sleeve.] sir charles. what? [he marches out.] lady dedmond. [meeting malise in the doorway] now you will be able to have your music. [she follows the general out] [clare stands perfectly still, with her eyes closed.] malise. delicious! clare. [in her level, clipped voice] perfectly beastly of me! i'm so sorry. i simply can't help running amok to-night. malise. never apologize for being fey. it's much too rare. clare. on the door-mat! and they'd whitewashed me so beautifully! poor dears! i wonder if i ought----[she looks towards the door.] malise. don't spoil it! clare. i'd been walking up and down the embankment for about three hours. one does get desperate sometimes. malise. thank god for that! clare. only makes it worse afterwards. it seems so frightful to them, too. malise. [softly and suddenly, but with a difficulty in finding the right words] blessed be the respectable! may they dream of--me! and blessed be all men of the world! may they perish of a surfeit of--good form! clare. i like that. oh, won't there be a row! [with a faint movement of her shoulders] and the usual reconciliation. malise. mrs. dedmond, there's a whole world outside yours. why don't you spread your wings? clare. my dear father's a saint, and he's getting old and frail; and i've got a sister engaged; and three little sisters to whom i'm supposed to set a good example. then, i've no money, and i can't do anything for a living, except serve in a shop. i shouldn't be free, either; so what's the good? besides, i oughtn't to have married if i wasn't going to be happy. you see, i'm not a bit misunderstood or ill-treated. it's only---- malise. prison. break out! clare. [turning to the window] did you see the sunset? that white cloud trying to fly up? [she holds up her bare arms, with a motion of flight.] malise. [admiring her] ah-h-h! [then, as she drops her arms suddenly] play me something. clare. [going to the piano] i'm awfully grateful to you. you don't make me feel just an attractive female. i wanted somebody like that. [letting her hands rest on the notes] all the same, i'm glad not to be ugly. malise. thank god for beauty! paynter. [opening the door] mr. and mrs. fullarton. malise. who are they? clare. [rising] she's my chief pal. he was in the navy. she goes forward. mrs. fullerton is a rather tall woman, with dark hair and a quick eye. he, one of those clean-shaven naval men of good presence who have retired from the sea, but not from their susceptibility. mrs. fullarton. [kissing clare, and taking in both malise and her husband's look at clare] we've only come for a minute. clare. they're playing bridge in the dining-room. mr. malise doesn't play. mr. malise--mrs. fullarton, mr. fullarton. [they greet.] fullarton. most awfully jolly dress, mrs. dedmond. mrs. fullarton. yes, lovely, clare. [fullarton abases eyes which mechanically readjust themselves] we can't stay for bridge, my dear; i just wanted to see you a minute, that's all. [seeing huntingdon coming in she speaks in a low voice to her husband] edward, i want to speak to clare. how d'you do, captain huntingdon? malise. i'll say good-night. he shakes hands with clare, bows to mrs. fullarton, and makes his way out. huntingdon and fullerton foregather in the doorway. mrs. fullarton. how are things, clare? [clare just moves her shoulders] have you done what i suggested? your room? clare. no. mrs. fullarton. why not? clare. i don't want to torture him. if i strike--i'll go clean. i expect i shall strike. mrs. fullarton. my dear! you'll have the whole world against you. clare. even you won't back me, dolly? mrs. fullarton. of course i'll back you, all that's possible, but i can't invent things. clare. you wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till i could find my feet? mrs. fullarton, taken aback, cannot refrain from her glance at fullarton automatically gazing at clare while he talks with huntingdon. mrs. fullarton. of course--the only thing is that---- clare. [with a faint smile] it's all right, dolly. i'm not coming. mrs. fullarton. oh! don't do anything desperate, clare--you are so desperate sometimes. you ought to make terms--not tracks. clare. haggle? [she shakes her head] what have i got to make terms with? what he still wants is just what i hate giving. mrs. fullarton. but, clare---- clare. no, dolly; even you don't understand. all day and every day --just as far apart as we can be--and still--jolly, isn't it? if you've got a soul at all. mrs. fullarton. it's awful, really. clare. i suppose there are lots of women who feel as i do, and go on with it; only, you see, i happen to have something in me that--comes to an end. can't endure beyond a certain time, ever. she has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to bits. it is the only sign of emotion she has given. mrs. fullarton. [watching] look here, my child; this won't do. you must get a rest. can't reggie take you with him to india for a bit? clare. [shaking her head] reggie lives on his pay. mrs. fullarton. [with one of her quick looks] that was mr. malise, then? fullarton. [coming towards them] i say, mrs. dedmond, you wouldn't sing me that little song you sang the other night, [he hums] "if i might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day"? remember? mrs. fullarton. "the falling dew," edward. we simply must go, clare. good-night. [she kisses her.] fullarton. [taking half-cover between his wife and clare] it suits you down to the ground-that dress. clare. good-night. huntingdon sees them out. left alone clare clenches her hands, moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out. huntingdon. [returning] look here, clare! clare. well, reggie? huntingdon. this is working up for a mess, old girl. you can't do this kind of thing with impunity. no man'll put up with it. if you've got anything against george, better tell me. [clare shakes her head] you ought to know i should stick by you. what is it? come? clare. get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that your blood runs cold when she kisses you--then you'll know. huntingdon. my dear old girl, i don't want to be a brute; but it's a bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels. clare. yes, incredible, when you haven't tried. huntingdon. i mean, you--you chose him yourself. no one forced you to marry him. clare. it does seem monstrous, doesn't it? huntingdon. my dear child, do give us a reason. clare. look! [she points out at the night and the darkening towers] if george saw that for the first time he'd just say, "ah, westminster! clock tower! can you see the time by it?" as if one cared where or what it was--beautiful like that! apply that to every --every--everything. huntingdon. [staring] george may be a bit prosaic. but, my dear old girl, if that's all---- clare. it's not all--it's nothing. i can't explain, reggie--it's not reason, at all; it's--it's like being underground in a damp cell; it's like knowing you'll never get out. nothing coming--never anything coming again-never anything. huntingdon. [moved and puzzled] my dear old thing; you mustn't get into fantods like this. if it's like that, don't think about it. clare. when every day and every night!--oh! i know it's my fault for having married him, but that doesn't help. huntingdon. look here! it's not as if george wasn't quite a decent chap. and it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent on him. at home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep going. clare. i know. huntingdon. and you've got to think of the girls. any trouble would be very beastly for them. and the poor old governor would feel it awfully. clare. if i didn't know all that, reggie, i should have gone home long ago. huntingdon. well, what's to be done? if my pay would run to it--but it simply won't. clare. thanks, old boy, of course not. huntingdon. can't you try to see george's side of it a bit? clare. i do. oh! don't let's talk about it. huntingdon. well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go sailing near the wind, will you? i mean, there are fellows always on the lookout. clare. "that chap, malise, you'd better avoid him!" why? huntingdon. well! i don't know him. he may be all right, but he's not our sort. and you're too pretty to go on the tack of the new woman and that kind of thing--haven't been brought up to it. clare. british home-made summer goods, light and attractive--don't wear long. [at the sound of voices in the hall] they seem 'to be going, reggie. [huntingdon looks at her, vexed, unhappy.] huntingdon. don't head for trouble, old girl. take a pull. bless you! good-night. clare kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door, holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of emotion. suddenly she sits down at the untouched bridge table, leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite calm. george is coming in. paynter follows him. clare. nothing more wanted, thank you, paynter. you can go home, and the maids can go to bed. paynter. we are much obliged, ma'am. clare. i ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to. paynter. naturally, ma'am! clare. good-night. paynter. i couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am? clare. no, thank you. paynter. no, ma'am. good-night, ma'am. [he withdraws.] george. you needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig. [going up to her] pleased with yourself to-night? [clare shakes her head] before that fellow malise; as if our own people weren't enough! clare. is it worth while to rag me? i know i've behaved badly, but i couldn't help it, really! george. couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl? my god! you were brought up as well as i was. clare. alas! george. to let everybody see that we don't get on--there's only one word for it--disgusting! clare. i know. george. then why do you do it? i've always kept my end up. why in heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way? clare. i'm sorry. george. [with intense feeling] you like making a fool of me! clare. no--really! only--i must break out sometimes. george. there are things one does not do. clare. i came in because i was sorry. george. and at once began to do it again! it seems to me you delight in rows. clare. you'd miss your--reconciliations. george. for god's sake, clare, drop cynicism! clare. and truth? george. you are my wife, i suppose. clare. and they twain shall be one--spirit. george. don't talk wild nonsense! [there is silence.] clare. [softly] i don't give satisfaction. please give me notice! george. pish! clare. five years, and four of them like this! i'm sure we've served our time. don't you really think we might get on better together--if i went away? george. i've told you i won't stand a separation for no real reason, and have your name bandied about all over london. i have some primitive sense of honour. clare. you mean your name, don't you? george. look here. did that fellow malise put all this into your head? clare. no; my own evil nature. george. i wish the deuce we'd never met him. comes of picking up people you know nothing of. i distrust him--and his looks--and his infernal satiric way. he can't even 'dress decently. he's not--good form. clare. [with a touch of rapture] ah-h! george. why do you let him come? what d'you find interesting in him? clare. a mind. george. deuced funny one! to have a mind--as you call it--it's not necessary to talk about art and literature. clare. we don't. george. then what do you talk about--your minds? [clare looks at him] will you answer a straight question? is he falling in love with you? clare. you had better ask him. george. i tell you plainly, as a man of the world, i don't believe in the guide, philosopher and friend business. clare. thank you. a silence. clare suddenly clasps her hands behind her head. clare. let me go! you'd be much happier with any other woman. george. clare! clare. i believe--i'm sure i could earn my living. quite serious. george. are you mad? clare. it has been done. george. it will never be done by you--understand that! clare. it really is time we parted. i'd go clean out of your life. i don't want your support unless i'm giving you something for your money. george. once for all, i don't mean to allow you to make fools of us both. clare. but if we are already! look at us. we go on, and on. we're a spectacle! george. that's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as you behave yourself. clare. that is--behave as you think right. george. clare, you're pretty riling. clare. i don't want to be horrid. but i am in earnest this time. george. so am i. [clare turns to the curtained door.] george. look here! i'm sorry. god knows i don't want to be a brute. i know you're not happy. clare. and you--are you happy? george. i don't say i am. but why can't we be? clare. i see no reason, except that you are you, and i am i. george. we can try. clare. i have--haven't you? george. we used---- clare. i wonder! george. you know we did. clare. too long ago--if ever. george [coming closer] i--still---- clare. [making a barrier of her hand] you know that's only cupboard love. george. we've got to face the facts. clare. i thought i was. george. the facts are that we're married--for better or worse, and certain things are expected of us. it's suicide for you, and folly for me, in my position, to ignore that. you have all you can reasonably want; and i don't--don't wish for any change. if you could bring anything against me--if i drank, or knocked about town, or expected too much of you. i'm not unreasonable in any way, that i can see. clare. well, i think we've talked enough. [she again moves towards the curtained door.] george. look here, clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried? that's simple purgatory. you ought to know. clare. yes. i haven't yet, have i? george. don't go like that! do you suppose we're the only couple who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with each other and make the best of it. clare. not by thousands. george. well, why do you imagine they do it? clare. i don't know. george. from a common sense of decency. clare. very! george. by jove! you can be the most maddening thing in all the world! [taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long slithering flutter] after behaving as you have this evening, you might try to make some amends, i should think. clare moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of something she could not avoid. he puts his hand on her arm. clare. no, no--no! george. [dropping his hand] can't you make it up? clare. i don't feel very christian. she opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her. george steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the room. he goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it with a bang, and again contemplates the door. moving forward, he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its edge, and muttering. then he crosses to the door into the hall and switches off the light. he opens the door to go out, then stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh. suddenly he mutters: "no!" crosses resolutely back to the curtained door, and opens it. in the gleam of light clare is standing, unhooking a necklet. he goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud. curtain. act ii the scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer door opens on to a corridor and stairway. doors on either side lead to other rooms. on the walls are unframed reproductions of fine pictures, secured with tintacks. an old wine-coloured armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink, pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only eleven. on a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper, cigarette ends, and two claret bottles. there are many books on shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a soft hat, and a black knobby stick. malise sits in his armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers, unshaved and uncollared, writing. he pauses, smiles, lights a cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up a sheet of quarto ms. malise. "not a word, not a whisper of liberty from all those excellent frock-coated gentlemen--not a sign, not a grimace. only the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant tyranny." while he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age, in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the corridor. she goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron and a bissell broom. her movements are slow and imperturbable, as if she had much time before her. her face is broad and dark, with chinese eyebrows. malise. wait, mrs. miller! mrs. miler. i'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir. she comes and stands before him. malise writes. mrs. miler. there's a man 'angin' about below. malise looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she stops. but as soon as he is about to write again, goes on. mrs. miler. i see him first yesterday afternoon. i'd just been out to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as i come in i passed 'im on the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. i thought to meself at the time, i thought: you're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man. malise. well? mrs. miler. well-peekin' down through the balusters, i see 'im lookin' at a photograft. that's a funny place, i thinks, to look at pictures--it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight. so i giv' a scrape with me 'eel [she illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket, and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three. i goes down an' i says: "you know there's no one lives there, don't yer?" "ah!" 'e says with an air of innercence, "i wants the name of smithers." "oh!" i says, "try round the corner, number ten." "ah!" 'e says tactful, "much obliged." "yes," i says, "you'll find 'im in at this time o' day. good evenin'!" and i thinks to meself [she closes one eye] rats! there's a good many corners hereabouts. malise. [with detached appreciation] very good, mrs. miler. mrs. miler. so this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "oh! you're still lookin' for 'im?" i says, lettin' him see i was 'is grandmother. "ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here i've got my business." "that's lucky," i says, "cos nobody lives there neither. good mornin'!" and i come straight up. if you want to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one. wonderful resource! malise. what's he like, this gentleman? mrs. miler. just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily papers. nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock hats you can't abide. malise. isn't he a dun? mrs. miler. they don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir. he's after no good. [then, after a little pause] ain't he to be put a stop to? if i took me time i could get 'im, innercent-like, with a jug o' water. [malise, smiling, shakes his head.] malise. you can get on now; i'm going to shave. he looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room. mrs. miler, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she rests. there is a soft knock on the door. she gets up leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it. the door being opened clare is revealed. clare. is mr. malise in? mrs. miler. yes. but 'e's dressin'. clare. oh. mrs. miler. won't take 'im long. what name? clare. would you say--a lady. mrs. miler. it's against the rules. but if you'll sit down a moment i'll see what i can do. [she brings forward a chair and rubs it with her apron. then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks through it] a lady to see you. [returning she removes some cigarette ends] this is my hour. i shan't make much dust. [noting clare's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] i'm particular about not disturbin' things. clare. i'm sure you are. mrs. miler. he likes 'is 'abits regular. making a perfunctory pass with the bissell broom, she runs it to the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up the other bottle, and finding it not empty, she corks it and drops it into the fold of her skirt. mrs. miler. he takes his claret fresh-opened--not like these 'ere bawgwars. clare. [rising] i think i'll come back later. mrs. miler. mr. malise is not in my confidence. we keep each other to ourselves. perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh every mornin'--the westminister. she plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to clare, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. mrs. miler makes a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still. no longer hearing sounds, clare looks up. mrs. miler. i wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes things clean. [at a sound from the inner room] that's 'im; 'e's cut 'isself! i'll just take 'im the tobaccer! she lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round the armchair and taps on the door. it opens. clare moves restlessly across the room. mrs. miler. [speaking into the room] the tobaccer. the lady's waitin'. clare has stopped before a reproduction of titian's picture "sacred and profane love." mrs. miler stands regarding her with a chinese smile. malise enters, a thread of tobacco still hanging to his cheek. malise. [taking mrs. miler's hat off the table and handing it to her] do the other room. [enigmatically she goes.] malise. jolly of you to come. can i do anything? clare. i want advice-badly. malise. what! spreading your wings? clare. yes. malise. ah! proud to have given you that advice. when? clare. the morning after you gave it me . . . malise. well? clare. i went down to my people. i knew it would hurt my dad frightfully, but somehow i thought i could make him see. no good. he was awfully sweet, only--he couldn't. malise. [softly] we english love liberty in those who don't belong to us. yes. clare. it was horrible. there were the children--and my old nurse. i could never live at home now. they'd think i was----. impossible --utterly! i'd made up my mind to go back to my owner--and then-- he came down himself. i couldn't d it. to be hauled back and begin all over again; i simply couldn't. i watched for a chance; and ran to the station, and came up to an hotel. malise. bravo! clare. i don't know--no pluck this morning! you see, i've got to earn my living--no money; only a few things i can sell. all yesterday i was walking about, looking at the women. how does anyone ever get a chance? malise. sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your husband would pension you off. clare. if i don't go back to him i couldn't take it. malise. good! clare. i've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and i do so hate watching pain. the fact is, i'm pretty hopeless; can't even do art work. i came to ask you about the stage. malise. have you ever acted? [clare shakes her head] you mightn't think so, but i've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training. there's chorus--i don't recommend it. how about your brother? clare. my brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get married; and he's going back to india in september. the only friend i should care to bother is mrs. fullarton, and she's--got a husband. malise. i remember the gentleman. clare. besides, i should be besieged day and night to go back. i must lie doggo somehow. malise. it makes my blood boil to think of women like you. god help all ladies without money. clare. i expect i shall have to go back. malise. no, no! we shall find something. keep your soul alive at all costs. what! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but-- emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache. sit in his drawing-room, pay calls, play bridge, go out with him to dinners, return to--duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so grow old and--die! [the bell rings.] malise. [looking at the door in doubt] by the wayhe'd no means of tracing you? [she shakes her head.] [the bell rings again.] malise. was there a man on the stairs as you came up? clare. yes. why? malise. he's begun to haunt them, i'm told. clare. oh! but that would mean they thought i--oh! no! malise. confidence in me is not excessive. clare. spying! malise. will you go in there for a minute? or shall we let them ring--or--what? it may not be anything, of course. clare. i'm not going to hide. [the bell rings a third time.] malise. [opening the door of the inner room] mrs. miler, just see who it is; and then go, for the present. mrs. miler comes out with her hat on, passes enigmatically to the door, and opens it. a man's voice says: "mr. malise? would you give him these cards?" mrs. miler. [re-entering] the cards. malise. mr. robert twisden. sir charles and lady dedmond. [he looks at clare.] clare. [her face scornful and unmoved] let them come. malise. [to mrs. miler] show them in! twisden enters-a clean-shaved, shrewd-looking man, with a fighting underlip, followed by sir charles and lady dedmond. mrs. miler goes. there are no greetings. twisden. mr. malise? how do you do, mrs. dedmond? had the pleasure of meeting you at your wedding. [clare inclines her head] i am mr. george dedmond's solicitor, sir. i wonder if you would be so very kind as to let us have a few words with mrs. dedmond alone? at a nod from clare, malise passes into the inner room, and shuts the door. a silence. sir charles. [suddenly] what! lady dedmond. mr. twisden, will you----? twisden. [uneasy] mrs. dedmond i must apologize, but you--you hardly gave us an alternative, did you? [he pauses for an answer, and, not getting one, goes on] your disappearance has given your husband great anxiety. really, my dear madam, you must forgive us for this--attempt to get into communication. clare. why did you spy, here? sir charles. no, no! nobody's spied on you. what! twisden. i'm afraid the answer is that we appear to have been justified. [at the expression on clare's face he goes on hastily] now, mrs. dedmond, i'm a lawyer and i know that appearances are misleading. don't think i'm unfriendly; i wish you well. [clare raises her eyes. moved by that look, which is exactly as if she had said: "i have no friends," he hurries on] what we want to say to you is this: don't let this split go on! don't commit yourself to what you'll bitterly regret. just tell us what's the matter. i'm sure it can be put straight. clare. i have nothing against my husband--it was quite unreasonable to leave him. twisden. come, that's good. clare. unfortunately, there's something stronger than reason. twisden. i don't know it, mrs. dedmond. clare. no? twisden. [disconcerted] are you--you oughtn't to take a step without advice, in your position. clare. nor with it? twisden. [approaching her] come, now; isn't there anything you feel you'd like to say--that might help to put matters straight? clare. i don't think so, thank you. lady dedmond. you must see, clare, that---- twisden. in your position, mrs. dedmond--a beautiful young woman without money. i'm quite blunt. this is a hard world. should be awfully sorry if anything goes wrong. clare. and if i go back? twisden. of two evils, if it be so--choose the least! clare. i am twenty-six; he is thirty-two. we can't reasonably expect to die for fifty years. lady desmond. that's morbid, clare. twisden. what's open to you if you don't go back? come, what's your position? neither fish, flesh, nor fowl; fair game for everybody. believe me, mrs. dedmond, for a pretty woman to strike, as it appears you're doing, simply because the spirit of her marriage has taken flight, is madness. you must know that no one pays attention to anything but facts. if now--excuse me--you--you had a lover, [his eyes travel round the room and again rest on her] you would, at all events, have some ground under your feet, some sort of protection, but [he pauses] as you have not--you've none. clare. except what i make myself. sir charles. good god! twisden. yes! mrs. dedmond! there's the bedrock difficulty. as you haven't money, you should never have been pretty. you're up against the world, and you'll get no mercy from it. we lawyers see too much of that. i'm putting it brutally, as a man of the world. clare. thank you. do you think you quite grasp the alternative? twisden. [taken aback] but, my dear young lady, there are two sides to every contract. after all, your husband's fulfilled his. clare. so have i up till now. i shan't ask anything from him-- nothing--do you understand? lady dedmond. but, my dear, you must live. twisden. have you ever done any sort of work? clare. not yet. twisden. any conception of the competition nowadays? clare. i can try. [twisden, looking at her, shrugs his shoulders] clare. [her composure a little broken by that look] it's real to me--this--you see! sir charles. but, my dear girl, what the devil's to become of george? clare. he can do what he likes--it's nothing to me. twisden. mrs. dedmond, i say without hesitation you've no notion of what you're faced with, brought up to a sheltered life as you've been. do realize that you stand at the parting of the ways, and one leads into the wilderness. clare. which? twisden. [glancing at the door through which malise has gone] of course, if you want to play at wild asses there are plenty who will help you. sir charles. by gad! yes! clare. i only want to breathe. twisden. mrs. dedmond, go back! you can now. it will be too late soon. there are lots of wolves about. [again he looks at the door] clare. but not where you think. you say i need advice. i came here for it. twisden. [with a curiously expressive shrug] in that case i don't know that i can usefully stay. [he goes to the outer door.] clare. please don't have me followed when i leave here. please! lady dedmond. george is outside, clare. clare. i don't wish to see him. by what right have you come here? [she goes to the door through which malise has passed, opens it, and says] please come in, mr. malise. [malise enters.] twisden. i am sorry. [glancing at malise, he inclines his head] i am sorry. good morning. [he goes] lady dedmond. mr. malise, i'm sure, will see---- clare. mr. malise will stay here, please, in his own room. [malise bows] sir charles. my dear girl, 'pon my soul, you know, i can't grasp your line of thought at all! clare. no? lady dedmond. george is most willing to take up things just as they were before you left. clare. ah! lady dedmond. quite frankly--what is it you want? clare. to be left alone. quite frankly, he made a mistake to have me spied on. lady dedmond. but, my good girl, if you'd let us know where you were, like a reasonable being. you can't possibly be left to yourself without money or position of any kind. heaven knows what you'd be driven to! malise. [softly] delicious! sir charles. you will be good enough to repeat that out loud, sir. lady dedmond. charles! clare, you must know this is all a fit of spleen; your duty and your interest--marriage is sacred, clare. clare. marriage! my marriage has become the--the reconciliation--of two animals--one of them unwilling. that's all the sanctity there is about it. sir charles. what! [she looks at malise] lady dedmond. you ought to be horribly ashamed. clare. of the fact-i am. lady dedmond. [darting a glance at malise] if we are to talk this out, it must be in private. malise. [to clare] do you wish me to go? clare. no. lady dedmond. [at malise] i should have thought ordinary decent feeling--good heavens, girl! can't you see that you're being played with? clare. if you insinuate anything against mr. malise, you lie. lady dedmond. if you will do these things--come to a man's rooms---- clare. i came to mr. malise because he's the only person i know with imagination enough to see what my position is; i came to him a quarter of an hour ago, for the first time, for definite advice, and you instantly suspect him. that is disgusting. lady dedmond. [frigidly] is this the natural place for me to find my son's wife? clare. his woman. lady dedmond. will you listen to reginald? clare. i have. lady dedmond. haven't you any religious sense at all, clare? clare. none, if it's religion to live as we do. lady dedmond. it's terrible--this state of mind! it's really terrible! clare breaks into the soft laugh of the other evening. as if galvanized by the sound, sir charles comes to life out of the transfixed bewilderment with which he has been listening. sir charles. for god's sake don't laugh like that! [clare stops] lady dedmond. [with real feeling] for the sake of the simple right, clare! clare. right? whatever else is right--our life is not. [she puts her hand on her heart] i swear before god that i've tried and tried. i swear before god, that if i believed we could ever again love each other only a little tiny bit, i'd go back. i swear before god that i don't want to hurt anybody. lady dedmond. but you are hurting everybody. do--do be reasonable! clare. [losing control] can't you see that i'm fighting for all my life to come--not to be buried alive--not to be slowly smothered. look at me! i'm not wax--i'm flesh and blood. and you want to prison me for ever--body and soul. [they stare at her] sir charles. [suddenly] by jove! i don't know, i don't know! what! lady dedmond. [to malise] if you have any decency left, sir, you will allow my son, at all events, to speak to his wife alone. [beckoning to her husband] we'll wait below. sir charles. i--i want to speak. [to clare] my dear, if you feel like this, i can only say--as a--as a gentleman---- lady dedmond. charles! sir charles. let me alone! i can only say that--damme, i don't know that i can say anything! he looks at her very grieved, then turns and marches out, followed by lady dedmond, whose voice is heard without, answered by his: "what!" in the doorway, as they pass, george is standing; he comes in. george. [going up to clare, who has recovered all her self-control] will you come outside and speak to me? clare. no. george glances at malise, who is leaning against the wall with folded arms. george. [in a low voice] clare! clare. well! george. you try me pretty high, don't you, forcing me to come here, and speak before this fellow? most men would think the worst, finding you like this. clare. you need not have come--or thought at all. george. did you imagine i was going to let you vanish without an effort---- clare. to save me? george. for god's sake be just! i've come here to say certain things. if you force me to say them before him--on your head be it! will you appoint somewhere else? clare. no. george. why not? clare. i know all those "certain things." "you must come back. it is your duty. you have no money. your friends won't help you. you can't earn your living. you are making a scandal." you might even say for the moment: "your room shall be respected." george. well, it's true and you've no answer. clare. oh! [suddenly] our life's a lie. it's stupid; it's disgusting. i'm tired of it! please leave me alone! george. you rather miss the point, i'm afraid. i didn't come here to tell you what you know perfectly well when you're sane. i came here to say this: anyone in her senses could see the game your friend here is playing. it wouldn't take a baby in. if you think that a gentleman like that [his stare travels round the dishevelled room till it rests on malise] champions a pretty woman for nothing, you make a fairly bad mistake. clare. take care. but malise, after one convulsive movement of his hands, has again become rigid. george. i don't pretend to be subtle or that kind of thing; but i have ordinary common sense. i don't attempt to be superior to plain facts---- clare. [under her breath] facts! george. oh! for goodness' sake drop that hifalutin' tone. it doesn't suit you. look here! if you like to go abroad with one of your young sisters until the autumn, i'll let the flat and go to the club. clare. put the fire out with a penny hose. [slowly] i am not coming back to you, george. the farce is over. george. [taken aback for a moment by the finality of her tone, suddenly fronts malise] then there is something between you and this fellow. malise. [dangerously, but without moving] i beg your pardon! clare. there--is--nothing. george. [looking from one to the other] at all events, i won't--i won't see a woman who once--[clare makes a sudden effacing movement with her hands] i won't see her go to certain ruin without lifting a finger. clare. that is noble. george. [with intensity] i don't know that you deserve anything of me. but on my honour, as a gentleman, i came here this morning for your sake, to warn you of what you're doing. [he turns suddenly on malise] and i tell this precious friend of yours plainly what i think of him, and that i'm not going to play into his hands. [malise, without stirring from the wall, looks at clare, and his lips move.] clare. [shakes her head at him--then to george] will you go, please? george. i will go when you do. malise. a man of the world should know better than that. george. are you coming? malise. that is inconceivable. george. i'm not speaking to you, sir. malise. you are right. your words and mine will never kiss each other. george. will you come? [clare shakes her head] george. [with fury] d'you mean to stay in this pigsty with that rhapsodical swine? malise. [transformed] by god, if you don't go, i'll kill you. george. [as suddenly calm] that remains to be seen. malise. [with most deadly quietness] yes, i will kill you. he goes stealthily along the wall, takes up from where it lies on the pile of books the great black knobby stick, and stealthily approaches george, his face quite fiendish. clare. [with a swift movement, grasping the stick] please. malise resigns the stick, and the two men, perfectly still, glare at each other. clare, letting the stick fall, puts her foot on it. then slowly she takes off her hat and lays it on the table. clare. now will you go! [there is silence] george. [staring at her hat] you mad little fool! understand this; if you've not returned home by three o'clock i'll divorce you, and you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours. and mind this, you sir--i won't spare you--by god! your pocket shall suffer. that's the only thing that touches fellows like you. turning, he goes out, and slams the door. clare and malise remain face to face. her lips have begun to quiver. clare. horrible! she turns away, shuddering, and sits down on the edge of the armchair, covering her eyes with the backs of her hands. malise picks up the stick, and fingers it lovingly. then putting it down, he moves so that he can see her face. she is sitting quite still, staring straight before her. malise. nothing could be better. clare. i don't know what to do! i don't know what to do! malise. thank the stars for your good fortune. clare. he means to have revenge on you! and it's all my fault. malise. let him. let him go for his divorce. get rid of him. have done with him--somehow. she gets up and stands with face averted. then swiftly turning to him. clare. if i must bring you harm--let me pay you back! i can't bear it otherwise! make some use of me, if you don't mind! malise. my god! [she puts up her face to be kissed, shutting her eyes.] malise. you poor---- he clasps and kisses her, then, drawing back, looks in her face. she has not moved, her eyes are still closed; but she is shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together; her hands twitching. malise. [very quietly] no, no! this is not the house of a "gentleman." clare. [letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper] i'm sorry. malise. i understand. clare. i don't feel. and without--i can't, can't. malise. [bitterly] quite right. you've had enough of that. there is a long silence. without looking at him she takes up her hat, and puts it on. malise. not going? [clare nods] malise. you don't trust me? clare. i do! but i can't take when i'm not giving. malise. i beg--i beg you! what does it matter? use me! get free somehow. clare. mr. malise, i know what i ought to be to you, if i let you in for all this. i know what you want--or will want. of course--why not? malise. i give you my solemn word---- clare. no! if i can't be that to you--it's not real. and i can't. it isn't to be manufactured, is it? malise. it is not. clare. to make use of you in such a way! no. [she moves towards the door] malise. where are you going? clare does not answer. she is breathing rapidly. there is a change in her, a sort of excitement beneath her calmness. malise. not back to him? [clare shakes her head] thank god! but where? to your people again? clare. no. malise. nothing--desperate? clare. oh! no. malise. then what--tell me--come! clare. i don't know. women manage somehow. malise. but you--poor dainty thing! clare. it's all right! don't be unhappy! please! malise. [seizing her arm] d'you imagine they'll let you off, out there--you with your face? come, trust me trust me! you must! clare. [holding out her hand] good-bye! malise. [not taking that hand] this great damned world, and--you! listen! [the sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the stillness] into that! alone--helpless--without money. the men who work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let you be? the men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy, bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the "chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help seeing you're made for love! or suppose you don't take covert but struggle on in the open. society! the respectable! the pious! even those who love you! will they let you be? hue and cry! the hunt was joined the moment you broke away! it will never let up! covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the cart, and god pity you! clare. well, i'll die running! malise. no, no! let me shelter you! let me! clare. [shaking her head and smiling] i'm going to seek my fortune. wish me luck! malise. i can't let you go. clare. you must. he looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it, suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them. malise. good luck, then! good luck! he releases her hand. just touching his bent head with her other hand, clare turns and goes. malise remains with bowed head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps. they die away. he raises himself, and strikes out into the air with his clenched fist. curtain. act iii malise's sitting-room. an afternoon, three months later. on the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some tea-things. down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted spirit-stand. near the door stands haywood, a short, round-faced man, with a tobacco-coloured moustache; malise, by the table, is contemplating a piece of blue paper. haywood. sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf without any return on your money---- malise. your tobacco is too good, mr. haywood. i wish i could see my way to smoking another. haywood. well, sir--that's a funny remedy. with a knock on the half-opened door, a boy appears. malise. yes. what is it? boy. your copy for "the watchfire," please, sir. malise. [motioning him out] yes. wait! the boy withdraws. malise goes up to the pile of books, turns them over, and takes up some volumes. malise. this is a very fine unexpurgated translation of boccaccio's "decameron," mr. haywood illustrated. i should say you would get more than the amount of your bill for them. haywood. [shaking his head] them books worth three pound seven! malise. it's scarce, and highly improper. will you take them in discharge? haywood. [torn between emotions] well, i 'ardly know what to say-- no, sir, i don't think i'd like to 'ave to do with that. malise. you could read them first, you know? haywood. [dubiously] i've got my wife at 'ome. malise. you could both read them. haywood. [brought to his bearings] no, sir, i couldn't. malise. very well; i'll sell them myself, and you shall have the result. haywood. well, thank you, sir. i'm sure i didn't want to trouble you. malise. not at all, mr. haywood. it's for me to apologize. haywood. so long as i give satisfaction. malise. [holding the door for him] certainly. good evening. haywood. good evenin', sir; no offence, i hope. malise. on the contrary. doubtfully haywood goes. and malise stands scratching his head; then slipping the bill into one of the volumes to remind him, he replaces them at the top of the pile. the boy again advances into the doorway. malise. yes, now for you. he goes to the table and takes some sheets of ms. from an old portfolio. but the door is again timidly pushed open, and haywood reappears. malise. yes, mr. haywood? haywood. about that little matter, sir. if--if it's any convenience to you--i've--thought of a place where i could---- malise. read them? you'll enjoy them thoroughly. haywood. no, sir, no! where i can dispose of them. malise. [holding out the volumes] it might be as well. [haywood takes the books gingerly] i congratulate you, mr. haywood; it's a classic. haywood. oh, indeed--yes, sir. in the event of there being any---- malise. anything over? carry it to my credit. your bill--[he hands over the blue paper] send me the receipt. good evening! haywood, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening paper, fumbles out. "good evenin', sir!" and departs. malise again takes up the sheets of ms. and cons a sentence over to himself, gazing blankly at the stolid boy. malise. "man of the world--good form your god! poor buttoned-up philosopher" [the boy shifts his feet] "inbred to the point of cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule [the boy breathes heavily]--you are the slave of facts!" [there is a knock on the door] malise. who is it? the door is pushed open, and reginald huntingdon stands there. huntingdon. i apologize, sir; can i come in a minute? [malise bows with ironical hostility] huntingdon. i don't know if you remember me--clare dedmond's brother. malise. i remember you. [he motions to the stolid boy to go outside again] huntingdon. i've come to you, sir, as a gentleman---- malise. some mistake. there is one, i believe, on the first floor. huntingdon. it's about my sister. malise. d--n you! don't you know that i've been shadowed these last three months? ask your detectives for any information you want. huntingdon. we know that you haven't seen her, or even known where she is. malise. indeed! you've found that out? brilliant! huntingdon. we know it from my sister. malise. oh! so you've tracked her down? huntingdon. mrs. fullarton came across her yesterday in one of those big shops--selling gloves. malise. mrs. fullarton the lady with the husband. well! you've got her. clap her back into prison. huntingdon. we have not got her. she left at once, and we don't know where she's gone. malise. bravo! huntingdon. [taking hold of his bit] look here, mr. malise, in a way i share your feeling, but i'm fond of my sister, and it's damnable to have to go back to india knowing she must be all adrift, without protection, going through god knows what! mrs. fullarton says she's looking awfully pale and down. malise. [struggling between resentment and sympathy] why do you come to me? huntingdon. we thought---- malise. who? huntingdon. my--my father and myself. malise. go on. huntingdon. we thought there was just a chance that, having lost that job, she might come to you again for advice. if she does, it would be really generous of you if you'd put my father in touch with her. he's getting old, and he feels this very much. [he hands malise a card] this is his address. malise. [twisting the card] let there be no mistake, sir; i do nothing that will help give her back to her husband. she's out to save her soul alive, and i don't join the hue and cry that's after her. on the contrary--if i had the power. if your father wants to shelter her, that's another matter. but she'd her own ideas about that. huntingdon. perhaps you don't realize how unfit my sister is for rough and tumble. she's not one of this new sort of woman. she's always been looked after, and had things done for her. pluck she's got, but that's all, and she's bound to come to grief. malise. very likely--the first birds do. but if she drops half-way it's better than if she'd never flown. your sister, sir, is trying the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market. for women as for men, there's more than one kind of dishonour, captain huntingdon, and worse things than being dead, as you may know in your profession. huntingdon. admitted--but---- malise. we each have our own views as to what they are. but they all come to--death of our spirits, for the sake of our carcases. anything more? huntingdon. my leave's up. i sail to-morrow. if you do see my sister i trust you to give her my love and say i begged she would see my father. malise. if i have the chance--yes. he makes a gesture of salute, to which huntingdon responds. then the latter turns and goes out. malise. poor fugitive! where are you running now? he stands at the window, through which the evening sunlight is powdering the room with smoky gold. the stolid boy has again come in. malise stares at him, then goes back to the table, takes up the ms., and booms it at him; he receives the charge, breathing hard. malise. "man of the world--product of a material age; incapable of perceiving reality in motions of the spirit; having 'no use,' as you would say, for 'sentimental nonsense'; accustomed to believe yourself the national spine--your position is unassailable. you will remain the idol of the country--arbiter of law, parson in mufti, darling of the playwright and the novelist--god bless you!--while waters lap these shores." he places the sheets of ms. in an envelope, and hands them to the boy. malise. you're going straight back to "the watchfire"? boy. [stolidly] yes, sir. malise. [staring at him] you're a masterpiece. d'you know that? boy. no, sir. malise. get out, then. he lifts the portfolio from the table, and takes it into the inner room. the boy, putting his thumb stolidly to his nose, turns to go. in the doorway he shies violently at the figure of clare, standing there in a dark-coloured dress, skids past her and goes. clare comes into the gleam of sunlight, her white face alive with emotion or excitement. she looks round her, smiles, sighs; goes swiftly to the door, closes it, and comes back to the table. there she stands, fingering the papers on the table, smoothing malise's hat wistfully, eagerly, waiting. malise. [returning] you! clare. [with a faint smile] not very glorious, is it? he goes towards her, and checks himself, then slews the armchair round. malise. come! sit down, sit down! [clare, heaving a long sigh, sinks down into the chair] tea's nearly ready. he places a cushion for her, and prepares tea; she looks up at him softly, but as he finishes and turns to her, she drops that glance. clare. do you think me an awful coward for coming? [she has taken a little plain cigarette case from her dress] would you mind if i smoked? malise shakes his head, then draws back from her again, as if afraid to be too close. and again, unseen, she looks at him. malise. so you've lost your job? clare. how did you----? malise. your brother. you only just missed him. [clare starts up] they had an idea you'd come. he's sailing to-morrow--he wants you to see your father. clare. is father ill? mali$e. anxious about you. clare. i've written to him every week. [excited] they're still hunting me! malise. [touching her shoulder gently] it's all right--all right. she sinks again into the chair, and again he withdraws. and once more she gives him that soft eager look, and once more averts it as he turns to her. clare. my nerves have gone funny lately. it's being always on one's guard, and stuffy air, and feeling people look and talk about you, and dislike your being there. malise. yes; that wants pluck. clare. [shaking her head] i curl up all the time. the only thing i know for certain is, that i shall never go back to him. the more i've hated what i've been doing, the more sure i've been. i might come to anything--but not that. malise. had a very bad time? clare. [nodding] i'm spoilt. it's a curse to be a lady when you have to earn your living. it's not really been so hard, i suppose; i've been selling things, and living about twice as well as most shop girls. malise. were they decent to you? clare. lots of the girls are really nice. but somehow they don't want me, can't help thinking i've got airs or something; and in here [she touches her breast] i don't want them! malise. i know. clare. mrs. fullarton and i used to belong to a society for helping reduced gentlewomen to get work. i know now what they want: enough money not to work--that's all! [suddenly looking up at him] don't think me worse than i am-please! it's working under people; it's having to do it, being driven. i have tried, i've not been altogether a coward, really! but every morning getting there the same time; every day the same stale "dinner," as they call it; every evening the same "good evening, miss clare," "good evening, miss simpson," "good evening, miss hart," "good evening, miss clare." and the same walk home, or the same 'bus; and the same men that you mustn't look at, for fear they'll follow you. [she rises] oh! and the feeling-always, always--that there's no sun, or life, or hope, or anything. it was just like being ill, the way i've wanted to ride and dance and get out into the country. [her excitement dies away into the old clipped composure, and she sits down again] don't think too badly of me--it really is pretty ghastly! malise. [gruffly] h'm! why a shop? clare. references. i didn't want to tell more lies than i could help; a married woman on strike can't tell the truth, you know. and i can't typewrite or do shorthand yet. and chorus--i thought--you wouldn't like. malise. i? what have i----? [he checks himself ] have men been brutes? clare. [stealing a look at him] one followed me a lot. he caught hold of my arm one evening. i just took this out [she draws out her hatpin and holds it like a dagger, her lip drawn back as the lips of a dog going to bite] and said: "will you leave me alone, please?" and he did. it was rather nice. and there was one quite decent little man in the shop--i was sorry for him--such a humble little man! malise. poor devil--it's hard not to wish for the moon. at the tone of his voice clare looks up at him; his face is turned away. clare. [softly] how have you been? working very hard? malise. as hard as god will let me. clare. [stealing another look] have you any typewriting i could do? i could learn, and i've still got a brooch i could sell. which is the best kind? malise. i had a catalogue of them somewhere. he goes into the inner room. the moment he is gone, clare stands up, her hands pressed to her cheeks as if she felt them flaming. then, with hands clasped, she stands waiting. he comes back with the old portfolio. malise. can you typewrite where you are? clare. i have to find a new room anyway. i'm changing--to be safe. [she takes a luggage ticket from her glove] i took my things to charing cross--only a bag and one trunk. [then, with that queer expression on her face which prefaces her desperations] you don't want me now, i suppose. malise. what? clare. [hardly above a whisper] because--if you still wanted me-- i do--now. [etext editors note: in the revision, years after this edition: "i do--now" is changed to "i could--now"-- a significant change in meaning. d.w.] malise. [staring hard into her face that is quivering and smiling] you mean it? you do? you care----? clare. i've thought of you--so much! but only--if you're sure. he clasps her and kisses her closed eyes; and so they stand for a moment, till the sound of a latchkey in the door sends them apart. malise. it's the housekeeper. give me that ticket; i'll send for your things. obediently she gives him the ticket, smiles, and goes quietly into the inner room. mrs. miler has entered; her face, more chinese than ever, shows no sign of having seen. malise. that lady will stay here, mrs. miler. kindly go with this ticket to the cloak-room at charing cross station, and bring back her luggage in a cab. have you money? mrs. miler. 'arf a crown. [she takes the ticket--then impassively] in case you don't know--there's two o' them men about the stairs now. the moment she is gone malise makes a gesture of maniacal fury. he steals on tiptoe to the outer door, and listens. then, placing his hand on the knob, he turns it without noise, and wrenches back the door. transfigured in the last sunlight streaming down the corridor are two men, close together, listening and consulting secretly. they start back. malise. [with strange, almost noiseless ferocity] you've run her to earth; your job's done. kennel up, hounds! [and in their faces he slams the door] curtain. scene ii scene ii--the same, early on a winter afternoon, three months later. the room has now a certain daintiness. there are curtains over the doors, a couch, under the window, all the books are arranged on shelves. in small vases, over the fireplace, are a few violets and chrysanthemums. malise sits huddled in his armchair drawn close to the fore, paper on knee, pen in hand. he looks rather grey and drawn, and round his chair is the usual litter. at the table, now nearer to the window, clare sits working a typewriter. she finishes a line, puts sheets of paper together, makes a note on a card--adds some figures, and marks the total. clare. kenneth, when this is paid, i shall have made two pound seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds. one hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour. it's only just over an hour a day. can't you get me more? malise lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again. clare puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it. clare. i'm quite packed. shall i pack for you? [he nods] can't we have more than three days at the sea? [he shakes his head. going up to him] you did sleep last night. malise. yes, i slept. clare. bad head? [malise nods] by this time the day after to-morrow the case will be heard and done with. you're not worrying for me? except for my poor old dad, i don't care a bit. malise heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and down. clare. kenneth, do you understand why he doesn't claim damages, after what he said that day-here? [looking suddenly at him] it is true that he doesn't? malise. it is not. clare. but you told me yourself malise. i lied. clare. why? malise. [shrugging] no use lying any longer--you'd know it tomorrow. clare. how much am i valued at? malise. two thousand. [grimly] he'll settle it on you. [he laughs] masterly! by one stroke, destroys his enemy, avenges his "honour," and gilds his name with generosity! clare. will you have to pay? malise. stones yield no blood. clare. can't you borrow? malise. i couldn't even get the costs. clare. will they make you bankrupt, then? [malise nods] but that doesn't mean that you won't have your income, does it? [malise laughs] what is your income, kenneth? [he is silent] a hundred and fifty from "the watchfire," i know. what else? malise. out of five books i have made the sum of forty pounds. clare. what else? tell me. malise. fifty to a hundred pounds a year. leave me to gnaw my way out, child. clare stands looking at him in distress, then goes quickly into the room behind her. malise takes up his paper and pen. the paper is quite blank. malise. [feeling his head] full of smoke. he drops paper and pen, and crossing to the room on the left goes in. clare re-enters with a small leather box. she puts it down on her typing table as malise returns followed by mrs. miler, wearing her hat, and carrying his overcoat. mrs. miler. put your coat on. it's a bitter wind. [he puts on the coat] clare. where are you going? malise. to "the watchfire." the door closes behind him, and mrs. miler goes up to clare holding out a little blue bottle with a red label, nearly full. mrs. miler. you know he's takin' this [she makes a little motion towards her mouth] to make 'im sleep? clare. [reading the label] where was it? mrs. miler. in the bathroom chest o' drawers, where 'e keeps 'is odds and ends. i was lookin' for 'is garters. clare. give it to me! mrs. miler. he took it once before. he must get his sleep. clare. give it to me! mrs. miler resigns it, clare takes the cork out, smells, then tastes it from her finger. mrs. miler, twisting her apron in her hands, speaks. mils. miler. i've 'ad it on my mind a long time to speak to yer. your comin' 'ere's not done 'im a bit o' good. clare. don't! mrs. miler. i don't want to, but what with the worry o' this 'ere divorce suit, an' you bein' a lady an' 'im havin' to be so careful of yer, and tryin' to save, not smokin' all day like 'e used, an' not gettin' 'is two bottles of claret regular; an' losin' his sleep, an' takin' that stuff for it; and now this 'ere last business. i've seen 'im sometimes holdin' 'is 'ead as if it was comin' off. [seeing clare wince, she goes on with a sort of compassion in her chinese face] i can see yer fond of him; an' i've nothin' against yer you don't trouble me a bit; but i've been with 'im eight years--we're used to each other, and i can't bear to see 'im not 'imself, really i can't. she gives a sadden sniff. then her emotion passes, leaving her as chinese as ever. clare. this last business--what do you mean by that? mrs. miler. if 'e a'n't told yer, i don't know that i've any call to. clare. please. mrs. miler. [her hands twisting very fast] well, it's to do with this 'ere "watchfire." one of the men that sees to the writin' of it 'e's an old friend of mr. malise, 'e come 'ere this mornin' when you was out. i was doin' my work in there [she points to the room on the right] an' the door open, so i 'earl 'em. now you've 'ung them curtains, you can't 'elp it. clare. yes? mrs. miler. it's about your divorce case. this 'ere "watchfire," ye see, belongs to some fellers that won't 'ave their men gettin' into the papers. so this 'ere friend of mr. malise--very nice 'e spoke about it: "if it comes into court," 'e says, "you'll 'ave to go," 'e says. "these beggars, these dogs, these dogs," 'e says, "they'll 'oof you out," 'e says. an' i could tell by the sound of his voice, 'e meant it--proper upset 'e was. so that's that! clare. it's inhuman! mrs. miler. that's what i thinks; but it don't 'elp, do it? "'tain't the circulation," 'e says, "it's the principle," 'e says; and then 'e starts in swearin' horrible. 'e's a very nice man. and mr. malise, 'e says: "well, that about does for me!" 'e says. clare. thank you, mrs. miler--i'm glad to know. mrs. miler. yes; i don't know as i ought to 'ave told you. [desperately uncomfortable] you see, i don't take notice of mr. malise, but i know 'im very well. 'e's a good 'arted gentleman, very funny, that'll do things to help others, and what's more, keep on doin' 'em, when they hurt 'im; very obstinate 'e is. now, when you first come 'ere, three months ago, i says to meself: "he'll enjoy this 'ere for a bit, but she's too much of a lady for 'im." what 'e wants about 'im permanent is a woman that thinks an' talks about all them things he talks about. and sometimes i fancy 'e don't want nothin' permanent about 'im at all. clare. don't! mrs. miler. [with another sudden sniff] gawd knows i don't want to upset ye. you're situated very hard; an' women's got no business to 'urt one another--that's what i thinks. clare. will you go out and do something for me? [mrs. miler nods] [clare takes up the sheaf of papers and from the leather box a note and an emerald pendant] take this with the note to that address--it's quite close. he'll give you thirty pounds for it. please pay these bills and bring me back the receipts, and what's over. mrs. miler. [taking the pendant and note] it's a pretty thing. clare. yes. it was my mother's. mrs. miler. it's a pity to part with it; ain't you got another? clare. nothing more, mrs. miler, not even a wedding ring. mrs. miler. [without expression] you make my 'eart ache sometimes. [she wraps pendant and note into her handkerchief and goes out to the door.] mrs. miler. [from the door] there's a lady and gentleman out here. mrs. fuller--wants you, not mr. malise. clare. mrs. fullarton? [mrs. miler nods] ask them to come in. mrs. miler opens the door wide, says "come in," and goes. mrs. fullarton is accompanied not by fullarton, but by the lawyer, twisdon. they come in. mrs. fullarton. clare! my dear! how are you after all this time? clare. [her eyes fixed on twisden] yes? mrs. fullarton. [disconcerted by the strange greeting] i brought mr. twisden to tell you something. may i stay? clare. yes. [she points to the chair at the same table: mrs. fullarton sits down] now! [twisden comes forward] twisden. as you're not defending this case, mrs. dedmond, there is nobody but yourself for me to apply to. clare. please tell me quickly, what you've come for. twisden. [bowing slightly] i am instructed by mr. dedmond to say that if you will leave your present companion and undertake not to see him again, he will withdraw the suit and settle three hundred a year on you. [at clare's movement of abhorrence] don't misunderstand me, please--it is not--it could hardly be, a request that you should go back. mr. dedmond is not prepared to receive you again. the proposal--forgive my saying so--remarkably quixotic--is made to save the scandal to his family and your own. it binds you to nothing but the abandonment of your present companion, with certain conditions of the same nature as to the future. in other words, it assures you a position--so long as you live quietly by yourself. clare. i see. will you please thank mr. dedmond, and say that i refuse? mrs. fullarton. clare, clare! for god's sake don't be desperate. [clare, deathly still, just looks at her] twisden. mrs. dedmond, i am bound to put the position to you in its naked brutality. you know there's a claim for damages? clare. i have just learnt it. twisden. you realize what the result of this suit must be: you will be left dependent on an undischarged bankrupt. to put it another way, you'll be a stone round the neck of a drowning man. clare. you are cowards. mrs. fullarton. clare, clare! [to twisden] she doesn't mean it; please be patient. clare. i do mean it. you ruin him because of me. you get him down, and kick him to intimidate me. mrs. fullarton. my dear girl! mr. twisden is not personally concerned. how can you? clare. if i were dying, and it would save me, i wouldn't take a penny from my husband. twisden. nothing could be more bitter than those words. do you really wish me to take them back to him? clare. yes. [she turns from them to the fire] mrs. fullarton. [in a low voice to twisden] please leave me alone with her, don't say anything to mr. dedmond yet. twisden. mrs. dedmond, i told you once that i wished you well. though you have called me a coward, i still do that. for god's sake, think--before it's too late. clare. [putting out her hand blindly] i'm sorry i called you a coward. it's the whole thing, i meant. twisden. never mind that. think! with the curious little movement of one who sees something he does not like to see, he goes. clare is leaning her forehead against the mantel-shelf, seemingly unconscious that she is not alone. mrs. fullarton approaches quietly till she can see clare's face. mrs. fullarton. my dear sweet thing, don't be cross with met [clare turns from her. it is all the time as if she were trying to get away from words and people to something going on within herself] how can i help wanting to see you saved from all this ghastliness? clare. please don't, dolly! let me be! mrs. fullarton. i must speak, clare! i do think you're hard on george. it's generous of him to offer to withdraw the suit-- considering. you do owe it to us to try and spare your father and your sisters and--and all of us who care for you. clare. [facing her] you say george is generous! if he wanted to be that he'd never have claimed these damages. it's revenge he wants--i heard him here. you think i've done him an injury. so i did--when i married him. i don't know what i shall come to, dolly, but i shan't fall so low as to take money from him. that's as certain as that i shall die. mrs. fullarton. do you know, clare, i think it's awful about you! you're too fine, and not fine enough, to put up with things; you're too sensitive to take help, and you're not strong enough to do without it. it's simply tragic. at any rate, you might go home to your people. clare. after this! mrs. fullarton. to us, then? clare. "if i could be the falling bee, and kiss thee all the day!" no, dolly! mrs. fullarton turns from her ashamed and baffled, but her quick eyes take in the room, trying to seize on some new point of attack. mrs. fullarton. you can't be--you aren't-happy, here? clare. aren't i? mrs. fullarton. oh! clare! save yourself--and all of us! clare. [very still] you see, i love him. mrs. fullarton. you used to say you'd never love; did not want it-- would never want it. clare. did i? how funny! mrs. fullarton. oh! my dear! don't look like that, or you'll make me cry. clare. one doesn't always know the future, does one? [desperately] i love him! i love him! mrs. fullarton. [suddenly] if you love him, what will it be like for you, knowing you've ruined him? clare. go away! go away! mrs. fullarton. love!--you said! clare. [quivering at that stab-suddenly] i must--i will keep him. he's all i've got. mrs. fullarton. can you--can you keep him? clare. go! mrs. fullarton. i'm going. but, men are hard to keep, even when you've not been the ruin of them. you know whether the love this man gives you is really love. if not--god help you! [she turns at the door, and says mournfully] good-bye, my child! if you can---- then goes. clare, almost in a whisper, repeats the words: "love! you said!" at the sound of a latchkey she runs as if to escape into the bedroom, but changes her mind and stands blotted against the curtain of the door. malise enters. for a moment he does not see her standing there against the curtain that is much the same colour as her dress. his face is that of a man in the grip of a rage that he feels to be impotent. then, seeing her, he pulls himself together, walks to his armchair, and sits down there in his hat and coat. clare. well? "the watchfire?" you may as well tell me. malise. nothing to tell you, child. at that touch of tenderness she goes up to his chair and kneels down beside it. mechanically malise takes off his hat. clare. then you are to lose that, too? [malise stares at her] i know about it--never mind how. malise. sanctimonious dogs! clare. [very low] there are other things to be got, aren't there? malise. thick as blackberries. i just go out and cry, "malise, unsuccessful author, too honest journalist, freethinker, co-respondent, bankrupt," and they tumble! clare. [quietly] kenneth, do you care for me? [malise stares at her] am i anything to you but just prettiness? malise. now, now! this isn't the time to brood! rouse up and fight. clare. yes. malise. we're not going to let them down us, are we? [she rubs her cheek against his hand, that still rests on her shoulder] life on sufferance, breath at the pleasure of the enemy! and some day in the fullness of his mercy to be made a present of the right to eat and drink and breathe again. [his gesture sums up the rage within him] fine! [he puts his hat on and rises] that's the last groan they get from me. class. are you going out again? [he nods] where? malise. blackberrying! our train's not till six. he goes into the bedroom. clare gets up and stands by the fire, looking round in a dazed way. she puts her hand up and mechanically gathers together the violets in the little vase. suddenly she twists them to a buttonhole, and sinks down into the armchair, which he must pass. there she sits, the violets in her hand. malise comes out and crosses towards the outer door. she puts the violets up to him. he stares at them, shrugs his shoulders, and passes on. for just a moment clare sits motionless. clare. [quietly] give me a kiss! he turns and kisses her. but his lips, after that kiss, have the furtive bitterness one sees on the lips of those who have done what does not suit their mood. he goes out. she is left motionless by the armchair, her throat working. then, feverishly, she goes to the little table, seizes a sheet of paper, and writes. looking up suddenly she sees that mrs. miler has let herself in with her latchkey. mrs. miler. i've settled the baker, the milk, the washin' an' the groceries--this 'ere's what's left. she counts down a five-pound note, four sovereigns, and two shillings on to the little table. clare folds the letter into an envelope, then takes up the five-pound note and puts it into her dress. clare. [pointing to the money on the table] take your wages; and give him this when he comes in. i'm going away. mrs. miler. without him? when'll you be comin' back? clare. [rising] i shan't be coming back. [gazing at mrs. miler's hands, which are plaiting at her dress] i'm leaving mr. malise, and shan't see him again. and the suit against us will be withdrawn--the divorce suit--you understand? mrs. miler. [her face all broken up] i never meant to say anything to yer. clare. it's not you. i can see for myself. don't make it harder; help me. get a cab. mrs. miler. [disturbed to the heart] the porter's outside, cleanin' the landin' winder. clare. tell him to come for my trunk. it is packed. [she goes into the bedroom] mrs. miler. [opening the door-desolately] come 'ere! [the porter appears in shirt-sleeves at the door] mrs. miler. the lady wants a cab. wait and carry 'er trunk down. clare comes from the bedroom in her hat and coat. mrs. miler. [to the porter] now. they go into the bedroom to get the trunk. clare picks up from the floor the bunch of violets, her fingers play with it as if they did not quite know what it was; and she stands by the armchair very still, while mrs. miler and the porter pass her with trunk and bag. and even after the porter has shouldered the trunk outside, and marched away, and mrs. miler has come back into the room, clare still stands there. mrs. miler. [pointing to the typewriter] d'you want this 'ere, too? clare. yes. mrs. miler carries it out. then, from the doorway, gazing at clare taking her last look, she sobs, suddenly. at sound of that sob clare throws up her head. clare. don't! it's all right. good-bye! she walks out and away, not looking back. mrs. miler chokes her sobbing into the black stuff of her thick old jacket. curtain act iv supper-time in a small room at "the gascony" on derby day. through the windows of a broad corridor, out of which the door opens, is seen the dark blue of a summer night. the walls are of apricot-gold; the carpets, curtains, lamp-shades, and gilded chairs, of red; the wood-work and screens white; the palms in gilded tubs. a doorway that has no door leads to another small room. one little table behind a screen, and one little table in the open, are set for two persons each. on a service-table, above which hangs a speaking-tube, are some dishes of hors d'ouvres, a basket of peaches, two bottles of champagne in ice-pails, and a small barrel of oysters in a gilded tub. arnaud, the waiter, slim, dark, quick, his face seamed with a quiet, soft irony, is opening oysters and listening to the robust joy of a distant supper-party, where a man is playing the last bars of: "do ye ken john peel" on a horn. as the sound dies away, he murmurs: "tres joli!" and opens another oyster. two ladies with bare shoulders and large hats pass down the corridor. their talk is faintly wafted in: "well, i never like derby night! the boys do get so bobbish!" "that horn--vulgar, i call it!" arnaud's eyebrows rise, the corners of his mouth droop. a lady with bare shoulders, and crimson roses in her hair, comes along the corridor, and stops for a second at the window, for a man to join her. they come through into the room. arnaud has sprung to attention, but with: "let's go in here, shall we?" they pass through into the further room. the manager, a gentleman with neat moustaches, and buttoned into a frock-coat, has appeared, brisk, noiseless, his eyes everywhere; he inspects the peaches. manager. four shillin' apiece to-night, see? arnaud. yes, sare. from the inner room a young man and his partner have come in. she is dark, almost spanish-looking; he fair, languid, pale, clean-shaved, slackly smiling, with half-closed eyes-one of those who are bred and dissipated to the point of having lost all save the capacity for hiding their emotions. he speaks in a---- languid voice. awful row they're kickin' up in there, mr. varley. a fellow with a horn. manager. [blandly] gaddesdon hunt, my lord--always have their supper with us, derby night. quiet corner here, my lord. arnaud! arnaud is already at the table, between screen and palm. and, there ensconced, the couple take their seats. seeing them safely landed, the manager, brisk and noiseless, moves away. in the corridor a lady in black, with a cloak falling open, seems uncertain whether to come in. she advances into the doorway. it is clare. arnaud. [pointing to the other table as he flies with dishes] nice table, madame. clare moves to the corner of it. an artist in observation of his clients, arnaud takes in her face--very pale under her wavy, simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at her breast three gardenias. and as he nears her, she lifts her eyes. it is very much the look of something lost, appealing for guidance. arnaud. madame is waiting for some one? [she shakes her head] then madame will be veree well here--veree well. i take madame's cloak? he takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she wishes. she sits down. languid voice. [from the corner] waiter! arnaud. milord! languid voice. the roederer. arnaud. at once, milord. clare sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her eyes lowered. once she raises them, and follows arnaud's dark rapid figure. arnaud. [returning] madame feels the 'eat? [he scans her with increased curiosity] you wish something, madame? clare. [again giving him that look] must i order? arnaud. non, madame, it is not necessary. a glass of water. [he pours it out] i have not the pleasure of knowing madame's face. clare. [faintly smiling] no. arnaud. madame will find it veree good 'ere, veree quiet. languid voice. waiter! arnaud. pardon! [he goes] the bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "tottie! not she! oh! my goodness, she has got a pride on her!" "bobbie'll never stick it!" "look here, dear----" galvanized by those sounds, clare has caught her cloak and half-risen; they die away and she subsides. arnaud. [back at her table, with a quaint shrug towards the corridor] it is not rowdy here, madame, as a rule--not as in some places. to-night a little noise. madame is fond of flowers? [he whisks out, and returns almost at once with a bowl of carnations from some table in the next room] these smell good! clare. you are very kind. arnaud. [with courtesy] not at all, madame; a pleasure. [he bows] a young man, tall, thin, hard, straight, with close-cropped, sandyish hair and moustache, a face tanned very red, and one of those small, long, lean heads that only grow in britain; clad in a thin dark overcoat thrown open, an opera hat pushed back, a white waistcoat round his lean middle, he comes in from the corridor. he looks round, glances at clare, passes her table towards the further room, stops in the doorway, and looks back at her. her eyes have just been lifted, and are at once cast down again. the young man wavers, catches arnaud's eye, jerks his head to summon him, and passes into the further room. arnaud takes up the vase that has been superseded, and follows him out. and clare sits alone in silence, broken by the murmurs of the languid lord and his partner, behind the screen. she is breathing as if she had been running hard. she lifts her eyes. the tall young man, divested of hat and coat, is standing by her table, holding out his hand with a sort of bashful hardiness. young man. how d'you do? didn't recognize you at first. so sorry --awfully rude of me. clare's eyes seem to fly from him, to appeal to him, to resign herself all at once. something in the young man responds. he drops his hand. clare. [faintly] how d'you do? young man. [stammering] you--you been down there to-day? clare. where? young man. [with a smile] the derby. what? don't you generally go down? [he touches the other chair] may i? clare. [almost in a whisper] yes. as he sits down, arnaud returns and stands before them. arnaud. the plovers' eggs veree good to-night, sare. veree good, madame. a peach or two, after. veree good peaches. the roederer, sare--not bad at all. madame likes it frappe, but not too cold--yes? [he is away again to his service-table.] young man. [burying his face in the carnations] i say--these are jolly, aren't they? they do you pretty well here. clare. do they? young man. you've never been here? [clare shakes her head] by jove! i thought i didn't know your face. [clare looks full at him. again something moves in the young man, and he stammers] i mean--not---- clare. it doesn't matter. young man. [respectfully] of course, if i--if you were waiting for anybody, or anything--i---- [he half rises] clare. it's all right, thank you. the young man sits down again, uncomfortable, nonplussed. there is silence, broken by the inaudible words of the languid lord, and the distant merriment of the supper-party. arnaud brings the plovers' eggs. young man. the wine, quick. arnaud. at once, sare. young man. [abruptly] don't you ever go racing, then? clare. no. [arnaud pours out champagne] young man. i remember awfully well my first day. it was pretty thick--lost every blessed bob, and my watch and chain, playin' three cards on the way home. clare. everything has a beginning, hasn't it? [she drinks. the young man stares at her] young man. [floundering in these waters deeper than he had bargained for] i say--about things having beginnings--did you mean anything? [clare nods] young man. what! d'you mean it's really the first----? clare nods. the champagne has flicked her courage. young man. by george! [he leans back] i've often wondered. arnaud. [again filling the glasses] monsieur finds---- young man. [abruptly] it's all right. he drains his glass, then sits bolt upright. chivalry and the camaraderie of class have begun to stir in him. young man. of course i can see that you're not--i mean, that you're a--a lady. [clare smiles] and i say, you know--if you have to-- because you're in a hole--i should feel a cad. let me lend you----? clare. [holding up her glass] 'le vin est tire, il faut le boire'! she drinks. the french words, which he does not too well understand, completing his conviction that she is a lady, he remains quite silent, frowning. as clare held up her glass, two gentlemen have entered. the first is blond, of good height and a comely insolence. his crisp, fair hair, and fair brushed-up moustache are just going grey; an eyeglass is fixed in one of two eyes that lord it over every woman they see; his face is broad, and coloured with air and wine. his companion is a tall, thin, dark bird of the night, with sly, roving eyes, and hollow cheeks. they stand looking round, then pass into the further room; but in passing, they have stared unreservedly at clare. young man. [seeing her wince] look here! i'm afraid you must feel me rather a brute, you know. clare. no, i don't; really. young man. are you absolute stoney? [clare nods] but [looking at her frock and cloak] you're so awfully well---- clare. i had the sense to keep them. young man. [more and more disturbed] i say, you know--i wish you'd let me lend you something. i had quite a good day down there. clare. [again tracing her pattern on the cloth--then looking up at him full] i can't take, for nothing. young man. by jove! i don't know-really, i don't--this makes me feel pretty rotten. i mean, it's your being a lady. clare. [smiling] that's not your fault, is it? you see, i've been beaten all along the line. and i really don't care what happens to me. [she has that peculiar fey look on her face now] i really don't; except that i don't take charity. it's lucky for me it's you, and not some---- the supper-party is getting still more boisterous, and there comes a long view holloa, and a blast of the horn. young man. but i say, what about your people? you must have people of some sort. he is fast becoming fascinated, for her cheeks have begun to flush and her eyes to shine. clare. oh, yes; i've had people, and a husband, and--everything---- and here i am! queer, isn't it? [she touches her glass] this is going to my head! do you mind? i sha'n't sing songs and get up and dance, and i won't cry, i promise you! young man. [between fascination and chivalry] by george! one simply can't believe in this happening to a lady. clare. have you got sisters? [breaking into her soft laughter] my brother's in india. i sha'n't meet him, anyway. young man. no, but--i say-are you really quite cut off from everybody? [clare nods] something rather awful must have happened? she smiles. the two gentlemen have returned. the blond one is again staring fixedly at clare. this time she looks back at him, flaming; and, with a little laugh, he passes with his friend into the corridor. clare. who are those two? young man. don't know--not been much about town yet. i'm just back from india myself. you said your brother was there; what's his regiment? clare. [shaking her head] you're not going to find out my name. i haven't got one--nothing. she leans her bare elbows on the table, and her face on her hands. clare. first of june! this day last year i broke covert--i've been running ever since. young man. i don't understand a bit. you--must have had a--a--some one---- but there is such a change in her face, such rigidity of her whole body, that he stops and averts his eyes. when he looks again she is drinking. she puts the glass down, and gives a little laugh. young man. [with a sort of awe] anyway it must have been like riding at a pretty stiff fence, for you to come here to-night. clare. yes. what's the other side? the young man puts out his hand and touches her arm. it is meant for sympathy, but she takes it for attraction. clare. [shaking her head] not yet please! i'm enjoying this. may i have a cigarette? [he takes out his case, and gives her one] clare. [letting the smoke slowly forth] yes, i'm enjoying it. had a pretty poor time lately; not enough to eat, sometimes. young man. not really! how damnable! i say--do have something more substantial. clare gives a sudden gasp, as if going off into hysterical laughter, but she stifles it, and shakes her head. young man. a peach? [arnaud brings peaches to the table] clare. [smiling] thank you. [he fills their glasses and retreats] clare. [raising her glass] eat and drink, for tomorrow we--listen! from the supper-party comes the sound of an abortive chorus: "with a hey ho, chivy, hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!" jarring out into a discordant whoop, it sinks. clare. "this day a stag must die." jolly old song! young man. rowdy lot! [suddenly] i say--i admire your pluck. clare. [shaking her head] haven't kept my end up. lots of women do! you see: i'm too fine, and not fine enough! my best friend said that. too fine, and not fine enough. [she laughs] i couldn't be a saint and martyr, and i wouldn't be a soulless doll. neither one thing nor the other--that's the tragedy. young man. you must have had awful luck! clare. i did try. [fiercely] but what's the good--when there's nothing before you?--do i look ill? young man. no; simply awfully pretty. clare. [with a laugh] a man once said to me: "as you haven't money, you should never have been pretty!" but, you see, it is some good. if i hadn't been, i couldn't have risked coming here, could i? don't you think it was rather sporting of me to buy these [she touches the gardenias] with the last shilling over from my cab fare? young man. did you really? d---d sporting! clare. it's no use doing things by halves, is it? i'm--in for it-- wish me luck! [she drinks, and puts her glass down with a smile] in for it--deep! [she flings up her hands above her smiling face] down, down, till they're just above water, and then--down, down, down, and --all over! are you sorry now you came and spoke to me? young man. by jove, no! it may be caddish, but i'm not. clare. thank god for beauty! i hope i shall die pretty! do you think i shall do well? young man. i say--don't talk like that! clare. i want to know. do you? young man. well, then--yes, i do. clare. that's splendid. those poor women in the streets would give their eyes, wouldn't they?--that have to go up and down, up and down! do you think i--shall---- the young man, half-rising, puts his hand on her arm. young man. i think you're getting much too excited. you look all-- won't you eat your peach? [she shakes her head] do! have something else, then--some grapes, or something? clare. no, thanks. [she has become quite calm again] young man. well, then, what d'you think? it's awfully hot in here, isn't it? wouldn't it be jollier drivin'? shall we--shall we make a move? clare. yes. the young man turns to look for the waiter, but arnaud is not in the room. he gets up. young man. [feverishly] d---n that waiter! wait half a minute, if you don't mind, while i pay the bill. as he goes out into the corridor, the two gentlemen re-appear. clare is sitting motionless, looking straight before her. dark one. a fiver you don't get her to! blond one. done! he advances to her table with his inimitable insolence, and taking the cigar from his mouth, bends his stare on her, and says: "charmed to see you lookin' so well! will you have supper with me here to-morrow night?" startled out of her reverie, clare looks up. she sees those eyes, she sees beyond him the eyes of his companion-sly, malevolent, amused-watching; and she just sits gazing, without a word. at that regard, so clear, the blond one does not wince. but rather suddenly he says: "that's arranged then. half-past eleven. so good of you. good-night!" he replaces his cigar and strolls back to his companion, and in a low voice says: "pay up!" then at a languid "hullo, charles!" they turn to greet the two in their nook behind the screen. clare has not moved, nor changed the direction of her gaze. suddenly she thrusts her hand into the, pocket of the cloak that hangs behind her, and brings out the little blue bottle which, six months ago, she took from malise. she pulls out the cork and pours the whole contents into her champagne. she lifts the glass, holds it before her--smiling, as if to call a toast, then puts it to her lips and drinks. still smiling, she sets the empty glass down, and lays the gardenia flowers against her face. slowly she droops back in her chair, the drowsy smile still on her lips; the gardenias drop into her lap; her arms relax, her head falls forward on her breast. and the voices behind the screen talk on, and the sounds of joy from the supper-party wax and wane. the waiter, arnaud, returning from the corridor, passes to his service-table with a tall, beribboned basket of fruit. putting it down, he goes towards the table behind the screen, and sees. he runs up to clare. arnaud. madame! madame! [he listens for her breathing; then suddenly catching sight of the little bottle, smells at it] bon dieu! [at that queer sound they come from behind the screen--all four, and look. the dark night bird says: "hallo; fainted!" arnaud holds out the bottle.] languid lord. [taking it, and smelling] good god! [the woman bends over clare, and lifts her hands; arnaud rushes to his service-table, and speaks into his tube] arnaud. the boss. quick! [looking up he sees the young man, returning] 'monsieur, elle a fui! elle est morte'! languid lord. [to the young man standing there aghast] what's this? friend of yours? young man. my god! she was a lady. that's all i know about her. languid lord. a lady! [the blond and dark gentlemen have slipped from the room; and out of the supper-party's distant laughter comes suddenly a long, shrill: "gone away!" and the sound of the horn playing the seven last notes of the old song: "this day a stag must die!" from the last note of all the sound flies up to an octave higher, sweet and thin, like a spirit passing, till it is drowned once more in laughter. the young man has covered his eyes with his hands; arnaud is crossing himself fervently; the languid lord stands gazing, with one of the dropped gardenias twisted in his fingers; and the woman, bending over clare, kisses her forehead.] curtain. the pigeon a fantasy in three acts persons of the play christopher wellwyn, an artist ann, his daughter guinevere megan, a flower-seller rory megan, her husband ferrand, an alien timson, once a cabman edward bertley, a canon alfred calway, a professor sir thomas hoxton, a justice of the peace also a police constable, three humble-men, and some curious persons the action passes in wellwyn's studio, and the street outside. act i. christmas eve. act ii. new year's day. act iii. the first of april. act i it is the night of christmas eve, the scene is a studio, flush with the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow. there is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed, above a floor of bare dark boards. a fire is cheerfully burning. on a model's platform stands an easel and canvas. there are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm. chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window. a door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the centre of the wall between. on a low table a russian samovar is hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses, lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum. through a huge uncurtained window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars. the sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door, and ann wellwyn enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a ribbon and covered by a scarf. leaving the door open, she turns up the electric light and goes to the fire. she throws of her scarf and long red cloak. she is dressed in a high evening frock of some soft white material. her movements are quick and substantial. her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped forehead. shredding of her gloves she warms her hands. in the doorway appear the figures of two men. the first is rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft eyes, and a crumply face. under his squash hat his hair is rather plentiful and rather grey. he wears an old brown ulster and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette. he is ann's father, wellwyn, the artist. his companion is a well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy. he is the vicar of the parish--canon bertley. bertley. my dear wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of difficulty. when you have two men like professor calway and sir thomas hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we've seen to-night, i confess, i---- wellwyn. come in, vicar, and have some grog. bertley. not to-night, thanks! christmas tomorrow! great temptation, though, this room! goodnight, wellwyn; good-night, ann! ann. [coming from the fire towards the tea-table.] good-night, canon bertley. [he goes out, and wellwyn, shutting the door after him, approaches the fire.] ann. [sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and making tea.] daddy! wellwyn. my dear? ann. you say you liked professor calway's lecture. is it going to do you any good, that's the question? wellwyn. i--i hope so, ann. ann. i took you on purpose. your charity's getting simply awful. those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money. wellwyn. um! um! i quite understand your feeling. ann. they both had your card, so i couldn't refuse--didn't know what you'd said to them. why don't you make it a rule never to give your card to anyone except really decent people, and--picture dealers, of course. wellwyn. my dear, i have--often. ann. then why don't you keep it? it's a frightful habit. you are naughty, daddy. one of these days you'll get yourself into most fearful complications. wellwyn. my dear, when they--when they look at you? ann. you know the house wants all sorts of things. why do you speak to them at all? wellwyn. i don't--they speak to me. [he takes of his ulster and hangs it over the back of an arm-chair.] ann. they see you coming. anybody can see you coming, daddy. that's why you ought to be so careful. i shall make you wear a hard hat. those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient. wellwyn. [gazing at his hat.] calway wears one. ann. as if anyone would beg of professor calway. wellwyn. well-perhaps not. you know, ann, i admire that fellow. wonderful power of-of-theory! how a man can be so absolutely tidy in his mind! it's most exciting. ann. has any one begged of you to-day? wellwyn. [doubtfully.] no--no. ann. [after a long, severe look.] will you have rum in your tea? wellwyn. [crestfallen.] yes, my dear--a good deal. ann. [pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] well, who was it? wellwyn. he didn't beg of me. [losing himself in recollection.] interesting old creature, ann--real type. old cabman. ann. where? wellwyn. just on the embankment. ann. of course! daddy, you know the embankment ones are always rotters. wellwyn. yes, my dear; but this wasn't. ann. did you give him your card? wellwyn. i--i--don't ann. did you, daddy? wellwyn. i'm rather afraid i may have! ann. may have! it's simply immoral. wellwyn. well, the old fellow was so awfully human, ann. besides, i didn't give him any money--hadn't got any. ann. look here, daddy! did you ever ask anybody for anything? you know you never did, you'd starve first. so would anybody decent. then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters? wellwyn. but, my dear, we're not all the same. they wouldn't do it if it wasn't natural to them. one likes to be friendly. what's the use of being alive if one isn't? ann. daddy, you're hopeless. wellwyn. but, look here, ann, the whole thing's so jolly complicated. according to calway, we're to give the state all we can spare, to make the undeserving deserving. he's a professor; he ought to know. but old hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the undeserving. well, that's just the opposite. and he's a j.p. tremendous experience. and the vicar seems to be for a little bit of both. well, what the devil----? my trouble is, whichever i'm with, he always converts me. [ruefully.] and there's no fun in any of them. ann. [rising.] oh! daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're the despair of all social reformers? [she envelops him.] there's a tear in the left knee of your trousers. you're not to wear them again. wellwyn. am i likely to? ann. i shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair. d'you know what i live in terror of? [wellwyn gives her a queer and apprehensive look.] ann. that you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the street. have you got any money? [she feels in his coat, and he his trousers--they find nothing.] do you know that your pockets are one enormous hole? wellwyn. no! ann. spiritually. wellwyn. oh! ah! h'm! ann. [severely.] now, look here, daddy! [she takes him by his lapels.] don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on your part to go on giving away things as you do! you know what you really are, i suppose--a sickly sentimentalist! wellwyn. [breaking away from her, disturbed.] it isn't sentiment. it's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly. if i'm to give up feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it doesn't matter who they are--then i don't know what i'm to do. i shall have to sit with my head in a bag. ann. i think you ought to. wellwyn. i suppose they see i like them--then they tell me things. after that, of course you can't help doing what you can. ann. well, if you will love them up! wellwyn. my dear, i don't want to. it isn't them especially--why, i feel it even with old calway sometimes. it's only providence that he doesn't want anything of me--except to make me like himself--confound him! ann. [moving towards the door into the house--impressively.] what you don't see is that other people aren't a bit like you. wellwyn. well, thank god! ann. it's so old-fashioned too! i'm going to bed--i just leave you to your conscience. wellwyn. oh! ann. [opening the door-severely.] good-night--[with a certain weakening] you old--daddy! [she jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.] [wellwyn stands perfectly still. he first gazes up at the skylight, then down at the floor. slowly he begins to shake his head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.] wellwyn. bad lot. . . . low type--no backbone, no stability! [there comes a fluttering knock on the outer door. as the sound slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though he knew, but would not admit its significance. then he sits down, covering his ears. the knocking does not cease. wellwyn drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle towards the door. the knocking becomes louder.] wellwyn. ah dear! tt! tt! tt! [after a look in the direction of ann's disappearance, he opens the street door a very little way. by the light of the lamp there can be seen a young girl in dark clothes, huddled in a shawl to which the snow is clinging. she has on her arm a basket covered with a bit of sacking.] wellwyn. i can't, you know; it's impossible. [the girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.] wellwyn. [wincing.] let's see--i don't know you--do i? [the girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a faint accent of reproach: "mrs. megan--you give me this---" she holds out a dirty visiting card.] wellwyn. [recoiling from the card.] oh! did i? ah! when? mrs. megan. you 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring. you give me 'arf a crown. [a smile tries to visit her face.] wellwyn. [looking stealthily round.] ah! well, come in--just for a minute--it's very cold--and tell us what it is. [she comes in stolidly, a sphinx-like figure, with her pretty tragic little face.] wellwyn. i don't remember you. [looking closer.] yes, i do. only-- you weren't the same-were you? mrs. megan. [dully.] i seen trouble since. wellwyn. trouble! have some tea? [he looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum into it.] wellwyn. [handing her the tea.] keeps the cold out! drink it off! [mrs. megan drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost immediately seems to get a size larger. wellwyn watches her with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his face.] wellwyn. cure for all evils, um? mrs. megan. it warms you. [she smiles.] wellwyn. [smiling back, and catching himself out.] well! you know, i oughtn't. mrs. megan. [conscious of the disruption of his personality, and withdrawing into her tragic abyss.] i wouldn't 'a come, but you told me if i wanted an 'and---- wellwyn. [gradually losing himself in his own nature.] let me see--corner of flight street, wasn't it? mrs. megan. [with faint eagerness.] yes, sir, an' i told you about me vi'lets--it was a luvly spring-day. wellwyn. beautiful! beautiful! birds singing, and the trees, &c.! we had quite a talk. you had a baby with you. mrs. megan. yes. i got married since then. wellwyn. oh! ah! yes! [cheerfully.] and how's the baby? mrs. megan. [turning to stone.] i lost her. wellwyn. oh! poor--- um! mrs. megan. [impassive.] you said something abaht makin' a picture of me. [with faint eagerness.] so i thought i might come, in case you'd forgotten. wellwyn. [looking at, her intently.] things going badly? mrs. megan. [stripping the sacking off her basket.] i keep 'em covered up, but the cold gets to 'em. thruppence--that's all i've took. wellwyn. ho! tt! tt! [he looks into the basket.] christmas, too! mrs. megan. they're dead. wellwyn. [drawing in his breath.] got a good husband? mrs. megan. he plays cards. wellwyn. oh, lord! and what are you doing out--with a cold like that? [he taps his chest.] mrs. megan. we was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is mates. haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'. wellwyn. [correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] but who buys flowers at this time of night? [mrs. megan looks at him, and faintly smiles.] wellwyn. [rumpling his hair.] saints above us! here! come to the fire! [she follows him to the fire. he shuts the street door.] wellwyn. are your feet wet? [she nods.] well, sit down here, and take them off. that's right. [she sits on the stool. and after a slow look up at him, which has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years, begins taking off her shoes and stockings. wellwyn goes to the door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of stealthy casualness. he returns whistling, but not out loud. the girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her bare toes to the flames. she shuffles them back under her skirt.] wellwyn. how old are you, my child? mrs. megan. nineteen, come candlemas. wellwyn. and what's your name? mrs. megan. guinevere. wellwyn. what? welsh? mrs. megan. yes--from battersea. wellwyn. and your husband? mrs. megan. no. irish, 'e is. notting dale, 'e comes from. wellwyn. roman catholic? mrs. megan. yes. my 'usband's an atheist as well. wellwyn. i see. [abstractedly.] how jolly! and how old is he--this young man of yours? mrs. megan. 'e'll be twenty soon. wellwyn. babes in the wood! does he treat you badly? mrs. megan. no. wellwyn. nor drink? mrs. megan. no. he's not a bad one. only he gets playin' cards then 'e'll fly the kite. wellwyn. i see. and when he's not flying it, what does he do? mrs. megan. [touching her basket.] same as me. other jobs tires 'im. wellwyn. that's very nice! [he checks himself.] well, what am i to do with you? mrs. megan. of course, i could get me night's lodging if i like to do--the same as some of them. wellwyn. no! no! never, my child! never! mrs. megan. it's easy that way. wellwyn. heavens! but your husband! um? mrs. megan. [with stoical vindictiveness.] he's after one i know of. wellwyn. tt! what a pickle! mrs. megan. i'll 'ave to walk about the streets. wellwyn. [to himself.] now how can i? [mrs. megan looks up and smiles at him, as if she had already discovered that he is peculiar.] wellwyn. you see, the fact is, i mustn't give you anything--because --well, for one thing i haven't got it. there are other reasons, but that's the--real one. but, now, there's a little room where my models dress. i wonder if you could sleep there. come, and see. [the girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the warmth. she takes up her wet stockings.] mrs. megan. shall i put them on again? wellwyn. no, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers. [seeing the steam rising from her.] why, you're wet all over. here, wait a little! [he crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy listening, steps through. the girl, like a cat, steals back to the warmth of the fire. wellwyn returns with a candle, a canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.] wellwyn. now then! [he precedes her towards the door of the model's room.] hsssh! [he opens the door and holds up the candle to show her the room.] will it do? there's a couch. you'll find some washing things. make yourself quite at home. see! [the girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket--and her shoes and stockings. wellwyn hands her the candle, blankets, and bath gown.] wellwyn. have a good sleep, child! forget that you're alive! [he closes the door, mournfully.] done it again! [he goes to the table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it in.] chow-chow! [then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite door.] well--damn it, what could i have done? not a farthing on me! [he goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to confirm himself in his hospitality.] night like this! [a sputter of snow is blown in his face. a voice says: "monsieur, pardon!" wellwyn recoils spasmodically. a figure moves from the lamp-post to the doorway. he is seen to be young and to have ragged clothes. he speaks again: "you do not remember me, monsieur? my name is ferrand--it was in paris, in the champs-elysees--by the fountain . . . . when you came to the door, monsieur--i am not made of iron . . . . tenez, here is your card i have never lost it." he holds out to wellwyn an old and dirty wing card. as inch by inch he has advanced into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large, grey, rather prominent eyes. there is a certain grace in his figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.] wellwyn. [yielding to a pleasant memory.] ah! yes. by the fountain. i was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and drank the water. ferrand. [with faint eagerness.] my breakfast. i was in poverty-- veree bad off. you gave me ten francs. i thought i had a little the right [wellwyn makes a movement of disconcertion] seeing you said that if i came to england---- wellwyn. um! and so you've come? ferrand. it was time that i consolidated my fortunes, monsieur. wellwyn. and you--have---- [he stops embarrassed.] ferrand. [shrugging his ragged shoulders.] one is not yet rothschild. wellwyn. [sympathetically.] no. [yielding to memory.] we talked philosophy. ferrand. i have not yet changed my opinion. we other vagabonds, we are exploited by the bourgeois. this is always my idea, monsieur. wellwyn. yes--not quite the general view, perhaps! well---- [heartily.] come in! very glad to see you again. ferrand. [brushing his arms over his eyes.] pardon, monsieur--your goodness--i am a little weak. [he opens his coat, and shows a belt drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.] i tighten him one hole for each meal, during two days now. that gives you courage. wellwyn. [with cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] have some of this. it'll buck you up. [he watches the young man drink.] ferrand. [becoming a size larger.] sometimes i think that i will never succeed to dominate my life, monsieur--though i have no vices, except that i guard always the aspiration to achieve success. but i will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing every day. i must find with what to fly a little. wellwyn. [delicately.] yes; yes--i remember, you found it difficult to stay long in any particular--yes. ferrand. [proudly.] in one little corner? no--monsieur--never! that is not in my character. i must see life. wellwyn. quite, quite! have some cake? [he cuts cake.] ferrand. in your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have it. but one must always try, monsieur; one must never be content. [refusing the cake.] 'grand merci', but for the moment i have no stomach--i have lost my stomach now for two days. if i could smoke, monsieur! [he makes the gesture of smoking.] wellwyn. rather! [handing his tobacco pouch.] roll yourself one. ferrand. [rapidly rolling a cigarette.] if i had not found you, monsieur--i would have been a little hole in the river to-night-- i was so discouraged. [he inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of smoke. very bitterly.] life! [he disperses the puff of smoke with his finger, and stares before him.] and to think that in a few minutes he will be born! monsieur! [he gazes intently at wellwyn.] the world would reproach you for your goodness to me. wellwyn. [looking uneasily at the door into the house.] you think so? ah! ferrand. monsieur, if he himself were on earth now, there would be a little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call him sloppee sentimentalist! and what is veree funny, these gentlemen they would all be most strong christians. [he regards wellwyn deeply.] but that will not trouble you, monsieur; i saw well from the first that you are no christian. you have so kind a face. wellwyn. oh! indeed! ferrand. you have not enough the pharisee in your character. you do not judge, and you are judged. [he stretches his limbs as if in pain.] wellwyn. are you in pain? ferrand. i 'ave a little the rheumatism. wellwyn. wet through, of course! [glancing towards the house.] wait a bit! i wonder if you'd like these trousers; they've--er--they're not quite---- [he passes through the door into the house. ferrand stands at the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it, smoking with abandonment. wellwyn returns stealthily, dressed in a jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.] wellwyn. [speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.] can you make these do for the moment? ferrand. 'je vous remercie', monsieur. [pointing to the screen.] may i retire? wellwyn. yes, yes. [ferrand goes behind the screen. wellwyn closes the door into the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains. he suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.] wellwyn. good lord! [there is the sound of tapping on glass. against the window-pane is pressed the face of a man. wellwyn motions to him to go away. he does not go, but continues tapping. wellwyn opens the door. there enters a square old man, with a red, pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler hat. he is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.] wellwyn. who's that? who are you? timson. [in a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'appy to see you, sir; we 'ad a talk this morning. timson--i give you me name. you invited of me, if ye remember. wellwyn. it's a little late, really. timson. well, ye see, i never expected to 'ave to call on yer. i was 'itched up all right when i spoke to yer this mornin', but bein' christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day. [he speaks with increasing thickness.] i'm reg'lar disgusted--not got the price of a bed abaht me. thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my age. wellwyn. [with a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into his pockets.] the fact is, it so happens i haven't a copper on me. timson. [evidently taking this for professional refusal.] wouldn't arsk you if i could 'elp it. 'ad to do with 'orses all me life. it's this 'ere cold i'm frightened of. i'm afraid i'll go to sleep. wellwyn. well, really, i---- timson. to be froze to death--i mean--it's awkward. wellwyn. [puzzled and unhappy.] well--come in a moment, and let's-- think it out. have some tea! [he pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not very much, adds rum rather liberally. timson, who walks a little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.] timson. [receiving the drink.] yer 'ealth. 'ere's--soberiety! [he applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand. agreeably surprised.] blimey! thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it? ferrand. [reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] with a needle, monsieur, i would soon have with what to make face against the world. wellwyn. too short! ah! [he goes to the dais on which stands ann's workbasket, and takes from it a needle and cotton.] [while he is so engaged ferrand is sizing up old timson, as one dog will another. the old man, glass in hand, seems to have lapsed into coma.] ferrand. [indicating timson] monsieur! [he makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.] wellwyn. [handing him the needle and cotton.] um! afraid so! [they approach timson, who takes no notice.] ferrand. [gently.] it is an old cabby, is it not, monsieur? 'ceux sont tous des buveurs'. wellwyn. [concerned at the old man's stupefaction.] now, my old friend, sit down a moment. [they manoeuvre timson to the settle.] will you smoke? timson. [in a drowsy voice.] thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer. old 'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold. [he relapses into coma.] ferrand. [with a click of his tongue.] 'il est parti'. wellwyn. [doubtfully.] he hasn't really left a horse outside, do you think? ferrand. non, non, monsieur--no 'orse. he is dreaming. i know very well that state of him--that catches you sometimes. it is the warmth sudden on the stomach. he will speak no more sense to-night. at the most, drink, and fly a little in his past. wellwyn. poor old buffer! ferrand. touching, is it not, monsieur? there are many brave gents among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses, and from sitting still. wellwyn. [touching timson's shoulder.] drenched! ferrand. that will do 'im no 'arm, monsieur-no 'arm at all. he is well wet inside, remember--it is christmas to-morrow. put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam. [wellwyn takes up ann's long red cloak, and wraps it round the old man.] timson. [faintly roused.] tha's right. put--the rug on th' old 'orse. [he makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.] wellwyn. [alarmed.] what's the matter with him? ferrand. it is nothing, monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a 'orse. 'il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call-- 'is bitt. wellwyn. but what's to be done with him? one can't turn him out in this state. ferrand. if you wish to leave him 'ere, monsieur, have no fear. i charge myself with him. wellwyn. oh! [dubiously.] you--er--i really don't know, i--hadn't contemplated--you think you could manage if i--if i went to bed? ferrand. but certainly, monsieur. wellwyn. [still dubiously.] you--you're sure you've everything you want? ferrand. [bowing.] 'mais oui, monsieur'. wellwyn. i don't know what i can do by staying. ferrand. there is nothing you can do, monsieur. have confidence in me. wellwyn. well-keep the fire up quietly--very quietly. you'd better take this coat of mine, too. you'll find it precious cold, i expect, about three o'clock. [he hands ferrand his ulster.] ferrand. [taking it.] i shall sleep in praying for you, monsieur. wellwyn. ah! yes! thanks! well-good-night! by the way, i shall be down rather early. have to think of my household a bit, you know. ferrand. 'tres bien, monsieur'. i comprehend. one must well be regular in this life. wellwyn. [with a start.] lord! [he looks at the door of the model's room.] i'd forgotten---- ferrand. can i undertake anything, monsieur? wellwyn. no, no! [he goes to the electric light switch by the outer door.] you won't want this, will you? ferrand. 'merci, monsieur'. [wellwyn switches off the light.] ferrand. 'bon soir, monsieur'! wellwyn. the devil! er--good-night! [he hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly away.] ferrand. [to himself.] poor pigeon! [looking long at old timson] 'espece de type anglais!' [he sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary stitch of a new hem--all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed. then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and slips behind the screen. mrs. megan, attracted by the cessation of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model's room towards the fire. she has almost reached it before she takes in the torpid crimson figure of old timson. she halts and puts her hand to her chest--a queer figure in the firelight, garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's-wool slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her neck. having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of stupor, mrs. megan goes close to the fire, and sits on the little stool, smiling sideways at old timson. ferrand, coming quietly up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back a yard or two.] ferrand. [gently.] 'pardon, ma'moiselle'. mrs. megan. [springing to her feet.] oh! ferrand. all right, all right! we are brave gents! timson. [faintly roused.] 'old up, there! ferrand. trust in me, ma'moiselle! [mrs. megan responds by drawing away.] ferrand. [gently.] we must be good comrades. this asylum--it is better than a doss-'ouse. [he pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself. somewhat reassured, mrs. megan again sits down.] mrs. megan. you frightened me. timson. [unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.] purple foreigners! ferrand. pay no attention, ma'moiselle. he is a philosopher. mrs. megan. oh! i thought 'e was boozed. [they both look at timson] ferrand. it is the same-veree 'armless. mrs. megan. what's that he's got on 'im? ferrand. it is a coronation robe. have no fear, ma'moiselle. veree docile potentate. mrs. megan. i wouldn't be afraid of him. [challenging ferrand.] i'm afraid o' you. ferrand. it is because you do not know me, ma'moiselle. you are wrong, it is always the unknown you should love. mrs. megan. i don't like the way you-speaks to me. ferrand. ah! you are a princess in disguise? mrs. megan. no fear! ferrand. no? what is it then you do to make face against the necessities of life? a living? mrs. megan. sells flowers. ferrand. [rolling his eyes.] it is not a career. mrs. megan. [with a touch of devilry.] you don't know what i do. ferrand. ma'moiselle, whatever you do is charming. [mrs. megan looks at him, and slowly smiles.] mrs. megan. you're a foreigner. ferrand. it is true. mrs. megan. what do you do for a livin'? ferrand. i am an interpreter. mrs. megan. you ain't very busy, are you? ferrand. [with dignity.] at present i am resting. mrs. megan. [looking at him and smiling.] how did you and 'im come here? ferrand. ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question. mrs. megan. the gentleman let me. 'e's funny. ferrand. 'c'est un ange' [at mrs. megan's blank stare he interprets.] an angel! mrs. megan. me luck's out-that's why i come. ferrand. [rising.] ah! ma'moiselle! luck! there is the little god who dominates us all. look at this old! [he points to timson.] he is finished. in his day that old would be doing good business. he could afford himself--[he maker a sign of drinking.]--then come the motor cars. all goes--he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a 'cocher'! luck! timson. [with a vague gesture--drowsily.] kick the foreign beggars out. ferrand. a real englishman . . . . and look at me! my father was merchant of ostrich feathers in brussels. if i had been content to go in his business, i would 'ave been rich. but i was born to roll--"rolling stone"to voyage is stronger than myself. luck! . . and you, ma'moiselle, shall i tell your fortune? [he looks in her face.] you were born for 'la joie de vivre'--to drink the wines of life. 'et vous voila'! luck! [though she does not in the least understand what he has said, her expression changes to a sort of glee.] ferrand. yes. you were born loving pleasure. is it not? you see, you cannot say, no. all of us, we have our fates. give me your hand. [he kneels down and takes her hand.] in each of us there is that against which we cannot struggle. yes, yes! [he holds her hand, and turns it over between his own. mrs. megan remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.] timson. [flickering into consciousness.] be'ave yourselves! yer crimson canary birds! [mrs. megan would withdraw her hand, but cannot.] ferrand. pay no attention, ma'moiselle. he is a puritan. [timson relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which falls with a crash.] mrs. megan. let go my hand, please! ferrand. [relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.] there is one thing i have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in my character. [then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her face.] tell me, ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long? mrs. megan. i dunno--lots, i thinks of. ferrand. shall i tell you? [her eyes remain fixed on his, the strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along." he goes on in his ironic voice.] it is of the streets--the lights-- the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of love. that is for you what the road is for me. that is for you what the rum is for that old--[he jerks his thumb back at timson. then bending swiftly forward to the girl.] see! i kiss you--ah! [he draws her forward off the stool. there is a little struggle, then she resigns her lips. the little stool, overturned, falls with a clatter. they spring up, and move apart. the door opens and ann enters from the house in a blue dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above her head. taking in the strange half-circle round the stove, she recoils. then, standing her ground, calls in a voice sharpened by fright: "daddy--daddy!"] timson. [stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.] all right! i'm comin'! ferrand. have no fear, madame! [in the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking twelve. ann remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened on the strangers. there is the sound of someone falling downstairs, and wellwyn appears, also holding a candle above his head.] ann. look! wellwyn. yes, yes, my dear! it--it happened. ann. [with a sort of groan.] oh! daddy! [in the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.] ferrand. [softly, in his ironic voice.] he is come, monsieur! 'appy christmas! bon noel! [there is a sudden chime of bells. the stage is blotted dark.] curtain. act ii it is four o'clock in the afternoon of new year's day. on the raised dais mrs. megan is standing, in her rags; with bare feet and ankles, her dark hair as if blown about, her lips parted, holding out a dishevelled bunch of violets. before his easel, wellwyn is painting her. behind him, at a table between the cupboard and the door to the model's room, timson is washing brushes, with the movements of one employed upon relief works. the samovar is hissing on the table by the stove, the tea things are set out. wellwyn. open your mouth. [mrs. megan opens her mouth.] ann. [in hat and coat, entering from the house.] daddy! [wellwyn goes to her; and, released from restraint, mrs. megan looks round at timson and grimaces.] wellwyn. well, my dear? [they speak in low voices.] ann. [holding out a note.] this note from canon bentley. he's going to bring her husband here this afternoon. [she looks at mrs. megan.] wellwyn. oh! [he also looks at mrs. megan.] ann. and i met sir thomas hoxton at church this morning, and spoke to him about timson. wellwyn. um! [they look at timson. then ann goes back to the door, and wellwyn follows her.] ann. [turning.] i'm going round now, daddy, to ask professor calway what we're to do with that ferrand. wellwyn. oh! one each! i wonder if they'll like it. ann. they'll have to lump it. [she goes out into the house.] wellwyn. [back at his easel.] you can shut your mouth now. [mrs. megan shuts her mouth, but opens it immediately to smile.] wellwyn. [spasmodically.] ah! now that's what i want. [he dabs furiously at the canvas. then standing back, runs his hands through his hair and turns a painter's glance towards the skylight.] dash! light's gone! off you get, child--don't tempt me! [mrs. megan descends. passing towards the door of the model's room she stops, and stealthily looks at the picture.] timson. ah! would yer! wellwyn. [wheeling round.] want to have a look? well--come on! [he takes her by the arm, and they stand before the canvas. after a stolid moment, she giggles.] wellwyn. oh! you think so? mrs. megan. [who has lost her hoarseness.] it's not like my picture that i had on the pier. wellwyn. no-it wouldn't be. mrs. megan. [timidly.] if i had an 'at on, i'd look better. wellwyn. with feathers? mrs. megan. yes. wellwyn. well, you can't! i don't like hats, and i don't like feathers. [mrs. megan timidly tugs his sleeve. timson, screened as he thinks by the picture, has drawn from his bulky pocket a bottle and is taking a stealthy swig.] wellwyn. [to mrs. megan, affecting not to notice.] how much do i owe you? mrs. megan. [a little surprised.] you paid me for to-day-all 'cept a penny. wellwyn. well! here it is. [he gives her a coin.] go and get your feet on! mrs. megan. you've give me 'arf a crown. wellwyn. cut away now! [mrs. megan, smiling at the coin, goes towards the model's room. she looks back at wellwyn, as if to draw his eyes to her, but he is gazing at the picture; then, catching old timson's sour glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet with a little squeal. but when wellwyn turns to the sound, she is demurely passing through the doorway.] timson. [in his voice of dubious sobriety.] i've finished these yer brushes, sir. it's not a man's work. i've been thinkin' if you'd keep an 'orse, i could give yer satisfaction. wellwyn. would the horse, timson? timson. [looking him up and down.] i knows of one that would just suit yer. reel 'orse, you'd like 'im. wellwyn. [shaking his head.] afraid not, timson! awfully sorry, though, to have nothing better for you than this, at present. timson. [faintly waving the brushes.] of course, if you can't afford it, i don't press you--it's only that i feel i'm not doing meself justice. [confidentially.] there's just one thing, sir; i can't bear to see a gen'leman imposed on. that foreigner--'e's not the sort to 'ave about the place. talk? oh! ah! but 'e'll never do any good with 'imself. he's a alien. wellwyn. terrible misfortune to a fellow, timson. timson. don't you believe it, sir; it's his fault i says to the young lady yesterday: miss ann, your father's a gen'leman [with a sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are--i don't mind sayin' it--but, i said, he's too easy-goin'. wellwyn. indeed! timson. well, see that girl now! [he shakes his head.] i never did believe in goin' behind a person's back--i'm an englishman--but [lowering his voice] she's a bad hat, sir. why, look at the street she comes from! wellwyn. oh! you know it. timson. lived there meself larst three years. see the difference a few days' corn's made in her. she's that saucy you can't touch 'er head. wellwyn. is there any necessity, timson? timson. artful too. full o' vice, i call'er. where's 'er 'usband? wellwyn. [gravely.] come, timson! you wouldn't like her to---- timson. [with dignity, so that the bottle in his pocket is plainly visible.] i'm a man as always beared inspection. wellwyn. [with a well-directed smile.] so i see. timson. [curving himself round the bottle.] it's not for me to say nothing--but i can tell a gen'leman as quick as ever i can tell an 'orse. wellwyn. [painting.] i find it safest to assume that every man is a gentleman, and every woman a lady. saves no end of self-contempt. give me the little brush. timson. [handing him the brush--after a considerable introspective pause.] would yer like me to stay and wash it for yer again? [with great resolution.] i will--i'll do it for you--never grudged workin' for a gen'leman. wellwyn. [with sincerity.] thank you, timson--very good of you, i'm sure. [he hands him back the brush.] just lend us a hand with this. [assisted by timson he pushes back the dais.] let's see! what do i owe you? timson. [reluctantly.] it so 'appens, you advanced me to-day's yesterday. wellwyn. then i suppose you want to-morrow's? timson. well, i 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a permanent job. when you've got to do with 'orses, you can't neglect the publics, or you might as well be dead. wellwyn. quite so! timson. it mounts up in the course o' the year. wellwyn. it would. [passing him a coin.] this is for an exceptional purpose--timson--see. not---- timson. [touching his forehead.] certainly, sir. i quite understand. i'm not that sort, as i think i've proved to yer, comin' here regular day after day, all the week. there's one thing, i ought to warn you perhaps--i might 'ave to give this job up any day. [he makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.] wellwyn. [gravely.] i'd never stand in the way of your bettering yourself, timson. and, by the way, my daughter spoke to a friend about you to-day. i think something may come of it. timson. oh! oh! she did! well, it might do me a bit o' good. [he makes for the outer door, but stops.] that foreigner! 'e sticks in my gizzard. it's not as if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to pluck in 'is own gawd-forsaken country. reg-lar jay, that's what i calls 'im. i could tell yer something---- [he has opened the door, and suddenly sees that ferrand himself is standing there. sticking out his lower lip, timson gives a roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street. owing to a slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his battle against the cold. ferrand, having closed the door, stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle. he is now remarkably dressed in an artist's squashy green hat, a frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk, the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a tan waistcoat.] wellwyn. what luck to-day? ferrand. [with a shrug.] again i have beaten all london, monsieur --not one bite. [contemplating himself.] i think perhaps, that, for the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume. wellwyn. [contemplating him.] let's see--i believe i've an old top hat somewhere. ferrand. ah! monsieur, 'merci', but that i could not. it is scarcely in my character. wellwyn. true! ferrand. i have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, to hotels, to leicester square. i have been to a society for spreading christian knowledge--i thought there i would have a chance perhaps as interpreter. 'toujours meme chose', we regret, we have no situation for you--same thing everywhere. it seems there is nothing doing in this town. wellwyn. i've noticed, there never is. ferrand. i was thinking, monsieur, that in aviation there might be a career for me--but it seems one must be trained. wellwyn. afraid so, ferrand. ferrand. [approaching the picture.] ah! you are always working at this. you will have something of very good there, monsieur. you wish to fix the type of wild savage existing ever amongst our high civilisation. 'c'est tres chic ca'! [wellwyn manifests the quiet delight of an english artist actually understood.] in the figures of these good citizens, to whom she offers her flower, you would give the idea of all the cage doors open to catch and make tame the wild bird, that will surely die within. 'tres gentil'! believe me, monsieur, you have there the greatest comedy of life! how anxious are the tame birds to do the wild birds good. [his voice changes.] for the wild birds it is not funny. there is in some human souls, monsieur, what cannot be made tame. wellwyn. i believe you, ferrand. [the face of a young man appears at the window, unseen. suddenly ann opens the door leading to the house.] ann. daddy--i want you. wellwyn. [to ferrand.] excuse me a minute! [he goes to his daughter, and they pass out. ferrand remains at the picture. mrs. megan dressed in some of ann's discarded garments, has come out of the model's room. she steals up behind ferrand like a cat, reaches an arm up, and curls it round his mouth. he turns, and tries to seize her; she disingenuously slips away. he follows. the chase circles the tea table. he catches her, lifts her up, swings round with her, so that her feet fly out; kisses her bent-back face, and sets her down. she stands there smiling. the face at the window darkens.] ferrand. la valse! [he takes her with both hands by the waist, she puts her hands against his shoulders to push him of--and suddenly they are whirling. as they whirl, they bob together once or twice, and kiss. then, with a warning motion towards the door, she wrenches herself free, and stops beside the picture, trying desperately to appear demure. wellwyn and ann have entered. the face has vanished.] ferrand. [pointing to the picture.] one does not comprehend all this, monsieur, without well studying. i was in train to interpret for ma'moiselle the chiaroscuro. wellwyn. [with a queer look.] don't take it too seriously, ferrand. ferrand. it is a masterpiece. wellwyn. my daughter's just spoken to a friend, professor calway. he'd like to meet you. could you come back a little later? ferrand. certainly, ma'moiselle. that will be an opening for me, i trust. [he goes to the street door.] ann. [paying no attention to him.] mrs. megan, will you too come back in half an hour? ferrand. 'tres bien, ma'moiselle'! i will see that she does. we will take a little promenade together. that will do us good. [he motions towards the door; mrs. megan, all eyes, follows him out.] ann. oh! daddy, they are rotters. couldn't you see they were having the most high jinks? wellwyn. [at his picture.] i seemed to have noticed something. ann. [preparing for tea.] they were kissing. wellwyn. tt! tt! ann. they're hopeless, all three--especially her. wish i hadn't given her my clothes now. wellwyn. [absorbed.] something of wild-savage. ann. thank goodness it's the vicar's business to see that married people live together in his parish. wellwyn. oh! [dubiously.] the megans are roman catholic-atheists, ann. ann. [with heat.] then they're all the more bound. [wellwyn gives a sudden and alarmed whistle.] ann. what's the matter? wellwyn. didn't you say you spoke to sir thomas, too. suppose he comes in while the professor's here. they're cat and dog. ann. [blankly.] oh! [as wellwyn strikes a match.] the samovar is lighted. [taking up the nearly empty decanter of rum and going to the cupboard.] it's all right. he won't. wellwyn. we'll hope not. [he turns back to his picture.] ann. [at the cupboard.] daddy! wellwyn. hi! ann. there were three bottles. wellwyn. oh! ann. well! now there aren't any. wellwyn. [abstracted.] that'll be timson. ann. [with real horror.] but it's awful! wellwyn. it is, my dear. ann. in seven days. to say nothing of the stealing. wellwyn. [vexed.] i blame myself-very much. ought to have kept it locked up. ann. you ought to keep him locked up! [there is heard a mild but authoritative knock.] wellwyn. here's the vicar! ann. what are you going to do about the rum? wellwyn. [opening the door to canon bertley.] come in, vicar! happy new year! bertley. same to you! ah! ann! i've got into touch with her young husband--he's coming round. ann. [still a little out of her plate.] thank go---moses! bertley. [faintly surprised.] from what i hear he's not really a bad youth. afraid he bets on horses. the great thing, wellwyn, with those poor fellows is to put your finger on the weak spot. ann. [to herself-gloomily.] that's not difficult. what would you do, canon bertley, with a man who's been drinking father's rum? bertley. remove the temptation, of course. wellwyn. he's done that. bertley. ah! then--[wellwyn and ann hang on his words] then i should--er-- ann. [abruptly.] remove him. bertley. before i say that, ann, i must certainly see the individual. wellwyn. [pointing to the window.] there he is! [in the failing light timson's face is indeed to be seen pressed against the window pane.] ann. daddy, i do wish you'd have thick glass put in. it's so disgusting to be spied at! [wellwyn going quickly to the door, has opened it.] what do you want? [timson enters with dignity. he is fuddled.] timson. [slowly.] arskin' yer pardon-thought it me duty to come back-found thish yer little brishel on me. [he produces the little paint brush.] ann. [in a deadly voice.] nothing else? [timson accords her a glassy stare.] wellwyn. [taking the brush hastily.] that'll do, timson, thanks! timson. as i am 'ere, can i do anything for yer? ann. yes, you can sweep out that little room. [she points to the model's room.] there's a broom in there. timson. [disagreeably surprised.] certainly; never make bones about a little extra--never 'ave in all me life. do it at onsh, i will. [he moves across to the model's room at that peculiar broad gait so perfectly adjusted to his habits.] you quite understand me --couldn't bear to 'ave anything on me that wasn't mine. [he passes out.] ann. old fraud! wellwyn. "in" and "on." mark my words, he'll restore the--bottles. bertley. but, my dear wellwyn, that is stealing. wellwyn. we all have our discrepancies, vicar. ann. daddy! discrepancies! wellwyn. well, ann, my theory is that as regards solids timson's an individualist, but as regards liquids he's a socialist . . . or 'vice versa', according to taste. bertley. no, no, we mustn't joke about it. [gravely.] i do think he should be spoken to. wellwyn. yes, but not by me. bertley. surely you're the proper person. wellwyn. [shaking his head.] it was my rum, vicar. look so personal. [there sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.] wellwyn. isn't that the professor's knock? [while ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens it. there, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead, which completely dominates all that comes below it.] wellwyn. come in, professor! so awfully good of you! you know canon bentley, i think? calway. ah! how d'you do? wellwyn. your opinion will be invaluable, professor. ann. tea, professor calway? [they have assembled round the tea table.] calway. thank you; no tea; milk. wellwyn. rum? [he pours rum into calway's milk.] calway. a little-thanks! [turning to ann.] you were going to show me some one you're trying to rescue, or something, i think. ann. oh! yes. he'll be here directly--simply perfect rotter. calway. [smiling.] really! ah! i think you said he was a congenital? wellwyn. [with great interest.] what! ann. [low.] daddy! [to calway.] yes; i--i think that's what you call him. calway. not old? ann. no; and quite healthy--a vagabond. calway. [sipping.] i see! yes. is it, do you think chronic unemployment with a vagrant tendency? or would it be nearer the mark to say: vagrancy---- wellwyn. pure! oh! pure! professor. awfully human. calway. [with a smile of knowledge.] quite! and--er---- ann. [breaking in.] before he comes, there's another---- bertley. [blandly.] yes, when you came in, we were discussing what should be done with a man who drinks rum--[calway pauses in the act of drinking]--that doesn't belong to him. calway. really! dipsomaniac? bertley. well--perhaps you could tell us--drink certainly changing thine to mine. the professor could see him, wellwyn? ann. [rising.] yes, do come and look at him, professor calway. he's in there. [she points towards the model's room. calway smiles deprecatingly.] ann. no, really; we needn't open the door. you can see him through the glass. he's more than half---- calway. well, i hardly---- ann. oh! do! come on, professor calway! we must know what to do with him. [calway rises.] you can stand on a chair. it's all science. [she draws calway to the model's room, which is lighted by a glass panel in the top of the high door. canon bertley also rises and stands watching. wellwyn hovers, torn between respect for science and dislike of espionage.] ann. [drawing up a chair.] come on! calway. do you seriously wish me to? ann. rather! it's quite safe; he can't see you. calway. but he might come out. [ann puts her back against the door. calway mounts the chair dubiously, and raises his head cautiously, bending it more and more downwards.] ann. well? calway. he appears to be---sitting on the floor. wellwyn. yes, that's all right! [bertley covers his lips.] calway. [to ann--descending.] by the look of his face, as far as one can see it, i should say there was a leaning towards mania. i know the treatment. [there come three loud knocks on the door. wellwyn and ann exchange a glance of consternation.] ann. who's that? wellwyn. it sounds like sir thomas. calway. sir thomas hoxton? wellwyn. [nodding.] awfully sorry, professor. you see, we---- calway. not at all. only, i must decline to be involved in argument with him, please. bertley. he has experience. we might get his opinion, don't you think? calway. on a point of reform? a j.p.! bertley. [deprecating.] my dear sir--we needn't take it. [the three knocks resound with extraordinary fury.] ann. you'd better open the door, daddy. [wellwyn opens the door. sir, thomas hoxton is disclosed in a fur overcoat and top hat. his square, well-coloured face is remarkable for a massive jaw, dominating all that comes above it. his voice is resolute.] hoxton. afraid i didn't make myself heard. wellwyn. so good of you to come, sir thomas. canon bertley! [they greet.] professor calway you know, i think. hoxton. [ominously.] i do. [they almost greet. an awkward pause.] ann. [blurting it out.] that old cabman i told you of's been drinking father's rum. bertley. we were just discussing what's to be done with him, sir thomas. one wants to do the very best, of course. the question of reform is always delicate. calway. i beg your pardon. there is no question here. hoxton. [abruptly.] oh! is he in the house? ann. in there. hoxton. works for you, eh? wellwyn. er--yes. hoxton. let's have a look at him! [an embarrassed pause.] bertley. well--the fact is, sir thomas---- calway. when last under observation---- ann. he was sitting on the floor. wellwyn. i don't want the old fellow to feel he's being made a show of. disgusting to be spied at, ann. ann. you can't, daddy! he's drunk. hoxton. never mind, miss wellwyn. hundreds of these fellows before me in my time. [at calway.] the only thing is a sharp lesson! calway. i disagree. i've seen the man; what he requires is steady control, and the bobbins treatment. [wellwyn approaches them with fearful interest.] hoxton. not a bit of it! he wants one for his knob! brace 'em up! it's the only thing. bertley. personally, i think that if he were spoken to seriously calway. i cannot walk arm in arm with a crab! hoxton. [approaching calway.] i beg your pardon? calway. [moving back a little.] you're moving backwards, sir thomas. i've told you before, convinced reactionaryism, in these days---- [there comes a single knock on the street door.] bertley. [looking at his watch.] d'you know, i'm rather afraid this may be our young husband, wellwyn. i told him half-past four. wellwyn. oh! ah! yes. [going towards the two reformers.] shall we go into the house, professor, and settle the question quietly while the vicar sees a young man? calway. [pale with uncompleted statement, and gravitating insensibly in the direction indicated.] the merest sense of continuity--a simple instinct for order---- hoxton. [following.] the only way to get order, sir, is to bring the disorderly up with a round turn. [calway turns to him in the doorway.] you people without practical experience---- calway. if you'll listen to me a minute. hoxton. i can show you in a mo---- [they vanish through the door.] wellwyn. i was afraid of it. bertley. the two points of view. pleasant to see such keenness. i may want you, wellwyn. and ann perhaps had better not be present. wellwyn. [relieved.] quite so! my dear! [ann goes reluctantly. wellwyn opens the street door. the lamp outside has just been lighted, and, by its gleam, is seen the figure of rory megan, thin, pale, youthful. ann turning at the door into the house gives him a long, inquisitive look, then goes.] wellwyn. is that megan? megan. yus. wellwyn. come in. [megan comes in. there follows an awkward silence, during which wellwyn turns up the light, then goes to the tea table and pours out a glass of tea and rum.] bertley. [kindly.] now, my boy, how is it that you and your wife are living apart like this? megan. i dunno. bertley. well, if you don't, none of us are very likely to, are we? megan. that's what i thought, as i was comin' along. wellwyn. [twinkling.] have some tea, megan? [handing him the glass.] what d'you think of her picture? 'tisn't quite finished. megan. [after scrutiny.] i seen her look like it--once. wellwyn. good! when was that? megan. [stoically.] when she 'ad the measles. [he drinks.] wellwyn. [ruminating.] i see--yes. i quite see feverish! bertley. my dear wellwyn, let me--[to, megan.] now, i hope you're willing to come together again, and to maintain her? megan. if she'll maintain me. bertley. oh! but--i see, you mean you're in the same line of business? megan. yus. bertley. and lean on each other. quite so! megan. i leans on 'er mostly--with 'er looks. bertley. indeed! very interesting--that! megan. yus. sometimes she'll take 'arf a crown off of a toff. [he looks at wellwyn.] wellwyn. [twinkling.] i apologise to you, megan. megan. [with a faint smile.] i could do with a bit more of it. bertley. [dubiously.] yes! yes! now, my boy, i've heard you bet on horses. megan. no, i don't. bertley. play cards, then? come! don't be afraid to acknowledge it. megan. when i'm 'ard up--yus. bertley. but don't you know that's ruination? megan. depends. sometimes i wins a lot. bertley. you know that's not at all what i mean. come, promise me to give it up. megan. i dunno abaht that. bertley. now, there's a good fellow. make a big effort and throw the habit off! megan. comes over me--same as it might over you. bertley. over me! how do you mean, my boy? megan. [with a look up.] to tork! [wellwyn, turning to the picture, makes a funny little noise.] bertley. [maintaining his good humour.] a hit! but you forget, you know, to talk's my business. it's not yours to gamble. megan. you try sellin' flowers. if that ain't a--gamble bertley. i'm afraid we're wandering a little from the point. husband and wife should be together. you were brought up to that. your father and mother---- megan. never was. wellwyn. [turning from the picture.] the question is, megan: will you take your wife home? she's a good little soul. megan. she never let me know it. [there is a feeble knock on the door.] wellwyn. well, now come. here she is! [he points to the door, and stands regarding megan with his friendly smile.] megan. [with a gleam of responsiveness.] i might, perhaps, to please you, sir. bertley. [appropriating the gesture.] capital, i thought we should get on in time. megan. yus. [wellwyn opens the door. mrs. megan and ferrand are revealed. they are about to enter, but catching sight of megan, hesitate.] bertley. come in! come in! [mrs. megan enters stolidly. ferrand, following, stands apart with an air of extreme detachment. megan, after a quick glance at them both, remains unmoved. no one has noticed that the door of the model's room has been opened, and that the unsteady figure of old timson is standing there.] bertley. [a little awkward in the presence of ferrand--to the megans.] this begins a new chapter. we won't improve the occasion. no need. [megan, turning towards his wife, makes her a gesture as if to say: "here! let's get out of this!"] bentley. yes, yes, you'll like to get home at once--i know. [he holds up his hand mechanically.] timson. i forbids the banns. bertley, [startled.] gracious! timson. [extremely unsteady.] just cause and impejiment. there 'e stands. [he points to ferrand.] the crimson foreigner! the mockin' jay! wellwyn. timson! timson. you're a gen'leman--i'm aweer o' that but i must speak the truth--[he waves his hand] an' shame the devil! bertley. is this the rum--? timson. [struck by the word.] i'm a teetotaler. wellwyn. timson, timson! timson. seein' as there's ladies present, i won't be conspicuous. [moving away, and making for the door, he strikes against the dais, and mounts upon it.] but what i do say, is: he's no better than 'er and she's worse. bertley. this is distressing. ferrand. [calmly.] on my honour, monsieur! [timson growls.] wellwyn. now, now, timson! timson. that's all right. you're a gen'leman, an' i'm a gen'leman, but he ain't an' she ain't. wellwyn. we shall not believe you. bertley. no, no; we shall not believe you. timson. [heavily.] very well, you doubts my word. will it make any difference, guv'nor, if i speaks the truth? bertley. no, certainly not--that is--of course, it will. timson. well, then, i see 'em plainer than i see [pointing at bertley] the two of you. wellwyn. be quiet, timson! bertley. not even her husband believes you. megan. [suddenly.] don't i! wellwyn. come, megan, you can see the old fellow's in paradise. bertley. do you credit such a--such an object? [he points at timson, who seems falling asleep.] megan. naow! [unseen by anybody, ann has returned.] bertley. well, then, my boy? megan. i seen 'em meself. bertley. gracious! but just now you were will---- megan. [sardonically.] there wasn't nothing against me honour, then. now you've took it away between you, cumin' aht with it like this. i don't want no more of 'er, and i'll want a good deal more of 'im; as 'e'll soon find. [he jerks his chin at ferrand, turns slowly on his heel, and goes out into the street.] [there follows a profound silence.] ann. what did i say, daddy? utter! all three. [suddenly alive to her presence, they all turn.] timson. [waking up and looking round him.] well, p'raps i'd better go. [assisted by wellwyn he lurches gingerly off the dais towards the door, which wellwyn holds open for him.] timson. [mechanically.] where to, sir? [receiving no answer he passes out, touching his hat; and the door is closed.] wellwyn. ann! [ann goes back whence she came.] [bertley, steadily regarding mrs. megan, who has put her arm up in front of her face, beckons to ferrand, and the young man comes gravely forward.] bertley. young people, this is very dreadful. [mrs. megan lowers her arm a little, and looks at him over it.] very sad! mrs. megan. [dropping her arm.] megan's no better than what i am. bertley. come, come! here's your home broken up! [mrs. megan smiles. shaking his head gravely.] surely-surely-you mustn't smile. [mrs. megan becomes tragic.] that's better. now, what is to be done? ferrand. believe me, monsieur, i greatly regret. bertley. i'm glad to hear it. ferrand. if i had foreseen this disaster. bertley. is that your only reason for regret? ferrand. [with a little bow.] any reason that you wish, monsieur. i will do my possible. mrs. megan. i could get an unfurnished room if [she slides her eyes round at wellwyn] i 'ad the money to furnish it. bertley. but suppose i can induce your husband to forgive you, and take you back? mrs. megan. [shaking her head.] 'e'd 'it me. bertley. i said to forgive. mrs. megan. that wouldn't make no difference. [with a flash at bertley.] an' i ain't forgiven him! bertley. that is sinful. mrs. megan. i'm a catholic. bertley. my good child, what difference does that make? ferrand. monsieur, if i might interpret for her. [bertley silences him with a gesture.] mrs. megan. [sliding her eyes towards wellwyn.] if i 'ad the money to buy some fresh stock. bertley. yes; yes; never mind the money. what i want to find in you both, is repentance. mrs. megan. [with a flash up at him.] i can't get me livin' off of repentin'. bertley. now, now! never say what you know to be wrong. ferrand. monsieur, her soul is very simple. bertley. [severely.] i do not know, sir, that we shall get any great assistance from your views. in fact, one thing is clear to me, she must discontinue your acquaintanceship at once. ferrand. certainly, monsieur. we have no serious intentions. bertley. all the more shame to you, then! ferrand. monsieur, i see perfectly your point of view. it is very natural. [he bows and is silent.] mrs. megan. i don't want'im hurt'cos o' me. megan'll get his mates to belt him--bein' foreign like he is. bertley. yes, never mind that. it's you i'm thinking of. mrs. megan. i'd sooner they'd hit me. wellwyn. [suddenly.] well said, my child! mrs. megan. 'twasn't his fault. ferrand. [without irony--to wellwyn.] i cannot accept that monsieur. the blame--it is all mine. ann. [entering suddenly from the house.] daddy, they're having an awful----! [the voices of professor calway and sir thomas hoxton are distinctly heard.] calway. the question is a much wider one, sir thomas. hoxton. as wide as you like, you'll never---- [wellwyn pushes ann back into the house and closes the door behind her. the voices are still faintly heard arguing on the threshold.] bertley. let me go in here a minute, wellyn. i must finish speaking to her. [he motions mrs. megan towards the model's room.] we can't leave the matter thus. ferrand. [suavely.] do you desire my company, monsieur? [bertley, with a prohibitive gesture of his hand, shepherds the reluctant mrs. megan into the model's room.] wellwyn. [sorrowfully.] you shouldn't have done this, ferrand. it wasn't the square thing. ferrand. [with dignity.] monsieur, i feel that i am in the wrong. it was stronger than me. [as he speaks, sir thomas hoxton and professor calway enter from the house. in the dim light, and the full cry of argument, they do not notice the figures at the fire. sir thomas hoxton leads towards the street door.] hoxton. no, sir, i repeat, if the country once commits itself to your views of reform, it's as good as doomed. calway. i seem to have heard that before, sir thomas. and let me say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks regime---- hoxton. is a deuced sight better, sir, than your grand-motherly methods. what the old fellow wants is a shock! with all this socialistic molly-coddling, you're losing sight of the individual. calway. [swiftly.] you, sir, with your "devil take the hindmost," have never even seen him. [sir thomas hoxton, throwing back a gesture of disgust, steps out into the night, and falls heavily professor calway, hastening to his rescue, falls more heavily still.] [timson, momentarily roused from slumber on the doorstep, sits up.] hoxton. [struggling to his knees.] damnation! calway. [sitting.] how simultaneous! [wellwyn and ferrand approach hastily.] ferrand. [pointing to timson.] monsieur, it was true, it seems. they had lost sight of the individual. [a policeman has appeared under the street lamp. he picks up hoxton's hat.] constable. anything wrong, sir? hoxton. [recovering his feet.] wrong? great scott! constable! why do you let things lie about in the street like this? look here, wellyn! [they all scrutinize timson.] wellwyn. it's only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing. hoxton. how did he come here? constable. drunk, sir. [ascertaining timson to be in the street.] just off the premises, by good luck. come along, father. timson. [assisted to his feet-drowsily.] cert'nly, by no means; take my arm. [they move from the doorway. hoxton and calway re-enter, and go towards the fire.] ann. [entering from the house.] what's happened? calway. might we have a brush? hoxton. [testily.] let it dry! [he moves to the fire and stands before it. professor calway following stands a little behind him. ann returning begins to brush the professor's sleeve.] wellwyn. [turning from the door, where he has stood looking after the receding timson.] poor old timson! ferrand. [softly.] must be philosopher, monsieur! they will but run him in a little. [from the model's room mrs. megan has come out, shepherded by canon bertley.] bertley. let's see, your christian name is----. mrs. megan. guinevere. bertley. oh! ah! ah! ann, take gui--take our little friend into the study a minute: i am going to put her into service. we shall make a new woman of her, yet. ann. [handing canon bertley the brush, and turning to mrs. megan.] come on! [she leads into the house, and mrs. megan follows stolidly.] bertley. [brushing calway's back.] have you fallen? calway. yes. bertley. dear me! how was that? hoxton. that old ruffian drunk on the doorstep. hope they'll give him a sharp dose! these rag-tags! [he looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on ferrand.] ferrand. [with his eyes on hoxton--softly.] monsieur, something tells me it is time i took the road again. wellwyn. [fumbling out a sovereign.] take this, then! ferrand. [refusing the coin.] non, monsieur. to abuse 'ospitality is not in my character. bertley. we must not despair of anyone. hoxton. who talked of despairing? treat him, as i say, and you'll see! calway. the interest of the state---- hoxton. the interest of the individual citizen sir---- bertley. come! a little of both, a little of both! [they resume their brushing.] ferrand. you are now debarrassed of us three, monsieur. i leave you instead--these sirs. [he points.] 'au revoir, monsieur'! [motioning towards the fire.] 'appy new year! [he slips quietly out. wellwyn, turning, contemplates the three reformers. they are all now brushing away, scratching each other's backs, and gravely hissing. as he approaches them, they speak with a certain unanimity.] hoxton. my theory----! calway. my theory----! bertley. my theory----! [they stop surprised. wellwyn makes a gesture of discomfort, as they speak again with still more unanimity.] hoxton. my----! calway. my----! bertley. my----! [they stop in greater surprise. the stage is blotted dark.] curtain. act iii it is the first of april--a white spring day of gleams and driving showers. the street door of wellwyn's studio stands wide open, and, past it, in the street, the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper bags. through the door can be seen the butt end of a stationary furniture van with its flap let down. to this van three humble-men in shirt sleeves and aprons, are carrying out the contents of the studio. the hissing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table in the fast-being-gutted room. wellwyn in his ulster and soft hat, is squatting on the little stool in front of the blazing fire, staring into it, and smoking a hand-made cigarette. he has a moulting air. behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts and other articles of vertu. chief h'man. [stopping, and standing in the attitude of expectation.] we've about pinched this little lot, sir. shall we take the--reservoir? [he indicates the samovar.] wellwyn. ah! [abstractedly feeling in his pockets, and finding coins.] thanks--thanks--heavy work, i'm afraid. h'man. [receiving the coins--a little surprised and a good deal pleased.] thank'ee, sir. much obliged, i'm sure. we'll 'ave to come back for this. [he gives the dais a vigorous push with his foot.] not a fixture, as i understand. perhaps you'd like us to leave these 'ere for a bit. [he indicates the tea things.] wellwyn. ah! do. [the humble-men go out. there is the sound of horses being started, and the butt end of the van disappears. wellwyn stays on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare. the open doorway is darkened by a figure. canon bertley is standing there.] bertley. wellwyn! [wellwyn turns and rises.] it's ages since i saw you. no idea you were moving. this is very dreadful. wellwyn. yes, ann found this--too exposed. that tall house in flight street--we're going there. seventh floor. bertley. lift? [wellwyn shakes his head.] bertley. dear me! no lift? fine view, no doubt. [wellwyn nods.] you'll be greatly missed. wellwyn. so ann thinks. vicar, what's become of that little flower-seller i was painting at christmas? you took her into service. bertley. not we--exactly! some dear friends of ours. painful subject! wellwyn. oh! bertley. yes. she got the footman into trouble. wellwyn. did she, now? bertley. disappointing. i consulted with calway, and he advised me to try a certain institution. we got her safely in--excellent place; but, d'you know, she broke out three weeks ago. and since-- i've heard [he holds his hands up] hopeless, i'm afraid--quite! wellwyn. i thought i saw her last night. you can't tell me her address, i suppose? bertley. [shaking his head.] the husband too has quite passed out of my ken. he betted on horses, you remember. i'm sometimes tempted to believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but to pray for death. [ann has entered from the house. her hair hangs from under a knitted cap. she wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk scarf.] bertley. ah! ann. i was telling your father of that poor little mrs. megan. ann. is she dead? bertley. worse i fear. by the way--what became of her accomplice? ann. we haven't seen him since. [she looks searchingly at wellwyn.] at least--have you--daddy? wellwyn. [rather hurt.] no, my dear; i have not. bertley. and the--old gentleman who drank the rum? ann. he got fourteen days. it was the fifth time. bertley. dear me! ann. when he came out he got more drunk than ever. rather a score for professor calway, wasn't it? bertley. i remember. he and sir thomas took a kindly interest in the old fellow. ann. yes, they fell over him. the professor got him into an institution. bertley. indeed! ann. he was perfectly sober all the time he was there. wellwyn. my dear, they only allow them milk. ann. well, anyway, he was reformed. wellwyn. ye-yes! ann. [terribly.] daddy! you've been seeing him! wellwyn. [with dignity.] my dear, i have not. ann. how do you know, then? wellwyn. came across sir thomas on the embankment yesterday; told me old timso--had been had up again for sitting down in front of a brewer's dray. ann. why? wellwyn. well, you see, as soon as he came out of the what d'you call 'em, he got drunk for a week, and it left him in low spirits. bertley. do you mean he deliberately sat down, with the intention--of--er? wellwyn. said he was tired of life, but they didn't believe him. ann. rather a score for sir thomas! i suppose he'd told the professor? what did he say? wellwyn. well, the professor said [with a quick glance at bertley] he felt there was nothing for some of these poor devils but a lethal chamber. bertley. [shocked.] did he really! [he has not yet caught wellwyn' s glance.] wellwyn. and sir thomas agreed. historic occasion. and you, vicar h'm! [bertley winces.] ann. [to herself.] well, there isn't. bertley. and yet! some good in the old fellow, no doubt, if one could put one's finger on it. [preparing to go.] you'll let us know, then, when you're settled. what was the address? [wellwyn takes out and hands him a card.] ah! yes. good-bye, ann. good-bye, wellyn. [the wind blows his hat along the street.] what a wind! [he goes, pursuing.] ann. [who has eyed the card askance.] daddy, have you told those other two where we're going? wellwyn. which other two, my dear? ann. the professor and sir thomas. wellwyn. well, ann, naturally i---- ann. [jumping on to the dais with disgust.] oh, dear! when i'm trying to get you away from all this atmosphere. i don't so much mind the vicar knowing, because he's got a weak heart---- [she jumps off again. ] wellwyn. [to himself.] seventh floor! i felt there was something. ann. [preparing to go.] i'm going round now. but you must stay here till the van comes back. and don't forget you tipped the men after the first load. wellwyn. oh! yes, yes. [uneasily.] good sorts they look, those fellows! ann. [scrutinising him.] what have you done? wellwyn. nothing, my dear, really----! ann. what? wellwyn. i--i rather think i may have tipped them twice. ann. [drily.] daddy! if it is the first of april, it's not necessary to make a fool of oneself. that's the last time you ever do these ridiculous things. [wellwyn eyes her askance.] i'm going to see that you spend your money on yourself. you needn't look at me like that! i mean to. as soon as i've got you away from here, and all--these---- wellwyn. don't rub it in, ann! ann. [giving him a sudden hug--then going to the door--with a sort of triumph.] deeds, not words, daddy! [she goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out beneath her firm young chin. wellwyn returning to the fire, stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.] wellwyn. [to himself.] bad lot--low type! no method! no theory! [in the open doorway appear ferrand and mrs. megan. they stand, unseen, looking at him. ferrand is more ragged, if possible, than on christmas eve. his chin and cheeks are clothed in a reddish golden beard. mrs. megan's dress is not so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled. they whisper. she slips back into the shadow of the doorway. wellwyn turns at the sound, and stares at ferrand in amazement.] ferrand. [advancing.] enchanted to see you, monsieur. [he looks round the empty room.] you are leaving? wellwyn. [nodding--then taking the young man's hand.] how goes it? ferrand. [displaying himself, simply.] as you see, monsieur. i have done of my best. it still flies from me. wellwyn. [sadly--as if against his will.] ferrand, it will always fly. [the young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then controls himself with a great effort.] ferrand. don't say that, monsieur! it is too much the echo of my heart. wellwyn. forgive me! i didn't mean to pain you. ferrand. [drawing nearer the fire.] that old cabby, monsieur, you remember--they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the other day. [wellwyn nods.] ferrand. and those sirs, so interested in him, with their theories? he has worn them out? [wellwyn nods.] that goes without saying. and now they wish for him the lethal chamber. wellwyn. [startled.] how did you know that? [there is silence.] ferrand. [staring into the fire.] monsieur, while i was on the road this time i fell ill of a fever. it seemed to me in my illness that i saw the truth--how i was wasting in this world--i would never be good for any one--nor any one for me--all would go by, and i never of it--fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of life, ever mocking me. [he draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the flame. and while he is speaking, through the doorway mrs. megan creeps in to listen.] ferrand. [speaking on into the fire.] and i saw, monsieur, so plain, that i should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, i dying in the end the death of a dog. i saw it all in my fever-- clear as that flame--there was nothing for us others, but the herb of death. [wellwyn takes his arm and presses it.] and so, monsieur, i wished to die. i told no one of my fever. i lay out on the ground--it was verree cold. but they would not let me die on the roads of their parishes--they took me to an institution, monsieur, i looked in their eyes while i lay there, and i saw more clear than the blue heaven that they thought it best that i should die, although they would not let me. then monsieur, naturally my spirit rose, and i said: "so much the worse for you. i will live a little more." one is made like that! life is sweet, monsieur. wellwyn. yes, ferrand; life is sweet. ferrand. that little girl you had here, monsieur [wellwyn nods.] in her too there is something of wild-savage. she must have joy of life. i have seen her since i came back. she has embraced the life of joy. it is not quite the same thing. [he lowers his voice.] she is lost, monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water. i can see, if she cannot. [as wellwyn makes a movement of distress.] oh! i am not to blame for that, monsieur. it had well begun before i knew her. wellwyn. yes, yes--i was afraid of it, at the time. [mrs. megan turns silently, and slips away.] feerrand. i do my best for her, monsieur, but look at me! besides, i am not good for her--it is not good for simple souls to be with those who see things clear. for the great part of mankind, to see anything--is fatal. wellwyn. even for you, it seems. ferrand. no, monsieur. to be so near to death has done me good; i shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave. since i saw you, monsieur, i have been in three institutions. they are palaces. one may eat upon the floor--though it is true--for kings--they eat too much of skilly there. one little thing they lack--those palaces. it is understanding of the 'uman heart. in them tame birds pluck wild birds naked. wellwyn. they mean well. ferrand. ah! monsieur, i am loafer, waster--what you like--for all that [bitterly] poverty is my only crime. if i were rich, should i not be simply veree original, 'ighly respected, with soul above commerce, travelling to see the world? and that young girl, would she not be "that charming ladee," "veree chic, you know!" and the old tims--good old-fashioned gentleman--drinking his liquor well. eh! bien--what are we now? dark beasts, despised by all. that is life, monsieur. [he stares into the fire.] wellwyn. we're our own enemies, ferrand. i can afford it--you can't. quite true! ferrand. [earnestly.] monsieur, do you know this? you are the sole being that can do us good--we hopeless ones. wellwyn. [shaking his head.] not a bit of it; i'm hopeless too. ferrand. [eagerly.] monsieur, it is just that. you understand. when we are with you we feel something--here--[he touches his heart.] if i had one prayer to make, it would be, good god, give me to understand! those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our skins and chain our 'abits--that soothes for them the aesthetic sense; it gives them too their good little importance. but our spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand. without that, monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange. wellwyn. don't be so bitter. think of all the work they do! ferrand. monsieur, of their industry i say nothing. they do a good work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame old, and the good unfortunate deserving. above all to the little children. but, monsieur, when all is done, there are always us hopeless ones. what can they do with me, monsieur, with that girl, or with that old man? ah! monsieur, we, too, 'ave our qualities, we others--it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or like that young girl's. we wild ones--we know a thousand times more of life than ever will those sirs. they waste their time trying to make rooks white. be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like mees ann, but do not try to change our skins. leave us to live, or leave us to die when we like in the free air. if you do not wish of us, you have but to shut your pockets and--your doors--we shall die the faster. wellwyn. [with agitation.] but that, you know--we can't do--now can we? ferrand. if you cannot, how is it our fault? the harm we do to others--is it so much? if i am criminal, dangerous--shut me up! i would not pity myself--nevare. but we in whom something moves-- like that flame, monsieur, that cannot keep still--we others--we are not many--that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them--it is life itself they would enclose! [he draws up his tattered figure, then bending over the fire again.] i ask your pardon; i am talking. if i could smoke, monsieur! [wellwyn hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette with his yellow-stained fingers.] ferrand. the good god made me so that i would rather walk a whole month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day making round business on an office stool! it is not to my advantage. i cannot help it that i am a vagabond. what would you have? it is stronger than me. [he looks suddenly at wellwyn.] monsieur, i say to you things i have never said. wellwyn. [quietly.] go on, go on. [there is silence.] ferrand. [suddenly.] monsieur! are you really english? the english are so civilised. wellwyn. and am i not? ferrand. you treat me like a brother. [wellwyn has turned towards the street door at a sound of feet, and the clamour of voices.] timson. [from the street.] take her in 'ere. i knows 'im. [through the open doorway come a police constable and a loafer, bearing between them the limp white faced form of mrs. megan, hatless and with drowned hair, enveloped in the policeman's waterproof. some curious persons bring up the rear, jostling in the doorway, among whom is timson carrying in his hands the policeman's dripping waterproof leg pieces.] ferrand. [starting forward.] monsieur, it is that little girl! wellwyn. what's happened? constable! what's happened! [the constable and loafer have laid the body down on the dais; with wellwyn and ferrand they stand bending over her.] constable. 'tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn't been in the water 'arf a minute when i got hold of her. [he bends lower.] can't understand her collapsin' like this. wellwyn. [feeling her heart.] i don't feel anything. ferrand. [in a voice sharpened by emotion.] let me try, monsieur. constable. [touching his arm.] you keep off, my lad. wellwyn. no, constable--let him. he's her friend. constable. [releasing ferrand--to the loafer.] here you! cut off for a doctor-sharp now! [he pushes back the curious persons.] now then, stand away there, please--we can't have you round the body. keep back--clear out, now! [he slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through the door and shuts it on them, timson being last.] ferrand. the rum! [wellwyn fetches the decanter. with the little there is left ferrand chafes the girl's hands and forehead, and pours some between her lips. but there is no response from the inert body.] ferrand. her soul is still away, monsieur! [wellwyn, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea and boiling water.] constable. it's never drownin', sir--her head was hardly under; i was on to her like knife. ferrand. [rubbing her feet.] she has not yet her philosophy, monsieur; at the beginning they often try. if she is dead! [in a voice of awed rapture.] what fortune! constable. [with puzzled sadness.] true enough, sir--that! we'd just begun to know 'er. if she 'as been taken--her best friends couldn't wish 'er better. wellwyn. [applying the decanter to her dips.] poor little thing! i'll try this hot tea. ferrand. [whispering.] 'la mort--le grand ami!' wellwyn. look! look at her! she's coming round! [a faint tremor passes over mrs. megan's body. he again applies the hot drink to her mouth. she stirs and gulps.] constable. [with intense relief.] that's brave! good lass! she'll pick up now, sir. [then, seeing that timson and the curious persons have again opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back against it. mrs. megan comes to herself.] wellwyn. [sitting on the dais and supporting her--as if to a child.] there you are, my dear. there, there--better now! that's right. drink a little more of this tea. [mrs. megan drinks from the decanter.] ferrand. [rising.] bring her to the fire, monsieur. [they take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool. from the moment of her restored animation ferrand has resumed his air of cynical detachment, and now stands apart with arms folded, watching.] wellwyn. feeling better, my child? mrs. megan. yes. wellwyn. that's good. that's good. now, how was it? um? mrs. megan. i dunno. [she shivers.] i was standin' here just now when you was talkin', and when i heard 'im, it cam' over me to do it--like. wellwyn. ah, yes i know. mrs. megan. i didn't seem no good to meself nor any one. but when i got in the water, i didn't want to any more. it was cold in there. wellwyn. have you been having such a bad time of it? mrs. megan. yes. and listenin' to him upset me. [she signs with her head at ferrand.] i feel better now i've been in the water. [she smiles and shivers.] wellwyn. there, there! shivery? like to walk up and down a little? [they begin walking together up and down.] wellwyn. beastly when your head goes under? mrs. megan. yes. it frightened me. i thought i wouldn't come up again. wellwyn. i know--sort of world without end, wasn't it? what did you think of, um? mrs. megan. i wished i 'adn't jumped--an' i thought of my baby-- that died--and--[in a rather surprised voice] and i thought of d-dancin'. [her mouth quivers, her face puckers, she gives a choke and a little sob.] wellwyn. [stopping and stroking her.] there, there--there! [for a moment her face is buried in his sleeve, then she recovers herself.] mrs. megan. then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me out. wellwyn. ah! what a comfort--um? mrs. megan. yes. the water got into me mouth. [they walk again.] i wouldn't have gone to do it but for him. [she looks towards ferrand.] his talk made me feel all funny, as if people wanted me to. wellwyn. my dear child! don't think such things! as if anyone would----! mrs. megan. [stolidly.] i thought they did. they used to look at me so sometimes, where i was before i ran away--i couldn't stop there, you know. wellwyn. too cooped-up? mrs. megan. yes. no life at all, it wasn't--not after sellin' flowers, i'd rather be doin' what i am. wellwyn. ah! well-it's all over, now! how d'you feel--eh? better? mrs. megan. yes. i feels all right now. [she sits up again on the little stool before the fire.] wellwyn. no shivers, and no aches; quite comfy? mrs. megan. yes. wellwyn. that's a blessing. all well, now, constable--thank you! constable. [who has remained discreetly apart at the door-cordially.] first rate, sir! that's capital! [he approaches and scrutinises mrs. megan.] right as rain, eh, my girl? mrs. megan. [shrinking a little.] yes. constable. that's fine. then i think perhaps, for 'er sake, sir, the sooner we move on and get her a change o' clothin', the better. wellwyn. oh! don't bother about that--i'll send round for my daughter--we'll manage for her here. constable. very kind of you, i'm sure, sir. but [with embarrassment] she seems all right. she'll get every attention at the station. wellwyn. but i assure you, we don't mind at all; we'll take the greatest care of her. constable. [still more embarrassed.] well, sir, of course, i'm thinkin' of--i'm afraid i can't depart from the usual course. wellwyn. [sharply.] what! but-oh! no! no! that'll be all right, constable! that'll be all right! i assure you. constable. [with more decision.] i'll have to charge her, sir. wellwyn. good god! you don't mean to say the poor little thing has got to be---- constable. [consulting with him.] well, sir, we can't get over the facts, can we? there it is! you know what sooicide amounts to-- it's an awkward job. wellwyn. [calming himself with an effort.] but look here, constable, as a reasonable man--this poor wretched little girl--you know what that life means better than anyone! why! it's to her credit to try and jump out of it! [the constable shakes his head.] wellwyn. you said yourself her best friends couldn't wish her better! [dropping his voice still more.] everybody feels it! the vicar was here a few minutes ago saying the very same thing--the vicar, constable! [the constable shakes his head.] ah! now, look here, i know something of her. nothing can be done with her. we all admit it. don't you see? well, then hang it--you needn't go and make fools of us all by---- ferrand. monsieur, it is the first of april. constable. [with a sharp glance at him.] can't neglect me duty, sir; that's impossible. wellwyn. look here! she--slipped. she's been telling me. come, constable, there's a good fellow. may be the making of her, this. constable. i quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, an' you make it very 'ard for me--but, come now! i put it to you as a gentleman, would you go back on yer duty if you was me? [wellwyn raises his hat, and plunges his fingers through and through his hair.] wellwyn. well! god in heaven! of all the d---d topsy--turvy--! not a soul in the world wants her alive--and now she's to be prosecuted for trying to be where everyone wishes her. constable. come, sir, come! be a man! [throughout all this mrs. megan has sat stolidly before the fire, but as ferrand suddenly steps forward she looks up at him.] ferrand. do not grieve, monsieur! this will give her courage. there is nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony of things. [he touches mrs. megan's shoulder.] go, my child; it will do you good. [mrs. megan rises, and looks at him dazedly.] constable. [coming forward, and taking her by the hand.] that's my good lass. come along! we won't hurt you. mrs. megan. i don't want to go. they'll stare at me. constable. [comforting.] not they! i'll see to that. wellwyn. [very upset.] take her in a cab, constable, if you must --for god's sake! [he pulls out a shilling.] here! constable. [taking the shilling.] i will, sir, certainly. don't think i want to---- wellwyn. no, no, i know. you're a good sort. constable. [comfortable.] don't you take on, sir. it's her first try; they won't be hard on 'er. like as not only bind 'er over in her own recogs. not to do it again. come, my dear. mrs. megan. [trying to free herself from the policeman's cloak.] i want to take this off. it looks so funny. [as she speaks the door is opened by ann; behind whom is dimly seen the form of old timson, still heading the curious persons.] ann. [looking from one to the other in amazement.] what is it? what's happened? daddy! ferrand. [out of the silence.] it is nothing, ma'moiselle! she has failed to drown herself. they run her in a little. wellwyn. lend her your jacket, my dear; she'll catch her death. [ann, feeling mrs. megan's arm, strips of her jacket, and helps her into it without a word.] constable. [donning his cloak.] thank you. miss--very good of you, i'm sure. mrs. megan. [mazed.] it's warm! [she gives them all a last half-smiling look, and passes with the constable through the doorway.] ferrand. that makes the third of us, monsieur. we are not in luck. to wish us dead, it seems, is easier than to let us die. [he looks at ann, who is standing with her eyes fixed on her father. wellwyn has taken from his pocket a visiting card.] wellwyn. [to ferrand.] here quick; take this, run after her! when they've done with her tell her to come to us. ferrand. [taking the card, and reading the address.] "no. , haven house, flight street!" rely on me, monsieur--i will bring her myself to call on you. 'au revoir, mon bon monsieur'! [he bends over wellwyn's hand; then, with a bow to ann goes out; his tattered figure can be seen through the window, passing in the wind. wellwyn turns back to the fire. the figure of timson advances into the doorway, no longer holding in either hand a waterproof leg-piece.] timson. [in a croaky voice.] sir! wellwyn. what--you, timson? timson. on me larst legs, sir. 'ere! you can see 'em for yerself! shawn't trouble yer long.... wellwyn. [after a long and desperate stare.] not now--timson not now! take this! [he takes out another card, and hands it to timson] some other time. timson. [taking the card.] yer new address! you are a gen'leman. [he lurches slowly away.] [ann shuts the street door and sets her back against it. the rumble of the approaching van is heard outside. it ceases.] ann. [in a fateful voice.] daddy! [they stare at each other.] do you know what you've done? given your card to those six rotters. wellwyn. [with a blank stare.] six? ann. [staring round the naked room.] what was the good of this? wellwyn. [following her eyes---very gravely.] ann! it is stronger than me. [without a word ann opens the door, and walks straight out. with a heavy sigh, wellwyn sinks down on the little stool before the fire. the three humble-men come in.] chief humble-man. [in an attitude of expectation.] this is the larst of it, sir. wellwyn. oh! ah! yes! [he gives them money; then something seems to strike him, and he exhibits certain signs of vexation. suddenly he recovers, looks from one to the other, and then at the tea things. a faint smile comes on his face.] wellwyn. you can finish the decanter. [he goes out in haste.] chief humble-man. [clinking the coins.] third time of arskin'! april fool! not 'arf! good old pigeon! second humble-man. 'uman being, i call 'im. chief humble-man. [taking the three glasses from the last packing-case, and pouring very equally into them.] that's right. tell you wot, i'd never 'a touched this unless 'e'd told me to, i wouldn't--not with 'im. second humble-man. ditto to that! this is a bit of orl right! [raising his glass.] good luck! third humble-man. same 'ere! [simultaneously they place their lips smartly against the liquor, and at once let fall their faces and their glasses.] chief humble-man. [with great solemnity.] crikey! bill! tea! .....'e's got us! [the stage is blotted dark.] curtain. the end the mob a play in four acts persons of the play stephen more, member of parliament katherine, his wife olive, their little daughter the dean of stour, katherine's uncle general sir john julian, her father captain hubert julian, her brother helen, his wife edward mendip, editor of "the parthenon" alan steel, more's secretary james home, architect | charles shelder, solicitor |a deputation of more's mark wace, bookseller |constituents william banning, manufacturer | nurse wreford wreford (her son), hubert's orderly his sweetheart the footman henry a doorkeeper some black-coated gentlemen a student a girl a mob act i. the dining-room of more's town house, evening. act ii. the same, morning. act iii. scene i. an alley at the back of a suburban theatre. scene ii. katherine's bedroom. act iv. the dining-room of more's house, late afternoon. aftermath. the corner of a square, at dawn. between acts i and ii some days elapse. between acts ii and iii three months. between act iii scene i and act iii scene ii no time. between acts iii and iv a few hours. between acts iv and aftermath an indefinite period. act i it is half-past nine of a july evening. in a dining-room lighted by sconces, and apparelled in wall-paper, carpet, and curtains of deep vivid blue, the large french windows between two columns are open on to a wide terrace, beyond which are seen trees in darkness, and distant shapes of lighted houses. on one side is a bay window, over which curtains are partly drawn. opposite to this window is a door leading into the hall. at an oval rosewood table, set with silver, flowers, fruit, and wine, six people are seated after dinner. back to the bay window is stephen more, the host, a man of forty, with a fine-cut face, a rather charming smile, and the eyes of an idealist; to his right, sir, john julian, an old soldier, with thin brown features, and grey moustaches; to sir john's right, his brother, the dean of stour, a tall, dark, ascetic-looking churchman: to his right katherine is leaning forward, her elbows on the table, and her chin on her hands, staring across at her husband; to her right sits edward mendip, a pale man of forty-five, very bald, with a fine forehead, and on his clear-cut lips a smile that shows his teeth; between him and more is helen julian, a pretty dark-haired young woman, absorbed in thoughts of her own. the voices are tuned to the pitch of heated discussion, as the curtain rises. the dean. i disagree with you, stephen; absolutely, entirely disagree. more. i can't help it. mendip. remember a certain war, stephen! were your chivalrous notions any good, then? and, what was winked at in an obscure young member is anathema for an under secretary of state. you can't afford---- more. to follow my conscience? that's new, mendip. mendip. idealism can be out of place, my friend. the dean. the government is dealing here with a wild lawless race, on whom i must say i think sentiment is rather wasted. more. god made them, dean. mendip. i have my doubts. the dean. they have proved themselves faithless. we have the right to chastise. more. if i hit a little man in the eye, and he hits me back, have i the right to chastise him? sir john. we didn't begin this business. more. what! with our missionaries and our trading? the dean. it is news indeed that the work of civilization may be justifiably met by murder. have you forgotten glaive and morlinson? sir john. yes. and that poor fellow groome and his wife? more. they went into a wild country, against the feeling of the tribes, on their own business. what has the nation to do with the mishaps of gamblers? sir john. we can't stand by and see our own flesh and blood ill-treated! the dean. does our rule bring blessing--or does it not, stephen? more. sometimes; but with all my soul i deny the fantastic superstition that our rule can benefit a people like this, a nation of one race, as different from ourselves as dark from light--in colour, religion, every mortal thing. we can only pervert their natural instincts. the dean. that to me is an unintelligible point of view. mendip. go into that philosophy of yours a little deeper, stephen-- it spells stagnation. there are no fixed stars on this earth. nations can't let each other alone. more. big ones could let little ones alone. mendip. if they could there'd be no big ones. my dear fellow, we know little nations are your hobby, but surely office should have toned you down. sir john. i've served my country fifty years, and i say she is not in the wrong. more. i hope to serve her fifty, sir john, and i say she is. mendip. there are moments when such things can't be said, more. more. they'll be said by me to-night, mendip. mendip. in the house? [more nods.] katherine. stephen! mendip. mrs. more, you mustn't let him. it's madness. more. [rising] you can tell people that to-morrow, mendip. give it a leader in 'the parthenon'. mendip. political lunacy! no man in your position has a right to fly out like this at the eleventh hour. more. i've made no secret of my feelings all along. i'm against this war, and against the annexation we all know it will lead to. mendip. my dear fellow! don't be so quixotic! we shall have war within the next twenty-four hours, and nothing you can do will stop it. helen. oh! no! mendip. i'm afraid so, mrs. hubert. sir john. not a doubt of it, helen. mendip. [to more] and you mean to charge the windmill? [more nods.] mendip. 'c'est magnifique'! more. i'm not out for advertisement. mendip. you will get it! more. must speak the truth sometimes, even at that risk. sir john. it is not the truth. mendip. the greater the truth the greater the libel, and the greater the resentment of the person libelled. the dean. [trying to bring matters to a blander level] my dear stephen, even if you were right--which i deny--about the initial merits, there surely comes a point where the individual conscience must resign it self to the country's feeling. this has become a question of national honour. sir john. well said, james! more. nations are bad judges of their honour, dean. the dean. i shall not follow you there. more. no. it's an awkward word. katherine. [stopping the dean] uncle james! please! [more looks at her intently.] sir john. so you're going to put yourself at the head of the cranks, ruin your career, and make me ashamed that you're my son-in-law? more. is a man only to hold beliefs when they're popular? you've stood up to be shot at often enough, sir john. sir john. never by my country! your speech will be in all the foreign press-trust 'em for seizing on anything against us. a show-up before other countries----! more. you admit the show-up? sir john. i do not, sir. the dean. the position has become impossible. the state of things out there must be put an end to once for all! come, katherine, back us up! more. my country, right or wrong! guilty--still my country! mendip. that begs the question. [katherine rises. the dean, too, stands up.] the dean. [in a low voice] 'quem deus volt perdere'----! sir john. unpatriotic! more. i'll have no truck with tyranny. katherine. father doesn't admit tyranny. nor do any of us, stephen. hubert julian, a tall soldier-like man, has come in. helen. hubert! [she gets up and goes to him, and they talk together near the door.] sir john. what in god's name is your idea? we've forborne long enough, in all conscience. more. sir john, we great powers have got to change our ways in dealing with weaker nations. the very dogs can give us lessons-- watch a big dog with a little one. mendip. no, no, these things are not so simple as all that. more. there's no reason in the world, mendip, why the rules of chivalry should not apply to nations at least as well as to---dogs. mendip. my dear friend, are you to become that hapless kind of outcast, a champion of lost causes? more. this cause is not lost. mendip. right or wrong, as lost as ever was cause in all this world. there was never a time when the word "patriotism" stirred mob sentiment as it does now. 'ware "mob," stephen---'ware "mob"! more. because general sentiment's against me, i--a public man--am to deny my faith? the point is not whether i'm right or wrong, mendip, but whether i'm to sneak out of my conviction because it's unpopular. the dean. i'm afraid i must go. [to katherine] good-night, my dear! ah! hubert! [he greets hubert] mr. mendip, i go your way. can i drop you? mendip. thank you. good-night, mrs. more. stop him! it's perdition. [he and the dean go out. katherine puts her arm in helen's, and takes her out of the room. hubert remains standing by the door] sir john. i knew your views were extreme in many ways, stephen, but i never thought the husband of my daughter would be a peace-at-any- price man! more. i am not! but i prefer to fight some one my own size. sir john. well! i can only hope to god you'll come to your senses before you commit the folly of this speech. i must get back to the war office. good-night, hubert. hubert. good-night, father. [sir john goes out. hubert stands motionless, dejected.] hubert. we've got our orders. more. what? when d'you sail? hubert. at once. more. poor helen! hubert. not married a year; pretty bad luck! [more touches his arm in sympathy] well! we've got to put feelings in our pockets. look here, stephen--don't make that speech! think of katherine--with the dad at the war office, and me going out, and ralph and old george out there already! you can't trust your tongue when you're hot about a thing. more. i must speak, hubert. hubert. no, no! bottle yourself up for to-night. the next few hours 'll see it begin. [more turns from him] if you don't care whether you mess up your own career--don't tear katherine in two! more. you're not shirking your duty because of your wife. hubert. well! you're riding for a fall, and a godless mucker it'll be. this'll be no picnic. we shall get some nasty knocks out there. wait and see the feeling here when we've had a force or two cut up in those mountains. it's awful country. those fellows have got modern arms, and are jolly good fighters. do drop it, stephen! more. must risk something, sometimes, hubert--even in my profession! [as he speaks, katherine comes in.] hubert. but it's hopeless, my dear chap--absolutely. [more turns to the window, hubert to his sister--then with a gesture towards more, as though to leave the matter to her, he goes out.] katherine. stephen! are you really going to speak? [he nods] i ask you not. more. you know my feeling. katherine. but it's our own country. we can't stand apart from it. you won't stop anything--only make people hate you. i can't bear that. more. i tell you, kit, some one must raise a voice. two or three reverses--certain to come--and the whole country will go wild. and one more little nation will cease to live. katherine. if you believe in your country, you must believe that the more land and power she has, the better for the world. more. is that your faith? katherine. yes. more. i respect it; i even understand it; but--i can't hold it. katherine. but, stephen, your speech will be a rallying cry to all the cranks, and every one who has a spite against the country. they'll make you their figurehead. [more smiles] they will. your chance of the cabinet will go--you may even have to resign your seat. more. dogs will bark. these things soon blow over. katherine. no, no! if you once begin a thing, you always go on; and what earthly good? more. history won't say: "and this they did without a single protest from their public men!" katherine. there are plenty who---- more. poets? katherine. do you remember that day on our honeymoon, going up ben lawers? you were lying on your face in the heather; you said it was like kissing a loved woman. there was a lark singing--you said that was the voice of one's worship. the hills were very blue; that's why we had blue here, because it was the best dress of our country. you do love her. more. love her! katherine. you'd have done this for me--then. more. would you have asked me--then, kit? katherine. yes. the country's our country! oh! stephen, think what it'll be like for me--with hubert and the other boys out there. and poor helen, and father! i beg you not to make this speech. more. kit! this isn't fair. do you want me to feel myself a cur? katherine. [breathless] i--i--almost feel you'll be a cur to do it [she looks at him, frightened by her own words. then, as the footman henry has come in to clear the table--very low] i ask you not! [he does not answer, and she goes out.] more [to the servant] later, please, henry, later! the servant retires. more still stands looking down at the dining-table; then putting his hand to his throat, as if to free it from the grip of his collar, he pours out a glass of water, and drinks it of. in the street, outside the bay window, two street musicians, a harp and a violin, have taken up their stand, and after some twangs and scrapes, break into music. more goes towards the sound, and draws aside one curtain. after a moment, he returns to the table, and takes up the notes of the speech. he is in an agony of indecision. more. a cur! he seems about to tear his notes across. then, changing his mind, turns them over and over, muttering. his voice gradually grows louder, till he is declaiming to the empty room the peroration of his speech. more. . . . we have arrogated to our land the title champion of freedom, foe of oppression. is that indeed a bygone glory? is it not worth some sacrifice of our pettier dignity, to avoid laying another stone upon its grave; to avoid placing before the searchlight eyes of history the spectacle of yet one more piece of national cynicism? we are about to force our will and our dominion on a race that has always been free, that loves its country, and its independence, as much as ever we love ours. i cannot sit silent to-night and see this begin. as we are tender of our own land, so we should be of the lands of others. i love my country. it is because i love my country that i raise my voice. warlike in spirit these people may be--but they have no chance against ourselves. and war on such, however agreeable to the blind moment, is odious to the future. the great heart of mankind ever beats in sense and sympathy with the weaker. it is against this great heart of mankind that we are going. in the name of justice and civilization we pursue this policy; but by justice we shall hereafter be judged, and by civilization--condemned. while he is speaking, a little figure has flown along the terrace outside, in the direction of the music, but has stopped at the sound of his voice, and stands in the open window, listening--a dark-haired, dark-eyed child, in a blue dressing-gown caught up in her hand. the street musicians, having reached the end of a tune, are silent. in the intensity of mores feeling, a wine-glass, gripped too strongly, breaks and falls in pieces onto a finger-bowl. the child starts forward into the room. more. olive! olive. who were you speaking to, daddy? more. [staring at her] the wind, sweetheart! olive. there isn't any! more. what blew you down, then? olive. [mysteriously] the music. did the wind break the wine-glass, or did it come in two in your hand? more. now my sprite! upstairs again, before nurse catches you. fly! fly! olive. oh! no, daddy! [with confidential fervour] it feels like things to-night! more. you're right there! olive. [pulling him down to her, and whispering] i must get back again in secret. h'sh! she suddenly runs and wraps herself into one of the curtains of the bay window. a young man enters, with a note in his hand. more. hello, steel! [the street musicians have again begun to play.] steel. from sir john--by special messenger from the war office. more. [reading the note] "the ball is opened." he stands brooding over the note, and steel looks at him anxiously. he is a dark, sallow, thin-faced young man, with the eyes of one who can attach himself to people, and suffer with them. steel. i'm glad it's begun, sir. it would have been an awful pity to have made that speech. more. you too, steel! steel. i mean, if it's actually started---- more. [tearing tie note across] yes. keep that to yourself. steel. do you want me any more? more takes from his breast pocket some papers, and pitches them down on the bureau. more. answer these. steel. [going to the bureau] fetherby was simply sickening. [he begins to write. struggle has begun again in more] not the faintest recognition that there are two sides to it. more gives him a quick look, goes quietly to the dining-table and picks up his sheaf of notes. hiding them with his sleeve, he goes back to the window, where he again stands hesitating. steel. chief gem: [imitating] "we must show impudence at last that dignity is not asleep!" more. [moving out on to the terrace] nice quiet night! steel. this to the cottage hospital--shall i say you will preside? more. no. steel writes; then looking up and seeing that more is no longer there, he goes to the window, looks to right and left, returns to the bureau, and is about to sit down again when a thought seems to strike him with consternation. he goes again to the window. then snatching up his hat, he passes hurriedly out along the terrace. as he vanishes, katherine comes in from the hall. after looking out on to the terrace she goes to the bay window; stands there listening; then comes restlessly back into the room. olive, creeping quietly from behind the curtain, clasps her round the waist. katherine. o my darling! how you startled me! what are you doing down here, you wicked little sinner! olive. i explained all that to daddy. we needn't go into it again, need we? katherine. where is daddy? olive. gone. katherine. when? olive. oh! only just, and mr. steel went after him like a rabbit. [the music stops] they haven't been paid, you know. katherine. now, go up at once. i can't think how you got down here. olive. i can. [wheedling] if you pay them, mummy, they're sure to play another. katherine. well, give them that! one more only. she gives olive a coin, who runs with it to the bay window, opens the aide casement, and calls to the musicians. olive. catch, please! and would you play just one more? she returns from the window, and seeing her mother lost in thought, rubs herself against her. olive. have you got an ache? katharine. right through me, darling! olive. oh! [the musicians strike up a dance.] olive. oh! mummy! i must just dance! she kicks off her lisle blue shoes, and begins dancing. while she is capering hubert comes in from the hall. he stands watching his little niece for a minute, and katherine looks at him. hubert. stephen gone! katherine. yes--stop, olive! olive. are you good at my sort of dancing, uncle? hubert. yes, chick--awfully! katherine. now, olive! the musicians have suddenly broken off in the middle of a bar. from the street comes the noise of distant shouting. olive. listen, uncle! isn't it a particular noise? hubert and katherine listen with all their might, and olive stares at their faces. hubert goes to the window. the sound comes nearer. the shouted words are faintly heard: "pyper---- war----our force crosses frontier--sharp fightin'----pyper." katherine. [breathless] yes! it is. the street cry is heard again in two distant voices coming from different directions: "war--pyper--sharp fightin' on the frontier--pyper." katherine. shut out those ghouls! as hubert closes the window, nurse wreford comes in from the hall. she is an elderly woman endowed with a motherly grimness. she fixes olive with her eye, then suddenly becomes conscious of the street cry. nurse. oh! don't say it's begun. [hubert comes from the window.] nurse. is the regiment to go, mr. hubert? hubert. yes, nanny. nurse. oh, dear! my boy! katherine. [signing to where olive stands with wide eyes] nurse! hubert. i'll look after him, nurse. nurse. and him keepin' company. and you not married a year. ah! mr. hubert, now do 'ee take care; you and him's both so rash. hubert. not i, nurse! nurse looks long into his face, then lifts her finger, and beckons olive. olive. [perceiving new sensations before her, goes quietly] good-night, uncle! nanny, d'you know why i was obliged to come down? [in a fervent whisper] it's a secret! [as she passes with nurse out into the hall, her voice is heard saying, "do tell me all about the war."] hubert. [smothering emotion under a blunt manner] we sail on friday, kit. be good to helen, old girl. katherine. oh! i wish----! why--can't--women--fight? hubert. yes, it's bad for you, with stephen taking it like this. but he'll come round now it's once begun. katherine shakes her head, then goes suddenly up to him, and throws her arms round his neck. it is as if all the feeling pent up in her were finding vent in this hug. the door from the hall is opened, and sir john's voice is heard outside: "all right, i'll find her." katherine. father! [sir john comes in.] sir john. stephen get my note? i sent it over the moment i got to the war office. katherine. i expect so. [seeing the torn note on the table] yes. sir john. they're shouting the news now. thank god, i stopped that crazy speech of his in time. katherine. have you stopped it? sir john. what! he wouldn't be such a sublime donkey? katherine. i think that is just what he might be. [going to the window] we shall know soon. [sir john, after staring at her, goes up to hubert.] sir john. keep a good heart, my boy. the country's first. [they exchange a hand-squeeze.] katherine backs away from the window. steel has appeared there from the terrace, breathless from running. steel. mr. more back? katherine. no. has he spoken? steel. yes. katherine. against? steel. yes. sir john. what? after! sir, john stands rigid, then turns and marches straight out into the hall. at a sign from katherine, hubert follows him. katherine. yes, mr. steel? steel. [still breathless and agitated] we were here--he slipped away from me somehow. he must have gone straight down to the house. i ran over, but when i got in under the gallery he was speaking already. they expected something--i never heard it so still there. he gripped them from the first word--deadly--every syllable. it got some of those fellows. but all the time, under the silence you could feel a--sort of--of--current going round. and then sherratt--i think it was--began it, and you saw the anger rising in them; but he kept them down--his quietness! the feeling! i've never seen anything like it there. then there was a whisper all over the house that fighting had begun. and the whole thing broke out--regular riot--as if they could have killed him. some one tried to drag him down by the coat-tails, but he shook him off, and went on. then he stopped dead and walked out, and the noise dropped like a stone. the whole thing didn't last five minutes. it was fine, mrs. more; like--like lava; he was the only cool person there. i wouldn't have missed it for anything--it was grand! more has appeared on the terrace, behind steel. katherine. good-night, mr. steel. steel. [startled] oh!--good-night! he goes out into the hall. katherine picks up olive's shoes, and stands clasping them to her breast. more comes in. katherine. you've cleared your conscience, then! i didn't think you'd hurt me so. more does not answer, still living in the scene he has gone through, and katherine goes a little nearer to him. katherine. i'm with the country, heart and soul, stephen. i warn you. while they stand in silence, facing each other, the footman, henry, enters from the hall. footman. these notes, sir, from the house of commons. katherine. [taking them] you can have the room directly. [the footman goes out.] more. open them! katherine opens one after the other, and lets them fall on the table. more. well? katherine. what you might expect. three of your best friends. it's begun. more. 'ware mob! [he gives a laugh] i must write to the chief. katherine makes an impulsive movement towards him; then quietly goes to the bureau, sits down and takes up a pen. katherine. let me make the rough draft. [she waits] yes? more. [dictating] "july th. "dear sir charles, after my speech to-night, embodying my most unalterable convictions [katherine turns and looks up at him, but he is staring straight before him, and with a little movement of despair she goes on writing] i have no alternative but to place the resignation of my under-secretaryship in your hands. my view, my faith in this matter may be wrong--but i am surely right to keep the flag of my faith flying. i imagine i need not enlarge on the reasons----" the curtain falls. act. ii before noon a few days later. the open windows of the dining-room let in the sunlight. on the table a number of newspapers are littered. helen is sitting there, staring straight before her. a newspaper boy runs by outside calling out his wares. at the sound she gets up anti goes out on to the terrace. hubert enters from the hall. he goes at once to the terrace, and draws helen into the room. helen. is it true--what they're shouting? hubert. yes. worse than we thought. they got our men all crumpled up in the pass--guns helpless. ghastly beginning. helen. oh, hubert! hubert. my dearest girl! helen puts her face up to his. he kisses her. then she turns quickly into the bay window. the door from the hall has been opened, and the footman, henry, comes in, preceding wreford and his sweetheart. henry. just wait here, will you, while i let mrs. more know. [catching sight of hubert] beg pardon, sir! hubert. all right, henry. [off-hand] ah! wreford! [the footman withdraws] so you've brought her round. that's good! my sister'll look after her--don't you worry! got everything packed? three o'clock sharp. wreford. [a broad faced soldier, dressed in khaki with a certain look of dry humour, now dimmed-speaking with a west country burr] that's right, zurr; all's ready. helen has come out of the window, and is quietly looking at wreford and the girl standing there so awkwardly. helen. [quietly] take care of him, wreford. hubert. we'll take care of each other, won't we, wreford? helen. how long have you been engaged? the girl. [a pretty, indeterminate young woman] six months. [she sobs suddenly.] helen. ah! he'll soon be safe back. wreford. i'll owe 'em for this. [in a lacy voice to her] don't 'ee now! don't 'ee! helen. no! don't cry, please! she stands struggling with her own lips, then goes out on to the terrace, hubert following. wreford and his girl remain where they were, strange and awkward, she muffling her sobs. wreford. don't 'ee go on like that, nance; i'll 'ave to take you 'ome. that's silly, now we've a-come. i might be dead and buried by the fuss you're makin'. you've a-drove the lady away. see! she regains control of herself as the door is opened and katherine appears, accompanied by olive, who regards wreford with awe and curiosity, and by nurse, whose eyes are red, but whose manner is composed. katherine. my brother told me; so glad you've brought her. wreford. ye--as, m'. she feels me goin', a bit. katherine. yes, yes! still, it's for the country, isn't it? the girl. that's what wreford keeps tellin' me. he've got to go--so it's no use upsettin' 'im. and of course i keep tellin' him i shall be all right. nurse. [whose eyes never leave her son's face] and so you will. the girl. wreford thought it'd comfort him to know you were interested in me. 'e's so 'ot-headed i'm sure somethin'll come to 'im. katherine. we've all got some one going. are you coming to the docks? we must send them off in good spirits, you know. olive. perhaps he'll get a medal. katherine. olive! nurse. you wouldn't like for him to be hanging back, one of them anti-patriot, stop-the-war ones. katherine. [quickly] let me see--i have your address. [holding out her hand to wreford] we'll look after her. olive. [in a loud whisper] shall i lend him my toffee? katherine. if you like, dear. [to wreford] now take care of my brother and yourself, and we'll take care of her. wreford. ye--as, m'. he then looks rather wretchedly at his girl, as if the interview had not done so much for him as he had hoped. she drops a little curtsey. wreford salutes. olive. [who has taken from the bureau a packet, places it in his hand] it's very nourishing! wreford. thank you, miss. then, nudging each other, and entangled in their feelings and the conventions, they pass out, shepherded by nurse. katherine. poor things! olive. what is an anti-patriot, stop-the-war one, mummy? katherine. [taking up a newspaper] just a stupid name, dear--don't chatter! olive. but tell me just one weeny thing! katherine. well? olive. is daddy one? katherine. olive! how much do you know about this war? olive. they won't obey us properly. so we have to beat them, and take away their country. we shall, shan't we? katherine. yes. but daddy doesn't want us to; he doesn't think it fair, and he's been saying so. people are very angry with him. olive. why isn't it fair? i suppose we're littler than them. katherine. no. olive. oh! in history we always are. and we always win. that's why i like history. which are you for, mummy--us or them? katherine. us. olive. then i shall have to be. it's a pity we're not on the same side as daddy. [katherine shudders] will they hurt him for not taking our side? katherine. i expect they will, olive. olive. then we shall have to be extra nice to him. katherine. if we can. olive. i can; i feel like it. helen and hubert have returned along the terrace. seeing katherine and the child, helen passes on, but hubert comes in at the french window. olive. [catching sight of him-softly] is uncle hubert going to the front to-day? [katherine nods] but not grandfather? katherine. no, dear. olive. that's lucky for them, isn't it? hubert comes in. the presence of the child give him self-control. hubert. well, old girl, it's good-bye. [to olive] what shall i bring you back, chick? olive. are there shops at the front? i thought it was dangerous. hubert. not a bit. olive. [disillusioned] oh! katherine. now, darling, give uncle a good hug. [under cover of olive's hug, katherine repairs her courage.] katherine. the dad and i'll be with you all in spirit. good-bye, old boy! they do not dare to kiss, and hubert goes out very stiff and straight, in the doorway passing steel, of whom he takes no notice. steel hesitates, and would go away. katherine. come in, mr. steel. steel. the deputation from toulmin ought to be here, mrs. more. it's twelve. olive. [having made a little ball of newspaper-slyly] mr. steel, catch! [she throws, and steel catches it in silence.] katherine. go upstairs, won't you, darling? olive. mayn't i read in the window, mummy? then i shall see if any soldiers pass. katherine. no. you can go out on the terrace a little, and then you must go up. [olive goes reluctantly out on to the terrace.] steel. awful news this morning of that pass! and have you seen these? [reading from the newspaper] "we will have no truck with the jargon of the degenerate who vilifies his country at such a moment. the member for toulmin has earned for himself the contempt of all virile patriots." [he takes up a second journal] "there is a certain type of public man who, even at his own expense, cannot resist the itch to advertise himself. we would, at moments of national crisis, muzzle such persons, as we muzzle dogs that we suspect of incipient rabies . . . ." they're in full cry after him! katherine. i mind much more all the creatures who are always flinging mud at the country making him their hero suddenly! you know what's in his mind? steel. oh! we must get him to give up that idea of lecturing everywhere against the war, mrs. more; we simply must. katherine. [listening] the deputation's come. go and fetch him, mr. steel. he'll be in his room, at the house. [steel goes out, and katherine stands at bay. in a moment he opens the door again, to usher in the deputation; then retires. the four gentlemen have entered as if conscious of grave issues. the first and most picturesque is james home, a thin, tall, grey-bearded man, with plentiful hair, contradictious eyebrows, and the half-shy, half-bold manners, alternately rude and over polite, of one not accustomed to society, yet secretly much taken with himself. he is dressed in rough tweeds, with a red silk tie slung through a ring, and is closely followed by mark wace, a waxy, round-faced man of middle-age, with sleek dark hair, traces of whisker, and a smooth way of continually rubbing his hands together, as if selling something to an esteemed customer. he is rather stout, wears dark clothes, with a large gold chain. following him comes charles shelder, a lawyer of fifty, with a bald egg-shaped head, and gold pince-nez. he has little side whiskers, a leathery, yellowish skin, a rather kind but watchful and dubious face, and when he speaks seems to have a plum in his mouth, which arises from the preponderance of his shaven upper lip. last of the deputation comes william banning, an energetic-looking, square-shouldered, self-made country-man, between fifty and sixty, with grey moustaches, ruddy face, and lively brown eyes.] katherine. how do you do, mr. home? home. [bowing rather extravagantly over her hand, as if to show his independence of women's influence] mrs. more! we hardly expected-- this is an honour. wace. how do you do, ma'am? katherine. and you, mr. wace? wace. thank you, ma'am, well indeed! shelder. how d'you do, mrs. more? katherine. very well, thank you, mr. shelder. banning. [speaking with a rather broad country accent] this is but a poor occasion, ma'am. katherine. yes, mr. banning. do sit down, gentlemen. seeing that they will not settle down while she is standing, she sits at the table. they gradually take their seats. each member of the deputation in his own way is severely hanging back from any mention of the subject in hand; and katherine as intent on drawing them to it. katherine. my husband will be here in two minutes. he's only over at the house. shelder. [who is of higher standing and education than the others] charming position--this, mrs. more! so near the--er--centre of-- gravity um? katherine. i read the account of your second meeting at toulmin. banning. it's bad, mrs. more--bad. there's no disguising it. that speech was moon-summer madness--ah! it was! take a lot of explaining away. why did you let him, now? why did you? not your views, i'm sure! [he looks at her, but for answer she only compresses her lips.] banning. i tell you what hit me--what's hit the whole constituency-- and that's his knowing we were over the frontier, fighting already, when he made it. katherine. what difference does it make if he did know? home. hitting below the belt--i should have thought--you'll pardon me! banning. till war's begun, mrs. more, you're entitled to say what you like, no doubt--but after! that's going against your country. ah! his speech was strong, you know--his speech was strong. katherine. he had made up his mind to speak. it was just an accident the news coming then. [a silence.] banning. well, that's true, i suppose. what we really want is to make sure he won't break out again. home. very high-minded, his views of course--but, some consideration for the common herd. you'll pardon me! shelder. we've come with the friendliest feelings, mrs. more--but, you know, it won't do, this sort of thing! wace. we shall be able to smooth him down. oh! surely. banning. we'd be best perhaps not to mention about his knowing that fighting had begun. [as he speaks, more enters through the french windows. they all rise.] more. good-morning, gentlemen. [he comes down to the table, but does not offer to shake hands.] banning. well, mr. more? you've made a woeful mistake, sir; i tell you to your face. more. as everybody else does, banning. sit down again, please. [they gradually resume their seats, and more sits in katherine's chair. she alone remains standing leaning against the corner of the bay window, watching their faces.] banning. you've seen the morning's telegrams? i tell you, mr. more--another reverse like that, and the flood will sweep you clean away. and i'll not blame it. it's only flesh and blood. more, allow for the flesh and blood in me, too, please. when i spoke the other night it was not without a certain feeling here. [he touches his heart.] banning. but your attitude's so sudden--you'd not been going that length when you were down with us in may. more. do me the justice to remember that even then i was against our policy. it cost me three weeks' hard struggle to make up my mind to that speech. one comes slowly to these things, banning. shelder. case of conscience? more. such things have happened, shelder, even in politics. shelder. you see, our ideals are naturally low--how different from yours! [more smiles.] katherine, who has drawn near her husband, moves back again, as if relieved at this gleam of geniality. wace rubs his hands. banning. there's one thing you forget, sir. we send you to parliament, representing us; but you couldn't find six men in the whole constituency that would have bidden you to make that speech. more. i'm sorry; but i can't help my convictions, banning. shelder. what was it the prophet was without in his own country? banning. ah! but we're not funning, mr. more. i've never known feeling run so high. the sentiment of both meetings was dead against you. we've had showers of letters to headquarters. some from very good men--very warm friends of yours. shelder. come now! it's not too late. let's go back and tell them you won't do it again. more. muzzling order? banning. [bluntly] that's about it. more. give up my principles to save my parliamentary skin. then, indeed, they might call me a degenerate! [he touches the newspapers on the table.] katherine makes an abrupt and painful movement, then remains as still as before, leaning against the corner of the window-seat. banning. well, well! i know. but we don't ask you to take your words back--we only want discretion in the future. more. conspiracy of silence! and have it said that a mob of newspapers have hounded me to it. banning. they won't say that of you. shelder. my dear more, aren't you rather dropping to our level? with your principles you ought not to care two straws what people say. more. but i do. i can't betray the dignity and courage of public men. if popular opinion is to control the utterances of her politicians, then good-bye indeed to this country! banning. come now! i won't say that your views weren't sound enough before the fighting began. i've never liked our policy out there. but our blood's being spilled; and that makes all the difference. i don't suppose they'd want me exactly, but i'd be ready to go myself. we'd all of us be ready. and we can't have the man that represents us talking wild, until we've licked these fellows. that's it in a nutshell. more. i understand your feeling, banning. i tender you my resignation. i can't and won't hold on where i'm not wanted. banning. no, no, no! don't do that! [his accent broader and broader] you've 'ad your say, and there it is. coom now! you've been our member nine years, in rain and shine. shelder. we want to keep you, more. come! give us your promise --that's a good man! more. i don't make cheap promises. you ask too much. [there is silence, and they all look at more.] shelder. there are very excellent reasons for the government's policy. more. there are always excellent reasons for having your way with the weak. shelder. my dear more, how can you get up any enthusiasm for those cattle-lifting ruffians? more. better lift cattle than lift freedom. shelder. well, all we'll ask is that you shouldn't go about the country, saying so. more. but that is just what i must do. [again they all look at more in consternation.] home. not down our way, you'll pardon me. wace. really--really, sir---- shelder. the time of crusades is past, more. more. is it? banning. ah! no, but we don't want to part with you, mr. more. it's a bitter thing, this, after three elections. look at the 'uman side of it! to speak ill of your country when there's been a disaster like this terrible business in the pass. there's your own wife. i see her brother's regiment's to start this very afternoon. come now--how must she feel? more breaks away to the bay window. the deputation exchange glances. more. [turning] to try to muzzle me like this--is going too far. banning. we just want to put you out of temptation. more. i've held my seat with you in all weathers for nine years. you've all been bricks to me. my heart's in my work, banning; i'm not eager to undergo political eclipse at forty. shelder. just so--we don't want to see you in that quandary. banning. it'd be no friendliness to give you a wrong impression of the state of feeling. silence--till the bitterness is overpast; there's naught else for it, mr. more, while you feel as you do. that tongue of yours! come! you owe us something. you're a big man; it's the big view you ought to take. more. i am trying to. home. and what precisely is your view--you'll pardon my asking? more. [turning on him] mr. home a great country such as ours--is trustee for the highest sentiments of mankind. do these few outrages justify us in stealing the freedom of this little people? banning. steal--their freedom! that's rather running before the hounds. more. ah, banning! now we come to it. in your hearts you're none of you for that--neither by force nor fraud. and yet you all know that we've gone in there to stay, as we've gone into other lands--as all we big powers go into other lands, when they're little and weak. the prime minister's words the other night were these: "if we are forced to spend this blood and money now, we must never again be forced." what does that mean but swallowing this country? shelder. well, and quite frankly, it'd be no bad thing. home. we don't want their wretched country--we're forced. more. we are not forced. shelder. my dear more, what is civilization but the logical, inevitable swallowing up of the lower by the higher types of man? and what else will it be here? more. we shall not agree there, shelder; and we might argue it all day. but the point is, not whether you or i are right--the point is: what is a man who holds a faith with all his heart to do? please tell me. [there is a silence.] banning. [simply] i was just thinkin' of those poor fellows in the pass. more. i can see them, as well as you, banning. but, imagine! up in our own country--the black valley--twelve hundred foreign devils dead and dying--the crows busy over them--in our own country, our own valley--ours--ours--violated. would you care about "the poor fellows" in that pass?--invading, stealing dogs! kill them--kill them! you would, and i would, too! the passion of those words touches and grips as no arguments could; and they are silent. more. well! what's the difference out there? i'm not so inhuman as not to want to see this disaster in the pass wiped out. but once that's done, in spite of my affection for you; my ambitions, and they're not few; [very low] in spite of my own wife's feeling, i must be free to raise my voice against this war. banning. [speaking slowly, consulting the others, as it were, with his eyes] mr. more, there's no man i respect more than yourself. i can't tell what they'll say down there when we go back; but i, for one, don't feel it in me to take a hand in pressing you farther against your faith. shelder. we don't deny that--that you have a case of sorts. wace. no--surely. shelder. a--man should be free, i suppose, to hold his own opinions. more. thank you, shelder. banning. well! well! we must take you as you are; but it's a rare pity; there'll be a lot of trouble---- his eyes light on honk who is leaning forward with hand raised to his ear, listening. very faint, from far in the distance, there is heard a skirling sound. all become conscious of it, all listen. home. [suddenly] bagpipes! the figure of olive flies past the window, out on the terrace. katherine turns, as if to follow her. shelder. highlanders! [he rises. katherine goes quickly out on to the terrace. one by one they all follow to the window. one by one go out on to the terrace, till more is left alone. he turns to the bay window. the music is swelling, coming nearer. more leaves the window--his face distorted by the strafe of his emotions. he paces the room, taking, in some sort, the rhythm of the march.] [slowly the music dies away in the distance to a drum-tap and the tramp of a company. more stops at the table, covering his eyes with his hands.] [the deputation troop back across the terrace, and come in at the french windows. their faces and manners have quite changed. katherine follows them as far as the window.] home. [in a strange, almost threatening voice] it won't do, mr. more. give us your word, to hold your peace! shelder. come! more. wace. yes, indeed--indeed! banning. we must have it. more. [without lifting his head] i--i---- the drum-tap of a regiment marching is heard. banning. can you hear that go by, man--when your country's just been struck? now comes the scale and mutter of a following crowd. more. i give you---- then, sharp and clear above all other sounds, the words: "give the beggars hell, boys!" "wipe your feet on their dirty country!" "don't leave 'em a gory acre!" and a burst of hoarse cheering. more. [flinging up his head] that's reality! by heaven! no! katherine. oh! shelder. in that case, we'll go. banning. you mean it? you lose us, then! [more bows.] home. good riddance! [venomously--his eyes darting between more and katherine] go and stump the country! find out what they think of you! you'll pardon me! one by one, without a word, only banning looking back, they pass out into the hall. more sits down at the table before the pile of newspapers. katherine, in the window, never moves. olive comes along the terrace to her mother. olive. they were nice ones! such a lot of dirty people following, and some quite clean, mummy. [conscious from her mother's face that something is very wrong, she looks at her father, and then steals up to his side] uncle hubert's gone, daddy; and auntie helen's crying. and--look at mummy! [more raises his head and looks.] olive. do be on our side! do! she rubs her cheek against his. feeling that he does not rub his cheek against hers, olive stands away, and looks from him to her mother in wonder. the curtain falls act iii scene i a cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a suburban theatre. the tall, blind, dingy-yellowish wall of the building is plastered with the tattered remnants of old entertainment bills, and the words: "to let," and with several torn, and one still virgin placard, containing this announcement: "stop-the- war meeting, october st. addresses by stephen more, esq., and others." the alley is plentifully strewn with refuse and scraps of paper. three stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door. it is a dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws all the light there is. a faint, confused murmur, as of distant hooting is heard. suddenly a boy comes running, then two rough girls hurry past in the direction of the sound; and the alley is again deserted. the stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, poking his head out, looks up and down. he withdraws, but in a second reappears, preceding three black-coated gentlemen. doorkeeper. it's all clear. you can get away down here, gentlemen. keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner. the three. [dusting themselves, and settling their ties] thanks, very much! thanks! first black-coated gentleman. where's more? isn't he coming? they are joined by a fourth black-coated gentleman. fourth black-coated gentleman. just behind. [to the doorkeeper] thanks. they hurry away. the doorkeeper retires. another boy runs past. then the door opens again. steel and more come out. more stands hesitating on the steps; then turns as if to go back. steel. come along, sir, come! more. it sticks in my gizzard, steel. steel. [running his arm through more's, and almost dragging him down the steps] you owe it to the theatre people. [more still hesitates] we might be penned in there another hour; you told mrs. more half-past ten; it'll only make her anxious. and she hasn't seen you for six weeks. more. all right; don't dislocate my arm. they move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes running down the alley. sighting more, he stops dead, spins round, and crying shrilly: "'ere 'e is! that's 'im! 'ere 'e is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came. steel. quick, sir, quick! more. that is the end of the limit, as the foreign ambassador remarked. steel. [pulling him back towards the door] well! come inside again, anyway! a number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping quickly from the left. a motley crew, out for excitement; loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious. all in the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood. they gather round the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity that follows on a new development of any chase. more, on the bottom step, turns and eyes them. a girl. [at the edge] which is 'im! the old 'un or the young? [more turns, and mounts the remaining steps.] tall youth. [with lank black hair under a bowler hat] you blasted traitor! more faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they realized that they were spoiling their own sport. a rough girl. don't frighten the poor feller! [a girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.] steel. [tugging at more's arm] come along, sir. more. [shaking his arm free--to the crowd] well, what do you want? a voice. speech. more. indeed! that's new. rough voice. [at the back of the crowd] look at his white liver. you can see it in his face. a big navy. [in front] shut it! give 'im a chanst! tall youth. silence for the blasted traitor? a youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt silence. more. you shall have it in a nutshell! a shopboy. [flinging a walnut-shell which strikes more on the shoulder] here y'are! more. go home, and think! if foreigners invaded us, wouldn't you be fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there? tall youth. treacherous dogs! why don't they come out in the open? more. they fight the best way they can. [a burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the outskirt.] more. my friend there in khaki led that hooting. i've never said a word against our soldiers. it's the government i condemn for putting them to this, and the press for hounding on the government, and all of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do, left to yourselves. the tall youth leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of execration. more. i say not one of you would go for a weaker man. voices in the crowd. rough voice. tork sense! girl's voice. he's gittin' at you! tall youth's voice. shiny skunk! a navvy. [suddenly shouldering forward] look 'ere, mister! don't you come gaflin' to those who've got mates out there, or it'll be the worse for you-you go 'ome! cockney voice. and git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears. [a spurt of laughter.] a friendly voice. [from the outskirts] shame! there! bravo, more! keep it up! [a scuffle drowns this cry.] more. [with vehemence] stop that! stop that! you---! tall youth. traitor! an artisan. who black-legged? middle-aged man. ought to be shot-backin' his country's enemies! more. those tribesmen are defending their homes. two voices. hear! hear! [they are hustled into silence.] tall youth. wind-bag! more. [with sudden passion] defending their homes! not mobbing unarmed men! [steel again pulls at his arm.] rough. shut it, or we'll do you in! more. [recovering his coolness] ah! do me in by all means! you'd deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn't be forgotten in your time. steel. for god's sake, sir! more. [shaking off his touch] well! there is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step. the crowd recoils. there is a momentary lull, and more stares steadily down at them. cockney voice. don't 'e speak well! what eloquence! two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike more across the face. he takes no notice. rough voice. that's it! give 'im some encouragement. the jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous smile on more's face. a tall youth. traitor! a voice. don't stand there like a stuck pig. a rough. let's 'ave 'im dahn off that! under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes more across the legs with a belt. steel starts forward. more, flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this silence is fast turning to rage. the crowd. speak up, or get down! get off! get away, there--or we'll make you! go on! [more remains immovable.] a youth. [in a lull of disconcertion] i'll make 'im speak! see! he darts forward and spits, defiling mores hand. more jerks it up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever. a spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the action. the shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of mores scornful face. tall youth. [out of murmuring] shift! or you'll get it! a voice. enough of your ugly mug! a rough. give 'im one! two flung stones strike more. he staggers and nearly falls, then rights himself. a girl's voice. shame! friendly voice. bravo, more! stick to it! a rough. give 'im another! a voice. no! a girl's voice. let 'im alone! come on, billy, this ain't no fun! still looking up at more, the whole crowd falls into an uneasy silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet. then the big navvy in the front rank turns and elbows his way out to the edge of the crowd. the navvy. let 'im be! with half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquiescence the crowd breaks up and drifts back whence it came, till the alley is nearly empty. more. [as if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting his coat] well, steel! and followed by steel, he descends the steps and moves away. two policemen pass glancing up at the broken glass. one of them stops and makes a note. the curtain falls. scene ii the window-end of katherine's bedroom, panelled in cream-coloured wood. the light from four candles is falling on katherine, who is sitting before the silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table, brushing her hair. a door, on the left, stands ajar. an oak chair against the wall close to a recessed window is all the other furniture. through this window the blue night is seen, where a mist is rolled out flat amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky. as the curtain rises, katherine, with brush arrested, is listening. she begins again brushing her hair, then stops, and taking a packet of letters from a drawer of her dressing-table, reads. through the just open door behind her comes the voice of olive. olive. mummy! i'm awake! but katherine goes on reading; and olive steals into the room in her nightgown. olive. [at katherine's elbow--examining her watch on its stand] it's fourteen minutes to eleven. katherine. olive, olive! olive. i just wanted to see the time. i never can go to sleep if i try--it's quite helpless, you know. is there a victory yet? [katherine, shakes her head] oh! i prayed extra special for one in the evening papers. [straying round her mother] hasn't daddy come? katherine. not yet. olive. are you waiting for him? [burying her face in her mother's hair] your hair is nice, mummy. it's particular to-night. katherine lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm. olive. how long has daddy been away? katherine. six weeks. olive. it seems about a hundred years, doesn't it? has he been making speeches all the time? katherine. yes. olive. to-night, too? katherine. yes. olive. the night that man was here whose head's too bald for anything--oh! mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so termendously--i heard daddy making a speech to the wind. it broke a wine-glass. his speeches must be good ones, mustn't they! katherine. very. olive. it felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know. katherine. talking to the wind is an expression, olive. olive. does daddy often? katherine. yes, nowadays. olive. what does it mean? katherine. speaking to people who won't listen. olive. what do they do, then? katherine. just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things, and hoot. olive. poor daddy! is it people on our side who throw things? katherine. yes, but only rough people. olive. why does he go on doing it? i shouldn't. katherine. he thinks it is his duty. olive. to your neighbour, or only to god? katherine. to both. olive. oh! are those his letters? katherine. yes. olive. [reading from the letter] "my dear heart." does he always call you his dear heart, mummy? it's rather jolly, isn't it? "i shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night. for a few hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" what are the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y? katherine. [putting away the letters] come, olive! olive. but what are they? katherine. daddy means that he's been very unhappy. olive. have you, too? katherine. yes. olive. [cheerfully] so have i. may i open the window? katherine. no; you'll let the mist in. olive. isn't it a funny mist-all flat! katherine. now, come along, frog! olive. [making time] mummy, when is uncle hubert coming back? katherine. we don't know, dear. olive. i suppose auntie helen'll stay with us till he does. katherine. yes. olive. that's something, isn't it? katherine. [picking her up] now then! olive. [deliciously limp] had i better put in the duty to your neighbour if there isn't a victory soon? [as they pass through the door] you're tickling under my knee! [little gurgles of pleasure follow. then silence. then a drowsy voice] i must keep awake for daddy. katherine comes back. she is about to leave the door a little open, when she hears a knock on the other door. it is opened a few inches, and nurse's voice says: "can i come in, ma'am?" the nurse comes in. katherine. [shutting olive's door, and going up to her] what is it, nurse? nurse. [speaking in a low voice] i've been meaning to--i'll never do it in the daytime. i'm giving you notice. katherine. nurse! you too! she looks towards olive's room with dismay. the nurse smudges a slow tear away from her cheek. nurse. i want to go right away at once. katherine. leave olive! that is the sins of the fathers with a vengeance. nurse. i've had another letter from my son. no, miss katherine, while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish creatures, i can't live in this house, not now he's coming back. katherine. but, nurse----! nurse. it's not like them [with an ineffable gesture] downstairs, because i'm frightened of the mob, or of the window's bein' broke again, or mind what the boys in the street say. i should think not-- no! it's my heart. i'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, and him lying out there at night without a rag of dry clothing, and water that the bullocks won't drink, and maggots in the meat; and every day one of his friends laid out stark and cold, and one day--'imself perhaps. if anything were to 'appen to him. i'd never forgive meself--here. ah! miss katherine, i wonder how you bear it--bad news comin' every day--and sir john's face so sad--and all the time the master speaking against us, as it might be jonah 'imself. katherine. but, nurse, how can you leave us, you? nurse. [smudging at her cheeks] there's that tells me it's encouragin' something to happen, if i stay here; and mr. more coming back to-night. you can't serve god and mammon, the bible says. katherine. don't you know what it's costing him? nurse. ah! cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than that it'll cost him, to go against the country. katherine. he's following his conscience. nurse. and others must follow theirs, too. no, miss katherine, for you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your father fair wasting away with grief. sufferin' too as you've been these three months past. what'll you feel if anything happens to my three young gentlemen out there, to my dear mr. hubert that i nursed myself, when your precious mother couldn't? what would she have said --with you in the camp of his enemies? katherine. nurse, nurse! nurse. in my paper they say he's encouraging these heathens and makin' the foreigners talk about us; and every day longer the war lasts, there's our blood on this house. katherine. [turning away] nurse, i can't--i won't listen. nurse. [looking at her intently] ah! you'll move him to leave off! i see your heart, my dear. but if you don't, then go i must! she nods her head gravely, goes to the door of olive's room, opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the words "my lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door. katherine turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and smooths her lips and eyes. the door from the corridor is opened, and helen's voice says: "kit! you're not in bed?" katherine. no. helen too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace thrown over her head. her face is scared and miserable, and she runs into katherine's arms. katherine. my dear, what is it? helen. i've seen--a vision! katherine. hssh! you'll wake olive! helen. [staring before her] i'd just fallen asleep, and i saw a plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog. and on it there were--dark things. one grew into a body without a head, and a gun by its side. and one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a wounded leg. he had the face of hubert's servant, wreford. and then i saw--hubert. his face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound, an awful wound here [she touches her breast]. the blood was running from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh! kit--by kissing it [she pauses, stifled by emotion]. then i heard wreford laugh, and say vultures didn't touch live bodies. and there came a voice, from somewhere, calling out: "oh! god! i'm dying!" and wreford began to swear at it, and i heard hubert say: "don't, wreford; let the poor fellow be!" but the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out: "i'll lie here all night dying--and then i'll die!" and wreford dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man who's going to kill. katherine. my dear! how ghastly! helen. still that voice went on, and i saw wreford take up the dead man's gun. then hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along, so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him, wreford fired at the man who was crying. and hubert called out: "you brute!" and fell right down. and when wreford saw him lying there, he began to moan and sob, but hubert never stirred. then it all got black again--and i could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to the man without a head; then to wreford; then to hubert, and it touched him, and sprang away. and it cried out: "a-ai-ah!" [pointing out at the mist] look! out there! the dark things! katherine. [putting her arms round her] yes, dear, yes! you must have been looking at the mist. helen. [strangely calm] he's dead! katherine. it was only a dream. helen. you didn't hear that cry. [she listens] that's stephen. forgive me, kit; i oughtn't to have upset you, but i couldn't help coming. she goes out, katherine, into whom her emotion seems to have passed, turns feverishly to the window, throws it open and leans out. more comes in. more. kit! catching sight of her figure in the window, he goes quickly to her. katherine. ah! [she has mastered her emotion.] more. let me look at you! he draws her from the window to the candle-light, and looks long at her. more. what have you done to your hair? katherine. nothing. more. it's wonderful to-night. [he takes it greedily and buries his face in it.] katherine. [drawing her hair away] well? more. at last! katherine. [pointing to olive's room] hssh! more. how is she? katherine. all right. more. and you? [katherine shrugs her shoulders.] more. six weeks! katherine. why have you come? more. why! katherine. you begin again the day after tomorrow. was it worth while? more. kit! katherine. it makes it harder for me, that's all. more. [staring at her] what's come to you? katherine. six weeks is a long time to sit and read about your meetings. more. put that away to-night. [he touches her] this is what travellers feel when they come out of the desert to-water. katherine. [suddenly noticing the cut on his forehead] your forehead! it's cut. more. it's nothing. katherine. oh! let me bathe it! more. no, dear! it's all right. katherine. [turning away] helen has just been telling me a dream she's had of hubert's death. more. poor child! katherine. dream bad dreams, and wait, and hide oneself--there's been nothing else to do. nothing, stephen--nothing! more. hide? because of me? [katherine nods.] more. [with a movement of distress] i see. i thought from your letters you were coming to feel----. kit! you look so lovely! [suddenly he sees that she is crying, and goes quickly to her.] more. my dear, don't cry! god knows i don't want to make things worse for you. i'll go away. she draws away from him a little, and after looking long at her, he sits down at the dressing-table and begins turning over the brushes and articles of toilet, trying to find words. more. never look forward. after the time i've had--i thought-- tonight--it would be summer--i thought it would be you--and everything! while he is speaking katherine has stolen closer. she suddenly drops on her knees by his side and wraps his hand in her hair. he turns and clasps her. more. kit! katherine. ah! yes! but-to-morrow it begins again. oh! stephen! how long--how long am i to be torn in two? [drawing back in his arms] i can't--can't bear it. more. my darling! katherine. give it up! for my sake! give it up! [pressing closer to him] it shall be me--and everything---- more. god! katherine. it shall be--if--if---- more. [aghast] you're not making terms? bargaining? for god's sake, kit! katherine. for god's sake, stephen! more. you!--of all people--you! katherine. stephen! [for a moment more yields utterly, then shrinks back.] more. a bargain! it's selling my soul! he struggles out of her arms, gets up, and stands without speaking, staring at her, and wiping the sweat from his forehead. katherine remains some seconds on her knees, gazing up at him, not realizing. then her head droops; she too gets up and stands apart, with her wrapper drawn close round her. it is as if a cold and deadly shame had come to them both. quite suddenly more turns, and, without looking back, feebly makes his way out of the room. when he is gone katherine drops on her knees and remains there motionless, huddled in her hair. the curtain falls act iv it is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room of more's house. the windows are closed, but curtains are not drawn. steel is seated at the bureau, writing a letter from more's dictation. steel. [reading over the letter] "no doubt we shall have trouble. but, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open. let bills be got out, and an audience will collect in any case." more. they will. steel. "yours truly"; i've signed for you. [more nods.] steel. [blotting and enveloping the letter] you know the servants have all given notice--except henry. more. poor henry! steel. it's partly nerves, of course--the windows have been broken twice--but it's partly---- more. patriotism. quite! they'll do the next smashing themselves. that reminds me--to-morrow you begin holiday, steel. steel. oh, no! more. my dear fellow--yes. last night ended your sulphur cure. truly sorry ever to have let you in for it. steel. some one must do the work. you're half dead as it is. more. there's lots of kick in me. steel. give it up, sir. the odds are too great. it isn't worth it. more. to fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten--is anything better worth it? steel. well, then, i'm not going. more. this is my private hell, steel; you don't roast in it any longer. believe me, it's a great comfort to hurt no one but yourself. steel. i can't leave you, sir. more. my dear boy, you're a brick--but we've got off by a miracle so far, and i can't have the responsibility of you any longer. hand me over that correspondence about to-morrow's meeting. steel takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them. more. come! [he stretches out his hand for the papers. as steel still draws back, he says more sharply] give them to me, steel! [steel hands them over] now, that ends it, d'you see? they stand looking at each other; then steel, very much upset, turns and goes out of the room. more, who has watched him with a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case. as he is closing the bureau, the footman henry enters, announcing: "mr. mendip, sir." mendip comes in, and the footman withdraws. more turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand. mendip. [taking more's hand] give me credit for a little philosophy, my friend. mrs. more told me you'd be back to-day. have you heard? more. what? mendip. there's been a victory. more. thank god! mendip. ah! so you actually are flesh and blood. more. yes! mendip. take off the martyr's shirt, stephen. you're only flouting human nature. more. so--even you defend the mob! mendip. my dear fellow, you're up against the strongest common instinct in the world. what do you expect? that the man in the street should be a quixote? that his love of country should express itself in philosophic altruism? what on earth do you expect? men are very simple creatures; and mob is just conglomerate essence of simple men. more. conglomerate excrescence. mud of street and market-place gathered in a torrent--this blind howling "patriotism"--what each man feels in here? [he touches his breast] no! mendip. you think men go beyond instinct--they don't. all they know is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call country. they just feel something big and religious, and go it blind. more. this used to be the country of free speech. it used to be the country where a man was expected to hold to his faith. mendip. there are limits to human nature, stephen. more. let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack. still your advice, is it? mendip. my advice is: get out of town at once. the torrent you speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out. come, my dear fellow, don't stay here! more. thanks! i'll see that katherine and olive go. mendip. go with them! if your cause is lost, that's no reason why you should be. more. there's the comfort of not running away. and--i want comfort. mendip. this is bad, stephen; bad, foolish--foolish. well! i'm going to the house. this way? more. down the steps, and through the gate. good-bye? katherine has come in followed by nurse, hatted and cloaked, with a small bag in her hand. katherine takes from the bureau a cheque which she hands to the nurse. more comes in from the terrace. more. you're wise to go, nurse. nurse. you've treated my poor dear badly, sir. where's your heart? more. in full use. nurse. on those heathens. don't your own hearth and home come first? your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country. a bitter thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by the boys in the street. [more stands silent under this attack, looking at his wife.] katherine. nurse! nurse. it's unnatural, sir--what you're doing! to think more of those savages than of your own wife! look at her! did you ever see her look like that? take care, sir, before it's too late! more. enough, please! nurse stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at katherine; then goes. more. [quietly] there has been a victory. [he goes out. katherine is breathing fast, listening to the distant hum and stir rising in the street. she runs to the window as the footman, henry, entering, says: "sir john julian, ma'am!" sir john comes in, a newspaper in his hand.] katherine. at last! a victory! sir john. thank god! [he hands her the paper.] katherine. oh, dad! [she tears the paper open, and feverishly reads.] katherine. at last! the distant hum in the street is rising steadily. but sir john, after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper, stares dumbly at the floor. katherine. [suddenly conscious of his gravity] father! sir john. there is other news. katherine. one of the boys? hubert? [sir john bows his head.] katherine. killed? [sir john again bows his head.] katherine. the dream! [she covers her face] poor helen! they stand for a few seconds silent, then sir john raises his head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek. sir john. [huskily] whom the gods love---- katherine. hubert! sir john. and hulks like me go on living! katherine. dear dad! sir john. but we shall drive the ruffians now! we shall break them. stephen back? katherine. last night. sir john. has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last? [katherine shakes her head] not? [then, seeing that katherine is quivering with emotion, he strokes her hand.] sir john. my dear! death is in many houses! katherine. i must go to helen. tell stephen, father. i can't. sir john. if you wish, child. [she goes out, leaving sir john to his grave, puzzled grief, and in a few seconds more comes in.] more. yes, sir john. you wanted me? sir john. hubert is killed. more. hubert! sir john. by these--whom you uphold. katherine asked me to let you know. she's gone to helen. i understand you only came back last night from your----no word i can use would give what i feel about that. i don't know how things stand now between you and katherine; but i tell you this, stephen: you've tried her these last two months beyond what any woman ought to bear! [more makes a gesture of pain.] sir john. when you chose your course---- more. chose! sir john. you placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her. you knew this might come. it may come again with another of my sons. more. i would willingly change places with any one of them. sir john. yes--i can believe in your unhappiness. i cannot conceive of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country. if i could have hubert back, i would not have him at such a price--no, nor all my sons. 'pro patri mori'--my boy, at all events, is happy! more. yes! sir john. yet you can go on doing what you are! what devil of pride has got into you, stephen? more. do you imagine i think myself better than the humblest private fighting out there? not for a minute. sir john. i don't understand you. i always thought you devoted to katherine. more. sir john, you believe that country comes before wife and child? sir john. i do. more. so do i. sir john. [bewildered] whatever my country does or leaves undone, i no more presume to judge her than i presume to judge my god. [with all the exaltation of the suffering he has undergone for her] my country! more. i would give all i have--for that creed. sir john. [puzzled] stephen, i've never looked on you as a crank; i always believed you sane and honest. but this is--visionary mania. more. vision of what might be. sir john. why can't you be content with what the grandest nation-- the grandest men on earth--have found good enough for them? i've known them, i've seen what they could suffer, for our country. more. sir john, imagine what the last two months have been to me! to see people turn away in the street--old friends pass me as if i were a wall! to dread the post! to go to bed every night with the sound of hooting in my ears! to know that my name is never referred to without contempt---- sir john. you have your new friends. plenty of them, i understand. more. does that make up for being spat at as i was last night? your battles are fool's play to it. the stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder. sir john turns his head towards it. sir john. you've heard there's been a victory. do you carry your unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that? [more shakes his head] that's something! for god's sake, stephen, stop before it's gone past mending. don't ruin your life with katherine. hubert was her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him. think what that means to her! drop this--mad quixotism--idealism--whatever you call it. take katherine away. leave the country till the thing's over--this country of yours that you're opposing, and--and-- traducing. take her away! come! what good are you doing? what earthly good? come, my boy! before you're utterly undone. more. sir john! our men are dying out there for, the faith that's in them! i believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind--am i to slink away? since i began this campaign i've found hundreds who've thanked me for taking this stand. they look on me now as their leader. am i to desert them? when you led your forlorn hope-- did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come through alive? it's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are following me; and not to help let die a fire--a fire that's sacred-- not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time. sir john. [after a long stare] i give you credit for believing what you say. but let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of--i'm too old-fashioned to grasp--one fire you are letting die--your wife's love. by god! this crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love--of your career, of all those who used to like and respect you--so much the better for you. but if you find yourself bankrupt of affection-- alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter ruin and destruction--as it must--i shall not pity--i cannot pity you. good-night! he marches to the door, opens it, and goes out. more is left standing perfectly still. the stir and murmur of the street is growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his consciousness. he goes to the bay window and looks out; then rings the bell. it is not answered, and, after turning up the lights, he rings again. katherine comes in. she is wearing a black hat, and black outdoor coat. she speaks coldly without looking up. katherine. you rang! more. for them to shut this room up. katherine. the servants have gone out. they're afraid of the house being set on fire. more. i see. katherine. they have not your ideals to sustain them. [more winces] i am going with helen and olive to father's. more. [trying to take in the exact sense of her words] good! you prefer that to an hotel? [katherine nods. gently] will you let me say, kit, how terribly i feel for you--hubert's---- katherine. don't. i ought to have made what i meant plainer. i am not coming back. more. not? not while the house---- katherine. not--at all. more. kit! katherine. i warned you from the first. you've gone too far! more. [terribly moved] do you understand what this means? after ten years--and all--our love! katherine. was it love? how could you ever have loved one so unheroic as myself! more. this is madness, kit--kit! katherine. last night i was ready. you couldn't. if you couldn't then, you never can. you are very exalted, stephen. i don't like living--i won't live, with one whose equal i am not. this has been coming ever since you made that speech. i told you that night what the end would be. more. [trying to put his arms round her] don't be so terribly cruel! katherine. no! let's have the truth! people so wide apart don't love! let me go! more. in god's name, how can i help the difference in our faiths? katherine. last night you used the word--bargain. quite right. i meant to buy you. i meant to kill your faith. you showed me what i was doing. i don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains, stephen. more. god knows--i never meant---- katherine. if i'm not yours in spirit--i don't choose to be your-- mistress. more, as if lashed by a whip, has thrown up his hands in an attitude of defence. katherine. yes, that's cruel! it shows the heights you live on. i won't drag you down. more. for god's sake, put your pride away, and see! i'm fighting for the faith that's in me. what else can a man do? what else? ah! kit! do see! katherine. i'm strangled here! doing nothing--sitting silent--when my brothers are fighting, and being killed. i shall try to go out nursing. helen will come with me. i have my faith, too; my poor common love of country. i can't stay here with you. i spent last night on the floor--thinking--and i know! more. and olive? katherine. i shall leave her at father's, with nurse; unless you forbid me to take her. you can. more. [icily] that i shall not do--you know very well. you are free to go, and to take her. katherine. [very low] thank you! [suddenly she turns to him, and draws his eyes on her. without a sound, she puts her whole strength into that look] stephen! give it up! come down to me! the festive sounds from the street grow louder. there can be heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds of joy. more. and drown in--that? katherine turns swiftly to the door. there she stands and again looks at him. her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents of her emotions. more. so--you're going? katherine. [in a whisper] yes. she bends her head, opens the door, and goes. more starts forward as if to follow her, but olive has appeared in the doorway. she has on a straight little white coat and a round white cap. olive. aren't you coming with us, daddy? [more shakes his head.] olive. why not? more. never mind, my dicky bird. olive. the motor'll have to go very slow. there are such a lot of people in the street. are you staying to stop them setting the house on fire? [more nods] may i stay a little, too? [more shakes his head] why? more. [putting his hand on her head] go along, my pretty! olive. oh! love me up, daddy! [more takes and loves her up] olive. oo-o! more. trot, my soul! [she goes, looks back at him, turns suddenly, and vanishes.] more follows her to the door, but stops there. then, as full realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window, craning his head to catch sight of the front door. there is the sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its horn as it makes its way among the crowd. he turns from the window. more. alone as the last man on earth! [suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly in the street.] voice. there 'e is! that's 'im! more! traitor! more! a shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins to rattle against the glass of the window. many voices take up the groaning: "more! traitor! black-leg! more!" and through the window can be seen waving flags and lighted chinese lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos. the din of execration swells. more stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab. then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of the panes. it is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a hearty groan. a second stone crashes through the glass. more turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the street, and the flare of the chinese lanterns lights up his face. then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head droop. the din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes through. more raises his head again, and, clasping his hands, looks straight before him. the footman, henry, entering, hastens to the french windows. more. ah! henry, i thought you'd gone. footman. i came back, sir. more. good fellow! footman. they're trying to force the terrace gate, sir. they've no business coming on to private property--no matter what! in the surging entrance of the mob the footman, henry, who shows fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the terrace, and no more seen. the mob is a mixed crowd of revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and girls, and a boy scout or two. many have exchanged hats--some wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles. some, with bamboos and chinese lanterns, swing them up outside on the terrace. the medley of noises is very great. such ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a group of students, the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion. when the first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "to him, boys! chair the hero!" the students rush at the impassive more, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round the room. when they have twice circled the table to the music of their confused singing, groans and whistling, the chief of the students calls out: "put him down!" obediently they set him down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and stand gaping up at him. chief student. speech! speech! [the noise ebbs, and more looks round him.] chief student. now then, you, sir. more. [in a quiet voice] very well. you are here by the law that governs the action of all mobs--the law of force. by that law, you can do what you like to this body of mine. a voice. and we will, too. more. i don't doubt it. but before that, i've a word to say. a voice. you've always that. [another voice raises a donkey's braying.] more. you--mob--are the most contemptible thing under the sun. when you walk the street--god goes in. chief student. be careful, you--sir. voices. down him! down with the beggar! more. [above the murmurs] my fine friends, i'm not afraid of you. you've forced your way into my house, and you've asked me to speak. put up with the truth for once! [his words rush out] you are the thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech. this to-day, and that to-morrow. brain--you have none. spirit--not the ghost of it! if you're not meanness, there's no such thing. if you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice [above the growing fierceness of the hubbub] patriotism--there are two kinds--that of our soldiers, and this of mine. you have neither! chief student. [checking a dangerous rush] hold on! hold on! [to more] swear to utter no more blasphemy against your country: swear it! crowd. ah! ay! ah! more. my country is not yours. mine is that great country which shall never take toll from the weakness of others. [above the groaning] ah! you can break my head and my windows; but don't think that you can break my faith. you could never break or shake it, if you were a million to one. a girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out from the crowd and shakes her fist at him. girl. you're friends with them that killed my lad! [more smiles down at her, and she swiftly plucks the knife from the belt of a boy scout beside her] smile, you--cur! a violent rush and heave from behind flings more forward on to the steel. he reels, staggers back, and falls down amongst the crowd. a scream, a sway, a rush, a hubbub of cries. the chief student shouts above the riot: "steady!" another: "my god! he's got it!" chief student. give him air! the crowd falls back, and two students, bending over more, lift his arms and head, but they fall like lead. desperately they test him for life. chief student. by the lord, it's over! then begins a scared swaying out towards the window. some one turns out the lights, and in the darkness the crowd fast melts away. the body of more lies in the gleam from a single chinese lantern. muttering the words: "poor devil! he kept his end up anyway!" the chief student picks from the floor a little abandoned union jack and lays it on more's breast. then he, too, turns, and rushes out. and the body of more lies in the streak of light; and flee noises in the street continue to rise. the curtain falls, but rises again almost at once. aftermath a late spring dawn is just breaking. against trees in leaf and blossom, with the houses of a london square beyond, suffused by the spreading glow, is seen a dark life-size statue on a granite pedestal. in front is the broad, dust-dim pavement. the light grows till the central words around the pedestal can be clearly read: erected to the memory of stephen more "faithful to his ideal" high above, the face of more looks straight before him with a faint smile. on one shoulder and on his bare head two sparrows have perched, and from the gardens, behind, comes the twittering and singing of birds. the curtain falls. the end plays in the fourth series contents: a bit o' love the foundations the skin game a bit o' love persons of the play michael strangway beatrice strangway mrs. bradmere jim bere jack cremer mrs. burlacombe burlacombe trustaford jarland clyst freman godleigh sol potter morse, and others ivy burlacombe connie trustaford gladys freman mercy jarland tibby jarland bobbie jarland scene: a village of the west the action passes on ascension day. act i. strangway's rooms at burlacombe's. morning. act ii. evening scene i. the village inn. scene ii. the same. scene iii. outside the church. act iii. evening scene i. strangway's rooms. scene ii. burlacombe's barn. a bit o' love act i it is ascension day in a village of the west. in the low panelled hall-sittingroom of the burlacombe's farmhouse on the village green, michael strangway, a clerical collar round his throat and a dark norfolk jacket on his back, is playing the flute before a very large framed photograph of a woman, which is the only picture on the walls. his age is about thirty-five his figure thin and very upright and his clean-shorn face thin, upright, narrow, with long and rather pointed ears; his dark hair is brushed in a coxcomb off his forehead. a faint smile hovers about his lips that nature has made rather full and he has made thin, as though keeping a hard secret; but his bright grey eyes, dark round the rim, look out and upwards almost as if he were being crucified. there is something about the whole of him that makes him seen not quite present. a gentle creature, burnt within. a low broad window above a window-seat forms the background to his figure; and through its lattice panes are seen the outer gate and yew-trees of a churchyard and the porch of a church, bathed in may sunlight. the front door at right angles to the window-seat, leads to the village green, and a door on the left into the house. it is the third movement of veracini's violin sonata that strangway plays. his back is turned to the door into the house, and he does not hear when it is opened, and ivy burlacombe, the farmer's daughter, a girl of fourteen, small and quiet as a mouse, comes in, a prayer-book in one hand, and in the other a gloss of water, with wild orchis and a bit of deep pink hawthorn. she sits down on the window-seat, and having opened her book, sniffs at the flowers. coming to the end of the movement strangway stops, and looking up at the face on the wall, heaves a long sigh. ivy. [from the seat] i picked these for yu, mr. strangway. strangway. [turning with a start] ah! ivy. thank you. [he puts his flute down on a chair against the far wall] where are the others? as he speaks, gladys freman, a dark gipsyish girl, and connie trustaford, a fair, stolid, blue-eyed saxon, both about sixteen, come in through the front door, behind which they have evidently been listening. they too have prayer-books in their hands. they sidle past ivy, and also sit down under the window. gladys. mercy's comin', mr. strangway. strangway. good morning, gladys; good morning, connie. he turns to a book-case on a table against the far wall, and taking out a book, finds his place in it. while he stands thus with his back to the girls, mercy jarland comes in from the green. she also is about sixteen, with fair hair and china-blue eyes. she glides in quickly, hiding something behind her, and sits down on the seat next the door. and at once there is a whispering. strangway. [turning to them] good morning, mercy. mercy. good morning, mr. strangway. strangway. now, yesterday i was telling you what our lord's coming meant to the world. i want you to understand that before he came there wasn't really love, as we know it. i don't mean to say that there weren't many good people; but there wasn't love for the sake of loving. d'you think you understand what i mean? mercy fidgets. gladys's eyes are following a fly. ivy. yes, mr. strangway. strangway. it isn't enough to love people because they're good to you, or because in some way or other you're going to get something by it. we have to love because we love loving. that's the great thing --without that we're nothing but pagans. gladys. please, what is pagans? strangway. that's what the first christians called the people who lived in the villages and were not yet christians, gladys. mercy. we live in a village, but we're christians. strangway. [with a smile] yes, mercy; and what is a christian? mercy kicks afoot, sideways against her neighbour, frowns over her china-blare eyes, is silent; then, as his question passes on, makes a quick little face, wriggles, and looks behind her. strangway. ivy? ivy. 'tis a man--whu--whu---- strangway. yes?--connie? connie. [who speaks rather thickly, as if she had a permanent slight cold] please, mr. strangway, 'tis a man what goes to church. gladys. he 'as to be baptised--and confirmed; and--and--buried. ivy. 'tis a man whu--whu's gude and---- gladys. he don't drink, an' he don't beat his horses, an' he don't hit back. mercy. [whispering] 'tisn't your turn. [to strangway] 'tis a man like us. ivy. i know what mrs. strangway said it was, 'cause i asked her once, before she went away. strangway. [startled] yes? ivy. she said it was a man whu forgave everything. strangway. ah! the note of a cuckoo comes travelling. the girls are gazing at strangway, who seems to have gone of into a dream. they begin to fidget and whisper. connie. please, mr. strangway, father says if yu hit a man and he don't hit yu back, he's no gude at all. mercy. when tommy morse wouldn't fight, us pinched him--he did squeal! [she giggles] made me laugh! strangway. did i ever tell you about st. francis of assisi? ivy. [clasping her hands] no. strangway. well, he was the best christian, i think, that ever lived--simply full of love and joy. ivy. i expect he's dead. strangway. about seven hundred years, ivy. ivy. [softly] oh! strangway. everything to him was brother or sister--the sun and the moon, and all that was poor and weak and sad, and animals and birds, so that they even used to follow him about. mercy. i know! he had crumbs in his pocket. strangway. no; he had love in his eyes. ivy. 'tis like about orpheus, that yu told us. strangway. ah! but st. francis was a christian, and orpheus was a pagan. ivy. oh! strangway. orpheus drew everything after him with music; st. francis by love. ivy. perhaps it was the same, really. strangway. [looking at his flute] perhaps it was, ivy. gladys. did 'e 'ave a flute like yu? ivy. the flowers smell sweeter when they 'ear music; they du. [she holds up the glass of flowers.] strangway. [touching one of the orchis] what's the name of this one? [the girls cluster; save mercy, who is taking a stealthy interest in what she has behind her.] connie. we call it a cuckoo, mr. strangway. gladys. 'tis awful common down by the streams. we've got one medder where 'tis so thick almost as the goldie cups. strangway. odd! i've never noticed it. ivy. please, mr. strangway, yu don't notice when yu're walkin'; yu go along like this. [she holds up her face as one looking at the sky.] strangway. bad as that, ivy? ivy. mrs. strangway often used to pick it last spring. strangway. did she? did she? [he has gone off again into a kind of dream.] mercy. i like being confirmed. strangway. ah! yes. now----what's that behind you, mercy? mercy. [engagingly producing a cage a little bigger than a mouse-trap, containing a skylark] my skylark. strangway. what! mercy. it can fly; but we're goin' to clip its wings. bobbie caught it. strangway. how long ago? mercy. [conscious of impending disaster] yesterday. strangway. [white hot] give me the cage! mercy. [puckering] i want my skylark. [as he steps up to her and takes the cage--thoroughly alarmed] i gave bobbie thrippence for it! strangway. [producing a sixpence] there! mercy. [throwing it down-passionately] i want my skylark! strangway. god made this poor bird for the sky and the grass. and you put it in that! never cage any wild thing! never! mercy. [faint and sullen] i want my skylark. strangway. [taking the cage to the door] no! [he holds up the cage and opens it] off you go, poor thing! [the bird flies out and away. the girls watch with round eyes the fling up of his arm, and the freed bird flying away.] ivy. i'm glad! [mercy kicks her viciously and sobs. strangway comes from the door, looks at mercy sobbing, and suddenly clasps his head. the girls watch him with a queer mixture of wonder, alarm, and disapproval.] gladys. [whispering] don't cry, mercy. bobbie'll soon catch yu another. [strangway has dropped his hands, and is looking again at mercy. ivy sits with hands clasped, gazing at strangway. mercy continues her artificial sobbing.] strangway. [quietly] the class is over for to-day. [he goes up to mercy, and holds out his hand. she does not take it, and runs out knuckling her eyes. strangway turns on his heel and goes into the house.] connie. 'twasn't his bird. ivy. skylarks belong to the sky. mr. strangway said so. gladys. not when they'm caught, they don't. ivy. they du. connie. 'twas her bird. ivy. he gave her sixpence for it. gladys. she didn't take it. connie. there it is on the ground. ivy. she might have. gladys. he'll p'raps take my squirrel, tu. ivy. the bird sang--i 'eard it! right up in the sky. it wouldn't have sanged if it weren't glad. gladys. well, mercy cried. ivy. i don't care. gladys. 'tis a shame! and i know something. mrs. strangway's at durford. connie. she's--never! gladys. i saw her yesterday. an' if she's there she ought to be here. i told mother, an' she said: "yu mind yer business." an' when she goes in to market to-morrow she'm goin' to see. an' if she's really there, mother says, 'tis a fine tu-du an' a praaper scandal. so i know a lot more'n yu du. [ivy stares at her.] connie. mrs. strangway told mother she was goin' to france for the winter because her mother was ill. gladys. 'tisn't, winter now--ascension day. i saw her cumin' out o' dr. desert's house. i know 'twas her because she had on a blue dress an' a proud luke. mother says the doctor come over here tu often before mrs. strangway went away, just afore christmas. they was old sweethearts before she married mr. strangway. [to ivy] 'twas yure mother told mother that. [ivy gazes at them more and more wide-eyed.] connie. father says if mrs. bradmere an' the old rector knew about the doctor, they wouldn't 'ave mr. strangway 'ere for curate any longer; because mother says it takes more'n a year for a gude wife to leave her 'usband, an' 'e so fond of her. but 'tisn't no business of ours, father says. gladys. mother says so tu. she's praaper set against gossip. she'll know all about it to-morrow after market. ivy. [stamping her foot] i don't want to 'ear nothin' at all; i don't, an' i won't. [a rather shame faced silence falls on the girls.] gladys. [in a quick whisper] 'ere's mrs. burlacombe. [there enters fawn the house a stout motherly woman with a round grey eye and very red cheeks.] mrs. burlacombe. ivy, take mr. strangway his ink, or we'll never 'eve no sermon to-night. he'm in his thinkin' box, but 'tis not a bit o' yuse 'im thinkin' without 'is ink. [she hands her daughter an inkpot and blotting-pad. ivy takes them and goes out] what ever's this? [she picks up the little bird-cage.] gladys. 'tis mercy jarland's. mr. strangway let her skylark go. mrs. burlacombe. aw! did 'e now? serve 'er right, bringin' an 'eathen bird to confirmation class. connie. i'll take it to her. mrs. burlacombe. no. yu leave it there, an' let mr. strangway du what 'e likes with it. bringin' a bird like that! well 'i never! [the girls, perceiving that they have lighted on stony soil, look at each other and slide towards the door.] mrs. burlacombe. yes, yu just be off, an' think on what yu've been told in class, an' be'ave like christians, that's gude maids. an' don't yu come no more in the 'avenin's dancin' them 'eathen dances in my barn, naighther, till after yu'm confirmed--'tisn't right. i've told ivy i won't 'ave it. connie. mr. strangway don't mind--he likes us to; 'twas mrs. strangway began teachin' us. he's goin' to give a prize. mrs. burlacombe. yu just du what i tell yu an' never mind mr. strangway--he'm tu kind to everyone. d'yu think i don't know how gells oughter be'ave before confirmation? yu be'ave like i did! now, goo ahn! shoo! [she hustles them out, rather as she might hustle her chickens, and begins tidying the room. there comes a wandering figure to the open window. it is that of a man of about thirty-five, of feeble gait, leaning the weight of all one side of him on a stick. his dark face, with black hair, one lock of which has gone white, was evidently once that of an ardent man. now it is slack, weakly smiling, and the brown eyes are lost, and seem always to be asking something to which there is no answer.] mrs. burlacombe. [with that forced cheerfulness always assumed in the face of too great misfortune] well, jim! better? [at the faint brightening of the smile] that's right! yu'm gettin' on bravely. want parson? jim. [nodding and smiling, and speaking slowly] i want to tell 'un about my cat. [his face loses its smile.] mrs. burlacombe. why! what's she been duin' then? mr. strangway's busy. won't i du? jim. [shaking his head] no. i want to tell him. mrs. burlacombe. whatever she been duin'? havin' kittens? jim. no. she'm lost. mrs. burlacombe. dearie me! aw! she'm not lost. cats be like maids; they must get out a bit. jim. she'm lost. maybe he'll know where she'll be. mrs. burlacombe. well, well. i'll go an' find 'im. jim. he's a gude man. he's very gude. mrs. burlacombe. that's certain zure. strangway. [entering from the house] mrs. burlacombe, i can't think where i've put my book on st. francis--the large, squarish pale-blue one? mrs. burlacombe. aw! there now! i knu there was somethin' on me mind. miss willis she came in yesterday afternune when yu was out, to borrow it. oh! yes--i said--i'm zure mr. strangway'll lend it 'ee. now think o' that! strangway. of course, mrs. burlacombe; very glad she's got it. mrs. burlacombe. aw! but that's not all. when i tuk it up there come out a whole flutter o' little bits o' paper wi' little rhymes on 'em, same as i see yu writin'. aw! my gudeness! i says to meself, mr. strangway widn' want no one seein' them. strangway. dear me! no; certainly not! mrs. burlacombe. an' so i putt 'em in your secretary. strangway. my-ah! yes. thank you; yes. mrs. burlacombe. but i'll goo over an' get the buke for yu. 't won't take me 'alf a minit. [she goes out on to the green. jim bere has come in.] strangway. [gently] well, jim? jim. my cat's lost. strangway. lost? jim. day before yesterday. she'm not come back. they've shot 'er, i think; or she'm caught in one o' they rabbit-traps. strangway. oh! no; my dear fellow, she'll come back. i'll speak to sir herbert's keepers. jim. yes, zurr. i feel lonesome without 'er. strangway. [with a faint smile--more to himself than to jim] lonesome! yes! that's bad, jim! that's bad! jim. i miss 'er when i sits than in the avenin'. strangway. the evenings----they're the worst----and when the blackbirds sing in the morning. jim. she used to lie on my bed, ye know, zurr. [strangway turns his face away, contracted with pain] she'm like a christian. strangway. the beasts are. jim. there's plenty folk ain't 'alf as christian as 'er be. strangway. well, dear jim, i'll do my very best. and any time you're lonely, come up, and i'll play the flute to you. jim. [wriggling slightly] no, zurr. thank 'ee, zurr. strangway. what--don't you like music? jim. ye-es, zurr. [a figure passes the window. seeing it he says with his slow smile] "'ere's mrs. bradmere, comin' from the rectory." [with queer malice] she don't like cats. but she'm a cat 'erself, i think. strangway. [with his smile] jim! jim. she'm always tellin' me i'm lukin' better. i'm not better, zurr. strangway. that's her kindness. jim. i don't think it is. 'tis laziness, an' 'avin' 'er own way. she'm very fond of 'er own way. [a knock on the door cuts off his speech. following closely on the knock, as though no doors were licensed to be closed against her, a grey-haired lady enters; a capable, broad-faced woman of seventy, whose every tone and movement exhales authority. with a nod and a "good morning" to strangway she turns at face to jim bere.] mrs. bradmere ah! jim; you're looking better. [jim bere shakes his head. mrs. bradmere. oh! yes, you are. getting on splendidly. and now, i just want to speak to mr. strangway.] [jim bere touches his forelock, and slowly, leaning on his stick, goes out.] mrs. bradmere. [waiting for the door to close] you know how that came on him? caught the girl he was engaged to, one night, with another man, the rage broke something here. [she touches her forehead] four years ago. strangway. poor fellow! mrs. bradmere. [looking at him sharply] is your wife back? strangway. [starting] no. mrs. bradmere. by the way, poor mrs. cremer--is she any better? strangway. no; going fast: wonderful--so patient. mrs. bradmere. [with gruff sympathy] um! yes. they know how to die! [wide another sharp look at him] d'you expect your wife soon? strangway. i i--hope so. mrs. bradmere: so do i. the sooner the better. strangway. [shrinking] i trust the rector's not suffering so much this morning? mrs. bradmere. thank you! his foot's very bad. [as she speaks mrs. burlacombe returns with a large pale-blue book in her bared.] mrs. burlacombe. good day, m'm! [taking the book across to strangway] miss willie, she says she'm very sorry, zurr. strangway. she was very welcome, mrs. burlacombe. [to mrs. burlacombe] forgive me--my sermon. [he goes into the house. the two women graze after him. then, at once, as it were, draw into themselves, as if preparing for an encounter, and yet seem to expand as if losing the need for restraint.] mrs. bradmere. [abruptly] he misses his wife very much, i'm afraid. mrs. burlacombe. ah! don't he? poor dear man; he keeps a terrible tight 'and over 'imself, but 'tis suthin' cruel the way he walks about at night. he'm just like a cow when its calf's weaned. 't'as gone to me 'eart truly to see 'im these months past. t'other day when i went up to du his rume, i yeard a noise like this [she sniffs]; an' ther' 'e was at the wardrobe, snuffin' at 'er things. i did never think a man cud care for a woman so much as that. mrs. bradmere. h'm! mrs. burlacombe. 'tis funny rest an' 'e comin' 'ere for quiet after that tearin' great london parish! 'e'm terrible absent-minded tu --don't take no interest in 'is fude. yesterday, goin' on for one o'clock, 'e says to me, "i expect 'tis nearly breakfast-time, mrs. burlacombe!" 'e'd 'ad it twice already! mrs. bradmere. twice! nonsense! mrs. burlacombe. zurely! i give 'im a nummit afore 'e gets up; an' 'e 'as 'is brekjus reg'lar at nine. must feed un up. he'm on 'is feet all day, gain' to zee folk that widden want to zee an angel, they're that busy; an' when 'e comes in 'e'll play 'is flute there. hem wastin' away for want of 'is wife. that's what 'tis. an' 'im so sweet-spoken, tu, 'tes a pleasure to year 'im--never says a word! mrs. bradmere. yes, that's the kind of man who gets treated badly. i'm afraid she's not worthy of him, mrs. burlacombe. mrs. burlacombe. [plaiting her apron] 'tesn't for me to zay that. she'm a very pleasant lady. mrs. bradmere too pleasant. what's this story about her being seen in durford? mrs. burlacombe. aw! i du never year no gossip, m'm. mrs. bradmere. [drily] of course not! but you see the rector wishes to know. mrs. burlacombe. [flustered] well--folk will talk! but, as i says to burlacombe--"'tes paltry," i says; and they only married eighteen months, and mr. strangway so devoted-like. 'tes nothing but love, with 'im. mrs. bradmere. come! mrs. burlacombe. there's puzzivantin' folk as'll set an' gossip the feathers off an angel. but i du never listen. mrs. bradmere now then, mrs. burlacombe? mrs. burlacombe. well, they du say as how dr. desart over to durford and mrs. strangway was sweethearts afore she wer' married. mrs. bradmere. i knew that. who was it saw her coming out of dr. desart's house yesterday? mrs. burlacombe. in a manner of spakin' 'tes mrs. freman that says 'er gladys seen her. mrs. bradmere. that child's got an eye like a hawk. mrs. burlacombe. 'tes wonderful how things du spread. 'tesn't as if us gossiped. du seem to grow-like in the naight. mrs. bradmere [to herself] i never lied her. that riviera excuse, mrs. burlacombe--very convenient things, sick mothers. mr. strangway doesn't know? mrs. burlacombe. the lord forbid! 'twid send un crazy, i think. for all he'm so moony an' gentlelike, i think he'm a terrible passionate man inside. he've a-got a saint in 'im, for zure; but 'tes only 'alf-baked, in a manner of spakin'. mrs. bradmere. i shall go and see mrs. freman. there's been too much of this gossip all the winter. mrs. burlacombe. 'tes unfortunate-like 'tes the fremans. freman he'm a gipsy sort of a feller; and he've never forgiven mr. strangway for spakin' to 'im about the way he trates 'is 'orses. mrs. bradmere. ah! i'm afraid mr. strangway's not too discreet when his feelings are touched. mrs. burlacombe. 'e've a-got an 'eart so big as the full mune. but 'tes no yuse espectin' tu much o' this world. 'tes a funny place, after that. mrs. bradmere. yes, mrs. burlacombe; and i shall give some of these good people a rare rap over the knuckles for their want of charity. for all they look as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, they're an un-christian lot. [looking very directly at mrs. burlacombe] it's lucky we've some hold over the village. i'm not going to have scandal. i shall speak to sir herbert, and he and the rector will take steps. mrs. burlacombe. [with covert malice] aw! i du hope 'twon't upset the rector, an' 'is fute so poptious! mrs. bradmere. [grimly] his foot'll be sound enough to come down sharp. by the way, will you send me a duck up to the rectory? mrs. burlacombe. [glad to get away] zurely, m'm; at once. i've some luv'ly fat birds. [she goes into the house.] mrs. bradmere. old puss-cat! [she turns to go, and in the doorway encounters a very little, red-cheeked girl in a peacock-blue cap, and pink frock, who curtsies stolidly.] mrs. bradmere. well, tibby jarland, what do you want here? always sucking something, aren't you? [getting no reply from tibby jarland, she passes out. tibby comes in, looks round, takes a large sweet out of her mouth, contemplates it, and puts it back again. then, in a perfunctory and very stolid fashion, she looks about the floor, as if she had been told to find something. while she is finding nothing and sucking her sweet, her sister mercy comes in furtively, still frowning and vindictive.] mercy. what! haven't you found it, tibby? get along with 'ee, then! [she accelerates the stolid tissy's departure with a smack, searches under the seat, finds and picks up the deserted sixpence. then very quickly she goes to the door: but it is opened before she reaches it, and, finding herself caught, she slips behind the chintz window-curtain. a woman has entered, who is clearly the original of the large photograph. she is not strictly pretty, but there is charm in her pale, resolute face, with its mocking lips, flexible brows, and greenish eyes, whose lids, square above them, have short, dark lashes. she is dressed in blue, and her fair hair is coiled up under a cap and motor-veil. she comes in swiftly, and closes the door behind her; becomes irresolute; then, suddenly deciding, moves towards the door into the house. mercy slips from behind her curtain to make off, but at that moment the door into the house is opened, and she has at once to slip back again into covert. it is ivy who has appeared.] ivy. [amazed] oh! mrs. strangway! [evidently disconcerted by this appearance, beatrice strangway pulls herself together and confronts the child with a smile.] beatrice. well, ivy--you've grown! you didn't expect me, did you? ivy. no, mrs. strangway; but i hoped yu'd be comin' soon. beatrice. ah! yes. is mr. strangway in? ivy. [hypnotized by those faintly smiling lips] yes--oh, yes! he's writin' his sermon in the little room. he will be glad! beatrice. [going a little closer, and never taking her eyes off the child] yes. now, ivy; will you do something for me? ivy. [fluttering] oh, yes, mrs. strangway. beatrice. quite sure? ivy. oh, yes! beatrice. are you old enough to keep a secret? ivy. [nodding] i'm fourteen now. beatrice. well, then--, i don't want anybody but mr. strangway to know i've been here; nobody, not even your mother. d'you understand? ivy. [troubled] no. only, i can keep a secret. beatrice. mind, if anybody hears, it will hurt mr. strangway. ivy. oh! i wouldn't--hurt--him. must yu go away again? [trembling towards her] i wish yu wer goin' to stay. and perhaps some one has seen yu--they---- beatrice. [hastily] no, no one. i came motoring; like this. [she moves her veil to show how it can conceal her face] and i came straight down the little lane, and through the barn, across the yard. ivy. [timidly] people du see a lot. beatrice. [still with that hovering smile] i know, but----now go and tell him quickly and quietly. ivy. [stopping at the door] mother's pluckin' a duck. only, please, mrs. strangway, if she comes in even after yu've gone, she'll know, because--because yu always have that particular nice scent. beatrice. thank you, my child. i'll see to that. [ivy looks at her as if she would speak again, then turns suddenly, and goes out. beatrice's face darkens; she shivers. taking out a little cigarette case, she lights a cigarette, and watches the puff's of smoke wreathe shout her and die away. the frightened mercy peers out, spying for a chance, to escape. then from the house strangway comes in. all his dreaminess is gone.] strangway. thank god! [he stops at the look on her face] i don't understand, though. i thought you were still out there. beatrice. [letting her cigarette fall, and putting her foot on it] no. strangway: you're staying? oh! beatrice; come! we'll get away from here at once--as far, as far--anywhere you like. oh! my darling --only come! if you knew---- beatrice. it's no good, michael; i've tried and tried. strangway. not! then, why--? beatrice! you said, when you were right away--i've waited---- beatrice. i know. it's cruel--it's horrible. but i told you not to hope, michael. i've done my best. all these months at mentone, i've been wondering why i ever let you marry me--when that feeling wasn't dead! strangway. you can't have come back just to leave me again? beatrice. when you let me go out there with mother i thought--i did think i would be able; and i had begun--and then--spring came! strangway. spring came here too! never so--aching! beatrice, can't you? beatrice. i've something to say. strangway. no! no! no! beatrice. you see--i've--fallen. strangway. ah! [in a twice sharpened by pain] why, in the name of mercy, come here to tell me that? was he out there, then? beatrice. i came straight back to him. strangway. to durford? beatrice. to the crossway hotel, miles out--in my own name. they don't know me there. i told you not to hope, michael. i've done my best; i swear it. strangway. my god! beatrice. it was your god that brought us to live near him! strangway. why have you come to me like this? beatrice. to know what you're going to do. are you going to divorce me? we're in your power. don't divorce me--doctor and patient--you must know--it ruins him. he'll lose everything. he'd be disqualified, and he hasn't a penny without his work. strangway. why should i spare him? beatrice. michael; i came to beg. it's hard. strangway. no; don't beg! i can't stand it. [she shakes her head.] beatrice. [recovering her pride] what are you going to do, then? keep us apart by the threat of a divorce? starve us and prison us? cage me up here with you? i'm not brute enough to ruin him. strangway. heaven! beatrice. i never really stopped loving him. i never--loved you, michael. strangway. [stunned] is that true? [beatrice bends her head] never loved me? not--that night--on the river--not----? beatrice. [under her breath] no. strangway. were you lying to me, then? kissing me, and--hating me? beatrice. one doesn't hate men like you; but it wasn't love. strangway. why did you tell me it was? beatrice. yes. that was the worst thing i've ever done. strangway. do you think i would have married you? i would have burned first! i never dreamed you didn't. i swear it! beatrice. [very low] forget it! strangway. did he try to get you away from me? [beatrice gives him a swift look] tell me the truth! beatrice. no. it was--i--alone. but--he loves me. strangway. one does not easily know love, it seems. [but her smile, faint, mysterious, pitying, is enough, and he turns away from her.] beatrice. it was cruel to come, i know. for me, too. but i couldn't write. i had to know. strangway. never loved me? never loved me? that night at tregaron? [at the look on her face] you might have told me before you went away! why keep me all these---- beatrice. i meant to forget him again. i did mean to. i thought i could get back to what i was, when i married you; but, you see, what a girl can do, a woman that's been married--can't. strangway. then it was i--my kisses that----! [he laughs] how did you stand them? [his eyes dart at her face] imagination helped you, perhaps! beatrice. michael, don't, don't! and--oh! don't make a public thing of it! you needn't be afraid i shall have too good a time! [he stays quite still and silent, and that which is writhing in him makes his face so strange that beatrice stands aghast. at last she goes stumbling on in speech] if ever you want to marry some one else--then, of course--that's only fair, ruin or not. but till then--till then----he's leaving durford, going to brighton. no one need know. and you--this isn't the only parish in the world. strangway. [quietly] you ask me to help you live in secret with another man? beatrice. i ask for mercy. strangway. [as to himself] what am i to do? beatrice. what you feel in the bottom of your heart. strangway. you ask me to help you live in sin? beatrice. to let me go out of your life. you've only to do-- nothing. [he goes, slowly, close to her.] strangway. i want you. come back to me! beatrice, come back! beatrice. it would be torture, now. strangway. [writhing] oh! beatrice. whatever's in your heart--do! strangway. you'd come back to me sooner than ruin him? would you? beatrice. i can't bring him harm. strangway. [turning away] god!--if there be one help me! [he stands leaning his forehead against the window. suddenly his glance falls on the little bird cage, still lying on the window-seat] never cage any wild thing! [he gives a laugh that is half a sob; then, turning to the door, says in a low voice] go! go please, quickly! do what you will. i won't hurt you--can't----but--go! [he opens the door.] beatrice. [greatly moved] thank you! [she passes him with her head down, and goes out quickly. strangway stands unconsciously tearing at the little bird-cage. and while he tears at it he utters a moaning sound. the terrified mercy, peering from behind the curtain, and watching her chance, slips to the still open door; but in her haste and fright she knocks against it, and strangway sees her. before he can stop her she has fled out on to the green and away.] [while he stands there, paralysed, the door from the house is opened, and mrs. burlacombe approaches him in a queer, hushed way.] mrs. burlacombe. [her eyes mechanically fixed on the twisted bird-cage in his hands] 'tis poor sue cremer, zurr, i didn't 'ardly think she'd last thru the mornin'. an' zure enough she'm passed away! [seeing that he has not taken in her words] mr. strangway-- yu'm feelin' giddy? strangway. no, no! what was it? you said---- mrs. burlacombe. 'tes jack cremer. his wife's gone. 'e'm in a terrible way. 'tes only yu, 'e ses, can du 'im any gude. he'm in the kitchen. strangway. cremer? yes! of course. let him---- mrs. burlacombe. [still staring at the twisted cage] yu ain't wantin' that--'tes all twizzled. [she takes it from him] sure yu'm not feelin' yer 'ead? strangway. [with a resolute effort] no! mrs. burlacombe. [doubtfully] i'll send 'im in, then. [she goes. when she is gone, strangway passes his handkerchief across his forehead, and his lips move fast. he is standing motionless when cremer, a big man in labourer's clothes, with a thick, broad face, and tragic, faithful eyes, comes in, and stands a little in from the closed door, quite dumb.] strangway. [after a moment's silence--going up to him and laying a hand on his shoulder] jack! don't give way. if we give way--we're done. cremer. yes, zurr. [a quiver passes over his face.] strangway. she didn't. your wife was a brave woman. a dear woman. cremer. i never thought to luse 'er. she never told me 'ow bad she was, afore she tuk to 'er bed. 'tis a dreadful thing to luse a wife, zurr. strangway. [tightening his lips, that tremble] yes. but don't give way! bear up, jack! cremer. seems funny 'er goin' blue-bell time, an' the sun shinin' so warm. i picked up an 'orse-shu yesterday. i can't never 'ave 'er back, zurr. [his face quivers again.] strangway. some day you'll join her. think! some lose their wives for ever. cremer. i don't believe as there's a future life, zurr. i think we goo to sleep like the beasts. strangway. we're told otherwise. but come here! [drawing him to the window] look! listen! to sleep in that! even if we do, it won't be so bad, jack, will it? cremer. she wer' a gude wife to me--no man didn't 'ave no better wife. strangway. [putting his hand out] take hold--hard--harder! i want yours as much as you want mine. pray for me, jack, and i'll pray for you. and we won't give way, will we? cremer. [to whom the strangeness of these words has given some relief] no, zurr; thank 'ee, zurr. 'tes no gude, i expect. only, i'll miss 'er. thank 'ee, zurr; kindly. [he lifts his hand to his head, turns, and uncertainly goes out to the kitchen. and strangway stays where he is, not knowing what to do. they blindly he takes up his flute, and hatless, hurries out into the air.] act ii scene i about seven o'clock in the taproom of the village inn. the bar, with the appurtenances thereof, stretches across one end, and opposite is the porch door on to the green. the wall between is nearly all window, with leaded panes, one wide-open casement whereof lets in the last of the sunlight. a narrow bench runs under this broad window. and this is all the furniture, save three spittoons: godleigh, the innkeeper, a smallish man with thick ruffled hair, a loquacious nose, and apple-red cheeks above a reddish-brown moustache; is reading the paper. to him enters tibby jarland with a shilling in her mouth. godleigh. well, tibby jarland, what've yu come for, then? glass o' beer? [tibby takes the shilling from her mouth and smiles stolidly.] godleigh. [twinkling] i shid zay glass o' 'arf an' 'arf's about yure form. [tibby smiles more broadly] yu'm a praaper masterpiece. well! 'ave sister mercy borrowed yure tongue? [tibby shakes her head] aw, she 'aven't. well, maid? tibby. father wants six clay pipes, please. godleigh. 'e du, du 'ee? yu tell yure father 'e can't 'ave more'n one, not this avenin'. and 'ere 'tis. hand up yure shillin'. [tibby reaches up her hand, parts with the shilling, and receives a long clay pipe and eleven pennies. in order to secure the coins in her pinafore she places the clay pipe in her mouth. while she is still thus engaged, mrs. bradmere enters the porch and comes in. tibby curtsies stolidly.] mrs. bradmere. gracious, child! what are you doing here? and what have you got in your mouth? who is it? tibby jarland? [tibby curtsies again] take that thing out. and tell your father from me that if i ever see you at the inn again i shall tread on his toes hard. godleigh, you know the law about children? godleigh. [cocking his eye, and not at all abashed] surely, m'm. but she will come. go away, my dear. [tibby, never taking her eyes off mrs. bradmere, or the pipe from her mouth, has backed stolidly to the door, and vanished.] mrs. bradmere. [eyeing godleigh] now, godleigh, i've come to talk to you. half the scandal that goes about the village begins here. [she holds up her finger to check expostulation] no, no--its no good. you know the value of scandal to your business far too well. godleigh. wi' all respect, m'm, i knows the vally of it to yourn, tu. mrs. bradmere. what do you mean by that? godleigh. if there weren't no rector's lady there widden' be no notice taken o' scandal; an' if there weren't no notice taken, twidden be scandal, to my thinkin'. mrs. bradmere. [winking out a grim little smile] very well! you've given me your views. now for mine. there's a piece of scandal going about that's got to be stopped, godleigh. you turn the tap of it off here, or we'll turn your tap off. you know me. see? godleigh. i shouldn' never presume, m'm, to know a lady. mrs. bradmere. the rector's quite determined, so is sir herbert. ordinary scandal's bad enough, but this touches the church. while mr. strangway remains curate here, there must be no talk about him and his affairs. godleigh. [cocking his eye] i was just thinkin' how to du it, m'm. 'twid be a brave notion to putt the men in chokey, and slit the women's tongues-like, same as they du in outlandish places, as i'm told. mrs. bradmere. don't talk nonsense, godleigh; and mind what i say, because i mean it. godleigh. make yure mind aisy, m'm there'll be no scandal-monkeyin' here wi' my permission. [mrs. bradmere gives him a keen stare, but seeing him perfectly grave, nods her head with approval.] mrs. bradmere. good! you know what's being said, of course? godleigh. [with respectful gravity] yu'll pardon me, m'm, but ef an' in case yu was goin' to tell me, there's a rule in this 'ouse: "no scandal 'ere!" mrs. bradmere. [twinkling grimly] you're too smart by half, my man. godleigh. aw fegs, no, m'm--child in yure 'ands. mrs. bradmere. i wouldn't trust you a yard. once more, godleigh! this is a christian village, and we mean it to remain so. you look out for yourself. [the door opens to admit the farmers trustaford and burlacombe. they doff their hats to mrs. bradmere, who, after one more sharp look at godleigh, moves towards the door.] mrs. bradmere. evening, mr. trustaford. [to burlacombe] burlacombe, tell your wife that duck she sent up was in hard training. [with one of her grim winks, and a nod, she goes.] trustaford. [replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new, on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little whiskers] what's the old grey mare want, then? [with a horse-laugh] 'er's lukin' awful wise! godleigh. [enigmatically] ah! trustaford. [sitting on the bench dose to the bar] drop o' whisky, an' potash. burlacombe. [a taciturn, alien, yellowish man, in a worn soft hat] what's wise, godleigh? drop o' cider. godleigh. nuse? there's never no nuse in this 'ouse. aw, no! not wi' my permission. [in imitation] this is a christian village. trustaford. thought the old grey mare seemed mighty busy. [to burlacombe] 'tes rather quare about the curate's wife a-cumin' motorin' this mornin'. passed me wi' her face all smothered up in a veil, goggles an' all. haw, haw! burlacombe. aye! trustaford. off again she was in 'alf an hour. 'er didn't give poor old curate much of a chance, after six months. godleigh. havin' an engagement elsewhere--no scandal, please, gentlemen. burlacombe. [acidly] never asked to see my missis. passed me in the yard like a stone. trustaford. 'tes a little bit rumoursome lately about 'er doctor. godleigh. ah! he's the favourite. but 'tes a dead secret; mr. trustaford. don't yu never repate it--there's not a cat don't know it already! burlacombe frowns, and trustaford utters his laugh. the door is opened and freman, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer, comes in. godleigh. don't yu never tell will freman what 'e told me! freman. avenin'! trustaford. avenin', will; what's yure glass o' trouble? freman. drop o' eider, clove, an' dash o' gin. there's blood in the sky to-night. burlacombe. ah! we'll 'ave fine weather now, with the full o' the mune. freman. dust o' wind an' a drop or tu, virst, i reckon. 'earl t' nuse about curate an' 'is wife? godleigh. no, indeed; an' don't yu tell us. we'm christians 'ere in this village. freman. 'tain't no very christian nuse, neither. he's sent 'er off to th' doctor. "go an' live with un," 'e says; "my blessin' on ye." if 'er'd a-been mine, i'd 'a tuk the whip to 'er. tam jarland's maid, she yeard it all. christian, indeed! that's brave christianity! "goo an' live with un!" 'e told 'er. burlacombe. no, no; that's, not sense--a man to say that. i'll not 'ear that against a man that bides in my 'ouse. freman. 'tes sure, i tell 'ee. the maid was hid-up, scared-like, behind the curtain. at it they went, and parson 'e says: "go," 'e says, "i won't kape 'ee from 'im," 'e says, "an' i won't divorce 'ee, as yu don't wish it!" they was 'is words, same as jarland's maid told my maid, an' my maid told my missis. if that's parson's talk, 'tes funny work goin' to church. trustaford. [brooding] 'tes wonderful quare, zurely. freman. tam jarland's fair mad wi' curate for makin' free wi' his maid's skylark. parson or no parson, 'e've no call to meddle wi' other people's praperty. he cam' pokin' 'is nose into my affairs. i told un i knew a sight more 'bout 'orses than 'e ever would! trustaford. he'm a bit crazy 'bout bastes an' birds. [they have been so absorbed that they bane not noticed the entrance of clyst, a youth with tousled hair, and a bright, quick, celtic eye, who stands listening, with a bit of paper in his hand.] clyst. ah! he'm that zurely, mr. trustaford. [he chuckles.] godleigh. now, tim clyst, if an' in case yu've a-got some scandal on yer tongue, don't yu never unship it here. yu go up to rectory where 'twill be more relished-like. clyst. [waving the paper] will y' give me a drink for this, mr. godleigh? 'tes rale funny. aw! 'tes somethin' swats. butiful readin'. poetry. rale spice. yu've a luv'ly voice for readin', mr. godleigh. godleigh. [all ears and twinkle] aw, what is it then? clyst. ah! yu want t'know tu much. [putting the paper in his pocket.] [while he is speaking, jim bere has entered quietly, with his feeble step and smile, and sits down.] clyst. [kindly] hello, jim! cat come 'ome? jim bere. no. [all nod, and speak to him kindly. and jim bere smiles at them, and his eyes ask of them the question, to which there is no answer. and after that he sits motionless and silent, and they talk as if he were not there.] godleigh. what's all this, now--no scandal in my 'ouse! clyst. 'tes awful peculiar--like a drame. mr. burlacombe 'e don't like to hear tell about drames. a guess a won't tell 'ee, arter that. freman. out wi' it, tim. clyst. 'tes powerful thirsty to-day, mr. godleigh. godleigh. [drawing him some cider] yu're all wild cat's talk, tim; yu've a-got no tale at all. clyst. [moving for the cider] aw, indade! godleigh. no tale, no cider! clyst. did ye ever year tell of orphus? trustaford. what? the old vet. up to drayleigh? clyst. fegs, no; orphus that lived in th' old time, an' drawed the bastes after un wi' his music, same as curate was tellin' the maids. freman. i've 'eard as a gipsy over to vellacott could du that wi' 'is viddle. clyst. 'twas no gipsy i see'd this arternune; 'twee orphus, down to mr. burlacombe's long medder; settin' there all dark on a stone among the dimsy-white flowers an' the cowflops, wi' a bird upon 'is 'ead, playin' his whistle to the ponies. freman. [excitedly] yu did never zee a man wi' a bird on 'is 'ead. clyst. didn' i? freman. what sort o' bird, then? yu tell me that. trustaford. praaper old barndoor cock. haw, haw! godleigh. [soothingly] 'tes a vairy-tale; us mustn't be tu partic'lar. burlacombe: in my long medder? where were yu, then, tim clyst? clyst. passin' down the lane on my bike. wonderful sorrowful-fine music 'e played. the ponies they did come round 'e--yu cud zee the tears rennin' down their chakes; 'twas powerful sad. 'e 'adn't no 'at on. freman. [jeering] no; 'e 'ad a bird on 'is 'ead. clyst. [with a silencing grin] he went on playin' an' playin'. the ponies they never muved. an' all the dimsy-white flowers they waved and waved, an' the wind it went over 'em. gav' me a funny feelin'. godleigh. clyst, yu take the cherry bun! clyst. where's that cider, mr. godleigh? godleigh. [bending over the cider] yu've a-- 'ad tu much already, tim. [the door is opened, and tam jarland appears. he walks rather unsteadily; a man with a hearty jowl, and sullen, strange; epileptic-looking eyes.] clyst. [pointing to jarland] 'tis tam jarland there 'as the cargo aboard. jarland. avenin', all! [to godleigh] pinto' beer. [to jim bere] avenin', jim. [jim bere looks at him and smiles.] godleigh. [serving him after a moment's hesitation] 'ere y'are, tam. [to clyst, who has taken out his paper again] where'd yu get thiccy paper? clyst. [putting down his cider-mug empty] yure tongue du watter, don't it, mr. godleigh? [holding out his mug] no zider, no poetry. 'tis amazin' sorrowful; shakespeare over again. "the boy stude on the burnin' deck." freman. yu and yer yap! clyst. ah! yu wait a bit. when i come back down t'lane again, orphus 'e was vanished away; there was naught in the field but the ponies, an' a praaper old magpie, a-top o' the hedge. i zee somethin' white in the beak o' the fowl, so i giv' a "whisht," an' 'e drops it smart, an' off 'e go. i gets over bank an' picks un up, and here't be. [he holds out his mug.] burlacombe. [tartly] here, give 'im 'is cider. rade it yureself, ye young teasewings. [clyst, having secured his cider, drinks it o$. holding up the paper to the light, he makes as if to begin, then slides his eye round, tantalizing.] clyst. 'tes a pity i bain't dressed in a white gown, an' flowers in me 'air. freman. read it, or we'll 'aye yu out o' this. clyst. aw, don't 'ee shake my nerve, now! [he begins reading with mock heroism, in his soft, high, burring voice. thus, in his rustic accent, go the lines] god lighted the zun in 'eaven far. lighted the virefly an' the star. my 'eart 'e lighted not! god lighted the vields fur lambs to play, lighted the bright strames, 'an the may. my 'eart 'e lighted not! god lighted the mune, the arab's way, he lights to-morrer, an' to-day. my 'eart 'e 'ath vorgot! [when he has finished, there is silence. then trustaford, scratching his head, speaks:] taustaford. 'tes amazin' funny stuff. freman. [looking over clyst's shoulder] be danged! 'tes the curate's 'andwritin'. 'twas curate wi' the ponies, after that. clyst. fancy, now! aw, will freman, an't yu bright! freman. but 'e 'adn't no bird on 'is 'ead. clyst. ya-as, 'e 'ad. jarland. [in a dull, threatening voice] 'e 'ad my maid's bird, this arternune. 'ead or no, and parson or no, i'll gie 'im one for that. freman. ah! and 'e meddled wi' my 'orses. trustaford. i'm thinkin' 'twas an old cuckoo bird 'e 'ad on 'is 'ead. haw, haw! godleigh. "his 'eart she 'ath vorgot!" freman. 'e's a fine one to be tachin' our maids convirmation. godleigh. would ye 'ave it the old rector then? wi' 'is gouty shoe? rackon the maids wid rather 'twas curate; eh, mr. burlacombe? burlacombe. [abruptly] curate's a gude man. jarland. [with the comatose ferocity of drink] i'll be even wi' un. freman. [excitedly] tell 'ee one thing--'tes not a proper man o' god to 'ave about, wi' 'is luse goin's on. out vrom 'ere he oughter go. burlacombe. you med go further an' fare worse. freman. what's 'e duin', then, lettin' 'is wife runoff? trustaford. [scratching his head] if an' in case 'e can't kape 'er, 'tes a funny way o' duin' things not to divorce 'er, after that. if a parson's not to du the christian thing, whu is, then? burlacombe. 'tes a bit immoral-like to pass over a thing like that. tes funny if women's gain's on's to be encouraged. freman. act of a coward, i zay. burlacombe. the curate ain't no coward. freman. he bides in yure house; 'tes natural for yu to stand up for un; i'll wager mrs. burlacombe don't, though. my missis was fair shocked. "will," she says, "if yu ever make vur to let me go like that, i widden never stay wi' yu," she says. trustaford. 'tes settin' a bad example, for zure. burlacombe. 'tes all very airy talkin'; what shude 'e du, then? freman. [excitedly] go over to durford and say to that doctor: "yu come about my missis, an' zee what i'll du to 'ee." an' take 'er 'ome an' zee she don't misbe'ave again. clyst. 'e can't take 'er ef 'er don' want t' come--i've 'eard lawyer, that lodged wi' us, say that. freman. all right then, 'e ought to 'ave the law of 'er and 'er doctor; an' zee 'er goin's on don't prosper; 'e'd get damages, tu. but this way 'tes a nice example he'm settin' folks. parson indade! my missis an' the maids they won't goo near the church to-night, an' i wager no one else won't, neither. jarland. [lurching with his pewter up to godleigh] the beggar! i'll be even wi' un. godleigh. [looking at him in doubt] 'tes the last, then, tam. [having received his beer, jarland stands, leaning against the bar, drinking.] burlacombe. [suddenly] i don' goo with what curate's duin--'tes tiff soft 'earted; he'm a muney kind o' man altogether, wi' 'is flute an' 'is poetry; but he've a-lodged in my 'ouse this year an' mare, and always 'ad an 'elpin' 'and for every one. i've got a likin' for him an' there's an end of it. jarland. the coward! trustaford. i don' trouble nothin' about that, tam jarland. [turning to burlacombe] what gits me is 'e don't seem to 'ave no zense o' what's his own praperty. jarland. take other folk's property fast enough! [he saws the air with his empty. the others have all turned to him, drawn by the fascination that a man in liquor has for his fellow-men. the bell for church has begun to rang, the sun is down, and it is getting dusk.] he wants one on his crop, an' one in 'is belly; 'e wants a man to take an' gie un a gude hidin zame as he oughter give 'is fly-be-night of a wife. [strangway in his dark clothes has entered, and stands by the door, his lips compressed to a colourless line, his thin, darkish face grey-white] zame as a man wid ha' gi'en the doctor, for takin' what isn't his'n. all but jarland have seen strangway. he steps forward, jarland sees him now; his jaw drops a little, and he is silent. strangway. i came for a little brandy, mr. godleigh--feeling rather faint. afraid i mightn't get through the service. godleigh. [with professional composure] marteil's three star, zurr, or 'ennessy's? strangway. [looking at jarland] thank you; i believe i can do without, now. [he turns to go.] [in the deadly silence, godleigh touches the arm of jarland, who, leaning against the bar with the pewter in his hand, is staring with his strange lowering eyes straight at strangway.] jarland. [galvanized by the touch into drunken rage] lave me be --i'll talk to un-parson or no. i'll tache un to meddle wi' my maid's bird. i'll tache un to kape 'is thievin' 'ands to 'imself. [strangway turns again.] clyst. be quiet, tam. jarland. [never loosing strangway with his eyes--like a bull-dog who sees red] that's for one chake; zee un turn t'other, the white-livered buty! whu lets another man 'ave 'is wife, an' never the sperit to go vor un! burlacombe. shame, jarland; quiet, man! [they are all looking at strangway, who, under jarland's drunken insults is standing rigid, with his eyes closed, and his hands hard clenched. the church bell has stopped slow ringing, and begun its five minutes' hurrying note.] trustaford. [rising, and trying to hook his arm into jarland's] come away, tam; yu've a-'ad to much, man. jarland. [shaking him off] zee, 'e darsen't touch me; i might 'it un in the vase an' 'e darsen't; 'e's afraid--like 'e was o' the doctor. [he raises the pewter as though to fling it, but it is seized by godleigh from behind, and falls clattering to the floor. strangway has not moved.] jarland. [shaking his fist almost in his face] luke at un, luke at un! a man wi' a slut for a wife---- [as he utters the word "wife" strangway seizes the outstretched fist, and with a jujitsu movement, draws him into his clutch, helpless. and as they sway and struggle in the open window, with the false strength of fury he forces jarland through. there is a crash of broken glass from outside. at the sound strangway comes to himself. a look of agony passes over his face. his eyes light on jim bere, who has suddenly risen, and stands feebly clapping his hands. strangway rushes out.] [excitedly gathering at the window, they all speak at once.] clyst. tam's hatchin' of yure cucumbers, mr. godleigh. trustaford. 'e did crash; haw, haw! freman. 'twas a brave throw, zurely. whu wid a' thought it? clyst. tam's crawlin' out. [leaning through window] hello, tam-- 'ow's t' base, old man? freman. [excitedly] they'm all comin' up from churchyard to zee. trustaford. tam du luke wonderful aztonished; haw, haw! poor old tam! clyst. can yu zee curate? reckon 'e'm gone into church. aw, yes; gettin' a bit dimsy-service time. [a moment's hush.] trustaford. well, i'm jiggered. in 'alf an hour he'm got to prache. godleigh. 'tes a christian village, boys. [feebly, quietly, jim bere laughs. there is silence; but the bell is heard still ranging.] curtain. scene ii the same-in daylight dying fast. a lamp is burning on the bar. a chair has been placed in the centre of the room, facing the bench under the window, on which are seated from right to left, godleigh, sol potter the village shopman, trustaford, burlacombe, freman, jim bere, and morse the blacksmith. clyst is squatting on a stool by the bar, and at the other end jarland, sobered and lowering, leans against the lintel of the porch leading to the door, round which are gathered five or six sturdy fellows, dumb as fishes. no one sits in the chair. in the unnatural silence that reigns, the distant sound of the wheezy church organ and voices singing can be heard. taustaford. [after a prolonged clearing of his throat] what i mean to zay is that 'tes no yuse, not a bit o' yuse in the world, not duin' of things properly. if an' in case we'm to carry a resolution disapprovin' o' curate, it must all be done so as no one can't, zay nothin'. sol potter. that's what i zay, mr. trustaford; ef so be as 'tis to be a village meetin', then it must be all done proper. freman. that's right, sot potter. i purpose mr. sot potter into the chair. whu seconds that? [a silence. voices from among the dumb-as-fishes: "i du."] clyst. [excitedly] yu can't putt that to the meetin'. only a chairman can putt it to the meetin'. i purpose that mr. burlacombe-- bein as how he's chairman o' the parish council--take the chair. freman. ef so be as i can't putt it, yu can't putt that neither. trustaford. 'tes not a bit o' yuse; us can't 'ave no meetin' without a chairman. godleigh. us can't 'ave no chairman without a meetin' to elect un, that's zure. [a silence.] morse. [heavily] to my way o' thinkin', mr. godleigh speaks zense; us must 'ave a meetin' before us can 'ave a chairman. clyst. then what we got to du's to elect a meetin'. burlacombe. [sourly] yu'll not find no procedure far that. [voices from among the dumb-as fishes: "mr. burlacombe 'e oughter know."] sol potter. [scratching his head--with heavy solemnity] 'tes my belief there's no other way to du, but to elect a chairman to call a meetin'; an' then for that meetin' to elect a chairman. clyst. i purpose mr. burlacombe as chairman to call a meetin'. freman. i purpose sol potter. godleigh. can't 'ave tu propositions together before a meetin'; that's apple-pie zure vur zurtain. [voice from among the dumb-as fishes: "there ain't no meetin' yet, sol potter zays."] trustaford. us must get the rights of it zettled some'ow. 'tes like the darned old chicken an' the egg--meetin' or chairman--which come virst? sol potter. [conciliating] to my thinkin' there shid be another way o' duin' it, to get round it like with a circumbendibus. 't'all comes from takin' different vuse, in a manner o' spakin'. freman. vu goo an' zet in that chair. sol potter. [with a glance at burlacombe modestly] i shid'n never like fur to du that, with mr. burlacombe zettin' there. burlacombe. [rising] 'tes all darned fulishness. [amidst an uneasy shufflement of feet he moves to the door, and goes out into the darkness.] clyst. [seeing his candidate thus depart] rackon curate's pretty well thru by now, i'm goin' to zee. [as he passes jarland] 'ow's to base, old man? [he goes out. one of the dumb-as-fishes moves from the door and fills the apace left on the bench by burlacombe's departure.] jarland. darn all this puzzivantin'! [to sol potter] got an' zet in that chair. sol potter. [rising and going to the chair; there he stands, changing from one to the other of his short broad feet and sweating from modesty and worth] 'tes my duty now, gentlemen, to call a meetin' of the parishioners of this parish. i beg therefore to declare that this is a meetin' in accordance with my duty as chairman of this meetin' which elected me chairman to call this meetin'. and i purceed to vacate the chair so that this meetin' may now purceed to elect a chairman. [he gets up from the chair, and wiping the sweat from his brow, goes back to his seat.] freman. mr. chairman, i rise on a point of order. godleigh. there ain't no chairman. freman. i don't give a darn for that. i rise on a point of order. godleigh. 'tes a chairman that decides points of order. 'tes certain yu can't rise on no points whatever till there's a chairman. trustaford. 'tes no yuse yure risin', not the least bit in the world, till there's some one to set yu down again. haw, haw! [voice from the dumb-as-etches: "mr. trustaford 'e's right."] freman. what i zay is the chairman ought never to 'ave vacated the chair till i'd risen on my point of order. i purpose that he goo and zet down again. godleigh. yu can't purpose that to this meetin'; yu can only purpose that to the old meetin' that's not zettin' any longer. freman. [excitedly] i didn' care what old meetin' 'tis that's zettin'. i purpose that sol potter goo an' zet in that chair again, while i rise on my point of order. trustaford. [scratching his head] 'tesn't regular but i guess yu've got to goo, sol, or us shan't 'ave no peace. [sol potter, still wiping his brow, goes back to the chair.] morse. [stolidly-to freman] zet down, will freman. [he pulls at him with a blacksmith's arm.] freman. [remaining erect with an effort] i'm not a-goin' to zet down till i've arisen. jarland. now then, there 'e is in the chair. what's yore point of order? freman. [darting his eyes here and there, and flinging his hand up to his gipsy-like head] 'twas--'twas--darned ef y' 'aven't putt it clean out o' my 'ead. jarland. we can't wait for yore points of order. come out o' that chair. sol potter. [sol potter rises and is about to vacate the chair.] freman. i know! there ought to 'a been minutes taken. yu can't 'ave no meetin' without minutes. when us comes to electin' a chairman o' the next meetin', 'e won't 'ave no minutes to read. sol potter. 'twas only to putt down that i was elected chairman to elect a meetin' to elect a chairman to preside over a meetin' to pass a resolution dalin' wi' the curate. that's aisy set down, that is. freman. [mollified] we'll 'ave that zet down, then, while we're electin' the chairman o' the next meetin'. [a silence. ] trustaford. well then, seein' this is the praaper old meetin' for carryin' the resolution about the curate, i purpose mr. sol potter take the chair. freman. i purpose mr. trustaford. i 'aven't a-got nothin' against sol potter, but seein' that he elected the meetin' that's to elect 'im, it might be said that 'e was electin' of himzelf in a manner of spakin'. us don't want that said. morse. [amid meditative grunts from the dumb-as-fishes] there's some-at in that. one o' they tu purposals must be putt to the meetin'. freman. second must be putt virst, fur zure. trustaford. i dunno as i wants to zet in that chair. to hiss the curate, 'tis a ticklish sort of a job after that. vurst comes afore second, will freeman. freman. second is amendment to virst. 'tes the amendments is putt virst. trustaford. 'ow's that, mr. godleigh? i'm not particular eggzac'ly to a dilly zort of a point like that. sol potter. [scratching his, head] 'tes a very nice point, for zure. godleigh. 'tes undoubtedly for the chairman to decide. [voice from the dumb-as fishes: "but there ain't no chairman yet."] jarland. sol potter's chairman. freman. no, 'e ain't. morse. yes, 'e is--'e's chairman till this second old meetin' gets on the go. freman. i deny that. what du yu say, mr. trustaford? trustaford. i can't 'ardly tell. it du zeem a darned long-sufferin' sort of a business altogether. [a silence.] morse. [slowly] tell 'ee what 'tis, us shan't du no gude like this. godleigh. 'tes for mr. freman or mr. trustaford, one or t'other to withdraw their motions. trustaford. [after a pause, with cautious generosity] i've no objections to withdrawin' mine, if will freman'll withdraw his'n. freman. i won't never be be'indhand. if mr. trustaford withdraws, i withdraws mine. morse. [with relief] that's zensible. putt the motion to the meetin'. sol potter. there ain't no motion left to putt. [silence of consternation.] [in the confusion jim bere is seen to stand up.] godleigh. jim bere to spike. silence for jim! voices. aye! silence for jim! sol potter. well, jim? jim. [smiling and slow] nothin' duin'. trustaford. bravo, jim! yu'm right. best zense yet! [applause from the dumb-as-fishes.] [with his smile brightening, jim resumes his seat.] sol potter. [wiping his brow] du seem to me, gentlemen, seem' as we'm got into a bit of a tangle in a manner of spakin', 'twid be the most zimplest and vairest way to begin all over vrom the beginnin', so's t'ave it all vair an' square for every one. [in the uproar of "aye" and "no," it is noticed that tibby jarland is standing in front of her father with her finger, for want of something better, in her mouth.] tibby. [in her stolid voice] please, sister mercy says, curate 'ave got to "lastly." [jarland picks her up, and there is silence.] an' please to come quick. jarland. come on, mates; quietly now! [he goes out, and all begin to follow him.] morse. [slowest, save for sol potter] 'tes rare lucky us was all agreed to hiss the curate afore us began the botherin' old meetin', or us widn' 'ardly 'ave 'ad time to settle what to du. sol potter. [scratching his head] aye, 'tes rare lucky; but i dunno if 'tes altogether reg'lar. curtain. scene iii the village green before the churchyard and the yew-trees at the gate. into the pitch dark under the yews, light comes out through the half-open church door. figures are lurking, or moving stealthily--people waiting and listening to the sound of a voice speaking in the church words that are inaudible. excited whispering and faint giggles come from the deepest yew-tree shade, made ghostly by the white faces and the frocks of young girls continually flitting up and back in the blackness. a girl's figure comes flying out from the porch, down the path of light, and joins the stealthy group. whispering voice of mercy. where's 'e got to now, gladys? whispering voice of gladys. 'e've just finished. voice of connie. whu pushed t'door open? voice of gladys. tim clyst i giv' it a little push, meself. voice of connie. oh! voice of gladys. tim clyst's gone in! another voice. o-o-o-h! voice of mercy. whu else is there, tu? voice of gladys. ivy's there, an' old mrs. potter, an' tu o' the maids from th'hall; that's all as ever. voice of connie. not the old grey mare? voice of gladys. no. she ain't ther'. 'twill just be th'ymn now, an' the blessin'. tibby gone for 'em? voice of mercy. yes. voice of connie. mr. burlacombe's gone in home, i saw 'im pass by just now--'e don' like it. father don't like it neither. voice of mercy. mr. strangway shoudn' 'ave taken my skylark, an' thrown father out o' winder. 'tis goin' to be awful fun! oh! [she jumps up and dawn in the darkness. and a voice from far in the shadow says: "hsssh! quiet, yu maids!" the voice has ceased speaking in the church. there is a moment's dead silence. the voice speaks again; then from the wheezy little organ come the first faint chords of a hymn.] gladys. "nearer, my god, to thee!" voice of mercy. 'twill be funny, with no one 'ardly singin'. [the sound of the old hymn sung by just six voices comes out to them rather sweet and clear.] gladys. [softly] 'tis pretty, tu. why! they're only singin' one verse! [a moment's silence, and the voice speaks, uplifted, pronouncing the blessing: "the peace of god----" as the last words die away, dark figures from the inn approach over the grass, till quite a crowd seems standing there without a word spoken. then from out of the church porch come the congregation. tim clyst first, hastily lost among the waiting figures in the dark; old mrs. potter, a half blind old lady groping her way and perceiving nothing out of the ordinary; the two maids from the hall, self-conscious and scared, scuttling along. last, ivy burlacombe quickly, and starting back at the dim, half-hidden crowd.] voice of gladys. [whispering] ivy! here, quick! [ivy sways, darts off towards the voice, and is lost in the shadow.] voice of freman. [low] wait, boys, till i give signal. [two or three squirks and giggles; tim clyst's voice: "ya-as! don't 'ee tread on my toe!" a soft, frightened "o-o-h!" from a girl. some quick, excited whisperings: "luke!" "zee there!" "he's comin'!" and then a perfectly dead silence. the figure of strangway is seen in his dark clothes, passing from the vestry to the church porch. he stands plainly visible in the lighted porch, locking the door, then steps forward. just as he reaches the edge of the porch, a low hiss breaks the silence. it swells very gradually into a long, hissing groan. strangway stands motionless, his hand over his eyes, staring into the darkness. a girl's figure can be seen to break out of the darkness and rush away. when at last the groaning has died into sheer expectancy, strangway drops his hand.] strangway. [in a loco voice] yes! i'm glad. is jarland there? freman. he's 'ere-no thanks to yu! hsss! [the hiss breaks out again, then dies away.] jarland's voice. [threatening] try if yu can du it again. strangway. no, jarland, no! i ask you to forgive me. humbly! [a hesitating silence, broken by muttering.] clyst's voice. bravo! a voice. that's vair. a voice. 'e's afraid o' the sack--that's what 'tis. a voice. [groaning] 'e's a praaper coward. a voice. whu funked the doctor? clyst's voice. shame on 'ee, therr! strangway. you're right--all of you! i'm not fit! an uneasy and excited mustering and whispering dies away into renewed silence. strangway. what i did to tam jarland is not the real cause of what you're doing, is it? i understand. but don't be troubled. it's all over. i'm going--you'll get some one better. forgive me, jarland. i can't see your face--it's very dark. freman's voice. [mocking] wait for the full mune. godleigh. [very low] "my 'eart 'e lighted not!" strangway. [starting at the sound of his own words thus mysteriously given him out of the darkness] whoever found that, please tear it up! [after a moment's silence] many of you have been very kind to me. you won't see me again--good-bye, all! [he stands for a second motionless, then moves resolutely down into the darkness so peopled with shadows.] uncertain voices as he passes. good-bye, zurr! good luck, zurr! [he has gone.] clyst's voice. three cheers for mr. strangway! [and a queer, strangled cheer, with groans still threading it, arises.] curtain. act iii scene i in the burlacombes' hall-sitting-room the curtains are drawn, a lamp burns, and the door stands open. burlacombe and his wife are hovering there, listening to the sound of mingled cheers and groaning. mrs. burlacombe. aw! my gudeness--what a thing t'appen! i'd saner 'a lost all me ducks. [she makes towards the inner door] i can't never face 'im. burlacombe. 'e can't expect nothin' else, if 'e act like that. mrs. burlacombe. 'tes only duin' as 'e'd be done by. burlacombe. aw! yu can't go on forgivin' 'ere, an' forgivin' there. 'tesn't nat'ral. mrs. burlacombe. 'tes the mischief 'e'm a parson. 'tes 'im bein' a lamb o' god--or 'twidden be so quare for 'im to be forgivin'. burlacombe. yu goo an' make un a gude 'ot drink. mrs. burlacombe. poor soul! what'll 'e du now, i wonder? [under her breath] 'e's cumin'! [she goes hurriedly. burlacombe, with a startled look back, wavers and makes to follow her, but stops undecided in the inner doorway. strangway comes in from the darkness. he turns to the window and drops overcoat and hat and the church key on the windowseat, looking about him as men do when too hard driven, and never fixing his eyes long enough on anything to see it. burlacombe, closing the door into the house, advances a step. at the sound strangway faces round.] burlacombe. i wanted for yu to know, zurr, that me an' mine 'adn't nothin' to du wi' that darned fulishness, just now. strangway. [with a ghost of a smile] thank you, burlacombe. it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter a bit. burlacombe. i 'ope yu won't take no notice of it. like a lot o' silly bees they get. [after an uneasy pause] yu'll excuse me spakin' of this mornin', an' what 'appened. 'tes a brave pity it cam' on yu so sudden-like before yu 'ad time to think. 'tes a sort o' thing a man shude zet an' chew upon. certainly 'tes not a bit o' yuse goin' against human nature. ef yu don't stand up for yureself there's no one else not goin' to. 'tes yure not 'avin' done that 'as made 'em so rampageous. [stealing another look at strangway] yu'll excuse me, zurr, spakin' of it, but 'tes amazin' sad to zee a man let go his own, without a word o' darin'. 'tea as ef 'e 'ad no passions like. strangway. look at me, burlacombe. [burlacombe looks up, trying hard to keep his eyes on strangway's, that seem to burn in his thin face.] strangway. do i look like that? please, please! [he touches his breast] i've too much here. please! burlacombe. [with a sort of startled respect] well, zurr, 'tes not for me to zay nothin', certainly. [he turns and after a slow look back at strangway goes out.] strangway. [to himself] passions! no passions! ha! [the outer door is opened and ivy burlacombe appears, and, seeing him, stops. then, coming softly towards him, she speaks timidly.] ivy. oh! mr. strangway, mrs. bradmere's cumin' from the rectory. i ran an' told 'em. oh! 'twas awful. [strangway starts, stares at her, and turning on his heel, goes into the house. ivy's face is all puckered, as if she were on the point of tears. there is a gentle scratching at the door, which has not been quite closed.] voice of gladys. [whispering] ivy! come on ivy. i won't. voice of mercy. yu must. us can't du without yu. ivy. [going to the door] i don't want to. voice of gladys. "naughty maid, she won't come out," ah! du 'ee! voice of cremer. tim clyst an' bobbie's cumin'; us'll only be six anyway. us can't dance "figure of eight" without yu. ivy. [stamping her foot] i don't want to dance at all! i don't. mercy. aw! she's temper. yu can bang on tambourine, then! gladys. [running in] quick, ivy! here's the old grey mare cumin' down the green. quick. [with whispering and scuffling; gurgling and squeaking, the reluctant ivy's hand is caught and she is jerked away. in their haste they have left the door open behind them.] voice of mrs. bradmere. [outside] who's that? [she knocks loudly, and rings a bell; then, without waiting, comes in through the open door.] [noting the overcoat and hat on the window-sill she moves across to ring the bell. but as she does so, mrs. burlacombe, followed by burlacombe, comes in from the house.] mrs. bradmere this disgraceful business! where's mr. strangway? i see he's in. mrs. burlacombe. yes, m'm, he'm in--but--but burlacombe du zay he'm terrible upset. mrs. bradmere. i should think so. i must see him--at once. mrs. burlacombe. i doubt bed's the best place for 'un, an' gude 'ot drink. burlacombe zays he'm like a man standin' on the edge of a cliff; and the lasts tipsy o' wind might throw un over. mrs. bradmere. [to burlacombe] you've seen him, then? burlacombe. yeas; an' i don't like the luke of un--not a little bit, i don't. mrs. burlacombe. [almost to herself] poor soul; 'e've a-'ad to much to try un this yer long time past. i've a-seen 'tis sperrit cumin' thru 'is body, as yu might zay. he's torn to bits, that's what 'tis. burlacombe. 'twas a praaper cowardly thing to hiss a man when he's down. but 'twas natural tu, in a manner of spakin'. but 'tesn't that troublin' 'im. 'tes in here [touching his forehead], along of his wife, to my thinkin'. they zay 'e've a-known about 'er a-fore she went away. think of what 'e've 'ad to kape in all this time. 'tes enough to drive a man silly after that. i've a-locked my gun up. i see a man like--like that once before--an' sure enough 'e was dead in the mornin'! mrs. bradmere. nonsense, burlacombe! [to mrs. burlacombe] go and tell him i want to see him--must see him. [mrs. burlacombe goes into the house] and look here, burlacombe; if we catch any one, man or woman, talking of this outside the village, it'll be the end of their tenancy, whoever they may be. let them all know that. i'm glad he threw that drunken fellow out of the window, though it was a little---- burlacombe. aye! the nuspapers would be praaper glad of that, for a tiddy bit o' nuse. mrs. bradmere. my goodness! yes! the men are all up at the inn. go and tell them what i said--it's not to get about. go at once, burlacombe. burlacombe. must be a turrable job for 'im, every one's knowin' about 'is wife like this. he'm a proud man tu, i think. 'tes a funny business altogether! mrs. bradmere. horrible! poor fellow! now, come! do your best, burlacombe! [burlacombe touches his forelock and goes. mrs. bradmere stands quite still, thinking. then going to the photograph, she stares up at it.] mrs. bradmere. you baggage! [strangway has come in noiselessly, and is standing just behind her. she turns, and sees him. there is something so still, so startlingly still in his figure and white face, that she cannot for the moment fond her voice.] mrs. bradmere. [at last] this is most distressing. i'm deeply sorry. [then, as he does not answer, she goes a step closer] i'm an old woman; and old women must take liberties, you know, or they couldn't get on at all. come now! let's try and talk it over calmly and see if we can't put things right. strangway. you were very good to come; but i would rather not. mrs. bradmere. i know you're in as grievous trouble as a man can be. strangway. yes. mrs. bradmere. [with a little sound of sympathy] what are you-- thirty-five? i'm sixty-eight if i'm a day--old enough to be your mother. i can feel what you must have been through all these months, i can indeed. but you know you've gone the wrong way to work. we aren't angels down here below! and a son of the church can't act as if for himself alone. the eyes of every one are on him. strangway. [taking the church key from the window.] take this, please. mrs. bradmere. no, no, no! jarland deserved all he got. you had great provocation. strangway. it's not jarland. [holding out the key] please take it to the rector. i beg his forgiveness. [touching his breast] there's too much i can't speak of--can't make plain. take it to him, please. mrs. bradmere. mr. strangway--i don't accept this. i am sure my husband--the church--will never accept---- strangway. take it! mrs. bradmere. [almost unconsciously taking it] mind! we don't accept it. you must come and talk to the rector to-morrow. you're overwrought. you'll see it all in another light, then. strangway. [with a strange smile] perhaps. [lifting the blind] beautiful night! couldn't be more beautiful! mrs. bradmere. [startled-softly] don't turn sway from these who want to help you! i'm a grumpy old woman, but i can feel for you. don't try and keep it all back, like this! a woman would cry, and it would all seem clearer at once. now won't you let me----? strangway. no one can help, thank you. mrs. bradmere. come! things haven't gone beyond mending, really, if you'll face them. [pointing to the photograph] you know what i mean. we dare not foster immorality. strangway. [quivering as at a jabbed nerve] don't speak of that! mrs. bradmere. but think what you've done, mr. strangway! if you can't take your wife back, surely you must divorce her. you can never help her to go on like this in secret sin. strangway. torture her--one way or the other? mrs. bradmere. no, no; i want you to do as the church--as all christian society would wish. come! you can't let this go on. my dear man, do your duty at all costs! strangway. break her heart? mrs. bradmere. then you love that woman--more than god! strangway. [his face quivering] love! mrs. bradmere. they told me----yes, and i can see you're is a bad way. come, pull yourself together! you can't defend what you're doing. strangway. i do not try. mrs. bradmere. i must get you to see! my father was a clergyman; i'm married to one; i've two sons in the church. i know what i'm talking about. it's a priest's business to guide the people's lives. strangway. [very low] but not mine! no more! mrs. bradmere. [looking at him shrewdly] there's something very queer about you to-night. you ought to see doctor. strangway. [a smile awning and going on his lips] if i am not better soon---- mrs. bradmere. i know it must be terrible to feel that everybody---- [a convulsive shiver passes over strangway, and he shrinks against the door] but come! live it down! [with anger growing at his silence] live it down, man! you can't desert your post--and let these villagers do what they like with us? do you realize that you're letting a woman, who has treated you abominably;--yes, abominably --go scot-free, to live comfortably with another man? what an example! strangway. will you, please, not speak of that! mrs. bradmere. i must! this great church of ours is based on the rightful condemnation of wrongdoing. there are times when forgiveness is a sin, michael strangway. you must keep the whip hand. you must fight! strangway. fight! [touching his heart] my fight is here. have you ever been in hell? for months and months--burned and longed; hoped against hope; killed a man in thought day by day? never rested, for love and hate? i--condemn! i--judge! no! it's rest i have to find--somewhere--somehow-rest! and how--how can i find rest? mrs. bradmere. [who has listened to his outburst in a soft of coma] you are a strange man! one of these days you'll go off your head if you don't take care. strangway. [smiling] one of these days the flowers will grow out of me; and i shall sleep. [mrs. bradmere stares at his smiling face a long moment in silence, then with a little sound, half sniff, half snort, she goes to the door. there she halts.] mrs. bradmere. and you mean to let all this go on----your wife---- strangway. go! please go! mrs. bradmere. men like you have been buried at cross-roads before now! take care! god punishes! strangway. is there a god? mrs. bradmere. ah! [with finality] you must see a doctor. [seeing that the look on his face does not change, she opens the door, and hurries away into the moonlight.] [strangway crosses the room to where his wife's picture hangs, and stands before it, his hands grasping the frame. then he takes it from the wall, and lays it face upwards on the window seat.] strangway. [to himself] gone! what is there, now? [the sound of an owl's hooting is floating in, and of voices from the green outside the inn.] strangway. [to himself] gone! taken faith--hope--life! [jim bere comes wandering into the open doorway.] jim bere. gude avenin', zurr. [at his slow gait, with his feeble smile, he comes in, and standing by the window-seat beside the long dark coat that still lies there, he looks down at strangway with his lost eyes.] jim. yu threw un out of winder. i cud 'ave, once, i cud. [strangway neither moves nor speaks; and jim bere goes on with his unimaginably slow speech] they'm laughin' at yu, zurr. an' so i come to tell 'ee how to du. 'twas full mune--when i caught 'em, him an' my girl. i caught 'em. [with a strange and awful flash of fire] i did; an' i tuk un [he taken up strangway's coat and grips it with his trembling hands, as a man grips another's neck] like that--i tuk un. as the coat falls, like a body out of which the breath has been squeezed, strangway, rising, catches it. strangway. [gripping the coat] and he fell! [he lets the coat fall on the floor, and puts his foot on it. then, staggering back, he leans against the window.] jim. yu see, i loved 'er--i did. [the lost look comes back to his eyes] then somethin'--i dunno--and--and----[he lifts his hand and passes it up and down his side] twas like this for ever. [they gaze at each other in silence.] jim. [at last] i come to tell yu. they'm all laughin' at yu. but yu'm strong--yu go over to durford to that doctor man, an' take un like i did. [he tries again to make the sign of squeezing a man's neck] they can't laugh at yu no more, then. tha's what i come to tell yu. tha's the way for a christian man to du. gude naight, zurr. i come to tell yee. [strangway motions to him in silence. and, very slowly, jim bere passes out.] [the voices of men coming down the green are heard.] voices. gude night, tam. glide naight, old jim! voices. gude might, mr. trustaford. 'tes a wonderful fine mune. voice of trustaford. ah! 'tes a brave mune for th' poor old curate! voice. "my 'eart 'e lighted not!" [trustaford's laugh, and the rattling, fainter and fainter, of wheels. a spasm seizes on strangway's face, as he stands there by the open door, his hand grips his throat; he looks from side to side, as if seeking a way of escape.] curtain. scene ii the burlacombes' high and nearly empty barn. a lantern is hung by a rope that lifts the bales of straw, to a long ladder leaning against a rafter. this gives all the light there is, save for a slender track of moonlight, slanting in from the end, where the two great doors are not quite closed. on a rude bench in front of a few remaining, stacked, square-cut bundles of last year's hay, sits tibby jarland, a bit of apple in her mouth, sleepily beating on a tambourine. with stockinged feet gladys, ivy, connie, and mercy, tim clyst, and bobbie jarland, a boy of fifteen, are dancing a truncated "figure of eight"; and their shadow are dancing alongside on the walls. shoes and some apples have been thrown down close to the side door through which they have come in. now and then ivy, the smallest and best of the dancers, ejaculates words of direction, and one of the youths grunts or breathes loudly out of the confusion of his mind. save for this and the dumb beat and jingle of the sleepy tambourine, there is no sound. the dance comes to its end, but the drowsy tibby goes on beating. mercy. that'll du, tibby; we're finished. ate yore apple. [the stolid tibby eats her apple.] clyst. [in his teasing, excitable voice] yu maids don't dance 'elf's well as us du. bobbie 'e's a great dancer. 'e dance vine. i'm a gude dancer, meself. gladys. a'n't yu conceited just? clyst. aw! ah! yu'll give me kiss for that. [he chases, but cannot catch that slippery white figure] can't she glimmer! mercy. gladys! up ladder! clyst. yu go up ladder; i'll catch 'ee then. naw, yu maids, don't yu give her succour. that's not vair [catching hold of mercy, who gives a little squeal.] connie. mercy, don't! mrs. burlacombe'll hear. ivy, go an' peek. [ivy goes to flee side door and peers through.] clyst. [abandoning the chase and picking up an apple--they all have the joyous irresponsibility that attends forbidden doings] ya-as, this is a gude apple. luke at tibby! [tibby, overcome by drowsiness, has fallen back into the hay, asleep. gladys, leaning against the hay breaks into humming:] "there cam' three dukes a-ridin', a-ridin', a-ridin', there cam' three dukes a ridin' with a ransy-tansy tay!" clyst. us 'as got on vine; us'll get prize for our dancin'. connie. there won't be no prize if mr. strangway goes away. 'tes funny 'twas mrs. strangway start us. ivy. [from the door] 'twas wicked to hiss him. [a moment's hush.] clyst. twasn't i. bobbie. i never did. gladys. oh! bobbie, yu did! yu blew in my ear. clyst. 'twas the praaper old wind in the trees. did make a brave noise, zurely. mercy. 'e shuld'n' 'a let my skylark go. clyst. [out of sheer contradictoriness] ya-as, 'e shude, then. what du yu want with th' birds of the air? they'm no gude to yu. ivy. [mournfully] and now he's goin' away. clyst. ya-as; 'tes a pity. he's the best man i ever seen since i was comin' from my mother. he's a gude man. he'em got a zad face, sure enough, though. ivy. gude folk always 'ave zad faces. clyst. i knu a gude man--'e sold pigs--very gude man: 'e 'ad a budiful bright vase like the mane. [touching his stomach] i was sad, meself, once. 'twas a funny scrabblin'--like feelin'. gladys. if 'e go away, whu's goin' to finish us for confirmation? connie. the rector and the old grey mare. mercy. i don' want no more finishin'; i'm confirmed enough. clyst. ya-as; yu'm a buty. gladys. suppose we all went an' asked 'im not to go? ivy. 'twouldn't be no gude. connie. where's 'e goin'? mercy. he'll go to london, of course. ivy. he's so gentle; i think 'e'll go to an island, where there's nothin' but birds and beasts and flowers. clyst. aye! he'm awful fond o' the dumb things. ivy. they're kind and peaceful; that's why. clyst. aw! yu see tu praaper old tom cats; they'm not to peaceful, after that, nor kind naighther. bobbie. [surprisingly] if 'e's sad, per'aps 'e'll go to 'eaven. ivy. oh! not yet, bobbie. he's tu young. clyst. [following his own thoughts] ya-as. 'tes a funny place, tu, nowadays, judgin' from the papers. gladys. wonder if there's dancin' in 'eaven? ivy. there's beasts, and flowers, and waters, and 'e told us. clyst. naw! there's no dumb things in 'eaven. jim bere 'e says there is! 'e thinks 'is old cat's there. ivy. yes. [dreamily] there's stars, an' owls, an' a man playin' on the flute. where 'tes gude, there must be music. clyst. old brass band, shuldn' wonder, like th' salvation army. ivy. [putting up her hands to an imaginary pipe] no; 'tis a boy that goes so; an' all the dumb things an' all the people goo after 'im--like this. [she marches slowly, playing her imaginary pipe, and one by one they all fall in behind her, padding round the barn in their stockinged feet. passing the big doors, ivy throws them open.] an' 'tes all like that in 'eaven. [she stands there gazing out, still playing on her imaginary pipe. and they all stand a moment silent, staring into the moonlight.] clyst. 'tes a glory-be full mune to-night! ivy. a goldie-cup--a big one. an' millions o' little goldie-cups on the floor of 'eaven. mercy. oh! bother 'eaven! let's dance "clapperclaws"! wake up, tibby! gladys. clapperelaws, clapperclaws! come on, bobbie--make circle! clyst. clapperclaws! i dance that one fine. ivy. [taking the tambourine] see, tibby; like this. she hums and beats gently, then restores the tambourine to the sleepy tibby, who, waking, has placed a piece of apple in her mouth. connie. 'tes awful difficult, this one. ivy. [illustrating] no; yu just jump, an' clap yore 'ands. lovely, lovely! clyst. like ringin' bells! come ahn! [tibby begins her drowsy beating, ivy hums the tune; they dance, and their shadows dance again upon the walls. when she has beaten but a few moments on the tambourine, tibby is overcome once more by sleep and falls back again into her nest of hay, with her little shoed feet just visible over the edge of the bench. ivy catches up the tambourine, and to her beating and humming the dancers dance on.] [suddenly gladys stops like a wild animal surprised, and cranes her neck towards the aide door.] connie. [whispering] what is it? gladys. [whispering] i hear--some one comin' across the yard. [she leads a noiseless scamper towards the shoes. bobbie jarland shins up the ladder and seizes the lantern. ivy drops the tambourine. they all fly to the big doors, and vanish into the moonlight, pulling the door nearly to again after them.] [there is the sound of scrabbling at the hitch of the side door, and strangway comes into the nearly dark barn. out in the night the owl is still hooting. he closes the door, and that sound is lost. like a man walking in his sleep, he goes up to the ladder, takes the rope in his hand, and makes a noose. he can be heard breathing, and in the darkness the motions of his hands are dimly seen, freeing his throat and putting the noose round his neck. he stands swaying to and fro at the foot of the ladder; then, with a sigh, sets his foot on it to mount. one of the big doors creaks and opens in the wind, letting in a broad path of moonlight.] [strangway stops; freeing his neck from the noose, he walks quickly up the track of moonlight, whitened from head to foot, to close the doors.] [the sound of his boots on the bare floor has awakened tibby jarland. struggling out of her hay nest she stands staring at his whitened figure, and bursts suddenly into a wail.] tibby. o-oh! mercy! where are yu? i'm frightened! i'm frightened! o-oooo! strangway. [turning--startled] who's that? who is it? tibby. o-oh! a ghosty! oo-ooo! strangway. [going to her quickly] it's me, tibby--tib only me! tibby. i seed a ghosty. strangway. [taking her up] no, no, my bird, you didn't! it was me. tibby. [burying her face against him] i'm frighted. it was a big one. [she gives tongue again] o-o-oh! strangway. there, there! it's nothing but me. look! tibby. no. [she peeps out all the same.] strangway. see! it's the moonlight made me all white. see! you're a brave girl now? tibby. [cautiously] i want my apple. [she points towards her nest. strangway carries her there, picks up an apple, and gives it her. tibby takes a bite.] tibby. i want any tambourine. strangway. [giving her the tambourine, and carrying her back into the' track of moonlight] now we're both ghosties! isn't it funny? tabby. [doubtfully] yes. strangway. see! the moon's laughing at us! see? laugh then! [tabby, tambourine in one hand and apple in the other, smiles stolidly. he sets her down on the ladder, and stands, holding her level with him.] tabby. [solemnly] i'se still frightened. strangway. no! full moon, tibby! shall we wish for it? tabby. full mune. strangway. moon! we're wishing for you. moon, moon! tibby. mune, we're wishin' for yu! strangway. what do, you wish it to be? tibby. bright new shillin'! strangway. a face. tibby. shillin', a shillin'! strangway. [taking out a shilling and spinning it so that it falls into her pinafore] see! your wish comes true. tibby. oh! [putting the shilling in her mouth] mune's still there! strangway. wish for me, tibby! tibby. mune. i'm wishin' for yu! strangway. not yet! tibby. shall i shake my tambouline? strangway. yes, shake your tambouline. tibby. [shaking her tambourine] mune, i'm shaken' at yu. [strangway lays his hand suddenly on the rope, and swings it up on to the beam.] tibby. what d'yu du that for? strangway. to put it out of reach. it's better---- tibby. why is it better? [she stares up at him.] strangway. come along, tibby! [he carries her to the big doors, and sets her down] see! all asleep! the birds, and the fields, and the moon! tibby. mune, mune, we're wishing for yu! strangway. send her your love, and say good-night. tibby. [blowing a kiss] good-night, mune! [from the barn roof a little white dove's feather comes floating down in the wind. tibby follows it with her hand, catches it, and holds it up to him.] tibby. [chuckling] luke. the mune's sent a bit o' love! strangway. [taking the feather] thank you, tibby! i want that bit o' love. [very faint, comes the sound of music] listen! tibby. it's miss willis, playin' on the pianny! strangway. no; it's love; walking and talking in the world. tibby. [dubiously] is it? strangway. [pointing] see! everything coming out to listen! see them, tibby! all the little things with pointed ears, children, and birds, and flowers, and bunnies; and the bright rocks, and--men! hear their hearts beating! and the wind listening! tibby. i can't hear--nor i can't see! strangway. beyond----[to himself] they are--they must be; i swear they are! [then, catching sight of tibby's amazed eyes] and now say good-bye to me. tibby. where yu goin'? strangway. i don't know, tibby. voice of mercy. [distant and cautious] tibby! tibby! where are yu? strangway. mercy calling; run to her! [tibby starts off, turns back and lifts her face. he bends to kiss her, and flinging her arms round his neck, she gives him a good hug. then, knuckling the sleep out of her eyes, she runs.] [strangway stands, uncertain. there is a sound of heavy footsteps; a man clears his throat, close by.] strangway. who's that? cremer. jack cremer. [the big man's figure appears out of the shadow of the barn] that yu, zurr? strangway. yes, jack. how goes it? cremer. 'tes empty, zurr. but i'll get on some'ow. strangway. you put me to shame. cremer. no, zurr. i'd be killin' meself, if i didn' feel i must stick it, like yu zaid. [they stand gazing at each other in the moonlight.] strangway. [very low] i honour you. cremer. what's that? [then, as strangway does not answer] i'll just be walkin'--i won' be gain' 'ome to-night. 'tes the full mune-- lucky. strangway. [suddenly] wait for me at the crossroads, jack. i'll come with you. will you have me, brother? cremer. sure! strangway. wait, then. cremer. aye, zurr. [with his heavy tread cremer passes on. and strangway leans against the lintel of the door, looking at the moon, that, quite full and golden, hangs not far above the straight horizon, where the trees stand small, in a row.] strangway. [lifting his hand in the gesture of prayer] god, of the moon and the sun; of joy and beauty, of loneliness and sorrow--give me strength to go on, till i love every living thing! [he moves away, following jack cremer. the full moon shines; the owl hoots; and some one is shaking tibby's tambourine.] the foundations (an extravagant play) persons of the play lord william dromondy, m.p. lady william dromondy little anne miss stokes mr. poulder james henry thomas charles the press lemmy old mrs. lemmy little aida the duke of exeter some anti-sweaters; some sweated workers; and a crowd scenes scene i. the cellar at lord william dromondy's in park lane. scene ii. the room of old mrs. lemmy in bethnal green. scene iii. ante-room of the hall at lord william dromondy's the action passes continuously between and . of a summer evening, some years after the great war. act i lord william dromondy's mansion in park lane. eight o'clock of the evening. little anne dromondy and the large footman, james, gaunt and grin, discovered in the wine cellar, by light of gas. james, in plush breeches, is selecting wine. l. anne: james, are you really james? james. no, my proper name's john. l. anne. oh! [a pause] and is charles's an improper name too? james. his proper name's mark. l. anne. then is thomas matthew? james. miss anne, stand clear o' that bin. you'll put your foot through one o' those 'ock bottles. l. anne. no, but james--henry might be luke, really? james. now shut it, miss anne! l. anne. who gave you those names? not your godfathers and godmothers? james. poulder. butlers think they're the almighty. [gloomily] but his name's bartholomew. l. anne. bartholomew poulder? it's rather jolly. james. it's hidjeous. l. anne. which do you like to be called--john or james? james. i don't give a darn. l. anne. what is a darn? james. 'tain't in the dictionary. l. anne. do you like my name? anne dromondy? it's old, you know. but it's funny, isn't it? james. [indifferently] it'll pass. l. anne. how many bottles have you got to pick out? james. thirty-four. l. anne. are they all for the dinner, or for the people who come in to the anti-sweating meeting afterwards? james. all for the dinner. they give the sweated--tea. l. anne. all for the dinner? they'll drink too much, won't they? james. we've got to be on the safe side. l. anne. will it be safer if they drink too much? [james pauses in the act of dusting a bottle to look at her, as if suspecting irony.] [sniffing] isn't the smell delicious here-like the taste of cherries when they've gone bad--[she sniffs again] and mushrooms; and boot blacking. james. that's the escape of gas. l. anne. has the plumber's man been? james. yes. l. anne. which one? james. little blighter i've never seen before. l. anne. what is a little blighter? can i see? james. he's just gone. l. anne. [straying] oh! . . . james, are these really the foundations? james. you might 'arf say so. there's a lot under a woppin' big house like this; you can't hardly get to the bottom of it. l. anne. everything's built on something, isn't it? and what's that built on? james. ask another. l. anne. if you wanted to blow it up, though, you'd have to begin from here, wouldn't you? james. who'd want to blow it up? l. anne. it would make a mess in park lane. james. i've seen a lot bigger messes than this'd make, out in the war. l. anne. oh! but that's years ago! was it like this in the trenches, james? james. [grimly] ah! 'cept that you couldn't lay your 'and on a bottle o' port when you wanted one. l. anne. do you, when you want it, here? james. [on guard] i only suggest it's possible. l. anne. perhaps poulder does. james. [icily] i say nothin' about that. l. anne. oh! do say something! james. i'm ashamed of you, miss anne, pumpin' me! l. anne. [reproachfully] i'm not pumpin'! i only want to make poulder jump when i ask him. james. [grinning] try it on your own responsibility, then; don't bring me in! l. anne. [switching off] james, do you think there's going to be a bloody revolution? james. [shocked] i shouldn't use that word, at your age. l. anne. why not? daddy used it this morning to mother. [imitating] "the country's in an awful state, darling; there's going to be a bloody revolution, and we shall all be blown sky-high." do you like daddy? james. [taken aback] like lord william? what do you think? we chaps would ha' done anything for him out there in the war. l. anne. he never says that he always says he'd have done anything for you! james. well--that's the same thing. l. anne. it isn't--it's the opposite. what is class hatred, james? james. [wisely] ah! a lot o' people thought when the war was over there'd be no more o' that. [he sniggers] used to amuse me to read in the papers about the wonderful unity that was comin'. i could ha' told 'em different. l. anne. why should people hate? i like everybody. james. you know such a lot o' people, don't you? l. anne. well, daddy likes everybody, and mother likes everybody, except the people who don't like daddy. i bar miss stokes, of course; but then, who wouldn't? james. [with a touch of philosophy] that's right--we all bars them that tries to get something out of us. l. anne. who do you bar, james? james. well--[enjoying the luxury of thought]--speaking generally, i bar everybody that looks down their noses at me. out there in the trenches, there'd come a shell, and orf'd go some orficer's head, an' i'd think: that might ha' been me--we're all equal in the sight o' the stars. but when i got home again among the torfs, i says to meself: out there, ye know, you filled a hole as well as me; but here you've put it on again, with mufti. l. anne. james, are your breeches made of mufti? james. [contemplating his legs with a certain contempt] ah! footmen were to ha' been off; but lord william was scared we wouldn't get jobs in the rush. we're on his conscience, and it's on my conscience that i've been on his long enough--so, now i've saved a bit, i'm goin' to take meself orf it. l. anne. oh! are you going? where? james. [assembling the last bottles] out o' blighty! l. anne. is a little blighter a little englishman? james. [embarrassed] well-'e can be. l. anne [mining] james--we're quite safe down here, aren't we, in a revolution? only, we wouldn't have fun. which would you rather--be safe, or have fun? james. [grimly] well, i had my bit o' fun in the war. l. anne. i like fun that happens when you're not looking. james. do you? you'd ha' been just suited. l. anne. james, is there a future life? miss stokes says so. james. it's a belief, in the middle classes. l. anne. what are the middle classes? james. anything from two 'undred a year to supertax. l. anne. mother says they're terrible. is miss stokes middle class? james. yes. l. anne. then i expect they are terrible. she's awfully virtuous, though, isn't she? james. 'tisn't so much the bein' virtuous, as the lookin' it, that's awful. l. anne. are all the middle classes virtuous? is poulder? james. [dubiously] well. ask him! l. anne. yes, i will. look! [from an empty bin on the ground level she picks up a lighted taper,--burnt almost to the end.] james. [contemplating it] careless! l. ate. oh! and look! [she paints to a rounded metal object lying in the bin, close to where the taper was] it's a bomb! she is about to pick it up when james takes her by the waist and puts her aside. james. [sternly] you stand back, there! i don't like the look o' that! l. anne. [with intense interest] is it really a bomb? what fun! james. go and fetch poulder while i keep an eye on it. l. anne. [on tiptoe of excitement] if only i can make him jump! oh, james! we needn't put the light out, need we? james. no. clear off and get him, and don't you come back. l. anne. oh! but i must! i found it! james. cut along. l. anne. shall we bring a bucket? james. yes. [anne flies off.] [gazing at the object] near go! thought i'd seen enough o'them to last my time. that little gas blighter! he looked a rum 'un, too--one o' these 'ere bolshies. [in the presence of this grim object the habits of the past are too much for him. he sits on the ground, leaning against one of the bottle baskets, keeping his eyes on the bomb, his large, lean, gorgeous body spread, one elbow on his plush knee. taking out an empty pipe, he places it mechanically, bowl down, between his dips. there enter, behind him, as from a communication trench, poulder, in swallow-tails, with little anne behind him.] l. anne. [peering round him--ecstatic] hurrah! not gone off yet! it can't--can it--while james is sitting on it? poulder. [very broad and stout, with square shoulders,--a large ruddy face, and a small mouth] no noise, miss.--james. james. hallo! poulder. what's all this? james. bomb! poulder. miss anne, off you go, and don't you---- l. anne. come back again! i know! [she flies.] james. [extending his hand with the pipe in it] see! poulder. [severely] you've been at it again! look here, you're not in the trenches now. get up! what are your breeches goin' to be like? you might break a bottle any moment! james. [rising with a jerk to a sort of "attention!"] look here, you starched antiquity, you and i and that bomb are here in the sight of the stars. if you don't look out i'll stamp on it and blow us all to glory! drop your civilian swank! poulder. [seeing red] ho! because you had the privilege of fightin' for your country you still think you can put it on, do you? take up your wine! 'pon my word, you fellers have got no nerve left! [james makes a sudden swoop, lifts the bomb and poises it in both hands. poulder recoils against a bin and gazes, at the object.] james. put up your hands! poulder. i defy you to make me ridiculous. james. [fiercely] up with 'em! [poulder's hands go up in an uncontrollable spasm, which he subdues almost instantly, pulling them down again.] james. very good. [he lowers the bomb.] poulder. [surprised] i never lifted 'em. james. you'd have made a first-class boche, poulder. take the bomb yourself; you're in charge of this section. poulder. [pouting] it's no part of my duty to carry menial objects; if you're afraid of it i'll send 'enry. james. afraid! you 'op o' me thumb! [from the "communication trench" appears little anne, followed by a thin, sharp, sallow-faced man of thirty-five or so, and another footman, carrying a wine-cooler.] l. anne. i've brought the bucket, and the press. press. [in front of poulder's round eyes and mouth] ah, major domo, i was just taking the names of the anti-sweating dinner. [he catches sight of the bomb in james's hand] by george! what a. . irony! [he brings out a note-book and writes] "highest class dining to relieve distress of lowest class-bombed by same!" tipping! [he rubs his hands]. poulder. [drawing himself up] sir? this is present! [he indicates anne with the flat of his hand.] l. anne. i found the bomb. press. [absorbed] by jove! this is a piece of luck! [he writes.] poulder. [observing him] this won't do--it won't do at all! press. [writing-absorbed] "beginning of the british revolution!" poulder. [to james] put it in the cooler. 'enry, 'old up the cooler. gently! miss anne, get be'ind the press. james. [grimly--holding the bomb above the cooler] it won't be the press that'll stop miss anne's goin' to 'eaven if one o' this sort goes off. look out! i'm goin' to drop it. [all recoil. henry puts the cooler down and backs away.] l. anne. [dancing forward] oh! let me see! i missed all the war, you know! [james lowers the bomb into the cooler.] poulder. [regaining courage--to the press, who is scribbling in his note-book] if you mention this before the police lay their hands on it, it'll be contempt o' court. press. [struck] i say, major domo, don't call in the police! that's the last resort. let me do the sherlocking for you. who's been down here? l. anne. the plumber's man about the gas---a little blighter we'd never seen before. james. lives close by, in royal court mews--no. . i had a word with him before he came down. lemmy his name is. press. "lemmy!" [noting the address] right-o! l. anne. oh! do let me come with you! poulder. [barring the way] i've got to lay it all before lord william. press. ah! what's he like? poulder. [with dignity] a gentleman, sir. press. then he won't want the police in. poulder. nor the press, if i may go so far, as to say so. press. one to you! but i defy you to keep this from the press, major domo: this is the most significant thing that has happened in our time. guy fawkes is nothing to it. the foundations of society reeling! by george, it's a second bethlehem! [he writes.] poulder. [to james] take up your wine and follow me. 'enry, bring the cooler. miss anne, precede us. [to the press] you defy me? very well; i'm goin' to lock you up here. press. [uneasy] i say this is medieval. [he attempts to pass.] poulder. [barring the way] not so! james, put him up in that empty 'ock bin. we can't have dinner disturbed in any way. james. [putting his hands on the press's shoulders] look here--go quiet! i've had a grudge against you yellow newspaper boys ever since the war--frothin' up your daily hate, an' makin' the huns desperate. you nearly took my life five hundred times out there. if you squeal, i'm gain' to take yours once--and that'll be enough. press. that's awfully unjust. im not yellow! james. well, you look it. hup. press. little lady-anne, haven't you any authority with these fellows? l. anne. [resisting poulard's pressure] i won't go! i simply must see james put him up! press. now, i warn you all plainly--there'll be a leader on this. [he tries to bolt but is seized by james.] james. [ironically] ho! press. my paper has the biggest influence james. that's the one! git up in that 'ock bin, and mind your feet among the claret. press. this is an outrage on the press. james. then it'll wipe out one by the press on the public--an' leave just a million over! hup! poulder. 'enry, give 'im an 'and. [the press mounts, assisted by james and henry.] l. anne. [ecstatic] it's lovely! poulder. [nervously] mind the ' ! mind! james. mind your feet in mr. poulder's favourite wine! [a woman's voice is heard, as from the depths of a cave, calling "anne! anne!"] l. anne. [aghast] miss stokes--i must hide! [she gets behind poulder. the three servants achieve dignified positions in front of the bins. the voice comes nearer. the press sits dangling his feet, grinning. miss stokes appears. she is woman of forty-five and terribly good manners. her greyish hair is rolled back off her forehead. she is in a high evening dress, and in the dim light radiates a startled composure.] miss stokes. poulder, where is miss anne? [anne lays hold of the backs of his legs.] poulder. [wincing] i am not in a position to inform you, miss. miss s. they told me she was down here. and what is all this about a bomb? poulder. [lifting his hand in a calming manner] the crisis is past; we have it in ice, miss. 'enry, show miss stokes! [henry indicates the cooler.] miss s. good gracious! does lord william know? poulder. not at present, miss. miss s. but he ought to, at once. poulder. we 'ave 'ad complications. miss s. [catching sight of the legs of the press] dear me! what are those? james. [gloomily] the complications. [miss stokes pins up her glasses and stares at them.] press. [cheerfully] miss stokes, would you kindly tell lord william i'm here from the press, and would like to speak to him? miss s. but--er--why are you up there? james. 'e got up out o' remorse, miss. miss s. what do you mean, james? press. [warmly] miss stokes, i appeal to you. is it fair to attribute responsibility to an unsigned journalist--for what he has to say? james. [sepulchrally] yes, when you've got 'im in a nice dark place. miss. s. james, be more respectful! we owe the press a very great debt. james. i'm goin' to pay it, miss. miss s. [at a loss] poulder, this is really most---- poulder. i'm bound to keep the press out of temptation, miss, till i've laid it all before lord william. 'enry, take up the cooler. james, watch 'im till we get clear, then bring on the rest of the wine and lock up. now, miss. miss s. but where is anne? press. miss stokes, as a lady----! miss s. i shall go and fetch lord william! poulder. we will all go, miss. l. anne. [rushing out from behind his legs] no--me! [she eludes miss stokes and vanishes, followed by that distracted but still well-mannered lady.] poulder. [looking at his watch] 'enry, leave the cooler, and take up the wine; tell thomas to lay it out; get the champagne into ice, and 'ave charles 'andy in the 'all in case some literary bounder comes punctual. [henry takes up the wine and goes.] press. [above his head] i say, let me down. this is a bit undignified, you know. my paper's a great organ. poulder. [after a moment's hesitation] well--take 'im down, james; he'll do some mischief among the bottles. james. 'op off your base, and trust to me. [the, press slides off the bin's edge, is received by james, and not landed gently.] poulder. [contemplating him] the incident's closed; no ill-feeling, i hope? press. no-o. poulder. that's right. [clearing his throat] while we're waitin' for lord william--if you're interested in wine--[philosophically] you can read the history of the times in this cellar. take 'ock: [he points to a bin] not a bottle gone. german product, of course. now, that 'ock is 'sa 'avin' the time of its life--maturin' grandly; got a wonderful chance. about the time we're bringin' ourselves to drink it, we shall be havin' the next great war. with luck that 'ock may lie there another quarter of a century, and a sweet pretty wine it'll be. i only hope i may be here to drink it. ah! [he shakes his head]--but look at claret! times are hard on claret. we're givin' it an awful doin'. now, there's a ponty canny [he points to a bin]- if we weren't so 'opelessly allied with france, that wine would have a reasonable future. as it is--none! we drink it up and up; not more than sixty dozen left. and where's its equal to come from for a dinner wine--ah! i ask you? on the other hand, port is steady; made in a little country, all but the cobwebs and the old boot flavour; guaranteed by the british nary; we may 'ope for the best with port. do you drink it? press. when i get the chance. poulder. ah! [clears his throat] i've often wanted to ask: what do they pay you--if it's not indelicate? [the press shrugs his shoulders.] can you do it at the money? [the press shakes his head.] still--it's an easy life! i've regretted sometimes that i didn't have a shot at it myself; influencin' other people without disclosin' your identity--something very attractive about that. [lowering his voice] between man and man, now-what do you think of the situation of the country--these processions of the unemployed--the red flag an' the marsillaisy in the streets--all this talk about an upheaval? press. well, speaking as a socialist---- poulder. [astounded] why; i thought your paper was tory! press. so it is. that's nothing! poulder. [open-mouthed] dear me! [pointing to the bomb] do you really think there's something in this? james. [sepulchrally] 'igh explosive. press. [taking out his note-book] too much, anyway, to let it drop. [a pleasant voice calls "poulder! hallo!".] poulder. [forming a trumpet with his hand] me lord! [as lord william appears, james, overcome by reminiscences; salutes, and is mechanically answered. lord william has "charm." his hair and moustache are crisp and just beginning to grizzle. his bearing is free, easy, and only faintly armoured. he will go far to meet you any day. he is in full evening dress.] lord w. [cheerfully] i say, poulder, what have you and james been doing to the press? liberty of the press--it isn't what it was, but there is a limit. where is he? [he turns to jams between whom and himself there is still the freemasonry of the trenches.] james. [pointing to poulder] be'ind the parapet, me lord. [the press mopes out from where he has involuntarily been. screened by poulder, who looks at james severely. lord william hides a smile.] press. very glad to meet you, lord william. my presence down here is quite involuntary. lord w. [with a charming smile] i know. the press has to put its-- er--to go to the bottom of everything. where's this bomb, poulder? ah! [he looks into the wine cooler.] press. [taking out his note-book] could i have a word with you on the crisis, before dinner, lord william? lord w. it's time you and james were up, poulder. [indicating the cooler] look after this; tell lady william i'll be there in a minute. poulder. very good, me lord. [he goes, followed by james carrying the cooler.] [as the press turns to look after them, lord william catches sight of his back.] lord w. i must apologise, sir. can i brush you? press. [dusting himself] thanks; it's only behind. [he opens his note-book] now, lord william, if you'd kindly outline your views on the national situation; after such a narrow escape from death, i feel they might have a moral effect. my paper, as you know, is concerned with--the deeper aspect of things. by the way, what do you value your house and collection at? lord w. [twisting his little mustache] really: i can't! really! press. might i say a quarter of a million-lifted in two seconds and a half-hundred thousand to the second. it brings it home, you know. lord w. no, no; dash it! no! press. [disappointed] i see--not draw attention to your property in the present excited state of public feeling? well, suppose we approach it from the viewpoint of the anti-sweating dinner. i have the list of guests--very weighty! lord w. taken some lifting-wouldn't they? press. [seriously] may i say that you designed the dinner to soften the tension, at this crisis? you saw that case, i suppose, this morning, of the woman dying of starvation in bethnal green? lord w. [desperately] yes-yes! i've been horribly affected. i always knew this slump would come after the war, sooner or later. press. [writing] ". . . had predicted slump." lord w. you see, i've been an anti-sweating man for years, and i thought if only we could come together now . . . . press. [nodding] i see--i see! get society interested in the sweated, through the dinner. i have the menu here. [he produces it.] lord w. good god, man--more than that! i want to show the people that we stand side by side with them, as we did in the trenches. the whole thing's too jolly awful. i lie awake over it. [he walks up and down.] press. [scribbling] one moment, please. i'll just get that down-- "too jolly awful--lies awake over it. was wearing a white waistcoat with pearl buttons." [at a sign of resentment from his victim.] i want the human touch, lord william--it's everything in my paper. what do you say about this attempt to bomb you? lord w. well, in a way i think it's d---d natural press. [scribbling] "lord william thought it d---d natural." lord w. [overhearing] no, no; don't put that down. what i mean is, i should like to get hold of those fellows that are singing the marseillaise about the streets--fellows that have been in the war-- real sports they are, you know--thorough good chaps at bottom--and say to them: "have a feeling heart, boys; put yourself in my position." i don't believe a bit they'd want to bomb me then. [he walks up and down.] press. [scribbling and muttering] "the idea, of brotherhood--" d'you mind my saying that? word brotherhood--always effective--always---- [he writes.] lord e. [bewildered] "brotherhood!" well, it's pure accident that i'm here and they're there. all the same, i can't pretend to be starving. can't go out into hyde park and stand on a tub, can i? but if i could only show them what i feel--they're such good chaps-- poor devils. press. i quite appreciate! [he writes] "camel and needle's eye." you were at eton and oxford? your constituency i know. clubs? but i can get all that. is it your view that christianity is on the up-grade, lord william? lord w. [dubious] what d'you mean by christianity--loving--kindness and that? of course i think that dogma's got the knock. [he walks.] press. [writing] "lord william thought dogma had got the knock." i should like you just to develop your definition of christianity. "loving--kindness" strikes rather a new note. lord w. new? what about the sermon on the mount? press. [writing] "refers to sermon on mount." i take it you don't belong to any church, lord william? lord w. [exasperated] well, really--i've been baptised and that sort of thing. but look here---- press. oh! you can trust me--i shan't say anything that you'll regret. now, do you consider that a religious revival would help to quiet the country? lord w. well, i think it would be a deuced, good thing if everybody were a bit more kind. press. ah! [musing] i feel that your views are strikingly original, lord william. if you could just open out on them a little more? how far would you apply kindness in practice? lord w. can you apply it in theory? press. i believe it is done. but would you allow yourself to be blown up with impunity? lord w. well, that's a bit extreme. but i quite sympathise with this chap. imagine yourself in his shoes. he sees a huge house, all these bottles; us swilling them down; perhaps he's got a starving wife, or consumptive kids. press. [writing and murmuring] um-m! "kids." lord w. he thinks: "but for the grace of god, there swill i. why should that blighter have everything and i nothing?" and all that. press. [writing] "and all that." [eagerly] yes? lord w. and gradually--you see--this contrast--becomes an obsession with him. "there's got to be an example made," he thinks; and--er-- he makes it, don't you know? press. [writing] ye-es? and--when you're the example? lord w. well, you feel a bit blue, of course. but my point is that you quite see it. press. from the other world. do you believe in a future life, lord william? the public took a lot of interest in the question, if you remember, at the time of the war. it might revive at any moment, if there's to be a revolution. lord w. the wish is always father to the thought, isn't it? press. yes! but--er--doesn't the question of a future life rather bear on your point about kindness? if there isn't one--why be kind? lord w. well, i should say one oughtn't to be kind for any motive-- that's self-interest; but just because one feels it, don't you know. press. [writing vigorously] that's very new--very new! lord w. [simply] you chaps are wonderful. press. [doubtfully] you mean we're--we're---- lord w. no, really. you have such a d---d hard time. it must be perfectly beastly to interview fellows like me. press. oh! not at all, lord william. not at all. i assure you compared with a literary man, it's--it's almost heavenly. lord w. you must have a wonderful knowledge of things. press. [bridling a little] well--i shouldn't say that. lord w. i don't see how you can avoid it. you turn your hands to everything. press. [modestly] well--yes, yes. lord w. i say: is there really going to be a revolution, or are you making it up, you press? press. we don't know. we never know whether we come before the event, or it comes before us. lord w. that's--very deep--very dip. d'you mind lending me your note-book a moment. i'd like to stick that down. all right, i'll use the other end. [the press hands it hypnotically.] lord w. [jotting] thanks awfully. now what's your real opinion of the situation? press. as a man or a press man? lord w. is there any difference? press. is there any connection? lord w. well, as a man. press. as a man, i think it's rotten. lord w. [jotting] "rotten." and as a pressman? press. [smiling] prime. lord w. what! like a stilton cheese. ha, ha! [he is about to write.] press. my stunt, lord william. you said that. [he jots it on his cuff.] lord w. but look here! would you say that a strong press movement would help to quiet the country? press. well, as you ask me, lord william, i'll tell you. no newspapers for a month would do the trick. lord w. [jotting] by jove! that's brilliant. press. yes, but i should starve. [he suddenly looks up, and his eyes, like gimlets, bore their way into lord william's pleasant, troubled face] lord william, you could do me a real kindness. authorise me to go and interview the fellow who left the bomb here; i've got his address. i promise you to do it most discreetly. fact is--well--i'm in low water. since the war we simply can't get sensation enough for the new taste. now, if i could have an article headed: "bombed and bomber"--sort of double interview, you know, it'd very likely set me on my legs again. [very earnestly] look! [he holds out his frayed wristbands.] lord w. [grasping his hand] my dear chap, certainly. go and interview this blighter, and then bring him round here. you can do that for one. i'd very much like to see him, as a matter of fact. press. thanks awfully; i shall never forget it. oh! might i have my note-book? [lord william hands it back.] lord w. and look here, if there's anything--when a fellow's fortunate and another's not---- [he puts his hand into his breast pocket.] press. oh, thank you! but you see, i shall have to write you up a bit, lord william. the old aristocracy--you know what the public still expects; if you were to lend me money, you might feel---- lord w. by jove! never should have dreamt---- press. no! but it wouldn't do. have you a photograph of yourself. lord w. not on me. press. pity! by the way, has it occurred to you that there may be another bomb on the premises? lord w. phew! i'll have a look. [he looks at his watch, and begins hurriedly searching the bins, bending down and going on his knees. the press reverses the notebook again and sketches him.] press. [to himself] ah! that'll do. "lord william examines the foundations of his house." [a voice calls "bill!" the press snaps the note-book to, and looks up. there, where the "communication trench" runs in, stands a tall and elegant woman in the extreme of evening dress.] [with presence of mind] lady william? you'll find lord william --oh! have you a photograph of him? lady w. not on me. press. [eyeing her] er--no--i suppose not--no. excuse me! [he sidles past her and is gone.] lady w. [with lifted eyebrows] bill! lord w. [emerging, dusting his knees] hallo, nell! i was just making sure there wasn't another bomb. lady w. yes; that's why i came dawn: who was that person? lord w. press. lady w. he looked awfully yellow. i hope you haven't been giving yourself away. lord w. [dubiously] well, i don't know. they're like corkscrews. lady w. what did he ask you? lord w. what didn't he? lady w. well, what did you tell him? lord w. that i'd been baptised--but he promised not to put it down. lady w. bill, you are absurd. [she gives a light tittle laugh.] lord w. i don't remember anything else, except that it was quite natural we should be bombed, don't you know. lady w. why, what harm have we done? lord w. been born, my dear. [suddenly serious] i say, nell, how am i to tell what this fellow felt when he left that bomb here? lady w. why do you want to? lord w. out there one used to know what one's men felt. lady w. [staring] my dear boy, i really don't think you ought to see the press; it always upsets you. lord w. well! why should you and i be going to eat ourselves silly to improve the condition of the sweated, when---- lady w. [calmly] when they're going to "improve" ours, if we don't look out. we've got to get in first, bill. lord w. [gloomily] i know. it's all fear. that's it! here we are, and here we shall stay--as if there'd never been a war. lady w. well, thank heaven there's no "front" to a revolution. you and i can go to glory together this time. compact! anything that's on, i'm to abate in. lord w. well, in reason. lady w. no, in rhyme, too. lord w. i say, your dress! lady w. yes, poulder tried to stop me, but i wasn't going to have you blown up without me. lord w. you duck. you do look stunning. give us a kiss! lady w. [starting back] oh, bill! don't touch me--your hands! lord w. never mind, my mouth's clean. they stand about a yard apart, and banding their faces towards each other, kiss on the lips. l. anne. [appearing suddenly from the "communication trench," and tip-toeing silently between them] oh, mum! you and daddy are wasting time! dinner's ready, you know! curtain act ii the single room of old mrs. lemmy, in a small grey house in bethnal green, the room of one cumbered by little save age, and the crockery debris of the past. a bed, a cupboard, a coloured portrait of queen victoria, and--of all things--a fiddle, hanging on the wall. by the side of old mrs. lemmy in her chair is a pile of corduroy trousers, her day's sweated sewing, and a small table. she sits with her back to the window, through which, in the last of the light, the opposite side of the little grey street is visible under the evening sky, where hangs one white cloud shaped like a horned beast. she is still sewing, and her lips move. being old, and lonely, she has that habit of talking to herself, distressing to those who cannot overhear. from the smack of her tongue she was once a west country cottage woman; from the look of her creased, parchmenty face, she was once a pretty girl with black eyes, in which there is still much vitality. the door is opened with difficulty and a little girl enters, carrying a pile of unfinished corduroy trousers nearly as large as herself. she puts them down against the wall, and advances. she is eleven or twelve years old; large-eyed, dark haired, and sallow. half a woman of this and half of another world, except when as now, she is as irresponsible a bit of life as a little flowering weed growing out of a wall. she stands looking at mrs. lemmy with dancing eyes. l. aida. i've brought yer to-morrer's trahsers. y'nt yer finished wiv to-dy's? i want to tyke 'em. mrs. l. no, me dear. drat this last one--me old fengers! l. aida. i learnt some poytry to-dy--i did. mrs. l. well, i never! l. aida. [reciting with unction] "little lamb who myde thee? dost thou know who myde thee, gyve thee life and byde thee feed by the stream and oer the mead; gyve the clothing of delight, softest clothing, woolly, bright; gyve thee such a tender voice, myking all the vyles rejoice. little lamb who myde thee? dost thou know who myde thee?" mrs. l. 'tes wonderful what things they tache ya nowadays. l. aida. when i grow up i'm goin' to 'ave a revolver an' shoot the people that steals my jools. mrs. l. deary-me, wherever du yu get yore notions? l. aida. an' i'm goin' to ride on as 'orse be'ind a man; an' i'm goin' to ryce trynes in my motor car. mrs. l. [dryly] ah!--yu'um gwine to be very busy, that's sartin. can you sew? l. aida. [with a smile] nao. mrs. l. don' they tache yu that, there? l. aida. [blending contempt and a lingering curiosity] nao. mrs. l. 'tes wonderful genteel. l. aida. i can sing, though. mrs. l. let's 'ear yu, then. l. aida. [shaking her head] i can ply the pianner. i can ply a tune. mrs. l. whose pianner? l. aida. mrs. brahn's when she's gone aht. mrs. l. well, yu are gettin' edjucation! du they tache yu to love yore neighbours? l. aida. [ineffably] nao. [straying to the window] mrs. lemmy, what's the moon? mrs. l. the mune? us used to zay 'twas made o' crame cheese. l. aida. i can see it. mrs. l. ah! don' yu never go wishin' for it, me dear. l. aida. i daon't. mrs. l. folks as wish for the mune never du no gude. l. aida. [craning out, brilliant] i'm goin' dahn in the street. i'll come back for yer trahsers. mrs. l. well; go yu, then, and get a breath o' fresh air in yore chakes. i'll sune 'a feneshed. l. aida. [solemnly] i'm goin' to be a dancer, i am. she rushes suddenly to the door, pulls it open, and is gone. mrs. l. [looking after her, and talking to herself.] ah! 'er've a-got all 'er troubles before 'er! "little lamb, a made'ee?" [cackling] 'tes a funny world, tu! [she sings to herself.] "there is a green 'ill far away without a city wall, where our dear-lord was crucified, 'u died to save us all." the door is opened, and lemmy comes in; a little man with a stubble of dark moustache and spiky dark hair; large, peculiar eyes he has, and a look of laying his ears back, a look of doubting, of perversity with laughter up the sleeve, that grows on those who have to do with gas and water. he shuts the door. mrs. l. well, bob, i 'aven't a-seen yu this tu weeks. lemmy comes up to his mother, and sits down on a stool, sets a tool-bag between his knees, and speaks in a cockney voice. lemmy. well, old lydy o' leisure! wot would y' 'ave for supper, if yer could choose--salmon wivaht the tin, an' tipsy cyke? mrs. l. [shaking her head and smiling blandly] that's showy. toad in the 'ole i'd 'ave--and a glass o' port wine. lemmy. providential. [he opens a tool-bag] wot dyer think i've got yer? mrs. l. i 'ope yu've a-got yureself a job, my son! lemmy. [with his peculiar smile] yus, or i couldn't 'ave afforded yer this. [he takes out a bottle] not 'arf! this'll put the blood into yer. pork wine--once in the cellars of the gryte. we'll drink the ryyal family in this. [he apostrophises the portrait of queen victoria.] mrs. l. ah! she was a praaper gude queen. i see 'er once, when 'er was bein' burried. lemmy. ryalties--i got nothin' to sy agynst 'em in this country. but the styte 'as got to 'ave its pipes seen to. the 'ole show's goin' up pop. yer'll wyke up one o' these dyes, old lydy, and find yerself on the roof, wiv nuffin' between yer an' the grahnd. mrs. l. i can't tell what yu'm talkin' about. lemmy. we're goin' to 'ave a triumpherat in this country liberty, equality, fraternity; an' if yer arsk me, they won't be in power six months before they've cut each other's throats. but i don't care--i want to see the blood flow! (dispassionately) i don' care 'oose blood it is. i want to see it flow! mrs. l. [indulgently] yu'm a funny boy, that's sartin. lemmy. [carving at the cork with a knife] this 'ere cork is like sasiety--rotten; it's old--old an' moulderin'. [he holds up a bit of cork on the point of the knife] crumblin' under the wax, it is. in goes the screw an' out comes the cork. [with unction]--an' the blood flows. [tipping the bottle, he lets a drop fall into the middle of his hand, and licks it up. gazing with queer and doubting commiseration at has mother] well, old dear, wot shall we 'ave it aht of--the gold loving-cup, or--what? 'ave yer supper fust, though, or it'll go to yer 'ead! [he goes to the cupboard and taken out a disk in which a little bread is sopped in a little' milk] cold pap! 'ow can yer? 'yn't yer got a kipper in the 'ouse? mrs. l. [admiring the bottle] port wine! 'tis a brave treat! i'll 'ave it out of the "present from margitt," bob. i tuk 'ee therr by excursion when yu was six months. yu 'ad a shrimp an' it choked yu praaperly. yu was always a squeamy little feller. i can't never think 'ow yu managed in the war-time, makin' they shells. lemmy, who has brought to the table two mugs and blown the duet out of; them, fills them with port, and hands one to his mother, who is eating her bread and milk. lemmy. ah! nothin' worried me, 'cept the want o' soap. mrs. l. [cackling gently] so it du still, then! luke at yore face. yu never was a clean boy, like jim. [she puts out a thin finger and touches his cheek, whereon is a black smudge.] lemmy. [scrubbing his cheek with his sleeve.] all right! y'see, i come stryte 'ere, to get rid o' this. [he drinks.] mrs. l. [eating her bread and milk] tes a pity yu'm not got a wife to see't yu wash yureself. lemmy. [goggling] wife! not me--i daon't want ter myke no food for pahder. wot oh!--they said, time o' the war--ye're fightin' for yer children's 'eritage. well; wot's the 'eritage like, now we've got it? empty as a shell before yer put the 'igh explosive in. wot's it like? [warming to his theme] like a prophecy in the pypers--not a bit more substantial. mrs. l. [slightly hypnotised] how 'e du talk! the gas goes to yore 'ead, i think! lemmy. i did the gas to-dy in the cellars of an 'ouse where the wine was mountains 'igh. a regiment couldn't 'a drunk it. marble pillars in the 'all, butler broad as an observytion balloon, an' four conscientious khaki footmen. when the guns was roarin' the talk was all for no more o' them glorious weeds-style an' luxury was orf. see wot it is naow. you've got a bare crust in the cupboard 'ere, i works from 'and to mouth in a glutted market--an' there they stand abaht agyne in their britches in the 'oases o' the gryte. i was reg'lar overcome by it. i left a thing in that cellar--i left a thing . . . . it'll be a bit ork'ard for me to-mower. [drinks from his mug.] mrs. l. [placidly, feeling the warmth of the little she has drunk] what thing? lemmy. wot thing? old lydy, ye're like a winkle afore yer opens 'er--i never see anything so peaceful. 'ow dyer manage it? mrs. l. settin' 'ere and thenkin'. lea. wot abaht? mrs. l. we-el--money, an' the works o' god. lemmy. ah! so yer give me a thought sometimes. mrs. l. [lofting her mug] yu ought never to ha' spent yore money on this, bob! lemmy. i thought that meself. mrs. l. last time i 'ad a glass o' port wine was the day yore brother jim went to ameriky. [smacking her lips] for a teetotal drink, it du warm 'ee! lemmy. [raising his mug] well, 'ere's to the british revolution! 'ere's to the conflygrytion in the sky! mrs. l. [comfortably] so as to kape up therr, 'twon't du no 'arm. lemmy goes to the window and unhooks his fiddle; he stands with it halfway to his shoulder. suddenly he opens the window and leans out. a confused murmur of voices is heard; and a snatch of the marseillaise, sung by a girl. then the shuffling tramp of feet, and figures are passing in the street. lemmy. [turning--excited] wot'd i tell yer, old lydy? there it is --there it is! mrs. l. [placidly] what is? lemmy. the revolution. [he cranes out] they've got it on a barrer. cheerio! voice. [answering] cheerio! lemmy. [leaning out] i sy--you 'yn't tykin' the body, are yer? voice. nao. lemmy. did she die o' starvytion o.k.? voice. she bloomin' well did; i know 'er brother. lemmy. ah! that'll do us a bit o' good! voice. cheerio! lemmy. so long! voice. so long! [the girl's voice is heard again in the distance singing the marseillaise. the door is flung open and little aida comes running in again.] lemmy. 'allo, little aida! l. aida. 'allo, i been follerin' the corfin. it's better than an 'orse dahn! mrs. l. what coffin? l. aida. why, 'er's wot died o' starvytion up the street. they're goin' to tyke it to 'yde pawk, and 'oller. mrs. l. well, never yu mind wot they'm goin' to du: yu wait an' take my trousers like a gude gell. [she puts her mug aside and takes up her unfinished pair of trousers. but the wine has entered her fingers, and strength to push the needle through is lacking.] lemmy. [tuning his fiddle] wot'll yer 'ave, little aida? "dead march in saul" or "when the fields was white wiv dysies"? l. aida. [with a hop and a brilliant smile] aoh yus! "when the fields"---- mrs. l. [with a gesture of despair] deary me! i 'aven't a-got the strength! lemmy. leave 'em alone, old dear! no one'll be goin' aht wivaht trahsers to-night 'cos yer leaves that one undone. little aida, fold 'em up! [little aida methodically folds the five finished pairs of trousers into a pile. lemmy begins playing. a smile comes on the face of mrs. l, who is rubbing her fingers. little aida, trousers over arm, goes and stares at lemmy playing.] lemmy. [stopping] little aida, one o' vese dyes yer'll myke an actress. i can see it in yer fyce! [little aida looks at him wide-eyed.] mrs. l. don't 'ee putt things into 'er 'ead, bob! lemmy. 'tyn't 'er 'ead, old lydy--it's lower. she wants feedin'-- feed 'er an' she'll rise. [he strikes into the "machichi"] look at 'er naow. i tell yer there's a fortune in 'er. [little aida has put out her tongue.] mrs. l. i'd saner there was a gude 'eart in 'er than any fortune. l. aida. [hugging her pile of trousers] it's thirteen pence three farthin's i've got to bring yer, an' a penny aht for me, mykes twelve three farthin's: [with the same little hop and sudden smile] i'm goin' to ride back on a bus, i am. lemmy. well, you myke the most of it up there; it's the nearest you'll ever git to 'eaven. mrs. l. don' yu discourage 'er, bob; she'm a gude little thing, an't yu, dear? l. aida. [simply] yus. lemmy. not 'arf. wot c'her do wiv yesterdy's penny? l. aida. movies. lemmy. an' the dy before? l. aida. movies. lemmy. wot'd i tell yer, old lydy--she's got vicious tystes, she'll finish in the theayter yep tyke my tip, little aida; you put every penny into yer foundytions, yer'll get on the boards quicker that wy. mrs. l. don' yu pay no 'eed to his talk. l. aida. i daon't. ice. would yer like a sip aht o' my mug? l. aida. [brilliant] yus. mrs. l. not at yore age, me dear, though it is teetotal. [little aida puts her head on one side, like a dog trying to understand.] lemmy. well, 'ave one o' my gum-drops. [holds out a paper.] [little aida brilliant, takes a flat, dark substance from it, and puts it in her mouth.] give me a kiss, an' i'll give yer a penny. [little aida shakes her head, and leans out of window.] movver, she daon't know the valyer of money. mrs. l. never mind 'im, me dear. l. aida. [sucking the gum-drop--with difficulty] there's a taxi-cab at the corner. [little aida runs to the door. a figure stands in the doorway; she skids round him and out. the press comes in.] lemmy. [dubiously] wat-oh! press. mr. lemmy? lemmy. the syme. press. i'm from the press. lemmy. blimy. press. they told me at your place you wens very likely here. lemmy. yus i left downin' street a bit early to-dy! [he twangs the feddle-strings pompously.] press. [taking out his note-book and writing] "fiddles while rome is burning!" mr. lemmy, it's my business at this very critical time to find out what the nation's thinking. now, as a representative working man-- lemmy. that's me. press. you can help me. what are your views? lemmy. [putting down fiddle] voos? sit dahn! [the press sits on the stool which lemmy has vacated.] the press--my muvver. seventy-seven. she's a wonder; 'yn't yer, old dear? press. very happy to make your acquaintance, ma'am. [he writes] "mrs. lemmy, one of the veterans of industry----" by the way, i've jest passed a lot of people following a coffin. lemmy. centre o' the cyclone--cyse o' starvytion; you 'ad 'er in the pyper this mornin'. press. ah! yes! tragic occurrence. [looking at the trousers.] hub of the sweated industries just here. i especially want to get at the heart---- mrs. l. 'twasn't the 'eart, 'twas the stomach. press. [writing] "mrs. lemmy goes straight to the point." lemmy. mister, is it my voos or muvver's yer want? press. both. lemmy. 'cos if yer get muvver's, yer won't 'ave time for mine. i tell yer stryte [confidentially] she's get a glawss a' port wine in 'er. naow, mind yer, i'm not anxious to be intervooed. on the other 'and, anyfink i might 'eve to sy of valyer----there is a clawss o' politician that 'as nuffn to sy--aoh! an' daon't 'e sy it just! i dunno wot pyper yer represent. press. [smiling] well, mr. lemmy, it has the biggest influ---- lemmy. they all 'as that; dylies, weeklies, evenin's, sundyes; but it's of no consequence--my voos are open and aboveboard. naow, wot shall we begin abaht? press. yourself, if you please. and i'd like you to know at once that my paper wants the human note, the real heart-beat of things. lemmy. i see; sensytion! well; 'ere am i--a fustclawss plumber's. assistant--in a job to-dy an' out tomorrer. there's a 'eart-beat in that, i tell yer. 'oo knows wot the mower 'as for me! press. [writing]. "the great human issue--mr. lemmy touches it at once." lemmy. i sy keep my nyme aht o' this; i don' go in fer self-advertisement. press. [writing] "true working-man--modest as usual." lemmy. i daon't want to embarrass the gover'ment. they're so ticklish ever since they got the 'abit, war-time, o' mindin' wot people said. press. right-o! lemmy. for instance, suppose there's goin' to be a revolution---- [the press writes with energy.] 'ow does it touch me? like this: i my go up--i cawn't come dahn; no more can muvver. mrs. l. [surprisingly] us all goes down into the grave. press. "mrs. lemmy interjects the deeper note." lemmy. naow, the gryte--they can come dahn, but they cawn't go up! see! put two an' two together, an' that's 'ow it touches me. [he utters a throaty laugh] 'ave yer got that? press. [quizzical] not go up? what about bombs, mr. lemmy? lemmy. [dubious] wot abaht 'em? i s'pose ye're on the comic pypers? 'ave yer noticed wot a weakness they 'ave for the 'orrible? press. [writing] "a grim humour peeped out here and there through the earnestness of his talk." [he sketches lemmy's profile.] lemmy. we 'ad an explosion in my factory time o' the war, that would just ha' done for you comics. [he meditates] lord! they was after it too,--they an' the sundyes; but the censor did 'em. strike me, i could tell yer things! press. that's what i want, mr. lemmy; tell me things! lemmy. [musing] it's a funny world, 'yn't it? 'ow we did blow each other up! [getting up to admire] i sy, i shall be syfe there. that won't betry me anonymiety. why! i looks like the prime minister! press. [rather hurt] you were going to tell me things. lemmy. yus, an' they'll be the troof, too. press. i hope so; we don't---- lemmy. wot oh! press. [a little confused.] we always try to verify---- lemmy. yer leave it at tryin', daon't yer? never, mind, ye're a gryte institootion. blimy, yer do have jokes, wiv it, spinnin' rahnd on yer own tyles, denyin' to-dy wot ye're goin' to print to-morrer. ah, well! ye're like all of us below the line o' comfort--live dyngerously--ever' dy yer last. that's wy i'm interested in the future. press. well now--the future. [writing] "he prophesies." lemmy. it's syfer, 'yn't it? [he winks] no one never looks back on prophecies. i remembers an editor spring o' stykin' his reputytion the war'd be over in the follerin' october. increased 'is circulytion abaht 'arf a million by it. an' war still on--'ad 'is readers gone back on 'im? nao! they was increasin' like rabbits. prophesy wot people want to believe, an' ye're syfe. naow, i'll styke my reputation on somethin', you tyke it dahn word for word. this country's goin' to the dawgs--naow, 'ere's the sensytion--unless we gets a new religion. press. ah! now for it--yes? lemmy. in one word: "kindness." daon't mistyke me, nao sickly sentiment and nao patronizin'. me as kind to the millionaire as 'im to me. [fills his mug and drinks.] press. [struck] that's queer! kindness! [writing] "extremes meet. bombed and bomber breathing the same music." lemmy. but 'ere's the interestin' pynt. can it be done wivaht blood? press. [writing] "he doubts." lemmy. no dabt wotever. it cawn't! blood-and-kindness! spill the blood o' them that aren't kind--an' there ye are! press. but pardon me, how are you to tell? lemmy. blimy, they leaps to the heye! press. [laying down-his note-book] i say, let me talk to you as man to man for a moment. lemmy. orl right. give it a rest! press. your sentiments are familiar to me. i've got a friend on the press who's very keen on christ and kindness; and wants to strangle the last king with the--hamstrings of the last priest. lemmy. [greatly intrigued] not 'arf! does 'e? press. yes. but have you thought it out? because he hasn't. lemmy. the difficulty is--where to stop. press. where to begin. lemmy. lawd! i could begin almost anywhere. why, every month abaht, there's a cove turns me aht of a job 'cos i daon't do just wot 'e likes. they'd 'ave to go. i tell yer stryte--the temple wants cleanin' up. press. ye-es. if i wrote what i thought, i should get the sack as quick as you. d'you say that justifies me in shedding the blood of my boss? lemmy. the yaller press 'as got no blood--'as it? you shed their ile an' vinegar--that's wot you've got to do. stryte--do yer believe in the noble mission o' the press? press. [enigmatically] mr. lemmy, i'm a pressman. lemmy. [goggling] i see. not much! [gently jogging his mother's elbow] wyke up, old lydy! [for mrs. lemmy who has been sipping placidly at her port, is nodding. the evening has drawn in. lemmy strikes a match on his trousers and lights a candle.] blood an' kindness-that's what's wanted--'specially blood! the 'istory o' me an' my family'll show yer that. tyke my bruver fred --crushed by burycrats. tyke muvver 'erself. talk o' the wrongs o' the people! i tell yer the foundytions is rotten. [he empties the bottle into his mother's mug] daon't mind the mud at the bottom, old lydy--it's all strengthenin'! you tell the press, muvver. she can talk abaht the pawst. press. [taking up his note-book, and becoming, again his professional self] yes, mrs. lemmy? "age and youth--past and present--" mrs. l. were yu talkin' about fred? [the port has warmed her veins, the colour in her eyes and cheeks has deepened] my son fred was always a gude boy--never did nothin' before 'e married. i can see fred [she bends forward a little in her chair, looking straight before her] acomin' in wi' a pheasant 'e'd found--terrible 'e was at findin' pheasants. when father died, an' yu was cumin', bob, fred 'e said to me: "don't yu never cry, mother, i'll look after 'ee." an' so 'e did, till 'e married that day six months an' take to the drink in sower. 'e wasn't never 'the same boy again--not fred. an' now 'e's in that. i can see poor fred---- [she slowly wipes a tear out of the corner of an eye with the back of her finger.] press. [puzzled] in--that? lemmy. [sotto voce] come orf it! prison! 's wot she calls it. mrs. l. [cheerful] they say life's a vale o' sorrows. well, so 'tes, but don' du to let yureself thenk so. press. and so you came to london, mrs. lemmy? mrs. l. same year as father died. with the four o' them--that's my son fred, an' my son jim, an' my son tom, an' alice. bob there, 'e was born in london--an' a praaper time i 'ad of et. press. [writing] "her heroic struggles with poverty----" mrs. l. worked in a laundry, i ded, at fifteen shellin's a week, an' brought 'em all up on et till alice 'ad the gallopin' consumption. i can see poor alice wi' the little red spots is 'er cheeks---an' i not knowin' wot to du wi' 'her--but i always kept up their buryin' money. funerals is very dear; mr. lemmy was six pound, ten. press. "high price of mr. lemmy." mrs. l. i've a-got the money for when my time come; never touch et, no matter 'ow things are. better a little goin' short here below, an' enter the kingdom of 'eaven independent: press. [writing] "death before dishonour--heroine of the slums. dickens--betty higden." mrs. l. no, sir. mary lemmy. i've seen a-many die, i 'ave; an' not one grievin'. i often says to meself: [with a little laugh] "me dear, when yu go, yu go 'appy. don' yu never fret about that," i says. an' so i will; i'll go 'appy. [she stays quite still a moment, and behind her lemmy draws one finger across his face.] [smiling] "yore old fengers'll 'ave a rest. think o' that!" i says. "'twill be a brave change." i can see myself lyin' there an' duin' nothin'. [again a pause, while mrs. lemmy sees herself doing nothing.] lemmy. tell abaht jim; old lydy. mrs. l. my son jim 'ad a family o' seven in six years. "i don' know 'ow 'tes, mother," 'e used to say to me; "they just sim to come!" that was jim--never knu from day to day what was cumin'. "therr's another of 'em dead," 'e used to say, "'tes funny, tu" "well," i used to say to 'im; "no wonder, poor little things, livin' in they model dwellin's. therr's no air for 'em," i used to say. "well," 'e used to say, "what can i du, mother? can't afford to live in park lane:" an' 'e take an' went to ameriky. [her voice for the first time is truly doleful] an' never came back. fine feller. so that's my four sons--one's dead, an' one's in--that, an' one's in ameriky, an' bob 'ere, poor boy, 'e always was a talker. [lemmy, who has re-seated himself in the window and taken up his fiddle, twangs the strings.] press. and now a few words about your work, mrs. lemmy? mrs. l. well, i sews. press. [writing] "sews." yes? mrs. l. [holding up her unfinished pair of trousers] i putt in the button'oles, i stretches the flies, i lines the crutch, i putt on this bindin', [she holds up the calico that binds the top] i sews on the buttons, i press the seams--tuppence three farthin's the pair. press. twopence three farthings a pair! worse than a penny a line! mrs. l. in a gude day i gets thru four pairs, but they'm gettin' plaguey 'ard for my old fengers. press. [writing] "a monumental figure, on whose labour is built the mighty edifice of our industrialism." lemmy. i sy--that's good. yer'll keep that, won't yet? mrs. l. i finds me own cotton, tuppence three farthin's, and other expension is a penny three farthin's. press. and are you an exception, mrs. lemmy? mrs. l. what's that? lemmy. wot price the uvvers, old lydy? is there a lot of yer sewin' yer fingers orf at tuppence 'ypenny the pair? mrs. l. i can't tell yu that. i never sees nothin' in 'ere. i pays a penny to that little gell to bring me a dozen pair an' fetch 'em back. poor little thing, she'm 'ardly strong enough to carry 'em. feel! they'm very 'eavy! press. on the conscience of society! lemmy. i sy put that dahn, won't yer? press. have things changed much since the war, mrs. lemmy? mrs. l. cotton's a lot dearer. press. all round, i mean. mrs. l. aw! yu don' never get no change, not in my profession. [she oscillates the trousers] i've a-been in trousers fifteen year; ever since i got to old for laundry. press. [writing] "for fifteen years sewn trousers." what would a good week be, mrs. lemmy? mrs. l. 'tes a very gude week, five shellin's. lemmy. [from the window] bloomin' millionairess, muvver. she's lookin' forward to 'eaven, where vey don't wear no trahsers. mrs. l. [with spirit] 'tidn for me to zay whether they du. an' 'tes on'y when i'm a bit low-sperrity-like as i wants to go therr. what i am a-lukin' forward to, though, 'tes a day in the country. i've not a-had one since before the war. a kind lady brought me in that bit of 'eather; 'tes wonderful sweet stuff when the 'oney's in et. when i was a little gell i used to zet in the 'eather gatherin' the whorts, an' me little mouth all black wi' eatin' them. 'twas in the 'eather i used to zet, sundays, courtin'. all flesh is grass-- an' 'tesn't no bad thing--grass. press. [writing] "the old paganism of the country." what is your view of life, mrs. lemmy? lemmy. [suddenly] wot is 'er voo of life? shall i tell yer mine? life's a disease--a blinkin' oak-apple! daon't myke no mistyke. an' 'umen life's a yumourous disease; that's all the difference. why-- wot else can it be? see the bloomin' promise an' the blighted performance--different as a 'eadline to the noos inside. but yer couldn't myke muvver see vat--not if yer talked to 'er for a wok. muvver still believes in fings. she's a country gell; at a 'undred and fifty she'll be a country gell, won't yer, old lydy? mrs. l. well, 'tesn't never been 'ome to me in london. i lived in the country forty year--i did my lovin' there; i burried father therr. therr bain't nothin' in life, yu know, but a bit o' lovin'-- all said an' done; bit o' lovin', with the wind, an' the stars out. lemmy. [in a loud apologetic whisper] she 'yn't often like this. i told yer she'd got a glawss o' port in 'er. mrs. l. 'tes a brave pleasure, is lovin'. i likes to zee et in young folk. i likes to zee 'em kissin'; shows the 'eart in 'em. 'tes the 'eart makes the world go round; 'tesn't nothin' else, in my opinion. press. [writing] "--sings the swan song of the heart."---- mrs. l. [overhearing] no, i never yeard a swan sing--never! but i tell 'ee what i 'eve 'eard; the bells singin' in th' orchard 'angin' up the clothes to dry, an' the cuckoos callin' back to 'em. [smiling] there's a-many songs in the country-the 'eart is freelike in th' country! lemmy. [soto voce] gi' me the strand at ar' past nine. press. [writing] "town and country----" mrs. l. 'tidn't like that in london; one day's jest like another. not but what therr's a 'eap o' kind'eartedness 'ere. lemmy. [gloomily] kind-'eartedness! i daon't fink "boys an' gells come out to play." [he plays the old tune on his fiddle.] mrs. l. [singing] "boys an' gells come out to play. the mune is shinin' bright as day." [she laughs] i used to sing like a lark when i was a gell. [little aida enters.] l. aida. there's 'undreds follerin' the corfin. 'yn't you goin', mr. lemmy--it's dahn your wy! lemmy. [dubiously] well yus--i s'pose they'll miss me. l. aida. aoh! tyke me! press. what's this? lemmy. the revolution in 'yde pawk. press. [struck] in hyde park? the very thing. i'll take you down. my taxi's waiting. l. aida. yus; it's breathin' 'ard, at the corner. press. [looking at his watch] ah! and mrs. lemmy. there's an anti-sweating meeting going on at a house in park lane. we can get there in twenty minutes if we shove along. i want you to tell them about the trouser-making. you'll be a sensation! lemmy. [to himself] sensytion! 'e cawn't keep orf it! mrs. l. anti-sweat. poor fellers! i 'ad one come to see we before the war, an' they'm still goin' on? wonderful, an't it? press. come, mrs. lemmy; drive in a taxi, beautiful moonlit night; and they'll give you a splendid cup of tea. mrs. l. [unmoved] ah! i cudn't never du without my tea. there's not an avenin' but i thinks to meself: now, me dear, yu've a-got one more to fennish, an' then yu'll 'eve yore cup o' tea. thank you for callin', all the same. lemmy. better siccumb to the temptytion, old lydy; joyride wiv the press; marble floors, pillars o' gold; conscientious footmen; lovely lydies; scuppers runnin' tea! an' the revolution goin' on across the wy. 'eaven's nuffink to pawk lyne. press. come along, mrs. lemmy! mrs. l. [seraphically] thank yu,--i'm a-feelin' very comfortable. 'tes wonderful what a drop o' wine'll du for the stomach. press. a taxi-ride! mrs. l. [placidly] ah! i know'em. they'm very busy things. lemmy. muvver shuns notority. [sotto voce to the press] but you watch me! i'll rouse 'er. [he takes up his fiddle and sits on the window seat. above the little houses on the opposite side of the street, the moon has risen in the dark blue sky, so that the cloud shaped like a beast seems leaping over it. lemmy plays the first notes of the marseillaise. a black cat on the window-sill outside looks in, hunching its back. little aida barks at her. mrs. lemmy struggles to her feet, sweeping the empty dish and spoon to the floor in the effort.] the dish ran awy wiv the spoon! that's right, old lydy! [he stops playing.] mrs. l. [smiling, and moving her hands] i like a bit o' music. it du that move 'ee. press. bravo, mrs. lemmy. come on! lemmy. come on, old dear! we'll be in time for the revolution yet. mrs. l. 'tes 'earin' the old 'undred again! lemmy. [to the press] she 'yn't been aht these two years. [to his mother, who has put up her hands to her head] nao, never mind yer 'at. [to the press] she 'yn't got none! [aloud] no west-end lydy wears anyfink at all in the evenin'! mrs. l. 'ow'm i lukin', bob? lemmy. first-clawss; yer've got a colour fit to toast by. we'll show 'em yer've got a kick in yer. [he takes her arm] little aida, ketch 'old o' the sensytions. [he indicates the trousers the press takes mrs. lemmy's other arm.] mrs. l. [with an excited little laugh] quite like a gell! and, smiling between her son and the press, she passes out; little aida, with a fling of her heels and a wave of the trousers, follows. curtain act iii an octagon ante-room of the hall at lord william dromondy's. a shining room lighted by gold candelabra, with gold-curtained pillars, through which the shining hall and a little of the grand stairway are visible. a small table with a gold-coloured cloth occupies the very centre of the room, which has a polished parquet floor and high white walls. gold-coloured doors on the left. opposite these doors a window with gold-coloured curtains looks out on park lane. lady william standing restlessly between the double doors and the arch which leads to the hall. james is stationary by the double doors, from behind which come sounds of speech and applause. poulder. [entering from the hall] his grace the duke of exeter, my lady. [his grace enters. he is old, and youthful, with a high colour and a short rough white beard. lady william advances to meet him. poulder stands by.] lady w. oh! father, you are late. his g. awful crowd in the streets, nell. they've got a coffin-- couldn't get by. lady w. coin? whose? his g. the government's i should think-no flowers, by request. i say, have i got to speak? lady w. oh! no, dear. his g. h'm! that's unlucky. i've got it here. [he looks down his cuff] found something i said in --just have done. lady w. oh! if you've got it--james, ask lord william to come to me for a moment. [james vanishes through the door. to the duke] go in, grand-dad; they'll be so awfully pleased to see you. i'll tell bill. his g. where's anne? lady w. in bed, of course. his g. i got her this--rather nice? [he has taken from his breast-pocket one of those street toy-men that jump head over heels on your hand; he puts it through its paces.] lady w. [much interested] oh! no, but how sweet! she'll simply love it. poulder. if i might suggest to your grace to take it in and operate it. it's sweated, your grace. they-er-make them in those places. his g. by jove! d'you know the price, poulder? poulder. [interrogatively] a penny, is it? something paltry, your grace! his g. where's that woman who knows everything; miss munday? lady w. oh! she'll be in there, somewhere. [his grace moves on, and passes through the doors. the sound of applause is heard.] poulder. [discreetly] would you care to see the bomb, my lady? lady w. of course--first quiet moment. poulder. i'll bring it up, and have a watch put on it here, my lady. [lord william comes through the double doom followed by james. poulder retires.] lord w. can't you come, nell? lady w. oh! bill, your dad wants to speak. lord w. the deuce he does--that's bad. lady w. yes, of course, but you must let him; he's found something he said in . lord w. i knew it. that's what they'll say. standing stock still, while hell's on the jump around us. lady w. never mind that; it'll please him; and he's got a lovely little sweated toy that turns head over heels at one penny. lord w. h'm! well, come on. lady w. no, i must wait for stragglers. there's sure to be an editor in a hurry. poulder. [announcing] mis-ter gold-rum! lady w. [sotto voce] and there he is! [she advances to meet a thin, straggling man in eyeglasses, who is smiling absently] how good of you! mr. g. thanks awfully. i just er--and then i'm afraid i must--er-- things look very----thanks----thanks so much. [he straggles through the doors, and is enclosed by james.] poulder. miss mun-day. lord w. there! i thought she was in--she really is the most unexpected woman! how do you do? how awfully sweet of you! miss m. [an elderly female schoolboy] how do you do? there's a spiffing crowd. i believe things are really going bolshy. how do you do, lord william? have you got any of our people to show? i told one or two, in case--they do so simply love an outing. james. there are three old chips in the lobby, my lord. lord w. what? oh! i say! bring them in at once. why--they're the hub of the whole thing. james. [going] very good, my lord. lady w. i am sorry. i'd no notion; and they're such dears always. miss m. i must tell you what one of them said to me. i'd told him not to use such bad language to his wife. "don't you worry, ma!" he said, "i expert you can do a bit of that yourself!" lady w. how awfully nice! it's so like them. miss m. yes. they're wonderful. lord w. i say, why do we always call them they? lady w. [puzzled] well, why not? lord w. they! miss m. [struck] quite right, lord william! quite right! another species. they! i must remember that. they! [she passes on.] lady w. [about to follow] well, i don't see; aren't they? lord w. never mind, old girl; follow on. they'll come in with me. [miss munday and lady william pass through the double doors.] poulder. [announcing] some sweated workers, my lord. [there enter a tall, thin, oldish woman; a short, thin, very lame man, her husband; and a stoutish middle-aged woman with a rolling eye and gait, all very poorly dressed, with lined and heated faces.] lord w. [shaking hands] how d'you do! delighted to see you all. it's awfully good of you to have come. lame m. mr. and mrs. tomson. we 'ad some trouble to find it. you see, i've never been in these parts. we 'ad to come in the oven; and the bus-bloke put us dahn wrong. are you the proprietor? lord w. [modestly] yes, i--er-- lame m. you've got a nice plyce. i says to the missis, i says: "'e's got a nice plyce 'ere," i says; "there's room to turn rahnd." lord w. yes--shall we--? lame m. an' mrs. annaway she says: "shouldn't mind livin 'ere meself," she says; "but it must cost'im a tidy penny," she says. lord w. it does--it does; much too tidy. shall we--? mrs. ann. [rolling her eye] i'm very pleased to 'ave come. i've often said to 'em: "any time you want me," i've said, "i'd be pleased to come." lord w. not so pleased as we are to see you. mrs. ann. i'm sure you're very kind. james. [from the double doors, through which he has received a message] wanted for your speech, my lord. lord w. oh! god! poulder, bring these ladies and gentleman in, and put them where everybody can--where they can see everybody, don't you know. [he goes out hurriedly through the double doors.] lame m. is 'e a lord? poulder. he is. follow me. [he moves towards the doors, the three workers follow.] mrs. ann. [stopping before james] you 'yn't one, i suppose? [james stirs no muscle.] poulder. now please. [he opens the doors. the voice of lord william speaking is heard] pass in. [the three workers pass in, poulder and james follow them. the doors are not closed, and through this aperture comes the voice of lord william, punctuated and supported by decorous applause.] [little anne runs in, and listens at the window to the confused and distant murmurs of a crowd.] voice of lord w. we propose to move for a further advance in the chain-making and--er--er--match-box industries. [applause.] [little anne runs across to the door, to listen.] [on rising voice] i would conclude with some general remarks. ladies and gentlemen, the great natural, but--er--artificial expansion which trade experienced the first years after the war has-- er--collapsed. these are hard times. we who are fortunate feel more than ever--er--responsible--[he stammers, loses the thread of his thoughts.]--[applause]--er--responsible--[the thread still eludes him]--er---- l. anne. [poignantly] oh, daddy! lord w. [desperately] in fact--er--you know how--er--responsible we feel. l. anne. hooray! [applause.] [there float in through the windows the hoarse and distant sounds of the marseillaise, as sung by london voices.] lord w. there is a feeling in the air--that i for one should say deliberately was--er--a feeling in the air--er--a feeling in the air---- l. anne. [agonised] oh, daddy! stop! [jane enters, and closes the door behind him. james. look here! 'ave i got to report you to miss stokes?] l. anne. no-o-o! james. well, i'm goin' to. l. anne. oh, james, be a friend to me! i've seen nothing yet. james. no; but you've eaten a good bit, on the stairs. what price that peach melba? l. anne. i can't go to bed till i've digested it can i? there's such a lovely crowd in the street! james. lovely? ho! l. anne. [wheedling] james, you couldn't tell miss stokes! it isn't in you, is it? james. [grinning] that's right. l. anne. so-i'll just get under here. [she gets under the table] do i show? james. [stooping] not 'arf! [poulder enters from the hall.] poulder. what are you doin' there? james. [between him and the table--raising himself] thinkin'. [poulder purses his mouth to repress his feedings.] poulder. my orders are to fetch the bomb up here for lady william to inspect. take care no more writers stray in. james. how shall i know 'em? poulder. well--either very bald or very hairy. james. right-o! [he goes.] [poulder, with his back to the table, busies himself with the set of his collar.] poulder. [addressing an imaginary audience--in a low but important voice] the--ah--situation is seerious. it is up to us of the--ah-- leisured classes---- [the face of little anne is poked out close to his legs, and tilts upwards in wonder towards the bow of his waistcoat.] to--ah--keep the people down. the olla polloi are clamourin'---- [miss stokes appears from the hall, between the pillars.] miss s. poulder! poulder. [making a volte face towards the table] miss? miss s. where is anne? poulder. [vexed at the disturbance of his speech] excuse me, miss-- to keep track of miss anne is fortunately no part of my dooties. [miss s. she really is naughty.] poulder. she is. if she was mine, i'd spank her. [the smiling face of little anne becomes visible again close to his legs.] miss s. not a nice word. poulder. no; but a pleasant haction. miss anne's the limit. in fact, lord and lady william are much too kind 'earted all round. take these sweated workers; that class o' people are quite 'opeless. treatin' them as your equals, shakin 'ands with 'em, givin 'em tea-- it only puffs 'em out. leave it to the church, i say. miss s. the church is too busy, poulder. poulder. ah! that "purity an' future o' the race campaign." i'll tell you what i thinks the danger o' that, miss. so much purity that there won't be a future race. [expanding] purity of 'eart's an excellent thing, no doubt, but there's a want of nature about it. same with this anti-sweating. unless you're anxious to come down, you must not put the lower classes up. miss s. i don't agree with you at all, poulder. poulder. ah! you want it both ways, miss. i should imagine you're a liberal. miss s. [horrified] oh, no! i certainly am not. poulder. well, i judged from your takin' cocoa. funny thing that, about cocoa-how it still runs through the liberal party! it's virtuous, i suppose. wine, beer, tea, coffee-all of 'em vices. but cocoa you might drink a gallon a day and annoy no one but yourself! there's a lot o' deep things in life, miss! miss s. quite so. but i must find anne. [she recedes. ] poulder. [suavely] well, i wish you every success; and i hope you'll spank her. this modern education--there's no fruitiness in it. l. anne. [from under the table] poulder, are you virtuous? poulder. [jumping] good ged! l. anne. d'you mind my asking? i promised james i would. poulder. miss anne, come out! [the four footmen appear in the hall, henry carrying the wine cooler.] james. form fours-by your right-quick march! [they enter, marching down right of table.] right incline--mark time! left turn! 'alt! 'enry, set the bomb! stand easy! [henry places the wine cooler on the table and covers it with a blue embroidered chinese mat, which has occupied the centre of the tablecloth.] poulder. ah! you will 'ave your game! thomas, take the door there! james, the 'all! admit titles an' bishops. no literary or labour people. charles and 'enry, 'op it and 'ang about! [charles and henry go out, the other too move to their stations.] [poulder, stands by the table looking at the covered bomb. the hoarse and distant sounds of the marseillaise float in again from park lane.] [moved by some deep feeling] and this house an 'orspital in the war! i ask you--what was the good of all our sacrifices for the country? no town 'ouse for four seasons--rustygettin' in the shires, not a soul but two boys under me. lord william at the front, lady william at the back. and all for this! [he points sadly at the cooler] it comes of meddlin' on the continent. i had my prognostications at the time. [to james] you remember my sayin' to you just before you joined up: "mark my words--we shall see eight per cent. for our money before this is over!" james. [sepulchrally] i see the eight per cent., but not the money. poulder. hark at that! [the sounds of the marseillaise grow louder. he shakes his head.] i'd read the riot act. they'll be lootin' this house next! james. we'll put up a fight over your body: "bartholomew poulder, faithful unto death!" have you insured your life? poulder. against a revolution? james. act o' god! why not? poulder. it's not an act o' god. james. it is; and i sympathise with it. poulder. you--what? james. i do--only--hands off the gov'nor. poulder. oh! really! well, that's something. i'm glad to see you stand behind him, at all events. james. i stand in front of 'im when the scrap begins! poulder. do you insinuate that my heart's not in the right place? james. well, look at it! it's been creepin' down ever since i knew you. talk of your sacrifices in the war--they put you on your honour, and you got stout on it. rations--not 'arf. poulder. [staring at him] for independence, i've never seen your equal, james. you might be an australian. james. [suavely] keep a civil tongue, or i'll throw you to the crowd! [he comes forward to the table] shall i tell you why i favour the gov'nor? because, with all his pomp, he's a gentleman, as much as i am. never asks you to do what he wouldn't do himself. what's more, he never comes it over you. if you get drunk, or--well, you understand me, poulder--he'll just say: "yes, yes; i know, james!" till he makes you feel he's done it himself. [sinking his voice mysteriously] i've had experience with him, in the war and out. why he didn't even hate the huns, not as he ought. i tell you he's no christian. poulder. well, for irreverence----! james. [obstinately] and he'll never be. he's got too soft a heart. l. anne. [beneath the table-shrilly] hurrah! poulder. [jumping] come out, miss anne! james. let 'er alone! poulder. in there, under the bomb? james. [contemptuously] silly ass! you should take 'em lying down! poulder. look here, james! i can't go on in this revolutionary spirit; either you or i resign. james. crisis in the cabinet! poulder. i give you your marchin' orders. james. [ineffably] what's that you give me? poulder. thomas, remove james! [thomas grins.] l. anne. [who, with open mouth, has crept out to see the fun] oh! do remove james, thomas! poulder. go on, thomas. [thomas takes one step towards james, who lays a hand on the chinese mat covering the bomb.] james. [grimly] if i lose control of meself. l. anne. [clapping her hands] oh! james! do lose control! then i shall see it go off! james. [to poulder] well, i'll merely empty the pail over you! poulder. this is not becomin'! [he walks out into the hall.] james. another strategic victory! what a boche he'd have made. as you were, tommy! [thomas returns to the door. the sound of prolonged applause cornea from within.] that's a bishop. l. anne. why? james. by the way he's drawin'. it's the fine fightin' spirit in 'em. they were the backbone o' the war. i see there's a bit o' the old stuff left in you, tommy. l. anne. [scrutinizing the widely--grinning thom] where? is it in his mouth? james. you've still got a sense of your superiors. didn't you notice how you moved to poulder's orders, me boy; an' when he was gone, to mine? l. anne. [to thomas] march! [the grinning thomas remains immovable.] he doesn't, james! james. look here, miss anne--your lights ought to be out before ten. close in, tommy! [he and thomas move towards her.] l. anne. [dodging] oh, no! oh, no! look! [the footmen stop and turn. there between the pillars, stands little aida with the trousers, her face brilliant with surprise.] james. good lord! what's this? [seeing l. anne, little aida approaches, fascinated, and the two children sniff at each other as it were like two little dogs walking round and round.] l. anne. [suddenly] my name's anne; what's yours? l. aida. aida. l. anne. are you lost? l. aida. nao. l. anne. are those trousers? l. aida. yus. l. arms. whose? l. aida. mrs. lemmy's. l. anne. does she wear them? [little aida smiles brilliantly.] l. aida. nao. she sews 'em. l. anne. [touching the trousers] they are hard. james's are much softer; aren't they, james? [james deigns no reply] what shall we do? would you like to see my bedroom? l. aida. [with a hop] aoh, yus! james. no. l. anne. why not? james. have some sense of what's fittin'. l. anne. why isn't it fittin'? [to little aida] do you like me? l. aida. yus-s. l. anne. so do i. come on! [she takes little aida's hand.] james. [between the pillars] tommy, ketch 'em! [thomas retains them by the skirts.] l. anne. [feigning indifference] all right, then! [to little aida] have you ever seen a bomb? l. aida. nao. l. anne. [going to the table and lifting a corner of the cover] look! l. aida. [looking] what's it for? l. anne. to blow up this house. l. aida. i daon't fink! l. anne. why not? l. aida. it's a beautiful big 'ouse. l. anne. that's why. isn't it, james? l. aida. you give the fing to me; i'll blow up our 'ouse--it's an ugly little 'ouse. l. anne [struck] let's all blow up our own; then we can start fair. daddy would like that. l. aida. yus. [suddenly brilliant] i've 'ad a ride in a taxi, an' we're goin' 'ome in it agyne! l. anne. were you sick? little aida. [brilliant] nao. l. anne i was; when i first went in one, but i was quite young then. james, could you get her a peche melba? there was one. james. no. l. anne. have you seen the revolution? l. aida. wot's that? l. anne. it's made of people. l. aida. i've seen the corfin, it's myde o' wood. l. anne. do you hate the rich? l. aida. [ineffably] nao. i hates the poor. l. anne. why? l. aida. 'cos they 'yn't got nuffin'. l. anne. i love the poor. they're such dears. l. aida. [shaking her head with a broad smile] nao. l. anne. why not? l. aida. i'd tyke and lose the lot, i would. l. anne. where? l. aida. in the water. l. anne. like puppies? l. aida. yus. l. anne. why? l. aida. then i'd be shut of 'em. l. anne. [puzzled] oh! [the voice of the press is heard in the hall. "where's the little girl?"] james. that's you. come 'ere! [he puts a hand behind little aida's back and propels her towards the hall. the press enters with old mrs. lemmy.] press. oh! here she is, major domo. i'm going to take this old lady to the meeting; they want her on the platform. look after our friend, mr. lemmy here; lord william wants to see him presently. l. anne. [in an awed whisper] james, it's the little blighter! [she dives again under the table. lemmy enters.] lemmy. 'ere! 'arf a mo'! yer said yer'd drop me at my plyce. well, i tell yer candid--this 'yn't my plyce. press. that's all right, mr. lemmy. [he grins] they'll make you wonderfully comfortable, won't you, major domo? [he passes on through the room, to the door, ushering old mrs. lemmy and little aida.] [poulder blocks lemmy's way, with charles and henry behind him.] poulder. james, watch it; i'll report. [he moves away, following the press through the door. james between table and window. thomas has gone to the door. henry and charles remain at the entrances to the hall. lemmy looks dubiously around, his cockney assurrance gradually returns.] lemmy. i think i knows the gas 'ere. this is where i came to-dy, 'yn't it? excuse my hesitytion--these little 'ouses is so much the syme. james. [gloomily] they are! lemmy. [looking at the four immovable footmen, till he concentrates on james] ah! i 'ad a word wiv you, 'adn't i? you're the four conscientious ones wot's wyin' on your gov'nor's chest. 'twas you i spoke to, wasn't it? [his eyes travel over them again] ye're so monotonous. well, ye're busy now, i see. i won't wyste yer time. [he turns towards the hall, but charles and henry bar the way in silence.] [skidding a little, and regarding the four immovables once more] i never see such pytient men? compared wiv yer, mountains is restless. [he goes to the table. james watches him. anne barks from underneath.] [skidding again] why! there's a dawg under there. [noting the grin on thomas's face] glad it amooses yer. yer want it, daon't yer, wiv a fyce like that? is this a ply wivaht words? 'ave i got into the movies by mistyke? turn aht, an' let's 'ave six penn'orth o' darkness. l. anne. [from beneath the cable] no, no! not dark! lemmy. [musingly] the dawg talks anywy. come aht, fido! [little anne emerges, and regards him with burning curiosity.] i sy: is this the lytest fashion o' receivin' guests? l. anne. mother always wants people to feel at home. what shall we do? would you like to hear the speeches? thomas, open the door a little, do! james. 'umour 'er a couple o' inches, tommy! [thomas draws the door back stealthily an inch or so.] l. anne. [after applying her eye-in a loud whisper] there's the old lady. daddy's looking at her trousers. listen! [for mrs. lemmy's voice is floating faintly through: "i putt in the buttonholes, i stretches the flies; i 'ems the bottoms; i lines the crutch; i putt on this bindin'; i sews on the buttons; i presses the seams--tuppence three farthin's the pair."] lemmy. [in a hoarse whisper] that's it, old lydy: give it 'em! l. anne. listen! voice of lord w. we are indebted to our friends the press for giving us the pleasure--er--pleasure of hearing from her own lips--the pleasure---- l. anne. oh! daddy! [thomas abruptly closes the doors.] lemmy. [to anne] now yer've done it. see wot comes o' bein' impytient. we was just gettin' to the marrer. l. anne. what can we do for you now? lemmy. [pointing to anne, and addressing james] wot is this one, anywy? james. [sepulchrally] daughter o' the house. lemmy. is she insured agynst 'er own curiosity? l. anne. why? lemmy. as i daon't believe in a life beyond the gryve, i might be tempted to send yer there. l. anne. what is the gryve? lemmy. where little gells goes to. l. anne. oh, when? lemmy. [pretending to look at a match, which is not there] well, i dunno if i've got time to finish yer this minute. sy to-mower at. 'arf past. l. anne. half past what? lemmy. [despairingly] 'arf past wot! [the sound of applause is heard.] james. that's 'is grace. 'e's gettin' wickets, too. [poulder entering from the door.] poulder. lord william is slippin' in. [he makes a cabalistic sign with his head. jeers crosses to the door. lemmy looks dubiously at poulder.] lemmy. [suddenly--as to himself] wot oh! i am the portly one! poulder. [severely] any such allusion aggeravates your offence. lemmy. oh, ah! look 'ere, it was a corked bottle. now, tyke care, tyke care, 'aughty! daon't curl yer lip! i shall myke a clean breast o' my betryal when the time comes! [there is a alight movement of the door. anne makes a dive towards the table but is arrested by poulder grasping her waistband. lord william slips in, followed by the press, on whom james and thomas close the door too soon.] half of the press. [indignantly] look out! james. do you want him in or out, me lord? lemmy. i sy, you've divided the press; 'e was unanimous. [the footmen let the press through.] lord w. [to the press] i'm so sorry. lemmy. would yer like me to see to 'is gas? lord w. so you're my friend of the cellars? lemmy. [uneasy] i daon't deny it. [poulder begins removing little anne.] l. anne. let me stay, daddy; i haven't seen anything yet! if i go, i shall only have to come down again when they loot the house. listen! [the hoarse strains of the marseillaise are again heard from the distance.] lord w. [blandly] take her up, poulder! l. anne. well, i'm coming down again--and next time i shan't have any clothes on, you know. [they vanish between the pillars. lord william makes a sign of dismissal. the footman file out.] lemmy. [admiringly] luv'ly pyces! lord w. [pleasantly] now then; let's have our talk, mr.---- lemmy. lemmy. press. [who has slipped his note-book out] "bombed and bomber face to face----" lemmy. [uneasy] i didn't come 'ere agyne on me own, yer know. the press betryed me. lord w. is that old lady your mother? lemmy. the syme. i tell yer stryte, it was for 'er i took that old bottle o' port. it was orful old. lord w. ah! port? probably the ' . hope you both enjoyed it. lemmy. so far-yus. muvver'll suffer a bit tomower, i expect. lord w. i should like to do something for your mother, if you'll allow me. lemmy. oh! i'll allow yer. but i dunno wot she'll sy. lord w. i can see she's a fine independent old lady! but suppose you were to pay her ten bob a week, and keep my name out of it? lemmy. well, that's one wy o' you doin' somefink, 'yn't it? lord w. i giving you the money, of course. press. [writing] "lord william, with kingly generosity----" lemmy. [drawing attention to the press with his thumb] i sy-- i daon't mind, meself--if you daon't---- lord w. he won't write anything to annoy me. press. this is the big thing, lord william; it'll get the public bang in the throat. lemmy. [confidentially] bit dyngerous, 'yn't it? trustin' the press? their right 'ands never knows wot their left 'ands is writin'. [to the press] 'yn't that true, speakin' as a man? press. mr. lemmy, even the press is capable of gratitude. lemmy. is it? i should ha' thought it was too important for a little thing like that. [to lord william] but ye're quite right; we couldn't do wivaht the press--there wouldn't be no distress, no coffin, no revolution--'cos nobody'd know nuffin' abaht it. why! there wouldn't be no life at all on earf in these dyes, wivaht the press! it's them wot says: "let there be light--an' there is light." lord w. umm! that's rather a new thought to me. [writes on his cuff.] lemmy. but abaht muvver, i'll tell yer 'ow we can arrynge. you send 'er the ten bob a week wivaht syin' anyfink, an' she'll fink it comes from gawd or the gover'ment yer cawn't tell one from t'other in befnal green. lord w. all right; we'll' do that. lemmy. will yer reely? i'd like to shyke yer 'and. [lord william puts out his hand, which lemmy grasps.] press. [writing] "the heartbeat of humanity was in that grasp between the son of toil and the son of leisure." lemmy. [already ashamed of his emotion] 'ere, 'arf a mo'! which is which? daon't forget i'm aht o' wori; lord william, if that's 'is nyme, is workin 'ard at 'is anti-sweats! wish i could get a job like vat--jist suit me! lord w. that hits hard, mr. lemmy. lemmy. daon't worry! yer cawn't 'elp bein' born in the purple! lord w. ah! tell me, what would you do in my place? lemmy. why--as the nobleman said in 'is well-known wy: "sit in me club winder an' watch it ryne on the dam people!" that's if i was a average nobleman! if i was a bit more noble, i might be tempted to come the kind'earted on twenty thou' a year. some prefers yachts, or ryce 'orses. but philanthropy on the 'ole is syfer, in these dyes. lord w. so you think one takes to it as a sort of insurance, mr. lemmy? is that quite fair? lemmy. well, we've all got a weakness towards bein' kind, somewhere abaht us. but the moment wealf comes in, we 'yn't wot i call single-'earted. if yer went into the foundytions of your wealf--would yer feel like 'avin' any? it all comes from uvver people's 'ard, unpleasant lybour--it's all built on muvver as yer might sy. an' if yer daon't get rid o' some of it in bein' kind--yer daon't feel syfe nor comfy. lord w. [twisting his moustache] your philosophy is very pessimistic. lemmy. well, i calls meself an optimist; i sees the worst of everyfink. never disappynted, can afford to 'ave me smile under the blackest sky. when deaf is squeezin' of me windpipe, i shall 'ave a laugh in it! fact is, if yer've 'ad to do wiv gas an' water pipes, yer can fyce anyfing. [the distant marseillaise blares up] 'ark at the revolution! lord w. [rather desperately] i know--hunger and all the rest of it! and here am i, a rich man, and don't know what the deuce to do. lemmy. well, i'll tell yer. throw yer cellars open, an' while the populyce is gettin' drunk, sell all yer 'ave an' go an' live in ireland; they've got the millennium chronic over there. [lord william utters a short, vexed laugh, and begins to walk about.] that's speakin' as a practical man. speakin' as a synt "bruvvers, all i 'ave is yours. to-morrer i'm goin' dahn to the lybour exchynge to git put on the wytin' list, syme as you!" lord w. but, d---it, man, there we should be, all together! would that help? lemmy. nao; but it'd syve a lot o' blood. [lord william stops abruptly, and looks first at lemmy, then at the cooler, still cohered with the chinese mat.] yer thought the englishman could be taught to shed blood wiv syfety. not 'im! once yer git 'im into an 'abit, yer cawn't git 'im out of it agyne. 'e'll go on sheddin' blood mechanical--conservative by nyture. an' 'e won't myke nuffin' o' yours. not even the press wiv 'is 'oneyed words'll sty 'is 'and. lord w. and what do you suggest we could have done, to avoid trouble? lemmy. [warming to his theme] i'll tell yer. if all you wealfy nobs wiv kepitel 'ad come it kind from the start after the war yer'd never 'a been 'earin' the marseillaisy naow. lord! 'ow you did talk abaht unity and a noo spirit in the country. noo spirit! why, soon as ever there was no dynger from outside, yer stawted to myke it inside, wiv an iron'and. naow, you've been in the war an' it's given yer a feelin' 'eart; but most of the nobs wiv kepitel was too old or too important to fight. they weren't born agyne. so naow that bad times is come, we're 'owlin' for their blood. lord w. i quite agree; i quite agree. i've often said much the same thing. lemmy. voice cryin' in the wilderness--i daon't sy we was yngels-- there was faults on bofe sides. [he looks at the press] the press could ha' helped yer a lot. shall i tell yer wot the press did? "it's vital," said the press, "that the country should be united, or it will never recover." nao strikes, nao 'omen nature, nao nuffink. kepitel an' lybour like the siamese twins. and, fust dispute that come along, the press orfs wiv its coat an' goes at it bald'eaded. an' wot abaht since? sich a riot o' nymes called, in press--and pawlyement. unpatriotic an' outrygeous demands o' lybour. blood-suckin' tyranny o' kepitel; thieves an' dawgs an 'owlin jackybines--gents throwin' books at each other; all the resources of edjucytion exhausted! if i'd bin prime minister i'd 'ave 'ad the press's gas cut 'orf at the meter. puffect liberty, of course, nao censorship; just sy wot yer like--an' never be 'eard of no more. [turning suddenly to the press, who has been scribbling in pace with this harangue, and now has developed a touch of writer's cramp.] why! 'is 'end's out o' breath! fink o' vet! lord w. great tribute to your eloquence, mr. lemmy! [a sudden stir of applause and scraping of chairs is heard; the meeting is evidently breaking up. lady william comes in, followed by mrs. lemmy with her trousers, and little aida. lemmy stares fixedly at this sudden, radiant apparition. his gaze becomes as that of a rabbit regarding a snake. and suddenly he puts up his hand and wipes his brow.] [lady william, going to the table, lifts one end of the chinese mat, and looks at lemmy. then she turns to lord william.] lady w. bill! lemmy. [to his mother--in a hoarse whisper] she calls 'im bill. 'ow! 'yn't she it? lady w. [apart] have you--spoken to him? [lord william shakes his head.] not? what have you been saying, then? lord w. nothing, he's talked all the time. lady w. [very low] what a little caution! lord w. steady, old girl! he's got his eye on you! [lady william looks at lemmy, whose eyes are still fixed on her.] lady w. [with resolution] well, i'm going to tackle him. [she moves towards lemmy, who again wipes his brow, and wrings out his hand.] mrs. lemmy. don't 'ee du that, bob. yu must forgive'im, ma'am; it's 'is admiration. 'e was always one for the ladies, and he'm not used to seein' so much of 'em. lady w. don't you think you owe us an explanation? mrs. lemmy. speak up, bob. [but lemmy only shifts his feet.] my gudeness! 'e've a-lost 'is tongue. i never knu that 'appen to 'e before. lord w. [trying to break the embarrassment] no ill-feeling, you know, lemmy. [but lemmy still only rolls his eyes.] lady w. don't you think it was rather--inconsiderate of you? lemmy. muvver, tyke me aht, i'm feelin' fynte! [spurts of the marseillaise and the mutter of the crowd have been coming nearer; and suddenly a knocking is heard. poulder and james appear between the pillars.] poulder. the populace, me lord! lady w. what! lord w. where've you put 'em, poulder? poulder. they've put theirselves in the portico, me lord. lord w. [suddenly wiping his brow] phew! i say, this is awful, nell! two speeches in one evening. nothing else for it, i suppose. open the window, poulder! poulder. [crossing to the window] we are prepared for any sacrifice, me lord. [he opens the window.] press. [writing furiously] "lady william stood like a statue at bay." lord w. got one of those lozenges on you, nell? [but lady william has almost nothing on her.] lemmy. [producing a paper from his pocket] 'ave one o' my gum drops? [he passes it to lord william.] lord w. [unable to refuse, takes a large, flat gum drop from the paper, and looks at it in embarrassment.] ah! thanks! thanks awfully! [lemmy turns to little aida, and puts a gum drop in her mouth. a burst of murmurs from the crowd.] james. [towering above the wine cooler] if they get saucy, me lord, i can always give 'em their own back. lord w. steady, james; steady! [he puts the gum drop absently in his mouth, and turns up to the open window.] voice. [outside] 'ere they are--the bally plutocrats. [voices in chorus: "bread! bread!"] lord w. poulder, go and tell the chef to send out anything there is in the house--nicely, as if it came from nowhere in particular. poulder. very good, me lord. [sotto voce] any wine? if i might suggest--german--'ock? lord w. what you like. poulder. very good, me lord. [he goes.] lord w. i say, dash it, nell, my teeth are stuck! [he works his finger in his mouth.] lady w. take it out, darling. lord w. [taking out the gum drop and looking at it] what the deuce did i put it in for? press. ['writing] "with inimitable coolness lord william prepared to address the crowd." [voices in chorea: "bread! bread!"] lord w. stand by to prompt, old girl. now for it. this ghastly gum drop! [lord william takes it from his agitated hand, and flips it through the window.] voice. dahn with the aristo----[chokes.] lady w. oh! bill----oh! it's gone into a mouth! lord w. good god! voice. wet's this? throwin' things? mind aht, or we'll smash yer winders! [as the voices in chorus chant: "bread! bread!" little anne, night-gowned, darts in from the hall. she is followed by miss stokes. they stand listening.] lord w. [to the crowd] my friends, you've come to the wrong shop. there's nobody in london more sympathetic with you. [the crowd laughs hoarsely.] [whispering] look out, old girl; they can see your shoulders. [lord william moves back a step.] if i were a speaker, i could make you feel---- voice. look at his white weskit! blood-suckers--fattened on the people! [james dives his hand at the wine cooler.] lord w. i've always said the government ought to take immediate steps---- voice. to shoot us dahn. lord w. not a bit. to relieve the--er---- lady w. [prompting] distress. lady w. distress, and ensure--er--ensure lady w. [prompting] quiet. lord w. [to her] no, no. to ensure--ensure---- l. anne. [agonized] oh, daddy! voice. 'e wants to syve 'is dirty great 'ouse. lord w. [roused] d----if i do! [rude and hoarse laughter from the crowd.] james. [with fury] me lord, let me blow 'em to glory! [he raises the cooler and advances towards the window.] lord w. [turning sharply on him] drop it, james; drop it! press. [jumping] no, no; don't drop it! [james retires crestfallen to the table, where he replaces the cooler.] lord w. [catching hold of his bit] look here, i must have fought alongside some of you fellows in the war. weren't we jolly well like brothers? a voice. not so much bloomin' "kamerad"; hand over yer 'ouse. lord w. i was born with this beastly great house, and money, and goodness knows what other entanglements--a wife and family---- voice. born with a wife and family! [jeers and laughter.] lord w. i feel we're all in the same boat, and i want to pull my weight. if you can show me the way, i'll take it fast enough. a deep voice. step dahn then, an' we'll step up. another voice. 'ear, 'ear! [a fierce little cheer.] lord w. [to lady william--in despair] by george! i can't get in anywhere! lady w. [calmly] then shut the window, bill. lemmy. [who has been moving towards them slowly] lemme sy a word to 'em. [all stare at him. lemmy approaches the window, followed by little aida. poulder re-enters with the three other footmen.] [at the window] cheerio! cockies! [the silence of surprise falls on the crowd.] i'm one of yer. gas an' water i am. got more grievances an' out of employment than any of yer. i want to see their blood flow, syme as you. press. [writing] "born orator--ready cockney wit--saves situation." lemmy. wot i sy is: dahn wiv the country, dahn wiv everyfing. begin agyne from the foundytions. [nodding his head back at the room] but we've got to keep one or two o' these 'ere under glawss, to show our future generytions. an' this one is 'armless. his pipes is sahnd, 'is 'eart is good; 'is 'ead is not strong. is 'ouse will myke a charmin' palace o' varieties where our children can come an' see 'ow they did it in the good old dyes. yer never see rich waxworks as 'is butler and 'is four conscientious khaki footmen. why--wot dyer think 'e 'as 'em for--fear they might be out o'-works like you an' me. nao! keep this one; 'e's a flower. 'arf a mo'! i'll show yer my muvver. come 'ere, old lydy; and bring yer trahsers. [mrs. lemmy comes forward to the window] tell abaht yer speech to the meetin'. mrs. lemmy. [bridling] oh dear! well, i cam' in with me trousers, an' they putt me up on the pedestory at once, so i tole 'em. [holding up the trousers] "i putt in the button'oles, i stretches the flies; i lines the crutch; i putt on this bindin', i presses the seams--tuppence three farthin's a pair." [a groan from tote crowd, ] lemmy. [showing her off] seventy-seven! wot's 'er income? twelve bob a week; seven from the gover'ment an' five from the sweat of 'er brow. look at 'er! 'yn't she a tight old dear to keep it goin'! no workus for 'er, nao fear! the gryve rather! [murmurs from the crowd, at whom mrs. lemmy is blandly smiling.] you cawn't git below 'er--impossible! she's the foundytions of the country--an' rocky 'yn't the word for 'em. worked 'ard all 'er life, brought up a family and buried 'em on it. twelve bob a week, an' given when 'er fingers goes, which is very near. well, naow, this torf 'ere comes to me an' says: "i'd like to do somefin' for yer muvver. 'ow's ten bob a week?" 'e says. naobody arst 'im--quite on 'is own. that's the sort 'e is. [sinking his voice confidentially] sorft. you bring yer muvvers 'ere, 'e'll do the syme for them. i giv yer the 'int. voice. [from the crowd] what's 'is nyme? lemmy. they calls 'im bill. voice. bill what? l. anne. dromondy. lady w. anne! lemmy. dromedary 'is nyme is. voice. [from the crowd] three cheers for bill dromedary. lemmy. i sy, there's veal an' 'am, an' pork wine at the back for them as wants it; i 'eard the word passed. an' look 'ere, if yer want a flag for the revolution, tyke muvver's trahsers an' tie 'em to the corfin. yer cawn't 'ave no more inspirin' banner. ketch! [he throws the trousers out] give bill a double-barrel fast, to show there's no ill-feelin'. ip, 'ip! [the crowd cheers, then slowly passes away, singing at a hoarse version of the marseillaise, till all that is heard is a faint murmuring and a distant barrel-organ playing the same tune.] press. [writing] "and far up in the clear summer air the larks were singing." lord w. [passing his heard over his hair, and blinking his eyes] james! ready? james. me lord! l. anne. daddy! lady w. [taking his arm] bill! it's all right, old man--all right! lord w. [blinking] those infernal larks! thought we were on the somme again! ah! mr. lemmy, [still rather dreamy] no end obliged to you; you're so decent. now, why did you want to blow us up before dinner? lemmy. blow yer up? [passing his hand over his hair in travesty] "is it a dream? then wykin' would be pyne." mrs. lemmy. bo-ob! not so saucy, my boy! lemmy. blow yet up? wot abaht it? lady w. [indicating the bomb] this, mr. lemmy! [lemmy looks at it, and his eyes roll and goggle.] lord w. come, all's forgiven! but why did you? lemmy. orl right! i'm goin' to tyke it awy; it'd a-been a bit ork'ard for me. i'll want it to-mower. lord w. what! to leave somewhere else? lemmy. 'yus, of course! lord w. no, no; dash it! tell us what's it filled with? lemmy. filled wiv? nuffin'. wot did yet expect? toof-pahder? it's got a bit o' my lead soldered on to it. that's why it's 'eavy! lord w. but what is it? lemmy. wot is it? [his eyes are fearfully fixed on lady william] i fought everybody knew 'em. lady w. mr. lemmy, you must clear this up, please. lemmy. [to lord william, with his eyes still held on lady william-- mysteriously] wiv lydies present? 'adn't i better tell the press? lord w. all right; tell someone--anyone! [lemmy goes down to the press, who is reading over his last note. everyone watches and listens with the utmost discretion, while he whispers into the ear of the press; who shakes his head violently.] press. no, no; it's too horrible. it destroys my whole---- lemmy. well, i tell yer it is. [whispers again violently.] press. no, no; i can't have it. all my article! all my article! it can't be--no---- lemmy. i never see sick an obstinate thick-head! yer 'yn't worvy of yet tryde. [he whispers still more violently and makes cabalistic signs.] [lady william lifts the bomb from the cooler into the sight of all. lord william, seeing it for the first time in full light, bends double in silent laughter, and whispers to his wife. lady william drops the bomb and gives way too. hearing the sound, lemmy turns, and his goggling eyes pan them all in review. lord and lady william in fits of laughter, little anne stamping her feet, for miss stokes, red, but composed, has her hands placed firmly over her pupil's eyes and ears; little aida smiling brilliantly, mrs. lemmy blandly in sympathy, neither knowing why; the four footman in a row, smothering little explosions. poulder, extremely grave and red, the press perfectly haggard, gnawing at his nails.] lemmy. [turning to the press] blimy! it amooses 'em, all but the genteel ones. cheer oh! press! yer can always myke somefin' out o' nufun'? it's not the fust thing as 'as existed in yer imaginytion only. press. no, d---it; i'll keep it a bomb! lemmy. [soothingly] ah! keep the sensytion. wot's the troof compared wiv that? come on, muvver! come on, little aida! time we was goin' dahn to 'earf. [he goes up to the table, and still skidding a little at lady william, takes the late bomb from the cooler, placing it under his arm.] mrs. lemmy. gude naight, sir; gude naight, ma'am; thank yu for my cup o' tea, an' all yore kindness. [she shakes hands with lord and lady william, drops the curtsey of her youth before mr. poulder, and goes out followed by little aida, who is looking back at little anne.] lemmy. [turning suddenly] aoh! an' jist one frog! next time yer build an 'ouse, daon't forget--it's the foundytions as bears the wyte. [with a wink that gives way, to a last fascinated look at lady william, he passes out. all gaze after them, except the press, who is tragically consulting his spiflicated notes.] l. anne. [breaking away from miss stokes and rushing forward] oh! mum! what was it? curtain the skin game (a tragi-comedy) "who touches pitch shall be defiled" characters hillcrist ...............a country gentleman amy .....................his wife jill ....................his daughter dawker ..................his agent hornblower ..............a man newly-rich charles .................his elder son chloe ...................wife to charles rolf ....................his younger son fellows .................hillcrist's butler anna ....................chloe's maid the jackmans ............man and wife an auctioneer a solicitor two strangers act i. hillcrist's study act ii. scene i. a month later. an auction room. scene ii. the same evening. chloe's boudoir. act iii scene i. the following day. hillcrist's study. morning. scene ii. the same. evening. act i hillcrist's study. a pleasant room, with books in calf bindings, and signs that the hillcrist's have travelled, such as a large photograph of the taj mahal, of table mountain, and the pyramids of egypt. a large bureau [stage right], devoted to the business of a country estate. two foxes' masks. flowers in bowls. deep armchairs. a large french window open [at back], with a lovely view of a slight rise of fields and trees in august sunlight. a fine stone fireplace [stage left]. a door [left]. a door opposite [right]. general colour effect--stone, and cigar-leaf brown, with spots of bright colour. [hillcrist sits in a swivel chair at the bureau, busy with papers. he has gout, and his left foot is encased accord: he is a thin, dried-up man of about fifty-five, with a rather refined, rather kindly, and rather cranky countenance. close to him stands his very upstanding nineteen-year-old daughter jill, with clubbed hair round a pretty, manly face.] jill. you know, dodo, it's all pretty good rot in these days. hillcrist. cads are cads, jill, even in these days. jill. what is a cad? hillcrist. a self-assertive fellow, without a sense of other people. jill. well, old hornblower i'll give you. hillcrist. i wouldn't take him. jill. well, you've got him. now, charlie--chearlie--i say--the importance of not being charlie---- hillcrist. good heavens! do you know their christian names? jill. my dear father, they've been here seven years. hillcrist. in old days we only knew their christian names from their tombstones. jill. charlie hornblower isn't really half a bad sport. hillcrist. about a quarter of a bad sport i've always thought out hunting. jill. [pulling his hair] now, his wife--chloe--- hillcrist. [whimsical] gad! your mother'd have a fit if she knew you called her chloe. jill. it's a ripping name. hillcrist. chloe! h'm! i had a spaniel once---- jill. dodo, you're narrow. buck up, old darling, it won't do. chloe has seen life, i'm pretty sure; that's attractive, anyway. no, mother's not in the room; don't turn your uneasy eyes. hillcrist. really, my dear, you are getting---- jill. the limit. now, rolf---- hillcrist. what's rolf? another dog? jill. rolf hornblower's a topper; he really is a nice boy. hillcrist. [with a sharp look] oh! he's a nice boy? jill. yes, darling. you know what a nice boy is, don't you? hillcrist. not in these days. jill. well, i'll tell you. in the first place, he's not amorous. hillcrist. what! well, that's some comfort. jill. just a jolly good companion. hillcrist. to whom? jill. well, to anyone--me. hillcrist. where? jill. anywhere. you don't suppose i confine myself to the home paddocks, do you? i'm naturally rangey, father. hillcrist. [ironically] you don't say so! jill. in the second place, he doesn't like discipline. hillcrist. jupiter! he does seem attractive. jill. in the third place, he bars his father. hillcrist. is that essential to nice girls too? jill. [with a twirl of his hair] fish not! fourthly, he's got ideas. hillcrist. i knew it! jill. for instance, he thinks--as i do---- hillcrist. ah! good ideas. jill. [pulling gently] careful! he thinks old people run the show too much. he says they oughtn't to, because they're so damtouchy. are you damtouchy, darling? hillcrist. well, i'm----! i don't know about touchy. jill. he says there'll be no world fit to live in till we get rid of the old. we must make them climb a tall tree, and shake them off it. hillcrist. [drily] oh! he says that! jill. otherwise, with the way they stand on each other's rights, they'll spoil the garden for the young. hillcrist. does his father agree? jill. oh! rolf doesn't talk to him, his mouth's too large. have you ever seen it, dodo? hillcrist. of course. jill. it's considerable, isn't it? now yours is--reticent, darling. [rumpling his hair.] hillcrist. it won't be in a minute. do you realise that i've got gout? jill. poor ducky! how long have we been here, dodo? hillcrist. since elizabeth, anyway. jill. [looking at his foot] it has its drawbacks. d'you think hornblower had a father? i believe he was spontaneous. but, dodo, why all this--this attitude to the hornblowers? [she purses her lips and makes a gesture as of pushing persons away.] hillcrist. because they're pushing. jill. that's only because we are, as mother would say, and they're not--yet. but why not let them be? hillcrist. you can't. jill. why? hillcrist. it takes generations to learn to live and let live, jill. people like that take an ell when you give them an inch. jill. but if you gave them the ell, they wouldn't want the inch. why should it all be such a skin game? hillcrist. skin game? where do you get your lingo? jill. keep to the point, dodo. hillcrist. well, jill, all life's a struggle between people at different stages of development, in different positions, with different amounts of social influence and property. and the only thing is to have rules of the game and keep them. new people like the hornblowers haven't learnt those rules; their only rule is to get all they can. jill. darling, don't prose. they're not half as bad as you think. hillcrist. well, when i sold hornblower longmeadow and the cottages, i certainly found him all right. all the same, he's got the cloven hoof. [warming up] his influence in deepwater is thoroughly bad; those potteries of his are demoralising--the whole atmosphere of the place is changing. it was a thousand pities he ever came here and discovered that clay. he's brought in the modern cutthroat spirit. jill. cut our throat spirit, you mean. what's your definition of a gentleman, dodo? hillcrist. [uneasily] can't describe--only feel it. jill. oh! try! hillcrist. well--er--i suppose you might say--a man who keeps his form and doesn't let life scupper him out of his standards. jill. but suppose his standards are low? hillcrist. [with some earnestness] i assume, of course, that he's honest and tolerant, gentle to the weak, and not self-seeking. jill. ah! self-seeking? but aren't we all, dodo? i am. hillcrist. [with a smile] you! jill. [scornfully] oh! yes--too young to know. hillcrist. nobody knows till they're under pretty heavy fire, jill. jill. except, of course, mother. hillcrist. how do you mean--mother? jill. mother reminds me of england according to herself--always right whatever she does. hillcrist. ye-es. your mother it perhaps--the perfect woman. jill. that's what i was saying. now, no one could call you perfect, dodo. besides, you've got gout. hillcrist. yes; and i want fellows. ring that bell. jill. [crossing to the bell] shall i tell you my definition of a gentleman? a man who gives the hornblower his due. [she rings the bell] and i think mother ought to call on them. rolf says old hornblower resents it fearfully that she's never made a sign to chloe the three years she's been here. hillcrist. i don't interfere with your mother in such matters. she may go and call on the devil himself if she likes. jill. i know you're ever so much better than she is. hillcrist. that's respectful. jill. you do keep your prejudices out of your phiz. but mother literally looks down her nose. and she never forgives an "h." they'd get the "hell" from her if they took the "hinch." hillcrist. jill-your language! jill. don't slime out of it, dodo. i say, mother ought to call on the hornblowers. [no answer.] well? hillcrist. my dear, i always let people have the last word. it makes them--feel funny. ugh! my foot![enter fellows, left.] fellows, send into the village and get another bottle of this stuff. jill. i'll go, darling. [she blow him a kiss, and goes out at the window.] hillcrist. and tell cook i've got to go on slops. this foot's worse. fellows. [sympathetic] indeed, sir. hillcrist. my third go this year, fellows. fellows. very annoying, sir. hillcrist. ye-es. ever had it? fellows. i fancy i have had a twinge, sir. hillcrist. [brightening] have you? where? fellows. in my cork wrist, sir. hillcrist. your what? fellows. the wrist i draw corks with. hillcrist. [with a cackle] you'd have had more than a twinge if you'd lived with my father. h'm! fellows. excuse me, sir--vichy water corks, in my experience, are worse than any wine. hillcrist. [ironically] ah! the country's not what it was, is it, fellows? fellows. getting very new, sir. hillcrist. [feelingly] you're right. has dawker come? fellows. not yet, sir. the jackmans would like to see you, sir. hillcrist. what about? fellows. i don't know, sir. hillcrist. well, show them in. fellows. [going] yes, sir. [hillcrist turns his swivel chair round. the jackmans come in. he, a big fellow about fifty, in a labourer's dress, with eyes which have more in then than his tongue can express; she, a little woman with a worn face, a bright, quick glance, and a tongue to match.] hillcrist. good morning, mrs. jackman! morning, jackman! haven't seen you for a long time. what can i do? [he draws in foot, and breath, with a sharp hiss.] hillcrist. [in a down-hearted voice] we've had notice to quit, sir. hillcrist. [with emphasis] what! jackman. got to be out this week. mrs. j. yes, sir, indeed. hillcrist. well, but when i sold longmeadow and the cottages, it was on the express understanding that there was to be no disturbance of tenancies: mrs. j. yes, sir; but we've all got to go. mrs. 'arvey, and the drews, an' us, and there isn't another cottage to be had anywhere in deepwater. hillcrist. i know; i want one for my cowman. this won't do at all. where do you get it from? jackman. mr. 'ornblower, 'imself, air. just an hour ago. he come round and said: "i'm sorry; i want the cottages, and you've got to clear." mrs. j. [bitterly] he's no gentleman, sir; he put it so brisk. we been there thirty years, and now we don't know what to do. so i hope you'll excuse us coming round, sir. hillcrist. i should think so, indeed! h'm! [he rises and limps across to the fireplace on his stick. to himself] the cloven hoof. by george! this is a breach of faith. i'll write to him, jackman. confound it! i'd certainly never have sold if i'd known he was going to do this. mrs. j. no, sir, i'm sure, sir. they do say it's to do with the potteries. he wants the cottages for his workmen. hillcrist. [sharply] that's all very well, but he shouldn't have led me to suppose that he would make no change. jackman. [heavily] they talk about his havin' bought the centry to gut up more chimneys there, and that's why he wants the cottages. hint. the centry! impossible! [mrs. j. yes, air; it's such a pretty spot-looks beautiful from here. [she looks out through the window] loveliest spot in all deepwater, i always say. and your father owned it, and his father before 'im. it's a pity they ever sold it, sir, beggin' your pardon.] hillcrist. the centry! [he rings the bell.] mrs. j. [who has brightened up] i'm glad you're goin' to stop it, sir. it does put us about. we don't know where to go. i said to mr. hornblower, i said, "i'm sure mr. hillcrist would never 'eve turned us out." an' 'e said: "mr. hillcrist be----" beggin' your pardon, sir. "make no mistake," 'e said, "you must go, missis." he don't even know our name; an' to come it like this over us! he's a dreadful new man, i think, with his overridin notions. and sich a heavyfooted man, to look at. [with a sort of indulgent contempt] but he's from the north, they say. [fellows has entered, left.] hillcrist. ask mrs. hillcrist if she'll come. fellows. very good, sir. hillcrist. is dawker here? fellows. not yet, sir. hillcrist. i want to see him at once. [fellows retires.] jackman. mr. hornblower said he was comin' on to see you, sir. so we thought we'd step along first. hillcrist. quite right, jackman. mrs. j. i said to jackman: "mr. hillcrist'll stand up for us, i know. he's a gentleman," i said. "this man," i said, "don't care for the neighbourhood, or the people; he don't care for anything so long as he makes his money, and has his importance. you can't expect it, i suppose," i said; [bitterly] "havin' got rich so sudden." the gentry don't do things like that. hillcrist. [abstracted] quite, mrs. jackman, quite! [to himself] the centry! no! [mrs. hillcrist enters. a well-dressed woman, with a firm, clear-cut face.] oh! amy! mr. and mrs. jackman turned out of their cottage, and mrs. harvey, and the drews. when i sold to hornblower, i stipulated that they shouldn't be. mrs. j. our week's up on saturday, ma'am, and i'm sure i don't know where we shall turn, because of course jackman must be near his work, and i shall lose me washin' if we have to go far. hillcrist. [with decision] you leave it to me, mrs. jackman. good morning! morning, jackman! sorry i can't move with this gout. mrs. j. [for them both] i'm sure we're very sorry, sir. good morning, sir. good morning, ma'am; and thank you kindly. [they go out.] hillcrist. turning people out that have been there thirty years. i won't have it. it's a breach of faith. mrs. h. do you suppose this hornblower will care two straws about that jack? hillcrist. he must, when it's put to him, if he's got any decent feeling. mrs. h. he hasn't. hillcrist. [suddenly] the jackmans talk of his having bought the centry to put up more chimneys. mrs. h. never! [at the window, looking out] impossible! it would ruin the place utterly; besides cutting us off from the duke's. oh, no! miss mullins would never sell behind our backs. hillcrist. anyway i must stop his turning these people out. mrs. h. [with a little smile, almost contemptuous] you might have known he'd do something of the sort. you will imagine people are like yourself, jack. you always ought to make dawker have things in black and white. hillcrist. i said quite distinctly: "of course you won't want to disturb the tenancies; there's a great shortage of cottages." hornblower told me as distinctly that he wouldn't. what more do you want? mrs. h. a man like that thinks of nothing but the short cut to his own way. [looking out of the window towards the rise] if he buys the centry and puts up chimneys, we simply couldn't stop here. hillcrist. my father would turn in his grave. mrs. h. it would have been more useful if he'd not dipped the estate, and sold the centry. this hornblower hates us; he thinks we turn up our noses at him. hillcrist. as we do, amy. mrs. h. who wouldn't? a man without traditions, who believes in nothing but money and push. hillcrist. suppose he won't budge, can we do anything for the jackmans? mrs. h. there are the two rooms beaver used to have, over the stables. fellows. mr. dawker, sir. [dawkers is a short, square, rather red-faced terrier of a man, in riding clothes and gaiters.] hillcrist. ah! dawker, i've got gout again. dawker. very sorry, sir. how de do, ma'am? hillcrist. did you meet the jackmans? dawkers. yeh. [he hardly ever quite finishes a word, seeming to snap of their tails.] hillcrist. then you heard? dawker. [nodding] smart man, hornblower; never lets grass grow. hillcrist. smart? dawker. [grinning] don't do to underrate your neighbours. mrs. h. a cad--i call him. dawker. that's it, ma'am-got all the advantage. hillcrist. heard anything about the centry, dawker? dawker. hornblower wants to buy. hillcrist. miss mullins would never sell, would she? dawker. she wants to. hillcrist. the deuce she does! dawker. he won't stick at the price either. mrs. h. what's it worth, dawker? dawker. depends on what you want it for. mrs. h. he wants it for spite; we want it for sentiment. dawker. [grinning] worth what you like to give, then; but he's a rich man. mrs. h. intolerable! dawker. [to hillcrist] give me your figure, sir. i'll try the old lady before he gets at her. hillcrist. [pondering] i don't want to buy, unless there's nothing else for it. i should have to raise the money on the estate; it won't stand much more. i can't believe the fellow would be such a barbarian. chimneys within three hundred yards, right in front of this house! it's a nightmare. mrs. h. you'd much better let dawker make sure, jack. hillcrist. [uncomfortable] jackman says hornblower's coming round to see me. i shall put it to him. dawker. make him keener than ever. better get in first. hillcrist. ape his methods!--ugh! confound this gout! [he gets back to his chair with difficulty] look here, dawker, i wanted to see you about gates---- fellows. [entering] mr. hornblower. [hornblower enters-a man of medium, height, thoroughly broadened, blown out, as it were, by success. he has thick, coarse, dark hair, just grizzled, wry bushy eyebrow, a wide mouth. he wears quite ordinary clothes, as if that department were in charge of someone who knew about such, things. he has a small rose in his buttonhole, and carries a homburg hat, which one suspects will look too small on his head.] hornblower. good morning! good morning! how are ye, dawker? fine morning! lovely weather! [his voice has a curious blend in its tone of brass and oil, and an accent not quite scotch nor quite north country.] haven't seen ye for a long time, hillcrist. hillcrist. [who has risen] not since i sold you longmeadow and those cottages, i believe. hornblower. dear me, now! that's what i came about. hillcrist. [subsiding again into his chair] forgive me! won't you sit down? hornblower. [not sitting] have ye got gout? that's unfortunate. i never get it. i've no disposition that way. had no ancestors, you see. just me own drinkin' to answer for. hillcrist. you're lucky. hornblower. i wonder if mrs. hillcrist thinks that! am i lucky to have no past, ma'am? just the future? mrs. h. you're sure you have the future, mr. hornblower? hornblower. [with a laugh] that's your aristocratic rapier thrust. you aristocrats are very hard people underneath your manners. ye love to lay a body out. but i've got the future all right. hillcrist. [meaningly] i've had the dackmans here, mr. hornblower. hornblower. who are they--man with the little spitfire wife? hillcrist. they're very excellent, good people, and they've been in that cottage quietly thirty years. hornblower. [throwing out his forefinger--a favourite gesture] ah! ye've wanted me to stir ye up a bit. deepwater needs a bit o' go put into it. there's generally some go where i am. i daresay you wish there'd been no "come." [he laughs]. mrs. h. we certainly like people to keep their word, mr. hornblower. hillcrist. amy! hornblower. never mind, hillcrist; takes more than that to upset me. [mrs. hillcrist exchanges a look with dawker who slips out unobserved.] hillcrist. you promised me, you know, not to change the tenancies. hornblower. well, i've come to tell ye that i have. i wasn't expecting to have the need when i bought. thought the duke would sell me a bit down there; but devil a bit he will; and now i must have those cottages for my workmen. i've got important works, ye know. hillcrist. [getting heated] the jackmans have their importance too, sir. their heart's in that cottage. hornblower. have a sense of proportion, man. my works supply thousands of people, and my, heart's in them. what's more, they make my fortune. i've got ambitions--i'm a serious man. suppose i were to consider this and that, and every little potty objection-- where should i get to?--nowhere! hillcrist. all the same, this sort of thing isn't done, you know. hornblower. not by you because ye've got no need to do it. here ye are, quite content on what your fathers made for ye. ye've no ambitions; and ye want other people to have none. how d'ye think your fathers got your land? hillcrist. [who has risen] not by breaking their word. hornblower. [throwing out his, finger] don't ye believe it. they got it by breaking their word and turnin' out jackmans, if that's their name, all over the place. mrs. h. that's an insult, mr. hornblower. hornblower. no; it's a repartee. if ye think so much of these jackmans, build them a cottage yourselves; ye've got the space. hillcrist. that's beside the point. you promised me, and i sold on that understanding. hornblower. and i bought on the understandin' that i'd get some more land from the duke. hillcrist. that's nothing to do with me. hornblower. ye'll find it has; because i'm going to have those cottages. hillcrist. well, i call it simply---- [he checks himself.] hornblower. look here, hillcrist, ye've not had occasion to understand men like me. i've got the guts, and i've got the money; and i don't sit still on it. i'm going ahead because i believe in meself. i've no use for sentiment and that sort of thing. forty of your jackmans aren't worth me little finger. hillcrist. [angry] of all the blatant things i ever heard said! hornblower. well, as we're speaking plainly, i've been thinkin'. ye want the village run your oldfashioned way, and i want it run mine. i fancy there's not room for the two of us here. mrs. h. when are you going? hornblower. never fear, i'm not going. hillcrist. look here, mr. hornblower--this infernal gout makes me irritable--puts me at a disadvantage. but i should be glad if you'd kindly explain yourself. hornblower. [with a great smile] ca' canny; i'm fra' the north. hillcrist. i'm told you wish to buy the centry and put more of your chimneys up there, regardless of the fact [he points through the window] that it would utterly ruin the house we've had for generations, and all our pleasure here. hornblower. how the man talks! why! ye'd think he owned the sky, because his fathers built him a house with a pretty view, where he's nothing to do but live. it's sheer want of something to do that gives ye your fine sentiments, hillcrist. hillcrist. have the goodness not to charge me with idleness. dawker--where is he?----[he shows the bureau] when you do the drudgery of your works as thoroughly as i do that of my estate---- is it true about the centry? hornblower. gospel true. if ye want to know, my son chearlie is buyin' it this very minute. mrs. h. [turning with a start] what do you say? hornblower. ay, he's with the old lady she wants to sell, an' she'll get her price, whatever it is. hillcrist. [with deep anger] if that isn't a skin game, mr. hornblower, i don't know what is. hornblower. ah! ye've got a very nice expression there. "skin game!" well, bad words break no bones, an' they're wonderful for hardenin' the heart. if it wasn't for a lady's presence, i could give ye a specimen or two. mrs. h. oh! mr. hornblower, that need not stop you, i'm sure. hornblower. well, and i don't know that it need. ye're an obstruction--the like of you--ye're in my path. and anyone in my path doesn't stay there long; or, if he does, he stays there on my terms. and my terms are chimneys in the centry where i need 'em. it'll do ye a power of good, too, to know that ye're not almighty. hillcrist. and that's being neighbourly! hornblower. and how have ye tried bein' neighbourly to me? if i haven't a wife, i've got a daughter-in-law. have ye celled on her, ma'am? i'm new, and ye're an old family. ye don't like me, ye think i'm a pushin' man. i go to chapel, an' ye don't like that. i make things and i sell them, and ye don't like that. i buy land, and ye don't like that. it threatens the view from your windies. well, i don't lie you, and i'm not goin' to put up with your attitude. ye've had things your own way too long, and now ye're not going to have them any longer. hillcrist. will you hold to your word over those cottages? hornblower. i'm goin' to have the cottages. i need them, and more besides, now i'm to put up me new works. hillcrist. that's a declaration of war. hornblower. ye never said a truer word. it's one or the other of us, and i rather think it's goin' to be me. i'm the risin' and you're the settin' sun, as the poet says. hillcrist. [touching the bell] we shall see if you can ride rough-shod like this. we used to have decent ways of going about things here. you want to change all that. well, we shall do our damnedest to stop you. [to fellows at the door] are the jackmans still in the house? ask them to be good enough to come in. hornblower. [with the first sign of uneasiness] i've seen these people. i've nothing more to say to them. i told 'em i'd give 'em five pounds to cover their moving. hillcrist. it doesn't occur to you that people, however humble, like to have some say in their own fate? hornblower. i never had any say in mine till i had the brass, and nobody ever will. it's all hypocrisy. you county folk are fair awful hypocrites. ye talk about good form and all that sort o' thing. it's just the comfortable doctrine of the man in the saddle; sentimental varnish. ye're every bit as hard as i am, underneath. mrs. h. [who had been standing very still all this time] you flatter us. hornblower. not at all. god helps those who 'elp themselves-- that's at the bottom of all religion. i'm goin' to help meself, and god's going to help me. mrs. h. i admire your knowledge. hillcrist. we are in the right, and god helps---- hornblower. don't ye believe it; ye 'aven't got the energy. mrs. h. nor perhaps the conceit. hornblower. [throwing out his forefinger] no, no; 'tisn't conceit to believe in yourself when ye've got reason to. [the jackman's have entered.] hillcrist. i'm very sorry, mrs. jackman, but i just wanted you to realise that i've done my best with this gentleman. mrs. j. [doubtfully] yes, sir. i thought if you spoke for us, he'd feel different-like. hornblower. one cottage is the same as another, missis. i made ye a fair offer of five pounds for the moving. jackman. [slowly] we wouldn't take fifty to go out of that 'ouse. we brought up three children there, an' buried two from it. mrs. j. [to mrs. hillcrist] we're attached to it like, ma'am. hillcrist. [to hornblower.] how would you like being turned out of a place you were fond of? hornblower. not a bit. but little considerations have to give way to big ones. now, missis, i'll make it ten pounds, and i'll send a wagon to shift your things. if that isn't fair--! ye'd better accept, i shan't keep it open. [the jackmans look at each other; their faces show deep anger-- and the question they ask each other is which will speak.] mrs. j. we won't take it; eh, george? jackman. not a farden. we come there when we was married. hornblower. [throwing out his finger] ye're very improvident folk. hillcrist. don't lecture them, mr. hornblower; they come out of this miles above you. hornblower. [angry] well, i was going to give ye another week, but ye'll go out next saturday; and take care ye're not late, or your things'll be put out in the rain. mrs. h. [to mrs. jackman] we'll send down for your things, and you can come to us for the time being. [mrs. jackman drops a curtsey; her eyes stab hornblowers.] jackman. [heavily, clenching his fists] you're no gentleman! don't put temptation in my way, that's all, hillcrist. [in a low voice] jackman! hornblower. [triumphantly] ye hear that? that's your protegee! keep out o' my way, me man, or i'll put the police on to ye for utterin' threats. hillcrist. you'd better go now, jackman. [the jackmans move to the door.] mrs. j. [turning] maybe you'll repent it some day, sir. [they go out, mrs. hillcrist following.] hornblower. we-ell, i'm sorry they're such unreasonable folk. i never met people with less notion of which side their bread was buttered. hillcrist. and i never met anyone so pachydermatous. hornblower. what's that, in heaven's name? ye needn' wrap it up in long words now your good lady's gone. hillcrist. [with dignity] i'm not going in for a slanging match. i resent your conduct much too deeply. hornblower. look here, hillcrist, i don't object to you personally; ye seem to me a poor creature that's bound to get left with your gout and your dignity; but of course ye can make yourself very disagreeable before ye're done. now i want to be the movin' spirit here. i'm full of plans. i'm goin' to stand for parliament; i'm goin' to make this a prosperous place. i'm a good-matured man if you'll treat me as such. now, you take me on as a neighbour and all that, and i'll manage without chimneys on the centry. is it a bargain? [he holds out his hand.] hillcrist. [ignoring it] i thought you said you didn't keep your word when it suited you to break it? hornblower. now, don't get on the high horse. you and me could be very good friends; but i can be a very nasty enemy. the chimneys will not look nice from that windie, ye know. hillcrist. [deeply angry] mr. hornblower, if you think i'll take your hand after this jackman business, you're greatly mistaken. you are proposing that i shall stand in with you while you tyrannise over the neighbourhood. please realise that unless you leave those tenancies undisturbed as you said you would, we don't know each other. hornblower. well, that won't trouble me much. now, ye'd better think it over; ye've got gout and that makes ye hasty. i tell ye again: i'm not the man to make an enemy of. unless ye're friendly, sure as i stand here i'll ruin the look of your place. [the toot of a car is heard.] there's my car. i sent chearlie and his wife in it to buy the centry. and make no mistake--he's got it in his packet. it's your last chance, hillcrist. i'm not averse to you as a man; i think ye're the best of the fossils round here; at least, i think ye can do me the most harm socially. come now! [he holds out his hand again.] hillcrist. not if you'd bought the centry ten times over. your ways are not mine, and i'll have nothing to do with you. hornblower. [very angry] really! is that so? very well. now ye're goin' to learn something, an' it's time ye did. d'ye realise that i'm 'very nearly round ye? [he draws a circle slowly in the air] i'm at uphill, the works are here, here's longmeadow, here's the centry that i've just bought, there's only the common left to give ye touch with the world. now between you and the common there's the high road. i come out on the high road here to your north, and i shall come out on it there to your west. when i've got me new works up on the centry, i shall be makin' a trolley track between the works up to the road at both ends, so any goods will be running right round ye. how'll ye like that for a country place? [for answer hillcrist, who is angry beyond the power of speech, walks, forgetting to use his stick, up to the french window. while he stands there, with his back to hornblower, the door l. is flung open, and jim enters, preceding charles, his wife chloe, and rolf. charles is a goodish-looking, moustached young man of about twenty-eight, with a white rim to the collar of his waistcoat, and spats. he has his hand behind chloe's back, as if to prevent her turning tail. she is rather a handsome young woman, with dark eyes, full red lips, and a suspicion of powder, a little under-dressed for the country. rolf, mho brings up the rear, is about twenty, with an open face and stiffish butter-coloured hair. jill runs over to her father at the window. she has a bottle.] jill. [sotto voce] look, dodo, i've brought the lot! isn't it a treat, dear papa? and here's the stuff. hallo! [the exclamation is induced by the apprehension that there has been a row. hillcrist gives a stiff little bow, remaining where he is in the window. jill, stays close to him, staring from one to the other, then blocks him off and engages him in conversation. charles has gone up to his father, who has remained maliciously still, where he delivered his last speech. chloe and rolf stand awkwardly waiting between the fireplace and the door.] hornblower. well, chearlie? charles. not got it. hornblower. not! charles. i'd practically got her to say she'd sell at three thousand five hundred, when that fellow dawker turned up. hornblower. that bull-terrier of a chap! why, he was here a while ago. oh--ho! so that's it! charles. i heard him gallop up. he came straight for the old lady, and got her away. what he said i don't know; but she came back looking wiser than an owl; said she'd think it over, thought she had other views. hornblower. did ye tell her she might have her price? charles. practically i did. hornblower. well? charles. she thought it would be fairer to put it up to auction. there were other enquiries. oh! she's a leery old bird--reminds me of one of those pictures of fate, don't you know. hornblower. auction! well, if it's not gone we'll get it yet. that damned little dawker! i've had a row with hillcrist. charles. i thought so. [they are turning cautiously to look at hillcrist, when jill steps forward.] jill. [flushed and determined] that's not a bit sporting of you, mr. hornblower. [at her words role comes forward too.] hornblower. ye should hear both sides before ye say that, missy. jill. there isn't another side to turning out the jackmans after you'd promised. hornblower. oh! dear me, yes. they don't matter a row of gingerbread to the schemes i've got for betterin' this neighbourhood. jill. i had been standing up for you; now i won't. hounblower. dear, dear! what'll become of me? jill. i won't say anything about the other thing because i think it's beneath, dignity to notice it. but to turn poor people out of their cottages is a shame. hornblower. hoity me! rolf. [suddenly] you haven't been doing that, father? charles. shut up, rolf! hornblower. [turning on rolf] ha! here's a league o' youth! my young whipper-snapper, keep your mouth shut and leave it to your elders to know what's right. [under the weight of this rejoinder rolf stands biting his lips. then he throws his head up.] rolf. i hate it! hornblower. [with real venom] oh! ye hate it? ye can get out of my house, then. jill. free speech, mr. hornblower; don't be violent. hornblower. ye're right, young lady. ye can stay in my house, rolf, and learn manners. come, chearlie! jill. [quite softly] mr. hornblower! hillcrist. [from the window] jill! jill. [impatiently] well, what's the good of it? life's too short for rows, and too jolly! rolf. bravo! hornblower. [who has shown a sign of weakening] now, look here! i will not have revolt in my family. ye'll just have to learn that a man who's worked as i have, who's risen as i have, and who knows the world, is the proper judge of what's right and wrong. i'll answer to god for me actions, and not to you young people. jill. poor god! hornblower. [genuinely shocked] ye blasphemous young thing! [to rolf] and ye're just as bad, ye young freethinker. i won't have it. hillcrist. [who has come down, right] jill, i wish you would kindly not talk. jill. i can't help it. charles. [putting his arm through hornblower's] come along, father! deeds, not words. hornblower. ay! deeds! [mrs. hillcrist and dawkers have entered by the french window.] mrs. h. quite right! [they all turn and look at her.] hornblower. ah! so ye put your dog on to it. [he throws out his finger at dawkers] very smart, that--i give ye credit. mrs. h. [pointing to chloe, who has stood by herself, forgotten and uncomfortable throughout the scene] may i ask who this lady is? [chloe turns round startled, and her vanity bag slips down her dress to the floor.] hornblower. no, ma'am, ye may not, for ye know perfectly well. jill. i brought her in, mother [she moves to chloe's side.] mrs. h. will you take her out again, then. hillcrist. amy, have the goodness to remember---- mrs. h. that this is my house so far as ladies are concerned. jill. mother! [she looks astonished at chloe, who, about to speak, does not, passing her eyes, with a queer, half-scarred expression, from mrs. hillcrist to dawker.] [to chloe] i'm awfully sorry. come on! [they go out, left. rolf hurries after them.] charles. you've insulted my wife. why? what do you mean by it? [mrs. hillcrist simply smiles.] hillcrist. i apologise. i regret extremely. there is no reason why the ladies of your family or of mine should be involved in our quarrel. for heaven's sake, let's fight like gentlemen. hornblower. catchwords--sneers! no; we'll play what ye call a skin game, hillcrist, without gloves on; we won't spare each other. ye look out for yourselves, for, begod, after this morning i mean business. and as for you, dawker, ye sly dog, ye think yourself very clever; but i'll have the centry yet. come, chearlie! [they go out, passing jill, who is coming in again, in the doorway.] hillcrist. well, dawker? dawker. [grinning] safe for the moment. the old lady'll put it up to auction. couldn't get her to budge from that. says she don't want to be unneighbourly to either. but, if you ask me, it's money she smells! jill. [advancing] now, mother mrs. h. well? jill. why did you insult her? mrs. h. i think i only asked you to take her out. jill. why? even if she is old combustion's daughter-in-law? mrs. h. my dear jill, allow me to judge the sort of acquaintances i wish to make. [she looks at dawker.] jill. she's all right. lots of women powder and touch up their lips nowadays. i think she's rather a good sort; she was awfully upset. mrs. h. too upset. jill. oh! don't be so mysterious, mother. if you know something, do spit it out! mrs. h. do you wish me to--er--"spit it out," jack? hillcrist. dawker, if you don't mind---- [dawker, with a nod, passes away out of the french window.] jill, be respectful, and don't talk like a bargee. jill. it's no good, dodo. it made me ashamed. it's just as--as caddish to insult people who haven't said a word, in your own house, as it is to be--old hornblower. mrs. h. you don't know what you're talking about. hillcrist. what's the matter with young mrs. hornblower? mrs. h. excuse me, i shall keep my thoughts to myself at present. [she looks coldly at jill, and goes out through the french window.] hillcrist. you've thoroughly upset your mother, jill. jill. it's something dawker's told her; i saw them. i don't like dawker, father, he's so common. hillcrist. my dear, we can't all be uncommon. he's got lots of go, you must apologise to your mother. jill. [shaking-her clubbed hair] they'll make you do things you don't approve of, dodo, if you don't look out. mother's fearfully bitter when she gets her knife in. if old hornblower's disgusting, it's no reason we should be. hillcrist. so you think i'm capable--that's nice, jill! jill. no, no, darling! i only want to warn you solemnly that mother'll tell you you're fighting fair, no matter what she and dawker do. hillcrist. [smiling] jill, i don't think i ever saw you so serious. jill. no. because--[she swallows a lump in her throat] well--i was just beginning to enjoy, myself; and now--everything's going to be bitter and beastly, with mother in that mood. that horrible old man! oh, dodo! don't let them make you horrid! you're such a darling. how's your gout, ducky? hillcrist. better; lot better. jill. there, you see! that shows! it's going to be half-interesting for you, but not for--us. hillcrist. look here, jill--is there anything between you and young what's-his-name--rolf? jill. [biting her lip] no. but--now it's all spoiled. hillcrist. you can't expect me to regret that. jill. i don't mean any tosh about love's young dream; but i do like being friends. i want to enjoy things, dodo, and you can't do that when everybody's on the hate. you're going to wallow in it, and so shall i--oh! i know i shall!--we shall all wallow, and think of nothing but "one for his nob." hillcrist. aren't you fond of your home? jill. of course. i love it. hillcrist. well, you won't be able to live in it unless we stop that ruffian. chimneys and smoke, the trees cut down, piles of pots. every kind of abomination. there! [he points] imagine! [he points through the french window, as if he could see those chimneys rising and marring the beauty of the fields] i was born here, and my father, and his, and his, and his. they loved those fields, and those old trees. and this barbarian, with his "improvement" schemes, forsooth! i learned to ride in the centry meadows--prettiest spring meadows in the world; i've climbed every tree there. why my father ever sold----! but who could have imagined this? and come at a bad moment, when money's scarce. jill. [cuddling his arm] dodo! hillcrist. yes. but you don't love the place as i do, jill. you youngsters don't love anything, i sometimes think. jill. i do, dodo, i do! hillcrist. you've got it all before you. but you may live your life and never find anything so good and so beautiful as this old home. i'm not going to have it spoiled without a fight. [conscious of batting betrayed sentiment, he walks out at the french window, passing away to the right. jill following to the window, looks. then throwing back her head, she clasps her hands behind it.] jill. oh--oh-oh! [a voice behind her says, "jill!" she turns and starts back, leaning against the right lintel of the window. rolf appears outside the window from left.] who goes there? role. [buttressed against the left lintel] enemy--after chloe's bag. jill. pass, enemy! and all's ill! [rolf passes through the window, and retrieves the vanity bag from the floor where chloe dropped it, then again takes his stand against the left lintel of the french window.] rolf. it's not going to make any difference, is it? jill. you know it is. rolf. sins of the fathers. jill. unto the third and fourth generations. what sin has my father committed? rolf. none, in a way; only, i've often told you i don't see why you should treat us as outsiders. we don't like it. jill. well, you shouldn't be, then; i mean, he shouldn't be. rolf. father's just as human as your father; he's wrapped up in us, and all his "getting on" is for us. would you like to be treated as your mother treated chloe? your mother's set the stroke for the other big-wigs about here; nobody calls on chloe. and why not? why not? i think it's contemptible to bar people just because they're new, as you call it, and have to make their position instead of having it left them. jill. it's not because they're new, it's because--if your father behaved like a gentleman, he'd be treated like one. rolf. would he? i don't believe it. my father's a very able man; he thinks he's entitled to have influence here. well, everybody tries to keep him down. oh! yes, they do. that makes him mad and more determined than ever to get his way. you ought to be just, jill. jill. i am just. rolf. no, you're not. besides, what's it got to do with charlie and chloe? chloe's particularly harmless. it's pretty sickening for her. father didn't expect people to call until charlie married, but since---- jill. i think it's all very petty. rolf. it is--a dog-in-the-manger business; i did think you were above it. jill. how would you like to have your home spoiled? role. i'm not going to argue. only things don't stand still. homes aren't any more proof against change than anything else. jill. all right! you come and try and take ours. rolf. we don't want to take your home. jill. like the jackmans'? rolf. all right. i see you're hopelessly prejudiced. [he turns to go.] jill. [just as he is vanishing--softly] enemy? rolf. [turning] yes, enemy. jill. before the battle--let's shake hands. [they move from the lintels and grasp each other's hands in the centre of the french window.] curtain act ii scene i a billiard room in a provincial hotel, where things are bought and sold. the scene is set well forward, and is not very broad; it represents the auctioneer's end of the room, having, rather to stage left, a narrow table with two chairs facing the audience, where the auctioneer will sit and stand. the table, which is set forward to the footlights, is littered with green-covered particulars of sale. the audience are in effect public and bidders. there is a door on the left, level with the table. along the back wall, behind the table, are two raised benches with two steps up to them, such as billiard rooms often have, divided by a door in the middle of a wall, which is panelled in oak. late september sunlight is coming from a skylight (not visible) on to these seats. the stage is empty when the curtain goes up, but dawkers, and mrs. hillcrist are just entering through the door at the back. dawker. be out of their way here, ma'am. see old hornblower with chearlie? [he points down to the audience.] mrs. h. it begins at three, doesn't it? dawker. they won't be over-punctual; there's only the centry selling. there's young mrs. hornblower with the other boy-- [pointing] over at the entrance. i've got that chap i told you of down from town. mrs. h. ah! make sure quite of her, dawker. any mistake would be fatal. dawker. [nodding] that's right, ma'am. lot of peopled--always spare time to watch an auction--ever remark that? the duke's agent's here; shouldn't be surprised if he chipped in. mrs. h. where did you leave my husband? dawker. with miss jill, in the courtyard. he's coming to you. in case i miss him; tell him when i reach his limit to blow his nose if he wants me to go on; when he blows it a second time, i'll stop for good. hope we shan't get to that. old hornblower doesn't throw his money away. mrs. h. what limit did you settle? dawker. six thousand! mrs. h. that's a fearful price. well, good luck to you, dawker! dawker. good luck, ma'am. i'll go and see to that little matter of mrs. chloe. never fear, we'll do them is somehow. [he winks, lays his finger on the side of his nose, and goes out at the door.] [mrs. hillcrist mounts the two steps, sits down right of the door, and puts up a pair of long-handled glasses. through the door behind her come chloe and rolf. she makes a sign for him to go, and shuts the door.] chloe. [at the foot of the steps in the gangway--with a slightly common accent] mrs. hillcrist! mrs. h. [not quite starting] i beg your pardon? chloe. [again] mrs. hillcrist---- mrs. h. well? chloe. i never did you any harm. mrs. h. did i ever say you did? chloe. no; but you act as if i had. mrs. h. i'm not aware that i've acted at all--as yet. you are nothing to me, except as one of your family. chloe. 'tisn't i that wants to spoil your home. mrs. h. stop them then. i see your husband down there with his father. chloe. i--i have tried. mrs. h. [looking at her] oh! i suppose such men don't pay attention to what women ask them. chloe. [with a flash of spirit] i'm fond of my husband. i---- mrs. h. [looking at her steadily] i don't quite know why you spoke to me. chloe. [with a sort of pathetic sullenness] i only thought perhaps you'd like to treat me as a human being. mrs. h. really, if you don't mind, i should like to be left alone just now. chloe. [unhappily acquiescent] certainly! i'll go to the other end. [she moves to the left, mounts the steps and sits down.] [rolf, looking in through the door, and seeing where she is, joins her. mrs. hillcrist resettles herself a little further in on the right.] rolf. [bending over to chloe, after a glance at mrs. hillcrist.] are you all right? chloe. it's awfully hot. [she fans herself wide the particulars of sale.] rolf. there's dawker. i hate that chap! chloe. where? rolf. down there; see? [he points down to stage right of the room.] chloe. [drawing back in her seat with a little gasp] oh! rolf. [not noticing] who's that next him, looking up here? chloe. i don't know. [she has raised her auction programme suddenly, and sits fanning herself, carefully screening her face.] role. [looking at her] don't you feel well? shall i get you some water? [he gets up at her nod.] [as he reaches the door, hillcrist and jill come in. hillcrist passes him abstractedly with a nod, and sits down beside his wife.] jill. [to rolf] come to see us turned out? rolf. [emphatically] no. i'm looking after chloe; she's not well. jill. [glancing at her] sorry. she needn't have come, i suppose? [ralf deigns no answer, and goes out.] [jill glances at chloe, then at her parents talking in low voices, and sits down next her father, who makes room for her.] mrs. h. can dawker see you there, jack? [hillcrist nods.] what's the time? hillcrist. three minutes to three. jill. don't you feel beastly all down the backs of your legs. dodo? hillcrist. yes. jill. do you, mother? mrs. h. no. jill. a wagon of old hornblower's pots passed while we were in the yard. it's an omen. mrs. h. don't be foolish, jill. jill. look at the old brute! dodo, hold my hand. mrs. h. make sure you've got a handkerchief, jack. hillcrist. i can't go beyond the six thousand; i shall have to raise every penny on mortgage as it is. the estate simply won't stand more, amy. [he feels in his breast pocket, and pulls up the edge of his handkerchief.] jill. oh! look! there's miss mullins, at the back; just come in. isn't she a spidery old chip? mrs. h. come to gloat. really, i think her not accepting your offer is disgusting. her impartiality is all humbug. hillcrist. can't blame her for getting what she can--it's human nature. phew! i used to feel like this before a 'viva voce'. who's that next to dawker? jill. what a fish! mrs. h. [to herself] ah! yes. [her eyes slide round at chloe, silting motionless and rather sunk in her seat, slowly fanning herself with they particulars of the sale. jack, go and offer her my smelling salts.] hillcrist. [taking the salts] thank god for a human touch! mrs. h. [taken aback] oh! jill. [with a quick look at her mother, snatching the salts] i will. [she goes over to chloe with the salts] have a sniff; you look awfully white. chloe. [looking up, startled] oh! no thanks. i'm all right. jill. no, do! you must. [chloe takes them.] jill. d'you mind letting me see that a minute? [she takes the particulars of the sale and studies it, but chloe has buried the lower part of her face in her hand and the smelling salts bottle.] beastly hot, isn't it? you'd better keep that. chloe. [her dark eyes wandering and uneasy] rolf's getting me some water. jill. why do you stay? you didn't want to come, did you? [chloe shakes her head.] all right! here's your water. [she hands back the particulars and slides over to her seat, passing rolf in the gangway, with her chin well up.] [mrs. hillcrist, who has watched chloe and jill and dawker, and his friend, makes an enquiring movement with her hand, but gets a disappointing answer.] jill. what's the time, dodo? hillcrist. [looking at his watch] three minutes past. jill. [sighing] oh, hell! hillcrist. jill! jill. sorry, dodo. i was only thinking. look! here he is! phew!--isn't he----? mrs. h. 'sh! the auctioneer comes in left and goes to the table. he is a square, short, brown-faced, common looking man, with clipped grey hair fitting him like a cap, and a clipped grey moustache. his lids come down over his quick eyes, till he can see you very sharply, and you can hardly see that he can see you. he can break into a smile at any moment, which has no connection with him, as it were. by a certain hurt look, however, when bidding is slow, he discloses that he is not merely an auctioneer, but has in him elements of the human being. he can wink with anyone, and is dressed in a snug-brown suit, with a perfectly unbuttoned waistcoat, a low, turned down collar, and small black and white sailor knot tie. while he is settling his papers, the hillcrists settle themselves tensely. chloe has drunk her water and leaned back again, with the smelling salts to her nose. rolf leans forward in the seat beside her, looking sideways at jill. a solicitor, with a grey beard, has joined the auctioneer, at his table. auctioneer. [tapping the table] sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but i've only one property to offer you to-day, no. , the centry, deepwater. the second on the particulars has been withdrawn. the third that's bidcot, desirable freehold mansion and farmlands in the parish of kenway--we shall have to deal with next week. i shall be happy to sell it you then with out reservation. [he looks again through the particulars in his hand, giving the audience time to readjust themselves to his statements] now, gen'lemen, as i say, i've only the one property to sell. freehold no. --all that very desirable corn and stock-rearing and parklike residential land known as the centry, deepwater, unique property an a. . chance to an a. . audience. [with his smile] ought to make the price of the three we thought we had. now you won't mind listening to the conditions of sale; mr. blinkard'll read 'em, and they won't wirry you, they're very short. [he sits down and gives two little tape on the table.] [the solicitor rises and reads the conditions of sale in a voice which no one practically can hear. just as he begins to read these conditions of sale, charles hornblower enters at back. he stands a moment, glancing round at the hillcrist and twirling his moustache, then moves along to his wife and touches her.] charles. chloe, aren't you well? [in the start which she gives, her face is fully revealed to the audience.] charles. come along, out of the way of these people. [he jerks his head towards the hillcrists. chloe gives a swift look down to the stage right of the audience.] chloe. no; i'm all right; it's hotter there. charles. [to rolf] well, look after her--i must go back. [rolf node. charles, slides bank to the door, with a glance at the hillcrists, of whom mrs. hillcrist has been watching like a lynx. he goes out, just as the solicitor, finishing, sits down.] auctioneer. [rising and tapping] now, gen'lemen, it's not often a piece of land like this comes into the market. what's that? [to a friend in front of him] no better land in deepwater--that's right, mr. spicer. i know the village well, and a charming place it is; perfect locality, to be sure. now i don't want to wirry you by singing the praises of this property; there it is--well-watered, nicely timbered--no reservation of the timber, gen'lemen--no tenancy to hold you up; free to do what you like with it to-morrow. you've got a jewel of a site there, too; perfect position for a house. it lies between the duke's and squire hillcrist's--an emerald isle. [with his smile] no allusion to ireland, gen'lemen--perfect peace in the centry. nothing like it in the county--a gen'leman's site, and you don't get that offered you every day. [he looks down towards hornblower, stage left] carries the mineral rights, and as you know, perhaps, there's the very valuable deepwater clay there. what am i to start it at? can i say three thousand? well, anything you like to give me. i'm sot particular. come now, you've got more time than me, i expect. two hundred acres of first-rate grazin' and cornland, with a site for a residence unequalled in the county; and all the possibilities! well, what shall i say? [bid from spicer.] two thousand? [with his smile] that won't hurt you, mr. spicer. why, it's worth that to overlook the duke. for two thousand? [bid from hornblower, stage left.] and five. thank you, sir. two thousand five hundred bid. [to a friend just below him.] come, mr. sandy, don't scratch your head over it. [bid from dawker, stage right.] and five. three thousand bid for this desirable property. why, you'd think it wasn't desirable. come along, gen'lemen. a little spirit. [a alight pause.] jill. why can't i see the bids, dodo? hillcrist. the last was dawker's. auctioneer. for three thousand. [hornblower] three thousand five hundred? may i say--four? [a bid from the centre] no, i'm not particular; i'll take hundreds. three thousand six hundred bid. [hornblower] and seven. three thousand seven hundred, and---- [he pauses, quartering the audience.] jill. who was that, dodo? hillcrist. hornblower. it's the duke in the centre. auctioneer. come, gen'lemen, don't keep me all day. four thousand may i say? [dawker] thank you. we're beginning. and one? [a bid from the centre] four thousand one hundred. [hornblower] four thousand two hundred. may i have yours, sir? [to dawker] and three. four thousand three hundred bid. no such site in the county, gen'lemen. i'm going to sell this land for what it's worth. you can't bid too much for me. [he smiles] [hornblower] four thousand five hundred bid. [bid from the centre] and six. [dawker] and seven. [hornblower] and eight. nine, may i say? [but the centre has dried up] [dawker] and nine. [hornblower] five thousand. five thousand bid. that's better; there's some spirit in it. for five thousand. [he pauses while he speak& to the solicitor] hillcrist. it's a duel now. auctioneer. now, gen'lemen, i'm not going to give this property away. five thousand bid. [dawker] and one. [hornblower] and two. [dawker] and three. five thousand three hundred bid. and five, did you say, sir? [hornblower] five thousand five hundred bid. [he looks at hip particulars.] jill. [rather agonised] enemy, dodo. auctioneer. this chance may never come again. "how you'll regret it if you don't get it," as the poet says. may i say five thousand six hundred, sir? [dawker] five thousand six hundred bid. [hornblower] and seven. [dawker] and eight. for five thousand eight hundred pounds. we're gettin' on, but we haven't got the value yet. [a slight pause, while he wipes his brow at the success of his own efforts.] jill. us, dodo? [hillcrist nods. jill looks over at rolf, whose face is grimly set. chloe has never moved. mrs. hillcrist whispers to her husband.] auctioneer. five thousand eight hundred bid. for five thousand eight hundred. come along, gen'lemen, come along. we're not beaten. thank you, sir. [hornblower] five thousand nine hundred. and--? [dawker] six thousand. six thousand bid. six thousand bid. for six thousand! the centry--most desirable spot in the county--going for the low price of six thousand. hillcrist. [muttering] low! heavens! auctioneer. any advance on six thousand? come, gen'lemen, we haven't dried up? a little spirit. six thousand? for six thousand? for six thousand pounds? very well, i'm selling. for six thousand once--[he taps] for six thousand twice--[he taps]. jill. [low] oh! we've got it! auctioneer. and one, sir? [hornblower] six thousand one hundred bid. [the solicitor touches his arm and says something, to which the auctioneer responds with a nod.] mrs. h. blow your nose, jack. [hillcrist blows his nose.] auctioneer. for six thousand one hundred. [dawker] and two. thank you. [hornblower] and three. for six thousand three hundred. [dawker] and four. for six thousand four hundred pounds. this coveted property. for six thousand four hundred pounds. why, it's giving it away, gen'lemen. [a pause.] mrs. h. giving! auctioneer. six thousand four hundred bid. [hornblower] and five. [dawker] and six. [hornblower] and seven. [dawker] and eight. [a pause, during which, through the door left, someone beckons to the solicitor, who rises and confers.] hillcrist. [muttering] i've done if that doesn't get it. auctioneer. for six thousand eight hundred. for six thousand eight hundred-once--[he taps] twice--[he tape] for the last time. this dominating site. [hornblower] and nine. thank you. for six thousand nine hundred. [hillcrist has taken out his handkerchief.] jill. oh! dodo! mrs. h. [quivering] don't give in! auctioneer. seven thousand may i say? [dawker] seven thousand. mrs. h. [whispers] keep it down; don't show him. auctioneer. for seven-thousand--going for seven thousand--once-- [taps] twice [taps] [hornblower] and one. thank you, sir. [hillcrist blows his nose. jill, with a choke, leans back in her seat and folds her arms tightly on her chest. mrs. hillcrist passes her handkerchief over her lips, sitting perfectly still. hillcrist, too, is motionless.] [the auctioneer, has paused, and is talking to the solicitor, who has returned to his seat.] mrs. h. oh! jack. jill. stick it, dodo; stick it! auctioneer. now, gen'lemen, i have a bid of seven thousand one hundred for the centry. and i'm instructed to sell if i can't get more. it's a fair price, but not a big price. [to his friend mr. spicer] a thumpin' price? [with his smile] well, you're a judge of thumpin', i admit. now, who'll give me seven thousand two hundred? what, no one? well, i can't make you, gen'lemen. for seven thousand one hundred. once--[taps] twice--[taps]. [jill utters a little groan.] hillcrist. [suddenly, in a queer voice] two. auctioneer. [turning with surprise and looking up to receive hillcrist's nod] thank you, sir. and two. seven thousand two hundred. [he screws himself round so as to command both hillcrist and hornblower] may i have yours, sir? [hornblower] and three. [hillcrist] and four. seven thousand four hundred. for seven thousand four hundred. [hornblower] five. [hillcrist] six. for seven thousand six hundred. [a pause] well, gen'lemen, this is. better, but a record property shid fetch a record price. the possibilities are enormous. [hornblower] eight thousand did you say, sir? eight thousand. going for eight thousand pounds. [hillcrist] and one. [hornblower] and two. [hillcrist] and three. [hornblower] and four. [hillcrist] and five. for eight thousand five hundred. a wonderful property for eight thousand five hundred. [he wipes his brow.] jill. [whispering] oh, dodo! mrs. h. that's enough, jack, we must stop some time. auctioneer. for eight thousand five hundred. once--[taps]--twice-- [taps] [hornblower] six hundred. [hillcrist] seven. may i have yours, sir? [hornblower] eight. hillcrist. nine thousand. [mrs. hillcrist looks at him, biting her lips, but he is quite absorbed.] auctioneer. nine thousand for this astounding property. why, the duke would pay that if he realised he'd be overlooked. now, sir? [to hornblower. no response]. just a little raise on that. [no response.] for nine thousand. the centry, deepwater, for nine thousand. once--[taps] twice----[taps]. jill. [under her breath] ours! a voice. [from far back in the centre] and five hundred. auctioneer. [surprised and throwing out his arms towards the voice] and five hundred. for nine thousand five hundred. may i have yours, sir? [he looks at hornblower. no response.] [the solicitor speaks to him. mrs. h. [whispering] it must be the duke again.] hillcrist. [passing his hand over his brow] that's stopped him, anyway. auctioneer. [looking at hillcrist] for nine thousand five hundred? [hillcrist shakes his head.] once more. the centry, deepwater, for nine thousand five hundred. once--[taps] twice--[taps] [he pauses and looks again at hornblower and hillcrist] for the last time--at nine thousand five hundred. [taps] [with a look towards the bidder] mr. smalley. well! [with great satisfaction] that's that! no more to-day, gen'lemen. [the auctioneer and solicitor busy themselves. the room begins to empty.] mrs. h. smalley? smalley? is that the duke's agent? jack! hillcrist. [coming out of a sort of coma, after the excitement he has been going through] what! what! jill. oh, dodo! how splendidly you stuck it! hillcrist. phew! what a squeak! i was clean out of my depth. a mercy the duke chipped in again. mrs. h. [looking at rolf and chloe, who are standing up as if about to go] take care; they can hear you. find dawker, jack. [below, the auctioneer and solicitor take up their papers, and move out left.] [hillcrist stretches himself, standing up, as if to throw off the strain. the door behind is opened, and hornblower appears.] hornblower. ye ran me up a pretty price. ye bid very pluckily, hillcrist. but ye didn't quite get my measure. hillcrist. oh! it was my nine thousand the duke capped. thank god, the centry's gone to a gentleman! hornblower. the duke? [he laughs] no, the gentry's not gone to a gentleman, nor to a fool. it's gone to me. hillcrist. what! hounblower. i'm sorry for ye; ye're not fit to manage these things. well, it's a monstrous price, and i've had to pay it because of your obstinacy. i shan't forget that when i come to build. hillcrist. d'you mean to say that bid was for you? hornblower. of course i do. i told ye i was a bad man to be up against. perhaps ye'll believe me now. hillcrist. a dastardly trick! hornblower. [with venom] what did ye call it--a skin game? remember we're playin' a skin game, hillcrist. hillcrist. [clenching his fists] if we were younger men---- hornblower. ay! 'twouldn't look pretty for us to be at fisticuffs. we'll leave the fightin' to the young ones. [he glances at rolf and jill; suddenly throwing out his finger at rolf] no makin' up to that young woman! i've watched ye. and as for you, missy, you leave my boy alone. jill. [with suppressed passion] dodo, may i spit in his eye or something? hillcrist. sit down. [jill sits down. he stands between her and hornblower.] [yu've won this round, sir, by a foul blow. we shall see whether you can take any advantage of it. i believe the law can stop you ruining my property.] hornblower. make your mind easy; it can't. i've got ye in a noose, and i'm goin' to hang ye. mrs. h. [suddenly] mr. hornblower, as you fight foul--so shall we. hillcrist. amy! mrs. h. [paying no attention] and it will not be foul play towards you and yours. you are outside the pale. hornblower. that's just where i am, outside your pale all round ye. ye're not long for deepwater, ma'am. make your dispositions to go; ye'll be out in six months, i prophesy. and good riddance to the neighbourhood. [they are all down on the level now.] chloe. [suddenly coming closer to mrs. hillcrist] here are your salts, thank you. father, can't you----? hornblower. [surprised] can't i what? chloe. can't you come to an arrangement? mrs. h. just so, mr. hornblower. can't you? hornblower. [looking from one to the other] as we're speakin' out, ma'am, it's your behaviour to my daughter-in-law--who's as good as you--and better, to my thinking--that's more than half the reason why i've bought this property. ye've fair got my dander up. now it's no use to bandy words. it's very forgivin' of ye, chloe, but come along! mrs. h. quite seriously, mr. hornblower, you had better come to an arrangement. hornblower. mrs. hillcrist, ladies should keep to their own business. mrs. h. i will. hillcrist. amy, do leave it to us men. you young man [he speaks to rolf] do you support your father's trick this afternoon? [jill looks round at rolf, who tries to speak, when hornblower breaks in.] hornblower. my trick? and what dye call it, to try and put me own son against me? jill. [to rolf] well? rolf. i don't, but---- hornblower. trick? ye young cub, be quiet. mr. hillcrist had an agent bid for him--i had an agent bid for me. only his agent bid at the beginnin', an' mine bid at the end. what's the trick in that? [he laughs.] hillcrist. hopeless; we're in different worlds. hornblower. i wish to god we were! come you, chloe. and you, rolf, you follow. in six months i'll have those chimneys up, and me lorries runnin' round ye. mrs. h. mr. hornblower, if you build---- hornblower. [looking at mrs. hillcrist] ye know--it's laughable. ye make me pay nine thousand five hundred for a bit o' land not worth four, and ye think i'm not to get back on ye. i'm goin' on with as little consideration as if ye were a family of blackbeetles. good afternoon! rolf. father! jill. oh, dodo! he's obscene. hillcrist. mr. hornblower, my compliments. [hornblower with a stare at hillcrist's half-smiling face, takes chloe's arm, and half drags her towards the door on the left. but there, in the opened doorway, are standing dawker and a stranger. they move just out of the way of the exit, looking at chloe, who sways and very nearly falls.] hornblower. why! chloe! what's the matter? chloe. i don't know; i'm not well to-day. [she pulls herself together with a great, effort.] mrs. h. [who has exchanged a nod with dawker and the stranger] mr. hornblower, you build at your peril. i warn you. hornblower. [turning round to speak] ye think yourself very cool and very smart. but i doubt this is the first time ye've been up against realities. now, i've been up against them all my life. don't talk to me, ma'am, about peril and that sort of nonsense; it makes no impression. your husband called me pachydermatous. i don't know greek, and latin, and all that, but i've looked it out in the dictionary, and i find it means thick-skinned. and i'm none the worse for that when i have to deal with folk like you. good afternoon. [he draws chloe forward, and they pass through the door, followed quickly by rolf.] mrs. h. thank you; dawker. [she moves up to dawker and the stranger, left, and they talk.] jill. dodo! it's awful! hillcrist. well, there's nothing for it now but to smile and pay up. poor old home! it shall be his wash-pot. over the centry will he cast his shoe. by gad, jill, i could cry! jill. [pointing] look! chloe's sitting down. she nearly fainted just now. it's something to do with dawker, dodo, and that man with him. look at mother! ask them! hillcrist. dawker! [dawker comes to him, followed by mrs. hillcrist.] what's the mystery about young mrs. hornblower? dawker. no mystery. hillcrist. well, what is it? mrs. h. you'd better not ask. hillcrist. i wish to know. mrs. h. jill, go out and wait for us. jill. nonsense, mother! mrs. h. it's not for a girl to hear. jill. bosh! i read the papers every day. dawker. it's nothin' worse than you get there, anyway. mrs. h. do you wish your daughter---- jill. it's ridiculous, dodo; you'd think i was mother at my age. mrs. h. i was not so proud of my knowledge. jill. no, but you had it, dear. hillcrist. what is it----what is it? come over here, dawker. [dawker goes to him, right, and speaks in a low voice.] what! [again dawker speaks in, a low voice.] good god! mrs. h. exactly! jill. poor thing--whatever it is! mrs. h. poor thing? jill. what went before, mother? mrs. h. it's what's coming after that matters; luckily. hillcrist. how do you know this? dawker. my friend here [he points to the stranger] was one of the agents. hillcrist. it's shocking. i'm sorry i heard it. mrs. h. i told you not to. hillcrist. ask your friend to come here. [dawker beckons, and the stranger joins the group.] are you sure of what you've said, sir? stranger. perfectly. i remember her quite well; her name then was---- hillcrist. i don't want to know, thank you. i'm truly sorry. i wouldn't wish the knowledge of that about his womenfolk to my worst enemy. this mustn't be spoken of. [jill hugs his arm.] mrs. h. it will not be if mr. hornblower is wise. if he is not wise, it must be spoken of. hillcrist. i say no, amy. i won't have it. it's a dirty weapon. who touches pitch shall be defiled. mrs. h. well, what weapons does he use against us? don't be quixotic. for all we can tell, they know it quite well already, and if they don't they ought to. anyway, to know this is our salvation, and we must use it. jill: [sotto voce] pitch! dodo! pitch! dawker. the threat's enough! j.p.--chapel--future member for the constituency----. hillcrist. [a little more doubtfully] to use a piece of knowledge about a woman--it's repugnant. i--i won't do it. [mrs. h. if you had a son tricked into marrying such a woman, would you wish to remain ignorant of it?] hillcrist. [struck] i don't know--i don't know. mrs. h. at least, you'd like to be in a position to help him, if you thought it necessary? hillcrist. well--that perhaps. mrs. h. then you agree that mr. hornblower at least should be told. what he does with the knowledge is not our affair. hillcrist. [half to the stranger and half to dawker] do you realise that an imputation of that kind may be ground for a criminal libel action? stranger. quite. but there's no shadow of doubt; not the faintest. you saw her just now? hillcrist. i did. [revolting again] no; i don't like it. [dawker has drawn the stranger a step or two away, and they talk together.] mrs. h. [in a low voice] and the ruin of our home? you're betraying your fathers, jack. hillcrist. i can't bear bringing a woman into it. mrs. h. we don't. if anyone brings her in; it will be hornblower himself. hillcrist. we use her secret as a lever. mrs. h. i tell you quite plainly: i will only consent to holding my tongue about her, if you agree to hornblower being told. it's a scandal to have a woman like that in the neighbourhood. jill. mother means that, father. hillcrist. jill, keep quiet. this is a very bitter position. i can't tell what to do. mrs. h. you must use this knowledge. you owe it to me--to us all. you'll see that when you've thought it over. jill. [softly] pitch, dodo, pitch! mrs. h. [furiously] jill, be quiet! hillcrist. i was brought up never to hurt a woman. i can't do it, amy--i can't do it. i should never feel like a gentleman again. mrs. h. [coldly] oh! very well. hillcrist. what d'you mean by that? mrs. h. i shall use the knowledge in my own way. hillcrist. [staring at her] you would--against my wishes? mrs. h. i consider it my duty. hillcrist. if i agree to hornblower being told---- mrs. h. that's all i want. hillcrist. it's the utmost i'll consent to, amy; and don't let's have any humbug about its being, morally necessary. we do it to save our skins. mrs. h. i don't know what you mean by humbug? jill. he means humbug; mother. hillcrist. it must stop at old hornblower. do you quite understand? mrs. h. quite. jill. will it stop? mrs. h. jill, if you can't keep your impertinence to yourself---- hillcrist. jill, come with me. [he turns towards door, back.] jill. i'm sorry, mother. only it is a skin game, isn't it? mrs. h. you pride yourself on plain speech, jill. i pride myself on plain thought. you will thank me afterwards that i can see realities. i know we are better people than these hornblowers. here we are going to stay, and they--are not. jill. [looking at her with a sort of unwilling admiration] mother, you're wonderful! hillcrist. jill! jill. coming, dodo. [she turns and runs to the door. they go out.] [mrs. hillcrist, with a long sigh, draws herself up, fine and proud.] mrs. h. dawker! [he comes to her.] [i shall send him a note to-night, and word it so that he will be bound to come and see us to-marrow morning. will you be in the study just before eleven o'clock, with this gentleman?] dawker. [nodding] we're going to wire for his partner. i'll bring him too. can't make too sure. [she goes firmly up the steps and out.] dawker. [to the stranger, with a wink] the squire's squeamish--too much of a gentleman. but he don't count. the grey mare's all right. you wire to henry. i'm off to our solicitors. we'll make that old rhinoceros sell us back the centry at a decent price. these hornblowers--[laying his finger on his nose] we've got 'em! curtain scene ii chloe's boudoir at half-past seven the same evening. a pretty room. no pictures on the walls, but two mirrors. a screen and a luxurious couch an the fireplace side, stage left. a door rather right of centre back; opening inwards. a french window, right forward: a writing table, right back. electric light burning. chloe, in a tea-gown, is standing by the forward end of the sofa, very still, and very pale. her lips are parted, and her large eyes stare straight before them as if seeing ghosts: the door is opened noiselessly and a woman's face is seen. it peers at chloe, vanishes, and the door is closed. chloe raises her hands, covers her eyes with them, drops them with a quick gesture, and looks round her. a knock. with a swift movement she slides on to the sofa, and lies prostrate, with eyes closed. chloe. [feebly] come in! [her maid enters; a trim, contained figure of uncertain years, in a black dress, with the face which was peering in.] yes, anna? anna. aren't you going in to dinner, ma'am? chloe. [with closed eyes] no. anna. will you take anything here, ma'am? chloe. i'd like a biscuit and a glass of champagne. [the maid, who is standing between sofa and door, smiles. chloe, with a swift look, catches the smile.] why do you smile? anna. was i, ma'am? chloe. you know you were. [fiercely] are you paid to smile at me? anna. [immovable] no, ma'am, would you like some eau de cologne on your forehead? chloe. yes.--no.--what's the good? [clasping her forehead] my headache won't go. anna. to keep lying down's the best thing for it. chloe. i have been--hours. anna. [with the smile] yes, ma'am. chloe. [gathering herself up on the sofa] anna! why do you do it? anna. do what, ma'am? chloe. spy on me. anna. i--never! i----! chloe. to spy! you're a fool, too. what is there to spy on? anna. nothing, ma'am. of course, if you're not satisfied with me, i must give notice. only--if i were spying, i should expect to have notice given me. i've been accustomed to ladies who wouldn't stand such a thing for a minute. chloe: [intently] well, you'll take a month's wages and go tomorrow. and that's all, now. [anna inclines her head and goes out.] [chloe, with a sort of moan, turns over and buries her face in the cushion.] chloe. [sitting up] if i could see that man--if only--or dawker--- [she springs up and goes to the door, but hesitates, and comes back to the head of the sofa, as rolf comes in. during this scene the door is again opened stealthily, an inch or too.] rolf. how's the head? chloe. beastly, thanks. i'm not going into dinner. rolf. is there anything i can do for you? chloe. no, dear boy. [suddenly looking at him] you don't want this quarrel with the hillcrists to go on, do you, rolf? rolf. no; i hate it. chloe. well, i think i might be able to stop it. will you slip round to dawker's--it's not five minutes--and ask him to come and see me. rolf. father and charlie wouldn't---- chloe. i know. but if he comes to the window here while you're at dinner, i'll let him in, and out, and nobody'd know. rolf. [astonished] yes, but what i mean how---- chloe. don't ask me. it's worth the shot that's all. [looking at her wrist-watch] to this window at eight o'clock exactly. first long window on the terrace, tell him. rolf. it's nothing charlie would mind? chloe. no; only i can't tell him--he and father are so mad about it all. rolf. if there's a real chance---- chloe. [going to the window and opening it] this way, rolf. if you don't come back i shall know he's coming. put your watch by mine. [looking at his watch] it's a minute fast, see! rolf. look here, chloe chloe. don't wait; go on. [she almost pushes him out through the window, closes it after him, draws the curtains again, stands a minute, thinking hard; goes to the bell and rings it; then, crossing to the writing table, right back, she takes out a chemist's prescription.] [anna comes in.] chloe. i don't want that champagne. take this to the chemist and get him to make up some of these cachets quick, and bring them back yourself. anna. yes, ma'am; but you have some. chloe. they're too old; i've taken two--the strength's out of them. quick, please; i can't stand this head. anna. [taking the prescription--with her smile] yes, ma'am. it'll take some time--you don't want me? chloe. no; i want the cachets. [anna goes out.] [chloe looks at her wrist-watch, goes to the writing-table, which is old-fashioned, with a secret drawer, looks round her, dives at the secret drawer, takes out a roll of notes and a tissue paper parcel. she counts the notes: "three hundred." slips them into her breast and unwraps the little parcel. it contains pears. she slips them, too, into her dress, looks round startled, replaces the drawer, and regains her place on the sofa, lying prostrate as the door opens, and hornblower comes in. she does not open her ages, and he stands looking at her a moment before speaking.] hornblower. [almost softly] how are ye feelin'. chloe? chloe. awful head! hornblower: can ye attend a moment? i've had a note from that woman. [chloe sits up.] hornblower. [reading] "i have something of the utmost importance to tell you in regard to your daughter-in-law. i shall be waiting to see you at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. the matter is so utterly vital to the happiness of all your family, that i cannot imagine you will fail to come." now, what's the meaning of it? is it sheer impudence, or lunacy, or what? chloe. i don't know. hornblower. [not unkindly] chloe, if there's anything--ye'd better tell me. forewarned's forearmed. chloe. there's nothing; unless it's--[with a quick took at him,]-- unless it's that my father was a--a bankrupt. hornblower. hech! many a man's been that. ye've never told us much about your family. chloe. i wasn't very proud of him. hornblower. well, ye're not responsible for your father. if that's all, it's a relief. the bitter snobs! i'll remember it in the account i've got with them. chloe. father, don't say anything to charlie; it'll only worry him for nothing. hornblower. no, no, i'll not. if i went bankrupt, it'd upset chearlie, i've not a doubt. [he laugh. looking at her shrewdly] there's nothing else, before i answer her? [chloe shakes her head.] ye're sure? chloe. [with an efort] she may invent things, of course. hornblower. [lost in his feud feeling] ah! but there's such a thing as the laws o' slander. if they play pranks, i'll have them up for it. chloe. [timidly] couldn't you stop this quarrel; father? you said it was on my account. but i don't want to know them. and they do love their old home. i like the girl. you don't really need to build just there, do you? couldn't you stop it? do! hornblower. stop it? now i've bought? na, no! the snobs defied me, and i'm going to show them. i hate the lot of them, and i hate that little dawker worst of all. chloe. he's only their agent. hornblower. he's a part of the whole dog-in-the-manger system that stands in my way. ye're a woman, and ye don't understand these things. ye wouldn't believe the struggle i've had to make my money and get my position. these county folk talk soft sawder, but to get anything from them's like gettin' butter out of a dog's mouth. if they could drive me out of here by fair means or foul, would they hesitate a moment? not they! see what they've made me pay; and look at this letter. selfish, mean lot o' hypocrites! chloe. but they didn't begin the quarrel. hornblower. not openly; but underneath they did--that's their way. they began it by thwartin' me here and there and everywhere, just because i've come into me own a bit later than they did. i gave 'em their chance, and they wouldn't take it. well, i'll show 'em what a man like me can do when he sets his mind to it. i'll not leave much skin on them. [in the intensity of his feeling he has lost sight of her face, alive with a sort of agony of doubt, whether to plead with him further, or what to do. then, with a swift glance at her wristwatch, she falls back on the sofa and closes her eyes.] it'll give me a power of enjoyment seein' me chimneys go up in front of their windies. that was a bonnie thought--that last bid o' mine. he'd got that roused up, i believe, he, never would a' stopped. [looking at her] i forgot your head. well, well, ye'll be best tryin' quiet. [the gong sounds.] shall we send ye something in from dinner? chloe. no; i'll try to sleep. please tell them i don't want to be disturbed. hornblower. all right. i'll just answer this note. [he sits down at her writing-table.] [chloe starts up from the sofa feverishly, looking at her watch, at the window, at her watch; then softly crosses to the window and opens it.] hornblower. [finishing] listen! [he turns round towards the sofa] hallo! where are ye? chloe. [at the window] it's so hot. hornblower. here's what i've said: "madam,--you can tell me nothing of my daughter-in-law which can affect the happiness of my family. i regard your note as an impertinence, and i shall not be with you at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. "yours truly----" chloe. [with a suffering movement of her head] oh!--well!--[the gong is touched a second time.] hornblower. [crossing to the door] lie ye down, and get a sleep. i'll tell them not to disturb ye; and i hope ye'll be all right to-morrow. good-night, chloe. chloe. good-night. [he goes out.] [after a feverish turn or two, chloe returns to the open window and waits there, half screened by the curtains. the door is opened inch by inch, and anna's head peers round. seeing where chloe is, she slips in and passes behind the screen, left. suddenly chloe backs in from the window.] chloe. [in a low voice] come in. [she darts to the door and locks it.] [dawker has come in through the window and stands regarding her with a half smile.] dawker. well, young woman, what do you want of me? [in the presence of this man of her own class, there comes a distinct change in chloe's voice and manner; a sort of frank commonness, adapted to the man she is dealing with, but she keeps her voice low.] chloe. you're making a mistake, you know. dawker. [with a broad grin] no. i've got a memory for faces. chloe. i say you are. dawker. [turning to go] if that's all, you needn't have troubled me to come. chloe. no. don't go! [with a faint smile] you are playing a game with me. aren't you ashamed? what harm have i done you? do you call this cricket? dawker. no, my girl--business. chloe. [bitterly] what have i to do with this quarrel? i couldn't help their falling out. dawker. that's your misfortune. chloe. [clasping her hands] you're a cruel fellow if you can spoil a woman's life who never did you an ounce of harm. dawker. so they don't know about you. that's all right. now, look here, i serve my employer. but i'm flesh and blood, too, and i always give as good as i get. i hate this family of yours. there's no name too bad for 'em to call me this last month, and no looks too black to give me. i tell you frankly, i hate. chloe. there's good in them same as in you. dawker. [with a grin] there's no good hornblower but a dead hornblower. chloe. but--but im not one. dawker. you'll be the mother of some, i shouldn't wonder. chloe. [stretching out her hand-pathetically] oh! leave me alone, do! i'm happy here. be a sport! be a sport! dawker. [disconcerted for a second] you can't get at me, so don't try it on. chloe. i had such a bad time in old days. [dawker shakes his head; his grin has disappeared and his face is like wood.] chloe. [panting] ah! do! you might! you've been fond of some woman, i suppose. think of her! dawker. [decisively] it won't do, mrs. chloe. you're a pawn in the game, and i'm going to use you. chloe. [despairingly] what is it to you? [with a sudden touch of the tigress] look here! don't you make an enemy, of me. i haven't dragged through hell for nothing. women like me can bite, i tell you. dawker. that's better. i'd rather have a woman threaten than whine, any day. threaten away! you'll let 'em know that you met me in the promenade one night. of course you'll let 'em know that, won't you?--or that---- chloe. be quiet! oh! be quiet! [taking from her bosom the notes and the pearls] look! there's my savings--there's all i've got! the pearls'll fetch nearly a thousand. [holding it out to him] take it, and drop me out--won't you? won't you? dawker. [passing his tongue over his lips with a hard little laugh] you mistake your man, missis. i'm a plain dog, if you like, but i'm faithful, and i hold fast. don't try those games on me. chloe. [losing control] you're a beast!--a beast! a cruel, cowardly beast! and how dare you bribe that woman here to spy on me? oh! yes, you do; you know you do. if you drove me mad, you wouldn't care. you beast! dawker. now, don't carry on! that won't help you. chloe. what d'you call it--to dog a woman down like this, just because you happen to have a quarrel with a man? dawker. who made the quarrel? not me, missis. you ought to know that in a row it's the weak and helpless--we won't say the innocent --that get it in the neck. that can't be helped. chloe. [regarding him intently] i hope your mother or your sister, if you've got any, may go through what i'm going through ever since you got on my track. i hope they'll know what fear means. i hope they'll love and find out that it's hanging on a thread, and--and-- oh! you coward, you persecuting coward! call yourself a man! dawker. [with his grin] ah! you look quite pretty like that. by george! you're a handsome woman when you're roused. [chloe's passion fades out as quickly as it blazed up. she sinks down on the sofa, shudders, looks here and there, and then for a moment up at him.] chloe. is there anything you'll take, not to spoil my life? [clasping her hands on her breast; under her breath] me? dawker. [wiping his brow] by god! that's an offer. [he recoils towards the window] you--you touched me there. look here! i've got to use you and i'm going to use you, but i'll do my best to let you down as easy as i can. no, i don't want anything you can give me--that is--[he wipes his brow again] i'd like it--but i won't take it. [chloe buries her face in her hands.] there! keep your pecker up; don't cry. good-night! [he goes through the window.] chloe. [springing up] ugh! rat in a trap! rat----! [she stands listening; flies to the door, unlocks it, and, going back to the sofa, lies down and doses her eyes. charles comes in very quietly and stands over her, looking to see if she is asleep. she opens her eyes.] charles. well, clo! had a sleep, old girl? chloe. ye-es. charles. [sitting on the arm of the sofa and caressing her] feel better, dear? chloe. yes, better, charlie. charles. that's right. would you like some soup? chloe. [with a shudder] no. charles. i say-what gives you these heads? you've been very on and off all this last month. chloe. i don't know. except that--except that i am going to have a child, charlie. charles. after all! by jove! sure? chloe. [nodding] are you glad? charles. well--i suppose i am. the guv'nor will be mighty pleased, anyway. chloe. don't tell him--yet. charles. all right! [bending over and drawing her to him] my poor girl, i'm so sorry you're seedy. give us a kiss. [chloe puts up her face and kisses him passionately.] i say, you're like fire. you're not feverish? chloe. [with a laugh] it's a wonder if i'm not. charlie, are you happy with me? charles. what do you think? chloe. [leaning against him] you wouldn't easily believe things against me, would you? charles. what! thinking of those hillcrists? what the hell that woman means by her attitude towards you--when i saw her there to-day, i had all my work cut out not to go up and give her a bit of my mind. chloe. [watching him stealthily] it's not good for me, now i'm like this. it's upsetting me, charlie. charles. yes; and we won't forget. we'll make 'em pay for it. chloe. it's wretched in a little place like this. i say, must you go on spoiling their home? charles. the woman cuts you and insults you. that's enough for me. chloe. [timidly] let her. i don't care; i can't bear feeling enemies about, charlie, i--get nervous--i---- charles. my dear girl! what is it? [he looks at her intently.] chloe. i suppose it's--being like this. [suddenly] but, charlie, do stop it for my sake. do, do! charles. [patting her arm] come, come; i say, chloe! you're making mountains. see things in proportion. father's paid nine thousand five hundred to get the better of those people, and you want him to chuck it away to save a woman who's insulted you. that's not sense, and it's not business. have some pride. chloe. [breathless] i've got no pride, charlie. i want to be quiet--that's all. charles. well, if the row gets on your nerves, i can take you to the sea. but you ought to enjoy a fight with people like that. chloe. [with calculated bitterness] no, it's nothing, of course-- what i want. charles. hello! hello! you are on the jump! chloe. if you want me to be a good wife to you, make father stop it. charles. [standing up] now, look here, chloe, what's behind this? chloe. [faintly] behind? charles. you're carrying on as if--as if you were really scared! we've got these people: we'll have them out of deepwater in six months. it's absolute ruination to their beastly old house; we'll put the chimneys on the very edge, not three hundred yards off, and our smoke'll be drifting over them half the time. you won't have this confounded stuck-up woman here much longer. and then we can really go ahead and take our proper place. so long as she's here, we shall never do that. we've only to drive on now as fast as we can. chloe. [with a gesture] i see. charles. [again looking at her] if you go on like this, you know, i shall begin to think there's something you---- chloe [softly] charlie! [he comes to her.] love me! charles. [embracing her] there, old girl! i know women are funny at these times. you want a good night, that's all. chloe. you haven't finished dinner, have you? go back, and i'll go to bed quite soon. charlie, don't stop loving me. charles. stop? not much. [while he is again embracing her, anna steals from behind the screen to the door, opens it noiselessly, and passes through, but it clicks as she shuts it.] chloe. [starting violently] oh-h! [he comes to her.] charles. what is it? what is it? you are nervy, my dear. chloe. [looking round with a little laugh] i don't know. go on, charlie. i'll be all right when this head's gone. charles. [stroking her forehead and, looking at her doubtfully] you go to bed; i won't be late coming up. [he turn, and goes, blowing a kiss from the doorway. when he is gone, chloe gets up and stands in precisely the attitude in which she stood at the beginning of the act, thinking, and thinking. and the door is opened, and the face of the maid peers round at her.] curtain act iii scene i hillcrist's study next morning. jill coming from left, looks in at the open french window. jill. [speaking to rolf, invisible] come in here. there's no one. [she goes in. rolf joins her, coming from the garden.] rolf. jill, i just wanted to say--need we? [jill. nodes.] seeing you yesterday--it did seem rotten. jill. we didn't begin it. rolf. no; but you don't understand. if you'd made yourself, as father has---- jill. i hope i should be sorry. rolf. [reproachfully] that isn't like you. really he can't help thinking he's a public benefactor. jill. and we can't help thinking he's a pig. sorry! rolf. if the survival of the fittest is right---- jill. he may be fitter, but he's not going to survive. rolf. [distracted] it looks like it, though. jill. is that all you came to say? rolf. suppose we joined, couldn't we stop it? jill. i don't feel like joining. rolf. we did shake hands. jill. one can't fight and not grow bitter. rolf. i don't feel bitter. jill. wait; you'll feel it soon enough. rolf. why? [attentively] about chloe? i do think your mother's manner to her is---- jill. well? rolf. snobbish. [jill laughs.] she may not be your class; and that's just why it's snobbish. jill. i think you'd better shut up. rolf. what my father said was true; your mother's rudeness to her that day she came here, has made both him and charlie ever so much more bitter. [jill whistles the habanera from "carmen."] [staring at her, rather angrily] is it a whistling matter? jill. no. rolf. i suppose you want me to go? jill. yes. rolf. all right. aren't we ever going to be friends again? jill. [looking steadily at him] i don't expect so. rolf. that's very-horrible. jill. lots of horrible things in the world. rolf. it's our business to make them fewer, jill. jill. [fiercely] don't be moral. rolf. [hurt] that's the last thing i want to be.--i only want to be friendly. jill. better be real first. rolf. from the big point of view---- jill. there isn't any. we're all out, for our own. and why not? rolf. by jove, you have got---- jill. cynical? your father's motto--"every man for himself." that's the winner--hands down. goodbye! rolf. jill! jill! jill. [putting her hands behind her back, hums]-- "if auld acquaintance be forgot and days of auld lang syne"---- rolf. don't! [with a pained gesture he goes out towards left, through the french window.] [jill, who has broken off the song, stands with her hands clenched and her lips quivering.] [fellows enters left.] fellows. mr. dawker, miss, and two gentlemen. jill. let the three gentlemen in, and me out. [she passes him and goes out left. and immediately. dawker and the two strangers come in.] fellows. i'll inform mrs. hillcrist, sir. the squire is on his rounds. [he goes out left.] [the three men gather in a discreet knot at the big bureau, having glanced at the two doors and the open french window.] dawker. now this may come into court, you know. if there's a screw loose anywhere, better mention it. [to second strange] you knew her personally? second s. what do you think? i don't, take girls on trust for that sort of job. she came to us highly recommended, too; and did her work very well. it was a double stunt--to make sure--wasn't it, george? first s. yes; we paid her for the two visits. second s. i should know her in a minute; striking looking girl; had something in her face. daresay she'd seen hard times. first s. we don't want publicity. dawker. not likely. the threat'll do it; but the stakes are heavy --and the man's a slugger; we must be able to push it home. if you can both swear to her, it'll do the trick. second s. and about--i mean, we're losing time, you know, coming down here. dawker. [with a nod at first stranger] george here knows me. that'll be all right. i'll guarantee it well worth your while. second s. i don't want to do the girl harm, if she's married. dawker. no, no; nobody wants to hurt her. we just want a cinch on this fellow till he squeals. [they separate a little as mrs. hillcrist enters from right.] dawker. good morning, ma'am. my friend's partner. hornblower coming? mrs. h. at eleven. i had to send up a second note, dawker. dawker. squire not in? mrs. h. i haven't told him. dawker. [nodding] our friends might go in here [pointing right] and we can use 'em as the want 'em. mrs. h. [to the strangers] will you make yourselves comfortable? [she holds the door open, and they pass her into the room, right.] dawker. [showing document] i've had this drawn and engrossed. pretty sharp work. conveys the centry, and longmeadow; to the squire at four thousand five hundred: now, ma'am, suppose hornblower puts his hand to that, hell have been done in the eye, and six thousand all told out o' pocket.--you'll have a very nasty neighbour here. mrs. h. but we shall still have the power to disclose that secret at any time. dawker. yeh! but things might happen here you could never bring home to him. you can't trust a man like that. he isn't goin' to forgive me, i know. mrs. h. [regarding him keenly] but if he signs, we couldn't honourably---- dawker. no, ma'am, you couldn't; and i'm sure i don't want to do that girl a hurt. i just mention it because, of course, you can't guarantee that it doesn't get out. mrs. h. not absolutely, i suppose. [a look passes between them, which neither of them has quite sanctioned.] [there's his car. it always seems to make more noise than any other.] dawker. he'll kick and flounder--but you leave him to ask what you want, ma'am; don't mention this [he puts the deed back into his pocket]. the centry's no mortal good to him if he's not going to put up works; i should say he'd be glad to save what he can. [mrs. hillcrist inclines her head. fellows enters left.] fellows. [apologetically] mr. hornblower, ma'am; by appointment, he says. mrs. h. quite right, fellows. [hornblower comes in, and fellows goes out.] hornblower. [without salutation] i've come to ask ye point bleak what ye mean by writing me these letters. [he takes out two letters.] and we'll discus it in the presence of nobody, if ye, please. mrs. h. mr. dawker knows all that i know, and more. hornblower. does he? very well! your second note says that my daughter-in-law has lied to me. well, i've brought her, and what ye've got to say--if it's not just a trick to see me again--ye'll say to her face. [he takes a step towards the window.] mrs. h. mr. hornblower, you had better, decide that after hearing what it is--we shall be quite ready to repeat it in her presence; but we want to do as little harm as possible. hornblower. [stopping] oh! ye do! well, what lies have ye been hearin'? or what have ye made up? you and mr. dawker? of course ye know there's a law of libel and slander. i'm, not the man to stop at that. mrs. h. [calmly] are you familiar with the law of divorce, mr. hornblower? hornblower. [taken aback] no, i'm not. that is-----. mrs. h. well, you know that misconduct is required. and i suppose you've heard that cases are arranged. hornblower. i know it's all very shocking--what about it? mrs. h. when cases are arranged, mr. hornblower, the man who is to be divorced often visits an hotel with a strange woman. i am extremely sorry to say that your daughter-in-law, before her marriage, was in the habit of being employed as such a woman. hornblower. ye dreadful creature! dawker. [quickly] all proved, up to the hilt! hornblower. i don't believe a word of it. ye're lyin' to save your skins. how dare ye tell me such monstrosities? dawker, i'll have ye in a criminal court. dawker. rats! you saw a gent with me yesterday? well, he's employed her. hornblower. a put-up job! conspiracy! mrs. h. go and get your daughter-in-law. hornblower. [with the first sensation of being in a net] it's a foul shame--a lying slander! mrs. h. if so, it's easily disproved. go and fetch her. hornblower. [seeing them unmoved] i will. i don't believe a word of it. mrs. h. i hope you are right. [hornblower goes out by the french window, dawker slips to the door right, opens it, and speaks to those within. mrs. hillcrist stands moistening her lips, and passim her handkerchief over them. hornblower returns, preceding chloe, strung up to hardness and defiance.] hornblower. now then, let's have this impudent story torn to rags. chloe. what story? hornblower. that you, my dear, were a woman--it's too shockin--i don't know how to tell ye---- chloe. go on! hornblower. were a woman that went with men, to get them their divorce. chloe. who says that? hornblower. that lady [sneering] there, and her bull-terrier here. chloe. [facing mrs. hillcrist] that's a charitable thing to say, isn't it? mrs. h. is it true? chloe. no. hornblower. [furiously] there! i'll have ye both on your knees to her! dawker. [opening the door, right] come in. [the first stranger comes in. chloe, with a visible effort, turns to face him.] first s. how do you do, mrs. vane? chloe. i don't know you. first s. your memory is bad, ma'am: you knew me yesterday well enough. one day is not a long time, nor are three years. chloe. who are you? first s. come, ma'am, come! the caster case. chloe. i don't know you, i say. [to mrs. hillcrist] how can you be so vile? first s. let me refresh your memory, ma'am. [producing a notebook] just on three years ago; "oct. . to fee and expenses mrs. vane with mr. c----, hotel beaulieu, twenty pounds. oct. , do., twenty pounds." [to hornblower] would you like to glance at this book, sir? you'll see they're genuine entries. [hornblower makes a motion to do so, but checks himself and looks at chloe.] chloe. [hysterically] it's all lies--lies! first s. come, ma'am, we wish you no harm. chloe. take me away. i won't be treated like this. mrs. h. [in a low voice] confess. chloe. lies! hornblower. were ye ever called vane? chloe. no, never. [she makes a movement towards the window, but dawker is in the way, and she halts. first s. [opening the door, right] henry.] [the second stranger comes in quickly. at sight of him chloe throws up her hands, gasps, breaks down, stage left, and stands covering her face with her hands. it is so complete a confession that hornblower stands staggered; and, taking out a coloured handkerchief, wipes his brow.] dawker. are you convinced? hornblower. take those men away. dawker. if you're not satisfied, we can get other evidence; plenty. hornblower. [looking at chloe] that's enough. take them out. leave me alone with her. [dawker takes them out right. mrs. hillcrist passes hornblower and goes out at the window. hornblower moves down a step or two towards chloe.] hornblower. my god! chloe. [with an outburst] don't tell charlie! don't tell charlie! hornblower. chearlie! so, that was your manner of life. [chloe utters a moaning sound.] so that's what ye got out of by marryin' into my family! shame on ye, ye godless thing! chloe. don't tell charlie! hornblower. and that's all ye can say for the wreck ye've wrought. my family, my works, my future! how dared ye! chloe. if you'd been me!---- hornblower. an' these hillcrists. the skin game of it! chloe. [breathless] father! hornblower. don't call me that, woman! chloe. [desperate] i'm going to have a child. hornblower. god! ye are! chloe. your grandchild. for the sake of it, do what these people want; and don't tell anyone--don't tell charlie! hornblower. [again wiping his forehead] a secret between us. i don't know that i can keep it. it's horrible. poor chearlie! chloe. [suddenly fierce] you must keep it, you shall! i won't have him told. don't make me desperate! i can be--i didn't live that life for nothing. hornblower. [staring at her resealed in a new light] ay; ye look a strange, wild woman, as i see ye. and we thought the world of ye! chloe. i love charlie; i'm faithful to him. i can't live without him. you'll never forgive me, i know; but charlie----! [stretching out her hands.] [hornblower makes a bewildered gesture with his large hands.] hornblower. i'm all at sea here. go out to the car and wait for me. [chloe passes him and goes out, left.] [muttering to himself] so i'm down! me enemies put their heels upon me head! ah! but we'll see yet! [he goes up to the window and beckons towards the right.] [mrs. hillcrist comes in.] what d'ye want for this secret? mrs. h. nothing. hornblower. indeed! wonderful!--the trouble ye've taken for-- nothing. mrs. h. if you harm us we shall harm you. any use whatever of the centry. hornblower. for which ye made me pay nine thousand five hundred pounds. mrs. h. we will buy it from you. hornblower. at what price? mrs. h. the centry at the price miss muffins would have taken at first, and longmeadow at the price you--gave us--four thousand five hundred altogether. hornblower. a fine price, and me six thousand out of pocket. na, no! i'll keep it and hold it over ye. ye daren't tell this secret so long as i've got it. mrs. h. no, mr. hornblower. on second thoughts, you must sell. you broke your word over the jackmans. we can't trust you. we would rather have our place here ruined at once, than leave you the power to ruin it as and when you like. you will sell us the centry and longmeadow now, or you know what will happen. hornblower. [writhing] i'll not. it's blackmail. mrs. h. very well then! go your own way and we'll go ours. there is no witness to this conversation. hornblower. [venomously] by heaven, ye're a clever woman. will ye swear by almighty god that you and your family, and that agent of yours, won't breathe a word of this shockin' thing to mortal soul. mrs. h. yes, if you sell. hornblower. where's dawker? mrs. h. [going to the door, right] mr. dawker [dawker comes in.] hornblower. i suppose ye've got your iniquity ready. [dawker grins and produces the document.] it's mighty near conspiracy, this. have ye got a testament? mrs. h. my word will be enough, mr. hornblower. hornblower. ye'll pardon me--i can't make it solemn enough for you. mrs. h. very well; here is a bible. [she takes a small bible from the bookshelf.] dawker. [spreading document on bureau] this is a short conveyance of the centry and longmeadow--recites sale to you by miss mulling, of the first, john hillcrist of the second, and whereas you have agreed for the sale to said john hillcrist, for the sum of four thousand five hundred pounds, in consideration of the said sum, receipt whereof, you hereby acknowledge you do convey all that, etc. sign here. i'll witness. hornblower [to mrs. hillcrist] take that book in your hand, and swear first. i swear by almighty god never to breathe a word of what i know concerning chloe hornblower to any living soul. mrs. h. no, mr. hornblower; you will please sign first. we are not in the habit of breaking our word. [hornblower after a furious look at them, seizes a pen, runs his eye again over the deed, and signs, dawker witnessing.] to that oath, mr. hornblower, we shall add the words, "so long as the hornblower family do us no harm." hornblower. [with a snarl] take it in your hands, both of ye, and together swear. mrs. h. [taking the book] i swear that i will breathe no word of what i know concerning chloe hornblower to any living soul, so long as the hornblower family do us no harm. dawker. i swear that too. mrs. h. i engage for my husband. hornblower. where are those two fellows? dawker. gone. it's no business of theirs. hornblower. it's no business of any of ye what has happened to a woman in the past. ye know that. good-day! [he gives them a deadly look, and goes out, left, followed by dawker.] mrs. h. [with her hand on the deed] safe! [hillcrist enters at the french window, followed by jill.] [holding up the deed] look! he's just gone! i told you it was only necessary to use the threat. he caved in and signed this; we are sworn to say nothing. we've beaten him. [hillcrist studies the deed.] jill. [awed] we saw chloe in the car. how did she take it, mother? mrs. h. denied, then broke down when she saw our witnesses. i'm glad you were not here, jack. jill. [suddenly] i shall go and see her. mrs. h. jill, you will not; you don't know what she's done. jill. i shall. she must be in an awful state. hillcrist. my dear, you can do her no good. jill. i think i can, dodo. mrs. h. you don't understand human nature. we're enemies for life with those people. you're a little donkey if you think anything else. jill. i'm going, all the same. mrs. h. jack, forbid her. hillcrist. [lifting an eyebrow] jill, be reasonable. jill. suppose i'd taken a knock like that, dodo, i'd be glad of friendliness from someone. mrs. h. you never could take a knock like that. jill. you don't know what you can do till you try, mother. hillcrist. let her go, amy. im sorry for that young woman. mrs. h. you'd be sorry for a man who picked your pocket, i believe. hillcrist. i certainly should! deuced little he'd get out of it, when i've paid for the centry. mrs. h. [bitterly] much gratitude i get for saving you both our home! jill. [disarmed] oh! mother, we are grateful. dodo, show your gratitude. hillcrist. well, my dear, it's an intense relief. i'm not good at showing my feelings, as you know. what d'you want me to do? stand on one leg and crow? jill. yes, dodo, yes! mother, hold him while i [suddenly she stops, and all the fun goes out of her] no! i can't--i can't help thinking of her. curtain falls for a minute. scene ii when it rises again, the room is empty and dark, same for moonlight coming in through the french window, which is open. the figure of chloe, in a black cloak, appears outside in the moonlight; she peers in, moves past, comes bank, hesitatingly enters. the cloak, fallen back, reveals a white evening dress; and that magpie figure stands poised watchfully in the dim light, then flaps unhappily left and right, as if she could not keep still. suddenly she stands listening. rolf's voice. [outside] chloe! chloe! [he appears] chloe. [going to the window] what are you doing here? rolf. what are you? i only followed you. chloe. go away. rolf. what's the matter? tell me! chloe. go away, and don't say anything. oh! the roses! [she has put her nose into some roses in a bowl on a big stand close to the window] don't they smell lovely? rolf. what did jill want this afternoon? chloe. i'll tell you nothing. go away! rolf. i don't like leaving you here in this state. chloe. what state? i'm all right. wait for me down in the drive, if you want to. [rolf starts to go, stops, looks at her, and does go. chloe, with a little moaning sound, flutters again, magpie-like, up and down, then stands by the window listening. voices are heard, left. she darts out of the window and away to the right, as hillcrist and jill come in. they have turned up the electric light, and come down in frond of the fireplace, where hillcrist sits in an armchair, and jill on the arm of it. they are in undress evening attire.] hillcrist. now, tell me. jill. there isn't much, dodo. i was in an awful funk for fear i should meet any of the others, and of course i did meet rolf, but i told him some lie, and he took me to her room-boudoir, they call it --isn't boudoir a "dug-out" word? hillcrist. [meditatively] the sulking room. well? jill. she was sitting like this. [she buries her chin in her hands, wide her elbows on her knees] and she said in a sort of fierce way: "what do you want?" and i said: "i'm awfully sorry, but i thought you might like it." hillcrist. well? jill. she looked at me hard, and said: "i suppose you know all about it." and i said: "only vaguely," because of course i don't. and she said: "well, it was decent of you to come." dodo, she looks like a lost soul. what has she done? hillcrist. she committed her real crime when she married young hornblower without telling him. she came out of a certain world to do it. jill. oh! [staring in front of her] is it very awful in that world, dodo? hillcrist. [uneasy] i don't know, jill. some can stand it, i suppose; some can't. i don't know which sort she is. jill. one thing i'm sure of: she's awfully fond of chearlie. hillcrist. that's bad; that's very bad. jill. and she's frightened, horribly. i think she's desperate. hillcrist. women like that are pretty tough, jill; don't judge her too much by your own feelings. jill. no; only----oh! it was beastly; and of course i dried up. hillcrist. [feelingly] h'm! one always does. but perhaps it was as well; you'd have been blundering in a dark passage. jill. i just said: "father and i feel awfully sorry; if there's anything we can do----" hillcrist. that was risky, jill. jill. (disconsolately) i had to say something. i'm glad i went, anyway. i feel more human. hillcrist. we had to fight for our home. i should have felt like a traitor if i hadn't. jill. i'm not enjoying home tonight, dodo. hillcrist. i never could hate proper; it's a confounded nuisance. jill. mother's fearfully' bucked, and dawker's simply oozing triumph. i don't trust him. dodo; he's too--not pugilistic--the other one with a pug-naceous. hillcrist. he is rather. jill. i'm sure he wouldn't care tuppence if chloe committed suicide. hillcrist. [rising uneasily] nonsense! nonsense! jill. i wonder if mother would. hillcrist. [turning his face towards the window] what's that? i thought i heard--[louder]--is these anybody out there? [no answer. jill, springs up and runs to the window.] jill. you! [she dives through to the right, and returns, holding chloe's hand and drawing her forward] come in! it's only us! [to hillcrist] dodo! hillcrist. [flustered, but making a show of courtesy] good evening! won't you sit down? jill. sit down; you're all shaky. [she makes chloe sit down in the armchair, out of which they have risen, then locks the door, and closing the windows, draws the curtains hastily over them.] hillcrist. [awkward and expectant] can i do anything for you? chloe. i couldn't bear it he's coming to ask you---- hillcrist. who? chloe. my husband. [she draws in her breath with a long shudder, then seem to seize her courage in her hands] i've got to be quick. he keeps on asking--he knows there's something. hillcrist. make your mind easy. we shan't tell him. chloe. [appealing] oh! that's not enough. can't you tell him something to put him back to thinking it's all right? i've done him such a wrong. i didn't realise till after--i thought meeting him was just a piece of wonderful good luck, after what i'd been through. i'm not such a bad lot--not really. [she stops from the over-quivering of her lips. jill, standing beside the chair, strokes her shoulder. hillcrist stands very still, painfully biting at a finger.] you see, my father went bankrupt, and i was in a shop---- hillcrist. [soothingly, and to prevent disclosures] yes, yes; yes, yes! chloe. i never gave a man away or did anything i was ashamed of--at least--i mean, i had to make my living in all sorts of ways, and then i met charlie. [again she stopped from the quivering of her lips.] jill. it's all right. chloe. he thought i was respectable, and that was such a relief, you can't think, so--so i let him. jill. dodo! it's awful hillcrist. it is! chloe. and after i married him, you see, i fell in love. if i had before, perhaps i wouldn't have dared only, i don't know--you never know, do you? when there's a straw going, you catch at it. jill. of course you do. chloe. and now, you see, i'm going to have a child. jill. [aghast] oh! are you? hillcrist. good god! chloe. [dully] i've been on hot bricks all this month, ever since that day here. i knew it was in the wind. what gets in the wind never gets out. [she rises and throws out her arms] never! it just blows here and there [desolately] and then--blows home. [her voice changes to resentment] but i've paid for being a fool-- 'tisn't fun, that sort of life, i can tell you. i'm not ashamed and repentant, and all that. if it wasn't for him! i'm afraid he'll never forgive me; it's such a disgrace for him--and then, to have his child! being fond of him, i feel it much worse than anything i ever felt, and that's saying a good bit. it is. jill. [energetically] look here! he simply mustn't find out. chloe. that's it; but it's started, and he's bound to keep on because he knows there's something. a man isn't going to be satisfied when there's something he suspects about his wife, charlie wouldn't never. he's clever, and he's jealous; and he's coming here. [she stops, and looks round wildly, listening.] jill. dodo, what can we say to put him clean off the scent? hillcrist. anything--in reason. chloe. [catching at this straw] you will! you see, i don't know what i'll do. i've got soft, being looked after--he does love me. and if he throws me off, i'll go under--that's all. hillcrist. have you any suggestion? chloe. [eagerly] the only thing is to tell him something positive, something he'll believe, that's not too bad--like my having been a lady clerk with those people who came here, and having been dismissed on suspicion of taking money. i could get him to believe that wasn't true. jill. yes; and it isn't--that's splendid! you'd be able to put such conviction into it. don't you think so, dodo? hillcrist. anything i can. i'm deeply sorry. chloe. thank you. and don't say i've been here, will you? he's very suspicious. you see, he knows that his father has re-sold that land to you; that's what he can't make out--that, and my coming here this morning; he knows something's being kept from him; and he noticed that man with dawker yesterday. and my maid's been spying on me. it's in the air. he puts two and two together. but i've told him there's nothing he need worry about; nothing that's true. hillcrist. what a coil! chloe. i'm very honest and careful about money. so he won't believe that about me, and the old man wants to keep it from charlie, i know. hillcrist. that does seem the best way out. chloe. [with a touch of defiance] i'm a true wife to him. chloe. of course we know that. hillcrist. it's all unspeakably sad. deception's horribly against the grain--but---- chloe. [eagerly] when i deceived him, i'd have deceived god himself--i was so desperate. you've never been right down in the mud. you can't understand what i've been through. hillcrist. yes, yes. i daresay i'd have done the same. i should be the last to judge. [chloe covers her eyes with her hands.] there, there! cheer up! [he puts his hand on her arm.] chloe. [to herself] darling dodo! chloe. [starting] there's somebody at the door. i must go; i must go. [she runs to the window and slips through the curtains.] [the handle of the door is again turned.] jill. [dismayed] oh! it's locked--i forgot. [she spring to the door, unlocks and opens it, while hillcrist goes to the bureau and sits down.] it's all right, fellows; i was only saying something rather important. fellows. [coming in a step or two and closing the door behind him] certainly, miss. mr. charles 'ornblower is in the hall. wants to see you, sir, or mrs. hillcrist. jill. what a bore! can you see him, dodo? hillcrist. er--yes. i suppose so. show him in here, fellows. [as fellows goes out, jill runs to the window, but has no time to do more than adjust the curtains and spring over to stand by her father, before charles comes in. though in evening clothes, he is white and disheveled for so spruce a young mean.] charles. is my wife here? hillcrist. no, sir. charles. has she been? hillcrist. this morning, i believe, jill? jill. yes, she came this morning. charles. [staring at her] i know that--now, i mean? jill. no. [hillcrist shakes has head.] charles. tell me what was said this morning. hillcrist. i was not here this morning. charles. don't try to put me off. i know too much. [to jill] you. jill. shall i, dodo? hillcrist. no; i will. won't you sit down? charles. no. go on. hillcrist. [moistening his lips] it appears, mr. hornblower, that my agent, mr. dawker-- [charles, who is breathing hard, utters a sound of anger.] --that my agent happens to know a firm, who in old days employed your wife. i should greatly prefer not to say any more, especially as we don't believe the story. jill. no; we don't. charles. go on! hillcrist. [getting up] come! if i were you, i should refuse to listen to anything against my wife. charles. go on, i tell you. hillcrist. you insist? well, they say there was some question about the accounts, and your wife left them under a cloud. as i told you, we don't believe it. charles. [passionately] liars! [he makes a rush for the door.] hillcrist. [starting] what did you say? jill. [catching his arm] dodo! [sotto voce] we are, you know. charles. [turning back to them] why do you tell me that lie? when i've just had the truth out of that little scoundrel! my wife's been here; she put you up to it. [the face of chloe is seen transfixed between the curtains, parted by her hands.] she--she put you up to it. liar that she is--a living lie. for three years a living lie! [hillcrist whose face alone is turned towards the curtains, sees that listening face. his hand goes up from uncontrollable emotion.] and hasn't now the pluck to tell me. i've done with her. i won't own a child by such a woman. [with a little sighing sound chloe drops the curtain and vanishes.] hillcrist. for god's sake, man, think of what you're saying. she's in great distress. charles. and what am i? jill. she loves you, you know. charles. pretty love! that scoundrel dawker told me--told me-- horrible! horrible! hillcrist. i deeply regret that our quarrel should have brought this about. charles. [with intense bitterness] yes, you've smashed my life. [unseen by them, mrs. hillcrist has entered and stands by the door, left.] mrs. h. would you have wished to live on in ignorance? [they all turn to look at her.] charles. [with a writhing movement] i don't know. but--you--you did it. mrs. h. you shouldn't have attacked us. charles. what did we do to you--compared with this? mrs. h. all you could. hillcrist. enough, enough! what can we do to help you? charles. tell me where my wife is. [jill draws the curtains apart--the window is open--jill looks out. they wait in silence.] jill. we don't know. charles. then she was here? hillcrist. yes, sir; and she heard you. charles. all the better if she did. she knows how i feel. hillcrist. brace up; be gentle with her. charles. gentle? a woman who--who---- hillcrist. a most unhappy creature. come! charles. damn your sympathy! [he goes out into the moonlight, passing away.] jill. dodo, we ought to look for her; i'm awfully afraid. hillcrist. i saw her there--listening. with child! who knows where things end when they and begin? to the gravel pit, jill; i'll go to the pond. no, we'll go together. [they go out.] [mrs. hillcrist comes down to the fireplace, rings the bell and stands there, thinking. fellows enters.] mrs. h. i want someone to go down to mr. dawker's. fellows. mr. dawker is here, ma'am, waitin' to see you. mrs. h. ask him to come in. oh! and fellows, you can tell the jackmans that they can go back to their cottage. fellows. very good, ma'am. [he goes out.] [mrs. hillcrist searches at the bureau, finds and takes out the deed. dawkers comes in; he has the appearance of a man whose temper has been badly ruffled.] mrs. h. charles hornblower--how did it happen? dawker. he came to me. i said i knew nothing. he wouldn't take it; went for me, abused me up hill and down dale; said he knew everything, and then he began to threaten me. well, i lost my temper, and i told him. mrs. h. that's very serious, dawker, after our promise. my husband is most upset. dawker. [sullenly] it's not my fault, ma'am; he shouldn't have threatened and goaded me on. besides, it's got out that there's a scandal; common talk in the village--not the facts, but quite enough to cook their goose here. they'll have to go. better have done with it, anyway, than have enemies at your door. mrs. h. perhaps; but--oh! dawker, take charge of this. [she hands him the deed] these people are desperate--and--i'm sot sure of my husband when his feelings are worked on. [the sound of a car stopping.] dawker. [at the window, looking to the left] hornblower's, i think. yes, he's getting out. mrs. h. [bracing herself] you'd better wait, then. dawker. he mustn't give me any of his sauce; i've had enough. [the door is opened and hornblower enters, pressing so on the heels of fellows that the announcement of his name is lost.] hornblower. give me that deed! ye got it out of me by false pretences and treachery. ye swore that nothing should be heard of this. why! me own servants know. mrs. h. that has nothing to do with us. your son came and wrenched the knowledge out of mr. dawker by abuse and threats; that is all. you will kindly behave yourself here, or i shall ask that you be shown out. hornblower. give me that deed, i say! [he suddenly turns on dawker] ye little ruffian, i see it in your pocket. [the end indeed is projecting from dawker's breast pocket.] dawker. [seeing red] now, look 'ere, 'ornblower, i stood a deal from your son, and i'll stand no more. hornblower. [to mrs. hillcrist] i'll ruin your place yet! [to dawker] ye give me that deed, or i'll throttle ye. [he closes on dawker, and makes a snatch at the deed. dawker, springs at him, and the two stand swaying, trying for a grip at each other's throats. mrs. hillcrist tries to cross and reach the bell, but is shut off by their swaying struggle.] [suddenly rolf appears in the window, looks wildly at the struggle, and seizes dawker's hands, which have reached hornblower's throat. jill, who is following, rushes up to him and clutches his arm.] jill. rolf! all of you! stop! look! [dawker's hand relaxes, and he is swung round. hornblower staggers and recovers himself, gasping for breath. all turn to the window, outside which in the moonlight hillcrist and charles hornblower have chloe's motionless body in their arms.] in the gravel pit. she's just breathing; that's all. mrs. h. bring her in. the brandy, jill! hornblower. no. take her to the car. stand back, young woman! i want no help from any of ye. rolf--chearlie--take her up. [they lift and bear her away, left. jill follows.] hillcrist, ye've got me beaten and disgraced hereabouts, ye've destroyed my son's married life, and ye've killed my grandchild. i'm not staying in this cursed spot, but if ever i can do you or yours a hurt, i will. dawker. [muttering] that's right. squeal and threaten. you began it. hillcrist. dawker, have the goodness! hornblower, in the presence of what may be death, with all my heart i'm sorry. hornblower. ye hypocrite! [he passes them with a certain dignity, and goes out at the window, following to his car.] [hillcrist who has stood for a moment stock-still, goes slowly forward and sits in his swivel chair.] mrs. h. dawker, please tell fellows to telephone to dr. robinson to go round to the hornblowers at once. [dawker, fingering the deed, and with a noise that sounds like "the cur!" goes out, left.] [at the fireplace] jack! do you blame me? hillcrist. [motionless] no. mrs. h. or dawker? he's done his best. hillcrist. no. mrs. h. [approaching] what is it? hillcrist. hypocrite! [jill comes running in at the window.] jill. dodo, she's moved; she's spoken. it may not be so bad. hillcrist. thank god for that! [fellows enters, left.] fellows. the jackmans, ma'am. hillcrist. who? what's this? [the jackmans have entered, standing close to the door.] mrs. j. we're so glad we can go back, sir--ma'am, we just wanted to thank you. [there is a silence. they see that they are not welcome.] thank you kindly, sir. good night, ma'am. [they shuffle out. ] hillcrist. i'd forgotten their existence. [he gets up] what is it that gets loose when you begin a fight, and makes you what you think you're not? what blinding evil! begin as you may, it ends in this --skin game! skin game! jill. [rushing to him] it's not you, dodo; it's not you, beloved dodo. hillcrist. it is me. for i am, or should be, master in this house! mrs. h. i don't understand. hillcrist. when we began this fight, we had clean hands--are they clean' now? what's gentility worth if it can't stand fire? curtain from the series of six short plays contents: the first and the last the little man hall-marked defeat the sun punch and go the first and the last a drama in three scenes persons of the play keith darrant, k.c. larry darrant, his brother. wanda. scene i. keith's study. scene ii. wanda's room. scene iii. the same. between scene i. and scene ii.--thirty hours. between scene ii. and scene iii.--two months. scene i it is six o'clock of a november evening, in keith darrant's study. a large, dark-curtained room where the light from a single reading-lamp falling on turkey carpet, on books beside a large armchair, on the deep blue-and-gold coffee service, makes a sort of oasis before a log fire. in red turkish slippers and an old brown velvet coat, keith darrant sits asleep. he has a dark, clean-cut, clean-shaven face, dark grizzling hair, dark twisting eyebrows. [the curtained door away out in the dim part of the room behind him is opened so softly that he does not wake. larry darrant enters and stands half lost in the curtain over the door. a thin figure, with a worn, high cheek-boned face, deep-sunk blue eyes and wavy hair all ruffled--a face which still has a certain beauty. he moves inwards along the wall, stands still again and utters a gasping sigh. keith stirs in his chair.] keith. who's there? larry. [in a stifled voice] only i--larry. keith. [half-waked] come in! i was asleep. [he does not turn his head, staring sleepily at the fire.] the sound of larry's breathing can be heard. [turning his head a little] well, larry, what is it? larry comes skirting along the wall, as if craving its support, outside the radius of the light. [staring] are you ill? larry stands still again and heaves a deep sigh. keith. [rising, with his back to the fire, and staring at his brother] what is it, man? [then with a brutality born of nerves suddenly ruffled] have you committed a murder that you stand there like a fish? larry. [in a whisper] yes, keith. keith. [with vigorous disgust] by jove! drunk again! [in a voice changed by sudden apprehension] what do you mean by coming here in this state? i told you---- if you weren't my brother----! come here, where i can we you! what's the matter with you, larry? [with a lurch larry leaves the shelter of the wall and sinks into a chair in the circle of light.] larry. it's true. [keith steps quickly forward and stares down into his brother's eyes, where is a horrified wonder, as if they would never again get on terms with his face.] keith. [angry, bewildered-in a low voice] what in god's name is this nonsense? [he goes quickly over to the door and draws the curtain aside, to see that it is shut, then comes back to larry, who is huddling over the fire.] come, larry! pull yourself together and drop exaggeration! what on earth do you mean? larry. [in a shrill outburst] it's true, i tell you; i've killed a man. keith. [bracing himself; coldly] be quiet! larry lifts his hands and wrings them. [utterly taken aback] why come here and tell me this? larry. whom should i tell, keith? i came to ask what i'm to do-- give myself up, or what? keith. when--when--what----? larry. last night. keith. good god! how? where? you'd better tell me quietly from the beginning. here, drink this coffee; it'll clear your head. he pours out and hands him a cup of coffee. larry drinks it off. larry. my head! yes! it's like this, keith--there's a girl---- keith. women! always women, with you! well? larry. a polish girl. she--her father died over here when she was sixteen, and left her all alone. there was a mongrel living in the same house who married her--or pretended to. she's very pretty, keith. he left her with a baby coming. she lost it, and nearly starved. then another fellow took her on, and she lived with him two years, till that brute turned up again and made her go back to him. he used to beat her black and blue. he'd left her again when--i met her. she was taking anybody then. [he stops, passes his hand over his lips, looks up at keith, and goes on defiantly] i never met a sweeter woman, or a truer, that i swear. woman! she's only twenty now! when i went to her last night, that devil had found her out again. he came for me--a bullying, great, hulking brute. look! [he touches a dark mark on his forehead] i took his ugly throat, and when i let go--[he stops and his hands drop.] keith. yes? larry. [in a smothered voice] dead, keith. i never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him--to h-help me. [again he wrings his hands.] keith. [in a hard, dry voice] what did you do then? larry. we--we sat by it a long time. keith. well? larry. then i carried it on my back down the street, round a corner, to an archway. keith. how far? larry. about fifty yards. keith. was--did anyone see? larry. no. keith. what time? larry. three in the morning. keith. and then? larry. went back to her. keith. why--in heaven's name? larry. she way lonely and afraid. so was i, keith. keith. where is this place? larry. forty-two borrow square, soho. keith. and the archway? larry. corner of glove lane. keith. good god! why, i saw it in the paper this morning. they were talking of it in the courts! [he snatches the evening paper from his armchair, and runs it over anal reads] here it is again. "body of a man was found this morning under an archway in glove lane. from marks about the throat grave suspicion of foul play are entertained. the body had apparently been robbed." my god! [suddenly he turns] you saw this in the paper and dreamed it. d'you understand, larry?--you dreamed it. larry. [wistfully] if only i had, keith! [keith makes a movement of his hands almost like his brother's.] keith. did you take anything from the-body? larry. [drawing au envelope from his pocket] this dropped out while we were struggling. keith. [snatching it and reading] "patrick walenn"--was that his name? "simon's hotel, farrier street, london." [stooping, he puts it in the fire] no!--that makes me----[he bends to pluck it out, stays his hand, and stamps it suddenly further in with his foot] what in god's name made you come here and tell me? don't you know i'm--i'm within an ace of a judgeship? larry. [simply] yes. you must know what i ought to do. i didn't, mean to kill him, keith. i love the girl--i love her. what shall i do? keith. love! larry. [in a flash] love!--that swinish brute! a million creatures die every day, and not one of them deserves death as he did. but but i feel it here. [touching his heart] such an awful clutch, keith. help me if you can, old man. i may be no good, but i've never hurt a fly if i could help it. [he buries his face in his hands.] keith. steady, larry! let's think it out. you weren't seen, you say? larry. it's a dark place, and dead night. keith. when did you leave the girl again? larry. about seven. keith. where did you go? larry. to my rooms. keith. to fitzroy street? larry. yes. keith. what have you done since? larry. sat there--thinking. keith. not been out? larry. no. keith. not seen the girl? [larry shakes his head.] will she give you away? larry. never. keith. or herself hysteria? larry. no. keith. who knows of your relations with her? larry. no one. keith. no one? larry. i don't know who should, keith. keith. did anyone see you go in last night, when you first went to her? larry. no. she lives on the ground floor. i've got keys. keith. give them to me. larry takes two keys from his pocket and hands them to his brother. larry. [rising] i can't be cut off from her! keith. what! a girl like that? larry. [with a flash] yes, a girl like that. keith. [moving his hand to put down old emotion] what else have you that connects you with her? larry. nothing. keith. in your rooms? [larry shakes his head.] photographs? letters? larry. no. keith. sure? larry. nothing. keith. no one saw you going back to her? [larry shakes his head. ] nor leave in the morning? you can't be certain. larry. i am. keith. you were fortunate. sit down again, man. i must think. he turns to the fire and leans his elbows on the mantelpiece and his head on his hands. larry sits down again obediently. keith. it's all too unlikely. it's monstrous! larry. [sighing it out] yes. keith. this walenn--was it his first reappearance after an absence? larry. yes. keith. how did he find out where she was? larry. i don't know. keith. [brutally] how drunk were you? larry. i was not drunk. keith. how much had you drunk, then? larry. a little claret--nothing! keith. you say you didn't mean to kill him. larry. god knows. keith. that's something. larry. he hit me. [he holds up his hands] i didn't know i was so strong. keith. she was hanging on to him, you say?--that's ugly. larry. she was scared for me. keith. d'you mean she--loves you? larry. [simply] yes, keith. keith. [brutally] can a woman like that love? larry. [flashing out] by god, you are a stony devil! why not? keith. [dryly] i'm trying to get at truth. if you want me to help, i must know everything. what makes you think she's fond of you? larry. [with a crazy laugh] oh, you lawyer! were you never in a woman's arms? keith. i'm talking of love. larry. [fiercely] so am i. i tell you she's devoted. did you ever pick up a lost dog? well, she has the lost dog's love for me. and i for her; we picked each other up. i've never felt for another woman what i feel for her--she's been the saving of me! keith. [with a shrug] what made you choose that archway? larry. it was the first dark place. keith. did his face look as if he'd been strangled? larry. don't! keith. did it? [larry bows his head.] very disfigured? larry. yes. keith. did you look to see if his clothes were marked? larry. no. keith. why not? larry. [in an outburst] i'm not made of iron, like you. why not? if you had done it----! keith. [holding up his hand] you say he was disfigured. would he be recognisable? larry. [wearily] i don't know. keith. when she lived with him last--where was that? larry. in pimlico, i think. keith. not soho? [larry shakes his head.] how long has she been at this soho place? larry. nearly a year. keith. living this life? larry. till she met me. keith. till, she met you? and you believe----? larry. [starting up] keith! keith. [again raising his hand] always in the same rooms? larry. [subsiding] yes. keith. what was he? a professional bully? [larry nods.] spending most of his time abroad, i suppose. larry. i think so. keith. can you say if he was known to the police? larry. i've never heard. keith turns away and walks up and down; then, stopping at larry's chair, he speaks. keith. now listen, larry. when you leave here, go straight home, and stay there till i give you leave to go out again. promise. larry. i promise. keith. is your promise worth anything? larry. [with one of his flashes] "unstable as water, he shall not excel!" keith. exactly. but if i'm to help you, you must do as i say. i must have time to think this out. have you got money? larry. very little. keith. [grimly] half-quarter day--yes, your quarter's always spent by then. if you're to get away--never mind, i can manage the money. larry. [humbly] you're very good, keith; you've always been very good to me--i don't know why. keith. [sardonically] privilege of a brother. as it happens, i'm thinking of myself and our family. you can't indulge yourself in killing without bringing ruin. my god! i suppose you realise that you've made me an accessory after the fact--me, king's counsel--sworn to the service of the law, who, in a year or two, will have the trying of cases like yours! by heaven, larry, you've surpassed yourself! larry. [bringing out a little box] i'd better have done with it. kerra. you fool! give that to me. larry. [with a strange smite] no. [he holds up a tabloid between finger and thumb] white magic, keith! just one--and they may do what they like to you, and you won't know it. snap your fingers at all the tortures. it's a great comfort! have one to keep by you? keith. come, larry! hand it over. larry. [replacing the box] not quite! you've never killed a man, you see. [he gives that crazy laugh.] d'you remember that hammer when we were boys and you riled me, up in the long room? i had luck then. i had luck in naples once. i nearly killed a driver for beating his poor brute of a horse. but now--! my god! [he covers his face.] keith touched, goes up and lays a hand on his shoulder. keith. come, larry! courage! larry looks up at him. larry. all right, keith; i'll try. keith. don't go out. don't drink. don't talk. pull yourself together! larry. [moving towards the door] don't keep me longer than you can help, keith. keith. no, no. courage! larry reaches the door, turns as if to say something-finds no words, and goes. [to the fire] courage! my god! i shall need it! curtain scene ii at out eleven o'clock the following night an wanda's room on the ground floor in soho. in the light from one close-shaded electric bulb the room is but dimly visible. a dying fire burns on the left. a curtained window in the centre of the back wall. a door on the right. the furniture is plush-covered and commonplace, with a kind of shabby smartness. a couch, without back or arms, stands aslant, between window and fire. [on this wanda is sitting, her knees drawn up under her, staring at the embers. she has on only her nightgown and a wrapper over it; her bare feet are thrust into slippers. her hands are crossed and pressed over her breast. she starts and looks up, listening. her eyes are candid and startled, her face alabaster pale, and its pale brown hair, short and square-cut, curls towards her bare neck. the startled dark eyes and the faint rose of her lips are like colour-staining on a white mask.] [footsteps as of a policeman, very measured, pass on the pavement outside, and die away. she gets up and steals to the window, draws one curtain aside so that a chink of the night is seen. she opens the curtain wider, till the shape of a bare, witch-like tree becomes visible in the open space of the little square on the far side of the road. the footsteps are heard once more coming nearer. wanda closes the curtains and cranes back. they pass and die again. she moves away and looking down at the floor between door and couch, as though seeing something there; shudders; covers her eyes; goes back to the couch and down again just as before, to stare at the embers. again she is startled by noise of the outer door being opened. she springs up, runs and turns the light by a switch close to the door. by the glimmer of the fire she can just be seen standing by the dark window-curtains, listening. there comes the sound of subdued knocking on her door. she stands in breathless terror. the knocking is repeated. the sound of a latchkey in the door is heard. her terror leaves her. the door opens; a man enters in a dark, fur overcoat.] wanda. [in a voice of breathless relief, with a rather foreign accent] oh! it's you, larry! why did you knock? i was so frightened. come in! [she crosses quickly, and flings her arms round his neck] [recoiling--in a terror-stricken whisper] oh! who is it? keith. [in a smothered voice] a friend of larry's. don't be frightened. she has recoiled again to the window; and when he finds the switch and turns the light up, she is seen standing there holding her dark wrapper up to her throat, so that her face has an uncanny look of being detached from the body. [gently] you needn't be afraid. i haven't come to do you harm-- quite the contrary. [holding up the keys] larry wouldn't have given me these, would he, if he hadn't trusted me? wanda does not move, staring like a spirit startled out of the flesh. [after looking round him] i'm sorry to have startled you. wanda. [in a whisper] who are you, please? keith. larry's brother. wanda, with a sigh of utter relief, steals forward to the couch and sinks down. keith goes up to her. he'd told me. wanda. [clasping her hands round her knees.] yes? keith. an awful business! wanda. yes; oh, yes! awful--it is awful! keith. [staring round him again.] in this room? wanda. just where you are standing. i see him now, always falling. keith. [moved by the gentle despair in her voice] you--look very young. what's your name? wanda. wanda. keith. are you fond of larry? wanda. i would die for him! [a moment's silence.] keith. i--i've come to see what you can do to save him. wanda, [wistfully] you would not deceive me. you are really his brother? keith. i swear it. wanda. [clasping her hands] if i can save him! won't you sit down? keith. [drawing up a chair and sitting] this, man, your--your husband, before he came here the night before last--how long since you saw him? wanda. eighteen month. keith. does anyone about here know you are his wife? wanda. no. i came here to live a bad life. nobody know me. i am quite alone. keith. they've discovered who he was--you know that? wanda. no; i have not dared to go out. keith: well, they have; and they'll look for anyone connected with him, of course. wanda. he never let people think i was married to him. i don't know if i was--really. we went to an office and signed our names; but he was a wicked man. he treated many, i think, like me. keith. did my brother ever see him before? wanda. never! and that man first went for him. keith. yes. i saw the mark. have you a servant? wanda. no. a woman come at nine in the morning for an hour. keith. does she know larry? wanda. no. he is always gone. keith. friends--acquaintances? wanda. no; i am verree quiet. since i know your brother, i see no one, sare. keith. [sharply] do you mean that? wanda. oh, yes! i love him. nobody come here but him for a long time now. keith. how long? wanda. five month. keith. so you have not been out since----? [wanda shakes her head.] what have you been doing? wanda. [simply] crying. [pressing her hands to her breast] he is in danger because of me. i am so afraid for him. keith. [checking her emotion] look at me. [she looks at him.] if the worst comes, and this man is traced to you, can you trust yourself not to give larry away? wanda. [rising and pointing to the fire] look! i have burned all the things he have given me--even his picture. now i have nothing from him. keith. [who has risen too] good! one more question. do the police know you--because--of your life? [she looks at him intently, and shakes her, head.] you know where larry lives? wanda. yes. keith. you mustn't go there, and he mustn't come to you. [she bows her head; then, suddenly comes close to him.] wanda. please do not take him from me altogether. i will be so careful. i will not do anything to hurt him. but if i cannot see him sometimes, i shall die. please do not take him from me. [she catches his hand and presses it desperately between her own.] keith. leave that to me. i'm going to do all i can. wanda. [looking up into his face] but you will be kind? suddenly she bends and kisses his hand. keith draws his hand away, and she recoils a little humbly, looking up at him again. suddenly she stands rigid, listening. [in a whisper] listen! someone--out there! she darts past him and turns out the light. there is a knock on the door. they are now close together between door and window. [whispering] oh! who is it? keith. [under his breath] you said no one comes but larry. wanda. yes, and you have his keys. oh! if it is larry! i must open! keith shrinks back against the wall. wanda goes to the door. [opening the door an inch] yes? please? who? a thin streak of light from a bull's-eye lantern outside plays over the wall. a policeman's voice says: "all right, miss. your outer door's open. you ought to keep it shut after dark, you know." wanda. thank you, air. [the sound of retreating footsteps, of the outer door closing. wanda shuts the door.] a policeman! keith. [moving from the wall] curse! i must have left that door. [suddenly-turning up the light] you told me they didn't know you. wanda. [sighing] i did not think they did, sir. it is so long i was not out in the town; not since i had larry. keith gives her an intent look, then crosses to the fire. he stands there a moment, looking down, then turns to the girl, who has crept back to the couch. keith. [half to himself] after your life, who can believe---? look here! you drifted together and you'll drift apart, you know. better for him to get away and make a clean cut of it. wanda. [uttering a little moaning sound] oh, sir! may i not love, because i have been bad? i was only sixteen when that man spoiled me. if you knew---- keith. i'm thinking of larry. with you, his danger is much greater. there's a good chance as things are going. you may wreck it. and for what? just a few months more of--well--you know. wanda. [standing at the head of the couch and touching her eyes with her hands] oh, sir! look! it is true. he is my life. don't take him away from me. keith. [moved and restless] you must know what larry is. he'll never stick to you. wanda. [simply] he will, sir. keith. [energetically] the last man on earth to stick to anything! but for the sake of a whim he'll risk his life and the honour of all his family. i know him. wanda. no, no, you do not. it is i who know him. keith. now, now! at any moment they may find out your connection with that man. so long as larry goes on with you, he's tied to this murder, don't you see? wanda. [coming close to him] but he love me. oh, sir! he love me! keith. larry has loved dozens of women. wanda. yes, but----[her face quivers]. keith. [brusquely] don't cry! if i give you money, will you disappear, for his sake? wanda. [with a moan] it will be in the water, then. there will be no cruel men there. keith. ah! first larry, then you! come now. it's better for you both. a few months, and you'll forget you ever met. wanda. [looking wildly up] i will go if larry say i must. but not to live. no! [simply] i could not, sir. [keith, moved, is silent.] i could not live without larry. what is left for a girl like me-- when she once love? it is finish. keith. i don't want you to go back to that life. wanda. no; you do not care what i do. why should you? i tell you i will go if larry say i must. keith. that's not enough. you know that. you must take it out of his hands. he will never give up his present for the sake of his future. if you're as fond of him as you say, you'll help to save him. wanda. [below her breath] yes! oh, yes! but do not keep him long from me--i beg! [she sinks to the floor and clasps his knees.] keith. well, well! get up. [there is a tap on the window-pane] listen! [a faint, peculiar whistle. ] wanda. [springing up] larry! oh, thank god! [she runs to the door, opens it, and goes out to bring him in. keith stands waiting, facing the open doorway.] [larry entering with wanda just behind him.] larry. keith! keith. [grimly] so much for your promise not to go out! larry. i've been waiting in for you all day. i couldn't stand it any longer. keith. exactly! larry. well, what's the sentence, brother? transportation for life and then to be fined forty pounds'? keith. so you can joke, can you? larry. must. keith. a boat leaves for the argentine the day after to-morrow; you must go by it. larry. [putting his arms round wanda, who is standing motionless with her eyes fixed on him] together, keith? keith. you can't go together. i'll send her by the next boat. larry. swear? keith. yes. you're lucky they're on a false scent. larry. what? keith. you haven't seen it? larry. i've seen nothing, not even a paper. keith. they've taken up a vagabond who robbed the body. he pawned a snake-shaped ring, and they identified this walenn by it. i've been down and seen him charged myself. larry. with murder? wanda. [faintly] larry! keith. he's in no danger. they always get the wrong man first. it'll do him no harm to be locked up a bit--hyena like that. better in prison, anyway, than sleeping out under archways in this weather. larry. what was he like, keith? keith. a little yellow, ragged, lame, unshaven scarecrow of a chap. they were fools to think he could have had the strength. larry. what! [in an awed voice] why, i saw him--after i left you last night. keith. you? where? larry. by the archway. keith. you went back there? larry. it draws you, keith. kerra. you're mad, i think. larry. i talked to him, and he said, "thank you for this little chat. it's worth more than money when you're down." little grey man like a shaggy animal. and a newspaper boy came up and said: "that's right, guv'nors! 'ere's where they found the body--very spot. they 'yn't got 'im yet." [he laughs; and the terrified girl presses herself against him.] an innocent man! keith. he's in no danger, i tell you. he could never have strangled----why, he hadn't the strength of a kitten. now, larry! i'll take your berth to-morrow. here's money [he brings out a pile of notes and puts them on the couch] you can make a new life of it out there together presently, in the sun. larry. [in a whisper] in the sun! "a cup of wine and thou." [suddenly] how can i, keith? i must see how it goes with that poor devil. keith. bosh! dismiss it from your mind; there's not nearly enough evidence. larry. not? keith. no. you've got your chance. take it like a man. larry. [with a strange smile--to the girl] shall we, wanda? wanda. oh, larry! larry. [picking the notes up from the couch] take them back, keith. keith. what! i tell you no jury would convict; and if they did, no judge would hang. a ghoul who can rob a dead body, ought to be in prison. he did worse than you. larry. it won't do, keith. i must see it out. keith. don't be a fool! larry. i've still got some kind of honour. if i clear out before i know, i shall have none--nor peace. take them, keith, or i'll put them in the fire. keith. [taking back the notes; bitterly] i suppose i may ask you not to be entirely oblivious of our name. or is that unworthy of your honour? larry. [hanging his head] i'm awfully sorry, keith; awfully sorry, old man. keith. [sternly] you owe it to me--to our name--to our dead mother --to do nothing anyway till we see what happens. larry. i know. i'll do nothing without you, keith. keith. [taking up his hat] can i trust you? [he stares hard at his brother.] larry. you can trust me. keith. swear? larry. i swear. keith. remember, nothing! good night! larry. good night! keith goes. larry sits down on the couch sand stares at the fire. the girl steals up and slips her arms about him. larry. an innocent man! wanda. oh, larry! but so are you. what did we want--to kill that man? never! oh! kiss me! [larry turns his face. she kisses his lips.] i have suffered so--not seein' you. don't leave me again--don't! stay here. isn't it good to be together?--oh! poor larry! how tired you look!--stay with me. i am so frightened all alone. so frightened they will take you from me. larry. poor child! wanda. no, no! don't look like that! larry. you're shivering. wanda. i will make up the fire. love me, larry! i want to forget. larry. the poorest little wretch on god's earth--locked up--for me! a little wild animal, locked up. there he goes, up and down, up and down--in his cage--don't you see him?--looking for a place to gnaw his way through--little grey rat. [he gets up and roams about.] wanda. no, no! i can't bear it! don't frighten me more! [he comes back and takes her in his arms.] larry. there, there! [he kisses her closed eyes.] wanda. [without moving] if we could sleep a little--wouldn't it be nice? larry. sleep? wanda. [raising herself] promise to stay with me--to stay here for good, larry. i will cook for you; i will make you so comfortable. they will find him innocent. and then--oh, larry! in the sun-right away--far from this horrible country. how lovely! [trying to get him to look at her] larry! larry. [with a movement to free 'himself] to the edge of the world-and---over! wanda. no, no! no, no! you don't want me to die, larry, do you? i shall if you leave me. let us be happy! love me! larry. [with a laugh] ah! let's be happy and shut out the sight of him. who cares? millions suffer for no mortal reason. let's be strong, like keith. no! i won't leave you, wanda. let's forget everything except ourselves. [suddenly] there he goes-up and down! wanda. [moaning] no, no! see! i will pray to the virgin. she will pity us! she falls on her knees and clasps her hands, praying. her lips move. larry stands motionless, with arms crossed, and on his face are yearning and mockery, love and despair. larry. [whispering] pray for us! bravo! pray away! [suddenly the girl stretches out her arms and lifts her face with a look of ecstasy.] what? wanda. she is smiling! we shall be happy soon. larry. [bending down over her] poor child! when we die, wanda, let's go together. we should keep each other warm out in the dark. wanda. [raising her hands to his face] yes! oh, yes! if you die i could not--i could not go on living! curtain scene iii. two months later wanda's room. daylight is just beginning to fail of a january afternoon. the table is laid for supper, with decanters of wine. wanda is standing at the window looking out at the wintry trees of the square beyond the pavement. a newspaper boy's voice is heard coming nearer. voice. pyper! glove lyne murder! trial and verdict! [receding] verdict! pyper! wanda throws up the window as if to call to him, checks herself, closes it and runs to the door. she opens it, but recoils into the room. keith is standing there. he comes in. keith. where's larry? wanda. he went to the trial. i could not keep him from it. the trial--oh! what has happened, sir? keith. [savagely] guilty! sentence of death! fools!--idiots! wanda. of death! [for a moment she seems about to swoon.] keith. girl! girl! it may all depend on you. larry's still living here? wanda. yes. keith. i must wait for him. wanda. will you sit down, please? keith. [shaking his head] are you ready to go away at any time? wanda. yes, yes; always i am ready. keith. and he? wanda. yes--but now! what will he do? that poor man! keith. a graveyard thief--a ghoul! wanda. perhaps he was hungry. i have been hungry: you do things then that you would not. larry has thought of him in prison so much all these weeks. oh! what shall we do now? keith. listen! help me. don't let larry out of your sight. i must see how things go. they'll never hang this wretch. [he grips her arms] now, we must stop larry from giving himself up. he's fool enough. d'you understand? wanda. yes. but why has he not come in? oh! if he have, already! keith. [letting go her arms] my god! if the police come--find me here--[he moves to the door] no, he wouldn't without seeing you first. he's sure to come. watch him like a lynx. don't let him go without you. wanda. [clasping her hands on her breast] i will try, sir. keith. listen! [a key is heard in the lock.] it's he! larry enters. he is holding a great bunch of pink lilies and white narcissus. his face tells nothing. keith looks from him to the girl, who stands motionless. larry. keith! so you've seen? keith. the thing can't stand. i'll stop it somehow. but you must give me time, larry. larry. [calmly] still looking after your honour, keith! keith. [grimly] think my reasons what you like. wanda. [softly] larry! [larry puts his arm round her.] larry. sorry, old man. keith. this man can and shall get off. i want your solemn promise that you won't give yourself up, nor even go out till i've seen you again. larry. i give it. keith. [looking from one to the other] by the memory of our mother, swear that. larry. [with a smile] i swear. keith. i have your oath--both of you--both of you. i'm going at once to see what can be done. larry. [softly] good luck, brother. keith goes out. wanda. [putting her hands on larry's breast] what does it mean? larry. supper, child--i've had nothing all day. put these lilies in water. [she takes the lilies and obediently puts them into a vase. larry pours wine into a deep-coloured glass and drinks it off.] we've had a good time, wanda. best time i ever had, these last two months; and nothing but the bill to pay. wanda. [clasping him desperately] oh, larry! larry! larry. [holding her away to look at her.] take off those things and put on a bridal garment. wanda. promise me--wherever you go, i go too. promise! larry, you think i haven't seen, all these weeks. but i have seen everything; all in your heart, always. you cannot hide from me. i knew--i knew! oh, if we might go away into the sun! oh! larry--couldn't we? [she searches his eyes with hers--then shuddering] well! if it must be dark--i don't care, if i may go in your arms. in prison we could not be together. i am ready. only love me first. don't let me cry before i go. oh! larry, will there be much pain? larry. [in a choked voice] no pain, my pretty. wanda. [with a little sigh] it is a pity. larry. if you had seen him, as i have, all day, being tortured. wanda,--we shall be out of it. [the wine mounting to his head] we shall be free in the dark; free of their cursed inhumanities. i hate this world--i loathe it! i hate its god-forsaken savagery; its pride and smugness! keith's world--all righteous will-power and success. we're no good here, you and i--we were cast out at birth--soft, will-less--better dead. no fear, keith! i'm staying indoors. [he pours wine into two glasses] drink it up! [obediently wanda drinks, and he also.] now go and make yourself beautiful. wanda. [seizing him in her arms] oh, larry! larry. [touching her face and hair] hanged by the neck until he's dead--for what i did. [wanda takes a long look at his face, slips her arms from him, and goes out through the curtains below the fireplace.] [larry feels in his pocket, brings out the little box, opens it, fingers the white tabloids.] larry. two each--after food. [he laughs and puts back the box] oh! my girl! [the sound of a piano playing a faint festive tune is heard afar off. he mutters, staring at the fire.] [flames-flame, and flicker-ashes.] "no more, no more, the moon is dead, and all the people in it." [he sits on the couch with a piece of paper on his knees, adding a few words with a stylo pen to what is already written.] [the girl, in a silk wrapper, coming back through the curtains, watches him.] larry. [looking up] it's all here--i've confessed. [reading] "please bury us together." "laurence darrant. "january th, about six p.m." they'll find us in the morning. come and have supper, my dear love. [the girl creeps forward. he rises, puts his arm round her, and with her arm twined round him, smiling into each other's faces, they go to the table and sit down.] the curtain falls for a few seconds to indicate the passage of three hours. when it rises again, the lovers are lying on the couch, in each other's arms, the lilies stream about them. the girl's bare arm is round larry's neck. her eyes are closed; his are open and sightless. there is no light but fire-light. a knocking on the door and the sound of a key turned in the lock. keith enters. he stands a moment bewildered by the half-light, then calls sharply: "larry!" and turns up the light. seeing the forms on the couch, he recoils a moment. then, glancing at the table and empty decanters, goes up to the couch. keith. [muttering] asleep! drunk! ugh! [suddenly he bends, touches larry, and springs back.] what! [he bends again, shakes him and calls] larry! larry! [then, motionless, he stares down at his brother's open, sightless eyes. suddenly he wets his finger and holds it to the girl's lips, then to larry's.] [he bends and listens at their hearts; catches sight of the little box lying between them and takes it up.] my god! [then, raising himself, he closes his brother's eyes, and as he does so, catches sight of a paper pinned to the couch; detaches it and reads:] "i, lawrence darrant, about to die by my own hand confess that i----" [he reads on silently, in horror; finishes, letting the paper drop, and recoils from the couch on to a chair at the dishevelled supper table. aghast, he sits there. suddenly he mutters:] if i leave that there--my name--my whole future! [he springs up, takes up the paper again, and again reads.] my god! it's ruin! [he makes as if to tear it across, stops, and looks down at those two; covers his eyes with his hand; drops the paper and rushes to the door. but he stops there and comes back, magnetised, as it were, by that paper. he takes it up once more and thrusts it into his pocket.] [the footsteps of a policeman pass, slow and regular, outside. his face crisps and quivers; he stands listening till they die away. then he snatches the paper from his pocket, and goes past the foot of the couch to the fore.] all my----no! let him hang! [he thrusts the paper into the fire, stamps it down with his foot, watches it writhe and blacken. then suddenly clutching his head, he turns to the bodies on the couch. panting and like a man demented, he recoils past the head of the couch, and rushing to the window, draws the curtains and throws the window up for air. out in the darkness rises the witch-like skeleton tree, where a dark shape seems hanging. keith starts back.] what's that? what----! [he shuts the window and draws the dark curtains across it again.] fool! nothing! [clenching his fists, he draws himself up, steadying himself with all his might. then slowly he moves to the door, stands a second like a carved figure, his face hard as stone.] [deliberately he turns out the light, opens the door, and goes.] [the still bodies lie there before the fire which is licking at the last blackened wafer.] curtain the little man a farcical morality in three scenes characters the little man. the american. the englishman. the englishwoman. the german. the dutch boy. the mother. the baby. the waiter. the station official. the policeman. the porter. scene i afternoon, on the departure platform of an austrian railway station. at several little tables outside the buffet persons are taking refreshment, served by a pale young waiter. on a seat against the wall of the buffet a woman of lowly station is sitting beside two large bundles, on one of which she has placed her baby, swathed in a black shawl. waiter. [approaching a table whereat sit an english traveller and his wife] two coffee? englishman. [paying] thanks. [to his wife, in an oxford voice] sugar? englishwoman. [in a cambridge voice] one. american traveller. [with field-glasses and a pocket camera from another table] waiter, i'd like to have you get my eggs. i've been sitting here quite a while. waiter. yes, sare. german traveller. 'kellner, bezahlen'! [his voice is, like his moustache, stiff and brushed up at the ends. his figure also is stiff and his hair a little grey; clearly once, if not now, a colonel.] waiter. 'komm' gleich'! [the baby on the bundle wails. the mother takes it up to soothe it. a young, red-cheeked dutchman at the fourth table stops eating and laughs.] american. my eggs! get a wiggle on you! waiter. yes, sare. [he rapidly recedes.] [a little man in a soft hat is seen to the right of tables. he stands a moment looking after the hurrying waiter, then seats himself at the fifth table.] englishman. [looking at his watch] ten minutes more. englishwoman. bother! american. [addressing them] 'pears as if they'd a prejudice against eggs here, anyway. [the english look at him, but do not speak. ] german. [in creditable english] in these places man can get nothing. [the waiter comes flying back with a compote for the dutch youth, who pays.] german. 'kellner, bezahlen'! waiter. 'eine krone sechzig'. [the german pays.] american. [rising, and taking out his watch--blandly] see here. if i don't get my eggs before this watch ticks twenty, there'll be another waiter in heaven. waiter. [flying] 'komm' gleich'! american. [seeking sympathy] i'm gettin' kind of mad! [the englishman halves his newspaper and hands the advertisement half to his wife. the baby wails. the mother rocks it.] [the dutch youth stops eating and laughs. the german lights a cigarette. the little man sits motionless, nursing his hat. the waiter comes flying back with the eggs and places them before the american.] american. [putting away his watch] good! i don't like trouble. how much? [he pays and eats. the waiter stands a moment at the edge of the platform and passes his hand across his brow. the little man eyes him and speaks gently.] little man. herr ober! [the waiter turns.] might i have a glass of beer? waiter. yes, sare. little man. thank you very much. [the waiter goes.] american. [pausing in the deglutition of his eggs--affably] pardon me, sir; i'd like to have you tell me why you called that little bit of a feller "herr ober." reckon you would know what that means? mr. head waiter. little man. yes, yes. american. i smile. little man. oughtn't i to call him that? german. [abruptly] 'nein--kellner'. american. why, yes! just "waiter." [the englishwoman looks round her paper for a second. the dutch youth stops eating and laughs. the little man gazes from face to face and nurses his hat.] little man. i didn't want to hurt his feelings. german. gott! american. in my country we're very democratic--but that's quite a proposition. englishman. [handling coffee-pot, to his wife] more? englishwoman. no, thanks. german. [abruptly] these fellows--if you treat them in this manner, at once they take liberties. you see, you will not get your beer. [as he speaks the waiter returns, bringing the little man's beer, then retires.] american. that 'pears to be one up to democracy. [to the little man] i judge you go in for brotherhood? little man. [startled] oh, no! american. i take considerable stock in leo tolstoi myself. grand man--grand-souled apparatus. but i guess you've got to pinch those waiters some to make 'em skip. [to the english, who have carelessly looked his way for a moment] you'll appreciate that, the way he acted about my eggs. [the english make faint motions with their chins and avert their eyes.] [to the waiter, who is standing at the door of the buffet] waiter! flash of beer--jump, now! waiter. 'komm' gleich'! german. 'cigarren'! waiter. 'schon'! [he disappears.] american. [affably--to the little man] now, if i don't get that flash of beer quicker'n you got yours, i shall admire. german. [abruptly] tolstoi is nothing 'nichts'! no good! ha? american. [relishing the approach of argument] well, that is a matter of temperament. now, i'm all for equality. see that poor woman there--very humble woman--there she sits among us with her baby. perhaps you'd like to locate her somewhere else? german. [shrugging]. tolstoi is 'sentimentalisch'. nietzsche is the true philosopher, the only one. american. well, that's quite in the prospectus--very stimulating party--old nietch--virgin mind. but give me leo! [he turns to the red-cheeked youth] what do you opine, sir? i guess by your labels you'll be dutch. do they read tolstoi in your country? [the dutch youth laughs.] american. that is a very luminous answer. german. tolstoi is nothing. man should himself express. he must push--he must be strong. american. that is so. in america we believe in virility; we like a man to expand. but we believe in brotherhood too. we draw the line at niggers; but we aspire. social barriers and distinctions we've not much use for. englishman. do you feel a draught? englishwoman. [with a shiver of her shoulder toward the american] i do--rather. german. wait! you are a young people. american. that is so; there are no flies on us. [to the little man, who has been gazing eagerly from face to face] say! i'd like to have you give us your sentiments in relation to the duty of man. [the little man, fidgets, and is about to opens his mouth.] american. for example--is it your opinion that we should kill off the weak and diseased, and all that can't jump around? german. [nodding] 'ja, ja'! that is coming. little man. [looking from face to face] they might be me. [the dutch youth laughs.] american. [reproving him with a look] that's true humility. 'tisn't grammar. now, here's a proposition that brings it nearer the bone: would you step out of your way to help them when it was liable to bring you trouble? german. 'nein, nein'! that is stupid. little man. [eager but wistful] i'm afraid not. of course one wants to--there was st francis d'assisi and st julien l'hospitalier, and---- american. very lofty dispositions. guess they died of them. [he rises] shake hands, sir--my name is--[he hands a card] i am an ice-machine maker. [he shakes the little man's hand] i like your sentiments--i feel kind of brotherly. [catching sight of the waiter appearing in the doorway] waiter; where to h-ll is that glass of beer? german. cigarren! waiter. 'komm' gleich'! englishman. [consulting watch] train's late. englishwoman. really! nuisance! [a station policeman, very square and uniformed, passes and repasses.] american. [resuming his seat--to the german] now, we don't have so much of that in america. guess we feel more to trust in human nature. german. ah! ha! you will bresently find there is nothing in him but self. little man. [wistfully] don't you believe in human nature? american. very stimulating question. [he looks round for opinions. the dutch youth laughs.] englishman. [holding out his half of the paper to his wife] swap! [his wife swaps.] german. in human nature i believe so far as i can see him--no more. american. now that 'pears to me kind o' blasphemy. i believe in heroism. i opine there's not one of us settin' around here that's not a hero--give him the occasion. little man. oh! do you believe that? american. well! i judge a hero is just a person that'll help another at the expense of himself. take that poor woman there. well, now, she's a heroine, i guess. she would die for her baby any old time. german. animals will die for their babies. that is nothing. american. i carry it further. i postulate we would all die for that baby if a locomotive was to trundle up right here and try to handle it. [to the german] i guess you don't know how good you are. [as the german is twisting up the ends of his moustache--to the englishwoman] i should like to have you express an opinion, ma'am. englishwoman. i beg your pardon. american. the english are very humanitarian; they have a very high sense of duty. so have the germans, so have the americans. [to the dutch youth] i judge even in your little country they have that. this is an epoch of equality and high-toned ideals. [to the little man] what is your nationality, sir? little man. i'm afraid i'm nothing particular. my father was half-english and half-american, and my mother half-german and half-dutch. american. my! that's a bit streaky, any old way. [the policeman passes again] now, i don't believe we've much use any more for those gentlemen in buttons. we've grown kind of mild--we don't think of self as we used to do. [the waiter has appeared in the doorway.] german. [in a voice of thunder] 'cigarren! donnerwetter'! american. [shaking his fist at the vanishing waiter] that flash of beer! waiter. 'komm' gleich'! american. a little more, and he will join george washington! i was about to remark when he intruded: in this year of grace the kingdom of christ is quite a going concern. we are mighty near universal brotherhood. the colonel here [he indicates the german] is a man of blood and iron, but give him an opportunity to be magnanimous, and he'll be right there. oh, sir! yep! [the german, with a profound mixture of pleasure and cynicism, brushes up the ends of his moustache.] little man. i wonder. one wants to, but somehow--[he shakes his head.] american. you seem kind of skeery about that. you've had experience, maybe. i'm an optimist--i think we're bound to make the devil hum in the near future. i opine we shall occasion a good deal of trouble to that old party. there's about to be a holocaust of selfish interests. the colonel there with old-man nietch he won't know himself. there's going to be a very sacred opportunity. [as he speaks, the voice of a railway official is heard an the distance calling out in german. it approaches, and the words become audible.] german. [startled] 'der teufel'! [he gets up, and seizes the bag beside him.] [the station official has appeared; he stands for a moment casting his commands at the seated group. the dutch youth also rises, and takes his coat and hat. the official turns on his heel and retires still issuing directions.] englishman. what does he say? german. our drain has come in, de oder platform; only one minute we haf. [all, have risen in a fluster.] american. now, that's very provoking. i won't get that flash of beer. [there is a general scurry to gather coats and hats and wraps, during which the lowly woman is seen making desperate attempts to deal with her baby and the two large bundles. quite defeated, she suddenly puts all down, wrings her hands, and cries out: "herr jesu! hilfe!" the flying procession turn their heads at that strange cry.] american. what's that? help? [he continues to run. the little man spins round, rushes back, picks up baby and bundle on which it was seated.] little man. come along, good woman, come along! [the woman picks up the other bundle and they run.] [the waiter, appearing in the doorway with the bottle of beer, watches with his tired smile.] curtain scene ii a second-class compartment of a corridor carriage, in motion. in it are seated the englishman and his wife, opposite each other at the corridor end, she with her face to the engine, he with his back. both are somewhat protected from the rest of the travellers by newspapers. next to her sits the german, and opposite him sits the american; next the american in one window corner is seated the dutch youth; the other window corner is taken by the german's bag. the silence is only broken by the slight rushing noise of the train's progression and the crackling of the english newspapers. american. [turning to the dutch youth] guess i'd like that window raised; it's kind of chilly after that old run they gave us. [the dutch youth laughs, and goes through the motions of raising the window. the english regard the operation with uneasy irritation. the german opens his bag, which reposes on the corner seat next him, and takes out a book.] american. the germans are great readers. very stimulating practice. i read most anything myself! [the german holds up the book so that the title may be read.] "don quixote"--fine book. we americans take considerable stock in old man quixote. bit of a wild-cat--but we don't laugh at him. german. he is dead. dead as a sheep. a good thing, too. american. in america we have still quite an amount of chivalry. german. chivalry is nothing 'sentimentalisch'. in modern days--no good. a man must push, he must pull. american. so you say. but i judge your form of chivalry is sacrifice to the state. we allow more freedom to the individual soul. where there's something little and weak, we feel it kind of noble to give up to it. that way we feel elevated. [as he speaks there is seen in the corridor doorway the little man, with the woman's baby still on his arm and the bundle held in the other hand. he peers in anxiously. the english, acutely conscious, try to dissociate themselves from his presence with their papers. the dutch youth laughs.] german. 'ach'! so! american. dear me! little man. is there room? i can't find a seat. american. why, yes! there's a seat for one. little man. [depositing bundle outside, and heaving baby] may i? american. come right in! [the german sulkily moves his bag. the little man comes in and seats himself gingerly.] american. where's the mother? little man. [ruefully] afraid she got left behind. [the dutch youth laughs. the english unconsciously emerge from their newspapers.] american. my! that would appear to be quite a domestic incident. [the englishman suddenly utters a profound "ha, ha!" and disappears behind his paper. and that paper and the one opposite are seen to shake, and little sguirls and squeaks emerge.] german. and you haf got her bundle, and her baby. ha! [he cackles drily.] american. [gravely] i smile. i guess providence has played it pretty low down on you. it's sure acted real mean. [the baby wails, and the little man jigs it with a sort of gentle desperation, looking apologetically from face to face. his wistful glance renews the fore of merriment wherever it alights. the american alone preserves a gravity which seems incapable of being broken.] american. maybe you'd better get off right smart and restore that baby. there's nothing can act madder than a mother. little man. poor thing, yes! what she must be suffering! [a gale of laughter shakes the carriage. the english for a moment drop their papers, the better to indulge. the little man smiles a wintry smile.] american. [in a lull] how did it eventuate? little man. we got there just as the train was going to start; and i jumped, thinking i could help her up. but it moved too quickly, and--and left her. [the gale of laughter blows up again.] american. guess i'd have thrown the baby out to her. little man. i was afraid the poor little thing might break. [the baby wails; the little man heaves it; the gale of laughter blows.] american. [gravely] it's highly entertaining--not for the baby. what kind of an old baby is it, anyway? [he sniff's] i judge it's a bit--niffy. little man. afraid i've hardly looked at it yet. american. which end up is it? little mam. oh! i think the right end. yes, yes, it is. american. well, that's something. maybe you should hold it out of window a bit. very excitable things, babies! englishwoman. [galvanized] no, no! englishman. [touching her knee] my dear! american. you are right, ma'am. i opine there's a draught out there. this baby is precious. we've all of us got stock in this baby in a manner of speaking. this is a little bit of universal brotherhood. is it a woman baby? little man. i--i can only see the top of its head. american. you can't always tell from that. it looks kind of over-wrapped up. maybe it had better be unbound. german. 'nein, nein, nein'! american. i think you are very likely right, colonel. it might be a pity to unbind that baby. i guess the lady should be consulted in this matter. englishwoman. yes, yes, of course----! englishman. [touching her] let it be! little beggar seems all right. american. that would seem only known to providence at this moment. i judge it might be due to humanity to look at its face. little man. [gladly] it's sucking my' finger. there, there--nice little thing--there! american. i would surmise in your leisure moments you have created babies, sir? little man. oh! no--indeed, no. american. dear me!--that is a loss. [addressing himself to the carriage at large] i think we may esteem ourselves fortunate to have this little stranger right here with us. demonstrates what a hold the little and weak have upon us nowadays. the colonel here--a man of blood and iron--there he sits quite calm next door to it. [he sniffs] now, this baby is rather chastening--that is a sign of grace, in the colonel--that is true heroism. little man. [faintly] i--i can see its face a little now. [all bend forward.] american. what sort of a physiognomy has it, anyway? little man. [still faintly] i don't see anything but--but spots. german. oh! ha! pfui! [the dutch youth laughs.] american. i am told that is not uncommon amongst babies. perhaps we could have you inform us, ma'am. englishwoman. yes, of course--only what sort of---- little man. they seem all over its----[at the slight recoil of everyone] i feel sure it's--it's quite a good baby underneath. american. that will be rather difficult to come at. i'm just a bit sensitive. i've very little use for affections of the epidermis. german. pfui! [he has edged away as far as he can get, and is lighting a big cigar] [the dutch youth draws his legs back.] american. [also taking out a cigar] i guess it would be well to fumigate this carriage. does it suffer, do you think? little man. [peering] really, i don't--i'm not sure--i know so little about babies. i think it would have a nice expression--if--if it showed. american. is it kind of boiled looking? little man. yes--yes, it is. american. [looking gravely round] i judge this baby has the measles. [the german screws himself spasmodically against the arm of the englishwoman's seat.] englishwoman. poor little thing! shall i----? [she half rises.] englishman. [touching her] no, no----dash it! american. i honour your emotion, ma'am. it does credit to us all. but i sympathize with your husband too. the measles is a very important pestilence in connection with a grown woman. little man. it likes my finger awfully. really, it's rather a sweet baby. american. [sniffing] well, that would appear to be quite a question. about them spots, now? are they rosy? little man. no-o; they're dark, almost black. german. gott! typhus! [he bounds up on to the arm of the englishwoman's seat.] american. typhus! that's quite an indisposition! [the dutch youth rises suddenly, and bolts out into the corridor. he is followed by the german, puffing clouds of smoke. the english and american sit a moment longer without speaking. the englishwoman's face is turned with a curious expression--half pity, half fear--towards the little man. then the englishman gets up.] englishman. bit stuffy for you here, dear, isn't it? [he puts his arm through hers, raises her, and almost pushes her through the doorway. she goes, still looking back.] american. [gravely] there's nothing i admire more'n courage. guess i'll go and smoke in the corridor. [as he goes out the little man looks very wistfully after him. screwing up his mouth and nose, he holds the baby away from him and wavers; then rising, he puts it on the seat opposite and goes through the motions of letting down the window. having done so he looks at the baby, who has begun to wail. suddenly he raises his hands and clasps them, like a child praying. since, however, the baby does not stop wailing, he hovers over it in indecision; then, picking it up, sits down again to dandle it, with his face turned toward the open window. finding that it still wails, he begins to sing to it in a cracked little voice. it is charmed at once. while he is singing, the american appears in the corridor. letting down the passage window, he stands there in the doorway with the draught blowing his hair and the smoke of his cigar all about him. the little man stops singing and shifts the shawl higher to protect the baby's head from the draught.] american. [gravely] this is the most sublime spectacle i have ever envisaged. there ought to be a record of this. [the little man looks at him, wondering. you are typical, sir, of the sentiments of modern christianity. you illustrate the deepest feelings in the heart of every man.] [the little man rises with the baby and a movement of approach.] guess i'm wanted in the dining-car. [he vanishes. the little man sits down again, but back to the engine, away from the draught, and looks out of the window, patiently jogging the baby on his knee.] curtain scene iii an arrival platform. the little man, with the baby and the bundle, is standing disconsolate, while travellers pass and luggage is being carried by. a station official, accompanied by a policeman, appears from a doorway, behind him. official. [consulting telegram in his hand] 'das ist der herr'. [they advance to the little man.] official. 'sie haben einen buben gestohlen'? little man. i only speak english and american. official. 'dies ist nicht ihr bube'? [he touches the baby.] little man. [shaking his head] take care--it's ill. [the man does not understand.] ill--the baby---- official. [shaking his head] 'verstehe nicht'. dis is nod your baby? no? little man. [shaking his head violently] no, it is not. no. official. [tapping the telegram] gut! you are 'rested. [he signs to the policeman, who takes the little man's arm.] little man. why? i don't want the poor baby. official. [lifting the bundle] 'dies ist nicht ihr gepack'--pag? little mary. no. official. gut! you are 'rested. little man. i only took it for the poor woman. i'm not a thief-- i'm--i'm---- official. [shaking head] verstehe nicht. [the little man tries to tear his hair. the disturbed baby wails.] little man. [dandling it as best he can] there, there--poor, poor! official. halt still! you are 'rested. it is all right. little man. where is the mother? official. she comet by next drain. das telegram say: 'halt einen herren mit schwarzem buben and schwarzem gepack'. 'rest gentleman mit black baby and black--pag. [the little man turns up his eyes to heaven.] official. 'komm mit us'. [they take the little man toward the door from which they have come. a voice stops them.] american. [speaking from as far away as may be] just a moment! [the official stops; the little man also stops and sits down on a bench against the wall. the policeman stands stolidly beside him. the american approaches a step or two, beckoning; the official goes up to him.] american. guess you've got an angel from heaven there! what's the gentleman in buttons for? official. 'was ist das'? american. is there anybody here that can understand american? official. 'verstehe nicht'. american. well, just watch my gestures. i was saying [he points to the little man, then makes gestures of flying] you have an angel from heaven there. you have there a man in whom gawd [he points upward] takes quite an amount of stock. you have no call to arrest him. [he makes the gesture of arrest] no, sir. providence has acted pretty mean, loading off that baby on him. [he makes the motion of dandling] the little man has a heart of gold. [he points to his heart, and takes out a gold coin.] official. [thinking he is about to be bribed] 'aber, das ist zu viel'! american. now, don't rattle me! [pointing to the little man] man [pointing to his heart] 'herz' [pointing to the coin] 'von' gold. this is a flower of the field--he don't want no gentleman in buttons to pluck him up. [a little crowd is gathering, including the two english, the german, and the dutch youth.] official. 'verstehe absolut nichts'. [he taps the telegram] 'ich muss mein' duty do. american. but i'm telling you. this is a white man. this is probably the whitest man on gawd's earth. official. 'das macht nichts'--gut or no gut, i muss mein duty do. [he turns to go toward the little man.] american. oh! very well, arrest him; do your duty. this baby has typhus. [at the word "typhus" the official stops.] american. [making gestures] first-class typhus, black typhus, schwarzen typhus. now you have it. i'm kind o' sorry for you and the gentleman in buttons. do your duty! official. typhus? der bub--die baby hat typhus? american. i'm telling you. official. gott im himmel! american. [spotting the german in the little throng] here's a gentleman will corroborate me. official. [much disturbed, and signing to the policeman to stand clear] typhus! 'aber das ist grasslich'! american. i kind o' thought you'd feel like that. official. 'die sanitatsmachine! gleich'! [a porter goes to get it. from either side the broken half-moon of persons stand gazing at the little man, who sits unhappily dandling the baby in the centre.] official. [raising his hands] 'was zu thun'? american. guess you'd better isolate the baby. [a silence, during which the little man is heard faintly whistling and clucking to the baby.] official. [referring once more to his telegram] "'rest gentleman mit black baby." [shaking his head] wir must de gentleman hold. [to the german] 'bitte, mein herr, sagen sie ihm, den buben zu niedersetzen'. [he makes the gesture of deposit.] german. [to the little man] he say: put down the baby. [the little man shakes his head, and continues to dandle the baby.] official. you must. [the little man glowers, in silence.] englishman. [in background--muttering] good man! german. his spirit ever denies. official. [again making his gesture] 'aber er muss'! [the little man makes a face at him.] 'sag' ihm': instantly put down baby, and komm' mit us. [the baby wails.] little man. leave the poor ill baby here alone? be--be--be d---d to you! american. [jumping on to a trunk--with enthusiasm] bully! [the english clap their hands; the dutch youth laughs. the official is muttering, greatly incensed.] american. what does that body-snatcher say? german. he say this man use the baby to save himself from arrest. very smart he say. american. i judge you do him an injustice. [showing off the little man with a sweep of his arm.] this is a white man. he's got a black baby, and he won' leave it in the lurch. guess we would all act noble that way, give us the chance. [the little man rises, holding out the baby, and advances a step or two. the half-moon at once gives, increasing its size; the american climbs on to a higher trunk. the little man retires and again sits down.] american. [addressing the official] guess you'd better go out of business and wait for the mother. official. [stamping his foot] die mutter sall 'rested be for taking out baby mit typhus. ha! [to the little man] put ze baby down! [the little man smiles.] do you 'ear? american. [addressing the official] now, see here. 'pears to me you don't suspicion just how beautiful this is. here we have a man giving his life for that old baby that's got no claim on him. this is not a baby of his own making. no, sir, this is a very christ-like proposition in the gentleman. official. put ze baby down, or ich will goummand someone it to do. american. that will be very interesting to watch. official. [to policeman] dake it vrom him. [the policeman mutters, but does not.] american. [to the german] guess i lost that. german. he say he is not his officier. american. that just tickles me to death. official. [looking round] vill nobody dake ze bub'? englishwoman. [moving a step faintly] yes--i---- englishman. [grasping her arm]. by jove! will you! official. [gathering himself for a great effort to take the baby, and advancing two steps] zen i goummand you--[he stops and his voice dies away] zit dere! american. my! that's wonderful. what a man this is! what a sublime sense of duty! [the dutch youth laughs. the official turns on him, but as he does so the mother of the busy is seen hurrying.] mother. 'ach! ach! mei' bubi'! [her face is illumined; she is about to rush to the little man.] official. [to the policeman] 'nimm die frau'! [the policeman catches hold of the woman.] official. [to the frightened woman] 'warum haben sie einen buben mit typhus mit ausgebracht'? american. [eagerly, from his perch] what was that? i don't want to miss any. german. he say: why did you a baby with typhus with you bring out? american. well, that's quite a question. [he takes out the field-glasses slung around him and adjusts them on the baby.] mother. [bewildered] mei' bubi--typhus--aber typhus? [she shakes her head violently] 'nein, nein, nein! typhus'! official. er hat typhus. mother. [shaking her head] 'nein, nein, nein'! american. [looking through his glasses] guess she's kind of right! i judge the typhus is where the baby' slobbered on the shawl, and it's come off on him. [the dutch youth laughs.] official. [turning on him furiously] er hat typhus. american. now, that's where you slop over. come right here. [the official mounts, and looks through the glasses.] american. [to the little man] skin out the baby's leg. if we don't locate spots on that, it'll be good enough for me. [the little man fumbles out the baby's little white foot.] mother. mei' bubi! [she tries to break away.] american. white as a banana. [to the official--affably] guess you've made kind of a fool of us with your old typhus. official. lass die frau! [the policeman lets her go, and she rushes to her baby.] mother. mei' bubi! [the baby, exchanging the warmth of the little man for the momentary chill of its mother, wails.] official. [descending and beckoning to the policeman] 'sie wollen den herrn accusiren'? [the policeman takes the little man's arm.] american. what's that? they goin' to pitch him after all? [the mother, still hugging her baby, who has stopped crying, gazes at the little man, who sits dazedly looking up. suddenly she drops on her knees, and with her free hand lifts his booted foot and kisses it.] american. [waving his hat] ra! ra! [he descends swiftly, goes up to the little man, whose arm the policeman has dropped, and takes his hand] brother; i am proud to know you. this is one of the greatest moments i have ever experienced. [displaying the little man to the assembled company] i think i sense the situation when i say that we all esteem it an honour to breathe the rather inferior atmosphere of this station here along with our little friend. i guess we shall all go home and treasure the memory of his face as the whitest thing in our museum of recollections. and perhaps this good woman will also go home and wash the face of our little brother here. i am inspired with a new faith in mankind. ladies and gentlemen, i wish to present to you a sure-enough saint--only wants a halo, to be transfigured. [to the little man] stand right up. [the little man stands up bewildered. they come about him. the official bows to him, the policeman salutes him. the dutch youth shakes his head and laughs. the german draws himself up very straight, and bows quickly twice. the englishman and his wife approach at least two steps, then, thinking better of it, turn to each other and recede. the mother kisses his hand. the porter returning with the sanitatsmachine, turns it on from behind, and its pinkish shower, goldened by a ray of sunlight, falls around the little man's head, transfiguring it as he stands with eyes upraised to see whence the portent comes.] american. [rushing forward and dropping on his knees] hold on just a minute! guess i'll take a snapshot of the miracle. [he adjusts his pocket camera] this ought to look bully! curtain from the series of six short plays four of the six short plays contents: hall-marked defeat the sun punch and go hall-marked a satiric trifle characters herself. lady ella. the squire. the maid. maud. the rector. the doctor. the cabman. hannibal and edward hall-marked the scene is the sitting-room and verandah of her bungalow. the room is pleasant, and along the back, where the verandah runs, it seems all window, both french and casement. there is a door right and a door left. the day is bright; the time morning. [herself, dripping wet, comes running along the verandah, through the french window, with a wet scotch terrier in her arms. she vanishes through the door left. a little pause, and lady ella comes running, dry, thin, refined, and agitated. she halts where the tracks of water cease at the door left. a little pause, and maud comes running, fairly dry, stolid, breathless, and dragging a bull-dog, wet, breathless, and stout, by the crutch end of her 'en-tout-cas']. lady ella. don't bring hannibal in till i know where she's put edward! maud. [brutally, to hannibal] bad dog! bad dog! [hannibal snuffles.] lady ella. maud, do take him out! tie him up. here! [she takes out a lace handkerchief ] no--something stronger! poor darling edward! [to hannibal] you are a bad dog! [hannibal snuffles.] maud. edward began it, ella. [to hannibal] bad dog! bad dog! [hannibal snuffles.] lady ella. tie him up outside. here, take my scarf. where is my poor treasure? [she removes her scarf] catch! his ear's torn; i saw it. maud. [taking the scarf, to hannibal] now! [hannibal snuffles.] [she ties the scarf to his collar] he smells horrible. bad dog--getting into ponds to fight! lady ella. tie him up, maud. i must try in here. [their husbands, the squire and the rector, come hastening along the verandah.] maud. [to the rector] smell him, bertie! [to the squire] you might have that pond drained, squire! [she takes hannibal out, and ties him to the verandah. the squire and rector come in. lady ella is knocking on the door left.] her voice. all right! i've bound him up! lady ella. may i come in? her voice. just a second! i've got nothing on. [lady ella recoils. the squire and rector make an involuntary movement of approach.] lady ella. oh! there you are! the rector. [doubtfully] i was just going to wade in---- lady ella. hannibal would have killed him, if she hadn't rushed in! the squire. done him good, little beast! lady ella. why didn't you go in, tommy? the squire. well, i would--only she---- lady ella. i can't think how she got edward out of hannibal's awful mouth! maud. [without--to hannibal, who is snuffling on the verandah and straining at the scarf] bad dog! lady ella. we must simply thank her tremendously! i shall never forget the way she ran in, with her skirts up to her waist! the squire. by jove! no. it was topping. lady ella. her clothes must be ruined. that pond--ugh! [she wrinkles her nose] tommy, do have it drained. the rector. [dreamily] i don't remember her face in church. the squire. ah! yes. who is she? pretty woman! lady ella. i must get the vet. to edward. [to the squire] tommy, do exert yourself! [maud re-enters.] the squire. all right! [exerting himself] here's a bell! her voice. [through the door] the bleeding's stopped. shall i send him in to you? lady ella. oh, please! poor darling! [they listen.] [lady ella, prepares to receive edward. the squire and rector stand transfixed. the door opens, and a bare arm gently pushes edward forth. he is bandaged with a smooth towel. there is a snuffle--hannibal has broken the scarf, outside.] lady ella. [aghast] look! hannibal's loose! maud--tommy. [to the rector] you! [the three rush to prevent hannibal from re-entering.] lady ella. [to edward] yes, i know--you'd like to! you shall bite him when it's safe. oh! my darling, you do----[she sniffs]. [maud and the squire re-enter.] have you tied him properly this time? maud. with bertie's braces. lady ella. oh! but---- maud. it's all right; they're almost leather. [the rector re-enters, with a slight look of insecurity.] lady ella. rector, are you sure it's safe? the rector. [hitching at his trousers] no, indeed, lady ella--i---- lady ella. tommy, do lend a hand! the squire. all right, ella; all right! he doesn't mean what you mean! lady ella. [transferring edward to the squire] hold him, tommy. he's sure to smell out hannibal! the squire. [taking edward by the collar, and holding his own nose] jove! clever if he can smell anything but himself. phew! she ought to have the victoria cross for goin' in that pond. [the door opens, and herself appears; a fine, frank, handsome woman, in a man's orange-coloured motor-coat, hastily thrown on over the substrata of costume.] she. so very sorry--had to have a bath, and change, of course! lady ella. we're so awfully grateful to you. it was splendid. maud. quite. the rector. [rather holding himself together] heroic! i was just myself about to---- the squire. [restraining edward] little beast will fight--must apologise--you were too quick for me---- [he looks up at her. she is smiling, and regarding the wounded dog, her head benevolently on one side.] she. poor dears! they thought they were so safe in that nice pond! lady ella. is he very badly torn? she. rather nasty. there ought to be a stitch or two put in his ear. lady ella. i thought so. tommy, do---- the squire. all right. am i to let him go? lady ella. no. maud. the fly's outside. bertie, run and tell jarvis to drive in for the vet. the rector. [gentle and embarrassed] run? well, maud--i---- she. the doctor would sew it up. my maid can go round. [hannibal. appears at the open casement with the broken braces dangling from his collar.] lady ella. look! catch him! rector! maud. bertie! catch him! [the rector seizes hannibal, but is seen to be in difficulties with his garments. herself, who has gone out left, returns, with a leather strop in one hand and a pair of braces in the other.] she. take this strop--he can't break that. and would these be any good to you? [she hands the braces to maud and goes out on to the verandah and hastily away. maud, transferring the braces to the rector, goes out, draws hannibal from the casement window, and secures him with the strap. the rector sits suddenly with the braces in his hands. there is a moment's peace.] lady ella. splendid, isn't she? i do admire her. the squire. she's all there. the rector. [feelingly] most kind. [he looks ruefully at the braces and at lady ella. a silence. maud reappears at the door and stands gazing at the braces.] the squire. [suddenly] eh? maud. yes. the squire. [looking at his wife] ah! lady ella. [absorbed in edward] poor darling! the squire. [bluntly] ella, the rector wants to get up! the rector. [gently] perhaps--just for a moment---- lady ella. oh! [she turns to the wall.] [the rector, screened by his wife, retires on to the verandah to adjust his garments.] the squire. [meditating] so she's married! lady ella. [absorbed in edward] why? the squire. braces. lady ella. oh! yes. we ought to ask them to dinner, tommy. the squire. ah! yes. wonder who they are? [the rector and maud reappear.] the rector. really very good of her to lend her husband's--i was-- er--quite---- maud. that'll do, bertie. [they see her returning along the verandah, followed by a sandy, red-faced gentleman in leather leggings, with a needle and cotton in his hand.] herself. caught the doctor just starting, so lucky! lady ella. oh! thank goodness! doctor. how do, lady ella? how do, squire?--how do, rector? [to maud] how de do? this the beastie? i see. quite! who'll hold him for me? lady ella. oh! i! herself. d'you know, i think i'd better. it's so dreadful when it's your own, isn't it? shall we go in here, doctor? come along, pretty boy! [she takes edward, and they pass into the room, left.] lady ella. i dreaded it. she is splendid! the squire. dogs take to her. that's a sure sign. the rector. little things--one can always tell. the squire. something very attractive about her--what! fine build of woman. maud. i shall get hold of her for parish work. the rector. ah! excellent--excellent! do! the squire. wonder if her husband shoots? she seems quite-er--quite---- lady ella. [watching the door] quite! altogether charming; one of the nicest faces i ever saw. [the doctor comes out alone.] oh! doctor--have you? is it----? doctor. right as rain! she held him like an angel--he just licked her, and never made a sound. lady ella. poor darling! can i---- [she signs toward the door.] doctor. better leave 'em a minute. she's moppin' 'im off. [he wrinkles his nose] wonderful clever hands! the squire. i say--who is she? doctor. [looking from face to face with a dubious and rather quizzical expression] who? well--there you have me! all i know is she's a first-rate nurse--been helpin' me with a case in ditch lane. nice woman, too--thorough good sort! quite an acquisition here. h'm! [again that quizzical glance] excuse me hurryin' off--very late. good-bye, rector. good-bye, lady ella. good-bye! [he goes. a silence.] the squire. h'm! i suppose we ought to be a bit careful. [jarvis, flyman of the old school, has appeared on the verandah.] jarvis. [to the rector] beg pardon, sir. is the little dog all right? maud. yes. jarvis. [touching his hat] seein' you've missed your train, m'm, shall i wait, and take you 'ome again? maud. no. jarvis. cert'nly, m'm. [he touches his hat with a circular gesture, and is about to withdraw.] lady ella. oh, jarvis--what's the name of the people here? jarvis. challenger's the name i've driven 'em in, my lady. the squire. challenger? sounds like a hound. what's he like? jarvis. [scratching his head] wears a soft 'at, sir. the squire. h'm! ah! jarvis. very nice gentleman, very nice lady. 'elped me with my old mare when she 'ad the 'ighsteria last week--couldn't 'a' been kinder if they'd 'a' been angels from 'eaven. wonderful fond o' dumb animals, the two of 'em. i don't pay no attention to gossip, meself. maud. gossip? what gossip? jarvis. [backing] did i make use of the word, m'm? you'll excuse me, i'm sure. there's always talk where there's newcomers. i takes people as i finds 'em. the rector. yes, yes, jarvis--quite--quite right! jarvis. yes, sir. i've--i've got a 'abit that way at my time o' life. maud. [sharply] how long have they been here, jarvis? jarvis. well---er--a matter of three weeks, m'm. [a slight involuntary stir.] [apologetic] of course, in my profession i can't afford to take notice of whether there's the trifle of a ring between 'em, as the sayin' is. 'tisn't 'ardly my business like. [a silence.] lady ella. [suddenly] er--thank you, jarvis; you needn't wait. jarvis. no, m'lady. your service, sir--service, m'm. [he goes. a silence.] the squire. [drawing a little closer] three weeks? i say--er-- wasn't there a book? the rector. [abstracted] three weeks----i certainly haven't seen them in church. maud. a trifle of a ring! lady ella. [impulsively] oh, bother! i'm sure she's all right. and if she isn't, i don't care. she's been much too splendid. the squire. must think of the village. didn't quite like the doctor's way of puttin' us off. lady ella. the poor darling owes his life to her. the squire. h'm! dash it! yes! can't forget the way she ran into that stinkin' pond. maud. had she a wedding-ring on? [they look at each other, but no one knows.] lady ella. well, i'm not going to be ungrateful. the squire. it'd be dashed awkward--mustn't take a false step, ella. the rector. and i've got his braces! [he puts his hand to his waist.] maud. [warningly] bertie! the squire. that's all right, rector--we're goin' to be perfectly polite, and--and--thank her, and all that. lady ella. we can see she's a good sort. what does it matter? maud. my dear ella! "what does it matter!" we've got to know. the rector. we do want light. the squire. i'll ring the bell. [he rings.] [they look at each other aghast.] lady ella. what did you ring for, tommy? the squire. [flabbergasted] god knows! maud. somebody'll come. the squire. rector--you--you've got to---- maud. yes, bertie. the rector. dear me! but--er--what--er----how? the squire. [deeply-to himself] the whole thing's damn delicate. [the door right is opened and a maid appears. she is a determined-looking female. they face her in silence.] the rector. er--er----your master is not in? the maid. no. 'e's gone up to london. the rector. er----mr challenger, i think? the maid. yes. the rector. yes! er----quite so the maid. [eyeing them] d'you want--mrs challenger? the rector. ah! not precisely---- the squire. [to him in a low, determined voice] go on. the rector. [desperately] i asked because there was a--a--mr. challenger i used to know in the 'nineties, and i thought--you wouldn't happen to know how long they've been married? my friend marr---- the maid. three weeks. the rector. quite so--quite so! i shall hope it will turn out to be----er--thank you--ha! lady ella. our dog has been fighting with the rector's, and mrs challenger rescued him; she's bathing his ear. we're waiting to thank her. you needn't---- the maid. [eyeing them] no. [she turns and goes out.] the squire. phew! what a gorgon! i say, rector, did you really know a challenger in the 'nineties? the rector. [wiping his brow] no. the squire. ha! jolly good! lady ella. well, you see!--it's all right. the rector. yes, indeed. a great relief! lady ella. [moving to the door] i must go in now. the squire. hold on! you goin' to ask 'em to--to--anything? lady ella. yes. maud. i shouldn't. lady ella. why not? we all like the look of her. the rector. i think we should punish ourselves for entertaining that uncharitable thought. lady ella. yes. it's horrible not having the courage to take people as they are. the squire. as they are? h'm! how can you till you know? lady ella. trust our instincts, of course. the squire. and supposing she'd turned out not married--eh! lady ella! she'd still be herself, wouldn't she? maud. ella! the squire. h'm! don't know about that. lady ella. of course she would, tommy. the rector. [his hand stealing to his waist] well! it's a great weight off my----! lady ella. there's the poor darling snuffling. i must go in. [she knocks on the door. it is opened, and edward comes out briskly, with a neat little white pointed ear-cap on one ear.] lady ella. precious! [she herself comes out, now properly dressed in flax-blue linen.] lady ella. how perfectly sweet of you to make him that! she. he's such a dear. and the other poor dog? maud. quite safe, thanks to your strop. [hannibal appears at the window, with the broken strop dangling. following her gaze, they turn and see him.] maud. oh! there, he's broken it. bertie! she. let me! [she seizes hannibal.] the squire. we're really most tremendously obliged to you. afraid we've been an awful nuisance. she. not a bit. i love dogs. the squire. hope to make the acquaintance of mr----of your husband. lady ella. [to edward, who is straining] [gently, darling! tommy, take him.] [the squire does so.] maud. [approaching hannibal.] is he behaving? [she stops short, and her face suddenly shoots forward at her hands that are holding hannibal's neck.] she. oh! yes--he's a love. maud. [regaining her upright position, and pursing her lips; in a peculiar voice] bertie, take hannibal. the rector takes him. lady ella. [producing a card] i can't be too grateful for all you've done for my poor darling. this is where we live. do come-- and see---- [maud, whose eyes have never left those hands, tweaks lady ella's dress.] lady ella. that is--i'm--i---- [herself looks at lady ella in surprise.] the squire. i don't know if your husband shoots, but if---- [maud, catching his eye, taps the third finger of her left hand.] --er--he--does--er--er---- [herself looks at the squire surprised.] maud. [turning to her husband, repeats the gesture with the low and simple word] look! the rector. [with round eyes, severely] hannibal! [he lifts him bodily and carries him away.] maud. don't squeeze him, bertie! [she follows through the french window.] the squire. [abruptly--of the unoffending edward] that dog'll be forgettin' himself in a minute. [he picks up edward and takes him out.] [lady ella is left staring.] lady ella. [at last] you mustn't think, i----you mustn't think, we ----oh! i must just see they--don't let edward get at hannibal. [she skims away.] [herself is left staring after lady ella, in surprise.] she. what is the matter with them? [the door is opened.] the maid. [entering and holding out a wedding-ring--severely] you left this, m'm, in the bathroom. she. [looking, startled, at her finger] oh! [taking it] i hadn't missed it. thank you, martha. [the maid goes.] [a hand, slipping in at the casement window, softly lays a pair of braces on the windowsill. she looks at the braces, then at the ring. her lip curls.] sue. [murmuring deeply] ah! curtain defeat a tiny drama characters the officer. the girl. defeat during the great war. evening. an empty room. the curtains drawn and gas turned low. the furniture and walls give a colour-impression as of greens and beetroot. there is a prevalence of plush. a fireplace on the left, a sofa, a small table; the curtained window is at the back. on the table, in a common pot, stands a little plant of maidenhair fern, fresh and green. enter from the door on the right, a girl and a young officer in khaki. the girl wears a discreet dark dress, hat, and veil, and stained yellow gloves. the young officer is tall, with a fresh open face, and kindly eager blue eyes; he is a little lame. the girl, who is evidently at home, moves towards the gas jet to turn it up, then changes her mind, and going to the curtains, draws them apart and throws up the window. bright moonlight comes flooding in. outside are seen the trees of a little square. she stands gazing out, suddenly turns inward with a shiver. young off. i say; what's the matter? you were crying when i spoke to you. girl. [with a movement of recovery] oh! nothing. the beautiful evening-that's all. young off. [looking at her] cheer up! girl. [taking of hat and veil; her hair is yellowish and crinkly] cheer up! you are not lonelee, like me. young off. [limping to the window--doubtfully] i say, how did you how did you get into this? isn't it an awfully hopeless sort of life? girl. yees, it ees. you haf been wounded? young off. just out of hospital to-day. girl. the horrible war--all the misery is because of the war. when will it end? young off. [leaning against the window-sill, looking at her attentively] i say, what nationality are you? girl. [with a quick look and away] rooshian. young off. really! i never met a russian girl. [the girl gives him another quick look] i say, is it as bad as they make out? girl. [slipping her hand through his arm] not when i haf anyone as ni-ice as you; i never haf had, though. [she smiles, and her smile, like her speech, is slow and confining] you stopped because i was sad, others stop because i am gay. i am not fond of men at all. when you know--you are not fond of them. young off. well, you hardly know them at their best, do you? you should see them in the trenches. by george! they're simply splendid--officers and men, every blessed soul. there's never been anything like it--just one long bit of jolly fine self-sacrifice; it's perfectly amazing. girl. [turning her blue-grey eyes on him] i expect you are not the last at that. you see in them what you haf in yourself, i think. young off. oh, not a bit; you're quite out! i assure you when we made the attack where i got wounded there wasn't a single man in my regiment who wasn't an absolute hero. the way they went in--never thinking of themselves--it was simply ripping. girl. [in a queer voice] it is the same too, perhaps, with--the enemy. young off. oh, yes! i know that. girl. ah! you are not a mean man. how i hate mean men! young off. oh! they're not mean really--they simply don't understand. girl. oh! you are a babee--a good babee aren't you? [the young officer doesn't like this, and frowns. the girl looks a little scared.] girl. [clingingly] but i li-ke you for it. it is so good to find a ni-ice man. young off. [abruptly] about being lonely? haven't you any russian friends? girl. [blankly] rooshian? no. [quickly] the town is so beeg. were you at the concert before you spoke to me? young off. yes. girl. i too. i lofe music. young off. i suppose all russians do. girl. [with another quick look tat him] i go there always when i haf the money. young off. what! are you as badly on the rocks as that? girl. well, i haf just one shilling now! [she laughs bitterly. the laugh upsets him; he sits on the window-sill, and leans forward towards her.] young off. i say, what's your name? girl. may. well, i call myself that. it is no good asking yours. young off. [with a laugh] you're a distrustful little soul; aren't you? girl. i haf reason to be, don't you think? young off. yes. i suppose you're bound to think us all brutes. girl. [sitting on a chair close to the window where the moonlight falls on one powdered cheek] well, i haf a lot of reasons to be afraid all my time. i am dreadfully nervous now; i am not trusding anybody. i suppose you haf been killing lots of germans? young off. we never know, unless it happens to be hand to hand; i haven't come in for that yet. girl. but you would be very glad if you had killed some. young off. oh, glad? i don't think so. we're all in the same boat, so far as that's concerned. we're not glad to kill each other--not most of us. we do our job--that's all. girl. oh! it is frightful. i expect i haf my brothers killed. young off. don't you get any news ever? girl. news? no indeed, no news of anybody in my country. i might not haf a country; all that i ever knew is gone; fader, moder, sisters, broders, all; never any more i shall see them, i suppose, now. the war it breaks and breaks, it breaks hearts. [she gives a little snarl] do you know what i was thinking when you came up to me? i was thinking of my native town, and the river in the moonlight. if i could see it again i would be glad. were you ever homeseeck? young off. yes, i have been--in the trenches. but one's ashamed with all the others. girl. ah! yees! yees! you are all comrades there. what is it like for me here, do you think, where everybody hates and despises me, and would catch me and put me in prison, perhaps. [her breast heaves.] young off. [leaning forward and patting her knee] sorry--sorry. girl. [in a smothered voice] you are the first who has been kind to me for so long! i will tell you the truth--i am not rooshian at all --i am german. young off. [staring] my dear girl, who cares. we aren't fighting against women. girl. [peering at him] another man said that to me. but he was thinkin' of his fun. you are a veree ni-ice boy; i am so glad i met you. you see the good in people, don't you? that is the first thing in the world--because--there is really not much good in people, you know. young off. [smiling] you are a dreadful little cynic! but of course you are! girl. cyneec? how long do you think i would live if i was not a cyneec? i should drown myself to-morrow. perhaps there are good people, but, you see, i don't know them. young off. i know lots. girl. [leaning towards him] well now--see, ni-ice boy--you haf never been in a hole, haf you? young off. i suppose not a real hole. girl. no, i should think not, with your face. well, suppose i am still a good girl, as i was once, you know; and you took me to your mother and your sisters and you said: "here is a little german girl that has no work, and no money, and no friends." they will say: "oh! how sad! a german girl!" and they will go and wash their hands. [the officer, is silent, staring at her.] girl. you see. young off. [muttering] i'm sure there are people. girl. no. they would not take a german, even if she was good. besides, i don't want to be good any more--i am not a humbug; i have learned to be bad. aren't you going to kees me, ni-ice boy? she puts her face close to his. her eyes trouble him; he draws back. young off. don't. i'd rather not, if you don't mind. [she looks at him fixedly, with a curious inquiring stare] it's stupid. i don't know--but you see, out there, and in hospital, life's different. it's--it's--it isn't mean, you know. don't come too close. girl. oh! you are fun----[she stops] eesn't it light. no zeps to-night. when they burn--what a 'orrble death! and all the people cheer. it is natural. do you hate us veree much? young off. [turning sharply] hate? i don't know. girl. i don't hate even the english--i despise them. i despise my people too; even more, because they began this war. oh! i know that. i despise all the peoples. why haf they made the world so miserable --why haf they killed all our lives--hundreds and thousands and millions of lives--all for noting? they haf made a bad world-- everybody hating, and looking for the worst everywhere. they haf made me bad, i know. i believe no more in anything. what is there to believe in? is there a god? no! once i was teaching little english children their prayers--isn't that funnee? i was reading to them about christ and love. i believed all those things. now i believe noting at all--no one who is not a fool or a liar can believe. i would like to work in a 'ospital; i would like to go and 'elp poor boys like you. because i am a german they would throw me out a 'undred times, even if i was good. it is the same in germany, in france, in russia, everywhere. but do you think i will believe in love and christ and god and all that--not i! i think we are animals --that's all! oh, yes! you fancy it is because my life has spoiled me. it is not that at all--that is not the worst thing in life. the men i take are not ni-ice, like you, but it's their nature; and--they help me to live, which is something for me, anyway. no, it is the men who think themselves great and good and make the war with their talk and their hate, killing us all--killing all the boys like you, and keeping poor people in prison, and telling us to go on hating; and all these dreadful cold-blood creatures who write in the papers --the same in my country--just the same; it is because of all of them that i think we are only animals. [the young officer gets up, acutely miserable.] [she follows him with her eyes.] girl. don't mind me talkin', ni-ice boy. i don't know anyone to talk to. if you don't like it, i can be quiet as a mouse. young off. oh, go on! talk away; i'm not obliged to believe you, and i don't. [she, too, is on her feet now, leaning against the wall; her dark dress and white face just touched by the slanting moonlight. her voice comes again, slow and soft and bitter.] girl. well, look here, ni-ice boy, what sort of world is it, where millions are being tortured, for no fault of theirs, at all? a beautiful world, isn't it? 'umbog! silly rot, as you boys call it. you say it is all "comrades" and braveness out there at the front, and people don't think of themselves. well, i don't think of myself veree much. what does it matter? i am lost now, anyway. but i think of my people at 'ome; how they suffer and grieve. i think of all the poor people there, and here, how lose those they love, and all the poor prisoners. am i not to think of them? and if i do, how am i to believe it a beautiful world, ni-ice boy? [he stands very still, staring at her.] girl. look here! we haf one life each, and soon it is over. well, i think that is lucky. young off. no! there's more than that. girl. [softly] ah! you think the war is fought for the future; you are giving your lives for a better world, aren't you? young off. we must fight till we win. girl. till you win. my people think that too. all the peoples think that if they win the world will be better. but it will not, you know; it will be much worse, anyway. [he turns away from her, and catches up his cap. her voice follows him.] girl. i don't care which win. i don't care if my country is beaten. i despise them all--animals--animals. ah! don't go, ni-ice boy; i will be quiet now. [he has taken some notes from his tunic pocket; he puts then on the table and goes up to her.] young off. good-night. girl. [plaintively] are you really going? don't you like me enough? young off. yes, i like you. girl. it is because i am german, then? young off. no. girl. then why won't you stay? young off. [with a shrug] if you must know--because you upset me. girl. won't you kees me once? [he bends, puts his lips to her forehead. but as he takes them away she throws her head back, presses her mouth to his, and clings to him.] young off. [sitting down suddenly] don't! i don't want to feel a brute. girl. [laughing] you are a funny boy; but you are veree good. talk to me a little, then. no one talks to me. tell me, haf you seen many german prisoners? young off. [sighing] a good many. girl. any from the rhine? young off. yes, i think so. girl. were they veree sad? young off. some were; some were quite glad to be taken. girl. did you ever see the rhine? it will be wonderful to-night. the moonlight will be the same there, and in rooshia too, and france, everywhere; and the trees will look the same as here, and people will meet under them and make love just as here. oh! isn't it stupid, the war? as if it were not good to be alive! young off. you can't tell how good it is to be alive till you're facing death. you don't live till then. and when a whole lot of you feel like that--and are ready to give their lives for each other, it's worth all the rest of life put together. [he stops, ashamed of such, sentiment before this girl, who believes in nothing.] girl. [softly] how were you wounded, ni-ice boy? young off. attacking across open ground: four machine bullets got me at one go off. girl. weren't you veree frightened when they ordered you to attack? [he shakes his head and laughs.] young off. it was great. we did laugh that morning. they got me much too soon, though--a swindle. girl. [staring at him] you laughed? young off. yes. and what do you think was the first thing i was conscious of next morning? my old colonel bending over me and giving me a squeeze of lemon. if you knew my colonel you'd still believe in things. there is something, you know, behind all this evil. after all, you can only die once, and, if it's for your country--all the better! [her face, in the moonlight, with, intent eyes touched up with black, has a most strange, other-world look.] girl. no; i believe in nothing, not even in my country. my heart is dead. young off. yes; you think so, but it isn't, you know, or you wouldn't have 'been crying when i met you. girl. if it were not dead, do you think i could live my life-walking the streets every night, pretending to like strange men; never hearing a kind word; never talking, for fear i will be known for a german? soon i shall take to drinking; then i shall be "kaput" veree quick. you see, i am practical; i see things clear. to-night i am a little emotional; the moon is funny, you know. but i live for myself only, now. i don't care for anything or anybody. young off. all the same; just now you were pitying your folk at home, and prisoners and that. girl. yees; because they suffer. those who suffer are like me--i pity myself, that's all; i am different from your english women. i see what i am doing; i do not let my mind become a turnip just because i am no longer moral. young off. nor your heart either, for all you say. girl. ni-ice boy, you are veree obstinate. but all that about love is 'umbog. we love ourselves, noting more. at that intense soft bitterness in her voice, he gets up, feeling stifled, and stands at the window. a newspaper boy some way off is calling his wares. the girl's fingers slip between his own, and stay unmoving. he looks round into her face. in spite of make-up it has a queer, unholy, touching beauty. young off. [with an outburst] no; we don't only love ourselves; there is more. i can't explain, but there's something great; there's kindness--and--and----- [the shouting of newspaper boys grows louder and their cries, passionately vehement, clash into each other and obscure each word. his head goes up to listen; her hand tightens within his arm--she too is listening. the cries come nearer, hoarser, more shrill and clamorous; the empty moonlight outside seems suddenly crowded with figures, footsteps, voices, and a fierce distant cheering. "great victory--great victory! official! british! 'eavy defeat of the 'uns! many thousand prisoners! 'eavy defeat!" it speeds by, intoxicating, filling him with a fearful joy; he leans far out, waving his cap and cheering like a madman; the night seems to flutter and vibrate and answer. he turns to rush down into the street, strikes against something soft, and recoils. the girl stands with hands clenched, and face convulsed, panting. all confused with the desire to do something, he stoops to kiss her hand. she snatches away her fingers, sweeps up the notes he has put down, and holds them out to him.] girl. take them--i will not haf your english money--take them. suddenly she tears them across, twice, thrice, lets the bits. flutter to the floor, and turns her back on him. he stands looking at her leaning against the plush-covered table, her head down, a dark figure in a dark room, with the moonlight sharpening her outline. hardly a moment he stays, then makes for the door. when he is gone, she still stands there, her chin on her breast, with the sound in her ears of cheering, of hurrying feet, and voices crying: "'eavy defeat!" stands, in the centre of a pattern made by the fragments of the torn-up notes, staring out unto the moonlight, seeing not this hated room and the hated square outside, but a german orchard, and herself, a little girl, plucking apples, a big dog beside her; and a hundred other pictures, such as the drowning see. then she sinks down on the floor, lays her forehead on the dusty carpet, and presses her body to it. mechanically, she sweeps together the scattered fragments of notes, assembling them with the dust into a little pile, as of fallen leaves, and dabbling in it with her fingers, while the tears run down her cheeks. girl. defeat! der vaterland! defeat!. . . . one shillin'! [then suddenly, in the moonlight, she sits up, and begins to sing with all her might "die wacht am rhein." and outside men pass, singing: "rule, britannia!"] curtain the sun a scene characters the girl. the man. the soldier. the sun a girl, sits crouched over her knees on a stile close to a river. a man with a silver badge stands beside her, clutching the worn top plank. the girl's level brows are drawn together; her eyes see her memories. the man's eyes see the girl; he has a dark, twisted face. the bright sun shines; the quiet river flows; the cuckoo is calling; the mayflower is in bloom along the hedge that ends in the stile on the towing-path. the girl. god knows what 'e'll say, jim. the man. let 'im. 'e's come too late, that's all. the girl. he couldn't come before. i'm frightened. 'e was fond o' me. the man. and aren't i fond of you? the girl. i ought to 'a waited, jim; with 'im in the fightin'. the man. [passionately] and what about me? aren't i been in the fightin'--earned all i could get? the girl. [touching him] ah! the man. did you--? [he cannot speak the words.] the girl. not like you, jim--not like you. the man. have a spirit, then. the girl. i promised him. the man. one man's luck's another's poison. the girl. i ought to 'a waited. i never thought he'd come back from the fightin'. the man. [grimly] maybe 'e'd better not 'ave. the girl. [looking back along the tow-path] what'll he be like, i wonder? the man. [gripping her shoulder] daisy, don't you never go back on me, or i should kill you, and 'im too. [the girl looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his.] the girl. i never could. the man. will you run for it? 'e'd never find us! [the girl shakes her head.] the man [dully] what's the good o' stayin'? the world's wide. the girl. i'd rather have it off me mind, with him home. the man. [clenching his hands] it's temptin' providence. the girl. what's the time, jim? the man. [glancing at the sun] 'alf past four. the girl. [looking along the towing-path] he said four o'clock. jim, you better go. the man. not i. i've not got the wind up. i've seen as much of hell as he has, any day. what like is he? the girl. [dully] i dunno, just. i've not seen him these three years. i dunno no more, since i've known you. the man. big or little chap? the girl. 'bout your size. oh! jim, go along! the man. no fear! what's a blighter like that to old fritz's shells? we didn't shift when they was comin'. if you'll go, i'll go; not else. [again she shakes her head.] the girl. jim, do you love me true? [for answer the man takes her avidly in his arms.] i ain't ashamed--i ain't ashamed. if 'e could see me 'eart. the man. daisy! if i'd known you out there, i never could 'a stuck it. they'd 'a got me for a deserter. that's how i love you! the girl. jim, don't lift your hand to 'im! promise! the man. that's according. the girl. promise! the man. if 'e keeps quiet, i won't. but i'm not accountable--not always, i tell you straight--not since i've been through that. the girl. [with a shiver] nor p'raps he isn't. the man. like as not. it takes the lynch pins out, i tell you. the girl. god 'elp us! the man. [grimly] ah! we said that a bit too often. what we want we take, now; there's no one else to give it us, and there's no fear'll stop us; we seen the bottom of things. the girl. p'raps he'll say that too. the man. then it'll be 'im or me. the girl. i'm frightened: the man. [tenderly] no, daisy, no! the river's handy. one more or less. 'e shan't 'arm you; nor me neither. [he takes out a knife.] the girl. [seizing his hand] oh, no! give it to me, jim! the man. [smiling] no fear! [he puts it away] shan't 'ave no need for it like as not. all right, little daisy; you can't be expected to see things like what we do. what's life, anyway? i've seen a thousand lives taken in five minutes. i've seen dead men on the wires like flies on a flypaper. i've been as good as dead meself a hundred times. i've killed a dozen men. it's nothin'. he's safe, if 'e don't get my blood up. if he does, nobody's safe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. i'm speakin' sober. the girl. [softly] jim, you won't go fightin' in the sun, with the birds all callin'? the man. that depends on 'im. i'm not lookin' for it. daisy, i love you. i love your hair. i love your eyes. i love you. the girl. and i love you, jim. i don't want nothin' more than you in all the world. the man. amen to that, my dear. kiss me close! the sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace. the girl starts from his arms, and looks behind her along the towing-path. the man draws back against, the hedge, fingering his side, where the knife is hidden. the song comes nearer. "i'll be right there to-night, where the fields are snowy white; banjos ringing, darkies singing, all the world seems bright." the girl. it's him! the man. don't get the wind up, daisy. i'm here! [the singing stops. a man's voice says "christ! it's daisy; it's little daisy 'erself!" the girl stands rigid. the figure of a soldier appears on the other side of the stile. his cap is tucked into his belt, his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is lean, wasted, brown, and laughing.] soldier. daisy! daisy! hallo, old pretty girl! [the girl does not move, barring the way, as it were.] the girl. hallo, jack! [softly] i got things to tell you! soldier. what sort o' things, this lovely day? why, i got things that'd take me years to tell. have you missed me, daisy? the girl. you been so long. soldier. so i 'ave. my gawd! it's a way they 'ave in the army. i said when i got out of it i'd laugh. like as the sun itself i used to think of you, daisy, when the trumps was comin' over, and the wind was up. d'you remember that last night in the wood? "come back and marry me quick, jack." well, here i am--got me pass to heaven. no more fightin', no more drillin', no more sleepin' rough. we can get married now, daisy. we can live soft an' 'appy. give us a kiss, my dear. the girl. [drawing back] no. soldier. [blankly] why not? [the man, with a swift movement steps along the hedge to the girl's side.] the man. that's why, soldier. soldier. [leaping over the stile] 'oo are you, pompey? the sun don't shine in your inside, do it? 'oo is he, daisy? the girl. my man. soldier. your-man! lummy! "taffy was a welshman, taffy was a thief!" well, mate! so you've been through it, too. i'm laughin' this mornin' as luck will 'ave it. ah! i can see your knife. the man. [who has half drawn his knife] don't laugh at me, i tell you. soldier. not at you, not at you. [he looks from one to the other] i'm laughin' at things in general. where did you get it, mate? the man. [watchfully] through the lung. soldier. think o' that! an' i never was touched. four years an' never was touched. an' so you've come an' took my girl! nothin' doin'! ha! [again he looks from one to the other-then away] well! the world's before me! [he laughs] i'll give you daisy for a lung protector. the man. [fiercely] you won't. i've took her. soldier. that's all right, then. you keep 'er. i've got a laugh in me you can't put out, black as you look! good-bye, little daisy! [the girl makes a movement towards him.] the man. don't touch 'im! [the girl stands hesitating, and suddenly bursts into tears.] soldier. look 'ere, mate; shake 'ands! i don't want to see a girl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. i seen too much of sorrer. you and me've been at the back of it. we've 'ad our whack. shake! the man. who are you kiddin'? you never loved 'er! soldier. [after a long moment's pause] oh! i thought i did. the man. i'll fight you for her. [he drops his knife. ] soldier. [slowly] mate, you done your bit, an' i done mine. it's took us two ways, seemin'ly. the girl. [pleading] jim! the man. [with clenched fists] i don't want 'is charity. i only want what i can take. soldier. daisy, which of us will you 'ave? the girl. [covering her face] oh! him! soldier. you see, mate! put your 'ands down. there's nothin' for it but a laugh. you an' me know that. laugh, mate! the man. you blarsted----! [the girl springs to him and stops his mouth.] soldier. it's no use, mate. i can't do it. i said i'd laugh to-day, and laugh i will. i've come through that, an' all the stink of it; i've come through sorrer. never again! cheerio, mate! the sun's a-shinin'! he turns away. the girl. jack, don't think too 'ard of me! soldier. [looking back] no fear, my dear! enjoy your fancy! so long! gawd bless you both! he sings, and goes along the path, and the song fades away. "i'll be right there to-night where the fields are snowy white; banjos ringing, darkies singing all the world seems bright!" the man. 'e's mad! the girl. [looking down the path with her hands clasped] the sun has touched 'im, jim! curtain punch and go a little comedy "orpheus with his lute made trees and the mountain tope that freeze....." persons of the play james g. frust ..............the boss e. blewitt vane .............the producer mr. foreson .................the stage manager "electrics"..................the electrician "props" .....................the property man herbert .....................the call boy of the play within the play guy toone ...................the professor vanessa hellgrove ...........the wife george fleetway .............orpheus maude hopkins ...............the faun scene: the stage of a theatre. action continuous, though the curtain is momentarily lowered according to that action. punch and go the scene is the stage of the theatre set for the dress rehearsal of the little play: "orpheus with his lute." the curtain is up and the audience, though present, is not supposed to be. the set scene represents the end section of a room, with wide french windows, back centre, fully opened on to an apple orchard in bloom. the back wall with these french windows, is set only about ten feet from the footlights, and the rest of the stage is orchard. what is visible of the room would indicate the study of a writing man of culture. ( note.--if found advantageous for scenic purposes, this section of room can be changed to a broad verandah or porch with pillars supporting its roof.) in the wall, stage left, is a curtained opening, across which the curtain is half drawn. stage right of the french windows is a large armchair turned rather towards the window, with a book rest attached, on which is a volume of the encyclopedia britannica, while on a stool alongside are writing materials such as a man requires when he writes with a pad on his knees. on a little table close by is a reading-lamp with a dark green shade. a crude light from the floats makes the stage stare; the only person on it is mr foreson, the stage manager, who is standing in the centre looking upwards as if waiting for someone to speak. he is a short, broad man, rather blank, and fatal. from the back of the auditorium, or from an empty box, whichever is most convenient, the producer, mr blewitt vane, a man of about thirty four, with his hair brushed back, speaks. vane. mr foreson? foreson. sir? vane. we'll do that lighting again. [foreson walks straight of the stage into the wings right.] [a pause.] mr foreson! [crescendo] mr foreson. [foreson walks on again from right and shades his eyes.] vane. for goodness sake, stand by! we'll do that lighting again. check your floats. foreson. [speaking up into the prompt wings] electrics! voice of electrics. hallo! foreson. give it us again. check your floats. [the floats go down, and there is a sudden blinding glare of blue lights, in which foreson looks particularly ghastly.] vane. great scott! what the blazes! mr foreson! [foreson walks straight out into the wings left. crescendo.] mr foreson! foreson. [re-appearing] sir? vane. tell miller to come down. foreson. electrics! mr blewitt vane wants to speak to you. come down! vane. tell herbert to sit in that chair. [foreson walks straight out into the right wings.] mr foreson! foreson. [re-appearing] sir? vane. don't go off the stage. [foreson mutters.] [electrics appears from the wings, stage left. he is a dark, thin-faced man with rather spikey hair.] electrics. yes, mr vane? vane. look! electrics. that's what i'd got marked, mr vane. vane. once for all, what i want is the orchard in full moonlight, and the room dark except for the reading lamp. cut off your front battens. [electrics withdraws left. foreson walks off the stage into the right wings.] mr foreson! foreson. [re-appearing] sir? vane. see this marked right. now, come on with it! i want to get some beauty into this! [while he is speaking, herbert, the call boy, appears from the wings right, a mercurial youth of about sixteen with a wide mouth.] foreson. [maliciously] here you are, then, mr vane. herbert, sit in that chair. [herbert sits an the armchair, with an air of perfect peace.] vane. now! [all the lights go out. in a wail] great scott! [a throaty chuckle from foreson in the darkness. the light dances up, flickers, shifts, grows steady, falling on the orchard outside. the reading lamp darts alight and a piercing little glare from it strikes into the auditorium away from herbert.] [in a terrible voice] mr foreson. foreson. sir? vane. look--at--that--shade! [foreson mutters, walks up to it and turns it round so that the light shines on herbert's legs.] on his face, on his face! [foreson turns the light accordingly.] foreson. is that what you want, mr vane? vane. yes. now, mark that! foreson. [up into wings right] electrics! electrics. hallo! foreson. mark that! vane. my god! [the blue suddenly becomes amber.] [the blue returns. all is steady. herbert is seen diverting himself with an imaginary cigar.] mr foreson. foreson. sir? vane. ask him if he's got that? foreson. have you got that? electrics. yes. vane. now pass to the change. take your floats off altogether. foreson. [calling up] floats out. [they go out.] vane. cut off that lamp. [the lamp goes out] put a little amber in your back batten. mark that! now pass to the end. mr foreson! foreson. sir? vane. black out foreson. [calling up] black out! [the lights go out.] vane. give us your first lighting-lamp on. and then the two changes. quick as you can. put some pep into it. mr foreson! foreson. sir? vane. stand for me where miss hellgrove comes in. foreson crosses to the window. no, no!--by the curtain. [foreson takes his stand by the curtain; and suddenly the three lighting effects are rendered quickly and with miraculous exactness.] good! leave it at that. we'll begin. mr foreson, send up to mr frust. [he moves from the auditorium and ascends on to the stage, by some steps stage right.] foreson. herb! call the boss, and tell beginners to stand by. sharp, now! [herbert gets out of the chair, and goes off right.] [foreson is going off left as vane mounts the stage.] vane. mr foreson. foreson. [re-appearing] sir? vane. i want "props." foreson. [in a stentorian voice] "props!" [another moth-eaten man appears through the french windows.] vane. is that boulder firm? props. [going to where, in front of the back-cloth, and apparently among its apple trees, lies the counterfeitment of a mossy boulder; he puts his foot on it] if, you don't put too much weight on it, sir. vane. it won't creak? props. nao. [he mounts on it, and a dolorous creaking arises.] vane. make that right. let me see that lute. [props produces a property lute. while they scrutinize it, a broad man with broad leathery clean-shaven face and small mouth, occupied by the butt end of a cigar, has come on to the stage from stage left, and stands waiting to be noticed.] props. [attracted by the scent of the cigar] the boss, sir. vane. [turning to "props"] that'll do, then. ["props" goes out through the french windows.] vane. [to frust] now, sir, we're all ready for rehearsal of "orpheus with his lute." frust. [in a cosmopolitan voice] "orphoos with his loot!" that his loot, mr vane? why didn't he pinch something more precious? has this high-brow curtain-raiser of yours got any "pep" in it? vane. it has charm. frust. i'd thought of "pop goes the weasel" with little miggs. we kind of want a cock-tail before "louisa loses," mr vane. vane. well, sir, you'll see. frust. this your lighting? it's a bit on the spiritool side. i've left my glass. guess i'll sit in the front row. ha'f a minute. who plays this orphoos? vane. george fleetway. frust. has he got punch? vane. it's a very small part. frust. who are the others? vane. guy toone plays the professor; vanessa hellgrove his wife; maude hopkins the faun. frust. h'm! names don't draw. vane. they're not expensive, any of them. miss hellgrove's a find, i think. frust. pretty? vane. quite. frust. arty? vane. [doubtfully] no. [with resolution] look here, mr frust, it's no use your expecting another "pop goes the weasel." frust. we-ell, if it's got punch and go, that'll be enough for me. let's get to it! [he extinguishes his cigar and descends the steps and sits in the centre of the front row of the stalls.] vane. mr foreson? foreson. [appearing through curtain, right] sir? vane. beginners. take your curtain down. [he descends the steps and seats himself next to frust. the curtain goes down.] [a woman's voice is heard singing very beautifully sullivan's song: "orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees and the mountain tops that freeze'." etc.] frust. some voice! the curtain rises. in the armchair the professor is yawning, tall, thin, abstracted, and slightly grizzled in the hair. he has a pad of paper over his knee, ink on the stool to his right and the encyclopedia volume on the stand to his left-barricaded in fact by the article he is writing. he is reading a page over to himself, but the words are drowned in the sound of the song his wife is singing in the next room, partly screened off by the curtain. she finishes, and stops. his voice can then be heard conning the words of his article. prof. "orpheus symbolized the voice of beauty, the call of life, luring us mortals with his song back from the graves we dig for ourselves. probably the ancients realized this neither more nor less than we moderns. mankind has not changed. the civilized being still hides the faun and the dryad within its broadcloth and its silk. and yet"--[he stops, with a dried-up air-rather impatiently] go on, my dear! it helps the atmosphere. [the voice of his wife begins again, gets as far as "made them sing" and stops dead, just as the professor's pen is beginning to scratch. and suddenly, drawing the curtain further aside] [she appears. much younger than the professor, pale, very pretty, of a botticellian type in face, figure, and in her clinging cream-coloured frock. she gazes at her abstracted husband; then swiftly moves to the lintel of the open window, and stands looking out.] the wife. god! what beauty! prof. [looking up] umm? the wife. i said: god! what beauty! prof. aha! the wife. [looking at him] do you know that i have to repeat everything to you nowadays? prof. what? the wife. that i have to repeat---- prof. yes; i heard. i'm sorry. i get absorbed. the wife. in all but me. prof. [startled] my dear, your song was helping me like anything to get the mood. this paper is the very deuce--to balance between the historical and the natural. the wife. who wants the natural? prof. [grumbling] umm! wish i thought that! modern taste! history may go hang; they're all for tuppence-coloured sentiment nowadays. the wife. [as if to herself] is the spring sentiment? prof. i beg your pardon, my dear; i didn't catch. wife. [as if against her will--urged by some pent-up force] beauty, beauty! prof. that's what i'm, trying to say here. the orpheus legend symbolizes to this day the call of beauty! [he takes up his pen, while she continues to stare out at the moonlight. yawning] dash it! i get so sleepy; i wish you'd tell them to make the after-dinner coffee twice as strong. wife. i will. prof. how does this strike you? [conning] "many renaissance pictures, especially those of botticelli, francesca and piero di cosimo were inspired by such legends as that of orpheus, and we owe a tiny gem--like raphael 'apollo and marsyas' to the same pagan inspiration." wife. we owe it more than that--rebellion against the dry-as-dust. prof. quite. i might develop that: "we owe it our revolt against the academic; or our disgust at 'big business,' and all the grossness of commercial success. we owe----". [his voice peters out.] wife. it--love. prof. [abstracted] eh! wife. i said: we owe it love. prof. [rather startled] possibly. but--er [with a dry smile] i mustn't say that here--hardly! wife. [to herself and the moonlight] orpheus with his lute! prof. most people think a lute is a sort of flute. [yawning heavily] my dear, if you're not going to sing again, d'you mind sitting down? i want to concentrate. wife. i'm going out. prof. mind the dew! wife. the christian virtues and the dew. prof. [with a little dry laugh] not bad! not bad! the christian virtues and the dew. [his hand takes up his pen, his face droops over his paper, while his wife looks at him with a very strange face] "how far we can trace the modern resurgence against the christian virtues to the symbolic figures of orpheus, pan, apollo, and bacchus might be difficult to estimate, but----" [during those words his wife has passed through the window into the moonlight, and her voice rises, singing as she goes: "orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees . . ."] prof. [suddenly aware of something] she'll get her throat bad. [he is silent as the voice swells in the distance] sounds queer at night-h'm! [he is silent--yawning. the voice dies away. suddenly his head nods; he fights his drowsiness; writes a word or two, nods again, and in twenty seconds is asleep.] [the stage is darkened by a black-out. frust's voice is heard speaking.] frust. what's that girl's name? vane. vanessa hellgrove. frust. aha! [the stage is lighted up again. moonlight bright on the orchard; the room in darkness where the professor's figure is just visible sleeping in the chair, and screwed a little more round towards the window. from behind the mossy boulder a faun-like figure uncurls itself and peeps over with ears standing up and elbows leaning on the stone, playing a rustic pipe; and there are seen two rabbits and a fox sitting up and listening. a shiver of wind passes, blowing petals from the apple-trees.] [the faun darts his head towards where, from right, comes slowly the figure of a greek youth, holding a lute or lyre which his fingers strike, lifting out little wandering strains as of wind whinnying in funnels and odd corners. the faun darts down behind the stone, and the youth stands by the boulder playing his lute. slowly while he plays the whitened trunk of an apple-tree is seen, to dissolve into the body of a girl with bare arms and feet, her dark hair unbound, and the face of the professor's wife. hypnotized, she slowly sways towards him, their eyes fixed on each other, till she is quite close. her arms go out to him, cling round his neck and, their lips meet. but as they meet there comes a gasp and the professor with rumpled hair is seen starting from his chair, his hands thrown up; and at his horrified "oh!" the stage is darkened with a black-out.] [the voice of frust is heard speaking.] frust. gee! the stage is lighted up again, as in the opening scene. the professor is seen in his chair, with spilt sheets of paper round him, waking from a dream. he shakes himself, pinches his leg, stares heavily round into the moonlight, rises. prof. phew! beastly dream! boof! h'm! [he moves to the window and calls.] blanche! blanche! [to himself] made trees-made trees! [calling] blanche! wife's voice. yes. prof. where are you? wife. [appearing by the stone with her hair down] here! prof. i say--i---i've been asleep--had a dream. come in. i'll tell you. [she comes, and they stand in the window.] prof. i dreamed i saw a-faun on that boulder blowing on a pipe. [he looks nervously at the stone] with two damned little rabbits and a fox sitting up and listening. and then from out there came our friend orpheus playing on his confounded lute, till he actually turned that tree there into you. and gradually he-he drew you like a snake till you--er--put your arms round his neck and--er--kissed him. boof! i woke up. most unpleasant. why! your hair's down! wife. yes. prof. why? wife. it was no dream. he was bringing me to life. prof. what on earth? wife. do you suppose i am alive? i'm as dead as euridice. prof. good heavens, blanche, what's the matter with you to-night? wife. [pointing to the litter of papers] why don't we live, instead of writing of it? [she points out unto the moonlight] what do we get out of life? money, fame, fashion, talk, learning? yes. and what good are they? i want to live! prof. [helplessly] my dear, i really don't know what you mean. wife. [pointing out into the moonlight] look! orpheus with his lute, and nobody can see him. beauty, beauty, beauty--we let it go. [with sudden passion] beauty, love, the spring. they should be in us, and they're all outside. prof. my dear, this is--this is--awful. [he tries to embrace her.] wife. [avoiding him--an a stilly voice] oh! go on with your writing! prof. i'm--i'm upset. i've never known you so--so---- wife. hysterical? well! it's over. i'll go and sing. prof. [soothingly] there, there! i'm sorry, darling; i really am. you're kipped--you're kipped. [he gives and she accepts a kiss] better? [he gravitates towards his papers.] all right, now? wife. [standing still and looking at him] quite! prof. well, i'll try and finish this to-night; then, to-morrow we might have a jaunt. how about a theatre? there's a thing--they say --called "chinese chops," that's been running years. wife. [softly to herself as he settles down into his chair] oh! god! [while he takes up a sheet of paper and adjusts himself, she stands at the window staring with all her might at the boulder, till from behind it the faun's head and shoulders emerge once more.] prof. very queer the power suggestion has over the mind. very queer! there's nothing really in animism, you know, except the curious shapes rocks, trees and things take in certain lights--effect they have on our imagination. [he looks up] what's the matter now? wife. [startled] nothing! nothing! [her eyes waver to him again, and the faun vanishes. she turns again to look at the boulder; there is nothing there; a little shiver of wind blows some petals off the trees. she catches one of them, and turning quickly, goes out through the curtain.] prof. [coming to himself and writing] "the orpheus legend is the-- er--apotheosis of animism. can we accept----" [his voice is lost in the sound of his wife's voice beginning again: "orpheus with his lute--with his lute made trees----" it dies in a sob. the professor looks up startled, as the curtain falls]. frust. fine! fine! vane. take up the curtain. mr foreson? [the curtain goes up.] foreson. sir? vane. everybody on. [he and frust leave their seats and ascend on to the stage, on which are collecting the four players.] vane. give us some light. foreson. electrics! turn up your floats! [the footlights go up, and the blue goes out; the light is crude as at the beginning.] frust. i'd like to meet miss hellgrove. [she comes forward eagerly and timidly. he grasps her hand] miss hellgrove, i want to say i thought that fine--fine. [her evident emotion and pleasure warm him so that he increases his grasp and commendation] fine. it quite got my soft spots. emotional. fine! miss h. oh! mr frust; it means so much to me. thank you! frust. [a little balder in the eye, and losing warmth] er--fine! [his eye wanders] where's mr flatway? vane. fleetway. [fleetway comes up.] frust. mr fleetway, i want to say i thought your orphoos very remarkable. fine. fleetway. thank you, sir, indeed--so glad you liked it. frust. [a little balder in the eye] there wasn't much to it, but what there was was fine. mr toone. [fleetway melts out and toone is precipitated.] mr toone, i was very pleased with your professor--quite a character-study. [toone bows and murmurs] yes, sir! i thought it fine. [his eye grows bald] who plays the goat? miss hopk. [appearing suddenly between the windows] i play the faun, mr frost. foreson. [introducing] miss maude 'opkins. frust. miss hopkins, i guess your fawn was fine. miss hopk. oh! thank you, mr frost. how nice of you to say so. i do so enjoy playing him. frust. [his eye growing bald] mr foreson, i thought the way you fixed that tree was very cunning; i certainly did. got a match? [he takes a match from foreson, and lighting a very long cigar, walks up stage through the french windows followed by foreson, and examines the apple-tree.] [the two actors depart, but miss hellgrove runs from where she has been lingering, by the curtain, to vane, stage right.] miss h. oh! mr vane--do you think? he seemed quite--oh! mr vane [ecstatically] if only---- vane. [pleased and happy] yes, yes. all right--you were splendid. he liked it. he quite---- miss h. [clasping her hand] how wonderful oh, mr vane, thank you! [she clasps his hands; but suddenly, seeing that frust is coming back, fits across into the curtain and vanishes.] [the stage, in the crude light, as empty now save for frust, who, in the french windows, centre, is mumbling his cigar; and vane, stage right, who is looking up into the wings, stage left.] vane. [calling up] that lighting's just right now, miller. got it marked carefully? electrics. yes, mr vane. vane. good. [to frust who as coming down] well, sir? so glad---- frust. mr vane, we got little miggs on contract? vane. yes. frust. well, i liked that little pocket piece fine. but i'm blamed if i know what it's all about. vane. [a little staggered] why! of course it's a little allegory. the tragedy of civilization--all real feeling for beauty and nature kept out, or pent up even in the cultured. frust. ye-ep. [meditatively] little miggs'd be fine in "pop goes the weasel." vane. yes, he'd be all right, but---- frust. get him on the 'phone, and put it into rehearsal right now. vane. what! but this piece--i--i----! frust. guess we can't take liberties with our public, mr vane. they want pep. vane. [distressed] but it'll break that girl's heart. i--really--i can't---- frust. give her the part of the 'tweeny in "pop goes". vane. mr frust, i--i beg. i've taken a lot of trouble with this little play. it's good. it's that girl's chance--and i---- frust. we-ell! i certainly thought she was fine. now, you 'phone up miggs, and get right along with it. i've only one rule, sir! give the public what it wants; and what the public wants is punch and go. they've got no use for beauty, allegory, all that high-brow racket. i know 'em as i know my hand. [during this speech miss hellgrove is seen listening by the french window, in distress, unnoticed by either of them.] vane. mr frost, the public would take this, i'm sure they would; i'm convinced of it. you underrate them. frust. now, see here, mr blewitt vane, is this my theatre? i tell you, i can't afford luxuries. vane. but it--it moved you, sir; i saw it. i was watching. frust. [with unmoved finality] mr vane, i judge i'm not the average man. before "louisa loses" the public'll want a stimulant. "pop goes the weasel" will suit us fine. so--get right along with it. i'll go get some lunch. [as he vanishes into the wings, left, miss hellgrove covers her face with her hands. a little sob escaping her attracts vane's attention. he takes a step towards her, but she flies.] vane. [dashing his hands through his hair till it stands up] damnation! [foreson walks on from the wings, right.] foreson. sir? vane. "punch and go!" that superstition! [foreson walks straight out into the wings, left.] vane. mr foreson! foreson. [re-appearing] sir? vane. this is scrapped. [with savagery] tell 'em to set the first act of "louisa loses," and put some pep into it. [he goes out through the french windows with the wind still in his hair.] foreson. [in the centre of the stage] electrics! electrics. hallo! foreson. where's charlie? electrics. gone to his dinner. foreson. anybody on the curtain? a voice. yes, mr foreson. foreson. put your curtain down. [he stands in the centre of the stage with eyes uplifted as the curtain descends.] the end fifth series contents: a family man loyalties windows a family man from the th series plays by john galsworthy characters john builder................ of the firm of builder & builder julia....................... his wife athene...................... his elder daughter maud........................ his younger daughter ralph builder............... his brother, and partner guy herringhame............. a flying man annie....................... a young person in blue camille..................... mrs builder's french maid topping..................... builder's manservant the mayor................... of breconridge harris...................... his secretary francis chantrey............ j.p. moon........................ a constable martin...................... a police sergeant a journalist................ from the comet the figure of a poacher the voices and faces of small boys the action passes in the town of breconridge, the midlands. act i. scene i. builder's study. after breakfast. scene ii. a studio. act ii. builder's study. lunchtime. act iii. scene i. the mayor's study. am the following day. scene ii. builder's study. the same. noon. scene iii. builder's study. the same. evening. act i scene i the study of john builder in the provincial town of breconridge. a panelled room wherein nothing is ever studied, except perhaps builder's face in the mirror over the fireplace. it is, however, comfortable, and has large leather chairs and a writing table in the centre, on which is a typewriter, and many papers. at the back is a large window with french outside shutters, overlooking the street, for the house is an old one, built in an age when the homes of doctors, lawyers and so forth were part of a provincial town, and not yet suburban. there are two or three fine old prints on the walls, right and left; and a fine, old fireplace, left, with a fender on which one can sit. a door, left back, leads into the dining-room, and a door, right forward, into the hall. john builder is sitting in his after-breakfast chair before the fire with the times in his hands. he has breakfasted well, and is in that condition of first-pipe serenity in which the affairs of the. nation seem almost bearable. he is a tallish, square, personable man of forty-seven, with a well-coloured, jowly, fullish face, marked under the eyes, which have very small pupils and a good deal of light in them. his bearing has force and importance, as of a man accustomed to rising and ownerships, sure in his opinions, and not lacking in geniality when things go his way. essentially a midlander. his wife, a woman of forty-one, of ivory tint, with a thin, trim figure and a face so strangely composed as to be almost like a mask (essentially from jersey) is putting a nib into a pen-holder, and filling an inkpot at the writing-table. as the curtain rises camille enters with a rather broken-down cardboard box containing flowers. she is a young woman with a good figure, a pale face, the warm brown eyes and complete poise of a frenchwoman. she takes the box to mrs builder. mrs builder. the blue vase, please, camille. camille fetches a vase. mrs builder puts the flowers into the vase. camille gathers up the debris; and with a glance at builder goes out. builder. glorious october! i ought to have a damned good day's shooting with chantrey tomorrow. mrs builder. [arranging the flowers] aren't you going to the office this morning? builder. well, no, i was going to take a couple of days off. if you feel at the top of your form, take a rest--then you go on feeling at the top. [he looks at her, as if calculating] what do you say to looking up athene? mrs builder. [palpably astonished] athene? but you said you'd done with her? builder. [smiling] six weeks ago; but, dash it, one can't have done with one's own daughter. that's the weakness of an englishman; he can't keep up his resentments. in a town like this it doesn't do to have her living by herself. one of these days it'll get out we've had a row. that wouldn't do me any good. mrs builder. i see. builder. besides, i miss her. maud's so self-absorbed. it makes a big hole in the family, julia. you've got her address, haven't you? mrs builder. yes. [very still] but do you think it's dignified, john? builder. [genially] oh, hang dignity! i rather pride myself on knowing when to stand on my dignity and when to sit on it. if she's still crazy about art, she can live at home, and go out to study. mrs builder. her craze was for liberty. builder. a few weeks' discomfort soon cures that. she can't live on her pittance. she'll have found that out by now. get your things on and come with me at twelve o'clock. mrs builder. i think you'll regret it. she'll refuse. builder. not if i'm nice to her. a child could play with me to-day. shall i tell you a secret, julia? mrs builder. it would be pleasant for a change. builder. the mayor's coming round at eleven, and i know perfectly well what he's coming for. mrs builder. well? builder. i'm to be nominated for mayor next month. harris tipped me the wink at the last council meeting. not so bad at forty-seven--h'm? i can make a thundering good mayor. i can do things for this town that nobody else can. mrs builder. now i understand about athene. builder. [good-humouredly] well, it's partly that. but [more seriously] it's more the feeling i get that i'm not doing my duty by her. goodness knows whom she may be picking up with! artists are a loose lot. and young people in these days are the limit. i quite believe in moving with the times, but one's either born a conservative, or one isn't. so you be ready at twelve, see. by the way, that french maid of yours, julia-- mrs builder. what about her? builder. is she--er--is she all right? we don't want any trouble with topping. mrs builder. there will be none with--topping. [she opens the door left.] builder. i don't know; she strikes me as--very french. mrs builder smiles and passes out. builder fills his second pipe. he is just taking up the paper again when the door from the hall is opened, and the manservant topping, dried, dark, sub-humorous, in a black cut-away, announces: topping. the mayor, sir, and mr harris! the mayor of breconridge enters, he is clean-shaven, red-faced, light-eyed, about sixty, shrewd, poll-parroty, naturally jovial, dressed with the indefinable wrongness of a burgher; he is followed by his secretary harris, a man all eyes and cleverness. topping retires. builder. [rising] hallo, mayor! what brings you so early? glad to see you. morning, harris! mayor. morning, builder, morning. harris. good-morning, sir. builder. sit down-sit down! have a cigar! the mayor takes a cigar harris a cigarette from his own case. builder. well, mayor, what's gone wrong with the works? he and harris exchange a look. mayor. [with his first puff] after you left the council the other day, builder, we came to a decision. builder. deuce you did! shall i agree with it? mayor. we shall see. we want to nominate you for mayor. you willin' to stand? builder. [stolid] that requires consideration. mayor. the only alternative is chantrey; but he's a light weight, and rather too much county. what's your objection? builder. it's a bit unexpected, mayor. [looks at harris] am i the right man? following you, you know. i'm shooting with chantrey to-morrow. what does he feel about it? mayor. what do you say, 'arris? harris. mr chantrey's a public school and university man, sir; he's not what i call ambitious. builder. nor am i, harris. harris. no, sir; of course you've a high sense of duty. mr chantrey's rather dilettante. mayor. we want a solid man. builder. i'm very busy, you know, mayor. mayor. but you've got all the qualifications--big business, family man, live in the town, church-goer, experience on the council and the bench. better say "yes," builder. builder. it's a lot of extra work. i don't take things up lightly. mayor. dangerous times, these. authority questioned all over the place. we want a man that feels his responsibilities, and we think we've got him in you. builder. very good of you, mayor. i don't know, i'm sure. i must think of the good of the town. harris. i shouldn't worry about that, sir. mayor. the name john builder carries weight. you're looked up to as a man who can manage his own affairs. madam and the young ladies well? builder. first-rate. mayor. [rises] that's right. well, if you'd like to talk it over with chantrey to-morrow. with all this extremism, we want a man of principle and common sense. harris. we want a man that'll grasp the nettle, sir--and that's you. builder. hm! i've got a temper, you know. mayor. [chuckling] we do--we do! you'll say "yes," i see. no false modesty! come along, 'arris, we must go. builder. well, mayor, i'll think it over, and let you have an answer. you know my faults, and you know my qualities, such as they are. i'm just a plain englishman. mayor. we don't want anything better than that. i always say the great point about an englishman is that he's got bottom; you may knock him off his pins, but you find him on 'em again before you can say "jack robinson." he may have his moments of aberration, but he's a sticker. morning, builder, morning! hope you'll say "yes." he shakes hands and goes out, followed by harris. when the door is dosed builder stands a moment quite still with a gratified smile on his face; then turns and scrutinises himself in the glass over the hearth. while he is doing so the door from the dining-room is opened quietly and camille comes in. builder, suddenly seeing her reflected in the mirror, turns. builder. what is it, camille? camille. madame send me for a letter she say you have, monsieur, from the dyer and cleaner, with a bill. builder. [feeling in his pockets] yes--no. it's on the table. camille goes to the writing-table and looks. that blue thing. camille. [taking it up] non, monsieur, this is from the gas. builder. oh! ah! [he moves up to the table and turns over papers. camille stands motionless close by with her eyes fixed on him.] here it is! [he looks up, sees her looking at him, drops his own gaze, and hands her the letter. their hands touch. putting his hands in his pockets] what made you come to england? camille. [demure] it is better pay, monsieur, and [with a smile] the english are so amiable. builder. deuce they are! they haven't got that reputation. camille. oh! i admire englishmen. they are so strong and kind. builder. [bluffly flattered] h'm! we've no manners. camille. the frenchman is more polite, but not in the 'eart. builder. yes. i suppose we're pretty sound at heart. camille. and the englishman have his life in the family--the frenchman have his life outside. builder. [with discomfort] h'm! camille. [with a look] too mooch in the family--like a rabbit in a 'utch. builder. oh! so that's your view of us! [his eyes rest on her, attracted but resentful]. camille. pardon, monsieur, my tongue run away with me. builder. [half conscious of being led on] are you from paris? camille. [clasping her hands] yes. what a town for pleasure--paris! builder. i suppose so. loose place, paris. camille. loose? what is that, monsieur? builder. the opposite of strict. camille. strict! oh! certainly we like life, we other french. it is not like england. i take this to madame, monsieur. [she turns as if to go] excuse me. builder. i thought you frenchwomen all married young. camille. i 'ave been married; my 'usband did die--en afrique. builder. you wear no ring. camille. [smiling] i prefare to be mademoiselle, monsieur. builder. [dubiously] well, it's all the same to us. [he takes a letter up from the table] you might take this to mrs builder too. [again their fingers touch, and there is a suspicion of encounter between their eyes.] camille goes out. builder. [turning to his chair] don't know about that woman--she's a tantalizer. he compresses his lips, and is settling back into his chair, when the door from the hall is opened and his daughter maud comes in; a pretty girl, rather pale, with fine eyes. though her face has a determined cast her manner at this moment is by no means decisive. she has a letter in her hand, and advances rather as if she were stalking her father, who, after a "hallo, maud!" has begun to read his paper. maud. [getting as far as the table] father. builder. [not lowering the paper] well? i know that tone. what do you want--money? maud. i always want money, of course; but--but-- builder. [pulling out a note-abstractedly] here's five pounds for you. maud, advancing, takes it, then seems to find what she has come for more on her chest than ever. builder. [unconscious] will you take a letter for me? maud sits down left of table and prepares to take down the letter. [dictating] "dear mr mayor,--referring to your call this morning, i have --er--given the matter very careful consideration, and though somewhat reluctant--" maud. are you really reluctant, father? builder. go on--"to assume greater responsibilities, i feel it my duty to come forward in accordance with your wish. the--er--honour is one of which i hardly feel myself worthy, but you may rest assured--" maud. worthy. but you do, you know. builder. look here! are you trying to get a rise out of me?--because you won't succeed this morning. maud. i thought you were trying to get one out of me. builder. well, how would you express it? maud. "i know i'm the best man for the place, and so do you--" builder. the disrespect of you young people is something extraordinary. and that reminds me where do you go every evening now after tea? maud. i--i don't know. builder. come now, that won't do--you're never in the house from six to seven. maud. well! it has to do with my education. builder. why, you finished that two years ago! maud. well, call it a hobby, if you like, then, father. she takes up the letter she brought in and seems on the point of broaching it. builder. hobby? well, what is it? maud. i don't want to irritate you, father. builder. you can't irritate me more than by having secrets. see what that led to in your sister's case. and, by the way, i'm going to put an end to that this morning. you'll be glad to have her back, won't you? maud. [startled] what! builder. your mother and i are going round to athene at twelve o'clock. i shall make it up with her. she must come back here. maud. [aghast, but hiding it] oh! it's--it's no good, father. she won't. builder. we shall see that. i've quite got over my tantrum, and i expect she has. maud. [earnestly] father! i do really assure you she won't; it's only wasting your time, and making you eat humble pie. builder. well, i can eat a good deal this morning. it's all nonsense! a family's a family. maud. [more and more disturbed, but hiding it] father, if i were you, i wouldn't-really! it's not-dignified. builder. you can leave me to judge of that. it's not dignified for the mayor of this town to have an unmarried daughter as young as athene living by herself away from home. this idea that she's on a visit won't wash any longer. now finish that letter--"worthy, but you may rest assured that i shall do my best to sustain the--er--dignity of the office." [maud types desperately.] got that? "and--er--preserve the tradition so worthily--" no-- "so staunchly"--er--er-- maud. upheld. builder. ah! "--upheld by yourself.--faithfully yours." maud. [finishing] father, you thought athene went off in a huff. it wasn't that a bit. she always meant to go. she just got you into a rage to make it easier. she hated living at home. builder. nonsense! why on earth should she? maud. well, she did! and so do-- [checking herself] and so you see it'll only make you ridiculous to go. builder. [rises] now what's behind this, maud? maud. behind--oh! nothing! builder. the fact is, you girls have been spoiled, and you enjoy twisting my tail; but you can't make me roar this morning. i'm too pleased with things. you'll see, it'll be all right with athene. maud. [very suddenly] father! builder. [grimly humorous] well! get it off your chest. what's that letter about? maud. [failing again and crumpling the letter behind her back] oh! nothing. builder. everything's nothing this morning. do you know what sort of people athene associates with now--i suppose you see her? maud. sometimes. builder. well? maud. nobody much. there isn't anybody here to associate with. it's all hopelessly behind the times. builder. oh! you think so! that's the inflammatory fiction you pick up. i tell you what, young woman--the sooner you and your sister get rid of your silly notions about not living at home, and making your own way, the sooner you'll both get married and make it. men don't like the new spirit in women--they may say they do, but they don't. maud. you don't, father, i know. builder. well, i'm very ordinary. if you keep your eyes open, you'll soon see that. maud. men don't like freedom for anybody but themselves. builder. that's not the way to put it. [tapping out his pipe] women in your class have never had to face realities. maud. no, but we want to. builder. [good-humouredly] well, i'll bet you what you like, athene's dose of reality will have cured her. maud. and i'll bet you--no, i won't! builder. you'd better not. athene will come home, and only too glad to do it. ring for topping and order the car at twelve. as he opens the door to pass out, maud starts forward, but checks herself. maud. [looking at her watch] half-past eleven! good heavens! she goes to the bell and rings. then goes back to the table, and writes an address on a bit of paper. topping enters right. topping. did you ring, miss? maud. [with the paper] yes. look here, topping! can you manage-- on your bicycle--now at once? i want to send a message to miss athene --awfully important. it's just this: "look out! father is coming." [holding out the paper] here's her address. you must get there and away again by twelve. father and mother want the car then to go there. order it before you go. it won't take you twenty minutes on your bicycle. it's down by the river near the ferry. but you mustn't be seen by them either going or coming. topping. if i should fall into their hands, miss, shall i eat the despatch? maud. rather! you're a brick, topping. hurry up! topping. nothing more precise, miss? maud. m--m--no. topping. very good, miss maud. [conning the address] "briary studio, river road. look out! father is coming!" i'll go out the back way. any answer? maud. no. topping nods his head and goes out. maud. [to herself] well, it's all i can do. she stands, considering, as the curtain falls. scene ii the studio, to which are attached living rooms, might be rented at eighty pounds a year--some painting and gear indeed, but an air of life rather than of work. things strewn about. bare walls, a sloping skylight, no windows; no fireplace visible; a bedroom door, stage right; a kitchen door, stage left. a door, centre back, into the street. the door knocker is going. from the kitchen door, left, comes the very young person, annie, in blotting-paper blue linen, with a white dutch cap. she is pretty, her cheeks rosy, and her forehead puckered. she opens the street door. standing outside is topping. he steps in a pace or two. topping. miss builder live here? annie. oh! no, sir; mrs herringhame. topping. mrs herringhame? oh! young lady with dark hair and large expressive eyes? annie. oh! yes, sir. topping. with an "a. b." on her linen? [moves to table]. annie. yes, sir. topping. and "athene builder" on her drawings? annie. [looking at one] yes, sir. topping. let's see. [he examines the drawing] mrs herringhame, you said? annie. oh! yes, sir. topping. wot oh! annie. did you want anything, sir? topping. drop the "sir," my dear; i'm the builders' man. mr herringhame in? annie. oh! no, sir. topping. take a message. i can't wait. from miss maud builder. "look out! father is coming." now, whichever of 'em comes in first--that's the message, and don't you forget it. annie. oh! no, sir. topping. so they're married? annie. oh! i don't know, sir. topping. i see. well, it ain't known to builder, j.p., either. that's why there's a message. see? annie. oh! yes, sir. topping. keep your head. i must hop it. from miss maud builder. "look out! father is coming." he nods, turns and goes, pulling the door to behind him. annie stands "baff" for a moment. annie. ah! she goes across to the bedroom on the right, and soon returns with a suit of pyjamas, a toothbrush, a pair of slippers and a case of razors, which she puts on the table, and disappears into the kitchen. she reappears with a bread pan, which she deposits in the centre of the room; then crosses again to the bedroom, and once more reappears with a clothes brush, two hair brushes, and a norfolk jacket. as she stuffs all these into the bread pan and bears it back into the kitchen, there is the sound of a car driving up and stopping. annie reappears at the kitchen door just as the knocker sounds. annie. vexin' and provokin'! [knocker again. she opens the door] oh! mr and mrs builder enter. builder. mr and mrs builder. my daughter in? annie. [confounded] oh! sir, no, sir. builder. my good girl, not "oh! sir, no, sir." simply: no, sir. see? annie. oh! sir, yes, sir. builder. where is she? annie. oh! sir, i don't know, sir. builder. [fixing her as though he suspected her of banter] will she be back soon? annie. no, sir. builder. how do you know? annie. i d--don't, sir. builder. they why do you say so? [about to mutter "she's an idiot!" he looks at her blushing face and panting figure, pats her on the shoulder and says] never mind; don't be nervous. annie. oh! yes, sir. is that all, please, sir? mrs builder. [with a side look at her husband and a faint smile] yes; you can go. annie. thank you, ma'am. she turns and hurries out into the kitchen, left. builder gazes after her, and mrs builder gazes at builder with her faint smile. builder. [after the girl is gone] quaint and dutch--pretty little figure! [staring round] h'm! extraordinary girls are! fancy athene preferring this to home. what? mrs builder. i didn't say anything. builder. [placing a chair for his wife, and sitting down himself] well, we must wait, i suppose. confound that nixon legacy! if athene hadn't had that potty little legacy left her, she couldn't have done this. well, i daresay it's all spent by now. i made a mistake to lose my temper with her. mrs builder. isn't it always a mistake to lose one's temper? builder. that's very nice and placid; sort of thing you women who live sheltered lives can say. i often wonder if you women realise the strain on a business man. mrs builder. [in her softly ironical voice] it seems a shame to add the strain of family life. builder. you've always been so passive. when i want a thing, i've got to have it. mrs builder. i've noticed that. builder. [with a short laugh] odd if you hadn't, in twenty-three years. [touching a canvas standing against the chair with his toe] art! just a pretext. we shall be having maud wanting to cut loose next. she's very restive. still, i oughtn't to have had that scene with athene. i ought to have put quiet pressure. mrs builder smiles. builder. what are you smiling at? mrs builder shrugs her shoulders. look at this--cigarettes! [he examines the brand on the box] strong, very--and not good! [he opens the door] kitchen! [he shuts it, crosses, and opens the door, right] bedroom! mrs builder. [to his disappearing form] do you think you ought, john? he has disappeared, and she ends with an expressive movement of her hands, a long sigh, and a closing of her eyes. builder's peremptory voice is heard: "julia!" what now? she follows into the bedroom. the maid annie puts her head out of the kitchen door; she comes out a step as if to fly; then, at builder's voice, shrinks back into the kitchen. builder, reappearing with a razor strop in one hand and a shaving-brush in the other, is followed by mrs builder. builder. explain these! my god! where's that girl? mrs builder. john! don't! [getting between him and the kitchen door] it's not dignified. builder. i don't care a damn. mrs builder. john, you mustn't. athene has the tiny beginning of a moustache, you know. builder. what! i shall stay and clear this up if i have to wait a week. men who let their daughters--! this age is the limit. [he makes a vicious movement with the strop, as though laying it across someone's back.] mrs builder. she would never stand that. even wives object, nowadays. builder. [grimly] the war's upset everything. women are utterly out of hand. why the deuce doesn't she come? mrs builder. suppose you leave me here to see her. builder. [ominously] this is my job. mrs builder. i think it's more mine. builder. don't stand there opposing everything i say! i'll go and have another look--[he is going towards the bedroom when the sound of a latchkey in the outer door arrests him. he puts the strop and brush behind his back, and adds in a low voice] here she is! mrs builder has approached him, and they have both turned towards the opening door. guy herringhame comes in. they are a little out of his line of sight, and he has shut the door before he sees them. when he does, his mouth falls open, and his hand on to the knob of the door. he is a comely young man in harris tweeds. moreover, he is smoking. he would speak if he could, but his surprise is too excessive. builder. well, sir? guy. [recovering a little] i was about to say the same to you, sir. builder. [very red from repression] these rooms are not yours, are they? guy. nor yours, sir? builder. may i ask if you know whose they are? guy. my sister's. builder. your--you--! mrs builder. john! builder. will you kindly tell me why your sister signs her drawings by the name of my daughter, athene builder--and has a photograph of my wife hanging there? the young man looks at mrs builder and winces, but recovers himself. guy. [boldly] as a matter of fact this is my sister's studio; she's in france--and has a friend staying here. builder. oh! and you have a key? guy. my sister's. builder. does your sister shave? guy. i--i don't think so. builder. no. then perhaps you'll tell me what these mean? [he takes out the strop and shaving stick]. guy. oh! ah! those things? builder. yes. now then? guy. [addressing mrs builder] need we go into this in your presence, ma'am? it seems rather delicate. builder. what explanation have you got? guy. well, you see-- builder. no lies; out with it! guy. [with decision] i prefer to say nothing. builder. what's your name? guy. guy herringhame. builder. do you live here? guy makes no sign. mrs builder. [to guy] i think you had better go. builder. julia, will you leave me to manage this? mrs builder. [to guy] when do you expect my daughter in? guy. now--directly. mrs builder. [quietly] are you married to her? guy. yes. that is--no--o; not altogether, i mean. builder. what's that? say that again! guy. [folding his arms] i'm not going to say another word. builder. i am. mrs builder. john--please! builder. don't put your oar in! i've had wonderful patience so far. [he puts his boot through a drawing] art! this is what comes of it! are you an artist? guy. no; a flying man. the truth is-- builder. i don't want to hear you speak the truth. i'll wait for my daughter. guy. if you do, i hope you'll be so very good as to be gentle. if you get angry i might too, and that would be awfully ugly. builder. well, i'm damned! guy. i quite understand that, sir. but, as a man of the world, i hope you'll take a pull before she comes, if you mean to stay. builder. if we mean to stay! that's good! guy. will you have a cigarette? builder. i--i can't express-- guy. [soothingly] don't try, sir. [he jerks up his chin, listening] i think that's her. [goes to the door] yes. now, please! [he opens the door] your father and mother, athene. athene enters. she is flushed and graceful. twenty-two, with a short upper lip, a straight nose, dark hair, and glowing eyes. she wears bright colours, and has a slow, musical voice, with a slight lisp. athene. oh! how are you, mother dear? this is rather a surprise. father always keeps his word, so i certainly didn't expect him. [she looks steadfastly at builder, but does not approach]. builder. [controlling himself with an effort] now, athene, what's this? athene. what's what? builder. [the strop held out] are you married to this--this--? athene. [quietly] to all intents and purposes. builder. in law? athene. no. builder. my god! you--you--! athene. father, don't call names, please. builder. why aren't you married to him? athene. do you want a lot of reasons, or the real one? builder. this is maddening! [goes up stage]. athene. mother dear, will you go into the other room with guy? [she points to the door right]. builder. why? athene. because i would rather she didn't hear the reason. guy. [to athene, sotto voce] he's not safe. athene. oh! yes; go on. guy follows mrs builder, and after hesitation at the door they go out into the bedroom. builder. now then! athene. well, father, if you want to know the real reason, it's--you. builder. what on earth do you mean? athene. guy wants to marry me. in fact, we--but i had such a stunner of marriage from watching you at home, that i-- builder. don't be impudent! my patience is at breaking-point, i warn you. athene. i'm perfectly serious, father. i tell you, we meant to marry, but so far i haven't been able to bring myself to it. you never noticed how we children have watched you. builder. me? athene. yes. you and mother, and other things; all sorts of things-- builder. [taking out a handkerchief and wiping his brow] i really think you're mad. athene. i'm sure you must, dear. builder. don't "dear" me! what have you noticed? d'you mean i'm not a good husband and father? athene. look at mother. i suppose you can't, now; you're too used to her. builder. of course i'm used to her. what else is marrying for? athene. that; and the production of such as me. and it isn't good enough, father. you shouldn't have set us such a perfect example. builder. you're talking the most arrant nonsense i ever heard. [he lifts his hands] i've a good mind to shake it out of you. athene. shall i call guy? he drops his hands. confess that being a good husband and father has tried you terribly. it has us, you know. builder. [taking refuge in sarcasm] when you've quite done being funny, perhaps you'll tell me why you've behaved like a common street flapper. athene. [simply] i couldn't bear to think of guy as a family man. that's all--absolutely. it's not his fault; he's been awfully anxious to be one. builder. you've disgraced us, then; that's what it comes to. athene. i don't want to be unkind, but you've brought it on yourself. builder. [genuinely distracted] i can't even get a glimmer of what you mean. i've never been anything but firm. impatient, perhaps. i'm not an angel; no ordinary healthy man is. i've never grudged you girls any comfort, or pleasure. athene. except wills of our own. builder. what do you want with wills of your own till you're married? athene. you forget mother! builder. what about her? athene. she's very married. has she a will of her own? builder. [sullenly] she's learnt to know when i'm in the right. athene. i don't ever mean to learn to know when guy's in the right. mother's forty-one, and twenty-three years of that she's been your wife. it's a long time, father. don't you ever look at her face? builder. [troubled in a remote way] rubbish! athene. i didn't want my face to get like that. builder. with such views about marriage, what business had you to go near a man? come, now! athene. because i fell in love. builder. love leads to marriage--and to nothing else, but the streets. what an example to your sister! athene. you don't know maud any more than you knew me. she's got a will of her own too, i can tell you. builder. now, look here, athene. it's always been my way to face accomplished facts. what's done can't be undone; but it can be remedied. you must marry this young----at once, before it gets out. he's behaved like a ruffian: but, by your own confession, you've behaved worse. you've been bitten by this modern disease, this--this, utter lack of common decency. there's an eternal order in certain things, and marriage is one of them; in fact, it's the chief. come, now. give me a promise, and i'll try my utmost to forget the whole thing. athene. when we quarrelled, father, you said you didn't care what became of me. builder. i was angry. athene. so you are now. builder. come, athene, don't be childish! promise me! athene. [with a little shudder] no! we were on the edge of it. but now i've seen you again--poor mother! builder. [very angry] this is simply blasphemous. what do you mean by harping on your mother? if you think that--that--she doesn't--that she isn't-- athene. now, father! builder. i'm damned if i'll sit down under this injustice. your mother is--is pretty irritating, i can tell you. she--she--everything suppressed. and--and no--blood in her! athene. i knew it! builder. [aware that he has confirmed some thought in her that he had no intention of confirming] what's that? athene. don't you ever look at your own face, father? when you shave, for instance. builder. of course i do. athene. it isn't satisfied, is it? builder. i don't know what on earth you mean. athene. you can't help it, but you'd be ever so much happier if you were a mohammedan, and two or three, instead of one, had--had learned to know when you were in the right. builder. 'pon my soul! this is outrageous! athene. truth often is. builder. will you be quiet? athene. i don't ever want to feel sorry for guy in that way. builder. i think you're the most immodest--i'm ashamed that you're my daughter. if your another had ever carried on as you are now-- athene. would you have been firm with her? builder. [really sick at heart at this unwonted mockery which meets him at every turn] be quiet, you----! athene. has mother never turned? builder. you're an unnatural girl! go your own way to hell! athene. i am not coming back home, father. builder. [wrenching open the door, right] julia! come! we can't stay here. mrs builder comes forth, followed by guy. as for you, sir, if you start by allowing a woman to impose her crazy ideas about marriage on you, all i can say is--i despise you. [he crosses to the outer door, followed by his wife. to athene] i've done with you! he goes out. mrs builder, who has so far seemed to accompany him, shuts the door quickly and remains in the studio. she stands there with that faint smile on her face, looking at the two young people. athene. awfully sorry, mother; but don't you see what a stunner father's given me? mrs builder. my dear, all men are not alike. guy. i've always told her that, ma'am. athene. [softly] oh! mother, i'm so sorry for you. the handle of the door is rattled, a fist is beaten on it. [she stamps, and covers her ears] disgusting! guy. shall i--? mrs builder. [shaking her head] i'm going in a moment. [to athene] you owe it to me, athene. athene. oh! if somebody would give him a lesson! builder's voice: "julia!" have you ever tried, mother? mrs builder looks at the young man, who turns away out of hearing. mrs builder. athene, you're mistaken. i've always stood up to him in my own way. athene. oh! but, mother--listen! the beating and rattling have recommenced, and the voice: "are you coming?" [passionately] and that's family life! father was all right before he married, i expect. and now it's like this. how you survive--! mrs builder. he's only in a passion, my dear. athene. it's wicked. mrs builder. it doesn't work otherwise, athene. a single loud bang on the door. athene. if he beats on that door again, i shall scream. mrs builder smiles, shakes her head, and turns to the door. mrs builder. now, my dear, you're going to be sensible, to please me. it's really best. if i say so, it must be. it's all comedy, athene. athene. tragedy! guy. [turning to them] look here! shall i shift him? mrs builder shakes her head and opens the door. builder stands there, a furious figure. builder. will you come, and leave that baggage and her cad? mrs builder steps quickly out and the door is closed. guy makes an angry movement towards it. athene. guy! guy. [turning to her] that puts the top hat on. so persuasive! [he takes out of his pocket a wedding ring, and a marriage licence] well! what's to be done with these pretty things, now? athene. burn them! guy. [slowly] not quite. you can't imagine i should ever be like that, athene? athene. marriage does wonders. guy. thanks. athene. oh! guy, don't be horrid. i feel awfully bad. guy. well, what do you think i feel? "cad!" they turn to see annie in hat and coat, with a suit-case in her hand, coming from the door left. annie. oh! ma'am, please, miss, i want to go home. guy. [exasperated!] she wants to go home--she wants to go home! athene. guy! all right, annie. annie. oh! thank you, miss. [she moves across in front of them]. athene. [suddenly] annie! annie stops and turns to her. what are you afraid of? annie. [with comparative boldness] i--i might catch it, miss. athene. from your people? annie. oh! no, miss; from you. you see, i've got a young man that wants to marry me. and if i don't let him, i might get into trouble meself. athene. what sort of father and mother have you got, annie? annie. i never thought, miss. and of course i don't want to begin. athene. d'you mean you've never noticed how they treat each other? annie. i don't think they do, miss. athene. exactly. annie. they haven't time. father's an engine driver. guy. and what's your young man, annie? annie. [embarrassed] somethin' like you, sir. but very respectable. athene. and suppose you marry him, and he treats you like a piece of furniture? annie. i--i could treat him the same, miss. athene. don't you believe that, annie! annie. he's very mild. athene. that's because he wants you. you wait till he doesn't. annie looks at guy. guy. don't you believe her, annie; if he's decent-- annie. oh! yes, sir. athene. [suppressing a smile] of course--but the point is, annie, that marriage makes all the difference. annie. yes, miss; that's what i thought. athene. you don't see. what i mean is that when once he's sure of you, he may change completely. annie. [slowly, looking at her thumb] oh! i don't--think--he'll hammer me, miss. of course, i know you can't tell till you've found out. athene. well, i've no right to influence you. annie. oh! no, miss; that's what i've been thinking. -guy. you're quite right, annie=-this is no place for you. annie. you see, we can't be married; sir, till he gets his rise. so it'll be a continual temptation to me. athene. well, all right, annie. i hope you'll never regret it. annie. oh! no, miss. guy. i say, annie, don't go away thinking evil of us; we didn't realise you knew we weren't married. athene. we certainly did not. annie. oh! i didn't think it right to take notice. guy. we beg your pardon. annie. oh! no, sir. only, seein' mr and mrs builder so upset, brought it 'ome like. and father can be 'andy with a strap. athene. there you are! force majeure! annie. oh! yes, miss. athene. well, good-bye, annie. what are you going to say to your people? annie. oh! i shan't say i've been livin' in a family that wasn't a family, miss. it wouldn't do no good. athene. well, here are your wages. annie. oh! i'm puttin' you out, miss. [she takes the money]. athene. nonsense, annie. and here's your fare home. annie. oh! thank you, miss. i'm very sorry. of course if you was to change your mind--[she stops, embarrassed]. athene. i don't think-- guy. [abruptly] good-bye, annie. here's five bob for the movies. annie. oh! good-bye, sir, and thank you. i was goin' there now with my young man. he's just round the corner. guy. be very careful of him. annie. oh! yes, sir, i will. good-bye, sir. goodbye, miss. she goes. guy. so her father has a firm hand too. but it takes her back to the nest. how's that, athene? athene. [playing with a leathern button on his coat] if you'd watched it ever since you could watch anything, seen it kill out all--it's having power that does it. i know father's got awfully good points. guy. well, they don't stick out. athene. he works fearfully hard; he's upright, and plucky. he's not stingy. but he's smothered his animal nature-and that's done it. i don't want to see you smother anything, guy. guy. [gloomily] i suppose one never knows what one's got under the lid. if he hadn't come here to-day--[he spins the wedding ring] he certainly gives one pause. used he to whack you? athene. yes. guy. brute! athene. with the best intentions. you see, he's a town councillor, and a magistrate. i suppose they have to be "firm." maud and i sneaked in once to listen to him. there was a woman who came for protection from her husband. if he'd known we were there, he'd have had a fit. guy. did he give her the protection? athene. yes; he gave her back to the husband. wasn't it--english? guy. [with a grunt] hang it! we're not all like that. athene. [twisting his button] i think it's really a sense of property so deep that they don't know they've got it. father can talk about freedom like a--politician. guy. [fitting the wedding ring on her finger] well! let's see how it looks, anyway. athene. don't play with fire, guy. guy. there's something in atavism, darling; there really is. i like it --i do. a knock on the door. athene. that sounds like annie again. just see. guy. [opening the door] it is. come in, annie. what's wrong now? annie. [entering in confusion] oh! sir, please, sir--i've told my young man. athene. well, what does he say? annie. 'e was 'orrified, miss. guy. the deuce he was! at our conduct? annie. oh! no, sir--at mine. athene. but you did your best; you left us. annie. oh! yes, miss; that's why 'e's horrified. guy. good for your young man. annie. [flattered] yes, sir. 'e said i 'ad no strength of mind. athene. so you want to come back? annie. oh! yes, miss. athene. all right. guy. but what about catching it? annie. oh, sir, 'e said there was nothing like epsom salts. guy. he's a wag, your young man. annie. he was in the army, sir. guy. you said he was respectable. annie. oh! yes, sir; but not so respectable as that. athene. well, annie, get your things off, and lay lunch. annie. oh! yes, miss. she makes a little curtsey and passes through into the kitchen. guy. strength of mind! have a little, athene won't you? [he holds out the marriage licence before her]. athene. i don't know--i don't know! if--it turned out-- guy. it won't. come on. must take chances in this life. athene. [looking up into his face] guy, promise me--solemnly that you'll never let me stand in your way, or stand in mine! guy. right! that's a bargain. [they embrace.] athene quivers towards him. they embrace fervently as annie enters with the bread pan. they spring apart. annie. oh! guy. it's all right, annie. there's only one more day's infection before you. we're to be married to-morrow morning. annie. oh! yes, sir. won't mr builder be pleased? guy. h'm! that's not exactly our reason. annie. [right] oh! no, sir. of course you can't be a family without, can you? guy. what have you got in that thing? annie is moving across with the bread pan. she halts at the bedroom door. annie. oh! please, ma'am, i was to give you a message--very important-- from miss maud builder "lookout! father is coming!" she goes out. the curtain falls. act ii builder's study. at the table, maud has just put a sheet of paper into a typewriter. she sits facing the audience, with her hands stretched over the keys. maud. [to herself] i must get that expression. her face assumes a furtive, listening look. then she gets up, whisks to the mirror over the fireplace, scrutinises the expression in it, and going back to the table, sits down again with hands outstretched above the keys, and an accentuation of the expression. the door up left is opened, and topping appears. he looks at maud, who just turns her eyes. topping. lunch has been ready some time, miss maud. maud. i don't want any lunch. did you give it? topping. miss athene was out. i gave the message to a young party. she looked a bit green, miss. i hope nothing'll go wrong with the works. shall i keep lunch back? maud. if something's gone wrong, they won't have any appetite, topping. topping. if you think i might risk it, miss, i'd like to slip round to my dentist. [he lays a finger on his cheek]. maud. [smiling] oh! what race is being run this afternoon, then, topping? topping. [twinkling, and shifting his finger to the side of his nose] well, i don't suppose you've 'eard of it, miss; but as a matter of fact it's the cesarwitch. maud. got anything on? topping. only my shirt, miss. maud. is it a good thing, then? topping. i've seen worse roll up. [with a touch of enthusiasm] dark horse, miss maud, at twenty to one. maud. put me ten bob on, topping. i want all the money i can get, just now. topping. you're not the first, miss. maud. i say, topping, do you know anything about the film? topping. [nodding] rather a specialty of mine, miss. maud. well, just stand there, and give me your opinion of this. topping moves down left. she crouches over the typewriter, lets her hands play on the keys; stops; assumes that listening, furtive look; listens again, and lets her head go slowly round, preceded by her eyes; breaks it off, and says: what should you say i was? topping. guilty, miss. maud. [with triumph] there! then you think i've got it? topping. well, of course, i couldn't say just what sort of a crime you'd committed, but i should think pretty 'ot stuff. maud. yes; i've got them here. [she pats her chest]. topping. really, miss. maud. yes. there's just one point, topping; it's psychological. topping. indeed, miss? maud. should i naturally put my hand on them; or would there be a reaction quick enough to stop me? you see, i'm alone--and the point is whether the fear of being seen would stop me although i knew i couldn't be seen. it's rather subtle. topping. i think there's be a rehaction, miss. maud. so do i. to touch them [she clasps her chest] is a bit obvious, isn't it? topping. if the haudience knows you've got 'em there. maud. oh! yes, it's seen me put them. look here, i'll show you that too. she opens an imaginary drawer, takes out some bits of sealing-wax, and with every circumstance of stealth in face and hands, conceals them in her bosom. all right? topping. [nodding] fine, miss. you have got a film face. what are they, if i may ask? maud. [reproducing the sealing-wax] the fanshawe diamonds. there's just one thing here too, topping. in real life, which should i naturally do--put them in here [she touches her chest] or in my bag? topping. [touching his waistcoat--earnestly] well! to put 'em in here, miss, i should say is more--more pishchological. maud. [subduing her lips] yes; but-- topping. you see, then you've got 'em on you. maud. but that's just the point. shouldn't i naturally think: safer in my bag; then i can pretend somebody put them there. you see, nobody could put them on me. topping. well, i should say that depends on your character. of course i don't know what your character is. maud. no; that's the beastly part of it--the author doesn't, either. it's all left to me. topping. in that case, i should please myself, miss. to put 'em in 'ere's warmer. maud. yes, i think you're right. it's more human. topping. i didn't know you 'ad a taste this way, miss maud. maud. more than a taste, topping--a talent. topping. well, in my belief, we all have a vice about us somewhere. but if i were you, miss, i wouldn't touch bettin', not with this other on you. you might get to feel a bit crowded. maud. well, then, only put the ten bob on if you're sure he's going to win. you can post the money on after me. i'll send you an address, topping, because i shan't be here. topping. [disturbed] what! you're not going, too, miss maud? maud. to seek my fortune. topping. oh! hang it all, miss, think of what you'll leave behind. miss athene's leavin' home has made it pretty steep, but this'll touch bottom--this will. maud. yes; i expect you'll find it rather difficult for a bit when i'm gone. miss baldini, you know. i've been studying with her. she's got me this chance with the movie people. i'm going on trial as the guilty typist in "the heartache of miranda." topping. [surprised out of politeness] well, i never! that does sound like 'em! are you goin' to tell the guv'nor, miss? maud nods. in that case, i think i'll be gettin' off to my dentist before the band plays. maud. all right, topping; hope you won't lose a tooth. topping. [with a grin] it's on the knees of the gods, miss, as they say in the headlines. he goes. maud stretches herself and listens. maud. i believe that's them. shivery funky. she runs off up left. builder. [entering from the hall and crossing to the fireplace] monstrous! really monstrous! camille enters from the hall. she has a little collecting book in her hand. builder. well, camille? camille. a sistare from the sacred 'eart, monsieur--her little book for the orphan children. builder. i can't be bothered--what is it? camille. orphan, monsieur. builder. h'm! well! [feeling in his breast pocket] give her that. he hands her a five-pound note. camille. i am sure she will be veree grateful for the poor little beggars. madame says she will not be coming to lunch, monsieur. builder. i don't want any, either. tell topping i'll have some coffee. camille. topping has gone to the dentist, monsieur; 'e 'as the toothache. builder. toothache--poor devil! h'm! i'm expecting my brother, but i don't know that i can see him. camille. no, monsieur? builder. ask your mistress to come here. he looks up, and catching her eye, looks away. camille. yes, monsieur. as she turns he looks swiftly at her, sweeping her up and down. she turns her head and catches his glance, which is swiftly dropped. will monsieur not 'ave anything to eat? builder. [shaking his head-abruptly] no. bring the coffee! camille. is monsieur not well? builder. yes--quite well. camille. [sweetening her eyes] a cutlet soubise? no? builder. [with a faint response in his eyes, instantly subdued] nothing! nothing! camille. and madame nothing too--tt! tt! with her hand on the door she looks back, again catches his eyes in an engagement instantly broken off, and goes out. builder. [stock-still, and staring at the door] that girl's a continual irritation to me! she's dangerous! what a life! i believe that girl-- the door left is opened and mrs builder comes in. builder. there's some coffee coming; do your head good. look here, julia. i'm sorry i beat on that door. i apologize. i was in a towering passion. i wish i didn't get into these rages. but--dash it all--! i couldn't walk away and leave you there. mrs builder. why not? builder. you keep everything to yourself, so; i never have any notion what you're thinking. what did you say to her? mrs builder. told her it would never work. builder. well, that's something. she's crazy. d'you suppose she was telling the truth about that young blackguard wanting to marry her? mrs builder. i'm sure of it. builder. when you think of how she's been brought up. you would have thought that religion alone-- mrs builder. the girls haven't wanted to go to church for years. they've always said they didn't see why they should go to keep up your position. i don't know if you remember that you once caned them for running off on a sunday morning. builder. well? mrs builder. they've never had any religion since. builder. h'm! [he takes a short turn up the room] what's to be done about athene? mrs builder. you said you had done with her. builder. you know i didn't mean that. i might just as well have said i'd done with you! apply your wits, julia! at any moment this thing may come out. in a little town like this you can keep nothing dark. how can i take this nomination for mayor? mrs builder. perhaps ralph could help. builder. what? his daughters have never done anything disgraceful, and his wife's a pattern. mrs builder. yes; ralph isn't at all a family man. builder. [staring at her] i do wish you wouldn't turn things upside down in that ironical way. it isn't--english. mrs builder. i can't help having been born in jersey. builder. no; i suppose it's in your blood. the french-- [he stops short]. mrs builder. yes? builder. very irritating sometimes to a plain englishman--that's all. mrs builder. shall i get rid of camille? builder. [staring at her, then dropping his glance] camille? what's she got to do with it? mrs builder. i thought perhaps you found her irritating. builder. why should i? camille comes in from the dining-room with the coffee. put it there. i want some brandy, please. camille. i bring it, monsieur. she goes back demurely into the dining-room. builder. topping's got toothache, poor chap! [pouring out the coffee] can't you suggest any way of making athene see reason? think of the example! maud will be kicking over next. i shan't be able to hold my head up here. mrs builder. i'm afraid i can't do that for you. builder. [exasperated] look here, julia! that wretched girl said something to me about our life together. what--what's the matter with that? mrs builder. it is irritating. builder. be explicit. mrs builder. we have lived together twenty-three years, john. no talk will change such things. builder. is it a question of money? you can always have more. you know that. [mrs builder smiles] oh! don't smile like that; it makes me feel quite sick! camille enters with a decanter and little glasses, from the dining-room. camille. the brandy, sir. monsieur ralph builder has just come. mrs builder. ask him in, camille. camille. yes, madame. she goes through the doorway into the hall. mrs builder, following towards the door, meets ralph builder, a man rather older than builder and of opposite build and manner. he has a pleasant, whimsical face and grizzled hair. mrs builder. john wants to consult you, ralph. ralph. that's very gratifying. she passes him and goes out, leaving the two brothers eyeing one another. about the welsh contract? builder. no. fact is, ralph, something very horrible's happened. ralph. athene gone and got married? builder. no. it's--it's that she's gone and--and not got married. ralph utters a sympathetic whistle. jolly, isn't it? ralph. to whom? builder. a young flying bounder. ralph. and why? builder. some crazy rubbish about family life, of all things. ralph. athene's a most interesting girl. all these young people are so queer and delightful. builder. by george, ralph, you may thank your stars you haven't got a delightful daughter. yours are good, decent girls. ralph. athene's tremendously good and decent, john. i'd bet any money she's doing this on the highest principles. builder. behaving like a-- ralph. don't say what you'll regret, old man! athene always took things seriously--bless her! builder. julia thinks you might help. you never seem to have any domestic troubles. ralph. no--o. i don't think we do. builder. how d'you account for it? ralph. i must ask at home. builder. dash it! you must know! ralph. we're all fond of each other. builder. well, i'm fond of my girls too; i suppose i'm not amiable enough. h'm? ralph. well, old man, you do get blood to the head. but what's athene's point, exactly? builder. family life isn't idyllic, so she thinks she and the young man oughtn't to have one. ralph. i see. home experience? builder. hang it all, a family's a family! there must be a head. ralph. but no tail, old chap. builder. you don't let your women folk do just as they like? ralph. always. builder. what happens if one of your girls wants to do an improper thing? [ralph shrugs his shoulders]. you don't stop her? ralph. do you? builder. i try to. ralph. exactly. and she does it. i don't and she doesn't. builder. [with a short laugh] good lord! i suppose you'd have me eat humble pie and tell athene she can go on living in sin and offending society, and have my blessing to round it off. ralph. i think if you did she'd probably marry him. builder. you've never tested your theory, i'll bet. ralph. not yet. builder. there you are. ralph. the 'suaviter in modo' pays, john. the times are not what they were. builder. look here! i want to get to the bottom of this. do you tell me i'm any stricter than nine out of ten men? ralph. only in practice. builder. [puzzled] how do you mean? ralph. well, you profess the principles of liberty, but you practise the principles of government. builder. h'm! [taking up the decanter] have some? ralph. no, thank you. builder fills and raises his glass. camille. [entering] madame left her coffee. she comes forward, holds out a cup for builder to pour into, takes it and goes out. builder's glass remains suspended. he drinks the brandy off as she shuts the door. builder. life isn't all roses, ralph. ralph. sorry, old man. builder. i sometimes think i try myself too high. well, about that welsh contract? ralph. let's take it. builder. if you'll attend to it. frankly, i'm too upset. as they go towards the door into the hall, maud comes in from the dining-room, in hat and coat. ralph. [catching sight of her] hallo! all well in your cosmogony, maud? maud. what is a cosmogony, uncle? ralph. my dear, i--i don't know. he goes out, followed by builder. maud goes quickly to the table, sits down and rests her elbows on it, her chin on her hands, looking at the door. builder. [re-entering] well, maud! you'd have won your bet! maud. oh! father, i--i've got some news for you. builder. [staring at her] news--what? maud. i'm awfully sorry, but i-i've got a job. builder. now, don't go saying you're going in for art, too, because i won't have it. maud. art? oh! no! it's the--[with a jerk]--the movies. builder. who has taken up a pipe to fill, puts it down. builder. [impressively] i'm not in a joking mood. maud. i'm not joking, father. builder. then what are you talking about? maud. you see, i--i've got a film face, and-- builder. you've what? [going up to his daughter, he takes hold of her chin] don't talk nonsense! your sister has just tried me to the limit. maud. [removing his hand from her chin] don't oppose it, father, please! i've always wanted to earn my own living. builder. living! living! maud. [gathering determination] you can't stop me, father, because i shan't need support. i've got quite good terms. builder. [almost choking, but mastering himself] do you mean to say you've gone as far as that? maud. yes. it's all settled. builder. who put you up to this? maud. no one. i've been meaning to, ever so long. i'm twenty-one, you know. builder. a film face! good god! now, look here! i will not have a daughter of mine mixed up with the stage. i've spent goodness knows what on your education--both of you. maud. i don't want to be ungrateful; but i--i can't go on living at home. builder. you can't--! why? you've every indulgence. maud. [clearly and coldly] i can remember occasions when your indulgence hurt, father. [she wriggles her shoulders and back] we never forgot or forgave that. builder. [uneasily] that! you were just kids. maud. perhaps you'd like to begin again? builder. don't twist my tail, maud. i had the most painful scene with athene this morning. now come! give up this silly notion! it's really too childish! maud. [looking at him curiously] i've heard you say ever so many times that no man was any good who couldn't make his own way, father. well, women are the same as men, now. it's the law of the country. i only want to make my own way. builder. [trying to subdue his anger] now, maud, don't be foolish. consider my position here--a town councillor, a magistrate, and mayor next year. with one daughter living with a man she isn't married to-- maud. [with lively interest] oh! so you did catch them out? builder. d'you mean to say you knew? maud. of course. builder. my god! i thought we were a christian family. maud. oh! father. builder. don't sneer at christianity! maud. there's only one thing wrong with christians--they aren't! builder seizes her by the shoulders and shakes her vigorously. when he drops her shoulders, she gets up, gives him a vicious look, and suddenly stamps her foot on his toe with all her might. builder. [with a yowl of pain] you little devil! maud. [who has put the table between them] i won't stand being shaken. builder. [staring at her across the table] you've got my temper up and you'll take the consequences. i'll make you toe the line. maud. if you knew what a prussian expression you've got! builder passes his hand across his face uneasily, as if to wipe something off. no! it's too deep! builder. are you my daughter or are you not? maud. i certainly never wanted to be. i've always disliked you, father, ever since i was so high. i've seen through you. do you remember when you used to come into the nursery because jenny was pretty? you think we didn't notice that, but we did. and in the schoolroom--miss tipton. and d'you remember knocking our heads together? no, you don't; but we do. and-- builder. you disrespectful monkey! will you be quiet? maud. no; you've got to hear things. you don't really love anybody but yourself, father. what's good for you has to be good for everybody. i've often heard you talk about independence, but it's a limited company and you've got all the shares. builder. rot; only people who can support themselves have a right to independence. maud. that's why you don't want me to support myself. builder. you can't! film, indeed! you'd be in the gutter in a year. athene's got her pittance, but you--you've got nothing. maud. except my face. builder. it's the face that brings women to ruin, my girl. maud. well, when i'm there i won't come to you to rescue me. builder. now, mind--if you leave my house, i've done with you. maud. i'd rather scrub floors now, than stay. builder. [almost pathetically] well, i'm damned! look here, maud-- all this has been temper. you got my monkey up. i'm sorry i shook you; you've had your revenge on my toes. now, come! don't make things worse for me than they are. you've all the liberty you can reasonably want till you marry. maud. he can't see it--he absolutely can't! builder. see what? maud. that i want to live a life of my own. he edges nearer to her, and she edges to keep her distance. builder. i don't know what's bitten you. maud. the microbe of freedom; it's in the air. builder. yes, and there it'll stay--that's the first sensible word you've uttered. now, come! take your hat off, and let's be friends! maud looks at him and slowly takes off her hat. builder. [relaxing his attitude, with a sigh of relief] that's right! [crosses to fireplace]. maud. [springing to the door leading to the hall] good-bye, father! builder. [following her] monkey! at the sound of a bolt shot, builder goes up to the window. there is a fumbling at the door, and camille appears. builder. what's the matter with that door? camille. it was bolted, monsieur. builder. who bolted it? camille. [shrugging her shoulders] i can't tell, monsieur. she collects the cups, and halts close to him. [softly] monsieur is not 'appy. builder. [surprised] what? no! who'd be happy in a household like mine? camille. but so strong a man--i wish i was a strong man, not a weak woman. builder. [regarding her with reluctant admiration] why, what's the matter with you? camille. will monsieur have another glass of brandy before i take it? builder. no! yes--i will. she pours it out, and he drinks it, hands her the glass and sits down suddenly in an armchair. camille puts the glass on a tray, and looks for a box of matches from the mantelshelf. camille. a light, monsieur? builder. please. camille. [she trips over his feet and sinks on to his knee] oh! monsieur! builder flames up and catches her in his arms oh! monsieur-- builder. you little devil! she suddenly kisses him, and he returns the kiss. while they are engaged in this entrancing occupation, mrs builder opens the door from the hall, watches unseen for a few seconds, and quietly goes out again. builder. [pushing her back from him, whether at the sound of the door or of a still small voice] what am i doing? camille. kissing. builder. i--i forgot myself. they rise. camille. it was na-ice. builder. i didn't mean to. you go away--go away! camille. oh! monsieur, that spoil it. builder. [regarding her fixedly] it's my opinion you're a temptation of the devil. you know you sat down on purpose. camille. well, perhaps. builder. what business had you to? i'm a family man. camille. yes. what a pity! but does it matter? builder. [much beset] look here, you know! this won't do! it won't do! i--i've got my reputation to think of! camille. so 'ave i! but there is lots of time to think of it in between. builder. i knew you were dangerous. i always knew it. camille. what a thing to say of a little woman! builder. we're not in paris. camille. [clasping her hands] oh! 'ow i wish we was! builder. look here--i can't stand this; you've got to go. out with you! i've always kept a firm hand on myself, and i'm not going to-- camille. but i admire you so! builder. suppose my wife had come in? camille. oh! don't suppose any such a disagreeable thing! if you were not so strict, you would feel much 'appier. builder. [staring at her] you're a temptress! camille. i lofe pleasure, and i don't get any. and you 'ave such a duty, you don't get any sport. well, i am 'ere! she stretches herself, and builder utters a deep sound. builder. [on the edge of succumbing] it's all against my--i won't do it! it's--it's wrong! camille. oh! la, la! builder. [suddenly revolting] no! if you thought it a sin--i--might. but you don't; you're nothing but a--a little heathen. camille. why should it be better if i thought it a sin? builder. then--then i should know where i was. as it is-- camille. the english 'ave no idea of pleasure. they make it all so coarse and virtuous. builder. now, out you go before i--! go on! he goes over to the door and opens it. his wife is outside in a hat and coat. she comes in. [stammering] oh! here you are--i wanted you. camille, taking up the tray, goes out left, swinging her hips a very little. builder. going out? mrs builder. obviously. builder. where? mrs builder. i don't know at present. builder. i wanted to talk to you about maud. mrs builder. it must wait. builder. she's-she's actually gone and-- mrs builder. i must tell you that i happened to look in a minute ago. builder. [in absolute dismay] you! you what? mrs builder. yes. i will put no obstacle in the way of your pleasures. builder. [aghast] put no obstacle? what do you mean? julia, how can you say a thing like that? why, i've only just-- mrs builder. don't! i saw. builder. the girl fell on my knees. julia, she did. she's--she's a little devil. i--i resisted her. i give you my word there's been nothing beyond a kiss, under great provocation. i--i apologise. mrs builder. [bows her head] thank you! i quite understand. but you must forgive my feeling it impossible to remain a wet blanket any longer. builder. what! because of a little thing like that--all over in two minutes, and i doing my utmost. mrs builder. my dear john, the fact that you had to do your utmost is quite enough. i feel continually humiliated in your house, and i want to leave it--quite quietly, without fuss of any kind. builder. but--my god! julia, this is awful--it's absurd! how can you? i'm your husband. really--your saying you don't mind what i do--it's not right; it's immoral! mrs builder. i'm afraid you don't see what goes on in those who live with you. so, i'll just go. don't bother! builder. now, look here, julia, you can't mean this seriously. you can't! think of my position! you've never set yourself up against me before. mrs builder. but i do now. builder. [after staring at her] i've given you no real reason. i'll send the girl away. you ought to thank me for resisting a temptation that most men would have yielded to. after twenty-three years of married life, to kick up like this--you ought to be ashamed of yourself. mrs builder. i'm sure you must think so. builder. oh! for heaven's sake don't be sarcastic! you're my wife, and there's an end of it; you've no legal excuse. don't be absurd! mrs builder. good-bye! builder. d'you realise that you're encouraging me to go wrong? that's a pretty thing for a wife to do. you ought to keep your husband straight. mrs builder. how beautifully put! builder. [almost pathetically] don't rile me julia! i've had an awful day. first athene--then maud--then that girl--and now you! all at once like this! like a swarm of bees about one's head. [pleading] come, now, julia, don't be so--so im practicable! you'll make us the laughing-stock of the whole town. a man in my position, and can't keep his own family; it's preposterous! mrs builder. your own family have lives and thoughts and feelings of their own. builder. oh! this damned woman's business! i knew how it would be when we gave you the vote. you and i are married, and our daughters are our daughters. come, julia. where's your commonsense? after twenty-three years! you know i can't do without you! mrs builder. you could--quite easily. you can tell people what you like. builder. my god! i never heard anything so immoral in all my life from the mother of two grownup girls. no wonder they've turned out as they have! what is it you want, for goodness sake? mrs builder. we just want to be away from you, that's all. i assure you it's best. when you've shown some consideration for our feelings and some real sign that we exist apart from you--we could be friends again-- perhaps--i don't know. builder. friends! good heavens! with one's own wife and daughters! [with great earnestness] now, look here, julia, you haven't lived with me all this time without knowing that i'm a man of strong passions; i've been a faithful husband to you--yes, i have. and that means resisting all sorts of temptations you know nothing of. if you withdraw from my society i won't answer for the consequences. in fact, i can't have you withdrawing. i'm not going to see myself going to the devil and losing the good opinion of everybody round me. a bargain's a bargain. and until i've broken my side of it, and i tell you i haven't--you've no business to break yours. that's flat. so now, put all that out of your head. mrs builder. no. builder. [intently] d'you realise that i've supported you in luxury and comfort? mrs builder. i think i've earned it. builder. and how do you propose to live? i shan't give you a penny. come, julia, don't be such an idiot! fancy letting a kiss which no man could have helped, upset you like this! mrs builder. the camille, and the last straw! builder. [sharply] i won't have it. so now you know. but mrs builder has very swiftly gone. julia, i tell you-- [the outer door is heard being closed] damnation! i will not have it! they're all mad! here--where's my hat? he looks distractedly round him, wrenches open the door, and a moment later the street door is heard to shut with a bang. curtain. act iii scene i ten o'clock the following morning, in the study of the mayor of breconridge, a panelled room with no window visible, a door left back and a door right forward. the entire back wall is furnished with books from floor to ceiling; the other walls are panelled and bare. before the fireplace, left, are two armchairs, and other chairs are against the walls. on the right is a writing-bureau at right angles to the footlights, with a chair behind it. at its back corner stands harris, telephoning. harris. what--[pause] well, it's infernally awkward, sergeant. . . . the mayor's in a regular stew. . . . [listens] new constable? i should think so! young fool! look here, martin, the only thing to do is to hear the charge here at once. i've sent for mr chantrey; he's on his way. bring mr builder and the witnesses round sharp. see? and, i say, for god's sake keep it dark. don't let the press get on to it. why you didn't let him go home--! black eye? the constable? well, serve him right. blundering young ass! i mean, it's undermining all authority. . . . well, you oughtn't--at least, i . . . damn it all!--it's a nine days' wonder if it gets out--! all right! as soon as you can. [he hangs up the receiver, puts a second chair behind the bureau, and other chairs facing it.] [to himself] here's a mess! johnny builder, of all men! what price mayors! the telephone rings. hallo? . . . poaching charge? well, bring him too; only, i say, keep him back till the other's over. by the way, mr chantrey's going shooting. he'll want to get off by eleven. what? . . righto ! as he hangs up the receiver the mayor enters. he looks worried, and is still dressed with the indefinable wrongness of a burgher. mayor. well, 'arris? harris. they'll be over in five minutes, mr mayor. mayor. mr chantrey? harris. on his way, sir. mayor. i've had some awkward things to deal with in my time, 'arris, but this is just about the [sniffs] limit. harris. most uncomfortable, sir; most uncomfortable! mayor. put a book on the chair, 'arris; i like to sit 'igh. harris puts a volume of eneyclopaedia on the mayor's chair behind the bureau. [deeply] our fellow-magistrate! a family man! in my shoes next year. i suppose he won't be, now. you can't keep these things dark. harris. i've warned martin, sir, to use the utmost discretion. here's mr chantrey. by the door left, a pleasant and comely gentleman has entered, dressed with indefinable rightness in shooting clothes. mayor. ah, chantrey! chantrey. how de do, mr mayor? [nodding to harris] this is extraordinarily unpleasant. the mayor nods. what on earth's he been doing? harris. assaulting one of his own daughters with a stick; and resisting the police. chantrey. [with a low whistle] daughter! charity begins at home. harris. there's a black eye. mayor. whose? harris. the constable's. chantrey. how did the police come into it? harris. i don't know, sir. the worst of it is he's been at the police station since four o'clock yesterday. the superintendent's away, and martin never will take responsibility. chantrey. by george! he will be mad. john builder's a choleric fellow. mayor. [nodding] he is. 'ot temper, and an 'igh sense of duty. harris. there's one other charge, mr mayor--poaching. i told them to keep that back till after. chantrey. oh, well, we'll make short work of that. i want to get off by eleven, harris. i shall be late for the first drive anyway. john builder! i say, mayor--but for the grace of god, there go we! mayor. harris, go out and bring them in yourself; don't let the servants-- harris goes out left. the mayor takes the upper chair behind the bureau, sitting rather higher because of the book than chantrey, who takes the lower. now that they are in the seats of justice, a sort of reticence falls on them, as if they were afraid of giving away their attitudes of mind to some unseen presence. mayor. [suddenly] h'm! chantrey. touch of frost. birds ought to come well to the guns--no wind. i like these october days. mayor. i think i 'ear them. h'm. chantrey drops his eyeglass and puts on a pair of "grandfather" spectacles. the mayor clears his throat and takes up a pen. they neither of them look up as the door is opened and a little procession files in. first harris; then ralph builder, athene, herringhame, maud, mrs builder, sergeant martin, carrying a heavy malacca cane with a silver knob; john builder and the constable moon, a young man with one black eye. no funeral was ever attended by mutes so solemn and dejected. they stand in a sort of row. mayor. [without looking up] sit down, ladies; sit down. harris and herringhame succeed in placing the three women in chairs. ralph builder also sits. herringhame stands behind. john builder remains standing between the two policemen. his face is unshaved and menacing, but he stands erect staring straight at the mayor. harris goes to the side of the bureau, back, to take down the evidence. mayor. charges! sergeant. john builder, of the cornerways, breconridge, contractor and justice of the peace, charged with assaulting his daughter maud builder by striking her with a stick in the presence of constable moon and two other persons; also with resisting constable moon in the execution of his duty, and injuring his eye. constable moon! moon. [stepping forward-one, two--like an automaton, and saluting] in river road yesterday afternoon, your worship, about three-thirty p.m., i was attracted by a young woman callin' "constable" outside a courtyard. on hearing the words "follow me, quick," i followed her to a painter's studio inside the courtyard, where i found three persons in the act of disagreement. no sooner 'ad i appeared than the defendant, who was engaged in draggin' a woman towards the door, turns to the young woman who accompanied me, with violence. "you dare, father," she says; whereupon he hit her twice with the stick the same which is produced, in the presence of myself and the two other persons, which i'm given to understand is his wife and other daughter. mayor. yes; never mind what you're given to understand. moon. no, sir. the party struck turns to me and says, "come in. i give this man in charge for assault." i moves accordingly with the words: "i saw you. come along with me." the defendant turns to me sharp and says: "you stupid lout--i'm a magistrate." "come off it," i says to the best of my recollection. "you struck this woman in my presence," i says, "and you come along!" we were then at close quarters. the defendant gave me a push with the words: "get out, you idiot!" "not at all," i replies, and took 'old of his arm. a struggle ensues, in the course of which i receives the black eye which i herewith produce. [he touches his eye with awful solemnity.] the mayor clears his throat; chantrey's eyes goggle; harris bends over and writes rapidly. during the struggle, your worship, a young man has appeared on the scene, and at the instigation of the young woman, the same who was assaulted, assists me in securing the prisoner, whose language and resistance was violent in the extreme. we placed him in a cab which we found outside, and i conveyed him to the station. chantrey. what was his--er--conduct in the--er--cab? moon. he sat quiet. chantrey. that seems-- moon. seein' i had his further arm twisted behind him. mayor [looking at builder] any questions to ask him? builder makes not the faintest sign, and the mayor drops his glance. mayor. sergeant? moon steps back two paces, and the sergeant steps two paces forward. sergeant. at ten minutes to four, your worship, yesterday afternoon, constable moon brought the defendant to the station in a four-wheeled cab. on his recounting the circumstances of the assault, they were taken down and read over to the defendant with the usual warning. the defendant said nothing. in view of the double assault and the condition of the constable's eye, and in the absence of the superintendent, i thought it my duty to retain the defendant for the night. mayor. the defendant said nothing? sergeant. he 'as not opened his lips to my knowledge, your worship, from that hour to this. mayor. any questions to ask the sergeant? builder continues to stare at the mayor without a word. mayor. very well! the mayor and chantrey now consult each other inaudibly, and the mayor nods. mayor. miss maud builder, will you tell us what you know of this--er-- occurrence? maud. [rising; with eyes turning here and there] must i? mayor. i'm afraid you must. maud. [after a look at her father, who never turns his eyes from the mayor's face] i--i wish to withdraw the charge of striking me, please. i--i never meant to make it. i was in a temper--i saw red. mayor. i see. a--a domestic disagreement. very well, that charge is withdrawn. you do not appear to have been hurt, and that seems to me quite proper. now, tell me what you know of the assault on the constable. is his account correct? maud. [timidly] ye-yes. only-- mayor. yes? tell us the truth. maud. [resolutely] only, i don't think my father hit the constable. i think the stick did that. mayor. oh, the stick? but--er--the stick was in 'is 'and, wasn't it? maud. yes; but i mean, my father saw red, and the constable saw red, and the stick flew up between them and hit him in the eye. chantrey. and then he saw black? mayor. [with corrective severity] but did 'e 'it 'im with the stick? maud. no--no. i don't think he did. mayor. then who supplied the--er--momentum? maud. i think there was a struggle for the cane, and it flew up. mayor. hand up the cane. the sergeant hands up the cane. the mayor and chantrey examine it. mayor. which end--do you suggest--inflicted this injury? maud. oh! the knob end, sir. mayor. what do you say to that, constable? moon. [stepping the mechanical two paces] i don't deny there was a struggle, your worship, but it's my impression i was 'it. chantrey. of course you were bit; we can see that. but with the cane or with the fist? moon. [a little flurried] i--i--with the fist, sir. mayor. be careful. will you swear to that? moon. [with that sudden uncertainty which comes over the most honest in such circumstances] not--not so to speak in black and white, your worship; but that was my idea at the time. mayor. you won't swear to it? moon. i'll swear he called me an idiot and a lout; the words made a deep impression on me. chantrey. [to himself] mort aux vaches! mayor. eh? that'll do, constable; stand back. now, who else saw the struggle? mrs builder. you're not obliged to say anything unless you like. that's your privilege as his wife. while he is speaking the door has been opened, and harris has gone swiftly to it, spoken to someone and returned. he leans forward to the mayor. eh? wait a minute. mrs builder, do you wish to give evidence? mrs builder. [rising] no, mr mayor. mrs builder sits. mayor. very good. [to harris] now then, what is it? harris says something in a low and concerned voice. the mayor's face lengthens. he leans to his right and consults chantrey, who gives a faint and deprecating shrug. a moment's silence. mayor. this is an open court. the press have the right to attend if they wish. harris goes to the door and admits a young man in glasses, of a pleasant appearance, and indicates to him a chair at the back. at this untimely happening builder's eyes have moved from side to side, but now he regains his intent and bull-like stare at his fellow-justices. mayor. [to maud] you can sit down, miss builder. maud resumes her seat. miss athene builder, you were present, i think? athene. [rising] yes, sir. mayor. what do you say to this matter? athene. i didn't see anything very clearly, but i think my sister's account is correct, sir. mayor. is it your impression that the cane inflicted the injury? athene. [in a low voice] yes. mayor. with or without deliberate intent? athene. oh! without. builder looks at her. mayor. but you were not in a position to see very well? athene. no, sir. mayor. your sister having withdrawn her charge, we needn't go into that. very good! he motions her to sit down. athene, turning her eyes on her father's impassive figure, sits. mayor. now, there was a young man. [pointing to herringhame] is this the young man? moon. yes, your worship. mayor. what's your name? guy. guy herringhame. mayor. address? guy. er--the aerodrome, sir. mayor. private, i mean? the moment is one of considerable tension. guy. [with an effort] at the moment, sir, i haven't one. i've just left my diggings, and haven't yet got any others. mayor. h'm! the aerodrome. how did you come to be present? guy. i--er builder's eyes go round and rest on him for a moment. it's in my sister's studio that miss athene builder is at present working, sir. i just happened to--to turn up. mayor. did you appear on the scene, as the constable says, during the struggle? guy. yes, sir. mayor. did he summon you to his aid? guy. yes--no, sir. miss maud builder did that. mayor. what do you say to this blow? guy. [jerking his chin up a little] oh! i saw that clearly. mayor. well, let us hear. guy. the constable's arm struck the cane violently and it flew up and landed him in the eye. mayor. [with a little grunt] you are sure of that? guy. quite sure, sir. mayor. did you hear any language? guy. nothing out of the ordinary, sir. one or two damns and blasts. mayor. you call that ordinary? guy. well, he's a--magistrate, sir. the mayor utters a profound grunt. chantrey smiles. there is a silence. then the mayor leans over to chantrey for a short colloquy. chantrey. did you witness any particular violence other than a resistance to arrest? guy. no, sir. mayor. [with a gesture of dismissal] very well, that seems to be the evidence. defendant john builder--what do you say to all this? builder. [in a voice different from any we have heard from him] say! what business had he to touch me, a magistrate? i gave my daughter two taps with a cane in a private house, for interfering with me for taking my wife home-- mayor. that charge is not pressed, and we can't go into the circumstances. what do you wish to say about your conduct towards the constable? builder. [in his throat] not a damned thing! mayor. [embarrassed] i--i didn't catch. chantrey. nothing--nothing, he said, mr mayor. mayor. [clearing his throat] i understand, then, that you do not wish to offer any explanation? builder. i consider myself abominably treated, and i refuse to say another word. mayor. [drily] very good. miss maud builder. maud stands up. mayor. when you spoke of the defendant seeing red, what exactly did you mean? maud. i mean that my father was so angry that he didn't know what he was doing. chantrey. would you say as angry as he--er--is now? maud. [with a faint smile] oh! much more angry. ralph builder stands up. ralph. would you allow me to say a word, mr mayor? mayor. speaking of your own knowledge, mr builder? ralph. in regard to the state of my brother's mind--yes, mr mayor. he was undoubtedly under great strain yesterday; certain circumstances, domestic and otherwise-- mayor. you mean that he might have been, as one might say, beside himself? ralph. exactly, sir. mayor. had you seen your brother? ralph. i had seen him shortly before this unhappy business. the mayor nods and makes a gesture, so that maud and ralph sit down; then, leaning over, he confers in a low voice with chantrey. the rest all sit or stand exactly as if each was the only person in the room, except the journalist, who is writing busily and rather obviously making a sketch of builder. mayor. miss athene builder. athene stands up. this young man, mr herringhame, i take it, is a friend of the family's? a moment of some tension. athene. n--no, mr mayor, not of my father or mother. chantrey. an acquaintance of yours? athene. yes. mayor. very good. [he clears his throat] as the defendant, wrongly, we think, refuses to offer his explanation of this matter, the bench has to decide on the evidence as given. there seems to be some discrepancy as to the blow which the constable undoubtedly received. in view of this, we incline to take the testimony of mr-- harris prompts him. mr 'erringhame--as the party least implicated personally in the affair, and most likely to 'ave a cool and impartial view. that evidence is to the effect that the blow was accidental. there is no doubt, however, that the defendant used reprehensible language, and offered some resistance to the constable in the execution of his duty. evidence 'as been offered that he was in an excited state of mind; and it is possible --i don't say that this is any palliation--but it is possible that he may have thought his position as magistrate made him--er-- chantrey. [prompting] caesar's wife. mayor. eh? we think, considering all the circumstances, and the fact that he has spent a night in a cell, that justice will be met by--er-- discharging him with a caution. builder. [with a deeply muttered] the devil you do! walks out of the room. the journalist, grabbing his pad, starts up and follows. the builders rise and huddle, and, with herringhame, are ushered out by harris. mayor. [pulling out a large handkerchief and wiping his forehead] my aunt! chantrey. these new constables, mayor! i say, builder'll have to go! damn the press, how they nose everything out! the great unpaid!-- we shall get it again! [he suddenly goes off into a fit of laughter] "come off it," i says, "to the best of my recollection." oh! oh! i shan't hit a bird all day! that poor devil builder! it's no joke for him. you did it well, mayor; you did it well. british justice is safe in your hands. he blacked the fellow's eye all right. "which i herewith produce." oh! my golly! it beats the band! his uncontrollable laughter and the mayor's rueful appreciation are exchanged with lightning rapidity for a preternatural solemnity, as the door opens, admitting sergeant martin and the lugubrious object of their next attentions. mayor. charges. sergeant steps forward to read the charge as the curtain falls. scene ii noon the same day. builder's study. topping is standing by the open window, looking up and down the street. a newspaper boy's voice is heard calling the first edition of his wares. it approaches from the right. topping. here! boy's voice. right, guv'nor! johnny builder up before the beaks! [a paper is pushed up]. topping. [extending a penny] what's that you're sayin'? you take care! boy's voice. it's all 'ere. johnny builder--beatin' his wife! dischawged. topping. stop it, you young limb! boy's voice. 'allo! what's the matter wiv you? why, it's johnny builder's house! [gives a cat-call] 'ere, buy anuvver! 'e'll want to read about 'isself. [appealing] buy anuvver, guv'nor! topping. move on! he retreats from the window, opening the paper. boy's voice. [receding] payper! first edition! j.p. chawged! payper! topping. [to himself as he reads] crimes! phew! that accounts for them bein' away all night. while he is reading, camille enters from the hall. here! have you seen this, camel--in the stop press? camille. no. they read eagerly side by side. topping. [finishing aloud] "tried to prevent her father from forcing her mother to return home with him, and he struck her for so doing. she did not press the charge. the arrested gentleman, who said he acted under great provocation, was discharged with a caution." well, i'm blowed! he has gone and done it! camille. a black eye! topping. [gazing at her] have you had any hand in this? i've seen you making your lovely black eyes at him. you foreigners--you're a loose lot! camille. you are drunk! topping. not yet, my dear. [reverting to the paper; philosophically] well, this little lot's bust up! the favourites will fall down. johnny builder! who'd have thought it? camille. he is an obstinate man. topping. ah! he's right up against it now. comes of not knowin' when to stop bein' firm. if you meet a wall with your 'ead, it's any odds on the wall, camel. though, if you listened to some, you wouldn't think it. what'll he do now, i wonder? any news of the mistress? camille. [shaking her head] i have pack her tr-runks. topping. why? camille. because she take her jewels yesterday. topping. deuce she did! they generally leave 'em. take back yer gifts! she throws the baubles at 'is 'ead. [again staring at her] you're a deep one, you know! there is the sound of a cab stopping. wonder if that's him! [he goes towards the hall. camille watchfully shifts towards the diningroom door. maud enters.] maud. is my father back, topping? topping. not yet, miss. maud. i've come for mother's things. camille. they are r-ready. maud. [eyeing her] topping, get them down, please. topping, after a look at them both, goes out into the hall. very clever of you to have got them ready. camille. i am clevare. maud. [almost to herself] yes--father may, and he may not. camille. look! if you think i am a designing woman, you are mistook. i know when things are too 'ot. i am not sorry to go. maud. oh! you are going? camille. yes, i am going. how can i stay when there is no lady in the 'ouse? maud. not even if you're asked to? camille. who will ask me? maud. that we shall see. camille. well, you will see i have an opinion of my own. maud. oh! yes, you're clear-headed enough. camille. i am not arguing. good-morning! exits up left. maud regards her stolidly as she goes out into the dining-room, then takes up the paper and reads. maud. horrible! topping re-enters from the hall. topping. i've got 'em on the cab, miss. i didn't put your ten bob on yesterday, because the animal finished last. you cant depend on horses. maud. [touching the newspaper] this is a frightful business, topping. topping. ah! however did it happen, miss maud? maud. [tapping the newspaper] it's all true. he came after my mother to miss athene's, and i--i couldn't stand it. i did what it says here; and now i'm sorry. mother's dreadfully upset. you know father as well as anyone, topping; what do you think he'll do now? topping. [sucking in his cheeks] well, you see, miss, it's like this: up to now mr builder's always had the respect of everybody-- maud moves her head impatiently. outside his own house, of course. well, now he hasn't got it. pishchologically that's bound to touch him. maud. of course; but which way? will he throw up the sponge, or try and stick it out here? topping. he won't throw up the sponge, miss; more likely to squeeze it down the back of their necks. maud. he'll be asked to resign, of course. the newspaper boy's voice is heard again approaching: "first edition! great sensation! local magistrate before the bench! pay-per!" oh, dear! i wish i hadn't! but i couldn't see mother being-- topping. don't you fret, miss; he'll come through. his jaw's above his brow, as you might say. maud. what? topping. [nodding] phreenology, miss. i rather follow that. when the jaw's big and the brow is small, it's a sign of character. i always think the master might have been a scotchman, except for his fishionomy. maud. a scotsman? topping. so down on anything soft, miss. haven't you noticed whenever one of these 'umanitarians writes to the papers, there's always a scotchman after him next morning. seems to be a fact of 'uman nature, like introducin' rabbits into a new country and then weasels to get rid of 'em. and then something to keep down the weasels. but i never can see what could keep down a scotchman! you seem to reach the hapex there! maud. miss athene was married this morning, topping. we've just come from the registrar's. topping. [immovably] indeed, miss. i thought perhaps she was about to be. maud. oh! topping. comin' events. i saw the shadder yesterday. maud. well, it's all right. she's coming on here with my uncle. a cab is heard driving up. that's them, i expect. we all feel awful about father. topping. ah! i shouldn't be surprised if he feels awful about you, miss. maud. [at the window] it is them. topping goes out into the hall; athene and ralph enter right. maud. where's father, uncle ralph? ralph. with his solicitor. athene. we left guy with mother at the studio. she still thinks she ought to come. she keeps on saying she must, now father's in a hole. maud. i've got her things on the cab; she ought to be perfectly free to choose. ralph. you've got freedom on the brain, maud. maud. so would you, uncle ralph, if you had father about. ralph. i'm his partner, my dear. maud. yes; how do you manage him? ralph. i've never yet given him in charge. athene. what do you do, uncle ralph? ralph. undermine him when i can. maud. and when you can't? ralph. undermine the other fellow. you can't go to those movie people now, maud. they'd star you as the celebrated maud builder who gave her father into custody. come to us instead, and have perfect freedom, till all this blows over. maud. oh! what will father be like now? athene. it's so queer you and he being brothers, uncle ralph. ralph. there are two sides to every coin, my dear. john's the head-and i'm the tail. he has the sterling qualities. now, you girls have got to smooth him down, and make up to him. you've tried him pretty high. maud. [stubbornly] i never wanted him for a father, uncle. ralph. they do wonderful things nowadays with inherited trouble. come, are you going to be nice to him, both of you? athene. we're going to try. ralph. good! i don't even now understand how it happened. maud. when you went out with guy, it wasn't three minutes before he came. mother had just told us about--well, about something beastly. father wanted us to go, and we agreed to go out for five minutes while he talked to mother. we went, and when we came back he told me to get a cab to take mother home. poor mother stood there looking like a ghost, and he began hunting and hauling her towards the door. i saw red, and instead of a cab i fetched that policeman. of course father did black his eye. guy was splendid. athene. you gave him the lead. maud. i couldn't help it, seeing father standing there all dumb. athene. it was awful! uncle, why didn't you come back with guy? maud. oh, yes! why didn't you, uncle? athene. when maud had gone for the cab, i warned him not to use force. i told him it was against the law, but he only said: "the law be damned!" ralph. well, it all sounds pretty undignified. maud. yes; everybody saw red. they have not seen the door opened from the hall, and builder standing there. he is still unshaven, a little sunken in the face, with a glum, glowering expression. he has a document in his hand. he advances a step or two and they see him. athene and maud. [aghast] father! builder. ralph, oblige me! see them off the premises! ralph. steady, john! builder. go! maud. [proudly] all right! we thought you might like to know that athene's married, and that i've given up the movies. now we'll go. builder turns his back on them, and, sitting down at his writing-table, writes. after a moment's whispered conversation with their uncle, the two girls go out. ralph builder stands gazing with whimsical commiseration at his brother's back. as builder finishes writing, he goes up and puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. ralph. this is an awful jar, old man! builder. here's what i've said to that fellow: "mr mayor,--you had the effrontery to-day to discharge me with a caution--forsooth!--your fellow --magistrate. i've consulted my solicitor as to whether an action will lie for false imprisonment. i'm informed that it won't. i take this opportunity of saying that justice in this town is a travesty. i have no wish to be associated further with you or your fellows; but you are vastly mistaken if you imagine that i shall resign my position on the bench or the town council.--yours, "john builder." ralph. i say--keep your sense of humour, old boy. builder. [grimly] humour? i've spent a night in a cell. see this! [he holds out the document] it disinherits my family. ralph. john! builder. i've done with those two ladies. as to my wife--if she doesn't come back--! when i suffer, i make others suffer. ralph. julia's very upset, my dear fellow; we all are. the girls came here to try and-- builder. [rising] they may go to hell! if that lousy mayor thinks i'm done with--he's mistaken! [he rings the bell] i don't want any soft sawder. i'm a fighter. ralph. [in a low voice] the enemy stands within the gate, old chap. builder. what's that? ralph. let's boss our own natures before we boss those of other people. have a sleep on it, john, before you do anything. builder. sleep? i hadn't a wink last night. if you'd passed the night i had-- ralph. i hadn't many myself. topping enters. builder. take this note to the mayor with my compliments, and don't bring back an answer. topping. very good, sir. there's a gentleman from the "comet" in the hall, sir. would you see him for a minute, he says. builder. tell him to go to-- a voice says, "mr builder!" builder turns to see the figure of the journalist in the hall doorway. topping goes out. journalist. [advancing with his card] mr builder, it's very good of you to see me. i had the pleasure this morning--i mean--i tried to reach you when you left the mayor's. i thought you would probably have your own side of this unfortunate matter. we shall be glad to give it every prominence. topping has withdrawn, and ralph builder, at the window, stands listening. builder. [drily, regarding the journalist, who has spoken in a pleasant and polite voice] very good of you! journalist. not at all, sir. we felt that you would almost certainly have good reasons of your own which would put the matter in quite a different light. builder. good reasons? i should think so! i tell you--a very little more of this liberty--licence i call it--and there isn't a man who'll be able to call himself head of a family. journalist. [encouragingly] quite! builder. if the law thinks it can back up revolt, it's damned well mistaken. i struck my daughter--i was in a passion, as you would have been. journalist. [encouraging] i'm sure-- builder. [glaring at him] well, i don't know that you would; you look a soft sort; but any man with any blood in him. journalist. can one ask what she was doing, sir? we couldn't get that point quite clear. builder. doing? i just had my arm round my wife, trying to induce her to come home with me after a little family tiff, and this girl came at me. i lost my temper, and tapped her with my cane. and--that policeman brought by my own daughter--a policeman! if the law is going to enter private houses and abrogate domestic authority, where the hell shall we be? journalist. [encouraging] no, i'm sure--i'm sure! builder. the maudlin sentimentality in these days is absolutely rotting this country. a man can't be master in his own house, can't require his wife to fulfil her duties, can't attempt to control the conduct of his daughters, without coming up against it and incurring odium. a man can't control his employees; he can't put his foot down on rebellion anywhere, without a lot of humanitarians and licence-lovers howling at him. journalist. excellent, sir; excellent! builder. excellent? it's damnable. here am i--a man who's always tried to do his duty in private life and public--brought up before the bench-- my god! because i was doing that duty; with a little too much zeal, perhaps--i'm not an angel! journalist. no! no! of course. builder. a proper englishman never is. but there are no proper englishmen nowadays. he crosses the room in his fervour. ralph. [suddenly] as i look at faces-- builder. [absorbed] what! i told this young man i wasn't an angel. journalist. [drawing him on] yes, sir; i quite understand. builder. if the law thinks it can force me to be one of your weak-kneed sentimentalists who let everybody do what they like-- ralph. there are a good many who stand on their rights left, john. builder. [absorbed] what! how can men stand on their rights left? journalist. i'm afraid you had a painful experience, sir. builder. every kind of humiliation. i spent the night in a stinking cell. i haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday. did they think i was going to eat the muck they shoved in? and all because in a moment of anger--which i regret, i regret!--i happened to strike my daughter, who was interfering between me and my wife. the thing would be funny if it weren't so disgusting. a man's house used to be sanctuary. what is it now? with all the world poking their noses in? he stands before the fire with his head bent, excluding as it were his interviewer and all the world. journalist. [preparing to go] thank you very much, mr builder. i'm sure i can do you justice. would you like to see a proof? builder. [half conscious of him] what? journalist. or will you trust me? builder. i wouldn't trust you a yard. journalist. [at the door] very well, sir; you shall have a proof, i promise. good afternoon, and thank you. builder. here! but he is gone, and builder is left staring at his brother, on whose face is still that look of whimsical commiseration. ralph. take a pull, old man! have a hot bath and go to bed. builder. they've chosen to drive me to extremes, now let them take the consequences. i don't care a kick what anybody thinks. ralph. [sadly] well, i won't worry you anymore, now. builder. [with a nasty laugh] no; come again to-morrow! ralph. when you've had a sleep. for the sake of the family name, john, don't be hasty. builder. shut the stable door? no, my boy, the horse has gone. ralph. well, well! with a lingering look at his brother, who has sat down sullenly at the writing table, he goes out into the hall. builder remains staring in front of him. the dining-room door opens, and camille's head is thrust in. seeing him, she draws back, but he catches sight of her. builder. here! camille comes doubtfully up to the writing table. her forehead is puckered as if she were thinking hard. builder. [looking at her, unsmiling] so you want to be my mistress, do you? camille makes a nervous gesture. well, you shall. come here. camille. [not moving] you f--frighten me. builder. i've paid a pretty price for you. but you'll make up for it; you and others. camille. [starting back] no; i don't like you to-day! no! builder. come along! [she is just within reach and he seizes her arm] all my married life i've put a curb on myself for the sake of respectability. i've been a man of principle, my girl, as you saw yesterday. well, they don't want that! [he draws her close] you can sit on my knee now. camille. [shrinking] no; i don't want to, to-day. builder. but you shall. they've asked for it! camille. [with a supple movement slipping away from him] they? what is all that? i don't want any trouble. no, no; i am not taking any. she moves back towards the door. builder utters a sardonic laugh. oh! you are a dangerous man! no, no! not for me! good-bye, sare! she turns swiftly and goes out. builder again utters his glum laugh. and then, as he sits alone staring before him, perfect silence reigns in the room. over the window-sill behind him a boy's face is seen to rise; it hangs there a moment with a grin spreading on it. boy's voice. [sotto] johnny builder! as builder turns sharply, it vanishes. 'oo beat 'is wife? builder rushes to the window. boy's voice. [more distant and a little tentative] johnny builder! builder. you little devil! if i catch you, i'll wring your blasted little neck! boy's voice. [a little distant] 'oo blacked the copper's eye? builder, in an ungovernable passion, seizes a small flower-pot from the sill and dings it with all his force. the sound of a crash. boy's voice. [very distant] ya-a-ah! missed! builder stands leaning out, face injected with blood, shaking his fist. the curtain falls for a few seconds. scene iii evening the same day. builder's study is dim and neglected-looking; the window is still open, though it has become night. a street lamp outside shines in, and the end of its rays fall on builder asleep. he is sitting in a high chair at the fireside end of the writing-table, with his elbows on it, and his cheek resting on his hand. he is still unshaven, and his clothes unchanged. a boy's head appears above the level of the window-sill, as if beheaded and fastened there. boy's voice. [in a forceful whisper] johnny builder! builder stirs uneasily. the boy's head vanishes. builder, raising his other hand, makes a sweep before his face, as if to brush away a mosquito. he wakes. takes in remembrance, and sits a moment staring gloomily before him. the door from the hall is opened and topping comes in with a long envelope in his hand. topping. [approaching] from the "comet," sir. proof of your interview, sir; will you please revise, the messenger says; he wants to take it back at once. builder. [taking it] all right. i'll ring. topping. shall i close in, sir? builder. not now. topping withdraws. builder turns up a standard lamp on the table, opens the envelope, and begins reading the galley slip. the signs of uneasiness and discomfort grow on him. builder. did i say that? muck! muck! [he drops the proof, sits a moment moving his head and rubbing one hand uneasily on the surface of the table, then reaches out for the telephone receiver] town, . [pause] the "comet"? john builder. give me the editor. [pause] that you, mr editor? john builder speaking. that interview. i've got the proof. it won't do. scrap the whole thing, please. i don't want to say anything. [pause] yes. i know i said it all; i can't help that. [pause] no; i've changed my mind. scrap it, please. [pause] no, i will not say anything. [pause] you can say what you dam' well please. [pause] i mean it; if you put a word into my mouth, i'll sue you for defamation of character. it's undignified muck. i'm tearing it up. good-night. [he replaces the receiver, and touches a bell; then, taking up the galley slip, he tears it viciously across into many pieces, and rams them into the envelope.] topping enters. here, give this to the messenger-sharp, and tell him to run with it. topping. [whose hand can feel the condition of the contents, with a certain surprise] yes, sir. he goes, with a look back from the door. the mayor is here, sir. i don't know whether you would wish builder, rising, takes a turn up and down the room. builder. nor do i. yes! i'll see him. topping goes out, and builder stands over by the fender, with his head a little down. topping. [re-entering] the mayor, sir. he retires up left. the mayor is overcoated, and carries, of all things, a top hat. he reaches the centre of the room before he speaks. mayor. [embarrassed] well, builder? builder. well? mayor. come! that caution of mine was quite parliamentary. i 'ad to save face, you know. builder. and what about my face? mayor. well, you--you made it difficult for me. 'ang it all! put yourself into my place! builder. [grimly] i'd rather put you into mine, as it was last night. mayor. yes, yes! i know; but the bench has got a name to keep up--must stand well in the people's eyes. as it is, i sailed very near the wind. suppose we had an ordinary person up before us for striking a woman? builder. i didn't strike a woman--i struck my daughter. mayor. well, but she's not a child, you know. and you did resist the police, if no worse. come! you'd have been the first to maintain british justice. shake 'ands! builder. is that what you came for? mayor. [taken aback] why--yes; nobody can be more sorry than i-- builder. eye-wash! you came to beg me to resign. mayor. well, it's precious awkward, builder. we all feel-- builder. save your powder, mayor. i've slept on it since i wrote you that note. take my resignations. mayor. [in relieved embarrassment] that's right. we must face your position. builder. [with a touch of grim humour] i never yet met a man who couldn't face another man's position. mayor. after all, what is it? builder. splendid isolation. no wife, no daughters, no councillorship, no magistracy, no future--[with a laugh] not even a french maid. and why? because i tried to exercise a little wholesome family authority. that's the position you're facing, mayor. mayor. dear, dear! you're devilish bitter, builder. it's unfortunate, this publicity. but it'll all blow over; and you'll be back where you were. you've a good sound practical sense underneath your temper. [a pause] come, now! [a pause] well, i'll say good-night, then. builder. you shall have them in writing tomorrow. mayor. [with sincerity] come! shake 'ands. builder, after a long look, holds out his hand. the two men exchange a grip. the mayor, turning abruptly, goes out. builder remains motionless for a minute, then resumes his seat at the side of the writing table, leaning his head on his hands. the boy's head is again seen rising above the level of the window-sill, and another and another follows, till the three, as if decapitated, heads are seen in a row. boys' voices. [one after another in a whispered crescendo] johnny builder! johnny builder! johnny builder! builder rises, turns and stares at them. the three heads disappear, and a boy's voice cries shrilly: "johnny builder!" builder moves towards the window; voices are now crying in various pitches and keys: "johnny builder!" "beatey builder!" "beat 'is wife-er!" "beatey builder!" builder stands quite motionless, staring, with the street lamp lighting up a queer, rather pitiful defiance on his face. the voices swell. there comes a sudden swish and splash of water, and broken yells of dismay. topping's voice. scat! you young devils! the sound of scuffling feet and a long-drawnout and distant "miaou!" builder stirs, shuts the window, draws the curtains, goes to the armchair before the fireplace and sits down in it. topping enters with a little tray on which is a steaming jug of fluid, some biscuits and a glass. he comes stealthily up level with the chair. builder stirs and looks up at him. topping. excuse me, sir, you must 'ave digested yesterday morning's breakfast by now--must live to eat, sir. builder. all right. put it down. topping. [putting the tray down on the table and taking up builder's pipe] i fair copped those young devils. builder. you're a good fellow. topping. [filling the pipe] you'll excuse me, sir; the missis--has come back, sir-- builder stares at him and topping stops. he hands builder the filled pipe and a box of matches. builder. [with a shiver] light the fire, topping. i'm chilly. while topping lights the fire builder puts the pipe in his mouth and applies a match to it. topping, having lighted the fire, turns to go, gets as far as half way, then comes back level with the table and regards the silent brooding figure in the chair. builder. [suddenly] give me that paper on the table. no; the other one--the will. topping takes up the will and gives it to him. topping. [with much hesitation] excuse me, sir. it's pluck that get's 'em 'ome, sir--begging your pardon. builder has resumed his attitude and does not answer. [in a voice just touched with feeling] good-night, sir. builder. [without turning his head] good-night. topping has gone. builder sits drawing at his pipe between the firelight and the light from the standard lamp. he takes the pipe out of his mouth and a quiver passes over his face. with a half angry gesture he rubs the back of his hand across his eyes. builder. [to himself] pluck! pluck! [his lips quiver again. he presses them hard together, puts his pipe back into his mouth, and, taking the will, thrusts it into the newly-lighted fire and holds it there with a poker.] while he is doing this the door from the hall is opened quietly, and mrs builder enters without his hearing her. she has a work bag in her hand. she moves slowly to the table, and stands looking at him. then going up to the curtains she mechanically adjusts them, and still keeping her eyes on builder, comes down to the table and pours out his usual glass of whisky toddy. builder, who has become conscious of her presence, turns in his chair as she hands it to him. he sits a moment motionless, then takes it from her, and squeezes her hand. mrs builder goes silently to her usual chair below the fire, and taking out some knitting begins to knit. builder makes an effort to speak, does not succeed, and sits drawing at his pipe. the curtain falls. loyalties from the th series plays by john galsworthy persons of the play in the order of appearance charles winsor.................. owner of meldon court, near newmarket lady adela...................... his wife ferdinand de levis.............. young, rich, and new treisure........................ winsor's butler general canynge................. a racing oracle margaret orme................... a society girl captain ronald dandy, d.s.o..... retired mabel........................... his wife inspector dede.................. of the county constabulary robert.......................... winsor's footman a constable..................... attendant on dede augustus bobbing................ a clubman lord st erth.................... a peer of the realm a footman....................... of the club major colford................... a brother officer of dancy's edward graviter................. a solicitor a young clerk................... of twisden & graviter's gilman.......................... a large grocer jacob twisden................... senior partner of twisden & graviter ricardos........................ an italian, in wine act i. scene i. charles winsor's dressing-room at meldon court, near newmarket, of a night in early october. scene ii. de levis's bedroom at meldon court, a few minutes later. act ii. scene i. the card room of a london club between four and five in the afternoon, three weeks later. scene ii. the sitting-room of the dancys' flat, the following morning. act iii. scene i. old mr jacob twisden's room at twisden & graviter's in lincoln's inn fields, at four in the afternoon, three months later. scene ii. the same, next morning at half-past ten. scene iii. the sitting-room of the dancys' flat, an hour later. act i scene i the dressing-room of charles winsor, owner of meldon court, near newmarket; about eleven-thirty at night. the room has pale grey walls, unadorned; the curtains are drawn over a window back left centre. a bed lies along the wall, left. an open door, right back, leads into lady adela's bedroom; a door, right forward, into a long corridor, on to which abut rooms in a row, the whole length of the house's left wing. winsor's dressing-table, with a light over it, is stage right of the curtained window. pyjamas are laid out on the bed, which is turned back. slippers are handy, and all the usual gear of a well-appointed bed-dressing-room. charles winsor, a tall, fair, good-looking man about thirty-eight, is taking off a smoking jacket. winsor. hallo! adela! v. of lady a. [from her bedroom] hallo! winsor. in bed? v. of lady a. no. she appears in the doorway in under-garment and a wrapper. she, too, is fair, about thirty-five, rather delicious, and suggestive of porcelain. winsor. win at bridge? lady a. no fear. winsor. who did? lady a. lord st erth and ferdy de levis. winsor. that young man has too much luck--the young bounder won two races to-day; and he's as rich as croesus. lady a. oh! charlie, he did look so exactly as if he'd sold me a carpet when i was paying him. winsor. [changing into slippers] his father did sell carpets, wholesale, in the city. lady a. really? and you say i haven't intuition! [with a finger on her lips] morison's in there. winsor. [motioning towards the door, which she shuts] ronny dancy took a tenner off him, anyway, before dinner. lady a. no! how? winsor. standing jump on to a bookcase four feet high. de levis had to pay up, and sneered at him for making money by parlour tricks. that young jew gets himself disliked. lady a. aren't you rather prejudiced? winsor. not a bit. i like jews. that's not against him--rather the contrary these days. but he pushes himself. the general tells me he's deathly keen to get into the jockey club. [taking off his tie] it's amusing to see him trying to get round old st erth. lady a. if lord st erth and general canynge backed him he'd get in if he did sell carpets! winsor. he's got some pretty good horses. [taking off his waistcoat] ronny dancy's on his bones again, i'm afraid. he had a bad day. when a chap takes to doing parlour stunts for a bet--it's a sure sign. what made him chuck the army? lady a. he says it's too dull, now there's no fighting. winsor. well, he can't exist on backing losers. lady a. isn't it just like him to get married now? he really is the most reckless person. winsor. yes. he's a queer chap. i've always liked him, but i've never quite made him out. what do you think of his wife? lady a. nice child; awfully gone on him. winsor. is he? lady a. quite indecently--both of them. [nodding towards the wall, left] they're next door. winsor. who's beyond them? lady a. de levis; and margaret orme at the end. charlie, do you realise that the bathroom out there has to wash those four? winsor. i know. lady a. your grandfather was crazy when he built this wing; six rooms in a row with balconies like an hotel, and only one bath--if we hadn't put ours in. winsor. [looking at his watch] half-past eleven. [yawns] newmarket always makes me sleepy. you're keeping morison up. lady adela goes to the door, blowing a kiss. charles goes up to his dressing-table and begins to brush his hair, sprinkling on essence. there is a knock on the corridor door. come in. de levis enters, clad in pyjamas and flowered dressing-gown. he is a dark, good-looking, rather eastern young man. his face is long and disturbed. hallo! de levis! anything i can do for you? de levis. [in a voice whose faint exoticism is broken by a vexed excitement] i say, i'm awfully sorry, winsor, but i thought i'd better tell you at once. i've just had--er--rather a lot of money stolen. winsor. what! [there is something of outrage in his tone and glance, as who should say: "in my house?"] how do you mean stolen? de levis. i put it under my pillow and went to have a bath; when i came back it was gone. winsor. good lord! how much? de levis. nearly a thousand-nine hundred and seventy, i think. winsor. phew! [again the faint tone of outrage, that a man should have so much money about him]. de levis. i sold my rosemary filly to-day on the course to bentman the bookie, and he paid me in notes. winsor. what? that weed dancy gave you in the spring? de levis. yes. but i tried her pretty high the other day; and she's in the cambridgeshire. i was only out of my room a quarter of an hour, and i locked my door. winsor. [again outraged] you locked-- de levis. [not seeing the fine shade] yes, and had the key here. [he taps his pocket] look here! [he holds out a pocket-book] it's been stuffed with my shaving papers. winsor. [between feeling that such things don't happen, and a sense that he will have to clear it up] this is damned awkward, de levis. de levis. [with steel in his voice] yes. i should like it back. winsor. have you got the numbers of the notes? de levis. no. winsor. what were they? de levis. one hundred, three fifties, and the rest tens and fives. winsor. what d'you want me to do? de levis. unless there's anybody you think-- winsor. [eyeing him] is it likely? de levis. then i think the police ought to see my room. it's a lot of money. winsor. good lord! we're not in town; there'll be nobody nearer than newmarket at this time of night--four miles. the door from the bedroom is suddenly opened and lady adela appears. she has on a lace cap over her finished hair, and the wrapper. lady a. [closing the door] what is it? are you ill, mr de levis? winsor. worse; he's had a lot of money stolen. nearly a thousand pounds. lady a. gracious! where? de levis. from under my pillow, lady adela--my door was locked--i was in the bath-room. lady a. but how fearfully thrilling! winsor. thrilling! what's to be done? he wants it back. lady a. of course! [with sudden realisation] oh! but oh! it's quite too unpleasant! winsor. yes! what am i to do? fetch the servants out of their rooms? search the grounds? it'll make the devil of a scandal. de levis. who's next to me? lady a. [coldly] oh! mr de levis! winsor. next to you? the dancys on this side, and miss orme on the other. what's that to do with it? de levis. they may have heard something. winsor. let's get them. but dancy was down stairs when i came up. get morison, adela! no. look here! when was this exactly? let's have as many alibis as we can. de levis. within the last twenty minutes, certainly. winsor. how long has morison been up with you? lady a. i came up at eleven, and rang for her at once. winsor. [looking at his watch] half an hour. then she's all right. send her for margaret and the dancys--there's nobody else in this wing. no; send her to bed. we don't want gossip. d'you mind going yourself, adela? lady a. consult general canynge, charlie. winsor. right. could you get him too? d'you really want the police, de levis? de levis. [stung by the faint contempt in his tone of voice] yes, i do. winsor. then, look here, dear! slip into my study and telephone to the police at newmarket. there'll be somebody there; they're sure to have drunks. i'll have treisure up, and speak to him. [he rings the bell]. lady adela goes out into her room and closes the door. winsor. look here, de levis! this isn't an hotel. it's the sort of thing that doesn't happen in a decent house. are you sure you're not mistaken, and didn't have them stolen on the course? de levis. absolutely. i counted them just before putting them under my pillow; then i locked the door and had the key here. there's only one door, you know. winsor. how was your window? de levis. open. winsor. [drawing back the curtains of his own window] you've got a balcony like this. any sign of a ladder or anything? de levis. no. winsor. it must have been done from the window, unless someone had a skeleton key. who knew you'd got that money? where did kentman pay you? de levis. just round the corner in the further paddock. winsor. anybody about? de levis. oh, yes! winsor. suspicious? de levis. i didn't notice anything. winsor. you must have been marked down and followed here. de levis. how would they know my room? winsor. might have got it somehow. [a knock from the corridor] come in. treisure, the butler, appears, a silent, grave man of almost supernatural conformity. de levis gives him a quick, hard look, noted and resented by winsor. treisure. [to winsor] yes, sir? winsor. who valets mr de levis? treisure. robert, sir. winsor. when was he up last? treisure. in the ordinary course of things, about ten o'clock, sir. winsor. when did he go to bed? treisure. i dismissed at eleven. winsor. but did he go? treisure. to the best of my knowledge. is there anything i can do, sir? winsor. [disregarding a sign from de levis] look here, treisure, mr de levis has had a large sum of money taken from his bedroom within the last half hour. treisure. indeed, sir! winsor. robert's quite all right, isn't he? treisure. he is, sir. de levis. how do you know? treisure's eyes rest on de levis. treisure. i am a pretty good judge of character, sir, if you'll excuse me. winsor. look here, de levis, eighty or ninety notes must have been pretty bulky. you didn't have them on you at dinner? de levis. no. winsor. where did you put them? de levis. in a boot, and the boot in my suitcase, and locked it. treisure smiles faintly. winsor. [again slightly outraged by such precautions in his house] and you found it locked--and took them from there to put under your pillow? de levis. yes. winsor. run your mind over things, treisure--has any stranger been about? treisure. no, sir. winsor. this seems to have happened between . and . . is that right? [de levis nods] any noise-anything outside-anything suspicious anywhere? treisure. [running his mind--very still] no, sir. winsor. what time did you shut up? treisure. i should say about eleven-fifteen, sir. as soon as major colford and captain dancy had finished billiards. what was mr de levis doing out of his room, if i may ask, sir? winsor. having a bath; with his room locked and the key in his pocket. treisure. thank you, sir. de levis. [conscious of indefinable suspicion] damn it! what do you mean? i was! treisure. i beg your pardon, sir. winsor. [concealing a smile] look here, treisure, it's infernally awkward for everybody. treisure. it is, sir. winsor. what do you suggest? treisure. the proper thing, sir, i suppose, would be a cordon and a complete search--in our interests. winsor. i entirely refuse to suspect anybody. treisure. but if mr de levis feels otherwise, sir? de levis. [stammering] i? all i know is--the money was there, and it's gone. winsor. [compunctious] quite! it's pretty sickening for you. but so it is for anybody else. however, we must do our best to get it back for you. a knock on the door. winsor. hallo! treisure opens the door, and general. canynge enters. oh! it's you, general. come in. adela's told you? general canynge nods. he is a slim man of about sixty, very well preserved, intensely neat and self-contained, and still in evening dress. his eyelids droop slightly, but his eyes are keen and his expression astute. winsor. well, general, what's the first move? canynge. [lifting his eyebrows] mr de levis presses the matter? de levis. [flicked again] unless you think it's too plebeian of me, general canynge--a thousand pounds. canynge. [drily] just so! then we must wait for the police, winsor. lady adela has got through to them. what height are these rooms from the ground, treisure? treisure. twenty-three feet from the terrace, sir. canynge. any ladders near? treisure. one in the stables, sir, very heavy. no others within three hundred yards. canynge. just slip down, and see whether that's been moved. treisure. very good, general. [he goes out.] de levis. [uneasily] of course, he--i suppose you-- winsor. we do. canynge. you had better leave this in our hands, de levis. de levis. certainly; only, the way he-- winsor. [curtly] treisure has been here since he was a boy. i should as soon suspect myself. de levis. [looking from one to the other--with sudden anger] you seem to think--! what was i to do? take it lying down and let whoever it is get clear off? i suppose it's natural to want my money back? canynge looks at his nails; winsor out of the window. winsor. [turning] of course, de levis! de levis. [sullenly] well, i'll go to my room. when the police come, perhaps you'll let me know. he goes out. winsor. phew! did you ever see such a dressing-gown? the door is opened. lady adela and margaret orme come in. the latter is a vivid young lady of about twenty-five in a vivid wrapper; she is smoking a cigarette. lady a. i've told the dancys--she was in bed. and i got through to newmarket, charles, and inspector dede is coming like the wind on a motor cycle. margaret. did he say "like the wind," adela? he must have imagination. isn't this gorgeous? poor little ferdy! winsor. [vexed] you might take it seriously, margaret; it's pretty beastly for us all. what time did you come up? margaret. i came up with adela. am i suspected, charles? how thrilling! winsor. did you hear anything? margaret. only little ferdy splashing. winsor. and saw nothing? margaret. not even that, alas! lady a. [with a finger held up] leste! un peu leste! oh! here are the dancys. come in, you two! mabel and ronald dancy enter. she is a pretty young woman with bobbed hair, fortunately, for she has just got out of bed, and is in her nightgown and a wrapper. dancy is in his smoking jacket. he has a pale, determined face with high cheekbones, small, deep-set dark eyes, reddish crisp hair, and looks like a horseman. winsor. awfully sorry to disturb you, mrs dancy; but i suppose you and ronny haven't heard anything. de levis's room is just beyond ronny's dressing-room, you know. mabel. i've been asleep nearly half an hour, and ronny's only just come up. canynge. did you happen to look out of your window, mrs dancy? mabel. yes. i stood there quite five minutes. canynge. when? mabel. just about eleven, i should think. it was raining hard then. canynge. yes, it's just stopped. you saw nothing? mabel. no. dancy. what time does he say the money was taken? winsor. between the quarter and half past. he'd locked his door and had the key with him. margaret. how quaint! just like an hotel. does he put his boots out? lady a. don't be so naughty, meg. canynge. when exactly did you come up, dance? dancy. about ten minutes ago. i'd only just got into my dressing-room before lady adela came. i've been writing letters in the hall since colford and i finished billiards. canynge. you weren't up for anything in between? dancy. no. margaret. the mystery of the grey room. dancy. oughtn't the grounds to be searched for footmarks? canynge. that's for the police. dancy. the deuce! are they coming? canynge. directly. [a knock] yes? treisure enters. well? treisure. the ladder has not been moved, general. there isn't a sign. winsor. all right. get robert up, but don't say anything to him. by the way, we're expecting the police. treisure. i trust they will not find a mare's nest, sir, if i may say so. he goes. winsor. de levis has got wrong with treisure. [suddenly] but, i say, what would any of us have done if we'd been in his shoes? margaret. a thousand pounds? i can't even conceive having it. dancy. we probably shouldn't have found it out. lady a. no--but if we had. dancy. come to you--as he did. winsor. yes; but there's a way of doing things. canynge. we shouldn't have wanted the police. margaret. no. that's it. the hotel touch. lady a. poor young man; i think we're rather hard on him. winsor. he sold that weed you gave him, dancy, to kentman, the bookie, and these were the proceeds. dancy. oh! winsor. he'd tried her high, he said. dancy. [grimly] he would. mabel. oh! ronny, what bad luck! winsor. he must have been followed here. [at the window] after rain like that, there ought to be footmarks. the splutter of a motor cycle is heard. margaret. here's the wind! winsor. what's the move now, general? canynge. you and i had better see the inspector in de levis's room, winsor. [to the others] if you'll all be handy, in case he wants to put questions for himself. margaret. i hope he'll want me; it's just too thrilling. dancy. i hope he won't want me; i'm dog-tired. come on, mabel. [he puts his arm in his wife's]. canynge. just a minute, charles. he draws dose to winsor as the others are departing to their rooms. winsor. yes, general? canynge. we must be careful with this inspector fellow. if he pitches hastily on somebody in the house it'll be very disagreeable. winsor. by jove! it will. canynge. we don't want to rouse any ridiculous suspicion. winsor. quite. [a knock] come in! treisure enters. treisure. inspector dede, sir. winsor. show him in. treisure. robert is in readiness, sir; but i could swear he knows nothing about it. winsor. all right. treisure re-opens the door, and says "come in, please." the inspector enters, blue, formal, moustachioed, with a peaked cap in his hand. winsor. good evening, inspector. sorry to have brought you out at this time of night. inspector. good evenin', sir. mr winsor? you're the owner here, i think? winsor. yes. general canynge. inspector. good evenin', general. i understand, a large sum of money? winsor. yes. shall we go straight to the room it was taken from? one of my guests, mr de levis. it's the third room on the left. canynge. we've not been in there yet, inspector; in fact, we've done nothing, except to find out that the stable ladder has not been moved. we haven't even searched the grounds. inspector. right, sir; i've brought a man with me. they go out. curtain. and interval of a minute. scene ii [the same set is used for this scene, with the different arrangement of furniture, as specified.] the bedroom of de levis is the same in shape as winsor's dressing-room, except that there is only one door--to the corridor. the furniture, however, is differently arranged; a small four-poster bedstead stands against the wall, right back, jutting into the room. a chair, on which de levis's clothes are thrown, stands at its foot. there is a dressing-table against the wall to the left of the open windows, where the curtains are drawn back and a stone balcony is seen. against the wall to the right of the window is a chest of drawers, and a washstand is against the wall, left. on a small table to the right of the bed an electric reading lamp is turned up, and there is a light over the dressing-table. the inspector is standing plumb centre looking at the bed, and de levis by the back of the chair at the foot of the bed. winsor and canynge are close to the door, right forward. inspector. [finishing a note] now, sir, if this is the room as you left it for your bath, just show us exactly what you did after takin' the pocket-book from the suit case. where was that, by the way? de levis. [pointing] where it is now--under the dressing-table. he comes forward to the front of the chair, opens the pocket-book, goes through the pretence of counting his shaving papers, closes the pocket-book, takes it to the head of the bed and slips it under the pillow. makes the motion of taking up his pyjamas, crosses below the inspector to the washstand, takes up a bath sponge, crosses to the door, takes out the key, opens the door. inspector. [writing]. we now have the room as it was when the theft was committed. reconstruct accordin' to 'uman nature, gentlemen--assumin' the thief to be in the room, what would he try first?--the clothes, the dressin'-table, the suit case, the chest of drawers, and last the bed. he moves accordingly, examining the glass on the dressing-table, the surface of the suit cases, and the handles of the drawers, with a spy-glass, for finger-marks. canynge. [sotto voce to winsor] the order would have been just the other way. the inspector goes on hands and knees and examines the carpet between the window and the bed. de levis. can i come in again? inspector. [standing up] did you open the window, sir, or was it open when you first came in? de levis. i opened it. inspector. drawin' the curtains back first? de levis. yes. inspector. [sharply] are you sure there was nobody in the room already? de levis. [taken aback] i don't know. i never thought. i didn't look under the bed, if you mean that. inspector. [jotting] did not look under bed. did you look under it after the theft? de levis. no. i didn't. inspector. ah! now, what did you do after you came back from your bath? just give us that precisely. de levis. locked the door and left the key in. put back my sponge, and took off my dressing-gown and put it there. [he points to the footrails of the bed] then i drew the curtains, again. inspector. shutting the window? de levis. no. i got into bed, felt for my watch to see the time. my hand struck the pocket-book, and somehow it felt thinner. i took it out, looked into it, and found the notes gone, and these shaving papers instead. inspector. let me have a look at those, sir. [he applies the spy-glasses] and then? de levis. i think i just sat on the bed. inspector. thinkin' and cursin' a bit, i suppose. ye-es? de levis. then i put on my dressing-gown and went straight to mr winsor. inspector. not lockin' the door? de levis. no. inspector. exactly. [with a certain finality] now, sir, what time did you come up? de levis. about eleven. inspector. precise, if you can give it me. de levis. well, i know it was eleven-fifteen when i put my watch under my pillow, before i went to the bath, and i suppose i'd been about a quarter of an hour undressing. i should say after eleven, if anything. inspector. just undressin'? didn't look over your bettin' book? de levis. no. inspector. no prayers or anything? de levis. no. inspector. pretty slippy with your undressin' as a rule? de levis. yes. say five past eleven. inspector. mr winsor, what time did the gentleman come to you? winsor. half-past eleven. inspector. how do you fix that, sir? winsor. i'd just looked at the time, and told my wife to send her maid off. inspector. then we've got it fixed between . and . . [jots] now, sir, before we go further i'd like to see your butler and the footman that valets this gentleman. winsor. [with distaste] very well, inspector; only--my butler has been with us from a boy. inspector. quite so. this is just clearing the ground, sir. winsor. general, d'you mind touching that bell? canynge rings a bell by the bed. inspector. well, gentlemen, there are four possibilities. either the thief was here all the time, waiting under the bed, and slipped out after this gentleman had gone to mr winsor. or he came in with a key that fits the lock; and i'll want to see all the keys in the house. or he came in with a skeleton key and out by the window, probably droppin' from the balcony. or he came in by the window with a rope or ladder and out the same way. [pointing] there's a footmark here from a big boot which has been out of doors since it rained. canynge. inspector--you er--walked up to the window when you first came into the room. inspector. [stiffly] i had not overlooked that, general. canynge. of course. a knock on the door relieves a certain tension, winsor. come in. the footman robert, a fresh-faced young man, enters, followed by treisure. inspector. you valet mr--mr de levis, i think? robert. yes, sir. inspector. at what time did you take his clothes and boots? robert. ten o'clock, sir. inspector. [with a pounce] did you happen to look under his bed? robert. no, sir. inspector. did you come up again, to bring the clothes back? robert. no, sir; they're still downstairs. inspector. did you come up again for anything? robert. no, sir. inspector. what time did you go to bed? robert. just after eleven, sir. inspector. [scrutinising him] now, be careful. did you go to bed at all? robert. no, sir. inspector. then why did you say you did? there's been a theft here, and anything you say may be used against you. robert. yes, sir. i meant, i went to my room. inspector. where is your room? robert. on the ground floor, at the other end of the right wing, sir. winsor. it's the extreme end of the house from this, inspector. he's with the other two footmen. inspector. were you there alone? robert. no, sir. thomas and frederick was there too. treisure. that's right; i've seen them. inspector. [holding up his hand for silence] were you out of the room again after you went in? robert. no, sir. inspector. what were you doing, if you didn't go to bed? robert. [to winsor] beggin' your pardon, sir, we were playin' bridge. inspector. very good. you can go. i'll see them later on. robert. yes, sir. they'll say the same as me. he goes out, leaving a smile on the face of all except the inspector and de levis. inspector. [sharply] call him back. treisure calls "robert," and the footman re-enters. robert. yes, sir? inspector. did you notice anything particular about mr de levis's clothes? robert. only that they were very good, sir. inspector. i mean--anything peculiar? robert. [after reflection] yes, sir. inspector. well? robert. a pair of his boots this evenin' was reduced to one, sir. inspector. what did you make of that? robert. i thought he might have thrown the other at a cat or something. inspector. did you look for it? robert. no, sir; i meant to draw his attention to it in the morning. inspector. very good. robert. yes, sir. [he goes again.] inspector. [looking at de levis] well, sir, there's your story corroborated. de levis. [stifly] i don't know why it should need corroboration, inspector. inspector. in my experience, you can never have too much of that. [to winsor] i understand there's a lady in the room on this side [pointing left] and a gentleman on this [pointing right] were they in their rooms? winsor. miss orme was; captain dancy not. inspector. do they know of the affair? winsor. yes. inspector. well, i'd just like the keys of their doors for a minute. my man will get them. he goes to the door, opens it, and speaks to a constable in the corridor. [to treisure] you can go with him. treisure goes out. in the meantime i'll just examine the balcony. he goes out on the balcony, followed by de levis. winsor. [to canynge] damn de levis and his money! it's deuced invidious, all this, general. canynge. the inspector's no earthly. there is a simultaneous re-entry of the inspector from the balcony and of treisure and the constable from the corridor. constable. [handing key] room on the left, sir. [handing key] room on the right, sir. the inspector tries the keys in the door, watched with tension by the others. the keys fail. inspector. put them back. hands keys to constable, who goes out, followed by treisure. i'll have to try every key in the house, sir. winsor. inspector, do you really think it necessary to disturb the whole house and knock up all my guests? it's most disagreeable, all this, you know. the loss of the money is not such a great matter. mr de levis has a very large income. canynge. you could get the numbers of the notes from kentman the bookmaker, inspector; he'll probably have the big ones, anyway. inspector. [shaking his head] a bookie. i don't suppose he will, sir. it's come and go with them, all the time. winsor. we don't want a meldon court scandal, inspector. inspector. well, mr winsor, i've formed my theory. as he speaks, de levis comes in from the balcony. and i don't say to try the keys is necessary to it; but strictly, i ought to exhaust the possibilities. winsor. what do you say, de levis? d'you want everybody in the house knocked up so that their keys can be tried? de levis. [whose face, since his return, expresses a curious excitement] no, i don't. inspector. very well, gentlemen. in my opinion the thief walked in before the door was locked, probably during dinner; and was under the bed. he escaped by dropping from the balcony--the creeper at that corner [he points stage left] has been violently wrenched. i'll go down now, and examine the grounds, and i'll see you again sir. [he makes another entry in his note-book] goodnight, then, gentlemen! canynge. good-night! winsor. [with relief] i'll come with you, inspector. he escorts him to the door, and they go out. de levis. [suddenly] general, i know who took them. canynge. the deuce you do! are you following the inspector's theory? de levis. [contemptuously] that ass! [pulling the shaving papers out of the case] no! the man who put those there was clever and cool enough to wrench that creeper off the balcony, as a blind. come and look here, general. [he goes to the window; the general follows. de levis points stage right] see the rail of my balcony, and the rail of the next? [he holds up the cord of his dressing-gown, stretching his arms out] i've measured it with this. just over seven feet, that's all! if a man can take a standing jump on to a narrow bookcase four feet high and balance there, he'd make nothing of that. and, look here! [he goes out on the balcony and returns with a bit of broken creeper in his hand, and holds it out into the light] someone's stood on that--the stalk's crushed--the inner corner too, where he'd naturally stand when he took his jump back. canynge. [after examining it--stiffly] that other balcony is young dancy's, mr de levis; a soldier and a gentleman. this is an extraordinary insinuation. de levis. accusation. canynge. what! de levis. i have intuitions, general; it's in my blood. i see the whole thing. dancy came up, watched me into the bathroom, tried my door, slipped back into his dressing-room, saw my window was open, took that jump, sneaked the notes, filled the case up with these, wrenched the creeper there [he points stage left] for a blind, jumped back, and slipped downstairs again. it didn't take him four minutes altogether. canynge. [very gravely] this is outrageous, de levis. dancy says he was downstairs all the time. you must either withdraw unreservedly, or i must confront you with him. de levis. if he'll return the notes and apologise, i'll do nothing-- except cut him in future. he gave me that filly, you know, as a hopeless weed, and he's been pretty sick ever since, that he was such a flat as not to see how good she was. besides, he's hard up, i know. canynge. [after a vexed turn up and down the room] it's mad, sir, to jump to conclusions like this. de levis. not so mad as the conclusion dancy jumped to when he lighted on my balcony. canynge. nobody could have taken this money who did not know you had it. de levis. how do you know that he didn't? canynge. do you know that he did? de levis. i haven't the least doubt of it. canynge. without any proof. this is very ugly, de levis. i must tell winsor. de levis. [angrily] tell the whole blooming lot. you think i've no feelers, but i've felt the atmosphere here, i can tell you, general. if i were in dancy's shoes and he in mine, your tone to me would be very different. canynge. [suavely frigid] i'm not aware of using any tone, as you call it. but this is a private house, mr de levis, and something is due to our host and to the esprit de corps that exists among gentlemen. de levis. since when is a thief a gentleman? thick as thieves--a good motto, isn't it? canynge. that's enough! [he goes to the door, but stops before opening it] now, look here! i have some knowledge of the world. once an accusation like this passes beyond these walls no one can foresee the consequences. captain dancy is a gallant fellow, with a fine record as a soldier; and only just married. if he's as innocent as--christ--mud will stick to him, unless the real thief is found. in the old days of swords, either you or he would not have gone out of this room alive. it you persist in this absurd accusation, you will both of you go out of this room dead in the eyes of society: you for bringing it, he for being the object of it. de levis. society! do you think i don't know that i'm only tolerated for my money? society can't add injury to insult and have my money as well, that's all. if the notes are restored i'll keep my mouth shut; if they're not, i shan't. i'm certain i'm right. i ask nothing better than to be confronted with dancy; but, if you prefer it, deal with him in your own way--for the sake of your esprit de corps. canynge. 'pon my soul, mr de levis, you go too far. de levis. not so far as i shall go, general canynge, if those notes aren't given back. winsor comes in. winsor. well, de levis, i'm afraid that's all we can do for the present. so very sorry this should have happened in my house. canynge. [alter a silence] there's a development, winsor. mr de levis accuses one of your guests. winsor. what? canynge. of jumping from his balcony to this, taking the notes, and jumping back. i've done my best to dissuade him from indulging the fancy--without success. dancy must be told. de levis. you can deal with dancy in your own way. all i want is the money back. canynge. [drily] mr de levis feels that he is only valued for his money, so that it is essential for him to have it back. winsor. damn it! this is monstrous, de levis. i've known ronald dancy since he was a boy. canynge. you talk about adding injury to insult, de levis. what do you call such treatment of a man who gave you the mare out of which you made this thousand pounds? de levis. i didn't want the mare; i took her as a favour. canynge. with an eye to possibilities, i venture to think--the principle guides a good many transactions. de levis. [as if flicked on a raw spot] in my race, do you mean? canynge. [coldly] i said nothing of the sort. de levis. no; you don't say these things, any of you. canynge. nor did i think it. de levis. dancy does. winsor. really, de levis, if this is the way you repay hospitality-- de levis. hospitality that skins my feelings and costs me a thousand pounds! canynge. go and get dancy, winsor; but don't say anything to him. winsor goes out. canynge. perhaps you will kindly control yourself, and leave this to me. de levis turns to the window and lights a cigarette. winsor comes back, followed by dancy. canynge. for winsor's sake, dancy, we don't want any scandal or fuss about this affair. we've tried to make the police understand that. to my mind the whole thing turns on our finding who knew that de levis had this money. it's about that we want to consult you. winsor. kentman paid de levis round the corner in the further paddock, he says. de levis turns round from the window, so that he and dancy are staring at each other. canynge. did you hear anything that throws light, dancy? as it was your filly originally, we thought perhaps you might. dancy. i? no. canynge. didn't hear of the sale on the course at all? dancy. no. canynge. then you can't suggest any one who could have known? nothing else was taken, you see. dancy. de levis is known to be rolling, as i am known to be stony. canynge. there are a good many people still rolling, besides mr de levis, but not many people with so large a sum in their pocket-books. dancy. he won two races. de levis. do you suggest that i bet in ready money? dancy. i don't know how you bet, and i don't care. canynge. you can't help us, then? dancy. no. i can't. anything else? [he looks fixedly at de levis]. canynge. [putting his hand on dancy's arm] nothing else, thank you, dancy. dancy goes. canynge puts his hand up to his face. a moment's silence. winsor. you see, de levis? he didn't even know you'd got the money. de levis. very conclusive. winsor. well! you are--! there is a knock on the door, and the inspector enters. inspector. i'm just going, gentlemen. the grounds, i'm sorry to say, have yielded nothing. it's a bit of a puzzle. canynge. you've searched thoroughly? inspector. we have, general. i can pick up nothing near the terrace. winsor. [after a look at de levis, whose face expresses too much] h'm! you'll take it up from the other end, then, inspector? inspector. well, we'll see what we can do with the bookmakers about the numbers, sir. before i go, gentlemen--you've had time to think it over-- there's no one you suspect in the house, i suppose? de levis's face is alive and uncertain. canynge is staring at him very fixedly. winsor. [emphatically] no. de levis turns and goes out on to the balcony. inspector. if you're coming in to the racing to-morrow, sir, you might give us a call. i'll have seen kentman by then. winsor. right you are, inspector. good night, and many thanks. inspector. you're welcome, sir. [he goes out.] winsor. gosh! i thought that chap [with a nod towards the balcony] was going to--! look here, general, we must stop his tongue. imagine it going the rounds. they may never find the real thief, you know. it's the very devil for dancy. canynge. winsor! dancy's sleeve was damp. winsor. how d'you mean? canynge. quite damp. it's been raining. the two look at each other. winsor. i--i don't follow-- [his voice is hesitative and lower, showing that he does]. canynge. it was coming down hard; a minute out in it would have been enough--[he motions with his chin towards the balcony]. winsor. [hastily] he must have been out on his balcony since. canynge. it stopped before i came up, half an hour ago. winsor. he's been leaning on the wet stone, then. canynge. with the outside of the upper part of the arm? winsor. against the wall, perhaps. there may be a dozen explanations. [very low and with great concentration] i entirely and absolutely refuse to believe anything of the sort against ronald dancy in my house. dash it, general, we must do as we'd be done by. it hits us all--it hits us all. the thing's intolerable. canynge. i agree. intolerable. [raising his voice] mr de levis! de levis returns into view, in the centre of the open window. canynge. [with cold decision] young dancy was an officer and is a gentleman; this insinuation is pure supposition, and you must not make it. do you understand me? de levis. my tongue is still mine, general, if my money isn't! canynge. [unmoved] must not. you're a member of three clubs, you want to be member of a fourth. no one who makes such an insinuation against a fellow-guest in a country house, except on absolute proof, can do so without complete ostracism. have we your word to say nothing? de levis. social blackmail? h'm! canynge. not at all--simple warning. if you consider it necessary in your interests to start this scandal-no matter how, we shall consider it necessary in ours to dissociate ourselves completely from one who so recklessly disregards the unwritten code. de levis. do you think your code applies to me? do you, general? canynge. to anyone who aspires to be a gentleman, sir. de levis. ah! but you haven't known me since i was a boy. canynge. make up your mind. a pause. de levis. i'm not a fool, general. i know perfectly well that you can get me outed. canynge. [icily] well? de levis. [sullenly] i'll say nothing about it, unless i get more proof. canynge. good! we have implicit faith in dancy. there is a moment's encounter of eyes; the general's steady, shrewd, impassive; winsor's angry and defiant; de levis's mocking, a little triumphant, malicious. then canynge and winsor go to the door, and pass out. de levis. [to himself] rats! curtain act ii scene i afternoon, three weeks later, in the card room of a london club. a fire is burning, left. a door, right, leads to the billiard-room. rather left of centre, at a card table, lord st erth, an old john bull, sits facing the audience; to his right is general canynge, to his left augustus borring, an essential clubman, about thirty-five years old, with a very slight and rather becoming stammer or click in his speech. the fourth bridge player, charles winsor, stands with his back to the fire. borring. and the r-rub. winsor. by george! you do hold cards, borring. st erth. [who has lost] not a patch on the old whist--this game. don't know why i play it--never did. canynge. st erth, shall we raise the flag for whist again? winsor. no go, general. you can't go back on pace. no getting a man to walk when he knows he can fly. the young men won't look at it. borring. better develop it so that t-two can sit out, general. st erth. we ought to have stuck to the old game. wish i'd gone to newmarket, canynge, in spite of the weather. canynge. [looking at his watch] let's hear what's won the cambridgeshire. ring, won't you, winsor? [winsor rings.] st erth. by the way, canynge, young de levis was blackballed. canynge. what! st erth. i looked in on my way down. canynge sits very still, and winsor utters a disturbed sound. borring. but of c-course he was, general. what did you expect? a footman enters. footman. yes, my lord? st erth. what won the cambridgeshire? footman. rosemary, my lord. sherbet second; barbizon third. nine to one the winner. winsor. thank you. that's all. footman goes. borring. rosemary! and de levis sold her! but he got a good p-price, i suppose. the other three look at him. st erth. many a slip between price and pocket, young man. canynge. cut! [they cut]. borring. i say, is that the yarn that's going round about his having had a lot of m-money stolen in a country house? by jove! he'll be pretty s-sick. winsor. you and i, borring. he sits down in canynge's chair, and the general takes his place by the fire. borring. phew! won't dancy be mad! he gave that filly away to save her keep. he was rather pleased to find somebody who'd take her. bentman must have won a p-pot. she was at thirty-threes a fortnight ago. st erth. all the money goes to fellows who don't know a horse from a haystack. canynge. [profoundly] and care less. yes! we want men racing to whom a horse means something. borring. i thought the horse m-meant the same to everyone, general-- chance to get the b-better of one's neighbour. canynge. [with feeling] the horse is a noble animal, sir, as you'd know if you'd owed your life to them as often as i have. borring. they always try to take mine, general. i shall never belong to the noble f-fellowship of the horse. st erth. [drily] evidently. deal! as borring begins to deal the door is opened and major colford appears--a lean and moustached cavalryman. borring. hallo, c-colford. colford. general! something in the tone of his voice brings them all to a standstill. colford. i want your advice. young de levis in there [he points to the billiard-room from which he has just come] has started a blasphemous story-- canynge. one moment. mr borring, d'you mind-- colford. it makes no odds, general. four of us in there heard him. he's saying it was ronald dancy robbed him down at winsor's. the fellow's mad over losing the price of that filly now she's won the cambridgeshire. borring. [all ears] dancy! great s-scott! colford. dancy's in the club. if he hadn't been i'd have taken it on myself to wring the bounder's neck. winsor and borring have risen. st erth alone remains seated. canynge. [after consulting st erth with a look] ask de levis to be good enough to come in here. borring, you might see that dancy doesn't leave the club. we shall want him. don't say anything to him, and use your tact to keep people off. borring goes out, followed by colford. winsor. result of hearing he was black-balled--pretty slippy. canynge. st erth, i told you there was good reason when i asked you to back young de levis. winsor and i knew of this insinuation; i wanted to keep his tongue quiet. it's just wild assertion; to have it bandied about was unfair to dancy. the duel used to keep people's tongues in order. st erth. h'm! it never settled anything, except who could shoot straightest. colford. [re-appearing] de levis says he's nothing to add to what he said to you before, on the subject. canynge. kindly tell him that if he wishes to remain a member of this club he must account to the committee for such a charge against a fellow-member. four of us are here, and form a quorum. colford goes out again. st erth. did kentman ever give the police the numbers of those notes, winsor? winsor. he only had the numbers of two--the hundred, and one of the fifties. st erth. and they haven't traced 'em? winsor. not yet. as he speaks, de levis comes in. he is in a highly-coloured, not to say excited state. colford follows him. de levis. well, general canynge! it's a little too strong all this-- a little too strong. [under emotion his voice is slightly more exotic]. canynge. [calmly] it is obvious, mr de levis, that you and captain dancy can't both remain members of this club. we ask you for an explanation before requesting one resignation or the other. de levis. you've let me down. canynge. what! de levis. well, i shall tell people that you and lord st erth backed me up for one club, and asked me to resign from another. canynge. it's a matter of indifference to me, sir, what you tell people. st erth. [drily] you seem a venomous young man. de levis. i'll tell you what seems to me venomous, my lord--chasing a man like a pack of hounds because he isn't your breed. canynge. you appear to have your breed on the brain, sir. nobody else does, so far as i know. de levis. suppose i had robbed dancy, would you chase him out for complaining of it? colford. my god! if you repeat that-- canynge. steady, colford! winsor. you make this accusation that dancy stole your money in my house on no proof--no proof; and you expect dancy's friends to treat you as if you were a gentleman! that's too strong, if you like! de levis. no proof? bentman told me at newmarket yesterday that dancy did know of the sale. he told goole, and goole says that he himself spoke of it to dancy. winsor. well--if he did? de levis. dancy told you he didn't know of it in general canynge's presence, and mine. [to canynge] you can't deny that, if you want to. canynge. choose your expressions more nicely, please! de levis. proof! did they find any footmarks in the grounds below that torn creeper? not a sign! you saw how he can jump; he won ten pounds from me that same evening betting on what he knew was a certainty. that's your dancy--a common sharper! canynge. [nodding towards the billiard-room] are those fellows still in there, colford? colford. yes. canynge. then bring dancy up, will you? but don't say anything to him. colford. [to de levis] you may think yourself damned lucky if he doesn't break your neck. he goes out. the three who are left with de levis avert their eyes from him. de levis. [smouldering] i have a memory, and a sting too. yes, my lord--since you are good enough to call me venomous. [to canynge] i quite understand--i'm marked for coventry now, whatever happens. well, i'll take dancy with me. st erth. [to himself] this club has always had a decent, quiet name. winsor. are you going to retract, and apologise in front of dancy and the members who heard you? de levis. no fear! st erth. you must be a very rich man, sir. a jury is likely to take the view that money can hardly compensate for an accusation of that sort. de levis stands silent. canynge. courts of law require proof. st erth. he can make it a criminal action. winsor. unless you stop this at once, you may find yourself in prison. if you can stop it, that is. st erth. if i were young dancy, nothing should induce me. de levis. but you didn't steal my money, lord st erth. st erth. you're deuced positive, sir. so far as i could understand it, there were a dozen ways you could have been robbed. it seems to me you value other men's reputations very lightly. de levis. confront me with dancy and give me fair play. winsor. [aside to canynge] is it fair to dancy not to let him know? canynge. our duty is to the club now, winsor. we must have this cleared up. colford comes in, followed by borring and dancy. st erth. captain dancy, a serious accusation has been made against you by this gentleman in the presence of several members of the club. dancy. what is it? st erth. that you robbed him of that money at winsor's. dancy. [hard and tense] indeed! on what grounds is he good enough to say that? de levis. [tense too] you gave me that filly to save yourself her keep, and you've been mad about it ever since; you knew from goole that i had sold her to kentman and been paid in cash, yet i heard you myself deny that you knew it. you had the next room to me, and you can jump like a cat, as we saw that evening; i found some creepers crushed by a weight on my balcony on that side. when i went to the bath your door was open, and when i came back it was shut. canynge. that's the first we have heard about the door. de levis. i remembered it afterwards. st erth. well, dancy? dancy. [with intense deliberation] i'll settle this matter with any weapons, when and where he likes. st erth. [drily] it can't be settled that way--you know very well. you must take it to the courts, unless he retracts. dancy. will you retract? de levis. why did you tell general canynge you didn't know kentman had paid me in cash? dancy. because i didn't. de levis. then kentman and goole lied--for no reason? dancy. that's nothing to do with me. de levis. if you were downstairs all the time, as you say, why was your door first open and then shut? dancy. being downstairs, how should i know? the wind, probably. de levis. i should like to hear what your wife says about it. dancy. leave my wife alone, you damned jew! st erth. captain dancy! de levis. [white with rage] thief! dancy. will you fight? de levis. you're very smart-dead men tell no tales. no! bring your action, and we shall see. dancy takes a step towards him, but canynge and winsor interpose. st erth. that'll do, mr de levis; we won't keep you. [he looks round] kindly consider your membership suspended till this matter has been threshed out. de levis. [tremulous with anger] don't trouble yourselves about my membership. i resign it. [to dancy] you called me a damned jew. my race was old when you were all savages. i am proud to be a jew. au revoir, in the courts. he goes out, and silence follows his departure. st erth. well, captain dancy? dancy. if the brute won't fight, what am i to do, sir? st erth. we've told you--take action, to clear your name. dancy. colford, you saw me in the hall writing letters after our game. colford. certainly i did; you were there when i went to the smoking-room. canynge. how long after you left the billiard-room? colford. about five minutes. dancy. it's impossible for me to prove that i was there all the time. canynge. it's for de levis to prove what he asserts. you heard what he said about goole? dancy. if he told me, i didn't take it in. st erth. this concerns the honour of the club. are you going to take action? dancy. [slowly] that is a very expensive business, lord st erth, and i'm hard up. i must think it over. [he looks round from face to face] am i to take it that there is a doubt in your minds, gentlemen? colford. [emphatically] no. canynge. that's not the question, dancy. this accusation was overheard by various members, and we represent the club. if you don't take action, judgment will naturally go by default. dancy. i might prefer to look on the whole thing as beneath contempt. he turns and goes out. when he is gone there is an even longer silence than after de levis's departure. st erth. [abruptly] i don't like it. winsor. i've known him all his life. colford. you may have my head if he did it, lord st erth. he and i have been in too many holes together. by gad! my toe itches for that fellow's butt end. borring. i'm sorry; but has he t-taken it in quite the right way? i should have thought--hearing it s-suddenly-- colford. bosh! winsor. it's perfectly damnable for him. st erth. more damnable if he did it, winsor. borring. the courts are b-beastly distrustful, don't you know. colford. his word's good enough for me. canynge. we're as anxious to believe dancy as you, colford, for the honour of the army and the club. winsor. of course, he'll bring a case, when he's thought it over. st erth. what are we to do in the meantime? colford. if dancy's asked to resign, you may take my resignation too. borring. i thought his wanting to f-fight him a bit screeny. colford. wouldn't you have wanted a shot at the brute? a law court? pah! winsor. yes. what'll be his position even if he wins? borring. damages, and a stain on his c-character. winsor. quite so, unless they find the real thief. people always believe the worst. colford. [glaring at borring] they do. canynge. there is no decent way out of a thing of this sort. st erth. no. [rising] it leaves a bad taste. i'm sorry for young mrs dancy--poor woman! borring. are you going to play any more? st erth. [abruptly] no, sir. good night to you. canynge, can i give you a lift? he goes out, followed by canynge. borring. [after a slight pause] well, i shall go and take the t-temperature of the club. he goes out. colford. damn that effeminate stammering chap! what can we do for dancy, winsor? winsor. colford! [a slight pause] the general felt his coat sleeve that night, and it was wet. colford. well! what proof's that? no, by george! an old school-fellow, a brother officer, and a pal. winsor. if he did do it-- colford. he didn't. but if he did, i'd stick to him, and see him through it, if i could. winsor walks over to the fire, stares into it, turns round and stares at colford, who is standing motionless. colford. yes, by god! curtain. scene ii [note.--this should be a small set capable of being set quickly within that of the previous scene.] morning of the following day. the dancys' flat. in the sitting-room of this small abode mabel dancy and margaret orme are sitting full face to the audience, on a couch in the centre of the room, in front of the imaginary window. there is a fireplace, left, with fire burning; a door below it, left; and a door on the right, facing the audience, leads to a corridor and the outer door of the flat, which is visible. their voices are heard in rapid exchange; then as the curtain rises, so does mabel. mabel. but it's monstrous! margaret. of course! [she lights a cigarette and hands the case to mabel, who, however, sees nothing but her own thoughts] de levis might just as well have pitched on me, except that i can't jump more than six inches in these skirts. mabel. it's wicked! yesterday afternoon at the club, did you say? ronny hasn't said a word to me. why? margaret. [with a long puff of smoke] doesn't want you bothered. mabel. but----good heavens!----me! margaret. haven't you found out, mabel, that he isn't exactly communicative? no desperate character is. mabel. ronny? margaret. gracious! wives are at a disadvantage, especially early on. you've never hunted with him, my dear. i have. he takes more sudden decisions than any man i ever knew. he's taking one now, i'll bet. mabel. that beast, de levis! i was in our room next door all the time. margaret. was the door into ronny's dressing-room open? mabel. i don't know; i--i think it was. margaret. well, you can say so in court any way. not that it matters. wives are liars by law. mabel. [staring down at her] what do you mean--court? margaret. my dear, he'll have to bring an action for defamation of character, or whatever they call it. mabel. were they talking of this last night at the winsor's? margaret. well, you know a dinner-table, mabel--scandal is heaven-sent at this time of year. mabel. it's terrible, such a thing--terrible! margaret. [gloomily] if only ronny weren't known to be so broke. mabel. [with her hands to her forehead] i can't realise--i simply can't. if there's a case would it be all right afterwards? margaret. do you remember st offert--cards? no, you wouldn't--you were in high frocks. well, st offert got damages, but he also got the hoof, underneath. he lives in ireland. there isn't the slightest connection, so far as i can see, mabel, between innocence and reputation. look at me! mabel. we'll fight it tooth and nail! margaret. mabel, you're pure wool, right through; everybody's sorry for you. mabel. it's for him they ought-- margaret. [again handing the cigarette case] do smoke, old thing. mabel takes a cigarette this time, but does not light it. it isn't altogether simple. general canynge was there last night. you don't mind my being beastly frank, do you? mabel. no. i want it. margaret. well, he's all for esprit de corps and that. but he was awfully silent. mabel. i hate half-hearted friends. loyalty comes before everything. margaret. ye-es; but loyalties cut up against each other sometimes, you know. mabel. i must see ronny. d'you mind if i go and try to get him on the telephone? margaret. rather not. mabel goes out by the door left. poor kid! she curls herself into a corner of the sofa, as if trying to get away from life. the bell rings. margaret stirs, gets up, and goes out into the corridor, where she opens the door to lady adela winsor, whom she precedes into the sitting-room. enter the second murderer! d'you know that child knew nothing? lady a. where is she? margaret. telephoning. adela, if there's going to be an action, we shall be witnesses. i shall wear black georgette with an ecru hat. have you ever given evidence? lady a. never. margaret. it must be too frightfully thrilling. lady a. oh! why did i ever ask that wretch de levis? i used to think him pathetic. meg did you know----ronald dancy's coat was wet? the general happened to feel it. margaret. so that's why he was so silent. lady a. yes; and after the scene in the club yesterday he went to see those bookmakers, and goole--what a name!--is sure he told dancy about the sale. margaret. [suddenly] i don't care. he's my third cousin. don't you feel you couldn't, adela? lady a. couldn't--what? margaret. stand for de levis against one of ourselves? lady a. that's very narrow, meg. margaret. oh! i know lots of splendid jews, and i rather liked little ferdy; but when it comes to the point--! they all stick together; why shouldn't we? it's in the blood. open your jugular, and see if you haven't got it. lady a. my dear, my great grandmother was a jewess. i'm very proud of her. margaret. inoculated. [stretching herself] prejudices, adela--or are they loyalties--i don't know--cris-cross--we all cut each other's throats from the best of motives. lady a. oh! i shall remember that. delightful! [holding up a finger] you got it from bergson, meg. isn't he wonderful? margaret. yes; have you ever read him? lady a. well--no. [looking at the bedroom door] that poor child! i quite agree. i shall tell every body it's ridiculous. you don't really think ronald dancy--? margaret. i don't know, adela. there are people who simply can't live without danger. i'm rather like that myself. they're all right when they're getting the d.s.o. or shooting man-eaters; but if there's no excitement going, they'll make it--out of sheer craving. i've seen ronny dancy do the maddest things for no mortal reason except the risk. he's had a past, you know. lady a. oh! do tell! margaret. he did splendidly in the war, of course, because it suited him; but--just before--don't you remember--a very queer bit of riding? lady a. no. margaret. most dare-devil thing--but not quite. you must remember-- it was awfully talked about. and then, of course, right up to his marriage--[she lights a cigarette.] lady a. meg, you're very tantalising! margaret. a foreign-looking girl--most plummy. oh! ronny's got charm --this mabel child doesn't know in the least what she's got hold of! lady a. but they're so fond of each other! margaret. that's the mistake. the general isn't mentioning the coat, is he? lady a. oh, no! it was only to charles. mabel returns. margaret. did you get him? mabel. no; he's not at tattersall's, nor at the club. lady adela rises and greets her with an air which suggests bereavement. lady a. nobody's going to believe this, my dear. mabel. [looking straight at her] nobody who does need come here, or trouble to speak to us again. lady a. that's what i was afraid of; you're going to be defiant. now don't! just be perfectly natural. mabel. so easy, isn't it? i could kill anybody who believes such a thing. margaret. you'll want a solicitor, mabel, go to old mr jacob twisden. lady a. yes; he's so comforting. margaret. he got my pearls back once--without loss of life. a frightfully good fireside manner. do get him here, mabel, and have a heart-to-heart talk, all three of you! mabel. [suddenly] listen! there's ronny! dancy comes in. dancy. [with a smile] very good of you to have come. margaret. yes. we're just going. oh! ronny, this is quite too-- [but his face dries her up; and sidling past, she goes]. lady a. charles sent his-love--[her voice dwindles on the word, and she, too, goes]. dancy. [crossing to his wife] what have they been saying? mabel. ronny! why didn't you tell me? dancy. i wanted to see de levis again first. mabel. that wretch! how dare he? darling! [she suddenly clasps and kisses him. he does not return the kiss, but remains rigid in her arms, so that she draws away and looks at him] it's hurt you awfully, i know. dancy. look here, mabel! apart from that muck--this is a ghastly tame-cat sort of life. let's cut it and get out to nairobi. i can scare up the money for that. mabel. [aghast] but how can we? everybody would say-- ronny. let them! we shan't be here. mabel. i couldn't bear people to think-- dancy. i don't care a damn what people think monkeys and cats. i never could stand their rotten menagerie. besides, what does it matter how i act; if i bring an action and get damages--if i pound him to a jelly-- it's all no good! i can't prove it. there'll be plenty of people unconvinced. mabel. but they'll find the real thief. dancy. [with a queer little smile] will staying here help them to do that? mabel. [in a sort of agony] oh! i couldn't--it looks like running away. we must stay and fight it! dancy. suppose i didn't get a verdict--you never can tell. mabel. but you must--i was there all the time, with the door open. dancy. was it? mabel. i'm almost sure. dancy. yes. but you're my wife. mabel. [bewildered] ronny, i don't understand--suppose i'd been accused of stealing pearls! dancy. [wincing] i can't. mabel. but i might--just as easily. what would you think of me if i ran away from it? dancy. i see. [a pause] all right! you shall have a run for your money. i'll go and see old twisden. mabel. let me come! [dancy shakes his head] why not? i can't be happy a moment unless i'm fighting this. dancy puts out his hand suddenly and grips hers. dancy. you are a little brick! mabel. [pressing his hand to her breast and looking into his face] do you know what margaret called you? ronny. no. mabel. a desperate character. dancy. ha! i'm not a tame cat, any more than she. the bell rings. mabel goes out to the door and her voice is heard saying coldly. mabel. will you wait a minute, please? returning. it's de levis--to see you. [in a low voice] let me see him alone first. just for a minute! do! dancy. [after a moment's silence] go ahead! he goes out into the bedroom. mabel. [going to the door, right] come in. de levis comes in, and stands embarrassed. yes? de levis. [with a slight bow] your husband, mrs dancy? mabel. he is in. why do you want to see him? de levis. he came round to my rooms just now, when i was out. he threatened me yesterday. i don't choose him to suppose i'm afraid of him. mabel. [with a great and manifest effort at self-control] mr de levis, you are robbing my husband of his good name. de levis. [sincerely] i admire your trustfulness, mrs dancy. mabel. [staring at him] how can you do it? what do you want? what's your motive? you can't possibly believe that my husband is a thief! de levis. unfortunately. mabel. how dare you? how dare you? don't you know that i was in our bedroom all the time with the door open? do you accuse me too? de levis. no, mrs dancy. mabel. but you do. i must have seen, i must have heard. de levis. a wife's memory is not very good when her husband is in danger. mabel. in other words, i'm lying. de levis. no. your wish is mother to your thought, that's all. mabel. [after staring again with a sort of horror, turns to get control of herself. then turning back to him] mr de levis, i appeal to you as a gentleman to behave to us as you would we should behave to you. withdraw this wicked charge, and write an apology that ronald can show. de levis. mrs dancy, i am not a gentleman, i am only a--damned jew. yesterday i might possibly have withdrawn to spare you. but when my race is insulted i have nothing to say to your husband, but as he wishes to see me, i've come. please let him know. mabel. [regarding him again with that look of horror--slowly] i think what you are doing is too horrible for words. de levis gives her a slight bow, and as he does so dancy comes quickly in, left. the two men stand with the length of the sofa between them. mabel, behind the sofa, turns her eyes on her husband, who has a paper in his right hand. de levis. you came to see me. dancy. yes. i want you to sign this. de levis. i will sign nothing. dancy. let me read it: "i apologise to captain dancy for the reckless and monstrous charge i made against him, and i retract every word of it." de levis. not much! dancy. you will sign. de levis. i tell you this is useless. i will sign nothing. the charge is true; you wouldn't be playing this game if it weren't. i'm going. you'll hardly try violence in the presence of your wife; and if you try it anywhere else--look out for yourself. dancy. mabel, i want to speak to him alone. mabel. no, no! de levis. quite right, mrs dancy. black and tan swashbuckling will only make things worse for him. dancy. so you shelter behind a woman, do you, you skulking cur! de levis takes a step, with fists clenched and eyes blazing. dancy, too, stands ready to spring--the moment is cut short by mabel going quickly to her husband. mabel. don't, ronny. it's undignified! he isn't worth it. dancy suddenly tears the paper in two, and flings it into the fire. dancy. get out of here, you swine! de levis stands a moment irresolute, then, turning to the door, he opens it, stands again for a moment with a smile on his face, then goes. mabel crosses swiftly to the door, and shuts it as the outer door closes. then she stands quite still, looking at her husband --her face expressing a sort of startled suspense. dancy. [turning and looking at her] well! do you agree with him? mabel. what do you mean? dancy. that i wouldn't be playing this game unless-- mabel. don't! you hurt me! dancy. yes. you don't know much of me, mabel. mabel. ronny! dancy. what did you say to that swine? mabel. [her face averted] that he was robbing us. [turning to him suddenly] ronny--you--didn't? i'd rather know. dancy. ha! i thought that was coming. mabel. [covering her face] oh! how horrible of me--how horrible! dancy. not at all. the thing looks bad. mabel. [dropping her hands] if i can't believe in you, who can? [going to him, throwing her arms round him, and looking up into his face] ronny! if all the world--i'd believe in you. you know i would. dancy. that's all right, mabs! that's all right! [his face, above her head, is contorted for a moment, then hardens into a mask] well, what shall we do? let's go to that lawyer--let's go-- mabel. oh! at once! dancy. all right. get your hat on. mabel passes him, and goes into the bedroom, left. dancy, left alone, stands quite still, staring before him. with a sudden shrug of his shoulders he moves quickly to his hat and takes it up just as mabel returns, ready to go out. he opens the door; and crossing him, she stops in the doorway, looking up with a clear and trustful gaze as the curtain falls. act iii scene i three months later. old mr jacob twisden's room, at the offices of twisden & graviter, in lincoln's inn fields, is spacious, with two large windows at back, a fine old fireplace, right, a door below it, and two doors, left. between the windows is a large table sideways to the window wall, with a chair in the middle on the right-hand side, a chair against the wall, and a client's chair on the left-hand side. graviter, twisden's much younger partner, is standing in front of the right-hand window looking out on to the fields, where the lamps are being lighted, and a taxi's engine is running down below. he turns his sanguine, shrewd face from the window towards a grandfather dock, between the doors, left, which is striking "four." the door, left forward, is opened. young clerk. [entering] a mr gilman, sir, to see mr twisden. graviter. by appointment? young clerk. no, sir. but important, he says. graviter. i'll see him. the clerk goes. graviter sits right of table. the clerk returns, ushering in an oldish man, who looks what he is, the proprietor of a large modern grocery store. he wears a dark overcoat and carries a pot hat. his gingery-grey moustache and mutton-chop whiskers give him the expression of a cat. graviter. [sizing up his social standing] mr gilman? yes. gilman. [doubtfully] mr jacob twisden? graviter. [smiling] his partner. graviter my name is. gilman. mr twisden's not in, then? graviter. no. he's at the courts. they're just up; he should be in directly. but he'll be busy. gilman. old mr jacob twisden--i've heard of him. graviter. most people have. gilman. it's this dancy-de levis case that's keepin' him at the courts, i suppose? graviter nods. won't be finished for a day or two? graviter shakes his head. no. astonishin' the interest taken in it. graviter. as you say. gilman. the smart set, eh? this captain dancy got the d.s.o., didn't he? graviter nods. sad to have a thing like that said about you. i thought he gave his evidence well; and his wife too. looks as if this de levis had got some private spite. searchy la femme, i said to mrs gilman only this morning, before i-- graviter. by the way, sir, what is your business? gilman. well, my business here--no, if you'll excuse me, i'd rather wait and see old mr jacob twisden. it's delicate, and i'd like his experience. graviter. [with a shrug] very well; then, perhaps, you'll go in there. [he moves towards the door, left back]. gilman. thank you. [following] you see, i've never been mixed up with the law-- graviter. [opening the door] no? gilman. and i don't want to begin. when you do, you don't know where you'll stop, do you? you see, i've only come from a sense of duty; and --other reasons. graviter. not uncommon. gilman. [producing card] this is my card. gilman's--several branches, but this is the 'ead. graviter. [scrutinising card] exactly. gilman. grocery--i daresay you know me; or your wife does. they say old mr jacob twisden refused a knighthood. if it's not a rude question, why was that? graviter. ask him, sir; ask him. gilman. i said to my wife at the time, "he's holdin' out for a baronetcy." graviter closes the door with an exasperated smile. young clerk. [opening the door, left forward] mr winsor, sir, and miss orme. they enter, and the clerk withdraws. graviter. how d'you do, miss orme? how do you do, winsor? winsor. twisden not back, graviter? graviter. not yet. winsor. well, they've got through de levis's witnesses. sir frederick was at the very top of his form. it's looking quite well. but i hear they've just subpoenaed canynge after all. his evidence is to be taken to-morrow. graviter. oho! winsor. i said dancy ought to have called him. graviter. we considered it. sir frederic decided that he could use him better in cross-examination. winsor. well! i don't know that. can i go and see him before he gives evidence to-morrow? graviter. i should like to hear mr jacob on that, winsor. he'll be in directly. winsor. they had kentman, and goole, the inspector, the other bobby, my footman, dancy's banker, and his tailor. graviter. did we shake kentman or goole? winsor. very little. oh! by the way, the numbers of those two notes were given, and i see they're published in the evening papers. i suppose the police wanted that. i tell you what i find, graviter--a general feeling that there's something behind it all that doesn't come out. graviter. the public wants it's money's worth--always does in these society cases; they brew so long beforehand, you see. winsor. they're looking for something lurid. margaret. when i was in the bog, i thought they were looking for me. [taking out her cigarette case] i suppose i mustn't smoke, mr graviter? graviter. do! margaret. won't mr jacob have a fit? graviter. yes, but not till you've gone. margaret. just a whiff. [she lights a cigarette]. winsor. [suddenly] it's becoming a sort of dreyfus case--people taking sides quite outside the evidence. margaret. there are more of the chosen in court every day. mr graviter, have you noticed the two on the jury? graviter. [with a smile] no; i can't say-- margaret. oh! but quite distinctly. don't you think they ought to have been challenged? graviter. de levis might have challenged the other ten, miss orme. margaret. dear me, now! i never thought of that. as she speaks, the door left forward is opened and old mr jacob twisden comes in. he is tallish and narrow, sixty-eight years old, grey, with narrow little whiskers curling round his narrow ears, and a narrow bow-ribbon curling round his collar. he wears a long, narrow-tailed coat, and strapped trousers on his narrow legs. his nose and face are narrow, shrewd, and kindly. he has a way of narrowing his shrewd and kindly eyes. his nose is seen to twitch and snig. twisden. ah! how are you, charles? how do you do, my dear? margaret. dear mr jacob, i'm smoking. isn't it disgusting? but they don't allow it in court, you know. such a pity! the judge might have a hookah. oh! wouldn't he look sweet--the darling! twisden. [with a little, old-fashioned bow] it does not become everybody as it becomes you, margaret. margaret. mr jacob, how charming! [with a slight grimace she puts out her cigarette]. graviter. man called gilman waiting in there to see you specially. twisden. directly. turn up the light, would you, graviter? graviter. [turning up the light] excuse me. he goes. winsor. look here, mr twisden-- twisden. sit down; sit down, my dear. and he himself sits behind the table, as a cup of tea is brought in to him by the young clerk, with two marie biscuits in the saucer. will you have some, margaret? margaret. no, dear mr jacob. twisden. charles? winsor. no, thanks. the door is closed. twisden. [dipping a biscuit in the tea] now, then? winsor. the general knows something which on the face of it looks rather queer. now that he's going to be called, oughtn't dancy to be told of it, so that he may be ready with his explanation, in case it comes out? twisden. [pouring some tea into the saucer] without knowing, i can't tell you. winsor and margaret exchange looks, and twisden drinks from the saucer. margaret. tell him, charles. winsor. well! it rained that evening at meldon. the general happened to put his hand on dancy's shoulder, and it was damp. twisden puts the saucer down and replaces the cup in it. they both look intently at him. twisden. i take it that general canynge won't say anything he's not compelled to say. margaret. no, of course; but, mr jacob, they might ask; they know it rained. and he is such a george washington. twisden. [toying with a pair of tortoise-shell glasses] they didn't ask either of you. still-no harm in your telling dancy. winsor. i'd rather you did it, margaret. margaret. i daresay. [she mechanically takes out her cigarette-case, catches the lift of twisden's eyebrows, and puts it back]. winsor. well, we'll go together. i don't want mrs dancy to hear. margaret. do tell me, mr jacob; is he going to win? twisden. i think so, margaret; i think so. margaret. it'll be too--frightful if he doesn't get a verdict, after all this. but i don't know what we shall do when it's over. i've been sitting in that court all these three days, watching, and it's made me feel there's nothing we like better than seeing people skinned. well, bye-bye, bless you! twisden rises and pats her hand. winsor. half a second, margaret. wait for me. she nods and goes out. mr twisden, what do you really think? twisden. i am dancy's lawyer, my dear charles, as well as yours. winsor. well, can i go and see canynge? twisden. better not. winsor. if they get that out of him, and recall me, am i to say he told me of it at the time? twisden. you didn't feel the coat yourself? and dancy wasn't present? then what canynge told you is not evidence--he'll stop your being asked. winsor. thank goodness. good-bye! winsor goes out. twisden, behind his table, motionless, taps his teeth with the eyeglasses in his narrow, well-kept hand. after a long shake of his head and a shrug of his rather high shoulders he snips, goes to the window and opens it. then crossing to the door, left back, he throws it open and says twisden. at your service, sir. gilman comes forth, nursing his pot hat. be seated. twisden closes the window behind him, and takes his seat. gilman. [taking the client's chair, to the left of the table] mr twisden, i believe? my name's gilman, head of gilman's department stores. you have my card. twisden. [looking at the card] yes. what can we do for you? gilman. well, i've come to you from a sense of duty, sir, and also a feelin' of embarrassment. [he takes from his breast pocket an evening paper] you see, i've been followin' this dancy case--it's a good deal talked of in putney--and i read this at half-past two this afternoon. to be precise, at . . [he rises and hands the paper to twisden, and with a thick gloved forefinger indicates a passage] when i read these numbers, i 'appened to remember givin' change for a fifty-pound note--don't often 'ave one in, you know--so i went to the cash-box out of curiosity, to see that i 'adn't got it. well, i 'ad; and here it is. [he draws out from his breast pocket and lays before twisden a fifty-pound banknote] it was brought in to change by a customer of mine three days ago, and he got value for it. now, that's a stolen note, it seems, and you'd like to know what i did. mind you, that customer of mine i've known 'im--well-- eight or nine years; an italian he is--wine salesman, and so far's i know, a respectable man-foreign-lookin', but nothin' more. now, this was at 'alf-past two, and i was at my head branch at putney, where i live. i want you to mark the time, so as you'll see i 'aven't wasted a minute. i took a cab and i drove straight to my customer's private residence in putney, where he lives with his daughter--ricardos his name is, paolio ricardos. they tell me there that he's at his business shop in the city. so off i go in the cab again, and there i find him. well, sir, i showed this paper to him and i produced the note. "here," i said, "you brought this to me and you got value for it." well, that man was taken aback. if i'm a judge, mr twisden, he was taken aback, not to speak in a guilty way, but he was, as you might say, flummoxed. "now," i said to him, "where did you get it--that's the point?" he took his time to answer, and then he said: "well, mr gilman," he said, "you know me; i am an honourable man. i can't tell you offhand, but i am above the board." he's foreign, you know, in his expressions. "yes," i said, "that's all very well," i said, "but here i've got a stolen note and you've got the value for it. now i tell you," i said, "what i'm going to do; i'm going straight with this note to mr jacob twisden, who's got this dancy-de levis case in 'and. he's a well-known society lawyer," i said, "of great experience." "oh!" he said, "that is what you do?"--funny the way he speaks! "then i come with you!"--and i've got him in the cab below. i want to tell you everything before he comes up. on the way i tried to get something out of him, but i couldn't--i could not. "this is very awkward," i said at last. "it is, mr gilman," was his reply; and he began to talk about his sicilian claret--a very good wine, mind you; but under the circumstances it seemed to me uncalled for. have i made it clear to you? twisden. [who has listened with extreme attention] perfectly, mr gilman. i'll send down for him. [he touches a hand-bell]. the young clerk appears at the door, left forward. a gentleman in a taxi-waiting. ask him to be so good as to step up. oh! and send mr graviter here again. the young clerk goes out. gilman. as i told you, sir, i've been followin' this case. it's what you might call piquant. and i should be very glad if it came about that this helped captain dancy. i take an interest, because, to tell you the truth, [confidentially] i don't like--well, not to put too fine a point upon it 'ebrews. they work harder; they're more sober; they're honest; and they're everywhere. i've nothing against them, but the fact is--they get on so. twisden. [cocking an eye] a thorn in the flesh, mr gilman. gilman. well, i prefer my own countrymen, and that's the truth of it. as he speaks, graviter comes in by the door left forward. twisden. [pointing to the newspaper and the note] mr gilman has brought this, of which he is holder for value. his customer, who changed it three days ago, is coming up. graviter. the fifty-pounder. i see. [his face is long and reflective]. young clerk. [entering] mr ricardos, sir. he goes out. ricardos is a personable, italian-looking man in a frock coat, with a dark moustachioed face and dark hair a little grizzled. he looks anxious, and bows. twisden. mr ricardos? my name is jacob twisden. my partner. [holding up a finger, as ricardos would speak] mr gilman has told us about this note. you took it to him, he says, three days ago; that is, on monday, and received cash for it? ricardos. yes, sare. twisden. you were not aware that it was stolen? ricardos. [with his hand to his breast] oh! no, sare. twisden. you received it from--? ricardos. a minute, sare; i would weesh to explain--[with an expressive shrug] in private. twisden. [nodding] mr gilman, your conduct has been most prompt. you may safely leave the matter in our hands, now. kindly let us retain this note; and ask for my cashier as you go out and give him [he writes] this. he will reimburse you. we will take any necessary steps ourselves. gilman. [in slight surprise, with modest pride] well, sir, i'm in your 'ands. i must be guided by you, with your experience. i'm glad you think i acted rightly. twisden. very rightly, mr gilman--very rightly. [rising] good afternoon! gilman. good afternoon, sir. good afternoon, gentlemen! [to twisden] i'm sure i'm very 'appy to have made your acquaintance, sir. it's a well-known name. twisden. thank you. gilman retreats, glances at ricardos, and turns again. gilman. i suppose there's nothing else i ought to do, in the interests of the law? i'm a careful man. twisden. if there is, mr gilman, we will let you know. we have your address. you may make your mind easy; but don't speak of this. it might interfere with justice. gilman. oh! i shouldn't dream of it. i've no wish to be mixed up in anything conspicuous. that's not my principle at all. good-day, gentlemen. he goes. twisden. [seating himself] now, sir, will you sit down. but ricardos does not sit; he stands looking uneasily across the table at graviter. you may speak out. ricardos. well, mr tweesden and sare, this matter is very serious for me, and very delicate--it concairns my honour. i am in a great difficulty. twisden. when in difficulty--complete frankness, sir. ricardos. it is a family matter, sare, i-- twisden. let me be frank with you. [telling his points off on his fingers] we have your admission that you changed this stopped note for value. it will be our duty to inform the bank of england that it has been traced to you. you will have to account to them for your possession of it. i suggest to you that it will be far better to account frankly to us. ricardos. [taking out a handkerchief and quite openly wiping his hands and forehead] i received this note, sare, with others, from a gentleman, sare, in settlement of a debt of honour, and i know nothing of where he got them. twisden. h'm! that is very vague. if that is all you can tell us, i'm afraid-- ricardos. gentlemen, this is very painful for me. it is my daughter's good name--[he again wipes his brow]. twisden. come, sir, speak out! ricardos. [desperately] the notes were a settlement to her from this gentleman, of whom she was a great friend. twisden. [suddenly] i am afraid we must press you for the name of the gentleman. ricardos. sare, if i give it to you, and it does 'im 'arm, what will my daughter say? this is a bad matter for me. he behaved well to her; and she is attached to him still; sometimes she is crying yet because she lost him. and now we betray him, perhaps, who knows? this is very unpleasant for me. [taking up the paper] here it gives the number of another note--a 'undred-pound note. i 'ave that too. [he takes a note from his breast pocket]. graviter. how much did he give you in all? ricardos. for my daughter's settlement one thousand pounds. i understand he did not wish to give a cheque because of his marriage. so i did not think anything about it being in notes, you see. twisden. when did he give you this money? ricardos. the middle of octobare last. twisden. [suddenly looking up] mr ricardos, was it captain dancy? ricardos. [again wiping his forehead] gentlemen, i am so fond of my daughter. i have only the one, and no wife. twisden. [with an effort] yes, yes; but i must know. ricardos. sare, if i tell you, will you give me your good word that my daughter shall not hear of it? twisden. so far as we are able to prevent it--certainly. ricardos. sare, i trust you.--it was captain dancy. a long pause. graviter [suddenly] were you blackmailing him? twisden. [holding up his hand] my partner means, did you press him for this settlement? ricardos. i did think it my duty to my daughter to ask that he make compensation to her. twisden. with threats that you would tell his wife? ricardos. [with a shrug] captain dancy was a man of honour. he said: "of course i will do this." i trusted him. and a month later i did remind him, and he gave me this money for her. i do not know where he got it--i do not know. gentlemen, i have invested it all on her--every penny-except this note, for which i had the purpose to buy her a necklace. that is the sweared truth. twisden. i must keep this note. [he touches the hundred-pound note] you will not speak of this to anyone. i may recognise that you were a holder for value received--others might take a different view. good-day, sir. graviter, see mr ricardos out, and take his address. ricardos. [pressing his hands over the breast of his frock coat--with a sigh] gentlemen, i beg you--remember what i said. [with a roll of his eyes] my daughter--i am not happee. good-day. he turns and goes out slowly, left forward, followed by graviter. twisden. [to himself] young dancy! [he pins the two notes together and places them in an envelope, then stands motionless except for his eyes and hands, which restlessly express the disturbance within him.] graviter returns, carefully shuts the door, and going up to him, hands him ricardos' card. [looking at the card] villa benvenuto. this will have to be verified, but i'm afraid it's true. that man was not acting. graviter. what's to be done about dancy? twisden. can you understand a gentleman--? graviter. i don't know, sir. the war loosened "form" all over the place. i saw plenty of that myself. and some men have no moral sense. from the first i've had doubts. twisden. we can't go on with the case. graviter. phew! . . . [a moment's silence] gosh! it's an awful thing for his wife. twisden. yes. graviter [touching the envelope] chance brought this here, sir. that man won't talk--he's too scared. twisden. gilman. graviter. too respectable. if de levis got those notes back, and the rest of the money, anonymously? twisden. but the case, graviter; the case. graviter. i don't believe this alters what i've been thinking. twisden. thought is one thing--knowledge another. there's duty to our profession. ours is a fine calling. on the good faith of solicitors a very great deal hangs. [he crosses to the hearth as if warmth would help him]. graviter. it'll let him in for a prosecution. he came to us in confidence. twisden. not as against the law. graviter. no. i suppose not. [a pause] by jove, i don't like losing this case. i don't like the admission we backed such a wrong 'un. twisden. impossible to go on. apart from ourselves, there's sir frederic. we must disclose to him--can't let him go on in the dark. complete confidence between solicitor and counsel is the essence of professional honour. graviter. what are you going to do then, sir? twisden. see dancy at once. get him on the phone. graviter. [taking up the telephone] get me captain dancy's flat. . . . what? . . .[to twisden] mrs dancy is here. that's a propos with a vengeance. are you going to see her, sir? twisden. [after a moment's painful hesitation] i must. graviter. [telephoning] bring mrs dancy up. [he turns to the window]. mabel dandy is shown in, looking very pale. twisden advances from the fire, and takes her hand. mabel. major colford's taken ronny off in his car for the night. i thought it would do him good. i said i'd come round in case there was anything you wanted to say before to-morrow. twisden. [taken aback] where have they gone? mabel. i don't know, but he'll be home before ten o'clock to-morrow. is there anything? twisden. well, i'd like to see him before the court sits. send him on here as soon as he comes. mabel. [with her hand to her forehead] oh! mr twisden, when will it be over? my head's getting awful sitting in that court. twisden. my dear mrs dancy, there's no need at all for you to come down to-morrow; take a rest and nurse your head. mabel. really and truly? twisden. yes; it's the very best thing you can do. graviter turns his head, and looks at them unobserved. mabel. how do you think it's going? twisden. it went very well to-day; very well indeed. mabel. you must be awfully fed up with us. twisden. my dear young lady, that's our business. [he takes her hand]. mabel's face suddenly quivers. she draws her hand away, and covers her lips with it. there, there! you want a day off badly. mabel. i'm so tired of--! thank you so much for all you're doing. good night! good night, mr graviter! graviter. good night, mrs dancy. mabel goes. graviter. d'you know, i believe she knows. twisden. no, no! she believes in him implicitly. a staunch little woman. poor thing! graviter. hasn't that shaken you, sir? it has me. twisden. no, no! i--i can't go on with the case. it's breaking faith. get sir frederic's chambers. graviter. [telephoning, and getting a reply, looks round at twisden] yes? twisden. ask if i can come round and see him. graviter. [telephoning] can sir frederic spare mr twisden a few minutes now if he comes round? [receiving reply] he's gone down to brighton for the night. twisden. h'm! what hotel? graviter. [telephoning] what's his address? what . . . ? [to twisden] the bedford. twisden. i'll go down. graviter. [telephoning] thank you. all right. [he rings off]. twisden. just look out the trains down and up early to-morrow. graviter takes up an a b c, and twisden takes up the ricardos card. twisden. send to this address in putney, verify the fact that ricardos has a daughter, and give me a trunk call to brighton. better go yourself, graviter. if you see her, don't say anything, of course-- invent some excuse. [graviter nods] i'll be up in time to see dancy. graviter. by george! i feel bad about this. twisden. yes. but professional honour comes first. what time is that train? [he bends over the abc]. curtain. scene ii the same room on the following morning at ten-twenty-five, by the grandfather clock. the young clerk is ushering in dancy, whose face is perceptibly harder than it was three months ago, like that of a man who has lived under great restraint. dancy. he wanted to see me before the court sat. young clerk. yes, sir. mr twisden will see you in one minute. he had to go out of town last night. [he prepares to open the waiting-room door]. dancy. were you in the war? young clerk. yes. dancy. how can you stick this? young clerk. [with a smile] my trouble was to stick that, sir. dancy. but you get no excitement from year's end to year's end. it'd drive me mad. young clerk. [shyly] a case like this is pretty exciting. i'd give a lot to see us win it. dancy. [staring at him] why? what is it to you? young clerk. i don't know, sir. it's--it's like football--you want your side to win. [he opens the waiting-room door. expanding] you see some rum starts, too, in a lawyer's office in a quiet way. dancy enters the waiting-room, and the young clerk, shutting the door, meets twisden as he comes in, left forward, and takes from him overcoat, top hat, and a small bag. young clerk. captain dancy's waiting, sir. [he indicates the waiting-room]. twisden. [narrowing his lips] very well. mr graviter gone to the courts? young clerk. yes, sir. twisden. did he leave anything for me? young clerk. on the table, sir. twisden. [taking up an envelope] thank you. the clerk goes. twisden. [opening the envelope and reading] "all corroborates." h'm! [he puts it in his pocket and takes out of an envelope the two notes, lays them on the table, and covers them with a sheet of blotting-paper; stands a moment preparing himself, then goes to the door of the waiting-room, opens it, and says:] now, captain dancy. sorry to have kept you waiting. dancy. [entering] winsor came to me yesterday about general canynge's evidence. is that what you wanted to speak to me about? twisden. no. it isn't that. dancy. [looking at his wrist watch] by me it's just on the half-hour, sir. twisden. yes. i don't want you to go to the court. dancy. not? twisden. i have very serious news for you. dancy. [wincing and collecting himself] oh! twisden. these two notes. [he uncovers the notes] after the court rose yesterday we had a man called ricardos here. [a pause] is there any need for me to say more? dancy. [unflinching] no. what now? twisden. our duty was plain; we could not go on with the case. i have consulted sir frederic. he felt--he felt that he must throw up his brief, and he will do that the moment the court sits. now i want to talk to you about what you're going to do. dancy. that's very good of you, considering. twisden. i don't pretend to understand, but i imagine you may have done this in a moment of reckless bravado, feeling, perhaps, that as you gave the mare to de levis, the money was by rights as much yours as his. stopping dancy, who is about to speak, with a gesture. to satisfy a debt of honour to this--lady; and, no doubt, to save your wife from hearing of it from the man ricardos. is that so? dancy. to the life. twisden. it was mad, captain dancy, mad! but the question now is: what do you owe to your wife? she doesn't dream--i suppose? dancy. [with a twitching face] no. twisden. we can't tell what the result of this collapse will be. the police have the theft in hand. they may issue a warrant. the money could be refunded, and the costs paid--somehow that can all be managed. but it may not help. in any case, what end is served by your staying in the country? you can't save your honour--that's gone. you can't save your wife's peace of mind. if she sticks to you--do you think she will? dancy. not if she's wise. twisden. better go! there's a war in morocco. dancy. [with a bitter smile] good old morocco! twisden. will you go, then, at once, and leave me to break it to your wife? dancy. i don't know yet. twisden. you must decide quickly, to catch a boat train. many a man has made good. you're a fine soldier. dancy. there are alternatives. twisden. now, go straight from this office. you've a passport, i suppose; you won't need a visa for france, and from there you can find means to slip over. have you got money on you? [dancy nods]. we will see what we can do to stop or delay proceedings. dancy. it's all damned kind of you. [with difficulty] but i must think of my wife. give me a few minutes. twisden. yes, yes; go in there and think it out. he goes to the door, right, and opens it. dancy passes him and goes out. twisden rings a bell and stands waiting. clerk. [entering] yes, sir? twisden. tell them to call a taxi. clerk. [who has a startled look] yes, sir. mr graviter has come in, air, with general canynge. are you disengaged? twisden. yes. the clerk goes out, and almost immediately graviter and canynge enter. good-morning, general. [to graviter] well? graviter. sir frederic got up at once and said that since the publication of the numbers of those notes, information had reached him which forced him to withdraw from the case. great sensation, of course. i left bromley in charge. there'll be a formal verdict for the defendant, with costs. have you told dancy? twisden. yes. he's in there deciding what he'll do. canynge. [grave and vexed] this is a dreadful thing, twisden. i've been afraid of it all along. a soldier! a gallant fellow, too. what on earth got into him? twisden. there's no end to human nature, general. graviter. you can see queerer things in the papers, any day. canynge. that poor young wife of his! winsor gave me a message for you, twisden. if money's wanted quickly to save proceedings, draw on him. is there anything i can do? twisden. i've advised him to go straight off to morocco. canynge. i don't know that an asylum isn't the place for him. he must be off his head at moments. that jump-crazy! he'd have got a verdict on that alone--if they'd seen those balconies. i was looking at them when i was down there last sunday. daring thing, twisden. very few men, on a dark night--he risked his life twice. that's a shrewd fellow--young de levis. he spotted dancy's nature. the young clerk enters. clerk. the taxi's here, sir. will you see major colford and miss orme? twisden. graviter--no; show them in. the young clerk goes. canynge. colford's badly cut up. margaret orme and colford enter. colford. [striding forward] there must be some mistake about this, mr twisden. twisden. hssh! dancy's in there. he's admitted it. voices are subdued at once. colford. what? [with emotion] if it were my own brother, i couldn't feel it more. but--damn it! what right had that fellow to chuck up the case--without letting him know, too. i came down with dancy this morning, and he knew nothing about it. twisden. [coldly] that was unfortunately unavoidable. colford. guilty or not, you ought to have stuck to him--it's not playing the game, mr twisden. twisden. you must allow me to judge where my duty lay, in a very hard case. colford. i thought a man was safe with his solicitor. canynge. colford, you don't understand professional etiquette. colford. no, thank god! twisden. when you have been as long in your profession as i have been in mine, major colford, you will know that duty to your calling outweighs duty to friend or client. colford. but i serve the country. twisden. and i serve the law, sir. canynge. graviter, give me a sheet of paper. i'll write a letter for him. margaret. [going up to twisden] dear mr jacob--pay de levis. you know my pearls--put them up the spout again. don't let ronny be-- twisden. money isn't the point, margaret. margaret. it's ghastly! it really is. colford. i'm going in to shake hands with him. [he starts to cross the room]. twisden. wait! we want him to go straight off to morocco. don't upset him. [to colford and margaret] i think you had better go. if, a little later, margaret, you could go round to mrs dancy-- colford. poor little mabel dancy! it's perfect hell for her. they have not seen that dancy has opened the door behind them. dancy. it is! they all turn round in consternation. colford. [with a convulsive movement] old boy! dancy. no good, colford. [gazing round at them] oh! clear out--i can't stand commiseration; and let me have some air. twisden motions to colford and margaret to go; and as he turns to dancy, they go out. graviter also moves towards the door. the general sits motionless. graviter goes out. twisden. well? dancy. i'm going home, to clear up things with my wife. general canynge, i don't quite know why i did the damned thing. but i did, and there's an end of it. canynge. dancy, for the honour of the army, avoid further scandal if you can. i've written a letter to a friend of mine in the spanish war office. it will get you a job in their war. [canynge closes the envelope]. dancy. very good of you. i don't know if i can make use of it. canynge stretches out the letter, which twisden hands to dancy, who takes it. graviter re-opens the door. twisden. what is it? graviter. de levis is here. twisden. de levis? can't see him. dancy. let him in! after a moment's hesitation twisden nods, and graviter goes out. the three wait in silence with their eyes fixed on the door, the general sitting at the table, twisden by his chair, dancy between him and the door right. de levis comes in and shuts the door. he is advancing towards twisden when his eyes fall on dancy, and he stops. twisden. you wanted to see me? de levis. [moistening his lips] yes. i came to say that--that i overheard--i am afraid a warrant is to be issued. i wanted you to realise--it's not my doing. i'll give it no support. i'm content. i don't want my money. i don't even want costs. dancy, do you understand? dancy does not answer, but looks at him with nothing alive in his face but his eyes. twisden. we are obliged to you, sir. it was good of you to come. de levis. [with a sort of darting pride] don't mistake me. i didn't come because i feel christian; i am a jew. i will take no money--not even that which was stolen. give it to a charity. i'm proved right. and now i'm done with the damned thing. good-morning! he makes a little bow to canynge and twisden, and turns to face dancy, who has never moved. the two stand motionless, looking at each other, then de levis shrugs his shoulders and walks out. when he is gone there is a silence. canynge. [suddenly] you heard what he said, dancy. you have no time to lose. but dancy does not stir. twisden. captain dancy? slowly, without turning his head, rather like a man in a dream, dancy walks across the room, and goes out. curtain. scene iii the dancys' sitting-room, a few minutes later. mabel dancy is sitting alone on the sofa with a newspaper on her lap; she is only just up, and has a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. two or three other newspapers are dumped on the arm of the sofa. she topples the one off her lap and takes up another as if she couldn't keep away from them; drops it in turn, and sits staring before her, sniffing at the salts. the door, right, is opened and dancy comes in. mabel. [utterly surprised] ronny! do they want me in court? dancy. no. mabel. what is it, then? why are you back? dancy. spun. mabel. [blank] spun? what do you mean? what's spun? dancy. the case. they've found out through those notes. mabel. oh! [staring at his face] who? dancy. me! mabel. [after a moment of horrified stillness] don't, ronny! oh! no! don't! [she buries her face in the pillows of the sofa]. dancy stands looking down at her. dancy. pity you wouldn't come to africa three months ago. mabel. why didn't you tell me then? i would have gone. dancy. you wanted this case. well, it's fallen down. mabel. oh! why didn't i face it? but i couldn't--i had to believe. dancy. and now you can't. it's the end, mabel. mabel. [looking up at him] no. dancy goes suddenly on his knees and seizes her hand. dancy. forgive me! mabel. [putting her hand on his head] yes; oh, yes! i think i've known a long time, really. only--why? what made you? dancy. [getting up and speaking in jerks] it was a crazy thing to do; but, damn it, i was only looting a looter. the money was as much mine as his. a decent chap would have offered me half. you didn't see the brute look at me that night at dinner as much as to say: "you blasted fool!" it made me mad. that wasn't a bad jump-twice over. nothing in the war took quite such nerve. [grimly] i rather enjoyed that evening. mabel. but--money! to keep it! dancy. [sullenly] yes, but i had a debt to pay. mabel. to a woman? dancy. a debt of honour--it wouldn't wait. mabel. it was--it was to a woman. ronny, don't lie any more. dancy. [grimly] well! i wanted to save your knowing. i'd promised a thousand. i had a letter from her father that morning, threatening to tell you. all the same, if that tyke hadn't jeered at me for parlour tricks!--but what's the good of all this now? [sullenly] well--it may cure you of loving me. get over that, mab; i never was worth it--and i'm done for! mabel. the woman--have you--since--? dancy. [energetically] no! you supplanted her. but if you'd known i was leaving a woman for you, you'd never have married me. [he walks over to the hearth]. mabel too gets up. she presses her hands to her forehead, then walks blindly round to behind the sofa and stands looking straight in front of her. mabel. [coldly] what has happened, exactly? dancy. sir frederic chucked up the case. i've seen twisden; they want me to run for it to morocco. mabel. to the war there? dancy. yes. there's to be a warrant out. mabel. a prosecution? prison? oh, go! don't wait a minute! go! dancy. blast them! mabel. oh, ronny! please! please! think what you'll want. i'll pack. quick! no! don't wait to take things. have you got money? dancy. [nodding] this'll be good-bye, then! mabel. [after a moment's struggle] oh! no! no, no! i'll follow--i'll come out to you there. dancy. d'you mean you'll stick to me? mabel. of course i'll stick to you. dancy seizes her hand and puts it to his lips. the bell rings. mabel. [in terror] who's that? the bell rings again. dancy moves towards the door. no! let me! she passes him and steals out to the outer door of the flat, where she stands listening. the bell rings again. she looks through the slit of the letter-box. while she is gone dancy stands quite still, till she comes back. mabel. through the letter-bog--i can see----it's--it's police. oh! god! . . . ronny! i can't bear it. dancy. heads up, mab! don't show the brutes! mabel. whatever happens, i'll go on loving you. if it's prison--i'll wait. do you understand? i don't care what you did--i don't care! i'm just the same. i will be just the same when you come back to me. dancy. [slowly] that's not in human nature. mabel. it is. it's in me. dancy. i've crocked up your life. mabel. no, no! kiss me! a long kiss, till the bell again startles them apart, and there is a loud knock. dancy. they'll break the door in. it's no good--we must open. hold them in check a little. i want a minute or two. mabel. [clasping him] ronny! oh, ronny! it won't be for long--i'll be waiting! i'll be waiting--i swear it. dancy. steady, mab! [putting her back from him] now! he opens the bedroom door, left, and stands waiting for her to go. summoning up her courage, she goes to open the outer door. a sudden change comes over dancy's face; from being stony it grows almost maniacal. dancy. [under his breath] no! no! by god! no! he goes out into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. mabel has now opened the outer door, and disclosed inspector dede and the young constable who were summoned to meldon court on the night of the theft, and have been witnesses in the case. their voices are heard. mabel. yes? inspector. captain dancy in, madam? mabel. i am not quite sure--i don't think so. inspector. i wish to speak to him a minute. stay here, grover. now, madam! mabel. will you come in while i see? she comes in, followed by the inspector. inspector. i should think you must be sure, madam. this is not a big place. mabel. he was changing his clothes to go out. i think he has gone. inspector. what's that door? mabel. to our bedroom. inspector. [moving towards it] he'll be in there, then. mabel. what do you want, inspector? inspector. [melting] well, madam, it's no use disguising it. i'm exceedingly sorry, but i've a warrant for his arrest. mabel. inspector! inspector. i'm sure i've every sympathy for you, madam; but i must carry out my instructions. mabel. and break my heart? inspector. well, madam, we're--we're not allowed to take that into consideration. the law's the law. mabel. are you married? inspector. i am. mabel. if you--your wife-- the inspector raises his hand, deprecating. [speaking low] just half an hour! couldn't you? it's two lives--two whole lives! we've only been married four months. come back in half an hour. it's such a little thing--nobody will know. nobody. won't you? inspector. now, madam--you must know my duty. mabel. inspector, i beseech you--just half an hour. inspector. no, no--don't you try to undermine me--i'm sorry for you; but don't you try it! [he tries the handle, then knocks at the door]. dancy's voice. one minute! inspector. it's locked. [sharply] is there another door to that room? come, now-- the bell rings. [moving towards the door, left; to the constable] who's that out there? constable. a lady and gentleman, sir. inspector. what lady and-- stand by, grover! dancy's voice. all right! you can come in now. there is the noise of a lock being turned. and almost immediately the sound of a pistol shot in the bedroom. mabel rushes to the door, tears it open, and disappears within, followed by the inspector, just as margaret orme and colford come in from the passage, pursued by the constable. they, too, all hurry to the bedroom door and disappear for a moment; then colford and margaret reappear, supporting mabel, who faints as they lay her on the sofa. colford takes from her hand an envelope, and tears it open. colford. it's addressed to me. [he reads it aloud to margaret in a low voice]. "dear colford,--this is the only decent thing i can do. it's too damned unfair to her. it's only another jump. a pistol keeps faith. look after her, colford--my love to her, and you." margaret gives a sort of choking sob, then, seeing the smelling bottle, she snatches it up, and turns to revive mabel. colford. leave her! the longer she's unconscious, the better. inspector. [re-entering] this is a very serious business, sir. colford. [sternly] yes, inspector; you've done for my best friend. inspector. i, sir? he shot himself. colford. hara-kiri. inspector. beg pardon? colford. [he points with the letter to mabel] for her sake, and his own. inspector. [putting out his hand] i'll want that, sir. colford. [grimly] you shall have it read at the inquest. till then-- it's addressed to me, and i stick to it. inspector. very well, sir. do you want to have a look at him? colford passes quickly into the bedroom, followed by the inspector. margaret remains kneeling beside mabel. colford comes quickly back. margaret looks up at him. he stands very still. colford. neatly--through the heart. margaret [wildly] keeps faith! we've all done that. it's not enough. colford. [looking down at mabel] all right, old boy! the curtain falls. windows from the th series of plays by john galsworthy persons of the play geoffrey march....... freelance in literature joan march........... his wife mary march........... their daughter johnny march......... their son cook................. their cook mr bly............... their window cleaner faith bly............ his daughter blunter.............. a strange young man mr barnadas.......... in plain clothes the action passes in geofrey march's house, highgate-spring-time. act i. thursday morning. the dining-room-after breakfast. act ii. thursday, a fortnight later. the dining-room after lunch. act iii. the same day. the dining-room-after dinner. act i the march's dining-room opens through french windows on one of those gardens which seem infinite, till they are seen to be coterminous with the side walls of the house, and finite at the far end, because only the thick screen of acacias and sumachs prevents another house from being seen. the french and other windows form practically all the outer wall of that dining-room, and between them and the screen of trees lies the difference between the characters of mr and mrs march, with dots and dashes of mary and johnny thrown in. for instance, it has been formalised by mrs march but the grass has not been cut by mr march, and daffodils have sprung up there, which mrs march desires for the dining-room, but of which mr march says: "for god's sake, joan, let them grow." about half therefore are now in a bowl on the breakfast table, and the other half still in the grass, in the compromise essential to lasting domesticity. a hammock under the acacias shows that mary lies there sometimes with her eyes on the gleam of sunlight that comes through: and a trail in the longish grass, bordered with cigarette ends, proves that johnny tramps there with his eyes on the ground or the stars, according. but all this is by the way, because except for a yard or two of gravel terrace outside the windows, it is all painted on the backcloth. the marches have been at breakfast, and the round table, covered with blue linen, is thick with remains, seven baskets full. the room is gifted with old oak furniture: there is a door, stage left, forward; a hearth, where a fire is burning, and a high fender on which one can sit, stage right, middle; and in the wall below the fireplace, a service hatch covered with a sliding shutter, for the passage of dishes into the adjoining pantry. against the wall, stage left, is an old oak dresser, and a small writing table across the left back corner. mrs march still sits behind the coffee pot, making up her daily list on tablets with a little gold pencil fastened to her wrist. she is personable, forty-eight, trim, well-dressed, and more matter-of-fact than seems plausible. mr march is sitting in an armchair, sideways to the windows, smoking his pipe and reading his newspaper, with little explosions to which no one pays any attention, because it is his daily habit. he is a fine-looking man of fifty odd, with red-grey moustaches and hair, both of which stiver partly by nature and partly because his hands often push them up. mary and johnny are close to the fireplace, stage right. johnny sits on the fender, smoking a cigarette and warming his back. he is a commonplace looking young man, with a decided jaw, tall, neat, soulful, who has been in the war and writes poetry. mary is less ordinary; you cannot tell exactly what is the matter with her. she too is tall, a little absent, fair, and well-looking. she has a small china dog in her hand, taken from the mantelpiece, and faces the audience. as the curtain rises she is saying in her soft and pleasant voice: "well, what is the matter with us all, johnny?" johnny. stuck, as we were in the trenches--like china dogs. [he points to the ornament in her hand.] mr march. [into his newspaper] damn these people! mary. if there isn't an ideal left, johnny, it's no good pretending one. johnny. that's what i'm saying: bankrupt! mary. what do you want? mrs march. [to herself] mutton cutlets. johnny, will you be in to lunch? [johnny shakes his head] mary? [mary nods] geof? mr march. [into his paper] swine! mrs march. that'll be three. [to herself] spinach. johnny. if you'd just missed being killed for three blooming years for no spiritual result whatever, you'd want something to bite on, mary. mrs march. [jotting] soap. johnny. what price the little and weak, now? freedom and self-determination, and all that? mary. forty to one--no takers. johnny. it doesn't seem to worry you. mary. well, what's the good? johnny. oh, you're a looker on, mary. mr march. [to his newspaper] of all godforsaken time-servers! mary is moved so lar as to turn and look over his shoulder a minute. johnny. who? mary. only the old-un. mr march. this is absolutely prussian! mrs march. soup, lobster, chicken salad. go to mrs hunt's. mr march. and this fellow hasn't the nous to see that if ever there were a moment when it would pay us to take risks, and be generous--my hat! he ought to be--knighted! [resumes his paper.] johnny. [muttering] you see, even dad can't suggest chivalry without talking of payment for it. that shows how we've sunk. mary. [contemptuously] chivalry! pouf! chivalry was "off" even before the war, johnny. who wants chivalry? johnny. of all shallow-pated humbug--that sneering at chivalry's the worst. civilisation--such as we've got--is built on it. mary. [airily] then it's built on sand. [she sits beside him on the fender.] johnny. sneering and smartness! pah! mary. [roused] i'll tell you what, johnny, it's mucking about with chivalry that makes your poetry rotten. [johnny seizes her arm and twists it] shut up--that hurts. [johnny twists it more] you brute! [johnny lets her arm go.] johnny. ha! so you don't mind taking advantage of the fact that you can cheek me with impunity, because you're weaker. you've given the whole show away, mary. abolish chivalry and i'll make you sit up. mrs march. what are you two quarrelling about? will you bring home cigarettes, johnny--not bogdogunov's mamelukes--something more anglo-american. johnny. all right! d'you want any more illustrations, mary? mary. pig! [she has risen and stands rubbing her arm and recovering her placidity, which is considerable.] mrs march. geof, can you eat preserved peaches? mr march. hell! what a policy! um? mrs march. can you eat preserved peaches? mr march. yes. [to his paper] making the country stink in the eyes of the world! mary. nostrils, dad, nostrils. mr march wriggles, half hearing. johnny. [muttering] shallow idiots! thinking we can do without chivalry! mrs march. i'm doing my best to get a parlourmaid, to-day, mary, but these breakfast things won't clear themselves. mary. i'll clear them, mother. mrs march. good! [she gets up. at the door] knitting silk. she goes out. johnny. mother hasn't an ounce of idealism. you might make her see stars, but never in the singular. mr march. [to his paper] if god doesn't open the earth soon-- mary. is there anything special, dad? mr march. this sulphurous government. [he drops the paper] give me a match, mary. as soon as the paper is out of his hands he becomes a different--an affable man. mary. [giving him a match] d'you mind writing in here this morning, dad? your study hasn't been done. there's nobody but cook. mr march. [lighting his pipe] anywhere. he slews the armchair towards the fire. mary. i'll get your things, then. she goes out. johnny. [still on the fender] what do you say, dad? is civilisation built on chivalry or on self-interest? mr march. the question is considerable, johnny. i should say it was built on contract, and jerry-built at that. johnny. yes; but why do we keep contracts when we can break them with advantage and impunity? mr march. but do we keep them? johnny. well--say we do; otherwise you'll admit there isn't such a thing as civilisation at all. but why do we keep them? for instance, why don't we make mary and mother work for us like kafir women? we could lick them into it. why did we give women the vote? why free slaves; why anything decent for the little and weak? mr march. well, you might say it was convenient for people living in communities. johnny. i don't think it's convenient at all. i should like to make mary sweat. why not jungle law, if there's nothing in chivalry. mr march. chivalry is altruism, johnny. of course it's quite a question whether altruism isn't enlightened self-interest! johnny. oh! damn! the lank and shirt-sleeved figure of mr bly, with a pail of water and cloths, has entered, and stands near the window, left. bly. beg pardon, mr march; d'you mind me cleanin' the winders here? mr march. not a bit. johnny. bankrupt of ideals. that's it! mr bly stares at him, and puts his pail down by the window. mary has entered with her father's writing materials which she puts on a stool beside him. mary. here you are, dad! i've filled up the ink pot. do be careful! come on, johnny! she looks curiously at mr bly, who has begun operations at the bottom of the left-hand window, and goes, followed by johnny. mr march. [relighting his pipe and preparing his materials] what do you think of things, mr bly? bly. not much, sir. mr march. ah! [he looks up at mr bly, struck by his large philosophical eyes and moth-eaten moustache] nor i. bly. i rather thought that, sir, from your writin's. mr march. oh! do you read? bly. i was at sea, once--formed the 'abit. mr march. read any of my novels? bly. not to say all through--i've read some of your articles in the sunday papers, though. make you think! mr march. i'm at sea now--don't see dry land anywhere, mr bly. bly. [with a smile] that's right. mr march. d'you find that the general impression? bly. no. people don't think. you 'ave to 'ave some cause for thought. mr march. cause enough in the papers. bly. it's nearer 'ome with me. i've often thought i'd like a talk with you, sir. but i'm keepin' you. [he prepares to swab the pane.] mr march. not at all. i enjoy it. anything to put off work. bly. [looking at mr march, then giving a wipe at the window] what's drink to one is drought to another. i've seen two men take a drink out of the same can--one die of it and the other get off with a pain in his stomach. mr march. you've seen a lot, i expect. bly. ah! i've been on the beach in my day. [he sponges at the window] it's given me a way o' lookin' at things that i don't find in other people. look at the 'ome office. they got no philosophy. mr march. [pricking his ears] what? have you had dealings with them? bly. over the reprieve that was got up for my daughter. but i'm keepin' you. he swabs at the window, but always at the same pane, so that he does not advance at all. mr march. reprieve? bly. ah! she was famous at eighteen. the sunday mercury was full of her, when she was in prison. mr march. [delicately] dear me! i'd no idea. bly. she's out now; been out a fortnight. i always say that fame's ephemereal. but she'll never settle to that weavin'. her head got turned a bit. mr march. i'm afraid i'm in the dark, mr bly. bly. [pausing--dipping his sponge in the pail and then standing with it in his hand] why! don't you remember the bly case? they sentenced 'er to be 'anged by the neck until she was dead, for smotherin' her baby. she was only eighteen at the time of speakin'. mr march. oh! yes! an inhuman business! bly. all! the jury recommended 'er to mercy. so they reduced it to life. mr march. life! sweet heaven! bly. that's what i said; so they give her two years. i don't hold with the sunday mercury, but it put that over. it's a misfortune to a girl to be good-lookin'. mr march. [rumpling his hair] no, no! dash it all! beauty's the only thing left worth living for. bly. well, i like to see green grass and a blue sky; but it's a mistake in a 'uman bein'. look at any young chap that's good-lookin'--'e's doomed to the screen, or hair-dressin'. same with the girls. my girl went into an 'airdresser's at seventeen and in six months she was in trouble. when i saw 'er with a rope round her neck, as you might say, i said to meself: "bly," i said, "you're responsible for this. if she 'adn't been good-lookin'--it'd never 'eve 'appened." during this speech mary has come in with a tray, to clear the breakfast, and stands unnoticed at the dining-table, arrested by the curious words of mr bly. mr march. your wife might not have thought that you were wholly the cause, mr bly. bly. ah! my wife. she's passed on. but faith--that's my girl's name--she never was like 'er mother; there's no 'eredity in 'er on that side. mr march. what sort of girl is she? bly. one for colour--likes a bit o' music--likes a dance, and a flower. mary. [interrupting softly] dad, i was going to clear, but i'll come back later. mr march. come here and listen to this! here's a story to get your blood up! how old was the baby, mr bly? bly. two days--'ardly worth mentionin'. they say she 'ad the 'ighstrikes after--an' when she comes to she says: "i've saved my baby's life." an' that's true enough when you come to think what that sort o' baby goes through as a rule; dragged up by somebody else's hand, or took away by the law. what can a workin' girl do with a baby born under the rose, as they call it? wonderful the difference money makes when it comes to bein' outside the law. mr march. right you are, mr bly. god's on the side of the big battalions. bly. ah! religion! [his eyes roll philosophically] did you ever read 'aigel? mr march. hegel, or haekel? bly. yes; with an aitch. there's a balance abart 'im that i like. there's no doubt the christian religion went too far. turn the other cheek! what oh! an' this anti-christ, neesha, what came in with the war--he went too far in the other direction. neither of 'em practical men. you've got to strike a balance, and foller it. mr march. balance! not much balance about us. we just run about and jump jim crow. bly. [with a perfunctory wipe] that's right; we 'aven't got a faith these days. but what's the use of tellin' the englishman to act like an angel. he ain't either an angel or a blond beast. he's between the two, an 'ermumphradite. take my daughter----if i was a blond beast, i'd turn 'er out to starve; if i was an angel, i'd starve meself to learn her the piano. i don't do either. why? becos my instincts tells me not. mr march. yes, but my doubt is whether our instincts at this moment of the world's history are leading us up or down. bly. what is up and what is down? can you answer me that? is it up or down to get so soft that you can't take care of yourself? mr march. down. bly. well, is it up or down to get so 'ard that you can't take care of others? mr march. down. bly. well, there you are! march. then our instincts are taking us down? bly. nao. they're strikin' a balance, unbeknownst, all the time. mr march. you're a philosopher, mr bly. bly. [modestly] well, i do a bit in that line, too. in my opinion nature made the individual believe he's goin' to live after'e's dead just to keep 'im livin' while 'es alive--otherwise he'd 'a died out. mr march. quite a thought--quite a thought! bly. but i go one better than nature. follow your instincts is my motto. mr march. excuse me, mr bly, i think nature got hold of that before you. bly. [slightly chilled] well, i'm keepin' you. mr march. not at all. you're a believer in conscience, or the little voice within. when my son was very small, his mother asked him once if he didn't hear a little voice within, telling him what was right. [mr march touches his diaphragm] and he said "i often hear little voices in here, but they never say anything." [mr bly cannot laugh, but he smiles] mary, johnny must have been awfully like the government. bly. as a matter of fact, i've got my daughter here--in obeyance. mr march. where? i didn't catch. bly. in the kitchen. your cook told me you couldn't get hold of an 'ouse parlour-maid. so i thought it was just a chance--you bein' broadminded. mr march. oh! i see. what would your mother say, mary? mary. mother would say: "has she had experience?" bly. i've told you about her experience. mr march. yes, but--as a parlour-maid. bly. well! she can do hair. [observing the smile exchanged between mr march and mary] and she's quite handy with a plate. mr march. [tentatively] i'm a little afraid my wife would feel-- bly. you see, in this weavin' shop--all the girls 'ave 'ad to be in trouble, otherwise they wouldn't take 'em. [apologetically towards mary] it's a kind of a disorderly 'ouse without the disorders. excusin' the young lady's presence. mary. oh! you needn't mind me, mr bly. mr march. and so you want her to come here? h'm! bly. well i remember when she was a little bit of a thing--no higher than my knee--[he holds out his hand.] mr march. [suddenly moved] my god! yes. they've all been that. [to mary] where's your mother? mary. gone to mrs hunt's. suppose she's engaged one, dad? mr march. well, it's only a month's wages. mary. [softly] she won't like it. mr march. well, let's see her, mr bly; let's see her, if you don't mind. bly. oh, i don't mind, sir, and she won't neither; she's used to bein' inspected by now. why! she 'ad her bumps gone over just before she came out! mr march. [touched on the raw again] h'm! too bad! mary, go and fetch her. mary, with a doubting smile, goes out. [rising] you might give me the details of that trial, mr bly. i'll see if i can't write something that'll make people sit up. that's the way to send youth to hell! how can a child who's had a rope round her neck--! bly. [who has been fumbling in his pocket, produces some yellow paper-cuttings clipped together] here's her references--the whole literature of the case. and here's a letter from the chaplain in one of the prisons sayin' she took a lot of interest in him; a nice young man, i believe. [he suddenly brushes a tear out of his eye with the back of his hand] i never thought i could 'a felt like i did over her bein' in prison. seemed a crool senseless thing--that pretty girl o' mine. all over a baby that hadn't got used to bein' alive. tain't as if she'd been follerin' her instincts; why, she missed that baby something crool. mr march. of course, human life--even an infant's---- bly. i know you've got to 'ave a close time for it. but when you come to think how they take 'uman life in injia and ireland, and all those other places, it seems 'ard to come down like a cartload o' bricks on a bit of a girl that's been carried away by a moment's abiration. mr march. [who is reading the cuttings] h'm! what hypocrites we are! bly. ah! and 'oo can tell 'oo's the father? she never give us his name. i think the better of 'er for that. mr march. shake hands, mr bly. so do i. [bly wipes his hand, and mr march shakes it] loyalty's loyalty--especially when we men benefit by it. bly. that's right, sir. mary has returned with faith bly, who stands demure and pretty on the far side of the table, her face an embodiment of the pathetic watchful prison faculty of adapting itself to whatever may be best for its owner at the moment. at this moment it is obviously best for her to look at the ground, and yet to take in the faces of mr march and mary without their taking her face in. a moment, for all, of considerable embarrassment. mr march. [suddenly] we'll, here we are! the remark attracts faith; she raises her eyes to his softly with a little smile, and drops them again. so you want to be our parlour-maid? faith. yes, please. mr march. well, faith can remove mountains; but--er--i don't know if she can clear tables. bly. i've been tellin' mr march and the young lady what you're capable of. show 'em what you can do with a plate. faith takes the tray from the sideboard and begins to clear the table, mainly by the light of nature. after a glance, mr march looks out of the window and drums his fingers on the uncleaned pane. mr bly goes on with his cleaning. mary, after watching from the hearth, goes up and touches her father's arm. mary. [between him and mr bly who is bending over his bucket, softly] you're not watching, dad. mr march. it's too pointed. mary. we've got to satisfy mother. mr march. i can satisfy her better if i don't look. mary. you're right. faith has paused a moment and is watching them. as mary turns, she resumes her operations. mary joins, and helps her finish clearing, while the two men converse. bly. fine weather, sir, for the time of year. mr march. it is. the trees are growing. bly. all! i wouldn't be surprised to see a change of government before long. i've seen 'uge trees in brazil without any roots--seen 'em come down with a crash. mr march. good image, mr bly. hope you're right! bly. well, governments! they're all the same--butter when they're out of power, and blood when they're in. and lord! 'ow they do abuse other governments for doin' the things they do themselves. excuse me, i'll want her dosseer back, sir, when you've done with it. mr march. yes, yes. [he turns, rubbing his hands at the cleared table] well, that seems all right! and you can do hair? faith. oh! yes, i can do hair. [again that little soft look, and smile so carefully adjusted.] mr march. that's important, don't you think, mary? [mary, accustomed to candour, smiles dubiously.] [brightly] ah! and cleaning plate? what about that? faith. of course, if i had the opportunity-- mary. you haven't--so far? faith. only tin things. mr march. [feeling a certain awkwardness] well, i daresay we can find some for you. can you--er--be firm on the telephone? faith. tell them you're engaged when you're not? oh! yes. mr march. excellent! let's see, mary, what else is there? mary. waiting, and house work. mr march. exactly. faith. i'm very quick. i--i'd like to come. [she looks down] i don't care for what i'm doing now. it makes you feel your position. mary. aren't they nice to you? faith. oh! yes--kind; but-- [she looks up] it's against my instincts. mr march. oh! [quizzically] you've got a disciple, mr bly. bly. [rolling his eyes at his daughter] ah! but you mustn't 'ave instincts here, you know. you've got a chance, and you must come to stay, and do yourself credit. faith. [adapting her face] yes, i know, i'm very lucky. mr march. [deprecating thanks and moral precept] that's all right! only, mr bly, i can't absolutely answer for mrs march. she may think-- mary. there is mother; i heard the door. bly. [taking up his pail] i quite understand, sir; i've been a married man myself. it's very queer the way women look at things. i'll take her away now, and come back presently and do these other winders. you can talk it over by yourselves. but if you do see your way, sir, i shan't forget it in an 'urry. to 'ave the responsibility of her--really, it's dreadful. faith's face has grown sullen during this speech, but it clears up in another little soft look at mr march, as she and mr bly go out. mr march. well, mary, have i done it? mary. you have, dad. mr march. [running his hands through his hair] pathetic little figure! such infernal inhumanity! mary. how are you going to put it to mother? mr march. tell her the story, and pitch it strong. mary. mother's not impulsive. mr march. we must tell her, or she'll think me mad. mary. she'll do that, anyway, dear. mr march. here she is! stand by! he runs his arm through mary's, and they sit on the fender, at bay. mrs march enters, left. mr march. well, what luck? mrs march. none. mr march. [unguardedly] good! mrs march. what? mrs march. [cheerfully] well, the fact is, mary and i have caught one for 'you; mr bly's daughter-- mrs march. are you out of your senses? don't you know that she's the girl who-- mr march. that's it. she wants a lift. mrs march. geof! mr march. well, don't we want a maid? mrs march. [ineffably] ridiculous! mr march. we tested her, didn't we, mary? mrs march. [crossing to the bell, and ringing] you'll just send for mr bly and get rid of her again. mr march. joan, if we comfortable people can't put ourselves a little out of the way to give a helping hand-- mrs march. to girls who smother their babies? mr march. joan, i revolt. i won't be a hypocrite and a pharisee. mrs march. well, for goodness sake let me be one. mary. [as the door opens]. here's cook! cook stands--sixty, stout, and comfortable with a crumpled smile. cook. did you ring, ma'am? mr march. we're in a moral difficulty, cook, so naturally we come to you. cook beams. mrs march. [impatiently] nothing of the sort, cook; it's a question of common sense. cook. yes, ma'am. mrs march. that girl, faith bly, wants to come here as parlour-maid. absurd! march. you know her story, cook? i want to give the poor girl a chance. mrs march thinks it's taking chances. what do you say? cock. of course, it is a risk, sir; but there! you've got to take 'em to get maids nowadays. if it isn't in the past, it's in the future. i daresay i could learn 'er. mrs march. it's not her work, cook, it's her instincts. a girl who smothered a baby that she oughtn't to have had-- mr march. [remonstrant] if she hadn't had it how could she have smothered it? cook. [soothingly] perhaps she's repented, ma'am. mrs march. of course she's repented. but did you ever know repentance change anybody, cook? cook. [smiling] well, generally it's a way of gettin' ready for the next. mrs march. exactly. mr march. if we never get another chance because we repent-- cook. i always think of master johnny, ma'am, and my jam; he used to repent so beautiful, dear little feller--such a conscience! i never could bear to lock it away. mrs march. cook, you're wandering. i'm surprised at your encouraging the idea; i really am. cook plaits her hands. mr march. cook's been in the family longer than i have--haven't you, cook? [cook beams] she knows much more about a girl like that than we do. cook. we had a girl like her, i remember, in your dear mother's time, mr geoffrey. mr march. how did she turn out? cook. oh! she didn't. mrs march. there! mr march. well, i can't bear behaving like everybody else. don't you think we might give her a chance, cook? cook. my 'eart says yes, ma'am. mr march. ha! cook. and my 'ead says no, sir. mrs march. yes! mr march. strike your balance, cook. cook involuntarily draws her joined hands sharply in upon her amplitude. well? . . . i didn't catch the little voice within. cook. ask master johnny, sir; he's been in the war. mr march. [to mary] get johnny. mary goes out. mrs march. what on earth has the war to do with it? cook. the things he tells me, ma'am, is too wonderful for words. he's 'ad to do with prisoners and generals, every sort of 'orror. mr march. cook's quite right. the war destroyed all our ideals and probably created the baby. mrs march. it didn't smother it; or condemn the girl. mr march. [running his hands through his hair] the more i think of that--! [he turns away.] mrs march. [indicating her husband] you see, cook, that's the mood in which i have to engage a parlour-maid. what am i to do with your master? cook. it's an 'ealthy rage, ma'am. mrs march. i'm tired of being the only sober person in this house. cook. [reproachfully] oh! ma'am, i never touch a drop. mrs march. i didn't mean anything of that sort. but they do break out so. cook. not master johnny. mrs march. johnny! he's the worst of all. his poetry is nothing but one long explosion. mr march. [coming from the window] i say we ought to have faith and jump. mrs march. if we do have faith, we shall jump. cook. [blankly] of course, in the bible they 'ad faith, and just look what it did to them! mr march. i mean faith in human instincts, human nature, cook. cook. [scandalised] oh! no, sir, not human nature; i never let that get the upper hand. mr march. you talk to mr bly. he's a remarkable man. cook. i do, sir, every fortnight when he does the kitchen windows. mr march. well, doesn't he impress you? cook. ah! when he's got a drop o' stout in 'im--oh! dear! [she smiles placidly.] johnny has come in. mr march. well, johnny, has mary told you? mrs march. [looking at his face] now, my dear boy, don't be hasty and foolish! johnny. of course you ought to take her, mother. mrs march. [fixing him] have you seen her, johnny? johnny. she's in the hall, poor little devil, waiting for her sentence. mrs march. there are plenty of other chances, johnny. why on earth should we--? johnny. mother, it's just an instance. when something comes along that takes a bit of doing--give it to the other chap! mr march. bravo, johnny! mrs march. [drily] let me see, which of us will have to put up with her shortcomings--johnny or i? mary. she looks quick, mother. mrs march. girls pick up all sorts of things in prison. we can hardly expect her to be honest. you don't mind that, i suppose? johnny. it's a chance to make something decent out of her. mrs march. i can't understand this passion for vicarious heroism, johnny. johnny. vicarious! mrs march. well, where do you come in? you'll make poems about the injustice of the law. your father will use her in a novel. she'll wear mary's blouses, and everybody will be happy--except cook and me. mr march. hang it all, joan, you might be the great public itself! mrs march. i am--get all the kicks and none of the ha'pence. johnny. we'll all help you. mrs march. for heaven's sake--no, johnny! mr march. well, make up your mind! mrs march. it was made up long ago. johnny. [gloomily] the more i see of things the more disgusting they seem. i don't see what we're living for. all right. chuck the girl out, and let's go rooting along with our noses in the dirt. mr march. steady, johnny! johnny. well, dad, there was one thing anyway we learned out there-- when a chap was in a hole--to pull him out, even at a risk. mrs march. there are people who--the moment you pull them out--jump in again. mary. we can't tell till we've tried, mother. cook. it's wonderful the difference good food'll make, ma'am. mrs march. well, you're all against me. have it your own way, and when you regret it--remember me! mr march. we will--we will! that's settled, then. bring her in and tell her. we'll go on to the terrace. he goes out through the window, followed by johnny. mary. [opening the door] come in, please. faith enters and stands beside cook, close to the door. mary goes out. mrs march. [matter of fact in defeat as in victory] you want to come to us, i hear. faith. yes. mrs march. and you don't know much? faith. no. cook. [softly] say ma'am, dearie. mrs march. cook is going to do her best for you. are you going to do yours for us? faith. [with a quick look up] yes--ma'am. mrs march. can you begin at once? faith. yes. mrs march. well, then, cook will show you where things are kept, and how to lay the table and that. your wages will be thirty until we see where we are. every other sunday, and thursday afternoon. what about dresses? faith. [looking at her dress] i've only got this--i had it before, of course, it hasn't been worn. mrs march. very neat. but i meant for the house. you've no money, i suppose? faith. only one pound thirteen, ma'am. mrs march. we shall have to find you some dresses, then. cook will take you to-morrow to needham's. you needn't wear a cap unless you like. well, i hope you'll get on. i'll leave you with cook now. after one look at the girl, who is standing motionless, she goes out. faith. [with a jerk, as if coming out of plaster of paris] she's never been in prison! cook. [comfortably] well, my dear, we can't all of us go everywhere, 'owever 'ard we try! she is standing back to the dresser, and turns to it, opening the right-hand drawer. cook. now, 'ere's the wine. the master likes 'is glass. and 'ere's the spirits in the tantaliser 'tisn't ever kept locked, in case master johnny should bring a friend in. have you noticed master johnny? [faith nods] ah! he's a dear boy; and wonderful high-principled since he's been in the war. he'll come to me sometimes and say: "cook, we're all going to the devil!" they think 'ighly of 'im as a poet. he spoke up for you beautiful. faith. oh! he spoke up for me? cook. well, of course they had to talk you over. faith. i wonder if they think i've got feelings. cook. [regarding her moody, pretty face] why! we all have feelin's! faith. not below three hundred a year. cook. [scandalised] dear, dear! where were you educated? faith. i wasn't. cook. tt! well--it's wonderful what a change there is in girls since my young days [pulling out a drawer] here's the napkins. you change the master's every day at least because of his moustache and the others every two days, but always clean ones sundays. did you keep sundays in there? faith. [smiling] yes. longer chapel. cook. it'll be a nice change for you, here. they don't go to church; they're agnosticals. [patting her shoulder] how old are you? faith. twenty. cook. think of that--and such a life! now, dearie, i'm your friend. let the present bury the past--as the sayin' is. forget all about yourself, and you'll be a different girl in no time. faith. do you want to be a different woman? cook is taken flat aback by so sudden a revelation of the pharisaism of which she has not been conscious. cook. well! you are sharp! [opening another dresser drawer] here's the vinegar! and here's the sweets, and [rather anxiously] you mustn't eat them. faith. i wasn't in for theft. cook. [shocked at such rudimentary exposure of her natural misgivings] no, no! but girls have appetites. faith. they didn't get much chance where i've been. cook. ah! you must tell me all about it. did you have adventures? faith. there isn't such a thing in a prison. cook. you don't say! why, in the books they're escapin' all the time. but books is books; i've always said so. how were the men? faith. never saw a man--only a chaplain. cook. dear, dear! they must be quite fresh to you, then! how long was it? faith. two years. cook. and never a day out? what did you do all the time? did they learn you anything? faith. weaving. that's why i hate it. cook. tell me about your poor little baby. i'm sure you meant it for the best. faith. [sardonically] yes; i was afraid they'd make it a ward in chancery. cook. oh! dear--what things do come into your head! why! no one can take a baby from its mother. faith. except the law. cook. tt! tt! well! here's the pickled onions. miss mary loves 'em! now then, let me see you lay the cloth. she takes a tablecloth out, hands it to faith, and while the girl begins to unfold the cloth she crosses to the service shutter. and here's where we pass the dishes through into the pantry. the door is opened, and mrs march's voice says: "cook--a minute!" [preparing to go] salt cellars one at each corner--four, and the peppers. [from the door] now the decanters. oh! you'll soon get on. [mrs march "cook!"] yes, ma'am. she goes. faith, left alone, stands motionless, biting her pretty lip, her eyes mutinous. hearing footsteps, she looks up. mr bly, with his pail and cloths, appears outside. bly. [preparing to work, while faith prepares to set the salt cellars] so you've got it! you never know your luck. up to-day and down to-morrow. i'll 'ave a glass over this to-night. what d'you get? faith. thirty. bly. it's not the market price, still, you're not the market article. now, put a good heart into it and get to know your job; you'll find cook full o' philosophy if you treat her right--she can make a dumplin' with anybody. but look 'ere; you confine yourself to the ladies! faith. i don't want your advice, father. bly. i know parents are out of date; still, i've put up with a lot on your account, so gimme a bit of me own back. faith. i don't know whether i shall like this. i've been shut up so long. i want to see some life. bly. well, that's natural. but i want you to do well. i suppose you'll be comin' 'ome to fetch your things to-night? faith. yes. bly. i'll have a flower for you. what'd you like--daffydils? faith. no; one with a scent to it. bly. i'll ask at mrs bean's round the corner. she'll pick 'em out from what's over. never 'ad much nose for a flower meself. i often thought you'd like a flower when you was in prison. faith. [a little touched] did you? did you really? bly. ah! i suppose i've drunk more glasses over your bein' in there than over anything that ever 'appened to me. why! i couldn't relish the war for it! and i suppose you 'ad none to relish. well, it's over. so, put an 'eart into it. faith. i'll try. bly. "there's compensation for everything," 'aigel says. at least, if it wasn't 'aigel it was one o' the others. i'll move on to the study now. ah! he's got some winders there lookin' right over the country. and a wonderful lot o' books, if you feel inclined for a read one of these days. cook's voice. faith! faith sets down the salt cellar in her hand, puts her tongue out a very little, and goes out into the hall. mr bly is gathering up his pail and cloths when mr march enters at the window. mr march. so it's fixed up, mr bly. bly. [raising himself] i'd like to shake your 'and, sir. [they shake hands] it's a great weight off my mind. mr march. it's rather a weight on my wife's, i'm afraid. but we must hope for the best. the country wants rain, but--i doubt if we shall get it with this government. bly. ah! we want the good old times-when you could depend on the seasons. the further you look back the more dependable the times get; 'ave you noticed that, sir? mr march. [suddenly] suppose they'd hanged your daughter, mr bly. what would you have done? bly. well, to be quite frank, i should 'ave got drunk on it. mr march. public opinion's always in advance of the law. i think your daughter's a most pathetic little figure. bly. her looks are against her. i never found a man that didn't. mr march. [a little disconcerted] well, we'll try and give her a good show here. bly. [taking up his pail] i'm greatly obliged; she'll appreciate anything you can do for her. [he moves to the door and pauses there to say] fact is--her winders wants cleanin', she 'ad a dusty time in there. mr march. i'm sure she had. mr bly passes out, and mr march busies himself in gathering up his writing things preparatory to seeking his study. while he is so engaged faith comes in. glancing at him, she resumes her placing of the decanters, as johnny enters by the window, and comes down to his father by the hearth. johnny. [privately] if you haven't begun your morning, dad, you might just tell me what you think of these verses. he puts a sheet of notepaper before his father, who takes it and begins to con over the verses thereon, while johnny looks carefully at his nails. mr march. er--i--i like the last line awfully, johnny. johnny. [gloomily] what about the other eleven? mr march. [tentatively] well--old man, i--er--think perhaps it'd be stronger if they were out. johnny. good god! he takes back the sheet of paper, clutches his brow, and crosses to the door. as he passes faith, she looks up at him with eyes full of expression. johnny catches the look, jibs ever so little, and goes out. cook's voice. [through the door, which is still ajar] faith! faith puts the decanters on the table, and goes quickly out. mr march. [who has seen this little by-play--to himself--in a voice of dismay] oh! oh! i wonder! curtain. act ii a fortnight later in the march's dining-room; a day of violent april showers. lunch is over and the table littered with, remains-- twelve baskets full. mr march and mary have lingered. mr march is standing by the hearth where a fire is burning, filling a fountain pen. mary sits at the table opposite, pecking at a walnut. mr march. [examining his fingers] what it is to have an inky present! suffer with me, mary! mary. "weep ye no more, sad fountains! why need ye flow so fast?" mr march. [pocketing his pen] coming with me to the british museum? i want to have a look at the assyrian reliefs. mary. dad, have you noticed johnny? mr march. i have. mary. then only mother hasn't. mr march. i've always found your mother extremely good at seeming not to notice things, mary. mary. faith! she's got on very fast this fortnight. mr march. the glad eye, mary. i got it that first morning. mary. you, dad? mr march. no, no! johnny got it, and i got him getting it. mary. what are you going to do about it? mr march. what does one do with a glad eye that belongs to some one else? mary. [laughing] no. but, seriously, dad, johnny's not like you and me. why not speak to mr bly? mr march. mr bly's eyes are not glad. mary. dad! do be serious! johnny's capable of anything except a sense of humour. mr march. the girl's past makes it impossible to say anything to her. mary. well, i warn you. johnny's very queer just now; he's in the "lose the world to save your soul" mood. it really is too bad of that girl. after all, we did what most people wouldn't. mr march. come! get your hat on, mary, or we shan't make the tube before the next shower. mary. [going to the door] something must be done. mr march. as you say, something--ah! mr bly! mr bly, in precisely the same case as a fortnight ago, with his pail and cloths, is coming in. bly. afternoon, sir! shall i be disturbing you if i do the winders here? mr march. not at all. mr bly crosses to the windows. mary. [pointing to mr bly's back] try! bly. showery, sir. mr march. ah! bly. very tryin' for winders. [resting] my daughter givin' satisfaction, i hope? mr march. [with difficulty] er--in her work, i believe, coming on well. but the question is, mr bly, do--er--any of us ever really give satisfaction except to ourselves? bly. [taking it as an invitation to his philosophical vein] ah! that's one as goes to the roots of 'uman nature. there's a lot of disposition in all of us. and what i always say is: one man's disposition is another man's indisposition. mr march. by george! just hits the mark. bly. [filling his sponge] question is: how far are you to give rein to your disposition? when i was in durban, natal, i knew a man who had the biggest disposition i ever come across. 'e struck 'is wife, 'e smoked opium, 'e was a liar, 'e gave all the rein 'e could, and yet withal one of the pleasantest men i ever met. mr march. perhaps in giving rein he didn't strike you. bly. [with a big wipe, following his thought] he said to me once: "joe," he said, "if i was to hold meself in, i should be a devil." there's where you get it. policemen, priests, prisoners. cab'net ministers, any one who leads an unnatural life, see how it twists 'em. you can't suppress a thing without it swellin' you up in another place. mr march. and the moral of that is--? bly. follow your instincts. you see--if i'm not keepin' you--now that we ain't got no faith, as we were sayin' the other day, no ten commandments in black an' white--we've just got to be 'uman bein's-- raisin' cain, and havin' feelin' hearts. what's the use of all these lofty ideas that you can't live up to? liberty, fraternity, equality, democracy--see what comes o' fightin' for 'em! 'ere we are-wipin' out the lot. we thought they was fixed stars; they was only comets--hot air. no; trust 'uman nature, i say, and follow your instincts. mr march. we were talking of your daughter--i--i-- bly. there's a case in point. her instincts was starved goin' on for three years, because, mind you, they kept her hangin' about in prison months before they tried her. i read your article, and i thought to meself after i'd finished: which would i feel smallest--if i was--the judge, the jury, or the 'ome secretary? it was a treat, that article! they ought to abolish that in'uman "to be hanged by the neck until she is dead." it's my belief they only keep it because it's poetry; that and the wigs--they're hard up for a bit of beauty in the courts of law. excuse my 'and, sir; i do thank you for that article. he extends his wiped hand, which mr march shakes with the feeling that he is always shaking mr. bly's hand. mr march. but, apropos of your daughter, mr bly. i suppose none of us ever change our natures. bly. [again responding to the appeal that he senses to his philosophical vein] ah! but 'oo can see what our natures are? why, i've known people that could see nothin' but theirselves and their own families, unless they was drunk. at my daughter's trial, i see right into the lawyers, judge and all. there she was, hub of the whole thing, and all they could see of her was 'ow far she affected 'em personally--one tryin' to get 'er guilty, the other tryin' to get 'er off, and the judge summin' 'er up cold-blooded. mr march. but that's what they're paid for, mr bly. bly. ah! but which of 'em was thinkin' "'ere's a little bit o' warm life on its own. 'ere's a little dancin' creature. what's she feelin', wot's 'er complaint?"--impersonal-like. i like to see a man do a bit of speculatin', with his mind off of 'imself, for once. mr march. "the man that hath not speculation in his soul." bly. that's right, sir. when i see a mangy cat or a dog that's lost, or a fellow-creature down on his luck, i always try to put meself in his place. it's a weakness i've got. mr march. [warmly] a deuced good one. shake-- he checks himself, but mr bly has wiped his hand and extended it. while the shake is in progress mary returns, and, having seen it to a safe conclusion, speaks. mary. coming, dad? mr march. excuse me, mr bly, i must away. he goes towards the door, and bly dips his sponge. mary. [in a low voice] well? mr march. mr bly is like all the greater men i know--he can't listen. mary. but you were shaking-- mr march. yes; it's a weakness we have--every three minutes. mary. [bubbling] dad--silly! mr march. very! as they go out mr bly pauses in his labours to catch, as it were, a philosophical reflection. he resumes the wiping of a pane, while quietly, behind him, faith comes in with a tray. she is dressed now in lilac-coloured linen, without a cap, and looks prettier than ever. she puts the tray down on the sideboard with a clap that attracts her father's attention, and stands contemplating the debris on the table. bly. winders! there they are! clean, dirty! all sorts--all round yer! winders! faith. [with disgust] food! bly. ah! food and winders! that's life! faith. eight times a day four times for them and four times for us. i hate food! she puts a chocolate into her mouth. bly. 'ave some philosophy. i might just as well hate me winders. faith. well! she begins to clear. bly. [regarding her] look 'ere, my girl! don't you forget that there ain't many winders in london out o' which they look as philosophical as these here. beggars can't be choosers. faith. [sullenly] oh! don't go on at me! bly. they spoiled your disposition in that place, i'm afraid. faith. try it, and see what they do with yours. bly. well, i may come to it yet. faith. you'll get no windows to look out of there; a little bit of a thing with bars to it, and lucky if it's not thick glass. [standing still and gazing past mr bly] no sun, no trees, no faces--people don't pass in the sky, not even angels. bly. ah! but you shouldn't brood over it. i knew a man in valpiraso that 'ad spent 'arf 'is life in prison-a jolly feller; i forget what 'e'd done, somethin' bloody. i want to see you like him. aren't you happy here? faith. it's right enough, so long as i get out. bly. this mr march--he's like all these novel-writers--thinks 'e knows 'uman nature, but of course 'e don't. still, i can talk to 'im--got an open mind, and hates the gover'ment. that's the two great things. mrs march, so far as i see, 'as got her head screwed on much tighter. faith. she has. bly. what's the young man like? he's a long feller. faith. johnny? [with a shrug and a little smile] johnny. bly. well, that gives a very good idea of him. they say 'es a poet; does 'e leave 'em about? faith. i've seen one or two. bly. what's their tone? faith. all about the condition of the world; and the moon. bly. ah! depressin'. and the young lady? faith shrugs her shoulders. um--'ts what i thought. she 'asn't moved much with the times. she thinks she 'as, but she 'asn't. well, they seem a pleasant family. leave you to yourself. 'ow's cook? faith. not much company. bly. more body than mind? still, you get out, don't you? faith. [with a slow smile] yes. [she gives a sudden little twirl, and puts her hands up to her hair before the mirror] my afternoon to-day. it's fine in the streets, after-being in there. bly. well! don't follow your instincts too much, that's all! i must get on to the drawin' room now. there's a shower comin'. [philosophically] it's 'ardly worth while to do these winders. you clean 'em, and they're dirty again in no time. it's like life. and people talk o' progress. what a sooperstition! of course there ain't progress; it's a world-without-end affair. you've got to make up your mind to it, and not be discouraged. all this depression comes from 'avin' 'igh 'opes. 'ave low 'opes, and you'll be all right. he takes up his pail and cloths and moves out through the windows. faith puts another chocolate into her mouth, and taking up a flower, twirls round with it held to her nose, and looks at herself in the glass over the hearth. she is still looking at herself when she sees in the mirror a reflection of johnny, who has come in. her face grows just a little scared, as if she had caught the eye of a warder peering through the peep-hole of her cell door, then brazens, and slowly sweetens as she turns round to him. johnny. sorry! [he has a pipe in his hand and wears a norfolk jacket] fond of flowers? faith. yes. [she puts back the flower] ever so! johnny. stick to it. put it in your hair; it'll look jolly. how do you like it here? faith. it's quiet. johnny. ha! i wonder if you've got the feeling i have. we've both had hell, you know; i had three years of it, out there, and you've had three years of it here. the feeling that you can't catch up; can't live fast enough to get even. faith nods. nothing's big enough; nothing's worth while enough--is it? faith. i don't know. i know i'd like to bite. she draws her lips back. johnny. ah! tell me all about your beastly time; it'll do you good. you and i are different from anybody else in this house. we've lived they've just vegetated. come on; tell me! faith, who up to now has looked on him as a young male, stares at him for the first time without sex in her eyes. faith. i can't. we didn't talk in there, you know. johnny. were you fond of the chap who--? faith. no. yes. i suppose i was--once. johnny. he must have been rather a swine. faith. he's dead. johnny. sorry! oh, sorry! faith. i've forgotten all that. johnny. beastly things, babies; and absolutely unnecessary in the present state of the world. faith. [with a faint smile] my baby wasn't beastly; but i--i got upset. johnny. well, i should think so! faith. my friend in the manicure came and told me about hers when i was lying in the hospital. she couldn't have it with her, so it got neglected and died. johnny. um! i believe that's quite common. faith. and she told me about another girl--the law took her baby from her. and after she was gone, i--got all worked up-- [she hesitates, then goes swiftly on] and i looked at mine; it was asleep just here, quite close. i just put out my arm like that, over its face--quite soft-- i didn't hurt it. i didn't really. [she suddenly swallows, and her lips quiver] i didn't feel anything under my arm. and--and a beast of a nurse came on me, and said "you've smothered your baby, you wretched girl!" i didn't want to kill it--i only wanted to save it from living. and when i looked at it, i went off screaming. johnny. i nearly screamed when i saved my first german from living. i never felt the same again. they say the human race has got to go on, but i say they've first got to prove that the human race wants to. would you rather be alive or dead? faith. alive. johnny. but would you have in prison? faith. i don't know. you can't tell anything in there. [with sudden vehemence] i wish i had my baby back, though. it was mine; and i--i don't like thinking about it. johnny. i know. i hate to think about anything i've killed, really. at least, i should--but it's better not to think. faith. i could have killed that judge. johnny. did he come the heavy father? that's what i can't stand. when they jaw a chap and hang him afterwards. or was he one of the joking ones? faith. i've sat in my cell and cried all night--night after night, i have. [with a little laugh] i cried all the softness out of me. johnny. you never believed they were going to hang you, did you? faith. i didn't care if they did--not then. johnny. [with a reflective grunt] you had a much worse time than i. you were lonely-- faith. have you been in a prison, ever? johnny. no, thank god! faith. it's awfully clean. johnny. you bet. faith. and it's stone cold. it turns your heart. johnny. ah! did you ever see a stalactite? faith. what's that? johnny. in caves. the water drops like tears, and each drop has some sort of salt, and leaves it behind till there's just a long salt petrified drip hanging from the roof. faith. ah! [staring at him] i used to stand behind my door. i'd stand there sometimes i don't know how long. i'd listen and listen--the noises are all hollow in a prison. you'd think you'd get used to being shut up, but i never did. johnny utters a deep grunt. it's awful the feeling you get here-so tight and chokey. people who are free don't know what it's like to be shut up. if i'd had a proper window even--when you can see things living, it makes you feel alive. johnny. [catching her arm] we'll make you feel alive again. faith stares at him; sex comes back to her eyes. she looks down. i bet you used to enjoy life, before. faith. [clasping her hands] oh! yes, i did. and i love getting out now. i've got a fr-- [she checks herself] the streets are beautiful, aren't they? do you know orleens street? johnny. [doubtful] no-o. . . . where? faith. at the corner out of the regent. that's where we had our shop. i liked the hair-dressing. we had fun. perhaps i've seen you before. did you ever come in there? johnny. no. faith. i'd go back there; only they wouldn't take me--i'm too conspicuous now. johnny. i expect you're well out of that. faith. [with a sigh] but i did like it. i felt free. we had an hour off in the middle of the day; you could go where you liked; and then, after hours--i love the streets at night--all lighted. olga--that's one of the other girls--and i used to walk about for hours. that's life! fancy! i never saw a street for more than two years. didn't you miss them in the war? johnny. i missed grass and trees more--the trees! all burnt, and splintered. gah! faith. yes, i like trees too; anything beautiful, you know. i think the parks are lovely--but they might let you pick the flowers. but the lights are best, really--they make you feel happy. and music--i love an organ. there was one used to come and play outside the prison--before i was tried. it sounded so far away and lovely. if i could 'ave met the man that played that organ, i'd have kissed him. d'you think he did it on purpose? johnny. he would have, if he'd been me. he says it unconsciously, but faith is instantly conscious of the implication. faith. he'd rather have had pennies, though. it's all earning; working and earning. i wish i were like the flowers. [she twirls the dower in her hand] flowers don't work, and they don't get put in prison. johnny. [putting his arm round her] never mind! cheer up! you're only a kid. you'll have a good time yet. faith leans against him, as it were indifferently, clearly expecting him to kiss her, but he doesn't. faith. when i was a little girl i had a cake covered with sugar. i ate the sugar all off and then i didn't want the cake--not much. johnny. [suddenly, removing his arm] gosh! if i could write a poem that would show everybody what was in the heart of everybody else--! faith. it'd be too long for the papers, wouldn't it? johnny. it'd be too strong. faith. besides, you don't know. her eyelids go up. johnny. [staring at her] i could tell what's in you now. faith. what? johnny. you feel like a flower that's been picked. faith's smile is enigmatic. faith. [suddenly] why do you go on about me so? johnny. because you're weak--little and weak. [breaking out again] damn it! we went into the war to save the little and weak; at least we said so; and look at us now! the bottom's out of all that. [bitterly] there isn't a faith or an illusion left. look here! i want to help you. faith. [surprisingly] my baby was little and weak. johnny. you never meant--you didn't do it for your own advantage. faith. it didn't know it was alive. [suddenly] d'you think i'm pretty? johnny. as pie. faith. then you'd better keep away, hadn't you? johnny. why? faith. you might want a bite. johnny. oh! i can trust myself. faith. [turning to the window, through which can be seen the darkening of a shower] it's raining. father says windows never stay clean. they stand dose together, unaware that cook has thrown up the service shutter, to see why the clearing takes so long. her astounded head and shoulders pass into view just as faith suddenly puts up her face. johnny's lips hesitate, then move towards her forehead. but her face shifts, and they find themselves upon her lips. once there, the emphasis cannot help but be considerable. cook's mouth falls open. cook. oh! she closes the shutter, vanishing. faith. what was that? johnny. nothing. [breaking away] look here! i didn't mean--i oughtn't to have--please forget it! faith. [with a little smile] didn't you like it? johnny. yes--that's just it. i didn't mean to it won't do. faith. why not? johnny. no, no! it's just the opposite of what--no, no! he goes to the door, wrenches it open and goes out. faith, still with that little half-mocking, half-contented smile, resumes the clearing of the table. she is interrupted by the entrance through the french windows of mr march and mary, struggling with one small wet umbrella. mary. [feeling his sleeve] go and change, dad. mr march. women's shoes! we could have made the tube but for your shoes. mary. it was your cold feet, not mine, dear. [looking at faith and nudging him] now! she goes towards the door, turns to look at faith still clearing the table, and goes out. mr march. [in front of the hearth] nasty spring weather, faith. faith. [still in the mood of the kiss] yes, sir. mr march. [sotto voce] "in the spring a young man's fancy." i--i wanted to say something to you in a friendly way. faith regards him as he struggles on. because i feel very friendly towards you. faith. yes. mr march. so you won't take what i say in bad part? faith. no. mr march. after what you've been through, any man with a sense of chivalry-- faith gives a little shrug. yes, i know--but we don't all support the government. faith. i don't know anything about the government. mr march. [side-tracked on to his hobby] ah i forgot. you saw no newspapers. but you ought to pick up the threads now. what paper does cook take? faith. "cosy." mr march. "cosy"? i don't seem-- what are its politics? faith. it hasn't any--only funny bits, and fashions. it's full of corsets. mr march. what does cook want with corsets? faith. she likes to think she looks like that. mr march. by george! cook an idealist! let's see!--er--i was speaking of chivalry. my son, you know--er--my son has got it. faith. badly? mr march. [suddenly alive to the fact that she is playing with him] i started by being sorry for you. faith. aren't you, any more? mr march. look here, my child! faith looks up at him. [protectingly] we want to do our best for you. now, don't spoil it by-- well, you know! faith. [suddenly] suppose you'd been stuffed away in a hole for years! mr march. [side-tracked again] just what your father said. the more i see of mr bly, the more wise i think him. faith. about other people. mr march. what sort of bringing up did he give you? faith smiles wryly and shrugs her shoulders. mr march. h'm! here comes the sun again! faith. [taking up the flower which is lying on the table] may i have this flower? mr march. of course. you can always take what flowers you like--that is--if--er-- faith. if mrs march isn't about? mr march. i meant, if it doesn't spoil the look of the table. we must all be artists in our professions, mustn't we? faith. my profession was cutting hair. i would like to cut yours. mr march's hands instinctively go up to it. mr march. you mightn't think it, but i'm talking to you seriously. faith. i was, too. mr march. [out of his depth] well! i got wet; i must go and change. faith follows him with her eyes as he goes out, and resumes the clearing of the table. she has paused and is again smelling at the flower when she hears the door, and quickly resumes her work. it is mrs march, who comes in and goes to the writing table, left back, without looking at faith. she sits there writing a cheque, while faith goes on clearing. mrs march. [suddenly, in an unruffled voice] i have made your cheque out for four pounds. it's rather more than the fortnight, and a month's notice. there'll be a cab for you in an hour's time. can you be ready by then? faith. [astonished] what for--ma'am? mrs march. you don't suit. faith. why? mrs march. do you wish for the reason? faith. [breathless] yes. mrs march. cook saw you just now. faith. [blankly] oh! i didn't mean her to. mrs march. obviously. faith. i--i-- mrs march. now go and pack up your things. faith. he asked me to be a friend to him. he said he was lonely here. mrs march. don't be ridiculous. cook saw you kissing him with p--p-- faith. [quickly] not with pep. mrs march. i was going to say "passion." now, go quietly. faith. where am i to go? mrs march. you will have four pounds, and you can get another place. faith. how? mrs march. that's hardly my affair. faith. [tossing her head] all right! mrs march. i'll speak to your father, if he isn't gone. faith. why do you send me away--just for a kiss! what's a kiss? mrs march. that will do. faith. [desperately] he wanted to--to save me. mrs march. you know perfectly well people can only save themselves. faith. i don't care for your son; i've got a young--[she checks herself] i--i'll leave your son alone, if he leaves me. mrs march rings the bell on the table. [desolately] well? [she moves towards the door. suddenly holding out the flower] mr march gave me that flower; would you like it back? mrs march. don't be absurd! if you want more money till you get a place, let me know. faith. i won't trouble you. she goes out. mrs march goes to the window and drums her fingers on the pane. cook enters. mrs march. cook, if mr bly's still here, i want to see him. oh! and it's three now. have a cab at four o'clock. cook. [almost tearful] oh, ma'am--anybody but master johnny, and i'd 'ave been a deaf an' dummy. poor girl! she's not responsive, i daresay. suppose i was to speak to master johnny? mrs march. no, no, cook! where's mr bly? cook. he's done his windows; he's just waiting for his money. mrs march. then get him; and take that tray. cook. i remember the master kissin' me, when he was a boy. but then he never meant anything; so different from master johnny. master johnny takes things to 'eart. mrs march. just so, cook. cook. there's not an ounce of vice in 'im. it's all his goodness, dear little feller. mrs march. that's the danger, with a girl like that. cook. it's eatin' hearty all of a sudden that's made her poptious. but there, ma'am, try her again. master johnny'll be so cut up! mrs march. no playing with fire, cook. we were foolish to let her come. cook. oh! dear, he will be angry with me. if you hadn't been in the kitchen and heard me, ma'am, i'd ha' let it pass. mrs march. that would have been very wrong of you. cook. ah! but i'd do a lot of wrong things for master johnny. there's always some one you'll go wrong for! mrs march. well, get mr bly; and take that tray, there's a good soul. cook goes out with the tray; and while waiting, mrs march finishes clearing the table. she has not quite finished when mr bly enters. bly. your service, ma'am! mrs march. [with embarrassment] i'm very sorry, mr bly, but circumstances over which i have no control-- bly. [with deprecation] ah! we all has them. the winders ought to be done once a week now the spring's on 'em. mrs march. no, no; it's your daughter-- bly. [deeply] not been given' way to'er instincts, i do trust. mrs march. yes. i've just had to say good-bye to her. bly. [very blank] nothing to do with property, i hope? mrs march. no, no! giddiness with my son. it's impossible; she really must learn. bly. oh! but 'oo's to learn 'er? couldn't you learn your son instead? mrs march. no. my son is very high-minded. bly. [dubiously] i see. how am i goin' to get over this? shall i tell you what i think, ma'am? mrs march. i'm afraid it'll be no good. bly. that's it. character's born, not made. you can clean yer winders and clean 'em, but that don't change the colour of the glass. my father would have given her a good hidin', but i shan't. why not? because my glass ain't as thick as his. i see through it; i see my girl's temptations, i see what she is--likes a bit o' life, likes a flower, an' a dance. she's a natural morganatic. mrs march. a what? bly. nothin'll ever make her regular. mr march'll understand how i feel. poor girl! in the mud again. well, we must keep smilin'. [his face is as long as his arm] the poor 'ave their troubles, there's no doubt. [he turns to go] there's nothin' can save her but money, so as she can do as she likes. then she wouldn't want to do it. mrs march. i'm very sorry, but there it is. bly. and i thought she was goin' to be a success here. fact is, you can't see anything till it 'appens. there's winders all round, but you can't see. follow your instincts--it's the only way. mrs march. it hasn't helped your daughter. bly. i was speakin' philosophic! well, i'll go 'ome now, and prepare meself for the worst. mrs march. has cook given you your money? bly. she 'as. he goes out gloomily and is nearly overthrown in the doorway by the violent entry of johnny. johnny. what's this, mother? i won't have it--it's pre-war. mrs march. [indicating mr bly] johnny! johnny waves bly out of the room and doses the door. johnny. i won't have her go. she's a pathetic little creature. mrs march. [unruffled] she's a minx. johnny. mother! mrs march. now, johnny, be sensible. she's a very pretty girl, and this is my house. johnny. of course you think the worst. trust anyone who wasn't in the war for that! mrs march. i don't think either the better or the worse. kisses are kisses! johnny. mother, you're like the papers--you put in all the vice and leave out all the virtue, and call that human nature. the kiss was an accident that i bitterly regret. mrs march. johnny, how can you? johnny. dash it! you know what i mean. i regret it with my--my conscience. it shan't occur again. mrs march. till next time. johnny. mother, you make me despair. you're so matter-of-fact, you never give one credit for a pure ideal. mrs march. i know where ideals lead. johnny. where? mrs march. into the soup. and the purer they are, the hotter the soup. johnny. and you married father! mrs march. i did. johnny. well, that girl is not to be chucked out; won't have her on my chest. mrs march. that's why she's going, johnny. johnny. she is not. look at me! mrs march looks at him from across the dining-table, for he has marched up to it, till they are staring at each other across the now cleared rosewood. mrs march. how are you going to stop her? johnny. oh, i'll stop her right enough. if i stuck it out in hell, i can stick it out in highgate. mrs march. johnny, listen. i've watched this girl; and i don't watch what i want to see--like your father--i watch what is. she's not a hard case--yet; but she will be. johnny. and why? because all you matter-of-fact people make up your minds to it. what earthly chance has she had? mrs march. she's a baggage. there are such things, you know, johnny. johnny. she's a little creature who went down in the scrum and has been kicked about ever since. mrs march. i'll give her money, if you'll keep her at arm's length. johnny. i call that revolting. what she wants is the human touch. mrs march. i've not a doubt of it. johnny rises in disgust. johnny, what is the use of wrapping the thing up in catchwords? human touch! a young man like you never saved a girl like her. it's as fantastic as--as tolstoi's "resurrection." johnny. tolstoi was the most truthful writer that ever lived. mrs march. tolstoi was a russian--always proving that what isn't, is. johnny. russians are charitable, anyway, and see into other people's souls. mrs march. that's why they're hopeless. johnny. well--for cynicism-- mrs march. it's at least as important, johnny, to see into ourselves as into other people. i've been trying to make your father understand that ever since we married. he'd be such a good writer if he did--he wouldn't write at all. johnny. father has imagination. mrs march. and no business to meddle with practical affairs. you and he always ride in front of the hounds. do you remember when the war broke out, how angry you were with me because i said we were fighting from a sense of self-preservation? well, weren't we? johnny. that's what i'm doing now, anyway. mrs march. saving this girl, to save yourself? johnny. i must have something decent to do sometimes. there isn't an ideal left. mrs march. if you knew how tired i am of the word, johnny! johnny. there are thousands who feel like me--that the bottom's out of everything. it sickens me that anything in the least generous should get sat on by all you people who haven't risked your lives. mrs march. [with a smile] i risked mine when you were born, johnny. you were always very difficult. johnny. that girl's been telling me--i can see the whole thing. mrs march. the fact that she suffered doesn't alter her nature; or the danger to you and us. johnny. there is no danger--i told her i didn't mean it. mrs march. and she smiled? didn't she? johnny. i--i don't know. mrs march. if you were ordinary, johnny, it would be the girl's look-out. but you're not, and i'm not going to have you in the trap she'll set for you. johnny. you think she's a designing minx. i tell you she's got no more design in her than a rabbit. she's just at the mercy of anything. mrs march. that's the trap. she'll play on your feelings, and you'll be caught. johnny. i'm not a baby. mrs march. you are--and she'll smother you. johnny. how beastly women are to each other! mrs march. we know ourselves, you see. the girl's father realises perfectly what she is. johnny. mr bly is a dodderer. and she's got no mother. i'll bet you've never realised the life girls who get outed lead. i've seen them--i saw them in france. it gives one the horrors. mrs march. i can imagine it. but no girl gets "outed," as you call it, unless she's predisposed that way. johnny. that's all you know of the pressure of life. mrs march. excuse me, johnny. i worked three years among factory girls, and i know how they manage to resist things when they've got stuff in them. johnny. yes, i know what you mean by stuff--good hard self-preservative instinct. why should the wretched girl who hasn't got that be turned down? she wants protection all the more. mrs march. i've offered to help with money till she gets a place. johnny. and you know she won't take it. she's got that much stuff in her. this place is her only chance. i appeal to you, mother--please tell her not to go. mrs march. i shall not, johnny. johnny. [turning abruptly] then we know where we are. mrs march. i know where you'll be before a week's over. johnny. where? mrs march. in her arms. johnny. [from the door, grimly] if i am, i'll have the right to be! mrs march. johnny! [but he is gone.] mrs march follows to call him back, but is met by mary. mary. so you've tumbled, mother? mrs march. i should think i have! johnny is making an idiot of himself about that girl. mary. he's got the best intentions. mrs march. it's all your father. what can one expect when your father carries on like a lunatic over his paper every morning? mary. father must have opinions of his own. mrs march. he has only one: whatever is, is wrong. mary. he can't help being intellectual, mother. mrs march. if he would only learn that the value of a sentiment is the amount of sacrifice you are prepared to make for it! mary. yes: i read that in "the times" yesterday. father's much safer than johnny. johnny isn't safe at all; he might make a sacrifice any day. what were they doing? mrs march. cook caught them kissing. mary. how truly horrible! as she speaks mr march comes in. mr march. i met johnny using the most poetic language. what's happened? mrs march. he and that girl. johnny's talking nonsense about wanting to save her. i've told her to pack up. mr march. isn't that rather coercive, joan? mrs march. do you approve of johnny getting entangled with this girl? mr march. no. i was only saying to mary-- mrs march. oh! you were! mr march. but i can quite see why johnny-- mrs march. the government, i suppose! mr march. certainly. mrs march. well, perhaps you'll get us out of the mess you've got us into. mr march. where's the girl? mrs march. in her room-packing. mr march. we must devise means-- mrs march smiles. the first thing is to see into them--and find out exactly-- mrs march. heavens! are you going to have them x-rayed? they haven't got chest trouble, geof. mr march. they may have heart trouble. it's no good being hasty, joan. mrs march. oh! for a man that can't see an inch into human nature, give me a--psychological novelist! mr march. [with dignity] mary, go and see where johnny is. mary. do you want him here? mr march. yes. mary. [dubiously] well--if i can. she goes out. a silence, during which the marches look at each other by those turns which characterise exasperated domesticity. mrs march. if she doesn't go, johnny must. are you going to turn him out? mr march. of course not. we must reason with him. mrs march. reason with young people whose lips were glued together half an hour ago! why ever did you force me to take this girl? mr march. [ruefully] one can't always resist a kindly impulse, joan. what does mr bly say to it? mrs march. mr bly? "follow your instincts "and then complains of his daughter for following them. mr march. the man's a philosopher. mrs march. before we know where we are, we shall be having johnny married to that girl. mr march. nonsense! mrs march. oh, geof! whenever you're faced with reality, you say "nonsense!" you know johnny's got chivalry on the brain. mary comes in. mary. he's at the top of the servants' staircase; outside her room. he's sitting in an armchair, with its back to her door. mr march. good lord! direct action! mary. he's got his pipe, a pound of chocolate, three volumes of "monte cristo," and his old concertina. he says it's better than the trenches. mr march. my hat! johnny's made a joke. this is serious. mary. nobody can get up, and she can't get down. he says he'll stay there till all's blue, and it's no use either of you coming unless mother caves in. mr march. i wonder if cook could do anything with him? mary. she's tried. he told her to go to hell. mr march. i say! and what did cook--? mary. she's gone. mr march. tt! tt! this is very awkward. cook enters through the door which mary has left open. mr march. ah, cook! you're back, then? what's to be done? mrs march. [with a laugh] we must devise means! cook. oh, ma'am, it does remind me so of the tantrums he used to get into, dear little feller! smiles with recollection. mrs march. [sharply] you're not to take him up anything to eat, cook! cook. oh! but master johnny does get so hungry. it'll drive him wild, ma'am. just a snack now and then! mrs march. no, cook. mind--that's flat! cook. aren't i to feed faith, ma'am? mr march. gad! it wants it! mrs march. johnny must come down to earth. cook. ah! i remember how he used to fall down when he was little--he would go about with his head in the air. but he always picked himself up like a little man. mary. listen! they all listen. the distant sounds of a concertina being played with fury drift in through the open door. cook. don't it sound 'eavenly! the concertina utters a long wail. curtain. act iii the march's dining-room on the same evening at the end of a perfunctory dinner. mrs march sits at the dining-table with her back to the windows, mary opposite the hearth, and mr march with his back to it. johnny is not present. silence and gloom. mr march. we always seem to be eating. mrs march. you've eaten nothing. mr march. [pouring himself out a liqueur glass of brandy but not drinking it] it's humiliating to think we can't exist without. [relapses into gloom.] mrs march. mary, pass him the walnuts. mary. i was thinking of taking them up to johnny. mr march. [looking at his watch] he's been there six hours; even he can't live on faith. mrs march. if johnny wants to make a martyr of himself, i can't help it. mary. how many days are you going to let him sit up there, mother? mr march. [glancing at mrs march] i never in my life knew anything so ridiculous. mrs march. give me a little glass of brandy, geof. mr march. good! that's the first step towards seeing reason. he pours brandy into a liqueur glass from the decanter which stands between them. mrs march puts the brandy to her lips and makes a little face, then swallows it down manfully. mary gets up with the walnuts and goes. silence. gloom. mrs march. horrid stuff! mr march. haven't you begun to see that your policy's hopeless, joan? come! tell the girl she can stay. if we make johnny feel victorious--we can deal with him. it's just personal pride--the curse of this world. both you and johnny are as stubborn as mules. mrs march. human nature is stubborn, geof. that's what you easy--going people never see. mr march gets up, vexed, and goes to the fireplace. mr march. [turning] well! this goes further than you think. it involves johnny's affection and respect for you. mrs march nervously refills the little brandy glass, and again empties it, with a grimacing shudder. mr march. [noticing] that's better! you'll begin to see things presently. mary re-enters. mary. he's been digging himself in. he's put a screen across the head of the stairs, and got cook's blankets. he's going to sleep there. mrs march. did he take the walnuts? mary. no; he passed them in to her. he says he's on hunger strike. but he's eaten all the chocolate and smoked himself sick. he's having the time of his life, mother. mr march. there you are! mrs march. wait till this time to-morrow. mary. cook's been up again. he wouldn't let her pass. she'll have to sleep in the spare room. mr march. i say! mary. and he's got the books out of her room. mrs march. d'you know what they are? "the scarlet pimpernel," "the wide wide world," and the bible. mary. johnny likes romance. she crosses to the fire. mr march. [in a low voice] are you going to leave him up there with the girl and that inflammatory literature, all night? where's your common sense, joan? mrs march starts up, presses her hand over her brow, and sits down again. she is stumped. [with consideration for her defeat] have another tot! [he pours it out] let mary go up with a flag of truce, and ask them both to come down for a thorough discussion of the whole thing, on condition that they can go up again if we don't come to terms. mrs march. very well! i'm quite willing to meet him. i hate quarrelling with johnny. mr march. good! i'll go myself. [he goes out.] mary. mother, this isn't a coal strike; don't discuss it for three hours and then at the end ask johnny and the girl to do precisely what you're asking them to do now. mrs march. why should i? mary. because it's so usual. do fix on half-way at once. mrs march. there is no half-way. mary. well, for goodness sake think of a plan which will make you both look victorious. that's always done in the end. why not let her stay, and make johnny promise only to see her in the presence of a third party? mrs march. because she'd see him every day while he was looking for the third party. she'd help him look for it. mary. [with a gurgle] mother, i'd no idea you were so--french. mrs march. it seems to me you none of you have any idea what i am. mary. well, do remember that there'll be no publicity to make either of you look small. you can have peace with honour, whatever you decide. [listening] there they are! now, mother, don't be logical! it's so feminine. as the door opens, mrs march nervously fortifies herself with the third little glass of brandy. she remains seated. mary is on her right. mr march leads into the room and stands next his daughter, then faith in hat and coat to the left of the table, and johnny, pale but determined, last. assembled thus, in a half fan, of which mrs march is the apex, so to speak, they are all extremely embarrassed, and no wonder. suddenly mary gives a little gurgle. johnny. you'd think it funnier if you'd just come out of prison and were going to be chucked out of your job, on to the world again. faith. i didn't want to come down here. if i'm to go i want to go at once. and if i'm not, it's my evening out, please. she moves towards the door. johnny takes her by the shoulders. johnny. stand still, and leave it to me. [faith looks up at him, hypnotized by his determination] now, mother, i've come down at your request to discuss this; are you ready to keep her? otherwise up we go again. mr march. that's not the way to go to work, johnny. you mustn't ask people to eat their words raw--like that. johnny. well, i've had no dinner, but i'm not going to eat my words, i tell you plainly. mrs march. very well then; go up again. mary. [muttering] mother--logic. mr march. great scott! you two haven't the faintest idea of how to conduct a parley. we have--to--er--explore every path to--find a way to peace. mrs march. [to faith] have you thought of anything to do, if you leave here? faith. yes. johnny. what? faith. i shan't say. johnny. of course, she'll just chuck herself away. faith. no, i won't. i'll go to a place i know of, where they don't want references. johnny. exactly! mrs march. [to faith] i want to ask you a question. since you came out, is this the first young man who's kissed you? faith has hardly had time to start and manifest what may or may not be indignation when mr march dashes his hands through his hair. mr march. joan, really! johnny. [grimly] don't condescend to answer! mrs march. i thought we'd met to get at the truth. mary. but do they ever? faith. i will go out! johnny. no! [and, as his back is against the door, she can't] i'll see that you're not insulted any more. mr march. johnny, i know you have the best intentions, but really the proper people to help the young are the old--like-- faith suddenly turns her eyes on him, and he goes on rather hurriedly --your mother. i'm sure that she and i will be ready to stand by faith. faith. i don't want charity. mr march. no, no! but i hope-- mrs march. to devise means. mr march. [roused] of course, if nobody will modify their attitude --johnny, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and [to mrs march] so ought you, joan. johnny. [suddenly] i'll modify mine. [to faith] come here--close! [in a low voice to faith] will you give me your word to stay here, if i make them keep you? faith. why? johnny. to stay here quietly for the next two years? faith. i don't know. johnny. i can make them, if you'll promise. faith. you're just in a temper. johnny. promise! during this colloquy the marches have been so profoundly uneasy that mrs march has poured out another glass of brandy. mr march. johnny, the terms of the armistice didn't include this sort of thing. it was to be all open and above-board. johnny. well, if you don't keep her, i shall clear out. at this bombshell mrs march rises. mary. don't joke, johnny! you'll do yourself an injury. johnny. and if i go, i go for good. mr march. nonsense, johnny! don't carry a good thing too far! johnny. i mean it. mrs march. what will you live on? johnny. not poetry. mrs march. what, then? johnny. emigrate or go into the police. mr march. good lord! [going up to his wife--in a low voice] let her stay till johnny's in his right mind. faith. i don't want to stay. johnny. you shall! mary. johnny, don't be a lunatic! cook enters, flustered. cook. mr bly, ma'am, come after his daughter. mr march. he can have her--he can have her! cook. yes, sir. but, you see, he's--well, there! he's cheerful. mr march. let him come and take his daughter away. but mr bly has entered behind him. he has a fixed expression, and speaks with a too perfect accuracy. bly. did your two cooks tell you i'm here? mr march. if you want your daughter, you can take her. johnny. mr bly, get out! bly. [ignoring him] i don't want any fuss with your two cooks. [catching sight of mrs march] i've prepared myself for this. mrs march. so we see. bly. i 'ad a bit o' trouble, but i kep' on till i see 'aigel walkin' at me in the loo-lookin' glass. then i knew i'd got me balance. they all regard mr bly in a fascinated manner. faith. father! you've been drinking. bly. [smiling] what do you think. mr march. we have a certain sympathy with you, mr bly. bly. [gazing at his daughter] i don't want that one. i'll take the other. mary. don't repeat yourself, mr bly. bly. [with a flash of muddled insight] well! there's two of everybody; two of my daughter; an' two of the 'ome secretary; and two-two of cook --an' i don't want either. [he waves cook aside, and grasps at a void alongside faith] come along! mr march. [going up to him] very well, mr bly! see her home, carefully. good-night! bly. shake hands! he extends his other hand; mr march grasps it and turns him round towards the door. mr march. now, take her away! cook, go and open the front door for mr bly and his daughter. bly. too many cooks! mr march. now then, mr bly, take her along! bly. [making no attempt to acquire the real faith--to an apparition which he leads with his right hand] you're the one that died when my girl was 'ung. will you go--first or shall--i? the apparition does not answer. mary. don't! it's horrible! faith. i did die. bly. prepare yourself. then you'll see what you never saw before. he goes out with his apparition, shepherded by mr march. mrs march drinks off her fourth glass of brandy. a peculiar whistle is heard through the open door, and faith starts forward. johnny. stand still! faith. i--i must go. mary. johnny--let her! faith. there's a friend waiting for me. johnny. let her wait! you're not fit to go out to-night. mary. johnny! really! you're not the girl's friendly society! johnny. you none of you care a pin's head what becomes of her. can't you see she's on the edge? the whistle is heard again, but fainter. faith. i'm not in prison now. johnny. [taking her by the arm] all right! i'll come with you. faith. [recoiling] no. voices are heard in the hall. mary. who's that with father? johnny, for goodness' sake don't make us all ridiculous. mr march's voice is heard saying: "your friend in here." he enters, followed by a reluctant young man in a dark suit, with dark hair and a pale square face, enlivened by strange, very living, dark, bull's eyes. mr march. [to faith, who stands shrinking a little] i came on this--er --friend of yours outside; he's been waiting for you some time, he says. mrs march. [to faith] you can go now. johnny. [suddenly, to the young man] who are you? young m. ask another! [to faith] are you ready? johnny. [seeing red] no, she's not; and you'll just clear out. mr march. johnny! young m. what have you got to do with her? johnny. quit. young m. i'll quit with her, and not before. she's my girl. johnny. are you his girl? faith. yes. mrs march sits down again, and reaching out her left hand, mechanically draws to her the glass of brandy which her husband had poured out for himself and left undrunk. johnny. then why did you--[he is going to say: "kiss me," but checks himself]--let me think you hadn't any friends? who is this fellow? young m. a little more civility, please. johnny. you look a blackguard, and i believe you are. mr march. [with perfunctory authority] i really can't have this sort of thing in my house. johnny, go upstairs; and you two, please go away. young m. [to johnny] we know the sort of chap you are--takin' advantage of workin' girls. johnny. that's a foul lie. come into the garden and i'll prove it on your carcase. young m. all right! faith. no; he'll hurt you. he's been in the war. johnny. [to the young man] you haven't, i'll bet. young m. i didn't come here to be slanged. johnny. this poor girl is going to have a fair deal, and you're not going to give it her. i can see that with half an eye. young m. you'll see it with no eyes when i've done with you. johnny. come on, then. he goes up to the windows. mr march. for god's sake, johnny, stop this vulgar brawl! faith. [suddenly] i'm not a "poor girl" and i won't be called one. i don't want any soft words. why can't you let me be? [pointing to johnny] he talks wild. [johnny clutches the edge of the writing-table] thinks he can "rescue" me. i don't want to be rescued. i--[all the feeling of years rises to the surface now that the barrier has broken] --i want to be let alone. i've paid for everything i've done--a pound for every shilling's worth. and all because of one minute when i was half crazy. [flashing round at mary] wait till you've had a baby you oughtn't to have had, and not a penny in your pocket! it's money--money--all money! young m. sst! that'll do! faith. i'll have what i like now, not what you think's good for me. mr march. god knows we don't want to-- faith. you mean very well, mr march, but you're no good. mr march. i knew it. faith. you were very kind to me. but you don't see; nobody sees. young m. there! that's enough! you're gettin' excited. you come away with me. faith's look at him is like the look of a dog at her master. johnny. [from the background] i know you're a blackguard--i've seen your sort. faith. [firing up] don't call him names! i won't have it. i'll go with whom i choose! [her eyes suddenly fix themselves on the young man's face] and i'm going with him! cook enters. mr march. what now, cook? cook. a mr barnabas in the hall, sir. from the police. everybody starts. mrs march drinks off her fifth little glass of brandy, then sits again. mr march. from the police? he goes out, followed by cook. a moment's suspense. young m. well, i can't wait any longer. i suppose we can go out the back way? he draws faith towards the windows. but johnny stands there, barring the way. johnny. no, you don't. faith. [scared] oh! let me go--let him go! johnny. you may go. [he takes her arm to pull her to the window] he can't. faith. [freeing herself] no--no! not if he doesn't. johnny has an evident moment of hesitation, and before it is over mr march comes in again, followed by a man in a neat suit of plain clothes. mr march. i should like you to say that in front of her. p. c. man. your service, ma'am. afraid i'm intruding here. fact is, i've been waiting for a chance to speak to this young woman quietly. it's rather public here, sir; but if you wish, of course, i'll mention it. [he waits for some word from some one; no one speaks, so he goes on almost apologetically] well, now, you're in a good place here, and you ought to keep it. you don't want fresh trouble, i'm sure. faith. [scared] what do you want with me? p. c. man. i don't want to frighten you; but we've had word passed that you're associating with the young man there. i observed him to-night again, waiting outside here and whistling. young m. what's the matter with whistling? p. c. man. [eyeing him] i should keep quiet if i was you. as you know, sir [to mr march] there's a law nowadays against soo-tenors. mr march. soo--? johnny. i knew it. p. c. man. [deprecating] i don't want to use any plain english--with ladies present-- young m. i don't know you. what are you after? do you dare--? p. c. man. we cut the darin', 'tisn't necessary. we know all about you. faith. it's a lie! p. c. man. there, miss, don't let your feelings-- faith. [to the young man] it's a lie, isn't it? young m. a blankety lie. mr march. [to barnabas] have you actual proof? young m. proof? it's his job to get chaps into a mess. p. c. man. [sharply] none of your lip, now! at the new tone in his voice faith turns and visibly quails, like a dog that has been shown a whip. mr march. inexpressibly painful! young m. ah! how would you like to be insulted in front of your girl? if you're a gentleman you'll tell him to leave the house. if he's got a warrant, let him produce it; if he hasn't, let him get out. p. c. man. [to mr march] you'll understand, sir, that my object in speakin' to you to-night was for the good of the girl. strictly, i've gone a bit out of my way. if my job was to get men into trouble, as he says, i'd only to wait till he's got hold of her. these fellows, you know, are as cunning as lynxes and as impudent as the devil. young m. now, look here, if i get any more of this from you--i--i'll consult a lawyer. johnny. fellows like you-- mr march. johnny! p. c. man. your son, sir? young m. yes; and wants to be where i am. but my girl knows better; don't you? he gives faith a look which has a certain magnetism. p. c. man. if we could have the court cleared of ladies, sir, we might speak a little plainer. mr march. joan! but mrs march does not vary her smiling immobility; faith draws a little nearer to the young man. mary turns to the fire. p. c. man. [with half a smile] i keep on forgettin' that women are men nowadays. well! young m. when you've quite done joking, we'll go for our walk. mr march. [to barnabas] i think you'd better tell her anything you know. p. c. man. [eyeing faith and the young man] i'd rather not be more precise, sir, at this stage. young m. i should think not! police spite! [to faith] you know what the law is, once they get a down on you. p. c. man. [to mr march] it's our business to keep an eye on all this sort of thing, sir, with girls who've just come out. johnny. [deeply] you've only to look at his face! young m. my face is as good as yours. faith lifts her eyes to his. p. c. man. [taking in that look] well, there it is! sorry i wasted my time and yours, sir! mr march. [distracted] my goodness! now, faith, consider! this is the turning-point. i've told you we'll stand by you. faith. [flashing round] leave me alone! i stick to my friends. leave me alone, and leave him alone! what is it to you? p. c. man. [with sudden resolution] now, look here! this man george blunter was had up three years ago--for livin' on the earnings of a woman called johnson. he was dismissed with a caution. we got him again last year over a woman called lee--that time he did-- young m. stop it! that's enough of your lip. i won't put up with this --not for any woman in the world. not i! faith. [with a sway towards him] it's not--! young m. i'm off! bong swore la companee! he tarns on his heel and walks out unhindered. p. c. man. [deeply] a bad hat, that; if ever there was one. we'll be having him again before long. he looks at faith. they all look at faith. but her face is so strange, so tremulous, that they all turn their eyes away. faith. he--he said--he--! on the verge of an emotional outbreak, she saves herself by an effort. a painful silence. p. c. man. well, sir--that's all. good evening! he turns to the door, touching his forehead to mr march, and goes. as the door closes, faith sinks into a chair, and burying her face in her hands, sobs silently. mrs march sits motionless with a faint smile. johnny stands at the window biting his nails. mary crosses to faith. mary. [softly] don't. you weren't really fond of him? faith bends her head. mary. but how could you? he-- faith. i--i couldn't see inside him. mary. yes; but he looked--couldn't you see he looked--? faith. [suddenly flinging up her head] if you'd been two years without a word, you'd believe anyone that said he liked you. mary. perhaps i should. faith. but i don't want him--he's a liar. i don't like liars. mary. i'm awfully sorry. faith. [looking at her] yes--you keep off feeling--then you'll be happy! [rising] good-bye! mary. where are you going? faith. to my father. mary. with him in that state? faith. he won't hurt me. mary. you'd better stay. mother, she can stay, can't she? mrs march nods. faith. no! mary. why not? we're all sorry. do! you'd better. faith. father'll come over for my things tomorrow. mary. what are you going to do? faith. [proudly] i'll get on. johnny. [from the window] stop! all turn and look at him. he comes down. will you come to me? faith stares at him. mrs march continues to smile faintly. mary. [with a horrified gesture] johnny! johnny. will you? i'll play cricket if you do. mr march. [under his breath] good god! he stares in suspense at faith, whose face is a curious blend of fascination and live feeling. johnny. well? faith. [softly] don't be silly! i've got no call on you. you don't care for me, and i don't for you. no! you go and put your head in ice. [she turns to the door] good-bye, mr march! i'm sorry i've been so much trouble. mr march. not at all, not at all! faith. oh! yes, i have. there's nothing to be done with a girl like me. she goes out. johnny. [taking up the decanter to pour himself out a glass of brandy] empty! cook. [who has entered with a tray] yes, my dearie, i'm sure you are. johnny. [staring at his father] a vision, dad! windows of clubs--men sitting there; and that girl going by with rouge on her cheeks-- cook. oh! master johnny! johnny. a blue night--the moon over the park. and she stops and looks at it.--what has she wanted--the beautiful--something better than she's got--something that she'll never get! cook. oh! master johnny! she goes up to johnny and touches his forehead. he comes to himself and hurries to the door, but suddenly mrs march utters a little feathery laugh. she stands up, swaying slightly. there is something unusual and charming in her appearance, as if formality had dropped from her. mrs march. [with a sort of delicate slow lack of perfect sobriety] i see--it--all. you--can't--help--unless--you--love! johnny stops and looks round at her. mr march. [moving a little towards her] joan! mrs march. she--wants--to--be--loved. it's the way of the world. mary. [turning] mother! mrs march. you thought she wanted--to be saved. silly! she--just-- wants--to--be--loved. quite natural! mr march. joan, what's happened to you? mrs march. [smiling and nodding] see--people--as--they--are! then you won't be--disappointed. don't--have--ideals! have--vision--just simple --vision! mr march. your mother's not well. mrs march. [passing her hand over her forehead] it's hot in here! mr march. mary! mary throws open the french windows. mrs march. [delightfully] the room's full of gas. open the windows! open! and let's walk--out--into the air! she turns and walks delicately out through the opened windows; johnny and mary follow her. the moonlight and the air flood in. cook. [coming to the table and taking up the empty decanter] my holy ma! mr march. is this the millennium, cook? cook. oh! master geoffrey--there isn't a millehennium. there's too much human nature. we must look things in the face. mr march. ah! neither up--nor down--but straight in the face! quite a thought, cook! quite a thought! curtain. the end. file was produced from images generously made available by the library of congress.) transcriber's note this ebook retains the spelling and punctuation variations of the original text published in . a few corrections have been made where inadvertent typographical errors were suspected. details of these corrections can be found in a transcriber's note at the end of this text. the trial of reuben crandall, m. d. charged with publishing and circulating seditious and incendiary papers, &c. in the district of columbia, with the intent of exciting servile insurrection. carefully reported, and compiled from the written statements of the court and the counsel. by a member of the bar. washington city. printed for the proprietors. . entered according to the act of congress, in the year , in the clerk's office of the district of columbia. notice. the trial of crandall presents the first case of a man charged with endeavoring to excite insurrection among slaves and the free colored population that was ever brought before a judicial tribunal. it lasted ten days before the whole court, and was as closely contested as any trial on record, by the counsel on both sides. every point of law was fully and strenuously argued, and carefully considered by the court; and where no statutes have been enacted, this case may be considered as settling the legal questions touching the rights of the slaveholding population, on the one hand, to protect themselves from foreign influence; and the circumstances, on the other hand, which may bring people from the nonslaveholding states into danger of the law, by having in their possession, showing, or circulating, papers and tracts which advocate the abolition of slavery in such a way as to excite slaves and free people of color to revolt and violate the existing laws and customs of the slaveholding states. no trial has ever occurred more important to travellers from the north, or to the domestic peace of the inhabitants of the southern states. the trial of reuben crandall, m. d. on a charge of circulating incendiary papers. united states' circuit court, _district of columbia, friday, april th, ._ present: cranch, chief justice, thruston and morsell, justices. f. s. key, district attorney, and j. m. carlisle, for the prosecution. r. s. coxe and j. h. bradley, for the defence. john h. king, nicholas callan, james kennedy, walter clarke, george crandall, william waters, thomas hyde, thomas fenwick, samuel lowe, george simmes, wesley stevenson, and jacob gideon, jr., were empannelled and sworn as jurors to try the issue. this was an indictment charging, in five counts and in various forms, the offence under the common law of libels, of publishing malicious and wicked libels, with the intent to excite sedition and insurrection among the slaves and free colored people of this district. the three first counts only having been relied upon, and no evidence having been offered under the others, an abstract, omitting the mere formal part, will be sufficient to show the nature of the libels charged. st. the first count charged the defendant with publishing a libel, containing in one part thereof these words: "then we are not to meddle with the subject of slavery in any manner; neither by appeals to the patriotism, by exhortation to humanity, by application of truth to the conscience. no; even to propose, in congress, that the seat of our republican government may be purified from this crying abomination, under penalty of a dissolution of the union." and in another part thereof, in an article entitled "reply to mr. gurley's letter, addressed to the rev. r. r. gurley, secretary of the american colonization society, washington city," signed by arthur tappan and others, the following words: "we will not insult your understanding, sir, with any labored attempt to prove to you that the descendants of african parents, born in this country, have as good a claim to a residence in it, as the descendants of english, german, danish, scotch, or irish parents. you will not attempt to prove that every native colored person you meet in the streets, has not the same right to remain in this his native land, that you and we have. assuming this as an incontrovertable truth, we hold it self-evident that they have as good right to deport us to europe, under the pretext that there we shall be prosperous and happy, as we have to deport them to africa on a similar plea." and in another part thereof, in the said reply, the following words: "in what language could the unrighteous principles of denying freedom to colored people in this country, (which amounts to the same thing as demanding the expulsion of those already free,) be more effectually and yet more plausibly inculcated than in those very words of gen. harper you have, with so much approbation, quoted to us." and in another part thereof, in the said reply, the following words: "against this doctrine of suspending emancipation upon the contingency or condition of expatriation we feel bound to protest; because we believe that every man has a right to reside in his native country if he chooses, and that every man's native country is the country in which he was born--that no man's right to freedom is suspended upon, or taken away by his desire to remain in his native country--that to make a removal from one's own native country a _sine qua non_ of setting him free when held in involuntary bondage, is the climax of moral absurdity." and in another part thereof, in a certain other article, entitled "three months' residence, or seven weeks on a sugar plantation, by henry whitby," containing the most shocking and disgusting details of cruel, inhuman, and immoral treatment of slaves by the owners and overseers, and attorneys or agents of proprietors, according to the tenor and effect following--that is to say: "on this and other occasions, i thought it my duty to acquaint the attorney with my observations and feelings in regard to the cruel floggings and severe treatment generally which i have witnessed at new ground. he admitted the facts, but said that plantation work could not be carried on without the cart-whip. he moreover labored hard to convince me that the flogging did not injure the health of the negroes. i also told him of the exceeding immorality and licentiousness which i had witnessed; mentioning, in substance, the facts previously detailed. he replied that "that was a thing which they must wink at." if a man in manners so much the gentleman, and in other respects so estimable, was necessarily led to countenance or wink at the enormities i have feebly attempted to describe, what, i ask, is to be expected from its subordinate administrators who are continually exposed to the demoralizing influences of slavery? what, indeed, but the frightful wickedness and cruelty which are its actual fruits?"--in contempt of the laws, to the disturbance of the public peace, to the evil example of all others, and against the peace and government of the united states. d. the second count charges the publication of another libel, containing among other things, in one part thereof, the following words, viz: "our plan of emancipation is simply this--to promulgate the doctrine of human rights in high places and low places, and all places where there are human beings--to whisper it in chimney corners, and to proclaim it from the house tops, yea, from the mountain tops--to pour it out like water from the pulpit and the press--to raise it up with all the force of the inner man from infancy to grey hairs--to give line upon line, precept upon precept, till it forms one of the foundation principles and parts indestructible of the public soul." and in another part thereof, the following, viz: "i (meaning the said crandall) am not unaware that my remarks may be regarded by many as dangerous and exceptionable; that i may be regarded as a fanatic for quoting the language of eternal truth; and denounced as an incendiary for maintaining in the spirit, as well as the letter, the doctrines of american independence. but if such are the consequences of a simple performance of duty, i shall not regard them. if my feeble appeal but reaches the hearts of any who are now slumbering in iniquity; if it shall have power given it to shake down one stone from that foul temple where the blood of human victims is offered to the moloch of slavery; if, under providence, it can break one fetter from off the image of god, and enable one suffering african ------------to feel the weight of human misery less, and glide ungroaning to the tomb-- i shall not have written in vain; my conscience will be satisfied. far be it from me to cast new bitters in the gall and wormwood waters of sectional prejudice. no, i desire peace--the peace of universal love--of catholic sympathy--the peace of common interest--a common feeling--a common humanity. but so long as slavery is tolerated, no such peace can exist. liberty and slavery cannot dwell in harmony together. there will be a perpetual war in the members of the political _mezentius_--between the living and the dead. god and man have placed between them an everlasting barrier--an eternal separation. no matter under what law or compact their union is attempted, the ordination of providence has forbidden it--and it cannot stand. peace! there can be no peace between justice and oppression--between robbery and righteousness--truth and falsehood--freedom and slavery. the slaveholding states are not free. the name of liberty is there, but the spirit is wanting. they do not partake of its invaluable blessings. "wherever slavery exists to any considerable extent, with the exception of some recently settled portions of the country, and which have not yet felt, in a great degree, the baneful and deteriorating influence of slave labor--we hear, at this moment, the cry of suffering. we are told of grass-grown streets--of crumbling mansions--of beggared planters, and barren plantations--of fear from without--of terror within. the once fertile fields are wasted and tenantless: for the curse of slavery--the improvidence of that laborer whose hire has been kept back by fraud--has been there, poisoning the very earth, beyond the reviving influence of the early and the latter rain. a moral mildew mingles with, and blasts the economy of nature. it is as if the finger of the everlasting god had written upon the soil of the slaveholder the language of his displeasure. "let then the slaveholding states consult their present interest by beginning, without delay, the work of emancipation. if they fear not, and mock at the fiery indignation of him to whom vengeance belongeth, let temporal interest persuade them. they know, they must know, that the present state of things cannot long continue. mind is the same every where, no matter what may be the complexion of the frame which it animates; there is a love of liberty which the scourge cannot eradicate. a hatred of oppression which centuries of degradation cannot extinguish. the slave will become conscious, sooner or later, of his strength--his physical superiority--and will exert it. his torch will be at the threshold, and his knife at the throat of the planter. horrible and indiscriminate will be the vengeance. where then will be the pride, the beauty, and the chivalry of the south. the smoke of her torment will rise upward, like a thick cloud, visible over the whole earth." d. the third count charged the defendant with publishing twelve other libels, in which are represented and exhibited "several disgusting prints and pictures of white men in the act of inflicting, with whips, cruel and inhuman beatings and stripes upon young and helpless and unresisting black children; and inflicting with other instruments, cruel and inhuman violence upon slaves, and in a manner not fit and proper to be seen and represented; calculated and intended to excite the good people of the united states in said county to violence against the holder of slaves in said county as aforesaid, and calculated and intended to excite the said slaves in said county, to violence and rebellion against their said masters in said county; in contempt of the laws, to the disturbance of the public peace, to the evil example of all others, and against the peace and government of the united states." all these counts contained averments that at the time of the publication of these libels, the citizens of the united states residing in the county of washington, in the district of columbia, were lawfully authorized to hold slaves as property, and many of them did so hold them--and that many free persons of color also reside in the district; and that the defendant, unlawfully, maliciously, and seditiously, contriving and intending to traduce, vilify, and bring into hatred and contempt, among the citizens of the united states, the laws and government of the united states in the county of washington as duly established and in force, and to inflame and excite the people of the united states to resist and oppose and disregard the laws and government aforesaid, and the rights of the proprietors of slaves in the said county, and to inflame and excite to violence, against the said proprietors of the said slaves, not only the ignorant and ill disposed among the free people of the united states and the free persons of color in the said county, but also the slaves; and to produce among the said slaves and free persons of color, insubordination, violence, and rebellion, and to stir up war and insurrection between the said slaves and their said masters, published the said libels, containing among other things divers false, malicious and seditious matters, of and concerning the laws and government of the united states in the said district, and of and concerning the citizens of the united states holding slaves in the said district, and of and concerning the said slaves and free persons of color, and their labor, services, and treatment, and the state of slavery in the said district. the defendant pleaded not guilty. _the district attorney_ opened the case for the government. he said this was a serious and important charge of publishing inflammatory and seditious libels, which was always an indictable offence. in this particular case, situated as the population of the district is, it was peculiarly dangerous and atrocious. in point of law, it would be necessary to prove a publication; that the prisoner did in some way or other exhibit or circulate one or more of the libels; and with that view he should connect evidence that he was found with many similar libels of a most dangerous and inflammatory tendency, with the words "_read and circulate_" upon them, in writing which crandall admitted to be his own handwriting; and that he gave different and contradictory accounts of how he came by them, and how they came here in his possession. also, that similar libels were dropped into the post-office, and sent by nobody could tell whom, to almost every body in the district. after proving these facts, he said he should carry the libels before the jury, and let them judge whether the prisoner could have been here with any good motive, or have such a mass of obnoxious papers with any good purpose. _mr. coxe_ wished to state, at the outset, what he understood to be the law. the libels charged were not upon individuals, nor the government, but were said to be designed to excite the whole community; and therefore publication or circulation with the intent charged, would be necessary to sustain the prosecution. possession, however bad or dangerous the libels might be, was no crime; any man might have and keep the worst libels with entire innocence; and in this case, it would be no evidence of malicious or dangerous intent that he loaned or gave one to respectable individuals, who would not be injured and would not do any injury to others. _henry king_ testified that about last june or july, he knew crandall in georgetown, where he came and took an office as a botanist, and followed that business. _key_ handed him a pamphlet, and asked if he had seen any like it; stating, upon objection being made by coxe, that his object was to show that crandall gave the witness such a paper to read. _coxe_ objected to the testimony, as furnishing no ground of inference that the act of publication by giving the paper to a respectable white free man, was intended to create excitement, or was the result of a malicious intent. _key_ said he would connect this with other circumstances to show the intent. it was proper evidence to go to the jury, and they must judge what the intent really was. _the court_ ruled that the evidence was admissible; and, _henry king_ went on to testify: he was in crandall's office in georgetown, some time in july last. received from dr. crandall a pamphlet similar to the one now shown him, called the "anti-slavery reporter." there was something written on it, but can't say what it was. he left it at linthicum's store. some one took it away from the store and it was lost. _judge morsell._ did crandall make any remark, when you took the pamphlet? _witness._ no. witness was looking at the botanical preparations in the office, and seeing this and other tracts on the subject of abolition lying about, he took up one and remarked, "the latitude is too far south for these things;" "they won't do here;" but, "by your leave, i will take this and read it over." crandall was at the time engaged in taking out preparations of plants from a large trunk. there were three of these pamphlets on the table, but don't know whether they were taken from the trunk or not. crandall used newspapers, or something like them, as wrappers for the preserved plants. witness is not a slaveholder himself. witness after looking over the pamphlet threw it on the desk in linthicum's store, and afterwards threw it under the counter. when the excitement arose, looked for it and could not find it. had thought nothing about it till then. did not remember what words were written on the pamphlet. crandall did not call his attention to the tracts. he asked crandall for the pamphlet, as a loan, and took it away with crandall's leave. crandall never asked for it afterwards. he saw something written on the pamphlet, and recollects that crandall at his examination in the jail, admitted the words, "please read and circulate" to have been written by himself. he saw in crandall's shop two or three of them, not more than three. the plants were enveloped in large newspapers. crandall had been in georgetown about three weeks or a month, at this time. witness was frequently in the shop. crandall was much engaged in gathering and preserving plants. _key_ proposed to read from the pamphlet. _coxe_ objected that the publication, with the malicious intent charged, had not been proved, and that it was necessary before going into any other evidence to make out the fact of publication. the paper could not be read to show the intent, when no evidence of publication is offered to show such a publication as is charged; and he cited various authorities of no interest to the general reader. _key_ argued that possession alone of a known published libel, was evidence of publication sufficient to call upon the defendant to show how he came by it. the intent was to be inferred from the character of the libel: and the evidence he had already given was sufficient _prima facia_ evidence to put the prisoner to his defence, and allow the libel to be read to the jury. he meant to show other circumstances which would show the intent. if the evidence of having given one to a witness, and having in possession a bundle of other similar libels was not enough, then a man has only to keep them on hand, and take care not to give them away; but he may tell every body that he has them, and advertise them from one end of the country to the other; and may give them to every body who chooses to call for them, without any danger from the law. _the court_ called king again, when he stated that crandall permitted him to take away the pamphlet at his request, reluctantly; that it was a private office, without any sign, or indication of business, or any thing shown for sale at the windows, nor any thing for sale in the shop. the pamphlets might have been thrown down in the confusion of unpacking; and he never saw but three persons in the shop, which was usually kept locked. crandall was mostly out collecting plants; and he once saw him describing some specimens to mr. cruickshank and doctor king; he understood crandall had given out that he was about to teach botany. the counsel for the defence here contended, that this was not sufficient evidence of malicious publication. the delivery to king was no more than simple possession in the eye of the law, and was compatible with entire innocence; and possession alone was no offence. _key_ cited a number of authorities to show that _prima facia_ evidence of publication only, was necessary to let the libel go to the jury. here was a publication--the jury must judge of the intent--with the handwriting of the prisoner endorsed with the words "read and circulate;" and he made the point that when a libel is printed, and a copy is found in possession of the prisoner, it is _prima facia_ evidence to allow the libel to be read. to prove that the words were on the libel given to king, in the prisoner's handwriting, he called _william robinson_, who testified, that he saw the pamphlet which king said he got of crandall in linthicum's shop, and that the words "read and circulate" were written on it. _the court_, deeming this to be _prima facia_ evidence of publication, permitted the pamphlet to be read to the jury, or so much thereof as either party might think proper to be read, and pertinent to the issue. _key_ was about to read the libel. _coxe_ objected, that it was not the libel proved to have been given to king, for that was lost. _king_ was called again and said the paper he had was lost; how or where he did not know; but he identified the one handed to him as an exact copy of the same pamphlet; but said he could not say what writing was on the one he had. he might have remembered if he had not seen some with and some without writing. _c. t. coote_ was one of the examining magistrates in the jail when crandall was arrested. he recollected that king pointed out one with the writing on, as similar to the one he had, and that crandall admitted the writing to be his. _b. k. morsell_, another of the magistrates, recollected that king stated distinctly, that the words "read and circulate" were on the paper when he got it; and that crandall said it was his handwriting, but he did not recollect crandall's saying it was put on a year before. the question was here raised and argued by the counsel on both sides, whether any evidence could be given of any libels, except those of which the publication was proved, unless they referred distinctly to the libels charged in the indictment. _the court_ was of opinion that the united states could not give in evidence to the jury, for the purpose of proving the intent of the defendant in publishing the libel stated in the first count, any papers subsequently published by the defendant, or found in his possession unpublished by him, which would be libels, and might be substantive subjects of public prosecution, if published. _thruston, j._, differed with the majority and delivered the following opinion: there are five counts in the indictment charging, in various ways, the publishing by the traverser of sundry libels with intent to create sedition and excite insurrection among the slaves and free blacks. the first count in the indictment charges the publication of a certain libel, not otherwise described or set out in the count, than by selecting certain paragraphs in the supposed libellous pamphlet, and setting them out severally in the count. to this count only and to the libellous matter charged thereon has any evidence of publication been given. the attorney for the united states has moved the court to be permitted to give in evidence to the jury other printed pamphlets of the same character and on the same subject, and which the traverser acknowledged to represent his sentiments, as evidence of malice on the part of the traverser in the publication of the libel in the first count; the libel in the first count being one of those which, with the others now asked to be given in evidence, the traverser acknowledged contained his sentiments. that is, that it is competent to prove malice in the publication of one libel by others found in the possession of the traverser on the same subject, of which no proof of publication has been offered. the motion to admit the said alleged libellous pamphlets in evidence has been supported by no precedent or adjudged case, but from analogies drawn from proceedings in other cases, and from the expediency or necessity of punishing the enormous crime of which the defendant stands accused; enormous, we all admit the crime to be, if substantiated, but which judges cannot punish but under the rules and principles of law. enormous as the offence is, it is questionable whether from public considerations it is not better that the accused should escape punishment, than that the law should be perverted to obtain his conviction. there being no authorities cited to sustain the motion of the attorney for the united states, we have no other guide to enlighten and direct us than the established principles and rules of law in criminal proceedings. i take it to be well settled, that in indictments for libels, publication is the gist and essence of the crime; that having in one's possession one or more seditious or libellous writings, whether written or printed, if their contents be not communicated or made known to one or more persons, then the possessor is not criminal in a legal point of view. it is true that hawkins was cited to prove that having in one's possession a known published libel is _prima facie_ evidence of publication against such possessors; admitting this authority, it seems not to touch the case before us, unless those libels were published within this district. they purport on the face of them to have been printed in _new york_, and there published, so far as sending them abroad, within that state, from the printing office, and putting them into the hands of others amounts to a publication within this district; and no evidence has been offered that the traverser ever distributed a single copy or imparted their contents to any person within this district saving the one charged in the first count. hawkins surely did not mean that having a copy of a libel published in a foreign country in one's possession, was evidence of publication in another state or country where the possessor of such copy may be found: for example, a libel against the british government printed and published in france would be no publication in england, to charge a person found in england with one or more copies of such libels in his possession, with the guilt of publishing such libel against the laws of england. it is true, in times of great excitement in england, when the rebellious principles of france were gaining ground and endangering the very existence of the government, the scottish courts did condemn and send to botany bay, muir and palmer for having in their possession a printed copy of thomas paine's rights of man. it is very long since i read the case; indeed shortly after we first obtained the information of their trial, and shortly indeed after the trial; but i have never heard the judgment of the court in their case spoken of but with reprobation. i cannot remember the particulars of the case. the evidence was, that the book had been reprinted and published in great britain. if so, that case is stronger than that of having a printed copy in possession of a libel published only in a foreign country; and so far, if such be the fact, it is sustained by the dictum in hawkins, but this dictum is not itself sustained, as far as i could judge from the authorities cited at the bar, from hawkins himself, nor by any adjudged case. i think i may boldly assert, then, that the merely having in possession a libel printed and published in a foreign country only, is not an indictable offence here, and publication of the same libel here. let us then examine how far these alleged libels, which, although not subjects of criminal prosecution here, can be made use of to sustain the publication, or prove, or aid in proving, the criminal intent or malice in the publication of another libel charged in the first count, and of the publication of which some evidence has been offered to the jury. now the libels in the first count, of which evidence of publication has been given to the jury, is of itself libellous, or it is not; if it be libellous and published, the law deduces the criminal intent from the libellous matter itself, and therefore requires no aid from other libellous writings to sustain it: if it be not libellous, it cannot be made so by showing other libellous writings of the traverser, of which he is not accused or charged in the indictment. i mean the libellous matter itself in the libel is, in the eye of the law, proof of criminal intent, if it be published, unless the traverser can rebut this inference of law by proving his innocence of any criminal intent, by some sufficient excuse, as that some person stole the copy from him and published it without his knowledge or consent. but the attorney for the united states urged that these pamphlets, indicating the one charged in the first count, contained or expressed opinions which coincided with his sentiments on the subject matter of them; and this was urged as a reason for admitting them in evidence. this, in my view, amounts to nothing more than that he appropriated to himself and adopted the thoughts of others. what proof could this appropriation or adoption afford of a malicious intent in their publication? every man has an unquestionable right to his own moral or religious sentiments: there is no crime in this: it would be criminal to restrain any man in this country in his own, or in adopting the moral or religious opinions of others, if he please; it is criminal only when he attempts to propagate them, and only when they have a tendency to disturb the peace of society--to invade the general rights of property--and are most essentially criminal, if they have a tendency to produce the dreadful results charged in the indictment. but bad as the tendency of those writings may be, and unquestionably are, if truly portrayed in the indictment, i know not how much less danger would result, if, led away by our feelings, we bend the rules and principles of law from expediency, or the supposed political necessity of convicting the accused. the present crisis may pass without leaving any dangerous consequences behind it. the good sense and virtue of the people, and the fear of punishment in transgressors, will check the progress of these alarming doctrines; but if we invade the panoply which the law has provided for the protection of the accused against arbitrary or vindictive judgments, we establish precedents, the evil consequences of which cannot be calculated. the criminal intent, then, does not consist in the writing or possession of a written or printed libel, but in the publishing it. it is not easy to conceive how the criminal intent of publishing one libel, can be proved by the having in possession other libels not published, any more than you would be permitted to prove a man guilty of stealing one horse, because you might prove that he had a propensity to horse-stealing. but you would not be allowed to introduce such proof. the _quo animo_ with which a horse is taken, is as necessary in an indictment for horse stealing, as for publishing a libel. now, as i observed before, if the matter of the pamphlet charged in the first count in the indictment is libellous, does not the acknowledgment of the traverser that the sentiment in the several pamphlets coincided with his own, embrace in it the sentiments in the pamphlets charged in the first count, and of which evidence has been offered of publication? if so, does not this libel of itself afford sufficient evidence of malice, without resorting to the matter of other pamphlets not charged? then why resort to them? the traverser was not apprised from this first count, that he was responsible for any libel or libellous matter, except what was contained in the libel set out in said count. if you are permitted in order to prove malice in publishing the libel in the first count, to read to the jury the libellous matter of other alleged libels, what will be the consequence? the matter in those other libels may be of a more aggravated or inflammatory character than in that set out in the first count. is it not evident, if such be the case, that the jury may be influenced to convict the traverser, not by the matter of the libel with which he is charged, but from that of other libels with which he is not charged? surely, if malice in the publication of a libel be an inference of law, that inference must be drawn only from the libel charged and published, not from other writings which are not libellous because not published. as i observed before, if the paper charged in the first count be of itself libellous, the criminal intent of publication is to be inferred from the confession of the traverser that he approved of the sentiments contained in it. if such inference can be drawn from such confession it can as well be sustained from the matter of this libel, as from that of any number of others, and there is no need to resort to them for such inference; if the matter of such papers be not libellous, no number of other libels found in the traverser's possession, however coinciding with his own opinions, can sustain the libel charged. again: if the matter of those pamphlets, which the attorney for the united states has moved the court to be permitted to lay before the jury, be libellous, may not the traverser be hereafter arraigned upon them if proof shall be had of their publication? this is possible; almost probable, if his zeal in the cause be so great as has been attempted to be proved. then might he not be convicted by their instrumentality in the present prosecution, and again in a subsequent prosecution for publishing those very libels? i thought the court had decided this point in a former opinion in this case, where they said they could not be evidence if _they were of themselves indictable writings_. again: if the proof of malice in the publication of the charged libel be not complete, can it be made so by the production of other pamphlets or libels not published? is it an inference of law, that having such libels in the traverser's possession furnishes any proof of malice in the publication of the charged libel? i question the legal logic of such an argument. it was almost as easy to publish by distributing fifty pamphlets as one. now if but one of fifty was given out, is it not as probable that he did not desire to publish them, as that he did? now an inference from facts, or acts, is matter of law, and i should hesitate to tell the jury that the traverser having in his possession fifty other libels, or any lesser or greater number, which he might have published with the same ease as he published one, is proof of malice in publishing that one. an inference to be drawn from proved facts or circumstances is something like a corollary drawn from a previously demonstrated theorem in mathematics. i wish it was as certain and clear. an inference deduced from a proved theorem in geometry is unquestionable. every body will agree to it. an inference drawn by law from previously proved facts or circumstances, is doubtful at best. two discreet judges may and often do disagree in regard to it. do we not hear every day, in this court, of the most wise and able judges--of the venerated hale himself--admonishing courts and juries not to lend a willing ear to them; at least against circumstantial evidence, which is the same thing. how many almost irresistable cases of inferences drawn from pregnant facts have been shown, in which time proved the fallacy of such inferences, and that many an innocent man has been consigned to an ignominious death by circumstantial or (which is the same thing) inferential evidence, and still so strong were the facts and circumstances in the very cases cited by them, (where time proved the innocence of the accused who had suffered the penalty of the law), that under the same circumstances i should permit the same evidence to go to the jury--but in the case before the court those admonitions are well worth considering. we are asked to admit certain pamphlets said to be of similar libellous tendency, and proved by the confession of the traverser to coincide with his opinions, as the one charged in the indictment, and of the publication of which evidence has been offered to the jury, although such pamphlets were never out of the possession of the traverser nor shown to any one, to prove malice in the traverser in the publication of another pamphlet charged to have been published by him in the first count in the indictment. i do not distinctly see the legal inference of malice in having in his possession those unpublished pamphlets. he could have published them, if this malice was in his heart. why did he not? is it not in evidence that when he permitted one of those pamphlets to be taken from his counter and read by mr. king, that he did it with reluctance, and that he was warned of the danger of bringing such writings so far south? is it unreasonable to suppose that he was deterred by the warning? taking then the whole evidence together, although it proved great indiscretion in the traverser, and great guilt had he propagated his writings--and that he would have deserved the most condign punishment had he had the temerity to have published them--yet, if i am to take the whole of the testimony in the case, i should be compelled to say, that in withholding the other pamphlets from the view of others, or of any other, he was influenced by the counsel he had received, and was afraid to publish them; and that, under the circumstances in which he permitted the first pamphlet to be taken from his counter and published, if such permission be a publication, that he then was aware of the danger he was in, and that under such circumstances the having in his possession other pamphlets of a similar character, (if the publication by permitting the pamphlets charged in the first count to be taken from his counter and read by mr. king, be not taking the contents of the pamphlet into view of itself a malicious publication), it cannot be made so by having other pamphlets of similar tendency in his possession, which he did not publish nor attempt to publish. it was contended, among the reasons assigned by the attorney for the united states for the admission of those pamphlets in evidence to the jury, that some three or four of them were endorsed with the words "read this and circulate," in the handwriting of the traverser, and this was evidence of malice in the publication of the pamphlet charged in the first count, and of which evidence of the publication has been offered to the jury. but this pamphlet last spoken of had also the same words written on it: whatever evidence of malice may be inferred from these words, is furnished by the said pamphlet itself, and therefore it is not necessary to resort to other sources for such evidence. it is true that a multiplication of the same inscriptions on other pamphlets may, and do, manifest greater zeal, and more intense interest in the subject matter of the writings, and indicate an intention on the part of the writer of such inscriptions to publish them. the malice which the law denounces is in the publication, not in the writing or composition: a man may express his thoughts or opinions in writing with impunity, and is as innocent in the eye of the law (provided he keeps such writings or compositions locked up from the public eye) as if they were locked up in his own mind. is not an indication or manifestation of an intention to publish certain writings or printed compositions, and the withholding the execution of such intention as strong evidence of change of purpose from fear of the consequences or for other reasons, as of malice in the publication of one of them in the way, and under the circumstances, in which the one charged to have been published in the first count was published? it is very clear, it seems to me, that if there were no other evidence of any other publication of any of the pamphlets in question, than the inscription on the corner "read this and circulate," that the indictment could not be sustained, because such inscriptions, if the pamphlets are never shown to any other person, is in the eye of the law harmless. if, then, we are asked to admit such inscriptions or pamphlets never shown to, or seen by any other person within this district, because there is evidence that one such pamphlet was permitted to be seen and partly read by another, must we not look at the evidence which proves such exhibition of such pamphlets, and connect that with such inscriptions on other pamphlets not published, to see how far such inscriptions go to fortify and strengthen the evidence of malice as to the published pamphlets? in other words, to see what legal inferences of additional evidence such inscriptions afford? if this were a case of ordinary importance, i should say without much hesitation, that they afford no such inferences. it is for the jury to draw inferences of guilt or malice from circumstances; they are fully competent to do so in the present case from the evidence now before them; but it is often and almost always a nice point for a court to instruct a jury from what circumstances or facts inferences of guilt or malice may be drawn. it is saying, gentlemen of the jury, such and such a circumstance, if proved to your satisfaction, is evidence from which you may and ought to find against the traverser. it satisfies our minds and ought to satisfy yours. but juries ought and will judge for themselves in criminal cases; and i have always thought it a delicate matter in criminal cases, to give such instructions to juries. here we are not asked to give an instruction; but we are asked to permit evidence to go the jury, which, if allowed, carries with it the opinion of the court that such evidence affords inference of malice. i must see such inference pretty clear myself, before i give my sanction to the jury to draw such inference themselves. it is true the law denounces any published writing having a tendency to produce a breach of peace, or insurrection, or to jeopardize the general rights of property, whether the intent of the writer was wicked or innocent, as libellous. the writing itself being of a libellous character, is of itself evidence of malice in the publication, and it would be no excuse for the publisher to say, i meant no harm, i thought i was doing good. in the eye of the law he is as guilty as if this intention was really wicked. this is called implied malice, in the absence of any other proof of malice than what is offered by the internal evidence of the writing itself. now the object of the motion to lay before the jury other libellous papers, can be for no other purpose than to prove express malice; for the published libel charged in the first count, if it contain libellous matter, and was published, is of itself, sufficient proof of implied malice, and if it be not libellous, no other libellous writing can be introduced to make it so. then, if it be libellous itself, it implies malice; and if other similar writings be introduced to prove malice, what does it amount to but proving the implied malice of one libel by the implied malice of other libels? or, if it be said that some evidence of express malice has been laid before the jury, can you make this evidence more strong or clear by evidence of implied malice, contained in other similar writings not published? upon the whole, i do not distinctly see, under all the circumstances of this case, how the unpublished writings can be admitted to prove the implied malice to be gathered from them if they had been published, the implied malice in the libel charged and allowed to have been published, or how such evidence of implied malice in them, can be brought to prove express malice in the publication of the charged libel in the first count. i am against the motion. _mr. key_, for the united states, then offered to prove the publication by the defendant of the libels stated in the first, second, and third counts, _by proving the following facts_, viz: that a large collection of libels, and among them several copies of those charged in those counts, with the words "_read and circulate_" in his handwriting, were found upon the traverser--that he undertook to account for their being in his possession, and gave untrue and contradictory accounts--that he acknowledged that he had brought here those then shown to him, being the same now in court, and that they comprehended all he brought here, except about a dozen; and that prior to the traverser's arrest sundry similar publications had been privately sent to various persons in this district by some unknown person or persons in this district. after arguments which occupied nearly the whole of saturday, in which the counsel on both sides displayed great learning and ingenuity, _the court_ delivered the opinion that the attorney for the united states may give evidence of the publication, in this district, of any copies of the libels charged in the first and second counts of the indictment. that if he shall have given any evidence tending to show such a publication here, he will be permitted to show that other copies of the same libels were found in the possession of the defendant. he may then give evidence that a certain number of papers or pamphlets were found in the possession of the defendant, together with the copies of the libels charged, and of the publication of which in this district, he shall have given evidence; but he will not be permitted to give in evidence to the jury the contents of any of the papers other than those charged as libels in this indictment, unless such other papers have relation to the libels charged in the indictment, and would not in themselves be substantive ground of prosecution. he may then give evidence to the jury of any confessions or acknowledgments made by the defendant in relation to any of the matters charged in the indictment. _the district attorney_ then put in evidence as follows, to show that the prisoner had many similar libels in his possession, and that others were distributed throughout the district. _h. b. robertson_, constable, deposed that he found some tracts on dr. crandall's table at his office in georgetown. don't recollect how many. there were also a number of them at his lodgings, in a trunk. he denied to me that he had distributed any, but did not conceal or deny that he was in possession of them. he mentioned that he was formerly a subscriber to the emancipator, but they had stopped it, and he had taken them in its place. they were sent to him from new york, and came in a box by water, and not by mail. witness collected and brought them to the jail, tied up in a handkerchief. being fearful of some trouble when he got into the hack, he proposed to mr. jeffers to take crandall to the jail through the back streets, and keep him there during the night, for fear he might be wrested from us and lynched. it was dr. crandall's desire to be taken out of the way of the people, and be carried to the jail. before they left the office a crowd had collected, and they made an effort to get off as quick as possible, being very apprehensive that dr. crandall would suffer some harsh treatment, and serious injury from them. the event verified his expectations, for he found afterwards that the carriage was waited for somewhere on the avenue, where it was expected to pass, by a numerous and excited collection of people. _cross examined._--conversed with dr. crandall at his office and on the way to the jail. went to his lodgings, and found emancipators there. did not offer to carry him before a magistrate in georgetown. told dr. crandall what my apprehensions were for his personal safety, and of being waylaid, and proposed that he should stay at the jail that night. he attempted no concealment, and gave witness free leave to search his papers, &c. witness found boston, new york, and baltimore newspapers, and a great many telegraphs. dr. crandall opened the trunk himself and showed the tracts. don't remember whether they were loose, or tied together and enveloped. those were the pamphlets now in court. don't recollect whether the letters were brought away. there were many plants in the office. don't know what they were put up in. think it was pasteboard, or something like it. asked him if he was dr. crandall, to which he replied yes. then told him that he was charged with being an abolition agent and exhibited the warrant for his arrest. he did not then say any thing about the tracts in his possession, but when they were found he stated they were sent to him from new york, instead of the emancipator, to which he had formerly been a subscriber. he did remark that he had not distributed any tracts of the kind. _question by key._ which of the pamphlets did you find at the office, and which at the house? _coxe_ objected to the question. _key._ i wish to know which kind were sent to crandall in the box from new york. _cranch, c. j._, saw no objection to the question. witness then stated that he found the anti-slavery reporters in the office. did not recollect any others in the office, except the newspapers. the other tracts, together with some books, were found in his trunk at the house. crandall did not say all the papers came in the box. did not endeavor to elicit any confessions from dr. crandall, and, in fact, reminded him that he and mr. jeffers might be called on as witnesses. witness recollected that, during the examination, there was a paper produced by dr. crandall, who was too much agitated to read it. one of the magistrates attempted to read it, but don't know whether it was read or not. dr. crandall was much agitated. there was a great excitement outside the jail, and much alarm in it. dr. crandall was arrested on the th, and examined on the th of august. witness remembers that there was a conversation in the hack, as they were coming from georgetown to the jail, in which the following question was asked dr. crandall:--"don't you think it would be rather dangerous, at the present time, to set all the negroes free?" don't recollect the precise words of the reply, but he inferred from it---- _the court_ interposed. we don't want your inferences, mr. robertson; give us the facts, if you please. well, if it please the court, continued mr. robertson, my impression was, at the time, that dr. crandall's reply amounted to this--that he was for abolition, without regard to consequences. mr. jeffers asked the doctor if he did not think that abolition would produce amalgamation and also endanger the security of the whites. the doctor did not object to these consequences. he thought the negroes ought to be as free as we were. _m. jeffers_, constable, deposed that he saw some pamphlets endorsed "please read and circulate" in dr. crandall's office. witness, when he entered the office, said, "we want all your incendiary tracts, doctor." witness looked into a large box and saw the pamphlets. the box was without cover, and the pamphlets lay in a corner. at his lodgings, more pamphlets were found. don't know how many there were in the box. those in the trunk, at the house, were nearly all new. dr. crandall explained that they had stopped the emancipator and sent the pamphlets in lieu of it. think he said they were sent around in a vessel, in a box. witness asked him what he was doing with so many of them. the reply was that he had procured them for information. don't recollect that any of the botanical specimens were in newspapers. he said they had stopped sending papers weekly and sent them monthly. witness asked what he was doing with so many of the same numbers at the same time, to which he replied that they all came in the box, and that he wanted them merely for information. witness looked into, and not liking their language, remarked that he did not see how any one could derive much improvement from such stuff. witness recollected that there was a paper which dr. crandall tried to read, but was prevented from reading, by extreme agitation. dr. crandall rolled it up and put it in his pocket. he was much agitated, and witness thought, at the time, that he was indiscreet in so freely expressing his sentiments. no pamphlets with the endorsement "read and circulate" were found in the trunk. when crandall was asked why he wanted so many of the same number of the anti-slavery reporter for information, he made no reply. in the course of the conversation in the hack, crandall said he did not intend to deny his principles. witness asked him if colonization would not be better than abolition. he replied: no; he was in favor of immediate emancipation. _question by bradley._ did he not say, "i am for immediate preparation for emancipation." witness did not recollect precisely. that might have been the answer. would not say it was not. when he said he was in favor of immediate emancipation, witness remarked that it would be attended with dreadful consequences. we should all have our throats cut, and the next thing would be amalgamation. _thruston, j._ would the amalgamation occur after our throats are cut, mr. jeffers? _witness._ dr. crandall in reply to this remark, said, "well let the law take care of all that." _b. k. morsell, esq._, one of the justices who committed the traverser, stated that, at the examination of the traverser in the jail, the witness just examined, henry king, deposed that the pamphlet which he took from crandall's office had written upon it the words "please to read and circulate." this deposition was made in the presence of crandall, and crandall did not pretend to deny it, and admitted that the words were in his own handwriting. he said that when he was about to take passage in the steamboat, at new york, there was a bundle of pamphlets brought to him. don't recollect whether he said they were brought to him before or after he went on board of the boat. don't remember whether crandall said they were sent or brought to him. he stated that he was then on his way to this city. a bundle of pamphlets were brought into the jail, at the time of the examination. crandall said that all he brought on were there, except twelve or thirteen. crandall did not state at what time the words "please read and circulate" were written upon the pamphlets. there was no distinction drawn between those which were endorsed and those which were not. they were all thrown together. don't recollect that crandall made any distinction in regard to them. he was understood to speak of all the pamphlets together. the only contradiction in crandall's statement was that he, at first, said that pamphlets were brought to him as he was leaving new york in the boat, and afterwards said they had been in his possession for some time. witness looked at some of them and saw that some were of older date than others. could not distinctly recollect which were of old and which of new date. there was a considerable interval between the dates, but don't remember how long. while the examination was going on, there was a great commotion outside of the jail, and a loud knocking at the door; the prisoner seemed agitated, which was not wonderful, considering the circumstances. don't recollect that he said any thing about the time when the words "_please read and circulate_" were written on the pamphlets. _mr. key_ here admitted that he recollected hearing the prisoner say, at the examination in the jail, that the endorsements were written two years before. _mr. morsell_ continued. don't remember that crandall presented a written paper. think it likely he did. there were three magistrates sitting, and it might have been given to one of the other two. he believed it appeared, on the examination, that crandall had been in this district some months. _clement t. coote, esq._, one of the magistrates who examined the traverser in the jail, deposed that henry king, upon his examination, stated that the words "_please read and circulate_" were written upon the pamphlet when he got it from crandall. a bundle of the tracts were brought in. crandall said he had received them just as he was leaving new york, on his way to this district. he was going down to the boat when they were brought to him. crandall stated, as witness distinctly recollects, that the endorsements were made some time before. witness did not recollect that he stated the precise time, but that he said the endorsements were made some time before. did not recollect that he said he came on directly to washington. after the pamphlets were shown to king and crandall, witness's impression was that crandall had been detained some where on the way, and in the interval had written the words. there was no contradiction that he noticed in crandall's statements. crandall admitted that the words were in his handwriting, but said they were written some time before. crandall said they were all there except about a dozen. he did not say whether he had distributed any; but witness did not understand him to state that the number had been diminished since he came here, but that the bundle exhibited embraced all the tracts which he brought with him from new york. witness's impression that they were all the pamphlets which witness brought to the district, except the one which he lent to king; but crandall did not in his statement except that one. he understood crandall that all that he received at new york were there, except about a dozen. he recollected that crandall said he had been a subscriber to some of the abolition publications. witness or one of the magistrates asked crandall "whether he was aware of the nature of the pamphlets when he left new york?" to which crandall replied that he supposed them to be of the character with those for which he had been in the habit of subscribing. crandall was also asked "why he was put in possession by the publishers of so many copies of the pamphlets, and whether it was not because they supposed he would circulate them and be an efficient agent?" in reply to which crandall said "it might be so." he did not intimate that he had any knowledge of his appointment as an agent. _the court_ here asked witness whether the traverser intimated that the tracts were given to him with his assent and approbation. _witness._ he admitted that the tracts contained his sentiments; but he was not understood to say that he approved of his appointment as an agent, or considered himself as acting in that capacity. when crandall said the endorsements were written some time ago, witness called his attention to the date of one which was not two years ago. witness received a written statement from crandall at the examination. does not know what became of it. thinks it was returned to crandall. crandall did not say he knew the contents of the tracts when he received them, but said he supposed they were of similar character to those which he had subscribed for. witness read a paper which contained crandall's statement on the subject, and recollects that it was written in the jail. has no recollection that it stated that crandall was a member of an abolition or emancipation society. when witness called crandall's attention to the endorsements on the tracts, crandall said they had been on some time. believes he said something about two years, and recollects that he then remarked to crandall that one of them had not been published two years. _b. k. morsell, esq._, (called again) stated that crandall, when asked whether he was acquainted with the nature of the pamphlets sent to him in new york, said he supposed that they contained his sentiments, and were of the same character with those which he had taken some time before. he used these very words, "i don't pretend to deny that i am an anti-slavery man, and profess these sentiments." the pamphlets were then before us, and the examination referred to them. he added, that when he came on here, he found he was too far south to circulate the tracts, and that all he had received were those before us, except about a dozen. he did not deny that he came direct to this city from new york. he said nothing which impressed witness with the belief that he stopped on the road, if he said he stopped on the way, witness did not hear it. there was considerable confusion in the jail during the examination. crandall might have said many things which witness did not hear. there were a great many people in the jail. he recollected that crandall said the words "please read and circulate" were written two years before, and that mr. coote pointed to a pamphlet, so endorsed, which had been printed within two years; but he understood that crandall's statement was applied to all the pamphlets together. he understood that some of the pamphlets were found at crandall's office, and some at his lodgings, and that they were found scattered about the office. does not recollect that there was any testimony about unpacking a box. there was nothing in the testimony which made any impression that there was any distinction between the pamphlets. they were all brought together. recollects that crandall handed him a written paper. began reading it, but could not get through with it; could not read it, and handed it back to crandall; supposed that it was written under some agitation. _jacob oyster_ knew the prisoner in georgetown, and prisoner hired a shop of him. he was sick some time after he hired it, but had a large box put into it. when he hired it he said he was going to lecture on botany at different places. witness was present when he opened the box, and it contained books, surgical instruments, and pamphlets. he saw two or three such pamphlets as were shown in court, which were thrown out of the box. mr. king came in and picked up a pamphlet and said he should like to have the reading of one; and the prisoner said he might. when king saw it, he said it would not answer, it was too far south. a day or two after he asked king what he thought of it, and he said he didn't like it, and asked witness if he had seen the endorsement, which he showed, "read and circulate." witness didn't see any writing on the others. he had some conversation with crandall when the news first came of the attempt to murder mrs. thornton, and told prisoner nobody was to blame but the new yorkers and their _aid de camps_; and that the boy said he had made use of their abolition pamphlets. crandall replied, that he didn't approve of putting them into circulation, for the excitement was too high already. _cross-examined._ he said he helped unpack the box--that he knew of no other pamphlets; but crandall had newspapers to put up his plants. witness was in the shop almost every day, and never saw more than two or three people there; and never saw crandall talking with any colored people or slaves. he was in the habit of going out into the fields, and brought back a great many plants. he thought the prisoner conducted himself very well, and was a very steady man in every respect. the papers in his office were of all sorts, and from different cities. _william robinson_ saw the words "read and circulate," but had never seen the defendant write. he had received similar publications but did not know where they came from. one came through the post-office, but was not postmarked where it was sent from; and had no postage on it. he returned it to new york to the publisher. he heard crandall admit the handwriting to be his in the jail. _charles gordon_ was in the war department, and the whole building was flooded by them. he returned his to new york to the agent with remarks, and had received none since. this was just before crandall's arrest. _coxe_ remarked he had done the same; and it was no evidence against crandall. _the court_ was of opinion that the printing and publishing these pamphlets in new york, is not evidence of their publication here, so as to fix upon the defendant here such a knowledge of their publication as to make his possession alone, even with the words "_read and circulate_" written upon them, evidence of the publication of them by him here. that in order to show the evil intent with which the defendant published the paper charged in this first count, it is not competent for the united states to give in evidence to the jury other _unpublished_ papers or pamphlets found in the defendant's possession, unless accompanied by evidence of some acknowledgment or admission, by the defendant, that he knew and approved their contents. that the evidence did not appear to the court to justify the inference that the defendant knew and approved the contents of those pamphlets, unless it can be connected with evidence that they were of the same nature with those which he had been a subscriber for. _key_ then proposed, as he had shown that the traverser had by his declaration approved of the publications, and had also implied approval by writing on the words read and circulate, to put them in as evidence of intent, in relation to the one published, and given to the witness king. _the court_ ruled that they could not be given in evidence, without proof of publication. _key_ then proposed to read the emancipator, as a paper he had subscribed for, instead of which these had been sent. this was objected to on the ground that there was no proof that he had _subscribed_ for the emancipator; and that if he had, it was at a period previous to the time about which he was charged with any offence. the emancipator was sent gratis, and _taken_ by many persons who did not approve of it. _jeffers_ was called, and said crandall said he had _taken_ the emancipator, or _subscribed_ for it, he didn't know which. _the court_ decided that such emancipators might be given in evidence as were published before the declarations of the traverser. _thruston, j._, dissented from this opinion on the ground that it was not competent to put in one libel, for which the prisoner was not indicted, to show the sentiments he entertained in regard to one for which he was indicted. in the midst of considerable discussion as to the parts which were proper to be read on the different sides, the most of the day, tuesday and wednesday, was consumed in reading long articles from different numbers of the emancipators, to show that the anti slavery society intended to use every exertion to procure the immediate abolition of slavery. in the course of this reading, _key_ proposed to read an advertisement of the different works published by the anti slavery society, which was objected to on the ground that it would admit all the works named to be read, and as crandall had not been proved to be a member of that society, he ought not to be made answerable for all their doings, nor for all that the editor of the emancipator might see fit to publish. _the court_ decided that the reading must be confined within some reasonable limits. that the district attorney might read such _editorial_ articles, or parts of them, as he saw fit, and the counsel for the defence might read any other parts, or the whole, if they chose. the advertisement was of course rejected, but reading of other parts was continued. _the district attorney_ afterwards offered evidence, under the third count of the indictment, to put in certain tracts with pictures upon them, which was objected to upon two grounds. _first_, that the count was insufficient, as it did not specify any libellous publication and did not declare that the offence was against any person, or government, or people, which was said to be an essential form of indictment; and, _second_, because the whole of the tracts, papers, and pamphlets, were illegally obtained from the prisoner. the defendant's counsel then read the warrant under which crandall was apprehended, which authorized the officers to take the person of the prisoner, and to search his papers; and contended that such search warrant was illegal--that a man's private papers were sacred from search. the objection was resisted on the ground that the objection was made too late. it should have been taken at the outset of the trial, or before the magistrates--that the warrant (which was admitted to have been made by the district attorney) was proper, and conformable to the law which admitted of search in the premises and in the persons of thieves and counterfeiters for the tools and implements with which they were enabled to commit their crime--and that it was competent to use the evidence which had been obtained, although it was illegally gotten in the first instance. _the court_ was of opinion that the evidence was competent, on the principle upon which evidence might be given of stolen goods found in consequence of confession, though the confession might be forced from the prisoner by threats or evil treatment. the confession might not be evidence, but the fact of finding the stolen goods could be proved to the jury. _the court_ also overruled the objection to the form of the count, and did not consider it so imperfect as to authorize them to reject evidence offered under it. _key_ then went on to prove that certain libels found in the possession of the prisoner were circulated in the district. _gen. hunter_ identified one of the tracts as a copy of one sent to him through the post office, marked one cent postage, both the tract and envelope of which having been burnt. he thought it strange the postage from new york should be only one cent. it was about the time the city was inundated with abolition papers. _coxe_ objected to the testimony, if the paper was destroyed. _key_ was called as a witness by bradley, and testified that the paper handed the witness was one of them handed in at the jail as found upon crandall, and had not been out of his possession, since. _bradley_ remarked that the paper was a july number, and had not been published when crandall came from new york. if, by the testimony showed, they were all delivered in new york, this paper could not have been found upon him. _james a. kennedy_ was shown a paper, and said his initials were on it. a considerable number of the same came on in a bag--about a bushel and a half--from new york, some of which were delivered and some were returned to the post office. the rest were not delivered at all. he did not recollect any of the same kind sent before, though many had been sent since, every month, as late as march last. they came in an envelope addressed to single individuals. the postage for a sheet was two and a half cents. these were marked half a sheet, and some were charged one cent and a quarter; afterwards, they were found to be more than half a sheet, and were charged two and a half cents, as for a whole one. there was no postmark put upon them, as that is confined wholly to letters. _benj. e. giddings_ saw some of these papers at the time spoken of by mr. kennedy; and never saw any before july last. they all came in a bag, and he did not think any were dropped into the post office here. the office here, as well as at georgetown, had been watched to see if any were put in by persons here. the two last witnesses were clerks in the post office. _mr. ball_ said the papers were given to him at the jail, after crandall's examination, and he kept them locked up till they were sent for and delivered to mr. key at his office. it appeared that they were kept at the office some time, and were sealed and labelled by charles mcnamee, though one or two persons were in the office while he was doing it; and mr. key certified, that on the first day of the trial, before they were sorted, many persons in court took different numbers of them to look at, but he believed they were all returned, and he took pains to request them who took them to hand them back to him. to the best of his belief, the pamphlets now in court were the same which were delivered at the jail, without addition or diminution. _p. r. fendall_ was connected with the office of the colonization society. the anti-slavery reporter was sent from new york in exchange for the african repository published by the colonization society; some controversy had existed between the two societies, and it was necessary to read their attacks in order to be able to answer them. the papers received were open for the use of members, and were sometimes loaned to others to take away and read. _key_ then offered four numbers of the second volume of the anti-slavery reporter to the jury. _bradley_ claimed one as his, which never was in the possession of the prisoner. _key_ requested him to be sworn, and _bradley_ testified, that he could identify the paper by several marks which he pointed out. he received it in november last, in consequence of a letter which he had written with a view to procure two or three, which were sent on through the post office. he wrote for them in consequence of conversation with crandall; (but he was not allowed to state the substance of what crandall said.) how this paper came into mr. key's possession he did not know, but this disappeared from his desk in court, and two others had been taken from his office. considerable argument ensued upon the point, whether it was competent to give in evidence a printed copy of a _known published libel_, or whether in order to be evidence against the person on whom it is found, it must not be a written copy. on one side it was argued that every one might innocently have a printed copy, but the having a written copy would show some extraordinary interest in the libel; and the books all spoke of a written copy only as evidence of publication. for the prosecution it was urged that having a printed copy was stronger evidence than a written one, especially when the party had a number of copies of the same libel, endorsed in his own handwriting with words that showed an interest, and an intent to circulate it. _the court_ was of opinion that it was competent to give in evidence such printed copies of the known published libel as were found upon the prisoner with the endorsement "read and circulate." two witnesses were called, _colclazier_ and _tippet_, to testify to conversations held with crandall in the jail, in which he spoke in favor of immediate emancipation and against slavery. the case for the prosecution was here closed. _mr. bradley_ then stated the opening of the defence. after some general remarks upon the course taken by the prosecution, and difficulty of getting witnesses here to testify in behalf of the prisoner, from so great a distance, as well as the impossibility of putting in depositions in a criminal case, without the district attorney's consent, which he would not give, he went on to call the attention of the jury to the details he meant to prove. he intended to show crandall's whole course of life, from his boyhood up; that he was regularly educated as a surgeon and physician, and settled in peekskill; and that no man ever obtained a higher character for probity and skill; that he never was a member of an abolition society, and there was none in the place where he lived; that he had no idea of stopping here when he came on, but came as the attendant of an invalid family with whom he had resided; that the pamphlets were packed up, not by him, but by the lady of the house, as waste paper, without his even dreaming of their contents; and that the endorsements were put on some two years ago. he would show also that he had subscribed for temperance papers; but that the abolition papers were sent to him without his knowledge of their contents; that after he arrived here, and found this the best field in the world for the study of botany, he concluded to stop and give a course of lectures, instead of going to the west, as had been his intention previously, according to arrangements he had made. the bundle that was given him in new york was sent without his knowledge of their contents. it remained tied up till a day or two before his arrest, when it was untied by mrs. austin; and, as had been proved by the officers who arrested him, up to that moment they had never been opened or even separated. he said he would show the law, and bring it to bear upon the points of the case; and he declared if he believed crandall guilty of distributing or intending to distribute incendiary papers, he would abandon his cause, and no longer consider himself his counsel. the following extracts of speeches made in the capitol at washington, at the eleventh annual meeting of the colonization society, in which slaveholders themselves made remarks which, it was urged by the defendant's counsel, were quite as strong, and as much calculated to excite sedition, as the words of the libel charged against the prisoner. mr. key read the parts of his own speech not enclosed in brackets, to show the difference of meaning in the whole papers, and the difference of intent. the paragraph in brackets was read by mr. bradley. the following is from mr. harrison's speech: "but a dearer land to our hearts is too to be regenerated. a wretched class, cursed with ineffectual freedom, is to be made free indeed, and an outlet is to be opened to those who will voluntarily disencumber themselves of the evil and the threatening ruin of another domestic pestilence. public opinion must be the only agent in this: the most reluctant shall not be forced; the most timid shall not be alarmed by any thing we are to do. hitherto and henceforward our plan has been and shall be without constraint on any one, and never shall we offer any argument or invitation to humanity divorced from patriotism. to this truly quiet, unofficious spirit, do i trust for bringing about the time when we shall be one homogeneous nation of freemen; when those great principles now true of us only in part, shall be true in the whole; and when the clear light now in our upper sky only, shall brighten the whole expanse of the american character." the speech of mr. key, the district attorney, is as follows: "on behalf of the board of managers, who had this night seen and heard all that was calculated to animate them to a faithful discharge of their duties, he begged leave to present a resolution of thanks for the zealous co-operation of the auxiliary societies throughout the united states. in the increasing exertions of these valuable branches of the parent institution, the society believed itself to possess the most satisfactory pledge that its design had received the approbation, and would ere long enjoy the support of the great body of citizens throughout our country. such an anticipation was not to be thought delusive, because the opposition made to the society at its commencement still continued. on the contrary, this very opposition, properly considered, affords the fullest proof of the wisdom of our object, and the fairest presage of its success. "at its origin the society found itself in a very extraordinary situation. it had scarcely been formed when it was assailed by opponents of the most contrary character, from the north and south. men who held, upon these subjects, the most opposite views, who agreed in no one thing that related to our colored population, united in denouncing us. this state of things, in some measure, still continues. but the board of managers have long ceased to look upon it with alarm. they soon perceived that a wisdom far higher than their own, was, in a way most contrary to their expectations, gradually preparing the public mind for a fair consideration and favorable reception of their measures. they were compelled to see and to acknowledge that it was best it should be so. had the design of the society been approved and supported in the outset by either of these opposing parties, it must have encountered the settled and irreconcileable opposition of the other; but as it is, the society, instead of being espoused by the north in opposition to the south, or by the south in opposition to the north, has been silently filling its ranks with converts from both. its cause has been gradually bringing over the moderate, the reasonable, the humane, the patriotic, from all parties and from every portion of the union to give their aid and countenance to the support of a scheme which they once opposed only because they misunderstood it. i have adverted to this extraordinary opposition that the friends of the society may not be dismayed by it; and i take this occasion to address a few words to each of these classes of opponents. ["i would premise what i have to say to them by stating two very plain propositions. the first is, that the subject of slavery, in some way or other, will come into the thoughts, feelings, and plans of men situated as we are. it is vain to say--let it alone. there may have been a time when the excitement now felt on this subject might have been stifled. when it was determined by our fathers to secure to themselves and their posterity the rights of freemen and the blessings of independence, then should they have been warned of the exciting consequences that would result from the acquisition and enjoyment of such rights. then should it have been shewn how they would lead to conceptions and discussions dangerous to the rights of property and the public peace. then should they have been called to choose between these conflicting interests, and to count the cost of what they might lose by declaring to the world that all men were free and equal, and appealing to heaven for its truth. but there was, then, no man cold enough for such a calculation; no man who could darken the brightness of that day by raising such a question. it is too late now. in this age, in this country, the agitation of this subject is unavoidable. legislation never can restrain it. public sentiment never will. you may as well forge fetters for the winds, as for the impulses of free and exulting hearts; if speech and action could be repressed, there would be excitement in the very looks of freemen.] "the other proposition is this, that among the plans and descriptions that relate to this delicate subject, it must happen that some will be rash and dangerous. "it is not to be expected, that men, not well informed of facts as they exist, and misled by the ardor of an inconsiderate zeal, will not devise projects and hold them out to others, which may be attended with the most disastrous consequences. this is the nature of things. it must ever be so upon every subject, which like this contains within itself the elements of great excitement; more especially when that excitement is connected with some of the best principles and feelings of the heart. "now, sir, put these two propositions together; that silence and inaction are unattainable, and dangerous and improper projects almost unavoidable, and what are we to do? something we must do. however desirous we might be to do nothing, it is impossible, because others will not consent to do nothing; and if we relinquish the task of action, it will infallibly fall into hands most unfit to receive it. nothing remains, then, but to devise something safe and practicable and place it in prudent hands. "and now, sir, i would respectfully ask our opponents, of both descriptions, to consider whether this has not been done by the establishment of this society. i would ask the abolitionist to suspend his own labors, and consider the object and the consequences of ours. i would ask him if it is not better to unite with us in what is safe and practicable, and may be managed with the consent of those, whose consent is not to be dispensed with, than to attempt to force his own views upon men, by means which they denounce as dangerous. "sir, this is the appeal which has been made by the society, and which it yet makes to one class of its opponents. nor is it altogether unsuccessful. many active and benevolent men are now with us, who, but for this society, would have been working on their own more questionable projects, and vainly attempting what, perhaps, can scarcely be pursued, with safety to the peace and happiness of the country. "and may we not appeal also to our brethren of the south--and ask their fair consideration of the two propositions i have suggested? if feeling, discussion, and action, in reference to a subject upon which they are so sensitive, cannot be extinguished, is it not wise to endeavor to moderate and restrain them? may they not, if they cannot give their approbation to our society, as good in itself, at least bring themselves to tolerate it as the preventive of greater evils? may it not be wise for those who must know that there are schemes more alarming to their interests than colonization, to suffer us to enlarge our sphere of action, and bring those who would otherwise be engaged in dangerous and injudicious projects, to unite in our safer labors? may we not claim at least this merit for our labors:--that they are safe? may we not appeal to the experience of eleven years, to show that the work in which we are engaged can be conducted without excitement or alarm? and who are we, we may be permitted to ask, to whose hands this charge has been committed? we have the same interests in this subject with our southern brethren--the same opportunity of understanding it, and of knowing with what care and prudence it should be approached. what greater pledge can we give for the moderation and safety of our measures than our own interests as slaveholders, and the ties that bind us to the slaveholding communities to which we belong? "i hope i may be excused if i add that the subject which engages us, is one in which it is our right to act--as much our right to act, as it is the right of those who differ with us not to act. if we believe in the existence of a great moral and political evil amongst us, and that duty, honor and interest call upon us to prepare the way for its removal, we must act. all that can be asked of us is, that we act discreetly--with a just regard to the rights and feelings of others;--that we make due allowances for those who differ with us; receive their opposition with patience, and overcome it by the fruits that a favoring providence, to which we look, may enable us to present from our labors." the next passages were from a speech of mr. custis, as follows: "sir, the prosperity and aggrandizement of a state is to be seen in its increase of inhabitants, and consequent progress in industry and wealth. of the vast tide of emigration, which now rushes like a cataract to the west, not even a trickling rill wends its feeble course to the ancient dominion.--of the multitude of foreigners who daily seek an asylum and a home, in the empire of liberty, how many turn their steps toward the regions of the slave? none. no not one. there is a malaria in the atmosphere of those regions, which the new comer shuns, as being deleterious to his views and habits. see the wide-spreading ruin which the avarice of our ancestral government has produced in the south, as witnessed in a sparse population of freemen, deserted habitations, fields without culture, and, strange to tell, even the wolf, which, driven back long since by the approach of man, now returns, after the lapse of an hundred years, to howl o'er the desolations of slavery. "where, i ask, is the good ship virginia, in the array of the national fleet? drifting down the line, sir,--third, soon to be fourth. where next?--following in the wake of those she formerly led in the van: her flag still flying at the main, the flag of her ancient glory; but her timbers are decaying, her rigging wants setting up anew, and her helmsman is old and weatherbeaten. but let her undergo an overhaul, let the parts decayed by slavery be removed, and good sound materials put in their stead, then manned by a gallant crew, my life on it, the old thing will once more brace upon a wind, aye, and show her stern to those who have almost run her hull under. "let me say, sir, in this legislative hall, where words of eloquence have so often "charmed the listening ear," that the glorious time is coming when the wretched children of africa shall establish on her shores a nation of christians and freemen. it has been said that this society was an invasion of the rights of the slaveholders. sir, if it is an invasion, it comes not from without. it is an irruption of liberality, and threatens only that freemen will overrun our southern country--that the soil will be fertilized by the sweat of freemen alone, and that what are now deserts will flourish and blossom under the influence of enterprise and industry. such will be the happy results of this society. "let the philanthropist look at the facts. nearly two millions of this unhappy people tread our soil. in the southern climate their increase is more rapid than that of the whites. what is the natural result, if some means are not applied to prevent it? what is now, compared to our own population, but as a mole hill, will become a mountain, threatening with its volcanic dangers all within its reach. what is the next consequence? why, as in the slave colonies of other countries, you must have an army of troops to keep in awe this dangerous population. what a sight would this be in a land of liberty! the same breeze that fanned our harvests, that played among the leaves of the cane and the corn, would also rustle banners of war! by the side of implements of agriculture, employed in the works of peace, will appear the gleam of arms. shall it be said that we are not liable to the same vicissitudes that have overtaken other nations? no, sir; we are operated upon by the same circumstances to which other nations have been subjected.--the same causes will produce the same effects, as long as the nature of man is unchanged, in every clime. "i trust, sir, that the march of mind is now upon its glorious way. i trust that the minds of all have been sufficiently opened to the true interest and glory of the country, to agree with me, that this is no fitting place for the slave. that this country must, at some future time, be consecrated to freemen alone. there are many individuals in the southern country, of which i am a native, who predict that the plan must fail. they say we shall go on and partially succeed, that a portion of the black population will go out to the colony, and after residing there a short time, become discontented, when the plan must be given up--and that the evil which we have endeavored to remove will be only the worse for our exertion to obviate it. but this, sir, will not hold true. it was, as it were, but a few day since, a small number of individuals were thrown upon the shores of africa. and what is the result? here let it be said--in the palace of legislation--that this people, but just now a handful, are rising to consequence, and to a capability of the enjoyment of political and civil rights;--and let us say to those who doubt--this is the evidence in favor of our plan! ought not this to join all hearts, and call forth renewed exertions from those whose labors have thus far been crowned with unexpected success? "may not this be looked upon as a glorious work, the success of which has been demonstrated! and when the time shall come,--and i trust in god it will come--when this free and enlightened nation, dwelling in peace and happiness under the mild influences of its government and laws, shall have fixed deep the foundations of civilization in that distant land, hitherto only known for its wide-spread deserts and its savage race. oh! sir, what will be the gratitude of that people, who, transferred from the abode of their bondage, shall enjoy the rights of freemen in their native clime!--and, oh sir, when we look to ourselves--when we see the fertilization of those barren wastes which always mark the land of slaves--when we see a dense population of freemen--when lovely cottages and improved farms arise upon the now deserted and sterile soil--and where now deep silence reigns, we hear the chimes of religion from the village spire;--will you not--will not every friend of his country, thank this society for its patriotic labors! yes! kings might be proud of the effects which this society will have produced. far more glorious than all their conquests would ours be: for it would be the triumph of freedom over slavery--of liberality over prejudice--and of humanity over the vice and wretchedness which ever wait on ignorance and servitude!" _b. hallowell_, having affirmed, stated that he knew crandall, and that he came here in may last, with introductions from very respectable sources. dr. crandall had also been here about a year before, at which time he (mr. h.) wished to engage a person at his seminary in alexandria, as a lecturer on botany. he offered him $ a year, and encouraged him to believe that he would considerably add to that income by making up different classes during the year. dr. crandall said, at the time, that he would take it into consideration, and if he should determine upon it, would move down. the doctor did not return in time to fulfil that engagement. but he brought with him letters showing that he was a christian, a man of science, and a gentleman. he understood it to be dr. crandall's object to have a class not merely for one session, but for every summer, while he remained here. it was about the last of may or first of june when dr. crandall returned. _general fowler_, of georgetown, stated that he knew dr. crandall, and that he was introduced to him, soon after he came, by a person interested in botany, as a man well acquainted with that science. witness was fond of hunting after wild flowers, and proposed to take excursions with dr. crandall. they went out botanizing, six, eight, or ten times together. their conversation was confined to that subject, and witness had no reason to suppose that dr. crandall had any incendiary pamphlets, or was at all engaged in the circulation of them. his conduct, so far as he had seen him, was that of a gentleman. he never knew him to converse with any negro. he never had any pamphlets with him, to his knowledge. dr. crandall's knowledge of the science was far beyond that which witness professed to have. _ward b. howard_ stated that he had known crandall some years: at least for seven or eight years. witness was then resident at peekskill. his reputation was good, and he never heard that he was an abolitionist. witness himself had no fancy for abolitionists. there was no society of them at peekskill. crandall resided in peekskill seven or eight years, and had, as he understood, attended the medical lectures at philadelphia, and received a diploma there. he had brought letters of introduction to witness when he came to peekskill, with the view to settlement there. dr. crandall was actively engaged as an agent for the temperance society. witness would not now know the handwriting of the traverser. he might know the signature, but not the general handwriting. _jackson o'brown_ was living at peekskill when dr. crandall first came there. he boarded with him nearly two years, and had an opportunity of seeing much of his character; a great part of the time he roomed with him. the witness never heard that he was engaged in the abolition societies, though he knew he was an active member of the temperance society. _henry gaither_ said he was in linthicum's shop at the time when dr. crandall was arrested. that an hour before he had heard that the officers were in pursuit of him. he saw the officers, robertson and jeffers, enter the office; and noticed a crowd gathering around it. he asked jeffers, as soon as he came out, what he had discovered, and jeffers, in reply, said he had found more than he expected, and had taken or pamphlets. there was much excitement then in the vicinity. witness was then himself excited. when crandall came out, witness was apprehensive that he would be wrested from the officers by the people. oyster came in, and witness asked him if he had seen any pamphlets. he said yes, but not more than two or three. witness remarked, that jeffers said he had seen and taken or . oyster replied, jeffers is a liar. some conversation followed, in which it was suggested that attempts might be made to prejudice the public mind against crandall. witness had since met jeffers, on the avenue, and spoken with him on the subject. witness remarked to jeffers, the poor fellow has suffered enough by so long a confinement, and jeffers assented to the remark, and added that he believed crandall to be innocent. _jared stone_ was acquainted with crandall, who lived three years in witness's family, and eat at his table, in peekskill. crandall was a physician who obtained a good reputation in that part of the country, and it continued unblemished. he never was known to have any abolition papers, or to say any thing in its favor, but was, if any thing, opposed to it. _mr. wilson_ was present at the time spoken of by mr. gaither, and said one of the officers came out and said he had discovered more than he expected, and remarked, my hopes are more than realized. he could not recollect exactly the number of papers the officer said he had found, but thought it was one hundred or a hundred and twenty. some one in the crowd said "we ought to take the damned rascal and hang him up on one of the trees opposite." the witness then went away. _mr. judson_, representative in congress from connecticut, had known crandall from his boyhood. crandall studied with witness's family physician, and acquired a good reputation; nobody stood better in the neighborhood. after he had finished his education he removed to peekskill, since which witness had been in the habit of seeing him frequently; and he had always known him as a peaceable citizen. the precise year when crandall was admitted he could not recollect, but it was about or . witness had not seen him for two years till he saw him here in prison, and had never heard aught against him till now. mr. judson also testified, that the prisoner was a brother of prudence crandall, and that at the time of the difficulty with her and her school for blacks in connecticut, he met crandall on board the boat on his way home from new york; that he talked with him about that school, and the prisoner said he was going to break it up; that he did not know as he should be able to do it, for his sister prudence was obstinate, but his other sister, who was with her, he knew he could get away. crandall then continued home with the witness, and exerted himself with as much zeal as any one could to break up the school. _dr. sewall_ testified that the traverser came to him some time in the spring to get a license to practice in the district, and showed him two letters of high recommendation. he had some conversation with crandall upon subjects of science and upon his knowledge of medicine and surgery, and formed a high opinion of his talents and acquirements. he advised the defendant by no means to abandon the practice of his profession for entering upon botany or chemistry, but if he could do that without interfering with practice, it might do; he thought him too well qualified in the profession to give it up. crandall also showed the witness a diploma, which was regularly signed, and he gave a verbal license to practice, and said at the meeting of the board he would have a regular license made out. he had no reason to believe, from his conversation with the prisoner, that he had any object in view except the pursuit of his profession. all the stories that he had talked upon the subject of abolition with witness, and given him anti-slavery papers, were mere idle talk. _mr. howard_ said he was sheriff of winchester county, where crandall lived, and identified the handwriting of signatures to a letter of recommendation which crandall brought with him, and which was allowed in evidence. all the signers were respectable men. witness thinks he should have known if any anti-slavery society existed there--but he knew of none. he also remembered that crandall delivered lectures on chemistry there, and he attended them. _mr. ward_, representative from the district where crandall resided, knew that he had lived there seven or eight years, and that he had a high reputation as a respectable man, and a good physician. _mr. austin_ was now a resident in georgetown, but formerly lived in peekskill, where he knew the prisoner, who lived in his family three years. he came then in consequence of having raised up mrs. austin from a dangerous sickness. witness was a lawyer, and knew crandall's reputation to be high as a physician and surgeon, far and near. witness was president of a temperance society, and crandall was secretary; he did not know of any anti-slavery society, and did not know or believe that the prisoner belonged to any, or had any thing to do with them. crandall came on at his request to accompany mrs. a., who, with her two children, were always severely sick in travelling; and returned home soon after, when he came back again to stop here to teach botany. he came to witness's house on his return, and was taken sick soon after and confined to his room. witness was not a subscriber for the emancipator, though he understood one of the numbers in court was addressed to him. he never saw any abolition papers in crandall's possession. if he had, they would have attracted his attention. witness did not know how the large box of books and papers came on, but supposed they came by water when crandall came the second time. he could not say distinctly, but he thought a mr. dennison, an abolition agent, once left some abolition pamphlets at his house for himself, and some for crandall. he could not identify them in court as the same, and he could not swear whether the endorsement on them was in crandall's handwriting or not. _mrs. austin_ said she had known the prisoner as long as mr. austin, and that his conduct in her family was irreproachable. she remembered mr. dennison's having left pamphlets for crandall and her husband, but could not say those in court were the same, but they were similar. crandall came at her husband's request, to accompany the family, because they were sick in travelling. he did not wish to come further than new york, and would not consent to come further than philadelphia; but as mr. austin did not meet them there, he kindly came on to washington. she was cleaning up the house, preparatory to leaving it, and gave crandall the large box; and asked his permission to put into it his books and papers. these pamphlets were lying as waste paper in the garret, and she threw them with others into the box. saw that some of them had writing on, but didn't know of any with writing on in the trunk. the box was sent round by water, but he brought the trunk when he came on the second time. he did not carry it to the house when he arrived at night, but it was sent over in the morning. crandall was immediately taken sick, and witness frequently went to the trunk for various purposes, and saw a package nicely done up, which she supposed to be books. the package remained just as it was tied up at the bookstore, till six or eight days before the prisoner's arrest, when she had curiosity to know what it contained, and he consented that she might open it. some conversation was held between witness and prisoner, before and after opening, which the court refused to admit in evidence. mrs. austin went on and testified, that she did not tie up the package again, but left it, and she saw it repeatedly in the same state up to the time of prisoner's arrest. she also saw several emancipators in the house, and one or two tracts sent by mail, which she used or destroyed as waste paper. _bradley_ here offered to put in two letters and a deposition from the man who gave crandall the package in new york. _key_ objected that it was not legal evidence. _bradley_ knew it was not, but the witnesses were beyond the reach of the court--they could not be forced to come and testify; and had distinctly declared that they were afraid to come into the district. he had last term requested the district attorney to join him in taking their depositions, in consequence of the circumstances, but having been refused, he had gone on and taken them exparte, and he hoped they would be allowed to go to the jury. _key_ was willing to admit any thing reasonable, but this testimony was clearly inadmissible. _the court_ said, by the rules of evidence, it could not be given but by consent. _mr. carlisle_ opened the summing up for the prosecution, and remarked that his was observed by the opposite counsel to be the only case of seditious libel ever brought before this court, and i will add, gentlemen, that the decision of it may determine whether or not it may be the last;--whether or not this traverser may return to his fellow laborers in iniquity, and inform them that _here_ he has found the gates wide open, and the way all clear for the propagation of their libels and their plans. it has been truly said that this topic is one of excitement all over the country. under these circumstances this traverser may congratulate himself upon the opportunity of a fair and full trial, and that he has not been the victim of summary justice. but, gentlemen, let justice lose nothing of its proper efficiency by being administered with coolness and deliberation. the opposite counsel say that the charge is grave. aye, gentlemen, it is so, but the proof is full. the offence charged is one of a fatal, devastating, and, beyond all power of palliation, most horrid character. these libels are not like common libels, which tend to bring individuals into discredit and disrepute. it is an offence of which the like is not contained in the annals of criminal jurisprudence, peculiar to the state of our society, and in enormity equal to all other crimes combined. an opulent and extensive society send out their emissaries and commission and enjoin them to scatter these infamous productions in the highways and by-ways; to proclaim them from the house tops, and whisper them in the chimney corners; to teach to all, high and low, that slaveholding is man-stealing; and yet they mean no such thing as breaking the peace, and abhor all violence and tumult. does the preaching such language to slaves tend to pacification? mr. carlisle was here commenting upon the nature of the agents employed for these unlawful purposes, to show that educated men, such as dr. crandall, were the kind naturally to be selected, and was further proceeding to examine the evidence as applicable to the laws, and, in his opinion, conclusively establishing the guilt of the traverser, when extreme physical debility and indisposition prevented him from proceeding. _mr. bradley_ then commenced summing up for the defence. he said the nature of the charge was such that it was almost impossible to set aside the prejudices which had been cherished from youth up, and which were so natural to men of this section of the country; but he felt confident the jury would give him a patient hearing, and judge correctly after a careful consideration of the case. he then gave a statement of the points of the evidence, upon which there was no dispute; such as--that the prisoner allowed one pamphlet to be taken by mr. king; that he was found here with a number of other papers; that some came round in a box by water; and that others were given him in new york, and brought on in his trunk. he wished to draw a distinction between the kinds of papers. it was proved that a bundle of papers were found, and they were here in court; but the contents were unknown; whether good or bad the jury had no right to infer. a large number of papers were found, some of which were brought away and the others were left. that was all the jury had to consider, except in regard to three numbers of the anti-slavery reporter, five numbers of the emancipator, and the late pictures which were cut from a work, and represented in contrast two modes of education--one where children were whipped, and the other where they were taught more mildly by means of books. he would not stop now to consider the declarations said to have been made before the magistrate. nothing could be more unsatisfactory and uncertain evidence than these examinations. the very fact that a man is accused throws him off his guard, and he may say what he does not intend, or which, if he did, in the midst of excitement the witnesses might not properly understand or correctly remember. it was said there were contradictions in his statements, but that supposition arose entirely from a mistake of one of the justices. the other understood it differently and saw no mistake at all. it respected the manner in which he brought on the books--one understood him to say that they were all given to him in new york, and that he brought them here, and they were all in the jail but about a dozen; and then, at another time, he said that he had some of them a long time. the other justice understood him to say that all that he brought into the district were there, and that they were all he brought from new york, except about a dozen, which he supposed he had left by the way. neither of these suppositions were right. when he said they were all of them, he meant to say all he brought from new york; that he had distributed none, for even the one he loaned to mr. king was taken by the prisoner from linthicum's shop, and was then in mr. key's possession, though they supposed it was lost; and when he referred to about a dozen, he meant that he brought them all with him except about a dozen, which came in a box by water. it had been said that he admitted he had circulated a dozen; and yet the united states' witnesses prove that he denied having circulated any, and from the first disapproved of putting them in circulation. when the learned counsel asked why the persons were not brought, to whom he had given the dozen, to show that they were respectable men, he should have remembered that the testimony was all against such an idea; and that, if he had distributed any, the zeal and perseverance of the district attorney and the officers would have discovered evidence of it. it was also asked why the person who gave the bundle to him in new york was not brought to testify in his favor? as if the criminal wretch who had palmed off these incendiary papers upon an innocent man, without his knowledge, could be brought here to testify, when he was beyond the jurisdiction of the court, and had declared that he was afraid to come. he had requested the attorney to have a deposition taken, but he refused; and when he was spoken to, he threatened a prosecution, and said he should like to see him; he wished he could get him. the attorney now says he would be safe; perhaps so from him; but there are here, as elsewhere, hundreds of base cowardly scoundrels, who are willing in mobs to hunt down any one against whom they conceive a prejudice; men who dare not face a man alone, but who, backed by a mob, are willing to assail an individual without knowing any thing of his guilt or innocence. mr. b. then commented upon the character of the libel charged, and read the first count. the first paragraph, he argued, contained no incendiary language, unless it was to call slavery a crying abomination. he had not known before that those words were calculated to stir up insurrection. people were in the habit of hearing them daily from the pulpit, and he never knew that they became seditious on account of it. the whole of the matter was a controversy between the anti-slavery society and the colonization society, in relation to the expediency of their different measures; and if any body could make any thing libellous, he must have intellectual spectacles stronger than those with which newton looked at the stars. in the next paragraph slavery is called "unrighteous," which was the great offence charged there. if this was a libel, he should show that arthur tappan & co. were not singular in the guilt of libelling; for that fathers of the church in a slave state had called slavery unrighteous too, and that some of the most eminent of our patriotic southern politicians had used far stronger and more exciting language. this was all a controversy whether it was proper that provision should be made that no slave should be emancipated unless provision was made for sending him out of the country; and the writer contends that to make sending a man out of this country, where he was born, a condition of releasing him from bondage, in which he was forcibly held was a moral absurdity; and to say so might be libellous, but he could not understand how it should be so. some of the jury would recollect when a discussion of this topic took place in the legislature of maryland upon a proposed law to the same effect, and they would remember that similar arguments were used there. the next passage was an extract showing the treatment of slaves in another country, different from ours, where they have no law to protect the persons of slaves; and could not apply to the condition of any portion of our people. it could not be libellous to have the book giving the original journal of the traveller, and, if it were not, he did not see how any evil or excitement could be produced by this extract. he came next to the passage in the second count, which was an extract of a speech, in which the orator tried to say something grand; but it amounted to no more than had been said by slaveholders themselves; and though the attorney said it with an amusing emphasis, yet he would show stronger language, to the same purport, in the writings of mr. jefferson and of mr. archer, of virginia, which had been approved by all who heard or read them. the whole argument used in the anti-slavery reporter, he contended, was mild and temperate, more so than could be expected, when the different habits and modes of thought of the people from whence they came were considered--a people who, from infancy upward, had heard nothing but the accents of freedom, and had never lived in a country where they could actually know the practical effects of our system of slavery. the example was set them by the ablest writers here, and if we publish and send to them similar writings, is it to be considered wonderful that, in their discussions, they should adopt it. their argument is, that slavery may increase to be an evil which, by and by, cannot be remedied without violence and bloodshed; and it is addressed to men who have the power and the influence to apply a remedy now. the same arguments were published here by the colonization society, which does honor to human nature, and were founded on extreme necessity. he read numerous extracts of books to show that similar expressions to those in the libels charged, were not considered blameable if uttered or published at the south; and denied the right of the district attorney to take particular words, here and there, and hold them up to fix the character of the paper, without regard to the connexion in which they were used; and he said that if crandall was indictable for the language and meaning of the anti-slavery reporter, then every member of the colonization society were liable to indictment. [it may be proper to introduce one or two extracts, that the reader may know the character of the papers read. the following are taken from an address to the colonization society of kentucky, by _r. j. breckenridge_.] "there are some crimes so revolting in their nature, that the just observance of the decencies of speech deprives us of the only epithets which are capable of depicting their enormity. every well regulated heart is smitten with horror at the bare idea of their perpetration; and we are uncertain whether most to loathe at the claim of those who habitually commit them to companionship with human nature, or to marvel that the unutterable wrath of heaven doth not scathe and blast them in the midst of their enormities. let the father look upon the dawning intelligence of the boy that prattles around his knee, the pride of his fond heart, and the hope and stay of his honest name; and then, if he can, let him picture him in distant bondage, the fountain of his affections dried up, the light of knowledge extinguished in his mind, his manly and upright spirit broken by oppression, and his free person and just proportions marred and lacerated by the incessant scourge. let the husband look upon the object in whose sacred care he has "garnered up his heart," and on the little innocent who draws the fountain of its life from her pure breast, recalling, as he gazes on one and the other, the freshness and the strength of his early and his ardent love; and then if he be able, let him picture those objects, in comparison with which all that earth has to give is valueless in his eyes, torn from him by violence, basely exchanged for gold, like beasts at the shambles, bent down under unpitied sorrows, their persons polluted, and their pure hearts corrupted--hopeless and unpitied slaves, to the rude caprice and brutal passions of those we blush to call men. let him turn from these spectacles, and look abroad on the heritage where his lot has been cast, glad and smiling under the profuse blessings which heaven has poured on it, let him look back on the even current of a life overflowing with countless enjoyments, and before him on a career full of anticipated triumphs, and lighted by the effulgence of noble and virtuous deeds, the very close of which looks placid, under the weight of years made venerable by generous and useful actions, and covered by the gratitude and applause of admiring friends; let the man-stealer come upon him, and behold the wreck of desolation! shame, disgrace, infamy, the blighting of all hopes, the withering of all joys; long unnoticed wo, untended poverty, a dishonored name, an unwept death, a forgotten grave; all, and more than all, are in these words, _he is a slave_! he who can preserve the even current of his thoughts in the midst of such reflections, may have some faint conception of the miseries which the slave trade has inflicted on mankind. i am unable to state with accuracy the number of the victims of this horrible traffic; but if the least dependance can be placed on the statements of those persons who have given the most attention to the subject, with the best means of information, it unquestionably exceeds ten millions of human beings exported by violence and fraud from africa. this appalling mass of crime and suffering has every atom of it been heaped up before the presence of enlightened men, and in the face of a holy god, by nations boasting of their civilization, and pretending to respect the dictates of christianity. the mind is overwhelmed at the magnitude of such atrocity, and the heart sickens at the contemplation of such an amount of human anguish and despair." "the legislative acts which, with a cool atrocity, to be equalled only by the preposterous folly of the claim they set up over the persons of god's creatures, doom to slavery the free african the moment his eyes are opened on the light of heaven, for no other offence than being the child of parents thus doomed before him, can, in the judgment of truth and the estimation of a just posterity, be held inferior in heinousness only to the first act of piracy which made them slaves. it is in vain that we cover up and avoid such reflections. they cling to us, and earth cries shame upon us that their voice has been so long unheeded. the free lybian, in his scorching deserts, was as much a slave when he rushed, in the wild chase, upon the king of beasts, as is his unhappy offspring before our laws cleave to him. god creates no slaves. the laws of man do oftentimes pervert the best gifts of nature, and wage an impious warfare against her decrees. but you can discover what is of the earth and what is from above. you may take man at his birth, and by an adequate system make him a slave, a brute, a demon. this is man's work. the light of reason, history and philosophy, the voice of nature and religion, the spirit of god himself, proclaims that the being he created in his own image he must have been created free." "it can be no less incorrect to apply any arguments drawn from the right of conquest, or the lapse of time, as against the offspring of persons held to involuntary servitude. for neither force nor time has any meaning when applied to a nonentity. he cannot be said to be conquered, who never had the opportunity or means of resistance; nor can time run against one unborn. those who lean to a contrary doctrine should well consider to what it leads them. for no rule of reason is better received, or clearer, than that force may be always resisted by force; and whatever is thus established, may, at time, be lawfully overthrown. or, on the other hand, if error is made sacred by its antiquity, there is no absurdity or crime which may not be dug up from its dishonored tomb, and erected into an idol around which its scattered votaries may reassemble." mr. bradley then went on to argue upon the tendency of the libels, and contended that they were not calculated to excite sedition. they are not addressed to the colored people, nor adapted to excite insurrection and revolution among them. they are calm appeals to reason, designed to produce measures to arrest a danger which they think threatens them, in common with their brethren of the south. he next adverted to the law of publication. there were two grounds of publication--one is legally to be inferred--the other actually proved. the monstrous doctrine is contended for by the prosecutor, that if a man has a libel in his possession, if it was publicly circulated in the country, the possession is _prima facia_ evidence that he put it in circulation. to show the absurdity of such a position he took a case of a favorite popular libel, which would be all sold in a day, and said that it would be impossible to find an impartial jury to try a case under such a law--because it would not be easy to find twelve men drawn as jurors who would not have been possessors in some way of the libel, and of course equally criminal. having a written copy of a published libel in one's own handwriting may be _prima facia_ evidence; but it is not so with a printed copy. the publication must be brought home to the defendant. an actual publication is when the party puts the libel in circulation--when he gives it to a third party, either by himself or an agent, for the purpose of having it put in circulation. the evidence in this case, he contended, afforded not only no proof, but no presumption that he published the libel. the one copy he allowed king to take was not given to be circulated. he had been warned of the danger, and had avowed his opposition to having such papers put in circulation. there could be no pretence that it was given to stir up mischief; and if any one was responsible for any evil effects, supposing any to accrue, it was mr. king who had shown it, and left it exposed openly in a shop. but he argued that the loan of the paper to king was simple possession--he had afterwards taken it back from the shop, and no evil had been done or intended. the intent, he said, must be gathered from the circumstance of the publication, and not alone from the libel charged; and he then commented upon the manner in which this paper was taken by mr. king, and upon his character as a substantial, respectable man, who had just given the prisoner a warning, to show that no presumption could arise of an intent as charged in the indictment. the words "read and circulate," upon which so much stress had been laid, showed no evidence of an intent to publish the pamphlets here, for they were put on two years before in peekskill; and even the having them brought here was no act of the prisoner's, nor does it appear that he knew they were in the box. he went at length into an examination of the evidence tending to show crandall's good character, and the accidents which brought him here and induced him to make it his permanent residence. the trouble and excitement, he said, had not been owing to the prisoner or to any act of his, but was entirely owing to the misapplied zeal of the officers, and to their indiscretion and stupidity. he said he had gone over all the evidence of publication, and it was certain that no other publication had been made by him, for the district attorney would have brought proof of it; if one had been dropped ten fathoms deep, into the vilest well, some one would have been found to fish it up. he traced the course of the prisoner from his boyhood to college, and to the study of his profession--from that to his settlement at peekskill; and urged upon the jury the consideration of his uniformly sustained character, and of his blameless life. he followed him with mr. austin's family to this city, and afterwards shewed his course to new york, when the important bundle of abolition tracts was palmed upon him; and then followed him here with those papers, which he did not even open, and of which he could not have known the contents, till he was informed by mrs. austin. he had shewn that no anti-slavery society existed where he came from, and that he had never been a member of any such society. he had also shewn his acts, in connection with his good character and principles, when he went to connecticut to suppress the school founded by arthur tappan & co., which he thought an improper and dangerous institution; and though he has always avowed himself to be opposed to slavery, yet he has always been as firmly opposed to excitement. he had traced him here, and shewn his declarations and principles here, and the business in which he was engaged. he said he had been satisfied, early in the trial, that there was no ground for the prosecution--that the counsel for the united states had not made out a case which would satisfy themselves or you; but it was necessary to go on with the trial, for the satisfaction of others. the public were anxious to have the whole truth before them; and he was happy to believe that the jury would come to the conclusion that the government had wholly failed, upon their own evidence, to make out a case which would justify a conviction of the prisoner. _mr. coxe_ addressed the jury. he was not aware, he said, that during his whole career as a professional man, he had ever entered upon the discharge of his professional duties with feelings of more anxiety than in the present case. the interest which he felt in the result was not limited to the consequences which might befall the traverser--an individual to whom he was an entire stranger; but principles had been advanced, and a course of proceeding adopted in this case, which involved results of the most general and momentous character; results which may to-morrow, and through all time, be brought to bear upon each one of us and upon our posterity. the cause now on trial was the first of the same description which, to his knowledge, had ever been brought up for judicial decision. it was an indictment for a seditious libel at common law. mr. coxe here adverted to a portion of our history, during the administration of the elder adams, when we were threatened with a foreign war and internal commotion, and when it was believed that a resort to unusual means of protection from impending peril was necessary. at that crisis was passed the act of july , , commonly called the sedition act, by which it was provided that any person guilty of uttering a seditious libel against the government of the united states, with intent to defame the same and bring it into contempt and disrepute, shall be punished by a fine not exceeding two thousand dollars, and by imprisonment not exceeding two years. the act was denounced as tyrannical, oppressive, unconstitutional, and destructive of the liberty of speech and of the press, and it was made one of the principal charges against the party in power of that day, and was the chief means of its overthrow. during the short period of the existence of that odious law, some few prosecutions were instituted under it against obnoxious individuals; and these were the only cases of prosecution for seditious libel that had ever occurred in this country. in the present case, an attempt was made to apply the well known principles of the common law to the same improper and unconstitutional end. the case was new to our courts, and was of rare occurrence in the courts of england. without being a prophet or the son of a prophet, mr. coxe said he would venture to predict that, if the doctrines which had been urged in behalf of this prosecution, and the proceedings which had been here justified by the district attorney, should be established as lawful, the seeds will have been sown from which will be reaped, for us and for our children, a harvest of woe and disaster. he could not, therefore, but deeply feel the share of responsibility which devolved upon him in the management of this case, and in the vindication of the great principles of constitutional liberty in which he had been nurtured and to which he was bound to adhere. if, upon such a warrant as was issued against this traverser, any individual in this community might be arrested, his papers seized and examined, his most private correspondence exhibited to the public gaze, and if all this proceeding was to be warranted by the laws under which we live, then, gentlemen, said mr. coxe, this district is no place for me. he would seek some place where he would be safe from such outrages--some place where the principles of civil liberty are still understood and cherished. if, upon testimony thus illegally obtained from him, without having been guilty of any overt act against the peace of the community, he could be indicted for sedition, incarcerated for eight months preparatory to a trial, and then be told that for having such publications as the traverser had in his private custody, under his own lock and key, or for loaning one to an intelligent friend, for his single perusal, he should be exposed to conviction and punishment for sedition, then he would, to escape such tyranny, expatriate himself, abandoning a land no longer free. but this was not, and could not be the law of this district. what was the case? let us go back to the th of august last, when this warrant was placed by a justice of the peace, acting under the advice of the district attorney, in the hands of the officers who served it. the only foundation of the prosecution was simply this: mr. king, while visiting the office of the traverser, with whom he was in habits of intimacy and free intercourse, saw there lying about the room, amongst various works on different branches of science and the arts, three pamphlets, which were taken from a box containing surgical instruments, books on surgery, and botanical preparations, in packing all which the pamphlets had been with other papers employed. mr. king casually taking up one of these pamphlets, read its title page, and remarked that this was too far south for such things. he asked permission of the traverser to read it, which was granted, and up to the th day of august, a month afterwards, this was the extent of dr. crandall's offence. the affidavit in the warrant did not even go so far as this, in any positive charge. william robinson, who made the affidavit, deposed that he had seen in georgetown an incendiary pamphlet having upon it the name of dr. crandall, and that he, the deponent, had been informed and believed, that dr. crandall was engaged in distributing and circulating such pamphlets. the only positive averment in the affidavit was unimportant, and, if important, was untrue. mr. robinson, when examined, had no recollection of such a pamphlet, and there was abundant evidence to prove that the pamphlet loaned to king was now in court, and there was no such endorsement on it. he had not, therefore, seen a tract with dr. crandall's name upon it. that dr. crandall was engaged in the circulation of this or similar pamphlets was equally unsupported by evidence. upon this allegation, so flimsy and so false, the justice, acting under the advice of our learned district attorney, issued the illegal and unconstitutional precept which he held in his hand. by this warrant the constable was directed to search and examine the traverser's private papers, to select such as might appear to be incendiary and to bring them and the traverser before some justice of the peace, to be dealt with according to law. this illegal process, thus illegally executed, had been justified by the district attorney, who had avowed himself ready, whenever required, to prove that it was lawful. on the other hand, he, mr. coxe, pledged himself, on all occasions, and whenever the question might be presented for argument and decision, to brand it as tyrannical, oppressive, illegal, and unconstitutional. the next evidence for the prosecution was found in the pamphlets thus stolen, and the possession of them by the traverser was alleged as proof of their publication by him. against this false and more than inquisitorial doctrine, he solemnly protested. let the accidental possession of a denounced pamphlet be made proof of its utterance and publication by the possessor, and let the new process of detecting and bringing to light that obnoxious pamphlet be established, and what man, in the whole community, can be safe in the enjoyment of his personal rights? may not any man be subjected to be treated as a felon, upon the instigation of private malice, or party animosity, or religious rancor? how easy would it be to find a magistrate at any time, who, confiding in the learning and experience and official character of the district attorney, will, at his instance, grant such a search warrant against any individual?--and how easy will it not be to find constables, who, in the execution of it, will raise a hue and cry, and an excitement against the individual at whom the process is levelled?--so that if he escape the tyranny of the law and of the officers of the law, he may, nevertheless, fall a victim to the blind and ignorant violence of popular fury! two things, mr. coxe said, must combine to bring the traverser, in this case, within the law, if indeed there was any law to meet the case. the publications themselves must be calculated to excite insurrection among the blacks, and contempt of government among the whites; and the mode and manner of the publication must be such as to justify the supposition that the publisher intended to produce this effect. if both of these facts could not be proved, the prosecution must fail, and the traverser be entitled to a verdict of acquittal. admitting that the character of the pamphlets was incendiary, and as mischievous in their tendency as the district attorney may, on this occasion, be pleased to represent them, still it cannot be shown that the traverser was guilty of any injurious or malicious dissemination of them. the loan to mr. king was the only instance proved of distribution, and could that be considered malicious? mr. king was admitted to be an intelligent and discreet citizen, without any sympathies with the abolitionists, and he could read one of these pamphlets with as little injury to the public welfare, as could this court and the many individuals to whom the district attorney had been reading them. if the traverser had been criminal, mr. key had been still more so. if dr. crandall is punishable for yielding a reluctant and hesitating consent to the request of mr. king to be allowed to take one of these pamphlets and read it, to what condemnation has mr. key subjected himself by forcing these same tracts, and particularly the worst passages he could select from them, upon the attention of so many individuals? but another ground had been taken against the traverser. he was charged with being a northern man; a native of connecticut, and a resident of new york. have we then, said mr. coxe, lived to see the day when in a court of justice, in the federal city, under the very eyes of congress, and of the national government, it can be urged against an individual arraigned at the criminal bar, as a circumstance of aggravation, or as a just ground for suspicion, that the individual comes from the north or the south, from the east or the west? but we were told, that the northern men were interlopers and intruders amongst us. he protested against the use of such language, especially in the district of columbia, which was dependant for its very existence upon the bounty of congress, and which owed so much to the liberal policy extended to it by northern men. mr. c. admitted that there were in the north some vile fanatics, who, under the guise of purity and zeal, had attempted to scatter firebrands amongst us; men who propose to accomplish the worst ends by the most nefarious means; men who, under the professions of christian sympathy and humanity, seek to involve the south in all the accumulated horrors of a servile war. these men were, however, few in number and contemptible in resources. on the other hand, there were men at the south who, for base motives, make themselves auxiliaries to this excitement, and endeavor to alarm and agitate the people of the south by misrepresentations of the general feeling and policy of the people of the north. with neither of these two classes of fanatics had the people of this district any common interest. as a citizen of this district, he protested against making it the arena for the operations of these incendiaries. it was for this jury to resist the first attempt, now made, to render our courts of justice accessory to their designs. he would demonstrate from the evidence that the traverser had no part in producing the excitement which prevailed in this district during the last summer. dr. crandall was not even the innocent cause of it. it was an excitement got up against crandall, and not by him. when the constables went to his lodgings and office with their warrant, there was no excitement nor commotion among the people. all was calm, and but for the constables and their process, would have remained so. but they published in the streets of georgetown the nature and object of their errand, and collected a number of individuals who were curious to see the result of this extraordinary search. one of the constables, jeffers, after leaving the office of the traverser, goes to linthicum's shop, and there proclaims to the assembly that "they had found more than they expected;" that "their hopes were more than realized." the constable then goes on to proclaim that he had found a large number of incendiary pamphlets, or . then ensued an excitement, and a cry was at once heard, "carry him across the street and hang him to the tree!" such was the origin of the excitement which pervaded our community, and which the district attorney lays to the charge of the traverser. the testimony was silent as to any act of publication by the traverser of more than one of the publications referred to in the indictment, and in that he was shown to have had no improper design. we were told, however, that the possession was proof of criminal design. was it to be endured that, without authority of law, and contrary to all law, private papers should thus be wrested from the possession of an individual, and then be offered as a proof of malicious intent and malicious publication? in any prosecution for a libel it was necessary to prove a malicious publication. malice may be inferred to an individual from the simple act of publication. but in cases of seditious libel, it was necessary, in order to infer malice, to prove that the publication was made to such persons as that the public could be injured by it. his case being destitute of such proof, the traverser was entitled to a verdict in his favor. mr. coxe went into a minute examination of the testimony to prove that the pamphlets were brought innocently and without intent to circulate them. those in the box were brought with other papers, and were packed by a lady, for the purpose of wrappers, &c., for plants. the pamphlets given to him in new york, by a person from whom he had purchased a book, he had received without any knowledge of their contents, and the package remained unopened in his trunk until it was taken by the constables. no mischief had been produced; no insurrection raised; no human being injured, except the unfortunate traverser himself, whom, after an incarceration of eight months, the prosecutor wishes you still further to punish. this was a reproach to our community; a burlesque of our courts of justice; it had no support in principle or reason. was this the boasted intelligence, spirit, and generosity of the south! from a review of the testimony it would be found that the traverser came into possession of the papers innocently; that he retained them innocently; and that they were never distributed by him. mr. coxe then proceeded to maintain, at length, that, granting the publication, there was nothing in the quotations from the pamphlets incorporated in the indictment from which a criminal intent could be inferred. if there was no criminal matter in the extracts, then there was no crime charged. he went on to prove that they did not contain a single sentiment or expression on the subject of slavery, and its political, moral, and social results, which had not also been used by slaveholders; by the statesmen, and lawyers, and writers of the south. mr. coxe proceeded to compare the language charged as seditious in the indictment, with passages from colonization speeches made by mr. key himself; by mr. archer, mr. custis, bishop smith, general harper; by patrick henry, in the virginia convention; mr. pinckney, in the legislature of new york; by mr. jefferson, in his notes on virginia; by judge tucker, in his notes to blackstone's commentaries; and by other distinguished gentlemen at the south. neither he, nor the jury, nor the district attorney, could distinguish the language and sentiment of one of those parties from the other. if there was any difference it was in this, that the northern publications were somewhat more temperate than the others. the controversy which had grown up between the rival societies for colonization and abolition had given birth to this excitement. which of them was right, or whether they were both right or wrong, was not now a matter in issue; but he would allude to the fact that the sincerity and personal excellence of the abolitionists had been warmly acknowledged by the amiable secretary of the colonization society, and by one of its most distinguished members and friends, mr. gerrit smith. but the district attorney denounced the abolition societies and dr. crandall, whom he alleged to be a member of the american abolition society. this assertion was unsupported by testimony, and untrue in fact. one of the constables, indeed, had testified that crandall, after his arrest, admitted that he was a member of that society; but this was disproved by all the other testimony in the case. mr. coxe, without defending the abolition societies, here undertook to prove, from various documentary evidence, that there was, after all, but very little difference between the sentiments and objects of the colonizationists and the abolitionists. in conclusion, mr. coxe remarked, that if any the smallest injury had resulted from the traverser's sojourn in this district, it was not his fault. he was innocently occupied in professional pursuits, and was quietly pursuing the even tenor of his way. whatever excitement and injury had grown out of his visit here was solely attributable to the illegal course taken by the prosecutor in procuring his arrest and the seizure of his papers, which were harmlessly reposing in his trunk. with these remarks, and his thanks for the patient hearing afforded him by the jury, mr. coxe submitted the case, with entire confidence, to their hands. _mr. f. s. key._ i consider this one of the most important cases ever tried here; i wish the prisoner every advantage of a fair trial. it is a case to try the question, whether our institutions have any means of legal defence against a set of men of most horrid principles, whose means of attack upon us are insurrection, tumult, and violence. the traverser defends himself by justifying the libels. we are told that they are harmless--that they have no tendency to produce the horrid results which we deprecate. we have been told that _this_ community has not been endangered. the emancipator has been read, the extracts from it justified, this prosecution scouted. if such publications are justifiable, then are we, indeed, at the tender mercy of the abolitionist, and the sooner we make terms of capitulation with him the better. what does he propose for the slave? immediate emancipation. in one instant the chains of the slave must snap asunder. without delay, and without preparation, he becomes a citizen, a legislator, goes to the polls, and appoints _our_ rulers. if this be the plan, then am i ready, as the opposite counsel expresses it, to seek refuge in other parts of the united state. are you willing, gentlemen, to abandon your country; to permit it to be taken from you, and occupied by the abolitionist, according to whose taste it is to associate and amalgamate with the negro? or, gentlemen, on the other hand, are there laws in this community to defend you from the immediate abolitionist, who would open upon you the floodgates of such extensive wickedness and mischief? there are such laws, gentlemen; they are as essential to your prosperity and peace as is the sacred law of self-defence to every individual. but you have heard it denied that there are such laws; that these pamphlets are incendiary; and this prosecution is likened to those under the sedition law--a law reprobated and repealed--and hence we may infer that a man may publish what he pleases, however seditious and insurrectionary it may be. not so. the repeal of the sedition law left the common law, by which these offences always were punishable, in full force; and, gentlemen, it is well known that the principal argument against the sedition law was, that the offences which it punished were sufficiently provided for already by the common law as it stood. but the traverser is not content with acting merely on the defensive. it appears that he is a _persecuted innocent man_; upon an illegal warrant, without proper evidence, attacked, _robbed_, put in jail; all for having a few harmless publications about him. why does not this _persecuted_ man bring his action for false imprisonment? why do not his counsel advise it? the warrant was issued upon probable cause on oath. the magistrate was bound to issue it, but it made the constable the judge of what were incendiary papers! yes! and had the constable have taken any other course he would have been responsible to the traverser for so doing. but carry out the law as expounded on the other side. here's a counterfeiter caught, with his tools, plates, &c., all found upon a search for stolen goods. the gentleman would bring him before a magistrate, have the warrant quashed, his _goods_ returned to him, and should the articles, thus found, be used in evidence against him, it would be horrid, tyrannical, oppressive, shocking, and enough to make a man runaway from a country where there are such laws, and find refuge in some other. gentlemen, if in searching for stolen goods you find evidence of counterfeiting, you may use it for the purpose of convicting the culprit of either offence. but the papers were safe in dr. crandall's trunk. yes, all were there and safe, but those taken out and circulated, exactly as the case would have been had they been counterfeit bank notes, and not incendiary pamphlets. gentlemen, did he not give mr. king one, because he thought that he _would not_ mention it? and, gentlemen, would he not as likely give to those who _could not_ tell? at every step in our community, he meets such men; he is enjoined in the language of these papers, to give them currency "in highways and by-ways." this man should be glad of the opportunity, by public trial, to exonerate himself from the charges against him. they are distinctly made--the testimony clearly laid down--testimony, in my opinion, ample for his conviction. there are two questions in this case: are the libels charged criminal?--are they proved to have been published by the traverser? i call your attention to the libels and to their tendency. the colonization society published them only to denounce them. the colonization society only contemplates free negroes, and has nothing to do with slavery. mr. key here explained the difference between the papers read by the traverser's counsel and those charged in the indictment, and showed that the kentucky synod, the grand jury of our district, &c. were for gradual emancipation by the whites, and not violence by the blacks, &c. he thought having a number of these printed libels stronger proof against the traverser than having only one written; commented upon these papers coming through the post office with only one cent postage, as strong evidence that they were sent in here; upon the fact that none of his witnesses testified to his character or pursuits within the last two years; upon the improbability of such a man as crandall was represented to be, of high character as a man and a physician, leaving peekskill to go botanizing merely. mr. k. here commented upon the inflammatory character of the libel alluding to the _colonial_, and, as he contended, the _general_ system of slavery. mr. k. here read again from the pamphlet, and then added: i am accused of being emphatic; i confess my blood boils when i read the closing sentence of this libel--this taunting us with the torch of the negro at our threshold, and his knife at our throats--this fiendish allusion to the _beauty_ and chivalry of the south; it displays cool and demoniac malignity! mr. k. then alluded to the pictures, saying that they could be meant only for the illiterate, and tended only to insurrection and violence. mr. k. animadverted upon the speeches and opinions of eminent southern men, quoted by the traverser's counsel, to show that their objects were different from those of the abolitionists. mr. key remarked, with great severity, on the abstract proposition of the sinfulness of slavery, and the declaration in the libels of the "south being awakened from their snoring by the thunder of the southampton massacre." he contended that crandall admitted, in his examinations at the jail, that all the papers he had were sent from new york, and came in a box; and said nothing about having received two parcels; and that he also admitted, that he had all the papers sent, but twelve or thirteen, and argued that those twelve or thirteen were circulated here, amongst improper persons: that if otherwise, the traverser might and could prove to him, to whom they were delivered. he adverted to the slander contained in the libels, that a free person of color might be sold here for jail fees when apprehended as a runaway slave. he commented on the evidence of mr. austin, and argued that it was far from showing that the packages were not broken by dr. crandall, and part of them taken out and distributed. he also argued that dr. crandall took no pains to have the pamphlet returned to him, which he delivered to mr. king, and did not destroy those he had after hearing that there was an excitement on the subject, and that none of these libels and picture books were used by him, as the other newspapers were, to preserve his plants, thereby proving his disposition to preserve and circulate them. mr. key also referred, in corroboration of what c.'s views were, to his declarations to jeffers' favorable to the amalgamation of the blacks and whites, and also those to colclazier and tippet, "that slavery brought the slaveholder and slave into promiscuous sensual intercourse," "and that he was willing that the north and the south should be arrayed against each other." mr. key added: this is a subject to us not of indifference. it has been one of much excitement, and we are bound to act in self-defence. if in your conscience, gentlemen, you think the traverser innocent, acquit him. judge of these libels--the words--the meaning--the tendency--read their endorsement "please read and circulate" in the traverser's handwriting--look at these pictures!--hear his admission, "i gave them to a man who i thought would not tell on me." there are twelve or thirteen of them brought here by him unaccounted for; hear his prevarications in the jail and elsewhere: and if he is an innocent man, cruelly imprisoned under an illegal warrant, and these vile, calumniatory libels, are actually this _innocent_, _persecuted_ gentleman's _property_--_stolen_ from him--then gentlemen return him his property and let him go free. it is with you, gentlemen; i ask of you but to do your conscientious duty. * * * * * the jury retired, and, after a short deliberation, agreed upon a verdict of not guilty. after which they separated, and returned their verdict into court the next morning. transcriber's note some of the words in this text were verified by referencing the document "the trial of reuben crandall, m.d., charged with publishing seditious libels, by circulating the publications of the american anti-slavery society, before the circuit court for the district of columbia, held at washington, in april, , occupying the court the period of ten days." (new-york: h. r. piercy, ) the following corrections have been made to this text: page : removed stray quote marks (if a man in manners) page : changed choses to chooses (to every body who chooses) page : changed posession to possession (traverser's possession) page : added missing end punctuation (question by key.) page : changed crrndall's to crandall's (dr. crandall's reply) page : changed did'nt to didn't (he didn't know which) page : added missing word 'to' (i have to say to them) page : added missing quote marks ("i hope i may be excused) page : removed stray quote marks (run her hull under.) page : changed desarts to deserts (its wide-spread deserts) page : removed duplicate word 'as' (so far as he had seen him) page : changed did to didn't (didn't know of any with writing) (verified by referencing the document mentioned above.) page : changed posssession to possession (wrested from the possession) page : changed gentlemen's to gentleman's (_persecuted_ gentleman's) page : changed jeffer's to jeffers' (jeffers' favorable) transcriber's note this version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_. the 'oe' ligature is printed as separate characters. non-english language quotations are given as printed. passages in greek are transliterated, and denoted as [greek: athiopas toi ...]. footnotes have been consolidated and moved to directly follow the paragraph where they are referenced. in the printed version, footnotes were numbered consecutively, beginning anew with each chapter. here, they have been re-sequenced for uniqueness. references to those notes in the text and the transcriber's errata are to the new numbers. there are several footnotes that appear in other footnotes. these have been lettered as [a], [b], [c], and follow the note containing the reference. in a number of places, passages are compared by placing them in parallel columns, usually across several pages. the left hand column is given contiguously with a wide right margin, and then the right hand column, with a large left margin. on p. , four columns are used for comparison. each is given in turn, with no attempt to simulate the format. please see the notes at the end of this text for a more detailed list of specific issues encountered and the resolutions of each. tradition principally with reference to mythology and the law of nations. printed by ballantyne and company edinburgh and london tradition principally with reference to mythology and the law of nations. by lord arundell of wardour. london: burns, oates, & company, & portman street, and paternoster row. . contents. chap. page preface, ix memoir of colonel george macdonell, c.b., xix i. the law of nations, ii. the law of nature, iii. primitive life, iv. chronology from the point of view of tradition, v. chronology from the point of view of science, vi. palmer on egyptian chronology, vii. the tradition of the human race, viii. mythology, ix. assyrian mythology, x. the tradition of noah and the deluge, xi. diluvian traditions in africa and america, xii. sir john lubbock on tradition, xiii. noah and the golden age, xiv. sir h. maine on the law of nations, xv. the declaration of war, preface. i shall have no hope of conveying to the reader, within the narrow limits of a preface, any fuller idea of the purport of this work than its title expresses; and as the chapters are necessarily interdependent, i can indicate no short-cut in the perusal by which this information can be obtained. i venture to think that those who are interested in the special matters referred to will find something in these pages which may attract on account of its novelty--and some other things, new at least in their application--_e.g._ the comparison of boulanger's theory with the narratives of captain r. burton and catlin. the frequent introduction and the length of the notes, must, i am aware, give to these pages a repellent aspect, but the necessity of bringing various points under comparison has compelled this arrangement; and i regret to say that the argument runs through the whole, and that almost as much matter requiring consideration will be found in the notes and appendices as in the text. i trust that these imperfections may not be so great as to estrange the few, among whom only i can hope to find much sympathy, who wish to see the true foundations of peace and order re-established in the world, and who may therefore to some extent be indulgent towards efforts which have for their aim and motive the attempt to erect barriers which would render the recurrence of the evils which have lately deluged mankind difficult, if not impossible. there are others whom the recent scenes of horror have inspired with a love of peace and order, or of whom it would be more true to say, that the horrors of the late war and revolution have deepened in them the sentiment of peace and order which they have always entertained, but who still do not desire these things on the conditions upon which alone they can be secured. from them i can only ask such passing examination as may be demanded for the conscientious rejection of the evidence i have collected, or for its adjustment with more accepted theories. there will remain for me much ground in common with all who retain their faith in the inspiration of holy writ, and who wish to see its authority sustained against the aggressive infidelity of the day; and even among those who reject the authority of divine revelation, there may be still some who are wearied in the arid wastes, and who would gladly retrace their steps to the green pastures and the abundant streams. among such i may perhaps expect to find friendly criticism. at the same time, i do not disguise from myself that, in its present mood, the world is much more anxious to be cut adrift from tradition than to be held to its moorings; and that it will impatiently learn that fresh facts have to be considered before its emancipation can be declared, or before it can be let loose without the evident certainty of shipwreck. although the exigencies of the argument have compelled research over a somewhat extended field of inquiry, the exploration has no pretensions to being exhaustive, but at most suggestive; not attempting to work the mine, or, except incidentally, to produce the ore, but only indicating the positions in which it is likely to be found. in the main position of the mythological chapters, that the heroes of mythological legend embody the reminiscences of the characters and incidents of the biblical narrative, i do nothing more than carry on a tradition, as the reader will see in my references to calmet, bryant, palmer, and others.[ ] i should add, that i limit the full application of de maistre's theory to the times preceding the coming of our lord. [ ] it has curiously happened that i have never seen the work which, after bryant, would probably have afforded the largest repertory of facts--g. stanley faber's "dissertation on the mysteries of the cabiri;" and it is only recently, since these pages were in print, that i have become acquainted with davies' "celtic researches" and "the mythology and rites of the british druids." the celtic traditions respecting their god hu, are so important from more than one point of view, that i cannot forbear making the following extracts from the latter author, which i trust the reader will refer back to and compare in chap. ix. with the babylonian hoa, at p. with the chinese yu, and at p. with the african hu. davies' "celtic researches," p. , says, "though hu gadarn primarily denoted the supreme being [compare chap. ix.], i think his actions have a secondary reference to the history of noah. the following particulars are told of him in the above-cited selection:--( .) his branching or elevated oxen [compare p. and chap. xi.] ... at the deluge, drew the destroyer out of the water, so that the lake burst forth no more [compare chap. iv.] ( .) he instructed the primitive race in the cultivation of the earth [compare p. ]. ( .) he first collected and disposed them into various tribes [compare p. ]. ( .) he first gave laws, traditions, &c., and adapted verse to memorials [compare p. ]. ( .) he first brought the cymry into britain and gaul [compare p. ], because he would not have them possess lands by war and contention, but of right and peace" [compare chaps. xiii. and xv.] it is true that these traditions come to us in ballads attributed to welsh bards of the th and th centuries a.d.; but, as the rev. mr davies said, "that such a superstition should have been fabricated by the bards in the middle ages of christianity, is a supposition utterly irreconcileable with probability." and i think the improbability will be widely extended if the readers will take the trouble, after perusal, to make the references as above. my attention was first drawn to the coincidences of mythology with scriptural history by the late colonel g. macdonell.[ ] colonel macdonell's coincidences were founded upon a peculiar theory of his own, and must necessarily have been exclusively upon the lines of hebrew derivation. there is nothing, however, in these pages drawn from that source. i may add, for the satisfaction of colonel macdonell's friends, that as colonel macdonell's mss. exist, and are in the possession of colonel i. j. macdonell, i have (except at p. , when quoting from boulanger,) expressly excluded the consideration of the influence of the hebrew upon general tradition, which, however, will be necessary for the full discussion of the question. [ ] i have appended a short biographical notice of colonel g. macdonell, which i venture to think may contain matter of public interest. whatever, therefore, colonel macdonell may have written will remain over and above in illustration of the tradition. but whether on the lines of hebrew or primeval tradition, these views will inevitably run counter to the mythological theories now in the ascendant. these views, indeed, have been so long relegated to darkness, and perhaps appropriately, on account of their opposition to the prevalent solar theories, "flouted like owls and bats" whenever they have ventured into the daylight, that it will be with something amounting to absolute astonishment that the learned will hear that there are people who still entertain them: "itaque ea nolui scribere, quæ nec indocti intelligere possent, nec docti legere curarent" (cic. acad. quæs., . i. § ). i can sincerely say, however, that although my theories place me in a position of antagonism to modern science, yet that i have written in no spirit of hostility to science or the cause of science. i have throughout excluded the geological argument, for the first and sufficient reason that i am not a geologist; and secondly, by the same right and title, that geologists, _e.g._ sir c. lyell, in his "antiquity of man," ignores the arguments and facts to which i have directed special attention. nevertheless, i find that competent witnesses have come to conclusions not materially different from those which have been arrived at, on the ground of history, within their own department of geology. i have more especially in my mind the following passage from a series of papers, "on some evidences of the antiquity of man," by the rev. a. weld, in the _month_ ( ), written with full knowledge and in a spirit of careful and fair appreciation of the evidence. he says:-- "these evidences, such as they are, are fully treated in the work of sir c. lyell, entitled 'antiquity of man,' which exhausted the whole question as it stood, when the last edition was published in the year . it is worthy of note that though the conclusion at which the geologist arrives is hesitating and suggestive, rather than decisive, and though nothing of importance, as far as we are aware, has been added to the geological aspect of the question since that time--except that the reality of the discovery of human remains has been verified, and many additional discoveries of a similar character have been made--_still the opinion_, which was _then new and startling, has gradually gained ground_, until we find writers assuming as a thing that needs no further proof, that the period of man's habitation on the earth is to be reckoned in tens of thousands of years."--_the month_ (may and june ), p. . among various works, bearing on matters contained in these pages, which have come to hand during the course of publication, i may mention-- "the mythology of the aryan nations," by the rev. g. w. cox, referred to in notes at pp. , , . the third edition of sir john lubbock's "pre-historic times." mr e. b. tylor's "primitive culture," referred to in notes at pp. , , . mr st george mivart's "genesis of species." mr f. seebohm on "international reform." sir h. s. maine's "village communities." the archbishop of westminster's paper, read before the royal institution, "on the dæmon of socrates." "orsini's life of the blessed virgin," translated by the very rev. dr husenbeth. "hints and facts on the origin of man," by the very rev. dr p. melia, , who says (p. ), "considering the great length of life of the first patriarchs, moses must have had every information through non-interrupted tradition. if we reflect that shem for many years saw methuselah, a contemporary of adam, and that shem himself lived to the time of abraham, ... that abraham died after the birth of jacob, and that jacob saw many who were alive when moses was born, we see that a few generations connect moses not only with noah, but also with adam." i quote this passage as it is important to place in the foreground of this inquiry the unassailable truth that (apart from revelation) the historical account of the origin of the human race, to which all others converge, is consistent with itself, and bears intrinsic evidence of credibility. an analogous argument with reference to christian tradition was sketched in a lecture by mr edward lucas, and published in , "on the first two centuries of christianity." with reference to other parts of these pages, much supplemental matter will be found in-- "historical illustrations of the old testament," by the rev. g. rawlinson, m.a., camden prof., where, at pp. , , will be found direct testimony to what i had conjectured from indirect evidence at pp. , --viz., that the polynesian islanders "have a clear and distinct tradition of a deluge, from which one family only, _eight in number_, was saved in a canoe." also, but from a different point of view, in "legends of old testament characters," by rev. s. baring gould, m.a. the articles in the _tablet_ "on arbitration instead of war," to which i have referred in chap. xiv. at p. , have recently been collected and reprinted by lord robert montagu, m.p. if i have exceeded in quotation, i must direct my readers, for the defence of this mode of composition, from the point of view of tradition, to a work which i trust some in this busy age still find leisure to read, mr kenelm digby's "mores catholici," i. . i must, moreover, add a passage from the general preface to the recent republication of mr disraeli's works, which i came upon too late to introduce into the body of this book, but which i feel sure the reader, even if he has met with it before, will not be reluctant to reperuse:-- "the sceptical effects of the discoveries of science, and the uneasy feeling that they cannot co-exist with our old religious convictions have their origin in the circumstance that the general body who have suddenly become conscious of these physical truths are not so well acquainted as is desirable with the past history of man. astonished by their unprepared emergence from ignorance to a certain degree of information, their amazed intelligence takes refuge in the theory of what is conveniently called progress, and every step in scientific discovery seems further to remove them from the path of primæval inspiration. but there is no fallacy so flagrant as to suppose that the modern ages have the peculiar privilege of scientific discovery, or that they are distinguished as the epochs of the most illustrious inventions. on the contrary, scientific invention has always gone on simultaneously with the revelation of spiritual truths; and more, the greatest discoveries are not those of modern ages. no one for a moment can pretend that printing is so great a discovery as writing, or algebra as language. what are the most brilliant of our chemical discoveries compared with the invention of fire and the metals? it is a vulgar belief that our astronomical knowledge dates only from the recent century, when it was rescued from the monks who imprisoned galileo; but hipparchus, who lived before our divine master, and who, among other sublime achievements, discovered the precession of the equinoxes, ranks with the newtons and the keplers; and copernicus, the modern father of our celestial science, avows himself, in his famous work, as only the champion of pythagoras, whose system he enforces and illustrates. even the most modish schemes of the day on the origin of things, which captivate as much by their novelty as their truth, may find their precursors in ancient sages; and after a careful analysis of the blended elements of imagination and induction which characterise the new theories, they will be found mainly to rest on the atom of epicurus and the monad of thales. scientific, like spiritual truth, has ever from the beginning been descending from heaven to man. he is a being who organically demands direct relations with his creator, and he would not have been so organised if his requirements could not be satisfied. we may analyse the sun and penetrate the stars; but man is conscious that he is made in god's own image, and in his perplexity he will ever appeal to our father which art in heaven." memoir of colonel george macdonell, c.b. the following notice appeared in the _times_, may , --"in our obituary column of saturday we announced the death of colonel george macdonell, c.b., at the advanced age of ninety. this officer, who was a cadet of the ancient and loyal scottish house of macdonell of glengarry, was the son of an officer who served under the flag, and who, as we have been told, was on the staff, of prince charles edward stuart at the battle of culloden, where he was severely wounded. his son, the colonel now deceased, was born in , or early in the following year; obtained his first commission in , and was nominated a companion of the bath in . he saw active service in the war in north america with the th foot, and received the gold medal for the action at châteaugay; and had he not accepted the retirement a few years since, he would have been, at his death, almost the senior officer in the army holding her majesty's commission. the late colonel macdonell, who adhered to the roman catholic religion professed by his ancestors, and for which they fought so gallantly under the stuart banners, married, in , the hon. laura arundell, sister of the lord arundell of wardour, but was left a widower in may ." his son, colonel i. j. macdonell, now commands the st highlanders. i take this opportunity of adding a few facts, not without interest, to the above brief summary of a not uneventful life, as they might otherwise pass unrecorded. in the sentiment of the gaelic saying--"curri mi clach er do cuirn" (wilson, "archæol. scot.," p. )--"i will add a stone to your cairn." colonel macdonell's father, as stated in the above account, was wounded at culloden in the thigh, but was able to crawl on all-fours, after the battle, eighteen miles, to a barn belonging to a member of the grant family. he there remained in concealment for six months, leaving nature to heal the wound; but the search in the neighbourhood in time becoming too hot, he had to decamp, and walked with a stick all the way to newcastle, where he was not greatly re-assured by meeting a soldier who had just been drummed out of his regiment as a catholic, with the word "papist" placarded on his back. he, however, escaped all dangers, and reached hull, and subsequently versailles or st germains, where he remained three years, or at least till the events following the peace of aix-la-chapelle dispersed the prince's adherents. he then returned to england under the act of indemnity, entered the royal army, and was present with general wolfe at the taking of quebec. if i remember rightly, he had the good fortune to take an aide-de-camp of montcalm's prisoner, with important dispatches. colonel macdonell's maternal uncle, major macdonald (keppoch), was taken prisoner at the battle of falkirk. he was said to have been the first man who drew blood in the war. by a curious revenue of fortune, he was carried back into the enemy's ranks by the horse of a trooper whom he had captured. he was executed at carlisle, and the circumstances of his execution supplied sir walter scott, i believe, with the incidents which he worked up into the narrative of macivor's execution in "waverley." his sword is in the possession of mr p. howard of corby castle, near carlisle. fortune, however, had in store another revenge; for the duke of cumberland being present, many years afterwards, at a ball at bath, by a most unhappy selection indicated as the person with whom he wished to dance a beautiful girl who turned out to be no other than the daughter of major macdonald (afterwards married to mr chichester of calverley) the circumstances of whose execution have just been referred to. she rose in deference to royalty, but replied, in a tone which utterly discomfited, and put his royal highness to flight--"no, i will never dance with the murderer of my father!" with these antecedents, it is needless to add that colonel g. macdonell was a warm admirer of the stuarts, and not unnaturally extended his sympathy and adhesion to the kindred cause of legitimacy in france; and the one event to which he always looked forward, and confidently predicted--the restoration of the monarchy in the person of henri v.--is now, if not imminent, at least "the more probable of possible events." there was, however, a belief which somewhat conflicted in his mind with the above anticipation--namely, his unshaken conviction that the dauphin did not die in the temple. he was frequently at holyrood when the palace was occupied by charles x., and he accompanied the duchess de berri to the place of embarkation for her unfortunate expedition to france. colonel macdonell also acted as the medium of communication between the french royalists and the english government; and on one important occasion conveyed intelligence to lord bathurst or lord sidmouth respecting the movements of the secret societies in spain in some hours before it reached them by the ordinary channel. part of the communication was made on information supplied by the abbé barruel; and in reply, lord sidmouth said--"well, i remember edmund burke telling me that he believed every word that barruel had written, and i fully accept the authority." colonel macdonell was under the impression that he was unwittingly and remotely the cause of the break up of the ministry of "all the talents." as this is an obscure point in history, it may be worth while to give the following facts. the impression produced by marengo and austerlitz had led to the army reform bill of , in which the points discussed were almost identical with those which lately excited the public mind. the disasters which accompanied our descent on egypt in , and the consequent evacuation of alexandria, created considerable discontent and re-opened the question, and as further reforms on minor points were contemplated, suggestions from officers in the army were invited. colonel macdonell (then only lieutenant), wrote to mr windham, the secretary at war, to point out that any broken attorney might create considerable embarrassment at any critical moment, seeing that, as the law then stood (an act of george i. had extended the obligation of taking the sacrament to privates), any soldier could obtain, if not his own, his comrade's discharge by pointing him out as a papist. the danger was recognised, and mr windham brought in a bill directed to meet the case, but its introduction revived the larger question of the repeal of the tests' acts and of the catholic claims; and the discussion eventuated in lord howick's bill, which was met by the king's refusal, and the consequent resignation of the ministry. this may explain the statement (mentioned in the obituary notice in the times of the marquis of lansdowne), that he (lord lansdowne) could never understand how the ministry came to be dissolved. "he had heard instances of men running their heads against a wall, but never of men building up a wall against which to run their heads."[ ] [ ] sir h. lytton bulwer, in his "life of lord palmerston," says, i. p. , "there has seldom happened in this country so sudden and unexpected a change of ministers as that which took place in march ." it has been mentioned that colonel macdonell entered the army when quite a boy; and there were few men, i fancy, living, when he died last year, who could boast, as he could, of having served in the duke of york's campaign in the last century, but i am not able to state in what regiment. he was for some time previously in lord darlington's regiment of fencibles. he was at one period in the th, and at another in the th regiment, in which latter, i think, he went out to the west indies and canada. it was in canada, however, that his principal services were rendered, which indeed were considerable, and have never been adequately acknowledged. when the americans invaded canada upon the declaration of war in , it is hardly necessary to remind the reader that almost all our available troops were engaged in the peninsula, and that canada was pretty well left to its own resources. under these circumstances it will be recognised as of some importance that colonel macdonell was able to raise a regiment among the macdonells of his clan who had settled there. but the conditions made with him were not fulfilled, and the command of the regiment, almost immediately after it was raised, was transferred to the command of a protestant and an orangeman, which caused a mutiny which was with difficulty suppressed. now, it must be borne in mind that the regiment was only raised through his personal influence with the clan, and through that of its pastor, bishop macdonell, and that the adhesion of the catholic macdonells went far to determine the attitude of the french canadians also. there were not more than regular troops in upper canada during the war.[ ] [ ] w. james, "military occurrences of late war," i. , says, regular troops; murray, "history of british america," i. , says, troops. before referring to the actions in which colonel macdonell was engaged, i will add the following particulars as to the highland settlement which colonel macdonell gave me. in , the submission of the highland chiefs to the house of hanover having been of some standing, and their adhesion being, moreover, cemented in a common sentiment of abhorrence of the french revolution, they were willingly induced to raise regiments among their clans. this was done by glengarry, macleod, and others. at the peace these regiments were disbanded, but finding that complications of various sorts had necessarily arisen during their absence respecting their lands and holdings at home, and, in point of fact, that they had no homes to return to, the greater part remained temporarily domiciled at glasgow, the place of their disbandment. i infer that they remained under the charge and direction of bishop macdonell, who had accompanied them in their campaigns as chaplain, and was the first catholic priest officially recognised in the capacity of regimental chaplain. at glasgow (previously only served as a flying mission), he hired a storehouse, which he opened as a chapel, but stealthily only, as two of the congregation were always posted as a guard at the entrance on sunday. he found only eighteen catholics at glasgow at that time, i.e., i suppose, previously to the disbandment of the highlanders. through bishop macdonell's influence with lord sidmouth--who, although a strong opponent of the catholic claims, always acted in his relations with him, he said, in the most honourable and straightforward way--the emigration of the highlanders to canada was shortly afterwards arranged. colonel macdonell was subsequently partially reinstated in his command of the glengarry regiment. the important services rendered by colonel macdonell in canada, to which i have alluded, were-- . the taking of ogdensburg at a critical moment, on his own responsibility, and contrary to orders, which had the effect of diverting the american attack from upper canada at a moment when it was entirely undefended; and, . bringing the regiment of french canadian militia, then temporarily under his command, from kingston, by a forced run down the rapids of the st lawrence without pilots (passing the point where lord amherst lost eighty men), in time enough (he arrived the day before, unknown to the americans) to support de saluberry at the decisive action at chateaugay. de saluberry indeed had only french canadians under his command, which, with the brought up by colonel macdonell, only made up a force of (with about indians), with which to check general hampton's advance with some (the americans stated the force at infantry and cavalry, james, i. ) in his advance on montreal. in point of fact, colonel macdonell must be considered, on any impartial review of the facts, to have won the day (_vide infra_), yet he was not even mentioned in sir g. prevost's dispatch. colonel macdonell received the companionship of the bath for the taking of ogdensburg, and the gold medal for his conduct in the action at chateaugay. i append the following accounts of the affairs at ogdensburg and chateaugay, adding a few particulars in correction and explanation--alison, "history of europe," xix. ( th ed.), says--"shortly after colonel m'donnell (macdonell), with two companies of the glengarry fencibles, and two of the th, converted a _feigned_ attack which he was ordered to make on fort ogdensburg into a real one. the assault was made under circumstances of the utmost difficulty; deep snow impeded the assailants at every step, and the american marksmen, from behind their defences, kept up a very heavy fire; but the gallantry of the british overcame every obstacle, and the fort was carried, with _eleven guns, all its stores_, and _two armed schooners_ in the harbour." the difficulties, as i have understood from colonel macdonell, were not so much from the impediments of the snow, as from the dangerous state of the st lawrence at the time, the ice literally waving under the tramp of his men as he passed them over (ten paces apart). the stroke of the axe, by which they judged, told it indeed to be only barely safe, and it had never been crossed by troops before at that point, as it was deemed insecure, being within three miles of the gallops rapids. (among the guns were some taken from general burgoyne.) a fuller account of the taking of ogdensburg may be read in mr w. james' "full and correct account of the military occurrences of the late war between great britain and the united states of america," vol. i. p. - : london, ; he adds, "previously to dismissing the affair at ogdensburg it may be right to mention that sir g. prevost's secretary, or some person who had the transcribing of major (colonel) macdonnell's (macdonell's) official letter, must have inserted by mistake the words 'in consequence of the commands of his excellency.' of this there needs no stronger proof than that major (colonel) macdonnell (macdonell) while he was in the heat of the battle, received a private note from sir g. dated from 'flint's inn at o'clock,' repeating his orders not to make the attack; and even in the first private letter which sir g. wrote to major macdonnell (colonel macdonell) after being informed of his success, he could not help qualifying his admiration of the exploit with a remark that the latter had _rather_ exceeded his instructions--(_note._--both of these letters the author has seen"), vol. i. . colonel macdonell's explanation to me of his taking this responsibility on himself was simply that he saw that the fate of the whole of upper canada depended upon it. colonel macdonell had received information that american troops were moving up in the direction of ogdensburg, and they, in fact, came up a week after it was taken, under general pike; but seeing the altered aspect of affairs, they moved off, and fell back upon sackett's harbour, anticipating a similar attack at that point. colonel macdonell always spoke with much emotion of the gallant conduct of a captain jenkins, a young officer under his command, who, although he had both arms shattered by two successive shots, struggled on at the head of his men until he swooned. he survived some years, but died of the overcharge of blood to the head consequent on the loss of his limbs. as ogdensburg was a frontier town on the american side of the st lawrence, sir g. prevost authorised payment for any plunder by the troops, but colonel macdonell received a certificate from the inhabitants that they had not lost a single shilling--which must be recorded to the credit of the glengarry highlanders under his command. as i have already said, although colonel macdonell commanded the larger force, and by an independent command, at the action of chateaugay, his name is not mentioned in sir g. prevost's dispatch, nor in alison, who apparently follows the official account (xix. , th ed.) in alison, de saluberry is called, by a clerical error, de salavary--such, after all, is fame! saith hyperion. although his troops, raw levies, broke, and colonel de saluberry was virtually a prisoner when colonel macdonell came up to the support, it was through no fault of his disposition of his men--(colonel macdonell always spoke of him as an excellent officer, who behaved on the occasion in the most noble and intrepid manner). the american troops at chateaugay are variously stated at to (alison says, " effective infantry and militia, and guns," xix. ). the british, french canadian militia, under de saluberry; under colonel macdonell, and some indians, without artillery. a full, but, colonel macdonell said, inaccurate account (from imperfect information) will be found in mr w. james' "military occurrences," above referred to. i extract the following passages, i. :--"the british advanced corps, stationed near the frontiers, was commanded by lieutenant-colonel de saluberry of the canadian fencibles, and consisted of the two flank companies of that corps and four companies of voltigeurs, and six flank companies of embodied militia and chateaugay chasseurs, placed under the immediate orders of lieutenant-colonel macdonell, late of the glengarrys, who so distinguished himself at ogdensburg. the whole of this force did not exceed rank and file. there were also at the post indians under captain lamotte." colonel macdonell's account differed substantially. it has been already mentioned that he had brought up his troops by a forced march the night before, and held them under a separate command. i conclude with the following passage as bearing out colonel macdonell's version:--"the americans, although they did not occupy one foot of the 'abatis,' nor lieutenant-colonel de saluberry retire one inch from the ground on which he had been standing, celebrated this partial retiring as a retreat.... by way of animating his little band when thus momentarily _pressed_" [colonel macdonell's version was, that although the troops were driven back, colonel de saluberry literally "refused to retire one inch himself," and virtually remained a prisoner until--] colonel de saluberry ordered the bugleman to sound "the advance. this was heard by lieutenant-colonel macdonell, who thinking the colonel was in want of support, caused his own bugles to answer, and immediately advanced with two ['six'] of his companies. he at the same time sent ten or twelve buglemen into the adjoining woods with orders to separate ['widely'], and blow with all their might. this little 'ruse de guerre' led the americans to believe that they had more thousands than hundreds to contend with, and deterred them from even attempting to penetrate the 'abatis.'" for the rest of the account i must refer my readers to mr w. james' "history," as above; though, if a complete and accurate account of an engagement which probably saved british canada were ever thought desirable, colonel macdonell's commentaries (ms.) on the above and the official accounts, would afford valuable supplementary information.[ ] [ ] the following corrections have been supplied to me by the hon. l. d.:--"lieut.-colonel george macdonell was born on the th august , at st johns, newfoundland, where his father, captain macdonell, was stationed. he was the second son of captain macdonell (who had been one of the body-guard of prince charles), by his wife, miss leslie of fetternear, aberdeenshire. george was rated on the navy by the admiral of the station, who was a personal friend of captain macdonell, and his name accordingly remained on the list for years, but he never joined. i believe he entered in the regiment raised by lord darlington, and afterwards served with the duke of york in the war in holland. he was, i know, at one time in the th infantry, for i remember sir greathed harris saying that he was always a well-remembered and honoured officer in that regiment. he ultimately had the post of inspecting field-officer in canada." tradition principally with reference to mythology and the law of nations. tradition principally with reference to mythology and the law of nations. chapter i. _the law of nations._ the increasing number of essays, pamphlets, works, and reviews of works on speculative subjects, with which the literature of england at present teems, compels the conclusion that the public mind has been greatly unsettled or strangely transformed since the days when john bull was the plain matter-of-fact old gentleman that washington irving pleasantly described him. remembering the many sterling and noble qualities whimsically associated with this practical turn of mind, it will be felt by many to be a change for the worse. but if old english convictions, maxims, and ways of thought have lost their meaning; if in fine it is true that the mind of england has become unsettled, it says much for the practical good sense of englishmen that they should have overcome their natural repugnances, and should so earnestly turn to the discussion of these questions, not indeed with the true zest for speculation, but in the practical conviction that it is in this arena that the battle of the constitution must be fought. there is, as it has been truly observed,[ ] "an instinctive feeling that any speculation which affects this" (the speculation in question being the effect of the darwinian theory on conscience), "must also affect, sooner or later, the practical principles and conduct of men in their daily lives. this naturally comes much closer to us than any question as to the comparative nearness of our kinship to the gorilla or the orang can be expected to do. _no great modification of opinion takes place with respect to the moral faculties, which does not ultimately and in some degree modify the ethical practice and political working of the society in which it comes to prevail._" [ ] _pall mall gazette_, april , ; article, "mr darwin on conscience." there is perhaps no question which lies more at the root of political constitutions, and which must more directly determine the conduct of states in their relations to each other, than the question whether or not, or in what sense, there was such a thing as natural law, _i.e._ a law antecedent to the formation of individual political societies, and which is common to and binding on them all. it may be worth while, therefore, to examine whether a stricter discrimination may not be made between things which are sometimes confounded, viz.:--the law of nations and international law, natural law and the state of nature; and even if the attempt at discrimination should fail in exactitude, it may yet, by opening out fresh views, contribute light to minds of greater precision, who may thus be enabled to hit upon the exact truth. this view was partially exposed in an article which was inserted in the _tablet_, september , ,[ ] entitled "international law and the law of nations," and, all things considered, i do not think that i can better consult the interests of my readers, than by reproducing an extract from it here, as a convenient basis of operation from which to advance into a somewhat unexplored country:-- "it has been the fashion since bentham's[ ] time, to substitute the phrase 'international law' for the 'law of nations,' as if they were convertible terms. the substitution, however, covers a distinction sufficiently important. "the 'law of nations' is an obligation which binds the consciences of nations to respect the eternal principle of justice in their relations with each other. 'international law' is the system of rules, precedents, and maxims accumulated in recognition of the eternal law. but as men may build a theatre or a gambling-house upon the foundations constructed for a religious edifice, and upon a stone consecrated for an altar, so has it been possible for diplomacy to substitute a system of chicanery for the simple laws which were intended to facilitate the intercourse of nations, and with such effect as in a great number of cases to place international law in contradiction with the law of nations--as, for instance, when in a certain case the law of nations says that it is wrong to invade a neighbour's territory, international law is made to say that it is lawful to invade in such a case, because such-and-such monarchs in past history have done so. "practically the effect of the substitution is, that the sentiment of justice disappears, that wars which formerly were called unjust, are now called inevitable, so that good men, disheartened at the conflicting evidence of precedents, yield their sense of right and wrong, and defer to the adjudication of diplomatists. this is particularly satisfactory to the modern spirit which will admit nothing to be law which is superior to, and distinct from, that which the human intellect has determined to be law. "but the sense of right and wrong in good men is that which gives its whole efficacy to the law of nations. there is nothing else in the last resort, to restrain the ambition and passion of princes, but the reprobation of mankind--nothing but the fear of invading that "moral territory"[ ] which even bad men find it necessary to conquer, '_dans l'ame des peuples ses voisins_.' on the other hand, the whole mass of precedents to which diplomatists appeal, which are rarely carefully collated with those which legists have accumulated and digested, is nothing but a veil which thinly covers the supremacy of might and the right of force. "in fact, the conventional deference which is paid to them, is at best only the hypocritical homage which force is constrained to pay to justice before it strikes its blow. "international law, therefore, as _accumulated in the precedents of diplomatists_, is a parasitical growth upon that tree which has its roots in the hearts of nations, and which may be compared to one of those old oaks under which kings used to sit and administer justice. it was a dream of dodwell's that the 'law of nations was a divine revelation made to the family preserved in the ark.' in the grotesqueness and wildness of this theory we detect a true idea. the law of nations is an unwritten law, tradited in the memories of the people, or, so far as it is written, to be found in the works of writers on public law, like grotius, whose authorities, as sir j. mackintosh remarks, are in great part, and very properly, made up of the sayings of the poets and orators of the world, 'for they address themselves to the general feelings and sympathies of mankind.' it is in this that the scriptural saying about the people is so true--'but they will maintain the state of the world.' and it is a just observation, that 'the people are often wrong in their opinions, but in their sentiments rarely.' you may produce state papers and manifestoes, written with all the dexterity of talleyrand, and the lying tact of fouché, but you will not convince the people. you have your opportunity. the liberal press of europe, at this moment, may be said to be in possession of the whole field of political literature; nevertheless, nothing will prevent its being recorded in history,[ ] that victor emmanuel in seizing upon the patrimony of st peter was a robber, and his conquest an usurpation." [ ] this article, and perhaps four or five others on miscellaneous subjects, written within a few weeks of the above date, were my only contributions to the _tablet_, at that time owned and edited by my friend mr j. e. wallis, who, during some ten or twelve eventful years, continued to uphold the standard of tradition, with singular ability and at great personal sacrifice. [ ] "all that bentham wrote on this subject ("international law") is comprised within a comparatively small compass (works, vol. ii. - , iii. - , ix. - ). but it would be unpardonable to omit all mention of a science which he was the means of _revolutionising_, and which, previously to his taking it in hand, had _not even received a proper distinctive name_."--john hill burton, "benthamiana," p. . from bentham's point of view, "international law" is the proper distinctive name. [ ] montalembert, _correspondant_, aout, . [ ] c'est une des plus admirables choses de ce monde que jamais nul empire, et nul succès n'ont pu s'assujetir l'histoire et en imposer par elle à la posterité. des generations de rois issus du même sang se sont succédé pendant dix siècles au gouvernement du même peuple, et malgré cette perpetuité d'intérêt et de commandement, ils n'ont pu couvrir aux yeux du monde les fautes de leurs pères et maintenir sur leur tombe le faux éclat de leur vie.--_lacordaire_: vid. _correspondant_, nov. . i have observed that international law is the more appropriate term from bentham's point of view, and as bentham is the most redoubtable opponent of natural right and the law of nations, i will quote him at some length:-- "another man says that there is an eternal and immutable rule of right, and that that rule of right dictates so-and-so. and then he begins giving you his sentiments upon anything that comes uppermost; and these sentiments (you are to take it for granted) are so many branches of the eternal rule of right.... a great multitude of people are continually talking of the law of nature; and they go on giving you their sentiments about what is right and what is wrong, and these sentiments, you are to understand, are so many chapters and sections of the law of nature. instead of the phrase, law of nature, you have sometimes law of reason, right reason, natural justice, natural equity, good order. any of them will do equally well. this latter is most used in politics. the three last are much more tolerable than the others, because they do not very explicitly claim to be anything more than phrases. they insist, but feebly, upon the being looked upon as so many positive standards of themselves, and seem content to be taken, upon occasion, for phrases expressive of the conformity of the thing in question to the proper standard, whatever that may be. on most occasions, however, it will be better to say utility--utility is clearer, as referring more especially to pain and pleasure." in truth, although mr bentham indulges a pleasant ridicule, yet the ridicule and the thing ridiculed being eliminated, the fact that there is a belief in a law of nature remains untouched. it is probable, therefore, that appeals will be frequent to what is believed to be "the eternal and immutable rule of right," "to the law of nature," &c., _i.e._ each and every individual, all mankind distributively, so appeal, because there is a deep conviction among mankind, severally and collectively, that there is this eternal and immutable rule of right, blurred and obscured though it may be, or concealed behind a cloud of human passion and error: and most men, moreover, will have an instinct which will tell them when an individual is substituting his own ideas for the eternal and immutable law,--as, for instance, when at the conclusion of the sentence quoted, mr bentham seeks to substitute his own peculiar crochet, as embodied in the word "utility" (which may be used indifferently in the sense of the absolute or relative, the supernatural or the natural, the immediate or the remote utility), as synonymous with "natural justice," "natural equity," and "good order." so, again, when mr bentham comes to the discussion of "international law," after pointing out, very properly, that whereas internal laws have always a super-ordinate authority to enforce them, "that when nations fall into disputes there is no such super-ordinate impartial authority to bind them to conformity with any fixed rules," mr bentham goes on to say, "though there is no distinct official authority capable of enforcing right principles of international law, there is a power bearing with more or less influence on the conduct of all nations, as of all individuals, however transcendently potent they may be, this is the power of public opinion." public opinion! not then of public opinion threatening coercion, for in that case we should have "a super-ordinate impartial authority binding to conformity with fixed rules," but public opinion as a moral expression. if, however, you take from it the expression of right and wrong, of natural justice, and of the eternal and immutable law; if its expression is not reprobation, and, so to speak, a fore-judgment of the retribution of the most high, but only dissatisfaction or the mere pronouncement of the inutility of the action, whatever it may be, what even with benthamites can be its efficacy and worth? the vanquished say to their conqueror, the multitudes to their oppressor, this oppression is not according to utility. utility! he replies, useful to whom? to you! fancy the look of prince bismarck as he would reply to such an address. what are men if you take away the notion of right and wrong but "the flies of a summer?" how different was the expression of napoleon after his ill-usage of pius vii., "j'ai frissonè les nations." napoleon had a conscience,[ ] and in his moments of calm reflection felt in its full force the reprobation of mankind. [ ] _vide_ "sentiment de napoleon i. sur le christianisme," d'apres des temoignages recueillis par feu le chevalier de beauterne. nouvelle edition, par m. ----; bray, paris, . when bentham, still speaking of public opinion, adds:-- "the power in question has, it is true, various degrees of influence. the strong are better able to put it at defiance than the weak. countries which, being the most populous, are likely also to be the strongest, carry a certain support of public opinion with all their acts _whatever they may be_. but still it is the only power which can be moved to good purposes in this case; and, however high some may appear to be above it, there are in reality none who are not more or less subject to its influence." here bentham is again in imagination gathering men together like the flies of a summer,--the force of their opinion depending on their numbers. but what, again, is the force of all this buzzing if it is the mere expression of "pleasure," or "pain," of satisfaction or dissatisfaction in the masses? conquerors may not always be relentless, they may at times exhibit some sympathy with their fellow men; but as a rule they are so dominated by some one idea or passion, or at best are so absorbed in the interests of their own people, as to be deaf to such appeals. prince bismarck's sentiments towards france during the late war are pretty well known; but it is said that after the conflict was over, and when france was in the throes of its terrible internecine conflict, he was asked, "what is your excellency's opinion of the present state of france?" he replied, "das ist mit ganz wurst," which is equivalent to "i don't care two straws about it."[ ] how are men of this stamp to be affected by any exclamations of pleasure or pain? if on the contrary it is the voice of reprobation which they hear, and if in their case the saying "vox populi vox dei" is felt to have its full application, there is then a public opinion expressed which is calculated to strike the conscience and inspire terror, and that is quite another matter. [ ] _neue freie presse_ of vienna. _pall mall gazette_, may , . de tocqueville, from his own point of view, puts the argument in favour of natural justice very forcibly, and in a certain construction would express the identical truth for which i contend. "i hold it to be an impious and an execrable maxim that, politically speaking, a people has a right to do whatever it pleases; and yet i have asserted that all authority originates in the will of the majority. am i, then, in contradiction with myself? a general law which bears the name of justice has been made and sanctioned, not only by a majority of this or that people, but by a majority of mankind. the rights of every people are consequently confined within the limits of what is just. a nation may be considered in the light of a jury which is empowered to represent society at large, and to apply the great general law of justice. ought such a jury, which represents society, to have more power than the society in which the laws it applies originate."--_m. de tocqueville's "democracy in america_," ii. . although m. de tocqueville's view does not go to the full length of the argument, still, regarded in this light, the voice of the majority of mankind, or of any large masses of mankind, has a very different significance from what it bears in the writings of bentham. let us now consider the doctrines of bentham in their more recent exposition. the _pall mall gazette_, oct. , , says:-- "laws have been described as definitions of pre-existing rights, relations between man and man, reflections of divine ordinances, anything but what they really are,--forms of organised constraint. it says little for the assumed clear-headedness of englishmen, that they have very generally preferred the ornate jargon of hooker, to the accurate and intelligible account of law and government which forms the basis of bentham's juridical system." it says much, however, for their strong political sense and sagacity. if this is the true and only description of law, it is tantamount to saying that law is force and force is law; in other words, that the commands of a legitimate government need not be regarded when it is weak, but that the enactments of power must always be obeyed, however it is acquired, and whether its decrees are in accordance with right or contrary to justice. it is a ready justification for tyranny, equally sanctioning the "lettres de cachet" of the ancient regime, and the proscriptions of the convention, equally at hand for the national assembly at versailles, or for the commune at paris. but however much it may be disguised, it is the only alternative definition of law, when once you say that law is not of divine ordinance and tradition. if no regard is to be had to the definition of right, but the term law is to be applied to any adequate act of repression, there is in truth nothing but force. yet why should force adequate to its purpose seek to cloak itself in the forms of law? i suppose the question must have been put and answered before; but the answer can only be because law is felt to import a totally different set of ideas from force. it is necessary, more especially now that the utilitarian theory is dominant, to enter a protest according to the turn the argument may take, but in the end nothing more can be said than was said by cicero in the century before our lord:-- "est enim unum jus, quo devincta est hominum societas, et quod lex constituit una; quæ lex est recta ratio imperandi atque prohibendi: quam qui ignorat is est injustus, sive est illa scripta uspiam, sive nusquam. quod si justitia est obtemperatio scriptis legibus institutisque populorum, et si, ut iidem dicunt utilitate omnia metienda sunt, negliget leges, easque perrumpit, si poterit, is, qui sibi eam rem fructuosam putabit fore. ita fit, ut nulla sit omnino justitia; si neque naturâ est, eaque propter utilitatem constituitur, utilitate alia convellitur."--_de legibus_, i. . it is only upon this construction that the law of nations can be said to exist, as "there is no superordinate authority to enforce it." it is accordingly asserted that the law of nations is not really law. but is not this only when it is regarded from the point of view of "organised constraint?"[ ] if it is regarded as a divine ordinance, or even as under the divine sanction, then it is law in a much higher degree than simple internal or municipal law, for it more immediately and directly depends upon this sanction; and hence nations may more confidently appeal to heaven for the redress of wrong _here below_ than individuals--seeing that, as bossuet somewhere says, god rewards and chastises nations in this world, since it is not according to his divine dispensation to reward them corporately in the next. [ ] "utiles esse autem opiniones has quis neget, quum intelligat quam multa firmentur jure jurando, quantæ salutis sint f[oe]derum religiones? quam multos divini supplicii metus a scelere revocaverit? quamque sancta sit societas civium inter ipsos diis immortalibus interpositis tum judicibus tum testibus?"--cicero, _de legibus_, ii. . more recently, however, the extraordinary successes and subversions which we have witnessed during this last year, have brought the _pall mall gazette_ face to face with problems pressing for immediate and anxious settlement; and in a series of articles it has discussed the question of the law of nations with much depth and earnestness. i there observe phrases which i can hardly distinguish from those i have just employed. combating mr mill's view, the writer says:-- "nobody knows better than he that international law is not really law, and why it is not law; but he seems to have jumped to the conclusion that it is therefore the same thing as morality.... there cannot, in truth, be any closer analogy than that which we drew the other day between the law of nations and the law of honour, and between public war and private duelling." [this is upon an assumption that there is nothing "essentially immoral in the code of honour," as "to a great extent it coincided with morality."] "but it differed from simple morality in that its precepts were enforced, not by general disapprobation, but by a challenge to the offender by anybody who supposed himself to be aggrieved by the offence. the possible result always was, that the champion of the law might himself be shot, and this was the weakness of the system. but this is exactly the weakness of international law, and the _original idea_ at the _basis_ both of _public war_ and of private duelling was precisely the same,--_that god almighty somehow interposed_ in favour of the combatant _who had the juster cause_. there is clear historical evidence that the feuds which became duels were supposed to be fought out under divine supervision, _just as battles_ were believed to be decided by the god of battles." i believe that if history could be re-written from this point of view that many startling revelations would be brought to light. it is with reluctance that i turn from the points upon which i approach to agreement with the writer, to those upon which we fundamentally differ. and here i must remark, that "the accurate and intelligible account of law and government which forms the basis of bentham's juridical system"[ ] (_supra_, p. ), is not distinguishable from, and in any case ultimately depends upon, his theory of utility as a foundation, or, as his later disciples say, a "standard" of morals. such a standard is the negation of all morality; and if it ever came to stand alone every notion of morals would be obliterated, because, being open to every interpretation, and incapable of supplying any definite rule itself, it would abrogate every other, and under a plausible form abandon mankind to its lusts and passions. [ ] "from _utility_, then, we may denominate a principle that may serve to preside over and govern, as it were, such arrangements as shall be made of the several institutions, or combinations of institutions, that compose the matter of this science." bentham's "fragment on government," xliii., and at p. , the principle of utility is declared "all-sufficient," ... that "principle which furnishes us with that reason, which alone depends not upon any higher reason, but which is itself the _sole and all-sufficient reason_ for _every point_ of practice whatsoever." in the _pall mall gazette_, april , , an article entitled "mr darwin on conscience," discusses benthamism with reference to darwinism. there is a fitness in this which does not immediately appear. the writer says:-- "what is called the question of the moral sense is really two: how the moral faculty is acquired, and how it is regulated. why do we obey conscience or feel pain in disobeying it? and why does conscience prescribe _one kind_ of actions and condemn another kind? to put it more technically, there is the question of the subjective existence of conscience, and there is the question of its objective prescriptions." i will avail myself of this distinction, and, setting aside the questions referring to the "subjective existence of conscience," i will ask attention only to "its objective prescriptions." assuming, then, the operations of conscience in the individual man, there will necessarily also have been in the course of history some outward expression of this inward feeling in maxims, precepts, and laws, if not also reminiscences of primeval revelations and divine commands. it will be true, therefore, to say, without touching the deeper question of the foundation of morals, that there has been a tradition of morals which cannot but have had its influence in all ages upon the "social feelings" in which, according to the _pall mall gazette_, "it will always be necessary to lay the basis of conscience." now is this tradition of morals identical with utilitarian precept? if the tradition of morals is identical with "the greatest happiness principle," then that principle was no discovery of bentham's,[ ] neither can benthamism be regarded as "the new application of an old principle." bentham in that case simply informed mankind that they had been talking prose all their lives without knowing it! benthamism, however, in point of fact, is felt as a new principle precisely in so far as it discards the old morality. the question which i ask is, how does it account for these old notions of morality obtaining among mankind? how is it that mankind has so long and so persistently, both in their notion of what was good and their sense of what was evil, departed from the line of their true interests, as disclosed in the utilitarian philosophy? if the history of man is what the scriptures tell us it was, the manner in which this has come about is sufficiently explained; and there is no mystery as to the notion of sin, the necessity of expiation, the restraints and limitations of natural desires, the excellence of contemplation, and the obligation of sacrifices and prayers. now, if the history of mankind is not to be invoked in explanation, it is difficult to see how these notions should not conflict with any theory and plan of life based on a principle of utility.[ ] it is not unnatural, therefore, that the utilitarians should turn to darwinism and other such kindred systems for the solution of their difficulties. [ ] bentham speaks of his enunciation of "the greatest happiness principle" in the following terms:--"throughout the whole horizon of morals and of politics, the consequences were glorious and vast. it might be said without danger of exaggeration, that they who sat in darkness had seen a great light." with reference to this lord macaulay says, "we blamed the utilitarians for claiming the credit of a discovery, when they had merely stolen that morality (the morality of the gospel) and spoiled it in the stealing. they have taken the precept of christ _and left the motive_, and they demand the praise of a most wonderful and beneficial invention, when all they have done has been to make a most useful maxim useless _by separating it from its sanction. on religious principles_ it is true that every individual will best promote his own happiness by promoting the happiness of others. _but if religious considerations be left out of the question it is not true._ if we do not reason on the supposition of a future state, where is the motive? if we do reason on that supposition, where is the discovery?"--_vide lord macaulay's essays on "westminster reviewer's defence of mill," and "the utilitarian theory of government" in lord macaulay's "miscellaneous writings._" [ ] there was a way in which the argument was formerly stated by utilitarians which was much more plausible, but which i observe is now seldom if ever resorted to by the modern exponents of this theory. the _pall mall gazette_, april , , says: "the now prevailing doctrine" that there is no absolute standard of right and wrong, but "that the right and wrong of an action or a motive depend upon the influence of the action, or the motive upon the general good." the argument to which i refer is thus stated by mr w. o. manning in his "commentaries on the law of nations," :--"everything around us proves that god designed the happiness of his creatures. it is the will of god that man should be happy. to ascertain the will of god regarding any action, we have, therefore, to consider the tendency of that action to promote or diminish human happiness," p. . it is perfectly true that man was created by god for happiness, and that ultimate happiness, if he does not forfeit it, is the end to which he is still destined. it is moreover true that even in this world he may enjoy a conditional and comparative happiness. how it is that this happiness cannot be complete and perfect here below is precisely the secret which tradition reveals to him. it is important, from the point of view of happiness, both for individuals and nations, that the truth of this revelation should be ascertained, and that the conditions and limitations within which happiness is possible should be known, otherwise life will be consumed in chimerical pursuits of the unattainable, and in the case of nations will be certain to end, at some time or another, in catastrophes such as we have recently witnessed in paris. in an enlarged sense it is therefore true to say that the divine will has regard to utility; but the view has this implied condition, that what we regard as utility should in the first place be conformable to what is directly or indirectly known to be the divine precept and command; and, on the other hand, if no advertence is made to revelation or the tradition of the human race, what is called utility, however large and disinterested the speculation may be, it can never be more than the view of an individual or of a section of mankind, which it is highly probable that other individuals and sections of mankind, looking at the same facts, from a different point of view, will see reason to contradict. the _pall mall gazette_, april , , says:-- "between mr darwin and utilitarians, as utilitarians, there is no such quarrel as he would appear to suppose. the narrowest utilitarian could say little more than mr darwin says (ii. ):--'as all men desire their own happiness, praise or blame is bestowed on actions and motives according as they tend to this end; and as happiness is an essential part of the general good, the greatest happiness principle indirectly serves as a nearly safe standard of right and wrong.'" now, there is nothing in this reiteration of benthamism which has not been thrice refuted by lord macaulay in the essays above referred to. i append an extract more exactly to the point.[ ] [ ] if "the magnificent principle" is thus stated, "mankind ought to pursue their greatest happiness," it must be borne in mind that there are persons whose interests are opposed to the greatest happiness of mankind. lord macaulay's opponent replies, "ought is not predicable of such persons; for the word ought has no meaning unless it be used in reference to some interest." lord macaulay replied, "that interest was synonymous with greatest happiness; and that, therefore, if the word _ought_ has no meaning unless used with reference to interest, then, to say that mankind ought to pursue their greatest happiness, is simply to say that the greatest happiness is the greatest happiness; that every individual pursues his own happiness; that either what he thinks his happiness must coincide with the greatest happiness of society or not; that if what he thinks his happiness coincides with the greatest happiness of society, he will attempt to promote the greatest happiness of society whether he ever heard of the "greatest happiness principle" or not; and that, by the admission of the westminster reviewer, if _his_ happiness _is inconsistent with_ the greatest happiness of society, there is no reason why he should promote the greatest happiness of society. now, that there are individuals who think _that_ for their happiness which is not for the greatest happiness of society, is evident.... the question is not whether men have _some_ motives for promoting the greatest happiness, but whether the _stronger_ motives be those which impel them to promote the greatest happiness."--_lord macaulay's "miscellaneous writings," utilitarian theory of government_, pp. - . i refer to it because it will be interesting to see how the argument looks in its application to darwinism. it will be seen that if the conditions of unlimited enjoyment anywhere existed, lord macaulay's strictures would lose something of their force. if, indeed, there was superabundance and superfluity of everything for all in this life, then anything which conduces to the satisfaction of the individual would add to, or at least would not detract from, the sum of happiness of all mankind. but unless you can show this--if even the reverse of this is the truth--then "the greatest happiness" will be in proportion to the self-abnegation of those who possess more, or have the greatest faculties or facilities of producing more. now, if there is one view more prominent than another in mr darwin's work, it is embodied in the phrase to which he has given a new sense and significance, "the struggle for existence." in the midst of this struggle for existence, what is there in the greatest happiness principle to bind the individual to abnegation? why should he postpone his certain and immediate gratification to the remote advantage of others, or of distant and contingent advantage to himself? if, on the other hand, he regards the transitoriness of the enjoyment, and balances it against the fixity and eternity of the consequences, the argument takes altogether different proportions, and the temptation to enjoyment is inversely to the intensity of the struggle for existence. i will take another test of benthamism by darwinism, which will more exactly bring out the argument for which i contend. we have a traditional horror of infanticide which revolts all our best feelings and shocks our principles. but if mr darwin has demonstrated this struggle for existence existing from all time; if also we are disembarrassed from all advertence to another world; if, further, mr malthus, before mr darwin, has shown reason to believe that over-population is the cause of half the evils of this life, what is there in benthamite principles which should prevent our sacrificing these unconscious innocents to the greatest happiness of the greatest number? nothing, except the horror we should excite among mankind still imbued with the old superstitions! a person who did not hold to mr malthus' views might demur; but a malthusian, who was also a disciple of mr bentham, could only hold back because his feelings were better than his principles. a disciple of mr darwin's would probably stand aloof, and would merely see in our notions an artificial interference with the working of his theory, preventing the struggle for existence going on according to natural laws. this seems to me to be almost said in the same article from the _pall mall gazette_, from which i have quoted. mr darwin, in his "origin of species" (p. ), has pointed out that "we ought to admire the savage instinct which leads the queen-bee to destroy her young daughters as soon as born, because this is for the good of the community." and in his new book he says, firmly and unmistakably (i. ), that "if men were reared under precisely the same conditions as hive-bees, there can hardly be a doubt that our unmarried females would, like the worker-bees, think it a sacred duty to kill their brothers, and mothers would strive to kill their fertile daughters, and no one would think of interfering." the _pall mall_ continues-- "if, from one point of view, this is apt to shock a _timorous_ and _unreflecting_ mind, by asserting that the most cherished of our affections might have been, under _certain_ circumstances, a vicious piece of self-indulgence, and its place in the scale of morality taken by what is _now_ the most atrocious kind of crime; nevertheless, from another point of view, such an assertion is as reassuring as the most absolute of moralists could desire, for it is tantamount to saying that the foundations of morality, the distinctions of right and wrong, are deeply laid in the very conditions of social existence; that there is, in the face of these conditions, a positive and definite difference between the moral and the immoral, the virtuous and the vicious, the right and the wrong, in the actions of individuals partaking of that social existence." this is very well. it is so _now_, because of the traditional sentiments and principles which still retain their force--but how long will it continue? i invite attention to the following passage from mr hepworth dixon's "new america" (vol. i. p. , th edition), which i must say struck me very forcibly when i read it. he narrates a conversation which he had with brigham young on the subject of incest:--"speaking for himself, not for the church, he (brigham young) said he saw _none at all_ (_i.e._ no objection at all). he added, however, that he would not do it himself,--'my prejudices prevent me.'" upon which mr hepworth dixon observes-- "this _remnant_ of an old feeling brought from the gentile world, _and this alone_, would seem to prevent the saints (mormons) from rushing into the higher forms of incest. how long will these gentile sentiments remain in force? 'you will find here,' said elder stenhouse to me, talking on another subject, 'polygamists of the third generation. when these boys and girls grow up and marry, you will have in these valleys the _true feeling_ of patriarchal life. the _old world is about us yet_, and we are always thinking of what people may say in the scottish hills and the midland shires.'" here, and in the previous extract, we seem to catch glimpses of what the morality of the future is likely to be, at any rate in such matters as infanticide and incest, if old notions are to be discarded, and men are left, in each generation, to no higher rule than their own individual calculation as to pleasure and pain, or to the prevailing sense or determination of the community as to what the conditions of utility may permit. the nineteenth century is now verging on its decline, and of it, too, may we say that it has been better than its principles. yet, in spite of its philanthropy, and its aspirations for good, the destructive principles which it has nursed are rapidly gaining on its instincts: and if we may not truly at this moment paint its glories, as they have been depicted, i think by alexandre dumas, as "the livery of heroism, turned up with assassination and incest," is the time very remote when the description will apply? chapter ii. _the law of nature._ but underlying the question of the law of nations, and determining it, is the question whether or not there is a law of nature--a rule of right and wrong, independent of, and anterior to, positive legislative or international enactment. to prevent misconception, however, as to the scope of the inquiry, it is as well that i should state that i am only regarding the law of nature as the law of conscience (by which the gentiles "were a law unto themselves," rom. ii. ), in so far as it has manifested itself in laws and maxims; and the question i am here concerned with is, whether in any sense which history can take cognizance of, there was a rule of right and wrong previous to legislative enactment? at the first glance, the question would seem sufficiently disposed of by saying that men never were in a state of nature; which is true in this sense, that mankind never formed a multitude of isolated individuals, or a promiscuous herd of men and women. a totally different solution supposes a state of nature; but which, whether it depicts it as a golden age or an age of barbarism, still contemplates mankind in this state as a mere congeries of individuals, without law, or else without the necessity of law--in either case an aggregate of isolated individuals, eventually to be brought into the state of civil society by a social compact. now my intention is not to combat this view--which at the present moment may be considered to be exploded--but to account for it. i think that i shall do something towards clearing up this mystery by pointing out that this latter solution, although in great vogue with the publicists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, is traced beyond them to the classical times, and was derived by them through the tradition of the roman law from paganism. a theory of the lawyers, and a theory of the philosophers, concreted with a true but distorted fact in tradition in order to produce this belief, viz., that society was founded by a contract among men who were originally equal.[ ] [ ] it will be seen, later on, in what this view differs from sir henry maine's. i shall in a subsequent chapter state to what extent i believe it to be true that society was founded upon a contract, and also the way in which this impression was confirmed, from the actual circumstances of the formation of the early communities of greece and italy; and i shall then examine the true tradition, such as i believe it to be, of a state of nature associated with the reminiscence of a golden age, as contrasted with the distinct yet parallel tradition of a state of nature identified with a state of barbarism (_vide_ ch. vii. and ch. xiii.) this latter tradition i believe to have been a recollection of that period of temporary privation after the flood, when mankind clung to the caverns and the mountains (_vide_ p. ), until, incited by the example of noah, they were brought into the plains, and instructed in the arts of husbandry by the patriarch; and the notion of the primitive equality[ ] of condition i believe to have originated in the bacchanalian traditions of the same patriarch.[ ] [ ] in all the diluvian commemorative festivals, to which i shall draw attention (ch. xi.), there is one day set apart for the commemoration of this primitive equality, accompanied with bacchanalian festivities and ceremonials. [ ] sir h. maine ("ancient law," p. ) says, "like all other deductions from the hypothesis of a law natural, and like the belief itself in a law of nature, it was languidly assented to, until it passed out of the possession of the lawyers into that of the literary men of the eighteenth century, and the public which sat at their feet. with them it became the most distinct tenet of their creed, and was even regarded as the summary of all the others." if we start with a belief in the primitive equality of conditions, the only way out of the mesh is apparently by a theory of a compact. "from the roman law downwards," says sir g. c. lewis, "there has been a strong tendency among jurists to deduce recognised rights and obligations from a supposed, but non-existing contract. when an express contract exists, the legal rights and duties which it creates are in general distinct and well-defined. hence, in cases where it is wished that similar legal consequences should be drawn, which come within the spirit of the rules applicable to a contract, though they do not themselves involve any contract, the lawyer cuts the knot by saying that a contract is presumed, that there is a contract by intendment of law, that there are certain rights and obligations "_quasi ex contractu_." thus the roman law held that a guardian was bound to his ward by a _quasi_ contract."--_sir g. c. lewis, "on the methods of observation, &c., in politics_," i. ; "_on the social compact_," pp. - . it is not difficult to see how such a fiction of the law would tend to give shape and system to the vague tradition as to the fact among the populace. the way in which the philosopher came to his conclusion was somewhat more complex. it will have been seen that the notion of the state of nature and the social compact was, among the ancients, in the main, a figment of the imagination, and not a tradition. but there was also a tradition of a law of nature which did not at all correspond to a state of license, of equality, and of barbarism, such as the state of nature was conceived to be. it was, on the contrary, a law of decorum and restraint. what, then, the roman probably meant by the law of nature was a reminiscence of a primitive revelation, or a tradition of the maxims of right and wrong by which men were guided in their relations to one another, when fresh from the hand of god--"_a diis recentes_"--when family life still subsisted, and before men had settled down into states and communities. it was not a law of nature as nature then was, but an aspiration after a lost rule of life, as after a higher standard, and an attempt to trace it back, through the corruption of mankind. dim and uncertain as these notions were, they were not without their influence. but their ideas as to the cosmogony were more shadowy still. when, then, in reasoning from a law of nature to a state of nature, mankind discovered that they knew or remembered nothing of their origin, or of the history of the human race, except indirectly through legendary lore, they then had recourse to the philosophers. these latter then did what philosophers incline to do in such cases of difficulty. they regarded the existing state of things, and finding it to be artificial, they, by a process of abstraction, resolved it into its elements, and, having thus reduced society into an assemblage of individuals, substituted their last analysis for the commencement of all things. in this analysis they found men, what historically and in fact they had never been, alike free, equal, and independent. the theory of the social compact among men individually free and equal was in the main a fiction, started _à posteriori_ to account for relations otherwise obscure, or, as sir henry maine explains, to facilitate modifications which were felt to be desirable; and we cannot be astonished that paganism should take this view, unless we are prepared to believe that the traditions truly embodying the history of the world were more direct, vivid, and potential than i suppose them to have been. it is at least remarkable, that in proportion as men lose their faith, they fall back, as if by some necessary law, upon some theory which directly or indirectly contemplates mankind as a collection of atoms; and if ever society should lose again the history of its origin, as would happen if ever infidelity were to gain complete ascendancy, it would return by the same processes to the same conclusion. but however sceptical individual minds may become, or however general may be the disposition to reject or ignore the scriptural narrative, the general framework of its statements is now too firmly embedded in the belief of mankind to be easily overthrown. the notion of a social compact, in more recent times, obtained a certain credence[ ] so long as the discussion was confined to hobbes, locke, and their disciples. and it must be borne in mind that this is a very taking theory, a ready and convenient starting point, and conformable to much that is true in history and politics. but it is long since exploded; and even the fervid advocacy of rousseau, in an age peculiarly predisposed for its reception, could not secure for it even temporary recognition among mankind; and why? because, whenever the discussion cools, men will inevitably ask each other the question, if such a compact took place, where shall we locate it consistently with the evidence recorded in genesis? remove the evidence in genesis, and such a theory becomes at once a tenable and plausible conjecture. [ ] "the earlier advocates of the doctrine of the social compact maintained it on the ground of its _actual existence_. they asserted that this account of the origin of political societies was _historically true_. thus locke, &c."--_sir g. c. lewis, "meth. of reasoning in pol._" i. p. . as i shall have occasion, later on, to come into collision with sir henry maine upon some points, i have the greater satisfaction here in invoking his testimony. this acute and learned writer ("ancient law," p. ) regrets that the voltairean prejudices of the last century prevented reference "to the only primitive records worth studying--the early history of the jews[ ].... one of the few characteristics which the school of rousseau had in common with the school of voltaire was an utter disdain of all religious antiquities, and more than all of those of the hebrew race. it is well known that it was a point of honour with the reasoners of that day to assume, not merely that the institutions called after moses were not divinely dictated, ... but that they and the entire pentateuch were a gratuitous forgery executed after the return from the captivity. debarred, therefore, from one chief security against speculative delusion, the philosophers of france, in their eagerness to escape from what they deemed a superstition of the priests, flung themselves headlong into a superstition of the lawyers." [ ] "the only reliable materials which we possess, besides the pentateuch, for the history of the period which it embraces, consist of some fragments of berosus and manetho, an epitome of the early egyptian history of the latter, a certain number of egyptian and babylonian inscriptions, and two or three valuable papyri."--_rawlinson, bampton lectures._ oxford, , ii. . chapter iii. _primitive life._ the scriptural narrative seems to establish:--( .) that human society did not commence with the fortuitous concurrence of individuals, but that, though originating with a single pair, for the purposes of practical inquiry it commences with a group of families--the family of noah and his sons, together with their families, and whose dispersion in other families is subsequently recorded. ( .) that men were not primitively in a state of savagery, barbarism, and ignorance of civil life; but that, on the contrary, it is presumable that noah and his family brought with them out of the ark the traditions and experiences of two thousand years, and, not to speak of special revelations, the arts of civil life and acquaintance with cities. ( .) that, although everything in the early state of mankind would have led to dispersion, and although there is mention of one great and complete dispersion, yet this dispersion of mankind was a dispersion of families and not of individuals. in all our speculations, therefore, as to society and government, it is the family and not the individual whom we must regard as the elementary constituent. moreover, so long as family government sufficed, there was nothing but the family. the state would have existed only in germ (_vide infra_, p. ), and would have remained thus inchoate even during that subsequent period when families were affiliated in tribal connection, though not yet coalesced into tribal union. it is my impression, that the period during which family government sufficed, continued much longer than is generally supposed; for, until the world became peopled and crowded, everything led to dispersion and the continuance of the pastoral state of life. from the necessities of pastoral life, mankind in early times could not have been gregarious--herds would have become intermixed, keep would have become short, the broad plains were spread out before them;[ ] _e.g._ gen. chap. xiii.-- "but lot also, who was with abraham, had flocks of sheep, and herds and tents. . neither was the land able to bear them, that they might dwell together. . whereupon there arose a strife between the herdsmen of abraham and lot; and at that time the canaanite and the perizzite dwelt in that country. . abraham therefore said, let there be no quarrel. . behold the whole land is before thee."[ ] [ ] i indicated this view in a pamphlet, "inviolability of property by the state, by an english landlord." . [ ] again esau and jacob separated, after the death of the patriarch isaac, because their stock in herds and flocks had so increased that, according to the scriptural phrase, "it was more than they might dwell together," and further, "the land would not bear them because of their cattle."--gen. chap, xxxvi.; _vide_ "pinkerton, voy." i. . writing with reference to the hamitic dynasty, founded at babylon by nimrod (_vide_ rawlinson, anc. mon.), and the conquests of kudur-lagamer, identified by rawlinson as chedor-laomer, mr brace adds ("ethnology," p. ):--"this at a period, as professor rawlinson remarks, when the kings of egypt had never ventured beyond their borders, and when no monarch in asia held dominion over more than a few petty tribes and a few hundred miles of territory."--_vide_ ch. xiii. "a golden age." it is scarcely to be believed, that in such a state of society there would have been feuds, in the sense of inherited or hereditary quarrels, but at most contentions for particular localities; in which case the weaker or the discomfited party would have pushed on to other ground. there was no long contest, because there was nothing worth contesting. it has been noticed that only the highly civilised man, and the savage who has tasted blood, love fighting for the mere sake and ardour of the conflict. the simple barbarian does not fight until he is attacked, neither do the wild animals of the desert; their ferocity is limited and regulated by the necessity and the provocation. it is the exception, rather than the rule, for animals to fight among themselves. it is not in the nature of man or beast to fight without a reason. accordingly, there is no such fomenter of war as war. carver notices that the wars carried on between the indian nations are principally on motives of revenge, and, when not on motives of revenge, their reasons for going to war are "in general more rational and just than such as are fought by europeans, &c."--_carver's "travels in north america,"_ pp. , .[ ] [ ] such seems, at a comparatively recent period ( ), to have been the state of things at a widely different point among the samoides:--"the real spot where the habitations of the samoides begin,--if any case be pointed out among a people which is continually changing residence,--is in the district of mozine, beyond the river of that name, three or four hundred wersts from archangel. the colony, which is actually met with there, and which _lives dispersed_ according to the usage of those people, _each family by itself_, without forming villages and communities, does not consist of more than three hundred families, or thereabouts, which are all descended _from two different tribes_, the one called laghe and the other wanonte--_distinctions carefully regarded by them_."--_vide_ "pinkerton, voy." i. . it is also said (p. ) of certain moral observances amongst them (_vide infra_, p. ):--"all these customs, religiously observed among them, are no other than the fruits of tradition, handed down to them from their ancestors; and this tradition, with some reason, may be looked upon as law." it is a common idea amongst us that the word _home_ is a peculiarly english word, and, i confess, it was my own impression, but i am set musing by finding among these same samoides the word "_chome_" as their word for their _tents_, to which they cling so closely.--_vide_ pinkerton, i. . "i visited four other villages or _goungs_, and there may be as many more in assam, each containing about three or four hundred people. every community is under the patriarchal government of a chief, from whom the village takes its name.... the chiefs of villages would combine against a common enemy, but are as independent of each other as the old highland heads of clans.... i was curiously reminded of the clan distinctions, by observing that the home-grown cotton cloths differed in pattern in the different villages. in all cases chequered patterns were worn, presenting as various combinations of colours and stripes as our own tartans, and each village possessed a pattern peculiar to itself, generally, though not universally, affected by the inhabitants."--_travels in northern assam_, field, i., ; _vide also hunter's "rural bengal,"_ , p. . the same tendencies, under similar circumstances, where the tribes were not crowded or in fear of warlike neighbours, was noticed among the red indians some forty years ago. now, i suppose, instances would be rare. "when a nation of indians becomes too numerous conveniently to procure subsistence from its own hunting-grounds, it is no uncommon occurrence for it to send out a colony, or, in other words, to separate into tribes.... the tribe so separated maintains all its relations independent of the parent nation, though the most friendly intercourse is commonly maintained, and they are almost uniformly allies. separations sometimes take place from party dissensions, growing generally out of the jealousies of the principal chiefs, and, not unfrequently, out of petty quarrels. in such instances, in order to prevent the unnecessary and wanton effusion of blood, and consequent enfeebling of the nation, the weaker party moves off usually without the observance of much ceremony."[ ] [ ] "hunter's memoir of his captivity (from childhood to the age of nineteen) among the indians," p. , . he also adds (p. ):--"the indians do not pretend to any correct knowledge of the tumuli or mounds that are occasionally met with in their country.... one tradition of the quapaws states that a nation differing very much from themselves inhabited the country many hundred snows ago, when game was so plenty that it required only slight efforts to procure subsistence, and when there _existed no hostile neighbours to render the pursuit of war necessary_." and stephen's "central america" (i. ) notices the absence of all weapons of war from the representations in sculpture at copan, and says:--"in other countries, battle scenes, warriors, and weapons of war, are among the most prominent subjects of sculpture; and from the entire absence of them here, there is reason to believe that the people were not warlike, but peaceable, and easily subdued." mr grote in his "plato"[ ] says-- "there existed," even "in his (plato's) time, a great variety of distinct communities--some in the simplest, most patriarchal, cyclopian condition, _nothing more than families_; some highly advanced in civilisation, with its accompanying good and evil, some in each intermediate stage between these two extremes. each little family or sept exists at first separately, with a patriarch whom all implicitly obey, and peculiar customs of its own. several of these septs gradually coalesce together into a community, choosing one or a few lawgivers to adjust and modify their respective customs into harmonious order."[ ] [ ] iii., ch. xxxvii. leges, . [ ] i find incidental corroboration of this view in "the archæology of prehistoric annals" of scotland, by dr wilson--"the infancy of all written history is necessarily involved in fable. long ere _scattered families_ had _conjoined_ their _patriarchal unions into tribes_, and clans acknowledging some common chief, and submitting their differences to the rude legislation of the arch-priest or civil head of the commonwealth, treacherous tradition has converted the story of their birth into the wildest admixture of myth and legendary fable."--_introd._, p. . even in the plain of sennaar (shinar) we see something of this fusion of tribes--"besides these two main constituents of the chaldæan race there is reason to believe that both a semitic and aryan element existed.... the subjects of the early kings are continually designated in the inscriptions by the title of 'kiprat-arbat,' which is interpreted to mean 'the four nations' or 'tongues'" (rawlinson's "ancient monarchies," i. p. ). professor rawlinson is also of opinion, that "the league of the four kings in abraham's time seems correspondent to a four-fold ethnic division." does not the above also correspond to the four-fold ethnic division of the vedas?--_vide infra_, p. . compare also the four-fold division of the world or of peru, according to various indian traditions, between manco capac and his brothers.--_vide_ hakluyt society's edition of garcilasso de la vega, i. - . if these are not traditions of fusions of races, they can only be diluvian traditions of the four couples who came out of the ark, which was the conjecture of the spaniards in the case of manco capac. in the situations, however, where the more powerful families had seized the vantage-ground, or established themselves in the richest and most coveted valleys, the tendency to consolidation and permanent settlement would have more rapidly manifested itself. as the tendency to family dispersion became restrained, and its scope restricted, disputes as to _meum_ and _tuum_ would have become more frequent as between families, some more central authority than the family headship would have been demanded for the protection, discrimination, and regulation of property. _in these_ instances the state may be said to have arisen out of the expansion of the family into the tribes--the families, probably, never having ceased to dwell together in semi-aggregation; and, when greater concentration was required, they simply had to fall back upon the patriarchal chieftain. we seem to see a tradition of this in the anax andron. but equally as regards the rest there must inevitably have come a time when, as the world became crowded, the same necessity of defending their possessions, would have caused families, among whom there was no affinity of race, to coalesce, intermix, succumb, and form communities and states. these two modes of settlement into communities and states were, however, essentially dissimilar, and the basis thus laid would have remained permanently different. the one was the basis of custom, the other of contract; the one the settlement of the east, the other of the west; and it will be seen, i think, that whilst the one was more favourable to the conservation of traditions of religion and history, the other would have better preserved the tradition of right. these are points to which i shall return in a subsequent chapter, when i shall avail myself of the investigations of sir henry maine. this simple outline, however, of human history, conformable, as i believe it to be, with the scriptural narrative, conflicts with at least three theories now much in vogue. the first, which is substantially that of sir john lubbock, mr mill,[ ] and mr b. gould, is thus conveniently summarised by mr hepworth dixon.[ ] "every one who has read the annals of our race--a page of nature with its counterfoil in the history of everything having life--is aware that, in our progress from the savage to the civilised state, man has had to pass through three grand stages, corresponding, as it were, to his childhood, to his youth, and to his manhood. in the first stage of his career he is a hunter, living mainly by the chase; in the second, he is a herdsman; ... in the third stage, he is a husbandman.... then these conditions of human life may be considered as finding their purest types in such races as the iroquois, the arabian, the gothic, in their present stage; but each condition is, in itself and for itself, _an affair of development and not of race_. the arab, who is now a shepherd, was once a hunter. the saxon, who is now a cultivator of the soil, was first a hunter, then a herdsman, before he became a husbandman. man's progress from stage to stage is _continuous_ in its course, _obeying the laws of physical and moral change_. it is slow, it is _uniform_, it is silent, it is unseen. in one word, it is _growth_.... these three stages in our progress upward are strongly marked; the interval dividing an iroquois from an arab being as wide as that which separates an arab from a saxon." [ ] this view will be found in the first chapter of mr j. s. mill's "principles of political economy," ch. i. p. . "there is perhaps no people or community now existing which subsist entirely on the spontaneous produce of vegetation." [whether mankind ever lived "entirely on," &c., may be questioned, but it is implied in gen. ix. that man did not subsist on animal food until after the deluge, a fact which lies at the foundation of porphyry's work, "de abstinentia."] "but many tribes still live exclusively, or almost exclusively, on wild animals, the produce of hunting or fishing.... the first _great advance beyond this state_ consists in the domestication of the more useful animals: giving rise to the _the pastoral or nomad state.... from this state of society to the agricultural_, the transition is not indeed easy (for no great change in the habits of mankind is otherwise than difficult, and in general either painful or very slow), but it lies in what may be called the spontaneous course of events." [ ] mr hepworth dixon's "new america," vol. i. p. . now, in the first place, i must remark that the iroquois and the arab have never progressed;[ ] neither does the arab at the present show any signs of a transition to the third stage of necessary growth, nor does mr hepworth dixon, although he gives some sound practical advice as to the best mode in which the red man is to be restrained, venture to suggest any mode by which he is to be reclaimed from the first to the third stage, either with or without a transition through the second stage of development. the conclusion therefore, one would think, would be inevitable that it is an affair _of race_ and _not_ of development. the arab and the iroquois, after the lapse of so many centuries, are still found with the evidences of primitive life strong upon them; and so, i imagine, we shall find it wherever we come upon a pure race of homogeneous origin. on the contrary, we shall find that mixed races, by the very law and reason of their admixture, have shown the greatest adaptibility, and, whenever circumstances were favourable, very rapid growth. again, i very much question whether the three stages, or rather three phases of life were ever, as a rule, progressive; and whether, in the cases in which they might chance to have been successive, anything occurred in the transition at all resembling an uniform law of growth. it is very much more probable that the three were from the earliest period contemporaneous[ ]--"and abel was a shepherd, and cain an husbandman" (gen. iv.)--the determination of the sons to the avocations of shepherd, husbandman, and hunter respectively (the latter most probably being the last selected), being influenced by taste, character, and the division of the inheritance, the authority of the father, the geographical conditions of the route, and chance circumstances. [ ] _vide_ sir s. baker; _vide_ note, ch. xiii., _noah_. [ ] the following passage, _inter alia_, from herodotus seems to sustain this--"to the eastward _of those scythians_, who apply themselves to _the culture of the land_, and on the other side of the river panticapes, the country is inhabited by scythians who _neither plough nor sow_, but are employed in _keeping cattle_."--_herod._, iv., mel. and this is the more confirmed when we consider that when once the hunter started on his career, he would have determined their avocation also for his posterity. at his death he would not have had herds of cattle to apportion to any one of his sons, and thus the taste for wild life, necessarily perpetuated, would be bred in the bone, as an indomitable characteristic of race, and the first hunter by choice would inevitably come to be the progenitor of generations of hunters by instinct and necessity. the second theory depicts the opening scene of human existence as a state of conflict, which, it must be allowed, is perfectly consistent with the theory that it was one of savagery. the theory i am now combating was originally the theory of hobbes; and i might have regarded it as now obsolete, were it not that it has cropped up quite recently in a most respectable quarter. mr hunter, in his charming work, "the annals of rural bengal," has a passage which, as i think, has been taken for more than it intends, though not for more than it expresses. mr hunter says, p. -- "the inquiry leads us back to that far-off time which we love to associate with patriarchal stillness. yet the echoes of ancient life in india little resemble a sicilian idyl or the strains of pan's pipe, but strike the ear rather as the cries of oppressed and wandering nations, of people in constant motion and pain. early indian researches, however, while they make havoc of the pastoral landscapes of genesis and job, have a consolation peculiarly suited to this age. they plainly tell us, that as in europe so in asia, the primitive state of mankind was a state of unrest; and that civilisation, despite its exactions and nervous city life, is a state of repose." it is plain that there is here question of restlessness rather than of violence; but grant that there was violence too, the account of mr. hunter when examined, so far from conflicting with, appears to me to fall exactly into, the lines i have indicated. is not the scene, from before which mr. hunter lifts the curtain, the scene of that age following the dispersion (of which, p. , there is such distinct tradition in his pages), which is traditionally known to us as the iron age? the error, then, of mr. hunter is to confound the patriarchal with the iron age. it need not therefore cause surprise that in early indian history we should hear of conflict, for it is just at the period and under the circumstances when we should consider the collision probable. mr. hunter, indeed, speaks of the aboriginal races as mysterious in their origin. but from the point of view of genesis, there seems to be no greater mystery about them than about their conquerors the aryans. one representative, at least, of the aboriginal race, the santals, retain to this day the most vivid traditions of the flood and the dispersion[ ] (pp. , ). now, if there had existed any race anterior to the santals, i think we should have heard of them. on this point we may consider mr. hunter's negative testimony as conclusive, both on account of his extensive knowledge of the subject, and his evident predisposition (p. ) to have discovered a prior race, if it had existed; and there is nothing to show that the same line of argument would not have applied to it if its existence had been demonstrated. it must be mentioned that besides their tradition of the dispersion, the santals retain dim recollections--borne out by comparative evidence--of having travelled to their present homes from the north-east, whereas the aryans came unmistakeably from the north-west. [ ] these legends, shown to be aboriginal, are very curious. they are, however, too long to be extracted here. they would repay perusal. here, then, just as might have been predicted _à priori_, these rival currents of the dispersion met from opposite points, and ran into a _cul de sac_, from which, as there was no egress, there necessarily ensued a struggle for mastery. let us now regard the two people more closely. "our earliest glimpses of the human family in india, disclose two tribes of widely different origin, struggling for the mastery. in the primitive time, which lies on the horizon even of inductive history, a tall, fair-complexioned race passed the himalaya. they came of a conquering stock. they had _known the safety_ and the _plenty_ which can only be enjoyed in regular communities.[ ] _they brought with them a store of legends_ and devotional strains; and chief of all they were at the time of their migration southward through bengal, if not at their first arrival in india, imbued with that high sense of nationality, which burns in the heart of a people who believe themselves the _depositary of a divine revelation_. there is no record of the newcomers' first struggle for life with the people of the land."--_hunter's annals_, p. . here we see the more intellectual, the more spiritual (p. ), monotheistic (p. ) aryan race overpowering the black race which had earliest pre-occupied the ground, and which was already tainted with demon worship. this contrast invites further inquiry; but first let me clear up and direct the immediate drift of my argument. [ ] mr max müller also says ("chips," ii. p. )--"it should be observed that most of the terms connected with the chase and warfare differ in each of the aryan dialects, while words connected with more peaceful occupations belong, generally, to the common heirloom of the aryan language," which proves "that all the aryan nations had led _a long life of peace before they separated_, and that their language acquired individuality and nationality, as each colony started in search of new homes,--new generations forming new terms connected with the warlike and adventurous life of their onward migrations. hence it is that _not only greek and latin, but all aryan_ languages have their peaceful words in common." also _vide_ p. , . if we estimate--taking the minimum or the maximum either according to the hebrew or septuagint version--the time it would have taken these populations, according to the slow progress of the dispersion, to have arrived at their destinations from the plain of sennaar (mesopotamia), the period may be equally conjectured to correspond with that which tradition marks as the commencement of the iron age, when the world was becoming overcrowded, and the increasing populations came into collision. neither is it a difficulty,[ ] it rather appears to me in accordance with tradition, that if this surmise be correct, the earliest arrival in the indian peninsula should have been of those who took the longest route. for it is natural to suppose that the proscribed and weakest races, _e.g._ the canaanitish, would have been the first to depart, and to depart by the north-east and west, the more powerful families having passed down and closed the south-east exit by way of the lower valleys of the euphrates. these latter would have spread themselves out in the direction of india leisurely and at a subsequent period. [ ] i find this conjecture confirmed in the pages of the most recent authority on the subject, mr brace, "ethnology," p. , --"on the continent of asia the turanians were probably the first who figured as nations in the ante-historical period. their emigrations began long before the wanderings of the aryans and semites, who, wherever they went, always discovered a previous population, apparently of turanian origin, which they either expelled or subdued." according to max müller's hypothesis there were two migrations, one northern and one southern [corresponding to the migration as above], "the _latter_ settling on the rivers meikong, meinam, _irrawaddy_, and _bramapootra_," ... "a third to the south [probably an advance of the previous one], is believed to tend toward thibet and india, and in later times pours its hordes _through the himalaya_, and forms the _original population of india_." analogy may be discovered in "the two streams or lines of celtic migration," which, says bunsen ("philosophy of univ. hist." i. ) "we may distinguish by the names of the western and eastern stream, the _former_, although the _less direct_, seems to be historically the more ancient, and to have reached this country (britain) _several centuries_ before _the other_." following these lines of migration, the aryan at some period came upon the black turanian race (_vide infra_, chap. v.); and mr hunter (p. ) records the embittered feelings with which the recollection of the strife remained in tradition. why should this have been? it might suffice to say, in consistency with what has already been advanced, that this was their first encounter, the first check in their advance. another solution seems to me equally ready to hand, and to solve so much more. but first, how does mr hunter account for this bitter feeling? he suggests contempt for their "uncouth talk," "their gross habits of eating," and, what comes near to the truth, as i apprehend it, their blackness and their paganism. suppose, then, we go a step further, and say that the highly intellectual japhetic race met thus suddenly and unexpectedly the outcast canaanitish race, with the curse upon them, recognisable in their colour and deficiencies, and of whom they would have remembered that it had been said, "that they should be the servants of their brethren"--will not this explain something of their animosity? i must here remark that although scientific inquiry takes designations of its own, in order the more conveniently to express its distinctions, yet whether we accept the ethnological or philological demarcations of mankind, it is curious how inevitably, as i think de maistre remarked, we are led back to shem, ham, and japhet. and this is as true now after a half century of scientific progress, as it was when de maistre wrote. without asserting that the divisions may ever be distinctly traced with the minuteness of bochart in his "geog. sacra," i still say, that the broad lines of the traditional apportionment of the world, and the three-fold or four-fold division of the race indicated in scripture, is seen behind the ultimate divisions into which science is brought to separate mankind, whether into caucasian, ethiopian, mongol, with two intermediate varieties, as by blumenbach; or into australioid, negroid, mongoloid, and xanthochroic, as by huxley; or into brace's division into aryan, semitic, turanian, and hamitic. behind these various systems, as behind a grill, we seem to see the forms and faces of the progenitors of the human race discernible, but their existence not capable of contact and actual demonstration, because of the intercepting bars and lattice work.[ ] [ ] i am throughout assuming acquaintance, on the part of my readers, with the third and fourth of cardinal wiseman's "lectures on science and revealed religion;" for although my argument is distinct from that of the cardinal, yet i everywhere regard his argument as the background and support of my position; and it is, moreover, part of the aim and intention of this work to show that the general ground and framework (this is, in fact, understating the truth) of cardinal wiseman's argument remains intact. there is, i think, somewhere in the cardinal's works, a passage to the above effect, but i have not been able to recover it. i have spoken above of a three-fold and four-fold division as equally indicated in scripture, and i think, from non-observance of this, the close approximation of these systems to genesis is not sufficiently recognised. i refer to the three progenital races, and the canaanite marked off and distinguished from the rest by a curse. i shall enlarge upon this point in another chapter (chap. v). i will only observe now that i do not venture to say that the canaanite is co-extensive with the turanian, which is more a philological than an ethnological division of mankind, or that their characteristics in all respects correspond.[ ] i limit my argument now to indicating the correspondence between the canaanite and the aboriginal tribes in india. [ ] if space allowed, i think the traditional lines might be indicated as plainly from the philological as from the ethnological point of view. this correspondence i find not only in the features already noted--their blackness and their intellectual inferiority--but in their enslavement to the superior races of mankind whenever they came into contact and collision with them. is not this everywhere also the mark of the turanian race? are not these conflicts in primitive life always with the turanian race? and are they not in asia, as in africa, in a state of subjugation or dependence? at any rate, this is the condition in which we find the turanian in india, so fully expressed in their name of "sudras."[ ] [ ] "according to the sacred law-book, entitled the ordinances of menu, the creator, that the human race might be multiplied, caused the brahmin, cshatriya, the vaisya, and the _sudra_ (so named from scripture, protection, wealth, and _labour_), to proceed from his mouth, arm, thigh, and foot."--_brit. ency._ the "fatimala," a sanskrit work on hindu castes, says, "the other, _i.e._, the sudra, should voluntarily serve the three other tribes, and therefore he became a sudra; he _should_ humble himself at their feet." against this literal fulfilment of gen. ix. --"cursed be canaan, a servant of servants shall he be to his brethren"--as regards the indian sudra, the text in gen. x. --"and the limits of chanaan were from sidon ... to gaza ... even to sesa"--may be objected. but i construe this text only to refer to chanaan proper, and to be spoken rather with reference to the limits of the promised land and the hebrews, than to the allocation of the tribes of chanaan; for the text immediately preceding seems to me to have its significance--viz. gen. x. ,[ ] where it is said in a marked manner, and of the descendants of chanaan alone, "the families of the canaanites were spread abroad." but if we are to suppose the whole descent of chanaan to have been confined between the limits of sidon and sesa, it could hardly have been said to have had the diffusion of the other hamitic races, and the _families_ of the chanaanites will not have been "spread abroad" in any noticeable or striking manner. it appears to me, also, that it may be proved in another way. st paul, acts xiii. , says that god destroyed _seven_ nations in the land of chanaan, whereas gen. x. enumerates eleven. [ ] homer's expression (od. i. , ), that the ethiopians divided in twain, were the _most remote_ of men-- [greek: "athiopas, toi dichtha dedaiatai eschatoi andrôn, hoi men dysomenoi yperionos oi d' aniontos,"] approximates to the scriptural phrase, and seems to imply a wider dispersion than is suggested by professor rawlinson, i. . again, kalisch ("hist. and crit. com. on old testament," trans. ) makes it a difficulty against gen. ix. that "canaan _should_ not only fall into the hands of shem, _i.e._ the people of israel, but also of _japhet_" (i. ). a remote fulfilment of the prediction may be seen in the median conquest of phoenicia, and the roman destruction of carthage; but if i have truly indicated the order of events, it will be seen that it had already come about in the earliest times. the text, indeed, of gen. ix. --"may god enlarge japhet, and may he dwell in the tents of shem, and canaan be his servant"--is so clear as almost to require some such fulfilment. but the fulfilment is seen, not only in the degradation of chanaan, but in the prosperity of japhet;[ ] and this is so correlative, that i shall still be enforcing the argument whilst connecting a link which may appear to be wanting, viz. the identity of japhet with the more favoured nations of the world. the identity of the indo-germanic races with the descendants of japhet may almost be said to be a truth "_qui saute aux yeux_," but it may still be worth while to collect the links of tradition which establish it. [ ] tylor ("primitive culture," i. p. ) says, "the semitic family, which represents one of the oldest known civilizations of the world, includes arabs, jews, phoenicians (?), syrians, &c., and may have an older as well as a newer connection in north africa. this family takes in some rude tribes, but _none which would be classed as savages_. the aryan family has existed in asia and europe certainly for several thousand years, and there are well known and marked traces of early barbaric condition, which has perhaps survived with least change among secluded tribes in the valleys of the hindu kush and himalaya." [_query_, what is the nature of the evidence that they have survived, and have not degenerated?] mr tylor continues, "there seems, again, _no known case of any full aryan tribe having become savage_. the gipsies and other outcasts are, no doubt, partly aryan in blood, but _their degraded condition_ is not _savagery_. in india there are tribes aryan by language, but whose physique is rather of indigenous type, and whose ancestry is mainly from indigenous stocks, with more or less mixture of the dominant hindu." compare _infra_, ch. v., and de maistre, p. . in truth, it appears to us a self-evident proposition, simply because tradition has familiarised us with the belief that europe was peopled by the descendants of japhet, and because philology has recently demonstrated the indo-germanic race to include this demarcation (together with central and western asia); but i think that if we exclude the testimony of tradition, we should have difficulty in establishing the point either upon the text of gen. x. , or from the evidence of philology. that the race of japhet spread themselves over the islands, and colonised the coasts of the mediterranean, is the traditional interpretation of that text; and it receives confirmation, in the first place, in the tradition that "japetus being the father of prometheus, was regarded by the greeks as the ancestor of the human race."--smith's "myth. dict." we have, i think, become familiar with such transpositions as "deucalion the son of prometheus," and "prometheus the son of deucalion," &c. certainly prometheus (_vide_ appendix to chap. viii. p. , and chap. x. p. ), supposing prometheus to be adam,[ ] would naturally stand at the head of every genealogy; but japetus, supposing him to be identified with japhet as the particular founder of the race (after so distinct and definite a starting-point as the deluge), would also, in his way, have claims to be placed at the head of their genealogy; and probably about the time that he began to be called "old japetus," and to be typical of antiquity, his claims would have been regarded as paramount, and prometheus would have been accordingly displaced in his favour. this is conjectural, but must be taken as one link. [ ] just as hercules (_vide_ hercules, p. ), who embodied in another line the tradition of adam, is said by mr grote, "hist. of greece," i. p. - , "to have been the most renowned and most ubiquitous of all the semi-divine personages worshipped by the hellenes," so that "distinguished families are _everywhere_ to be traced who have his patronymic, and glory in the belief that they are his descendants." to whom would they trace back more naturally than to adam? well, the (indian) aryans also, according to mr hunter ("rural bengal," ), "held (book of manu and the vishnu purana) that the greeks and persians were sprung from errant kshatryas, who had lost their caste"--_i.e._ from their own race. they are called in the same books _yavanas_ and pahlavas. now no one, i think, will call it a forced analogy to see in yavana the name of javan, the son of japhet.[ ] this i may call link the second. [ ] this must be taken in connection with what i have said, ch. x. but the aryans, as we have seen, are one of the three or four primitive races to which both philology and ethnology lead us back. they are contrasted, on the one side, with the semitic, and, on the other, with the hamitic or turanian race. we will assume, then, on the strength of the philological and scriptural lines being so nearly conterminous, that at least, looking from the point of view of scripture, the aryan may be identified with great probability as the japhetic race. if, then, the aryan is the japhetic race in its elder branch--to which its later migration would seem to testify--we should exactly expect that it would designate a kindred but collateral race, not by the name of their common ancestor, but by the name of the progenitor from whom they were more immediately descended--not as from japhet, but from javan. thus the links seem to join; and here i leave them, till there may chance to come some one who will gather up all the links in the chain of tradition, dislocated and dispersed by the catastrophes which have been consequent upon the derelictions of mankind. the third view to which i wish to advert, is that put forward by mr john f. m'lennan in his "primitive marriage," , which also revives the theory of a savage state, and moreover professes to discover primitive mankind living in a state of promiscuity, little, if at all, elevated above the brute, and this during the long period which was required to develop . the tribe; . the gens; . the family. it will be difficult for any one, who comes fresh from the perusal of genesis, to realise the possibility of such a view being held; but, in truth, there is no view too grotesque for men in whose survey mankind appear originally on the scene as a mass of units coming into the world, no one knows how, like locusts rising above the horizon, or covering the earth perhaps like toads after a shower! yet mr m'lennan's theory is virtually endorsed (_vide infra_) by sir j. lubbock, who refers to it (p. , note), as "mr m'lennan's masterly work." if, then, we must discuss the theory upon its merits, the objection which i should take, _in limine_, is that it is a partial generalisation from facts, irrespective of the historical evidence as a whole. there stands against it, of course, the direct evidence of the bible, also there stands against it the researches of oriental archaeology, and, again, what mr m'lennan calls the "so-called revelation of philology," which shows that mankind, in the period previous to their dispersion, "had marriage laws regulating the rights and obligations of husbands and wives, of parents and children." this evidence he rejects because "the preface of general history _must be_ compiled from the materials presented by barbarism" (p. ), thus _assuming_ barbarism to have been the primitive state. mr m'lennan struggles vainly for universal facts on which to build, and seems to find one in what he has termed exogamy (_i.e._ marriage outside the tribe), combined with the capture of wives and the infanticide of female children within the tribe. impossible! if this state of things had been _universal_, the human race would have exterminated itself long before "the historic period!" the theory necessarily supposes that some tribes were addicted to these practices, whilst others were not. exogamy, therefore, is not a universal fact; but neither could endogamy have been, _for "the conversion of an endogamous tribe into an exogamous tribe is inconceivable,"_ p. . but as mr m'lennan is as much constrained to choose between exogamy and endogamy as was mons. jourdain between poetry and prose, he apparently elects in favour of the universal primitive prevalence of exogamy, _i.e._ he supposes mankind to have commenced under conditions which would have ensured its proximate extinction. mr m'lennan (p. ) says, "the two types of organisation (viz. exogamy and endogamy) may be equally archaic;" but it is evident that he inclines to the opinion that exogamy is the more archaic; and his analysis at p. , commencing with "exogamy pure, no. , and continuing on to ... endogamy pure, no. ," is "the analysis of a series of phenomena which appears to form a progression" ( ). moreover, the difficulties which i have just urged will immediately recur if we allow "the two types to have been equally archaic." the supposed exogamous tribes, according to the theory, enforcing the infanticide of female children, and not permitting marriage within the tribe, must have been wholly dependent upon the endogamous groups for their women. these latter groups must either have succumbed, and so have become speedily extinguished through the loss of their women (for they could not have acquired others who were not of their stock, without ceasing to be endogamous); or they must have resisted successfully, and even if the matter went no farther, the exogamous tribes must have died out or abandoned exogamy; or the endogamous tribes must have resisted and retaliated, in which case we should have this further complication that they themselves would have ceased to be endogamous, and without any reason or necessity for becoming exogamous; for with the seizure of the females of the exogamous tribes, or even, under the special circumstances, with the recovery of their own, the element of "heterogeneity" would have been introduced, and the system of endogamy would have been no longer true in theory, or possible in fact. all these results must have been immediately consequent upon the first collision, which from the very conditions of exogamy, must have occurred at the outset! postulating exogamy, it must therefore rapidly have extirpated or absorbed every other system, and yet it could never have stood alone. mr m'lennan himself allows that wherever "kinship through females, the most ancient system in which the idea of blood relationship was embodied" ( ) was known, there would have been a tendency among the exogamous groups to become heterogeneous, and that thus "the system of capturing wives would have been superseded."[ ] in other words, exogamy would have become extinct. but if "kinship through females" was not discovered by the first children of the first mothers, how was it subsequently discovered? we are given no clue except that "the order of nature is progressive!" [ ] at p. , mr m'lennan sees evidence of the "form of capture" and the fact of capture among the jews; but he will at least allow the appeal to be made to the scriptures, as their most authentic history. what do we find at the commencement? in the first marriage contract recorded, _i.e._ of isaac and rebecca? why, the reverse of capture. genesis xxvi. , "but if the woman will not follow thee thou shalt not be bound by the oath." also v. , . mr m'lennan (p. ), with reference to the hurling "stones and bamboos at the head of the devoted bridegroom in khondistan," says, "_the hurling of old shoes_ after the bridegroom among ourselves _may be_ a relic of a similar custom." but this custom would seem to be much more directly traced to the custom among the jews of taking the shoes from the man who refused to marry his brother's widow (deuteronomy), and which is more generally stated in ruth iv. , as a token of _cession of right_--"the man _put off his shoe_, and gave it to his neighbour, _this was the testimony of a cession of right in israel_" (ruth iv. ). this compels the remark that if mr m'lennan fails to prove that exogamy was universal, as a stage of human progress, or, to use a phrase of his own, "on such a scale as to entitle it to rank among the normal phenomena of human development," there is nothing to exclude the likelihood of its being much more satisfactorily and directly traced as the result of degeneracy. mr m'lennan should clear his ground by demonstrating that the circumstances exclude the possibility of this conjecture. on the contrary, and on his own showing, they would appear much more certainly to affirm it. although exogamy is the earliest fact which he believes to be demonstrable by evidence, he assumes an initial promiscuity; and seems to see his way out of this initial promiscuity through the system of "rude polyandry" (when one woman was common to a determinate number of men unrelated) as distinguished from "regulated polyandry" (where one woman was common to several brothers). it must be noted that before these polyandrous families, if we may so call them, at first necessarily limited, could theoretically or in fact have become the tribal exogamous groups, many difficulties must be disposed of, and many stages traced, of which we are told nothing more than that we are "forced to regard all the exogamous races as having originally been polyandrous" (p. ). that these families, if it is not an abuse of terms to call them so, could not have become tribal by grouping, mr m'lennan himself maintains, p. . the two systems which mr m'lennan distinguishes as "rude" and "regulated polyandry," are so essentially different that i fail to trace the possibility of progression from one to the other. "rude polyandry" is barely distinguishable from promiscuity, and not at all if we regard it as only promiscuity, necessarily limited through infanticide, or other causes destroying the balance of the sexes. the latter has peculiar features--arising in some way out of, and fixed in the idea of the relationship of brothers--an idea which it is just conceivable might arise directly out of a state of promiscuity--where theoretically the children might be supposed to be in contact with the mother only, but which the system of "rude polyandry," by introducing conflicting and complicated claims, would immediately tend to weaken and obliterate. let us see, then, if we can trace the custom better on the lines of degeneracy. if we start with the belief in the existence of many primitive ceremonies and regulations we may then suppose that in the downward progression to promiscuity, the stages of the descent will be traceable in the corruptions of these customs. such surmises at least are as good as the contrary surmises of mr m'lennan. now, we have already seen[ ] that mr m'lennan alludes to the law of deuteronomy, which imposed the obligation of the younger brother marrying the widow of the elder--and it will, moreover, be seen (mr m'lennan, p. ) that this was also prescribed in the law of menu. [ ] "dr latham would invert the order of development by producing the ruder fact--polyandry--from the less rude obligation. but clearly this is an inversion of the order of nature, _which is progressive_," &c.--_m'lennan_, "_prim. marriage_," p. . whatever may be the true solution of this coincidence the least likely account would seem to be that they had both, under different conditions (different at any rate from the point of divergence, be it exogamy or polyandry), advanced to it independently and by similar stages. such fortuitous coincidences would imply not merely a succession of similar developments, but also a corresponding succession of accidental circumstances. if, however, the custom of the younger brother marrying the widow of the elder was of primitive institution (compare genesis xxxviii. and the code of menu), the corruption of this custom into polyandry, in circumstances which may at any time have disturbed the balance of the sexes in the overcrowded east, though it revolts will not absolutely astonish us; whereas the converse, _i.e._ restriction to successive appropriation contingent upon widowhood, from a state of virtual promiscuity, is so uphill a reform and so contrary to probability that it requires some internal evidence of the stages, and some warrant in modern observation to make it plausible. none are given. for the fact that we find both the "rude" and the "regulated" form existing side by side cuts both ways;[ ] and the discovery of a form of capture--the rakshasa, among the eight forms sanctioned by the code of menu, enforces our argument--it would exactly correspond to the military exemption among the jews (mr m'lennan, p. ), supposing we were able to read deuteronomy xx. - in the same sense as mr m'lennan. in that case, therefore, it would be a departure from or relaxation of a rule laid down--a view which is confirmed when we find that the authority quoted (dr muir, "sanscrit texts," the ramayana) tells that "ravana, the most terrible of all the rakshasas, is stigmatised as a _destroyer of religious duties_, and ravisher of the _wives_ of others" (prim. mar. p. ), which testifies to degeneracy at some period; whereas if mr m'lennan's view is true, this hero must be relegated to a time when the conception of "religious duties," and even of other men's "wives" were unknown. [ ] it seems to me that turner's account of polyandry in tibet, quoted by mr m'lennan, p. , gives plain evidence of the transition from the jewish custom to the "regulated" polyandry. it is said "that _the choice_ of a _wife_ is the _privilege_ of the _elder brother_." we have seen (_supra_, ), that when mankind had got, we know not how, into tribal exogamous groups, "kinship through females would have a tendency," and a moment's consideration will show an immediate tendency, "to render the exogamous groups heterogeneous, and thus to supersede the system of capturing wives." we ask why did they capture wives? mr m'lennan implies that their ideas of _incest_ forbade marriage within the tribe.[ ] apparently, then, the groups must have been exogamous[ ] previously to the time when they had attained to the knowledge of "kinship through females," else "kinship through females" would from the first have operated to produce a state of things which would have rendered exogamy unnecessary and inexplicable. the corollary is curious; they must, therefore, have had the idea of incest before they had the idea of kinship through females! [ ] "instead of endogamy we might, after some explanations, have used the word caste. but caste connotes several ideas besides that on which we desire to fix attention. on _the other hand, the rule which declares_ the union of persons of the same blood _to be incest_ has been _hitherto unnamed_" (p. ), and he terms it _exogamy_; and (p. ) he says, "in all the modern instances in which the symbol of capture is most marked we have found that _marriage within the tribe_ is prohibited as _incest_." [ ] mr m'lennan (p. ) says, "we shall endeavour to establish the following propositions:-- . that the _most ancient_ system in which the idea of blood relationship was embodied, was the system of _kinship through females only_. . that the primitive groups were, or were assumed to be homogeneous. . that the system of kinship _through females only, tended to render_ the _exogamous_ groups _heterogeneous_, and _thus to supersede_ the system of capturing wives." that some tribes should have arrived at some such state through a perverted traditional notion of incest, would, on the other hand, perfectly fit into the theory of degeneracy. i had intended to have pursued this subject, but the chapter has already run to too great length. as allusion however, has been made to sir john lubbock, i append an extract (see p. ) from which it will be seen that his view, although equally remote from historical truth, has a greater _à priori_ probability. indeed, if we could only consent to start on the assumption of "an initial state of hetairism," nothing would be more complete than the following theory:-- "for reasons to be given shortly, i believe that communal marriage was gradually superseded by individual marriages founded on capture, and that this led firstly to exogamy, and then to female infanticide; thus reversing m'lennan's order of sequence. endogamy and regulated polyandry, though frequent, i regard as exceptional, and as not entering into the normal progress of development. like m'lennan and bachojen, i believe that our present social relations have arisen from an initial stage of hetairism or communal marriage. it is obvious, however, that even under communal marriage, a warrior who had captured a beautiful girl in some marauding expedition, would claim a peculiar right to her, and, when possible, would set custom at defiance. we have already seen that there are other cases of the existence of marriage, under two forms, side by side in one country, and that there is, therefore, no real difficulty in assuming the co-existence of communal and individual marriage. it is true that, under a communal marriage system, no man could appropriate a girl entirely to himself, without infringing the rights of the whole tribe.... a war-captive, however, was in a peculiar position, the tribe had no right to her; her capturer might have killed her if he chose; ... he did as he liked, the tribe was no sufferer."--_sir j. lubbock's "origin of civilisation,"_ pp. , . i will only ask one question. at what period does sir j. lubbock suppose the custom of inheritance through females arose? this as nearly approaches a universal fact as any which sir j. lubbock adduces (_vide_ p. , _et seq._); and, on the point of its having been a prevalent custom, i can have no difficulty. whenever through degeneracy man arrived at the state of promiscuity or communal marriages, such inheritance as there might be, in such a community, would only be claimed through females, as the paternity would always be uncertain (_vide infra_, p. ). if, however, mankind commenced with communal marriages, inheritance and relationship through females would also have been from the commencement. let us now turn to sir j. lubbock's theory, as expressed in the extract above, in which he shows us how marriage by capture would quite naturally have arisen out of the state of communal marriage. but if natural, it would have been natural from the commencement, _quid vetat_? there must then have been a system also in operation from the commencement, the inevitable tendency of which, by making paternity distinct and recognisable, would have been to substitute inheritance through males; and this system, by introducing a more robust posterity, would rapidly have gained upon the other system. male inheritance, it would then appear, commenced and established itself at the outset, and to the displacement of inheritance through females. how, then, do we find traces of the latter custom so prevalent? from this point of view the more instances sir j. lubbock accumulates, the more he will excite our incredulity and surprise. this theory again, equally with mr m'lennan's, supposes mankind originally in a state of hetairism, in which case it is futile to talk of tribes and of marriage out of the tribe; for how did they emerge into this tribal separation out of the state of promiscuity? the difficulty gets more complicated since, _ex hypothesi_, after emerging from, they still remain within the tribal limits, in the state of hetairism. these preliminaries must be settled before the argument can be carried further. the usual philosophic formula is, of course, at hand--these changes must have required an indefinite lapse of ages! into this swamp we shall see one philosopher after another disappear, leaving a delusive light behind him! if we could only, dante like, recall one of these philosophers to life, after he has passed into his state of nirvana, we would ask, as in this instance, why, supposing the state of promiscuity, it would require an indefinite lapse of ages to pass from it, according to the conditions of sir john lubbock's argument (_i.e._ to the state of exogamy); considering that, _vide supra_, "it is obvious that, even under communal marriage, a warrior who had captured, &c., would claim a peculiar right to her, and, when possible, would set custom at defiance." clearly, then, it only required the man and the opportunity. appendix to chapter iii. the view at p. substantially coincides with the lines laid down by blackstone (compare plato; grote's plato, iii. ), which are the subject of bentham's attack, and to which the recent contributions of sir henry maine to our knowledge in these matters would seem to run counter. blackstone, "comm." i. , said-- "this notion, of an actually existing unconnected state of nature, is too wild to be seriously admitted: and, besides, it is plainly contradictory to the revealed accounts of the primitive origin of mankind and their preservation two thousand years afterwards, both which were effected by the means of single families. these formed the first society among themselves, which every day extended its limits; and when it grew too large to subsist with convenience in that pastoral state wherein the patriarchs appear to have lived, it necessarily subdivided itself by various migrations into more. afterwards, as agriculture increased, which employs and can maintain a much greater number of hands, migrations became less frequent, and various tribes, which had formerly separated, reunited again, sometimes by compulsion and conquest, sometimes by accident, and sometimes, perhaps, by compact.... and this is what we mean by the original contract of society, which, though perhaps in no instance it has ever been formally expressed at the first institution of a state, yet, in nature, reason must always be understood and implied in the very act of associating together.... when society is once formed, government results, of course, as necessary to preserve and to keep that society in order ... unless some superior were constituted ... they would still remain in a state of nature." bentham says of this passage from blackstone, that "'_society_,' in one place, means the same thing as a '_state of nature_' does: in another place, it means the same as '_government_.' here we are required to believe there _never was_ such a state as a state of nature: then we are given to understand there _has been_. in like manner, with respect to an original contract, we are given to understand that such a thing never existed, that the notion of it is even ridiculous; at the same time, that there is no speaking nor stirring without supposing that there was one."--_bentham's "fragment on government,"_ p. (london, ). the previous and subsequent chapters (ii., xiii.), will be found to meet these strictures of bentham, although not originally written with reference to them. chapter iv. _chronology from the point of view of tradition._ to many it may seem a fundamental objection that my theory supposes a chronology altogether out of keeping with modern discovery; and i fancy there is a somewhat general impression that modern science has an historical basis, to which not even the septuagint chronology can be made to conform. this really is not the case; but assuming it to be true, i must still remark, that if facts of primeval tradition have been established, the long lapse of ages will only enhance our notions of the persistency of tradition; or if the lapse of ages is disproved, this conclusion will be in recognition of a truth to which tradition testifies. i shall now proceed to establish that the strictly historical testimony, and the direct historical evidence, is strikingly concurrent in favour of the scriptural chronology, allowing the margin of difference between the hebrew and lxx. versions.[ ] [ ] "aucune des trois chronologies bibliques, là ou elles ne s'accordent pas entre elles, ne s'impose avec une autorite suffisante soit au fidele, soit au savant. l'eglise catholique a laissé le choix libre entre ces chronologies et elles n'oblige pas même à en adopter une."--_"le monde et l'homme primitif selon la bible," par mgr. meignan, evêque de chalons-sur-marne_, . with this view i shall successively examine the chronology of the principal nations whose annals profess to go back to the commencement of things--the aryan (including the indian, the persian, the greek, and the roman), the babylonian, the chinese, phoenician, and egyptian. _indian chronology._--there was a time when the indian (aryan) chronology was believed to attain to the most remote antiquity of all, and this belief was sustained by the apparently irrefragable testimony of astronomical evidence. who upholds this evidence now? on this head i must refer to cardinal wiseman's seventh lecture ("on science and revealed religion"), where the reader will find a clear and careful _precis_ of the discussion on the subject between bailly and delambre, the _edinburgh review_ and bentley, to which i am not aware that anything of consequence has to be added. if, on the other hand, we turn to what i am exclusively directing my attention--the strict historical investigation--we find that the cautious inquiries of such men as sir w. jones and heeren concur in placing the aryan invasion at the antecedently very probable date, from the point of view of scripture, of some years b.c. at the present moment the discussion takes the form of philological inquiry, and into the antiquity (upon internal evidence) of the ancient sanscrit literature. in so far, therefore, as it is philological, it belongs to the indirect argument, which i am now excluding. in so far as the sanscrit literature is historical, i have discussed the testimony which it brings in the preceding chapter. professor rawlinson, however, in his recent "manual of ancient history," refuses to discuss the question, as he does not regard the maha-bharata and ramayana as "trustworthy sources of history," and commences his persian history with the accession of cyrus, previously to which he does not consider the aryan migration and settlement to have been completed. apart, then, from the peculiar line of argument to which i shall presently refer, it would appear that the indian chronology, as reconstructed from history and tradition, falls easily within the lines, not only of the lxx., but of the hebrew version. the indians, it is true ("hales' chron.," i. ), themselves say that their history goes back , , years. although hales gives a solution which may be deemed satisfactory, i think that, if considered in connection with the babylonian computation, it will be seen that, though inexact in their figure, they are accurate in their tradition. _the primary figure in their (indian) calculation_-- , --_is arrived at through the extended multiplication_ of the chaldean sossos, neros, and saros, _or of their own traditional figures_ corresponding to them (_vide infra_). in the chaldean system (_vide_ rawlinson, "anc. mon.," i.), and were employed as alternate multipliers. thus a "soss" = years ( × ), a "ner" = ( × ), a "sar" = ( × ); and if the multiplication be continued, the next figure would be , ( × ), next , ( , × ). _the indian figure , ,[ ] is made up of twice , ._ [ ] , is also the figure to which berosus extends the assyrian chronology. thus the indian fabrication commences at the point where berosus ends. professor rawlinson ("anc. mon.," i. ) gives in detail, and endorses a remarkable _eclaircissement_ of m. gutschmid on the mythical traditions of assyrian chronology. _babylonian chronology._--rawlinson says-- "assuming that the division between the earlier and later assyrian dynasty synchronises with the celebrated era of nabonassar ( b.c.), which is probable, but not certain, and taking the year b.c. as the admitted date of the conquest of the last chaldæan king by cyrus, he obtains for the seventh or second assyrian dynasty years ( to ). assuming, next, that b.c. , from which the babylonians counted their stellar observations, must be a year of note in chaldæan history, and finding that it cannot well represent the first year of the second or median dynasty, since in that case eleven kings of the third dynasty would have reigned no more than thirty-four years, he concludes it must mark the expulsion of the medes and accession of the third dynasty (which he regards as a native dynasty). from his previous calculations, it follows that the fourth dynasty began b.c. ; between which and b.c. are years, a period which may be fairly assigned to eleven monarchs. this much is conjecture ... _the proof now suddenly flashes on us_. if the numbers are taken in the way assigned, and then added to the years of the first or purely mythical dynasty, we get , , equal to the next term, to the sar (saros, _vide supra_), in the babylonian system of cycles." it will be more apparent in the following table from rawlinson, _idem_-- |---------------------------------------------- | | years. | b.c. | |----------------------------|-----------------| |mythical chaldæans | , | | | { medes | | | | { [chaldæans] | ( ) | | | { chaldæans | | | |historical. { arab | | | | { [assyrian] | | | | { [assyrian] | | | | { chaldæans | | | |----------------------------|----------|------| | | , | | |----------------------------|----------|------| _chinese chronology._--the chinese, also--though, be it observed, the chinese of modern date, according to klaproth ("mem. relatifs. à l'asie," i. ; klaproth places the commencement of the uncertain history of china b.c., the certain history b.c.),[ ] in the first year of our era, but more systematically in the ninth century--forged a mythological history, which carried the empire back , , years (another calculation, , , ). he adds, however, that the chinese themselves do not consider the wai-ki, the authority for these statements, to be historical. [ ] bunsen ("egypt," iii. ) says, "systematic chinese history and chronology hardly go back as far as the year b.c., _i.e._ to the reign of yü ( )." yet upon indirect philological conclusions, he would really take their history back _beyond the_ egyptian--iii. p. . "an explanation must be given why it (the chinese history) commences at a later period (as above) than egyptian chronology; much _later_, indeed, than is generally supposed. search must be made in _other quarters than_ the regular extant chronology for proofs of that _vast antiquity_, which the numerous _records_ of language _compel_ us to assign to the origines of the chinese." this vast antiquity may be measured by the fact that, _ex hypothesi_, it transcends the egyptian, and for the egyptian in his theory of progress and development, he requires _at least , years_ before the christian era. again, if we allow ourselves to be entangled in certain astronomical disputations, the question may become complicated and confused; but the astronomical discussion must depend, in the end, upon a point which history must determine--_i.e._ whether the astronomical knowledge and observations referred to had come down in primitive tradition, or had been imported at a later date. although it need not exclude a belief in a tradition of primitive knowledge of astronomy, yet the doubt will ever cause a fatal uncertainty in any calculations, since, if the knowledge, or the knowledge of the particular observations and facts, had at any time been imported, they might have calculated back their eclipses, as has been proved to have been done in india. let us then, excluding the purely astronomical calculations, closely scrutinise the evidence which tradition affords; for if we can discover tradition of "appearances of rare occurrence, and which are difficult to calculate, such as many of the planetary conjunctions," they "must," as baron bunsen observes ("egypt," iii. p. ), "either be pure inventions, or contemporary notations of some extraordinary natural phenomena." baron bunsen proceeds to say:--"one instance that may be cited is the traditional observation of a conjunction of five planets (among which the sun and moon are mentioned), on the first day of litshin, in the time of tshuen-hiü, the _second successor of hoang-ti_. suppose this should have been the great conjunction of the three upper planets which recurs every years and four months, and to which kepler first turned his attention in reference to the year of the nativity of christ. it took place in the following years. the one which occurred in historical times was in november, seven years b.c.; consequently the conjunctions prior to it occurred in-- yrs. mos. dys. --------------------- --------------------- and the conjunction in --------------------- the time of tshuen-hiü in according to the official chinese tables, as given by ideler, he reigned from b.c. to b.c.; but the dates vary to the extent of more than years, and the year comes within the limits of these deviations." baron bunsen, we may then assume, has very skilfully brought back chinese chronology to within _two generations of hoang-ti (supra)_. if we could further identify hoang-ti with noah, two patriarchal generations would bring us close to the date of the deluge as fixed by the septuagint, if we referred them, in the first instance, to the death of noah. before proceeding to this identification, i must point to another chronological fact in chinese tradition, which would give to this identification an antecedent probability. it was stated (bunsen, "egypt," iii. ) that hoang-ti established the _astronomical cycle of years_ in the _sixty-first year_ of his _reign_. at p. , bunsen says: "the scientific problem thus offered for our solution is the following--it is admitted that the chinese, from the _earliest times_, made use of a sexagesimal cycle for the division of the year = × days ( days), and they marked the years by a cycle of years, running concurrently with the cycle of days. this cycle, therefore, must have been originally instituted at a time when the first day of the daily cycle coincided with the first year of the annual cycle, _i.e._ when they commenced on the same day. ideler thinks it impossible to ascertain this, owing to the irregularity of the old calendar." we may ask, then, what year that could be named would so exactly satisfy these conditions as the sixty-first year of the reign of noah after the deluge?[ ] let us, moreover, consider how traditional this cycle of sixty years has been (p. ),--"scaliger made the remark that the twelve yearly zodiacal cycle, which is in use among the tartars (mongols, mandshus, igurians), the inhabitants of thibet, the japanese and siamese dated from _the earliest times_. among the tartaric populations, however, this is a cycle of sixty years ( × ); of the indians we have already spoken." [ ] martini ("historia sinica," p. , edit. monac.) asserts that the egyptians computed by the era of sixty years of _hoangho_. see de vignolle's "miscellanea berolinensia," i. iv. , on the cycle of months. compare ideler, app. ix., note from bunsen, iii. . humboldt ("vues des cordillères", p. ; prescott, mex., i. ) seems to say that, "among the chinese, japanese, moghols, mantchous, and other families of the tartar race" (compare mexican, do.), "their series was composed of symbols of their five elements, and the twelve zodiacal signs, making a cycle of sixty years duration." this is not incompatible with, the allegation that it is "the era of sixty years of hoangho." it will have already been seen that the cycle of sixty years entered into the chaldean system--viz. cycle of years = a sossos, years = a saros, years = a neros. "now when we find (bunsen, p. ) that six hundred years _gives an excess of exactly one lunar month, with far greater accuracy_ than the julian year, such a cycle must have been indispensable when that of sixty years was in use, and consequently must have been employed by the chinese, or, at all events, have been known to those from whom they borrowed the latter. josephus also calls six hundred years the great year, which may have been observed by the patriarch." and at p. , in summing up the general chronological result, he says:-- "_a._ ... the earliest chinese chronology rests upon a conventional basis peculiar to itself, that of limiting the lunar year by a cycle of six hundred years, which is common to the whole of north asia and the chaldeans; and probably (as it is also met with in india) to the bactrians also: this basis is _historical_." "_b._ the communication took place before the chaldees invented the cycle of six hundred years." from our point of view, believing that the chaldees never invented the cycle but held to it traditionally, the above conclusion must be construed to mean that the "communication," or diffusion of the knowledge, must have taken place before the lapse of the first six hundred years after the deluge, which will be further confirmed by conclusion _c._ "_c._ the chinese observation is based upon the babylonian gnomon," which appears to me tantamount to the admission that it took place, in the plains of mesopotamia, previous to the dispersion. in arriving, then, at the sixty-first year of the reign of hoang-ti, we are led up to such close proximity to the epoch of the deluge, that the presumption that hoang-ti was noah would be strong, even if no other evidence was at hand to corroborate it. it is with this supplementary evidence that i now propose to deal. although the tradition of the chinese is remarkably accurate, up to a certain point, yet in the period beyond that point, where the confusion is manifest, there is no reason why we should not expect to find the same reduplications and amalgamations of ante and post diluvian traditions, which we have already found in the history of other nations. without attempting to unravel all complications, let us turn again to bunsen (iii. ), and setting aside pu-an-ku, the primeval man who came out of the mundane egg and lived eighteen thousand years, and who has resemblances with the assyrian ra and ana, and the egyptian ra, the son of ptha (to whom thirty thousand are allotted, _vide infra_, p. - ), and sui-shin, "who discovered fire," and who is the counterpart of prometheus (_vide_ p. ). regarding pu-an-ku, the cosmical, and sui-shin, as the mythical tradition of adam, we come to the historical tradition in the person of fohi. "i. fohi the great, the brilliant (tai-hao) cultivator of astronomy and religion, as well as writing. he reigned one hundred and ten years. then came fifteen reigns. ii. shin-nong (divine husbandman); institution of agriculture; the knowledge of simples applied as the art of medicine." [compare pp. - , saturn, bacchus, Æsculapius.] "iii. hoang-ti (great ruler) came to the throne in consequence of an armed insurrection (new dynasty), and was obliged to put down a revolt. _in his reign_ the magnetic needle was discovered; _the smelting of copper for making weapons_;[ ] vases of high art, and money; improvement in the written character, said to be borrowed from the lines on the tortoise-shell. it consists of five hundred hieroglyphics, of which two hundred can still be pointed out. he established fixed habitations throughout his dominions, and the astronomical cycle of sixty years _in the sixty-first year of his reign_ (_vide supra_, ); musical instruments. it was in his time also that the fabulous bird sin appeared. the empire was considerably extended to the _southward_."--_bunsen_, . [ ] this tradition would seem to confirm bryant's ("mythology," iii. ) conjecture that hoang-ti was ham. but hoang-ti as ham, may absorb and incorporate, as we have seen in other instances, the history of his progenitors; and, moreover, whether he is noah or ham, would scarcely affect the chronological argument. if we take fohi as adam, the fifteen reigns which follow will bear analogy with "the fifteen generations of the cynic cycle" (_vide_ palmer i. p. , - ; also _vide infra_), and will correspond to the thirteen generations, viz. the ten antediluvian, and the three survivors (excluding noah) of the deluge in the egyptian chronology (_vide infra_). shin-nong, "the divine husbandman," will be noah, and hoang-ti, shem or ham, or else the two will be reduplicate traditions of noah. compare the attributions of hoang-ti with those of hoa in the assyrian tradition, p. . certain statements regarding him--_e.g._ that he suppressed an insurrection, accord more nearly with epithets applied to nin, the fish-god, whom i have considered a duplicate of hoa (p. ), _e.g._ "the destroyer of enemies,"--"the reducer of the disobedient,"--"the exterminator of rebels." compare with the phoenician tradition, p. , of saturn causing the destruction of his son sadid by the deluge. the appearance of the fabulous bird sin, seems a reminiscence of the birds sent out of the ark, which is so frequent in tradition. compare the mystery bird (the dove) in the mandan ceremonies,--the worship of the pigeon in cashmere,[ ] &c. other coincidences might be pointed if space allowed. [ ] on the worship of the pigeon in cashmere, _vide_ "travels in kashmir," by g. g. vigne, esq., f.g.s., ii. p. , . . but analogous to the double tradition of the deluge in assyria in the persons of hoa and nin; and, again, by a distinct channel of tradition in xisuthrus (_vide_ pp. , ), as in china, there seems to have been a similar reduplication in china in their kings hoang-ti and yao or yu.[ ] [ ] the reduplication may have occurred in this way. hoang-ti being noah, yao or yu may have been his descendant under whom they settled in china at the termination of their migration. this is confirmed by bunsen's view, iii. (iv. and v.) in which case it would not be at all unnatural to suppose that the traditions appertaining to the remote progenitor, would in time settle down upon the head of the actual founder. chevalier de paravey (_vide_ gainet, i. ), "a trouvé un hieroglyphe chinois qui nomme la femme de hoang-ti 'adamon' terre jaune, et si non signifie celle qui entraîne les autres dans son propre mal." this would merely be the confusion between noah and adam which we have seen to occur in almost every instance. is not the japanese god amida = adima, or perhaps to adamon--_i.e._, confused in relationship to hoang-ti or noah? what confirms the impression is, that adima's son is canon. query, chanaan. now under this yao or yu, according to chinese tradition (preserved, moreover, in the inscription of yu), there happened the deluge, or a deluge. but as there is a confusion between hoang-ti and yao, so there is between yao and yu. bunsen, however, admits these latter to be identical. but although bunsen asserts the authenticity of the inscription (as also does klaproth), he utterly scouts the idea that it is a tradition of the deluge, and maintains that it is itself evidence of a local inundation. let us see. "all the confusion or ignorance," says bunsen ( ), "of the missionaries [in this matter], arises from their believing that this event referred to the flood of noah, which never reached this country." and (p. ), he says the inundation in the reign of yao had just as much to do with noah's flood as the dams he created, and the canals he dug, had to do with the ark. this is said with reference to the "short chinese account of it published by klaproth," viz.-- "in the sixty-first year of the reign of the emperor yao, serious mischief was caused by inundations. the emperor took counsel with the great men of the empire, who advised him to employ kuen to drain off the water. kuen was engaged upon it for nine years without success, and was condemned to be imprisoned for life. his son yu was appointed in his stead. at the end of nineteen years he succeeded in stopping the inundation, and made a report to the emperor upon the subject." let us turn, however, from this later gloss to the inscription itself, translated by bunsen, p. -- "the emperor said, 'oh thou governor of the four mountains of the empire! the swelling flood is producing mischief; it spreads itself far and wide; it surrounds the hills, it overflows the dams; rushing impetuously along it rises up to heaven: the common people complain and sigh.'" --_vide supra_, p. . "the venerable emperor exclaimed with a sigh, 'ho assistant counsellor! the islands great and small up to the _mountain's top_; the door of _the birds_ and of beasts, all is overflowed together-- is swamped: be it thy care to open the way, to let off the water.'" he then says:-- "my task is completed; my _sacrifice_ i have offered in the second month, trouble is at an end, the dark destiny is changed; the _streams_ of the south flow down to the sea; garments are prepared; food is provided; _all the nations_ have rest; the people enjoy themselves with gambols and dancing."--(compare commemorative festivals, _infra_, p. ). i should have thought that all these phrases pointed much more to a universal deluge than to a local inundation. but bunsen says ( )-- "the fact is fully proved both by the inscription and the work of yu itself. the inscription was on the _top_ of the mountain, yu-lu-fun, in the district of shen-shu-lu. owing to its having become illegible in early times, it was removed to _the top_ of an adjoining mountain." ... "the former _locality_ tallies exactly with the very interesting description of the empire in the time of yu, which we find at the opening of the second book of the shuking." and bunsen concludes, "it may be presumed after this verification, that in future nobody will seriously doubt the strictly epic description of the shuking in the canon of yu," as above. so far from being impressed by the discovery of the monument on the top of the local mountain, as evidence of the local deluge, i can see in it only a memorial of the universal deluge localised; and i cannot help considering it in connection with the worship of the tops of mountains, of which we shall find traces elsewhere (p. - ). surely baron bunsen proves too much, and describes to us a deluge which must have been on the scale of the universal deluge for all countries below the level of the mountain yu-lu-fun. but, let it be said, that this description, so accordant with the description of the flood, was merely chinese exaggeration. i here wish to point out two curious coincidences. what if we shall find works similar of those to yao or yu, ascribed to the original founders in egypt and cashmere? as in the first instance, i shall have to quote from baron bunsen himself, i am surprised that the coincidence should have escaped his observation. "this is the account given of menes [the first king of egypt] by herodotus--menes, the first king of egypt, as the priests informed me, protected memphis by a dam against the river which ran towards the sandy chain of the libyan mountains. about stadia above memphis, he made an embankment against the bend of the river, which is on the south side. the effect of this was to dry up its ancient bed, as well as to force the stream between the two chains of mountains. this bend of the nile, which is confined within the embankment walls, was very carefully attended to by the persians, and repaired every year. for, if the river were to burst through its banks and overflow at this point, all memphis would be in danger of being swamped. menes, _the oldest of their kings_, having thus drained the tract of land by means of the dyke, built upon it the city now called memphis, which lies in the mountain valley of egypt. to the west and north he dug a lake round it, which communicates with the river--on the east it is bounded by the nile--and afterwards erected in it a temple to vulcan, a splendid edifice, deserving of especial notice" (ii. ). bunsen fully endorses this account--"herodotus, therefore, has recorded the following fact, that before the time of menes the nile overflowed the tract of country which he fixed upon as the site of his new metropolis" (p. and p. ). "there is no foundation whatever for andriossy's hypothesis that the story originated in the fact of the nile having once run westward from the pyramid mountains to bahr bela ma (stream without water) and the natron and mareotic lakes. herodotus mentions an historical fact, and describes the work of an historical king. andriossy's hypothesis, if well founded, would belong to geology." a sagacious and well-founded remark on the part of baron bunsen, but, as i submit, equally applicable to the work of yao or yu. merely noting that, if the above work was really carried out by menes, and it would have been, from the point of view of genesis, so carried out at a period contemporary with that of yao or yu--and, moreover, conceding to it in any case (i mean the work of menes) a certain historical basis--let us dispassionately compare both with the passage from klaproth, which i shall now extract. it is taken from the sanscrit history of cashmere.[ ] [ ] klaproth says:--"the only sanscrit history deserving the name of the chronicle of the kings of kashmir, radja paringin'i, translated by w. h. wilson."--_klaproth, mem. relatif à l'asie_. klaproth says:-- "the _hindoo_ history of kashmir assures us that the beautiful valley which forms this kingdom was originally a vast lake, called satisaras. this account is also agreeable to the _local traditions_ of this country. it was kasy'apa, _a holy person_ who, according to the hindoo historians, caused the waters which covered this valley to escape. he was the son of _marichi_, the son of brahma. the mahometan writers call him kachef or kacheb, and many of them pretend that he was a god, or a genius, and servant of soliman, _under whose orders he effected_ the drying up of kashmir. to execute _this task_ he made, near baramanleh, _a passage across the mountains_, through which the water passed.... the territory, recovered in this way by kasy'apa, _was also peopled_ by this holy man, with the assistance of the superior gods, whom he brought for this purpose from heaven, _at the commencement_ of the seventh manwantara, or that in which we are now." klaproth adds:--"we must therefore suppose that kashmir has been subjected to the same periodical revolutions as the other parts of the world, if we would reconcile this date with the ordinary chronology."[ ] [ ] compare the following account of existing customs in cashmir with the above extract from klaproth and ch. xi., with commemorative festivals of the deluge. mr g. g. vigne ("travels in kashmir," ii. ) says:--"what has been poetically termed the feast of roses, has of late years been rather the feast of signaras or _water_-nuts. it is held, i believe, about the st may, when plum-trees and roses are in full bloom, and is called the shakergal, from the persian shakergan, to blow a blossom [the mandan ceremony took place when the willow flowered.--catlin, p. ]. the richer classes come in _boats_ to the foot of the tukt, ascend it, and have a feast upon _the summit_, eating more particularly of signaras (_water_-nuts). the feast of the no-warh (new place) takes place at the vernal equinox [compare noah, taurus], at _which period_ the _valley is said to have been drained_. it is held chiefly at the _but_ or idol stone on hari par_but_." query--can this be "the ark or big canoe" in the mandan celebration? considering the prominence of boats in all these mysteries, and considering the resemblance of but to boat, and the like analogies in so many languages (sanskrit, pota = boat) (_vide_ vicomte d'anselme, _infra_, p. ), may we be permitted the conjecture until corrected. compare also p. , ogilby's "japan," cook. &c., p. . it must, i think, be conceded that we have now before us three very similar accounts of works undertaken with reference to the reclamation of inundated land. all are undertaken by the first founders of their respective kingdoms--kingdoms widely separated and inhabited by people of diverse race--and all, more or less, contemporaneously. the egyptians and kashmerian have points in common as to their mode of reclamation, whilst the chinese and kashmerian have still more in common with the narrative in genesis.[ ] [ ] i have since found this identical tradition (_vide_ p. ) among the mozca indians. "boshicha," it is said, "taught them _to build and to sow_, formed them _into communities_, gave an outlet to the waters of the great lake, &c." this seems demonstratively to prove, either that the mozca indians (south america) came from china, india, or egypt--which i have contended for at p. --or else, which makes the argument i have in hand stronger, they have transmitted an identical tradition by a different channel. four solutions occur to me as possible. either they were obscure or perverted traditions of the deluge, or their works were traditions of similar works effected by noah after the deluge; or these works were actually carried out upon the precedent and model of similar works effected by noah; or they were fortuitous coincidences. upon either of the three former conclusions, it will be shown that traditions of the deluge, direct or indirect, exist both in egypt and china, where it has been so confidently asserted that no tradition is to be found; and in the latter case, what is more especially to my purpose, a tradition which brings yao into relation with noah and hoang-ti. in conclusion, i must remark that when it is urged that there is no tradition, or but slight tradition, of the flood in egypt, we have a right to reply that there is no country where we should have so little reason to expect it. if there is any country where we should think it likely that the reminiscences of the deluge would be effaced, it would be in a country periodically subject to inundations, where the people are annually made familiar with its incidents, and where its recurrence is not to them a cause of alarm, but a matter of expectation and joy.[ ] [ ] "the chinese _who migrated before the deluge (sic)_ have no reminiscences, any more than the egyptians, of the great catastrophe which we know by the name of the flood of noah" (bunsen's "egypt," iii. ). palmer ("egypt. chron.," i. p. ) says, with reference to a certain date--"this is only for such as know the true date of the flood, the end of the old world--an epoch by no means to be named, nor even directly alluded to, by any egyptian." chapter v. _chronology from the point of view of science._ although the testimony of history is definite and decisive as to the chronology of the world, within the limits of a few hundred years, there is a general assumption, in all branches of scientific inquiry, that man must have existed many thousand years beyond the period thus assigned to him. lyell speaks of "the vastness of time"[ ] required for his development, and bunsen, as we have seen, requires twenty thousand years, at least, between the deluge and the nativity of our lord: and wherefore this discrepancy? because of a fundamental assumption--not merely hypothetical for the convenience of inquiry--but confident and absolute; an assumption which, so far as the argument is concerned, is the very matter in dispute--that man must have progressed and developed to the point at which we see him. [ ] "principles of geology," tenth edition, , ii. p. . at the same time, the actual chronology cannot be altogether ignored, and some cognisance must be taken of the facts which history presents to us; and it is this unfortunate exigency, interrupting the placid course of development, which not unfrequently lands scientific inquirers of the first eminence in difficulties from which it will take an indefinite lapse of time to extricate them; _ex. gra._, bunsen, in his "egypt," iii. , says-- "it has been more than once remarked, in the course of this work, that the _connection between the chinese and the egyptians_ belongs, in several of its phases, to the _general history_ of the world. the chinese language is the furthest point beyond that of the formation of the egyptian language, which represents, as compared with it, the middle ages of mankind,--viz., the turanian and chamitic stages of development." the conclusion of philology (_vide_ also brace's "ethnology," p. ) is, therefore, that the turanian or chamitic grew out of the more inorganic and elementary chinese. now, let us compare lyell's conclusions with bunsen's. lyell equally believes ("principles of geology," ii. ) "that three or four thousand years is but a _minute fraction_ of the time required to bring about such wide divergence from a common parent stock, 'as between' the negroes and greeks and jews, mongols and hindoos, represented on the egyptian monuments." at the same time, he endorses sir john lubbock's view, and pronounces, upon what appears to me very light and insufficient grounds (ii. ), that "the theory, therefore, that the savage races have been degraded from a previous state of civilisation _may be rejected_:" and by implication that the civilised races have progressed from the savage state may be affirmed.[ ] [ ] the ground upon which lyell pronounces this judgment is (ii. ) "that no fragment of pottery has been found among the nations of australia, new zealand, and the polynesian islands any more than ancient architectural remains, in all which respects, these rude men now living, resemble the men of the palæolithic age; when pottery is known to all, it is always abundant, and, though easy to break, is difficult to destroy. it is improbable that so useful an art should ever have been lost by any race of man." the argument is strongly put, but many things are left out of consideration. supposing the primitive knowledge, is not pottery one of the arts which would be most likely to be lost in a migration across the seas? again, that they had no pottery, and that the palæolithic age had no pottery, shows that in the interval there had been no progress. when will there be? as to the circumstance that it is the same among the australians and polynesians, the fact cuts both ways. you assume that there is a uniformity in progress, but may not there be the same uniformity in the processes of degradation? and, assuming the fact, may it not simply prove that these savages have reached the same depth as the other savages?--_vide_ appendix to ch. xii. i have, then, only to assume one point that sir c. lyell will concede, the order of progress or development to have been from black to white, and that he will pay us the compliment of being the more favoured race. but of all the races that are akin to the mongol or turanian, the chinese are the whitest, and most nearly approach the european in colour. how many years, then, may we suppose that it took the chinese to progress from the black state of the egyptian? as many, let us conjecture, as it took the egyptian to progress linguistically from the state of the chinese or mongol! this is one instance of the entanglement in which the theory of progress, pure and simple, from a parent stock will involve us. the obvious mode of escape would be to deny the unity of the human race, a conclusion which would at once land us in the darkness of a still lower abyss, and convert our processes from being scientific in form and hopeful of result, into empirical and aimless conjectures. for either the theory is started that the various races of mankind were created separately, in which case we fly into the face of the only account we have of creation, and also of the multiform testimonies which history and science bring to attest this truth, and we, moreover, debar ourselves from falling back upon any uniform theory applicable to the whole human race; or if, without advertence to creation, we suppose mankind to have been variously developed, here again we shall equally find ourselves cut off from the application of any uniform historical theory, equally unable to account for or to exclude the testimony of history, and in the end reduced to the evidences, whatever they may be worth, of certain real or fancied analogies.[ ] at this point, the historical inquiry will be virtually abandoned, and the records of the past merged in the phenomena of life, will be considered only in the light of some pantheistic or materialistic theory, or, so far as it is distinguishable, of some theory of evolution. [ ] the following passage from m. a. bastian's article in _the academy_, june , , "on the people of india," seems to me to afford an illustration in point--"the natural system becomes an indispensable necessity in every science, so soon as it is clearly seen that the question is not of classification, but of observation of, and insight into, law. classification was long held to be the sole end, instead of being merely or mainly the means of study. as, in this respect, systematic botany gave place to vegetable physiology, so, in like manner, ethnology will have to look upon its classification of race--with which the school books hitherto have been almost exclusively occupied--as merely a preliminary step towards a physiology of mankind, and to _a science of the laws_ which _govern its spiritual growth_." now, if no physiology of mankind, in the sense here intended, can be traced, and if "the science of the laws which govern its spiritual growth" (_vide infra_, an exposition of mr baring gould's theory) has come to no definite conclusion, then the only result, as far as science is concerned, will have been the revolutionising of its classifications, and the classifications of the different races of men (and, in so far as they have been accurately ascertained, their confusion will be matter of regret) is the legitimate and ultimate end of ethnology under normal conditions. i am no longer concerned with any of these theories the moment they discard the historical element; and i shall, accordingly, return to the theory of sir john lubbock, which is honestly based upon it. when all is said, i cannot make out that sir john adduces any argument in favour of the antiquity of the human race which does not resolve itself into the contrast between our civilisation and the degradation of savages; and that the time which must have elapsed to bring about this transformation is measured by the fact that the negro, of the "true nigritian stamp," appears upon the egyptian monuments, at least as far back as b.c. . "historians, philologists, and physiologists have alike admitted that the short period allowed in archbishop usher's chronology could hardly be reconciled with the history of some eastern nations, and that it did not leave room _for the development either of_ the different languages or of the numerous physical peculiarities by which various races of men are distinguished."[ ] as no facts in the history of eastern nations are adduced, i shall consider that this part of the argument has been sufficiently disposed of in the preceding chapters, and if they had been adduced, i venture to think that they would have been interpreted by the latter part of the sentence, and would have been incompatible with the chronology, only because they did not allow sufficient time "for the development," &c. of this sort of fact, i admit, nothing stronger can be adduced than the case of the negro on the egyptian monuments, only i wish to direct attention to the different aspect these facts will bear when the theory of progress is not assumed as an infallible proposition. moreover, as mr poole, whom sir j. lubbock very candidly quotes, points out, in the interval between this and b.c. we do not find "the least change in the negro or the arab; and even the type which seems to be intermediate between them, is virtually as unaltered. those who consider that length of time can change a type of man, will do well to consider the fact that three thousand years give no ratio on which a calculation could be founded." so that if arch. usher had expanded his chronology so as to take in the twenty thousand years bunsen requires, it really would not appreciably have affected the argument. sir j. lubbock, indeed, says (p. )--"i am, however, not aware that it is supposed by any school of ethnologists that 'time' alone, without a change of external conditions, will produce an alteration of type." "let us," he continues, "turn now to the instances relied on by mr crawford. the millions, he says, of african negroes that have, during three centuries, been transported to the new world and its islands, are the same in colour as the present inhabitants of the parent country of their forefathers. the creole spaniards ... are as fair as the people of arragon and andalusia. the pure dutch creole colonists of the cape of good hope, after dwelling two centuries among black caffres and yellow hottentots, do not differ in colour from the people of holland." [the strongest case is, perhaps, that of the american indians, who do not vary from a uniform copper colour in north or south--in canada or on the line.][ ] in these instances, sir j. lubbock says:--"we have great change of circumstances, but a very insufficient lapse of time, and, in fact, there is no well authenticated case [he does not, however, advert to the case of the indians, which seems to satisfy both conditions] in which these two requisites are united," ... and adds, "there is already a marked difference between the english of europe and the english of america;" but is full allowance made here for admixture of race? and, also, is his instance to the point? is not the difficulty rather that, whereas climate, food, change of circumstances have (for, i think, the balance of the argument is on that side), in many ways, modified other races (though whether to the extent of destroying the characteristic type, may be open to question), the negro has resisted these influences, and has remained the same negro that we find him b.c.? consider that it is only a question of degree, and that it is merely true that the negro has resisted these influences more persistently than other races.[ ] still the contrast is not the less startling when we find the negro in the same relative position, and with the same stamp of inferiority, that we find indelibly impressed upon him four thousand years ago? it is a case which neither the theory of progress, nor the theory of degeneracy, seems to touch. [ ] sir j. lubbock's "prehistoric times," p. . [ ] it has almost passed into a proverb, says morton--who is among those who know the americans best--that he who has seen one indian tribe has seen them all, so closely do the individuals of this race resemble each other, whatever may be the variety or the extent of the countries they inhabit." reusch's "la bible et la nature," _vide_ also card. wiseman's "lect. on science and rev. rel." lect. iv., _vide_, however, reusch, p. , where "a remarkable difference in the cranium" is noticed, "sometimes approaching the malay, sometimes the mongol shape." [ ] that the negro has undergone modifications, seems established by the fact that we nowhere find all the characteristics of the negro united in any one case--unless, perhaps, in the case of the negroes of guinea, to which i have alluded. yet, in the people who border them, there has been noticed "un retour vers des formes superieures." the yoloss, "out le front élevé, des machoires peu saillantes, leurs dents sont droites, et ils sont en général bein constitués, _mais ils sont tout à fait noirs_. leurs voisins, les mandingues, tiennent beaucoup plus du type négre ... mais leur teint est beaucoup moins noir."--de bur. ap. reusch, p. . but under no influences of climate has the negro ever become white like the european, or the european black like the inhabitant of guinea; if they become darker, "c'est simplement la teint particulier à leur race qui gagne en intensité."--burminster, ap. reusch, p. . but it is a case which de maistre's view exactly solves. now, however much we may rebel against de maistre's theory, that the early races of mankind were endowed with higher and more intuitive moral faculties than ours, and, whether or not, we accept his _dictum_ that great punishments pre-suppose great knowledge, and reversely, that higher knowledge implies the liability to great punishments, i do not see how we can refuse to consider the matter, so far as to see whether the view solves all the difficulties of the question. it is not the first time that the blackness of the african race has been connected in theory with a curse; but de maistre's theory throws a new light on the malediction--whether it be the curse of cham or of chanaan, or whether both were smitten, according to different degrees of culpability: and i maintain, further, that it is adequate to the explanation of the phenomena, that it does not clash with history, and that it is sustained by tradition. nevertheless, i apprehend that this view will be as much combated from the point of view of scriptural exegesis, as of scientific speculation. yet the curse of cham, or of chanaan, affecting all their posterity, ought not in reason to be more revolting even to those who have never realised what sin is, than the narrative of the fall of adam and eve with its direful consequences. the theory seems perfectly conformable to scripture, and to what we know of the secrets of the divine judgments. the picture of cham, or chanaan, stricken with blackness, does not present a more sudden or more terrible retribution to the mind than the fall of the angels. how many thousand years did it take to transform lucifer into satan? or the primitive adam into the adam feeling shame, and conscious of decay, want, and the doom of death? on the other hand, blackness, from the commencement, has been associated with evil. to this it may be replied that this is the sentiment merely of the white races--a natural prejudice of colour, an _ex parte_ deduction; and to this argument, if such is the view really taken by the black races, and if no consciousness can be detected of their degradation amongst themselves, i see no other reply than this, that since, _ex hypothesi_, they are black because they are cursed, the tradition of this curse would be more naturally preserved by the white races than by the black. but is there no consciousness of this inferiority in the true negro? without looking at the matter from the same point of view, i may appeal to captain burton's statements on this point as to a fully competent, if not the highest, authority that can be quoted on points of african travel. in the first place, he notices "the confusion of the mixed and the mulatto with the full-blooded negro. by the latter word i understand the various tribes of intertropical africa, unmixed with european or asiatic blood" ("dahome," ii. ); and p. , "i have elsewhere given reasons for suspecting, in the great kafir family, a considerable mixture of arab, persian, and other asiatic blood:" and as to the particular point in question, he says (p. ), "the negro will obey a white man more readily than a mulatto, and a mulatto rather than one of his own colour. he never thinks of claiming equality with the aryan race except when taught. at whydat, the french missionaries remark that their scholars always translate 'white and black by master and slave.'" p. , "one of mr prichard's few good generalisations is, that as a rule the darker and dingier the african tribe, the more degraded is its organisation."[ ] i find a very similar testimony in crawford's "hist. of the indian archipelago," i. . he says, "the brown and negro races of the archipelago may be considered to present, in their physical and moral characters, a complete parallel with the white and negro races in the western world. the first has always displayed as great a relative superiority over the second, as the race of white men have done over the negroes of the west." yet at p. he says, "the javanese, who live most comfortably, are among the darkest people in the archipelago, the wretched dyaks, or cannibals of borneo, among the fairest." it must be noted, however, that the javanese have also preserved something of primitive tradition--_e.g._ their marriage ceremony. and, moreover, it is not at all essential to the argument to prove that the negroes are the _most degraded_ race. let it be said that they have had their curse, and that the sign of the curse is in their blackness--this is merely equivalent to saying that they are cursed _pro tanto_; but it by no means follows that other races have not fallen to lower depths, and incurred a deeper reprobation.[ ] [ ] captain burton (ii. ) also quotes a catholic and a protestant missionary as to this point. m. wallon says, "avec leur tendance à nous considérer comme réellement supérieurs à eux, et leur croyance que cette supériorité nous est acquise par celle de notre dieu, ils renonceraient bientôt aux leurs idoles pour adorer celui qui nous leur prions de connaître." mr dawson says, "fetish has been strengthened by the white man, whom the ignorant blacks would not scruple to call a god if he could avoid death." assuming the identity of bacchus and noah, it is a striking circumstance, from this point of view, that the name of _bacchus_, among the phoenicians, was a synonymous term for mourning.--_vide hesychius in bryant's "mythology,"_ ii. ; _vide also the verses of theocritus_. comp. p. , _note_ (boulanger). [ ] perhaps captain burton's phrase (ii. ), "the _arrested_ physical development of the negro," may, if extended to his mental development, exactly hit the truth, the standard being fixed by the age at which we conceive the boy chanaan's development to have been _arrested_.--comp. _wallace, infra_, p. ; comp. . among the sioux indians, and in the isle of tonga (oceanica), i find trace of the tradition of blackness as a curse, and i should think it likely that other instances might be discovered. the former (the sioux), in their reminiscences of the deluge, relate, "the water remained on the earth only two days (for the two months during which the scripture says it was at its height), at the expiration of which the master of life, seeing that they had need of fire, sent it them by a white crow, which, stopping to devour carrion, allowed the fire to be extinguished. he returned to heaven to seek it. the great spirit drove it away, and punished it by _striking it black_."--"_annales de la prop. de la foi_," l. iv. ; gainet, i. . in tonga, the tradition is connected with this history of cain:-- "the god tangaloa,[ ] who first inhabited this earth, is this adam. he had two sons, who went to live at boloton.... the younger was very clever. tonbo (the eldest) was very different; he did nothing but walk about, sleep, and covet the works of his brother. one day he met his brother out walking, and knocked him down. then their father arrived at boloton, and in great anger said, 'why has thou killed thy brother. fly, wretched man; fly. _your race shall be black_, and your soul depraved; you shall labour without success. begone; you shall not go to the land of your brother, but your brother shall come sometimes to trade with you.' and he said to the family of the victim, 'go towards the great land; your skin shall be white; you shall excel in all good things.'"--_gainet_, i. .[ ] [ ] "annales de philos. chret.," t. xiii. p. . [ ] the expressions in the latter part of this narration recall the blessing of jacob, and suggests the possibility of the tradition having come through descendants of esau. cardinal wiseman (in his "science and revealed religion," lect. iii.), says, with reference to aristotle's distribution of mankind into races by colour:-- "there is a passage in julius firmicus, overlooked by the commentators of aristotle, which gives us the same ternary division, with the colours of each race. 'in the first place,' he writes, 'speaking of the characters and colours of men, they agree in saying,--if by the mixed influence of the stars, the characters and complexions of men are distributed; and if the course of the heavenly bodies, by a certain kind of artful painting, form the lineaments of mortal bodies; that is, if the moon makes men white, mars red, _and saturn black_, how comes it that in ethiopia all are born black, in germany white, and in thrace red?'"--_astronomicon_, lib. i., c. i., ed. basil. , p. . now this passage seems to me to have a still further significance in the words i have italicised, with reference to the argument i have in hand. it transpires, therefore, that the ancients had the notion that saturn made men black, which provoked the natural query, why then are only the ethiopians black? that it should ever have been supposed that the distant saturn, astronomically regarded, should have had such an influence is preposterous, but if the mythological personage, saturn, ch. x., has been sufficiently identified with noah, and the deification of the hero in the planet (comp. pp. , ) probable, the notion that _he made men black_, must be the tradition of the event we are considering. i have elsewhere traced the fulfilment of the text which says that canaan shall be the "servant of servants to his brethren;" but as the following extract from klaproth, in evidence of the same, has also its significance with reference to the point i am now considering--viz. the curse of blackness--i prefer to give it a place here:--"sakhalian oudehounga est expliqué en chinois par 'khian chéon,' et par 'li chu,' ce qui signifie les '_têtes noires_' et le '_peuple noir_,' expression par laquelle on designe la 'bas peuple' ou les 'paysans.' cette une expression _usitée dans plusieures pays asiatiques ainsi qu'en russie."--klaproth, "mem. relatif a l'asie;" vide strictures on pere amyot's "mandchou dict_." in the oldest books of the zendavasta, virtue and vice are personified as white and black. "the contrast between good and evil is strongly and sharply marked in the gâthâs.... they go a step further and personify the two parties to the struggle. one is a 'white,' or holy spirit (_spentô mainyus_), and the other, a 'dark' spirit (_angrô mainyus_). but this personification is merely poetical or metaphysical, not real."--_rawlinson's "ancient monarchies_," iii. p. . the contrast, however, between good and evil, as white and black was the genuine expression of their idea or tradition. (hung. ap. bunsen, iii. p. , admits, at least in one instance in the gâthâs, "an angra ('black') is put in opposition to the white, or more holy spirit.") mr hunter ("rural bengal," p. ) says of the primitive aryans in india--"the ancient singer praises the _god_ who 'destroyed the dasyans and protected the _aryan colour_" (rig. veda., iii. pp. - ), and "the thunderer, who bestowed on his white friends the fields," &c. whatever obscurity may attach to the latter passage, there can be no doubt of the abhorrence with which the singers speak, _again_ and _again_, of "_the black skin_," ... _e.g._ "the sacrificer poured out thanks to his god for 'scattering the _slave_ bands of _black descent_.'" although i believe the idea was traditional and had reference to the curse, i will concede that it might have arisen primarily in the contrast of night and day, light and darkness. but does this settle the question? on the contrary, fortified with this explanation, i return to my argument with those, who say that blackness is a mere prejudice of race, and that it is not demonstrable that it is the sign of a curse, or the mark of inferiority. does not nature herself proclaim it, in her contrast of light and darkness? day and night, i imagine, would be recognised as apt symbols of error and evil as opposed to truth and goodness, even among the black races, irrespective of any consciousness or reminiscence of their degradation. accordingly, the deeds of evil in scripture are spoken of as the "works of darkness." it may be, therefore, that the idea of blackness as a curse is derived primitively from its association with the darkness of night; but the fact remains that blackness is connected in our minds with a curse,[ ] and there is the further fact that a black race exists, and has existed during four thousand years, with this mark of inferiority upon it (compare _sup._ ch. iii. ix.) [ ] this is so much in tradition as to be a matter of common parlance--for instance, when the late emperor of the french is depicted, this is the language which, upon a certain construction, appears most natural--"on the other side stands a phalanx of satirists, represented by victor hugo. the only colour on the palette of those artists is _lamp black_. morally they paint the ex-emperor as _dark as a negro_, array him _in the livery of the devil_, and _then_ invoke the _execration_ of history."--_spectator_, sept. th, . but a point of some difficulty remains to be determined--viz. what precisely was the race which came under this ban. was it the whole descent of ham, or only the posterity of chanaan ? hales, in his learned work on chronology (i. p. ), discusses this question. he says that, whereas-- "even the most learned expositors (bochart and mede) have implicitly adopted the appropriation of the curse of servitude to ham and his posterity." yet "the integrity of the received text of prophecy, limiting the curse to 'canaan' singly, is fully supported by the concurrence of the massorite and samaritan hebrew texts, with _all the other_ ancient versions except the arabian; and is acknowledged, we see, by josephus and abulfaragi (_sup._), who evidently confine the curse to canaan--though they inconsistently consider ham as the offender, and are not a little embarrassed to exempt him and _the rest of his children_[ ] from the operation of the curse--an exemption, indeed, attested by sacred and profane history; for ham himself had his full share of earthly blessings, his son misr colonised egypt, thence styled the land of ham (ps. cv. ), which soon became one of the earliest, most civilised, and flourishing kingdoms of antiquity, and was established before abraham's days (gen. xii. - ), and in the glorious reign of sesostris ... while ham's posterity, in the line of cush, not only founded the first assyrian empire, under nimrod, but also the persian (?), the grecian (?), and the roman (?) empires, in direct contradiction to the unguarded assertion of mede [that 'there hath never yet been a son of ham that hath shaken a sceptre over the head of japheth.'] how, then, is the propriety of the curse exclusively to canaan to be vindicated?--evidently by considering him as the only guilty person ... upon the very ingenious conjecture of faber, that the 'youngest son' who offended was not ham, but canaan--not the son, but the grandson of noah. for the original, 'his little son,' according to the latitude of the hebrew idiom, may denote a grandson, by the same analogy that nimrod.... this (the former) interpretation is supported by ancient jewish tradition, 'boresith rabba,' sec. , recorded also by theodoret ... the tradition, indeed, also adds that ham joined in the mockery, but for this addition there seems no sufficient grounds." [ ] the italics are mine. there is, however, the tradition, and, moreover, a distinct tradition that ham was black. sir j. gardner wilkinson, in his "manners and customs of the ancient egyptians," i., says-- "the hebrew word ham is identical with the egyptian khem, being properly written khm, kham, or khem, and is the same which the egyptians themselves gave to their country in the sculptures of the earliest and latest periods" ( ). egypt was denominated chemi (khemi), or the land of ham, "as we find in the hieroglyphic legends; and the city of khem, or panopolis, was called in egyptian chemmo, of which evident traces are preserved in that of the modern town e'khmim" ( ). "besides the hieroglyphic group, composed of the two above alluded to ( ), indicating egypt, was one consisting of _an eye_, and the sign land, _which bore the same_ signification; and since _the pupil_, or _black_ of the eye, was called _chemi_, we may conclude this to be a phonetic mode of writing the name of egypt, which plutarch pretends was called chemmia, from the _blackness_ of its soil" ( ). "_chame_ is _black_ in _coptic_, egypt is _chemi_, and it is remarkable that _khom_ or _chom_ is used in hebrew for black or brown, as in gen. xxx. - ."--_id._ here then, at any rate, the name of ham or cham is curiously associated with blackness, and must have been so associated from the commencement of egyptian history. i leave it to the egyptologist to decide whether the presumption is stronger that the name of egypt, identical with that of ham, was originally derived from the blackness of its soil, or from the blackness of him whose name was identical with it ("the land of ham" being both the scriptural and egyptian appellation), more especially when "the eye" (apparently a personal or historical, not certainly a geographical allusion) was used as an equivalent hieroglyphic symbol for land.[ ] [ ] the eye would be the very most apposite symbol for blackness, if we consider that blackness lingers there after the skin has become white, and, in the case of half-breeds, is the test of descent in gradations even beyond, i believe, the octoroon. captain king ("narrative of a survey of the intertropical and western coasts of australia," ii. append.) says, "that although there is the greatest diversity of words among the australian tribes, the equivalent for 'eye' is common to them all." here, as in other instances, if we follow the strict lines of tradition, it seems to me that we shall escape all the difficulties which are usually alleged against it. it will result then that, although according to the text of scripture, the curse of servitude was limited to the posterity of chanaan; yet, seeing that the criminality was common to ham and chanaan, according to the tradition referred to, and as is, moreover, implied in the marked manner in which scripture (gen. xviii. ) indicates cham as "the father of chanaan," it is presumable that, if blackness was the concomitant of the curse, it extended to both ham and chanaan, and, by implication, to their posterity, but then _after the curse_. as chanaan, according to the tradition, was then a boy, all his children would have been affected by the curse; but does it follow that all ham's descent was involved in the malediction? this would be to suppose a retrospective curse, for which the only analogy would be the hypothesis that if adam had sinned after the birth of cain and abel, they and their posterity would also have incurred the guilt of original sin. now the sons of ham were (gen. x. ) "chus and mesram and phuth and chanaan," _i.e._, chus and mesram and phuth were the elder brothers of chanaan, and therefore not the children of ham after the pronouncement of the curse. if, then, we find the children of mesram dark, but without the negro features or the blackness of canaan; if "sesostris, his descendant, was a great conqueror;" if nimrod, the son of chus, was a powerful chieftain, and the founder of the assyrian empire; if nothing is known of the posterity of phuth beyond the conjecture that they were the lybians--in a word, if the descent from these three sons does not bear out the evidence of the curse, can it be said to militate at all against the hypothesis of the curse of ham as well as of canaan? moreover, if there are differences among the black races which may present difficulties, would not the knowledge that there may have been a posterity of ham, born after the curse,[ ] go far to remove them? hales, indeed, assumes that "ham himself had his full share of earthly blessings; his son misr colonised egypt," &c. (as _sup._); but this prosperity, as he indicates it, is only seen in the prosperity of his three sons, whom i assume to have been exempt from the curse. it must be remembered, however, that the occult science of the cainites was said to have been preserved by the family of ham, and, as we have seen, the taint was in the race.[ ] [ ] lenormant, "manuel d'histoire ancienne," i. , makes a similar suggestion as to this point--"la texte de la bible n'a rien qui s'oppose formellement à l'hypothèse que noè aurait eu, postérieurement au deluge, d'autres enfants que sem, cham, et japhet, d'où seraient sorties les races qui ne figurent pas dans la généalogie de ces trois personnages." but two objections seem to me to be fatal to this view. the races about whom this difficulty would be raised would be the red and black races: why should it be surmised that the supposed posterity of noah, after the deluge, _should_ have this mark of inferiority? in the second place, it does seem to be formally opposed to gen. x. --"these are the _families_ of _noe_, according to their peoples and nations. _by these_ were the nations divided on the earth after the flood." the red races might perhaps be accounted for by gen. xxv. - . [ ] there appears to me, however, a text to which attention might be directed. we know that the ethiopians were black, but in amos ix. , where god is expressing his anger against his people, he says, "are you not as the children of the ethiopians unto me, o children of israel, saith the lord." i am very far from claiming for these theories any special ecclesiastical countenance and authority. i have already intimated my opinion that, on the whole, they would be as much opposed from the point of view of scriptural exegesis as from that of unbelief. it will be said, for instance, that there is evidence in scripture of the curse of canaan, but no proof that blackness was the concomitant effect of the curse; and certainly it is not scripture which affirms this, but only tradition. to those who admit the curse, but deny the consequences which tradition attributes to it, i would oppose an almost identical argument with that which accounts for all differences in the human race by geographical location. i do not know where this argument is more forcibly put than in latham's "ethnology." there it is seemingly demonstrated that certain conditions, not merely of colour, but moral and intellectual, are the inseparable accompaniments of geographical location. grant it, _pro argumento_, but i am arguing now upon the scriptural evidence, and with one with whom i assume i have a common belief in its inspiration. it is true, then, that the curse of blackness is not recorded, but the distribution of the races is at least implied: deut. xxxii. , "_when the most high divided the nations, when he separated the sons of adam_, he appointed the bounds of people according to the number of the children of israel;" and acts xvii. , "and hath made of one all mankind, to dwell upon the _whole face_ of the earth, _determining appointed times_, and _the limits_ of _their habitation_." (the prot. version translates, "having appointed the _predetermined seasons_ and _boundaries of_ their dwellings." _vide_ hales's chron., i. , who adds that this was conformable to their own allegory "that chronos, the god of time, or saturn, divided the universe among his three sons.")[ ] [ ] _vide_ also ch. x., p. . the tradition that phoroneus, "the father of mankind," distributed the nations over the earth, _idem nationes distribuit_. if, then, the different races of mankind, according to their merits or demerits, were apportioned to, or miraculously directed or impelled to, respective portions of the earth, which necessarily superinduced certain effects, is not the curse as apparent in its indirect operation as it would have been in its suddenness and directness? this consideration must, i think, bring those who raise scriptural difficulties against the theory to the admission that blackness was a sign of inferiority, and that certain races were either smitten with, or were predestined to, in consequence of culpability, this degradation. this, i admit, is no reply to those who argue from the evidence of the egyptian monuments. but the evidence from the monuments, so far from embarrassing my conclusion, seems absolutely to enforce it. if, indeed, the evidence from the monuments did not stare one in the face, we might fall back upon the line of argument which i have just indicated, and whilst recognising in their blackness the operation of a curse, trace it in the lapse of centuries and the influences of the torrid zone. but they are recorded as being black on the earliest monuments known to us, and within a few centuries of the deluge. the conclusion, therefore, seems inevitable, that they were so from the commencement, which exactly hits in with the tradition of the curse of canaan. such, from his own point of view, is the conclusion of sir j. lubbock ("prehistoric times," p. )-- "if there is any truth in this view of the subject (p. ), it will necessarily follow that the principal varieties of man are of great antiquity, and, in fact, go back almost to the very origin of the human race. we may then cease to wonder that the earliest paintings on egyptian tombs represent so accurately several various varieties still existing in those regions, and that the engis skull, probably the most ancient yet found in europe, so closely resembles many that may be seen even at the present day." the following conclusion of mr wallace also exactly coincides with de maistre's view. lyell, in his "principles of geology" (ii. ) says-- "wallace suggests that at some former period man's corporeal frame must have been _more pliant and variable_ than _it is now_; for, according to the observed rate of fluctuation in modern times, scarcely any conceivable lapse of ages would suffice to give rise to such an amount of differentiation. he therefore concludes, that when first the _mental_ and _moral_ qualities of man acquired predominance, his bodily frame _ceased to vary_." but, although science in its own way may arrive at approximations to the truth, yet, if the traditional solution be true, assuredly it is not a solution which will be reached by any merely scientific process; and therefore, if it should be the truth, the ethnological difficulty will remain an enigma and embarrassment to the learned in all time to come. chapter vi. _palmer on egyptian chronology._ having probed the chronologies of india, babylonia, phoenicia,[ ] china, &c., and having found that one and all, when touched with the talisman of history, shrink within the limits of the septuagint, and even of the hebrew text, we come, perforce, to the conclusion, that there is one nation, and one only, which presents a _primâ facie_ antiquity irreconcileable with holy writ--viz. egypt. [ ] _vide ante_ ch. iv.; and also _vide_ palmer, i. . this impression is sustained by the knowledge, somewhat indefinite and in something disturbed, that the egyptian tradition had always attributed a fabulous antiquity to the dynasties of its kings, and that these dynasties have been marvellously resuscitated through the discovery which has enabled us to decipher the inscriptions on their tombs and monuments. my reader need not fear, however, lest i should plunge him into the chaos of hieroglyphics; not, indeed, that much has not been rescued from the abyss, and that there is not good expectation of more to come, but when once it is established, as we may now consider to be the case, that many of these dynasties were cotemporaneous, and not successive, an uncertainty is introduced which again reduces the chronology to primitive chaos, although floating objects in it, the _débris_ of tombs and dynasties, remain clearly distinguishable, and, in point of fact, have been perfectly identified. if we had no other evidence, i should feel irresistibly drawn to the dictum of m. mariette (ap. mgr. meignan, "l'homme primitif," p. ), "le plus grand de tous les obstacles à l'établissement d'une chronologie égyptienne regulière, c'est que les egyptiens eux-mêmes n'ont jamais eu de chronologie." i shall, on the contrary, from another point of view, attempt to show, not only that they had a chronology, but that this chronology has actually been re-discovered and re-constituted. in the conviction that this is the case, and that it is not sufficiently known that it is so, i shall devote some space to an abstract of mr william palmer's "egyptian chronicles" ( ), in which it appears to me that this exposition and solution is to be found. mr palmer at least has brought the egyptian chronology (upon the system of the old chronicle) to so close a reconciliation with scripture (upon the basis of a collation of the septuagint and josephus), that we have a right to compare any egyptologist making an attempt to advance into the interior to the monuments, whilst disregarding it, to a commander leaving an important fortress in his rear.[ ] as mr palmer takes his stand upon the old chronicle, and as the old chronicle has been in considerable disrepute with egyptologists (bunsen, i. ), i do not see that i can adopt a better plan of bringing the whole subject before the reader, than by confronting mr w. palmer's discovery and exposition with baron bunsen's strictures on the old chronicle. [ ] and yet, with the exception of professor rawlinson's "manual of ancient history," where mention is made of mr palmer's work as among eight principal works to be referred to on the subject of egyptian chronology, and of a series of articles in the _month_ on the same subject, i do not recollect to have seen allusion made to it. a previous perusal of the articles in the _month_ above referred to will greatly facilitate the study of this question. bunsen (i. - ) says (the italics are mine)-- "'the egyptians,' says syncellus, 'boast of a certain old chronicle, by which also, in my opinion, manetho (the impostor) was led astray.' ... the origin of this fiction is obvious. its object, as well as that of the pseudo-manetho, is to represent the great year of the world of , years, or twenty-five sothic cycles. the _timeless_ space of the book of sothis becomes the rule of vulcan.... _the number fixed for the other gods, , is quite original_; perhaps it may not be mere accident that it agrees with the computation of some chronographers for the period from the creation to b.c. the dynasty of the demigods reflects the same judicious moderation as in the scheme of the pseudo-manetho ( - / ). then comes a series of corruptions of the genuine manetho, _i.e._, of the manetho of the thirty historical egyptian dynasties. he is, however, confounded with the manetho of the dog-star, and hence it is that the fifteen dynasties of manetho are called the fifteen dynasties of the sothiac cycle. _but how is the number to be explained?_ is this entry to be understood in the same sense as the similar one in clemens, namely, that the first fifteen dynasties comprehended the years prior to the beginning of the last cycle, consequently prior to ? or is it simply taken, with a slight alteration by eusebius, to the fourteenth and fifteenth dynasties ( )? the following dates for the length of reigns are in the gross _evidently_ borrowed from eusebius.... in the sequel, there is no more reckoning by dynasties, but seventy-five generations are numbered, in order to make up the of manetho. so palpable is that,.... lastly, the dates and numbers ... are brought into shape by various arbitrary expedients; but eusebius on all occasions appears as the authority.... as the dates of the individual dynasties now run, years are wanting to make up the promised , years. _it is scarcely worth while to inquire where the mistake lies._" he finally pronounces the old chronicle to be the compilation of a jewish or christian impostor of the third century, or later. as mr palmer has not directly adverted to this passage from bunsen in his "egyptian chronicles," i will give an extract from a letter which i have received from mr palmer on the subject, which will clear off some of the tissues of confusion into which the strictures of baron bunsen have got entangled. "i assert, in the first instance (there being nothing whatever to the contrary), that we have the old chronicle in a _perfectly genuine form, i.e._ in the text of syncellus and africanus, but by no means in bunsen; and further, that it really is, and they from whom we have it _tell us it was_, the oldest greco-egyptian writing of the kind current in the time of africanus.... bunsen pronounces the old chronicle to be the compilation of a jewish or christian impostor of the third century ('eusebius appearing on all occasions as the authority,' &c.) in the _old chronicle_, as given by syncellus and africanus, there is _nothing whatever_ borrowed from eusebius; but eusebius has borrowed from and altered the old chronicle, so as to suit his own sacred chronology. the 'book of sothis,' too, has worked up and altered the old chronicle, with which it is by no means to be identified.... but i deal with three so-called manethos--viz. ( .) the original manetho of josephus and eratosthenes, who had only twenty-three historical dynasties of his total of thirty dynasties (the old chronicle, from which he took the number of thirty, having twenty-nine historical and one [that of the sun god] unhistorical); ( .) the manetho of ptolemy of mendes, which is the manetho of africanus, who has thirty-one dynasties, all pretending to be historical; and, lastly, the manetho of the 'book of sothis,' used by anianus and panadorus (to which last alone bunsen's ... mention of 'fifteen dynasties of the dog-star' refers).... if any figures in the manetho of the 'book of sothis' of the fifth century a.d., are borrowed from eusebius, there is nothing in this, eusebius himself having used and altered the old chronicle before, just as the author of the book of sothis or anianus may have used eusebius and the old chronicle. but i am not now dealing with the question of fact, whether eusebius' figures were so followed or not.... when bunsen says, 'perhaps it may not be mere accident that the figures agrees,' &c.; he should have said rather that some 'chronographers' 'agree' 'with it,' and perhaps so agree not by accident. i do not remember whether any one, or who in particular, of modern chronographers agree with it; but certainly if any do, it is _quite by accident_. the number , as given by the old chronicle to chronos and the other twelve gods, has no relation whatever to any reckoning of the year of the world to christ; and a chronologer might as well adapt his sum of years from the creation to christ, or to any other fanciful number, as to this. the truth is, that with the shorter numbers of the vulgate, many chronologers have made out sums of about four thousand years, some rather more, some less." in the somewhat lengthened extract which i have made (_sup._ p. ) from bunsen, _four_ figures ( , , , and ) will have struck the eye, which baffle even bunsen's penetration, and only make twice confounded what was confused before. but what if these four figures should all be accounted for? and, when accounted for, fitted into the chronology so as to be in keeping, not only with the other figures of the chronicle, but also with the systems of manetho and eratosthenes, as exactly as "the key fits the wards of the lock?" (_vide infra_, p. ), will not the matter begin to wear a different aspect? when the figures are shown to be imbedded in all the different systems which have been transmitted to us, will it then be said that the figures "are evidently borrowed from eusebius?" but, in fact, it is also demonstrated by internal evidence that the chronicle, as we have it, must be referred to the date b.c. this, then, is how the argument stands; but it is a matter of some difficulty to compass mr palmer's elaborate argument, and i cannot attempt to do more than to indicate its most salient points. premising that the sothic cycle (a period of vague, or fixed sidereal years) was connected by the egyptians with their recurring periods of transformation and renovation ("common to the mythologies of egypt and india"), and also that two such periods ( × ) = corresponded with the antediluvian period, or rather with the sum of the lives or reigns of the antediluvian patriarchs, inclusive of survivors of the deluge, with something added in order to throw the whole into cyclical form, all which is shown in detail in "egyptian chronicles," i. - , i may now proceed to mr palmer's analysis of the scheme of the old chronicle, which is thus given by syncellus, "probably from the manetho of africanus" (palmer's "egypt. chron.," i. ):-- "there is extant among the egyptians a certain old chronicle, the source, i suppose, which led manetho astray, exhibiting xxx dynasties and again cxiii generations, with an infinite space of time (not the same either as that of manetho), viz. three myriads, six thousand five hundred and twenty-five years-- st, of the aeritæ; dly, of the mestræans; and, dly, of the egyptians,--being word for word as follows:-- [dynasty i. to xv. inclusive of the chronicle of the gods]:-- time of phtha there is _none_, as he shines equally by night and by day [but all generations being from him] [first dynasty] [greek: hêlios] [_i.e._ ra, the sun-god], son of phtha, reigned three myriads of years, , then [dynasty ii. to xiv. inclusive, and generations ii. to xiv. inclusive] [greek: kronos] [or [greek: chronos], _i.e._ seb], and all the other xii gods [who are the aeritæ perhaps of eusebius and africanus], reigned years then [dynasty xv.] viii demigod kings [the mestræans of eusebius and africanus] reigned [as viii generations but one dynasty], years and after them xv generations _of the cynic cycle_ were registered in years then dynasty xvi. of tanites, generations viii, years then dynasty xvii. of memphites, generations iv, years of the same generations after whom there followed-- dynasty xviii. of memphites, generations xiv, years of the same generations then dynasty xix. of diospolites, generations v, years then dynasty xx. of diospolites, generations viii, years of the same generations then dynasty xxi. of tanites, generations vi, years then dynasty xxii. of tanites, generations iii, years then dynasty xxiii. of diospolites, generations ii, years of the same generations then dynasty xxiv. of saites, generations iii, years besides whom is to be reckoned-- dynasty xxv. of ethiopians, generations iii, years of the same generations after whom again there followed-- dynasty xxvi. of memphites, generations vii, years of the same generations and then after-- dynasty xxvii. [here the designation, generations, and years are purposely omitted; but the years are implied by the sum total, which follows below, to be certainly ] dynasty xxviii. of persians, generations v, years of the same generations then dynasty xxix. of tanites, generations , years and, lastly, after all the above-- dynasty xxx. of one tanite king, years ------ generations cxiii, years , sum of all the years of the xxx. dynasties, three myriads, six thousand five hundred and twenty-five (kings years)." these , years, when divided by , the sothic cycle (as noted by syncellus), give the quotient xxv. we need not digress into the conjectural reasons why twenty-five such periods were taken, rather than any other number. we will be content at starting to see in its relation to the cycle evidence of the purely fictitious character of its myriads of years, and a clue to the significance of the indication, "after them xv generations of the cynic cycle," &c. mr palmer (i. xxiii.) says, that the question which first suggested itself to him was-- "to what sothic cycle are these years or xv generations said to belong?" [for there was the doubt whether there was any _real_ sothic cycle at all.] "for a sothic cycle is not merely a space of egyptian years, but it is that particular space of such years, and that only, which begins from the conjunction of the movable new year or thoth, with the heliacal rising of sirius, fixed to th july of our gregorian calendar for that part of egypt which is just above memphis.... for the author of a chronicle ending with nectanebo, or at any date between the sothic epochs, th july b.c. (the known commencement of a cycle), and th july a.d. , 'the sothic cycle,' could only mean the cycle _actually_ current" [_i.e._ b.c. to a.d. = ].... "after this discovery, if the perception of a truism can be called a discovery, it followed naturally to observe further that in constructing a fanciful scheme ... ending at any other date than a true cyclical epoch, the first operation ... must be to _cut off all those years of the true current cycle_ which were yet to run out, below the date fixed upon, and to throw them back so that they might be reckoned _as past_ instead of being looked forward to as future. this, then, was what the author of the old chronicle had done; and, with an ironical humour common among the egyptians, he had told his readers to their faces the nature of his trick, ticketing and labelling the key to it (the years) and tying it in the lock, or rather leaving it in the lock itself." counting, then, back years of the "from the th july a.d. to th july b.c. , and more from th july b.c. , we come to th july in b.c. (if the years be fixed, sidereal, or solar years), or to th november , if they be (as they really are) vague egyptian years" ( b.c. being the year in which ptolemy lagi assumed the crown). [for the discrepancy between this date and the conquest of ochus, "at which the series of the chronicle ostensibly ends," _vide_ "egypt. chron.," p. xxiv.] let the reader now return to the scheme of the chronicle (_sup._ p. ). the analysis of the whole sum, , years, gives , years (to the sun), + (to xiii gods), + (to viii demigods), + (to the sothic cycle), + to kings from menes to nectanebo (the last native sovereign). so far we have only years, corresponding to an historical period, + of the cycle thrown up. it has been previously noted, however, that (two sothic cycles) correspond to the antediluvian and patriarchal period (i. ). the intricate part of the scrutiny will be found in the discrimination of the years (which, with + , make up the sequence of human time, a.m., to nectanebo) from the figures years in the analysis above. for the full and scientific discrimination, i must refer the reader to "egyptian chronicles," i. ; but for a simple demonstration, we may take the historical figures as above--viz. + + , added to the figures thrown in to complete the cycle (_vide infra_), viz. + , all which figures = , and deduct them from the whole cyclical number thus-- , , ------ , now, reverting to the scheme of the chronicle, we shall see the round number , years (being as it were an egyptian month, in thousands of years instead of days) apportioned off to the sun-god. to obtain this round number, the fractional number would have to be detached, and there being at hand the cyclical number years (two perfect sothic cycles), any number in reason of fractional remainders might be added to it, since with the symmetrical nucleus, the agglomeration would always be recognisable by the initiated, _i.e._ by the priests. the years were therefore added to , and also the fictitious years ("to make time from the beginning to run in the form of sothic cycles") were added, because _there_ they would cause no confusion; "whereas if they had been added to the years of the demigods, no one could any longer have distinguished the original fraction." we thus collect, therefore, those various figures into the sum which was the figure of difficulty--viz. ( + + + ), the _forty_ years included having merely reference to the point at which the current sothic cycle was thrown up--being the years intervening between the flight of nectanebo in b.c. , and the coronation of ptolemy lagi in b.c. . upon his own method, based upon josephus, who follows in the main the septuagint ("on a principle of compromise such as all readers, _whatever_ may be their system, may agree in accepting provisionally, and as an approximation"), mr palmer (i. - ) brings the scripture a.m. to b.c. , to a synchronism of "five years four months" and some days, with the egyptian computation. but the same key is made to unlock all the systems of egyptian chronology, and in the course of his two volumes of close and learned investigation, mr palmer demonstrates that "manetho, eratosthenes, ptolemy of mendes, diodorus, josephus, africanus, eusebius, anianus, panodorus, and syncellus, have, either of themselves or by following others, transferred dynasties, generations, and years of the gods and demigods of the chronicle, and even fifteen generations of ptolemies and cæsars, as yet unborn at the date of the chronicle, to kings after menes." let the above scheme of the chronicle be compared, for instance, with the scheme of diogenes laertius (which mr palmer conjectures, upon intrinsic evidence, to have been transmitted through aristotle). diogenes laertius' whole figure is , years, which contains for its fictitious part _thirty_ times = , , which, being deducted from , , , ------ , leaves for "true human time." now years are equal to those years + years + years, which alone in the chronicle belong properly and originally to the xiii gods and viii demigods and the last xv dynasties of the kings from menes to nectanebo, with only thirteen surplus years, _i.e._ from the conquest of darius ochus to alexander; "seemingly to the autumn of b.c. , when he first entered egypt." here i might conclude my outline of mr palmer's scheme, so far as is necessary to the vindication of the chronicle as against bunsen, were it not for the remaining figure (all the others, if the reader will refer back, have been accounted for)--viz. , to which bunsen refers. this figure is shown to correspond with the years of the hyksos or shepherds (i. , , _et seq._, , , ). dynasty xxvii., to which the years in the chronicle are attributed, has been displaced from between dynasties xvii. and xviii. of the chronicle, and its years are "restored to their true place and to the shepherds by manetho," and are given "by the theban priests, _i.e._ by eratosthenes, suppressing the shepherds, to the kings of upper egypt." as regards manetho (i. ) "having, besides the years of the chronicle, additional years of kings, of which ( + = ) only are in themselves, though not in their attributions, chronological, and having given of these (which are thrice and over) to his six early dynasties of _lower_ egypt (and sixteen inconvenient years he isolated between his dynasties xiv. and xv., so as to include them in his book i.), he gave to the three early dynasties of _upper_ egypt _no other unchronological years_ than two complementary sums, the one of (to the first), and the other, of years, to the second of the three dynasties, that these same sums might both coalesce with the remainder of sixty years belonging to the sum of the six dynasties of lower egypt, so as to make with it, or rather to indicate, the one of them the sum of , the other the sum of ." _vide_ table, p. .... sum of six dynasties of lower egypt, . but this sum is equivalent to + + = + + = + + = ---- but ( + ) = ---- ( + ) + = ( of dyn. xiv. of upper egypt.) ( + ) ---- ( of dyn. xv. of upper egypt in book ii.) the place of the years of the shepherd dynasty will be seen as clearly in the analysis of eratosthenes' scheme f. in "egyptian chronicles" (i. ), and if i had space i should like to give it _in extenso_, because it is upon his from menes to xviii. dynasty, that bunsen mainly relies for his fundamental theory (bunsen's "egypt," ii. xvi.) as the confutation of bunsen does not enter into mr palmer's plan, i think it worth while to add, that these years are thus made up , the true historical length of the epoch (from menes to xviii. dynasty), as we know from the chronicle (_vide_ palmer's _supra_), hence the significance of this figure in table above, + of the cycle added, + of dyn. xviii. encroached upon[ ] for the symmetrical purpose displayed in scheme f, in which scheme it will be seen that the years of the shepherds again enter as a constituent part. [ ] it will be understood that, in the above scheme and throughout, mr palmer assumes the existence of cotemporaneous dynasties elsewhere demonstrated. it is admitted, on all hands, that cotemporary dynasties ceased with the xviii. dynasty; and, in the other direction, all schemes commence with menes. if, then, this interval of time is known or determined by one part of a scheme (as it is known from the chronicle to be years), and at the same time, the exigences of the case (owing to fictitious additions) require the location of other figures within the interval, then the super-additions must overlap (apparently to those who know years to be the true historical figure) at one end or the other. one hundred and fifty-six years (as above) is the extent of the overlapping (the years of the cycle standing apart) in the scheme of eratosthenes. but as i am merely indicating the scheme, and not elaborating the argument, i must here part company with mr palmer. if, however, any one wishes to examine the question more in detail, and seeks to know in what manner the years in the above scheme are apportioned among the different generations and dynasties, he must take up with mr palmer at i. p. . my purpose is sufficiently answered by establishing that a scheme exists, if not irrefutable, at least up to this unconfuted, which perfectly harmonises the scriptural with the egyptian chronology. chapter vii. _the tradition of the human race._ "tradition reveals the past to us, and consequently it reveals to us also the future. it is the tie which binds the past, the present, and the future together, and is the science of them all. if we possessed the memory of mankind, as we do that of our personal existence, we should know all. but if we have not the memory of mankind, does not mankind possess it? is mankind without memory, without tradition?... there is no nation which does not exist through tradition, not only historical traditions relative to its earthly existence, but through religious traditions relative to its eternal destiny. to despise this treasure, what is it but to despise life, and that which constitutes its connection, its unity, its light, as we have just seen?... when god spoke to men his word passed into time ... happily tradition seized upon it as soon as it left the threshold of eternity; and tradition is neither an ear, nor a mouth, nor an isolated memory, but the ear, the mouth, and the memory of generations united together by tradition itself, and imparting to it an existence superior to the caprices and weakness of individuals. nevertheless, god would not trust to oral tradition alone ... symbolical tradition was to add itself to oral tradition by sustaining and confirming it ... the five terms constituting the mystery of good and evil: the existence of god, the creation of the world and of man by god, the fall of man, his restoration by a great act of divine mercy, and, lastly, the final judgment of mankind ... and that which oral tradition declared, symbolical tradition should repeat at all times and in all places, in order that the obscured or deceived memory of man might be brought back again to truth by an external, a public, an universal, all-powerful spectacle. [lacordaire is speaking principally with reference to sacrifice and the sacrifice of mount calvary.] ... each time that oral tradition underwent a movement of renovation by the breath of god, symbolical tradition felt the effects of it. the sacrifice of abel marks the era of patriarchal tradition; the sacrifice of abraham marks the era of hebrew tradition; the sacrifice of jesus christ, the final and consummating sacrifice, marks the era of christian tradition.... such is the nature of tradition, and such its history. tradition is the connection of the present with the past, of the past with the future; it is the principle of identity and continuity which forms persons, families, nations, and mankind. it flows in the human race by three great streams which are clearly perceptible--the christian, the hebrew, and the patriarchal or primitive; in all these three it is oral and symbolical, and whether as oral or symbolical it speaks of god, the creation, the fall, reparation and judgment.... without occupying ourselves with the question as to whether scripture was a gift from above or an invention of men, we see that there exists two kinds of it--human and sacred scripture. i understand by human scripture, that which is considered by men as the expression of the ideas of a man; i understand by sacred scripture that which is venerated by nations as containing something more than the ideas of a man.... there are in the world an innumerable quantity of books, nevertheless there are but six of them which have been venerated by nations as sacred. these are the 'kings' of china, the vedas of india, the zend-avesta of the persians, the koran of the arabs, the law of the jews, and the gospel. and at first sight i am struck with this rarity of sacred writings. so many legislators have founded cities, so many men of genius have governed the human understanding, and yet all these legislators, all these men of genius, have not been able to cause the existence of more than six sacred books upon earth!... every sacred book is a traditional book, it was venerated before it existed, it existed before it appeared. the koran, which is the last of the sacred writings in the order of time, offers to us a proof of this worthy of our thoughtful attention. without doubt, mahommed relied upon pretended revelations; however, it is clear to all those who read the koran, that the abrahamic tradition was the true source of its power.... the same traditional character shines upon each page of the christian and hebrew books; we find it also in the zend-avesta, the vedas, and the kings of the chinese. tradition is everywhere the mother of religion; it precedes and engenders sacred books, as language precedes and engenders scripture; its existence is rendered immovable in the sacred books ... a sacred book is a religious tradition which has had strength enough to sign its name.... the sacred writings are, then, traditional; it is their first character. i add that they are constituent, that is to say, they possess a marvellous power for giving vitality and duration to empires. strange to say, the most magnificent books of philosophers have not been able to found, i do not say a people, but a small philosophical society; and the sacred writings, without exception, have founded very great and lasting nations. thus the kings founded china, the vedas india, &c.... look at plato ... how is it that plato has not been able to constitute, i do not say a nation, but simply a permanent school? how is it that communities totter when thinkers meddle with them, and that the _precise moment of their fall_ is that when men announce to them that mind is emancipated, that the old forms which bound together human activity are broken, that the altar is undermined and reason is all-powerful? philosophers! if you speak the truth, how is it that the moment when all the elements of society become more refined and develop themselves, _is the moment of its dissolution_?"--_from père lacordaire's "conferences." conf. and ._ (tran. h. langdon; richardson, .) i should also wish m. auguste nicolas' "etudes philosophiques sur le christianisme"--particularly lib. i. chap. v., "necessite d'une revelation primitive;" and lib. ii. chap. iv., "traditions universelles"--to be read in connection with the following chapter. i did not become acquainted with m. nicolas until after the chapter was concluded. i have, however, fulfilled my obligations in the above extract from l'abbe lacordaire, which lies more _au fond_ of my view than the chapters referred to in m. nicolas. i also wish to direct attention to a remarkable article in the _home and foreign review_, jan. , entitled "classical myths in relation to the antiquity of man," signed f. a. p. tradition, in the sense in which we have just seen it used by lacordaire, in what we may call its widest signification, is not limited to oral tradition, but may be termed the connection of evidence which establishes the unity of the human race; and, with this evidence, establishes the identity and continuity of its belief, laws, institutions, customs, and manners (manners, _vide_ goguet's "origin of laws," i. - ). the more closely the tradition is investigated, the more thoroughly will it be found to attest a common origin, and the more fully will its conformity with the scriptural narrative be made apparent. now, although in all ages there have been men of great intellect who have held to tradition, it may be stated as one of those truths, _qui saute aux yeux_, and which will not be gainsaid, that the human intellect has been throughout opposed to tradition, has been its most constant adversary, equally when it was the tradition of a corrupt polytheism, as when it was the tradition of uncontested truth; and so active has been this antagonism, that the marvel is that anything of primitive tradition should have remained. hence arose the divergence between religion and philosophy--a divergence which, as it seems to me, is inexplicable from the point of view of those who believe that, in the centuries which preceded the coming of our lord,[ ] religion simply was not, had ceased to be; unless we suppose that a tradition of the antagonism had survived, which would still partially disclose how it came about that when religion had ceased to be (_pro argumento_), or had become corrupt, philosophy, which then (_ex hypothesi_) alone soared above the intellect of the crowd, did not, and could not become a religion to them, _infra_, pp. , , . [ ] such appears to me to be the conclusion of mr allies in his learned work ("the formation of christendom," ii. chap. viii. ), "universality of false worship in the most diverse nations the summing up of man's whole history." i request attention, however, to the following passage, at page , which has an especial bearing upon my argument:--"no doubt the greek mind had lived and brooded for ages upon the remains of original revelation, nor can any learning now completely unravel the interwoven threads of tradition and reason so as to distinguish their separate work. however, it is certain that in the sixth century b.c., the greeks were without a hierarchy, and without a definite theology: not indeed without individual priesthoods, traditionary rites, and an existing worship, as well as certain mysteries which professed to communicate a higher and more recondite doctrine than that exposed to the public gaze. but in the absence of any hierarchy ... a very large range indeed was given to the mind, acting upon this shadowy religious belief, and re-acted upon by it, to form their philosophy. the greeks did not, any more than antiquity in general, use the acts of religious service for instruction by religious discourse. in other words, there was no such thing as preaching among them. a domain, therefore, was open to the philosopher, on which he might stand without directly impeaching the ancestral worship, while he examined its grounds, and perhaps _sapped its foundations_. he was therein taking up a position which these priests, the civil functionaries of religious rites, _scarcely any longer_ retaining a spiritual meaning or a moral cogency, had not occupied." and the history of this antagonism seems to be, that the human intellect has ever had, and now more confidently than ever, the aim and ambition to substitute something better than the revelation of primitive tradition, and the experiences of the human race. it is quite conceivable that human life and human institutions might have been arranged upon some scheme different from that of the divine appointment; and although we may believe that any such scheme would result in ultimate confusion and the final extinction of the human race, it is still theoretically possible that the experiment might have been made.[ ] [ ] take for instance mr j. s. mill's peculiar views as to the status of women, "the law of servitude in marriage" ["wives be obedient to your husbands," st paul], he says, "is in monstrous contradiction to all the principles of the modern world" (p. ). "marriage is the only actual bondage known to our law," _id._ but at p. , mr mill says, "the general opinion of men is supposed to be, that the natural vocation of a woman is that of a wife and mother." but he then adds (p. ), "it will not do to assert in general terms that the experience of mankind has pronounced in favour of the existing system. experience cannot possibly have decided between two courses, so long as there has only been _experience of one_. if it be said that the doctrine of the equality of the sexes rests only on theory, it must be remembered that the contrary doctrine also has only theory to rest upon. all that is proved in its favour by direct experience, is that mankind have been able to exist under it, and to attain the degree of improvement and prosperity which we now see; but whether that prosperity has been attained sooner, or is now greater than it would have been under the other system, experience does not say." take in illustration, again, the communistic schemes as against the institution of property. now, although christianity has realised all that will ever be possible in the way of communism in its religious orders, the communistic sects have always instinctively directed their first efforts against religion as against the basis of the social order of things which they attacked. this was forcibly brought out in certain letters on "european radicalism," in the _pall mall gazette_, october and november , _e.g._ "all the contests on the three capital questions ('government, property, religion') which we are now engaged in, are but continuations of the _original divergence_ of opinion (before settled government), considerably modified, of course, under the influence of time, the various _traditional notions_ mankind preserves under the _name of beliefs_, and the whole stock of experience it has accumulated under the name of knowledge. so like, indeed, are the ancient and modern contests on these matters," &c.... (letter i.) again (letter v.), speaking of our english socialist discussing "the necessity of building social edifices upon material, not religious grounds," the writer adds, that among continental socialists "no one thinks there of the possibility of matters standing otherwise;" and that in the socialist workshops of france and germany it is well known "that the very basis of social radicalism requires the abandonment of all kinds of religious discussion, as matter of purely personal inclination, and the abolition of all kinds of privileges as incompatible with equality." [all this has been put out of date by the deeds of the commune and the programme of the "international society"--viz. "_the burning of paris_ we _accept the responsibility of_. _the old society must_ and will perish."] the _spectator_, december , speaks still more explicitly:--"infirm and crippled though she be, the roman church is still the only one who has the courage to be cosmopolitan, and claim the right to link nation with nation, and literature with literature. such an assembly as the council is, at least, an extraordinary testimony to the cosmopolitanism of the great church which seems trembling to its fall; and who can doubt that that fall, whenever it comes, will be followed by a great temporary loosening of the faith in human unity--in spite of the electric telegraph--by a deepening of the chasm between nation and nation, by the loss of at least a most potent spell over the imagination of the world, by a contraction of the spiritual ideal of every church? this ideal, even protestants, even sceptics, even positivists have owed, and have owned that they owed, to the roman church, the only church which has really succeeded in uniting the bond between any one ecclesiastical centre and the distant circumference of human intelligence and energy. but if the consequence of the collapse of romanism would be in this way a loss of power to the human race, think only of the gain of power which would result from the final death of sacerdotal ideas, from the final blow to the system of arbitrary authority exercised over the intellect and the conscience, from the new life which would flow into a faith and science resting on the steady accumulation of moral and intellectual facts and the personal life of the conscience in christ--from the final triumph of moral and intellectual order and freedom. it would doubtless be a new life, subject to great anarchy at first; but the old authoritative systems have themselves been of late little more than anarchy just kept under by the authority of prescription and tradition; and one can only hope for the new order from the complete recognition that it is to have no arbitrary or capricious foundation." here comes in, with its full significance, the great saying of lacordaire's--"order i compare to a pyramid reaching from heaven to earth. men cannot overthrow its base, because the finger of god rests upon its apex." if the finger of god did not so rest, there is no assignable reason why this pyramid--this incubus, as some would call it--which goes back, stone upon stone, to the primitive ages, should not have been overturned, and some system purely atheistical, purely material, purely communistic, substituted for it. but i believe that no democratic organisation, however extended among the masses, will overthrow the established order of things, so long as the possessors of property, the upper classes, are true to the objects for which property was instituted. considering how much man has effected in the material order, and considering also the varied intellectual faculties with which he is endowed, it strikes one as strange, as something which has to be accounted for, that he has been able to effect so little in the moral order. it is the same whether we regard the action of the intellect upon the individual man, or upon society. and from this latter point of view it is so true, that it is more than doubtful whether those epochs in which man has attained the highest point of intellectual and material civilisation, are not those also in which he has reached the lowest depths of immorality;[ ] and in which--having touched the lowest point of corruption--the human intellect is unable to devise any better plan for the government of mankind, than the repression of despotism.[ ] [ ] "it is, upon the whole, extremely doubtful whether those periods which are the richest in literature, possess the greatest shares, either of moral excellence or of political happiness. we are well aware that the true and happy ages of roman greatness long preceded that of roman refinement and roman authors; and, i fear, there is but too much reason to suppose that in the history of the modern nations we may find many examples of the same kind" (f. schlegel's "history of literature," i. ). see also the account of the corruption of morals in rome in the augustan period (allies' "form. of christendom," i. lect. i.) "it is curious to observe that the more eloquent, polite, and learned the greeks became, in the same proportion they became the more degraded and corrupt in their national religion" (godfrey higgins' "celtic druids," , p. ). [ ] "il n'y a, messieurs, que deux sortes de repression possibles: l'une intérieure, l'autre extérieure.... elles sont de telle nature que quand le thermomètre politique est élevé, le thermomètre de la religion est bas, et quand le thermomètre religieux est bas, le thermomètre politique, la repression politique, la tyrannie s'élève. ceci est une loi de l'humanité, une loi de l'histoire." _vide_ disc. de donoso cortes (marq. de valdegamas), th january ; in which he pursues this remarkable parallelism throughout history. but if the human intellect cannot prevent or control corruption, cannot it disenchant vice of its evil, and so counteract its effects? is there no new conception of virtue with which to allure mankind? no second decalogue which will attract by its novelty, or convince by logical cogency and force? the comtists, i believe, have a scheme for setting all these things right. but what portion of mankind do they influence? they are at present formidable only as may be the cloud on the horizon, nor have they found sympathy even where they might have had some expectation of finding it. if there was any separate section of mankind which might have given them countenance, it would, one would think, be the rationalist section, whose principles would disincline them to regard old modes of thought with undue partiality. it is from this quarter, if i mistake not, that the unkindest cut has come, and that it has been said that "the latter half of comte's career and writings is the despair and bewilderment of those who admire the preceding half;" yet in this latter half he only aimed at converting rationalism from a negative to a positive system. but, allowing that a system of some sort might thus be constructed, can positivism be defined as more than the system of those who are positive by mutual consent and agreement without faith or certainty, and who are the more positive in proportion as they recede from catholic truth and tradition. we, however, who believe in the identity of catholicism and christianity, may still appreciate professor huxley's definition of positivism, viz.--"catholicism _minus_ christianity."[ ] [ ] montalembert ("disc. de reception," , discours iii. pp. , , , ) says of the constituent assembly of --"it was the assembly of which made the word revolution the synonyme of methodical destruction, of permanent war against all order and all authority.... it had that mania for uniformity which is the parody of unity, and which montesquieu called the passion of mediocre minds.... in a word, the constituent assembly was wanting not only in justice, courage, and humanity, but it was also deficient in good sense. the evil which it created has survived it. it has made us believe that it is possible to destroy everything and to reconstruct everything in a day.... god has chastised it, above all, by the sterility of its work. it had had the pretence of laying the foundations of liberty for ever, and it had for its successors the most sanguinary tyrants who ever dishonoured any nation. its mission was to re-establish the finances, the empire of the law, and it has bequeathed to france bankruptcy, anarchy, and despotism--despotism without even the repose which they have wrongly taken as the compensation of servitude. it has done more: it has left pretexts for every abuse of force, and precedents for any excess of future anarchy. [montalembert could hardly have foreseen the last application of its principles which we have recently witnessed in paris by the commune, which, too, forsooth, was to have inaugurated a new era for humanity.] but it (this constituent assembly) founded nothing--nothing! the ancient society which it reversed had lasted, in spite of its abuses, a thousand years." can any one adduce a more typical representative of the clear, powerful, penetrating intellect of man than voltaire! voltaire, moreover, had the aim and ambition ("ecraser l'infame") to obliterate the tradition of the past; yet can there be a better example of the impotence of the intellect in the moral order? does it not seem startling that, when the human intellect, as in the case of voltaire, should be able to detect with so much acumen, so much wit, what is wrong, that it should be wholly struck with sterility when it attempts to tell us what is right, to reveal to man any truth in the moral order not traditionally known to them. and if the disciples of voltaire have occasionally, in spasmodic efforts, attempted this, it has not been in the manner of voltaire; it has been in the spirit of eclecticism, of reconstruction out of the elements of the past--that is to say (with pardon, if the phrase has been used before), an attempt to create, out of the elements he would have spurned, edifices which he would have derided. now, the pretension of the human intellect is quite contrary to this experience. it claims to have progressively elevated mankind out of a state of primitive barbarism, to have indoctrinated them with the ideas of morality which they possess, to have humanised them, and thus affirms the converse of the theory of tradition which it pursues with much unreasoning and implacable animosity. the _saturday review_ (july , ), in reviewing mr gladstone's "juventus mundi," says--"mr gladstone is doubtless well aware that there was no portion of his homeric studies which was received with more surprise, or with more unfavourable comment, than his speculations on what he described as the traditive and the inventive elements in the homeric mythology."[ ] in consequence, mr gladstone says he has endeavoured to avoid in his more recent work "a certain crudity of expression." the _saturday review_, however, says--"that 'the crudity of expression' here referred to seems to have been corrected and modified to some extent by disguising the process of argument by which it was sustained, and by the adoption of a lighter touch and slighter treatment of the subject than in the former book. but the theory itself, we believe, remains the same." [ ] from a purely philosophical point of view, why should these speculations of mr gladstone have been received "with more surprise and unfavourable comment" than any other "portions of his homeric studies?" i may assume, then, that the passage which i have elsewhere quoted from mr gladstone, and laid as the basis of my argument, still has his countenance and support, in spite of the manifest antagonism it has provoked. and this passage, i venture to think, acquires fresh light and an accession of force when placed in juxtaposition with the parallel passages from de maistre and dr newman. these passages will present no difficulties to the believer in the bible. how far the view is sustainable, with reference to the more recent conclusions in chronology, i shall consider in another chapter; but, assuming that it is not chronologically disproved, there is no intrinsic impossibility which will debar belief. the general probability of tradition being thus avouched,[ ] i proceed to examine certain statements that have been made as to its necessary variability, and as to the uncertainty and indefiniteness of its utterances. [ ] in one way, nothing is so uncertain as tradition, and, moreover, tradition is rarely positive and direct, but, on the contrary, prone to concrete into strange, fragmentary, and distorted shapes. as an instance, we may take the tradition which genesis attests,--when abraham's hand had been stayed by the angel from the sacrifice of isaac, ... "he called the name of that place 'the lord seeth.' whereupon, even to this day it is said, '_in the mountain the lord will see_.'"--_gen._ xxii. . in illustration of the mode and manner of tradition, is the anecdote of mr hookham frere, who states, that when the maltese talk without reserve upon religious subjects, they say, "everybody knows that adam was the first man, but we alone know that he possessed fishing-boats;" which bunsen says "can be nothing but a phoenician reminiscence."--"egypt," iv. , the reminiscence of the legend of the fisherman. compare the fisherman and his wife in grimm's "popular stories from oral tradition." in the first place, as to its variability, it is true that tested by the experience which we possess of the persistency and exactness of family and local traditions, tradition in the broader sense which i have indicated may appear to be of little value. i have elsewhere attended a closer argument on this point in reply to sir john lubbock (ch. xii.), but i may also make what appears to me, as regards this matter, a sufficiently important distinction. family tradition is so confused, because at each remove in each generation, it is necessarily crossed through marriage with the traditions of another family. these may be either rival or irreconcileable. but this remark will apply with much less force, it will only secondarily and accidentally apply at all to the common traditions, the inheritance of all families starting from a common origin. if these traditions acquired some dross through the intermarriage of families, they will, on the other hand, through the very action of intermarriages, have been more frequently compared, more vividly, therefore, kept in remembrance, and more recognisable in their distortion, because the distortion is more likely to have been in the way of super-addition of what was thought congruous and supplemental. and this seems to me to meet mr max müller's objection in the _contemporary review_ for april . "comparative philology," he says, "has taught again and again, that when we find _exactly_ the same name in greek and sanscrit, we may be certain that it cannot be the same word;" for we here see reason why and how these traditions have been specially protected against the natural action and law which it is the peculiar province of philology to trace. i say this more especially with reference to the etymology in bryant's and other kindred works, which it is now the fashion to set aside with much _hauteur_; and i assert it without impugning in any way the results of modern philological inquiry, extending, of course, over a much wider field than the writers of the last century could embrace. but i do contend, that when the discussion has reference to the common progenitors of the human race, or the incidents of primitive life--for instance, the names of the ark, and what i may call its accessories, the dove and the rainbow[ ]--a certain probability of identity may be presumed in such sort that it may chance that the probabilities of tradition must be held to override the conjectures, and in some cases even the conclusions of philology.[ ] [ ] _vide_ "bryant's mythology," ii. [ ] after the exposition of his own theory, mr grote says--"it is in this point of view that the myths are important for any one who would correctly appreciate the general tone of grecian thought and feeling, for they were the _universal mental stock_ of the hellenic world, _common to men and women, rich and poor_, ignorant and instructed, they _were in every one's memory and in every one's mouth_, while science and history were confined to comparatively few. we know from thucydides how erroneously and carelessly the athenian public of his day retained the history of pisistratus, only one century past; but the adventures of the gods and heroes, the numberless explanatory legends attached to visible objects and _periodical ceremonies_, were the theme of _general talk_, and every man unacquainted with them would have found himself partially excluded from the sympathies of his neighbours."--_hist. greece_, i. p. ; comp. _infra_, ch. xi. i incline, moreover, to the belief that the fidelity and persistency of local tradition is greater than is generally supposed. sir h. maine[ ] says--"the truth is, that the stable part of our mental, moral, and physical constitution is the largest part of it, and the resistance it opposes to change is such that, though the variations of human society in a portion of the world are plain enough, they are neither so rapid nor so extensive that their amount of character and general direction cannot be ascertained." this establishes a presumption, at any rate, in favour of tradition, although i admit that the quotation from sir h. maine does not go further than point to a tradition of usages; but i contend that a tradition of usage would enable us, after the manner of boulanger,[ ] to disclose "l'antiquite devoilée par ses usages," and to establish the main points and basis of the history of the human race, _e.g._ the fall, the deluge, the dispersion, the early knowledge and civilisation of mankind, the primitive monotheism, the confusion of tongues, the family system, marriages, the institution of property, the tradition of a common morality,[ ] and of the law of nations. [ ] "ancient law," p. . [ ] "pour trouver le veritable objet de ces dernières solemnités, dont les motifs sont compliqués, nous nous attachons à analyser leur cérémoniel et à chercher l'esprit de leurs usages; et cet esprit achève de nous faire reconnaître l'objet que nous n'avions d'abord qu'entrevu ou soupçonné, quelquefois même il nous développe encore la nature des motifs étrangers et mythologiques, et ces motifs se trouvent pour la plûpart n'être que des traditions du _même fait_ qui ont été ou corrompués par le temps, ou travesties par des allégories."--boulanger, _"l'antiquite devoilée par ses usages"_, i. . [ ] _vide_ other lines of tradition indicated in b. iii., c. iii., of de maistre, "du pape." this inquiry might no doubt form a department either of scriptural exegesis, universal history, or of ethnological research; but, in point of fact, its scope is too large practically to fall within such limits; whereas, if it were recognised as a separate branch of study, it would, i venture to think, in the progress of its investigation, bring all these different branches of inquiry into harmony and completeness. and i further contend, that the conclusions thus attained are as well-deserving of consideration as the conclusions of science from the implements of the drift, or as the evidence of "some bones, from the pliocene beds of st prest, which appear to show the marks of knives;"[ ] which are adduced in evidence of a palæolithic age. so that, when on one side it is said that science (meaning the science of geology or philology, &c.) has proved this or that fact apparently contrary to the scriptural narrative, it can, on the other hand, be asserted that the facts, or the inferences from them, are incompatible with the testimony of the science of tradition. the defenders of scripture will thus secure foothold on the ground of science, which, when properly entrenched, will stand good against the most formidable recognizances or assaults of the enemy. [ ] sir j. lubbock, intro. to nillson's "stone age," xii. i cannot help thinking that some such thought lurks in the following passage of cardinal wiseman's second lecture on "science and revealed religion" ( th edition, p. )-- "here again i cannot but regret our inability to comprehend in one glance the bearings and connections of different sciences; for, _if_ it appears that ages must have been required to bring languages to the state wherein we first find them, other researches would show us that these ages never existed; and we should thus be driven to discover some shaping power, some ever-ruling influence, which could do at once what nature would take centuries to effect; and the book of genesis hath alone solved this problem." no doubt a greater general acquaintance and power to grasp--or better still, an intuitive glance--with which to comprehend "the bearings and connections of different sciences," would tend to circumscribe the aberrations of any particular science; but the special intervention which appears to me destined to bring the various sciences into harmony, will be the elevation of the particular department of history or archæology which has to do with the traditions of the human race as to its origin into a separate and recognised branch of inquiry; and i am satisfied that if any portion of that intellect, which is cunning in the reconstruction of the mastodon from its vertebral bone, had been directed to the great lines of human tradition, that enough of the "reliquiæ" and vestiges of the past remain to establish their conformity with that "which alone has solved this problem--the book of genesis;" and which, apart from the consideration of its inspiration, will ever remain the most venerable and best attested of human records.[ ] [ ] _e.g._, mr grote says, in his introduction, that through the combination and illustration of scanty facts, "the general picture of the grecian world may now be conceived with a degree of fidelity which, considering our imperfect materials, it is curious to contemplate." the duke of argyll ("primeval man," p. ) says--"within certain limits it is not open to dispute that the early condition of mankind is accessible to research. contemporary history reaches back a certain way. existing monuments afford their evidence for a considerable distance farther. _tradition has its own province still more remote_; and latterly geology and archæology have met upon common ground--ground in which man and the mammoth have been found together." it is much too readily assumed that traditions must be worthless where no records are kept. gibbon,[ ] i think, was the first who took this position. to this i reply, that although records are valuable for the attestation, they are not guarantees for the fidelity of tradition.[ ] i do not assert that the tradition is more trustworthy than the record; but that, when mankind trust mainly to tradition, the faculties by which it is sustained will be more strongly developed, and the adaptation of society for its transmission more exactly conformed. in other words, tradition in ancient times seemed to flow as from a fountain-head, and the world was everywhere grooved for its reception. we may take in evidence the strange resemblances in mythological tradition in various parts of the world on the one hand, and on the other the oral tradition of the homeric verses; the frequent concourse of citizens, and at recurring festivals of the surrounding populations, to listen to their recital. and not only was there oral tradition in verse, but all public events were recorded in the attestations of the market-place. when a treaty was ratified it was commonly before some temple, or in some place of public resort, and its terms were committed to memory by some hundred witnesses; and in like manner was the recollection of other public events and memorable facts preserved.[ ] (_vide_ pastoret's "hist. de la législation," i. ; also, account of "annales maximi" in dyer's "rome," xvii.) [ ] gibbon ("decline and fall," i. ) says, "but all this well-laboured system of german antiquities is annihilated by a single fact, too well attested to admit of any doubt, and of too decisive a nature to leave room for any reply. the germans, in the days of tacitus, were unacquainted with the use of letters, and the use of letters is the principal circumstance which distinguishes a civilised people from a herd of savages, incapable of knowledge or reflection. without that artificial help, the human memory ever dissipates or corrupts the ideas intrusted to her charge." compare with coleridge, _infra_, p. ; ozanam, _infra_, ch. xiii. [ ] eusebius ("ecclesiastical hist.," ch. xxxvi.) says, speaking of st ignatius--"he exhorted them to adhere firmly to the tradition of the apostles; which, for the sake of greater security, he deemed it necessary to attest by committing it to writing." i do not remember to have seen this quoted in testimony and proof of ecclesiastical tradition. [ ] goguet ("origin of laws," i. ) says--"the _first laws_ of all nations were composed in verse, and sung. apollo, according to a very ancient tradition, was one of the first legislators. the same tradition says that he published his laws to the sound of his lyre; that is to say, that he had set them to music. we have certain proof that the first laws of greece were a kind of song. the laws of the ancient inhabitants of spain were verses, which they sung. tuiston was regarded by the germans as their first lawgiver. they said he put his laws into verses and songs. this ancient custom was long kept up by several nations." e. warburton ("conquest of canada," i. ) says--"the want of any written or hieroglyphic records of the past among the northern indians was to some extent supplied by the accurate memories of their old men; they were able to repeat speeches of four or five hours' duration, and delivered many years before, without error, or even hesitation; and to hand them down from generation to generation with equal accuracy.... on great and solemn occasions belts of wampum were used as aids to recollection ... when a treaty or compact was negotiated." yet, although during long periods oral transmission was for mankind the main channel of tradition, it must not necessarily be concluded that writing was unknown, and was not employed for monumental and other purposes. what strikes one most forcibly in contemplating these ages, is the contrast between their intellectual knowledge and their mechanical and material contrivances for its application. during these centuries in which the , hexameters of the "iliad" and "odyssey" were transmitted in memory, by repetition, at public festivals, oral tradition was doubtless employed, because during this period "paper, parchment, or even the smoothed hides, as adapted for the purposes of writing, were unknown."[ ] this, whilst it certainly is in evidence of the paucity of their available resources, at the same time establishes the retentive strength of their memory,[ ] and their intellectual familiarity with great truths. [ ] _vide_ h. n. coleridge ("greek classic poets," p. - ), in speaking of the "dionysiacs, the thebaids, the epigoniads, naupactica, genealogies, and the other works of that sort," p. , he adds--"just as in the indian and persian epics, in the northern eddas, in the poem of the 'cid,' in the early chronicles of every nation with which we are acquainted, one story follows another story in the order of mere history; and the skill and fire of the poet are shown, not in the artifice of grouping a hundred figures into one picture, but in raising admiration by the separate beauty of each successive picture. _they tell the tale as the tale had been told to them, and leave out nothing._" [ ] according to the account which the chinese themselves give of their annals, the works of confucius were proscribed, after his death, by the emperor chi-hoangti, and all the copies, including the chu-king, were recovered from the dictation of an old man who had retained them in memory. "the great moralist of the east" himself, confucius, asserted--"that he only wrought on materials already existing." _vide_ klaproth ap., cardinal wiseman, "science and rev. religion," ii. p. . in the article in the _cornhill magazine_, nov. , containing the valuable collection of dravidian (south indian) folk-songs, it is said, p. , that "they are handed down from generation to generation, entirely vivâ voce, and from the minstrels have passed into public use." and this seems to me the sufficient reply to sir charles lyell's somewhat captious objection, that if the intellectual knowledge of the primitive age was so great, we ought now to be digging up steam engines instead of flint implements. every age has its own peculiar superiority, as hath each individual mind--_non omnia possumus omnes_--and it is as reasonable to object to an age of philosophic thought, or of intuitive perception, that it was not rich in the wealth of material civilisation, as it would be to object to plato or shakspeare, that they did not acquire dominion over mankind; or to alexander, that he did not excel aristotle; or to sir c. lyell, supposing geology to be certain, that he did not anticipate darwin, supposing darwinism to be true. and if it should be more precisely objected that, if in those ages there was the knowledge of writing for monumental purposes, we ought at least to find monuments,[ ] i say that the _onus probandi_ lies with the objector to prove the invention or introduction of writing in the interval between the age of homer and the age of pericles, as against us who believe in its primeval transmission; or to show that its introduction was more probable at this latter period than at the former.[ ] [ ] the duke of argyll ("primeval man," p. ) says--"knowledge, for example, or ignorance of the use of metals are, as we shall see, characteristics on which great stress is laid" (by the advocates of the "savage theory"). "now, as regards this point, as whately truly says, the narrative of genesis distinctly states that this kind of knowledge did not belong to mankind at first.... it is assumed in the savage theory that the presence or absence of this knowledge stands in close and natural connection with the presence or absence of other and higher kinds of knowledge, of which an acquaintance with metals is but a symbol and a type. within certain limits this is true." [ ] presuming total ignorance of writing--its invention at _any_ period seems to me much more marvellous than the discovery of printing after the invention of writing. for the rest we have seen that writing was known at an early period to the chaldæans and egyptians, and probably to the chinese and japanese, and to the medians (ch. xii.) plutarch tells us that a law of theseus, written on a column of stone, remained even to the time of demosthenes. schlegel says[ ]-- "i have laid it down as an invariable maxim to follow historical tradition, and to hold fast by that clue, even when many things in the testimony and declarations of tradition appear strange and almost inexplicable; or, at least, enigmatical; for so soon as, in the investigations of ancient history, we let slip that thread of ariadne, we can find no outlet from the labyrinth of fanciful theories and the chaos of clashing opinion." [ ] phil. hist. i propose to give a few instances of tradition, casually selected, which appear to me to be in illustration of this dictum of schlegel's. take, in illustration, the question whether mankind commenced with the state of monogamy. not that there is any obscurity on this point in the book of genesis. it is indeed sometimes loosely said that we find instances of polygamy in patriarchal times; but, as our lord said, it was not so in the beginning; and the book of genesis exhibits mankind as commencing with a single pair, and subsequently as re-propagated through a group of families, all represented to us at their commencement as monogamous. but if this highest testimony is discarded, and men gravely discuss whether or not they commenced with a state of promiscuity, the argument from tradition will go for as much as the argument from the analogy of circumstances and conditions as inferred from the existing state of savages, since this state, from our point of view, must have been the result of degeneracy.[ ] [ ] burke ("regicide peace,") says--"the practice of divorce, though in some countries permitted, has been discouraged in all. in the east polygamy and divorce are in discredit, and the manners correct the laws." i must, moreover, contend that the practice of monogamy, in any one case, must weigh for very much more than the practice of polygamy in ten parallel instances; because the natural degeneracy and proclivity of man in his fallen state is in this direction. and also, polygamy is much more naturally regarded as the departure from monogamy, than the latter as the restraint of, or advance out of, a state of promiscuity. it may further, i think, be maintained that monogamy--in the way of separation with a single woman by reason of strong love or preference--would be the more probable escape from the state of promiscuity than through the intermediary and progressive stage of polygamy.[ ] [ ] this was written before the appearance of sir j. lubbock's chapter on "marriage," in his "origin of civilization," to which reference is made at pp. , . now, i need scarcely say, that the opponents of monogamy can show no instance of an advance out of the state of promiscuity either to monogamy or polygamy. but they can point to certain communities in ancient and modern times in a state of polygamy. either, then, they must have degenerated into this state from the primitive monogamous family system, or they must have arrived at the stage in growth and progress out of a state of promiscuity. does tradition give any clue out of this labyrinth? to simplify the question, i will consent to appeal to the identical tradition to which the advocates of an original promiscuity direct our attention. mr j. f. m'lennan, who, in his "primitive marriage," (_vide supra_), apparently describes mankind as originally in a state of promiscuity, subsequently limited by customs of tribal exogamy and endogamy, in a recent article in the _fortnightly review_ (oct. ), "totems and totemism," sees further evidence of his theory in the following traditions from sanchoniathon:-- "few traditions respecting the primitive condition of mankind are more remarkable, and perhaps none are more ancient, than those that have been preserved by sanchoniatho; or rather, we should say, that are to be found in the fragments ascribed to that writer by eusebius. they present us with an outline of the earlier stages of human progress in religious speculation, which is shown _by the results of modern inquiry to be wonderfully correct_. they tell us for instance that '_the first men consecrated the plants shooting out of the earth, and judged them gods_, and worshipped them upon whom they themselves lived, and all their posterity, and all before them, and to these they made their meat and drink offerings.'[ ] they further tell us that the first men believed the heavenly bodies to be animals, only differently shaped and circumstanced from any on the earth. 'there were certain animals which had no sense, out of which were begotten intelligent animals ... and they were formed alike in the shape of an egg. thus shone out môt [the luminous vault of heaven?], the sun and the moon, and the less and the greater stars.' _next they relate, in an account of the successive generations of men_, that _in the first generation the way was found out of taking food from trees_; that, in the second, men, having suffered from droughts, began to worship the sun--the lord of heaven; that in the third, light, fire, and flame [conceived as persons], were begotten; that in the fourth giants appeared; while in the fifth, 'men were named from their mothers' because of the uncertainty of male parentage, this generation being distinguished also by the introduction of 'pillar' worship. it was not till the twelfth generation that the gods appeared that figure most in the old mythologies, such as kronos, dagon, zeus, belus, apollo, and typhon; and then the queen of them all was the _bull_-headed astarte. the sum of the statements is, that men first worshipped plants; next the heavenly bodies, supposed to be animals; then 'pillars;' ... and, last of all, the anthropomorphic gods. not the least remarkable statement is, that in primitive times there was kinship through mothers only, owing to the uncertainty of fatherhood."[ ] [ ] a tradition of the constellations, a proof from tradition that they were so named in the ante-diluvian period. [ ] sanchoniatho's "phoenician history," by the right rev. r. cumberland. london, , pp. , , , _et seq._ eusebius, præpar. evangel. lib. i. cap. . the fragments of sanchoniathon here referred to are found at earlier date than eusebius, having been copiously extracted by philo (_vide_ bunsen's "egypt"). sanchoniathon was to phoenicia what berosus was to assyria; that is to say, the earliest post-diluvian compilers of history when tradition was becoming obscure. let us scrutinise his testimony. we are here told "that the first men _consecrated the plants_ shooting out of the earth, and _judged them gods_."... "next they relate, in an account of the successive generations of men, that in the first generation _the way was found out of taking food from trees_." here, i submit, that we have plainly and unmistakably a tradition of that first commencement of evil, the first man and woman plucking the apple from the tree, thinking they would become as gods (gen. iii. , ), ... "and the serpent said ... for god doth know that in what day soever you shall eat thereof ... and you shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." then follows the succession of ages (_vide infra_, ch. xiii.), of which there is a curious parallel tradition in hesiod and apollodorus, and partial correspondences in the traditions of india, china, and mexico (_infra_, ch. xiii.).[ ] [ ] _vide_ grote, i. it will be noted, however, that whilst running into the tradition of hesiod on the one side (in hesiod and in the chinese tradition there is trace of a double tradition, ante and post-diluvian), sanchoniathon still more closely runs in with the narrative of genesis on the other, thus connecting the links of the chain of tradition.[ ] [ ] this chapter was written before i became acquainted with mr palmer's "chronicles of egypt" (_vide_ ch. vi.) if the reader will refer to chap. i., he will there find a learned and exhaustive exposition of the ages of sanchoniathon, identifying them with scripture on the one side, and egyptian tradition on the other. in the succession of ages we have in outline the history of mankind in the ante-diluvian period--the fall, _supra_--followed in the succeeding age by a great _drought_--[compare this tradition with the following passage in fran. lenormant's "histoire ancienne," i. p. , d ed., paris --"and when geology shows us the first ante-diluvian men who came into our part of the world, living in the midst of ice, under conditions of climate analogous to those under which the esquimaux live at the present day ... one is naturally brought to the recollection of _that ancient tradition of the persians_, fully conformable to the information which the bible supplies on the subject of the fall of man, ... which ranks among the first of the chastisements which followed the fall, along with death and other calamities, the advent of an _intense and permanent cold_ which man could scarcely endure, and which rendered the earth almost uninhabitable."[ ]] it is to this period, and the short period immediately following the deluge (_vide_ ch. ii. p. , and _infra_, pp. , ), that i am inclined to trace the notions of a primitive barbarism--compare, for instance, the facts which goguet, in his "origin of laws," i. p. , adduces in proof of his progress from barbarism, with the above tradition of the persians recorded by lenormant. [ ] is not this the meaning of the cxlvii. psalm, in the expression, "ante faciem frigoris ejus quis sustinebit"? does not the psalm recount to the jewish people, in rapid allusions, all that god had done for them, in contrast to the chastisements that had befallen other nations; and if it is objected that there is no allusion to the deluge, unless in its indirect and beneficial influences, in the words, "flavit spiritus ejus et fluent aquæ," i reply that to the survivors, the deluge, regarded largely, and in its permanent effects, was no calamity, but the commencement of a new and more favoured era. goguet says--"the egyptians, persians, phoenicians, greeks, and several other nations (_vide_ his references, p. ), acknowledged that their ancestors were once without the use of fire. the chinese confess the same of their progenitors.... pomponius, mela, pliny, plutarch, and other ancient authors speak of nations, who, at the time they wrote, knew not the use of fire, or had only just learned it. facts of the same kind are attested by several modern relations." let this latter statement be compared with _infra_, pp. , . in the third age we are told--"light, fire, and flame (conceived as persons) were begotten," which looks like a tradition of vulcan, tubalcain, &c. (_vide_ ch. xii. _infra_); and "in the fourth, giants appeared;" while in the fifth, the corruption of mankind is indicated, as is declared in genesis vi. : "now giants were upon the earth in those days. for after the sons of god went in to the daughters of men and brought forth children," &c., ver. , "and when god had seen that the earth was corrupted (for all flesh had corrupted its way upon the earth), ver. , he said to noe," &c. "it was not till the twelfth generation that the gods appeared that figured most in the old mythologies," says mr m'lennan, quoting sanchoniathon, or what is believed to be his testimony. i trust that this fragment of tradition may be remembered in connection with what i have written in chapters viii., ix., x. [ ] [ ] compare ch. xiii. the successive ages of hesiod, more especially the lines describing the iron age, parallel to the tradition, _supra_, "that in the fifth age _men were named from their mothers_." "no fathers in their sons their features trace, the sons reflect _no more_ their father's face; the host with kindness greets his guest no more, and friends and brethren love not as of yore." --hesiod. president goguet ("origin of laws," i. ,) had noticed the ancient allusions to "kinship through mothers," and his statement that "women belonged to the man who seized them first.... the children who sprang from this irregular intercourse scarce ever knew who were their fathers. they knew only their mothers, for which reason they always bore their name." for this statement he also quotes sanchoniathon, ap. eus. p. , as his principal authority. but sanchoniathon's statement, as we have seen, refers to the ante-diluvian period, in which it is borne out by genesis vi. . there is one fact adduced by goguet (i. ), viz. that the _assyrians_ had an analogous ceremony which must be decisive for us, though not, perhaps, for mr m'lennan, that the custom of seizure was ante-diluvian, since the commencement of the assyrian monarchy in the times immediately following the flood, is one of the best established foundations of history. _vide_ genesis and rawlinson. "this race of _many languaged_ man." to any one who rightly grasps the bearing of the argument, the appositeness of this quotation will, i think, be rather strengthened than diminished by the evidence that the lines of hesiod plainly refer to post-diluvian times (_vide_ ch. xiii.) "the sum of the statements" then, so regarded, is to confirm the tradition of the human race as recorded in genesis, that they sprang from three brothers and their three wives, forming three monogamous pairs who accompanied their father noah into the ark, with his wife; and who again were more remotely descended from a single pair. if, then, in the two most ancient traditions of which we have any record, we find concordance on some points and divergence on others, the circumstance of identity at all is so much more startling than the occurrence of discrepancy, that it will fairly be taken to warrant the presumption of a common origin; and this conformity will also be naturally claimed in support of our narrative as against the other on the points of disagreement, which will then be set down to the corruption of that which is deemed the most ancient and authentic. for those, therefore, who believe the bible to be the revealed word of god, and even for those who regard it as the most ancient record, the coincidences with sanchoniathon will afford a striking testimony; whereas the coincidence of the fifth age of sanchoniathon with genesis (chap. vi. , , ) and the tradition of hesiod, must be an embarrassment to those who seek in this tradition evidence that what was characteristic of the fifth age, was true of the preceding and pristine ages. to take a second instance, more exactly in illustration of the quotation from f. schlegel, _supra_, p. , there is no such barrier to tradition (regarded retrospectively) as the notion, if we accept it, which crept over many nations, that they were "autochthones." like the sand-drifts known to geologists as dunes, such notions, if they had been received absolutely, would have involved all tradition in a general extinction. but as the dunes, when minutely measured and submitted to calculation, have afforded the best evidence in favour of what may be called the diluvian chronology, so will this notion that men sprang out of the soil in which they dwelt, when analysed, contribute fresh evidence to the truth and persistence of tradition. but first of all, will any one start with the theory--that any nation that had this notion about itself--the greeks, for instance, were really autochthones? there is, then, simply a confusion of ideas, a difficulty which has to be unravelled; but seeing that the greeks notoriously believed themselves to be autochthones, it becomes an obstruction in the main channel of tradition, and it is especially incumbent upon us to consider the facts. in the "supplicants" of Æschylus--and i am not aware that the notion crops up at earlier date--pelasgus is introduced as saying-- "pelasgus bids you, sovereign of the land, my sire, palæcthon, of _high ancestry, original_ with this _earth_; from me, their king, the people take their name, and boast themselves pelasgians." --v. . here the high descent, and the origin from the soil, the ancestry referred to in the same breath with the allusion to his sire, "original with this earth," strikes one as incongruous. and the incongruity appears still greater when we recollect that pelasgus is the person whom all historical evidence proves to have been the first settler in the country; it being also borne in mind that the term "autochthones," whether in a primary or a secondary sense, is always applied to the supposed aboriginals of the country, and therefore excludes the hypothesis of any more primitive colonisation.[ ] [ ] the phoenician cosmogony seems to me to clinch the argument. there (_vide_ bunsen, egypt, iv. ), "_the son of eliun_ is called by philo, epigeios or _autokhthon_, 'the earth-born,' primeval inhabitant. by the latter of these expressions we have no doubt that adam-tadmon ('the kadmos of the greeks,' p. ), the first man, the man of god, is implied" ("eliun, _i.e._ helyun, god the most high," p. ). there is an analogy in their confused tradition of the creation. "eudemus says, according to the phoenician mythology, which _was invented by môkhos_, the first principle was æther and air; from these two beginnings sprang ulômos (the eternal), the rational (conscious) god" (bunsen, iv. ). bunsen, ( ) adds, "as regards môkhos the thing is clear enough; the old materialistic philosopher is matter, and that in the sense of primeval slime." [whence it has been suggested that we derive our word muck, môkh, or môkhos.] this beginning bunsen considers (p. ) "a philosophising amplification of the simply sublime words of genesis: 'the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was over the face of the waters.'" here we see the human reason hampered by the tradition that confused matter or chaos was somehow at the commencement, and with the conflicting tradition and conclusion of the intellect that it was, and must have been, created by a power superior to matter ("in the beginning god created heaven and earth"), emancipating itself, so far as to identify the creator with the æther and air, as nearer the conception of a pure spirit, and personifying matter, and so shunting it aside as the "inventor of the mythology." but if we regard it as a corruption of the tradition that man was created out of the earth ("for dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return," genesis iii. ), does not this solve all difficulties? the extension of the knowledge that they were created out of the earth, to the notion that they were created out of this or that particular clay, is not violent. is it not this same Æschylus[ ] who has the allusion "to the earth drinking the blood of the two rival brothers, the one slain by the other." it will be seen at p. , that the mexicans believed that the first race of men were created "out of the earth," and "the third out of a tree," a reminiscence of the creation, and of the fall, the intermediate event being probably the creation of eve. in like manner, the red indians have a tradition that they were created out of the _red clay_ by the great spirit; and to go to another part of the world, the supposed aboriginal tribes of china were called miautze, or "soil children."[ ] [ ] _vide_ de maistre (ch. xii.) [ ] max müller, "chips," &c., ii. . the titans were also said to be "earth-born." bryant (iii. ) says berosus gives the following tradition of the creation. belus after deification being confounded with the creator, as we have seen prometheus, id. --"belus, the deity above mentioned, cut off his own head, upon which the other gods mixed the blood as it gushed out _with the earth_, and _from thence_ men _were formed. on this_ account it is that they are rational and partake of divine knowledge. _this_ belus, whom men called _dis, divided the darkness_ and separated the heavens from the earth," &c. this testimony must be connected with the phrase so startling in the seventh ode of the fourth book of horace, "_pulvis_ et umbra sumus," and with the text in genesis iii. , "for dust thou art."[ ] it may possibly be said that this is merely matter of every day's experience. but it is precisely at this point that we must ask those who dispute tradition to discard tradition. do bodies--so far as the exterior senses tell us--return to dust, or to other forms of life? if it is true that we return to dust--scripture apart--it is tradition and not experience which attests it, and yet so common is the belief, that it might readily pass as the result of common observation. [ ] compare cicero, de legibus, i. : "est igitur homini _cum deo similitudo_;" and with gen. ii. , : "and god created man in his own likeness." so general a tradition that man was created, and created out of the ground,[ ] is so completely in accordance with the text of genesis, that one can hardly see what more can be demanded; yet catlin says[ ]--"though there is not a tribe in america but what has _some_ theory of man's _creation_, there is not one amongst them all that bears the _slightest resemblance_ to the mosaic account." catlin instances the traditions of the mandans, choctaws, and the sioux--_ st_, the mandans (who have the ceremony commemorative of _the deluge_ referred to, ch. xi.), believe that they were created "under the ground." _ d_, the choctaws assert that they "were created crawfish, living alternately under the ground and above it as they chose; and, creeping out at their little holes in the earth to get the warmth of the sun one sunny day, a portion of the tribe was driven away and could not return; they built the choctaw village, and the remainder of the tribe are still living under the ground." the iroquois, however, believe that they "came out of the ground," which is identical with the greek notion of their being "autochthones" (_vide_ colden, ii. ), where one of their chiefs speaks thus--"for we must tell you that long before one hundred years our ancestors _came out of this very ground_.... you _came out of the ground_ in a country that lies beyond the seas." now, even if we consent to detach the iroquois tradition, there is still in both the mandan and choctaw tradition, a common idea of their having come from "under the ground," which seems to me the tradition that they were created out of the ground at one remove. to this it would seem the choctaws have super-added their recollection of some incident of their tribe, possibly that they were an offshoot of the esquimaux, or were at one period in their latitude and lived their life, which would be in accordance with the theory of their migrations from asia by behring's straits. _d_, about the sioux, the third instance of contrariety adduced by catlin, it seems to me that there is no room for argument, the sioux having the tradition referred to above, that the great spirit _told_ them that "the red stone was their flesh." to these three instances mr catlin adds--"other tribes were created under the water, and at least _one half of the_ tribes in america represent that man was created _under the ground_ or in the rocky caverns of the mountains. why this diversity of theories of the creation if these people brought their traditions of the deluge from the land of inspiration?"[ ] [ ] "the chinese cosmogony speaks as follows of the creation of man--'god took some yellow earth, and he made man _en deux sexes_.'" this is the true origin of the human race. a hebrew tradition says that it was of the red earth, which is the same idea. the hebrew word "adam" expresses this idea. this correspondence as to the manner in which the body of the first man was formed, between two people who have never had relations, is very remarkable. indian and african cosmogonies relate that the name of the first man was 'adimo,' that of his wife 'hava,' and that they were the last work of the creator."--gainet, _la bible sans la bible_, i. p. . i must note, too, the identity of the american indian (_supra_) and the hebrew tradition, which is curious, as it might naturally be supposed that the tradition of the red indian took its _colour_ from his own complexion. max müller ("lect. on the science of language," st series, p. ) says of "man"--"the latin word _homo_, the french _l'homme_, ... is _derived from the same root_, which we have in _humus_, soil, _humilis_, humble. _homo_, therefore, would express the idea _of being made out of the dust of the earth_." bunsen also ("phil. univ. hist." i. ) says--"the common word for man in all german dialects is 'manna,' containing the same root as sanscrit 'manusha' and 'manueshya.' the latin 'homo' is intimately connected with 'humus' and [greek: chamai] and means _earth-born_; [greek: anthrôpôn chamaigeneôn], says pindar. but what is [greek: anthrôpos]?" [ ] "last rambles," p. . [ ] the following tradition of the tartar tribes seems to supply a link. in their tradition of the deluge (_vide_ gainet, i. ) it is said, "that those who saved themselves from the deluge shut themselves up with their provisions in the crevices of mountains, and that after the scourge had passed they came out of their caverns." and compare, again, with the tradition of kronos (noah, _vide_ bryant's "mythology," iii. )--"he is said to have had _three_ sons (sanch. ap. euseb. p. e., lib. i. c. , ), and in a _time of danger_ he formed a _large cavern in the ocean_, and in this he shut himself up, together _with these sons_, and thus escaped the danger."--_porph. de nymphar. antro._, p. . bryant ("mythology," iii. ) says--"i have shown that gaia, in its original sense, signified a sacred cavern, a hollow in the earth, which, from its gloom, was looked upon as an emblem of the ark. hence gaia, like hasta rhoia cybele, is often represented as the mother of mankind." the following is very important with reference to my argument above:--the scholiast upon euripides says--"[greek: meta ton kataklysmon en oresin oikountôn tôn argeiôn prôtos autous synôkisen inachos]. when the argivi or arkites, _after the deluge_, lived _dispersed on the mountains_, inachus first brought them together and formed them into communities."--comp. _infra_, p. , , , . the instances adduced of myths connecting man with the monkey are, as a rule, traditions of degeneracy, _i.e._ of men turned into monkeys (_vide_ tylor's "primitive culture," i. ), and to which i would add the rabbinical tradition of men turned into monkeys at the tower of babel (de quincey, works, xiii. ), and the classical epic of the ceropes, "founded on the transformation of a set of jugglers into monkeys." but if compared with the above tradition, i think that the only two instances (tylor, i. ) which seem to bear out the opposite theory will wear a different aspect. i quote from tylor as above--"wild tribes of the malay peninsula, looked down upon as lower animals by the more warlike and civilised malays, have among them traditions of their own descent from _a pair_ of the "unka-putch" or _white_ monkeys, who reared their young ones _and sent them into the plains_, and there they perfected so well that they and their descendants became men, but those _who returned to the mountains_ still remained apes. the buddhist legend relates the origin of the flat-nosed uncouth tribes of tibet, offspring of _two miraculous apes_, transformed to _people_ the snow-kingdom. taught to till the ground, when they had grown corn and eaten it, their tails and hair gradually disappeared, they began to speak, became men, and clothed themselves with leaves. the population grew closer, the land was more and more cultivated, and at last a prince of the race of sakya, driven from his home in india, _united their isolated tribes_ into a single kingdom."--comp. cecrops, &c., p. , _infra_. now, just as the tribes who said they were created "under the ground" implied the same tradition as those who said they were created _out of_ the ground, so, too, the tribes who said they were created "under the water" probably held the tradition that the creation of the race preceded the deluge. the tradition which connects the creation with "the rocky caverns of the mountains" is more recondite--may it possibly be a recollection of the commencement of civil life after the deluge, when noah led them, according to tradition, from the mountains to the plains? m. l'abbé gainet says (i. )--"the lord repeated four times the promise that he would not send another deluge.... the children of noah were long scared by the recollection of the dreadful calamity.... it is probable that they did not decide upon leaving the 'plateaux' of the mountains till quite late. moreover, caverns have been found in the mountains of the himalaya, and in many other elevated regions of asia, which they suppose to have been formed by the first generations of man after the deluge. the works of the learned m. de paravey make frequent mention of them." this tradition is supported by the lines of virgil referring to saturn (_vide infra_, p. ). "is genus indocile, ac dispersum _montibus altis_ composuit; legesque dedit."--_Æn._ viii. . i give these suggestions for what they may be worth.[ ] truly, where some see nothing but harmony, others see nothing but diversity. only to put it to a fair test, i should like to see mr catlin or some one else group these various traditions round any one tradition which they believe to be at variance with the revelation of genesis, and which, at the same time, they happen to consider to be the true one. it must be conceded that in one way the facts accord with mr catlin's theory--contradicted, however, by other evidence (_infra_, ch. xi.)--that the indians were created on the american continent. but upon any theory that they were not created at all, but existed always in pantheistic transformation, or had progressed from the monkey, or had been developed in evolution from some protoplasm, is not the tradition incongruous and inexplicable? [ ] it occurs to me as possible that these various traditions may have had their foundation in the recollection of hardship, at some early period of their subsequent migration, which were transferred back and connected with their tradition of the altered state of things after the deluge, arising out of the substitution of animal for vegetable food--of which the notion that man once lived on acorns may have been only an extreme form of expression. the following tradition of saturn (_vide infra_, saturn, p. ), seems to tend in this direction: "diodorus siculus gives the same history of saturn as is by plutarch above given of janus--[greek: ex agriou diaitês eis êmeron bion metarêsa anthrôpous].--diodorus, . , p. . he brought mankind from their foul and savage way of _feeding_ to a more mild and rational _diet_."--bryant, ii. . to take another instance. the hindoos had a fanciful notion that the world was supported by an elephant, and the elephant by a tortoise. nothing can be imagined more incongruous and grotesque. yet dr falconer has recently discovered, in his explorations in india, a fossil tortoise adequate to the support of an elephant. the incongruity then of the tradition disappears; its grotesqueness remains. i cannot help thinking, however, that it may have been the embodiment in symbol, or else the systematisation of the confused medley of their tradition of the order, _i.e. of the sequence of days of the creation_ (_vide_ appendix to this chapter).[ ] [ ] this fable of the tortoise is also among the mandans, whom, catlin (_supra_, ) says, had no other tradition of the creation than that they were created under the ground. their tradition is confused with the deluge, which dominates in their tradition. "the mandans believed that the earth rests on four tortoises. they say that "each tortoise rained ten days, making forty days in all, and the waters covered the earth" (_vide_ "o-kea-pa," p. , _infra_, ch. xi.) does not this tradition of the tortoise decide the _oriental_ origin of the north american mandans? falconer's "palæontological mem.," , i. , ii. - , &c., "as the pterodactyle more than realised the most extravagant idea of the winged dragon, so does this huge tortoise come up to the lofty conceptions of hindoo mythology; and could we but recall the monsters to life, it were not difficult to imagine an elephant supported on its back"(i. ). the new zealanders have a curious tradition of their ancestors having encountered a gigantic saurian species of reptile, which must have been before they arrived in new zealand. _vide_ shortland's "traditions of the new zealanders," p. . i have alluded, p. , to the tradition preserved by berosus, that oannes, whom i identify with noah, left writings upon the origin of the world, in which he says, "that there was a time when all was darkness and water, and that this darkness and water contained _monstrous animals_." here, perhaps, two distinct traditions are confused; but is not the tradition of animals so much out of the ordinary nature of things as to be called monstrous sufficiently marked to make us ask if the discovery of the skeleton of the "megatherium" ought to have come upon the scientific world as a surprise? might they not have anticipated the discovery if they had duly trusted tradition? other instances might doubtless be adduced. my present object is merely to suggest that there may be truths in tradition not dreamt of by modern philosophy. if the human intellect were as capacious as it is acute, we might then listen with greater submission to its strictures upon tradition; because then we might at least believe that its vision extended to all the facts. but in truth, no intellect, however encyclopædic, can grasp them all. indeed, knowledge in many departments is becoming more and more the tradition of experts, and must be taken by the outside world on faith. how many facts, again, once in tradition, but at some period put on record, lie as deeply shrouded in the dust of libraries as they had previously lain hidden in the depths of ages? who will say what facts are traditional in different localities? barely do we move from place to place without eliciting some information strange and new. who again will say what ideas are traditional in different minds? barely is there a discussion which provokes traditional lore or traditional sentiment which does not bring to light some such thought or experience, re-appearing, like the lines in family feature, after the lapse of several generations. whenever, then, mankind is called upon to discard its traditions at the voice of any intellect, however powerful, is it unreasonable to demand that some cognizance should be taken of these facts.[ ] [ ] i have elsewhere (_vide_ ch. iv., _et seq._, x., xi.) traced the tradition of the deluge, of the chronology of the world, &c., &c. let us now, returning to the tradition we have more especially in view, ask this further question,--what could the human intellect have done towards the regeneration of the race if there had been no revelation and no tradition? it is not often that unbelief is constructive and supplies us with the necessary data with which to furnish the answer. but recently a work which is said to embody considerable learning has appeared, entitled, "the origin and development of religious belief," which is written "from a philosophic and not from a religious point of view;" in which "the existence of a god is not assumed, the truth of revelation is not assumed," and "the bible is quoted not as an authoritative, but as an historical record open to criticism."--mr baring gould, "origin and development of religious belief," preface, . here then, if anywhere, we are likely to get the solution from the point of view of unbelief. at p. , mr b. gould thus summarises his views:-- "religion, as has been already shown, is the synthesis of thought and sentiment. it is the representation of a philosophic idea. it always reposes on some hypothesis. at first it is full of vigour, constantly on the alert to win converts. then the hypothesis is acquiesced in, it is received as final, its significance evaporates. the priests of ancient times were also philosophers, but not being able always to preserve their intellectual superiority, their doctrines became void of meaning, hieroglyphs of which they had lost the key; and then speculation ate its way out of religion, and left it an empty shell of ritual observance, void of vital principle. philosophy alone is not religion, nor is sentiment alone religion; but religion is that which, based on an intelligent principle, teaches that principle as dogma, exhibits it in worship, and applies it in discipline. dogma worship and discipline are the constituents, so to speak, the mind spirit, and body of religion."--"_origin and development of religious belief._" by s. baring gould, m.a. rivingtons, . part i., p. . here it is said that "religion is the representative of a philosophic idea. it always reposes on some hypothesis." this philosophic idea may be that there must necessarily be a creator. but also it may not be, for "the existence of god is not assumed" (_vide_ preface). if it is not, then, according to this definition, religion may be the representative of any philosophic idea (_i.e._ any idea of any philosopher), even that which may be diametrically opposed to the existence and goodness of god.[ ] but if, on the other hand, the existence of god is this primary philosophic idea, then all other philosophic ideas must succumb to it. it is a point which you must settle at starting in your definition of religion. [ ] devil-worship is based upon the hypothesis that the evil spirit exists, and is the influence from which man has most to dread. prudence suggests that it is wise to propitiate evil when it is powerful; and if "the existence of god is not assumed," or the conception of god not yet developed, it is hard to see how the conclusion can be impugned; and (_vide_ next page) mr baring gould endorses grimm's opinion that man's first "idea of god is the idea of a _devil_." what follows seems to assume that some individual, or some set of individuals, at a period more or less remote, evolved the idea of god and religion out of their own consciousness; but that, as the descendants of these individuals had not the same intellectual vigour, the conception lapsed,--"their doctrines became hieroglyphs of which they had lost the key." nothing can be more conformable to the theory of tradition;[ ] but from the point of view of mr baring gould, what was to forbid other individuals broaching fresh conceptions? is there, however, any instance known to us? is there any instance of a religion not eclectic or pantheistic (the one being the mere revivalism or reconstruction of the elements of former beliefs, and the other their absorption), any religion "based on an intelligible principle," heretofore unknown to mankind, rising up and obtaining even a temporary ascendancy among mankind? no; mankind, even in the darkness of paganism, persistently distinguished between religion and philosophy, priests and sophists--though intellectually so much alike--and this i consider to be a master-key to the history of the past (_ante_, p. ). [ ] the most favourable review of mr b. gould's work which i have seen says:--"in tracing the origin and development of religious belief, the object of mr baring gould is to establish the foundation of _christian_ doctrine on the nature, the intuitions, and the reason of man, _rather than upon traditionary dogmas_, historical documents, or written inspirations. he is of opinion that the elements of true religion are to be found in a revelation naturally impressed upon the soul of man, and that the investigation of man's moral nature will be found to disclose the surest proofs of his religious wants and destination. the author holds that if theological doctrines can be inculcated by demonstrative evidence of their harmony with man's intellectual and moral constitution, they will be received with more perfect acquiescence and conviction than when appeals are made simply to man's veneration for antiquity and authority." i think i am, at any rate, right in taking mr b. g.'s as the view most directly opposed to tradition, and it is from this point of view that i am brought into collision with him. there is a further point which mr baring gould must settle. religion may be theoretically regarded as an affair of growth, progressive, or as an affair of revelation, or something so nearly counterfeiting revelation as to arise spontaneously; but it cannot well be both. now, in the pages of mr baring gould it appears at one time "springing into life" (p. ), and, as in the passage above, analogously to a conception in the mind:--"_at first_ it is full of vigour, constantly on the alert to win converts;" at another, "as a conception slowly evolved;" then all at once "a living belief, vividly luminous" (p. ). again (p. ), "religion does not reach perfection of development at a bound; generations pass away, before," &c.; and (p. ) we find that in all _primitive_ religions the idea of god is the idea of a _devil_, or (_id._) "that the first stage in the conception of a devil is the attribution of evil to god," which is different, inasmuch as it supposes man to start with the knowledge of god, and is, moreover, inconsistent with what is said at page :--"the shapeless religion of a primitive people gradually assumes a definite form. it is that of _nature_ worship. it progresses through polytheism and idolatry, and emerges into monotheism or pantheism." of course this is said upon _the assumption_ that the primitive man was barbarous. but however remote from the fact, it is theoretically as conceivable that man should worship nature as an ideal of beauty and power, as that he should regard it from the first as an apparition of terror; or, in other words, that taking nature-worship for granted, mr max müller's view of it, viz.:--"he begins to lift up his eyes, he stares at the tent of heaven, and asks who supports it? he opens his eyes to the winds, and asks them whence and whither? he is awakened from darkness and slumber by the light of the sun, and him whom his eyes cannot behold, and who seems to grant him the daily pittance of his existence, he calls 'his life, his breath, his brilliant lord and protector'" (chips, i. , _apud_ b. g., ),--is as likely to be the true one as mr baring gould's,[ ] viz.:--"at first man is ... antitheist; but presently he feels resistances.... the convulsions of nature, the storm, the thunder, the exploding volcano, the raging seas, fill him with a sense of there being a power superior to his own, before which he must bow. his religious thought, vague and undetermined, is roused by the opposition of nature to his will" (p. ). [ ] _vide_, however, dr newman's "grammar of assent," p. , _et seq._ mr baring gould postulates, i am aware, the lapse of several generations for the evolution of these ideas. but there is nothing in mr baring gould's statement of the progression or development of the conception of the deity among mankind which might not pass in rapid sequence through the mind of the primitive man,--call him "areios," if you shrink from close contact with history, and refuse to call him adam. why then the indefinite lapse of time? why the progressive advance of the idea through successive generations of mankind? why, except that the primitive barbarism _must_ be assumed; and because (p. ), "in the examination of the springs of religious thought, we have to return again and again to the wild bog of savageism in which they bubble up." but if the savagery was so great, the perplexity how man ever came to make the first step in the induction is much greater than that, having made it, he should proceed on to make the last. it is certain that reason can prove the existence of god and his goodness, and this knowledge evokes the instincts of love and worship. it is true also that man has a conscience of right and wrong, and that among its dictates is a sense of the obligation of love and worship. still this will not account for the existence of religion in the world. much less will mr baring gould's theory of an induction by mankind collectively, spread over several centuries, account either for the notion or for the institution. neither, apart from direct or indirect revelation, would it prove more than that man was religious, though without religion; capable of arriving at the knowledge of god's existence, but without any knowledge how to propitiate him; seeking god, but not able to find him. therefore, mr baring gould truly says--"philosophy alone is not religion." philosophy, as we have seen, may prove the existence of god. but religion, from the commencement of the world, has conveyed the idea that there is a particular mode in which god must be worshipped. here philosophy is entirely at fault. mr baring gould again truly says that "dogma, worship, and discipline are the constituents, so to speak, the mind, spirit, and body of religion" (p. ). but he goes no further, and does not explain how it came about that mankind in all ages have adhered with singular pertinacity to the notion that religion could teach that on which philosophy must perforce be silent. has not the greater intellect ever been on the side of philosophy? nay,[ ] in the epochs in which intellectual superiority was undeniably on the side of philosophy, did the populace go to the academy or to the oracles? if the human intellect had originally framed the ritualistic observances, which bore so strange a resemblance in different parts of the world; if human sagacity had originated the idea of sacrifice (and wherefore sacrifice from the point of view of human sagacity?); if philosophy had revealed to them the religious conceptions which they retained, and had been able to define the relation of man to the divinity--would not mankind, in all ages, have had recourse to its greatest intellects for the solution of its doubts, rather than to the guardians of an obscure and corrupt tradition? the question no doubt is complicated with the evidence as to demonolatry; but the extent to which this prevailed only enforces the argument against mr baring gould, to whom, apparently, the demon (p. ) is not a real existence, but only the embodiment of a phase of thought, and must seriously embarrass those who attribute the regeneration of man from savagery to intellectual growth and natural progress. [ ] "the lively grecian, in a land of hills, rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . in despite of the gross fictions chanted in the streets by wandering rhapsodists, and in contempt of doubt and bold denial hourly urged amid the wrangling schools, a spirit hung, beautiful region! o'er thy towns and farms, statues and temples, and memorial tombs; and emanations were perceived, and acts of immortality, in nature's course, exemplified by mysteries that were felt as bonds, _on grave philosopher imposed_, and armed warrior; and in every grove a gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, when piety more awful had relaxed." --wordsworth, _excursion_, b. iv. but demonology apart, what would have countervailed against the superiority of reason and the intellectual prestige of the world except a belief in a tradition of primitive revelation? what else will account for the different recognitions of philosophy and religion--priests and sophists? what else would have prevented mankind from resorting in their difficulties to where the greatest intellect was found? at page , this truth seems to gain partial recognition in the pages of mr baring gould:-- "in conclusion, it seems certain that for man's spiritual well-being, these forces ('the tendency to crystallise, and the tendency to dissolve') need co-ordination. under an infallible guide, regulating every moral and theological item of his spiritual being, his mental faculties are given him that they may be atrophied, like the eyes of the oyster, which, being useless in the sludge of its bed, are re-absorbed. under a perpetual modification of religious belief, his convictions become weak and watery, without force, and destitute of purpose. in the barren wilderness of sinai there are here and there green and pleasant oases. how come they there? by basaltic dykes arresting the rapid drainage which leaves the major part of that land bald and waste. so in the region of religion, _revelations and theocratic systems have been the dykes saving it_ from barrenness, and encouraging mental and sentimental fertility" (p. ). it is impossible that we should quarrel with this illustration, it is so exactly to our point. is it not another way of affirming the position which i maintain against sir john lubbock? (ch. xii.) may not we, too, take our stand upon these "oases" of tradition, which "revelations" and "theocratic systems" have formed, and ask what the human intellect has been able to achieve for the spiritual cravings of man in the waste around? mr baring gould, indeed, says (p. ):-- "a power of free volition within or outside all matter in motion was a rational solution to the problems of effects of which man could not account himself the cause. such is the origin of the idea of god--of god _whether many_, inhabiting each brook and plant, and breeze and planet, _or as_ being a world-soul, _or as_ a supreme cause, the creator and sustainer of the universe. the common consent of mankind has been adduced as a proof of a tradition of a revelation in past times; but the fact that most races of men believe in one or more deities proves nothing more than that all men have drawn the same inference from the same premises. it is idle to speak of a 'sensus numinis' as existing as a primary conviction in man, when the conception may be reduced to more rudimentary ideas. the revelation is in man's being, in his conviction of the truth of the principle of causation, and thus it is a revelation made to every rational being." grant that it is so, there is nothing here which militates against our position, which is this,--not certainly that there is not a revelation of god in man's being, made to every rational creature, but that there has been an express revelation superadded to it; and that it is not true that "the common consent of mankind to the existence of god has been adduced as a proof of a tradition of a revelation in past times," but that the mode and manner of the consent attests the fact of tradition and the fact of revelation. but what have we just heard? that there is a revelation of god's existence in man's nature, _i.e._ in _each_ man's nature--"it is a revelation made to every man's nature." then the indefinite lapse of time demanded for the evolution of the ideas, which we have just been combating, is not after all necessary. "_habemus reum confitentum._" but inasmuch as the consent of mankind is only "to one or more deities," it is only so far a testimony to the existence of god as it is shown that polytheism arose out of the corruption of this belief; and, moreover, by no means proves "that all men have drawn the same inference from the same premises," even if it were possible to reconcile this statement with what is said at page --"the shapeless religion of a primitive people gradually assumes a definite form. it is that of nature-worship. _it progresses through_ polytheism and idolatry, _and emerges into_ monotheism or pantheism" (_vide infra_). at this point i should wish to put in the accumulation of evidence which l'abbe gainet has collected to prove that monotheism was the primitive belief.[ ] when this evidence is dispersed, it will be time enough to return to the subject. [ ] "monotheisme des peuples primitifs," in vol. iii. of "la bible sans la bible." in any case, we may fall back upon the following testimony in mr baring gould:-- "it is the glory of the semitic race to have given to the world, in a compact and luminous form, that monotheism which the philosophers of greece and rome only vaguely apprehended, and which has become the heritage of the christian and mohammedan alike. of the semitic race, however, one small branch, jewdom, preserved and communicated the idea. every other branch of that race _sank into_ polytheism (_vide supra_).... it is at first sight inexplicable that jewish monotheism, which was in time to exercise such a prodigious influence over men's minds, should have so long remained the peculiar property of an insignificant people. but every religious idea has its season, and the thoughts of men have their avatars.... it was apparently necessary that mankind should be given full scope for unfettered development, that they should feel in all directions after god, if haply they might find him, in _order that_ the foundations of _inductive philosophy might be laid_, that the religious idea might run itself out through polytheistic channels _for the development of art_. certainly jewish monotheism remained in a state of congelation till the religious thought of antiquity _had exhausted its own vitality_, and _had worked out every other problem of theodicy_; then suddenly thawing, it poured over the world its fertilising streams" (p. ).[ ] [ ] mr b. gould also says, p. --"the semitic divine names bear _indelibly on their front the stamp of their origin_, and the language itself testifies against the insulation and abstraction of these names from polytheism. the aryan's tongue bore no such testimony to him. the spirit of his language _led him away from monotheism_, whilst that of the shemite was an ever-present monitor, directing him to a god, sole and undivided. 'the glory of the semitic race is this,' says m. renan, 'that from _its earliest days_ it grasped that notion of the deity which all other people have had to adopt from its example, and on the faith of its declaration.'" from all this it results that, so far as the testimony of the semitic race is concerned (which, by the by, a concurrence of tradition points to as the oldest), the human race did not "emerge into monotheism," but "sank into polytheism;" that monotheism was their belief from "their earliest days," and their language bearing testimony to the same, shows also that it was primitively so. it moreover results, that although mankind may have been allowed to sink into polytheism, as a warning or a chastisement, it certainly could not have been "in order that the foundations of inductive philosophy might be laid;" for it is quite apparent from this extract that the induction was _never made_ that man did _not_ "emerge into monotheism;" but that having "_exhausted its vitality_," and "worked out every problem of theodicy" in the way of corruption, it _received_ monotheism back again from the only people who had preserved it intact. at any rate, monotheism came to it _ab extra_, and before polytheism had attained the "full scope of that development" which was necessary for the perfection of art! but mr baring gould having a perception that this admission (although he has not apparently seen its full significance) is fatal to his theory, hastens to unsay it at page , "whence did the jews derive their monotheism? monotheism is _not_ a feature of any primitive religion; but that which is a feature of secondary religions is the appropriation to a tribe of a particular god, which that tribe exalts above all other gods." in support of this view, mr baring gould quotes certain texts of scripture--isa. xxxvi. , (_i.e._ words spoken by rabsaces the assyrian), and jos. xxiv. , "but if it seem evil to you to serve _the lord_, you have your choice: choose this day that which pleaseth you, whom you would rather serve, whether the gods which your fathers served in mesopotamia [query, an allusion to the idolatry in the patriarchal households? gen. xxxv. , "the gods" being of the same kind with "the gods of the amorites"], or the gods of the amorites, in whose land you dwell; but as for me and my house, we will serve _the lord_." one would have thought this text too plain to be cavilled at. is not _the lord_ whom josue invokes _the same lord_ who (gen. i. ) "in the beginning created heaven and earth," and who said to noah (gen. vi. ), "i will destroy _man whom i have created_, from the face of the earth;" and who (exod. iii. ) appeared to moses in a flame of fire in the bush which was not consumed; and to whom moses said, "lo, i shall go to the children of israel, and say to them, _the god of your fathers_ hath sent me to you; if they should say to me, what is his name? what shall i say to them? (ver. ), god said to moses, _i am who am_: he said thus shalt thou say to the children of israel, _he who is_ hath sent me to you." when or where has monotheism been more explicitly declared? is there any phrase which the human mind could invent in which it could be more adequately defined? and when god speaks as "the god of abraham, of isaac, and of jacob," is it not as if he would say, i am not only the god who speaks to the individual heart, but who is _also traditionally_ known to you all collectively through my manifestations and revelations to your forefathers? compare matt. xxii. . _inter alia_, mr b. gould also instances such unmistakable orientalisms as "'among the gods there is none like unto thee, o lord,' says david, and he exalts jehovah above the others as a 'king above all gods.'" where, then, may we ask, is the monotheism, "the glory of the semitic race," to be found, if not in the time of david? the proof which follows is more clinching still-- "jacob seems to have made a sort of bargain with jehovah that he would serve him instead of other gods, on condition that he took care of him during his exile from home. the _next_ stage in popular jewish theology was a denial of the power of the gentile gods, and the treatment of them as idols. tradition and history point to abraham as the first on whom the idea of the impotence of the deities of his father's house first broke. he is said to have smashed the images in nahor's oratory, and to have put a hammer into the hands of one idol which he left standing, as a sign to nahor that that one had destroyed all the rest." unfortunately for this view--according to the only authentic narrative we have of the facts, gen. xii.--abraham must have preceded jacob by at least two generations! i think that, after this, we may fairly ask mr baring gould, who is learned in medieval myths, to trace for us more distinctly the notion of the chronicler who had a theory that henry ii. lived before henry i. with this passage i shall conclude this chapter, merely observing, that if any department of study existed which had for its special object the investigation of tradition,[ ] it is simply impossible that a work (clever in many respects) such as that of mr baring gould should ever have been written. [ ] i append, however, the following passage from mr baring gould, as it may be serviceable in tracing tradition, and to which i may have occasion to recur (p. ):--"among the american indians an object of worship, and the centre of a cycle of legend, is michabo, the great hare or rabbit. from the remotest wilds of the north-west to the coast of the atlantic, from the southern boundaries of carolina to the cheerless swamps of hudson's bay, the algonquins are never tired of gathering round the winter fire, and repeating the story of manibozho or michabo, the great hare. with entire unanimity, their various branches, the powhatans, &c., ... and the western tribes, perhaps without exception, spoke of this 'chimerical beast,' as one of the old missionaries called it, as their common ancestor (brinton's "myths of the new world," p. ). michabo is described as having been four-legged, monstrous, crouching on the face of the primeval waste of waters, with all his court, composed of four-footed creatures, around him. he formed the earth out of a grain of sand taken from the bottom of the ocean. it is strange that such an insignificant creature as a hare should have received this apotheosis, and it has been generally regarded as an instance of the senseless brute-worship of savages. but its prevalence leads the mythologist to suspect that some confusion of words has led to a confusion of ideas, a suspicion which becomes a certainty when the name is analysed, for it is then found to be the great white one, or great light, and to be in reality the sun, a fact of which the modern indians are utterly unaware." if mr baring gould finds that the word michabo also signifies "the great light," or "the great white one," it goes far to identify the worship of the hare with the worship of the sun, more especially when it is noted (_vide_ prescott's "conquest of mexico," i. ) that the hare was one of the four hieroglyphics of the year among the ancient mexicans.[a] animal worship seems here plainly connected with sun-worship. but above and beyond it, do we not here also get a glimpse of more celestial light? "the great light" is also "the great white one." he is described as "crouching on the face of the primeval waste of waters." in these phrases we seem almost to read the text of gen. i. , "and god said, be light, and light was made;" ver. , "darkness was on the face of the deep, and the spirit of god moved over the waters." the indians also say that he "formed the earth out of a grain of sand taken from the bottom of the ocean." does not this not only embody the tradition that god created the world out of nothing, but also the mode of the creation by the separation of the water from the land: ver. , "god also said, let the waters that are under the heavens be gathered together in one place; and let the dry land appear.... and god called the dry land earth, and the gathering together of the waters he called seas." [a] these hieroglyphics were symbolical of the four elements. prescott adds--"it is not easy to see the connection between the terms 'rabbit' and 'air,' which lead the respective series." possibly he may not have been aware of the tradition of the algonquins as above. appendix to chapter vii. cardinal wiseman ("lectures on science and religion," ii. - ), in speaking of what was characteristic of most oriental religions--a belief "in the existence of emanated influences intermediate between the divine and earthly natures," is led on to give an account of the curious gnostic sect, the nazarians--"the first of these errors was common, perhaps, to other gnostic sects; but in the codex nasaræus we have the two especially distinguished as different beings--light and life. in it the first emanation from god is the king of light; the second, fire; the third, water; the fourth, life." i wish to note that, whether or not their notions as to emanations originally meant more than the act of creation, a tradition as to the successive order of the creation seems clearly embodied in the text. god created first of all light; _then_ the sun (the firmament) is fire (the distinct creation of the light and the sun in genesis is so marked as to create a special difficulty in the cosmogony); _then_ water; _then_ life, in beasts, birds, reptiles, &c.; lastly, man. comp. with _supra_, p. , and with the above legend of michabo. "a slavonian account of creation.--the current issue of the literary society of prague includes a volume of popular tales collected in all the slavonian countries, and translated by m. erben into czech. we extract the shortest--'_in the beginning there was only god, and he lay asleep and dreamed._ at last it was time for him to wake and look at the world. wherever he looked through the sky, a star came out. he wondered what it was, and got up and began to walk. at last he came to our earth; he was very tired; the sweat ran down his forehead, and a drop fell on the ground. we are all made of this drop, and that is why we are the sons of god. man was not made for pleasure; he was born of the sweat of god's face, and now he must live by the sweat of his own: that is why men have no rest.'"--_the academy_, feb. , . i wish also to examine, in greater detail than i should have had space for in a note, how far the case of the samoyeds bears out mr baring gould's theory of the development of idolatry from its grosser to its more refined manifestations, or of the progress of the human race from barbarism to the light of religion and of civilisation. mr baring gould says, p. -- "'when a schaman is aware that i have no household god,' said a samoyed to m. castren, the linguist, 'he comes to me, and i give him a squirrel, or an ermine skin.' this skin he brings back moulded 'into a human shape.' ... 'this los is a fetish; it is not altogether an idol; it is a spirit entangled in a material object. what that object is matters little; a stump of a tree, a stone, a rag, or an animal, serves the purpose of condensing the impalpable deity into a tangible reality.' through this coarse superstition glimmers an intelligent conception. it is that of an all-pervading deity, who is focussed, so to speak, in the fetish. this deity is called num. 'i have heard some samoyeds declare that the earth, the sea--all nature, in short--are num.' 'where is num? asked castren of a samoyed, and the man pointed to the blue sea: but an old woman told him that the sun was num. the siethas, worshipped by the lapps, had no certain figure or shape formed by nature or art; they were either trees or rough stones, much _worn by water_. tomæus says they were often mere tree stumps with the roots upwards."[ ] [ ] is not "num" cognate to "numen?" and their worship of trees and worn stones worship of memorials of the deluge? compare boulanger, _infra_, ch. xi., and on the regard for boulders in india (_vide_ gainet, vol. i.) bryant ("mythology," iii. ) says, speaking of the egyptians--"i have mentioned that they showed a reverential regard to fragments of rock which were particularly uncouth and horrid; and this practice seems to have prevailed in _many other countries_." probably for the same reason the lapps worshipped their lakes and rivers, as is known from the names annexed to them--"ailekes jauvre," that is, sacred lake, &c. _vide_ pinkerton, i. . (leems.) it is curious to contrast this recent account of the samoides with an account, apparently well informed and discriminating, in . pinkerton, i. --"the religion of the samoides is very simple.... they _admit the existence of a supreme being_, creator of all things, eminently good and beneficent; a quality which, according to their mode of thinking, dispenses them from any adoration of him, or addressing their prayers to him, because they suppose this being takes no interest in mundane affairs; and consequently, does not exact nor need the worship of man. they join to this idea that of a being eternal and invisible, very powerful, though subordinate to the first, and disposed to evil. it is to this being that they ascribe all the misfortunes which befall them in this life. nevertheless, they do not worship, although much in fear of him. if they place any reliance in the counsels of koedesnicks or tadebes (the 'schamans' referred to above), it is only on account of the connection which they esteem these people to have with this evil being; otherwise they submit themselves with perfect apathy to all the misfortunes which can befall them." "the sun and moon, as well, hold the place of subaltern deities. it is by their intervention, they imagine, that the supreme being dispenses his favours; but they worship them as little as the idols or fitches (fetishes) which they carry about them according to the recommendation of their koedesnicks." without pursuing the investigation further, it seems plain that the samoides, from being (at least) deists in the last century (dr hooker, "himalayan journal," gives a similar account of the lepchas), have lapsed, apparently through sun-worship, to a state of pantheism, if not fetishism. of the tongusy, a people who, if not kin to the samoides, have an analogous worship--("they are altogether unacquainted with any kind of literature, and worship the sun and moon. they have many shamans among them, who differ little from those i formerly described."--bell's "travels in asia, siberia")--bell, travelling in siberia, , says--"although i have observed that the tongusy in general worship the sun and moon, there _are many exceptions_ to this observation. i have found intelligent people among them who believed there was a being superior to both sun and moon, and who _created them and all the world_." if, then, we may connect the tongusy with the samoides, it would appear that whereas mr baring gould (_i.e._, castren) finds the latter sunk in fetishism, they were, the one in , the other in , the worshippers of the sun and moon, joined with the knowledge and tradition of the true god still subsisting amongst them. f. schlegel ("phil. of history," p. ) says--"the greeks, who described india in the time of alexander the great, divided the indian religious sects into brachmans and _samaneans_.... but by the greek denomination of _samaneans_ we must certainly understand the buddhists, as among the _rude nations of central asia_, as in other countries, the priests of the religion of fo bear _at this day_ the name of _schamans_." compare professor rawlinson, "ancient monarchies," i. , . (_vide infra_, p. , , .) chapter viii. _mythology._ since all antediluvian traditions meet in noah, and are transmitted through him, there is an _à priori_ probability that we shall find all the antediluvian traditions confused in noah. i shall discuss this further when i come to regard him under the aspect of saturn. as a consequence, we must not expect to find (the process of corruption having commenced in the race of ham, almost contemporaneously with noah) a pure and unadulterated tradition anywhere; and i allege more specifically, that whenever we find a tradition of noah and the deluge, we shall find it complicated and confused with previous communications with the almighty, and also with traditions of adam and paradise. but inasmuch as the tradition is necessarily through noah, and in any case applies to him at one remove, it does not greatly affect the argument i have in hand. there is a further probability which confronts us on the outset, that in every tradition, with the lapse of time, though the events themselves are likely to be substantially transmitted, they may become transposed in their order of succession. we shall see this in the case of noah and his posterity. the principal cause being, that the immediate founder of the race is, as a rule, among all the nations of antiquity, deified and placed at the head of every genealogy and history. "joves omnes reges vocârunt antiqui." thus belus, whom modern discovery seems certainly to have identified with nimrod, in the chaldean mythology appears as jupiter, and even as the creator separating light from darkness (rawlinson, "ancient monarchies," i. ; gainet, "hist. de l'anc. et nouv. test.," i. ). but nimrod is also mixed up with jupiter in the god bel-merodach. in more natural connection nimrod--("who may have been worshipped in different parts of chaldea under different titles," rawlinson, i. )--_nimrod_ appears as the _father_ of _hurki_ the moon-god, whose worship he probably introduced; and, what is much more to the point, he appears as the father of nin (whom i shall presently identify with noah); whilst in one instance, at least, the genealogy is inverted, and he appears as the _son of nin_. thus, too, hercules and saturn are confounded, just as we find adam and noah confounded ("many classical traditions, we must remember, identified hercules with saturn," _vide_ rawlinson, i. ). also in grecian mythology prometheus (adam) figures as the son of deucalion (noah), and also of japetus (japhet); and so, too, adam and noah, in the mahabharata, are equally in tradition in the person of manou (_vide_ gainet, i. ), and in mexico in the person of the god quetzalcoatl (_vide infra_, p. ). before, however, pursuing the special subject of this inquiry further, it appears to me impossible to avoid an argument on a subject long debated, temporarily abandoned through the exhaustion of the combatants, and now again recently brought into prominence through the writings of mr gladstone, dr dollinger, mr max müller, and others--the source and origin of mythology.[ ] [ ] this chapter was written before the publication of mr cox's "mythology of the aryan nations." it will be seen, however, that i indulge the hope that much that is seductive, and much even that is systematic, in mr cox's view, will be found to be compatible with the line i have indicated. now, here, i am quite ready to adopt, in the first place, the opinion of l'abbé gainet, that every exclusive system must come to naught, "que toutes les tentatives qu'on ai faites pour expliquer le polythéisme par un système exclusif tombent à faux et n'expliquent rien." yet, whilst fully admitting an early and perhaps concurrent admixture of sabaism,[ ] i consider that the facts and evidence contained in the pages of rawlinson will enable us to arrive at the history of idolatry by a mode much more direct than conjecture. the pages of rawlinson prove the identity of nimrod and belus, and his worship in the earliest times. on the other hand, there has been a pretty constant tradition[ ] that nimrod first raised the standard of revolt against the lord; and the erection of the tower of babel seems to show a state of things ripe for idolatry. here recent discovery and ancient tradition concur in establishing hero-worship as among the earliest forms of idolatry. but further, the arab tradition of nimrod's apotheosis, analogous to the mysterious and miraculous disappearance of enoch (_vide infra_, p. ), suggests how hero-worship might become almost identical with the worship of spirits, which l'abbé gainet inclines to think the first and most natural mode. if there was a tradition among them that one of their ancestors was raised up to heaven,[ ] why may they not have argued, when their minds had become thoroughly corrupted, that their immediate ancestor, the mighty nimrod, had been so raised? and when one ancestor was deified the rest would have been deified in sequence, or according to their relationship to him. what, again, more likely than that, when through the corruptions of mankind the communications of the most high ceased, they should turn to those to whom the communications had been made, at first perhaps innocently in intercession, and, as corruption deepened, in worship?[ ] [ ] philo. _apud_ eusebius, who has transmitted the phoenician tradition (_vide_ bunsen's "egypt," iv. ), seems to me to indicate the mode in which it came about in the following words--"now chronos, whose phoenician epithet was el, _a ruler of the land_, and subsequently after his death, _deified_ in the constellation of kronos (saturn)," &c. as to saturn, _vide_ ch. x. in the cosmical theory there is analogy as to the process of deification--"in the phoenician cosmogonies, the connection between the highest god and a subordinate male and female demiurgic principle is of frequent occurrence" (bunsen, iv. ). it would seemingly be more in fitness with a cosmical theory to find direct adoration of the principle, without evidence of any previous or concurrent process of deification. mr w. palmer ("egyptian chronicles," i. ) says--"but when we find the rulers of the first two periods in the chronicle, its xiii. gods and viii. demigods, answering closely to the two generations of the antediluvian and post-diluvian patriarchs in number, and therefore also in the average length of the reigns and generations; and when we know, besides, as we do, that the pantheon of the egyptians and other nations, which they said had all borrowed from them, was peopled, in part at least, _with deified ancestors_--for even the heavenly luminaries, and the _elements_, and _powers of nature_, and _notions of the true god still remaining_, or of angels and demons, so far as they were invested with humanity and sex, _were identified with human ancestors_; we cannot doubt that kronos," &c. [ ] "venator contra dominum," st augustine; "cité de dieu," xvi. ch. iv.; pastoret, "hist. de la legislation." [ ] gen. v. , says only--"and he walked with god, and was seen no more: because god took him." (_vide_ also john iii. .) there might still have been the belief and tradition (according to appearances) that he was so raised. (compare kings ii. , and ecclesiasticus, xliv. .) [ ] i believe, however, that the apostasy in the hamitic race generally was much more direct; and i entirely agree with bryant that it must have resulted at an early period in a systematic scheme of mixed solar and ancestral worship. therefore, in any hamitic tradition, we shall not be startled at finding (even in the commemorative ceremonies of the deluge) evidence of solar mythology inextricably blended with ancestral traditions. we, however, are only concerned with the ancestral traditions, and in so far as we can discriminate them, mr cox's evidence of solar mythology will form no barrier to our inquiry. in the preceding page i have quoted a passage from sanchoniathon, which seems to indicate the mode in which the mixed system arose; but there "cronos" (noah) is deified in the planet saturn. as a rule, however, we find him deified in the sun (bryant, ii. , , ). ham, however, is sometimes also deified in the sun; and in cases where ham is so deified, it is not unlikely that we shall find the patriarch relegated to saturn. l'abbé gainet, in another part of his work, draws attention to the worship of ancestors in china, and asks whether the idols of laban had reference to more than some such secondary objects? it will be recollected that it was precisely the extent to which this veneration was to be considered culpable which was the subject-matter of the unfortunate disputes between certain religious orders in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (_vide_ huc's "chinese empire," and cretineau joly's "hist. de la com. de jesus," vol. iii. chap. iii., and vol. v. chap. i.) indeed, among the semitic races it may never have degenerated into idolatry. still it appears to me that weight should be attached to this tendency, more especially in primitive times, when the recollection of ancestors who had been driven out of paradise, to whom direct revelations had been made, and who were naturally reputed to have been "nearer to the gods" (plato, cicero[ ]), would have been all in all to their descendants. then, again, as we have just seen, there was the tradition among them of one man who had been carried up into heaven, and accordingly, when hero-worship culminated in the deification of man, we are not surprised to find it taking the form of this apotheosis as in the identification of nimrod and enoch. [ ] "quoniam antiquitas proxime accedit ad deos."--_de legibus_, ii. . this tendency to idolatry through hero-worship seems to me so natural and direct, that i think, apart from the facts _à priori_, i should have been led to the conclusion that it was the actual manner in which it was brought about.[ ] it is not denied, on the other hand, that there always has been a tendency to nature-worship also; and, indeed, there is probably a stage during which every mythology will be found to have come under its influence. but the inclination at the present moment is unmistakably to an exclusive astral or solar system. the point of interest which excites me to this inquiry is simply to determine the value of the historical traditions which may lie embedded in these systems; and i shall be content to find them, whether or not they form the primary nucleus, or whether only subsequently imported into, and blended with, solar mythology. it is easy to conceive how a mythology embodying historical traditions could pass into an astral system. in this case incongruity would not startle; but it is difficult to imagine a pure astral system which would not be too harmonious and symmetrical to admit of the grossness, inconsistency, and incongruity to which the process of adaptation would inevitably give rise, and to which hero-worship is inherently prone. as mr gladstone says (homer, ii. ):-- "there is much in the theo-mythology of homer which, if it had been a system founded on fable, could not have appeared there. it stands before us like one of our old churches, having different parts of its fabric in the different styles of architecture, each of which speaks for itself, and which we know to belong to the several epochs in the history of the art when their characteristic combinations were respectively in vogue." [ ] the adverse decision, in the matter of the ceremonies, did not, i apprehend, touch the question we are now considering, albeit the ceremonies had reference to deceased ancestors. this will be apparent, i think, from consideration of the grounds upon which the question was debated. the jesuits relied upon the sense in which the ceremonies were regarded by the mandarins and literary men whom they consulted, whilst their opponents supported their arguments by reference to the popular notions and the superstitious practices _introduced_ by the bonzes. (_vide_ cretineau joly's "hist. de la com. de jesus," vol. v. chap. i.) mr gladstone (_passim_) victoriously combats the theory of nature-worship as applied to grecian mythology; but it appears to me that his argument and mode of reasoning would apply with tenfold effect to the chaldean mythology, where there is a likelihood at least that we shall view idolatry in its early commencements. i consider that this view is borne out by the following passage from professor rawlinson's "ancient monarchies," i. :-- "in the first place, it must be noticed that the religion was to a certain extent _astral_. the heaven itself, the sun, the moon, and the five planets, have each their representative in the chaldean pantheon among the chief objects of worship. at the same time it is to be observed, that the astral element is not universal, but partial; and that even where it has place, it is but one aspect of the mythology, not by any means its full and complete exposition. the chaldean religion even here is far from being mere sabeanism--the simple worship of the 'host of heaven.' the ether, the sun, the moon, and still more the five planetary gods, are something above and beyond those parts of nature. like the classical apollo and diana, mars and venus, they are real persons, with a life and a history, a power and an influence, which no ingenuity can translate into a metaphorical representation of phenomena attaching to the air and to the heavenly bodies. it is doubtful, indeed, whether this class of gods are really of astronomical origin, and not rather primitive deities, whose characters and attributes were, to a great extent, fixed and settled before the notion arose of connecting them with certain parts of nature. occasionally they seem to represent heroes rather than celestial bodies; and they have all attributes quite distinct from their physical and astronomical character. "secondly, the striking resemblance of the chaldean system to that of the classical mythology, seems worthy of particular attention. this resemblance is too general and too close in some respects to allow of the supposition that mere accident has produced the coincidence." the evidence in the "ancient monarchies" seems to me to decide the point, not only for perhaps the earliest mythology with which we are acquainted, but also for the grecian mythology, which has generally been the ground of dispute. it is curiously in illustration, however, of the common origin of mythology, that the mythology of greece should be equally well traced to assyria and egypt. as evidence of the theory according to the assyrian origin, let us turn, for instance, to professor rawlinson's identification of nergal with mars. it is true he appears as the planet mars under the form of "nerig," and he also figures as the storm-ruler; but can anything well be more human than the rest of his titles? "his name is evidently compounded of the two hamitic roots 'nir' = a man, and 'gula' = great; so that he is 'the great man' or 'the great hero.' his titles are 'the king of battle,' 'the champion of the gods,' 'the strong begetter,' 'the tutelar god of babylonia,' and 'the god of the _chase_.'... we have no evidence that nergal was worshipped in the primitive times. he is just mentioned by some of the early assyrian kings, who regard him as _their ancestor_.... it is conjectured that, like bil-nipru, he represents the _deified hero nimrod_, who may have been worshipped in different parts of chaldea under different titles.... it is probable that nergal's symbol was the man-lion. nir is sometimes used in the inscriptions in the meaning of lion, and the semitic name for _the god himself_ is 'aria,' the ordinary term for the king of beasts both in hebrew and syriac. perhaps we have here the true derivation of the greek name for the god of war 'ares' ([greek: arês]), which has _long puzzled classical scholars_. the lion would symbolise both the hunting and the fighting propensities of the god, for he not only engages in combats, but often chases his prey and runs it down like a hunter. again, if nergal is the man-lion, his association in the buildings with the _man-bull_ would be exactly parallel with the conjunction which _we so constantly find between him and nin in the inscriptions_."[ ]--_rawlinson_, i. - . [ ] "notwithstanding his stature, beauty, hand, and voice, which constitute, taken together, a proud appearance, it seems as if mars had stood lower in the mind of homer than any olympian deity who takes part in the trojan war, except venus only."--_gladstone's "homer,"_ ii. . i must draw attention also to the remarkable absence here of all the monotheistic epithets we shall find attached to ana, enu, and hoa.[ ] [ ] _vide infra_, next chap. ix. let us now turn to the theory which is most in the ascendant, and which professes to see in the old mythological legends only the thoughts and metaphors of a mythic period. this theory, which was mr max müller's in the first instance, being not only exclusively drawn from the conclusions of philology, but also exclusive in itself, cannot be anywhere stronger than its weakest point. if it is shown in the instance of one primary myth, that it was the embodiment of an historical legend, or theological belief, the whole ideal structure of a mythic period must collapse; for the rejection of eclecticism in any form, which would embrace a biblical or euhemeristic interpretation of the myths, is at the foundation of mr max müller's idea, and, indeed, would be incompatible with the theory of a mythic period such as he conceives it. the connection of nimrod with nergal in the assyrian mythology, of nergal with their planet nerig, and of the semitic name of the god "aria" with the greek [greek: arês] and the latin mars, must, i think, form a chain of evidence destined to embarass mr max müller and mr cox: for, apart from the numerous points of contact of the assyrian and egyptian with the greek mythologies, it can hardly be contended that there was a mythic period for the aryan which was not common to the whole human race. it would be natural to suppose, that a mythology which was generated in a mythic period--which was the invention of mankind in a peculiar state of the imagination--would have been developed in its fulness and completeness, like minerva starting from the brain of jupiter, and would have borne the evidence of its origin in the symmetry of its form. mr max müller, on the contrary, seems to yield the whole position, in what, from his point of view, looks like an inadvertent phrase, that "there were myths before there was a mythology." it is not that the view is not true, or that it is inconsistent with his analysis of the myths, but that it is so perfectly consistent with ours! incongruity, such as would come from the confusion of separate myths, would be no difficulty for us; but it is hard to understand how mere fragmentary legends--sometimes attractive, but more frequently repulsive and revolting, having no hold on what is nearest the heart of a people, the traditions of its past--should have been so tenaciously preserved for so long a time under such different conditions in various countries. solar legends, spun out of confused metaphors, seem an inadequate explanation, unless we also suppose idolatry of the sun. in that case, the mythology, in so far as it was solar, would precede the myths; in other words, the myths would be radiations from a central idea. that in the day when mankind prevaricated after this fashion, and committed the act of idolatry in their hearts, everything, from the phenomena of nature to the remote events of their history, would come under the influence of a new set of ideas may be easily conceived. at such a period--and the commencement of these things at least was not impossible in the days when, in the spirit of mistrust or defiance, men drew together to build the city and tower in the plain of sennaar (shinar)--much of what mr cox supposes to have been the common parlance of mankind becomes natural, and a mythic period within these limits conceivable. but such a theory would not necessarily be exclusive of other forms of idolatry--as, for instance, the worship of ancestors--whilst it might clear up obscure points in the evidence which tends to establish the latter. the theory, however, must embrace many shades and gradations--from the hamitic extreme to the protomyths, which in time obscured the monotheism of the aryan of ancient greece, and of the peruvian incas. (p. .) this would seem, unless they ignore all difficulties, a better standpoint for those who think, through the application of the solar legends, "to unlock almost all the secrets of mythologies;" and any theory connected with the sun and sun-worship has this advantage, that it can be extended to everything under the sun! it is sufficiently obvious that no system can be held to have settled these questions, which, if there were myths before there was a mythology, does not appropriate these antecedent myths, or exclude counter explanations; and it is equally clear that there can have been no mythology of which the solar legends were the offspring, if the legends embody thoughts which transcend the mythology; and no mythic period if they testify to facts and ideas incompatible with its existence. allowing for a certain confusion arising out of "polyonomy," this sort of confusion, if there were nothing else, ought not to baffle the ingenuity of experts like mr max müller and mr cox. such complications should be as easily disentangled as the superadded figures in egyptian chronology (_vide_ chapter vi.) when the key has been found. but does mr max müller profess to have brought the various legends into harmony? on the contrary (ii. ), he frankly admits--"much, no doubt, remains to be done, and _even_ with the assistance of the veda, the whole of greek mythology will never be deciphered and translated." i have no wish to push an admission unfairly, but this appears to me fatal as regards the argument with which i am dealing.[ ] if there are myths which never will be deciphered, this must be because they have had some non-astral or non-solar origin, which i consider to be almost equivalent to saying that they must have had some pre-astral origin. what that precise origin was i think i have been able sufficiently to indicate in italicising the subjoined sentences from mr max müller. if these enigmas can be shown to be strictly local and grecian, _cadit quæstio;_ but if they are common to other mythologies, and these the oldest, i must say they have the look of antecedent existence. at any rate, like those inconvenient boulders in the sand and gravel strata, they require the intervention of some glacial period to account for them.[ ] [ ] mr cox ("mythology," p. xiv.) says--"mythology, as we call it now, is simply a collection of the sayings by which men, once upon a time, described whatever they saw or heard in the countries where they lived. this key, which has unlocked almost all the secrets of mythology, was placed in our hands by professor max müller, who has done more than all other writers to bring out the exquisite and touching poetry which underlies those ancient legends. he has shown us that in this, their first shape, these sayings were all perfectly natural, and marvellously beautiful and true. we see the lovely evening twilight die out, &c.... they said that the beautiful eurydice," &c. (_vide infra_, p. ). it would appear, however, from mr cox's more extended work, "the mythology of the aryan nations," that the sayings of mankind in the mythic period did not extend to speculations as to their origin and destiny, or embrace the facts of their history, or the deeds of their ancestors, but that their whole converse was upon the sun and moon, and the phenomena of the outward world. [ ] mr max müller makes the distinction between "primitive or organic legends" (and it is to these i wish to limit the discussion) "and the second, those which were imported in later times from one literature to another.... the former _represents one common ancient stratum of language and thought_ reaching from india to europe; the latter consist of boulders of various strata carried along by natural and artificial means from one country to another" (ii. ). it is clear that mr max müller looks for _harmony_ in his system--"we naturally look back to the scenes on which the curtain of the past has fallen, _for we believe that there ought to be one thought pervading the whole drama of mankind_. and here history steps in, and gives us the thread which connects the present with the past" (p. ). why it was that harmony was not attained seems to be disclosed, if we read the passage in our sense and with a certain transposition of parts, at p. --"there were at athens then, as there have been at all times and in all countries, men who had no sense for the miraculous and supernatural, and who, without having the moral courage to deny altogether what they could not bring themselves to believe, endeavoured to find some plausible explanation _by which the sacred legends_ which _tradition_ had _handed down to them_, and which had been _hallowed_ by _religious observances_, and sanctioned by the authority of the law, might be brought _into harmony with_ the dictates of reason and the _laws_ of _nature_." (compare with _infra_, p. , maine.) i have already hinted that a further consideration appears to me to incapacitate the theory of nature-worship, in any of its disguises, from being taken as the exclusive, or even the primitive form of idolatry, or of perverted tradition; and it is this,--that all the explanations, even the most ingenious, even those which would be accounted "primitive and organic," have their counter explanations, traceable in the corruptions of truth and the perversions of hero-worship. take, for instance, the name zeus, which is in evidence of the primitive monotheism, and which stood in greece, as il or ra in assyria, for the true lord and god, and which has its equivalents in dyaus ("from the sanscrit word which means 'to shine'"); dyaus-pater (zeus-pater), jupiter; tiu (anglo-saxon, whence tuesday); and zia (high german)--_vide_ cox's "mythology." what more natural than to associate the almighty with the heaven where he dwelt? mr max müller ("comparative myth.," "chips," ii. ) says--"thus [greek: zeus], being originally a name of the sky, like the sanscrit dyaus, became gradually a proper name, which betrayed its appellative meaning only in a few proverbial expressions, such as [greek: zeus hyei], or _sub jove frigido_." taking this passage in connection with what is said (p. , of welcker)--"when we ascend with him to the most distant heights of greek history, the idea of god as the supreme being stands before us as a simple fact. next to the adoration of one god, the father of heaven, the father of men, we find in greece a worship of nature." i conclude that mr max müller means, as mr cox means, that the names, zeus or dyaus, was applied to the one true god, whose existence was otherwise and previously known to them.[ ] at starting, therefore, we find that the language borrowed from nature was only called in to give a colouring and expression to a previously known and familiar truth; and here, too, we also see the commencement of incongruity. the simple idea of the heavens might have been harmoniously extended by the imagination; but, complicated with the idea of personality, it gave birth to the awkward and incongruous expression, "[greek: zeús huei], or _sub jove frigido_," a phrase which never could have been originated by the grecian mind, unless the personality of jove had been the idea most prominently before the mind. but if the knowledge of the deity, or even the conception of the personality of zeus was operative in the mythic period, it must have been operative to the extent of embodying what was known or recollected of his dealings in love and anger with mankind, in the legends which they wove, and also of blending them with the confusions which "polyonomy" occasioned. the introduction of this element would seriously embarass mr cox, and would give to mr gladstone's explanation an "_à priori_" probability. [ ] mr max müller, in his essay on "semitic monotheism," when opposing m. renan's view that the monotheism of the semitic race was instinctive, seems to say this still more explicitly--"he thunders and dyaus thunders became synonymous expressions; and by the mere habit of speech he became dyaus and dyaus became he" ("chips," i. ). "at first the names of god, &c., were honest attempts at expressing or representing an idea which could never find adequate expression or representation.... if the greeks had remembered that zeus was but a name or symbol of the deity, there would have been no more harm in calling god by that name than by any other" ( ). it must be remembered that after the name of "zeus," or "dyaus," = sky, had been adopted, they still retained the conception of the divine nature and personality, as is evidenced in the words of the oracle of dodona--"[greek: zeùs ên, zeus éstín, zeus essetai ô megale zeu],--he was, he is, he will be, o great zeus!" also (ii. ) in the orphic lines-- "zeus is the beginning, zeus the middle; out of zeus all things have been made." if we are agreed upon this, then i have no contention with mr max müller; but with max müller as an auxiliary, i direct my argument to the attack of dr dollinger's position ("the gentile and the jew," i. b. ii. p. )--"the beginnings of greek polytheism," viz., "the deification of nature and her powers, or of particular sensible objects, _lay at the root of all the heathen religions_, as they _existed from old time_, amongst the nations now united under the roman empire." according to mr lewes ("hist. of phil.," i. ), it was xenophanes who first confused the sky with the deity--"overarching him was the deep blue infinite vault, immovable and unchangeable, embracing him and all things--_that he proclaimed_ to be god." (contrast the peruvian tradition, _infra_, p. .) st clement of alexandria (strom. v. p. , max müller, chapter i. p. .) says, on the contrary, that xenophanes maintained that there was but "one god, and that he was not like unto men, either in body or mind." take, again, the following passage from mr max müller (p. )--"the idea of a young hero, whether he is called _baldr_, or sigurd, or sigrit, or achilles, or meleager, or kephalos, dying in the fulness of youth--a story so frequently told, localised, and individualised--was first suggested by the sun dying in all his youthful vigour, either at the end of a day, conquered by the powers of darkness, or at the end of the sunny season, stung by the thorn of winter." here is a myth evidently very widely diffused. let it be interpreted by what is told us at p. -- "_baldr_, in the scandinavian edda, the divine prototype of sigurd and sigrit, is beloved by the whole world. gods and men, the whole of nature, all that grows and lives, had sworn to his mother not to hurt the bright hero. the mistletoe alone, that does not grow on the earth, but on trees, had been forgotten, and with it baldr was killed at the winter solstice.... baldr, whom no weapon pierced or clove, but in his breast stood fix'd the fatal bough of mistletoe, which lok, _the accuser, gave to hoder_, and the unwitting hoder threw; 'gainst that alone had baldr's life no charm." "thus infendiyar, in the persian epic, cannot be wounded by any weapon.... _all these are fragments of solar myths_." one hardly likes to disturb such illusions. solar myths! well, allow me at least to repeat the history which seems to me so very like this myth. many centuries ago, in a beautiful garden which a concurrence of tradition places somewhere in central asia, a man, the first man of our race, framed according to the "divine prototype," dwelt beloved by the whole world. god and the angels, and the whole of nature--all that grows and lives, were agreed that nothing should do him harm. one fruit or growth alone--the mistletoe it may have been--something that does not grow on the earth, but on trees, was excepted; and it was told to this man, whose name was--but we will not anticipate--that on the day on which he touched this fruit he should die the death. it so came about that the accuser, whom some call the serpent, had previously handed it to his companion, and his unwitting companion gave it to him. he took it, and he died. against that fatal bough his life had no charm. no weapon pierced or clove him; for baldr--i should say adam--was invulnerable, as was achilles and meleager, except in one single respect. i believe that instances might be indefinitely multiplied. i shall content myself, however, with the following, which i think will be generally considered among the happiest illustrations of nature worship.[ ] [ ] granting the tendency to nature-worship, i conclude that the conspicuous luminaries of the heavens would become primary objects of such worship. in amusing illustration of this i remember a friend of mine telling me that he happened to ask a young lad, the son of one of his tenants, who had just returned from a voyage to the northern seas, how he liked his captain? he said, "oh, he was an _awful_ man--he swore by the _sun, moon_, and _stars_." still less do i deny the tendency to sun-worship. it was, as gibbon tells us (ii. , iii. ), the last superstition constantine abandoned before his conversion, and the first to which julian betook himself after his apostacy. it may, moreover, be urged, that the sun figures in all these legends. i say, on the other hand, so also does the _serpent_. this serpent may be the serpent "of _darkness_," and still be the serpent of _tradition_, but how darkness or night is aptly personified by a serpent i am at a loss to perceive. then again the sun _may_ always be only the symbol of what is bright and heavenly. but when (max müller, ii. ) we see this serpent zohak, called by the persians "by the name of dehak, _i.e., ten evils_, because he introduced "_ten evils into the world_," we cannot help recalling the profane expressions attributed to the devil when he saw the ten commandments--proscribing the _ten_ evils in question. "and as it is with this sad and beautiful tale of orpheus and euridike (euridice). [the story of euridice was this--'euridice was bitten by _a serpent_, she dies, and descends into the lower regions. orpheus follows her, and obtains from the gods that his wife should follow him if he promised not to look back, &c.' it reads to me like a sad reminiscence of adam and eve.] mr max müller proceeds--'so it is with all those which may seem to you coarse, or dull, or ugly. they are so only because the real meaning of the names has been half-forgotten or wholly lost. oedipus and perseus (_vide_ appendix), we are told, killed their parents, but it was only because the sun was said to kill the darkness from which it seemed to spring.'"[ ] [ ] mr max müller may perhaps lay stress upon the circumstance that baldr dies at the winter solstice. but this equally bears out the tradition noticed by lenormant, that immediately after the fall, there came upon the world a great cold. (_vide supra_, ch. vii.) but why is darkness called the parent of the sun, and not rather light the parent of darkness? and why not a contrary legend founded on this surmise? is it merely accidental that the metaphor is not reversed? compare the above speculation of mr max müller's with the following passage from gainet, "hist. de l'ancien. nouv. test.," i.; "les souvenirs du genre humain," p. :-- "chaos was placed at the commencement of all things in the phoenician cosmogony (euseb. præp. evan. l. i.), as in that of hesiod (theog., p. ). the latter calls upon the muses to tell him what were the beings that appeared first in existence, and he replies--'at the commencement of all things was chaos, and from chaos was born erebus and dark night.' "thus, in the order of existence, as in the order of time, there is a concurrence of profane tradition to place night before day. this is the reason why the scandinavians, the gauls, the germans, the kalmucks, the numidians, the egyptians, and athenians, according to varro and macrobius, count their days, commencing with sunset and not with sunrise." curiously enough, in another chapter on a different subject, mr max müller enables me to clinch this argument against himself. in an article on the "norsemen in iceland," he says--in proof of the genuineness of the edda--"there are passages in the edda which sound like verses from the veda." but what are these verses from the ends of the earth which are identical? let us listen-- "'twas the _morning_ of _time_ when yet _naught was_, nor sand nor sea were there, nor cooling streams; earth was not formed, nor _heaven_ above; a yawning gap there was, and grass nowhere."[ ] [ ] from the "elder edda." (quoted from dr dasent's "norsemen in iceland." oxford essays, .) under these conditions, i think it will be conceded that there was also darkness--and therefore, that the tradition of the precedence of chaos and darkness is confirmed. "a hymn," continues mr max müller, "of the veda begins in a very similar way-- "nor aught, nor naught existed; yon _bright sky was not_, nor heaven's broad roof outstretch'd above, what cover'd all? what shelter'd? what conceal'd? was it the waters' fathomless abyss?" &c. mr max müller adds, "there are several mythological expressions common to _the edda_ and _homer_. in the edda, man is said to have been created out of an _ash tree_. in hesiod, zeus created the third race of men out of _ash_ trees, and that this tradition was not unknown to homer we learn from penelope's address to ulysses--"tell me thy family from whence thou art: for thou art not sprung from the olden trees, or from the rocks" (max müller, ii. ). the tradition about the ash tree in hesiod, homer, and the edda,[ ] is curious but inexplicable: the general drift of the tradition may be determined by the recollection of two facts--that man was created, and that a tree was inseparably connected with his history from its earliest commencement. but i have quoted the passage more especially with reference to its confirmation of the extract from gainet, which attests the wide-spread tradition--so exactly in accordance with the cosmogony of scripture--that chaos was at the commencement of all things, and that darkness existed before light.[ ] i conclude by asking why this should be? when we are in the midst of solar and astral systems and legends, it seems natural that a theory of cosmogony should commence with light rather than darkness--at least, as well that it should commence with light as with darkness. but no, the universal tradition seems against it. much more strange is this if we connect the solar and astral legends with any system of sabaism. these considerations make it plain to me that the solar and astral legends embodied anterior traditions. [ ] what is still more remarkable, the same tradition is found in the "popol vul" (mexican traditions), and as it is there given, fits in still more exactly with the solution i have suggested. it is there said that the _first race_ of men were created "_out the earth_," the third out "_of a tree_ called tzité."[b] _if_ the "popol vul" came under christian or european influences in the th century, it would have been more likely to have been brought into harmony with the bible, rather than with either homer, hesiod, or the edda. let us pursue the myth a little further. mr w. k. kelly, "indo-europ. tradition and folklore" (_vide_ max müller, ii. ) says, "this healing virtue, which the mistletoe shares with the _ash_, is a long descended tradition, for the kushtha ... a healing plant, was one that grew beneath the _heavenly asvattha_," which is elsewhere called "the imperishable asvattha or peepul (_ficus religiosus_), out of which the immortals shaped the heaven and the earth," which legend mr kelly further traces in the german yggdrasil (although mr max müller from his own point of view dissents); at the foot of which tree (p. ) "lies the serpent nidhöggr, and gnaws its roots." neither mr max müller nor mr kelly discuss the point with reference to the view suggested above. [b] _tiki_ was the great progenitor among new zealanders.--_shortland_, p. . [ ] gen. i. , "in the beginning god created heaven and earth. . and the earth was void and empty, and _darkness was_ upon the face _of the deep_; and the spirit of god moved over the waters. . and he called the light day and the darkness night; and there was _evening_ and morning one day." in addition to the instances adduced by gainet, it will be remembered that the jewish sabbath was from evening to evening, and with us the astronomical day commences at noon, and the commencement and termination of the civil day at mean midnight. in the _second_ [chinese] dynasty the day commenced at mid-day. wei-wang, the founder of the _third_ dynasty, fixed it at midnight." (bunsen's "egypt," vol. iii. p. .) in the phoenician cosmogony "the beginning of all was a dark and stormy atmosphere," "thick, unfathomable black chaos." (_vide_ bunsen's "egypt," iv. .) the new zealanders have preserved the tradition with still greater distinctness. "in the _beginning of time_ was te po (the night or darkness). in the generations that followed te po came te ao (the light)" &c., &c. (_vide_ shortland's "traditions of the new zealanders," p. .) _vide_ gladstone, "homer," ii. ; cox, "mythology of aryan nations," i. , on the relation of phoibos to leto. "this is precisely the relation in which the _mythical night_ stood to the day which was to be born of _her_." _vide_ on this point wilkinson's "ancient egyptians" (i. chap. xiii.) "the mygale," says champollion, "received divine honours by the egyptians, because it is blind, and _darkness is more ancient than light_." the arabs have the expression "_night and day_" (_vide_ wilkinson). aristotle says "the theologians consider all things to have been born of night." the orphean fragments call "night the genesis of all things.... the anglo-saxons also, like the eastern nations, began their computations of time from night, and the years from that day corresponding with our christmas, which they called "mother night," and the otaheitans refer the existence of their principal deities to a state of darkness, which they consider the origin of all things." (_vide_ gen. i. , ; _id._ p. - .) i think mr max müller will at least recognise them as spots on the disk of his solar theory, and which must ever remain obscure to those who refuse the light of scripture and tradition. appendix to chapter viii. "oedipus, perseus." here again, the explanation of mr max müller, "si non vrai est vraisemblable," and yet i cannot help seeing that the legends of perseus and [oe]dipus may just as well be supposed to embody primitive tradition. let us read the histories of oedipus and perseus in the light of the tradition concerning lamech (gen. iv. , ). "and lamech said to his wives, adah and zillah ... i have slain a man to the wounding of myself, and a stripling to my own bruising. sevenfold vengeance shall be taken for cain, but for lamech seventy times sevenfold." the note to the douay edition says--"it is the tradition of the hebrews that lamech, in hunting, slew cain, mistaking him for a wild beast, and that having discovered what he had done, he beat so unmercifully the youth by whom he was led into that mistake that he died of the blows." oedipus was the son of laius, who had supplanted his brother. oedipus was exposed to destruction as soon as born, because his father had been warned that he must perish by the hand of his son,--but was rescued and brought up by shepherds. hearing from the oracle of delphi (the tradition is of course localised), that if he returned home he must necessarily be the murderer of his father, he avoided the house of polybus, the only home he knew of, and travelled towards phocis (from west to east by the by). (comp. with _infra_, p. .) he met laius, his father, in a narrow road. laius haughtily ordered oedipus to make way for him, which provoked an encounter, in which laius and his armour-bearer were slain. other circumstances, either separate traditions of the same event, or distinct legends, are no doubt mixed up in the narration, but still four facts remain as a residuum available for the comparison. oedipus was the son, as lamech was the grandson, of one who supplanted his brother, both kill their respective progenitors, and in the _casual_ encounter in which in both instances the tragedy occurred, _two_ persons were slain. in this there is a fair outline of resemblance. in the legend of perseus, certainly the legend is more indistinct, et, in one point, that he inadvertently killed his _grandfather_, the coincidence is perfect. and it must be borne in mind that it is not a question of absolute but of comparative resemblance--in fact, a choice between a mythical or an historical, an astral or a scriptural solution, and when you come to degrees of relationship, the astral or solar explanation becomes more attenuated at each remove,--"the father of the sun" may be metaphorically intelligible, but the grandfather of the sun! i see further trace of the tradition of lamech in the phrygian legend of adrastus, somewhat confused in the tradition of cain, and in some points reversed. adrastus, the son of the phrygian king, had _inadvertently killed_ his brother, and was in consequence expelled by his father and deprived of everything. whilst an exile at the court of croesus, he was sent out with prince atys as guardian to deliver the country from a wild boar. adrastus had the misfortune to kill prince atys while aiming at the wild beast. croesus pardoned the unfortunate man, as he saw in this accident the will of the gods, and _the fulfilment of a prophecy_, but adrastus killed himself on the tomb of atys (herod. i. ; smith, "myth. dict.") now let us take up the proof at another point. will any one refuse to see in the following tale from the "gesta romanorum,"[ ] at least a mediæval corruption of the legend of oedipus:--"a certain soldier, called julian, unwittingly killed his parents. for being of noble blood, and addicted as a youth frequently is to the sports of the field, a stag which he hotly pursued suddenly turned round and addressed him--'thou who pursuest me thus fiercely shall be the destruction of thy parents.' these words greatly alarmed julian.... leaving, therefore, his amusement, he went privately into a distant country ... where he marries. it chances that his parents come into that country, and in his absence were received kindly by his wife, who, 'in consideration of the love she bore her husband, put them into her own bed, and commanded another to be prepared elsewhere for herself.' in the meantime, julian returning abruptly home and discovering strangers in his bed, in a fit of passion slays them. when he discovers the parricidal crime he exclaims--'this accursed hand has murdered my parents and fulfilled the horrible prediction which i have struggled to avoid.'" [ ] "gesta romanorum," tale xviii. swan. rivingtons . now, i submit that this is not a greater distortion of the classical stories of oedipus, adrastus, &c., than are the classical legends of the biblical traditions of cain and lamech. for further trace read bunsen, iv. , also, , . mr cox ("mythology of aryan nations") says:--"_the names theseus_, _perseus_, _oidipous, had all been mere epithets_ of one and the same being; but when they ceased to be mere appellatives, these creations of mythical speech were regarded not only as different persons, but as beings in no way connected with each other.... nay, the legends inter-change the method by which the parents seek the death of their children; for there were tales which narrated that oidipous was shut up in an ark which was washed ashore at sikyon," p. . sicyon was the oldest greek city. compare p. of this ch., and ch. on deluge. this was merely the traditional record that the tradition was preserved in the ark, and subsequently emanated from sicyon. ii. prometheus and hercules or herakles. i have elsewhere (p. ) alluded to the confusion of prometheus, as the creator of man, with prometheus, the first man created. but the most curious instance of reduplication is the further confusion of what i may call the human prometheus, with his deliverer hercules,--hercules and prometheus both in different ways embodying traditions of adam! prometheus is the adam[ ] of paradise and the fall, hercules is adam the outcast from paradise, with his skin and club sent forth on his long labours and marches through the world. but how can hercules, who frees prometheus from the rock, be the same as prometheus who is bound to the rock? if, however, we are entitled to hope that adam in the labour of his long exile worked off the sentence and expiated the guilt on account of which adam, the culprit, was sentenced, may we not accept this as an adequate explanation? is it a forced figure that he should be said to unbind him from the rock, to drive off the vulture which preys upon him, and thus finally liberate him? [ ] on this point, that prometheus is adam, _vide_ m. nicolas' "etudes philos. sur le christ.," . ii. ch. v. ( th edit.) this disjunction of adam and separate personification in the two periods of his life, _before_ and _after_ the fall, will accord well enough with the addition in some legends of a brother epimetheus, and i submit that this explanation is as good as that (_vide_ smith's "myth. dict.") which regards the legend as purely allegorical, and _pro_metheus and _epi_metheus as signifying "forethought" and "afterthought." the travels of hercules, it must be confessed, as traditionally recorded, are somewhat eccentric. but are they explicable on any solar theory? he begins by travelling from _west_ to east; he then proceeds _south_, and although he traverses africa westward, he diverges abruptly to the _north_, from which he proceeds south, and ends as he began by travelling from _west_ to east. all this, however, is perfectly explicable if we are prepared to admit bryant's ("mythology," ii. ) historical surmises, and to go along with him so far as to believe that the tradition was mainly preserved through cuthite or _chus_ite channels. we can, then, see a probability in the conjecture that the descendants of chus, in preserving the tradition of the travels of hercules (herakles), superadded or substituted the scenes and incidents of their own wanderings, after they had settled down in the place of their final location. chapter ix. _assyrian mythology._ "but surely there is nothing improbable in the supposition, that in the poems of homer such vestiges may be found. every recorded form of society bears some traces of those by which it has been preceded, and in that highly primitive form, which homer has been the instrument of embalming for all posterity, the law of general reason obliges us to search for elements and vestiges more primitive still.... the general proposition that we may expect to find the relics of scriptural traditions in the heroic age of greece, though it leads, if proved, to important practical results, is independent even of a belief in those traditions, as they stand in the scheme of revealed truth. they must be admitted to have been facts on earth, even by those who would deny them to have been facts of heavenly origin, in the shape in which christendom receives them; and the question immediately before us is one of pure historical probability. the descent of mankind from a single pair, the lapse of that pair from original righteousness, are apart from and ulterior to it. we have traced the greek nation to a source, and along a path of migration which must in all likelihood have placed its ancestry, at some point or points, in close local relations with the scenes of the earliest mosaic records: the retentiveness of that people equalled its receptiveness, and its close and fond association with the past, made it prone indeed to incorporate novel matter into its religion, but prone also to keep it there after its incorporation. "if such traditions existed, and if the laws which guide historical inquiry require or lead us to suppose that the forefathers of the greeks must have lived within their circle, then the burden of proof must lie not so properly with those who assert that the traces of them are to be found in the earliest, that is, the homeric form of the greek mythology, as with those who deny it. what became of those old traditions? they must have decayed and disappeared, not by a sudden process, but by a gradual accumulation of the corrupt accretions, in which at length they were so completely interred as to be invisible and inaccessible. some period, therefore, there must have been at which they would remain clearly perceptible, though in conjunction with much corrupt matter. such a period might be made the subject of record, and if such there were, we might naturally expect to find it in the oldest known work of the ancient literature. "if the poems of homer do, however, contain a picture, even though a defaced picture, of the primeval religious traditions, it is obvious that they afford a most valuable collateral support to the credit of the holy scripture, considered as a document of history. still we must not allow the desire of gaining this advantage to bias the mind in an inquiry, which can only be of value if it is conducted according to the strictest rules of rational criticism."--_gladstone on tradition in "homer and the homeric age_," vol. ii. sect. i. having laid, as i think, in what has been premised in the last chapter, grounds for a presumption that primitive traditions may be shrouded in the ancient mythology, i proceed to seek traditions of the patriarch noah among the inscriptions and monuments of the chaldæans; for then we shall find ourselves in a period when the results of modern archæological science are in contact with the events and incidents of primitive patriarchal life recorded in scripture; and, in seeking them where we shall best find them, in the able and discriminating pages of rawlinson, we shall at least feel that we are treading on safe and solid ground. the deities in the chaldæan pantheon are thus enumerated by professor rawlinson-- "the grouping of the principal chaldæan deities is as follows:--at the head of the pantheon stands a god il or ra, of whom little is known. next to him is a triad, ana, bil or belus, and hea or hoa, who correspond closely to the classical pluto, jupiter, and neptune. each of these is accompanied by a female principle or wife.... then follows a further triad, consisting of sin or hurki the moon-god, san or sanci the sun, and vul (or yem, or ao, or in, or ina, according to various readings of the hieroglyphics) the god of the atmosphere (again accompanied by female powers or wives).... next in order to them we find a group of five minor deities, the representatives of the five planets, nin or ninip (saturn), merodach (jupiter), nergal (mars), ishtar (venus), and nebo (mercury). [the bracket indications are rawlinson's.]... these principal deities do not appear to have been connected like the egyptian and classical divinities into a single genealogical scheme" (i. ). in a note at p. it is said, "these schemes themselves were probably not genealogical at first ... but after a while given to separate and independent deities, recognised in different places by distinct communities, or even by distinct races" (_vide_ bunsen's "egypt," iv. ; english tran.) now to this opinion i venture unreservedly to adhere, and i connect it with the statement (_id._ i. ), that "chaldæa in the earliest times to which we can go back, seems to have been inhabited by four principal tribes. the early kings are continually represented in the monuments as sovereigns over the kiprat-arbat, or 'four races' (_vide supra_, p. ). these 'four races' are sometimes called the arba lisun or 'four tongues,' whence we may conclude that they were distinguished from one another, among other differences, by a variety in their forms of speech ... an examination of the written remains has furnished reasons for believing that the differences were great and marked; the languages, in fact, belonging to the four great varieties of human speech, the hamitic, semitic, aryan, and turanian." compare pp. , . if it is allowed that there may have been mythological systems corresponding to these divers nationalities, we may fairly conclude that the deities above enumerated may not necessarily have been different deities, but the same deities viewed in different lights, or included in duplicate in the way of incorporation, or in recognition of subordinate nationalities. if, therefore, i find the representation of noah in any one of these deities, is there not a _prima facie_ probability that i shall find the reduplication of him in others? i consider, at least, that i shall have warrant for thus collecting the scattered traditions concerning the patriarch who stands at the head of the second propagation of our race. but first as to the god il or ra-- il or ra. the form _ra_ represents, probably, the native chaldæan name of this deity, while _il_ is the semitic equivalent. _il_, of course, is but a variant of _el_, the root of the well-known biblical _elohim_, as well as of the arabic allah. it is this name which diodorus represents under the form of _elus_, and sanchoniathon, or rather philo biblius, under that of elus, or _ilus_. the meaning of the word is simply "god," or perhaps "the god" emphatically. _ra_, the cushite equivalent, must be considered to have had the same force originally, though in egypt it received a special application to the sun, and became the proper name of that particular deity. the word is lost in the modern ethiopic. it formed an element in the native name of babylon, which was _ka-ra_, the cushite equivalent of the semitic _bab-il_, an expression signifying "the gate of god." ra is a god with few peculiar attributes. he is a sort of fount and origin of deity, too remote from man to be much worshipped, or to excite any warm interest. there is no evidence of his having had any temple in chaldæa during the early times. a belief in his existence is implied rather than expressed in inscriptions of the primitive kings, where the moon-god is said to be "brother's son of ana, and eldest son of bil or belus." we gather from this, that bel and ana were considered to have a common father, and later documents sufficiently indicate that that common father was il or ra."--_rawlinson_, i. p. . if in the il or ra of the chaldæans the primitive monotheism is not revealed, i do not see how it can be discerned in the zeus of the greeks. we have the same god in the same relation in the scandinavian, or at any rate in the lapland mythology. leems ("account of danish lapland," pinkerton, i. ) says--"of the gods inhabiting the starry mansions the _greatest is radien_, yet it is uncertain whether he is over every part of the sidereal sky, or whether he governs only some part of it. be this as it may, i shall be bold to affirm that the laplanders never comprehended, under the name of this false god, the true god; _which is obvious from this_, that some have not scrupled to put the image or likeness of the true god by the side of their radien, on runic boxes."[ ] if, however, of their gods "the greatest was radien," they would not have placed the true god by his side until they had become acquainted with the true god, or until they had come to commingle christianity and paganism; but then would they not have placed "ra" by the side of the true god as his counterpart? i am assuming that "radien" means simply the god ra, as i suppose mr max müller would recognise "dien" as cognate to "dyaus" ... "dieu." [ ] in like manner, the peruvians recognised "pachacamac" (_vide infra_, p. ), in the description which the spaniards gave of the true god; and in so far as they had retained the monotheistic belief, this was true. garcilasso de la vega, a most competent witness who testifies to this, adds--"if any one shall now ask me, who am a catholic christian indian, by the infinite mercy, what name was given to god in my language, i should say pachacamac."--hakluyt society, ed. of garcil. de la vega, i. . yet it has been opposed, _in limine_, to m. l'abbe gainet's valuable chapter on the "monotheisme des peuples primitifs," "that he does not meet the specific assertions of historians such as rawlinson, who finds idolatry prevalent among the chaldæans on their first appearance on the stage of history." i must submit, however, that although the discovery of idolatry at this early period may appear to disturb the particular theory, yet on closer examination it will be found to sustain l'abbe gainet's argument, on the whole, by sustaining the truth of tradition upon which his main argument reposes; for the idolatry which we find is intimately bound up with the worship of belus, identified with nimrod, whose rebellion against the lord has always been in tradition, and is according to the more accepted interpretation of the sacred text. the discovery of idolatry, therefore, under the particular circumstances, is exactly what we should expect, and affords a remarkable confirmation of the fidelity of tradition. moreover, there are chaldæans and chaldæans, as we have just seen in rawlinson (_sup._ p. ), and as will be made more evident in the following passage from gainet's "monotheisme," &c. "it is sufficiently agreed, says lebatteux (mem. acad. t. xxvii. p. ), that the babylonians recognised a supreme being, the father and lord of all (diod. sic. l. ii.) st justin cohortat. ad gent. eusebi. prep. evan., l. iii. porphyry (life of pythagoras) cites an oracle of zoroaster, in which the chaldæans are coupled in encomium with the hebrews for the sanctity of the worship which they paid to the eternal king. these are the words of the oracles--the chaldeans alone with the hebrews have wisdom for their share, rendering a pure worship to god, who is the eternal king."--_gainet_, iii. . the pure monotheism here alluded to may have been preserved in chaldæan families of semitic origin, but the extract i have just given from rawlinson seems to prove that the knowledge was preserved also, dimly and obscurely, among the predominant chaldæans of hamitic descent. this will be more apparent from the monotheistic epithets attached to the three next deities. ana. "ana is the head of the first triad which follows immediately after the obscure god ra." "ana, like il and ra, is thought to have been a word originally signifying god in the highest sense." "he corresponds in many respects to the classical hades, who, like him, heads[ ] the triad to which he belongs." in so far he is undistinguishable from il or ra, and may only transmit the monotheistic tradition through a different channel. but ana has human epithets applied to him very suggestive of hero-worship. "his epithets are chiefly such as mark priority and antiquity." "he is the old ana," "the original chief," "the father of the gods" [_inter alia_, of bil nipru, _i.e._ nimrod]. he is also called--which imports another association of ideas--"the lord of spirits and demons," "the king of the lower world,"[ ] "the lord of darkness or death," "the ruler of the far-off city." [ ] "this is not a mere arbitrary supposition, for it is expressly said in holy writ, that the first man, ordained to be 'the father of the whole earth' (as he is then called), became, on his reconciliation with his maker, the wisest of all men, and, according to tradition, the greatest of prophets, who in his far-reaching ken, _foresaw the destinies of all mankind_ in all successive ages down to the end of the world. all this must be taken in a strict historical sense, for the moral interpretation we abandon to others. the pre-eminence of the sethites chosen by god, and entirely devoted to his service, must be received as an undoubted historical fact, to which we find many pointed allusions even in the traditions of the other asiatic nations. nay, the hostility between the sethites and cainites, and the mutual relations of these two races, form the chief clue to the history of the primitive world, and even of many particular nations of antiquity."--_fred. von schlegel's "philosophy of hist.," robertson's trans._, p. . [ ] compare these epithets, and what was said above, of resemblance "to classical hades," with the following verses from the "oracula sybillina," lib. i. -- "orcus eos cepit græco qui nomine dictus est _ades_, quod primus eo descenderit _adam_, expertus mortis legem," &c. setting aside such titles as belong exclusively to the deity, but assuming hero-worship--supposing man deified--who more appropriately placed in these primitive times at the head of the list, than their original progenitor adam.[ ] to whom would these titles, "the old ana,"[ ] "the original chief," "the lord of darkness and death," he who introduced death into the world, more exactly apply? rawlinson also says--"his position is well marked by damascius, who gives the three gods anus, illinus, and aüs, as _next in succession to the primeval pair_, assorus and missara," i. . now, it will not be contested, i think, that assorus is the same as alorus, the first of the ten antediluvian (deluge of xisuthrus) assyrian kings enumerated by berosus, and which correspond to the ten antediluvian patriarchs. consequently assorus = alorus = adam.[ ] [ ] osiris also is "the judge of the soul, or the god of the world of spirits." "osiris is never represented in an animal form, but is called the bull" (_infra_ pp. , ), _vide_ bunsen's "egypt," iv. . bunsen's own view is, that "the history of osiris is the history of the cycle of the year, of the sun dying away and resuscitating himself again." mr palmer ("egyptian chronicles," i. p. ) says--(and i think it as well that i should state that i had come to an almost identical conclusion, and had written this and the following chapter before i became acquainted with mr palmer's profound and yet still neglected work, _vide_ ch. vi.)--"the first human ('osiris = adam and isis = eve') having been thrown back into pairs of anthropomorphous deities (p. ), the original osiris and isis, formed by the divine potter as parents of all, disappear in name, and are represented by seb and nutpe, while osiris, typhon, and horus, the progeny of seb and nutpe, answers rather to cain, abel, and seth, in the old world, and to the three sons of noah in the new.... from osiris-seb (whether he be viewed as adam or noah) are derived downwards all the successive generations of egyptian, gods and demigods, patriarchs, kings, and other men" [and for a parallel exposition of the phoenician myth, _vide_ palmer, p. and seq., "each dynast in turn, in the early generations, being identifiable at once with seb and osiris, as father of those following, with osiris again by sharing the same mortality, and with horus as renewing his father's life and being the hope of the coming world. _so each ancestor in turn went_, it was said, _to the original osiris as patriarch of the dead_, and to his intermediate osirified fathers, and was himself osirified like them, all making one collective osiris." [i have not space to discuss the question at what stage the mythology became pantheistic.] "waiting for that reunion and restoration which was to come through successive generations by the great expected horus, who was to take up into himself the old, and to be himself the new osiris." [ ] in a note to cardinal wiseman's "science and revealed religion" on conformity between semitic and indo-europ. grammatical forms, it will be seen that _ana_ in chaldaic is the pronoun of the first person singular, and corresponds with the revealed appellation of the deity, "i am who am" (exod. iii. ) = the [greek: tò egô]. [ ] max müller, chips i. , refers to dr windischmann's ("zoroastrian studies") discovery that there are ten generations between adam and noah, as there are ten generations in the zendavesta between yima (adam) and thrâstouna (noah), and without controverting the point. mr palmer ("egypt. chron.," i. ) says--"and though the fancy of making the ten kings to begin only after years, and to be not all named from the same city, seems to distinguish them from adam and the nine patriarchs his descendants, still xisuthrus, the tenth, being clearly identified with noah, by the flood and the ark, the very number ten, and the relation of the succession in which they stand one to the other, show that alorus, the first of them, is no other than adam." here, then, we have a reduplication, or else what i have above referred to, the tendency to place the head of the dynasty at the top of the list superior to gods and men. in any case, granting this juxtaposition, would there not have been the proximate risk and probability of the two running into one another and becoming confounded, on the supposition that ana and alorus were not originally identical? this will become more evident when we have considered the next in the triad-- bil or enu. but the evidence, though it will more clearly establish the fact of hero-worship, will perhaps raise a doubt whether we have rightly regarded adam as the object of hero-worship in ana, a point which we will then consider. rawlinson says of this god--"he is the illinus (il-enu) of damascius." "his name, which seems to mean merely lord" (again the primitive monotheistic appellation) "is usually followed by a qualificative adjunct possessing great interest. it is proposed to read this term as nipru, or in the feminine niprut, a word which cannot fail to recall the scriptural nimrod, who is in the septuagint nebroth. the term _nipru_ seems to be formed from the root _napar_, which is the syriac "to pursue," to "make to flee," and which has in assyrian nearly the same meaning. thus bil nipru would be aptly translated as "the hunter lord" or the "god presiding over the chase," while at the same time it might combine the meaning of the "conquering lord" or "the great conqueror." here, at any rate, it must be admitted that "we have, in this instance, an admixture of hero-worship in the chaldæan religion" (rawlinson, i. ). but if in one instance what _à priori_ reason is there that it should not be so in others? let us, then, examine further. the name of this deity, as bel nipru or nimrod, has, i consider, been completely traced in the pages of rawlinson (to which i must refer my readers). but what are we to say about the alternative name of enu? and why, although no great stress can be laid upon the location of a deity in a genealogy or a system, yet why is nimrod thus placed intermediate between adam and the third of the triad hoa, whom, on grounds quite irrespective of the similarity of name, i identify with noah?[ ] [ ] gainet (i. ) quotes as follows from "ceremonies relig." i. vii.: "the mandans pretend that the deluge was caused by the white men to destroy their ancestors. the whites caused the waters to rise to such a height that the world was submerged. then _the first man, whom they regard as one of their divinities, inspired mankind with the idea of constructing, upon an eminence, a tower and fortress of wood_, and _promised them that the water should not rise beyond this point_." here seems a very analogous confused tradition of adam and nimrod, the deluge and the tower of babel. comp. with the distinct testimony to the mandan tradition, _infra_, ch. xi. if ana is adam, and hoa noah, why should not enu, in another point of view, be enoch? there is, i admit, an absence of direct evidence, but i think i discover a link of connection in a note in rawlinson (i. p. ). "arab writers record a number of remarkable traditions, in which he (nimrod) plays a conspicuous part." "yacut declares that nimrod attempted to mount to heaven on the wings of an eagle, and makes niffers (calneh) the scene of this occurrence (lex. geograph. in voc. niffer). it is supposed that we have here an allusion to the building of the tower of babel." but i cannot help regarding it as much more certainly like an allusion to enoch's disappearance from the earth. at p. , prof. rawlinson notices the confusion of xisuthrus with enoch, which proves that the tradition of enoch was amongst them, and would have been common also to the hamitic arabs.[ ] [ ] i find that the egyptians had the same confused tradition respecting menes, who stood to them in the same relation as nimrod to the assyrians (_vide_ bunsen's egypt, ii. p. ). "the statement in manetho's lists that menes was torn to pieces by a hippopotamus, is probably an exaggeration of an early legend, that he was carried away by a hippopotamus, one of the symbols of the god of the lower world. the great ruler was snatched away from the earth, to distinguish him from other mortals, just as romulus was." i will now return to my doubt as to ana. for although i feel tolerably certain that ana in his human attributes represents one or other of the antediluvian patriarchs, it may well be that he is only a reduplication of enu = enoch. if we are to seek in the translation of enoch the clue to the origin of the deification of man, and its commencement in the person of nimrod (_vide supra_, p. ), it is likely, in the legend of the apotheosis of nimrod, that all the analogies should have been sought for in the striking historical event which was in tradition. there is, moreover, the analogy of name with annacus, hannachus = enoch.[ ] if he is enoch, he naturally also falls into his place as second to assorus. [ ] "etienne de byzance dit qu'à 'icone' ('de urbibus' voce 'iconium') ville de lycaonie près du mont taurus dans les régions occupées par les habitants antediluviens regnait annacus dont la vie alla au-déla de trois cents ans. tous les habitants d'alentour demandèrent à un oracle jusqu'à quelle époque se prolongerait sa vie. l'oracle répondit que ce patriarche étant mort, tout le monde devait s'attendre à périr. les phrygiens à cette ménace jetèrent les hauts cris, d'où est venu le proverbe: 'pleurer sous annacus, ce que l'on dit de ceux qui se livrent à des grands gémissements. or le déluge étant survénu tous périrent.... dans ces récits tout est conformé à la bible. annacus a vécu trois cents ans avant le déluge. il a averti ses concitoyens: il est entouré du même respect que le patriarche noë lui-même. annacus parait venir d'enoch; tout announce une identité de personnages." (gainet, hist. de l'anc. et nouv. test. i. , .) the connection between the death of enoch and the destruction of mankind may accord as well with the traditional belief in his reappearance at the end of the world. compare the grecian tradition of inachus, son of oceanus (_vide_ bryant, ii. ), and with it, hor., od. , lib. ii.: "divesne, prisco et natus ab inacho, nil interest, an pauper, et infimâ de gente," &c. i retain, however, my original opinion, that ana is adam (though possibly with some confusion with enoch), in addition to the arguments already urged, upon the following grounds:-- rawlinson mentions (i. ) "telane," or the "_mound_ of ana," distinct from kalneh or "kalana." we know that there has been a constant tradition that the bones of adam were preserved in the ark, and this name of the "mound of ana" may be connected with it. if so, it will also account for ana (dis = orcus) being the patron deity of erech, "the great city of the dead, the necropolis of lower babylonia" (rawlinson i. ). the son of ana is vul. if vul could be identified with vulcan, and vulcan with tubalcain, it would go far to decide the point that ana was adam. but in the matter of etymology, i do not know that we can advance beyond the quaint phrase of old sir walter raleigh in his "history of the world," that "there is a certain likelihood of name between tubalcain and vulcan." i rely more upon the wide-spread tradition of tubalcain in the legends of dædalus, vulcan, weland, galant, wielant, wayland smith, which approaches very nearly an identification. _vide_ wilson's "archæologia of scotland," p. . compare the phoenician tradition, bunsen's "egypt," iv. , . it is to be noted, however, that although ana (_vide_ rawlinson) "like adam had several sons, he had only two of any celebrity" (we can suppose that abel had died out of the cainite tradition), "vul and another whose name represents 'darkness' or '_the west_,'" which might well be the view of seth from a cainite point of view (and it is traditional that the cainite lore was preserved by cham in the ark). now it is remarkable that the scripture (gen. iv.) expressly says that cain dwelt on the _east_ side of eden. i now come to hea or hoa. "the third god of the first triad was hea or hoa, the ana of damascius. this appellation is perhaps best rendered into greek by the [greek: Ôê] of helladius, the name given to the mystic animal, half man half fish, which came up from the persian gulf to teach astronomy and letters to the first settlers on the euphrates and tigris. it is perhaps contained in the word by which berosus designates this same creature--oannes ([greek: Ôánnês]), which may be explained as hoa-ana, or the god hoa. there are no means of strictly determining the precise meaning of the word in babylonian, but it is perhaps allowable to connect it provisionally with the arabic hiya, which is at once life and 'a serpent,' since, according to the best authority, 'there are very strong grounds for connecting hea or hoa with the serpent of scripture, and the paradisaical traditions of the tree of knowledge and the tree of life.' "hoa occupies in the first triad the position which in the classical mythology is filled by poseidon or neptune, and in some respects he corresponds to him. he is 'the lord of the earth,' just as neptune is [greek: gaiêochos]; he is the 'king of rivers,' and he comes from the sea to teach the babylonians, but he is never called the 'lord of the sea.' that title belongs to nin or ninip. hoa is the lord of the abyss or of 'the great deep,' which does not seem to be the sea, but something distinct from it. his most important titles are those which invest him with the character so prominently brought out in oë and oannes, of the god of science and knowledge. he is 'the intelligent guide,' or, according to another interpretation, 'the intelligent fish,' 'the teacher of mankind,' 'the lord of understanding.' one of his emblems is the 'wedge' or 'arrow-head,' the essential element of cuneiform writing, which seems to be assigned to him as the inventor, or at least the patron, of the chaldæan alphabet. another is the serpent, which occupies so conspicuous a place among the symbols of the gods on the black stones recording benefactions, and which sometimes appears upon the cylinders. this symbol here, as elsewhere, is emblematic of superhuman knowledge--a record of the primeval belief that 'the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field.' the stellar name of hoa was kimmut.... the monuments do not contain much evidence of the early worship of hoa. his name appears on a very ancient stone tablet brought from mugheir (ur), but otherwise his claim to be accounted one of the primeval gods must rest on the testimony of berosus and helladius, who represent him as known to the first settlers.... as kimmut, hoa was also the father of nebo, whose functions bear a general resemblance to his own."--_rawlinson's ancient monarchies_, i. .[ ] [ ] _vide_ his other epithets, _infra_, p. ; also rawlinson (herod. i. p. ), says that "upon one of the tablets in the british museum there is a list of thirty-six synonyms indicating this god (hoa). the greater part of them relate either to "the abyss" or to "knowledge." compare this with the following verses from the "oracula sybillina," i. ver. -- "collige, noë, tuas vires ... ... si scieris me divinæ te nulla rei secreta latebunt." now, without entering into the question of the authenticity of the sybilline verses, i may at least quote them in evidence of the current tradition concerning noah in the second century of the christian era, supposing them to have been forged at that period. i have said that i shall not rely too much on the resemblance of name, hoa; but i must draw attention to the curious resemblance which lurks in the name "aüs" to the words upon which the vicomte d'anselme has founded an argument in the appended note.[ ] [ ] "comment le nom du premier navigateur connu, tel qu'il se prononça en hébreu et qu'il nous est transmis par la génese, 'noh, naus, noach,' serait-il devenu le nom d'une arche flottante, d'un navire, en sanscrit et en vingt autres langues? _nau_, sanscrit; _naw_, armenien; _naus_, grec; (_navis_, latin); _noi_, hibernien; _neau_, bas breton; _nef_, nav. franc; _noobh_, irlandais; _naone_, vanikoro; _nacho_, allemand vieux; _naw_, timor; _nachen_, allemand; _s'nechia_, islandais; _s'naeca_ ou _naca_, anglo-sax.; _s'nace_, ancien anglais; _sin-nau_, cambodge, &c. "enfin nous demandons comment le nom hébreu de l'arche de noë. tobe, prononcé comme on écrivait généralement en orient, en sens inverse, donne le nom d'un vaisseau dans vingt langues qui sont des dialectes du sanscrit? l'écriture boustrophedone, qui fait les lignes alternativement à droite et gauche sans interruption a pu donner naissance à cette manière de lire:--_boat_, anglais; _boite_, français; _bat_, anglo-saxon; _boot_, hollandais; _bat_, suedois, _baat_, danois; _batr_, islandais; _bad_, breton; _bote_, espagnol; _boar_, persan; _batillo_, italien; _pota_, sanscrit." _vide_ other similar proofs from vicomte d'anselme's "monde païen," &c. in gainet, i. , a curious additional instance of the same word having connections with "boat" and arc (_tobe_) might be discovered in kibotos, the name of a mountain in phrygia, where the ark is said to have rested (gainet, i. ). also we have almost the same words--ark and arc--to express (though according to a different etymology) these dissimilar objects. "the words oar and rudder can be traced back to sanskrit, and the name of the ship is identically the same in sanscrit (naus, nâvas), in latin (navis), in greek (naus), and in teutonic, old high germ. (nachs), anglo-saxon (naca)."--max müller, "comp. mythol.," p. . i may draw attention, as having reference to other branches of this inquiry, to a possible affinity with the name of the patriarch, in the term _noaaids_, applied by the laplanders to their magicians (pinkerton, i. , &c.); and to the term koader_nicks_, applied by the samoids to the same (_id._ ). i own there might be danger in pushing the inquiry further, as i might even bring the patriarch noah into contact and connection with old nick! i may also refer to the term "janna" (janus), as applied to the officer "who had the office of entertaining ambassadors" at the court of kenghis khan (_id._ v. , p. ; rubruquis's embassy, a.d. , also ). in the above extract from rawlinson, although hoa is said not to be "the true fish-god," yet he is called "the intelligent fish," and is associated with that mystic animal, half man half fish, which came up from the persian gulf to teach astronomy and letters to the first settlers on euphrates and tigris. let us compare this information with the following "history of the fish," which the abbé gainet, i. , has translated from the mahâbhârata. the same history has been translated from the bhagavad pourana by sir w. jones ("asiatic researches"). indeed, as the abbé gainet argues, as this same history is found in all the religious poems of india, there is a certain security that it would not have been taken from the hebrews. i shall merely attempt to give the drift of the legend from the abbé gainet's original translation of that portion of the matysia pourana which has reference to noah:-- "the son of vaivaswata (the sun) was a king, and a great sage, a prince of men, resembling pradjapati in _eclat_. in his strength, splendour, prosperity, and above all, his penitence, manou surpassed his father and his grandfather.[ ]... one day a small fish approached him, and begged him to remove him from the water where he was, 'because the great fish always eat the little fish--it is our eternal condition.' manou complies, and the fish promises eternal gratitude. after several such migrations, through the intervention of manou, the fish at each removal increasing in bulk, he is at length launched in the ocean. the fish then holds this discourse with manou:--'soon, oh blessed manou, everything that is by nature fixed and stationary in the terrestrial world, will undergo a general immersion and a complete dissolution. this temporary immersion of the world is near at hand, and therefore it is that i announce to you to-day what you ought to do for your safety.' he instructs him to build a strong and solid ship, and to enter it with the _seven_ richis or sages.[ ] he instructs him also to take with him all sorts of seeds, according to certain brahminical indications. 'and when you are in the vessel you will perceive me coming towards you, oh well-beloved of the saints, i will approach you with a _horn_ on my head, by which you will recognise me.' manou did all that was prescribed to him by the fish, and the earth was submerged accordingly, as he had predicted. 'neither the earth, nor the sky, nor the intermediate space, was visible; all was water.' 'in the middle of the world thus submerged, o prince of bharatidians, were seen the seven richis or sages, manou, and the fish. thus, o king, did this fish cause the vessel to sail' (with a rope tied to its horn), 'for many years, without wearying, in this immensity of water.' at length the ship was dragged by the fish on to the highest point of the himalaya. 'that is why the highest summit of the himaran (himalaya) was called _nan_bundhanam, or the place to which the ship was attached, a name which it bears to this day--_sache cela, o prince des bharatidians._' then _le gracieux_, with placid gaze, thus addressed the richis--'i am brahma, the ancestor (_l'ancestre_) of all creatures. no one is greater than i. under the form of a fish i came to save you from the terrors of death. from manou, now, shall all creatures, with the gods, the demons (_au souras_), and mankind, be born.... this is the ancient and celebrated history which bears the name of the 'history of the _fish_.'"[ ] [ ] comp. "traditions of the new zealanders." [ ] do not the seven richis or sages correspond to the seven (or eight) (phoenician) kabiri. (there were seven or eight persons in the ark, accordingly as we take separate account or not of noah.) as regards the kabiri, their number (seven or eight, accordingly as we include "Æsculapius") must be the clue to the solution of "the most obscure and mysterious question in mythology." bunsen ("egypt," iv. ) says of an astral explanation:--"it does not enable us to explain the details of those representations which do not contain the number seven (or eight), and, in fact, seven brothers." it will suffice, from our point of view, if there are numerically seven persons. bunsen (iv. p. ) says--"it is quite clear that the fundamental number of the gods in the oldest mythologies of phoenicia, and all asia, as well as egypt, was seven. there were seven kabiri, with the seven titans. there are also seven titans mentioned in other genealogies of the race of kronos. of the latter, one dies a virgin and disappears." but as with the kabiri we have seen the number seven, or eight, accordingly as Æsculapius is included or not, so (vide p. ) we see the primitive gods of egypt either seven or eight, accordingly as thoth, "the eighth," or horus, figure as the "last divine king" (p. ). when horus so figures, "_he_ is frequently represented as _the eighth, conducting the bark of the gods_, with _the seven great gods_," &c. moreover, it is elsewhere (p. ) said that "the phoenicians, in their sacred books, stated that the kabiri _embarked in ships_, and landed near mount kaison. this legend was corroborated by the existence of a shrine on that coast in historic times." [_query_, the tradition of the deluge localised, and the shrine commemorative of that catastrophe (_vide_ boulanger, &c., _infra_, p. ); and supposing that the tradition of the number saved in the flood had been preserved down to a certain date, we should then expect that the number would become rigid and fixed. but that if the tradition of the actual survivors had become indistinct, what more natural than that the eight principal characters of ante-diluvian, or even post-diluvian, history should be substituted for them, and that the same confusion and agglomeration of legend should take place as we shall see occurring in the tradition of noah?] in the persian or iranian legend of shâh-nâmeh, "the three sons of ferêdûn--ireg, tur, and selm--are mentioned as their patriarchs, and among them the _whole earth was divided_." but in the more ancient gâthâs there is mention of "the _seven_-surfaced or _seven_-portioned earth." [_query_--apportioned by _the eighth_?] _vide_ bunsen's "egypt," iii. . for the indian tradition compare the following from hunter's "bengal" (i. p. )--"another coincidence--i do not venture to call it an analogy--is to be found in the number of children born to the first pair. as the santal legend immediately divides the human species into _seven_ families, so the sanscrit tradition assigns the propagation of _our race after the flood_ to _seven rishis_." i also find in f. schlegel's "philosophy of history" (p. , robertson's trans.)--"the indian traditions acknowledge and revere the succession of the first ancestors of mankind, or the holy patriarchs of the primitive world, under the name of the _seven great rishis_, or sages of hoary antiquity, though they invest their history with a cloud of fictions." [ ] syncellus, quoting berosus (_vide_ abbé de tressan, "mythology," p. ), says that _oannes_ (the mysterious fish, _vide ante_) left some _writings_ upon the origin of the world. these, no doubt, correspond to the "liber noachi." i do not disguise that this statement is probably derived from what is called the false berosus. the reference, however, which i have made to these writings at p. may raise doubt whether they did not embody true traditions. here we seem to see what looks like the commencement of the legendary origin of the fish symbol; and here also we see it unmistakeably in connection with noah. we have, moreover, seen the connection of hoa with the fish.[ ] [ ] i fancy it might be traced also in the phoenician fish-god, dagon. the _saturday review_ (june , ) in its review of cox's "mythology," says--"dagon cannot be divided dag-on, the fish 'on,' for a semitic syllable cannot begin with a vowel; and if the necessary breathing 'aleph' were inserted (which it is very unsafe to do), it would then mean 'the fish of on,' which is not the signification required." but it is the signification which would fit in here; moreover, might not the terminal "aon," or "_haon_," suggested, have been originally, _i.e._ before displacement by "boustrophedon"--noa or noa_h_? i give this suggestion with all proper diffidence, and with some genuine misgiving as to the "breathing aleph." i find that bryant ("mythology," iii. p. ) makes a similar suggestion. bunsen ("egypt," iv. ) says--"dagon is dagan, _i.e._ corn. this is also implied by the greek form of it--sitôn, wheat-field (comp. p. ). we have in the bible, dagon, a god of the philistines, a name usually supposed to be derived from 'dag,' fish; the god has a human form ending in a fish, like the fish-shaped goddess, derketo-atergatis. it is clear, from philo's own account, that the phoenician poseidon was a god of this kind, and it is difficult to find any other name for him. yet we cannot say that dagon is very clearly explained. here is a god of agriculture, well authenticated, both linguistically and documentally, dagan, _i.e._ wheat, and he is the _zeus of agriculture_." _vide_ p. . p. says dagon must not be confounded with "dagan," but without reconciling it with the above at p. , on the contrary, we find "dagon, dagan = corn (the fish-man)." at p. , quoting from the _text_ of philo, it is said still more pointedly--"dagon, after he _had discovered corn and the plough_, was called zeus arotnios." comp. p. . believing (_vide_ ch. xii.) in the tradition of mythology, even among savages, i could not but be much struck on coming upon the following passage in roggeveen's voyage, to find--in his account of the eastern islanders--the same conjunction of the bull and fish implied in the traditional names of their idols:--"the name of the largest idol was called _taurico_, and the other _dago_; at least, these were the words they called to them by, and wherewith they worshipped them. these savages had great respect for the two idols, _taurico_ and _dago_, and approached them with great reverence ... and to supplicate for help against us, and to call upon with a frightful shout and howling of _dago! dago!_" ("historical account of voyages round the world," , i. , .) after showing the resemblance of a feast at argos to other commemorative feasts of the deluge, boulanger (_vide infra_, i. ) says--"les argiens avoient encore une autre fête pendant laquelle ils précipitoent dans un abîme un agneau.... ils étoient armés de javelines, ils appelloient _bacchus_ au son des trompettes et l'invitoient _à semontrer hors de l'eau_; cette apparition n'arrivoit pas fréquemment sans doute" (comp. _supra_, , and ). "plutarque remarque que lors qu'ils précipitoient l'agneau, ils avoient soin de cacher leurs trompettes et leurs javelines. nous ne prétendons point expliquer tous ces mystères." is it that they feared, with armed weapons in their hands, to evoke the apparition of the old man "whose conquests were all peaceful" (p. ), and who, as manco capac (p. ), "shut his ears when they spoke to him of war." let us now turn to his reduplication, as i conceive, in nin, or ninip, who is said to be "the true fish god." "his names, bar and nin, are respectively a semitic and a hamitic term, signifying 'lord,' or 'master,'" (p. ). astronomically nin "should be saturn." however, a set of epithets which _seem to point_ to his stellar character are very difficult to reconcile with the notion that, as a celestial luminary, he was (the dark and distant) saturn. we find him called, "the light of heaven and earth," "he who, _like_ the sun, the _light_ of the _gods_, irradiates the _nations_." all this is very difficult to reconcile with legends arising out of the simple worship of a celestial luminary, but perfectly consistent with the supposition of the patriarch noah, after deification, being located in the planetary system. the phrase, "he who, like the sun, the light of the gods, irradiates the nations," is perfectly applicable to him who, as oannes, we have ever regarded as "the god of science and of knowledge;" and who "taught astronomy and letters to the first settlers on the euphrates and tigris." let us glance at the other epithets applied to nin in the inscriptions. he is the "lord of the brave," "the champion," "the warrior who subdues foes," "_he who strengthens the hearts of his followers_." [the scripture mentions the repeated assurances of the almighty to noah, that there should not be another deluge; and the above is in keeping with the tradition that the early inhabitants long hesitated to quit the mountains for the plains, and only did so incited by the example of the patriarch.] "the destroyer of enemies," "_the reducer of the disobedient_," "the exterminator of rebels," "he whose sword is good." like nergal, or mars, he is a god of battle and the chase. (i shall refer later on to these warlike epithets as applied to noah.) at the same time he has qualities which seem wholly unconnected with any that have been hitherto mentioned. he is the true "fish-god" of berosus, and is figured as such in the scriptures. (i hope i may persuade some reader, who may be interested in this inquiry, to compare the figure of nin, in rawlinson, i. , with figure , dupaix's "new spain" in lord kingsborough's "mexico," representing an emblematic figure with fish[ ] (as in the representation of nin) over a human head, which also has inverted tusks. compare also with representations of neph, associated with snake and ram's head, and also with "history of the fish," _supra_, p. .) to continue--in this point of view he (nin) is called the "god of the sea," "he who dwells in the deep;" and again, somewhat curiously, "the opener of the aqueducts." now, as applied to noah, this is not at all strange, and corresponds to the scriptural phrase, "he opened the fountains of the deeps." subsequently to deification we cannot be surprised to find all that was done by the almighty attributed to the individual to whom it was done; as in prometheus we have a double legend of the creator, who created man with the vital spark, and of prometheus, the man who was so created. "besides these epithets he has many of a more general character, as 'the _powerful chief_,' 'the supreme,' 'the _favourite_ of the _gods_,' 'the chief of the spirits,' and the like." [ ] this closely corresponds to the description of oannes given by sanchoniathon, "ap. euseb." (bryant, ii. ), _i.e._ with two heads (comp. _infra_, p. ), the human head being placed below the head of a fish:--"[greek: allên kephalên hypokatô tês tou ichthyos kephalês]." i must, moreover, request attention to the following from rawlinson, i. ,--"nin's _emblem_ in _assyria_ is the _man-bull_, the impersonation of strength and power. he guards the palaces of the assyrian kings, who reckon him their tutelary god, and gives his name to their capital city. we may conjecture that _in babylonia_ his _emblem_ was the _sacred fish_, which is often seen in different forms upon the cylinders."[ ] [ ] _vide_ similar traditions of the man-bull in india and japan. bryant, iii. , who adds, "we shall find hereafter that in this (parsee) mythology there were two ancient personages represented under the same character, and named l'homme taureau; _each_ of whom was looked upon as the _father_ of mankind." compare pp. , , the two menus and the two osiris. i turn to gainet, i. , and i find this legend concerning the man-bull from bertrand's "dict. des religions," , i. ii.[ ] [ ] the prayer used in the worship of dionysos at elis, preserved by plutarch, ended with "[greek: axie taure--axie taure]," worthy bull! (_vide_ bunsen's "egypt," iv. .) compare p. with dionysius = bacchus = noah; also of the three samothracian names of the kabiri--viz., axieros, axiokerse, axiokersos. bunsen says, "the syllable axi or axie which is found in all three, cannot be anything but the greek word 'axios,' which was used in the worship of dionysos at elis" (_id., vide infra_). on this symbol of the bull in connection with noah and the ark _vide_ bryant (ii. , _et seq._ ). he says, "every personage that had any connection with the history of the ark was described with some reference to this hieroglyphic ... that the apis and mnenis (menes) were both representations of an _ancient personage_ is certain; and who that personage was may be known from the account given of him by diodorus. he speaks of him by the name of mnenes, but confines his history to egypt, as the history of saturn was limited to italy; inachus and phoroneus to argos; deucalion to thessaly ... the same person who in crete was styled minos, min-nous, and whose city was min-noa; the same who was represented under the emblem of men-taur, or mino-taurus (_minotaur_). diodorus speaks of mnenes as the _first lawgiver_," &c., &c.... [mnenes or menes may embody traditions of noah and misraim, as osiris does of adam and noah.] at p. - [plate], we find menes represented as a bull _with the sacred dove_.... plutarch (isis and osiris) says the bulls, apis and mnenes, were sacred to osiris ... and eustath. (in dion. v. ) says of the tauric chersonese, "that the _tauric_ nation was so named from the animal taurus or bull, which was looked upon as a memorial of _the great husbandman_ osiris, who first _taught agriculture_, and to whom was ascribed _the invention_ of the _plough_." ... lycophron (v. and scholia) says, [greek: tauros], [greek: dionysos]. plutarch says dionusus (_vide supra_, p. ) was styled [greek: bougenês], or the offspring of a bull, by the people of argos, who used to invoke him as a _resident of the sea_, and entreat him _to come out of the waters_. the author of the orphic hymns calls him "taurogenes." [greek: taurogenês dionysos euphrosunên pore thnêtois]. [greek: taurogenês], is precisely of the same purport as [greek: thêbaigenês] [ark-born], and the words of this passage certainly mean "that the ark-born deity dionusus restored peace and happiness to mortals." [noah's name in scripture signifies "peace and consolation"--[greek: nôe hebraïsianapaysis] (rest), hesychius.]... the title given to diana--viz. _taurione_, is remarkable, for "taurus was an emblem of the ark, and by taurione was signified the arkite _dove_." _taurus_, and _ione_ from [greek: oinas] of the greeks, and ionas of the eastern nations = _dove_, and curiously in an inscription in gruter, diana is at _the same time_ called "regina _undarum_," and "decus _nemorum_" (bryant, ii. ). the connection of diana, juno, and venus with _the dove_ and _rainbow_ is very striking, but would lead to too long a digression. so, too, would a discussion as to how noah or the ark (secondarily) came to be associated with the bull, as a hieroglyphic. compare the above with the ox-heads and bull dance in the mandan commemoration of the deluge, _infra_, ch. xi. "d'après les livres parsis, le souverain créateur sut que le mauvais génie se disposait à tenter l'homme. il ne jugea pas à propos de l'empêcher par lui-même; il se contenta d'envoyer des anges pour veiller sur l'homme. cependant le mal augmenta; l'homme se perdit; dieu envoya un deluge, qui dura dix jours et dix nuits et détruisit le genre humain. l'apparition de kaioumons (_l'homme-taureau_), le premier homme, y est aussi précédée de la creation d'une grande eau." here, in a confused tradition, with adam--just as nin is confused with hercules and saturn--the man-bull is apparently associated with a great flood. in the curious etruscan monument commemorative of the deluge--discovered in --and to which cardinal wiseman draws attention in his "conferences" (_vide_ gainet, i. ), being a vase supposed to represent the ark, and containing figures of twenty couples of ( ) animals, ( ) birds, ( ) serpents, &c., and several human figures represented in the act of escaping from an inundation, there were also discovered certain signets and amulets. these consisted of hands joined, _heads_ of _oxen_, and olives. now the olive in connection with the deluge will speak for itself,--the hands joined are the symbol of janus (_vide_ next chapter), and heads of oxen--here unmistakably connected with the deluge--may also be conjectured to have allusion to the man-bull above referred to. thus nin, through both his emblems (bull and fish), is brought into contact with the noachic tradition.[ ] it is also said (rawlinson, i. ) of nergal, _vide supra_, who is clearly identified with nimrod,--"again, if nergal is the man-lion, his association in the buildings with the man-bull would be exactly parallel with the conjunction which we so constantly find between him and _nin_ in the inscriptions." [ ] since writing the above i have found the following note in rawlinson's "herodotus," i. , on ninip:--"there is, however, another explanation of the name bar-sam or bur-shem, of which some notice must be taken. it has been already stated that if the _noachid_ triad be compared with the assyrian, ana will correspond with ham, bel-nimrod with shem, and hoa with japhet." the following passage, also from rawlinson's "herodotus," i. , appears to me valuable in proof of the transition from ancestral to solar worship, or at least of their interfusion:--"the sun was probably named in babylonia both san and sanei, before his title took the definite _semitic_ form of _shamas_, by which he is known in assyrian and _in all_ the languages of _that family_." now, standing by itself, this might not appear very significant; but compare it with the following passages connecting _ham_ with the sun:--"by the syrians the sun and heat were called ... chamba; by the persians, hama; and the temple of the sun, the temple of _am_mon or _ham_mon." mr bryant shows that ham was esteemed the zeus of greece and the jupiter of latium. mr g. higgins' "anacalypsis," p. . bryant says, "the worship of ham, _or the sun_, as it was the most ancient, so it was the most universal of any in the world." these passages may possibly be so interpreted as to support a solar theory, but is it not at least suspicious to see the name of the central luminary so apparently identified with historical characters whose memory is distinctly preserved _aliunde_ in the traditions of their descendants? compare nimrod, ch. viii. , _et seq._ it is true that the majority of the inscriptions, p. , assert that nin was the son of bel-nimrod. this may be referred to that tendency, previously noted in ancient nations, to place the ancestor with whom they were themselves identified at the head of every genealogy. one inscription, however, "makes bel-nimrod the son of nin instead of his father." nin, in any case, is unquestionably brought into close historical relationship with bel-nimrod, an historical character, and we must, in fine, choose whether we shall admit him to be noah--to whom all the epithets would apply--or whether, upon the more literal construction of the inscriptions, we shall believe him to be some nameless son or successor of nimrod. there is one god more in whom i fancy i see a counterpart of noah, or at least a counterpart of hoa and nin--viz. nebo. i base my conclusion upon the epithets applied to him in common with hoa and nin, and inconsistently applied if, according to the evidence, p. , "mythologically he was a deity of no very great eminence," but in no way conflicting with the supposition that he represented the tradition of noah, the counterpart to the tradition of hoa and nin, among some subordinate nationality, and such appears to be the fact. "when nebo first appears in assyria, it is as a foreign god, whose worship is brought thither from babylonia," p. . of nebo it is said, "his name is the same or nearly so, both in babylonian and assyrian, and we may perhaps assign it a _semitic_ derivation, from the root _'nibbah,' to prophesy_. it is his special function to preside over _knowledge_ and _learning_. he is called 'the god who possesses intelligence'--'he who hears from afar'--'he who _teaches_,' or 'he who teaches and instructs.' in this point of view he of course approximates to hoa, _whose son_ he is called in some inscriptions, and to whom he bears a general resemblance. like hoa, he is symbolised by the simple wedge or arrow-head, the primary and essential element of cuneiform writing, to mark his _joint_ presidency with that god over writing and literature. at the same time nebo has, like so many of the chaldæan gods, a number of general titles, implying divine powers, which, if they had belonged to him only, would have seemed to prove him the supreme deity. he is 'the lord of lords, who has no equal in power,' _'the supreme chief_,' '_the sustainer_,' 'the supporter,' the 'ever ready,' 'the guardian over the heavens and the earth,' 'the lord of the constellations,' 'the holder of the sceptre of power,' 'he who grants to kings the sceptre of royalty for the _governance_ of their people'" (rawlinson, i. ). there is just a possibility, however, that nebo may be sem or shem. he would be the son of hoa as nebo was stated to be. i think, moreover, a striking resemblance will be seen between the above epithets and the traditions concerning _shem_, collected by calmet (dict. "sem.") "the jews attribute to sem the theological _tradition_ of the _things which noah taught to the first men_.... they say that he is the same as melchisedek.... in fine, the hebrews believe that he taught _men the law of justice_, the manner of counting the months and years, and the intercalations of the months. they pretend that _god gave him the spirit of prophecy_ one hundred years after the deluge, and that he continued _to prophesy_ during four hundred years, with little fruit among mankind, who had become very corrupt. methodius says that he remained in the isle of the sun, that he invented astronomy, and that he was _the first king who ruled over the earth_."[ ] [ ] rawlinson says that there is no doubt that nebo represents the planet mercury, and between the attributes of mercury or hermes, the epithets of nebo, and the traditions concerning shem, there is something in common. he is the god of eloquence and persuasion--the god of alliances and peace. "he contributed to civilise the manners and cultivate the minds of the people." "he united them by commerce and good laws." the egyptian mercury or thaut first invented landmarks. finally, "he was consulted by the titans, his relations, _as an augur_, which gave occasion to the poets to describe him as interpreter of the will of the gods."--_l'abbe de tressan, "mythology."_ the difficulty, however, is in understanding how the worship of shem came to assyria _from_ babylonia. i can only reconcile it upon a theory that _all_ idolatry came from babylonia, _i.e._ from the hamitic race. there remains a difficulty which will doubtless occur to every one who has read the chapter in rawlinson to which i must acknowledge myself so much indebted, and it is a difficulty which i ought, perhaps, to have dealt with before; and that is, that there is in the pages of rawlinson (i. vii. ) the most distinct identification of noah with xisuthrus. of this there can be no doubt, from his direct connection with the deluge, the circumstances of which are perfectly recorded in the babylonian tradition.[ ] this establishes the fact that the tradition of noah and the deluge was still among them when berosus wrote. but if xisuthrus is noah, then it may be said hoa, oannes, and nin cannot be noah. it is a _non sequitur_, but will still, i fear, be very influential with many. it is difficult to understand the tendency to reduplication, and still more difficult to realise how a tradition so clear and decided could be contemporaneous with other identical traditions so entangled and confused. i believe this explanation to be that the account of xisuthrus was part of the esoteric tradition to which rawlinson refers, and which was also the tradition of their learned men--"vixere fortes ante agamemnon";--and we cannot suppose that berosus (of whom we should have known nothing if his works had not been preserved to us at third or fourth hand) was the first chronicler of his nation.[ ] [ ] "notwithstanding the difficulty of ascending to so distant a period, there will always be found some traces by which truth may be discovered.... the historian josephus relates that the chaldæans from the _earliest_ times _carefully preserved_ the remembrance of past events by public inscriptions on their monuments. he says they caused these annals to be written by the wisest men of their nation."--_l'abbe de tressan, "hist. of heathen mythology."_ london, . [ ] i had come to the above conclusion upon the perusal of rawlinson, and before i had read bryant, who, i find, had already come to this identical conclusion. ("mythology," iii. .) speaking of berosus' account of oannes and xisuthrus, he says, "the latter was undoubtedly taken from the archives of the chaldæans. the former is allegorical and obscure, and was copied from _hieroglyphical representations_ which could not be precisely deciphered.... in consequence of his borrowing from records so very different, we find him, without his being apprized of it, giving _two histories of the same person_. under the character of _the man of the sea_, whose _name was oannes_, we have _an allegorical representation of the great patriarch_; whom _in his other history he calls sisuthrus_." i shall pursue this inquiry into the classical mythology in the next chapter, and then recapitulate the results as regards this inquiry. chapter x. _the tradition of noah and the deluge._ i now come to a different set of illustrations still more germane to my subject. calmet says:--"plusieurs scavans out remarqué que les pagans ont confondu saturne, deucalion, ogyges, le dieu coelus ou ouranus, janus, prothée, prométhée, virtumnus, bacchus, osiris, vadimon, nisuthrus avec noë." i must add that this enumeration by no means exhausts the list. it is not my purpose, however, to pursue the subject in all its ramifications. i shall limit myself to the examination of one or two of these counterparts of noah. * * * * * i. and in the first place, "him of mazy counsel, saturn," the expression of hesiod ([greek: t' iapeton te ide kronon agkylomêtên]), hesiod. theog. v. , which so well befits the intermediary between god and the survivors of the deluge. "under saturn," as plutarch tells us, "was the golden age." calmet says (dict. "saturne"), "quant aux traits de ressemblance qui se trouvent entre noë et saturne, ils ne peuvent être plus sensibles.[ ] il (saturne) est représenté avec une faulx comme inventeur de l'agriculture[ ]: noë est nommé 'vir agricola' (gen. ix. ) et il est dit qu'il commença à cultiver la terre. les _saturnales_, qu'on célébrait dans le vin et dans la licence et _où les serviteurs s'égaloient à leurs maitres_--marquent l'ivresse de noë et sa malédiction qui assujettit chanaan à ses frères tout égal qu'il leur étoit par sa naissance." [i have _little doubt that this bacchanalian recollection originated the tradition of the equality of conditions_ in the _golden_ age, contrary to the facts of scripture and history.] "on disoit que noë avait dévoré tous ses enfans à l'exception de jupiter, de neptune, et de pluton. noë vit périr dans les eaux du déluge tous les hommes de son temps dont plusieurs étoient ses parents et plus jeunes que lui. dans la stile de l'écriture on dit souvent que l'on fait ce qu'on n'empêche pas, ou même ce que l'on prédit." further resemblances are traced in calmet. [ ] bochart also says (geog. sacra, lib. i.) "noam esse saturnum tam multa docent, ut vix sit dubitandi locus." [ ] "cum falce, messis insigne."--_macrobius, "saturn."_ now, i find in sanchoniathon,[ ] _i.e._ in the most ancient phoenician historian, a tradition running exactly parallel with this greek tradition as interpreted by calmet:--"ces genies, ces sages, ces dieux, nous expliquent les autres dieux qui, d'après berose, forment l'homme du sang de bélus, et tous les dieux que sanchoniaton nous représente saisis d'épouvante _à la vue de saturne, faisant périr par le déluge son fils sadid_."--(le peuple primitif; rougemont, i. , quoted by gainet, iii. , with reference to the worship of spirits.) i adduce it in evidence of the connection in tradition between saturn and the deluge, and in corroboration of calmet's interpretation, which clears the greek myth of what is grotesque and repulsive in it. [ ] sanchoniathon, _vide supra_ m'lennan (ch. vii.) if i have sufficiently identified saturn with noah and the period of the deluge, the lines of virgil (Æneid, th book, ), besides bearing testimony in the same direction, appear to me to acquire a new meaning and significance:-- "primus ab ætherio venit _saturnus_ olympo, arma jovis fugiens, _et regnis exul ademptis_, is genus indocile, ac dispersum montibus altis composuit; _legesque dedit_; latiumque vocari maluit."... "_aurea_, quæ perhibent, _illo sub rege_ fuerunt _sæcula_; sed placidâ populos in pace regebat, deterior donec paulatim ac discolor ætas et belli rabies et amor successit habendi."[ ] [ ] bryant (mythology, ii. ) says:--"he is by lucian made to say of himself [greek: oudeis hyp' emou doulos ên]. the latins in great measure confine his history to their own country, where, like janus, he is represented as refining and modelling mankind, and giving them laws. at other times he is introduced as prior to law; which are seeming contrarieties very easy to be reconciled." there were traditions also of saturn in crete and sparta.--_bryant_, iii. . allowing for the confusion incidental to the deification of noah in the person of saturn, which necessitates his descent from heaven, the rest of the verses seem merely to describe what is recorded in tradition, if not implied in the scriptural narrative, that noah, a voyager and exile, his possessions having been lost in the flood, flying the wrath--not indeed as directed against himself, but the consequences of the wrath of the almighty[ ]--persuaded the survivors of the flood to abandon the mountains, to which they clung in fear of a second deluge, and brought them into the plains, incited and encouraged by his example,--he who, if he be the same (_vide supra_, , ) with nin and nebo, we have seen called "the sustainer," "the supporter," "he who strengthens the hearts of his followers," who taught them the cultivation of the soil, and of whom it is now said more distinctly than we have seen it heretofore stated, _legesque dedit_.[ ] [ ] _vide supra_, p. . [ ] an indirect argument in proof of the identity of saturn and noah might be adduced if i had space to incorporate boulanger's evidence of the ceremonies among the ancients' commemoration of the deluge, ("vestiges d'usages hydrophoriques dans plusieurs fêtes anciennes et modernes"). this being assumed, is it not of some significance that when the roman pontiffs proceeded to the banks of the tiber to perform their annual (commemorative) ceremonial, that they should make their expiatory sacrifices to saturn? the points that bryant takes (ii. ) are very striking:--"he was looked upon as the _author_ of time, 'ipse qui _auctor_ temporum' (macrob. i. ). [his medals had on the reverse the figure of _a ship_.] they represented him as of an uncommon age, with hair white as snow; they had a notion that he _would return to second childhood_. 'ipsius autem canities primosis nivibus candicabat; _licet etiam ille puer posse fieri crederetur_.'--martianus capella. martial's address to him, though short, has in it something remarkable, for he speaks of him as a native _of the former world_-- 'antiqui rex magne poli, _mundique prioris_, sub quo prima quies, nec labor ullus erat.'--l. , e. . i have mentioned that he was supposed, [greek: katapinein], to have _swallowed up his children_; he was also said to have _ruined all things_; which, however, _were restored with a vast increase_."--orphic hymn, , v. . compare calmet, _supra_, pp. and . martianus capella and varro de ling. lat. lib. i. , call him _sator_, a sower, "saturnus sator." now it is curious that the ancient germans had a god "of the name of _sator_." he is described by verstegan as "standing _upon a fish_, with a wheel in one hand, and in the other a _vessel of water_ filled with fruits and flowers." _n.b._--i was surprised to find in carver's "travels in north america" (p. ) the phrase among the north american indians, of things being done at the instigation "of the grand _sautor_." there is no doubt much that is monstrous and grotesque in the classical conception of saturn, but i must again suggest that as all traditions met in noah, and were tradited through him, we must not be surprised to find all antediluvian traditions confused in noah. thus even the tradition of lamech, which we have seen (_vide supra_, ) variously distorted in the legends of perseus and oedipus, are again repeated in the legends of saturn. there are, no doubt, also divers astral complications arising out of saturn's place in the planetary system. when, however, we are told that saturn was son of coelus and tellus or coelus and vesta,[ ] the same as terra (montfauçon), it seems to occur to us, as a thing "qui saute aux yeux," that this was only a mode of expressing a truth, applicable to all men in general, and saturn as a primal progenitor in particular, and having reference to the composite nature of man; in other words, that this was simply the tradition which noah would have handed down that he was created,[ ] as were all other men, out of the earth, yet with something ethereal in his composition which came direct from the deity. what the astral explanation may be i am at a loss to imagine. it cannot by any possibility be supposed to have reference to their relative positions in the heavens. [ ] "saturn is by plato supposed to have been the son of _oceanus_."--bryant, ii. . [ ] _vide_ autochthones, ch. vii. i shall return to saturn, under the representation of oceanus, when i come to speak of janus. ii. _bacchus._--the _saturnalia_ may be taken as the connecting link between _saturn_ and _bacchus_, and i think that it is sufficiently remarkable that there should be this link of connection. but as the legends of saturn are not all derived from noah, so neither do all the traditions concerning bacchus appertain to saturn. i shall simply separate and note such as appear to me to be in common, _e.g._ "that bacchus found out the making of wine, the art of planting trees, and many things else commodious for mankind." ["and noah, a husbandman, began to till the ground, and planted a vineyard, and drinking the wine was made drunk," gen. ix. .][ ] it is said there were several bacchuses. this may be only a reduplication, such as we have seen in the case of oannes, nin, and nebo, or as in the multiplications of jupiter. "joves omnes reges vocarunt antiqui."[ ] [ ] "the scriptures tell us that noah cultivated the vine; and all profane historians agree in placing bacchus in the first ages of the world" (in proof of early cultivation of the vine).--goguet, "origin of laws," i. . compare _supra_, p. , "saturnus _sator_." bryant says, "the history of dionusus is closely connected with that of bacchus, though they are two distinct persons." he supposes dionusus to be noah, and bacchus ham. but he may very well have embodied the traditions of both. pausanius (lib. iii. ) says dionusus was exposed _in an ark_ and wonderfully _preserved_. he was also said to have been twice born, and to have had two fathers and two mothers, in allusion to the two periods of his existence separated by the deluge. dionusus (orphic hymn, , ) is addressed as [greek: elthe, makar dionyse, pyrispore tauroumetôpe]. [ ] the phrase "father bacchus," current among the ancients (_vide_ hor. odes. i. xviii.) has always struck me as singular. it is perfectly congruous with the tradition of noah; but who will tell us its appropriate solar or astral application? on this subject montfauçon says (i. )[ ] apropos of a point to which i shall again refer, viz. that bacchus was _tauri_cornis. "diodorus siculus says that the horns are only ascribed to the second bacchus, the son of jupiter and proserpine; but these distinctions of various bacchus were minded only in the more ancient times, hardly known in their worship.... this will also hold good of most of the other gods who were multiplied in the same manner." [ ] montfauçon, from whom i have quoted, was simply an antiquarian--a very erudite and laborious antiquarian, but one whose sole concern was to discriminate facts without reference to their bearings, and who would have had, i have little doubt, a supreme contempt for the speculations in which i have indulged. he says in his preface--"i have a due regard for those great men who have excelled in this sort of learning, but must own at the same time i have no taste for it.... _it signifies very little to us to know_ whether they who tell us vulcan was the same with tubalcain, or they who say he was the same with moses, make the best guess in the matter." though the general opinion may not incline any more now than then to the biblical interpretation, yet i think a great change has taken place in public opinion as to the importance of the inquiry. triptolemus was also said to have been "the inventor of the plough and of agriculture, and of civilisation, which is the result of it," and to have instituted the elusinian mysteries. like bacchus he is also said to have "ridden all over the earth, making men acquainted with the blessings of agriculture."--_smith. myth. dict.; vide_ also _infra_, p. : "deucalion." vicomte d'anselme (gainet, i. ), asks with reference to his greek name of dionysius, "pourquoi les grecs donnaient-ils le nom de dionysos ou de divin noush (dios nous ou noë) à l'inventeur du vin?"--_vide supra_, ch. ix.; vide also gainet, i. . bacchus is by some called "_tauri_cornis" (compare _supra_, p. , nin) "or bucornis, and moreover he is frequently so represented," (_i.e._ not only with the horn in hand, a "_bull's_ horn," as he is sometimes, which might be a drinking horn or cornucopia, in its way emblematical of the vir agricola"), "but also with horns on the head. horace calls him "bicorniger," orpheus, [greek: boukerôs]; nicander, [greek: taurokerôs]."--_montfauçon_, i. , ; comp. p. , note to "nin." one bacchus, cicero tells us, "was king of asia and author of the _laws_ called subazian."--_montfauçon_, i. . it is, moreover, said that bacchus travelled through all nations as far as india,[ ] doing good in all places, and teaching many things profitable to the life of man. his conquests are said to have been easy and without bloodshed. but it is also noted that amidst his benevolence to mankind, he was relentless in punishing all want of respect for his divinity, and indeed the _conduct_ and punishment of chanaan may be said to be narrated in the history of pentheus.--_vide_ _montf._ i. .[ ] [ ] dionusus like bacchus came to india from _the west_.--_philostratus_, lib. ii. ; _byrant_, ii. . the indian bacchus "appears in the character of a wise and distinguished oriental monarch; his features an expression of sublime tranquillity and mildness."--_smith, myth. dic._ [ ] this appears to me still more apparent in the th idyll of theocritus, where, when the bacchanals were at their revels, "perched on the sheer cliff pentheus would espy all.... (for profaning thus "these mysteries weird that must not be profaned by vulgar eyes," pentheus is torn to pieces by the bacchanals).... "warned by this tale, let no man dare defy great bacchus; lest a death more awful should he die. and when he counts _nine_ years or scarcely _ten_ rush to his ruin. may i pass my days _uprightly_, and be loved by _upright_ men. and take this motto, all who covet praise ('twas ægis-bearing jove that spoke it first), the godly seed fares well, _the wicked is accurst_." --_caverley's theocritus_, xxvi. this seems to bear out what is perhaps only vaguely implied in the sacred text that the curse was on chanaan--the boy and his posterity--and not on the whole race of cham.--_vide ante_: also compare the "bacchæ" of euripides, in the following passage from grote's "plato" (iii. ):--"so in the 'bacchæ' of euripides, the two old men, kadmus and teiresias, after vainly attempting to inculcate upon pentheus the belief in and the worship of dionysus, at last appeal to his prudence and admonish him of the danger of unbelief;" which, if it be tradition, would look as if chanaan's offence was only the final and overt expression of previous unbelief. iii. _janus._--janus represented the most ancient tradition of noah in italy; subsequent migrations brought in the legend of saturn, and thus we find them variously confounded--saturn sometimes figuring as his guest, sometimes as his son, sometimes as his colleague on the throne. like saturn he appears as double-headed or bifrons, he is said to have introduced civilisation among the wild tribes of italy, and under him, as under saturn, there appears to have been a golden age. i have made reference to _saturn_ as oceanus (_vide montfauçon_, i. ), and as oceanus his representations are very remarkable. in one he appears as an old man sitting on the waves of the sea, with a _sea monster_ on one side of him, and his spear or rod in his hand. in another as sitting on the waves of the sea with ships about him; he is "holding an urn and pours out water, the symbol of _the sea, and also of rivers and fountains_." _but janus is also_ represented in his medals "with a prow of a ship on the reverse," and he is said to have first invented crowns, _ships_, and _boats_, and to have coined the first money. "according to the accounts of mythologists," says macrobius, "_all families in the time of janus_ were full of religion and _holiness_." "xenon says he was the first that built temples and instituted sacred rites," and was therefore always mentioned at the beginning of sacrifices. with reference to his description as "bifrons," macrobius says (some say) he was so called "because he knew the past and future things.... some pretend to prove that janus is the sun, and that he is represented with two faces, because he is master of the two _doors_[ ] of heaven, and opens the day at his rising and shuts it at his setting." [ ] _vide_ dr smith's "myth. dict." art. janus:--"whereas the worship of _janus_ was introduced at rome by romulus, that of _sol_ was instituted by _titus tatius_." a good secondary explanation is,[ ] that "as janus always began the year" (whence january) "the two heads do look on and import the old and new year;" but then occurs the question--and this is why i submit that it is only a secondary explanation--how came janus to commence the year? [ ] if janus is allowed to have been identified with saturn (_supra_) we may see through the analogy of saturn how these secondary functions came to be attributed to him--saturn was also chronos [that chronos = noah, _vide_ _palmer's egypt. chron._, i. p. ]; "but," as dr smith says, "there is no resemblance between the deities, except that both were regarded as the most ancient deities in their respective countries." as chronos simply personifies antiquity itself, this only means that saturn was the most ancient deity. when subsequently he became merged in "chronos," his ancient sickle became converted into a scythe. dr smith ("dict. myth.") says, "he held in his hand a crooked pruning knife, and his feet were surrounded with a _woollen_ riband;" and goguet ("origin of laws," i. ) says, "all old traditions speak of the _sickle_ of saturn, who is said to have taught the people of his time to cultivate the earth."--_plut._ i. p. , ; _macrob. sat._, lib. i. . goguet ("origin of laws," i. ) says, "several critics are of opinion that the janus of the ancients is the same with javan the son of japhet, gen. x. ." it may afford a clue if i advert to the circumstance that whilst in the phoenician alphabet (_vide bunsen's egypt_. iv. , , ), dagon, dagan = corn (the fish-man, _vide supra_, p. ), stands for the letter d. "the door" is its hieroglyphic equivalent. thus we get in strange juxtaposition what we may call symbols, connecting janus with the fish-god and with the god of agriculture.--_vide supra_, p. , and _infra_. in the nomenclature of the calendar connected with any system of hero worship, worship of ancestors, or even spirit worship, who more fitly chosen to commence the year than janus, supposing him to be noah? there are, however, two what we may call primary explanations, and we must take our choice. the epithet is either applied to him, as exactly according with the reminiscence of noah, who was pre-eminently acquainted with the past and the future; or we can take the astral explanation that janus was called bifrons,[ ] because he opened the sun at his rising and shut it at his setting. as a symbol of noah this double head appears to me very simple and natural, noah forming the connecting link between the antediluvian and modern worlds; but as applied to the sun or to janus as in relation to the sun, even allowing for personification, this twofold head of man strikes me as incongruous in the extreme. besides, if it be allowed that it might apply to saturn and janus through the connecting idea of chronos, how does it apply to _bacchus_? let us press this argument further. here is a symbol common to bacchus, saturn, and janus, and combining harmoniously in each instance with the representation of noah. can this symbol, common to these three, combine even congruously with any solar or astral legend? i have somewhere seen it noted as suspicious and as tending to confirm the solar theory that these mythological personages all "journey from _east_ to west, and meet their fate in the evening." but is this so? have we not just seen that bacchus, according to mythology, travelled from the _west_ into india? [ ] bryant ("mythology," ii. ) says, "many persons of great learning have not scrupled to determine that noah and janus were the same. by plutarch he is called [greek: iannos], and represented as an ancient prince who reigned in the infancy of the world.... he was represented with two faces, with which he looked both forwards and backwards; and from hence he had the name of janus bifrons. one of these faces was that of an aged man; but in the other was often to be seen the countenance of a young and beautiful personage. about him ... many emblems.... there was particularly a _staff in one hand_, with which he pointed to a rock, from whence issued a profusion of water. in the other hand he held a key.... he had generally near him _some resemblance of a ship_.... plutarch does not accede to the common notion" (that it was the ship that brought saturn to italy), "but still _makes it a question why_ the coins of this personage bore on one side the resemblance of janus bifrons, and on the other the representation of either the hind part or the fore part _of a ship_.... he is said to have first composed a chaplet, and to him they attributed the _invention of a ship_. upon the sicilian coins (at the temple) of eryx _his_ figure often occurs with a twofold countenance, and on the reverse _is a dove_ encircled with a crown, which seems _to be of olive_. he is represented as a _just man_ and _a prophet_ (comp. pp. - ), and had the remarkable characteristics of being in a manner the author of time and the god of the year." but not only were saturn, janus, and bacchus represented as "bifrons," but so also was cecrops. cecrops will present a difficulty the more in the way of any solar theory; but cecrops,[ ] like all founders or supposed founders of states, has something in common with noah. like saturn and janus in italy, cecrops was said to have brought the population of attica into cities, to have given them laws, taught them the worship of the idols, _planted the olive_, and finally, was represented as half man, half serpent.[ ] [ ] "megasthenes stated that the first king (of india) was dionysus. he found a rude population in a savage state, clothed in skins, unacquainted with agriculture, and without fixed habitations. the length of his reign is not given. the introduction of civilization and agriculture is a natural allusion to the immigration of the aryans into a country inhabited by turanian races.... fifteen generations after dionysus, hercules reigned.... now all this is obviously pure indian tradition. dionysus is the elder manu, the divine primeval man, son of the sun (vivasvat). he holds the same position in the primeval history of india as does jima or gemshid, another name of the primeval man in the iranian world.... the first era, then, is represented by megasthenes as having fourteen generations of human kings, with a god as the founder and a god as the destroyer of the dynasty, in all fifteen or sixteen generations."--_bunsen's egypt_, iii. . compare those fifteen generations with palmer. compare the confusion of dionysus and hercules with deucalion and prometheus, &c., p. . pelasgus among the arcadians passed for the first man and the first legislator (boulanger, i. ). of cadmus, too, it is said--"greece is indebted to him for alphabetical writing, the art of _cultivating the vine_, and the forging and working of _metals_."--_goguet_, ii. . [ ] _vide supra_, oannes, ch. ix.; _vide_ smith, "myth. dict." to return to janus. before concluding i must note that janus is called eanus by cicero, which may perhaps have analogy with "hea and hoa" (ch. ix.), and with eannes and "oannes," although cicero derives it from "eundo." janus was also called "consivius a conserendo," because he presided over generation, a title singularly appropriate to noah as the second founder of the race, and through whom the injunction was given "to increase and multiply."[ ] he is moreover called "quirinus or martialis," "because he presided over war," which is precisely the aspect under which it is the original and main purpose of this dissertation to consider noah; and here i think i am entitled to urge, that if i have succeeded on other grounds in showing that nin, hoa, janus, &c., represented noah, then that these epithets, "quirinus," "martialis," "king of battle," &c., can only be applied to him whose conquests were bloodless in the sense of controlling and regulating war.[ ] in connection with this title of "martialis," as applied to janus--and, by the by, all the traditions concerning him are altogether peaceful and bloodless--it will be remembered that his temple was open in war and shut in peace, and closed for the third and last time at the moment of the birth of our lord. [ ] "all nations have given the honour of the discovery of agriculture to their _first_ sovereigns. the egyptians said that osiris (_vide supra_, p. ) made men desist from eating each other, by teaching them to cultivate the earth. the chinese annals relate that gin-hoang, one of the first kings of that country, invented agriculture, and by that means collected men into society, who before had wandered in the fields and woods like brute beasts." (goguet, "origin of laws.") i need not remind the reader that goguet's learned work is not written from our point of view. compare _infra_, p. . [ ] _vide_, chap. xiii. golden age, mexican tradition. his name was also invoked first in religious ceremonies, "because, as presiding over armies," &c., through him only could prayers reach the immortal gods. is not this a reminiscence of the communications of the almighty to man through noah? iv. _ogyges and deucalion._--i might pass over these traditions of noah, since, having reference only to the fact of the deluge and the personality of noah, they will not furnish matter for the special purpose of this inquiry; but on these grounds the investigation may be justified, and moreover seems necessary, for the completion of this chapter, and to indicate the independent source and derivation of the classical tradition. it appears to me manifest that the deluges of ogyges and deucalion were neither locally historical nor partial deluges, but merely the reminiscences of the universal deluge. of the universal deluge, whether we call it the mosaic deluge or not, there is evidence and tradition in all parts of the world; though in every instance it is localised in its details and its history of the survivors.[ ] [ ] although the greater number of these traditions have been localised, yet in almost every case we shall find embodied in them some one incident or other of the universal deluge, as recorded by moses. kalisch ("hist. and crit. commentary on the old testament") says:--"it is unnecessary to observe that there is scarcely a single feature in the biblical account which is not discovered in one or several of the heathen traditions; and the coincidences are not limited to desultory details, they extend to the whole outlines, and the very tenor and spirit of the narrative; ... and it is certain that none of these accounts are derived from the pages of the bible--they are independent of each other.... there must indisputably have been a common basis, a universal source, and this source is the general tradition of primitive generations." it is not, i think, generally known how widespread these traditions are. l'abbé gainet has collected some thirty-five ("la bible sans la bible"); but mr catlin (_vide infra_, p. ) says he found the tradition of a deluge among one hundred and twenty tribes which he visited in north, south, and central america. this accords with humboldt's testimony (kalisch, i. ), who "found the tradition of a general deluge vividly entertained among the wild tribes peopling the regions of orinoco." to these i must add the evidence of the indirect testimony of the commemorative ceremonies which i have collected in another chapter (_vide_ p. ). it has been said that the chinese tradition is too obscure to be adduced, but we shall see (p. ) whether, when in contact with other traditions, it cannot be made to give light; and i shall refer my readers to the pages of mr palmer (_supra_, p. ) for evidence of the tradition in egypt, where it had heretofore been believed that no such evidence was to be found. in india (_vide_ ch. ix.) the tradition is embodied in the history of manu and the fish; and bunsen ("egypt," iii. ) admits "that there is evidence in the vedas, however slight, that the flood does form a part of the reminiscences of iran." _vide_ also p. , evidence of the tradition in cashmere. i wish also to direct attention here to two recent and important testimonies to the existence of the tradition in india and the himalayan range. at pp. and of hunter's "bengal," it will be seen that the santals have a distinct tradition of the creation, flood, intoxication of noah, and the dispersion; and of the vedic evidence, which bunsen (_supra_, ) calls slight, mr hunter says:--"on the other hand, the sanscrit story of the deluge, like that in the pentateuch, makes no mystery of the matter. a ship is built, seeds are taken on board, the ship is pulled about for some time by a fish, and at last gets on shore upon a peak of the himalayas." dr hooker ("himalayan journal," ii. ) says:--"the lepchas have a curious legend of a man and woman having saved themselves on the _summit_ of tendong (a very fine mountain, feet) during a flood which _once deluged sikhim_," which he authenticates on the spot. here, as in many of mr catlin's instances of local tradition, i may observe that the event as recorded proves the universality of the deluge for the rest of the world, or at least all the world below the level of tendong. in speaking, however, of the universal deluge (universal as far as the human race are concerned), i do not enter into the geological argument, or exclude the view (permissible i believe, _vide_ reusch, p. , and note to rev. h. j. coleridge's fourth sermon on "the latter days") that it was not geographically universal. i merely adhere to the testimony of tradition, and from this point of view it would suffice (_vide_ reusch) that it was universal so far as the horizon of the survivors extended. since, however, there is nothing to be said against the possibility of subsequent partial inundations, there will, i suppose, always be found persons ready to maintain that the deluges of ogyges and deucalion were partial and historical; although i submit that the arguments which were formerly used to prove the priority of ogyges to deucalion, and the posteriority of both to the general deluge, turned upon points of chronology which will hardly be sustained at the present day. if, however, i can succeed in showing that the deluge of deucalion is identical with the deluge of noah, i shall consider that i shall have also proved the point for the deluge of ogyges, which all agree to have been much older! the following is mr grote's narrative collating the different traditions respecting the deluge of deucalion:-- "deukalion is important in grecian mythical narration under two points of view. first, he is the person specially saved at the time of the general deluge; next, he is the father of hellên, the great eponym of the hellenic race; at least that was the more current story, though there were other statements which made hellên the son of zeus." [this was merely the incipient process of the apotheosis of their more immediate founder.] "the enormous iniquity with which the earth was contaminated, as apollodorus says, by the then existing _brazen_ race, or, as others say, by the fifty monstrous sons of sykorôn, provoked zeus to send a general deluge." "the latter account is given by dionys. halic. i. ; the former seems to have been given by hellenikus, who affirmed that the _ark_ after the deluge stopped upon mount othrys, and not upon mount parnassus (_schol. pind. ut supra_), the former being suitable for a settlement in thessaly." [i have already pointed out how the general tradition is everywhere localised.] "an _unremitting_ and _terrible rain_ laid the whole of greece under water except the highest mountain-tops, where a few stragglers found refuge. deukalion was saved in a chest or ark, which he had been forewarned by his father prometheus to construct. after he had floated for nine days on the water, he at length landed on the summit of mount parnassus. zeus hearing, sent hermes to him, promising to grant whatever he asked. he prayed that men and companions might be sent him in his solitude: accordingly zeus directed both him and pyrrha to cast stones over their heads, those cast by pyrrha became women, those by deukalion men. and thus the 'stony race of men' (if we may be allowed to translate an etymology which the greek language presents exactly, and which has not been disdained by hesiod, by pindar, by epicharmes, and by virgil), came to tenant the soil of greece. deukalion on landing from the ark sacrificed a grateful offering to zeus phyxios, or the god of escape; he also erected altars in thessaly to the twelve great gods of olympus. the reality of this deluge was firmly believed throughout the historical ages of greece (localising it, however, and post-dating it to b.c.) statements founded upon this event were in circulation throughout greece even to a very late date. the magarians ... and in the magnificent temple of the olympian zeus at athens, a cavity in the earth was shown, through which it was affirmed that the water of the deluge had retired. even in the time of pausanias the priests poured into this cavity holy offerings of meal and honey. in this, as in other parts of greece, _the idea of the deukalionian deluge was blended with the religious impressions of the people, and commemorated by their most sacred ceremonies_."--_grote's "history of greece,"_ vol. i. ch. v. , , "_the deluge_."[ ] [ ] mr grote certainly says--"apollodorus connects this deluge with the wickedness of the brazen race in hesiod, according to the practice general with the logographers of stringing together a sequence out of legends totally unconnected with each other." one would have thought in one's simplicity that if any two legends linked well together, uniting in common agreement with the scriptural account, it would be the legends of the deluge and the brazen age. mr max müller (comp. "myth.," "chips.," ii. ), incidentally speaking of the legend of deucalion, treats it with great contempt. "what is more ridiculous," he says, "than the mythological account of the creation of the human race by deucalion and pyrrha throwing stones behind them (a myth which owes its origin to a mere pun on [greek: laos] and [greek: laas])." and ridiculous it certainly is from any point of view from which mr max müller could regard it, _i.e._ either as the invention of a mythic period, or as a fugitive allegory arising out of some astral or solar legend: _per contra_, i shall submit that there is nothing forced in supposing that this legend arose out of some one of the processes of corruption to which all tradition is prone, of the known fact that the human race was re-propagated by deucalion or noah.[ ] if i am asked to explain how it came about that there should have been this identity between the word for a "man" and a "stone," i must simply confess my ignorance. perhaps if mr max müller could be brought to look at things more from the point of view of biblical traditions, he might be enabled to see it. all that i can suggest is, that perhaps it may have a common origin with that homeric expression quoted by mr max müller at p. (_vide supra_), "thou art not sprung from the olden tree or from the rock." i consider that i shall definitely establish, however, that it originates in a tradition and not "a mere pun," and at any rate that it is not local, it is not greek. it is no doubt singular that the word for man, [greek: laos], populus, should so closely resemble the word for a stone, [greek: laas]; but not only is this coincidence found in the greek, but we shall see that it is widely spread in all parts of the world. in proof, i adduce the following extract from dr hooker's inaugural lecture at norwich in , (since the publication of mr max müller's work):-- "it is a curious fact that the khasian word for a stone, 'man,' as commonly occurs in the names of their villages and places as that of man, maen, and men does in those of brittany, wales, cornwall, &c.; thus mansmai signifies in khasia the stone of oath; manloo, the stone of salt; manflong, the grassy stone; and just as in wales pen mæn maur signifies the hill of the big stone; and in britanny a menhir is a standing stone, and a dolmen a table stone," &c.[ ] [ ] let the significance of the following coincidence be considered in connection with the evidence at p. , boulanger, "ces fêtes (atheniasmes, 'anthisteries') avoient pour objet une commémoration (of the deluge) et l'on en _attribuoit la fondation à deucalion_; elles étoient _aussi_ consacrées à _bacchus_, ce qui les a fait nommés les _anciennes_ ou les _grandes bacchanales_."--comp. ch. xi. p. , also _supra_, . [ ] it is the fashion to deride bryant's etymology, and no doubt he did not write in the light of modern science; but i find ("mythology," iii. ) that he had already given this information. "_main_, from whence _moenia_, signified in the primitive language a stone, or stones, and also a building." here it is seen that the word for stone in these respective places is the same with our word "man;" it is not specifically said that the word would carry this sense also in the places indicated, but i infer it from the analogy which runs through _homo_, _homme_, and by a connection of ideas through the greek [greek: ômos] to the sanscrit--thus "âma-ad" ([greek: ômos-edô]), are names applied "in the sanscrit" to "barbarians" who are cannibals. (max müller, ii. p. .) and i am not sure that mr max müller does not say so directly, in reference to the word "brahman," for although the word originally is said to mean _power_ (i. ), yet "another word with the accent on the last syllable, is _brahmán_, the _man_ who prays."--_max müller_, i. .[ ] also kenrick ("essay on primæval history," p. ), "thus the hindus attribute the origin of their institutions and race to manu, whose name is equivalent to _man_. the germans made tuisto (teutsch) and his son mannus to be the origin and founder of their nation." also sir w. jones' "asiat. res." i. ; rawlinson's "bamp. lect." lect. ii. :--"from _manu_ the earth was re-peopled, and from him _man_kind received their name _manudsha_." gainet (i. ) says:--"the stones changed then into men by deucalion and pyrrha, are they not their children according to nature? in syriac the word 'eben' signifies equally a child and a stone. in spite of these confusions their accounts of the deluge are striking as well on account of their resemblance, as on account of their universality, as the reader will soon be able to convince himself."--_vide gainet_, i. .[ ] [ ] mr max müller, in his "lectures on the science of language," first series, says of "man":--"the latin word 'homo,' the french 'l'homme' ... is derived from the same root, which we have in 'humus,' soil, 'humilis,' humble. homo, therefore, would express the idea of being made of the dust of the earth.... there is a third name for man.... 'ma,' in the sanscrit, means to measure.... 'man,' a derivative root, means to think. from this we have the sanscrit 'manu,' originally thinker, then man. in the later sanscrit we find derivations such as 'mânava, mânasha, manushya,' all expressing man. in gothic we find both '_man_,' and 'maunisk,' the modern german 'maun,' and 'mensch.' there were many more names for man, as there were many names for all things in ancient language." as an instance of the correspondence of old egyptian and welsh, bunsen's "philosophy of univ. hist.," i. , gives "egyptian, 'man' = rockstone; welsh, 'maen;' irish, 'main' (coll. latin, 'moenia;' hebrew, 'e-ben')." and (p. ) bunsen says--"the divine mannus, the ancestor of the germans, _is absolutely identical_ with manus, who, according to ancient indian mythology, is the god who created man anew after the deluge, _just as deucalion did_." [ ] the _saturday review_, nov. , (reviewing "the indian tribes of guiana," by the rev. w. brett), says of the indian traditions:--"the 'old people's stories' of the creation and the deluge are highly characteristic.... under the rule of sigu, son of maikonaima, the tree of life was planted, in whose stem were pent up the whole of the waters which were to be let forth by measure to stock every river and lake with fish. twarrika, the mischievous monkey, forced open the magic cover which kept down the waters, and the next minute was swept away with _all things living_ by the bursting flood. _the re-peopling_ of the world, as described by the tamanacs of the orinoco _recalls the legend of deucalion_. one man and one woman took refuge on the mountain tama_nacu_. _they then threw over their heads_ the fruits of the mauritia (or ita) palm, from the _kernel_ of which sprang men and women who once more peopled the earth." but if the whole human race were re-propagated by deucalion and pyrrha, how are we to locate the _anterior_ legend of ogyges, occurring among the same people? it is barely possible that the memory of a long antecedent and partial deluge may have remained in the memories of the survivors of the subsequent and universal calamity, but the much more reasonable conjecture seems to be that it was by a different channel the reminiscence of the same event. it must be remembered that it was the ogygian deluge which was said to have been partial and to have inundated attica. the deluge of deucalion by all accounts, except by pindar, was considered to have been universal, and corresponds in its details with mosaic accounts, _e.g._ it was universal, covering the tops of the highest mountains; it was caused by the depravity of mankind; the single pair who were saved, were saved in a ship or an ark, and floated many days on the waters. in the end, they settled on the top of a mountain, went to consult the oracle (as noah is said to have sacrificed and to have had communications with god), and re-peopled the earth. the version of lucian gives particulars which brings the tradition to almost exact correspondence. deucalion and his wife were saved (on account of their rectitude and piety) together with his sons and their wives. he was accompanied into the ark by the pigs, horses, lions, and serpents, who came to him in pairs. if the account of lucian is somewhat recent, on the other hand it is the account of a professed scoffer, and moreover, shows what i do not remember to have seen noted from this point of view that the tradition was common to syria as well as greece. this brings us to the contrary, but, as it appears to me, much less formidable objection--bearing in mind that the tradition of the deluge is common to mexico, india, china, the islands of the pacific, &c. &c.--viz. that the tradition came to greece from asia. this is mr kenrick's objection[ ] (_vide_ preface to grote's "history of greece," d ed.) the most direct, and, as it appears to me, sufficient answer, seems to be that it was necessarily so; since, _ex hypothesi_, the population itself came to greece from asia. mr kenrick says, "it is doubtful whether the tradition of deucalion's flood is older than the time when the intercourse with greece began to be frequent," _i.e._ about the fifth century b.c. (p. .) but as the septuagint, according to mr kenrick himself, could not have influenced greece till the third century, this tradition can only have been the primeval tradition. mr kenrick is a fair opponent, and i must do him the justice to add that he repudiates the voltairean suggestion that this tradition originated in a hebrew invention. if then the inhabitants of greece, who came originally from asia, had not the tradition, or had it imperfectly, when they arrived, it can only have been because they had lost it; but as admittedly they recovered it at a later period, the presumption, even on this showing, is, at least for those who can realise how difficult it would be to make a pure fiction, as distinguished from a corrupt tradition, run current, more especially among different nationalities and during a lengthened period,--that when circumstances brought them again into contact with asia, they added fresh incidents, only because they found the tradition fresher there than among themselves. _voila tout!_ for mr kenrick's whole argument depends entirely upon this--that "as we reach the time when the greeks enjoyed more extensive and leisurely communication with asia, through the conquests of alexander ... we find new circumstances introduced into the story which assimilates it more closely to the asiatic tradition." [ ] "essay on primæval history." it has been allowed (_vide supra_) that the tradition of deucalion is as old as the fifth century b.c., and, not to speak of the deluge of ogyges, connected with what was earliest in grecian history, the following passage from kenrick seems to me in evidence of long antecedent traditions among the greeks themselves, which they must have brought with them originally from asia.[ ] [ ] "according to the calculations of varro, the deluge of ogyges occurred years before inachus, _i.e._ years before the first olympiad, which would bring it to years before the christian era; now, according to the hebrew text, the deluge of noah took place b.c., which makes only a difference of years. it is true that many other authors have reconciled these epochs." hesiod and homer are silent on the subject of both deucalion and ogyges.... "it results from these considerations that the traditions of the ancient nations of the world confirm the narrative of genesis, _not only_ as to the existence, but even as to the _epoch_, of this catastrophe as fixed by moses. mersius (_apud_ gronovium, iv. ) cites more than twenty ancient authors who speak of ogyges as appertaining in their eyes to what was _most primitive_ in greece. he is son of neptune. he is the first founder of the kingdom of thebes. servius represents him _as coming immediately after saturn and the golden age_ [which directly connects noah with saturn, and the golden age with noah]. hesychius says of ogyges that he represented all that was most ancient in greece. that, indeed, passed into a proverb; they said, 'old as ogyges,' as if they said, 'old as adam'" (gainet, i. ). mr kenrick says (p. ):-- "the account of deucalion, given by apollodorus (i. , ), bears evident marks of being compounded of two fables originally distinct, in one of which, and probably the older, the descent of the hellenes was traced through deucalion to prometheus and pandora, without mention of a deluge. in the other, the destruction of the brazen race by a flood, the re-peopling the earth by the casting of stones, is related in the common way. that these two narratives cannot originally have belonged to the same myths is evident from their incongruity; for as mankind were created by prometheus, the father of deucalion, there was no time for them to have passed through those stages of degeneracy by which they reached the depravity of the brazen age." here are evidently two early traditions, ostensibly greek, distinct, it is true, yet perfectly compatible. the one the tradition of grecian descent through noah to adam and eve, the other the tradition of the deluge. but after what we have already seen (_vide supra_, pp. , ) of reduplications and inversions, can a serious argument be based upon the expression that deucalion (noah) was the son of prometheus (adam)?[ ] is it not a most natural and inevitable _façon-de-parler_ to connect the descendant directly and immediately with his remote ancestor, _e.g._ "fils de st louis--fils de louis capet--montez au ciel!" [ ] in the same way we find "mentuhotep," or "sesortasen i." named, "when all other ancestors are omitted, as the sole connecting link between amosis (xviii. dynasty) and menes." _vide_ palmer's "egyptian chronicles," i. . so, too, are fohi (whom i believe to be adam) and shin-nong (noah) connected and linked together in chinese chronology. "i. fohi the great brilliant (tai-hao), cultivation of _astronomy_ and religion as well as _writing_. he reigned years. then came fifteen reigns. ii. shin-nong (divine _husbandman_). institution of _agriculture_ [compare _ante_, ch. x.] the knowledge of simples applied as the art of medicine."--bunsen's "egypt," iii. , chap. on chinese chronology. _vide ante_, ; chap. on tradition, p. ; prometheus. i do not of course attempt, within this narrow compass, to grasp mr kenrick's entire view. i am merely dealing with the special argument; but it is curious to note how the line of reasoning adopted by mr kenrick, whilst it sustains the greek traditions, as traditions (though not greek), unconsciously neutralises the arguments which would dispose of the testimonies derived from them, by saying that they were not traditions of a general, but of a local and a partial deluge. these latter arguments appear to have had weight with one against whom i hardly venture to run counter, frederick schlegel ("phil. of hist." p. )--"the irruption of the black sea into the thracian bosphorus is regarded by very competent judges in such matters as an event perfectly historical, or at least, from its proximity to the historical times, as not comparatively of so primitive a date." compare with passage from mr kenrick.[ ] schlegel adds:--"all these great physical changes are not necessarily and exclusively to be ascribed to the last general deluge. the presumed irruption of the mediterranean into the ocean, as well as many other mere partial revolutions in the earth and sea, may have occurred much later, and quite apart from this great event" (p. ). but it may also have occurred much _earlier_, as is clear from the following passage from schlegel, to which i wish to direct the attention of geologists, and in which schlegel speaks according to the original insight of his own mind, and not in deference to the opinions of others:-- "these words ('the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; but the spirit of god moved upon the face of the waters,' gen. x.), which announce the presage of a new morn of creation, not only represent a darker and wilder state of the globe, but very clearly show the element of water to be still in predominant force. even the division of the elements, of the waters above the firmament, and of the waters below it, on the second day of creation, the permanent limitation of the sea for the formation and visible appearance of the dry land, necessarily imply a mighty revolution in the earth, and afford additional proof that the mosaic history speaks not only of one but of many catastrophes of nature, _a circumstance that has not been near enough attended to in the geological interpretation and illustration of the bible_."--_schlegel_, p. . [ ] kenrick (p. ) says:--"the fact of traces of the action of water at a higher level in ancient times on these shores is unquestionable; under the name of _raised beaches_ such phenomena are familiar to geologists on many coasts; but that the tradition (in samothrace) was produced by _speculation_ on its _cause_, not by an obscure recollection of its _occurrence_, is also clear; for it has been shown by physical proofs that a discharge of the waters of the euxine (black sea) would not cause such a deluge as _the tradition supposed_" (cuvier, disc. sur les revolutions du globe, ed. ). if these speculations were made at the commencement of grecian history, and the speculations had reference to evidence of diluvian disruption along the highway by which they passed into greece, should we not expect that theories of the violent rather than the gentler and gradual action of water would dominate in their geological tradition? colonel george greenwood, in "rain and rivers," p. , says on the contrary--("with reference to the theory that valleys are formed by 'rain and rivers'")--"there is, perhaps, no creed of man which, like this, can be traced up to the most remote antiquity, and traced down from the most remote antiquity to the present day. lyell has himself quoted pythagoras for it, through the medium of ovid:-- 'eluvie mons est deductus in æquor quodquo fuit campus _vallem decursus aquarum_ fecit.' but pythagoras only enunciates the doctrine of eastern antiquity; that is, of the egyptians, the chaldæans, and the hindoos. but since pythagoras introduced this doctrine in the west, if it has ever slumbered, it has perpetually _re_-originated. lyell shows that among the greeks it was taught by aristotle; among the romans by strabo; among the saracens by avicenna; in italy by moro, geneselli, and targioni; and in england by ray, hutton, and playfair."--_rain and rivers_, by col. george greenwood. longmans, . d edit. the point that is material to this discussion is to decide whether or not those disruptions in thrace are historical and subsequent to the deluge. now, here mr kenrick's main theory, that "speculation is the source of tradition," comes in with fatal effect to dispose of the arguments i am combating, and yet in no way at this point militates against the view i am urging, that these supposed inundations were localisations of the tradition of the general deluge which the pelasgi brought with them from asia. mr kenrick says (p. ):-- "it was a [greek: logos], a popular legend, among the greeks, that thessaly had once been a lake, and that neptune had opened a passage for the waters through the vale of tempe (herod. , ). the occupation of the banks of the rivers of this district by the pelasgi tribes, which must have been _subsequent_ to the opening of the gorge, is the _earliest_ fact in greek history, and the 'logos' itself no doubt originated in a very simple speculation. the sight of a narrow gorge, the sole outlet of the waters of a whole district, naturally suggests the idea of its having once been closed, and, as the necessary consequence, the inundation of the whole region which it now serves to drain." now, if this reasoning is just, it seems to establish two things pretty conclusively: first, that the current legend among the greeks was _not_ the tradition of a local deluge; but, if not a reminiscence, was at any rate the observation of the evidences of a deluge previous to their arrival. moreover, the deluge of their tradition exceeding the actual facts is in evidence of their recollection of an event adequate to such effects. second, that the tradition, if it arose out of a speculation, must have arisen out of a speculation made in the earliest commencement of greek history. it is difficult to reconcile the latter conclusion with mr kenrick's view that the tradition was imported from asia in the fifth century b.c. it is impossible to reconcile the former with the acceptation of a local and historical inundation in the time of the ogyges and deucalion of popular history. this digression on the legend of deucalion has led me away from what is properly the subject-matter of this inquiry; and i therefore propose now to summarise the results of the last two chapters. to pursue the tradition of noah in all its ramifications would extend the inquiry beyond the scope which is necessary for the purposes of my argument. it will have been seen, i think, that my object has not been merely antiquarian research. i have sought to bring into prominence the reminiscences of noah, which recall him at any rate as the depository of the traditions, if not the expositor of the science of mankind, as the channel, if not the fountain-head, of law, which thus became the law of nations--as the intermediary through whom the communications of the most high passed to mankind, and under whose authority mankind held together during some three hundred years.[ ] [ ] gen. vi. ; viii. ; vi. ; ix. ; viii. ; ix. ; and ecclesiasticus xliv. , , , , "the covenants of the world were made with him." let me collect more directly and more fully the epithets in this sense which are dispersed in the above traditions. we have seen that calmet properly identifies saturn with noah; that according to virgil and plutarch "under saturn was the golden age;" saturn of whom hesiod says:--"him of mazy counsel, saturn;" that in the tradition, as we see it in virgil, he is described as bringing his scattered people into social life, and the noticeable phrase is used _legesque dedit_;[ ] that in bacchus, directly connected with saturn through the _saturnalia_, we also see much in his characteristics in common with saturn, all which equally identifies him with noah; and bacchus, as we are told by cicero, was the author of the "laws called subazian."[ ] in janus, too, we find great resemblances to saturn, and in the very respects which would identify him with noah. under janus as under saturn was the golden age, and it is added that in the time of janus, "all families were full of religion and holiness," and although his rule is described as singularly peaceful, he is called quirinus and martialis, as presiding over war. the closing and opening of his temple, too, had a conspicuous and direct connection with peace and war. [ ] i feel justified in bringing in attestation also the following verses of the "oracula sybillina," for, as i have already said, even if they be forgeries of the second century a.d., they at any rate represent the tradition at that date (i. v. ):-- "noë fidelis amans æqui servata periclis egredere audenter, simul et cum conjuge nati tresque nurus: et vos terræ loca vasta replete, crescite multiplice numero, _sacrataque jura tradite_ natorum natis.... hinc nova progenies hinc _ætas aurea_ prima exorta est hominum.... ... ast illo se tempore regia primum imperia ostendent terris quum _foedere facto_ tres justi reges, divisis partibus æquis, _sceptra_ diu populis imponent _sanctaque tradent jura_ viris."... compare also the following verses (orac. sybil, i. ) with the vedic tradition (_infra_, p. ) of the promise made to satiavrata, and the babylonian tradition respecting hoa (_infra_): "... collige, noë, tuas vires ... ... si scieris me divinæ te nulla rei secreta latebunt." [ ] i only instance this as evidence that laws of some sort were attributed to bacchus, whom the traditions also speak of as king of asia: to judge of these laws by what we know of the subazian mysteries, would be as if we were to form our opinion of the mandan ceremonies (_vide infra_, ch. xi.) by the last day's orgies only. in this matter we may say with cicero, _de legibus_, ii. --"omnia tum perditorum civium scelere ... religionum jura polluta sunt." if we turn back to the mythological prototypes in assyria we find him as hoa in connection with "the mystic animal, half-man half-fish, which came up from the persian gulf to teach astronomy and letters to the first settlers on the euphrates and tigris," himself "known to the first settlers;" he is called "the intelligent guide, or, according to another interpretation, the intelligent fish," "the teacher of mankind," "the lord of understanding;" "one of his emblems is the wedge or arrow-head, the essential emblem of cuneiform writing, which seems to be assigned to him as the inventor, or at least the patron of the chaldæan alphabet." in the vedic tradition as satiavrata (_vide_ rawlinson's "bampton lect.," lect. ii. ), having been saved "from the destroying waves" in "a large vessel" sent from heaven for his use--which he entered accompanied "by pairs of all brute animals"--he is thus addressed, "then shalt thou know my true greatness, rightly named the supreme godhead; by my favour all thy questions _shall be answered_ and thy mind abundantly instructed;" and it is added that "after the deluge had abated," satiavrata was "instructed in all _human_ and _divine_ knowledge." in fine, if we recognise him as hoa, we shall find his benefactions to mankind thus summed up in berosus. (_vide_ the original in rawlinson's "ancient monarchies," i. .)[ ] [ ] layard ("nineveh and babylon," p. ) says, "we can scarcely hesitate to identify this mythic form (at kosyundik) with the oannes or sacred man-fish, who, according to the traditions preserved by berosus, issued from the _erethræan_ sea, instructed the _chaldæans_ in all wisdom, in the sciences and the fine arts, and was _afterwards_ worshipped as a god in the temples of babylonia.... five such monsters rose from the persian gulf at fabulous intervals of time (cory's "fragments," p. ). it has been conjectured that this myth denotes the conquest of chaldæa at some remote and pre-historic period by a comparatively civilised nation coming in ships to the mouth of the euphrates.... the _dagon_ of the philistines and of the inhabitants of the phoenician coast was worshipped, according to the united opinion of the hebrew commentators on the bible, under _the same form_." the five apparitions at long intervals may have been the confusion of the previous revelations to the patriarchs with those made to noah--or they may be reduplications (_vide supra_, p. ). "he is said to have transmitted to mankind the knowledge of grammar and mathematics, and of all the arts, of the polity of cities, the construction and dedication of temples, _the introduction of laws_ ([greek: kai nomôn eisêgêseis]); to have taught them geometry, and to have shown them _by example_ the modes of _sowing the seed_ and gathering the _fruits of the earth_," [the "vir agricola" of genesis], and along with them to have tradited all the secrets which tend to humanise life. and no one else at that time was found more super-eminent than he."--_vide_ rawlinson, i. . we have seen that he was known to "the first settlers on the euphrates and tigris." the abbé de tressan says, berosus begins his history with these words:--"_in the first year_ appeared this extraordinary man" (oannes). now, with "the early settlers" on the euphrates and tigris the commencement of all things would have been naturally dated from the deluge. it appears to me worth while, in conclusion, to place more succinctly before the reader the _identical_ terms in which the ancients (various authors) spoke of the first founders of states or their earliest progenitor--compelling the conclusion that allusion was made to one and the same individual and epoch. bryant ("myth." ii. ) says that noah was represented as thoth, hermes, menes, osiris, zeuth, atlas, phoroneus, and prometheus, &c. &c. "there are none wherein his history is delineated more plainly, than in those of saturn and janus." these i will now omit, as we have just seen them to be identical--and so too bacchus, who equally with them plants the vine, teaches them to sow, and gives them laws. _phoroneus_, "an ancient poet quoted by clemens alex. (i. ) calls him the first of mortals, [greek: phyroneus patêr thnêtôn anthrôpôn]." the first deluge took place under phoroneus: "he was also the first who _built_ an altar. he first collected men together and formed them into petty communities."--pausanias, lib. , . he first gave laws and distributed justice.--syncellus, , . they ascribed to him the distribution of mankind, "idem nationes distribuit" (hyginus' fab. ), "which is a circumstance very remarkable." _poseidon's_ epithets connected with the ark are very striking (bryant, ii. , _deucalion, vide ante_, p. ); but he is also said (apollon. rhod. lib. , v. ) to have been "the first man through whom religious rites were renewed, cities built, and civil polity established in the world." _cecrops_ (_vide ante_, p. ), the identical terms are used. _myrmidon_, "a person of great justice." "he is said to have collected people together, humanised mankind, enacted laws, and first established civil polity."--scholia in pindar, ode , v. . _cadmus, vide ante_, p. . _pelasgus_ also is described as equally a benefactor to mankind, and instructed them in many arts.--pausanias, , . he is said to have built the first temple to the deity "ædem jovi olympis primum fecit pelasgus."--hyginus' fab. , . bryant says, "i have taken notice that as noah was said to have been [greek: hanthrôpos gês]," a man of the earth--this characteristic is observable in every history of the primitive persons; and they are represented as '[greek: nomioi],' '[greek: agrioi]', and '[greek: gêgeneis].' pelasgus accordingly had this title (Æschy. "supplicants," v. ), and it is particularly mentioned of him that he _was the first_ husbandman. pelasgus first found out all that is necessary for the cultivation of the ground."--schol. in eurip. "orestes," v. . _osiris._--the account of osiris in diodorus siculus is exactly similar. he travels into all countries like bacchus. he builds cities; and although represented as at the head of an army, is described with the muses and sciences in his retinue. in every region he instructed the people in planting, sowing, and other useful acts.--tibullus, i. e. , v. . he particularly introduced the vine, and when that was not adapted to the soil, the use of ferment and wine of barley. he first built temples, and was a lawgiver and king (diod. sic.).--bryant, ii. . _chin-nong_ (_vide_ also bunsen, _supra_, p. ) "was a husbandman, and taught the chinese agriculture, &c., discovered the virtues of many plants. he was represented with the _head of an ox_, and sometimes only with two horns."--comp. bryant, iii. . _manco capac._--peru, _vide infra_, ch. xiii.; very curious. strabo, , , says of the turditani in spain (iberia), "they are well acquainted with grammar, and have many written records of high antiquity. they have also large collections of poetry (comp. ch. vii.), and _even their laws_ are described in verse, which they say is of six thousand years standing." _deucalion_, according to lucian, was saved from the deluge on account of his wisdom and piety--"[greek: eubouliês te kai euebiês heineka]." [[greek: euboulia]--literally, "good counsel."] _mercury_ gave egypt its laws--"atque egyptiis leges et literas tradidisse."--cicero, "de natura deorum," iii. . _apollo._--cicero says the fourth apollo gave laws to the _arcadians_ (comp. _infra_, p. ): "quem arcades [greek: nomion] appellant, quod ab eo se leges ferunt accepisse," id. iii. ; _vide_ also plato, "leges," i. . chapter xi. _diluvian traditions in africa and america._ boulanger ( - ), a freethinker, and the friend and correspondent of voltaire, was so dominated by his belief in the universal deluge as a fact, that he made its consequences the foundation of all his theories. writing in the midst of a scepticism very much resembling that of the present day, he says, "what! you believe in the deluge?" such will be the exclamation of a certain school of opinion, and this school a very large one. nevertheless, this profound writer, by the exigencies of his theory, was irresistibly brought to the recognition of the fact. "we must take," he continues, "a fact in the traditions of mankind, the truth of which shall be universally recognised. what is it? i do not see any, of which the evidence is more generally attested, than those which have transmitted to us that famous physical revolution which, they tell us, has altered the face of our globe, and which has occasioned a total renovation of human society: in a word, the deluge appears to me the true starting-point (_la veritable epoque_) in the history of nations. not only is the tradition which has transmitted this fact the most ancient of all, but it is moreover clear and intelligible; it presents a fact which can be justified and confirmed." he proceeds, and the drift and animus of the writer will be sufficiently apparent in the passage--"it is then by the deluge that the history of the existing nations and societies has commenced. if there have been false and pernicious religions in the world it is to the deluge that i trace them back as to their source; if doctrines inimical to society have been broached, i see their principles in the consequences of the deluge; if there have existed vicious legislations and innumerable bad governments, it will be upon the deluge that i lay the charge." it is, then, only in attestation of the fact that i adduce this author; and in his proof he has accumulated a large mass of indirect evidence, which a certain school of opinion find it convenient altogether to ignore in reference to this subject. in this class are the various institutions among different nations to preserve the memory of the deluge, as for instance, the "hydrophories ou la fête du deluge à athenes," and at Ægina, the feast of the goddess of syria at hierapolis, both having strange resemblances with the jewish feasts of "nisue ha mâim, or the effusion of waters," and the tabernacles, in their traditional aspects, _i.e._ in their observances _not_ commanded by moses; the "effusion des eaux a ithome ... et de siloe;" the feast of the deluge (of inachus) at argos; a feast, the effusion of water, in persia, anterior to its mahometanism; similar festivals in pegu, china, and japan; in the mysteries of eleusis; in the "peloria," "anthisteria," and "_saturnalia_;" and finally in the pilgrimages to rivers in india[ ] and other parts of the world; "of the multitude of traditions preserved in the diluvian festivals and commemorative usages of the gulphs, apertures, and abysses which have at one time or another vomited forth or absorbed waters" (i. ); again, the pilgrimages to the summits of mountains in india, china, tartary, the caucasus,[ ] peru, &c. "it is easy to see," he adds (p. ), "that this veneration is based upon a corrupted tradition, which has taught these people that their fathers formerly took refuge on the top of this mountain at the time of the deluge, and subsequently descended from it to inhabit the plains." [ ] dionysius periegesis says the women of the british amnitæ celebrated the rites of dionysos:-- "as the bistonians on apsinthus banks shout to the clamorous eiraphiates; or as the indians on dark-rolling ganges hold revels to dionysos the noisy, so do the british women shout evoë." (v. .) (_qy_. enoë.) _vide_ "the bhilsa topes," by major a. cunningham, p. . [ ] i would specially draw attention to the instances of temples constructed upon the model of ships, concerning which _vide_ bryant's "mythology," ii. , , , ; and compare with plate xviii. in montfauçon, ii. i shall have occasion to refer again more in detail to some of these customs[ ] when drawing attention to the resemblances which i shall presently point out; but i wish previously to give, more _in extenso_, his description of the hydrophoria at athens:-- "this name denoted the custom which the athenians had on the day of this feast of carrying water in ewers and vases with great ceremony; in memory of the deluge, they proceeded each year to pour this water into an opening or gulf, which was found near the temple of jupiter olympus, and on this occasion they recalled the sad memory of their ancestors having been submerged. this ceremony is simple and very suitable to its subject; it was well calculated to perpetuate the memory of the catastrophe caused by the waters of the deluge. superstition added some other customs.... they threw into the same gulf cakes of corn and honey; it was an offering to appease the infernal deities.... the greeks placed it in the rank of their unlucky days (also 'un jour triste et lugubre'); and thus they remarked that sylla had taken their city of athens the very day that they had made this commemoration of the deluge. superstition observes everything, not to correct itself, but to confirm itself more and more in its errors. it was, according to the fable, by the opening of this gulf that the waters which had covered attica had disappeared; it was also said that deucalion had raised near to this place an altar which he had dedicated to jove the preserver. 'tradition also attributed to deucalion the temple of jupiter olympus,' in which these mournful ceremonies were performed. 'this temple was celebrated and respected by the pagan nations as far as we can trace history back.' it was reconstructed on a scale of magnificence by pisistratus; every town and prince in greece contributed to its adornment; it was completed by the emperor adrian in of our era. the antiquity of this monument, the respect which all nations have shown it, and the character of the traditions which they have of its origin, ought to establish for the festival of the hydrophoria a great antiquity. the feasts, in general, are more ancient than the temples."--_boulanger_, i. - . [ ] compare bryant. i will now ask the reader, if he has not read (and seen the illustrations in) mr catlin's "o-kee-pa,"[ ] to compare the following extract with the preceding:-- "the o-kee-pa, an annual ceremony to the strict observance of which those ignorant and superstitious people attributed not only their enjoyment in life but their very existence; for traditions, their only history, instructed them in the belief that the singular forms of this ceremony produced the buffaloes for their supply of food, and that the omission of this annual ceremony, _with its sacrifices to the waters_, would bring upon them a repetition of _the calamity_ which their traditions say once befell them, destroying _the whole human race_ excepting one man, who landed from his canoe on a high mountain in the west.[ ] this tradition, however, was not peculiar to the mandan tribe, for among one hundred and twenty different tribes that i have visited in north, south, and central america, not a tribe exists that has not related to me distinct or vague traditions of such a calamity in which one or three or _eight_ persons were saved above the waters on the top of a high mountain. some of them, at the base of the rocky mountains, and in the plains of venezuela and the pampa del sacramento in south america, _make annual pilgrimages_ to the _fancied summits_ where the antediluvian species were saved in canoes or otherwise, and under the mysterious regulations of their medicine (mystery) men tender their prayers and sacrifices to the great spirit to ensure their exemption from a similar catastrophe."--p. . [ ] "o-kee-pa, a religious ceremony, and other customs of the mandans," trübner & co. london, . mr catlin's statements are attested by the certificates of three educated and intelligent men who witnessed the ceremonies with him, and is further corroborated by a letter addressed to mr catlin by prince maximilian of neuwied, the celebrated traveller among the north american indians, who had previously referred to them (he spent a winter among the mandans). [ ] i read in the _times_, march , , that "the american papers state that workmen in iowa, excavating for the projected dubuque and minnesota railroad, in the limestone at the foot of a bluff, discovered recently _some caves and rock chambers_, and, on raising a foot slab, a vault filled with human skeletons of unusual size, the largest being seven feet eight inches high. a figured sun on the walls is taken as indicating that the skeletons belonged to a people who worshipped that luminary [compare _supra_, p. ] _and the representation of a man with a dove stepping out of a boat_, as an allusion to a tradition of the deluge. the fingers of the largest skeleton clasped a pearl ornament, and traces of cloth were found crumbled at the feet of the remains. many copper implements were found, and it is thought that the lake superior mines may have been worked at an early period. the remains were to be removed to the iowa institute of arts and sciences at dubuque." yet, strange to say, this is _no_ proof to mr catlin of the universal deluge recorded in scripture. "if," he says, "it were shown that inspired history of the deluge and of the creation restricted those events to one continent alone, then it might be that the american races came from the eastern continent, bringing these traditions with them, for until that is proved, the american traditions of the deluge are no evidence whatever of an eastern origin. if it were so, and the aborigines of america brought their traditions of the deluge from the east, why did they not bring inspired history of the creation?"[ ]--p. . (_vide_ pp. , .) [ ] compare account of mandan tradition of the creation, from "hist. des ceremonies religieuses," _supra_, p. . the "o-kee-pa," mr catlin says, "was a strictly religious ceremony, ... with the solemnity of religious worship, with abstinence, with sacrifices, with prayer; whilst there were three other distinct and ostensible objects for which it was held,-- . as an annual celebration of the '_subsiding of the waters_' of the deluge. . for the purpose of dancing what they call the bull-dance, to the strict performance of which they attributed the coming of buffaloes. . for purpose of conducting the young men through _an ordeal of privation and bodily torture_, which, while it was supposed to harden their muscles and prepare them for extreme endurance, enabled their chiefs ... to decide upon their comparative bodily strength, endurance," &c.--p. . the torture no doubt subserved this subsidiary purpose, but it appears to me that the original intention and idea was torture for the purpose of expiation, as in the ceremonies in ancient greece.[ ] sundry incidents narrated by catlin seem to establish this. they prepare themselves by fasting (p. ); after having sunk under the infliction of these horrible tortures (and from every point of view they are truly horrible), "no one was allowed to offer them aid when they lay in this condition. they were here enjoying their inestimable privilege of voluntarily intrusting their lives to the keeping of the great spirit, and chose to remain there until the great spirit gave them strength to get up and walk away" (p. ); and when so far recovered, "in each instance" they presented the little finger of the left hand, and some also the forefinger of the same hand and the little finger of the right hand (all tending to make them _pro tanto_ inefficient warriors) "as an offering to the great spirit, as a sacrifice for having listened to their prayers, and protected their lives in what they had just gone through" (p. ). [ ] _supra_, p. . these tortures have their exact counterpart in india, _e.g._ the ceremony of the _pota_ (compare sanscrit, "pota" = boat), thus described by hunter ("rural bengal," , p. ):--"pota (hook-swinging), now stopped by government, but still practised ( ) among the northern santals [who have the distinct tradition of the deluge and dispersion referred to, _supra_] in _april or may_. lasted about one month. young men used to swing with hooks through their back [as seen in catlin's illustrations], as in the charak puja of the hindus. the swingers used _to fast_ the day preceding and the day following the operation, and to sleep the intermediate night on thorns." "on pleuroit et l'on s'attristoit dans les fêtes _les plus gayes et plus dissolues_; les cultes d'isis et d'osiris, ainsi que ceux _de bacchus_, de céres, d'adonis, d'atys, &c., étoient _accompagnés de macérations et de larmes_."--_boulanger_, iii. . for the description of the _bull_-dance,[ ] and for the subsequent history and final extinction of the mandans, i must refer my readers to mr catlin's valuable testimony to the truth of scripture, and important contributions to ethnological science. [ ] bryant ("myth." ii. ) says, "there were many arkite" (_i.e._ commemorative of ark) "ceremonies in different parts of the world, which were generally styled _taurica_ sacra" (from taurus = _bull_). these mysteries were of old attended with acts of _great cruelty_. of these "i have given instances, taken from different parts of the world; from egypt, syria, cyprus, crete, and sicily." i shall now proceed to show analogies in what will be admitted to be most unlikely ground--in the king of dahome's celebrated "so-sin customs," described by captain richard burton. before, however, proceeding further, i must point out the following features in the ceremonies or customs as common to grecian and antique pagan; to the mandan (indian of north america), and to the tropical african.[ ] in the first place they are cyclical; they are all of a mournful character; all are interrupted at intervals by processions, dances, and songs of a traditional character; they all close in scenes of rejoicing or rather in bacchanalian (yet still traditionally [_vide_ page , note boulanger] bacchanalian) scenes of riot and debauchery. the duration of the festivals varies from three and four to five days; the days have fantastic names, which, although different, still in their very peculiarity, and also in the drift and meaning of the names so far as it can be gathered, are suggestive of a common origin, _e.g_. the first day of the anthesteria, at athens was called "[greek: pithoigia, apo tou pithous oigein]," "because they tapped their casks." the fourth day of the king of dahome's customs is named "so (horse) nan-wen (will break) _kan_ (rope) 'gbe (to-day)."--burton, ii. . one part of the mandan ceremony is called "mee-ne-ro-ka-ha-sha," or "the _settling down of the waters_," which name again closely corresponds to the ceremonies at athens and at hierapolis in syria (_ante_), where water was poured into the opening where the waters of the deluge were supposed to have disappeared. the fifth day of the dahome customs is named "minai afunfun khi uhun-jro men dadda gezo"="we go to the small mat tent under which the king sits."--burton, ii. . this approximates to the scene described by catlin (p. ) at the close of the bull-dance (fourth day), when "the master of ceremonies (corresponding to the king at dahome) cried out for all the dancers, musicians," and "the representatives of _animals_ and _birds_," "to gather again around him." he is described as coming out of the mystery lodge and collecting them round "the big canoe." [ ] let the following points of resemblance be noted also in the "panathenæa." the lesser, and it is supposed the annual festival, was celebrated on the th of thargelion, corresponding to the th may (compare catlin). every citizen contributed olive branches and an ox (_vide_ catlin) at the greater festival. "in the ceremonies without the city there was an engine built _in the form of a ship_, on purpose for this solemnity;" upon this the sacred garment of minerva "was hung in the manner of a _sail_," "the whole conveyed to the temple of _ceres elusinia_." "this procession was led by _old men_, together, as some say, with old women carrying _olive branches_ in their hands." "after them came the men of full age with shields and spears, being attended by the [greek: metoikoi], or sojourners, who carried _little boats_ as a token of their being foreigners, and were called on that account _boat-bearers_; then followed the women attended by the sojourner's wives, who were named [greek: hydriaphoroi], from _bearing water pots_."--compare burton, catlin. then followed select virgins, covered with millet, "called _basket-bearers_," the baskets containing necessaries for the celebration. "these virgins were attended by the sojourner's daughters, who carried _umbrellas_ (_vide_ pongol festival, appendix), _little seats_, whence they were called _seat-carriers_."--compare burton (_vide_ potter's "antiquities," i. .) compare also the following in the "dionysia" or festivals in honour of bacchus (_ante_, p. ) with catlin. "they carried thyrsi, _drums_, pipes, flutes, and _rattles_, and crowned themselves with garlands of _trees_ sacred to bacchus, ivy, vine, &c. some imitated silenus, pan, and the satyrs, exposing themselves in _comical dresses_ and antic motions;" and in this manner ran about the hills "invoking bacchus." "at athens this frantic rout was followed by persons carrying certain sacred vessels, the first of which was _filled with water_." bryant ("mythology," ii. ) speaking of egypt ("the priests of ammon who at _particular seasons_ used to carry in procession a boat," concerning which refer to page ), says--"part of the ceremony in most of the ancient mysteries consisted in carrying about a kind of ship or boat, which custom upon due examination will be found to relate to nothing else but noah and the deluge." he adds that the name of "the navicular shrines was _baris_, which is very remarkable; for it is the very name of the mountain, according to nicolaus damascenus, on which the ark of noah rested, the same as ararat in armenia." herodotus speaks of "_baris_" as the egyptian name of a ship, l. , ; eurip. "iphig. in aulis," v. ; Æschylus, persæ, ; lycophron, v. , refer to names of ships in connection with noah. _sup._, p. . query--is our word barge a corruption of baris? or perhaps of _baris_ in connection with "_argus_," also a term for the ark. (with reference to this etymology _vide_ my remark, p. , and d'anselme, p. , and bryant, ii. .) but the closest connection is in the nature and order of the ceremonies on the fourth day at dahome and among the mandans. among the latter, interrupting the bull-dance on that day, there is an apparition of "the evil spirit,"[ ] graphically described by mr catlin (p. ), and at dahome (burton, ii. ), there intervenes between the fourth and fifth days' ceremonies what is called "the evil night" (there are two "evil nights") which is the night of the horrible massacre. but on this night also, at the close of the fourth day's ceremonies among the mandans, the infliction of tortures (very horrible, but mild in comparison with the african butchery) commence. now, i have already ventured the opinion that these tortures were originally of an expiatory character, and this gains confirmation by the assurance made to captain r. burton that the victims on "the evil night" were only "criminals" and prisoners of war, the people of dahome, on all occasions (_vide infra_), preferring a vicarious mode of expiation. captain r. burton (ii. ) says of these massacres:--"the king takes no pleasure in the tortures and death or in the sight of blood, as will presently appear. the killed in one day, _the canoe_[ ] paddled in a pool of gore, and other grisly nursery tales, must be derived from whydah, where the slave-traders invented them, probably to deter englishmen from visiting the king. it is useless to go over the ground of human sacrifice from the days of the wild hindu's naramadha to the burnings of the druids, and to the awful massacres of peru and mexico. in europe the extinction of the custom _began_ from the time of the polite augustus," _i.e._ commenced with the advent of our lord. [_vide_ a reference to ms. of sir j. acton in mr gladstone's address to the university of edinburgh, , from which it would appear that the final extinction was not until the triumph of christianity.] [ ] compare the "bhain-sasur" or _buffalo_-demon at usayagiri, carrying a trident. _vide_ "the bhilsa tope," major alex. cunningham, . [ ] it is as well to note, however, that the dahomans have recently altered their customs. the one captain burton witnessed (ii. ) was a "mixed custom," and elsewhere allusion is made to "the new" ceremony. without carrying rashness to the excess of disputing the interpretation of dahoman words with captain burton, i may yet demur to accepting his explanation of the term "so-sin" (the "so-sin customs") _absolute et simpliciter_. he says (i. ), "the sogan ('so' = horse, 'gan' captain) opens the customs by taking all the chargers from their owners and by tying them up, whence the word _so-sin_. the animals must be redeemed in a few days with a bag of cowries."[ ] this is certainly a very likely definition, and although secondary, is no doubt the explanation current among the present generation of dahomans. all i shall venture to do is to supplement it. but may not the old and primitive idea still lurk in the name? at i. , i perceive captain burton says "so" and "sin" mean _water_,[ ] and the compound word "amma-sin" means "medicine" = "leaf-water," and again at the same word "sin" is twice used to signify liquid. if so, in the very name of the feast we find the word _water_, which links it into connection with "the mandan custom" and the festivals of ancient greece. [ ] analogies may perhaps be discovered in the representations of the procession escorting a relic casket on the architraves of the western gate at sanchi. (_vide_ "the bhilsa tope," by major alex. cunningham, p. .) "street of a city on the left, houses on each side filled with spectators,... a few horsemen heading a procession, ... immediately outside the gate are four persons bearing either trophies or some peculiar instruments of office. then follows a _led horse_, ... a soldier with a bell-shaped shield, two fifers, three _drummers_, and two men blowing _conches_. next comes the king on an elephant, carrying the holy relic casket on his head and supporting it with his right hand. then follows two peculiarly dressed men on horseback, perhaps prisoners. they wear a kind of cap (now only known in barmawar, on the upper course of the ravi) and boots or leggings. the procession is closed by two horsemen (one either the minister or a member of the royal family) and by an elephant with two riders." it may have had connection with the _as_warnedha or horse sacrifice (cunningham, p. .) boulanger (i. ) says, "that after the winter solstice the ancient inhabitants of india descended with their king to the banks of the indus; they there sacrificed _horses_ and _black bulls_, signs of a funeral ceremony; they then threw a bushel measure into the water without their assigning any reason for it." compare the throwing the cakes into the gulf at athens, and the hatchets into the water at the mandan custom. could it be that at the dahoman ceremony the horses were redeemed because the wretched victims were substituted, carrying out the idea of vicarious sacrifice and expiation? sir john lubbock ("origin of civilization," p. ) says, speaking of _water_ worship, "the kelpie or spirit of the _waters assumed_ various forms, those of a man, woman, _horse_, or _bull_ being the most common." compare _supra_, pp. , , , manou, bacchus. homer (hom. il., heynii, xxi. , lord derby, ), says-- "shall aught avail ye, though to him (the river scamander) in sacrifice, the blood of countless _bulls_ you pay, and living _horses_ in his waters sink;" and ( ) asteropoeus is called "river-born," because the son of pelegon, who "to broadly flowing axius owed his birth." remembering the belief of certain tribes of indians (supra, p. ) that they were "created under the water," which i have construed to mean, that they were created on the other side of the deluge, so we may take in a similar sense the traditions of these homeric heroes that they were "river-born;" and does the expression, son of pelegon (compare "son of prometheus," _supra_, p. ), imply more than that he was the descendant of phaleg, or, if not in the line of descent, the descendant of progenitors who had retained the tradition that phaleg was so called, "because in his days the earth was divided"?--gen. ch. x. . compare ancient welsh ballad (davies' "mythology of british druids," p. )-- "truly i was in the ship with dylan (deucalion), son of the sea.... when ... the floods came forth from heaven to the great deep." [ ] the name for _river_ in the chitral or little kashghar vocabulary (vigne, "travels in kashmir") is river = _sin_; also in the dangon, on the indus, voc. (_id._) river = _sin_; in the affghan (kalproth) the sea = _sin_d. _sind_hu is the sanscrit name for river (max müller, "science of lang.," st series, ); and has also its equivalent in ancient persian. in danish, river or lake = _so_; in icelandic, sjor (sjo); in bultistan, touh; german, see; english, sea; in kashmir, sar = marse; icelandic, saus. compare rivers saar, soane, seine, irish suir; perhaps also esk and usk (vigne, "trav. in kashmir"). horse = shtah, in bultistan. has not _so_ analogy with eau, augr (chittral), _water_? _sara_ = water in sanscrit (max müller, "chips," ii. ); sanscrit, vari, more generic term for water; latin, mare; gothic, marie; slavonic, more; irish and scotch, muir (_id._) compare chinese "ma" = horse; mongol, "mon" = horse; german, machre; english, _mare_. conclusion, either there is the same word for horse and water in certain languages, which may have occurred in the way of secondary derivation from these "mysteries," or if _so_ means water, then "so-sin" may only be a reduplication, as in the names of some of our rivers--_e.g._ dwfr-dwy = water, of deva = dee-river (_archæol. journal_, xvii. ). bryant ("myth." ii. ) says "the [greek: hippos], hippus (horse), alluded to in the early mythology was certainly a _float_ or _ship_, the same as the ceto." there is, moreover, the analogy in the latin of _aqua_ and _equus_. another sanscrit word for water, "ap" (max müller, sc. of l., ) has analogy with the greek [greek: hippos] = horse. it appears (sc. of l., nd series, p. ), that the tahitians have substituted the word "pape" for "vai" = water; but both words "pape," to _ap_, "vai," to _vari_, seem to have analogies to sanscrit as above. plato ("cratylus," c. , sc. of l., st series, p. ) mentions that the name for water was the same in phrygian and greek. at p. , st series, mr max müller says that persian harôya is the same as sanscrit saroya; which latter "is derived from a root 'sar' or 'sri,' to go, to run; from which 'saras,' water, 'sarit,' river, and 'sarayu,' the proper name of the river near oude." here at any rate in the sanskrit "sar," to run, we may, if the above conjecture is rejected, start the words "horse" and "water" from a common root. the word, "so" = horse, will therefore still remain, and may perhaps stand in the same relation to the "water" celebration, that the "bull" does to the mandan celebration of the deluge. captain burton, for instance, tells us (ii. ), a "so" was brought up to us (on the fourth day of the so-sin custom, and on the fourth day of the mandan custom "the bull-dance" was performed sixteen times round "the big canoe"); but i will place the two descriptions side by side. captain burton, ii. . "a 'so' was brought up to us, a _bull-face mask_ of natural size, painted black, with glaring eyes and _peep-holes_, the horns were hung with _red_ and _white_ rag _strips_, and beneath was a dress of bamboo fibre covering the feet, and ruddy at the ends. it danced with head on one side and swayed itself about, to the great amusement of the people." _vide_ also p. , "four tall men singularly dressed, and with bullocks' tails," &c. mr catlin, p. . "the chief actors in these strange scenes (bull-dance) were eight men, with the entire skins of buffaloes thrown over them, enabling them closely to imitate the appearance and motions of those animals, as the bodies were kept in as horizontal a position, the horns and tails of the animals remaining on the skins, and the skins of the animals' heads served as _masks_ through the eyes of which the _dancers were looking_." the legs of the dancers were painted _red_ and _white_" (plate .) if we might (on the strength of so many words of primary necessity being in common) connect "so" = horse, with the saxon "soc" or plough (as in the soc and service tenure), we could then see a way in which the same word might apply indifferently to ox or horse; and we would, moreover, see through the common relation to noah how the water ceremony came to be associated with the worship of ceres in the mysteries of eleusis. _vide_ boulanger, i. - .[ ] [ ] compare (klaproth, "mem. asiat." ii. )--eng. _ox_; mongol, char; hebrew, chor; french, charrue (plough.) klaproth, ii. , "les cheveux en thou khin (whom he identifies with the turks) portaient le nom de _sogo_ ou _so_ko; cest le même nom que le turc sâtch ou sadg." can it have affinity with chinese _sa_ (chinese szu = boeuf sauvage); german, säen; swedish, _sá_; french, semer; english = to _sou_; peruvian, sara = maize; also french, _cou_dre, to sow with english corn; sanscrit, go; high german, chus; sclavonic, _go_ws (max müller, "chips," ii. ); and kashmir and dongan, gau; icelandic, ku? in affghan a bull = _sak_hendar and _souk_handar. in the extinct tartar coman (_vide_ klaproth) ox = _ogus_ or _seger_ = turkish, okus; sanscrit, oukcha; german, ochse. plough = sanscrit, sinam; irish, serak; persian, siar. horse = _as_p, persian; _ess_, sclavonic = english _ass_; and in chittral on indus (_vide_ horse or bull used in ceremonies on banks of indus, _infra_) horse = _astor_. (has not _tor_ here affinity with _taur_eau.) corn = _as_lek (kirghish) and ashlyk (?) turkish. max müller (science of language, p. ), says--"aspa was the persian name for horse, and in the scythian names, aspabota, aspakara, and asparatha, we can hardly fail to recognise the same element." also, p. , "the comparison of ploughing and sowing is of frequent occurrence in ancient language." eng., plough; sclav., ploug = sanscrit, plava, ship = gk. [greek: ploion], ship. "in english dialects, plough is used as a waggon or conveyance. in the vale of blackmore, a waggon is called a plough, or plow, and _zull_ (a.-s., syl) is used for aratrum."--barnes, "dorset dialect," p. , ap. max müller. the above enumeration does not exhaust the points of resemblance. compare the following:-- burton, ii. . "conspicuous objects on the left of the pavilion were two ajalela or fetish pots made by the present king (according to the customs.) _vide_ note . both are lamp black, shaped like amphoræ (amphoræ, for holding wine) about feet high, and planted on tripods. the larger was solid, the smaller callendered with many small holes, and both were decorated with brass and silver crescents, stars, and similar ornaments. the second, when filled _with water and medicine_ allows none to escape, so great is its fetish power; an army guarded by it can never be defeated, and it will lead the way to absokuta." compare pongol ceremony, p. . catlin, p. . "in an open area in the centre of the village stands the ark or 'big canoe,' around which a great proportion of the ceremonies were performed. this rude symbol, of or feet in height, was constructed of planks and hoops, having somewhat the appearance of a large hogshead standing on its end, and containing some mysterious things, which none but the _medicine_ (mystery) men were allowed to examine." this must be considered in connection with the following. burton. in the opening procession of the third day's customs, captain burton tells us (ii. ), "first came a procession of eighteen tansi-no or fetish women, who have charge of the last monarch's grave.... they were preceded by bundles of matting, eight _large stools_, calabashes, pipes, _baskets_ of _water_, grog, and meat with segments of _gourd_ above and below, tobacco bags, and other commissariat articles; and they were followed by a band of horns and _rattles_."[ ] [ ] compare the procession in the panathenæa and dionysia, _supra_, p. . in another procession (ii. ), "the party was brought up by slave girls carrying baskets and calabashes. (query, of water?) these, preceded by six bellowing horns, stalked in slowly, and with measured gait the _eight_ tansi-no, who serve and pray for the ghosts of dead kings. (query, eight dead kings?) in front went _their_ ensign, a copper measuring rod feet long and tapering to a very fine end; behind it were two chauris and seven mysterious pots and calabashes wrapped in _white_ and _red_ checks," and presently "three brass, four copper, and six iron pots, curiosities on account of their great size.... _eight_ images, of which three were apparently _ship's figureheads_ whitewashed, and the rest very hideous efforts of native art."[ ] [ ] "eight men representing eight buffalo bulls," in mandan celebration, "took their positions on the four sides of the ark or 'big canoe.'"--catlin, p. . "the _chief actors_ in these strange scenes were _eight_ men with skins of buffaloes," &c. p. . four images were suspended on poles above the mystery lodge, p. . catlin. in captain burton's account of the articles paraded in the procession, the pipes (to which great mystery is attached), the _horns_ and _rattles (vide pl.)_, and _the baskets of water_ are common to the mandan ceremony. may not the eight stools be representative of the eight diluvian survivors. _vide supra_, , cabiri? let us, however, confine our attention to the "baskets of water." compare with the following account in catlin. "in the medicine (mystery) lodge ... there were also four articles of _veneration_ and importance lying on the ground, which were _sacks_ containing each some three or four gallons of _water_. these seemed to be objects of great superstitious regard, and had been made with much labour and ingenuity, being constructed of the skins of the _buffaloes'_ neck, and sewed together in the forms of large _tortoises_ lying on their backs (comp. p. ; also p. ), each having a sort of tail made of _raven's_ quills and a stick like a drumstick lying on it, with which, as will be seen in a subsequent part of the ceremony, the musicians beat upon the _sacks_ as instruments of music for their _strange dances_. by the sides of these sacks, which they called ech-tee-ka (drums), there were two other articles of equal importance which they called ech-na-da (rattles) made of undressed skins shaped into the form of _gourd_ shells," &c. (note the segments of _gourd_ accompanying the _water_ baskets in the dahome procession, _supra_.) catlin adds--"the sacks of water had the appearance of great antiquity, and the mandans pretended that the water had been contained in them ever since the deluge."--pp. , .[ ] [ ] in the _japanese_ (_vide_ p. ) version of the legend of the _bull_ breaking the mundane egg (_vide_ p. ), a _gourd_ or pumpkin is also broken which contained the first man.--_vide_ bryant's "mythology," iii. . "i have mentioned that _the ark_ was looked upon as the mother of mankind, and styled da-mater, and it was on this account figured under the semblance of a _pomegranate_," "as it abounds with seed"--bryant, ii. . _vide_ also plate (bryant, ii. ), where juno (_vide_, p. ) holds a _dove_ in one hand and a _pomegranate_ in the other. burton, ii. . it must be remembered that at dahome, royalty as there represented has absorbed and monopolized the most important parts of the ceremonial: it is natural, therefore, to expect that the conspicuous figures in the original (or in the mandan), which conflicted or would not consort with royalty, would be thrown into the background. accordingly i am only able to get a glimpse of the conspicuous figures opposite in the following passage:--"the jesters were followed by a dozen _pursuivants_ armed with gong-gongs, who advanced bending towards the throne, and shouted the 'strong names' or titles. conspicuous amongst them was an _oldster_ in a crimson sleeveless tunic and yellow shorts: his head was red with dust, he carried a large _bill-hook_,[ ] and he went about attended by _four_ drums and one cymbal." [ ] compare also _sup._, p. , with saturn. "ipsius autem canities," &c., and "cum falce messis insigne." it will be remembered (if my readers have read mr catlin, p. , ) that the first thing "the aged white man" does on entering the mystery lodge is to call on the chiefs "to furnish him with _four_ men," and the next is to "receive at the door of every mandan's wigwam _some edged tool_ to be given to the water as a sacrifice, as it was with _such tools_ that the "big canoe" was built.[ ] [ ] compare again these two figures, one figuring in the dahoman procession, the other in the mandan bull dance. catlin, p. . the opening scene in the mandan customs, effectively described by mr catlin, begins with "a solitary human figure descending the prairie hills and approaching the village," "in appearance a very _aged_ man," "a centenarian white man," dressed in a robe of four white wolves' skins." he was met by the head chief and the council of chiefs, and addressed by them as "nu-mohk-muck-a-nah" (the _first_ and only man.) "he then harangued them for a few minutes, reminding them that every human being on the surface of the earth had been destroyed by the water excepting himself, who had landed on a high mountain in the west in his canoe, where he still resided, and from whence he had come to open the medicine (mystery) lodge, that the mandans might celebrate the _subsiding of the waters_, and make the proper sacrifices to the water, lest the same calamity should again happen to them." burton, ii. . "the ministers ... they were conducted by a 'lali' or half-head, with right side of his pericranium clean shaven, and the left in a casing of silver that looked like a cast or a half melon." * * * * * burton says (ii. ), "one of the dahoman monarch's peculiarities is that he is double, not merely binonymous, nor dual, like the spiritual mickado and temporal tycoon of japan, but two in one. gelele, for instance, is king of the city and addo-kpon of the 'bush'; _i.e._ of the farmer folk and the country as opposed to the city. this country ruler has his _official_ mother, the dank-li-ke.... thus dahome has two points of interest to the ethnologist--the distinct precedence of women and the double king."--_vide_ also p. . catlin, p. . compare with the two athletic young men (_vide_ plate xiii.) assigned to each of the young men who underwent the torture--"their bodies painted _one half red_ and the other blue, and carrying a bunch of willow-boughs in one hand." here two or three questions suggest themselves. if this ceremony is primitive, will not dual royalty give a clue to the duality we find so commonly in mythology, assuming the basis of mythology to be historical? d, is there no clue in the name, _official_ name, of dank-li-ke? what does the reader guess the meaning to be? (p. .) mr burton tells us it means, "dank (the rainbow), li (stand), and ke (the world)." is it a forced paraphrase to construe this to mean--the rainbow is the sign that the world shall stand? upon the point of the precedence of woman, to which the dahoman ceremony testifies, but to which it gives no clue, i shall, as it is so very important in more bearings than one, give at some length the following scene from catlin:-- "when 'the evil spirit' enters the camp during the ceremony, he proceeds to make various attacks, which are defeated by the intervention of the master of the ceremonies. in several attempts of this kind the evil spirit was thus defeated, after which he came wandering back amongst the dancers, apparently much fatigued and disappointed.... in this distressing dilemma he was approached by an old matron, who came up slyly behind him, with both hands full of yellow dirt, which (by reaching around him) she suddenly dashed in his face, covering him from head to foot, and changing his colour, as the dirt adhered to the undried bear's grease on his skin; ... at length _another_ snatched his _wand_ from his hand and broke it across her knee ... his power was thus gone ... bolting through the crowd, he made his way to the prairies."--p. . we shall not be surprised to learn, then, that when the "feast of the buffaloes" (distinct from the bull-dance) commences (p. ), several old men perambulated the village in various directions, in the character of criers, with rattles in their hands, proclaiming that "the _whole government of the mandans_ was then in the hands of one woman--she who had disarmed the evil spirit ... that the chiefs that night were old women; that they had nothing to say; that no one was allowed to be out of their wigwams excepting the favoured ones whom 'the governing woman' had invited," &c. will not this give a clue to the precedence in dahome, _probandis probatis_, and is not the precedence in dahome thus interpreted, and the interlude above described evidence of the tradition, that the _woman_ should break the head of the _serpent_? (gen. iii. ). it is of great significance, and, if so many points of comparison had not occurred, ought to have been stated at the outset, that at dahome "the sin-kwain ("sin," water--"kwain," sprinkling), or water-sprinkling custom follows closely upon the "so-sin or horse-tie rites."--_vide_ burton, ii. . now, if the reader will turn to boulanger, i. , , he will find this identical custom in persia, pegu, china, and japan. but i relinquish the details, as i fear i shall have exhausted the patience of the few readers i shall have carried with me to this point; and because the king of dahome has a custom perhaps still more demonstrably cognate to not only the ancient grecian ceremonies on the shores of the ocean and on the banks of rivers, but with widely diffused tradition. i shall here place four writers in juxtaposition, and with this testimony i shall conclude:-- boulanger. the ancient inhabitants of italy repaired once a year to the lake cutilia, where they made sacrifices and celebrated secret mysteries or ceremonies (dion. halicarnassus, i. ). the pontiffs in ancient rome also went annually to the banks of the tiber, "là ils faisoient des sacrifices _expiatoires_ à saturne, ce dieu chronique," &c. (dion. hal. i. .) in the kingdom of saka in africa their greatest solemnity was celebrated on the banks of the rivers; the king himself presides at it (hist. gener. des voy., iii. ). the same custom has been already (_supra_, p. ) noticed on the indus. in all these cases human sacrifices were offered, or substitutes.--boulanger, i. pp. - . compare _supra_, p. , lines from dionysius periegesis. burton. at whydat the youngest brother of their triad is hu, the ocean or sea. [compare with assyrian hoa, _supra_, p. , and chinese yu, p. .] "the hu-no, or ocean priest, is now considered the highest of all.... at times the king sends as an ocean sacrifice from agborne a man carried in a hammock, with the dress, the stool, and the umbrella of a caboceer; a canoe takes him out to sea, where he is thrown to the sharks. the custom for this element is made at whydat, in a place near the greater market, and called hu-kpa-man. it is a _round_ hut, with thatch and chalked walls: outside is a heap of bones, whilst _skulls_, carapaces of the _tortoise_, and similar materials, cumber the _interior_. the priest is a fetish woman, who _offers water_ and kola nuts to, and expects rum from, white visitors."--ii. p. . compare also _supra_, in preface, extract from davies' "celtic researches" on the celtic god hu. catlin. the water ceremonies in catlin's account have already been sufficiently adverted to. he thus describes the medicine or mystery lodge in which they took place. exteriorly, with the exception of the four images, it differed only in dimensions from the other wigwams, which are thus described? "they were covered with earth. they were all of one form; the frames or shells constructed of timbers, and covered with a thatching of willow boughs, and over and on that with a foot or two in thickness of a concrete of tough clay and gravel, which became so hard as to admit the whole group of inmates to recline on _their tops_. they varied in size from thirty to sixty feet, and _were perfectly round_." for extract describing _interior_, _vide supra_, p. , noting (_vide_ plate iii. in catlin) the four human and four ox _skulls_; "the sacks of water in the form of large _tortoises_ lying on their backs." _n.b._--with reference to the tortoise, _vide ante_ p. . compare the "buddhist topes" in major cunningham's "bhilsa tope," _vide_ p. . hunter. hunter ("annals of rural bengal," p. ) says of the santals: "the only stream of any consequence in their present country--the damouda--is regarded with a veneration altogether disproportionate to its size. thither the superstitious santal repairs to consult the prophets and diviners, and once a year the tribes make a pilgrimage to its banks in commemoration of their forefathers.... however remote the jungle in which the santal may die, his nearest kinsman carries a little relic of the deceased to the river, and places it in the current to be conveyed to the far-off eastern land from which his ancestors came." in connection with the above, it must be remembered (_vide_ appendix g, p. , "santal traditions") that they have, although confused with the creation, an unmistakable tradition of the deluge, the intoxication of noah, and the dispersion. if, then, i have shown that the custom, for the preservation of which from oblivion, so far as the mandans (now extinct) are concerned, we are indebted to mr catlin, and which so plainly tells its own tale, is common to europe, asia, and africa, as well as america, i shall have established it as a tradition, not of a local american, but of an universal deluge; and if the tradition of the universal deluge is proved, then, according to mr catlin's narrative itself, there is tradition of the creation also (_vide_ pp. , , ).[ ] [ ] i allude to the opening of the ceremony by the centenarian _white_ man, "the first and only man." mr catlin is of opinion that this incident was introduced and superadded by some missionaries, though he adds it would be still more strange if the (jesuit) missionaries had instructed them "in the other modes." this, however, is understating the case. it is conceivable that missionaries should have come among them, but in this case we should have expected some trace of christian practices and dogmas; it is difficult to conjecture what set of missionaries could have indoctrinated them with the recondite pagan mysteries of eleusis and hierapolis. i have replied more fully, in chap. vii., to mr catlin's objection--that though they have a tradition of a deluge, it is not the tradition of the deluge, because they have not also the tradition of the creation. mr catlin argues upon the view that the american race "were created upon the ground on which they were found" ("last rambles," p. , ); and (p. ) adds, "i can find nothing in history, sacred or profane, against this." he takes his stand (in "o-kee-pa") upon this--that there is nothing in the mandan tradition which can be brought in proof of their migration from another continent. in reply i shall adduce their very name. the american continent may have been peopled by way of behring's straits, or from europe in the east by way of greenland, or by the connection of the pacific islands from the opposite coasts of japan, china, and the corea, or from the polynesian groups in the south. the population may have poured in by all these routes. it is said (prescott, "conquest of mexico," ii. )[ ] that mss. exist at copenhagen proving that the american coast was visited by the northmen in the eleventh century. the polynesian route we may leave out of consideration, as it will not probably have been the one by which the mandans came. as to the route by behring's straits, mr catlin admits "it is a possibility, and therefore they say it is probable" (p. , "last rambles"). but if, as there appears to me reason to think, they came from the opposite coast of the corea, it might as reasonably be conjectured that the migration took the route of behring's straits, or by way of the sandwich islands. the possibility of the former is conceded. i will confine my attention, therefore, to the latter, which mr catlin pronounces absolutely impossible. in the first place, the distance between the sandwich islands and america is not greater than between otaheite and new zealand.[ ] now it is admitted that new zealand was peopled from otaheite. moreover (_vide_ sir j. lubbock, "pre-historic times," p. ), the inhabitants of the sandwich islands, at two thousand miles distance, belong to the same race as those of tahiti (otaheite) and new zealand, and resemble them "in religion, languages, canoes, houses, weapons, food, habits, &c."[ ] the canoes of the pacific islanders generally (_vide_ captain cook _passim_) were of considerable size, and of very perfect workmanship. but also prescott ("conquest of mexico," ii. , quoting beechey's "voyage to pacific," , p. appendix, humboldt's "examen. critique de l'hist. de la geog." and nuov. cont. ii. ) says, "it would be easy for the inhabitant of eastern tartary or japan to steer his canoe from islet to islet quite across to the american shore, without ever being on the ocean more than two days at a time."[ ] [ ] _vide_ also giebel, "tagesfragen," p. ; _apud_ reusch, p. . [ ] _vide_ "cook's voyages," i. ; prescott, ii. . [ ] "there have been recent instances of japanese vessels having been thrown by shipwreck upon the coasts of the sandwich islands, and even on the mouth of the columbia."--reusch, "la bible et la nature," p. . "since the north-west coast of america and the north-east of asia have been explored, little difficulty remains on this subject.... small boats can safely pass the narrow strait. ten degrees farther south, the _aleutian_ and fox islands form a continuous chain between kamschatka and the peninsula of alaska in such a manner as to leave the passage across a matter of no difficulty."--warburton's "conquest of canada," i. . ellis ("polynesian researches," ii. ) says: "there are also _many_ points of _resemblance_ in language, manners, and customs between the south sea islanders and the inhabitants of madagascar in the west; the inhabitants of the _aleutian_ and _kurile_ islands in the north, which stretch along the mouth of behring's straits, and forms the chain which connects the old and new worlds," &c. [ ] "the sandwich islands, with a population of , , are more than two thousand miles from the coast of south america. how did the population of those islands get there? certainly not in canoes over ocean waves of two thousand miles. but i am told 'the sandwich islanders are polynesians;' not a bit of it; they are two thousand miles north of the polynesian group, with the same impossibility of canoe navigation, and are as different in _physiological traits_ of character and _language_ from the polynesian, as they are different from the american races.--"last rambles" (catlin), p. . . captain king, "transactions on returning to sandwich islands," &c., continuation of cook's voyages, pinkerton (xi. ) says on the contrary: "the inhabitants of the sandwich islands are undoubtedly of the same race with those of new zealand, the society and friendly islands, easter islands, and the marquesas. this fact, which, extraordinary as it is, might be thought sufficiently proved by the _striking_ similarity of their _manners_ and _customs_, and the general resemblance of their _persons_ is established beyond all controversy by the _absolute identity_ of their language." shortland says that the new zealanders, "when speaking of any old practice, regarding the origin of which you may inquire, have the expression constantly in their mouths, 'e hara i te mea poka hou mai; no hawaika mai ano.'--it is not a modern invention; but a practice brought from hawaiki, sandwich islands)."--shortland's "traditions of the new zealanders," p. . we may agree, then, that the mandans might have come by this route. is there anything which makes it probable that they came? well, yes; in the first place their name. mr catlin tells us ("o-kee-pa," p. ), "the mandans (nu-mak-ká-kee, _pheasants_, as they call themselves) have been known from the time of the first visits made to them, to the day of their destruction, as one of the most friendly and hospitable tribes on the united states frontier." it transpires, therefore, that they are called _pheasants_. is the pheasant a native of america?--on the other hand, is it not common on the opposite asiatic continent, and on the islands adjacent to it from new guinea to the corea? i have never heard of the pheasant in the american continent;[ ] but in reading the accounts of the missionaries of the corea (the only foreigners who have penetrated into the country), i read, "that clouds of _pheasants_ and birds of all kinds perch at night in the branches of the trees" ("life of henri dorie," translated by lady herbert; burns & oates, p. ); and if the reader will turn to p. in the same life, and will compare the description of the coreans, which he will find there, with the description and portraits of the mandans in mr catlin's "o-kee-pa," pp. , , he will, i think, recognise a sufficient resemblance to warrant and sustain the presumption created by their name.[ ] [ ] as far as i can ascertain, the pheasant is not a native of america. yarrell speaks of it as asiatic, and that it has been domesticated "in all parts of the _old_ continent." so also gould. of the american writers, _neither_ wilson, audubon, bonaparte, nuttall, richardson, or jameson include the pheasant. mr catlin, however, says, p. : "from the translation of their name, already mentioned (nu-mah-ká-kee, pheasants), an important inference may be drawn in support of the probability of their having formerly lived much farther to the south, as that bird does not exist on the prairies of the upper missouri, and is not to be met with short of the hoary forests of ohio and indiana, eighteen hundred miles south of the last residence of the mandans. in their familiar name of mandan, which is not an indian word, there are equally singular and important features. in the first place, that they knew nothing of the name or how they got it; and next, that the word mandan in the welsh language [mr c.'s theory is that they are the survivors of prince madoc's expedition from wales in the fourteenth century] means red dye, of which further mention will be made." on the legend of the welsh expedition, _vide_ warburton's "conquest of canada," ii., appendix iv. [ ] "the indians resemble the people of north-eastern asia in form and feature more than any other of the human race; their population is most dense along the districts nearest to asia; and among the mexicans, whose records of the past deserve credence, there is a constant tradition that their aztec and toltec chiefs came from the north-west."--warburton's "conquest of canada," i. . brace ("manual of ethnology," p. ) says, after noting that whereas the prominence in the head "is anterior in the chinese rather than lateral, as in the american indians and the tangusic tribes," adds, "the peculiar distinguishing characteristics are the smallness of the eyes and the obliquity of the eyelids. the nose is usually small and depressed, though sometimes, in favourable physical conditions, natives are found with a slightly aquiline nose, _giving the face a close resemblance to that of the american indians or new zealanders_." refer to argument at p. , with reference to the mozca indians. to the peculiarity of name, and resemblance of feature, i shall now proceed to add the evidence of some traces of their peculiar customs, or at least of some trace of the tradition out of which they arose. i am not at present in possession of evidence to show this in the corea itself (almost totally unknown and unexplored), but in the island of formosa the same mode of burial is observed, only that among the formosans other customs are added, which remind one of the commemorative customs of the mandans. catlin, p. . "their (mandan) dead, partially embalmed, are tightly wrapped in buffalo hides softened with glue and water, and placed on slight scaffolds, above the reach of animals or human hands, each body having its separate scaffold." the mandan dance was round "_the big canoe_," and a part of their ceremony on the roof of their wigwams. among the opischeschaht _indians_ (_vide field_, oct. , ) there was a dance which they called "the roof dance." "while the dance and song were going on below, leaped up and down between the roof-board, pushed aside for that purpose, making a noise like thunder.... after the dance was finished an old seshaaht came forward, and remarked, that as it was a dance peculiar to his tribe it could not be omitted," though "very injurious to the roof." ogilby's japan, p. . "the manner of disposing of their (formosans') dead and funeral obsequies is thus: when any one dies, the corpse being laid out, after twenty-four hours they elevate it upon a convenient scaffold or stage, four feet high, matted with reeds and rushes, near which they make a fire, so that the corpse may dry by degrees.... they drink intoxicating liquors. one beats on a drum made _like a chest_, but _longer_ and _broader_, and turning _the bottom upwards_; the women get up, and two by two, back to back, move their legs and arms in a dancing time and measure, which pace, or taboring tread, sends a kind of murmuring or doleful sound from the _hollow tree_." _n.b._--their boats were constructed by hollowing out a tree (_vide_ catlin's "last rambles," p. ).[ ] [ ] compare what ogilby (p. ) says: "near firando (japan) at an _inlet of the sea_ stands an idol, _being nothing but a chest of wood_, about three feet high, _standing like an altar_ [the big canoe was placed on end among the mandans], whither women, when they suppose they have conceived, go in pilgrimage, offering on their knees rice or other presents." at p. , at jado, it is said, "somewhat farther stands a temple _dedicated to all sorts of animals with a very high double roof_." (query, noah's ark?) in the _illustrated london news_, january , , its correspondent from yokohama gives a short account of the japanese religious festivals, in which among other coincidences i note the following: "the most absurd," he says, "is one in which the foul fiend is simultaneously expelled from every house by dint of pelting him with boiled peas. the devil is chased out of the town with a dance of derision, by young fellows in grotesque costumes, for the public mirth." compare with the scene in the mandan ceremonies, described by catlin, _vide supra_, p. . now, compare with the above, and also with the extracts from burton and catlin, at p. , remembering the prominence of the ox or bull (the ox and bull dance) in the mandan customs, and the connection of the bull with nin or ninip, p. , , and other mythological figures of which i believe noah to have been the antitype. the following description of the most curious traditional representation in japan (ogilby, p. ):-- "moreover, besides the ox temple in meaco, there is also to be seen the stately chapel dedicated to the creator of all things (the ox in the above-mentioned temple is represented as breaking the mundane egg, _vide supra_, p. ), who is represented in a very strange manner. in the middle of the temple is a great pot _full of water_ surrounded with a wall, seven feet high from the ground, in the middle of which appears an _exceeding great tortoise_, whose shell, feet, and head stands in the water; out of its back rises the body of a great tree, on the top of which sits a strange and horrible figure" ... [then follows a good deal which has its explanation, but must be curtailed] ... "the image hath four arms" ... in one "the hand grasps a cruse, _from whence water issues continually_; the other hand _holds a sceptre_.... the tree whereon he sits is of brass, ... about the middle of this tree an exceeding great serpent hath wreathed itself _twice_, whose head and body is on the right side held fast by two horrible shapes, the remaining part thereof to the tail, two kings and one of japan sages stretch forth" [evidently representing the contending influences (as in mandan dance), one of the kings having the duplicated janus head, _supra_, p. .][ ] [ ] compare p. in "flint chips," (e. t. stevens). "the omahas possess a _sacred shell_, which is regarded as an object of great sanctity by the whole nation. it has been transmitted from generation to generation, and its origin is unknown. a skin _lodge is appropriated to it_, and in this lodge a man, appointed as a guard to the shell, constantly resides. it is placed upon a stand, and is _never suffered to touch the earth_. it is concealed from sight by a _number of mats_ made of strips of skin plaited. the whole forms a large package, from which _tobacco_" (comp. stevens' "flint chips," p. , and catlin, _supra_) "and the _roots of trees_" (comp. supra, p. ), "and other objects are suspended," &c. &c. at pp. - there is perhaps a still more definite tradition of the deluge (confused as usual with traditions of the creation) in connection with the idol topan. "not far from mettogamma (said the interpreter) lies an exceeding _high mountain ... the top of which_ stand several temples which may be seen a great distance off at sea. in these temples the bonzies worshipped that great god which formerly created the sun, moon, and stars, but also fifteen lesser deities which some ages since conversed upon the earth (compare pp. , .) then follows their account of the creation. "mankind not only increased in number but also in wickedness, differing more and more from their heavenly extract, growing still worse and worse, mocking at thunder, _rainbows_, and fire; nay, they blasphemed the great god himself (whom when the interpreter named, he bowed his head to the ground), whereupon he called his inferior deities about him, telling them that he resolved to destroy and ruin all things ... and make a _round_ globe, in which the four elements should be all resolved _into their former mass_; and chiefly he commanded the idol topan to make thunder balls to shoot through the air and fire all the kingdoms with lightning ... so that none were saved except _one man and his family_, that had entertained and duly worshipped the gods." of the god topan it had been previously said "that some years since he saw the temple of the idol topan, whose image stood on a copper altar, cast like clouds, himself armed as a warrior, a coronet helmet on his head, his hand grasping a mighty club, and seeming to fly through the sky and moving his club to occasion thunder. when it thundered, a bonzi, whose head was adorned with consecrated leaves [query, the olive or willow?] which no thunder could harm," offered _several fishes_." (comp. , .) _vide_ also p. , representation of the fish-god in the person of their "god canon" [where we read of their "gods canon and camis or chamis;" if we were to substitute canaan and cham, _quid vetat_?][ ] [ ] _vide_ japanese tradition of the deluge (bertrand, "dict. des relig.," gainet, i. ; also _id._), it is said that the japanese commemorate this event in their third annual festival, which takes place on the fifth day of the fifth month. compare with mandan's, _supra_. to complete the circle of evidence, as regards the general tradition, i must add the following extracts from captain cook's voyages, i. (london, ):--"in the island of huahieine, thirty-one leagues from otaheite n.-w.," captain cook came upon an erection, of which he says--"the general resemblance between this repository and the ark of the lord among the jews is remarkable; but it is still more remarkable that upon inquiring of a boy what it was called, he said 'ewharre no eatua,' it is the house of god. he could, however, give no account of its signification or use." at p. , "saw (at uliatea) several ewharre-no-eatua or houses of god, to which carriage poles were attached as at huahieine.... from thence we went to a long house not far distant, where among rolls of cloth and several other things we saw the _model of a canoe_, about three feet long, to which were tied eight human jawbones" [eight the number saved in the ark. compare p. with kabiri. compare with ogilby (japan, ), where the god canon (canaan) is represented with seven heads on _his_ breast, eight with himself, he having been substituted for noah as the head of the race.] captain cook adds, however, "we had already learnt that these, like scalps among the indians of north america, were trophies of war," and suggests that the canoe "may be a symbol of invasion." that i must leave to the reader to decide, but the heads might be "trophies of conquest," and at the same time memorial heads,--the memorial heads having necessarily been replaced many times since the custom was first instituted.[ ] [ ] captain cook, speaking of their dances (p. ), says, "between the dances of the women the men performed a kind of dramatic interlude, in which there was _dialogue_ as well as dancing; but we were not sufficiently acquainted with their language to understand the subject. some gentlemen saw a much more regular entertainment of the dramatic kind, which was divided into _four acts_." _vide_ abbe gainet, "la bible sans la bible," i. , quotes l'abbe domenech, who speaks of "the dance of the deluge among many nations of the north and west of america." gainet also says that there were two distinct traditions of the deluge in the east and west groups of the society islands (otaheite). l'abbe gainet (i. ) gives an account of the _mandans_ from "ceremoníes religieuses," i. , which it will be interesting to compare with catlin, as it was written a century previous to his visit. "the mandans pretend that the deluge was formerly raised up against them by the white men to destroy their ancestors.... then the _first man_, whom they regard as one of their divinities, inspired mankind with the idea of constructing upon an eminence a _town_ and fortress in wood, and promised them that the water should not pass that point. they followed his advice and constructed the ark on the banks of the heart river. it was of a very large size, so that a part of their nation found safety there whilst the rest perished. in memory of this memorable event they place in each of their villages a small model of this _edifice_ [which may account for the erect position of 'the big canoe'], this model still exists. the waters abated after that, and to this day they celebrate, in memory of this ark, the fête of the '_okippe_,' which lasts _four days_." this leads me to the final question, when was this custom instituted? up to this i have not considered whether the custom was good or bad, demoniac or only corrupted; and as to the time of its institution i have merely assumed from the fact of its universality that it was primeval. before expressing my opinion, i must fortify myself with an extract from the rev. w. smith's very able work on the pentateuch.[ ] [ ] longmans, , i. . "strange, too, though it may appear, there is much in the outward ceremonial of the levitical worship that indicates an egyptian type. the fact need startle no one. for it is derogatory neither to the holiness of the almighty nor to the inspiration of his delegate, that moses should have borrowed from others rites which were good in themselves, and which became idolatrous only then, when employed in the worship of false gods. the most of external forms are in themselves indifferent and receive their determinate value from the feeling that prompts them, and the object to which they are directed: when given to god they are divine worship--when given to idols, they are idolatry. nor is inspiration jeopardised because the material details may have come from a human source. care and study and observation are not dispensed with in the mind that receives the divine communications; and moses was instructed in all the wisdom and learning of the egyptians for the very purpose of enabling him to use it to the best advantage ... as the church consecrated to a higher purpose the temples and the rites and festivals found among the pagan populations at their conversion. we need not then be scandalised if we find the _ark of jehovah_ to be the counterpart of the shrine of amun. the resemblance strikes us at once on a glance at the woodcut token from lepsius' denkmäler, ab. iii., bl. ." let the reader refer to the engravings in rev. w. smith's pentateuch, , . dr smith does not discuss the point further, only he says (p. ), "in egypt it is _the canopied boat_ in which the deity is steered on the heavenly ocean; in israel it is the covered chest, the form best adapted for holding the stone tables of the law." but if "the canopied boat" should have corresponded among the egyptians to "the big canoe" among the mandans, and the other similar memorials we have come upon, what more appropriate symbol could moses have incorporated? was not the ark of the covenant, in which the law was preserved in the widespread inundation of corruption, the counterpart of the ark in which mankind, in the persons of noah and his family, were saved? and in carrying on and embodying the tradition, we may see a motive why there may have been an intentional alteration of the symbol--viz. in order to wean his people from the corruption into which the whole egyptian ceremonial had sunk?[ ] and why should it not have been so? is there not a probability and fitness in the conjecture of some such commemorative sacrifices and memorials among mankind when they lived together before the dispersion in the times immediately following the deluge? [ ] cardinal wiseman in his letters to john poynder, esq. ("essays on various subjects," i. ), says, "dr spencer, a learned divine of the established church, published two folio volumes replete with extraordinary erudition, entitled 'de legibus hebræorum ritualibus et eorum ratione,' which has gone through many editions both here and on the continent. now, the entire drift and purport of this work is manifestly twofold--first, to prove that the great design of god, in giving rites and ceremonies to the jews, was to prevent their falling into idolatry; secondly, to demonstrate that almost every practice, rite, ceremony, and act so given was directly borrowed from the egyptian heathens; ... that whether we speak of the more solemn and especial injunctions, or of the minutest details of the ceremonial law, of circumcision and of sacrifice in all its varieties, and with all its distinctive ceremonies of purification and lustrations and new moons; of the ark of the covenant and the cherubim; of the temple and its oracles; of the urim and thummim, and the emissary goat; of them all spencer has endeavoured to prove, and that to the satisfaction of many learned men, that they pre-existed among the egyptians and other neighbouring nations." i have not met with dr spencer's work. i may mention, however, the pomegranates in the levitical robe as an instance. _vide_ references in this chapter and appendix. appendix to chapter xi. the pongol festival. "the pongol festival in southern india," by charles e. govat. "journal of the royal asiatic society of great britain and ireland," new series, vol. v., part i. ( .) "i had seen the pongol, the touching domestic festival it is now my chief object to describe. it had proved by its simple pathos that the hindus were akin to the noblest nations of the world, and that in their antiquity they were worthy of the honour that has come to them of being the best and the least altered representatives of the 'juventus mundi,' which all nations count to have been the golden age." he contrasts it with the worship in the great temple at siringham near trichinopoly, in which there "was ample justification for every epithet employed by ward, dubois, or wilberforce." "yet the pongol declared with equal force in favour of domestic love and chastity, of simple thanksgiving and rural contentment.... there is much reason to suppose that the pongol is one of the most complete and interesting of these remnants of primitive life. that it is primitive is shown by the fact that the old vedic deities are alone worshipped. indra is the presiding deity. agni is the main object of worship. a further proof of this point is given by the efforts that have constantly been made by the brahmans to corrupt the ritual, and introduce pauranic deities. krishna is always declared by the brahmans to be the pongol god, but the _tradition itself_ bears witness that the feast is older than the god. the tale is that when the great wave of krishna worship passed over the peninsula, the people were so enamoured of him that they ceased to perform the pongol rites to indra. this made the latter deity _so angry that he poured down a flood upon the earth_. the affrighted people ran to krishna, who seized the great mountain govardhanas, wrenched it from its place, and held it aloft on the tip of his little finger, like some huge umbrella. the people then ran beneath with their flocks and were saved.... the occasion of the festival is also primitive, for the pongol is another feast of ingathering, the centre of hebrew festivals, as this is of those of southern india.... the pongol is remarkable, as will be seen, for the strange combination of pastoral, hunting, and agricultural life. there are 'harvest homes' in almost every nation, but i do not know of any other example of the combination. the _great_ days of the feast are two--one of these devoted to the new crops, the other to the cattle alone ... while the feast winds up with a grand hunt, first of the cattle themselves and next of a hare." compare ch. vii.; compare patagonian. "long before the commencement of the feast an unwonted activity pervades native society. the pongol is _the_ social festival of the year, and must be celebrated with due honour, else an ineffaceable stain will rest on the family name. it is the christmas and whitsuntide of england made into one.... so soon as the _rains have finished_, and this may be expected by about the first week in december, the carpenter, the builder, and the artists are in full work repairing the houses.... the sides of the road in the bazaar are heaped with 'chatties' of all sizes and shapes. presents are bought for children. distant relatives have no fields of their own from which to get their rice, so a sack of the new grain from the ancestral acres goes off to each. to this is added a pot of ghee, a set of brass pots, or perhaps a jewel; that the pongol may not lack wherewith to make it joyful." creditors and debtors are often brought then to a compromise, or the process is postponed "till after pongol." "all must be ready by the early part of january, when, according to the hindu astrologers, the sun enters the tropic of capricorn. the feast hangs upon this, and it will be seen that the most interesting event of the celebration must exactly coincide with the passage of the sun. the festival commences on the previous day, and lasts for seven days, of which the second marks the sun's passage, and is called mahâ (or great) pongol, ... the next day is bhôgi pongol, or pongol of rejoicing, equally well known by the name of indra, ... bonfires and torches are illuminated (compare boulanger, lib. i. ch. ii.) the feast is now begun, and all turn from the fire, as it is extinguished by the rising sun, to the _bath_, with which every religious rite must commence. no image is used during the whole course of the celebration, except that of ganesa.... indra is represented on ordinary occasions as _a white man_ sitting on an elephant. in his left hand is a bow (compare ch. xv.), and in his right a thunderbolt, while his body is studded with a thousand eyes. [query, a reference to the peacock? compare ch. xv.] agni has also his special image, that of a stout man, red and hairy as esau, riding on a goat [compare bacchus, p. ]. sûrya is also a red man, sitting on a water lily. he has four arms and three eyes. but none of these (deities) are known at pongol any more than they were at the time when the hymns of the rig veda were composed.... the gifts are laid out on trays,--a vase of sugar, or perhaps an idol, _peacock_ or elephant, round which will be grouped smaller works in sugar for the children.... one thing may not be forgotten, that is a lime [compare 'gourd,' p. ]. this must be _as large_ as money can buy, and then be carefully encased in gold leaf till it looks like one of the golden apples of antiquity. the next day is mahâ (or great) pongol. it is often called sûrya pongol. at noon the sun will cross the equator, and bring the culminating glory of the feast. so great a day must commence with appropriate ceremonial, and _in this instance it is bathing_. in country places the women run early in the morning to the _nearest tank_ and _plunge bodily in without undressing_." [this is alluded to by mr gover as "an innovation so uncomfortable and possibly dangerous;" but no evidence is adduced of its being an innovation, and its being the custom of the "country parts" would incline us to the contrary belief.] the men also bathe very carefully, as if the occasion _were very solemn_. reference is made to the rig veda, i. , - (wilson, i. ); but in these verses occur the words, "waters take away whatever sin has been found in me." "dripping wet, the women proceed, without changing their clothes, to prepare the feast, ... new chatties, or earthen vessels had been purchased for the occasion; one of them is now taken and is filled with rice, milk, sugar, dholghee or clarified butter, grain, and other substances, calculated to produce a tasty dish.... the ingathering must be celebrated with things that have just been garnered. usually hindoos will not eat new rice, as it is indigestible" (refer to leviticus xxiii. - ). another incident is that--"the head of the house approaches the image (of ganesa), and performs pûja. then follows a procession of the young married couples to propitiate their mothers-in-law.... so a present, the best the house can provide, is carefully put together on a tray. it may be fruit, or brass pots, or ghee, or whatever else may be thought most acceptable. then a small procession is formed. in front go three or four men, beating on tom-toms and blowing pipes. then follows the gift, held aloft. over it, if the family be respectable, is held an umbrella, carried by a servant who walks behind the bearer of the gift.... the nearest relative steps forward and asks that the daughter and her husband may come to the 'boiling,' to fill up the family circle. then follows the boiling of the pot; 'as the milk boils, so will the coming year be.' the pongol is one long series of visits, entertainments, and social joys." (comp. mandan festival, _supra_.) "the third day of the feast is mâttu pongol, or the pongol _of the cattle_. it commences with a general _wash_. they betake themselves to the nearest _sacred_ tank, driving or dragging with them the whole bovine possessions of the village. they are then driven home, and adornment commences; the horns are carefully painted _red_, _blue_, _green_, _or yellow_,--if the owner be rich, gold leaf is employed,--heavy garlands of flowers placed on the horns. meanwhile the women have prepared another new chatty, filling it with water, steeping within saffron, cotton seeds, and mangora leaves. the master of the ceremonial, usually the head of the house, comes for it, and places himself at the head of a procession of all the men--the women may not see the rite we now describe. in solemn silence they march round each animal four times, while the first man sprinkles the bitter water upon it and the ground as often as they pass the four cardinal points of the compass.... this done, the women and children are again admitted. the patient cattle are led out one by one to receive their final adornment.... then, at a given signal, every rope is untied, every tom-tom, pipe, and guitar is banged or blown to the extreme of its endurance, and in an instant the herd, hitherto so patient, is careering down the street in an extremity of terror.... any one may possess himself of whatever is carried by the cattle. no little skill and a vast amount of courage are shown by the 'timid' hindoos in this dangerous and exciting pell-mell. the next day is kanen pongol, or pongol of the calves. "on the evening of this day we find the only token of corruption in the ceremonial." ... then follows a dance, just as is described by catlin as _closing_ the mandan ceremonial, in which very similar scenes occur. before adverting to the points of contrast between the pongol and the mandan and dahoman ceremonies, i will give an extract from a book recently published, giving an account of a country hitherto unexplored--viz. northern patagonia. traces i think will be recognised of the same primitive custom, though with evidences of corruption. "three years slavery among the patagonians," by guinnard (bentley, ), p. .[ ] [ ] much doubt has been expressed as to the veracity of m. guinnard's narrative, but the scenes and customs referred to are not likely to have been invented; and on the supposition of a fictitious narrative (although i see nothing incredible) they will probably have been imported from true narratives of other tribes. in either case they supply additional evidence. "at certain periods of the year the indians keep religious festivals. the first takes place in the summer, and is consecrated to vita-ouènetrou (the god of goodness) for the purpose of thanking him for all his past favours, and of begging him to continue them in the future. it is generally the grand cacique who fixes the date and duration of the festival.... the preparations are made with all the religious pomp of which they are capable; the indians grease their hair and paint their faces with greater care than usual.... at the commencement of the ceremony the women move their tents provisionally to the centre of the spot chosen by the cacique. the men do not arrive until these preparations are finished, they ride three times round the place at full gallop, shouting their war cry and shaking their lances. then, their rides ended, they range themselves in single file, and tilt their lances with such perfect regularity as to make it a striking sight. the women _afterwards take the places of their husbands_" (compare catlin, _sup._, p. ), "who, after dismounting and tying up their horses, form a second rank behind them." "the dance then commences without change of place, except from right to left. the women sing in a plaintive tone [laughter being expressly forbidden during the whole continuance of the ceremonies], accompanying themselves by striking a _wooden drum_." compare catlin, _sup._, . it is also said (guinnard, p. ), "the drum is composed of a sort of wooden bowl, more or less large, over which a wild-cat skin is stretched, or a piece of the paunch of a _horse_. _this instrument_ ... is much used by them, _especially in their religious festivals_ and character dances." the drum is "decorated with colours and designs similar to those on their faces. the men pirouette, limping upon the opposite leg to that of the women." compare catlin, , . "at a signal given by the cacique presiding over the festival, cries of alarm are raised, the men spring into their saddles, abruptly _interrupting the dance_ to take part in a fantastic cavalcade round the site of the festival, all waving their weapons, and raising the sinister cry they utter in their pillages." "in the intervals of these exciting diversions everybody _goes visiting_ in the hope of tasting a little rotted _milk_ kept in a horse-hide." compare pongol festival, p. . "at a very early hour on the fourth day, to close the ceremony, a young _horse_, an _ox_, and two sheep, given by the richest men amongst them, are sacrificed to their god. the head turned towards the east, and the heart still palpitating is hung upon a lance and inclined towards the rising sun." "the second festival takes place in the autumn; it is celebrated in honour of houacouvou (_director of_ the evil spirits). the object of it is to conjure him to preserve them from all enchantment. as in the first festival, the indians dress themselves in their best, and assemble by tribes only, headed by their cacique. an assemblage of _all the cattle_ takes place _en masse_. the men form a double circle around, galloping unceasingly in opposite directions, so that none of these unruly animals may escape. they invoke houacouvou aloud, throwing down, drop by drop, fermented _milk_ out of _bull's horns_, handed to them _by their wives_, while they are riding round the cattle. after repeating this ceremony three or _four_ times, they sprinkle the horses and oxen with whatever remains of the milk, with the view, they say, of preserving them from all maladies; this done, each man _separates his own cattle_, and _drives it to some distance_, then returns for the purpose of assembling round the cacique, who, in a long and fervid address, advises them never to forget houacouvou in their prayers, and to lose no time in preparing themselves to please him, by carrying desolation amongst the christians, and increasing the number of their own flocks and herds." this festival, therefore, in its original conception would not appear to be a worship of the evil spirit, but of him who curbs him; the same idea of the subordination of the evil spirit will be seen in catlin's account of the mandans. there is nothing certainly in this account which directly connects these patagonian ceremonies with the diluvian commemorations, unless, perhaps, the sacred drum; but there is much in common with the pongol and the mandan which we have seen to have been commemorative. the prominence of sun worship will not have escaped observation; but this discovery cannot militate against my position, for i have already shown (p. ) that such admixture was probable, and also indicated how it was likely to have come about. any hostile argument which would seek to deprive those ceremonies of their significance must be directed to the extrusion of the diluvian symbols. further trace of these diluvian ceremonies might be traced in the buddhist systems; but it would open out too large a question for discussion here. chapter xii. _sir john lubbock on tradition._ de maistre's view.[ ] "we have little knowledge of the times which preceded the deluge.... a single consideration interests us, and it must never be lost sight of, and that is, that chastisements are ever proportioned to crimes, and crimes always proportioned to the knowledge of the criminal; in such sort that the deluge supposes unheard-of crimes, and that these crimes suppose a knowledge infinitely transcending that which we possess.... this knowledge, freed from the evil which had rendered it so noxious, survived in the first family the destruction of the human race. we are blinded as to the nature and advance of science by a gross sophism which has fascinated every eye; it is to judge of times when men saw effects in their causes by those in which men painfully ascend from effects to causes, in which they are only concerned with effects, in which they say it is useless to occupy themselves with causes, and in which they do not know what constitutes a cause. they never cease repeating--'think of the time that has been required to know such and such a thing.' what inconceivable blindness! a moment only was required. if man would know the cause of a single phenomenon of nature, he would probably comprehend all the rest. we are unwilling to see that truths, the most difficult to discover, are very easy to understand.... 'these things,' as plato says, 'are perfectly and easily learned if any one teaches them, [greek: ei didaskoi tis]; but,' he adds, 'no one will teach them us, unless, indeed, god shows him the road, [greek: all oud an didaxeien ei mê theos yphêgoito].' 'i doubt not,' said hippocrates, 'that the arts were in the first instance favours ([greek: theôn charitas]) granted to men by the gods.'... listen to sage antiquity in its account of the first men: it will tell you that they were marvellous men, and that beings of a superior order deigned to favour them with the most precious communications. on this point there is no disagreement, ... reason, revelation, all human tradition make up a demonstration which the mouth only can contradict. not only, then, did mankind commence with science, but with a science different from ours, and superior to ours.... no one knows to what epoch remounts, i do not say the early commencements of society, but the great institutions, the profound knowledge, and the most magnificent monuments of human industry and human power.... asia, having been the theatre of the greatest marvels, it is not astonishing that its people should have preserved a leaning to the marvellous stronger than what is natural to man in general, and than each one recognises in himself individually. hence it comes that they have always shown so little taste and talent for our science of _conclusions_. one would say rather that they recalled something of primitive science and of the era of intuition. would the enchained eagle ask for a balloon to raise himself into the air? no, he would demand only that his fetters should be broken. and who knows if these people are not destined yet to contemplate sights which will be refused to the cavilling genius of europe? however this may be, observe, i pray you, that it is impossible to think of modern art without seeing it constantly environed with all the contrivances of the intellect and all the methods of art.... on the contrary. so far as it is possible to discover the science of primitive times at such an enormous distance, we see it always free and isolated, flying rather than marching, and presenting in all its characteristics something of the ærial and supernatural.[ ]... but then comes the corollary.... if all men descend from the three couples who repeopled the universe, and if the human race commenced with knowledge, the savage cannot be more, as i have said to you, than a branch detached from the social tree.... now, what matter does it make at what epoch such and such a branch was separated from the tree? it suffices that it is detached: no doubt as to its degradation; and i venture to say no doubt as to the cause of degradation, which can only have been some crime. a chief of a nation having altered the principle of morality in his household by one of those prevarications which, so far as we can judge, are no longer possible in the actual state of things, because happily our knowledge is no longer such as to allow us to become culpable in this degree; this chief of a nation, i say, transmits the curse to his posterity; and every constant force being accelerating in its nature, this degradation, weighing incessantly upon his descendants, has ended in making them what we call _savages_. two causes extremely different have thrown a deceptive cloud over the lamentable state of savages: the one of ancient date, the other belonging to our century.... one cannot for an instant regard the savage without reading the curse written, i do not say only in his soul, but even in the exterior form of his body. he is an infant, robust, yet deformed and ferocious, in whom the flame of intelligence no longer throws more than a lurid and intermittent glare.... i cannot abandon this subject without suggesting an important observation: the barbarian who is intermediate between the civilised man and the savage, has been and may be again civilised by some sort of religion; but the savage, properly so called, has never been so except by christianity. it is a prodigy of the first order, a species of redemption, exclusively reserved to the true priesthood.[ ]... for the rest, we must not confound the _savage_ with the _barbarian_. [ ] i need not remind my reader that these speculations of de maistre anticipated by many years the analogous, though at the same time independent, conclusions of archbishop whately, in his lecture "on the origin of civilisation," published in . [ ] "we ought then to recognise that the state of civilisation and of science is, in a certain sense, the natural and primitive state of man. thus, all oriental traditions commenced with a state of perfection and light, and, i repeat it, of supernatural light; and greece--lying greece, which 'has dared everything in history'--renders homage to this truth, in placing its golden age at the beginning of things. it is no less remarkable that it does not attribute to the following ages, even to the iron age, the state of savagery, so that all that it has told us of those primitive men living on acorns, &c., puts it _in contradiction with itself_, and can only have reference to particular cases, _i.e._ to some races degraded, and then reclaimed to a state of nature, which is a state of civilisation."--_de maistre's "soirées de st petersbourg"_ i. _deux: entretien_, p. . [ ] i consider that this remark has been fully substantiated in marshall's "christian missions." "no language could possibly have been invented, either by a single man, who could not have extorted obedience, or by many who would not have made themselves understood to each other.... but i would wish, before concluding this subject, to recommend to your notice an observation which has always struck me. whence comes it that in the primitive language of every ancient people, we find words which necessarily suppose a knowledge foreign to these people? whence, for instance, have the greeks, three thousand years ago at least, found the epithet 'physizoos' (giving or possessing life), which homer sometimes gives to the earth?.... where have they taken the still more singular epithet of 'philomate' (liking or thirsting for blood), given to this same earth in a tragedy? (euripides, phoen. v. ). Æschylus had alluded before 'to the earth drinking the blood of the two rival brothers, the one slain by the other.'[ ] humboldt ('monum. des peuples indigènes de l'amerique,' paris, ) has said: 'many idioms which at present belong only to barbarous nations seem to be the remains of rich and flexible languages, which indicate a high culture.... but tell me, i pray you, how it entered the heads of the ancient latins, at a time when they were only acquainted with the arts of war and of tillage, to express by the same word the idea of prayer and of punishment? who taught them to call fever the "purifier," or the "expiator"?'[ ] would not one say that there was here a judgment, a veritable knowledge of the cause, by virtue of which the people affirmed the name so justly? but do you believe that these sorts of judgments could possibly have belonged to a time when they scarcely knew how to write, when the dictator dug his garden, and in which they composed verses which varro and cicero no longer understood?... the greeks had preserved some obscure traditions in this regard--[mr gladstone has shown them to be neither few nor obscure],--and who knows if homer does not attest the same truth, perhaps without knowing it, when he speaks of certain men and certain things 'which the gods called after one manner, and men after another?'"--_count joseph de maistre, "soirées de st petersbourg,"_ i. _deux: entretien._[ ] [ ] compare with gainet, i. , . [ ] "now it is clear that the train of thought which leads from purification to penance, or from purification to punishment, reveals a moral and even a religious sentiment in the conception and naming of poena, and it shows us that in the very infancy of criminal justice punishment was looked upon (mr max müller is speaking with reference to what i may call briefly the sanscrit epoch) not simply a retribution or revenge, but as a correction, as a removal of guilt. we do not feel the presence of these early thoughts when we speak of corporal punishment or castigation; yet _castigation_ too was originally chastening, from '_castus_,' pure; and 'incestum' was impurity or sin, which, according to roman law, the priests had to make good, or to punish by a 'supplicium,' or supplication or prostration before the gods." [ ] compare with max müller, "chips," ii. . against this view of de maistre, which i consider to be indirectly sustained by the testimony of all antiquity, stands the theory of sir john lubbock. there is the constant historical tradition and testimony of the human race on one side, and there is the history of "pre-historic times" on the other. nevertheless, i venture to say, that the author of "pre-historic times" only takes up with man at the point where de maistre leaves him. of course i do not seek to detach sir john lubbock from the evidence he has collected; neither do i forget that he is the representative of an opinion and a school; at any rate, that there is an opinion of which he is the most conspicuous exponent. so far as my limited acquaintance with the special subjects with which sir john lubbock deals extends (and with these i am only indirectly concerned), he appears perfectly straightforward and candid; and, moreover, i must acknowledge my obligations to him, for he has written with remarkable breadth and ability; and it is with the aid of the interesting matter which he has accumulated,[ ] expressly in disparagement of tradition, that i venture to undertake to reinstate it in honour. [ ] _vide_ chapter on savage life in "pre-historic times." neither do i wish to ignore that sir john lubbock's main argument is the geological argument derived from the discovery of the fossils and implements in the drift. but on this point i beg to be allowed to say a word in protest. as a geologist sir john lubbock may be entitled to rely mainly upon the geological evidence of a palæolithic age;[ ] but as an ethnologist dealing with history and writing on the subject of tradition, his argument, however incontrovertible he may deem it, sinks to the second rank; and secondary i shall take the liberty of considering it. on the same grounds, though i think with more reason, that sir j. lubbock seeks to be relieved from "the embarrassing interference of tradition" ("pre-historic times," p. ), i protest, when tradition is the subject-matter of the discussion, against a geological argument being brought to take the ground from under our feet! [ ] it may perhaps be doubtful to what extent sir j. lubbock maintains his theory of a stone age; although sir john formally excludes china and japan from the argument, he nevertheless appears to me to assume the existence of universal transitional periods through which the human race necessarily passed. "it would appear that pre-historic archæology may be divided into four great epochs. firstly, that of the drift: when man shared the possession of europe with the mammoth, &c. this we may call the 'palæolithic period.' secondly, the later or polished stone age; a period, &c. thirdly, the bronze age, &c. fourthly, the iron age." sir john adds, certainly--"in order to prevent misapprehension, it may be well to state at once, that for the present i only apply this classification to europe, though in all probability it might be extended also to the neighbouring parts of asia and africa. as regards other civilised countries, china and japan for instance, we as yet know nothing of their pre-historic archæology. [i should rather say, as we as yet have no reason to suppose that they have ever lost the knowledge of metals.] it is evident also that some nations, such as the fuegians, andamaners, &c., are _even now_ only in an age of stone. but even in this limited sense, the above classification has not met with general acceptance; there _are still some_ archæologists who believe that the arms and implements--stone, bronze, and iron--were used contemporaneously."--_pre-historic times_, pp. , . i think that the concluding sentence makes it quite clear that sir john assumes the existence of universal progressive periods as above. in any case it may be proved in this way. sir john argues upon the hypothesis of the unity of the human race; and i also think that he will not refuse the unbroken testimony to the fact of the civilisation of europe from asia. either, then, the _first_ colonisation took place when asia was in the state of the "drift," or in the "later polished stone age," or else the migration left asia with the knowledge of bronze or iron. on the latter supposition the argument i contend for is conceded, and original civilisation and subsequent degeneracy is established. to escape this alternative the universality of a stone age in asia as well as in europe, must be proved or assumed. this assumption i maintain is essential to sir john's argument. in the first place, i beg to urge that if sir j. lubbuck's argument be well founded, professor rawlinson's reconstruction of assyrian history cannot be true. now i assume that the one order of facts is as well established as the other. if professor rawlinson takes back assyrian history and corroborates history and tradition by the evidence of recent excavations to b.c. , identifies the erech of scripture with the huruk of the cuneiform tablets and the modern urka; similarly identifies the other three cities of nimrod; and, finally, identifies nimrod himself as bil-nipru; and if, further, bronze implements are found (rawlinson, i. , , ), along with flint doubtless (but this was common throughout the bronze age, as sir john himself admits), at an early period;--and bronze, though comparatively rare, yet exists among the very early assyrian remains--there seems no good reason to suppose that the knowledge of metals, which we know (gen. iv. ) to have existed before the deluge, and which the construction of the ark presupposes, was ever lost. a stone age, exclusive of metals, common to the whole world and to all mankind, is therefore an untenable hypothesis according to the testimony of history. if it existed anywhere it must have been only partially, locally, and contemporaneously with this traditional knowledge of metals, which seems to be historically proved.[ ] i may at least be permitted to believe in the accuracy of professor rawlinson's conclusions, and to regard them as the verdict of history: and if the historical arguments so pronounce, why should the geological or palæontological argument override it? is not history supreme on its own ground--and if scripture is always found in perfect consistency with history, is it not as much as in strictness we should have a right to expect? "tradidit mundum disputationi eorum" (eccles. iii. ). [ ] wilson ("archæologia of scotland," ) says, "but after all it is to asia we are forced to return for the _true source of nearly all our primitive arts_, nor will the canons of archæology be established on a safe foundation till the antiquities of that older continent have been explored and classified." not only bronze but iron has been found in the east in use at an early period (_vide_ layard, "nineveh and babylon," - , ). at nimroud, dr percy (_id._ ) says the iron was used to economise the bronze; if so it must have been cheaper, and therefore probably more abundant; and he is of opinion that "iron was more extensively used by the ancients than seems to be generally admitted." philology seems also to establish an early common knowledge, and subsequent tradition of the use of metals. mr max müller (ii. ) says, "that the value and usefulness of some of the metals was known before the separation of the aryan race can be proved only by a few words; for the names of most of the metals differ in different countries. yet there can be no doubt that iron was known, and its value appreciated, whether for defence or attack. whatever its old aryan name may have been, it is clear that sanscrit 'ayas,' latin 'ahes,' in 'ahencus' and even the contracted form 'æs, æris'; the gothic 'ais,' the old german 'er,' and the english iron, are names cast in the same mould, and only slightly corroded even now by the rust of so many centuries." the swedish gothic race had no tradition but of weapons of iron. (professor nillson's "stone age," p. .) i find in captain cook's voyages that in otaheite their word for iron is "eure-eure." germans (_apud_ tacitus) called their iron lances "framea," which has great resemblance to _ferrum_. (_vide_ wilson, .) the following passage from wilson's "archæologia" seems to prove this common terminology still more extensively--"the saxon 'gold' differs not more essentially from the greek '[greek: chrysos]' than from the latin 'aurum'; iron from '[greek: sideros]' or 'ferrum'; _but_ when we come to examine the celtic names of the metals it is otherwise. the celtic terms are: gold: gael, 'or,' golden, 'orail'; welsh, 'aur'; latin, ' aurum.' silver: gael, 'airgiod,' made of silver, 'airgiodach'; welsh, 'ariant'; latin, 'argentum'--derived in the celtic from 'arg,' white, or milk, like the greek '[greek: argos],' whence they also formed their '[greek: argyros].' now, is it improbable that the latin 'ferrum' and the english 'iron' spring indirectly from the same celtic root? gael, '_iarunn_'; welsh, '_haiarn_'; saxon, iron; danish, 'iern'; spanish, 'hierro,' which last furnishes no remote approximation to 'ferrum.' nor with the older metals is it greatly different, as bronze, gael, 'umha' or '_prais_'; welsh, 'pres,' whence our english 'brass,' a name bearing no very indistinct resemblance to the roman 'æs.' lead in like manner has its peculiar gaelic name 'luaidha,' like the saxon 'læd' (lead), while the welsh 'plwm' closely approximates to the latin 'plumbum.' it may undoubtedly be argued that the latin is the root instead of the offshoot of these celtic names, but the entire archæological proofs are opposed to this idea," p. . sir j. lubbock, "pre-historic times" (p. ) says, "the tools of the tahitians when first discovered were made of stone, bone, shell, or wood. of metal they had no idea. when they first obtained nails they mistook them for the young shoots of some very hard wood, and hoping that life might not be quite extinct, planted a number of them carefully in their gardens." captain wallis, however, speaking of the islands within the polynesian group, remarks "as an extraordinary circumstance that although no sort of metal was seen on any of the lately discovered islands, yet the nations were no sooner possessed of a piece of _iron_, than they began to _sharpen it_, but did not treat copper or brass in the same manner."--"voyages of english navigators round the world," iii. . would not these different appreciations of iron and brass be accounted for if we suppose iron to be the _last_ metal they had been traditionally acquainted with? iron being the more common and inexpensive metal. now, secondly, as it happens that bronze is only a combination of copper and tin in certain proportions, and as neither existed on the spot (in the mesopotamian valley), it is a curious question how they could have hit upon the discovery through actual experiment. tin, for instance, is only found in cornwall, banca (between sumatra and borneo), spain, saxony, and siberia. now, how did it enter the heads of even these wise chaldæans to go to these distant countries in search of this metal unless they knew beforehand through tradition, that if procured along with copper it would produce the useful amalgam they sought? true, it might have been brought to them through commerce, but in that case there must have been some other race more advanced in civilisation than themselves. if the phoenicians, much the same argument will recur. if some race in the countries where tin was procured, where is it now? if it exists it must be represented by some race at present or historically known to have been in a state of barbarism. this, however, at this stage of the argument, would be too precipitate an admission of degeneracy! now, in a certain modified sense, i should be quite prepared to admit a stone age. nothing more probable than that in the dispersion certain families would have taken only what came readiest to hand. those who made long marches, and came to countries where minerals were scarce, would have been in the way of losing the knowledge of metals altogether, except in so far as they preserved the tradition of them; and this would much depend upon how far they preserved other traditions.[ ] some instance should be given us--and as there are savages who are still using nothing but flint, there is still the chance--of some set of savages who have spontaneously hit upon the plan of fusing different metals, or even of smelting metals which were under their eye? certainly not our supposed flint ancestors, who, as professor nillson and sir j. lubbock agree, must have got their knowledge of bronze from asia: sir j. lubbock inclining to an indo-european, professor nillson to a phoenician "origin of the bronze age civilisation." ("pre-historic times," p. .) all this perfectly coincides with the view i have indicated, that the contrast arose through the divergence of the lines of the dispersion, leading the tribes to varied fortunes, some losing and others retaining the tradition; and those who retained it eventually communicating it to those who had lapsed. but then there are those unfortunate bashkirs, who, professor nillson tells us, are still in their stone age, and who have remained bashkirs since herodotus described them as such years ago. as they have resisted the contact of civilisation so long, one can only watch with careful curiosity the transitionary process by which they will pass by internal development from their stone to their bronze age.[ ] [ ] "mr vaux of the british museum has added the following interesting note on the metallurgy of the ancients. st, the earliest form of metal work appears to have been employed in the ornamentation of sacred vessels for temples, &c.... occasionally the floor or foundation of some temples was of brass: thus [greek: chalkeos oudos] (soph. oed. col.), perhaps like the room at delphi called [greek: laïnos oudos], itself also a treasury."--layard, "nineveh and babylon," p. . boulanger, "l'antiquité dévoilée par ses usage," (iii. ), says, "ce sont les mystères qui out tiré les hommes de la vie sauvage pour les ramener à la vie sociale et policée. ces mystères étoient un composé de cérémonies religieuses ... _leur origine remonte_ au temps des héros et des demi-dieux." [ ] "of all the different phases of civilisation, those which a nation _must pass_ before it attains the highest grade of development, the first rude state is the most enduring and the most difficult to get over."--professor nillson's "stone age," . "the evidence of the transition from a stone to a bronze age among the egyptians _appears merely to be_ the use of a stone knife found in their catacombs, and used for the _sacred_ incision into the dead, although they used bronze and iron knives for ordinary purposes, and whereas the _stone_ knife was used by the early _hebrews_ in circumcision, and by the priests of montezuma as instruments of human sacrifice."--wilson's "archæologia," p. . i must now revert to what i at present wish to limit the discussion, viz. sir j. lubbock's views on the subject of tradition. sir john says that history can throw no light upon the question of the stone and bronze age, "because the use of metals has in all cases preceded that of writing." i should like to know whether sir john is prepared to adhere to this "dictum" under all circumstances, inasmuch as, if he does, he must allow me to trace the use of metals in assyria even beyond the date at which professor rawlinson seems actually to have found evidence of their use; for (pp. , ) "in the ruins of warka, the ancient huruk or erech" (the city of nimrod) we find inscriptions on bricks of the date of the reign of urukh or orchamus, who, according to classical tradition, was the seventh in succession from bel or nimrod; which tradition, says rawlinson (p. ), "accords very curiously with the information derived from the inscriptions." there is nothing to indicate that the bricks here discovered were the first bricks ever _inscribed_; on the contrary, wherever we find bricks and metals there will be a _prima facie_ presumption as to their previous use.[ ] only upon sir john lubbock's "dictum," finding evidence of writing at this date, we must necessarily conclude that the use of metals preceded it. this would bring us well up the seven reigns, and into close contact with the time of nimrod. [ ] it amounts to this, that we are requested first of all to discard and absolutely exclude all that we do know through direct historical evidence of our origin, and to determine it merely by scientific induction. sir j. lubbock says in his introduction to professor nillson's "stone age" (which is a summary of the whole question), "i have purposely avoided all reference to history, all use of historical data, because i have been _particularly anxious to show_ that in archæology we can arrive at definite and satisfactory conclusions, on independent grounds, without any assistance from history; consequently regarding times before writing was invented, and therefore before written history had commenced" (p. xlii.) compare with _supra_, ch. vii. "nor," says sir j. lubbock (p. ), "will tradition supply the place of history. at best it is untrustworthy and shortlived. thus in the new zealanders had no recollection of tasman's visit. yet this took place in , less than one hundred and thirty years before, and must have been to them an event of the greatest possible importance and interest.... i do not mean to say that tradition would never preserve for a long period the memory of any remarkable event. the above-mentioned facts (de soto's expedition is also referred to) prove only that it will not always do so; but it is unnecessary for us to discuss this question, as there is in europe no tradition of the stone age, and when arrow-heads are found the ignorant peasantry refer them to the elves or fairies; stone axes are regarded as thunderbolts, and are used not only in europe but also in various other parts of the world for magical purposes" (p. ). _"relieved" then_ "from _the embarrassing interference of tradition_, the archæologist can only follow the methods which have been so successfully pursued in geology" (p. ).[ ] this is partly a limitation of the question to oral tradition, and partly an anticipated denial of what i shall now venture to assert, namely, that we can only look for the savages' traditions of things known to them before they were savages, religious impressions which have not been effaced from their minds, legends connected with their race, facts which have determined their destiny. the very characteristic of the savage is that he lives only for the present; that he has little memory for the past, and no forecast for the future; that his mind is stricken with a hopeless sterility and fixedness, so that he only seems to remember things that are bred in the bone, and the tradition of which he cannot divest himself.[ ] [ ] "it must not be forgot to the honour of the babylonians that they are acknowledged, by all antiquity, to have been the first who made use of writing in their public and judicial acts, but at what period it is not known."--goguet, "origin of laws," i. . diodorus, however, says of the egyptians (_vide_ p. ), "_menes_ without doubt has been esteemed the first legislator of egypt, _because_ he was the first who put his _laws in writing_. for before him vulcan, helius, and osiris (_vide ante_, p. ) had given laws to egypt."--diod. l. , - . but also it must be recollected that the copper mines of egypt were worked from the earliest period. [ ] but there are savages and savages; or rather there are savages who are strictly such, and savages who have still the germ of life and who are more properly distinguished as barbarians. _vide ante_, p. , de maistre's definition of the barbarian. and so the ignorant peasantry when these flints were first dug up, although they had "no tradition," rushed instinctively upon these hatchets and considered them magical, apparently on no better grounds than that they had belonged to a former race of men whom they associated with elves and fairies. was not this their way of saying with cicero, "antiquitas proxime accedit ad deos."[ ] [ ] i find curious testimony to the belief in m. maupertius' (pinkerton, i. - ) account of an expedition of thirty leagues which he was induced to make into the interior of lapland, by the accounts which he had received of a monument which the laplanders "looked upon as the wonder of their country, and in which they conceived was _contained the knowledge of everything_ of which they were ignorant." in the end a monument was found bearing on it the appearance of great antiquity, and an inscription which m. celsius, his companion ("very well acquainted with the runic"), could not read. m. maupertius indeed says, "if the tradition of the country be consulted, all the laplanders assure us that they are characters of great antiquity, containing valuable secrets; but what can one believe in regard to antiquity from those people who do not even know their own age, and who for the greater part are ignorant who were their mothers." without supposing that the mysterious stone actually concealed any valuable and recondite knowledge, i am still struck by this attestation to the belief that antiquity shrouded such secrets; and if, which does not altogether accord with other accounts, the lapps are as ignorant as they are here represented, then it would seem to be true that when mankind lose the knowledge of everything else, they still retain the tradition of their loss and the knowledge of their degradation. concerning the superstitious veneration for stone arrow-heads very generally diffused, _vide_ mr e. t. stevens' "flint chips" (salisbury, , p. .) and so far from tradition supplying us with no clue to solve the problem of the stone age, does it not in this way suggest a very decided though an antagonistic view to that of sir john lubbock. the superstitious regard of the peasantry for these newly found relics--which i presume came under sir john's own observation when exploring the northern coast-finds--is really very curious, because it shows that their ideas and feelings in these matters were, after the lapse of at any rate a thousand years, identical with those of their ancestors. in evidence of which i adduce the following passage from professor nillson, having reference to the legend of the "guse arrows" or "orvar odd's saga":-- "this ancient romance shows very clearly that at the time when it was composed, neither arrows, nor other weapons of stone were in common use as weapons, but _that even then_ the opinion was _generally current_ that these stone weapons, which owed their existence to the dwarf race skilled in sorcery, were endowed with a magic power against witches and witchcraft which no other weapons possessed."--professor nillson, "stone age," p. . but this suggests the further reflection, whether this stone age among certain tribes was not as much in rejection as in ignorance of metals. professor nillson (p. , ) shows that flint was used for _sacred_ sacrificial purposes by the jews, egyptians, phoenicians, and latins, long after they were acquainted with weapons of metal. among these the traditional idea about flint, whatever it was, was kept in due subordination; but among tribes that had sunk into savagery it is conceivable that it may have become a superstition, and dominated. i am not sure that we do not underrate the capacity for tradition among savages where it has once taken hold; still, if it had been a question of mere savages, at the first glance i should have been disposed to agree with sir john lubbock. but let us take the case of tasman, which sir john puts forward as a sort of crucial case, and which may be accepted as such, seeing that the new zealanders may fairly claim to be regarded as "barbarians."[ ] [ ] _vide_ sir george grey's "polynesian mythology," p. xiii.; f. a. weld's (governor of western australia) "notes on new zealand," pp. , . in the first place, i find the following in a note to "cook's voyages" (smith, ):--"mr polack, in his 'narrative of travels and adventures during a residence in new zealand between the years - ,' collected all the particulars relating to cook's brush with the natives, , on the spot." next, let us see what cook says on the subject of tasman ("cook's voyages," i. )-- "but the indians still continued _near the ship_, rowing round many times [hardly the most favourable conditions under which to recover a tradition], conversing with tupia [the otaheitan interpreter] chiefly concerning the traditions they had among them with respect to the antiquities of their country. to this subject they were led by the inquiries which tupia had been directed to make, whether they had ever seen such a vessel as ours, or had ever heard that any such had been on their coast. these inquiries were all answered in the negative, _so that_ tradition has preserved among them no memorial of tasman, though by an observation made this day we find we are _only fifteen_ miles south of murderers' bay!" evidently the shrewd and gallant investigator himself was not satisfied with the cross-examination, for we find at p. -- "when we were under sail one old man, topaa [a native], came on board to take leave of us; and as we were still desirous of making further inquiries whether any memory of tasman had been preserved among their people, tupia was directed to ask him whether he had ever heard that such a vessel as ours had before visited the country. to this he replied in the negative; but said that _his ancestors had told him_ there had once come to this place a _small_ vessel from a distant country called ulimaroa, in which were _four_ men, who upon coming on shore were _all killed_. upon being asked where this distant land lay he pointed to the northward." but what does tasman himself say?-- "on the th december these savages began to grow a little bolder and more familiar, insomuch that at last they ventured on board the _heemskirk_, in order to trade with those in the vessel. as soon as i perceived it, being apprehensive that they might attempt to surprise that ship, _i sent my shallop_, with seven men, to put the people in the _heemskirk_ on their guard, and to direct them not to place any confidence in these people. my seven men, being _without arms_, were attacked by these savages, who _killed three_ of the seven, and _forced_ the other _four_ to swim for their lives; _which_ occasioned my giving that place the name of the bay of murderers.[ ] our ship's company _would undoubtedly_ have taken a severe revenge if the rough weather had not prevented them."--_tasman's voyage of discovery, pinkerton_, xi. [ ] this was a recognition on tasman's part that there was a violation of the law of nations, which he evidently considered ought to have been recognised by these people. for killing unarmed men he does not stigmatise them as savages, but as murderers, which name has clung to the spot and to the transaction to this day. now, i submit that this old man topaa's recollection of the tradition of an event which occurred one hundred and thirty years before his time, was much more perfect than captain cook's, sir joseph banks', dr solander's, and sir j. lubbock's recollection of the same event from geographical records. emboldened by this instance of the fallibility of scientific men, i now proceed to question the truth of the two following propositions of sir j. lubbock, after which i shall ask to be allowed to enunciate a proposition of my own. first, sir j. lubbock says: "it has been asserted over and over again that there is no race of man so degraded as to be entirely without a religion--without some idea of the deity. so far from this being true, the very reverse is the case" (p. ).[ ] [ ] i am aware that what i have opposed to sir j. lubbock is only the contrary and not the contradictory of his proposition. i find, however, that a very competent authority, wilson, "archæology and pre-historic annals of scotland," p. , says: "no people, however rude or debased be their state, have yet been met with so degraded to the level of the brutes as to entertain no notion of a supreme being, or no anticipation of a future state." "all polytheism is based on monotheism; idolatry implies religious feeling."--_bunsen's egypt_, iv. . but in truth it was not a priest or a missionary who first enunciated the contradictory of sir john lubbock's proposition--it was cicero. "itaque ex tot generibus nullum est animal, præter hominem, quod habeat notitiam aliquam dei: ipsisque in hominibus nulla gens est, neque _tam immansueta_, neque _tam fera_, quæ non _etiam si ignoret qualem habere deum deceat_, tamen _habendum sciat_." de legibus; i. . second, "it is a common opinion that savages are, as a general rule, only the miserable remnants of nations once more civilised; but although there are some well-established cases of national decay, there is no scientific evidence which would justify us in asserting that this is generally the case" (p. ). in opposition to the first proposition, i maintain that there is no race of men so degraded as to be without some vestige of religion. and in opposition to the second, i assert that if they have a vestige of religion, and nothing else, they have still that which will convict them of degeneracy. first, to say that a savage has no idea of the deity, is to say merely that he is a savage; and it appears to me that this extinction of all knowledge of the deity among a people, precisely marks the point where the barbarian lapses into the savage. taking the range of the authorities quoted by sir j. lubbock,[ ] i find a great concurrence of testimony to the fact that there is some vestige of religion. one only--whose authority on any other point incidental to african travel i should regard as of the highest value--captain richard burton, asserts without qualification, and in language sufficiently explicit, that "some of the tribes of the lake district of central africa admit neither god, nor angel, nor devil." others assert the same negatively--they did not come upon any signs of religion, any external observances, any trace of ceremonial worship. for instance, it is said that the tasmanians had no word for a creator (p. , lubbock), which need not excite surprise, as it is also said of them that they were incapable of forming any abstract ideas at all (p. , lubbock). again, in many of those cases where it is more or less roundly asserted that there is no vestige of religion, we find it plainly intimated that there is a belief in the devil, _e.g._ lubbock, p. . [ ] i should not have considered it necessary to have entered so elaborately into this argument, if i had previously read the chapter on animism in mr tylor's "primitive culture." the instances, however, which follow will stand as supplementary. "the tonpinambas of brazil had _no religion_, though if the name is applied 'à des notions fantastiques d'êtres surnaturals et puissans on ne sauroit nier qu'ils n'eussent une croyance religieuse et _même une sorte_ de culte exterieur.'"--_freycinet_, i. . now, although the devil may, and in many instances no doubt has,[ ] made a special revelation of himself to his votaries, the ordinary channel of information concerning him is through tradition, and through the tradition of the fall of man. [ ] sir j. lubbock says (p. ) of the feegee islanders: "they did not worship idols, but many of the priests seem to have really thought that they had been in actual communication with the atona; and some of the early missionaries were inclined to believe that satan may have been permitted to practise a deception upon them, in order to strengthen his power. however extraordinary this may appear, the same was the case in tahiti." but i ask further of those who dispute this, if savages are found with this fear of the supernatural world, after they have lost the idea of god, how do they get it? if not from tradition, then from reflection? but savages do not reason (lubbock, p. ). moreover, at p. , sir j. lubbock says, what really brings us very nearly to agreement, "how, for instance, can a people who are unable to count their own fingers, possibly raise their minds so far as to admit even the rudiments of a religion?" this is said with reference to a previous allegation, "that those who assert that even the lowest savages believe in a deity, affirm that which is entirely contrary to the evidence" (p. ). but there is a great concurrence of evidence that "even the lowest savages" believe in the devil. belief in the devil involves a realisation more or less obscure of the fallen angel, of the spirit of evil--and this for the savage who "cannot count his fingers" is as great an intellectual effort as would be, merely considered as an intellectual effort, a belief in the deity. on any theory of growth or development how could he ("the lowest savage") have got the idea? several writers who are quoted, whilst they deny the existence of any notion of religion among a particular people, mention facts which are incompatible with that statement. i may also say, parenthetically, that to detect or elicit the sentiment of religion in others, one must have something of the sentiment in ourselves; _e.g._ there is the instance of kolben (lubbock, p. ), "who, _in spite_ of the assertions of the natives themselves, _felt quite sure_ that certain dances _must be_ of a religious character, let the hottentots say what they will." now i must say there is great _à priori_ probability in the truth of kolben's conviction, although he was probably led to it merely by the insight of his own mind. let it be taken in connection with the following evidence in washington irving's "life of columbus," iii. - :-- "the _dances_ to which the natives seemed so immoderately addicted, and which had been _at first_ considered by the spaniards mere idle pastimes, were _found_ to be often _ceremonials of a serious and mystic character_." again--"peter martyn observes that they performed these dances to the chant of certain metres and ballads _handed down from_ generation to generation, in which were rehearsed the deeds of their ancestors. some of these ballads were of a _sacred_ character, containing their _traditional_ notions of theology, and the superstitions and fables which comprised their religious creeds." pritchard, "researches into phys. hist. of man" (i. p. ), quoting oldendorp, and speaking of the african negroes, says:--"at the annual harvest feast, which _nearly all_ the nations of guinea solemnise, thank-offerings are brought to the deity. these festivals are days of rejoicing, which the negroes pass with feasting and dancing." _vide_ also "hist. of indian tribes of north america, portraits from the ind. gal. in depart. of war at washington, by t. m'kenney (late ind. dep. wash.) and j. hall of cincinnati" (philadelphia, ). "dancing is among the most prominent of the aboriginal _ceremonies_; there is no tribe in which it is not practised. the indians have their _war_ dance and their _peace_ dance, their dance of _mourning for the dead_, their _begging_ dance, their pipe dance, their green-corn dance, and their wabana (an offering to the devil). each of these is distinguished by some peculiarity ... though to a stranger they appear much alike, except the last.... it is a ceremony and not a recreation, and is conducted with a seriousness belonging to an important public duty." at p. (lubbock) it is said, "admiral fitzroy never witnessed or heard of any act of a decidedly religious character among the fuegians." still, as sir john admits, "some of the natives suppose that there is a great black man in the woods who knows everything, and cannot be escaped." if this is not the devil, it looks very like him. again, p. , mr mathews says, speaking of the fuegians, "he sometimes heard a great howling or lamentation about _sunrise_ in the morning; and upon asking jemmy button what occasioned the outcry, he could obtain no satisfactory answer; the boy only saying, 'people very sad, cry very much.'" upon which sir john remarks, "this appears so natural and sufficient an explanation, that why the outcry should be 'supposed to be devotional' i must confess myself unable to see" ( ). now, if this was not their traditional notion and mode of prayer, degraded according to the measure of their degeneracy, the degeneracy is at least proved in another way, for, being still reasonable beings, they had, according to the account, congregated together to send up a lamentation, which, if it was not prayer, could be likened only to the moonlight howling of wolves. this mode of prayer resembles what father loyer and the missionary oldendorp (pritchard, i. ) tells us of the negroes. father loyer "declares that they have a belief in a universally powerful being, and to him they address prayers. every morning after _they rise_ they go to the river side to wash, and throwing a handful of water on their head, or pouring sand with it to express their humility, they join their hands and then open them, whisper softly the word 'exsuvais.'" oldendorp says (p. ): "the negroes profess their dependence on the deity, ... they pray _at the rising_ and setting of the sun,[ ] on eating and drinking, and when they go to war." compare also helps' "spanish conquest in america," i. :-- "the worship of the peruvians was not the mere worship of the sun alone as of the most beautiful and powerful thing which they beheld; but they had _also_ a worship of a far more elevated and refined nature, addressed to pachacamac, the soul of the universe, _whom_ they hardly dared to name; and when they were obliged to name this being, they did so inclining the head and the whole body, now _lifting_ up the eyes to heaven, now lowering them to the ground, and _giving kisses in the air_. to pachacamac they made no temple and offered no sacrifices, but they adored him in their hearts."[ ] [ ] after all, is there not something in their mode of prayer which recalls the language of psalm cxl., "dirigatur oratio mea sicut incensum in conspectu tuo: _elevatio manuum mearum sacrificium vespertinum_." if the reader will refer to bunsen's "egypt," &c. vol. i. p. , he will find "a man with uplifted arms" as the ideographic sign ( ) for "to praise, glorification," which is in evidence not only that it was the natural but the traditional mode. [ ] garcilasso de la vega's authority is so unimpeachable, and at the same time his testimony is so unmistakable on this point, that it will be as well to give his own words, as he was well acquainted with the peruvian traditions, through his mother, who was one of the yncas. he adds: "when the indians were asked who pachacamac was, they replied that he it was who gave life to the universe, and supported it; but that they knew him not, for they had never _seen_ him, and that for this reason they did not build temples to him, nor offer him sacrifices; but that they worshipped him in their hearts (mentally), and considered him to be an _unknown god_.... from this it is clear, that these indians considered him to be the maker of all things." hakluyt ed. of garcil. de la vega's "royal commentaries of the yncas," ed. c. markham, , i. . he further remarks that, whereas they hesitated to pronounce the name of pachacamac, "they spoke of the sun on every occasion." compare the accounts we have of the guanches. m. pegot ogier, "the fortunate isles" (canaries), , says (p. ), that a comparison of the chronicles of the conquest shows that, "far from being idolaters, the guanches worshipped one god, the creator and preserver of the world," and that (p. ), "in their worship, they _raised their hands_ to heaven, and sacrificed on the mountains by pouring milk on the ground from a _height_; their milk was carried in a sacred vase called _ganigo_." the name of their god, "achoron achaman" = "he who upholds the heaven and earth," and "achuhuyahan achuhucanac" = "he who sustains every one," has resemblances with "pachacamac" = "pacha," the earth; and "camac" participle of "camani," "i create."--(c. markham, hakluyt ed. of garcil. de la vega, i. .) at p. sir john somewhat too roundly asserts that "dr hooker tells us that the lepchas of northern india have _no religion_." turning to dr hooker's "himalayan journal," i find (i. ), "the lepchas profess no religion, _though_ acknowledging the existence of good and bad spirits.... both lepchas and limboos _had, before the_ introduction of lama boodhism from tibet, many features in common with the natives of arracan, especially in _their creed_, _sacrifices_, faith in omens, worship of many spirits, absence of idols, and of the doctrine of metempsychosis" (p. ). we have already seen (_supra_, p. ) that they had a very distinct tradition of the deluge; indeed there is much in the account of them which reminds us of the primitive monotheism. so, too, sir john asserts, p. , "once more dr hooker states that the khasias, an indian tribe, _had no religion_. col. yule, on the contrary, says that they have, but he admits that breaking hens' eggs is the principal part of their religious practice." it is true that dr hooker says (ii. ), "the khasias are superstitious, but have no religion;" he adds, however, "_like the lepchas, they believe in a supreme being_, and in deities of the grove, cave, and stream." it seems, however, that the only outward manifestation of their religion is in "breaking hens' eggs"! what can be more ludicrous! yet here, too, would seem to be a vestige of primitive tradition. we know (_vide_ wilkinson, "ancient egyptians," second series) how primitive truth was concealed under material symbols. gainet (i. ) also says, "even upon the hypothesis that these fragments of the egyptian cosmogony were lost, one of the hieroglyphics which this people has left us would suffice to convince us of their belief in a creator. it is the image of the god kneph, whom they represent with _an egg_ in his mouth; _this egg_ being the natural image of the world taking its birth from this divinity." again, p. , "in the mysteries of bacchus[ ] the dogma of the creation was proposed under the emblem of that celebrated _egg_, of which the poets have so often spoken, which contained the germ of all things." "_the egg_," says plutarch, "is consecrated to the sacred ceremonies of bacchus, as a representation of the author of nature who produces and comprehends all things in himself." there is a passage in athenagoras to the same effect. [ ] compare with pp. , . superstitions were also connected with cocks and hens in khasia. whether these again were connected with the symbolical representation of the egg can only be conjectured. it may possibly be that the representation had a common origin with the cock of apollo and the cock of Æsculapius, if, indeed, these were not also originally derived from the same primal conception. this would be only to renew the old classical dispute as to whether the hen proceeded from the egg, or the egg from the hen, which i take to be only the form in which the great question of the first cause was debated by the gentile world after their ideas of a creator had become indistinct, and with reference to this ancient symbol. however that may be, i wish to point out that this ceremonial use of the cock may be traced in europe, asia, and africa: _e.g. asia_--"the lepchas scatter eggs and pebbles over the graves of their friends.... among the limboos, the priests of a higher order than the lepcha, bijoras officiate at marriages, when a _cock_ is put into the bride-groom's hands, and a _hen_ into those of the bride. the phedangbo then cuts off the birds' heads, when the blood is caught in a plantain leaf, and runs into pools, from which omens are drawn" (dr hooker, "himalayan journal," i. ). _africa_--_vide_ pritchard, "phys. hist. of man," i. , , : "even the dead are not buried without sacrifices. a white hen is slain by the priest before the corpse comes to the grave, and the bier whereon the body lies is sprinkled with its blood. this custom was introduced by the nation of kagraut." _europe_--if any one will turn to the _illustrated london news_ of nov. , , he will find an account and illustration of a local ceremony peculiar to the village of gorbio in the maritime alps, in which the priest, on a particular day in the year, is solemnly presented with four cocks hung upon a halberd--together with an apple by the bachelors and spinsters of the village--from which it would seem to have had originally some connection, as we have seen above, with a marriage ceremony. wilson ("archæologia") remarks that the custom of "easter, or, in the north, paste eggs (pasch), was very prevalent in the north."[ ] [ ] compare the following passage in the bishop of chalons' "le monde et l'homme primitif" (with reference to gen. i.--the creation). at p. the bishop says, "that when the book of the law of manou and the mahabarata relate that god, who contains within himself his own principle in the first instance, the water, and gave it fecundity, and that the produce of this fecundity became _an egg_, ... can we see in this anything else than the fantastic translation of this phrase of scripture, 'l'esprit de dieu _couvait_ la surface des eaux--rouha elohim meharephet hal pene hammaïm.'" _vide_ also p. (as to universality of tradition) and p. as to text also. j. g. vance ("archæol." xix.) says, upon the mundane egg "the whole system of ancient religion was based" (j. b. waring, "stone monuments of remote ages," p. , ). it strikes me that it would be difficult to assign a christian origin for the custom. it must then have been a custom which the church diverted or sanctioned in giving it an innocent or christian application; in which case, in so far as it is pagan, it may possibly be traced to a common origin with the practices in khasia among the lepchas. it would extend the inquiry too far to follow sir j. lubbock through all the cases adduced by him. i will conclude, therefore, with his account of the andaman islander--who, with the australians, esquimaux, and fuegians, dispute the point of being considered the lowest of mankind. it is said of the andamans, "that they have no idea of a supreme being, no religion, or any belief in a future state of existence" (p. ). it is, however, casually mentioned that, "after death, the corpse is buried in a sitting posture." now this mode of burial is common to them with esquimaux (p. ), the australians (p. ), the maories (p. ), and the natives of the feegee islands (p. ), among whom we seem to get a clue to this strange mode of burial; "the fact is, _they_ (the feegee islanders) not only believe in a future state, but are persuaded that as they leave this life, so will they rise again." sir j. lubbock, in his "introduction to prof. nillson" (xxxiii.), says that this was the common mode of burial in the stone age; and prescott ("hist. of mexico," ii. ) says, "who can doubt the existence of an affinity, or at least an intercourse, between tribes, who had _the same strange habit of burying the dead in a sitting position_, as was practised to some extent by most if _not all_ of the aborigines from canada to patagonia?"[ ] but not only may it be presumed that they had an affinity and intercourse, but a common religious idea. it may be doubted then whether even the naked andaman is so entirely destitute of all religious impressions as he is supposed to be. [ ] i find, in _archæological journal_, no. , , p. , that corpses in a sitting posture were found under the long cromlechs in south jutland. i have already urged that if any vestiges of religion remain they must be considered as evidence of tradition and proof of degeneracy. i think the following reflection will tend to clench this argument. although it is obscure and disputed to what extent certain savages do retain glimmerings of religion, it is certain and admitted that some savages have religion and a religious ceremonial. now, as sir j. lubbock says, "how, for instance, can a people who are unable to count upon their fingers possibly raise their minds so far as to admit even the rudiments of religion." it is clear, then, that the lowest grade of mankind did not invent it, how then did the higher grade get it, "assuming always the unity of the human race"? finally, if man commenced with the knowledge of the devil, how did they proceed on to the idea of god? "the first idea of a god is almost always as an evil spirit" (lubbock, p. ). how then did they advance to the knowledge of the god of purity and love, or even of "the great spirit" of the indians?[ ] [ ] _vide_ dr newman's "grammar of assent," p. , _et seq._ let us at least know whether it is supposed that this was the order of knowledge ordained by divine providence, or whether it is believed that man in this manner developed the idea of god out of his own consciousness, his primitive, or perhaps innate, idea being, the conception of evil and of the evil spirit.[ ] sir john says (p. ), "there are no just grounds for expecting man to be ever endued with a sixth sense." but why not? if by his own mental vigour he can out of the primitive idea of evil generate the idea of good--what may we not expect? [ ] _per contra_, i invite sir j. lubbock's attention to the following passage from mr gladstone's "homer" (ii. ), "as _the derivative idea_ of sin depended upon that of _goodness_, and as the shadow ceases to be visible when the object shadowed has become more dim, we might well expect that the contraction and obscuration of the true idea of goodness would bring about a more than proportionate loss of knowledge concerning the true nature of evil. the impersonation of evil could only be upheld in a lively or effectual manner as the opposite of the impersonation of good; and when the moral standard of godhead had so greatly degenerated, as we find to be the case even in the works of homer, the negation of that standard could not but cease to be either interesting or intelligible. accordingly we find that the _process of disintegration_, followed by that of arbitrary reassortment and combination of elements, had proceeded to a more advanced stage _with respect to the tradition of the evil one_ than in the other cases." yet, if any one will compare the evidence which sir john has collected, he will come, i think, to the conclusion, that the invention and adaptability of the savage is very slight indeed. he will find (p. ) that the inhabitants of botany bay had fish-hooks, but no nets; those of western australia, nets but not hooks; that those who had the throwing-stick and boomerang, were ignorant both of slings and bows and arrows; that those who had retained the knowledge of the bow did not pass on to the use of the bola; that the northern tribes visited by kane were skilful in the capture of birds with nets, yet were entirely ignorant of fishing ( ); that the nearest approach to the south american bola is among the esquimaux ( ); that the throwing-stick is common only to the widely distant esquimaux, australians, and some of the brazilian tribes (_id._); that the "sumpitan" or blowpipe of the malays occurs only in the valley of the amazons. does not this point to a traditional knowledge of these things? nevertheless, this mass of evidence seems to have produced the very opposite conviction with sir j. lubbock. "on the whole, then, from a review of all these and other similar facts which _might have been_ mentioned, it seems to me most probable that many of the simpler weapons, implements, &c., have been invented independently by various savage tribes, although there are no doubt also cases in which they have been borrowed by one tribe from another" (p. ). instances in which they have been borrowed from each other are not infrequent, but then neither are they inconsistent with the theory of tradition; but the instances of invention _are limited to one_. (see for instance p. .) at p. we find--"although they (the esquimaux) had no knowledge of pottery, captain cook saw at unalashka vessels "of flat stone, with sides of clay, not unlike a standing pye." we here obtain an idea of the manner in which the knowledge of pottery _may have been_ developed. after using clay to raise the sides of their stone vessels, it _would_ naturally occur to them, that the same substance would serve for the bottom also, and thus the use of stone _might be_ replaced by a more convenient material." recollecting how roast pig came to be discovered, it cannot be said to be impossible that pottery may thus have been invented; but in this instance it might equally have been the rough substitute for the pottery of their recollection. besides, the proof is wanting that they ever did pass on to the invention of pottery. it may, for anything we know to the contrary, be in this inchoate state amongst them still. now, until further evidence is forthcoming, i shall take the liberty of maintaining that savages seem to show no inventive faculty or power of recovery in themselves.[ ] whatever they possess seems to be limited to what they have retained of primitive civilisation, and what they have retained of civilisation seems exactly in proportion to what they have retained of primitive religion. [ ] sir j. lubbock ("pre-historic times," p. ) says, "the largest erection in tahiti was constructed by the generation living at the time of captain cook's visit, and the practice of cannibalism had been recently abandoned." for these statements he refers to forster, "observations made during a voyage round the world," p. , a work i have not at hand, and also ellis, "polynesian researches," ii. p. . i have made the reference to the latter, but i do not find a syllable about cannibalism; and as to the other point ellis says, "in the bottom of every valley, even to the recesses in the mountains ... stone pavements of their dwellings and courtyards, foundations of houses and ruins of family temples, _are numerous_.... _all these relics_ are of the _same kind_ as those observed among the nations at the time of _their discovery_, evidently proving that they belong to the same race, though to a more populous era of their history." i draw attention to this inadvertence, as the above instances (two) are the most important of the four which sir j. lubbock adduces in support of his view. _vide_ appendix. in supporting this proposition i shall hardly have occasion to go beyond the four corners of sir j. lubbock's "pre-historic times." it is indeed a moot point with the travellers and ethnologists who have given their attention to the subject, which race of savages is "the lowest in the scale of civilisation." in this competitive examination a concurrence of opinion seems to decide in favour of the fuegian, who at any rate is miserable enough, living, when better food fails him, on raw and putrid flesh, eked out with cannibalism; and whose clothing (in central fuego) consists "in a scrap of otter skin, about as large as a pocket handkerchief, laced across the breast with strings, and shifted according to the wind" (darwin, _apud_ lubbock). their religion, as we have just seen, consists in a vague apprehension of the black man who lives up in the woods--and their prayer is something slightly elevated above the howl of the wolf. their civilisation, therefore, like their religion, may be considered to be at a "minimum." the australians have been called "the miserablest people in the world" (p. ). they are said to have "no religion or any kind of prayer, but most of them believe in evil spirits, and all have a dread of witchcraft" (p. ). here again we see their civilisation degraded _pari-passu_ with their religious belief--so, too, with the andaman (_vide supra_) and the tasmanian (p. ). when, however, we come to the inhabitants of the feegee islands, not greatly different from the people surrounding them, their characteristics, manners, and customs being partly nigrito and partly polynesian, although in the matter of cannibalism they are simply horrible, and eat their kind, not on any high notion that they are appropriating the spirit and glory of him whom they devour (_vide_ lubbock, ), but from a repulsive preference; yet they have a distinct notion of religion, with temples, and ceremonies, and we are told they look down upon the samoans because they had no religion. well, we find the feegeeans in a state of material civilisation exactly corresponding--they live in well built houses, to feet long and feet high, in fortified towns, with earthen ramparts, surmounted by a reed fence, &c. "their temples were pyramidal in form, and were often erected on terraced mounds like those of central america" (p. ). they had efficient weapons, agricultural implements, well-constructed canoes, and (p. ) pottery.[ ] [ ] the duke of argyll, balancing the conclusions of archbishop whately and sir j. lubbock ("primeval man," p. ), says, "whately defies the supporter of development to produce a single case of savages having raised themselves. sir j. lubbock replies by defying his opponent to show that it has not been done and done often. he urges, and urges as it seems to me with truth, that the great difficulty of teaching many savages the arts of civilised life, is no proof whatever that the various degrees of advance towards the knowledge of those arts which are actually found among semi-barbarous nations may not have been of strictly indigenous growth. _thus it appears that one tribe of red indians called mandans_ practised the art of _fortifying_ their towns. _surrounding tribes_, although they saw the advantage derived from this art, yet _never practised_ it, and _never learned it_." so far as to the fact. the duke of argyll continues the argument on the side of sir j. lubbock. but what i wish to indicate is that this crucial instance of the mandans may be triumphantly adduced in support of my proposition. why, these are the _very mandans_ among whom catlin and the prince maxmilian of neuwied discovered the curious commemorative ceremony of the deluge! _vide_ ch. xi. when, however, we come to the tahitians we find a very high state of civilisation. of their religion it is said--"that though they worshipped numerous deities," and sometimes sacrificed to them, "yet they were not idolators." "captain cook found their religion, like that of most other countries, involved in mystery and perplexed with apparent inconsistencies." they had a priesthood (p. ). "they believed in the immortality of the soul, and in two situations of different degrees of happiness somewhat analogous to our heaven and hell, though not regarded as places of reward and punishment; but the one intended 'for the chief and superior classes,' 'the other for the people of inferior rank.'" this is substantially captain cook's account of the tahitians, and allowing it to be exact, although i have a suspicion that a missionary would have put it somewhat differently,[ ] it shows a comparative state of religion very much elevated above anything we have yet seen. they had besides curious customs, such as that of eating apart. "they ate alone," they said, "because it was right, but why it was right they were unable to explain"--a custom which is common to them with the bachapins (p. ), (who, _by the way_, are also among the races classified as "of no religion"). although the inhabitants of tahiti present to us a much higher standard of religion and morality than we have yet met with, _also_ "they, on the whole, may be taken as representing _the highest stage_ in civilisation to which man has in any country raised himself, before the discovery or introduction of metallic implements" (lubbock, p. ). [ ] since writing the above, i have referred to wallis and bougainville. wallis could not discover "that these people had any kind of religious worship among them." bougainville says "that their principal deity is called 'ein-t-era,' _i.e._ 'king of _light_' or 'of the sun'; besides whom they acknowledge a number of inferior divinities, some of whom produce evil and others good; that the general name for these _ministering_ spirits is eatona; and that the natives suppose _two_ of these divinities attend _each affair of consequence in human life_, determining its fate either advantageously or otherwise. to one circumstance our author speaks in decisive terms. he says, when the moon exhibits a certain aspect which bears the name of 'malama tamai' (the moon is in a state of war), the natives offer up human sacrifices.... when any one sneezes, his companions cry out 'eva-rona-t-eatona,' _i.e._ 'may the good genius awaken thee,' or 'may not the evil genius lull thee asleep.'" captain king ("journal of transactions on returning to the sandwich islands," &c., pinkerton, xi. ) says of the sandwich islanders, "the religion of these people resembles in most of its principal features _that of the society and friendly islands_. their morais, their whattas, their idols, their sacrifices, and their sacred songs, _all of which_ they have in common with each other, are _convincing proofs_ that their religious notions are derived _from the same source_." it is impossible within these limits to investigate every case. i have taken the more salient cases, as instanced by sir j. lubbock, and contrasted them. i now wish to present the contrast in somewhat livelier form, and i do not see that i can do better than to present to the reader two scenes precisely similar, as to substance, yet under different conditions, in different parts of the world. the first shall be a description of "a whale ashore," by sir j. lubbock, among the australians; and the second, a description of the same scene by catlin ("last rambles, &c., among the indians of vancouver's island"). i must preface that sir j. lubbock says that the australians "have no religion nor any idea of prayer, but most of them believe in evil spirits, and all have great dread of witchcraft" (p. ). the following is the scene to which i refer:-- "they are not, so far as i am aware, able to kill whales for themselves, but when one is washed on shore it is a real godsend to them. fires are immediately lit to give notice of the joyful event.... for days they remain by the carcase, rubbed from head to foot with the stinking blubber, gorged to repletion with putrid meat, out of temper from indigestion, and therefore engaged in constant frays, suffering from a continuous disorder from high feeding, and altogether a disgusting spectacle."--_capt. grey, apud lubbock_, p. . this is one picture; now for the other. it may be said that it is only the different idiosyncrasies of the writers transferred to their pages--that one is the narrative of _jean qui pleure_, &c., or of the _médicin tant pis_, &c.; but i do not think so. mr catlin premises by telling us that the scene occurred when on a visit with the chief of the klah-o-gnats, of whom he says that he knew at first sight by his actions that he was "a chief, and by the expression of his face that he was a good man," and whom his companion described as "a very fine old fellow; that man is a gentleman; i'd trust myself anywhere with that man." of their religion, the chief himself told catlin that on that western coast of vancouver's island "they all believed in a great spirit, who created them and all things, and that they all have times and places when and where they pray to that spirit, that he may not be angry with them." one day came the startling announcement that a whale was ashore. "the sight was imposing when we came near to it, but not until we came around it on the shore side had i any idea of the scene i was to witness. some hundreds, if not thousands of indians, of all ages and sexes, and in all colours, were gathered around it, and others constantly arriving. some were lying, others standing and sitting in groups; some were asleep and others eating and drinking, and others were singing and dancing." the monster was secured by twenty or thirty harpoons, to which ropes were attached. "these were watched, and at every lift of a wave moving the monster nearer the shore, they were tightened on the harpoons, and at low tide the carcass is left on dry land, a great distance from the water.... the dissection of this monstrous creature, and its distribution amongst the thousands who would yet be a day or two in getting together, the interpreter informed us, would not be commenced until all the claimants arrived." several immense baskets had been brought in which to carry away the blubber. the possession of these baskets made all the difference in the scene which followed. to some this will be a sufficient explanation. how, then, did the others come to know nothing of baskets? truly there are people who cannot be made to see the effect of "character upon clover." i rely, however, upon the broad lines of the contrast. the absence in this latter scene of the disgusting sights above so graphically described--their quick use of the harpoons--and the general order and equity of the distribution. "a whale ashore," mr catlin says ("last rambles," p. ), "is surely a gift from heaven for these poor people, and they receive it and use it as such." whilst quoting from catlin, i must be allowed to refer my readers to the very striking proof (p. ) he incidentally affords of the theory of degeneracy in his comparative illustration of the heads of the alto and bas peruvian, and of the crow and modern flathead:-- "the crow of the rocky mountains and the alto-peruvian of _the andes_, being the two great original fountains of american man, to whom all the tribes point as their origin, and on whom, of course, all the tribes have looked as the _beau ideals_ of the indian race. the flathead (letter _c_), aiming at the crow skull (like the copyists of most fashions), has carried the copy into a caricature; and the bas-peruvian (_d_), aiming at the _elevated frontal_ of the mountain regions, has squeezed his up with circular bandages to equally monstrous proportions." also _vide_ prescott's "mexico," ii. , th ed., . "anatomists also have discerned in crania disinterred from the mounds, and in those of the inhabitants of the high plains of _the cordilleras_ an _obvious difference_ from those of the more barbarous tribes. this is seen especially in the _ampler forehead_, intimating a decided intellectual superiority.... such is the conclusion of dr warren, whose excellent collection has afforded him ample means for study and comparison." before quitting this subject i must revive a question which i think sir john lubbock will admit, if he turns to the evidence dispersed in his pages, is at present involved in some obscurity. it is simply this, "how did the savage come by the knowledge of fire?" sir john lubbock suggests (p. ) "that in making flint instruments sparks would be produced; in polishing them it would not fail to be observed that they became hot, and in this way it is easy to see how the two methods of obtaining fire may have originated.... in obtaining fire _two totally different_ methods are followed; _some_ savages, as for instance the fuegians, using percussion, while others, as the south-sea islanders, rub one piece of wood against another.... opinions are divided whether we have any trustworthy record of a people without the means of obtaining fire" (p. ). to this point i shall recur. i will now give sir john's quotation from mr dove: "although fire was well known to them (the tasmanians), some tribes at least appear to have been ignorant whence it was originally obtained, or how, if extinguished, it could be relighted. in all their wanderings," says mr dove, "they were particularly careful to bear in their hands the materials for kindling a fire. their memory supplies them _with no instances_ of a period in which they were obliged to draw upon their _inventive powers_ for the means of resuscitating an element so essential to their health and comfort as flame. how it came originally into their possession is unknown. _whether_ it may be viewed as the _gift of nature_ or the product of art and sagacity, they _cannot recollect a period when it was a desideratum_" ("tasmanian journal of natural science," i. , _apud_ lubbock, p. ).[ ] [ ] the "popul vul" (pp. - , paris, , _vide_ baring gould, "origin and development of religious belief," p. ) gives an instance--or embodies a reminiscence--of a people who had lost the tradition of fire. "then arrived the tribes perishing with cold, ... and all the tribes were gathered, shivering and quaking with cold, when they came before the leaders of the iniches.... great was their misery. 'will you not compassionate us,' they asked; 'we ask only a little fire. were we not all one, and with one country, when we were first created? have pity on us.' 'what will you give us that we should compassionate you,' was the answer made to them.... it was answered, 'we will inquire of tohil'" (their fire-god); and then follows the horrible condition of human sacrifices to be offered to their fire-god tohil, with reference to which mr b. gould quotes it. _vide supra_, p. , tradition among the sioux indians, of fire having been sent to them from heaven after the deluge. in colden's "five indian nations," p. , i find an indian chief says: "now before the christians arrived, the general council of the five nations was held at onondaga, where there has from _the beginning_ a _continual fire_ been kept burning; it is made of two great logs, _whose fire never extinguishes_." now, if it is a tenable opinion--and at least these are the statements of father gobien, and of alvaro de saavedra, and of commodore wilkes, to whose testimony i shall revert, that there are some tribes who are unacquainted with fire--that there are some who have and some who have not the art of rekindling fire, then arises the question whether those who have it not have lost the art, or whether those who now possess it invented it. if they did not invent it, they must have held it as a tradition, until, reaching a lower point of degradation still, they lost it. mr dove's testimony to this effect is very strong. what an emblem that never-extinguished torch of primitive tradition! we find the same tradition among the american indians. "the chippeways and natchez tribes are said to have an institution for keeping up a perpetual fire, certain persons being set aside and devoted to this occupation" (lubbock, p. ). freycinet certainly declares that peré gobien's statement, that the inhabitants of the ladrone were totally unacquainted with fire until magellan burnt one of their villages, to be "entirely without foundation." "the language," he says, "of the inhabitants contains words for fire, burning, charcoal, oven, grilling, boiling, &c." again, as against commodore wilkes' assertion as an eye-witness, that he saw no appearance of fire in the island of fakaafo, and that the natives were very much alarmed when they saw sparks struck from flint and steel, we are told that "hale gives a list of faakaafo words in which we find _asi_ for fire" (lubbock, p. ). however, sir john does not attribute to this argument the same force that mr tylor does, as _asi_ is evidently the same word as the new zealand _ahi_, which denotes light and heat as well as fire.[ ] if, then, we have positive evidence that they have not the thing (wilkes), and also evidence that they have the word (_vide_ note), does not this prove that it is a tradition which they have lost? and is there not the presumption that they have lost it through degeneracy? [ ] i find, in falkner's "description of patagonia," &c., (falkner resided near ° ' in those parts), "that in the vocabulary of the moluches, although the word for 'fire' is 'k'tal,' the word for 'hot' is '_asee_,' 'cold' 'chosea.'" but sir j. lubbock admits "asi" is the same word as "ahi," and if "ahi" denotes light and heat, _it also_ signifies fire. should we not expect, at least ought it to cause surprise, that the word for "fire," where poverty of language may be presumed, should stand also for light and heat? in the andaman vocabulary (earl's "papuans") "ahay" is their word for the sun--in which the two senses seem to combine. in shortland's "comp. table of polynesian dialects" ("traditions of the new zealanders"), i find _ahi_ means fire, and not light. ---------+------------+------------+-------------+----------------- |new zealand.| raratonga. | navigator's | sandwich islands | | | (savaii). | (hawaii). +------------+------------+-------------+----------------- _fire_ = | ahi.[c] | ai. | afi. | ahi. ---------+------------+------------+-------------+----------------- [c] and as would appear from shortland (_id._ pp. , , "_ao_," a seemingly cognate though not identical word with "ahi," is the new zealand word for light. but in bougainville's "vocabulary of faiti (otaheite) island," i find again "eaï," _i.e._ their word for _fire_, whereas their word for light, not darkness, is "eouramaï" and "po" = day light), whilst they have a distinct word for "hot" = "ivera"--"era" being the sun. compare sanscrit "aghni" = ignis, fire.--_vide_ card. wiseman, "science and revealed religion," p. , th ed. appendix to chapter xii. compare the following account of the new zealanders:-- "shut out from the rest of the world, without any to set them a pattern of what was right or to reprove what was wrong, is it surprising that morally they should have degenerated, even from the standard of their forefathers? they were not always addicted to war, neither were they always cannibals; _the remembrance of the origin_ of these horrid customs is _still preserved amongst them_. if the progressive development theory were true, aboriginal races should have progressively advanced; every successive generation should have added some improvement to the one which preceded it; but experience proves the contrary. a remarkable instance of this may be adduced in the fact, that the new zealanders have retrograded, even since the days of captain cook; they then possessed large double canoes, decked, with houses on them similar to those of tahiti and hawaii, in which, traditionally, their ancestors arrived; it is now more than half a century since the last was seen. tradition also states that they had finer garments in former days and of different kinds; that, like their reputed ancestors, they made cloth from the bark of trees--the name is preserved, but the manufacture has ceased. there are remains also in their language which would lead us to suppose that, like the inhabitants of tonga, they once possessed a kingly form of government, and though they have now no term to express that high office, still they have words which are evidently derived from the very one denoting a king in tonga. their traditions, which are preserved, also establish the same fact, and perhaps one of the strongest proofs is their language; its fulness, its richness, and close affinity not only in words but in grammar to the sanscrit, carries the mind back to a time when literature could not have been unknown." from "te ika a maui," or "new zealand and its inhabitants," by the rev. richard taylor, m.a., f.g.s., a missionary in new zealand for more than thirty years, pp. , . chapter xiii. _noah and the golden age._ taking as the basis of this theory that the law of nations forms part of a tradition, that the stream of this tradition has never ceased to flow, and that the diffusion of its waters has ever been the source and condition of fecundity; and further, that this tradition in its main current has run in the channels which dr newman (_infra_, p. ) has indicated--for although there are other reservoirs, they have become stagnant, and exist like the fresh-water lake, the bahr-i-nedjig (_vide_ rawlinson's "ancient monarchies," i. ), whose waters are "fresh and sweet" so long as they communicate with the euphrates, but when they are cut off become "unpalatable," so that those "who dwell in the vicinity are no longer able to drink of it"--taking these various facts as the basis, we come inevitably to the question--whence this tradition arose, and upon what authority and sanction it rests? in answer to this i do not hesitate to affirm that presumptively it goes back to the commencement of human history, and more demonstrably to that commencement--which for historical and practical purposes is sufficient--the era of noah. i propose now to inquire how near this theory can be brought to the facts. a fairer opportunity could hardly have been afforded for ascertaining the force and fulness of primitive tradition than the discovery of the american continent; yet this opportunity was totally disregarded by the spanish conquerors,[ ]--rough men, and for the most part the offscourings of spain,--and its evidences were but sparsely and negligently collected by the explorers of a different character who followed at a later date. [ ] the works of garcilasso de la vega, valera, p. de cieza, and de sahagun must be excepted. as an instance of the neglect which we have reason to regret, the former gives an account of one only (the raymi) of the four annual festivals of the peruvians.--hakluyt soc. ed. ii. . he gives the name, however, of another--namely, the _si_tua. something, however, of primitive tradition has been thus preserved (_vide_ help's "spanish conquest of america," i. , , ; prescott, "mexico," i. ). indeed, the approximation to the biblical narrative is so close that the suspicion would be quite reasonable that missionaries of whom we have no record had found their way to these people before the continent became known to us; or that the people themselves were of jewish descent; or that they had left the asiatic mainland subsequently to the preaching of st thomas the apostle. manco capac (_vide infra_), according to this conjecture, may have been one of these missionaries; or it may even be that in the venerable image which the description calls up we see in vision the apostle himself. when, however, the description is compared with the traditions i have collated of a patriarchal character--still more remote and venerable, "him of mazy counsel--saturn" (hesiod), i shall ask the reader to decide whether the more improbable conjecture, measured according to time and distance, has not the greater weight of evidence. i proceed to place in juxtaposition a recapitulation of the classical and oriental traditions, and the quotations from helps above referred to. "one peculiar circumstance, as humboldt remarks, is very much to be noted in the ancient records and traditions of the indian nations. in no less than three remarkable instances has superior civilisation been attributed to the sudden presence amongst them of persons differing from themselves in appearance and descent." [as to the argument to be derived from colour and appearance, _vide supra_, p. .] "bochica, a white man with a beard, appeared to the mozca indians in the plains of bogota, _taught them how to build and to sow_, formed them _into communities_, gave an outlet _to the waters of the great lake_ [compare _supra_, p. , chronology], and having settled the government, civil and ecclesiastical, retired into a monastic state of penitence for two thousand years.[ ] [ ] probably a tradition of the penitence of adam. "in like manner manco capac, accompanied by his sister mama ocllo, descended amongst the peruvians, gave them _a code of admirable laws_, reduced them into communities, and then ascended to his father the sun."[ ] (a confusion with the tradition of enoch, parallel to the like confusion in the person of xisuthrus,[ ] unmistakably identified with noah in the babylonian tradition.) [ ] here, the admixture of sun-worship, as identifying the mythology at any rate with the hamitic and "cuthite," directly militates in favour of my view against the conjecture that manco capac was a missionary. [ ] _vide_ also the like confused tradition of nimrod (assyria) and menes (egypt), bunsen, p. . "amongst the mexicans there suddenly appeared quetzalcohuatl, the green-feathered (_i.e._ elegant) snake" (compare with chaldæan fish-god, p. ), "a white and bearded man of broad brow, dressed in strange dress, a _legislator_ who recommended severe penances, lacerating his own body with the prickles of the agave and the thorns of the cactus, but who dissuaded his followers from human sacrifices. while he remained in anahuana it was a saturnian reign; but this _great legislator_, after moving on to the plains of cholulas, and governing the cholulans with wisdom, passed away to a distant country" [if this looks more like the movement among them of some apostolic missionary, it is also in keeping with the journey of bacchus, "travelling through all nations," &c.], "and was never heard of more." it is said briefly of him, that "he _ordained sacrifices_ of flowers and fruit, and stopped his ears, when he was spoken to of war."[ ] such a saint is needed in all times, even in the present advanced state of civilisation in the old world."[ ]--_help's "spanish conquest of america,"_ i. . [ ] if an identity has been established between quetzalcohuatl and manco capac (_vide_ prescott "conquest of peru," i. ), it will appear that this legislator, who shut his ears when he was spoken to of war, did nevertheless leave them admirable maxims (compare with indian (aryan) maxims, p. ) and laws of war, _e.g._ prescott, "peru," p. . compare extract from davies--_vide supra_, preface. "the peruvian soldier was forbidden to commit any _trespass on the property_ of the inhabitants whose territory lay in the line of march. from the moment _war was proclaimed_," &c., "in every stage of the war he was open to _propositions for peace_, and although he sought to reduce his enemies by carrying off their harvests and destressing them by famine, the peruvian monarch allowed his troops to commit no unnecessary outrage on person or property." it is not to the point that these rules were not always observed. [ ] compare _supra_, p. , note to manou (bacchus). i have shown (p. ) that calmet (and other authorities of the same date might be adduced) identifies saturn with noah. among other proofs he points to the tradition of saturn devouring his children (with the exception of three), as a distorted tradition of the destruction of mankind according to the prediction of noah, upon the canon of interpretation, "that men are said often to do what they do not prevent, or even what they predict." i have also shown that this conjecture receives attestation from a fragment of sanchoniathon's (phoenician),important whether regarded as a more ancient parallel tradition, or as the same tradition nearer the fountain-head. without recapitulating the other points of resemblance (_vide_ ch. x.), let us compare what is said of saturn with what is said of bochica, manco capac, &c. "under saturn," says plutarch, "was the golden age." "saturn is represented with a scythe, as the _inventor of_ agriculture." virgil (Æn. viii. ) describes saturn as bringing the dispersed people from the mountains and _giving them laws_. i have also drawn attention to the _saturnalia_ as connecting _bacchus_ with _saturn_. now cicero tells us that one bacchus was king of _asia_, and author of _laws called subazian_; and bacchus is also said to _have travelled_ through _all nations doing good_, in all places, and teaching many things profitable to the life of man. noah has also been identified with janus, and under janus as under saturn was the golden age; and it is, moreover, said (_vide_ p. ), "that in the time of janus all families were full of religion and holiness." he is said to have been _the first that built temples_ and _instituted sacred rites_, and was therefore always mentioned at the beginning of sacrifices. [this, in common with what is said of quetzalcohuatl is again possibly a combined tradition of enoch and noah.] let both these traditions be compared with berosus' account of hoa, or the fish-god (_vide_ rawlinson, "anct. mon." i. p. , and _supra_, p. ). "he is said to have transmitted to mankind the knowledge of grammar and mathematics, and of all arts (or of any kind of art), and of the _polity of cities_, the _construction_ and _dedication of temples_, the _introduction of laws_, to have taught them geometry, and _to have shown them by example_, the _mode of sowing the seed_ and gathering the _fruits of the earth_; and along with them to have tradated _all the secrets which tend to harmonise life_. and no one else in that time was found so experienced as he."[ ] [ ] compare with gen. vi. , viii. , "and god spoke to noe, saying"; also vi. , ix. ; and gen. viii. --"and noe built an altar unto the lord, and taking of all cattle"; and ix. --"and noe, a husbandman, began to till the ground, and planted a vineyard." also ecclesiasticus xliv. , , , , "the covenants of the world were made with him." compare also with the "oracula sybillina," _supra_, p. . in the traditions, however, which connect noah with the saturnian reign,[ ] it appears to me that threefold confusion has to be disentangled. [ ] it may be well here to recall to recollection the well-known lines of virgil-- "ultima cumæi venit jam carminis ætas: magnus ab integro seclorum nascitur ordo, jam redit et virgo, redeunt saturnia regna jam nova progenies coelo dimittitur alto." _eclogues_ iv. i. there is a tradition of a golden and of a silver age frequently transfused. ii. when thus transfused there is often along with the tradition of a golden or silver age trace of a subordinate and incongruous tradition of a state of nature as a state of barbarism--both at the early commencement of things. iii. there is a double tradition of the succession of ages, the one ante-, the other post-diluvian. * * * * * i. the tradition of the golden age is primarily the tradition of paradise, to which succeeded in gradation of degeneracy a silver, brass, and iron age. of this line of tradition we have seen distinct trace in sanchoniathon (_supra_, p. ). but there is also, as we have just seen, a tradition of another golden age connected with saturn, janus, &c., and of this perhaps we have the most direct testimony in the chinese tradition. "the chinese traditions," says professor rawlinson (bampton lectures, ii., quoting "horæ mos." iv. ) "are said to be less clear and decisive (than the babylonian). they speak of a 'first heaven' and age of innocence when 'the whole creation enjoyed a state of happiness; when everything was beautiful, everything was good; all things were perfect in their kind. whereunto succeeded a _second heaven, introduced by a great convulsion_, in which the pillars of heaven were broken, the earth shook to its foundations, the heavens sank lower towards the north, the sun, moon, and stars changed their motions, the earth fell to pieces, and _the waters enclosed within its bosom burst forth with violence and overflowed_,'" &c. here, then, is a tradition of a second heaven, or a saturnian reign, following a convulsion which will perhaps be conceded to be a tradition of the _universal_ deluge (_vide_ p. ), and which links the tradition of the saturnian reign with the patriarch noah?[ ] [ ] boulanger ("l'antiquité devoilée," i. ), recognises, although it perplexes him, the tradition which places the gold and silver age after the deluge--"à la suite de cet évenement, les traditions de l'age d'or, et du regne des dieux paroissent encore plus bizarres;" also _id._ iii. ; also . also , "ce n'est donc point un état politique qu'il faut chercher dans l'age d'or, ce fut un état tout religieux. chaque famille pénétrée des jugemens d'en haut, vecut quelque temps sous la conduite des pères qui rassembloient leurs enfans." it is thus that seneca depicts the golden age. _vide_ p. . i ask now to be allowed to look at the same tradition from a different point of view. i have elsewhere shown (p. ) that according to the operation of natural causes everything in the primitive ages would have led to dispersion, but however probable or even certain these conjectures may be, we know as a fact that they did not operate (gen. xi. , , ) for some three hundred years or more, probably until after the death of noah. does not this look as if mankind were kept together for a period, in order that they might become settled in their ideas and confirmed in their maxims, under the influence and direction of the second father of mankind, whose direct communications with the most high had been manifest, and whose authority necessarily commanded universal respect--"him of mazy counsel, saturn?" (hesiod, "theog.")[ ] [ ] it might be a sufficient answer to say that they did not operate because a miraculous intervention ordained it otherwise; but if we seek the explanation in natural causes they will be found such as will exactly confirm the theory. the causes which lead to dispersion are the necessities of the pastoral life. if there, then, was no dispersion, the conclusion is that during the three or four centuries after the deluge mankind were mainly engaged in husbandry--"and noe, a husbandman, _began_ to till the ground." but husbandry is the first and essential condition of civilisation. we have seen that mr mill, mr hepworth dixon, &c., believe that mankind _slowly_ arrived at this stage through the intermediate stages of shepherd and hunter. on the contrary it would appear that they _started_ in this career. again, given the conditions which genesis describes--families living in patriarchal subjection to a chief who had the knowledge of husbandry--cultivation would be the natural consequence; for the one and only hindrance to cultivation, supposing the knowledge, is insecurity. "most critical of all are the causes which conduce to agriculture, agriculture at once the most fruitful and the most dangerous expedients for life. he who tills the soil exposes his valuable stores to the malice or enmity of the whole world. any marauder," &c. ("miscell." by francis w. newman, ). but as the conditions described in genesis exclude the probability of such interruption--agriculture would have been the preferable resource of life--and so it would have continued until circumstances led to the extension of the pastoral mode. so far, then, as we are brought to regard the different modes of life as progressive or successive (i believe that even at this early stage they were contemporaneous), the order of the succession according to the theory now in vogue must be reversed; and we must regard mankind as first a community of husbandmen, gradually extending themselves as shepherds, to be finally still more dispersed in some of their branches as hunters. if this theory appears far-fetched and fanciful, let it be recollected, on the other hand, that there has long subsisted a tradition among mankind of a code of nature as connected with a state of nature, which has to be accounted for (_vide_ chap. ii.) and when we consider how the impulsion which a nation receives at the commencement of its history continues--how much, for instance, at the distance of a thousand years we resemble our saxon ancestors of the eighth century, and even our ancestors of the german forest in identity of character, sentiment, and institution--we must not make the lapse of centuries an impassable barrier to a belief in the traditions of mankind in the early periods of history. let us also, in regarding the golden or silver age, glance beyond it to that iron age which ultimately followed it, in which the world, becoming crowded and also corrupted, many families and tribes collected together for warfare, and in which one nation swallowed another until all came to be absorbed, at least on the asiatic continent, into one or two great empires, which again contended for supreme dominion. an age of universal war, of many sorrows, of great perturbations, but one in which the process of dispersion was stayed, and mankind settled down within certain definite lines of demarcation, which in great part have continued to this day. no wonder, then, that men turned to each other in these dark days, and talked with regret of the simple agricultural and pastoral age which had passed, and which came variously to be called, in their recollection, the second heaven, the arcadian era, the saturnia regna,[ ] the golden age. neither is it surprising that the idea of a state of nature misconceived as to the facts, and of a law of nature dimly remembered and distorted by human perversity, has so often obtained among mankind in modern times and also in antiquity. this is a point which i shall discuss with reference to the historical evidence in another chapter. [ ] "and truly there is a sap in nations as well as in trees, a vigorous inward power, ever tending upwards, drawing its freshest energies from the simplest institutions, and the purest virtues and the healthiest moral action.... and if of nations we may so speak, what shall we say of the entire human race, when all its energies were, in a manner, pent up in its early and few progenitors; when the children of noah, removed but a few generations from the recollections and lessons of eden, and possessing the accumulated wisdom of long-lived patriarchs, were marvellously fitted to receive those strange and novel impressions, which a world, just burst forth in all its newness, was calculated to make?"--card. wiseman, "science and revealed religion," lect. ii. it is to this period that i am inclined to refer the belief in an age of high chivalry and virtue, with subsequent degeneracy, widely diffused in the legends of king arthur. i will surrender my opinion whenever the historical information respecting that monarch shall have been more exactly determined. * * * * * ii. the conception of the state of nature (chap. ii.) as a basis of theory and belief arose in the main out of the speculations of lawyers and philosophers; yet it is curious that we frequently come upon a concurrent yet always subordinate tradition of equality associated with the tradition of a golden age which, if the age of noah, we know _aliunde_ to have been a state of hierarchical subordination to a patriarchal chief; and, along with a reminiscence of a time of peaceful prosperity at the commencement of things, the tradition of the primitive age as one of great barbarism and privation, man living on acorns, &c. that these testimonies of tradition are incongruous and confused, i am bound to admit; but then, looked at from the point of view of tradition, they seem to me to have their explanation. if this happens to be deemed somewhat fanciful, i contend that the test in all these cases must be--( .) does the key fit the lock? ( .) is there any other key producible?[ ] i venture, then, to suggest (p. ) that the notion of the primitive equality may be traced through the bacchanalian traditions; and the tradition of a primitive age of great privation i believe to be the recollection of that brief but probably sharp period of suffering during which mankind clung to the mountains in distrust of the divine injunction and promise, until brought into the plains by noah.[ ] (_vide_ p. .) [ ] "the evidence, therefore, of the meaning of this part of the homeric system is like that which is obtained, when, upon applying a new key to some lock that we have been unable to open, we find it fits the wards and puts back the bolt."--gladstone, "homer and the homeric age," ii. . [ ] plato's testimony to this tradition is remarkable (plato de legibus, lib. i.) boulanger extracts the passage with reference to the golden age (iii. ). (_vide_ also grote's plato, iii. .) plato says--"that it is a tradition that there was formerly a great destruction of mankind caused by inundations and other general calamities [are not these calamities those to which horace alludes, i. ode iii., "semotique prius tarda necessitas lethi corripuit gradum," from which only a few escaped?] those who were spared led a pastoral life _on the mountains_. we may suppose," he adds, "that these men possessed the knowledge of some useful arts, of some usages to which they had previously conformed." plato indeed goes on to tell how this knowledge must have been lost, and one reason he gives is, "mankind remained _many_ centuries on the _summits_ of the highest mountains--fear and remembrance of the past did not permit them to _descend into the plains_." strabo (_apud_ boulanger, iii. ) also discusses this question. he says that mankind descended into the plains at different periods according to their courage and sociability (lib. xiii.) varro (de re rustica, lib. xiii. cap. i.) says they were a long time before they descended." now, in these passages from plato, strabo, and varro, there is distinct testimony to the fact of mankind remaining on the mountains after the deluge, and their subsequent inferences are drawn from the fact that they supposed them to have remained there a long time. is not this merely that they have recorded one tradition to the exclusion of another--viz., that mankind were brought into the plains by saturn, in accordance with the indications in genesis ix. , "and noe, a husbandman began to till the ground." compare _supra_, p. , and p. ; bryant, "mythology," iii. p. , following [st] epiphanius, says the descendants of noah remained years in the vicinity of ararat--_i.e._ five generations. moreover, the characteristics of this subsequent period, when mankind were living together in groups of families under the mild sway of the patriarch, when "all families were good" (p. ), and when ... "with abundant goods midst quiet lands, all willing shared the gatherings of their hands." was just that semi-state of nature which it only required the bacchanalian tradition on the one side to transform into the fiction of the state of savage and absolute equality, or the touch of poetry to convert into the golden reminiscence on the other. in this way, in the person of the patriarch noah, the fiction of a state of nature was brought into contact with the tradition of a law of nature and a law of nations, regarded as the law of mankind "when men were nearest the gods." * * * * * iii. i have already noticed (p. ) the double tradition of the succession of ages, the tradition from the fragment of sanchoniathon, upon which mr m'lennan relies, being ante-, that of hesiod partly ante- and partly post-diluvian. the following lines of hesiod, for instance, bearing allusion to the confusion of tongues and the shortening of life, being plainly post-diluvian:-- "when gods alike and mortals rose to birth, the immortals formed a _golden race_ on earth of _many-languaged men_; they lived of old, when saturn reigned in heaven; an age of gold. "the sire of heaven and earth created then a race the third, of _many-languaged men_, unlike the silver they; of brazen mould, strong with the ashen spear, and fierce and bold."[ ] [ ] with reference to the stone age, _vide_ p. . and again, of the iron race which followed them, he says-- "jove on this race of many-languaged men speeds the swift ruin which but slow began; for scarcely spring they to the light of day e'er age untimely strews their temples grey." i must here, too, point out how curiously the testimonies of tradition and science coincide.[ ] _both_ are agreed as to the transition from a brass (bronze) to an iron age; but in one it is referred to as evidence of degeneracy--in the other, the transition is adduced in proof of progress. but the fact is established by the evidence of tradition, as certainly as by the conclusions of science, and is referred to accordingly by sir john lubbock ("pre-historic times," p. ). [ ] concerning the evident tradition of the dispersion in hesiod, "theog." v. , _vide_ bryant's "mythology," iii. , _et seq._ the lines of lucretius are certainly remarkable-- "arma antiqua, manus ungues dentesque fuerunt, et lapides, et item sylvarum fragmina rami posterius ferri vis est, ærisque reperta, sed prior æris erat, quam ferri cognitus usus. quo facilis magis est natura et copia major Ære solum terræ tractabunt, æreque belli miscebant fluctus."--_de rerum natura_, lib. . but here i cannot help thinking the tradition has reference rather to the use than to the knowledge of metals. we have seen, for instance, that the cultivation of the ground commenced with noah--the fact being attested both by scripture and tradition. now, in the above passage, although the primitive weapons are referred to, as of stones, yet it is said "æreque solum terræ tractabunt," an averment which no doubt has reference to the brazen age; yet nothing forbids the construction, which on other grounds seems the more natural that the land was from the first so cultivated,[ ] and that in strictness the commencement of the brazen age was identical with the commencement of cultivation, although in the mind of the poet it had reference to the introduction of bronze weapons and implements of war. moreover, the _sylvarum fragmina rami_ may point to the period immediately preceding cultivation, when the human race clung to the mountains. the testimony of scripture to the point seems plain. not only does the construction of the ark appear to imply the use of metals, but the reference to tubalcain, "who was a hammerer and artificer in every work of brass and iron" (gen. iv. ), seems to put the antediluvian knowledge of metals beyond question. [ ] this appears to me to be borne out by the sanscrit root "_ar_, to plough," being seemingly cognate with "æs, _ær_is," and with the produce corn = "_aris_ta," aroum, aratrum, greek [greek: arsmêa], &c. sanscrit, "ar, to plough," _vide_ note in brace's "ethnology." _vide_ also max müller, "science of language," _id._ _vide_ also max müller, "chips," ii. p. . "the name of the plough (in egypt) was [greek: zhbix], _ploughed land_, appears to _have been_ [greek: art], a word still traced in the arabic 'hart,' which has the same import; and the greek [greek: arêtron] and roman _aratrum_ appears to indicate, like the [greek: aroura], an egyptian origin."--_wilkinson's ancient egyptians_, i. . if "ar," as in "[greek: aristos]," should be proposed as the primitive root, it must be after rejection of the evidence of secondary derivation; but does not our common parlance still run to the comparison of virtues with metals, "good as gold," "hard as iron," "true as steel." why then at a later period should not brass have become the expression for _best_ in the brazen or warlike age, when courage was the virtue principally regarded? if this is accepted, "[greek: arês]," or mars, so far from being the root, would be a tertiary derivation--the embodiment and deification of what was regarded as best in the brazen age. gladstone ("homer," ii. p. ), shows that mars was a deity of late invention, and not one of the traditionary deities. rawlinson, _vide supra_, p. , identifying ares with nimrod. bunsen ("egypt," iii. ), says in a note, "arya" in indian means lord. its original meaning was equivalent to "upper noble." the popular name "arja" is derived from it, and means "descended from a noble." i will only add that "ari" in egyptian means "honourable" (in nofruari). but "ar" might mean to plough; for the aryans were originally and essentially an agricultural, and therefore a peasant race. agriculture at the time we are contemplating would have been the most honourable employment (_supra_, p. ), it would not have been "an agricultural and therefore peasant" employment till insecurity brought about the state of dependence and vassalage. the aryans would have been noble as being of the japhetic race. in the first commencement after the deluge, unless miraculously supplied, there would have been no grain or bread food until time had been allowed for its production. during this interval acorns, &c., may have been the only food. perhaps it was so ordained to incite to the new permission to eat flesh meat. on the other hand, i ask, in those ages when men were supposed to live exclusively on acorns, was not flesh meat eaten,--were there no hunters? had man no control over the domestic animals? that in a peaceful period, and the intercommunication of families previous to the dispersion implies a state of peace (ch. xiii.), in a period in which, if we follow the other traditions, "all families were good," and were under the rule of an old man, "who held his hands to his ears when they spoke to him of war," it is not surprising to learn either that they had no weapons, or that they were of the simplest description. it is characteristic of an age which piques itself upon the perfection of its artillery, and whose greatest triumphs and inventions have been in the science of destruction, to look back upon a totally different age which happened only to have stone weapons, as necessarily an age of barbarism. but from our point of view it must be regarded not as an age of barbarism, but of prosperity,--not as a state of equality, but of the subordination of the members of the family to each chief, and of families relatively to each other; an age of much mental vigour and spiritual intuition, and, so far from being a period of misery, it left reminiscences of happiness such as lingered long in the memory of mankind. chapter xiv. _sir h. maine on the law of nations._ dr newman in his inaugural discourse as rector of the dublin university ("on the place held by the faculty of arts in the university course"), which i think never received the attention it deserved, has with a few masterly touches sketched the history of western civilisation, which in its main lines may be considered to run into, and be found identical with, the tradition i am now regarding--with this difference, that dr newman regards western civilisation in its progressive, whereas we are concerned with its traditive aspects. dr newman says: "i take things as i find them on the surface of history, and am but classing phenomena (i have nothing to do with ethnology). looking, then, at the countries which surround the mediterranean seas as a whole, i see them from time immemorial the seat of an association of intellect and mind such as to deserve to be called the intellect and mind of human kind. starting and advancing from certain centres, till their respective influences intersect and conflict, and then at length intermingle and combine, a common thought has been generated, and a common civilisation defined and established. egypt is one starting-point, syria another, greece a third, italy a fourth (of which, as time goes on, the roman empire is the maturity, and the most intelligible expression), north africa a fifth, ... and this association or social commonwealth, with whatever reverses, changes, and momentary dissolutions, continues down to this day.... i call it, then, pre-eminently and emphatically human society, and its intellect the human mind, and its decisions the sense of mankind and its humanised and cultivated states--civilisation in the abstract; and the territory on which it lies the _orbis terrarum_, or the world. for unless the illustration be fanciful, the object which i am contemplating is like the impression of a seal upon the wax; which rounds off and gives form to the greater portion of the soft material, and presents something definite to the eye, and pre-occupies the space against any second figure, so that we overlook and leave out of our thoughts the jagged outline or unmeaning lumps outside of it, intent upon the harmonious circle which fills the imagination within it." ("there are indeed great outlying portions of mankind, ... still they are outlying portions and nothing else, fragmentary, &c., protesting and revolting against the grand central formation of which i am speaking, but not uniting with each other into a second whole.") the same _orbis terrarum_, which has been the seat of civilisation, has been the seat of the christian polity. "the natural and the divine associations are not indeed exactly coincident, nor ever have been." "christianity has fallen partly outside civilisation and civilisation partly outside christianity; but on the whole the two have occupied one and the same _orbis terrarum_.... the centre of the tradition is transferred from greece to rome.... at length the temple of jerusalem is rooted up by the armies of titus, and the effete schools of athens are stifled by the edict of justinian.... the grace stored in jerusalem, and the gifts which radiate from athens, are made over and concentrated in rome. this is true as a matter of history. rome has inherited both sacred and profane learning; she has perpetuated and dispensed the traditions of moses and david in the supernatural order, and of homer and aristotle in the natural. to separate these distinct teachings, human and divine, is to retrograde; it is to rebuild the jewish temple and to plant anew the groves of academus; ... and though these were times when the old traditions seemed to be on the point of failing, somehow it has happened that they have never failed.... even in the lowest state of learning the tradition was kept up;" ... and this experience of the past we may apply to the present, "for as there was a movement against the classics in the middle ages, so has there been now.... civilisation has its common principles, and views, and teaching, and especially its books, which have more or less been given from the earliest times, and are in fact in equal esteem and respect, in equal use, now, as they were when they were received in the beginning. in a word, the classics and the subjects of thought and study to which they give rise, or to use the term most to our present purpose, the arts have ever on the whole been the instruments which the civilised _orbis terrarum_ has adopted; just as inspired works, and the lives of saints, and the articles of faith and the catechism have been the instrument of education in the case of christianity. and this consideration you see, gentlemen (to drop down at once upon the subject of discussion which has brought us together), invests the opening of the schools in arts[ ] with a solemnity and moment of a peculiar kind, for we are but engaged in reiterating an old tradition, and carrying on those august methods of enlarging the mind, and cultivating the intellect and ripening the feelings, in which the process of civilisation has ever consisted."--_dr newman on civilisation._ [ ] _i.e._, "the teaching and government of the university remained in the faculty of arts," and not in the faculty of theology or law or modern philosophy. i have for my own purposes of condensation been obliged to take certain unpardonable liberties of transposition in the above abstract, for which i can only plead my necessity. i should not in any case have so exceeded in quotation, were this very masterly address at all accessible, but, as far as i know, it is only to be found in the _catholic university gazette_, november , . in order to show the full significance of these extracts from dr newman, and also their bearing on points still to be discussed, i will append the following suggestive passage from sir h. maine's "ancient law," p. :--"it is only with the progressive societies that we are concerned, and nothing is more remarkable than their extreme fewness. in spite of overwhelming evidence, it is most difficult for a citizen of western europe to bring thoroughly home to himself the truth that the civilisation which surrounds him is a rare exception in the history of the world. the tone of thought common among us, all our hopes, fears, and speculations, would be materially affected, if we had vividly before us the relation of the progressive races to the totality of human life. it is indisputable that much the greatest part of mankind has never shown a particular desire that its civil institutions should be improved since the moment when external completeness was first given to them by their embodiment in some permanent record.... there has been a material civilisation, but instead of the civilisation expanding the law, the law has limited the civilisation." i must also express my belief that if mr lowe had read the lecture of dr newman, he would have very much modified the views he enunciated in his lecture on "primary and university education," at the philosophical institution at edinburgh.--_times_, november , . before examining sir h. maine's view on the law of nature and the law of nations, it will perhaps facilitate the inquiry if i gather up, out of the evidence which has accumulated in the previous chapters, such conclusions as will show how we stand in regard to sir h. maine's general theory. i. accepting sir h. maine's dictum that "the family and not the individual was the unit of ancient society;" and, in a certain sense, the further position, that it is difficult "to know where to stop, to say of what races of men it is _not_ allowable to lay down that the society in which they are united was originally organised on the patriarchal model,"[ ] i venture to maintain against sir h. maine the continuance of family life in a quasi state of nature, before either the development or creation of the state. [ ] "ancient law," p. . ii. but in maintaining that there was a period in human history anterior to the formation of governments, i am far from asserting--on the contrary, i distinctly repudiate the notion--that there was ever an ante-social state. society is complete within the family circle;[ ] and society in any wider organisation is only the requirement and consequence of imperfection and corruption within the family, or of collision between families. undoubtedly, there were instances in which the state grew up imperceptibly out of the extension of the family into the patriarchal system;[ ] but these instances will probably have occurred among the families who remained stationary, whether by right of seniority, or by virtue of superior power, at the central point from which the dispersion commenced. so long, however, as family government sufficed, there would have been nothing but the family; but when mankind increased, and actual relationship died out, disputes must have multiplied and become complicated--not only between individuals but between families; hence the necessity of state government--hence the necessity of an appeal on the part of individuals from the family to some supreme authority. this would be the first mode in which governments would have arisen among those who came under the action of the dispersion. but even here--assuming the family groups to have descended from the same progenitor--we see first the family, first property, then the state. the second mode would be where several families, differing in language and race, came together and formed states.[ ] although they would have come together on unequal and varying conditions, yet they would necessarily have come together on some conditions, and for the mutual protection of their rights, their property, and their personal security. in all such cases there would have been something of a recognition and adjustment of rights, something of the nature of a compact more or less explicit, but much more formal and explicit in this mode than in the former. in any case, the end and intention of the formation of states and governments would have been the security of rights, as cicero tells us:--"hanc enim ob causam maxime _ut sua tuerentur_ respublicæ civitatesque constitutæ sunt. nam etsi, duce naturæ, congregabantur homines, _tamen spe custodiæ rerum suarum_ urbium præsidia quærebant." but does not sir h. maine himself supply similar testimony? referring to the notions of "primitive antiquity," he says:-- "how little the notion of injury to the community had to do with the earliest interferences of the state, through its tribunals, is shown by the curious circumstance, that in the original administration of justice the proceedings were a close imitation of the series of acts which were likely to be gone _through in private life_ by persons who were disputing, but who afterwards suffered their quarrel to be appeased. the magistrate carefully simulated the demeanour of a _private arbitrator, casually called in_."--chap. x. ; _vide_ also pp. , . [ ] it by no means follows that god does not will, and did not foreordain society in its wider organisation, according to the conditions and circumstances out of which it arose. [ ] sir h. maine says (p. ):--"the points which lie on the surface of history are these: the eldest male parent--the eldest ascendant--is absolutely supreme in his household. his dominion extends to life and death, and is as unqualified over their children and their _houses_ as over his slaves. the flocks and herds of the children are the flocks and herds of the father." [this is not borne out by what we read of abraham and lot, esau and jacob--_e.g._, "but lot also, who was with abraham, _had_ flocks of sheep, and herds and tents. neither was the land able to bear them, that they might dwell together" (gen. xiii.) "and the possessions of the parent, which he holds in a representative rather than a proprietary character, are equally divided at his death among his descendants in the first degree, the eldest son sometimes receiving a double share, under the name of birthright, but more generally endowed with no hereditary advantage beyond an honorary precedence." the separation then commenced with the division of the inheritance; and whether it was ever an equal division, and not proportioned to the respective ages of the sons, or determined by other motives, or again, a division of different kinds of property, may be open to question; but at any rate a division took place, and a separation of families was consequent upon it. the division was not only the sign and token, but the efficient cause of the separation; and so not only the dispersion of families, but separate ownerships commenced with the descendants in the first degree. [ ] compare plato, "leges;" grote's "plato," iii. . iii. we come to the conclusion that the collation of the sentiments and maxims, as preserved in tradition by the families who had coalesced into states, would have formed the basis of the morality and of the jurisprudence of the states so constituted; and that in every case of oppression appeal would have been made to their pre-existing and natural rights. iv. that whilst certain traditions--the tradition of religion, for instance--would have been perhaps more faithfully preserved in the patriarchal governments of the east, and we find evidence of this in the monotheism of the persians; on the other hand, if there was a tradition of a law common to all nations, it would be more likely to be preserved in states formed by the amalgamation of many distinct families and races.[ ] [ ] "in that old heathenism of the roman world, into which it was the will of god that the christian religion should be introduced by the apostles, there were then diverse and often conflicting elements. there was a good element, which came from god; there was a thoroughly bad element, which came from satan; and there was a corrupt element, which was the fruit of the workings of unregenerate human nature upon society, and upon the objects of sense and intelligence with which man is placed in relation. the good element we see embodied in great part of the laws and institutions of the ancient world, as also in much of the literature, the poetry, the philosophy of greece and rome, which literature consequently--after having been purified, and as it were baptized--has always been used by the christian church in the education of her children. this element, i say, was originally the gift of god, the author of nature, to man, the offspring of reason and conscience, the tradition of a society of which god was himself the founder. it enshrined whatever fragments of primeval truth as to god, the world, and man himself, still lingered, in whatever shape, among the far-wandering children of adam. st paul alludes to this element (acts xvii. ); ... and his words altogether seem to imply that god watched over it, supported it and fostered it, as far as men were worthy of it, and that it might even have been expanded into a perfect system of natural religion and of reasonable virtue, had men been grateful enough to earn larger measures of grace from god, who left not himself without witness in his daily providence, and was not far from 'any one of his children.'"--"_four sermons_," by the rev. henry j. coleridge, s. j. burns & oates. . p. . ( .) v. that such was the origin and history of the greeks and romans--the two nations which formed the nucleus of the _orbis terrarum_ within which, as dr newman tells us (_supra_, p. ), is found the centre of christianity and the seat of civilisation. vi. that, whether the roman law goes back in tradition, or, as sir h. maine will say, in fiction only--the fact remains, that it does so trace itself back to remote antiquity, and that the roman law subsists to this day as the foundation of most of the codes of europe, and has extended its ramifications to all; and that outside the circle of its influence other nations equally retrace their codes to remote antiquity, and, as a rule, to revelations made to their earliest founder. that nothing is more striking in ancient times than the manner in which their codes, which are the embodiment of laws previously in tradition, were held as a sacred deposit. this was the reason why the laws of the medes and the persians might not be altered; and that, according to the laws of the visigoths, no judge would decide in any suit unless he found in their code a law applicable to the case; and perhaps we may find trace of it in the phrases familiar to us--_nolumus leges angliæ mutari_, _stare super vias antiquas_, and so, too, in the _ita scriptum est_, which, as sir h. maine says (p. ), silenced all objections in the middle ages. vii. that the fact of a tradition of "a law common to all nations" and of "a lost code of nature," is in accordance with the historical and scriptural evidence which would render such a tradition probable. * * * * * sir h. maine, with whose argument i now propose to deal, is, as far as i am aware, the most conspicuous opponent of the common belief in the "law of nations;" and yet it appears to me that we shall find testimony to the tradition even in the very terms in which he repudiates it. i must at least consider this a recognition on his part of the strength and inveteracy of the opposite view. in the following extracts i shall suppose my readers fresh from the perusal of sir h. maine. sir h. maine says ("ancient law," pp. , ), that the further "we penetrate into the primitive history of thought, the further we find ourselves from the conception of law of any sort." and again, "it is certain that in the infancy of mankind, no sort of legislation, not even a distinct author of law, is contemplated or conceived of." now if sir h. maine had said nothing more, i should have felt bound to take this assertion upon his authority; but sir h. maine adds:--"law has scarcely reached the footing of custom; it is rather a habit. it is, to use a french phrase, 'in the air,'" [is not sir h. maine here hunting for a phrase which shall not imply that it is in tradition?] "the only authoritative statement of right and wrong is a judicial sentence after the facts, _not one presupposing a law which has been violated_, but one which is breathed for the first time by a higher power into the judge's mind at the moment of adjudication." this passage may be adduced in evidence of the tradition of noah and his heavenly-inspired judgments, but apparently it is in contradiction to the view of a law of nature, since it supposes the judge to decide through direct inspiration, or in the way of _stet pro ratione voluntas_, and not with reference to a "law which has been violated." now, sir h. maine comes to his conclusion upon the ground of the "themistes" of the homeric poems. "the earliest notions connected with the conception ... of a law or rule of life are those contained in the homeric words 'themis' and 'themistes'" (p. ). "the literature of the heroic ages discloses to us law in the germ under the 'themistes,' and a little more developed in the conception of 'dike'" (p. ). if this were so, law according to the conception of "themistes" and law according to the conception of "dike" were never contemporaneous, but necessarily successive, or rather progressive; but at page we read, "the homeric word for a custom in the embryo is _sometimes_ 'themis' in the singular, more often 'dike,' the meaning of which visibly fluctuates between 'a judgment' and a 'custom' or 'usage.' '[greek: nomos],' a law ... does not occur in homer."[ ] [ ] the word '[greek: nomos]' is found in the hymn to apollo, v. , attributed to homer [the term [greek: themistes] also, v. ]--and in hesiod, op. et dies, v. .--goguet, ii. . in the hymn to apollo it is only applied to song. the greeks had the same word, however--viz. [greek: nomoi], as for laws, songs, and pastures--that is to say, the term law, [greek: nomos], is applied to the instrument of its transmission, and to what would then have been its most ordinary subject matter. this seems to me in evidence of its primitive use. take, moreover, the following passage in the first book of the iliad, v. :-- [greek: 'all' ek toi ereô, kai epi megan horkon omoumai nai ma tode skêptron, to men oupote phylla kai ozous physei, epeidê prôta tomên en oressi leloipen, oud' anathêlêsei; peri gar rha he chalkos elepse phylla te kai phloion; nyn aute min hyies achaiôn en palamês phoreousi, dikaspoloi, hoite themistas pros dios heiryatai; ho de toi megas essetai horkos.] --_heyne's homer_, i. v. - . "but this i say, and with an oath confirm, by this my royal staff, which never more shall put forth leaf nor spray since first it left upon the mountain side its parent stem, nor blossom more; since all around, the axe hath lopped both leaf and bark, and now 'tis borne, _emblem of justice_, by the sons of greece, _who guard the sacred ministry of law before the face of jove!_ a mighty oath. the time shall come when all the sons of greece shall mourn achilles' loss," &c. --_lord derby's translation_, - . here we have the term "dike" not merely in embryo, but in the compound word "dikaspoloi," administrators of justice, implying something akin to judges, and a condition of things in which law was reduced to a state in which there was something to guard and administer. not only so, but the staff, the "emblem of justice," is borne by them when they _guard_ the "themistes" before the gods. it will not only be curious to discover, but the discovery of vestiges in modern times of the old traditional modes and ceremonial will throw light upon the administration of justice in ancient times. i dare say many other instances may be indicated. i will adduce the following:--if my readers will turn to the _pall mall gazette_ (july , ), they will find an account of "the manx thing," or "the ancient custom of the ruler, his council, and the commons meeting together in the open air to proclaim the law to the people standing around." "the lieutenant-governor is the representative of the king, and takes an oath to deal truly and uprightly between our sovereign lady the queen and her people," "and as indifferently betwixt party and party _as this staff now standeth_." "he is assisted by two demesters or supreme judges, who must deem the law truly, as they will answer to the lord of the isle." here, as in homer, there is reference to an emblem and a ceremonial repugnant to the notion that (_infra_) "every man under the patriarchal despotism was practically controlled by a regimen not of law but of caprice." mr adams describes the following scene in one of the islands in the archipelago off the mainland of korea--"the chief, who really has something very noble and majestic about him, as is generally the case with men in high authority among the natives of these islands.... the demeanour of those of his countrymen who surrounded him was as free and independent as his own was reserved and dignified.... in his hand he held _his badge of office, a wand of ebony with a green silken cord entwined about it like the serpent of Æsculapius_."--"travels of a naturalist in japan and manchuria," by arthur adams, f.l.s. . compare also with _infra_, p. . well, allow that there need not be as yet the metaphysical conception of law, or law as a positive enactment, embracing indifferently a variety of cases. eliminate the word "law." instead of the phrase "law of nature" substitute "natural justice," and "the sense of right and wrong;" and it suffices that we detect "usage," "custom," right; for even if it were conceded that right is a post-homeric rendering of [greek: dikê], yet "custom" and "usage" in their definition would have been in recognition of pre-existing right. this becomes more clear if we consider the alternative opinion. sir h. maine says that "under the patriarchal despotism," "every man was practically controlled in all his actions by a regimen not of law but of caprice" (p. ). the judgments, then, of the patriarchal times were mere "caprice," and rights were defined without reference to any sense of justice. from "themistes" of caprice they would proceed to legislation upon "caprice," and, ultimately, to codes which would represent nothing but a digest of the precedents of "caprice." it is difficult, then, to understand in what way and at what point the sense of justice, the conception of "dike," originated, and most of all, if this is true, it is difficult to account for the "themistes" being regarded as akin to inspiration, as well as for the veneration with which, we have the authority of sir h. maine (_vide infra_) for saying, that archaic law was held, and, moreover, for the persistent tendency to revert to the past.[ ] [ ] i feel very much supported in my argument by the following passage from mr gladstone's "homer" (ii. ): "mr grote says that 'the primitive import' of the words [greek: hagathos], [greek: esthlos], and [greek: kakos], relates to power and not to worth; and that the ethical meaning of these is a later growth, which 'hardly appears until the discussions raised by socrates, and prosecuted by his disciples.' i ask permission to protest against whatever savours of the idea that any socrates whatever was the patentee of that sentiment of right and wrong which is the most precious part of the patrimony of mankind. the movement of greek morality with the lapse of time was chiefly downward and not upward.... but as to the words [greek: hagathos] and [greek: kakos], the case is far more clear; and here i ask, can it be shown that homer ever applies the word [greek: hagathos] to that which is morally bad? or the word [greek: kakos] to that which is morally good? if it can, _cadit quæstio_; if it cannot, then we have advanced a considerable way in proving the ethical signification.... in the word [greek: dikaios], however, we have an instance of the epithet never employed except in order to signify a moral or a religious idea. like the word _righteous_ among ourselves, it is derived from a source which would make it immediately designate duty as between man and man, and also as it arises out of civil relations. but it is applied in homer to both the great branches of duty. and surely there cannot be a stronger proof of the existence of definite moral ideas among a people, than the very fact that they employ a word founded on the observance of relative rights to describe also the religious character. it is when religion and morality are torn asunder, that the existence of moral ideas is endangered." if, however, we follow sir h. maine in his illustration taken from english law, we shall find ourselves reinstated in our original convictions. sir h. maine says (p. ), "an englishman should be better able than a foreigner to appreciate the historical fact that the 'themistes' preceded any conception of law;" but at page , he says, "probably it will be found that _originally_ it was the received doctrine that somewhere _in nubibus_ [q. "in the air"], or in _gremio magistratuum_ there _existed_ a complete, coherent, symmetrical body of english law, of an amplitude sufficient to furnish principles which would apply to any conceivable combination of circumstances." if, then, we take the analogy of the english law, we come also to the identical conclusion for which i contend--viz. that the "themistes," whether they partook of the character of commands or of judgments, _were_ still in recognition of a "law which was violated." if the "themistes" had no reference to a law which was violated; if they were mere caprice, i have already asked, whence arose the regard for ancient law among the nations of antiquity? and i may add, how came it about that their ideas of justice were inseparably connected with the notions of morality? does sir h. maine deny either of these facts? on the contrary, he affirms them:-- "quite enough, too, remains of these collections ['ancient codes'] both in the east and in the west, to show that they mingled up religious, civil, and merely moral ordinances _without any regard_ to differences in their essential character; and this is consistent with all we know of ancient thought from other sources, the _severance_ of law from morality, and of religion from law, belonging very distinctly to the later stages of mental progress" (p. ). and at p. , "much of the old law which has descended to us, was preserved merely _because it was old_. those who practised and obeyed it did not pretend to understand it; and in some cases they even ridiculed and despised it. _they offered no account of it except that it had come down to them from their ancestors._" does sir h. maine dispute the persistency of tradition in general? no. at p. , _vide supra_, i have quoted a passage in which he explicitly maintains it. i must observe further, that in the very passages in which he repudiates the notion of a "law of nature," two things irresistibly transpire--( .) that there was a persistent tradition in ancient society of a law of nature; ( .) that this tradition was invariably associated with the golden age, _e.g._:-- "after nature had become a household word in the mouths of the romans, the belief gradually prevailed among the roman lawyers,[ ] that the old _jus gentium_ was in fact _the lost code of nature_, and that the prætors, in framing an edictal jurisprudence on the principles of the _jus gentium_, were gradually restoring a type from which law had only departed _to deteriorate_" (p. ). "but then, while the _jus gentium_ had little or no antecedent credit at rome, the theory of a law of nature came in surrounded with all the prestige of philosophical authority, and invested with the _charms of association with an elder and more blissful condition of the race_" (p. ). "the law of nature confused the past and the present. logically it implied a state of nature which had once been regulated by natural law; yet the juris-consults do not speak clearly or confidently of the existence of such a state, which indeed is little noticed by the ancients _except_ when it finds a poetical _expression in the fancy of a golden age_" (p. ). "yet it was not on account of their simplicity and harmony that these finer elements were primarily respected, but on the score of their _descent from the aboriginal reign of nature_" (p. ). "yet it is a remarkable proof of the essentially _historical_ character of the conception that, after all the efforts which have been made to evolve the code of nature from the necessary characteristics of the natural state [_i.e. à priori_] so much of the result is just what it would have been if men had been satisfied to adopt the dicta of the roman lawyers without questioning or reviewing them. setting aside the conventional or treaty law of nations, it is surprising how large a part of the system is made up of pure roman law" (p. ). [because the roman law was in the main stream of the tradition.][ ] [ ] either, then, the roman lawyers fell back upon the old traditions, or else the lawyers introduced the superstition of the law of nature, and then became victims to the superstition they had invented. in any case, the "belief" in "the lost code of nature gradually prevailed." i am presently going to discuss with sir h. maine how far in the latter case such a belief is likely to have prevailed. [ ] _vide_ also sir h. maine, p. : "it is important, too, to observe that this model system, unlike many of those which have mocked men's hopes in later days, was _not entirely the product of imagination_. it was never thought of as founded on quite untested principles. the notion was that it underlay existing law, and must be looked for through it. its functions were, _in short, remedial_, not _revolutionary_ or anarchical. and this unfortunately is the exact point at which the modern view of a law of nature has often ceased to resemble the ancient." i now come to what i may call the exposition of sir h. maine's argument proper, and, although i feel the full difficulty of doing this, in the case of so subtle and able a writer, i shall endeavour to condense into as short a space as possible whatever is material to sir h. maine's position. sir h. maine says (p. ):-- "i shall attempt to discover the origin of these famous phrases, law of nations, law of nature, equity, and to determine how the conceptions which they indicate are related to one another. the most superficial student of roman history must be struck by the extraordinary degree in which the fortunes of the republic were affected by the presence of foreigners under different names on her soil. the causes of this immigration are discernible enough at a later period, for we can readily understand why men of all races should flock to the mistress of the world; but the same phenomenon of a _large population of foreigners_ and denizens meets us in the _very earliest_ records of the roman state--no doubt the instability of society in ancient italy.... it is probable, however, that this explanation is imperfect, and it could only be completed by taking into account those active commercial relations, which though they are little reflected in the military traditions of the republic, rome appears certainly to have had with carthage and with the interior of italy in pre-historic times.... in the _early roman republic_ the principle of the absolute exclusion of foreigners pervaded the civil law no less than the constitution. the alien or denizen could have no share in any institution supposed to be coeval with the state. he could not have the benefit of the quiritarian law, &c.... still neither the interest nor the security of rome permitted him to be quite outlawed.... moreover, at no period of roman history was foreign trade entirely neglected. it was therefore probably half as a measure of policy and half in furtherance of commerce that jurisdiction was first assumed in disputes to which the parties were either foreigners or a native and a foreigner. the assumption of such a jurisdiction brought with it the immediate necessity of discovering some principles on which the questions to be adjudicated upon could be settled.... they refused, as i have said before, to decide the new cases by pure roman civil law. they refused, no doubt, because it seemed to involve some kind of degradation, to apply the law of the particular state from which the foreign litigant came. the expedient to which they resorted was that of selecting the rules of law common to rome, and to the different italian communities in which the immigrants were born. in other words, they set themselves to form a system answering to the primitive and literal meaning of _jus gentium, i.e._ law common to all nations. _jus gentium_ was, in fact, the sum of the common ingredients in the customs of the old italian tribes, for they were _all the nations_ whom the romans had the means of observing, and who sent successive swarms of immigrants to the roman soil.... the _jus gentium_ was, accordingly, a collection of rules and principles determined by observation _to be common_ to the institutions which prevailed among the various italian tribes. the circumstances of the origin of the _jus gentium_ was probably a sufficient safeguard against the _mistake of supposing_ that the roman lawyers had any special respect for it. it was the fruit in part of their disdain of all foreign law, and in part of their disinclination to give the foreigner the advantage of their own indigenous _jus civile_. it is true that we, at the present day, should probably take a very different view of the _jus gentium_.... we should have a sort of respect for rules and principles so universal.... but the results to which modern ideas conduct the observer, are, as nearly as possible, the reverse of those which were instinctively brought home to the primitive roman. what we respect or admire, he disliked or regarded with jealous dread. the points of jurisprudence which he looked upon with affection were exactly those which a modern theorist leaves out of consideration as accidental and transitory--the solemn gestures ... the endless formalities, &c.... the _jus gentium_ was merely a system forced on his attention by a political necessity. he loved it as little as he loved the foreigners from whose institutions it was derived, and for whose benefit it was intended. a complete revolution in his ideas was required before it could challenge his respect.... this crisis arrived when the greek theory of a law of nature was applied to the practical roman administration of the law common to all nations."--_sir h. maine's ancient law_, - . sir h. maine's theory may be summarised as an attempt to identify the "law of nations" with the history of roman law, leaving out of sight the tradition of it which may be traced in other nations. now, although there is nothing, as napoleon used to say, which one nation hates more than another nation--and this certainly holds true of the roman people--yet it is scarcely possible to point to any which, from the circumstances of its origin, would have been less predisposed to look in the abstract with disdain upon the laws and customs of surrounding nations, however much they may have hated them as concrete nationalities; and least of all would they have had this feeling for the institutions of the latins, a people whom, from their peculiar connection with themselves, they would principally have had as residents among them. sir h. maine seems unable to shake off the prepossession, which the analysis of roman law, to the exclusion of other evidence, would tend to lead him, viz. that the romans were a homogeneous people, and we have just heard him speak of their "own indigenous _jus civile_." this indigenous _jus civile_ was compounded, as was their nationality, of many miscellaneous elements. whatever truth may be attached to the legends as to the foundation of rome, and they are various, it cannot well be disputed that there was a strong trace of sabine[ ] and etruscan,[ ] in addition to the original miscellaneous roman, or, if not miscellaneous, pure latin element; to which, in any case, in the subsequent reigns a large latin immigration must be added, when rome, through the conquest of alba longa, became the head of the latin league, and the infusion of a greek in addition to an etruscan element in the dynasty of the tarquins. the latin league has its significance over and above its bearing upon the present argument; and to this i shall presently revert. but to go no further, does not the existence of the latin league[ ] sufficiently account for the large influx of strangers into rome, on account of which sir h. maine sees the necessity for an extension of the roman jurisprudence? but, if this be so, his theory must fall to the ground; for, if the roman element was distinctive at all, and was a pure latin population, miscellaneously collected by romulus, and not a miscellaneous population of various tribes--it was latin _quâ_ roman. how then, supposing the roman element to have become predominant, did it come to contemn the latin element and the law of the latins? that it excluded them is another thing, or that they were kept in a subordinate position, and not admitted to the full privileges of naturalisation, is quite conceivable on other grounds; but that there should have existed a feeling of contempt for the laws and customs of the people among whom, if their legends were true (and at any rate we have nothing else to go upon), was found the cradle of their race, is hard to understand, yet this assumption is essential to sir h. maine's position. [ ] i shall consider that dr dyer has fairly reinstated a large portion of early roman history until i see his arguments refuted. without endorsing his opinion i may quote what dr dyer says ("hist. of the city of rome," p. ) in evidence of the admixture of the sabine element:-- "the importance of the sabine element at rome has not perhaps been sufficiently considered. the late m. ampere has discussed the subject with great learning and ability in his interesting work, 'l'histoire romaine à rome.' he remarks that not only did the romans borrow from the sabines almost all their religious and much of their political and social organisation, their customs, ceremonies, arms, &c., but also that the far greater part of the primitive population of rome was sabine, that most of the men who played a part in roman history were of sabine extraction, and that what is called the latin tongue contains a strong infusion of sabine elements." [ ] evidences of the etruscan element are so marked, that niebühr, in his first edition, asserted the etruscan origin of the city. he subsequently, however, came to the conclusion that "there was so much in the roman state that was peculiar to rome and latium, as to be incompatible with the supposition of rome being an etruscan colony."--_appendix to travers twiss' epitome of niebühr._ [ ] a federal union existed between the roman people and the latins in the reign of servius tullius (niebühr, i. ch. xxv.) "the old latin towns had retained their ancient rights, and the colonies, that together with them formed the latin nation, had all received the _full freedom_ of rome, and had become _municipia_ a full century before the consul junius norbanus introduced the franchise of the latin freedmen.... the towns on the north of the po, inhabited by a mixed population of italians and celts speaking latin,... were termed the 'lesser latium.'... a law which regarded latin citizens as foreigners, and applied to them the principle that the child follows the condition of the baser parent, _can only have_ related to this inferior latium." (niebühr, ii. ch. vi.) again, the roman family and tribal system, with their principle of agnatic relationship, was in all probability part of their organisation for war: it was the secret of their strength. grant that they shrank from applying the principles of their domestic law, which in their application would have involved in time an organisation in conformity with it, we can at once see why they withheld the principles of their jurisprudence without withholding it in mere scorn of an alien nationality. we rather see influences which would have predisposed them to look with reverence on the laws and customs of a people among whom they must have known that they had sprung, even if there had been no tradition of a law common to all nations "of the lost code of nature," a notion which the edicts of the prætors of the later period would hardly have generated if it had had no foundation in tradition. if you change the _venue_ to etruria, the same arguments will apply. in proof, i quote the following passage from a competent, if somewhat antiquated ( ) authority--(pastoret, "hist. de la legislation," xi. )--more especially as it mentions a circumstance to which i do not remember that sir h. maine adverts, and which would make it a matter of some difficulty for the prætors to introduce laws and principles of their own making: "peu amis de la guerre, ancus martius voulut du moins ajouter à l'art de la faire quelques formalités _pour la declarer; elles étoint d'usage avant lui_ chez des _peuples voisins_; ce sont les lois féciales, lois que nous avons déjà fait connoître (c. iii. ). l'adoption des lois étrusques par les romains reçoit une force nouvelle d'un fait conservé par dénys et halicarnasse (liv. ii. § ); c'est que _après_ l'abolition de la monarchie on exposa dans la place publique de rome _à la vue de tous les citoyens_ toutes _les lois et coutûmes_ de la patrie, avec les lois étrangeres nouvellement _introduites, afin_ que le droit publie ne changeât pas en même temps que les pouvoirs du magistrat." sir h. maine says, at p. , "the prætors early laid hold on _cognation_ as the _natural_ form of kinship, and spared no pains in purifying their system from the older conception [_i.e._ older according to roman law]. their ideas have descended to us, but still traces of agnation are to be seen in many of the modern rules of succession after death." the reader will find (from p. to )[ ] in sir h. maine the distinction between cognation and agnation very completely and lucidly stated. i may say roughly, however, that cognation is the form of relationship which we acknowledge and which is familiar to us, descending in graduated degrees, including males and females alike, from common ancestors. agnatic relationship is rigidly confined to the male lines, excluding the connections and descendants of females, upon the maxim, _mulier est finis familiæ_, though including unmarried females on the side of the father. [ ] _vide_ also de fresquet, "droit romain," ii. - . now, i venture to think that the argument which may be drawn from the passage which i have quoted ought not lightly to be dismissed as a mere _argumentum ad hominem_. sir h. maine says that the prætors early laid hold on cognation as the _natural_ form of kinship. either, then, they did this really detecting this principle as inhering in the natural law which was in tradition, or as detecting it as the "law common to all the nations known to the romans." in the latter case, it shows that, whereas cognation was common among the surrounding nations, agnation obtained among the romans. the latter was therefore their peculiar institution, which sustains the argument which i have just put. if, on the contrary, they detected cognation underlying the institutions of all nations, and as part of their traditional law of nature, we cannot wish for a better and clearer instance of the natural law cropping up. and it is an instance, too, of the advantage at which those argue who have on their side the authority of scripture, indicating the landmarks. knowing that mankind sprang from a single pair, we can see that cognation must have been the law from the commencement: for it stands to reason that commencing with common ancestors the normal and natural mode would be to include all the relations according to degrees of descent, until there was some object in excluding them. with some political necessity or expediency for the limitation to males and the exclusion of females would agnation have commenced. if we require a case in point we have it in the relationship of laban to jacob. according to agnatic relationship they were second cousins, but according to cognatic relationship laban was his maternal uncle, and such accordingly he is called in the sacred text (gen. xxviii. ). but in the seventh century before christ, in the thickness of paganism, men would scarcely have come to this conclusion, since they had apparently lost, as far as we know, the knowledge of their origin; although, as we have already seen, they retained dimly the tradition of many things of which they had forgotten the specific history. from the information we derive from sir h. maine, the memory of cognation, as the earliest and most natural scheme of kinship, must somehow have subsisted in tradition. it was not certainly in their power to verify the truth of the tradition as we can by a reference to revelation, and yet it would seem as if, having come to this conclusion, that it was almost within the grasp of human reason to have inferred from it the origin from a single pair, and thus to have recovered the knowledge they had lost from the tradition they had preserved.[ ] [ ] "the above table shows that before the separation of the aryan race, every one of the degrees of affinity had received expression and sanction in language, for, although some spaces had to be left empty, the coincidences, such as they are, are sufficient to warrant one general conclusion."--_vide_ table, max müller's essays, ii. p. . of course, i am speaking only of the actual affinity, not of laws of succession founded upon it. these must be controlled by other considerations, and by other natural rights, as, for instance, the right of testation or by reasons of state requiring hereditary succession and a salic law, or by reasons of family compelling the agnatic rule as the only mode of preserving the ancestral domain to the family--a necessity which applies as stringently to small freeholds as to broad manors. in illustration, i quote the following passage from the rev. w. smith's "pentateuch" (above referred to, ch. xiii., "indirect internal evidence of mosaic authorship," vol. i. )--"as the journey (exodus) proceeds so laws originate from the accidents of the way.... the laws regulating the succession to property furnish an example of the same kind. in numbers xxvi. - it is ordained in accordance with patriarchal usage, that the family inheritance descend by the male line. but a case immediately turns up where there happens to be no male issue. zelophahad had left no sons, but only daughters, and what was to become of the property? how was the succession to be regulated? to meet the case, jehovah orders moses to proclaim the law of numbers xxvii. - , in virtue of which daughters, in failure of sons, are to succeed. shortly after, a new difficulty arises. as heiresses, the daughters of zelophahad were now to have property of their own. but if they married out of their tribe, was the property to go with them? (num. xxxvi. - .) such a condition would at once have upset the fundamental laws of inheritance. hence, to avoid the evil, they are enjoined to marry within their own tribe; and a general law to the same effect is promulgated" (xxxvi. , ). a few points in sir h. maine's argument (_supra,_ p. ) remain to be noticed. i must take exception, for instance, to his averment "that what we respect and admire," viz. "principles so universal," the roman "regarded with jealous dread." "the parts of jurisprudence which he looked upon with affection, and the solemn gestures, &c., were the parts which a modern theorist leaves out of consideration," for he seems to have recognised their justice, and allowed them to operate so effectually that his whole system of jurisprudence, which was originally based on agnatic kinship, came round to the principle of cognation.[ ] in the process, and through the action so skilfully evolved and unfolded in sir h. maine's pages, two principles, equally to our mind, were brought into gradual recollection, viz. the comity of nations and equality before the law. the "solemn gestures," "the nicely-adjusted questions and answers of the verbal contract," "the endless formalities," are at least in evidence of the tradition. [ ] "we should know almost nothing about it (agnation) if we had only the compilations of justinian to consult; but the discovery of the ms. of gaius discloses it to us at a most interesting epoch, just when it had fallen into complete discredit, and was verging on extinction."--_ancient law_, p. . and this suggests a reflection upon the basis of sir h. maine's argument, viz. that the romans could only draw their induction from "the customs of the old italian tribes, as these were all the nations whom the romans had the means of observing." now, if we attach the weight which is due to dr newman's remarkable view (_vide supra_) as to the course and confines of civilisation, we shall be, i think, struck with the fact that the two nationalities of greece and rome, which were destined to form its heart and centre, had as their common substratum a very peculiar people, whose characteristics exactly adapted them to retain traditions, and to carry out the scriptural saying about the people, "and they shall maintain the state of the world"--a people who were the first occupiers of the soil of greece and italy, and who, if not directly and historically, can through philology be traced back to the most primitive times;[ ] a people tenacious of customs and traditions,[ ] who were the guardians of the worship and tradition of the dodonæan jupiter,[ ] and in possession of his shrine when the worship of jupiter was only the thinly-disguised corruption of the worship of the true god;[ ] a people to whom, according to mr gladstone, the greek religion owed its sacerdotal and ceremonial development,[ ] and who also inclines to the opinion, which has a more especial significance, and bearing on the present argument, that the amphictyonic council was a pelasgian institution. [ ] gladstone's homer, i. - . [ ] _id._ i. - . [ ] "the greek mythology was derived from the pelasgians, and the oracle of dodona belonged to them."--_niebühr, hist._ i. . "the pelasgians were a different nation from the hellenes: their language was peculiar, and not greek.... the pelasgians, as well as the hellenes, were members of the amphictyonic association, the main tie of which was religion, in which both nations agreed."--_niebühr, hist._ i. (_travers twiss' epitome_, ch. iii.) "the royal laws became odious or obsolete, the mysterious deposit was silently preserved by the priests and the nobles, and at the end of sixty years the citizens of rome still complained that they were ruled by the arbitrary sentence of the magistrate; yet the positive institutions of the kings had blended themselves with the public and private manners of the city; some fragments of that venerable jurisprudence were compiled by the diligence of antiquarians, and above twenty texts still speak the rudeness of the pelasgic idiom of the latins."--_gibbon's decline and fall_, vol. viii. ch. xiv. [ ] gladstone, ii. , &c.; strabo. [ ] _id._ i. . now, let us consider this special significance of the amphictyonic council. on the one hand, it is attributed to amphictyon, the son of deucalion; on the other hand (as i shall presently show), we see the almost identical institution in italy in contact with roman law. what, then, was the amphictyonic council? those who have written upon it appear to me to have endeavoured to regard it too much as a federation. hence a double error. on the one side it was found that, instead of being a federation of all greece, at most it was only a federation of twelve cities; it was further found that it had no external action, and that on occasions, as, _e.g._ the persian war, in which the whole nation of greece acted as one people, it made no appearance.[ ] a feeling of disappointment necessarily supervened, and it was asked, if not a federation, what was it? on the other hand, although not a federation for the purposes of government or war, it would be an equal error to deny that it was a federation for certain purposes, more or less invisible to the eye, and which for such purposes retained sufficient vitality to assemble deputies twice a year, and during several centuries, for it is certain that it subsisted to the close of grecian history, when, indeed, we are astonished to find that when faith in everything else had died out, belief in the amphictyons again flickers into life. it is true that we know little, but the little that has transpired implies so much more. were it not for a casual passage in a speech of Æschines, we should hardly have known more than of their existence. as it is, we are thrown back upon conjecture, and upon what we can recover indirectly from tradition. now, if we suppose the amphictyonic council to have tradited down, and to have been a federation for the purposes of traditing down from primitive times, even in their rudimentary form, the rules and principles of the laws of nations, much that is strange and mysterious in its history will disappear.[ ] it will at once account for its duration and prestige, in spite of its inactivity and merely passive existence, even supposing that it is reduced in our estimation to a sort of convocation, powerless for action, and merely keeping alive a tradition of the past. from this point of view, the fact of its merely being a federation of twelve states, which is generally adduced to reduce it to unimportance, taken in connection with another fact which i shall presently substantiate, really militates in favour of my argument. it shows that instead of being the one typical institution of the sort, it is only the one which stands out most prominently in history, and merely handed down a tradition which was common to many others. i have already alluded to the latin league, through which, apparently, the romans recovered their tradition of the law common to all nations. if all these isolated federations retained their tradition of a law common to all nations--although practically limited to the members of their own confederation--is it not at once in evidence of the action of the dispersion and at the same time of a tradition anterior to the disruption? without pretending to have gone over the ground necessary to present an exhaustive catalogue of such federations, i may present the following facts in evidence and illustration. [ ] _vide_, pastoret, "hist. de la legislation," v. . [ ] "the oath taken by the deputies bound the amphictyons not to destroy any of the amphictyonic cities, or to debar them from the use of their fountains in peace or war; to make war on any who should transgress in these particulars ... or who should plunder the property of the god (the delphine apollo).... this is the oldest form of the amphictyonic oath which has been recorded, and is expressly called by Æskines the ancient oath of the amphictyons."--_cyclop. of arts and sciences._ outside the amphictyonic union there were other federations, even within the confines of greece itself:-- "qui avoient le même caractère, et peut-étre un caractère plus intime d'association entre des etats voisins, pour honorer ensemble des dieux, ou pour se prêter, dans certains cas, un appui necessaire. il s'en reunissoit une non loin de trezime ou argolide, une autre à corinthe, une autre à onchiste en beotie; on en trouve de semblables encore dans plusieurs îles de la grece, et dans les colonies de l'asie mineure.[ ] ces associations, au reste, ne seconderent pas moins la civilisation generale que n'auroit pu le faire un amphictyonat universel."--_pastoret, hist. de la legis._, v. . [ ] the ionian federation, composed also of twelve cities, was almost identical. "l'association s'etoit formée d'abord entre les douze cités, en y comprenant les deux îles voisines de samos et de chio.... on s'assembloit dans un lieu sacré du mont mycale, que les ionians avoient dediés en commun _à neptune_."--_pastoret_, ix. . there was also a confederacy of seven states, which met in the _temple of neptune_, in the island of calauria, "and which is even called by strabo, viii. , an amphictyonic council."--_cyclop. of arts and sciences_, art. amphic. council. we find the same federations when we come to italy:-- "among the other works of servius tullius was a temple of diana, which he erected on the aventine, apparently near the present church of sta. prisca. this temple, in imitation of the amphictyonic confederacy, was to be the common sanctuary and place of meeting for the cities belonging to the latin league, of which rome had become the chief through the conquest of alba longa; and her supremacy was tacitly acknowledged by the temple being erected with money contributed by the latin cities. it is said to have been an imitation of the artemisium, or temple of diana at ephesus. (liv. i. ; dionys. iv. ; varro, l. l. v. § ; val. max., vii. , § .) the brazen column containing the terms of the league, and the names of the cities belonging to it, was preserved in the time of dionysius."--dyer's _hist. of city of rome_, p. . compare this with niebühr, hist. ii. chap. ii. (travers twiss' "epitome.") "so long as latium had a dictator, none but he could offer sacrifice on the alban mount, and preside at the latin holidays, as the alban dictator had done before. he sacrificed on behalf of the romans likewise, as they did in the temple of diana on the aventine for themselves and the latins.... the opinion that the last tarquinius or his father constituted the festival is quite erroneous, as its antiquity is proved to have been far higher. it is true that tarquinius converted it into a roman festival, and probably, too, by throwing it open to a larger body, transformed the national worship of the latins into the means of hallowing and cementing the union between the states. the three allied republics had each its own place of meeting--at rome, at the spring of ferentina, and at anagnia, where the concilium of the hernican tribes was held in the circus; that the sittings of the diets were connected with the latin festival, seems to be evinced by the usage, that the consuls never took the field till after it was solemnised; and by its variableness, which implies that it was regulated by special proclamation. like the greek festivals it ensured a _sacred truce_." in these extracts we come upon a federation resembling the amphictyonic league, whose union is also cemented at a religious festival, the origin of which must be sought for in remote antiquity, and which festival has a direct connection with questions of peace and war. we also catch glimpses of similar federation among the hernici and marsi. now, let us go to quite an opposite point; and, if we find the same stratification cropping up, may we not conjecture it to have been once the same throughout. "when the europeans made their first settlements in america, six such nations had formed a league, had their amphictyons or states-general, and by the firmness of their union, and the ability of their councils, had obtained an ascendant from the mouth of the st lawrence to that of the mississippi. they appeared to understand the objects of the confederacy as well as those of separate nations; they studied a balance of power.... they had their alliances and treaties, which, like the nations of europe, they maintained or they broke upon reasons of state, and remained at peace from a sense of necessity or expediency, and went to war upon any emergency of provocation or jealousy."[ ] [ ] adam fergusson, "essay on civil society," . whatever the conduct of the iroquois or five nations (sometimes counted as six) may have been towards surrounding nations, the fidelity with which they held to their compacts among themselves is fully acknowledged. colden ("history of the five indian nations") says, "this union has continued so long that the christians know nothing of the original of it.... each of these nations is an absolute republick by itself, and every castle in each nation makes an independent republick and is governed by its own 'sachems' or old men.... they have certain customs which they observe in their publick transactions with other nations, and in their private affairs among themselves; which it is scandalous for any one among them not to observe, and these always draw after them either publick or private resentment whenever they are broke." in plato's republic, "it is laid down that the greeks are natural enemies of the barbarians, but are natural friends and _allies of one another, so that all hostilities between greek states_ are to be avoided--are to be conducted on principles of mildness and forbearance, and to be considered as civil discord rather than foreign war." "the ten kings of the atlantic island were never to make war on each other--there was a sort of congress between them." critias, chap. . sir g. c. lewis, "method," &c., ii. . this, taken in connection with what we know of the amphictyonic council, reads more like tradition than fiction. in mexico also there was "that remarkable league, which indeed has no parallel in history (?) it was agreed between the states of mexico, tezcuco, and the neighbouring little kingdom of tlascopan, that they should mutually support each other in their wars, offensive and defensive, and that in the distribution of the spoil one-fifth should be assigned to tlascopan, and the remainder be divided--in what proportions is uncertain--between the two other powers.... what is more extraordinary than the treaty itself, however, is the fidelity with which it was maintained."--_prescott's mexico_, i. p. . and in the republic of tlascala, it is said (_id._ i. ) "after the lapse of years, the institutions of the nation underwent an important change [they had previously separated into three divisions, of which tlascala was the largest]. the monarchy was divided, first into two, afterwards into four separate states, bound together by a sort of federal compact, probably not very nicely defined. each state, however, had its lord or superior chief, independent in his own territories, and possessed of co-ordinate authority with the others in all matters concerning the whole republic. the affairs of government, especially _all those relating to peace and war_, were _settled_ in a _senate_ or _council_, consisting of the four lords, with their inferior nobles." the tlascalans subsequently incorporated the othonius, or otomius (p. ). here, as in the greek and latin leagues, the primary objects of the law of nations seem to have been secured within the limits of their confederation, or of what they would have deemed the pale of civilization. the requirements of their horrible worship (_i.e._ the necessity of procuring human victims for their sacrifices) seems, however, to have overridden every other consideration, and to have impelled them to frequent wars with the nations outside the pale. in the case of the tlascalans, the traditional lines seem more clearly defined. i have already hinted, in a note, with reference to the greek and latin leagues that the atlantis of plato was, as indeed it professes to be, an embodiment of tradition, and not, as it is commonly regarded, as a figment of the imagination; but this strikes me still more forcibly when the league of the ten kings in the atlantis is compared with the league of the tlascalans. plato says: "the particulars respecting the governors were instituted from the beginning as follows. each of the ten kings possessed absolute authority, both over the men and the _greater part_ of the laws in his own division and in his own city, punishing and putting to death whomsoever he pleased. but the government and communion of these kings with each other were conformable to the _mandates given by neptune_; and this was likewise the case with their laws. these mandates were delivered to them by their ancestors on a pillar of orichalcum, which was erected about the middle of the island, _in the temple of neptune._ these kings, therefore, assembled together every fifth, and alternately, every sixth year, for the purpose of distributing an equal part both of the even and the odd; and when they assembled they deliberated on the public affairs, inquired if any one had acted improperly ... a sacrifice of _bulls_ was made in the temple of neptune, at the foot of the pillar of orichalcum.... but on the pillar, besides the laws, there was an oath, supplicating mighty imprecations against those who were disobedient.... there were also many _other laws_ respecting _sacred_ concerns, and such as were peculiar to the several kings; but _the greatest_ were the following: that they should _never wage war against each other_, and that all of them should give assistance if any one person in some one of their cities should endeavour to extirpate the royal race. and as they consulted in common respecting war, and other actions, in the same manner as their ancestors, they assigned the empire to the atlantis family."--_plato's works_, sydenham and taylor's tr., ii. . i think it will then be conceded, that whether or not there was a tradition "of a law common to all nations," there were at any rate channels provided, well adapted to conduct and disseminate it, and that these channels everywhere converge upon the most primitive times. before proceeding to ascertain whether anything has in fact been transmitted, i must draw attention more particularly to the circumstance that the tradition of all law is everywhere closely connected with the traditions of religion, has been handed down in a similar manner; and, so far as it retains the purity of primitive truth, under the same sanction. from this point of view the following passages from cicero appears to me to be very significant: "hanc igitur video sapientissimorum fuisse sententiam legem neque hominum ingeniis excogitatum, neque scitum aliquod esse populorum, _sed æternum quiddam_ quod universum mundum regerat imperandi, prohibendique sapientiâ.... quæ non tum denique incipit lex esse, cum scriptum est, sed tum cum orta est; orta autem simul est cum mente divina." "jam ritus familiæ patrumque servari, id est _quoniam antiquitas proxima accedit ad deos_, a deis quasi _traditam_, religionem tueri."--_cicero de legibus_, ii. , . there is another curious passage which seems to prove that the oracles originally existed simply for the preservation of the primitive tradition; and, although mixed up with imposture, that they seem to have had the knowledge, or at least the instinct, that their prestige and power of influence was within the limits of the traditions which they had corrupted or preserved.[ ] [ ] the general assemblies of greece were held at delos, "comme métropole du culte," pastoret ix. . "ce qu'il y a d'assuré, c'est que le pontife exerçoit sur plusieurs objets une véritable administration de la justice. la décision n'en appartenoit qu' à lui. les règles qu'il devoit suivre, le caractère et l'étendue de ses droits, étoient pareillement établis dans le recueil connu sous le nom de jus pontificum (macrobe parle deux fois de ce jus pontificum, mais comme d'un ouvrage perdu. saturn, vii. chap. xiii.) un fils du pontife romain publius scævola est même cité dans le livre des lois comme prétendant qu'on ne pouvoit exercer un si haut ministère sans savoir le _droit civil_. quoi, tout entier? dit cicéron, qui le refute; et qui font au pontife le droit des mers, le droit des eaux, ou d'autres droits semblables?"--pastoret ix. . "torts, then, are copiously enlarged upon in primitive jurisprudence. it must be added that _sins_ are known to it also. of the teutonic codes it is almost unnecessary to make this assertion.... but it is also true that non-christian bodies of archaic law entail penal consequences on certain classes of acts and on certain classes of omissions, as being _violations of divine prescriptions and commands_. the law administered at athens by the senate of the areopagus was probably a _special religious code_; and at rome, apparently from a _very early period_, the pontifical jurisprudence punished adultery, sacrilege, and perhaps murder. there were, therefore, in the athenian and in the roman states laws punishing _sins_."--sir h. maine, pp. , . the expression unwritten laws ([greek: agraphoi nomoi]) first occurs in the funeral oration of pericles (thuc. ii. ), when it appears to denote those laws of the state which are corroborated by the moral sanction. it next occurs.... xenophon, mem. iv. , § , , ... the expression was doubtless adopted by socrates from popular usage. thus plato speaks of [greek: ta kaloumena hypo tôn pollôn agrapha nomima] (leg. vii. ). _vide_ sir g. c. lewis, "method of rea. in pol.," ii. . [the "laws called unwritten by the multitude" must evidently imply laws known to the multitude but in tradition.] cicero, "de natura deorum," iii., says, "habes, balba, quid cotta, quid _pontifex_ sentiat. fac nunc, ego intelligam, quid tu sentias: a te enim philosopho rationem accipere debes religionis; _majoribus autem nostris etiam nulla ratione reddita credere_." "lex est cui homines obtemperare convenit, cum ob alia multa, tum ab eo maxime quod lex omnis inventus quidem, ac _dei munus est_." "lex est sanctio sancta, jubens _honesta_, prohibens contraria." "deinceps in lege est, _ut de ritibus patriis_ coluntur optimi, de quo cum consulerent athenienses apollinem pythium, quas potissimum religiones tenerent, oraculum editum est _eas quæ essent in more majorum_. quo cum iterum venissent, majorumque morem dixissent, sæpe esse mutatum, quæsivissentque quem morem potissimum sequerentur, e variis respondit, optimum. et perfecto ita est ut id habendum sit antiquissimum et a _deo proximum_ quod sit optimum."[ ]--_cicero de legibus,_ ii. . [ ] this last sentence is only a gloss of cicero's from the stoical point of view, since clearly the enunciation of the oracle would compel the conclusion, that what was most ancient and nearest the gods was the best, and not that the best, as abstractly conceived, was to be held the most ancient, &c. a moment's consideration will suffice to show that in this substitution is involved the whole extent of the difference between the principle of conservation and the principle of change. "demosthène qui avait en faire tant de mauvaises lois, prononçait que" toutes les lois sont l'ouvrage et le présent des dieux "et c'était à ce titre qu'il réclamit pour elles l'obéissance des hommes. socrate professait la même doctrine."--ozanam, "les germains avant le christianisme," i., . again, "quand on étudie les lois indiennes on y voit tout un grand peuple enchaîné par la terreur des dieux. le livre de la loi s'annonce comme une revelation.... les prescriptions du droit sacré enveloppent pour ainsi dire toute la vie civile, et c'est là qu'on decouvre enfin la raison de tant de coutumes dont les occidentaux avaient conservé la lettre, mais non l'esprit."--_id._ p. . "if the customs and institutions of barbarians have one characteristic more striking than another, it is their _extreme uniformity_" (maine's "ancient law," p. ). "there are in nature certain fountains of justice whence all civil laws are derived but as streams; and like as waters do take tinctures and tastes from the soils through which they run, so do civil laws vary according to the regions and governments where they are planted, though they proceed from the same fountains." (bacon, "advancement of learning," b. ii. w. iii. , ap.; d. rowland, "on the moral commandments," p. .) but this sentiment and tradition was not only common to the people of greece and rome, but to the yet uncivilised tribes of germany. "or les dispositions, où la coutume barbare et la loi romaine s'accordent, sont encore celles qui semblent faire le fond des législations grèques: non que les douze tables aient été copiées, comme on l'a cru, sur les lois de solon, mais à cause de l'étroite parenté des peuples de la grèce et du latium. a travers l'obscurité des siècles héroïques, on découvre un sacerdoce puissant qui a ses premiers établissements en thrace, en samothrace, à dodone, et qui perpétuera son autorité par l'institution des mystères. on voit aussi la resistance d'une race belliqueuse."--_ozanam_, "les germains avant le christianisme,"_ vol. i. chap. "les lois." "au premier abord rien ne semble plus contraire aux moeurs barbares que la loi romaine, si subtile, si précise, si bien obéie. cependant si l'on en considère les origines, on n'y trouve pas d'autres principes que ceux dont la trace subsistait dans les vieilles coutumes de la germanie. le droit primitif du rome, comme celui du nord, est un droit sacré."--_ib._ p. . "il existait chez les germains une autorité religieuse, _dépositaire de la tradition_, et qui y trouvait l'idéal et le principe de tout l'ordre civil. cette autorité avait créé la propriété immobilière en la rendant respectable par des rites et des symboles, ... elle l'engageait dans les liens de la famille légitime, consacrée par la sainteté du mariage, par le culte des ancêtres, par la solidarité du sang: elle l'enveloppait dans le corps de la nation sédentaire, ou elle avait établi une hierarchie de caste et de pouvoir, à l'exemple de la hierarchie divine de la création" (p. ). "dans cette suite de scènes dont se compose pour ainsi dire le drame judiciaire, on reconnaît un pouvoir religieux, qui cherche _à sauver la paix, à désarmer la guerre_ et qui s'y prend de trois façons différentes" (p. ). now, if we are agreed that fitting channels for the diffusion of the tradition existed; if, further, we find that all law seems to trace itself back to a common source of supernatural revelation; if the resemblances in the traditions concerning the lawgivers of antiquity--and, with the exception of lycurgus, the agreement in the fundamentals of their codes--in the great lines of the family, property, and the external relations of life, seems to require the supposition of some common fountain-head at which they all filled the pitcher--we shall, i think, when we come to the question of public law, only require further some evidence of a tradition of maxims, rules, and precedents of procedure in war, founded on and appealing to natural right, and claiming the sanction of the gods, to establish the existence of a law common to all nations different from that which would have arisen from the judgment of the prætors, merely applying the rules and maxims common to the romans and the adjoining nations, in case of conflict where the law of the state was not allowed to be applied (_supra_, maine). i shall, doubtless, be reminded that this was only part of sir h. maine's argument, and that it was this, taken in connection with the influence of the stoics on roman law, and the stoical conception of nature,[ ] which created the fiction of a law of nature, and of a law common to all nations. [ ] "l'erreur a été de croire qu'il n'est rien de plus facile à l'homme que de suivre la nature, tandis que c'est au contraire le chef-d'oeuvre de l'art que de la contenir dans les bornes que la nature lui prescrit: c'est où peuvent à peine parvenir les legislateurs les plus sages. que de préjugés à éteindre! que d'erreurs à combattre! que d'habitudes à vaincre! toutes choses qui dans tous les temps commandent impérieusement au genre humain."--_l'antiquité dévoilée par ses usages_, i. . ii. ch. iii. _par boulanger_. let it then be granted that the theories and maxims of the stoics had their influence on roman society and roman law. it was only part of the influence which stole over and everywhere impregnated the field of primitive tradition. sir h. maine shows us how it at once seized upon the element of law, which, be it in fiction only, was said to be common to all nations. would it the less have seized upon it if, instead of being a fiction, it had been a reality?--_à fortiori_, it would have done so. therefore sir h. maine leaves the question as to the belief among the ancients in a "law common to all nations" still open, or rather, so far as there is an argument, it is only with the previous part of his theory that it is necessary to deal; for all that sir h. maine's finely-drawn reasoning and subtle detection of the influence of grecian stoicism on roman law accounts for--so far as the present argument is concerned--is the greater attention and respect which was henceforward paid to the fiction, supposing that it had not heretofore and always been paid to the fact, that there was a traditional law common to all nations. i have previously (p. ) pointed out the distinction between the law of nations and international law, and i am under the impression that i made the distinction before the publication of sir h. maine's work--certainly before i had become acquainted with it. the manner in which sir h. maine makes the distinction does not appear to me to be quite accurate. he says:--"it is almost unnecessary to add that the confusion between _jus gentium_, or law common to all nations, and international law, is entirely modern. the classical expression for international law is _jus feciale_, or the law of negotiation and diplomacy" (p. ). the fecial college was very far from corresponding with our corps diplomatique, neither was its law a law of negotiation and diplomacy; and the distinction between the law of nations and international law was made in modern times, _precisely because_ in antiquity treaty law was subordinate to, and identified with, the traditional law. the fecial college corresponded much more nearly to what our heralds' college would be, supposing the heralds' college invested with the authority of our admiralty courts, and also made the trustees of the foundation for the study of international law, which dr whewell's bequest had the intention of instituting at cambridge. we should then have, as in ancient times, a body of men who would be at once the depositaries, the interpreters, and the heralds of a tradition, though, to complete the picture, we should have to invest them with a sacred character, and in some way to give to their decisions the sanction of religion. dionysius of halicarnassus tells us that they were priests chosen from the best families at rome, and that their special intention was to see that the romans never made an unjust war. "the seventh part of the sacred laws was devoted to the college of the fecials, whom the greeks call [greek: eirênodikai].[ ] they are men selected from the most illustrious families, and are dedicated during their whole life to this priesthood.... it would take long to enumerate all the various duties of the fecials, which were multifarious, ... but in the main they are these,--to take heed lest the romans should ever undertake an unjust war with a city with which they were in league" (lib. ii.); it was their duty to demand reparation, and, failing, to declare war; in case of differences with allies, they acted as mediators, and they adjudicated in case of disputes. it was for them to decide what constituted an injury to the person of an ambassador, and whether or not the generals had acted according to their oaths; to draw up the articles of treaties, truces, and the like; and to decide as to their nullity and validity, and to communicate accordingly with the senate, which deliberated upon their report. [ ] [greek: eirênodikai]--"feciales quia _interpretes_ et _arbitri_ sunt pacis et belli."--_lexicon_, ben-hederic, ernesti. _vide_ also plutarch, "numa;" livy, lib. i. c. . vattel, iii. c. iv., says:--"it is _surprising_ to find among the romans such justice, such moderation and prudence, _at a time too_ when apparently nothing but courage and ferocity was to be expected from them." what cicero tells us is not less to the point:-- "there are certain peculiar laws of war also, which are of all things most strictly to be observed.... as we are bound to be merciful to those whom we have actually conquered, so should those also be received into favour who have laid down their arms.... our good forefathers were most strictly just as to this particular, the custom of those times making him the patron of a conquered city or people who first received them into the faith and allegiance of the people of rome. in short, _the whole right and all the duties of war_ are most rigorously set down in the _fecial laws_, out of which it is manifest that no war can be justly undertaken _unless satisfaction has been first demanded_, and _proclamation_ of it made _publicly beforehand_."--cicero, _offices_, i. xi.; again, also, _vide_ iii. xxxi. compare these passages with mr gladstone's account of the homeric age:-- "in that early age, despite the prevalence of piracy, even that idea of political justice and public right, which is the germ of the law of nations, was not unknown to the greeks. it would appear that war could not be made without an appropriate cause, and that the offer of redress made it the duty of the injured to come to terms. hence the offer of paris in the third iliad is at once readily accepted; and hence, even after the breach of the act, arises agamemnon's fear, at the moment when he anticipates the death of menelaus, that by that event the claim to the restoration of helen will be practically disposed of, and the greeks will have to return home without reparation for a wrong, of which the _corpus_, as it were, will have disappeared."--_iliad_, iv. - .[ ] [ ] gladstone, "homer and the homeric age," iii. . it is certainly not within the scope of this chapter to indicate the multiform applications of the law of nations, which it would require a legist's special knowledge (to which the writer can lay no claim) to determine with any exactness. my object has been merely to sustain the traditional belief against those who deny it. i shall indeed, for the purposes of illustration, go into detail on one point, viz. the declaration of war; but i may mention incidentally that the fecial and amphictyonic law presumably extended to many other points, such as treaties, trophies,[ ] truces,[ ] hostages, and the like. moreover, the maritime law of rhodes and the islands of the Ægean, known to the romans long before it was embodied in their code (which was not probably until they had extended maritime relations), presents, as pastoret (ix. ) informs us, "analogies et rapprochemens multipliés" with modern maritime legislation from the time of the romans to the "ordonnance de la marine" drawn up by order of louis xiv. [ ] "to demolish a trophy was looked on as unlawful, and a kind of sacrilege, because they were all dedicated to some deity; nor was it _less a crime to pay crime_ to pay divine adoration before them, or to repair them when decayed, as may be _likewise_ observed of the roman triumphal arches.... for the same reason, those grecians who introduced the custom of erecting pillars for trophies incurred a severe censure from the ages they lived in."--_potters "archæologia_," ii. c. . "before the greeks engaged themselves in war it was usual to publish a declaration of the injuries they had received, and to demand satisfaction by ambassadors; which custom was observed even in _the most early ages_.... it is therefore no wonder what polybius relates of the Ætolians, that they were held for the common _outlaws_ and robbers of greece, it being their manner to strike without warning, and make war without any previous or public declaration."--_id._ ii. c. vii. p. . (compare _infra_, ch. xv.) [ ] "omnes portas concionabundus ipse imperator circumiit, et quibuscumque irritamentis poterat, iras militum accuebat, nunc fraudem hostium incusans, qui, pace petita, induciis datis, per ipsum induciarum tempus, _contra jus gentium_ ad castra oppugnando venisset."--_p. livius_, . xc. in an article on "belligerent rights at sea" (in the _home and foreign review_, july ), in which there will be found a nice discrimination of these questions, mr e. ryley says:-- "the very largest rule of belligerent rights limits the voluntary destruction of life and property by the necessity of the occasion and the object of the war. bynkershock and wolf insist that everything done against the enemy is lawful, and admit fraud, poison, and the murder, as we should call it, of non-combatants, as permissible expedients for attaining the object of the war. but these are the writers who lay the foundations of the law of nations in reason and custom, and ignore that perception and judgment of right and wrong which god has communicated to man. it is true that for the most part, and practically, we know the law of nations by reason and usage; but this law is founded not on that by which we know its decisions, but on justice; and reason must admit, and usage must adopt, whatever is clearly shown to be just and right, however this may be against precedent, and what has hitherto been held to be sound reason. there is no law without justice, nor any justice without conscience, nor any conscience without god. grotius thus admirably expresses himself:--'jus naturale est dictatum rectæ rationis, indicans actui aliqui, ex ejus convenientiâ aut disconvenientiâ cum ipsa naturâ rationali, inesse moralem turpitudinem, aut necessitatem moralem, _ac consequenter ab auctore naturæ, deo, talem actum vetari aut præcipi_. actus, de quibus tale extat dictatum, _debiti sunt aut illiciti per se, atque ideo a deo necessario præcepti aut vetiti intelliguntur_.'[ ] and this principle obtains greater force from the objections which have been made to it, and the efforts to establish another foundation for the law of nations. thus the principle of utility is only a feeble attempt to give another name to the law of justice which god has implanted in his creatures; and to pretend to found a law on general usage and tacit consent is to mistake the evidence of justice for justice itself." [ ] "de jure belli ac pacis," l. i. c. l. § x. n n, et . at first sight the passage quoted from mr ryley's article would seem to militate against my position; in reality we merely take up different weapons against bynkershock and wolf. if custom means merely precedent, it may or may not be in accordance with "that perception of right and wrong which god has communicated to man;" but if there is a tradition of a law of nations, the fact creates so great a presumption in favour of its pronouncements, that what is of usage and custom will be the criterion of what is right until the human intellect has shown that what has hitherto been held to be permissible was founded in a precedent of iniquity. on the other hand, we are agreed that the law of nations must be such as to stand the test of the "perception and judgment of right and wrong." as this perception, however, has never wholly died out among mankind, whatever is of general acceptance carries with it an assurance that it has stood this test; and "general usage and the tacit consent" is so much "the evidence of justice," that it has practically been taken, or mistaken by mankind "for justice itself," and the law of nations has always been discussed on the basis of usage. this, i contend, would not have been the case if there had not been behind usage the immemorial sanction and tradition, or if the tacit consent had been only acquiescence in wrong. i am the more confirmed in this view on perceiving that mr ryley, after stating his own opinion as to the right of blockade, finds his conclusions, when he has discriminated such precedents as were of an exceptional and retaliatory character, to be in conformity with usage and the decision of legists. from this point of view those who contend for the basis of tradition and those who contend for the basis of natural justice mean the same thing. they both affirm that there are limitations to human passion even in war. they are both opposed to precedents based on force, and are equally hostile to "the principle of utility," for if, as mr ryley puts it, "the principle of utility" is only "another name for the law of justice which god has implanted in his creatures," the phrase is an understatement of the truth, liable to misconstruction, and tends to lower the standard of right; and if it means something different or distinct from this, it means that against which the tradition of mankind protests. i have already said that international law, as distinguished from the law of nations, requires to be constantly discriminated by the intellect or the conscience of mankind, and more especially now that diplomatists are no longer legists. there was a certain indirect and collateral influence arising out of the tradition of a law of nations from the fact that a body of men existing as its interpreters, or at least as its depositaries, which it appears to me was destined to operate powerfully in the interests of peace. the existence of such a body of men perpetuated a public opinion in these matters, they fostered an _esprit de corps_ stronger even than the spirit of nationality which then reigned supreme and dominated society. when a violation of treaties or an unjust aggression took place there was thus found a body of men who would stigmatise or at least recognise it as such. the sentiment thus sustained was not all-influential for the purposes of peace, but it was operative to the extent of arresting the attention and perturbing the consciences of mankind. in like manner i venture to say that the diplomatic body, although the depositaries only of a bastard tradition, subserve this purpose also after a fashion, and i much doubt whether many well-intentioned men, in striving to compass its abolition would not, as matters stand, destroy the last breakwater which secures the peace of europe. in ancient times the comity of nations was virtually restricted to groups of cities or nations of kindred descent, or which had become confederate by reason of contiguity. this circumstance has been adduced by sir g. c. lewis to stop _in limine_ the theory of a law of nations;[ ] as if it was necessarily in denial of a tradition of morality common to all nations. yet, i think that i shall be able to show instances of its recognition as between the groups, but it is precisely in its restricted application within the groups, and in the channels thus provided, that i think we shall find common features, and dimly and obscurely, though certainly, catch glimpses of the tradition. [ ] sir g. c. lewis ("method, &c., of reasoning in politics," ii. ), quotes mr ward, "history of law of nations" (i. ), to the effect "that what is commonly called the law of nations, is not the law of _all_ nations, but only of such sets or classes of them as are united together by similar religions and systems of morality." sir g. c. lewis' view is that "as there are no universal principles of civil jurisprudence which belongs to each community, so there are no universal principles of international law which are common to all communities."--_id._ if i may complete my thought, these confederations were so many types and anticipations of that amphictyonic council, which, if things had not persistently gone wrong in the world, might have been formed in mediæval times by christendom under the presidency of the popes,[ ] and which may yet be realised in the triumph of religion which seems to be signified in the motto _lumen in coelo_, as attaching to the successor of the present pope, whose pontificate has been so singularly prefigured in the indication _crux de cruce_.[ ] [ ] since writing the above, i have read a series of papers (which commenced i think in august ) in the _tablet_ under the title of "arbitration instead of war," and i perceive that the writer arrives by a different route at a similar conclusion. i should have had pleasure in incorporating the argument with this chapter, but i shall do better if i induce my readers to peruse and weigh it as it deserves. [ ] i allude to the ancient prophecy of st malachy. its authenticity as the prophecy of st malachy may be questioned; but the antiquity of the prediction, and its existence in print early in the sixteenth century is, i believe, fully established. the copy which lies before me will be found in moreri's dictionary of , in the pontificate of innocent xiii. twelve mottoes given _in prediction_ from that date, fits the motto "_crux de cruce_," to the th successor of innocent, viz. pius ix. ten other mottoes follow commencing with "lumen in coelo." in the _times_, november , , it was said, "if this theory ['the states of christendom constituted as a species of commonwealth'] could be rendered effectual, international law would be furnished at once with its greatest need, a court to enforce its behests; but nothing is plainer than that for such arbitration _the arbitrators must be fetched from another planet_." but, inasmuch as abraham lincoln practically remarked, you cannot have "a cabinet of angels" in this world, the thing is to discover the arbitrator who is the furthest removed from sublunary influences. now, how strong soever may be our national mistrusts and prejudices, we cannot refuse to recognise that the papacy ostensibly satisfies these conditions, and this irrespective of the belief of the preponderant section of the christian world that he is the infallible guide, and the divinely appointed interpreter of the tradition of morals. its representatives being always old men naturally inclined to peace,[ ] the sovereign of a small state which a general war would imperil--professing maxims and therefore pledged to a programme of peace--(so that any deviation from it, as in the case of julius ii., would render glaring and abnormal acts which would have been unnoticed in an ordinary sovereign), a sovereign without a family (and whatever may be said of nepotism, it must be conceded that a man who has only collateral relatives is _less_ tempted to found a family than one who has sons), a sovereign, in fine, representing the oldest line of succession in the world,[ ] in the oldest city, in the centre of tradition, and like noah in the traditional symbols (_ante_, p. ), linking the new world with the old. [ ] "the pontifical power is, from its essential constitution, the least subject to the caprices of politics. he who wields it is, moreover, always aged, unmarried, and a priest; all which circumstances exclude ninety-nine hundredths of all the errors and passions which disturb states."--_de maistre, du pape_, b. ii. chap. iv. [ ] "the history of that church joins together the two great ages of human civilisation. no other institution is left standing which carries the mind back to the times when the smoke of sacrifice rose from the pantheon, and when the cameleopards and tigers bounded in the flavian amphitheatre. the proudest royal houses are but of yesterday when compared with the line of the supreme pontiffs. that line we trace back in an unbroken series, from the pope who crowned napoleon in the nineteenth century, to the pope who crowned pepin in the eighth; and far beyond the time of pepin the august dynasty extends, till it is lost in the twilight of fable.... the catholic church is still sending forth to the farthest ends of the world missionaries as zealous as those who landed in kent with augustine, _and still confronting hostile kings with the same spirit with which she confronted attila."--macaulay's essays, "review of ranke's popes._" this, i find (i quote from a series of important papers on "english statesmen and the independence of popes," _tablet_, november ), was fully recognised by our greatest minister, mr pitt. in , "pitt suggested, through françois de conzié, bishop of arras, that the pope should put himself at the head of a european league." "on more than one occasion," he wrote, "i have seen the continental courts draw back before the divergences of opinion and of religion which separate us. i think that a common bond ought to unite us all. _the pope alone can be this centre._... we are too much divided by personal interests or by political views. rome alone can raise an impartial voice, and one free from all exterior preoccupations. rome, then, ought to speak according to the measure of her duties, and not merely of her good wishes, which no one doubts." there have been at different periods of the world various projects of universal pacification;[ ] but it is worthy of remark that they have almost all, from that of henri iv. to the one recently broached by the professor of modern history at cambridge, taken the traditional lines of a confederation of states more or less circumscribed with an amphictyonic council. this has its significance from the point of view i am indicating, but i do not see that it is satisfactorily accounted for on any other view.[ ] [ ] sir g. c. lewis, "method, &c.," ii. , enumerates several. [ ] in de quincey's works, xii. , there is a disquisition on kant's scheme "of a universal society founded on the empire of political justice," where it is competent that as the result of wars man must be inevitably brought "to quit the barbarous condition of lawless power and to enter into a federal league of nations, in which even the weakest number looks for its rights and protection--not to its own power, or its own adjudication, but to this great confederation (_foedus amphictyonum_), to the united power, and the adjudication of the collective will," and is said to be "the inevitable resource and mode of escape under that pressure of evil which nations reciprocally inflict," and which seems to contemplate a situation like the present. "finally war itself becomes gradually not only so artificial a process, so uncertain in its issue, but also is the after-pains of inextinguishable national debts (a contrivance of modern times) so anxious and burdensome; ... that at length those governments which have no immediate participation in the war, under a sense of their own danger, offer themselves as mediators, though as yet without any sanction of law, and thus prepare all things from afar for the formation of a great primary state-body or cosmopolitic areopagus, such as is wholly _unprecedented_ in all preceding ages." i am fully aware of the divergence of this view from that which i have indicated, but i wish to point out that it is only "unprecedented" in so far as it is cosmopolitic and extends to all humanity; but so extending it ought not to include the traditional notions of an "areopagus"--_foedus amphictyonum_--or confederation of states. it ought rather to talk of an interfusion of states, the only condition upon which the cosmopolitic areopagus would be possible; yet it inevitably falls into the traditionary lines. moreover, before mankind can attain to this _inter-fusion_ of states, one supreme difficulty, which seems always to be over-looked, must be overcome, we must bring mankind back to be "of one lip and one speech." the scheme, on the other hand, of a federation cannot be pronounced impracticable until it has been tried; yet, although it lies latent in the idea of christendom, and although it has had a sort of informal recognition in the theory and policy of the balance of power, there has never been any understanding from which we can gather what the results would be, if the bond of federation were ever cemented by any solemn pledge or sanction. it would seem, then, that there has always existed in the world the tradition, and since the triumph of christianity, the conditions by which, if it had so willed, it might have recovered the golden age of peace and happiness of which it has never entirely lost the tradition. until this consummation we must fall back upon the law of nations,[ ] though even here it must be borne in mind that christianity has exercised an indirect influence, and has raised the standard of morality for the world at large.[ ] but when all is abated the law of nations remains the _lex legum_, deeply founded in the maxims, sentiments, and usages of mankind. these maxims in their tradition have been concurrently interpreted, adapted, and in a certain sense moulded by the intellect of legists, whose discriminations or conclusions have received the tacit approbation of mankind. rarely has the production of any profane writer received such an unanimous ratification as the great work of hugo grotius, mainly, as we have seen (_ante_, p. ), based on tradition. again, the agreement and correspondence among the legists of different nationalities is substantial, and is only to be accounted for upon the supposition that each in his own groove faithfully incorporated and elaborated a tradition; and if you say that this was only an argument among the separate traditions of the roman law, you only put back the argument one remove, as i have attempted to demonstrate. if conversely you say that the law of nations as we find it is purely the work and elaboration of legists, and the conclusions of abstract reason, put it to this test, bring all the legists of the world into a congress--such a congress is much needed just now--with instructions to create a new code on abstract principles, and upon the basis of the rejection of what is of custom and tradition, and see what they will accomplish! do not all our difficulties begin exactly where, owing to the complications of modern civilisation, tradition ceases? for the rest we shall presently see what the congress of paris, in , was able to effect in this kind. [ ] "historicus" (letter in the _times_, february , ) writes--"the system of international law professes to be a code of rules which ought to govern, and in fact in a great degree _does govern_, the conduct of independent nations in their dealings with one another.... how can one doubt that in fact such a rule exists and does operate? let us test the matter by an example. when the news of the affair of the _trent_ reached england, what was the first question that every one asked? was it not this, 'is this act conformable to the law of nations, or is it not?' did not the english cabinet summon all the most distinguished jurists to advise them what the law of nations was? was not the decision absolutely dependent on their advice.... the code of the law of nations, based on all other laws, on morality, deduced by the reasoning of jurists from well established principles, illustrated by precedents, gathered from usage, confirmed by experience, has become from age to age more and more respected as the arbiter of the rights and duties of nations, ... and now, after this system has been elaborated with so much care, and has yielded results so beneficial to the human race, we are to be told that the only real question in differences between nations is, 'whether, all things considered, it is or _is not worth while to go to war_?' not, be it observed, _right_ or _wrong_ to go to war. this is exactly the doctrine set forth in the celebrated thelian controversy recorded in thucydides." w. oke manning, "commentaries on the law of nations" (p. ), says, "sir j. mackintosh in his 'hist. of the progress of ethical philosophy' (prefixed to the 'encyclopædia britannica,' p. ), speaks of _suarez_ as the writer who first saw that international law was composed not only of the simple principles of justice applied to intercourse between states, but of those _usages long observed_ in that intercourse by the european race which have since been more exactly distinguished as the consuetudinary law acknowledged by the christian nations of europe and america. but suarez himself speaks of this distinction as already recognised by previous writers." [ ] "la religion chrétienne, qui ne semble avoir d'objet que la félicité de l'autre vie, fait encore notre bonheur dans celle-ci.... que d'un côté, l'on se mette devant les yeux les massacres continuels des rois et des chefs grecs et romains, ... et nous verrons que nous devons au christianisme, et dans le gouvernement un certain droit politique, et dans la guerre un certain droit des gens, que la nature humaine ne saurait assez reconnaître."--_montesquieu, "esprit des lois_," i. xxiv. chap. . chapter xv. _the declaration of war._ i think we have already distinct evidence that the fecial law was something more than our treaty and diplomatic law. let us examine it more particularly in action. if the law of nations ever was appealed to, and, if over and above, there was a tradition of a divine revelation, or even of a prescriptive law founded on natural right, and having reference to war, which was ever invoked, it would have been in the first instance of aggression, supposing, as is implied in the term, that it was without fair cause and without fair warning. the declaration of war, therefore, is manifestly the hinge upon which the whole system of the law of nations turns.[ ] accordingly, the further we go back the more solemn and formal do we find the declaration of war to be. [ ] i must here do mr urquhart the justice to point out that he has been the principal advocate of this doctrine, that the declaration of war is the turning-point upon which everything depends, and more than any other man has laboured to enforce it. (_vide_ "effects on the world of the restoration of canon law," by d. urquhart, .) at p. , mr urquhart refers to the action taken by the fecials. i have the misfortune to differ with mr urquhart on many points, but i have pleasure in bearing testimony as above. "in every instance the declaration of war was accompanied by _religious formalities_. when the senate believed that it had cause of complaint against a nation, it sent a fecial to his frontier. there the pontiff, his head bound with a woollen veil,[ ] exposed the griefs of the romans and demanded satisfaction. if it was not granted, he went back to render an account of his mission to the senate, ... and after a delay of thirty or thirty-three days they voted a declaration of war. then the fecial returned to the frontier, and, _casting a javelin_ into the enemy's country, he pronounced the following formula--'quod populus hermundulus,' &c.... every war which had not been declared in this manner was considered as unjust, and certain to incur the displeasure of the gods. in the _course of time_ this solemn declaration was replaced by a vain formality."[ ] [ ] the very rev. dr rock ("textile fabrics," p. xii.) says--"the ancient british speciality was wool, and the postulants asking admission to the different castes, the sacerdotal, bardic, and the leeches or natural philosophers, were distinguished by _stripes_ of white [cicero (de legibus, ii. ) says, "color autem albus præcipere decorus deo est quum in cateris tum maxima in textili"], blue, and green severally on their mantles, although the bards themselves were distinguished by some one of the colours above-mentioned (_vide infra_). [the significance of this will be noted at p. .] i may further remark, parenthetically, that here is an instance of national civilisation being _pari passu_ with religious traditions. the british speciality was wool--_query_, because "of the heavy stress laid upon the rule which taught that the official colour in their dress," &c. (_id., vide ante_, chap. xii. p. .) st paul says (heb. ix. ), "for when every commandment of the lord had been read by moses to all the people, he took the blood of calves and goats, with water, and scarlet _wool_, and hyssop, and sprinkled both the book itself and all the people" (goguet, "origin of laws," ii. p. ). the spaniards in made a treaty of peace with the indians of chili; they have preserved the memory of the forms used at the ratification. it is said that the indians killed many sheep, and stained in their blood a _branch_ of the cane-tree, which the deputy of the caciques put into the hands of the spanish general in token of peace and alliance." goguet also refers to heb. ix. . [ ] de fresquet, "_droit romain_," i. . montfauçon ("l'antiquité expliquée," ii. , p. iv., p. ) says:-- "lorsqu'ils alloient parlementer, ils avoient sur la tête un voile tissu de laine,[ ] et ils étoient couronnéz de vervaine: leur office étoit d'impêcher que les romains n'entreprissent point de guerre injuste: d'aller comme legats vers les nations qui violoient les traitez, etc.... ils prenoient aussi connaissance faits au legats de _part et d'autre_. quand la paix ne se trouvoit pas faite selon les loix, ils la declaroient nulle. si les commandans avoient fait quelque chose _contre la justice et contre le droit des gens_, ils reparoient leur faute et expioient leur crime, ... à cause du violement des traites faits devant numance, dit ciceron par un décret du senat le patrapatratus livra, c. mancinus aux numantins."[ ] [ ] compare with the description of saturn, "saturnus, velato capite falcam gerens."--_fulgent. mythol._ i. c. . [ ] in the above extract from montfauçon it should have been added, that when the romans sent one of their fecials to declare war he went in sacerdotal habit--"arrivant au confins de la ville, il _appelloit_ à temoins jupiter et les autres dieux comme il alloit demander réparation de l'injure au nom des romains, il faisoit des _imprécations_ sur lui et sur la ville de rome, s'il disoit rien contre la vérité, et continuoit son chemin ... s'il rencontroient quelque citoien quelque payisan (paysan) il _repétoit toujours_ ses imprécations," &c. we must content ourselves, of course, with what evidence we may get of similar institutions elsewhere; but what strikes me as strange in the contrast of modern civilisation with barbarism, is, that whereas our advances, whether in the sense of peace and war (whenever they are formally made), are commonly understood, the corresponding demonstrations on the side of barbarism are invariably misconstrued. when, for instance, captain cook approached the shores of bolabola, he describes the following scene, which reads to me very like the account we have just been reading of the roman herald:-- "soon after a _single man_ ran along the shore armed with _his lance_, and when he came abreast of the boat he began to dance, brandish his weapon, and call out in a very _shrill tone_, which tupia [a native of an adjacent island who was on board] said was a _defiance from the people_.... as the boat rowed slowly along the shore back again, _another_ champion came down, shouting defiance, and brandishing his lance. his appearance was more formidable than that of the other, for he wore a large cap made of the tail feathers of the topia bird, and his body was covered _with stripes of different coloured cloth_, _yellow, red, and brown_.... soon after a more grave and elderly man came down to the beach, and hailing the people in the boat, inquired who they were, and from whence they came.[ ]... after a short conference they all began _to pray very loud_. tupia made his responses, but continued to tell us they were not our friends" (i. ). [ ] a somewhat similar scene is also indistinctly traced in the following:--"wood relates that on his visit to st julian in , in walking inland he 'met seven savages, who came running down the hill to us, making _several signs_ for us to go back again, with much warning and noise, yet did _not offer to_ draw their arrows. but one of them who was _an old man_ came nearer to us than the rest, and made also signs we should depart, to whom i threw a knife, a bottle of brandy, and a neckcloth, to pacify him; but seeing him persist in the _same signs as before_, and that the savageness of the people seemed incorrigible, we returned on board again.'" quoted by r. o. cunningham, "natural history of the straits of magellan and west coast of patagonia," , p. . a similar scene is described by roggerwsen in his voyage, i think, to easter island. this, in connection with the scene at bolabola, recalls the mode of procedure in the odyssey, ix. (pope), when ulysses reaches "the land of lotus and the flowering coast. we climbed the beach and springs of water found, then spread our hasty banquet on the ground. three men were sent deputed from the crew (a herald one) the dubious coast to view, and learn what habitants possessed the place. they went and found a hospitable race, not prone to ill, nor strange to foreign guest: as our dire neighbours of cyclopean birth." let this be taken in connection with the following narrative:--[ ] "the large canoes came close round the ship, some of the indians playing on a kind of flute, others singing, and the rest blowing on a sort of shells. soon after, a large canoe advanced, in which was an awning, on the top of which sat _one_ of the natives holding some _yellow_ and _red_ feathers in his hand. the captain having consented to his coming alongside, he delivered the feathers, and while a present was preparing for him, he put back from the ship, and _threw the branch_ of a cocoa-tree in the air. this was doubtless the _signal_ for an onset, for there was an instant shout from all the canoes, which, approaching the ship, threw volleys of stones into every part of her." [ ] _vide_ captain wallis' voyage, in "hist. account of all the voyages round the world," , iii. p. . here the question appears to me to be whether this act of throwing the branch, so analogous to the throwing the javelin, which was the final act in the roman declaration of war (and to which our throwing down the glove or the gauntlet has analogy), was merely the signal to themselves, or whether it was not also the _notice_ of attack to the enemy. upon this will depend whether we are to consider it a treacherous "ruse" (and the presentation of the feathers has that aspect), or whether it was their traditional mode of declaration of war, and construed to be a treacherous attack, because the gallant navigator belonged to a nation more ignorant of the laws of nations than the savages they encountered. from the very fact of their having enacted this comedy or ceremonial, it must be inferred either that they attached some superstitious importance to its performance, and expected some good effects from it to themselves, or that they thought that it would be understood by their adversaries, in which case they must implicitly have believed it to be common to all nations. in either case it is just possible that after the manner of savages, they may have confused the symbols of peace and war, and ran into one what the romans had carefully distinguished--the "caduceatores",[ ] who went to demand peace, and the "fecials," who were sent to denounce war. [ ] caduceatores--compare _supra_, p. . in connection with these latter, let us inquire more particularly as to their wand of office, the _caduceus_. "in its _oldest_ form" it "was merely a _bough_ twined round with _white wool_; afterwards a white or gilded staff with imitations of _foliage_ and _ribands_ was substituted for the old rude symbol. these were probably not turned into snakes till a much later age, when that reptile had acquired a mystic character." müller's explanation is that it was originally the _olive branch_ with the stemmata, which latter became developed into serpents.--_encyc. of arts and sciences._ if, therefore, müller's explanation is correct, the oldest form of the symbol of office of those who were the depositaries of laws of nations in the matter of peace and war, was a symbol which has a special history and significance in connection with the deluge. will this not tend to identify their institution with that epoch? it will, perhaps, be said that the branch of a tree is in any case a natural symbol of peace. but why a symbol or token at all? why more than a simple gesture of salutation? unless the symbol embodied some idea which conveyed a pledge over and above? what, then, was this idea, unless the traditional idea? it may appear to us a natural emblem, but it is not so from association of ideas with the scriptural dove and olive branch? and yet consider how universal it is. captain cook's voyages (i. p. ; london, ) says, "it is remarkable that the chief, like the people in the canoes, presented to us the same symbol of peace that is known to have been in use _among the ancient_ and mighty nations of the northern hemisphere, _the green branch of a tree_." this occurred both in new zealand and otaheite. wallis ("voyages round the world," iii. ) says that on an occasion when the otaheitans wished to testify fidelity and friendliness, "the indians cut branches from the trees and laid them in a _ceremonious_ manner at the feet of the seamen; they painted themselves _red_ with the berries of a tree, and stained their garments _yellow_ with the bark of another." we have, as we have just seen, found this symbol in the caduceus, and it appears to me that the caduceus in its earlier form of a staff with foliage and ribands, is recognisable in the gothic monuments as given in stephens' "central america." _vide_ also cunningham's "bhilsa topes." washington irving ("life of columbus," iii. ) speaks of the natives coming forward to meet them with _white flags_; and the same, if i remember rightly, is recorded in cook's visit to the sandwich islanders. the _white flag_ is our own symbol; but what is the white flag but the development and refinement of the staff and white wool? again, why are _stripes_, in a variety of combination of colour, the characteristic symbol of flags? the reader will find the answer on returning to the text, where he will also learn the significance of the red and yellow, in the above descriptions. the red and yellow colours of the feathers in the above account may afford a clue, when it is remembered (_vide_ note), that they coincide with the colour used by the otaheitans to testify fidelity and friendliness; but, to appreciate this in its full significance, it will be necessary to show how commonly the traditional symbols of peace among the ancients had reference to the diluvian traditions, more especially the dove and the rainbow. assuming for the moment that bryant is right in his derivation of the names of juno and venus from jönah (hebrew), and [greek: oinas] (greek) = dove,[ ] i ask attention to the following, in connection with the red and yellow feathers of the polynesians, and the tail feathers of the topia bird mentioned by cook (_supra_, p. ).[ ] (bryant, ii. ), "as the peacock, in the full expansion of his plumes, displays all the beautiful colours of the iris (the rainbow), it was probably for that reason made the bird of juno, instead of the dove, which was appropriated to venus. the same history was variously depicted in different places, and consequently as variously interpreted." (compare p. .) [ ] ii. p. . [ ] _vide_ also in carver's "north america" (p. ), an engraving of the indian "calumet of peace,"--the stem is of a light wood curiously painted with hieroglyphics in various colours, and adorned with the _feathers_ of the _most beautiful_ birds. it is not in my power to convey an idea of the _various tints_ and pleasing ornaments of this much-esteemed indian implement"(p. ). if this is true, if the rainbow is the symbol of peace, and the peacock is the symbol of the rainbow, will it absolutely surprise us to find feathers of various colours presented as tokens of peace? i am prepared for the reply, that bryant's etymology is now considered obsolete; but i shall fall back upon the argument which i have urged elsewhere, that in cases where tradition renders the transmission of certain words probable, there is a presumption which overrides the ordinary canons of philological criticism. philologers very properly lay down, _e.g._ mr max müller's "chapter of accidents in comparative theology," _contemp. rev._, april , p. :-- "comparative philology has taught us again and again that when we find a word exactly the same in greek and sanscrit, we may be certain that it cannot be the same word; and the same applies to comparative mythology ... for the simple reason that sanscrit and greek have deviated from each other, have both followed their own way, have both suffered their own phonetic corruptions, and hence, if they do possess the same word, they can only possess it either in its greek or in its sanscrit disguise." this is of course only upon the assumption that the languages have gone their own way, have followed their own corruptions; but if it can be shown that certain words, &c. &c., were preserved in tradition, and so guarded as not to come under the laws of deviation which philology traces out, or to come under them on different conditions, then, on the contrary, it is exceedingly probable that we should find them identical, or at least recognisable; in any case, this is a point which must be decided according to the evidences of tradition, and not according to the laws of philology. this will be better understood from a case in point. i append the evidence respecting the traditions of the dove and the rainbow--which are just the incidents which are likely to have impressed the imagination and memory of mankind.[ ] [ ] it will hardly be denied that the tradition of the rainbow as a sign and pledge to man existed among the ancients. _vide_ bryant, ii. . [the goddess iris, who was sent with the _messages_ of the gods, bore the same name as the rainbow iris.] _e.g._ homer-- "[greek: irissin eoikotes has te kroniôn en nephehi stêrixe, teras meropôn anthrôpôn].--_il._ xi. . "like to the bow which jove amid the clouds placed _as a token to desponding man_." also--il. xvii. . [greek: hêute porphyreên irin thnêtoisi tanhussê zeus ex ouranothen teras emmenai]. "just as when jove mid the high heavens displays his bow mysterious for a _lasting sign_." and the lines (theog. v. ) in hesiod, in which iris is called the daughter of wonder, who is sent over the broad surface of the sea when strife and discord arose among the immortals, and who is also called "the _great oath_ of the gods"--["this is the token of the _covenant_ between you and me, for _perpetual generations_," gen. ix. .]--who is told to bring from afar in her golden pitcher the many-named water. iris is called the daughter of thaumas (which so closely approximates to the greek [greek: thauma] = wonder, bryant says to the egyptian "thaumus"). bryant further thinks that iris and eros were originally the same term, but that in time the latter was formed into the boyish deity cupid = eros. according to some, iris was the mother of eros by zephyrus. [there were indeed three eroses, which mark three different lines of tradition, _vide_ gladstone on iris (the rainbow), "homer and the homeric age," ii. .] eros (cupid), though a boy, was supposed to have been at the commencement of all things; and lucian says, "how came you with that childish face, when we know you to be as _old as japetus_?" the union of cupid and chaos (the deluge is frequently alluded to as chaos, _vide_ bryant) "gave birth to men and all the animals." hesiod makes eros the first to appear after chaos. "at this season (deluge) another era began; the earth was supposed to be renewed, and time to return to a second infancy. they therefore formed an emblem of a child with a rainbow, to denote this renovation of the world, and called him eros, or divine love," ... "yet esteemed the most ancient among the gods."--bryant, ii. . (cupid is represented with a bow, as is also apollo and diana, which was an allusion to the supposed resemblance of the bow and the rain_bow_.) probably from his connection with iris, he is represented as breaking the thunderbolts of jupiter, and riding on _dolphins_ and subduing other monsters of the sea. smith ("myth. dict.") says iris is derived from [greek: erô eirô], "so that iris would mean the speaker or messenger," ... "but it is not impossible that it may be connected with [greek: eirô], 'i join,' whence [greek: eirênê]; so that iris, the goddess of the rainbow, would be the joiner, or conciliator, or the messenger of heaven, who restores peace in nature," it appears to me more likely that [greek: eirênê] = _peace_ (derivation uncertain--liddell and scott) was derived directly from iris, in accordance with the tradition, and that the greek word for wool, [greek: eiros], was cognate to [greek: eirênê], from being an emblem of peace (_e.g._ the pontiff's caduceator, woollen veil). in the same way, if we do not actually find the rainbow as the token of the herald or caduceator, may we not discover it conversely in the circumstance that _iris_ is represented as carrying in her hand a _herald's_ staff? it is curious that we actually find, what i may call the sister emblem, viz. the dove, used by the ancients, though just as we find, if i am right in the conjecture, the rainbow among the polynesians, used in a perverted way as an ensign of war. it was possibly in superstitious remembrance of the tradition which we find more directly among the ancient aryans and the peruvians (p. - ), that war ought only to be made with a disposition towards peace; and that they thought to place themselves under the sanction of heaven by carrying this emblem as their ensign of war. such, however, was the fact. bryant (ii. ) says:--"the dove became a favourite hieroglyphic among the babylonians and chaldees.... in respect to the babylonians, it seems to have been taken by them for their national ensign, and to have been depicted on their military standard when they went to war. they seem likewise to have been styled iönim, or the children of _the dove_;" and they are thus alluded to by the prophet jeremiah, ch. xxv. ver. (_id._) bryant says (ii. ), "the name of the dove among the ancient amonians (by which term he intends the descendants of chus) was iön and iönah; sometimes expressed iönas, from whence came the [greek: oinas] of the greeks." i should rather put it that we find the word for the dove common to the hebrew and the greek (iönah, hebrew; [greek: oivas], greek), and, as bryant seems to imply, among other nations also--_e.g._ the babylonians--which is precisely what we should have expected. but if this identity is allowed, we must proceed with bryant to see in juno, venus, and diana, simply embodiments of the tradition of the dove. bryant says that "juno is the same as iöna," and although, as we have seen, the peacock is said to be her bird (with reference to the other symbol, the rainbow), and although ovid (bryant, ) sends her to heaven accompanied by iris (rainbow), yet in the plate (from gruter) p. , she will be seen with a dove on her wand, and a pomegranate, as symbol of the ark (_vide_ p. ), in her hand. bryant, moreover ( ), considers juno to be identical with venus. there was a statue in laconia called venus-junonia. of dione and venus bryant says (ii. ):--"i have mentioned that the name diona was properly ad, or ada, iöna. hence came the term idione; which idione was an object of idolatry as early as the days of moses. but there was a similar personage named deione.... this was a compound of de iöne, the dove; and venus dionoea may sometimes have been formed in the same manner.... dionusus was likewise called thyomus." _vide_ also bryant, pp. , . in genesis viii. , the dove returned to the ark, not having found "where her foot might rest." "in the hieroglyphical sculptures and paintings where this history was represented, the dove could not well be depicted otherwise than as hovering over the face of the deep. hence it is that venus or dione is said to have risen from the sea. hence it is, also, that she is said to preside over waters; to appease the troubled ocean; and to cause by her presence an universal calm; that to her were owing [on the retiring of the waters] the fruits of the earth.... she was the oenas ('[greek: oinas]') of the greeks; whence came the venus of the latins." the address of lucretius to this deity concludes with two lines of remarkable significance-- "te dea, te fugiunt venti; te nubila coeli adventumque tuum; tibi rident æquora ponti; _pacatumque_ nitet diffuso lumine _coelum_." "in sicily, upon mount eryx, was a celebrated temple of this goddess, which is taken notice of by cicero and other writers. doves were here held as sacred as they were in palestine or syria [_vide_ also in cashmere, p. ]. it is remarkable that there were two days of the year set apart in this place for festivals, called [greek: anagôgia] and [greek: katagôgia], at which time venus was supposed to _depart over the sea_, and after a season to return. there were _also sacred pigeons_, which then took their flight from the island; but one of them was observed on the ninth day to come back from the sea, and to fly to the shrine of the goddess. this was upon the festival of [greek: anagôgia]. upon this day it is said that there were great rejoicings. on what account can we imagine this veneration for the bird to be kept up, ... but for a memorial of the dove sent out of the ark, and of its return from the deep to noah? the history is recorded upon the ancient coins of eryx; which have on one side the head of _janus_ bifrons, and on the other the sacred dove."--bryant, ii. . mr cox's ("mythology," ii. ch. ii. sec. vii.) counter-explanation, if i rightly gather it, is that "on aphroditê (venus), the child of _the froth or foam of the sea_, was lavished all the wealth of words denoting the loveliness of the morning; and thus the hesiodic poet goes on at once to say that the grass sprung up under her feet as she moved, that eros, love, walked by her side, and himeros, longing, followed after her." "this is but saying, in other words, that the morning, the child of the heavens, springs up _first from_ the sea, as athene is born by the water-side." but why should the morning spring first from the sea?--more particularly when the effects of her rising is noted in the springing up of flowers on the land? if the rainbow, we see the reason in her connection with the deluge, and her connection with the subsequent renovation of nature. mr cox also says (p. ):--"in her brilliant beauty she is argunî, a name which appears again in that of arguna, the companion of krishna and the hellenic argynius." does not this complete the chain of her connection with juno? mr cox (p. ) says:--"the latin venus is, in strictness of speech, a mere name, to which any epithet might be attached according to the conveniences or the needs of the worshipper.... the name itself has been, it would seem, with good reason, connected with the sanscrit root 'van,' to desire love or favour,"--a derivation which equally accords with bryant's view. then there is the striking connection of venus with dionusos (_vide_ p. ). mr cox (p. ) says, "the myth of adonis links the legends of aphrodite (venus) with those _of dionusos_. like the theban _wine_-god adonis, born only on the death of his mother; and the two myths are, in one version, _so far the same_ that _dionysos_, like adonis, is placed _in a chest_, which, being _cast into the sea_, is carried to brasiæ, where the body of his mother is buried." (comp. kabiri, bunsen.) mr cox connects athene with aphrodite (venus) (p. ). therefore we must ask him to reconsider his explanation of "the athenian maidens embroidering the sacred peplos for _the ship_ presented to athêne at the great dionysiac festival." compare evidence, _supra_, in chap. on boulanger, &c.; catlin. the digression we have just made involves some risk of distracting attention from the point it was intended to enforce--viz. the traditionary character of the mode, and, by implication, the traditionary recognition of the obligation, of the declaration of war. we have already seen in ozanam (_supra_, p. ) indications of the probability of similar traditions among the primitive tribes of germany. will it clench the argument if we find romans and gauls on a common understanding in these matters, when brought for the first time into contact since their original separation?-- "the great misfortunes which befel the city from the gauls, are said to have proceeded from the violation of these sacred rites. for when the barbarians were besieging clusium, fabius ambustus was sent ambassador to their camp with proposals of peace, in favour of the besieged. but receiving a harsh answer, he thought himself released from his character of ambassador, and rashly taking up arms for the clusians, challenged the bravest man in the gaulish army. he proved victorious, ... but the gauls having discovered who he was, sent _a herald_ to rome to accuse fabius of bearing arms against them, contrary to _treaties and good faith_, and _without a declaration of war_. upon this the feciales exhorted the senate to deliver him up to the gauls, but he appealed to the people, and, being a favourite with them, was screened from the sentence. soon after this, the gauls marched to rome, and sacked the whole city except the capitol, as we have related at large in the life of camillus."--_plutarch's numa._ i venture further to think that the traditionary modes of the declaration of war may be detected among the gauls in cæsar's time, in the manner of their challenge. _e.g._ it so came about that cæsar wished to draw the enemy (the nervii) to his side of the valley and to engage them at a disadvantage before his camp. to this end he simulated fear. "our men meanwhile retiring from the rampart, they approached still nearer, _cast their darts_ on all sides within the trenches and _sent heralds_ round the camp to proclaim," &c. (duncan's cæsar, b. v. xlii.) we will now turn to the greek tradition. i quote from an old author who has examined the matter more fully than i find it treated elsewhere. rous. ("archæologiæ atticæ," lib. , s. , civ.) says:--"as careful and cunning as they were in warlike affairs, i cannot find but that they did 'propere signi quæ piget inchoare,' bear a great affection to _peace_; as may appear in their honourable receiving of ambassadors, to whom they gave hearing in no worse place than a _temple_.... the usual ensign carried by greek ambassadours was [greek: kêrykeon], _caduceus_,[ ] a right _staff of wood_ with snakes twisted about it and looking one another in the face.... if the peace could not be kept, but they must needs have war, yet they would be sure to give warning and fair play, and make proclamations of their intentions before they marcht. the manner in proclaiming war was to send a fellow of purpose _either to cast a spear_ or let loose _a lamb_ into the borders of the country, or into the city itself whither they were marching (which hesychius rather thinks to have been the signal before a battel), thereby showing them, that what was then a habitation for men, should shortly be a pasture for sheep."[ ] i should rather have thought that it had analogy with the jewish scapegoat; but, whatever the idea, it was apparently symbolled and commemorated in the _woollen_ veil prescribed to the roman pontiff in the declaration of war. it would seem, however, that the signal for battle (chap. v.) was "instead of sounding a trumpet, they had fellows whom they called [greek: pyrphorous], that went before with torches, and throwing them down in the midst between the two armies, gave the sign.... now, this business they might do safely and without any danger, ... for the torch-bearers were peculiarly protected by mars, and accounted sacred."[ ] [ ] _vide ante_, . that the entwined snakes were of late date would appear, i think, from the allusions to the suppliants' wands in Æschylus, _e.g._ (_vide_ plumtre's Æschylus, "libation pourers," v. ) when orestes puts on the suppliants wreaths, and takes the olive branch in his hand-- "the branch of _olive_ from the topmost growth, with amplest tufts of _white wool_ meetly wreathed." and in the supplicants ( )-- "holding in one hand the branches suppliant, wreathed with _white wool_ fillets." [ ] also, "joannis meursii themis athica, sive de legibus alticis," i. xi. says, "postquam vero exercitus eductus esset pugnam inire, non _licebat antiquam_ emissum agmen hostium quis, hunc _expectans accepisset_." [ ] this has something in common with the fiery cross sent round by the highlanders as the summons to war. in another aspect it has resemblances with the indian mode of declaration of war. "the manner in which the indians declare war against each other is by sending a slave with a hatchet, the handle of which is painted _red_, to the nation which they intend to break with; and the messenger, notwithstanding the danger to which he is exposed from the sudden fury of those whom he thus sets at defiance, executes his commission with great fidelity."--_carver's "travels in north america,"_ p. . the sense of national responsibility in war, and the reluctance of kings to involve themselves without the consent of their people would appear from oeschylos' "supplicants" (v. , ). i have referred (p. ) to the peruvian traditions of manco capac's laws of war, and that "in every stage of the war the peruvian was open to propositions for peace." from the hindoo tradition, apparently, manu's code was conceived in an identical spirit. (_vide_ "hist. of india," "the hindu and mahometan periods," by the hon. mountstuart elphinstone; murray, , ch. ii. p. .) "the laws of war (manu's code) are honourable and humane. poisoned arrows and mischievously barbed arrows and fire arrows are all prohibited." [dr hooker, in his "himalayan journal," mentions a similar tradition among the limboos, i think, or lepchas.[ ]] "there are many situations in which it is by no means allowable to destroy the enemy. among those who must always be spared are unarmed or wounded men, and those who have broken their weapons, and one who says, 'i am thy captive.' other prohibitions are still more generous.... the settlement of a conquered country is conducted on equally liberal principles. immediate security is to be assured to all by proclamation. the religion and laws of the country are to be maintained and respected." and i have fancied (_vide_ ) that the recognition at least of such a tradition, if it be only the "homage which vice pays to virtue," is to be read in the devices carried by the babylonians.[ ] [ ] that there may be limitations to the horrors of war, seems to be established by the instance of the prohibition of explosive bullets. i read in the _times_ (march , ):--"the _british medical journal_ declares its opinion that the charges which have been put forward of _explosive bullets_ having been used by the contending armies have been groundless; and is inclined to believe that the _articles of the st petersburg convention_ have been _faithfully adhered to_, notwithstanding the mutual recriminations to the contrary by both french and german governments." [ ] indirect evidence of the importance formerly attached to the declaration of war may, i think, be discovered in the formal addresses and invocations of the gods by the homeric heroes previous to combat, which to us seem so forced and unnatural; and the same sentiment was noticed by the spaniards, when they first came over, among the peruvians, who did not neglect the punctilio of the declaration of war even in their most high-handed aggressions, _e.g_. garcilasso de la vega (hakluyt soc. ed. ii. ) says--"the invaders sent _the usual summons_ that the people might not be able to allege afterwards that they had been taken unawares." there was, moreover, a law at athens which forbade them to declare war until after a deliberation of three days--"bellum vero antequam decerneretur, triduo deliberare lex jubebat" (apsines, marcell. in hermog. ap. j. meursii them. att., l. i. c. xi.); and we have seen that the senate at rome postponed the declaration of war for thirty days. i cannot help thinking, though it is the merest surmise, that it is in the dim recollection of some such tradition that we must account for the meaningless and superstitious delays which we occasionally read of in the warfare of barbarous nations; _e.g_. cæsar (de bello gallico, i. xl. c.) had drawn up his troops and offered the enemy battle, but ariovistus thought proper to sound a retreat. "cæsar inquiring of the prisoners why ariovistus so obstinately refused an engagement, found that it was the custom among the germans for _the women_ to decide by lots and divination when it was proper to decide a battle; and that these had declared the army would not be victorious if they fought _before the new moon_."[ ] [there was also a law at athens that it was not lawful to lead forth an army before the seventh day of the month. "vetitum athenis erat, exercitum educere ante diem septimum."] j. muersii, _id._ [ ] carver ("travels in north america," p. ) says of the indians--"sometimes private chiefs make excursions.... these irregular sallies, however, are not always approved of by the elder chiefs, though they are often obliged to connive at them.... but when war is national, and undertaken by the community, their deliberations are formal and slow. the elders assemble in council, to which all the head warriors and young men are admitted, when they deliver their opinions in solemn speeches; weighing with maturity the nature of the enterprise they are about to engage in, and balancing with great sagacity the advantages or inconveniences that will arise from it. their priests are also consulted on the subject, and even sometimes the advice of the most intelligent of _their women_ is asked. if the determination be for war they prepare for it with much ceremony." i have discussed the ancient mode of declaration of war at some length as an instance of tradition. there are some, i am afraid, to whom the discussion will appear ineffably trifling; and i may even be misconstrued to say that everything would be set right in europe, if only a herald were sent in proper form to declare war. there are men of a certain cast of mind to whom forms are repugnant; there are others to whom they are unintelligible. it has been observed, however, that the rejection of forms is one thing, the neglect of them another. the rejection of forms may be, on some principle, good, though misapplied, often does unconscious homage when it means to spurn, and may be compensated for in other ways. the neglect of them is simply evidence of laxity. cromwell perfectly well knew the divinity which attached to forms when he said, "take away that bauble;" and, on the other hand, no one better than he would have judged the state of an army (not his own) in which he was told that it was the custom of soldiers not to salute their officers. the declaration of war without any solemnity, still more the commencement of hostilities without any declaration at all,[ ] seems to me closely analogous--as a sign of disorganisation--to the absence of any form of salute at a parade. i am far from contending that old forms, when they have become obsolete, can be resuscitated; but i do contend for the resuscitation of ancient maxims and ideas. in any age fully imbued with the responsibility of war, in which it was considered unseemly to declare it until after a three days' deliberation in solemn conclave, and which even then protracted the declaration till the seventh or the thirtieth day, would it have been possible for two great nations to have gone to war because there had been "a breach of etiquette," if indeed there was a breach of etiquette, "at a german watering-place?"[ ] allowing that this was merely the ostensible pretext, and that the real grounds remained behind--if these long deliberations had been necessarily interposed, would there not have been a thousand chances in favour of such a european intervention as saved the peace of europe three years before in the affair of luxembourg? yet, so far as we know at present, the following is the history of the commencement of the most horrible, the most destructive, and the most barbarous war[ ] of modern times. [ ] "in ancient times war was solemnly declared either by certain fixed ceremonies or by the announcement of heralds; and a war commenced without such declaration was regarded as informal and irregular, and contrary to the usages of nations. grotius says that a declaration of war is not necessary by the law of nations--"naturali jure nulla requiritur declaratio," but _that it was required by the law of nations, jure gentium_, by which term, be it remembered, he means the usages of nations. and in this he was right, as until the age in which he lived wars were almost invariably preceded by solemn declarations. the romans, according to albericus gentilis, did not grant a triumph for any war which had been commenced without a formal declaration (de jure belli, c. ii. § i.); but the greeks do not seem to have been at all regular in the observance of the custom (bynkershock, quæs. jur. pub., l. i. c. ii.) during the times of chivalry declarations of war were usually given with great formality, the habits of knighthood being carried into the customs of general warfare, and it being held mean to fall upon an adversary when unprepared to defend himself (ward, introd. ii. - ). with the decline of chivalry this custom fell into disuse. gustavus adolphus invaded germany without any declaration of war (zouch, de judicio inter gentes, p. ii. § x. ); but this appears to have been _an exception_ to the usages of the age, and clarendon speaks of declarations of war as being customary in his time, and blames the war in which the duke of buckingham went to france, as entered into 'without so much as the formality of a declaration from the king, containing the ground and provocation and end of it, according to custom and obligation in the like cases.' formal denunciations of war _by heralds_ were discontinued about the time of grotius; the last instance having been, according to voltaire, when louis xiii. sent a herald to brussels to declare war against spain in ."--_w. oke manning's commentaries on law of nations._ [ ] "looking back on the history of the autumn ... we may yet be impressed by the conviction that, had the union of the _european family of nations_ been strengthened as it might have been before the war broke out, it might never have been begun, or would have long since terminated. the treaty of paris put on record a declaration in favour of arbitration, but it proved to be worthless when sought to be applied."--_times_, feb. , . i shall have a word to say presently on the declaration of the treaty of paris. [ ] it must not be forgotten, however, that it was the revolution in paris which gave this war its abnormal character, and created situations for which the law of nations had no precedents, or precedents only which were of doubtful application. "a private letter from paris relates that the duc de grammont, who has taken to spend his evenings at the jockey club, was lately asked there, 'how he came to blunder into such a fatal war?'[ ] he replied, 'i asked the minister of war, leboeuf, if he was ready, and he answered, "ready! ay, and doubly ready;" _otherwise_,' added the duc, 'i should have taken care not _to have counselled_ a war which there _were twenty modes of averting_.'"--_times_, sept. , .[ ] [ ] compare _infra_, p. . [ ] compare with the following account of the declaration of war by m. f. de champagny, de l'acad. fr., in the _correspondant_, juin :--"a government wrongly inspired proposed to us a war. without asking it why it wished to make it, without asking if it could make it, without reflection, without discussion, without listening to the men of name and experience, who implored of us _at least twenty-four hours for reflection_, we accepted this war, i do not say with enthusiasm, but with frivolous levity, not as crusaders, but as children. it seemed to us sufficient to tipple in the 'cafés,' singing the 'marseillaise,' to intoxicate the soldiers, to throw squibs into what were then called sensational journals, to cry 'à berlin!' in order to go right off to berlin. and when it was discovered that we were not going on at all to berlin, but that berlin was coming to paris, that this enthusiasm of the 'café' did not cause armies to spring into life, what was our resource? always the same: to overthrow a government!" the extent of the disorganisation and the laxity into which we have fallen, appears perhaps as strikingly as in any anything else in the frequency of the complaints of the little regard paid to "parlémentaires" and officers bearing flags of truce. but what startles us more than all is the light manner in which this transgression of the law of nations is referred to even by the parties aggrieved. i will here place two extracts which i have made in juxtaposition:-- carver ("travels in north america," p. ) says, that when a deputation sets out together for their enemy's country with propositions of peace, "they bear before them the pipe of peace, which, i need not inform my readers, is of the same nature _as a flag of truce_ among the europeans, and is treated with the greatest respect and veneration _even by the most barbarous_ nations. _i never heard of an instance_ wherein the _bearers of this sacred_ badge of friendship were ever treated disrespectfully, or its rights violated. the indians believe that the great spirit _never suffers an infraction_ of this kind to go unpunished." count chandordy, in his reply to count bismarck, dated bordeaux, jan. , , says:--"count bismarck reproaches the french armies with having _fired on parlémentaires_." an accusation of this nature had already been brought to the knowledge of the paris government, and we may quote the following words of m. jules favre in his circular of th january--"i have the satisfaction to acquaint your excellency that the governor of paris has hastened to order an inquiry into the facts alleged by count bismarck, and in announcing this to him he has brought _much more numerous facts_ of the same nature to his own cognizance which are imputed to prussian sentinels, but _which he never would have allowed to interrupt ordinary relations_." i do not know whether this contrast between barbarism, such as it existed in the last century, and modern civilisation, will astonish those partisans of success whom in truth nothing in all the multiform atrocities of this dreadful war seems to have astonished or shocked, so that it was at times almost ludicrous to hear these _introuvables_ declare such things as the bombardment of hospitals and churches, as at strasburg and paris, quite right, which even the german commanders, when the matter was brought to their attention, admitted to be wrong. this perhaps is the worst symptom of corruption we have yet seen, and yet there was a time, and that quite recent, when a different sentiment prevailed. i have just referred[ ] to the declaration in the treaty of paris, which thought to inaugurate a new era by bringing all causes of conflict in europe to a settlement of arbitration. but let no one be discouraged or cease to believe in the possibility of such a consummation because of the result. there never was a stronger instance of the intellect of the world vainly striving to create an international code and system for itself which was to be distinct from the law of nations; for at the same moment that the diplomatists who were collected in paris set to work upon their tower, which was to erect itself above the waters of any future inundation, they one and all agreed to demolish, and as a first step to pull down, the cornerstone from the temple of the past. how this was brought about will best be told in an extract from the count de montalembert's "pie ix. et la france en et ," p. :-- "let us go back to the origin of the evil, ... it dates back more especially from the congress of paris in , from that diplomatic reunion which, after having solemnly declared that none of the contracting powers _had the right to interfere either collectively or individually in the relations of a sovereign with his subjects_ (protocol of th march), after having proclaimed the principle of the absolute independence of the sovereigns, for the benefit of the turkish sultan against his christian subjects, thought it within its competency, in its protocol of the th of april, and in the absence of any representative of the august accused, to proclaim that the situation of the pontifical states was 'abnormal' and 'irregular.' this accusation developed and exaggerated at the tribune, and elsewhere by lord palmerston and count cavour, was equally formulated under the presidency and upon the initiative of the minister of foreign affairs in france, and it is consequently france which must bear the principal responsibility before the church and europe. we can recall the grief and surprise which this strange proceeding created in the catholic world." [ ] _vide_ note , p. . thus was the game set rolling; and the policy thus indicated was pursued with the eager and unrelenting pertinacity of some, and with the tacit approval of the rest of the co-signatories. the war declared by france against austria, which was the precipitating cause of the storm which broke upon the papal states, can, it is true, only be regarded as evidence of the conspiracy--inasmuch as it was declared by one of the conspirators at the instigation of another, whose ultimate aim was the seizure of the states of the church and of the other independent italian sovereignties to the profit of piedmont. so soon as the victory of the french arms was decided, the emperor's proclamation from milan appeared, inciting the populations to insurrection. all then followed in sequence--the revolt of the romagnas four days after the milan manifesto, their annexation along with the other independent states of central italy by piedmont, this annexation being effected with the connivance, if not the consent, of france, and for which payment was eventually made in the cession of nice and savoy (all this being in contravention of the treaties of villafranca and zurich). but what mattered the contravention of treaties in comparison with the scenes which followed? the programme of the congress, or, if that is denied, the programme of two (if not three, for it is difficult to acquit lord palmerston and lord john russell of participation by consent) of the powers who had entered into the conspiracy against european order, and these, at that time, the powers in the highest state of military efficiency, was to be carried out _per fas et nefas_. naples and the patrimony of st peter had to be secured, and as they morally presented no vulnerable side, they were seized by the hand of the marauder in defiance of "all law, human and divine."[ ] garibaldi's descent on sicily, effected under the cover of the english navy, was simply a brusque and flagrant act of piracy, for which no plea of justification has ever been set up. the usurpation of the papal states, though not less ruthlessly accomplished in the end, was carried through with more regard to form in its preliminary stages; yet at the last the diplomatic mask was torn off, and the invasion was made without any pretext or justification known to the law of nations, and without even a declaration of war. [ ] these were the words which the marquis of bath had the courage to use in the house of lords when everybody else was joining in a ludicrous "dirge of homage" to cavour. i wish to put this protest, as well as the similar protests of the marquis of normanby and the earl of donoughmore on record, as there may come a time when england will be glad to recur to them. here, again, the imperial diplomacy and italian intrigue went hand in hand. lamoriciere, in reliance upon the honour of france, had made _all his dispositions against garibaldi_, and had received a letter from the french ambassador as late as the th september (bearing the same date as the so-called ultimatum of cavour, although the piedmontese troops had crossed the frontier before it was delivered), which i shall here reproduce, seeing that it is not on record in the _annuaire des deux mondes_ ( )--"i inform you by the emperor's orders that the piedmontese _will not_ enter the roman states, and that , french are about to occupy the different places of those states. make, then, all your dispositions against garibaldi.--le duc de grammont."[ ] (this letter was dated september , , the battle of castelgidardo was fought on the th september .) it is needless to add that no reinforcements from france appeared, and that the assurance served no other purpose than to mislead, and to throw lamoriciere off his guard. indeed, in spite of various protestations and the subsequent withdrawal of the french ambassador from turin, the catholic world settled down into the belief, not only that the emperor of the french had never had the intention of sending troops to the rescue, but that the whole scheme of the invasion had been deliberately devised at the ominous interview which took place on the th of august previous, between the emperor, farini, and general cialdini. it was even said that the words used by the emperor on the occasion transpired, "frappez fort et frappez vite,"--a terse and striking phrase, which will fitly perpetuate in the human memory the most flagrant violation of the law of nations which history affords.[ ] [ ] _vide_ "current events," in _rambler_, . [ ] "does the faith of treaties, the right of treaties, still exist? look at what has happened in europe during the last twenty years. the treaties made with the church were the first violated; they have declared that a 'concordat' is nothing more than a law of the state, which the state can alter at will--in other words, that, unlike all other contracts, conventions of this nature, inviolable for one of the parties, can be broken by the other at its pleasure; kings have thus put the church outside the law of nations. but, in consequence, they have excluded themselves. when the most sacred of all treaties were thus trampled upon, how would they have the others respected? they have even written, or caused to be written, on a solemn occasion ('napoleon iii. et l'italie, ') that treaties no longer bind when the general sentiment declares against them; in other terms, when they displease us. at this epoch, in , we were disputing with austria a possession which all treaties had guaranteed to her, and the neutral signatories of these treaties did not protest. victorious over austria, we have in our turn made a treaty with her; and this treaty was violated when scarcely signed; and neither we nor the rest of europe protested. later on, the dissensions between germany and denmark ended in a treaty, which the rest of europe guaranteed; but soon germany broke this treaty by force of arms, and europe did not say a word. i omit here the convention of september, ... the treaty of . on all these occasions the indifference of third parties has come to the aid of the cupidity of the aggressors; and the moral sense has been so far wanting in the cabinets that they have assisted and applauded acts of brigandage for the love of the art, and without even thinking that the brigand, when he grew strong, would fall on the morrow on themselves. will you find in european history twelve years so fruitful in pledges and perjuries?" all this was done with the undisguised satisfaction of several veteran english statesmen, who were, moreover, directly or indirectly represented at the same congress which sought to bind the european powers to call in the arbitration of a friendly power, in case of disagreement, before making an appeal to arms. now there is no reason why this rule, good in itself, and congruous to the spirit and maxims of the law of nations, should not have been embodied as a fundamental article in the code; for the law of nations is not a dead-letter, but, like everything that is of tradition, easily lending itself to adaptation and development according to the changing circumstances of the world. can we be surprised that this principle, good and according to reason, but which nevertheless presupposes certain sentiments in the world in correspondence with it, should in the actual circumstances have been barren of results? is it wonderful that it should have miscarried in the hands of men who were parties to the invasion, without even the form of a declaration of war, of the state predestined by divine providence to be the cornerstone of christendom? would it have been befitting that this beneficent arrangement should have been destined to be the work of men who, either by participation or as accessories after the fact, had set their hands to a deed which shocked every principle of morality, and made the very notion of public law in europe ridiculous? the early commencements of this policy cannot be studied at a more appropriate moment than now, when we are witnessing its _denouement_. what has been the result to france of its italian policy? to austria? to england? to europe? has any power prospered that had a hand in setting the ball rolling, or, for that matter, any power that had the responsibility of staying the parricidal hand, and held back? if austria, the first victim, had firmly and strenuously resisted the early instigations of evil, would she ever, according to human calculations, have had to fight at magenta and solferino? and, in another way, was there not something dramatic in the sudden reverse and displacement of count buol, who had been the austrian representative at the congress, immediately after he had hurled the fatal _ultimatum_? the retort will be triumphant. did not france, the great culprit of all, who both cast its own responsibility to the winds and sowed the hurricane, conquer at solferino? truly she did; but _respice finem_, or rather, we may say, we have lived to see the end. did not solferino, after some ten years of delusive prosperity, lead up to sedan? of england i do not wish to say more than that since that date she has unaccountably fallen in the esteem of men; has, in her turn, met with injustice, and no longer maintains the same relative position which she held during the fifty years preceding the congress. everything, in fine, since that date, seems to have gone in favour of that european power which remained in the background, and which, if it did no good act at the congress, at least had the worldly wisdom to fold its arms and refrain from sacrilege. yes, prussia has had her victory; but by all accounts there never was a victory which has made a nation so sad and mournful, and which was greeted with fewer manifestations of joy. it was peace rather than victory which was welcomed home. here, too, we seem to see the subtle and nicely-measured retaliation. again, was there no significance in the unlooked-for disasters at forbach and woerth, occurring coincidently with the final abandonment of rome by france? these are things which strike the eye, but which are difficult of demonstration, and it would appear a hopeless errand to convince a generation which has witnessed the burning of paris, if not without emotion, at any rate without serious reflection, and, in spite of manifest prediction, has refused to see in it "the finger of retribution and the hand of god." and yet belief in this retribution of heaven is at the foundation of the law of nations. previously to the astounding experiences of the recent war, during those years so fruitful "in pledges and perjuries," it was a common phrase, and most frequently used with reference to france, that war was no longer an affair of divine providence, but that providence was always on the side of the big battalions. with one word as to the significance of this phrase, which is tantamount to a negation of the law of nations, i shall conclude. it may certainly happen, that in a contest one party may be consciously hypocrite, whilst the other is conscious of its rectitude; but presumedly, and until the contrary is manifested, both parties must be supposed to believe themselves in the right, and to run the tilt like knights in the mediæval tournament. nevertheless, as dr johnson said, there are arguments for a "plenum" and for a "vacuum," but one conclusion only can be true; and in some way in every conflict, which is true and which is just is known only to the inscrutable judgment of the most high. we do not know all the secrets of courts, neither could we exactly determine the point if we had before us all the deliberations of councils, it is sufficient for us to know that victory is not always on the side of the big battalions, as witness, _inter alia_, marathon, morgarten, bannockburn, lepanto, mentana. will any englishman maintain the proposition that victory is always on the side of the big battalions? then, beginning with cressy and poictiers, and following marlborough through the fields of blenheim, ramilies, and malplaquet, and the duke of wellington through the peninsular war, we must renounce that which gives "the _éclat_ to all our victories." doubtless, then, the quality of troops will in some instances weigh far more than numbers. you allow it? we now introduce an element of great uncertainty, and about which there will always be much dispute, and moreover it will always be a matter concerning which religion and morality will have much to say. it is no longer an affair of big battalions, it is no longer reduced to a matter of calculation, on which side the victory is to be. let me further remark, that whilst there is one set of writers who will be ready to say that providence is on the side of the big battalions, there is another set of writers, and these the men who are more conversant with the details, who will with great acuteness undertake to prove to you that it is so much an affair of providence that in each case the victory was scarcely a victory, and only such because some casualty on the other side intervened to convert what would otherwise have been a victory into a defeat. it is unfortunately true that this latter class of historians and strategists do not, as a rule, trace in the turn of events the retribution of providence. still, the presumption will always be that victory favours the righteous cause, although it may be only _pro hac vice_, and ultimate success may not crown the career of the victorious nation, because its virtues may not have merited more than a signal and single success;--or it may even be that its merits may be of a kind such as to gain it a reward which transcends the rewards of earthly victory; or, again, the career of victory must be explained and measured by the depths of the final catastrophe and discomfiture. in any case, it is a great thing for a nation to have won a victory in a rightful cause. the reward of virtue remains and gladdens the heart in the day of disaster and distress. whatever may chance to us, there will always lie in store for us the consolation of reading the history of the battle of waterloo; not, let us say, as the victory of one nation over another nation, but as the great and final triumph of a righteous over an unrighteous cause, gained by england. it is, thank god! impossible alike for the conqueror and the revolutionary multitude to destroy the past. index. aboriginal races, their mysterious origin, . acton, lord, . adam, supposed identity with prometheus and hercules, , ; with fohi, , ; meaning of the word, ; correspondence of, with chaldæan god, ana, . adams, mr arthur, . adaptability of law of nations, . adonis and venus, myths of, , . adrastus, the legend of, . Æneid, the, of virgil quoted, . Æschylus, the "supplicants" of, quoted, . africa, commemorative ceremonies of deluge, , ; captain burton's account of, ; compared with catlin's narrative, - . _see also_ deluge, commemorative festivals. africanus, . age of bronze, the, , ; commencement of, . age, the golden, ; theory of and commencement, ; tradition of, . age, the iron, . agnatic relationship, , , . algonquins, the, . allies, mr, on divergence between religion and philosophy, . america, the mozca indians of, ; diluvian traditions in, ; the "o-kee-pa" of the mandans, , ; catlin's account of ceremonies, - ; the peruvian deity, ; peruvian worship, . _see also_ deluge, commemorative festivals. america, the discovery of, a proof of tradition, . american continent, source of peoples of, - . american indians, the legend of michabo among the, , ; tradition of fire among, . amida or adima, the japanese god, . amphictyonic council and league, - . ana, a chaldæan god, ; traditional identity of with adam, ; a reduplication of enu or enoch, . ancestors, worship of, , . ancient society, the unit of, . andamans, the, , . andriossy's hypothesis regarding overflow of the nile, . anthisteries, the, . antiquity of man, . apollo, . apotheosis of nimrod, . arab and iroquois, exceptional instances of human progress, . arba-lisun, the, or four tongues, . arbitration instead of war, . areopagus, a cosmopolitic, . argos, feast of the deluge at, . argyll, duke of, on tradition, , ; on capability of savage races, . arrival and conflict of different races in india, - . aryan nations in india, their struggle with the santals, ; their dialect, ; mr tylor on, ; one of the primitive races, ; probable identity with japhetic race, ; their colour, ; their mythology, . ash, the, tradition regarding, , . assemblies of greece, the, . assyrian history, corroboration of, . assyrian mythology, ; deities of, ; il or ra, ; l'abbe gainet on, ; ana, ; bil or enu, ; hea or hoa, ; nebo, . asteropoeus, . astral religion, . astronomical cycle of china, . athens, the hydrophoria at, . atlantis, the, of plato an embodiment of tradition, . autochthones, or earth-born, . avocations of primitive life--hunter, husbandman, and shepherd, . babylonian chronology, , ; hales on, . bacchus, connection of, with saturnalia, ; reduplications of, , . baldr, the legend of, localised and individualised, ; in the scandinavian edda, ; paralleled with an account of the fall, . ballad, welsh, quoted, . basis of international law, . basis of theory of golden age, . baskets of water, the, parallel accounts of by burton and catlin, . bastian, m.a., on human progress, . bath, the marquis of, . bel nipru or nimrod, . belligerent rights, , . belus, the god, ; identity of with nimrod, . bentham, on international law, , ; his peculiar crotchet, "utility," ; on public opinion, ; the "greatest happiness" principle, ; criticism on blackstone's views of primitive life, . benthamism tested by darwinism, . berosus' account of hoa, . bertrand, m., legend concerning the man-bull, . "bhilsa tope," the, . bifrons, a name applied to several gods, . big battalions, , . big canoe, the, parallel accounts of, by burton and catlin, ; correspondence of to the canopied boat of egyptians, . bil or enu, a chaldæan deity, . blackness of complexion, the result of the curse of canaan, ; associated with evil, ; traditions regarding, , ; a mark of inferiority, ; how used by satirists, ; operation as a curse, , . blackstone on primitive life and a state of nature, . boat, philology of the word, . bochica, . bolabola, declaration of war at, , . bonzies, the, . book of genesis, the, . book of sothis, . bougainville on divinities of the tahitians, . boulanger, m., quoted, ; on diluvian tradition, , , , ; on the golden age, , . brace, mr, his "ethnology," quoted, , , . "breach of etiquette," a, consequences of, ; the ostensible pretext of franco-german war, . brigham young and the mormons, . _british medical journal_ on explosive bullets, . bronze age, the, , , ; its commencement, . bryant, mr j., xi.; on creation of man, , ; on the symbol of the bull, ; on dionusus, ; on noah and janus, ; his derivation of juno and venus, ; on the dove, . buddhist legend, . buffaloes, feast of the, . "bull-dance," the, ; parallel accounts of, by burton and catlin, . bunsen, baron, ; on chinese and egyptian chronology, - , ; on egyptian chronicles, - ; on tradition of creation, ; on the kabiri, ; on arya, . burial customs among mandans and formosans, . burial, mode of, common to several savage nations, . burton, capt. richard, on fetish, ; on dahome customs, ; the bull-dance, ; the big canoe, ; the baskets of water, ; the gourds or calabashes, ; the "aged white man," , ; customs at whydat, . burton, j. hill, . cadmus and alphabetic writing, . caduceatores, the, . cain, tradition in tonga connected with, . calmet on "sem," or shem, ; on saturn, . canaan. _see_ chanaan. canada, col. macdonell's service in, xxiii., xxiv. canaanite race, the correspondence between and aboriginal tribes in india, , ; literal fulfilment of prophecy regarding, , , , . canopied boat, the, of the egyptians, . carver, mr, on indian wars, ; the indian mode of declaration of war, , ; indian flags of truce, . cashmir, tradition of deluge in, ; commemorative festival in, . catholicism and christianity, identity of, . catlin, mr g., on traditions of creation among the indians, , ; of deluge, ; the "o-kee-pa," ; the big canoe, ; the baskets of water, ; the gourds or calabashes used by the indians, ; the "first man," , ; the "evil spirit," ; water ceremonies, ; on the pheasant, ; description of a "whale ashore" at vancouver's island, ; on the cranial development of the flathead and crow indians, . caverley's theocritus quoted, . centre of tradition, the, . ceremony at gorbio, . chaldæa, early inhabitants of, . chaldæan pantheon, deities of the, . chaldæan system of chronology, ; religion, . champagny, m. f. de, , . chanaan, or canaan, the curse of, ; tradition of this curse among the sioux indians, ; in tonga, . chandordy, count, . chaos in the phoenician cosmogony, ; the commencement of all things, - . chateaugay, xxviii. china, certain and uncertain history of, , ; astronomical cycle of, ; aboriginal tribes, ; belief in, as to creation of man, . chinese chronology, - ; confusion in, . chinese tradition of first and second heaven, . chin-nong, . chippeways and natchez tribes, institution of perpetual fire among, . choctaw indians, tradition regarding creation of man, . christian doctrine, the foundation of, . chronicles of egypt, . chronology, egyptian, palmer on, - ; the sothic cycle, - ; various systems of, . chronology, from the point of view of science, ; bunsen's views, ; lyell's, ; sir john lubbock's, - ; hales on, . chronology, from the point of view of tradition, ; historical testimony and evidence in favour of scriptural, ; indian, ; babylonian, ; hales, rev. w., on, ; chinese, - . chronos, saturn as, . cicero, on international law, ; "de legibus" quoted, ; the "offices," . civilisation, a state of, the primitive condition of man, . civilisation, principles and teaching of, . civilisation, progress of man to, , . cognation and agnation among the romans, , . coincidences of the bible with sanchoniathon, . coleridge, h. n., on oral transmission of tradition, . coleridge, rev. henry j., ; on conflicting elements of heathenism, . college, the fecial, . colour in man, persistency of, . coloured cloth and feathers, emblematic of peace and war, - , . commemorative festivals. _see_ festivals, commemorative. comity of nations, restriction of the . communal marriage, , . commune, the, . communistic schemes, . comte and the comtists, . conflicting elements of heathenism, . confusion of tongues, hesiod on the, . confusion of tradition of enoch with xisuthrus and noah, . conscience, mr darwin on, , ; its subjective existence, ; outward expression, . constituent assembly, the, of , montalembert on, . cook, capt., on customs at huaheine, , ; quoted, ; on declaration of war at bolabola, , . copan, the peaceable people of, . cosmogony, roman ideas of the, . cosmopolitic areopagus, a, . cox, rev. g. w., xiv.; on mythology, , , ; on myths of venus and adonis, , . cranial development of flathead and crow indians, . creation of man, tradition of among red indians, ; max müller on, . creation, the, mexican tradition of, , ; slavonian account of, . creoles, the persistency of colour in, . cunningham, major, the "bhilsa tope," . curse of canaan, the, ; traditions of, - , . customs of the samoides, ; at huaheine, . cycle, astronomical, of china, ; the sothic, , - . dagon, the god of the philistines, ; the fish-man, ; mr layard on, . dahome, the "so-sin" customs of, , , - ; precedence of women in, . dancing an indian ceremonial, , . d'anselme, vicomte, on philology of noah and boat, . darkness, associated with the serpent, ; the parent of light, - . darwinism, benthamism tested by, . darwin on conscience, , ; and the utilitarians, - . davies, rev. e., xi., . day and night, used as symbols, . declaration of war, the, ; accompanied by religious formalities, , ; method of, at bolabola, , ; at st julian, ; symbols used at, - ; plutarch on, ; traditionary modes of, - ; importance attached to forms of, ; consequences of the violation of forms of, - . deities of the chaldæan pantheon, . "de legibus" quoted, , . de quincey, quoted, . deluge of deucalion, the, , , . deluge of ogyges, the, ; anterior to that of deucalion, ; its date, . deluge, the--traditions of, localised in china, - ; commemorative monument of, ; traditions of, in egypt, ; in cashmir, ; among sioux indians, ; among tartar tribes, ; l'abbé gainet on, ; phrygian legend of, ; phoenician legend of, localised, ; santal legend of, ; etruscan monument commemorative of, ; connection of saturn with, - ; of ogyges and deucalion, ; traditions of, among indian tribes, ; sanscrit story of, ; its date, ; traditions of, among greeks, - ; frederick schlegel on, , ; traditions of, in africa and america, ; boulanger on, , ; commemorative festivals of, - , - , - ; the dove and rainbow of, , . _see also_ noah. "democracy in america," tocqueville's, . demonolatry, . "de rerum natura" quoted, . deucalion, ; mr grote on traditions of, , ; max müller on legend of, ; mr kenrick on, - , ; connected with hydrophoria at athens, . devil, the, belief in among savages . devil-worship, . diana, the temple of, . diffusion of hamitic races, . dike and dikaspoloi, . diluvian tradition. _see_ noah, deluge. diluvian traditions in africa and america, - . _see_ deluge. festivals (commemorative). diogenes laertius' scheme of chronology, . dionusus, identified with noah, ; the first king of india, , . dionysia, . discovery of america, the, a proof of tradition, . dispersion, the, , ; rise of government under, . disraeli, mr, on sceptical effects of discoveries of science, xvi., xvii. distribution of races, . divergence between religion and philosophy, . divinities of the tahitians, . divinity attaching to forms, , . dixon, hepworth, his conversation with brigham young, ; his views of human progress, . donoughmore, earl of, . dove, the bird of venus, ; traditions of, - . duc de grammont, the, . dyaks and javanese, contrast in colour, . dyans, . dyer, dr, on the sabines, ; the temple of diana, . dynasties of egypt, , , , . dynasty of the popes, , . eastern islanders, tradition among the, . egg, the mundane, tradition of, ; an emblem of the creation, ; the mahabarata account of, . egypt, chronology of, ; its chronicles, ; dynasties of, ; commemorative festival of the deluge in, . egyptian chronology, palmer on, - . egyptians, the, canopied boat of, ; jewish rites and ceremonies borrowed from, . ellis's "polynesian researches" quoted, ; on tahitian relics, . endogamy, - , . english socialists, . enoch, result of his disappearance regarding nimrod, ; embodied traditionally in chaldæan gods ana and enu, . enu or bil, a chaldæan deity, ; a reduplication of enoch, . _epi_metheus (afterthought) and _pro_metheus (forethought), . epochs of prehistoric archæology, , . equality of the sexes, . eratosthenes, ; scheme of chronology of, . eros and iris, . eschylus, the "supplicants" quoted, . esquimaux, the, . ethnological difficulties, - . etruscan monument commemorative of the deluge, . etymologies--of _man_, , , ; _noah_, ; _boat_, ; _river_, ; _horse_, , ; _plough_, ; names of metals, ; _fire_, ; _plough_, . euridike and orpheus, . european league, a general, , . european radicalism, . eusebius' testimony to value of tradition, . evil associated with blackness, . evil spirit, the, in mandan ceremonies, . "excursion," the, of wordsworth quoted, . exogamy, - . falconer's "palæontological mem.," . fall, the, lenormant on, . family, the, ; tendency to dispersion of, ; gradual consolidation and expansion into tribes and then to states, , ; the unit of ancient society, . family tradition, confusion of, . fatimala, the, . feast of the buffaloes, the, . feathers, coloured, emblematic of peace and war, - . fecial college, the, ; correspondence of, with herald's college, . federal union between romans and latins, . feegees, the, religion among, ; their characteristics and civilisation, . fergusson, adam, on the six nations, . festivals, commemorative, of the deluge, ; in cashmir, ; among various nations, ; the hydrophoria at athens, ; the "o-kee-pa," ; the panathenæa, ; the dionysia, ; in egypt, ; among the mandan indians, ; the "so-sin" customs of dahome, , ; at sanchi, ; the "bull-dance," ; the "big canoe," ; the baskets of water, ; the gourds and calabashes, ; the "first man," , ; among the santals, ; among the japanese, , ; at huaheine, ; among the egyptians, ; among the patagonians, - ; pongol festival of southern india compared with mandan and dahoman ceremonies, - . _see_ deluge. fetish, . feuds and wars, origin of, - . fire, unknown to various ancient nations, , ; knowledge of among savages, - ; polynesian etymology of the word, . "first man," the, in mandan ceremonies, , , . fish-god, the, of berosus, . "fish, history of the," . flag, the white, a symbol of peace, . flags of truce, carver and count chandordy parallelised, . flathead and crow indians, the heads of, . flint, use of, among ancient nations, . fohi the great, ; identified with adam, , . formation of states, , . formosans, burial customs among the, . foundation of law of nations, . foundation of christian doctrine, the, . foundation of roman law, - . four races, the, or kiprat-arbat, . france against austria, consequences of the war of, - . franco-german war, the, its ostensible pretext, ; its abnormal character, ; origin of traced to congress of , . fresquet, de, on declaration of war, , . fuegians, religion among the, , ; the lowest race of savages, . fulfilment of prophecy regarding chanaan, , . gainet, l'abbé, on diluvian tradition, ; on mythology, ; on chaldæan monotheism, ; translation of the "history of the fish," ; on deucalion, ; on mandan traditions, . genesis, the book of, ; relation of traditions to, , , . geological speculations, . "gesta romanorum," tale from the, . gibbon, on the use of letters, ; his "decline and fall," quoted, , . gladstone, w. e., his "juventus mundi," ; on the mythology of homer, ; on tradition, , ; on impersonation of good and evil, ; the key to the homeric system, ; the progress of greek morality, ; the homeric age, . gnostic sect, a curious, . goguet, m., on origin of laws, ; human progress, ; kinship, ; janus, . golden age, the, and noah, ; basis of the theory, ; its commencement, ; under saturn, ; tradition of, ; boulanger on, , ; sir henry maine on, . gorbio, curious ceremony at, . gould, mr baring, xvi.; on "origin and development of religious belief," ; summary of his views, ; his views opposed to tradition, ; partial recognition of the value of revelation, ; on monotheism, ; on the samoyed superstitions, . gourds and calabashes, the, used in dahoman and mandan festivals, . govat, charles e., his description of the pongol festivals, - . governments, rise of, after dispersion, . gradual progress of religion among primitive peoples, , , , . great hare or rabbit, tradition of the, , . greatest happiness principle, the, , . grecian mythology, - . grecian traditions of the deluge, - . greek and latin leagues, . greenwood's, col. g., "rain and rivers," quoted, , . grote, mr, , ; on importance of myths, ; on deucalion, . grotesque belief of the hindoos as to support of the earth, . guanches, religion of the, . guinea, religious festival in, . guinnard, m., his narrative of patagonian ceremonies, - . hales, rev. w., on chronology, , , . ham, identified with hoang-ti, ; prosperity of, ; tradition of his blackness of complexion, ; sir j. g. wilkinson on, ; bacchus identified with, . hamitic races, diffusion of the, ; apostasy of, . hea or hoa, a chaldæan deity, ; the inventor of cuneiform writing, . heathenism, conflicting elements of, . heavens, first and second, chinese tradition of, . helps, mr, on worship of peruvians, ; his traditions of peru compared with classical and oriental traditions, - . hercules or herakles, supposed identity with adam, ; confusion of traditions regarding, , . herodotus quoted, , . hero-worship an early form of idolatry, , ; among the chaldæans a source of deification, , , . hesiod and the iron age, ; on the confusion of tongues, . hetairism, . heterogeneity, . hieroglyphic of the dove, . hindoo laws of war, . hindoos, curious belief as to the world's support, . "historicus" (in _times_) on international law, . "history of the fish," . history of western civilisation, dr newman on, - . hoa or hea, . hoa, account of, by berosus, . hoang-ti, , ; identified with shem or ham, ; with noah, . _home and foreign review_ on belligerent rights at sea, , . homeric age, the, . homer's iliad quoted, . hooker, dr, on the beliefs of the lepchas, ; on the khasias, ; on the conduct of war, . horrors of war, limitations to, . horse, etymology of the word, , . houacouvou, director of evil spirits, patagonian festival in honour of, . huaheine, customs at, . human race, tradition of the, - . human society founded upon a contract, . hunter, mr, on indian traditions, ; on primitive life in india, , ; on aryan colour, ; on santal customs, , . husenbeth, very rev. dr, xv. huxley's definition of positivism, . hydrophoria, the, at athens, . hyksos or shepherds, dynasty of, . identification of noah with saturn, . identity of christianity and catholicism, . il or ra, the chaldæan deity, ; account of, by rawlinson, . iliad, the, quoted, . _illustrated london news_ on japanese religious festivals, ; on ceremony at gorbio, . impersonation of good and evil, mr gladstone on, . indian ceremonials, washington irving on, . indian chronology, . indian mode of declaration of war, , . indian tribes, close resemblance of one to another, . indian wars, their causes, , . indians, red, tradition regarding creation of man, ; of the earth, by michabo, , ; ordeals and tortures, . indians, traditions among mozca, . indo-germanic races identified with descendants of japheth, . influence of stoics on roman law, . inheritance through females, . interfusion of ancestral and solar worship, . international law, the _tablet_ on, ; bentham on, , , ; its origin and growth, ; an unwritten law, ; de tocqueville on, ; _pall mall gazette_ on, , ; cicero on, ; an "organised constraint," ; analogy with law of honour, ; original idea at its basis, ; relation to utilitarianism, , ; the _jus feciale_, ; "historicus" on, . international society, the, . invention of writing, . inventiveness of savage races, sir j. lubbock on, . ionian federation, the, . iris and eros, . iron age, the, . iroquois, traditions regarding creation of man, . irving, washington, on indian ceremonials, . jacob, . james, w., xxiii. janus, ; derivation of january, ; a double-headed god, , ; identified with noah, . japan, commemorative festival of the deluge in, , . japanese legend of the bull and the egg, . japetus, identity of with japheth, . japheth, fulfilment of prophecy regarding the race of, ; their prosperity, ; identity with indo-germanic races, . javan, son of japheth, identified with yavana, . javanese and dyaks, contrast in colour, . jenkins, captain, xxvii. jewish monotheism, . jewish rites and ceremonies borrowed from egyptians, - . juno and venus, derivation of names of, . _jus feciale_, the, . _jus gentium_, the, , , . kabiri, the, ; bunsen on, . kant's scheme of a universal society, . kenrick, mr, on manu, ; the tradition of deucalion, - . khasias, the, superstitions of the, . king, captain, quoted, ; on sandwich islanders, . kinship through females, , , ; goguet on, . kiprat-arbat, the, or four races, . klaproth, on sanscrit history, ; on the curse of canaan, . kronos, or noah, . lacordaire, l'abbé, ; on tradition, - . laertius', diogenes, scheme of chronology, . lamech, the story of, embodied in various traditions, , . lapland tradition, a, . "last rambles," the, of catlin, quoted, . latin league, the, . law connected with religion, . law, international. _see_ international law. law of honour, the, . law of nations, the, an unwritten law, ; sir henry maine on the, ; common to all nations, ; testimony to in the manx thing, ; ancient codes of, ; the _jus gentium_, ; origin of the phrase, , ; the amphictyonic council, ; primary objects of, ; common source, ; discussed on the basis of usage, ; the _lex legum_ of mankind, ; a modern transgression of, ; the seizure of papal states a flagrant violation of, - ; adaptability of, ; foundation of, . _see_ international law. law of nature, the, ; question whether there is or is not a, ; different solutions of this question, ; sir g. c. lewis on, ; sir h. maine on, , ; what the roman meant by it, ; among the ancients, ; a social compact, , ; tradition of, ; origin of the phrase, , . law, unwritten, ; ozanam on, , . laws, the first, of all nations, . layard, mr, on the man-fish, . league of the ten kings, . legend of the tortoise, , ; of michabo, , ; of the bull and the egg, . legends of oedipus and perseus, . legists of different nationalities, their agreement accounted for, . lenormant, on noe, ; on the fall, . lepchas, the, curious legend of, ; religion among the, , . letters, the use of, a distinction between a civilised and savage people, . levitical worship, the ceremonial borrowed from egypt, , . lewis, sir g. c, on law of nature, , , . light and darkness, as symbols, . limitations to horrors of war, . local tradition, persistency of, . lower egypt, dynasties of, . lowest races of savages, the, . lubbock, sir john, on primitive marriage, ; on the antiquity of man, ; on _water_-worship, ; on tradition, ; his theory opposed to that of de maistre, ; division of pre-historic archæology, , ; untrustworthiness of tradition for evidence of history, ; on religion among savage races, , , ; his suppositions regarding inventiveness of savage races, - ; views supported by duke of argyll, ; description of a "whale ashore" in australia, ; on the knowledge of fire, - . lucas, mr edward, xv. lucretius' "de rerum natura" quoted, . lyell, sir c., xiii.; on human progress, , . macaulay, lord, on benthamism, , ; the dynasty of the popes, , . macdonell, col. george, xii.; memoir of, xix.; parentage, xx.; an admirer of the stuarts, xxi.; results of a letter to the war secretary, xxii.; raises a regiment of macdonells, xxiii.; service in canada, xxiv.; the taking of ogdensburg, xxv.-xxix. m'lennan, mr, on primitive marriage, ; on marriage customs, , . macrobius, on janus bifrons, . maine, sir henry, xv.; on the law of nature, , ; on the law of nations, ; the unit of ancient society, ; notions of primitive antiquity, ; on ancient codes, ; the _jus gentium_, ; origin of name of law of nations, of nature, &c., , ; the foundation of roman law, , ; his distinction between _jus gentium_ and _jus feciale_, . maistre, count joseph de, his theory regarding the early races of man, ; his view of tradition, - ; on the pontifical power, . malays, traditions among the, . malthus, mr, theories regarding over-population, . "man," max müller on derivation of the word, ; its etymology, , . man and the monkey, traditions connecting the, . man-bull, the, traditions of, . manco-capac, ; the lawgiver of peru, ; identity of with quetzalcohuatl, . mandan indians, traditions among the, , ; tradition of the deluge, ; commemorative festivals among, , - ; the evil spirit of, ; source and origin of, - ; mode of burial of, ; art of fortifying their towns, . manetho, ; system of chronology of, , . man-fish, mr layard on the, . manning, dr. _see_ westminster. manning, w. oke, , . man's progress, from a savage to a civilised state, ; exceptional cases of the arab and iroquois, ; lyell's views of, ; lubbock's views, , ; bastian's views, . manx thing, the, . maritime alps, local ceremony in the, . marriage, primitive, , ; customs, ; communal, , . maupertuis', m., account of a lapland tradition, . meaco, ceremony in the temple of, at japan, . meaning of the word adam, . melia, very rev. dr p., xv. memoir of colonel macdonell, xix-xxix. memphis, . menes, the first king of egypt, ; early legend regarding, ; the first who put laws in writing, . menu, ordinances of, , . metallic weapons of ancient races, , . metallurgy of the ancients, mr vaux on the, . mexico, the states of, . mexicans, traditions among the, regarding creation of man, ; of the earth, . michabo, the legend of, among the american indians, , . mill, mr j. s., quoted, ; on the status of women, . mistletoe, the legend of the, , . mivart, mr st george, xv. modes of settlement into communities, . monkey and man, traditions connecting the, . monogamy, . monotheism, jewish, ; semitic, ; chaldæan, . mosaic law, origin of, . montagu, lord robert, m.p., xvi. montalembert, de la, , ; on results of congress of paris, in , . montesquieu, , . montfauçon on bacchus, ; the declaration of war, . mormons, the, . mosaic authorship of pentateuch, evidence of, . mozca indians, the, ; tradition of bochica among, . müller, mr max, on aryan dialects, ; on comparative philology, ; on derivation of the word _man_, , ; nature-worship, ; mythology, , - ; on legend of deucalion, ; "comparative philology" quoted, . mundane egg, the, , . myrmidon, . mysterious origin of aboriginal races, . mythological tradition among the eastern islanders, . mythology, ; source and origin of, - ; solar, ; rev. g. w. cox on, ; max müller on, - ; complications and confusion in, - ; assyrian, _see_ assyrian mythology. myths connecting man with the monkey, . myths, their importance, . natchez tribes, institution of perpetual fire among, . nations, law of. _see_ international law, law of nations. natural right, . nature, law of. _see_ law of nature. nature-worship, , , . nazarians, the, a curious gnostic sect, . nebo, a chaldæan deity, ; resemblance of, to shem, . necessities of the pastoral life, . negro, the, persistency of colour in, ; subserviency of, . _ner_, _soss_, and _sar_, chaldæan periods of time, . nergal identified with mars, . newman, dr, , ; on history of western civilisation, - . new zealanders, curious tradition among, ; their degeneration and retrogression, , . nicolas, mon. a., . niebühr, quoted, . nillson, professor, on the stone age, , ; quoted, . nimrod, a powerful chieftain, ; in the chaldæan mythology, ; identity with belus, ; his apotheosis confounded with enoch's disappearance, . nin or ninip, the true fish-god, ; identification with noah, ; emblem of, in assyria, ; note of rawlinson on, . noah (or noe), identified with shin-nong, , ; with oannes, ; confusion of traditions regarding, ; traditions of, among the chaldæans, ; philology of the name, ; warlike epithets applied to, ; correspondence of nin to, ; nebo a counterpart of, ; identifications of (with xisuthrus) , (with saturn) - , (with bacchus) , (with janus) , , (with ogyges and deucalion) ; the depositary of tradition and channel of law, ; summary of evidence regarding traditional identifications, - ; and the golden age, ; proofs of identity with saturn, ; associations of dove and rainbow with, , . _see_ also deluge, festivals, commemorative. nomadic life, . normandy, the marquis of, . notions of primitive antiquity, . "num," the deity of samoides, . oannes, the mysterious fish, ; the god of science and knowledge, . oceanus, saturn identified as, . oedipus, legend of, ; identified with lamech, ; corruption of the legend in the "gesta romanorum," . "offices," the, of cicero quoted, . ogdensburg, the taking of, xxvii. ogier, m. pegot, on the worship of the guanches, . ogilby's "japan," quoted, , . ogyges and deucalion, traditional connection of, with deluge, . "o-kee-pa," the, a religious ceremony of mandans, , . old chronicle of egypt, the, ; analysis of, . opischeschaht indians, ceremonies among the, . "oracula sybillina," the, quoted, , , , . oral transmission of tradition, , ; h. n. coleridge on, . _orbis terrarum_, the, , ; nucleus of, . ordeals among the indians, . ordinances of menu, , . oriental religions, cardinal wiseman on the, . "origin and development of religious belief," mr baring gould on, - . origin and growth of international law, . "origin of laws," goguet's, quoted, . origin of mosaic law, . orpheus and euridike, . "orvar odd's saga," , . osiris, the judge of the soul, , . over-population, malthus' views regarding, . ox temple of meaco, ceremony in the, . ozanam, on laws, , . pachacamac, the peruvian deity, , , . pagan view of the social compact, . _pall mall gazette_, the, on the darwinian theory of conscience, , ; on laws, , ; on utilitarianism, , ; on european radicalism, ; on the custom of the manx thing, . palmer, mr william, on egyptian chronology, - , ; on osiris, . panathenæa, the, . pantheon, the, of the egyptians, ; of the chaldæans, . papacy, the, head of a general european league, , . papal states, seizure of the, - . paralleled traditions, - ; customs, ; festivals, - , - . parlementaires, . pastoral life, necessities of, . pastoret's history, quoted, on amphictyonic council, , , . patagonians, religious festivals among the, - . peace and war, symbols of, - . peacock, the, symbol of the rainbow, - . pelasgians, the, . pelasgus, . pentateuch, the rev. w. smith's work on, quoted, , , . pentheus, the fate of, . peopling of american continent, how accomplished, - . persistency of colour in african races and others, . perseus, legend of, . persians, ancient tradition of the, . peru, the deity of, . peruvians, worship of the, ; garcilasso de la vega on, . pheasant, the, relation of, to the mandans, . philology, comparative, . philosophy alone is not religion, . phoenician tradition of deluge, ; cosmogonies, , . phoroneus, the father of mankind, , . phrygian legend of the deluge, . pinkerton's account of religion of the samoides, . plato, tradition of condition of families recorded by, , ; his atlantis, an embodiment of tradition, . plough, etymology of the word, , . plumtre's Æschylus, . plutarch's "numa," quoted, . polyandry, regulated and rude, , . polygamy, . "polynesian researches," quoted, . polytheism and monotheism, - . pongol festival of southern india, - . pontifical power, the, . poole, mr, . pope, the, centre of a european league, . pope's odyssey quoted, . poseidon, . positivism, huxley's definition of, . posterity of ham, the, , . precedence of women in dahome, . pottery, the art of, an evidence of progress, , . pre-historic archæology divided into four epochs, , . prayer and punishment, expressed by same word by latins, . prescott's "history of mexico" quoted, , . prevost, sir g., xxv., xxvi. primary objects of law of nations, . primitive condition of mankind, traditions regarding, from sanchoniathon, , . primitive life, ; the family, ; society and government, ; necessities of pastoral, ; origin of feuds and wars, - ; tendency to dispersion, ; gradual consolidation, , ; mr j. s. mill on, ; progress from a savage to a civilised state, ; the arab and iroquois exceptional instances, ; distinctive avocations of hunter, husbandman, and shepherd, ; in india, mr hunter on, , ; exogamous tribes, ; polyandrous families, ; marriage, - ; views of blackstone on, . primitive marriage, mr m'lennan's theory of, ; sir john lubbock on, . primitive races, . prophecy of st malachy, . progress of man to civilisation, , . prometheus, supposed identity with adam, ; confusion of traditions regarding, , . promiscuity, , . pu-an-ku, the primeval man, . public opinion, , . purification and punishment, association of, . pythagoras, . quapaws, tradition of the, . quetzalcohuatl, identity of with manco capac, . quincey, de, ; on kant's scheme of a universal society, . rabbit, the great, tradition of, , . races, primitive, . radicalism, european, . radien, the deity of scandinavian mythology, . "rain and rivers," the, of col. g. greenwood, quoted, , . rainbow, the symbol of peace, ; tradition of the, - . ra or il, the chaldæan deity, ; account of, by rawlinson, . ravana, . rawlinson, professor, xvi., , ; on babylonian chronology, , ; on good and evil personifications, ; identification of nergal with mars, ; on deities of chaldæan pantheon, , , , ; on nin or ninip, ; on noah, ; corroboration of assyrian history, ; the use of metals, . reduplication and confusion of deities, . reduplications--of yao and hoang-ti, ; of enoch, ; of bacchus, , . relics of scriptural tradition in greece, . religion and philosophy, divergence between, . religion of the samoides, ; among savage races, ; the tonpinambas of brazil, ; the feegees, ; among indians, , ; in guinea, ; among the fuegians, , ; among peruvians, , ; among lepchas and limboos, ; among the khasias, ; among andamans, ; among tahitians, , ; among sandwich islanders, ; in vancouver's island, . religion, gradual progress of, among primitive peoples, , , , . "religion the representation of a philosophic idea," . religious formalities on declaration of war, . restriction of the comity of nations, . revelation, primitive, , . rites, levitical, borrowed from the egyptians, , . river, etymology of the word, . rock, the very rev. dr, . roman church, the _spectator_ on, . roman law, - ; influence of stoics on, . roman ideas of the cosmogony, . romans and latins, political union of the, . rude and regulated polyandry, , . ryley, mr e., on belligerent rights, , . sabines, the, . sacrifices in the temple of neptune, . sacrificial weapons, . st julian, scene at, . st malachy, ancient prophecy of, . saluberry, general de, xxvii. samoans, the, . samoides, customs of the, ; their religion, , . samoyed traditions of creation, , . sanchi, commemorative festival of deluge at, . sanchoniathon, traditions from, ; relation of, to genesis, , , ; on diluvian tradition, . sandwich islanders, religion among the, . sanscrit literature, ; etymology of the word _plough_, . sanscrit story of the deluge, . santals, the, ; struggle with the aryans for the mastery, ; traditions of, ; customs of, . satirists, use of blackness of complexion by, . _saturday review_, the, on mr gladstone's "juventus mundi," ; on indian traditions, . saturnalia, the, . saturn, identified as nin, ; traditional connection of, with deluge, - ; reference to as oceanus, ; the inventor of agriculture, . savage belief in the devil, . savage races, vestiges of religion among, , . scandinavian edda, story of baldrin, ; quoted, . scandinavian mythology, the deity of, . sceptical effect of discoveries in science, xvi., xvii. scheme of a universal society, kant's, . schemes, communistic, . schlegel on tradition, ; on chaldæan mythology, ; on indian traditions, ; on diluvian tradition, , . scriptural chronology, historical testimony and evidence in favour of, . scriptural tradition, relics of in greece, . scripture and tradition, . scythians, the, . seebohm, mr f., xv. semitic monotheism, . serpent, the, associated with darkness, . servitude in marriage, the law of, . sethites and cainites, . shakergal, the feast of roses in cashmir, . shem, resemblance of nebo to, . shepherds, dynasty of the, . shin-nong, the divine husbandman, ; identified with noah, , . siethas, the, worshipped by the lapps, . sioux indians, tradition among the, regarding blackness of complexion, ; of creation of man, . six nations, tribes of the, . slavonian account of the creation, . smith, rev. dr, on the pentateuch, , ; origin of mosaic law, . social compact, the, pagan view of, . socialists, english, . society and government, elementary constituent of, . society, human, founded upon a contract, . solar and ancestral worship, interfusion of, . solar mythology, , . "so-sin," the, commemorative festival in dahome, , . _soss_, _sar_, and _ner_, chaldean periods of time, . sothic cycle, the, , - . sothis, book of, . southern india, pongol festival of, - . "spanish conquest of america," the, of helps, quoted, , - . _spectator_, the, on the roman church, . spencer, dr, . state of nature, a, - . states, formation of, - . stephens' "central america" quoted, . stevens, mr e. t., , . stoics, the, their influence on roman law, . stone age, the, untenable hypothesis of, ; professor nillson on, , , ; evidence in favour of, , ; mode of burial in, , . stripes of coloured cloth, emblematic, . "struggle for existence," the, . subjective existence of conscience, . sudra, the, . sun-worship, - , . superstitions of the khasias, . "supplicants," the, of Æschylus quoted, . symbols of peace and war, - . syncellus, , , ; quoted, . _tablet, the_, quoted, ; on arbitration instead of war, ; on position of the papacy, . tahitians, the, tools of, ; religion and civilisation of, , . tamanacs, tradition of the, . tangaloa, the tonga god, . tartar tribes, tradition of deluge among, . tasman's "voyage of discovery" quoted, , . tasmanians, knowledge of fire among the, . taurus, . taylor, rev. richard, on the new zealanders, , . temple of diana, the, . temple of neptune, sacrifices in the, . tendency of tradition to uncertainty and distortion, , ; to reduplication, . ten kings, league of the, . themis and themistes, , , . three stages of progress with man, . _times, the_, quoted, , ; on franco-german war, . tlascala, the republic of, , . tlascopan, the kingdom of, . tocqueville, de, on international law, . tohil, the fire-god, . tonga, tradition in, regarding blackness of complexion, . tongusy, the religion of the, . tonpinambas, the, of brazil, . topan, the idol, . tortoise, curious belief regarding the, , . tortures among the indians, . "totems and totemism," . tradition--among mozca indians, ; of the human race, ; père lacordaire on, - ; common origin of, ; antagonism of religion to, ; tendency of, to uncertainty and distortion, , ; confusion of family tradition, ; persistency of local, ; unity of scripture with, ; duke of argyll on, ; testimony of eusebius to value of, ; oral transmission, the main channel of, ; schlegel on, ; sanchoniathon on, ; concordance and divergence in, ; truth and persistence of, ; of the creation of man, - ; intellectual strictures upon, ; opposition of baring gould's views, ; relics of scriptural, in greece, ; of the man-bull, ; of the deluge among american indians, ; among santals and lepchas, ; the _saturday review_ on indian, ; sir john lubbock on, ; de maistre's view, - ; untrustworthiness and uncertainty of, according to lubbock, ; a lapland, ; capacity of savages for transmission of, - ; evidences of, in religion of savage nations, - ; of the mundane egg, - ; of fire, , ; the discovery of america a proof of, ; of bochica among mozca indians, ; peruvian, compared with classical and oriental, - ; transfusion and intermixture of, , ; of golden age, ; of first and second heavens among chinese, ; of age of primitive equality, ; coincidence of science with, ; the centre of, ; preservation of, under patriarchal governments, ; of a law common to all nations, ; of a law of nature, ; the atlantis of plato an embodiment of, ; of law connecting religion, ; of the rainbow, - ; of the dove, - ; of modes of declaration of war, . _see_ also deluge, festivals, noah. traditions connecting man with the monkey, . traditions, paralleled and compared, of diluvian customs, - , . transition from stone to bronze age, . treaties, the violation of, , . treaty of paris, the, . tressan, l'abbe, on mythology, . tribes of the malay peninsula, ; of the six nations, . triptolemus, the inventor of the plough, . truth and persistence of tradition, . turanian race, their migrations, . turditani, the, . tylor, mr e. b., xiv., ; on myths connecting man with the monkey, ; on animism, . union of romans and latins, the, . universal society, scheme of a, . unwritten laws, . usage the basis of law of nations, . untenable hypothesis of a stone age, . urquhart, mr d., . utilitarianism and international law, , . "utility," bentham's peculiar crotchet, ; the basis of his juridical system, . vaivaswata, . valdegamas, marquis de, . vancouver's island, scene on, . vaux, mr, on metallurgy of the ancients, . vega, garcilasso de la, on peruvian religion, . venus, ; myths of, , . vestiges of religion among savage races, , . vigne, mr g. g., , . violation of treaties, the, , . virgil, lines of, on saturn, ; his Æneid quoted, ; the eclogues, . virtue and vice personified as white and black in the zendavesta, . voltaire, the intellect of, . voltairean prejudices against primitive records, . vul, the son of ana, . wallace, mr, ; on man, . wallis, captain, , . wallis, mr j. e., . war and peace, symbols of, - . war, the declaration of, . _see_ declaration of war. warburton, e., on oral transmission of past events among the indians, . waring, mr j. b., . warlike epithets applied to noah, . water, etymology of the word, . weapons of metal among ancient races, , . weld, rev. a., xiv. weld, f. a., governor of western australia, . welsh ballad quoted, . westminster, archbishop of, xv. "whale ashore," a, contrasted descriptions of, by catlin and sir john lubbock, , . whately, archbishop, . white and black personifications of vice and virtue in the zendavesta, . white flag, the, a symbol of peace, . wilkinson, sir j. g., on ham, ; his "ancient egyptians" quoted, . wilson's "archæologia of scotland" quoted, , . wiseman, cardinal, ; on the distribution of man, ; the unity of scripture with tradition, ; the oriental religions, ; conformity of grammatical forms, ; jewish rites and ceremonies, ; the growth of nations, . wordsworth's "excursion" quoted, . women, their status, ; precedence of, in dahome, . worship, mode of, among the peruvians, . worship of ancestors, , . writing, its invention, ; cuneiform, ; greece indebted to cadmus for, . xisuthrus, attempted identification of with noah, . yao or yu, ; erection of monument by, commemorative of the deluge, . yavana identified with javan, son of japheth, . yokohama, religious festivals at, . zendavesta, the, . zeus, - . printed by ballantyne and company edinburgh and london burns, oates & co.'s list. =narratives of remarkable conversions=; containing mrs. seton, hermann cohen, david richard, alphonse ratisbonne, comte laferronays, &c. cloth, _s._ _d._ =tales of the french revolution.= fcp., cloth, _s._ this interesting volume contains eight historical tales, illustrating the faith and heroism of clergy and laity in those troubled times. =christian schools and scholars.= by the author of the "three chancellors," "knights of st. john," &c. two vols. vo, _s._; cash, _s._ this important and interesting work should be in every library. =life of st. ignatius.= by father bartoli, s.j. vols. _s._ =life of blessed charles spinola=, s.j. by father brockaert, s.j. _s._ =the path which led a protestant= lawyer to the catholic church. by p. h. burnett. vo. _s._ _d._ =balmez' fundamental philosophy.= by brownson. vols. _s._ =irish homes and irish hearts.= by fanny taylor, author of "eastern hospitals," "tyborne," &c. handsome cloth, _s._ works by fathers of the society of jesus. =reply to dr. pusey's "eirenicon."= by rev. father harper. vo, _s._ =vita vitæ nostri, meditantibus= proposita. by the rev. h. j. coleridge. cloth, _s._ _d._; calf, _s._ _d._ =life of blessed margaret mary= alacoque. by rev. g. tickell. _s._ _d._ =sermons,= part i. by fathers coleridge and hathaway. _s._--part ii. by fathers gallwey and parkinson. _s._--part iii. by fathers parkinson, coleridge, and harper. _s._ ditto, the three parts in one. cloth, _s._ =union with rome.= by father christie. _s._ =the church of st. patrick.= by father waterworth. _s._ _d._ =the papacy and schism.= by father bottalla. _s._ _d._ =infallibility of the pope.= by the same. _s._ _d._ =reply to renouf on pope honorius.= by the same. _s._ _d._ =the life and letters of st.= francis xavier. the narrative and arrangement by the rev. h. j. coleridge. 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"the chinese cosmogony... p. n. "the mandans believed... p. n. in the _second_ ... fixed it at midnight." p. ra is a god with few peculiar... p. rawlinson says of this god... p. n. _vide_ his other epithets... p. bachus is by some called... p. "he is said to have transmitted to mankind... p. "the chief actors in these strange scenes... p. it will be remembered... the opening scene in the mandan customs... p. we shall not be surprised to learn... p. at whydat ... white visitors. p. n. "the sandwich islands... p. at pp. - there is perhaps... p. mr max müller adds... p. "amongst the mexicans ... in the old world." p. n. the very rev. dr rock... st paul says... p. n. _vide_ also in carver's... this text is dense with citations, some of which seem incorrect. for example, the reference to genesis i. . on p. is attributed to "gen. x.". no attempt was made to correct any attributions. in note on p. , the quoted passage from pastoret's (ix, ) was corrupted, and is corrected: "on s'assembloit dans [au lien/un lieu] sacré du mont mycale". on p. , the name "Æschylus" appears, unaccountably as "oeschylos", but is retained. this text is generally followed as printed. corrections are made only where there are obvious printer's errors or where there are numerous examples of a correct spelling. where the issue appears in quoted passages, no corrections were made. this includes foreign language citations (french, latin and greek), where spelling and accents, in particular, may not appear as expected. in the index and advertisements, incidental inconsistencies of punctuation are corrected without further notice. the following table describes textual issues encountered during the preparation of this text, and the resolution of each. p. xxviii occ[c]upy removed. p. ethnic division.["] added. p. n. "vues des cordillères["], added. p. n. (sanskrit, pota = boat[)] added. p. n. to the waters of the great lake, &c.["] added. p. n. the extent of the countries they _sic._ opening inhabit.["] quote missing. p. according to different [different] degrees removed. p. a 'dark['] spirit added. p. ( [+/×] ) = corrected. p. generations [ ], years _sic._ missing. p. acc[c]ounted removed. p '_in the mountain the lord will see_.[']" added. p. n. co[s]mopolitanism added. p. n. "l'antiquite devoilée par ses usages["] added. p. n. m[u/ü]ller corrected. p. are still living under the ground.["] added. p. [ ']arrow-head,' added. p. 'the chief of the spirits,['] added. p. n. "anacalypsis,['/"] corrected. p. which owes it[s] origin added. p. mi[s]chievous added. p. with two horns.["] added. p. montfau[c/ç]on corrected. p. n. noted also in the "panathenæa.["] added. p. _kan_ (rope) 'gbe (to-day).["] added. p. n. being the most common.["] added. p. which are thus described[?] _sic._ ':'? p. n. hawaiki, [(]sandwich islands). _sic._ ? p. in the branches of the trees["] added. p. n. ["]the indians resemble added. p. ["]gods canon and camis or chamis;" added. p. n. divided into _four acts_["]. added. p. n. ['/"]soirées de st petersbourg" corrected. p. lubb[u/o]ck's corrected. p. n. and "camac" participle of "camani," ["]i create." added. p. to [the] the reader line break repetition. p. n. (["]traditions of the new zealanders") added. p. n. (gen. xiii.)[]] _sic._ ? p. n. (niebühr, ii. ch. vi.[)] added. p. n. ["]the oath taken by added. p. n. ["]_l'antiquité dévoilée par ses usages_ removed. p. n. ne saurait assez reconnaître.["] added. p. n. "_droit romain_,["] i. . added. p. the "caduceatores["] added. p. n. smith ("myth. dict."[)] added. p. romans and [and ]latins line break repetition. p. norma[m/n]by corrected. go[q/g]uet's corrected. none {transcriber's note: all square brackets [] are from the original text. braces {} ("curly brackets") are supplied by the transcriber. a caret character '^' indicates the following letters are superscript in the original. more transcriber's notes are provided at the end of the text.} leading articles on various subjects. {illustration: w. h. mcfarlane, lith^r edin^r hugh miller _fac-simile of a calotype by d. o. hill, r. i. a. . see page _} murray and gibb, edinburgh, printers to her majesty's stationery office. leading articles on various subjects. by hugh miller, author of 'the old red sandstone,' etc. etc. _edited by his son-in-law_, the rev. john davidson. _fourth edition._ edinburgh: william p. nimmo. . preface. the present volume is issued in compliance with the strong solicitations of many, to whose desire deference was due. in selecting the articles, i have been guided mainly by two considerations,--namely, the necessity for reproducing the mature opinion of a great mind, upon great subjects; and for making the selection so varied, as to convey to the reader some idea of the wonderful versatility of the powers which could treat subjects so diverse in their nature with such uniform eloquence and discrimination. i trust that the chapters on education will prove to be a valuable contribution to the speedy settlement of that question at the present crisis. those on sutherlandshire are inserted because they possess a permanent value, in connection with the social and economical history of our country. some of the articles are of a personal character, and are introduced, not, certainly, for the purpose of recalling old animosities, but solely to illustrate the author's method of using some of the more formidable figures of speech; while over against these may be set some on purely literary subjects, which show the genial tenderness of his disposition towards those who aspired to serve god and their generation by giving to the world the fruit of their imagination, their labour, and their leisure. i have not determined the selection without securing the counsel and approval of men on whose judgment i could rely. it only remains for me to thank them, and in an especial way to thank mr. d. o. hill for the portrait which forms the frontispiece. an impersonal reference to a similar portrait taken at the same time will be found at page , in the article on 'the calotype.' john davidson. _london, march , ._ contents page thoughts on the educational question, lord brougham, the scott monument, the late mr. kemp, annie m'donald and the fifeshire forester, a highland clearing, the poet montgomery, criticism--internal evidence, the sanctities of matter, the late rev. alexander stewart, the calotype, the tenant's true quarrel, conclusion of the war in affghanistan, periodicalism, 'annus mirabilis,' effects of religious disunion on colonization, fine-bodyism, organship, baillie's letters and journals, first principles, an unspoken speech, disruption principles, characteristics of the crimean war, the poets of the church, the encyclopÆdia britannica, a vision of the railroad, the two mr. clarks, pulpit duties not secondary, dugald stewart, our town councils, sutherland as it was and is; or, how a country may be ruined, introductory note to thoughts on the educational question. the following chapters on the educational question first appeared as a series of articles in the _witness_ newspaper. they present, in consequence, a certain amount of digression, and occasional re-statement and explanation, which, had they been published simultaneously, as parts of a whole, they would not have exhibited. the controversy was vital and active at every stage of their appearance. statements made and principles laid down in the earlier articles had, from the circumstance that their truth had been questioned or their soundness challenged, to be re-asserted and maintained in those which followed; and hence some little derangement in the management of the question, for which, however, the interest which must always attach to a real conflict may be found to compensate. that portion of the controversy, however, which arose out of one of the articles of the series, and which some have deemed personal, has been struck out of the published edition of the pamphlet, and retained in but an inconsiderable number of copies, placed in the hands of a few friends. in omitting it where it has been omitted, the writer has acted on the advice of a gentleman for whose judgment he entertains the most thorough respect, and from a desire that the general argument should not be prejudiced by a matter naturally, but not necessarily, connected with it. and in retaining it where it has been retained, he has done so in the full expectation of a time not very distant, when it will be decided that he has neither outraged the ordinary courtesies of controversy, nor taken up a false line of inference or statement; and when the importance of the subject discussed will be regarded as quite considerable enough to make any one earnest, without the necessity of supposing that he had been previously angry. it is all-important, that on the general question of national education, the free church should take up her position wisely. majorities in her courts, however overwhelming, will little avail her, if their findings fail to recommend themselves to the good sense of her people, or are palpably unsuited to the emergencies of the time. a powerful writer of the present age employs, in one of his illustrations, the bold figure of a ship's crew, that, with the difficulties of cape horn full before them, content themselves with instituting aboard their vessel a constitutional system of voting, and who find delight in contemplating the unanimity which prevails on matters in general, both above decks and below. 'but your ship,' says carlyle, 'cannot double cape horn by its excellent plans of voting: the ship, to get round cape horn, will find a set of conditions already voted for, and fixed with adamantine rigour, by the ancient elemental powers, who are entirely careless how you vote. if you can by voting, or without voting, ascertain these conditions, and valiantly conform to them, you will get round the cape: if you cannot, the ruffian winds will blow you ever back again; the inexorable icebergs, dumb privy councillors from chaos, will nudge you with most chaotic admonition; you will be flung half-frozen on the patagonian cliffs, or jostled into shivers by your iceberg councillors, and will never get round cape horn at all.' now there is much meaning couched in this quaint figure, and meaning which the free church would do well to ponder. there are many questions on which she could perhaps secure a majority, which yet that majority would utterly fail to carry. on the question of college extension, for instance, she might be able to vote, if she but selected her elders with some little care, that there should be full staffs of theological professors at glasgow and aberdeen. but what would her votes succeed in achieving? not, assuredly, the doubling of the cape; but the certainty of shivering her all-important educational institute on three inexorable icebergs. in the first place, her magnificent metropolitan college, like that huge long boat, famous in story, which robinson crusoe was able to build, but wholly unable to launch, would change from being what it now is--a trophy of her liberality and wisdom--into a magnificent monument of her folly. in the second place, she would have to break faith with her existing professors, and to argue, mayhap, when they were becoming thin and seedy, and getting into debt, that she was not morally bound to them for their salaries. and, in the third and last place, she would infallibly secure that, some twenty years hence at furthest, every theological professor of the free church should be a pluralist, and able to give to his lectures merely those fag-ends of his time which he could snatch from the duties of the pulpit and the care of his flock. and such, in doubling the cape horn of the college question, is all that unanimity of voting could secure to the church; unless, indeed, according to carlyle, she voted in accordance with the 'set of conditions already voted for and fixed by the adamantine powers.' nor does the question of denominational education, now that there is a national scheme in the field, furnish a more, but, on the contrary, a much less, hopeful subject for mere voting in our church courts, than the question of college extension. it is _not_ to be carried by ecclesiastical majorities. some of the most important facts in the 'ten years' conflict' have perhaps still to be recorded; and it is one of these, that long after the non-intrusion party possessed majorities in the general assembly, the laity looked on with exceedingly little interest, much possessed by the suspicion that the clergy were battling, not on the popular behalf, but on their own. even in , after the auchterarder case had been decided in the house of lords, the apathy seemed little disturbed; and the writer of these chapters, when engaged in doing his little all to dissipate it, could address a friend in edinburgh, to whom he forwarded the ms. of a pamphlet thrown into the form of a letter to lord brougham, in the following terms:--'the question which at present agitates the church is a vital one; and unless the people can be roused to take part in it (and they seem strangely uninformed and wofully indifferent as yet), the worst cause must inevitably prevail. they may perhaps listen to one of their own body, who combines the principles of the old with the opinions of the modern whig, and who, though he feels strongly on the question, has no secular interest involved in it.' it was about this time that dr. george cook said--and, we have no doubt, said truly--that he could scarce enter an inn or a stage-coach without finding respectable men inveighing against the utter folly of the non-intrusionists, and the worse than madness of the church courts. for the opponents of the party were all active and awake at the time, and its incipient friends still indifferent or mistrustful. the history of church petitions in edinburgh during the ten eventful years of the war brings out this fact very significantly in the statistical form. from , the year of the veto act, to , the year of the auchterarder decision, petitions to parliament from edinburgh on behalf of the struggling church were usually signed by not more than from four to five thousand persons. in the number rose to six thousand. the people began gradually to awaken, and to trust. speeches in church courts were found to have comparatively little influence in creating opinion, or ecclesiastical votes in securing confidence; and so there were other means of appealing to the public mind resorted to, mayhap not wholly without effect: for in the annual church petition from edinburgh bore attached to it thirteen thousand signatures; and to that of the following year ( ) the very extraordinary number of twenty-five thousand was appended. and, save for the result, general over scotland, which we find thus indicated by the church petitions of edinburgh, the disruption, and especially the origination of a free church, would have been impossible events. how, we ask, was that result produced? not, certainly, by the votes of ecclesiastical courts,--for mere votes would never have doubled the cape horn of the church question; but simply through the conviction at length effectually wrought in the public mind, that our ministers were struggling and suffering, not for clerical privileges, but for popular rights,--not for themselves, but for others. and that conviction once firmly entertained, the movement waxed formidable; for elsewhere, as in the metropolis, popular support increased at least fivefold; and the question, previously narrow of base, and very much restricted to one order of men, became broad as the scottish nation, and deep as the feelings of the scottish people. but as certainly as the component strands of a cable that have been twisted into strength and coherency by one series of workings, may be untwisted into loose and feeble threads by another, so certainly may the majorities of our church courts, by a reversal of the charm which won for them the element of popular strength, render themselves of small account in the nation. they became strong by advocating, in the patronage question, popular rights, in opposition to clerical interests: they may and will become weak, if in the educational one they reverse the process, and advocate clerical interests in opposition to popular rights. their country is perishing for lack of a knowledge which they cannot supply. every seven years--the brief term during which, if a generation fail to be educated, the opportunity of education for ever passes away--there are from a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand of the youth of scotland added to the adult community in an untaught, uninformed condition. nor need we say in how frightful a ratio their numbers must increase. the ignorant children of the present will become the improvident and careless parents of the future; and how improvident and careless the corresponding class which already exists among us always approves itself to be, let our prisons and workhouses tell. our country, with all its churches, must inevitably founder among the nations, like a water-logged vessel in a tempest, if this state of matters be permitted to continue. and why permit it to continue? be it remembered that it is the _national_ schools--those schools which are the people's own, and are yet withheld from them--and not the schools of the free church, which it is the object of the educational movement to open up and extend. nor is it proposed to open them up on a new principle. it is an unchallenged fact, that there exists no statutory provision for the teaching of religion _in them_. all that is really wanted is, to transfer them on their present statutory basis from the few to the many,--from moderate ministers and episcopalian heritors, to a people essentially sound in the faith--presbyterian in the proportion of at least _six_ to one, and evangelical in the proportion of at least _two_ to one. and at no distant day this transference must and will take place, if the ministers of the free church do not virtually join their forces to their brethren of the establishment in behalf of an alleged ecclesiastical privilege nowhere sanctioned in the word of god.{ } there is another important item in this question, over which, as already determined by inevitable laws, ecclesiastical votes, however unanimous, can exert no influence or control. they cannot ordain that inadequately paid schoolmasters can be other than inferior educators. if the remuneration be low, it is impossible by any mere force of majorities to render the teaching high. there is a law already 'voted for' in the case, which majorities can no more repeal than they can the law of gravitation. and here we must take the opportunity of stating--for there has been misrepresentation on the point--what our interest in the teachers of scotland and of the free church really is. certainly not indifferent to their comfort as men, or to the welfare of their profession, as one of the most important and yet worst remunerated in the community, we frankly confess that we look to something greatly higher than either their comfort or the professional welfare in general. they and their profession are but _means_; and it is to the _end_ that we mainly look,--that end being the right education of the scottish people, and their consequent elevation in the scale, moral and intellectual. we would deal by the teachers of the country in this matter as we would by the stone-cutters of edinburgh, were we entrusted with the erection of some such exquisite piece of masonry as the scott monument, or that fine building recently completed in st. andrew square. instead of pitching our scale of remuneration at the rate of labourers' wages, we would at once pitch it at the highest rate assigned to the skilled mechanic; and this not in order, primarily at least, that the masons engaged should be comfortable, but in order that they should be masters of their profession, and that their work should be of the completest and most finished kind. for labourers' wages would secure the services of only bungling workmen, and lead to the production of only inferior masonry. and such is the principle on which we would befriend our poor schoolmasters,--not so much for their own sakes, as for the sake of their work. further, however, it is surely of importance that, when engaged in teaching religion, they themselves should be enabled, in conformity with one of its injunctions, to 'provide things honest in the sight of all men.' nay, of nothing are we more certain, than that the church has only to exert herself to the extent of the liabilities already incurred to her teachers, in order to be convinced of the absolute necessity which exists for a broad national scheme. any doubts which she may at present entertain regarding the question of the _necessity_, are, in part at least, effects of her lax views respecting the question of the _liability_, and of her consequent belief that _anything well divided_ is sufficient to discharge it. at the same time, however, it would be perhaps well that at least our better-paid schoolmasters should be made to reflect that the circumstances of their position are very peculiar; and that should they take a zealous part against what a preponderating majority of the laity of their church must of necessity come to regard as the cause of their country, their opposition, though utterly uninfluential in the general struggle, may prove thoroughly effectual in injuring themselves. for virtually in the free church, as in the british constitution, it is the '_commons_' who grant the supplies. we subjoin the paper on the educational question, addressed by dr. chalmers to the hon. mr. fox maule, as it first appeared in the _witness_. the reader will see that there is direct reference made to it in the following pages, and will find it better suited to repay careful study and frequent perusal than perhaps any other document on the subject ever written:-- 'it were the best state of things, that we had a parliament sufficiently theological to discriminate between the right and the wrong in religion, and to encourage or endow accordingly. but failing this, it seems to us the next best thing, that in any public measure for helping on the education of the people, government were to abstain from introducing the element of religion at all into their part of the scheme; and this not because they held the matter to be insignificant,--the contrary might be strongly expressed in the preamble of their act,--but on the ground that, in the present divided state of the christian world, they would take no cognizance of, just because they would attempt no control over, the religion of applicants for aid,--leaving this matter entire to the parties who had to do with the erection and management of the schools which they had been called upon to assist. a grant by the state upon this footing might be regarded as being appropriately and exclusively the expression of their value for a good secular education. 'the confinement for the time being of any government measure for schools to this object we hold to be an imputation, not so much on the present state of our legislature, as on the present state of the christian world, now broken up into sects and parties innumerable, and seemingly incapable of any effort for so healing these wretched divisions as to present the rulers of our country with aught like such a clear and unequivocal majority in favour of what is good and true, as might at once determine them to fix upon and to espouse it. 'it is this which has encompassed the government with difficulties, from which we can see no other method of extrication than the one which we have ventured to suggest. and as there seems no reason why, because of these unresolved differences, a public measure for the health of all--for the recreation of all--for the economic advancement of all--should be held in abeyance, there seems as little reason why, because of these differences, a public measure for raising the general intelligence of all should be held in abeyance. let the men therefore of all churches and all denominations alike hail such a measure, whether as carried into effect by a good education in letters or in any of the sciences; and, meanwhile, in these very seminaries let that education in religion which the legislature abstains from providing for, be provided for as freely and as amply as they will by those who have undertaken the charge of them. 'we should hope, as the result of such a scheme, for a most wholesome rivalship on the part of many in the great aim of rearing on the basis of their respective systems a moral and christian population, well taught in the principles and doctrines of the gospel, along with being well taught in the lessons of ordinary scholarship. although no attempt should be made to regulate or to enforce the lessons of religion in the inner hall of legislation, this will not prevent, but rather stimulate, to a greater earnestness in the contest between truth and falsehood--between light and darkness--in the outer field of society; nor will the result of such a contest in favour of what is right and good be at all the more unlikely, that the families of the land have been raised by the helping hand of the state to a higher platform than before, whether as respects their health, or their physical comfort, or their economic condition, or, last of all, their place in the scale of intelligence and learning. 'religion would, under such a system, be the immediate product, not of legislation, but of the christian philanthropic zeal which obtained throughout society at large. but it is well when what legislation does for the fulfilment of its object tends not to the impediment, but rather, we apprehend, to the furtherance, of those greater and higher objects which are in the contemplation of those whose desires are chiefly set on the immortal wellbeing of man. 'on the basis of these general views, i have two remarks to offer regarding the government scheme of education. ' . i should not require a certificate of satisfaction with the religious progress of the scholars from the managers of the schools, in order to their receiving the government aid. such a certificate from unitarians or catholics implies the direct sanction or countenance by government to their respective creeds, and the responsibility, not of _allowing_, but, more than this, of _requiring_, that these shall be taught to the children who attend. a bare allowance is but a general toleration; but a requirement involves in it all the mischief, and, i would add, the guilt, of an indiscriminate endowment for truth and error. ' . i would suffer parents or natural guardians to select what parts of the education they wanted for their children. i would not force arithmetic upon them, if all they wanted was reading and writing; and as little would i force the catechism, or any part of the religious instruction that was given in the school, if all they wanted was a secular education. that the managers of the church of england schools shall have the power to impose their own catechism upon the children of dissenters, and, still more, to compel their attendance on church, i regard as among the worst parts of the scheme. 'the above observations, it will be seen, meet any questions which might be put in regard to the applicability of the scheme to scotland, or in regard to the use of the douay version in roman catholic schools. 'i cannot conclude without expressing my despair of any great or general good being effected in the way of christianizing our population, but through the medium of a government themselves christian, and endowing the true religion, which i hold to be their imperative duty, not because it is the religion of the many, but because it is true. 'the scheme on which i have now ventured to offer these few observations i should like to be adopted, not because it is absolutely the best, but only the best in existing circumstances. 'the endowment of the catholic religion by the state i should deprecate, as being ruinous to the country in all its interests. still i do not look for the general christianity of the people, but through the medium of the christianity of their rulers. this is a lesson taught _historically_ in scripture, by what we read there of the influence which the personal character of the jewish monarchs had on the moral and religious state of their subjects; it is taught _experimentally_, by the impotence, now fully established, of the voluntary principle; and last, and most decisive of all, it is taught _prophetically_ in the book of revelation, when told that then will the kingdoms of the earth (_basileiai_, or governing powers) become the kingdoms of our lord jesus christ, or the governments of the earth become christian governments. (signed) 'thomas chalmers.' ----- { } some of the reasonings of both the established and free church courts on this matter would be amusing were they not so sad. 'feed my lambs,' said our saviour, after his resurrection, to peter; and again twice over, 'feed my sheep.' now, let us suppose some zealous clergyman setting himself, on the strength of the latter injunction here, to institute a new order of preachers. as barbers frequently amuse their employers with gossip, when divesting them of their beards or trimming their heads, and have opportunities of addressing their fellow-men which are not possessed by the other mechanical professions, the zealous clergyman determines on converting them into preachers, and sets up a normal school, in order that they may be taught the art of composing short sermons, which they are to deliver when shaving their customers, and longer ones, which they are to address to them when cutting their hair. and in course of time the expounding barbers are sent abroad to operate on the minds and chins of the community. 'there is no mention made of any such order of prelectors,' says a stubborn layman, 'in my new testament;' 'nor yet in mine,' says another. 'sheer atheism,--deism at the very least!' exclaims the zealous clergyman. 'until christianity was fairly established in the world, there was no such thing as shaving at all; the jews don't shave yet: besides, does not every decent church member shave before going to church? and as for the authority, how read you the text, "feed my sheep!'" 'weighty argument that about the shaving,' say the laymen; 'but really the text seems to be stretched just a little too far. the commission is given to peter; but it confers on peter no authority whatever to commission the barbers. nay, our grand objection to the pseudo-successors of peter is, that they corrupted the church after this very manner, by commissioning the non-commissioned, until they filled the groaning land with cardinals, bishops, and abbots, monks and nuns,-- "eremites and friars, white, black, and grey, with all their trumpery.'" now, be it remembered that we are far from placing the church-employed schoolmaster on the level of the parson-employed barber of our illustration. _rationally_ considered, they are very different orders indeed; but so far as _direct_ scripture is concerned, they stand, we contend, on exactly the same ground. the laity would do well in this controversy to arm themselves with the new testament, and, if their opponents be very intolerant, to hand them the volume, and request them to turn up their authority. and, of course, if the intolerance be very great, the authority must be very direct. mere arguings on the subject would but serve to show that it has no actual existence. when the commission of a captain or lieutenant is legitimately demanded, it is at once produced; but were one to demand the commission of a sergeant or boatswain's mate, the man could at best only reason about it. thoughts on the educational question. chapter first. disputes regarding the meaning embodied by chalmers in his educational document--narrative suited to throw some light on the subject--consideration of the document itself--testimony respecting it of the hon. mr. fox maule. one of the most important controversies which has arisen within the pale of the romish church--that between the jansenists and jesuits--was made to hinge for many years on a case of disputed meaning in the writings of a certain deceased author. there were five doctrines of a well-defined character which, the jesuits said, were to be found in the works of cornelius jansenius, umquhile bishop of ypres, but which, the jansenists asserted, were not to be found in anything jansenius had ever written. and in the attempt to decide this simple question of fact, as pascal calls it, the school of the sorbonne and the court of the inquisition were completely baffled; and zealous roman catholics heard without conviction the verdict of councils, and failed to acquiesce in the judgment of even the pope. we have been reminded oftener than once of this singular controversy, by the late discussions which have arisen in our church courts regarding the meaning embodied by chalmers in that posthumous document on the educational question, which is destined, we hold, to settle the whole controversy. at first we regarded it as matter of wonder that such discussions should have arisen; for we had held that there was really little room for difference respecting the meaning of chalmers,--a man whose nature it was to deal with broad truths, not with little distinctions; and who had always the will, and certainly did not lack the ability, of making himself thoroughly understood. we have since thought, however, that as there is nothing which has once occurred that may not occur again, what happened to the writings of jansenius might well happen to one of the writings of chalmers; and further, that from certain conversations which we had held with the illustrious deceased a few months before his death, on the subject of his paper, and from certain facts in our possession regarding his views, we had spectacles through which to look at the document in question, and a key to his meaning, which most of the disputants wanted. the time has at length come when these helps to the right understanding of so great an authority should be no longer withheld from the public. we shall betray no confidence; and should we be compelled to speak somewhat more in the first person, and of ourselves, than may seem quite accordant with good taste, our readers will, we trust, suffer us to remind them that we do not commit the fault very often, or very offensively, and that the present employment of the personal pronoun, just a little modified by the editorial _we_, seems inevitably incident to the special line of statement on which we propose to enter. during the greater part of the years and , the editor of the _witness_ was set aside from his professional labours by a protracted illness, in part at least an effect of the perhaps too assiduous prosecution of these labours at a previous period. he had to cease per force even from taking a very fixed view of what the church was doing or purposing; and when, early in january , he returned, after a long and dreary period of rustication, in improved health to edinburgh, he at least possessed the advantage--much prized by artists and authors in their respective walks--of being able to look over the length and breadth of his subject with a _fresh_ eye. and, in doing so, there was one special circumstance in the survey suited to excite some alarm. we found that in all the various schemes of the free church, with but one exception, its extensively spread membership and its more active leaders were thoroughly at one; but that in that exceptional scheme they were not at all at one. they were at one in their views respecting the ecclesiastical character of ministers, elders, and church courts, and of the absolute necessity which exists that these, and these only, should possess the spiritual key. further, they were wholly at one in recognising the command of our adorable saviour to preach the gospel to all nations, as of perpetual obligation on the churches. but regarding what we shall term, without taking an undue liberty with the language, the pedagogical teaching of religion, they differed _in toto_. practically, and to all intents and purposes, the schoolmaster, in the eye of the membership of our church, and of the other scottish churches, was simply a layman, the proper business of whose profession was the communication of secular learning. and as in choosing their tailors and shoemakers the people selected for themselves the craftsmen who made the best and handsomest shoes and clothes, so, in selecting a schoolmaster for their children, they were sure always to select the teacher who was found to turn out the best scholars.{ } all other things equal, they would have preferred a serious, devout schoolmaster to one who was not serious nor devout, just as, _coeteris paribus_, they would have preferred a serious shoemaker or tailor to a non-religious maker of shoes or clothes; but religious character was not permitted to stand as a compensatory item for professional skill; nay, men who might be almost content to put up with a botched coat or a botched pair of shoes for the sake of the good man who spoiled them, were particularly careful not to botch, on any account whatever, the education of their children. in a country in which there was more importance attached than in perhaps any other in the world to the religious teaching of the minister, there was so little importance attached to the religious teaching of the schoolmaster, that, when weighed against even a slight modicum of secular qualification, it was found to have no sensible weight. and with this great practical fact some of our leading men seemed to be so little acquainted, that they were going on with the machinery of their educational scheme, on a scale at least co-extensive with the free church, as if, like that church--all-potent in her spiritual character--it had a moving power in the affections of the people competent to speed it on. and it was the great discrepancy with regard to this scheme which existed between the feelings of the people and the anticipations of some of our leading men, clerical and lay, that excited our alarm. unless that discrepancy be removed, we said--unless the anticipations of the men engaged in the laying down of this scheme be sobered to the level of the feelings of the lay membership of our church, or, _vice versa_, the feelings of the lay membership of our church be raised to the level of the anticipations of our leaders--bankruptcy will be the infallible result. from the contributions of our laymen can the scheme alone derive its support; and if our leaders lay it down on a large scale, and our laymen contribute on a small one, alas for its solvency! such were our views, and such our inferences, on this occasion; and to thomas chalmers, at once our wisest and our humblest man--patient to hear, and sagacious to see--we determined on communicating them. he had kindly visited the writer, to congratulate him in his dwelling on his return to comparative health and strength; and after a long and serious conversation, in which he urged the importance of maintaining the _witness_ in honest independency, uninfluenced by cliques and parties, whether secular or ecclesiastical, the prospects of the free church educational scheme were briefly discussed. he was evidently struck by the view which we communicated, and received it in far other than that parliamentary style which can politely set aside, with some soothing half-compliment, the suggestions that run counter to a favourite course of policy already lined out and determined upon. in the discrepancy which we pointed out to him he recognised a fact of the practical kind, which rarely fail to influence the affairs upon which they bear; and in accordance with his character--for no man could be more thoroughly convinced that free discussion never hurts a good cause, and that second thoughts are always wiser than first ones--he expressed a wish to see the educational question brought at once to the columns of the _witness_, and probed to its bottom. we could not, however, see at that time how the thing was to be introduced in a practical form, and preferred waiting on for an opportunity, which in the course of events soon occurred. the government came forward with its proposal of educational grants, and the question was raised--certainly not by the writer of these chapters--whether or no the free church could conscientiously avail herself of these. it was promptly decided by some few of our leading men, clerical and lay, that she could not; and we saw in the decision, unless carried by appeal to our country ministers and the people, and by them reversed, the introduction of a further element of certain dissolution in our educational scheme. the status of the schoolmaster had been made so exceedingly ecclesiastical, and his profession so very spiritual, that the money of that government of the country whose right and duty it is to educate its people, was regarded as too vile and base a thing to be applied to his support. there were even rumours afloat that our schoolmasters were on the eve of being _ordained_. we trust, however, that the report was a false one, or, at worst, that the men who employed the word had made a slip in their english, and for the time at least had forgot its meaning. _ordination_ means that special act which gives status and standing within the ecclesiastical province. it implies the enjoined use of that spiritual key which is entrusted by christ to his church, that it may be employed just as _he_ directs, and in no other way. the presbyterian church has as much right to institute prelates as to ordain pedagogues. 'remember,' said an ancient scottish worthy, in 'lifting up his protestation' in troublous times, 'that the lord has fashioned his kirk by the uncounterfeited work of his own new creation; or, as the prophet speaketh, "hath made us, and not we ourselves;" and that we must not presume to fashion a new portraiture of a kirk, and a _new form of divine service, which god in his word hath not before allowed_; seeing that, were we to extend our authority further than the calling we have of god doth permit--as, namely, if we should (as god forbid!) authorize the authority of bishops--we should bring into the kirk of god the ordinance of man.' if men are to depart from the 'law and the testimony,' we hold that the especial mode of their departure may be very much a matter of taste, and would, for our own part, prefer bishops and cardinals to poor dominies of the gospel, somewhat out at the elbows.{ } the fine linen and the purple, the cope and the stole, would at least have the effect of giving that sort of pleasant relief to the widespread sable of our assemblies which they possessed of yore, ere they for ever lost the gay uniform of the lord high commissioner, the gold lace of his dragoon officers, and the glitter of his pages in silver and scarlet. 'we are two of the humblest servants of mother church,' said the prior and his companion to wamba, the jester of rotherwood. 'two of the humblest servants of mother church!' repeated wamba; 'i should rather like to see her seneschals, her chief butlers, and her other principal domestics.' we again saw chalmers, and, in a corner apart from a social party, of which his kind and genial heart formed the attractive centre, we found he thoroughly agreed with us in holding that the time for the discussion of the educational question had fully come. it was a question, he said, on which he had not yet fully made up his mind: there was, however, one point on which he seemed clear--though, at this distance of time, we cannot definitively say whether the remark regarding it came spontaneously from himself, or was suggested by any query of ours--and that was the right and duty of a government to _instruct_, and consequently of the governed to receive the instruction thus communicated, if in itself good. we remarked in turn, that there were various points on which we also had to 'grope our way' (a phrase to which the reader will find him referring in his note, which we subjoin); but that regarding the inherently secular character of the schoolmaster, and the right and duty of the government to employ him in behalf of its people, we had no doubt whatever. and so, parting for the time, we commenced that series of articles which, as they were not wholly without influence in communicating juster views of the place and status of the schoolmaster than had formerly obtained in the free church, and as they had some little effect in leading the church to take at least one step in averting the otherwise inevitable ruin which brooded over her educational scheme, the readers of the _witness_ may perhaps remember. we were met in controversy on the question by a man, the honesty of whose purpose in this, as in every other matter, and the warmth of whose zeal for the church which he loved, and for which he laboured, no one has ever questioned, and no one ever will. and if, though possessed of solid, though perhaps not brilliant talent, he failed on this occasion 'in finding his hands,' we are to seek an explanation of his failure simply in the circumstance that truths of principle--such as those which establish the right and duty of every government to educate its people, or which demonstrate the schoolmaster to possess a purely secular, not an ecclesiastical standing--or yet truths of fact, such as that for many years the national teaching of scotland has _not_ been religious, or that the better scottish people will on no account or consideration sacrifice the secular education of their children to the dream of a spiritual pedagogy,--are truths which can neither be controverted nor set aside. he did on one occasion, during the course--what he no doubt afterwards regretted--raise against us the cry of infidelity,--a cry which, when employed respecting matters on which christ or his apostles have not spoken, really means no more than that he who employs it, if truly a good man, is bilious, or has a bad stomach, or has lost the thread of his argument or the equanimity of his temper. feeling somewhat annoyed, however, we wished to see chalmers once more; but the matter had not escaped his quick eye, and his kind heart suggested the remedy. in the course of the day in which our views and reasonings were posted as infidel, we received the following note from morningside:-- morningside, _march , _. my dear sir,--you are getting nobly on on education; not only groping your way, but making way, and that by a very sensible step in advance this day. on my own mind the truth evolves itself very gradually; and i am yet a far way from the landing-place. kindest respects to mrs. miller; and with earnest prayer for the comfort and happiness of both, i ever am, my dear sir, yours very truly, thomas chalmers. hugh miller, esq. in short, thomas chalmers, by his sympathy and his connivance, had become as great an infidel as ourselves; and we have submitted to our readers the evidence of the fact, fully certified under his own hand.{ } there is a sort of perfection in everything; and perfection once reached, deterioration usually begins. and when, in bandying the phrases _infidel_ and _infidelity_--like the feathered missiles in the game of battledore and shuttlecock--they fell upon chalmers, we think there was a droll felicity in the accident, which constitutes for it an irresistible claim of being the terminal one in the series. the climax reached its point of extremest elevation; for even should our infidel-dubbers do their best or worst now, it is not at all likely they will find out a second chalmers to hit. we concluded our course of educational articles; and though we afterwards saw the distinguished man to whom our eye so frequently turned, as, under god, the wise pilot of the free church, and were honoured by a communication from him, dictated to his secretary, we did not again touch on the subject of education. we were, however, gratified to learn, from men much in his confidence and company--we hope we do not betray trust in referring to the rev. mr. tasker of the west port as one of these--that he regarded our entire course with a feeling of general approval akin to that to which he had given expression in his note. it further gratifies us to reflect that our course had the effect of setting his eminently practical mind a-working on the whole subject, and led to the production of the inestimably valuable document, long and carefully pondered, which will do more to settle the question of national education in scotland than all the many volumes which have been written regarding it. as in a well-known instance in scottish story, it is the 'dead douglas' who is to 'win the field.' but we lag in our narrative. that melancholy event took place which cast a shade of sadness over christendom; and in a few weeks after, the posthumous document, kindly communicated to us by the family of the deceased, appeared in the columns of the _witness_. we perused it with intense interest; and what we saw in the first perusal was, that chalmers had gone far beyond us; and in the second, that, in laying down his first principles, he had looked at the subject, as was his nature, in a broader and more general aspect, and had unlocked the difficulty which it presented in a more practical and statesmanlike manner. _we_ had, indeed, considered in the abstract the right and duty of the civil magistrate to educate his people; but our main object being to ward off otherwise inevitable bankruptcy from a scheme of our church, and having to deal with a sort of vicious cameronianism, that would not accept of the magistrate's money, even though he gave the bible and the shorter catechism along with it, we had merely contended that money given in connection with the bible and shorter catechism is a very excellent thing, and especially so to men who cannot fulfil their obligations or pay their debts without it. but chalmers had looked beyond the difficulties of a scheme, to the emergencies of a nation. at the request of many of our readers, we have reprinted his document in full, as it originally appeared.{ } first, let it be remarked that, after briefly stating what he deemed the optimity of the question, he passes on to what he considered the only mode of settling it practically, in the present divided state of the church and country. and in doing so he lays down, as a preliminary step, the absolute right and duty of the government to educate, altogether independently of the theological differences or divisions which may obtain among the people or in the churches. 'as there seems no reason,' he says, 'why, because of these unresolved differences, a public measure for the health of all, for the recreation of all, for the economic advancement of all, should be held in abeyance, there seems as little reason why, because of these differences, a public measure for raising the general intelligence of all should be held in abeyance.' such is the principle which he enunciates regarding the party possessing the right to _educate_. let the reader next mark in what terms he speaks of the party _to be_ educated, or under whose immediate superintendence the education is to be conducted. those who most widely misunderstand the doctor's meaning--from the circumstance, perhaps, that their views are most essentially at variance with those which he entertained--seem to hold that this _absolute_ right on the part of government is somehow _conditional_ on the parties to be educated, or to superintend the education, coming forward to them _in the character of churches_. they deem it necessary to the integrity of his meaning, that presbyterians should come forward as presbyterians, puseyites as puseyites, papists as papists, and socinians as socinians; in which case, of course, all could be set right so far as the free church conscience was concerned in the matter, by taking the state's grant with the one hand, and holding out an indignant protest against its extension to the erroneous sects in the other. but that chalmers could have contemplated anything so monstrous as that _scotchmen_ should think of coming forward simply as scotchmen, they cannot believe. he must have regarded the state's _unconditional_ right to educate as _conditional_ after all, and dependent on the form assumed by the party on which or through which it was to be exercised. let the reader examine for himself, and see whether there exists in the document a single expression suited to favour such a view. nothing can be plainer than the words 'parliament,' 'government,' 'state,' 'legislature,' employed to designate the educating party on the one hand; and surely nothing plainer than the words 'people,' '_men_ of all churches and denominations,' 'families of the land,' and 'society at large,' made use of in designating the party to be educated, or entrusted with the educational means or machinery, on the other. there is a well-grounded confidence expressed in the christian and philanthropic zeal which obtain throughout society; but the only bodies ecclesiastical which we find specially named--if, indeed, one of these can be regarded as at all ecclesiastical--are the 'unitarians and the catholics.' it was with the broad question of national education in its relation to two great parties placed in happy opposition, as the 'inner hall of legislation' and the 'outer field of society,' that we find dr. chalmers mainly dealing. and yet the document _does_ contain palpable reference to the government scheme. there is one clause in which it urges the propriety of 'leaving [the matter of religion] to the parties who had to do with the erection and management of the schools which [the rulers of the country] had been called on to assist.' but the greater includes the less, and the much that is general in the paper is in no degree neutralized by the little in it that is particular. the hon. mr. fox maule could perhaps throw some additional light on this matter. it was at his special desire, and in consequence of a conversation on the subject which he held with chalmers, that the document was drawn up. the nature of the request could not, of course, alter whatever is absolutely present in what it was the means of producing; but it would be something to know whether what the statesman asked was a decision on a special educational scheme, or--what any statesman might well desire to possess--the judgment of so wise and great a man on the all-important subject of national education. it will be found that the following valuable letters from dr. guthrie and the hon. mr. fox maule determine the meaning of dr. chalmers on his own authority:-- , lauriston lane, _march , _. my dear mr. miller,--when such conflicting statements were advanced as to the bearing of dr. chalmers' celebrated paper on education, although i had no doubt in my own mind that the view you had taken of that valuable document was the correct one, and had that view confirmed by a conversation i had with his son-in-law, mr. m'kenzie, who heard dr chalmers discuss the matter in london, and acted, indeed, as his amanuensis in writing that paper; yet i thought it were well also to see whether mr. maule could throw any light on the subject. i wrote him with that object in view; and while we must regret that we are called to differ from some most eminent and excellent friends on this important question, it both comforts and confirms us to find another most important testimony in the letter which i now send to you, in favour of our opinion, that dr. chalmers, had god spared him to this day, would have lifted up his mighty voice to advocate the views in which we are agreed. into the fermenting mind of the public it is the duty of every one to cast in whatever may, by god's blessing, lead to a happy termination of this great question; and with this view i send you the letter which i have had the honour to receive from mr. maule.--believe me, yours ever, thomas guthrie. grosvenor street, _march , _. my dear dr. guthrie,--when you wrote me some time since upon the subject of the communication made to me by the late dr. chalmers upon the all-important question of education, i could not take upon myself to say positively (though i had very little doubt in my mind) whether that document took its origin in a desire expressed by me to have dr. chalmers' opinion on the general question of education, or merely upon the scheme laid down and pursued by the committee of privy council. my impression has always been, that dr. chalmers addressed himself to the question as a whole; and on looking over my papers a few days since, i find that impression quite confirmed by the following sentence, in a note in dr. chalmers' handwriting, bearing date st may :--'i hope that by to-morrow night i shall have prepared a few brief sentences on the _subject of education_.' none of us thought how inestimable these brief sentences were to become, forming, as they do, the last written evidence of the tone of his great mind on this subject. should you address yourself to this question, you are, in my opinion, fully justified in dealing with the _memorandum_ as referring to general and national arrangements, and not to those which are essentially of a temporary and varying character.--believe me, with great esteem, yours sincerely, f. maule. ----- { } this passage has been referred to in several free church presbyteries, as if the writer had affirmed that the schoolmaster stands on no higher level than the shoemaker or tailor. we need scarce say, however, that the passage conveys no such meaning. by affirming that in matters of chimney-sweeping men choose for themselves the best chimney-sweeps, and in matters of indisposition or disease the best physicians, we do not at all level the physician with the chimney-sweep: we merely intimate that there is a _best_ in both professions, and that men select that best, as preferable to what is inferior or worse, on every occasion they can. { } we have learned that what was actually intended at this time was, not to _ordain_, but only to _induct_ our schoolmasters. and their _induction_ would have made, we doubt not, what foigard in the play calls a 'very pretty sheremony.' but no mere ceremony, however imposing, can communicate to a secular profession a spiritual status or character. { } a fac-simile of this letter was reproduced in the columns of the _witness_.--ed. { } see introduction. chapter second. right and duty of the civil magistrate to educate the people--founded on two distinct principles, the one economic, the other judicial--right and duty of the parent--natural, not ecclesiastical--examination of the purely ecclesiastical claim--the real rights in the case those of the state, the parent, and the ratepayer--the terms parent and ratepayer convertible into the one term householder. wherever mind is employed, thought will be evolved; and in all questions of a practical character, truth, when honestly sought, is ultimately found. and so we deem it a happy circumstance, that there should be more minds honestly engaged at the present time on the educational problem than at perhaps any former period. to the upright light will arise. the question cannot be too profoundly pondered, nor too carefully discussed; and at the urgent request of not a few of our better readers, we purpose examining it anew in a course of occasional articles, convinced that its crisis has at length come, just as the crisis of the church question had in reality come when the late dr. m'crie published his extraordinary pamphlet;{ } and that it must depend on the part now taken by the free church in this matter, whether some ten years hence she is to posses any share, even the slightest, in the education of the country. we ask our readers severely to test all our statements, whether of principle or of fact, and to suffer nothing in the least to influence them which is not rational, or which is not true. in the first place, then, we hold with chalmers, that it is unquestionably the right and duty of the civil magistrate to educate his people, altogether independently of the religion which _he himself holds_, or of the religious differences which may unhappily obtain among _them_. even should there be as many sects in a country as there are families or individuals, the right and duty still remain. religion, in such circumstances, can palpably form no part of a government scheme of tuition; but there is nothing in the element of religious difference to furnish even a pretext for excluding those important secular branches which bear reference to the principles of trade, the qualities of matter, the relations of numbers, the properties of figured space, the philosophy of grammar, or the form and body which in various countries and ages literature and the _belles lettres_ have assumed. and this right and duty of a government to instruct, rest, we hold, on two distinct principles,--the one _economic_, the other _judicial_. education adds immensely to the _economic_ value of the subjects of a state. the professional and mercantile men who in this country live by their own exertions, and pay the income tax, and all the other direct taxes, are educated men; whereas its uneducated men do not pay the direct taxes, and, save in the article of intoxicating drink, very little of the indirect ones; and a large proportion of their number, so far from contributing to the national wealth, are positive burdens on the community. and on the class of facts to which this important fact belongs rests the _economic_ right and duty of the civil magistrate to educate. his _judicial_ right and duty are founded on the circumstance, that the laws which he promulgates are _written_ laws, and that what he writes for the guidance of the people, the people ought to be enabled to read; seeing that to punish for the breach of a law, of the existence of which he who breaks it has been left in ignorance, is not man-law, but what jeremy bentham well designates dog-law, and altogether unjust. we are, of course, far from supposing that every british subject who can read is to peruse the vast library which the british acts of themselves compose; but we hold that education forms the only direct means through which written law, as a regulator of conduct, can be known, and that, in consequence, in its practical breadth and average aspect, it is only educated men who know it, and only uneducated men who are ignorant of it. and hence the derivation of the magistrate's _judicial_ right and duty. but on this part of our subject, with free churchmen for our readers, we need not surely insist. our church has homologated at least the general principle of the civil magistrate's right and duty, by becoming the recipient of his educational grant. if he has no right to give, she can have no right to receive. if he, instead of performing a duty, has perpetrated a wrong, she, to all intents and purposes, being guilty of receipt, is a participator in the crime. nay, further, let it be remarked that, as indicated by the speeches of some of our abler and more influential men, there seems to exist a decided wish on the part of the free church, that the state, in its educational grants, should assume a purely secular character, and dispense with the certificate of religious training which it at present demands,--a certificate which, though anomalously required of sects of the most opposite tenets, constitutes notwithstanding, in this business of grants, the sole recognition of religion on the part of the government. now this, if a fact at all, is essentially a noticeable and pregnant one, and shows how much opposite parties are in reality at one on a principle regarding which they at least _seem_ to dispute. the right and duty of the civil magistrate thus established, let us next consider another main element in the question,--the right and duty of the parent. it is, we assert, imperative on every parent in scotland and elsewhere to educate his children; and on the principle that he is a joint contributor with the government to the support of every national teacher--the government giving _salary_, and the parent _fees_--we assert further, that should the government give its salary 'exclusively as the expression of its value for a good _secular_ education,' _he_ may, notwithstanding, demand that his fees should be received as the representative of _his_ value for a good _religious_ education. whether his principles be those of the voluntary or of the establishment-man, the same schoolmaster who is a secular teacher in relation to the government, may be a religious teacher in relation to him. for unless the state positively _forbid_ its schoolmaster to communicate religious instruction, he exists to the parent, in virtue of the fees given and received, in exactly the circumstances of the teacher of any adventure school. let us further remark, that the rights of the parent in the matter of education are not _ecclesiastical_, but _natural_ rights. the writer of this article is one of the parents of scotland; and, simply as such, he claims for himself the right of choosing his children's teacher on his own responsibility, and of determining what his children are to be taught. the rev. dr. thomas guthrie is his minister; and _he_ also is one of the parents of scotland, and enjoys, as such, a right identical in all respects with that of his parishioner and hearer. but it is only an identical and co-equal right. should the writer send his boy to a socialist or popish school, to be taught either gross superstition or gross infidelity, the minister would have a right to interfere, and, if entreaty and remonstrance failed, to bring him to discipline for so palpable a breach of his baptismal engagement. if, on the other hand, it was the minister who had sent his boy to the socialist or popish school, the parishioner would have a right to interfere, and, were entreaty and remonstrance disregarded, to bring _him_ to discipline. minister and parishioner stand, we repeat, in this matter, on exactly the same level. nor have ten, twenty, a hundred, a thousand, twenty thousand, or a hundred thousand lay parents, or yet ten, twenty, a hundred, or a thousand clerical parents, whether existing as a congregation or hundreds of congregations on the one hand, or as a presbytery, synod, or general assembly on the other, rights in this matter that in the least differ in their nature from the rights possessed by the single clergyman, dr. guthrie, or by the single layman, the editor of the _witness_. the sole right which exists in the case--that of the parent--is a _natural_ right, not an _ecclesiastical_ one; and the sole modification which it can receive from the superadded element of church membership is simply that modification to which we refer as founded on the religious duty of both member and minister, in its relation to ecclesiastical law and the baptismal vow. nor, be it observed, does this our recognition, in our character as a church member, of ecclesiastical rule and authority, give our minister any true grounds for urging that it is our bounden duty, in virtue of our parental engagements, and from the existence of such general texts as the often quoted one, 'train up a child,' etc., to send our children to some school in which religion is expressly taught. far less does it give him a right to _demand_ any such thing. we are free church in our principles; and the grand distinctive principle for which, during the protracted church controversy, we never ceased to contend, was simply the right of choosing our own religious teacher, on the strength of our own convictions, and on our own exclusive responsibility. we laughed to scorn the idea that the three items of dr. george cook's ceaseless iterations--life, literature, and doctrine--formed the full tale of ministerial qualification: there was yet a fourth item, infinitely more important than all the others put together, viz. _godliness_, or religion proper, or, in yet other words, the regeneration of the whole man by the spirit of god. and on this last item we held that it was the right and duty of the people who chose for themselves, _and for their children_, a religious teacher, and of none others, clerical or lay, solemnly to decide. and while we still hold by this sacred principle on the one hand, we see clearly, on the other, that the sole qualifications of our free church teachers, as prepared in our normal schools, correspond to but dr. cook's three items; nay, that instead of exceeding, they fall greatly short of these. the certificate of character which the young candidates bring to the institution answers but lamely to the item '_life_;' the amount of secular instruction imparted to them within its walls answers but inadequately to the item '_literature_;' while the modicum of theological training received, most certainly not equal to a four years' course of theology at a divinity hall, answers but indifferently to the crowning item of the three--'_doctrine_.' that paramount item, conversion on the part of the teacher to god, is still unaccounted for; and we contend that, respecting that item, the parent, and the parent only, has a right to decide, all difficult and doubtful as the decision may be: for be it remembered, that there exist no such data on which to arrive at a judgment in cases of this nature, as exist in the choosing of a minister. and though we would deem it eminently right and proper that our child should read his daily scripture lesson to some respectable schoolmaster, a believer in the divine authority of revelation, and should repeat to him his weekly tale of questions from the national catechism, yet to the _extempore_ religious teaching of no merely respectable schoolmaster would we subject our child's heart and conscience. for we hold that the religious lessons of the unregenerate lack regenerating life; and that whatever in this all-important department does not intenerate and soften, rarely fails to harden and to sear. religious preachments from a secular heart are the droppings of a petrifying spring, which convert all that they fall upon into stone. further, we hold that a mistake regarding the character of a schoolmaster authorized to teach religion _extempore_ might be greatly more serious, and might involve an immensely deeper responsibility, than a similar mistake regarding a minister. the minister preaches to grown men--a large proportion of them members of the church--not a few of them office-bearers in its service, and competent, in consequence, to judge respecting both the doctrine which he exhibits and the mode of its exhibition; but it is children, immature of judgment, and extremely limited in their knowledge, whom the religion-teaching schoolmaster has to address. nay, more: in choosing a minister, we may mistake the character of the man; but there can be no mistake made regarding the character of the office, seeing that it is an office appointed by god himself; whereas in choosing a religion-teaching schoolmaster, we may mistake the character of both the man and the office too. we are responsible in the one case for only the man; we are responsible in the other for both the man and the office. we have yet another objection to any authoritative interference on the part of ecclesiastical courts with the natural rights and enjoined duties of the parent in the matter of education. even though we fully recognised some conscientious teacher as himself in possession of the divine life, we might regard him as very unfitted, from some natural harshness of temper, or some coldness of heart, or some infirmity of judgment, for being a missionary of religion to the children under his care. at one period early in life we spent many a leisure hour in drawing up a gossiping little history of our native town, and found, in tracing out the _memorabilia_ of its parish school, that the rev. john russell, afterwards of kilmarnock and stirling, and somewhat famous in scottish literature as one of the clerical antagonists of burns, had taught in it for twelve years, and that several of his pupils (now long since departed) still lived. we sought them out one by one, and succeeded in rescuing several curious passages in his history, and in finding that, though not one among them doubted the sincerity of his religion, nor yet his conscientiousness as a schoolmaster, they all equally regarded him as a harsh-tempered, irascible man, who succeeded in inspiring all his pupils with fear, but not one of them with love. now, to no such type of schoolmaster, however strong our conviction of his personal piety, would we entrust the religious teaching of our child. if necessitated to place our boy under his pedagogical rule and superintendence, we would address him thus: lacking time, and mayhap ability, ourselves to instruct our son, we entrust him to you, and this simply on the same division of labour principle on which we give the making of our shoes to a shoemaker, and the making of our clothes to a tailor. and in order that you may not lack the power necessary to the accomplishment of your task--for we hold that 'folly is bound up in the heart of a child'--we make over to you our authority to admonish and correct. but though we can put into your hands the parental rod--with an advice, however, to use it discreetly and with temper--there are things which we cannot communicate to you. we cannot make over to you our child's affection for us, nor yet our affection for our child: with these joys 'a stranger intermeddleth not.' and as religious teaching without love, and conducted under the exclusive influence of fear, may and must be barren--nay, worse than barren--we ask you to leave this part of our duty as a parent entirely to ourselves. _our_ duty it is, and to you we delegate no part of it; and this, not because we deem it unimportant, but because we deem it important in the highest degree, and are solicitous that no unkindly element should mar it in its effects. now where, we ask, is the ecclesiastical office-bearer who, in his official character, or in any character or capacity whatever, has a right authoritatively to challenge our rejection, on our own parental responsibility, of the religious teaching of even a converted schoolmaster, on purely reasonable grounds such as these? or where is the ecclesiastical office-bearer who has an authoritative right to challenge our yet weightier free church objection to the religious teaching of a schoolmaster whom we cannot avoid regarding as an unregenerate man, or whom we at least do not know to be a regenerate one? or yet further, where is the ecclesiastical office-bearer who has a right authoritatively to bear down or set aside our purely protestant caveat against a teacher of religion who, in his professional capacity, has no place or standing in the word of god? the right and duty of the civil magistrate in all circumstances to educate his people, and of parents to choose their children's teacher, and to determine what they are to be taught, we are compelled to recognise; and there seems to be a harmony between the two rights--the parental and the magisterial, with the _salary_ of the one and the _fees_ of the other--suited, we think, to unlock many a difficulty; but the authoritative standing, in this question, of the ecclesiastic as such, we have hitherto failed to see. the parent, as a church member or minister, is amenable to discipline; but his natural rights in the matter are simply those of the parent, and his political rights simply those of the subject and the ratepayer. and in this educational question certain political rights _are_ involved. in the present state of things, the parish schoolmasters of the kingdom are chosen by the parish ministers and parish heritors: the two elements involved are the ecclesiastical and the political. but while we see the parish minister as but the mere idle image of a state of things passed away for ever, and possessed in his ministerial capacity of merely a statutory right, which, though it exists to-day, may be justly swept away to-morrow, we recognise the heritor as possessed of a real right; and what we challenge is merely its engrossing extent, not its nature. we regard it as just in kind, but exorbitant in degree; and on the simple principle that the money of the state is the money of the people, and that the people have a right to determine that it be not misapplied or misdirected, we would, with certain limitations, extend to the ratepayers as a body the privileges, in this educational department, now exclusively exercised by the heritors. in that educational franchise which we would fain see extended to the scottish people, we recognise two great elements, and but two only,--the natural, or that of the parent; and the political, or that of the ratepayer. these form the two opposite sides of the pyramid; and, though diverse in their nature, let the reader mark how nicely for all practical purposes they converge into the point, _householder_. the householders of scotland include all the ratepayers of scotland. the householders of scotland include also all the parents of scotland. we would therefore fix on the householders of a parish as the class in whom the right of nominating the parish schoolmaster should be vested. but on the same principle of high expediency on which we exclude householders of a certain standing from exercising the political franchise in the election of a member of parliament, would we exclude certain other householders, of, however, a much lower standing, from voting in the election of a parish schoolmaster. we are not prepared to be chartists in either department,--the educational or the political; and this simply on the ground that chartism in either would be prejudicial to the general good. on this part of the subject, however, we shall enter at full length in our next. meanwhile we again urge our readers carefully to examine for themselves all our statements and propositions,--to take nothing on trust,--to set no store by any man's _ipse dixit_, be he editor or elder, minister or layman. in this question, as in a thousand others, 'truth lies at the bottom of the well;' and if she be not now found and consulted, to the exclusion of every prejudice, and the disregard of every petty little interest and sinister motive, it will be ill ten years hence with the free church of scotland in her character as an educator. her safety rests, in the present crisis, in the just and the true, and in the just and the true only. ----- { } _what ought the general assembly to do at the present crisis?_ ( .) chapter third. parties to whom the educational franchise might be safely extended--house proprietors, house tenants of a certain standing, farmers, crofters--scheme of an educational faculty--effects of the desired extension--it would restore the national schools to the people of the nation. it is the right and duty of every government to educate its people, whatever the kinds or varieties of religion which may obtain among them;--it is the right and duty of every parent to select, on his own responsibility, his children's teacher, and to determine what his children are to be taught;--it is the right and duty of every member of the commonwealth to see that the commonwealth's money, devoted to educational purposes, be not squandered on incompetent men, and, in virtue of his contributions as a ratepayer, to possess a voice with the parents of a country in the selection of its salaried schoolmasters. there exist, on the one hand, the right and duty of the state; there exist, on the other, the rights and duties of the parents and ratepayers; and we find both parents and ratepayers presenting themselves in the aggregate, and for all practical purposes in this matter, as a single class, viz. the _householders_ of the kingdom. but as, in dealing with these in purely political questions, we exclude a certain portion of them from the exercise of the _political_ franchise, and that simply because, as classes, they are uninformed or dangerous, and might employ power, if they possessed it, to the public prejudice, so would we exclude a certain proportion of them, on similar grounds, from the _educational_ franchise. in selecting, however, the safe classes of householders, we would employ tests somewhat dissimilar in their character from those to which the reform act extends its exclusive sanction, and establish a somewhat different order of qualifications from those which it erects. in the first place, we would fain extend the educational franchise to all those householders of scotland who inhabit houses of their own, however humble in kind, or however low the valuation of their rental. we know not a safer or more solid, or, in the main, more intelligent class, than those working men of the country who, with the savings of half a lifetime, build or purchase a dwelling for themselves, and then sit down rent-free for the rest of their lives, each 'the monarch of a shed.' with these men we are intimately acquainted, for we have lived and laboured among them; and very rarely have we failed to find the thatched domicile, of mayhap two little rooms and a closet, with a patch of garden-ground behind, of which some hard-handed country mechanic or labourer had, through his own exertions, become the proud possessor, forming a higher certificate of character than masters the most conscientious and discerning could bestow upon their _employés_, or even churches themselves upon their members. nor is this house-owning qualification much less valuable when it has been derived by inheritance--not wrought for; seeing that the man who retains his little patrimony unsquandered must be at least a steady, industrious man, the slave of no expensive or disreputable vice. let us remark, however, that we would not attach the educational franchise to property as such: the proprietor of the house, whether a small house or a large one, would require to be the _bona fide_ inhabitant of the dwelling which he occupied, for at least a considerable portion of every year. the second class to which we would fain see the educational franchise extended are all those householders of the kingdom who tenant houses of five pounds annual rent and upwards, who settle with their landlords not oftener than twice every twelvemonth, and who are at least a year entered on possession. by fixing the qualification thus high, and rejecting the monthly or weekly rent-payer, the country would get rid of at least nineteen-twentieths of the dangerous classes,--the agricultural labourers, who wander about from parish to parish, some six or eight months in one locality, and some ten or twelve in another; the ignorant immigrant irish, who tenant the poorer hovels of so many of our western coast parishes; and last, not least, all the migratory population of our larger towns, who rarely reside half a year in the same dwelling, and who, though they may in some instances pay at more than the rate of the yearly five pounds, pay it weekly, or by the fortnight or month. we regret, however, that there is a really worthy class which such a qualification would exclude,--ploughmen, labourers, and country mechanics, who reside permanently in humble cottages, the property of the owner of the soil, and who, though their course through life lies on the bleak edge of poverty, are god-fearing, worthy men, at least morally qualified to give, in the election of a teacher, an honest and not unintelligent voice. and yet, hitherto at least, we have failed to see any principle which a british statesman would recognise as legitimate, on which this class could be included in the educational franchise, and their dangerous neighbours of the same political status kept out. there is yet a third very important class whom we would fain see in possession of the educational franchise,--those householders of scotland who till the soil as tenants, whether with or without leases, or whether the annual rent which they pay amounts to three or to three thousand pounds. the tillers of the soil are a fixed class, greatly more permanent, even where there exists no lease, than the mere tenant householders; and they include, especially in the highlands of scotland, and the poorer districts of the low country, a large proportion of the country's parentage. they are in the main, too, an eminently safe class, and not less so where the farms are small and the dwellings upon them mere cottages--to which, save for the surrounding croft or farm, no franchise could attach--than where they live in elegant houses, and are the lessees of hundreds of acres. and such are the three great classes to which, as composing the solid body of the scottish nation--to the exclusion of little more than the mere rags that hang loosely on its vestments--would we extend, did we possess the power, the educational franchise. in order, however, to render a franchise thus liberally restricted more safe and salutary still, we would demand not only certain qualifications on the part of the parents and ratepayers of the country, without which they could not be permitted to _vote_, but also certain other qualifications on the part of the country's schoolmasters, without which they could not be _voted for_. we would thus impart to the scheme such a twofold aspect of security as that for which in a purely ecclesiastical matter we contended, when we urged that none but church members should be permitted to choose their own ministers; and that none but ministers pronounced duly qualified in life, literature, and doctrine, by a competent ecclesiastical court, should they be _permitted_ to choose. there ought to exist a teaching faculty as certainly as there exists a medical or legal faculty, or as there exists in the church what is essentially a preacher-licensing faculty. the membership of a church are unfitted in their aggregate character to judge respecting at least the literature of the young licentiate whom, in their own and their children's behalf, they call to the pastoral charge;--the people of a district, however shrewd and solid, are equally unqualified to determine whether the young practitioner of medicine or of law who settles among them is competently acquainted with his profession, and so a fit person to be entrusted with the care of their health or the protection of their property. and hence the necessity which exists in all these cases for testing, licensing, diploma-giving courts or boards, composed of men qualified to decide regarding those special points of ability or acquirement which the people, as such, cannot try for themselves. in no case, however, are courts of this nature more imperatively required than in the case of the schoolmaster. neither the amount of literature which he possesses, nor yet his mastery over the most approved modes of communicating it, can be tested by the people, who, as parents and ratepayers, possess the exclusive right to make choice of him for their parish or district school; and hence the necessity that what they cannot do for themselves should be previously done for them by some competent court or board, and that no teacher who did not possess a licence or diploma should be eligible to at least an endowed seminary supported by the public money. with, of course, the qualifications of the mere adventure-teacher, whether supported by churches or individuals, we would permit no board to interfere. as to the composition of the board itself, that, we hold, might be determined on very simple principles. let the college-bred teachers of scotland, associated with its university professors, select for themselves, out of their own number, a dean or chairman, and a court or committee, legally qualified by act of parliament stringently to try all teachers who may present themselves before them, in order to be rendered eligible for a national school, and to grant them licences or diplomas, legally representative of professional qualification. whether a teacher, on his election by the people, might not be a second time tried, especially on behalf of the state and the ratepayers, by a government inspectorship, and thus a check on the board be instituted, we are not at present called on to determine; but on this we are clear, that the certificate of no normal school, in behalf of its own pupils, ought to be received otherwise than as a mere makeweight in the general item of professional character; seeing that any such document would be as much a certificate of the normal school's own ability in rearing efficient teachers, as of the pedagogical skill of the teachers which it reared. the vitiating element of self-interest would scarce fail to induce, ultimately at least, a suspicious habit of self-recommendation. such, then, in this matter, is our full tale of qualification, pedagogical and popular, of the educators of the country on the one hand, and of the educational franchise-holders of the country on the other. and now we request the reader to mark one mighty result of the arrangement, which no other yet set in opposition to it could possibly produce. there are in scotland about one thousand one hundred national schools, supported by national resources; and, of consequence, though fallen into the hands of a mere sect, which in some localities does not include a tithe of the population, they of right belong to the scottish people. and these schools of the _people_ that extension of the educational franchise which we desiderate would not fail to restore to the _people_. it would put them once more in possession of what was their own property _de facto_ at the revolution (for at that period, when, with a few inconsiderable exceptions, they were all of one creed, the ministry of the established church virtually represented them), and of what has been _de jure_ their property ever since. but by the ministry of no one church can the people be represented now. the long rule of moderatism,--the consequent formation of the secession and relief churches,--the growth of independency and episcopacy,--and last, but not least in the series, the disruption, and the instantaneous creation of the free church, have put an end to that state of things for ever. the time has in the course of providence fairly come, when the people must be permitted in this matter to represent themselves; and there is one thing sure,--the struggle may be protracted, but the issue is certain. important, however, as are our parish schools, and rich in associations so intimately linked to the intellectual glory of the nation, that, were they but mere relics of the past, the custodiership of them might well be most desirable to the scottish people, they represent but a small part of the stake involved in the present all-engrossing movement. it seeks also to provide from the coffers of the state--on a broad basis of popular representation, and with the reservation of a right on the part of the people to supplement whatever instruction the state may not or cannot supply--that fearful educational destitution of the nation which is sinking its tens and hundreds of thousands into abject pauperism and barbarous ignorance, and which neither churches nor societies can of themselves supply. it is the _first_ hopeful movement of the age; for our own free church educational movement, though perhaps _second_ in point of importance, only serves irrefragably to demonstrate its necessity. it is, we repeat, to the people of scotland, and not to any one of the churches of scotland, that our scheme of a widely-based and truly popular franchise would restore the scottish schools. mr. george combe is, however, quite in the right in holding that religion is too intimately associated with the educational question, and too decidedly a force in the country, to be excluded from the national seminaries, 'unless, indeed, government do something more than merely _omit_ the religious element.'{ } all is lost, mr. combe justly infers, on the non-religious side of the question, if the introduction of the bible and shorter catechism be not _prohibited_ by act of parliament; for, if not stringently prohibited, what parliament merely omits doing, a bible and catechism loving people will to a certainty do; and the conscience of the phrenologist and his followers will not fail to be outraged by the spectacle of bible classes in the national schools, and of state schoolmasters instilling into the youthful mind, by means of the shorter catechism, the doctrine of original sin and the work of the spirit. nay, more; as it is not in the power of mere acts of the legislature to eradicate from the hearts of a people those feelings of partiality, based on deep religious conviction and the associations of ages, with which it is natural to regard a co-religionist, more especially in the case of the teacher to whom one's children are to read their daily chapter and repeat their weekly tale of questions, _denomination_ must and will continue to exert its powerful influence in the election of national schoolmasters popularly chosen. and as there are certain extensive districts in scotland in which some one church is the stronger, and other certain districts in which some other church is the stronger, there are whole shires and provinces in which, if selected on the popular scheme, the national teachers would be found well-nigh all of one religious denomination. from john o'groat's to beauly, for instance, they would be all, or almost all, free churchmen; for in that extensive district almost all the people are free church. in the scottish highlands generally, nearly the same result would be produced, from, of course, the existence of a similar constituency. in inverness, and onwards along the sea-coast to aberdeen, montrose, st. andrews, and the frith of forth, the element of old dissent would be influentially felt: the great parties among the people would be three--establishment, free church, and voluntary; and whichever two of them united, would succeed in defeating the third. and such unions, no doubt, frequently _would_ take place. the voluntaries and free churchmen would often unite for the carrying of a _man_; and occasionally, no doubt, the free church and the establishment, for the carrying of a _principle_,--that principle of religious teaching on which, in the coming struggle, the state church will be necessitated to take her stand. to the south of the frith of forth on to berwick, and along the western coast from dumbarton to the solway, there would be localities parcelled out into large farms, in which the establishment would prevail; and of course, wherever it can reckon up a majority of the more solid people, it is but right and proper that the establishment _should_ prevail; but who can doubt that even in these districts the national teaching would be immensely heightened by a scheme which gave to parents and ratepayers the selection of their teachers, and restricted their choice to intelligent and qualified men? wherever there is liberty, there will be discussion and difference; and the election of a schoolmaster would not be managed quite as quietly under the anticipated state of things, with the whole people of a parish for his constituency, as in the present, by a minister and factor over a social glass. but the objection taken by anticipation to popular heats and contendings in such cases is as old as the first stirrings of a free spirit among the people, and the first struggles of despotism to bind them down. we ourselves have heard it twice urged on the unpopular side,--once when the rotten burghs were nodding to their fall, and once when an unrestricted patronage was imperilled by the encroachments of the veto. there will, and must be, difference; and difference too, scotland being what it is, in which the religious element will not fail to mingle; but not the less completely on that account will the scheme restore the scottish schools to the scottish people, as represented by the majority, and to the membership of the free church, in the _de facto_ statistical sense and proportion in which the free church is national. it will not restore them to us in the theoretic sense; but then there are at least three other true original churches of scotland, which in that respect will be greatly worse off than ourselves,--the true national cameronian church, the true national episcopalian church, and a true compact little church of the whole nation, that, in the form of one very excellent minister, labours in the east. meanwhile, we would fain say to our country folk and readers of the north of scotland: you, of all the free churchmen of the kingdom, have an especial stake in this matter. examine for yourselves,--trust to your own good sense,--exercise as protestants your right of private judgment,--and see whether, as christian men and good scotchmen, you may not fairly employ the political influence given you by god and your country, in possessing yourselves of the parish schools. there will be deep points mooted in this controversy, which neither you nor we will ever be in the least able to understand. you will no doubt be told of a theocratic theory of the british government, perfectly compatible, somehow, with the receipt of educational _grants_ from which all recognition of the religious element on the part of the state is, at the express request of the church, to be thoroughly discharged, but not at all compatible with the receipt of an educational _endowment_ of exactly the same character, from which the same state recognition of the same religious element is to be discharged in the same degree. you will, we say, not be able to understand this. the late dr. thomas chalmers and the late rev. mr. stewart of cromarty could not understand it; we question much whether dr. william cunningham understands it; and we are quite sure that dr. guthrie and dr. begg do not. and you, who are poor simple laymen, will never be able to understand it at all. but you are all able to understand that the parish schools of your respective districts, now lying empty and useless, belong of right to you; and that it would be a very excellent thing to have that right restored to you, both on your own behalf and on that of your children. ----- { } 'the sixth resolution [of the educational manifesto], in which the opinion of dr. chalmers is quoted, that government [should] abstain from introducing the element of religion at all into their part of the scheme, must, as here introduced, be presumed to mean, that in the act of the legislature which shall carry the views of the resolutionists into practical effect, nothing shall be said about religious instruction; but that power shall be given to the heads of families to manage the schools, and prescribe the subjects to be taught, according to their own convictions of what is sound in religious and useful in secular instruction. but this would leave the religious rights of the minority completely unprotected. government must do something more than _omit_ the religious element: it must limit the power of the majority to introduce this element into their schools to the injury of the minority.'--_letter of mr. george combe on the educational movement._ chapter fourth. objections urged by the free church presbytery of glasgow against the educational movement--equally suited to bear against the scheme of educational grants--great superiority of territorial over denominational endowment--the scottish people sound as a whole, but some of the scottish sects very unsound--state of the free church educational scheme. 'whereas attempts are now being made to reform the parish schools of scotland, on the principle of altogether excluding religion from national recognition as an element in the national system of education, and leaving it solely to private parties to determine in each locality whether any or what religious instruction will be introduced into the parochial schools,--it is humbly overtured to the venerable the general assembly of the free church of scotland, to declare that this church can be no party to any plan of education based on the negation of religion in the general, or of the national faith in particular,' etc. such is the gist of that 'overture on education' which was carried some three weeks ago by a majority of the free church presbytery of glasgow. it has the merit of being a clear enunciation of meaning; of being also at least as well fitted to express the views of the established as of the free church courts in glasgow and elsewhere, and a great deal better suited to serve as a cloak to their policy; and, further, by a very slight adaptation, it could be made to bear as directly against state _grants_ given for educational purposes, if dissociated from the religious certificate, as against state _endowments_ given for the same purpose, when dissociated from statutory religious requirement. it is the religious certificate--most anomalously demanded of denominations diametrically opposed to each other in their beliefs, and subversive of each other in their teachings--that constitutes in the affair of educational grants the recognition of religion on the part of the state. educational grants dissociated from the religious certificate are educational grants dissociated from the state recognition of religion. the fact that the certificates demanded should be of so anomalous a character, is simply a reflection of the all-important fact that the british people are broken up into antagonistic churches and hostile denominations, and that the british government is representative. and that men such as those members and office-bearers of our church who hold the middle position between that occupied by mr. gibson of glasgow on the one hand, and dr. begg of edinburgh on the other, should see no other way of availing themselves of the educational grants, with a good conscience, than by getting rid of the religious recognition, only serves to show that they are quite as sensible as their opponents in the liberal section of the enormous difficulty of the case, and can bethink themselves of no better mode of unlocking it. for it will not be contended, that if in the matter of grants there is to be no recognition of religion on the part of the state, the want of it could be more adequately supplied by sects, as such, denominationally divided, than by the people of scotland, as such, territorially divided; seeing that sects, as such, include papists, puseyites, socinians, and seceders,--muggletonians, juggletonians, new jerusalemites, and united presbyterians,--free-thinking christians, free-willers, and free churchmen. nor can we see either the wisdom or the advantage of any scheme of government inquiry into the educational destitution of a locality, that, instead of supplying the want which it found, would merely placard the place by a sort of feuing ticket--destined, we are afraid, in many instances to be sadly weather-bleached--which would intimate to the sects in general, that were any one of them to come forward and enact the part of school-builder and pedagogue, the state would undertake for a portion of the expenses. we suppose the advertisement on the ticket would run somewhat as follows:--'wanted by the government, a church to erect a school. terms liberal, and no certificate of religious teaching demanded. n.b.--papists, puseyites, and socinians perfectly eligible.'{ } leaving, however, to profounder intellects than our own the adjustment of the nice principles involved in this matter, let us advert to what we deem the practical advantages of a _territorial_ scheme of educational _endowments_ over a _denominational_ scheme of educational _grants_. at present, all or any of the _sects_ may come forward as such, whatever their character or teaching, and, on fulfilling certain conditions, receive assistance from the government in the form of an educational grant; whereas, by the scheme which we would fain see set in its place, it would be only the more solid people of _districts_--let us suppose parishes--that would be qualified to come forward to choose for themselves their parochial state-endowed teachers. and at least one of the advantages of this scheme over the other must be surely obvious and plain. _denominationally_, there is much unsoundness in scotland; _territorially_, there is very little. there exist, unhappily, differences among our scottish presbyterians; but not the less on that account has presbyterianism, in its three great divisions--voluntary, establishment, and free church--possessed itself of the land in all its length and breadth. the only other form of religion that has a territorial existence in scotland at all is popery, and popery holds merely a few darkened districts of the outer hebrides and of the highlands. it would fail, out of the one thousand one hundred parish schools of the country, to carry half-a-dozen; and no other form of religious error would succeed in carrying so much as one parish school. there is no socinian district in scotland; old scotch episcopacy has not its single parish; and high puseyism has not its half, or quarter, or even tithe of a parish. that church of scotland which knox founded, with its offshoots the secession and relief bodies, has not laboured in vain; and through the blessing of god on these labours, scotland, as represented by its territorial majorities, is by far the soundest and most orthodox country in the world. a wise and patriotic man--at once a good scot and a judicious churchman--would, we think, hesitate long ere he flung away so solid an advantage, won to us by the labours, the contendings, the sufferings of reformers, confessors, martyrs, and ministers of the truth, from the days of melville and of henderson, down to those of the erskines and of chalmers. he would at least not fail to ask himself whether that to which what was so unequivocally _substance_ was to be sacrificed, was in itself _substance_ or _shadow_. let us next remark, that the scottish national schools, while they thus could not fail to be essentially sound on the territorial scheme--just because scotland is itself essentially sound as a nation--might, and would in very many instances, be essentially unsound on a denominational one. there is no form of religious error which may not, in the present state of things, have, as we have said, its schools supported in part by a government grant, and which may not have its pupil-teachers trained up to disseminate deadly error at the public expense among the youthhead of the future. edinburgh, for instance, has its one popish street--the cowgate; but it has no popish parish: it has got very little popery in george square and its neighbourhood,--very little at the bristo port,--very little in broughton street; and yet in all these localities, territorially protestant, papists have got their religion-teaching schools, in which pupil-teachers, paid by the state, are in the course of being duly qualified for carrying on the work of perversion and proselytism. st. patrick's school, in which, as our readers were so lately shown, boys may spend four years without acquiring even the simple accomplishment of reading, has no fewer than five of these embryo perverters supported by the government. puseyism has, in the same way, no territorial standing on the northern shores of the frith of forth; and yet at least one free church minister, located in one of the towns which stud that coast, could tell of a well-equipped puseyite school in his immediate neighbourhood, supported in part by the government grant, that, by the superiority of the secular education which it supplies, is drawing away presbyterian, nay, even free church children, from the other schools of the locality. on the territorial principle, we repeat, schools such as these, which rest on the denominational basis alone, could not possibly receive the support and countenance of the legislature. and let the reader remark, that should the free church succeed in getting rid of the anomalous religious certificate, and yet continue to hold by the denominational basis, something worse than mere denomination would scarce fail to step in. the combeite might then freely come forward to teach at the public expense, that no other soul of man has yet been ascertained to exist than the human brain, and no other superintending providence than the blind laws of insensate matter. nay, even socialism, just a little disguised, might begin to build and teach for the benefit of the young, secure of being backed and assisted in its work by the civil magistrate. further, should the grant scheme be rendered more flexible, _i.e._ extended to a lower grade of qualification, and thus the public purse be applied to the maintenance and perpetuation of a hedge-school system of education,--or should it be rendered more liberal, _i.e._ should the government be induced to do proportionally more, and the school-builders be required to do proportionally less,--superstition and infidelity would, in the carrying out of their schemes of perversion, have, in consequence, just all the less to sacrifice and to acquire. according to the present arrangement, a schoolmaster must realize, from salary and fees united, the sum of forty-five annual pounds, and be, besides, furnished with a free house, ere he can receive from the government a grant on its lowest scale, viz. fifteen pounds;{ } and whatever judgment may be formed of the proportion in which the state contributes, there can be no question that the general arrangement is a wise one. sermonizing dominies could be had, no doubt, at any price; and there can be as little doubt that, at any price, would the great bulk of them turn out to be '_doons hard bargains_;' but it is wholly impossible that a country should have respectable and efficient teachers under from sixty to eighty pounds a year. the thing, we repeat, is wholly impossible; and the state, in acting, as in this arrangement, on the conviction, does but its duty to its people. the some sixty or seventy pounds, however, would be as certainly realized as under the present arrangement, were it government that contributed the forty-five pounds, and the denomination or society the fifteen and the free house; and this, of course, would be eminently liberal. but what would be the effects of so happy a change? it might in some degree relieve the free church scheme from financial difficulty; but would it do nothing more? there are puseyite ladies in scotland, high in rank and influence, and possessed of much wealth and great zeal, who are already building their schools, in the hope of unprotestantizing their poor lapsed country, spiritually ruined by the reformation. the liberality that might in part enable the free church education committee to discharge its obligations at the rate of twenty shillings per pound, would be a wonderful godsend to them; seeing that they would have little else to do, under a scheme so liberal, than simply to erect schoolhouses on the widespread domains of their husbands or fathers, and immediately commence perverting the children of the nation at the national cost. it would be no less advantageous to the society of the propaganda, and would enable it to spare its own purse, by opening to it that of the people. the socinian, the combeite, the semi-socialist--none of them very much disposed to liberality themselves--would all share in that of the government; and their zeal, no longer tied down to inactivity by the dread of pecuniary sacrifice or obligation, would find wings and come abroad. surely, with such consequences in prospect, our free church readers would do well to ponder the nature and demands of the crisis at which they have now arrived. our country and our church have in reality but one set of interests; and a man cannot be a bad scot without being a bad free churchman too. let them decide in this matter, not under the guidance of an oblique eye, squinted on little temporary difficulties or hypothetical denominational advantages, but influenced by considerations of the permanent welfare of their country, and of their abiding obligations to their god. but why, it may be asked of the writer, if you be thus sensible of the immense superiority of a territorial scheme of educational endowments over a denominational scheme of educational grants,--why did you yourself urge, some three years ago, that the free church should avail herself of these very grants? our reply is sufficiently simple. the denominational scheme of grants was the only scheme before us at the time; these grants were, we saw, in danger of being rejected by the free church on what we deemed an unsound and perilous principle, which was in itself in no degree free church; and last, not least, we saw further, that if the church did not avail herself of these grants, there awaited on her educational scheme--ominously devoid of that direct divine mandate which all her other schemes possessed--inevitable and disastrous bankruptcy. but circumstances have greatly changed. the free church is no longer in any danger from the principle which would have rejected government assistance. there is now a territorial scheme brought full before the view of the country; and, further, the government grants have wholly failed to preserve our educational scheme from the state of extreme pecuniary embarrassment which we too surely anticipated. salaries of £ and £ per annum are greatly less than adequate for the support and remuneration of even the lower order of teachers, especially in thinly-peopled districts of country, where pupils are few and the fees inconsiderable. but at these low rates it was determined, in the programme of the free church educational scheme, that about three-fourths of the church's teachers should be paid; and there are scores and hundreds among them who regulated their expenditure on the arrangement. for at least the last two years, however, the education committee has been paying its £ salaries at the reduced rate of £ , and its £ salaries at the rate of £ , s. d.; and those embarrassments, of which the reduction was a consequence, have borne with distressful effect on the committee's _employés_. however _orthodox_ their creed, their circumstances have in many instances become _antinomian_; nor, while teaching religion to others, have they been able in every instance to conform to one of its simplest demands--'owe no man anything.' there were several important items, let us remark, in which we over-estimated the amount of assistance which the scheme was to receive from the government; and this mainly from our looking at the matter in the gross, as a question of proportion--so much granted for so much raised--without taking into account certain conditions demanded by the minutes of council on the one hand, and a certain course of management adopted on the part of our education committee on the other. the grant is given in proportion to salary of one to two (we at present set aside the element of fees): a _salary_ of thirty pounds is supplemented by a _grant_ of fifteen pounds,--a salary of forty pounds by a grant of twenty,--a salary of fifty by a grant of twenty-five,--and so on; and we were sanguine enough to calculate, that an aggregate sum of some ten or twelve thousand pounds raised by the church for salaries, would be supplemented by an aggregation of grants from the government to the amount of some five or six thousand pounds more. the minimum sum regarded as essentially necessary for carrying on the free church educational scheme had been estimated at twenty thousand pounds. if the free church raise but twelve thousand of these, we said, government will give her six thousand additional in the form of grants, and some two thousand additional, or so, for the training of her pupil-teachers; and the church will thus be enabled to realize her minimum estimate. we did not take the fact into account, that of our free church teachers a preponderating majority should fail successfully to compete for the government money; nor yet that the educational funds should be so broken up into driblet salaries, attached to schools in which the fees were poor and the pupils few, that the schoolmaster, even though possessed of the necessary _literary_ qualification, would in many cases be some twenty, or even thirty, pounds short of the necessary _money_ qualification, _i.e._ the essential forty-five annual pounds. we did not, we say, take these circumstances into account,--indeed, it was scarce possible that we could have done so; and so we immensely over-estimated the efficacy of the state grant in maintaining the solvency of our educational scheme. we learn from dr. reid's recent report to our metropolitan church court, that of the forty-two free church teachers connected with the presbytery of edinburgh, and in receipt of salaries from the education committee, only thirteen have been successful in obtaining government certificates of merit. and even this is a rather high average, compared with that of the other districts; for we have ascertained, that of the six hundred and eighty-nine teachers of the free church scattered over the kingdom, not more than a hundred and twenty-nine have received the government grant. there are, however, among the others, teachers who have failed to attain to it, not from any want of the literary qualification--for some of them actually possess the parchment certificate bearing the signature of lansdowne--but simply because they are unfortunate enough to lack the pecuniary one. that which we so much dreaded has come, we repeat, upon our educational scheme. the subject is a painfully delicate one, and we have long kept aloof from it; but truth, and truth only, can now enable the free church and her people to act, in this emergency, as becomes the character which they bear, and the circumstances in which they are placed. let us not fall into the delusion of deeming the mere array of our free church schools and teachers--their numbers and formidable length of line--any matter of congratulation; nor forget, in our future calculations, that if the free church now realizes from £ , to £ , yearly for educational purposes, she would require to realize some £ or £ more in order to qualify her to meet her existing liabilities, estimated at the very moderate rates laid down in the programme. the £ or £ additional, instead of enabling her to erect a single additional school, would only enable her to pay in full her teachers' salaries. and so it is obviously a delusion to hold that our free church educational scheme supplies in reality two-thirds of our congregations with teachers, seeing that these teachers are only two-thirds paid. we are still some £ or £ short of supplying the two-thirds, and some £ or £ more of supplying the whole. and even were the whole of our own membership to be supplied, the grand query, how is our country to be educated,--our parish schools to be restored to usefulness and the scotch people,--and scotland herself to resume and maintain her old place among the nations?--would come back upon us as emphatically as now. judging from what has been already done, and this after every nerve has been strained in the sisyphisian work of rolling up-hill an ever-returning stone, it seems wholly impossible that we should ever succeed in educating the young of even our own congregations; and how, then, save on some great national scheme, is a sinking nation to be educated? ----- { } the following portion of a motion on the educational question, announced in the edinburgh presbytery of the free church on the th of february last, is specially referred to in this paragraph:-- 'that the successful working of the present government plan would be greatly promoted by the following amendments:-- ' _st_, the entire omission in all cases (except, perhaps, the case of the established church) of the certificate regarding religious instruction, and the recognition of all bodies, whether churches or private parties and associations, as equally entitled to receive aid. ' _d_, the adoption of a rule in proportioning government grants to local efforts more flexible, and admitting of far more liberal aid in destitute localities, as compared with those which are in a better condition. ' _d_, the institution, on the part of government, of an inquiry into the destitution confessedly existing in large towns, populous neighbourhoods, and remote districts, with a view of marking out places where elementary schools are particularly needed; and the holding out of special encouragement to whatever parties may come forward as willing to plant such schools. 'that the preceding suggestions, if adopted, would go far to render the present government plan unobjectionable in principle, and also to fit it in practice for ascertaining the educational wants of the country; but that a much more liberal expenditure of the public money would seem to be indispensable, as well as a less stringent application, upon adequate cause shown, of the rules by which the expenditure is regulated.' in bringing the motion forward in the following meeting of presbytery, the clause recommending the 'entire omission in all cases of the certificate regarding religious instruction' was suffered to drop. { } such are the proportions laid down in the official document for scotland of the committee of her majesty's privy council on education. we understand, however, that the government inspectors possess certain modifying powers, through which the government grant is occasionally extended to deserving teachers whose salary and fees united fall considerably short of the specified sum of forty-five pounds. chapter fifth. unskilled labourers remunerated at a higher rate than many of our free church teachers--the teaching must be inferior if the remuneration be low--effect of inferior teaching on the parties taught--statutory security; where are the parties to contend for it?--necessity of a government inquiry--'o for an hour of knox!' that higher order of farm-servants which are known technically in mid-lothian as 'sowers and stackers,' receive, as their yearly wages, in the immediate neighbourhood of the house of the writer, eighteen pounds in money, four bolls oatmeal, two cart-loads of potatoes, and about from twenty to thirty shillings worth of milk. the money value of the whole amounts, at the present time, to something between twenty-three and twenty-four pounds sterling. we are informed by a fifeshire proprietor, that in his part of the country, a superior farm-servant, neither grieve nor foreman, receives eight pounds in money, six and a half bolls meal, three cart-loads of potatoes, and the use of a cow, generally estimated as worth from ten to twelve pounds annually. his aggregate wages, therefore, average from about twenty-four to twenty-six pounds ten shillings a year. and we are told by another proprietor of the south of scotland, that each of the better hinds in his employment costs him every year about thirty pounds. in fine, to the south of the grampians, the emoluments of our more efficient class of farm-servants range from twenty-three to thirty pounds yearly. we need not refer to the wages of railway navvies, nor yet to those of the superior classes of mechanics, such as printers, masons, jewellers, typefounders, etc. there is not a printer in the _witness_ office who would be permitted by the rules of his profession, to make an arrangement with his employers, were he to exchange piece-work for wages, that did not secure to him twenty-five shillings per week. to expect that a country or church can possibly have efficient schoolmasters at a lower rate of emolument than not only skilled mechanics, but than even unskilled railway labourers, or the 'stackers and sowers' of our large farms, is so palpably a delusion, that simply to name it is to expose it. and yet of our free church schoolmasters, especially in thinly-peopled rural districts and the highlands, there are scores remunerated at a lower rate than labourers and farm-servants, and hundreds at a rate at least as low; and if we except the fortunate hundred and twenty-nine who receive the government grant, few indeed of the others rise to the level of the skilled mechanic. greatly more than two-thirds of our teachers were placed originally on the £ and £ scale of salaries: these are now paid with £ and £ , s. d. respectively. there are many localities in which these pittances are not more than doubled by the fees, and some localities in which they are even less than doubled; and so a preponderating majority of the schoolmasters of the free church are miserably poor men: for what might be a competency to a labourer or hind, must be utter poverty to them. and not a few of their number are distressfully embarrassed and in debt. now this will never do. the church may make herself very sure, that for her £ or £ she will receive ultimately only the worth of £ or £ . she may get windfalls of single teachers for a few months or years: superior young men may occasionally make a brief stay in her schools, in the course of their progress to something better,--as pilgrim rested for a while in the half-way recess hollowed in the side of the hill difficulty; but only very mediocre men, devoid of energy enough of body or mind to make good masons or carpenters, will stick fast in them. we have learned that, in one northern locality, no fewer than eight free church teachers have since martinmas last either tendered their resignations, or are on the eve of doing so. these, it will be found, are superior men, who rationally aspire to something better than mere ploughman's wages; but there will of course be no resignations tendered by the class who, in even the lowest depths of the scheme, have found but their proper level. these, as the more active spirits fly off, will flow in and fill up their places, till, wherever the £ and £ salaries prevail,--and in what rural district do they not prevail?--the general pedagogical acquirements of our teachers will present a surface as flat, dull, and unprofitable as ditch-water. for what, we again ask, can be expected for £ or £ ? and let the reader but mark the effect of such teaching. we have seen placed side by side, in the same burgh town, an english school, in which what are deemed the branches suitable for mechanics and their children, such as reading, writing, and arithmetic, were energetically taught, and a grammar school in which a university-bred schoolmaster laboured, with really not much energy, especially in those lower departments in which his rival excelled, but who was fitted to prepare his pupils for college, and not devoid of the classical enthusiasm. and it struck us as a significant and instructive fact, that while the good english school, though it turned out smart readers and clever arithmeticians, failed to elevate a single man from the lower to the middle or higher walks of life, the grammar school was successful in elevating a great many. the principle on which such a difference of result should have been obtained is so obvious, that it can scarce be necessary to point it out. the teaching of the one school was a narrow lane, trim, 'tis true, and well kept, but which led to only workshops, brick-kilns, and quarries; whereas that of the other was a broad, partially-neglected avenue, which opened into the great professional highways, that lead everywhere. and if the difference was one which could not be obviated by all the energy of a superior and well-paid english teacher, how, we ask, is it to be obviated by our free church £ and £ teachers? surely our church would do well to ponder whether it can be either her interest or her duty to urge on any scheme, in opposition to a national one, which would have all too palpably the effect of degrading her poorer membership, so far as they availed themselves of it, into the gibeonites of the community--its hewers of wood and drawers of water. never will scotland possess an educational scheme truly national, and either worthy of her ancient fame or adequate to the demands and emergencies of an age like the present, until at least every parish shall possess among its other teachers its one university-bred schoolmaster, popularly chosen, and well paid, and suited to assist in transplanting to the higher places of society those select and vigorous scions that from time to time spring up from the stock of the commonalty. the waking dream of running down the ignorance and misery of a sinking country by an array of starveling teachers in the train of any one denomination--itself, mayhap, sufficiently attenuated by the demands of purely ecclesiastical objects--must be likened to that other waking dream of the belated german peasant, who sees from some deep glade of his native forests a spectral hunt sweep through the clouds,--skeleton stags pursued by skeleton huntsmen, mounted on skeleton horses, and surrounded by skeleton beagles; and who hears, as the wild pageant recedes into the darkness, the hollow tantivy and the spectral horns echoing loud and wildly through the angry heavens. it is of paramount importance that the free church should in the present crisis take up her position wisely. we have heard of invaders of desperate courage, who, on landing upon some shore on which they had determined either to conquer or to perish, set fire to their ships, and thus shut out the possibility of retreat. now the free church--whether she land herself into an agitation for a scheme of government grants rendered more liberal and flexible than now, and dissociated from the religious certificate, or whether she plant her foot on a scheme of national education based on a statutory recognition of the pedagogical teaching of religion--is certainly in no condition to burn her ships. let her not rashly commit herself against a third scheme, essentially one in principle with that which the sagacious chalmers could regard, after long and profound reflection, as the only one truly eligible in the circumstances of the country, and which she herself, some two or three years hence, may be compelled to regard in a similar light. the educational agitation is not to be settled in the course of a few brief months; nor yet by the votes of presbyteries, synods, or general assemblies, whether they belong to the free or to the established churches. it rises direct out of the great social question of the time. scotland as such forms one of its battle-fields, and scotchmen as such are the parties who are to be engaged in the fight; and the issue, though ultimately secure, will long seem doubtful. and so the free church may have quite time enough to fight her own battle, or rather her own _two_ battles in succession, and, when both are over, find that the great general contest still remains undecided. for what we must deem by much the better and more important battle of the _two_--that for a statutory demand on the part of the state that the bible and shorter catechism should be taught in the national schools--we are afraid the time is past; but most happy would we be to find ourselves mistaken. the church of scotland, as represented by that majority which is now the free church, might have succeeded in carrying some such measure ten years ago, when the parish schools were yet in her custody; just as she might have succeeded seven years earlier in obviating the dire necessity which led to the disruption, by acting upon the advice of the wise and far-seeing m'crie.{ } but she was not less prepared at the one date to agitate for the total abolition of patronage, than at the other to throw open the parish schools on the basis of a statutory security for the teaching of religion. in both cases, the golden opportunity was suffered to pass by; and old time presents to her now but the bald retreating occiput, which her eager hand may in vain attempt to grasp. where, we ask, are we to look for the forces that are to assist us in fighting this battle of statutory security? has the establishment become more liberal, or more disposed to open the parish schools, than we ourselves were when we composed the majority of that very establishment? alas! in order to satisfy ourselves on that head, we have but to look at the decisions of her various ecclesiastical courts. or is it the old scottish dissenters that are to change their entire front, and to make common cause with us, in disregard, and even in defiance, of their own principles, as they themselves understand them? or are we to look to that evangelical portion of the episcopacy of england, with whom _establishment_ means _church_, and the 'good of the establishment' a synonyme for the 'good of the church,' and who, to a certainty, will move no hand against the sister establishment in scotland? or are we to be aided by that portion of english independency that has so very strangely taken its stand equally against educational grants and educational endowments, on the ground that there is a sort of religion homoeopathically diffused in all education--especially, we suppose, in lindley murray's readings from the _spectator_ and dr. blair--and that, as the state must not provide _religious_ teaching for its people, it cannot, and must not, provide for them teaching of any kind? scientific jews are they, of the straitest sect, who, wiser than their fathers, have ascertained by the microscope, that all meat, however nicely washed, continues to retain its molecules of blood, and that flesh therefore must on no account be eaten. we cannot, we say, discern, within the wide horizon of existing realities, the troops with which this battle is to be fought. they seem to be mere shadows of the past. but if the free church see otherwise, let her by all means summon them up, and fight it. regarded simply as a matter of policy, we are afraid the contest would be at least imprudent. 'it were well,' said a scotch officer to wolfe, when chatham first called out the highlanders of scotland to fight in the wars of britain,--'it were well, general, that you should know the character of these highland troops. do not attempt manoeuvring with them; scotch highlanders don't understand manoeuvre. if you make a feint of charging, they will throw themselves sword in hand into the thick of the enemy, and you will in vain attempt calling them back; or if you make a show of retreating, they will run away in right earnest, and you will never see them more. so do not employ them in feints and stratagems, but keep them for the hard, serious business of the fight, and you will find them the best troops in the world.' now, nearly the same character applies to the free church. to set her a-fighting as a matter of policy, would be very bad policy indeed. she would find out reasons, semi-theological at least, for all her positions, however hopeless, and would continue fixed in these long after the battle had been fought and lost, and when she ought to be engaged in retrieving her disasters on other ground, and in a fresh and more promising quarrel. but if the free church does enter into this battle, let her in the meantime not forget, that after it has been fought, and at least _possibly_ lost, another battle may have still to be begun; nor let her attempt damaging, by doubtful theology, the position which a preponderating majority of her own office-bearers and members may have yet to take up. for, ultimately at least, the damage would be all her own. let her remark further, that should her people set their hearts pretty strongly on those national seminaries, which in many parts of the country would become, if opened up, wholly their own _de facto_, and which are already their own _de jure_, they might not be quite able to feel the cogency of the argument that, while it left socinians and papists in the enjoyment of at once very liberal and very flexible government grants, challenged _their_ right to choose, on their own responsibility, state-paid teachers for their children; and which virtually assured them, that if they did not contribute largely to the educational scheme of their own church, she would be wholly unable to maintain it as a sort of mid-impediment between them and their just rights, the parish schools. they would be exceedingly apt, too, to translate any very determined and general preference manifested by our church courts for the scheme of educational grants, into some such enunciation as the following:--'give us to ourselves but a moiety of one-third of the scottish young, and we will frankly give up the other two-thirds,--the one-half of them to be destroyed by gross ignorance, and the other half by deadly error.'{ } there is at least one point on which we think all free churchmen ought to agree. it is necessary that the truth should be known respecting the educational condition and resources of scotland. it will, we understand, be moved to-day [february th], in the free church presbytery of edinburgh, as a thing good and desirable, that government should 'institute an inquiry into the educational destitution confessedly existing in large towns, populous neighbourhoods, and remote districts, with a view to the marking out of places where elementary schools are particularly needed,' etc. would it not be more satisfactory to move instead, the desirableness of a government commission of inquiry, _st_, into the educational condition of all the youth of scotland between the years of six and fifteen, on the scheme of that inquiry recently conducted by a free church educational association in the tron parish of glasgow; _d_, into the condition, character, and teaching of all the various schools of the country, whether parochial, free church, or adventure schools, with the actual amount of pupils in attendance at each; and _d_, into the general standing, acquirements, and _emoluments_ of all the teachers? not only would the report of such a commission be of much solid value in itself, from the amount of fact which it would furnish for the direction of educational exertion on the part of both the people and the state; but it might also have the effect of preventing good men from taking up, in the coming contest, untenable and suspicious ground. it would lay open the true state of our parish schools, and not only show how utterly useless these institutions have become, from at least the shores of the beauly to those of the pentland frith, and throughout the highlands generally, but also expose the gross exaggeration of the estimate furnished by mr. macrae, and adopted by dr. muir.{ } further, it would have the effect of preventing any member of either the free church or the establishment from resorting to the detestable policy of those dissenters of england, who, in order to secure certain petty advantages to their own miserable sects, set themselves to represent their poor country--perishing at the time for lack of knowledge--as comparatively little in need of educational assistance. but we trust this at least is an enormity, at once criminal and mean, of which no scotchman, whatever his church, _could_ possibly be guilty; and so we shall not do our country the injustice of holding that, though it produced its 'fause sir johns' in the past, it contains in the present one such traitor, until we at least see the man. further, a state report of the kind would lay open to us, in the severe statistical form, the actual emoluments of our own free church teachers. we trust, then, that this scheme of a searching government inquiry may be regarded as a first great step towards the important work of educating the scottish people, in which all ought to agree, however thoroughly at variance in matters of principle or on points of detail. it is of mighty importance that men should look at things as they really are. let us remember that it is not for the emergencies of yesterday that we are now called on to provide, but for the necessities of to-day,--not for scotland in the year , nor yet in the year , but for scotland in the year . what might be the best possible course in these bygone ages, may be, and is, wholly an impracticable course now. _church_ at both these earlier dates meant not only an orthodox communion, but also that preponderating majority of the nation which reckoned up as its own the great bulk of both the rulers and the ruled, and at once owned the best and longest swords, and wore the strongest armour; whereas it now means, _legally_ at least, merely two erastianized establishments, and _politically_, all the christian denominations that possess votes and return members to parliament. the prism seizes on a single white ray, and decomposes it into a definitely proportioned spectrum, gorgeous with the primary colours. the representative principle of a government such as ours takes up, as if by a reverse process, those diverse hues of the denominational spectrum that vary the face of society, and compounds them in the legislature into a blank. save for the existence of the two establishments--strong on other than religious grounds--and the peculiar tinge which they cast on the institutions of the country, the blank would be still more perfect than it is; and this fact--a direct result of the strongly marked hues of the denominational spectrum, operated upon by the representative principle--we can no more change than we can the optical law. let there be but the colour of one religion in the national spectrum, and the legislature will wear but one religious colour: let it consist of half-a-dozen colours, and the legislature will be of none. 'o for an hour of knox!' it has been said by a good and able man, from whom, however, in this question we greatly differ,--'o for an hour of knox to defend the national religious education which he was raised up to institute!' knox, be it remembered, was wise, prudent, sagacious, in accordance with the demands of his time. a knox of the exact fashion of the sixteenth century, raised up in the middle of the nineteenth, would be but a slim, long-bearded effigy of a knox, grotesquely attired in a geneva cloak and cap, and with the straw and hay that stuffed him sticking out in tufts from his waistband. 'o for an hour of knox!' the scottish church of the present age has already had its knox. 'elias hath already come.' the large-minded, wise-hearted knox of the nineteenth century died at morningside three years ago; and he has bequeathed, as a precious legacy to the church, his judgment on this very question. 'it were the best state of things,' he said, 'that we had a parliament sufficiently theological to discriminate between the right and the wrong in religion, and to endow accordingly. but failing this, it seems to us the next best thing, that in any public measure for helping on the education of the people, government were to abstain from introducing the element of religion at all into their part of the scheme; and this not because they held the matter to be insignificant,--the contrary might be strongly expressed in the preamble of their act,{ }--but on the ground that, in the present divided state of the christian world, they would take no cognizance of, just because they would attempt no control over, the religion of applicants for aid,--leaving this matter entire to the parties who had to do with the erection and management of the schools which they had been called upon to assist. a grant by the state on this footing might be regarded as being appropriately and exclusively the expression of their value for a good secular education.' ----- { } to demand of that parliament which carried the reform bill the repeal of the patronage act, instead of enacting, on her own authority, the veto law. { } 'i see,' said knox, when the privy council, in dividing the ecclesiastical revenues of the kingdom into three parts, determined on giving two of these to the nobility, and on dividing the remaining part between the protestant ministry and the court,--' i see two-thirds freely given to the devil, and the other third divided between god and the devil: if the end of this order be happy, my judgment fails me!' our church courts, if they declare for the system of denominational grants, in opposition to the territorial endowments of a scheme truly national, will be securing virtually a similar division of the people, with but this difference, that god's share of the reserved moiety may be a very small share indeed. and can it possibly be held that the shame and guilt of such an arrangement can be obviated by the votes of synods or assemblies? or that, with an intelligent laity to judge in the matter, the 'end of this order' can be other than unhappy? the schools of the free church have already, it is said, done much good. we would, we reply, be without excuse, in taking up our present position--a position in which we have painfully to differ from so many of the friends in whose behalf for the last ten years we deemed it at once a privilege and an honour to contend--did we believe that more than six hundred protestant schools _could_ exist in scotland without doing _much_ good. of nothing, however, are we more convinced, than that the good which they have done has been accomplished by them in their character as _schools_, not in their character as _denominational_. we know a little regarding this matter; for in our journeyings of many thousand miles over scotland, especially in the highlands and the northern counties, we have made some use of both our eyes and ears. we have seen, and sickened to see, hordes of schoolboys of ten and twelve years bandying as nicknames, with boys whose parents belonged to the establishment, the terms of polemic controversy. 'moderate' has become in juvenile mouths as much a term of hatred and reproach in extensive districts of our country, as we remember 'frenchman' used to be during the great revolutionary war. our children bid fair to get, in their state of denominational separatism, at least religion enough heartily to hate their neighbours; and, we are afraid, not much more. now, it may be thought that the editor of the _witness_, himself long engaged in semi-theological warfare, ought to be silent in a matter of this kind. be it remembered, we reply, that it was _men_, not children, whom the editor of the _witness_ made it his business to address; and that when, in what he deemed a good cause, he appealed to the understandings of his adult country-folk, he besought them in every instance to test and examine ere they judged and decided. he did not contemplate a phase of the controversy in which unthinking children should come from their schools to contend with other children, in the spirit of those little ones of bethel who 'came forth out of their city' to mock and to jeer; or that immature, unreasoning minds should be torn by the she-bears of uncharitable feeling, at an age when the points really at issue in the case can be received only as prejudices, and expressed only by the mere calling of names. and seeing and knowing what he has seen and knows, he has become sincerely desirous that controversy should be left to at least the adult population of the country, and that its children of all the communions should be sent to mingle together in their games and their tasks, and to form their unselfish attachments, under a wise system of national tuition, as thoroughly christian as may be, but at the same time as little as possible polemical or sectarian. { } to the effect that there are a hundred thousand children in attendance at the parish schools of scotland. { } 'we are aware,' says a respected antagonist, 'that mr. miller is no deist; his argument, nevertheless, rests on a deistical position,--a charge to which dr. chalmers' letter is not liable to be exposed, in consequence of its first sentence, and of what it recommends in a government preamble.' if there be such virtue in a preamble, say we, let us by all means have a preamble--ten preambles if necessary--rather than a deistic principle. we would fain imitate in this matter the tolerance of luther. 'a complaint comes that such and such a reformed preacher will not preach without a cassock. "well," answers luther, "what harm will a cassock do the man? let him have a cassock to preach in; let him have three cassocks, if he find benefit in them.'" chapter sixth. our previous statement regarding the actual condition of the free church educational scheme absolutely necessary--voluntary objections to a national scheme, as stated by the opponents of the voluntaries; not particularly solid--examination of the matter. our episode regarding the free church educational scheme now fairly completed, let us return to the general question. the reader may, however, do well to note the inevitable necessity which existed on our part, that our wholesome, though mayhap unpalatable, statements respecting it should have been submitted to the church and the country. the grand question which in the course of providence had at length arisen was, 'how is our sinking country to be educated?' we had taken our stand, as a scotchman, in behalf of the scottish people; and as the belief seemed widely to exist that our own free church scheme was adequate, or at least nearly so, to the education of the children of our own membership, and that our duty as scotchmen could be fulfilled, somehow, by concentrating all our exertions upon _it_, it had become essentially necessary that the delusion should be dispelled. and so we have showed, that while our scheme, in order fully to supply the educational wants of even our own people, would require to exist in the proportion of _nine_, it exists nominally in but the proportion of _six_, and in reality in but the proportion of _four_,--seeing that the _six, i.e_. our existing staff of teachers, amounting to but two-thirds of the number required, are but two-thirds paid;--in short, that our educational speculation is exactly in the circumstances of a railway company who, having engaged to cut a line ninety miles in length, have succeeded in cutting forty miles of it at their own proper expense, and then having cut twenty miles more on _preference_ shares, find their further progress arrested by a lack of funds. and so it became necessary to show that the existence and circumstances of our free church schools, instead of furnishing, as had been urged in several of our presbyteries, any argument _against_ the agitation of the general question, furnished, on the contrary, the best possible of all arguments _for_ its agitation; and to show further, that the policy which brought a denominational scheme, that did not look beyond ourselves, into a great national engagement, in the character of a privateer virtually on the side of the enemy, was a most perilous policy, that exposed it to damaging broadsides, and telling shot right between wind and water. let us now pass on to the consideration of a matter on which we but touched before,--the perfect compatibility of a consistent voluntaryism with religious teaching in a school endowed by the state, on the principle of dr. chalmers. the _witness_ is as little voluntary now as it ever was. it seems but fair, however, that a principle should be saddled with only the consequences that legitimately arise from it; and that voluntaryism should not be exposed, in this contest, to a species of witchcraft, that first caricatures it in an ill-modelled image, and then sticks the ugly thing over with pins. the revenues of the state-endowed schools of this country--and, we suppose, of every other--are derived from two distinct sources: from government, who furnishes the schoolmaster's salary, and erects the building in which he teaches; and from the parents or guardians, who remunerate him according to certain graduated rates for the kind of instruction which he communicates to their children or wards. and the _rationale_ of this state assistance seems very obvious. it is of importance to the state, both on economic and judicial grounds, that all its people should be taught; but, on the adventure-school principle, it is impossible that they should all be taught, seeing that adventure schools can thrive in only densely peopled localities, or where supported by wealthy families, that pay largely for their children's education. and so, in order that education may be brought down to the humblest of the people, the state supplements, in its own and its people's behalf, the schoolmaster's income, and builds him a school. such seems to be the principle of educational endowments. now, if the state, in endowing national schoolmasters, were to signify that it endowed them in order that, among other things, they should _teach religion_, we can well see how a voluntary who conscientiously holds, as such, that religion ought not to be state-endowed, might be unable to avail himself, on his children's behalf, of the state-enjoined religious teaching of any such functionaries; just as we can also see, that if the state _forbade_ its schoolmasters on any account to teach religion, a conscientious holder of the establishment principle might be perhaps equally unable to avail himself of services so restricted. we can at least see how each, in turn, might lodge an alternate protest,--the one against the positive exclusion of religion by the state, the other against its positive introduction. but if, according to chalmers, the state, aware of the difficulty, tenders its endowment and builds its schools 'simply as an expression of its value for a good secular education,' and avowedly leaves the religious part of the school training to be determined by the parties who furnish that moiety of the schoolmaster's support derived from fees--_i.e._ the parents or guardians--we find in the arrangement ground on which the voluntary and the establishment man can meet and agree. for the state virtually wills by such a settlement--and both by what it demands, and by what it does _not_ demand, but _permits_--that its salaried functionary should stand to his employers, the people, simply in the relation of an adventure schoolmaster. the state says virtually to its teacher in such circumstances: 'i, as the _general_ guardian of your pupils, do not pay you for their religious education; but their _particular_ and special guardians, the parents, are quite at liberty to make with you on that head whatever bargain they please. fully aware of the vast importance of religious teaching, and yet wholly unable, from the denominational differences of the time, at once to provide for it in the national seminaries, and to render these equal to the wants of the country, i throw the whole responsibility in this matter on the divided people, whom i cannot unite in their religion, but whose general education i am not on that account at liberty to neglect.' on grounds such as these, we repeat, voluntaryism and the establishment principle may meet and agree. there can be little doubt, however, that there are men on both sides sparingly gifted with common sense: for never yet was there a great question widely and popularly agitated, that did not divide not only the wise men, but also the fools of the community; and we have heard it urged by some of the representatives of the weaker class, that a voluntary could not permit his children to be taught religion under a roof provided by the state. really, with all respect for the cap and bells, this is driving the matter a little too far. we have been told by a relative, now deceased, who served on shipboard during the first revolutionary war, and saw some hard fighting, that at the close of a hot engagement, in which victory remained with the british, the captain of the vessel in which he sailed--a devout and brave man--called his crew together upon the quarter-deck, and offered up thanks to god in an impressive prayer. the noble ship in which he sailed was the property of the state, and he himself a state-paid official; but was there anything in either circumstance to justify a protest from even the most rabid voluntary against the part which he acted on this interesting occasion, simply as a christian hero? nay, had he sought to employ and pay out of his private purse in behalf of his crew an evangelical missionary, as decidedly voluntary in his views as john foster or robert hall, would the man have once thought of objecting to the work because it was to be prosecuted under the shelter of beams and planks, every one of which belonged to the government? would a pious voluntary soldier keep aloof from a prayer-meeting on no other ground than that it was held in a barrack?--or did the first voluntaries of great britain, the high-toned independents that fought under cromwell, abstain from their preachings and their prayers when cooped up by the enemy in a garrison? where is the religious voluntary who would not exhort in a prison, or offer up an unbought prayer on a public, state-provided scaffold, for some wretched criminal shivering on the verge of the grave? now the schoolmaster, in the circumstances laid down by chalmers, we hold to be in at least as favourable a position with respect to the state and the state-erected edifice in which he teaches, as the ship-captain or the non-commissioned missionary--the devout voluntary soldier, or the pious independents of cromwell's ironsides. he is, in his secular character, a state-paid official, sheltered by an erection the property of the state; but the state permits him to bear in that erection another character, in relation to another certain employer, whom it recognises as quite as legitimately in the field as itself, and permits him also--though it does not enjoin--to perform his duties there as a christian man. though, however, the objection to religious teaching under the state-erected roof may be suffered to drop, there may be an objection raised--and there has been an objection raised--against the teaching of religion in certain periods of time during the day, for which it is somehow taken for granted the state pays. hence the argument for teaching religion in certain other periods of time not paid for by the state--or in other words, during separate hours. now the entire difference here seems to originate in a vicious begging of the question. it is not the state that specifies the hours during each day in which state-endowed and state-erected schools are taught; on the contrary, varying as these hours do, and must, in various parts of the town and country--for a thinly-peopled district demands one set of hours, and a densely-peopled locality another--they are fixed, as mere matters of mutual arrangement, to suit the convenience of the teachers and the taught. it is enough that the state satisfy itself, through its inspectors, that the secular instruction for which it pays is effectually imparted to its people: it neither does nor will lay claim to any one hour of the day as its own, whether before noon or after it. it will leave to the english establishment its canonical hours, sacred to organ music and the liturgy; but it will set apart by enactment no pedagogical hours, sacred to arithmetic or algebra, the construing of verbs, or the drawing of figures. if separate hours merely mean that the master is not to have all his classes up at once--here gabbling latin or greek, there discussing the primer or reciting from scott's collection, yonder repeating the multiplication table or running over the rules of lindley murray--we at once say religion must have its separate hour, just as english, the dead tongues, figuring, writing, and the mathematics, have their separate hours; but if it be meant that the religious teaching of the school must be restricted to some hour not paid for by the state, then we reply with equal readiness that we know of no hour specially paid for by the state, and so utterly fail to recognise any principle in the proposed arrangement, or rather in the objection that would suggest it. as to the question of a separate fee for religious tuition, let us consider how it is usually solved in the adventure schools of the country. the day is, in most cases, opened by the master with prayer, and then there is a portion of scripture read by the pupils. and neither the scripture read nor the prayer offered up fall, we are disposed to think, under the head of religious tuition, but under a greatly better head--that of religion itself. it is a proper devotional beginning of the business of the day. the committal of the shorter catechism--which with most children is altogether an exercise of memory, but which, accomplished in youth, while the intellect yet sleeps, produces effects in after years almost always beneficial to the understanding, and not unfrequently ameliorative of the heart--we place in a different category. it is not religion, but the teaching of religion; not food for the present, but store laid up for the future. with the committal to memory of the catechism we class that species of scripture dissection now so common in schools, which so often mangles what it carves.{ } and religion taught in this way is and ought to be represented in the fee paid to the teacher, and is and ought to be taught in a class as separate from all the others as the geography or the grammar class. such is, we understand, a common arrangement in scottish adventure schools; nor does there exist a single good reason for preventing it from also obtaining in the scottish national schools. if the parentage of scotland, whether voluntary or establishment, were to be vested with the power of determining that it should be so, and of selecting their schoolmasters, the schools would open with prayer and the reading of the word--not because they were state-endowed, but because, the state leaving the point entirely open, they were the schools of a christian land, to which christian parents had sent their children, and for which, on their own proper responsibility, they had chosen, so far as they could determine the point, christian teachers. and for this religious part of the services of the day we would deem it derogatory to the character of a schoolmaster to suppose that he _could_ receive any remuneration from the parents of his pupils, or from any one else. for the proper devotional services of the school we would place on exactly the same high disinterested level as the devotional exercises of the family, or as those of the gallant officer and his crew, who, paid for but the defence of their country, gave god thanks on the blood-stained quarter-deck, in their character as christians, that he had sheltered their heads in one of their country's battles, and then cast themselves in faith upon his further care. we would, we say, deem it an insult to the profession to speak of a monetary remuneration for the read word or the prayer offered up. nay, if either was rated at but a single penny as its price, or if there was a single penny expected for either, where is there the man, voluntary or free church, that would deem it worth the money? the story of the footman, who, upon being told, on entering on his new place, that he would have to attend family prayers, expressed a hope that the duty would be considered in his wages, has become one of the standard jokes of our jest-books. we would, however, place the religious teaching of the school on an entirely different footing from its religious services. we would assign to _it_ its separate class and its separate time, just as we would assign a separate class and time to the teaching of english grammar, or history, or the dead languages. and whether the remuneration was specified or merely understood, we would deem it but reasonable that this branch of teaching, like all the other branches which occupied the time and tasked the exertions of the teacher, should be remunerated by a fee: in this department of tuition, as in the others, we would deem the labourer worthy of his hire. we need scarce add, however, that we would recognise no power in the majority of any locality, or in the schoolmaster whom they had chosen, to render attendance at even the devotional services of the seminary compulsory on the children of parents who, on religious or other grounds, willed that they should not join in the general worship. and, of course, attendance on the religion-teaching class would be altogether as much a matter of arrangement between the parent and the schoolmaster, as attendance on the latin or english classes, or on arithmetic, algebra, or the mathematics. while, however, we can see no proper grounds for difference between voluntaries and free churchmen, on even these details of school management, and see, further, that they never differ regarding the way in which the adventure schools of the country are conducted, we must remind the reader that all on which they have really to agree on this question, as scotchmen and franchise-holders, is simply whether their country ought not, in the first place, to possess an efficient system of national schools, open to all the christian denominations; whether, in the second, the parents ought not to be permitted to exercise, on their own responsibility, the natural right of determining what their children should be taught; and whether, in the third, the householders of a district ought not to be vested in the power, now possessed by the heritors and parish minister, of choosing the teacher. agreement on these heads is really all that is necessary towards either the preliminary agitation of the question, or in order to secure its ultimate success. the minor points would all come to be settled, not on the legislative platform, but in the parishes, by the householders. voluntaryism, wise and foolish, does not reckon up more than a third of the population of scotland; and foolish, _i.e._ extreme voluntaries--for the sensible ones would be all with us--would find themselves, when they came to record their votes, a very small minority indeed. and so, though their extreme views may now be represented as lions in the path, it would be found ultimately that, like the lions which affrighted pilgrim in the avenue, and made the poor man run back, they are lions well chained up--_lions_, in short, in a _minority_, like the agricultural lion in _punch_. let us remark, further, that if some of our friends deem the scheme proposed for scotland too little religious, it is as certain that the assertors of the scheme now proposed for england, and advocated in parliament by mr. fox, very decidedly object to it on the opposite score. like the grace said by the rev. reuben butler, which was censured by the captain of knockdunder as too long, and by douce davie deans as too short, it is condemned for faults so decidedly antagonistic in their character, that they cannot co-exist together. one class of persons look exclusively at that lack of a statutory recognition of religion which the scheme involves, and denounce it as _infidel_; another, at the religious character of the people of scotland, and at the consequent certainty, also involved in the scheme, that they will render their schools transcripts of themselves, and so they condemn it as _orthodox_. and hence the opposite views entertained by mr. combe of edinburgh on the one hand, and mr. gibson of glasgow on the other.{ } ----- { } it is not uninstructive to remark how invariably in this matter an important point has been taken for granted which has not yet been proven; and how the most serious charges have been preferred against men's principles, on the assumption that there exists in the question a certain divine truth, which may be neither divine nor yet a truth at all. wisdom and goodness may be exhibited in both the negative and positive form--both by avoiding what is wicked and foolish, and by doing what is good and wise. and while no christian doubts that the adorable head of the church manifested his character, when on earth, in both ways, at least no presbyterian doubts that he manifested it not only by instituting certain orders in his church, but also by omitting to institute in it certain other orders. he instituted, for instance, an order of preachers of the gospel; he did not institute an order of popes and cardinals. neither, however, did he institute an order of 'religion-teaching' schoolmasters; and the question not yet settled, and of which, without compromising a single article in our standards, either side may be espoused, is, whether our saviour manifested his wisdom in _not_ making use of the schoolmaster, or whether, without indicating his mind on the subject, he left the schoolmaster to be legitimately employed in an after-development of the church. indeed, so entirely in this matter is the free church at sea, without chart or compass, that it has still to be determined whether the religious teaching of her schools be of a tendency to add to or to diminish the religious feeling of the country. 'i sometimes regretted to observe,' says dr. reid, in his report on the schools in connection with the free presbytery of edinburgh, 'that [their lessons in the bible and shorter catechism] were taught rather too much in the style of the ordinary lessons. i do not object to _places being taken_, or any other means employed, which a teacher may consider necessary to secure attention during a scripture lesson; but divine truth should always be communicated with solemnity.' now, such is the general defect of the religious teaching of the schoolroom. nor is it to be obviated, we fear, by any expression of extra solemnity thrown into the pedagogical face, or even by the _taking of places_ or the _taws_. and there seems reason to dread that lessons of this character can have but the effect of commonplacing the great truths of religion in the mind, and hardening the heart against their after application from the pulpit. but some ten or twelve years will serve to unveil to the free church the real nature of the experiment in which she is now engaged. for our own part, we can have little doubt, be the matter decided as it may, that experience will serve ultimately to show how vast the inferiority really is of man's 'teachers of religion' to christ's preachers of the gospel. we shall never forget at least the more prominent particulars of a conversation on this subject which we were privileged to hold with one of the most original-minded clergymen (now, alas, no more) our church ever produced. he referred, first, to the false association which those words of world-wide meaning, 'religious education,' are almost sure to induce, when restricted, in a narrow, inadequate sense, to the teaching of the schoolmaster; and next, to the divine commission of the minister of the gospel. 'perverted as human nature is,' he remarked, 'there are cases in which, by appealing to its sentiments and affections, we may derive a very nice evidence respecting the divine origin of certain institutions and injunctions. for instance, the chinese hold, as one of their religious beliefs, that parents have a paramount claim to the affections of their sons and daughters, long after they have been married and settled in the world; whereas our saviour teaches that a man should leave father and mother and cleave to his wife, and the wife leave father and mother and cleave to her husband. and as, in the case of the dead and living child, solomon sought his evidence in the feelings of the women that came before him, and determined _her_ to be the true mother in whom he found the true mother's love and regard, i would seek my evidence, in this other case, in the affections of human nature; and ask them whether they declared for the law of the chinese baal, or for that of him who implanted them in the heart. and how prompt and satisfactory the reply! the love which of twain makes one flesh approves itself, in all experience, to be greatly stronger and more engrossing than that which attaches the child to the parent; and while we see the unnatural chinese law making the weaker traverse and overrule the stronger affection, and thus demonstrating its own falsity, we find the law of christ exquisitely concerting with the nature which christ gave, and thus establishing its own truth. now, regarding the commission of the minister of the gospel,' he continued, 'i put a similar question to the affections, and receive from them a not less satisfactory reply. the god who gave the commission does inspire a love for him who truly bears it; ay, a love but even too engrossing at times, and that, by running to excess, defeats its proper end, by making the servant eclipse in the congregational mind the master whose message he bears. but i do believe that the sentiment, like the order to which it attaches, is, in its own proper place, of divine appointment. it is a preparation for the reception in love of the gospel message. god does not will that his message should be injured by any prejudice against the bearer of it; and that his will in this matter might be adequately carried out, was one of the grand objects of our contendings in the church controversy. but we are not to calculate on the existence of any such strong feeling of love between the children of a school and their teacher. if, founding on the experience of our own early years, we think of the schoolmaster, not in his present relation to ourselves as a fellow-citizen, or as a servant of the church, but simply in his connection with the immature class on which he operates, we will find him circled round in their estimation (save in perhaps a very few exceptional cases) with greatly more of terror than affection. there are no two classes of feelings in human nature more diverse than the class with which the schoolmaster and the class with which the minister of the gospel is regarded by their respective charges; and right well was st. paul aware of the fact, when he sought in the terrors of the schoolmaster an illustration of the terrors of the law. and in this fence of terror we may perhaps find a reason why christ never committed to the schoolmaster the gospel message.' we are afraid we do but little justice, in this passage, to the thinking of our deceased friend; for we cannot recall his flowing and singularly happy language, but we have, we trust, preserved his leading ideas; and they are, we think, worthy of being carefully pondered. we may add, that he was a man who had done much in his parish for education; but that he had at length seen, though without relaxing his efforts, that the religious teaching of his schools had failed to make the rising generation under his charge religious, and had been led seriously to inquire regarding the cause of its failure. { } mr. combe, however, may be regarded as an extreme man; and so the following letter, valuable as illustrating the views of a not very extreme opponent, though a decided assertor of the non-religious system of tuition, may be well deemed instructive. the writer, mr. samuel lucas, was for many years chairman of that lancashire public school association which mr. fox proposes as the model of his scheme:-- to the editor of the scotsman. sir,--in your paper of the th ultimo, i observe among the advertisements a set of resolutions which have been agreed to and signed by a number of parties, with the view of a national movement in favour of an unsectarian system of national education. it is perhaps too early to say, that though the names of some of the parties are well known and highly esteemed in this country, yet that the names of many who might be expected to be foremost in promoting such an object are wanting. i cannot, however, help thinking, that some of these may have been prevented from signing the document in question by some considerations which have occurred to myself on the perusal of it; and as a few lines of editorial comment indicate that the project has your sanction, you will perhaps allow me briefly to say why i think the people of scotland should give to it the most deliberate consideration before committing themselves to it. agreeing, as i do most fully, with a large proportion of the contents of the resolutions, i regret that its authors have made an attempt, which it is impossible can be successful, to unite in the national schoolhouses, and in the school hours, a sound religious with an unsectarian education. what is a _sound religious education_? will not the professors of every variety of religious faith answer the question differently? i think it was bishop berkeley who said, orthodoxy is my doxy; heterodoxy is another man's doxy. so it is with a sound religious education. what is sound to me is hollow and superficial, or perhaps full of error, to another. if it be said that the majority of heads of families must decide as to what is sound and what is unsound, i must protest against such an injustice. the minority will contribute to the support of the public schools, and neither directly nor indirectly can they with justice be deprived of the use of them. it appears to me that the authors of the resolutions are flying in the face of their own great authority, in proposing to introduce religious instruction into the public schools. it is true that dr. chalmers proposes that government should 'leave this matter entire to the parties who had to do with the erection and management of the schools which they had been called upon to assist;' but he was not then contemplating the erection of national schools by the public money, but schools erected by voluntary subscription, which the government might be called on to assist. his opinion on the right action of government in the present state of things is clear. he says: 'that in any public measure for helping on the education of the people, government [should] abstain from introducing the element of religion at all into their part of the scheme.' what, then, should be the course taken by the promoters of public schools, in accordance with the principles enunciated by dr chalmers? it appears to me to be clearly this: to make no provision whatever for, or rather directly to exclude, all religious teaching within the walls of the school, and to leave, in the words of the fifth resolution, 'the duty and responsibility of communicating religious instruction' in the hands of those 'to whom they have been committed by god, viz. to their parents, and, through them, to such teachers as they may choose to entrust with that duty.' this was the course pursued by the government of holland in the early part of the present century; and i suppose no one will venture to call in question the morality or religion of the people of that country, or to throw a doubt upon the success of the system. it is as an ardent friend of national education, both in scotland and england, that i have ventured to make these few observations. i desire to throw no obstruction in the way of any movement calculated to attain so desirable an object. it may be that i am mistaken in supposing that it is intended to convey religious instruction, in the public schools, of a kind that will be obnoxious to a minority; and if so, the design of the authors of the resolutions will have no more sincere well-wisher than, sir, your obedient servant, samuel lucas. london, _february , _. chapter seventh. general outline of an educational scheme adequate to the demands of the age--remuneration of teachers--mode of their election--responsibility--influence of the church in such a scheme--apparent errors of the church--the circumstances of scotland very different now from what they were in the days of knox. scotland will never have an efficient educational system at once worthy of her ancient fame, and adequate to the demands of the age, until in every parish there be at least one central school, known emphatically as the _parish_ or grammar school, and taught by a superior university-bred teacher, qualified to instruct his pupils in the higher departments of learning, and fit them for college. and with this central institute every parish must also possess its supplementary english schools, efficient of their kind, though of a lower standing, and sufficiently numerous to receive all the youthful population of the district which fails to be accommodated in the other. in these, the child of the labourer or mechanic--if, possessed of but ordinary powers, he looked no higher than the profession of his father--could be taught to read, write, and figure. if, however, there awakened within him during the process, the stirrings of those impulses which characterize the superior mind, he could remove to his proper place--the central school--mayhap, in country districts, some two or three miles away; but when the intellectual impulses are genuine, two or three miles in such cases are easily got over. we would fix for the teachers, in the first instance, on no very extravagant rate of remuneration; for it might prove bad policy in this, as in other departments, to set a man above his work. the salaries attached at present to our parish schools vary from a minimum of £ to a maximum of about £ . let us suppose that they varied, instead, from a minimum of £ to a maximum of £ --not large sums, certainly, but which, with the fees and a free house, would render every parochial schoolmaster in scotland worth about from £ to £ per annum, and in some cases--dependent, of course, on professional efficiency and the population of the locality--worth considerably more. the supplementary english schools we would place on the average level maintained at present by our parish schools, by providing the teachers with free houses, and yearly salaries of a minimum of £ and a maximum of £ . and as it is of great importance that men should not fall asleep at their posts, and as tutors never teach more efficiently than when straining to keep ahead of their pupils, we would fain have provision made that, by a permitted use of occasional substitutes, this lower order of schoolmasters should be enabled to prepare themselves, by attendance at college, for competing, as vacancies occurred, for the higher schools. it would be an arrangement worth £ additional salary to every school in scotland, that the channels of preferment should be ever kept open to useful talent and honest diligence, so that the humblest english teacher in the land might rise, in the course of years, to be at the head of its highest school; nay, that, like that james beattie who taught at one time the parish school of fordoun, he might, if native faculty had been given and wisely improved, become one of the country's most distinguished professors. in fixing our permanent castes of schools, grammar and english, we would strongly urge that there should be no permanent castes of teachers fixed--no men condemned to the humbler walks of the profession if qualified for the higher. the life-giving sap would thus have free course, from the earth's level to the topmost boughs of our national scheme; and low as an englishman might deem our proposed rates of remuneration for university-taught men, we have no fear that they would prove insufficient, coupled with such a provision, for the right education of the country. we are not sure that we quite comprehend the sort of machinery meant to be included under the term local or parochial boards. it seems necessary that there should exist local _committees_ of the educational franchise-holders, chosen by themselves, from among their own number, for terms either definite or indefinite, and recognised by statute as vested in certain powers of examination and inquiry. but though a mere name be but a small matter, we are inclined to regard the term board as somewhat too formidable and stiff. let us, at least for the present, substitute the term committee; and as large committees are apt to degenerate into little mobs, and, as such, to conduct their business noisily and ill, let us suppose educational committees to consist, in at least country districts or the smaller towns, of some eight or ten individuals, selected by the householders for their intelligence, integrity, and business habits, and with a chairman at their head, chosen from among their number by themselves. a vacancy occurs, let us suppose, in either the grammar or one of the english schools of the place: the committee, through their chairman, put themselves in communication with some of the normal schoolmasters of the south, and receive from them a few names of deserving and qualified teachers, possessed of diplomas indicating their professional standing, and furnished, besides, with trustworthy certificates of character. or, if the emoluments of the vacant school be considerable, and some of the neighbouring teachers, placed on a lower rate of income, have distinguished themselves by their professional merits, and so rendered themselves known in the district, let us suppose that they select _their_ names, and to the number of some two, three, four, or more, submit them, with the necessary credentials, to their constituents the householders. and these assemble on some fixed day, and, from the number placed on the list, select their men. such, in the business of electing a schoolmaster, would, we hold, be the proper work of a committee. in all other seasons, the committee might be recognised as vested in some of the functions now exercised by the established presbyteries, such as that of presiding, in behalf of the parentage of the locality, at yearly or half-yearly examinations of the schools, and of watching over the general morals and official conduct of the teacher. but the power of trial and dismission, which, of course, would need to exist somewhere, we would vest in other hands. let us remark, in the passing, that much might come to depend ultimately on the portioning out of the localities into electoral districts of a proper size, and that it would be perhaps well, as a general rule, that there should be no subdivisions made of the old parishes. there are few parishes in scotland in which the materials of a good committee might not be found; but there are perhaps many half, and third, and quarter parishes in which no such materials exist. further, the householders of some country hamlet or degraded town-suburb, populous enough to require its school, might be yet very unfit of themselves to choose for it a schoolmaster. and hence the necessity for maintaining a local breadth of representation sufficient to do justice to the principle of the scheme, and to prevent it, if we may so speak, from sinking in the less solid parts of the kingdom. a parochial breadth of base would serve as if to plank over the unsounder portions of the general surface, and give footing to a system of schools and teachers worthy, as a whole, of the character and the necessities of a country wise and enlightened in the main, but that totters on the brink of a bottomless abyss. the power of trying, and, if necessary, of dismissing from his charge, an offending teacher, would, however, as we have said, require to exist somewhere. every official, whether of the state or church, or whether dependent on a single employer or on a corporation or company, bears always a twofold character. he is a subject of the realm, and, as such, amenable to its laws; he has also an official responsibility, and may be reprimanded or dismissed for offences against the requirements and duties of his office. a tradesman or mechanic may go on tippling for years, wasting his means and neglecting his business, untouched by any law save that great economic law of providence which dooms the waster to ultimate want; but for the excise officer, or bank accountant, or railway clerk, who pursues a similar course, there exists a court of official responsibility, which anticipates the slow operation of the natural law, by at once divesting the offender of his office. and the state-paid schoolmaster must have also his official responsibility. but it would serve neither the ends of justice nor the interests of a sound policy to erect his immediate employers into a court competent to try and condemn: their proper place would be rather that of parties than of judges; and as parties, we would permit them simply to conduct against him any case for which they might hold there existed proper grounds. a schoolmaster chosen by a not large majority, might find in a few years that his supporters had dwindled into a positive minority: parents whose boys were careless, or naturally thick-headed, would of course arrive at the opinion that it was the teacher who was in fault; nay, a parent who had fallen into arrears with his fees might come to entertain the design of discharging the account simply by discharging the schoolmaster; and thus great injustice might be done to worthy and efficient men, and one of the most important classes of the community placed in circumstances of a shackled dependency, which no right-minded teacher could submit to occupy. what we would propose, then, is, that the power of trial, and of dismission if necessary, should be vested in a central national board, furnished with one or more salaried functionaries to record its sentences and do its drudgery, but consisting mainly of unpaid members of high character and standing,--some of them, mayhap, members _ex officio_; the lord provost of edinburgh, let us suppose--the principal and some of the professors of the edinburgh university--the rector, shall we say, of the high school--the lord advocate, and mayhap the dean of faculty. and as it would be of importance that there should be as little new machinery created as possible, the evidence, criminatory or exculpatory, on which such a board would have to decide could be taken before the sheriff courts of the provinces, and then, after being carefully sifted by the sheriffs or their substitutes, forwarded in a documentary form to edinburgh. it would scarce be wise to attempt extemporizing an official code in a newspaper article; but the laws of such a code might, we think, be ranged under three heads,--immorality, incompetency, and breach of trust to the parents. we would urge the dismissal, as wholly unqualified to stand in the relation of teacher to the youthhead, of the tippling, licentious, or dishonest schoolmaster; further, we would urge the dismissal (and in cases of this kind the corroborative evidence of the government inspector might be regarded as indispensable) of an incompetent teacher who did not serve the purpose of his appointment; and, in the third and last place, we would urge that a teacher who made an improper use of his professional influence over his pupils, and of the opportunities necessarily afforded him, and who taught them to entertain beliefs, ecclesiastical or semi-ecclesiastical, which their parents regarded as erroneous, should be severely reprimanded for such an offence in the first instance, and dismissed if he persevered in it. we would confer upon the board, in cases of this last kind, no power of deciding regarding the absolute right or wrong of the dogmas taught. the teacher might be a zealous voluntary, who assured the children of men such as the writer of these articles that their fathers, in asserting the establishment principle, approved themselves limbs of that mystic babylon which was first founded by constantine; or he might be a conscientious establishment-man, who dutifully pressed upon the voluntary pupils under his care, that their parents, though they perhaps did not know it, were atheistical in their views. and we would permit no board to determine in such cases, whether voluntaryism was in any respect or degree tantamount to atheism, or the establishment principle to popery. but we would ask them to declare, as wise and honest men, that no schoolmaster, under the pretext of a zeal for truth, should with impunity break faith with the parents of his pupils, or prejudice the unformed and ductile minds entrusted to his care against their hereditary beliefs. should we, however, do no violence by such a provision, we have heard it asked, to the conscientious convictions of the schoolmaster? no, not in the least. if he was in reality the conscientious man that he professed to be, he would quit his equivocal position as a teacher, in which, without being dishonest, he could not fulfil what he deemed his religious duty, and become a minister; a character in which he would find churches within which he could affirm with impunity that dr. chalmers was, in virtue of his establishment views, little better than a papist, or that robert hall, seeing he was a voluntary, must have been an unconscious atheist at bottom. let us next consider what the influence of the ministers of our church would be under a national scheme such as that which we desiderate, and what the probability that the national teaching would be religious. the minister, as such, would possess, nominally at least, but a single vote; and if he were what an ordained minister may in some cases be--merely a suit of black clothes surmounted by a white neckcloth--the vote, _nominally_ one, would be also _really_ but one; nor ought it, we at once say, to weigh in such cases an iota more than it counted. mere black coats and white neckcloths, though called by congregations, and licensed and ordained by presbyteries, never yet carried on the proper business of either church or school. but if the minister was no mere suit of clothes, but a christian man, ordained and called not merely by congregations and presbyteries, but by god himself, his one vote in the case would outweigh hundreds, simply because it would represent the votes of hundreds. let us suppose that, with the national schools thrown open, a vacancy had occurred in the parish school of cromarty during the incumbency of the lamented mr. stewart. the people of the town and parish, possessing the educational franchise, would meet; their committee would deliberate; there would be a teacher chosen,--in all probability, the present excellent free church teacher of the town; and every man would feel that he had exercised in the election his own judgment on his own proper responsibility. and yet it would assuredly be the teacher whom the minister had deemed on the whole most eligible for the office, that would find himself settled, in virtue of the transaction, in the parish school. how? not, certainly, through any exercise of clerical domination, nor through any employment of what is still more hateful--clerical manoeuvre--but in virtue of a widespread confidence reposed by the people in the wisdom and the integrity of the minister sent them by god himself to preach to them the everlasting gospel. in almost all the surrounding parishes--in resolis, rosskeen, urquhart under the late dr. m'donald, alness, kiltearn, kincardine, kilmuir, etc. etc. etc.--in similar cases similar results would follow; and if there are preachers in that vast northern or north-western tract--which, with the three northern counties, includes also almost the entire highlands--in which such results would _not_ follow, it would be found that in most cases the fault lay rather with the ordained suits of black, topped by the white neckcloths, than with the people whom they failed to influence. as for the religion or the religious teaching of the schools, we hold it to be one of the advantages of the proposed scheme, that it would really stir up both ministers and people to think seriously of the matter, and to secure for the country truly religious teaching, so far as it was found to be at once practicable and good. previous to the year , when the parish schools lay fully within our power, there was really nothing done to introduce religious teaching into _them_; we had it all secure on written sheepskin, that their teaching should and might be religious, for we had them all fast bound to the establishment; and, as if that were enough of itself, ministers, backed by heritors and their factors, went on filling these parish schools with men who stood the test of the disruption worse, in the proportion of at least five to one, than any other class in the country, and who, if their religious teaching had but taken effect on the people by bringing them to their own level, would have rendered that disruption wholly an impossibility.{ } and then, when that great event occurred, we flung ourselves into an opposite extreme,--eulogized our educational scheme as the best and most important of all the schemes of our church, on, we suppose, the principle so well understood by the old divines, that whereas the other schemes were of god, and god-enjoined, this scheme was of ourselves,--introduced, further, the design of '_inducting_' our teachers, as if an idle ceremony could be any substitute for the indispensable commission signed by the sovereign, and could make the non-commissioned by him at least _half_ ecclesiastics.{ } and then, after _teaching_ our schoolmasters to _teach_ religion, we sent them abroad in shoals--some of them, no doubt, converted men, hundreds of them unconverted, and religious but by certificate--to make the children of the free church as good christians as themselves. and by attempting to make them half ecclesiastics, we have but succeeded in making them half mendicants, and somewhat more,--a character which assuredly no efficient schoolmaster ought to bear; for while his profession holds in scripture no higher place than the two _secular_ branches of the learned professions, physic and the law, he is as certainly worthy of his reward, and of maintaining an independent position in society, as either the lawyer or the physician. in schools truly national--with no sheepskin authority to sleep over on the one hand, and no idle dream of semi-ecclesiastical 'induction' to beguile on the other--the item of religious teaching, brought into prominence by both the free and the established churches in the preliminary struggle, would assert and receive its due place. scotland would possess what it never yet possessed,--not even some twenty years or so after the death of knox,--a system of schools worthy, in the main, of a christian country. we are told by old robert blair, in his autobiography, that when first brought under religious impressions (in the year ), 'he durst never play on the lord's day, though the schoolmaster, after taking an account of the catechism, dismissed the children with that express direction, "go not to the town, but to the fields, and play." i obeyed him,' adds the worthy man, 'in going to the fields, but refused to play with my companions, as against the commandment of god.' now it is not at all strange that there should have been such a schoolmaster, in any age of the presbyterian church, in one of the parish schools of our country; but somewhat strange, mayhap, considering the impression so generally received regarding the scottish schools of that period, that blair should have given us no reason whatever to regard the case as an extreme or exceptional one. certainly, with such a central board in existence as that which we desiderate, no such type of schoolmaster would continue to hold office in a national seminary. further, it really seems difficult to determine whether the difference between the old educational scheme of knox and that proposed at the present time by the free church, or the difference between the circumstances of scotland in his days and of scotland in the present day, be in truth the wider difference of the two. knox judged it of 'necessitie that every several kirk should have one schoolmaster appointed,'--'such a one at least as was able to teach grammar and the latine tongue;' 'that there should be erected in every notable town,' a 'colledge, in which the arts, logic, and rhethorick, together with the tongues, should be read by masters, for whom _honest_ stipends should be appointed;' and further, 'that fair provision should be made for the [support of the] poor [pupils], in especial those who came from landward,' and were 'not able, by their friends nor by themselves, to be sustained at letters.' we know that the notable towns referred to here as of importance enough to possess colleges were, many of them, what we would now deem far from notable. kirkwall, the chanonry of ross, brechin, st. andrews, inverary, jedburgh, and dumfries, are specially named in the list; and we know further, that what knox deemed an 'honest stipend' for a schoolmaster, amounted on the average to about two-thirds the stipend of a minister. such, in the sixteenth century, was the wise scheme of the liberal and scholarly knox, the friend of calvin, beza, and buchanan. are we to recognise its counterpart in the middle of the nineteenth century, in a scheme at least three-fourths of whose teachers are paid with yearly salaries of from £ to £ , s. d.--about half ploughman's wages--and of whom not a fourth have passed the ordeal of a government examination, pitched at the scale of the lowest rate of attainment? the scheme of the noble knox! say rather a many-ringed film-spinning grub, that has come creeping out of the old crackling parchment, in which the sagacious reformer approved himself as much in advance of his own age, as many of those who profess to walk most closely in his steps demonstrate themselves to be in the rear of theirs. let us next mark how entirely the circumstances of the country have changed since the days of the first book of discipline. with the exception of the clergy, a few lay proprietors, and a sprinkling of the inhabitants of the larger towns, scotland was altogether, in the earlier period, an uneducated nation. even for more than a century after, there were landed gentlemen of the northern counties unable, as shown by old deeds, to sign their names. if the church had not taken upon herself the education of the people in those ages, who else was there to teach them? not one. save for her exertions, the divine command, 'search the scriptures,' would have remained to at least nine-tenths of the nation a dead letter. but how entirely different the circumstances of scotland in the present time! the country has its lapsed masses,--men in very much the circumstances, educationally, of the great bulk of the population in the age of knox; and we at once grant that, unless the churches of the country deal with these as knox dealt with the whole, there is but little chance of their ever being restored to society or the humanizing influences of religion, let government make for them what provision it may.{ } but such is not the condition of the membership of at least the evangelical churches. such is palpably not the condition of the membership of the free church, consisting as it does of parents taken solemnly bound, in their baptismal engagements, to bring up their children in the 'nurture and admonition of the lord,' and of the children for whom they have been thus taken bound. save in a few exceptional cases, _their_ education is secure, let the church exert herself as little as she may. she is but exhausting herself in vain efforts to do what would be done better without her. she has all along contemplated, we are told, merely the education of her own members; and these form exactly that portion of the people which--unless, indeed, the solemn engagements which she has deliberately laid upon them mean as little as excise affidavits or bow street oaths--may be safely left to a broad national scheme, wisely based on a principle of parental responsibility. 'if thou altogether holdest thy peace at this time,' said mordecai to esther, 'then shall there enlargement and deliverance arise to the jews from another place, but thou and thy father's house shall be destroyed.' scotland will have ultimately her educational scheme adequate to the demands of the age; but if the free church stand aloof, and suffer the battle to be fought by others, her part or lot in it may be a very small matter indeed. what, we ask, would be her share, especially in the highlands, in a scheme that rendered the basis of the educational franchise merely co-extensive with the basis of the political one? nay, what, save perhaps in the northern burghs, would be her share in such a scheme over scotland generally? a mere makeweight at best. but at least the lay membership of the free church will, we are assured, not long stand aloof; and this great question of national education being in no degree an ecclesiastical one, nor lying within the jurisdiction of presbyteries or assemblies, true lovers of their country and of their species, whether of the established or of the free churches, will come forward and do their duty as scotchmen on the political platform. in neither body does the attitude assumed by the ecclesiastical element in this question, so far as has yet been indicated, appear of a kind which plain, simple-minded laymen will delight to contemplate. the established church courts are taking up the ground that the teaching in their parish schools has been all along religious, and at least one great source from which has sprung the vitalities of the country's faith. and who does not know that to be a poor, unsolid fiction,--a weak and hollow sham? and, on the other hand, some of our free churchmen are asserting that they are not _morally_ bound to their forlorn teachers for the meagre and altogether inadequate salaries held out to them in prospect, when they were set down in their humble schools, divorced from all other means of support, to regulate their very limited expenditure by the specified incomes. further, they virtually tell us that we cannot possibly take our stand as scotchmen on this matter, in the only practical position, without being untrue to our common christianity, and enemies to our church. it has been urged against our educational articles, that we have failed to take into account the fall of man: he would surely be an incorrigible sceptic, we reply, who could look upon statements such as these, and yet doggedly persist in doubting that man has fallen. but, alas! it is not a matter on which to congratulate ourselves, that when the established church is coming forward to arrest the progress of national education with her strange equivocal caveat, the free church--the church of the disruption--should be also coming forward with a caveat which at least _seems_ scarce less equivocal; and that, like the twin giants of guildhall--huge, monstrous, unreal--both alike should be turning deaf and wooden ears to the great clock of destiny, as it strikes the hours of doom to their distracted and sinking country. o for an hour of the great, the noble-minded chalmers! ultimately, however, the good cause is secure. it is a cause worth struggling and suffering for. we know a little boy, not yet much of a reader, who has learned to bring a copy of scott's _tales of a grandfather_, which now opens of itself at the battle of bannockburn, to a little girl, his sister, somewhat more in advance, that she may read to him, for the hundredth time, of wallace and the black douglas, and how the good king robert struck down sir henry bohun with a single blow, full in the sight of both armies. and after drinking in the narrative, he tells that, when grown to be a big man, he too is to be a soldier like robert the bruce, and to 'fight in the battle of scotland.' and then he asks his father when the battle of scotland is to begin! laymen of the free church, the battle of scotland has already begun; and 'tis a battle better worth fighting than any other which has arisen within the political arena since the times of the reform bill. your country has still claims upon you: the disruption may have dissolved the tie which bound you to party; but that which binds you to scotland still remains entire. the parental right is not dissolved by any traditionary requirements of the altar; nor can we urge with impunity to our country,--'it is corban, that is to say, a gift, by whatsoever thou mightest be profited by me.' ----- { } there are about one thousand one hundred parish schoolmasters in scotland: of these, not more than eighty (strictly, we believe, seventy-seven) adhered to the free church at the disruption. { } the church as such ought to employ the schoolmaster, it has been argued, in virtue of the divine injunction, 'search the scriptures:' what god _commands_ men to do, it is her duty to _enable_ men to do. the argument is excellent, we say, so far as it goes; but of perilous application in the case in hand. it is the church's duty to teach those to read the scriptures, who, _without her assistance, would not be taught to read them_. but if by teaching latin, arithmetic, algebra, and the mathematics to _ten_, she is incapacitating herself from teaching _twenty_ to read the bible; or if, by teaching twenty to read the bible who would have learned to read it whether she taught them or no, she is incapacitating herself from teaching twenty others to read it, who, unless she teach them, will never learn to read it at all; then, instead of doing her recognised duty in the matter, she is doing exactly the reverse of her duty--doing what prevents her from doing her duty. let the free church but take her stand on this argument, and straightway her rectors, her masters in academies, and her schoolmasters planted in towns and populous localities, to teach the higher branches, become so many bars raised by herself virtually to impede and arrest her, through the expense incurred in their maintenance, in her proper work of enabling the previously untaught and ignorant to read the word of god, in obedience to the divine injunction. { } this statement has been quoted by an antagonist as utterly inconsistent with our general line of argument; but we think we may safely leave the reader to determine whether it be really so. did we ever argue that any scheme of national education, however perfect, could possibly supersede the proper _missionary_ labours of the churches, whether educational or otherwise? assuredly not. what we really assert is, that if the churches waste their energies on work not missionary, the work which, if they do it not, cannot be done must of necessity be neglected; seeing that, according to bacon, 'charity will hardly water the ground where it must first fill a pool.' lord brougham. the history of lord brougham has no exact parallel in that of british statesmen. villiers duke of buckingham (the duke of the times of charles ii.) sunk quite as low, but not from such an elevation. of him too it was said, as of his lordship, that 'he left not faction, but of that was left,'--that every party learned to distrust and stand aloof from him, and that his great parts had only the effect of rendering his ultimate degradation the more marked and the more instructive. hume tells us that by his 'wild conduct, unrestrained either by prudence or principle, he found means to render himself in the end odious, and even insignificant.' but the duke of buckingham had been a mere courtier from the beginning, and no man had ever trusted or thought well of him. bolingbroke bears a nearly similar character. there was a mighty difference between the influential and able minister of queen anne, recognised by all as decidedly one of the most accomplished statesmen of his age or country, and the same individual,--forlorn and an exile, disliked and suspected by parties the most opposite, and who agreed in nothing else,--a fugitive from his own country to avoid the threatened impeachment of the whigs for his jacobitism, and a fugitive from france to avoid being impeached by the pretender for his treachery. but bolingbroke had never very seriously professed to be the friend of his country, nor would his country have believed him if he had. according to the shrewd remark of fielding, the temporal happiness, the civil liberties and properties of europe, had been the game of his earliest youth, and the eternal and final happiness of all mankind the sport and entertainment of his advanced age. he would have fain destroyed the freedom of his countrymen when in power, and their hope of immortality when in disgrace. neither can we find a parallel in the history of that other lord chancellor of england, who has been described by the poet as 'the greatest, wisest, meanest of mankind.' two of the epithets would not suit lord brougham; and though he unquestionably bore himself more honourably in the season of his elevation than his illustrious predecessor, he has as certainly employed himself to worse purpose in the time of his disgrace. unlike lords bolingbroke, buckingham, or bacon, lord brougham entered public life a reformer and a patriot. the subject of his first successful speech in parliament was the slave-trade. he denounced not only the abominable traffic itself,--the men who stole, bought, and kept the slave; but also the traders and merchants,--'the cowardly suborners of piracy and mercenary murder,' as he termed them, under whose remote influence the trade had been carried on; and the sympathies of the people went along with him. he was on every occasion, too, the powerful advocate of popular education. brougham is no discoverer of great truths; but he has evinced a 'curious felicity' in expressing truths already discovered: he exerted himself in sending 'the schoolmaster abroad,' and announced the fact in words which became more truly his motto than the motto found for him in the herald's office. he took part in well-nigh every question of reform; stood up for economy, the reduction of taxes, and queen caroline; found very vigorous english in which to express all he ought to have felt regarding the holy alliance and the massacre at manchester; and dealt with cobbett as cobbett deserved, for doing what he is now doing himself. there was always a lack of heart about brougham, so that men admired without loving him. there were no spontaneous exhibitions of those noblenesses of nature which mark the true reformer, and which compel the respect of even enemies. luther, knox, and andrew thomson were all men of rugged strength,--men of war, and born to contend; but they were also men of deep and broad sympathies, and of kindly affections: they could all feel as well as see the right; what is even more important still, they could all thoroughly forget themselves, and what the world thought and said of them, in the pursuit of some great and engrossing object: they could all love, too, at least as sincerely as they could hate. brougham, on the contrary, could only see without feeling the right; but then he saw clearly. brougham could not forget himself; but then he succeeded in identifying himself with much that was truly excellent. brougham could not love as thoroughly as he could hate; but then his indignation generally fell where it ought. his large intellect seemed based on an inferior nature--it was a brilliant set in lead; nor were there indications wanting all along, it has been said, that he was one of those patriots who have their price. but the brilliant was a true, not a factitious brilliant, whatever the value of the setting; and the price, if ever proffered, had not been sufficiently large. brougham became lord chancellor, the reform bill passed into a law, and slavery was abolished in the colonies. the country has not yet forgotten that the lord chancellor of and the two following years was no wild radical. there was no leaven of chartism in lord brougham, though a very considerable dash of eccentricity; and really, for a man who had been contending so many years in the opposition, and who had attained to so thorough a command of sarcasm, he learned to enact the courtier wonderfully well. neither 'tompkins' nor 'jenkins' had as yet manifested their contempt for the aristocracy; nor had the 'man well stricken in years' written anonymous letters to insult his sovereign. the universal suffrage scheme found no advocate in the lord chancellor. he could call on cobbett in his chariot, to attempt persuading the stubborn old saxon to write down incendiarism and machine-breaking. he breathed no anticipation of the 'first cheer of the people on the first refusal of the soldiery to fire on them.' as for reform, he was very explicit on that head: really so much had been accomplished already, that a great deal more could not be expected. little could be done in the coming years, he said, just because there had been so much done in the years that had gone by. the lord chancellor was comparatively a cautious and prudent man in those days--on the whole, a safe card for monarchy to play with. radicalism had learned that whigs in office are not very unlike tories in office; and to brougham it applied the remark: nor was he at all indignant that it did so. all his superabundant energies were expended in chancery. we unluckily missed hearing him deliver his famous speech at inverness, and that merely by an untoward chance, for we were in that part of the country at the time; but we have seen and conversed with scores who did hear him: we are intimate, too, with the gentleman who gave his speech on that occasion to the world, and know that a more faithful or more accomplished reporter than the editor of the _inverness courier_ is not to be found anywhere, nor yet a man of nicer discrimination, nor of a finer literary taste. there was no mistake made regarding his lordship's sentiments when he spoke of the reform bill as well-nigh a final measure; nor did his delight in the simple-minded natives arise when he pledged himself to recommend them, by the evening mail, to the graces of good king william, from their wishing the bill to be anything else than final. even with its limited franchise, he deemed it a very excellent bill; and the woolsack, to which it had elevated him, a very desirable seat. people did occasionally see that hazlitt was in the right--that he was rather a man of speech than of action; that he was somewhat too imprudent for a leader, somewhat too petulant for a partisan; and that he wanted in a considerable degree the principle of co-operation. but chatham wanted it quite as much as he; and it was deemed invidious to measure so accomplished a man, and so sworn a friend of peace and good order, by the minuter rules. but napoleon should have died at waterloo, brougham at dunrobin. what is ex-chancellor brougham now? what party trusts to him? what section of the community does he represent? frost had his confiding friends and followers, and feargus o'connor led a numerous and formidable body. even sir william courtenay had his disciples. where are brougham's disciples? what moral influence does the advocate of popular education, and the indignant denouncer of the iniquities of the slave-trade, exert? in what age or what country was there ever a man so 'left by faction?' the socialism of england and the voluntaryism of edinburgh entrust him with their petitions, and chartism stands on tiptoe when he rises in his place to advocate universal suffrage; but no one confides in him. owen does not, nor the rev. mr. marshall of kirkintilloch, nor yet the conspirators of sheffield or newport. toryism scarcely thanks him for fighting its battles; whiggism abhors him. there is no one credulous enough to believe that his aims rise any higher than himself, or blind enough not to see that even his selfishness is so ill-regulated as to defeat its own little object. his lack of the higher sentiments, the more generous feelings, the nobler aims, neutralizes even his intellect. he publishes his speeches, carefully solicitous of his fame, and provokes comparison in laboured dissertations with the oratory of demosthenes and cicero; he eulogizes the duke of wellington, and demands by inference whether he cannot praise as classically as even the ancients themselves; but his heartless though well-modulated eloquence lingers in first editions, like the effusions of inferior minds; nor is it of a kind which the 'world will find after many days.' brougham will be less known sixty years hence than the player garrick is at present. bolingbroke, when thrown out of all public employment-gagged, disarmed, shut out from the possibility of a return to office, suspected alike by the government and the opposition, and thoroughly disliked by the people to boot--could yet solace himself in his uneasy and unhonoured retirement by exerting himself to write down the ministry. and his _craftsmen_ sold even more rapidly than the _spectator_ itself. but the writings of brougham do not sell; he lacks even the solace of bolingbroke. we have said that his history is without parallel in that of britain. napoleon on his rock was a less melancholy object: the imprisoned warrior had lost none of his original power--he was no moral suicide; the millions of france were still devotedly attached to him, and her armies would still have followed him to battle. it was no total forfeiture of character on his own part that had rendered him so utterly powerless either for good or ill. _july , ._ the scott monument. the foundation-stone of the metropolitan monument in memory of sir walter scott was laid with masonic honours on saturday last. the day was pleasant, and the pageant imposing. all business seemed suspended for the time; the shops were shut. the one half of edinburgh had poured into the streets, and formed by no means the least interesting part of the spectacle. every window and balcony that overlooked the procession, every house-top almost, had its crowd of spectators. according to the poet, 'rank behind rank, close wedged, hung bellying o'er;' while the area below, for many hundred yards on either side the intended site of the monument, presented a continuous sea of heads. we marked, among the flags exhibited, the royal standard of scotland, apparently a piece of venerable antiquity, for the field of gold had degenerated into a field of drab, and the figure in the centre showed less of leonine nobleness than of art in that imperfect state in which men are fain to content themselves with semblances doubtful and inexpressive, and less than half the result of chance. the entire pageant was such a one as sir walter himself could perhaps have improved. he would not have fired so many guns in the hollow, and the grey old castle so near: he would have found means, too, to prevent the crowd from so nearly swallowing up the procession. perhaps no man had ever a finer eye for pictorial effect than sir walter, whether art or nature supplied the scene. it has been well said that he rendered abbotsford a romance in stone and lime, and imparted to the king's visit to scotland the interest and dignity of an epic poem. still, however, the pageant was an imposing one, and illustrated happily the influence of a great and original mind, whose energies had been employed in enriching the national literature, over an educated and intellectual people. it is a bad matter when a country is employed in building monuments to the memory of men chiefly remarkable for knocking other men on the head; it is a bad matter, too, when it builds monuments to the memory of mere courtiers, of whom not much more can be said than that when they lived they had places and pensions to bestow, and that they bestowed them on their friends. we cannot think so ill, however, of the homage paid to genius. the masonic brethren of the several lodges mustered in great numbers. it has been stated that more than a thousand took part in the procession. coleridge, in his curious and highly original work, _the friend_--a work which, from its nature, never can become popular, but which, though it may be forgotten for a time, will infallibly be dug up and brought into public view in the future as an unique fossil impression of an extinct order of mind--refers to a bygone class of mechanics, 'to whom every trade was an allegory, and had its guardian saint.' 'but the time has gone by,' he states, 'in which the details of every art were ennobled in the eyes of its professors by being spiritually improved into symbols and mementoes of all doctrines and all duties.' we could hardly think so as we stood watching the procession, with its curiously fantastic accumulation of ornament and symbol; it seemed, however, rather the relic of a former age than the natural growth of the present--a spectre of the past strangely resuscitated. the laugh, half in ridicule, half in good nature, with which the crowd greeted every very gaudily dressed member, richer in symbol and obsolete finery than his neighbour, showed that the day had passed in which such things could produce their originally intended effect. will the time ever arrive in which stars and garters will claim as little respect as broad-skirted doublets of green velvet, surmounted with three-cornered hats tagged with silver lace? much, we suppose, must depend upon the characters of those who wear them, and the kind of services on which they will come to be bestowed. an upper house of mere diplomatists--skilful only to overreach--imprudent enough to substitute cunning for wisdom--ignorant enough to deem the people not merely their inferiors in rank, but in discernment also--weak enough to believe that laws may be enacted with no regard to the general good--wrapped up in themselves, and acquainted with the masses only through their eavesdroppers and dependants--would bring titles and orders to a lower level in half an age, than the onward progress of intellect has brought the quaintnesses of mechanic symbol and mystery in two full centuries. we but smile at the one, we would learn to execrate the other. has the reader ever seen quarles' _emblems_, or flavel's _husbandry and navigation spiritualized_? both belong to an extinct species of literature, of which the mechanic mysteries described by coleridge, and exhibited in the procession of saturday last, strongly remind us. both alike proceeded on a process of mind the reverse of the common. comparison generally leads from the moral to the physical, from the abstract to the visible and the tangible; here, on the contrary, the tangible and the visible--the emblem and the symbol--were made to lead to the moral and the abstract. there are beautiful instances, too, of the same school in the allegories of bunyan,--the wonders in the house of the interpreter, for instance, and the scenes exhibited in the cave of the 'man named contemplation.' sir walter's monument will have one great merit, regarded as a piece of art. it will be entirely an original,--such a piece of architecture as he himself would have delighted to describe, and the description of which he, and he only, could have sublimed into poetry. there is a chaste and noble beauty in the forms of greek and roman architecture which consorts well with the classic literature of those countries. the compositions of sir walter, on the contrary, resemble what he so much loved to describe--the rich and fantastic gothic, at times ludicrously uncouth, at times exquisitely beautiful. there are not finer passages in all his writings than some of his architectural descriptions. how exquisite is his _melrose abbey_,--the external view in the cold, pale moonshine, 'when buttress and buttress alternately seemed formed of ebon and ivory;' internally, when the strange light broke from the wizard's tomb! who, like sir walter, could draw a mullioned window, with its 'foliaged tracery,' its 'freakish knots,' its pointed and moulded arch, and its dyed and pictured panes? we passed, of late, an hour amid the ruins of crichton, and scarce knew whether most to admire the fine old castle itself, so worthy of its poet, or the exquisite picture of it we found in _marmion_. sir walter's monument would be a monument without character, if it were other than gothic. still, however, we have our fears for the effect. in portrait-painting there is the full life-size, and a size much smaller, and both suit nearly equally well, and appear equally natural; but the intermediate sizes do not suit. make the portrait just a very little less than the natural size, and it seems not the reduced portrait of a man, but the full-sized portrait of a dwarf. now a similar principle seems to obtain in gothic architecture. the same design which strikes as beautiful in a model--the piece which, if executed in spar, and with a glass cover over it, would be regarded as exquisitely tasteful--would impress, when executed on a large scale, as grand and magnificent in the first degree. and yet this identical design, in an intermediate size, would possibly enough be pronounced a failure. mediocrity in size is fatal to the gothic, if it be a richly ornamented gothic; nor are we sure that the noble design of mr. kemp is to be executed on a scale sufficiently extended. we are rather afraid not, but the result will show. such a monument a hundred yards in height would be one of the finest things perhaps in europe. what has sir walter done for scotland, to deserve so gorgeous a monument? assuredly not all he might have done; and yet he has done much--more, in some respects, than any other merely literary man the country ever produced. he has interested europe in the national character, and in some corresponding degree in the national welfare; and this of itself is a very important matter indeed. shakespeare--perhaps the only writer who, in the delineation of character, takes precedence of the author of _waverley_--seems to have been less intensely imbued with the love of country. it is quite possible for a foreigner to luxuriate over his dramas, as the germans are said to do, without loving englishmen any the better in consequence, or respecting them any the more. but the european celebrity of the fictions of sir walter must have had the inevitable effect of raising the character of his country,--its character as a country of men of large growth, morally and intellectually. besides, it is natural to think of foreigners as mere abstractions; and hence one cause at least of the indifference with which we regard them,--an indifference which the first slight misunderstanding converts into hostility. it is something towards a more general diffusion of goodwill to be enabled to conceive of them as men with all those sympathies of human nature, on which the corresponding sympathies lay hold, warm and vigorous about them. now, in this aspect has sir walter presented his countrymen to the world. wherever his writings are known, a scotsman can be no mere abstraction; and in both these respects has the poet and novelist deserved well of his country. within the country itself, too, his great nationality, like that of burns, has had a decidedly favourable effect. the cosmopolism so fashionable among a certain class about the middle of the last century, was but a mock virtue, and a very dangerous one. the 'citizen of the world,' if he be not a mere pretender, is a man to be defined by negatives. it is improper to say he loves all men alike: he is merely equally indifferent to all. nothing can be more absurd than to oppose the love of country to the love of race. the latter exists but as a wider diffusion of the former. do we not know that human nature, in its absolute perfection, and blent with the absolute and infinite perfection of deity, indulged in the love of country? the saviour, when he took to himself a human heart, wept over the city of his fathers. now, it is well that this spirit should be fostered, not in its harsh and exclusive, but in its human and more charitable form. liberty cannot long exist apart from it. the spirit of war and aggression is yet abroad: there are laws to be established, rights to be defended, invaders to be repulsed, tyrants to be deposed. and who but the patriot is equal to these things? how was the cry of 'scotland for ever' responded to at waterloo, when the scots greys broke through a column of the enemy to the rescue of their countrymen, and the highlanders levelled their bayonets for the charge! a people cannot survive without the national spirit, except as slaves. the man who adds to the vigour of the feeling at the same time that he lessens its exclusiveness, deserves well of his country; and who can doubt that sir walter has done so? the sympathies of sir walter, despite his high tory predilections, were more favourable to the people as such than those of shakespeare. if the station be low among the characters of the dramatist, it is an invariable rule that the style of thinking and of sentiment is low also. the humble wool-comber of stratford-on-avon, possessed of a mind more capacious beyond comparison than the minds of all the nobles and monarchs of the age, introduced no such man as himself into his dramas--no such men as bunyan or burns,--men low in place, but kingly in intellect. not so, however, the aristocratic sir walter. there is scarcely a finer character in all his writings than the youthful peasant of glendearg, halbert glendinning, afterwards the noble knight of avenel, brave and wise, and alike fitted to lead in the councils of a great monarch, or to carry his banner in war. his brother edward is scarcely a lower character. and when was unsullied integrity in a humble condition placed in an attitude more suited to command respect and regard, than in the person of jeanie deans? a man of a lower nature, wrapt round by the vulgar prejudices of rank, could not have conceived such a character: he would have transferred to it a portion of his own vulgarity, dressed up in a few borrowed peculiarities of habit and phraseology. even the character of jeanie's father lies quite as much beyond the ordinary reach. men such as sheridan, fielding, and foote, would have represented him as a hypocrite--a feeble and unnatural mixture of baseness and cunning. sir walter, with all his prejudices and all his antipathies, not only better knew the national type, but he had a more comprehensive mind; and he drew david deans, therefore, as a man of stern and inflexible integrity, and as thoroughly sincere in his religion. not but that in this department he committed great and grievous mistakes. the main doctrine of revelation, with its influence on character--that doctrine of regeneration which our saviour promulgated to nicodemus, and enforced with the sanctity of an oath--was a doctrine of which he knew almost nothing. what has the first place in all the allegories of bunyan, has no place in the fictions of sir walter. none of his characters exhibit the change displayed in the life of the ingenious allegorist of elston, or of james gardener, or of john newton. he found human nature a _terra incognita_ when it came under the influence of grace; and in this _terra incognita_, the field in which he could only grope, not see, his way, well-nigh all his mistakes were committed. but had his native honesty been less, his mistakes would have been greater. he finds good even among christians. what can be finer than the character of his covenanter's widow, standing out as it does in the most exceptionable of all his works,--the blind and desolate woman, meek and forgiving in her utmost distress, who had seen her sons shot before her eyes, and had then ceased to see more? our subject, however, is one which we must be content not to exhaust. the late mr. kemp. the funeral of this hapless man of genius took place yesterday, and excited a deep and very general interest, in which there mingled the natural sorrow for high talent prematurely extinguished, with the feeling of painful regret, awakened by a peculiarly melancholy end. it was numerously attended, and by many distinguished men. the several streets through which it passed were crowded by saddened spectators--in some few localities very densely; and the windows overhead were much thronged. at no place was the crowd greater, except perhaps immediately surrounding the burying-ground, than at the fatal opening beside the canal basin, into which the unfortunate man had turned from the direct road in the darkness of night, and had found death at its termination. the scene of the accident is a gloomy and singularly unpleasant spot. a high wall, perforated by a low, clumsy archway, closes abruptly what the stranger might deem a thoroughfare. there is a piece of sluggish, stagnant water on the one hand, thick and turbid, and somewhat resembling in form and colour a broad muddy highway, lined by low walls; not a tuft of vegetation is to be seen on its tame rectilinear sides: all is slimy and brown, with here and there dank, muddy recesses, as if for the frog and the rat; while on the damp flat above, there lie, somewhat in the style of the grouping in a dutch painting, the rotting fragments of canal passage-boats and coal-barges, with here and there some broken-backed hulk, muddy and green, the timbers peering out through the planking, and all around heaps of the nameless lumber of a deserted boat-yard. the low, clumsy archway is wholly occupied by a narrow branch of the canal,--brown and clay-like as the main trunk, from which it strikes off at nearly right angles. it struck us forcibly, in examining the place, that in the uncertain light of midnight, the flat, dead water must have resembled an ordinary cart-road, leading through the arched opening in the direction of the unfortunate architect's dwelling; and certainly at this spot, just where he might be supposed to have stepped upon the seeming road under the fatal impression, was the body found. it had been intended, as the funeral letters bore, to inter the body of mr. kemp in the vault under the scott monument,--a structure which, erected to do honour to the genius of one illustrious scotsman, will be long recognised as a proud trophy of the fine taste and vigorous talent of another. the arrangement was not without precedent; and had it been possible for sir walter to have anticipated it, we do not think it would have greatly displeased him. the egyptian architect inscribed the name of his kingly master on but the plaster of the pyramid, while he engraved his own on the enduring granite underneath; and so the name of the king has been lost, and only that of the architect has survived. and there are, no doubt, monuments in our own country which have been transferred in some sort, and on a somewhat similar principle, from their original object. there are fine statues which reflect honour on but the sculptor that chiselled them, and tombs and cenotaphs inscribed with names so very obscure, that they give place in effect, if not literally, like that of the egyptian king, to the name of the architect who reared them. had the scott monument been erected, like the monument of a neighbouring square, to express a perhaps not very seemly gratitude for the services of some tenth-rate statesman, who procured places for his friends, and who did not much else, it would have been perilous to convert it into the tomb of a man of genius like poor kemp. it would have been perilous had it been the monument of some mere _litterateur_. the _litterateur's_ works would have disappeared from the public eye, while that of the hapless architect would be for ever before it. and it would be thus the architect, not the _litterateur_, that would be permanently remembered. but the monument of sir walter was in no danger; and sir walter himself would have been quite aware of the fact. it would not have displeased him, that in the remote future, when all its buttresses had become lichened and grey, and generation after generation had disappeared from around its base, the story would be told--like that connected in so many of our older cathedrals with 'prentice pillars' and 'prentice aisles'--that the poor architect who had designed its exquisite arches and rich pinnacles in honour of the shakespeare of scotland, had met an untimely death when engaged on it, and had found under its floor an appropriate grave. the intention, however, was not carried into effect. it had been intimated in the funeral letters that the burial procession should quit the humble dwelling of the architect--for a humble dwelling it is--at half-past one. it had been arranged, too, that the workmen employed at the monument, one of the most respectable-looking bodies of mechanics we ever saw, should carry the corpse to the grave. they had gathered round the dwelling, a cottage at morningside, with a wreath of ivy nodding from the wall; and the appearance of both it and them naturally suggested that the poor deceased, originally one of themselves, though he had risen, after a long struggle, into celebrity, had not risen into affluence. death had come too soon. he had just attained his proper position--just reached the upper edge of the table-land which his genius had given him a right to occupy, and on which a competency might be soon and honourably secured--when a cruel accident struck him down. the time specified for the burial passed--first one half-hour, and then another. the assembled group wondered at the delay. and then a gentleman from the dwelling-house came to inform them that some interdict or protest, we know not what--some, we suppose, perfectly legal document--had inhibited, at this late hour, the interment of the body in the monument, and that there was a grave in the course of being prepared for it in one of the city churchyards. annie m'donald and the fifeshire forester. it was the religion of scotland that first developed the intellect of the country. nor would it be at all difficult to show how. it is sufficiently easy to conceive the process through which earnest feeling concentrated on the great concerns of human destiny leads to earnest thinking, and how thinking propagates itself in its abstract character as such, even after the moving power which had first set its wheels in motion has ceased to operate. the reformation was mainly a religious movement, but it was pregnant with philosophy and the arts. the grand doctrine of justification by faith, for which luther and the other reformers contended, was wonderfully linked, by the god from whom it emanated, with all the great discoveries of modern science, and not a few of the proudest triumphs of literature. it drew along with it in the train of events, as if by a golden chain, the philosophy of bacon and newton, and the poesy of milton and shakespeare. but though the general truth of the remark has been acknowledged, the connection which it intimates--a connection clearly referable to the will of that adorable being who has made 'godliness profitable for all things'--has been too much lost sight of. religious belief, transmuted in its reflex influences into mere intellectual activity, has too often assumed another nature and name, and forgotten or disowned its origin; and whatever is suited to remind us of the certainty of the connection, or to illustrate the mode of its operations, cannot be deemed other than important. from a consideration of this character, we have been much pleased with a little work just published, which, taking up a single family in the humblest rank, shows, without any apparent intention of the kind on the part of the writer, how the christianity of the country has operated on the popular intellect; and we think we can scarce do better than introduce it to the acquaintance of our readers. most of them have perhaps seen a memoir of one annie m'donald, published in edinburgh some eight or ten years ago. it is a humble production, given chiefly, as the title-page intimates, in annie's own words; and annie ranked among the humblest of our people. she had never seen a single day in school. when best and most favourably circumstanced, she was the wife of a farm-servant,--no very exalted station surely; but still a lowlier station awaited her, and she passed more than half a century in widowhood. one of her daughters became the wife of a poor labourer, her two grandchildren were labourers also. it is not easy to imagine a humbler lot, without crossing the line beyond which independence cannot be achieved; and yet annie was a noble-hearted matron, one of the true aristocracy of the country. her long life was a protracted warfare--a scene of privation, sorrow, and sore trial; but she struggled bravely through, ever trusting in god, dependent on him, and him only; and if the dignity of human nature consist in integrity the most inflexible, energy the most untiring, strong sound thinking, deep devotional feeling, and a high-toned yet chastened spirit of independence, then was there more true dignity to be found in the humble cottage of annie m'donald, than in half the proud mansions of the country. many of our readers must be acquainted, as we have said, with her character, and some of the outlines of her story. most of them are acquainted, too, with the character of another very remarkable person, john bethune, the fifeshire forester,--a man whose name, in all probability, they have never associated with annie m'donald. he belongs to quite a different class of persons. the venerable matron takes her place among those cultivators of the moral nature who live in close converse with their god, and on whom are re-stamped, if we may so speak, the lineaments of the divine image obliterated at the fall. the poet, too early lost, ranks, on the other hand, among those hardy cultivators of the intellectual nature who, among all the difficulties incident to imperfect education, and a life of hardship and labour, struggle into notice through the force of an innate vigour, and impress the stamp of their mind on the literature of their country. much of the interest of the newly published memoir before us arises from the connection which it establishes between the matron and the poet. it purports to be 'a sketch of the life of annie m'donald, by her grandson, the late john bethune.' and scarce any one can peruse it without marking the powerful influence which the high religious character of the grandmother exerted on the intellectual character of her descendant. the nobility of the humble family from which he sprung was derived evidently from this source. that character, to borrow a homely but forcible metaphor from burns, was the sustaining 'stalk of carle hemp' which bore it up and kept it from grovelling on the depressed level of its condition. how very interesting a subject of thought and inquiry! a little highland girl, when tending cattle in the fields nearly a century ago, was led, through divine grace, to 'apprehend the mercy of god in christ,' and to close with his free offers of salvation; and in the third generation we can see the effects of the transaction, not only in the blameless life and the pure sentiments of a true though humble poet, but in, also, the manly vigour of his thinking, and the high degree of culture which he was enabled to bestow on his intellectual faculties. the story of annie m'donald is such an one as a poet of wordsworth's cast would delight to tell. she was born in a remote and thinly inhabited district of the highlands, and lost her father, a highland crofter, while yet an infant. she was his youngest child, but the other members of the family were all very young and helpless; and her poor mother, a woman still in the prime of life, had to wander with them into the low country, friendless and penniless, in quest of employment. and employment after a weary pilgrimage she at length succeeded in procuring from a hospitable farmer in the parish of kilmany, in fifeshire. an unoccupied hovel furnished her with a home; and here, with hard labour, she reared her children, till they were fitted to leave her one by one, and do something for themselves, chiefly in the way of herding cattle. annie grew up to be employed like the rest; and when a little herd-girl in the fields, 'she frequently fell into strains of serious meditation,' says her biographer, 'on the works of god, and on her own standing before him.' let scepticism assert what it may, such is the nature of man. god has written on every human heart the great truth of man's responsibility; and the simple, ignorant herd-girl could read it there, amid the solitude of the fields. but the inscription seemed fraught with terror: she was perplexed by alternate doubts and fears, and troubled by wildly vivid imaginings during the day, and by frightful dreams by night. her mother had been unable to send her to school, but she got occasional lessons in the evenings from a fellow-servant; and through the desultory assistance obtained in this way, backed by her solitary efforts at self-instruction, she learned to read. she must have deemed that an important day on which she found she could at length converse with books; and the books with which she most loved to discourse were such as related to the spiritual state. she pored over the shorter catechism, and acquainted herself with her bible. but for years together, at this period, she suffered much distress of mind. her imagination possessed a wild activity, and the scenes and shapes which it was continually calling up before her were all of horror and dismay--the place of the lost, the appalling forms with which fancy invests the fallen spirits, the terrors of the last day, and the dread throne of judgment. but a time of peace and comfort came; and she was enabled to lay hold on god in faith and hope as _her_ god, through the all-sufficient blood of the atonement. and this hold she never after relinquished. there was no pause in her humble toils. from her early occupations in the fields, she passed in riper youth to the labours of the farm-house; and at the age of twenty-five experienced yet another change, in becoming the wife of a farm-servant, a quiet man of solid character, and whose religious views and feelings coincided with her own. her humble home was a solitary hut on the uplands, far from even her nearest neighbours; but it was her home, and she was happy. with the consent of her husband, she took her aged mother under her care, and succeeded in repaying more than the obligations incurred in infancy; for her instructions, through the blessing of god, were rendered apparently the means of the old woman's conversion. there were sorrows that came to her even at the happiest, but they were mingled with comfort. she lost one of her children by small-pox at a very early age; and yet, very early as the age was, evidence was not wanting in its death that the psalmist spoke with full meaning when he said that god can perfect praise out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. but there was a deeper grief awaiting her. after a happy union of twelve years, her husband was seized in the night in their lonely shieling by a mortal distemper, at a time when only herself and her young children were present, and ere assistance could be procured he expired. there is something extremely touching in the details of this event, as given by the poet, her grandson. they strongly show how real an evil poverty is, in even the most favourable circumstances, when the hour of distress comes. cowper ceased to envy the "'_peasant's nest_" when he thought how its solitude made scant the means of life.' we would almost covet the hut of annie m'donald as described by her grandson. 'it appeared,' he says, 'as if separated and raised above the world by the cultureless and elevated solitude on which it stood. around it on every side were grey rocks, peering out from among tufted grass, heath furze, and many-coloured mosses; forming what had been, till more recently--when the whole was converted into a plantation--a rather extensive sheep-walk. for an extent equal to more than half the horizon, the eye might stretch away to the distant mountains, or repose on the intervening valleys; and from the highest part of the hill, a little to the eastward, the dark blue of the german ocean was clearly visible. it must have been a cheerful spot in the clear sunny days of summer, when even heaths and moors look gay--when the deep blue of the hills seems as if softening its tints to harmonize with the deep blue of the sky--when the hum of the bee is heard amid the heath, and the lark high overhead. but it must have been a gloomy and miserable solitude on that night when the husband of annie lay tossing in mortal agony, and no neighbour near to counsel or assist, her weeping children around her, and with neither lamp nor candle in the cottage. it was only by the 'light of a burning coal taken from the fire, and exchanged for another as the flame waxed faint, that she was enabled to watch the progress of the fatal malady, and to tell at what time death set his unalterable seal on the pallid features of her husband.' long years of incessant labour followed; her children were young and helpless, and her aged mother still with her. she removed to another cottage, where she rented an acre or two of land, that enabled her to keep a cow, and gave her opportunity, as the place was situated beside a considerable stream, of earning a small income as a bleacher of home-made linen. the day, and not unfrequently the night, was spent in toil; but she was strengthened to endure, and so her children were bred up in hardy independence. 'during the weeks of harvest,' says her biographer, 'she was engaged as a reaper by the farmer from whom she rented her little tenement; and when her day's work was done, while her fellow-labourers retired to rest, she employed herself in reaping her own crops, or providing grass for the cow, and often continued her toil by the light of the harvest moon till it was almost midnight. after a number of years thus spent, the expiration of the farmer's lease occasioned her removal. her family were now grown up; she could afford, in consequence, to have recourse to means of subsistence which, if more scanty, were less laborious than those which she had plied so long; and so, removing to a neighbouring village, she earned a livelihood for herself and her infirm mother by spinning carpet worsted at twopence a-day, the common wages for a woman at that period.' 'the cottage which she now occupied,' we again quote, 'happened to be one of a number which the countess of leven charitably kept for the accommodation of poor people who were unable to pay a rent. she, however, considered that she had no right to reckon herself among this class, so long as it should please god to afford her strength to provide for her own necessities; and therefore she deemed it unjustifiable to deprive the truly indigent of what had been intended exclusively for them. influenced by these motives, she removed at the next term to an adjacent hamlet, and here her aged mother died.' we need not minutely follow her after-course: it bore but one complexion to the end. she taught a school for many years, and was of signal use to not a few of her pupils. at an earlier period she experienced a desire to be able to write. there was a friend at a distance whom she wished to comfort, by suggesting to her those topics of consolation which she herself had found of such solid use; and the wish had suggested the idea. and so she did learn to write. she took up a pen, and tried to imitate the letters in her bible; an acquaintance subsequently furnished her with a copy of the alphabet commonly used in writing; and such was all the instruction she ever received in an art to which in after life she devoted a considerable portion of her time, and in the exercise of which she derived no small enjoyment. in extreme old age she was rendered unable by deafness properly to attend to her school, and so, with her characteristic conscientiousness, she threw it up; but bodily strength was spared to her in a remarkable degree, and her last years were not wasted in idleness. 'her spinning-wheel was again eagerly resorted to; even outdoor labour, when it could be obtained, was sometimes adopted.' and the editor of the memoir before us--alexander bethune, the brother and biographer of john--relates that he recollects seeing her engaged in reaping, on one occasion, when in her eighty-second year; and that on the same field her favourite nephew the poet, at that time a boy of ten, was also essaying the labours of the harvest. in one of the simple but touching epistles which we owe to her singularly acquired accomplishment of writing--a letter to one of her daughters--we find her thus expressing herself:-- 'we finished our harvest last monday, and here again i have cause for thankfulness. i would desire to be doubly thankful to god for enabling my old and withered arms to use the sickle almost as well as they were wont to do when i was young, and for the favourable weather and abundant crop which in his mercy he has bestowed on us. but, my dear child, there is in very deed a more important harvest before us. oh! may god, for christ's sake, ripen us by the sunshine of his spirit for the sickle of death, and stand by us in that trying hour, that we may be cut down as a shock of corn which is fully ripe.' annie survived twelve years longer; for her life was prolonged through three full generations. 'in the intervals of domestic duty, her book and her pen were her constant companions.' 'the process of committing her thoughts to paper was rendered tedious, latterly, by the weakness and tremor of her hand; and her mind not unfrequently outran her pen, leaving blanks in her composition, which she did not always detect so as to enable her to fill them up. and this circumstance sometimes rendered her meaning a little obscure. but with all these deficiencies, her letters were generally appreciated by those to whom they were addressed. her conversation, too, was much sought after by serious individuals in all ranks in society; and occasionally it was pleasing to see the promiscuous visitors who met in her lowly cottage laying aside for a time the fastidious distinctions of birth and station, and humbly uniting in the exercise of christian love.' at length she could no longer leave her bed: 'her hearing was so much impaired, that it was with the greatest difficulty she could be made to understand what was said to her; and those friends who came to visit her were frequently requested to sit down by her bedside, where she might see their faces, though she could no longer enjoy their conversation. after raising herself to a convenient position, she generally addressed them upon the importance of preparing for another world while health and strength remained; and tried to direct their attention to the merits and sufferings of the saviour as the only sure ground of hope upon which sinners could rest their salvation in the hour of trial.' as for her own departure, she 'had a thousand reasons,' she said, 'for wishing to be gone; but there was one reason which overbalanced them all--god's time had not yet arrived.' but at length it did arrive. 'lay me down,' she said, for the irritability of her nervous system had rendered frequent change of posture necessary, and her friends had just been indulging her,--'lay me down; let me sleep my last sleep in jesus.' and these were her last words. her grandson john seems to have cherished, when a mere boy, years before she died, the design of writing her story; and the whole tone of his memoir (apparently one of his earlier prose compositions) shows how thorough was the respect which he entertained for her memory. she forms the subject, too, of a copy of verses evidently of later production, and at least equal to any he ever wrote, in which he affectingly tells us how, when sadness and disease pressed upon the springs of life, and he lingered in suspense and disappointment, the hopes which she had so long cherished-- 'the glorious hopes which flattered not-- dawned on him by degrees.' he found the saviour whom she had worshipped; and one of the last subsidiary hopes in which he indulged ere he bade the world farewell, was that in the place to which he was going he should meet with his beloved grandmother. we have occupied so much space with our narrative, brief as it is, that we cannot follow up our original intention of showing how, in principle, the intellectual history of bethune is an epitome of that of his country; but we must add that it would be well if, in at least one important respect, the history of his country resembled his history more. the thoughtful piety of the grandmother prepared an atmosphere of high-toned thought, in which the genius of the grandson was fostered. it constituted, to vary the figure, the table-land from which he arose; but how many of a resembling class, and indebted in a similar way, have directed the influence of their writings to dissipate that atmosphere--to lower that table-land! we refer the reader to the interesting little work from which we have drawn our materials. it is edited by the surviving bethune, the brother and biographer of the poet, and both a vigorous writer and a worthy man. there are several of the passages which it comprises of his composition; among the rest, the very striking passage with which the memoir concludes, and in which he adds a few additional facts illustrative of his grandmother's character, and describes her personal appearance. the description will remind our readers of one of the more graphic pictures of wordsworth, that of the stately dame on whose appearance the poet remarks quaintly, but significantly, 'old times are living there.' 'from the date of her birth,' says alexander bethune, 'it will be seen that she (annie m'donald) was in her ninety-fourth year at the time of her death. in person she was spare; and ere toil and approaching age had bent her frame, she must have been considerably above the middle size. even after she was far advanced in life, there was in her appearance a rigidity of outline and a sinewy firmness which told of no ordinary powers of endurance. there was much of true benevolence in the cast of her countenance; while the depth of her own christian feelings gave an expression of calm yet earnest sympathy to her eye, which was particularly impressive. limited as were her resources, she had been a regular contributor to the bible and missionary societies for a number of years previous to her death. nor was she slow to minister to the necessities of others according to her ability. notwithstanding the various items thus disposed of during the latter part of her life, she had saved a small sum of money, which at her death was left to her unmarried daughters.' the touching description of the poet we must also subjoin. no one can read it without feeling its truth, or without being convinced that, to be thoroughly true in the circumstances, was to be intensely poetical. the recollection of such a relative affectionately retained was of itself poetry. my grandmother. long years of toil and care, and pain and poverty, have passed since last i listened to her prayer, and looked upon her last; yet how she spoke, and how she smiled upon me, when a playful child-- the lustre of her eye-- the kind caress--the fond embrace-- the reverence of her placid face,-- all in my memory lie as fresh as they had only been bestowed and felt, and heard and seen, since yesterday went by. her dress was simply neat-- her household tasks so featly done: even the old willow-wicker seat on which she sat and spun-- the table where her bible lay, open from morn till close of day-- the standish, and the pen with which she noted, as they rose, her thoughts upon the joys, the woes, the final fate of men, and sufferings of her saviour god,-- each object in her poor abode is visible as then. nor are they all forgot, the faithful admonitions given, and glorious hopes which flattered not, but led the soul to heaven! these had been hers, and have been mine when all beside had ceased to shine-- when sadness and disease, and disappointment and suspense, had driven youth's fairest fancies hence, short'ning its fleeting lease: 'twas then these hopes, amid the dark just glimmering, like an unquench'd spark, dawned on me by degrees. to her they gave a light brighter than sun or star supplied; and never did they shine more bright than just before she died. death's shadow dimm'd her aged eyes, grey clouds had clothed the evening skies, and darkness was abroad; but still she turned her gaze above, as if the eternal light of love on her glazed organs glowed, like beacon-fire at closing even, hung out between the earth and heaven, to guide her soul to god. and then they brighter grew, beaming with everlasting bliss, as if the eternal world in view had weaned her eyes from this: and every feature was composed, as with a placid smile they closed on those who stood around, who felt it was a sin to weep o'er such a smile and such a sleep-- so peaceful, so profound; and though they wept, their tears expressed joy for her time-worn frame at rest-- her soul with mercy crowned. _august , ._ a highland clearing. how quickly the years fly! one twelvemonth more, and it will be a full quarter of a century since we last saw the wild highland valley so well described by mr. robertson in his opening paragraphs.{ } and yet the recollection is as fresh in our memory now as it was twenty years ago. the chill winter night had fallen on the brown round hills and alder-skirted river, as we turned from off the road that winds along the kyle of the dornoch frith into the bleak gorge of strathcarron. the shepherd's cottage, in which we purposed passing the night, lay high up in the valley, where the lofty sides--partially covered at that period by the remnants of an ancient forest--approach so near each other, and rise so abruptly, that for the whole winter quarter the sun never falls on the stream below. there were still some ten or twelve miles of broken road before us. the moon in its first quarter hung low over the hills, dimly revealing their rough outline, and throwing its tinge of faint bronze on the broken clumps of wood in the hollows. a keen frost had set in; and a thick trail of fog-rime, raised by its influence in the calm, and which at the height of some eighty or a hundred feet hung over the river--scarce less defined in its margin than the river itself, for it winded wherever the stream winded, and ran straight as an arrow wherever the stream ran straight--occupied the whole length of the valley, like an enormous snake lying uncoiled in its den. the numerous turf cottages on either side were invisible in the darkness, save that ever and anon the brief twinkle of a light indicated their existence and their places. in a recess of the stream the torch of some adventurous fisher now gleamed red on rock and water, now suddenly disappeared, eclipsed by the overhanging brushwood, or by some jutting angle of the bank. the distant roar of the stream mingled sullenly in the calm, with its nearer and hoarser dash, as it chafed on the ledges below, filling the air with a wild music, that seemed the appropriate voice of the impressive scenery from amid which it arose. it was late ere we reached the shepherd's cottage--a dark, raftered, dimly-lighted building of turf and stone. the weather for several weeks before had been rainy and close, and the flocks of the inmate had been thinned by the common scourge of the sheep-farmer at such seasons on marshy and unwholesome farms. the rafters were laden with skins besmeared with blood, that dangled overhead to catch the conservative influences of the smoke; and on a rude plank table below there rose two tall pyramids of dark-coloured joints of braxy mutton, heaped up each on a corn riddle. the shepherd--a highlander of colossal proportions, but hard and thin, and worn by the cares and toils of at least sixty winters--sat moodily beside the fire. the state of his flocks was not particularly cheering; and he had, besides, seen a vision of late, he said, that filled his mind with strange forebodings. he had gone out after nightfall on the previous evening to a dank hollow on the hill-side, in which many of his flock had died; the rain had ceased a few hours before, and a smart frost had set in, that, as on this second evening, filled the whole valley with a wreath of silvery vapour, dimly lighted by the thin fragment of a moon that appeared as if resting at the time on the hill-top. the wreath stretched out its grey folds beneath him, for he had climbed half-way up the acclivity, when suddenly what seemed the figure of a man in heated metal--the figure of a brazen man brought to a red heat in a furnace--sprang up out of the darkness; and after stalking over the surface of the fog for a few seconds--in which, however, it traversed the greater part of the valley--as suddenly disappeared, leaving an evanescent trail of flame behind it. there could be little doubt that the old shepherd had merely seen one of those shooting lights that in mountain districts, during unsettled weather, so frequently startle the night traveller, and that some peculiarity of form in the meteor had been exaggerated by the obscuring influence of the frost-rime and the briefness of the survey; but the apparition had filled his whole mind, as one of strange and frightful portent from the spiritual world. and often since that night has it returned to us in recollection, as a vision in singular keeping with the wild valley which it traversed, and the credulous melancholy of the solitary shepherd, its only witness,-- 'a meteor of the night of distant years, that flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld musing at midnight upon prophecies.' by much the greater part of strathcarron, in those days, was in the possession of its ancient inhabitants; and we learn from the description of mr. robertson, that it has since undergone scarce any change. 'strathcarron,' he says, 'is still in the old state.' throughout its whole extent the turf cottages of the aborigines rise dark and thick as heretofore, from amid their irregular patches of potatoes and corn. but in an adjacent glen, through which the calvie works its headlong way to the carron, that terror of the highlanders, a summons of removal, has been served within the last few months on a whole community; and the graphic sketch of mr. robertson relates both the peculiar circumstances in which it has been issued, and the feelings which it has excited. we find from his testimony, that the old state of things which is so immediately on the eve of being broken up in this locality, lacked not a few of those sources of terror to the proprietary of the country, that are becoming so very formidable to them in the newer states. a spectral poor-law sits by our waysides, wrapped up in death-flannels of the english cut, and shakes its skinny hand at the mansion-houses of our landlords,--vision beyond comparison more direfully portentous than the apparition seen by the lone shepherd of strathcarron. but in the highlands, at least, it is merely the landlord of the new and improved state of things--the landlord of widespread clearings and stringent removal-summonses--that it threatens. the existing poor-law in glencalvie is a self-enforcing law, that rises direct out of the unsophisticated sympathies of the highland heart, and costs the proprietary nothing. 'the constitution of society in the glen,' says mr. robertson, 'is remarkably simple. four heads of families are bound for the whole rental of £ , s. a year; the number of souls is about ninety. sixteen cottages pay rent; three cottages are occupied by old lone women, who pay no rent, and who have a grace from the others for the grazing of a few goats or sheep, by which they live. this self-working poor-law system,' adds mr. robertson, 'is supported by the people themselves; the laird, i am informed, never gives anything to it.' now there must be at least some modicum of good in such a state of things, however old-fashioned; and we are pretty sure such of our english neighbours as leave their acres untilled year after year, to avoid the crushing pressure of the statute-enforced poor-law that renders them not worth the tilling, would be somewhat unwilling, were the state made theirs, to improve it away. nor does it seem a state--with all its simplicity, and all its perhaps blameable indifferency to modern improvement--particularly hostile to the development of mind or the growth of morals. 'the people of amat and glencalvie themselves supported a teacher for the education of their children,' says mr. robertson. 'the laird,' he adds, 'has never lost a farthing of rent. in bad years, such as or , the people may have required the favour of a few weeks' delay, but they are now not a single farthing in arrears.' mr. robertson gives us the tragedy of a clearing in its first act. we had lately the opportunity of witnessing the closing scene in the after-piece, by which a clearing more than equally extensive has been followed up, and which bids fair to find at no distant day many counterparts in the highlands of scotland. rather more than twenty years ago, the wild, mountainous island of rum, the home of considerably more than five hundred souls, was divested of all its inhabitants, to make way for one sheep-farmer and eight thousand sheep. it was soon found, however, that there are limits beyond which it is inconvenient to depopulate a country on even the sheep-farm system: the island had been rendered too thoroughly a desert for the comfort of the tenant; and on the occasion of a clearing which took place in a district of skye, and deprived of their homes many of the old inhabitants, some ten or twelve families of the number were invited to rum, and may now be found squatting on the shores of the only bay of the island, on a strip of unprofitable morass. but the whole of the once peopled interior remains a desert, all the more lonely in its aspect from the circumstance that the solitary glens, with their green, plough-furrowed patches, and their ruined heaps of stone, open upon shores every whit as solitary as themselves, and that the wide untrodden sea stretches drearily around. we spent a long summer's day amidst its desert recesses, and saw the sun set behind its wilderness of pyramidal hills. the evening was calm and clear; the armies of the insect world were sporting by millions in the light; a brown stream that ran through the valley at our feet yielded an incessant poppling sound from the myriads of fish that were incessantly leaping in the pools, beguiled by the quick glancing wings of green and gold that incessantly fluttered over them; the half-effaced furrows borrowed a richer hue from the yellow light of sunset; the broken cottage-walls stood up more boldly prominent on the hill-side, relieved by the lengthening shadows; along a distant hill-side there ran what seemed the ruins of a grey stone fence, erected, says tradition, in a very remote age to facilitate the hunting of deer: all seemed to bespeak the place a fitting habitation for man, and in which not only the necessaries, but not a few also of the luxuries of life, might be procured; but in the entire prospect not a man nor a man's dwelling could the eye command. the landscape was one without figures. and where, it may be asked, was the one tenant of the island for whose sake so many others had been removed? we found his house occupied by a humble shepherd, who had in charge the wreck of his property,--property no longer his, but held for the benefit of his creditors. the great sheep-farmer had gone down under circumstances of very general bearing, and on whose after development, when in their latent state, improving landlords had failed to calculate; the island itself was in the market, and a report went current at the time that it was on the eve of being purchased by some wealthy englishman, who purposed converting it into a deer-forest. the cycle--which bids fair to be that of the highlands generally--had already revolved in the depopulated island of rum. we have said that the sheep-farmer had gone down, in this instance, under adverse circumstances of very extensive bearing. in a beautiful transatlantic poem, a north american indian is represented as visiting by night the tombs of his fathers, now surrounded, though reared in the depths of a forest, by the cultivated farms and luxurious dwellings of the stranger, and there predicting that the race by which _his_ had been supplaced should be in turn cast out of their possessions. his fancy on the subject is a wild one, though not unfitted for the poet. the streams, he said, were yielding a lower murmur than of old, and rolling downwards a decreasing volume; the springs were less copious in their supplies; the land, shorn of its forests, was drying up under the no longer softened influence of summer suns. yet a few ages more, and it would spread out all around an arid and barren wilderness, unfitted, like the deserts of the east, to be a home of man. the fancy, we repeat, though a poetic, is a wild one; but the grounds from which we infer that the clearers of the highlands--the supplanters of the highlanders--are themselves to be cleared and supplanted in turn, is neither wild nor poetic. the voice which predicts in the case is a voice, not of shrinking rivulets nor failing springs, but of the 'cloth hall' in leeds, and of the worsted factories of bradford and halifax. most of our readers must be aware that the great woollen trade of britain divides into two main branches--its woollen cloth manufacture, and its worsted and stuff manufactures: and in both these the estimation in which british wool is held has mightily sunk of late years, never apparently to rise again; for it has sunk, not through any caprice of fashion, but in the natural progress of improvement. mr. dodd, in his interesting little work on the _textile manufactures of great britain_, refers incidentally to the fact, in drawing a scene in the cloth hall of leeds, introduced simply for the purpose of showing at how slight an expense of time and words business is transacted in this great mart of trade. 'all the sellers,' says mr. dodd, 'know all the buyers; and each buyer is invited, as he passes along, to look at some "olives," or "browns," or "pilots," or "six quarters," or "eight quarters;" and the buyer decides in a wonderfully short space of time whether it will answer his purpose to purchase or not. "mr. a., just look at these olives." "how much?" "six and eight." "too high." mr. a. walks on, and perhaps a neighbouring clothier draws his attention to a piece, or "end," of cloth. "what's this?" "five and three." "too low." the "too high" relates, as may be supposed, to the price per yard; whereas the "too low" means that the quality of the cloth is lower than the purchaser requires. another seller accosts him with "will this suit you, mr. a.?" "_any english wool?_" "_not much; it is nearly all foreign_;" a question and answer which exemplify the disfavour into which english wool has fallen in the cloth trade. but it is not the cloth trade alone in which it has fallen into disfavour. the rapid extension of the worsted manufacture in this country,' says the same writer in another portion of his work, 'is very remarkable. so long as efforts were made by english wool-growers to compel the use of the english wool in cloth-making--efforts which the legislature for many years sanctioned by legal enactments--the worsted fabrics made were chiefly of a coarse and heavy kind, such as "camlets;" but when the wool trade was allowed to flow into its natural channels by the removal of restrictions, the value of all the different kinds of wool became appreciated, and each one was appropriated to purposes for which it seemed best fitted. the wool of one kind of english sheep continued in demand for hosiery and coarse worsted goods; and the wool of the cashmere and angora goats came to be imported for worsted goods of finer quality.' the colonist and the foreign merchant have been brought into the field, and the home producer labours in vain to compete with them on what he finds unequal terms. hence the difficulties which, in a season of invigorated commerce and revived trade, continue to bear on the british wool-grower, and which bid fair _to clear_ him from the soil which he divested of the original inhabitants. every new sheep-rearing farm that springs up in the colonies--whether in australia, or new zealand, or van diemen's land, or southern africa--sends him its summons of removal in the form of huge bales of wool, lower in price and better in quality than he himself can produce. the sheep-breeders of new holland and the cape threaten to avenge the rosses of glencalvie. but to avenge is one thing, and to right another. the comforts of our poor highlander have been deteriorating, and his position lowering, for the last three ages, and we see no prospect of improvement. 'for a century,' says mr. robertson, 'their privileges have been lessening: they dare not now hunt the deer, or shoot the grouse or the blackcock; they have no longer the range of the hills for their cattle and their sheep; they must not catch a salmon in a stream: in earth, air, and water, the rights of the laird are greater, and the rights of the people are smaller, than they were in the days of their forefathers. yet, forsooth, there is much talk of philosophers of the progress of democracy as a progress to equality of conditions in our day! one of the ministers who accompanied me had to become bound for law expenses to the amount of £ , inflicted on the people for taking a log from the forest for their bridge,--a thing they and their fathers had always done unchallenged.' one eloquent passage more, and we have done. it is thus we find mr. robertson, to whose intensely interesting sketch we again direct the attention of the reader, summing up the case of the rosses of glencalvie:-- 'the father of the laird of kindeace bought glencalvie. it was sold by a ross two short centuries ago. the swords of the rosses of glencalvie did their part in protecting this little glen, as well as the broad lands of pitcalnie, from the ravages and the clutches of hostile septs. these clansmen bled and died in the belief that every principle of honour and morals secured their descendants a right to subsisting on the soil. the chiefs and their children had the same charter of the sword. some legislatures have made the right of the people superior to the right of the chief; british law-makers have made the rights of the chief everything, and those of their followers nothing. the ideas of the morality of property are in most men the creatures of their interests and sympathies. of this there cannot be a doubt, however: the chiefs would not have had the land at all, could the clansmen have foreseen the present state of the highlands--their children in mournful groups going into exile--the faggot of legal myrmidons in the thatch of the feal cabin--the hearths of their loves and their lives the green sheep-walks of the stranger. 'sad it is, that it is seemingly the will of our constituencies that our laws shall prefer the few to the many. most mournful will it be, should the clansmen of the highlands have been cleared away, ejected, exiled, in deference to a political, a moral, a social, and an economical mistake,--a suggestion not of philosophy, but of mammon,--a system in which the demon of sordidness assumed the shape of the angel of civilisation and of light.' _september , ._ ----- { } _the rosses of glencalvie_, by john robertson, esq. (article in the glasgow _national_, august ).--ed. the poet montgomery. the reader will find in our columns a report, as ample as our limits have allowed, of the public breakfast given in edinburgh on wednesday last{ } to our distinguished countryman james montgomery, and his friend the missionary latrobe. we have rarely shared in a more agreeable entertainment, and have never listened to a more pleasing or better-toned address than that in which the poet ran over some of the more striking incidents of his early life. it was in itself a poem, and a very fine one. an old and venerable man returning to his native country after an absence of sixty years--after two whole generations had passed away, and the grave had closed over almost all his contemporaries--would be of itself a matter of poetical interest, even were the aged visitor a person of but the ordinary cast of thought and depth of feeling. how striking the contrast between the sunny, dream-like recollections of childhood to such an individual, and the surrounding realities--between the scenes and figures on this side the wide gulf of sixty years, and the scenes and figures on that: yonder, the fair locks of infancy, its bright, joyous eyes, and its speaking smiles; here, the grey hairs and careworn wrinkles of rigid old age, tottering painfully on the extreme verge of life! but if there attaches thus a poetic interest to the mere circumstances of such a visit, how much more, in the present instance, from the character of the visitor,--a man whose thoughts and feelings, tinted by the warm hues of imagination, retain in his old age all the strength and freshness of early youth! hogg, when first introduced to wilkie, expressed his gratification at finding him so young a man. we experienced a similar feeling on first seeing the poet montgomery. he can be no young man, who, looking backwards across two whole generations, can recount from recollection, like nestor of old, some of the occurrences of the third. but there is a green old age, in which the spirits retain their buoyancy, and the intellect its original vigour; and the whole appearance of the poet gives evidence that his evening of life is of this happy and desirable character. his appearance speaks of antiquity, but not of decay. his locks have assumed a snowy whiteness, and the lofty and full-arched coronal region exhibits what a brother poet has well termed the 'clear bald polish of the honoured head;' but the expression of the countenance is that of middle life. it is a clear, thin, speaking countenance: the features are high; the complexion fresh, though not ruddy; and age has failed to pucker either cheek or forehead with a single wrinkle. the spectator sees at a glance that all the poet still survives--that james montgomery in his sixty-fifth year is all that he ever was. the forehead, rather compact than large, swells out on either side towards the region of ideality, and rises high, in a fine arch, into what, if phrenology speak true, must be regarded as an amply developed organ of veneration. the figure is quite as little touched by age as the face. it is well but not strongly made, and of the middle size; and yet there is a touch of antiquity about it too, derived, however, rather from the dress than from any peculiarity in the person itself. to a plain suit of black mr. montgomery adds the voluminous breast ruffles of the last age--exactly such things as, in scotland at least, the fathers of the present generation wore on their wedding-days. these are perhaps but small details; but we notice them just because we have never yet met with any one who took an interest in a celebrated name, without trying to picture to himself the appearance of the individual who bore it. there are some very pleasing incidents beautifully related in the address of mr. montgomery. it would have been false taste and delicacy in such a man to have forborne speaking of himself. his return, after an absence equal to the term of two full generations, to his native cottage, is an incident exquisitely poetic. he finds his father's humble chapel converted into a workshop, and strangers sit beside the hearth that had once been his mother's. and where were that father and mother? their bones moulder in a distant land, where the tombstones cast no shadow when the fierce sun looks down at noon upon their graves. 'taking their lives in their hands,' they had gone abroad to preach christ to the poor enslaved negro, for whose soul at that period scarce any one cared save the united brethren; and in the midst of their labours of piety and love, they had fallen victims to the climate. he passed through the cottage and the workshop, calling up the dream-like recollections of his earliest scene of existence, and recognising one by one the once familiar objects within. one object he failed to recognise. it was a small tablet fixed in the wall. he went up to it, and found it intimated that james montgomery the poet had been born there. was it not almost as if one of the poets or philosophers of a former time had lighted, on revisiting the earth as a disembodied spirit, on his own monument? of scarce less interest is his anecdote of monboddo. the parents of the poet had gone abroad, as we have said, and their little boy was left with the brethren at fulneck, a moravian settlement in the sister kingdom. he was one of their younger scholars at a time when lord monboddo, still so well known for his great talents and acquirements, and his scarce less marked eccentricities, visited the settlement, and was shown, among other things, their little school. his lordship stood among the boys, coiling and uncoiling his whip on the floor, and engaged as if in counting the nail-heads in the boarding. the little fellows were all exceedingly curious; none of them had ever seen a real live lord before, and monboddo was a very strange-looking lord indeed. he wore a large, stiff, bushy periwig, surmounted by a huge, odd-looking hat; his very plain coat was studded with brass buttons of broadest disk, and his voluminous inexpressibles were of leather. and there he stood, with his grave, absent face bent downwards, drawing and redrawing his whip along the floor, as the moravian, his guide, pointed out to his notice boy after boy. 'and this,' said the moravian, coming at length to young montgomery, 'is a countryman of your lordship's.' his lordship raised himself up, looked hard at the little fellow, and then shaking his huge whip over his head, 'ah,' he exclaimed, 'i hope his country will have no reason to be ashamed of him.' 'the circumstance,' said the poet, 'made a deep impression on my mind; and i determined--i trust the resolution was not made in vain--i determined in that moment that my country should not have reason to be ashamed of me.' scotland has no reason to be ashamed of james montgomery. of all her poets, there is not one of equal power, whose strain has been so uninterruptedly pure, or whose objects have been so invariably excellent. the child of the christian missionary has been the poet of christian missions. the parents laid down their lives in behalf of the enslaved and perishing negro; the son, in strains the most vigorous and impassioned, has raised his generous appeal to public justice in his behalf. nor has the appeal been in vain. all his writings bear the stamp of the christian; many of them--embodying feelings which all the truly devout experience, but which only a poet could express--have been made vehicles for addressing to the creator the emotions of many a grateful heart; and, employed chiefly on themes of immortality, they promise to outlive not only songs of intellectually a lower order, but of even equal powers of genius, into whose otherwise noble texture sin has introduced the elements of death. _ th october ._ ----- { } th october . criticism--internal evidence. the reader must have often remarked, in catalogues of the writings of great authors--such as dr. johnson, and the rev. john cumming, of the scotch church, london--that while some of the pieces are described as _acknowledged_, the genuineness of others is determined merely by _internal evidence_. we know, for instance, that the doctor wrote the _english dictionary_, not only because no other man in the world at the time could have written it, but also because he affixed his name to the title-page. we know, too, that he wrote some of the best of lord chatham's earlier speeches, just because he said so, and pointed out the very garret in fleet street in which they had been written. but it is from other data we conclude that, during his period of obscurity and distress, he wrote prefaces for the _gentleman's magazine_, for some six or seven years together,--data derived exclusively from a discriminating criticism; and his claim to the authorship of _taylor's sermons_ rests solely on the vigorous character of the thinking displayed in these compositions, and the marked peculiarities of their style. now, in exactly the same way in which we know that johnson wrote the speeches and the dictionary, do we know that the rev. john cumming drew up an introductory essay to the liturgy of a church that never knew of a liturgy, and that he occasionally contributes tales to morocco annuals, wonderful enough to excite the astonishment of ordinary readers. to these compositions he affixes his name,--a thing very few men would have the courage to do; and thus are we assured of their authorship. but there are other compositions to which he does not affix his name, and it is from internal evidence alone that these can be adjudged to him: it is from internal evidence alone, for instance, that we can conclude him to be the author of the article on the scottish church question which has appeared in _fraser's magazine_ for the present month. may we crave leave to direct the attention of the reader for a very few minutes to the grounds on which we decide? it is of importance, as johnson says of pope, that no part of so great a writer should be suffered to be lost, and a little harmless criticism may have the effect of sharpening the faculties. there is a class of scottish ministers in the present day, who, though they detest show and coxcombry, have yet a very decided leaning to the picturesque ceremonies of the episcopal church. they never weary of apologizing to our southern neighbours for what they term the baldness of our presbyterian ritual, or in complaining of it to ourselves. it was no later than last sunday that dr. muir sorrowed in his lecture over the 'stinted arrangement in the presbyterian service, that admits of no audible response from the people;' and all his genteeler hearers, sympathizing with the worthy man, felt how pleasant a thing it would be were the congregation permitted to do for him in the church what the rev. mr. macfarlane, erst of stockbridge, does for him in the presbytery. corporal trim began one of his stories on one occasion, by declaring 'that there was once an unfortunate king of bohemia;' and when uncle toby, interrupting him with a sigh, exclaimed, 'ah, corporal trim, and was he unfortunate?' 'yes, your honour,' readily replied trim; 'he had a great love of ships and seaports, and yet, as your honour knows, there was ne'er a ship nor a seaport in all his dominions.' now this semi-episcopalian class are unfortunate after the manner of the king of bohemia. the objects of their desire lie far beyond the presbyterian territories. they are restricted to one pulpit, they are limited to one dress; they have actually to read and preach from the same footboard; they are prohibited the glories of white muslin; liturgy have they none. no audible responses arise from the congregation; the precentor is silent, save when he sings; their churches are organless; and though they set themselves painfully to establish their claim to the succession apostolical, the hon. mr. percevals of the church which they love and admire see no proof in their evidence, and look down upon them as the mere preaching laymen of a sectarian corporation. thrice unfortunate men! what were the unhappinesses of the king of bohemia, compared with the sorrows of these humble but rejected followers of episcopacy! now, among this highly respectable but unhappy class, the rev. john cumming, of the scotch church, london, stands pre-eminent. so grieved was queen mary of england by the loss of calais, that she alleged the very name of the place would be found written on her heart after her death. the words that have the best chance of being found inscribed on the heart of the rev. mr. cumming are, bishop, liturgy, apostolical succession, burial service, organ, and surplice. the ideas attached to these vocables pervade his whole style, and form from their continual recurrence a characteristic portion of it. they tumble up and down in his mind like the pieces of painted glass in a kaleidoscope, and present themselves in new combinations at every turn. his last acknowledged composition was a wonderful tale which appeared in the _protestant annual_ for the present year, and--strange subject for such a writer--it purported to be a _tale of the covenant_. honest peter walker had told the same story, that of john brown of priesthill, about a century and a half ago; but there had been much left for mr. cumming to discover in it of which the poor pedlar does not seem to have had the most distant conception. little did peter know that john brown's favourite minister 'held the sacred and apostolical succession of the scottish priesthood.' little would he have thought of apologizing to the english reader for 'the antique and ballad verses' of our metrical version of the psalms. indeed, so devoid was he of learning, that he could scarce have valued at a sufficiently high rate the doctrines of oxford; and so little gifted with taste, that he would have probably failed to appreciate the sublimities of brady and tate. nor could peter have known that the 'liturgy of the heart' was in the covenanter's cottage, and that the 'litany' of the spirit breathed from his evening devotions. but it is all known to the rev. mr. cumming. he knows, too, that there were sufferings and privations endured by the persecuted presbyterians of those days, of which writers of less ingenuity have no adequate conception; that they were forced to the wild hill-sides, where they could have no 'organs,' and compelled to bury their dead without the solemnities of the funeral service. unhappy covenanters! it is only now that your descendants are beginning to learn the extent of your miseries. would that it had been your lot to live in the days of the rev. john cumming of the scottish church, london! he would assuredly have procured for you the music-box of some wandering italian, and gone away with you to the wilds to mingle exquisite melody with your devotions, qualifying with the sweetness of his tones the 'antique and ballad' rudeness of your psalms; nor would he have failed to furnish you with a liturgy, by means of which you could have interred your dead in decency. had such been the arrangement, no after writer could have remarked, as the rev. mr. cumming does now, that no 'pealing organ' mingled 'its harmony of bass, tenor, treble, and soprano' when you sung, or have recorded the atrocious fact, that not only was john brown of priesthill shot by claverhouse, but actually buried by his friends without the funeral service. and how striking and affecting an incident would it not form in the history of the persecution, could it now be told, that when surprised by the dragoons, the good mr. cumming fled over hill and hollow with the box on his back, turning the handle as he went, and urging his limbs to their utmost speed, lest the episcopalian soldiery should bring him back and make him a bishop! it is partly from the more than semi-episcopalian character of this gentleman's opinions, partly from the inimitable felicities of his style, and partly from one or two peculiar incidents in his history which lead to a particular tone of remark, that we infer him to be the writer of the article in _fraser_. we may be of course mistaken, but the internal evidence seems wonderfully strong. the rev. mr. cumming, though emphatically powerful in declamation, has never practised argument,--a mean and undignified art, which he leaves to men such as mr. cunningham, just as the genteel leave the art of boxing to the commonalty; and in grappling lately with a strong-boned irish presbyterian, skilful of fence, he caught, as gentlemen sometimes do, a severe fall, and began straightway to characterize irish presbyterians as a set of men very inferior indeed. now the writer in _fraser_ has a fling _à la cumming_ at the irish presbyterians. popular election has, it seems, done marvellously little for them; with very few exceptions, their 'ministry' is neither 'erudite, influential, nor accomplished,' and their church 'exhibits the symptoms of heart disease.' depend on it, some stout irish presbyterian has entailed the shame of defeat on the writer in _fraser_. mr. cumming, in his tale, adverts to the majority of the scottish church as 'radical subverters of church and state, who claim the covenanters as precedents for a course of conduct from which the dignified henderson, the renowned gillespie, the learned binning, the laborious denham, the heavenly-minded rutherford, the religious wellwood, the zealous cameron, and the prayerful peden, would have revolted in horror.' the writer of the article brings out exactly the same sentiment, though not quite so decidedly, in what meg dodds would have termed a grand style of language. at no time, he asserts, did non-intrusion exist in the sense now contended for in scotland; at no time might not qualified ministers be thrust upon reclaiming parishes by the presbytery: and as for the vetoists, they are but wild radicals, who are to be 'classified by the good sense of england with those luminaries of the age, dan o'connell, john frost, and others of that ilk.' in the article there is a complaint that our majority are miserably unacquainted with scottish ecclesiastical history; and there is special mention made of mr. cunningham as an individual not only ignorant of facts, but as even incapable of being made to feel their force. in the _annual_, as if mr. cumming wished to exemplify, there is a passage in scottish ecclesiastical history, of which we are certain mr. cunningham not only knows nothing, but which we are sure he will prove too obstinate to credit or comprehend. 'the celebrated mr. cameron,' says the minister of the scottish church, london, 'was left on drumclog a mangled corpse.' fine thing to be minutely acquainted with ecclesiastical history! we illiterate non-intrusionists hold, and we are afraid mr. cunningham among the rest, that the celebrated cameron was killed, not at the skirmish of drumclog, but at the skirmish of airdmoss, which did not take place until about a twelvemonth after; but this must result surely from our ignorance. has the rev. mr. cumming no intention of settling our disputes, by giving us a new history of the church? that portion of the internal evidence in the article before us which depends on style and manner, seems very conclusive indeed. take some of the avowed sublimities of the rev. mr. cumming. no man stands more beautifully on tiptoe when he sets himself to catch a fine thought. in describing an attached congregation, 'the hearer's prayers rose to heaven,' he says, 'and returned in the shape of broad impenetrable bucklers around the venerable man. a thousand broadswords leapt in a thousand scabbards, as if the electric eloquence of the minister found in them conductors and depositories.' poetry such as this is still somewhat rare; but mark the kindred beauties of the writer in _fraser_. around such men as mr. tait, dr. m'leod, and dr. muir, 'must crystallize the piety and the hopes of the scottish church.' what a superb figure! only think of the rev. dr. muir as of a thread in a piece of sugar candy, and the piety of the dean of faculty and mr. penney, joined to that of some four or five hundred respectable ladies of both sexes besides, all sticking out around him in cubes, hexagons, and prisms, like cleft almonds in a bishop-cake. hardly inferior in the figurative is the passage which follows: 'the doctor (dr. chalmers) rides on at a rickety trot,--messrs. cunningham, begg, and candlish by turns whipping up the wornout rosenante, and making the rider believe that windmills are church principles, and the echoes of their thunder solid argument. a ditch will come; and when the first effects of the fall are over, the dumbfounded professor will awake to the deception, and smite the minnows of vetoism hip and thigh.' the writer of this passage is unquestionably an ingenious man, but he could surely have made a little more of the last figure. a dissertation on the hips and thighs of minnows might be made to reflect new honour on even the genius of the rev. mr. cumming. it is mainly, however, from the episcopalian tone of the article that we derive our evidence. the writer seems to hold, with charles ii., that presbyterianism is no fit religion for a gentleman. true, the moderates were genteel men, of polish and propriety, such as mr. jaffray of dunbar, who never at synod or presbytery did or said anything that was not strictly polite; but then the moderates had but little of presbyterianism in their religion, and perhaps, notwithstanding their 'quiet, amiable, and courteous demeanour,' little of religion itself. it is to quite a different class that the hope of the writer turns. he states that 'melancholy facts and strong arguments against the practical working of presbytery is at this moment impressing itself in scotland on every unprejudiced spectator;' that there is a party, however, 'with whom the ministerial office is a sacred investiture, transmitted by succession through pastor to pastor, and from age to age,--men inducted to their respective parishes, not because their flocks like or dislike them, but because the superintending authorities, after the exercise of solemn, minute, and patient investigation, have determined that this or that pastor is the fittest and best for this or that parish;' that there exist in this noble party 'the germs of a possible unity with the southern church;' and that there is doubtless a time coming when the body of our establishment, 'sick of slavery under the name of freedom, and of sheer popery under presbyterian colours, shall send up three of their best men to london for consecration, and episcopacy shall again become the adoption of scotland.' rarely has the imagination of the poet conjured up a vision of greater splendour. the minister of the scotch church, london, may die archbishop of st. andrews. and such an archbishop! we are told in the article that 'the channel along which ministerial orders are to be transmitted is the pastors of the church, whether they meet together in the presbytery, or are compressed and consolidated in the bishop.' but is not this understating the case on the episcopal side? what would not scotland gain if she could compress and consolidate a simple presbytery, such as that of edinburgh--its chalmers and its gordon, its candlish and its cunningham, its guthrie, its brown, its bennie, its begg--in short, all its numerous members--into one great bishop john cumming, late of the scotch church, london! the man who converts twenty-one shillings into a gold guinea gains nothing by the process; but the case would be essentially different here, for not only would there be a great good accomplished, but also a great evil removed. as for dr. chalmers, it is 'painfully evident,' says the writer of the article, 'that he regards only three things additional to a "supernal influence" as requisite to constitute any one a minister--a knowledge of christianity, and endowment, and a parish;' and as for the rest of the gentlemen named, they are just preparing to do, in an 'ecclesiastical way in edinburgh, what robespierre, marat, and others did in a corporal way in the convention of .' hogarth quarrelled with churchill, and drew him as a bear in canonicals. had he lived to quarrel with the rev. john cumming, he would in all probability have drawn him as a puppy in gown and band; and no one who knows aught of the painter can doubt that he would have strikingly preserved the likeness. as for ourselves, we merely indulge in a piece of conjectural criticism. the other parts of the article are cast very much into the ordinary type of that side of the controversy to which it belongs: there is rather more than the usual amount of misrepresentation, inconsistency, and abuse, with here and there a peculiarity of statement. patrons are described as the 'trustees of the supreme magistrate, beautifully and devoutly appointed to submit the presentee to the presbytery.' lord aberdeen's bill is eulogized as suited to 'confer a greater boon on the laity of scotland than was ever conferred on them by the general assembly.' the seven clergymen of strathbogie are praised for 'having rendered unto god the things that are god's,' 'their enemies being judges.' the minority of the church contains, it is stated, its best men, and its most diligent ministers. as for the majority, they have been possessed by a spirit of 'deep delusion;' their only idea of a 'clergyman is a preaching machine, that makes a prodigious vociferation, and pleases the herd.' they are destined to become' contemptible and base;' their attitude is an 'unrighteous attitude;' they are aiming, 'like popish priests,' at 'supremacy' and a deadly despotism, through the sides of the people; they are 'suicidally divesting themselves of their power as clergymen, by surrendering to the people essentially episcopal functions;' they are 'wild men,' and offenders against the 'divine headship;' and the writer holds, therefore, that if the establishment is to be maintained in scotland, they must be crushed, and that soon, by the strong arm of the law. we need make no further remarks on the subject. to employ one of the writer's own illustrations, the history of robespierre powerfully demonstrates that great vanity, great weakness, and great cruelty, may all find room together in one little mind. _march , ._ the sanctities of matter. to the editor of the witness. sir,--upon hearing read aloud your remarks{ } in the _witness_ of saturday the th ultimo, upon the danger of investing the mere building in which we meet for public worship with a character of sanctity, an english gentleman asked, 'how does the writer of that article reconcile with his views our saviour's conduct, described by st. john, ii. - , and by each of the other evangelists?' though quite disposed to agree with the purport of your remarks, and fully aware that the tendency of the opinions openly promulgated by a large section of the clergy of the church of england is to give 'the church' the place which should be occupied by a living and active faith in our saviour, i found it difficult to meet this gentleman's objections, and only reminded him that you made a special exception in the case of the jewish temple. brought up from childhood, as englishmen are, with almost superstitious reverence for the buildings 'consecrated' and set apart for religious uses, it is difficult to meet objections founded on such strong prejudices as were evident in this case. if any arguments suggest themselves to you, to show that the passage above referred to cannot be fairly employed in the defence of the church of england tenets, in favour of consecrating churches, and of reverence amounting almost to the worship of external objects devoted to religious purposes, you will oblige me by stating them.--i remain, sir, your obedient servant, an absentee. the passage of scripture referred to by the 'english gentleman' here as scarcely reconcilable with the views promulgated in the _witness_ of the th ult. runs as follows:--'and jesus went up to jerusalem, and found in the temple those that sold oxen, and sheep, and doves, and the changers of money, sitting; and when he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep and the oxen; and poured out the changers' money, and overthrew the tables; and said unto them that sold doves, take these things hence; make not my father's house a house of merchandise.' it will perhaps be remembered by our readers, that in referring to the scotch estimate of the sacredness of ecclesiastical edifices, we employed words to the following effect:--'we (the scotch people) have been taught that the world, since it began, saw but two truly holy edifices; and that these, the tabernacle and the _temple_, were as direct revelations from god as the scriptures themselves, and were as certain embodiments of his will, though they spoke in the obscure language of type and symbol.' now the passage of scripture here cited is in harmonious accordance with this view. it was from one of these truly holy edifices that our saviour drove the sheep and oxen, and indignantly expelled the money-changers. without, however, begging the whole question at issue--without taking for granted the very point to be proven, _i.e._ the intrinsic holiness of christian places of worship--the text has no bearing whatever on the view taken by the 'english gentleman.' if buildings such as york cathedral, westminster abbey, and st. paul's, be holy in the sense in which the temple was holy, then the passage as certainly applies to them as it applied, in the times of our saviour, to the sacred edifice which was so remarkable a revelation of himself. but where is the evidence of an intrinsic holiness in these buildings? where is the proof that the rite of consecration is a rite according to the mind of god? where is the probability even that it is other than a piece of mere will-worship, originated in the dark ages; or that it confers one whit more sanctity on the edifice which it professes to render sacred, than the breaking a bottle of wine on the ship's stem, when she is starting off the slips, confers sanctity on the ship? stands it on any surer ground than the baptism of bells, the sacrifice of the mass, or the five spurious sacraments? if it be a new testament institution, it must possess new testament authority. where is that authority? can it be possible, however, that the shrewd english really differ from us in our estimate? we think we have good grounds for holding they do not. on a late occasion we enjoyed the pleasure of visiting not only york cathedral, but westminster abbey and st. paul's, and saw quite enough to make even the least mistrustful suspect that the professed episcopalian belief in the sacredness of ecclesiastical edifices is but sheer make-belief after all. the 'english gentleman' refers to the example of our saviour in thrusting forth the money-changers from the temple, as a sort of proof that ecclesiastical edifices are holy; and we show that it merely proves the temple to have been holy. the passage has, however, a direct bearing on a somewhat different point: it constitutes a test by which to try the reality of this ostensible belief of english episcopalians in the sacredness of their churches and cathedrals. if the english, especially english churchmen, act with regard to their ecclesiastical buildings in the way our saviour acted with regard to the temple, then it is but fair to hold that their belief in their sacredness is real. but if, on the contrary, we find them acting, not as our saviour acted, but as the money-changers or the cattle-sellers acted, then is it equally fair to conclude that their belief in their sacredness is not a real belief, but a piece of mere pretence. in the north transept of york minster there may be seen a table like a tomb of black purbec marble, supported by an iron trellis, and bearing atop the effigy of a wasted corpse wrapped in a winding-sheet. 'this monument,' says a little work descriptive of the edifice, 'was erected to the memory of john haxby, formerly treasurer to the church, who died in ; and in compliance with stipulations in some of the ancient church deeds and settlements, occasional payments of money are made on this tomb to the present day.' here, at least, is one money-changing table introduced into the consecrated area, and this not irregularly or surreptitiously, like the money-changing tables which of old profaned the temple, but through the deliberately formed stipulations of ecclesiastical deeds and settlements. the state of things in st. paul's and westminster, however, throws the money-table of york minster far into the shade. the holinesses of st. paul's we found converted into a twopenny, and those of westminster into a sixpenny show. for the small sum of twopence one may be admitted, at an english provincial fair, to see the old puppet exhibition of punch and judy, and of solomon in all his glory; and for the small sum of twopence were we admitted, in like manner, to see st. paul's, to see choir, communion-table, and grand altar, and everything else of peculiar sacredness within the edifice. the holinesses of westminster cost thrice as much, but were a good bargain notwithstanding. would english churchmen permit, far less originate and insist in doggedly maintaining, so palpable a profanation, did they really believe their cathedrals to be holy? the debased jewish priesthood of the times of our saviour suffered the money-changers to traffic unchallenged within the temple; but they did not convert the temple itself into a twopenny show: they did not make halfpence by exhibiting the table of shew-bread, the altar of incense, and the golden candlestick, nor lift up corners of the veil at the rate of a penny a peep. it is worse than nonsense to hold that a belief in the sacredness of ecclesiastical buildings can co-exist with clerical practices of the kind we describe: the thing is a too palpable improbability; the text quoted by the englishman is conclusive on the point. would any man in his senses now hold that the old jewish priests really believed their temple to be holy, had they done, what they had decency enough not to do--converted it into a raree-show? and are we not justified in applying to english churchmen the rule which would be at once applied to jewish priests? the presbyterians of scotland do not deem their ecclesiastical edifices holy, but there are certain natural associations that throw a degree of solemnity over places in which men assemble to worship god; and in order that these may not be outraged, they never convert their churches into twopenny show-boxes. practically, at least, the scotch respect for decency goes a vast deal further than the english regard for what they profess, very insincerely it would seem, to hold sacred. we have said there is quite as little new testament authority for consecrating a place of worship as for baptizing a bell; and if in the wrong, can of course be easily set right. if the authority exists, it can be no difficult matter to produce it. we would fain ask the reader to remark the striking difference which obtains between the mosaic and the new testament dispensations in all that regards the materialisms of their respective places of worship. we find in the pentateuch chapter after chapter occupied with the mechanism of the tabernacle. the pattern given in the mount is as minutely described as any portion of the ceremonial law, and for exactly the same reason: the one as certainly as the other was 'a figure of things to come.' how exceedingly minute, too, the description of the temple! how very particular the narrative of its dedication! the prayer of solomon, heaven-inspired for the occasion, forms an impressive chapter in the sacred record, that addresses itself to all time. but when the old state of things had passed away,--when the material was relinquished for the spiritual, the shadow for the substance, the type for the antitype,--we hear no more of places of worship to which an intrinsic holiness attached, or of imposing rites of dedication. not in edifices deemed sacred was the gospel promulgated, so long as the gospel remained pure, but in 'hired houses' and 'upper rooms,' or 'river-sides, where prayer was wont to be made,' in chambers on the 'third loft,' often in the streets, often in the market-place, in the fields and by solitary waysides, on shipboard and by the sea-shore, 'in the midst of mars hill' at athens, and, when persecution began to darken, amid the deep gloom of the sepulchral caverns of rome. the time had evidently come, referred to by the saviour, when neither in the temple at jerusalem, nor on the mountain deemed sacred by the samaritans, was the father to be worshipped; but all over the world, 'in spirit and in truth.' until christianity had become corrupt, we do not hear even of ornate churches, far less of christian altars, of an order of christian priests, of the will-worship of consecration, or of the presumed holiness of insensate matter,--all unauthorized additions of man's making to a religion fast sinking at the time under a load of human inventions,--additions which were in no degree the more sacred, because filched, amid the darkness of superstition and error, from the abrogated mosaic dispensation. the following is, we believe, the first notice of _fine_ christian churches which occurs in history;--we quote from the ecclesiastical work of dr. welsh, and deem the passage a significant one:--'from the beginning of the reign of gallienus till the nineteenth year of diocletian,' says the historian, 'the external tranquillity of the church suffered no general interruption. the christians, with partial exceptions, were allowed the free exercise of their religion. under diocletian open profession of the new faith was made even in the imperial household; nor did it prove a barrier to the highest honours and employments. in this state of affairs the condition of the church seemed in the highest degree prosperous. converts were multiplied throughout all the provinces of the empire; and the ancient churches proving insufficient for the accommodation of the increasing multitudes of worshippers, _splendid edifices were erected in every city_, which were filled with crowded congregations. but with this outward appearance of success, the purity of faith and worship became gradually corrupted; and, still more, the vital spirit of religion suffered a melancholy decline. pride and ambition, emulation and strifes, hypocrisy and formality among the clergy, and superstitions and factions among the people, brought reproach on the christian cause. in these circumstances the judgments of the lord were manifested, and the church was visited with the severest persecution to which it ever yet had been subjected.' there are few more valuable chapters in locke than the one in which he traces some of the gravest errors that infest human life to a false association of ideas. but of all his illustrations, employed to exhibit in the true light this copious source of error, there is not one half so striking as that furnished by the false association which connects the holiness that can alone attach to the living and the immortal, with earth, mortar, and stone, pieces of mouldering serge, and bits of rotten wood. nearly one half of the errors with which popery has darkened and overlaid the religion of the cross, have originated in this particular species of false association. the superstition of pilgrimages, with all its long catalogue of crime and suffering, inclusive of bloody wars, protracted for ages,--- 'when men strayed far to seek in golgotha him dead who lives in heaven,'-- the idolatry of relics, so strangely revived on the continent in our own times,--the allegorical will-worship embodied in stone and lime, which puseyism is at present so busy in introducing into the church of england, and which renders every ecclesiastical building a sort of apocryphal temple, full, like the apocryphal books, of all manner of error and nonsense,--a thousand other absurdities and heterodoxies besides,--have all originated in this cause. true, such association is most natural to man, and, when of a purely secular character, harmless; nay, there are cases in which it may be even laudably indulged. 'when i find tully confessing of himself,' says johnson, 'that he could not forbear at athens to visit the walks and houses which the old philosophers had frequented or inhabited, and recollect the reverence which every nation, civil and barbarous, has paid to the ground where merit has been buried, i am afraid to declare against the general voice of mankind, and am inclined to believe that this regard which we involuntarily pay to the meanest relique of a man great and illustrious, is intended as an incitement to labour, and an encouragement to expect the same renown if it be sought by the same virtues.' we find nearly the same sentiment eloquently expounded in the doctor's famous passage on iona. but there exists a grand distinction between natural feelings proper in their own place, and natural feelings permitted to enter the religious field, and vitiate the integrity of revelation. it is from the natural alone in such cases that danger is to be apprehended; seeing that what is not according to the mental constitution of man, is of necessity at once unproductive and shortlived. let due weight be given to the associative feeling, in its proper sphere,--let it dispose us to invest with a quiet decency our places of worship,--let us, at all events, not convert them into secular counting-rooms or twopenny show-boxes; but let us also remember that natural association is not divine truth--that there attaches no holiness to slated roofs or stone walls--that under the new testament dispensation men do not worship in temples, which, like the altar of old, sanctified the gift, but in mere places of shelter, that confer no sacredness on their services; and that the 'hour has come, and now is, when they that worship the father must worship him in spirit and in truth.' _april , ._ ----- { } see _first impressions of england and its people_, ch. ii.--ed. the late rev. alexander stewart. our last conveyed to our readers the mournful intelligence of the illness and death of the rev. alexander stewart of cromarty,--a man less known, perhaps, than any other of nearly equal calibre, or of a resembling exquisitiveness of mental faculty, which his country has ever produced, but whose sudden removal has, we find, created an impression far beyond the circle of even his occasional hearers, that the spirit which has passed away was one of the high cast which nature rarely produces, and that the consequent blank created in the existing phalanx of intellect is one which cannot be filled up. comparatively little as the deceased was known beyond his own immediate walk of duty or circle of acquaintanceship, it is yet felt by thousands, of whom the greater part knew of him merely at second-hand by the abiding impression which he had left on the minds of the others, that, according to the poet, 'a mighty spirit is eclipsed; a power hath passed from day to darkness, to whose hour of light no likeness is bequeathed--no name.' the subject is one with which we can scarce trust ourselves. there are no writings to which we can appeal, for mr. stewart has left none, or at least none suited to convey an adequate impression of his powers; and yet of nothing are we more thoroughly convinced, than that the originality and vigour of his thinking, and the singular vividness and force of his illustrations, added to a command of the principles of analogical reasoning, which even a butler might have envied, entitled him to rank with the ablest and most extraordinary men of the age. coleridge was not more thoroughly original, nor could he impart to his pictures more vividness of colouring, or more decided strength of outline. in glancing over our limited stock of idea, to note how we have come by it, we find that to two scotchmen of the present century we stand more largely indebted than to any of their contemporaries, either at home or abroad. more of their thinking has got into our mind than that of any of the others; and their images and illustrations recur to us more frequently. and one of these is thomas chalmers; the other, alexander stewart. there is an order of intellect decidedly original in its cast, and of considerable power, to whom notwithstanding originality is dangerous. goldsmith, when he first entered on his literary career, found that all the good things on the side of truth had already been said; and that _his_ good things, if he really desired to produce any, would require all to be said on the side of paradox and error. 'when i was a young man,' he states, in a passage which johnson censured him for afterwards expunging, 'being anxious to distinguish myself, i was perpetually starting new propositions. but i soon gave this over, for i found that generally what was new was false.' poor edward irving formed a melancholy illustration of this species of originality. his stock of striking things on the side of truth was soon expended; notoriety had meanwhile become as essential to his comfort as ardent spirits to that of the dram-drinker, or his pernicious drug to that of the inveterate opium-eater; and so, to procure the supply of the unwholesome pabulum, without which he could not continue to exist, he launched into a perilous ocean of heterodoxy and extravagance, and made shipwreck of his faith. his originality formed but the crooked wanderings of a journeyer who had forsaken the right way, and lost himself in the mazes of a doleful wilderness. not such the originality of the higher order of minds; not such, for instance, the originality of a newton, of whom it has been well said by a distinguished french critic, that 'what province of thought soever he undertook, he was sure to change the ideas and opinions received by the rest of men.' one of the most striking characteristics of mr. stewart's originality was the solidity of the truths which it always evolved. his was not the ability of opening up new vistas in which all was unfamiliar, simply because the direction in which they led was one in which men's thought had no occasion to travel, and no business to perform. it was, on the contrary, the greatly higher ability of enlarging, widening, and lengthening the avenues long before opened upon important truths, and, in consequence, enabling men to see new and unwonted objects in old, familiar directions. that in which he excelled all men we ever knew, was the analogical faculty--the power of detecting and demonstrating occult resemblances. he could read off as if by intuition--not by snatches and fragments, but as a consecutive whole--that older revelation of type and symbol which god first gave to man; and when privileged to listen to him, we have recognised, in the evident integrity of the reading, and the profound and consistent wisdom of what the record conveyed, a demonstration of the divinity of its origin, not less powerful and convincing than that to be found in any department of the christian evidences yet opened up. compared with even the higher names in this department, we have felt under his ministry as if, when admitted to the company of some party of modern _savans_ employed in deciphering a hieroglyphic-covered obelisk of the desert, and here successful in discovering the meaning of an insulated sign, and there of a detached symbol, we had been suddenly joined by some sage of the olden time, to whom the mysterious inscription was but a piece of common language written in a familiar alphabet, and who could read off fluently and as a whole what the others could but darkly and painfully guess at in detached and broken parts. to this singular power of tracing analogies there was added in mr. stewart an ability of originating the most vivid illustrations. in some instances a single stroke produced a figure that swept across the subject-matter of his discourse like the image of a lantern on a wall; in others, he dwelt upon the picture produced, finishing it with stroke after stroke, until it filled the whole imagination, and sank deep into the memory. we remember hearing him preach on one occasion on the return of the jews, as a people, to him whom they had rejected, and the effect which their sudden conversion could not fail to have on the unbelieving and gentile world. suddenly his language, from its high level of eloquent simplicity, became at once that of metaphor: 'when _joseph_,' he said, 'shall reveal himself to _his brethren_, the _whole house of pharaoh_ shall _hear the weeping_.' could there be an allusion of more classical beauty, or more finely charged with typical truth? and yet such was one of the common and briefer exercises of the illustrative faculty in this gifted man. on another occasion we heard him dwell on that vast profundity characteristic of the scriptural representations of god, which ever deepens and broadens the longer and the more thoroughly it is explored, until at length the student--struck at first by its expansiveness, but conceiving of it as if it were a mere _measured_ expansiveness--finds that it partakes of the unlimited infinity of the divine nature itself. naturally and simply, as if growing out of the subject, like a green berry-covered misletoe on the mossy trunk of a reverend oak, there sprang up one of his more lengthened illustrations. a child bred up in the interior of the country has been brought for the first time to the sea-shore, and carried out to the middle of one of the noble friths that indent so deeply our line of coast; and on his return he informs his father, with all a child's eagerness, of the wonderful expansiveness of the _ocean_ which he has seen. he went out, he tells, far amid the great waves and the rushing tides, till at length the huge hills seemed diminished into mere hummocks, and the wide land itself appeared along the waters but as a slim strip of blue. and then when in mid-sea the sailors heaved the lead; and it went down, and down, and down, and the long line slipped swiftly away over the boat-edge coil after coil, till, ere the plummet rested on the ouse below, all was well-nigh expended. and was it not the _great_ sea, asks the boy, that was so vastly broad, and so profoundly deep? ah! my child, exclaims the father, you have not yet seen aught of its greatness,--you have sailed over merely one of its little arms. had it been out into the wide ocean that the seamen had carried you, you would have _seen_ no shore, and you would have _found_ no bottom. in one rare quality of the orator, mr. stewart stood alone among his contemporaries. pope refers, in one of his satires, to a strange power of creating love and admiration by just 'touching the brink of all we hate;' and burke, in some of his nobler passages, happily exemplifies the thing. he intensified the effect of his burning eloquence by the employment of figures so homely, nay, almost so repulsive in themselves, that a man of lower powers who ventured their use would find them efficient merely in lowering his subject and ruining his cause. we may refer, in illustration, to burke's celebrated figure of the disembowelled bird, which occurs in his indignant denial that the character of the revolutionary french in aught resembled that of the english. 'we have not,' he says, 'been _drawn_ and _trussed_, in order that we may be filled, _like stuffed birds in a museum_, with _chaff and rags_, and _paltry blurred shreds of paper_ about the rights of man.' into this perilous but singularly effective department, closed against even superior men, mr. stewart could enter safely and at will. we heard him, scarce a twelvemonth since, deliver a discourse of singular power, on the sin-offering of the jewish economy, as minutely particularized by the divine penman in leviticus. he described the slaughtered animal--foul with dust and blood--its throat gashed across--its entrails laid open--and steaming in its impurity to the sun, as it awaited the consuming fire, amid the uncleanness of ashes outside the camp,--a vile and horrid thing, which no one could see without experiencing emotions of disgust, nor touch without contracting defilement. the picture appeared too painfully vivid, its introduction too little in accordance with the rules of a just taste. it seemed a thing to be covered up, not exhibited. but the master in this difficult walk well knew what he was doing. 'and that,' he said, as if pointing to the strongly-coloured picture he had just completed, 'and that is sin.' by one stroke the intended effect was produced, and the rising disgust and horror transferred from the revolting material image to the great moral evil. we had fondly hoped that for a man so singularly gifted, and who had but reached the ripe maturity of middle life, there remained important work yet to do. he seemed peculiarly fitted, if but placed in a commanding sphere, for ministering to some of the intellectual wants, and for withstanding with singular efficiency some of the more perilous tendencies, of the religious world in the present day. that athenian thirst for the new so generally abroad, and which many have so unhappily satisfied with the unwholesome and the pernicious, he could satisfy with provision at once sound and novel. and no man of the age had more thoroughly studied the prevailing theological errors of the time in their first insidious approaches, or could more skilfully indicate the exact point at which they diverge from the truth. but his work on earth is for ever over; and the sense of bereavement is deepened by the reflection that, save in the memory of a few, he has left behind him no adequate impress of the powers of his understanding or of the fineness of his genius. it is strange how much the lack of a single ingredient in a man's moral constitution--and that, too, an ingredient in itself of a low and vulgar cast--may affect one's whole destiny. it was the grand defect of this gifted man, that that sentiment of self-esteem, which seems in many instances so absurd and ridiculous a thing, and which some, in their little wisdom, would so fain strike out from among the components of human character, was almost wholly awanting. as the minister of an attached provincial congregation, a sense of duty led him to study much and deeply; and he poured forth _viva voce_ his full-volumed and many-sparkling tide of eloquent idea as freely and richly as the nightingale, unconscious of a listener, pours forth her melody in the shade. but he could not be made to understand or believe, that what so impressed and delighted the privileged few who surrounded him was equally suited to impress and delight the many outside, or that he was fitted to speak through the press in tones which would compel the attention not merely of the religious, but also of the literary world. and so his exquisitely-toned thinking perished like the music of the bygone years, has died with himself, or, we should perhaps rather say, has gone with him to that better land, where all those fruits of intellect that the human spirits of greatest calibre have in this world produced, must form but the comparatively meagre beginnings of infinite, never-ending acquirement. mr. stewart was one of the eminently excellent and loveable, and his entire character of the most transparent, childlike simplicity. the great realities of eternity were never far distant from his thoughts. endowed with powers of humour at least equal to his other faculties, and a sense of the ludicrous singularly nice, he has often reminded us in his genial moments, when indulging most freely, of a happy child at play in the presence of its father. never was there an equal amount of wit more harmlessly indulged, or from which one could pass more directly or with less distraction to the contemplation of the matters which pertain to eternity. and no one could be long in his company without having his thoughts turned towards that unseen world to which he has now passed, or without receiving emphatic testimony regarding that divine person who is the wisdom and the power of god. we have seen it stated that mr. stewart 'was slow to join the non-intrusion party, and to acquiesce in the necessity of the secession.' on this point we are qualified to speak. no one enjoyed more of his society during the first beginnings of the controversy, or was more largely honoured with his confidence, than the writer of these remarks; and the one point of difference between mr. stewart and him in their discussions in those days was, that while the writer was sanguine enough to anticipate a successful termination to the church's struggle, _his_ soberer anticipations were of a character which the disruption in entirely verified. but with the actual result full in view, he was yet the first man in his parish--we believe, in his presbytery also--to take his stand, modestly and unassumingly as became his character, but with a firmness which never once swerved or wavered. nay, long ere the struggle began, founding on data with which we pretend not to be acquainted, he declared his conviction to not a few of his parishioners, that of the establishment, as then constituted, he was to be the last minister in that parish. we know nothing, we repeat, of the data on which he founded; but he himself held that the conclusion was fairly deducible from those sacred oracles which no man more profoundly studied or more thoroughly knew. alas! what can it betoken our church, that we should thus see such men, at once its strength and its ornament, so fast falling around us, like commanding officers picked down at the beginning of a battle, and that so few of resembling character, and none of at least equal power, should be rising to occupy the places made desolate by their fall! _november , ._ the calotype. there are some two or three slight advantages which real merit has, that fictitious merit has not; among the rest, an especial advantage, which, we think, should recommend it to at least the quieter members of society--the advantage of being unobtrusive and modest. it presses itself much less on public notice than its vagabond antagonist, and makes much less noise; it walks, for a time at least, as if slippered in felt, and leaves the lieges quite at freedom to take notice of it or no, as they may feel inclined. it is content, in its infancy, to thrive in silence. it does not squall in the nursery, to the disturbance of the whole house, like 'the major roaring for his porridge.' what, for instance, could be quieter or more modest, in its first stages, than the invention of james watt? what more obtrusive or noisy, on the contrary, than the invention of mr. henson? and we have illustrations of the same truth in our scottish metropolis at the present moment, that seem in no degree less striking. phreno-mesmerism and the calotype have been introduced to the edinburgh public about much the same time; but how very differently have they fared hitherto! a real invention, which bids fair to produce some of the greatest revolutions in the fine arts of which they have ever been the subject, has as yet attracted comparatively little notice; an invention which serves but to demonstrate that the present age, with all its boasted enlightenment, may yet not be very unfitted for the reception of superstitions the most irrational and gross, is largely occupying the attention of the community, and filling column after column in our public prints. we shall venture to take up the quieter invention of the two as the genuine one,--as the invention which will occupy most space a century hence,--and direct the attention of our readers to some of the more striking phenomena which it illustrates, and some of the purposes which it may be yet made to subserve. there are few lovers of art who have looked on the figures or landscapes of a camera obscura without forming the wish that, among the hidden secrets of matter, some means might be discovered for fixing and rendering them permanent. if nature could be made her own limner, if by some magic art the reflection could be fixed upon the mirror, could the picture be other than true? but the wish must have seemed an idle one,--a wish of nearly the same cast as those which all remember to have formed at one happy period of life, in connection with the famous cap and purse of the fairy tale. could aught seem less probable than that the forms of the external world should be made to convert the pencils of light which they emit into real _bona fide_ pencils, and commence taking their own likenesses? improbable as the thing may have seemed, however, there were powers in nature of potency enough to effect it, and the newly discovered art of the photographer is simply the art of employing these. the figures and landscapes of the camera obscura can now be fixed and rendered permanent,--not yet in all their various shades of colour, but in a style scarce less striking, and to which the limner, as if by anticipation, has already had recourse. the connoisseur unacquainted with the results of the recent discovery, would decide, if shown a set of photographic impressions, that he had before him the carefully finished drawings in sepia of some great master. the stronger lights, as in sketches done in this colour, present merely the white ground of the paper; a tinge of soft warm brown indicates the lights of lower tone; a deeper and still deeper tinge succeeds, shading by scarce perceptible degrees through all the various gradations, until the darker shades concentrate into an opaque and dingy umber, that almost rivals black in its intensity. we have at the present moment before us--and very wonderful things they certainly are--drawings on which a human pencil was never employed. they are strangely suggestive of the capabilities of the art. here, for instance, is a scene in george street,--part of the pavement; and a line of buildings, from the stately erection at the corner of hanover street, with its proud corinthian columns and rich cornice, to melville's monument and the houses which form the eastern side of st. andrew square. st. andrew's church rises in the middle distance. the drawing is truth itself; but there are cases in which mere truth might be no great merit: were the truth restricted here to the proportions of the architecture, there could be nothing gained by surveying the transcript, that could not be gained by surveying the originals. in this little brown drawing, however, the truth is truth according to the rules of lineal perspective, unerringly deduced; and from a set of similar drawings, this art of perspective, so important to the artist--which has been so variously taught, and in which so many masters have failed--could be more surely acquired than by any other means. of all the many treatises yet written on the subject, one of the best was produced by the celebrated ferguson the astronomer, the sole fruit derived to the fine arts by his twenty years' application to painting. there are, however, some of his rules arbitrary in their application, and the propriety of which he has not even attempted to demonstrate. here, for the first time, on this square of paper, have we the data on which perspective may be rendered a certain science. we have but to apply our compasses and rules in order to discover the proportions in which, according to their distances, objects diminish. mark these columns, for instance. one line prolonged in the line of their architrave, and another line prolonged in the line of their bases, bisect one another in the point of sight fixed in the distant horizon; and in this one important point we find all the other parallel lines of the building converging. the fact, though unknown to the ancients, has been long familiar to the artists of comparatively modern times,--so familiar, indeed, that it forms one of the first lessons of the drawing-master. the rule is a fixed one; but there is another rule equally important, not yet fixed,--that rule of proportion by which to determine the breadth which a certain extent of frontage between these converging lines should occupy. the principle on which the horizontal lines converge is already known, but the principle on which the vertical lines cut these at certain determinate distances is not yet known. it is easy taking the _latitudes_ of the art, if we may so speak, but its _longitudes_ are still to discover. at length, however, have we the lines of discovery indicated: in the architectural drawings of the calotype the perspective is that of nature itself; and to arrive at just conclusions, we have but to measure and compare, and ascertain proportions. one result of the discovery of the calotype will be, we doubt not, the production of completer treatises on perspective than have yet been given to the world. another very curious result will be, in all probability, a new mode of design for the purposes of the engraver, especially for all the illustrations of books. for a large class of works the labours of the artist bid fair to be restricted to the composition of _tableaux vivants_, which it will be the part of the photographer to fix, and then transfer to the engraver. to persons of artistical skill at a distance, the suggestion may appear somewhat wild. such of our readers, however, as have seen the joint productions of mr. hill and mr. adamson in this department, will, we are convinced, not deem it wild in the least. compared with the mediocre prints of nine-tenths of the illustrated works now issuing from the press, these productions serve admirably to show how immense the distance between nature and her less skilful imitators. there is a truth, breadth, and power about them which we find in only the highest walks of art, and not often even in these. we have placed a head of dr. chalmers taken in this way beside one of the most powerful prints of him yet given to the public, and find from the contrast that the latter, with all its power, is but a mere approximation. there is a _skinniness_ about the lips which is not true to nature; the chin is not brought strongly enough out; the shade beneath the under lip is too broad and too flat; the nose droops, and lacks the firm-set appearance so characteristic of the original; and while the breadth of the forehead is exaggerated, there is scarce justice done to its height. we decide at once in favour of the calotype--it is truth itself; and yet, while the design of the print--a mere approximation as it is--must have cost a man of genius much pains and study, the drawing in brown beside it was but the work of a few seconds: the eye of an accomplished artist determined the attitude of the original, and the light reflected from the form and features accomplished the rest. were that sketch in brown to be sent to a skilful engraver, he would render it the groundwork of by far the most faithful print which the public has yet seen. and how interesting to have bound up with the writings of this distinguished divine, not a mere print in which there might be deviations from the truth, but the calotype drawing itself! in some future book sale, copies of the _astronomical discourses_ with calotype heads of the author prefixed, may be found to bear very high prices indeed. an autograph of shakespeare has been sold of late for considerably more than an hundred guineas. what price would some early edition of his works bear, with his likeness in calotype fronting the title? corporations and colleges, nay, courts and governments, would outbid one another in the purchase. or what would we not give to be permitted to look even on a copy of the _paradise lost_ with a calotype portrait of the poet in front--serenely placid in blindness and adversity, solacing himself, with upturned though sightless eyes, amid the sublime visions of the ideal world? how deep the interest which would attach to a copy of clarendon's _history of the civil war_, with calotypes of all the more remarkable personages who figured in that very remarkable time--charles, cromwell, laud, henderson, hampden, strafford, falkland, and selden,--and with these the wallers and miltons and cowleys, their contemporaries and coadjutors! the history of the reform bill could still be illustrated after this manner; so also could the history of roman catholic emancipation in ireland, and the history of our church question in scotland. even in this department--the department of historic illustrations--we anticipate much and interesting employment for the photographer. we have two well-marked drawings before us, in which we recognise the capabilities of the art for producing pictures of composition. they are _tableaux vivants_ transferred by the calotype. in the one[footnote: see frontispiece] a bonneted mechanic rests over his mallet on a tombstone--his one arm bared above his elbow; the other wrapped up in the well-indicated shirt folds, and resting on a piece of grotesque sculpture. there is a powerful sun; the somewhat rigid folds in the dress of coarse stuff are well marked; one half the face is in deep shade, the other in strong light; the churchyard wall throws a broad shadow behind, while in the foreground there is a gracefully chequered breadth of intermingled dark and light in the form of a mass of rank grass and foliage. had an old thin man of striking figure and features been selected, and some study-worn scholar introduced in front of him, the result would have been a design ready for the engraver when employed in illustrating the _old mortality_ of sir walter. the other drawing presents a _tableau vivant_ on a larger scale, and of a much deeper interest. it forms one of the groups taken under the eye of mr. hill, as materials for the composition of his historic picture. in the centre dr. chalmers sits on the moderator's chair, and there are grouped round him, as on the platform, some eighteen or twenty of the better known members of the church, clerical and lay. nothing can be more admirable than the truthfulness and ease of the figures. wilkie, in his representations of a crowd, excelled in introducing heads, and hands, and faces, and parts of faces into the interstices behind,--one of the greatest difficulties with which the artist can grapple. here, however, is the difficulty surmounted--surmounted, too, as if to bear testimony to the genius of the departed--in the style of wilkie. we may add further, that the great massiveness of the head of chalmers, compared with the many fine heads around him, is admirably brought out in this drawing. in glancing over these photographic sketches, one cannot avoid being struck by the silent but impressive eulogium which nature pronounces, through their agency, on the works of the more eminent masters. there is much in seeing nature truthfully, and in registering what are in reality her prominent markings. artists of a lower order are continually falling into mere mannerisms--peculiarities of style that belong not to nature, but to themselves, just because, contented with acquirement, they cease seeing nature. in order to avoid these mannerisms, there is an eye of fresh observation required--that ability of continuous attention to surrounding phenomena which only superior men possess; and doubtless to this eye of fresh observation, this ability of continuous attention, the masters owed much of their truth and their power. how very truthfully and perseveringly some of them saw, is well illustrated by these photographic drawings. here, for instance, is a portrait exactly after the manner of raeburn. there is the same broad freedom of touch; no nice miniature stipplings, as if laid in by the point of a needle--no sharp-edged strokes: all is solid, massy, broad; more distinct at a distance than when viewed near at hand. the arrangement of the lights and shadows seems rather the result of a happy haste, in which half the effect was produced by design, half by accident, than of great labour and care; and yet how exquisitely true the general aspect! every stroke tells, and serves, as in the portraits of raeburn, to do more than relieve the features: it serves also to indicate the prevailing mood and predominant power to the mind. and here is another portrait, quiet, deeply-toned, gentlemanly,--a transcript apparently of one of the more characteristic portraits of sir thomas lawrence. perhaps, however, of all our british artists, the artist whose published works most nearly resemble a set of these drawings is sir joshua reynolds. we have a folio volume of engravings from his pictures before us; and when, placing side by side with the prints the sketches in brown, we remark the striking similarity of style that prevails between them, we feel more strongly than at perhaps any former period, that the friend of johnson and of burke must have been a consummate master of his art. the engraver, however, cannot have done full justice to the originals. there is a want of depth and prominence which the near neighbourhood of the photographic drawings renders very apparent: the shades in the subordinate parts of the picture are more careless and much less true; nor have the lights the same vivid and sunshiny effect. there is one particular kind of resemblance between the two which strikes as remarkable, because of a kind which could scarce be anticipated. in the volume of prints there are three several likenesses of the artist himself, all very admirable as pieces of art, and all, no doubt, sufficiently like, but yet all dissimilar in some points from each other. and this dissimilarity in the degree which it obtains, one might naturally deem a defect--the result of some slight inaccuracy in the drawing. should not portraits of the same individual, if all perfect likenesses of him, be all perfectly like one another? no; not at all. a man at one moment of time, and seen from one particular point of view, may be very unlike himself when seen at another moment of time, and from another point of view. we have at present before us the photographic likenesses of four several individuals--three likenesses of each--and no two in any of the four sets are quite alike. they differ in expression, according to the mood which prevailed in the mind of the original at the moment in which they were imprinted upon the paper. in some respects the physiognomy seems different; and the features appear more or less massy in the degree in which the lights and shadows were more or less strong, or in which the particular angle they were taken in brought them out in higher or lower relief. we shall venture just one remark more on these very interesting drawings. the subject is so suggestive of thought at the present stage, that it would be no easy matter to exhaust it; and it will, we have no doubt, be still more suggestive of thought by and by; but we are encroaching on our limits, and must restrain ourselves, therefore, to the indication of just one of the trains of thought which it has served to originate. many of our readers must be acquainted with dr. thomas brown's theory of attention,--'a state of mind,' says the philosopher, 'which has been understood to imply the exercise of a peculiar intellectual power, but which, in the case of attention to objects of sense, appears to be nothing more than the co-existence of desire with the perception of the object to which we are said to attend.' he proceeds to instance how, in a landscape in which the incurious gaze may _see_ many objects without _looking_ at or knowing them, a mere desire to know brings out into distinctness every object in succession on which the desire fixes. 'instantly, or almost instantly,' continues the metaphysician, 'without our consciousness of any new or peculiar state of mind intervening in the process, the landscape becomes to our vision altogether different. certain parts only--those parts which we wished to know particularly--are seen by us; the remaining parts seem almost to have vanished. it is as if everything before had been but the doubtful colouring of enchantment, which had disappeared, and left us the few prominent realities on which we gaze; or rather as if some instant enchantment, obedient to our wishes, had dissolved every reality beside, and brought closer to our sight the few objects which we desired to see.' now, in the transcript of the larger _tableau vivant_ before us--that which represents dr. chalmers seated among his friends on the moderator's chair--we find an exemplification sufficiently striking of the laws on which this seemingly mysterious power depends. they are purely structural laws, and relate not to the mind, but to the eye,--not to the province of the metaphysician, but to that of the professor of optics. the lens of the camera obscura transmits the figures to the prepared paper, on quite the same principle on which in vision the crystalline lens conveys them to the retina. in the centre of the field in both cases there is much distinctness, while all around its circumference the images are indistinct and dim. we have but to fix the eye on some object directly in front of us, and then attempt, without removing it, to ascertain the forms of objects at some distance on both sides, in order to convince ourselves that the field of distinct vision is a very limited field indeed. and in this transcript of the larger _tableau vivant_ we find exactly the same phenomena. the central figures come all within the distinct field. not so, however, the figures on both sides. they are dim and indistinct; the shades dilute into the lights, and the outlines are obscure. how striking a comment on the theory of brown! we see his mysterious power resolved in that drawing into a simple matter of light and shade, arranged in accordance with certain optical laws. the clear central space in which the figures are so distinct, corresponds to the central space in the retina; it is the attention-point of the picture, if we may so speak. in the eye this attention-point is brought to bear, through a simple effort of the will, on the object to be examined; and the rest of the process, so pleasingly, but at the same time so darkly, described by the philosopher, is the work of the eye itself. the tenant's true quarrel. it has been remarked by sir james mackintosh, that there are four great works, in four distinct departments of knowledge, which have more visibly and extensively influenced opinion than any other productions of the human intellect. the first of these is the _treatise on the law of war and peace_, by grotius. it appeared about two centuries ago; and from that period downwards, international law became a solid fact, which all civilised countries have recognised, and which even the french convention, during the reign of terror, dared, in its madness, to outrage but for a moment. the second is the _essay on the human understanding_, by locke. it struck down, as with the blow of a hatchet, the wretched mental philosophy of the dark ages,--that philosophy which puseyism, in its work of diffusing over the present the barbarism and ignorance of the past, would so fain revive and restore, and which has been ever engaged, as its proper employment, in imparting plausibility to error and absurdity, and in furnishing apology for crime. the third was the _spirit of laws_, by montesquieu. it placed legislation on the basis of philosophy; and straightway law began to spring up among the nations out of a new soil. the fourth and last great work--_an inquiry into the nature and causes of the wealth of nations_, by adam smith--was by far the most influential of them all. 'it is,' says sir james, 'perhaps the only book which produced an immediate, general, and irrevocable change in some of the most important parts of the legislation of all civilised states. touching those matters which may be numbered, and measured, and weighed, it bore visible and palpable fruit. in a few years it began to alter laws and treaties, and has made its way throughout the convulsions of revolution and conquest to a due ascendant over the minds of men, with far less than the average obstructions of prejudice and clamour, which check the channels through which truth flows into practice.' and yet, though many of the seeds which this great work served to scatter sprung up thus rapidly, and produced luxuriant crops, there were others, not less instinct with the vital principles, of which the germination has been slow. the nurseryman expects, in sowing beds of the stone-fruit-bearing trees, such as the plum or the hawthorn, to see the plants spring up very irregularly. one seed bursts the enveloping case, and gets up in three weeks; another barely achieves the same work in three years. and it has been thus with the harder-coated germens of the _wealth of nations_. it is now exactly eighty years since the philosopher set himself to elaborate the thinking of his great work in his mother's house in kirkcaldy, and exactly seventy years since he gave it to the world. it appeared in ; and now, for the first time, in , the queen's speech, carefully concocted by a conservative ministry, embodies as great practical truths its free-trade principles. the shoot--a true dicotyledon--has fairly got its two vigorous lobes above the surface: freedom of trade in all that the farmer rears, and freedom of trade in all that the manufacturer produces; and there cannot be a shadow of doubt that it will be by and by a very vigorous tree. no protectionist need calculate, from its rate of progress in the past, on its rate of progress in the future. nearly three generations have come and gone since, to vary the figure, the preparations for laying the train began; but now that the train is fairly ready and fired, the explosion will not be a matter of generations at all. explosions come under an entirely different law from the law of laying trains. it will happen with the rising of the free-trade agitation as with the rising of water against a dam-head stretched across a river. days and weeks may pass, especially if droughts have been protracted and the stream low, during which the rising of the water proves to be a slow, silent, inefficient sort of process, of half-inches and eighth-parts; but when the river gets into flood,--when the vast accumulation begins to topple over the dam-dyke,--when the dyke itself begins to swell, and bulge, and crack, and to disgorge, at its ever-increasing flaws and openings, streams of turbid water,--let no one presume to affirm that the after-process is to be slow. in mayhap one minute more, in a few minutes at most, stones, sticks, turf, the whole dam-dyke, in short, but a dam-dyke no longer, will be roaring adown the stream, wrapped up in the womb of an irresistible wave. now there have been palpable openings, during the last few months, in the protectionist dam-head. we pointed years since to the rising of the water, and predicted that it would prevail at last. but the droughts were protracted, and the river low. good harvests and brisk trade went hand in hand together; and the protectionist dam-head--though feeble currents and minute waves beat against it, and the accumulation within rose by half-inches and eighth-parts--stood sure. but the river is now high in flood--the waters are toppling over--the yielding masonry has begun to bulge and crack. the queen's speech, when we consider it as emanating from a conservative ministry, indicates a tremendous flaw; the speech of sir robert peel betrays an irreparable bulge; the sudden conversions to free-trade principles of officials and place-holders show a general outpouring at opening rents and crannies: depend on it, protectionists, your dam-dyke, patch or prop it as you please, is on the eve of destruction; yet a very little longer, and it will be hurtling down the stream. for what purpose, do we say? simply in the hope of awakening to a sense of their true interest, ere it be too late, a class of the scottish people in which we feel deeply interested,--we mean the tenant agriculturists of the kingdom. they have in this all-important crisis a battle to fight; and if they do not fight and win it, they will be irrevocably ruined by hundreds and thousands. the great protectionist battle--the battle in which they may make common cause with their landlords if they will, against the league, and the free-trade whigs, and sir robert peel, and adam smith, and the queen--is a battle in which to a certainty they will be beat. they may protract the contest long enough to get so thoroughly wearied as to be no longer fit for the other great battle which awaits them; but they may depend on it as one of the surest things in all the future, that they will have to record a disastrous issue. they _must_ be defeated. we would fain ask them--for it is sad to see men spending their strength to no end--to look fairly at the aspect things are beginning to wear, and the ever-extending front which is arraying against them. we would ask them first to peruse those chapters in adam smith which in reality form the standing-ground of their opponents,--chapters whose solid basis of economic philosophy has made anti-corn-law agitation and anti-corn-law tracts and speeches such formidable things. we would ask them next to look at the progress of the league, at its half-million fund, its indomitable energy and ever-growing influence. we would then ask them to look at the recent conversions of whig and tory to free-trade principles, at the resignation of sir robert peel, and the proof the country received in consequence, that in the present extremity there is no other pilot prepared to take the helm; at the strangely marked adam smith cast of the queen's speech; and at the telling facts of sir robert's explanatory statement. we request them to take a cool survey of all these things, and to cogitate for themselves the issue which they so clearly foretell. it seems as certain that free-trade principles are at last to be established in britain, as that there is a sun in the sky. nor does there seem much wisdom in fighting a battle that is inevitably to be lost. the battle which it is their true interest to be preparing to fight, is one in which they must occupy the ground, not of agriculturists, but simply of tenants: it is a battle with the landlords, not with the free-traders. we believe dr. chalmers is right in holding that, ultimately at least, the repeal of the corn-laws will not greatly affect the condition of our agriculturists. there is, however, a transition period from which they have a good deal to dread. the removal of the protective duties on meat and wool has not had the effect of lowering the prices of either; but the fear of such an effect did for a time what the repeal of the duties themselves failed to do, and bore with disastrous consequences on the sheep and cattle market. and such a time may, we are afraid, be anticipated on the abolition of the corn-laws. nay, it is probable that, even when the transition state shall be over, there will be a general lowering of price to the average of that of the continent and america,--an average heightened by little more than the amount of the true protective duties of the trade,--the expense of carriage from the foreign farm to the british market. and woe to the poor tenant, tied down by a long lease to a money-rent rated according to the average value of grain under the protective duties, if the defalcation is to fall on him! if he has to pay the landlord according to a high average, and to be paid by the corn-factor according to a low one, he is undone. and his real danger in the coming crisis indicates his proper battle. it is not with his old protector sir robert that he should be preparing to fight; it is, we repeat, with his old ally the landholder. nay, he will find, ultimately at least, that he has no choice in the matter. with sir robert he _may_ fight if it please him, and fight, as we have shown, to be beaten; but with the landlord he _must_ fight, whether he first enter the lists with sir robert or no. when his preliminary struggle shall have terminated unsuccessfully, he shall then without heart, without organization, without ally, have to enter on the inevitable struggle,--a struggle for very existence. we of course refer to landlords as a class: there are among them not a few individuals with whom the tenant will have no struggle to maintain,--conscientious men, at once able and willing to adjust their demands to the circumstances of the new state of things. but their character as a class does not stand so high. many of their number are in straitened circumstances,--so sorely burdened with annuities and mortgages, as to be somewhat in danger of being altogether left, through the coming change, without an income; and it is not according to the nature of things that the case of the tenant should be very considerately dealt with by them. when a hapless crew are famishing on the open sea, and the fierce cannibal comes to be developed in the man, it is the weaker who are first devoured. now we would ill like to see any portion of our scotch tenantry at the mercy of wild, unreasoning destitution in the proprietor. we would ill like to see him vested with the power to decide absolutely in his own case, whether it was his tenant that was to be ruined, or he himself that was to want an income, knowing well beforehand to which side the balance would incline. nor would we much like to see our tenantry at the mercy of even an average class of proprietors, by no means in the extreme circumstances of their poorer brethren, but who, with an unimpeachable bond in their hands, that enabled them to say whether it was they themselves or their tenant neighbours who were to be the poorer in consequence of the induced change, would be but too apt, in accordance with the selfish bent of man's common nature, to make a somewhat shylock-like use of it. stout men who have fallen into reduced circumstances, and stout paw-sucking bears in their winter lodgings, become gradually thin by living on their own fat; and quite right it is that gross men and corpulent bears _should_ live on their own fat, just because the fat is their own. but we would not deem it right that our proprietors should live on their farmers' fats: on the contrary, we would hold it quite wrong, and a calamity to the country; and such, at the present time, is the great danger to which the tenantry of scotland are exposed. justice imperatively demands, that if some such change is now to take place in the value of farms, as that which took place on the regulation of the currency in the value of money, the ruinous blunder of should not be repeated. it demands that their actual rent be not greatly increased through the retention of the merely nominal one; that the tenant, in short, be not sacrificed to a term wholly unchanged in sound, but altogether altered in value. and such, in reality, is the object for which the farm-holding agriculturists of scotland have now to contend. it is the only quarrel which they can prosecute with a hope of success. we referred, in a recent number, when remarking on the too palpable unpopularity of the whigs, to questions which, if animated by a really honest regard for the liberties of the subject, they might agitate, and grow strong in agitating, secure of finding a potent ally in the moral sense of the country. one of these would involve the emancipation of the tenantry of england, now sunk, through one of the provisions of the reform bill, into a state of vassalage and political subserviency without precedent since at least the days of henry viii. it has been well remarked by paley, that the direct consequences of political innovations are often the least important; and that it is from the silent and unobserved operation of causes set at work for different purposes, that the greatest revolutions take their rise. 'thus,' he says, 'when elizabeth and her immediate successor applied themselves to the encouragement and regulation of trade by many wise laws, they knew not that, together with wealth and industry, they were diffusing a consciousness of strength and independency which could not long endure, under the forms of a mixed government, the dominion of arbitrary princes.' and again: 'when it was debated whether the mutiny act--the law by which the army is governed and maintained--should be temporal or perpetual, little else probably occurred to the advocates of an annual bill, than the expediency of retaining a control over the most dangerous prerogative of the crown--the direction and command of a standing army; whereas, in its effect, this single reservation has altered the whole frame and quality of the british constitution. for since, in consequence of the military system which prevails in neighbouring and rival nations, as well as on account of the internal exigencies of government, a standing army has become essential to the safety and administration of the empire, it enables parliament, by discontinuing this necessary provision, so to enforce its resolutions upon any other subject, as to render the king's dissent to a law which has received the approbation of both houses, too dangerous an experiment any longer to be advised.' and thus the illustration of the principle runs on. we question, however, whether there be any illustration among them more striking than that indirect consequence of the reform bill on the tenantry of england to which we refer. the provision which conferred a vote on the tenant-at-will, abrogated leases, and made the tiller of the soil a vassal. the farmer who precariously holds his farm from year to year cannot, of course, be expected to sink so much capital in the soil, in the hope of a distant and uncertain return, as the lessee certain of a possession for a specified number of years; but some capital he must sink in it. it is impossible, according to the modern system, or indeed any system of husbandry, that all the capital committed to the earth in winter and spring should be resumed in the following summer and autumn. a considerable overplus must inevitably remain to be gathered up in future seasons; and this overplus remainder, in the case of the tenant-at-will, is virtually converted into a deposit, lodged in the hands of the landlord, to secure the depositor's political subserviency and vassalage. let him but once manifest a will and a mind of his own, and vote, in accordance with his convictions, contrary to the will of the landlord, and straightway the deposit, converted into a penalty, is forfeited for the offence. it is surely not very great radicalism to affirm that a state of things so anomalous ought not to exist--that the english tenant should be a freeman, not a serf--and that he ought not to be bound down by a weighty penalty to have no political voice or conscience of his own. the simple principle of 'no lease, no vote,' would set all right; and it is a principle which so recommends itself to the moral sense as just, that an honest whiggism would gain, in agitating its recognition and establishment, at once strength and popularity. but there are few scotch tenants in the circumstances of vassalage so general in england. they are in circumstances in which they at least _may_ act independently; and the time is fast coming in which they must either make a wise, unbiassed use of their freedom, or be hopelessly crushed for ever. _january , ._ conclusion of the war in affghanistan. we trust we may now look back on by far the most disastrous passage which occurs in the military history of great britain, as so definitively concluded, that in the future we shall be unable to trace it as still disadvantageously operative in its effects. a series of decisive victories has neutralized, to a considerable extent, the influence of the most fatal campaign in which a british army was ever engaged. but this is all. one of our poets, in placing in a strong light the extreme folly of war, describes 'most christian kings' with 'honourable ruffians in their hire,' wasting the nations with fire and sword, and then, when fatigued with murder and sated with blood, 'setting them down just where they were before.' it is quite melancholy enough that our most sanguine expectations with regard to the affghan war should be unable to rise higher by a hair's-breadth than the satiric conception of the poet. we can barely hope, after squandering much treasure, after committing a great deal of crime, after occasioning and enduring a vast amount of wretchedness, after a whole country has been whitened with the bones of its inhabitants, after a british army has perished miserably,--we can barely hope that our later successes may have had so far the effect of effacing the memory of our earliest disasters, that we shall be enabled to sit down under their cover on the eastern bank of the indus, 'just where we were before.' and even this is much in the circumstances. we have seen the british in india repeat the same kind of fatal experiment which cost napoleon his crown, and from which charles xii. dated his downfall; and repeat it, in the first instance at least, with a result more disastrous than either the flight from pultowa or the retreat from moscow. and though necessarily an expedition on a similar scale, it seemed by no means improbable that its ultimate consequences might bear even more disastrously on british power in the east, than the results of the several expeditions into russia, under charles and napoleon, bore on the respective destinies of sweden and of france. that substratum of opinion in the minds of an hundred millions of asiatics, on which british authority in india finds its main foundation, bade fair to be shivered into pieces by the shock. there are passages in all our better histories that stand out in high relief, if we may so speak, from the groundwork on which they are based. they appeal to the imagination, they fix themselves in the memory; and after they have got far enough removed into the past to enable men to survey them in all their breadth, we find them caught up and reflected in the fictions of the poet and the novelist. but it is wonderful how comparatively slight is the effect which most of them produce at the time of their occurrence. it would seem as if the great mass of mankind had no ability of seeing them in their real character, except through the medium of some superior mind, skilful enough to portray them in their true colours and proportions. who, acquainted with the history of the plague in london, for instance, can fail being struck with the horrors of that awful visitation, as described in the graphic pages of defoe? who, that experienced the visitation of similar horrors which swept away in our own times one-tenth part of the human species, could avoid remarking that the reality was less suited to impress by its actual presence, than the record by its touching pictures and its affecting appeals? the reality appealed to but the fears of men through the instinct of self-preservation, and even this languidly in some cases, leaving the imagination unimpressed; whereas the wild scenes of defoe filled the whole mind, and impressed vividly through the influence of that sense of the poetical which, in some degree at least, all minds are capable of entertaining. on a nearly similar principle, the country has not yet been able rightly to appreciate the disasters of affghanistan. it has been unable to bestow upon them what we shall venture to term the historic prominence. when one after one the messengers reach job, bearing tidings of fatal disasters, in which all his children and all his domestics have perished, the ever-recurring 'and i only am escaped alone to tell thee,' strikes upon the ear as one of the signs of a dispensation supernatural in its character. the narrative has already prepared us for events removed beyond the reach of those common laws which regulate ordinary occurrences. did we find such a piece of history in any of our older chronicles, we would at once set it down, on macaulay's principle, as a ballad thrown out of its original verse into prose, and appropriated by the chronicler, in the lack of less questionable materials. but finding it in the record of eternal truth, we view it differently; for there the supernatural is not dissociated from the true. how very striking, to find in the authentic annals of our own country a somewhat similar incident; to find the 'i only am escaped alone to tell thee' in the history of a well-equipped british army of the present day! there occurs no similar incident in all our past history. british armies have capitulated not without disgrace. in the hapless american war, cornwallis surrendered a whole army to washington, and burgoyne another whole army to gates and arnold. the british have had also their disastrous retreats. the retreat from fontenoy was at least precipitate; and there was much suffered in sir john moore's retreat on corunna. but such retreats have not been wholly without their share of glory, nor have such surrenders been synonymous with extermination. in the annals of british armies, the 'i only have escaped alone to tell thee' belongs to but the retreat from cabul. it is a terrible passage in the history of our country--terrible in all its circumstances. some of its earlier scenes are too revolting for the imagination to call up. it is all too humiliating to conceive of it in the character of an unprincipled conspiracy of the civilised, horribly avenged by infuriated savages. it is a quite melancholy enough object of contemplation, in even its latter stages. a wild scene of rocks and mountains darkened overhead with tempest, beneath covered deep with snow; a broken and dispirited force, struggling hopelessly through the scarce passable defiles,--here thinned by the headlong assaults of howling fanatics, insensible to fear, incapable of remorse, and thirsting for blood,--there decoyed to destruction through the promises of cruel and treacherous chiefs, devoid alike of the sense of honour and the feeling of pity; with no capacity or conduct among its leaders; full of the frightful recollections of past massacres, hopeless of ultimate escape; struggling, however, instinctively on amid the unceasing ring of musketry from thicket and crag, exhibiting mile after mile a body less dense and extended, leaving behind it a long unbroken trail of its dead; at length wholly wasting away, like the upward heave of a wave on a sandy beach, and but one solitary horseman, wounded and faint with loss of blood, holding on his perilous course, to tell the fate of all the others. and then, the long after-season of grief and suspense among anxious and at length despairing relations at home, around many a cheerless hearth, and in many a darkened chamber, and the sadly frequent notice in the obituaries of all our public journals, so significant of the disaster, and which must have rung so heavy a knell to so many affectionate hearts, 'killed in the khyber pass.' to find passages of parallel calamity in the history of at least civilised countries, we have to ascend to the times of the roman empire during its period of decline and disaster, when one warlike emperor, in battle with the goth, 'in that serbonian bog, betwixt damieta and mount cassus old, with his whole army sank;' or when another not less warlike monarch was hopelessly overthrown by the persian, and died a miserable slave, exposed to every indignity which the invention of his ungenerous and barbarous conqueror could suggest. britain in this event has received a terrible lesson, which we trust her scarce merited and surely most revolting successes in china will not have the effect of wholly neutralizing. the affghan war, regarded as a war of principle, was eminently unjust; regarded as a war of expediency, it was eminently imprudent. it seems to have originated with men of narrow and defective genius, not over largely gifted with the moral sense. we have had to refer on a former occasion to the policy adopted by lord auckland respecting the educational grants to hindustan. an enlightened predecessor of his lordship had decided that the assistance and patronage of the british government should be extended to the exclusive promotion of european literature and science among the natives of india. his lordship, in the exercise of a miserable liberalism, reversed the resolution, and diverted no inconsiderable portion of the government patronage to the support of the old hindustanee education,--a system puerile in its literature, contemptible in its science, and false in its religion. our readers cannot have forgotten the indignant style of dr. duff's remonstrance. the enlightened and zealous missionary boldly and indignantly characterized the minute of his lordship, through which this revolution was effected, as 'remarkable chiefly for its omissions and commissions, for its concessions and compromises, for its education without religion, its plans without a providence, and its ethics without a god.' such was the liberalism of lord auckland; and of at least one of the leading men whose counsel led to the affghan expedition, and who perished in it, the _liberalism_, it is said, was of a still more marked and offensive character. what do we infer from the fact? not that providence interfered to avenge upon them the sin of their policy: there would be presumption in the inference. but it may not be unsafe to infer, from the palpable folly of the affghan expedition, that the _liberalism_ in which lord auckland and some one or two of his friends indulged is a liberalism which weak and incompetent men are best fitted to entertain. his scheme of education and his affghanistan expedition are specimens of mental production, if we may so speak, that give evidence of exactly the same cast and tendency regarding the order and scope of the genius which originated them. we have been a good deal struck by the shrewdness of one of prince eugene of savoy's remarks, that seems to bear very decidedly on this case. two generals of his acquaintance had failed miserably in the conduct of some expedition that demanded capacity and skill, and yet both of them were unquestionably smart, clever men. 'i always thought it would turn out so,' said the prince. 'both these men made open profession of infidelity; and i formed so low an opinion of their taste and judgment in consequence, that i made myself sure they would sooner or later run their heads into some egregious folly.' it is satisfactory in every point of view that britain should be at peace with china and the affghans. war is an evil in all circumstances. it is a great evil even when just; it is a great evil even when carried on against a people who know and respect the laws of nations. but it is peculiarly an evil when palpably not a just war, and when carried on against a barbarous people. it has been stated in private letters, though not officially, that a soldier of the th was burned alive by the ghilzies in sight of the english troops, and that on the approach of the latter the throat of the tortured victim was cut to ensure his destruction. and it is the inference of an indian newspaper from the fact, that such wretches are not the devoted patriots that they have been described by some, and that the war with them cannot, after all, be very unjust. we are inclined to argue somewhat differently. we believe the scotch under wallace were not at all devoid of patriotism, though they were barbarous enough to flay cressingham, and to burn the english alive at ayr. we believe further, that an unjust war is rendered none the less unjust from the circumstance of its being waged with a savage and cruel people. the barbarism of the enemy has but the effect of heightening its horrors, not of modifying its injustice. it is possible for one civilised man to fight with another, and yet retain his proper character as a man notwithstanding. but the civilised man who fights with a wild beast must assume, during the combat, the character of the wild beast. he cannot afford being generous and merciful; his antagonist understands neither generosity nor mercy. the war is of necessity a war of extermination. and such is always the character of a war between wild and civilised men. it takes its tone, not from the civilisation of the one, but from the cruel savageism of the other. _december , ._ periodicalism. the poet gray held that in a neglected country churchyard, appropriated to only the nameless dead, there might lie, notwithstanding, the remains of undeveloped miltons, hampdens, and cromwells,--men who, in more favourable circumstances, would have become famous as poets, or great as patriots or statesmen; and the stanzas in which he has embodied the reflection are perhaps the most popular in the language. one-half the thought is, we doubt not, just. save for the madness of charles, cromwell would have died a devout farmer, and hampden a most respectable country gentleman, who would have been gratefully remembered for half an age over half a county, and then consigned to forgetfulness. but the poets rarely die, however disadvantageously placed, without giving some sign. rob don, the sutherlandshire bard, owed much less to nature than milton did, and so little to learning that he could neither read nor write; and yet his better songs promise to live as long as the gaelic language. and though both burns and shakespeare had very considerable disadvantages to struggle against, we know that neither of them remained 'mute' or 'inglorious,' or even less extensively known than milton himself. it is, we believe, no easy matter to smother a true poet. the versifiers, placed in obscure and humble circumstances, who for a time complain of neglected merit and untoward fate, and then give up verse-making in despair, are always men who, with all their querulousness, have at least one cause of complaint more than they ever seem to be aware of,--a cause of complaint against the nature that failed to impart to them 'the divine vision and faculty.' there are powers, however, admirably fitted to tell with effect in the literature of the country, for they have served to produce the most influential works which the world ever saw--works such as the _essay_ of locke, the _peace and war_ of grotius, and the _spirit of laws_ of montesquieu--which, with all their apparent robustness, are greatly less hardy than the poetic faculty, and which, unless the circumstances favourable to their development and exercise be present, fail to leave behind them any adequate record of their existence. it is difficult to imagine a situation in life in which burns would not have written his songs, but very easy to imagine situations in which robertson would not have produced his _scotland_ or his _charles v._, nor adam smith his _wealth of nations_. we have no faith whatever in 'mute, inglorious miltons;' but we do hold that there may be obscure country churchyards in which untaught humes, guiltless of the _essay on miracles_, may repose, and undeveloped bentleys and warburtons, whose great aptitude for acquiring or capacity for retaining knowledge remained throughout life a mere ungratified thirst. it has remained for the present age to throw one bar more in the way of able men of this special class than our fathers ever dreamed of; and this, curiously enough, just by giving them an opportunity of writing much, and of thinking incessantly. it is not, it would seem, by being born among ploughmen and mechanics, and destined to live by tilling the soil, or by making shoes or hobnails, that the 'genial current of the soil is frozen,' and superior talents prevented from accomplishing their proper work: it is by being connected with some cheap weekly periodical, or twice or thrice a week newspaper, and compelled to scribble on almost without pause or intermission for daily bread. we have been led to think of this matter by an interesting little volume of poems, chiefly lyrical, which has just issued from the edinburgh press,--the production of mr. thomas smibert, a man who has lived for many years by his pen, and who introduces the volume by a prefatory essay, interesting from the glimpse which it gives of the literary disadvantages with which the professionally literary man who writes for the periodicals has to contend. periodical literature is, he remarks, 'to all intents and purposes a creation of the nineteenth century, in its principal existing phases, from quarterly reviews to weekly penny magazines. newspapers,' he adds, 'may justly be accounted the growth of the same recent era, the few previously published having been scarcely more than mere gazettes, recording less opinions than bare public and business facts.' the number of both classes of periodicals is now immensely great; and 'equally vast, of necessity, is the amount of literary talent statedly and unremittingly engaged on these journals, while a large additional amount of similar talent finds in them occasional and ready outlets for its working.' 'when one or two leading reviews, quarterlies, and monthlies alone existed, they called for no insignificant individual efforts of mind on the part of their chief conductors and supporters, and those parties almost took rank with the authors of single works of importance. but within the last twenty years periodical literature has become extensively hebdomadal, and even diurnal; and, as a necessary consequence, the essays of those sustaining it in this shape have decreased in proportionate value, at once from the larger amount of work demanded, and from the shorter time allowed for its execution. such essays may serve the hour fairly, but can seldom be of high worth ultroneously.' 'the extent and variety of the labours called for at the hands of those actively engaged on modern cheap periodicals can scarcely be conceived by the uninitiated public. if their eyes were opened on the subject, they would certainly wonder less why it is that the literary talent of the current generation does not tend to display itself by striking isolated efforts: they would also more readily understand wherefore parties in the situation of the present writer may well experience some unsatisfactory feelings in looking back on the labours of the past. though years spent in respectable periodical writing can by no means be termed misspent, yet such a career presents in the retrospect but a multitude of disconnected essays on all conceivable themes, and such as too often prove their hurried composition by crudeness and imperfections.' the consideration of such a state of things 'may furnish a salutary lesson to the many among the young at this day, who, possessing some literary taste, imagine that the engagements of common life alone stand in the way of its successful development, and that to be enabled to pursue a life of professional writing in any shape would secure to them both fame and fortune to the height of their desires. they here err sadly. no doubt supereminent talents will sooner or later make themselves felt under almost any circumstances; but the position described assuredly offers no peculiar advantages for the furtherance of that end. ebenezer elliot, leaving his forge at eve with a wearied body, could yet bring to his favourite leisure tasks a mind less jaded than that of the _littérateur_ by profession.' 'the regular periodicalist, too, of the modern class has usually no more stable interest in his compositions than has the counting-house clerk in the cash-books which he keeps. to publishers and conductors fall the lasting fruits. let those among the young who feel the ambition to seek fame and fortune in the walks of literature think well of these things, and, above all, ponder seriously ere they quit, with such views, any fixed occupation of another kind.' there is certainly food for thought here; and that, too, thought of a kind in which the public has a direct interest. if such be the dissipating effect of _writing_ for newspapers and the lighter periodicals, it is surely natural to infer that the exclusive _reading_ of such works must have a dissipating effect also. it is too obvious that the feverish mediocrity of overwrought brains becomes infectious among the class who place themselves in too constant and unbroken connection with it, and that from the closets of over-toiled _littérateurs_ an excited superficiality creeps out upon the age. and hence the necessity to which we have oftener than once referred, that men should keep themselves in wholesome connection with the master minds of the past. mr. smibert's remarks preface, as we have said, a volume of sweet and tasteful verse; and we find him saying that, 'most of all, the operation of periodicalism has been unfavourably felt in the domain of poetry.' 'the position of literature,' he adds, 'in the times of the wordsworths, crabbes, and campbells of the age just gone by, was more favourable than at present to the devotion of talent to great undertakings. these men were assuredly not beset by the same seductive facilities as the _littérateurs_ of the current generation for expending their powers on petty objects,--facilities all the more fascinating, as comprising the pleasures of immediate publicity, and perhaps even of repute for a day, if not also of some direct remuneration. these influences of full-grown periodicalism extend now to all who can read and write. but it entices most especially within its vortex those who exhibit an unusually large share of early literary promise, involves them in multitudinous and multifarious occupation, and, in short, divides and subdivides the operations of talent, until all prominent identity is destroyed, both in works and workers. to the growth of this modern system, beyond question, is largely to be referred the comparative disappearance from among us of great literary individualities; or, to use other and more accurate words, by that system have men of capacity been chiefly diverted from the composition of great individual works, and more particularly great poems.' we are less sure of the justice of this remark of mr. smibert's, than of that of many of the others. it is not easy, we have said, to smother a true poet; and we know that in the present age very genuine poetry has been produced in the offices of very busy newspaper editors. poor robert nicoll never wrote truer poetry than when he produced his 'puir folk' and his 'saxon chapel,' at a time when he was toiling, as even modern journalist has rarely toiled, for the columns of the _leeds times_; and james montgomery produced his 'world before the flood,' 'greenland,' and 'the pelican island,' with many a sweet lyric of still higher merit, when laboriously editing the _sheffield iris_. the 'salamandrine' of mr. charles mackay was written when he was conducting the sub-editorial department of a daily london paper; nor did he ever write anything superior to it. and we question whether mr. smibert himself, though he might have produced longer poems, would have written better ones than some of those contained in the present volume, even had his life been one of unbroken leisure. it seems natural to literary men, who fail in realizing their own conceptions of what they had wished and hoped to perform, to cast the blame upon their circumstances. johnson could speak as feelingly, not much later than the middle of the last century, of the 'dreams of a poet doomed at last to wake a lexicographer,' as any literary man of the present time, who, while solicitously desirous to give himself wholly to the muses, is compelled to labour as a periodicalist for the wants of the day that is passing over him. but perhaps the best solace for the dissatisfaction which would thus wreak itself on mere circumstances, is that which johnson himself supplies. 'to reach below his own aim,' says the moralist, 'is incident to every one whose fancy is active, and whose views are comprehensive; nor is any man satisfied with himself because he has done much, but because he can conceive little.' but to labour and be forgotten is the common lot; and why should a literary man be more disposed to repine because his productions perish after serving a temporary purpose, than the gardener or farmer, whose vocation it is to supply the people with their daily food? if the provisions furnished, whether for mind or body, be wholesome, and if they serve their purpose, the producers must learn to be content, even should they serve the purpose only once, and but for a day. the danger of over-cropping, and of consequent exhaustion, is, of course, another and more serious matter; and of this the mind of the periodicalist is at least as much in danger as either field or garden when unskilfully wrought. but mere rest, which in course of time restores the exhausted earth, is often not equally efficient in restoring the exhausted mind; nor does mere rest, even were it a specific in the case, lie within the reach of the periodic writer. it is often the luxury for which he pants, but which he cannot command. one of the surest specifics in the case is, the specific of working just a little more,--of working for the work's sake, whether at poem or history, or in the prosecution of some science, or in some antiquarian pursuit. there is an exquisite passage in one of the essays of washington irving, in which he compares the great authors--shakespeare, for instance--who seem proof against the mutability of language, to 'gigantic trees, that we see sometimes on the banks of a stream, which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up many a neighbouring plant to perpetuity.' and such is the service rendered by some pervading pursuit of an intellectual character, prosecuted for its own sake, to the intellect of the journalist. it is the necessity imposed upon him of taking up subject after subject in the desultory, disconnected form in which they chance to arise, and then, after throwing together a few hastily collected thoughts upon each, of dismissing them from his mind, that induces first a habit of superficiality, and finally leaves him exhausted; and the counteractive course open to him is just to take up some subject on which the thinking of to-day may assist him in the thinking of to-morrow, and on which he may be as well informed and profound as his native capacity permits. all our really superior newspaper editors have pursued this course--more, however, we are disposed to think, from the bent of their nature than from the necessities of their profession; and the poetical volume of mr. smibert shows that he too has his engrossing pursuit. we recommend his little work to our readers, as one in which they will find much to interest and amuse. we have left ourselves little room for quotation; but the following stanzas, striking, both from their beauty and from the curious fact which they embody, may be regarded as no unfair specimen of the whole:-- the voice of woe. 'the language of passion, and more peculiarly that of grief, is ever nearly the same.' an indian chief went forth to fight, and bravely met the foe: his eye was keen--his step was light-- his arm was unsurpassed in might; but on him fell the gloom of night-- an arrow laid him low. his widow sang with simple tongue, when none could hear or see, _ay, cheray me!_ a moorish maiden knelt beside her dying lover's bed: she bade him stay to bless his bride; she called him oft her lord, her pride; but mortals must their doom abide-- the warrior's spirit fled. with simple tongue the sad one sung, when none could hear or see, _ay, di me!_ an english matron mourned her son, the only son she bore: afar from her his course was run-- he perished as the fight was done-- he perished when the fight was won-- upon a foreign shore. with simple tongue the mother sung, when none could hear or see, _ah, dear me!_ a highland maiden saw a brother's body borne from where, from country, king, and law, he went his gallant sword to draw; but swept within destruction's maw, from her had he been torn. she sat and sung with simple tongue, when none could hear or see, _oh, hon-a-ree!_ an infant in untimely hour died in a lowland cot: the parents own'd the hand of power that bids the storm be still or lour; they grieved because the cup was sour, and yet they murmured not. they only sung with simple tongue, when none could hear or see, _ah, wae's me!_ _july , ._ 'annus mirabilis.' we have now reached the close of the most wonderful year the world ever saw. none of our readers can be unacquainted with the poem in which dryden celebrated the marvels of the year ,--certainly an extraordinary twelvemonth, though the english poet, only partially acquainted with the events which rendered it so remarkable, restricts himself, in his long series of vigorous quatrains, to the description of the two naval battles with the dutch which its summer witnessed, and of the great fire of london which rendered its autumn so remarkable. he might also have told that it was a year of great fear and expectation among both christians and jews. the jews held that their messiah was to come that year; and, in answer of the expectation, the impostor sabbatei levi appeared to delude and disappoint the hopes of that unhappy nation. there was an opinion nearly equally general in the roman catholic world, that it would usher in the antichrist of new testament prophecy; while among english protestants it was very extensively believed that it was to witness the end of the world and the final judgment. it was remarkable, too, as the year in which oppression first compelled the scotch presbyterians of the reign of charles ii. to assume the attitude of armed resistance, and as forming, in the estimate of burnet and other intelligent protestants, the fifth great crisis of the reformed religion in europe. and such were the wonders of the _annus_ _mirabilis_ of dryden: two bloody naval engagements; a great fire; the appearance of a false messiah; a widely-spread fear that the end of the world and the coming of antichrist were at hand; the revolt from their allegiance to the reigning monarch of a sorely oppressed body of christians, maddened by persecution; and a perilous crisis in the general history of protestantism. the year now at its close has been beyond comparison more remarkable. in the earlier twelvemonth, no real change took place in the existing state of things. its striking events resembled merely the phenomena of a mid-winter storm in greenland, where, over a frozen ocean, moveless in the hurricane as a floor of rock or of iron, the hail beats, and the thick whirling snows descend, and, high above head, the flashings of aurora borealis lend their many-coloured hues of mystery to the horrors of the tempest. its transactions, picturesque rather than important, wholly failed to affect the framework of society. that floor of ice which sealed down the wide ocean of opinion retained all its mid-winter solidity, and furnished foundations as firm as before for the old despotic monarchies and the blood-stained persecuting churches. but how immensely different the events of the year now at an end! its tempests have been, not those of a greenland winter, but of a greenland spring: the depths of society have been stirred to the dark bottom, where all slimy and monstrous things lie hid, and, under the irresistible upheavings of the ground-swell, the ice has broken up; and amid the wide weltering of a stormy sea, cumbered with the broken ruins of ancient tyrannies, civil and ecclesiastical, the eye can scarce rest upon a single spot on which to base a better order of things. the 'foundations are removed.' a time of great trouble has come suddenly upon the kingdoms of europe--a time of 'famines, and pestilences, and fearful sights, and great signs from heaven;' 'signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and on the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring.' the extreme stillness of the calm by which this wide-roaring tempest has been preceded, forms one of not the least extraordinary circumstances which impart to it character and effect. in the _vision of don roderick_, the fated monarch is described as pausing for a time amid the deep silence of a vast hall, pannelled and floored with black marble, and sentinelled by two gigantic figures of rigid bronze that stand moveless against the farther wall. the one, bearing a scythe and sand-glass, is the old giant time; the other, armed with an iron mace, is the grim angel of destiny. not a sound or motion escapes them. in that dim apartment nothing stirs save the sands in the glass, and the inflexible look of the stern mace-bearing sentinel marks how they ebb. the last grains are at length moving downwards--they sink, they disappear; and now, raising his ponderous mace, he dashes into fragments the marble wall: a scene of savage warfare gleams livid through the opening, and the wide vault re-echoes to the hollow tread of armies, the shrill notes of warlike trumpets, the rude clash of arms, and the wild shouts of battle. and such, during the last few years, has been the stillness of the preliminary pause, and such was the abrupt opening, when the predestined hour at length arrived, of those clamorous scenes of revolution and war which impart so remarkable a character to the year gone by. a twelvemonth has not yet passed since history seemed to want incident. time and destiny watched as statue-like sentinels in a quiet hall, walled round by the old rigid conventionalities, and human sagacity failed to see aught beyond them; the present so resembled the past, that it seemed over-boldness to anticipate a different complexion for the future. but, amid the unbreathing stillness, the appointed hour arrived. the rigid marble curtain of the old conventionalities was struck asunder by the iron mace of destiny; and the silence was straightway broken by a roar as if of many waters, by the wrathful shouts of armed millions--the thunderings of cannon, blent with the rattle of musketry--the wild shrieks of dismay and suffering--the wailings of sorrow and terror--the shouts of triumph and exultation--the despairing cry of sinking dynasties, and the crash of falling thrones. and with what strange rapidity the visions have since flitted along the opened chasm! a royal proclamation forbids in paris a political banquet; four short days elapse, and france is proclaimed a republic, and louis philippe and his ministers have fled. britain at once recognises the provisional government; but what are the great despotisms of the continent to do? six days more pass, and the canton of neufchatel declares itself independent of prussia. in a few days after, the duke of saxe-cobourg-gotha grants to his subjects a representative constitution, freedom of the press, and trial by jury; the king of hanover has also to yield, and the king of bavaria abdicates. these, however, are comparatively small matters. but still the flame spreads. there is a successful insurrection at vienna, the very stronghold of despotism in central europe; and the prime minister, metternich, the grim personification of the old policy, is compelled to resign. then follows an equally successful insurrection at berlin; milan, vicenza, and padua are also in open insurrection. venice is proclaimed a republic. holstein declares itself independent of denmark, hungary of austria, sicily of naples. prague and cracow have also their formidable outbreaks. austria and prussia proclaim new constitutions. secondary revolutionary movements in both paris and vienna are put down by the military. there are bloody battles fought between the austrians and the piedmontese on the one hand, and the germans and the danes on the other; and, in a state of profound peace, the people of a british port hear from their shores the boom of the hostile cannon. the emperor of austria abdicates his throne, the pope flees his dominions, and a nephew of napoleon bonaparte is elected president of france. meanwhile, in the united kingdom, the ebullitions of the revolutionary element serve but to demonstrate its own weakness. in both england and scotland, the moral and physical force of the country--in reality but one--arrays itself on the side of good order and the established institutions. a few policemen put down, without the assistance of the military, the long-threatened rebellion in ireland; and the sovereign lady of the empire, after journeying among her subjects, attended by a retinue which only a few ages ago would have been deemed slender for a scotch chieftain or one of the lesser nobility, and without a single soldier to protect her, and needing no such protection, spends her few weeks of autumn leisure in a solitary highland valley,--a thousand times more secure in the affections of a devoted and loyal people than any other european monarch could have been in the midst of an army of an hundred thousand men. such are some of the wonderful events which have set their stamp on the year now at its close. we regard the old state of things as gone for ever. the foundations have broken up on which the ancient despotisms were founded. it would seem as if 'the stone cut out without hands' had fallen during the past year on the feet of the great image, and ground down into worthless rubbish the 'iron, the clay, the brass, the silver, and the gold.' and 'the wind,' though not yet risen to its height, seems fast rising, which will sweep them all away, 'like the chaff of the summer thrashing-floor;' so that 'there shall be no place found for them.' but while we can entertain no hope for the old decrepit despotisms, we cannot see in the infidel liberalism--alike unwise and immoral--by which they are in the course of being supplanted, other than a disorganizing element, out of which no settled order of things can possibly arise. it takes the character, not of a reforming principle destined to bless, but of an instrument of punishment, with which vengeance is to be taken for the crimes and errors of the past; and, so far at least, a time when we need expect to witness but the struggles of the two principles--the old and the new--as they act and react against each other, stronger and weaker by turns, as they disgust and alienate by their atrocities in their hour of power such of the more moderate classes as had taken part with them in their hour of weakness. it is the grand error of our leading statesmen, that they fail to appreciate the real character of the crisis, and would fain deal with the consequent existing difficulties in that petty style of diplomatic manoeuvre with which it was their wont to meet the comparatively light demands of the past. it would seem as if we had arrived at a stage in the world's history in which statesmanship after this style is to be tolerated no longer. how instructive, for instance, the mode in which, for the present at least, an all-governing providence has terminated the negotiations of this country with the pope! contrary to the wishes and principles of the sound-hearted portion of the british people, our leading statesmen open up by statute their diplomatic relations with the pope, palpably with the desire of governing ireland through the influence of that utterly corrupt religion which has made that unhappy island the miserable lazar-house that it is; and, lo! providence strikes down the ghostly potentate, and virtually, for the present, divests him of that 'property qualification' in virtue of which the relation can alone be maintained. but not less infatuated than our statesmen, and even less excusably so, are those men--professedly religious and protestant, but of narrow views and weak understandings--who can identify the cause of christ with the old tottering despotisms and the soul-destroying policy of princes such as the late emperor of austria, and of ministers such as metternich. it would not greatly surprise us to see protestants of this high tory stamp, who have been zealous against popery all their lives long, taking part in the 'lament of the merchants and mariners' over the perished babylon, when they find that the representatives of the roman emperors must fall with the roman see. there are two wild beasts, like those which daniel saw in vision, contending together in fierce warfare,--the old babylonish beast, horrid with the blood of saints, and its cruel executioner--the monster of atheistic liberalism; but christ has identified his cause with neither. no reprieve from the prince awaits the condemned culprit; and with the disreputable and savage executioner he will hold no intercourse. destruction, from which there is no escape, awaits equally on both. we began with a reference to dryden's _year of wonders:_ we conclude with an anecdote regarding that year, connected with the history of one of the most eminent judges and best men england ever produced. it needs no application, showing as it does, with equal simplicity and force, how and on what principle the terrors of years such as the '_annus mirabilis_' of the seventeenth century, or the '_annus mirabilis_' of our own, may be encountered with the greatest safety and the truest dignity. we quote from bishop burnet's _life of sir matthew hale_:-- 'he' (sir matthew), says the bishop, 'had a generous and noble idea of god in his mind; and this he found, above all other considerations, preserve his quiet. and, indeed, that was so well established in him, that no accidents, how sudden soever, were observed to discompose him, of which an eminent man of that profession gave me this instance:--in the year an opinion did run through the nation that the end of the world would come that year. this, whether set on by astrologers, or advanced by those who thought it might have some relation to the number of the beast in the revelation, or promoted by men of ill designs to disturb the public peace, had spread mightily among the people; and judge hale going that year the western circuit, it happened that, as he was on the bench at the assizes, a most terrible storm fell out very unexpectedly, accompanied with such flashes of lightning and claps of thunder, that the like will hardly fall out in an age; upon which a whisper ran through the crowd, "that now was the world to end, and the day of judgment to begin." and at this there followed a general consternation in the whole assembly, and all men forgot the business they were met about, and betook themselves to their prayers. this, added to the horror raised by the storm, looked very dismal, insomuch that my author--a man of no ordinary resolution and firmness of mind--confessed it made a great impression on himself. but he told me "that he did observe the judge was not a whit affected, and was going on with the business of the court in his ordinary manner;" from which he made this conclusion: "that his thoughts were so well fixed, that he believed, if the world had been really to end, it would have given him no considerable disturbance!'" _december , ._ effects of religious disunion on colonization. it is well that there should exist amongst the evangelistic churches at least a desire for union. we do not think they will ever be welded into one without much heat and many blows. popery, with mayhap infidelity for its assistant, will have first to blow up the coals and ply the hammer; but it is at least something that the various pieces of the broken and shivered church catholic should be coming into contact, drawn together as if by some strong attractive influence, and that there should be so many attempts made to fit into each other, though with but indifferent success, the rough-edged inflexible fragments. it is much that the attractive influence should exist. among the many inventions of modern times, a singularly ingenious one has been brought to bear on the smelting of iron. a powerful magnetic current is made to pass in one direction through the furnace, which imparts to each metallic particle a loadstone-like affinity for all the others; and no sooner has the heat set them free, than, instead of sinking, as in the old process, through the molten stony mass to the bottom, solely in effect of their superior gravity--a tedious, and in some degree uncertain process--they at once get into motion in the line of the current, and unite, in less than half the ordinary time under any other circumstances, into a homogeneous, coherent mass. may we not indulge the expectation of similar results from the magnetic current of attraction, if we may so speak, which has so decidedly begun to flow through the evangelistic churches? true, so long as the little bits remain unmolten, however excellent their quality, they but clash and jangle together, if moved by the influence at all; but should the furnace come to be seven times heated, it will scarce fail to give unity of motion and a prompt coherency to all the genuine metal, however minute, in its present state, the particles into which it is separated, or however stubborn the stony matrices which dissociate these from the other particles, one in their origin and nature, that lie locked up in the sullen fragments around. never perhaps was there a time when the great disadvantages of disunion were so pressed in a practical form on the notice of the churches as at the present. it formed the complaint of one of our better english writers considerably more than a century ago, that we had religion enough to make us hate, but not enough to make us love, one another. at that time, however, sects, to employ one of bacon's striking phrases, 'had not so grown to equality' as now; and storms in the moral world, as in the natural 'at the equinoxia,' when night and day are equal, are commonly greatest, adds the philosopher, 'when things do grow to equality.' the unestablished protestant denominations formed in the times of queen anne a mere feeble moiety, that could raise no efficient voice against the established religion; and popery, newly thrust under feet, after a formidable struggle, that threatened to overturn the constitution of the country, had no voice at all. matters are very different now: things have grown to an equality; night and day, as 'at the equinoxia,' have become nearly equal; and society can scarce take one step for the general benefit, without experiencing, as a thwarting and arresting influence, the effects of religious difference. do we regret that the government of a country such as ours should be practically irreligious in its character? alas! were every government functionary in the empire a thoroughly religious man, government could not act otherwise than it does in not a few instances, just in consequence of our religious differences. are there millions of the people sinking into brutality and ignorance, and do our rulers originate a scheme of education in their behalf?--our religious differences straightway step in to arrest and cripple the design. are there whole districts of country subjected to famine, and are we roused, both as britons and as christians, to contribute of our substance for their relief?--our religious differences immediately interfere; and a church greatly more identified by membership with the sufferers than any other, has to fight a hard battle ere she can be permitted to co-operate in the general cause. is there a ragged-school scheme originated in the capital, to rescue the neglected perishing young among us from out the very jaws of destruction?--forthwith rival institutions start up, on the ground of religious differences, to dwarf one another into inefficiency, like starveling shrubs in a nursery run wild; and projected exertions in the cause of degraded and suffering humanity degenerate into an attack on a benevolent presbyterian minister, who refuses to accept, from conscientious motives, of a directorship in a popish institution. this is surely a sad state of things,--a state grown very general, and which threatens to become more so; and in a due sense of the weakness for all good which it creates, and of the palpable state of disorganization and decomposition favourable to the growth of every species of evil, physical and moral, which it induces, we recognise at least one of the causes of the general desire for union. to no one circumstance has rome owed more of its success than to the divisions of the protestant church; and great as that success has been in our own country, where, as 'at the equinoxia,' day and night are fast 'growing to equality,' it is but slight compared with what she has experienced in america and the colonies. it is a serious consideration in an age like the present, in which the country looks to emigration for relief from the pressure of a superabundant population, that religion has suffered more in the colonies from its sectarian divisions, than from every other cause put together. the way in which the mischief comes to be done is easily conceivable. the protestant emigrants of the country quit it always, with regard to their churchmanship, as a mere undisciplined rabble. the episcopalian sets sail in the same vessel, and for the same scene of labour, as the independent--the free churchman with the baptist--the methodist with the original seceder--the voluntary with the establishment-man; and they squat down together on contiguous lots, amid the solitude of the forest. were they all of one communion, there might be scarce any break created in their old habits of church-going and religious instruction. the community, considerable as a whole, though very inconsiderable in its parts when broken up into denominational septs, would have its minister of religion from its first settlement, or almost so; and, from the rapid increase which takes place in all new colonies in congenial countries and climates, the charge of such a minister would be soon a very important one, and adequate to the full development of the energies of a superior man. but alas for the numerous denominational septs! years must elapse, in some instances many years, ere--few and scattered, and necessarily deprived of every advantage of the territorial system--they can procure for themselves religious teachers: they fall gradually, in the interim, out of religious habits, or there rises among them a generation in which these were never formed; and when at length a sept does procure a teacher, generally, from the comparative fewness of their numbers, the extent of district over which they are spread, and the lukewarmness induced among them by their years of deprivation--circumstances which make the charge of such a people no very desirable one to a man who can procure aught better, and which have some effect also in rendering their choice in such matters not very discriminating--he is frequently of a character little suited to profit them. they succeed too often in procuring not missionaries, nor men such as the ministers of higher standing, that divide the word to the congregations of the mother country, but the country's mere remainder preachers, who, having failed in making their way into a living at home, seek unwillingly a bit of bread in the unbroken ground of the colonies. the circumstances of popery as a colonizing religion are in all respects immensely more favourable. for every practical purpose, it is one and united: it is furnished with an army of clergy admirably organized, and set peculiarly loose for movement at the will of the general ecclesiastical body by their law of celibacy. it possesses in prolific ireland a vast propelling heart, if we may so speak, ever working in sending out the blood of a singularly bigoted romanism to every quarter of the world. it has already begun to influence the elections of the united states; and should the papal superstition be destined to live so long, and should its membership continue to increase at the present ratio, there will be as many papists a century hence in the great valley of the mississippi, and the tracts adjacent, as are at present in all europe. in no field in the present day has rome more decidedly the advantage than in that of colonization; and it is surely a serious consideration that it should owe its successes in such large measure to the divisions of protestantism. but these divisions exist, and no amount of regret for the mischief which they occasion will serve to lessen them. we are not disposed to give up a single tenet which we hold as free churchmen; and our brother protestants of the other denominations are, we find, quite as tenacious of their distinctive holdings as ourselves. and so the evils consequent on disunion in infant colonies and settlements-evils which, when once originated, continue to propagate themselves for ages--must continue, in cases of promiscuous emigration, to be educed, and rome to profit by them. we find a vigorous attempt to grapple with the difficulty, by rendering emigration not promiscuous, but select, originated by a branch of the new zealand company, which we deem worthy of notice. it is calculated, from the proportion which they bear to the entire population of the country, that from a thousand to fifteen hundred free church people emigrate from scotland every year. a number equal to a large congregation quit it yearly for the colonies; but absorbed among all sorts of people--in canada, new brunswick, nova scotia, the united states, australia, and southern africa, etc. etc.--these never reappear as congregations, but are subjected, in their scattered, atomic state, to the deteriorating process, religious and educational, to which we have referred as inevitable under that economy of promiscuous emigration unhappily so common in these latter times. in an earlier age the case was different. the pilgrim fathers who first planted new england were so much at one in their tenets, that they had no difficulty in making the laws of the colony a foundation on which to erect the platform both of a general church and of an educational institute; and till this day, the character, moral and intellectual, of that part of the states tells of the wisdom of the arrangement. now why, argue the company, might not a similar result be produced in the present age, by directing the free church portion of the outward stream of emigration, or at least a sufficient part of it, into one locality? if the disastrous effects of division cannot be prevented by reconciling the disagreements of those who already differ, they may be obviated surely, to a large extent, by bringing into juxtaposition those who already agree. and on this simple principle the company has founded its free church colony of otago. of course, regarding the secular advantages of the colony, we cannot speak. new zealand has been long regarded as the great britain of the southern hemisphere. it possesses for a european constitution peculiar advantages of climate; the neighbourhood of the settlement, for several hundred miles together, is deserted by the natives; government is pledged to the appointment of a royal commissioner to watch over the interests of her majesty's subjects in connection with the company, and to afford them protection; the committee for promoting the settlement of the colony includes some of the most respected names in the free church; and thus, judged by all the ordinary tests, it seems to promise at least as well as any other resembling field of enterprise open at the present time. but respecting the principles involved in this scheme of colonization, we can speak more directly from the circumstance that we find them recognised as just and good by the general assembly of our church. the records of the assembly of bear the following deliverance on the subject:--'the general assembly learn with great pleasure the prospect of the speedy establishment of the scotch colony of new edinburgh [now otago] in new zealand, consisting of members of the free church, and with every security for the colonists being provided with the ordinances of religion and the means of education in connection with this church. without expressing any opinion regarding the secular advantages or prospects of the proposed undertaking, the general assembly highly approve of the principles on which the settlement is proposed to be conducted, in so far as the religious and educational interests of the colonists are concerned; and the assembly desire to countenance and encourage the association in these respects.' we have seen the waste of mind which takes place in the colonies of a very highly civilised country adverted to in a rather fanciful and rationalistic connection with the desponding reply of the captive jews to their spoilers: 'how shall we sing the lord's song in a strange land?' ages, sometimes whole centuries, elapse, remarks the commentator, ere the colonies of even eminently literary nations come to possess poets and fine writers of their own. there is first a struggle for bare existence among the colonists, during which the higher branches of learning are necessarily neglected; and when a better time at length comes, the general mind is found to have acquired, during the struggle, a homely and utilitarian cast, which militates against the right appreciation, and of course the production, of what is excellent. and thus the true divinities of song fail to be sung in a foreign land. there is, we doubt not, truth in the remark, though somewhat quaintly expressed, and somewhat doubtfully derived. the necessities of a colony in its youth, and the peculiar cast of mind which they serve to induce, are certainly not favourable to the development of poetic genius. but there is, alas! another and more scriptural sense in which the 'lord's song' too often ceases to be sung in a strange land. we have already adverted to the process of deterioration, moral and religious, through which it comes to be silenced; and it is one of the advantages of the otago scheme, that it makes provision in, we believe, the most effectual way possible, in the present divided state of protestantism, for preventing a result so deplorable. youth is an important season, as certainly in colonies as in individuals; and we question whether the characteristic recklessness of yankeeism in the far west and south may not be legitimately traced to the neglected youthhead of the states in which it is most broadly apparent. the deterioration of a single generation left to run wild may influence for the worse, during whole centuries, the character of a people; and who can predicate what these colonies of the southern hemisphere are yet to become? they may be great nations, influencing for good or evil the destinies of the species in ages of the world when britain shall have sunk into a subordinate power, or shall have no name save in history. those records of the past, from which we learn that states and peoples, as certainly as families and individuals, are born and die, and have their times of birth and of burial, may serve to convince us that the melancholy reflection of one of our later poets on this subject is by no means a fanciful one: 'my heart has sighed in secret, when i thought that the dark tide of time might one day close, england, o'er thee, as long since it has closed on egypt and on tyre,--that ages hence, from the pacific's billowy loneliness, whose tract thy daring search revealed, some isle might rise, in green-haired beauty eminent, and like a goddess glittering from the deep, hereafter sway the sceptre of domain from pole to pole; and such as now thou art, perhaps new zealand be. for who can say what the omnipotent eternal one, that made the world, hath purposed?' _june , ._ fine-bodyism. of all the dangers to which the free church is at present exposed, we deem the danger of _fine-bodyism_ at once the least dreaded and the most imminent. and the evil is in itself no light one: it marks, better than any of the other _isms_--even the heresies themselves--the sinking of a church that is never to rise again. churches have been affected by dangerous heresies both of the hot and the cold kinds, and have yet shaken them off and recovered. the presbyterians of ireland, now so sound in their creed, were extensively affected, little more than half a century ago, by arian error and the semi-infidelity of socinus; and the church that in had become vigorous enough to dare the disruption, recorded in the year its vote against missions, and framed in the year its law against church extension. but we know of no church that ever recovered from _fine-bodyism_ when the disease had once fairly settled into its confirmed and chronic state. in at least this age and country it exists as the atrophy of a cureless decline. it were well, however, that we should say what it is we mean by _fine-bodyism_; and we find we cannot do better than quote our definition from the first speech ever delivered by chalmers in the general assembly. 'it is quite ridiculous to say,' remarked this most sagacious of men, 'that the worth of the clergy will suffice to keep them up in the estimation of society. this worth must be combined with importance. give both worth and importance to the same individual, and what are the terms employed in describing him? "a distinguished member of society, the ornament of a most respectable profession, the virtuous companion of the great, and a generous consolation to all the sickness and poverty around him." these, moderator, appear to me to be the terms peculiarly descriptive of the appropriate character of a clergyman, and they serve to mark the place which he ought to occupy; but take away the importance and leave only the worth, and what do you make of him? what is the descriptive term applied to him now? precisely the term which i often find applied to many of my brethren, and which galls me to the very bone every moment i hear it--"_a fine body_"--a being whom you may like, but whom i defy you to esteem--a mere object of endearment--a being whom the great may at times honour with the condescension of a dinner, but whom they will never admit as a respectable addition to their society. now, all that i demand from the court of teinds is to be raised, and that as speedily as possible, above the imputation of being "_a fine body_;" that they would add importance to my worth, and give splendour and efficacy to those exertions which have for their object the most exalted interests of the species.' the free church has for ever closed her connection with the court of teinds; but her danger from _fine-bodyism_ is in consequence all the greater, not the less. the sustentation fund is her court of teinds now; and it is to it that she has in the first instance to look for protection from the all-potent but insidious and vastly under-estimated evil under which no church ever throve. the outed ministers are comparatively safe. unless prudence be altogether wanting, and the wolf comes to the door, not, as in the child's story-book, in the disguise of a soft-voiced girl, but in that of a gruff sheriff's officer, they will continue to bear through life the old status of the establishment, heightened by the _éclat_ of the disruption. but our younger men of subsequent appointment stand on no such platform, nor will any of their contemporaries or successors step upon it as a matter of course when the heroes of the conflict have dropped away, and they come to occupy their vacant places. their status will be found to depend on two circumstances, neither of them derived from the men of a former time--on their ability to maintain a respectable place among the middle classes, and on their scholastic acquirements and general manners. a half-paid, half-taught, half-bred minister of religion may be a very excellent man; we have seen such, both in england and our own country, among the non-presbyterian dissenters who laboured to do well, and were exceedingly in earnest; but no such type of minister will ever be found influential in scotland, either in extending the limits of a church, or in benefiting the more intelligent classes of the people. and the two circumstances of acquirement and remuneration will be found indissolubly connected. a church of under-paid ministers, however fairly it may start, will, in the lapse of a generation, become a church of under-taught and under-bred ministers also. nor is there any chance that the evil, once begun, will ever cure itself, for the under-bred and the under-taught will be sure to continue the under-paid. that animating spirit of a church, without which wealth and learning avail but little, money now, as of old, cannot buy; but the secular will be ever found to depend on the secular,--the general rate of secular acquirement on the general rate of secular remuneration; and unless both be pitched at a level very considerably above that of the labouring laity, which constitutes the great bulk of congregations, even the better ministers of a church need not expect to escape _fine-bodyism_. and once infected with this fatal indisposition, they must be content to suffer, among other evils, the evil of being permitted to lay whatever claim to status they may choose, without challenge or contradiction. 'oh yes,' it will be said, should they assert that their church is the church of the nation, and that it is they themselves, and not the ministers of the establishment, who are on the true constitutional ground,--'oh yes, church of the nation, or, if ye will, church of the whole world, or, in short, anything you please; for you are _fine bodies_.' chalmers exercised all his sagacity when he demanded of the court of teinds 'to be raised, and that as speedily as possible, above the imputation of being a _fine body_.' and what chalmers demanded of the court of teinds, every minister of the free church ought to ask of the sustentation fund. but how is the demand to be effectually made? it is well known to statesmen, who, when they once get a tax imposed by parliament, can employ all the machinery of the police and the standing army--of fines, confiscations, and prisons--in exacting it, that yet, notwithstanding, in the arithmetic of finance two and two do not always make four. there are certain pre-existing laws to be studied--laws not of man's passing, but which arise out of man's nature and the true bearings and relations of things; and unless these be studied and conformed to, the parliament-imposed tax, though backed by the constable and the jail, will realize but little. and if the statesman must study these laws, well may the church do so, who has no constables in her pay, and to whom no jail-keys have been entrusted. it ought, we think, to be regarded as one fundamental law, that whatever has been gained by the seven years' establishment of the fund, should not be lightly perilled by bold and untried innovations. true, there may, on the one hand, be danger, if let too much alone, that its growth should be arrested, and of its passing into a stunted and hide-bound condition, little capable of increase; but the danger is at least as great, on the other, that if subjected to fundamental changes, it might lose that advantage of permanency which whatever is established possesses in virtue of its being such; and which has its foundation in habit, and in that vague sense of responsibility which leads men to give, year after year, what they had been accustomed to give in the previous years, just because they had given it. let it not be forgotten, that though much still remains to be done in connection with this fund, much has been done already--that a voluntary tax of about eighty thousand pounds per annum, raised from about one-third, and that by no means the wealthiest third, of the scottish people, is really not a small, but a great one--and that as great, and as worthy of being desired and equalled, do the other non-endowed churches of the country regard it. no tampering, therefore, with its principle should be attempted: he was an eminently wise man who first devised and instituted it,--not once in an age do churches, or even countries, get such men to guide their affairs,--and it ought by all means to be permitted to _set_ and consolidate in the mould which he formed for it. we would apply in this case the language of a philosophic writer of the last age, when speaking of government in general:--'an established order of things,' he said, 'has an infinite advantage, by the very circumstance of its being established. to tamper, therefore, to try experiments upon it, upon the credit of supposed fitness and improvement, can never be the part of a wise man, who will bear a reverence for what carries the marks of the stability of age; and though he may attempt some improvements for the public good, yet will he adjust his innovations as much as possible to the ancient fabric, and preserve entire the chief pillars and supports of the institution.' it ought, we hold, to be regarded as another law of the fund, that the means taken to increase it should be means exclusively fitted to lead the givers to think of their _duties_, not of their _rights_. the sustentation fund is not the result of a tax properly so called, but an accumulation of freewill offerings rendered to the church by men who in this matter are responsible to god only. what the church receives on these terms she can divide; but what the givers do not place at her disposal--what, on the contrary, they reserve for quite another purpose--she cannot lay hold of and distribute. it is not hers, but theirs; and the attempt to appropriate it might be very fatal. hence the danger of the question regarding the appropriation for general purposes of supplements, which was mooted two years ago, but which was so promptly put down by the good sense of the church. it would have led men to contend for their rights, and, in the struggle, to forget their duties; and the battle would have been a losing one for the fund. we regard it as another law, that the distribution of the sustentation money entrusted to the church should be a distribution, not discretionary, but fixed by definite enactment. a discretionary licence of distribution, extended to some central board or committee, even though under the general review of the church, could not be other than imminently dangerous, because opposed in spirit to the very principle of presbytery. and if presbytery and the sustentation fund come into collision in the free church of scotland, it is not difficult to say which of the two would go down. it has been shrewdly remarked by hume, that in monarchies there is room for discretionary power--the laws under a great and wise prince may in some cases be softened, or partially suspended, and carried into full effect in others; but republics admit of no such discretionary authority--the laws in them must in every instance be thoroughly executed, or set aside altogether. every act of discretionary authority is treason against the constitution. and so is it with presbytery. give to a central board or committee the power of sitting in judgment on the circumstances of ministers of their body, and of apportioning to one some thirty or forty pounds additional, and of cutting down another to the average dividend, and, for a time at least, the presbyterian independence is gone. but the reaction point once reached--and in the free church the process would not be a very tedious one--the discretionary authority would be swept away in the first instance, and the sustentation fund not a little damaged in the second. it is of paramount importance, therefore--a law on no account to be neglected or traversed--that the distribution of the fund be regulated by rules so rigid and unbending, and of such general application, that the manifestation of favour or the exercise of patronage on the part of the board or committee authorized to watch over it may be wholly an impossibility. it is, in the next place, of importance carefully to scan the sources whence the expected increase of the fund is to come. the givers in the free church at the present time seem to lie very much in extremes. a considerable number, animated by the disruption spirit, contribute greatly more to ministerial support, in proportion to their incomes, than the old dissenters of the kingdom; but a still larger number, reposing indolently on the exertions of these, and in whom the habit has not been cultivated or formed, give considerably less. it was stated by mr. melvin, in the meeting of the united presbyterian synod held on wednesday last, that, 'on an average, the members of weak congregations in connection with their body contributed to the support of their minister about s. d. per annum, besides about s. d. for missionary purposes, while some of them contributed even as high as s. to s.' now, an average rate of contribution liberal as this, among the members of country congregations in the free church, would at once place the fund in flourishing circumstances, and render it, unless its management was very unwise indeed, sufficient to maintain a ministry high above the dreaded level of _fine-bodyism_. nor do we see why, if we except the crushed and poverty-stricken people of some of the poorer highland districts, free church congregations in the country should not contribute as largely to church purposes as united presbyterian congregations in the same localities. the membership of both belong generally to the same level of society, and, if equally willing, are about equally able to contribute. here, then, is a field which still remains to be wrought. something, too, may be done at the present time, from the circumstance that the last instalment of the manse building fund is just in the act of being paid, and those who have been subscribing for five years to this object, and formed a habit of periodic giving in relation to it, may be induced to transfer a portion of what they gave to the permanent fund, and so continue contributing. ere, however, they can be expected to do so, they must be fairly assured that what they give is to be employed in strengthening and consolidating the church, and in raising her ministers above the level of _fine-bodyism_, not in adding to her weakness by adding to her extent. until a distinct pledge be given that there shall not be so much as a single new charge sanctioned until the yearly dividend amounts to at least a hundred and fifty pounds, we must despair of the sustentation fund. one may hopefully attempt the filling up of a tun, however vast its contents; but there can be no hope whatever in attempting the filling of a sieve. and if what is poured into the sustentation fund is to be permitted, instead of rising in the dividend, to dribble out incontinently in a feeble extension, it will be all too soon discovered that what we have to deal with is not the tun, but the sieve; and the laity, losing all heart, will cease their exertions, and permit their ministers to sink into poverty and _fine-bodyism_. _may , ._ organship. some six or eight months after the disruption there occurred an amusing dispute between two edinburgh newspapers, each of which aspired to represent the establishment solely and exclusively, without coadjutor or rival. the one paper asserted that it was the _vehicle_ of the established church, the other that it was the church's _organ_; and each, in asserting its own claim, challenged that of its neighbour. the organ was sure that the vehicle lacked the true vehicular character; and the vehicle threw grave doubts on the organship of the organ. in somewhat less than half a year, however, the dispute came suddenly to a close: the vehicle--like a luckless opposition coach, weak in its proprietorship--was run off the road, and broke down; and the triumphant organ, seizing eager hold of the name of its defunct rival as legitimate spoil, hung it up immediately under its own, as a red warrior of the west seizes hold of the scalp of a fallen enemy, and suspends it at his middle by his belt of wampum. the controversy, however, lasted quite long enough to lead curious minds to inquire how or on what principle a body so divided as the established church could possibly have either vehicle or organ. if the organ, it was said, adequately represent dr. muir, it cannot fail very grievously to misrepresent dr. bryce; and if the vehicle be adapted to give public airings to the thoughts and opinions of the bluff old moderates, those of dr. leishman and the forty must travel out into the wind and the sunlight by an opposition conveyance. one organ or one vehicle will be no more competent to serve a deliberative ecclesiastical body, diverse in its components, than one organ or vehicle will be able to serve a deliberative political body broken into factions. single parties, as such--whether secular or ecclesiastical--may have their single organ apiece; but it seems as little possible that a presbyterian general assembly should have only one organ representative of the whole, as that a _house of lords_ or a _house of commons_ should have one organ representative of the whole. an organ of the establishment in its present state of disunion, if at all adequately representative, could not fail to resemble montgomery's strange personification of war: 'a deformed genius, with two heads, which, unlike those of janus, were placed front to front; innumerable arms, branching out all around his shoulders, sides, and chest; and with thighs and legs as multitudinous as his arms. his twin faces,' continues the poet, 'were frightfully distorted: they glared, they grinned, they spat, they railed, and hissed, and roared; they gnashed their teeth, and bit, and butted with their foreheads at each other; his arms, wielding swords and spears, were fighting pell-mell together; his legs, in like manner, were indefatigably at variance, striding contrary ways, and trampling on each other's toes, or kicking each other's shins, as if by mutual consent.' such would be the true representative of an organ that adequately represented the establishment. we are led into this vein on the present occasion by a recent discussion in high quarters on the organship of the free church,--a presbyterian body, be it remarked, as purely deliberative in its courts as the parliament of the country, and at least sufficiently affected by the spirit of the age to include within its pale a considerable diversity of opinion. it is as impossible, from this cause alone, that the free church should be represented by a single organ, as that the _house of commons_ should be represented by a single organ. the organ, for instance, that represented on the education question the rev. mr. moody stuart, would most miserably misrepresent the party who advocate the views of the great father of the free church--the late dr. chalmers. the organ that represented the peculiar beliefs held, regarding the personal advent, by the party to which mr. bonar of kelso belongs, would greatly misrepresent those of the party to which mr. david brown of glasgow and mr. fairbairn of saltoun belong. the organ that advocated dr. cunningham's and dr. james buchanan's views of the college question, would be diametrically opposed to the view of dr. brown of aberdeen and mr. gray of perth. the organ that contended for an ecclesiastical right to legislate on the temporalities according to the principle of mr. hay of whiterig, would provoke the determined opposition of mr. makgill crichton of rankeillour. the organ that took part with the evangelical and sabbath alliances in the spirit of dr. candlish of st. george's, would have to defend its position against mr. king of st. stephen's of the barony; and the organ that espoused the sentiments held on tests by mr. wood of elie, would find itself in hostile antagonism with those entertained on the same subject by mr. gibson of kingston. and such are only a few of the questions, and these of an ecclesiastical or semi-ecclesiastical character, regarding which a diversity of views, sentiments, and opinions in the free church renders it impossible that it can be adequately represented by any one organ, even should that organ be of a purely ecclesiastical character. but a newspaper is _not_ of a purely ecclesiastical character; and there are subjects on which it may represent a vast majority of the people of a church, without in the least degree representing the church itself, simply because they are subjects on which a church, as such, can hold no opinions whatever. it is, for instance, not for a church to say in what degree she trusts the whigs or suspects the tories--or whether her suspicion be great and her trust small--or whether she deem it more desirable that edinburgh should be represented by mr. cowan, than mis-represented by mr. macaulay. these, and all cognate matters, are matters on which the church, as such, has no voice, and regarding which she can therefore have no organ; and yet these are matters with which a newspaper is necessitated to deal. it would be other than a newspaper if it did not. on these questions, however, which lie so palpably beyond the ecclesiastical pale, though the church can have no organ, zealous churchmen may; and there can be no doubt whatever that they are questions on which zealous free churchmen _are_ very thoroughly divided--so thoroughly, that any single newspaper could represent, in reference to them, only one class. the late mr. john hamilton, for instance--a good and honest man, who, in his character as a free churchman, determinedly opposed the return of mr. macaulay--was wholly at issue regarding some of these points with the honourable mr. fox maule, who in mounted the hustings to say that the 'gratitude and honour of the free church' was involved in mr. macaulay's return. and so the organ that represented the one, could not fail to misrepresent the other. now, we are aware that on this, and on a few other occasions, the _witness_ must have given very considerable dissatisfaction in the political department to certain members of the free church. it was not at all their organ on these occasions; nay, at the very outset of its career, it had solemnly pledged itself _not_ to be their organ. the following passage was written by its present editor, ere the first appearance of his paper, and formed a part of its prospectus:--'the _witness_,' he said, '_will not espouse the cause of any of the political parties which now agitate and_ _divide the country_.' 'public measures, however, will be weighed as they present themselves in an impartial spirit, with care proportioned to their importance, and with reference not to the party with which they may chance to originate, but to the principles which they shall be found to involve.' such was the pledge given by the editor of the _witness_; and he now challenges his readers to say whether he has not honestly redeemed it. man is naturally a tool-making animal; and when he becomes a politician by profession, his ingenuity in this special walk of constructiveness is, we find, always greatly sharpened by the exigencies of his vocation. he makes tools of bishops, tools of sacraments, tools of confessions of faith, and tools of churches and church livings. we had just seen, previous to the _début_ of the _witness_, the church of scotland converted by conservatism into a sort of mining tool, half lever, half pickaxe, which it plied hard, with an eye to the prostration and ejection of its political opponents the whigs, then in office; and not much pleased to see the church which we loved and respected so transmuted and so wielded, we solemnly determined that, so far at least as our modicum of influence extended, no tool-making politician, whatever his position, should again convert it unchallenged into an ignoble party utensil. with god's help, we have remained true to our determination; and so assured are we of being supported in this matter by the sound-hearted presbyterian people of the free church, that we have no fear whatever, should either the assertors among us of the unimpeachable consistency of the conservatives, or of the immaculate honesty of the whigs, start against us an opposition vehicle to-morrow, that in less than a twelvemonth we would run it fairly off the road, and have some little amusement with it to boot, so long as the contest continued. the _witness_ is not, and, as we have shown, cannot be, the organ of the free church; but it is something greatly better: it is the trusted representative--against whig, tory, radical, and chartist--against erastian encroachment and clerical domination--of the free church people. there lies its strength,--a strength which its political free church opponents are welcome to test when they please. we must again express our regret that the article on the duke of buccleuch, which has proved the occasion of so much remark, spoken and written, should have ever appeared in our columns; and this, not, as the agent of the duke asserts, because it has been _exposed_, but because of the unhappy unsolidity of its facts, and because of that diversion of the public attention which it has effected from cases such as those of canobie and wanlockhead, and from such a death-bed as that of the rev. mr. innes. our readers are already in possession of our explanation, and have seen it fully borne out by the incidental statement of mr. parker. we would crave leave to remind them that the _witness_ is now in the ninth year of its existence; and that during that time the editor stated many facts, from his own observation, connected with the refusal of sites, and other matters of a similar character. he saw congregations worshipping on bare hill-sides in the highlands of sutherland, and on an oozy sea-beach on the coast of lochiel; he sailed in the free church yacht the _betsey_, and worshipped among the islanders of eigg and of skye. nor did he shrink from very minutely describing what he had witnessed on these occasions, nor yet from denouncing the persecution that had thrust out some of the best men and best subjects of the country, to worship unsheltered amid bleak and desert wastes, or on the bare sea-shore. and yet, of all the many facts which he thus communicated on his own authority, because resting on his own observation, not one of them has ever yet been disproved; nay, scarce one of them has ever yet been so much as challenged. of course, in reference to the statements which he has had to make on the testimony of others, his position was necessarily different; and a very delicate matter he has sometimes found it to be, to deal with these statements. a desire, on the one hand, to expose to the wholesome breathings of public opinion whatever was really oppressive and unjust; a fear, on the other, lest he should compromise the general cause, or injure the character of his paper, by giving publicity to what either might not be true, or could not be proven to be true,--have often led him to retain communications beside him for weeks and months, until some circumstance occurred that enabled him to determine regarding their real character and value. and such--with more, however, than the ordinary misgivings, and with an unfavourable opinion frankly and decidedly expressed--was the course which he took with the communicated article on the duke of buccleuch. that the testing circumstance which _did_ occur in the course of the long period during which it was thus held _in retentis_ was not communicated to him, or to any other official connected with the _witness_, he much regrets, but could not possibly help. in the discussion on the sites bill of wednesday last, the honourable fox maule is made to say, that 'the _witness_ contained many articles which had been condemned by the church.' now this must be surely a misreport, as nothing could be more grossly incorrect than such a statement. the voice of the free church--that by which she condemns or approves--can be emitted through but her deliberative courts, and recorded in but the decisions of her solemn assemblies. on the merits or demerits of the _witness_, through these her only legitimate organs, she has not yet spoken; and mr. maule is, we are sure, by far too intelligent a churchman to mistake the voice of a mere political coterie, irritated mayhap by the loss of an election, for the solemn deliverance of a church of christ. with respect to his reported statement, to the effect that the _witness_ 'contained many articles which had done great harm to the free church,' the report may, we think, be quite correct. the _witness_ contained a good many articles on the special occasion when the free churchmen of edinburgh conspired--'ungratefully and dishonourably,' as mr. maule must have deemed it--to eject a whig minister, and to place in his seat, as their representative, a shrewd citizen and honest man. and these lucubrations accomplished, we daresay, their modicum of harm. with regard, however, to the articles of the _witness_ in general, we think we can confidently appeal in their behalf to such of our readers as perused them, not as they were garbled, misquoted, interpolated, and mis-represented by unscrupulous enemies, but as they were first given to the public from the pen of the editor. among these readers we reckon men of all classes, from the peer to the peasant--conservative landowners, magistrates, merchants, ministers of the gospel. dr. chalmers was a reader of the _witness_ from its first commencement to his death; and he, perusing its editorial articles as they were originally written--not as they were garbled or interpolated in other prints--saw in them very little to blame. not but that some of our sentences look sufficiently formidable in extracts when twisted from their original meaning; and this, just as the decalogue itself might be instanced as a code of licentiousness, violence, and immorality, were it to be exhibited in garbled quotations, divested of all the _nots_. in the _edinburgh advertiser_ of yesterday, for instance, we find the following passage:--'it [_the witness_] has menaced our nobles with the horrors of the french revolution, when the guillotine plied its nightly task, and when the "bloody hearts of aristocrats dangled on button-holes in the streets of paris." it has reminded them of the time when a "grey discrowned head sounded hollow on the scaffold at whitehall;" insinuating that, if they persisted in opposing the claims of the free church, a like fate might overtake the reigning dynasty of our time.' when, asks the reader, did these most atrocious threats appear in the _witness_? they never, we reply, appeared in the _witness_ as threats at all. the one passage, almost in the language of chateaubriand, was employed in an article in which we justified the sentence pronounced on the atheist patterson. the other formed part of a purely historic reference--in an article on puseyism, written ere the free church had any existence--to the canterburianism of the times of charles i., and the fate of that unhappy monarch. we thought not of threatening the aristocracy when quoting the one passage, nor yet of foreboding evil to the existing dynasty when writing the other. on exactly the same principle on which these passages have been instanced to our disadvantage, the description of the _holoptychius nobilissimus_, which appeared a few years ago in the _witness_, might be paraded as a personal attack on sir james graham; and the remarks on the construction of the _pterichthys_, as a gross libel on the duke of buccleuch. it is, we hold, not a little to the credit of the _witness_, that, in order to blacken its character, means should be resorted to of a character so disreputable and dishonest. from truth and fair statement it has all to hope, and nothing to fear. _june , ._ baillie's letters and journals. this is at once the handsomest and one of the best editions of the curious and very interesting class of works to which it belongs, that has yet been given to the public. it is scarce possible to appreciate too highly the tact, judgment, and research displayed by the editor; and rarely indeed, so far as externals are concerned, has the typography of scotland appeared to better advantage. it is a book decked out for the drawing-room in a suit of the newest pattern,--a tall, modish, well-built book, that has to be fairly set a-talking ere we discover from its tongue and style that it is a production not of our own times, but of the times of charles and the commonwealth. the good, simple minister of kilwinning would fail to recognise himself in its fair open pages, that more than rival those of his old _elzevirs_. for his old-fashioned suit of home-spun grey, we find him sporting here a modern dress-coat of saxony broadcloth, and a pair of unexceptionable cashmere trousers; and it is not until we step forward and address the worthy man, and he turns upon us his broad, honest face, that we see the grizzled moustache and peaked beard, and discover that his fears are still actively engaged regarding the prelatic leanings of charles ii., 'now at breda;' though perchance not quite without hope that the counsel of the 'wise and godly youth' james sharpe may have the effect of setting all right again in the royal mind. we address what we take, from the garb, to be a contemporary, and find that we have stumbled on one of the seven sleepers. we deem it no slight advantage to the reading public of the present day, that it should have works of this character made so easy of access. it is only a very few years since the student of scottish ecclesiastical history could not have acquainted himself with the materials on which the historian can alone build, without passing through a course of study at least as prolonged as an ordinary college course, and much more laborious. let us suppose that he lived in some of the provinces. he would have, in the first place, to come and reside in edinburgh, and get introduced, at no slight expense of trouble, mayhap, to the brown, half-defaced manuscripts of our public libraries. he would require next to study the old hand, with all its baffling contractions. if he succeeded in mastering the difficulties of melville's _diary_ after a quarter of a year's hard conning, he might well consider himself a lucky man. row's _history_ would occupy him during at least another quarter; baillie's _letters and journals_ would prove work enough for two quarters more. if he succeeded in getting access to the papers of woodrow, he would find little less than a twelvemonth's hard labour before him; calderwood's large _history_ would furnish employment for at least half that time; and if curious to peruse it in its best and fullest form, he would find it necessary to quit edinburgh for london, to pore there over the large manuscript copy stored up in the british museum. as he proceeded in his course, he would be continually puzzled by references, allusions, initials; he would have to consult register offices, records of baptisms and deaths, session books, old and scarce works, hardly less difficult to be procured than even the manuscripts themselves; and if he at length escaped the fate of the luckless antiquary, who produced the famous history of the village of wheatfield, he might deem himself more than ordinarily fortunate. 'when i first engaged in this work,' said the poor man, 'i had eyes of my own; but now i cannot see even with the assistance of art: i have gone from spectacles of the first sight to spectacles of the third; the chevalier taylor gives my eyes over, and my optician writes me word he can grind no higher for me.' it will soon be no such herculean task to penetrate to the foundations of our national ecclesiastical history. from publications such as those of the woodrow club, and of the _letters and journals_, the student will be able to acquire in a few weeks what would have otherwise cost him the painful labour of years. nor can we point out a more instructive course of reading. in running over our modern histories, however able, we almost always find our point of view fixed down by the historian to the point occupied by himself. we cannot take up another on our own behalf, unless we differ from him altogether, nor select for ourselves the various subjects which we are to survey. we are in leading-strings for the time: the vigour of our author's thinking militates against the exercise of our own; his philosophy enters our minds in a too perfect form, and lies inert there, just as the condensed extract of some nourishing food often fails to nourish at all, because it gives no employment to the digestive faculty. a survey of the historian's materials has often, on the contrary, the effect of setting the mind free. we see the events of the times which he describes in their own light, and simply as events,--we select and arrange for ourselves,--they call up novel traits of character,--they lead us to draw on our experience of men,--they confirm principles,--they suggest reflections. some of our readers will perhaps remember that we noticed at considerable length the two first volumes of this beautiful edition of baillie rather more than a twelvemonth ago. the third and concluding volume has but lately appeared. it embraces a singularly important period,--extending from shortly before the rise of the unhappy and ultimately fatal quarrel between the resolutioners and protesters, till the re-establishment of episcopacy at the restoration, when the curtain closes suddenly over the poor chronicler, evidently sinking into the grave at the time, the victim of a broken heart. he sees a stormy night settling dark over the church,--presbytery pulled down, the bishops set up, persecution already commenced; and, longing to be released from his troubles, he affectingly assures his correspondent, in the last of his many letters, that 'it was the matter of his daily grief that had brought his bodily trouble upon him,' and that it would be 'a favour to him to be gone.' from a very learned, concise, and well-written life, the production of the accomplished editor, which serves as a clue to guide the reader through the mazes of the correspondence, we learn that he died three months after. where there is so much that is interesting, one finds it difficult to select. the light in which the infamous sharpe is presented in this volume is at least curious. prelacy, careful of the reputation of her archbishops, makes a great deal indeed of the bloody death of the man, but says as little as possible regarding his life and character. the sentimental jacobitism of the present day--an imaginative principle that feeds on novels, and admires the persecutors because claverhouse was brave and had an elegant upper lip--goes a little further, and speaks of him as the venerable archbishop. when the famous picture of his assassination was exhibiting in edinburgh, some ten or twelve years ago, he rose with the class almost to the dignity of a martyr: there were young ladies that could scarce look at the piece without using their handkerchiefs; the victim was old, greyhaired, reverend, an archbishop, and eminently saintly, as a matter of course, whatever the barbarous fanatics might say; and all that his figure seemed to want in order to make it complete, was just a halo of yellow ochre round the head. in baillie's _letters_ we see him exhibited, though all unwittingly on the part of the writer, in his true character, and find that the yellow ochre would be considerably out of place. rarely, indeed, does nature, all lost and fallen as it is, produce so consummate a scoundrel. treachery seems to have existed as so uncontrollable an instinct in the man, that, like the appropriating faculty of the thief, who amused himself by picking the pocket of the clergyman who conducted him to the scaffold, it seems to have been incapable of lying still. he appears never to have had a friend who did not learn to detest and denounce him: his presbyterian friends, whom he deceived and betrayed, did so in the first instance; his episcopalian friends, whom he at least strove to deceive and betray, did so in the second. we are assured by burnet, that even charles, a monarch certainly not over-nice in the moral sense, declared james sharpe to be one of the worst of men. his life was a continuous lie; and he has left more proofs of the fact in the form of letters under his own hand, than perhaps any other bad man that ever lived. in baillie he makes his first appearance as the presbyterian minister of crail, and as one of the honest chronicler's greatest favourites. the unhappy disputes between the resolutioners and protesters were running high at the time. baillie was a resolutioner, sharpe a zealous resolutioner too; and baillie, naturally unsuspicious, and biassed in his behalf by that spirit of party which can darken the judgment of even the most discerning, seems to have regarded him as peculiarly the hope of the church. he was indisputably one of its most dexterous negotiators; and no man of the age made a higher profession of religion. burnet, who knew him well in his after character as archbishop of st. andrews, tells us that never, save on one solitary occasion, did he hear him make the slightest allusion to religion. but in his letters to baillie, almost every paragraph closes with the aspirations of a well-simulated devotion. they seem as if strewed over with the fragments of broken doxologies. the old man was, as we have said, thoroughly deceived. he assures his continental correspondent, spang, that 'the great instrument of god to cross the evil designs of the protesters, was that _very worthy, pious, wise, and diligent young man_, mr. james sharpe.' in some of his after epistles we learn that he remembered him in his prayers, no doubt very sincerely, as, under god, one of the mainstays of the church. what first strikes the reader in the character of sharpe, as here exhibited, is his exclusively diplomatic cast of talent. baillie himself was a controversialist: he wrote books to influence opinion, and delivered argumentative speeches. he was a man of business too: he drew up remonstrances, petitions, protests, and carried on the war of his party above-board. all his better friends and correspondents, such as douglas and dickson, were persons of a resembling cast. but sharpe's vocation lay in dealing with men in closets and window recesses: he could do nothing until he had procured the private ear of the individual on whom he wished to act. is he desirous to influence the decisions of the supreme civil court in behalf of his party? he straightway ingratiates himself with president broghill, and the court becomes more favourable in consequence. is he wishful to propitiate the english government? he goes up to london, gets closeted with its more influential members. it was this peculiar talent that pointed him out to the church as so fit a person to treat with charles at breda. and it is when employed in this mission that we begin truly to see the man, and to discover the sort of ability on which the success of his closetings depended. we find baillie holding, in his simplicity, that in order to draw the heart of the king from episcopacy, nothing more could be necessary than just fairly to submit to him some sound controversial work, arranged on the plan of the good man's own _ladensium_; and urging on sharpe, that a few able divines should be employed in getting up a compilation for the express purpose. sharpe writes in return, in a style sufficiently quiet, that his majesty, in his very first address, 'has been pleased to ask very graciously about robert baillie,' a person for whom he has a particular kindness, and whom, if favours were dealing, he would be sure not to forget. he adds, further, that however matters might turn out in england, the presbyterian establishment of scotland was in no danger of violation; and lest his scotch friends should fall into the error of thinking too much about other men's business, he gives fervent expression to the hope 'that the lord would give them to prize their own mercies, and know their own duties.' even a twelvemonth after, when on the eve of setting out for london to be created a bishop, he writes his old friend, that whatever 'occasion of jealousies and false surmises his journey might give,' of one thing he might be assured, 'it was not in order to a change in the church,' as he 'would convince his dear friend mr. baillie, through the lord's help, when the lord would return him.' he has an under-plot of treachery carrying on at the same time, that affects his 'dear friend' personally. in one of his letters to the unsuspecting chronicler, he assures him that he was 'doing his best, by the lord's help,' to get him appointed principal of the university of glasgow. in one of his letters to lauderdale, after stating that the office, 'in the opinion of many,' would require a man 'of more acrimony and weight' than 'honest baillie,' he urges that the presentation should be sent him, with a blank space, in which the name of the presentee might be afterwards inserted. baillie, naturally slow to suspect, does not come fully to understand the character of the man until a very few months before his death. he then complains bitterly to his continental correspondent, amid the ruin of the church, and from the gloom of his sick-chamber, that sharpe was the traitor who, 'piece by piece, had so cunningly trepanned them, that the cause had been suffered to sink without even a struggle.' the apostate had gained his object, however, and become 'his grace the lord primate.' there were great rejoicings. 'the new bishops were magnificklie received;' they were feasted by the lord commissioner's lady on one night, by the chancellor on another; and in especial, 'the archbishop had bought a new coach at london, at the sides whereof two lakqueys in purple did run.' the vanity of sharpe is well brought out on another occasion by burnet. the main object of one of his journeys to london, undertaken a little more than a twelvemonth after the death of baillie, was to urge on the king that, as primate of scotland, he should of right take precedence of the scottish lord chancellor, and to crave his majesty's letter to that effect. in this trait, as in several others, he seems to have resembled robespierre. his cruelty to his old friends the presbyterians is well illustrated by the fact that he could make the comparative leniency of lauderdale, apostate and persecutor as lauderdale was, the subject of an accusation against him to charles. but there is no lack of still directer instances in the biographies of the worthies whom his malice pursued. his meanness, too, seems to have been equal to his malice and pride. when lauderdale on one occasion turned fiercely upon him, and threatened to impeach him for _leasing-making_, he 'straightway fell a-trembling and weeping,' and, to avoid the danger, submitted to appear in the royal presence; and there, in the coarsest terms, to confess himself a liar. it is a bishop who tells the story, and it is only one of a series. truly the primate of all scotland was fortunate in the death he died. 'the dismal end of this unhappy man,' says burnet, 'struck all people with horror, and softened his enemies into some tenderness; so that his memory was treated with decency by those who had very little respect for him during his life.' in almost every page in this instructive volume the reader picks up pieces of curious information, or finds matters suggestive of interesting thought. there start up ever and anon valuable hints that germinate and bear fruit in the mind. we would instance, by way of illustration, a hint which occurs in a letter to lauderdale, written shortly after the restoration, and which, though apparently slight, leads legitimately into a not unimportant train of thinking. scotchmen are much in the habit of referring to the political maxim that the king can do no wrong, as a fundamental principle of the constitution, which concerns them as directly as it does their neighbours the english. dr. chalmers alluded to it no later than last week, in his admirable speech in the commission. the old maxim, that the king could do no wrong, he said, had now, it would seem, descended from the throne to the level of courts co-ordinate with the church. would it not be a somewhat curious matter to find that this doctrine is one which has in reality not entered scotland at all? it stands in england, a guardian in front of the throne, transferring every blow which would otherwise fall on the sovereign himself, to the sovereign's ministers: it is ministers, not sovereigns, who are responsible to the people of england. but it would at least seem, that with regard to the people of scotland the responsibility extends further. at least the english doctrine was regarded as _exclusively_ an english one in the days of baillie, nearly half a century prior to the union, and more than a whole century ahead of those times in which the influence of that event began to have the effect of mixing up in men's minds matters peculiar to england with matters common to britain. we find baillie, in his letter written immediately after the passing of the act recissory, pronouncing the doctrine that the 'king can do no fault,' as in his judgment 'good and wise,' but referring to it at the same time as a doctrine, not of the scottish constitution, but of the 'state of england.' the circumstance is of importance chiefly from the light which it serves to cast on an interesting passage in scottish history. the famous declaration of our scotch convention at the revolution, that james vii. had _forfeited_ the throne, as contrasted with the singularly inadequate though virtually corresponding declaration of the english convention, that james ii. 'had _abdicated_ the government, and that the throne was thereby vacant,' has been often remarked by the historians. hume indirectly accounts for the employment of the stronger word, by prominently stating that the more zealous among the scotch royalists, regarding the assembly as illegal, had forborne to appear at elections, and that the antagonist party commanded a preponderating majority in consequence; whereas in england the tories mustered strong, and had to be conciliated by the employment of softer language. malcolm laing, in noticing the fact, contents himself by simply contrasting the indignation on the part of the scotch, which had been aroused by their recent sufferings, with the quieter temper of the english, who had been less tried by the pressure of actual persecution, and who were anxious to impart to revolution at least the colour of legitimate succession. and sir james mackintosh, in his _vindiciæ gallicæ_, contents himself with simply remarking that the 'absurd debates in the english convention were better cut short by the parliament of scotland, when they used the correct and manly expression that james vii. _had forfeited the throne_.' we are of opinion that the very different styles of the two conventions may be accounted for on the ground that, in the one kingdom, the monarch, according to the genius of the constitution, was regarded as incapable of committing wrong; whereas, in the other, he was no less constitutionally regarded as equally peccable with any of his subjects. a peccable monarch may _forfeit_ his throne; an impeccable one can only _abdicate_ it. the argument must of course depend on the soundness of baillie's statement. was the doctrine that the king can do no wrong a scottish doctrine at the time of the revolution, or was it not? it was at least not a scottish one in the days of buchanan,--nor for a century after, as we may learn very conclusively, not from buchanan himself, nor his followers--for the political doctrines of a school of writers may be much at variance with those of their country--but from the many scottish controversialists on the antagonist side, who entered the lists against both the master and his disciples. buchanan maintained, in his philosophical treatise, _de jure regni apud scotos_, that there are conditions by which the king of scotland is bound to his people, on the fulfilment of which the allegiance of the people depends, and that 'it is lawful to depose, and even to punish tyrants.' knox, with the other worthies of the first reformation, held exactly the same doctrine. the _lex rex_ of rutherford testifies significantly to the fact that among the worthies of the second reformation it was not suffered to become obsolete. it takes a prominent place in writings of the later covenanters, such as the _hind let loose_; and at the revolution it received the practical concurrence of the national convention, and of the country generally. now the doctrine, be it remembered, was an often disputed one. buchanan's little work was the very butt of controversy for considerably more than an hundred years. it was prohibited by parliament, denounced by monarchs, condemned to the flames by universities; great lawyers wrote treatises against it at home, and some of the most celebrated scholars of continental europe took the field against it abroad. we learn from dr. irving, in his _classical biography_, that it was assailed among our own countrymen by blackwood, winzet, barclay, sir thomas craig, sir john wemyss, sir lewis stewart, sir james turner, and last, not least, among the writers who preceded the revolution, by the meanly obsequious and bloody sir george mackenzie. and how did these scotchmen meet with the grand doctrine which it embodied? the 'old maxime of the state of england,' had it extended to the sister kingdom, would have at once furnished the materials of reply. if constitutionally the king of scotland could do no wrong, then _constitutionally_ the king of scotland could not be deposed. but of an entirely different complexion was the argument of which the scottish assailants of buchanan availed themselves. it was an argument subversive to the english maxim. admitting fully that the king _could_ do wrong, they maintained merely that, for whatever wrong he did, he was responsible, not to his subjects, but to god only. whatever the amount of wrong he committed, it was the duty of his subjects, they said, passively to submit to it. on came the revolution. in england, in perfect agreement with the doctrine of the king's impeccability--in perfect agreement, at least, so far as words were concerned--it was declared that james had abdicated the government, and that the throne was thereby vacant; and certainly it cannot be alleged by even the severest moralist, that in either abdicating a government or vacating a throne, there is the slightest shadow of moral evil involved. in scotland the decision was different. the battle fought in the convention was exactly that which had been previously fought between buchanan and his antagonists. 'paterson, archbishop of glasgow, and sir george mackenzie, asserted,' says malcolm laing, 'the doctrine of divine right, or maintained, with more plausibility, that every illegal measure of james's government was vindicated by the declaration of the late parliament, that _he was an absolute monarch, entitled to unreserved obedience_, and accountable to none; while sir james montgomery and sir john dalrymple, who conducted the debate on the other side, averred that the parliament was neither competent to grant, nor the king to acquire, _an absolute power, irreconcilable with the_ reciprocal obligations due to the people.' the doctrines of buchanan prevailed; and the estates declared that james vii. having, through '_the advice of evil and wicked councillors_, invaded the fundamental constitution of the kingdom, and altered it from a legal limited monarchy to an arbitrary despotic power,' he had thereby _forfaulted_ his right to the crown.' the terms of the declaration demonstrate that baillie was quite in the right regarding the 'old maxime, that the king can do no fault,' as exclusively a 'maxime of the state of england.' by acting on the advice of 'evil and wicked councillors,' it was declared that a peccable king had forfeited the throne. the fact that there were councillors in the case did not so much even as extenuate the offence: it was the advisers of the king who then, as now, were accountable to the king's english subjects for the advice they gave; it was the king in person who was accountable to his scottish subjects for the advice he took. this principle, hitherto little adverted to, throws, as we have said, much light on the history of the revolution in scotland. first principles. there is a passage in the _life of sir matthew hale_ which has struck us as not only interesting in itself, from the breadth and rectitude of judgment which it discloses, but also from the very direct bearing of the principle involved in it on some of the recent interdicts of the supreme civil court. it serves to throw a kind of historic light, if we may so speak, on the judicial talent of our country in the present age as exhibited by the majority of our judges of the court of session--such a light as the ecclesiastical historian of a century hence will be disposed to survey it in, when coolly exercising his judgment on the present eventful struggle. one of not the least prominent nor least remarkable features of the rebellion of , says a shrewd chronicler of this curious portion of our history, was an utter destitution of military talent among the general officers of the british army. and the time is in all probability not very distant, in which the extreme lack of judicial genius betrayed by our courts of law in their present collision with the courts ecclesiastical, shall be regarded, in like manner, as one of the more striking characteristics of the _rebellion_ of the present day. sir matthew hale, as most of our readers must be aware, was a devoted royalist. he was rising in eminence as a barrister at the time the civil wars broke out, and during that troublesome period he was employed as counsel for almost all the more eminent men of the king's party who were impeached by the parliament. he was counsel for the earl of strafford, for archbishop laud, for the duke of hamilton, for the earl of holland, and for lords capel and craven; and in every instance he exhibited courage the most unshrinking and devoted, and abilities of the highest order. when threatened in open court on one occasion by the attorney-general, he replied that the threat might be spared: he was pleading in defence of those laws which the government had declared it would maintain and preserve, and no fear of personal consequences should deter him in such circumstances from doing his duty to his client. when charles himself was brought to his trial, sir matthew came voluntarily forward, and offered to plead for him also; but as the king declined recognising the competency of his judges, the offer was of course rejected. we all know how malesherbes fared for acting a similar part in france. the counsel of louis xvi. closed his honourable career on the scaffold not long after his unfortunate master: his generous advocacy of the devoted monarch cost him his life. but cromwell, that 'least flagitious of all usurpers,' according to even clarendon's estimate, was no robespierre; and were we called on to illustrate by a single instance from the history of each the very opposite characters of the puritan republicans of england and the atheistical republican of france, we would just set off against one another the fate of malesherbes and the treatment of sir matthew. cromwell, unequalled in his ability of weighing the capabilities of men, had been carefully scanning the course of the courageous and honest barrister; and, convinced that so able a lawyer and so good and brave a man could scarce fail of making an excellent judge, he determined on raising him to the bench. at this stage, however, a difficulty interposed, not in the liberal and enlightened policy of the protector, who had no objections whatever to a conscientious royalist magistrate, but in the scruples of sir matthew, who at first doubted the propriety of taking office under what he deemed a usurped power. the process of argument by which he overcame the difficulty, simple as it may seem, is worthy of all heed. its very simplicity may be regarded as demonstrating the soundness of the understanding that originated and then acted upon it as a firm first principle, especially when we take into account the exquisitely nice character of the conscience which it had to satisfy. it is absolutely necessary for the wellbeing of society, argued sir matthew, that justice be administered between man and man; and the necessity exists altogether independently of the great political events which affect the sources of power, by changing dynasties or revolutionizing governments. the claim of the supreme ruler _de facto_ may be a bad one; he may owe his power to some act of great political injustice--to an iniquitous war--to an indefensible revolution--to a foul conspiracy; but the flaw in his title cannot be regarded as weakening in the least the claim of the people under him to the administration of justice among them as the ordinance of god. the _right_ of the honest man to be protected by the magistrate from the thief--the right of the peaceable man to be protected by the magistrate from the assassin--is not a conditional right, dependent on the title of the ruler: it is as clear and certain during those periods so common in history, when the supreme power is illegitimately vested, as during the happier periods of undisputed legitimacy. and to be a minister of god for the administration of justice, if the office be attainable without sin, is as certainly right at all times as the just exercise of the magistrate's functions is right at all times. if it be right that society be protected by the magistrate, it is as unequivocally right in the magistrate to protect. but it is wrong to recognise as legitimate the supreme ruler of a country if his power be palpably usurped. english society, under cromwell, retains its right to have justice administered, wholly unaffected by the flaw in cromwell's title; but it would be wrong to recognise his title, contrary to one's conviction, as void of any flaw. in short, to use the simple language of burnet, sir matthew, 'after mature deliberation, came to be of opinion, that as it was absolutely necessary to have justice and property kept up at all times, it was no sin to take a commission from usurpers, if there was declaration made of acknowledging their authority.' cromwell had breadth enough to demand no such declaration from sir matthew, and so the latter took his place on the bench. nor is it necessary to say how he adorned it. in agreement with his political views, he declined taking any part in trials for offences against the state; but in cases of ordinary felonies, no one could act with more vigour and decision. during the trial of a republican soldier, who had waylaid and murdered a royalist, the colonel of the soldier came into court to arrest judgment, on the plea that his man had done only his duty, for that the person whom he had killed had been disobeying the protector's orders at the time; and to threaten the judge with the vengeance of the supreme authority, if he urged matters to an extremity against him. sir matthew listened coolly to his threats and his reasonings, and then, pronouncing sentence of death against the felon, agreeably to the finding of the jury, he ordered him out to instant execution, lest the course of justice should be interrupted by any interference on the part of government. on another occasion, in which he had to preside in a trial in which the protector was deeply concerned, he found that the jury had been returned, not by the sheriff or his lawful officer, but by order of the protector himself. he immediately dismissed them, and, refusing to go on with the trial, broke up the court. cromwell, says burnet, was highly displeased with him on this occasion, and on his return from the circuit in which it had occurred, told him in great anger that 'he was not fit to be a judge.' 'very true,' replied sir matthew, whose ideas of the requirements of the office were of the most exalted character,--'very true;' and so the matter dropped. 'it is absolutely necessary,' argued sir matthew, 'to have justice kept up at all times,' whatever flaws may exist in the title of the men in whom the supreme authority may chance to be vested. never yet was there a simpler proposition; but there is sublimity in its breadth. it involves the true doctrine of subjection to the magistrate, as enforced by st. paul. the new testament furnishes us with no disquisitions on political justice: it does not say whether the title of domitian to the supreme authority was a good title or no, or whether he should have been succeeded by caligula, and caligula by claudius, or no; or whether or no the fact that claudius was poisoned by the mother of nero, derived to nero any right to claudius's throne. we hear nothing of these matters. the magistracy described by st. paul is the magistracy conceived of by sir matthew hale 'as necessary to be kept up at all times.' an application of this simple principle to some of the more marked proceedings of our civil courts during the last two years will be found an admirable means of testing their degree of judicial wisdom. 'it is absolutely necessary to have justice kept up at all times,' and this not less necessary surely within than beyond the pale of the church. it is necessary that a minister of the gospel 'be blameless'--no drunkard, no swindler, no thief, no grossly obscene person; nor can any supposed flaw in the constitution of an ecclesiastical court disannul the necessity. a man may sit in that court in a judicial capacity whose competency to take his seat there may not have been determined by some civil court that challenges for itself an equivocal and disputed right to decide in the matter. there may exist some supposed, or even some real, flaw in that supreme ecclesiastical authority of the country, through the exertion of which the church is to be protected from the infection of vice and irreligion; but this flaw, real or supposed, furnishes no adequate cause why justice in the church 'should not be kept up.' 'justice,' said sir matthew, 'must be kept up at all times,' whatever the irregularities of title which may occur in the supreme authority. the great society of the church has a right to justice, whether it be decided that the ministers of _quoad sacra_ parishes have what has been termed a _legal_ right to sit in ecclesiastical courts or no. the devout and honest church member has a right to be protected from the blasphemous profanities of the wretched minister who is a thief or wretched swindler; the chaste and sober have a right to be protected from the ministrations of the drunken and the obscene wretch, whose preaching is but mockery, and his dispensations of the sacrament sacrilege. the church has a right to purge itself of such ministers; and these sacred rights no supposed, even no real, flaw in the constitution of its courts ought to be permitted to affect. 'justice may be kept up at all times.' we have said that the principle of sir matthew hale serves to throw a kind of historic light on the judicial talent of our country in the present age, as represented by the majority of our lords of session. it enables us, in some sort, to anticipate regarding it the decision of posterity. the list of cases of protection afforded by the civil court will of itself form a curious climax in the page of some future historian. swindling will come after drunkenness in the series, theft will follow after swindling, and the miserable catalogue will be summed up by an offence which we must not name. and it will be remarked that all these gross crimes were fenced round and protected in professed ministers of the gospel by the interference of the civil courts, just because a majority of the judges were men so defective in judicial genius that they lost sight of the very first principles of their profession, and held that 'justice is _not_ to be kept up at all times.' but we leave our readers to follow up the subject. some of the principles to which we have referred may serve to throw additional light on the remark of lord ivory, when recalling the interdict in the southend case. 'even were the objection against the competency of _quoad sacra_ ministers to be ultimately sustained,' said his lordship, 'i am disposed to hold that the judicial acts and sentences of the general assembly and its commission, _bona fide_ pronounced in the interim, should be given effect to notwithstanding.' an unspoken speech. we enjoyed the honour on wednesday last of being present as a guest at the annual soiree of the scottish young men's society, and derived much pleasure from the general appearance of the meeting, and the addresses of the members and their friends. the body of the great waterloo room was crowded on the occasion with a respectable, intellectual-looking audience, including from about a hundred and fifty to two hundred members of the society, all of them young men banded together for mutual improvement, and most of them in that important decade of life--by far the most important of the appointed seven--which intervenes between the fifteenth and the five-and-twentieth year. the platform was equally well filled, and the sheriff of edinburgh occupied the chair. we felt a particular interest in the objects of the society, and a deep sympathy with its members; for, as we listened to the various speakers, and our eyes glanced over the intelligent countenances that thronged the area of the apartment, we thought of past difficulties encountered in a cause similar to that which formed the uniting bond of the society, and of not a few wrecks which we had witnessed of men who had set out in life from the humbler levels, with the determination of pressing their way upwards. and feeling somewhat after the manner that an old sailor would feel who saw a crew of young ones setting out to thread their way through some dangerous strait, the perils of which he had already encountered, or to sail round some formidable cape, which, after many an unsuccessful attempt, he had doubled, we fancied ourselves in the position of one qualified to give them some little advice regarding the navigation of the seas on which they were just entering. but, be the fact of qualification as it may, we found ourselves, after leaving the room, addressing them, in imagination, in a few plain words, regarding some of the rocks, and shoals, and insidious currents, which we knew lay in their course. men whose words come slowly and painfully when among their fellows, can be quite fluent enough when they speak inwards without breaking silence, and have merely an imaginary assemblage for their audience; and so our short address went off glibly, without break or interruption, in the style of ordinary conversational gossip. there are curious precedents on record for the printing of unspoken speeches. rejecting, however, all the higher ones, we shall be quite content to take our precedent from the famous speech which the 'indigent philosopher' addresses, in one of goldsmith's _essays_, to mr. bellowsmender and the cateaton club. the philosopher begins, it will be remembered, by telling his imaginary audience, that though nathan ben funk, the rich jew, might feel a natural interest in the state of the stocks, it was nothing to them, who had no money; and concludes by quoting the 'famous author called lilly's grammar.' 'members of the scottish young men's society,' we said, 'it is rather late in life for the individual who now addresses you to attempt acquiring the art of the public speaker. those who have been most in the habit of noticing the effect of the several mechanical professions on character and intellect, divide them into two classes--the _sedentary_ and the _laborious_; and they remark, that while in the _sedentary_, such as the printing, weaving, tailoring, and shoemaking trades, there are usually a considerable proportion of fluent speakers, in the _laborious_ trades, on the other hand, such as those of the mason, ship-carpenter, ploughman, and blacksmith, one generally meets with but taciturn, slow-speaking men. we need scarce say in which of these schools we have been trained. you will at once see--to borrow from one of the best and most ancient of writers--that we are "not eloquent," but "a man of slow speech, and of a slow tongue." and yet we think we may venture addressing ourselves, in a few plain words, to an association of young men united for the purpose of mutual improvement. we ought and we do sympathize with you in your object; and we congratulate you on the facilities which your numbers, and your library, and your residence in one of the most intellectual cities in the world, cannot fail to afford you in its pursuit. we ourselves have known what it is to prosecute in solitude, with but few books, and encompassed by many difficulties, the search after knowledge; and we have seen year after year pass by, and the obstacles in our way remaining apparently as great as at first. and were we to sum up the condensed result of our experience in two brief words of advice, it would amount simply to this, "never despair." we are told of commodore anson--a man whose sense and courage ultimately triumphed over a series of perhaps the most appalling disasters man ever encountered, and who won for himself, by his magnanimity, sagacity, and cool resolution, the applauses of even his enemies, so that rousseau and voltaire eulogized him, the one in history, the other in romance,--we are told, we say, of this anson, that when raised to the british peerage, he was permitted to select his own motto, and that he chose an eminently characteristic one--"_nil desperandum_." by all means let it be your motto also--not as a thing to be paraded on some heraldic label, but to be engraved upon your hearts. we wish that, amid the elegancies of this hall, we could bring up before you some of the scenes of our past life. they would form a curious panorama, and might serve to teach that in no circumstances, however apparently desperate, should men lose hope. never forget that it is not necessary, in order to overcome gigantic difficulties, that one's strength should be gigantic. persevering exertion is much more than strength. we owe to shovels and wheelbarrows, and human muscles of the average size and vigour, the great railway which connects the capitals of the two kingdoms. and the difficulties which encompass the young man of humble circumstances and imperfect education, must be regarded as coming under the same category as difficulties of the purely physical kind. interrupted or insulated efforts, however vigorous, will be found to be but of little avail. it is to the element of continuity that you must trust. there is a world of sense in sir walter scott's favourite proverb, "_time_ and i, gentlemen, against any two." but though it be unnecessary, in order to secure success, that one's efforts in the contest with gigantic difficulties should be themselves gigantic, it is essentially necessary that they should employ one's whole strength. half efforts never accomplish anything. "no man ever did anything well," says johnson, "to which he did not apply the whole bent of his mind." and unless a man keep his head cool, and his faculties undissipated, he need not expect that his efforts can ever be other than half efforts, or other than of a desultory, fitful, non-productive kind. we do not stand here in the character of a modern rechabite. but this we must say: let no young man ever beguile himself with the hope that he is to make a figure in society, or rise in the world, unless, as the apostle expresses it, he be "temperate in all things." scotland has produced not a few distinguished men who were unfortunately _not_ temperate; but it is well known that of one of the greatest of them all--perhaps one of the most vigorous-minded men our country ever produced--the intemperate habits were not formed early. robert burns, up till his twenty-sixth year, when he had mastered all his powers, and produced some of his finest poems, was an eminently sober man. climbing requires not only a steady foot, but a strong head; and we question whether any one ever climbed the perilous steep, where, according to beattie, "fame's proud temple shines afar," who did not keep his head cool during the process. so far as our own experience goes, we can truly state, that though we have known not a few working men, possessed some of them of strong intellects, and some of them of fine taste, and even of genius, not one have we ever known who rose either to eminence or a competency under early formed habits of intemperance. these indeed are the difficulties that cannot be surmounted, and the only ones. rather more than thirty years ago, the drinking usages of the country were more numerous than they are now. in the mechanical profession in which we laboured they were many: when a foundation was laid, the workmen were treated to drink; they were treated to drink when the walls were levelled; they were treated to drink when the building was finished; they were treated to drink when an apprentice joined the squad; treated to drink when his apron was washed; treated to drink when his "time was out;" and occasionally they learned to treat one another to drink. at the first house upon which we were engaged as a slim apprentice boy, the workmen had a royal founding-pint, and two whole glasses of whisky came to our share. a full-grown man might not deem a gill of usquebhae an over-dose, but it was too much for a boy unaccustomed to strong drink; and when the party broke up, and we got home to our few books--few, but good, and which we had learned at even an earlier period to pore over with delight--we found, as we opened the page of a favourite author, the letters dancing before our eyes, and that we could no longer master his sense. the state was perhaps a not very favourable one for forming a resolution in, but we believe the effort served to sober us. we determined in that hour that never more would we sacrifice our capacity of intellectual enjoyment to a drinking usage; and during the fifteen years which we spent as an operative mason, we held, through god's help, by the determination. we are not sure whether, save for that determination, we would have had the honour of a place on this platform to-night. but there are other kinds of intoxication than that which it is the nature of strong drink or of drugs to produce. bacon speaks of a "natural drunkenness." and the hallucinations of this natural drunkenness must be avoided if you would prosper. let us specify one of these. never let yourselves be beguiled by the idea that fate has misplaced you in life, and that were you in some other sphere you would rise. it is true that some men _are_ greatly misplaced; but to brood over the idea is not the best way of getting the necessary exchange effected. it is not the way at all. often the best policy in the case is just to forget the misplacement. we remember once deeming ourselves misplaced, when, in a season of bad health and consequent despondency, we had to work among labourers in a quarry. but the feeling soon passed, and we set ourselves carefully to examine the quarry. cowper describes a prisoner of the bastile beguiling his weary hours by counting the nail-studs on the door of his cell, upwards, downwards, and across,-- "wearing out time in numbering to and fro, the studs that thick emboss his iron door; then downward and then upwards, then aslant and then alternate; with a sickly hope by dint of change to give his tasteless task some relish; till, the sum exactly found in all directions, he begins again." it was idle work; for to reckon up the door-studs never so often was not the way of opening up the door. but in carefully examining and recording for our own use the appearances of the stony bars of our prison, we were greatly more profitably employed. nay, we had stumbled on one of the best possible modes of escaping from our prison. we were in reality getting hold of its bolts and its stancheons, and converting them into tools in the work of breaking out. we remember once passing a whole season in one of the dreariest districts of the north-western highlands,--a district included in that unhappy tract of country, doomed, we fear, to poverty and suffering, which we find marked in the rain-map of europe with a double shade of blackness. we had hard work, and often soaking rain, during the day; and at night our damp fuel filled the turf hut in which we sheltered with suffocating smoke, and afforded no light by which to read. nor--even ere the year got into its wane, and when in the long evenings we _had_ light--had we any books to read by it, or a single literary or scientific friend with whom to exchange an idea. we remember at another time living in an agricultural district in the low country, in a hovel that was open along the ridge of the roof from gable to gable, so that as we lay a-bed we could tell the hours of the night by the stars that were passing overhead across the chasm. there were about half-a-dozen farm-servants, victims to the bothie system, that ate and slept in the same place; and often, long after midnight, a disreputable poacher used to come stealthily in, and fling himself down on a lair of straw that he had prepared for himself in a corner. now, both the highland hut and the lowland hovel, with their accompaniments of protracted and uncongenial labour, might be regarded as dreary prisons; and yet we found them to be in reality useful schools, very necessary to our education. and now, when we hear about the state of the highlands, and the character of our poor highlanders, and of the influence of the bothie system and of the game-laws, we feel that we know considerably more about such matters than if our experience had been of a more limited or more pleasant kind. there are few such prisons in which a young man of energy and a brave heart can be placed, in which he will not gain more by taking kindly to his work, and looking well about him, than by wasting himself in convulsive endeavours to escape. if he but learn to think of his prison as a school, there is good hope of his ultimately getting out of it. were a butcher's boy to ask us--you will not deem the illustration too low, for you will remember that henry kirke white was once a butcher's boy--were he to ask us how we thought he could best escape from his miserable employment, we would at once say, you have rare opportunities of observation; you may be a butcher's boy in body, but in mind you may become an adept in one of the profoundest of the sciences, that of comparative anatomy;--think of yourself as not in a prison, but in a school, and there is no fear but you will rise. there is another delusion of that "natural drunkenness" referred to, against which you must also be warned. never sacrifice your independence to a phantom. we have seen young men utterly ruin themselves through the vain belief that they were too good for their work. they were mostly lads of a literary turn, who had got a knack of versifying, and who, in the fond belief that they were poets and men of genius, and that poets and men of genius should be above the soil and drudgery of mechanical labour, gave up the profession by which they had lived, poorly mayhap, but independently, and got none other to set in its place. a mistake of this character is always a fatal one; and we trust all of you will ever remember, that though a man may think himself above his work, no man _is_, or no man ought to think himself, above the high dignity of being independent. in truth, he is but a sorry, weak fellow who measures himself by the conventional status of the labour by which he lives. our great poet formed a correcter estimate: "what though on hamely fare we dine, wear hodden grey, and a' that? gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, a man's a man for a' that." there is another advice which we would fain give you, though it may be regarded as of a somewhat equivocal kind: rely upon yourselves. the man who sets his hopes upon patronage, or the exertions of others in his behalf, is never so respectable a man, and, save in very occasional instances, rarely so _lucky_ a man, as he who bends his exertions to compel fortune in his behalf, by making himself worthy of her favours. some of the greatest wrecks we have seen in life have been those of waiters on patronage; and the greatest discontents which we have seen in corporations, churches, and states, have arisen from the exercise of patronage. shakespeare tells us, in his exquisite vein, of a virtue that is twice blessed,--blessed in those who give, and blessed in those who receive. patronage is twice cursed,--cursed in the incompetency which it places where merit ought to be, and in the incompetency which it creates among the class who make it their trust. but the curse which you have mainly to avoid is that which so often falls on those who waste their time and suffer their energies to evaporate in weakly and obsequiously waiting upon it. we therefore say, rely upon yourselves. but there is one other on whom you must rely; and implicit reliance on him, instead of inducing weakness, infinitely increases strength. bacon has well said, that a dog is brave and generous when he believes himself backed by his master, but timid and crouching, especially in a strange place, when he is alone and his master away. and a human master, says the philosopher, is as a god to the dog. it certainly does inspire a man with strength to believe that his great master is behind him, invigorating him in his struggles, and protecting him against every danger. we knew in early life a few smart infidels--smart but shallow; but not one of them ever found their way into notice; and though we have not yet lived out our half century, they have in that space all disappeared. there are various causes which conspire to write it down as fate, that the humble infidel should be unsuccessful in life. in the first place, infidelity is not a mark of good sense, but very much the reverse. we have been much struck by a passage which occurs in the autobiography of a great general of the early part of the last century. in relating the disasters and defeats experienced in a certain campaign by two subordinate general officers, chiefly through misconduct, and a lack of the necessary shrewdness, he adds, "i ever suspected the judgment of these men since i found that they professed themselves infidels." the sagacious general had inferred that their profession of infidelity augured a lack of sense; and that, when they got into command, the same lack of sense which led them to glory in their shame would be productive, as its necessary results, of misfortune and disaster. there is a shrewd lesson here to the class who doubt and cavil simply to show their parts. in the second place, infidelity, on the principle of bacon, is a weak, tottering thing, unbuttressed by that support which gives to poor human nature half its strength and all its dignity. but, above all, in the third and last place, the humble infidel, unballasted by right principle, sets out on the perilous voyage of life without chart or compass, and, drifting from off the safe course, gets among rocks and breakers, and there perishes. but we must not trespass on your time. with regard to the conduct of your studies, we simply say, strive to be catholic in your tastes. some of you will have a leaning to science; some to literature. to the one class we would say, your literature will be all the more solid if you can get a vein of true science to run through it; and to the other, your science will be all the more fascinating if you temper and garnish it with literature. in truth, almost all the greater subjects of man's contemplation belong to both fields. of subjects such as astronomy and geology, for instance, the poetry is as sublime as the science is profound. as a pretty general rule, you will perhaps find literature most engaging in youth, and science as you grow in years. but faculties for both have been given you by the great taskmaster, and it is your bounden duty that these be exercised aright. and so let us urge you, in conclusion, in the words of coleridge: "therefore to go and join head, heart, and hand, active and firm to fight the bloodless fight of science, freedom, and the truth in christ." disruption principles. one of the many dangers to which the members of a disestablished church just escaped from state control and the turmoil of an exciting struggle are liable, is the danger of getting just a little wild on minute semi-metaphysical points, and of either quarrelling regarding them with their neighbours, or of falling out among themselves. great controversies, involving broad principles, have in the history of the church not unfrequently broken into small controversies, involving narrow principles; just as in the history of the world mighty empires like that of alexander the great have broken up into petty provinces, headed by mere satraps and captains, when the master-mind that formed their uniting bond has been removed. independently of that stability which the legalized framework of a rightly-constituted establishment is almost sure to impart to its distinctive doctrines, the influence of its temporalities has in one special direction a sobering and wholesome effect. men carefully weigh principles for the assertion of which they may be called on to sacrifice or to suffer, and are usually little in danger, in such circumstances, of becoming martyrs to a mere crotchet. the first beginnings of notions that, if suffered to grow in the mind, may at length tyrannize over it, and lead even the moral sense captive, are often exceedingly minute. they start up in the form of, mayhap, solitary ideas, chance-derived from some unexpected association, or picked up in conversation or reading; the attention gradually concentrates upon them; auxiliary ideas, in consequence, spring up around them; they assume a logical form--connect themselves, on the one hand, with certain revealed injunctions of wide meaning--lay hold, on the other, on a previously developed devotional spirit or well-trained conscientiousness; and, in the end, if the minds in which they have arisen be influential ones, they alter the aspects and names of religious bodies, and place in a state of insulation and schism churches and congregations. their rise somewhat resembles that of the waves, as described by franklin in his paper on the effects of oil in inducing a calm, or in preserving one. 'the first-raised waves,' he says, 'are mere wrinkles; but being continually acted upon by the wind, they are, though the gale does not increase in strength, continually increased in magnitude, rising higher, and extending their bases so as to include in each wave vast masses, and to act with great momentum. the wind, however,' continues the philosopher, 'blowing over water covered with oil, cannot _catch_ upon it so as to raise the first or elementary wrinkles, but slides over it, and leaves it smooth as it finds it; and being thus prevented from producing these first elements of waves, it of course cannot produce the waves themselves.' in applying the illustration just a little further, we would remark, that within a wholesomely-constituted religious establishment, the influence of the temporalities acts in preventing the rise of new notions, like the smoothing oil. if it does not wholly prevent the formation of the first wrinkles of novel opinion, it at least prevents their heightening into wavelets or seas. if the billows rise within so as to disrupt the framework of the establishment, and make wreck of its temporalities, it may be fairly premised that they have risen not from any impulsion of the light winds of uncertain doctrine, but, as in the canton de vaud and the church of scotland, in obedience to the strong ground-swell of sterling principle. now we deem it a mighty advantage, and one which should not be wilfully neutralized by any after act of the body, that the distinctive principles of the free church bear the stamp and pressure of sacrifice. the temporalities resigned for their sake do not adequately measure their value; but they at least demonstrate that, in the estimate of those who resigned them, the principles did of a certainty possess value up to the amount resigned. the disruption forms a guarantee for the stamina of our church's peculiar tenets, and impresses upon them, in relation to the conscience of the church, the stamp of reality and genuineness. and that influence of the temporalities to which we refer, and under which the controversy grew, had yet another wholesome influence. it prevented the wrinklings of new, untried notions from gathering momentum, and rising into waves. the great billows, influential in producing so much, were the result of ancient, well-tested realities: they had rolled downwards, fully formed, as a portion of the great ground-swell of the reformation. the headship of the adorable redeemer--the spiritual independence of the church--the rights of the christian people: these were not crotchets based on foundations of bad metaphysics; they were vital, all-important principles, worthy of being maintained and asserted at any cost. it is indeed wonderful how entirely, immediately previous to the disruption, the church of scotland assumed all the lineaments of her former self, as she existed in the days of knox and his brethren. once more, after the lapse of many years, she stood on broad anti-patronage ground. once more, after having been swaddled up for an age in the narrow exclusiveness of the act of , that had placed her in a state of non-communion with the whole christian world, she occupied, through its repeal, the truly liberal position with regard to the other evangelistic churches of her early fathers. once more her discipline, awakened from its long slumber, had become efficient, as in her best days, for every purpose of purity. she had become, on the eve of her disestablishment, after many an intervening metamorphosis, exactly, in character and lineament, the church which had been established by the state nearly three centuries before. she went out as she had come in. there was a peculiar sobriety, too, in all her actings. her sufferings and sacrifices were direct consequents of the invasion of her province by the civil magistrate. but she did not on that account cease to recognise the magistrate in his own proper walk as the minister of god. her aggrieved members never once forgot that they were scotchmen and britons as certainly as presbyterians, and that they had a country as certainly as a church to which they owed service, and which it was unequivocally their duty to defend. they retreated from the establishment, and gave up all its advantages when the post had become so untenable that these could be no longer retained with honour--or we should perhaps rather say, retained compatibly with right principle; but they did not in wholesale desperation give up other posts which could still be conscientiously maintained. the educational establishment of the country, for instance, was not abandoned, though the ecclesiastical one was. the principal of the united college of saint salvador and saint leonard's signed the deed of demission in his capacity as an elder of the church, but in his capacity of principal he returned to his college, and in that post fought what was virtually the battle of his country, and fought it so bravely and well that he is principal of the college still. and the parish schoolmasters who adhered to the free church fought an exactly similar battle, though unfortunately with a less happy issue; but that issue gives at least prominence to the fact that they did not resign their charges, but were thrust from them. the other functionaries of the assembly, uninfluenced by any wild cameronian notion, held by their various secular offices, civil and military. soldiers retained their commissions--magistrates their seats on the bench--members of parliament their representative status. nor did a single member of the protesting church possessed of the franchise resign, in consequence of the disruption, a single political right or privilege. the entire transaction bore, we repeat, the stamp of perfect sobriety. it was in all its details the act of men in their right minds. now the principles held by the church at the disruption, and none other, whether voluntary or cameronian, are the principles of the free church. a powerful majority in a presbyterian body, or in a country possessed of a representative government, are vested in at least the _power_ of making whatever laws they will to make, for not only themselves, but for the minority also. but _power_ is not _right_; and we would at once question the _right_ of even a preponderating majority in a church such as ours to introduce new principles into her framework, and to impose them on the minority. we question, on this principle, the _right_ of that act of discipline which was exercised in the present century by a preponderating majority of the antiburgher body in scotland, when they deposed and excommunicated the late dr. m'crie for the ecclesiastical offence of holding in every particular by the original tenets of the fathers of the secession. the overt act in the case manifested their _power_, but the various attempts made to manifest their _right_ we regard as mere abortions. they had no _right_ to do what they did. the questions on which the majority differed from their fathers ought in justice, instead of being made a subject of legislation, to be left an open question. and we hold, on a similar principle, that whatever questions of conduct or polity may arise in the free church, which, though new to it, yet come to be adopted by a majority, should be left open questions also. of course, of novelties in doctrine we do not speak,--we trust that within the free church none such will ever arise; we refer rather to those semi-metaphysical points of casuistry, and nice questions of conduct, in which the differences that perplex non-established churches are most liable to originate,--matters in which one man sees after one way, and another man after another,--and which, until heaped up into importance, wave-like, as if by the wind, pertain not to the province of solid demonstrable truth, but to the province of loose fluctuating opinion. and be it remarked, that non-established churches are very apt to be disturbed by such questions. they are in circumstances in which the ripple passes into the wavelet, and the wavelet into the billow. on this head, as on all others, there is great value in the teachings of history; and the free church might be worse employed than in occasionally conning the lesson. each fifty years of the last century and half has been marked by its own special questions of the kind among the non-established churches of scotland. the question of the last fifty years has been that voluntary one which virtually led to the striking off the roll of the antiburgher secession church, those protesting ministers who formed the nucleus of the original secession, and to the excommunication and deposition of dr. m'crie. the question of the preceding fifty years was that connected with the burghal oath, which had the effect of splitting into two antagonist sections the religious body of which the burgher secession formed but one of the fragments,--a body fast rising at the time into a position of importance, which the split prevented it from ever fully realizing. the question of the fifty years with which the period began was that which fixed the cameronian body, not merely in a condition of unsocial seclusion in its relation with all other churches, but even detached it from its allegiance to the state, and placed it in circumstances of positive rebellion. perhaps the history of this latter body, as embodied in its older testimony, and the controversial writings of its fairlys and thorburns, is that from the study of which the free church might derive most profit at the present time. we live in so late an age of the world, that we have little chance of finding much which is positively new in the writings or speeches of our casuists. when we detect, in consequence, some of our ministers or office-bearers sporting principles that do not distinctively belong to the church of the disruption, we may be pretty sure, if we but search well, of discovering these principles existing as the distinctive tenets of some other church; and the present tendency of a most small but most respectable minority in our body is decidedly cameronian. the passages of scripture on which the cameronians chiefly dwelt in their testimony and controversial writings, were those discussed by the free presbytery of edinburgh on wednesday last. as condemnatory of what is designated the great national sin of the union, for instance, the testimony adduces, among other texts, isa. viii. , 'say ye not, a confederacy, to all them to whom this people shall say, a confederacy;' hos. vii. , , 'ephraim hath mixed himself among the people; ephraim is a cake not turned. strangers have devoured his strength, and he knoweth it not; yea, grey hairs are here and there upon him, and he knoweth it not;' and above all, cor. vi. , , 'be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers; for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness, and what communion hath light with darkness, and what concord hath christ with belial, or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?' and let the reader mark how logically these scriptures are applied. 'all associations and confederacies with the enemies of true religion and godliness,' says the testimony, 'are thus expressly condemned in scripture, and represented as dangerous to the true israel of god. and if simple confederacies with malignants and enemies to the cause of christ are condemned, much more is an incorporation with them, which is an embodying of two into one, and therefore a straiter conjunction. and, taking the definition of malignants given by the declarations of both kingdoms, joined in arms _anno_ , to be just, which says, "such as would not take the covenant were to be declared to be public enemies to religion and their country, and that they are to be censured and punished as professed adversaries and malignants," it cannot be refused but that the prelatic party in england now joined with are such. further, by this incorporating union this nation is obliged to support the _idolatrous_ church of england.' and thus the argument runs on irrefragable in its logic, if we but grant the premises. but to what, we ask, did it lead, assisted, of course, by other arguments of a similar character, in the body with whom it originated? to their withdrawal, from the times of the revolution till now, from every national movement in the cause of christ and his gospel; nay, most consistently, we must add--for we have ever failed to see the sense or logic of acting a public and political part in our own or our neighbour's behalf, and declining on principle to act it in behalf of christianity or its institutions--not only have they withdrawn themselves from all political exertion in behalf of religion, but in behalf of their country also. a cameronian holding firm by his principles of non-incorporation with _idolaters_, cannot be a magistrate nor a member of parliament; he cannot vote in an election, nor serve in the army. it is one of the grand evils of questions of casuistry of this kind, that men, instead of looking at things and estimating them as they really exist, are contented to play games at logic--chopping with but the imperfect signs of things--mere verbal counters, twisted from their original meanings by the influence of delusive metaphors and false associations. let us just see, in reference not to mere words, but to things, what can be truly meant by the terms 'apostate or apostatizing government,' as applied to the government of great britain. the words can have of course no just application, in a personal bearing, to present members of government, as distinguished from the members of previous governments, seeing that the functionaries now in office are just as much, or rather as little religious, as any other functionaries in office since the times of the revolution or before. in a _personal_ sense, england's last religious government was that of cromwell. the term apostate, or apostatizing, can have only an _official_ meaning. what, then, in its official meaning, does it in reality express? the government of the united kingdom is representative; and it is one of the great blessings which we enjoy as citizens that it is so,--one of those blessings for which we may now, as when we were younger, express ourselves thankful in the words of honest isaac watts, 'that we were born on british ground.' at any rate, this fact of representation _is_ a _fact_--a _thing_, not a mere _word_. there is another fact in the case equally solid and certain. this representation of the empire is based on a population of about twenty-six millions of people; twelve millions of whom are episcopalian, eight millions roman catholic, three millions presbyterian, and three millions more divided among the various other protestant sects of the country. and this also is a _fact_--a _thing_, not a mere _word_. in the good providence of god we were born the citizens of an empire thus representative in its government, and thus ecclesiastically constituted in its population. and it would be a further fact consequent on the other two, that the aggregate character of the government would represent the aggregate moral and ecclesiastical character of the people, were every distinct portion into which the people are parcelled to exert itself in proportion to its share of political influence. but from the yet further fact, that the portions have _not_ always exerted themselves in equal ratios, and from other causes, political and providential, the character of the government has considerably fluctuated--now representing one portion more in proportion to its amount than its mere bulk warranted, anon another. thus, in the days of the commonwealth, what are now the six million presbyterians and independents, etc., had a british government wholly representative of themselves; while what are now the twelve million episcopalians and the eight million papists had none. england at the time produced one of those men, of a type surpassingly great, that the world fails to see once in centuries; and, like brennus of old, he flung his sword into the lighter scale, and it straightway outweighed the other. there then ensued a period of twenty-eight years, in which government represented only the episcopalians and papists: and then a period of a hundred and forty years more, in which it represented only the episcopalians and presbyterians. and now--for popery, growing strong in the interval, had been using all appliances in its own behalf, and had not been met in the proper spiritual field--it represents episcopacy, roman catholicism, and a minute, uninfluential portion of the presbyterian and other evangelistic bodies. but how, it may be asked, has this result taken place? how is it only a moiety of these bodies that is represented? mainly, we unhesitatingly reply, through the influence exerted by certain crotchets entertained by the bodies themselves on their political standing. when government at the revolution, instead of being as formerly representative of episcopacy and popery, became representative of episcopacy and presbytery, cameronianism broke off, on the plea that the governing power ought to be representative of presbytery only, and that it was apostate because it was not; and the political influence of the body has been ever since lost to the protestant cause. voluntaryism, on the other hand, neutralized _its_ influence, by holding that, though quite at freedom to exert itself in the political walk in attaining secular objects, religious objects are in that walk unattainable, or at least not to be attained; and so _it_ also has been virtually lost to the protestant cause. and now a cloud like a man's hand arises in our own church, to threaten a further secession from the ranks of the remaining class, who strive to stamp upon the government, through the operation of the representative principle, at least a modicum of the evangelistic character. and all this is taking place in an age in which the battle for the integrity of the sabbath as a national institute, and other similar battles, shall soon have to be decided on political ground. if 'apostate' or 'apostatizing' be at all proper words in reference to the _things_ which we have here described, what, we ask, save the want either of weight or of exertion on the part of the _represented_ bodies who complain of it, can be properly regarded as the _cause_ of that apostasy? a representative government, if the represented be episcopalian, will itself be officially episcopalian; if the represented be papist, it will itself be officially papist; if the represented be presbyterian, it will itself be officially presbyterian; if composed of all three together, the government will bear an aggregate average character; but if, on some crotchet, the presbyterians withdraw from the political field, while the others exert themselves in that field to the utmost, it will be popish and episcopalian exclusively. but for a result so undesirable--a result which, if presbytery had been formerly in the ascendant, might of course be called official apostasy--it would be the presbyterian constituency that would be to blame, not the government. it will be seen that this view of the real state of _things_ was that of knox and chalmers, and that they acted in due accordance with it. we are told by the younger m'crie, in his admirable _sketches of scottish church history_, 'that knox and his brethren, perceiving that the whole ecclesiastical property of the kingdom bade fair to be soon swallowed up by the rapacity of the nobles, insisted that a considerable portion of it should be reserved for the support of the poor, the founding of universities and schools, and the maintenance of an efficient ministry throughout the country. at last,' continues the historian, 'after great difficulty, the privy council came to the determination that the ecclesiastical revenues should be divided into three parts,--that two of them should be given to the ejected prelates during their lives, which afterwards reverted to the nobility, and that the third part should be divided between the court and the protestant ministry.' 'well,' exclaimed knox on hearing of this arrangement, 'if the end of this order be happy, my judgment fails me. i see two parts freely given to the devil, and the third must be divided between god and the devil.' strong words these. here is a government, according to knox's own statement of the case, giving five-sixths to the devil, and but a remaining sixth to god. but does knox on that account refuse god's moiety? does he set himself to reason metaphysically regarding _his_ degree of responsibility for either what the devil got, or what the government gave the devil. not he. he received god's part, and in applying it wisely and honestly to god's service, wished it more; but as for the rest, like a man of broad strong sense as he assuredly was, he left the devil and the privy council to divide the responsibility between them. and the large-minded chalmers entertained exactly the same views,--views which, if not in thorough harmony with the idle fictions which dialecticians employ when they treat of governments, at least entirely accord with the real condition of things. the official character of a representative legislature must, as we have shown, resemble that of the constituency which it represents. in order to alter it permanently for the better, it is essentially necessary, as a first step in the process, that the worse parts of the constituencies on which it rests be so altered. now, for altering constituencies for the better, schools and churches were the machinery of knox and of chalmers; and if the funds for the support of either came honestly to them, unclogged with conditions unworthy of the object, they at once received them as given on god's behalf, however idolatrously the givers--whether individuals or governments--might be employing money drawn from the same purse in other directions. 'ought i,' said chalmers in reference to the educational question, 'ought i not to use, on teetotal principles, the water of the public pump, because another man mixes it with his toddy?' it was not because popery was established in the colonies, or seemed in danger of being established in ireland, that the free church resigned its hold of the temporalities of the scottish establishment. such endowment, instead of forming an argument for resignation, would form, on the contrary, an argument for keeping faster hold, in behalf of protestantism, of the fortalice of the establishment; just as if an invading army had possessed itself of the castle of dumbarton, with the strongholds of fort-augustus and fort-william, the argument would be all the stronger for the national forces defending with renewed determination the castles of stirling and of edinburgh, and the magnificent defences of fort-george. _february , ._ characteristics of the crimean war. the war now happily concluded was characterized by some very remarkable features. it was on the part of britain the war of a highly civilised country, in a pre-eminently mechanical, and, with all its faults, singularly humane age,--in an age, too, remarkable for the diffusion of its literature; and hence certain conspicuous traits which belonged to none of the other wars in which our country had been previously engaged. never before did such completely equipped fleets and armies quit our shores. the navies with which we covered the black sea and the baltic were not at all what they would have been had the war lasted for one other campaign, but they mightily exceeded anything of the kind that britain or the world had ever seen before. the fleets of copenhagen, trafalgar, and the nile would have cut but a sorry figure beside them, and there was more of the _materiel_ of war concentrated on that one siege of sebastopol than on any half-dozen other sieges recorded in british history. in all that mechanical art could accomplish, the late war with russia was by far the most considerable in which our country was ever engaged. it was, in respect of _materiel_, a war of the world's pre-eminently mechanical people in the world's pre-eminently mechanical age. with this strong leading feature, however, there mingled another, equally marked, in which the element was weakness, not strength. the men who beat all the world in heading pins are unable often to do anything else; for usually, in proportion as mechanical skill becomes intense, does it also become narrow; and the history of the two campaigns before sebastopol brought out very strikingly a certain helplessness on the part of the british army, part of which at least must be attributed to this cause. it is surely a remarkable fact, that in an army never more than seven miles removed from the base line of its operations, the distress suffered was so great, that nearly _five_ times the number of men sank under it that perished in battle. there was no want among them of pinheading and pinheaded martinets. the errors of officers such as lucan and cardigan are understood to be all on the side of severity; but in heading their pin, they wholly exhaust their art; and under their surveillance and direction a great army became a small one, with the sea covered by a british fleet only a few miles away. so far as the statistics of the british portion of this greatest of sieges have yet been ascertained, rather more than _three_ thousand men perished in battle by the shot or steel of the enemy, or afterwards of their wounds, and rather more than _fifteen_ thousand men of privation and disease. as for the poor soldiers themselves, they could do but little in even more favourable circumstances under the pinheading martinets; and yet at least such of them as were drawn from the more thoroughly artificial districts of the country must, we suspect, have fared all the worse in consequence of that subdivision of labour which has so mightily improved the mechanical standing of britain in the aggregate, and so restricted and lowered the general ability in individuals. we cannot help thinking that an army of backwoodsmen of the present day, or of scotch highlanders marked by the prevailing traits of the last century, would have fared better and suffered less. another remarkable feature of the war arose out of the singularly ready and wonderfully diffused literature of the day. like those self-registering machines that keep a strict account of their own workings, it seemed to be engaged, as it went on, in writing, stage after stage, its own history. the acting never got a single day ahead of the writing, and never a single week ahead of the publishing; and, in consequence, the whole civilised world became the interested witnesses of what was going on. the war became a great game at chess, with a critical public looking over the shoulders of the players. it was a peculiar feature, too, that the public _should_ have been so critical. as the literature of a people becomes old, it weakens in the power of originating, and strengthens in the power of criticising. reviews and critiques become the master efforts of a learned and ingenious people, whose literature has passed its full blow; and the criticism extends always, in countries in which the press is free from the productions of men who write in their closets, to the actings of men who conduct the political business of the country, or who direct its fleets and armies. and with regard to them also it may be safely affirmed, that the critical ability overshoots and excels the originating ability. there seems to have been no remarkably good generalship manifested by britain in the crimea: all the leading generalship appears, on the contrary, to have been very mediocre generalship indeed. the common men and subordinate officers did their duty nobly; and there have been such splendid examples of skilful generalship in fourth and fifth-rate commands--commands such as that of sir colin campbell and sir george brown--that it has been not unfrequently asked, whether we had in reality the 'right men in the right places,' and whether there might not, after all, have been generalship enough in the crimea had it been but rightly arranged. but the leading generalship was certainly _not_ brilliant. the criticism upon it, on the other hand, has been singularly so. the ages of marlborough and wellington did not produce a tithe of the brilliant military criticism which has appeared in england in newspapers, magazines, and reviews during the last two years. and yet it is possible that, had the very cleverest of these critics been appointed to the chief command, he would have got on as ill as any of his predecessors. in truth, the power of originating and the power of criticising are essentially different powers in the worlds both of thought and of action. talent accumulates the materials of criticism from the experience of the past; and thus, as the world gets older, the critical ability grows, and becomes at length formidably complete;--whereas the power of originating, or, what is the same thing, of acting wisely, and on the spur of the moment, in new and untried circumstances, is an incommunicable faculty, which genius, and genius only, can possess. and genius is as rare now as it ever was. any man of talent can be converted, by dint of study and painstaking, into a good military critic; but a wellington or a napoleon had as certainly to be born what they were, as a dante or a milton. but by far the most pleasing feature of the war--of at least the part taken in it by britain--is to be found in that humanity, the best evidence of a civilisation truly christian, which has characterized it in all its stages. generous regard for the safety and respect for the feelings of a brave enemy, when conquered, have marked our countrymen for centuries. but we owe it to the peculiar philanthropy of the time, that, in the midst of much official neglect, our own sick and wounded soldiers have been cared for after a fashion in which british soldiers were never cared for before. the 'lady nurses,' with miss nightingale at their head, imparted its most distinctive character to the war. we have now before us a deeply interesting volume,{ } the production of one of these devoted females, a native of the north country, or, as she was introduced by an old french officer to some zouaves, her fellow-passengers to the east, whom she had wished to see, a true '_montagnarde de ecossaise_.' the name of the authoress is not given; but it will, we daresay, be recognised in the neighbourhood of the 'capital of the highlands' as that of a delicately nurtured lady, the daughter of a late distinguished physician, well known to the north of the grampians as an able and upright man, who, had he not so sedulously devoted himself to the profession which he adorned, might have excelled in almost any department of science. and in strong sound sense and genial feeling, we find the daughter worthy of such a father. some of our more zealous protestants professed at one time not a little alarm lest the lady nurses might be papists in disguise; and certainly their 'regulation dresses,' all cut after one fashion, and of one sombre hue, did seem a little nun-like, and perhaps rather alarming. but the following passage--which, from the amusing mixture which it exhibits of strong good sense and half-indignant womanly feeling, our readers will, we are sure, relish--may serve to show that some of the ladies who wore the questionable dress, liked it quite as ill as the most zealous member of the reformation society could have done, and were very excellent protestants under its cover. the authoress of the volume before us is a presbyterian; and the occasion of the following remarks was the meeting of the british consul at marseilles, and the necessity that herself and her companions felt of getting head-dresses for themselves, that could be looked at ere entertaining him at dinner. 'perhaps it may be thought,' says our authoress, 'that all this solicitude about our caps was unsuitable in persons going out as what is called "sisters of mercy;" but i must once for all say that, as far as i was concerned, i neither professed to be a "sister of charity," a "sister of mercy," nor anything of the kind. i was, as i told a _poissarde_ of boulogne, a british woman who had little to do at home, and wished to help our poor soldiers, if i could, abroad. the reason given to me for the peculiarity and uniformity of our dress was, that the soldiers might know and respect their nurses. it seems a sensible reason, and one which i could not object to, even disliking, as i did, all peculiarity of attire that seemed to advertise the nurses only as serving god, or serving him pre-eminently, and thus conveying a tacit reproach to the rest of the world; for the obligation lies on all the same. i did not feel then, nor do i now, that we were doing anything better or more praiseworthy than is done in a quiet, unostentatious way at home every day. on the contrary, to many temperaments, my own among the number, it is far less difficult to engage in a new and exciting work like the one we were then entering on there, than to pursue the uneventful monotony of daily doing good at home. as for the dress itself, i have nothing to say against it. although not perhaps of the material or texture i should have preferred, still the colour, grey, was one i generally wore from choice. but i must confess, that when i found myself restricted to it, without what seemed a good reason, an intense desire for blue, green, red, and yellow, with all their combinations, took possession of me; though, now that i may wear what i please, i find my former favour for grey has returned in full force. however, allowing that it was desirable we should have had some uniform costume, it certainly was unnecessary that ladies, nurses, and washerwomen should have been dressed alike, as we were. that was part of the mistake i have already adverted to, and was productive of confusion and bad feeling.' despite of the uniform dresses, however, the sick and wounded soldiers soon learned to distinguish between the paid nurses and the ladies who had left their comfortable british homes to lavish upon them their gratuitous, priceless labours. * * * * * there is no assumption in this volume. its authoress writes as if she had done only her duty, and as if the task had not been an exceedingly hard or difficult one; but the simple facts related show how very much was accomplished and endured. every chapter justifies the judgment pronounced by the tall irish sergeant. this lady nurse is a 'real fine woman,'--a noble specimen of the class whose disinterested and self-sacrificing exertions gave to the late war its most distinctive and brilliant feature. the bravery of british men had been long established; the superadded trait is the heroism of british women. in what circumstances of peril and suffering that heroism was exerted, the following extract, with which we conclude, may serve to show. it is the funeral of one of the lady nurses, who sank under an attack of malignant fever, that the following striking passage records:-- 'the protestant burial-ground is a dismal-looking, neglected spot. it was chosen from an idea that drusilla's friends at home might prefer it to the open hill where the soldiers lay; but if there had been time for consideration and inspection, it would have been otherwise arranged: for the appearance of the place struck a chill to our hearts--it looked so dark and dreary, with the grass more than a foot high, and the weeds towering above it; and from its being close to the bay, and the porous nature of the soil, the grave which had been dug on the forenoon was almost filled by water; and on the words, "forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty god," we heard the coffin splash into the half-full grave. there was a general regret afterwards that this burial-ground had been chosen, but poor drusilla will not sleep the less soundly; and we all agreed, on leaving her grave, that whoever of us was next called to die, should be buried on the hill, in the spot allotted to the poor soldiers, open and unprotected as it was. death seemed very near to us then; we had already lost two orderlies, and many of the nurses were lying at the gates of death. miss a---- had made an almost miraculous escape, and was not yet out of danger from relapse. the first gap had been made in our immediate party, and who of us could tell whether she herself was not to be the next? 'the evening was fast closing as we returned, some in caiques, and others walking solemnly and sadly; for, besides the feelings naturally attending such a scene, we all regretted poor drusilla, who, although she had not been long among us, was so obliging and anxious to be of use. she was a good-looking young woman, and immediately on her arrival had become the object of attraction to one of the clerks, whose attentions, however, she most steadily declined. he still persisted in showing the most extraordinary attachment to her, and during her illness was in such a state of excitement and distress as to be utterly incapacitated for attending to his duties properly. he used to sit on the stairs leading to her room, in the hopes of seeing some one who could tell him how she was, and went perpetually to the passage outside her room, entreating of the misses le m----, who generally sat up with her, to let him in to see her. this they refused till the night of her death, when she was quite insensible, and past all hope of recovery; so that his visit could do her no harm. he stayed a few minutes, and looked his last on her; for in the morning at seven o'clock she died. i shall never forget his face when he came to my store-room, in accordance with his duty, to correct some inaccuracy in the diet-roll. he seemed utterly bewildered with sorrow; and miss s----, who had also occasion to speak to him, said she never saw grief so strongly marked in a human face. he insisted on following her remains to the grave as chief mourner, and wearied himself with carrying the coffin. no one interfered with him; for all seemed to think he had acquired the right, by his unmistakeable affection, to perform these sad offices; and the lady superintendent, moved by his sorrow, allowed him to retain a ring of some small value which the deceased had been accustomed to wear.' _june , ._ ----- { } _ismeer, or smyrna and its british hospital in ._ by a lady. london: james madder, , leadenhall street. the poets of the church. it is not uninteresting to mark the rise and progress of certain branches of poetry and the _belles lettres_ in their connection with sects and churches. they form tests by which at least the taste and literary standing of these bodies can be determined; and the degree of success with which they are cultivated within the same church, in different ages, throws at times very striking lights on its condition and history. one wholly unacquainted with the recorded annals of the church of scotland might safely infer, from its literature alone, that it fared much more hardly in the seventeenth century, during which the literature of england rose to its highest pitch of grandeur, than in the previous sixteenth, in which its knoxes, buchanans, and andrew melvilles flourished; and further, that its eighteenth century was, on the whole, a quiet and tranquil time, in which even mediocrity had leisure afforded it to develope itself in its full proportions. literature is not the proper business of churches; but it is a means, though not an end. and it will be found that all the better churches have been as literary as they could; and that, if at any time the literature has been defective, it has been rather their circumstances that were unpropitious, than themselves that were in fault. their enemies have delighted to represent the case differently. our readers must remember the famous instance in _old mortality_, so happily exposed by the elder m'crie, in which sir walter, when he makes his sergeant bothwell a writer of verses, introduces burley as peculiarly a verse-hater, and 'puts into his mouth that condemnation of elegant pursuits which he imputes to the whole party;' 'overlooking or suppressing the fact,' says the doctor, 'that there was at that very time in the camp of the covenanters a man who, besides his other accomplishments, was a poet superior to any on the opposite side.' it is equally a fact, however, and shows how thoroughly the mind of even a highly intellectual people may be prostrated by a long course of tyranny and persecution, that scotland had properly no literature after the extinction of its old classical school in the person of drummond of hawthornden, until the rise of thomson. the age in england of milton and of cowley, of otway, of waller, of butler, of dryden, and of denham, was in scotland an age without a poet vigorous enough to survive in his writings his own generation. for even the greater part of the popular version of its psalms, our church was indebted to the english lawyer rous. here and there we may find in it the remains of an earlier and more classical time: its version of the hundredth psalm, for instance, with its quaintly-turned but stately octo-syllabic stanzas, was written nearly a hundred years earlier than most of the others, by william keith, a scottish contemporary of beza and buchanan, and one of the translators of the geneva bible. but we find little else that is scotch in it; the church to which, in the previous age, the author of the most elegant version of the psalms ever given to the world had belonged, had now--notwithstanding the exertions of its zachary boyds--to import its poetry. in the following century, the church shared in the general literature of the time. she missed, and but barely missed, having one of its greatest poets to herself--the poet thomson--who at least carried on his studies so far with a view to her ministry, as to commence delivering his probationary discourses. we fear, however, he would have made but an indolent minister; and that, though his occasional sermons, judging from the hymn which concludes the _seasons_, might have been singularly fine ones, they would have been marvellously few, and very often repeated. the greatest poet that did actually arise within the church during the century was thomson's contemporary, robert blair,--a man who was not an idle minister, and who, unlike his cousin hugh, belonged to the evangelical side. the author of the _grave_ was one of the bosom friends of colonel gardiner, and a valued correspondent of doddridge and watts. curiously enough, though the great merit of his piece has been acknowledged by critics such as southey, it has been regarded as an imitation of the _night thoughts_ of young. 'blair's _grave_,' says southey in his _life of cowper_, 'is the only poem i can call to mind which has been composed in imitation of the _night thoughts_;' and though campbell himself steered clear of the error, we find it introduced in a note, as supplementary to the information regarding blair given in his _essay on english poetry_ by his editor, mr. cunningham. it is demonstrable, however, that the scotchman could not have been the imitator. as shown by a letter in the doddridge collection, which bears date more than a twelvemonth previous to that of the publication of even the first book of the _night thoughts_, blair, after stating that his poem, then in the hands of isaac watts, had been offered without success to two london publishers, states further, that the greater part of it had been written previous to the year , ere he had yet entered the ministry; whereas the first book of young's poem was not published until the year . poetry such as that of blair is never the result of imitation: its verbal happinesses are at least as great as those of the _night thoughts_ themselves, and its power and earnestness considerably greater. 'the eighteenth century,' says thomas campbell, 'has produced few specimens of blank verse of so powerful and simple a character as that of the _grave_. it is a popular poem, not merely because it is religious, but because its language and imagery are free, natural, and picturesque. the latest editor of the poets has, with singularly bad taste, noted some of the author's most nervous and expressive phrases as vulgarisms, among which he reckons that of friendship, the "solder of society." blair may be a homely, and even a gloomy poet, in the eye of fastidious criticism; but there is a masculine and pronounced character even in his gloom and homeliness, that keeps it most distinctly apart from either dulness or vulgarity. his style pleases us like the powerful expression of a countenance without regular beauty.' such is the judgment on blair--destined, in all appearance, to be a final one--of a writer who was at once the most catholic of critics and the most polished of poets. there succeeded to the author of the _grave_, a group of poets of the church, of whom the church has not been greatly in the habit of boasting. of home, by a curious chance the successor of blair in his parish, little need be said. he produced one good play and five enormously bad ones; and his connection with the church was very much an accident, and soon dissolved. blacklock, too, was as much a curiosity as a poet; and, save for his blindness, would scarce have been very celebrated in even his own day. nor was ogilvie, though more favourably regarded by johnson than most of his scottish contemporaries, other than a mediocre poet. he is the author, however, of a very respectable paraphrase--the sixty-second--of all his works the one that promises to live longest; and we find the productions of several other poets of the church similarly preserved, whose other writings have died. and yet the group of scottish _literati_ that produced our paraphrases, if looking simply to literary accomplishment--we do not demand genius--must be regarded as a very remarkable one, when we consider that the greater number of the individuals which composed it were all at one time the ministers of a single church, and that one of the smallest. we know of no church, either in britain or elsewhere, that could now command such a committee as that which sat, at the bidding of the general assembly, considerably more than sixty years ago, to prepare the 'translations and paraphrases.' of the sixty-eight pieces of which the collection is composed, thirty are the work of scottish ministers; and the groundwork of most of the others, furnished in large part by the previously existing writings of watts and doddridge, has been greatly improved, in at least the composition, by the emendations of morrison and logan. with all its faults, we know of no other collection equal to it as a whole. the meretricious stanzas of brady and tate are inanity itself in comparison. true, the later blair, though always sensible, was ofttimes quite heavy enough in the pieces given to him to render--more so than in his prose; though, even when first introduced to that, cowper could exclaim, not a little to the chagrin of those who regarded it as perfection of writing: 'oh, the sterility of that man's fancy! if, indeed, he has any such faculty belonging to him. dr. blair has such a brain as shakespeare somewhere describes, "dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage.'" but the fancy that blair wanted, poor logan had; and the man who too severely criticises his flowing and elegant paraphrases would do well to beware of the memories of his children. a poet whose pieces cannot be forgotten may laugh at the critics. altogether, our 'translations and paraphrases' are highly creditable to the literary taste and ability of the church during the latter half of the last century; and it serves to show how very much matters changed in this respect in about forty years, that while in the earlier period the men fitted for such work were all to be found within the pale of the church's ministry, at a later time, when the late principal baird set himself, with the sanction of the general assembly, to devise means for adding to the collection, and for revising our metrical version of the psalms, he had to look for assistance almost exclusively to poets outside the precincts of even its membership. and yet, even at this later time, the church had its true poets--poets who, though, according to wordsworth, they 'wanted the accomplishment of verse,' were of larger calibre and greater depth than their predecessors. chalmers had already produced his _astronomical discourses_, and poor edward irving had begun to electrify his london audiences with the richly antique imagination and fiery fervour of his singularly vigorous orations. stewart of cromarty, too, though but comparatively little known, was rising, in his quiet parish church, into flights of genuine though unmeasured poetry, of an altitude to which minor poets, in their nicely rounded stanzas, never attain. nor is the race yet extinct. jeffrey used to remark, that he found more true feeling in the prose of jeremy taylor than in the works of all the second-class british poets put together; and those who would now wish to acquaint themselves with the higher and more spirit-rousing poetry of our church, would have to seek it within earshot of the pulpits of bruce, of guthrie, and of james hamilton. still, however, it ever affords us pleasure to find it in the more conventional form of classic and harmonious verse. a church that possesses her poets gives at least earnest in the fact that she is not falling beneath the literature of her age; and much on this account, but more, we think, from their great intrinsic merit, have we been gratified by the perusal of a volume of poems which has just issued from the press under the name of one of our younger free church ministers, the rev. james d. burns. we are greatly mistaken if mr. burns be not a genuine poet, skilled, as becomes a scholar and a student of classic lore, in giving to his verse the true artistic form, but not the less born to inherit the 'vision and the faculty' which cannot be acquired. most men of great talent have their poetic age: it is very much restricted, however, to the first five years of full bodily development, also particularly then a sterner and more prosaic mood follows. but recollections of the time survive; and it is mainly through the medium of these recollections that in the colder periods the feelings and visions of the poets continue to be appreciated and felt. it was said of thomson the poet by samuel johnson, that he could not look at two candles burning other than poetically. the phrase was employed in conversation by _old_ johnson; but it must have been the experience of _young_ johnson, derived from a time long gone by, that suggested it. it is characteristic of the poetic age, that objects which in later life become commonplace in the mind, are then surrounded as if by a halo of poetic feeling. the candles were, no doubt, an extreme illustration; but there is scarce any object in nature, and there are very few in art, especially if etherealized by the adjuncts of antiquity or association, that are not capable of being thus, as it were, embathed in sentiment. with the true poet, the ability of investing every object with a poetic atmosphere remains undiminished throughout life; and we find it strikingly manifested in the volume before us. in almost every line in some of the pieces we find a distinct bit of picture steeped in poetic feeling. the following piece, peculiarly appropriate to the present time, we adduce as an illustration of our meaning:-- discovery of the north-west passage. 'strait of ill hope! thy frozen lips at last unclose, to teach our seamen how to sift a passage where blue icebergs clash and drift, and the shore loosely rattles in the blast. we hold the secret thou hast clench'd so fast for ages,--our best blood has earned the gift.-- blood spilt, or hoarded up in patient thrift, through sunless months in ceaseless peril passed. but what of daring franklin? who may know the pangs that wrung that heart so proud and brave, in secret wrestling with its deadly woe, and no kind voice to reach him o'er the wave? now he sleeps fast beneath his shroud of snow, and the cold pole-star only knows his grave. 'alone, on some sharp cliff, i see him strain, o'er the white waste, his keen, sagacious eye, or scan the signs of the snow-muffled sky, in hope of quick deliverance--but in vain; then, faring to his icy tent again, to cheer his mates with a familiar smile, and talk of home and kinsfolk to beguile slow hours which freeze the blood and numb the brain. long let our hero's memory be enshrined in all true british hearts! he calmly stood in danger's foremost rank, nor looked behind. he did his work, not with the fever'd blood of battle, but with hard-tried fortitude; in peril dauntless, and in death resigned. 'despond not, britain! should this sacred hold of freedom, still inviolate, be assailed, the high, unblenching spirit which prevailed in ancient days, is neither dead nor cold. men are still in thee of heroic mould-- men whom thy grand old sea-kings would have hailed as worthy peers, invulnerably mailed, because by duty's sternest law controlled. thou yet wilt rise and send abroad thy voice among the nations battling for the right, in the unrusted armour of thy youth; and the oppressed shall hear it and rejoice: for on thy side is the resistless might of freedom, justice, and eternal truth!' this is surely genuine poetry both in form and matter; as just in its thinking as it is vivid in its imagery and classic in its language. the vein of strong sense which runs through all the poetry of mr. burns, and imparts to it solidity and coherency, is, we think, not less admirable than the poetry itself, and is, we are sure, quite as little common. let the reader mark how freely the thoughts arise in the following very exquisite little piece, written in madeira, and suggested by the distant view of the neighbouring island of porto santo, one of the first colonized by the portuguese adventurers of the fifteenth century. columbus married a daughter of bartolomeo perestrillo, the first governor of the island, and after his marriage lived in it for some time with his father-in-law. and on this foundation mr. burns founds his poem:-- porto santo, as seen from the north of madeira. 'glance northward through the haze, and mark that shadowy island floating dark amidst the seas serene: it seems some fair enchanted isle, like that which saw miranda's smile when ariel sang unseen. 'oh happy, after all their fears, were those old lusian mariners who hailed that land the first, upon whose seared and aching eyes, with an enrapturing surprise, its bloom of verdure burst. 'their anchor in a creek, shell-paven, they dropped,--and hence "the holy haven" they named the welcome land: the breezes strained their masts no more, and all around the sunny shore was summer, laughing bland. 'they wandered on through green arcade where fruits were hanging in the shades, and blossoms clustering fair; strange gorgeous insects shimmered and from the brakes sweet minstrelsy entranced the woodland air. 'years passed, and to the island came a mariner of unknown name, and grave castilian speech: the spirit of a great emprise aroused him, and with flashing eyes he paced the pebbled beach. 'what time the sun was sinking slow, and twilight spread a rosy glow around its single star, his eye the western sea's expanse would search, creating by its glance some cloudy land afar. 'he saw it when translucent even shed mystic light o'er earth and heaven, dim shadowed on the deep; his fancy tinged each passing cloud with the fine phantom, and he bowed before it in his sleep. 'he hears grey-bearded sailors tell how the discoveries befell that glorify their time; "and forth i go, my friends," he cries, "to a severer enterprise than tasked your glorious prime. '"time was when these green isles that stud the expanse of this familiar flood, lived but in fancy fond. earth's limits--think you here they are? here has the almighty fixed his bar, forbidding glance beyond? '"each shell is murmuring on the shore, and wild sea-voices evermore are sounding in my ear: i long to meet the eastern gale, and with a free and stretching sail through virgin seas to steer. '"two galleys trim, some comrades stanch, and i with hopeful heart would launch upon this shoreless sea. till i have searched it through and through. and seen some far land looming blue, my heart will not play free." 'forth fared he through the deep to rove: for months with angry winds he strove, and passions fiercer still; until he found the long-sought land, and leaped upon the savage strand with an exulting thrill. 'the tide of life now eddies strong through that broad wilderness, where long the eagle fearless flew; where forests waved, fair cities rise, and science, art, and enterprise their restless aim pursue. 'there dwells a people, at whose birth the shout of freedom shook the earth, whose frame through all the lands has travelled, and before whose eyes, bright with their glorious destinies, a proud career expands. 'i see their life by passion wrought to intense endeavour, and my thought stoops backwards in its reach to him who, in that early time, resolved his enterprise sublime on porto santo's beach. 'methinks that solitary soul held in its ark this radiant roll of human hopes upfurled,-- that there in germ this vigorous life was sheathed, which now in earnest strife is working through the world. 'still on our way, with careworn face, abstracted eye, and sauntering pace, may pass one such as he, whose mind heaves with a secret force, that shall be felt along the course of far futurity. 'call him not fanatic or fool, thou stoic of the modern school; columbus-like, his aim points forward with a true presage, and nations of a later age may rise to bless his name.' there runs throughout mr. burns's volume a rich vein of scriptural imagery and allusion, and much oriental description--rather quiet, however, than gorgeous--that bears in its unexaggerated sobriety the impress of truth. from a weakness of chest and general delicate health, mr. burns has had to spend not a few of his winters abroad, under climatal influences of a more genial character than those of his own country; and hence the truthfulness of his descriptions of scenes which few of our native poets ever see, and a corresponding amount of variety in his verse. but we have exhausted our space, and have given only very meagre samples of this delightful volume, and a very inadequate judgment on its merits. but we refer our readers to the volume itself, as one well fitted to grow upon their regards; and meanwhile conclude with the following exquisite landscape,--no bad specimen of that ability of word-painting which is ever so certain a mark of the true poet:-- 'below me spread a wide and lonely beach, the ripple washing higher on the sands: a river that has come from far-off lands is coiled behind in many a shining reach; but now it widens, and its banks are bare-- it settles as it nears the moaning sea; an inward eddy checks the current free, and breathes a briny dampness through the air: beyond, the waves' low vapours through the skies were trailing, like a battle's broken rear; but smitten by pursuing winds, they rise, and the blue slopes of a far coast appear, with shadowy peaks on which the sunlight lies, uplifted in aërial distance clear. _november , ._ the encyclopÆdia britannica. after the labour of years, the seventh edition of the _encyclopædia britannica_ has been at length completed. it is in every respect a great work--great even as a commercial speculation. we have been assured the money expended on this edition alone would be more than sufficient to build three such monuments as that now in the course of erection in edinburgh to the memory of sir walter scott. and containing, as it does, all the more valuable matter of former editions--all that the advancing tide of knowledge has not obliterated or covered up, and which at one time must have represented in the commercial point of view a large amount of capital--it must be obvious that, great as the cost of the present edition has been, it bears merely some such relation to the accumulated cost of the whole, as that borne by the expense of partial renovations and repairs in a vast edifice to the sum originally expended on the entire erection. it is a great work, too, regarded as a trophy of the united science and literature of britain. like a lofty obelisk, raised to mark the spot where some important expedition terminated, it stands as it were to indicate the line at which the march of human knowledge has now arrived. we see it rising on the extreme verge of the boundary which separates the clear and the palpable from the indistinct and the obscure. the explored province of past research, with all its many party-coloured fields, stretches out from it in long perspective on the one hand,--luminous, well-defined, rejoicing in the light. the _terra incognita_ of future discovery lies enveloped in cloud on the other--an untried region of fogs and darkness. the history of this publication for the last seventy years--for so slow has been its growth, that rather more than seventy years have now elapsed since its first appearance in the world of letters--would serve curiously to illustrate the literary and scientific history of scotland during that period. the naturalist, by observing the rings of annual growth in a tree newly cut down, can not only tell what its exact bulk had been at certain determinate dates in the past--from its first existence as a tiny sapling of a single twelvemonth, till the axe had fallen on the huge circumference of perchance its hundredth ring--but he can also form from them a shrewd guess of the various characters of the seasons that have passed over it. is the ring of wide development?--it speaks of genial warmth and kindly showers. is it narrow and contracted?--it tells of scorching droughts or of biting cold. now the succeeding editions of this great work narrate a somewhat similar story, in a somewhat similar manner. they speak of the growth of science and the arts during the various succeeding periods in which they appeared. the great increase, too, at certain times, in particular departments of knowledge, is curiously connected with peculiar circumstances in the history of our country. in the present edition, for instance, almost all the geography is new. the age has been peculiarly an age of exploration--a locomotive age: commerce, curiosity, the spirit of adventure, the desire of escaping from the tedium of inactive life,--these, and other motives besides, have scattered travellers by hundreds, during the period of our long european peace, over almost every country of the world. and hence so mighty an increase of knowledge in this department, that what the last age knew of the subject has been altogether overgrown. vast additions, too, have been made to the province of mechanical contrivance: the constructive faculties of the country, stimulated apparently by the demands of commerce and the influence of competition both at home and abroad, have performed in well-nigh a single generation the work of centuries. even the _encyclopædia_ itself, regarded in a literary point of view, is strikingly illustrative of a change which has taken place chiefly within the present century in the republic of letters. we enjoyed a very ample opportunity of acquainting ourselves with it in its infancy. more years have passed away than we at present feel quite inclined to specify, since our attention was attracted at a very early age to an _encyclopædia_, the first we had ever seen, that formed one work of a dozen or so stored on the upper shelf of a press to which we were permitted access. it consisted of three quarto volumes sprinkled over with what seventy years ago must have been deemed very respectable copperplates, and remarkable, chiefly in the arrangement of its contents, for the inequality of the portions, if we may so speak, into which the knowledge it contained was broken up. as might be anticipated from its comparatively small size, most of the articles were exceedingly meagre. there were pages after pages in which some eight or ten lines, sometimes a single line, comprised all that the writers had deemed it necessary to communicate on the subjects on which they touched. and yet, set full in the middle of these brief sentences--these mere skeletons of information--there were complete and elaborate treatises,--whales among the minnows. some of these extended over ten, twenty, thirty, fifty pages of the work. we remember there was an old-fashioned but not ill-written treatise on _chemistry_ among the number, quite bulky enough of itself to fill a small volume. there was a sensibly written treatise on _law_, too; a treatise on _anatomy_ not quite unworthy of the edinburgh school; a treatise on _botany_, of which at this distance of time we remember little else than that it rejected the sexual system of linnæus, then newly promulgated; a treatise on _architecture_, sufficiently incorrect, as we afterwards found, in some of its minor details, but which we still remember with the kindly feeling of the pupil for his first master; a treatise on _fortification_, that at least taught us how to make model forts in sand; treatises on _arithmetic_, _astronomy_, _bookkeeping_, _grammar_, _language_, _theology_, _metaphysics_, and a great many other treatises besides. the least interesting portion of the work was the portion devoted to natural history: it named and numbered species and varieties, instead of describing instincts and habits, and afforded little else to the reader than lists of hard words, and lines of uninteresting numerals. but our appetite for books was keen and but ill supplied at the time, and so we read all of the work that would read,--some of it oftener than once. the character of the whole reminded us somewhat of that style of building common in some of the older ruins of the north country, in which we find layers of huge stones surrounded by strips and patches of a minute pinned work composed of splinters and fragments. this dictionary of the three quarto volumes was the first edition of the _encyclopædia britannica_,--the identical work in its first beginnings, of which the seventh edition has been so recently completed. it was published in --in the days of goldsmith, and burke, and johnson, and david hume--several years ere adam smith had given his _wealth of nations_ or robertson his _history of america_ to the public, and ere the names of burns or cowper had any place in british literature. the world has grown greatly in knowledge since that period, and the _encyclopædia britannica_ has done much more than kept pace with it in its merits of acquirement. the three volumes have swelled into twenty-one; and each of the twenty-one contains at least one-third more of matter than each of the three. the growth and proportions of a work of genius seem to be very little dependent on the period of its production. shakespeare may be regarded as the founder of the english drama. he wrote at a time when art was rude, and science comparatively low. all agree, at least, that the subjects of queen victoria know a very great deal which was not known by the subjects of queen elizabeth. there was no gas burned in front of the globe theatre, nor was the distant roar of a _locomotive_ ever heard within its dingy recesses; nor did ever adventurous aeronaut look down from his dizzy elevation of miles on its tub-like proportions, or its gay flag of motley. and yet we question whether even mr. wakley himself, with all his advantages, would venture to do more than assert his equality with the swan of avon. homer, too, wrote in a very remote period,--so very remote and so very uncertain, that the critics have begun seriously to doubt whether the huge figure of the blind old man, as it looms through the grey obscure of ages, be in reality the figure of one poet, or of a whole school of poets rolled up into a bundle. but though men fight much more scientifically now than they did at troy, and know much more about the taking and defending of walled towns, no poet of the present day greatly excels homer,--no, not the scotch schoolmaster even who wrote wolfe's ode, or the gentleman who sends us abstruse verses which we unluckily cannot understand, and then scolds us in perspicuous prose for not giving them a place in our columns. works of genius bear no reference in their bulk and proportions, if we may so speak, to the period at which they are produced; but it is far otherwise with works of science and general information: they grow with the world's growth; the tomes from which the father derived his acquaintance with facts and principles, prove all inadequate to satisfy the curiosity of the son: almost every season adds its ring to the 'tree of knowledge;' and the measuring line which girthed and registered its bulk in one age, fails to embrace it in the succeeding one. and hence one element at least in the superiority of this edition of the _encyclopædia britannica_ to every other edition, and every other encyclopædia. it appears at the period of the world's greatest experience. but there are other very important elements, characteristic, as we have said, of a peculiarity in the literature of the age, which have tended also to this result. we have remarked that the first edition appeared in the days of hume, robertson, and adam smith. none of these men wrote for it, however. in france the first intellects of the country were engaged on their national encyclopædia, and mighty was the mischief which they accomplished through its means; but works of this character in britain were left to authors of a lower standing. smollett once conducted a critical review; gilbert stuart an edinburgh magazine; dr. johnson drew up parliamentary debates for two years together; edmund burke toiled at the pages of an annual register; and goldsmith, early in his career, wrote letters for the newspapers. but, like the apothecary in shakespeare, it was their 'poverty, not their will, that consented;' and when their fortunes brightened, these walks of obscure laboriousness were left to what were deemed their legitimate denizens--mere mediocritists and compilers. a similar feeling seems to have obtained regarding works of an encyclopædiacal character. the authors of the first edition of the _encyclopædia britannica_ were merely respectable compilers,--we know not that any of their names would now sound familiar to the reader, with perhaps the exception of that of smellie, an edinburgh writer of the last century, whose philosophical essays one sometimes meets with on our bookstalls. but among the other great changes produced by the french revolution, there was a striking and very important change effected in our periodical literature. the old foundations of society seemed breaking up, and the true nature of that basis of opinion on which they had so long rested came to be everywhere practically understood. minds of the larger order found it necessary to address themselves direct to the people; and the newspaper, the review, the magazine, the pamphlet, furnished them with ready vehicles of conveyance. archimedes, during the siege of syracuse, had to quit the sober quiet of his study, and to mix with the armed defenders of his native city, amid the wild confusion of sallies and assaults, the rocking of beleaguered towers, the creaking of engines, and the hurtling of missiles. it was thus with some of the greatest minds of the country during the distraction and alarm of the french revolution. coleridge conducted a newspaper; sir james mackintosh wrote for one; canning contributed to the _anti-jacobin_; robert hall of leicester became a reviewer; southey, jeffrey, brougham, scott, giffard, all men in the first rank, appeared in the character of contributors to the periodicals. the aspect of this department of literature suddenly changed, and the influence of that change survives to this day. even now, some of our first literary names are known chiefly in their connection with magazines and reviews. men such as macaulay and sidney smith have scarce any place as authors dissociated from the _edinburgh_; and lockhart and wilson are most felt in the world of letters in their connection with _blackwood_ and the _quarterly_. and this change affected more than the periodicals. its influence extended to works of the encyclopædiacal character. the two great encyclopædias of edinburgh--that which bears the name of the city, and that whose name we have placed at the head of this article--came to reckon among their contributors the first men of the kingdom, both in science and literature: they benefited as greatly by the change we describe as the periodicals themselves. the revolution, in its reflex influence, seems to have drawn a line in the british encyclopædiacal field between the labours of mere compilers and the achievements of original authorship; and the peculiarity of plan in the _encyclopædia britannica_, to which we have already referred--that peculiarity which gives an art or science entire as a treatise, instead of breaking it down into as many separate articles as it possesses technical terms--enabled this work to avail itself to the fullest extent of the improvement. no author, however great his powers, can be profound in the compass of a few paragraphs. goldsmith could assert that in an essay of a page or two it is even a merit to be superficial; and few there are who possess, with goldsmith, the pure literary ability of being superficial with good effect. but it is not enough to say of this work that it is enriched by contributions from not a few of the ablest writers which the present century has produced. it should be added, further, that it contains some of the masterpieces of these men. no one ever excelled sir james mackintosh in philosophical criticism. it was peculiarly his _forte_. he was rather a great judge of metaphysical power than a metaphysician. and yet it is this admirable critic who decides that the exquisitely classical dissertation of dugald stewart, written for this _encyclopædia_, is the most magnificent of that philosopher's works; and remarks, in accounting for the fact, that the 'memorable instances of cicero and milton, and still more those of dryden and burke, seem to show that there is some natural tendency in the fire of genius to burn more brightly, or to blaze more fiercely, in the evening than in the morning of human life.' we are mistaken if sir james's own contribution to this work does not take decidedly a first place among his productions. the present age has not produced a piece of more exquisitely polished english, or of more tasteful or more nicely discriminating criticism. there is an occult beauty and elegance in some of his thoughts and expressions, on which it is no small luxury to repose,--lines of reflection, too, along which one must feel as well as think one's way. what can be finer, for instance, than his remarks on the poetry of dr. thomas brown, or what more thoroughly removed from commonplace? he tells us how the philosophic poet 'observed man and his wider world with the eye of a metaphysician;' that 'the dark results of such contemplations, when he reviewed them, often filled his soul with feelings which, being both grand and melancholy, were truly poetical;' that 'unfortunately, however, few readers can be touched with fellow-feeling;' for that 'he sings to few, and must be _content with sometimes moving a string in the soul of the lonely visionary, who, in the daydreams of youth, has felt as well as meditated on the mysteries of nature_.' the dissertation of playfair is also pitched on the highest key to which that elegant writer ever attained. if we except the unjust and offensive estimate of the powers of franklin, a similar judgment may be passed on the preliminary dissertation of sir john leslie. jeffrey's famous theory of beauty is, of all the philosophic pieces of that accomplished writer, by far the most widely known; and sir walter scott's essay on the drama is at least equal to any of the serious prose compositions of its great author. there is something peculiarly fascinating in the natural history of this edition,--a department wholly rewritten, and furnished chiefly by the singularly pleasing pen of mr. james wilson. it is not yet twenty years since constable's supplement to the last edition appeared; and yet in this province, so mightily has the tide risen, that well-nigh all the old lines of classification have been obliterated or covered up. vast additions have been also made. at no former time was there half the amount of actual observation in this field which exists in it now; and it is well that there should be so skilful a workman as mr. wilson to avail himself of the accumulating materials. his treatises show how very just is the estimate of his powers given to the public in _peter's letters_ considerably more than twenty years ago, at a time when he was comparatively little known. but we cannot enumerate a tithe of the masterpieces of the british encyclopædia. judging from the list of contributors' names attached to the index, we must hold that moderatism in the field of literature and science is very much at a discount. but there is no lack of data of very various kinds to force upon us _this_ conclusion. among our sound non-intrusionists we find the names of lord jeffrey, sir david brewster, professor john fleming, professor david welsh, professor anderson, dr. irvine, the rev. mr. hetherington, the rev. mr. omond, mr. alexander dunlop, and mr. cowan; whereas of all the opposite party who record their votes in our church courts, we have succeeded in finding the name of but a single individual, dr. john lee. why has dr. bryce thus left the field to the fanatics? had he nothing to insert on missions? or could not mr. robertson of ellon have been great on the article beza? was there no exertion demanded of them to save the credit of the earl of aberdeen's learned clergy? one of the main defects of omission in the work (of course we merely mention the circumstance) is the omission of the name of one very great non-intrusionist. ethical and metaphysical philosophy are represented by dugald stewart and sir james mackintosh; mathematical and physical science by sir david brewster, sir john leslie, playfair, and robinson; political economy by ricardo, m'culloch, and malthus; natural history by james wilson and dr. fleming; hazlitt and haydon discourse on painting and the fine arts; jeffrey on the beautiful; sir walter scott on chivalry, the drama, and romance; the classical pen of dr. irvine has illustrated what may be termed the biographical history of scotland; physiology finds a meet expounder in dr. roget; geology in mr. phillips; medical jurisprudence in dr. traill. but in whom does theology find an illustrator? does our country boast in the present age of no very eminent name in this noble department of knowledge--no name known all over scotland, britain, europe, christendom--a name whom we may associate with that of dugald stewart in ethical, or that of sir david brewster in physical science? in utter ignorance of the facts, we can, as we have said, but merely refer to the omission as one which will be assuredly marked in the future, when the din and dust of our existing controversies shall be laid, and when all now engaged in them who are tall enough to catch the eye of posterity, will be seen in their genuine colours and their true proportions. the article theology in the _encyclopædia britannica_ is written, not by dr. chalmers, but new-modelled from an old article by the minister of an independent congregation in edinburgh, mr. lindsay alexander--we doubt not an able and good man, but not supereminently the _one_ theologian of scotland. we mark, besides, a few faults, of _commission_ in the work, apparently of a sub-editorial character, but which, unlike the defect just pointed out, the editor of some future edition will find little difficulty in amending. works the production of a single mind, bear generally an individual character; works the productions of many minds, are marked rather by the character of the age to which they belong. we find occasional evidence in the _encyclopædia_ that it belongs to the age of catholic emancipation,--an age in which the _true_ in science was deemed a very great matter by men to whom the _true_ in religion seemed a much less one. one at least of the minds employed on the minor articles of the work had palpably a papistical leaning. a blaze of eulogium, which contrasts ludicrously enough with the well-toned sobriety of what we may term its staple style, is made to surround, like the halo in old paintings, some of the men who were happy enough to be distinguished assertors of the romish church. we would instance, as a specimen, the biographical sketches of bossuet and the jesuit bourdaloue, written by the late dr. james browne. these, however, are but comparatively minute flaws in a work so truly great, and of such immense multiplicity. they are some of the imperfections of a work to which imperfection is inevitable, and which, after all such deductions have been made, must be recognised as by much the least faulty and most complete of its class which the world has yet seen. _april , ._ a vision of the railroad. [_private._] ----, isle of skye. .... i know not when this may reach you. we are much shut out from the world at this dead season of the year, especially in those wilder solitudes of the island that extend their long slopes of moor to the west. the vast atlantic spreads out before us, blackened by tempest, a solitary waste, unenlivened by a single sail, and fenced off from the land by an impassable line of breakers. even from the elevation where i now write--for my little cottage stands high on the hill-side--i can hear the measured boom of the waves, swelling like the roar of distant artillery, above the melancholy moanings of the wind among the nearer crags, and the hoarser dash of the stream in the hollow below. we are in a state of siege: the isle is beleaguered on its rugged line of western coast, and all communication within that quarter cut off; while in the opposite direction the broken and precarious footways that wind across the hills to our more accessible eastern shores, are still drifted over in the deeper hollows of the snow of the last great storm. it was only yester-evening that my cousin eachen, with whom i share your newspaper, succeeded in bringing me the number published early in the present month, in which you furnish your readers with a report of the great railway meeting at glasgow. my cousin and i live on opposite sides of the island. we met at our tryst among the hills, not half an hour, before sunset; and as each had far to walk back, and as a storm seemed brewing--for the wind had suddenly lowered, and the thick mists came creeping down the hill-sides, all dank and chill, and laden with frost-rime, that settled crisp and white on our hair--we deemed it scarce prudent to indulge in our usual long conversation together. 'you will find,' said eachen, as he handed me the paper, 'that things are looking no better. the old tories are going on in the old way, bitterer against the gospel than ever. they will not leave us in all skye a minister that has ever been the means of converting a soul; and what looks as ill, our great scotch railway, that broke the sabbath last year, in the vain hope of making money by it, is to break it this year at a dead loss. and this for no other purpose that people can see, than just that an edinburgh writer may advertise his business by making smart speeches about it. depend on't, allister, the country's _fey_.' 'the old way of advertising,' said i, 'before it became necessary that an elder should have at least some show of religion about him, was to get into the general assembly, and make speeches there. if the crisis comes, we shall see the practice in full blow again. we shall see our anti-sabbatarian gentlemen transmuted into voluble moderate elders, talking hard for clients without subjecting themselves to the advertisement duty,--and the railway mayhap keeping its sabbaths.' 'keeping its sabbaths,' replied eachen; 'ay, but the shareholders, perhaps, have little choice in the matter. i wish you heard our catechist on that. depend on't, allister, the country's _fey_.' 'keeping its sabbaths? yes,' said i, catching at his meaning, 'if we are to be visited by a permanent commercial depression--and there are many things less likely at the present time--the railway _may_ keep its sabbaths, and keep them as the land of judea did of old. it would be all too easy, in a period of general distress, to touch that line of necessarily high expenditure below which it would be ruin for the returns of the undertaking to fall. let but the invariably great outlay continue to exceed the income for any considerable time, and the railway _must_ keep its sabbaths.' 'just the catechist's idea,' rejoined my cousin. 'he spoke on the subject at our last meeting. "eachen," he said, "eachen, the thing lies so much in the ordinary course of providence, that our blinded sabbath-breakers, were it to happen, would recognise only disaster in it, not judgment. i see at times, with a distinctness that my father would have called the second sight, that long weary line of rail, with its sabbath travellers of pleasure and business speeding over it, and a crowd of wretched witnesses raised, all unwittingly and unwillingly on their own parts, to testify against it, and of coming judgment, at both its ends. i see that the walks of the one great city into which it opens are blackened by shoals of unemployed artisans; and that the lanes and alleys of the other number by thousands and tens of thousands their pale and hunger-bitten operatives, that cry for work and food. they testify all too surely that judgment needs no miracle here. let but the evil continue to grow--nay, let but one of our scottish capitals, our great mart of commerce and trade sink into the circumstances of its manufacturing neighbour paisley--and the railway _must_ keep its sabbaths. but alas! there would be no triumph for party in the case. great, ere the evil could befall, would the sufferings of the country be, and they would be sufferings that would extend to all." what think you, allister, of the catechist's note?' 'almost worth throwing into english,' i said. 'but the fog still thickens, and it will be dark night ere we reach home.' and so we parted. dark night it was, and the storm had burst out. but it was pleasant, when i had reached my little cottage, to pile high the fire on the hearth, and to hear the blast roaring outside, and shaking the window-boards, as if some rude hand were striving to unfasten them. i lighted my little heap of moss fir on the projecting stone that serves the poor highlander for at once lamp and candlestick, and bent me over your fourth page, to scan the sabbath returns of a scottish railroad. but my rugged journey and the beating of the storm had induced a degree of lassitude; the wind outside, too, had forced back the smoke, until it had filled with a drowsy, umbery atmosphere, the whole of my dingy little apartment: mr. m'neill seemed considerably less smart than usual, and more than ordinarily offensive, and in the middle of his speech i fell fast asleep. the scene changed, and i found myself still engaged in my late journey, coming down over the hill, just as the sun was setting red and lightless through the haze behind the dark atlantic. the dreary prospect on which i had looked so shortly before was restored in all its features: there was the blank, leaden-coloured sea, that seemed to mix all around with the blank, leaden-coloured sky; the moors spread out around me, brown and barren, and studded with rock and stone; the fogs, as they crept downwards, were lowering the overtopping screen of hills behind to one dead level. through the landscape, otherwise so dingy and sombre, there ran one long line of somewhat brighter hue: it was a long line of breakers tumbling against the coast far as the eye could reach, and that seemed interposed as a sort of selvage between the blank, leaden sea, and the deep, melancholy russet of the land. through one of those changes so common in dreams, the continuous line of surf seemed, as i looked, to alter its character. it winded no longer round headland and bay, but stretched out through the centre of the landscape, straight as an extended cord, and the bright white saddened down to the fainter hue of decaying vegetation. the entire landscape underwent a change. under the gloomy sky of a stormy evening, i could mark on the one hand the dark blue of the pentlands, and on the other the lower slopes of corstorphine. arthur's seat rose dim in the distance behind; and in front, the pastoral valley of wester lothian stretched away mile beyond mile, with its long rectilinear mound running through the midst,--from where i stood beside one of the massier viaducts that rose an hundred feet overhead, till where the huge bulk seemed diminished to a slender thread on the far edge of the horizon. it seemed as if years had passed--many years. i had an indistinct recollection of scenes of terror and of suffering, of the shouts of maddened multitudes engaged in frightful warfare, of the cries of famishing women and children, of streets and lanes flooded with blood, of raging flames enwrapping whole villages in terrible ruin, of the flashing of arms and the roaring of artillery; but all was dimness and confusion. the recollection was that of a dream remembered in a dream. the solemn text was in my mind, 'voices, and thunders, and lightnings, and a great earthquake, such as was not since men were upon the earth, so mighty an earthquake and so great;' and i now felt as if the convulsion was over, and that its ruins lay scattered around me. the railway, i said, is keeping its sabbaths. all around was solitary, as in the wastes of skye. the long rectilinear mound seemed shaggy with gorse and thorn, that rose against the sides, and intertwisted their prickly branches atop. the sloe-thorn, and the furze, and the bramble choked up the rails. the fox rustled in the brake; and where his track had opened up a way through the fern, i could see the red and corroded bars stretching idly across. there was a viaduct beside me: the flawed and shattered masonry had exchanged its raw hues for a crust of lichens; one of the taller piers, undermined by the stream, had drawn two of the arches along with it, and lay adown the water-course a shapeless mass of ruin, o'ermasted by flags and rushes. a huge ivy, that had taken root under a neighbouring pier, threw up its long pendulous shoots over the summit. i ascended to the top. half-buried in furze and sloe-thorn, there rested on the rails what had once been a train of carriages; the engine ahead lay scattered in fragments, the effect of some disastrous explosion, and damp, and mould, and rottenness had done their work on the vehicles behind. some had already fallen to pieces, so that their places could be no longer traced in the thicket that had grown up around them; others stood comparatively entire, but their bleached and shrivelled panels rattled to the wind, and the mushroom and the fungus sprouted from between their joints. the scene bore all too palpably the marks of violence and bloodshed. there was an open space in front, where the shattered fragments of the engine lay scattered; and here the rails had been torn up by violence, and there stretched across, breast-high, a rudely piled rampart of stone. a human skeleton lay atop, whitened by the winds; there was a broken pike beside it; and, stuck fast in the naked skull, which had rolled to the bottom of the rampart, the rusty fragment of a sword. the space behind resembled the floor of a charnel-house--bindwood and ground-ivy lay matted over heaps of bones; and on the top of the hugest heap of all, a skull seemed as if grinning at the sky from amid the tattered fragments of a cap of liberty. bones lay thick around the shattered vehicles; a trail of skeletons dotted the descending bank, and stretched far into a neighbouring field; and from amid the green rankness that shot up around them, i could see soiled and tattered patches of the british scarlet. a little farther on there was another wide gap in the rails. i marked beside the ruins of a neighbouring hovel a huge pile of rusty bars, and there lay inside the fragment of an uncouth cannon marred in the casting. i wandered on in unhappiness, oppressed by that feeling of terror and disconsolateness so peculiar to one's more frightful dreams. the country seemed everywhere a desert. the fields were roughened with tufts of furze and broom; hedgerows had shot up into lines of stunted trees, with wide gaps interposed; cottage and manor-house had alike sunk into ruins; here the windows still retained their shattered frames, and the roof-tree lay rotting amid the dank vegetation of the floor; yonder the blackness of fire had left its mark, and there remained but reddened and mouldering stone. wild animals and doleful creatures had everywhere increased. the toad puffed out his freckled sides on hearths whose fires had been long extinguished, the fox rustled among its bushes, the masterless dog howled from the thicket, the hawk screamed shrill and sharp as it fluttered overhead. i passed what had been once the policies of a titled proprietor. the trees lay rotting and blackened among the damp grass--all except one huge giant of the forest, that, girdled by the axe half a man's height from the ground, and scorched by fire, stretched out its long dead arms towards the sky. in the midst of this wilderness of desolation lay broken masses, widely scattered, of what had been once the mansion-house. a shapeless hollow, half filled with stagnant water, occupied its immediate site; and the earth was all around torn up, as if battered with cannon. the building had too obviously owed its destruction to the irresistible force of gunpowder. there was a parish church on the neighbouring eminence, and it, too, was roofless and a ruin. alas! i exclaimed, as i drew aside the rank stalks of nightshade and hemlock that hedged up the breach in the wall through which i passed into the interior--alas! have the churches of scotland also perished? the inscription of a mutilated tombstone that lay outside caught my eye, and i paused for a moment's space in the gap to peruse it. it was an old memorial of the times of the covenant, and the legend was more than half defaced. i succeeded in deciphering merely a few half sentences--'killing-time,' 'faithful martyr,' 'bloody prelates;' and beneath there was a fragmentary portion of the solemn text, 'how long, o lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood?' i stepped into the interior: the scattered remains of an altar rested against the eastern gable. there was a crackling as of broken glass under my feet, and stooping down i picked up a richly-stained fragment: it bore a portion of that much-revered sign, the pelican giving her young to eat of her own flesh and blood--the sign which puseyism and popery equally agree in regarding as adequately expressive of their doctrine of the real presence, and which our scottish episcopalians have so recently adopted as the characteristic vignette of their service-book. the toad and the newt had crept over it, and it had borrowed a new tint of brilliancy from the slime of the snail. destruction had run riot along the walls of this parish church. there were carvings chipped and mutilated, as if in sport, less apparently with the intention of defacing, than rendering them contemptible and grotesque. a huge cross of stone had been reared over the altar, and both the top and one of the arms had been struck away, and from the surviving arm there dangled a noose. the cross had been transformed into a gibbet. nor were there darker indications wanting. in a recess set apart as a cabinet for relics, there were human bones all too fresh to belong to a remote antiquity; and in a niche under the gibbet lay the tattered remains of a surplice dabbled in blood. i stood amid the ruins, and felt a sense of fear and horror creeping over me: the air darkened under the scowl of the coming tempest and the closing night, and the wind shrieked more mournfully amid the shattered and dismantled walls. there came another change over my dream. i found myself wandering in darkness, i knew not whither, among bushes and broken ground; there was the roar of a large stream in my ear, and the savage howl of the storm. i retain a confused, imperfect recollection of a light streaming upon broken water--of a hard struggle in a deep ford--and of at length sharing in the repose and safety of a cottage, solitary and humble almost as my own. the vision again strengthened, and i found myself seated beside a fire, and engaged with a few grave and serious men in singing the evening psalm, with which they closed for the time their services of social devotion. 'the period of trial wears fast away,' said one of the number, when all was over--a grey-haired, patriarchal-looking old man--'the period of trial is well-nigh over, the storms of our long winter are past, and we have survived them all. patience! a little more patience, and we shall see the glorious spring-time of the world begin! the vial is at length exhausted.' 'how very simple,' said one of the others, as if giving expression rather to the reflection that the remark suggested, than speaking in reply,--'how exceedingly simple now it seems to trace to their causes the decline and fall of britain! the ignorance and the irreligion of the land have fully avenged themselves, and have been consumed in turn in fires of their own kindling. how could even mere men of the world have missed seeing the great moral evil that lay at the root of'-- 'ay,' said a well-known voice that half mingled with my dreaming fancies, half recalled me to consciousness; 'nothing can be plainer, donald. that lawyer-man is evidently not making his smart speeches or writing his clever circulars with an eye to the pecuniary interests of the railroad. no person can know better than he knows that the company are running their sabbath trains at a sacrifice of some four or five thousand a year. were there not a hundred thousand that took the pledge? and can it be held by any one that knows scotland, that they aren't worth over-head a shilling a year to the railway? no, no; depend on't, the man is guiltless of any design of making the shareholders rich by breaking the sabbath. he is merely supporting a desperate case in the eye of the country, and getting into all the newspapers, that people may see how clever a fellow he is. he is availing himself of the principle that makes men in our great towns go about with placards set up on poles, and with bills printed large stuck round their hats.' two of my nearer neighbours, who had travelled a long mile through the storm to see whether i had got my newspaper, had taken their seats beside me when i was engaged with my dream; and after reading your railway report, they were now busied in discussing the various speeches and their authors. my dream is, i am aware, quite unsuited for your columns, and yet i send it to you. there are none of its pictured calamities that lie beyond the range of possibility--nay, there are perhaps few of them that at this stage may not actually be feared; but if so, it is at least equally sure that there can be none of them that at this stage might not be averted. the two mr. clarks. among the some six or eight and twenty volumes of pamphlets which have been already produced by our church controversy, and which bid fair to compose but a part of the whole, there is one pamphlet, in the form of a sermon, which bears date january , and two other pamphlets, in the form of dialogues, which bear date april . the sermon and the dialogues discuss exactly the same topics. they are written in exactly the same style. they exhibit, in the same set phrases, the same large amount of somewhat obtrusive sanctimoniousness. they are equally strong in the same confidence of representing, on their respective subjects, the true mind of deity. they solicit the same circle of readers; they seem to have employed the same fount of types; they have emanated from the same publishers. they are liker, in short, than the twin brothers in shakespeare's _comedy of errors_; and the only material dissimilarity which we have been yet able to discover is, that whereas the sermon is a thorough-going and uncompromising defence of our evangelical majority in the church, the dialogues form an equally thorough-going and uncompromising attack upon them. this, however, compared with the numerous points of verisimilitude, the reader will, we are sure, deem but a trifle, especially when he has learned further that they represent the same mind, and have employed the same pen--that the sermon was published by the rev. alexander clark of inverness in , and the dialogues by the rev. alexander clark of inverness in . we spent an hour at the close of twilight a few evenings ago, in running over the sermon and the dialogues, and in comparing them, as we went along, paragraph by paragraph, and sentence by sentence. we had before us also one of mr. clark's earlier publications, his _rights of members of the church of scotland_, and a complete collection of his anti-patronage speeches for a series of years, as recorded in _the church patronage reporter_, with his speech 'anent lay patronage' in the general assembly, when in he led the debate on the popular side. the publications, in all, extended over a period of fourteen years. they exhibited mr. clark, and what mr. clark had held, in , in , in , in , in , and in . we found that we could dip down upon him, as we went along, like a sailor taking soundings in the reaches of some inland frith or some navigable river, and ascertain by year and day the exact state of his opinions, and whether they were rising or falling at the time. and our task, if a melancholy, was certainly no uninteresting one. we succeeded in bringing to the surface, from out of the oblivion that had closed over them, many a curious, glittering, useless little thing, somewhat resembling the decayed shells and phosphoric jellies that attach themselves to the bottom of the deep-sea lead. here we found the tale of a peroration, set as if on joints, that clattered husky and dry like the rattles of a snake; there an argument sprouting into green declamation, like a damaged ear of corn in a wet harvest; yonder a piece of delightful egotism, set full in sentiment like a miniature of mr. clark in a tinsel frame. what seemed most remarkable, however, in at least his earlier productions, was their ceaseless glitter of surface, if we may so speak. we found them literally sprinkled over with little bits of broken figures, as if the reverend gentleman had pounded his metaphors and comparisons in a mortar, and then dusted them over his style. it is thus, thought we, that our manufacturers of fancy wax deal by their mica. in his _rights of members_, for instance, we found in one page that 'the gross errors of romanism had risen _in successive tides_, until the _light of truth suffered a fearful eclipse_ during a long period of darkness;' and we had scarce sufficiently admired the sublime height of tides that occasion eclipses, when we were further informed, in the page immediately following, that the god of this world was mustering his _multifarious hosts for the battle_, hoping, _amidst the waves_ of popular commotion, 'to _blot out the name_ of god from the british constitution.' assuredly, thought we, we have the elements of no commonplace engagement here. 'multifarious hosts,' fairly mustered, and 'battling' amid 'waves' in 'commotion' to 'blot out a name,' would be a sight worth looking at, even though, like the old shepherd in the _winter's tale_, their zeal should lack footing amid the waters. but though detained in the course of our search by the happinesses of the reverend gentleman, we felt that it was not with the genius of mr. clark that we had specially to do, but with his consistency. for eleven of the fourteen years over which our materials extended, we found the rev. mr. clark one of the most consistent of men. from his appearance on the platform at aberdeen in , when he besought his audience not to deem it obtrusive in a stranger that he ventured to address them, and then elicited their loud applauses by soliciting their prayers for 'one minister labouring in northern parts,' who 'aspired to no higher distinction on earth than that he should spend and be spent in the service of his dear lord and master,' down to , when he published his sermon on the 'present position of the church, and the duty of its members,' and urged, with the solemnity of an oath, that 'the church of scotland was engaged in asserting principles which the allegiance it owes to christ would never permit it to desert,' mr. clark stood forward on every occasion the uncompromising champion of spiritual independence, and of the rights of the christian people. he took his place far in the van. he was no mere half-and-half non-intrusionist,--no complaisant eulogist of the veto,--no timid doubter that the church in behalf of her people might possibly stretch her powers too far, and thus separate her temporalities from her cures. nothing could be more absurd, he asserted, than to imagine such a thing. on parade day, when she stood resting on her arms in the sunshine, mr. clark was fugleman to his party,--not merely a front man in the front rank, but a man far in advance of the front rank. nay, even after the collision had taken place, mr. clark could urge on his brethren that all that was necessary to secure them the victory was just to go a little further ahead, and deprive their refractory licentiates of their licences. we found that for eleven of the fourteen years, as we have said, mr. clark was uniformly consistent. but in the twelfth year the conflict became actually dangerous, and mr. clark all at once dropped his consistency. the great suddenness--the extreme abruptness--of the change, gave to it the effect of a trick of legerdemain. the conjurer puts a pigeon into an earthen pipkin, gives the vessel a shake, and then turns it up, and lo! out leaps the little incarcerated animal, no longer a pigeon, but a rat. it was thus with the rev. mr. clark. adversity, like vice in the fable, took upon herself the character of a juggler, and stepping full into the middle of the church question, began to play at cup and ball. nothing, certainly, could be more wonderful than the transformations she effected; and the special transformation effected on the rev. mr. clark surpassed in the marvellous all the others. she threw the reverend gentleman into a box, gave him a smart shake, and then flung him out again, and lo! to the astonishment of all men, what went in mr. clark, came out mr. bisset of bourtie. in order, apparently, that so great a marvel should not be lost to the world, mr. clark has been at no little trouble in showing himself, both before he went in and since he came out. his pamphlet of and his pamphlets of represent him in the two states: we see him going about in them, all over the country, to the extent of their circulation, like the mendicant piper in his go-cart,--making open proclamation everywhere, 'i am the man wot changed;' and the only uncomfortable feeling one has in contemplating them as curiosities, arises solely from the air of heavy sanctity that pervades equally all their diametrically opposed doctrines, contradictory assertions, and contending views, as if deity could declare equally for truth and error, just as truth and error chanced to be held by mr. clark. of so solemn a cast are the reverend gentleman's belligerent pamphlets, that they serve to remind one of antagonist witnesses swearing point blank in one another's faces at the old bailey. such were some of the thoughts which arose in our mind when spending an hour all alone with the rev. mr clark's pamphlets. we bethought us of an eastern story about a very wicked prince who ruined the fair fame of his brother, by assuming his body just as he might his greatcoat, and then doing a world of mischief under the cover of his name and appearance. what, thought we, if this, after all, be but a trick of a similar character? dr. bryce has been long in eastern parts, and knows doubtless a great deal about the occult sciences. we would not be much surprised should it turn out, that having injected himself into the framework of the rev. mr. clark, he is now making the poor man appear grossly inconsistent, and both an erastian and an intrusionist, simply by acting through the insensate carcase. the veritable mr. clark may be lying in deep slumber all this while in the ghost cave of munlochy, like one of the seven sleepers of ephesus, or standing entranced, under the influences of fairy-land, in some bosky recess of the haunted tomnahurich. we must just glance over these dialogues again, and see whether we cannot detect dr. bryce in them. and glance over them we did. there could be no denying that the doctor was there, and this in a much more extreme shape than he ever yet wore in his own proper person. dr. bryce asserts, for instance, in his speeches and pamphlets, that the liberty for which the church has been contending is a liberty incompatible with her place and standing as an establishment--and there he stops; but we found him asserting in mr. clark's dialogues, that it is a liberty at once so dangerous and illegal, that voluntaries must not be permitted to enjoy it either. we saw various other points equally striking as we went along. our attention, however, was gradually drawn to another matter. the _dramatis personæ_ to which the reader is introduced are a minister and two of his parishioners, the one a moderate, the other a convocationist. it is intended, of course, that the clerical gentleman should carry the argument all his own way; and we could not help admiring how, with an eye to this result, the writer had succeeded in making the parishioners so amazingly superficial in their information, and so ingeniously obtuse in their intellects. they had both been called into existence with the intention of being baffled and beaten, and made, with a wise adaptation of means to the desired end, consummate blockheads for the express purpose. 'a man is a much nobler animal than a lion,' said the woodman in the fable to the shaggy king of the forest; 'and if you but come to yonder temple with me, i will show you, in proof of the fact, the statue of a man lording it over the statue of a prostrate lion.' 'aha!' said the shaggy king of the forest in reply, 'but was the sculptor a lion? let us lions become sculptors, and then we will show you lions lording it over prostrate men.' in mr. clark's argumentative dialogues, mr. clark is the sculptor. it is really refreshing, however, in these days of cold ingratitude, to see how the creatures called into existence by his pen draw round him, and sing _io pæans_ in his praise. a brace of master slenders attend the great justice shallow, who has been literally the making of them; and when at his bidding they engage with him in mimic warfare, they but pelt him with roses, or sprinkle him over with _eau de cologne_. 'ah,' thought we, 'had we but the true mr. clark here to take a part in this fray--the mr. clark who published the great non-intrusion sermon, and wrote the _rights of members_, and spoke all the long anti-patronage speeches, and led the debate in the assembly anent the rights of the people, and declared it clear as day that the church had power to enact the veto,--had we but him here, he would be the man to fight this battle. it would be no such child's play to grapple with him. unaccustomed as we are to lay wagers, we would stake a hundred pounds to a groat on the true mr. clark!' the twilight had fallen, the flames rose blue and languid in the grate, the deep shadows flickered heavily on the walls and ceiling; there was a drowsy influence in the hour, and a still drowsier influence in the dialogues, and we think--for what followed could have been only a dream--we think we must have fallen asleep. at all events, the scene changed without any exertion on our part, and we found ourselves in a quiet retired spot in the vicinity of inverness. the 'hill of the ship,' that monarch of fairy tomhans, rose immediately in front, gaily feathered over with larch and forest trees; and, terminating a long vista in the background, we saw mr. clark's west kirk, surmounted by a vast weathercock of gilded tin. ever and anon the bauble turned its huge side to the sun, and the reflected light went dancing far and wide athwart the landscape. immediately beneath the weathercock there flared an immense tablet, surmounted by a leaden fame, and bordered by a row of gongs and trumpets, which bore, in three-feet letters, that, 'in order to secure so valuable an addition to the church accommodation of the parish, the rev. mr. clark had not hesitated, on his own personal risk, to guarantee the payment of three thousand pounds.' our eyes were at first so dazzled by the blaze of the lackering--for the characters shone to the sun as if on fire--that we could see nothing else. as we gazed more attentively, however, we could perceive that every stone and slate of the building bore, like the tablet, the name of mr. clark. the endless repetition presented the appearance of a churchyard inscription viewed through a multiplying glass; but what most astonished us was that the gothic heads, carved by pairs beside the labelled windows, opened wide their stony lips from time to time, and shouted aloud, in a voice somewhat resembling that of the domestic duck when she breaks out into sudden clamour in a hot, dry day, 'clark, clark, clark!' we stood not a little appalled at these wonders, marvelling what was to come next, when lo! one of the thickets of the tomhan beside us opened its interlaced and twisted branches, and out stepped the likeness of mr. clark, attired like a conjurer, and armed with a rod. his portly bulk was enwrapped in a voluminous scarf of changing-coloured silk, that, when it caught the light in one direction, exhibited the deep scarlet of a cardinal's mantle, and presented, when it caught it in another, the sober tinge of our presbyterian blue. like the cloak of asmodeus, it was covered over with figures. in one corner we could see the general assembly done in miniature, and mr. clark rising among the members like gulliver in lilliput, to move against the deposition of the seven ministers of strathbogie. in another the same reverend gentleman, drawn on the same large scale, was just getting on his legs at a political dinner, to denounce his old friends and allies the evangelicals, as wild destructives, 'engaged in urging on the fall of the establishment, in the desperation of human pride.' here we could see him baptizing the child of a person who, as he had fallen out of church-going habits, could get it baptized nowhere else; there examined in his presbytery for the offence with closed doors; yonder writing letters to the newspapers on the subject, to say that, if he _had_ baptized the man's child, it was all because the man was, like himself, a good hater of forced settlements. there were a great many other vignettes besides; and the last in the series was the scene enacted at the late inverness presbytery, when mr. clark rose to congratulate his old associates, in all the stern severity of consistent virtue, on the facile and '_squeezable_' character of their representative for the assembly. the conjurer came out into an open space, drew a circle around him, and then began to build up on the sward two little human figures about three feet high, as boys build up figures of snow at the commencement of a thaw. harlequin performs a somewhat similar feat in one of the pantomimes. he first sets up two carrots on end, to serve for legs; balances on them the head of a large cabbage, to serve for a body; sticks on two other carrots, to serve for arms; places a round turnip between them, to serve for a head; gives the crazy erection a blow with his lath sword, and straightway off it stalks, a vegetable man. mr. clark had, in like manner, no sooner built up his figures, than, with a peculiarly bland air, and in tones of the softest liquidity, he whispered into the ear of the one, be you a convocationist, and into that of the other, be you a moderate; and then with his charmed rod he tapped them across the shoulders, and set them a-walking. the creatures straightway jerked up their little heads to the angle of his face, bowed like a brace of automaton dancing-masters, and after pacing round his knees for a few seconds, began dialogue the first, in just the set terms in which we had been reading it beside our own fire not half an hour before. it seemed, for a few seconds, as if the conjurer and his creations had joined together in a trio, to celebrate the conjurer's own praises. 'excellent clergyman!' said the convocationist. 'incomparable man!' exclaimed the moderate. 'no minister like our minister!' said the two in a breath. 'ah, gentlemen,' said the conjurer, looking modestly down, 'even my very enemies never venture to deny that.' 'you, sir,' said the convocationist, 'bring on no occasion the church question to the pulpit; you know better--you have more sense: we have quite as much of the church question as is good for us through the week.' 'for you, sir,' chimed in the moderate, 'i have long cherished the most thorough respect; but as for your old party, i dislike them more than ever.' 'i am not mercenary, gentlemen,' said the conjurer, laying his hand on his breast; 'i am not timid, i am not idle; i am a generous, diligent, dauntless, attached pastor; i give alms of all i possess--in especial to the public charities; i make long prayers,--my very best friends often urge on me that my vast labours, weekly and daily, are undermining my strength; i fast often,--i have guaranteed the payment of three thousand pounds for the west kirk, and three-fourths of my stipend have gone this year to the liquidation of self-imposed liabilities. true, i will be _eventually repaid_,--that is, if my people don't leave me; _but i have no other security beyond my confidence in the goodness of the cause, and the continued liberality of my countrymen_.' and in this style would the reverend gentleman have continued down to the bottom of the fifth page in his first dialogue, had it not been for a singularly portentous and terrible interruption. the haunted tomnahurich rose, as we have said, immediately behind us, leafy and green; and not one of its multitude of boughs trembled in the sunshine. suddenly, however, the hill-side began to move. there was a low deep noise like distant thunder; and straightway the _débris_ of a landslip came rolling downwards, half obliterating in its course the circle of the conjurer. turf, and clay, and stone lay in a mingled ruin at our feet; and wriggling in the midst, like a huge blue-bottle in an old cobweb, there was a reverend gentleman dressed in black. he gathered himself up, sprung deftly to his feet, and stood fronting the conjurer. wonderful to relate, the man in black proved to be the veritable mr. clark of three years ago--mr. clark of --mr. clark who published the great non-intrusion discourse, who wrote the _rights of members_, who spoke the long anti-patronage speeches, who led the debate in the assembly anent the rights of the people, and who declared it clear as day that the church had power to enact the veto. the conjurer started backwards like a man who receives a mortal wound: the two little figures uttered a thin scrannel shriek apiece, and then slunk out of existence. 'avoid ye,' exclaimed the conjurer, 'avoid ye! _conjuro te, conjuro te!_' he then went on to mutter, as if by way of exorcism, in low and very rapid tones, 'i have no anxiety to refute the charge of inconsistency, which some have endeavoured to fasten on me, from detached portions of what i have written or spoken, during several years, on what may be termed church politics. in matters not essential to salvation, increased light or advanced experience may properly produce change of sentiment in the most enlightened and conscientious christian. for a man to assert that he is subject to no change, is to lay claim to one of the perfections----' _dialogue st_, p. . 'and so you won't go out,' said the true mr. clark, interrupting him. 'no, sir,' replied the conjurer. 'i have maturely considered the proposed secession from the established church, and, without pronouncing any judgment on the motives or doings of others who may think or act differently, i deeply feel that in such a measure i could not join without manifest sin against the light of my conscience.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'ah,' rejoined the true mr. clark, 'did i not say it would be so? i knew there would be found a set of recreant priests, who, for a pitiful morsel of the world's bread, would submit to be the instruments of trampling on the blood-bought rights of the scottish people, and call themselves a church, while departing from their allegiance to him who is the source of all true ecclesiastical authority; but never can these constitute the church of scotland!'--_sermon_, p. . 'i cannot reconcile it with the views i have long entertained of my duty to the church and to the country,' said the conjurer, 'to secede from the national establishment, simply because it wants what it wanted when i became one of its ministers.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'wanted when you became one of its ministers!' exclaimed the true mr. clark. 'no, sir. the civil courts are now compelling obedience in cases in which they have no jurisdiction, and have levelled with the ground the independent jurisdiction of the church,--a church bearing in its diadem a host of martyrs, and which never hitherto submitted to the supremacy of any power, excepting that of the son of god.'--_sermon_, pp. - . 'i won't go out,' reiterated the conjurer. 'well, you have told me what you have long deemed to be your duty,' said the true mr. clark. 'i shall repeat to you, in turn, what i three years ago recorded as mine. "it is the duty of the church," i said, "to maintain its position, confirmed as it is by solemn statutes and by the faith of national treaties, until that shall be overthrown by the deliberate decision of the state itself. should such a circumstance really occur, as that the legislature should insist that the church holds its endowments on the express condition of its rendering to civil authority the subjection which it can consistently yield to christ alone, there being then a plain violation of the terms on which the church entered into alliance with the state, that alliance must be dissolved, as one which can be no longer continued, but by rendering to men what is due to god.'"--_sermon_, p. . 'i deny entirely and _in toto_,' said the conjurer, 'that the present controversy involves the doctrine of the headship.'--_see d dialogue_. 'admit,' said the true mr. clark, 'but the right of secular courts to review, and thus to confirm or annul, the proceedings of the scottish church in one of the most important spiritual functions, and the same power may soon be, under various pretexts, used to control all the inferior departments of its ecclesiastical procedure. will any man say that a society thus acknowledging the supremacy of a different power from that of christ is any longer to be regarded as a branch of the church whose unity chiefly exists in adherence to him as its head?'--_sermon_, p. . 'the claim,' said the conjurer, 'is essentially papal.'--_dialogue d_, p. . 'no,' replied the true mr. clark, 'not papal, but protestant: our confessors and martyrs chose to suffer for it the loss of all their worldly goods, and to incur the pains of death in its most appalling forms.'--_sermon_, p. . 'papal notwithstanding,' reiterated the conjurer. 'but it is not to be wondered at, that in the earliest stages of the reformation, men newly come out of the church of rome should have been led to assert for the office-bearers of their church the prerogatives which romanism claimed for her own.'--_dialogue d_, p. . 'what!' exclaimed the true mr. clark, 'is not the present contest clearly for the rights of the members of christ,--rights manifestly recognised in his word, and involving his headship?'--_sermon_, p. . _see also_ p. . 'not at all,' replied the conjurer. 'the question is one of faction, and of faction only. struggles for the victory of mere parties have been as injurious to vital godliness in the church as the same cause has been to the true prosperity of the state.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'faction!' exclaimed the true mr. clark; 'the church of scotland is now engaged in asserting principles which the allegiance it owes to christ will never permit it to desert. and let it be rung in the ears of the people of scotland, that the great reason why the asserting of the church's spiritual jurisdiction is so clamorously condemned in certain quarters, is because it is employed to maintain the rights of the people.'--_sermon_, pp. - . 'to be above the authority of the law, no church in this country can be,' said the conjurer. 'the church courts would be able, were their principles fully recognised, to tread under foot the rights of the people as effectually as ever they resisted those of patrons.'--_dialogue st_, pp. and . 'nothing can be more absurd than such insinuations,' exclaimed the true mr. clark. 'the church disclaims every kind of civil authority, and simply requires that there be no interference on the part of civil rulers with its spiritual functions. how that which declines a jurisdiction in civil matters, can in any sense of the word, or in any conceivable circumstances, be injurious to civil liberty, it is impossible to conceive.'--_sermon_, p. . 'alas,' said the conjurer, 'if the church by recent events has been exhibited in a lower position than scotsmen ever saw it placed in before, this has been occasioned by the unhappy attitude of defiance of the civil tribunals in which it was unadvisedly placed, and which no body, however venerable, can be permitted to occupy with impunity in a well-governed country.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'degradation!' indignantly exclaimed the true mr. clark; 'did the church, in consequence of the findings of the civil courts, proceed to act in opposition to what it believes and has solemnly declared to be founded on the scripture, and agreeable thereto, it would exhibit itself to the world a disgraced and degraded society, utterly fallen from the faithfulness to religious duty which marked former periods of its history.'--_sermon_, p. . 'clear it is,' said the conjurer, 'that the church must not be permitted to retain with impunity her attitude of defiance to the civil tribunals. were it otherwise, an ecclesiastical power might come to be established in this kingdom, fully able to trample uncontrolled on the most sacred rights of the nation.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'nothing, i repeat,' said the true mr. clark, 'can be more absurd than the insinuation. the liberties of the church of scotland have been often assailed by the civil authorities of the land, but uniformly by those who were equally hostile to the civil freedom of the country. its rights were, during one dreary period, so effectually overthrown, that none stood up to assert them but the devoted band who, in the wildest fastnesses of their country, were often compelled by the violence of military rule to water with their blood the moors, where they rendered homage to the king of zion; while, in the sunshine of courtly favour, ecclesiastics moved, who without fear bartered, for their own sordid gain, the blood-bought liberties of the church of god, and showed themselves as willing to subvert the civil rights of their countrymen as they had been to destroy their religious privileges.'--_sermon_, p. . 'to be above the law,' reiterated the conjurer, 'no church in this country can be.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'there may arise various occasions,' said the true mr. clark, 'on which the injunctions of man may interfere with the injunctions of god; and in every such case a christian man must yield obedience to the authority of the highest lord.'--_sermon_, p. . 'sad case that of strathbogie!' ejaculated the conjurer. 'very sad,' replied the true mr. clark. 'what is your version of it?' 'listen,' said the conjurer. 'what has been termed the veto law was enacted less than ten years ago, and after lengthened legal proceedings, was declared illegal by the house of lords, the highest judicial authority in this kingdom. for proceedings adopted in conformity to this decision, seven ministers in the presbytery of strathbogie were first suspended and then deposed from their ministerial offices, without any other charges laid against them than that they sought the protection of the civil courts in acting according to their decision. for refusing to obey a law which the house of lords declared to be illegal, no minister can be lawfully deposed from his office in this country, unless we are prepared to adopt a principle which would ultimately subvert the entire authority of the law. the civil courts, simply on the ground that these ministers had been deposed for obeying the statutes of the realm, reversed the sentence, as what was beyond the lawful powers of any church in this land, whether voluntary or established. and on the same principle, they interfered to prevent any from treating them as suspended or deposed.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'a most injurious representation of the case,' said the true mr. clark. 'seven ministers, forming the majority of the presbytery of strathbogie, chose to intimate their resolution to take steps towards the settlement of mr. edwards as minister of marnoch, in defiance of the opposition of almost all the parishioners, and in direct contempt of the instructions given them by the superior church courts. the civil courts in the meantime merely declared their opinion of the law, but they issued no injunction whatever, so as to give the presbytery the pretext of choosing between obeying the one or the other jurisdiction; and they violated the express injunction of the supreme church court, without being able to plead in justification that they had been compelled by the civil authority to do so. they chose to act ultroneously in violation of their duty to the church. they had solemnly promised to obey the superior church courts, and had never come under any promise to obey in spiritual things any other authority. in proposing to take the usual steps for conferring the spiritual office of a pastor in the church of christ, in defiance of the injunction laid upon them by the supreme court of the church of scotland, they plainly violated their ordination engagements. and in actually ordaining mr. edwards, the whole procedure was a solemn mockery of holy things.'--_sermon_, p. . 'after all,' said the conjurer, with a sigh, 'the agitated question is but of inferior moment.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'inferior moment!' exclaimed the true mr. clark; 'no religious question of the same magnitude and importance has come before this country since the ever-memorable revolution in . the divisions of secular partisanship sink into utter insignificance when compared with this. let the principles once become triumphant for which the court of session is now contending, and the church of scotland is ruined.'--_sermon_, pp. and . 'ruined!' shouted out the conjurer; 'it is you who are ruining the church, by urging on the disruption. for my own part, i promised, as all ministers do at their ordination, never, directly or indirectly, to endeavour her subversion, or to follow divisive courses, but to maintain her unity and peace against error and schism, whatsoever trouble or persecution might arise; and now, in agreement with my solemn ordination engagements, have i determined to hold by her to the last.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'what mean you by the _church_?' asked the true mr. clark. 'the church and the establishment of it are surely very different things. men have talked of themselves as friends of the church, because they were the friends of its civil establishment, and loudly declaim against the proceedings of the majority of its office-bearers now, as fraught with danger to this object. but what do they mean by the civil establishment of an erastian church! is it possible that they mean by it the receiving of certain pecuniary endowments as a price for rendering a divided allegiance to the son of god? if that be their meaning, it is time they and the country at large should know that the church of scotland was never established on such principles.'--_sermon_, p. . 'it is not true, however,' said the conjurer, 'that the majority of the faithful ministers of scotland have resolved to abandon the establishment, though this may be the case in some parts of the country.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'not true, sir!' said the true mr. clark; 'nothing can be more true. all--all will leave it except a set of recreant priests, who for a pitiful morsel of this world's bread will submit to be the instruments of trampling on the blood-bought rights of the scottish people.'--_sermon_, p. . 'what has pained me most in all this controversy,' remarked the conjurer, 'has been the insidious manner in which certain persons have endeavoured to sow disunion--in some cases too successfully--between ministers and their hearers.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'sir,' exclaimed the true mr. clark, 'sir, every individual would do well to remember, when summoned to such a contest as this, the curse denounced against meroz for remaining in neutrality when the battle raged in israel. this curse was denounced by the angel of the lord, and is written for the admonition of all ages, as a demonstration of the feelings with which god regards the standing aloof, in a great religious struggle, by whatever motives it may be sought to be justified.'--_sermon_, p. . 'the men who thus sow disunion,' said the conjurer, 'never venture to deny that they, whose usefulness they endeavour to destroy, are ministers of the gospel,--urging on the acceptance of a slumbering world the message of celestial mercy, which must produce results of weal or woe destined to be eternally remembered, when the strifes of words which have agitated the church on earth are all forgotten.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'hold, hold, sir,' said the true mr. clark. 'on the event of this struggle depends not merely the temporal interests of our country, but the welfare of many immortal spirits through the ceaseless ages of future being.'--_sermon_, p. . 'it is so distracting a subject this church question,' said the conjurer, 'that i make it a point of duty never to bring it to the pulpit.'--_dialogue st_, p. . 'in that you and i differ,' said the true mr. clark, 'just as we do in other matters. i have written very long sermons on the subject, ay, and published them too; and in particular beg leave to recommend to your careful perusal my sermon on the _present position_, preached in inverness on the evening of the th january .' 'i suppose you have heard it said, that i changed my views from the fear of worldly loss,' said the conjurer.--_dialogue st_, p. . 'heard it said!' said the true mr. clark. 'you forget that i have been bottled up on the hill-side yonder for the last three years.' 'sir,' said the conjurer, with great solemnity, 'when the west church was built, in order to secure this valuable addition to the church accommodation of the parish, i did not hesitate to undertake, on my own personal risk, to guarantee the payment of three thousand pounds. this obliged me to diminish, to no small extent, my personal expenditure, as the only way in which the pecuniary burden could be met, without diminishing my contributions to the public charities of the town, and to the numerous cases of private distress brought continually under my notice, in the various walks of ministerial duty. and though the original debt is now reduced to half that amount by the liberal benefactions received from various individuals, still nearly three-fourths of my stipend this year has been expended on this object, in terms of my voluntary obligation. the large sum which i am now in advance, i believe, will be eventually repaid; but for this i have no security beyond my confidence in the goodness of the cause, and the continued liberality of my countrymen. all this respecting the west church is known to few, and would not have been mentioned by me at this time, had it not been for the perseverance with which some, inaccessible to higher motives themselves, have endeavoured to persuade my hearers that mercenary considerations have produced the position i have felt it my duty to take in the present discussion.'--_dialogue st_, p. . for a few seconds the true mr. clark seemed as if struck dumb by the intelligence. 'ah! fast anchored!' he at length ejaculated. 'fairly tethered to the establishment by a stake of fifteen hundred pounds. demas, happy man, had a silver mine to draw him aside--a positive silver mine. the west church is merely a negative one. were it to get into the hands of the moderates, it would become waterlogged to a certainty, and not a single ounce of the precious metal would ever be fished out of it; whereas you think there is still some little chance of recovery when you remain to ply the pump yourself. most disinterested man!--let your statement of the case be but fairly printed, and it will serve you not only as an apology, but as an advertisement to boot.' 'printed!' said the conjurer; 'i have already printed it in english, and mr. m'donald the schoolmaster is translating it into gaelic.' but we have far exceeded our limits, and have yet given scarce a tithe of the controversy. we found ourselves sitting all alone in front of our own quiet fire long ere it was half completed; and we recommend such of our readers as are desirous to see the rest of it in the originals, to possess themselves of the rev. mr. clark's _sermon_, and the rev. mr. clark's _dialogues_. they form, when bound up together, one of the extremest, and at the same time one of the most tangible, specimens of inconsistency and self-contradiction that controversy has yet exhibited; and enable us to anticipate the character and standing of the evangelic minority in the erastian church. 'if the salt has lost its savour, wherewithal shall it be salted?' _april , ._ pulpit duties not secondary. there are two antagonist perils to which all evangelical churches, whether established or unendowed, are exposed in an age in which men's minds are so stirred by the fluctuations of opinion, that though there may not be much progress, there is at least much motion. they lie open, on the one hand, to the danger of getting afloat on the tide of innovation, and so drifting from the fixed position in which churches, as exponents of the mind of christ, possess an authoritative voice, into the giddy vortices of some revolving eddy of speculation, in which they can at best assume but the character of mere advocates of untried experiment; or, on the other hand, they are liable to fall into the opposite mistake of obstinately resisting all change--however excellent in itself, and however much a consequence of the onward march of the species--and this not from any direct regard to those divine laws, of which one jot or tittle cannot pass away, but simply out of respect to certain peculiar views and opinions entertained by their ancestors in ages considerably less wise than the times which have succeeded them. an evangelistic church cannot fall into the one error without losing its influential voice _as_ a church. it may gain present popularity by throwing itself upon what chances to be the onward movement of the time; but it is a spendthrift popularity, that never fails in the end to leave it exhausted and weak. the political ague has always its cold as certainly as its hot fever fits: action produces reaction; great exertion induces great fatigue; the desired object, even when fully gained, is sure always, like all mere sublunary objects of pursuit, to disappoint expectation; and the church that, forgetting where its real power lies, seeks, antæus-like, to gather strength in this way from the earth, contracts in every instance but the soil and weakness inherent in those earthy and unspiritual things to which it attaches itself. it, too, comes to have its cold ague fits and its reaction--periods of exhaustion, disappointment, and decline. and the opposite error of clinging to the worn-out and the obsolete produces ultimately the same effect, though it operates in a different way. a church that, in behalf of some antiquated type of thought or action, opposes itself to what is in reality the onward current of the age, is sure always to fare like stranded ice-floes, that, in a river flooded by thaw, retain the exact temperature under which they were formed, when the temperature all around them has altered. the ice-floes and the obsolete church may be alike successful for a time in keeping up the ancient state of things within their own lessening limits, but both are eventually absorbed and disappear. while the more versatile ecclesiastical body, tossed by the cross currents and eddies of novel and uncertain change, loses its true course and makes shipwreck, the rigidly immoveable one, anchored over the worn-out peculiarities of bygone days, is borne down by the irresistible rush of the stream, and founders at its moorings. the free church, as a body, is, we trust, not greatly in danger from either extreme. they are the extremes, however, which in the present day constitute her true scylla and charybdis; and it were perhaps well that she should keep the fact steadily before her, by laying them down as such on their chart. not from the gross and earthy fires of political movement in the present day, or from the cold grey ashes of movement semi-political in some uninspired age of the past, must that pillar of flame now ascend which is to marshal her on her pilgrimage through the wilderness, at once reviving her by its heat and guiding her by its effulgence. the light borrowed from the one would but flicker idly before her, a wandering and delusive meteor; the other would furnish her with but an unlighted torch, unsuited to cast across her way a single beam of direction and guidance. her light must be derived from an antiquity more remote than that of the uninspired ages, and her heat from a source more permanent than that of present excitement, social or political: the one direct from the unerring record of those times when god walked the earth in the flesh; the other from that living spirit without whose influence energy the most untiring can be influential in but the production of evil, and earnestness the most intense may be profession, but cannot be revival. strength must be sought by her, not in the turmoil of evanescent agitation, nor in the worn-out modes of an age the fashion of which has perished, but in the perennial verities of the everlasting gospel. while so far adapting herself to the times as to present an armed front to every form of error, she must preach to her people as if the prisoner of patmos had but just completed the record of revelation. there is one special error regarding this the most important portion of her proper work--the preaching of the word--to which it may be well to advert. it has become much the fashion of the time--most unthinkingly, surely--to speak of preaching as not the paramount, but merely one of the subsidiary duties of a clergyman. 'he is not a man of much pulpit preparation,' it has become customary to remark of some minister, at least liked if not admired, 'but he is diligent in visiting and in looking after his schools; and preaching is in reality but a small part of a minister's duty.' or, in the event of a vacancy, the flock looking out for a pastor are apt enough to say, 'our last minister was an accomplished pulpit man, but what we at present want is a man sedulous in visiting; for preaching is in reality but a small part of a minister's duty.' nay, ministers, especially ministers of but a few twelvemonths' standing, have themselves in some cases caught up the remark, as if it embodied a self-evident truth; and while they dare tell, not without self-complacency, that their discourses--things written at a short sitting, if written at all--cost them but little trouble, they add further, as if by way of apology, that they are, however, 'much occupied otherwise, and that preaching is in reality but a small part of a minister's duty.' we have some times felt inclined to assure these latter personages in reply, that they might a little improve the matter just by making preaching no part of their duty at all. but where, we ask, is it taught, either by god in his word or by the church in her standards, that preaching is merely one of the minor duties of the minister, or indeed other than his first and greatest duty? not, certainly, in the new testament, for there it has invariably the paramount place assigned to it; as certainly not in our standards, for in them the emphasis is '_especially_' laid on the 'preaching of the word' as god's most 'effectual means' of converting sinners. if it be a truth that preaching is but comparatively a minor part of a minister's duty, it is certainly neither a scripture nor a shorter catechism truth; and, lest it should be not only not a truth at all, but even not an innocuous _untruth_, we think all who hold it would do well to inquire how they have come by it. we have our own suspicion regarding its origin. it is natural for men to exaggerate the importance of whatever good they patronize, or whatever improvement or enterprise they advocate or recommend. and perhaps some degree of exaggeration is indispensable. in order to create the impulse necessary to overcome the _vis inertiæ_ of society, and induce in the particular case the required amount of exertion, the stream of the moving power has--if we may so speak--to be elevated to the level of hopes raised high above the point of possible accomplishment. to employ the language of the mechanist, the necessary _fall_ would be otherwise awanting, and the machine would fail to move. if, for instance, all men had estimated the advantages of free trade according to the sober computations of chalmers, the country would have no anti-corn-law league, and no repeal of the obnoxious statutes. and yet who can now doubt that the calculations of chalmers were in reality the true ones? in like manner, if it had been truly seen that the 'baths for the working classes' could have merely extended to the humbler inhabitants of our cities those advantages of ablution which the working men of our sea-coasts already possess, but of which--when turned of forty--not one out of a hundred among them ever avails himself, we would scarce have witnessed bath meetings, with dukes in the chair; nor would the baths themselves have been erected. but the natural exaggerative feeling prevailed. baths for the working classes were destined somehow to renovate society, it was thought; and so, though chartism be now as little content as ever, baths for the working classes our cities possess. and, doubtless, exaggeration of a similar kind has tended to heighten the general estimate of the minor duties of the clergyman; and were there no invidious comparisons instituted between the lesser and the paramount duties,--between what is secondary in its nature magnified into primary importance, and what is primary in its nature diminished into a mere secondary, and standing as if the one had been viewed by the lesser, and the other through the greater lens of a telescope,--we would have no quarrel whatever with the absolute exaggeration in the case, regarded simply as a mere moving force. but we must quarrel with it when we see it leading to practical error; and so, in direct opposition to the common remark, that preaching is but a small part of the minister's duty, we assert that it is not a small, but a very large, and by far the most important part of it; and that it is not our standards or the scriptures that are in error on this special head, but the numerous class who, taking up the antagonist view, maintain as a self-evident proposition what has neither standing in the new testament, nor yet guarantee in the experience of the church. no apology whatever ought to be sustained for imperfect pulpit preparation; nay, practically at least, no apology whatever has or will be sustained for it. it is no unusual thing to see a church preached empty; there have been cases of single clergymen, great in their way, who have emptied four in succession: for people neither ought nor will misspend their sabbaths in dozing under sermons to which no effort of attention, however honestly made, enables them to listen; and what happens to single congregations may well happen to a whole ecclesiastical body, should its general style of preaching fall below the existing average. and certainly we know nothing more likely to produce such a result than the false and dangerous opinion, that preaching is comparatively a small part of a minister's duty. it is supereminently dangerous for one to form a mean estimate of one's work, unless it be work of a nature very low and menial indeed. 'no one,' said johnson, 'ever did anything well to which he did not give the whole bent of his mind.' it is this low estimate--this want of a high standard in the mind--that leads some of our young men to boast of the facility with which they compose their sermons,--a boast alike derogatory to the literary taste and knowledge and to the christian character of him who makes it. easy to compose a sermon!--easy to compose what, when written, cannot be read; and what, when preached, cannot be listened to. we believe it; for in cases of this kind the ease is all on the part of the author. we believe further, we would fain say to the boaster, that you and such as you could scuttle and sink the free church with amazingly little trouble to yourselves. but is it easy, think you, to mature such thoughts as butler matured? and yet these were embodied in sermons. is it easy, think you, to convey in language exquisite as that of robert hall, sentiments as refined and imagery as classic as his? and yet hall's noblest compositions were sermons. is it easy, think you, to produce a philosophic poem, the most sublime and expansive of any age or country? and yet such is the true character of the astronomical sermons of chalmers. or is that spirituality which impresses and sinks into the heart of a people, independently at times of thought of large calibre or the polish of a fine literary taste, a thing easily incorporated into the tissue of a lengthened sermon? think you, did maclaurin's well-known _sermon on the cross_ cost him little trouble? or the not less noble sermon of sir matthew hale, on _christ and him crucified_? look, we beseech you, to your new testaments, and see if there be ought slovenly in the style, or loose and pointless in the thinking, of the model sermons given you there. the discourse addressed by our saviour from the mount to the people was a sermon; as was also the magnificent address of paul to the athenians, where he chose as his text the inscription on one of their altars, 'to the unknown god.' there may be a practical and most mischievous heterodoxy embodied in the preacher's idea of sermons, as certainly as he may embody a heterodoxy theoretic and doctrinal in the sermons themselves. the ordinary course of establishing a church in any country, as specially shown by new testament history and that of the reformation, is first and mainly through the preaching of the word. an earnest, eloquent man--a peter in jerusalem--a paul at athens, on mars hill--a john knox in edinburgh or st. andrews--a george whitfield in some open field or market-place of britain or america--or a thomas chalmers in some metropolitan pulpit, scotch or english--addresses himself to the people. there is a strange power in the words, and they cannot but listen; and then the words begin to tell. the heart is affected, the judgment convinced, the will influenced and directed: ancient beliefs are, as the case may be, modified, resuscitated, or destroyed; new or revived convictions take the place of previous convictions, inadequate or erroneous; and thus churches are planted, and the face of society changed. we limit ourselves here to what--being strictly natural in the process--would operate, if skilfully applied, as directly on the side of error as of truth. it is the first essential of a book, that it be interesting enough to be read; and of a preacher, whatever his creed, that he be sufficiently engaging to be attentively listened to; and without this preliminary merit, no other merit, however great, is of any avail whatever. and when a church possesses it in any great degree, it is sure to spread and increase. are there churches in the establishment which, though thinned by the disruption, have now all their seats let, and are crammed every sabbath to the doors? if so, be sure there is popular talent in the pulpit, and that the clergyman who officiates there does not find it a very easy matter to compose his sermons. nay, dear as the distinctive principles of the free church are to the people of scotland, with superior pulpit talent in the establishment on the one hand, and in the ranks of the disendowed body, on the other, a goodly supply of those youthful ministers who boast that they either never write their sermons, or write them at a short sitting, we would by no means guarantee to our church a ten years' vigorous existence. these may not be palatable truths, but we trust they are wholesome ones; and we know that the time peculiarly requires them. it is, however, not mainly with the establishment that the free church has to contend. we ask the reader whether he has not marked, within the last few years, the _début_ of another and more formidable antagonist, with which all christian churches may be soon called on to grapple? our newly-instituted athenæums and philosophical associations form one of the novel features of the time,--institutions in which at least the second-class men of the age--emersons, and morells, and combes--with much that is interesting in science and fascinating in literature, blend sentiments and opinions at direct variance with the great doctrinal truths embodied in our standards. the press, not less formidable now than ever, is an old antagonist; but, with all its appliances and powers, it lacked the charm of the living voice. that peculiar charm, however, the new combatant possesses. the pulpit, met by its own weapons and in its own field, will have to a certainty to measure its strength against it; and the standard of pulpit accomplishment and of theological education, instead of being lowered, must in consequence be greatly elevated. the church of this country, which in the earlier periods of her history, when knox was her leader, and buchanan the moderator of her general assembly, stood far in advance of the age in popular eloquence, solid learning, and elegant accomplishment, and which, in the person of chalmers in our own days, was vested in the more advanced views and the more profound policy of a full century hence, must not be suffered to lag behind the age now. her troops must not be permitted to fall into confusion, and to use as arms the rude, unsightly bludgeons of an untaught and undisciplined mob, when the enemy, glittering in harness, and furnished with weapons keen of temper and sharp of edge, is bearing down upon them in compact phalanx. we know what it is to have sat for many years under ministers who, possessed of great popular talent and high powers of original thought, gave much time and labour to pulpit preparation. we know how great a privilege it is to have to look forward to the ministrations of the sabbath,--not as wearinesses, which, simply as a matter of duty, were to be endured; but as exquisite feasts, spiritual and intellectual, which were to be greatly relished and enjoyed. and when hearing it sometimes regretted, with reference to at least one remarkable man, that he did not visit his flock quite so often as was desirable--many of the complainants' sole idea of a ministerial visit, meanwhile, being simply that it was a long exordium of agreeable gossip, with a short tail-piece of prayer stuck to its hinder end--we have strongly felt how immensely better it was that the assembled congregation should enjoy each year fifty-two sabbaths of their minister at his best, than that the tone of his pulpit services should be lowered, in order that each individual among them might enjoy a yearly half-hour of him apart. and yet such, very nearly, was the true statement of the case. we fully recognise the importance, in its own subordinate place, of ministerial visitation, especially when conducted--a circumstance, however, which sometimes lowers its popularity--as it ought to be. but it must not be assigned that prominent place denied to it by our standards, and which the word of god utterly fails to sanction. it is, though an important, still a minor duty; and the free church must not be sacrificed to the ungrounded idea that it occupies a level as high, or even nearly as high, as 'the preaching of the word.' to that peculiar scheme of visitation advocated by chalmers as a first process in his work of excavation, we of course do not refer. in those special cases to which he so vigorously directed himself, visitation was an inevitable preliminary, without which the appliances of the pulpit could not be brought to bear. philip had to open the scriptures _tête-à-tête_ to the ethiopian eunuch, for the ethiopian eunuch never came to church. but even were his scheme identical with that to which we particularly refer, we would say to the young preacher who sheltered under his authority, 'well, prepare for the pulpit as dr. chalmers did, even when he had the west port congregation for his audience, and we shall be quite content to let you visit as much as you may.' the composition of a sermon was never easy work to him. he devoted to it much time, and the full bent of his powerful mind; and even when letting himself down to the humblest of the people, the philosopher of largest capacity might profitably take his place among the hearers, and listen with an interest never for one moment suffered to flag. _may , ._ dugald stewart. it is now more than forty years since it was remarked by jeffrey, in his _review_, that metaphysical science was decidedly on the decline in scotland. dugald stewart, though in a delicate state of health at the time, was in the full vigour of his faculties, and had still eighteen years of life before him; thomas brown had just been appointed his assistant and successor in the moral philosophy chair of the university of edinburgh; and the _élite_ of the scottish capital were flocking in crowds to his class-room, captivated by the eloquence and ingenuity of his singularly vigorous and original lectures. even fifteen years subsequent, dr. welsh could state, in the life of his friend, that the reception of his work on the _philosophy of the human mind_ had been 'favourable to a degree of which, in metaphysical writings, there was no parallel.' it has been recorded as a very remarkable circumstance, that the _essay_ of locke--produced at a period when the mind of europe first awoke to general activity in the metaphysical province--passed through seven editions in the comparatively brief space of fourteen years. the _lectures_ of dr. brown passed through exactly seven editions in _twelve_ years, and this at a time when, according to jeffrey, that science of mind of which they treated was in a state of gradual decay. the critic was, however, in the right. the genius of brown had imparted to his brilliant posthumous work an interest which could scarce be regarded as attaching to the subject of it; and in a few years after--from about the year till after the disruption of the scottish church--metaphysical science had sunk, not in scotland only, but all over britain, to its lowest ebb. a few retired scholars continued to prosecute their researches in the province of mind; but scarce any interest attached to their writings, and not a bookseller could be found hardy enough to publish at his own risk a metaphysical work. we are old enough to remember a time, contemporaneous with the latter days of brown, when young students, in their course of preparation for the learned professions, especially for the church, used to be ever recurring in conversation to the staple metaphysical questions,--occasionally, no doubt, much in the style of jack lizard in the _guardian_, who comforted his mother, when the worthy lady was so unlucky as to scald her hand with the boiling tea-kettle, by assuring her there was no such thing as heat, but which at least served to show that this branch of liberal education fully occupied the mind of the individuals ostensibly engaged in mastering it; and we remember a subsequent time, when students--some of them very clever ones--seemed never to have thought on these questions at all, and remained silent in conversation when they chanced to be mooted by the men of an earlier generation. during, however, the last ten years, mainly through the revival of a taste for metaphysical inquiry in france and germany, which has reacted on this country, abstract questions on the nature and functions of mind are again acquiring their modicum of space and importance in scotland. our country no longer takes the place it once did among the nations in this department, and never again may; but it at least begins to remember it once was, and to serve itself heir to the works of the older masters of mind; and we regard it as an evidence of the reaction to which we refer, that a greatly more complete edition of the writings of dugald stewart than has yet appeared is at the present time in the course of issuing from the press of one of our most respected scotch publishers--the inheritor of a name paramount in the annals of the trade--mr. thomas constable. the writings of dugald stewart have been unfortunate in more than that state of exhaustion and syncope into which metaphysical science continued to sink during the lapse of more than half a generation after the death of their author, and the commencement of which had been remarked by jeffrey more than half a generation before. from some peculiar views--founded, we believe, on an overweening estimate of their pecuniary value--the son and heir of the philosopher tabooed their publication; and it is only now that, in consequence of his death, and of the juster views entertained on the subject by a sister, also recently deceased, that they are permitted to reappear. the time, however, from that awakened interest in metaphysical speculation which we have remarked, seems highly favourable for such an undertaking; and we cannot doubt that the work will find what it deserves--a sure and steady, if not very rapid sale. stewart may be regarded as not merely one of the more distinguished members of the scottish school of metaphysics, but as peculiarly its historian and exponent. the mind of reid was cast in a more original mould, but he wanted both the elegance and the eloquence of stewart, nor were his powers of illustration equally great. his language, too, was not only less refined and flowing, but also less scientifically correct, than that of his distinguished exponent and successor. we would cite, for instance, the happy substitution by the latter of the terms 'laws of human thought and belief,' for the unfortunate phrases 'common sense' and 'instinct,' which raised so extensive a prejudice against the vigorous protest against scepticism made in other respects so effectively by reid; and he passes oftener from the abstractions of his science into the regions of life and character in which all must feel interested, however slight their acquaintance with the subtleties of metaphysical speculation. the extraordinary excellence of professor stewart's style has been recognised by the highest authorities. robertson was perhaps the best english writer of his day. the courtly walpole, on ascertaining that he spoke scotch, told him he was heartily glad of it; for 'it would be too mortifying,' he added, 'for englishmen to find that he not only wrote, but also spoke, their language better than themselves.' and yet the edinburgh reviewers recognised stewart as the writer of a more exquisite style than even robertson. and sir james mackintosh, no mean judge, characterizes him as the most perfect, in an artistic point of view, of the philosophical writers of britain. 'probably no writer ever exceeded him,' says sir james, 'in that species of eloquence which springs from sensibility to literary merit and moral excellence; which neither obscures science by prodigal ornament, nor disturbs the serenity of patient attention; but, though it rather calms and soothes the feelings, yet exalts the genius, and insensibly inspires a reasonable enthusiasm for whatever is good and fair.' now, it is surely not unimportant that the writings of such a man, simply in their character as literary models, should be submitted to an age like the present, especially to its scotchmen. it is stated by hume, in one of his letters to robertson, that meeting in paris with the lady who first gave to the french a translation of charles v., he asked her what she thought of the style of the work, and that she instantly replied, with great _naïveté_, 'oh, it is such a style as only a scotchman could have written.' scotland did certainly stand high in the age of hume and mackenzie, of robertson and of adam smith, for not only the vigour of its thinking, but also for the purity and excellence of its style. we fear, however, it can no longer arrogate to itself praise on this special score. there have been books produced among us during the last twenty years, which have failed in making their way into england, mainly in consequence of the slipshod style in which they were written. a busy age, much agitated by controversy, is no doubt unfavourable to the production of compositions of classic beauty. 'the rounded period,' says an ingenious french writer, 'opens up the long folds of its floating robe in a time of stability, authority, and confidence. but when literature has become a means of action, instead of continuing to be used for its own sake, we no longer amuse ourselves with the turning of periods. the period is contemporary with the peruke--the period is the peruke of style. the close of the eighteenth century shortened the one as much as the other. the peruke reaching the middle of the loins could not be suitable to men in haste to accomplish a work of destruction. when was j. j. rousseau himself given to the turning of periods? assuredly it was not in his pamphlets!' now the style of stewart was first formed, we need scarce remark, during that period of profound repose which preceded the french revolution; and his after-life, spent in quiet and thoughtful retirement, with the classics of our own and other countries, ancient and modern, for his companions, and with composition as his sole employment--though the world around him was fiercely engaged with politics or with war--had nothing in it to deteriorate it. he never heard the steam-press groaning, as the night wore late, for his unfinished lucubrations; nay, we question if he ever wrote a careless or hurried sentence. his naturally faultless taste had full space to satisfy itself with whatever he deemed it necessary to perform; and hence works of finished beauty, which, as pieces of art, the younger _literati_ of scotland would do well to study and imitate. there may be differences of opinion regarding the standing of stewart as a metaphysician, but there are no differences of opinion regarding his excellence as a writer. with regard to metaphysics themselves, we are disposed to acquiesce in the judgment of jeffrey, without, however, acquiescing in much which he has founded upon it. to _observe_ as a mental philosopher, and to _experiment_ as a natural one, are very different things; and never will mere observation in the one field lead to results so splendid or so practical as experiment on the properties of matter, to which man owes his extraordinary control over the elements. to the knowledge acquired by his observations on the nature or operations of mind, he owes no new power over that which he surveys: in at least its direct consequences, his science is barren. it would be difficult, however, to overestimate its _indirect_ consequences. it seems impossible that the metaphysical province should long exist blank and unoccupied in any highly civilised country, especially in a country of active and acquiring intellects, such as scotland. if the philosophy of locke or of reid fail to occupy the field, we find it occupied instead by that of comte or of combe. owens and martineaus take the place of browns and of stewarts; and bad metaphysics, of the most dangerous tendency, are taught, in the lack of metaphysics wholesome and good. all the more dangerous parties of the present day have their foundations of principle on a basis of bad metaphysics. the same remark applies to well-nigh all the religious heresies; and the less metaphysical an age is, all the more superficial usually are the heresies which spring up in it. we question whether morrisonianism could have originated in what was emphatically the metaphysical age of scotland, in the latter days of reid, or the earlier days of stewart. what became in our times a heresy in the theological field, would have spent itself, as the mere crotchet of a few unripened intellects, in the metaphysical one. it would have found vent in some debating club or speculative society, and the churches would have rested in peace. there are other indirect benefits derived from metaphysical study. it forms the best possible gymnastics of mind. all the great metaphysicians, if not merely acute, but also broad-minded men, have been great also in the practical departments of thought. the author of the _essay on the human understanding_ was the author also of the _treatise on government_ and the _letters on toleration_. hume, in those _essays on trade and politics_, which are free from the stain of infidelity, was one of the most solid of thinkers; and he who produced the _theory of moral sentiments_ continues to give law at the present time, in his _wealth of nations_, to the commerce of the civilised world. from a subtile but comparatively narrow class of intellects, though distinguished in the metaphysical province, mankind has received much less. berkeley was one of these, and may be regarded as their type and representative. save his metaphysics,--demonstrative of the non-existence of matter, or demonstrative rather that fire is not conscious of heat, nor ice of cold, nor yet our enlightened surface of colour,--he bequeathed little else to the world than his tar-water; and his tar-water, no longer recognised as a universal medicine, has had its day, and is forgotten. without professing to know aught of german metaphysicians--for in the times when we used to read hume and reid they were but little known in this country--we can by no means rate them so high as the men whose writings they are supplanting. what, we have been accustomed to ask, are their trophies in the practical? have any of them given to the world even tar-water? where are their lockes, humes, and adam smiths? the man who, according to johnson, can walk vigorously towards the east, can walk vigorously toward the west also. how is it that these german metaphysicians exhibit their vigour exclusively in walking one way? where are their works of a practical character, powerful enough to give law to the species? where their treatises like those of locke on _toleration_ or on _government_, or their essays like that of hume or of adam smith on the _balance of power_ or the _wealth of nations_? are they doing other, to use a very old illustration, than merely milking rams, leaving their admirers and followers to hold the pail? dugald stewart, though mayhap less an original in the domain of abstract thought than some of his predecessors, belongs emphatically to the practical school. with him philosophy is simply common sense on that large scale which renders it one of the least common things in the world. and never, perhaps, was there a more thoroughly honest seeker after truth. burns somewhat whimsically describes him, in a recently recovered letter given to the world by robert chambers, as 'that plain, honest, worthy man, the professor. i think,' adds the poet, 'his character, divided into ten parts, stands thus: four parts socrates, four parts nathaniel, and two parts shakespeare's brutus.' the estimate of sir james mackintosh is equally high; nor will it weigh less with many of our readers that the elder m'crie used to give expression to a judgment quite as favourable. 'he was fascinated,' says the son and biographer of the latter, 'with the _beau ideal_ of academical eloquence which adorned the moral chair in the person of dugald stewart. long after he had sat under this admired leader, he would describe with rapture his early emotions while looking on the handsomely erect and elastic figure of the professor--in every attitude a model for the statuary--listening to expositions, whether of facts or principles, always clear as the transparent stream; and charmed by the tones of a voice which modulated into spoken music every expression of intelligence and feeling. an esteemed friend of his happening to say to him some years ago, "i have been hearing dr. brown lecture with all the eloquence of dugald stewart," "no, sir," he exclaimed with an air of almost johnsonian decision, "you have not, and no man ever will.'" the first volume of the collected works of stewart, now given to the world in a form at once worthy of their author and of the name of constable, contains the far-famed _dissertations_, and is edited by sir william hamilton. it contains a considerable amount of original matter, now published from the author's manuscripts for the first time. it would be idle to attempt criticising a work so well established; but the brief remark of one of the first of metaphysical critics--sir james mackintosh--on what he well terms 'the magnificent dissertations,' may be found not unacceptable. 'these dissertations,' says sir james, 'are perhaps most profusely ornamented of any of their author's compositions,--a peculiarity which must in part have arisen from a principle of taste, which regarded decoration as more suitable to the history of philosophy than to philosophy itself. but the memorable instances of cicero, of milton, and still more those of dryden and burke, seem to show that there is some natural tendency in the fire of genius to burn more brightly, or to blaze more fiercely, in the evening than in the morning of human life. probably the materials which long experience supplies to the imagination, the boldness with which a more established reputation arms the mind, and the silence of the low but formidable rivals of the higher principles, may concur in providing this unexpected and little observed effect.' _august , ._ our town councils. it is a grand, though doubtless natural, mistake to hold that the members of the town councils of our scottish cities and burghs really represent in opinion and feeling their nominal constituencies the electors, through whose suffrages they have been placed in office. in very many cases they do not represent them at all: they form an entirely dissimilar class,--a class as thoroughly different from the solid mass of the community, on which they float like froth and spume on the surface of the great deep, as that other class from which, because there are unhappily scarce any other men in the field, we have to select our legislators. the subject is one of importance. in the sabbath controversy now carrying on, it has been invariably taken for granted by the anti-sabbatarian press of the country, that our town councils _do_ represent the general constituency; and there has been much founded on the assumption. we shall by and by be finding the same assumption employed against us in the popery endowment question; and it would be well, therefore, carefully to examine the grounds on which it rests, and to ascertain whether there may not exist some practical mode of testing its unsolidity. it is not difficult to see how that upper class to which our legislators of both houses of parliament mainly belong, should differ greatly from the larger and more solid portion of the middle classes in almost all questions of a religious character and bearing. bacon, in his _essay on kings_, has quaintly, but, we are afraid, all too justly remarked, that 'of all kind of men, god is the least beholding unto them [kings]; for he doth most for them, and they do ordinarily least for him.' but the character applies to more than kings. it affects the whole upper layers of the great pyramid of society, from its gilded pinnacle down to the higher confines of its solid middle portion; and to these upper layers of the erection our legislators, hereditary and elective, with, of course, a very few exceptions in the lower house, all belong. they are drafted from the classes with which, if we perhaps except the lowest and most degraded of all, religious questions weigh least. there is, of course, no class wholly divorced from good; and those exceptions to which cowper could refer two generations ago obtain still: 'we boast some rich ones whom the gospel sways, and one who wears a coronet, and prays: like gleanings of an olive tree, they show here and there one upon the topmost bough.' but in at least the mass, religion has not been influential among the governing classes in britain since the days of the commonwealth. it has formed one of the great forces on which they have calculated--a formidable power among the people, that they have striven, according to the nature of the emergency, to quiet or awaken, bias or control,--now for the ends of party, when an antagonist faction had to be overborne and put down,--now for the general benefit of the country, when a foreign enemy had to be repelled or an intestine discord to be suppressed; but it has been peculiarly a force outside the governing classes--external, not internal, to them,--a power which it has been their special work to regulate and direct, not a power which has regulated and directed them. the last british government which--god, according to bacon, having done much for it--laboured earnestly to do much for god, was that very remarkable one which centred in the person of the lord protector. hence naturally much that is unsatisfactory to the comparatively religious middle classes of the country, in the conduct, with regard to religious questions, of the classes on whom devolves the work of legislation. there is no real community of feeling and belief in these matters between the two. to the extent to which religion is involved in the legislative enactments of the time, the middle class is in reality not represented, and the upper class does not represent. it may not seem equally obvious, however, how there should be a lack of representation, not only among our members of parliament, but also among our members of council. they at least surely belong, it may be said, to the middle classes, by whom and from among whom they are chosen for their office. certainly in some cases they do; in many others, however, they form a class scarce less peculiar than those upper classes out of which the legislators of the country come to be drawn, simply because there is no other class in the field out of which they can be selected. the reform and municipality bills wrought a mighty change in the town councils of the kingdom. the old close burgh system, with all its abuses, ceased for ever, save in its remains--monumental debts, and everlasting leases of town lands, granted on easy terms to officials and their friends; and droll recollections, like those embalmed by galt in our literature, of solid municipal feasting, and not so solid municipal services,--of exclusive cliqueships, misemployed patronages, modest self-elections,--in short, of a general practice of jobbing, more palpable than pleasant, and that tended rather to individual advantage than corporate honour. the old men retired, and a set of new men were elevated by newly-created constituencies into their vacated places, to be disinterested on dilapidated means, and noisy on short commons. the days of long and heavy feasts had come to a close, and the days of long and heavy speeches succeeded. no two events which this world of ours ever saw, led to so vast an amount of bad speaking as the one reform bill that swept away the rotten burghs, and the other reform bill that opened the close ones. by and by, however, it came to be seen that the old, privileged, self-elected class were succeeded in many instances by a class that, though elected by their neighbours, were yet not quite like their neighbours. their neighbours were men who, with their own personal business to attend to, had neither the time nor the ambition to be moving motions or speaking speeches in the eye of the public, and who could not take the trouble to secure elections by canvassing voters. the men who had the time, and took the trouble, were generally a class ill-hafted in society, who had high notions of reforming everything save themselves, and of keeping right all kinds of businesses except their own. the old state of things was, notwithstanding its many faults, a state under which our scotch burghers rose into consideration by arts of comparative solidity. a tradesman or shopkeeper looked well to his business,--became an important man in the market-place and a good man in the bank,--increased in weight in the same proportion that his coffers did so, and grew influential and oracular on the strength of his pounds sterling per annum. with altered times, however, there arose a new order of men,-- 'the wits of charles found easier ways to fame.' it was no longer necessary to spend the greater part of a lifetime in acquiring money and character: a glib tongue, a few high professions of public principle, and a few weeks' canvassing, were found to serve the turn more than equally well. there commenced straightway a new dynasty of dignities and honours. councillors got into print in the capacity of speechmakers, who, save for the revolution effected, would never have got into print in any other capacity than, mayhap, that of bankrupts in the gazette. eloquent men walked to church in scarlet, greatly distinguished as provosts and bailies, who but for the happy change would have crept unseen all their lives long among the crowd. members of parliament went arm-in-arm, when they visited their constituencies, with folk altogether unused to such consideration; and when a burgher's son sought to be promoted to the excise, or a seaman to the coast-guard service, it was through the new men that influence had to be exerted. and of course the new men had to approve themselves worthy of their honours, by making large sacrifices for the public weal. they had in many cases not much to do: the magistracy of the bygone school, whom they succeeded, had obligingly relieved posterity of the trouble of having a too preponderous amount of municipal property to manage and look after; but if they had not much to do, they had at least a great deal to say; and as they were ambitious of saying it, their own individual concerns were not unfrequently neglected, in order that their constituencies might be edified and informed. in cases not a few, the natural consequences ensued. we have in our eye one special burgh in the north, in which every name in the town council, from that of the provost down to that of the humblest councillor, had, in the course of some two or three years, appeared also in the _gazette_; and the previous provost of the place had got desperately involved with the branch banks of the district, and had ultimately run the country, to avoid a prosecution for forgery. let it not be held that we are including the entire tribe of modern town functionaries in one sweeping condemnatory description. we ourselves, in our time (we refer to the fact with a high but surely natural pride), held office as a town councillor, under the modern _régime_, for the space of three whole years in a parliamentary burgh that contained no fewer than forty voters. all may learn from history how it was that bailie weezle earned his municipal honours during the ancient state of things in the famous burgh of gudetown. 'bailie weezle,' says galt, 'was a man not overladen with worldly wisdom, and had been chosen into the council principally on account of being easily managed. being an idle person living on his money, and of a soft and quiet nature, he was, for the reason aforesaid, taken by one consent among us, where he always voted on the provost's side; for in controverted questions every one is beholden to take a part, and the bailie thought it was his duty to side with the chief magistrate.' our own special qualifications for office were, we must be permitted in justice to ourselves to state, different from bailie weezle's by a shade. it was generally held, that if there was nothing to do we would _do_ nothing, and if nothing to say we would _say_ nothing; and so thoroughly did we fulfil every expectation that had been previously formed of us, that for three years together we said and did nothing in our official capacity with great _éclat_, and regularly absented ourselves from every meeting of council except the first, to the entire satisfaction of our constituency. it will not be held, therefore, in the face of so important a fact, that we include in our description all the town magistracies under the existing state of things, and most certainly not all modern town councillors. nothing, however, can be more certain, we repeat, than that they differ from their constituencies as a class, and that they are chosen to represent them in municipal affairs, just as another and higher class is chosen to represent them in the legislature--merely because there is no other class in the field. the solid middle-class men of business have, as has been said, something else to employ them, and cannot spare their services. they cannot accept of mere notoriety, with mayhap a modicum of patronate influence attached, as an adequate price for the time and labour which their own affairs demand. it is a peculiar class in the municipal as in the literary field, that 'weigh solid pudding against empty praise,' and come to regard the empty praise as solid enough to outweigh the pudding. not but that it is a fine thing to be in a town council, and to see one's fortnightly speeches flourishing in the public prints. where else could some of our edinburgh worthies bring themselves so prominently before the eyes of the country? where else, for instance, could councillor ---- impart such universal interest to the fact that he taught in a sabbath school, and rode out of town every evening to attend to its duties by a sunday train,--thus forming an invariable item, it would seem, in the average of the ninety-two sabbath journeyers that travelled by the edinburgh and glasgow railway, and failed to remunerate the proprietors? or where else could councillor ---- refer with such prodigious effect to dr. chalmers's bloody-minded scheme of '_executing_ the heathen?' or where else could councillor ---- succeed in eliciting so general a belief that he was one of the poor endangered heathens over which the threatened _execution_ hung, through his famous oath 'by jupiter?' by the way, is this latter gentleman acquainted with smollett's story of the eccentric mr. h., and chivalrously bent, on the same principle, in acknowledging a deity in distress? 'mr. h., some years ago, being in the campidoglio at rome,' says smollett, 'made up to the bust of jupiter, and bowing very low, exclaimed, in the italian language, "i hope, sir, if ever you get your head above water again, you will remember that i paid my respects to you in your adversity." this sally,' continues the historian, 'was reported to the cardinal camerlengo, and by him laid before the pope benedict xiv., who could not help laughing at the extravagance of the address, and said to the cardinal, "those english heretics think they have a right to go to the devil in their own way.'" now, standing, as we do, either on the threshold of serious national controversies of a religious bearing, or already entered upon them, it would be well to mark and test the facts which it is our present object specially to point out. it would be well to take measures for rendering it an as palpable as it is a solid truth, that the municipal _tail_ of the country's representation no more really represents it in several very important respects than its parliamentary _head_. it represents it most inadequately on the sabbath question now; it will represent it quite as inadequately in the popish endowment question by and by; and if in reality we do not wish to see the battle going against us on both issues, there must be effective means employed to demonstrate the fact. in matters of a religious bearing, the ill-hafted notoriety-men of our town councils much more nearly resemble the upper indifferent classes, from which our legislators are drafted, than they do the solid bulk of the community. they are decidedly in the movement party, and form a portion, not of the ballast, but of the superfluous sail, of the state. nor should it be difficult to render the fact evident to all. in one of our northern burghs--dingwall--a majority of the town council lately memorialized the directors of the edinburgh and glasgow railway in exactly the same vein as the majority of our edinburgh town council. so extreme a step seemed rather extraordinary for ross-shire; and a gentleman of the burgh, one of the voters, convinced that the officials were far indeed from representing their constituency, shrewdly set himself to demonstrate the real state of the case. first he possessed himself of an accredited list of the voters; and then, with a memorial addressed to the directors, strongly condemnatory of the conduct of the council, he called upon every voter in the burgh who had not taken the opposite side in the character of a councillor, with the exception of two, whose views he had previously ascertained to be unfavourable. and what, thinks our reader, was the result? seven councillors had voted on the anti-sabbatarian side; and the provost, for himself and the council, had afterwards signed the memorial. and of the voters outside, four were found to make common cause with them. two more did not make common cause with them, but were not prepared to condemn them, and so did not sign. there were thus fourteen in all who were either not opposed to the running of sabbath trains, or who were at least not disposed openly to denounce the parties who had memorialized the directors, in the name of the burgh, to the effect that sabbath trains should be run. of the other electors, ten were non-resident, five more were out of town at the time, three had fallen out of possession since the roll had been made up, and one was dead. and all the others, amounting to sixty-nine in number, at once signed the document condemnatory of the council, and were happy to have an opportunity of doing so. the available votes of the burgh were opposed to those of their pseudo-representatives in the proportion of nearly six to one. in the parliamentary burgh of cromarty an almost similar experiment was made. there, however, though the movement party had composed the majority of the council only a few years since, they had been cast out of office, partly through a strong reaction which had taken place against them, partly in consequence of a quarrel among themselves. and so the existing town council took the initiative in memorializing the directors in favour of the recent resolution not to run sunday trains. of all the voters of the burgh, only five stood aloof; all the others made common cause with the town council in attaching their names to their document. but it is a significant fact, that in the knot of five the ex-councillors of the movement party were included; and that had _they_ been in the council still, a majority would to a certainty have voted in the wake of the edinburgh town council. there is much instruction in facts such as these; and they may be turned to great practical account. why should not the sentiments of every voter in scotland be taken on this same sabbath question now? or what is there to prevent us from taking the sentiments of every voter in scotland on the popish endowment question by and by? it is a tedious and expensive matter to get up petitions, to which all and sundry affix their names; but the franchise-holders of scotland are comparatively a not very numerous class; and about the same amount of labour that goes to a monthly collection for the sustentation fund, would be quite sufficient to place before government and the country the full expression of _their_ feelings and opinions on the two leading questions of the day. but enough for the present--'a word to the wise.' _january , ._ sutherland as it was and is;{ } or, how a country may be ruined. chapter i. there appeared at paris, about five years ago, a singularly ingenious work on political economy, from the pen of the late m. de sismondi, a writer of european reputation. the greater part of the first volume is taken up with discussions on territorial wealth, and the condition of the cultivators of the soil; and in this portion of the work there is a prominent place assigned to a subject which perhaps few scotch readers would expect to see introduced through the medium of a foreign tongue to the people of a great continental state. we find this philosophic writer, whose works are known far beyond the limits of his language, devoting an entire essay to the case of the late duchess of sutherland and her tenants, and forming a judgment on it very unlike the decision of political economists in our own country, who have not hesitated to characterize her great and singularly harsh experiment, whose worst effects we are but beginning to see, as at once justifiable in itself and happy in its results. it is curious to observe how deeds done as if in darkness and a corner, are beginning, after the lapse of nearly thirty years, to be proclaimed on the house-tops. the experiment of the late duchess was not intended to be made in the eye of europe. its details would ill bear the exposure. when cobbett simply referred to it only ten years ago, the noble proprietrix was startled, as if a rather delicate family secret was on the eve of being divulged; and yet nothing seems more evident now than that civilised man all over the world is to be made aware of how the experiment was accomplished, and what it is ultimately to produce. it must be obvious, further, that the infatuation of the present proprietor, in virtually setting aside the toleration act on his property, must have the effect of spreading the knowledge of it all the more widely, and of rendering its results much more disastrous than they could have possibly been of themselves. in a time of quiet and good order, when law, whether in the right or the wrong, is all-potent in enforcing its findings, the argument which the philosophic frenchman employs in behalf of the ejected tenantry of sutherland, is an argument at which proprietors may afford to smile. in a time of revolution, however, when lands change their owners, and old families give place to new ones, it might be found somewhat formidable,--sufficiently so, at least, to lead a wise proprietor in an unsettled age rather to conciliate than oppress and irritate the class who would be able in such circumstances to urge it with most effect. it is not easy doing justice in a few sentences to the facts and reasonings of an elaborate essay; but the line of the argument runs somewhat thus. under the old celtic tenures--the only tenures, be it remembered, through which the lords of sutherland derive their rights to their lands--the _klaan_, or children of the soil, were the proprietors of the soil: 'the whole of sutherland,' says sismondi, belonged to 'the men of sutherland.' their chief was their monarch, and a very absolute monarch he was. 'he gave the different _tacks_ of land to his officers, or took them away from them, according as they showed themselves more or less useful in war. but though he could thus, in a military sense, reward or punish the clan, he could not diminish in the least the property of the clan itself;'--he was a chief, not a proprietor, and had 'no more right to expel from their homes the inhabitants of his county, than a king to expel from his country the inhabitants of his kingdom.' 'now, the gaelic tenant,' continues the frenchman, 'has never been conquered; nor did he forfeit, on any after occasion, the rights which he originally possessed;'--in point of right, he is still a co-proprietor with his captain. to a scotchman acquainted with the law of property as it has existed among us, in even the highlands, for the last century, and everywhere else for at least two centuries more, the view may seem extreme; not so, however, to a native of the continent, in many parts of which prescription and custom are found ranged, not on the side of the chief, but on that of the vassal. 'switzerland,' says sismondi, 'which in so many respects resembles scotland--in its lakes--its mountains--its climate--and the character, manners, and habits of its children--was likewise at the same period parcelled out among a small number of lords. if the counts of kyburgh, of lentzburg, of hapsburg, and of gruyeres, had been protected by the english laws, they would find themselves at the present day precisely in the condition in which the earls of sutherland were twenty years ago. some of them would perhaps have had the same taste for _improvements_, and several republics would have been expelled from the alps, to make room for flocks of sheep.' 'but while the law has given to the swiss peasant a guarantee of perpetuity, it is to the scottish laird that it has extended this guarantee in the british empire, leaving the peasant in a precarious situation.' 'the clan--recognised at first by the captain, whom they followed in war and obeyed for their common advantage, as his friends and relations, then as his soldiers, then as his vassals, then as his farmers--he has come finally to regard as hired labourers, whom he may perchance allow to remain on the soil of their common country for his own advantage, but whom he has the power to expel so soon as he no longer finds it for his interest to keep them.' arguments like those of sismondi, however much their force may be felt on the continent, could be formidable at home, as we have said, in only a time of revolution, when the very foundations of society would be unfixed, and opinion set loose, to pull down or reconstruct at pleasure. but it is surely not uninteresting to mark how, in the course of events, that very law of england which, in the view of the frenchman, has done the highland peasant so much less, and the highland chief so much more than justice, is bidding fair, in the case of sutherland at least, to carry its rude equalizing remedy along with it. between the years and , fifteen thousand inhabitants of this northern district were ejected from their snug inland farms, by means for which we would in vain seek a precedent, except, perchance, in the history of the irish massacre. but though the interior of the county was thus _improved_ into a desert, in which there are many thousands of sheep, but few human habitations, let it not be supposed by the reader that its general population, was in any degree lessened. so far was this from being the case, that the census of showed an increase over the census of of more than two hundred; and the present population of sutherland exceeds, by a thousand, its population before the change. the county has not been depopulated--its population has been merely arranged after a new fashion. the late duchess found it spread equally over the interior and the sea-coast, and in very comfortable circumstances;--she left it compressed into a wretched selvage of poverty and suffering, that fringes the county on its eastern and western shores. and the law which enabled her to make such an arrangement, maugre the ancient rights of the poor highlander, is now on the eve of stepping in, in its own clumsy way, to make her family pay the penalty. the evil of a poor-law can be no longer averted from scotland. however much we may dislike compulsory assessment for the support of our poor, it can be no longer avoided. our aristocracy have been working hard for it during the whole of the present century, and a little longer; the disruption of the scottish church, as the last in a series of events, all of which have tended towards it, has rendered it inevitable. let the evidence of the present commissioners on the subject be what it may, it cannot be of a kind suited to show that if england should have a poor-law, scotland should have none. the southern kingdom must and will give us a poor-law; and then shall the selvage of deep poverty which fringes the sea-coasts of sutherland avenge on the titled proprietor of the county both his mother's error and his own. if our british laws, unlike those of switzerland, failed miserably in _her_ day in protecting the vassal, they will more than fail, in those of her successor, in protecting the lord. our political economists shall have an opportunity of reducing their arguments regarding the improvements in sutherland into a few arithmetical terms, which the merest tyro will be able to grapple with. we find a similar case thus strongly stated by cobbett in his _northern tour_, and in connection with a well-known name:--'sir james graham has his estate lying off this road to the left. he has not been _clearing_ his estate--the poor-law would not let him do that; but he has been clearing off the small farms, and making them into large ones, which he had a right to do, because it is he himself that is finally to endure the consequences of that: he has a right to do that; and those who are made indigent in consequence of his so doing, have a right to demand a maintenance out of the land, according to the act of the d of elizabeth, which gave the people a compensation for the loss of the tithes and church lands which had been taken away by the aristocracy in the reigns of the tudors. if sir james graham choose to mould his fine and large estate into immense farms, and to break up numerous happy families in the middle rank of life, and to expose them all to the necessity of coming and demanding sustenance from his estate; if he choose to be surrounded by masses of persons in this state, he shall not call them _paupers_, for that insolent term is not to be found in the compensation-laws of elizabeth; if he choose to be surrounded by swarms of beings of this description, with feelings in their bosoms towards him such as i need not describe,--if he choose this, his right certainly extends thus far; but i tell him that he has no right to say to any man born in his parishes, "you shall not be here, and you shall not have a maintenance off these lands.'" there is but poor comfort, however, to know, when one sees a country ruined, that the perpetrators of the mischief have not ruined it to their own advantage. we purpose showing how signal in the case of sutherland this ruin has been, and how very extreme the infatuation which continues to possess its hereditary lord. we are old enough to remember the county in its original state, when it was at once the happiest and one of the most exemplary districts in scotland, and passed, at two several periods, a considerable time among its hills; we are not unacquainted with it now, nor with its melancholy and dejected people, that wear out life in their comfortless cottages on the sea-shore. the problem solved in this remote district of the kingdom is not at all unworthy the attention which it seems but beginning to draw, but which is already not restricted to one kingdom, or even one continent. ----- { } 'i will go and inquire upon the spot whether the natives of the county of sutherland were driven from the land of their birth by the countess of that name, and by her husband the marquis of stafford.... i wish to possess authentic information relative to that "clearing" affair; for though it took place twenty years ago, it may be just as necessary to inquire into it now. it may be quite proper to inquire into the means that were used to effect the clearing.'--cobbett. 'it is painful to dwell on this subject' [the present state of sutherland]; 'but as information communicated by men of honour, judgment, and perfect veracity, descriptive of what they daily witness, affords the best means of forming a correct judgment, and as these gentlemen, from their situations in life, have no immediate interest in the determination of the question, beyond what is dictated by humanity and a love of truth, their authority may be considered as undoubted.'--general stewart of garth. 'it is by a cruel abuse of legal forms--it is by an unjust usurpation--that the _tacksman_ and the tenant of sutherland are considered as having no right to the land which they have occupied for so many ages.... a count or earl has no more right to expel from their homes the inhabitants of his county, than a king to expel from his country the inhabitants of his kingdom.'--sismondi. chapter ii. we heard sermon in the open air with a poor highland congregation in sutherlandshire only a few weeks ago; and the scene was one which we shall not soon forget. the place of meeting was a green hill-side, near the opening of a deep, long withdrawing strath, with a river running through the midst. we stood on the slope where the last of a line of bold eminences, that form the southern side of the valley, sinks towards the sea. a tall precipitous mountain, reverend and hoary, and well fitted to tranquillize the mind, from the sober solemnity that rests on its massy features, rose fronting us on the north; a quiet burial-ground lay at its feet; while, on the opposite side, between us and the sea, there frowned an ancient stronghold of time-eaten stone--an impressive memorial of an age of violence and bloodshed. the last proprietor, says tradition, had to quit this dwelling by night, with all his family, in consequence of some unfortunate broil, and take refuge in a small coasting vessel; a terrible storm arose--the vessel foundered at sea--and the hapless proprietor and his children were nevermore heard of. and hence, it is said, the extinction of the race. the story speaks of an unsettled time; nor is it difficult to trace, in the long deep valley on the opposite hand, the memorials of a story not less sad, though much more modern. on both sides the river the eye rests on a multitude of scattered patches of green, that seem inlaid in the brown heath. we trace on these islands of sward the marks of furrows, and mark here and there, through the loneliness, the remains of a group of cottages, well-nigh levelled with the soil, and, haply like those ruins which eastern conquerors leave in their track, still scathed with fire. all is solitude within the valley, except where, at wide intervals, the shieling of a shepherd may be seen; but at its opening, where the hills range to the coast, the cottages for miles together lie clustered as in a hamlet. from the north of helmsdale to the south of port gower, the lower slopes of the hills are covered by a labyrinth of stone fences, minute patches of corn, and endless cottages. it would seem as if for twenty miles the long withdrawing valley had been swept of its inhabitants, and the accumulated sweepings left at its mouth, just as we see the sweepings of a room sometimes left at the door. and such generally is the present state of sutherland. the interior is a solitude occupied by a few sheep-farmers and their hinds; while a more numerous population than fell to the share of the entire county, ere the inhabitants were expelled from their inland holdings, and left to squat upon the coast, occupy the selvage of discontent and poverty that fringes its shores. the congregation with which we worshipped on this occasion was drawn mainly from these cottages, and the neighbouring village of helmsdale. it consisted of from six to eight hundred highlanders, all devoted adherents of the free church. we have rarely seen a more deeply serious assemblage; never certainly one that bore an air of such deep dejection. the people were wonderfully clean and decent; for it is ill with highlanders when they neglect their personal appearance, especially on a sabbath; but it was all too evident that the heavy hand of poverty rested upon them, and that its evils were now deepened by oppression. it might be a mere trick of association; but when their plaintive gaelic singing, so melancholy in its tones at all times, arose from the bare hill-side, it sounded in our ears like a deep wail of complaint and sorrow. poor people! 'we were ruined and reduced to beggary before,' they say, 'and now the gospel is taken from us.' nine-tenths of the poor people of sutherland are adherents of the free church--all of them in whose families the worship of god has been set up--all who entertain a serious belief in the reality of religion--all who are not the creatures of the proprietor, and have not stifled their convictions for a piece of bread--are devotedly attached to the disestablished ministers, and will endure none other. the residuary clergy they do not recognise as clergy at all. the established churches have become as useless in the district, as if, like its druidical circles, they represented some idolatrous belief, long exploded--the people will not enter them; and they respectfully petition his grace to be permitted to build other churches for themselves. and fain would his grace indulge them, he says. in accordance with the suggestions of an innate desire, willingly would he permit them to build their own churches and support their own ministers. but then, has he not loyally engaged to support the establishment? to permit a religious and inoffensive people to build their own places of worship, and support their own clergy, would be sanctioning a sort of persecution against the establishment; and as his grace dislikes religious persecution, and has determined always to oppose whatever tends to it, he has resolved to make use of his influence, as the most extensive of scottish proprietors, in forcing them back to their parish churches. if they persist in worshipping god agreeably to the dictates of their conscience, it must be on the unsheltered hill-side--in winter, amid the frosts and snows of a severe northern climate--in the milder seasons, exposed to the scorching sun and the drenching shower. they must not be permitted the shelter of a roof, for that would be persecuting the establishment; and so to the establishment must the people be forced back, literally by stress of weather. his grace owes a debt to the national institution, and it seems to irk his conscience until some equivalent be made. he is not himself a member--he exercises the same sort of liberty which his people would so fain exercise; and to make amends for daring to belong to another church himself (that of england), he has determined, if he can help it, that the people shall belong to no other. he has resolved, it would seem, to compound for his own liberty by depriving them of theirs. how they are to stand out the winter on this exposed eastern coast, he alone knows who never shuts his ear to the cry of the oppressed. one thing is certain, they will never return to the establishment. on this sabbath the congregation in the parish church did not, as we afterwards learned, exceed a score; and the _quoad sacra_ chapel of the district was locked up. long before the disruption the people had well-nigh ceased attending the ministrations of the parish incumbent. the sutherland highlanders are still a devout people; they like a bald mediocre essay none the better for its being called a sermon, and read on sabbath. the noble duke, their landlord, has said not a little in his letters to them about the extreme slightness of the difference which obtains between the free and the established churches: it is a difference so exceedingly slight, that his grace fails to see it; and he hopes that by and by, when winter shall have thickened the atmosphere with its frost rime and its snows, his poor tenantry may prove as unable to see it as himself. with them, however, the difference is not mainly a doctrinal one. they believe with the old earls of sutherland, who did much to foster the belief in this northern county, that there is such a thing as personal piety,--that of two clergymen holding nominally the same doctrines, and bound ostensibly by the same standards, one may be a regenerate man, earnestly bent on the conversion of others, and ready to lay down his worldly possessions, and even life itself, for the cause of the gospel; while the other may be an unregenerate man, so little desirous of the conversion of others, that he would but decry and detest them did he find them converted already, and so careless of the gospel, that did not his living depend on professing to preach it, he would neither be an advocate for it himself, nor yet come within earshot of where it was advocated by others. the highlanders of sutherland hold in deep seriousness a belief of this character. they believe, further, that the ministers of their own mountain district belong to these two classes--that the disruption of the scottish church has thrown the classes apart--that the residuaries are not men of personal piety--they have seen no conversions attending their ministry--nor have they lacked reason to deem them unconverted themselves. unlike his grace the duke, the people have been intelligent enough to see two sets of principles ranged in decided antagonism in the church question; but still more clearly have they seen two sets of men. they have identified the cause of the gospel with that of the-free church in their district; and neither the duke of sutherland nor the establishment which he is 'engaged in endeavouring to maintain,' will be able to reverse the opinion. we have said that his grace's ancestors, the old earls, did much to foster this spirit. the history of sutherland, as a county, differs from all our other highland districts. its two great families were those of reay and sutherland, both of which, from an early period of the reformation, were not only protestant, but also thoroughly evangelical. it was the venerable earl of sutherland who first subscribed the national covenant in the greyfriars. it was a scion of the reay family--a man of great personal piety--who led the troops of william against dundee at killiecrankie. their influence was all-powerful in sutherland, and directed to the best ends; and we find it stated by captain henderson, in his general view of the agriculture of the country, as a well-established and surely not uninteresting fact, that 'the crimes of rapine, murder, and plunder, though not unusual in the county during the feuds and conflicts of the clans, were put an end to about the year '--a full century before our other highland districts had become even partially civilised. 'pious earls and barons of former times,' says a native of the county, in a small work published in edinburgh about sixteen years ago, 'encouraged and patronized pious ministers, and a high tone of religious feeling came thus to be diffused throughout the country.' its piety was strongly of the presbyterian type; and in no district of the south were the questions which received such prominence in our late ecclesiastical controversy better understood by both the people and the patrons, than in sutherland a full century ago. we have before us an interesting document, the invitation of the elders, parishioners, and heritors of lairg, to the rev. thomas m'kay, , to be their minister, in which, 'hoping that' he would find their 'call, carried on with great sincerity, unanimity, and order, to be a clear call from the lord,' they faithfully promise to 'yield him, in their several stations and relations, all dutiful respect and encouragement.' william earl of sutherland was patron of the parish, but we find him on this occasion exercising no patronate powers: at the head of parishioners and elders he merely adhibits his name. he merely _invites_ with the others. the state of morals in the county was remarkably exemplified at a later period by the regiment of sutherland highlanders, embodied originally in , under the name of the sutherlandshire fencibles, and subsequently in as the d regiment. most other troops are drawn from among the unsettled and reckless part of the population; not so the sutherland highlanders. on the breaking out of the revolutionary war, the mother of the present duke summoned them from their hills, and five hundred fighting men marched down to dunrobin castle, to make a tender of their swords to their country, at the command of their chieftainess. the regiment, therefore, must be regarded as a fair specimen of the character of the district; and from the description of general stewart of garth, and one or two sources besides, we may learn what that character was. 'in the words of a general officer by whom they were once reviewed,' says general stewart, 'they exhibited a perfect pattern of military discipline and moral rectitude.' 'when stationed at the cape of good hope, anxious to enjoy the advantages of religious instruction agreeably to the tenets of their national church, and there being no religious service in the garrison except the customary one of reading prayers to the soldiers on parade, the sutherland men formed themselves into a congregation, appointed elders of their own number, engaged and paid a stipend (collected among themselves) to a clergyman of the church of scotland (who had gone out with an intention of teaching and preaching to the caffres), and had divine service performed agreeably to the ritual of the established church.... in addition to these expenses, the soldiers regularly remitted money to their relatives in sutherland. when they disembarked at plymouth in august , the inhabitants were both surprised and gratified. on such occasions it had been no uncommon thing for soldiers to spend in taverns and gin-shops the money they had saved. in the present case the soldiers of sutherland were seen in book-sellers' shops, supplying themselves with bibles and such books and tracts as they required. yet, as at the cape, where their religious habits were so free of all fanatical gloom that they occasionally indulged in social meetings and dancing, so here, while expending their money on books, they did not neglect their personal appearance; and the haberdashers' shops had also their share of trade, from the purchase of additional feathers to their bonnets, and such extra decorations as the correctness of military regulations allow to be introduced into the uniform. nor, while thus mindful of themselves--improving their mind and their personal appearance--did such of them as had relations in sutherland forget their destitute condition, _occasioned by the loss of their lands_, and the operation of the _improved state of the country_. during the short period that the regiment was quartered at plymouth, upwards of £ were lodged in one banking house to be remitted to sutherland, exclusive of many sums sent through the post office and by officers. some of the sums exceeded £ from an individual soldier.' 'in the case of such men,' continues the general, 'disgraceful punishment was as unnecessary as it would have been pernicious. indeed, so remote was the idea of such a measure in regard to them, that when punishments were to be inflicted on others, and the troops in camp, garrison, or quarters assembled to witness the execution, the presence of the sutherland highlanders--either of the fencibles or of the line--was dispensed with; the effect of terror, as a check to crime, being in their case uncalled for, "_as examples of that nature were not necessary for such honourable soldiers_." such were these men in garrison. how thoroughly they were guided by honour and loyalty in the field, was shown at new orleans. although many of their countrymen who had emigrated to america were ready and anxious to receive them, there was not an instance of desertion; nor did one of those who were left behind, wounded or prisoners, forget their allegiance and remain in that country, at the same time that desertions from the british army were but too frequent.' this is testimony which even men of the world will scarce suspect. we can supplement it by that of the missionary whom the sutherlandshire soldiers made choice of at cape town as their minister. we quote from a letter by the rev. mr. thom, which appeared in the _christian herald_ of october :-- 'when the d sutherland highlanders left cape town last month,' writes the reverend gentleman, 'there were among them members of the church (including three elders and three deacons), all of whom, so far as man can know the heart from the life, were pious persons. the regiment was certainly a pattern for morality and good behaviour to every other corps. they read their bibles; they observed the sabbath; they saved their money in order to do good; rix-dollars (£ currency) the non-commissioned officers and privates gave for books, societies, and the support of the gospel--a sum perhaps unparalleled in any other corps in the world, given in the short space of seventeen or eighteen months. their example had a general good effect on both the colonists and heathen. how they may act as to religion in other parts is known to god; but if ever apostolic days were revived in modern times on earth, i certainly believe some of these to have been granted to us in africa.' one other extract of a similar kind: we quote from a letter to the committee of the edinburgh gaelic school society, fourth annual report:-- 'the regiment ( d) arrived in england, when they immediately received orders to proceed to north america; but before they re-embarked, the sum collected for your society was made up, and has been remitted to your treasurer, amounting to seventy-eight pounds sterling.' we dwell with pleasure on this picture; and shall present the reader, in our next chapter, with a picture of similar character, taken from observation, of the homes in which these soldiers were reared. the reverse is all too stern, but we must exhibit _it_ also, and show how the influence which the old earls of sutherland employed so well, has been exerted by their descendants to the ruin of their country. but we must first give one other extract from general stewart. it indicates the track in which the ruin came. 'men like these,' he says, referring to the sutherland highlanders, 'do credit to the peasantry of the country. if this conclusion is well founded, the removal of so many of the people from their ancient seats, where they acquired those habits and principles, must be considered a public loss of no common magnitude. it must appear strange, and somewhat inconsistent, when the same persons who are loud in their professions of an eager desire to promote and preserve the religious and moral virtues of the people, should so frequently take the lead in approving of measures which, by removing them from where they imbibed principles which have attracted the notice of europe, and placed them in situations where poverty, and the too frequent attendants, vice and crime, will lay the foundation of a character which will be a disgrace, as that already obtained has been an honour, to this country. in the new stations where so many highlanders are now placed, and crowded in such numbers as to preserve the numerical population, while whole districts are left without inhabitants, how can they resume their ancient character and principles, which, according to the reports of those employed by the proprietors, have been so deplorably broken down and deteriorated--a deterioration which was entirely unknown till the recent change in the condition of the people, and the introduction of that system of placing families on patches of potato ground, as in ireland--a system pregnant with degradation, poverty, and disaffection, and exhibiting daily a prominent and deplorable example, which might have forewarned highland proprietors, and prevented them from reducing their people to a similar state? it is only when parents and heads of families in the highlands are moral, happy, and contented, that they can instil sound principles into their children, who, in their intercourse with the world, may once more become what the men of sutherland have already been, "an honourable example, worthy the imitation of all.'" chapter iii. we have exhibited the sutherland highlanders to the reader as they exhibited themselves to their country, when, as christian soldiers,--men, like the old chivalrous knight, 'without fear or reproach,'--they fought its battles and reflected honour on its name. interest must attach to the manner in which men of so high a moral tone were reared; and a sketch drawn from personal observation of the interior of sutherland eight-and-twenty years ago, may be found to throw very direct light on the subject. to know what the district once was, and what it is now, is to know with peculiar emphasis the meaning of the sacred text, 'one sinner destroyeth much good.' the eye of a triptolemus yellowlee would have found exceedingly little to gratify it in the parish of lairg thirty years ago. the parish had its bare hills, its wide, dark moors, its old doddered woods of birch and hazel, its extensive lake, its headlong river, and its roaring cataract. nature had imparted to it much of a wild and savage beauty; but art had done nothing for it. to reverse the well-known antithesis in which goldsmith sums up his description of italy,--the only growth that had _not_ dwindled in it was man. the cottage in which we resided with an aged relative and his two stalwart sons, might be regarded as an average specimen of the human dwellings of the district. it was a low long building of turf, consisting of four apartments on the ground floor,--the one stuck on to the end of the other, and threaded together by a passage that connected the whole. from the nearest hill the cottage reminded one of a huge black snail crawling up the slope. the largest of the four apartments was occupied by the master's six milk cows; the next in size was the ha', or sitting-room,--a rude but not uncomfortable apartment, with the fire on a large flat stone in the middle of the floor. the apartment adjoining was decently partitioned into sleeping places; while the fourth and last in the range--more neatly fitted up than any of the others, with furniture the workmanship of a bred carpenter, a small bookcase containing from forty to fifty volumes, and a box-bed of deal--was known as the stranger's room. there was a straggling group of buildings outside, in the same humble style,--a stable, a barn, a hay-barn, a sheep-pen with a shed attached, and a milk-house; and stretching around the whole lay the farm,--a straggling patch of corn land of from twelve to fifteen acres in extent, that, from its extremely irregular outline, and the eccentric forms of the parti-coloured divisions into which it was parcelled, reminded one of a coloured map. encircling all was a wide sea of heath studded with huge stones--the pasturage land of the farmer for his sheep and cattle--which swept away on every hand to other islands of corn and other groups of cottages, identical in appearance with the corn land and the cottages described. we remember that, coming from a seaport town, where, to give to property the average security, the usual means had to be resorted to, we were first struck by finding that the door of our relative's cottage, in this inland parish, was furnished with neither lock nor bar. like that of the hermit in the ballad, it opened with a latch; but, unlike that of the hermit, it was not because there were no stores under the humble roof to demand the care of the master. it was because that, at this comparatively recent period, the crime of theft was unknown in the district. the philosophic biot, when occupied in measuring the time of the seconds pendulum, resided for several months in one of the smaller shetland islands; and, fresh from the troubles of france,--his imagination bearing about, if we may so speak, the stains of the guillotine,--the state of trustful security in which he found the simple inhabitants filled him with astonishment. 'here,' he exclaimed, 'during the twenty-five years in which europe has been devouring herself, the door of the house i inhabit has remained open day and night.' the whole interior of sutherland was, at the time of which we write, in a similar condition. it did not surprise us that the old man, a person of deep piety, regularly assembled his household night and morning for the purpose of family worship, and led in their devotions: we had seen many such instances in the low country. but it did somewhat surprise us to find the practice universal in the parish. in every family had the worship of god been set up. one could not pass an inhabited cottage in the evening, from which the voice of psalms was not to be heard. on sabbath morning, the whole population might be seen wending their way, attired in their best, along the blind half-green paths in the heath, to the parish church. the minister was greatly beloved, and all attended his ministrations. we still remember the intense joy which his visits used to impart to the household of our relative. this worthy clergyman still lives, though the infirmities of a stage of life very advanced have gathered round him; and at the late disruption, choosing his side, and little heeding, when duty called, that his strength had been wasted in the labour of forty years, and that he could now do little more than testify and suffer in behalf of his principles, he resigned his hold of the temporalities as minister of dornoch, and cast in his lot with his brethren of the free church. and his venerable successor in lairg, a man equally beloved and exemplary, and now on the verge of his eightieth year, has acted a similar part. had such sacrifices been made in such circumstances for other than the cause of christ--had they been made under some such romantic delusion as misled of old the followers of the stuarts--the world would have appreciated them highly; but there is an element in evangelism which repels admiration, unless it be an admiration grounded in faith and love; and the appeal in such cases must lie, therefore, not to the justice of the world, but to the judgment-seat of god. we may remind the reader, in passing, that it was the venerable minister of lairg who, on quitting his manse on the disruption, was received by his widowed daughter into a cottage held of the duke of sutherland, and that for this grave crime--the crime of sheltering her aged father--the daughter was threatened with ejection by one of the duke's creatures. is it not somewhat necessary that the breath of public opinion should be let in on this remote country? but we digress. a peculiar stillness seemed to rest over this highland parish on the sabbath. the family devotions of the morning, the journey to and from church, and the public services there, occupied fully two-thirds of the day. but there remained the evening, and of it the earlier part was spent in what are known in the north country as fellowship meetings. one of these was held regularly in the 'ha'' of our relative. from fifteen to twenty people, inclusive of the family, met for the purposes of social prayer and religious conversation, and the time passed profitably away, till the closing night summoned the members of the meeting to their respective homes and their family duties. we marked an interesting peculiarity in the devotions of our relative. he was, as we have said, an old man, and had worshipped in his family long ere dr. stewart's gaelic translation of the scriptures had been introduced into the county; and as he was supplied in those days with only the english bible, while his domestics understood only gaelic, he had to acquire the art, not uncommon in sutherland at the time, of translating the english chapter for them, as he read, into their native tongue; and this he had learned to do with such ready fluency, that no one could have guessed it to be other than a gaelic work from which he was reading. it might have been supposed, however, that the introduction of dr. stewart's edition would have rendered this mode of translation obsolete; but in this and many other families such was not the case. the old man's gaelic was _sutherlandshire gaelic_. his family understood it better, in consequence, than any other; and so he continued to translate from his english bible, _ad aperturam libri_, many years after the gaelic edition had been spread over the county. the fact that such a practice should have been common in sutherland, says something surely for the intelligence of the family patriarchs of the district. that thousands of the people who knew the scriptures through no other medium, should have been intimately acquainted with the saving doctrines and witnesses of their power (and there can be no question that such was the case), is proof enough, at least, that it was a practice carried on with a due perception of the scope and meaning of the sacred volume. one is too apt to associate intelligence with the external improvements of a country--with well-enclosed fields and whitewashed cottages; but the association is altogether a false one. as shown by the testimony of general stewart of garth, the sutherland regiment was not only the most eminently moral, but, as their tastes and habits demonstrated, one of the most decidedly intellectual under the british crown. our relative's cottage had, as we have said, its bookcase, and both his sons were very intelligent men; but intelligence derived directly from books was not general in the county; a very considerable portion of the people understood no other language than gaelic, and many of them could not even read; for at this period about one-tenth of the families of sutherland were distant five or more miles from the nearest school. their characteristic intelligence was of a kind otherwise derived: it was an intelligence drawn from these domestic readings of the scriptures and from the pulpit; and is referred mainly to that profound science which even a newton could recognise as more important and wonderful than any of the others, but which many of the shallower intellects of our own times deem no science at all. it was an intelligence out of which their morality sprung; it was an intelligence founded in earnest belief. but what, asks the reader, was the economic condition--the condition with regard to circumstances and means of living--of these sutherland highlanders? how did they fare? the question has been variously answered: much must depend on the class selected from among them as specimens of the whole,--much, too, taking for granted the honesty of the party who replies, on his own condition in life, and his acquaintance with the circumstances of the poorer people of scotland generally. the county had its less genial localities, in which, for a month or two in the summer season, when the stock of grain from the previous year was fast running out, and the crops on the ground not yet ripened for use, the people experienced a considerable degree of scarcity,--such scarcity as a mechanic in the south feels when he has been a fortnight out of employment. but the highlander had resources in these seasons which the mechanic has not. he had his cattle and his wild pot-herbs, such as the mugwort and the nettle. it has been adduced by the advocates of the change which has ruined sutherland, as a proof of the extreme hardship of the highlander's condition, that at such times he could have eaten as food a broth made of nettles, mixed up with a little oatmeal, or have had recourse to the expedient of bleeding his cattle, and making the blood into a sort of pudding. and it is quite true that the sutherlandshire highlander was in the habit, at such times, of having recourse to such food. it is not less true, however, that the statement is just as little conclusive regarding his condition, as if it were alleged there must always be famine in france when the people eat the hind legs of frogs, or in italy when they make dishes of snails. we never saw scarcity in the house of our relative, but we have seen the nettle broth in it very frequently, and the blood-pudding oftener than once; for both dishes were especial favourites with the highlanders. with regard to the general comfort of the people in their old condition, there are better tests than can be drawn from the kind of food they occasionally ate. the country hears often of dearth in sutherland now: every year in which the crop falls a little below average in other districts, is a year of famine there; but the country never heard of dearth in sutherland then. there were very few among the holders of its small inland farms who had not saved a little money. their circumstances were such, that their moral nature found full room to develope itself, and in a way the world has rarely witnessed. never were there a happier or more contented people, or a people more strongly attached to the soil; and not one of them now lives in the altered circumstances on which they were so rudely precipitated by the landlord, who does not look back on this period of comfort and enjoyment with sad and hopeless regret. we have never heard the system which has depopulated this portion of the country defended, without recurring to our two several visits to the turf cottage in lairg, or without feeling that the defence embodied an essential falsehood, which time will not fail to render evident to the apprehensions of all. we would but fatigue our readers were we to run over half our recollections of the interior of sutherland. they are not all of a serious cast. we have sat in the long autumn evenings in the cheerful circle round the turf-fire of the ha', and have heard many a tradition of old clan feuds pleasingly told, and many a song of the poet of the county, old rob donn, gaily sung. in our immediate neighbourhood, by the side of a small stream--small, but not without its supply of brown trout, speckled with crimson--there was a spot of green meadow land, on which the young men of the neighbourhood used not unfrequently to meet and try their vigour in throwing the stone. the stone itself had its history. it was a ball of gneiss, round as a bullet, that had once surmounted the gable of a small popish chapel, of which there now remained only a shapeless heap of stones, that scarce overtopped the long grass amid which it lay. a few undressed flags indicated an ancient burying-ground; and over the ruined heap, and the rude tombstones that told no story, an ancient time-hallowed tree, coeval with the perished building, stretched out its giant arms. even the sterner occupations of the farm had in their very variety a strong smack of enjoyment. we found one of the old man's sons engaged, during our one visit, in building an outhouse, after the primitive fashion of the highlands, and during our other visit, in constructing a plough. the two main _cupples_ of the building he made of huge trees, dug out of a neighbouring morass; they resembled somewhat the beams of a large sloop reversed. the stones he carried from the outfield heath on a sledge; the interstices in the walls he caulked with moss; the roof he covered with sods. the entire erection was his workmanship, from foundation to ridge. and such, in brief, was the history of all those cottages in the interior of sutherland, which the poor highlanders so naturally deemed their own, but from which, when set on fire and burnt to the ground by the creatures of the proprietor, they were glad to escape with their lives. the plough, with the exception of the iron work, was altogether our relative's workmanship too. and such was the history of the rude implements of rural or domestic labour which were consumed in the burning dwellings. but we anticipate. there is little of gaiety or enjoyment among the highlanders of sutherland now. we spent a considerable time for two several years among their thickly-clustered cottages on the eastern coast, and saw how they live, and how it happens that when years of comparative scarcity come on they starve. most of them saved, when in the interior, as we have said, a little money; but the process has been reversed here: in every instance in which they brought their savings to the coast-side has the fund been dissipated. each cottage has from half an acre to an acre and half of corn land attached to it--just such patches as the irish starve upon. in some places, by dint of sore labour, the soil has been considerably improved; and all that seems necessary to render it worth the care of a family, would be just to increase its area some ten or twelve times. in other cases, however, increase would be no advantage. we find it composed of a loose debris of granitic water-rolled pebbles and ferruginous sand, that seemed destined to perpetual barrenness. the rents, in every instance, seem moderate; the money of the tenant flows towards the landlord in a stream of not half the volume of that in which the money of the landlord must flow towards the tenant when the poor-laws shall be extended to scotland. but no rent, in such circumstances, can be really moderate. a clergyman, when asked to say how many of his parishioners, in one of these coast districts, realized _less_ than sixpence a-day, replied, that it would be a much easier matter for him to point out how many of them realized _more_ than sixpence, as this more fortunate class were exceedingly few. and surely no rent can be moderate that is paid by a man who realizes less than sixpence a-day. it is the peculiar evil produced by the change in sutherland, that it has consigned the population of the country to a condition in which no rent _can_ be moderate--to a condition in which they but barely avoid famine, when matters are at the best with them, and fall into it in every instance in which the herring fishing, their main and most precarious stay, partially fails, or their crops are just a little more than usually scanty. they are in such a state, that their very means of living are sources, not of comfort, but of distress to them. when the fishing and their crops are comparatively abundant, they live on the bleak edge of want; while failure in either plunges them into a state of intense suffering. and well are these highlanders aware of the true character of the revolution to which they have been subjected. our poor-law commissioners may find, in this land of growing pauperism, thousands as poor as the people of sutherland; but they will find no class of the population who can so directly contrast their present destitution with a state of comparative plenty and enjoyment, or who, in consequence of possessing this sad ability, are so deeply imbued with a too well-grounded and natural discontent. but we have not yet said how this ruinous revolution was effected in sutherland,--how the aggravations of the _mode_, if we may so speak, still fester in the recollections of the people,--or how thoroughly that policy of the lord of the soil, through which he now seems determined to complete the work of ruin which his predecessor began, harmonizes with its worst details. we must first relate, however, a disastrous change which took place, in the providence of god, in the noble family of sutherland, and which, though it dates fully eighty years back, may be regarded as pregnant with the disasters which afterwards befell the country. chapter iv. such of our readers as are acquainted with the memoir of lady glenorchy, must remember a deeply melancholy incident which occurred in the history of this excellent woman, in connection with the noble family of sutherland. her only sister had been married to william, seventeenth earl of sutherland,--'the last of the good earls;' 'a nobleman,' says the rev. dr. jones, in his memoir, 'who to the finest person united all the dignity and amenity of manners and character which give lustre to greatness.' but his sun was destined soon to go down. five years after his marriage, which proved one of the happiest, and was blessed with two children, the elder of the two, the young lady catherine, a singularly engaging child, was taken from him by death, in his old hereditary castle of dunrobin. the event deeply affected both parents, and preyed on their health and spirits. it had taken place amid the gloom of a severe northern winter, and in the solitude of the highlands; and, acquiescing in the advice of friends, the earl and his lady quitted the family seat, where there was so much to remind them of their bereavement, and sought relief in the more cheerful atmosphere of bath. but they were not to find it there. shortly after their arrival, the earl was seized by a malignant fever, with which, upheld by a powerful constitution, he struggled for fifty-four days, and then expired. 'for the first twenty-one days and nights of these,' says dr. jones, 'lady sutherland never left his bedside; and then at last, overcome with fatigue, anxiety, and grief, she sank an unavailing victim to an amiable but excessive attachment, seventeen days before the death of her lord.' the period, though not very remote, was one in which the intelligence of events travelled slowly; and in this instance the distraction of the family must have served to retard it beyond the ordinary time. her ladyship's mother, when hastening from edinburgh to her assistance, alighted one day from her carriage at an inn, and, on seeing two hearses standing by the wayside, inquired of an attendant whose remains they contained? the remains, was the reply, of lord and lady sutherland, on their way for interment to the royal chapel of holyrood house. and such was the first intimation which the lady received of the death of her daughter and son-in-law. the event was pregnant with disaster to sutherland, though many years elapsed ere the ruin which it involved fell on that hapless county. the sole survivor and heir of the family was a female infant of but a year old. her maternal grandmother, an ambitious, intriguing woman of the world, had the chief share in her general training and education; and she was brought up in the south of scotland, of which her grandmother was a native, far removed from the influence of those genial sympathies with the people of her clan, for which the old lords of sutherland had been so remarkable, and, what was a sorer evil still, from the influence of the vitalities of that religion which, for five generations together, her fathers had illustrated and adorned. the special mode in which the disaster told first, was through the patronages of the county, the larger part of which are vested in the family of sutherland. some of the old earls had been content, as we have seen, to place themselves on the level of the christian men of their parishes, and thus to unite with them in calling to their churches the christian ministers of their choice. they knew,--what regenerate natures can alone know with the proper emphasis,--that in christ jesus the vassal ranks with his lord, and they conscientiously acted on the conviction. but matters were now regulated differently. the presentation supplanted the call, and ministers came to be placed in the parishes of sutherland without the consent and contrary to the will of the people. churches, well filled hitherto, were deserted by their congregations, just because a respectable woman of the world, making free use of what she deemed her own, had planted them with men of the world who were only tolerably respectable; and in houses and barns the devout men of the district learned to hold numerously-attended sabbath meetings for reading the scriptures, and mutual exhortation and prayer, as a sort of substitute for the public services, in which they found they could no longer join with profit. the spirit awakened by the old earls had survived themselves, and ran directly counter to the policy of their descendant. strongly attached to the establishment, the people, though they thus forsook their old places of worship, still remained members of the national church, and travelled far in the summer season to attend the better ministers of their own and the neighbouring counties. we have been assured, too, from men whose judgment we respect, that, under all their disadvantages, religion continued peculiarly to flourish among them;--a deep-toned evangelism prevailed; so that perhaps the visible church throughout the world at the time could furnish no more striking contrast than that which obtained between the cold, bald, commonplace services of the pulpit in some of these parishes, and the fervid prayers and exhortations which give life and interest to these humble meetings of the people. what a pity it is that differences such as these the duke of sutherland cannot see! the marriage of the young countess into a noble english family was fraught with further disaster to the county. there are many englishmen quite intelligent enough to perceive the difference between a smoky cottage of turf and a whitewashed cottage of stone, whose judgment on their respective inhabitants would be of but little value. sutherland, as a country of _men_, stood higher at this period than perhaps any other district in the british empire; but, as our descriptions in the preceding chapter must have shown,--and we indulged in them mainly with a view to this part of our subject,--it by no means stood high as a country of farms and cottages. the marriage of the countess brought a new set of eyes upon it,--eyes accustomed to quite a different face of things. it seemed a wild, rude country, where all was wrong, and all had to be set right,--a sort of russia on a small scale, that had just got another peter the great to civilise it,--or a sort of barbarous egypt, with an energetic ali pasha at its head. even the vast wealth and great liberality of the stafford family militated against this hapless county: it enabled them to treat it as the mere subject of an interesting experiment, in which gain to themselves was really no object,--nearly as little so as if they had resolved on dissecting a dog alive for the benefit of science. it was a still further disadvantage, that they had to carry on their experiment by the hands, and to watch its first effects with the eyes, of others. the agonies of the dog might have had their softening influence on a dissector who held the knife himself; but there could be no such influence exerted over him, did he merely issue orders to his footman that the dissection should be completed, remaining himself, meanwhile, out of sight and out of hearing. the plan of improvement sketched out by his english family was a plan exceedingly easy of conception. here is a vast tract of land, furnished with two distinct sources of wealth. its shores may be made the seats of extensive fisheries, and the whole of its interior parcelled out into productive sheep-farms. all is waste in its present state: it has no fisheries, and two-thirds of its internal produce is consumed by the inhabitants. it had contributed, for the use of the community and the landlord, its large herds of black cattle; but the english family saw, and, we believe, saw truly, that for every one pound of beef which it produced, it could be made to produce two pounds of mutton, and perhaps a pound of fish in addition. and it was resolved, therefore, that the inhabitants of the central districts, who, _as they were mere celts_, could not be transformed, it was held, into store-farmers, should be marched down to the sea-side, there to convert themselves into fishermen, on the shortest possible notice, and that a few farmers of capital, of the industrious lowland race, should be invited to occupy the new subdivisions of the interior. and, pray, what objections can be urged against so liberal and large-minded a scheme? the poor inhabitants of the interior had _very_ serious objections to urge against it. their humble dwellings were of their own rearing; it was they themselves who had broken in their little fields from the waste; from time immemorial, far beyond the reach of history, had they possessed their mountain holdings,--they had defended them so well of old that the soil was still virgin ground, in which the invader had found only a grave; and their young men were now in foreign lands, fighting, at the command of their chieftainess, the battles of their country, not in the character of hired soldiers, but of men who regarded these very holdings as their stake in the quarrel. to them, then, the scheme seemed fraught with the most flagrant, the most monstrous injustice. were it to be suggested by some chartist convention in a time of revolution, that sutherland might be still further improved--that it was really a piece of great waste to suffer the revenues of so extensive a district to be squandered by one individual--that it would be better to appropriate them to the use of the community in general--that the community in general might be still further benefited by the removal of the one said individual from dunrobin to a road-side, where he might be profitably employed in breaking stones--and that this new arrangement could not be entered on too soon--the noble duke would not be a whit more astonished, or rendered a whit more indignant, by the scheme, than were the highlanders of sutherland by the scheme of his predecessor. the reader must keep in view, therefore, that if atrocities unexampled in britain for at least a century were perpetrated in the _clearing_ of sutherland, there was a species of at least passive resistance on the part of the people (for active resistance there was none), which in some degree provoked them. had the highlanders, on receiving orders, marched down to the sea-coast, and become fishermen, with the readiness with which a regiment deploys on review day, the atrocities would, we doubt not, have been much fewer. but though the orders were very distinct, the highlanders were very unwilling to obey; and the severities formed merely a part of the means through which the necessary obedience was ultimately secured. we shall instance a single case, as illustrative of the process. in the month of march , a large proportion of the highlanders of farr and kildonan, two parishes in sutherland, were summoned to quit their farms in the following may. in a few days after, the surrounding heaths on which they pastured their cattle, and from which at that season the sole supply of herbage is derived (for in those northern districts the grass springs late, and the cattle-feeder in the spring months depends chiefly on the heather), were set on fire and burnt up. there was that sort of policy in the stroke which men deem allowable in a state of war. the starving cattle went roaming over the burnt pastures, and found nothing to eat. many of them perished, and the greater part of what remained, though in miserable condition, the highlanders had to sell perforce. most of the able-bodied men were engaged in this latter business at a distance from home, when the dreaded term-day came on. the pasturage had been destroyed before the legal term, and while, in even the eye of the law, it was still the property of the poor highlanders; but ere disturbing them in their dwellings, term-day was suffered to pass. the work of demolition then began. a numerous party of men, with a factor at their head, entered the district, and commenced pulling down the houses over the heads of the inhabitants. in an extensive tract of country not a human dwelling was left standing, and then, the more effectually to prevent their temporary re-erection, the destroyers set fire to the wreck. in one day were the people deprived of home and shelter, and left exposed to the elements. many deaths are said to have ensued from alarm, fatigue, and cold. pregnant women were taken with premature labour in the open air. there were old men who took to the woods and rocks in a state of partial insanity. an aged bedridden man, named macbeath, had his house unroofed over his head, and was left exposed to wind and rain till death put a period to his sufferings. another man lying ill of a fever met with no tenderer treatment, but in his case the die turned up life. a bedridden woman, nearly a hundred years of age, had her house fired over her head, and ere she could be extricated from the burning wreck, the sheets in which she was carried were on fire. she survived but for five days after. in a critique on the work of sismondi, which appeared a few months since in the _westminster review_, the writer tells us, 'it has even been said that an old man, having refused to quit his cabin, perished in the flames.' but such was not the case. the constituted authorities interfered; a precognition was taken by the sheriff-substitute of the county, and the case tried before the justiciary court at inverness; but the trial terminated in the acquittal of the pannels. there was no punishable crime proven to attach to the agents of the proprietor. their acquittal was followed by scenes of a similar character with the scene described, and of even greater atrocity. but we must borrow the description of one of these from the historian of the _clearing_ of sutherland,--donald m'leod, a native of the county, and himself a sufferer in the experimental process to which it was subjected:-- 'the work of devastation was begun by setting fire to the houses of the small tenants in extensive districts--farr, rogart, golspie, and the whole parish of kildonan. i was an eye-witness of the scene. the calamity came on the people quite unexpectedly. strong parties for each district, furnished with faggots and other combustibles, rushed on the dwellings of the devoted people, and immediately commenced setting fire to them, proceeding in their work with the greatest rapidity, till about three hundred houses were in flames. little or no time was given for the removal of persons or property--the consternation and confusion were extreme--the people striving to remove the sick and helpless before the fire should reach them--next struggling to save the most valuable of their effects--the cries of the women and children--the roaring of the affrighted cattle, hunted by the dogs of the shepherds amid the smoke and the fire--altogether composed a scene that completely baffles description. a dense cloud of smoke enveloped the whole country by day, and even extended far on the sea. at night, an awfully grand but terrific scene presented itself--all the houses in an extensive district in flames at once. i myself ascended a height about eleven o'clock in the evening, and counted two hundred and fifty blazing houses, many of the owners of which were my relations, and all of whom i personally knew, but whose present condition i could not tell. the conflagration lasted six days, till the whole of the dwellings were reduced to ashes or smoking ruins. during one of these days, a boat lost her way in the dense smoke as she approached the shore, but at night she was enabled to reach a landing-place by the light of the flames.' but, to employ the language of southey, 'things such as these, we know, must be at every famous victory.' and in this instance the victory of the lord of the soil over the children of the soil was signal and complete. in little more than nine years a population of fifteen thousand individuals were removed from the interior of sutherland to its sea-coasts, or had emigrated to america. the inland districts were converted into deserts, through which the traveller may take a long day's journey, amid ruins that still bear the scathe of fire, and grassy patches betraying, when the evening sun casts aslant its long deep shadows, the half-effaced lines of the plough. the writer of the singularly striking passage we have just quoted, revisited his native place (kildonan) in the year , and attended divine service in the parish church. a numerous and devout congregation had once worshipped there: the congregation now consisted of eight shepherds and their _dogs_. in a neighbouring district--the barony of strathnaver, a portion of the parish of farr--the church, no longer found necessary, was razed to the ground. the timber was carried away to be used in the erection of an inn, and the minister's house converted into the dwelling of a fox-hunter. 'a woman well known in the parish,' says m'leod, 'happening to traverse the strath the year after the burning, was asked, on her return, what news? "oh," said she, "_sgeul bronach, sgeul bronach!_ sad news, sad news! i have seen the timber of our kirk covering the inn at altnaharran; i have seen the kirkyard, where our friends are mouldering, filled with tarry sheep, and mr. sage's study-room a kennel for robert gun's dogs.'" chapter v. let us follow, for a little, the poor highlanders of sutherland to the sea-coast. it would be easy dwelling on the terrors of their expulsion, and multiplying facts of horror; but had there been no permanent deterioration effected in their condition, these, all harrowing and repulsive as they were, would have mattered less. sutherland would have soon recovered the burning up of a few hundred hamlets, or the loss of a few bedridden old people, who would have died as certainly under cover, though perhaps a few months later, as when exposed to the elements in the open air. nay, had it lost a thousand of its best men in the way in which it lost so many at the storming of new orleans, the blank ere now would have been completely filled up. the calamities of fire or of decimation even, however distressing in themselves, never yet ruined a country: no calamity ruins a country that leaves the surviving inhabitants to develope, in their old circumstances, their old character and resources. in one of the eastern eclogues of collins, where two shepherds are described as flying for their lives before the troops of a ruthless invader, we see with how much of the terrible the imagination of a poet could invest the evils of war, when aggravated by pitiless barbarity. fertile as that imagination was, however, there might be found new circumstances to heighten the horrors of the scene--circumstances beyond the reach of invention--in the retreat of the sutherland highlanders from the smoking ruins of their cottages to their allotments on the coast. we have heard of one man, named m'kay, whose family, at the time of the greater conflagration referred to by m'leod, were all lying ill of fever, who had to carry two of his sick children on his back a distance of twenty-five miles. we have heard of the famished people blackening the shores, like the crew of some vessel wrecked on an inhospitable coast, that they might sustain life by the shell-fish and sea-weed laid bare by the ebb. many of their allotments, especially on the western coast, were barren in the extreme--unsheltered by bush or tree, and exposed to the sweeping sea-winds, and, in time of tempest, to the blighting spray; and it was found a matter of the extremest difficulty to keep the few cattle which they had retained, from wandering, especially in the night-time, into the better sheltered and more fertile interior. the poor animals were intelligent enough to read a practical comment on the nature of the change effected; and, from the harshness of the shepherds to whom the care of the interior had been entrusted, they served materially to add to the distress of their unhappy masters. they were getting continually impounded; and vexatious fines, in the form of trespass-money, came thus to be wrung from the already impoverished highlanders. many who had no money to give were obliged to relieve them by depositing some of their few portable articles of value, such as bed or body clothes, or, more distressing still, watches and rings and pins--the only relics, in not a few instances, of brave men whose bones were mouldering under the fatal rampart at new orleans, or in the arid sands of egypt--on that spot of proud recollection, where the invincibles of napoleon went down before the highland bayonet. their first efforts as fishermen were what might be expected from a rural people unaccustomed to the sea. the shores of sutherland, for immense tracts together, are iron-bound, and much exposed--open on the eastern coast to the waves of the german ocean, and on the north and west to the long roll of the atlantic. there could not be more perilous seas for the unpractised boatman to take his first lessons on; but though the casualties were numerous, and the loss of life great, many of the younger highlanders became expert fishermen. the experiment was harsh in the extreme, but so far, at least, it succeeded. it lies open, however, to other objections than those which have been urged against it on the score of its inhumanity. the reader must be acquainted with goldsmith's remarks on the herring fishery of his days. 'a few years ago,' he says, 'the herring fishing employed all grub street; it was the topic in every coffee-house, and the burden of every ballad. we were to drag up oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea; we were to supply all europe with herrings upon our own terms. at present, however, we hear no more of all this; we have fished up very little gold that i can learn; nor do we furnish the world with herrings, as was expected.' we have, in this brief passage, a history of all the more sanguine expectations which have been founded on herring fisheries. there is no branch of industry so calculated to awaken the hopes of the speculator, or so suited to disappoint them. so entirely is this the case, that were we desirous to reduce an industrious people to the lowest stage of wretchedness compatible with industry, we would remove them to some barren district, and there throw them on the resources of this fishery exclusively. the employments of the herring fisher have all the uncertainty of the ventures of the gambler. he has first to lay down, if we may so speak, a considerable stake, for his drift of nets and his boat involve a very considerable outlay of capital; and if successful, and if in general the fishery be _not_ successful, the _take_ of a single week may more than remunerate him. a single cast of his nets may bring him in thirty guineas and more. the die turns up in his favour, and he sweeps the board. and hence those golden dreams of the speculator so happily described by goldsmith. but year after year may pass, and the run of luck be against the fisherman. a fishing generally good at all the stations gluts the market, necessarily limited in its demands to an average supply, and, from the bulk and weight of the commodity, not easily extended to distant parts: and the herring merchant first, and the fisherman next, find that they have been labouring hard to little purpose. again, a fishing under average, from the eccentric character of the fish, is found almost always to benefit a few, and to ruin a great many. the average deficiency is never equally spread over the fishermen; one sweeps the board--another loses all. nor are the cases few in which the accustomed shoal wholly deserts a tract of coast for years together; and thus the lottery, precarious at all times, becomes a lottery in which there are only blanks to be drawn. the wealthy speculator might perhaps watch such changes, and by supplementing the deficiency of one year by the abundance of another, give to the whole a character of average; but alas for the poor labouring man placed in such circumstances! the yearly disbursements of our scottish fishery board, in the way of assistance to poverty-struck fishermen, unable even to repair their boats, testify all too tangibly that they cannot regulate their long runs of ill luck by their temporary successes! and if such be the case among our hereditary fishermen of the north, who derive more than half their sustenance from the white fishery, how much more must it affect those fishermen of sutherland, who, having no market for their white fish in the depopulated interior, and no merchants settled among them to find markets farther away, have to depend exclusively on their herring fishing! the experiment which precipitated the population of the country on its barer skirts, as some diseases precipitate the humours on the extremities, would have been emphatically a disastrous one, so far at least as the people were concerned, even did it involve no large amount of human suffering, and no deterioration of character. one of the first writers, of unquestioned respectability, who acquainted the public with the true character of the revolution which had been effected in sutherland, was the late general stewart of garth. he was, we believe, the first man--and the fact says something for his shrewdness--who saw a coming poor-law looming through the _clearing_ of sutherland. his statements are exceedingly valuable; his inferences almost always just. the general--a man of probity and nice honour--had such an ability of estimating the value of moral excellence in a people, as the originators of the revolution had of estimating the antagonist merits of double pounds of mutton and single pounds of beef. he had seen printed representations on the subject--tissues of hollow falsehood, that have since been repeated in newspapers and reviews; and though unacquainted with the facts at the time, he saw sufficient reason to question their general correctness, from the circumstance that he found in them the character of the people, with which no man could be better acquainted, vilified and traduced. the general saw one leviathan falsehood running through the whole, and, on the strength of the old adage, naturally suspected the company in which he found it. and so, making minute and faithful inquiry, he published the results at which he arrived. he refers to the mode of ejectment by the torch. he next goes on to show how some of the ejected tenants were allowed small allotments of moor on the coast side, of from half an acre to two acres in extent, which it was their task to break into corn land; and how that, because many patches of green appear in this way, where all was russet before, the change has been much eulogized as improvement. we find him remarking further, with considerable point and shrewdness, that 'many persons are, however, inclined to doubt the advantages of improvements which call for such frequent apologies,' and that, 'if the advantage to the people were so evident, or if more lenient measures had been pursued, vindication could not have been necessary.' the general knew how to pass from the green spots themselves to the condition of those who tilled them. the following passage must strike all acquainted with the highlanders of sutherland as a true representation of the circumstances to which they have been reduced: 'ancient respectable tenants who have passed the greater part of life in the enjoyment of abundance, and in the exercise of hospitality and charity, possessing stock of ten, twenty, and thirty breeding cows, with the usual proportion of other stock, are now pining on one or two acres of bad land, with one or two starved cows; and for this accommodation a calculation is made, that they must support their families, and pay the rent of their lots, not from the produce, but from the sea, thus drawing a rent which the land cannot afford. when the herring fishing succeeds, they generally satisfy the landlord, whatever privations they may suffer; but when the fishing fails, they fall into arrears. the herring fishing, always precarious, has for a succession of years been very defective, and this class of people are reduced to extreme misery. at first, some of them possessed capital, from converting their farm-stock into cash, but this has been long exhausted; and it is truly distressing to view their general poverty, aggravated by their having once enjoyed abundance and independence.' some of the removals to which we have referred took place during that group of scarce seasons in which the year was so prominent; but the scarcity which these induced served merely to render the other sufferings of the people more intense, and was lost sight of in the general extent of the calamity. another group of hard seasons came on,--one of those groups which seem of such certain and yet of such irregular occurrence in our climate, that though they have attracted notice from the days of bacon downwards, they have hitherto resisted all attempts to include them in some definite cycle. the summer and harvest of were the last of a series of fine summers and abundant harvests; and for six years after there was less than the usual heat, and more than the usual rain. science, in connection with agriculture, has done much for us in the low country, and so our humbler population were saved from the horrors of a dearth of food; but on the green patches which girdle the shores of sutherland, and which have been esteemed such wonderful improvements, science had done and could do nothing. the people had been sinking lower and lower during the previous twenty years, and what would have been great hardship before had become famine now. one feels at times that it may be an advantage to have lived among the humbler people. we have been enabled, in consequence, to detect many such gross misstatements as those with which the apologists of the disastrous revolution effected in sutherland have attempted to gloss over the ruin of that country. in other parts of the highlands, especially in the hebrides, the failure of the kelp trade did much to impoverish the inhabitants; but in the highlands of sutherland the famine was the effect of _improvement_ alone. the writer of these chapters saw how a late, untoward year operates on the bleak shores of the north-western highlands, when spending a season there a good many years ago. he found what only a few twelvemonths previous had been a piece of dark moor, laid out into minute patches of corn, and bearing a dense population. the herring fishing had failed for the two seasons before, and the poor cottars were, in consequence, in arrears with their rent; but the crops had been tolerable; and though their stores of meal and potatoes were all exhausted at the time of our coming among them (the month of june), and though no part of the growing crop was yet fit for use, the white fishing was abundant, and a training of hardship had enabled them to subsist on fish exclusively. their corn shot in the genial sunshine, and gave fair promise, and their potatoes had become far enough advanced to supplement their all too meagre meals, when, after a terrible thunder-storm, the fine weather broke up, and for thirteen weeks together there scarce passed a day without its baffling winds and its heavy chilling showers. the oats withered without ripening; the hardy bear might be seen rustling on all the more exposed slopes, light as the common rye-grass of our hay-fields, the stalks, in vast proportion, shorn of the ears. it was only in a very few of the more sheltered places that it yielded a scanty return of a dark-coloured and shrivelled grain. and to impart a still deeper shade to the prospects of the poor highlanders, the herring fishery failed as signally as in the previous years. there awaited them all too obviously a whole half year of inevitable famine, unless lowland charity interfered in their behalf. and the recurrence of this state of things no amount of providence or exertion on their own part, when placed in such circumstances, can obviate or prevent. it was a conviction of this character, based on experience, which led the writer of these remarks to state, when giving evidence before the present poor-law commissioners for scotland, that though opposed to the principle of legal assessment generally, he could yet see no other mode of reaching the destitution of the highlands. our humane scottish law compels the man who sends another man to prison to support him there, just because it is held impossible that within the walls of a prison a man can support himself. should the principle alter, if, instead of sending him to a prison, he banishes him to a bleak, inhospitable coast, where, unless he receives occasional support from others, he must inevitably perish? the sufferings of the people of sutherland during the first of these years of destitution ( ), we find strikingly described by m'leod: 'in this year,' says the author, 'the crops all over britain were deficient, having bad weather for growing and ripening, and still worse for gathering in. but in the highlands they were an entire failure; and on the untoward spots, occupied by the sutherland small tenants, there was literally nothing fit for human subsistence. and to add to the calamity, the weather had prevented them from securing the peats, their only fuel; so that, to their previous state of exhaustion, cold and hunger were to be superadded. the sufferings endured by the poor highlanders in the succeeding winter truly beggar description. even the herring fishing had failed, and consequently their credit in caithness, which depended on its success, was at an end. any little provision they might be able to procure was of the most inferior and unwholesome description. it was no uncommon thing to see people searching among the snow for the frosted potatoes to eat in order to preserve life. as the harvest had been disastrous, so the winter was uncommonly boisterous and severe, and consequently little could be obtained from the sea to mitigate the calamity. the distress rose to such a height as to cause a sensation all over the island; and there arose a general cry for government interference, to save the people from death by famine.' public meetings were held, private subscriptions entered into, large funds collected, the british people responded to the cry of their suffering fellow-subjects, and relief was extended to every portion of the highlands except one. alas for poor sutherland! there, it was said, the charity of the country was not required, as the noble and wealthy proprietors had themselves resolved to interfere; and as this statement was circulated extensively through the public prints, and sedulously repeated at all public meetings, the mind of the community was set quite at rest on the matter. and interfere the proprietors at length did. late in the spring of , after sufferings the most incredible had been endured, and disease and death had been among the wretched people, they received a scanty supply of meal and seed-corn, for which, though vaunted at the time as a piece of munificent charity, the greater part of them had afterwards to pay. in the next chapter we shall endeavour bringing these facts to bear on the cause of the free church in sutherland. we close for the present by adding just one curious fact more. we have already shown how the bleak moors of sutherland have been mightily improved by the revolution which ruined its people. they bear many green patches which were brown before. now it so happened that rather more than ten years ago, the idea struck the original improvers, that as green was an improvement on brown, so far as the moors were concerned, white would be an equally decided improvement on black, so far as the houses were concerned. an order was accordingly issued, in the name of the duke and duchess of sutherland, that all the small tenants on both sides the public road, where it stretches on the northern coast from the confines of reay to the kyle of tongue, a distance of about thirty miles, should straightway build themselves new houses of stone and mortar, according to a prescribed plan and specification. pharaoh's famous order could not have bred greater consternation. but the only alternative given was summed up in the magic word _removal_; and the poor highlanders, dejected, tamed, broken in spirit as in means, well knew from experience what the magic word meant. and so, as their prototypes set themselves to gather stubble for their bricks, the poor highlanders began to build. we again quote from m'leod: 'previous to this, in the year , i and my family had been forced away, like others, being particularly obnoxious to those in authority for sometimes showing an inclination to oppose their tyranny, and therefore we had to be made examples of to frighten the rest; but in i made a tour of the district, when the building was going on, and shall endeavour to describe a small part of what met my eye on that occasion. in one locality (and this was a specimen of the rest) i saw fourteen different squads of masons at work, with the natives attending them. old grey-headed men, worn down by previous hardship and present want, were to be seen carrying stones, and wheeling them and other materials on barrows, or conveying them on their backs to the buildings, and with their tottering limbs and trembling hands straining to raise them on the walls. the young men also, after toiling all night at sea endeavouring for subsistence, were obliged to yield their exhausted frames to the labours of the day. even female labour could not be dispensed with; the strong as well as the weak, the delicate and sickly, and (shame to their oppressors) even the pregnant, barefooted and scantily clothed, were obliged to join in those rugged, unfeminine labours. in one instance i saw the husband quarrying stones, and the wife and children dragging them along in an old cart to the building. such were the building scenes of that period. the poor people had often to give the last morsel of food they possessed to feed the masons, and subsist on shell-fish themselves. this went on for several years, in the course of which many hundreds of these houses were erected on unhospitable spots unfit for a human residence.' we add another extract from the same writer: 'it might be thought,' adds m'leod, 'that the design of forcing the people to build such houses was to provide for their comfort and accommodation, but there seems to have been quite a different object,--which, i believe, was the true motive,--and that was to hide the misery that prevailed. there had been a great sensation created in the public mind by the cruelties exercised in these districts; and it was thought that a number of neat white houses, ranged on each side of the road, would take the eye of strangers and visitors, and give a practical contradiction to the rumours afloat. hence the poor creatures were forced to resort to such means, and to endure such hardships and privations as i have described, to carry the scheme into effect. and after they had spent their remaining all, and more than their all, on the erection of these houses, and involved themselves in debt, for which they have been harassed and pursued ever since, what are these erections but whitened tombs! many of them now ten years in existence, and still without proper doors or windows, destitute of furniture and of comfort,--the unhappy lairs of a heart-broken, squalid, fast-degenerating race.' chapter vi. we have exhibited to our readers, in the _clearing_ of sutherland, a process of ruin so thoroughly disastrous, that it might be deemed scarce possible to render it more complete. and yet, with all its apparent completeness, it admitted of a supplementary process. to employ one of the striking figures of scripture, it was possible to grind into powder what had been previously broken into fragments,--to degrade the poor inhabitants to a still lower level than that on which they had been so cruelly precipitated,--though persons of a not very original cast of mind might have found it difficult to say how; and the duke of sutherland has been ingenious enough to fall on exactly the one proper expedient for supplementing their ruin. all in mere circumstance and situation that could lower and deteriorate, had been present as ingredients in the first process; but there still remained for the people, however reduced to poverty or broken in spirit, all in religion that consoles and ennobles. sabbath-days came round with their humanizing influences; and, under the teachings of the gospel, the poor and oppressed looked longingly forward to a future scene of being, in which there is no poverty and no oppression. they still possessed, amid their misery, something positively good, of which it was possible to deprive them; and hence the ability derived to the present lord of sutherland, of deepening and rendering more signal the ruin accomplished by his predecessor. napoleon, when on the eve of re-establishing popery in france, showed his conviction of the importance of national religions, by remarking that, did there exist no ready-made religion to serve his turn, he would be under the necessity of making one on purpose. and his remark, though perhaps thrown into this form merely to give it point, and render it striking, has been instanced as a proof that he could not have considered the matter very profoundly. it has been said, and said truly, that religions of stamina enough to be even politically useful cannot be _made_: that it is comparatively easy to gain great battles, and frame important laws; but that to create belief lay beyond the power of even a napoleon. france, instead of crediting his manufactured religion, would have laughed at both him and it. the duke of sutherland has, however, taken upon himself a harder task than the one to which napoleon could refer, probably in joke. his aim seems to be, not the comparatively simple one of making a new religion where no religion existed before, but of making men already firm in their religious convictions believe that to be a religion which they believe to be no such thing. his undertaking involves a _discharging_ as certainly as an _injecting_ process,--the erasure of an existing belief, as certainly as the infusion of an antagonistic belief that has no existence. we have shown how evangelism took root and grew in sutherland, as the only form of christianity which its people could recognise; how the antagonist principle of moderatism they failed to recognise as christianity at all; and how, when the latter was obtruded into their pulpits, they withdrew from the churches in which their fathers had worshipped, for they could regard them as churches no longer, and held their prayer and fellowship meetings in their own homes, or travelled far to attend the ministrations of clergymen in whose mission they _could_ believe. we have shown that this state of feeling and belief still pervades the county. it led to an actual disruption between its evangelized people and its moderate clergy, long ere the disruption of last may took place: that important event has had but the effect of marshalling them into one compact body under a new name. they are adherents of the free church now, just because they have been adherents to its principles for the last two centuries. and to shake them loose from this adherence is the object of his grace; to reverse the belief of ages; to render them indifferent to that which they feel and believe to be religion; and to make them regard as religion that which they know to be none. his task is harder by a great deal than that to which napoleon barely ventured to advert; and how very coarse and repulsive his purposed means of accomplishing it! these harmonize but too well with the mode in which the interior of sutherland was cleared, and the improved cottages of its sea-coasts erected. the plan has its two items. no sites are to be granted in the district for free churches, and no dwelling-houses for free church ministers. the climate is severe; the winters prolonged and stormy; the roads which connect the chief seats of population with the neighbouring counties dreary and long. may not ministers and people be eventually worn out in this way? such is the portion of the plan which his grace and his grace's creatures can afford to present to the light. but there are supplementary items of a somewhat darker kind. the poor cottars are, in the great majority of cases, tenants at will; and there has been much pains taken to inform them, that to the crime of entertaining and sheltering a protesting minister, the penalty of ejection from their holdings must inevitably attach. the laws of charles have again returned in this unhappy district; and free and tolerating scotland has got, in the nineteenth century, as in the seventeenth, its intercommuned ministers. we shall not say that the intimation has emanated from the duke. it is the misfortune of such men that there creep around them creatures whose business it is to anticipate their wishes; but who, at times, doubtless, instead of anticipating, misinterpret them; and who, even when not very much mistaken, impart to whatever they do the impress of their own low and menial natures, and thus exaggerate in the act the intention of their masters. we do not say, therefore, that the intimation has emanated from the duke; but this we say, that an exemplary sutherlandshire minister of the protesting church, who resigned his worldly all for the sake of his principles, had lately to travel, that he might preach to his attached people, a long journey of forty-five miles outwards, and as much in return, and all this without taking shelter under the cover of a roof, or without partaking of any other refreshment than that furnished by the slender store of provisions which he had carried with him from his new home. willingly would the poor highlanders have received him at any risk; but knowing from experience what a sutherlandshire removal means, he preferred enduring any amount of hardship, rather than that the hospitality of his people should be made the occasion of their ruin. we have already adverted to the case of a lady of sutherland threatened with ejection from her home because she had extended the shelter of her roof to one of the protesting clergy--an aged and venerable man, who had quitted the neighbouring manse, his home for many years, because he could no longer enjoy it in consistency with his principles; and we have shown that that aged and venerable man was the lady's own father. what amount of oppression of a smaller and more petty character may not be expected in the circumstances, when cases such as these are found to stand but a very little over the ordinary level? the meannesses to which ducal hostility can stoop in this hapless district impress with a feeling of surprise. in the parish of dornoch, for instance, where his grace is fortunately not the sole landowner, there has been a site procured on the most generous terms from sir george gun munro of poyntzfield; and this gentleman--believing himself possessed of a hereditary right to a quarry, which, though on the duke's ground, had been long resorted to by the proprietors of the district generally--instructed the builder to take from it the stones which he needed. here, however, his grace interfered. never had the quarry been prohibited before; but on this occasion a stringent interdict arrested its use. if his grace could not prevent a hated free church from arising in the district, he could at least add to the _expense_ of its erection. we have even heard that the portion of the building previously erected had to be pulled down, and the stones returned. how are we to account for a hostility so determined, and that can stoop so low? in two different ways, we are of opinion, and in both have the people of scotland a direct interest. did his grace entertain a very intense regard for established presbytery, it is probable that he himself would be a presbyterian of the establishment. but such is not the case. the church into which he would so fain force the people has been long since deserted by himself. the secret of the course which he pursues can have no connection therefore with religious motive or belief. it can be no proselytizing spirit that misleads his grace. let us remark, in the first place,--rather, however, in the way of embodying a fact than imputing a motive,--that with his present views, and in his present circumstances, it may not seem particularly his grace's interest to make the county of sutherland a happy or desirable home to the people of sutherland. it may not seem his grace's interest that the population of the district should increase. the _clearing_ of the sea-coast may seem as little prejudicial to his grace's welfare now, as the _clearing_ of the interior seemed adverse to the interests of his predecessor thirty years ago; nay, it is quite possible that his grace may be led to regard the _clearing_ of the coast as the better and more important _clearing_ of the two. let it not be forgotten that a poor-law hangs over scotland; that the shores of sutherland are covered with what seems one vast straggling village, inhabited by an impoverished and ruined people; and that the coming assessment may yet fall so weighty, that the extra profits derived to his grace from his large sheep-farms, may go but a small way in supporting his extra paupers. it is not in the least improbable that he may live to find the revolution effected by his predecessor taking to itself the form, not of a crime--for that would be nothing--but of a disastrous and very terrible blunder. there is another remark which may prove not unworthy the consideration of the reader. ever since the completion of the fatal experiment which ruined sutherland, the noble family through which it was originated and carried on have betrayed the utmost jealousy of having its real results made public. volumes of special pleading have been written on the subject; pamphlets have been published; laboured articles have been inserted in widely-spread reviews; statistical accounts have been watched over with the most careful surveillance. if the misrepresentations of the press could have altered the matter of fact, famine would not have been gnawing the vitals of sutherland in every year just a little less abundant than its fellows, nor would the dejected and oppressed people be feeding their discontent, amid present misery, with the recollections of a happier past. if a singularly well-conditioned and wholesome district of country has been converted into one wide ulcer of wretchedness and wo, it must be confessed that the sore has been carefully bandaged up from the public eye; that if there has been little done for its cure, there has at least been much done for its concealment. now, be it remembered that the free church threatens to insert a _tent_ into this wound, and so keep it open. it has been said that the gaelic language removes a district more effectually from the influence of english opinion than an ocean of three thousand miles, and that the british public know better what is doing in new york than what is doing in lewis and skye. and hence one cause, at least, of the thick obscurity that has so long enveloped the miseries which the poor highlander has had to endure, and the oppressions to which he has been subjected. the free church threatens to _translate_ her wrongs into english, and to give them currency in the general mart of opinion. she might possibly enough be no silent spectator of conflagrations such as those which characterized the first general improvement of sutherland, nor yet of such egyptian schemes of house-building as that which formed part of the improvements of a later plan. she might be somewhat apt to betray the real state of the district, and thus render laborious misrepresentation of little avail. she might effect a diversion in the cause of the people, and shake the foundations of the hitherto despotic power which has so long weighed them down. she might do for sutherland what cobbett promised to do for it, but what cobbett had not character enough to accomplish, and what he did not live even to attempt. a combination of circumstances have conspired to vest in a scottish proprietor, in this northern district, a more despotic power than even the most absolute monarchs of the continent possess; and it is, perhaps, no great wonder that that proprietor should be jealous of the introduction of an element which threatens, it may seem, materially to lessen it. and so he struggles hard to exclude the free church, and, though no member of the establishment himself, declaims warmly in its behalf. certain it is, that from the establishment, as now constituted, he can have nothing to fear, and the people nothing to hope. after what manner may his grace the duke of sutherland be most effectually met in this matter, so that the cause of toleration and freedom of conscience may be maintained in the extensive district which god, in his providence, has consigned to his stewardship? we shall in our next chapter attempt giving the question an answer. meanwhile, we trust the people of sutherland will continue, as hitherto, to stand firm. the strong repugnance which they feel against being driven into churches which all their better ministers have left, is not ill founded. no church of god ever employs such means of conversion as those employed by his grace: they are means which have been often resorted to for the purpose of making men worse, never yet for the purpose of making them better. we know that, with their long-formed church-going habits, the people must feel their now silent sabbaths pass heavily; but they would perhaps do well to remember, amid the tedium and the gloom, that there were good men who not only anticipated such a time of trial for this country, but who also made provision for it. thomas scott, when engaged in writing his commentary, used to solace himself with the belief that it might be of use at a period when the public worship of god would be no longer tolerated in the land. to the great bulk of the people of sutherland that time seems to have already come. they know, however, the value of the old divines, and have not a few of their more practical treatises translated into their own expressive tongue: alleine's _alarm_, boston's _fourfold state_, doddridge's _rise and progress_, baxter's _call_, guthrie's _saving interest_. let these, and such as these, be their preachers, when they can procure no other. the more they learn to relish them, the less will they relish the bald and miserable services of the residuary church. let them hold their fellowship and prayer meetings; let them keep up the worship of god in their families; the cause of religious freedom in the district is involved in the stand which they make. above all, let them possess their souls in patience. we are not unacquainted with the celtic character, as developed in the highlands of scotland. highlanders, up to a certain point, are the most docile, patient, enduring of men; but that point once passed, endurance ceases, and the all too gentle lamb starts up an angry lion. the spirit is stirred that maddens at the sight of the naked weapon, and that, in its headlong rush upon the enemy, discipline can neither check nor control. let our oppressed highlanders of sutherland beware. they have suffered much; but, so far as man is the agent, their battles can be fought on only the arena of public opinion, and on that ground which the political field may be soon found to furnish. any explosion of violence on their part would be ruin to both the free church and themselves. chapter vii. how is the battle of religious freedom to be best fought in behalf of the oppressed people of sutherland? we shall attempt throwing out a few simple suggestions on the subject, which, if in the right track, the reader may find it easy to follow up and mature. first, then, let us remember that in this country, in which opinion is all-potent, and which for at least a century and a half has been the envy of continental states for the degree of religious freedom which it enjoys, the policy of the duke of sutherland cannot be known without being condemned. the current which he opposes has been scooping out its channel for ages. every great mind produced by britain, from the times of milton and locke down to the times of mackintosh and of chalmers, has been giving it impetus in but one direction; and it is scarce likely that it will reverse its course now, at the bidding of a few intolerant and narrow-minded aristocrats. british opinion has but to be fairly appealed to, in order to declare strongly in favour of the oppressed highlanders of sutherland. what we would first remark, then, is, that the policy of his grace the duke cannot be too widely exposed. the press and the platform must be employed. the frank and generous english must be told, that that law of religious toleration which did so much at a comparatively early period to elevate the character of their country in the eye of the world, and which, in these latter times, men have been accustomed to regard as somewhat less, after all, than an adequate embodiment of the rights of conscience, has been virtually repealed in a populous and very extensive district of the british empire, through a capricious exercise of power on the part of a single man. why, it has been asked, in a matter which lies between god and conscience, and between god and the conscience only, should a third party be permitted to interfere so far as even to say, 'i tolerate you? i tolerate your independency--your episcopacy--your presbyterianism: you are a baptist, but i tolerate you?' there is an insult implied, it has been said, in the way in which the liberty purports to be granted. it bestows as a boon what already exists as a right. we want no despot to tell us that he gives us leave to breathe the free air of heaven, or that he permits us to worship god agreeably to the dictates of our conscience. such are the views with which a majority of the british people regard, in these latter times, the right to tolerate; and regarding a _right_ not to tolerate, they must be more decided still. the free church, then, must lay her complaint before them. she must tell them, that such is the oppression to which her people are subjected, that she would be but too happy to see even the beggarly elements of the question recognised in their behalf; that she would be but too happy to hear the despot of a province pronounce the deprecated 'i tolerate you,' seeing that his virtual enunciation at present is, 'i do not tolerate you,' and seeing that he is powerful enough, through a misapplication of his rights and influence as the most extensive of british proprietors, to give terrible effect to the unjust and illiberal determination. the free church, on this question, must raise her appeal everywhere to public opinion, and we entertain no doubt that she will everywhere find it her friend. but how is its power to be directed? how bring it to bear upon the duke of sutherland? it is an all-potent lever, but it must be furnished with a fulcrum on which to rest, and a direction in which to bear. let us remark, first, that no signal privilege or right was ever yet achieved for britain, that was not preceded by some signal wrong. from the times of magna charta down to the times of the revolution, we find every triumph of liberty heralded in by some gross outrage upon it. the history of the british constitution is a history of great natural rights established piecemeal under the immediate promptings of an indignation elicited by unbearable wrongs. it was not until the barrier that protected the privileges of the citizen from the will of the despot gave way at some weak point, that the parties exposed to the inundation were roused up to re-erect it on a better principle and a surer foundation. now, the duke of sutherland (with some of his brother proprietors) has just succeeded in showing us a signal flaw in our scheme of religious toleration, and this at an exceedingly critical time. he has been perpetrating a great and palpable wrong, which, if rightly represented, must have the effect of leading men, in exactly the old mode, to arouse themselves in behalf of the corresponding right. if a single proprietor can virtually do what the sovereign of great britain would forfeit the crown for barely attempting to do--if a single nobleman can do what the house of lords in its aggregate capacity would peril its very existence for but proposing to do--then does there exist in the british constitution a palpable flaw, which cannot be too soon remedied. there must be a weak place in the barrier, if the waters be rushing out; and it cannot be too soon rebuilt on a surer plan. here, then, evidently, is the point on which the generated opinion ought to be brought to bear. it has as its proper arena the political field. it is a defect in the british constitution, strongly exemplified by the case of sutherland, that the rights of property may be so stretched as to overbear the rights of conscience--that though toleration be the law of the land generally, it may be so set aside by the country's proprietary, as not to be the law in any particular part of it; and to reverse this state of things--to make provision in the constitution that the rights of the proprietor be not so overstretched, and that a virtual repeal of the toleration laws in any part of the country be not possible--are palpably the objects to which the public mind should be directed. we have said that the duke of sutherland has succeeded in showing us this flaw in the constitution at a peculiarly critical time. a gentleman resident in england, for whose judgment we entertain the highest respect, told us only a few days since, that the rising, all-absorbing party of that kingdom, so far at least as the established church and the aristocracy are concerned, still continues to be the puseyite party. if puseyism does not bid fair to possess a majority of the people of the country, it bids fair at least to possess a majority of its acres. and we need scarce remind the reader how peculiarly this may be the case with scotland, whose acres, in such large proportions, are under the control of an incipient puseyism already. in both countries, therefore, is it of peculiar importance, in a time like the present, that the law of toleration should be placed beyond the control of a hostile or illiberal proprietary--so placed beyond their control, that they may be as unable virtually to suspend its operation in any part of the country, as they already are to suspend its operation in the whole of the country. we are recommending, be it remembered, no wild scheme of chartist aggression on the rights of property--we would but injure our cause by doing so: our strength in this question must altogether depend on the soundness of the appeal which we can carry to the natural justice of the community. we merely recommend that that be done in behalf of the already recognised law of toleration, which parliament has no hesitation in doing in behalf of some railway or canal, or water or dock company, when, for what is deemed a public good, it sets aside the absolute control of the proprietor over at least a portion of his property, and consigns it at a fair price to the corporation engaged in the undertaking. the principle of the scheme is already recognised by the constitution, and its legislative embodiment would be at once easy and safe. property would be rendered not less, but more secure, if, in every instance in which a regularly-organized congregation of any denomination of christians to which the law of toleration itself extended, made application for ground on which to erect a place of worship, the application would be backed and made effectual, in virtue of an enacted law, by the authority of the constitution. there is no scotch or english dissenter--no true friend of religious liberty in britain or ireland--who would not make common cause with the free church in urging a measure of this character on parliament, when fairly convinced, by cases such as that of sutherland, how imperatively such a measure is required. unavoidably, however, from the nature of things, the relief which ultimately may be thus secured cannot be other than distant relief. much information must first be spread, and the press and the platform extensively employed. can there be nothing done for sutherland through an already existing political agency? we are of opinion there can. sutherland itself is even more thoroughly a _close_ county now, than it was ere the reform bill had swamped the paper votes, and swept away the close burghs. his grace the duke has but to nominate his member, and his member is straightway returned. but all the political power which, directly or indirectly, his grace possesses, is not equally secure. sutherland is a close county; but the northern burghs are not rotten burghs; on the contrary, they possess an independent and intelligent constituency; and in scarce any part of scotland is the free church equally strong. and his grace derives no inconsiderable portion of his political influence from them. the member for sutherland is virtually his grace's nominee, but the member for the northern burghs is not his grace's nominee at all; and yet certain it is that the gentleman by whom these burghs are at present represented in parliament is his grace's agent and adviser in all that pertains to the management of sutherland, and has been so for many years. his grace's member for sutherland sits in parliament in virtue of being his grace's nominee; but the sort of prime minister through which his grace governs his princely domains, sits in parliament, not in virtue of being his grace's nominee, but in virtue of his being himself a man of liberal opinions, and an enemy to all intolerance. he represents them in the whig interest, and in his character as a whig. his grace would very soon have one member less in parliament, did that member make common cause with his grace in suppressing the free church in sutherland. now, the bruit shrewdly goeth, that that member does make common cause with his grace. the bruit shrewdly goeth, that in this, as in most other matters, his grace acts upon that member's advice. true, the report may be altogether idle--it may be utterly without foundation; instead of being true, it may be exactly the reverse of being true; but most unquestionable it is, that, whether true or otherwise, it exists, and that that member's constituency have a very direct interest in it. he represents them miserably ill, and must be a very different sort of whig from them, if he hold that proprietors do right in virtually setting aside the toleration act. the report does one of two things,--it either does him great injustice, or it shows that he has sat too long in parliament for the northern burghs. it is in the power, then, of the highly respectable and intelligent whig constituency of this district to make such a diversion in favour of the oppressed people of sutherland, as can scarce fail to tell upon the country, and this in thorough consistency with the best and highest principles of their party. let them put themselves in instant communication with their member, and, stating the character of the report which so generally exists to his prejudice, request a categorical answer regarding it,--let them request an avowal of his opinion of the duke's policy, equally articulate with that opinion which the hon. mr. fox maule submitted to the public a few weeks ago in the columns of the _witness_,--and then, as the ascertained circumstances of the case may direct, let them act, and that publicly, in strict accordance with their principles. of one thing they may be assured,--the example will tell. in order to raise the necessary amount of opinion for carrying the ulterior object--the enactment of a law--there are various most justifiable expedients to which the friends of toleration in the country should find it not difficult to resort. petitions addressed to the lower house in its legislative capacity, and to the members of the upper house as a body of men who have, perhaps, of all others the most direct stake in the matter--we need scarce say how--ought, of course, to take a very obvious place on the list. much, too, might be done by deputations from the general assembly of the free church, instructed from time to time to ascertain, and then publicly to report on, the state of sutherland. each meeting of the assembly might be addressed on the subject by some of its ablest men, in which case their statements and speeches would go forth, through the medium of the press, to the country at large. the co-operation and assistance of all bodies of evangelical dissenters, both at home and abroad, should be sedulously sought after, and correct information on the subject circulated among them extensively. there has been much sympathy elicited for the church, during her long struggle, among good men everywhere. her cause has been tried, and judgment given in her favour, in france, holland, and america, and in not a few of the colonies. in the case of sismondi 'on the _clearing_ of sutherland,' we see the opinion of a continental philosopher re-echoed back upon our own country, not without its marked effect; and it might be well to try whether the effect of foreign opinion might not be at least equally influential 'on the suppression of the toleration laws in sutherland.' there is one great country with which we hold our literature in common, and which we can address, and by which we can be in turn addressed, in our native tongue. unluckily, what ought to have existed as a bond of union and amity has been made to subserve a very different purpose; and we cannot conceal from ourselves the fact, that our own country has been mainly to blame. the manners, habits, and tastes of the americans have been exhibited, by not a few of our popular writers, in the broadest style of caricature; they have been described as a nation of unprincipled speculators, devoid not only of right feeling, but even of common honesty, and remarkable for but their scoundrelism and conceit. even were such descriptions just, which they are not, most assuredly would they be unwise. it is the american people, rather than the american government, who make peace and war; and the first american war with england will be one of the most formidable in which this country has yet been engaged. the bowie-knife is no trifling weapon; and the english writer laughs at a very considerable expense, if his satires have the effect of whetting it. at present, however, the war between the two countries is but a war of libel and pasquinade, and the advantage hitherto has been on the side of the aggressor. america has not been happy in her retaliation. we would fain direct her to aim where her darts, instead of provoking national hostility, or exciting a bitter spirit among the entire people of a country, would but subserve the general cause of liberty and human improvement. it is but idle to satirize our manners and customs; we think them good. there is nothing to be gained by casting ridicule on our peculiar modes of thinking; they are the modes to which we have been accustomed, and we prefer them to any others. but there are matters of a different kind, regarding which the country bears a conscience, and is not quite at its ease; and there we are vulnerable. we speak often, we would fain say, of slavery in your country, literati of america, and justly deem it a great evil. it might do us good were you to remind us, in turn, that there are extensive districts in our own, in which virtually there exists no toleration law for the religion of the people, though that religion be protestantism in its purest form. cast your eyes upon the county of sutherland. the end. murray and gibb, edinburgh, printers to her majesty's stationery office. transcriber's notes: typographical problems have been changed and are listed below. author's archaic and variable spelling is preserved. author's punctuation style is preserved. passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. transcriber changes: (signed) 'thomas chalmers.'{** added extra closing single-quote} schools of the place: the committee, through their chairman{** was 'chair man' over line}, saxe-cobourg-gotha{** was 'saxe-cobourg gotha'} grants to his subjects a representative old babylonish beast, horrid with the blood{** was 'bood'} of saints, they dropped,--and hence "the holy haven"{** added closing double-quote} entranced, under the influences{** was 'inflences'} of fairy-land, in some god agreeably{** was 'agreebly'} to the dictates of our conscience. such are [illustration: _george w. bain._] _wit, humor, reason, rhetoric, prose, poetry and story woven into_ _eight popular lectures._ _by_ _george w. bain._ published by the pentecostal publishing company louisville, ky. copyrighted by geo. w. bain, lexington, ky. to anna m. bain. so far as this life is concerned, i can express no better wish for any young man who reads this book, than that he may be wedded to a wife as loyal, loving and helpful to him as mine has been to me. introduction. in offering this book to the public no claim is made to literary merit or originality of thought. it is published with the same purpose its contents were spoken from the platform, namely, to do good. with the testimony of many, that hearing these lectures helped to shape their lives, came the thought that reading them might help others when the tongue that spoke them is silent. as a public speaker the author admits, that how to get a grip on his hearers outweighed the grammar of language; that the ring of sincerity and truth in presenting a proposition appealed to him more than relation of pronoun or preposition; besides in the "high school of hard knocks" from which he graduated artistic taste in literature was not taught. if it is true that "tongue is more potent than pen," then the mysterious power of personality and delivery will be missed in the reading, yet it is hoped the simplicity of the setting of anecdote and argument, incident and experience, facts and figures, story, poetry and appeal will suffice to make this volume attractive and helpful to those who read it, and thus the lives of many may be made brighter and better by the life work of the author. george w. bain. popular lectures. index. lecture page i. among the masses, or traits of character ii. a searchlight of the twentieth century iii. our country, our homes and our duty iv. the new woman and the old man v. the safe side of life for young men vi. platform experiences vii. the defeat of the nation's dragon viii. if i could live life over i among the masses, or traits of character. whatever criticism i choose to make on human character, i hope to soften the criticism with the "milk of human kindness." as rude rough rocks on mountain peaks wear button-hole bouquets so there are intervening traits in the rudest human character, which, if the clouds could only part, would show out in redeeming beauty. to begin with, i believe prejudice to be one of the most unreasonable traits in character. it is said: "one of the most difficult things in science is to invent a lense that will not distort the object it reflects; the least deviation in the lines of the mirror will destroy the beauty of a star." how unreliable then must be the distorting lense of human prejudice. i had a bit of experience during the civil war which gave me something of that whole-heartedness necessary to the service of my kind. in the twilight of a summer evening, making a sharp curve in a road, about a dozen men confronted me. they were dressed in blue, a color i was not very partial to at that time. i had read that "he that fights and runs away may live to fight another day." it occurred to me that he who would run without fighting might have a still better chance, but the click of gun locks and an order to surrender changed my mind to "safety first" and i was a prisoner of the blue-coated cavalry. the commanding officer who had me in charge (during my visit) was a kentucky colonel. he afterward became a major-general. i looked at him during the remainder of the war from the narrow standpoint of prejudice and cherished revenge in my heart for his having exposed me to the flying bullets of the confederate pickets, a peril he was not responsible for and of which he knew nothing until i informed him in after years. a few years after the war our barks met upon the same wave of life's ocean. we became engaged in the same work of reform, i as an advocate of temperance, he as candidate for the presidency of the united states on the prohibition ticket. from the warmth of friendship, my prejudice melted like mist before the morning sun and i found in general green clay smith a combination of the noblest traits in human character. whoever would graduate in the highest franchise of being, and realize the royalty that comes of partnership with sovereignty, must have respectfulness of bearing and feeling toward those from whom they differ. we are greatly creatures of education and environment anyway, and until we can unlock the alphabet of a life and sum up the mingling, blending, reciprocal forces that have been playing upon that life, we have no more right to abuse persons for honest convictions than we have to blame them for their parentage. you do not know the forces that have given direction to the lives of others; if so, you might know why one is a member of this or that church, this or that political party, why one lives north, another south, one on the land, another on the sea. some of you may differ with me, but i believe if general grant had been born in the south, reared and educated in the south, his father had owned a cotton plantation and many slaves, general grant would have been a confederate general in the civil war; while robert e. lee if born, reared and educated in new england would have been a union general. if my opinion is correct, if all you northern people had lived down south, and we southern people had lived north, we would have gotten the better of the conflict instead of you. if yonder oak, that came from the finest acorn and promised to be the monarch of the forest, was dwarfed by simply a drop of dew; if yonder rolling river, bearing its commerce to sea, was turned seaward, instead of lakeward, by simply a pebble thrown in the fountain-head; why not have consideration for those whose circumstances and early training set in motion convictions differing from ours. god did not intend all the trees to be oaks, or that all the rivers should run in one direction, but he did intend all to make up at last his one great purpose. thomas f. marshall in an address many years ago, to illustrate the differences between people of different sections, said: "if you call a mississippian a liar, he will challenge you to a duel; call a kentuckian a liar, he will stab you with a bowie-knife or shoot you down; call an indianian a liar, he will say, 'you're another;' call a new englander a liar, he will say, 'i bet you a dollar you can't prove it.'" mr. marshall intended his compliment for the mississippian and kentuckian, but really his compliment was to the new englander. if a man calls you a liar, and you are not a liar, the manliest thing to do is to say, "i challenge you, sir, not on to a field of dishonor, where the better aimed bullet will tell who's a murderer, but i challenge you out into the sunlight of god's truth where i'll prove myself a man and you a slanderer." i use this to show it is not just to look at character or questions from the narrow standpoint of prejudice. then again, we should not judge a person by one trait. there are persons for whom you may do fifty favors, yet make one mistake and they will never forgive you. george dewey went to the philippine islands, remained in the harbor for months, never made a mistake and returned to this country the naval hero of the world; and never were so many babies, horses and dogs named for one man in the same length of time. but one morning the papers came out with the statement that he had deeded to his wife a piece of property some friends had presented to him, and within three days after, when his picture was thrown on a canvas in an opera house in washington city it was hissed from the audience, and when later on he dared to allow his name used as a candidate for the presidency of the united states, we were ready to smash the hero at once. but we must remember there are very few men able to withstand the world's praises. indeed there never was but one man who could be successfully lionized and that man was daniel. captain smith of the titanic was held responsible by public opinion for the sinking of the great ship and was harshly criticised by the press. his forty years of faithful, careful service on the sea was erased by the one mistake. it was a tremendous one, but let it be said to his credit that experts had declared that a ship with fifteen air-tight compartments could not sink, that if cut into halves both ends would ride the sea. the bulk-head was made to withstand any contact, and captain smith never dreamt of danger from icebergs. but when he saw his idol shattered, he did all a brave seaman could do to save human lives. when the last life-boat was launched he came upon a little child who was lost from its parents. he seized a life-belt, buckled it about his waist and taking the child in his arms, jumped into the icy ocean. holding the child above the water with one hand, he used the other as an oar, and reaching a boat he placed the little one in the arms of a woman. then returning to his sinking ship, he threw off the life-belt and went down to his death. who knows but in the great reckoning day, his reward will be "inasmuch as ye did it unto that little one on the sea, ye did it unto me." the great joseph cook had a reputation that caused many to look upon him as one who was all brains and no heart. before meeting mr. cook i was very much prejudiced against him because of what i had heard. i lectured for a teachers' institute at new wilmington, pennsylvania, when the great preacher was to follow me the next evening. as i was leaving the county superintendent said to me: "when you reach the main line joseph cook will get off the train which you are to take. i wish you would speak to him and give him the name of the hotel where i have reserved a room for him." when i reached the junction, and the great savage looking lecturer stepped from the train, i said to myself: "you can go to any hotel you please, i'll tell you nothing." some months later i lectured in cooper union hall in new york city. just about time to begin the lecture joseph cook entered the door and took a seat just inside. when i had talked about ten minutes, he arose and passed out. i thought he was not pleased and the incident did not lessen my unfavorable estimate of the great thinker. some three years later mr. cook was on our chautauqua program at lexington, kentucky. doctor w.l. davidson, superintendent of the assembly, requested me to call at the hotel and inform our distinguished visitor of his hour and see to his reaching the chautauqua grounds. with reluctance i went to the hotel and sent my card to his room. he ordered me to be shown up to the room at once. approaching the door i found it open and mr. cook stood facing me. my impression is that politeness was sacrificed in my haste to explain that i was sent to inform him as to the hour of his lecture and to offer to call for him in time to escort him to the grounds. extending his hand he said: "come in and let me make my best bow to you for the service you have rendered the temperance cause. i heard you once for about ten minutes in cooper union, when i had an engagement and had to leave. i see you are on the program tomorrow and i shall be there." after his first lecture, returning to the hotel i said: "mr. cook, if i can be of any service to you while you are in our city, please feel at liberty to command me at any time." he replied: "i order you at once. i am anxious to see the home of henry clay and the monument erected to his memory." next morning we went to ashland and then to the cemetery. after visiting the clay monument, we were passing near where my daughter had been buried only a few months before. when i had called his attention to the sacred spot, mr. cook said: "i read miss willard's account of her death, and the beautiful tribute paid her in the union signal. please stop a moment." he left the carriage and going to the grave, took off his hat and stood with uncovered head for a few moments. then taking his seat beside me in the carriage, he laid his hand on mine and said: "blessed are the dead that die in the lord." with tears rolling down my cheeks i said to myself: "under the great brain of joseph cook beats a tender heart." not to know him was to misjudge him, while the close touch of friendship revealed one of god's noblemen. unity in variety is the order of nature. out of what seems to us a medley of contradictions come amendments and reconstructions that illustrate the benevolent guardianship of god in working out the problem of creation. out of the most discordant elements god can bring the most harmonious results. out of the bitterness and bloodshed of our civil war has come a more harmonious, united, happy and prosperous people. it was said of general grant: "he's an artist in human slaughter. he cares nothing for the loss of men, so he wins the battle." but, general grant believed the harder the battle the sooner it would be over. when the end came he gave back the sword of lee, and said to the worn-out confederate soldiers: "take your horses with you, you'll need them on your farms. go back to your homes and peace go with you." that manly strength of character that enables a man to face shot and shell on the battlefield, is not any more sublime than the manly weakness of heart which "weeps with those who weep." while we should not judge one by a single trait in character we must not overlook the importance of little traits. in this age of great movements, great schemes and great combinations, our young people are disposed to ignore little things. a little thing in this great big age is too insignificant. yet, we are told it was the cackling of a goose that saved rome; the cry of a babe in the bull-rushes gave a law-giver to the jews; the kick of a cow caused the great chicago fire; the omission of a comma in preparing a bill that passed congress cost this republic a half million dollars; while the ignoring of a comma in reading a church notice cost a minister quite a bit of embarrassment. among his announcements was one which ran thus: "a husband going to _sea_, his wife desires the prayers of this church." the preacher read: "a husband going to see his wife, desires the prayers of this church." little things are suggestive of great things. we read that a ship-worm, working its way through a dry stick of wood, suggested to brunell a plan by which the thames river could be tunneled. the twitching of a frog's flesh as it touched a certain kind of metal led galvani to invent the electric battery. the swinging of a spider's web across a garden walk led to the invention of the suspension bridge. the oscillation of a lamp in the temple of pisa led galileo to invent the measurement of time by a pendulum. a butterfly's wing suggested the combination of colors. so little things are suggestive of great things in character. "boy wanted" was the sign at the entrance to a store. a boy took the sign down and with it in his hand entered the store. "what are you doing with that sign?" asked the proprietor. the boy replied: "well, i'm here, so i brought in the sign." that boy was given the place. attention to small things has made many a successful man, while a little temper, a little indifference, a little cigarette, a little drink or some other little thing has been the undoing of many a young man. what are these little traits in human character? they are matches struck in the dark. do you know what that means, a match struck in the dark? if not, get up some night when it's pitch dark in the room, run your face up against a half open door, knock the pitcher off the table and spill the cold water on your bare feet, sit down on a chair that's not there, and you'll realize what it means to strike a match. if i were to go into a parlor of one of your finest homes at midnight with all the lights out, i would see nothing, but let me strike a match and beautifully decorated walls, fine paintings, and furniture will meet and greet my vision. you cannot be very long in the company of anyone until a match will be struck. of one you will say, "that's good; i'm glad to find such a trait in that person," but directly another match will flare up and you will find another trait as disappointing as the other was commendable, and you are at a loss to know what "manner of man" you are with. it's a wonder to me when so many characters are so difficult to solve that many young people rush headlong into matrimony without striking a match, except the match they strike at the marriage altar. a girl sees a young man today; he's handsome, talks well, and she falls in love with him, dreams about him tonight, sighs about him tomorrow and thinks she'll surely die if he doesn't ask her to marry him. yet she knows nothing about his parentage or his character. no wonder we have so many unhappy marriages, so many homes like the one where a stranger knocked at the front door and receiving no response went around to the rear where he found a very small husband and a very large wife in a fight, with the wife getting the better of the battle. the stranger said: "hello! who runs this house?" "that's what we are trying to settle now," shouted the little husband. my young friends, i will admit love is a kind of spontaneous, impulsive, natural affinity, something after the order of molecular attraction or chemical affinity, but while by the natural law of love, a young woman may see in the object of her affection her ideal of perfection in humanity, she owes volitional conformity to a higher law than natural affinity. she owes to herself, to posterity and to her country a careful study of the character of the young man to whom she should link her life and love. i believe two dark clouds hanging upon the horizon of this republic to be the recklessness with which life is linked with life at the marriage altar, and the recklessness with which we elect men to offices of public trust. while we have many public men, schooled in the science of government, whom the spoils of office cannot corrupt, we have an army of demagogues who rely upon saloon politics for promotion, and on all moral questions reason with their stomachs instead of their brains. this is especially true in the government of our large cities. sam jones, lecturing in a city noted for its corrupt government said: "take the political gang you have running this city, put them in a cage, then let the devil pass along and look in and he would say, 'that beats anything i have in my show.'" we don't seem to realize that every public man is a teacher, every home is a school, and the education received outside the schoolroom is often more effective than the education inside. all the forces and elements of the organism of society are teachers and all life is learning. the birth of an infant into this world is its matriculation into a university, where it graduates in successive degrees. and do you know in this great school of human life, where i come with you to study the traits of our kind, that we never reach a grade that we are not influenced by what touches us? here i am past fifty years of age (and then "some"), yet i am constantly being influenced by what touches me. start a new song with a popular air and it will spread throughout the whole country. boys will whistle it and girls will sing it. a number of years ago, when at the station ready to leave home for new england, a lad near me began to whistle and then to sing a new song. it was a catchy tune and took hold of me. on the train i found myself trying to hum that tune, then i tried to whistle it, and failing in both attempts i finally gave it up. two days after i left the train up in a new hampshire town and took a street car for the hotel. a blizzard was on, but there stood the motorman, muffled to his ears, whistling the same tune i had heard down in kentucky, "there'll be a hot time in the old town tonight." when the telephone made its appearance a good christian man had one installed in his store and during the morning hours of the first day he called up all his friends who had phones, and "hello! hello!" took hold of him. he went home to lunch and being a little late he hurried into his chair at the table. with the telephone still on his mind, he bowed his head to return thanks and said: "hello." he was a good christian man, but the telephone had taken hold of him. the very tone of the voice has a tendency to influence and control character. i wonder so many parents train their voices as they do. they have a kind of snap to the tone which they evidently think makes the children and the servants "get a move" on them. perhaps it does, but at the same time it falls upon a family like frost upon a field of flowers. you pay three dollars to have your piano tuned, yet you train your voice to sound harsh and hard. how the tone of the voice controls was illustrated in my own home several years ago. i went home in the early spring and found some one had been among my bees and had left the lids of the hives lifted at the time the bees were making brood. going to the house i said to my wife: "where is charlie?" he was the colored man in charge of the barn and garden. mrs. bain replied: "i suppose he is about the barn; he doesn't stay in the house." i knew that, but somehow we adams will go to our eves with anything that goes wrong. "what's the trouble?" my wife asked. i told her about the exposure of the bees, (about the effect of which i knew very little) and said: "i want charlie to keep out of that apiary. he'll kill every bee i have." mrs. bain in a very gentle manner said: "i did that myself. that's the way father used to do. i was afraid your bees might starve during the long cold spell, so i made some syrup and placed it in the upper compartments. i lifted the lids so that the light would attract the bees up to the syrup. i'm very sorry i did it, but i thought it would please you." i said: "well, i believe you did the right thing, my dear, and i am very much obliged to you." if my wife had said in a harsh tone: "i did that, sir. what are you going to do about it?" then i would have said something. a little bit of anger let loose in a field of human nature is as destructible to noble impulses and generous feelings as a cyclone is to a town. i was in an iowa cyclone some years ago and i noticed when it was approaching the people didn't run out of their homes and throw stones at it. they ran for the storm cellars. when you see a bit of anger coming toward you from brother, sister, husband, wife or friend, don't throw a dictionary of aggravating words at it; get out of the way and it will quiet down like the troubled waters of galilee when "peace be still" fell upon them. when we realize how sensitive character is to the touch of influences, and how uncertain the character of the influence that may touch us, how very careful we should be as parents as to what shall touch us, how we shall touch others, who may be fed by our fulness, starved by our emptiness, uplifted by our righteousness or tainted by our sins. sometimes a boy is sent to school with the idea that the influence of the teacher will mold the character of the boy, when the magnetic touch by which the faculties of the boy are sprung doesn't come from the teacher, but from some boy on the playground and perhaps not the best boy. some boys are as potent on the playground as a major-general on a battle-field. some persons are like loadstones, they draw, others are like loads of stone, they have to be drawn. i have known down south in the days of slavery, coal black queens of the domestic circle. the cows would come to the cupping as if it were a spiritual devotion. maiden mistresses would tell them their love stories, when they wouldn't tell their own mothers. i am a southern man, born and reared mid slavery, and i pay this tribute to the black "mammies" of the south before the war. down there in that hale, hearty colored motherhood was laid the foundation of future health and strength for many a white baby, when otherwise its mother would have had to see it die. frail, delicate mothers, who because of slavery had not done sufficient work to develop physical womanhood, were not able to nurse their own infants and gave them to the care of vigorous, healthy colored mothers, who took them to their bosoms and nursed them into strength. but for that supplemental supply of vigor, but for that sympathetic partnership in motherhood, much of the most potent manhood of the south would never have been known. you who lived in the north before the war, and you who are younger and have read about the auction block, the slave driver and the cottonfield cannot understand the attachment between one of these colored mothers and the white boy or girl she nursed. i know whereof i speak, for i revere the memory of my old black mammy. there are verses, written by whom i do not know, the words of which i cannot recall except a line here and there, hence i take the liberty to supply the missing lines and revise the verses to express my feelings for the slave mammy of my childhood. "she was only a dear old darkey, in a cabin far away, down in the sunny southland, where sunbeams dance and play. yet oft in dreams i hear her crooning, crooning soft and low: 'sleep on, baby boy, the sleep will make you grow.' "oft when tired of fighting in a world so full of wrong; when wearied and worried with the tumult and the throng, i seek again the cabin, where dwelt a heart of gold and in dreams she loves and pets me, as she did in days of old. "oh, my dear old colored mammy, in the cabin far away, since you rocked me in the cradle seems forever and a day. yet in dreams i hear you crooning above my cradle nest; 'sleep on, baby boy, mammy watches while you rest.'" a white baby, whose mother was ill for months, was given to one of these colored mothers to nurse. after the war the white family moved west. as their child grew up the father and mother often told her about aunt hannah, how she loved her, petted her, cooked for her, and drove away her own pickaninnies to let "mammy's baby" sleep. the girl, when she had grown to womanhood, heard that aunt hannah was still living and she longed to see her devoted old colored mammy. her parents had the same desire, and with other attachments for the old southern home, they went back to georgia on a visit and to the village where the old woman lived. she was sent for and the old black mammy and the beautiful young girl faced each other. the young lady was disappointed. she expected to see a nice, comely old woman, but there she stod, crippled with rheumatism, gray headed, wrinkled, and poorly clad. the old woman was surprised, for there before her stood a beautiful young woman, with rosy cheeks, blue eyes, auburn locks and queenly form. the father and mother stood near, with tears rolling down their cheeks as memory came surging up like successive waves from out a past hallowed to them, for they could see in that old woman the health and strength of their child. the old woman broke the silence, saying: "is dat my chile? is dat de chile i loved and laid wake wif so many nights and cooked so many sweet things for? why, bless yo' heart, honey; dese old hands ust to take yo' and hug yo' to dis bosom, but yo's too nice now for dese old hands to eber touch agin." the young girl said: "no, i'm not, aunt hannah. you shall take me in your arms as when i was a little child," and she gave a bound into the old woman's arms. that does not mean social equality, but it does mean gratitude neither condition nor color can ever bound. if the reciprocities of that old woman and that beautiful girl were such as to weave enrichments into both hearts, why should not all peoples, and all individuals, see in all others but a multiplication of the one each of us is, and that each is enhanced or diminished in value according to the concentrated worth of the whole? if man would stand in his lot of conformity to man, as that old colored woman stood in her lot, it would lift this world to that height from which we could see the one interest, one reciprocal, interdependent, together-woven, god-allied and god-saved humanity. but in this we fail. several men, one of them an irishman, were standing on a street corner when a negro passed. the irishman said: "faith, and if i had been makin' humanity for a world, i would niver have made a nager." i suppose in return the negro would not have made the irishman, nor would the white man have made the indian or chinaman, but god made them all and in proportion as we have the philanthropic comprehensiveness to accept them all, and benevolently try to serve them in their places, do we honor the place assigned us in the world's creation. it is not for us to know why god made this or that; he made everything for a purpose. a father took his boy to an animal show. the lad had never seen a monkey and as they played their pranks about the cage he said: "father, did god make monkeys?" when the father replied: "yes," the boy said: "well, don't you guess god laughed when he made the first monkey?" i don't know about that, but if god made the monkey for a joke it was certainly a success. if god had made the monkey for no other purpose than to create laughter it wouldn't have been a mistake. the lachrymal glands were placed in us for sorrow to play upon; we are commanded to "weep with those who weep." in antithesis to this the risable nerves were placed in us for mirthful music, and i pity the one who has broken the keys and cannot laugh. i believe we owe the irishman a vote of thanks for the ringing laughs he has sent around the world. an irishman said to a rich english land-owner: "me lord, i think the world is very unaqually divided; it should be portioned out and each one given an aqual share with ivery other one?" the englishman replied: "well, pat, if we were to divide today, in ten years i would have ten thousand pounds and you wouldn't have a shilling." "then we would divide again," said the irishman. on an electric car going out of new york city, a man, who occupied a seat next to the aisle, had a pet monkey in a cage on the seat with him, next to the window. an irishman boarded the car and seeing all the seats taken he remained standing, holding on to a strap, when suddenly he spied the monkey in the cage. he immediately addressed the man who had the monkey: "sir, is that gintleman in the cage paying his fare? if not, i'd like to have the sate." the owner of the monkey lifted the cage to his lap and moved over, giving the irishman a seat. "what's the nationality of that gintleman, anyway?" asked pat. by this time the other man was very much out of humor and said: "he's half ape and half irish." "faith, then he's related to both of us," replied the witty son of erin, and there were two monkeys on that car. i'll admit this trait of humor comes in sometimes when it is quite embarrassing, as it was to sam jones upon one occasion, when in the midst of a sermon before a large audience, he said: "all you who want to go to heaven, stand up; i'd like to take a look at you." the audience arose in great numbers. when seated again mr. jones said: "now all you who want to go to the devil, stand and let's have a look at you." all was silent for a moment and then a tall, lank, lean fellow from the backwoods arose and said: "well, parson, i don't care anything special about seeing the old chap, but i never desert a friend in trouble, specially a minister, so i guess i'll have to stand with you." dr. frank gunsaulus told me of a time when he had to laugh under embarrassing circumstances. he was called upon to preach the funeral of a man who had died from the effects of drink. his friends had made a box for the corpse and had placed in the top a ten by twelve window glass to go over the face, but when the time came to put the top on the box, being double-sighted from drink, they reversed the top and had the glass at the foot of the coffin instead of the head. the preacher took his place, as he supposed, at the head of the deceased, when looking down his eyes fell upon a pair of feet. with great effort he kept his face straight and conducted the service. at the close he invited the friends to view the remains. one stimulated friend walked up to the coffin, shook his head and turning to another said: "don't look at him, jim. he's changing very fast and you won't know him." the great preacher is to be excused if he did laught at that funeral. it's good to laugh, and yet, while i pay tribute to the trait of humor, i would have the undergirding trait of all traits of character, the trait of principle. though you may use policy now and then, never use a policy you must get off the heaven-bound express train of principle to use. i don't like that word policy. there is another and better name for the trait i would present just here, and that is _tact_. it means the doing of a right thing at the right time and in the right place. some young men win first honors in college and fail in the business of life for want of tact. here is where the yankee excels. the southerner is genial, generous and has many traits of character to be admired, but he must doff his hat to yankee character for the development of tact. sam jones, who rarely ever failed to get the best of whoever tried repartee with him, met more than his match when he ran up against yankee tact. he was raising money to pay off the debt on a church. a liberal member said: "mr. jones, i have given about all i can afford to give, but if you will get one dollar from that old man on the end of the back bench of the 'amen corner,' i'll give you ten dollars more." "has he any money, and is he a member of the church?" "yes," was the answer to both questions. the great evangelist said: "well, that's easy," and started for the dollar. approaching the old man he said: "brother, i'm collecting money for the lord. you owe him a dollar. i'm told you are an honest man and always pay your debts, so hand over that dollar." "how old are you, sir?" asked the old man. when sam gave his age at about forty, the old brother said: "i'm nearly double your age, sir, and will very likely see the lord before you do, so i'll just give him the dollar myself." i lectured in new england a few years ago when before me sat a yankee with his two sons. he sat between them and when i made a point which he approved, he would nudge the boys. he seemed to be driving my advice in with his elbows. at the close of the lecture i took his hand and said: "i see you have your boys with you." he replied: "yes, i always take the two boys with me when i attend a lecture. i presume when a speaker has prepared himself he is going to get about the best things out of his subject, and will put them in a way to take hold and benefit young men. if i were going to get the same information out of books i might have to spend a dollar or two, when i only paid fifteen cents each for them to hear your lecture." this trait of tact, however, is moving south, and even the colored race is getting hold of it. an old negro who was born on the plantation where he lived when set free, remained after the war in his cabin and worked for the son of his old master. in his old age his memory began to fail and he would neglect to do things he was told to do. the young man was patient with the old negro for quite a while but finally said to him: "uncle dan, you must do better or you and i will have to separate." the old servant said: "mars jim, i does the best i can. i is mighty sorry i forgits things and i'se gwine to try to do better." but he grew worse and one evening when he failed to do a very important chore, the young man said: "i told you what would happen if you did not do better and the time has come when you and i separate." uncle dan replied: "i'se mighty sorry, marse jim. i was here when you was born, and when you growed big enuf i ust to take you on de mule out to de field wif me, and i members how you ust to take de lines and dribe de ole mule. den when de war broke out and ole master jined de army, i stayed here and took care ob ole missus and you chilluns. i shore is mighty sorry we's got to part, but if you says so den its got to be, but look here, mars jim, if we's got to part, whar's you counting on moving to?" by this time tact had done its work, aggravation had melted into forgiveness and the young man said: "i'm not going to move anywhere, uncle dan, nor shall you. we'll both stay here on the old plantation together." that was certainly tact on the old man's part. a young negro, who craved a ride on a railroad train but had no money, crept under the baggage car and fixed himself on the truck. the train started and when at full speed the engine struck a mule and tore the animal to pieces. part of the mangled remains was carried into the running gear of the baggage car. the engineer stopped the train and commenced pulling out pieces of mule here and there until he reached the baggage car, when, looking under for more of the mule, he saw the white eyes of the negro. "come out, you imp, what are you doing under there?" said the engineer. back came the tactful reply: "boss, i wus de fellow what wus ridin' dat mule." the engineer said: "well, i guess you've paid your fare; climb into the cab and help me run this train." i commend to you the cultivation of tact, but don't let it lead you into the meanest trait of character--selfishness. to say, "of all my father's family i love myself the best, if providence takes care of me, who cares what takes the rest?" in the days when there was a community hearse in a country neighborhood, and carpenters made the coffins, a young man, who was ashamed of the old worn-out hearse, went about soliciting money to purchase a new one. presenting the purpose to an old man of means, he received from this selfish citizen the reply: "i won't give you a dollar. i helped to buy the old hearse twenty years ago, and neither me nor my family have ever had any benefit from it." against this trait of selfishness i place the most beautiful of all traits--sympathy. i would rather have the record of clara barton in the great reckoning day than that of any statesman whose portrait hangs in a hall of fame. during our civil war she went from battlefield to battlefield, and was just as kind to the boy in gray as she was to the boy in blue. after the civil war queen victoria desired to communicate with clara barton regarding the same mission of mercy for the german army, where the queen's daughter was then engaged. but clara barton was already on the ocean, and soon after was in the war zone with the german army. she was with the first who climbed the defenses of strassburg, where she ministered to the wounded and dying. at the close of her work there she took ten thousand garments with her to france. there she waited till the commune fell and again she was with the first to reach the suffering. in our own war with spain she went to cuba, and though then past sixty years of age, she stood among the cots of our wounded and sick soldiers, soothing their sufferings and cheering their hearts. still later on in storm-swept galveston, texas, she fell at her post of duty and was borne back by loving hands to her home, where she recovered and again resumed her work of love and mercy, to carry it on to the end of her long and useful life. no wonder the king and court of germany bestowed upon her medals of remembrance; no wonder the grand duchess of baden placed upon her the "red cross of geneva;" and in the great day of reward, he who bore the cross for us all will place upon clara barton the crown of eternal life. when my wife was president of the house of mercy, in lexington, kentucky, a home for the rescue of fallen girls, she went in her carriage to a dentist with one of the unfortunate inmates. soon after a business man of the city said to me: "i hardly see how you can give your consent to have your wife do such work. i saw her recently in her carriage with a girl i would not have my wife seen with for any amount of money." my reply was: "i would rather my wife should go through the golden gates, bearing in her arms the spirit of a poor girl, snatched from the hell of a harlot's home, than to be the leader of the fashionable four hundred of new york city." there is a beautiful story told of one of the most influential and wealthy men of england. he inherited fame as well as fortune, had an oxford education and early in life he was elected a member of parliament. one evening he sat in his fine library, watching the wood fire build its temples of flame around the great andirons, and as he heard the beating of the wild winter storm against the window pane, his heart went out to the homeless hungry poor of the city. ordering his carriage he went to the city mission and asked for a helper, and then drove to london bridge, under the shelter of which the penniless poor gather in time of storms. he took them two by two to shelter, gave them food, and cots on which to sleep, and then returned to his princely home. we are told that for years after, when parliament would adjourn at midnight, this young man would go through the slums on his way home, that he might relieve some poor child of misfortune. on sunday afternoons, while aristocracy lined the boulevards, this son of fortune would take his physician in his carriage and go through the slums, seeking the sick and suffering. one afternoon, while he stood outside a tenement door, awaiting the return of the doctor from a visit to a poor sick soul inside the tenement, he became deeply moved by the ragged children playing in the gutters and reaching into garbage barrels for crusts of bread. he said: "ah! here's the riddle of civilization. i wish i could help to solve it; perhaps i can." he began the establishment of "ragged schools" and into these ware gathered thousands of poor children. then followed night schools for boys who had to work by day. to these schools he added homes for working women, and for these women he persuaded parliament to give shorter hours of service. he tore down old rookeries, built neat dwellings instead, beneath the windows planted little flower gardens, and rented them to the poor at the same price they had paid for the rookeries. when he began to fade, as the leaf fades in its autumn beauty, and the day of his departure was at hand, he said: "i am sorry to leave the world with so much misery in it, but i have lived to prove that every kind word spoken, and every good deed done, sooner or later returns to bless the giver." as the end drew near he said to his daughter: "read me the twenty-third psalm, for 'though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i fear no evil.'" a few days later westminster abbey was crowded with england's nobility to do him honor. when the funeral procession reached trafalgar square, thousands of working women stood, with uncovered heads and tearful eyes, to pay their tribute. children came from the "ragged schools" bearing banners with the motto: "i was naked and ye clothed me." from the hospitals came the motto: "i was sick and ye visited me," while the working girls came with a silk flag on which they had embroidered with their own fingers: "inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these, ye did it unto me." thus loaded down with the fruits of the spirit, lord shaftsbury died, and yet lives in memory as the noblest embodiment of christian charity. that's sweet music when nature hangs her wind-harps in the trees for autumn breezes to play thereon; that must have been sweet music when jenny lind so charmed the world with her voice, and when ole bull rosined the bow and touched the strings of his violin; that was sweet music when i sat in the twilight on the stoop of my childhood's home and heard the welkin ring with the songs of the old plantation; but the sweetest music in this old world is that which thrills the soul when spoken in "words of love and deeds of kindness." cultivate the trait of sympathy. the good things you are going to say of your friend when he's dead, say them to him while he's alive. take care of the living; god will care for the dead. to the trait of sympathy i would add two grand traits--decision and courage. "tender handed touch a nettle. and it stings you for your pains; grasp it like a man of mettle, silk it in your hand remains." the decision to throw over the tea in boston harbor, to write "charles carroll of carrolton," and the courage to say, "give me liberty or give me death," gave us this government by and for the people. "if you come to a river deep and wide, and you've no canoe to skim it; if your duty's on the other side, jump in, my boy, and swim it." have the courage to stand for what you believe to be right. you may have to go ahead of public sentiment at times, but you will be rewarded in having your conviction and conscience with you. a number of years ago in boston, i gave a temperance address on sunday afternoon in music hall. at the close of the lecture a friend said to me: "you said some good things but though from the old bourbon state of kentucky, you are ahead of public sentiment in boston." i replied: "public sentiment does not always indicate what is right even in boston. on your beautiful commonwealth avenue yesterday afternoon i met an elegantly dressed lady, i suppose a wealthy one from her jewels and dress. she had a poodle dog in her arms, with a blue ribbon on its neck. yet, the same woman wouldn't be caught carrying her six-weeks' old baby down the street for any consideration." such is public sentiment in fashionable society in our cities, and yet the highest type of the world's creation is a pure, sweet mother with a babe in her arms, and another holding her apron strings. i think it would be a blessing to home life if an avenging angel should go through this country, smiting every english pug and poodle dog bought to take the place of babies. in their places i would put bright-eyed, rosy cheeked children to greet fathers when they return home from their day's labor. battle for the right, remembering that far better is a fiery furnace with an angel for company, than worshiping a brazen image on the plains of dura. some young man may now be saying in his mind, "for me to always stand for the right would be to meet difficulties at every step of the way." don't get alarmed over difficulties. half of them are imaginary. i made my first trip to california thirty-five years ago. one morning i stood on the eastern edge of the plains with a sleeping car berth at my service and a through ticket to san francisco in my pocket, while the iron horse stood there all harnessed and ready for the journey. wasn't i in good condition for the trip? yes, but i saw trouble before me. one can always see trouble who looks for it. i had never been across the plains and before the time for the train to start i walked to the front of the engine and looking along the track as it reached out across the prairie i saw trouble. what was it? why, six miles ahead the track wasn't wide enough. yes, i saw it. then on six miles more the rails came together, with my destination nineteen hundred miles away. soon the train moved and as we neared the difficulty, the track opened to welcome us. not a pin was torn up nor a rail displaced. again i looked ahead and a mountain was on the track, but before i had time to get off the mountain got off. next came a precipice and the engine making directly for it, but we dodged that and i concluded our train had right of way, so i stuck to the pullman car and went through all right. ever since god made the world principle has had right of way. get you a through ticket, get on the train, battle for the right and you'll come out victorious in the end. napoleon said: "god is on the side of the strongest battalions." he entered moscow with one hundred and twenty thousand men. snow began to fall several weeks earlier than usual, the highways were blocked, frost fiends ruled the air, the great french army was broken into pieces and napoleon had to fly for his life. god taught napoleon as well as the commander of the great spanish armada, that victory is in the hands of him who rules weather and waves. the next trait i would mention is contentment. many persons make themselves miserable by contrasting the little they have with the much that others have, when if they would compare their blessings with the miseries of others it would add to their contentment. let me give you an old but a good motto: "never anything so bad, but it might have been worse!" it is told of a happy hearted old man that no matter what would happen he would say: "it might have been worse." a friend, who wanted to see if the old man would say the same under all circumstances, went into a grocery store where he was seated by a big fire and said: "uncle jim, last night i dreamt i died and was sent to perdition." prompt the reply came: "well, it might have been worse." when some one asked, "how could it have been worse," he answered: "it might have been true." doctor a.a. willetts, "the apostle of sunshine," used to say: "there are two things i never worry over; one is the thing i can help, the other is the thing i can't help." "count your blessings," was a favorite expression of the same beloved old man. there are more bright days than cloudy ones, a thousand song birds for every rain-crow, a whole acre of green grass for every grave, more persons outside the penitentiary than inside, more good men than bad, more good women than good men; slavery, dueling, lottery and polygamy are outlawed, the saloon is on the run, the wide world will soon be so sick of war that universal peace, with "good will among men," will prevail, labor and capital will be peaceful partners and human brotherhood will rule in righteousness throughout the world. "o, this is not so bad a world, as some would like to make it, and whether it is good or bad, depends on how we take it." fanny crosby, whose gospel hymns are continually singing souls into the kingdom, when but six weeks old lost her sight and for ninety-two years made her way in literal darkness, without seeing the beauties of nature about her, the blue sky with its sun, moon and stars above her, the faces of her loved ones, and yet at ninety-two she said: "i never worry, never think disagreeable things, never find fault with anything or anybody. if in all the world there is a happier being than myself, i would like to shake that one's hand." no wonder out of such contentment came such songs as, "jesus is calling," "i am thine, o lord," "safe in the arms of jesus." how different the cultured young woman, with all her senses preserved, who after passing through a flower garden where perfect sight had feasted on the beauty of the scene said: "to think of summers yet to come, that i am not to see; to think a weed is yet to bloom, from dust that i shall be." poor soul! instead of enjoying the summer she had, she was coveting all the summers between her and eternity. instead of thanking god for the immortality of the soul when done with the body, she was disappointed because she couldn't carry the old body along with her. don't let these things trouble you. live one summer so you will be worthy to breathe the air of the next if you live to see it; take care of your body so it will make a decent weed if god chooses to make one out of your remains. enjoy what you have, don't covet what you have not, thank god for your home on earth, follow fanny crosby's receipt for contentment and you will be happy enough to shake hands with her in the "land of the leal." before i close would you like to have me point you to greatness? in attempting to do so, i would not point you to congress hall or senate chamber. you can find greatness anywhere. that was greatness when john bartholamew held the throttle of an engine going over the sierra mountains, with a train load of passengers depending upon his skill and caution, and swinging round a curve he saw the wood-work of a tunnel before him on fire. to attempt to stop the train then, would be to halt in the flames. he threw on more steam and sent the train whizzing through the furnace of fire. passing out on the other end he was badly burned, but still held the rein of his iron horse. a poem dedicated to this brave engineer closes with the verse: "i 'spose i might have jumped the train, in thought of saving sinew and bone, and left them women and children to take the ride alone. "but i thought on a day of recknin', and whatever old john done here, the lord ain't going to say to him there, 'you went back as an engineer.'" history of life on the ocean tells us of a ship doomed to go down with four hundred human beings on board. the pumps were not equal to the task of holding the water down to the safety line. the captain said: "we will draw lots for the life-boats, one hundred and twenty will go in them and the remainder must go down with the ship." one after another drew his lot. a sailor, who had drawn the lot of death, walked to the railing and said to a comrade in a life-boat: "when you reach the shore, see my wife, tell her good-bye for me and help her in getting my back pay, for she will need it," and he stepped back and took his place with the doomed. finally the old mate thrust in his brawny hand and drew a lot for the life-boats. he stepped aside to watch those to follow in the drawing, when a very popular officer of the ship drew his lot. he was doomed to go down with the ship. though a brave man, the thought of his loved ones at home overcame him, and dropping upon his knees he said: "o god, have mercy upon my wife and little children." the old mate went up to him and taking his hand said: "we have been in many storms together and have been good friends for years. you have a wife and three sweet little children, while i have no one that will rejoice at my coming, nor will any one weep if i never return. it might have been my fate to go down instead of you, and it shall be. you take my lot, and i'll take yours." the offer was refused, but the mate forced his friend into a boat saying, "good-bye, i'll die for you like a man." the greatness of this world doesn't all belong to your solons, solomons, washingtons, napoleons, grants, lees or gladstones, but yonder in the humbler walks of life are heroes and heroines, who in the final reckoning day, will pale the lustre of some whose names are engraved on marble monuments and whose praises are perpetuated in poetry and song. if you ask me to point you to greatness i do not direct your minds to historic heights, but that you may win your share of greatness i close this address by saying, wherever your lot in life be cast, "in the name of god advancing, plow, sow and labor now; let there be when evening cometh, honest sweat upon thy brow. then will come the master, when work stops at set of sun, saying, as he pays the wages, 'good and faithful one, well done.'" ii a searchlight of the twentieth century. but a little more than a century ago, the old world laughed at the new. writers of the old world called our american eagle, "a paper bird, brooding over a barren waste;" yet in what they then called a barren waste, railroads now carry more of the products of the earth, than all the railroads of all the lands, of all the peoples on the face of the earth. when new england people believed there would never be anything worth having west of the connecticut river, what if some seer had prophesied that in nineteen hundred there would be a city on manhattan island named new york that would rival london, two southwest, baltimore and washington to equal venice, philadelphia to match liverpool, pittsburg and buffalo to surpass birmingham, and beyond these a city called chicago, which in grit and growth would beat anything the old world ever dreamt of; while on still farther west, would be a state named iowa, in which in nineteen hundred and fourteen, would be produced enough cattle to beef england, enough potatoes to feed ireland and hogs to "beat the jews." what if he had continued; that in the libraries of the barren waste, there would be ten million more books, than in the combined libraries of europe; that its college students would outnumber the college students of england, france and germany combined; that its wealth would be great enough to purchase the empires of russia and turkey, the kingdoms of norway, sweden, denmark and switzerland, with south africa and all her diamond mines thrown in, and then have enough left to buy a dozen archipelagoes at twenty millions each, and still have the wealth of the republic growing at the rate of five millions of dollars every twenty-four hours. what a land in which to live! think of it; less than a century and a half ago, liberty and england's runaway daughter, columbia, took each other "for better or for worse, forever and for aye" and started down time's rugged stream of years. george washington, then chief magistrate, performed the ceremony, and what he joined together time has not put asunder. it was not a wedding in high life, such as shakes the foundation of fashionable society today, but rather more like the swearing away of a verdant country couple, in some gretna green, with no other capital than youth, health and trusting confidence. we have had some domestic discords; once a very serious family row, but i of the south, join you of the north, in thanks to god, the application for divorce was not granted, and we are still a united republic. the memories which followed that civil strife were so bitter, doubtless many of you northern brethren believed the men who surrendered at appomattox were not any too sincere, and if we should ever have war with any foreign country, the north, east and west would have to furnish the patriotism, for the south would never again march under the stars and stripes. but when the spanish-american war broke out, the first boy to pour out his heart's blood for his country's flag, was ensign bagley, of north carolina. the young man who penetrated the island of cuba, 'mid spanish bayonets and bullets, and searched out cevera and his fleet in the harbor was victor blue, the son of a confederate soldier. the young man who sank the merrimac, captain richmond pearson hobson, was the son of another confederate. our consul in cuba, whose patriotism no one ever doubted, was general fitzhugh lee, and the old man who planted the flag in the tree-tops around santiago, and led two negro regiments into the battle, was fighting joe wheeler of the confederate army. if i were to close here, what an optimistic picture would be left in the glow of the century's searchlight. but alas! we have unsolved problems of imperial moment, and my purpose is to throw the searchlight upon a few of these unsolved problems. first, being a southern man, i shall turn it upon the race problem. a century ago the indian question was a perplexing problem, but it cuts but little figure now, for the indian is nightly pitching his moving tepee a day's march nearer the sunset shore, where one more shove, and, "mad to life's history glad to death's mystery," the red race will go, to where the pale face will cease from troubling, and the weary spirit will find its rest at last. the chinese question is of equal insignificance, since our doors are closed and barred against the almond eyes of the orient. the negro question seems to be the race riddle of our civilization and it will take much tact, patience and wisdom to solve the problem. it may be a revelation to some of you to know, that at the rate the negro race has grown since the civil war, when the twentieth century goes out, there will be sixty millions of negroes in one black belt across the southland. i say across the southland because, the main body of the negro race will never leave the track of the southern sun. the south held the negro in slavery, the north set him free. we supposed at the close of the war, he would leave the south and go to live among his liberators. but after half a century, he is still clinging to the cotton and the cane, or sitting in his log house home, the "shadowed livery of the burning sun" upon his brow, the plantation song still lingering on his lips, the banjo tuned to memory's melodies on his knee, a clump of kinky-headed pickaninnies playing in the sand about his cabin door, and there he sits multiplying the southland and problemizing the century. i have not time to discuss at length the solution of the problems before us, but i hope to present them in such a manner as will help you to appreciate their importance and how they are linked with the destiny of the republic. it seems to me exaltation of character, dignification of labor, material prosperity, leaving social equality to take care of itself, makes up the best solution of the negro problem. social equality does take care of itself even among the white races. some of you may have a white servant who is a good woman, a christian woman, you expect to meet her in heaven (if you get there), but she is not admitted to your social set. there is a vast difference between social rights and civil rights. near lexington, ky., where i claim my home, is the country residence of j.b. haggin, the multi-millionaire horseman. soon after the completion of his mansion home, he gave a reception which cost thousands of dollars. the "first cut" of society came from far and near, but i was not invited, nor did i feel slighted, for i had no claim upon the millionaire magnate socially. but when i meet the great turf-king on the turnpike, he in his limozine and i in my little runabout, i say, "mr. haggin, give me half the road, sir." inside his gates i have no claim, but outside, the turnpike's free, and j.b. haggin can't run over me. so the negro has no claim on the white man for social equality, but he has a right to the key of knowledge and a chance in the world. slavery was not an unmixed evil. like the famed shield it had two sides. while it had its blighting effects it had its blessings. in bondage the negro was taught to speak the english language, and in childhood had the association of white children with their southern home training. they were taught two valuable lessons, industry and obedience, without which liberty means license. the negro was compelled to work and obey, two lessons the indian never had and never respected. beside these valuable lessons the negro was taught the fundamental principles of christianity and at the opening of the war nearly every negro belonged to some church. their preachers used to get their dictionary and bible very amusingly mixed at times. elder barton exhorting his hearers said: "paul may plant and apolinarus water, but if you keeps on tradin' off your birthright for a pot of messapotamia you'se gwine to git lost. you may go down into de water and come up out ob de water like dat ethiopian unitarium, but if you keeps on ossifyin' from one saloon to another; if you keeps on breakin' the ten commandments to satisfy your appetite for chicken; if you keeps on spendin' your time playing craps, the fourteenth amendment ain't gwine to save you. seben come elebin never took a man to heben. i want you to understand dat." yet from such crudeness of expression has come preaching, remarkable for thought as well as scholarship and eloquence, while out of the suffering of slavery, through the law of compensation, we have matchless melodies in negro choirs and negro concert companies. leaders of thought may differ as to the methods of solution, but upon one thing all must agree. the net-work of our republic is such that if one suffers all suffer, and the negro is so interwoven with the various interests of our national life, we must level the race up or it will level the white race down. the lower classes must be lifted to the tableland of a better life, where they can breathe the pure air of intelligence and morality, or they will pollute the whole body politic. they must also acquire property. economy is a lesson the negro race needs to learn. this lesson was well presented to a drunken white man by a sober old negro. the white man spent his money for liquor, and then started for home. reaching a river he must cross by ferry, he found he had spent his last penny for drink. seeing an old colored man seated at a cabin door near by, he turned toward the cabin. nearing the old man he said: "uncle, would you loan me three cents to cross the ferry?" "boss, ain't you got three cents?" "i ain't got one cent," replied the white man. "well, you can't git the three cents. ef you ain't got three cents, you'se just as well off on one side de river as you is on de other." i said we may differ as to methods for solving this race problem. remembering as i do the days of slavery, how in christian homes the most merciful masters and the most faithful slaves were found, i believe the best solution lies in the golden rule of the gospel of jesus christ. i now give the searchlight a swing and it falls upon the city problem. at the opening of the nineteenth century three per cent. of the people of this country lived in cities, ninety-seven per cent. in the country. at the rate migration is now going from country to city in twenty years there will be ten millions more people in the cities than in the country. this means a change of civilization, and new problems to solve. it means a day when cities will control in state and national elections, and if ignorance and vice control our cities, then virtue and intelligence as saving influences will not suffice to save us. the ignorance prominent in the machinery of large cities is illustrated by the police force of new york city. when applicants for positions on the police force were being tested a few years ago, the question was asked: "name four of the six new england states." several replied: "england, ireland, scotland and wales." another question was: "who was abraham lincoln?" as many as ten answered: "he was a great general." one said: "he discovered america;" another said: "he was killed by a man name garfield;" and another's answer was, "he was shot by ballington booth." the growth of large cities means the growth of slum-life. hear me, you who live out in the uncrowded part of the country. maud ballington booth tells of finding five families, living in one attic room in new york city, with no partitions between. here they "cook, eat, sleep, wash, live and die," in the one room. in our large cities are armies of children, whose shoulders "droop with parental vice," whose feet are fast in the mire of miserable conditions, whose hovel homes line the sewers of social life, and who are cursed and doomed by inheritance. some twenty or more years ago, a chicago paper that had money behind it, and could have been sued for damages said: "the man who controls the purse strings of this city, the school board and board of public works, is the vilest product of the slums, a saloon keeper, a gambler, a man a leading citizen of this city would not invite into his home." that man then controlled the purse strings of the great city of chicago. i am glad to say a better man holds the place today. hannibal could not save carthage; demosthenes could not save greece; jesus himself could not save jerusalem. can we save the cities of this republic? yet our lads and lassies are eager to leave the country and go to large cities, where gas-lit streets are thronged with humanity and entertainments provided every hour. a country boy said to me: "mr. bain, you go everywhere; you see everything; i live out here in the country and see nothing." i have tried it all. for about twenty-eight years i lived in the country. since then my life has been in cities and on railroad trains between the oceans. my experience is, there is no life that keeps the heart so pure and the mind so contented as life in the country. some years ago i gave two addresses at ocean grove, new jersey, on saturday evening a popular lecture, and on sunday an address to young men. i had the popular lecture made but not the sunday talk. for three months i promised myself to get that lecture but kept on delaying. as i neared the time i hoped something would prevent my going. the time came, i was at ocean grove, knew i would have a great audience, for the day was ideal, and still i did not have the lecture except in skeleton form. after breakfast sunday i began to walk the floor, working out clothing for that skeleton and racking my brain for climaxes. my wife was with me and she never would worry over my having nothing to say. into every sentence i would weave she would inject a piece of her mind about home or children or some woman's dress or bonnet. i said: "this is a trying time with me, won't you take a stroll along the beach and let me be alone today?" like a good wife she gratified my request, and left me to work and worry over that lecture. at four o'clock p.m., i could not see daylight, and in the darkness cried out: "o lord, if you will help me this time i won't ask you again for awhile." the lord did help me. my friends said i never did so well as that evening. at the close of the lecture the audience arose and handkerchiefs, like so many white doves, fluttered in the air. in the midst of that scene, an old superannuated minister of the new york methodist conference planted a kiss on my cheek, and i have wondered often, why a man should have thought of that instead of a woman. at the close of the service a friend said: "that must have been the proudest moment of your life, for surely i never witnessed such a scene." i said: "no, i can recall one that was greater than the white lilies." away back in bourbon county, kentucky, when i was not quite twenty i was married to a girl of nineteen. soon after, we went to housekeeping in a country home. it was supper time. i had fed the chickens and horses, and washed my face in a tin pan on the kitchen steps, when a sweet voice said: "come, supper's ready." as i entered the dining room my young wife came through the kitchen door, the coffee pot in her hand, her cheeks the ruddier from the glow of the cook stove, her face all lit up with expectancy as to what her young husband would think of his first meal prepared by his wife. all the operas i have heard since, and all the cities i have seen, dwindle into insignificance compared with that pure, peaceful home in the country. another sweep of the searchlight brings us to the immigration problem. we are today the most cosmopolitan country of the world. at the rate of a million a year immigrants are pouring in upon us, and no wonder they come, when they read of the marvelous fortunes made in the new world; of mackay a penniless boy in the old world, worth fifty millions at middle life in america; a.t. stewart peddling lace at twenty, a merchant prince at fifty; carnegie a poor scotch lad at eighteen, a half billionaire at seventy. these with many more such results on a smaller scale, rainbow the sky that spans the sea, and from the other end, this end is seen pouring its gold and greatness into the lap of the land of the free. so they come, and though they do not find all they expected, they do find far more here than they left behind, and writing letters back over the ocean, they set others wild with a desire to live in america. many of them are excellent people; their children go into our public schools and come out with ours, one in thought, one in purpose, one in feeling. a little boy in chicago said: "papa, you were born in england?" "yes." "and mama was born in scotland?" "yes." "and you had a king at the head of your armies?" "yes." "well! _we_ licked you all the same." the children of our foreign born citizens in our public schools are intensely american. a boy who was born in this country but whose parents were foreign born, was for some misdemeanor chastised by his father. when his playmates teased him he said: "oh, the whipping didn't count for much, but i don't like being licked by a foreigner." there is another class coming to our country not only injurious but dangerous. they bring with them the heresies of the lands they hail from. they do not come to be american citizens. there is not an american hair in their heads, or an american thought in their minds. every drop of blood in their veins, beats to the music of continental customs, and they come prepared to sow and grow the seeds of anarchy. many come with tags on their backs giving their destination; not to build american homes; not to learn our language; not to obey our laws, or honor our institutions, but to undermine the honest laboring classes who toil to build homes and educate and clothe their children. i say, take off their tags and let them tag back home. out of this class came the men who cheered to the echo a speaker in chicago when he said: "i am in favor of dynamiting every bank vault in this city and taking the money we are entitled to." out of such schools of anarchy, came the man who crossed the sea from patterson, new jersey, to send a bullet through the heart of king humbert, and out of this class came the teachers, who shrouded our land with shame and sorrow in buffalo, new york. just here, i congratulate the spirit of william mckinley upon its auspicious flight to the spirit world. there is no better time and place for one to die, than at the summit of true greatness, "enshrined in the hearts of his countrymen, at peace with his god," the sun of his life going down, "before eye has grown dim or natural force has abated." take him from the time he entered the army, where his commanding general said: "a night was never so dark, storm never so wild, weather never so cold as to interfere with his discharge of every duty." from this time on, as lawyer, commonwealth's attorney, congressman, governor, and president, he was a jonathan to his friends, a ruth to his kindred, a jacob to his family, a gideon to his country. take him in private life where an intimate friend said: "i never heard him utter a word his wife or mother might not have heard; i never heard him speak evil of any man." take him when stricken down by an assassin, hear him say: "let no man harm him; let the law take its course; good-bye to all; god's will be done," and in his last conscious moments chanting "nearer my god to thee," and you have one of the most touching stories of this old world. all honor to our martyred president, william mckinley. what a shame that in a land whose constitution guarantees life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness to the humblest citizen, the life of its chief executive is not safe, though guarded by detectives and surrounded by devoted friends. until the country is rid of organized anarchy it would be well to abandon free-for-all hand-shaking. when senator hoar made his speech in the united states senate against anarchy he said: "it would be well if the nations of the earth would combine together, purchase an island in the sea, place all anarchists on that island, and let them run a government of their own." an irishman said: "i'm not in favor of any sich thing; i am in favor of gathering thim up all right, takin' thim out in the middle of the ocean, dumpin' them out, and letin' thim find their own island." out of the personal liberty league, which is but another form of anarchy, came the man who in an address a few years ago said: "this republic is our hunting ground and the american sabbath shall be our hunting day. down with the american sabbath!" it has been well said: "the sabbath is the window of our week, the sky-light of our souls, opened by divine law and love, up through the murk and cloud and turmoil of earthly life to the divine life above." whoever would destroy the sabbath day is undermining the republic, and any man who does not like the restrictions of our sabbath, can find a vessel leaving our ports about every day in the year. he can take passage any day he chooses, and as the vessel steams out we can afford to sing, "praise god from whom all blessings flow." another move of the searchlight and we have the expansion problem. yonder in the philippine islands are seventy different tribes, speaking many languages. how to mold them into one common whole, loyal to one flag is a mighty problem; and yet i am one of those who believe god intends this american republic shall be a standard-bearer of civilization to the darkest corners of the earth. i do not mean by this that i advocate imperialism from the standpoint of wider domain. indeed i am disposed to dodge the question of imperialism, as i dodged the money question in colorado when the question was the issue in politics. i gave three addresses for the boulder, colorado, chautauqua when the money question was the all-absorbing one in the west. at the close of my second address i was introduced to the superintendent of the railroad that runs over the switzerland trail. he said: "i understand your wife is here, and i will be pleased to have you and mrs. bain as my guests tomorrow." i knew that meant a free ride and i accepted. the next morning we were at the station at the appointed hour and after a wonderful ride mid scenic grandeur up to where eagles nest, and blizzards hatch out their young, our host said: "i want you to have the most thrilling ride you ever had, and at the next station be ready to leave the train." as the brakes gripped the wheels, and the train rested on the eye-brow of the mountain height, we stepped off. a hand car was taken from the baggage car and the train moved on up the trail. while mrs. bain was captivated by the mountains, i was looking at that hand car, without any handles on it, a flat truck with four wheels. the superintendent said: "will you help me lift this on to the track?" i said: "yes, but what are you going to do with it?" when he said: "going down the mountain to where we came from," i said, "what will we hold to?" "to each other," he replied, and i could see he was enjoying mrs. bain's placidness and my apprehension of trouble ahead. determined to sustain kentucky's reputation for courage i said no more, but hoped mrs. bain would come to my relief since she knew her husband was given to dizziness when riding backwards or swinging round sudden curves. she said: "isn't this a grand sight?" i said: "yes, it's grand, but we are going down the mountain on this hand car." "that will be fine," was all the comfort she gave me. though i have traveled close to a million miles behind the iron horse i cannot ride backwards on a railroad train. in that respect i am like the husband who when about to die said to his wife: "i want to make a special request of you, and that is, see that i am buried face down; it always did make me sick to travel backwards." when a boy i could not swing as could other boys. my head is not level on my shoulders. i have never crossed the ocean and never will. i cannot ride the rolling waves. some years ago when out on a little coast ride for pleasure, (if that's what you call it) i said to the captain: "how long till we reach the shore?" when he answered forty minutes, i felt i couldn't live that long. but i did, and when the boat touched the wharf i felt as the old lady did who landed from her first ocean trip saying: "thank the lord, i'm on vice-versa again." when mrs. bain had seated herself on one side of that hand car i fixed myself on the other, gripping the edge of the car. off went the brake and we started. in a few minutes i said to myself: "farewell vain world, i'm going home." as we ran along the wrinkle of the mountain, and swung out toward the point of a crag with seemingly no way to dodge the mighty abyss below, i was reminded of the preacher's mistake, when in closing a meeting with the benediction he said: "to thy name be ascribed all the praises in the world with the end out." around frost-filed mountain crags, over spider bridges, through sunless gorges, we went down that mountain like an eagle swooping from a storm. when we reached boulder, mrs. bain jumped from the car like a school-girl and while she was thanking our host, i was thanking kind providence that we were back in boulder. on our way to the hotel i said: "were you not frightened when we started down that mountain?" "why not at all," mrs. bain replied; "i knew the superintendent would not invite us to take the ride unless it was safe." i said: "well, you had more confidence in him than you have in me. when i call at the door with a new horse in the carriage or phaeton, you won't get in until you know all about the horse." "yes," she said, "but i know _you_." i do not regret having had that thrilling experience, but i _do_ feel by that hand car ride, as the dutchman felt about his twin babies. he said: "i wouldn't take ten thousand dollars for dot pair of twins, and i wouldn't give ten cents for another pair." that evening i gave my last lecture at boulder and in closing said: "i suppose you who live mid these mines would like to know how i stand on the money question." they cheered, showing their desire to know my views on the then popular question, and i proceeded to dodge by saying: "last evening i stood on yonder veranda watching the sun as it went down over the mountain's brow, leaving its golden slipper on flag staff peak. colorado clouds, shell-tinted by the golden glory of the setting sun, were hanging as rich embroideries upon the blue tapestry of the sky, and soon the full moon began to pour its _silver_ on the scene. as i stood gazing at the picture painted by the _gold_ of the sun, and _silver_ of the moon, i felt whatever may have been my views on the money question, the sun's gold-standard glory, and the moon's free-silver coinage, as seen from these colorado chautauqua grounds make me henceforth a boulder bi-metalist." on leaving the platform an old miner said: "how do you stand on the money question? you got your views so mixed up with the sun and moon i couldn't understand you." so if some one should say to me: "do you believe in imperialism of humanity:" if asked: "do you believe in expansion," my answer is; "i believe in the expansion of human brotherhood." "i believe there's a destiny that shapes our ends," and since the philippine islands were pitched into our lap in a night, it may be it was done that the home, the church and the school might have a chance under civil liberty in the philippine islands. with boundless resources and immense means, are linked great responsibilities, and we who live in freedom's land, and humanity's century, are under obligations to help carry the light of christian civilization to the darkest corners of the earth. along with the christian missionary goes that other "pathfinder of civilization," the commercial traveler, who is known as the "evangel of peaceful exchange" that makes the whole world kin. when the filipinos are fit for self-government, let us do as we did cuba, make them as free as the air they breathe, but keep the key to manila bay as our doorway to the orient; for whatever may be said of the old "joss house" kingdom with all her superstitions, she possesses today the "greatest combination of natural conditions for industrial activity of any undeveloped part of the globe." by building the suez canal england secured an advantage of three thousand miles, in her oriental trade over the united states. the panama canal wipes out this advantage and places the trade of new york a thousand miles nearer than that of liverpool. now let the united states build her own merchant marine, then with her own ships, loaded with her own goods, in her own harbor at manila, she has easy access to the orient, with its seven hundred and fifty millions of people, who purchased last year more than a billion and a half dollars worth of the kind of goods we have to sell, and much of it cotton goods, which means future employment for the growing millions of negroes in the south. while it may be best to confine our territorial domain within our ocean ditches, we must encourage commercial expansion, for we have already one hundred millions of people; soon we will have one hundred and fifty millions, and experts tell us when the present century closes there will be three hundred millions in this country. if this republic would build for the future she must strive to create a world-wide business fraternity, through which will go and grow the spirit of the noblest civilization of the world. another swing of the searchlight and it falls upon the labor and capital question. after all the years of education, agitation and legislation, we find capital combining in great corporations on one hand, and labor organizing in great trade unions on the other. like two great armies they face each other, both determined to win. while capital is expanding on one side, the wants of the laboring classes are expanding on the other. they see excursion trains bound for world's fairs; they want to go. they see stores crowded with the necessaries and luxuries of life; they want a share. they live in days of startling pronouncements, they can read, they want the morning papers. they live in a larger world, and knowing their brains and brawn helped to create the larger world they feel they deserve a larger share in its fortunes. when they see avenues lined with the mansion homes of capital, and the toiling world crowded into tenement quarters, and these tenements owned by capital, not five in fifty of the country's wage-earners owning their homes, they naturally conclude there is something wrong somewhere. over an inn in ireland hangs a picture representing the "four alls;" a king with a scepter in his hand saying, "i rule all;" a soldier with a sword in his hand saying, "i fight for all;" a bishop with a bible in his hand saying, "i pray for all," and a working man with a shovel in his hand saying, "i pay for all." "god bless them, for their brawny hands have built the glory of all lands; and richer are their drops of sweat, than diamonds in a coronet." i must say, however, all the fault for present conditions must not be charged to capital. there are faults within i wish the laboring world would see and correct. i travel the country over and note the men who file in and out the saloons. are they bankers or leading business men? no, they are laborers from factories, furnaces, fields and work-shops, spending their money for what is worse than nothing and giving it to a business that pays labor less and robs more than any other capitalization in the world. the new york sun says: "every successful man in wall street is a total abstainer. he knows he must keep his brain free from alcohol when he enters the stock exchange, where his mind goes like a driving wheel from which the belt has slipped." the laboring man needs brain as clear and nerves as steady as the capitalist if he expects to win in this age of sharp competition. what the laboring classes in this country spend for liquor in twelve months would purchase five hundred of the average manufactories of the land; what they spend in ten years would purchase five thousand, and what they spend in twenty years would control the entire manufacturing interests of the country. a few years ago a strike occurred with the pullman palace car company. what the laboring classes spend for intoxicating liquors in three months would purchase the pullman palace car company and all its rolling stock. instead of a strike, in which laboring men are out of work and families suffering for the necessaries of life, why not stop drinking beer and whiskey for ninety days, buy the whole business and let the pullman company do something else. how to husband the resources of the poor is far more important than the right use of the fortunes of the rich. there is less danger in the massing of money by the rich than there is in wasting the wages of the working world in saloons. now i have already thrown the searchlight upon enough problems for you to realize i have given you an incongruous picture. you must be impressed with the conflicting forces at work upon our republic. never have we had so many advocates of peaceful arbitration for differences between nations and never such armament for war; never such an accumulation of comforts, never such a multiplication of wants; never so much done to make men honest, never so many thieves. in seven thousand in our penitentiaries; in twenty thousand; in thirty-two thousand; in fifty-eight thousand; in eighty-two thousand, and in one hundred thousand. in london, england, last year with over seven millions of people, twenty-four murders; in chicago, one hundred and eighteen. there are more murders in this republic than in any civilized land beneath the sky. yet in face of all these unsettled questions, with advancement along all social, moral, intellectual and religious lines i have faith to believe this twentieth century american citizenship will prove itself sufficiently thoughtful, testful and tactful to deal with all national issues as one by one they come within reach of practical politics, and that this country is big enough, brave enough, wise enough and just enough to solve every problem vexing us today. some have not this faith. they see an army of three hundred thousand tramps eating bread by the sweat of other men's brows; the slums of great cities, cradles of infamy where children are trained to sin; the "fire-damp of combination trusts" stifling the working world; gambling brokers cornering the markets in the necessaries of life; the wages of working girls being such as to lead many from life's eden of purity; a great battle on between labor and capital and in this combination of threatening dangers they see the overthrow of free government. if these pessimists would take a view from the nether standpoint and see what we have come through as a country their fears would be dispelled. look backward fifty years from today and see the republic wrapped in the throes of civil strife; the soil of our southland soaked with blood and tears; the nation overwhelmed with debt; four million negroes turned loose penniless in the south to beg bread at the white man's door, and he already on "poverty row;" abraham lincoln dead in the white house, shot down by an assassin; the secretary of war bleeding from three stab wounds the same night; and columbia reeling on her throne. now see the harmonious association of all sections; a firmer establishment of this "government of the people, by the people and for the people" than was ever known. look over the ocean and see turkey's massacre of the armenians, russia with her siberian horrors, spain with her cruelty to the moors and jews; or look closer home over the mexican border and see the government torn to tatters and public men shot down like dogs. then turn and note our country's magnanimous dealings with cuba; her teachers schooling filipinos into nobler life; our president leading the armies of russia and japan out of the rivers of blood; slavery gone, lottery gone, polygamy outlawed, the saloon iniquity tottering to its fall; hospitals nestled in shadows of bereavement, hungry children fed on their way to school, and men who know how to make money, giving it away for the relief of suffering and uplift of mankind as never before. don't tell me the world is getting worse. i was in new york city for two weeks at the time of the titanic disaster. on saturday evening before the ocean tragedy i stood on the elevated at the corner of thirty-third and broadway. the "great white way" was thronged with pleasure-seekers, crowding their way to theatres and picture shows. it seemed to me i never saw the great city so gay. but, on monday morning after, there came on ether waves the appalling news that the finest ship in the world had gone down, and sixteen hundred human beings had gone with it. i never witnessed such a transformation. it seemed to me every woman had tears in her eyes, and every man a lump in his throat. actors played to empty houses that evening; a pall hung over the great metropolis. but when details came, with them came the triumph of humanity. the rich had died for the poor, the strong had died for the weak. john jacob astor had turned away from his fine mansion on fifth avenue, his summer home at newport, his hundred millions of dollars in wealth, and was found spending his last moments saving women and children. all honor to the brave young bridegroom who carried his bride to a life boat, said, "good-bye sweetheart," kissed her and stepping back went down with the ship. all hail to that loyal loving hebrew wife and mother, mrs. straus, who holding to her husband's arm said: "i would rather die with you than live without you." like ruth of old, she said: "where thou goest, i will go; where thou diest i will die, and there will i be buried." there side by side at the ocean gateway to eternity these old lovers went down together. ah! this republic will never perish while we have such manhood and womanhood to live and die for its honor. it has been said: "we live in a materialistic age; that all human activities are born of selfishness; that manhood is dying out of the world." all over the land at midnight, men lean from the saddles of iron horses, peering down the railroad track, ready to die if need be for the safety of those entrusted to their care. firemen will climb ladders tonight and their souls will go up in flames, like jim bludsoe's, to save the lives of imperiled women and children. look at the orchestra on board the titanic. when the supreme moment of danger came, they rushed to the deck, not to put on life belts, not to get into lifeboats but to form in order, and send out over the icy ocean, the music of the sweet song, "nearer, my god, to thee." when the ship lifted at one end and started on its headlong dive of twenty-seven hundred fathoms to the depths of the salty sea, those brave men, without a discordant note, sent out the sweet refrain; "now let the way appear steps unto heaven; all that thou sendest me, in mercy given; angels to beckon me, nearer, my god to thee; near to thee." may we not hope those brave musicians and those who died that others might live, "on joyful wings cleaving the sky," ocean and icebergs forgot _did_ upward fly, and on their flight to the spirit world continued the song, "nearer, my god, to thee." manhood is not dying out of the world. students of history are asking, "will the fate of rome be repeated in the history of this republic?" the answer is, we have saving influences in this republic rome never knew. rome never had an asylum for her blind or insane; she never had a home for widows and orphans; her "golden house" of nero never had an equal, but nowhere in her dusty highways could be found footprints of mercy. in rome the soldier was the cohesive power, while socially everything was isolated. in this republic there is an interlacing and binding together in bonds of human brotherhood. a methodist here bound to methodists everywhere, presbyterian to presbyterian, baptist to baptist, disciple to disciple, lutheran to lutheran, catholic to catholic, masons, odd fellows, knights of pythias, red men, maccabees, woodmen, christian endeavor societies, epworth leagues, y.m.c.a.'s, w.c.t.u.'s, and many other fraternities, making up an interdependent, together-woven, god-allied and god-saving influence ancient empires never dreamt of. these are the moral lightning rods that avert from this republic the wrath of god. am i putting too much stress upon the humanity side of national life? do you tell me money is the great question of this country, tariff the great question? bring me the bible and what do i find? only a very few pages given to the creation of the material universe, with all its gold and silver, suns and systems, but i find page after page, chapter after chapter, and book after book, given to the healing of the lame, the halt and the blind, teaching a kindred spirit of sympathy to meet the common woes of humanity. what i am about to say may seem more like sermon than lecture, but i believe it will be the best thing i have said when the lecture closes. in the formula of human touch, laid down in the life of jesus of nazareth, there is more saving influence for national endurance than in all the wealth of our country's treasury. from the time his beautiful mother wrapped him in coarse linen, and cradled him on cattle straw in that bethlehem barn, on up to his death on the cross, he was ever touching the masses, healing their diseases, soothing their sorrows and teaching the lesson, "the more humanity you place at the bottom the better citizenship you will have at the top." in the golden rule of this human touch lies the hope of this home of the free. a little boy boarded a car in new york city. a few feet from him sat a finely-dressed lady and as the boy stared at her, he moved nearer and nearer until he was close beside her. "what do you mean by getting so close to me? don't you see you have put mud on my dress from your shoes? move away," said the lady. the little urchin replied: "i'm so sorry i got mud on your dress; i didn't mean to do it." "where are you going, all by your little self, anyway?" "i'm going to my aunt's where i live." "have you no mother?" "no mam; she died four weeks ago. i ain't got any mother now, and that's why i was settin' up close to you to make believe you wuz my mother. i'm sorry 'bout the mud, you'll 'scuse me, won't you, good lady?" the woman extending her hand said: "yes i will; come here," and soon her arm was about him, and tears in her eyes, and the boy could have wiped his feet on any dress in that car without rebuke. we want more of human touch in national and individual life. a tramp called at a fine home for his supper. the owner said: "you can have something to eat provided you do some work beforehand." "what can i do," asked the "hobo." a set of harness was given him to clean. the gentleman went to his supper, and soon after a blue-eyed, golden-haired girl of four years came out, and approaching the tramp, said: "good evening, sir. is you got a little girl like me?" "no, i am all alone in the world." "ain't you got no mama and papa?" "no, they died a long time ago," and the tramp wiped away a tear as memory came rolling up from out the hallowed past. "oh! i'm so sorry for you, 'cause i have a home and papa and mama." the man of the house came out, and looking at the harness said: "that's a good job; you must have done that work before. come in and you shall have a good supper." the little tot ran around to the front gate, where a pair of horses, hitched to a carriage, waited to take the family on a drive. the tramp finished his supper and passing out, the little one in the carriage said: "good-bye, mister. when you want supper again you come and see us, won't you;" and turning to the driver she said: "he ain't got no papa, nor mama, no little girl and no home." the tramp, who heard these words taking off his old hat bowed low to the little one who had spoken the kind words. a few minutes later while standing on a street corner, wondering where he could spend the night, some one shouted, "horses running away!" the driver had left the team and the horses started with the little girl alone in the carriage, screaming for help. men ran out but the mad horses cleared the track. the tramp fixed himself, and as the team swept by, he gave a bound and caught the bit of the nearest horse. the horses reared and plunged but the tramp held on, until he swerved them to the sidewalk. as the near horse struck the curb he fell and the tramp was crushed beneath the horse. a physician came and as he bent over to examine the heart, the tramp said: "was the little one saved?" the child was brought and as her sweet blue eyes tenderly looked at the face of the dying man he smiled, and then the spirit took its flight, to where he who died to save the world, looked with compassion upon the tramp who gave his life for "one of these little ones." oh, the beauty and power of human touch! the panama canal is considered the glory crowning achievement of this century; but the building of a highway of sympathy over which to send help to the hopeless is a far greater achievement. if this republic is to endure with the stars; if it is to go down the ages like a broadening colonade of light, and stand in steady splendor at the height of the world's civilization; it will not be because of its money standard, its tariff or expansion policy, but because the heart-beat of human brotherhood sends the blood of a common father bounding through the veins of the concentrated whole of humanity, binding high and low, rich and poor, weak and strong together. "work brothers; sisters work; work hand and brain, we'll win the golden age again; and love's millennial morn shall rise in happy hearts and blessed eyes. we will, we will, brave champions be in this the lordlier chivalry." iii our country, our homes and our duty. a plea for the home against the saloon. the sweetest word in the language we speak is home. no matter in what clime or country, whether where sunbeams dance and play or frost fiend rules the air, there's no place like home. at the world's fair in chicago i visited the eskimo village. to a woman who could speak english i said: "how do you like this country?" "beautiful, beautiful country. oh, the flowers, the green grass, the lovely homes!" was her reply. but when i ventured to ask: "will you remain here after the fair and not return to your land of ice and snow," she shook her head and said: "no, i want to go home. i am so homesick." "be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." in lexington, kentucky, there is a modest looking house, nestled mid linden and locust trees. visitors who pass in quest of historic spots about the far-famed city, seldom give even a glance at that humble abode. yet when i am far away, whether in the wonderful west with its scenic grandeur, or in the east surrounded by mansions of millionaires, my heart goes back in memory's aeroplane to the old blue grass town, where six generations of my family sleep, the dearest spot on earth to me--"home, sweet home." when years ago i was nearing the end of a three months' lecture tour in california, a friend invited me to join him on a visit to yosemite valley, saying: "you will see the grandest scenery and biggest trees in the world." my reply was: "i thank you very much, but my engagements in the golden west close on the eighth and i will start east on the ninth; my old kentucky home is grander to me than yosemite valley and my baby bigger than any tree in california." someone has said the nearest spot to heaven in this world is a happy home, where the parents are young and the children small. i don't know about that. it seems to me a little nearer heaven is the home where husband and wife have lived long together, where children honor parents and parents honor god; where the aged wife can look her husband in the face and give him the sentiment of the dame of john anderson: "john anderson, my jo john, when we were first acquent; your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent; but now your brow is beld, john, your locks are like the snaw; but blessings on your frosty pow, john anderson, my jo. "john anderson, my jo, john, we clamb the hill thegither; and mony a cantie day, john, we've had wi' one anither: now we maun totter down, john, and hand in hand we'll go, and sleep thegither at the foot, john anderson, my jo." james a. garfield said: "it's by the fireside, where calm thoughts inspired by love of home and love of country, the history of the past, the hope of the future, god works out the destiny of this republic." a spartan general pointing to his army said: "there stand the walls of sparta and every man's a brick." can i not point to the homes of our country and say: "there stand the walls of this republic and every home's a brick." suppose a battery, planted on some eminence outside this city, were to send a shell through some building every hour; how long until your beautiful city would be one of crumbling walls and flying population? on yonder heights of law are planted two hundred thousand rum batteries, sending shells of destruction through the homes of the people and every day hundreds of homes are knocked out of the walls of the republic. do you realize what it means when an american home is destroyed by drink? some years ago on sunday afternoon i visited an eastern penitentiary by invitation of the chaplain. passing a row of cells my attention was called to a man whose face bore the marks of intelligence and refinement. the chaplain said: "that man is an ideal prisoner and a born gentleman, though here for life. he is the graduate of an eastern college. he married an accomplished young woman. in social life he was led into the drink habit, and it grew upon him until at times he became intoxicated. when under the influence of liquor his reason was dethroned, and one night in a brawl he killed a man. he was given a life sentence. asking permission to speak he said: 'i have no complaint to make of the verdict, but beg the privilege of saying, god who knows the secrets of all hearts, knows i am not a murderer at heart, for i don't know how nor when i killed my friend.' a few days after he entered this prison his wife came to visit him. she had with her a sweet little golden-haired child. as he entered the office in his striped prison garb his wife fell into his arms; the agony on that man's face i can never forget. the child shrank from him at first, then recognizing her father, she ran to him. as he hugged her to his bosom the little one twined her arms about his neck and said: 'papa, please come home with us. mama cries so much cause you don't come home.' the man sinking into a chair said: 'o god, am i never to see my home again?'" this is but one of the thousands of homes destroyed every year by the drink curse. if i could draw aside the veil and let you look into the desolate homes of your own city tonight, you would feel ex-governor hanley of indiana did not give an overwrought picture when he said: "personally, i have seen so much physical ruin, mental blight and moral corruption from strong drink that i hate the traffic. i hate it for its arrogance; i hate it for its hypocrisy; i hate it for its greed and avarice; i hate it for its domination in politics; i hate it for its disregard of law; i hate it for the load it straps on labor's back; i hate it for the wounds it has given to genius, for the human wrecks it has wrought, for the alms-houses it has peopled, for the prisons it has filled, for the crimes it has committed, the homes it has destroyed, the hearts it has broken, the malice it has planted in the hearts of men, and the dead sea fruit with which it starves immortal souls." with proof of the truth of this phillipic on every hand, it is a strange anomaly in our government that the degrading influence of the saloon is linked by law to the elevating influence of school, church and home. when jesus was on earth he came to a fig tree, dressed in rich leaves but barren of fruit; it was in fig season but the tree had only leaves. we read that jesus cursed the tree and it withered. we have in this country a upas tree named the liquor traffic. it is not a barren tree, but far worse than barren. its branches bend with the weight of its fruit, but not a pint, nor a quart, nor gallon, nor barrel from its boughs ever benefited a single mortal by its use as a beverage. its leaves drip with poison and the bones of its dead victims would build a pyramid as high as appenines piled on the alps. jesus withered the tree that produced nothing. we license and cultivate the tree whose fruitage the bible compares to the bite of a serpent, the sting of an adder and the poison of asps. in the earlier days of the temperance movement, when we discussed the question along moral lines, the license advocates made it an economic question, but since the commercial world is fast becoming a great temperance league, and great industries are blacklisting the saloon as an enemy of legitimate business, the liquor advocates are taking refuge behind the bible, and claiming that he who cursed the tree that was barren, planted the one whose root and heart, bark and branches are poisoning the blood of the nation. they pervert scripture, take isolated passages and present an ominum gatherum of quotations to prove the bible indorses the use of strong drink. by the same process i can prove one of these bible license scholars should hang himself and be in haste about it. i read on one page of the bible, "judas went out and hanged himself." on another page i read, "go thou and do likewise." and on another, "whatsoever thou doest, do it quickly." against these sacrilegious uses of scripture, i place the estimate of the fruit of this upas tree from one whose words are unmistakable, and whose wisdom none can question. solomon said: "wine is a _mocker_." was there ever a word of more weight in its application? when a boy in school nothing so vexed me and made me want to fight, as for a boy to _mock_ me. i remember when one of the prettiest girls in school made faces at me and _mocked_ me; from that hour i could never see any beauty in that girl's face, nor have i quite forgiven her to this day. when the jews wanted to heap the greatest indignity possible upon jesus, when they had driven the nails in his hands, pierced his side, placed the crown of thorns upon his head and pressed the bitter cup to his lips, they stood off and _mocked_ him. is wine a mocker? did solomon know what he was talking about when he gave it that detestable name? he added still another word and called it a deceiver. does it deceive and mock? it meets a young man at a social feast, garlands itself with the graces of hospitality, sparkles in the brilliant jewels of fashion, smiles through the faces of female beauty, furnishes inspiration for the dance and mingles with music, mirth and hilarity. gently it takes the young man by the hand, leads him down the green, flowery sward of license, filled with the rich aroma of the wild flowers of life. when it has firmly fixed itself in his appetite, it begins to strip him of his manhood as hail strips the trees, and when, with will-power gone, nerves shattered, eyes bleared and face bloated, he stands with the last vestige of manly beauty swept from the shattered temple of the soul, it stands off and _mocks_ him. it goes to a home, tramples upon the pure unselfish love of a wife, enthrones the shadow of a drunkard's poverty upon the hearth-stone, makes the empty cupboard echo the wail of hungry children for bread, with its bloody talons marks the door lintels with the death sentence of an immortal soul, and then stands off and _mocks_ the home. it goes to the congress of the united states and says: "put upon me the harness of taxation and i'll pull you out of the mire of national debt, and make the administration of the party in power a financial success." then with a government permit, it proceeds to take out of the pockets of the people five times as much as it pays the government; creates three-fourths of the country's crimes, four-fifths of its pauperism, sixty per cent. of its divorces, dooms to poverty and shame a great army of children, blights rosebuds of beauty on cheeks of innocence, shatters oaks of manhood, leaves its polluting taint upon all that it touches, and then stands off and mocks the republic. was there ever more meaning condensed into one brief utterance than in solomon's warning, "wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging, and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise?" is it wisdom in this republic to deliberately, for revenue, set in motion causes that neutralize its progress, waste its forces and destroy the fireside nurseries of the nation's destiny? if i were an artist i would now place before you a picture of an ideal american home. i would not make it the fine mansion on the avenue, nor would i make it "the old log cabin in the lane." i would make it a neat country home with garden of flowers, orchard of fruits, a barn lot with bubbling spring and laughing brook. in the door of this home i would place an american mother with the youngest of four children in her arms; the oldest son driving his tired team to the barn, the second one the cows to the cupping, the daughter spreading the cloth for tea, and the head of the house sinking the iron-bound bucket in the well for a draught of cold water when day's work for loved ones is o'er. approaching the door a commission appointed by congress on political economy lift their hats as the spokesman says: "madam, are you mistress of this mansion?" "i am the wife and mother of this humble home, gentlemen; the man at the well is my husband." "madam, we are commissioned by congress to investigate the home life of the country and would like to learn what this home is doing for the republic." "come in, gentlemen, and be seated, while i call my husband. we feel honored by your visit and would be pleased to have you take tea with us." the invitation is readily accepted and after a good country supper the investigation proceeds. in answer to the question as to the relation of the home to the welfare of the republic, the head of the house says: "gentlemen, we are trying to keep our home pure; it is our purpose to make our boys patriotic american citizens and our daughters true american women. we love god and endeavor to keep his commandments, and this is about all i can say about our home." "that is well so far, but may we ask what sacrifice would this home be willing to make for the republic if its flag were in peril?" the wife exclaims: "you alarm us by your question. is our country in danger?" "yes, madam. the combined forces of the old world are nearing our shores and the republic is in peril." "wait, gentlemen, until we talk it over." the family retires for consultation and soon the mother appears, and with tears in her eyes says: "gentlemen, we've decided. take our oldest boy, who is eager to go. take him to the battlefield; if he falls in defense of his country's flag, come back, we'll kiss the second one and tell him, 'go fill your brother's place.' gentlemen, we love our country next to our god and this home is pledged to this country's honor." i say, any country that has such mothers for its patriotism, such guardians for its homes, should protect these homes and mothers with all the power of police, all the majesty of law, and any evil that attempts to destroy these homes ought not to be licensed, but should be buried as the old scotch woman would bury the devil--with "face down, so the more he scratched the deeper he would go." i am sick of the hollow sentiment, "the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world," insofar as it relates to the drink problem. if the hand that rocks the cradle did rule the world, there would not be two hundred thousand rum-fiend vultures soaring over the cradle homes of our country today. if a mother could keep her boy in the cradle she might rule the world, but the trouble is, the boy gets too big for the cradle and jumps out. in the cradle he's mama's child, coos if mama coos, and laughs when mama laughs; but out of the cradle he's papa's boy, swears if papa swears, smokes if papa smokes, drinks if papa drinks. if papa does none of these things, then the world, ruled by hands that don't rock cradles, steps in with licensed schools of vice to teach him to drink. when general grant was president of the united states he appointed an old colored man mail-carrier over a route in the mountains of virginia. one day, when in a lonely spot, two robbers faced the negro and demanded the mail. the old man, lifting himself in his saddle said: "gentlemen, i is de mail-carrier of de united states; you touch dis darkey and you'll have de whole army of dis government on you in twenty fo' hours." blessed will be the day when every mother in our land can say to the saloon: "you touch my home and you'll have the police power of this republic on your heels in twenty-four hours." but, who is the government? we are told that in the early history of this country, a country magistrate rode horseback from maryland to washington to consult the government. going to the white house he was informed the government was not there. at the capitol he was informed the people are the government. he returned home, called the voters of his county to a meeting in the courthouse and said: "gentlemen, i have a very important question i want to present to the government." so i desire to talk to the government, you voters who are to decide the policy of this republic regarding the liquor traffic. an irishman brought before the court for an assault upon a saloon keeper was questioned by the judge, who said: "mr. dolan, what have you to say; are you guilty or innocent of the charge made against you?" the irishman replied: "by me soul, judge, i couldn't tell ye. i was blind, stavin' drunk on the manest whiskey ye iver tasted, yer honor." "i do not use whiskey of any kind," said the judge. "ye don't. thin i don't think ye are doin' yer duty by such constituents as meself. ye license men to sell the stuff; ye ought to taste the stuff ye license men to sell, thin ye would know how it makes a gintlemen behave himself." the judge rapped for order in the court and repeated the question, "are you guilty or innocent of the charge?" "judge, i'll state the case and let yer honor decide for me, which ye are hired to do anyway. i was standin' by the corner of the strate on me way home from work, when i spied the bottles in the window of the saloon. the sight of thim bottles made me thirsty, so i wint in and took a drink. jist thin three other thirsty ones came in and i took a drink with thim; thin they took a drink with me and we kept on drinkin' till we thought we were back in auld ireland at donnybrook fair. whenever we saw a head we struck it and i suppose this gintlemin's head came my way. now here's the case, judge. if i hadn't taken the whiskey, i wouldn't a been in the row, for i'm always paceable whin sober; if the saloon hadn't been there i wouldn't have taken the whiskey; and if the court hadn't licensed the saloon it wouldn't have been there. ye can take the case, sir." what makes the drunkard? the drink. what supplies the drink? the saloon. what makes the saloon? the law. who makes the law? the legislator. who makes the legislator? the voter. it's the "house that jack built," only i will change the verbage a little. intemperance is the fire the devil built. strong drink is the fuel that feeds the fire the devil built. distilleries, breweries and saloons are the axes that cut the fuel that feeds the fire the devil built. license laws are molds that cast the axes, that cut the fuel that feeds the fire the devil built. license voters and legislators are the patentees who invented the molds that cast the axes that cut the fuel that feeds the fire the devil built. prohibition ballots are the sledge hammers destined to destroy the molds that cast the axes that cut the fuel that feeds the fire the devil built. there is a chain of responsibility running through the drink question which many good men fail to recognize. you know a chain is made up of links welded together. the drunkard is only one link; he is not a chain. when you link him to the drink then you begin the chain; the drunkard comes from the drink. that is not all of the chain however; the drink is linked to the saloon. if you have the saloon, you have the drink, you have the drunkard. this is not all of the chain; you have the license law. if you have the license law, you have the saloon, you have the drink, you have the drunkard. there is yet another link; the license law is linked to the license voter. the drunkard comes from the drink, the drink comes from the saloon, the saloon from the law, and law from the license voter. who are the license voters? many of them are christian men on their way to heaven; but the trouble with them is the other end of the chain is going another road. "no drunkard can enter the kingdom of heaven." i know it is a common remark that this is a free country, and if a man chooses to drink, let him do so and take the consequences. if one could take alone the consequences of his sin there might be some claim to personal liberty. but when a man's liberty involves another life the scene changes. a young man may commit a sin in social life and by reform be forgiven, but when that other life involved in his sin, is seen in after years, walking the streets in painted shame, reproducing the consequences of that man's sin, memory and conscience will combine to give him waking hours while the world sleeps. a man may never enter a saloon, never take a drink of intoxicating liquor, but if he votes for the saloon his life becomes involved in the consequences of the saloon. what are the consequences? here is a sample. after a three days' blizzard in one of our large cities a reformer visited a morgue and seeing a large clothes-hamper full of dead babies he said: "what does this mean?" the reply came: "they were gathered from the drunkards' hovels of the city this morning." the visitor tells us: "their bodies were frozen, and several arms were sticking up out of the basket as if reaching out after life and love." the streets of our city slums are rivers along whose shores at midnight can be heard the death gurgle of helpless little ones, while poverty's row is full of children cursed by inheritance, who are not living but merely existing by scraping the moss of bare subsistence from empty buckets in wells of poverty; and the air is freighted with oaths and obscenities from demonized men and demi-monde women who pour the poison of their blood into the social life of city slums. i was both grieved and amazed when i read from the pen of a brilliant kentucky editor an editorial denouncing as tyrannical a sumptuary law that "denies to a citizen the right to order his home, his meat, his drink, his clothing, according to his conscience." i wonder if the great editor ever considered the sumptuary law of the saloon. every woman who fills the holy office of wife and mother has a right to a home. the sumptuary law of the saloon says to hundreds of thousands of such women: "you shall not have a home; you shall live in a hovel. you shall not order your home, your food, your drink, your clothing, according to your conscience, but according to the best interest of the saloon these comforts shall be ordered. you shall work all day in the harness of oppression and when night comes instead of restful sleep, you shall watch the stars out and wait the return of husband and sons." what about this inhuman denial of the right to order meat, drink, clothing and home life? such is the sumptuary law of the saloon. every child in this country has a right to an education and a chance in the world. the saloons say to hosts of children: "you shall have neither education nor opportunity. you shall go to the streets and sweat-shops to earn bread. you shall live in ignorance and mid evil environment that we may gather in the wages of your fathers." how does this sumptuary law of the saloon compare with a sumptuary law that forbids the sale of what is of no earthly or eternal benefit to any one who uses it. the same distinguished editor said: "when women gather around voting booths on election days with sandwiches and coffee, they present an indecent spectacle to the public." the man who goes with gun in hand and shoots down another in defense of his country is a hero. the mother lion or bear that defies the hunter's bullets and dies in defense of her young we can but respect; but when woman, who has suffered so long in silence, goes near where the welfare of her home is at stake and out of the sore, sad sorrow of her heart appeals to men for protection to her home from the ravages of the saloon, she is not paid the respect given to a mother hen or bird or bear by the advocate of the liquor traffic. when the niece of cardinal richelieu was demanded by a licentious king, the cardinal said: "around her form i draw the awful circle of our kingly church; set a foot within and on thy head, aye, though it wear a crown, shall fall the curse of rome." shall the crown of gold on the distiller's and brewer's brow hush into silence the lion-hearted manhood of our republic when its sons and daughters are demanded to feed the maw of the liquor traffic? one of the famous pictures of the masters is of a woman bound fast to a pillar within the tide-mark of the ocean. the waves are curling about her feet. a ship is passing under full sail but no one seems to see or heed the woman in peril. birds of prey hover above her, but she sees neither bird, nor ship, nor sea; knowing her doom is sealed, she lifts her eyes to heaven and prays. this picture represents thousands of women tied fast to their doom within the tide-waves of the ocean of intemperance. the ship of state passes by, bearing its share of the ill-gotten gains of the liquor traffic, but heeds not the moans and cries of struggling, strangling, dying woman. oliver cromwell said: "it is relative misgovernment that lashes nations into fury." the long suffering in silence by the womanhood of this country from the misgovernment that has heaped upon woman the woes of strong drink by the licensed saloon, whether a tribute to the patience of woman or not, is to the eternal shame of man, whose inhumanity to woman through the liquor traffic is making "countless millions mourn." to this misgovernment is due the unrest among women and the impetus behind the equal suffrage movement today. there needs to be a saving influence brought into our political life, and i have faith to believe that woman's ballot will provide that influence. having proved her dignity in every new field of activity she has entered, i believe the same flowers of refinement will adorn the ballot box when she holds in her hand the sacred trust of franchise. her life-long habit of house-cleaning will be carried to the dirty pool of politics, where the saloon is entrenched, and the demagogue and demijohn will be carted away to the garbage pile of discarded rubbish. now and then i am asked: "what will become of the men who are engaged in the liquor business if the country goes dry? what will become of their families?" i answer by asking: what becomes of the men the saloons put out of business? what becomes of their families? when prohibition puts a man out of business, it leaves him his brain, blood, bone, muscle, nerves and whatever manhood he has left in store, while his long rest from active toil has given him a reserve force for active, useful business. when the saloon puts a man out of business, he goes out with shattered nerves, weak will, poisoned blood and so unfitted for service no place is open for him to earn a living. recently a man put out of business by prohibition said to me: "this town went dry seven years ago, and going out of the saloon business has been such a benefit to me and to my family, i shall work and vote to put all other saloon-keepers in this state out of business for their own good." on the other hand, i have in mind a man who once chained the congress of the united states by his eloquence. clients clamored for his service, and prosperity crowned his practice in the courts. in drinking saloons he lost his clientage and in penniless poverty he died--unwept, unhonored, unsung. the ex-saloon-keeper to whom i referred is city marshall and very popular, while the man put out of business by the saloon has no chance: "where he goes and how he fares, nobody knows and nobody cares." along with the question of what will become of the men put out of business by prohibition, comes the question, what will the farmers do with their corn if distilleries are closed? less consumption of whiskey means more consumption of cornbread and that means more corn. less consumption of whiskey means greater consumption of bacon, and more bacon means more corn to feed hogs. when a liquor advocate said to an audience of farmers: "if this state goes dry what will you farmers do with your corn," an old, level-headed farmer shouted: "we'll raise more hogs and less hell." prohibition means more of everything good, and less of everything bad; more manhood, less meanness; more gain, less groans; more bread, less brawls; more clothing, less cussedness; less heartaches and more happiness. turn saloons into bake shops and butcher stalls, distilleries into food factories, breweries into stock pens, and the country will be a thousandfold better off than feeding its finances by starving its morality. this question lifts itself head and shoulders above every other question touching practical politics today. you nowhere read of a nation going to destruction because of too much gold or too little silver, too much tariff or too little tariff, but always because of the vices of its people. the nation that bases perpetuity upon moral character will endure with the stars, while walls thick and high as babylon's will not save a drunken republic. "vain mightiest fleets of iron found, vain all her conquering guns, unless columbia keeps unstained the true hearts of her sons." beautiful constance of france was dressing for a court ball. while standing before a mirror, clasping a necklace of pearls, a spark from the fireplace caught in the folds of her gown. absorbed in her attire, she did not detect the danger until a blaze started. soon, rolling on the floor in flames, she burned to death. when the news reached the ballroom the music hushed, the dance halted, and "poor constance! poor constance!" went from lip to lip, but soon the music started and the dance went on. while i am talking now the youth, beauty and sweetness of american life is in peril from the flames that are kindled by the licensed saloon. from an inward fire men are being consumed and homes destroyed. will we say, "poor columbia!" and keep step to the _mocker's_ march to the nation's death; or will we put out every distillery and brewery fire and make this in reality "the land of the free and the home of the brave?" in the name of all that is pure and true and vital in national life, i plead with every lover of home and country to come to the help of the cause that must succeed if this republic is to live. i plead with christians in the name of the church, bleeding at every pore because of the curse of drink. if everyone whose name is on a church roll would step out in line of duty on this question, very soon god would stretch out his arm and save this republic from the liquor traffic. god has been ready a long time; his people have not been ready to do their part. too many christians are like the horse sam jones used to tell of. he said: "we have a horse in my neighborhood in georgia, which if hitched to a load of stone or cotton balks and won't go a step; but in light harness in the shafts of a race cart he will pace a mile in two-thirty. we have too many christians who are like this horse; they trot out to church sunday morning, but hitch them to a prayer meeting and they won't pull a pound." dr. mcleod, the stalwart scotch preacher, on his way to a session of his church had with him a small hunch-back member of his church, a dwarf in size but an earnest worker. crossing a certain stream a storm struck the boat and the waves were sending it toward the rocks. a boatman at one end said: "let the big preacher pray for us." the helmsman at the other end said: "no, let that little fellow pray and the big one take an oar." oliver cromwell, going through a cathedral, came upon twelve silver statues. turning to the guide he said: "who are these?" the guide replied: "those are the twelve apostles, life-size and solid silver." cromwell said: "what good are they doing as silver apostles? melt them down into money and let them be of some service to the country." we have too many silver statue church members who need melting down and sending out to help save our republic from the fate of other nations that have perished through their vices. we need more men with moral courage to voice and vote their convictions. when the slavery question was agitating the country henry clay stood for a compromise he believed would help to solve the question. many of his friends in the south censured him, and sent him letters calling him a traitor. he arose in the senate to speak, it is said, looking pale from the effect of the censure he was then receiving day by day. addressing the senate he said: "i suppose what i shall say in this address will cost me many dear friends." a reporter said: "he hesitated as if choked with emotion at the thought of losing his friends." then with the majesty of greatness and magnetism of manner he proceeded, saying: "i am charged with being ambitious. if i had listened to the soft whisperings of ambition i would have stood still, gazed upon the raging storm and let the ship of state drift on with the winds. i seek no office at the cost of courage or conviction. pass this bill. restore affection to the states of this union and i will go back to my ashland home; there in its groves, on its lawns, 'mid my flocks and herds, and in the bosom of my family, i will find a sincerity i have not found in the public walks of life. yes, i am ambitious, but my ambition is that i may become the humble instrument in the hands of god, in restoring harmony to a distracted nation, and behold the glorious spectacle of a true, united happy and prosperous people." there is a grandeur in the mountain that lifts itself above the hamlets at its base, and bearing its brow to the threatening storm clouds says to the forked lightning, "strike me!" but grander is the man who can stand 'mid the allurements of the world's honors and say: "i would rather be right than president." dare to do right and what you do will have its reward. "shamgar, what's that in thy hand?" "only an ox-goad." "come dedicate it to god, and go slay those philistines." "david, what's that in thy hand?" "only a sling and a little stone from the brook." "come dedicate them to god, and go kill the giant." "my little lad, what's that you have?" "only five loaves and two little fishes." "come, dedicate them to god; they'll feed thousands and you will have baskets full left." my brother, what's that in thy hand? only a little american ballot. come dedicate it to god and home and native land, go cast it against the licensed liquor traffic and your life will bear fruit which the angels will gather when you have "finished your course" and "kept the faith." you are soon to have the local option test in your county. if i could do one thing i could make the victory for the home overwhelming. you know if the saloons continue they will have their victims in the future as they have had in the past. you know too their victims will come from the youth of your county. those who are victims now will soon be dead bodies, or "dead broke." the men in the saloon business do not look to men who are drunkards now, for future use nor do they intend to use horses or cattle or dogs, but _boys_. if i could announce that on the evening before the vote is to be taken i would present to the public the future victims of the saloons in this county. if i had a prophet's eye and could select these victims, how many homes i would enter where i would not only be an unwelcome but an unexpected visitor. when the hour would arrive for the exhibition, what an audience i would have! nothing like it ever gathered in this county; from every corner of it parents would come. when placed in line on an elevated platform so all could see, i would speak through a megaphone saying: "i present to you the future victims of the liquor traffic in your county; here are the boys who will be your future drunkards and here are the girls who will be the wives of drunkards." i imagine some father, who thinks regulation the best policy, would exclaim: "there's my boy. i never thought the saloon would take my son. don't talk to me about regulation. come, you fathers whose sons are not here, and help me save my boy." another would press through the crowd to be sure that he was not mistaken and say: "there's my daughter. i never dreamt she would be a drunkard's wife. i have said prohibition won't prohibit, but i will say it no more. come, good fathers who love your children, and help me save my child." this is but the forecast for some parents in this audience. would it be wrong if i should say: "o god, if the saloons are to continue in this county, if they are to have their victims in the future as in the past, let the fathers who vote the curse on the county furnish the victims." i do not offer up any such prayer, but i do say: "o god, give to the home the protection of a prohibition law, and may the victims not be anybody's boy or anybody's girl. go out of this hall tonight resolved you will link your faith in principle with your work. faith and work!" i like that story of the mother in new england, who on a visit from home, received a message calling her to the bedside of a daughter who was hopelessly ill. hurrying to the nearest railroad station she said to the conductor: "sir, do you connect at the junction with the train that will take me to my sick child," at the same time handing him the message. "no, madam, we do not run our trains to connect with trains on that road. the train will be gone some little time before we reach the junction." "sir, are you a christian?" "no, madam, i'm a railroad conductor." "have you a christian man with the train?" "yes, that man you see oiling the engine claims to be a christian, and i think he is; you might consult him if you like." going to the engineer she said: "please read this message and tell me if you can catch that train at the junction." the engineer read the message and said: "i'm sorry, madam, but that train goes fifteen minutes before we get there." "please sir, catch that train and let me see my daughter before she dies." "i would give a whole month's wages if i could," said the tender hearted engineer. "then don't you think god can hold the train fifteen minutes till we get there," said the distressed mother. "oh yes, god can do anything," was the reply. "won't you ask god to hold that train? and i will ask him." the engineer said: "yes, i will." the mother boarded the train, and on schedule time the engine moved. the engineer took hold of the lever and up with the smoke from the engine went the prayer: "lord, hold that train fifteen minutes for that good mother." with this prayer more steam was turned on than usual and at the next station the train was two minutes ahead of time. at the next station two more minutes had been gained. it was in the early days of railroading when rules were not so strict as now; the conductor knew there was nothing in the way, so he concluded to let the christian engineer have his way. as the train was starting for its third and last run for the junction, the engineer said: "lord, if you will hold that other train seven and a half minutes, i'll make up the other seven and a half." when the engineer had made up his seven and a half, sure enough there stood the other train. when the engineer said to the conductor: "what are you waiting for," the reply was: "something the matter with the engine, but the boys have it fixed now and we'll go on in a minute." "yes," said the engineer, "you'll go on when this godly mother gets on and not before." each one of you do your part, god will do his part, and the end will be victory for "god and home and native land." iv the new woman and the old man. in the exhibition of fine paintings it is important to have the benefit of proper light and shadow. so it should be in the study of questions. those who look at the new woman through the distorted lense of false education or prejudice, see the monstrosity such as we have pictured in the public press. they see dr. mary walker, whose dress offends our sense of propriety; they see the ranting woman on the platform, or suffragettes throwing stones through plate-glass windows, and defacing costly specimens of art. these no more represent the genuine new woman i indorse, than does the goggled-eyed, kimbo-armed dandy represent true manhood. fanaticism marks every new movement, every life has its defect, the sun its spots and the fairest face its freckles. the new woman is not to be judged by exceptions, nor is she to be measured by the standard of public sentiment. public sentiment has often condemned the right. it ridiculed columbus; put roger bacon in jail because he discovered the principle of concave and convex glass; condemned socrates, and jeered fulton and morse. it pronounced the making of table forks a mockery of the creator who gave us fingers to eat with, and broke up a church in illinois because a woman prayed in prayer meeting. hume said: "there is nothing in itself, beautiful or deformed. these attributes arise from the peculiar construction of human sentiment and affection; the attractiveness or repulsiveness of a thing depends very much upon our schooling." prof. john stuart blackie wore his hair so long that it almost reached his waist. seated one day in front of a hotel in london, a bootblack halted before him and said: "mister, will you have a shine?" professor blackie replied: "no, but if you will go wash that dirty face of yours i will give you the price of a shine." the boy went but soon returned with his rosy cheeks cleansed, saying: "sir, how do you like the job?" "that's all right; you have earned your sixpence," said prof. blackie as he held out the coin. the bootblack turning away said: "i dinna want your sixpence; keep it, old chap, and have yer hair cut." the long hair of professor blackie was as offensive to the boy as the dirty face of the boy to professor blackie. one had been schooled to short-haired men, the other to cleanly children. i have in my presence now scores of persons, who believe the sale of a negro on the auction block in the south to the domination of a white man was wrong. i did not think so in my youth. my schooling was that japheth was a white man, shem a red man and ham was black; that it was a divine decree that the descendants of japheth should dwell in the tents of shem and send for the children of ham to be their servants, thereby supporting the white man in his dealings with the black and red races. as the bible was used to justify slavery, so it is quoted today in favor of the liquor traffic, and against the new woman movement. yet it's the bible that has given woman her broader liberty. it was the bible that broke the chains that harnessed woman to a plow by the side of an ox. in the vision of john, a woman is crowned with stars, the burnt-out moon is her footstool and the wings of a great eagle given to bear her above the floods that would engulf her. the viewpoint of schooling has much to do with our convictions and prejudices. when the bicycle craze first came upon us, women bicycle clubs were formed throughout the country. wheels were made specially for woman, and to facilitate the pleasure and comfort, bloomers were worn by women in all our cities. the fat and lean, tall and short, old and young wore bloomers. at that time if a man from the country neighborhood where i was reared, one given to dancing, had gone to chicago and seen these bloomer-clad women, he would have thought the whole sex disgraced. and i must admit i didn't like the bloomer girl myself. i can appreciate the yankee farmer who lived between boston and wareham, mass. a young woman who lived in boston had a friend in wareham, and donning her bloomers she mounted her wheel and started for the village. passing several diverging points, and thinking possibly she had missed the right road, she decided to inquire at the next house. seeing the yankee farmer at the front gate she rode up, dismounted and said: "sir, will you please tell me, is this the way to wareham?" the farmer, with eyes fixed upon the new garb, said: "miss, you'll have to excuse me. i can't tell you, for i never saw anything like them before." i said our opinions are based upon schooling. let the man from the dancing community leave chicago, go back to kentucky, attend a country ball, see a young woman with low neck dress and short sleeves, in the arms of a man she never met before, and he thinks her the picture of propriety, as well as grace and beauty. yet the bloomer girl was completely clad from her chin to the soles of her feet while the other is so un-clad that when a woman, now noted for her great work among the unfortunate of new york city, was a society leader, and was passing through her library to her carriage one evening, her little son said: "mama, you are not going out on the street looking that way, are you? why, you are scarcely dressed at all." the mother realizing as never before, the immodesty of her attire, returned to her room, changed her apparel to what met the approval of her boy, and has never since worn a decollete gown. let a respectable woman in this town stand on a street corner to-morrow, and utter an oath; she would shock every one within sound of her voice. a man can "cuss" to his satisfaction and, if not a church member, the community is not shocked. let a young woman seeking a position in a public school in one of our cities, call a member of the school board into a saloon and order beer set up for two; would she get the position? not much. not if the community found it out, or the remainder of the board who were slighted. a man can invite a dozen men into a saloon, order drinks for the company, and thereby help to win the position he seeks. in the city where i reside a young man can get drunk and howl like a wolf through the streets, yet if he has wealth and family influence, in ten days he can attend a social gathering of the best society. let a young woman step aside from the path of right and she is hurled to the depths of the low-land of vices. some years ago a young man died in our city whose family name was honored and whose father was wealthy. the young man went the pace that kills and in the very morning of life died a victim to his vices. a long line of carriages followed him to our beautiful cemetery, his pall bearers were from the leading families of the city; flowers covered his grave and the daily papers paid a tribute to the young man cut down before the river of life was half run. soon after, a poor girl died in one of the wicked dens of the city. she had been left an orphan in early life without a mother's love to guard and guide her, she went astray. two carriages followed her to the stranger's burying ground. in one were two of her kind; in the other the pastor of the church of which i am a member. he afterward said to me: "we had to get two negro men at work near by to help lower her body into the grave." no wonder woman cries out against these standards, these peculiar constructions of human sentiment. public sentiment demands of a man that he shall be physically brave. if a woman appeals to him for protection, his bosom must heave with courage like the billows of the ocean, though he quake in his boots. yet the woman he defends will endure pain without a murmur, which would make the man groan for an hour. when my wife is ill it takes about two days to find it out; she does not seem so cheerful the first day, and the second, she will admit she is not so well. let me get sick, and the whole family will know it in half an hour. i know a woman will scream if a mouse runs across the floor, but give her a loved one to defend, let supreme danger come and she's no coward. john temple graves tells of a georgia girl so timid she was afraid to cross the hall at night to mother's room. she married a worthy young man and by industry and economy they paid for a cottage home. he began to cough, and the hectic flush told his lungs were involved. the doctor advised a change of climate. "we'll sell the home," said the little wife, "and go where the doctor advises, for the home will be nothing to me if you are gone." they went to florida and knowing they must husband their small means, she took in sewing. a few months later the doctor advised a higher altitude. they went to a little city in the ozark mountains. here again she plied her needle, wearing upon her face by day a smile to cheer her husband, while at night her pillow was wet with tears as she heard him coughing his life away. after several months she was informed by physicians that but one chance in a hundred remained, and that was still further west. "i'll take the hundredth chance," she said, and on west they went. soon after, in the far-away city he died; she pawned her wedding ring to make up the price of tickets back to georgia. there the little widow buried her dead by the side of his mother, and after planting her favorite flowers about the grave, she turned away to face the duties of life, and though a dead wall seemed lifted before her, she met each day with a smile and hid her sorrow beneath the soul's altar of hope. man has won his title to courage upon battlefield, and yet the battlefield is not the place to test true courage. "the wife who girds her husband's sword, 'mid little ones who weep or wonder, and bravely speaks the cheering word, e'en though her heart be rent asunder: doomed nightly in her dreams to hear the bolts of death around him rattle, hath shed as sacred blood as ere was poured upon the field of battle." when elbows touch, ten thousand feet keep step together, martial music fills the air, the shout of battle is on, bayonets glitter in the sunlight, the flag flutters in the breeze, and the general commands, men will shout and rush into battle who without these stimulating influences would be going the other way. i remember when a boy how whistling kept up my courage in the dark. it is told of general zeb vance of the confederate army, that while leading his forces across a field into an engagement he met a rabbit going the other way. as the hare dodged around the command, general vance lifting his hat said: "go it, mollie; go it, mollie cotton-tail; if i didn't have a reputation to sustain i would be right there with you." for christine bradley, the eighteen-year-old daughter of the governor of kentucky, to stand on the dock at newport news, against the customs of centuries and facing the jeers of prejudice, baptize the battleship kentucky with water, required as blood-born bravery as coursed the veins of the ensign who cut the wires in cardenas bay, or the lieutenant who sunk the merrimac in the entrance to santiago harbor. because she dared to violate a long-established custom by refusing to use what had blighted the hopes of many daughters, sent to drunkards' graves so many sons, and buried crafts and crews in watery graves, the woman's christian temperance union presented her with a handsome silver service. i was chosen to make the presentation speech, which i closed by saying: "heaven bless christine bradley, who by her example said: i christen thee kentucky, with water from the spring, which enriched the blood of lincoln, whose praise the sailors sing. i christen thee kentucky, with prayers of woman true, that wine, the curse of sailors, may never curse your crew. i christen thee kentucky, and may this christening be, a lesson of safety ever to sailors on the sea." now if public sentiment has made such a mistake in the allotment of virtues, why may it not have made a greater mistake in the allotment of spheres? it has been well said: "god made woman a free moral agent, capable of the highest development of brain, heart and conscience; with these are interwoven interests that involve issues for time and eternity, and god expects of woman the best she can do in whatever field she is best fitted for the accomplishment of results for the world's good." if a young woman is fitted to preside over a home, and some young man desires to crown her queen of that realm, she can find no higher calling in this world. there is nothing on this earth more like heaven than a happy home. i can give to a young woman no better wish than that the future may find her presiding over a home made beautiful by her character and culture, and safe through her influence. but if a young woman is qualified like frances e. willard to better the world by public life-work, or like florence nightingale or jane addams to relieve the suffering of thousands, then she should not confine herself to the limited sphere of one household. i believe in the call of capacity for usefulness in both sexes. there are men who are called to be cooks; they know the art of the caterer. there are men fitted to be dressmakers; they know the colors that blend and the styles which give beauty to dress. there are women who are fitted for science, literature and medicine. some of the best cooks we have are men; some of the best writers and speakers are women. abraham lincoln never did more by his proclamation to free the slave, than did harriet beecher stowe with "uncle tom's cabin." william e. gladstone never did more to endear himself to the people of ireland by his advocacy of the home-rule, than has lady henry somerset endeared herself to the common people of the "united kingdom," by turning away from the wealth, nobility and aristocracy of england to devote her great heart, gifted brain and abundant means to the elevation of the masses, the reformation of the wayward, and the relief of the poor. there is a fitness that must not be ignored. frances e. willard would never have made a dressmaker. it is said she did not know when her own dress fit, or whether becoming; she depended upon anna gordon to decide for her. but by the music of her eloquence and the rhythm of her rhetoric, she could send the truth echoing through the hearts of her hearers like the strain of a sweet melody. worth, of paris, france, would not have made an orator, but he could design a robe to please a princess and make a dress to fit "to the queen's taste." then let worths make dresses, and frances e. willards charm the world by their eloquence. yonder is a boy. his soul is full of music; his fingers are as much at home on the key-board of a piano as a mocking-bird in its own native orange grove. his sister is a mathematician; she solves a problem in mathematics as easily as her brother plays a piece of music. because one is a boy and the other a girl, don't make the girl teach music and the boy mathematics. what god has joined together in fitness, let not false education put asunder. recently i read of a man whose father left him a large business. though an exemplary man he could not make ends meet in a business out of which his father had made a fortune. the man worried himself into nervous prostration. while he remained at home for rest, his wife took charge of the business and made of it a great success. i say let that woman run the business and the man take care of his nerves. i know a minister who is a good man, but his strength is in his limbs. he's an athlete, but turn him loose in a field as full of ideas as a clover field of blossoms, and he can't preach a good sermon. let dr. anna shaw enter the same field and she will gather blossoms of thought faster than you can store them away in your mind. some one in my presence may believe the man should keep on preaching and anna shaw go to the sewing-room and run a sewing machine; but i say if the man's strength is in his limbs, and doctor shaw's in her head, let the preacher run the sewing machine and doctor shaw preach the gospel of righteousness, temperance and judgment to come. if god fitted anna shaw's brain and tongue for the platform, it would be unwomanly in her to make herself the pedal power of a sewing machine. we want successful, useful men and women; and in fields for which god has fitted woman, don't be afraid to give her the freest, broadest liberty, or be uneasy about her unsexing herself. she has entered two hundred fields in the last one hundred years. yes, i guess one more field must be added, for i saw a woman a few years ago in an occupation i had never seen one engaged in before. in a city where i lectured a beautiful, intelligent young lady was running the elevator of a hotel, and i was completely "taken up" by her. of all the new fields entered by woman you cannot point to one where she has degraded her womanhood, or one that has not been blessed by the touch of her influence. it is true there are fanatics among women as there are among men, but if the extreme woman goes too far, the average woman will call a halt every time. fifteen years ago i could stand on michigan avenue, chicago, in the evening and within a half hour count twenty young women, dressed in bloomers, riding bicycles. now one may go to chicago, spend a year and not see one. woman is safe enough. some are uneasy lest woman will go beyond her sphere, but i am not so much disturbed about the future of woman as i am of man. upon virtue and intelligence depends the future of this republic. have men all the virtue? go to the saloons; are they frequented by women? no; _men_. go to the gambling halls; are they crowded with women? no; _men_. go to the jails and penitentiaries; are they full of women? no; _men_. go to the churches; are they crowded with men? no; mostly by women. what about intelligence? have men all the intelligence? two girls graduate from high schools to one boy. i am glad to be living now; one hundred years hence, if i were to be born again, i would want to be a girl. woman goes to the door of death to give life to man and man should be willing to let her seek out her own sphere for usefulness. not long since i read a book called "the new woman." it was a novel by an englishman. in it the author takes a beautiful young girl, about eighteen years of age, through a "gretna-green" experience with a young man of twenty. she is the daughter of a widow; he, the only son of a wealthy london merchant. they run away and after a month's search are found by the father of the young man in southern france. the girl is sent home to her mother; the young man sent to india in order to get him far away from his wife. the novelist makes the young man a noble character, who is determined to prove himself worthy of his wife, and he toils to send her means for support. the young wife becomes a mother, and the young husband toils the harder to care for his wife and babe. when time hangs heavy on the hands of the young mother, she is invited to join a woman's club. here she imbibes the spirit of the new woman. she soon neglects her child and appears before the public for a lecture. she wears a low neck dress, paints her cheeks, blondines her hair, smokes cigarettes and drinks wine. a millionaire in india, who loses his own son, adopts the hero of the novel, dies and leaves him the great estate. then the young man hurries back to his wife. he arrives in the evening, but finds she is not at home; she is delivering a lecture in the opera-house. he awaits her return; a storm rages outside; at a late hour she enters the door, throws off her wraps and stands before her husband, with blondined hair, painted cheeks, and eyes red with wine. he stares, then starts toward her, when she brings him to a halt by her strange manner. he asks, "is not this my wife?" she answers, "no, i am the new woman." she refuses to let him see their child, drives him out into the storm, then goes to her room, disrobes and lies down to dream of great audiences and applause. it is an insult to any intelligent reader. where is the woman, who was a sweet, modest young mother, and who today is a public speaker, who has neglected her child, driven her husband without cause into the street, blondines her hair, paints her cheeks, drinks wine and smokes cigarettes? she would be hissed from the platform. the author simply shows his extreme prejudice in an abstract attempt to prove that to be a new woman means the surrender of all womanly graces. let me give you, not fiction but real history, that i may present to you the kind of new woman i indorse. she was born in the state of new york, was well educated, and at proper age married a young physician. they moved to a western city, where for a while the young physician did well; but in an evil hour he commenced to drink. like many a noble young man, he was too weak to resist the power of appetite, and soon his practice left him. his wife, the mother of two boys, secured a position in the public schools and by her ability, won her way to a principalship. the husband wandered away, while the brave wife and mother remained with her children, but followed her husband with letters of loving appeal. after long separation he was taken seriously ill in the far southwest. she left children, home and school work to go to his bedside. her watchful care brought him back from the very door of death, and her prayers were answered in seeing him forsake the cup and hide for safety in the cleft of the rock of ages. he returned with her to their home, but soon after passed away. she buried him beneath the green missouri sod, planted flowers about the grave, paid him tribute of her tears, and returned to her work. in the course of these years she had joined the woman's christian temperance union and was recognized as one of its greatest leaders. several years ago i gave an address in hot springs, ark. a card was presented at my door, which bore the name of the heroine of my story. going to the parlor i said: "what are you doing here?" "my boy has been very ill with rheumatism and i have been here with him for several weeks. he is better now and i return to my work tomorrow." months later she was called again to the bedside of this son, and with all the tenderness of mother-love, he was cared for until he too passed over the river. again she took up her work on the platform, where she inspired many young women to do their best in life, and called many to righteousness. she was the salt of the earth, the embodiment of nobility, the soul of truth; and not only her own state but the whole country is better because she lived. ask the author of the novel for the _real_ to his story; he cannot name her; she does not live in england or america. ask me for mine and i answer clara c. hoffman, for years the associate of frances e. willard as national officer of the woman's christian temperance union, and state president of the white ribboners of missouri. in a magazine article an author said: "out of one hundred and forty-five graduates of a certain female college, only fifteen have married." a chicago editor quoted the statement and asked: "is it possible education breeds in woman a distaste for matrimony and home life?" in the first place, i would answer: "you never can know how many are going to marry until they are all dead." another explanation is that the average school girl goes out of school at that impulsive age when "love acts independent of all law, and is subject to nothing but its own sweet will," no matter how many years father has toiled to give her the comforts of life, nor how many sleepless nights mother has spent to give her rest. she meets a young man; he is handsome, dresses well and talks fluently. she falls in love, and sees in "love at first sight," the "inspiration of all wisdom." in a week, though she knows nothing of the young man's character or disposition, she is ready to say to her parents: "i appreciate all you have done for me: i love you devotedly, but i have met such a nice fellow; he has asked me to marry him, and i have accepted; ta-ta!" she's gone. if her parents ask about the prospect for a living, she answers as did the young girl whose father said: "mary, are you determined to marry that young man?" "i am, father." "why, my child, he has no trade, no money, and very little education; what are you going to do for a living?" she replied: "aunt is going to give me a hen for a wedding present. you know, father, it is said one hen will raise twenty chickens in a season. the second season, twenty each, you see, will be four hundred; the third season, eight thousand; the fourth season, one hundred and sixty thousand; and the fifth season, only five years, twenty each will be three million, two hundred thousand chickens. at twenty-five cents each they will bring eight hundred thousand dollars. we will then let you have money enough to pay off the mortgage on the farm and we will move to the city." to a girl in love, every hen egg will hatch; not a chicken will ever die with the gapes; they will all live on love, like herself, and everything will be profit. the college girl cannot marry at this impulsive, air-castle age. she must wait until she gets through college. by that time she is old enough for her heart to consult her head, and her head inquires into the character and capacity of the young man. beside this, it has been the custom for women to look up to man, and when the college woman looks up, quite often she doesn't see anybody. young man, if you want the college girl you must "get up" in good qualities to where she will see you without looking down. i believe this higher education for women will tend to arrest the recklessness by which life is linked with life at the marriage altar. there is a legend among the jews that man and woman were once one being; an angel was sent down from heaven to cleave them into two. ever since, each half has been running around looking for the other, and the misfits have been many at the marriage altar. these misfits remind me of an experience when i lectured for the colfax, iowa, chautauqua, some years ago. frank beard, the famous chalk talker, was there and on grand army day he was on the program for a short talk. i was seated by mr. beard while the speaker who preceded him was telling war stories of his regiment and himself. frank beard said to me: "well! i guess i can exaggerate a little myself." it was evident he intended to measure up to the occasion. after getting his audience into proper spirit for the manufactured war story, he said: "i was in the war myself and had a few experiences. at the battle of shiloh, i was lying behind a log, when i saw about forty confederates come dashing down toward me. my first impulse was to rise, make a charge and capture the whole forty. but i knew that would not be strategy; generals did not manage a battle that way with such odds against them, so i determined to make a detour. perhaps some of you young people do not know what a detour means. it means, when in such a position as i was, to get up and go the other way. so i detoured. the chaplain of our regiment detoured also; he could detour a little faster than i, and was directly in front of me when a shell caught up with me and took my leg off just above the knee. you may notice i walk very lame." (which he did just then for effect). "well, the same shell took off the chaplain's leg, and we tumbled into a heap. the surgeon came up, and having a little too much booze, he got things mixed; he put the chaplain's leg on me and my leg on the chaplain. we were in good health, and the legs grew on all right. when i recovered, i concluded to celebrate my restoration to usefulness, so i went into a saloon and said to the bartender, 'give me some good old brandy.' he set out the bottle, and i began to fill the glass, when that chaplain's leg began to kick. the chaplain was a very ardent temperance man, and the first thing i knew, that temperance leg was making for the door, and i followed. but what do you think? as i went out, i met my leg bringing the chaplain in." that's a very absurd story, a rather ridiculous one, but if the surgeon had made the mistake mr. beard charged, he would not have made any greater than is made every day at the marriage altar. young women, i would not silence the love songs in your hopeful hearts, but i would have every betrothed girl demand of her lover not only a loving heart, but a well rounded character and a reasonable store of useful knowledge. a writer on this question said: "this progress of woman lessens mother love in our country." is that true? before the opening of a southern exposition, a mother of four boys applied for and was engaged as chime bell ringer. perhaps some saw in the selection a woman as brazen as the bells she would ring. on opening day she played, "he who watches over israel neither slumbers nor sleeps"; on new york day she played, "yankee doodle" and "hail columbia;" on pennsylvania day, "the star spangled banner;" on kentucky day, "my old kentucky home;" on maryland day, "maryland, my maryland;" on georgia day, "the girl i left behind me;" on colored people's day, the airs of the old plantation; on newsboy's day, "the bowery" and "sunshine of paradise alley;" then "nearer, my god, to thee," "rock of ages, cleft for me," soothed the tired christian heart. one afternoon she took two of her boys into the belfry-tower; one seven, the other about three years of age. when they tired of the confinement, the older boy said: "mother, can we go out for a walk?" "yes, son, but don't let go little brother's hand." she was so absorbed by the music of her bells she did not notice the passing of time until the night shadows began to gather. then her older boy came running up in the tower crying, "mother, i've lost little brother!" she quit her bells and running through the grounds set every policeman looking for her boy; then she hurried back to her bells and began to play "home, sweet home." it is said the bells never rang so clear and sweet. over and over again she played, "home, sweet home;" some wondered why the tune did not change. at last, while trembling with dread and eyes filled with tears, she heard a sweet voice say, "mama, i hear de bells and i tome to you." the mother, turning from the bells, clasped the child to her bosom and thanked god for its safety. it is said everything is undergoing a constant change, but until the chime bells ring in the eternal morning mother love will live on, the same unchanging devotion. several years ago i stood on portland heights, oregon, in the evening, and saw mount hood in its snow-capped majesty, when the stars seemed to be set as jewels in its crown. if you ask me by what force that giant was lifted from the level of the sea till its dome touched the sky, i cannot answer you, but i know it stands there, a towering sentinel to traveler on land and sailor on the sea. so mother love, which no one can solve, exists as unchanging as the love of god; broad enough and strong enough to meet all the changing conditions of time. while i did not make this lecture to include the suffrage question, i cannot turn away from the new woman without a word about the ballot for women. it is no longer a question of right, but whether or not men will grant the right. this i believe men will do when the sentiment of women is strong enough to force the issue. "taxation without representation" is no less a tyranny to women than to men. i was the guest of a wealthy widow, who paid more taxes than any man in the county, yet a foreigner, who had been in this country less than three years, who had not a dollar of property nor a patriotic impulse, laid down the hoe in the garden, and going to the polls, voted additional tax upon the woman he worked for; and the saloon influence upon her two boys, while she had no voice in what taxes her property, or what might tax her heart by the ruin of a son. there being no question about woman's right to the ballot, there should be no hesitation on man's part in bestowing the right. i now turn from the new woman to the old man. i do not mean the man old in years; for him i have only words of honor and praise. i mean the man set in old ways and habits that neutralizes the progress and wastes the forces of the republic. at the door of this old man lie the causes of commercial disturbances, depression in trade and recurring panics more than in the causes stressed by partisans for political effect. we should never have hard times in this country. we live in the best land beneath the sky. it has been well said: "this is god's last best effort for man." we have soil rich enough to grass and grain the world. our vast domain is inlaid with gold, silver, iron and lead of boundless worth. deep in the bosom of columbia are fountains of gas and oil, sufficient to light and heat our homes for a century to come. within these healthful lines of latitude is room enough not only to house all the peoples of the earth, but to sty all the pigs, stable all the horses, and corral all the cattle of the world. to have all these gifts crowned with sunshine and shower, free from pestilence and famine, we are the most prosperous and should be the best contented people on the earth. in such a land there should be perpetual peace and plentiful prosperity. yet we have hard times after hard times, and panic after panic. why is this? if i could tell you why, it would repay for the time and money spent to hear this lecture. during the great panic in the nineties mr. w.c. whitney of new york, wrote a letter to a leading new york daily in which he said: "there are just two causes for this panic; too much silver and too much tariff." i do not disparage these two problems, but i do say mr. whitney had a very narrow view of a panic. like many another man, he had a thorough knowledge of certain things and was totally ignorant of others. a chief justice of the united states was riding in a carriage with his family when a shaft broke. it was not broken short off, but shivered by contact with a post. the chief justice had no strings and was in a dilemma. a negro boy passed by, dressed in rags, whistling a merry tune. the great jurist hailed the boy, saying, "boy, have you a string?" "no, boss, what's de matter?" "i have broken the shaft of my carriage," said the justice. "yas, sir, i guess you is, boss. is you got a knife? if you is, i think i can fix it for you." taking the knife, he jumped the fence and cut withes from a sapling, with which he lashed a lath to the shaft. "i guess da'll git you home, boss." "that's a good job," said the judge; "why didn't i think of that?" the boy replied: "i don't know, sir, 'cept some folks know more than others." that boy did know more than the chief justice of the united states about mending a broken shaft. i think i know a thing or two about panics which mr. whitney did not seem to have learned. let me give you two causes for panics. they are not all but they rank with mr. whitney's. first, the extravagance of the people. when times are good and money plentiful, people are extravagant. they buy everything and pay enormous prices. a horse, axtell, brings his owner one hundred and five thousand dollars; a two-year-old colt, arion, one hundred and twenty-five thousand. a town site is located in a barren waste and lots sell at ten to one hundred dollars a front foot. all kinds of wildcat schemes are promoted, and the people bite at the bait. an era of extravagance is on and "sight unseen" investments are made. several years ago my brother said to me: "are you going west soon, as far as kansas city?" when i replied that i was he said: "i have never been in that city but i have two lots there i wish you would look at and ascertain their value." he advised me to call on a certain real estate agent, who would show me the lots. when i called on the agent a little while later, he informed me the lots could not be seen until a dry spell took off the water. two lots my brother never saw and never sold; decidedly "watered stock." a man with a thousand dollars buys a five thousand dollar lot. he knows he can't pay for it, but there's a boom and he expects to sell for six thousand before the second payment is due. he doesn't sell. when he can't sell he goes to the bank to borrow money to make the payment; he finds there many more in the same condition as himself. the banks see the trouble coming and will not loan. when the banks refuse to loan the depositors get scared and take their money out of the bank. during that great panic in the nineties three hundred millions of dollars were taken out of circulation within four months by depositors who were scared. then the country gets flat on its back with a panic. a friend said to me, during the great depression: "don't you think it will be over soon?" i replied: "let a man have typhoid fever until reduced to a skeleton; let the doctor call some morning toward the close of the long siege and say, 'the fever is broken, get up and go to work.' can the man obey the doctor? no; he must have chicken-broth and gruel, and slowly regain his strength." so when a panic comes we must creep out, and we were so deep in the nineties it took a long time to recover. when a panic comes however, the extravagance ceases; everybody gets stingy. a man with five thousand dollars doesn't buy a five thousand dollar lot. he doesn't buy anything; his wife must wear the old bonnet, and his church assessment is reduced. then the tide turns and the country recovers from its extravagance. but when times get good, crops are fine and money plentiful, the people begin again; women spending their money for dry goods, men for wet goods; another era of extravagance is on and another panic coming. mr. whitney said: "too much silver and too much tariff." all the gold and all the silver money in this country would not pay the old man's drink and tobacco bill for five years. we drink, smoke and chew up all the money in this country, gold, silver, and paper, every seven years. last year we spent about six millions for missions; one hundred and fifty millions for churches; two hundred and seventy-five millions for schools; and eighteen hundred millions for intoxicating liquors and tobacco. awake, o conscience! and pour out thy saving influence for the healing of the nation. we live in a marvelous country. what this republic has accomplished in one hundred and thirty-eight years, is the wonder of the world. at the close of the revolutionary war those who survived were poor, wounded, bleeding people, occupying only the eastern rim of a wilderness waste, while wild beast and wilder indians roamed the mighty expanse to the western ocean. from the penniless poverty of then, has come the wonderful wealth of now. where the tangled wilderness choked the earth, now fields of golden grain dot the plains, carpets of clover cover the hillsides, cities hum with the music of commerce, while rivers and railroads carry rich harvests to the harbors of every land. emerson wrote better than he knew when he wrote: "so i uncover the land, which of old time i hid in the west, as the sculptor uncovers his statue, when he has wrought his best." yet grand as this country has grown to be, "the eagle of liberty can never reach the pinion heights its wings were made to measure," while the shell of wasted resources to which i have referred bows low its head. money won't save us. babylon had her gold standard; her images were made of gold. media, persia, had her free silver standard; her images were made of silver. rome had her gold, her silver, brass and iron; yet they were all dashed to pieces on the world's highway. "in the hollow of the hand of god is the destiny of this republic," and we cannot buy him with money. the wealth that satisfies the ruler of nations is character. some one said a few years ago, and it went the rounds of the press: "the question during the civil war was, shall we have two governments or one; now the question is, shall we have any?" i quote to you with as much confidence as any mortal ever proclaimed a truth: "this republic will never fail or fall until god deserts it, and god will not desert it until we desert him." "come the world in arms, we'll defeat, and then pursue; nothing can our flag destroy, while to god and self we're true." i am not one of those who believe our war with spain was an accident. for dewey to cross that dead line at midnight; when morning dawned to find mines of death behind him, an enemy's fleet of eleven ships before him, these supported by shores belted with batteries; and yet within six hours sink or disable every ship in the fleet, silence the forts, lift the star spangled banner in triumph to wave, and not have a warship sunk, nor a sailor killed, means more than the mere skill of a commodore. some one may say we had a better navy. spain didn't think so. before the war the spanish papers said: "the united states is bluffing. she can't go to war with us. she has only twenty-five thousand soldiers, and they are kept out west to control cowboys and indians. then the south is waiting for an opportunity to break out in rebellion." columbus discovered america in ; spain didn't discover the united states until . do you ask what we are to do with the philippine islands? i cannot tell you what is best, but i do know we didn't want them. the day dewey sailed from hong kong to manila bay, if spain had said to the united states: "here are the philippine islands, we would like to make you a present of them," the united states would have replied, "we thank you, but decline the offer." not one man in ten in this country would have voted to take them. but the next day we had them, had fought to get them; and i believe the same superhuman power that took from spain, the netherlands, flanders, malacca, ceylon, java, portugal, holland, san domingo, louisiana, florida, trinidad, mexico, venezuela, columbia, ecuador, peru, bolivia, chili, argentina, uruguay, paraguay, patagonia, guatemala, honduras, san salvador, nicaragua, porto rico, cuba, and "then some," took away from spain the philippine islands and gave them to us, that the home, the church and the school might be established in the islands. perhaps some of you think i am getting off my subject. i am not; i am talking now about the _old man_, uncle sam, and his mission in the world. it is the opinion of many that we are under no obligation to the islands of the sea, but these conservative souls should not forget that we are not only citizens of the united states, but of the globe on which we dwell and of the universe of god. the world in which we live, lives because of the light and heat it receives from other worlds. if the rolling sun in the heavens is under obligation to furnish light for our pathway, heat for our soil and warmth for our blood, are we not under obligation to carry the light of civilization to the people whose shores and ours are washed by the same waters? if the full orbed moon is under obligation to pour its silver into our nights, and lift the tides until our rivers are full, are not we under obligation to lift the tide of hope in the heart of oppressed humanity, and pour the light of intelligence into the night of ignorance? did god give us this grand country, with its boundless resources, for us to draw our ocean skirts about our greatness and pass by our bruised and bleeding neighbor, lying half dead on life's jericho road? if so, then call back our proud eagle of liberty from its pinion flight through the skies of national achievement, and make our national emblem the barnyard fowl that crows in the day dawn as if creating light instead of noise, and then runs for his roost when the shadows fall. the bible says we are fellow workers with god. what does this fellowship imply? it means there are some things we can't do, which god must do for us, and some things we can do he won't do for us. he puts the coal in the earth; we must dig and blast it out. he puts oil beneath the soil; we must bore into its wells and pump it out. he gives us the earth and "the fullness thereof;" we must do the sowing and reaping. he puts electricity in the air; we must bridle, saddle and harness it. he empties the clouds into the basins of the earth and gives us oceans, gulfs and lakes; but we must build boats to ride them. he puts humanity on the earth and bids us love our neighbor as ourselves. who is my neighbor? some seem to think only those who live in our immediate community. i read of a minister of a city church who called upon one of his country members for a contribution for foreign missionary work. the country brother said: "i don't believe in foreign missions, and i must say, 'no'." "brother," the pastor said, "the bible says you should love your neighbor as yourself." "i do love my neighbors." "who are your neighbors?" "those whose farms adjoin mine, and perhaps, those whose farms adjoin theirs." "how far do you own eastward?" "to the third fence yonder." "how far do you own toward the west?" "about a half mile?" "how deep do you own into the earth?" "well, i never thought of that, but about half-way, i guess." "well, my brother, i am asking you to help your neighbor china, who joins your line below." * * * * * i have a friend with plenty of this world's goods, and not a child. when approached by the ladies of the foreign mission society he said: "i do not give to foreign missions; when you want anything for home missions i'll help you." perhaps he would; but many of that class are represented by a colored man of whom i heard a methodist bishop tell. he said to a friend: "dat wife of mine is got money on de brain; it's money, money all the time. i can't go whar she is, but she's axing me for money. she's jest sho'ly gwine to run me to the lunatic 'sylum ef she don't quit her beggin' me for money." the friend asked: "what does she do with so much money?" the colored brother hesitated a minute, and said: "she don't do nuffin wid it, caze i ain't never _give_ her none yet." * * * * * my friend who opposes foreign missions said: "so much you give never gets there." yes; and so many seed the farmer puts into the ground never grow, and so the farmer says, "put five grains in every hill: one for the cut-worm, one for the crow, one to blight, and two to grow." and you cannot tell which will grow. a weed grew by the wayside in the old world. all it did was to furnish seed for the wind, and worry for the farmer. but one blustering day, the wind carried a seed from the wayside weed into a florist's garden; it sprouted, rooted and bloomed. the gardener was impressed by the beautiful coloring of the blossom, so he nurtured, transplanted and cultivated it into a beautiful flower. it was from this bush, once a weed, queen victoria selected the flower she carried when she entered the crystal palace to meet the world's representatives. when delia laughlin went astray, her father drove her from his door. she was of that temperament that must either go to the heights or to the depths, and to the depths she went. down the rapids of a sinful life her steps were swift. along the bowery she made her way to five points, where thieves and drunkards dwelt. it was said she could drink deeper, curse louder, and fight fiercer than any inmate of the most wicked spot in new york city. mrs. whittemore went one day on her mission of mercy through the slums. she sought some one to accompany her who knew the deepest haunts of the wicked. delia laughlin was recommended to her. mrs. whittemore, with her bible in one hand and a fragrant rose in the other, made her rounds. she was deeply impressed with the intellect and culture, as well as the beauty of the wayward girl who had been her guide through the slums. "dear girl," she said; "you are too bright and beautiful to be down here. i wish you would come to see me at the door of hope mission," and slipping a coin and the white rose into the soiled fingers she said, "good-bye." the girl loved flowers, so she took the white rose to her room and put it in water. then with the coin she went to drown her misery in drink. forty-eight hours later she had slept off the debauch, and taking the flower from the vase she said: "ah! that represents my life. once i was as pure as the rose when the good woman gave it to me. those withered petals represent the withered graces of my life." from out that little flower an arrow went to the heart of delia laughlin. she took the street car and went to the door of hope mission. mrs. whittemore met her and they talked together. while the girl wept mrs. whittemore prayed; she said: "o god, this poor girl has no other friend than you. her father's home is closed against her. you have promised, when father and mother forsake, you will take the deserted one. won't you take her now?" and god did take her; from that hour she was safe in the cleft of the rock of ages. when she addressed twelve hundred inmates of auburn prison, a reporter said: "never did john wesley, john knox, or martin luther do greater work for the master." when laid in her casket in the door of hope mission a few years later, a new york paper said: "never did a fairer face or more eloquent tongue do work in slum life than delia laughlin." "the stone o'er which you trample, may be a diamond in the rough. it may never never sparkle, though made of diamond stuff. "because someone must find it, if it's ever found; and then someone must grind it, if it's ever ground. "but when it's found, and when it's ground, and when it's burnished bright; then henceforth a diamond crowned 'twill shine with lustrous light." you can't tell what seed will grow. after the civil war i lived for two years in richmond, kentucky. during that time the klu klux movement broke out in fury. men were hanged, others whipped and driven from the county. on my way to market one morning i saw a man hanging from a limb of a tree in the court-house yard. on his sleeve was pinned a piece of paper, on which was written, "let no one touch this body until the sun goes down." all day that body hung there and not an officer of the law dared to cut the rope. such was the reign of terror no one offered a protest. one saturday night a young man named byron was hanged in the same court-house yard. he was the only son of a widowed mother, and he begged the mob to let him live for his mother's sake. sunday morning several empty bottles lay about the tree, indicating that the men were drinking who did the deed. the evening after the hanging i gave an address in the methodist church for the good templars. i had no thought of referring to the hanging of young byron, but in showing up the evils of drink, those empty bottles came to my mind, and i could imagine the old mother then weeping over her dead boy. without considering the consequences i denounced the klu klux and the cowardice that permitted such lawlessness. after the lecture a young man of influence advised me to leave at once and not dare spend the night in the town. i felt sure the klan could not be called together that night, so i ventured to spend the night at home. about eleven o'clock that night the front gate was opened, and tramp, tramp, tramp, came the sound of feet toward the cottage, which was about forty feet from the street. it seemed as if all was over with me, when the "pluck" of a string introduced a serenade from the string band of the little city. since the daughters of judah hung their harps upon the willows, no sweeter music has ever fallen upon mortal ears than i heard that night from the string band of richmond, kentucky. i do not know how much my speaking out against klu klux had to do with arresting the outlawry that made the roads rattle with the clatter of the hoofs of horses at midnight raids, but i do know young byron was the last man hanged by the klu klux in madison county, and may i not hope the unpremeditated protest made in that sunday evening address, helped in some measure to bring about the transformation, and contribute a mite to the public sentiment that has made richmond a saloonless place in which to live. you cannot tell what seed will grow. already out of the new woman movement has come a host led by such women as frances e. willard, mary a. livermore, clara hoffman, dr. anna shaw, jane addams, maude ballington booth, susan b. anthony, and in our own state, frances e. beauchamp. these and many more have been springing the bolts that have barred woman from spheres of great usefulness. allow me to say, i have no patience with the mannish woman (and about as little use for a feminine man); but if this old world is ever to be redeemed it is because he who sitteth on the throne has said: "behold i make all things new." oh! for a new man, who will stop the waste of wealth and destruction of morals to which i have referred. oh! for the day when "each sex will be the equal of the other in the average, each above the other in specialties; when each can see in the other a source of inspiration," and both worthy to have been created in the beginning a "little lower than the angels" and in the end to be crowned with glory and honor. v the safe side of life for young men. a plea for total abstinence and a better life. i do not assert that everyone who drinks intoxicating liquor as a beverage will become a drunkard, but i do come before this audience to hold up total-abstinence as safer and better for practice. drunkards are made of moderate drinkers; drunkards are never made of total abstainers. one _may_ drink and never get drunk; one cannot get drunk who never drinks. take away every drunkard from the earth today and moderate drinking will soon create another supply; but sweep all drunkenness from the world, let total-abstinence be the absolute rule and the last drunkard will have debased his body, ruined his character, and doomed his soul. since running the risk of being a moderate drinker is so great, i commend to the young people before me the caution of the scotch minister, who, when called upon to marry a couple, said: "my young friends, marriage is a blessing to a great many persons; it's a curse to some; it's a risk for everybody; will you take the venture?" i presume they did. i do not believe the use of intoxicating liquor as a beverage is a benefit to anyone, yet for argument's sake i will permit one who drinks to say: "moderate drinking is a benefit to a few persons; it's a curse to a great many; it's a risk for everybody; let's take a drink!" against this i affirm that total abstinence is a blessing to millions; it's a curse to nobody; it's safe and right for everybody; then let's take the pledge and god helping us, let's keep it. a very comforting reply to the infidel who claims there will be no hereafter is the inscription on the tomb of a faithful christian: "if there's another world, he's in bliss; if not, he's made the best of this." if there is no hereafter, to say the least the christian is even with the infidel, while if there is a hereafter it's bad for the infidel. if a moderate drinker has sufficient self-control to escape being a drunkard, the total abstainer is equally safe; but if the moderate drinker loses his self-control and becomes a drunkard his doom is sealed. the safe definition of temperance is: "moderation in regard to things useful and right, total-abstinence in regard to things hurtful and wrong." is alcoholic liquor as a beverage hurtful and wrong? it's the source of more misery, cruelty and crime than any other evil of the world! some years ago after a lecture along this line, a doubting thomas said to me: "what answer have you for the scholar who claims your very word 'temperance' is the offspring of a word that signifies moderation?" i said: "the same i would give to a darwinian if he were to tell me i am a descendant of the ape; and that is, i rejoice to know i'm an improvement on my ancestor. to one who charges me with being a distant relative of the chimpanzee, i give the reply of henry ward beecher: 'i don't care how _far distant_.'" i acknowledge my ignorance of the derivation of the word temperance, but i do know drunkenness comes from drinking intoxicating liquor, therefore i favor total-abstinence and recommend it as the safe side of life for young men. while, by quoting isolated passages of the bible, advocates of moderation have succeeded in filling the air with dust of doubt about the teaching of the scriptures on the wine question, there is one thing about which there is no question, and that is the consent of the bible to total-abstinence for anyone who desires and "dares to be a daniel." i would rather search my bible for permission to give up that over which my brother may stumble into ruin, than to see how far i can go in the use of it without committing sin. marriage feasts in cana of galilee two thousand years ago do not concern me so much as the social feasts of the present age where "wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging," and many are "deceived thereby." a noted bible scholar says: "the bible is not simply a schedule of sins and duties catalogued and labeled, but a revelation of immutable principles, in the application of which god tests the sincerity of our profession." to drink intoxicating liquor in this enlightened age, with all the woes of intemperance about us and responsibilities of life upon us, is a violation of every immutable principle laid down in the bible. first, it's against the law of prudence, which says of two possible paths one should take the safer. which is the safer, moderation or total-abstinence? next, it's against the law of humility, which teaches where mightier than we have fallen, we must distrust ourselves. have mightier than we fallen through strong drink? next, it's against the law of human brotherhood, which makes it imperative upon the strong to bear the infirmities of the weak. is the drinker weak? next, it's against the law of expediency; "it is good neither to eat flesh nor drink wine nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth." do our brothers stumble over strong drink? last, it's against the law of self-denial; "if meat make my brother to offend, i will eat no flesh while the world standeth, lest i make my brother to offend." does strong drink make our brother to offend? on these immutable principles the cause of sobriety is built, and the gates of the devil of drink shall not prevail against it. young man, let me give you a bit of advice and assurance. never take a drink of intoxicating liquor as a beverage, and when you are as old as i am you will not regret it. you cannot find me in all the world, one man between forty and eighty years of age, an abstainer all his life, who would change that record if he could. boys, that's a very safe rule that has not a single exception. but how many are there who regret they ever put the bottle to their lips? "if i had only let strong drink alone" is the bitter wail of millions of men and women. from pauper poverty and prison cells, electric chairs and dying drunkard's lips comes the cry: "drink has been my curse!" does some young man in this audience say, "i can quit if i please?" then i beg you to _please_, ere you reach the time when you will strive to quit, but in vain. i know you don't intend to go beyond your power of control; neither did the drunkards who have gone before you. do you suppose edgar allen poe dreamt when he took his first drink in the social gathering of an old virginia gentleman's home that it would bring from his brilliant brain the weird strain: "take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" quoth the raven, "nevermore." do you suppose thomas f. marshall, our gifted kentucky orator, dreamt when he stood at the foot of the ladder of fame and all kentucky pointed him to the golden glory of its summit, that his last words would be: "and this is the end. tom marshall dying; dying in a borrowed bed, under a borrowed sheet, and without a decent suit of clothes in which to be buried!" i well remember the first time i saw thomas marshall. he had returned from washington, where he had thrilled congress by his eloquence. he was announced to speak in lexington on court day afternoon. i went with my father from our country home to hear the then golden mouthed orator. for nearly two hours he swayed that audience as the storm king sways the mountain pine. on unseen wings of eloquence he soared to heights i had never imagined within the reach of mortal tongue. i also remember the last time i saw this brilliant kentuckian. he was standing on a street corner in lexington, kentucky. his hair hung a tangled mass about his forehead, his eagle eyes were dimmed by debauch, and a thin, worn coat was buttoned over soiled linen. as he straightened himself and started to the bar-room, i could see traces of greatness lingering about his brow like sheet lightning about the bosom of a summer storm cloud. not long after he was telling political stories in a drinking tavern. when he tired of the tumult of the bar-room and a sense of his better self came over him, some one said: "give us another, tom." rising to his feet he said: "you remind me of a set of bantam chickens, picking the sore head of an eagle when his wings are broken." at one time in a temperance revival in washington he took the pledge and kept it for months. during this time in a temperance meeting he was called upon to speak. the following brief extract shows the charm of his eloquence: "i would not exchange my conscious being as a strictly sober man, the glad play with which my pulse now beats healthful music through my veins, the bounding vivacity with which my life blood courses its exultant way through every fiber of my frame, the communion high which my now healthful eye and ear hold with the universe around me, the splendors of the morning, the softness of the evening sky, the beauty, the verdure of the earth, the music of winds and waters. no, sir! with all these grand associations of external nature re-opened to the avenues of sense, though poverty dogged me, though scorn pointed its slow finger at me as i passed, though want, destitution and every element of early misery, save only crime, met my waking eye from day to day: not for the brightest wreath that ever encircled a statesman's brow; not if some angel commissioned by heaven, or rather some demon sent from hell to test the resisting power of my virtuous resolution, were to tempt me back to the blighting bowl; not for the honors a world could bestow, would i cast from me this pledge of a liberated mind, this talisman against temptation, and plunge again into the horrors that once beset my path. so help me heaven, i would spurn beneath my feet all the gifts a universe could offer, and live and die as i am--poor but sober." drinking young man, thomas f. marshall once stood where you now stand. he said then what you say now, yet after that beautiful tribute to sobriety and the pledge of total-abstinence, he stood at a blacksmith shop door, and as the smith drew the red hot iron from the forge, mr. marshall said to some friends: "gentlemen, i would seize that rod of heated iron and hold it in my hand till it cools, if it would cure me of my terrible appetite for strong drink." this is but one of the many fallen stars the demon of drink has snatched from the galaxy of kentucky's greatness and hurled into the darkness of eternal night. a man who could drink and not get drunk said to me: "i have no patience with, nor sympathy for a drunkard. if i couldn't eat what i want and quit when i choose, i wouldn't claim to be a man." whether he could or not, depends on conditions. let my arm represent the scale of life, with will on one side and appetite on the other. when a man is healthy his will stands at eighty, his appetite at fifty. that man eats when he likes, or lets it alone as he chooses. but let this healthy, strong man take typhoid fever, and after six or eight weeks be reduced to almost a skeleton. at this stage, the fever having subsided, let the doctor say to the once strong man: "the fever is broken; be careful about your diet, no solid food, only chicken broth and gruel." place by the bed of this once strong man a table and on this table a roast turkey, stuffed with oysters. on the floor place a coffin and say to the patient: "you see that turkey and that coffin. if you eat the turkey today, you'll be in the coffin tomorrow." go out and leave the man alone with the turkey. will he eat it? i don't care if he's a preacher or a doctor he will, regardless of the advice of doctor or terror of the waiting coffin. why will he eat when he knows it means death? because his will has gone down to twenty and his appetite up to one hundred. my father had typhoid fever and when the time of convalescing came my mother left him alone while she was in the yard with her flowers. i went into the house and found father had left his bed, crawled to the cupboard and had hold of what was left of a chicken. i called to mother; she came running, and taking the chicken from him said: "don't you know to eat solid food will kill you?" father replied: "i know if you hadn't come in i would have had one square meal." did i say too much when i said the preacher would eat the turkey? years ago saint john's pulpit in louisville, kentucky, was filled by a preacher so gifted that strangers in the city were attracted by his fame as an orator. he had an invalid mother, who in her wheel chair would attend every service, and was made happy in her affliction by the sermons of her eloquent son. he married a wealthy widow and had everything wealth and refinement could suggest. he saw no wrong in the wine glass and kept a supply in his cellar. gradually appetite demanded stronger drinks and one morning his wife said: "husband, you were drunk last night." a few months later he resigned his position and went west, hoping to break the spell of his habit. but no mountain was high enough, nor cavern dark enough for him to hide from his mad pursuer. he returned to louisville and gave himself up to the maddening bowl. his wife left him and went to a country home which she had saved out of her wealth. one night when he was sleeping drunk in one room, his old mother in another said: "oh god, is my cup of sorrow not yet full?" the pitying angel pushed ajar the golden gates and the broken heart entered into rest. time and again this man took the pledge, but only to fail. when the "blue ribbon" wave swept the country he again took the pledge, and this time went on the platform as a temperance advocate. he drew great audiences, and when he had kept his pledge for months we invited him to louisville. it was my privilege to introduce him, or rather to present him to the great audience. before going on the platform he said: "i have made a mistake in coming here. it was here i lost everything a man could ask to make him happy. the memory of my sainted mother comes over me, and my wife is so near and yet so far from me." to bring him back to himself i said: "these things will help you to give the greatest lecture of your life. come, a great audience of old friends are waiting." when introduced he said: "my friends, if i ever did a dishonorable act before i fell from the pulpit through drink, rise and tell me." soon he had his audience in tears and lifting his eyes heavenward he said: "o my sainted mother, look down from your home in glory and see your poor drunken boy. he has staggered all the way back, his feet upon the up-hillward way, and will travel it with a martyr's step." he further said: "will i ever drink again? no; this brow was not made to wear the brand of a vassal, nor these hands the chains of a drunkard. here in louisville, where i fell in my manhood's might, i vow i will never drink again." manhood's might is too weak to win alone in the battle against sin. poor j.j. talbott went down to rise no more, and on his dying bed, when a minister quoted passage after passage of promise from god's word, the answer came: "not for me! not for me!" peace to his ashes. young man, will you tamper and trifle with strong drink? do you say you can drink or let it alone? i admit you can drink but are you sure you can let it alone? if you can _now_, are you sure you can two years hence? i saw a giant oak tree lying in the track of the wind. it had been called "the monarch of the sierras." under the very nests where tempests hatch out their young, it grew to its greatness. it had seen many a storm, clad in thunder, armed with lightning, leap from its rocky bed and go bellowing down the world. but the storms that shook it only sent its roots down and out that it might fasten itself the more firmly to the earth. for long years this old tree stood there, bowing its head in courtesy to the passing storm, while its branches were but harp strings for the music of the winds. one evening as the sun went down over the mountain's brow, not a storm cloud on the sky, a little wind went hurrying round the mountain's base, struck the great oak and down it went with a crash that made the forest ring. young men, why was it a tree that had withstood the storms of ages, should, before such a little gust of wind bow its head and die? years before, when in the zenith of its strength and glory, a pioneer with an axe on his shoulder, went blazing his way through the wooded wilderness that he might not be lost on his return. seeing the great tree he said: "that's a good one to mark," and taking his axe in hand, he sent the blade deep into the oak. time passed with seemingly no effect from the stroke given by the axeman. but steadily the sun smote the wound, rain soaked into the scar, worms burrowed in the bark around it, birds pecked into the decayed wood and finally foxes made their home in the hollow trunk, and the day came when resisting force had weakened, boasted strength had departed and the giant monarch of the sierras stood at the mercy of the winds that have no respect for weakness. there are young men before me today, who can drink or let it alone. temptation to them is no more than the gentle breeze in the branches of the oak in the zenith of its strength. true, temptation has been along their way blazing, here a glass of wine, there a glass of beer and yonder a glass of whiskey. they can quit when they please, but the less they please the more they drink, the more they drink the less they please. they don't quit because they _can_, if they couldn't quit they would, because they can, they won't. thus they reason, while appetite eats its way into their wills, birds of ill omen peck into their characters and finally they will go down to drunkards' graves, as thousands before them have gone. young men, in the morning of life, while the dew of youth is yet upon your brow, i beg you to bind the pledge of total-abstinence as a garland about your character and pray god to keep you away from the tempter's path. i wonder that young men will trifle with this great "deceiver." i wonder too at so much ignorance on the question among intelligent people. some years ago after a temperance address a gentleman was introduced to me as the finest scholar in the city. next morning we were on the same train, and referring to the lecture of the evening before, he said: "i heard your address and was pleased with your kindly spirit, but i beg to differ with you, believing as i do, that when properly used, alcoholic liquor as a beverage is good for health and strength." i felt disappointed to hear a great scholar make such a statement, but i ventured the reply: "if that is true god made a mistake, since he made the whole phenomena of animal life to run by water power. he made it in such abundance it takes oceans to hold it, rivers and rivulets to carry it to man, bird and beast, while in all the wide world he never made a spring of alcohol. if it's good for strength, why not give it to the ox, the mule and the horse?" it takes a good deal of faith to trust a sober mule; i'm sure i wouldn't want to trust a drunken one. there is not a man in my presence who would buy a moderate drinking horse, and no one would wilfully go through a lot where a drunken dog had right of way. yet we license saloons to turn drunken men loose in the street, some of them as vicious as mad dogs. good for strength? when samson had slain the regiment of philistines and was exhausted and athirst; when in his extremity he cried to the lord: "thou hast given this great deliverance into the hand of thy servant, and now shall i die from thirst." what was done to revive him and renew his strength? was strong drink recommended as a stimulant? the bible account informs us god "clave an hollow place in the jaw, and water came thereout." don't you think if alcoholic liquor had been intended as a beverage for mankind, the great creator would have made a few springs of it somewhere? bore into the earth you can strike oil, but you can't strike whiskey. you can find sparkling springs of water almost everywhere, but nowhere a beer brewery in nature. it's water, blessed water all the time. on your right it bubbles in the brook; on your left it leaps and laughs in the cascade; above you it rides in rain clouds upon the wings of the wind; beneath you it hangs in diamond dew upon the bending blade; behind you it comes galloping down the gorge "from out the mountain's broken heart;" before you it goes gliding down the glen, kissing wayside flowers into fragrance and singing, as rippling o'er the rocks it runs: "men may come and men may go, but i go on forever." oh, bright beautiful water! may it soon be the beverage of all mankind. i know some say: "this is a free country; if a man wants to drink and be a brute, let him do so." the trouble about that is, while strong drink will degrade some men to the level of the brute, drunkards are not made of brutes. some thirty or more years ago a grandson of one of the greatest statesman this country ever produced, was shot in a saloon while intoxicated. while that young man was dying, but a few blocks away a grandson of one of the greatest men that ever honored kentucky in the senate of the united states, was in jail to be tried for murder committed while drunk; and in the same city at the same hour in the station-house from drink was a great grandson of the author of "give me liberty or give me death." whom did daniel webster leave his seat in the senate that he might hear his eloquence? s.s. prentice went down under the cloud of drink. a gifted family gave to a southern state a gifted son. his state sent him to the halls of national legislation, but drink wrought his ruin. horace greeley was his friend, and finding him drunk in a washington hotel said to him: "why don't you give up what you know is bringing shame upon you and sorrow to your family?" he replied: "mr. greeley, ask me to take my knife and sever my arm from my shoulder and i can do it, but ask me to give up an appetite that has come down upon me for generations, i _can't_ do it." he threw his cane upon the floor to emphasize his utterance. a few days later in the old saint charles hotel, he pierced his brain with a bullet and was sent home to his family in his coffin. bring me the men who are drunkards in this city, strip them of their appetite for strong drink, and they are husbands, brothers, fathers, sons, and as a rule, generous in disposition. thank god, while drunkenness will drag down the gifted and noble, temperance will build up the humblest and lowest. bring me the poorest boy in this audience, let him pledge me he will never take a drink of intoxicating liquor as a beverage, let him keep that pledge, be industrious and honest; my word for it, in twenty years from now he will walk the streets of the city in which he dwells, honored, respected, loved, and the world can't keep him down. i rejoice we live in a land where i can encourage a boy, a land where rank belongs to the boy who earns it, whether he hails from the mansion of a millionaire or the "old log cabin in the lane;" a land where a boy can go from a rail cut, a tan yard, or a toe-path, to the presidency of the united states; a land where i can look the humblest boy in the face and say: "never ye mind the crowd, my boy, or think that life won't tell; the work is the work for aye that, to him that doeth it well. fancy the world a hill, my boy; look where the millions stop; you'll find the crowd at the base, my boy; there's always room at the top." have you a trade? go learn one. do you know how to do things? go try; you may make mistakes, but do the best you can like the boy who joined the church. at his uncle's table soon after he was asked to say grace. he didn't know what kind of a blessing to ask, but he did know he was very hungry, so bowing his head he said: "lord, have mercy on these victuals." i have faith in the boy who will try to do a thing. i believe in a boy like that one in a mission sabbath school in new york, who though he had but little knowledge of the bible, had a way of reasoning about bible lessons. the teacher of his class said to him: "james, who was the strongest man of whom we have any account?" he quickly replied: "jonah." "how do you make that out?" said the teacher. promptly the answer came: "the whale couldn't hold him after he got him down." boys, are you poor? columbus was a weaver; arkright was a barber; esop, a slave; bloomfield, a shoemaker; lincoln, a rail-splitter; garfield tramped a toe-path with no company but an honest mule; and franklin, whose name will never die while lightning blazes through the clouds, went from the humble position of a printer's devil to that height where he looked down upon other men. if you would win in the battle of life, take the right side of life and build a righteous character. the saddest scene on the streets at night is the young man, whose clothes are finest in quality and fittest in fashion, but whose principles sadly need "patching." i dare say there are young men before me now who would not go into refined company indecently dressed for any consideration, but who will rush into the presence of their god before they sleep with a dozen oaths upon their lips. will carleton puts it this way: "boys flying kites, haul in their white plumed birds; you can't do that when flying words; thoughts unexpressed, may sometimes fall back dead, but god himself can't kill them when they're said." will carleton puts it in poetry, let's have it in prose. boys, pay more attention to your manners than to your moustache; keep your conduct as neat as your neck-tie, polish your language as well as your boots; remember, moustache grows grey, clothes get seedy, and boots wear out, but honor, virtue and integrity will be as bright and fresh when you totter with old age as when your mother first looked love into your eyes. little lucy rome was taken up for vagrancy in a great city. when brought before the court an austere judge said: "who claims this child?" a boy arose and walking down near the judge, said: "please, sir; i do. she's my sister; we are orphans, but i can take care of her if you'll let her go." "who are you?" asked the judge. "i'm jimmy rome, and i have been taking care of my sister; but two weeks ago the man for whom i worked died and while i was out looking for another place, lucy begged some bread and they took her up. but now i've a good place to work, judge, and i'm going to put little sister in school. please let me have her, sir." the judge said: "stand aside. officer, take the child to the children's home." the boy with tears streaming down his cheeks, as he heard his sister sobbing, said: "judge, please don't take her from me." the judge, moved by the pleading of the brother, said: "well, my boy, if you can find some reliable person to go your security you may have her." "judge, i don't know anyone to give you; my good friend is dead, but i told you the truth. i don't drink, nor smoke nor swear oaths; i try to be a good boy; i work hard, but i can't give you any security. judge, will you please let me kiss my little sister before you take her from me?" with this the boy put his arms about his weeping sister and printed, as he thought, the last kiss upon her cheek. the judge, with a lump in his throat, said: "take her, my boy; i'll go your security. i'll give lucy to the care of such a brother." hand in hand the homeless orphan pair walked out of the court room together, jimmy rome to make his mark in the business world and his sister to be the wife of a merchant prince. boys, be industrious, be honest, be sober. "i will" fluttered from the worm-eaten ships of columbus; "i will" blazed upon the banners of washington and grant; "i will" stamped the walls of hudson river tunnel, and dug the canal of panama. young man, write "i will" upon your brow, give your heart to god and hope will herald your way to victory as the reward of a well spent life. keep your eye upon the star of ambition. don't be like the owl, who when daylight comes hides himself within the shadows of the ivy-bound oak and moans and moans the days of his life away; but rather be like the proud eagle that leaves its craggy summit, starts on its pinion flight through the clouds, rides upon the face of the storm, then on beyond bathes its plumage in the "sunlight of the day god, and laughs in the face of the coming morrow." some one said, and trifled with the secret of success and happiness when he said it: "there's only a dollar's difference between the man who works and the man who pays, and the man who pays, gets that." there is an old superstition that somewhere on the earth, under the earth or in the sea, there is a stone called the "philosopher's stone" and whoever finds it will be "chiefest among ten thousand." the same superstition prevails with many today; only the name of the stone is turned to "luck," and thousands of young men are waiting for luck to come along and turn up something for them. there is a rule of life, young men, more reliable than luck. it is called an ancient law and runs thus: "by the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread." it is the foundation of more sweet bread and pure enjoyment than all your luck. on it the feet of abraham lincoln rested, while he wedged his way to the highest office in the gift of the american people. on it shakespeare stood, driving a shuttle through the warp and woof of a weaver's loom and wove out for himself a name and fame immortal. on it elihu burrett wielded a sledge hammer, while developing a mind that mastered many different languages. on it henry clay made his way from the mill-sloshes of virginia to the united states senate, and on it james a. garfield tramped his toe-pathway from driving a mule, to presiding over the destinies of seventy-five millions of people. boys, don't be idle. i know a man to-day who always looks so lazy it really rests me to look at him. a boy working for a farmer was asked by his employer if he ever saw a snail. the boy answered that he had. "you must have met it, for you surely did not overtake it," said the farmer. i know an old man who seems to take pride in saying he never worked. the first time i saw this man was in my youth. while his father was husking corn in a field, he was seated by a fire reading a novel. often after that, when i would go to the postoffice in the winter, he would be there by the fire. he moved to the city thirty years ago, where he spends his winters sitting around a fire. he doesn't drink or gamble. i don't think he will have many sins of commission for which to answer; he never commits anything; he sits by the fire. when he dies an appropriate epitaph for his tomb will be: "he was never much on stirrin' round, sich wasn't his desire; when weather cool, he was always found, a sittin' round the fire. "when the frost was comin' down, and the wind a creepin' higher, he spent his time just that way, a sittin' round the fire. "same old habit every day, he never seemed to tire; while others worked and got their pay, he sat there by the fire. "when he died, by slow degrees, some said, 'he's gone up higher;' but if he's doin' what he did, he's sittin' round the fire." the man or woman who lives in this age of the world and lives in idleness, should have lived in some other age. when ox-teams crept across the plains, and stage coaches went six miles an hour, idleness may have been in some kind of harmony with the age, but now, when horses pace a mile in two minutes, express trains make fifty miles an hour, and aeroplanes fly a mile in a minute; when telephone and telegraph send news faster than light flies, the idler is out of place. carlisle said: "the race of life has become intense; the runners are tramping on each other's heels; woe to the man who stops to tie his shoestrings!" young man, if you would keep step with the energy of the age in which you are living, and be ever found on the safe side of life, you must not only be equipped with education, stability and ambition, but to make sure you should start right. if you are going to california tomorrow, which way would you start, east or west? you say: "we would start west." a man riding along a highway said to a farmer by the wayside: "how far to baltimore?" the farmer answered: "about twenty-five thousand miles the way you're going; if you'll face about and go the other way, it's fourteen miles." young man, which way are you going? does someone in my presence say: "i have started wrong; i take a glass of beer now and then; occasionally utter an oath, and am sowing wild oats in a few other fields; but i'll come out right in the end." two diverging roads keep on widening; they don't come together at the other ends. if you would make sure of the safe side of life in the end of the journey, then start right. luke howard graduated from a fine college and went to a large city to practice his profession. he boarded in a fine hotel and frequented fine saloons. he became dissipated and one morning after a drunken debauch the landlord said: "sir, you disturbed my boarders last night and i must ask you to leave." young men, did luke howard go to a better hotel? no, but to a grade lower; he started wrong. in this hotel a few months later, he was asked to move on. did he go to a better? no, still lower, until at last he went to board in the low tavern on the river front. the landlord said: "i remember when you graduated from college. i was present, saw the flowers and heard the applause that greeted your success. i feel honored to have you as a boarder." a few months later, on christmas night, luke howard lay drunk on the bar-room floor. the landlord had borne all he could and, with a kick, he said: "get up and get out, you brute; i will not keep you another hour." the drunkard with help arose and said: "where am i? why, this is my boarding place, my home, and you are my landlord. you said you felt honored to have me board here. what's the matter?" "luke howard, you're not the man you once were, and i want you to leave here at once." the poor fellow started for the door muttering: "i am not the man i was. i'm not the man i was." missing the step as he went out, he fell, striking his head against the stone curbing. a physician was summoned and recognizing the injured man as an old friend said: "luke, speak to your old college chum; i'm here to help you." the poor drunkard, looking through the blood that flowed from the gaping wound said: "listen to me, tom, i'm not the man i was, i'm not the man i was." and thus died the poor fellow. young man, start wrong and end right? no, start wrong and you may expect in the autumn of life a penniless, friendless old age; opportunity gone, health shattered, and the "long fingers of memory" reaching out and dragging into its chambers thoughts that will "bite like a serpent and sting like an adder." bad as this is, it is even worse when your depravity involves another life. what if that other life is your mother, who went to the door of death to give you life, and whose every breath is another thread of sorrow woven into her wasting heart while her boy is bound like mazeppa to the wild steed of passion. there are some things i cannot understand about this drink question. i can understand how a young woman with jeweled fingers can tempt a young man to drink wine. i had a bit of experience some years ago down in texas, that helped me to appreciate how young men are tempted. i gave an address in a y.m.c.a. lecture course in a city, and at the close of my address a prominent citizen said to me: "kentucky has a reputation for beautiful women, but we think texas has the handsomest women in the world. at the hotel where you are stopping, there is a leap year ball tonight and the most beautiful women for a hundred miles around are gathered there. i will call for you at your room in a little while and you must take a look at our texas girls." a little later i stood in a hallway where i could see down the long ball room, and i declare they were as pretty women as i have ever seen, and i live in kentucky. i was invited to step inside the door, where between dances i was introduced to couple after couple. it being leap year the ladies were soliciting their partners for the dance, and a very handsome young lady invited me to be her partner. having never danced and being a methodist steward, i declined. another and another asked me to dance, and again and again i declined, giving as an excuse my utter ignorance of the function. finally a very beautiful, blue-eyed, charming young lady said: "since you do not dance, may i engage you for a promenade around the ball room?" boys, if i had been a young man the chances are i would have started down the "turkey-trot" road that evening. i can appreciate how young men are tempted. there is one thing, however, about the drink habit that is difficult for me to understand, and that is how a young man, who loves his mother, whose mother loves him as only a mother can love, loved him first, loved him best and will love him to the last, can go from home and mother to the impure, degrading vileness of a liquor saloon. if we enter that young man's home what do we find? perhaps on one of the side-walls, "what is home without a mother," on the altar the family bible, every picture on the walls suggestive of home life and purity, every chair and piece of bric-a-brac linked with the sweet association of childhood, the conversation as pure as the sunlight on which the young man lives; yet he will kiss his mother, leave this home, and down the street make his way to a liquor saloon, where often vile pictures hang on the walls, cards lie on the table instead of the family bible and the air is freighted with oaths and obscenities. boys, have any of you done this within the past month, or six months? promise me now you will never do this again. oh what a grand meeting this would be if every young man and boy in my presence would make the promise! i plead with you, young man, by the sleepless nights your mother spent to give you rest; by the shadow you have hung over her pathway; by the bleeding heart you've wounded but which loves you still: "come back, my boy, come back, i say, and walk now in thy mother's way." i would that every boy in our land were as grateful to his mother as was that southern girl to her father, who stood years ago in front of an open fire, her back to the fire, her face toward the door, her bare arms full of flowers, waiting for her brother to call with a carriage to take her to a party. while standing there a flame caught her dress; she gave a scream, dropped the flowers and ran through the door to where her father was standing in the yard. when the father saw his child coming with flame following, he ran toward her. as he ran he took off his coat and wrapping it about her face, arms and shoulders, threw her to the ground. with his left hand he kept the flame from the body, while with his right hand he fought the fire. he saved his daughter but burned his right arm to the elbow. day after day when the doctor would unwrap the arm to dress it, the girl, though burned herself, would go to her father's bed, gently lift the burned arm and caress it. when the father recovered his hand was so maimed and scarred, that when introduced to strangers, he would hold his right hand behind him and shake hands with the left. one day his daughter, seeing him do this, went to his side and reaching for the scarred hand, held it to her lips and kissed it. she was not ashamed, for that hand had been burned for her. when the father died and lay in his casket ready for burial, the family came to take their last look. first came the mother of the girl, then a brother and sister, and then the girl herself. she kissed the cold brow of her father, then kneeling she took up the disfigured hand and kissed it over and over again. my boy, your mother has suffered more for you than that father did for his daughter. i beg you, go home and kiss your mother. if she is dead or far from you, kiss her memory. go to your bed room, kneel there, and pray god to help you to live worthy the love of your mother. i now turn from young men to parents and say, use every means possible to make safe the way of your boys. some years ago in one of our cities, after a lecture in which i appealed to parents, a leading merchant of the city said: "i wish i had heard that lecture years ago." "you never used liquor?" i said. "no, but i am responsible for its use in my family. i am a methodist, and a total abstainer. in my employ i had a number of clerks, and let it be known i would not allow any of them to drink even moderately. one day a man came to my store with a paper in his hand and said: 'i want to set up a saloon on the next block and i am getting signers to my petition. i am one of your customers; you know me and know i will keep an orderly place.' i said to myself, 'if he doesn't sell others will and we need the revenue anyway,' so i signed the petition. a few months later i chanced to see my youngest boy and one of my clerks coming out of the door of that saloon. soon after when they entered the store i called them into my office and said: 'young men, did i see you coming out of a saloon, and had you been taking a drink in there?' when they admitted they had, i said to my son: 'did i ever set such an example for you to follow?' he answered: 'no, father, but you signed that man's petition to set up the saloon; whom did you expect him to sell to? did you sign it for him to sell to other fathers' sons and not yours?' i realized as never before the wrong i had done, not only to my own son, but to every father's son to whom that saloon-keeper would sell if they had the money to pay for liquor. i said: "forgive me, my boy. promise me you will never enter a saloon again and i promise never to sign a petition or vote to have a saloon-keeper sell to anybody's boy!" but it was too late; that boy went to ruin and carried his old father to financial ruin with him. the store was sold and the father went on to a little farm in missouri, where he died a disappointed, grief-stricken man. he was a good man and a kind father, but he did not realize the full meaning of the warning, "whatsoever ye sow, that shall ye also reap." fathers, be careful of your example. your sons think they can safely follow where you lead. could the turf break above the drunken dead; could they come back to earth in their bony whiteness to testify to the cause of their ruin, how many would point to the old sideboard filled with all kinds of liquors, to father's moderate use of strong drink, or his vote for the saloon at the ballot box. too often the careless indulgence of mothers is responsible for the ruin of their sons. if mothers were as watchful of their sons as of their daughters, the magic chain of mother love would be far more binding to their boys. there are homes in this city where at night you can hear the mothers say to servants: "are the clothes in off the line; did you bring the broom and the pitcher from the porch; are the blinds all down; are the girls in bed; is everything in order for the night?" no, mothers, everything is not in order. your girls are safe, the windows and doors are locked, but your boys are on the outside with night keys in their pockets, to come in at midnight from god only knows where. the double standard reaches too often back into the home. "mother, watch the little feet, climbing o'er the garden wall, bounding through the busy street, ranging garret shed and hall: never count the time it cost, never think the moments lost; little feet will go astray, watch them, mother, while you may. "mother, watch the little tongue, prattling, innocent and wild, what is said and what is sung by the joyous, happy child; stop the word while yet unspoken; seal the vow while yet unbroken, that same tongue may yet proclaim, blessings in a savior's name. "mother, watch the little heart, beating soft and warm for you; wholesome lessons now impart, keep, o keep, that young heart pure. extricating every weed, sowing good and precious seed; harvests rich you then shall see, ripening for eternity." once more i turn to the young men to say, if you would make life safe take the bible as the man of your counsel and the guide of your life; love god and keep his commandments. in this age of glittering literature, many consider the bible dull reading. sir william jones, one of england's greatest jurists and scholars, said: "i have carefully perused the bible, and independent of its divine origin, i believe it contains more true sublimity, more exquisite beauty, purer morality, more important history and finer strains of poetry and eloquence than could be contained within the same compass, from all the books ever published in any age or any idiom." a passionate lover of poetry has said: "the bible is a mass of beautiful figures. it has pressed into its service the animals of the forest, the flowers of the fields and the stars of heaven; the lion, spurning the sands of the desert; the wild roe, leaping the mountains; the lamb led to the slaughter; the goat, fleeing to the wilderness; the rose of sharon; the lily of the valley; the great rock in a weary land; carmel by the sea; tabor in the mountains; the rain and mown grass; the sun and moon and morning stars. thus hath the bible swept creation to lay its trophies upon the altar of jehovah." patrick henry continually sought the bible for gems of expression, while today the politician on the rostrum and the lawyer at the bar, quote the bible to give force and effect to their speeches. some say: "there is so much in the bible we cannot comprehend." yes, there's very much in there doubtless god did not intend you should understand. one wades in the ocean knee deep, waist deep, neck deep, and gives it up that he can't wade the ocean. if god had intended one should wade the ocean he would have made it shallow enough to wade. so, one finds he can climb to the mountain's top, or sail thousands of feet above the mountain in an air ship, but he can't sail to the skies. two good women went to sam jones and said: "mr. jones, here are several passages of scripture we don't understand. we have been to several ministers and they cannot explain them satisfactorily; perhaps you can." the great evangelist said: "sisters, you haven't as much good hard sense as my cow. we keep a cow and through the winter we give her hay to eat. now georgia hay has a considerable mixture of briars. when we give the cow an arm full of hay she has sense enough to eat the hay and let the briars alone. but with the blessed bible full of good hay, you are 'chawing' away on the briars." young people, there is enough in god's word you can understand to serve you if you live a thousand years, enough in there to save you if you die tonight, so don't worry over what you can't understand. during the civil war a terrible battle raged all day between the armies of grant and lee. when the night shadows shut out the light, dead and dying were strewn for miles. surgeons were busy and the chaplains going their rounds. a chaplain heard a voice say, in clarion tone: "here." going to the spot from whence came the voice and bending over the prostrate form of a dying soldier, the chaplain asked: "what can i do for you?" "nothing, sir; they were just calling the roll in heaven, and i was answering to my name." blessed book, in which there is enough a wounded soldier, dying far away from home and loved ones, can so understand as to fit him to answer the roll call in heaven. we may not comprehend the full meaning of faith, but we can grasp sufficient to be to our souls what the force of nature is to the trees, by which they stand with their branches reaching skyward and their roots drawing earth-centerward. take from me this faith and you take away the best friend i ever had, the friend that stood by me in the darkest hour of my life, when a daughter in the bloom of womanhood said, "good-bye," and went away to live with the angels; that stands by me now pointing to where my child is waiting for me in the bowers that kiss the very porch of heaven. without this faith how awful would be the dirge, "earth to earth, dust to dust." blessed book that tells us we shall meet "beyond the river, where the surges cease to roll;" that death is but the doorway to a better land, "the grave a subway to a sweeter clime." my dear young friends, accept this faith and you will find in it a sweet companion up the hillward way of life, and down the sunset slope to the valley of death, where it will not leave nor forsake you, but will wait till you throw off your "burden of clay," then "bear you away on its balmy wings to your eternal home." young men, may you so follow the safe side of life, that when its great trials come, you can with the wings of faith cleave the clouds and soar safely above the thunders that roll at your feet. my closing advice is, "walk not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stand in the way of sinners; but delight in the law of the lord; and in his law meditate day and night. in due season your life will fruit and whatsoever you do will prosper." vi platform experiences. though announced to lecture on platform experiences, it is my purpose to give you a kind of platform analysis, to tell you what i know about lecturing, lectures, oratory and orators, using personal experiences for illustration. we have about eight thousand chautauqua days, and fifteen thousand lecture courses in this country every year, and yet comparatively few persons know the history of the platform. many have an idea that free speech, like free air, has ever been a boon to mankind. they have no conception of what it has cost, in imprisonment, exile, blood and tears. i am indebted to "pond's history of the platform" for facts and illustrations in the early history of the platform in england. two hundred years ago in our mother land, the word platform meant no more than a resting place for boxes and barrels. a religious service was simply a routine of ritual, while such a thing as a public man addressing the masses was unknown. sir william pitt, one of england's greatest statesman and orators, in all his public life uttered only two sentences to the public outside of parliament. if william jennings bryan had lived in pitt's day, he would have been ignored by the prime minister of england. the first leaders of thought to come in contact with the people and thrill them by the power of speech were john wesley and george whitefield. "on a mount called rose hill, near bristol, england, george whitefield laid the foundation of the modern platform." from rose hill his audiences grew until on kensington commons thirty thousand people tried to get within reach of his captivating voice. it has been truthfully said: "at the feet of john wesley and george whitefield the people of england learned their first lessons in popular government." this innovation, however, met with sneers, jeers and persecution from the established conservatism of church and state, and when the platform attempted to enter the arena of politics, parliament decided the "public clamor must end." a bill was framed forbidding any public gatherings except such as should be called by the magistrates. in advocating this bill a member of parliament said: "the art of political discussion does not belong outside of parliament. men who are simply merchants, mechanics and farmers must not be allowed to publicly criticise the constitution." to this the platform made reply: "from such as we the master selected those who were to sow the seed of living bread in the wilds of galilee." the bill passed by an overwhelming majority. punishment ran from fine and imprisonment to years of exile from the country, and from this time on, the battle raged between parliament and platform. later on we shall note the results. i am often interviewed by men, and sometimes by women, who desire to reach the platform. they say to me: "what steps did you take?" my answer is, i never took any; i stumbled, was picked up by circumstances and pitched upon the platform. at a picnic in a grove near winchester, ky., in , a noted temperance orator was to give an address. he failed to reach the grove on time, and i was prevailed upon to act as time-killer until his arrival. i was not entirely without experience, having belonged to a debating society in a country school. when i had spoken about thirty minutes, to my great relief, the orator of the day made his appearance. the flattering comments upon my talk induced me to accept other invitations to address temperance meetings, and before i knew what had happened, the platform was under my feet, calls were numerous and my life work was established. i suppose those who consult me are encouraged to know a mere stumble directed my course, and if so, by purpose and preparation they can surely succeed. some persons seem to think lecturing a very simple occupation, requiring only a glib tongue, and a good pair of lungs. several years ago, i received a letter from a young man in which he wrote: "i heard you lecture last week. i would like to become a lecturer myself. i have no experience and very little education, but i have a very strong voice and am sure i could be heard by a large audience. i have been working in a horse-barn but am now out of a job. if i had a lecture, i think i could make a living; besides i would get to see the country. if you will write me one i will send you two dollars." i do not know whether the young man gauged the price by the estimate of the lecture he had heard me give, or his monetary condition, but if audacity is a requisite for the platform, this young man was not entirely without qualification. this is an extreme case, and yet there are those whose minds are storehouses of knowledge, who can no more become popular platform speakers, than could the young man, who was ready to set sail on the sea of oratory, with a lusty pair of lungs and a two dollar lecture. charles spurgeon, the great london preacher, said: "i have never yet learned the art of lecturing. if you have ever seen a goose fly, you have seen spurgeon trying to lecture." mr. spurgeon called lecturing an art, and why not? if the hand that paints a picture true to life and pleasing to the eye, is the hand of an artist, why is not the tongue that paints a picture true to life and pleasing to the mind's eye the tongue of an artist? it is an art to know how to get hold of an audience. there was an occasion in my experience when i had extreme necessity for the use of this art. when president cleveland wrote his venezuela message in which he threatened war with england, the threat was published in toronto, canada, on saturday and i was announced to lecture in the large pavilion on sunday afternoon. the message of president cleveland had aroused the patriotic spirit of canada. the hall was packed. it seemed to me i could see frost upon the eyebrows of every man and icicles in the ears of the women. when introduced there was a painful silence. i began by saying: "doubtless many of you have come to hear what an american has to say about venezuela. i must admit i am not acquainted with the merits of the question. i suppose, however, the message of our president is one of the arts of diplomacy. but i do know i speak the sentiment of the best people of my country when i say: 'may the day never dawn whose peace will be broken by signal guns of war between great britain and the united states.'" i said: "when john and jonathan forget, the scar of anger's wound to fret, and smile to think of an ancient feud, which the god of nations turned to good; then john and jonathan will be, abiding friends, o'er land and sea; in their one great purpose, the world will ken, peace on earth, goodwill to men." the great audience arose and cheered until all sense of chill had departed. it is not only an art to get hold of an audience, but equally a matter of good taste to know when to let go. this is a qualification some have not acquired. i followed a very distinguished man several years ago and the comment was: "he was fine the first hour and a half, but the last hour he grew tiresome." in this busy age, the world wants thoughts packed into small compass. the average audience wants a preacher to put his best thoughts into a thirty-minute package. the day was, when people would sit on backless board benches and listen to a sermon of two hours; now they won't swing in a hammock and endure one of more than fifty minutes. rev. dr. dewey, of brooklyn, new york, tells of a minister who was given to reading his sermons. on one occasion when he had read about twenty minutes, he halted and said: "i have a young dog at my house that is given to chewing paper. i find he has mutilated my manuscript, which is my excuse for this short sermon." a visiting lady after service said: "doctor, have you any more of the breed of that dog? i would like to get one for our pastor." in this age of crowded moments concentration means executation; energy means success. if you can't put fire into your sermon, put your sermon in the fire. a few years ago when in new york city, i went to see madame bernhardt in her famous play, joan of arc. she spoke in french, an unknown tongue to me; but when she came to her defense before the court, i realized as never before the power of speech and action. she had given one-fourth of that marvelous appeal, when the great audience arose and began to cheer. madame bernhardt folded her arms, bowed her head and waited for silence. when order was restored she sprang a step forward. it seemed to me every feature of her face, every finger on her hands, every gleam of eye and movement of body was an appeal to the stern tribunal. in the trembling, murmuring voice that ran like a strain of sad, sweet music through sunless gorges of grief, the great audience read her plea for mercy and wept. some who could not restrain their emotion sobbed aloud. when from the depths of solemn sound that same voice arose like the swell of a silver trumpet, and in clarion tones demanded justice, cheer after cheer testified to the power of the orator actress. never was there a sob of the sea more mournful, than the voice of sarah bernhardt as she played upon the harp strings of pity; and never did words rush in greater storm fury from human lips, than when she demanded justice. no stop nor note nor pedal nor key in the organ of speech was left untouched by this genius in tragic art. it would be well if every public speaker could hear sarah bernhardt give that defense of the maid of orleans. indeed i believe if the forensic eloquence of the stage could be transferred to the pulpit greater audiences and greater rewards would follow. if you doubt this, go read the sermons of george whitefield or the lectures of john b. gough and you will wonder at their success unless you take into consideration their mysterious power of delivery. i cannot give you one sentence madame bernhardt uttered, but i do know the influence of that address remains with me to this day and now and then i find myself reaching out after the secret of oratory. "it is not so much what you say as how you say it," has become a proverb. some years ago i lectured in an iowa village on a bitter cold evening. the rear of the hall was up on posts. when introduced there was only one inch between my shoe soles and zero, while a cold wind from a broken window struck the back of my head. it occurred to me that if i would play bernhardt i might save a spell of pneumonia. in a few moments i was pacing the platform, swinging my arms and stamping my feet to keep up circulation. i put all the intensity, activity and personality possible into one hour and left the platform. returning to the hotel a commercial traveler who had heard me a number of times said: "i congratulate you; you get younger. i never heard you put so much life into your lecture." i replied: "why man, i was trying to keep my feet from freezing." he said: "i advise you to go on the platform every evening with cold feet." john and charles wesley were going along a street in london when they came upon two market women engaged in a wordy war. john wesley said: "hold up, charles, and let's learn how to preach. see how these women put earnestness and even eloquence into their street quarrel. can't we be just as earnest and eloquent in dealing out the truth?" no wonder john wesley gave such impetus to the platform. it is said what john wesley and george whitefield were to the religious platform, fox and burke became later on to the political platform. they saw the platform was fast becoming the voice of public sentiment and dared to indorse it. when mr. fox made his first platform address he said: "this is the first time i ever had the privilege of addressing an uncorrupted assembly." going back into parliament he said: "let's put an end to a policy that separates us from the people. let's cut all cables, snap all chains that bind us to an unfriendly shore and enter the peaceful harbor of public confidence." when mr. burke made his platform debut, he was so inspired by the enthusiasm of the people, it is said, he made the greatest speech ever made in the english language up to that time. when he appeared in parliament next evening a leader of the government took occasion to denounce the platform as a disturber of public peace, directing his remarks to mr. burke. the great orator was ready with the reply: "yes, and the firebell at midnight disturbs public peace, but it keeps you from burning in your beds." it would seem after years of fruitless effort to silence the platform, parliament would accept it as a power for good and give it wise direction. yet we are informed that in face of its growing popularity when henry hunt attempted to address an audience in a grove in england, a regiment of cavalry charged the grove. eleven were killed and several hundred wounded. henry hunt was thrown into prison, but when released later one hundred thousand people welcomed him to the streets of london. as well now had parliament attempted to prevent a london fog as to prohibit platform meetings. john bright said: "when i consider these meetings of the people, so sublime in their vastness and resolution, i see coming over the hilltops of time the dawning of a nobler and better day for my country." it is our privilege to live in the good day of which john bright spoke. yet while a public speaker today is in no dread of arrest or imprisonment for any decent expression of opinion, the platform is not without its hindrances; and some of these will never be cured, while babies cry, architects sacrifice acoustics to style, young people do their courting in public, janitors smother thoughts in foul air, and milliners persist in building up artistic barriers between speaker and audience. here let me give a bit of advice to my own sex. gentlemen, when you purchase a new hat, no matter if a ten dollar silk, or a twenty dollar panama, do not attend a lecture, and taking a seat in front of some intelligent lady forget to remove your hat. the lady may want to see the speaker's face, and he may need the inspiration of her countenance, while you are interfering with both. "a hint to the wise is sufficient." this hint may not be in accord with the advice of paul, but paul never saw a twentieth century "merry widow" hat. then too, paul was already inspired and didn't need the inspiration of human countenances. i am speaking for the uninspired, to whom an audience of hatless heads is an inspiration. but few persons realize how a public speaker is affected by little influences. the flitting of a blind bat over a church audience on a summer evening, will mar the most fascinating flight of eloquence ever plumed from a pulpit. when nancy hanks broke the world's trotting record at independence, iowa, some years ago, her former owner, mr. hart boswell, of lexington, who raised and trained her, was asked if nancy would ever lower that record. he replied: "well, if the time comes that the track is just right, the atmosphere just right, the driver just right and nancy just right, i believe she will." see the combination. break it anywhere and the brave little mare would fail. just so speakers are affected by conditions, by acoustics, atmosphere, size and temper of the audience, and the speaker's own mental and physical condition. many a good sermon has been killed by a poor sexton. many a grand thought has perished in foul air. charles spurgeon was preaching to a large audience in a mission church in london, when want of ventilation affected speaker and audience. mr. spurgeon said to a member of the church: "brother, lift that window near you." "it won't lift," replied the brother. "then smash the glass and i'll pay the bill to-morrow," said spurgeon. suppose the great horse uhlan should be announced to trot against his record; suppose at the appointed time, with the grandstand crowded and every condition favorable, as the great trotting wonder reached the first quarter pole, some one were to run across the track just ahead of the horse, then another and another; what kind of a record would be made? what management would allow a horse to be thus handicapped? where is the man who would be so inconsiderate as to thus hinder a horse? yet when a minister has worked while the world slept, that he not only might sustain his record but gather souls into the kingdom; when the opening exercises have given sufficient time for all to be present; when the text is announced and the preacher is reaching out after the attention and sympathy of his audience some one enters the door, walks nearly the full length of the aisle; then another and then two more, each one crossing the track of the preacher and yet he is expected to keep up his record and make good. if you are a friend of your pastor be present when he announces his text; give him your attention and thus cheer him on as you would your favorite horse. an eminent minister said: "there, i had a good thought for you, but the creaking of the new boots of that brother coming down the aisle knocked it quite out of my head." one who had heard me many times said: "why do you do better at ocean grove than anywhere else i hear you?" my answer was: "because of conditions. the great auditorium seats ten thousand, the atmosphere is invigorated by salt sea breezes; a choir of five hundred sing the audience into a receptive mood and the speaker is borne from climax to climax on wings of applause." i would not have you infer from this that a large audience is always necessary to success. indeed the most successful and satisfactory address i ever made was to an audience of one. if i can make as favorable an impression upon you as i did upon that young lady i shall be gratified. in pauling, new york, chauncey m. depew by his attention and applause inspired me more than the whole audience beside; while time and again have i been helped to do my best by the presence of that matchless queen of the platform, frances e. willard. the very opposite of greatness has had the same effect upon me. at the pontiac, illinois, chautauqua after lecturing to a great audience, i was invited by the superintendent of the state reformatory to address the inmates of the prison. at the close of a thirty minutes' talk the superintendent said: "your address to my boys exceeded the one you gave at the chautauqua." why was it better? at the chautauqua i was trying to entertain and instruct an intelligent audience. within the grey walls of that prison i was reaching down to the very depths, endeavoring to lift up human beings, marred and scarred by sin and crime, but dear to the mothers who bore them and the savior who died for them. if i were a preacher in new york city and were announced to preach a sermon on home missionary work i would not go to the church by way of the mansions of the rich where children, shod in satin slippers dance and play over velvet tapestry, but by way of the slums where i would meet the children of misery, where, "to stand at night 'mid the city's throng, and scan the faces that pass along, is to read a book whose every leaf is a history of woe and want and grief. as in tears of sorrow and sin and shame, you read a story of blight and blame, your heart goes further than hand can reach and you feel a sermon you cannot preach." whoever would prove worthy of the platform must have a message and give to it the devotion of mind, heart and conscience, no matter whether his purpose is to convince by reasoning, convert by appeal, delight by rhetoric, or cure melancholy by humor. each has its useful influence on the platform. some persons have an impression that the student deals in logic, while the orator simply starts his tongue to running, and goes off and leaves it to work automatically. bishop robert mcintyre was one of the greatest pulpit orators of his age, yet i dare say this gifted man gave as much time and thought to his famous word painting of the chicago fire, as joseph cook ever gave to mining any treasure of thought he laid upon the altar of education. i know many teachers of oratory say: "study your subject, analyze it well, and leave words to the inspiration of the occasion." but suppose when the occasion comes, instead of inspiration one has indigestion, then what? while a speaker should not be so confined to composition that he cannot reach out after, and cage any passing bird of thought, yet as the leaf of the mulberry tree must go through the stomach of a silk-worm, before it can become silk, so climaxes should be warped and woofed into language before they can be forceful and beautiful. at the lincoln, nebraska, assembly some years ago a noted humorist gave an address on the "philosophy of wit." he called oratory a lost art, and to prove his contention he quoted from william jennings bryan's famous chicago convention speech. he said: "what would a young woman think of her lover who would say 'my darling, the crown of thorns shall never be pressed down upon your fair brow?'" the humorist expected applause but it failed to materialize, for mr. bryan is highly respected in his state and his oratory is a charm wherever he is heard. the speaker not only exhibited poor taste, but his wit was pointless, for when a man can go before a convention of fourteen hundred delegates and by one burst of eloquence capture the convention, secure the nomination for the presidency, and then with the press and the leaders of his party against him go up and down the country, and from the rear of a railroad train, almost capture the white house, the day of oratory is not gone by. schriner, the great animal painter, painted the picture of a bony mule eating a tuft of hay. that picture sold in petersburg, russia, for fifteen thousand dollars, while the original mule sold for one dollar and thirty cents. if the painting of schriner made in the price of that mule, a difference of fourteen thousand, nine hundred, ninety-eight dollars and seventy cents why is not word painting worth something? listen, while i give you a short extract from the address of james g. blaine at the memorial service of our martyr president garfield. with the audience wrought up to the greatest sympathy by his tribute he said: "surely if happiness can come from robust health, ideal domestic life and honors of the world james a. garfield was a happy man that july morning. one moment strong, erect with promise of peaceful, useful years of life before him: the next moment wounded, bleeding, helpless. "through the days and weeks of agony that followed, he saw his sun slowly sinking, the plans and purposes of his life broken and the sweetest of household ties soon to be severed. "masterful in mortal weakness he became the center of a nation's love, and enshrined in the prayers of the christian world. "as the end drew near, his youthful yearning for the sea returned. the white house palace of power became a hospital of pain. he begged to be taken from its prison walls and stifling air. "silently, tenderly the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea. there with wan face lifted to the cooling breeze, he looked wistfully out upon the changing wonders of the ocean; its far-off sails white in the morning light; its restless waves rolling shoreward to break in the noon-day sun; the red clouds of evening arching low, kissing the blue lips of the sea, and above the serene, silent pathway to the stars. "let us believe his dying eyes read a mystic meaning only the parting soul can know; that he heard the waves of the ebbing tide of life breaking on the far-off shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the calm, sweet breath of heaven's morning." place behind these utterances the rich voice and magnetic manner of the "plumed knight" of the platform, and you can realize what oratory means. if you will here pardon me for going from the sublime to the ridiculous, i will show you how a bit of a school boy rhetoric may win its way over solid argument. in the country school i attended, there was a debating society. parents as well as their sons were admitted to the society and the public was invited to the debates. on one occasion the question for debate was: "which is the more attractive, the works of nature or the works of art?" there had been an appeal from a general debate and this time one speaker was chosen from each side. my father was chosen to represent the negative and i the affirmative. my father was a good speaker but so fond of facts he had no use for rhetoric. i had the opening address of thirty minutes, my father had forty-five minutes and i had fifteen minutes to close the debate. as father talked i wondered how he ever got hold of so many facts. he piled them up until my first address was swept away by the triumphs of art. the only hope i had for the affirmative was in the closing fifteen minutes. fortunately for me, the judge was a bachelor and very much in love with a golden-haired, accomplished young woman who lived in a country home very near the schoolhouse, and was then in the audience. in closing the debate i referred to father's address in a complimentary manner, and then asked the judge to be seated in imagination on a knoll nearby. on one side of that knoll i placed all my father had claimed for art, withholding nothing. on the other side was the home of this blue grass belle. i began a description of her home and personality. i pictured "the orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood and every loved spot" the judge well knew. i pictured the brook that ran through the meadow into the woodland and on down the valley, singing as it ran, "i wind about and in and out, with here a blossom sailing; here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grey-ling." when my time was half gone i felt i was gone too unless i could get a little nearer the heart of the judge. opening the door art had made to shut in the flowers of a lovely family i brought out the golden-haired girl. taking off the sun-bonnet of art, that the good-night kisses of the sinking sun might enrich her rosy cheeks and golden tresses, i sent her strolling down the winding walk hedged in by hawthorn and hyacinth to the water's brink. here i gave her a cushion of blue-grass, and with the rising moon pouring its shimmering sheen upon the ripples at her feet, i sent her voice floating away on the evening air singing: "roll on silver moon, guide the traveler on his way." here the audience cheered, the judge smiled and i felt encouraged. with but two minutes left i had the shapely fingers of nature, take out the hair-pins of art and the golden tresses fall about the snowy neck of nature. then came the untying of the shoe-strings of art; off came the shoes and stockings of art, and the pretty feet of nature were dipping in the limpid stream. i said, "judge, the question is, which is the more attractive, the works of nature or the works of art? with my father's picture of steam engines, stage coaches, reapers, binders, mowing machines and every known triumph of art on one side; on the other the highest type of the world's creation, a beautiful woman, the stars of nature stooping to kiss her brow, and laughing waters of nature leaping to kiss her feet; where your eyes would rest there let your decision be given." after the debate a friend said to me: "it was that last home picture that saved you." my father who heard the remark said, "yes, a picture of a red-headed girl washing her feet in a goose branch." i may add, i was careful after the contest not to get very near the young lady with whom i had taken such platform liberty. reason, rhetoric, pathos, poetry, diction, gesture, wit and humor, each has its place on the platform. while logic sounds the depths of thought, humor ripples its surface with laughing wavelets. while reason cultivates the cornfields of the mind, rhetoric beautifies the pleasure gardens. john b. gough was the most popular platform orator of his day. he began lecturing at from two to five dollars an evening. he grew in popularity until he was in demand at five hundred dollars a lecture, and no one before or since more successfully used all the arts of the platform, from the comic that drew the very rabble of the streets, to flights of eloquence that captured college culture. it has been well said: "while gough was a great preacher of righteousness, he was a whole theatre in dramatic delivery." lecturers, like preachers, are fishers of men, and there are as many kinds of people in an average audience as there are kinds of fish in the sea. it requires variety of bait for humanity as well as for fish. sam jones used slang as one kind of bait and he used to say: "it beats all how it draws." i saw this verified at ottawa, kansas, chautauqua. giving a saturday evening lecture he baited the platform with slang, satire and humor. sunday afternoon an hour before time for his lecture the people were hurrying to the auditorium. when presented to the great audience he said: "record! record! record!" i remember the sermon as one of the sweetest and most powerful i ever heard. its influence will not cease this side the eternal morning. rowland hill, the popular london preacher, used quaint humor to draw the people, and powerful appeal to sweep them into the kingdom. it is said the fountain of laughter and fountain of tears lie very close together. my experience has been, that often the best way to the fountain of tears is by the way of the fountain of laughter. some years ago at ocean grove, new jersey, i was to lecture on the subject, "boys and girls, nice and naughty." a wealthy widow and her only son were there from new york, where the young boy had been leading a "gay life." ocean grove with its quiet, moral atmosphere was a dull place for this young man. he happened to read the subject for the lecture on the bulletin board, and thinking it suggestive of humor he went to hear the lecture. he had what he went for, as the lecture did deal with the fountain of laughter, but it also dealt with the fountain of tears. it swung the red lantern of danger athwart the pathway of the wayward young man. following a story of mother love, i said: "young man, let the cares and burdens of life press you down to the very earth, let the great waves of sorrow roll over your soul, but let no act of yours ever roll a clod upon the coffin of her, whose image, enshrined upon the inner walls of your memory, white winters and long bright summers can never wash away." a minister told me after, that in a young people's meeting this young man arose and said: "i attended a lecture at ocean grove, thinking i would have a humorous entertainment. i left the auditorium the saddest soul in the great audience. going down to the beach i tried to drive away the spell, but it grew upon me. i could see how i had grieved my mother, and the past came rolling up like the waves of the ocean. i shuddered as they broke on my awakened conscience and quickened memory. behind me was an unhallowed past, and before me the brink of an awful eternity. there and then i resolved to change my course. alone under the stars i made my resolve and then started to my mother. she was waiting for me, and said: 'my son, i wished for you at the lecture this evening. i think you would have enjoyed it.' i then told her i was determined to lead a new life and had come to seal my vow with her kiss." that young man went to the lecture to laugh, he left to walk alone with god under the stars by the ocean deep, there to decide to lead a righteous life, and seal the vow with a loving mother's kiss. so while in my humble way i have endeavored to use the arts that entertain i have cherished the purpose to better human lives. i have referred to the platform as being baited for humanity. have you ever considered how it is baited to resist the forces of evil? the day was when satan had an attraction trust that controlled about the whole output of entertainment. the platform now is a picture gallery where is to be had all beauty in nature, from our own land to the land of the midnight sun. in moving pictures it presents to those who never saw ship, sail or sea, the landing of a great steamer, with splashing of spray as real as if seen from the dock. to those who enjoy music it furnishes band concerts, orchestra, bell-ringing, quartettes, solos, plantation melodies, rag-time tunes and women whistlers. the platform today beats the devil in output of entertainment. it has scoured field and forest, trained birds and dogs to round out the program of a chautauqua. its breadth takes in all creeds and kinds. while it greets with waving lilies bishop vincent, leader of the great chautauqua movement, it cordially welcomes the priest, the jew, the chinaman, the negro, republican, democrat, progressive, prohibitionist, socialist and suffragist. the platform has grown to be a great university, a musical festival, a zoological garden, an art institute, an agricultural college and a domestic science school. do you ask has the platform any blemishes? i answer yes. all enterprises have their blemishes. the press is a potent power for good and yet many bad things get into print. sometimes from the platform come voices without the ring of sincerity, entertainments without uplifting influence and anecdotes without respect to public decency. when attending platform entertainments one should discriminate as when eating fish, enjoy the meat and discard the bones. with good taste in selection one rarely ever need go away hungry. i am often asked: "where do you find the most appreciative audiences?" first, i would reply, in rural communities where the people are not surfeited with entertainment. second, i would say, applause does not always mean appreciation. it is said "still water runs deep." in chickering hall, new york, one sunday afternoon a lady sat before me whose diamonds and dress indicated wealth. a lad sat by her side. my subject was, "the safe side of life for young men." it was a temperance address and the thought came to me; that lady is a wine drinker and she is disappointed that i am to talk temperance. she did not cheer with the audience, nor did she give any expression of face that would indicate her interest, except that she kept her eyes fixed upon the speaker. at the close she came to the platform and said: "i brought my son with me and you said what i wanted him to hear; i thank you," and with this she took my hand saying, "again i thank you," and turning away, left a coin in my hand. i put it in my pocket, and on returning to the hotel found she had given me a twenty dollar gold piece. that was gold standard appreciation. i am frequently asked: "what do you recall as the best introduction you ever had?" i have had all kinds, some amusing, but the one i cherish most was given by ferd schumacher, the deceased oatmeal king of akron, ohio. he came to this country from germany. by industry and economy he accumulated enough money to engage in making oatmeal. when he had rounded up more than a million of dollars in wealth, the insurance ran out on his great "jumbo mills" in akron. the insurance company raised the rate and while he was dickering with the company, the great plant was swept away in a midnight fire. mr. schumacher was a very earnest temperance man and was to introduce me for the w.c.t.u. in the large armory the sunday after the fire. it was supposed he would not be present because of the severe strain and his great loss. but prompt to the minute he entered the door, and 'mid the applause of sympathetic friends he took the platform. in presenting the speaker he said: "ladies and schentlemen, i must be personal for a moment while i thank the people of akron for their sympathy. i did not know i had so many good friends. but the mill vot vos burned vos made of stone and vood and nails and paint. we come to talk to you about a fire vot is burning up the homes, the hopes, the peace of vimen and children and the immortal souls of men; vill you please take your sympathy off of ferd schumacher and give it to mr. bain while he talks about the great fire of intemperance." i am opposed to indiscriminate immigration to this country, but if the old world has any more ferd schumachers desiring to come to america, may he who rules winds and waves, fill with harmless pressure the billows on which they ride and give them safe entrance into our country's haven. many inquire of me about the lyceum platform as a profession. my answer is: "like the famed shield it has two sides." one who has a lovely home and rarely leaves it said to me: "i envy you your life-work. you get to see the country, visit the great cities, meet the best people and get fat fees for your lectures." how distance does lend enchantment to the view sometimes! a few years ago we notified the bureaus not to make engagements away from the railroads in the northwest during the blizzard months. a letter came saying: "enter wessington college, outside of woonsocket." we supposed outside meant adjacent. arriving at woonsocket in a blizzard i found wessington seventeen miles away. wrapped in robes i made the drive, arriving about six o'clock in the evening. on arrival i was informed that smallpox had broken out in the village. the hotel had been quarantined but a room had been engaged for me in a private home. while taking my supper my hostess said: "would you know smallpox if you were to see the symptoms?" "know what? why do you ask that?" i asked. she called attention to the face of her daughter who was serving the supper. one glance and my appetite fled, as i said: "excuse me, please. i must get ready for my lecture," and i left the room. one hour later i stood before a vaccinated audience with visions of smallpox floating before me, and for days after i imagined i could feel it coming. add to this experience midnight rides on freight trains, long drives in rain, mud and storm, ten minutes for lunch at sandwich counter, eight months of the year away from home--the only heaven one who loves his family has on earth, and you have a taste of the side my neighbor did not see. there is, however, a bright side. whoever can get the ear of the public from the platform, has an opportunity to sow seed, the fruit of which will be gathered by angels when he has gone to his reward. one so long on the platform as i have been, cannot fail in having experiences that gladden the heart, if he has done faithful service. out of hundreds i select one experience that should encourage all who labor in the master's vineyard. i had traveled two hundred miles in a day to reach an engagement, and the last seven miles in a buggy over a miserable road. i did not reach the village until nine o'clock. without supper and chilled by the ride, i threw off my wraps and wearily made my way through the lecture. a little later in my room at the hotel, while i was taking a lunch of bread and milk, a minister entered and said: "you seem to be very tired." when i answered, "never more so," he replied: "i have a story to tell you which will perhaps rest you." continuing he said: "some twenty years ago, you lectured in a village where there was a state normal school. it was sunday evening. at the hotel were three young men, and to see the girls of the college, these young men went to the lecture. one was the only son of a wealthy widow. he had not seen his mother for months. she had begged him to come home, but he was sowing his wild oats and ashamed to face his mother. that evening you made an earnest appeal to young men in the name of home and mother. the arrow went to the heart of the wild young fellow. on returning to the hotel he said to his companions: 'come up to my room, let's have a talk.' on entering the room he closed the door and said: 'boys, i want to open my heart to you. i am overwhelmed with a sense of wrong-doing. i am done with the saloon, done with the gambling table, done with evil associations. i am going home to-morrow and make mother happy. boys, let's join hands and swear off from drink and evil habits; let's honor our manhood and our mothers.' "now for the sequel that i think will rest you. that wild boy is now a wealthy man. i give you his name, though i would not have you call it in public. he is a christian philanthropist, and has never broken his pledge. the second boy holds the highest office in the gift of this government in a western territory, and the third stands before you now, an humble minister of the gospel." it did rest me. i would rather have been the humble instrument in turning those three young men to a righteous life, than to wear the brightest wreath that ever encircled a stateman's brow. for such men as sylvester long, roland a. nichols, robert parker miles and bishop robert mcintyre to tell me my lectures helped to shape their lives, fills my soul with joy as i face the setting sun. chance, the noted english engineer, built a thousand sea-lights, shore-lights and harbor-lights. when in old age he lay dying, a wild storm on the sea seemed to revive him by its association with his life-work. he said to the watchers: "lift me up and let me see once more the ocean in a storm." as he looked out, the red lightning ripped open the black wardrobe of the firmament, and he saw the salted sea driven by the fury of the hurricane into great billows of foam. sinking back upon his pillows his last words were: "thank god, i have been a lighthouse builder, and though the light of my life is fast fading, the beams of my lighthouse are brightening the darkness of many a sailor's night." when my life-work closes, and my platform experiences are ended, i would ask no better name than that of an humble lighthouse builder, who here and there from the shore-points of life's ocean, has sent out a friendly beam, to brighten the darkness of some brother's night. vii the defeat of the nation's dragon. joseph cook said in one of his boston lectures: "whenever the temperance cause has attempted to fly with one wing, whether moral suasion or legal suasion, its course has been a spiral one. it will never accomplish its mission in this world, until it strikes the air with equal vans, each wing keeping time with the other, both together winnowing the earth of the tempter and the tempted." i congratulate the friends of temperance upon the progress both wings have made since the beginning of their flight. the first temperance pledge we have any record of ran thus: "i solemnly promise upon my word of honor i will abstain from everything that will intoxicate, except at public dinners, on public holidays and other important occasions." the first prohibitory law was a local law in a village on long island and ran thus: "any man engaged in the sale of intoxicating liquors, who sells more than one quart of rum, whiskey or brandy to four boys at one time shall be fined one dollar and two pence." a sideboard without brandy or rum was an exception, while the jug was imperative at every log-raising and in the harvest field. it was said of even a puritan community, "their only wish and only prayer, in the present world or world to come, is a string of eels and a jug of rum." when doctor leonard bacon was installed pastor of the first congregational church in new haven, conn., in , free drinks were ordered at the bar of the hotel, for all visiting members, to be paid for by the church. today all protestant churches declare against the drink habit and the drink sale. pulpits are thundering away against the saloon. children are studying the effects of alcohol upon the human system in nearly every state in the union. train loads of literature are pouring into the homes of the people. a mighty army of as godly women as ever espoused a cause is battling for the home, against the saloon. the business world is demanding total-abstainers, and fifty millions of people in the united states are living under prohibitory laws. not only in this but in every civilized land the cause of temperance is growing. recently in france it was found there were more deaths than births, which meant france was dying. a commission was appointed to look into the causes. when the report was made, alcohol headed the list. now by order of the government linen posters are put up in public buildings, and on these in blood red letters are these warnings: "alcohol dangerous; alcohol chronic poison; alcohol leads to the following diseases; alcohol is the enemy of labor; alcohol disrupts the home!" who would have thought an emperor of germany would ever "go back" on beer? emperor william in an address to the sailors recommended total-abstinence and forbid under penalty the giving of liquor to soldiers in the world's greatest war. the czar of russia has put an end to the government's connection with the manufacture of intoxicating liquors, and our secretary of the navy has banished it from the ships and navy yards. the new york sun says: "the business world is getting to be one great temperance league." for many years it was confined to the realm of morals, but today it is recognized as a great economic question and the business world is joining the church world in solving the liquor problem. while the temperance cause has been going up in character, the drink has been going down in quality. the old time distiller used to select his site along some crystal stream, that had its fountain-head in the mountains and ran over beds of limestone. with sound grain and pure water, he made several hundred barrels of whiskey a year, and after five to ten years of ripening, it was sent out with the makers' brand upon it. now the north american of philadelphia, one of our leading dailies says, rectifiers (and i would prefix one letter and make it w-r-e-c-k-t-i-f-i-e-r-s) take one barrel from the distillery and by a pernicious, poisonous process, make one hundred barrels from one barrel. it is true the sting of the adder and the bite of the serpent were in the old-time whiskey, but it was as pure as it could be made. doctor wiley, ex-chief of the bureau of chemistry, says: "eighty-five per cent. of all the whiskey sold in the saloons, hotels and club-rooms is not whiskey at all but a cheap base imitation." in the different concoctions made are found aconite, acquiamonia, angelica root, arsenic, alum, benzine, belladonna, beet-root juice, bitter almond, coculus-indicus, sulphuric acid, prussic acid, wood alcohol, boot soles and tobacco stems. no wonder we have more murders in this republic than in any civilized land beneath the sky in proportion to population. along with this adulteration of the drink has gone the degeneracy of the saloon and the seller. the day was when officers in churches could sell liquor and retain their membership. today the saloonkeeper is barred from the protestant churches, barred from masons, odd fellows, knights of pythias, red men, woodmen, maccabees and nearly every other fraternal organization of the world. the saloon itself has become such a vicious resort, that when the police look for a murderer they go to the saloon. when any vile character is sought for, the saloon is searched. when anarchists meet to plan for a hay-market murder in chicago, they meet in the saloon. when an assassin plans to shoot down our president at an exposition, he goes from the saloon. when a fire breaks out in chicago or boston the first order is, close the saloons. don't close any other business house, but close the saloon. if a mob threatens pittsburg, cincinnati, or atlanta, close the saloons. if an earthquake strikes san francisco, close the saloons. in our large cities gambling rooms are attached to the saloons with wine rooms above for women, and while our boys are being ruined downstairs, girls are destroyed upstairs. there are many thousands of women in painted shame, who would now be safe inside life's eden of purity but for the saloon. the south side club of chicago said in : "the back rooms of four hundred and forty-five saloons on only three streets of this city contribute to the delinquency of fourteen thousand girls every twenty-four hours." is it any wonder the saloons hide behind green blinds or stained glass windows? there is a fish in the sea known as the "devil fish." it lies on its back with open mouth and covers itself with sea moss. over its open mouth is a bait. when an unsuspecting fish nibbles at the bait, with a quick snap it is caught and devoured. do you see any analogy between this fish and a certain business that hides itself behind painted windows or green blinds and hangs out a bait of "free lunch" or "turtle soup"? a fish that sets a trap for its kind is called a "devil fish;" a business that does the like is recognized as a legitimate trade and permitted for the sake of revenue. every other recognized business has improved in quality with the years. the saloon has grown worse and worse, until it is bad and only bad; bad in the beginning, bad in the middle, bad in the end, bad inside, outside, upside, downside. it is so bad, the liquor dealers are the only business men who are ashamed to put on exhibition their finished products. in great expositions other trades present finished wares. they do not display the tools used in making what they present for exhibition but the finished goods. not so with the liquor dealers; they put on exhibition the tools with which they work, but not a single specimen of the finished product of their trade do they present for inspection. "that's a fine fit of clothes you have, sir." "yes," says the tailor, "i put up that job; glad you like my work." "that's a fine building across the way." "yes," says the architect, "that's my job and i am quite proud of it." "that's a handsome bonnet you wear, madam." "yes," says the milliner, "that's my creation of style and i am rather proud of my work." yonder is a man intoxicated. he staggers and falls; his head strikes the curb-stone; the blood besmears his face; the police lift him up and start with him to the station house. did you hear a saloon keeper say: "that's my creation; i put up that job and i'm proud of my work." some one said recently in defense of the business: "the saloon keeper deserves more consideration." this writer should know that consideration has been the source of its undoing. lord chesterfield considered it and said: "drink sellers are artists in human slaughter." senator morrill, of maine, considered and pronounced it "the gigantic crime of all crimes." senator long, of massachusetts considered it and called it "the dynamite of modern civilization." henry w. grady, our brilliant southerner, considered it and said: "it is the destroyer of men, the terror of women and the shadow on the face of childhood. it has dug more graves and sent more souls to judgment than all the pestilences since egypt's plague, or all the wars since joshua stood before the walls of jericho." the new york tribune considered it and said: "it's the clog upon the wheels of american progress." the bible considered it and compares its influence to the bite of serpents, the sting of adders, the poison of asps, and heaps the woes of god's will upon it. sam jones said: "when the bible says _woe_, you better stop," and as certain as seed time brings harvest it will stop, not because of the woman's christian temperance union, or the anti-saloon league, or the prohibition party, but because afar back in the blue haze of the past the seed of prohibition was planted in the soil of divine truth. ever since god declared woe against the evils of mankind, the batteries of the holy bible have been trained upon the "wine that gives its color in the cup," and the man who "giveth his neighbor drink and maketh him drunken also." it _will_ stop, because error cannot stand agitation. whoever espouses the cause of error must evade facts, falsify figures, libel logic, tangle his tongue or pen with contradictions and wind up in confusion. the able editor of the courier journal of kentucky came to the defense of this error, and with all his brilliancy and culture, he resorted to personal abuse of temperance workers, _because he could not occupy a higher plane in defense of the saloon_. he made up what he called an "ominum gatherum," of "bigots," "hay-seed politicians," "fake philosophers," "cranks," "scamps," "professional sharps," "mad caps of destruction," "preachers who would sell corner lots in heaven," "a riff-raff of moral idiots and red-nosed angels." i could hardly believe my own eyes when i read this frantic phillipic from one i had esteemed so highly for his intellect; one whose element is up where eagles soar, and not down where baser birds feast upon rotten spots in a world of beauty. only a few days before i had read his beautiful tribute to lincoln, delivered at the unveiling in hodgenville, in which he said of the great emancipator: "he never lost his balance or tore a passion to tatters," yet the finished orator who paid the tribute, when he espouses the cause of error, flies into a paroxysm of passion and tears the dignity of his own self-control into shreds. knowing as i do the culture, refinement and polished manners of the great journalist, i wondered what aggravating force could have so unbalanced his mental scales and led him to so bitterly denounce those, whose only offense is, trying to do what lincoln did, abolish an evil. if this resourceful writer were only converted to the truth on this question, what an "ominum gatherum" he could make from the work of the saloon curse. the clergymen, called "canting, diabolical preachers," deserve more respectful consideration from one who well knows their sincerity. they are men of brains, heart and conscience; men who believe that righteousness rather than revenue exalts a nation, and that sin, no matter how much money invested in it, is a reproach to any people. these ministers believe it to be morally wrong to convert god's golden grain into what debases mankind. they preach that what is morally wrong can never be made politically right. with them it is a matter of deep, permanent conviction. such attacks are made to divert attention from the accused at the bar of public opinion. it is the saloon that is on trial, not cranks, or moral idiots, or ministers. the saloon is charged with being the enemy of every virtue and ally of every vice, that it injures public health, public peace and public morals. the supreme court says: "no legislature has the right to barter away public health, public peace or the public morals; the people themselves cannot do so, much less their servants." in face of this declaration of the supreme court, legislators do barter away public health, public peace and public morals to the organized liquor traffic. all along the cruel career of this enemy of peace, health and morals, it has been pampered and petted by politicians who have been as much charmed by its promise of votes, as was eve in the garden of eden by the serpent's assurance. deceived by the serpent of the still, they have not only disregarded the decision of the supreme court but defied god's plan of dealing with sin. they have persisted in trying to regulate an irregularity in morals by licensing the greatest sin of the century, and have done so to their shame and failure in any regulation effort ever made. the only way to cure chills is to kill the malaria. the only way to cure the cursed liquor traffic is to cast it out of our civilization by a universal, everlasting prohibition of the manufacture, importation and sale of intoxicating liquor. rev. howard crosby, of new york, in advocating high license as a means of reducing the number of saloons, said in an address: "suppose a tiger were to get loose in the city, would you not confine him to a few blocks rather than let him roam the city at large?" some one in the audience answered aloud: "no doctor, we would kill the tiger." how does regulation regulate? take the city of louisville, ky., where i resided a number of years, and where i observed the practical working of the license system. go there any monday morning and you will see from twenty to forty men and women in the cage next to the police court room. a marshal stands at the door of the cage and takes them out one at a time. you will hear the judge say: "ten dollars and cost," which means thirty days in the workhouse. forty days pass and here is the same man in the police court: thirty days to serve his time, ten days to get a little money and then another drunk. some do not know how many times they have been before the court. i was there one day when an irishman was arraigned. the judge said: "pat, how many times have you been before this court?" "faith, and your books will tell ye," replied the irishman. judge price, the police judge at the time, said to me: "there are a number of men, and several women i know in this city, who pass through the courtroom on their way to the workhouse so regularly, i can guess within a few days of the time they will appear." they pass like buckets at a fire, going up full and returning empty. there is an asylum in this country where, i am told, they test a man's insanity in this way. they have a trough which holds one hundred gallons of water. above is an open tap through which the water pours constantly, and of course the trough keeps on running over. the patient is brought to the trough, given a bucket and told to dip out the water. if he dips all day and has not mind enough to turn off the tap, he is considered a very serious case. if this test were put to our license lawmakers, i fear they would have to go to the incurable ward. they have for many years been picking up drunkards from the gutters and opening taps for them to keep on pouring into the streets. under this system the saloon keepers are playing ten-pins. you know in playing ten-pins there is a long alley, at one end of which stand the pins, while at the other stands the player with a ball in his hand. he rolls the ball down the alley and knocks down the pins. some one sets them up, and to that some one, who is often a boy, the player will toss a dime and say: "set them up quick." does he let them stand? no! he rolls the ball down the alley and down go the pins. the saloon keeper has the ball of law in his hands. no matter whether a high or low license ball, he paid the price for the use of the ball. when temperance workers set up drunkards and they get a little money in their pockets away goes the ball and they are down again. when a church revival picks up a few drunkards the saloon keeper will say: "here's a dollar to help in your meeting." then in his mind he says: "set up the drunkards who are out of employment and money, get them positions, and when they can earn money again, again i'll bowl them down." under the license system the saloon is playing ten-pins with temperance associations, ten-pins with the church and ten-pins with society. i have faith to believe the time is drawing near when the balls will be confiscated and the pins can stand when we do set them up. i know many have not this faith because they believe prohibitory laws are failures. they base their belief on the violation of the law. by that rule everything is a failure. married life is a failure; its laws are grossly violated. home life is a failure; there are many miserable homes. the school is a failure; many a father has put thousands of dollars into the education of his son and found it wasted in riotous living. the church is a failure; many of its members are christians only in name and not a few are hypocrites. but we know by the loyal, loving husbands and wives of every community that married life is not a failure. we know by the happy homes about us, with sweetest of household ties binding the family circle, that home life is not a failure. we know by the education that has refined our civilization, that the school is not a failure. we know by the redeemed of earth and saved in heaven the church is not a failure, and we are convinced by the organized opposition to prohibitory laws by distillers, brewers, saloon keepers, gamblers and harlots that prohibition is not a failure. if prohibition is a failure in kansas as license advocates charge, then governors, ex-governors, attorney generals, jailers, mayors and judges of kansas are falsifiers. if prohibition is a failure in kansas why has the state grown to be the richest per capita in the union, why are so many jails empty, so many counties without a pauper and why, according to the brewers' year book of , was the consumption of liquor in kansas one dollar and sixty cent per capita and in a neighbor license state twenty-two dollars per capita? along with the absurd statement that prohibition is a failure, comes the warning of the president of the model license league to the business men of the country, that unless the tide of prohibition is arrested it will "kill our cities." "blessed are the dead that die in the lord." in a local option contest a prominent business man said to me: "i do not use liquor but i am in doubt about how i should vote on the question." when i asked; "what's your trouble?" he answered: "we have six saloons in this little city and the license fee is one thousand dollars; how are we to run the city without the six thousand dollars?" when i informed him that the six saloons took from the people eighty thousand dollars a year, he agreed it was a reasonable estimate. i said: "don't you know those who spend their money for drink, if they did not spend it over the saloon bars, would spend it over the counters of merchants who sell clothing, food, fuel and furniture?" if you merchants could take in eighty thousand dollars, couldn't you pay out six thousand and not get hurt? if you can't see that you are no better business man than was horace greeley a farmer. he purchased a pig for one dollar, kept it two years, fed it forty dollars worth of corn and sold it for nine dollars. he said: "i lost money on the corn but made money on the hog." so, many business men see the revenue from the license fee but can't see the cost. suppose on one side of a street the business houses are all bad, in that they consume money and give worse than nothing in return; and on the other side they are all good, in that they give an honest equivalent for the money they receive; can't you see if the bad side is closed, the money that went to the bad side goes to the good, and can you not see only good can come of such a change? there are three things prohibition of the saloon does that are illustrated by the story told of an irishman who said: "i did three good things today." "what did you do, pat?" "i saw a woman crying in front of a cathedral. she had a baby in her arms, and i said: 'madam, what are you crying about?' "she said: 'i had two dollars in me handkerchief and came to have me baby christened but i lost the money.' "i said: 'don't cry, madam, here is a ten dollar bill; go get the baby christened and bring me the change.' she went, and soon after returned and handed me eight silver dollars." "well," said the friend, "i don't see any three good things in that." "ye don't! didn't i dry the woman's tears, didn't i save the baby's soul, and didn't i get rid of a ten dollar counterfeit bill and get eight good silver dollars in return?" that is what prohibition of the saloon does for a community. it dries woman's tears, saves human souls, gets rid of a counterfeit business and puts good business instead. is it a counterfeit business? it has been well said, "go into the butcher stall and you get meat for money, into the shoe store and you get shoes for money, but go into the saloon and the bargain is all on one side. it's bar-gain on one side and bar-loss on the other; ill-gotten gains on one side, mis-spent wages on the other, a mess of pottage on one side and the birthright of some mother's boy on the other." a great wail is going up from the advocates of the liquor traffic that statewide prohibition means the destruction of immense vested interests and dire results will follow. "this our craft is in danger," has ever been the cry against reforms or changes in civilization since the "shrine makers of ephesus." when slavery was abolished it was said: "this means ruin to the south! such a confiscation of property, with every slave set free to beg at the white man's gate, crushes every vestige of hope, and five hundred years will not bring relief." only fifty years have passed and the south is richer than ever in her history. justice grier of the supreme court said: "if loss of revenue should accrue to the united states from a diminished consumption of ardent spirits, she will be the gainer a thousandfold in health, wealth and happiness of the people." if this is true, then this question is not only a great moral question but also a tremendous economic problem. if production should be for use and not for abuse, the existence of breweries and distilleries are without excuse. if one should be rewarded on the basis of service, the saloon keeper has no claim for even tolerance, much less reward. if labor is the basis of value, men who live by selling liquor to their fellowmen are leaches on the body politic, and ishmaels in the commercial world. the claim that the liquor business is a benefit to a community or to the country is in harmony with the assertion that war is a "biological necessity" and a "stimulating source of development." general sherman said: "war is hell." certainly the one now raging between the leading nations of the old world is a hell of carnage. and yet intemperance has destroyed more lives than all the wars of the world since time began. it has added to the death of the body the eternal death of the soul and then the sum of its ravages is not complete until is added more broken hearts, more blasted hopes, desolate homes, more misery and shame than from any source of evil in the world. if what sherman said of war is true, and the liquor curse is worse than war, how can this government hope to escape punishment for raising revenue from a business so abominable and wicked? a heathen emperor when appealed to for a tax on opium as a source of revenue said: "i will not consent to raise the revenue of my country upon the vices of its people." yet this christian republic, claiming the noblest civilization of the earth, is found turning the dogs of appetite and avarice loose upon the home life of the republic that gold may clink in its treasury. the politician's excuse for this compromise with earth's greatest destroyer is, it can never be prohibited and therefore regulation and revenue is the best policy. i can well remember when the same was said of slavery. with billions of dollars invested in slaves, with a united south behind it and the north divided, it could never be abolished. at that time the prospect for the overthrow of slavery was far less than the prospect of national prohibition today. i own i was among those who said "slavery cannot be destroyed." now i am one of the reconstructed. i'm like the pig i used to read of, "when i lived i lived in clover, and when i died i died all over." during the civil war union soldiers arrested several of my neighbors and took them to a northern prison. my southern blood was aroused. i said: "let a yankee soldier come to take me and he will never take another kentuckian." then my mother was alarmed. she knew how brave her boy was. a few days later i met a squad of yankee cavalry on the road near our home. they said "halt!" and i halted. they said "surrender!" i did so, and mother did not hear of any blood being shed. again a half-drunk union soldier rode up to our gate and said: "who lives here?" when i answered, he asked: "can your mother get supper for fourteen soldiers in thirty minutes?" "no, sir, she cannot," i replied. drawing a pistol, the mouth of which looked like a cannon's mouth to me, he said: "maybe you have changed your mind." i had, and that supper was ready with several minutes to spare. we can, and we _will_ stop the liquor business. i am amazed, however, to find so many intelligent men of the north advocating the same policy on this liquor problem the south adopted on the slavery question, which cost her so severely. i find the same effect revenue in slaves had upon the consciences of the tax-payers of the south, high-license revenue from saloons is having upon the consciences of tax-payers in the north. in the early days of slavery, when wealth in the institution was very limited, the conscience of the south was against slavery. old virginia, when a colony, appealed to king george to remove the threatening danger from her borders. it was the voice of a general lee of virginia that was lifted against slavery in the house of burgesses. but with the passing of time slaves grew in value, until a slave in the south reached about the price of a saloon license now in the north. then the conscience of the south quieted and slavery was justified by press, politics and pulpit. there is a remarkable analogy between the effect of a thousand dollar slave upon the conscience of south carolina and a thousand dollar saloon upon the conscience of massachusetts. the south paid the penalty of her mistaken policy; the north will reap its reward in retribution, if it persists in making the price of a saloon in the north the same as the price of a slave in the south. when the value of a world is profitless compared with the worth of a soul then even if every saloon were a klondyke of gold this republic could not afford to legalize the liquor business for revenue. i believe my northern friends will permit me to press home a little further the lesson of southern slavery. the phase i would impress is that any question that has a great moral principle involved is never settled until it is settled right. we tried to regulate slavery but it wouldn't regulate. first it was decided that the importation of slaves should cease in twenty years. did that settle it? next came the missouri compromise, "thus far shalt thou go and no farther." politicians said: "now it's settled." but a fanatic in boston name garrison said: "it is not settled." daniel webster, as intellectual as some of our high license advocates of today said to lloyd garrison: "stop the agitation of this question or you will bring trouble on the country; the compromise is made and the question is settled." lloyd garrison replied: "i don't care what compromise you've made; you may pull down my office, pitch my type into the sea, and hound me through the streets of boston, but you will never settle the slavery question until you settle it right." it kept breaking out despite all legislative restrictions. at last columbia with one hand on her head, and the other on her heart, began to reel on her throne, and abraham lincoln seized his pen and signed the proclamation, "universal emancipation." then the whole world said: "it's forever settled." so the liquor question will be settled as was the slavery question, by the universal, everlasting abolition of the manufacture, sale and importation of intoxicating liquor in this country. high license is another missouri compromise. if you have the drink you'll have the drunkenness. if you have the cause you will have the effect. if you have the positive you will have the superlative: positive drink, comparative drinking, superlative drunkenness. you may try high-tax and low-tax but all the time you will have sin-tax and more sin than tax. you do not change the nature of the drink by the price of a license, the kind of a place in which it is sold or the character of the man who sells it. put a pig in a parlor; feed him on the best the marflet affords, give him a feather bed in which to sleep, keep him there till he's grown and he'll be a hog. you don't change the nature of the pig by the elegant surroundings; you may change the condition of the parlor. there is but one solution of the liquor problem and that is a nation-wide prohibitory law and behind the law a political power in sympathy with the law and pledged to its enforcement. many admit the principle is correct but insist we should wait until public sentiment is powerful enough to enforce the law. if grand ideas had waited for public sentiment moses would never have given the commandments to the world. if grand ideas had waited for public sentiment, we would still be back in the realm of the dark ages, instead of in the light of our present civilization; back in the dim twilight of the tallow-dip instead of the brightness of the electric light; back with the ox team instead of the speed of the steam engine, automobile and aeroplane; and on the temperance question back to where a liquor dealer could advertise his business on gravestones. on a tomb in england are these words: "here lies below in hope of zion, the landlord of the golden lion, his son keeps up the business still, obedient to his country's will." years ago a friend said to me: "i admire your zeal, but i wonder at your faith when you are in such a miserable minority." my reply was: "are minorities always wrong or hopeless? how would you have enjoyed being with the majority at the time of the flood? it seems to me you would have been safer with noah in the ark." as to license and prohibition, that has always been the question since man was created. it was the question in the garden of eden when the devil stood for license, "go eat," and god stood for prohibition, "thou shalt not." that is the question today and i am quite sure god and the devil stand now as then, and while the adams are divided, the eves are nearly all on one side. another said: "after all the work done for temperance the people drink as much or more than ever." my answer is: how much more would they drink if we had not done what has been done? yonder on the ocean a vessel springs a leak and soon the water stands thirty inches deep in the hold. the captain says: "to the pumps!" and the sailors leap to their places. at the end of one hour the captain measures and says: "thirty inches; you are holding it down." hour after hour the pumping goes on, with changing hands at the pumps, and hour after hour the captain says: "you are doing well; she can't go down at thirty inches. hold it there and we'll make the harbor." twenty hours and the captain shouts: "thirty inches; and land is in sight. pump on, my boys, you'll save the ship." suppose one of our croakers who says, "prohibition won't prohibit," had been on board. he would have said: "don't you see you are doing no good; there's just as much water as when you began." what would have become of the ship? at the close of the civil war intemperance was pouring in upon the ship of state. men returned from war enthralled in chains worse than african slavery, for rum slavery means ruin to body and soul. men, women and children ran to the pumps, and thank god, state after state is going dry. soon we'll see the land of promise, and the ship of state will be saved from a leak as dangerous as ever sprung in a vessel, and from as cruel a crew of buccaneers as ever scuttled a ship. when i began the work as a "good templar" forty years ago, kentucky was soaked in rum. bourbon county, where i was reared, had twenty-three distilleries, and a dead wall lifted itself against my hopes of ever seeing the sky clear of distillery smoke above old bourbon county, a name on more barrels and bottles, on more bar-room windows, and on the memories of more drunkards in ruin than any other county in the world. yet i have lived to see the last distillery fire go out, and bourbon county dry. while i had faith in the ultimate triumph of the cause i never dreamt it would come to bourbon county in my lifetime. when i began saloons were at almost every crossroads village, and the bottle on sideboards was the rule in thousands of leading homes. time and again my life was threatened. on one occasion twelve armed men guarded me from a mob, and once my wife placed herself between my body and a desperate mountaineer. those were perilous times for an advocate of temperance in my native state. now out of one hundred and twenty counties, one hundred and seven are dry. in georgia the licensed saloon is gone; in north carolina the saloon is gone; in west virginia, old virginia, mississippi and tennessee the saloon is gone, while oklahoma was born sober. "that which made milwaukee famous doesn't foam in tennessee; the sunday lid in old missouri was governor folk's decree. brewers, distillers and their cronies well may sigh; the saloon is panic-stricken, and the south's going dry. "soon the hill-side by the rill-side of kentucky will be still; men will take their toddies from the ripples of the rill; boys will grow up sober, mothers cease to cry; glory hallelujah! the south's going dry." already seventeen states are dry, and there are many arid spots in the wet states. while i cannot hope to live to see the final triumph, i have faith to believe my children and my children's children will live in a saloonless land, a land redeemed from a curse that has soaked its social life in more blood and tears than all other sources of sorrow; a land where liberty will no longer be shorn of its locks of strength by licensed delilahs; where manhood will no more be stripped of its possibilities by the claws of the demon drink; where fore-doomed generations will not reach the dawning of life's morning, to be bound like mazeppa to the wild, mad steed of passion and borne down the blood lines of inheritance to the awful abuse of drunkenness. to this end i appeal to every minister of the gospel, stir the consciences of your hearers on this question. i appeal to the press, that potent power for the enlightenment of the people. "pulpit and press with tongue and pen, set to new music this message to men: let the great work of destruction begin, and rid our loved land of this shelter to sin. as before the sun's brightness, the darkness must fly, so by power of the ballot the rum curse must die, then cover the earth as the wide waves the sea, with the sound of the axe at the root of the tree!" viii if i could live life over. now and then i hear an old man or an old woman say, "even if i could i would not live life over." well, i own i would, provided i could begin the journey with the knowledge i now have of what it means to live. while mistakes have been many there are some things i would not change. i would be brought up in the country as i was. i would play over the same blue-grass carpet, along the same turnpike aisle, swing on the branches of the same old trees and listen to the concert chorus of the same song birds. indeed i sympathize with the boy who exchanges the music of birds, melody of streams, lowing of herds, driving of teams, diamond dew on bending blade, morning sun and evening shade, with all other sweet associations of country life for a lodging room in a city, where church doors and home doors are closed against him in the evening hours of the week, and all evil places wide open for his ruin. it has been well said: "the street fair of evil associations in our large cities begins with the night shadows and grows with the darkness." i dare say if i could draw aside the veil that will shut in the night scenes of this city, the revelation would make some godly fathers tremble for their boys, and pious mothers long to gather their children about them when the sun goes down, as moor birds gather their helpless young when hawks are screaming in the sky. all hail to the young men's christian association, with its open doors for young men in the evening hours! all hail to its gymnasium, its swimming pool, basketball and other sports that develop strength and furnish entertainment! away with the idea that all the pleasures of the world belong to the devil. a distinguished divine was brought up in new england by a staid old aunt, who never let him go anywhere except to church, sunday school and prayer meeting. when quite a lad she let him go to new york city to visit a cousin. that cousin took him to see barnum's circus. it was his first circus, and the wild animals, the bareback riding, trapeze performance, clowns and chariot races bewildered the country boy. next morning he wrote his aunt, saying: "dear aunt, if you'll go to one circus you'll never go to another prayer meeting as long as you live." but he did go to prayer meeting and became a grand good man. there are many innocent springs of pleasure, where youth can drink and not be harmed. it may surprise some for me to say, if i could live life over i would be brought up in the same old state of kentucky. "with all her faults i love her still," _but not her stills_. it has been my privilege to visit every state in the union and i find all the good is not in any one state, nor all the bad. while kentucky has had her night riders, missouri has had her boodlers, california her grafters, illinois her anarchists, pennsylvania her machine politics, new york her tammany tiger, and washington city her blizzards on inauguration days. god doesn't grow all the daisies in one field nor confine thorns to one thicket. it's been my lot this land to roam, o'er every state twixt ocean's foam, but still my heart clings to its home, kentucky. i've traveled the prairies of the west, i've seen each section at its best, there's nothing like my native nest, kentucky. no matter through what state i pass, no matter how the people class, to me there's only one blue grass, kentucky. when my wanderings here are o'er, and my spirit seeks the golden shore, then keep my dust for evermore, kentucky. not only would i be brought up in kentucky and in the country, but i would go to the same yankee schoolmaster, have the same sweethearts and marry the same girl, provided she would consent to make another journey with the same companion. by the way, we were married in bourbon county, kentucky, when she was nineteen and i twenty. about four years ago we celebrated our golden wedding, and the morning after the celebration, she put on "her old grey bonnet, with the blue ribbon on it." we didn't "hitch dobbin to the shay" but along the interurban we rode down to bourbon, where we started for our golden wedding day. if i could live life over surely i could ask no better age than the one in which i have lived. we no longer toil over a mountain, but glide through it on ribbons of steel; telegraphy dives the deep and brings us the news of the old world every morning before breakfast; we talk with tongues of lightning through telephones and send messages on ether waves over the sea; we ride horse-cycles that run, never walk and live without eating; we travel in carriages drawn by electric steeds that never tire; the signal service gives us a geography of the weather, so the farmer may know whether or not to prepare to plow, and the sunday school whether to arrange or to postpone its picnic tomorrow; airships mount the heavens, steamships plough the ocean's bosom, submarine torpedo boats undermine the deep with missiles of death, while photography turns one inside out, and doctors no longer guess at the location of a bullet. all these things have come to pass within my life-time. what may the young before me expect in the next fifty years? recently i read an imaginary letter, supposed to have been written by a wellsley college girl. it was dated one hundred years in the future. she wrote: "father gave me a new airship a few weeks ago. i leave my home in baltimore every morning after breakfast and reach wellsley in time for classes. we have only thirty minutes in school in the morning and fifteen in the afternoon. our teachers are in telepathic touch with all knowledge and we get it in condensed form. a few days ago, just after lunch at noon i took a spin up into canada; the machine got a little out of fix, so i jumped on a gyroscope and returned in time for dinner at six. "yesterday i sailed over to new york city and took dinner at the waldorf-astoria; had two capsules for dinner and they were delicious. i read how the people used to sit around tables and eat all kinds of things. it must have been funny to see their mouths all going at one time. then they had stomach trouble--indigestion they called it. now we have everything necessary for the human system put up in capsules; we get up a thousand feet above the earth where the air is pure, so we ought to live to be two hundred years old. "last week my classmate and i took a flying trip to see the panama canal, and while there we decided to take in the exposition at san francisco next day. there we saw many antiquated machines called automobiles; they used to run around the streets in rubber stockings, honking horns to warn the poor, then turning turtle they killed or maimed the rich. in one department we saw an animal with long tail, and a mane on its neck. they called it a horse and told us that years ago horses were harnessed and driven about the streets, while the fast ones were raced for money." that young woman may be all right about her capsule dinners and condensed instruction, but one hundred years from now, when on her way from the west to wellsley if she will stop in lexington, ky., she will see a horse sale in progress; horses selling from five hundred to ten thousand dollars that will trot or pace a mile in less than two minutes, while slow ones will be hitched to dead wagons, used to gather up those who have fallen from airships and gyroscopes. it may be that one hundred years in the future airships will be seen soaring over the cities, delivering packages in parachutes at the back doors of residences, but the day will never dawn when there will be an airship, gyroscope, or an automobile that will supplant the fleet-footed, sleek-coated, handsome kentucky horse. now i come to the more practical, for i do not bring you this talk, challenging your criticism or inviting your praise of it as a literary production, but with the purpose of helping some one live as i would wish to live if i had my life to live over. first, to the boys before me. if i had life to live over one of my first purposes would be to seek my calling in life. do you know half the failures of life come from misfits of occupation? there are lawyers starving for want of clients, doctors with patients under monuments, and preachers talking to empty pews, who might have been successful in factories or furrows. cowper was a failure as a lawyer, he was a success as a poet; goldsmith was a bungling surgeon, he was a power with his pen; horace greely was a success in the tribune office, he was a failure as a farmer and a slow candidate for president. when u.s. grant was a very young man his father sent him to sell a horse to a buyer and instructed him to ask one hundred dollars, but if he could not get that amount to take eighty-five. the buyer looked the horse over and said: "young man, what is your price?" young grant replied: "father told me to ask you one hundred dollars, but if you would not give that to take eighty-five." it is needless to say the calling of u.s. grant was not horse trading. this same young man afterwards tried the grocery business and bought potatoes far and wide to corner the market, but the price went down, the potatoes rotted in grant's bins and his grocery effort was on a par with his horse trading. he then tried the ice market but that became watered stock on his hands and again he was a failure. later on in life 'mid roar of cannon and rattle of musketry the misfit found his element. here he was so sure of his calling he made his motto, "i'll fight it out on this line if it takes all summer," and to the general, who could not drive a horse trade, or corner the potato market, or deal in ice, one of the greatest generals the world ever knew surrendered his sword, and from the highest military position grant was called to be president of the united states. if it is true that "ever since creation shot its first shuttle through chaos design has marked the course of every golden thread," then every human being is designed to fill a certain place in life. there are young women teaching school, getting to be old maids, who should be the wives of good husbands, and there are some wives who ought to be old maid "schoolmarms." we have born architects, born orators, born bookkeepers, born musicians, born poets, born preachers, born teachers, born surgeons, born bankers, born blacksmiths, born merchants, born farmers. two farmers live side by side; one doesn't seem to work hard, yet everything is neatness from one end of the farm to the other; his neighbor works hard, yet the cattle are in his corn, the fences are broken, gates off the hinges and everything seems out of order. that man was not made to be a farmer. he should rent out, or sell out, and go to the legislature, or find some other place he can fill. matthew arnold said: "better be a napoleon of book-blacks, or an alexander of chimney-sweeps, than an attorney, who, like necessity, knows no law." there are born shoemakers cobbling in congress, while statesmen are pegging away on a shoe-last because their brains have not been capitalized by education and opportunity. there are born preachers at work in machine shops, and born mechanics rattling around in pulpits like a mustard seed in an empty gourd; born surgeons are carving beef in butcher stalls, while here and there butchers are operating for appendicitis. god planted the hardy pine on the hills of new england, and the magnolia down in the sunny south-land. let some horticulturist compel the magnolia to climb the cold hills of new england, and the northern tree to come down and take its place in the "land of cotton, cinnamon seed and sandy bottom," and everything in both will protest against the mistake. lowell said: "every baby boy is born with a calling." with some this calling is very definite. it was definite with george stevenson when in childhood he made engines of mud with sticks for smoke-stacks. it was definite with thomas a. edison, who, instead of selling newspapers, went to experimenting with acids, and charged a steel stirrup that lifted him into the electric saddle of the world. with others it is very indefinite. patrick henry failed at everything he undertook until he began talking, when he soon became the golden mouthed orator of his age. peter cooper failed until he took to making glue, then his business "stuck" to everybody and he made a fortune out of which he built cooper union for the education of poor boys. i have a grandson whose calling was indefinite. he was named for his grandfather, to whom fishing is a fad. during my rest season i go fishing almost every day. while i make an exception of sunday i can appreciate the minister who was a great fisherman. on his way to an appointment sunday morning he came upon a lad fishing in a wayside stream. halting he said: "my boy, this is the sabbath day and the good book says you should remember to keep it holy." just then a fish seized the boy's bait and drew the float under, when the good minister excitedly said: "pull, pull. ah! that's a good one. i'll try that place myself _some other day_." fishing is my favorite sport. my grandson was a baseball fiend and a football player. he was hurt in a football game and i wrote him, warning him against his recklessness, and to the admonition i added: "twenty-five boys have been killed already this season playing football; it's a brutal game anyway." he replied: "dear grandfather, i am sorry so many boys have been killed playing football, but i read recently that last summer two hundred and fifty men were drowned while out fishing; would it not be well for you to keep off lake ellerslie? you say football is a brutal game; i submit to you, grandpa, that the man who takes an innocent worm or a minnow, strings it on a steel hook, and sinking it into the water, jerks the gills out of an innocent fish, is more cruel than the boy who kicks another around for exercise. i need a pair of baseball shoes, number six and a half; send them by express." he got the shoes, and i decided _he_ was called to be a lawyer. young man, if you get to be a preacher and cannot put force into your sermon, the world doesn't want to hear you preach, but if you are a good cobbler it will wear your shoes, if a good baker it will eat your bread, or if a good barber it will let you put your razor to its throat. remember in making your choice, "honor and fame from no condition rise, act well your part; there the honor lies." if i could live life over, i would not be content with a common school education. in my youth circumstances lifted a dead wall against my hopes, but if given another chance i would somehow press my way to where higher education scatters its trophies at the feet of youth, for while it is true some of the most successful men of our country graduated from the high school of "hard knocks" and universities of adversity, yet the humblest toil is more easily accomplished and better done where college education guides. to college education, however, i would add the education which comes from rubbing against the world. some one has said: "for every ounce of book knowledge one needs a half dozen ounces of common sense with which to apply it." douglas jerrold said: "i have a friend who can speak fluently a dozen different languages but has not a practical idea to express in any one of them." an old woman suffering from rheumatism was asked by a friend: "did you ever try electricity?" she answered: "yes, i was struck by lightning once but it didn't do me any good." in this many sided age one needs to educate muscle, nerves, heart and conscience as well as brain. that man who is all brain and no heart, goes through the world with his intellect shining above his bosom like an electric light over a graveyard. young people, do you know you live in a testing world, a world in which all buds and blossoms are tested? the bud that stands the test of wind and frost goes on to flower and fruitage; the bud that can't stand the test goes with the dust to be trampled under foot. every cannon made by the government is tested; the cannon that can stand the test goes into battleship or land fort, the cannon that can't stand the test goes into the junk pile. yonder in virginia a few years ago, there was a young man who had everything an indulgent father could give him, but in school his character could not stand the test, and he exchanged his books for wine and cards. he married a beautiful young woman, shot her to death in his automobile and died himself in the electric chair, leaving his old father in a desolate home with harrowing memories tearing his heart; while over the life of an innocent babe he hung a cloud as dark as was ever woven out of the world's misfortune, and sent another life to wander in painted shame outside life's eden of purity, the barb of conscious guilt to be driven deeper and deeper into her soul by the scorn of a pitiless world. all because young beatty could not stand the test! harry thaw had everything wealth and refinement could bring into a young life, but he sacrificed all upon unhallowed altars, and with the brand of cain upon his brow, he was cast into a madman's cell. he could not stand the test. lord byron was britain's brilliant bard. he could have lived in england's glory and then slept with england's buried greatness in westminster abbey, if he had stood the test; but at the age of thirty-seven, when he should have been on an upward flight to greater fame, he drew the "strings of his discordant harp" about him and over them sent the bitter wail: "my days are in the yellow leaf; the flowers and fruits of love are gone; the worm, the canker, and the grief are mine alone!" younder in a cabin a babe was born. when eleven years of age he helped his mother clear out a patch and raise a garden. later on he lay in front of a wood fire, studying lessons for the morrow. later in life he went to college, with only a few cents in his pocket. he went to church and there gave part of his little all in a collection for missionary work. the next saturday he earned a dollar with a jack-plane; at the end of his college term he had paid his way and had seven dollars left. at twenty-eight this young man was in the senate of his state, at thirty-six he was in congress, and twenty-seven years from the time james a. garfield rang the bell of hiram college for his board he went into the white house as president of the united states. he could stand the test. boys, can you stand the test? during the spanish american war there was a regiment called the "rough riders." it was made up of picked young men from different states of the union. it was this regiment that made the famous charge up san juan hill. at the close of the war, the regiment was mustered out of service. the colonel, giving his farewell address, said: "you have made an honorable record in war, now go back to your homes and make honorable record in peace." sixteen years of that record is made. the colonel has been president of the united states for seven years of that time. general leonard wood has gone to the front of the army, and others of the regiment have become successful professional and business men; but some have gone to jails and penitentiaries, one died not long since in the streets of new york city and was buried in a pauper's grave; some are fugitives from justice. what is true of that regiment, is in some measure true of every body of young men and boys i meet. in my presence are boys who will be leaders of thought and action twenty years from now in whatever community they dwell. there is a boy before me who will be a successful merchant, there's one who will be a banker, another will be a lawyer, others will lead in other lines. but alas! in my presence now, looking me in the face this minute, there may be a boy, or boys, who will stain with blood the stony path to despair. do you say that no such ignominious possibility hangs over any boy in this audience? i tell you it is not always the first, but sometimes the fairest born. i know a man who in his youth drove his father's fine horses, romped and rested on the richest blue-grass lawn, ate from spotless linen and lived in luxury, who now eats from the bare tables of low saloons, and is often given shelter by an old colored "mammy," who was once his father's slave. i have in mind a schoolmate, whose father lived in a fine country home two miles from the schoolhouse. the influence of my schoolmate's mother was pure as the diamond dew he brushed from the bending grass in barefoot days. but he left the country home and the last time i saw him he was a vagabond, begging bread from negro cabin doors. ah! mother, you can't tell _which_ boy. in a large city a few years ago a man stood at the side door of a saloon at two o'clock in the morning. his clothes were worn and the matted hair hung about his face. he waited, hoping some one would come along and give him the price of a drink. two young men, one of them a reporter on a leading daily, came down the street. as they neared the poor fellow, one said to the other: "did you ever see such an appeal for a drink? here, hobo, take this dime and buy you one." seizing his hand his friend said: "no, let's do the job like good samaritans. come in, tramp, and have a drink with us." the three entered the saloon, the glasses were filled and the tramp took his and draining it, said: "young men, i'm very thirsty, may i have another?" "yes, help yourself," was the reply, and the tramp took the second drink. then lifting his hat he said: "young men, you call me a hobo, but i see in you a picture of my lost manhood. once i had a face as fair as yours, and wore as good clothes as you have now. i had a home where love lit the flame on the altar, but i put out the fire and to-night i'm a wanderer without a home. i had a wife as beautiful as an artist's dream, but i took the pearl of her love, dropped it in the wine glass, cleopatra-like i saw it dissolve and i quaffed it down. i had a sweet child i fondly loved, and still love, though i have not seen her for twelve years; a young woman now in her grandfather's home, she is deprived of the heritage of a father's good name. young men, i once had aspirations and ambitions that soared as high as the morning star, but i clipped their wings, i strangled them and they died. call me a tramp, do you? i'm a preacher without a charge, a lawyer without a brief, a husband without a wife, a father without a child, a man without a friend. i thank you for the drinks. go to your homes and on soft beds may you sleep well; i'll go out and sleep on yonder bench in the night wind. a few more drinks, a few more drunkard's dreams, and i'll go out into the moonless, starless night of a hopeless forever." oh! how i would like to help some boy in this audience stand on his two feet and with clear brain, manly muscle, and moral courage fight and win the battle of life. how it would rejoice my soul if i could, with earnest appeal, throw about some mother's boy an armor of celestial atmosphere against which the arrows of evil would beat in vain, and fall harmless at his feet. hear me, boys; never was there a day when character counted for so much as now; never a day when a young man, equipped with education and stability of character, filled with energy and ambition, was in such demand as he is today; while on the other hand, never was there a day when a young man with bad habits was in so little demand as now. the industrial world is closing its doors against young men who are not sober, industrious and competent. even a saloon-keeper advertised thus: "wanted--a man to tend bar, who does not drink intoxicating liquors." how would this read: "wanted--a young man to sell shoes, who goes bare-footed." young women, just here i have a question for you. if the railroad company does not want the drinking man, if the merchant discriminates against him, and even the saloon-keeper does not want him for bar-tender, do you want him for a husband? can you afford to wrap up your hopes of happiness in him and to him swear away your young life and love? some young woman may say: "if i taboo the drinking man, i may be an old maid." then be an old maid, get some "bloom of youth," paint up and love yourself. john b. gough said: "you better be laughed at for not being married, than never to laugh any more because you are married." if i could live life over there are some things i would not do. i would not stop smoking as i did thirty-five years ago, because i never would begin and therefore would not need to stop. i am not a fanatic on the question, but i believe every father in my presence, who uses tobacco, will be glad to have me say that which i will now say to the boys who are dulling their brains, poisoning their blood and weakening their hearts by the use of cigarettes. boys, i believe a cigar made me tell my first falsehood. when i was fifteen years of age i felt i must smoke if i ever expected to be a man. father smoked, our pastor smoked, and so did almost every man in our neighborhood. my mother opposed the habit, but i thought mother did not know what it took to make a man. i heard her make an engagement to spend a whole day ten miles from home the following week, and that day i set apart for learning to smoke cigars. i laid in some fine ones, six for five cents, and when mother went out the gate on her visit, i started for the barn. in a shed back of the barn i took out my cigars, determined to learn that day if it required the six cigars for my graduation. the first cigar was lighted and with every puff i felt the manhood coming; but in about five minutes i felt the manhood _going_. just then my uncle called: "george, where are you?" when i answered he said: "come here and hold this colt while i knock out a blind tooth." horsemen before me know some colts have blind teeth and to save the eyes these must be removed. i staggered to the colt, held the halter rein and when the tooth was removed my uncle, looking at me, said: "what's the matter with you? you are pale as death." "nothing, only it always did make me sick to see a blind tooth knocked out of a horse's mouth," i replied. my uncle said: "you better lie down on the grass until it passes off," and i did. but i kept on after that until i learned to smoke like a man. when years had passed and i became editor of a paper it seemed to me i could write better editorials with the smoke curling about my face. one morning i finished my breakfast before mrs. bain had half finished hers. lighting my cigar i stood by the fire chatting and smoking until the stub was all that remained. then, as was my custom, i walked up to kiss her good-bye when she said: "good-bye. but, i would like to ask you a question. how would you like to have me finish my breakfast before you are half through yours, light a cigar, smoke it to the stub, and with tobacco on my lips and breath offer to kiss you good morning?" i said: "you don't have to kiss me," and with this i left for my work. on the way her question seemed to be waiting my answer, and i gave it in a resolve that she should never again have cause to repeat that question, and with my resolve went the cigar. about this time a co-worker joined me in the same resolution, which helped me to keep mine. after tea that evening mrs. bain said: "i did not know you were so sensitive, or i should not have said what i did." i did not tell her then of my promise, lest i should fail to keep it. thirty-five years have passed and not a single cigar have i had between my lips since that morning. boys, take one five-cent cigar after each meal, add up the nickels for one year, put the money at interest, next year, and every year do the same, compounding the interest, and in thirty-five years you will have thirty-five hundred dollars--the price of a home for your old age. i do not hope to convert old smokers, but if i can persuade one young man in this audience to throw away the cigarette, never to smoke one again, then i will have honored this hour's service. if i could live life over i would take the same total-abstinence pledge i took fifty years ago and have kept inviolate to this day. i would take it, not only because of its personal benefit to me, but because of what it has led me to do for others. it is said reformers never expect to see the bread they cast upon the waters; inventors may, but not reformers. yet i have lived to see my bread come back "buttered" in my old age. i have lived to see thousands of men and women to whom i gave the pledge in their youth, wearing it still as a garland about their brows, and their children, by precept and example of parents, keep step with the onward march of the temperance army. i have lived to see more than one hundred counties of kentucky, in which i established good templar lodges, when bottles were on sideboards in the homes, and barrooms in almost every crossroad village, now in the dry column. i have lived to see seventeen states under prohibition, fifty millions of people of the united states living under prohibitory laws, the congress of the united states giving a majority vote for submitting national prohibition to the people, and the great empire of russia going dry in a day. sweet is the "buttered bread" that is coming to me after these many years since i cast my bread upon the waters, when days were dark, discouragements many and faith weak. i am waiting now for another slice of this "buttered bread" about the size of old kentucky dry. if i could live life over i would put a better bit to my tongue, and a better bridle on my temper. an englishman said: "my wife has a temper; if she could get rid of it i would not exchange her for any woman in the world." two men meet and have a misunderstanding; one flies into a passion, shoots or stabs, while the other stands placid and self-contained, preserving his dignity. the world calls the first a brave man and the latter a coward; but solomon declared the man who rules himself to be "greater than he that taketh a city." oh! the tragedies that lie in the wake of the tempest of temper. on the dueling field such men as alexander hamilton went down to death for want of self-control. andrew jackson killed dickerson; benton of missouri killed lucas; general marmaduke killed general walker. pettus and biddle, one a congressman, the other a paymaster in the army, had a war of words, a challenge followed; one being near-sighted selected five feet as the distance for the duel, and there educated men, with pistols almost touching, stood, fired and both were killed. senator carmack of tennessee, criticised colonel cooper as a machine politician. cooper said: "put my name in your paper again, and i'll kill you." young cooper felt in his rage that he must settle the trouble. did he settle it? the bullet that went through the heart of carmack went through the heart of his wife, threw a shadow over the life of his child, and draped tennessee in mourning. did he settle it? he started a tempest that will howl through his life while memory lasts and echo through his soul to all eternity. oh! that men would realize that to walk honorably and deal justly insures in time vindication from all calumny. abraham lincoln was called the "illinois baboon" by a leading journal, but mr. lincoln placidly read the charge, and told a joke as a safety valve for whatever anger he may have felt. one hundred years go by and the president leaves washington and goes on a long journey to stand at a cabin door in kentucky, there to pay tribute to a man who "never lost his balance or tore a passion to tatters." i stood in front of the great krupp gun at the world's fair, and as the soldier in charge told me that one discharge cost one thousand dollars, and it could send a shell sixteen miles and pierce iron plated ships, its lips seemed loaded with death and it spoke of war and bloodshed and hate. a little later i entered the hall of fine arts and looked upon that impressive picture entitled, "breaking home ties." the lad is about to go out from the roof that has sheltered him from babyhood, to be his own guide in the big wide world. his mother holds his hand as she looks love into his eyes, and gives him her warnings and blessing; the father, with his boy's valise in his hand, has turned away with a lump in his throat, while even the dog seems to be joining in the loving farewell. turning away from that picture, the thought came: ah! that means more than krupp guns. it means the coming of a day when love shall rule and war shall cease, when reason and righteousness shall be the arbitrators for differences between nations, when owls and bats will nest in the portholes of battleships, and each nation will vie with the other in warring against the kingdoms of want and wickedness. when a man requested bishop mcintyre to preach his wife's funeral sermon, and told him of her many beautiful traits, bishop mcintyre said: "brother, did you ever tell her all these sweet things before she died?" just here sam jones would say: "husbands, go home and kiss your wives. tell them they are the dearest, sweetest things on the earth; you may have to stretch the truth a little, but say it anyway." a few years ago, just before the christmas holidays, i wrote my daughter, saying: "i wish you would find out from your mother what she would like for a christmas gift. however, don't tell her i wrote you to do this. also suggest something for the grandchildren that i may bring each some little remembrance that will please them." i closed by saying: "the sands of my life are growing less and less, soon i'll reach the end of my years, then you'll lay me away with tenderness and pay me the tribute of tears. "don't carve on my tomb any word of fame, nor a wheel with its missing spokes, simply let the marble tell my name, then add, 'he was good to his folks.'" boys and girls, don't speak back to mother. you love her and don't mean to offend, but it hurts her. she was patient with you in your infancy; be patient with her in her old age. from her birth she has been your loyal, loving slave. she will go away and leave you after a little while, and oh! how you will miss her when she's gone. deal gently with her now; speak kindly to her and when she's gone memories of your love and kindness to mother will come to you like sweet perfume from wooded blossoms. young lady graduate of high school or college, do you realize what your father has done for you, and the sacrifices he has made that you might have what he has never had--a diploma? go, put your fair tender cheek against the weather-beaten face of your father, print with rosy lips a kiss of gratitude upon his furrowed brow, and tell him you appreciate all he has done for you. i have been talking to you an hour about what i would do if i could live life over. if i had life to live over would i do any better than i have done? if i am no better now, than i was five years ago, if i am to be no better five years hence than i am now, then i would do no better if i had another trial. however, i cannot live life over. the sand in the hour-glass is running low and when gone can never be replaced, and i am not much struck on old age. it is said to have its compensations, in that the "aches and asthmas of old age are no worse than the measles, mumps, whooping-coughs and appendicitis pains of youth." righteous old age should be better than youth. the ocean of time with its breakers and perils face the young, while for the righteous old the storms are past, and they are "waiting to enter the haven wide, see his face, and be satisfied." i cannot help these grey hairs or the wrinkles on my brow, but i can keep my heart young, and i _do_. i enjoy the company of old people, but delight more in associating with the young. dr. a.a. willetts lectured on "sunshine" sixty years ago. in his ninetieth year he was still lecturing; had he lectured on shadows he would doubtless have died many years before, and never been known as the "apostle of sunshine." solomon said: "a merry heart doeth good like a medicine." never lock the door of your heart against the sunshine of cheerfulness, and remember it is not the exclusive blessing of youth but blooms in the heart of any age. with some it seems to be an inheritance. it kisses some babies in the cradle, and the radiance of that kiss lingers through three-score years and ten; while others are born cross, live cross and die cross. a babe of this latter kind came into a home and kept up its wailing for several days. the little six-year old boy of the home said: "mother, did you say little brother came from heaven?" "yes, dear; why do you ask?" "well, no wonder the angels bounced him," the boy replied. i know a woman who is forever telling her trials. if you do not listen to her story you must read it on her countenance. nearby is another who has lost her parents; indeed all her near relatives are gone; not a flower left to bloom on the desert of old age. yet, she hides her sorrows beneath the soul's altar of hope and meets the world with a smile. doubtless the first woman wonders why she is so slighted and the company of the other courted. she should know it is for the same reason that honey-bees and humming birds light on sweet flowers instead of dry mullien stalks, and mocking-birds and canaries are caged instead of owls and rain-crows. some persons seem to relish the "cold soup of retrospect" and persist in picking the "bones of regret," without any appetite for the present or promises of the future. beside one of these i would place a happy-hearted soul, who laughs through the window of the eye and on whose face you can read, "let those who will, repine at fate, and droop their heads in sorrow, i'll laugh when cares upon me wait, i know they'll leave to-morrow. "my purse is light, but what of that? my heart is light to match it; and if i tear my only coat, i'll laugh the while i patch it." i know a millionaire, who controls numerous industries, whose wife must apply cold cloths to his head at night to induce sleep. i know another man not so well off in this world's goods, whose wife must apply the cold water to get him awake. care is often pillowed in a palace, while contentment is asleep in a cottage. at the close of my lecture at a chautauqua several years ago, a gentleman said to me: "sir, we live in a very humble cottage in this town, but there is a big welcome over the door for you and we want you to take tea with us." i accepted the invitation and soon was seated on the porch of the small cottage home. while my host was inside getting a pitcher of ice water, i looked across the way and there was the home of a railroad king, his wealth numbered by millions, and the grounds surrounding his home were rich in flower beds, fountains and forest trees. my host, pouring the water, said: "you see we are very fortunately situated here. our little home is inexpensive and our taxes very light. our rich neighbor across the way employs three gardeners to care for those grounds; he pays all the taxes, has all the care; they do not cost us a cent, yet we sit here on our little porch and drink in their beauty." there was a philosopher. john wanamaker can pay $ , for a picture, which he did some years ago, and hang it on the walls of his mansion home, but you go out in the country in the springtime, get up in the early morning while the cattle are still sleeping in the barnyard and the birds silent in the trees, watch the rich glow of the day god as it comes peeping through the windows of the morning, then see the birds leave their bowers, the larks to fly away to the fields, the mocking-bird to sing in the cedar at the garden gate, the robin to chirp to its mate, and you will see a picture which will pale that of the merchant prince. or go out on a summer evening just after a rain storm, when nature hangs itself out to dry; when the golden slipper of the god of day hangs upon the topmost bough of the tallest tree. you will see a picture no artist's brush can paint. and god does not hang these pictures on a wall twenty feet by ten, but on the blue tapestry of the sky for the world's poor to admire "without money and without price." abraham lincoln well said: "god must have loved the common people, else he wouldn't have made so many of them." let me illustrate the two classes of people to which i have referred. an old man who dwelt in the shadows of life said: "my life has been one continual drudgery and disappointment; for fifty years i have had to get up at o'clock every morning while others enjoyed their sleep, then all day in the harness of oppression i have had to work with bad luck dogging my footsteps." his daughter, thinking to cheer him, said, "father, don't get discouraged. you have one comfort anyway; it won't be long till the end of toil will come, when you will have a good long rest in the grave where no misfortune can reach you." "i don't know about that," replied the father; "it will be about my luck for the next morning to be resurrection day and i'll have to be up at daylight as usual." another man, who always looked on the bright side of life, and when anything went wrong always looked up something good to match it, happened to lose a fine horse. when friends expressed sympathy he said: "i can't complain; i never lost a horse before." then his crop failed and he said: "after ten years of good crops i have no kick coming because of one failure." finally, poor fellow, a railroad train ran over him and both feet had to be amputated at the ankles. a friend called to see him and said: "jim, what have you to say after this misfortune?" his reply was: "well, i always did suffer with cold feet." look on the bright side of life, remembering that very often, "the trouble that makes us fume and fret, and the burdens that make us groan and sweat are the things that haven't happened yet." when our two boys were babies our home was a country cottage and our land possession one acre. nearby lived a young man whose father left him a blue-grass farm. his home was a handsome brick house; he had servants and drove fine horses. often when seated on the little porch of our humble home, he would pass by, when the feet of his horses and wheels of his fine carriage would dash the dust into our faces. one evening when he passed i said: "never mind, anna, some day we'll live in a fine house, we'll have servants and horses and we'll be 'somebodies'." i thought money would bring happiness, and the more money the more happiness. we now live in a good home, have servants and horse and carriage; we've traveled several times together from ocean to ocean, yet i have never seen a train of pullman palace cars that can compare in memory with the two trains that used to leave that little cottage home every evening for dreamland. "the first train started at seven p.m., over the dreamland road, the mother dear was the engineer, the passenger laughed and crowed. the palace car was the mother's arms, the whistle a low sweet strain; the passenger winked, nodded and blinked and fell asleep on the train. the next train started at eight p.m., for the slumberland afar, the summons clear, fell on the ear, 'all aboard for the sleeping car.' and what was the fare to slumberland? i assure you not very dear; only this, a hug and a kiss, they were paid to the engineer." and i said: "take charge of the passengers, lord, i pray, to me they are very dear; and special ward, o gracious lord, give the faithful engineer." have some of you had sorrows you could not harmonize with the logic of life? leave them with him who "notes the sparrow's fall." some one has said: "there are angels in the quarries of life only the blasts of misfortune and chisels of adversity can carve into beauty." doctor theodore cuyler said: "god washes the eyes of his children with tears that they may better see his providences." doctor gutherie said: "because i am seventy, my hair white and crows' feet around my eyes, they tell me i'm growing old. that's not i, that's the house in which i live; i'm on the inside; the house may go to pieces but i shall live on eternally young." "this body is my house, it is not i; herein i sojourn, till in some far off sky, i lease a fairer dwelling, built to last, till all the carpentry of time is past. "when from heaven high, i view this lone star, what need i care where these poor timbers are; what if these crumbling walls do go back to dust and loam, i will have exchanged them for a broader better home. this body is my house, it is not i; triumphant in this faith, i shall live and die." since i cannot live life over, since the gate at the end of life's journey swings but one way, and of all the millions who have passed through, not one but the crucified son of god has returned, why should i select such a subject for a lecture? when one is on a journey he has never made before it is well to consult one who has traveled the road and from him learn the things best to be done, and the places to shun. for more than three-score years and ten i have been making life's journey, and for more than forty years have been mingling with the masses and meeting with varied experiences. to those who are climbing the hill toward the noon of the journey my advice should be of value. with those who with me are facing the sinking sun, and the lengthening shadows falling behind, i thank god for that faith which comes from a diviner source than human science, that tells us, "there's a place, called the land of beginning again, where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, and all our griefs and pain, will be left in the boat, like a shabby old coat, and never put on again. "i'm glad there's a place for the redeemed of the race, in the land of beginning again, where there'll be no sighing, there'll be no dying, and where sorrows that seemed so sore, will vanish away like the night into day, and never come back any more." it is said "if wishes were horses, beggars would ride." it is useless for me to wish to live life over or expect an extension of many more years of borrowed time, but i hope yet that along the shortening path i may open up here and there a spring that will refresh some thirsty soul and plant a flower that will brighten the path of some weary one. it is my desire that i may close the life i cannot live over in the city where it began, surrounded by loved ones in whose lives i have lived. i can think of no more fitting close to this lecture than to use a thought borrowed from another, in paying a tribute to my old kentucky home: on her blue-grass bed in youth i rolled and romped and rested; at the altars of her church i learned in whom i trusted. 'tis here my honored parents sleep, a dear sweet babe reposes, and o'er my darling daughter's grave blossom the summer roses. 'tis here my marriage vows were given, 'tis here my children found me; my heart is here, and here may heaven fold angel wings around me. may sacred memories hold me here, and when life's dream closes, may i the plaudit "well done" wear, then sleep beneath her roses. none _everyman, i will go with thee, and be thy guide, in thy most need to go by thy side_ herbert spencer born at derby in , the son of a teacher, from whom he received most of his education. obtained employment on the london and birmingham railway. after the strike of he devoted himself to journalism, and in was sub-editor of _the economist_. he died in . herbert spencer essays on education and kindred subjects introduction by charles w. eliot dent: london everyman's library dutton: new york _made in great britain at the aldine press · letchworth · herts for j.m. dent & sons ltd aldine house · bedford street · london first published in everyman's library last reprinted _ no. _ _ introduction the four essays on education which herbert spencer published in a single volume in were all written and separately published between and . their tone was aggressive and their proposals revolutionary; although all the doctrines--with one important exception--had already been vigorously preached by earlier writers on education, as spencer himself was at pains to point out. the doctrine which was comparatively new ran through all four essays; but was most amply stated in the essay first published in under the title "what knowledge is of most worth?" in this essay spencer divided the leading kinds of human activity into those which minister to self-preservation, those which secure the necessaries of life, those whose end is the care of offspring, those which make good citizens, and those which prepare adults to enjoy nature, literature, and the fine arts; and he then maintained that in each of these several classes, knowledge of science was worth more than any other knowledge. he argued that everywhere throughout creation faculties are developed through the performance of the appropriate functions; so that it would be contrary to the whole harmony of nature "if one kind of culture were needed for the gaining of information, and another kind were needed as a mental gymnastic." he then maintained that the sciences are superior in all respects to languages as educational material; they train the memory better, and a superior kind of memory; they cultivate the judgment, and they impart an admirable moral and religious discipline. he concluded that "for discipline, as well as for guidance, science is of chiefest value. in all its effects, learning the meaning of things is better than learning the meaning of words." he answered the question "what knowledge is of most worth?" with the one word--science. this doctrine was extremely repulsive to the established profession of education in england, where latin, greek, and mathematics had been the staples of education for many generations, and were believed to afford the only suitable preparation for the learned professions, public life, and cultivated society. in proclaiming this doctrine with ample illustration, ingenious argument, and forcible reiteration, spencer was a true educational pioneer, although some of his scientific contemporaries were really preaching similar doctrines, each in his own field. the profession of teaching has long been characterised by certain habitual convictions, which spencer undertook to shake rudely, and even to deride. the first of these convictions is that all education, physical, intellectual, and moral, must be authoritative, and need take no account of the natural wishes, tendencies, and motives of the ignorant and undeveloped child. the second dominating conviction is that to teach means to tell, or show, children what they ought to see, believe, and utter. expositions by the teacher and books are therefore the true means of education. the third and supreme conviction is that the method of education which produced the teacher himself and the contemporary or earlier scholars, authors, and publicists, must be the righteous and sufficient method. its fruits demonstrate its soundness, and make it sacred. herbert spencer, in the essays included in the present volume, assaulted all three of these firm convictions. accordingly, the ideas on education which he put forth more than fifty years ago have penetrated educational practice very slowly--particularly in england; but they are now coming to prevail in most civilised countries, and they will prevail more and more. through him, the thoughts on education of comenius, montaigne, locke, milton, rousseau, pestalozzi, and other noted writers on this neglected subject are at last winning their way into practice, with the modifications or adaptations which the immense gains of the human race in knowledge and power since the nineteenth century opened have shown to be wise. for teachers and educational administrators it is interesting to observe the steps by which spencer's doctrines--and especially his doctrine of the supreme value of science--have advanced towards acceptance in practice. in general, the advance has been brought about through the indirect effects of the enormous industrial, social, and political changes of the last fifty years. the first practical step was the introduction of laboratory teaching of one or more of the sciences into the secondary schools and colleges. chemistry and physics were the commonest subjects selected. these two subjects had been taught from books even earlier; but memorising science out of books is far less useful as training than memorising grammars and vocabularies. the characteristic discipline of science can be imparted only through the laboratory method. the schoolmasters and college faculties who took this step by no means admitted spencer's contention that science should be the universal staple at all stages of child development. on the contrary, they believed, as most people do to-day, that the mind of the young child cannot grasp the processes and generalisations of science, and that science is no more universally fitted to develop mental power than the classics or mathematics. indeed, experience during the past fifty years seems to have proved that fewer minds are naturally inclined to scientific study than to linguistic or historical study; so that if some science is to be learnt by everybody, the amount of such study should be limited to acquiring in one or two sciences knowledge of the scientific method in general. so much scientific training is indeed universally desirable; because good training of the senses to observe accurately is universally desirable, and the collecting, comparing, and grouping of many facts teach orderliness in thinking, and lead up to something which spencer valued highly in education--"a rational explanation of phenomena." science having obtained a foothold in secondary schools and colleges, an adequate development of science-teaching resulted from the introduction of options or elections for the pupils among numerous different courses, in place of a curriculum prescribed for all. the elaborate teaching of many sciences was thus introduced. the pupil or student saw and recorded for himself; used books only as helps and guides in seeing, recording, and generalising; proceeded from the known to the unknown; and in short, made numerous applications of the doctrines which pervade all spencer's writings on education. in the united states these methods were introduced earlier and have been carried farther than in england; but within the last few years the changes made in education have been more extensive and rapid in england than in any other country;--witness the announcements of the new high schools and the re-organised grammar schools, of such colleges as south kensington, armstrong, king's, the university college (london), and goldsmiths', and of the new municipal universities such as victoria, bristol, sheffield, birmingham, liverpool, and leeds. the new technical schools also illustrate the advent of instruction in applied science as an important element in advanced education. such institutions as the seafield park engineering college, the city guilds of london institute, the city of london college, and the battersea polytechnic are instances of the same development. some endowed institutions for girls illustrate the same tendencies, as, for example, the bedford college for women and the royal holloway college. all these institutions teach sciences in considerable variety, and in the way that spencer advocated,--not so much because they have distinctly accepted his views, as because modern industrial and social conditions compel the preparation in science of young people destined for various occupations and services indispensable to modern society. the method of the preparation is essentially that which he advocated. spencer's propositions to the effect that the study of science was desirable for artisans, artists, and, in general, for people who were to get their livings through various skills of hand and eye, were received with great incredulity, not to say derision--particularly when he maintained that some knowledge of the theory which underlies an art was desirable for manual practitioners of the art; but the changes of the last fifty years in the practice of the arts and trades may be said to have demonstrated that his views were thoroughly sound. the applications of science in the arts and trades have been so numerous and productive, that widespread training in science has become indispensable to any nation which means to excel in the manufacturing industries, whether of large scale or small scale. the extraordinary popularity of evening schools and correspondence schools in the united states rests on the need which young people employed in the various industries of the country feel of obtaining more theoretical knowledge about the physical or chemical processes through which they are earning a livelihood. the young men's christian associations in the american cities have become great centres of evening instruction for just such young persons. the correspondence schools are teaching hundreds of thousands of young people at work in machine-shops, mills, mines, and factories, who believe that they can advance themselves in their several occupations by supplementing their elementary education with correspondence courses, taken while they are at work earning a livelihood in industries that rest ultimately on applications of science. spencer's objection to the constant exercise of authority and compulsion in schools, families, and the state is felt to-day much more widely than it was in , when he wrote his essay on moral education. his proposal that children should be allowed to suffer the natural consequences of their foolish or wrong acts does not seem to the present generation--any more than it did to him--to be applicable to very young children, who need protection from the undue severity of many natural penalties; but the soundness of his general doctrine that it is the true function of parents and teachers to see that children habitually experience the normal consequences of their conduct, without putting artificial consequences in place of them, now commands the assent of most persons whose minds have been freed from the theological dogmas of original sin and total depravity. spencer did not expect the immediate adoption of this principle; because society as a whole was not yet humane enough. he admitted that the uncontrollable child of ill-controlled adults might sometimes have to be scolded or beaten, and that these barbarous methods might be "perhaps the best preparation such children can have for the barbarous society in which they are presently to play a part." he hoped, however, that the civilised members of society would by and by spontaneously use milder measures; and this hope has been realised in good degree, with the result that happiness in childhood is much commoner and more constant than it used to be. parents and teachers are beginning to realise that self-control is a prime object in moral education, and that this self-control cannot be practised under a regime of constant supervision, unexplained commands, and painful punishments, but must be gained in freedom. some large-scale experience with american secondary schools which prepare boys for admission to college has been edifying in this respect. the american colleges, as a rule, do not undertake to exercise much supervision over their students, but leave them free to regulate their own lives in regard to both work and play. now it is the boys who come from the secondary schools where the closest supervision is maintained that are in most danger of falling into evil ways when they first go to college. spencer put very forcibly a valuable doctrine for which many earlier writers on the theory of education had failed to get a hearing--the doctrine, namely, that all instruction should be pleasurable and interesting. fifty years ago almost all teachers believed that it was impossible to make school-work interesting, or life-work either; so that the child must be forced to grind without pleasure, in preparation for life's grind; and the forcing was to be done by experience of the teacher's displeasure and the infliction of pain. through the slow effects of spencer's teaching and of the experience of practical teachers who have demonstrated that instruction can be made pleasurable, and that the very hardest work is done by interested pupils because they are interested, it has gradually come to pass that his heresy has become the prevailing judgment among sensible and humane teachers. the experience of many adults, hard at work in the modern industrial, commercial, and financial world, has taught them that human beings can make their intensest application only to problems in which they are personally interested for one reason or another, and that freemen work much harder than slaves, because they feel within themselves strong motives for exertion which slaves cannot possibly feel. so, many intelligent adults, including many parents and teachers, have come to believe it possible that children will learn to do hard work, both in school and in after life, through the free play of interior motives which appeal to them, and prompt them to persistent exertion. the justice of spencer's views about training through pleasurable sensation and achievement in freedom rather than through uninterested work and pain inflicted by despotic government, is well illustrated by the recent improvements in the discipline of reformatories for boys and girls and young men and women. it has been demonstrated that the only useful reformatories are those which diminish the criminal's liberty of action as little as possible, require him to perform productive labour, educate him for a trade or other useful occupation, and offer him the reward of an abridgment of sentence in return for industry and self-control. repression and compulsion under penalties however severe fail to reform, and often make bad moral conditions worse. instruction, as much freedom as is consistent with the safety of society, and an appeal to the ordinary motives of emulation, satisfaction in achievement, and the desire to win credit, can, and do, reform. many schools, both public and private, have now adopted--in most cases unconsciously--many of spencer's more detailed suggestions. the laboratory method of instruction, for example, now common for scientific subjects in good schools, is an application of his doctrines of concrete illustration, training in the accurate use of the senses, and subordination of book-work. many schools realise, too, that learning by heart and, in general, memorising from books are not the only means of storing the mind of a child. they should make parts of a sound education, but should not be used to the exclusion of learning through eye, ear, and hand. spencer pointed out with much elaboration that children acquire in their early years a vast amount of information exclusively through the incessant use of their senses. to-day teachers know this fact, and realise much better than the teachers of fifty years ago did, that all through the school and college period the pupils should be getting a large part of their new knowledge through the careful application of their own powers of observation, aided, indeed, by books and pictures which record the observations, old and new, of other people. the young human being, unlike the puppy or the kitten, is not confined to the use of his own senses as sources of information and discovery; but can enjoy the fruits of a prodigious width and depth of observation acquired by preceding generations and adult members of his own generation. a recent illustration of this extension of the method of observation in teaching to observations made by other people is the new method of giving moral instruction to school children through photographs of actual scenes which illustrate both good morals and bad, the exhibition of the photographs being accompanied by a running oral comment from the teacher. in this kind of moral instruction it seems to be possible to interest all kinds of children, both civilised and barbarous, both ill-bred and well-bred. the teaching comes through the eye, for the children themselves observe intently the pictures which the lantern throws on the screen; but the striking scenes thus put before them probably lie in most instances quite outside the region of their own experiences. the essay on "what knowledge is of most worth?" contains a hot denunciation of that kind of information which in most schools used to usurp the name of history. it is enough to say of this part of spencer's educational doctrine that all the best historical writers since the middle of the nineteenth century seem to have adopted the principles which he declared should govern the writing of history. as a result, the teaching of history in schools and colleges has undergone a profound change. it now deals with the nature and action of government, central, local, and ecclesiastical, with social observances, industrial systems, and the customs which regulate popular life, out-of-doors and indoors. it depicts also the intellectual condition of the nation and the progress it has made in applied science, the fine arts, and legislation, and includes descriptions of the peoples' food, shelters, and amusements. to this result many authors and teachers have contributed; but spencer's violent denunciation of history as it was taught in his time has greatly promoted this important reform. many twentieth-century teachers are sure to put in practice spencer's exhortation to teach children to draw with pen and pencil, and to use paints and brush. he maintained that the common omission of drawing as an important element in the training of children was in contempt of some of the most obvious of nature's suggestions with regard to the natural development of human faculties; and the better recent practice in some english and american schools verifies his statement; nevertheless some of the best secondary schools in both countries still fail to recognise drawing and painting as important elements in liberal education. modern society as yet hardly approaches the putting into effective practice of the sound views which spencer set forth with great detail in his essay on "physical education." the instruction given in schools and colleges on the care of the body and the laws of health is still very meagre; and in certain subjects of the utmost importance no instruction whatever is given, as, for example, in the normal methods of reproduction in plants and animals, in eugenics, and in the ruinous consequences of disregarding sexual purity and honour. in one respect his fundamental doctrine of freedom, carried into the domain of physical exercise, has been extensively adopted in england, on the continent, and in america. he taught that although gymnastics, military drill, and formal exercises of the limbs are better than nothing, they can never serve in place of the plays prompted by nature. he maintained that "for girls as well as boys the sportive activities to which the instincts impel are essential to bodily welfare." this principle is now being carried into practice not only for school-children, but for operatives in factories, clerks, and other young persons whose occupations are sedentary and monotonous. for all such persons, free plays are vastly better than formal exercises of any sort. the wide adoption of spencer's educational ideas has had to await the advent of the new educational administration and the new public interest therein. it awaited the coming of the state university in the united states and of the city university in england, the establishment of numerous technical schools, the profound modifications made in grammar schools and academies, and the multiplication in both countries of the secondary schools called high schools. in other words, his ideas gradually gained admission to a vast number of new institutions of education, which were created and maintained because both the governments and the nations felt a new sense of responsibility for the training of the future generations. these new agencies have been created in great variety, and the introduction of spencer's ideas has been much facilitated by this variety. these institutions were national, state, or municipal. they were tax-supported or endowed. they charged tuition fees, or were open to competent children or adults without fee. they undertook to meet alike the needs of the individual and the needs of the community; and this undertaking involved the introduction of many new subjects of instruction and many new methods. through their variety they could be sympathetic with both individualism and collectivism. the variety of instruction offered is best illustrated in the strongest american universities, some of which are tax-supported and some endowed. these universities maintain a great variety of courses of instruction in subjects none of which was taught with the faintest approach to adequacy in american universities sixty years ago; but in making these extensions the universities have not found it necessary to reduce the instruction offered in the classics and mathematics. the traditional cultural studies are still provided; but they represent only one programme among many, and no one is compelled to follow it. the domination of the classics is at an end; but any student who prefers the traditional path to culture, or whose parents choose that path for him, will find in several american universities much richer provisions of classical instruction than any university in the country offered sixty years ago. the present proposals to widen the influence of oxford university do not mean, therefore, that the classics, history, and philosophy are to be taught less there, but only that other subjects are to be taught more, and that a greater number and variety of young men will be prepared there for the service of the nation. the new public interest in education as a necessary of modern industrial and political life has gradually brought about a great increase in the proportional number of young men and women whose education is prolonged beyond the period of primary or elementary instruction; and this multitude of young people is preparing for a great variety of callings, many of which are new within sixty years, having been brought into being by the extraordinary advances of applied science. the advent of these new callings has favoured the spread of spencer's educational ideas. the recent agitation in favour of what is called vocational training is a vivid illustration of the wide acceptance of his arguments. even the farmers, their farm-hands, and their children must nowadays be offered free instruction in agriculture; because the public, and especially the urban public, believes that by disseminating better methods of tillage, better seed, and appropriate manures, the yield of the farms can be improved in quality and multiplied in quantity. in regard to all material interests, the free peoples are acting on the principle that science is the knowledge of most worth. spencer's doctrine of natural consequences in place of artificial penalties, his view that all young people should be taught how to be wise parents and good citizens, and his advocacy of instruction in public and private hygiene, lie at the roots of many of the philanthropic and reformatory movements of the day. on the whole, herbert spencer has been fortunate among educational philosophers. he has not had to wait so long for the acceptance of his teachings as comenius, montaigne, or rousseau waited. his ideas have been floated on a prodigious tide of industrial and social change, which necessarily involved wide-spread and profound educational reform. this introduction deals with spencer's four essays on education; but in the present volume are included three other famous essays written by him during the same period ( - ) which produced the essays on education. all three are germane to the educational essays, because they deal with the general law of human progress, with the genesis of that science which spencer thought to be the knowledge of most worth, and with the origin and function of music, a subject which he maintained should play an important part in any scheme of education. charles w. eliot. select bibliography works. _the proper sphere of government_, ; _social statics_, ; _theory of population_ (_westminster review_), april ; _the development of hypothesis_ (_the leader_), th march ; _the ultimate laws of physiology_ (_national review_), april ; _essays, scientific, political and speculative_, vols., - ; _education_, ; _a system of synthetic philosophy_ ( vols., - ), made up as follows: _first principles_, ; _principles of biology_, vols., - ; _principles of psychology_, vols., - ; _principles of sociology_, vols., - ; _ceremonial institutions_, ; _principles of morality_, vols., - (vol. i, part i published as _data of ethics_, ; part as _justice_, ); _political institutions_, . meanwhile the following works were also published: _the classification of the sciences_, ; _the study of sociology_, ; _descriptive sociology_, ; _the man versus the state_, ; _the factors of organic evolution_, ; _the inadequacy of natural selection_, . spencer's _autobiography_ appeared posthumously, vols., . collected edition. nineteen volumes, - . biography and criticism. t. funk-brentano, _les sophistes grecs et les sophistes contemporains_ (mill and spencer), ; f.h. collins, _an epitome of the synthetic philosophy_, ; h. sidgwick, _lectures on the ethics of green, spencer and martineau_, ; 'the philosophy of herbert spencer' (in _the philosophy of kant and other lectures_, ); d. duncan, _an introduction to the philosophy of spencer_, ; _life and letters of herbert spencer_, ; j. royce, _herbert spencer. an estimate and a review_, ; j.a. thomson, _herbert spencer_, ; w.h. hudson, _herbert spencer_, ; j. rumney, _herbert spencer's sociology_, ; r.c.k. ensor, _some reflections on herbert spencer's doctrine_, . contents page _introduction_ by charles w. eliot vii part i education: intellectual, moral, and physical what knowledge is of most worth? intellectual education moral education physical education part ii essays on kindred subjects progress: its law and cause on manners and fashion on the genesis of science on the physiology of laughter on the origin and function of music original preface to education: intellectual, moral, and physical the four chapters of which this work consists, originally appeared as four review-articles: the first in the _westminster review_ for july ; the second in the _north british review_ for may ; and the remaining two in the _british quarterly review_ for april and for april . severally treating different divisions of the subject, but together forming a tolerably complete whole, i originally wrote them with a view to their republication in a united form; and they would some time since have thus been issued, had not a legal difficulty stood in the way. this difficulty being now removed, i hasten to fulfil the intention with which they were written. that in their first shape these chapters were severally independent, is the reason to be assigned for some slight repetitions which occur in them: one leading idea, more especially, reappearing twice. as, however, this idea is on each occasion presented under a new form, and as it can scarcely be too much enforced, i have not thought well to omit any of the passages embodying it. some additions of importance will be found in the chapter on intellectual education; and in the one on physical education there are a few minor alterations. but the chief changes which have been made, are changes of expression: all of the essays having undergone a careful verbal revision. h.s. london, _may _ spencer's essays part i--on education what knowledge is of most worth? it has been truly remarked that, in order of time, decoration precedes dress. among people who submit to great physical suffering that they may have themselves handsomely tattooed, extremes of temperature are borne with but little attempt at mitigation. humboldt tells us that an orinoco indian, though quite regardless of bodily comfort, will yet labour for a fortnight to purchase pigment wherewith to make himself admired; and that the same woman who would not hesitate to leave her hut without a fragment of clothing on, would not dare to commit such a breach of decorum as to go out unpainted. voyagers find that coloured beads and trinkets are much more prized by wild tribes than are calicoes or broadcloths. and the anecdotes we have of the ways in which, when shirts and coats are given, savages turn them to some ludicrous display, show how completely the idea of ornament predominates over that of use. nay, there are still more extreme illustrations: witness the fact narrated by capt. speke of his african attendants, who strutted about in their goat-skin mantles when the weather was fine, but when it was wet, took them off, folded them up, and went about naked, shivering in the rain! indeed, the facts of aboriginal life seem to indicate that dress is developed out of decorations. and when we remember that even among ourselves most think more about the fineness of the fabric than its warmth, and more about the cut than the convenience--when we see that the function is still in great measure subordinated to the appearance--we have further reason for inferring such an origin. it is curious that the like relations hold with the mind. among mental as among bodily acquisitions, the ornamental comes before the useful. not only in times past, but almost as much in our own era, that knowledge which conduces to personal well-being has been postponed to that which brings applause. in the greek schools, music, poetry, rhetoric, and a philosophy which, until socrates taught, had but little bearing upon action, were the dominant subjects; while knowledge aiding the arts of life had a very subordinate place. and in our own universities and schools at the present moment, the like antithesis holds. we are guilty of something like a platitude when we say that throughout his after-career, a boy, in nine cases out of ten, applies his latin and greek to no practical purposes. the remark is trite that in his shop, or his office, in managing his estate or his family, in playing his part as director of a bank or a railway, he is very little aided by this knowledge he took so many years to acquire--so little, that generally the greater part of it drops out of his memory; and if he occasionally vents a latin quotation, or alludes to some greek myth, it is less to throw light on the topic in hand than for the sake of effect. if we inquire what is the real motive for giving boys a classical education, we find it to be simply conformity to public opinion. men dress their children's minds as they do their bodies, in the prevailing fashion. as the orinoco indian puts on paint before leaving his hut, not with a view to any direct benefit, but because he would be ashamed to be seen without it; so, a boy's drilling in latin and greek is insisted on, not because of their intrinsic value, but that he may not be disgraced by being found ignorant of them--that he may have "the education of a gentleman"--the badge marking a certain social position, and bringing a consequent respect. this parallel is still more clearly displayed in the case of the other sex. in the treatment of both mind and body, the decorative element has continued to predominate in a greater degree among women than among men. originally, personal adornment occupied the attention of both sexes equally. in these latter days of civilisation, however, we see that in the dress of men the regard for appearance has in a considerable degree yielded to the regard for comfort; while in their education the useful has of late been trenching on the ornamental. in neither direction has this change gone so far with women. the wearing of earrings, finger-rings, bracelets; the elaborate dressings of the hair; the still occasional use of paint; the immense labour bestowed in making habiliments sufficiently attractive; and the great discomfort that will be submitted to for the sake of conformity; show how greatly, in the attiring of women, the desire of approbation overrides the desire for warmth and convenience. and similarly in their education, the immense preponderance of "accomplishments" proves how here, too, use is subordinated to display. dancing, deportment, the piano, singing, drawing--what a large space do these occupy! if you ask why italian and german are learnt, you will find that, under all the sham reasons given, the real reason is, that a knowledge of those tongues is thought ladylike. it is not that the books written in them may be utilised, which they scarcely ever are; but that italian and german songs may be sung, and that the extent of attainment may bring whispered admiration. the births, deaths, and marriages of kings, and other like historic trivialities, are committed to memory, not because of any direct benefits that can possibly result from knowing them: but because society considers them parts of a good education--because the absence of such knowledge may bring the contempt of others. when we have named reading, writing, spelling, grammar, arithmetic, and sewing, we have named about all the things a girl is taught with a view to their actual uses in life; and even some of these have more reference to the good opinion of others than to immediate personal welfare. thoroughly to realise the truth that with the mind as with the body the ornamental precedes the useful, it is requisite to glance at its rationale. this lies in the fact that, from the far past down even to the present, social needs have subordinated individual needs, and that the chief social need has been the control of individuals. it is not, as we commonly suppose, that there are no governments but those of monarchs, and parliaments, and constituted authorities. these acknowledged governments are supplemented by other unacknowledged ones, that grow up in all circles, in which every man or woman strives to be king or queen or lesser dignitary. to get above some and be reverenced by them, and to propitiate those who are above us, is the universal struggle in which the chief energies of life are expended. by the accumulation of wealth, by style of living, by beauty of dress, by display of knowledge or intellect, each tries to subjugate others; and so aids in weaving that ramified network of restraints by which society is kept in order. it is not the savage chief only, who, in formidable war-paint, with scalps at his belt, aims to strike awe into his inferiors; it is not only the belle who, by elaborate toilet, polished manners, and numerous accomplishments, strives to "make conquests;" but the scholar, the historian, the philosopher, use their acquirements to the same end. we are none of us content with quietly unfolding our own individualities to the full in all directions; but have a restless craving to impress our individualities upon others, and in some way subordinate them. and this it is which determines the character of our education. not what knowledge is of most real worth, is the consideration; but what will bring most applause, honour, respect--what will most conduce to social position and influence--what will be most imposing. as, throughout life, not what we are, but what we shall be thought, is the question; so in education, the question is, not the intrinsic value of knowledge, so much as its extrinsic effects on others. and this being our dominant idea, direct utility is scarcely more regarded than by the barbarian when filing his teeth and staining his nails. * * * * * if there requires further evidence of the rude, undeveloped character of our education, we have it in the fact that the comparative worths of different kinds of knowledge have been as yet scarcely even discussed--much less discussed in a methodic way with definite results. not only is it that no standard of relative values has yet been agreed upon; but the existence of any such standard has not been conceived in a clear manner. and not only is it that the existence of such a standard has not been clearly conceived; but the need for it seems to have been scarcely even felt. men read books on this topic, and attend lectures on that; decide that their children shall be instructed in these branches of knowledge, and shall not be instructed in those; and all under the guidance of mere custom, or liking, or prejudice; without ever considering the enormous importance of determining in some rational way what things are really most worth learning. it is true that in all circles we hear occasional remarks on the importance of this or the other order of information. but whether the degree of its importance justifies the expenditure of the time needed to acquire it; and whether there are not things of more importance to which such time might be better devoted; are queries which, if raised at all, are disposed of quite summarily, according to personal predilections. it is true also, that now and then, we hear revived the standing controversy respecting the comparative merits of classics and mathematics. this controversy, however, is carried on in an empirical manner, with no reference to an ascertained criterion; and the question at issue is insignificant when compared with the general question of which it is part. to suppose that deciding whether a mathematical or a classical education is the best is deciding what is the proper _curriculum_, is much the same thing as to suppose that the whole of dietetics lies in ascertaining whether or not bread is more nutritive than potatoes! the question which we contend is of such transcendent moment, is, not whether such or such knowledge is of worth but what is its _relative_ worth? when they have named certain advantages which a given course of study has secured them, persons are apt to assume that they have justified themselves; quite forgetting that the adequateness of the advantages is the point to be judged. there is, perhaps, not a subject to which men devote attention that has not _some_ value. a year diligently spent in getting up heraldry, would very possibly give a little further insight into ancient manners and morals. any one who should learn the distances between all the towns in england, might, in the course of his life, find one or two of the thousand facts he had acquired of some slight service when arranging a journey. gathering together all the small gossip of a county, profitless occupation as it would be, might yet occasionally help to establish some useful fact--say, a good example of hereditary transmission. but in these cases, every one would admit that there was no proportion between the required labour and the probable benefit. no one would tolerate the proposal to devote some years of a boy's time to getting such information, at the cost of much more valuable information which he might else have got. and if here the test of relative value is appealed to and held conclusive, then should it be appealed to and held conclusive throughout. had we time to master all subjects we need not be particular. to quote the old song:-- could a man be secure that his day would endure as of old, for a thousand long years, what things might he know! what deeds might he do! and all without hurry or care. "but we that have but span-long lives" must ever bear in mind our limited time for acquisition. and remembering how narrowly this time is limited, not only by the shortness of life, but also still more by the business of life, we ought to be especially solicitous to employ what time we have to the greatest advantage. before devoting years to some subject which fashion or fancy suggests, it is surely wise to weigh with great care the worth of the results, as compared with the worth of various alternative results which the same years might bring if otherwise applied. in education, then, this is the question of questions, which it is high time we discussed in some methodic way. the first in importance, though the last to be considered, is the problem--how to decide among the conflicting claims of various subjects on our attention. before there can be a rational _curriculum_, we must settle which things it most concerns us to know; or, to use a word of bacon's, now unfortunately obsolete--we must determine the relative values of knowledges. * * * * * to this end, a measure of value is the first requisite. and happily, respecting the true measure of value, as expressed in general terms, there can be no dispute. every one in contending for the worth of any particular order of information, does so by showing its bearing upon some part of life. in reply to the question--"of what use is it?" the mathematician, linguist, naturalist, or philosopher, explains the way in which his learning beneficially influences action--saves from evil or secures good--conduces to happiness. when the teacher of writing has pointed out how great an aid writing is to success in business--that is, to the obtainment of sustenance--that is, to satisfactory living; he is held to have proved his case. and when the collector of dead facts (say a numismatist) fails to make clear any appreciable effects which these facts can produce on human welfare, he is obliged to admit that they are comparatively valueless. all then, either directly or by implication, appeal to this as the ultimate test. how to live?--that is the essential question for us. not how to live in the mere material sense only, but in the widest sense. the general problem which comprehends every special problem is--the right ruling of conduct in all directions under all circumstances. in what way to treat the body; in what way to treat the mind; in what way to manage our affairs; in what way to bring up a family; in what way to behave as a citizen; in what way to utilise those sources of happiness which nature supplies--how to use all our faculties to the greatest advantage of ourselves and others--how to live completely? and this being the great thing needful for us to learn, is, by consequence, the great thing which education has to teach. to prepare us for complete living is the function which education has to discharge; and the only rational mode of judging of an educational course is, to judge in what degree it discharges such function. this test, never used in its entirety, but rarely even partially used, and used then in a vague, half conscious way, has to be applied consciously, methodically, and throughout all cases. it behoves us to set before ourselves, and ever to keep clearly in view, complete living as the end to be achieved; so that in bringing up our children we may choose subjects and methods of instruction, with deliberate reference to this end. not only ought we to cease from the mere unthinking adoption of the current fashion in education, which has no better warrant than any other fashion; but we must also rise above that rude, empirical style of judging displayed by those more intelligent people who do bestow some care in overseeing the cultivation of their children's minds. it must not suffice simply to _think_ that such or such information will be useful in after life, or that this kind of knowledge is of more practical value than that; but we must seek out some process of estimating their respective values, so that as far as possible we may positively _know_ which are most deserving of attention. doubtless the task is difficult--perhaps never to be more than approximately achieved. but, considering the vastness of the interests at stake, its difficulty is no reason for pusillanimously passing it by; but rather for devoting every energy to its mastery. and if we only proceed systematically, we may very soon get at results of no small moment. our first step must obviously be to classify, in the order of their importance, the leading kinds of activity which constitute human life. they may be naturally arranged into:-- . those activities which directly minister to self-preservation; . those activities which, by securing the necessaries of life, indirectly minister to self-preservation; . those activities which have for their end the rearing and discipline of offspring; . those activities which are involved in the maintenance of proper social and political relations; . those miscellaneous activities which fill up the leisure part of life, devoted to the gratification of the tastes and feelings. that these stand in something like their true order of subordination, it needs no long consideration to show. the actions and precautions by which, from moment to moment, we secure personal safety, must clearly take precedence of all others. could there be a man, ignorant as an infant of surrounding objects and movements, or how to guide himself among them, he would pretty certainly lose his life the first time he went into the street; notwithstanding any amount of learning he might have on other matters. and as entire ignorance in all other directions would be less promptly fatal than entire ignorance in this direction, it must be admitted that knowledge immediately conducive to self-preservation is of primary importance. that next after direct self-preservation comes the indirect self-preservation which consists in acquiring the means of living, none will question. that a man's industrial functions must be considered before his parental ones, is manifest from the fact that, speaking generally, the discharge of the parental functions is made possible only by the previous discharge of the industrial ones. the power of self-maintenance necessarily preceding the power of maintaining offspring, it follows that knowledge needful for self-maintenance has stronger claims than knowledge needful for family welfare--is second in value to none save knowledge needful for immediate self-preservation. as the family comes before the state in order of time--as the bringing up of children is possible before the state exists, or when it has ceased to be, whereas the state is rendered possible only by the bringing up of children; it follows that the duties of the parent demand closer attention than those of the citizen. or, to use a further argument--since the goodness of a society ultimately depends on the nature of its citizens; and since the nature of its citizens is more modifiable by early training than by anything else; we must conclude that the welfare of the family underlies the welfare of society. and hence knowledge directly conducing to the first, must take precedence of knowledge directly conducing to the last. those various forms of pleasurable occupation which fill up the leisure left by graver occupations--the enjoyments of music, poetry, painting, etc.--manifestly imply a pre-existing society. not only is a considerable development of them impossible without a long-established social union; but their very subject-matter consists in great part of social sentiments and sympathies. not only does society supply the conditions to their growth; but also the ideas and sentiments they express. and, consequently, that part of human conduct which constitutes good citizenship, is of more moment than that which goes out in accomplishments or exercise of the tastes; and, in education, preparation for the one must rank before preparation for the other. such then, we repeat, is something like the rational order of subordination:--that education which prepares for direct self-preservation; that which prepares for indirect self-preservation; that which prepares for parenthood; that which prepares for citizenship; that which prepares for the miscellaneous refinements of life. we do not mean to say that these divisions are definitely separable. we do not deny that they are intricately entangled with each other, in such way that there can be no training for any that is not in some measure a training for all. nor do we question that of each division there are portions more important than certain portions of the preceding divisions: that, for instance, a man of much skill in business but little other faculty, may fall further below the standard of complete living than one of but moderate ability in money-getting but great judgment as a parent; or that exhaustive information bearing on right social action, joined with entire want of general culture in literature and the fine arts, is less desirable than a more moderate share of the one joined with some of the other. but, after making due qualifications, there still remain these broadly-marked divisions; and it still continues substantially true that these divisions subordinate one another in the foregoing order, because the corresponding divisions of life make one another _possible_ in that order. of course the ideal of education is--complete preparation in all these divisions. but failing this ideal, as in our phase of civilisation every one must do more or less, the aim should be to maintain _a due proportion_ between the degrees of preparation in each. not exhaustive cultivation in any one, supremely important though it may be--not even an exclusive attention to the two, three, or four divisions of greatest importance; but an attention to all:--greatest where the value is greatest; less where the value is less; least where the value is least. for the average man (not to forget the cases in which peculiar aptitude for some one department of knowledge, rightly makes pursuit of that one the bread-winning occupation)--for the average man, we say, the desideratum is, a training that approaches nearest to perfection in the things which most subserve complete living, and falls more and more below perfection in the things that have more and more remote bearings on complete living. in regulating education by this standard, there are some general considerations that should be ever present to us. the worth of any kind of culture, as aiding complete living, may be either necessary or more or less contingent. there is knowledge of intrinsic value; knowledge of quasi-intrinsic value; and knowledge of conventional value. such facts as that sensations of numbness and tingling commonly precede paralysis, that the resistance of water to a body moving through it varies as the square of the velocity, that chlorine is a disinfectant,--these, and the truths of science in general, are of intrinsic value: they will bear on human conduct ten thousand years hence as they do now. the extra knowledge of our own language, which is given by an acquaintance with latin and greek, may be considered to have a value that is quasi-intrinsic: it must exist for us and for other races whose languages owe much to these sources; but will last only as long as our languages last. while that kind of information which, in our schools, usurps the name history--the mere tissue of names and dates and dead unmeaning events--has a conventional value only: it has not the remotest bearing on any of our actions; and is of use only for the avoidance of those unpleasant criticisms which current opinion passes upon its absence. of course, as those facts which concern all mankind throughout all time must be held of greater moment than those which concern only a portion of them during a limited era, and of far greater moment than those which concern only a portion of them during the continuance of a fashion; it follows that in a rational estimate, knowledge of intrinsic worth must, other things equal, take precedence of knowledge that is of quasi-intrinsic or conventional worth. one further preliminary. acquirement of every kind has two values--value as _knowledge_ and value as _discipline_. besides its use for guiding conduct, the acquisition of each order of facts has also its use as mental exercise; and its effects as a preparative for complete living have to be considered under both these heads. these, then, are the general ideas with which we must set out in discussing a _curriculum_:--life as divided into several kinds of activity of successively decreasing importance; the worth of each order of facts as regulating these several kinds of activity, intrinsically, quasi-intrinsically, and conventionally; and their regulative influences estimated both as knowledge and discipline. * * * * * happily, that all-important part of education which goes to secure direct self-preservation, is in great part already provided for. too momentous to be left to our blundering, nature takes it into her own hands. while yet in its nurse's arms, the infant, by hiding its face and crying at the sight of a stranger, shows the dawning instinct to attain safety by flying from that which is unknown and may be dangerous; and when it can walk, the terror it manifests if an unfamiliar dog comes near, or the screams with which it runs to its mother after any startling sight or sound, shows this instinct further developed. moreover, knowledge subserving direct self-preservation is that which it is chiefly busied in acquiring from hour to hour. how to balance its body; how to control its movements so as to avoid collisions; what objects are hard, and will hurt if struck; what objects are heavy, and injure if they fall on the limbs; which things will bear the weight of the body, and which not; the pains inflicted by fire, by missiles, by sharp instruments--these, and various other pieces of information needful for the avoidance of death or accident, it is ever learning. and when, a few years later, the energies go out in running, climbing, and jumping, in games of strength and games of skill, we see in all these actions by which the muscles are developed, the perceptions sharpened, and the judgment quickened, a preparation for the safe conduct of the body among surrounding objects and movements; and for meeting those greater dangers that occasionally occur in the lives of all. being thus, as we say, so well cared for by nature, this fundamental education needs comparatively little care from us. what we are chiefly called upon to see, is, that there shall be free scope for gaining this experience and receiving this discipline--that there shall be no such thwarting of nature as that by which stupid schoolmistresses commonly prevent the girls in their charge from the spontaneous physical activities they would indulge in; and so render them comparatively incapable of taking care of themselves in circumstances of peril. this, however, is by no means all that is comprehended in the education that prepares for direct self-preservation. besides guarding the body against mechanical damage or destruction, it has to be guarded against injury from other causes--against the disease and death that follow breaches of physiologic law. for complete living it is necessary, not only that sudden annihilations of life shall be warded off; but also that there shall be escaped the incapacities and the slow annihilation which unwise habits entail. as, without health and energy, the industrial, the parental, the social, and all other activities become more or less impossible; it is clear that this secondary kind of direct self-preservation is only less important than the primary kind; and that knowledge tending to secure it should rank very high. it is true that here, too, guidance is in some measure ready supplied. by our various physical sensations and desires, nature has insured a tolerable conformity to the chief requirements. fortunately for us, want of food, great heat, extreme cold, produce promptings too peremptory to be disregarded. and would men habitually obey these and all like promptings when less strong, comparatively few evils would arise. if fatigue of body or brain were in every case followed by desistance; if the oppression produced by a close atmosphere always led to ventilation; if there were no eating without hunger, or drinking without thirst; then would the system be but seldom out of working order. but so profound an ignorance is there of the laws of life, that men do not even know that their sensations are their natural guides, and (when not rendered morbid by long--continued disobedience) their trustworthy guides. so that though, to speak teleologically, nature has provided efficient safeguards to health, lack of knowledge makes them in a great measure useless. if any one doubts the importance of an acquaintance with the principles of physiology, as a means to complete living, let him look around and see how many men and women he can find in middle or later life who are thoroughly well. only occasionally do we meet with an example of vigorous health continued to old age; hourly do we meet with examples of acute disorder, chronic ailment, general debility, premature decrepitude. scarcely is there one to whom you put the question, who has not, in the course of his life, brought upon himself illnesses which a little information would have saved him from. here is a case of heart-disease consequent on a rheumatic fever that followed reckless exposure. there is a case of eyes spoiled for life by over-study. yesterday the account was of one whose long-enduring lameness was brought on by continuing, spite of the pain, to use a knee after it had been slightly injured. and to-day we are told of another who has had to lie by for years, because he did not know that the palpitation he suffered under resulted from overtaxed brain. now we hear of an irremediable injury which followed some silly feat of strength; and, again, of a constitution that has never recovered from the effects of excessive work needlessly undertaken. while on every side we see the perpetual minor ailments which accompany feebleness. not to dwell on the pain, the weariness, the gloom, the waste of time and money thus entailed, only consider how greatly ill-health hinders the discharge of all duties--makes business often impossible, and always more difficult; produces an irritability fatal to the right management of children; puts the functions of citizenship out of the question; and makes amusement a bore. is it not clear that the physical sins--partly our forefathers' and partly our own--which produce this ill-health, deduct more from complete living than anything else? and to a great extent make life a failure and a burden instead of a benefaction and a pleasure? nor is this all. life, besides being thus immensely deteriorated, is also cut short. it is not true, as we commonly suppose, that after a disorder or disease from which we have recovered, we are as before. no disturbance of the normal course of the functions can pass away and leave things exactly as they were. a permanent damage is done--not immediately appreciable, it may be, but still there; and along with other such items which nature in her strict account-keeping never drops, it will tell against us to the inevitable shortening of our days. through the accumulation of small injuries it is that constitutions are commonly undermined, and break down, long before their time. and if we call to mind how far the average duration of life falls below the possible duration, we see how immense is the loss. when, to the numerous partial deductions which bad health entails, we add this great final deduction, it results that ordinarily one-half of life is thrown away. hence, knowledge which subserves direct self-preservation by preventing this loss of health, is of primary importance. we do not contend that possession of such knowledge would by any means wholly remedy the evil. it is clear that in our present phase of civilisation, men's necessities often compel them to transgress. and it is further clear that, even in the absence of such compulsion, their inclinations would frequently lead them, spite of their convictions, to sacrifice future good to present gratification. but we _do_ contend that the right knowledge impressed in the right way would effect much; and we further contend that as the laws of health must be recognised before they can be fully conformed to, the imparting of such knowledge must precede a more rational living--come when that may. we infer that as vigorous health and its accompanying high spirits are larger elements of happiness than any other things whatever, the teaching how to maintain them is a teaching that yields in moment to no other whatever. and therefore we assert that such a course of physiology as is needful for the comprehension of its general truths, and their bearings on daily conduct, is an all-essential part of a rational education. strange that the assertion should need making! stranger still that it should need defending! yet are there not a few by whom such a proposition will be received with something approaching to derision. men who would blush if caught saying iphigénia instead of iphigenía, or would resent as an insult any imputation of ignorance respecting the fabled labours of a fabled demi-god, show not the slightest shame in confessing that they do not know where the eustachian tubes are, what are the actions of the spinal cord, what is the normal rate of pulsation, or how the lungs are inflated. while anxious that their sons should be well up in the superstitions of two thousand years ago, they care not that they should be taught anything about the structure and functions of their own bodies--nay, even wish them not to be so taught. so overwhelming is the influence of established routine! so terribly in our education does the ornamental over-ride the useful! * * * * * we need not insist on the value of that knowledge which aids indirect self-preservation by facilitating the gaining of a livelihood. this is admitted by all; and, indeed, by the mass is perhaps too exclusively regarded as the end of education. but while every one is ready to endorse the abstract proposition that instruction fitting youths for the business of life is of high importance, or even to consider it of supreme importance; yet scarcely any inquire what instruction will so fit them. it is true that reading, writing, and arithmetic are taught with an intelligent appreciation of their uses. but when we have said this we have said nearly all. while the great bulk of what else is acquired has no bearing on the industrial activities, an immensity of information that has a direct bearing on the industrial activities is entirely passed over. for, leaving out only some very small classes, what are all men employed in? they are employed in the production, preparation, and distribution of commodities. and on what does efficiency in the production, preparation, and distribution of commodities depend? it depends on the use of methods fitted to the respective natures of these commodities; it depends on an adequate acquaintance with their physical, chemical, or vital properties, as the case may be; that is, it depends on science. this order of knowledge which is in great part ignored in our school-courses, is the order of knowledge underlying the right performance of those processes by which civilised life is made possible. undeniable as is this truth, there seems to be no living consciousness of it: its very familiarity makes it unregarded. to give due weight to our argument, we must, therefore, realise this truth to the reader by a rapid review of the facts. passing over the most abstract science, logic, on the due guidance by which, however, the large producer or distributor depends, knowingly or unknowingly, for success in his business-forecasts, we come first to mathematics. of this, the most general division, dealing with number, guides all industrial activities; be they those by which processes are adjusted, or estimates framed, or commodities bought and sold, or accounts kept. no one needs to have the value of this division of abstract science insisted upon. for the higher arts of construction, some acquaintance with the more special division of mathematics is indispensable. the village carpenter, who lays out his work by empirical rules, equally with the builder of a britannia bridge, makes hourly reference to the laws of space-relations. the surveyor who measures the land purchased; the architect in designing a mansion to be built on it; the builder when laying out the foundations; the masons in cutting the stones; and the various artizans who put up the fittings; are all guided by geometrical truths. railway-making is regulated from beginning to end by geometry: alike in the preparation of plans and sections; in staking out the line; in the mensuration of cuttings and embankments; in the designing and building of bridges, culverts, viaducts, tunnels, stations. similarly with the harbours, docks, piers, and various engineering and architectural works that fringe the coasts and overspread the country, as well as the mines that run underneath it. and now-a-days, even the farmer, for the correct laying-out of his drains, has recourse to the level--that is, to geometrical principles. turn next to the abstract-concrete sciences. on the application of the simplest of these, mechanics, depends the success of modern manufactures. the properties of the lever, the wheel-and-axle, etc., are recognised in every machine, and to machinery in these times we owe all production. trace the history of the breakfast-roll. the soil out of which it came was drained with machine-made tiles; the surface was turned over by a machine; the wheat was reaped, thrashed, and winnowed by machines; by machinery it was ground and bolted; and had the flour been sent to gosport, it might have been made into biscuits by a machine. look round the room in which you sit. if modern, probably the bricks in its walls were machine-made; and by machinery the flooring was sawn and planed, the mantel-shelf sawn and polished, the paper-hangings made and printed. the veneer on the table, the turned legs of the chairs, the carpet, the curtains, are all products of machinery. your clothing--plain, figured, or printed--is it not wholly woven, nay, perhaps even sewed, by machinery? and the volume you are reading--are not its leaves fabricated by one machine and covered with these words by another? add to which that for the means of distribution over both land and sea, we are similarly indebted. and then observe that according as knowledge of mechanics is well or ill applied to these ends, comes success or failure. the engineer who miscalculates the strength of materials, builds a bridge that breaks down. the manufacturer who uses a bad machine cannot compete with another whose machine wastes less in friction and inertia. the ship-builder adhering to the old model is out-sailed by one who builds on the mechanically-justified wave-line principle. and as the ability of a nation to hold its own against other nations, depends on the skilled activity of its units, we see that on mechanical knowledge may turn the national fate. on ascending from the divisions of abstract-concrete science dealing with molar forces, to those divisions of it which deal with molecular forces, we come to another vast series of applications. to this group of sciences joined with the preceding groups we owe the steam-engine, which does the work of millions of labourers. that section of physics which formulates the laws of heat, has taught us how to economise fuel in various industries; how to increase the produce of smelting furnaces by substituting the hot for the cold blast; how to ventilate mines; how to prevent explosions by using the safety-lamp; and, through the thermometer, how to regulate innumerable processes. that section which has the phenomena of light for its subject, gives eyes to the old and the myopic; aids through the microscope in detecting diseases and adulterations; and, by improved lighthouses, prevents shipwrecks. researches in electricity and magnetism have saved innumerable lives and incalculable property through the compass; have subserved many arts by the electrotype; and now, in the telegraph, have supplied us with an agency by which for the future, mercantile transactions will be regulated and political intercourse carried on. while in the details of in-door life, from the improved kitchen-range up to the stereoscope on the drawing-room table, the applications of advanced physics underlie our comforts and gratifications. still more numerous are the applications of chemistry. the bleacher, the dyer, the calico-printer, are severally occupied in processes that are well or ill done according as they do or do not conform to chemical laws. smelting of copper, tin, zinc, lead, silver, iron, must be guided by chemistry. sugar-refining, gas-making, soap-boiling, gunpowder-manufacture, are operations all partly chemical; as are likewise those which produce glass and porcelain. whether the distiller's wort stops at the alcoholic fermentation or passes into the acetous, is a chemical question on which hangs his profit or loss; and the brewer, if his business is extensive, finds it pay to keep a chemist on his premises. indeed, there is now scarcely any manufacture over some part of which chemistry does not preside. nay, in these times even agriculture, to be profitably carried on, must have like guidance. the analysis of manures and soils; the disclosure of their respective adaptations; the use of gypsum or other substance for fixing ammonia; the utilisation of coprolites; the production of artificial manures--all these are boons of chemistry which it behoves the farmer to acquaint himself with. be it in the lucifer match, or in disinfected sewage, or in photographs--in bread made without fermentation, or perfumes extracted from refuse, we may perceive that chemistry affects all our industries; and that, therefore, knowledge of it concerns every one who is directly or indirectly connected with our industries. of the concrete sciences, we come first to astronomy. out of this has grown that art of navigation which has made possible the enormous foreign commerce that supports a large part of our population, while supplying us with many necessaries and most of our luxuries. geology, again, is a science knowledge of which greatly aids industrial success. now that iron ores are so large a source of wealth; now that the duration of our coal-supply has become a question of great interest; now that we have a college of mines and a geological survey; it is scarcely needful to enlarge on the truth that the study of the earth's crust is important to our material welfare. and then the science of life--biology: does not this, too, bear fundamentally on these processes of indirect self-preservation? with what we ordinarily call manufactures, it has, indeed, little connection; but with the all-essential manufacture--that of food--it is inseparably connected. as agriculture must conform its methods to the phenomena of vegetal and animal life, it follows that the science of these phenomena is the rational basis of agriculture. various biological truths have indeed been empirically established and acted upon by farmers, while yet there has been no conception of them as science; such as that particular manures are suited to particular plants; that crops of certain kinds unfit the soil for other crops; that horses cannot do good work on poor food; that such and such diseases of cattle and sheep are caused by such and such conditions. these, and the every-day knowledge which the agriculturist gains by experience respecting the management of plants and animals, constitute his stock of biological facts; on the largeness of which greatly depends his success. and as these biological facts, scanty, indefinite, rudimentary, though they are, aid him so essentially; judge what must be the value to him of such facts when they become positive, definite, and exhaustive. indeed, even now we may see the benefits that rational biology is conferring on him. the truth that the production of animal heat implies waste of substance, and that, therefore, preventing loss of heat prevents the need for extra food--a purely theoretical conclusion--now guides the fattening of cattle: it is found that by keeping cattle warm, fodder is saved. similarly with respect to variety of food. the experiments of physiologists have shown that not only is change of diet beneficial, but that digestion is facilitated by a mixture of ingredients in each meal. the discovery that a disorder known as "the staggers," of which many thousands of sheep have died annually, is caused by an entozoon which presses on the brain, and that if the creature is extracted through the softened place in the skull which marks its position, the sheep usually recovers, is another debt which agriculture owes to biology. yet one more science have we to note as bearing directly on industrial success--the science of society. men who daily look at the state of the money-market glance over prices current; discuss the probable crops of corn, cotton, sugar, wool, silk; weigh the chances of war; and from these data decide on their mercantile operations; are students of social science: empirical and blundering students it may be; but still, students who gain the prizes or are plucked of their profits, according as they do or do not reach the right conclusion. not only the manufacturer and the merchant must guide their transactions by calculations of supply and demand, based on numerous facts, and tacitly recognising sundry general principles of social action; but even the retailer must do the like: his prosperity very greatly depending upon the correctness of his judgments respecting the future wholesale prices and the future rates of consumption. manifestly, whoever takes part in the entangled commercial activities of a community, is vitally interested in understanding the laws according to which those activities vary. thus, to all such as are occupied in the production, exchange, or distribution of commodities, acquaintance with science in some of its departments, is of fundamental importance. each man who is immediately or remotely implicated in any form of industry (and few are not) has in some way to deal with the mathematical, physical, and chemical properties of things; perhaps, also, has a direct interest in biology; and certainly has in sociology. whether he does or does not succeed well in that indirect self-preservation which we call getting a good livelihood, depends in a great degree on his knowledge of one or more of these sciences: not, it may be, a rational knowledge; but still a knowledge, though empirical. for what we call learning a business, really implies learning the science involved in it; though not perhaps under the name of science. and hence a grounding in science is of great importance, both because it prepares for all this, and because rational knowledge has an immense superiority over empirical knowledge. moreover, not only is scientific culture requisite for each, that he may understand the _how_ and the _why_ of the things and processes with which he is concerned as maker or distributor; but it is often of much moment that he should understand the _how_ and the _why_ of various other things and processes. in this age of joint-stock undertakings, nearly every man above the labourer is interested as capitalist in some other occupation than his own; and, as thus interested, his profit or loss often depends on his knowledge of the sciences bearing on this other occupation. here is a mine, in the sinking of which many shareholders ruined themselves, from not knowing that a certain fossil belonged to the old red sandstone, below which no coal is found. numerous attempts have been made to construct electromagnetic engines, in the hope of superseding steam; but had those who supplied the money understood the general law of the correlation and equivalence of forces, they might have had better balances at their bankers. daily are men induced to aid in carrying out inventions which a mere tyro in science could show to be futile. scarcely a locality but has its history of fortunes thrown away over some impossible project. and if already the loss from want of science is so frequent and so great, still greater and more frequent will it be to those who hereafter lack science. just as fast as productive processes become more scientific, which competition will inevitably make them do; and just as fast as joint-stock undertakings spread, which they certainly will; so fast must scientific knowledge grow necessary to every one. that which our school-courses leave almost entirely out, we thus find to be that which most nearly concerns the business of life. our industries would cease, were it not for the information which men begin to acquire, as they best may, after their education is said to be finished. and were it not for this information, from age to age accumulated and spread by unofficial means, these industries would never have existed. had there been no teaching but such as goes on in our public schools, england would now be what it was in feudal times. that increasing acquaintance with the laws of phenomena, which has through successive ages enabled us to subjugate nature to our needs, and in these days gives the common labourer comforts which a few centuries ago kings could not purchase, is scarcely in any degree owed to the appointed means of instructing our youth. the vital knowledge--that by which we have grown as a nation to what we are, and which now underlies our whole existence, is a knowledge that has got itself taught in nooks and corners; while the ordained agencies for teaching have been mumbling little else but dead formulas. * * * * * we come now to the third great division of human activities--a division for which no preparation whatever is made. if by some strange chance not a vestige of us descended to the remote future save a pile of our school-books or some college examination papers, we may imagine how puzzled an antiquary of the period would be on finding in them no sign that the learners were ever likely to be parents. "this must have been the _curriculum_ for their celibates," we may fancy him concluding. "i perceive here an elaborate preparation for many things; especially for reading the books of extinct nations and of co-existing nations (from which indeed it seems clear that these people had very little worth reading in their own tongue); but i find no reference whatever to the bringing up of children. they could not have been so absurd as to omit all training for this gravest of responsibilities. evidently then, this was the school-course of one of their monastic orders." seriously, is it not an astonishing fact, that though on the treatment of offspring depend their lives or deaths, and their moral welfare or ruin; yet not one word of instruction on the treatment of offspring is ever given to those who will by and by be parents? is it not monstrous that the fate of a new generation should be left to the chances of unreasoning custom, impulse, fancy--joined with the suggestions of ignorant nurses and the prejudiced counsel of grandmothers? if a merchant commenced business without any knowledge of arithmetic and book-keeping, we should exclaim at his folly, and look for disastrous consequences. or if, before studying anatomy, a man set up as a surgical operator, we should wonder at his audacity and pity his patients. but that parents should begin the difficult task of rearing children, without ever having given a thought to the principles--physical, moral, or intellectual--which ought to guide them, excites neither surprise at the actors nor pity for their victims. to tens of thousands that are killed, add hundreds of thousand that survive with feeble constitutions, and millions that grow up with constitutions not so strong as they should be; and you will have some idea of the curse inflicted on their offspring by parents ignorant of the laws of life. do but consider for a moment that the regimen to which children are subject, is hourly telling upon them to their life-long injury or benefit; and that there are twenty ways of going wrong to one way of going right; and you will get some idea of the enormous mischief that is almost everywhere inflicted by the thoughtless, haphazard system in common use. is it decided that a boy shall be clothed in some flimsy short dress, and be allowed to go playing about with limbs reddened by cold? the decision will tell on his whole future existence--either in illnesses; or in stunted growth; or in deficient energy; or in a maturity less vigorous than it ought to have been, and in consequent hindrances to success and happiness. are children doomed to a monotonous dietary, or a dietary that is deficient in nutritiveness? their ultimate physical power, and their efficiency as men and women, will inevitably be more or less diminished by it. are they forbidden vociferous play, or (being too ill-clothed to bear exposure) are they kept indoors in cold weather? they are certain to fall below that measure of health and strength to which they would else have attained. when sons and daughters grow up sickly and feeble, parents commonly regard the event as a misfortune--as a visitation of providence. thinking after the prevalent chaotic fashion, they assume that these evils come without causes; or that the causes are supernatural. nothing of the kind. in some cases the causes are doubtless inherited; but in most cases foolish regulations are the causes. very generally, parents themselves are responsible for all this pain, this debility, this depression, this misery. they have undertaken to control the lives of their offspring from hour to hour; with cruel carelessness they have neglected to learn anything about these vital processes which they are unceasingly affecting by their commands and prohibitions; in utter ignorance of the simplest physiologic laws, they have been year by year undermining the constitutions of their children; and have so inflicted disease and premature death, not only on them but on their descendants. equally great are the ignorance and the consequent injury, when we turn from physical training to moral training. consider the young mother and her nursery-legislation. but a few years ago she was at school, where her memory was crammed with words, and names, and dates, and her reflective faculties scarcely in the slightest degree exercised--where not one idea was given her respecting the methods of dealing with the opening mind of childhood; and where her discipline did not in the least fit her for thinking out methods of her own. the intervening years have been passed in practising music, in fancy-work, in novel-reading, and in party-going: no thought having yet been given to the grave responsibilities of maternity; and scarcely any of that solid intellectual culture obtained which would be some preparation for such responsibilities. and now see her with an unfolding human character committed to her charge--see her profoundly ignorant of the phenomena with which she has to deal, undertaking to do that which can be done but imperfectly even with the aid of the profoundest knowledge. she knows nothing about the nature of the emotions, their order of evolution, their functions, or where use ends and abuse begins. she is under the impression that some of the feelings are wholly bad, which is not true of any one of them; and that others are good however far they may be carried, which is also not true of any one of them. and then, ignorant as she is of the structure she has to deal with, she is equally ignorant of the effects produced on it by this or that treatment. what can be more inevitable than the disastrous results we see hourly arising? lacking knowledge of mental phenomena, with their cause and consequences, her interference is frequently more mischievous than absolute passivity would have been. this and that kind of action, which are quite normal and beneficial, she perpetually thwarts; and so diminishes the child's happiness and profit, injures its temper and her own, and produces estrangement. deeds which she thinks it desirable to encourage, she gets performed by threats and bribes, or by exciting a desire for applause: considering little what the inward motive may be, so long as the outward conduct conforms; and thus cultivating hypocrisy, and fear, and selfishness, in place of good feeling. while insisting on truthfulness, she constantly sets an example of untruth by threatening penalties which she does not inflict. while inculcating self-control, she hourly visits on her little ones angry scoldings for acts undeserving of them. she has not the remotest idea that in the nursery, as in the world, that alone is the truly salutary discipline which visits on all conduct, good and bad, the natural consequences--the consequences, pleasurable or painful, which in the nature of things such conduct tends to bring. being thus without theoretic guidance, and quite incapable of guiding herself by tracing the mental processes going on in her children, her rule is impulsive, inconsistent, mischievous; and would indeed be generally ruinous were it not that the overwhelming tendency of the growing mind to assume the moral type of the race usually subordinates all minor influences. and then the culture of the intellect--is not this, too, mismanaged in a similar manner? grant that the phenomena of intelligence conform to laws; grant that the evolution of intelligence in a child also conforms to laws; and it follows inevitably that education cannot be rightly guided without a knowledge of these laws. to suppose that you can properly regulate this process of forming and accumulating ideas, without understanding the nature of the process, is absurd. how widely, then, must teaching as it is differ from teaching as it should be; when hardly any parents, and but few tutors, know anything about psychology. as might be expected, the established system is grievously at fault, alike in matter and in manner. while the right class of facts is withheld, the wrong class is forcibly administered in the wrong way and in the wrong order. under that common limited idea of education which confines it to knowledge gained from books, parents thrust primers into the hands of their little ones years too soon, to their great injury. not recognising the truth that the function of books is supplementary--that they form an indirect means to knowledge when direct means fail--a means of seeing through other men what you cannot see for yourself; teachers are eager to give second-hand facts in place of first-hand facts. not perceiving the enormous value of that spontaneous education which goes on in early years--not perceiving that a child's restless observation, instead of being ignored or checked, should be diligently ministered to, and made as accurate and complete as possible; they insist on occupying its eyes and thoughts with things that are, for the time being, incomprehensible and repugnant. possessed by a superstition which worships the symbols of knowledge instead of the knowledge itself, they do not see that only when his acquaintance with the objects and processes of the household, the streets, and the fields, is becoming tolerably exhaustive--only then should a child be introduced to the new sources of information which books supply: and this, not only because immediate cognition is of far greater value than mediate cognition; but also, because the words contained in books can be rightly interpreted into ideas, only in proportion to the antecedent experience of things. observe next, that this formal instruction, far too soon commenced, is carried on with but little reference to the laws of mental development. intellectual progress is of necessity from the concrete to the abstract. but regardless of this, highly abstract studies, such as grammar, which should come quite late, are begun quite early. political geography, dead and uninteresting to a child, and which should be an appendage of sociological studies, is commenced betimes; while physical geography, comprehensible and comparatively attractive to a child, is in great part passed over. nearly every subject dealt with is arranged in abnormal order: definitions and rules and principles being put first, instead of being disclosed, as they are in the order of nature, through the study of cases. and then, pervading the whole, is the vicious system of rote learning--a system of sacrificing the spirit to the letter. see the results. what with perceptions unnaturally dulled by early thwarting, and a coerced attention to books--what with the mental confusion produced by teaching subjects before they can be understood, and in each of them giving generalisations before the facts of which they are the generalisations--what with making the pupil a mere passive recipient of other's ideas, and not in the least leading him to be an active inquirer or self-instructor--and what with taxing the faculties to excess; there are very few minds that become as efficient as they might be. examinations being once passed, books are laid aside; the greater part of what has been acquired, being unorganised, soon drops out of recollection; what remains is mostly inert--the art of applying knowledge not having been cultivated; and there is but little power either of accurate observation or independent thinking. to all which add, that while much of the information gained is of relatively small value, an immense mass of information of transcendent value is entirely passed over. thus we find the facts to be such as might have been inferred _à priori_. the training of children--physical, moral, and intellectual--is dreadfully defective. and in great measure it is so because parents are devoid of that knowledge by which this training can alone be rightly guided. what is to be expected when one of the most intricate of problems is undertaken by those who have given scarcely a thought to the principles on which its solution depends? for shoe-making or house-building, for the management of a ship or a locomotive engine, a long apprenticeship is needful. is it, then, that the unfolding of a human being in body and mind is so comparatively simple a process that any one may superintend and regulate it with no preparation whatever? if not--if the process is, with one exception, more complex than any in nature, and the task of ministering to it one of surpassing difficulty; is it not madness to make no provision for such a task? better sacrifice accomplishments than omit this all-essential instruction. when a father, acting on false dogmas adopted without examination, has alienated his sons, driven them into rebellion by his harsh treatment, ruined them, and made himself miserable; he might reflect that the study of ethology would have been worth pursuing, even at the cost of knowing nothing about Æschylus. when a mother is mourning over a first-born that has sunk under the sequelæ of scarlet-fever--when perhaps a candid medical man has confirmed her suspicion that her child would have recovered had not its system been enfeebled by over-study--when she is prostrate under the pangs of combined grief and remorse; it is but a small consolation that she can read dante in the original. thus we see that for regulating the third great division of human activities, a knowledge of the laws of life is the one thing needful. some acquaintance with the first principles of physiology and the elementary truths of psychology, is indispensable for the right bringing up of children. we doubt not that many will read this assertion with a smile. that parents in general should be expected to acquire a knowledge of subjects so abstruse will seem to them an absurdity. and if we proposed that an exhaustive knowledge of these subjects should be obtained by all fathers and mothers, the absurdity would indeed be glaring enough. but we do not. general principles only, accompanied by such illustrations as may be needed to make them understood, would suffice. and these might be readily taught--if not rationally, then dogmatically. be this as it may, however, here are the indisputable facts:--that the development of children in mind and body follows certain laws; that unless these laws are in some degree conformed to by parents, death is inevitable; that unless they are in a great degree conformed to, there must result serious physical and mental defects; and that only when they are completely conformed to, can a perfect maturity be reached. judge, then, whether all who may one day be parents, should not strive with some anxiety to learn what these laws are. * * * * * from the parental functions let us pass now to the functions of the citizen. we have here to inquire what knowledge fits a man for the discharge of these functions. it cannot be alleged that the need for knowledge fitting him for these functions is wholly overlooked; for our school-courses contain certain studies, which, nominally at least, bear upon political and social duties. of these the only one that occupies a prominent place is history. but, as already hinted, the information commonly given under this head, is almost valueless for purposes of guidance. scarcely any of the facts set down in our school-histories, and very few of those contained in the more elaborate works written for adults, illustrate the right principles of political action. the biographies of monarchs (and our children learn little else) throw scarcely any light upon the science of society. familiarity with court intrigues, plots, usurpations, or the like, and with all the personalities accompanying them, aids very little in elucidating the causes of national progress. we read of some squabble for power, that it led to a pitched battle; that such and such were the names of the generals and their leading subordinates; that they had each so many thousand infantry and cavalry, and so many cannon; that they arranged their forces in this and that order; that they manoeuvred, attacked, and fell back in certain ways; that at this part of the day such disasters were sustained, and at that such advantages gained; that in one particular movement some leading officer fell, while in another a certain regiment was decimated; that after all the changing fortunes of the fight, the victory was gained by this or that army; and that so many were killed and wounded on each side, and so many captured by the conquerors. and now, out of the accumulated details making up the narrative, say which it is that helps you in deciding on your conduct as a citizen. supposing even that you had diligently read, not only _the fifteen decisive battles of the world_, but accounts of all other battles that history mentions; how much more judicious would your vote be at the next election? "but these are facts--interesting facts," you say. without doubt they are facts (such, at least, as are not wholly or partially fictions); and to many they may be interesting facts. but this by no means implies that they are valuable. factitious or morbid opinion often gives seeming value to things that have scarcely any. a tulipomaniac will not part with a choice bulb for its weight in gold. to another man an ugly piece of cracked old china seems his most desirable possession. and there are those who give high prices for the relics of celebrated murderers. will it be contended that these tastes are any measures of value in the things that gratify them? if not, then it must be admitted that the liking felt for certain classes of historical facts is no proof of their worth; and that we must test their worth, as we test the worth of other facts, by asking to what uses they are applicable. were some one to tell you that your neighbour's cat kittened yesterday, you would say the information was valueless. fact though it might be, you would call it an utterly useless fact--a fact that could in no way influence your actions in life--a fact that would not help you in learning how to live completely. well, apply the same test to the great mass of historical facts, and you will get the same result. they are facts from which no conclusions can be drawn--_unorganisable_ facts; and therefore facts of no service in establishing principles of conduct, which is the chief use of facts. read them, if you like, for amusement; but do not flatter your self they are instructive. that which constitutes history, properly so called, is in great part omitted from works on the subject. only of late years have historians commenced giving us, in any considerable quantity, the truly valuable information. as in past ages the king was everything and the people nothing; so, in past histories the doings of the king fill the entire picture, to which the national life forms but an obscure background. while only now, when the welfare of nations rather than of rulers is becoming the dominant idea, are historians beginning to occupy themselves with the phenomena of social progress. the thing it really concerns us to know is the natural history of society. we want all facts which help us to understand how a nation has grown and organised itself. among these, let us of course have an account of its government; with as little as may be of gossip about the men who officered it, and as much as possible about the structure, principles, methods, prejudices, corruptions, etc., which it exhibited: and let this account include not only the nature and actions of the central government, but also those of local governments, down to their minutest ramifications. let us of course also have a parallel description of the ecclesiastical government--its organisation, its conduct, its power, its relations to the state; and accompanying this, the ceremonial, creed, and religious ideas--not only those nominally believed, but those really believed and acted upon. let us at the same time be informed of the control exercised by class over class, as displayed in social observances--in titles, salutations, and forms of address. let us know, too, what were all the other customs which regulated the popular life out of doors and in-doors: including those concerning the relations of the sexes, and the relations of parents to children. the superstitions, also, from the more important myths down to the charms in common use, should be indicated. next should come a delineation of the industrial system: showing to what extent the division of labour was carried; how trades were regulated, whether by caste, guilds, or otherwise; what was the connection between employers and employed; what were the agencies for distributing commodities; what were the means of communication; what was the circulating medium. accompanying all which should be given an account of the industrial arts technically considered: stating the processes in use, and the quality of the products. further, the intellectual condition of the nation in its various grades should be depicted; not only with respect to the kind and amount of education, but with respect to the progress made in science, and the prevailing manner of thinking. the degree of æsthetic culture, as displayed in architecture, sculpture, painting, dress, music, poetry, and fiction, should be described. nor should there be omitted a sketch of the daily lives of the people--their food, their homes, and their amusements. and lastly, to connect the whole, should be exhibited the morals, theoretical and practical, of all classes: as indicated in their laws, habits, proverbs, deeds. these facts, given with as much brevity as consists with clearness and accuracy, should be so grouped and arranged that they may be comprehended in their _ensemble_, and contemplated as mutually-dependent parts of one great whole. the aim should be so to present them that men may readily trace the _consensus_ subsisting among them; with the view of learning what social phenomena co-exist with what other. and then the corresponding delineations of succeeding ages should be so managed as to show how each belief, institution, custom, and arrangement was modified; and how the _consensus_ of preceding structures and functions was developed into the _consensus_ of succeeding ones. such alone is the kind of information respecting past times which can be of service to the citizen for the regulation of his conduct. the only history that is of practical value is what may be called descriptive sociology. and the highest office which the historian can discharge, is that of so narrating the lives of nations, as to furnish materials for a comparative sociology; and for the subsequent determination of the ultimate laws to which social phenomena conform. but now mark, that even supposing an adequate stock of this truly valuable historical knowledge has been acquired, it is of comparatively little use without the key. and the key is to be found only in science. in the absence of the generalisations of biology and psychology, rational interpretation of social phenomena is impossible. only in proportion as men draw certain rude, empirical inferences respecting human nature, are they enabled to understand even the simplest facts of social life: as, for instance, the relation between supply and demand. and if the most elementary truths of sociology cannot be reached until some knowledge is obtained of how men generally think, feel, and act under given circumstances; then it is manifest that there can be nothing like a wide comprehension of sociology, unless through a competent acquaintance with man in all his faculties, bodily, and mental. consider the matter in the abstract, and this conclusion is self-evident. thus:--society is made up of individuals; all that is done in society is done by the combined actions of individuals; and therefore, in individual actions only can be found the solutions of social phenomena. but the actions of individuals depend on the laws of their natures; and their actions cannot be understood until these laws are understood. these laws, however, when reduced to their simplest expressions, prove to be corollaries from the laws of body and mind in general. hence it follows, that biology and psychology are indispensable as interpreters of sociology. or, to state the conclusions still more simply:--all social phenomena are phenomena of life--are the most complex manifestations of life--must conform to the laws of life--and can be understood only when the laws of life are understood. thus, then, for the regulation of this fourth division of human activities, we are, as before, dependent on science. of the knowledge commonly imparted in educational courses, very little is of service for guiding a man in his conduct as a citizen. only a small part of the history he reads is of practical value; and of this small part he is not prepared to make proper use. he lacks not only the materials for, but the very conception of, descriptive sociology; and he also lacks those generalisations of the organic sciences, without which even descriptive sociology can give him but small aid. * * * * * and now we come to that remaining division of human life which includes the relaxations and amusements filling leisure hours. after considering what training best fits for self-preservation, for the obtainment of sustenance, for the discharge of parental duties, and for the regulation of social and political conduct; we have now to consider what training best fits for the miscellaneous ends not included in these--for the enjoyment of nature, of literature, and of the fine arts, in all their forms. postponing them as we do to things that bear more vitally upon human welfare; and bringing everything, as we have, to the test of actual value; it will perhaps be inferred that we are inclined to slight these less essential things. no greater mistake could be made, however. we yield to none in the value we attach to aesthetic culture and its pleasures. without painting, sculpture, music, poetry, and the emotions produced by natural beauty of every kind, life would lose half its charm. so far from regarding the training and gratification of the tastes as unimportant, we believe that in time to come they will occupy a much larger share of human life than now. when the forces of nature have been fully conquered to man's use--when the means of production have been brought to perfection--when labour has been economised to the highest degree--when education has been so systematised that a preparation for the more essential activities may be made with comparative rapidity--and when, consequently, there is a great increase of spare time; then will the beautiful, both in art and nature, rightly fill a large space in the minds of all. but it is one thing to approve of æsthetic culture as largely conducive to human happiness; and another thing to admit that it is a fundamental requisite to human happiness. however important it may be, it must yield precedence to those kinds of culture which bear directly upon daily duties. as before hinted, literature and the fine arts are made possible by those activities which make individual and social life possible; and manifestly, that which is made possible, must be postponed to that which makes it possible. a florist cultivates a plant for the sake of its flower; and regards the roots and leaves as of value, chiefly because they are instrumental in producing the flower. but while, as an ultimate product, the flower is the thing to which everything else is subordinate, the florist has learnt that the root and leaves are intrinsically of greater importance; because on them the evolution of the flower depends. he bestows every care in rearing a healthy plant; and knows it would be folly if, in his anxiety to obtain the flower, he were to neglect the plant. similarly in the case before us. architecture, sculpture, painting, music, and poetry, may truly be called the efflorescence of civilised life. but even supposing they are of such transcendent worth as to subordinate the civilised life out of which they grow (which can hardly be asserted), it will still be admitted that the production of a healthy civilised life must be the first consideration; and that culture subserving this must occupy the highest place. and here we see most distinctly the vice of our educational system. it neglects the plant for the sake of the flower. in anxiety for elegance, it forgets substance. while it gives no knowledge conducive to self-preservation--while of knowledge that facilitates gaining a livelihood it gives but the rudiments, and leaves the greater part to be picked up any how in after life--while for the discharge of parental functions it makes not the slightest provision--and while for the duties of citizenship it prepares by imparting a mass of facts, most of which are irrelevant, and the rest without a key; it is diligent in teaching whatever adds to refinement, polish, éclat. fully as we may admit that extensive acquaintance with modern languages is a valuable accomplishment, which, through reading, conversation, and travel, aids in giving a certain finish; it by no means follows that this result is rightly purchased at the cost of the vitally important knowledge sacrificed to it. supposing it true that classical education conduces to elegance and correctness of style; it cannot be said that elegance and correctness of style are comparable in importance to a familiarity with the principles that should guide the rearing of children. grant that the taste may be improved by reading the poetry written in extinct languages; yet it is not to be inferred that such improvement of taste is equivalent in value to an acquaintance with the laws of health. accomplishments, the fine arts, _belles-lettres_, and all those things which, as we say, constitute the efflorescence of civilisation, should be wholly subordinate to that instruction and discipline in which civilisation rests. _as they occupy the leisure part of life, so should they occupy the leisure part of education._ recognising thus the true position of aesthetics, and holding that while the cultivation of them should form a part of education from its commencement, such cultivation should be subsidiary; we have now to inquire what knowledge is of most use to this end--what knowledge best fits for this remaining sphere of activity? to this question the answer is still the same as heretofore. unexpected though the assertion may be, it is nevertheless true, that the highest art of every kind is based on science--that without science there can be neither perfect production nor full appreciation. science, in that limited acceptation current in society, may not have been possessed by various artists of high repute; but acute observers as such artists have been, they have always possessed a stock of those empirical generalisations which constitute science in its lowest phase; and they have habitually fallen far below perfection, partly because their generalisations were comparatively few and inaccurate. that science necessarily underlies the fine arts, becomes manifest, _à priori_, when we remember that art-products are all more or less representative of objective or subjective phenomena; that they can be good only in proportion as they conform to the laws of these phenomena; and that before they can thus conform, the artist must know what these laws are. that this _à priori_ conclusion tallies with experience, we shall soon see. youths preparing for the practice of sculpture have to acquaint themselves with the bones and muscles of the human frame in their distribution, attachments, and movements. this is a portion of science; and it has been found needful to impart it for the prevention of those many errors which sculptors who do not possess it commit. a knowledge of mechanical principles is also requisite; and such knowledge not being usually possessed, grave mechanical mistakes are frequently made. take an instance. for the stability of a figure it is needful that the perpendicular from the centre of gravity--"the line of direction," as it is called--should fall within the base of support; and hence it happens, that when a man assumes the attitude known as "standing at ease," in which one leg is straightened and the other relaxed, the line of direction falls within the foot of the straightened leg. but sculptors unfamiliar with the theory of equilibrium, not uncommonly so represent this attitude, that the line of direction falls midway between the feet. ignorance of the law of momentum leads to analogous blunders: as witness the admired discobolus, which, as it is posed, must inevitably fall forward the moment the quoit is delivered. in painting, the necessity for scientific information, empirical if not rational, is still more conspicuous. what gives the grotesqueness of chinese pictures, unless their utter disregard of the laws of appearances--their absurd linear perspective, and their want of aerial perspective? in what are the drawings of a child so faulty, if not in a similar absence of truth--an absence arising, in great part, from ignorance of the way in which the aspects of things vary with the conditions? do but remember the books and lectures by which students are instructed; or consider the criticisms of ruskin; or look at the doings of the pre-raffaelites; and you will see that progress in painting implies increasing knowledge of how effects in nature are produced. the most diligent observation, if unaided by science, fails to preserve from error. every painter will endorse the assertion that unless it is known what appearances must exist under given circumstances, they often will not be perceived; and to know what appearances must exist, is, in so far, to understand the science of appearances. from want of science mr. j. lewis, careful painter as he is, casts the shadow of a lattice-window in sharply-defined lines upon an opposite wall; which he would not have done, had he been familiar with the phenomena of penumbræ. from want of science, mr. rosetti, catching sight of a peculiar iridescence displayed by certain hairy surfaces under particular lights (an iridescence caused by the diffraction of light in passing the hairs), commits the error of showing this iridescence on surfaces and in positions where it could not occur. to say that music, too, has need of scientific aid will cause still more surprise. yet it may be shown that music is but an idealisation of the natural language of emotion; and that consequently, music must be good or bad according as it conforms to the laws of this natural language. the various inflections of voice which accompany feelings of different kinds and intensities, are the germs out of which music is developed. it is demonstrable that these inflections and cadences are not accidental or arbitrary; but that they are determined by certain general principles of vital action; and that their expressiveness depends on this. whence it follows that musical phrases and the melodies built of them, can be effective only when they are in harmony with these general principles. it is difficult here properly to illustrate this position. but perhaps it will suffice to instance the swarms of worthless ballads that infest drawing-rooms, as compositions which science would forbid. they sin against science by setting to music ideas that are not emotional enough to prompt musical expression; and they also sin against science by using musical phrases that have no natural relations to the ideas expressed: even where these are emotional. they are bad because they are untrue. and to say they are untrue, is to say they are unscientific. even in poetry the same thing holds. like music, poetry has its root in those natural modes of expression which accompany deep feeling. its rhythm, its strong and numerous metaphors, its hyperboles, its violent inversions, are simply exaggerations of the traits of excited speech. to be good, therefore, poetry must pay attention to those laws of nervous action which excited speech obeys. in intensifying and combining the traits of excited speech, it must have due regard to proportion--must not use its appliances without restriction; but, where the ideas are least emotional, must use the forms of poetical expression sparingly; must use them more freely as the emotion rises; and must carry them to their greatest extent, only where the emotion reaches a climax. the entire contravention of these principles results in bombast or doggerel. the insufficient respect for them is seen in didactic poetry. and it is because they are rarely fully obeyed, that so much poetry is inartistic. not only is it that the artist, of whatever kind, cannot produce a truthful work without he understands the laws of the phenomena he represents; but it is that he must also understand how the minds of spectators or listeners will be affected by the several peculiarities of his work--a question in psychology. what impression any art-product generates, manifestly depends upon the mental natures of those to whom it is presented; and as all mental natures have certain characteristics in common, there must result certain corresponding general principles on which alone art-products can be successfully framed. these general principles cannot be fully understood and applied, unless the artist sees how they follow from the laws of mind. to ask whether the composition of a picture is good is really to ask how the perceptions and feelings of observers will be affected by it. to ask whether a drama is well constructed, is to ask whether its situations are so arranged as duly to consult the power of attention of an audience, and duly to avoid overtaxing any one class of feelings. equally in arranging the leading divisions of a poem or fiction, and in combining the words of a single sentence, the goodness of the effect depends upon the skill with which the mental energies and susceptibilities of the reader are economised. every artist, in the course of his education and after-life, accumulates a stock of maxims by which his practice is regulated. trace such maxims to their roots, and they inevitably lead you down to psychological principles. and only when the artist understands these psychological principles and their various corollaries can he work in harmony with them. we do not for a moment believe that science will make an artist. while we contend that the leading laws both of objective and subjective phenomena must be understood by him, we by no means contend that knowledge of such laws will serve in place of natural perception. not the poet only, but the artist of every type, is born, not made. what we assert is, that innate faculty cannot dispense with the aid of organised knowledge. intuition will do much, but it will not do all. only when genius is married to science can the highest results be produced. as we have above asserted, science is necessary not only for the most successful production, but also for the full appreciation, of the fine arts. in what consists the greater ability of a man than of a child to perceive the beauties of a picture; unless it is in his more extended knowledge of those truths in nature or life which the picture renders? how happens the cultivated gentleman to enjoy a fine poem so much more than a boor does; if it is not because his wider acquaintance with objects and actions enables him to see in the poem much that the boor cannot see? and if, as is here so obvious, there must be some familiarity with the things represented, before the representation can be appreciated, then, the representation can be completely appreciated only when the things represented are completely understood. the fact is, that every additional truth which a word of art expresses, gives an additional pleasure to the percipient mind--a pleasure that is missed by those ignorant of this truth. the more realities an artist indicates in any given amount of work, the more faculties does he appeal to; the more numerous ideas does he suggest; the more gratification does he afford. but to receive this gratification the spectator, listener, or reader, must know the realities which the artist has indicated; and to know these realities is to have that much science. and now let us not overlook the further great fact, that not only does science underlie sculpture, painting, music, poetry, but that science is itself poetic. the current opinion that science and poetry are opposed, is a delusion. it is doubtless true that as states of consciousness, cognition and emotion tend to exclude each other. and it is doubtless also true that an extreme activity of the reflective powers tends to deaden the feelings; while an extreme activity of the feelings tends to deaden the reflective powers: in which sense, indeed, all orders of activity are antagonistic to each other. but it is not true that the facts of science are unpoetical; or that the cultivation of science is necessarily unfriendly to the exercise of imagination and the love of the beautiful. on the contrary, science opens up realms of poetry where to the unscientific all is a blank. those engaged in scientific researches constantly show us that they realise not less vividly, but more vividly, than others, the poetry of their subjects. whoso will dip into hugh miller's works of geology, or read mr. lewes's _sea-side studies_, will perceive that science excites poetry rather than extinguishes it. and he who contemplates the life of goethe, must see that the poet and the man of science can co-exist in equal activity. is it not, indeed, an absurd and almost a sacrilegious belief, that the more a man studies nature the less he reveres it? think you that a drop of water, which to the vulgar eye is but a drop of water, loses anything in the eye of the physicist who knows that its elements are held together by a force which, if suddenly liberated, would produce a flash of lightning? think you that what is carelessly looked upon by the uninitiated as a mere snow-flake, does not suggest higher associations to one who had seen through a microscope the wondrously-varied and elegant forms of snow-crystals? think you that the rounded rock marked with parallel scratches, calls up as much poetry in an ignorant mind as in the mind of a geologist, who knows that over this rock a glacier slid a million years ago? the truth is, that those who have never entered upon scientific pursuits are blind to most of the poetry by which they are surrounded. whoever has not in youth collected plants and insects, knows not half the halo of interest which lanes and hedge-rows can assume. whoever has not sought for fossils, has little idea of the poetical associations that surround the places where imbedded treasures were found. whoever at the sea-side has not had a microscope and aquarium, has yet to learn what the highest pleasures of the sea-side are. sad, indeed, is it to see how men occupy themselves with trivialities, and are indifferent to the grandest phenomena--care not to understand the architecture of the heavens, but are deeply interested in some contemptible controversy about the intrigues of mary queen of scots!--are learnedly critical over a greek ode, and pass by without a glance that grand epic written by the finger of god upon the strata of the earth! we find, then, that even for this remaining division of human activities, scientific culture is the proper preparation. we find that aesthetics in general are necessarily based upon scientific principles; and can be pursued with complete success only through an acquaintance with these principles. we find that for the criticism and due appreciation of works of art, a knowledge of the constitution of things, or in other words, a knowledge of science, is requisite. and we not only find that science is the handmaid to all forms of art and poetry, but that, rightly regarded, science is itself poetic. * * * * * thus far our question has been, the worth of knowledge of this or that kind for purposes of guidance. we have now to judge the relative value of different kinds of knowledge for purposes of discipline. this division of our subject we are obliged to treat with comparative brevity; and happily, no very lengthened treatment of it is needed. having found what is best for the one end, we have by implication found what is best for the other. we may be quite sure that the acquirement of those classes of facts which are most useful for regulating conduct, involves a mental exercise best fitted for strengthening the faculties. it would be utterly contrary to the beautiful economy of nature, if one kind of culture were needed for the gaining of information and another kind were needed as a mental gymnastic. everywhere throughout creation we find faculties developed through the performance of those functions which it is their office to perform; not through the performance of artificial exercises devised to fit them for those functions. the red indian acquires the swiftness and agility which make him a successful hunter, by the actual pursuit of animals; and through the miscellaneous activities of his life, he gains a better balance of physical powers than gymnastics ever give. that skill in tracking enemies and prey which he had reached after long practice, implies a subtlety of perception far exceeding anything produced by artificial training. and similarly in all cases. from the bushman whose eye, habitually employed in identifying distant objects that are to be pursued or fled from, has acquired a telescopic range, to the accountant whose daily practice enables him to add up several columns of figures simultaneously; we find that the highest power of a faculty results from the discharge of those duties which the conditions of life require it to discharge. and we may be certain, _à priori_, that the same law holds throughout education. the education of most value for guidance, must at the same time be the education of most value for discipline. let us consider the evidence. one advantage claimed for that devotion to language-learning which forms so prominent a feature in the ordinary _curriculum_, is, that the memory is thereby strengthened. this is assumed to be an advantage peculiar to the study of words. but the truth is, that the sciences afford far wider fields for the exercise of memory. it is no slight task to remember everything about our solar system; much more to remember all that is known concerning the structure of our galaxy. the number of compound substances, to which chemistry daily adds, is so great that few, save professors, can enumerate them; and to recollect the atomic constitutions and affinities of all these compounds, is scarcely possible without making chemistry the occupation of life. in the enormous mass of phenomena presented by the earth's crust, and in the still more enormous mass of phenomena presented by the fossils it contains, there is matter which it takes the geological student years of application to master. each leading division of physics--sound, heat, light, electricity--includes facts numerous enough to alarm any one proposing to learn them all. and when we pass to the organic sciences, the effort of memory required becomes still greater. in human anatomy alone, the quantity of detail is so great, that the young surgeon has commonly to get it up half-a-dozen times before he can permanently retain it. the number of species of plants which botanists distinguish, amounts to some , ; while the varied forms of animal life with which the zoologist deals, are estimated at some , , . so vast is the accumulation of facts which men of science have before them, that only by dividing and subdividing their labours can they deal with it. to a detailed knowledge of his own division, each adds but a general knowledge of the allied ones; joined perhaps to a rudimentary acquaintance with some others. surely, then, science, cultivated even to a very moderate extent, affords adequate exercise for memory. to say the very least, it involves quite as good a discipline for this faculty as language does. but now mark that while, for the training of mere memory, science is as good as, if not better than, language; it has an immense superiority in the kind of memory it trains. in the acquirement of a language, the connections of ideas to be established in the mind correspond to facts that are in great measure accidental; whereas, in the acquirement of science, the connections of ideas to be established in the mind correspond to facts that are mostly necessary. it is true that the relations of words to their meanings are in one sense natural; that the genesis of these relations may be traced back a certain distance, though rarely to the beginning; and that the laws of this genesis form a branch of mental science--the science of philology. but since it will not be contended that in the acquisition of languages, as ordinarily carried on, these natural relations between words and their meanings are habitually traced, and their laws explained; it must be admitted that they are commonly learned as fortuitous relations. on the other hand, the relations which science presents are causal relations; and, when properly taught, are understood as such. while language familiarises with non-rational relations, science familiarises with rational relations. while the one exercises memory only, the other exercises both memory and understanding. observe next, that a great superiority of science over language as a means of discipline, is, that it cultivates the judgment. as, in a lecture on mental education delivered at the royal institution, professor faraday well remarks, the most common intellectual fault is deficiency of judgment. "society, speaking generally," he says, "is not only ignorant as respects education of the judgment, but it is also ignorant of its ignorance." and the cause to which he ascribes this state, is want of scientific culture. the truth of his conclusion is obvious. correct judgment with regard to surrounding objects, events, and consequences, becomes possible only through knowledge of the way in which surrounding phenomena depend on each other. no extent of acquaintance with the meanings of words, will guarantee correct inferences respecting causes and effects. the habit of drawing conclusions from data, and then of verifying those conclusions by observation and experiment, can alone give the power of judging correctly. and that it necessitates this habit is one of the immense advantages of science. not only, however, for intellectual discipline is science the best; but also for _moral_ discipline. the learning of languages tends, if anything, further to increase the already undue respect for authority. such and such are the meanings of these words, says the teacher of the dictionary. so and so is the rule in this case, says the grammar. by the pupil these dicta are received as unquestionable. his constant attitude of mind is that of submission to dogmatic teaching. and a necessary result is a tendency to accept without inquiry whatever is established. quite opposite is the mental tone generated by the cultivation of science. science makes constant appeal to individual reason. its truths are not accepted on authority alone; but all are at liberty to test them--nay, in many cases, the pupil is required to think out his own conclusions. every step in a scientific investigation is submitted to his judgment. he is not asked to admit it without seeing it to be true. and the trust in his own powers thus produced is further increased by the uniformity with which nature justifies his inferences when they are correctly drawn. from all which there flows that independence which is a most valuable element in character. nor is this the only moral benefit bequeathed by scientific culture. when carried on, as it should always be, as much as possible under the form of original research, it exercises perseverance and sincerity. as says professor tyndall of inductive inquiry, "it requires patient industry, and an humble and conscientious acceptance of what nature reveals. the first condition of success is an honest receptivity and a willingness to abandon all preconceived notions, however cherished, if they be found to contradict the truth. believe me, a self-renunciation which has something noble in it, and of which the world never hears, is often enacted in the private experience of the true votary of science." lastly we have to assert--and the assertion will, we doubt not, cause extreme surprise--that the discipline of science is superior to that of our ordinary education, because of the _religious_ culture that it gives. of course we do not here use the words scientific and religious in their ordinary limited acceptations; but in their widest and highest acceptations. doubtless, to the superstitions that pass under the name of religion, science is antagonistic; but not to the essential religion which these superstitions merely hide. doubtless, too, in much of the science that is current, there is a pervading spirit of irreligion; but not in that true science which had passed beyond the superficial into the profound. "true science and true religion," says professor huxley at the close of a recent course of lectures, "are twin-sisters, and the separation of either from the other is sure to prove the death of both. science prospers exactly in proportion as it is religious; and religion flourishes in exact proportion to the scientific depth and firmness of its basis. the great deeds of philosophers have been less the fruit of their intellect than of the direction of that intellect by an eminently religious tone of mind. truth has yielded herself rather to their patience, their love, their single-heartedness, and their self-denial, than to their logical acumen." so far from science being irreligious, as many think, it is the neglect of science that is irreligious--it is the refusal to study the surrounding creation that is irreligious. take a humble simile. suppose a writer were daily saluted with praises couched in superlative language. suppose the wisdom, the grandeur, the beauty of his works, were the constant topics of the eulogies addressed to him. suppose those who unceasingly uttered these eulogies on his works were content with looking at the outsides of them; and had never opened them, much less tried to understand them. what value should we put upon their praises? what should we think of their sincerity? yet, comparing small things to great, such is the conduct of mankind in general, in reference to the universe and its cause. nay, it is worse. not only do they pass by without study, these things which they daily proclaim to be so wonderful; but very frequently they condemn as mere triflers those who give time to the observation of nature--they actually scorn those who show any active interest in these marvels. we repeat, then, that not science, but the neglect of science, is irreligious. devotion to science, is a tacit worship--a tacit recognition of worth in the things studied; and by implication in their cause. it is not a mere lip-homage, but a homage expressed in actions--not a mere professed respect, but a respect proved by the sacrifice of time, thought, and labour. nor is it thus only that true science is essentially religious. it is religious, too, inasmuch as it generates a profound respect for, and an implicit faith in, those uniformities of action which all things disclose. by accumulated experiences the man of science acquires a thorough belief in the unchanging relations of phenomena--in the invariable connection of cause and consequence--in the necessity of good or evil results. instead of the rewards and punishments of traditional belief, which people vaguely hope they may gain, or escape, spite of their disobedience; he finds that there are rewards and punishments in the ordained constitution of things; and that the evil results of disobedience are inevitable. he sees that the laws to which we must submit are both inexorable and beneficent. he sees that in conforming to them, the process of things is ever towards a greater perfection and a higher happiness. hence he is led constantly to insist on them, and is indignant when they are disregarded. and thus does he, by asserting the eternal principles of things and the necessity of obeying them, prove himself intrinsically religious. add lastly the further religious aspect of science, that it alone can give us true conceptions of ourselves and our relation to the mysteries of existence. at the same time that it shows us all which can be known, it shows us the limits beyond which we can know nothing. not by dogmatic assertion, does it teach the impossibility of comprehending the ultimate cause of things; but it leads us clearly to recognise this impossibility by bringing us in every direction to boundaries we cannot cross. it realises to us in a way which nothing else can, the littleness of human intelligence in the face of that which transcends human intelligence. while towards the traditions and authorities of men its attitude may be proud, before the impenetrable veil which hides the absolute its attitude is humble--a true pride and a true humility. only the sincere man of science (and by this title we do not mean the mere calculator of distances, or analyser of compounds, or labeller of species; but him who through lower truths seeks higher, and eventually the highest)--only the genuine man of science, we say, can truly know how utterly beyond, not only human knowledge but human conception, is the universal power of which nature, and life, and thought are manifestations. we conclude, then, that for discipline, as well as for guidance, science is of chiefest value. in all its effects, learning the meanings of things, is better than learning the meanings of words. whether for intellectual, moral, or religious training, the study of surrounding phenomena is immensely superior to the study of grammars and lexicons. * * * * * thus to the question we set out with--what knowledge is of most worth?--the uniform reply is--science. this is the verdict on all the counts. for direct self-preservation, or the maintenance of life and health, the all-important knowledge is--science. for that indirect self-preservation which we call gaining a livelihood, the knowledge of greatest value is--science. for the due discharge of parental functions, the proper guidance is to be found only in--science. for that interpretation of national life, past and present, without which the citizen cannot rightly regulate his conduct, the indispensable key is--science. alike for the most perfect production and highest enjoyment of art in all its forms, the needful preparation is still--science. and for purposes of discipline--intellectual, moral, religious--the most efficient study is, once more--science. the question which at first seemed so perplexed, has become, in the course of our inquiry, comparatively simple. we have not to estimate the degrees of importance of different orders of human activity, and different studies as severally fitting us for them; since we find that the study of science, in its most comprehensive meaning, is the best preparation for all these orders of activity. we have not to decide between the claims of knowledge of great though conventional value, and knowledge of less though intrinsic value; seeing that the knowledge which proves to be of most value in all other respects, is intrinsically most valuable: its worth is not dependent upon opinion, but is as fixed as is the relation of man to the surrounding world. necessary and eternal as are its truths, all science concerns all mankind for all time. equally at present and in the remotest future, must it be of incalculable importance for the regulation of their conduct, that men should understand the science of life, physical, mental, and social; and that they should understand all other science as a key to the science of life. and yet this study, immensely transcending all other in importance, is that which, in an age of boasted education, receives the least attention. while what we call civilisation could never have arisen had it not been for science, science forms scarcely an appreciable element in our so-called civilised training. though to the progress of science we owe it, that millions find support where once there was food only for thousands; yet of these millions but a few thousands pay any respect to that which has made their existence possible. though increasing knowledge of the properties and relations of things has not only enabled wandering tribes to grow into populous nations, but has given to the countless members of these populous nations, comforts and pleasures which their few naked ancestors never even conceived, or could have believed, yet is this kind of knowledge only now receiving a grudging recognition in our highest educational institutions. to the slowly growing acquaintance with the uniform co-existences and sequences of phenomena--to the establishment of invariable laws, we owe our emancipation from the grossest superstitions. but for science we should be still worshipping fetishes; or, with hecatombs of victims, propitiating diabolical deities. and yet this science, which, in place of the most degrading conceptions of things, has given us some insight into the grandeurs of creation, is written against in our theologies and frowned upon from our pulpits. paraphrasing an eastern fable, we may say that in the family of knowledges, science is the household drudge, who, in obscurity, hides unrecognised perfections. to her has been committed all the works; by her skill, intelligence, and devotion, have all conveniences and gratifications been obtained; and while ceaselessly ministering to the rest, she has been kept in the background, that her haughty sisters might flaunt their fripperies in the eyes of the world. the parallel holds yet further. for we are fast coming to the _dénouement_, when the positions will be changed; and while these haughty sisters sink into merited neglect, science, proclaimed as highest alike in worth and beauty, will reign supreme. intellectual education there cannot fail to be a relationship between the successive systems of education, and the successive social states with which they have co-existed. having a common origin in the national mind, the institutions of each epoch, whatever be their special functions, must have a family likeness. when men received their creed and its interpretations from an infallible authority deigning no explanations, it was natural that the teaching of children should be purely dogmatic. while "believe and ask no questions" was the maxim of the church, it was fitly the maxim of the school. conversely, now that protestantism has gained for adults a right of private judgment and established the practice of appealing to reason, there is harmony in the change that has made juvenile instruction a process of exposition addressed to the understanding. along with political despotism, stern in its commands, ruling by force of terror, visiting trifling crimes with death, and implacable in its vengeance on the disloyal, there necessarily grew up an academic discipline similarly harsh--a discipline of multiplied injunctions and blows for every breach of them--a discipline of unlimited autocracy upheld by rods, and ferules, and the black-hole. on the other hand, the increase of political liberty, the abolition of laws restricting individual action, and the amelioration of the criminal code, have been accompanied by a kindred progress towards non-coercive education: the pupil is hampered by fewer restraints, and other means than punishments are used to govern him. in those ascetic days when men, acting on the greatest-misery principle, held that the more gratifications they denied themselves the more virtuous they were, they, as a matter of course, considered that the best education which most thwarted the wishes of their children, and cut short all spontaneous activity with--"you mustn't do so." while, on the contrary, now that happiness is coming to be regarded as a legitimate aim--now that hours of labour are being shortened and popular recreations provided--parents and teachers are beginning to see that most childish desires may rightly be gratified, that childish sports should be encouraged, and that the tendencies of the growing mind are not altogether so diabolical as was supposed. the age in which all believed that trades must be established by bounties and prohibitions; that manufacturers needed their materials and qualities and prices to be prescribed; and that the value of money could be determined by law; was an age which unavoidably cherished the notions that a child's mind could be made to order; that its powers were to be imparted by the schoolmaster; that it was a receptacle into which knowledge was to be put, and there built up after the teacher's ideal. in this free-trade era, however, when we are learning that there is much more self-regulation in things than was supposed; that labour, and commerce, and agriculture, and navigation, can do better without management than with it; that political governments, to be efficient, must grow up from within and not be imposed from without; we are also being taught that there is a natural process of mental evolution which is not to be disturbed without injury; that we may not force on the unfolding mind our artificial forms; but that psychology, also, discloses to us a law of supply and demand to which, if we would not do harm, we must conform. thus, alike in its oracular dogmatism, in its harsh discipline, in its multiplied restrictions, in its professed asceticism, and in its faith in the devices of men, the old educational regime was akin to the social systems with which it was contemporaneous; and similarly, in the reverse of these characteristics, our modern modes of culture correspond to our more liberal religious and political institutions. but there remain further parallelisms to which we have not yet adverted: that, namely, between the processes by which these respective changes have been wrought out; and that between the several states of heterogeneous opinion to which they have led. some centuries ago there was uniformity of belief--religious, political, and educational. all men were romanists, all were monarchists, all were disciples of aristotle; and no one thought of calling in question that grammar-school routine under which all were brought up. the same agency has in each case replaced this uniformity by a constantly-increasing diversity. that tendency towards assertion of the individuality, which, after contributing to produce the great protestant movement, has since gone on to produce an ever-increasing number of sects--that tendency which initiated political parties, and out of the two primary ones has, in these modern days, evolved a multiplicity to which every year adds--that tendency which led to the baconian rebellion against the schools, and has since originated here and abroad, sundry new systems of thought--is a tendency which, in education also, has caused divisions and the accumulation of methods. as external consequences of the same internal change, these processes have necessarily been more or less simultaneous. the decline of authority, whether papal, philosophic, kingly, or tutorial, is essentially one phenomenon; in each of its aspects a leaning towards free action is seen alike in the working out of the change itself, and in the new forms of theory and practice to which the change has given birth. while many will regret this multiplication of schemes of juvenile culture, the catholic observer will discern in it a means of ensuring the final establishment of a rational system. whatever may be thought of theological dissent, it is clear that dissent in education results in facilitating inquiry by the division in labour. were we in possession of the true method, divergence from it would, of course, be prejudicial; but the true method having to be found, the efforts of numerous independent seekers carrying out their researches in different directions, constitute a better agency for finding it than any that could be devised. each of them struck by some new thought which probably contains more or less of basis in facts--each of them zealous on behalf of his plan, fertile in expedients to test its correctness, and untiring in his efforts to make known its success--each of them merciless in his criticism on the rest; there cannot fail, by composition of forces, to be a gradual approximation of all towards the right course. whatever portion of the normal method any one has discovered, must, by the constant exhibition of its results, force itself into adoption; whatever wrong practices he has joined with it must, by repeated experiment and failure, be exploded. and by this aggregation of truths and elimination of errors, there must eventually be developed a correct and complete body of doctrine. of the three phases through which human opinion passes--the unanimity of the ignorant, the disagreement of the inquiring, and the unanimity of the wise--it is manifest that the second is the parent of the third. they are not sequences in time only, they are sequences in causation. however impatiently, therefore, we may witness the present conflict of educational systems, and however much we may regret its accompanying evils, we must recognise it as a transition stage needful to be passed through, and beneficent in its ultimate effects. meanwhile, may we not advantageously take stock of our progress? after fifty years of discussion, experiment, and comparison of results, may we not expect a few steps towards the goal to be already made good? some old methods must by this time have fallen out of use; some new ones must have become established; and many others must be in process of general abandonment or adoption. probably we may see in these various changes, when put side by side, similar characteristics--may find in them a common tendency; and so, by inference, may get a clue to the direction in which experience is leading us, and gather hints how we may achieve yet further improvements. let us then, as a preliminary to a deeper consideration of the matter, glance at the leading contrasts between the education of the past and that of the present. * * * * * the suppression of every error is commonly followed by a temporary ascendency of the contrary one; and so it happened, that after the ages when physical development alone was aimed at, there came an age when culture of the mind was the sole solicitude--when children had lesson-books put before them at between two and three years old, and the getting of knowledge was thought the one thing needful. as, further, it usually happens that after one of these reactions the next advance is achieved by co-ordinating the antagonist errors, and perceiving that they are opposite sides of one truth; so, we are now coming to the conviction that body and mind must both be cared for, and the whole thing being unfolded. the forcing-system has been, by many, given up; and precocity is discouraged. people are beginning to see that the first requisite to success in life, is to be a good animal. the best brain is found of little service, if there be not enough vital energy to work it; and hence to obtain the one by sacrificing the source of the other, is now considered a folly--a folly which the eventual failure of juvenile prodigies constantly illustrates. thus we are discovering the wisdom of the saying, that one secret in education is "to know how wisely to lose time." the once universal practice of learning by rote, is daily falling more into discredit. all modern authorities condemn the old mechanical way of teaching the alphabet. the multiplication table is now frequently taught experimentally. in the acquirement of languages, the grammar-school plan is being superseded by plans based on the spontaneous process followed by the child in gaining its mother tongue. describing the methods there used, the "reports on the training school at battersea" say:--"the instruction in the whole preparatory course is chiefly oral, and is illustrated as much as possible by appeals to nature." and so throughout. the rote-system, like ether systems of its age, made more of the forms and symbols than of the things symbolised. to repeat the words correctly was everything; to understand their meaning nothing; and thus the spirit was sacrificed to the letter. it is at length perceived that, in this case as in others, such a result is not accidental but necessary--that in proportion as there is attention to the signs, there must be inattention to the things signified; or that, as montaigne long ago said--_sçavoir par coeur n'est pas sçavoir_. along with rote-teaching, is declining also the nearly-allied teaching by rules. the particulars first, and then the generalisation, is the new method--a method, as the battersea school reports remarks, which, though "the reverse of the method usually followed, which consists in giving the pupil the rule first," is yet proved by experience to be the right one. rule-teaching is now condemned as imparting a merely empirical knowledge--as producing an appearance of understanding without the reality. to give the net product of inquiry, without the inquiry that leads to it, is found to be both enervating and inefficient. general truths to be of due and permanent use, must be earned. "easy come easy go," is a saying as applicable to knowledge as to wealth. while rules, lying isolated in the mind--not joined to its other contents as out-growths from them--are continually forgotten; the principles which those rules express piecemeal, become, when once reached by the understanding, enduring possessions. while the rule-taught youth is at sea when beyond his rules, the youth instructed in principles solves a new case as readily as an old one. between a mind of rules and a mind of principles, there exists a difference such as that between a confused heap of materials, and the same materials organised into a complete whole, with all its parts bound together. of which types this last has not only the advantage that its constituent parts are better retained, but the much greater advantage that it forms an efficient agent for inquiry, for independent thought, for discovery--ends for which the first is useless. nor let it be supposed that this is a simile only: it is the literal truth. the union of facts into generalisations _is_ the organisation of knowledge, whether considered as an objective phenomenon or a subjective one; and the mental grasp may be measured by the extent to which this organisation is carried. from the substitution of principles for rules, and the necessarily co-ordinate practice of leaving abstractions untaught till the mind has been familiarised with the facts from which they are abstracted, has resulted the postponement of some once early studies to a late period. this is exemplified in the abandonment of that intensely stupid custom, the teaching of grammar to children. as m. marcel says:--"it may without hesitation be affirmed that grammar is not the stepping-stone, but the finishing instrument." as mr. wyse argues:--"grammar and syntax are a collection of laws and rules. rules are gathered from practice; they are the results of induction to which we come by long observation and comparison of facts. it is, in fine, the science, the philosophy of language. in following the process of nature, neither individuals nor nations ever arrive at the science _first_. a language is spoken, and poetry written, many years before either a grammar or prosody is even thought of. men did not wait till aristotle had constructed his logic, to reason." in short, as grammar was made after language, so ought it to be taught after language: an inference which all who recognise the relationship between the evolution of the race and that of the individual, will see to be unavoidable. of new practices that have grown up during the decline of these old ones, the most important is the systematic culture of the powers of observation. after long ages of blindness, men are at last seeing that the spontaneous activity of the observing faculties in children has a meaning and a use. what was once thought mere purposeless action, or play, or mischief, as the case might be, is now recognised as the process of acquiring a knowledge on which all after-knowledge is based. hence the well-conceived but ill-conducted system of _object-lessons_. the saying of bacon, that physics is the mother of the sciences, has come to have a meaning in education. without an accurate acquaintance with the visible and tangible properties of things, our conceptions must be erroneous, our inferences fallacious, and our operations unsuccessful. "the education of the senses neglected, all after education partakes of a drowsiness, a haziness, an insufficiency, which it is impossible to cure." indeed, if we consider it, we shall find that exhaustive observation is an element in all great success. it is not to artists, naturalists, and men of science only, that it is needful; it is not only that the physician depends on it for the correctness of his diagnosis, and that to the engineer it is so important that some years in the workshop are prescribed for him; but we may see that the philosopher, also, is fundamentally one who _observes_ relationships of things which others had overlooked, and that the poet, too, is one who _sees_ the fine facts in nature which all recognise when pointed out, but did not before remark. nothing requires more to be insisted on than that vivid and complete impressions are all-essential. no sound fabric of wisdom can be woven out of a rotten raw-material. while the old method of presenting truths in the abstract has been falling out of use, there has been a corresponding adoption of the new method of presenting them in the concrete. the rudimentary facts of exact science are now being learnt by direct intuition, as textures, and tastes, and colours are learnt. employing the ball-frame for first lessons in arithmetic exemplifies this. it is well illustrated, too, in professor de morgan's mode of explaining the decimal notation. m. marcel, rightly repudiating the old system of tables, teaches weights and measures by referring to the actual yard and foot, pound and ounce, gallon and quart; and lets the discovery of their relationships be experimental. the use of geographical models and models of the regular bodies, etc., as introductory to geography and geometry respectively, are facts of the same class. manifestly, a common trait of these methods is, that they carry each child's mind through a process like that which the mind of humanity at large has gone through. the truths of number, of form, of relationship in position, were all originally drawn from objects; and to present these truths to the child in the concrete is to let him learn them as the race learnt them. by and by, perhaps, it will be seen that he cannot possibly learn them in any other way; for that if he is made to repeat them as abstractions, the abstractions can have no meaning for him, until he finds that they are simply statements of what he intuitively discerns. but of all the changes taking place, the most significant is the growing desire to make the acquirement of knowledge pleasurable rather than painful--a desire based on the more or less distinct perception, that at each age the intellectual action which a child likes is a healthful one for it; and conversely. there is a spreading opinion that the rise of an appetite for any kind of information implies that the unfolding mind has become fit to assimilate it, and needs it for purposes of growth; and that, on the other hand, the disgust felt towards such information is a sign either that it is prematurely presented, or that it is presented in an indigestible form. hence the efforts to make early education amusing, and all education interesting. hence the lectures on the value of play. hence the defence of nursery rhymes and fairy tales. daily we more and more conform our plans to juvenile opinion. does the child like this or that kind of teaching?--does he take to it? we constantly ask. "his natural desire of variety should be indulged," says m. marcel; "and the gratification of his curiosity should be combined with his improvement." "lessons," he again remarks, "should cease before the child evinces symptoms of weariness." and so with later education. short breaks during school-hours, excursions into the country, amusing lectures, choral songs--in these and many like traits the change may be discerned. asceticism is disappearing out of education as out of life; and the usual test of political legislation--its tendency to promote happiness--is beginning to be, in a great degree, the test of legislation for the school and the nursery. what now is the common characteristic of these several changes? is it not an increasing conformity to the methods of nature? the relinquishment of early forcing, against which nature rebels, and the leaving of the first years for exercise of the limbs and senses, show this. the superseding of rote-learnt lessons by lessons orally and experimentally given, like those of the field and play-ground, shows this. the disuse of rule-teaching, and the adoption of teaching by principles--that is, the leaving of generalisations until there are particulars to base them on--show this. the system of object-lessons shows this. the teaching of the rudiments of science in the concrete instead of the abstract, shows this. and above all, this tendency is shown in the variously-directed efforts to present knowledge in attractive forms, and so to make the acquirement of it pleasurable. for, as it is the order of nature in all creatures that the gratification accompanying the fulfilment of needful functions serves as a stimulus to their fulfilment--as, during the self-education of the young child, the delight taken in the biting of corals and the pulling to pieces of toys, becomes the prompter to actions which teach it the properties of matter; it follows that, in choosing the succession of subjects and the modes of instruction which most interest the pupil, we are fulfilling nature's behests, and adjusting our proceedings to the laws of life. thus, then, we are on the highway towards the doctrine long ago enunciated by pestalozzi, that alike in its order and its methods, education must conform to the natural process of mental evolution--that there is a certain sequence in which the faculties spontaneously develop, and a certain kind of knowledge which each requires during its development; and that it is for us to ascertain this sequence, and supply this knowledge. all the improvements above alluded to are partial applications of this general principle. a nebulous perception of it now prevails among teachers; and it is daily more insisted on in educational works. "the method of nature is the archetype of all methods," says m. marcel. "the vital principle in the pursuit is to enable the pupil rightly to instruct himself," writes mr. wyse. the more science familiarises us with the constitution of things, the more do we see in them an inherent self-sufficingness. a higher knowledge tends continually to limit our interference with the processes of life. as in medicine the old "heroic treatment" has given place to mild treatment, and often no treatment save a normal regimen--as we have found that it is not needful to mould the bodies of babes by bandaging them in papoose-fashion or otherwise--as in gaols it is being discovered that no cunningly-devised discipline of ours is so efficient in producing reformation as the natural discipline of self-maintenance by productive labour; so in education, we are finding that success is to be achieved only by making our measures subservient to that spontaneous unfolding which all minds go through in their progress to maturity. of course, this fundamental principle of tuition, that the arrangement of matter and method must correspond with the order of evolution and mode of activity of the faculties--a principle so obviously true, that once stated it seems almost self-evident--has never been wholly disregarded. teachers have unavoidably made their school-courses coincide with it in some degree, for the simple reason that education is possible only on that condition. boys were never taught the rule-of-three until after they had learnt addition. they were not set to write exercises before they had got into their copybooks. conic sections have always been preceded by euclid. but the error of the old methods consists in this, that they do not recognise in detail what they are obliged to recognise in general. yet the principle applies throughout. if from the time when a child is able to conceive two things as related in position, years must elapse before it can form a true concept of the earth, as a sphere made up of land and sea, covered with mountains, forests, rivers, and cities, revolving on its axis, and sweeping round the sun--if it gets from the one concept to the other by degrees--if the intermediate concepts which it forms are consecutively larger and more complicated; is it not manifest that there is a general succession through which alone it can pass; that each larger concept is made by the combination of smaller ones, and presupposes them; and that to present any of these compound concepts before the child is in possession of its constituent ones, is only less absurd than to present the final concept of the series before the initial one? in the mastering of every subject some course of increasingly complex ideas has to be gone through. the evolution of the corresponding faculties consists in the assimilation of these; which, in any true sense, is impossible without they are put into the mind in the normal order. and when this order is not followed, the result is, that they are received with apathy or disgust; and that unless the pupil is intelligent enough eventually to fill up the gaps himself, they lie in his memory as dead facts, capable of being turned to little or no use. "but why trouble ourselves about any _curriculum_ at all?" it may be asked. "if it be true that the mind like the body has a predetermined course of evolution--if it unfolds spontaneously--if its successive desires for this or that kind of information arise when these are severally required for its nutrition--if there thus exists in itself a prompter to the right species of activity at the right time; why interfere in any way? why not leave children _wholly_ to the discipline of nature?--why not remain quite passive and let them get knowledge as they best can?--why not be consistent throughout?" this is an awkward-looking question. plausibly implying as it does, that a system of complete _laissez-faire_ is the logical outcome of the doctrines set forth, it seems to furnish a disproof of them by _reductio ad absurdum_. in truth, however, they do not, when rightly understood, commit us to any such untenable position. a glance at the physical analogies will clearly show this. it is a general law of life that the more complex the organism to be produced, the longer the period during which it is dependent on a parent organism for food and protection. the difference between the minute, rapidly-formed, and self-moving spore of a conferva, and the slowly-developed seed of a tree, with its multiplied envelopes and large stock of nutriment laid by to nourish the germ during its first stages of growth, illustrates this law in its application to the vegetal world. among animals we may trace it in a series of contrasts from the monad whose spontaneously-divided halves are as self-sufficing the moment after their separation as was the original whole; up to man, whose offspring not only passes through a protracted gestation, and subsequently long depends on the breast for sustenance; but after that must have its food artificially administered; must, when it has learned to feed itself, continue to have bread, clothing, and shelter provided; and does not acquire the power of complete self-support until a time varying from fifteen to twenty years after its birth. now this law applies to the mind as to the body. for mental pabulum also, every higher creature, and especially man, is at first dependent on adult aid. lacking the ability to move about, the babe is almost as powerless to get materials on which to exercise its perceptions as it is to get supplies for its stomach. unable to prepare its own food, it is in like manner unable to reduce many kinds of knowledge to a fit form for assimilation. the language through which all higher truths are to be gained, it wholly derives from those surrounding it. and we see in such an example as the wild boy of aveyron, the arrest of development that results when no help is received from parents and nurses. thus, in providing from day to day the right kind of facts, prepared in the right manner, and giving them in due abundance at appropriate intervals, there is as much scope for active ministration to a child's mind as to its body. in either case, it is the chief function of parents to see that the _conditions_ requisite to growth are maintained. and as, in supplying aliment, and clothing, and shelter, they may fulfil this function without at all interfering with the spontaneous development of the limbs and viscera, either in their order or mode; so, they may supply sounds for imitation, objects for examination, books for reading, problems for solution, and, if they use neither direct nor indirect coercion, may do this without in any way disturbing the normal process of mental evolution; or rather, may greatly facilitate that process. hence the admission of the doctrines enunciated does not, as some might argue, involve the abandonment of teaching; but leaves ample room for an active and elaborate course of culture. * * * * * passing from generalities to special considerations, it is to be remarked that in practice the pestalozzian system seems scarcely to have fulfilled the promise of its theory. we hear of children not at all interested in its lessons,--disgusted with them rather; and, so far as we can gather, the pestalozzian school have not turned out any unusual proportion of distinguished men: if even they have reached the average. we are not surprised at this. the success of every appliance depends mainly upon the intelligence with which it is used. it is a trite remark that, having the choicest tools, an unskilful artisan will botch his work; and bad teachers will fail even with the best methods. indeed, the goodness of the method becomes in such case a cause of failure; as, to continue the simile, the perfection of the tool becomes in undisciplined hands a source of imperfection in results. a simple, unchanging, almost mechanical routine of tuition, may be carried out by the commonest intellects, with such small beneficial effect as it is capable of producing; but a complete system--a system as heterogeneous in its appliances as the mind in its faculties--a system proposing a special means for each special end, demands for its right employment powers such as few teachers possess. the mistress of a dame-school can hear spelling-lessons; and any hedge-schoolmaster can drill boys in the multiplication-table. but to teach spelling rightly by using the powers of the letters instead of their names, or to instruct in numerical combinations by experimental synthesis, a modicum of understanding is needful; and to pursue a like rational course throughout the entire range of studies, asks an amount of judgment, of invention, of intellectual sympathy, of analytical faculty, which we shall never see applied to it while the tutorial official is held in such small esteem. true education is practicable only by a true philosopher. judge, then, what prospect a philosophical method now has of being acted out! knowing so little as we yet do of psychology, and ignorant as our teachers are of that little, what chance has a system which requires psychology for its basis? further hindrance and discouragement has arisen from confounding the pestalozzian principle with the forms in which it has been embodied. because particular plans have not answered expectation, discredit has been cast upon the doctrine associated with them: no inquiry being made whether these plans truly conform to the doctrine. judging as usual by the concrete rather than the abstract, men have blamed the theory for the bunglings of the practice. it is as though the first futile attempt to construct a steam-engine had been held to prove that steam could not be used as a motive power. let it be constantly borne in mind that while right in his fundamental ideas, pestalozzi was not therefore right in all his applications of them. as described even by his admirers, pestalozzi was a man of partial intuitions--a man who had occasional flashes of insight rather than a man of systematic thought. his first great success at stantz was achieved when he had no books or appliances of ordinary teaching, and when "the only object of his attention was to find out at each moment what instruction his children stood peculiarly in need of, and what was the best manner of connecting it with the knowledge they already possessed." much of his power was due, not to calmly reasoned-out plans of culture, but to his profound sympathy, which gave him a quick perception of childish needs and difficulties. he lacked the ability logically to co-ordinate and develop the truths which he thus from time to time laid hold of; and had in great measure to leave this to his assistants, kruesi, tobler, buss, niederer, and schmid. the result is, that in their details his own plans, and those vicariously devised, contain numerous crudities and inconsistencies. his nursery-method, described in _the mother's manual_, beginning as it does with a nomenclature of the different parts of the body, and proceeding next to specify their relative positions, and next their connections, may be proved not at all in accordance with the initial stages of mental evolution. his process of teaching the mother-tongue by formal exercises in the meanings of words and in the construction of sentences, is quite needless, and must entail on the pupil loss of time, labour, and happiness. his proposed lessons in geography are utterly unpestalozzian. and often where his plans are essentially sound, they are either incomplete or vitiated by some remnant of the old regime. while, therefore, we would defend in its entire extent the general doctrine which pestalozzi inaugurated, we think great evil likely to result from an uncritical reception of his specific methods. that tendency, constantly exhibited by mankind, to canonise the forms and practices along with which any great truth has been bequeathed to them--their liability to prostrate their intellects before the prophet, and swear by his every word--their proneness to mistake the clothing of the idea for the idea itself; renders it needful to insist strongly upon the distinction between the fundamental principle of the pestalozzian system, and the set of expedients devised for its practice; and to suggest that while the one may be considered as established, the other is probably nothing but an adumbration of the normal course. indeed, on looking at the state of our knowledge, we may be quite sure that is the case. before educational methods can be made to harmonise in character and arrangement with the faculties in their mode and order of unfolding, it is first needful that we ascertain with some completeness how the faculties _do_ unfold. at present we have acquired, on this point, only a few general notions. these general notions must be developed in detail--must be transformed into a multitude of specific propositions, before we can be said to possess that _science_ on which the _art_ of education must be based. and then, when we have definitely made out in what succession and in what combinations the mental powers become active, it remains to choose out of the many possible ways of exercising each of them, that which best conforms to its natural mode of action. evidently, therefore, it is not to be supposed that even our most advanced modes of teaching are the right ones, or nearly the right ones. bearing in mind then this distinction between the principle and the practice of pestalozzi, and inferring from the grounds assigned that the last must necessarily be very defective, the reader will rate at its true worth the dissatisfaction with the system which some have expressed; and will see that the realisation of the pestalozzian idea remains to be achieved. should he argue, however, from what has just been said, that no such realisation is at present practicable, and that all effort ought to be devoted to the preliminary inquiry; we reply, that though it is not possible for a scheme of culture to be perfected either in matter or form until a rational psychology has been established, it is possible, with the aid of certain guiding principles, to make empirical approximations towards a perfect scheme. to prepare the way for further research we will now specify these principles. some of them have been more or less distinctly implied in the foregoing pages; but it will be well here to state them all in logical order. . that in education we should proceed from the simple to the complex, is a truth which has always been to some extent acted upon: not professedly, indeed, nor by any means consistently. the mind develops. like all things that develop it progresses from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous; and a normal training system, being an objective counterpart of this subjective process, must exhibit a like progression. moreover, thus interpreting it, we may see that this formula has much wider application than at first appears. for its _rationale_ involves, not only that we should proceed from the single to the combined in the teaching of each branch of knowledge; but that we should do the like with knowledge as a whole. as the mind, consisting at first of but few active faculties, has its later-completed faculties successively brought into play, and ultimately comes to have all its faculties in simultaneous action; it follows that our teaching should begin with but few subjects at once, and successively adding to these, should finally carry on all subjects abreast. not only in its details should education proceed from the simple to the complex, but in its _ensemble_ also. . the development of the mind, as all other development, is an advance from the indefinite to the definite. in common with the rest of the organism, the brain reaches its finished structure only at maturity; and in proportion as its structure is unfinished, its actions are wanting in precision. hence like the first movements and the first attempts at speech, the first perceptions and thoughts are extremely vague. as from a rudimentary eye, discerning only the difference between light and darkness, the progress is to an eye that distinguishes kinds and gradations of colour, and details of form, with the greatest exactness; so, the intellect as a whole and in each faculty, beginning with the rudest discriminations among objects and actions, advances towards discriminations of increasing nicety and distinctness. to this general law our educational course and methods must conform. it is not practicable, nor would it be desirable if practicable, to put precise ideas into the undeveloped mind. we may indeed at an early age communicate the verbal forms in which such ideas are wrapped up; and teachers, who habitually do this, suppose that when the verbal forms have been correctly learnt, the ideas which should fill them have been acquired. but a brief cross-examination of the pupil proves the contrary. it turns out either that the words have been committed to memory with little or no thought about their meaning, or else that the perception of their meaning which has been gained is a very cloudy one. only as the multiplication of experiences gives materials for definite conceptions--only as observation year by year discloses the less conspicuous attributes which distinguish things and processes previously confounded together--only as each class of co-existences and sequences becomes familiar through the recurrence of cases coming under it--only as the various classes of relations get accurately marked off from each other by mutual limitation, can the exact definitions of advanced knowledge become truly comprehensible. thus in education we must be content to set out with crude notions. these we must aim to make gradually clearer by facilitating the acquisition of experiences such as will correct, first their greatest errors, and afterwards their successively less marked errors. and the scientific formulæ must be given only as fast as the conceptions are perfected. . to say that our lessons ought to start from the concrete and end in the abstract, may be considered as in part a repetition of the first of the foregoing principles. nevertheless it is a maxim that must be stated: if with no other view, then with the view of showing in certain cases what are truly the simple and the complex. for unfortunately there has been much misunderstanding on this point. general formulas which men have devised to express groups of details, and which have severally simplified their conceptions by uniting many facts into one fact, they have supposed must simplify the conceptions of a child also. they have forgotten that a generalisation is simple only in comparison with the whole mass of particular truths it comprehends--that it is more complex than any one of these truths taken singly--that only after many of these single truths have been acquired does the generalisation ease the memory and help the reason--and that to a mind not possessing these single truths it is necessarily a mystery. thus confounding two kinds of simplification, teachers have constantly erred by setting out with "first principles": a proceeding essentially, though not apparently, at variance with the primary rule; which implies that the mind should be introduced to principles through the medium of examples, and so should be led from the particular to the general--from the concrete to the abstract. . the education of the child must accord both in mode and arrangement with the education of mankind, considered historically. in other words, the genesis of knowledge in the individual must follow the same course as the genesis of knowledge in the race. in strictness, this principle may be considered as already expressed by implication; since both, being processes of evolution, must conform to those same general laws of evolution above insisted on, and must therefore agree with each other. nevertheless this particular parallelism is of value for the specific guidance it affords. to m. comte we believe society owes the enunciation of it; and we may accept this item of his philosophy without at all committing ourselves to the rest. this doctrine may be upheld by two reasons, quite independent of any abstract theory; and either of them sufficient to establish it. one is deducible from the law of hereditary transmission as considered in its wider consequences. for if it be true that men exhibit likeness to ancestry, both in aspect and character--if it be true that certain mental manifestations, as insanity, occur in successive members of the same family at the same age--if, passing from individual cases in which the traits of many dead ancestors mixing with those of a few living ones greatly obscure the law, we turn to national types, and remark how the contrasts between them are persistent from age to age--if we remember that these respective types came from a common stock, and that hence the present marked differences between them must have arisen from the action of modifying circumstances upon successive generations who severally transmitted the accumulated effects to their descendants--if we find the differences to be now organic, so that a french child grows into a french man even when brought up among strangers--and if the general fact thus illustrated is true of the whole nature, intellect inclusive; then it follows that if there be an order in which the human race has mastered its various kinds of knowledge, there will arise in every child an aptitude to acquire these kinds of knowledge in the same order. so that even were the order intrinsically indifferent, it would facilitate education to lead the individual mind through the steps traversed by the general mind. but the order is _not_ intrinsically indifferent; and hence the fundamental reason why education should be a repetition of civilisation in little. it is provable both that the historical sequence was, in its main outlines, a necessary one; and that the causes which determined it apply to the child as to the race. not to specify these causes in detail, it will suffice here to point out that as the mind of humanity placed in the midst of phenomena and striving to comprehend them, has, after endless comparisons, speculations, experiments, and theories, reached its present knowledge of each subject by a specific route; it may rationally be inferred that the relationship between mind and phenomena is such as to prevent this knowledge from being reached by any other route; and that as each child's mind stands in this same relationship to phenomena, they can be accessible to it only through the same route. hence in deciding upon the right method of education, an inquiry into the method of civilisation will help to guide us. . one of the conclusions to which such an inquiry leads, is, that in each branch of instruction we should proceed from the empirical to the rational. during human progress, every science is evolved out of its corresponding art. it results from the necessity we are under, both individually and as a race, of reaching the abstract by way of the concrete, that there must be practice and an accruing experience with its empirical generalisation, before there can be science. science is organised knowledge; and before knowledge can be organised, some of it must be possessed. every study, therefore, should have a purely experimental introduction; and only after an ample fund of observations has been accumulated, should reasoning begin. as illustrative applications of this rule, we may instance the modern course of placing grammar, not before language, but after it; or the ordinary custom of prefacing perspective by practical drawing. by and by further applications of it will be indicated. . a second corollary from the foregoing general principle, and one which cannot be too strenuously insisted on, is, that in education the process of self-development should be encouraged to the uttermost. children should be led to make their own investigations, and to draw their own inferences. they should be _told_ as little as possible, and induced to _discover_ as much as possible. humanity has progressed solely by self-instruction; and that to achieve the best results, each mind must progress somewhat after the same fashion, is continually proved by the marked success of self-made men. those who have been brought up under the ordinary school-drill, and have carried away with them the idea that education is practicable only in that style, will think it hopeless to make children their own teachers. if, however, they will consider that the all-important knowledge of surrounding objects which a child gets in its early years is got without help--if they will remember that the child is self-taught in the use of its mother tongue--if they will estimate the amount of that experience of life, that out-of-school wisdom, which every boy gathers for himself--if they will mark the unusual intelligence of the uncared-for london _gamin_, as shown in whatever directions his faculties have been tasked--if, further, they will think how many minds have struggled up unaided, not only through the mysteries of our irrationally-planned _curriculum_, but through hosts of other obstacles besides; they will find it a not unreasonable conclusion that if the subjects be put before him in right order and right form, any pupil of ordinary capacity will surmount his successive difficulties with but little assistance. who indeed can watch the ceaseless observation, and inquiry, and inference going on in a child's mind, or listen to its acute remarks on matters within the range of its faculties, without perceiving that these powers it manifests, if brought to bear systematically upon studies _within the same range_, would readily master them without help? this need for perpetual telling results from our stupidity, not from the child's. we drag it away from the facts in which it is interested, and which it is actively assimilating of itself. we put before it facts far too complex for it to understand; and therefore distasteful to it. finding that it will not voluntarily acquire these facts, we thrust them into its mind by force of threats and punishment. by thus denying the knowledge it craves, and cramming it with knowledge it cannot digest, we produce a morbid state of its faculties; and a consequent disgust for knowledge in general. and when, as a result partly of the stolid indolence we have brought on, and partly of still-continued unfitness in its studies, the child can understand nothing without explanation, and becomes a mere passive recipient of our instruction, we infer that education must necessarily be carried on thus. having by our method induced helplessness, we make the helplessness a reason for our method. clearly then, the experience of pedagogues cannot rationally be quoted against the system we are advocating. and whoever sees this, will see that we may safely follow the discipline of nature throughout--may, by a skilful ministration, make the mind as self-developing in its later stages as it is in its earlier ones; and that only by doing this can we produce the highest power and activity. . as a final test by which to judge any plan of culture, should come the question,--does it create a pleasurable excitement in the pupils? when in doubt whether a particular mode or arrangement is or is not more in harmony with the foregoing principles than some other, we may safely abide by this criterion. even when, as considered theoretically, the proposed course seems the best, yet if it produces no interest, or less interest than some other course, we should relinquish it; for a child's intellectual instincts are more trustworthy than our reasonings. in respect to the knowing-faculties, we may confidently trust in the general law, that under normal conditions, healthful action is pleasurable, while action which gives pain is not healthful. though at present very incompletely conformed to by the emotional nature, yet by the intellectual nature, or at least by those parts of it which the child exhibits, this law is almost wholly conformed to. the repugnances to this and that study which vex the ordinary teacher, are not innate, but result from his unwise system. fellenberg says, "experience has taught me that _indolence_ in young persons is so directly opposite to their natural disposition to activity, that unless it is the consequence of bad education, it is almost invariably connected with some constitutional defect." and the spontaneous activity to which children are thus prone, is simply the pursuit of those pleasures which the healthful exercise of the faculties gives. it is true that some of the higher mental powers, as yet but little developed in the race, and congenitally possessed in any considerable degree only by the most advanced, are indisposed to the amount of exertion required of them. but these, in virtue of their very complexity, will, in a normal course of culture, come last into exercise; and will therefore have no demands made on them until the pupil has arrived at an age when ulterior motives can be brought into play, and an indirect pleasure made to counterbalance a direct displeasure. with all faculties lower than these, however, the immediate gratification consequent on activity, is the normal stimulus; and under good management the only needful stimulus. when we have to fall back on some other, we must take the fact as evidence that we are on the wrong track. experience is daily showing with greater clearness, that there is always a method to be found productive of interest--even of delight; and it ever turns out that this is the method proved by all other tests to be the right one. with most, these guiding principles will weigh but little if left in this abstract form. partly, therefore, to exemplify their application, and partly with a view of making sundry specific suggestions, we propose now to pass from the theory of education to the practice of it. * * * * * it was the opinion of pestalozzi, and one which has ever since his day been gaining ground, that education of some kind should begin from the cradle. whoever has watched, with any discernment, the wide-eyed gaze of the infant at surrounding objects knows very well that education _does_ begin thus early, whether we intend it or not; and that these fingerings and suckings of everything it can lay hold of, these open-mouthed listenings to every sound, are first steps in the series which ends in the discovery of unseen planets, the invention of calculating engines, the production of great paintings, or the composition of symphonies and operas. this activity of the faculties from the very first, being spontaneous and inevitable, the question is whether we shall supply in due variety the materials on which they may exercise themselves; and to the question so put, none but an affirmative answer can be given. as before said, however, agreement with pestalozzi's theory does not involve agreement with his practice; and here occurs a case in point. treating of instruction in spelling he says:-- "the spelling-book ought, therefore, to contain all the sounds of the language, and these ought to be taught in every family from the earliest infancy. the child who learns his spelling book ought to repeat them to the infant in the cradle, before it is able to pronounce even one of them, so that they may be deeply impressed upon its mind by frequent repetition." joining this with the suggestions for "a nursery method," set down in his _mother's manual_, in which he makes the names, positions, connections, numbers, properties, and uses of the limbs and body his first lessons, it becomes clear that pestalozzi's notions on early mental development were too crude to enable him to devise judicious plans. let us consider the course which psychology dictates. the earliest impressions which the mind can assimilate are the undecomposable sensations produced by resistance, light, sound, etc. manifestly, decomposable states of consciousness cannot exist before the states of consciousness out of which they are composed. there can be no idea of form until some familiarity with light in its gradations and qualities, or resistance in its different intensities, has been acquired; for, as has been long known, we recognise visible form by means of varieties of light, and tangible form by means of varieties of resistance. similarly, no articulate sound is cognisable until the inarticulate sounds which go to make it up have been learned. and thus must it be in every other case. following, therefore, the necessary law of progression from the simple to the complex, we should provide for the infant a sufficiency of objects presenting different degrees and kinds of resistance, a sufficiency of objects reflecting different amounts and qualities of light, and a sufficiency of sounds contrasted in their loudness, their pitch and their _timbre_. how fully this _à priori_ conclusion is confirmed by infantile instincts, all will see on being reminded of the delight which every young child has in biting its toys, in feeling its brother's bright jacket-buttons, and pulling papa's whiskers--how absorbed it becomes in gazing at any gaudily-painted object, to which it applies the word "pretty," when it can pronounce it, wholly because of the bright colours--and how its face broadens into a laugh at the tattlings of its nurse, the snapping of a visitor's fingers, or any sound which it has not before heard. fortunately, the ordinary practices of the nursery fulfil these early requirements of education to a considerable degree. much, however, remains to be done; and it is of more importance that it should be done than at first appears. every faculty during that spontaneous activity which accompanies its evolution is capable of receiving more vivid impressions than at any other period. moreover, as these simplest elements have to be mastered, and as the mastery of them whenever achieved must take time, it becomes an economy of time to occupy this first stage of childhood, during which no other intellectual action is possible, in gaining a complete familiarity with them in all their modifications. nor let us omit the fact, that both temper and health will be improved by the continual gratification resulting from a due supply of these impressions which every child so greedily assimilates. space, could it be spared, might here be well filled by some suggestions towards a more systematic ministration to these simplest of the perceptions. but it must suffice to point out that any such ministration, recognising the general law of evolution from the indefinite to the definite, should proceed upon the corollary that in the development of every faculty, markedly contrasted impressions are the first to be distinguished; that hence sounds greatly differing in loudness and pitch, colours very remote from each other, and substances widely unlike in hardness or texture, should be the first supplied; and that in each case the progression must be by slow degrees to impressions more nearly allied. passing on to object-lessons, which manifestly form a natural continuation of this primary culture of the senses, it is to be remarked, that the system commonly pursued is wholly at variance with the method of nature, as exhibited alike in infancy, in adult life, and in the course of civilisation. "the child," says m. marcel, "must be _shown_ how all the parts of an object are connected, etc.;" and the various manuals of these object-lessons severally contain lists of the facts which the child is to be _told_ respecting each of the things put before it. now it needs but a glance at the daily life of the infant to see that all the knowledge of things which is gained before the acquirement of speech, is self-gained--that the qualities of hardness and weight associated with certain appearances, the possession of particular forms and colours by particular persons, the production of special sounds by animals of special aspects, are phenomena which it observes for itself. in manhood too, when there are no longer teachers at hand, the observations and inferences hourly required for guidance must be made unhelped; and success in life depends upon the accuracy and completeness with which they are made. is it probable, then, that while the process displayed in the evolution of humanity at large is repeated alike by the infant and the man, a reverse process must be followed during the period between infancy and manhood? and that too, even in so simple a thing as learning the properties of objects? is it not obvious, on the contrary, that one method must be pursued throughout? and is not nature perpetually thrusting this method upon us, if we had but the wit to see it, and the humility to adopt it? what can be more manifest than the desire of children for intellectual sympathy? mark how the infant sitting on your knee thrusts into your face the toy it holds, that you too may look at it. see when it makes a creak with its wet finger on the table, how it turns and looks at you; does it again, and again looks at you; thus saying as clearly as it can--"hear this new sound." watch the elder children coming into the room exclaiming--"mamma, see what a curious thing," "mamma, look at this," "mamma, look at that:" a habit which they would continue, did not the silly mamma tell them not to tease her. observe that, when out with the nurse-maid, each little one runs up to her with the new flower it has gathered, to show her how pretty it is, and to get her also to say it is pretty. listen to the eager volubility with which every urchin describes any novelty he has been to see, if only he can find some one who will attend with any interest. does not the induction lie on the surface? is it not clear that we must conform our course to these intellectual instincts--that we must just systematise the natural process--that we must listen to all the child has to tell us about each object; must induce it to say everything it can think of about such object; must occasionally draw its attention to facts it has not yet observed, with the view of leading it to notice them itself whenever they recur; and must go on by and by to indicate or supply new series of things for a like exhaustive examination? note the way in which, on this method, the intelligent mother conducts her lessons. step by step she familiarises her little boy with the names of the simpler attributes, hardness, softness, colour, taste, size: in doing which she finds him eagerly help by bringing this to show her that it is red, and the other to make her feel that it is hard, as fast as she gives him words for these properties. each additional property, as she draws his attention to it in some fresh thing which he brings her, she takes care to mention in connection with those he already knows; so that by the natural tendency to imitate, he may get into the habit of repeating them one after another. gradually as there occur cases in which he omits to name one or more of the properties he has become acquainted with, she introduces the practice of asking him whether there is not something more that he can tell her about the thing he has got. probably he does not understand. after letting him puzzle awhile she tells him; perhaps laughing at him a little for his failure. a few recurrences of this and he perceives what is to be done. when next she says she knows something more about the object than he has told her, his pride is roused; he looks at it intently; he thinks over all that he has heard; and the problem being easy, presently finds it out. he is full of glee at his success, and she sympathises with him. in common with every child, he delights in the discovery of his powers. he wishes for more victories, and goes in quest of more things about which to tell her. as his faculties unfold she adds quality after quality to his list: progressing from hardness and softness to roughness and smoothness, from colour to polish, from simple bodies to composite ones--thus constantly complicating the problem as he gains competence, constantly taxing his attention and memory to a greater extent, constantly maintaining his interest by supplying him with new impressions such as his mind can assimilate, and constantly gratifying him by conquests over such small difficulties as he can master. in doing this she is manifestly but following out that spontaneous process which was going on during a still earlier period--simply aiding self-evolution; and is aiding it in the mode suggested by the boy's instinctive behaviour to her. manifestly, too, the course she is adopting is the one best calculated to establish a habit of exhaustive observation; which is the professed aim of these lessons. to _tell_ a child this and to _show_ it the other, is not to teach it how to observe, but to make it a mere recipient of another's observations: a proceeding which weakens rather than strengthens its powers of self-instruction--which deprives it of the pleasures resulting from successful activity--which presents this all-attractive knowledge under the aspect of formal tuition--and which thus generates that indifference and even disgust not unfrequently felt towards these object-lessons. on the other hand, to pursue the course above described is simply to guide the intellect to its appropriate food; to join with the intellectual appetites their natural adjuncts--_amour propre_ and the desire for sympathy; to induce by the union of all these an intensity of attention which insures perceptions both vivid and complete; and to habituate the mind from the beginning to that practice of self-help which it must ultimately follow. object-lessons should not only be carried on after quite a different fashion from that commonly pursued, but should be extended to a range of things far wider, and continued to a period far later, than now. they should not be limited to the contents of the house; but should include those of the fields and the hedges, the quarry and the sea-shore. they should not cease with early childhood; but should be so kept up during youth, as insensibly to merge into the investigations of the naturalist and the man of science. here again we have but to follow nature's leadings. where can be seen an intenser delight than that of children picking up new flowers and watching new insects; or hoarding pebbles and shells? and who is there but perceives that by sympathising with them they may be led on to any extent of inquiry into the qualities and structures of these things? every botanist who has had children with him in the woods and lanes must have noticed how eagerly they joined in his pursuits, how keenly they searched out plants for him, how intently they watched while he examined them, how they overwhelmed him with questions. the consistent follower of bacon--the "servant and interpreter of nature," will see that we ought modestly to adopt the course of culture thus indicated. having become familiar with the simpler properties of inorganic objects, the child should by the same process be led on to an exhaustive examination of the things it picks up in its daily walks--the less complex facts they present being alone noticed at first: in plants, the colours, numbers, and forms of the petals, and shapes of the stalks and leaves; in insects, the numbers of the wings, legs, and antennæ, and their colours. as these become fully appreciated and invariably observed, further facts may be successively introduced: in the one case, the numbers of stamens and pistils, the forms of the flowers, whether radial or bilateral in symmetry, the arrangement and character of the leaves, whether opposite or alternate, stalked or sessile, smooth or hairy, serrated, toothed, or crenate; in the other, the divisions of the body, the segments of the abdomen, the markings of the wings, the number of joints in the legs, and the forms of the smaller organs--the system pursued throughout being that of making it the child's ambition to say respecting everything it finds all that can be said. then when a fit age has been reached, the means of preserving these plants, which have become so interesting in virtue of the knowledge obtained of them, may as a great favour be supplied; and eventually, as a still greater favour, may also be supplied the apparatus needful for keeping the larvæ of our common butterflies and moths through their transformations--a practice which, as we can personally testify, yields the highest gratification; is continued with ardour for years; when joined with the formation of an entomological collection, adds immense interest to saturday-afternoon rambles; and forms an admirable introduction to the study of physiology. we are quite prepared to hear from many that all this is throwing away time and energy; and that children would be much better occupied in writing their copies or learning their pence-tables, and so fitting themselves for the business of life. we regret that such crude ideas of what constitutes education, and such a narrow conception of utility, should still be prevalent. saying nothing on the need for a systematic culture of the perceptions and the value of the practices above inculcated as subserving that need, we are prepared to defend them even on the score of the knowledge gained. if men are to be mere cits, mere porers over ledgers, with no ideas beyond their trades--if it is well that they should be as the cockney whose conception of rural pleasures extends no further than sitting in a tea-garden smoking pipes and drinking porter; or as the squire who thinks of woods as places for shooting in, of uncultivated plants as nothing but weeds, and who classifies animals into game, vermin, and stock--then indeed it is needless to learn anything that does not directly help to replenish the till and fill the larder. but if there is a more worthy aim for us than to be drudges--if there are other uses in the things around than their power to bring money--if there are higher faculties to be exercised than acquisitive and sensual ones--if the pleasures which poetry and art and science and philosophy can bring are of any moment; then is it desirable that the instinctive inclination which every child shows to observe natural beauties and investigate natural phenomena, should be encouraged. but this gross utilitarianism which is content to come into the world and quit it again without knowing what kind of a world it is or what it contains, may be met on its own ground. it will by and by be found that a knowledge of the laws of life is more important than any other knowledge whatever--that the laws of life underlie not only all bodily and mental processes, but by implication all the transactions of the house and the street, all commerce, all politics, all morals--and that therefore without a comprehension of them, neither personal nor social conduct can be rightly regulated. it will eventually be seen too, that the laws of life are essentially the same throughout the whole organic creation; and further, that they cannot be properly understood in their complex manifestations until they have been studied in their simpler ones. and when this is seen, it will be also seen that in aiding the child to acquire the out-of-door information for which it shows so great an avidity, and in encouraging the acquisition of such information throughout youth, we are simply inducing it to store up the raw material for future organisation--the facts that will one day bring home to it with due force, those great generalisations of science by which actions may be rightly guided. the spreading recognition of drawing as an element of education is one among many signs of the more rational views on mental culture now beginning to prevail. once more it may be remarked that teachers are at length adopting the course which nature has perpetually been pressing on their notice. the spontaneous attempts made by children to represent the men, houses, trees, and animals around them--on a slate if they can get nothing better, or with lead-pencil on paper if they can beg them--are familiar to all. to be shown through a picture-book is one of their highest gratifications; and as usual, their strong imitative tendency presently generates in them the ambition to make pictures themselves also. this effort to depict the striking things they see is a further instinctive exercise of the perceptions--a means whereby still greater accuracy and completeness of observation are induced. and alike by trying to interest us in their discoveries of the sensible properties of things, and by their endeavours to draw, they solicit from us just that kind of culture which they most need. had teachers been guided by nature's hints, not only in making drawing a part of education but in choosing modes of teaching it, they would have done still better than they have done. what is that the child first tries to represent? things that are large, things that are attractive in colour, things round which its pleasurable associations most cluster--human beings from whom it has received so many emotions; cows and dogs which interest by the many phenomena they present; houses that are hourly visible and strike by their size and contrast of parts. and which of the processes of representation gives it most delight? colouring. paper and pencil are good in default of something better; but a box of paints and a brush--these are the treasures. the drawing of outlines immediately becomes secondary to colouring--is gone through mainly with a view to the colouring; and if leave can be got to colour a book of prints, how great is the favour! now, ridiculous as such a position will seem to drawing-masters who postpone colouring and who teach form by a dreary discipline of copying lines, we believe that the course of culture thus indicated is the right one. the priority of colour to form, which, as already pointed out, has a psychological basis, should be recognised from the beginning; and from the beginning also, the things imitated should be real. that greater delight in colour which is not only conspicuous in children but persists in most persons throughout life, should be continuously employed as the natural stimulus to the mastery of the comparatively difficult and unattractive form: the pleasure of the subsequent tinting should be the prospective reward for the labour of delineation. and these efforts to represent interesting actualities should be encouraged; in the conviction that as, by a widening experience, simpler and more practicable objects become interesting, they too will be attempted; and that so a gradual approximation will be made towards imitations having some resemblance to the realities. the extreme indefiniteness which, in conformity with the law of evolution, these first attempts exhibit, is anything but a reason for ignoring them. no matter how grotesque the shapes produced; no matter how daubed and glaring the colours. the question is not whether the child is producing good drawings. the question is, whether it is developing its faculties. it has first to gain some command over its fingers, some crude notions of likeness; and this practice is better than any other for these ends, since it is the spontaneous and interesting one. during early childhood no formal drawing-lessons are possible. shall we therefore repress, or neglect to aid, these efforts at self-culture? or shall we encourage and guide them as normal exercises of the perceptions and the powers of manipulation? if by furnishing cheap woodcuts to be painted, and simple contour-maps to have their boundary lines tinted, we can not only pleasurably draw out the faculty of colour, but can incidentally produce some familiarity with the outlines of things and countries, and some ability to move the brush steadily; and if by the supply of tempting objects we can keep up the instinctive practice of making representations, however rough; it must happen that when the age for lessons in drawing is reached, there will exist a facility that would else have been absent. time will have been gained; and trouble, both to teacher and pupil, saved. from what has been said, it may be readily inferred that we condemn the practice of drawing from copies; and still more so that formal discipline in making straight lines and curved lines and compound lines, with which it is the fashion of some teachers to begin. we regret that the society of arts has recently, in its series of manuals on "rudimentary art instruction," given its countenance to an elementary drawing-book, which is the most vicious in principle that we have seen. we refer to the _outline from outline, or from the flat_, by john bell, sculptor. as explained in the prefatory note, this publication proposes "to place before the student a simple, yet logical mode of instruction;" and to this end sets out with a number of definitions thus:-- "a simple line in drawing is a thin mark drawn from one point to another. "lines may be divided, as to their nature in drawing, into two classes:-- " . _straight_, which are marks that go the shortest road between two points, as a b. " . or _curved_, which are marks which do not go the shortest road between two points, as c d." and so the introduction progresses to horizontal lines, perpendicular lines, oblique lines, angles of the several kinds, and the various figures which lines and angles make up. the work is, in short, a grammar of form, with exercises. and thus the system of commencing with a dry analysis of elements, which, in the teaching of language, has been exploded, is to be re-instituted in the teaching of drawing. we are to set out with the definite, instead of with the indefinite. the abstract is to be preliminary to the concrete. scientific conceptions are to precede empirical experiences. that this is an inversion of the normal order, we need scarcely repeat. it has been well said concerning the custom of prefacing the art of speaking any tongue by a drilling in the parts of speech and their functions, that it is about as reasonable as prefacing the art of walking by a course of lessons on the bones, muscles, and nerves of the legs; and much the same thing may be said of the proposal to preface the art of representing objects, by a nomenclature and definitions of the lines which they yield on analysis. these technicalities are alike repulsive and needless. they render the study distasteful at the very outset; and all with the view of teaching that which, in the course of practice, will be learnt unconsciously. just as the child incidentally gathers the meanings of ordinary words from the conversations going on around it, without the help of dictionaries; so, from the remarks on objects, pictures, and its own drawings, will it presently acquire, not only without effort but even pleasurably, those same scientific terms which, when taught at first, are a mystery and a weariness. if any dependence is to be placed on the general principles of education that have been laid down, the process of learning to draw should be throughout continuous with those efforts of early childhood, described above as so worthy of encouragement. by the time that the voluntary practice thus initiated has given some steadiness of hand, and some tolerable ideas of proportion, there will have arisen a vague notion of body as presenting its three dimensions in perspective. and when, after sundry abortive, chinese-like attempts to render this appearance on paper, there has grown up a pretty clear perception of the thing to be done, and a desire to do it, a first lesson in empirical perspective may be given by means of the apparatus occasionally used in explaining perspective as a science. this sounds alarming; but the experiment is both comprehensible and interesting to any boy or girl of ordinary intelligence. a plate of glass so framed as to stand vertically on the table, being placed before the pupil, and a book or like simple object laid on the other side of it, he is requested, while keeping the eye in one position, to make ink-dots on the glass so that they may coincide with, or hide, the corners of this object. he is next told to join these dots by lines; on doing which he perceives that the lines he makes hide, or coincide with, the outlines of the object. and then by putting a sheet of paper on the other side of the glass, it is made manifest to him that the lines he has thus drawn represent the object as he saw it. they not only look like it, but he perceives that they must be like it, because he made them agree with its outlines; and by removing the paper he can convince himself that they do agree with its outlines. the fact is new and striking; and serves him as an experimental demonstration, that lines of certain lengths, placed in certain directions on a plane, can represent lines of other lengths, and having other directions, in space. by gradually changing the position of the object, he may be led to observe how some lines shorten and disappear, while others come into sight and lengthen. the convergence of parallel lines, and, indeed, all the leading facts of perspective, may, from time to time, be similarly illustrated to him. if he has been duly accustomed to self-help, he will gladly, when it is suggested, attempt to draw one of these outlines on paper, by the eye only; and it may soon be made an exciting aim to produce, unassisted, a representation as like as he can to one subsequently sketched on the glass. thus, without the unintelligent, mechanical practice of copying other drawings, but by a method at once simple and attractive--rational, yet not abstract--a familiarity with the linear appearances of things, and a faculty of rendering them, may be step by step acquired. to which advantages add these:--that even thus early the pupil learns, almost unconsciously, the true theory of a picture (namely, that it is a delineation of objects as they appear when projected on a plane placed between them and the eye); and that when he reaches a fit age for commencing scientific perspective, he is already thoroughly acquainted with the facts which form its logical basis. as exhibiting a rational mode of conveying primary conceptions in geometry, we cannot do better than quote the following passage from mr. wyse:-- "a child has been in the habit of using cubes for arithmetic; let him use them also for the elements of geometry. i would begin with solids, the reverse of the usual plan. it saves all the difficulty of absurd definitions, and bad explanations on points, lines, and surfaces, which are nothing but abstractions.... a cube presents many of the principal elements of geometry; it at once exhibits points, straight lines, parallel lines, angles, parallelograms, etc., etc. these cubes are divisible into various parts. the pupil has already been familiarised with such divisions in numeration, and he now proceeds to a comparison of their several parts, and of the relation of these parts to each other.... from thence he advances to globes, which furnish him with elementary notions of the circle, of curves generally, etc., etc. "being tolerably familiar with solids, he may now substitute planes. the transition may be made very easy. let the cube, for instance, be cut into thin divisions, and placed on paper; he will then see as many plane rectangles as he has divisions; so with all the others. globes may be treated in the same manner; he will thus see how surfaces really are generated, and be enabled to abstract them with facility in every solid. "he has thus acquired the alphabet and reading of geometry. he now proceeds to write it. "the simplest operation, and therefore the first, is merely to place these planes on a piece of paper, and pass the pencil round them. when this has been frequently done, the plane may be put at a little distance, and the child required to copy it, and so on." a stock of geometrical conceptions having been obtained, in some such manner as this recommended by mr. wyse, a further step may be taken, by introducing the practice of testing the correctness of figures drawn by eye: thus both exciting an ambition to make them exact, and continually illustrating the difficulty of fulfilling that ambition. there can be little doubt that geometry had its origin (as, indeed, the word implies) in the methods discovered by artizans and others, of making accurate measurements for the foundations of buildings, areas of inclosures, and the like; and that its truths came to be treasured up, merely with a view to their immediate utility. they would be introduced to the pupil under analogous relationships. in cutting out pieces for his card-houses, in drawing ornamental diagrams for colouring, and in those various instructive occupations which an inventive teacher will lead him into, he may for a length of time be advantageously left, like the primitive builder, to tentative processes; and so will learn through experience the difficulty of achieving his aims by the unaided senses. when, having meanwhile undergone a valuable discipline of the perceptions, he has reached a fit age for using a pair of compasses, he will, while duly appreciating these as enabling him to verify his ocular guesses, be still hindered by the imperfections of the approximative method. in this stage he may be left for a further period: partly as being yet too young for anything higher; partly because it is desirable that he should be made to feel still more strongly the want of systematic contrivances. if the acquisition of knowledge is to be made continuously interesting; and if, in the early civilisation of the child, as in the early civilisation of the race, science is valued only as ministering to art; it is manifest that the proper preliminary to geometry, is a long practice in those constructive processes which geometry will facilitate. observe that here, too, nature points the way. children show a strong propensity to cut out things in paper, to make, to build--a propensity which, if encouraged and directed, will not only prepare the way for scientific conceptions, but will develop those powers of manipulation in which most people are so deficient. when the observing and inventive faculties have attained the requisite power, the pupil may be introduced to empirical geometry; that is--geometry dealing with methodical solutions, but not with the demonstrations of them. like all other transitions in education, this should be made not formally but incidentally; and the relationship to constructive art should still be maintained. to make, out of cardboard, a tetrahedron like one given to him, is a problem which will interest the pupil and serve as a convenient starting-point. in attempting this, he finds it needful to draw four equilateral triangles arranged in special positions. being unable in the absence of an exact method to do this accurately, he discovers on putting the triangles into their respective positions, that he cannot make their sides fit; and that their angles do not meet at the apex. he may now be shown how, by describing a couple of circles, each of these triangles may be drawn with perfect correctness and without guessing; and after his failure he will value the information. having thus helped him to the solution of his first problem, with the view of illustrating the nature of geometrical methods, he is in future to be left to solve the questions put to him as best he can. to bisect a line, to erect a perpendicular, to describe a square, to bisect an angle, to draw a line parallel to a given line, to describe a hexagon, are problems which a little patience will enable him to find out. and from these he may be led on step by step to more complex questions: all of which, under judicious management, he will puzzle through unhelped. doubtless, many of those brought up under the old regime, will look upon this assertion sceptically. we speak from facts, however; and those neither few nor special. we have seen a class of boys become so interested in making out solutions to such problems, as to look forward to their geometry-lesson as a chief event of the week. within the last month, we have heard of one girl's school, in which some of the young ladies voluntarily occupy themselves with geometrical questions out of school-hours; and of another, where they not only do this, but where one of them is begging for problems to find out during the holidays: both which facts we state on the authority of the teacher. strong proofs, these, of the practicability and the immense advantage of self-development! a branch of knowledge which, as commonly taught, is dry and even repulsive, is thus, by following the method of nature, made extremely interesting and profoundly beneficial. we say profoundly beneficial, because the effects are not confined to the gaining of geometrical facts, but often revolutionise the whole state of mind. it has repeatedly occurred that those who have been stupefied by the ordinary school-drill--by its abstract formulas, its wearisome tasks, its cramming--have suddenly had their intellects roused by thus ceasing to make them passive recipients, and inducing them to become active discoverers. the discouragement caused by bad teaching having been diminished by a little sympathy, and sufficient perseverance excited to achieve a first success, there arises a revulsion of feeling affecting the whole nature. they no longer find themselves incompetent; they, too, can do something. and gradually as success follows success, the incubus of despair disappears, and they attack the difficulties of their other studies with a courage insuring conquest. a few weeks after the foregoing remarks were originally published, professor tyndall in a lecture at the royal institution "on the importance of the study of physics as a branch of education," gave some conclusive evidence to the same effect. his testimony, based on personal observation, is of such great value that we cannot refrain from quoting it. here it is. "one of the duties which fell to my share, during the period to which i have referred, was the instruction of a class in mathematics, and i usually found that euclid and the ancient geometry generally, when addressed to the understanding, formed a very attractive study for youth. but it was my habitual practice to withdraw the boys from the routine of the book, and to appeal to their self-power in the treatment of questions not comprehended in that routine. at first, the change from the beaten track usually excited a little aversion: the youth felt like a child amid strangers; but in no single instance have i found this aversion to continue. when utterly disheartened, i have encouraged the boy by that anecdote of newton, where he attributes the difference between him and other men, mainly to his own patience; or of mirabeau, when he ordered his servant, who had stated something to be impossible, never to use that stupid word again. thus cheered, he has returned to his task with a smile, which perhaps had something of doubt in it, but which, nevertheless, evinced a resolution to try again. i have seen the boy's eye brighten, and at length, with a pleasure of which the ecstasy of archimedes was but a simple expansion, heard him exclaim, 'i have it, sir.' the consciousness of self-power, thus awakened, was of immense value; and animated by it, the progress of the class was truly astonishing. it was often my custom to give the boys their choice of pursuing their propositions in the book, or of trying their strength at others not to be found there. never in a single instance have i known the book to be chosen. i was ever ready to assist when i deemed help needful, but my offers of assistance were habitually declined. the boys had tasted the sweets of intellectual conquest and demanded victories of their own. i have seen their diagrams scratched on the walls, cut into the beams upon the play ground, and numberless other illustrations of the living interest they took in the subject. for my own part, as far as experience in teaching goes, i was a mere fledgling: i knew nothing of the rules of pedagogics, as the germans name it; but i adhered to the spirit indicated at the commencement of this discourse, and endeavoured to make geometry a _means_ and not a _branch_ of education. the experiment was successful, and some of the most delightful hours of my existence have been spent in marking the vigorous and cheerful expansion of mental power, when appealed to in the manner i have described." this empirical geometry which presents an endless series of problems, should be continued along with other studies for years; and may throughout be advantageously accompanied by those concrete applications of its principles which serve as its preliminary. after the cube, the octahedron, and the various forms of pyramid and prism have been mastered, may come the more complex regular bodies--the dodecahedron and icosahedron--to construct which out of single pieces of cardboard, requires considerable ingenuity. from these, the transition may naturally be made to such modified forms of the regular bodies as are met with in crystals--the truncated cube, the cube with its dihedral as well as its solid angles truncated, the octahedron and the various prisms as similarly modified: in imitating which numerous forms assumed by different metals and salts, an acquaintance with the leading facts of mineralogy will be incidentally gained.[ ] after long continuance in exercises of this kind, rational geometry, as may be supposed, presents no obstacles. habituated to contemplate relationships of form and quantity, and vaguely perceiving from time to time the necessity of certain results as reached by certain means, the pupil comes to regard the demonstrations of euclid as the missing supplements to his familiar problems. his well-disciplined faculties enable him easily to master its successive propositions, and to appreciate their value; and he has the occasional gratification of finding some of his own methods proved to be true. thus he enjoys what is to the unprepared a dreary task. it only remains to add, that his mind will presently arrive at a fit condition for that most valuable of all exercises for the reflective faculties--the making of original demonstrations. such theorems as those appended to the successive books of the messrs. chambers's euclid, will soon become practicable to him; and in proving them, the process of self-development will be not intellectual only, but moral. to continue these suggestions much further, would be to write a detailed treatise on education, which we do not purpose. the foregoing outlines of plans for exercising the perceptions in early childhood, for conducting object-lessons, for teaching drawing and geometry, must be considered simply as illustrations of the method dictated by the general principles previously specified. we believe that on examination they will be found not only to progress from the simple to the complex, from the indefinite to the definite, from the concrete to the abstract, from the empirical to the rational; but to satisfy the further requirements, that education shall be a repetition of civilisation in little, that it shall be as much as possible a process of self-evolution, and that it shall be pleasurable. the fulfilment of all these conditions by one type of method, tends alike to verify the conditions, and to prove that type of the method the right one. mark too, that this method is the logical outcome of the tendency characterising all modern improvements in tuition--that it is but an adoption in full of the natural system which they adopt partially--that it displays this complete adoption of the natural system, both by conforming to the above principles, and by following the suggestions which the unfolding mind itself gives: facilitating its spontaneous activities, and so aiding the developments which nature is busy with. thus there seems abundant reason to conclude, that the mode of procedure above exemplified, closely approximates to the true one. * * * * * a few paragraphs must be added in further inculcation of the two general principles, that are alike the most important and the least attended to; namely, the principle that throughout youth, as in early childhood and in maturity, the process shall be one of self-instruction; and the obverse principle, that the mental action induced shall be throughout intrinsically grateful. if progression from simple to complex, from indefinite to definite, and from concrete to abstract, be considered the essential requirements as dictated by abstract psychology; then do the requirements that knowledge shall be self-mastered, and pleasurably mastered, become tests by which we may judge whether the dictates of abstract psychology are being obeyed. if the first embody the leading generalisations of the _science_ of mental growth, the last are the chief canons of the _art_ of fostering mental growth. for manifestly, if the steps in our _curriculum_ are so arranged that they can be successively ascended by the pupil himself with little or no help, they must correspond with the stages of evolution in his faculties; and manifestly, if the successive achievements of these steps are intrinsically gratifying to him, it follows that they require no more than a normal exercise of his powers. but making education a process of self-evolution, has other advantages than this of keeping our lessons in the right order. in the first place, it guarantees a vividness and permanency of impression which the usual methods can never produce. any piece of knowledge which the pupil has himself acquired--any problem which he has himself solved, becomes, by virtue of the conquest, much more thoroughly his than it could else be. the preliminary activity of mind which his success implies, the concentration of thought necessary to it, and the excitement consequent on his triumph, conspire to register the facts in his memory in a way that no mere information heard from a teacher, or read in a school-book, can be registered. even if he fails, the tension to which his faculties have been wound up, insures his remembrance of the solution when given to him, better than half-a-dozen repetitions would. observe, again, that this discipline necessitates a continuous organisation of the knowledge he acquires. it is in the very nature of facts and inferences assimilated in this normal manner, that they successively become the premises of further conclusions--the means of solving further questions. the solution of yesterday's problem helps the pupil in mastering to-day's. thus the knowledge is turned into faculty as soon as it is taken in, and forthwith aids in the general function of thinking--does not lie merely written on the pages of an internal library, as when rote-learnt. mark further, the moral culture which this constant self-help involves. courage in attacking difficulties, patient concentration of the attention, perseverance through failures--these are characteristics which after-life specially requires; and these are characteristics which this system of making the mind work for its food specially produces. that it is thoroughly practicable to carry out instruction after this fashion, we can ourselves testify; having been in youth thus led to solve the comparatively complex problems of perspective. and that leading teachers have been tending in this direction, is indicated alike in the saying of fellenberg, that "the individual, independent activity of the pupil is of much greater importance than the ordinary busy officiousness of many who assume the office of educators;" in the opinion of horace mann, that "unfortunately education amongst us at present consists too much in _telling_, not in _training_;" and in the remark of m. marcel, that "what the learner discovers by mental exertion is better known than what is told to him." similarly with the correlative requirement, that the method of culture pursued shall be one productive of an intrinsically happy activity,--an activity not happy because of extrinsic rewards to be obtained, but because of its own healthfulness. conformity to this requirement, besides preventing us from thwarting the normal process of evolution, incidentally secures positive benefits of importance. unless we are to return to an ascetic morality (or rather _im_-morality) the maintenance of youthful happiness must be considered as in itself a worthy aim. not to dwell upon this, however, we go on to remark that a pleasurable state of feeling is far more favourable to intellectual action than a state of indifference or disgust. every one knows that things read, heard, or seen with interest, are better remembered than things read, heard, or seen with apathy. in the one case the faculties appealed to are actively occupied with the subject presented; in the other they are inactively occupied with it, and the attention is continually drawn away by more attractive thoughts. hence the impressions are respectively strong and weak. moreover, to the intellectual listlessness which a pupil's lack of interest in any study involves, must be added the paralysing fear of consequences. this, by distracting his attention, increases the difficulty he finds in bringing his faculties to bear upon facts that are repugnant to them. clearly, therefore, the efficiency of tuition will, other things equal, be proportionate to the gratification with which tasks are performed. it should be considered also, that grave moral consequences depend upon the habitual pleasure or pain which daily lessons produce. no one can compare the faces and manners of two boys--the one made happy by mastering interesting subjects, and the other made miserable by disgust with his studies, by consequent inability, by cold looks, by threats, by punishment--without seeing that the disposition of the one is being benefited and that of the other injured. whoever has marked the effects of success and failure upon the mind, and the power of the mind over the body, will see that in the one case both temper and health are favourably affected, while in the other there is danger of permanent moroseness, or permanent timidity, and even of permanent constitutional depression. there remains yet another indirect result of no small moment. the relationship between teachers and their pupils is, other things equal, rendered friendly and influential, or antagonistic and powerless, according as the system of culture produces happiness or misery. human beings are at the mercy of their associated ideas. a daily minister of pain cannot fail to be regarded with secret dislike; and if he causes no emotions but painful ones, will inevitably be hated. conversely, he who constantly aids children to their ends, hourly provides them with the satisfactions of conquest, hourly encourages them through their difficulties and sympathises in their successes, will be liked; nay, if his behaviour is consistent throughout, must be loved. and when we remember how efficient and benign is the control of a master who is felt to be a friend, when compared with the control of one who is looked upon with aversion, or at best indifference, we may infer that the indirect advantages of conducting education on the happiness principle do not fall far short of the direct ones. to all who question the possibility of acting out the system here advocated, we reply as before, that not only does theory point to it, but experience commends it. to the many verdicts of distinguished teachers who since pestalozzi's time have testified this, may be here added that of professor pillans, who asserts that "where young people are taught as they ought to be, they are quite as happy in school as at play, seldom less delighted, nay, often more, with the well-directed exercise of their mental energies than with that of their muscular powers." as suggesting a final reason for making education a process of self-instruction, and by consequence a process of pleasurable instruction, we may advert to the fact that, in proportion as it is made so, is there a probability that it will not cease when schooldays end. as long as the acquisition of knowledge is rendered habitually repugnant, so long will there be a prevailing tendency to discontinue it when free from the coercion of parents and masters. and when the acquisition of knowledge has been rendered habitually gratifying, then will there be as prevailing a tendency to continue, without superintendence, that self-culture previously carried on under superintendence. these results are inevitable. while the laws of mental association remain true--while men dislike the things and places that suggest painful recollections, and delight in those which call to mind by-gone pleasures--painful lessons will make knowledge repulsive, and pleasurable lessons will make it attractive. the men to whom in boyhood information came in dreary tasks along with threats of punishment, and who were never led into habits of independent inquiry, are unlikely to be students in after years; while those to whom it came in the natural forms, at the proper times, and who remember its facts as not only interesting in themselves, but as the occasions of a long series of gratifying successes, are likely to continue through life that self-instruction commenced in youth. [ ] those who seek aid in carrying out the system of culture above described, will find it in a little work entitled _inventional geometry_; published by j. and c. mozley, paternoster row, london. moral education the greatest defect in our programmes of education is entirely overlooked. while much is being done in the detailed improvement of our systems in respect both of matter and manner, the most pressing desideratum has not yet been even recognised as a desideratum. to prepare the young for the duties of life is tacitly admitted to be the end which parents and schoolmasters should have in view; and happily, the value of the things taught, and the goodness of the methods followed in teaching them, are now ostensibly judged by their fitness to this end. the propriety of substituting for an exclusively classical training, a training in which the modern languages shall have a share, is argued on this ground. the necessity of increasing the amount of science is urged for like reasons. but though some care is taken to fit youth of both sexes for society and citizenship, no care whatever is taken to fit them for the position of parents. while it is seen that for the purpose of gaining a livelihood, an elaborate preparation is needed, it appears to be thought that for the bringing up of children, no preparation whatever is needed. while many years are spent by a boy in gaining knowledge of which the chief value is that it constitutes "the education of a gentleman;" and while many years are spent by a girl in those decorative acquirements which fit her for evening parties; not an hour is spent by either in preparation for that gravest of all responsibilities--the management of a family. is it that this responsibility is but a remote contingency? on the contrary, it is sure to devolve on nine out of ten. is it that the discharge of it is easy? certainly not: of all functions which the adult has to fulfil, this is the most difficult. is it that each may be trusted by self-instruction to fit himself, or herself, for the office of parent? no: not only is the need for such self-instruction unrecognised, but the complexity of the subject renders it the one of all others in which self-instruction is least likely to succeed. no rational plea can be put forward for leaving the art of education out of our _curriculum_. whether as bearing on the happiness of parents themselves, or whether as affecting the characters and lives of their children and remote descendants, we must admit that a knowledge of the right methods of juvenile culture, physical, intellectual, and moral, is a knowledge of extreme importance. this topic should be the final one in the course of instruction passed through by each man and woman. as physical maturity is marked by the ability to produce offspring, so mental maturity is marked by the ability to train those offspring. _the subject which involves all other subjects, and therefore the subject in which education should culminate, is the theory and practice of education._ in the absence of this preparation, the management of children, and more especially the moral management, is lamentably bad. parents either never think about the matter at all, or else their conclusions are crude and inconsistent. in most cases, and especially on the part of mothers, the treatment adopted on every occasion is that which the impulse of the moment prompts: it springs not from any reasoned-out conviction as to what will most benefit the child, but merely expresses the dominant parental feelings, whether good or ill; and varies from hour to hour as these feelings vary. or if the dictates of passion are supplemented by any definite doctrines and methods, they are those handed down from the past, or those suggested by the remembrances of childhood, or those adopted from nurses and servants--methods devised not by the enlightenment, but by the ignorance, of the time. commenting on the chaotic state of opinion and practice relative to family government, richter writes:-- "if the secret variances of a large class of ordinary fathers were brought to light, and laid down as a plan of studies and reading, catalogued for a moral education, they would run somewhat after this fashion:--in the first hour 'pure morality must be read to the child, either by myself or the tutor;' in the second, 'mixed morality, or that which may be applied to one's own advantage;' in the third, 'do you not see that your father does so and so?' in the fourth, 'you are little, and this is only fit for grown-up people;' in the fifth, 'the chief matter is that you should succeed in the world, and become something in the state;' in the sixth, 'not the temporary, but the eternal, determines the worth of a man;' in the seventh, 'therefore rather suffer injustice, and be kind;' in the eighth, 'but defend yourself bravely if any one attack you;' in the ninth, 'do not make a noise, dear child;' in the tenth, 'a boy must not sit so quiet;' in the eleventh, 'you must obey your parents better;' in the twelfth, 'and educate yourself.' so by the hourly change of his principles, the father conceals their untenableness and onesidedness. as for his wife, she is neither like him, nor yet like that harlequin who came on to the stage with a bundle of papers under each arm, and answered to the inquiry, what he had under his right arm, 'orders,' and to what he had under his left arm, 'counter-orders.' but the mother might be much better compared to a giant briareus, who had a hundred arms, and a bundle of papers under each." this state of things is not to be readily changed. generations must pass before a great amelioration of it can be expected. like political constitutions, educational systems are not made, but grow; and within brief periods growth is insensible. slow, however, as must be any improvement, even that improvement implies the use of means; and among the means is discussion. * * * * * we are not among those who believe in lord palmerston's dogma, that "all children are born good." on the whole, the opposite dogma, untenable as it is, seems to us less wide of the truth. nor do we agree with those who think that, by skilful discipline, children may be made altogether what they should be. contrariwise, we are satisfied that though imperfections of nature may be diminished by wise management, they cannot be removed by it. the notion that an ideal humanity might be forthwith produced by a perfect system of education, is near akin to that implied in the poems of shelley, that would mankind give up their old institutions and prejudices, all the evils in the world would at once disappear: neither notion being acceptable to such as have dispassionately studied human affairs. nevertheless, we may fitly sympathise with those who entertain these too sanguine hopes. enthusiasm, pushed even to fanaticism, is a useful motive-power--perhaps an indispensable one. it is clear that the ardent politician would never undergo the labours and make the sacrifices he does, did he not believe that the reform he fights for is the one thing needful. but for his conviction that drunkenness is the root of all social evils, the teetotaler would agitate far less energetically. in philanthropy, as in other things, great advantage results from division of labour; and that there may be division of labour, each class of philanthropists must be more or less subordinated to its function--must have an exaggerated faith in its work. hence, of those who regard education, intellectual or moral, as the panacea, we may say that their undue expectations are not without use; and that perhaps it is part of the beneficent order of things that their confidence cannot be shaken. even were it true, however, that by some possible system of moral control, children could be moulded into the desired form; and even could every parent be indoctrinated with this system, we should still be far from achieving the object in view. it is forgotten that the carrying out of any such system presupposes, on the part of adults, a degree of intelligence, of goodness, of self-control, possessed by no one. the error made by those who discuss questions of domestic discipline, lies in ascribing all the faults and difficulties to the children, and none to the parents. the current assumption respecting family government, as respecting national government, is, that the virtues are with the rulers and the vices with the ruled. judging by educational theories, men and women are entirely transfigured in their relations to offspring. the citizens we do business with, the people we meet in the world, we know to be very imperfect creatures. in the daily scandals, in the quarrels of friends, in bankruptcy disclosures, in lawsuits, in police reports, we have constantly thrust before us the pervading selfishness, dishonesty, brutality. yet when we criticise nursery-management and canvass the misbehaviour of juveniles, we habitually take for granted that these culpable persons are free from moral delinquency in the treatment of their boys and girls! so far is this from the truth, that we do not hesitate to blame parental misconduct for a great part of the domestic disorder commonly ascribed to the perversity of children. we do not assert this of the more sympathetic and self-restrained, among whom we hope most of our readers may be classed; but we assert it of the mass. what kind of moral culture is to be expected from a mother who, time after time, angrily shakes her infant because it will not suck; which we once saw a mother do? how much sense of justice is likely to be instilled by a father who, on having his attention drawn by a scream to the fact that his child's finger is jammed between the window-sash and sill, begins to beat the child instead of releasing it? yet that there are such fathers is testified to us by an eye-witness. or, to take a still stronger case, also vouched for by direct testimony--what are the educational prospects of the boy who, on being taken home with a dislocated thigh, is saluted with a castigation? it is true that these are extreme instances--instances exhibiting in human beings that blind instinct which impels brutes to destroy the weakly and injured of their own race. but extreme though they are, they typify feelings and conduct daily observable in many families. who has not repeatedly seen a child slapped by nurse or parent for a fretfulness probably resulting from bodily derangement? who, when watching a mother snatch up a fallen little one, has not often traced, both in the rough manner and in the sharply-uttered exclamation--"you stupid little thing!"--an irascibility foretelling endless future squabbles? is there not in the harsh tones in which a father bids his children be quiet, evidence of a deficient fellow-feeling with them? are not the constant, and often quite needless, thwartings that the young experience--the injunctions to sit still, which an active child cannot obey without suffering great nervous irritation, the commands not to look out of the window when travelling by railway, which on a child of any intelligence entails serious deprivation--are not these thwartings, we ask, signs of a terrible lack of sympathy? the truth is, that the difficulties of moral education are necessarily of dual origin--necessarily result from the combined faults of parents and children. if hereditary transmission is a law of nature, as every naturalist knows it to be, and as our daily remarks and current proverbs admit it to be; then, on the average of cases, the defects of children mirror the defects of their parents;--on the average of cases, we say, because, complicated as the results are by the transmitted traits of remoter ancestors, the correspondence is not special but only general. and if, on the average of cases, this inheritance of defects exists, then the evil passions which parents have to check in their children, imply like evil passions in themselves: hidden, it may be, from the public eye, or perhaps obscured by other feelings, but still there. evidently, therefore, the general practice of any ideal system of discipline is hopeless: parents are not good enough. moreover, even were there methods by which the desired end could be at once effected; and even had fathers and mothers sufficient insight, sympathy, and self-command to employ these methods consistently; it might still be contended that it would be of no use to reform family-government faster than other things are reformed. what is it that we aim to do? is it not that education of whatever kind has for its proximate end to prepare a child for the business of life--to produce a citizen who, while he is well conducted, is also able to make his way in the world? and does not making his way in the world (by which we mean, not the acquirement of wealth, but of the funds requisite for bringing up a family)--does not this imply a certain fitness for the world as it now is? and if by any system of culture an ideal human being could be produced, is it not doubtful whether he would be fit for the world as it now is? may we not, on the contrary, suspect that his too keen sense of rectitude, and too elevated standard of conduct, would make life intolerable or even impossible? and however admirable the result might be, considered individually, would it not be self-defeating in so far as society and posterity are concerned? there is much reason for thinking that as in a nation so in a family, the kind of government is, on the whole, about as good as the general state of human nature permits it to be. we may argue that in the one case, as in the other, the average character of the people determines the quality of the control exercised. in both cases it may be inferred that amelioration of the average character leads to an amelioration of system; and further, that were it possible to ameliorate the system without the average character being first ameliorated, evil rather than good would follow. such degree of harshness as children now experience from their parents and teachers, may be regarded as but a preparation for that greater harshness which they will meet on entering the world. and it may be urged that were it possible for parents and teachers to treat them with perfect equity and entire sympathy, it would but intensify the sufferings which the selfishness of men must, in after life, inflict on them.[ ] "but does not this prove too much?" some one will ask. "if no system of moral training can forthwith make children what they should be; if, even were there a system that would do this, existing parents are too imperfect to carry it out; and if even could such a system be successfully carried out, its results would be disastrously incongruous with the present state of society; does it not follow that to reform the system now in use is neither practicable nor desirable?" no. it merely follows that reform in domestic government must go on, _pari passu_, with other reforms. it merely follows that methods of discipline neither can be nor should be ameliorated, except by instalments. it merely follows that the dictates of abstract rectitude will, in practice, inevitably be subordinated by the present state of human nature--by the imperfections alike of children, of parents, and of society; and can only be better fulfilled as the general character becomes better. "at any rate, then," may rejoin our critic, "it is clearly useless to set up any ideal standard of family discipline. there can be no advantage in elaborating and recommending methods that are in advance of the time." again we contend for the contrary. just as in the case of political government, though pure rectitude may be at present impracticable, it is requisite to know where the right lies, in order that the changes we make may be _towards_ the right instead of _away_ from it; so, in the case of domestic government, an ideal must be upheld, that there may be gradual approximations to it. we need fear no evil consequences from the maintenance of such an ideal. on the average the constitutional conservatism of mankind is strong enough to prevent too rapid a change. things are so organised that until men have grown up to the level of a higher belief, they cannot receive it: nominally, they may hold it, but not virtually. and even when the truth gets recognised, the obstacles to conformity with it are so persistent as to outlive the patience of philanthropists and even of philosophers. we may be sure, therefore, that the difficulties in the way of a normal government of children, will always put an adequate check upon the efforts to realise it. with these preliminary explanations, let us go on to consider the true aims and methods of moral education. after a few pages devoted to the settlement of general principles, during the perusal of which we bespeak the reader's patience, we shall aim by illustrations to make clear the right methods of parental behaviour in the hourly occurring difficulties of family government. * * * * * when a child falls, or runs its head against the table, it suffers a pain, the remembrance of which tends to make it more careful; and by repetition of such experiences, it is eventually disciplined into proper guidance of its movements. if it lays hold of the fire-bars, thrusts its hand into a candle-flame, or spills boiling water on any part of its skin, the resulting burn or scald is a lesson not easily forgotten. so deep an impression is produced by one or two events of this kind, that no persuasion will afterwards induce it thus to disregard the laws of its constitution. now in these cases, nature illustrates to us in the simplest way, the true theory and practice of moral discipline--a theory and practice which, however much they may seem to the superficial like those commonly received, we shall find on examination to differ from them very widely. observe, first, that in bodily injuries and their penalties we have misconduct and its consequences reduced to their simplest forms. though, according to their popular acceptations, _right_ and _wrong_ are words scarcely applicable to actions that have none but direct bodily effects; yet whoever considers the matter will see that such actions must be as much classifiable under these heads as any other actions. from whatever assumption they start, all theories of morality agree that conduct whose total results, immediate and remote, are beneficial, is good conduct; while conduct whose total results, immediate and remote, are injurious, is bad conduct. the _ultimate_ standards by which all men judge of behaviour, are the resulting happiness or misery. we consider drunkenness wrong because of the physical degeneracy and accompanying moral evils entailed on the drunkard and his dependents. did theft give pleasure both to taker and loser, we should not find it in our catalogue of sins. were it conceivable that kind actions multiplied human sufferings, we should condemn them--should not consider them kind. it needs but to read the first newspaper-leader, or listen to any conversation on social affairs, to see that acts of parliament, political movements, philanthropic agitations, in common with the doings of individuals are judged by their anticipated results in augmenting the pleasures or pains of men. and if on analysing all secondary superinduced ideas, we find these to be our final tests of right and wrong, we cannot refuse to class bodily conduct as right or wrong according to the beneficial or detrimental results produced. note, in the second place, the character of the punishments by which these physical transgressions are prevented. punishments, we call them, in the absence of a better word; for they are not punishments in the literal sense. they are not artificial and unnecessary inflictions of pain; but are simply the beneficent checks to actions that are essentially at variance with bodily welfare--checks in the absence of which life would be quickly destroyed by bodily injuries. it is the peculiarity of these penalties, if we must so call them, that they are simply the _unavoidable consequences_ of the deeds which they follow: they are nothing more than the _inevitable reactions_ entailed by the child's actions. let it be further borne in mind that these painful reactions are proportionate to the transgressions. a slight accident brings a slight pain; a more serious one, a severer pain. it is not ordained that an urchin who tumbles over the doorstep, shall suffer in excess of the amount necessary; with the view of making it still more cautious than the necessary suffering will make it. but from its daily experience it is left to learn the greater or less penalties of greater or less errors; and to behave accordingly. and then mark, lastly, that these natural reactions which follow the child's wrong actions, are constant, direct, unhesitating, and not to be escaped. no threats; but a silent, rigorous performance. if a child runs a pin into its finger, pain follows. if it does it again, there is again the same result: and so on perpetually. in all its dealing with inorganic nature it finds this unswerving persistence, which listens to no excuse, and from which there is no appeal; and very soon recognising this stern though beneficent discipline, it becomes extremely careful not to transgress. still more significant will these general truths appear, when we remember that they hold throughout adult life as well as throughout infantine life. it is by an experimentally-gained knowledge of the natural consequences, that men and women are checked when they go wrong. after home-education has ceased, and when there are no longer parents and teachers to forbid this or that kind of conduct, there comes into play a discipline like that by which the young child is trained to self-guidance. if the youth entering on the business of life idles away his time and fulfils slowly or unskilfully the duties entrusted to him, there by and by follows the natural penalty: he is discharged, and left to suffer for awhile the evils of a relative poverty. on the unpunctual man, ever missing his appointments of business and pleasure, there continually fall the consequent inconveniences, losses, and deprivations. the tradesmen who charges too high a rate of profit, loses his customers, and so is checked in his greediness. diminishing practice teaches the inattentive doctor to bestow more trouble on his patients. the too credulous creditor and the over-sanguine speculator, alike learn by the difficulties which rashness entails on them, the necessity of being more cautious in their engagements. and so throughout the life of every citizen. in the quotation so often made _apropos_ of such cases--"the burnt child dreads the fire"--we see not only that the analogy between this social discipline and nature's early discipline of infants is universally recognised; but we also see an implied conviction that this discipline is of the most efficient kind. nay indeed, this conviction is more than implied; it is distinctly stated. every one has heard others confess that only by "dearly bought experience" had they been induced to give up some bad or foolish course of conduct formerly pursued. every one has heard, in the criticism passed on the doings of this spendthrift or the other schemer, the remark that advice was useless, and that nothing but "bitter experience" would produce any effect: nothing, that is, but suffering the unavoidable consequences. and if further proof be needed that the natural reaction is not only the most efficient penalty, but that no humanly-devised penalty can replace it, we have such further proof in the notorious ill-success of our various penal systems. out of the many methods of criminal discipline that have been proposed and legally enforced, none have answered the expectations of their advocates. artificial punishments have failed to produce reformation; and have in many cases increased the criminality. the only successful reformatories are those privately-established ones which approximate their regime to the method of nature--which do little more than administer the natural consequences of criminal conduct: diminishing the criminal's liberty of action as much as is needful for the safety of society, and requiring him to maintain himself while living under this restraint. thus we see, both that the discipline by which the young child is taught to regulate its movements is the discipline by which the great mass of adults are kept in order, and more or less improved; and that the discipline humanly-devised for the worst adults, fails when it diverges from this divinely-ordained discipline, and begins to succeed on approximating to it. * * * * * have we not here, then, the guiding principle of moral education? must we not infer that the system so beneficent in its effects during infancy and maturity, will be equally beneficent throughout youth? can any one believe that the method which answers so well in the first and the last divisions of life, will not answer in the intermediate division? is it not manifest that as "ministers and interpreters of nature" it is the function of parents to see that their children habitually experience the true consequences of their conduct--the natural reactions: neither warding them off, nor intensifying them, nor putting artificial consequences in place of them? no unprejudiced reader will hesitate in his assent. probably, however, not a few will contend that already most parents do this--that the punishments they inflict are, in the majority of cases, the true consequences of ill-conduct--that parental anger, venting itself in harsh words and deeds, is the result of a child's transgression--and that, in the suffering, physical or moral, which the child is subject to, it experiences the natural reaction of its misbehaviour. along with much error this assertion contains some truth. it is unquestionable that the displeasure of fathers and mothers is a true consequence of juvenile delinquency; and that the manifestation of it is a normal check upon such delinquency. the scoldings, and threats, and blows, which a passionate parent visits on offending little ones, are doubtless effects actually drawn from such a parent by their offences; and so are, in some sort, to be considered as among the natural reactions of their wrong actions. nor are we prepared to say that these modes of treatment are not relatively right--right, that is, in relation to the uncontrollable children of ill-controlled adults; and right in relation to a state of society in which such ill-controlled adults make up the mass of the people. as already suggested, educational systems, like political and other institutions, are generally as good as the state of human nature permits. the barbarous children of barbarous parents are probably only to be restrained by the barbarous methods which such parents spontaneously employ; while submission to these barbarous methods is perhaps the best preparation such children can have for the barbarous society in which they are presently to play a part. conversely, the civilised members of a civilised society will spontaneously manifest their displeasure in less violent ways--will spontaneously use milder measures--measures strong enough for their better-natured children. thus it is true that, in so far as the expression of parental feeling is concerned, the principle of the natural reaction is always more or less followed. the system of domestic government ever gravitates towards its right form. but now observe two important facts. the first fact is that, in states of rapid transition like ours, which witness a continuous battle between old and new theories and old and new practices, the educational methods in use are apt to be considerably out of harmony with the times. in deference to dogmas fit only for the ages that uttered them, many parents inflict punishments that do violence to their own feelings, and so visit on their children _un_natural reactions; while other parents, enthusiastic in their hopes of immediate perfection, rush to the opposite extreme. the second fact is, that the discipline of chief value is not the experience of parental approbation or disapprobation; but it is the experience of those results which would ultimately flow from the conduct in the absence of parental opinion or interference. the truly instructive and salutary consequences are not those inflicted by parents when they take upon themselves to be nature's proxies; but they are those inflicted by nature herself. we will endeavour to make this distinction clear by a few illustrations, which, while they show what we mean by natural reactions as contrasted with artificial ones, will afford some practical suggestions. in every family where there are young children there daily occur cases of what mothers and servants call "making a litter." a child has had out its box of toys, and leaves them scattered about the floor. or a handful of flowers, brought in from a morning walk, is presently seen dispersed over tables and chairs. or a little girl, making doll's-clothes, disfigures the room with shreds. in most cases the trouble of rectifying this disorder falls anywhere but where it should. occurring in the nursery, the nurse herself, with many grumblings about "tiresome little things," undertakes the task; if below-stairs, the task usually devolves either on one of the elder children or on the housemaid: the transgressor being visited with nothing more than a scolding. in this very simple case, however, there are many parents wise enough to follow out, more or less consistently, the normal course--that of making the child itself collect the toys or shreds. the labour of putting things in order is the true consequence of having put them in disorder. every trader in his office, every wife in her household, has daily experience of this fact. and if education be a preparation for the business of life, then every child should also, from the beginning, have daily experience of this fact. if the natural penalty be met by refractory behaviour (which it may perhaps be where the system of moral discipline previously pursued has been bad), then the proper course is to let the child feel the ulterior reaction caused by its disobedience. having refused or neglected to pick up and put away the things it has scattered about, and having thereby entailed the trouble of doing this on some one else, the child should, on subsequent occasions, be denied the means of giving this trouble. when next it petitions for its toy-box, the reply of its mamma should be--"the last time you had your toys you left them lying on the floor, and jane had to pick them up. jane is too busy to pick up every day the things you leave about; and i cannot do it myself. so that, as you will not put away your toys when you have done with them, i cannot let you have them." this is obviously a natural consequence, neither increased nor lessened; and must be so recognised by a child. the penalty comes, too, at the moment when it is most keenly felt. a new-born desire is balked at the moment of anticipated gratification; and the strong impression so produced can scarcely fail to have an effect on the future conduct: an effect which, by consistent repetition, will do whatever can be done in curing the fault. add to which, that, by this method, a child is early taught the lesson which cannot be learnt too soon, that in this world of ours pleasures are rightly to be obtained only by labour. take another case. not long since we had frequently to hear the reprimands visited on a little girl who was scarcely ever ready in time for the daily walk. of eager disposition, and apt to become absorbed in the occupation of the moment, constance never thought of putting on her things till the rest were ready. the governess and the other children had almost invariably to wait; and from the mamma there almost invariably came the same scolding. utterly as this system failed, it never occurred to the mamma to let constance experience the natural penalty. nor, indeed, would she try it when it was suggested to her. in the world, unreadiness entails the loss of some advantage that would else have been gained: the train is gone; or the steam-boat is just leaving its moorings; or the best things in the market are sold; or all the good seats in the concert-room are filled. and every one, in cases perpetually occurring, may see that it is the prospective deprivations which prevent people from being too late. is not the inference obvious? should not the prospective deprivations control a child's conduct also? if constance is not ready at the appointed time, the natural result is that of being left behind, and losing her walk. and after having once or twice remained at home while the rest were enjoying themselves in the fields--after having felt that this loss of a much-prized gratification was solely due to want of promptitude; amendment would in all probability take place. at any rate, the measure would be more effective than that perpetual scolding which ends only in producing callousness. again, when children, with more than usual carelessness, break or lose the things given to them, the natural penalty--the penalty which makes grown-up persons more careful--is the consequent inconvenience. the lack of the lost or damaged article, and the cost of replacing it, are the experiences by which men and women are disciplined in these matters; and the experiences of children should be as much as possible assimilated to theirs. we do not refer to that early period at which toys are pulled to pieces in the process of learning their physical properties, and at which the results of carelessness cannot be understood; but to a later period, when the meaning and advantages of property are perceived. when a boy, old enough to possess a penknife, uses it so roughly as to snap the blade, or leaves it in the grass by some hedge-side where he was cutting a stick, a thoughtless parent, or some indulgent relative, will commonly forthwith buy him another, not seeing that, by doing this, a valuable lesson is prevented. in such a case, a father may properly explain that penknives cost money, and that to get money requires labour; that he cannot afford to purchase new penknives for one who loses or breaks them; and that until he sees evidence of greater carefulness he must decline to make good the loss. a parallel discipline will serve to check extravagance. these few familiar instances, here chosen because of the simplicity with which they illustrate our point, will make clear to every one the distinction between those natural penalties which we contend are the truly efficient ones, and those artificial penalties commonly substituted for them. before going on to exhibit the higher and subtler applications of the principle exemplified, let us note its many and great superiorities over the principle, or rather the empirical practice, which prevails in most families. one superiority is that the pursuance of it generates right conceptions of cause and effect; which by frequent and consistent experience are eventually rendered definite and complete. proper conduct in life is much better guaranteed when the good and evil consequences of actions are understood, than when they are merely believed on authority. a child who finds that disorderliness entails the trouble of putting things in order, or who misses a gratification from dilatoriness, or whose carelessness is followed by the want of some much-prized possession, not only suffers a keenly-felt consequence, but gains a knowledge of causation: both the one and the other being just like those which adult life will bring. whereas a child who in such cases receives a reprimand, or some factitious penalty, not only experiences a consequence for which it often cares very little, but misses that instruction respecting the essential natures of good and evil conduct, which it would else have gathered. it is a vice of the common system of artificial rewards and punishments, long since noticed by the clear-sighted, that by substituting for the natural results of misbehaviour certain tasks or castigations, it produces a radically wrong moral standard. having throughout infancy and boyhood always regarded parental or tutorial displeasure as the chief result of a forbidden action, the youth has gained an established association of ideas between such action and such displeasure, as cause and effect. hence when parents and tutors have abdicated, and their displeasure is not to be feared, the restraints on forbidden actions are in great measure removed: the true restraints, the natural reactions, having yet to be learnt by sad experience. as writes one who has had personal knowledge of this short-sighted system:--"young men let loose from school, particularly those whose parents have neglected to exert their influence, plunge into every description of extravagance; they know no rule of action--they are ignorant of the reasons for moral conduct--they have no foundation to rest upon--and until they have been severely disciplined by the world are extremely dangerous members of society." another great advantage of this natural discipline is, that it is a discipline of pure justice; and will be recognised as such by every child. whoso suffers nothing more than the evil which in the order of nature results from his own misbehaviour, is much less likely to think himself wrongly treated than if he suffers an artificially inflicted evil; and this will hold of children as of men. take the case of a boy who is habitually reckless of his clothes--scrambles through hedges without caution, or is utterly regardless of mud. if he is beaten, or sent to bed, he is apt to consider himself ill-used; and is more likely to brood over his injuries than to repent of his transgressions. but suppose he is required to rectify as far as possible the harm he has done--to clean off the mud with which he has covered himself, or to mend the tear as well as he can. will he not feel that the evil is one of his own producing? will he not while paying this penalty be continuously conscious of the connection between it and its cause? and will he not, spite his irritation, recognise more or less clearly the justice of the arrangement? if several lessons of this kind fail to produce amendment--if suits of clothes are prematurely spoiled--if the father, pursuing this same system of discipline, declines to spend money for new ones until the ordinary time has elapsed--and if meanwhile, there occur occasions on which, having no decent clothes to go in, the boy is debarred from joining the rest of the family on holiday excursions and _fête_ days, it is manifest that while he will keenly feel the punishment, he can scarcely fail to trace the chain of causation, and to perceive that his own carelessness is the origin of it. and seeing this, he will not have any such sense of injustice as if there were no obvious connection between the transgression and its penalty. again, the tempers both of parents and children are much less liable to be ruffled under this system than under the ordinary system. when instead of letting children experience the painful results which naturally follow from wrong conduct, parents themselves inflict certain other painful results, they produce double mischief. making, as they do, multiplied family laws; and identifying their own supremacy and dignity with the maintenance of these laws; every transgression is regarded as an offence against themselves, and a cause of anger on their part. and then come the further vexations which result from taking upon themselves, in the shape of extra labour or cost, those evil consequences which should have been allowed to fall on the wrong-doers. similarly with the children. penalties which the necessary reaction of things brings round upon them--penalties which are inflicted by impersonal agency, produce an irritation that is comparatively slight and transient; whereas, penalties voluntarily inflicted by a parent, and afterwards thought of as caused by him or her, produce an irritation both greater and more continued. just consider how disastrous would be the result if this empirical method were pursued from the beginning. suppose it were possible for parents to take upon themselves the physical sufferings entailed on their children by ignorance and awkwardness; and that while bearing these evil consequences they visited on their children certain other evil consequences, with the view of teaching them the impropriety of their conduct. suppose that when a child, who had been forbidden to meddle with the kettle, spilt boiling water on its foot, the mother vicariously assumed the scald and gave a blow in place of it; and similarly in all other cases. would not the daily mishaps be sources of far more anger than now? would there not be chronic ill-temper on both sides? yet an exactly parallel policy is pursued in after-years. a father who beats his boy for carelessly or wilfully breaking a sister's toy, and then himself pays for a new toy, does substantially this same thing--inflicts an artificial penalty on the transgressor, and takes the natural penalty on himself: his own feelings and those of the transgressor being alike needlessly irritated. did he simply require restitution to be made, he would produce far less heart-burning. if he told the boy that a new toy must be bought at his, the boy's, cost; and that his supply of pocket-money must be withheld to the needful extent; there would be much less disturbance of temper on either side: while in the deprivation afterwards felt, the boy would experience the equitable and salutary consequence. in brief, the system of discipline by natural reactions is less injurious to temper, both because it is perceived to be nothing more than pure justice, and because it in great part substitutes the impersonal agency of nature for the personal agency of parents. whence also follows the manifest corollary, that under this system the parental and filial relation, being a more friendly, will be a more influential one. whether in parent or child, anger, however caused, and to whomsoever directed, is detrimental. but anger in a parent towards a child, and in a child towards a parent, is especially detrimental; because it weakens that bond of sympathy which is essential to beneficent control. from the law of association of ideas, it inevitably results, both in young and old, that dislike is contracted towards things which in experience are habitually connected with disagreeable feelings. or where attachment originally existed, it is diminished, or turned into repugnance, according to the quantity of painful impressions received. parental wrath, venting itself in reprimands and castigations, cannot fail, if often repeated, to produce filial alienation; while the resentment and sulkiness of children cannot fail to weaken the affection felt for them, and may even end in destroying it. hence the numerous cases in which parents (and especially fathers, who are commonly deputed to inflict the punishment) are regarded with indifference, if not with aversion; and hence the equally numerous cases in which children are looked upon as inflictions. seeing then, as all must do, that estrangement of this kind is fatal to a salutary moral culture, it follows that parents cannot be too solicitous in avoiding occasions of direct antagonism with their children. and therefore they cannot too anxiously avail themselves of this discipline of natural consequences; which, by relieving them from penal functions, prevents mutual exasperations and estrangements. the method of moral culture by experience of the normal reactions, which is the divinely-ordained method alike for infancy and for adult life, we thus find to be equally applicable during the intermediate childhood and youth. among the advantages of this method we see:--first: that it gives that rational knowledge of right and wrong conduct which results from personal experience of their good and bad consequences. second: that the child, suffering nothing more than the painful effects of its own wrong actions, must recognise more or less clearly the justice of the penalties. third: that recognising the justice of the penalties, and receiving them through the working of things rather than at the hands of an individual, its temper is less disturbed; while the parent fulfilling the comparatively passive duty of letting the natural penalties be felt, preserves a comparative equanimity. fourth: that mutual exasperations being thus prevented, a much happier, and a more influential relation, will exist between parent and child. * * * * * "but what is to be done in cases of more serious misconduct?" some will ask. "how is this plan to be carried out when a petty theft has been committed? or when a lie has been told? or when some younger brother or sister has been ill-used?" before replying to these questions, let us consider the bearings of a few illustrative facts. living in the family of his brother-in-law, a friend of ours had undertaken the education of his little nephew and niece. this he had conducted, more perhaps from natural sympathy than from reasoned-out conclusions, in the spirit of the method above set forth. the two children were in doors his pupils and out of doors his companions. they daily joined him in walks and botanising excursions, eagerly sought plants for him, looked on while he examined and identified them, and in this and other ways were ever gaining pleasure and instruction in his society. in short, morally considered, he stood to them much more in the position of parent than either their father or mother did. describing to us the results of this policy, he gave, among other instances, the following. one evening, having need for some article lying in another part of the house, he asked his nephew to fetch it. interested as the boy was in some amusement of the moment, he, contrary to his wont, either exhibited great reluctance or refused, we forget which. his uncle, disapproving of a coercive course, went himself for that which he wanted: merely exhibiting by his manner the annoyance this ill-behaviour gave him. and when, later in the evening, the boy made overtures for the usual play, they were gravely repelled--the uncle manifested just that coldness naturally produced in him; and so let the boy feel the necessary consequences of his conduct. next morning at the usual time for rising, our friend heard a new voice outside the door, and in walked his little nephew with the hot water. peering about the room to see what else could be done, the boy then exclaimed, "oh! you want your boots;" and forthwith rushed downstairs to fetch them. in this and other ways he showed a true penitence for his misconduct. he endeavoured by unusual services to make up for the service he had refused. his better feelings had made a real conquest over his lower ones; and acquired strength by the victory. and having felt what it was to be without it, he valued more than before the friendship he thus regained. this gentleman is now himself a father; acts on the same system; and finds it answer completely. he makes himself thoroughly his children's friend. the evening is longed for by them because he will be at home; and they especially enjoy sunday because he is with them all day. thus possessing their perfect confidence and affection, he finds that the simple display of his approbation or disapprobation gives him abundant power of control. if, on his return home, he hears that one of his boys has been naughty, he behaves towards him with that coolness which the consciousness of the boy's misconduct naturally produces; and he finds this a most efficient punishment. the mere withholding of the usual caresses, is a source of much distress--produces a more prolonged fit of crying than a beating would do. and the dread of this purely moral penalty is, he says, ever present during his absence: so much so, that frequently during the day his children ask their mamma how they have behaved, and whether the report will be good. recently, the eldest, an active urchin of five, in one of those bursts of animal spirits common in healthy children, committed sundry extravagances during his mamma's absence--cut off part of his brother's hair and wounded himself with a razor taken from his father's dressing-case. hearing of these occurrences on his return, the father did not speak to the boy either that night or next morning. besides the immediate tribulation the effect was, that when, a few days after, the mamma was about to go out, she was entreated by the boy not to do so; and on inquiry, it appeared his fear was that he might again transgress in her absence. we have introduced these facts before replying to the question--"what is to be done with the graver offences?" for the purpose of first exhibiting the relation that may and ought to be established between parents and children; for on the existence of this relation depends the successful treatment of these graver offences. and as a further preliminary, we must now point out that the establishment of this relation will result from adopting the system here advocated. already we have shown that by simply letting a child experience the painful reactions of its own wrong actions, a parent avoids antagonism and escapes being regarded as an enemy; but it remains to be shown that where this course has been consistently pursued from the beginning, a feeling of active friendship will be generated. at present, mothers and fathers are mostly considered by their offspring as friend enemies. determined as the impressions of children inevitably are by the treatment they receive; and oscillating as that treatment does between bribery and thwarting, between petting and scolding, between gentleness and castigation; they necessarily acquire conflicting beliefs respecting the parental character. a mother commonly thinks it sufficient to tell her little boy that she is his best friend; and assuming that he ought to believe her, concludes that he will do so. "it is all for your good;" "i know what is proper for you better than you do yourself;" "you are not old enough to understand it now, but when you grow up you will thank me for doing what i do;"--these, and like assertions, are daily reiterated. meanwhile the boy is daily suffering positive penalties; and is hourly forbidden to do this, that, and the other, which he wishes to do. by words he hears that his happiness is the end in view; but from the accompanying deeds he habitually receives more or less pain. incompetent as he is to understand that future which his mother has in view, or how this treatment conduces to the happiness of that future, he judges by the results he feels; and finding such results anything but pleasurable, he becomes sceptical respecting her professions of friendship. and is it not folly to expect any other issue? must not the child reason from the evidence he has got? and does not this evidence seem to warrant his conclusion? the mother would reason in just the same way if similarly placed. if, among her acquaintance, she found some one who was constantly thwarting her wishes, uttering sharp reprimands, and occasionally inflicting actual penalties on her, she would pay small attention to any professions of anxiety for her welfare which accompanied these acts. why, then, does she suppose that her boy will do otherwise? but now observe how different will be the results if the system we contend for be consistently pursued--if the mother not only avoids becoming the instrument of punishment, but plays the part of a friend, by warning her boy of the punishments which nature will inflict. take a case; and that it may illustrate the mode in which this policy is to be early initiated, let it be one of the simplest cases. suppose that, prompted by the experimental spirit so conspicuous in children, whose proceedings instinctively conform to the inductive method of inquiry--suppose that so prompted, the boy is amusing himself by lighting pieces of paper in the candle and watching them burn. a mother of the ordinary unreflective stamp, will either, on the plea of keeping him "out of mischief," or from fear that he will burn himself, command him to desist; and in case of non-compliance will snatch the paper from him. but, should he be fortunate enough to have a mother of some rationality, who knows that this interest with which he is watching the paper burn, results from a healthy inquisitiveness, and who has also the wisdom to consider the results of interference, she will reason thus:--"if i put a stop to this i shall prevent the acquirement of a certain amount of knowledge. it is true that i may save the child from a burn; but what then? he is sure to burn himself sometime; and it is quite essential to his safety in life that he should learn by experience the properties of flame. if i forbid him from running this present risk, he will certainly hereafter run the same or a greater risk when no one is present to prevent him; whereas, should he have an accident now that i am by, i can save him from any great injury. moreover, were i to make him desist, i should thwart him in the pursuit of what is in itself a purely harmless, and indeed, instructive gratification; and he would regard me with more or less ill-feeling. ignorant as he is of the pain from which i would save him, and feeling only the pain of a balked desire, he could not fail to look on me as the cause of that pain. to save him from a hurt which he cannot conceive, and which has therefore no existence for him, i hurt him in a way which he feels keenly enough; and so become, from his point of view, a minister of evil. my best course then, is simply to warn him of the danger, and to be ready to prevent any serious damage." and following out this conclusion, she says to the child--"i fear you will hurt yourself if you do that." suppose, now, that the boy, persevering as he will probably do, ends by burning his hand. what are the results? in the first place he has gained an experience which he must gain eventually, and which, for his own safety, he cannot gain too soon. and in the second place, he has found that his mother's disapproval or warning was meant for his welfare: he has a further positive experience of her benevolence--a further reason for placing confidence in her judgment and kindness--a further reason for loving her. of course, in those occasional hazards where there is a risk of broken limbs or other serious injury, forcible prevention is called for. but leaving out extreme cases, the system pursued should be, not that of guarding a child from the small risks which it daily runs, but that of advising and warning it against them. and by pursuing this course, a much stronger filial affection will be generated than commonly exists. if here, as elsewhere, the discipline of the natural reactions is allowed to come into play--if in those out-door scramblings and in-door experiments, by which children are liable to injure themselves, they are allowed to persist, subject only to dissuasion more or less earnest according to the danger, there cannot fail to arise an ever-increasing faith in the parental friendship and guidance. not only, as before shown, does the adoption of this course enable fathers and mothers to avoid the odium which attaches to the infliction of positive punishment; but, as we here see, it enables them to avoid the odium which attaches to constant thwartings; and even to turn those incidents that commonly cause squabbles, into a means of strengthening the mutual good feeling. instead of being told in words, which deeds seem to contradict, that their parents are their best friends, children will learn this truth by a consistent daily experience; and so learning it, will acquire a degree of trust and attachment which nothing else can give. and now, having indicated the more sympathetic relation which must result from the habitual use of this method, let us return to the question above put--how is this method to be applied to the graver offences? note, in the first place, that these graver offences are likely to be both less frequent and less grave under the régime we have described than under the ordinary régime. the ill-behaviour of many children is itself a consequence of that chronic irritation in which they are kept by bad management. the state of isolation and antagonism produced by frequent punishment, necessarily deadens the sympathies; necessarily, therefore, opens the way to those transgressions which the sympathies check. that harsh treatment which children of the same family inflict on each other, is often, in great measure, a reflex of the harsh treatment they receive from adults--partly suggested by direct example, and partly generated by the ill-temper and the tendency to vicarious retaliation, which follow chastisements and scoldings. it cannot be questioned that the greater activity of the affections and happier state of feeling, maintained in children by the discipline we have described, must prevent them from sinning against each other so gravely and so frequently. the still more reprehensible offences, as lies and petty thefts, will, by the same causes, be diminished. domestic estrangement is a fruitful source of such transgressions. it is a law of human nature, visible enough to all who observe, that those who are debarred the higher gratifications fall back upon the lower; those who have no sympathetic pleasures seek selfish ones; and hence, conversely, the maintenance of happier relations between parents and children is calculated to diminish the number of those offences of which selfishness is the origin. when, however, such offences are committed, as they will occasionally be even under the best system, the discipline of consequences may still be resorted to; and if there exists that bond of confidence and affection above described, this discipline will be efficient. for what are the natural consequences, say, of a theft? they are of two kinds--direct and indirect. the direct consequence, as dictated by pure equity, is that of making restitution. a just ruler (and every parent should aim to be one) will demand that, when possible, a wrong act shall be undone by a right one; and in the case of theft this implies either the restoration of the thing stolen, or, if it is consumed, the giving of an equivalent: which, in the case of a child, may be effected out of its pocket-money. the indirect and more serious consequence is the grave displeasure of parents--a consequence which inevitably follows among all peoples civilised enough to regard theft as a crime. "but," it will be said, "the manifestation of parental displeasure, either in words or blows, is the ordinary course in these cases: the method leads here to nothing new." very true. already we have admitted that, in some directions, this method is spontaneously pursued. already we have shown that there is a tendency for educational systems to gravitate towards the true system. and here we may remark, as before, that the intensity of this natural reaction will, in the beneficent order of things, adjust itself to the requirements--that this parental displeasure will vent itself in violent measures during comparatively barbarous times, when children are also comparatively barbarous; and will express itself less cruelly in those more advanced social states in which, by implication, the children are amenable to milder treatment. but what it chiefly concerns us here to observe is, that the manifestation of strong parental displeasure, produced by one of these graver offences, will be potent for good, just in proportion to the warmth of the attachment existing between parent and child. just in proportion as the discipline of natural consequences has been consistently pursued in other cases, will it be efficient in this case. proof is within the experience of all, if they will look for it. for does not every one know that when he has offended another, the amount of regret he feels (of course, leaving worldly considerations out of the question) varies with the degree of sympathy he has for that other? is he not conscious that when the person offended is an enemy, the having given him annoyance is apt to be a source rather of secret satisfaction than of sorrow? does he not remember that where umbrage has been taken by some total stranger, he has felt much less concern than he would have done had such umbrage been taken by one with whom he was intimate? while, conversely, has not the anger of an admired and cherished friend been regarded by him as a serious misfortune, long and keenly regretted? well, the effects of parental displeasure on children must similarly vary with the pre-existing relationship. where there is an established alienation, the feeling of a child who has transgressed is a purely selfish fear of the impending physical penalties or deprivations; and after these have been inflicted, the injurious antagonism and dislike which result, add to the alienation. on the contrary, where there exists a warm filial affection produced by a consistent parental friendship, the state of mind caused by parental displeasure is not only a salutary check to future misconduct of like kind, but is intrinsically salutary. the moral pain consequent on having, for the time being, lost so loved a friend, stands in place of the physical pain usually inflicted; and proves equally, if not more, efficient. while instead of the fear and vindictiveness excited by the one course, there are excited by the other a sympathy with parental sorrow, a genuine regret for having caused it, and a desire, by some atonement, to reestablish the friendly relationship. instead of bringing into play those egotistic feelings whose predominance is the cause of criminal acts, there are brought into play those altruistic feelings which check criminal acts. thus the discipline of natural consequences is applicable to grave as well as trivial faults; and the practice of it conduces not simply to the repression, but to the eradication of such faults. in brief, the truth is that savageness begets savageness, and gentleness begets gentleness. children who are unsympathetically treated become unsympathetic; whereas treating them with due fellow-feeling is a means of cultivating their fellow-feeling. with family governments as with political ones, a harsh despotism itself generates a great part of the crimes it has to repress; while on the other hand a mild and liberal rule both avoids many causes of dissension, and so ameliorates the tone of feeling as to diminish the tendency to transgression. as john locke long since remarked, "great severity of punishment does but very little good, nay, great harm, in education; and i believe it will be found that, _cæteris paribus_, those children who have been most chastised seldom make the best men." in confirmation of which opinion we may cite the fact not long since made public by mr. rogers, chaplain of the pentonville prison, that those juvenile criminals who have been whipped are those who most frequently return to prison. conversely, the beneficial effects of a kinder treatment are well illustrated in a fact stated to us by a french lady, in whose house we recently stayed in paris. apologising for the disturbance daily caused by a little boy who was unmanageable both at home and at school, she expressed her fear that there was no remedy save that which had succeeded in the case of an elder brother; namely, sending him to an english school. she explained that at various schools in paris this elder brother had proved utterly untractable; that in despair they had followed the advice to send him to england; and that on his return home he was as good as he had before been bad. this remarkable change she ascribed entirely to the comparative mildness of the english discipline. * * * * * after the foregoing exposition of principles, our remaining space may best be occupied by a few of the chief maxims and rules deducible from them; and with a view to brevity we will put these in a hortatory form. do not expect from a child any great amount of moral goodness. during early years every civilised man passes through that phase of character exhibited by the barbarous race from which he is descended. as the child's features--flat nose, forward-opening nostrils, large lips, wide-apart eyes, absent frontal sinus, etc.--resemble for a time those of the savage, so, too, do his instincts. hence the tendencies to cruelty, to thieving, to lying, so general among children--tendencies which, even without the aid of discipline, will become more or less modified just as the features do. the popular idea that children are "innocent," while it is true with respect to evil _knowledge_, is totally false with respect to evil _impulses_; as half an hour's observation in the nursery will prove to any one. boys when left to themselves, as at public schools, treat each other more brutally than men do; and were they left to themselves at an earlier age their brutality would be still more conspicuous. not only is it unwise to set up a high standard of good conduct for children, but it is even unwise to use very urgent incitements to good conduct. already most people recognise the detrimental results of intellectual precocity; but there remains to be recognised the fact that _moral precocity_ also has detrimental results. our higher moral faculties, like our higher intellectual ones, are comparatively complex. by consequence, both are comparatively late in their evolution. and with the one as with the other, an early activity produced by stimulation will be at the expense of the future character. hence the not uncommon anomaly that those who during childhood were models of juvenile goodness, by and by undergo a seemingly inexplicable change for the worse, and end by being not above but below par; while relatively exemplary men are often the issue of a childhood by no means promising. be content, therefore, with moderate measures and moderate results. bear in mind that a higher morality, like a higher intelligence, must be reached by slow growth; and you will then have patience with those imperfections which your child hourly displays. you will be less prone to that constant scolding, and threatening, and forbidding, by which many parents induce a chronic domestic irritation, in the foolish hope that they will thus make their children what they should be. this liberal form of domestic government, which does not seek despotically to regulate all the details of a child's conduct, necessarily results from the system we advocate. satisfy yourself with seeing that your child always suffers the natural consequences of his actions, and you will avoid that excess of control in which so many parents err. leave him wherever you can to the discipline of experience, and you will save him from that hot-house virtue which over-regulation produces in yielding natures, or that demoralising antagonism which it produces in independent ones. by aiming in all cases to insure the natural reactions to your child's actions, you will put an advantageous check on your own temper. the method of moral education pursued by many, we fear by most, parents, is little else than that of venting their anger in the way that first suggests itself. the slaps, and rough shakings and sharp words, with which a mother commonly visits her offspring's small offences (many of them not offences considered intrinsically), are generally but the manifestations of her ill-controlled feelings--result much more from the promptings of those feelings than from a wish to benefit the offenders. but by pausing in each case of transgression to consider what is the normal consequence, and how it may best be brought home to the transgressor, some little time is obtained for the mastery of yourself; the mere blind anger first aroused settles down into a less vehement feeling, and one not so likely to mislead you. do not, however, seek to behave as a passionless instrument. remember that besides the natural reactions to your child's actions which the working of things tends to bring round on him, your own approbation or disapprobation is also a natural reaction, and one of the ordained agencies for guiding him. the error we have been combating is that of _substituting_ parental displeasure and its artificial penalties, for the penalties which nature has established. but while it should not be _substituted_ for these natural penalties, we by no means argue that it should not, in some form, _accompany_ them. though the _secondary_ kind of punishment should not usurp the place of the _primary_ kind; it may, in moderation, rightly supplement the primary kind. such amount of sorrow or indignation as you feel, should be expressed in words or manner; subject, of course, to the approval of your judgment. the kind and degree of feeling produced in you will necessarily depend on your own character; and it is therefore useless to say it should be this or that. nevertheless, you may endeavour to modify the feeling into that which you believe ought to be entertained. beware, however, of the two extremes; not only in respect of the intensity, but in respect of the duration, of your displeasure. on the one hand, avoid that weak impulsiveness, so general among mothers, which scolds and forgives almost in the same breath. on the other hand, do not unduly continue to show estrangement of feeling, lest you accustom your child to do without your friendship, and so lose your influence over him. the moral reactions called forth from you by your child's actions, you should as much as possible assimilate to those which you conceive would be called forth from a parent of perfect nature. be sparing of commands. command only when other means are inapplicable, or have failed. "in frequent orders the parents' advantage is more considered than the child's," says richter. as in primitive societies a breach of law is punished, not so much because it is intrinsically wrong as because it is a disregard of the king's authority--a rebellion against him; so in many families, the penalty visited on a transgressor is prompted less by reprobation of the offence than by anger at the disobedience. listen to the ordinary speeches--"how _dare_ you disobey me?" "i tell you i'll _make_ you do it, sir." "i'll soon teach you who is _master_"--and then consider what the words, the tone, and the manner imply. a determination to subjugate is far more conspicuous in them, than anxiety for the child's welfare. for the time being the attitude of mind differs but little from that of a despot bent on punishing a recalcitrant subject. the right-feeling parent, however, like the philanthropic legislator, will rejoice not in coercion, but in dispensing with coercion. he will do without law wherever other modes of regulating conduct can be successfully employed; and he will regret the having recourse to law when law is necessary. as richter remarks--"the best rule in politics is said to be '_pas trop gouverner_:' it is also true in education." and in spontaneous conformity with this maxim, parents whose lust of dominion is restrained by a true sense of duty, will aim to make their children control themselves as much as possible, and will fall back upon absolutism only as a last resort. but whenever you _do_ command, command with decision and consistency. if the case is one which really cannot be otherwise dealt with, then issue your fiat, and having issued it, never afterwards swerve from it. consider well what you are going to do; weigh all the consequences; think whether you have adequate firmness of purpose; and then, if you finally make the law, enforce obedience at whatever cost. let your penalties be like the penalties inflicted by inanimate nature--inevitable. the hot cinder burns a child the first time he seizes it; it burns him the second time; it burns him the third time; it burns him every time; and he very soon learns not to touch the hot cinder. if you are equally consistent--if the consequences which you tell your child will follow specified acts, follow with like uniformity, he will soon come to respect your laws as he does those of nature. and this respect once established, will prevent endless domestic evils. of errors in education one of the worst is inconsistency. as in a community, crimes multiply when there is no certain administration of justice; so in a family, an immense increase of transgressions results from a hesitating or irregular infliction of punishments. a weak mother, who perpetually threatens and rarely performs--who makes rules in haste and repents of them at leisure--who treats the same offence now with severity and now with leniency, as the passing humour dictates, is laying up miseries for herself and her children. she is making herself contemptible in their eyes; she is setting them an example of uncontrolled feelings; she is encouraging them to transgress by the prospect of probable impunity: she is entailing endless squabbles and accompanying damage to her own temper and the tempers of her little ones; she is reducing their minds to a moral chaos, which after years of bitter experience will with difficulty bring into order. better even a barbarous form of domestic government carried out consistently, than a humane one inconsistently carried out. again we say, avoid coercive measures whenever it is possible to do so; but when you find despotism really necessary, be despotic in good earnest. remember that the aim of your discipline should be to produce a _self-governing_ being; not to produce a being to be _governed by others_. were your children fated to pass their lives as slaves, you could not too much accustom them to slavery during their childhood; but as they are by and by to be free men, with no one to control their daily conduct, you cannot too much accustom them to self-control while they are still under your eye. this it is which makes the system of discipline by natural consequences so especially appropriate to the social state which we in england have now reached. in feudal times, when one of the chief evils the citizen had to fear was the anger of his superiors, it was well that during childhood, parental vengeance should be a chief means of government. but now that the citizen has little to fear from any one--now that the good or evil which he experiences is mainly that which in the order of things results from his own conduct, he should from his first years begin to learn, experimentally, the good or evil consequences which naturally follow this or that conduct. aim, therefore, to diminish the parental government, as fast as you can substitute for it in your child's mind that self-government arising from a foresight of results. during infancy a considerable amount of absolutism is necessary. a three-year old urchin playing with an open razor, cannot be allowed to learn by this discipline of consequences; for the consequences may be too serious. but as intelligence increases, the number of peremptory interferences may be, and should be, diminished, with the view of gradually ending them as maturity is approached. all transitions are dangerous; and the most dangerous is the transition from the restraint of the family circle to the non-restraint of the world. hence the importance of pursuing the policy we advocate; which, by cultivating a boy's faculty of self-restraint, by continually increasing the degree in which he is left to his self-restraint, and by so bringing him, step by step, to a state of unaided self-restraint, obliterates the ordinary sudden and hazardous change from externally-governed youth to internally-governed maturity. let the history of your domestic rule typify, in little, the history of our political rule: at the outset, autocratic control, where control is really needful; by and by an incipient constitutionalism, in which the liberty of the subject gains some express recognition; successive extensions of this liberty of the subject; gradually ending in parental abdication. do not regret the display of considerable self-will on the part of your children. it is the correlative of that diminished coerciveness so conspicuous in modern education. the greater tendency to assert freedom of action on the one side, corresponds to the smaller tendency to tyrannise on the other. they both indicate an approach to the system of discipline we contend for, under which children will be more and more led to rule themselves by the experience of natural consequences; and they are both accompaniments of our more advanced social state. the independent english boy is the father of the independent english man; and you cannot have the last without the first. german teachers say that they had rather manage a dozen german boys than one english one. shall we, therefore, wish that our boys had the manageableness of german ones, and with it the submissiveness and political serfdom of adult germans? or shall we not rather tolerate in our boys those feelings which make them free men, and modify our methods accordingly? lastly, always recollect that to educate rightly is not a simple and easy thing, but a complex and extremely difficult thing, the hardest task which devolves on adult life. the rough-and-ready style of domestic government is indeed practicable by the meanest and most uncultivated intellects. slaps and sharp words are penalties that suggest themselves alike to the least reclaimed barbarian and the stolidest peasant. even brutes can use this method of discipline; as you may see in the growl and half-bite with which a bitch will check a too-exigeant puppy. but if you would carry out with success a rational and civilised system, you must be prepared for considerable mental exertion--for some study, some ingenuity, some patience, some self-control. you will have habitually to consider what are the results which in adult life follow certain kinds of acts; and you must then devise methods by which parallel results shall be entailed on the parallel acts of your children. it will daily be needful to analyse the motives of juvenile conduct--to distinguish between acts that are really good and those which, though simulating them, proceed from inferior impulses; while you will have to be ever on your guard against the cruel mistake not unfrequently made, of translating neutral acts into transgressions, or ascribing worse feelings than were entertained. you must more or less modify your method to suit the disposition of each child; and must be prepared to make further modifications as each child's disposition enters on a new phase. your faith will often be taxed to maintain the requisite perseverance in a course which seems to produce little or no effect. especially if you are dealing with children who have been wrongly treated, you must be prepared for a lengthened trial of patience before succeeding with better methods; since that which is not easy even where a right state of feeling has been established from the beginning, becomes doubly difficult when a wrong state of feeling has to be set right. not only will you have constantly to analyse the motives of your children, but you will have to analyse your own motives--to discriminate between those internal suggestions springing from a true parental solicitude and those which spring from your own selfishness, your love of ease, your lust of dominion. and then, more trying still, you will have not only to detect, but to curb these baser impulses. in brief, you will have to carry on your own higher education at the same time that you are educating your children. intellectually you must cultivate to good purpose that most complex of subjects--human nature and its laws, as exhibited in your children, in yourself, and in the world. morally, you must keep in constant exercise your higher feelings, and restrain your lower. it is a truth yet remaining to be recognised, that the last stage in the mental development of each man and woman is to be reached only through a proper discharge of the parental duties. and when this truth is recognised, it will be seen how admirable is the arrangement through which human beings are led by their strongest affections to subject themselves to a discipline that they would else elude. while some will regard this conception of education as it should be with doubt and discouragement, others will, we think, perceive in the exalted ideal which it involves, evidence of its truth. that it cannot be realised by the impulsive, the unsympathetic, and the short-sighted, but demands the higher attributes of human nature, they will see to be evidence of its fitness for the more advanced states of humanity. though it calls for much labour and self-sacrifice, they will see that it promises an abundant return of happiness, immediate and remote. they will see that while in its injurious effects on both parent and child a bad system is twice cursed, a good system is twice blessed--it blesses him that trains and him that's trained. [ ] of this nature is the plea put in by some for the rough treatment experienced by boys at our public schools; where, as it is said, they are introduced to a miniature world whose hardships prepare them for those of the real world. it must be admitted that the plea has some force; but it is a very insufficient plea. for whereas domestic and school discipline, though they should not be much better than the discipline of adult life, should be somewhat better; the discipline which boys meet with at eton, winchester, harrow, etc., is worse than that of adult life--more unjust and cruel. instead of being an aid to human progress, which all culture should be, the culture of our public schools, by accustoming boys to a despotic form of government and an intercourse regulated by brute force, tends to fit them for a lower state of society than that which exists. and chiefly recruited as our legislature is from among those who are brought up at such schools, this barbarising influence becomes a hindrance to national progress. physical education equally at the squire's table after the withdrawal of the ladies, at the farmers' market-ordinary, and at the village ale-house, the topic which, after the political question of the day, excites the most general interest, is the management of animals. riding home from hunting, the conversation usually gravitates towards horse-breeding, and pedigrees, and comments on this or that "good point;" while a day on the moors is very unlikely to end without something being said on the treatment of dogs. when crossing the fields together from church, the tenants of adjacent farms are apt to pass from criticisms on the sermon to criticisms on the weather, the crops, and the stock; and thence to slide into discussions on the various kinds of fodder and their feeding qualities. hodge and giles, after comparing notes over their respective pig-styes, show by their remarks that they have been observant of their masters' beasts and sheep; and of the effects produced on them by this or that kind of treatment. nor is it only among the rural population that the regulations of the kennel, the stable, the cow-shed, and the sheep-pen, are favourite subjects. in towns, too, the numerous artisans who keep dogs, the young men who are rich enough to now and then indulge their sporting tendencies, and their more staid seniors who talk over agricultural progress or read mr. mechi's annual reports and mr. caird's letters to the _times_, form, when added together, a large portion of the inhabitants. take the adult males throughout the kingdom, and a great majority will be found to show some interest in the breeding, rearing, or training of animals, of one kind or other. but, during after-dinner conversations, or at other times of like intercourse, who hears anything said about the rearing of children? when the country gentleman has paid his daily visit to the stable, and personally inspected the condition and treatment of his horses; when he has glanced at his minor live stock, and given directions about them; how often does he go up to the nursery and examine into its dietary, its hours, its ventilation? on his library-shelves may be found white's _farriery_, stephens's _book of the farm_, nimrod _on the condition of hunters_; and with the contents of these he is more or less familiar; but how many books has he read on the management of infancy and childhood? the fattening properties of oil-cake, the relative values of hay and chopped straw, the dangers of unlimited clover, are points on which every landlord, farmer, and peasant has some knowledge; but what percentage of them inquire whether the food they give their children is adapted to the constitutional needs of growing boys and girls? perhaps the business-interests of these classes will be assigned as accounting for this anomaly. the explanation is inadequate, however; seeing that the same contrast holds among other classes. of a score of townspeople, few, if any, would prove ignorant of the fact that it is undesirable to work a horse soon after it has eaten; and yet, of this same score, supposing them all to be fathers, probably not one would be found who had considered whether the time elapsing between his children's dinner and their resumption of lessons was sufficient. indeed, on cross-examination, nearly every man would disclose the latent opinion that the regimen of the nursery was no concern of his. "oh, i leave all those things to the women," would probably be the reply. and in most cases the tone of this reply would convey the implication, that such cares are not consistent with masculine dignity. regarded from any but a conventional point of view, the fact seems strange that while the raising of first-rate bullocks is an occupation on which educated men willingly bestow much time and thought, the bringing up of fine human beings is an occupation tacitly voted unworthy of their attention. mammas who have been taught little but languages, music, and accomplishments, aided by nurses full of antiquated prejudices, are held competent regulators of the food, clothing, and exercise of children. meanwhile the fathers read books and periodicals, attend agricultural meetings, try experiments, and engage in discussions, all with the view of discovering how to fatten prize pigs! we see infinite pains taken to produce a racer that shall win the derby: none to produce a modern athlete. had gulliver narrated of the laputans that the men vied with each other in learning how best to rear the offspring of other creatures, and were careless of learning how best to rear their own offspring, he would have paralleled any of the other absurdities he ascribes to them. the matter is a serious one, however. ludicrous as is the antithesis, the fact it expresses is not less disastrous. as remarks a suggestive writer, the first requisite to success in life is "to be a good animal;" and to be a nation of good animals is the first condition to national prosperity. not only is it that the event of a war often turns on the strength and hardiness of soldiers; but it is that the contests of commerce are in part determined by the bodily endurance of producers. thus far we have found no reason to fear trials of strength with other races in either of these fields. but there are not wanting signs that our powers will presently be taxed to the uttermost. the competition of modern life is so keen, that few can bear the required application without injury. already thousands break down under the high pressure they are subject to. if this pressure continues to increase, as it seems likely to do, it will try severely even the soundest constitutions. hence it is becoming of especial importance that the training of children should be so carried on, as not only to fit them mentally for the struggle before them, but also to make them physically fit to bear its excessive wear and tear. happily the matter is beginning to attract attention. the writings of mr. kingsley indicate a reaction against over-culture; carried perhaps, as reactions usually are, somewhat too far. occasional letters and leaders in the newspapers have shown an awakening interest in physical training. and the formation of a school, significantly nicknamed that of "muscular christianity," implies a growing opinion that our present methods of bringing up children do not sufficiently regard the welfare of the body. the topic is evidently ripe for discussion. to conform the regimen of the nursery and the school to the established truths of modern science--this is the desideratum. it is time that the benefits which our sheep and oxen are deriving from the investigations of the laboratory, should be participated in by our children. without calling in question the great importance of horse-training and pig-feeding, we would suggest that, as the rearing of well-grown men and women is also of some moment, these conclusions which theory indicates and practice indorses, ought to be acted on in the last case as in the first. probably not a few will be startled--perhaps offended--by this collocation of ideas. but it is a fact not to be disputed, and to which we must reconcile ourselves, that man is subject to the same organic laws as inferior creatures. no anatomist, no physiologist, no chemist, will for a moment hesitate to assert, that the general principles which are true of the vital processes in animals are equally true of the vital processes in man. and a candid admission of this fact is not without its reward: namely, that the generalisations established by observation and experiment on brutes, become available for human guidance. rudimentary as is the science of life, it has already attained to certain fundamental principles underlying the development of all organisms, the human included. that which has now to be done, and that which we shall endeavour in some measure to do, is to trace the bearings of these fundamental principles on the physical training of childhood and youth. * * * * * the rhythmical tendency which is traceable in all departments of social life--which is illustrated in the access of despotism after revolution, or, among ourselves, in the alternation of reforming epochs and conservative epochs--which, after a dissolute age, brings an age of asceticism, and conversely,--which, in commerce, produces the recurring inflations and panics--which carries the devotees of fashion from one absurd extreme to the opposite one;--this rhythmical tendency affects also our table-habits, and by implication, the dietary of the young. after a period distinguished by hard drinking and hard eating, has come a period of comparative sobriety, which, in teetotalism and vegetarianism, exhibits extreme forms of protest against the riotous living of the past. and along with this change in the regimen of adults, has come a parallel change in the regimen for boys and girls. in past generations the belief was, that the more a child could be induced to eat, the better; and even now, among farmers and in remote districts, where traditional ideas most linger, parents may be found who tempt their children into repletion. but among the educated classes, who chiefly display this reaction towards abstemiousness, there may be seen a decided leaning to the under-feeding, rather than the over-feeding, of children. indeed their disgust for by-gone animalism, is more clearly shown in the treatment of their offspring than in the treatment of themselves; for while their disguised asceticism is, in so far as their personal conduct is concerned, kept in check by their appetites, it has full play in legislating for juveniles. that over-feeding and under-feeding are both bad, is a truism. of the two, however, the last is the worst. as writes a high authority, "the effects of casual repletion are less prejudicial, and more easily corrected, than those of inanition."[ ] besides, where there has been no injudicious interference, repletion seldom occurs. "excess is the vice rather of adults than of the young, who are rarely either gourmands or epicures, unless through the fault of those who rear them."[ ] this system of restriction which many parents think so necessary, is based upon inadequate observation, and erroneous reasoning. there is an over-legislation in the nursery, as well as an over-legislation in the state; and one of the most injurious forms of it is this limitation in the quantity of food. "but are children to be allowed to surfeit themselves? shall they be suffered to take their fill of dainties and make themselves ill, as they certainly will do?" as thus put, the question admits of but one reply. but as thus put, it assumes the point at issue. we contend that, as appetite is a good guide to all the lower creation--as it is a good guide to the infant--as it is a good guide to the invalid--as it is a good guide to the differently-placed races of men--and as it is a good guide for every adult who leads a healthful life; it may safely be inferred that it is a good guide for childhood. it would be strange indeed were it here alone untrustworthy. perhaps some will read this reply with impatience; being able, as they think, to cite facts totally at variance with it. it may appear absurd if we deny the relevancy of these facts. and yet the paradox is quite defensible. the truth is, that the instances of excess which such persons have in mind, are usually the _consequences_ of the restrictive system they seem to justify. they are the sensual reactions caused by an ascetic regimen. they illustrate on a small scale that commonly-remarked truth, that those who during youth have been subject to the most rigorous discipline, are apt afterwards to rush into the wildest extravagances. they are analogous to those frightful phenomena, once not uncommon in convents, where nuns suddenly lapsed from the extremest austerities into an almost demoniac wickedness. they simply exhibit the uncontrollable vehemence of long-denied desires. consider the ordinary tastes and the ordinary treatment of children. the love of sweets is conspicuous and almost universal among them. probably ninety-nine people in a hundred presume that there is nothing more in this than gratification of the palate; and that, in common with other sensual desires, it should be discouraged. the physiologist, however, whose discoveries lead him to an ever-increasing reverence for the arrangements of things, suspects something more in this love of sweets than is currently supposed; and inquiry confirms the suspicion. he finds that sugar plays an important part in the vital processes. both saccharine and fatty matters are eventually oxidised in the body; and there is an accompanying evolution of heat. sugar is the form to which sundry other compounds have to be reduced before they are available as heat-making food; and this _formation_ of sugar is carried on in the body. not only is starch changed into sugar in the course of digestion, but it has been proved by m. claude bernard that the liver is a factory in which other constituents of food are transformed into sugar: the need for sugar being so imperative that it is even thus produced from nitrogenous substances when no others are given. now, when to the fact that children have a marked desire for this valuable heat-food, we join the fact that they have usually a marked dislike to that food which gives out the greatest amount of heat during oxidation (namely, fat), we have reason for thinking that excess of the one compensates for defect of the other--that the organism demands more sugar because it cannot deal with much fat. again, children are fond of vegetable acids. fruits of all kinds are their delight; and, in the absence of anything better, they will devour unripe gooseberries and the sourest of crabs. now not only are vegetable acids, in common with mineral ones, very good tonics, and beneficial as such when taken in moderation; but they have, when administered in their natural forms, other advantages. "ripe fruit," says dr. andrew combe, "is more freely given on the continent than in this country; and, particularly when the bowels act imperfectly, it is often very useful." see, then, the discord between the instinctive wants of children and their habitual treatment. here are two dominant desires, which in all probability express certain needs of the child's constitution; and not only are they ignored in the nursery-regimen, but there is a general tendency to forbid the gratification of them. bread-and-milk in the morning, tea and bread-and-butter at night, or some dietary equally insipid, is rigidly adhered to; and any ministration to the palate is thought needless, or rather, wrong. what is the consequence? when, on fête-days, there is unlimited access to good things--when a gift of pocket-money brings the contents of the confectioner's window within reach, or when by some accident the free run of a fruit-garden is obtained; then the long-denied, and therefore intense, desires lead to great excesses. there is an impromptu carnival, due partly to release from past restraints, and partly to the consciousness that a long lent will begin on the morrow. and then, when the evils of repletion display themselves, it is argued that children must not be left to the guidance of their appetites! these disastrous results of artificial restrictions, are themselves cited as proving the need for further restrictions! we contend, therefore, that the reasoning used to justify this system of interference is vicious. we contend that, were children allowed daily to partake of these more sapid edibles, for which there is a physiological requirement, they would rarely exceed, as they now mostly do when they have the opportunity: were fruit, as dr. combe recommends, "to constitute a part of the regular food" (given, as he advises, not between meals, but along with them), there would be none of that craving which prompts the devouring of crabs and sloes. and similarly in other cases. not only is it that the _à priori_ reasons for trusting the appetites of children are strong; and that the reasons assigned for distrusting them are invalid; but it is that no other guidance is worthy of confidence. what is the value of this parental judgment, set up as an alternative regulator? when to "oliver asking for more," the mamma or governess says "no," on what data does she proceed? she _thinks_ he has had enough. but where are her grounds for so thinking? has she some secret understanding with the boy's stomach--some _clairvoyant_ power enabling her to discern the needs of his body? if not, how can she safely decide? does she not know that the demand of the system for food is determined by numerous and involved causes--varies with the temperature, with the hygrometric state of the air, with the electric state of the air--varies also according to the exercise taken, according to the kind and quantity of food eaten at the last meal, and according to the rapidity with which the last meal was digested? how can she calculate the result of such a combination of causes? as we heard said by the father of a five-years-old boy, who stands a head taller than most of his age, and is proportionately robust, rosy, and active:--"i can see no artificial standard by which to mete out his food. if i say, 'this much is enough,' it is a mere guess; and the guess is as likely to be wrong as right. consequently, having no faith in guesses, i let him eat his fill." and certainly, any one judging of his policy by its effects, would be constrained to admit its wisdom. in truth, this confidence, with which most parents legislate for the stomachs of their children, proves their unacquaintance with physiology: if they knew more, they would be more modest. "the pride of science is humble when compared with the pride of ignorance." if any one would learn how little faith is to be placed in human judgments, and how much in the pre-established arrangements of things, let him compare the rashness of the inexperienced physician with the caution of the most advanced; or let him dip into sir john forbes's work, _on nature and art in the cure of disease_; and he will see that, in proportion as men gain knowledge of the laws of life, they come to have less confidence in themselves, and more in nature. turning from the question of _quantity_ of food to that of _quality_, we may discern the same ascetic tendency. not simply a restricted diet, but a comparatively low diet, is thought proper for children. the current opinion is, that they should have but little animal food. among the less wealthy classes, economy seems to have dictated this opinion--the wish has been father to the thought. parents not affording to buy much meat, answer the petitions of juveniles with--"meat is not good for little boys and girls;" and this, at first probably nothing but a convenient excuse, has by repetition grown into an article of faith. while the classes with whom cost is no consideration, have been swayed partly by the example of the majority, partly by the influence of nurses drawn from the lower classes, and in some measure by the reaction against past animalism. if, however, we inquire for the basis of this opinion, we find little or none. it is a dogma repeated and received without proof, like that which, for thousands of years, insisted on swaddling-clothes. very probably for the infant's stomach, not yet endowed with much muscular power, meat, which requires considerable trituration before it can be made into chyme, is an unfit aliment. but this objection does not tell against animal food from which the fibrous part has been extracted; nor does it apply when, after the lapse of two or three years, considerable muscular vigour has been acquired. and while the evidence in support of this dogma, partially valid in the case of very young children, is not valid in the case of older children, who are, nevertheless, ordinarily treated in conformity with it, the adverse evidence is abundant and conclusive. the verdict of science is exactly opposite to the popular opinion. we have put the question to two of our leading physicians, and to several of the most distinguished physiologists, and they uniformly agree in the conclusion, that children should have a diet not _less_ nutritive, but, if anything, _more_ nutritive than that of adults. the grounds for this conclusion are obvious, and the reasoning simple. it needs but to compare the vital processes of a man with those of a boy, to see that the demand for sustenance is relatively greater in the boy than in the man. what are the ends for which a man requires food? each day his body undergoes more or less wear--wear through muscular exertion, wear of the nervous system through mental actions, wear of the viscera in carrying on the functions of life; and the tissue thus wasted has to be renewed. each day, too, by radiation, his body loses a large amount of heat; and as, for the continuance of the vital actions, the temperature of the body must be maintained, this loss has to be compensated by a constant production of heat: to which end certain constituents of the body are ever undergoing oxidation. to make up for the day's waste, and to supply fuel for the day's expenditure of heat, are, then, the sole purposes for which the adult requires food. consider now the case of the boy. he, too, wastes the substance of his body by action; and it needs but to note his restless activity to see that, in proportion to his bulk, he probably wastes as much as a man. he, too, loses heat by radiation; and, as his body exposes a greater surface in proportion to its mass than does that of a man, and therefore loses heat more rapidly, the quantity of heat-food he requires is, bulk for bulk, greater than that required by a man. so that even had the boy no other vital processes to carry on than the man has, he would need, relatively to his size, a somewhat larger supply of nutriment. but, besides repairing his body and maintaining its heat, the boy has to make new tissue--to grow. after waste and thermal loss have been provided for, such surplus of nutriment as remains goes to the further building up of the frame; and only in virtue of this surplus is normal growth possible; the growth that sometimes takes place in the absence of it, causing a manifest prostration consequent upon defective repair. it is true that because of a certain mechanical law which cannot be here explained, a small organism has an advantage over a large one in the ratio between the sustaining and destroying forces--an advantage, indeed, to which the very possibility of growth is owing. but this admission only makes it the more obvious that though much adverse treatment may be borne without this excess of vitality being quite out-balanced; yet any adverse treatment, by diminishing it, must diminish the size or structural perfection reached. how peremptory is the demand of the unfolding organism for materials, is seen alike in that "schoolboy hunger," which after-life rarely parallels in intensity, and in the comparatively quick return of appetite. and if there needs further evidence of this extra necessity for nutriment, we have it in the fact that, during the famines following shipwrecks and other disasters, the children are the first to die. this relatively greater need for nutriment being admitted, as it must be, the question that remains is--shall we meet it by giving an excessive quantity of what may be called dilute food, or a more moderate quantity of concentrated food? the nutriment obtainable from a given weight of meat is obtainable only from a larger weight of bread, or from a still larger weight of potatoes, and so on. to fulfil the requirement, the quantity must be increased as the nutritiveness is diminished. shall, we, then, respond to the extra wants of the growing child by giving an adequate quantity of food as good as that of adults? or, regardless of the fact that its stomach has to dispose of a relatively larger quantity even of this good food, shall we further tax it by giving an inferior food in still greater quantity? the answer is tolerably obvious. the more the labour of digestion is economised, the more energy is left for the purposes of growth and action. the functions of the stomach and intestines cannot be performed without a large supply of blood and nervous power; and in the comparative lassitude that follows a hearty meal, every adult has proof that this supply of blood and nervous power is at the expense of the system at large. if the requisite nutriment is obtained from a great quantity of innutritious food, more work is entailed on the viscera than when it is obtained from a moderate quantity of nutritious food. this extra work is so much loss--a loss which in children shows itself either in diminished energy, or in smaller growth, or in both. the inference is, then, that they should have a diet which combines, as much as possible, nutritiveness and digestibility. it is doubtless true that boys and girls may be reared upon an exclusively, or almost exclusively, vegetable diet. among the upper classes are to be found children to whom comparatively little meat is given; and who, nevertheless, grow and appear in good health. animal food is scarcely tasted by the offspring of labouring people; and yet they reach a healthy maturity. but these seemingly adverse facts have by no means the weight commonly supposed. in the first place, it does not follow that those who in early years flourish on bread and potatoes, will eventually reach a fine development; and a comparison between the agricultural labourers and the gentry, in england, or between the middle and lower classes in france is by no means in favour of vegetable feeders. in the second place, the question is not simply a question of _bulk_, but also a question of _quality_. a soft, flabby flesh makes as good a show as a firm one; but though to the careless eye, a child of full, flaccid tissue may appear the equal of one whose fibres are well toned, a trial of strength will prove the difference. obesity in adults is often a sign of feebleness. men lose weight in training. hence the appearance of these low-fed children is far from conclusive. in the third place, besides _size_, we have to consider _energy_. between children of the meat-eating classes and those of the bread-and-potato-eating classes, there is a marked contrast in this respect. both in mental and physical vivacity the peasant-boy is greatly inferior to the son of a gentleman. if we compare different kinds of animals, or different races of men, or the same animals or men when differently fed, we find still more distinct proof that _the degree of energy essentially depends on the nutritiveness of the food_. in a cow, subsisting on so innutritive a food as grass, we see that the immense quantity required necessitates an enormous digestive system; that the limbs, small in comparison with the body, are burdened by its weight; that in carrying about this heavy body and digesting this excessive quantity of food, much force is expended; and that, having but little remaining, the creature is sluggish. compare with the cow a horse--an animal of nearly allied structure, but habituated to a more concentrated diet. here the body, and more especially its abdominal region, bears a smaller ratio to the limbs; the powers are not taxed by the support of such massive viscera, nor the digestion of so bulky a food; and, as a consequence, there is greater locomotive energy and considerable vivacity. if, again, we contrast the stolid inactivity of the graminivorous sheep with the liveliness of the dog, subsisting on flesh or farinaceous matters, or a mixture of the two, we see a difference similar in kind, but still greater in degree. and after walking through the zoological gardens, and noting the restlessness with which the carnivorous animals pace up and down their cages, it needs but to remember that none of the herbivorous animals habitually display this superfluous energy, to see how clear is the relation between concentration of food and degree of activity. that these differences are not directly consequent on differences of constitution, as some may argue; but are directly consequent on differences in the food which the creatures are constituted to subsist on; is proved by the fact, that they are observable between different divisions of the same species. the varieties of the horse furnish an illustration. compare the big-bellied, inactive, spiritless cart-horse with a racer or hunter, small in the flanks and full of energy; and then call to mind how much less nutritive is the diet of the one than that of the other. or take the case of mankind. australians, bushmen, and others of the lowest savages who live on roots and berries, varied by larvae of insects and the like meagre fare, are comparatively puny in stature, have large abdomens, soft and undeveloped muscles, and are quite unable to cope with europeans, either in a struggle or in prolonged exertion. count up the wild races who are well grown, strong and active, as the kaffirs, north-american indians, and patagonians, and you find them large consumers of flesh. the ill-fed hindoo goes down before the englishman fed on more nutritive food; to whom he is as inferior in mental as in physical energy. and generally, we think, the history of the world shows that the well-fed races have been the energetic and dominant races. still stronger, however, becomes the argument, when we find that the same individual animal is capable of more or less exertion according as its food is more or less nutritious. this has been demonstrated in the case of the horse. though flesh may be gained by a grazing horse, strength is lost; as putting him to hard work proves. "the consequence of turning horses out to grass is relaxation of the muscular system." "grass is a very good preparation for a bullock for smithfield market, but a very bad one for a hunter." it was well known of old that, after passing the summer in the fields, hunters required some months of stable-feeding before becoming able to follow the hounds; and that they did not get into good condition till the beginning of the next spring. and the modern practice is that insisted on by mr. apperley--"never to give a hunter what is called 'a summer's run at grass,' and, except under particular and very favourable circumstances, never to turn him out at all." that is to say, never give him poor food: great energy and endurance are to be obtained only by the continued use of nutritive food. so true is this that, as proved by mr. apperley, prolonged high-feeding enables a middling horse to equal, in his performances, a first-rate horse fed in the ordinary way. to which various evidences add the familiar fact that, when a horse is required to do double duty, it is the practice to give him beans--a food containing a larger proportion of nitrogenous, or flesh-making material, than his habitual oats. once more, in the case of individual men the truth has been illustrated with equal, or still greater, clearness. we do not refer to men in training for feats of strength, whose regimen, however, thoroughly conforms to the doctrine. we refer to the experience of railway-contractors and their labourers. it has been for years a well-established fact that an english navvy, eating largely of flesh, is far more efficient than a continental navvy living on farinaceous food: so much more efficient, that english contractors for continental railways found it pay to take their labourers with them. that difference of diet and not difference of race caused this superiority, has been of late distinctly shown. for it has turned out, that when the continental navvies live in the same style as their english competitors, they presently rise, more or less nearly, to a par with them in efficiency. and to this fact let us here add the converse one, to which we can give personal testimony based upon six months' experience of vegetarianism, that abstinence from meat entails diminished energy of both body and mind. do not these various evidences endorse our argument respecting the feeding of children? do they not imply that, even supposing the same stature and bulk to be attained on an innutritive as on a nutritive diet, the quality of tissue is greatly inferior? do they not establish the position that, where energy as well as growth has to be maintained, it can only be done by high feeding? do they not confirm the _à priori_ conclusion that, though a child of whom little is expected in the way of bodily or mental activity, may thrive tolerably well on farinaceous substances, a child who is daily required, not only to form the due amount of new tissue, but to supply the waste consequent on great muscular action, and the further waste consequent on hard exercise of brain, must live on substances containing a larger ratio of nutritive matter? and is it not an obvious corollary, that denial of this better food will be at the expense either of growth, or of bodily activity, or of mental activity; as constitution and circumstances determine? we believe no logical intellect will question it. to think otherwise is to entertain in a disguised form the old fallacy of the perpetual-motion schemers--that it is possible to get power out of nothing. before leaving the question of food, a few words must be said on another requisite--_variety_. in this respect the dietary of the young is very faulty. if not, like our soldiers, condemned to "twenty years of boiled beef," our children have mostly to bear a monotony which, though less extreme and less lasting, is quite as clearly at variance with the laws of health. at dinner, it is true, they usually have food that is more or less mixed, and that is changed day by day. but week after week, month after month, year after year, comes the same breakfast of bread-and-milk, or, it may be, oatmeal-porridge. and with like persistence the day is closed, perhaps with a second edition of the bread-and-milk, perhaps with tea and bread-and-butter. this practice is opposed to the dictates of physiology. the satiety produced by an often-repeated dish, and the gratification caused by one long a stranger to the palate, are _not_ meaningless, as people carelessly assume; but they are the incentives to a wholesome diversity of diet. it is a fact, established by numerous experiments, that there is scarcely any one food, however good, which supplies in due proportions or right forms all the elements required for carrying on the vital processes in a normal manner: whence it follows that frequent change of food is desirable to balance the supplies of all the elements. it is a further fact, known to physiologists, that the enjoyment given by a much-liked food is a nervous stimulus, which, by increasing the action of the heart and so propelling the blood with increased vigour, aids in the subsequent digestion. and these truths are in harmony with the maxims of modern cattle-feeding, which dictate a rotation of diet. not only, however, is periodic change of food very desirable; but, for the same reasons, it is very desirable that a mixture of food should be taken at each meal. the better balance of ingredients, and the greater nervous stimulation, are advantages which hold here as before. if facts are asked for, we may name as one, the comparative ease with which the stomach disposes of a french dinner, enormous in quantity but extremely varied in materials. few will contend that an equal weight of one kind of food, however well cooked, could be digested with as much facility. if any desire further facts, they may find them in every modern book on the management of animals. animals thrive best when each meal is made up of several things. the experiments of goss and stark "afford the most decisive proof of the advantage, or rather the necessity, of a mixture of substances, in order to produce the compound which is the best adapted for the action of the stomach."[ ] should any object, as probably many will, that a rotating dietary for children, and one which also requires a mixture of food at each meal, would entail too much trouble; we reply, that no trouble is thought too great which conduces to the mental development of children, and that for their future welfare, good bodily development is of still higher importance. moreover, it seems alike sad and strange that a trouble which is cheerfully taken in the fattening of pigs, should be thought too great in the rearing of children. one more paragraph, with the view of warning those who may propose to adopt the regimen indicated. the change must not be made suddenly; for continued low-feeding so enfeebles the system, as to disable it from at once dealing with a high diet. deficient nutrition is itself a cause of dyspepsia. this is true even of animals. "when calves are fed with skimmed milk, or whey, or other poor food, they are liable to indigestion."[ ] hence, therefore, where the energies are low, the transition to a generous diet must be gradual: each increment of strength gained, justifying a fresh addition of nutriment. further, it should be borne in mind that the concentration of nutriment may be carried too far. a bulk sufficient to fill the stomach is one requisite of a proper meal; and this requisite negatives a diet deficient in those matters which give adequate mass. though the size of the digestive organs is less in the well-fed civilised races than in the ill-fed savage ones, and though their size may eventually diminish still further, yet, for the time being, the bulk of the ingesta must be determined by the existing capacity. but, paying due regard to these two qualifications, our conclusions are--that the food of children should be highly nutritive; that it should be varied at each meal and at successive meals; and that it should be abundant. * * * * * with clothing as with food, the usual tendency is towards an improper scantiness. here, too, asceticism peeps out. there is a current theory, vaguely entertained if not put into a definite formula, that the sensations are to be disregarded. they do not exist for our guidance, but to mislead us, seems to be the prevalent belief reduced to its naked form. it is a grave error: we are much more beneficently constituted. it is not obedience to the sensations, but disobedience to them, which is the habitual cause of bodily evils. it is not the eating when hungry, but the eating in the absence of hunger, which is bad. it is not drinking when thirsty, but continuing to drink when thirst has ceased, that is the vice. harm does not result from breathing that fresh air which every healthy person enjoys; but from breathing foul air, spite of the protest of the lungs. harm does not result from taking that active exercise which, as every child shows us, nature strongly prompts; but from a persistent disregard of nature's promptings. not that mental activity which is spontaneous and enjoyable does the mischief; but that which is persevered in after a hot or aching head commands desistance. not that bodily exertion which is pleasant or indifferent, does injury; but that which is continued when exhaustion forbids. it is true that, in those who have long led unhealthy lives, the sensations are not trustworthy guides. people who have for years been almost constantly in-doors, who have exercised their brains very much and their bodies scarcely at all, who in eating have obeyed their clocks without consulting their stomachs, may very likely be misled by their vitiated feelings. but their abnormal state is itself the result of transgressing their feelings. had they from childhood never disobeyed what we may term the physical conscience, it would not have been seared, but would have remained a faithful monitor. among the sensations serving for our guidance are those of heat and cold; and a clothing for children which does not carefully consult these sensations, is to be condemned. the common notion about "hardening" is a grievous delusion. not a few children are "hardened" out of the world; and those who survive, permanently suffer either in growth or constitution. "their delicate appearance furnishes ample indication of the mischief thus produced, and their frequent attacks of illness might prove a warning even to unreflecting parents," says dr. combe. the reasoning on which this hardening-theory rests is extremely superficial. wealthy parents, seeing little peasant boys and girls playing about in the open air only half-clothed, and joining with this fact the general healthiness of labouring people, draw the unwarrantable conclusion that the healthiness is the result of the exposure, and resolve to keep their own offspring scantily covered! it is forgotten that these urchins who gambol upon village-greens are in many respects favourably circumstanced--that their lives are spent in almost perpetual play; that they are all day breathing fresh air; and that their systems are not disturbed by over-taxed brains. for aught that appears to the contrary, their good health may be maintained, not in consequence of, but in spite of, their deficient clothing. this alternative conclusion we believe to be the true one; and that an inevitable detriment results from the loss of animal heat to which they are subject. for when, the constitution being sound enough to bear it, exposure does produce hardness, it does so at the expense of growth. this truth is displayed alike in animals and in man. shetland ponies bear greater inclemencies than the horses of the south, but are dwarfed. highland sheep and cattle, living in a colder climate, are stunted in comparison with english breeds. in both the arctic and antarctic regions the human race falls much below its ordinary height: the laplander and esquimaux are very short; and the terra del fuegians, who go naked in a wintry land, are described by darwin as so stunted and hideous, that "one can hardly make one's-self believe they are fellow-creatures." science explains this dwarfishness produced by great abstraction of heat; showing that, food and other things being equal, it unavoidably results. for, as before pointed out, to make up for that cooling by radiation which the body is ever undergoing, there must be a constant oxidation of certain matters forming part of the food. and in proportion as the thermal loss is great, must the quantity of these matters required for oxidation be great. but the power of the digestive organs is limited. consequently, when they have to prepare a large quantity of this material needful for maintaining the temperature, they can prepare but a small quantity of the material which goes to build up the frame. excessive expenditure for fuel entails diminished means for other purposes. wherefore there necessarily results a body small in size, or inferior in texture, or both. hence the great importance of clothing. as liebig says:--"our clothing is, in reference to the temperature of the body, merely an equivalent for a certain amount of food." by diminishing the loss of heat, it diminishes the amount of fuel needful for maintaining the heat; and when the stomach has less to do in preparing fuel, it can do more in preparing other materials. this deduction is confirmed by the experience of those who manage animals. cold can be borne by animals only at an expense of fat, or muscle, or growth, as the case may be. "if fattening cattle are exposed to a low temperature, either their progress must be retarded, or a great additional expenditure of food incurred."[ ] mr. apperley insists strongly that, to bring hunters into good condition, it is necessary that the stable should be kept warm. and among those who rear racers, it is an established doctrine that exposure is to be avoided. the scientific truth thus illustrated by ethnology, and recognised by agriculturists and sportsmen, applies with double force to children. in proportion to their smallness and the rapidity of their growth is the injury from cold great. in france, new-born infants often die in winter from being carried to the office of the _maire_ for registration. "m. quetelet has pointed out, that in belgium two infants die in january for one that dies in july." and in russia the infant mortality is something enormous. even when near maturity, the undeveloped frame is comparatively unable to bear exposure: as witness the quickness with which young soldiers succumb in a trying campaign. the _rationale_ is obvious. we have already adverted to the fact that, in consequence of the varying relation between surface and bulk, a child loses a relatively larger amount of heat than an adult; and here we must point out that the disadvantage under which the child thus labours is very great. lehmann says:--"if the carbonic acid excreted by children or young animals is calculated for an equal bodily weight, it results that children produce nearly twice as much acid as adults." now the quantity of carbonic acid given off varies with tolerable accuracy as the quantity of heat produced. and thus we see that in children the system, even when not placed at a disadvantage, is called upon to provide nearly double the proportion of material for generating heat. see, then, the extreme folly of clothing the young scantily. what father, full-grown though he is, losing heat less rapidly as he does, and having no physiological necessity but to supply the waste of each day--what father, we ask, would think it salutary to go about with bare legs, bare arms, and bare neck? yet this tax on the system, from which he would shrink, he inflicts on his little ones, who are so much less able to bear it! or, if he does not inflict it, sees it inflicted without protest. let him remember that every ounce of nutriment needlessly expended for the maintenance of temperature, is so much deducted from the nutriment going to build up the frame; and that even when colds, congestions, or other consequent disorders are escaped, diminished growth or less perfect structure is inevitable. "the rule is, therefore, not to dress in an invariable way in all cases, but to put on clothing in kind and quantity _sufficient in the individual case to protect the body effectually from an abiding sensation of cold, however slight_." this rule, the importance of which dr. combe indicates by the italics, is one in which men of science and practitioners agree. we have met with none competent to form a judgment on the matter, who do not strongly condemn the exposure of children's limbs. if there is one point above others in which "pestilent custom" should be ignored, it is this. lamentable, indeed, is it to see mothers seriously damaging the constitutions of their children out of compliance with an irrational fashion. it is bad enough that they should themselves conform to every folly which our gallic neighbours please to initiate; but that they should clothe their children in any mountebank dress which _le petit courrier des dames_ indicates, regardless of its insufficiency and unfitness, is monstrous. discomfort, more or less great, is inflicted; frequent disorders are entailed; growth is checked or stamina undermined; premature death not uncommonly caused; and all because it is thought needful to make frocks of a size and material dictated by french caprice. not only is it that for the sake of conformity, mothers thus punish and injure their little ones by scantiness of covering; but it is that from an allied motive they impose a style of dress which forbids healthful activity. to please the eye, colours and fabrics are chosen totally unfit to bear that rough usage which unrestrained play involves; and then to prevent damage the unrestrained play is interdicted. "get up this moment: you will soil your clean frock," is the mandate issued to some urchin creeping about on the floor. "come back: you will dirty your stockings," calls out the governess to one of her charges, who has left the footpath to scramble up a bank. thus is the evil doubled. that they may come up to their mamma's standard of prettiness, and be admired by her visitors, children must have habiliments deficient in quantity and unfit in texture; and that these easily-damaged habiliments may be kept clean and uninjured, the restless activity so natural and needful for the young is restrained. the exercise which becomes doubly requisite when the clothing is insufficient, is cut short, lest it should deface the clothing. would that the terrible cruelty of this system could be seen by those who maintain it! we do not hesitate to say that, through enfeebled health, defective energies, and consequent non-success in life, thousands are annually doomed to unhappiness by this unscrupulous regard for appearances: even when they are not, by early death, literally sacrificed to the moloch of maternal vanity. we are reluctant to counsel strong measures, but really the evils are so great as to justify, or even to demand, a peremptory interference on the part of fathers. our conclusions are, then--that, while the clothing of children should never be in such excess as to create oppressive warmth, it should always be sufficient to prevent any general feeling of cold;[ ] that, instead of the flimsy cotton, linen, or mixed fabrics commonly used, it should be made of some good non-conductor, such as coarse woollen cloth; that it should be so strong as to receive little damage from the hard wear and tear which childish sports will give it; and that its colours should be such as will not soon suffer from use and exposure. * * * * * to the importance of bodily exercise most people are in some degree awake. perhaps less needs saying on this requisite of physical education than on most others: at any rate, in so far as boys are concerned. public schools and private schools alike furnish tolerably adequate play-grounds; and there is usually a fair share of time for out-door games, and a recognition of them as needful. in this, if in no other direction, it seems admitted that the promptings of boyish instinct may advantageously be followed; and, indeed, in the modern practice of breaking the prolonged morning's and afternoon's lessons by a few minutes' open-air recreation, we see an increasing tendency to conform school-regulations to the bodily sensations of the pupils. here, then, little needs be said in the way of expostulation or suggestion. but we have been obliged to qualify this admission by inserting the clause "in so far as boys are concerned." unfortunately the fact is quite otherwise with girls. it chances, somewhat strangely, that we have daily opportunity of drawing a comparison. we have both a boys' school and a girls' school within view; and the contrast between them is remarkable. in the one case, nearly the whole of a large garden is turned into an open, gravelled space, affording ample scope for games, and supplied with poles and horizontal bars for gymnastic exercises. every day before breakfast, again towards eleven o'clock, again at mid-day, again in the afternoon, and once more after school is over, the neighbourhood is awakened by a chorus of shouts and laughter as the boys rush out to play; and for as long as they remain, both eyes and ears give proof that they are absorbed in that enjoyable activity which makes the pulse bound and ensures the healthful activity of every organ. how unlike is the picture offered by the "establishment for young ladies!" until the fact was pointed out, we actually did not know that we had a girl's school as close to us as the school for boys. the garden, equally large with the other, affords no sign whatever of any provision for juvenile recreation; but is entirely laid out with prim grass-plots, gravel-walks, shrubs, and flowers, after the usual suburban style. during five months we have not once had our attention drawn to the premises by a shout or a laugh. occasionally girls may be observed sauntering along the paths with lesson-books in their hands, or else walking arm-in-arm. once indeed, we saw one chase another round the garden; but, with this exception, nothing like vigorous exertion has been visible. why this astounding difference? is it that the constitution of a girl differs so entirely from that of a boy as not to need these active exercises? is it that a girl has none of the promptings to vociferous play by which boys are impelled? or is it that, while in boys these promptings are to be regarded as stimuli to a bodily activity without which there cannot be adequate development, to their sisters, nature has given them for no purpose whatever--unless it be for the vexation of school-mistresses? perhaps, however, we mistake the aim of those who train the gentler sex. we have a vague suspicion that to produce a robust _physique_ is thought undesirable; that rude health and abundant vigour are considered somewhat plebeian; that a certain delicacy, a strength not competent to more than a mile or two's walk, an appetite fastidious and easily satisfied, joined with that timidity which commonly accompanies feebleness, are held more lady-like. we do not expect that any would distinctly avow this; but we fancy the governess-mind is haunted by an ideal young lady bearing not a little resemblance to this type. if so, it must be admitted that the established system is admirably calculated to realise this ideal. but to suppose that such is the ideal of the opposite sex is a profound mistake. that men are not commonly drawn towards masculine women, is doubtless true. that such relative weakness as asks the protection of superior strength, is an element of attraction, we quite admit. but the difference thus responded to by the feelings of men, is the natural, pre-established difference, which will assert itself without artificial appliances. and when, by artificial appliances, the degree of this difference is increased, it becomes an element of repulsion rather than of attraction. "then girls should be allowed to run wild--to become as rude as boys, and grow up into romps and hoydens!" exclaims some defender of the proprieties. this, we presume, is the ever-present dread of school-mistresses. it appears, on inquiry, that at "establishments for young ladies" noisy play like that daily indulged in by boys, is a punishable offence; and we infer that it is forbidden, lest unlady-like habits should be formed. the fear is quite groundless, however. for if the sportive activity allowed to boys does not prevent them from growing up into gentlemen; why should a like sportive activity prevent girls from growing up into ladies? rough as may have been their play-ground frolics, youths who have left school do not indulge in leap-frog in the street, or marbles in the drawing-room. abandoning their jackets, they abandon at the same time boyish games; and display an anxiety--often a ludicrous anxiety--to avoid whatever is not manly. if now, on arriving at the due age, this feeling of masculine dignity puts so efficient a restraint on the sports of boyhood, will not the feeling of feminine modesty, gradually strengthening as maturity is approached, put an efficient restraint on the like sports of girlhood? have not women even a greater regard for appearances than men? and will there not consequently arise in them even a stronger check to whatever is rough or boisterous? how absurd is the supposition that the womanly instincts would not assert themselves but for the rigorous discipline of school-mistresses! in this, as in other cases, to remedy the evils of one artificiality, another artificiality has been introduced. the natural, spontaneous exercise having been forbidden, and the bad consequences of no exercise having become conspicuous, there has been adopted a system of factitious exercise--gymnastics. that this is better than nothing we admit; but that it is an adequate substitute for play we deny. the defects are both positive and negative. in the first place, these formal, muscular motions, necessarily less varied than those accompanying juvenile sports, do not secure so equable a distribution of action to all parts of the body; whence it results that the exertion, falling on special parts, produces fatigue sooner than it would else have done: to which, in passing, let us add, that, if constantly repeated, this exertion of special parts leads to a disproportionate development. again, the quantity of exercise thus taken will be deficient, not only in consequence of uneven distribution; but there will be a further deficiency in consequence of lack of interest. even when not made repulsive, as they sometimes are by assuming the shape of appointed lessons, these monotonous movements are sure to become wearisome from the absence of amusement. competition, it is true, serves as a stimulus; but it is not a lasting stimulus, like that enjoyment which accompanies varied play. the weightiest objection, however, still remains. besides being inferior in respect of the _quantity_ of muscular exertion which they secure, gymnastics are still more inferior in respect of the _quality_. this comparative want of enjoyment which we have named as a cause of early desistance from artificial exercises, is also a cause of inferiority in the effects they produce on the system. the common assumption that, so long as the amount of bodily action is the same, it matters not whether it be pleasurable or otherwise, is a grave mistake. an agreeable mental excitement has a highly invigorating influence. see the effect produced upon an invalid by good news, or by the visit of an old friend. mark how careful medical men are to recommend lively society to debilitated patients. remember how beneficial to health is the gratification produced by change of scene. the truth is that happiness is the most powerful of tonics. by accelerating the circulation of the blood, it facilitates the performance of every function; and so tends alike to increase health when it exists, and to restore it when it has been lost. hence the intrinsic superiority of play to gymnastics. the extreme interest felt by children in their games, and the riotous glee with which they carry on their rougher frolics, are of as much importance as the accompanying exertion. and as not supplying these mental stimuli, gymnastics must be radically defective. granting then, as we do, that formal exercises of the limbs are better than nothing--granting, further, that they may be used with advantage as supplementary aids; we yet contend that they can never serve in place of the exercises prompted by nature. for girls, as well as boys, the sportive activities to which the instincts impel, are essential to bodily welfare. whoever forbids them, forbids the divinely-appointed means to physical development. * * * * * a topic still remains--one perhaps more urgently demanding consideration than any of the foregoing. it is asserted by not a few, that among the educated classes the younger adults and those who are verging on maturity, are neither so well grown nor so strong as their seniors. on first hearing this assertion, we were inclined to class it as one of the many manifestations of the old tendency to exalt the past at the expense of the present. calling to mind the facts that, as measured by ancient armour, modern men are proved to be larger than ancient men; and that the tables of mortality show no diminution, but rather an increase, in the duration of life, we paid little attention to what seemed a groundless belief. detailed observation, however, has shaken our opinion. omitting from the comparison the labouring classes, we have noticed a majority of cases in which the children do not reach the stature of their parents; and, in massiveness, making due allowance for difference of age, there seems a like inferiority. medical men say that now-a-days people cannot bear nearly so much depletion as in times gone by. premature baldness is far more common than it used to be. and an early decay of teeth occurs in the rising generation with startling frequency. in general vigour the contrast appears equally striking. men of past generations, living riotously as they did, could bear more than men of the present generation, who live soberly, can bear. though they drank hard, kept irregular hours, were regardless of fresh air, and thought little of cleanliness, our recent ancestors were capable of prolonged application without injury, even to a ripe old age: witness the annals of the bench and the bar. yet we who think much about our bodily welfare; who eat with moderation, and do not drink to excess; who attend to ventilation, and use frequent ablutions; who make annual excursions, and have the benefit of greater medical knowledge;--we are continually breaking down under our work. paying considerable attention to the laws of health, we seem to be weaker than our grandfathers who, in many respects, defied the laws of health. and, judging from the appearance and frequent ailments of the rising generation, they are likely to be even less robust than ourselves. what is the meaning of this? is it that past over-feeding, alike of adults and children, was less injurious than the under-feeding to which we have adverted as now so general? is it that the deficient clothing which this delusive hardening-theory has encouraged, is to blame? is it that the greater or less discouragement of juvenile sports, in deference to a false refinement is the cause? from our reasonings it may be inferred that each of these has probably had a share in producing the evil.[ ] but there has been yet another detrimental influence at work, perhaps more potent than any of the others: we mean--excess of mental application. on old and young, the pressure of modern life puts a still-increasing strain. in all businesses and professions, intenser competition taxes the energies and abilities of every adult; and, to fit the young to hold their places under this intenser competition, they are subject to severer discipline than heretofore. the damage is thus doubled. fathers, who find themselves run hard by their multiplying competitors, and, while labouring under this disadvantage, have to maintain a more expensive style of living, are all the year round obliged to work early and late, taking little exercise and getting but short holidays. the constitutions shaken by this continued over-application, they bequeath to their children. and then these comparatively feeble children, predisposed to break down even under ordinary strains on their energies, are required to go through a _curriculum_ much more extended than that prescribed for the unenfeebled children of past generations. the disastrous consequences that might be anticipated, are everywhere visible. go where you will, and before long there come under your notice cases of children or youths, of either sex, more or less injured by undue study. here, to recover from a state of debility thus produced, a year's rustication has been found necessary. there you find a chronic congestion of the brain, that has already lasted many months, and threatens to last much longer. now you hear of a fever that resulted from the over-excitement in some way brought on at school. and again, the instance is that of a youth who has already had once to desist from his studies, and who, since his return to them, is frequently taken out of his class in a fainting fit. we state facts--facts not sought for, but which have been thrust on our observation during the last two years; and that, too, within a very limited range. nor have we by any means exhausted the list. quite recently we had the opportunity of marking how the evil becomes hereditary: the case being that of a lady of robust parentage, whose system was so injured by the _régime_ of a scotch boarding-school, where she was under-fed and over-worked, that she invariably suffers from vertigo on rising in the morning; and whose children, inheriting this enfeebled brain, are several of them unable to bear even a moderate amount of study without headache or giddiness. at the present time we have daily under our eyes, a young lady whose system has been damaged for life by the college-course through which she has passed. taxed as she was to such an extent that she had no energy left for exercise, she is, now that she has finished her education, a constant complainant. appetite small and very capricious, mostly refusing meat; extremities perpetually cold, even when the weather is warm; a feebleness which forbids anything but the slowest walking, and that only for a short time; palpitation on going upstairs; greatly impaired vision--these, joined with checked growth and lax tissue, are among the results entailed. and to her case we may add that of her friend and fellow-student; who is similarly weak; who is liable to faint even under the excitement of a quiet party of friends; and who has at length been obliged by her medical attendant to desist from study entirely. if injuries so conspicuous are thus frequent, how very general must be the smaller, and inconspicuous injuries! to one case where positive illness is traceable to over-application, there are probably at least half-a-dozen cases where the evil is unobtrusive and slowly accumulating--cases where there is frequent derangement of the functions, attributed to this or that special cause, or to constitutional delicacy; cases where there is retardation and premature arrest of bodily growth; cases where a latent tendency to consumption is brought out and established; cases where a predisposition is given to that now common cerebral disorder brought on by the labour of adult life. how commonly health is thus undermined, will be clear to all who, after noting the frequent ailments of hard-worked professional and mercantile men, will reflect on the much worse effects which undue application must produce on the undeveloped systems of children. the young can bear neither so much hardship, nor so much physical exertion, nor so much mental exertion, as the full grown. judge, then, if the full grown manifestly suffer from the excessive mental exertion required of them, how great must be the damage which a mental exertion, often equally excessive, inflicts on the young! indeed, when we examine the merciless school drill frequently enforced, the wonder is, not that it does extreme injury, but that it can be borne at all. take the instance given by sir john forbes, from personal knowledge; and which he asserts, after much inquiry, to be an average sample of the middle-class girls'-school system throughout england. omitting detailed divisions of time, we quote the summary of the twenty-four hours. in bed hours (the younger ) in school, at their studies and tasks " in school, or in the house, the elder at optional studies or work, the younger at play ½ " (the younger ½) at meals ½ " exercise in the open air, in the shape of a formal walk, often with lesson-books in hand, and even this only when the weather is fine at the appointed time. " ---- and what are the results of this "astounding regimen," as sir john forbes terms it? of course feebleness, pallor, want of spirits, general ill-health. but he describes something more. this utter disregard of physical welfare, out of extreme anxiety to cultivate the mind--this prolonged exercise of brain and deficient exercise of limbs,--he found to be habitually followed, not only by disordered functions but by malformation. he says:--"we lately visited, in a large town, a boarding-school containing forty girls; and we learnt, on close and accurate inquiry, that there was _not one_ of the girl who had been at the school two years (and the majority had been as long) that was not more or less _crooked_!"[ ] it may be that since , when this was written, some improvement has taken place. we hope it has. but that the system is still common--nay, that it is in some cases carried to a greater extreme than ever; we can personally testify. we recently went over a training-college for young men: one of those instituted of late years for the purpose of supplying schools with well-disciplined teachers. here, under official supervision, where something better than the judgment of private school-mistresses might have been looked for, we found the daily routine to be as follows:-- at o'clock the students are called, " to studies, " to scripture-reading, prayers, and breakfast, " to studies, " to ¼ leisure, nominally devoted to walking or other exercise, but often spent in study, " ¼ to dinner, the meal commonly occupying twenty minutes, " to studies, " to tea and relaxation, " to ½ studies, " ½ to ½ private studies in preparing lessons for the next day, " to bed. thus, out of the twenty-four hours, eight are devoted to sleep; four and a quarter are occupied in dressing, prayers, meals, and the brief periods of rest accompanying them; ten and a half are given to study; and one and a quarter to exercise, which is optional and often avoided. not only, however, are the ten-and-a-half hours of recognised study frequently increased to eleven-and-a-half by devoting to books the time set apart for exercise; but some of the students get up at four o'clock in the morning to prepare their lessons; and are actually encouraged by their teachers to do this! the course to be passed through in a given time is so extensive, and the teachers, whose credit is at stake in getting their pupils well through the examinations, are so urgent, that pupils are not uncommonly induced to spend twelve and thirteen hours a day in mental labour! it needs no prophet to see that the bodily injury inflicted must be great. as we were told by one of the inmates, those who arrive with fresh complexions quickly become blanched. illness is frequent: there are always some on the sick-list. failure of appetite and indigestion are very common. diarrhoea is a prevalent disorder: not uncommonly a third of the whole number of students suffering under it at the same time. headache is generally complained of; and by some is borne almost daily for months. while a certain percentage break down entirely and go away. that this should be the regimen of what is in some sort a model institution, established and superintended by the embodied enlightenment of the age, is a startling fact. that the severe examinations, joined with the short period assigned for preparation, should compel recourse to a system which inevitably undermines the health of all who pass through it, is proof, if not of cruelty, then of woeful ignorance. the case is no doubt in a great degree exceptional--perhaps to be paralleled only in other institutions of the same class. but that cases so extreme should exist at all, goes far to show that the minds of the rising generation are greatly over-tasked. expressing as they do the ideas of the educated community, the requirements of these training colleges, even in the absence of other evidence, would imply a prevailing tendency to an unduly urgent system of culture. it seems strange that there should be so little consciousness of the dangers of over-education during youth, when there is so general a consciousness of the dangers of over-education during childhood. most parents are partially aware of the evil consequences that follow infant-precocity. in every society may be heard reprobation of those who too early stimulate the minds of their little ones. and the dread of this early stimulation is great in proportion as there is adequate knowledge of the effects: witness the implied opinion of one of our most distinguished professors of physiology, who told us that he did not intend his little boy to learn any lessons until he was eight years old. but while to all it is a familiar truth that a forced development of intelligence in childhood, entails either physical feebleness, or ultimate stupidity, or early death; it appears not to be perceived that throughout youth the same truth holds. yet it unquestionably does so. there is a given order in which, and a given rate at which, the faculties unfold. if the course of education conforms itself to that order and rate, well. if not--if the higher faculties are early taxed by presenting an order of knowledge more complex and abstract than can be readily assimilated; or if, by excess of culture, the intellect in general is developed to a degree beyond that which is natural to its age; the abnormal advantage gained will inevitably be accompanied by some equivalent, or more than equivalent, evil. for nature is a strict accountant; and if you demand of her in one direction more than she is prepared to lay out, she balances the account by making a deduction elsewhere. if you will let her follow her own course, taking care to supply, in right quantities and kinds, the raw materials of bodily and mental growth required at each age, she will eventually produce an individual more or less evenly developed. if, however, you insist on premature or undue growth of any one part, she will, with more or less protest, concede the point; but that she may do your extra work, she must leave some of her more important work undone. let it never be forgotten that the amount of vital energy which the body at any moment possesses, is limited; and that, being limited, it is impossible to get from it more than a fixed quantity of results. in a child or youth the demands upon this vital energy are various and urgent. as before pointed out, the waste consequent on the day's bodily exercise has to be met; the wear of brain entailed by the day's study has to be made good; a certain additional growth of body has to be provided for; and also a certain additional growth of brain: to which must be added the amount of energy absorbed in digesting the large quantity of food required for meeting these many demands. now, that to divert an excess of energy into any one of these channels is to abstract it from the others, is both manifest _à priori_, and proved _à posteriori_, by the experience of every one. every one knows, for instance, that the digestion of a heavy meal makes such a demand on the system as to produce lassitude of mind and body, frequently ending in sleep. every one knows, too, that excess of bodily exercise diminishes the power of thought--that the temporary prostration following any sudden exertion, or the fatigue produced by a thirty miles' walk, is accompanied by a disinclination to mental effort; that, after a month's pedestrian tour, the mental inertia is such that some days are required to overcome it; and that in peasants who spend their lives in muscular labour the activity of mind is very small. again, it is a familiar truth that during those fits of rapid growth which sometimes occur in childhood, the great abstraction of energy is shown in an attendant prostration, bodily and mental. once more, the facts that violent muscular exertion after eating, will stop digestion; and that children who are early put to hard labour become stunted; similarly exhibit the antagonism--similarly imply that excess of activity in one direction involves deficiency of it in other directions. now, the law which is thus manifest in extreme cases, holds in all cases. these injurious abstractions of energy as certainly take place when the undue demands are slight and constant, as when they are great and sudden. hence, if during youth the expenditure in mental labour exceeds that which nature has provided for; the expenditure for other purposes falls below what it should have been; and evils of one kind or other are inevitably entailed. let us briefly consider these evils. supposing the over-activity of brain to exceed the normal activity only in a moderate degree, there will be nothing more than some slight reaction on the development of the body: the stature falling a little below that which it would else have reached; or the bulk being less than it would have been; or the quality of tissue not being so good. one or more of these effects must necessarily occur. the extra quantity of blood supplied to the brain during mental exertion, and during the subsequent period in which the waste of cerebral substance is being made good, is blood that would else have been circulating through the limbs and viscera; and the growth or repair for which that blood would have supplied materials, is lost. the physical reaction being certain, the question is, whether the gain resulting from the extra culture is equivalent to the loss?--whether defect of bodily growth, or the want of that structural perfection which gives vigour and endurance, is compensated by the additional knowledge acquired? when the excess of mental exertion is greater, there follow results far more serious; telling not only against bodily perfection, but against the perfection of the brain itself. it is a physiological law, first pointed out by m. isidore st. hilaire, and to which attention has been drawn by mr. lewes in his essay on "dwarfs and giants," that there is an antagonism between _growth_ and _development_. by growth, as used in this antithetical sense, is to be understood _increase of size_; by development, _increase of structure_. and the law is, that great activity in either of these processes involves retardation or arrest of the other. a familiar example is furnished by the cases of the caterpillar and the chrysalis. in the caterpillar there is extremely rapid augmentation of bulk; but the structure is scarcely at all more complex when the caterpillar is full-grown than when it is small. in the chrysalis the bulk does not increase; on the contrary, weight is lost during this stage of the creature's life; but the elaboration of a more complex structure goes on with great activity. the antagonism, here so clear, is less traceable in higher creatures, because the two processes are carried on together. but we see it pretty well illustrated among ourselves when we contrast the sexes. a girl develops in body and mind rapidly, and ceases to grow comparatively early. a boy's bodily and mental development is slower, and his growth greater. at the age when the one is mature, finished, and having all faculties in full play, the other, whose vital energies have been more directed towards increase of size, is relatively incomplete in structure; and shows it in a comparative awkwardness, bodily and mental. now this law is true of each separate part of the organism, as well as of the whole. the abnormally rapid advance of any organ in respect of structure, involves premature arrest of its growth; and this happens with the organ of the mind as certainly as with any other organ. the brain, which during early years is relatively large in mass but imperfect in structure, will, if required to perform its functions with undue activity, undergo a structural advance greater than is appropriate to its age; but the ultimate effect will be a falling short of the size and power that would else have been attained. and this is a part-cause--probably the chief cause--why precocious children, and youths who up to a certain time were carrying all before them, so often stop short and disappoint the high hopes of their parents. but these results of over-education, disastrous as they are, are perhaps less disastrous than the effects produced on the health--the undermined constitution, the enfeebled energies, the morbid feelings. recent discoveries in physiology have shown how immense is the influence of the brain over the functions of the body. digestion, circulation, and through these all other organic processes, are profoundly affected by cerebral excitement. whoever has seen repeated, as we have, the experiment first performed by weber, showing the consequence of irritating the _vagus_ nerve, which connects the brain with the viscera--whoever has seen the action of the heart suddenly arrested by irritating this nerve; slowly recommencing when the irritation is suspended; and again arrested the moment it is renewed; will have a vivid conception of the depressing influence which an over-wrought brain exercises on the body. the effects thus physiologically explained, are indeed exemplified in ordinary experience. there is no one but has felt the palpitation accompanying hope, fear, anger, joy--no one but has observed how laboured becomes the action of the heart when these feelings are violent. and though there are many who have never suffered that extreme emotional excitement which is followed by arrest of the heart's action and fainting; yet every one knows these to be cause and effect. it is a familiar fact, too, that disturbance of the stomach results from mental excitement exceeding a certain intensity. loss of appetite is a common consequence alike of very pleasurable and very painful states of mind. when the event producing a pleasurable or painful state of mind occurs shortly after a meal, it not unfrequently happens either that the stomach rejects what has been eaten, or digests it with great difficulty and under protest. and as every one who taxes his brain much can testify, even purely intellectual action will, when excessive, produce analogous effects. now the relation between brain and body which is so manifest in these extreme cases, holds equally in ordinary, less-marked cases. just as these violent but temporary cerebral excitements produce violent but temporary disturbances of the viscera; so do the less violent but chronic cerebral excitements produce less violent but chronic visceral disturbances. this is not simply an inference:--it is a truth to which every medical man can bear witness; and it is one to which a long and sad experience enables us to give personal testimony. various degrees and forms of bodily derangement, often taking years of enforced idleness to set partially right, result from this prolonged over-exertion of mind. sometimes the heart is chiefly affected: habitual palpitations; a pulse much enfeebled; and very generally a diminution in the number of beats from seventy-two to sixty, or even fewer. sometimes the conspicuous disorder is of the stomach: a dyspepsia which makes life a burden, and is amenable to no remedy but time. in many cases both heart and stomach are implicated. mostly the sleep is short and broken. and very generally there is more or less mental depression. consider, then, how great must be the damage inflicted by undue mental excitement on children and youths. more or less of this constitutional disturbance will inevitably follow an exertion of brain beyond the normal amount; and when not so excessive as to produce absolute illness, is sure to entail a slowly accumulating degeneracy of _physique_. with a small and fastidious appetite, an imperfect digestion, and an enfeebled circulation, how can the developing body flourish? the due performance of every vital process depends on an adequate supply of good blood. without enough good blood, no gland can secrete properly, no viscus can fully discharge its office. without enough good blood, no nerve, muscle, membrane, or other tissue can be efficiently repaired. without enough good blood, growth will neither be sound nor sufficient. judge, then, how bad must be the consequences when to a growing body the weakened stomach supplies blood that is deficient in quantity and poor in quality; while the debilitated heart propels this poor and scanty blood with unnatural slowness. and if, as all who investigate the matter must admit, physical degeneracy is a consequence of excessive study, how grave is the condemnation to be passed on this cramming-system above exemplified. it is a terrible mistake, from whatever point of view regarded. it is a mistake in so far as the mere acquirement of knowledge is concerned. for the mind, like the body, cannot assimilate beyond a certain rate; and if you ply it with facts faster than it can assimilate them, they are soon rejected again: instead of being built into the intellectual fabric, they fall out of recollection after the passing of the examination for which they were got up. it is a mistake, too, because it tends to make study distasteful. either through the painful associations produced by ceaseless mental toil, or through the abnormal state of brain it leaves behind, it often generates an aversion to books; and, instead of that subsequent self-culture induced by rational education, there comes continued retrogression. it is a mistake, also, inasmuch as it assumes that the acquisition of knowledge is everything; and forgets that a much more important thing is the organisation of knowledge, for which time and spontaneous thinking are requisite. as humboldt remarks respecting the progress of intelligence in general, that "the interpretation of nature is obscured when the description languishes under too great an accumulation of insulated facts;" so, it may be remarked respecting the progress of individual intelligence, that the mind is over-burdened and hampered by an excess of ill-digested information. it is not the knowledge stored up as intellectual fat which is of value; but that which is turned into intellectual muscle. the mistake goes still deeper however. even were the system good as producing intellectual efficiency, which it is not, it would still be bad, because, as we have shown, it is fatal to that vigour of _physique_ needful to make intellectual training available in the struggle of life. those who, in eagerness to cultivate their pupils' minds, are reckless of their bodies, do not remember that success in the world depends more on energy than on information; and that a policy which in cramming with information undermines energy, is self-defeating. the strong will and untiring activity due to abundant animal vigour, go far to compensate even great defects of education; and when joined with that quite adequate education which may be obtained without sacrificing health, they ensure an easy victory over competitors enfeebled by excessive study: prodigies of learning though they may be. a comparatively small and ill-made engine, worked at high pressure, will do more than a large and well-finished one worked at low-pressure. what folly is it, then, while finishing the engine, so to damage the boiler that it will not generate steam! once more, the system is a mistake, as involving a false estimate of welfare in life. even supposing it were a means to worldly success, instead of a means to worldly failure, yet, in the entailed ill-health, it would inflict a more than equivalent curse. what boots it to have attained wealth, if the wealth is accompanied by ceaseless ailments? what is the worth of distinction, if it has brought hypochondria with it? surely no one needs telling that a good digestion, a bounding pulse, and high spirits, are elements of happiness which no external advantages can out-balance. chronic bodily disorder casts a gloom over the brightest prospects; while the vivacity of strong health gilds even misfortune. we contend, then, that this over-education is vicious in every way--vicious, as giving knowledge that will soon be forgotten; vicious, as producing a disgust for knowledge; vicious, as neglecting that organisation of knowledge which is more important than its acquisition; vicious, as weakening or destroying that energy without which a trained intellect is useless; vicious, as entailing that ill-health for which even success would not compensate, and which makes failure doubly bitter. on women the effects of this forcing system are, if possible, even more injurious than on men. being in great measure debarred from those vigorous and enjoyable exercises of body by which boys mitigate the evils of excessive study, girls feel these evils in their full intensity. hence, the much smaller proportion of them who grow up well-made and healthy. in the pale, angular, flat-chested young ladies, so abundant in london drawing-rooms, we see the effect of merciless application, unrelieved by youthful sports; and this physical degeneracy hinders their welfare far more than their many accomplishments aid it. mammas anxious to make their daughters attractive, could scarcely choose a course more fatal than this, which sacrifices the body to the mind. either they disregard the tastes of the opposite sex, or else their conception of those tastes is erroneous. men care little for erudition in women; but very much for physical beauty, good nature, and sound sense. how many conquests does the blue-stocking make through her extensive knowledge of history? what man ever fell in love with a woman because she understood italian? where is the edwin who was brought to angelina's feet by her german? but rosy cheeks and laughing eyes are great attractions. a finely rounded figure draws admiring glances. the liveliness and good humour that overflowing health produces, go a great way towards establishing attachments. every one knows cases where bodily perfections, in the absence of all other recommendations, have incited a passion that carried all before it; but scarcely any one can point to a case where intellectual acquirements, apart from moral or physical attributes, have aroused such a feeling. the truth is that, out of the many elements uniting in various proportions to produce in a man's breast the complex emotion we call love, the strongest are those produced by physical attractions; the next in order of strength are those produced by moral attractions; the weakest are those produced by intellectual attractions; and even these are dependent less on acquired knowledge than on natural faculty--quickness, wit, insight. if any think the assertion a derogatory one, and inveigh against the masculine character for being thus swayed; we reply that they little know what they say when they thus call in question the divine ordinations. even were there no obvious meaning in the arrangement, we might be sure that some important end was subserved. but the meaning is quite obvious to those who examine. when we remember that one of nature's ends, or rather her supreme end, is the welfare of posterity; further that, in so far as posterity are concerned, a cultivated intelligence based on a bad _physique_ is of little worth, since its descendants will die out in a generation or two; and conversely that a good _physique_, however poor the accompanying mental endowments, is worth preserving, because, throughout future generations, the mental endowments may be indefinitely developed; we perceive how important is the balance of instincts above described. but, advantage apart, the instincts being thus balanced, it is folly to persist in a system which undermines a girl's constitution that it may overload her memory. educate as highly as possible--the higher the better--providing no bodily injury is entailed (and we may remark, in passing, that a sufficiently high standard might be reached were the parrot-faculty cultivated less, and the human faculty more, and were the discipline extended over that now wasted period between leaving school and being married). but to educate in such manner, or to such extent, as to produce physical degeneracy, is to defeat the chief end for which the toil and cost and anxiety are submitted to. by subjecting their daughters to this high-pressure system, parents frequently ruin their prospects in life. besides inflicting on them enfeebled health, with all its pains and disabilities and gloom; they not unfrequently doom them to celibacy. * * * * * the physical education of children is thus, in various ways, seriously faulty. it errs in deficient feeding; in deficient clothing; in deficient exercise (among girls at least); and in excessive mental application. considering the regime as a whole, its tendency is too exacting: it asks too much and gives too little. in the extent to which it taxes the vital energies, it makes the juvenile life far more like the adult life than it should be. it overlooks the truth that, as in the foetus the entire vitality is expended in growth--as in the infant, the expenditure of vitality in growth is so great as to leave extremely little for either physical or mental action; so throughout childhood and youth, growth is the dominant requirement to which all others must be subordinated: a requirement which dictates the giving of much and the taking away of little--a requirement which, therefore, restricts the exertion of body and mind in proportion to the rapidity of growth--a requirement which permits the mental and physical activities to increase only as fast as the rate of growth diminishes. the _rationale_ of this high-pressure education is that it results from our passing phase of civilisation. in primitive times, when aggression and defence were the leading social activities, bodily vigour with its accompanying courage were the desiderata; and then education was almost wholly physical: mental cultivation was little cared for, and indeed, as in feudal ages, was often treated with contempt. but now that our state is relatively peaceful--now that muscular power is of use for little else than manual labour, while social success of nearly every kind depends very much on mental power; our education has become almost exclusively mental. instead of respecting the body and ignoring the mind, we now respect the mind and ignore the body. both these attitudes are wrong. we do not yet realise the truth that as, in this life of ours, the physical underlies the mental, the mental must not be developed at the expense of the physical. the ancient and modern conceptions must be combined. perhaps nothing will so much hasten the time when body and mind will both be adequately cared for, as a diffusion of the belief that the preservation of health is a _duty_. few seem conscious that there is such a thing as physical morality. men's habitual words and acts imply the idea that they are at liberty to treat their bodies as they please. disorders entailed by disobedience to nature's dictates, they regard simply as grievances: not as the effects of a conduct more or less flagitious. though the evil consequences inflicted on their dependents, and on future generations, are often as great as those caused by crime; yet they do not think themselves in any degree criminal. it is true that, in the case of drunkenness, the viciousness of a bodily transgression is recognised; but none appear to infer that, if this bodily transgression is vicious, so too is every bodily transgression. the fact is, that all breaches of the laws of health are _physical sins_. when this is generally seen, then, and perhaps not till then, will the physical training of the young receive the attention it deserves. [ ] _cyclopædia of practical medicine._ [ ] _cyclopædia of practical medicine._ [ ] _cyclopædia of anatomy and physiology._ [ ] morton's _cyclopædia of agriculture_. [ ] morton's _cyclopædia of agriculture_. [ ] it is needful to remark that children whose legs and arms have been from the beginning habitually without covering, cease to be conscious that the exposed surfaces are cold; just as by use we have all ceased to be conscious that our faces are cold, even when out of doors. but though in such children the sensations no longer protest, it does not follow that the system escapes injury, any more than it follows that the fuegian is undamaged by exposure, because he bears with indifference the melting of the falling snow on his naked body. [ ] we are not certain that the propagation of subdued forms of constitutional disease through the agency of vaccination is not a part cause. sundry facts in pathology suggest the inference, that when the system of a vaccinated child is excreting the vaccine virus by means of pustules, it will tend also to excrete through such pustules other morbific matters; especially if these morbific matters are of a kind ordinarily got rid of by the skin, as are some of the worst of them. hence it is very possible--probable even--that a child with a constitutional taint, too slight to show itself in visible disease, may, through the medium of vitiated vaccine lymph taken from it, convey a like constitutional taint to other children, and these to others. [ ] _cyclopædia of practical medicine_, vol. i. pp. , . part ii progress: its law and cause[ ] the current conception of progress is somewhat shifting and indefinite. sometimes it comprehends little more than simple growth--as of a nation in the number of its members and the extent of territory over which it has spread. sometimes it has reference to quantity of material products--as when the advance of agriculture and manufactures is the topic. sometimes the superior quality of these products is contemplated: and sometimes the new or improved appliances by which they are produced. when, again, we speak of moral or intellectual progress, we refer to the state of the individual or people exhibiting it; while, when the progress of knowledge, of science, of art, is commented upon, we have in view certain abstract results of human thought and action. not only, however, is the current conception of progress more or less vague, but it is in great measure erroneous. it takes in not so much the reality of progress as its accompaniments--not so much the substance as the shadow. that progress in intelligence seen during the growth of the child into the man, or the savage into the philosopher, is commonly regarded as consisting in the greater number of facts known and laws understood: whereas the actual progress consists in those internal modifications of which this increased knowledge is the expression. social progress is supposed to consist in the produce of a greater quantity and variety of the articles required for satisfying men's wants; in the increasing security of person and property; in widening freedom of action: whereas, rightly understood, social progress consists in those changes of structure in the social organism which have entailed these consequences. the current conception is a teleological one. the phenomena are contemplated solely as bearing on human happiness. only those changes are held to constitute progress which directly or indirectly tend to heighten human happiness. and they are thought to constitute progress simply _because_ they tend to heighten human happiness. but rightly to understand progress, we must inquire what is the nature of these changes, considered apart from our interests. ceasing, for example, to regard the successive geological modifications that have taken place in the earth, as modifications that have gradually fitted it for the habitation of man, and as _therefore_ a geological progress, we must seek to determine the character common to the modifications--the law to which they all conform. and similarly in every other case. leaving out of sight concomitants and beneficial consequences, let us ask what progress is in itself. in respect to that progress which individual organisms display in the course of their evolution, this question has been answered by the germans. the investigations of wolff, goethe, and von baer, have established the truth that the series of changes gone through during the development of a seed into a tree, or an ovum into an animal, constitute an advance from homogeneity of structure to heterogeneity of structure. in its primary stage, every germ consists of a substance that is uniform throughout, both in texture and chemical composition. the first step is the appearance of a difference between two parts of this substance; or, as the phenomenon is called in physiological language, a differentiation. each of these differentiated divisions presently begins itself to exhibit some contrast of parts; and by and by these secondary differentiations become as definite as the original one. this process is continuously repeated--is simultaneously going on in all parts of the growing embryo; and by endless such differentiations there is finally produced that complex combination of tissues and organs constituting the adult animal or plant. this is the history of all organisms whatever. it is settled beyond dispute that organic progress consists in a change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. now, we propose in the first place to show, that this law of organic progress is the law of all progress. whether it be in the development of the earth, in the development of life upon its surface, in the development of society, of government, of manufactures, of commerce, of language, literature, science, art, this same evolution of the simple into the complex, through successive differentiations, holds throughout. from the earliest traceable cosmical changes down to the latest results of civilisation, we shall find that the transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous, is that in which progress essentially consists. with the view of showing that _if_ the nebular hypothesis be true, the genesis of the solar system supplies one illustration of this law, let us assume that the matter of which the sun and planets consist was once in a diffused form; and that from the gravitation of its atoms there resulted a gradual concentration. by the hypothesis, the solar system in its nascent state existed as an indefinitely extended and nearly homogeneous medium--a medium almost homogeneous in density, in temperature, and in other physical attributes. the first advance towards consolidation resulted in a differentiation between the occupied space which the nebulous mass still filled, and the unoccupied space which it previously filled. there simultaneously resulted a contrast in density and a contrast in temperature, between the interior and the exterior of this mass. and at the same time there arose throughout it rotatory movements, whose velocities varied according to their distances from its centre. these differentiations increased in number and degree until there was the organised group of sun, planets, and satellites, which we now know--a group which represents numerous contrasts of structure and action among its members. there are the immense contrasts between the sun and planets, in bulk and in weight; as well as the subordinate contrasts between one planet and another, and between the planets and their satellites. there is the similarly marked contrast between the sun as almost stationary, and the planets as moving round him with great velocity; while there are the secondary contrasts between the velocities and periods of the several planets, and between their simple revolutions and the double ones of their satellites, which have to move round their primaries while moving round the sun. there is the yet further strong contrast between the sun and the planets in respect of temperature; and there is reason to suppose that the planets and satellites differ from each other in their proper heat, as well as in the heat they receive from the sun. when we bear in mind that, in addition to these various contrasts, the planets and satellites also differ in respect to their distances from each other and their primary; in respect to the inclinations of their orbits, the inclinations of their axes, their times of rotation on their axes, their specific gravities, and their physical constitutions; we see what a high degree of heterogeneity the solar system exhibits, when compared with the almost complete homogeneity of the nebulous mass out of which it is supposed to have originated. passing from this hypothetical illustration, which must be taken for what it is worth, without prejudice to the general argument, let us descend to a more certain order of evidence. it is now generally agreed among geologists that the earth was at first a mass of molten matter; and that it is still fluid and incandescent at the distance of a few miles beneath its surface. originally, then, it was homogeneous in consistence, and, in virtue of the circulation that takes place in heated fluids, must have been comparatively homogeneous in temperature; and it must have been surrounded by an atmosphere consisting partly of the elements of air and water, and partly of those various other elements which assume a gaseous form at high temperatures. that slow cooling by radiation which is still going on at an inappreciable rate, and which, though originally far more rapid than now, necessarily required an immense time to produce any decided change, must ultimately have resulted in the solidification of the portion most able to part with its heat--namely, the surface. in the thin crust thus formed we have the first marked differentiation. a still further cooling, a consequent thickening of this crust, and an accompanying deposition of all solidifiable elements contained in the atmosphere, must finally have been followed by the condensation of the water previously existing as vapour. a second marked differentiation must thus have arisen: and as the condensation must have taken place on the coolest parts of the surface--namely, about the poles--there must thus have resulted the first geographical distinction of parts. to these illustrations of growing heterogeneity, which, though deduced from the known laws of matter, may be regarded as more or less hypothetical, geology adds an extensive series that have been inductively established. its investigations show that the earth has been continually becoming more heterogeneous in virtue of the multiplication of the strata which form its crust; further, that it has been becoming more heterogeneous in respect of the composition of these strata, the latter of which, being made from the detritus of the older ones, are many of them rendered highly complex by the mixture of materials they contain; and that this heterogeneity has been vastly increased by the action of the earth's still molten nucleus upon its envelope, whence have resulted not only a great variety of igneous rocks, but the tilting up of sedimentary strata at all angles, the formation of faults and metallic veins, the production of endless dislocations and irregularities. yet again, geologists teach us that the earth's surface has been growing more varied in elevation--that the most ancient mountain systems are the smallest, and the andes and himalayas the most modern; while in all probability there have been corresponding changes in the bed of the ocean. as a consequence of these ceaseless differentiations, we now find that no considerable portion of the earth's exposed surface is like any other portion, either in contour, in geologic structure, or in chemical composition; and that in most parts it changes from mile to mile in all these characteristics. moreover, it must not be forgotten that there has been simultaneously going on a gradual differentiation of climates. as fast as the earth cooled and its crust solidified, there arose appreciable differences in temperature between those parts of its surface most exposed to the sun and those less exposed. gradually, as the cooling progressed, these differences became more pronounced; until there finally resulted those marked contrasts between regions of perpetual ice and snow, regions where winter and summer alternately reign for periods varying according to the latitude, and regions where summer follows summer with scarcely an appreciable variation. at the same time the successive elevations and subsidences of different portions of the earth's crust, tending as they have done to the present irregular distribution of land and sea, have entailed various modifications of climate beyond those dependent on latitude; while a yet further series of such modifications have been produced by increasing differences of elevation in the land, which have in sundry places brought arctic, temperate, and tropical climates to within a few miles of each other. and the general result of these changes is, that not only has every extensive region its own meteorologic conditions, but that every locality in each region differs more or less from others in those conditions, as in its structure, its contour, its soil. thus, between our existing earth, the phenomena of whose varied crust neither geographers, geologists, mineralogists, nor meteorologists have yet enumerated, and the molten globe out of which it was evolved, the contrast in heterogeneity is sufficiently striking. when from the earth itself we turn to the plants and animals that have lived, or still live, upon its surface, we find ourselves in some difficulty from lack of facts. that every existing organism has been developed out of the simple into the complex, is indeed the first established truth of all; and that every organism that has existed was similarly developed, is an inference which no physiologist will hesitate to draw. but when we pass from individual forms of life to life in general, and inquire whether the same law is seen in the _ensemble_ of its manifestations,--whether modern plants and animals are of more heterogeneous structure than ancient ones, and whether the earth's present flora and fauna are more heterogeneous than the flora and fauna of the past,--we find the evidence so fragmentary, that every conclusion is open to dispute. two-thirds of the earth's surface being covered by water; a great part of the exposed land being inaccessible to, or untravelled by, the geologist; the greater part of the remainder having been scarcely more than glanced at; and even the most familiar portions, as england, having been so imperfectly explored that a new series of strata has been added within these four years,--it is manifestly impossible for us to say with any certainty what creatures have, and what have not, existed at any particular period. considering the perishable nature of many of the lower organic forms, the metamorphosis of many sedimentary strata, and the gaps that occur among the rest, we shall see further reason for distrusting our deductions. on the one hand, the repeated discovery of vertebrate remains in strata previously supposed to contain none,--of reptiles where only fish were thought to exist,--of mammals where it was believed there were no creatures higher than reptiles,--renders it daily more manifest how small is the value of negative evidence. on the other hand, the worthlessness of the assumption that we have discovered the earliest, or anything like the earliest, organic remains, is becoming equally clear. that the oldest known sedimentary rocks have been greatly changed by igneous action, and that still older ones have been totally transformed by it, is becoming undeniable. and the fact that sedimentary strata earlier than any we know, have been melted up, being admitted, it must also be admitted that we cannot say how far back in time this destruction of sedimentary strata has been going on. thus it is manifest that the title, _palæozoic_, as applied to the earliest known fossiliferous strata, involves a _petitio principii_; and that, for aught we know to the contrary, only the last few chapters of the earth's biological history may have come down to us. on neither side, therefore, is the evidence conclusive. nevertheless we cannot but think that, scanty as they are, the facts, taken altogether, tend to show both that the more heterogeneous organisms have been evolved in the later geologic periods, and that life in general has been more heterogeneously manifested as time has advanced. let us cite, in illustration, the one case of the _vertebrata_. the earliest known vertebrate remains are those of fishes; and fishes are the most homogeneous of the vertebrata. later and more heterogeneous are reptiles. later still, and more heterogeneous still, are mammals and birds. if it be said, as it may fairly be said, that the palæozoic deposits, not being estuary deposits, are not likely to contain the remains of terrestrial vertebrata, which may nevertheless have existed at that era, we reply that we are merely pointing to the leading facts, _such as they are_. but to avoid any such criticism, let us take the mammalian subdivision only. the earliest known remains of mammals are those of small marsupials, which are the lowest of the mammalian type; while, conversely, the highest of the mammalian type--man--is the most recent. the evidence that the vertebrate fauna, as a whole, has become more heterogeneous, is considerably stronger. to the argument that the vertebrate fauna of the palæozoic period, consisting, so far as we know, entirely of fishes, was less heterogeneous than the modern vertebrate fauna, which includes reptiles, birds, and mammals, of multitudinous genera, it may be replied, as before, that estuary deposits of the palæozoic period, could we find them, might contain other orders of vertebrata. but no such reply can be made to the argument that whereas the marine vertebrata of the palæozoic period consisted entirely of cartilaginous fishes, the marine vertebrata of later periods include numerous genera of osseous fishes; and that, therefore, the later marine vertebrate faunas are more heterogeneous than the oldest known one. nor, again, can any such reply be made to the fact that there are far more numerous orders and genera of mammalian remains in the tertiary formations than in the secondary formations. did we wish merely to make out the best case, we might dwell upon the opinion of dr. carpenter, who says that "the general facts of palæontology appear to sanction the belief, that _the same plan_ may be traced out in what may be called _the general life of the globe_, as in _the individual life_ of every one of the forms of organised being which now people it." or we might quote, as decisive, the judgment of professor owen, who holds that the earlier examples of each group of creatures severally departed less widely from archetypal generality than the later ones--were severally less unlike the fundamental form common to the group as a whole; that is to say--constituted a less heterogeneous group of creatures; and who further upholds the doctrine of a biological progression. but in deference to an authority for whom we have the highest respect, who considers that the evidence at present obtained does not justify a verdict either way, we are content to leave the question open. whether an advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous is or is not displayed in the biological history of the globe, it is clearly enough displayed in the progress of the latest and most heterogeneous creature--man. it is alike true that, during the period in which the earth has been peopled, the human organism has grown more heterogeneous among the civilised divisions of the species; and that the species, as a whole, has been growing more heterogeneous in virtue of the multiplication of races and the differentiation of these races from each other. in proof of the first of these positions, we may cite the fact that, in the relative development of the limbs, the civilised man departs more widely from the general type of the placental mammalia than do the lower human races. while often possessing well-developed body and arms, the papuan has extremely small legs: thus reminding us of the quadrumana, in which there is no great contrast in size between the hind and fore limbs. but in the european, the greater length and massiveness of the legs has become very marked--the fore and hind limbs are relatively more heterogeneous. again, the greater ratio which the cranial bones bear to the facial bones illustrates the same truth. among the vertebrata in general, progress is marked by an increasing heterogeneity in the vertebral column, and more especially in the vertebræ constituting the skull: the higher forms being distinguished by the relatively larger size of the bones which cover the brain, and the relatively smaller size of those which form the jaw, etc. now, this characteristic, which is stronger in man than in any other creature, is stronger in the european than in the savage. moreover, judging from the greater extent and variety of faculty he exhibits, we may infer that the civilised man has also a more complex or heterogeneous nervous system than the uncivilised man: and indeed the fact is in part visible in the increased ratio which his cerebrum bears to the subjacent ganglia. if further elucidation be needed, we may find it in every nursery. the infant european has sundry marked points of resemblance to the lower human races; as in the flatness of the alæ of the nose, the depression of its bridge, the divergence and forward opening of the nostrils, the form of the lips, the absence of a frontal sinus, the width between the eyes, the smallness of the legs. now, as the development process by which these traits are turned into those of the adult european, is a continuation of that change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous displayed during the previous evolution of the embryo, which every physiologist will admit; it follows that the parallel developmental process by which the like traits of the barbarous races have been turned into those of the civilised races, has also been a continuation of the change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. the truth of the second position--that mankind, as a whole, have become more heterogeneous--is so obvious as scarcely to need illustration. every work on ethnology, by its divisions and subdivisions of races, bears testimony to it. even were we to admit the hypothesis that mankind originated from several separate stocks, it would still remain true, that as, from each of these stocks, there have sprung many now widely different tribes, which are proved by philological evidence to have had a common origin, the race as a whole is far less homogeneous than it once was. add to which, that we have, in the anglo-americans, an example of a new variety arising within these few generations; and that, if we may trust to the description of observers, we are likely soon to have another such example in australia. on passing from humanity under its individual form, to humanity as socially embodied, we find the general law still more variously exemplified. the change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous is displayed equally in the progress of civilisation as a whole, and in the progress of every tribe or nation; and is still going on with increasing rapidity. as we see in existing barbarous tribes, society in its first and lowest form is a homogeneous aggregation of individuals having like powers and like functions: the only marked difference of function being that which accompanies difference of sex. every man is warrior, hunter, fisherman, tool-maker, builder; every woman performs the same drudgeries; every family is self-sufficing, and save for purposes of aggression and defence, might as well live apart from the rest. very early, however, in the process of social evolution, we find an incipient differentiation between the governing and the governed. some kind of chieftainship seems coeval with the first advance from the state of separate wandering families to that of a nomadic tribe. the authority of the strongest makes itself felt among a body of savages as in a herd of animals, or a posse of schoolboys. at first, however, it is indefinite, uncertain; is shared by others of scarcely inferior power; and is unaccompanied by any difference in occupation or style of living: the first ruler kills his own game, makes his own weapons, builds his own hut, and economically considered, does not differ from others of his tribe. gradually, as the tribe progresses, the contrast between the governing and the governed grows more decided. supreme power becomes hereditary in one family; the head of that family, ceasing to provide for his own wants, is served by others; and he begins to assume the sole office of ruling. at the same time there has been arising a co-ordinate species of government--that of religion. as all ancient records and traditions prove, the earliest rulers are regarded as divine personages. the maxims and commands they uttered during their lives are held sacred after their deaths, and are enforced by their divinely-descended successors; who in their turns are promoted to the pantheon of the race, there to be worshipped and propitiated along with their predecessors: the most ancient of whom is the supreme god, and the rest subordinate gods. for a long time these connate forms of government--civil and religious--continue closely associated. for many generations the king continues to be the chief priest, and the priesthood to be members of the royal race. for many ages religious law continues to contain more or less of civil regulation, and civil law to possess more or less of religious sanction; and even among the most advanced nations these two controlling agencies are by no means completely differentiated from each other. having a common root with these, and gradually diverging from them, we find yet another controlling agency--that of manners or ceremonial usages. all titles of honour are originally the names of the god-king; afterwards of god and the king; still later of persons of high rank; and finally come, some of them, to be used between man and man. all forms of complimentary address were at first the expressions of submission from prisoners to their conqueror, or from subjects to their ruler, either human or divine--expressions that were afterwards used to propitiate subordinate authorities, and slowly descended into ordinary intercourse. all modes of salutation were once obeisances made before the monarch and used in worship of him after his death. presently others of the god-descended race were similarly saluted; and by degrees some of the salutations have become the due of all.[ ] thus, no sooner does the originally homogeneous social mass differentiate into the governed and the governing parts, than this last exhibits an incipient differentiation into religious and secular--church and state; while at the same time there begins to be differentiated from both, that less definite species of government which rules our daily intercourse--a species of government which, as we may see in heralds' colleges, in books of the peerage, in masters of ceremonies, is not without a certain embodiment of its own. each of these is itself subject to successive differentiations. in the course of ages, there arises, as among ourselves, a highly complex political organisation of monarch, ministers, lords and commons, with their subordinate administrative departments, courts of justice, revenue offices, etc., supplemented in the provinces by municipal governments, county governments, parish or union governments--all of them more or less elaborated. by its side there grows up a highly complex religious organisation, with its various grades of officials, from archbishops down to sextons, its colleges, convocations, ecclesiastical courts, etc.; to all which must be added the ever multiplying independent sects, each with its general and local authorities. and at the same time there is developed a highly complex aggregation of customs, manners, and temporary fashions, enforced by society at large, and serving to control those minor transactions between man and man which are not regulated by civil and religious law. moreover it is to be observed that this ever increasing heterogeneity in the governmental appliances of each nation, has been accompanied by an increasing heterogeneity in the governmental appliances of different nations; all of which are more or less unlike in their political systems and legislation, in their creeds and religious institutions, in their customs and ceremonial usages. simultaneously there has been going on a second differentiation of a more familiar kind; that, namely, by which the mass of the community has been segregated into distinct classes and orders of workers. while the governing part has undergone the complex development above detailed, the governed part has undergone an equally complex development, which has resulted in that minute division of labour characterising advanced nations. it is needless to trace out this progress from its first stages, up through the caste divisions of the east and the incorporated guilds of europe, to the elaborate producing and distributing organisation existing among ourselves. political economists have long since described the evolution which, beginning with a tribe whose members severally perform the same actions each for himself, ends with a civilised community whose members severally perform different actions for each other; and they have further pointed out the changes through which the solitary producer of any one commodity is transformed into a combination of producers who, united under a master, take separate parts in the manufacture of such commodity. but there are yet other and higher phases of this advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous in the industrial organisation of society. long after considerable progress has been made in the division of labour among different classes of workers, there is still little or no division of labour among the widely separated parts of the community; the nation continues comparatively homogeneous in the respect that in each district the same occupations are pursued. but when roads and other means of transit become numerous and good, the different districts begin to assume different functions, and to become mutually dependent. the calico manufacture locates itself in this county, the woollen-cloth manufacture in that; silks are produced here, lace there; stockings in one place, shoes in another; pottery, hardware, cutlery, come to have their special towns; and ultimately every locality becomes more or less distinguished from the rest by the leading occupation carried on in it. nay, more, this subdivision of functions shows itself not only among the different parts of the same nation, but among different nations. that exchange of commodities which free-trade promises so greatly to increase, will ultimately have the effect of specialising, in a greater or less degree, the industry of each people. so that beginning with a barbarous tribe, almost if not quite homogeneous in the functions of its members, the progress has been, and still is, towards an economic aggregation of the whole human race; growing ever more heterogeneous in respect of the separate functions assumed by separate nations, the separate functions assumed by the local sections of each nation, the separate functions assumed by the many kinds of makers and traders in each town, and the separate functions assumed by the workers united in producing each commodity. not only is the law thus clearly exemplified in the evolution of the social organism, but it is exemplified with equal clearness in the evolution of all products of human thought and action, whether concrete or abstract, real or ideal. let us take language as our first illustration. the lowest form of language is the exclamation, by which an entire idea is vaguely conveyed through a single sound; as among the lower animals. that human language ever consisted solely of exclamations, and so was strictly homogeneous in respect of its parts of speech, we have no evidence. but that language can be traced down to a form in which nouns and verbs are its only elements, is an established fact. in the gradual multiplication of parts of speech out of these primary ones--in the differentiation of verbs into active and passive, of nouns into abstract and concrete--in the rise of distinctions of mood, tense, person, of number and case--in the formation of auxiliary verbs, of adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, prepositions, articles--in the divergence of those orders, genera, species, and varieties of parts of speech by which civilised races express minute modifications of meaning--we see a change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. and it may be remarked, in passing, that it is more especially in virtue of having carried this subdivision of function to a greater extent and completeness, that the english language is superior to all others. another aspect under which we may trace the development of language is the differentiation of words of allied meanings. philology early disclosed the truth that in all languages words may be grouped into families having a common ancestry. an aboriginal name applied indiscriminately to each of an extensive and ill-defined class of things or actions, presently undergoes modifications by which the chief divisions of the class are expressed. these several names springing from the primitive root, themselves become the parents of other names still further modified. and by the aid of those systematic modes which presently arise, of making derivations and forming compound terms expressing still smaller distinctions, there is finally developed a tribe of words so heterogeneous in sound and meaning, that to the uninitiated it seems incredible that they should have had a common origin. meanwhile from other roots there are being evolved other such tribes, until there results a language of some sixty thousand or more unlike words, signifying as many unlike objects, qualities, acts. yet another way in which language in general advances from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, is in the multiplication of languages. whether as max müller and bunsen think, all languages have grown from one stock, or whether, as some philologists say, they have grown from two or more stocks, it is clear that since large families of languages, as the indo-european, are of one parentage, they have become distinct through a process of continuous divergence. the same diffusion over the earth's surface which has led to the differentiation of the race, has simultaneously led to a differentiation of their speech: a truth which we see further illustrated in each nation by the peculiarities of dialect found in several districts. thus the progress of language conforms to the general law, alike in the evolution of languages, in the evolution of families of words, and in the evolution of parts of speech. on passing from spoken to written language, we come upon several classes of facts, all having similar implications. written language is connate with painting and sculpture; and at first all three are appendages of architecture, and have a direct connection with the primary form of all government--the theocratic. merely noting by the way the fact that sundry wild races, as for example the australians and the tribes of south africa, are given to depicting personages and events upon the walls of caves, which are probably regarded as sacred places, let us pass to the case of the egyptians. among them, as also among the assyrians, we find mural paintings used to decorate the temple of the god and the palace of the king (which were, indeed, originally identical); and as such they were governmental appliances in the same sense that state-pageants and religious feasts were. further, they were governmental appliances in virtue of representing the worship of the god, the triumphs of the god-king, the submission of his subjects, and the punishment of the rebellious. and yet again they were governmental, as being the products of an art reverenced by the people as a sacred mystery. from the habitual use of this pictorial representations there naturally grew up the but slightly-modified practice of picture-writing--a practice which was found still extant among the mexicans at the time they were discovered. by abbreviations analogous to those still going on in our own written and spoken language, the most familiar of these pictured figures were successively simplified; and ultimately there grew up a system of symbols, most of which had but a distant resemblance to the things for which they stood. the inference that the hieroglyphics of the egyptians were thus produced, is confirmed by the fact that the picture-writing of the mexicans was found to have given birth to a like family of ideographic forms; and among them, as among the egyptians, these had been partially differentiated into the _kuriological_ or imitative, and the _tropical_ or symbolic: which were, however, used together in the same record. in egypt, written language underwent a further differentiation: whence resulted the _hieratic_ and the _epistolographic_ or _enchorial_: both of which are derived from the original hieroglyphic. at the same time we find that for the expression of proper names which could not be otherwise conveyed, phonetic symbols were employed; and though it is alleged that the egyptians never actually achieved complete alphabetic writing, yet it can scarcely be doubted that these phonetic symbols occasionally used in aid of their ideographic ones, were the germs out of which alphabetic writing grew. once having become separate from hieroglyphics, alphabetic writing itself underwent numerous differentiations--multiplied alphabets were produced; between most of which, however, more or less connection can still be traced. and in each civilised nation there has now grown up, for the representation of one set of sounds, several sets of written signs used for distinct purposes. finally, through a yet more important differentiation came printing; which, uniform in kind as it was at first, has since become multiform. while written language was passing through its earlier stages of development, the mural decoration which formed its root was being differentiated into painting and sculpture. the gods, kings, men, and animals represented, were originally marked by indented outlines and coloured. in most cases these outlines were of such depth, and the object they circumscribed so far rounded and marked out in its leading parts, as to form a species of work intermediate between intaglio and bas-relief. in other cases we see an advance upon this: the raised spaces between the figures being chiselled off, and the figures themselves appropriately tinted, a painted bas-relief was produced. the restored assyrian architecture at sydenham exhibits this style of art carried to greater perfection--the persons and things represented, though still barbarously coloured, are carved out with more truth and in greater detail: and in the winged lions and bulls used for the angles of gateways, we may see a considerable advance towards a completely sculptured figure; which, nevertheless, is still coloured, and still forms part of the building. but while in assyria the production of a statue proper seems to have been little, if at all, attempted, we may trace in egyptian art the gradual separation of the sculptured figure from the wall. a walk through the collection in the british museum will clearly show this; while it will at the same time afford an opportunity of observing the evident traces which the independent statues bear of their derivation from bas-relief: seeing that nearly all of them not only display that union of the limbs with the body which is the characteristic of bas-relief, but have the back of the statue united from head to foot with a block which stands in place of the original wall. greece repeated the leading stages of this progress. as in egypt and assyria, these twin arts were at first united with each other and with their parent, architecture, and were the aids of religion and government. on the friezes of greek temples, we see coloured bas-reliefs representing sacrifices, battles, processions, games--all in some sort religious. on the pediments we see painted sculptures more or less united with the tympanum, and having for subjects the triumphs of gods or heroes. even when we come to statues that are definitely separated from the buildings to which they pertain, we still find them coloured; and only in the later periods of greek civilisation does the differentiation of sculpture from painting appear to have become complete. in christian art we may clearly trace a parallel re-genesis. all early paintings and sculptures throughout europe were religious in subject--represented christs, crucifixions, virgins, holy families, apostles, saints. they formed integral parts of church architecture, and were among the means of exciting worship; as in roman catholic countries they still are. moreover, the early sculptures of christ on the cross, of virgins, of saints, were coloured: and it needs but to call to mind the painted madonnas and crucifixes still abundant in continental churches and highways, to perceive the significant fact that painting and sculpture continue in closest connection with each other where they continue in closest connection with their parent. even when christian sculpture was pretty clearly differentiated from painting, it was still religious and governmental in its subjects--was used for tombs in churches and statues of kings: while, at the same time, painting, where not purely ecclesiastical, was applied to the decoration of palaces, and besides representing royal personages, was almost wholly devoted to sacred legends. only in quite recent times have painting and sculpture become entirely secular arts. only within these few centuries has painting been divided into historical, landscape, marine, architectural, genre, animal, still-life, etc., and sculpture grown heterogeneous in respect of the variety of real and ideal subjects with which it occupies itself. strange as it seems then, we find it no less true, that all forms of written language, of painting, and of sculpture, have a common root in the politico-religious decorations of ancient temples and palaces. little resemblance as they now have, the bust that stands on the console, the landscape that hangs against the wall, and the copy of the _times_ lying upon the table, are remotely akin; not only in nature, but by extraction. the brazen face of the knocker which the postman has just lifted, is related not only to the woodcuts of the _illustrated london news_ which he is delivering, but to the characters of the _billet-doux_ which accompanies it. between the painted window, the prayer-book on which its light falls, and the adjacent monument, there is consanguinity. the effigies on our coins, the signs over shops, the figures that fill every ledger, the coats of arms outside the carriage panel, and the placards inside the omnibus, are, in common with dolls, blue-books, paper-hangings, lineally descended from the rude sculpture-paintings in which the egyptians represented the triumphs and worship of their god-kings. perhaps no example can be given which more vividly illustrates the multiplicity and heterogeneity of the products that in course of time may arise by successive differentiations from a common stock. before passing to other classes of facts, it should be observed that the evolution of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous is displayed not only in the separation of painting and sculpture from architecture and from each other, and in the greater variety of subjects they embody, but it is further shown in the structure of each work. a modern picture or statue is of far more heterogeneous nature than an ancient one. an egyptian sculpture-fresco represents all its figures as on one plane--that is, at the same distance from the eye; and so is less heterogeneous than a painting that represents them as at various distances from the eye. it exhibits all objects as exposed to the same degree of light; and so is less heterogeneous than a painting which exhibits different objects and different parts of each object as in different degrees of light. it uses scarcely any but the primary colours, and these in their full intensity; and so is less heterogeneous than a painting which, introducing the primary colours but sparingly, employs an endless variety of intermediate tints, each of heterogeneous composition, and differing from the rest not only in quality but in intensity. moreover, we see in these earliest works a great uniformity of conception. the same arrangement of figures is perpetually reproduced--the same actions, attitudes, faces, dresses. in egypt the modes of representation were so fixed that it was sacrilege to introduce a novelty; and indeed it could have been only in consequence of a fixed mode of representation that a system of hieroglyphics became possible. the assyrian bas-reliefs display parallel characters. deities, kings, attendants, winged figures and animals, are severally depicted in like positions, holding like implements, doing like things, and with like expression or non-expression of face. if a palm-grove is introduced, all the trees are of the same height, have the same number of leaves, and are equidistant. when water is imitated, each wave is a counterpart of the rest; and the fish, almost always of one kind, are evenly distributed over the surface. the beards of the kings, the gods, and the winged figures, are every where similar: as are the names of the lions, and equally so those of the horses. hair is represented throughout by one form of curl. the king's beard is quite architecturally built up of compound tiers of uniform curls, alternating with twisted tiers placed in a transverse direction, and arranged with perfect regularity; and the terminal tufts of the bulls' tails are represented in exactly the same manner. without tracing out analogous facts in early christian art, in which, though less striking, they are still visible, the advance in heterogeneity will be sufficiently manifest on remembering that in the pictures of our own day the composition is endlessly varied; the attitudes, faces, expressions, unlike; the subordinate objects different in size, form, position, texture; and more or less of contrast even in the smallest details. or, if we compare an egyptian statue, seated bolt upright on a block with hands on knees, fingers outspread and parallel, eyes looking straight forward, and the two sides perfectly symmetrical in every particular, with a statue of the advanced greek or the modern school, which is asymmetrical in respect of the position of the head, the body, the limbs, the arrangement of the hair, dress, appendages, and in its relations to neighbouring objects, we shall see the change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous clearly manifested. in the co-ordinate origin and gradual differentiation of poetry, music and dancing, we have another series of illustrations. rhythm in speech, rhythm in sound, and rhythm in motion, were in the beginning parts of the same thing, and have only in process of time become separate things. among various existing barbarous tribes we find them still united. the dances of savages are accompanied by some kind of monotonous chant, the clapping of hands, the striking of rude instruments: there are measured movements, measured words, and measured tones; and the whole ceremony, usually having reference to war or sacrifice, is of governmental character. in the early records of the historic races we similarly find these three forms of metrical action united in religious festivals. in the hebrew writings we read that the triumphal ode composed by moses on the defeat of the egyptians, was sung to an accompaniment of dancing and timbrels. the israelites danced and sung "at the inauguration of the golden calf. and as it is generally agreed that this representation of the deity was borrowed from the mysteries of apis, it is probable that the dancing was copied from that of the egyptians on those occasions." there was an annual dance in shiloh on the sacred festival; and david danced before the ark. again, in greece the like relation is everywhere seen; the original type being there, as probably in other cases, a simultaneous chanting and mimetic representation of the life and adventures of the god. the spartan dances were accompanied by hymns and songs; and in general the greeks had "no festivals or religious assemblies but what were accompanied with songs and dances"--both of them being forms of worship used before altars. among the romans, too, there were sacred dances: the salian and lupercalian being named as of that kind. and even in christian countries, as at limoges, in comparatively recent times, the people have danced in the choir in honour of a saint. the incipient separation of these once united arts from each other and from religion, was early visible in greece. probably diverging from dances partly religious, partly warlike, as the corybantian, came the war dances proper, of which there were various kinds; and from these resulted secular dances. meanwhile music and poetry, though still united, came to have an existence separate from dancing. the aboriginal greek poems, religious in subject, were not recited, but chanted; and though at first the chant of the poet was accompanied by the dance of the chorus, it ultimately grew into independence. later still, when the poem had been differentiated into epic and lyric--when it became the custom to sing the lyric and recite the epic--poetry proper was born. as during the same period musical instruments were being multiplied, we may presume that music came to have an existence apart from words. and both of them were beginning to assume other forms besides the religious. facts having like implications might be cited from the histories of later times and people: as the practices of our own early minstrels, who sang to the harp heroic narratives versified by themselves to music of their own composition: thus uniting the now separate offices of poet, composer, vocalist, and instrumentalist. but, without further illustration, the common origin and gradual differentiation of dancing, poetry, and music will be sufficiently manifest. the advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous is displayed not only in the separation of these arts from each other and from religion, but also in the multiplied differentiations which each of them afterwards undergoes. not to dwell upon the numberless kinds of dancing that have, in course of time, come into use; and not to occupy space in detaining the progress of poetry, as seen in the development of the various forms of metre, of rhyme, and of general organisation; let us confine our attention to music as a type of the group. as argued by dr. burney, and as implied by the customs of still extant barbarous races, the first musical instruments were, without doubt, percussive--sticks, calabashes, tom-toms--and were used simply to mark the time of the dance; and in this constant repetition of the same sound, we see music in its most homogeneous form. the egyptians had a lyre with three strings. the early lyre of the greeks had four, constituting their tetrachord. in course of some centuries lyres of seven and eight strings were employed. and, by the expiration of a thousand years, they had advanced to their "great system" of the double octave. through all which changes there of course arose a greater heterogeneity of melody. simultaneously there came into use the different modes--dorian, ionian, phrygian, Æolian, and lydian--answering to our keys; and of these there were ultimately fifteen. as yet, however, there was but little heterogeneity in the time of their music. instrumental music during this period being merely the accompaniment of vocal music, and vocal music being completely subordinated to words, the singer being also the poet, chanting his own compositions and making the lengths of his notes agree with the feet of his verses,--there unavoidably arose a tiresome uniformity of measure, which, as dr. burney says, "no resources of melody could disguise." lacking the complex rhythm obtained by our equal bars and unequal notes the only rhythm was that produced by the quantity of the syllables and was of necessity comparatively monotonous. and further, it may be observed that the chant thus resulting, being like recitative, was much less clearly differentiated from ordinary speech than is our modern song. nevertheless, in virtue of the extended range of notes in use, the variety of modes, the occasional variations of time consequent on changes of metre, and the multiplication of instruments, music had, towards the close of greek civilisation, attained to considerable heterogeneity--not indeed as compared with our music, but as compared with that which preceded it. as yet, however, there existed nothing but melody: harmony was unknown. it was not until christian church-music had reached some development, that music in parts was evolved; and then it came into existence through a very unobtrusive differentiation. difficult as it may be to conceive _à priori_ how the advance from melody to harmony could take place without a sudden leap, it is none the less true that it did so. the circumstance which prepared the way for it was the employment of two choirs singing alternately the same air. afterwards it became the practice--very possibly first suggested by a mistake--for the second choir to commence before the first had ceased; thus producing a fugue. with the simple airs then in use, a partially harmonious fugue might not improbably thus result: and a very partially harmonious fugue satisfied the ears of that age, as we know from still preserved examples. the idea having once been given, the composing of airs productive of fugal harmony would naturally grow up; as in some way it _did_ grow up out of this alternate choir-singing. and from the fugue to concerted music of two, three, four, and more parts, the transition was easy. without pointing out in detail the increasing complexity that resulted from introducing notes of various lengths, from the multiplication of keys, from the use of accidentals, from varieties of time, and so forth, it needs but to contrast music as it is, with music as it was, to see how immense is the increase of heterogeneity. we see this if, looking at music in its _ensemble_, we enumerate its many different genera and species--if we consider the divisions into vocal, instrumental, and mixed; and their subdivisions into music for different voices and different instruments--if we observe the many forms of sacred music, from the simple hymn, the chant, the canon, motet, anthem, etc., up to the oratorio; and the still more numerous forms of secular music, from the ballad up to the serenata, from the instrumental solo up to the symphony. again, the same truth is seen on comparing any one sample of aboriginal music with a sample of modern music--even an ordinary song for the piano; which we find to be relatively highly heterogeneous, not only in respect of the varieties in the pitch and in the length of the notes, the number of different notes sounding at the same instant in company with the voice, and the variations of strength with which they are sounded and sung, but in respect of the changes of key, the changes of time, the changes of _timbre_ of the voice, and the many other modifications of expression. while between the old monotonous dance-chant and a grand opera of our own day, with its endless orchestral complexities and vocal combinations, the contrast in heterogeneity is so extreme that it seems scarcely credible that the one should have been the ancestor of the other. were they needed, many further illustrations might be cited. going back to the early time when the deeds of the god-king, chanted and mimetically represented in dances round his altar, were further narrated in picture-writings on the walls of temples and palaces, and so constituted a rude literature, we might trace the development of literature through phases in which, as in the hebrew scriptures, it presents in one work theology, cosmogony, history, biography, civil law, ethics, poetry; through other phases in which, as in the iliad, the religious, martial, historical, the epic, dramatic, and lyric elements are similarly commingled; down to its present heterogeneous development, in which its divisions and subdivisions are so numerous and varied as to defy complete classification. or we might trace out the evolution of science; beginning with the era in which it was not yet differentiated from art, and was, in union with art, the handmaid of religion; passing through the era in which the sciences were so few and rudimentary, as to be simultaneously cultivated by the same philosophers; and ending with the era in which the genera and species are so numerous that few can enumerate them, and no one can adequately grasp even one genus. or we might do the like with architecture, with the drama, with dress. but doubtless the reader is already weary of illustrations; and our promise has been amply fulfilled. we believe we have shown beyond question, that that which the german physiologists have found to be the law of organic development, is the law of all development. the advance from the simple to the complex, through a process of successive differentiations, is seen alike in the earliest changes of the universe to which we can reason our way back; and in the earliest changes which we can inductively establish; it is seen in the geologic and climatic evolution of the earth, and of every single organism on its surface; it is seen in the evolution of humanity, whether contemplated in the civilised individual, or in the aggregation of races; it is seen in the evolution of society in respect alike of its political, its religious, and its economical organisation; and it is seen in the evolution of all those endless concrete and abstract products of human activity which constitute the environment of our daily life. from the remotest past which science can fathom, up to the novelties of yesterday, that in which progress essentially consists, is the transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous. * * * * * and now, from this uniformity of procedure, may we not infer some fundamental necessity whence it results? may we not rationally seek for some all-pervading principle which determines this all-pervading process of things? does not the universality of the _law_ imply a universal _cause_? that we can fathom such cause, noumenally considered, is not to be supposed. to do this would be to solve that ultimate mystery which must ever transcend human intelligence. but it still may be possible for us to reduce the law of all progress, above established, from the condition of an empirical generalisation, to the condition of a rational generalisation. just as it was possible to interpret kepler's laws as necessary consequences of the law of gravitation; so it may be possible to interpret this law of progress, in its multiform manifestations, as the necessary consequence of some similarly universal principle. as gravitation was assignable as the _cause_ of each of the groups of phenomena which kepler formulated; so may some equally simple attribute of things be assignable as the cause of each of the groups of phenomena formulated in the foregoing pages. we may be able to affiliate all these varied and complex evolutions of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous, upon certain simple facts of immediate experience, which, in virtue of endless repetition, we regard as necessary. the probability of a common cause, and the possibility of formulating it, being granted, it will be well, before going further, to consider what must be the general characteristics of such cause, and in what direction we ought to look for it. we can with certainty predict that it has a high degree of generality; seeing that it is common to such infinitely varied phenomena: just in proportion to the universality of its application must be the abstractness of its character. we need not expect to see in it an obvious solution of this or that form of progress; because it equally refers to forms of progress bearing little apparent resemblance to them: its association with multiform orders of facts, involves its dissociation from any particular order of facts. being that which determines progress of every kind--astronomic, geologic, organic, ethnologic, social, economic, artistic, etc.--it must be concerned with some fundamental attribute possessed in common by these; and must be expressible in terms of this fundamental attribute. the only obvious respect in which all kinds of progress are alike, is, that they are modes of _change_; and hence, in some characteristic of changes in general, the desired solution will probably be found. we may suspect _à priori_ that in some law of change lies the explanation of this universal transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous. thus much premised, we pass at once to the statement of the law, which is this:--_every active force produces more than one change_--_every cause produces more than one effect_. before this law can be duly comprehended, a few examples must be looked at. when one body is struck against another, that which we usually regard as the effect, is a change of position or motion in one or both bodies. but a moment's thought shows us that this is a careless and very incomplete view of the matter. besides the visible mechanical result, sound is produced; or, to speak accurately, a vibration in one or both bodies, and in the surrounding air: and under some circumstances we call this the effect. moreover, the air has not only been made to vibrate, but has had sundry currents caused in it by the transit of the bodies. further, there is a disarrangement of the particles of the two bodies in the neighbourhood of their point of collision; amounting in some cases to a visible condensation. yet more, this condensation is accompanied by the disengagement of heat. in some cases a spark--that is, light--results, from the incandescence of a portion struck off; and sometimes this incandescence is associated with chemical combination. thus, by the original mechanical force expended in the collision, at least five, and often more, different kinds of changes have been produced. take, again, the lighting of a candle. primarily this is a chemical change consequent on a rise of temperature. the process of combination having once been set going by extraneous heat, there is a continued formation of carbonic acid, water, etc.--in itself a result more complex than the extraneous heat that first caused it. but accompanying this process of combination there is a production of heat; there is a production of light; there is an ascending column of hot gases generated; there are currents established in the surrounding air. moreover the decomposition of one force into many forces does not end here: each of the several changes produced becomes the parent of further changes. the carbonic acid given off will by and by combine with some base; or under the influence of sunshine give up its carbon to the leaf of a plant. the water will modify the hygrometric state of the air around; or, if the current of hot gases containing it come against a cold body, will be condensed: altering the temperature, and perhaps the chemical state, of the surface it covers. the heat given out melts the subjacent tallow, and expands whatever it warms. the light, falling on various substances, calls forth from them reactions by which it is modified; and so divers colours are produced. similarly even with these secondary actions, which may be traced out into ever-multiplying ramifications, until they become too minute to be appreciated. and thus it is with all changes whatever. no case can be named in which an active force does not evolve forces of several kinds, and each of these, other groups of forces. universally the effect is more complex than the cause. doubtless the reader already foresees the course of our argument. this multiplication of results, which is displayed in every event of to-day, has been going on from the beginning; and is true of the grandest phenomena of the universe as of the most insignificant. from the law that every active force produces more than one change, it is an inevitable corollary that through all time there has been an ever-growing complication of things. starting with the ultimate fact that every cause produces more than one effect, we may readily see that throughout creation there must have gone on, and must still go on, a never-ceasing transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous. but let us trace out this truth in detail. without committing ourselves to it as more than a speculation, though a highly probable one, let us again commence with the evolution of the solar system out of a nebulous medium.[ ] from the mutual attraction of the atoms of a diffused mass whose form is unsymmetrical, there results not only condensation but rotation: gravitation simultaneously generates both the centripetal and the centrifugal forces. while the condensation and the rate of rotation are progressively increasing, the approach of the atoms necessarily generates a progressively increasing temperature. as this temperature rises, light begins to be evolved; and ultimately there results a revolving sphere of fluid matter radiating intense heat and light--a sun. there are good reasons for believing that, in consequence of the high tangential velocity, and consequent centrifugal force, acquired by the outer parts of the condensing nebulous mass, there must be a periodical detachment of rotating rings; and that, from the breaking up of these nebulous rings, there must arise masses which in the course of their condensation repeat the actions of the parent mass, and so produce planets and their satellites--an inference strongly supported by the still extant rings of saturn. should it hereafter be satisfactorily shown that planets and satellites were thus generated, a striking illustration will be afforded of the highly heterogeneous effects produced by the primary homogeneous cause; but it will serve our present purpose to point to the fact that from the mutual attraction of the particles of an irregular nebulous mass there result condensation, rotation, heat, and light. it follows as a corollary from the nebular hypothesis, that the earth must at first have been incandescent; and whether the nebular hypothesis be true or not, this original incandescence of the earth is now inductively established--or, if not established, at least rendered so highly probable that it is a generally admitted geological doctrine. let us look first at the astronomical attributes of this once molten globe. from its rotation there result the oblateness of its form, the alternations of day and night, and (under the influence of the moon) the tides, aqueous and atmospheric. from the inclination of its axis, there result the precession of the equinoxes and the many differences of the seasons, both simultaneous and successive, that pervade its surface. thus the multiplication of effects is obvious. several of the differentiations due to the gradual cooling of the earth have been already noticed--as the formation of a crust, the solidification of sublimed elements, the precipitation of water, etc.,--and we here again refer to them merely to point out that they are simultaneous effects of the one cause, diminishing heat. let us now, however, observe the multiplied changes afterwards arising from the continuance of this one cause. the cooling of the earth involves its contraction. hence the solid crust first formed is presently too large for the shrinking nucleus; and as it cannot support itself, inevitably follows the nucleus. but a spheroidal envelope cannot sink down into contact with a smaller internal spheroid, without disruption; it must run into wrinkles as the rind of an apple does when the bulk of its interior decreases from evaporation. as the cooling progresses and the envelope thickens, the ridges consequent on these contractions must become greater, rising ultimately into hills and mountains; and the later systems of mountains thus produced must not only be higher, as we find them to be, but they must be longer, as we also find them to be. thus, leaving out of view other modifying forces, we see what immense heterogeneity of surface has arisen from the one cause, loss of heat--a heterogeneity which the telescope shows us to be paralleled on the face of the moon, where aqueous and atmospheric agencies have been absent. but we have yet to notice another kind of heterogeneity of surface similarly and simultaneously caused. while the earth's crust was still thin, the ridges produced by its contraction must not only have been small, but the spaces between these ridges must have rested with great evenness upon the subjacent liquid spheroid; and the water in those arctic and antarctic regions in which it first condensed, must have been evenly distributed. but as fast as the crust grew thicker and gained corresponding strength, the lines of fracture from time to time caused in it, must have occurred at greater distances apart; the intermediate surfaces must have followed the contracting nucleus with less uniformity; and there must have resulted larger areas of land and water. if any one, after wrapping up an orange in wet tissue paper, and observing not only how small are the wrinkles, but how evenly the intervening spaces lie upon the surface of the orange, will then wrap it up in thick cartridge-paper, and note both the greater height of the ridges and the much larger spaces throughout which the paper does not touch the orange, he will realise the fact, that as the earth's solid envelope grew thicker, the areas of elevation and depression must have become greater. in place of islands more or less homogeneously scattered over an all-embracing sea, there must have gradually arisen heterogeneous arrangements of continent and ocean, such as we now know. once more, this double change in the extent and in the elevation of the lands, involved yet another species of heterogeneity, that of coast-line. a tolerably even surface raised out of the ocean, must have a simple, regular sea-margin; but a surface varied by table-lands and intersected by mountain-chains must, when raised out of the ocean, have an outline extremely irregular both in its leading features and in its details. thus endless is the accumulation of geological and geographical results slowly brought about by this one cause--the contraction of the earth. when we pass from the agency which geologists term igneous, to aqueous and atmospheric agencies, we see the like ever growing complications of effects. the denuding actions of air and water have, from the beginning, been modifying every exposed surface; everywhere causing many different changes. oxidation, heat, wind, frost, rain, glaciers, rivers, tides, waves, have been unceasingly producing disintegration; varying in kind and amount according to local circumstances. acting upon a tract of granite, they here work scarcely an appreciable effect; there cause exfoliations of the surface, and a resulting heap of _débris_ and boulders; and elsewhere, after decomposing the feldspar into a white clay, carry away this and the accompanying quartz and mica, and deposit them in separate beds, fluviatile and marine. when the exposed land consists of several unlike formations, sedimentary and igneous, the denudation produces changes proportionably more heterogeneous. the formations being disintegrable in different degrees, there follows an increased irregularity of surface. the areas drained by different rivers being differently constituted, these rivers carry down to the sea different combinations of ingredients; and so sundry new strata of distinct composition are formed. and here indeed we may see very simply illustrated, the truth, which we shall presently have to trace out in more involved cases, that in proportion to the heterogeneity of the object or objects on which any force expends itself, is the heterogeneity of the results. a continent of complex structure, exposing many strata irregularly distributed, raised to various levels, tilted up at all angles, must, under the same denuding agencies, give origin to immensely multiplied results; each district must be differently modified; each river must carry down a different kind of detritus; each deposit must be differently distributed by the entangled currents, tidal and other, which wash the contorted shores; and this multiplication of results must manifestly be greatest where the complexity of the surface is greatest. it is out of the question here to trace in detail the genesis of those endless complications described by geology and physical geography: else we might show how the general truth, that every active force produces more than one change, is exemplified in the highly involved flow of the tides, in the ocean currents, in the winds, in the distribution of rain, in the distribution of heat, and so forth. but not to dwell upon these, let us, for the fuller elucidation of this truth in relation to the inorganic world, consider what would be the consequences of some extensive cosmical revolution--say the subsidence of central america. the immediate results of the disturbance would themselves be sufficiently complex. besides the numberless dislocations of strata, the ejections of igneous matter, the propagation of earthquake vibrations thousands of miles around, the loud explosions, and the escape of gases; there would be the rush of the atlantic and pacific oceans to supply the vacant space, the subsequent recoil of enormous waves, which would traverse both these oceans and produce myriads of changes along their shores, the corresponding atmospheric waves complicated by the currents surrounding each volcanic vent, and the electrical discharges with which such disturbances are accompanied. but these temporary effects would be insignificant compared with the permanent ones. the complex currents of the atlantic and pacific would be altered in direction and amount. the distribution of heat achieved by these ocean currents would be different from what it is. the arrangement of the isothermal lines, not even on the neighbouring continents, but even throughout europe, would be changed. the tides would flow differently from what they do now. there would be more or less modification of the winds in their periods, strengths, directions, qualities. rain would fall scarcely anywhere at the same times and in the same quantities as at present. in short, the meteorological conditions thousands of miles off, on all sides, would be more or less revolutionised. thus, without taking into account the infinitude of modifications which these changes of climate would produce upon the flora and fauna, both of land and sea, the reader will see the immense heterogeneity of the results wrought out by one force, when that force expends itself upon a previously complicated area; and he will readily draw the corollary that from the beginning the complication has advanced at an increasing rate. before going on to show how organic progress also depends upon the universal law that every force produces more than one change, we have to notice the manifestation of this law in yet another species of inorganic progress--namely, chemical. the same general causes that have wrought out the heterogeneity of the earth, physically considered, have simultaneously wrought out its chemical heterogeneity. without dwelling upon the general fact that the forces which have been increasing the variety and complexity of geological formations, have, at the same time, been bringing into contact elements not previously exposed to each other under conditions favourable to union, and so have been adding to the number of chemical compounds, let us pass to the more important complications that have resulted from the cooling of the earth. there is every reason to believe that at an extreme heat the elements cannot combine. even under such heat as can be artificially produced, some very strong affinities yield, as for instance, that of oxygen for hydrogen; and the great majority of chemical compounds are decomposed at much lower temperatures. but without insisting upon the highly probable inference, that when the earth was in its first state of incandescence there were no chemical combinations at all, it will suffice our purpose to point to the unquestionable fact that the compounds that can exist at the highest temperatures, and which must, therefore, have been the first that were formed as the earth cooled, are those of the simplest constitutions. the protoxides--including under that head the alkalies, earths, etc.--are, as a class, the most stable compounds we know: most of them resisting decomposition by any heat we can generate. these, consisting severally of one atom of each component element, are combinations of the simplest order--are but one degree less homogeneous than the elements themselves. more heterogeneous than these, less stable, and therefore later in the earth's history, are the deutoxides, tritoxides, peroxides, etc.; in which two, three, four, or more atoms of oxygen are united with one atom of metal or other element. higher than these in heterogeneity are the hydrates; in which an oxide of hydrogen, united with an oxide of some other element, forms a substance whose atoms severally contain at least four ultimate atoms of three different kinds. yet more heterogeneous and less stable still are the salts; which present us with compound atoms each made up of five, six, seven, eight, ten, twelve, or more atoms, of three, if not more, kinds. then there are the hydrated salts, of a yet greater heterogeneity, which undergo partial decomposition at much lower temperatures. after them come the further-complicated supersalts and double salts, having a stability again decreased; and so throughout. without entering into qualifications for which we lack space, we believe no chemist will deny it to be a general law of these inorganic combinations that, _other things equal_, the stability decreases as the complexity increases. and then when we pass to the compounds of organic chemistry, we find this general law still further exemplified: we find much greater complexity and much less stability. an atom of albumen, for instance, consists of ultimate atoms of five different kinds. fibrine, still more intricate in constitution, contains in each atom, atoms of carbon, of nitrogen, of sulphur, of hydrogen, and of oxygen--in all, atoms; or, more strictly speaking--equivalents. and these two substances are so unstable as to decompose at quite ordinary temperatures; as that to which the outside of a joint of roast meat is exposed. thus it is manifest that the present chemical heterogeneity of the earth's surface has arisen by degrees, as the decrease of heat has permitted; and that it has shown itself in three forms--first, in the multiplication of chemical compounds; second, in the greater number of different elements contained in the more modern of these compounds: and third, in the higher and more varied multiples in which these more numerous elements combine. to say that this advance in chemical heterogeneity is due to the one cause, diminution of the earth's temperature, would be to say too much; for it is clear that aqueous and atmospheric agencies have been concerned; and, further, that the affinities of the elements themselves are implied. the cause has all along been a composite one: the cooling of the earth having been simply the most general of the concurrent causes, or assemblage of conditions. and here, indeed, it may be remarked that in the several classes of facts already dealt with (excepting, perhaps, the first), and still more in those with which we shall presently deal, the causes are more or less compound; as indeed are nearly all causes with which we are acquainted. scarcely any change can with logical accuracy be wholly ascribed to one agency, to the neglect of the permanent or temporary conditions under which only this agency produces the change. but as it does not materially affect our argument, we prefer, for simplicity's sake, to use throughout the popular mode of expression. perhaps it will be further objected, that to assign loss of heat as the cause of any changes, is to attribute these changes not to a force, but to the absence of a force. and this is true. strictly speaking, the changes should be attributed to those forces which come into action when the antagonist force is withdrawn. but though there is an inaccuracy in saying that the freezing of water is due to the loss of its heat, no practical error arises from it; nor will a parallel laxity of expression vitiate our statements respecting the multiplication of effects. indeed, the objection serves but to draw attention to the fact, that not only does the exertion of a force produce more than one change, but the withdrawal of a force produces more than one change. and this suggests that perhaps the most correct statement of our general principle would be its most abstract statement--every change is followed by more than one other change. returning to the thread of our exposition, we have next to trace out, in organic progress, this same all-pervading principle. and here, where the evolution of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous was first observed, the production of many changes by one cause is least easy to demonstrate. the development of a seed into a plant, or an ovum into an animal, is so gradual, while the forces which determine it are so involved, and at the same time so unobtrusive, that it is difficult to detect the multiplication of effects which is elsewhere so obvious. nevertheless, guided by indirect evidence, we may pretty safely reach the conclusion that here too the law holds. observe, first, how numerous are the effects which any marked change works upon an adult organism--a human being, for instance. an alarming sound or sigh, besides the impressions on the organs of sense and the nerves, may produce a start, a scream, a distortion of the face, a trembling consequent upon a general muscular relaxation, a burst of perspiration, an excited action of the heart, a rush of blood to the brain, followed possibly by arrest of the heart's action and by syncope: and if the system be feeble, an indisposition with its long train of complicated symptoms may set in. similarly in cases of disease. a minute portion of the small-pox virus introduced into the system, will, in a severe case, cause, during the first stage, rigors, heat of skin, accelerated pulse, furred tongue, loss of appetite, thirst, epigastric uneasiness, vomiting, headache, pains in the back and limbs, muscular weakness, convulsions, delirium, etc.; in the second stage, cutaneous eruption, itching, tingling, sore throat, swelled fauces, salivation, cough, hoarseness, dyspnoea, etc.; and in the third stage, oedematous inflammations, pneumonia, pleurisy, diarrhoea, inflammation of the brain, ophthalmia, erysipelas, etc.; each of which enumerated symptoms is itself more or less complex. medicines, special foods, better air, might in like manner be instanced as producing multiplied results. now it needs only to consider that the many changes thus wrought by one force upon an adult organism, will be in part paralleled in an embryo organism, to understand how here also, the evolution of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous may be due to the production of many effects by one cause. the external heat and other agencies which determine the first complications of the germ, may, by acting upon these, superinduce further complications; upon these still higher and more numerous ones; and so on continually: each organ as it is developed serving, by its actions and reactions upon the rest, to initiate new complexities. the first pulsations of the foetal heart must simultaneously aid the unfolding of every part. the growth of each tissue, by taking from the blood special proportions of elements, must modify the constitution of the blood; and so must modify the nutrition of all the other tissues. the heart's action, implying as it does a certain waste, necessitates an addition to the blood of effete matters, which must influence the rest of the system, and perhaps, as some think, cause the formation of excretory organs. the nervous connections established among the viscera must further multiply their mutual influences: and so continually. still stronger becomes the probability of this view when we call to mind the fact, that the same germ may be evolved into different forms according to circumstances. thus, during its earlier stages, every embryo is sexless--becomes either male or female as the balance of forces acting upon it determines. again, it is a well-established fact that the larva of a working-bee will develop into a queen-bee, if, before it is too late, its food be changed to that on which the larvæ of queen-bees are fed. even more remarkable is the case of certain entozoa. the ovum of a tape-worm, getting into its natural habitat, the intestine, unfolds into the well-known form of its parent; but if carried, as it frequently is, into other parts of the system, it becomes a sac-like creature, called by naturalists the _echinococcus_--a creature so extremely different from the tape-worm in aspect and structure, that only after careful investigations has it been proved to have the same origin. all which instances imply that each advance in embryonic complication results from the action of incident forces upon the complication previously existing. indeed, we may find _à priori_ reason to think that the evolution proceeds after this manner. for since it is now known that no germ, animal or vegetable, contains the slightest rudiment, trace, or indication of the future organism--now that the microscope has shown us that the first process set up in every fertilised germ, is a process of repeated spontaneous fissions ending in the production of a mass of cells, not one of which exhibits any special character: there seems no alternative but to suppose that the partial organisation at any moment subsisting in a growing embryo, is transformed by the agencies acting upon it into the succeeding phase of organisation, and this into the next, until, through ever-increasing complexities, the ultimate form is reached. thus, though the subtilty of the forces and the slowness of the results, prevent us from _directly_ showing that the stages of increasing heterogeneity through which every embryo passes, severally arise from the production of many changes by one force, yet, _indirectly_, we have strong evidence that they do so. we have marked how multitudinous are the effects which one cause may generate in an adult organism; that a like multiplication of effects must happen in the unfolding organism, we have observed in sundry illustrative cases; further, it has been pointed out that the ability which like germs have to originate unlike forms, implies that the successive transformations result from the new changes superinduced on previous changes; and we have seen that structureless as every germ originally is, the development of an organism out of it is otherwise incomprehensible. not indeed that we can thus really explain the production of any plant or animal. we are still in the dark respecting those mysterious properties in virtue of which the germ, when subject to fit influences, undergoes the special changes that begin the series of transformations. all we aim to show, is, that given a germ possessing these mysterious properties, the evolution of an organism from it, probably depends upon that multiplication of effects which we have seen to be the cause of progress in general, so far as we have yet traced it. when, leaving the development of single plants and animals, we pass to that of the earth's flora and fauna, the course of our argument again becomes clear and simple. though, as was admitted in the first part of this article, the fragmentary facts palæontology has accumulated, do not clearly warrant us in saying that, in the lapse of geologic time, there have been evolved more heterogeneous organisms, and more heterogeneous assemblages of organisms, yet we shall now see that there _must_ ever have been a tendency towards these results. we shall find that the production of many effects by one cause, which, as already shown, has been all along increasing the physical heterogeneity of the earth, has further involved an increasing heterogeneity in its flora and fauna, individually and collectively. an illustration will make this clear. suppose that by a series of upheavals, occurring, as they are now known to do, at long intervals, the east indian archipelago were to be, step by step, raised into a continent, and a chain of mountains formed along the axis of elevation. by the first of these upheavals, the plants and animals inhabiting borneo, sumatra, new guinea, and the rest, would be subjected to slightly modified sets of conditions. the climate in general would be altered in temperature, in humidity, and in its periodical variations; while the local differences would be multiplied. these modifications would affect, perhaps inappreciably, the entire flora and fauna of the region. the change of level would produce additional modifications: varying in different species, and also in different members of the same species, according to their distance from the axis of elevation. plants, growing only on the sea-shore in special localities, might become extinct. others, living only in swamps of a certain humidity, would, if they survived at all, probably undergo visible changes of appearance. while still greater alterations would occur in the plants gradually spreading over the lands newly raised above the sea. the animals and insects living on these modified plants, would themselves be in some degree modified by change of food, as well as by change of climate; and the modification would be more marked where, from the dwindling or disappearance of one kind of plant, an allied kind was eaten. in the lapse of the many generations arising before the next upheaval, the sensible or insensible alterations thus produced in each species would become organised--there would be a more or less complete adaptation to the new conditions. the next upheaval would superinduce further organic changes, implying wider divergences from the primary forms; and so repeatedly. but now let it be observed that the revolution thus resulting would not be a substitution of a thousand more or less modified species for the thousand original species; but in place of the thousand original species there would arise several thousand species, or varieties, or changed forms. each species being distributed over an area of some extent, and tending continually to colonise the new area exposed, its different members would be subject to different sets of changes. plants and animals spreading towards the equator would not be affected in the same way with others spreading from it. those spreading towards the new shores would undergo changes unlike the changes undergone by those spreading into the mountains. thus, each original race of organisms, would become the root from which diverged several races differing more or less from it and from each other; and while some of these might subsequently disappear, probably more than one would survive in the next geologic period: the very dispersion itself increasing the chances of survival. not only would there be certain modifications thus caused by change of physical conditions and food, but also in some cases other modifications caused by change of habit. the fauna of each island, peopling, step by step, the newly-raised tracts, would eventually come in contact with the faunas of other islands; and some members of these other faunas would be unlike any creatures before seen. herbivores meeting with new beasts of prey, would, in some cases, be led into modes of defence or escape differing from those previously used; and simultaneously the beasts of prey would modify their modes of pursuit and attack. we know that when circumstances demand it, such changes of habit _do_ take place in animals; and we know that if the new habits become the dominant ones, they must eventually in some degree alter the organisation. observe, now, however, a further consequence. there must arise not simply a tendency towards the differentiation of each race of organisms into several races; but also a tendency to the occasional production of a somewhat higher organism. taken in the mass, these divergent varieties which have been caused by fresh physical conditions and habits of life, will exhibit changes quite indefinite in kind and degree; and changes that do not necessarily constitute an advance. probably in most cases the modified type will be neither more nor less heterogeneous than the original one. in some cases the habits of life adopted being simpler than before, a less heterogeneous structure will result: there will be a retrogradation. but it _must_ now and then occur, that some division of a species, falling into circumstances which give it rather more complex experiences, and demand actions somewhat more involved, will have certain of its organs further differentiated in proportionately small degrees,--will become slightly more heterogeneous. thus, in the natural course of things, there will from time to time arise an increased heterogeneity both of the earth's flora and fauna, and of individual races included in them. omitting detailed explanations, and allowing for the qualifications which cannot here be specified, we think it is clear that geological mutations have all along tended to complicate the forms of life, whether regarded separately or collectively. the same causes which have led to the evolution of the earth's crust from the simple into the complex, have simultaneously led to a parallel evolution of the life upon its surface. in this case, as in previous ones, we see that the transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous is consequent upon the universal principle, that every active force produces more than one change. the deduction here drawn from the established truths of geology and the general laws of life, gains immensely in weight on finding it to be in harmony with an induction drawn from direct experience. just that divergence of many races from one race, which we inferred must have been continually occurring during geologic time, we know to have occurred during the pre-historic and historic periods, in man and domestic animals. and just that multiplication of effects which we concluded must have produced the first, we see has produced the last. single causes, as famine, pressure of population, war, have periodically led to further dispersions of mankind and of dependent creatures: each such dispersion initiating new modifications, new varieties of type. whether all the human races be or be not derived from one stock, philology makes it clear that whole groups of races now easily distinguishable from each other, were originally one race,--that the diffusion of one race into different climates and conditions of existence, has produced many modified forms of it. similarly with domestic animals. though in some cases--as that of dogs--community of origin will perhaps be disputed, yet in other cases--as that of the sheep or the cattle of our own country--it will not be questioned that local differences of climate, food, and treatment, have transformed one original breed into numerous breeds now become so far distinct as to produce unstable hybrids. moreover, through the complications of effects flowing from single causes, we here find, what we before inferred, not only an increase of general heterogeneity, but also of special heterogeneity. while of the divergent divisions and subdivisions of the human race, many have undergone changes not constituting an advance; while in some the type may have degraded; in others it has become decidedly more heterogeneous. the civilised european departs more widely from the vertebrate archetype than does the savage. thus, both the law and the cause of progress, which, from lack of evidence, can be but hypothetically substantiated in respect of the earlier forms of life on our globe, can be actually substantiated in respect of the latest forms. if the advance of man towards greater heterogeneity is traceable to the production of many effects by one cause, still more clearly may the advance of society towards greater heterogeneity be so explained. consider the growth of an industrial organisation. when, as must occasionally happen, some individual of a tribe displays unusual aptitude for making an article of general use--a weapon, for instance--which was before made by each man for himself, there arises a tendency towards the differentiation of that individual into a maker of such weapon. his companions--warriors and hunters all of them,--severally feel the importance of having the best weapons that can be made; and are therefore certain to offer strong inducements to this skilled individual to make weapons for them. he, on the other hand, having not only an unusual faculty, but an unusual liking, for making such weapons (the talent and the desire for any occupation being commonly associated), is predisposed to fulfil these commissions on the offer of an adequate reward: especially as his love of distinction is also gratified. this first specialisation of function, once commenced, tends ever to become more decided. on the side of the weapon-maker continued practice gives increased skill--increased superiority to his products: on the side of his clients, cessation of practice entails decreased skill. thus the influences that determine this division of labour grow stronger in both ways; and the incipient heterogeneity is, on the average of cases, likely to become permanent for that generation, if no longer. observe now, however, that this process not only differentiates the social mass into two parts, the one monopolising, or almost monopolising, the performance of a certain function, and the other having lost the habit, and in some measure the power, of performing that function; but it tends to imitate other differentiations. the advance we have described implies the introduction of barter,--the maker of weapons has, on each occasion, to be paid in such other articles as he agrees to take in exchange. but he will not habitually take in exchange one kind of article, but many kinds. he does not want mats only, or skins, or fishing gear, but he wants all these; and on each occasion will bargain for the particular things he most needs. what follows? if among the members of the tribe there exist any slight differences of skill in the manufacture of these various things, as there are almost sure to do, the weapon-maker will take from each one the thing which that one excels in making: he will exchange for mats with him whose mats are superior, and will bargain for the fishing gear of whoever has the best. but he who has bartered away his mats or his fishing gear, must make other mats or fishing gear for himself; and in so doing must, in some degree, further develop his aptitude. thus it results that the small specialities of faculty possessed by various members of the tribe, will tend to grow more decided. if such transactions are from time to time repeated, these specialisations may become appreciable. and whether or not there ensue distinct differentiations of other individuals into makers of particular articles, it is clear that incipient differentiations take place throughout the tribe: the one original cause produces not only the first dual effect, but a number of secondary dual effects, like in kind, but minor in degree. this process, of which traces may be seen among groups of schoolboys, cannot well produce any lasting effects in an unsettled tribe; but where there grows up a fixed and multiplying community, these differentiations become permanent, and increase with each generation. a larger population, involving a greater demand for every commodity, intensifies the functional activity of each specialised person or class; and this renders the specialisation more definite where it already exists, and establishes it where it is nascent. by increasing the pressure on the means of subsistence, a larger population again augments these results; seeing that each person is forced more and more to confine himself to that which he can do best, and by which he can gain most. this industrial progress, by aiding future production, opens the way for a further growth of population, which reacts as before: in all which the multiplication of effects is manifest. presently, under these same stimuli, new occupations arise. competing workers, ever aiming to produce improved articles, occasionally discover better processes or raw materials. in weapons and cutting tools, the substitution of bronze for stone entails upon him who first makes it a great increase of demand--so great an increase that he presently finds all his time occupied in making the bronze for the articles he sells, and is obliged to depute the fashioning of these to others: and, eventually, the making of bronze, thus gradually differentiated from a pre-existing occupation, becomes an occupation by itself. but now mark the ramified changes which follow this change. bronze soon replaces stone, not only in the articles it was first used for, but in many others--in arms, tools, and utensils of various kinds; and so affects the manufacture of these things. further, it affects the processes which these utensils subserve, and the resulting products--modifies buildings, carvings, dress, personal decorations. yet again, it sets going sundry manufactures which were before impossible, from lack of a material fit for the requisite tools. and all these changes react on the people--increase their manipulative skill, their intelligence, their comfort,--refine their habits and tastes. thus the evolution of a homogeneous society into a heterogeneous one, is clearly consequent on the general principle, that many effects are produced by one cause. our limits will not allow us to follow out this process in its higher complications: else might we show how the localisation of special industries in special parts of a kingdom, as well as the minute subdivision of labour in the making of each commodity, are similarly determined. or, turning to a somewhat different order of illustrations, we might dwell on the multitudinous changes--material, intellectual, moral--caused by printing; or the further extensive series of changes wrought by gunpowder. but leaving the intermediate phases of social development, let us take a few illustrations from its most recent and its passing phases. to trace the effects of steam-power, in its manifold applications to mining, navigation, and manufactures of all kinds, would carry us into unmanageable detail. let us confine ourselves to the latest embodiment of steam-power--the locomotive engine. this, as the proximate cause of our railway system, has changed the face of the country, the course of trade, and the habits of the people. consider, first, the complicated sets of changes that precede the making of every railway--the provisional arrangements, the meetings, the registration, the trial section, the parliamentary survey, the lithographed plans, the books of reference, the local deposits and notices, the application to parliament, the passing standing-orders committee, the first, second, and third readings: each of which brief heads indicates a multiplicity of transactions, and the development of sundry occupations--as those of engineers, surveyors, lithographers, parliamentary agents, share-brokers; and the creation of sundry others--as those of traffic-takers, reference-takers. consider, next, the yet more marked changes implied in railway construction--the cuttings, embankings, tunnellings, diversions of roads; the building of bridges, and stations; the laying down of ballast, sleepers, and rails; the making of engines, tenders, carriages, and waggons: which processes, acting upon numerous trades, increase the importation of timber, the quarrying of stone, the manufacture of iron, the mining of coal, the burning of bricks: institute a variety of special manufactures weekly advertised in the _railway times_; and, finally, open the way to sundry new occupations, as those of drivers, stokers, cleaners, plate-layers, etc., etc. and then consider the changes, more numerous and involved still, which railways in action produce on the community at large. the organisation of every business is more or less modified: ease of communication makes it better to do directly what was before done by proxy; agencies are established where previously they would not have paid; goods are obtained from remote wholesale houses instead of near retail ones; and commodities are used which distance once rendered inaccessible. again, the rapidity and small cost of carriage tend to specialise more than ever the industries of different districts--to confine each manufacture to the parts in which, from local advantages, it can be best carried on. further, the diminished cost of carriage, facilitating distribution, equalises prices, and also, on the average, lowers prices: thus bringing divers articles within the means of those before unable to buy them, and so increasing their comforts and improving their habits. at the same time the practice of travelling is immensely extended. classes who never before thought of it, take annual trips to the sea; visit their distant relations; make tours; and so we are benefited in body, feelings, and intellect. moreover, the more prompt transmission of letters and of news produces further changes--makes the pulse of the nation faster. yet more, there arises a wide dissemination of cheap literature through railway book-stalls, and of advertisements in railway carriages: both of them aiding ulterior progress. and all the innumerable changes here briefly indicated are consequent on the invention of the locomotive engine. the social organism has been rendered more heterogeneous in virtue of the many new occupations introduced, and the many old ones further specialised; prices in every place have been altered; each trader has, more or less, modified his way of doing business; and almost every person has been affected in his actions, thoughts, emotions. illustrations to the same effect might be indefinitely accumulated. that every influence brought to bear upon society works multiplied effects; and that increase of heterogeneity is due to this multiplication of effects; may be seen in the history of every trade, every custom, every belief. but it is needless to give additional evidence of this. the only further fact demanding notice, is, that we here see still more clearly than ever, the truth before pointed out, that in proportion as the area on which any force expends itself becomes heterogeneous, the results are in a yet higher degree multiplied in number and kind. while among the primitive tribes to whom it was first known, caoutchouc caused but a few changes, among ourselves the changes have been so many and varied that the history of them occupies a volume.[ ] upon the small, homogeneous community inhabiting one of the hebrides, the electric telegraph would produce, were it used, scarcely any results; but in england the results it produces are multitudinous. the comparatively simple organisation under which our ancestors lived five centuries ago, could have undergone but few modifications from an event like the recent one at canton; but now the legislative decision respecting it sets up many hundreds of complex modifications, each of which will be the parent of numerous future ones. space permitting, we could willingly have pursued the argument in relation to all the subtler results of civilisation. as before, we showed that the law of progress to which the organic and inorganic worlds conform, is also conformed to by language, sculpture, music, etc.; so might we here show that the cause which we have hitherto found to determine progress holds in these cases also. we might demonstrate in detail how, in science, an advance of one division presently advances other divisions--how astronomy has been immensely forwarded by discoveries in optics, while other optical discoveries have initiated microscopic anatomy, and greatly aided the growth of physiology--how chemistry has indirectly increased our knowledge of electricity, magnetism, biology, geology--how electricity has reacted on chemistry and magnetism, developed our views of light and heat, and disclosed sundry laws of nervous action. in literature the same truth might be exhibited in the manifold effects of the primitive mystery-play, not only as originating the modern drama, but as affecting through it other kinds of poetry and fiction; or in the still multiplying forms of periodical literature that have descended from the first newspaper, and which have severally acted and reacted on other forms of literature and on each other. the influence which a new school of painting--as that of the pre-raffaelites--exercises upon other schools; the hints which all kinds of pictorial art are deriving from photography; the complex results of new critical doctrines, as those of mr. ruskin, might severally be dwelt upon as displaying the like multiplication of effects. but it would needlessly tax the reader's patience to pursue, in their many ramifications, these various changes: here become so involved and subtle as to be followed with some difficulty. without further evidence, we venture to think our case is made out. the imperfections of statement which brevity has necessitated, do not, we believe, militate against the propositions laid down. the qualifications here and there demanded would not, if made, affect the inferences. though in one instance, where sufficient evidence is not attainable, we have been unable to show that the law of progress applies; yet there is high probability that the same generalisation holds which holds throughout the rest of creation. though, in tracing the genesis of progress, we have frequently spoken of complex causes as if they were simple ones; it still remains true that such causes are far less complex than their results. detailed criticisms cannot affect our main position. endless facts go to show that every kind of progress is from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous; and that it is so because each change is followed by many changes. and it is significant that where the facts are most accessible and abundant, there are these truths most manifest. however, to avoid committing ourselves to more than is yet proved, we must be content with saying that such are the law and the cause of all progress that is known to us. should the nebular hypothesis ever be established, then it will become manifest that the universe at large, like every organism, was once homogeneous; that as a whole, and in every detail, it has unceasingly advanced towards greater heterogeneity; and that its heterogeneity is still increasing. it will be seen that as in each event of to-day, so from the beginning, the decomposition of every expended force into several forces has been perpetually producing a higher complication; that the increase of heterogeneity so brought about is still going on, and must continue to go on; and that thus progress is not an accident, not a thing within human control, but a beneficent necessity. a few words must be added on the ontological bearings of our argument. probably not a few will conclude that here is an attempted solution of the great questions with which philosophy in all ages has perplexed itself. let none thus deceive themselves. only such as know not the scope and the limits of science can fall into so grave an error. the foregoing generalisations apply, not to the genesis of things in themselves, but to their genesis as manifested to the human consciousness. after all that has been said, the ultimate mystery remains just as it was. the explanation of that which is explicable, does but bring out into greater clearness the inexplicableness of that which remains behind. however we may succeed in reducing the equation to its lowest terms, we are not thereby enabled to determine the unknown quantity: on the contrary, it only becomes more manifest that the unknown quantity can never be found. little as it seems to do so, fearless inquiry tends continually to give a firmer basis to all true religion. the timid sectarian, alarmed at the progress of knowledge, obliged to abandon one by one the superstitions of his ancestors, and daily finding his cherished beliefs more and more shaken, secretly fears that all things may some day be explained; and has a corresponding dread of science: thus evincing the profoundest of all infidelity--the fear lest the truth be bad. on the other hand, the sincere man of science, content to follow wherever the evidence leads him, becomes by each new inquiry more profoundly convinced that the universe is an insoluble problem. alike in the external and the internal worlds, he sees himself in the midst of perpetual changes, of which he can discover neither the beginning nor the end. if, tracing back the evolution of things, he allows himself to entertain the hypothesis that all matter once existed in a diffused form, he finds it utterly impossible to conceive how this came to be so; and equally, if he speculates on the future, he can assign no limit to the grand succession of phenomena ever unfolding themselves before him. on the other hand, if he looks inward, he perceives that both terminations of the thread of consciousness are beyond his grasp: he cannot remember when or how consciousness commenced, and he cannot examine the consciousness that at any moment exists; for only a state of consciousness that is already past can become the object of thought, and never one which is passing. when, again, he turns from the succession of phenomena, external or internal, to their essential nature, he is equally at fault. though he may succeed in resolving all properties of objects into manifestations of force, he is not thereby enabled to realise what force is; but finds, on the contrary, that the more he thinks about it, the more he is baffled. similarly, though analysis of mental actions may finally bring him down to sensations as the original materials out of which all thought is woven, he is none the forwarder; for he cannot in the least comprehend sensation--cannot even conceive how sensation is possible. inward and outward things he thus discovers to be alike inscrutable in their ultimate genesis and nature. he sees that the materialist and spiritualist controversy is a mere war of words; the disputants being equally absurd--each believing he understands that which it is impossible for any man to understand. in all directions his investigations eventually bring him face to face with the unknowable; and he ever more clearly perceives it to be the unknowable. he learns at once the greatness and the littleness of human intellect--its power in dealing with all that comes within the range of experience; its impotence in dealing with all that transcends experience. he feels, with a vividness which no others can, the utter incomprehensibleness of the simplest fact, considered in itself. he alone truly _sees_ that absolute knowledge is impossible. he alone _knows_ that under all things there lies an impenetrable mystery. [ ] _westminster review_, april . [ ] for detailed proof of these assertions see essay on "manners and fashion." [ ] the idea that the nebular hypothesis has been disproved because what were thought to be existing nebulæ have been resolved into clusters of stars is almost beneath notice. _a priori_ it was highly improbable, if not impossible, that nebulous masses should still remain uncondensed, while others have been condensed millions of years ago. [ ] _personal narrative of the origin of the caoutchouc, or india-rubber manufacture in england._ by thomas hancock. on manners and fashion[ ] whoever has studied the physiognomy of political meetings, cannot fail to have remarked a connection between democratic opinions and peculiarities of costume. at a chartist demonstration, a lecture on socialism, or a _soirée_ of the friends of italy, there will be seen many among the audience, and a still larger ratio among the speakers, who get themselves up in a style more or less unusual. one gentleman on the platform divides his hair down the centre, instead of on one side; another brushes it back off the forehead, in the fashion known as "bringing out the intellect;" a third has so long forsworn the scissors, that his locks sweep his shoulders. a considerable sprinkling of moustaches may be observed; here and there an imperial; and occasionally some courageous breaker of conventions exhibits a full-grown beard.[ ] this nonconformity in hair is countenanced by various nonconformities in dress, shown by others of the assemblage. bare necks, shirt-collars _à la_ byron, waistcoats cut quaker fashion, wonderfully shaggy great coats, numerous oddities in form and colour, destroy the monotony usual in crowds. even those exhibiting no conspicuous peculiarity, frequently indicate by something in the pattern or make-up of their clothes, that they pay small regard to what their tailors tell them about the prevailing taste. and when the gathering breaks up, the varieties of head-gear displayed--the number of caps, and the abundance of felt hats--suffice to prove that were the world at large like-minded, the black cylinders which tyrannise over us would soon be deposed. the foreign correspondence of our daily press shows that this relationship between political discontent and the disregard of customs exists on the continent also. red republicanism has always been distinguished by its hirsuteness. the authorities of prussia, austria, and italy, alike recognise certain forms of hat as indicative of disaffection, and fulminate against them accordingly. in some places the wearer of a blouse runs a risk of being classed among the _suspects_; and in others, he who would avoid the bureau of police, must beware how he goes out in any but the ordinary colours. thus, democracy abroad, as at home, tends towards personal singularity. nor is this association of characteristics peculiar to modern times, or to reformers of the state. it has always existed; and it has been manifested as much in religious agitations as in political ones. along with dissent from the chief established opinions and arrangements, there has ever been some dissent from the customary social practices. the puritans, disapproving of the long curls of the cavaliers, as of their principles, cut their own hair short, and so gained the name of "roundheads." the marked religious nonconformity of the quakers was accompanied by an equally-marked nonconformity of manners--in attire, in speech, in salutation. the early moravians not only believed differently, but at the same time dressed differently, and lived differently, from their fellow christians. that the association between political independence and independence of personal conduct, is not a phenomenon of to-day only, we may see alike in the appearance of franklin at the french court in plain clothes, and in the white hats worn by the last generation of radicals. originality of nature is sure to show itself in more ways than one. the mention of george fox's suit of leather, or pestalozzi's school name, "harry oddity," will at once suggest the remembrance that men who have in great things diverged from the beaten track, have frequently done so in small things likewise. minor illustrations of this truth may be gathered in almost every circle. we believe that whoever will number up his reforming and rationalist acquaintances, will find among them more than the usual proportion of those who in dress or behaviour exhibit some degree of what the world calls eccentricity. if it be a fact that men of revolutionary aims in politics or religion, are commonly revolutionists in custom also, it is not less a fact that those whose office it is to uphold established arrangements in state and church, are also those who most adhere to the social forms and observances bequeathed to us by past generations. practices elsewhere extinct still linger about the headquarters of government. the monarch still gives assent to acts of parliament in the old french of the normans; and norman french terms are still used in law. wigs, such as those we see depicted in old portraits, may yet be found on the heads of judges and barristers. the beefeaters at the tower wear the costume of henry viith's bodyguard. the university dress of the present year varies but little from that worn soon after the reformation. the claret-coloured coat, knee-breeches, lace shirt frills, ruffles, white silk stockings, and buckled shoes, which once formed the usual attire of a gentleman, still survive as the court-dress. and it need scarcely be said that at _levées_ and drawing-rooms, the ceremonies are prescribed with an exactness, and enforced with a rigour, not elsewhere to be found. can we consider these two series of coincidences as accidental and unmeaning? must we not rather conclude that some necessary relationship obtains between them? are there not such things as a constitutional conservatism, and a constitutional tendency to change? is there not a class which clings to the old in all things; and another class so in love with progress as often to mistake novelty for improvement? do we not find some men ready to bow to established authority of whatever kind; while others demand of every such authority its reason, and reject it if it fails to justify itself? and must not the minds thus contrasted tend to become respectively conformist and nonconformist, not only in politics and religion, but in other things? submission, whether to a government, to the dogmas of ecclesiastics, or to that code of behaviour which society at large has set up, is essentially of the same nature; and the sentiment which induces resistance to the despotism of rulers, civil or spiritual, likewise induces resistance to the despotism of the world's opinion. look at them fundamentally, and all enactments, alike of the legislature, the consistory, and the saloon--all regulations, formal or virtual, have a common character: they are all limitations of men's freedom. "do this--refrain from that," are the blank formulas into which they may all be written: and in each case the understanding is that obedience will bring approbation here and paradise hereafter; while disobedience will entail imprisonment, or sending to coventry, or eternal torments, as the case may be. and if restraints, however named, and through whatever apparatus of means exercised, are one in their action upon men, it must happen that those who are patient under one kind of restraint, are likely to be patient under another; and conversely, that those impatient of restraint in general, will, on the average, tend to show their impatience in all directions. that law, religion, and manners are thus related--that their respective kinds of operation come under one generalisation--that they have in certain contrasted characteristics of men a common support and a common danger--will, however, be most clearly seen on discovering that they have a common origin. little as from present appearances we should suppose it, we shall yet find that at first, the control of religion, the control of laws and the control of manners, were all one control. however incredible it may now seem, we believe it to be demonstrable that the rules of etiquette, the provisions of the statute-book, and the commands of the decalogue, have grown from the same root. if we go far enough back into the ages of primeval fetishism, it becomes manifest that originally deity, chief, and master of the ceremonies were identical. to make good these positions, and to show their bearing on what is to follow, it will be necessary here to traverse ground that is in part somewhat beaten, and at first sight irrelevant to our topic. we will pass over it as quickly as consists with the exigencies of the argument. * * * * * that the earliest social aggregations were ruled solely by the will of the strong man, few dispute. that from the strong man proceeded not only monarchy, but the conception of a god, few admit: much as carlyle and others have said in evidence of it. if, however, those who are unable to believe this, will lay aside the ideas of god and man in which they have been educated, and study the aboriginal ideas of them, they will at least see some probability in the hypothesis. let them remember that before experience had yet taught men to distinguish between the possible and the impossible; and while they were ready on the slightest suggestion to ascribe unknown powers to any object and make a fetish of it; their conceptions of humanity and its capacities were necessarily vague, and without specific limits. the man who by unusual strength, or cunning, achieved something that others had failed to achieve, or something which they did not understand, was considered by them as differing from themselves; and, as we see in the belief of some polynesians that only their chiefs have souls, or in that of the ancient peruvians that their nobles were divine by birth, the ascribed difference was apt to be not one of degree only, but one of kind. let them remember next, how gross were the notions of god, or rather of gods, prevalent during the same era and afterwards--how concretely gods were conceived as men of specific aspects dressed in specific ways--how their names were literally "the strong," "the destroyer," "the powerful one,"--how, according to the scandinavian mythology, the "sacred duty of blood-revenge" was acted on by the gods themselves,--and how they were not only human in their vindictiveness, their cruelty, and their quarrels with each other, but were supposed to have amours on earth, and to consume the viands placed on their altars. add to which, that in various mythologies, greek, scandinavian, and others, the oldest beings are giants; that according to a traditional genealogy the gods, demi-gods, and in some cases men, are descended from these after the human fashion; and that while in the east we hear of sons of god who saw the daughters of men that they were fair, the teutonic myths tell of unions between the sons of men and the daughters of the gods. let them remember, too, that at first the idea of death differed widely from that which we have; that there are still tribes who, on the decease of one of their number, attempt to make the corpse stand, and put food into his mouth; that the peruvians had feasts at which the mummies of their dead incas presided, when, as prescott says, they paid attention "to these insensible remains as if they were instinct with life;" that among the fejees it is believed that every enemy has to be killed twice; that the eastern pagans give extension and figure to the soul, and attribute to it all the same substances, both solid and liquid, of which our bodies are composed; and that it is the custom among most barbarous races to bury food, weapons, and trinkets along with the dead body, under the manifest belief that it will presently need them. lastly, let them remember that the other world, as originally conceived, is simply some distant part of this world--some elysian fields, some happy hunting-ground, accessible even to the living, and to which, after death, men travel in anticipation of a life analogous in general character to that which they led before. then, co-ordinating these general facts--the ascription of unknown powers to chiefs and medicine men; the belief in deities having human forms, passions, and behaviour; the imperfect comprehension of death as distinguished from life; and the proximity of the future abode to the present, both in position and character--let them reflect whether they do not almost unavoidably suggest the conclusion that the aboriginal god is the dead chief; the chief not dead in our sense, but gone away carrying with him food and weapons to some rumoured region of plenty, some promised land, whither he had long intended to lead his followers, and whence he will presently return to fetch them. this hypothesis once entertained, is seen to harmonise with all primitive ideas and practices. the sons of the deified chief reigning after him, it necessarily happens that all early kings are held descendants of the gods; and the fact that alike in assyria, egypt, among the jews, phoenicians, and ancient britons, kings' names were formed out of the names of the gods, is fully explained. the genesis of polytheism out of fetishism, by the successive migrations of the race of god-kings to the other world--a genesis illustrated in the greek mythology, alike by the precise genealogy of the deities, and by the specifically asserted apotheosis of the later ones--tends further to bear it out. it explains the fact that in the old creeds, as in the still extant creed of the otaheitans, every family has its guardian spirit, who is supposed to be one of their departed relatives; and that they sacrifice to these as minor gods--a practice still pursued by the chinese and even by the russians. it is perfectly congruous with the grecian myths concerning the wars of the gods with the titans and their final usurpation; and it similarly agrees with the fact that among the teutonic gods proper was one freir who came among them by adoption, "but was born among the _vanes_, a somewhat mysterious _other_ dynasty of gods, who had been conquered and superseded by the stronger and more warlike odin dynasty." it harmonises, too, with the belief that there are different gods to different territories and nations, as there were different chiefs; that these gods contend for supremacy as chiefs do; and it gives meaning to the boast of neighbouring tribes--"our god is greater than your god." it is confirmed by the notion universally current in early times, that the gods come from this other abode, in which they commonly live, and appear among men--speak to them, help them, punish them. and remembering this, it becomes manifest that the prayers put up by primitive peoples to their gods for aid in battle, are meant literally--that their gods are expected to come back from the other kingdom they are reigning over, and once more fight the old enemies they had before warred against so implacably; and it needs but to name the iliad, to remind every one how thoroughly they believed the expectation fulfilled. all government, then, being originally that of the strong man who has become a fetish by some manifestation of superiority, there arises, at his death--his supposed departure on a long projected expedition, in which he is accompanied by his slaves and concubines sacrificed at his tomb--their arises, then, the incipient division of religious from political control, of civil rule from spiritual. his son becomes deputed chief during his absence; his authority is cited as that by which his son acts; his vengeance is invoked on all who disobey his son; and his commands, as previously known or as asserted by his son, become the germ of a moral code; a fact we shall the more clearly perceive if we remember, that early moral codes inculcate mainly the virtues of the warrior, and the duty of exterminating some neighbouring tribe whose existence is an offence to the deity. from this point onwards, these two kinds of authority, at first complicated together as those of principal and agent, become slowly more and more distinct. as experience accumulates, and ideas of causation grow more precise, kings lose their supernatural attributes; and, instead of god-king, become god-descended king, god-appointed king, the lord's anointed, the vicegerent of heaven, ruler reigning by divine right. the old theory, however, long clings to men in feeling, after it has disappeared in name; and "such divinity doth hedge a king," that even now, many, on first seeing one, feel a secret surprise at finding him an ordinary sample of humanity. the sacredness attaching to royalty attaches afterwards to its appended institutions--to legislatures, to laws. legal and illegal are synonymous with right and wrong; the authority of parliament is held unlimited; and a lingering faith in governmental power continually generates unfounded hopes from its enactments. political scepticism, however, having destroyed the divine _prestige_ of royalty, goes on ever increasing, and promises ultimately to reduce the state to a purely secular institution, whose regulations are limited in their sphere, and have no other authority than the general will. meanwhile, the religious control has been little by little separating itself from the civil, both in its essence and in its forms. while from the god-king of the savage have arisen in one direction, secular rulers who, age by age, have been losing the sacred attributes men ascribed to them; there has arisen in another direction, the conception of a deity, who, at first human in all things, has been gradually losing human materiality, human form, human passions, human modes of action: until now, anthropomorphism has become a reproach. along with this wide divergence in men's ideas of the divine and civil ruler has been taking place a corresponding divergence in the codes of conduct respectively proceeding from them. while the king was a deputy-god--a governor such as the jews looked for in the messiah--a governor considered, as the czar still is, "our god upon earth,"--it, of course, followed that his commands were the supreme rules. but as men ceased to believe in his supernatural origin and nature, his commands ceased to be the highest; and there arose a distinction between the regulations made by him, and the regulations handed down from the old god-kings, who were rendered ever more sacred by time and the accumulation of myths. hence came respectively, law and morality: the one growing ever more concrete, the other more abstract; the authority of the one ever on the decrease, that of the other ever on the increase; originally the same, but now placed daily in more marked antagonism. simultaneously there has been going on a separation of the institutions administering these two codes of conduct. while they were yet one, of course church and state were one: the king was arch-priest, not nominally, but really--alike the giver of new commands and the chief interpreter of the old commands; and the deputy-priests coming out of his family were thus simply expounders of the dictates of their ancestry: at first as recollected, and afterwards as ascertained by professed interviews with them. this union--which still existed practically during the middle ages, when the authority of kings was mixed up with the authority of the pope, when there were bishop-rulers having all the powers of feudal lords, and when priests punished by penances--has been, step by step, becoming less close. though monarchs are still "defenders of the faith," and ecclesiastical chiefs, they are but nominally such. though bishops still have civil power, it is not what they once had. protestantism shook loose the bonds of union; dissent has long been busy in organising a mechanism for the exercise of religious control, wholly independent of law; in america, a separate organisation for that purpose already exists; and if anything is to be hoped from the anti-state-church association--or, as it has been newly named, "the society for the liberation of religion from state patronage and control"--we shall presently have a separate organisation here also. thus alike in authority, in essence, and in form, political and spiritual rule have been ever more widely diverging from the same root. that increasing division of labour which marks the progress of society in other things, marks it also in this separation of government into civil and religious; and if we observe how the morality which forms the substance of religions in general, is beginning to be purified from the associated creeds, we may anticipate that this division will be ultimately carried much further. passing now to the third species of control--that of manners--we shall find that this, too, while it had a common genesis with the others, has gradually come to have a distinct sphere and a special embodiment. among early aggregations of men before yet social observances existed, the sole forms of courtesy known were the signs of submission to the strong man; as the sole law was his will, and the sole religion the awe of his supposed supernaturalness. originally, ceremonies were modes of behaviour to the god-king. our commonest titles have been derived from his names. and all salutations were primarily worship paid to him. let us trace out these truths in detail, beginning with titles. the fact already noticed, that the names of early kings among divers races are formed by the addition of certain syllables to the names of their gods--which certain syllables, like our _mac_ and _fitz_, probably mean "son of," or "descended from"--at once gives meaning to the term _father_ as a divine title. and when we read, in selden, that "the composition out of these names of deities was not only proper to kings: their grandes and more honourable subjects" (no doubt members of the royal race) "had sometimes the like;" we see how the term _father_, properly used by these also, and by their multiplying descendants, came to be a title used by the people in general. and it is significant as bearing on this point, that among the most barbarous nation in europe, where belief in the divine nature of the ruler still lingers, _father_ in this higher sense is still a regal distinction. when, again, we remember how the divinity at first ascribed to kings was not a complimentary fiction but a supposed fact; and how, further, under the fetish philosophy the celestial bodies are believed to be personages who once lived among men; we see that the appellations of oriental rulers, "brother to the sun," etc., were probably once expressive of a genuine belief; and have simply, like many other things, continued in use after all meaning has gone out of them. we way infer, too, that the titles, god, lord, divinity, were given to primitive rulers literally--that the _nostra divinitas_ applied to the roman emperors, and the various sacred designations that have been borne by monarchs, down to the still extant phrase, "our lord the king," are the dead and dying forms of what were once living facts. from these names, god, father, lord, divinity, originally belonging to the god-king, and afterwards to god and the king, the derivation of our commonest titles of respect is clearly traceable. there is reason to think that these titles were originally proper names. not only do we see among the egyptians, where pharaoh was synonymous with king, and among the romans, where to be cæsar meant to be emperor, that the proper names of the greatest men were transferred to their successors, and so became class names; but in the scandinavian mythology we may trace a human title of honour up to the proper name of a divine personage. in anglo-saxon _bealdor_, or _baldor_, means _lord_; and balder is the name of the favourite of odin's sons--the gods who with him constitute the teutonic pantheon. how these names of honour became general is easily understood. the relatives of the primitive kings--the grandees described by selden as having names formed on those of the gods, and shown by this to be members of the divine race--necessarily shared in the epithets, such as _lord_, descriptive of superhuman relationships and nature. their ever-multiplying offspring inheriting these, gradually rendered them comparatively common. and then they came to be applied to every man of power: partly from the fact that, in these early days when men conceived divinity simply as a stronger kind of humanity, great persons could be called by divine epithets with but little exaggeration; partly from the fact that the unusually potent were apt to be considered as unrecognised or illegitimate descendants of "the strong, the destroyer, the powerful one;" and partly, also, from compliment and the desire to propitiate. progressively as superstition diminished, this last became the sole cause. and if we remember that it is the nature of compliment, as we daily hear it, to attribute more than is due--that in the constantly widening application of "esquire," in the perpetual repetition of "your honour" by the fawning irishman, and in the use of the name "gentleman" to any coalheaver or dustman by the lower classes of london, we have current examples of the depreciation of titles consequent on compliment--and that in barbarous times, when the wish to propitiate was stronger than now, this effect must have been greater; we shall see that there naturally arose an extensive misuse of all early distinctions. hence the facts, that the jews called herod a god; that _father_, in its higher sense, was a term used among them by servants to masters; that _lord_ was applicable to any person of worth and power. hence, too, the fact that, in the later periods of the roman empire, every man saluted his neighbour as _dominus_ and _rex_. but it is in the titles of the middle ages, and in the growth of our modern ones out of them, that the process is most clearly seen. _herr_, _don_, _signior_, _seigneur_, _sennor_, were all originally names of rulers--of feudal lords. by the complimentary use of these names to all who could, on any pretence, be supposed to merit them, and by successive degradations of them from each step in the descent to a still lower one, they have come to be common forms of address. at first the phrase in which a serf accosted his despotic chief, _mein herr_ is now familiarly applied in germany to ordinary people. the spanish title _don_, once proper to noblemen and gentlemen only, is now accorded to all classes. so, too, is it with _signior_ in italy. _seigneur_ and _monseigneur_, by contraction in _sieur_ and _monsieur_, have produced the term of respect claimed by every frenchman. and whether _sire_ be or be not a like contraction of _signior_, it is clear that, as it was borne by sundry of the ancient feudal lords of france, who, as selden says, "affected rather to bee stiled by the name of _sire_ than baron, as _le sire de montmorencie_, _le sire de beauieu_, and the like," and as it has been commonly used to monarchs, our word _sir_, which is derived from it, originally meant lord or king. thus, too, is it with feminine titles. _lady_, which, according to horne tooke, means _exalted_, and was at first given only to the few, is now given to all women of education. _dame_, once an honourable name to which, in old books, we find the epithets of "high-born" and "stately" affixed, has now, by repeated widenings of its application, become relatively a term of contempt. and if we trace the compound of this, _ma dame_, through its contractions--_madam_, _ma'am_, _mam_, _mum_, we find that the "yes'm" of sally to her mistress is originally equivalent to "yes, my exalted," or "yes, your highness." throughout, therefore, the genesis of words of honour has been the same. just as with the jews and with the romans, has it been with the modern europeans. tracing these everyday names to their primitive significations of _lord_ and _king_, and remembering that in aboriginal societies these were applied only to the gods and their descendants, we arrive at the conclusion that our familiar _sir_ and _monsieur_ are, in their primary and expanded meanings, terms of adoration. further to illustrate this gradual depreciation of titles and to confirm the inference drawn, it may be well to notice in passing, that the oldest of them have, as might be expected, been depreciated to the greatest extent. thus, _master_--a word proved by its derivation and by the similarity of the connate words in other languages (fr., _maître_ for _master_; russ., _master_: dan., _meester_; ger., _meister_) to have been one of the earliest in use for expressing lordship--has now become applicable to children only, and under the modification of "mister," to persons next above the labourer. again, knighthood, the oldest kind of dignity, is also the lowest; and knight bachelor, which is the lowest order of knighthood, is more ancient than any other of the orders. similarly, too, with the peerage, baron is alike the earliest and least elevated of its divisions. this continual degradation of all names of honour has, from time to time, made it requisite to introduce new ones having that distinguishing effect which the originals had lost by generality of use; just as our habit of misapplying superlatives has, by gradually destroying their force, entailed the need for fresh ones. and if, within the last thousand years, this process has produced effects thus marked, we may readily conceive how, during previous thousands, the titles of gods and demi-gods came to be used to all persons exercising power; as they have since come to be used to persons of respectability. if from names of honour we turn to phrases of honour, we find similar facts. the oriental styles of address, applied to ordinary people--"i am your slave," "all i have is yours," "i am your sacrifice"--attribute to the individual spoken to the same greatness that _monsieur_ and _my lord_ do: they ascribe to him the character of an all-powerful ruler, so immeasurably superior to the speaker as to be his owner. so, likewise, with the polish expressions of respect--"i throw myself under your feet," "i kiss your feet." in our now meaningless subscription to a formal letter--"your most obedient servant,"--the same thing is visible. nay, even in the familiar signature "yours faithfully," the "yours," if interpreted as originally meant, is the expression of a slave to his master. all these dead forms were once living embodiments of fact--were primarily the genuine indications of that submission to authority which they verbally assert; were afterwards naturally used by the weak and cowardly to propitiate those above them; gradually grew to be considered the due of such; and, by a continually wider misuse, have lost their meanings, as _sir_ and _master_ have done. that, like titles, they were in the beginning used only to the god-king, is indicated by the fact that, like titles, they were subsequently used in common to god and the king. religious worship has ever largely consisted of professions of obedience, of being god's servants, of belonging to him to do what he will with. like titles, therefore, these common phrases of honour had a devotional origin. perhaps, however, it is in the use of the word _you_ as a singular pronoun that the popularising of what were once supreme distinctions is most markedly illustrated. this speaking of a single individual in the plural was originally an honour given only to the highest--was the reciprocal of the imperial "we" assumed by such. yet now, by being applied to successively lower and lower classes, it has become all but universal. only by one sect of christians, and in a few secluded districts, is the primitive _thou_ still used. and the _you_, in becoming common to all ranks, has simultaneously lost every vestige of the honour once attaching to it. but the genesis of manners out of forms of allegiance and worship is above all shown in men's modes of salutation. note first the significance of the word. among the romans, the _salutatio_ was a daily homage paid by clients and inferiors to superiors. this was alike the case with civilians and in the army. the very derivation of our word, therefore, is suggestive of submission. passing to particular forms of obeisance (mark the word again), let us begin with the eastern one of baring the feet. this was, primarily, a mark of reverence, alike to a god and a king. the act of moses before the burning bush, and the practice of mahometans, who are sworn on the koran with their shoes off, exemplify the one employment of it; the custom of the persians, who remove their shoes on entering the presence of their monarch, exemplifies the other. as usual, however, this homage, paid next to inferior rulers, has descended from grade to grade. in india, it is a common mark of respect; a polite man in turkey always leaves his shoes at the door, while the lower orders of turks never enter the presence of their superiors but in their stockings; and in japan, this baring of the feet is an ordinary salutation of man to man. take another case. selden, describing the ceremonies of the romans, says:--"for whereas it was usual either to kiss the images of their gods, or adoring them, to stand somewhat off before them, solemnly moving the right hand to the lips, and then, casting it as if they had cast kisses, to turne the body on the same hand (which was the right forme of adoration), it grew also by custom, first that the emperors, being next to deities, and by some accounted as deities, had the like done to them in acknowledgment of their greatness." if, now, we call to mind the awkward salute of a village school-boy, made by putting his open hand up to his face and describing a semicircle with his forearm; and if we remember that the salute thus used as a form of reverence in country districts, is most likely a remnant of the feudal times; we shall see reason for thinking that our common wave of the hand to a friend across the street, represents what was primarily a devotional act. similarly have originated all forms of respect depending upon inclinations of the body. entire prostration is the aboriginal sign of submission. the passage of scripture, "thou hast put all under his feet," and that other one, so suggestive in its anthropomorphism, "the lord said unto my lord, sit thou at my right hand, until i make thine enemies thy footstool," imply, what the assyrian sculptures fully bear out, that it was the practice of the ancient god-kings of the east to trample upon the conquered. and when we bear in mind that there are existing savages who signify submission by placing the neck under the foot of the person submitted to, it becomes obvious that all prostration, especially when accompanied by kissing the foot, expressed a willingness to be trodden upon--was an attempt to mitigate wrath by saying, in signs, "tread on me if you will." remembering, further, that kissing the foot, as of the pope and of a saint's statue, still continues in europe to be a mark of extreme reverence; that prostration to feudal lords was once general; and that its disappearance must have taken place, not abruptly, but by gradual modification into something else; we have ground for deriving from these deepest of humiliations all inclinations of respect; especially as the transition is traceable. the reverence of a russian serf, who bends his head to the ground, and the salaam of the hindoo, are abridged prostrations; a bow is a short salaam; a nod is a short bow. should any hesitate to admit this conclusion, then perhaps, on being reminded that the lowest of these obeisances are common where the submission is most abject; that among ourselves the profundity of the bow marks the amount of respect; and lastly, that the bow is even now used devotionally in our churches--by catholics to their altars, and by protestants at the name of christ--they will see sufficient evidence for thinking that this salutation also was originally worship. the same may be said, too, of the curtsy, or courtesy, as it is otherwise written. its derivation from _courtoisie_, courteousness, that is, behaviour like that at court, at once shows that it was primarily the reverence paid to a monarch. and if we call to mind that falling upon the knees, or upon one knee, has been a common obeisance of subjects to rulers; that in ancient manuscripts and tapestries, servants are depicted as assuming this attitude while offering the dishes to their masters at table; and that this same attitude is assumed towards our own queen at every presentation; we may infer, what the character of the curtsy itself suggests, that it is an abridged act of kneeling. as the word has been contracted from _courtoisie_ into curtsy, so the motion has been contracted from a placing of the knee on the floor, to a lowering of the knee towards the floor. moreover, when we compare the curtsy of a lady with the awkward one a peasant girl makes, which, if continued, would bring her down on both knees, we may see in this last a remnant of that greater reverence required of serfs. and when, from considering that simple kneeling of the west, still represented by the curtsy, we pass eastward, and note the attitude of the mahometan worshipper, who not only kneels but bows his head to the ground, we may infer that the curtsy also is an evanescent form of the aboriginal prostration. in further evidence of this it may be remarked, that there has but recently disappeared from the salutations of men, an action having the same proximate derivation with the curtsy. that backward sweep of the foot with which the conventional stage-sailor accompanies his bow--a movement which prevailed generally in past generations, when "a bow and a scrape" went together, and which, within the memory of living persons, was made by boys to their schoolmaster with the effect of wearing a hole in the floor--is pretty clearly a preliminary to going on one knee. a motion so ungainly could never have been intentionally introduced; even if the artificial introduction of obeisances were possible. hence we must regard it as the remnant of something antecedent: and that this something antecedent was humiliating may be inferred from the phrase, "scraping an acquaintance;" which, being used to denote the gaining of favour by obsequiousness, implies that the scrape was considered a mark of servility--that is, of _serf_-ility. consider, again, the uncovering of the head. almost everywhere this has been a sign of reverence, alike in temples and before potentates; and it yet preserves among us some of its original meaning. whether it rains, hails, or shines, you must keep your head bare while speaking to the monarch; and on no plea may you remain covered in a place of worship. as usual, however, this ceremony, at first a submission to gods and kings, has become in process of time a common civility. once an acknowledgment of another's unlimited supremacy, the removal of the hat is now a salute accorded to very ordinary persons, and that uncovering, originally reserved for entrance into "the house of god," good manners now dictates on entrance into the house of a common labourer. standing, too, as a mark of respect, has undergone like extensions in its application. shown, by the practice in our churches, to be intermediate between the humiliation signified by kneeling and the self-respect which sitting implies, and used at courts as a form of homage when more active demonstrations of it have been made, this posture is now employed in daily life to show consideration; as seen alike in the attitude of a servant before a master, and in that rising which politeness prescribes on the entrance of a visitor. many other threads of evidence might have been woven into our argument. as, for example, the significant fact, that if we trace back our still existing law of primogeniture--if we consider it as displayed by scottish clans, in which not only ownership but government devolved from the beginning on the eldest son of the eldest--if we look further back, and observe that the old titles of lordship, _signor_, _seigneur_, _sennor_, _sire_, _sieur_, all originally mean, senior, or elder--if we go eastward, and find that _sheick_ has a like derivation, and that the oriental names for priests, as _pir_, for instance, are literally interpreted _old man_--if we note in hebrew records how primeval is the ascribed superiority of the first-born, how great the authority of elders, and how sacred the memory of patriarchs--and if, then, we remember that among divine titles are "ancient of days," and "father of gods and men;"--we see how completely these facts harmonise with the hypothesis, that the aboriginal god is the first man sufficiently great to become a tradition, the earliest whose power and deeds made him remembered; that hence antiquity unavoidably became associated with superiority, and age with nearness in blood to "the powerful one;" that so there naturally arose that domination of the eldest which characterises all history, and that theory of human degeneracy which even yet survives. we might further dwell on the facts, that _lord_ signifies high-born, or, as the same root gives a word meaning heaven, possibly heaven-born; that, before it became common, _sir_ or _sire_, as well as _father_, was the distinction of a priest; that _worship_, originally worth-ship--a term of respect that has been used commonly, as well as to magistrates--is also our term for the act of attributing greatness or worth to the deity; so that to ascribe worth-ship to a man is to worship him. we might make much of the evidence that all early governments are more or less distinctly theocratic; and that among ancient eastern nations even the commonest forms and customs appear to have been influenced by religion. we might enforce our argument respecting the derivation of ceremonies, by tracing out the aboriginal obeisance made by putting dust on the head, which probably symbolises putting the head in the dust: by affiliating the practice prevailing among certain tribes, of doing another honour by presenting him with a portion of hair torn from the head--an act which seems tantamount to saying, "i am your slave;" by investigating the oriental custom of giving to a visitor any object he speaks of admiringly, which is pretty clearly a carrying out of the compliment, "all i have is yours." without enlarging, however, on these and many minor facts, we venture to think that the evidence already assigned is sufficient to justify our position. had the proofs been few or of one kind, little faith could have been placed in the inference. but numerous as they are, alike in the case of titles, in that of complimentary phrases, and in that of salutes--similar and simultaneous, too, as the process of depreciation has been in all of these; the evidences become strong by mutual confirmation. and when we recollect, also, that not only have the results of this process been visible in various nations and in all times, but that they are occurring among ourselves at the present moment, and that the causes assigned for previous depreciations may be seen daily working out other ones--when we recollect this, it becomes scarcely possible to doubt that the process has been as alleged; and that our ordinary words, acts, and phrases of civility were originally acknowledgments of submission to another's omnipotence. thus the general doctrine, that all kinds of government exercised over men were at first one government--that the political, the religious, and the ceremonial forms of control are divergent branches of a general and once indivisible control--begins to look tenable. when, with the above facts fresh in mind, we read primitive records, and find that "there were giants in those days"--when we remember that in eastern traditions nimrod, among others, figures in all the characters of giant king, and divinity--when we turn to the sculptures exhumed by mr. layard, and contemplating in them the effigies of kings driving over enemies, trampling on prisoners, and adored by prostrate slaves, then observe how their actions correspond to the primitive names for the divinity, "the strong," "the destroyer," "the powerful one"--when we find that the earliest temples were also the residences of the kings--and when, lastly, we discover that among races of men still living there are current superstitions analogous to those which old records and old buildings indicate; we begin to realise the probability of the hypothesis that has been set forth. going back, in imagination, to the remote era when men's theories of things were yet unformed; and conceiving to ourselves the conquering chief as dimly figured in ancient myths, and poems, and ruins; we may see that all rules of conduct whatever spring from his will. alike legislator and judge, all quarrels among his subjects are decided by him; and his words become the law. awe of him is the incipient religion; and his maxims furnish its first precepts. submission is made to him in the forms he prescribes; and these give birth to manners. from the first, time develops political allegiance and the administration of justice; from the second, the worship of a being whose personality becomes ever more vague, and the inculcation of precepts ever more abstract; from the third, forms of honour and the rules of etiquette. in conformity with the law of evolution of all organised bodies, that general functions are gradually separated into the special functions constituting them, there have grown up in the social organism for the better performance of the governmental office, an apparatus of law-courts, judges, and barristers; a national church, with its bishops and priests; and a system of caste, titles, and ceremonies, administered by society at large. by the first, overt aggressions are cognised and punished; by the second, the disposition to commit such aggressions is in some degree checked; by the third, those minor breaches of good conduct, which the others do not notice, are denounced and chastised. law and religion control behaviour in its essentials: manners control it in its details. for regulating those daily actions which are too numerous and too unimportant to be officially directed, there comes into play this subtler set of restraints. and when we consider what these restraints are--when we analyse the words, and phrases, and salutes employed, we see that in origin as in effect, the system is a setting up of temporary governments between all men who come in contact, for the purpose of better managing the intercourse between them. * * * * * from the proposition, that these several kinds of government are essentially one, both in genesis and function, may be deduced several important corollaries, directly bearing on our special topic. let us first notice, that there is not only a common origin and office for all forms of rule, but a common necessity for them. the aboriginal man, coming fresh from the killing of bears and from lying in ambush for his enemy, has, by the necessities of his condition, a nature requiring to be curbed in its every impulse. alike in war and in the chase, his daily discipline has been that of sacrificing other creatures to his own needs and passions. his character, bequeathed to him by ancestors who led similar lives, is moulded by this discipline--is fitted to this existence. the unlimited selfishness, the love of inflicting pain, the blood-thirstiness, thus kept active, he brings with him into the social state. these dispositions put him in constant danger of conflict with his equally savage neighbour. in small things as in great, in words as in deeds, he is aggressive; and is hourly liable to the aggressions of others like natured. only, therefore, by the most rigorous control exercised over all actions, can the primitive unions of men be maintained. there must be a ruler strong, remorseless, and of indomitable will; there must be a creed terrible in its threats to the disobedient; and there must be the most servile submission of all inferiors to superiors. the law must be cruel; the religion must be stern; the ceremonies must be strict. the co-ordinate necessity for these several kinds of restraint might be largely illustrated from history were there space. suffice it to point out, that where the civil power has been weak, the multiplication of thieves, assassins, and banditti, has indicated the approach of social dissolution; that when, from the corruptness of its ministry, religion has lost its influence, as it did just before the flagellants appeared, the state has been endangered; and that the disregard of established social observances has ever been an accompaniment of political revolutions. whoever doubts the necessity for a government of manners proportionate in strength to the co-existing political and religious governments, will be convinced on calling to mind that until recently even elaborate codes of behaviour failed to keep gentlemen from quarrelling in the streets and fighting duels in taverns; and on remembering further, that even now people exhibit at the doors of a theatre, where there is no ceremonial law to rule them, a degree of aggressiveness which would produce confusion if carried into social intercourse. as might be expected, we find that, having a common origin and like general functions, these several controlling agencies act during each era with similar degrees of vigour. under the chinese despotism, stringent and multitudinous in its edicts and harsh in the enforcement of them, and associated with which there is an equally stern domestic despotism exercised by the eldest surviving male of the family, there exists a system of observances alike complicated and rigid. there is a tribunal of ceremonies. previous to presentation at court, ambassadors pass many days in practising the required forms. social intercourse is cumbered by endless compliments and obeisances. class distinctions are strongly marked by badges. the chief regret on losing an only son is, that there will be no one to perform the sepulchral rites. and if there wants a definite measure of the respect paid to social ordinances, we have it in the torture to which ladies submit in having their feet crushed. in india, and indeed throughout the east, there exists a like connection between the pitiless tyranny of rulers, the dread terrors of immemorial creeds, and the rigid restraint of unchangeable customs: the caste regulations continue still unalterable; the fashions of clothes and furniture have remained the same for ages; suttees are so ancient as to be mentioned by strabo and diodorus siculus; justice is still administered at the palace-gates as of old; in short, "every usage is a precept of religion and a maxim of jurisprudence." a similar relationship of phenomena was exhibited in europe during the middle ages. while all its governments were autocratic, while feudalism held sway, while the church was unshorn of its power, while the criminal code was full of horrors and the hell of the popular creed full of terrors, the rules of behaviour were both more numerous and more carefully conformed to than now. differences of dress marked divisions of rank. men were limited by law to a certain width of shoe-toes; and no one below a specified degree might wear a cloak less than so many inches long. the symbols on banners and shields were carefully attended to. heraldry was an important branch of knowledge. precedence was strictly insisted on. and those various salutes of which we now use the abridgments were gone through in full. even during our own last century, with its corrupt house of commons and little-curbed monarchs, we may mark a correspondence of social formalities. gentlemen were still distinguished from lower classes by dress; people sacrificed themselves to inconvenient requirements--as powder, hooped petticoats, and towering head-dresses; and children addressed their parents as _sir_ and _madam_. a further corollary naturally following this last, and almost, indeed, forming part of it, is, that these several kinds of government decrease in stringency at the same rate. simultaneously with the decline in the influence of priesthoods, and in the fear of eternal torments--simultaneously with the mitigation of political tyranny, the growth of popular power, and the amelioration of criminal codes; has taken place that diminution of formalities and that fading of distinctive marks, now so observable. looking at home, we may note that there is less attention to precedence than there used to be. no one in our day ends an interview with the phrase "your humble servant." the employment of the word _sir_, once general in social intercourse, is at present considered bad breeding; and on the occasions calling for them, it is held vulgar to use the words "your majesty," or "your royal highness," more than once in a conversation. people no longer formally drink each other's healths; and even the taking wine with each other at dinner has ceased to be fashionable. the taking-off of hats between gentlemen has been gradually falling into disuse. even when the hat is removed, it is no longer swept out at arm's length, but is simply lifted. hence the remark made upon us by foreigners, that we take off our hats less than any other nation in europe--a remark that should be coupled with the other, that we are the freest nation in europe. as already implied, this association of facts is not accidental. these titles of address and modes of salutation, bearing about them, as they all do, something of that servility which marks their origin, become distasteful in proportion as men become more independent themselves, and sympathise more with the independence of others. the feeling which makes the modern gentleman tell the labourer standing bareheaded before him to put on his hat--the feeling which gives us a dislike to those who cringe and fawn--the feeling which makes us alike assert our own dignity and respect that of others--the feeling which thus leads us more and more to discountenance all forms and names which confess inferiority and submission; is the same feeling which resists despotic power and inaugurates popular government, denies the authority of the church and establishes the right of private judgment. a fourth fact, akin to the foregoing, is, that these several kinds of government not only decline together, but corrupt together. by the same process that a court of chancery becomes a place not for the administration of justice, but for the withholding of it--by the same process that a national church, from being an agency for moral control, comes to be merely a thing of formulas and tithes and bishoprics--by this same process do titles and ceremonies that once had a meaning and a power become empty forms. coats of arms which served to distinguish men in battle, now figure on the carriage panels of retired grocers. once a badge of high military rank, the shoulder-knot has become, on the modern footman, a mark of servitude. the name banneret, which once marked a partially-created baron--a baron who had passed his military "little go"--is now, under the modification of baronet, applicable to any one favoured by wealth or interest or party feeling. knighthood has so far ceased to be an honour, that men now honour themselves by declining it. the military dignity _escuyer_ has, in the modern esquire, become a wholly unmilitary affix. not only do titles, and phrases, and salutes cease to fulfil their original functions, but the whole apparatus of social forms tends to become useless for its original purpose--the facilitation of social intercourse. those most learned in ceremonies, and most precise in the observance of them, are not always the best behaved; as those deepest read in creeds and scriptures are not therefore the most religious; nor those who have the clearest notions of legality and illegality, the most honest. just as lawyers are of all men the least noted for probity; as cathedral towns have a lower moral character than most others; so, if swift is to be believed, courtiers are "the most insignificant race of people that the island can afford, and with the smallest tincture of good manners." but perhaps it is in that class of social observances comprehended under the term fashion, which we must here discuss parenthetically, that this process of corruption is seen with the greatest distinctness. as contrasted with manners, which dictate our minor acts in relation to other persons, fashion dictates our minor acts in relation to ourselves. while the one prescribes that part of our deportment which directly affects our neighbours; the other prescribes that part of our deportment which is primarily personal, and in which our neighbours are concerned only as spectators. thus distinguished as they are, however, the two have a common source. for while, as we have shown, manners originate by imitation of the behaviour pursued _towards_ the great; fashion originates by imitation _of_ the behaviour of the great. while the one has its derivation in the titles, phrases, and salutes used _to_ those in power; the other is derived from the habits and appearances exhibited _by_ those in power. the carrib mother who squeezes her child's head into a shape like that of the chief; the young savage who makes marks on himself similar to the scars carried by the warriors of his tribe (which is probably the origin of tattooing); the highlander who adopts the plaid worn by the head of his clan; the courtiers who affect greyness, or limp, or cover their necks, in imitation of their king; and the people who ape the courtiers; are alike acting under a kind of government connate with that of manners, and, like it too, primarily beneficial. for notwithstanding the numberless absurdities into which this copyism has led the people, from nose-rings to ear-rings, from painted faces to beauty-spots, from shaven heads to powdered wigs, from filed teeth and stained nails to bell-girdles, peaked shoes, and breeches stuffed with bran,--it must yet be concluded, that as the strong men, the successful men, the men of will, intelligence, and originality, who have got to the top, are, on the average, more likely to show judgment in their habits and tastes than the mass, the imitation of such is advantageous. by and by, however, fashion, corrupting like these other forms of rule, almost wholly ceases to be an imitation of the best, and becomes an imitation of quite other than the best. as those who take orders are not those having a special fitness for the priestly office, but those who see their way to a living by it; as legislators and public functionaries do not become such by virtue of their political insight and power to rule, but by virtue of birth, acreage, and class influence; so, the self-elected clique who set the fashion, gain this prerogative, not by their force of nature, their intellect, their higher worth or better taste, but gain it solely by their unchecked assumption. among the initiated are to be found neither the noblest in rank, the chief in power, the best cultured, the most refined, nor those of greatest genius, wit, or beauty; and their reunions, so far from being superior to others, are noted for their inanity. yet, by the example of these sham great, and not by that of the truly great, does society at large now regulate its goings and comings, its hours, its dress, its small usages. as a natural consequence, these have generally little or none of that suitableness which the theory of fashion implies they should have. but instead of a continual progress towards greater elegance and convenience, which might be expected to occur did people copy the ways of the really best, or follow their own ideas of propriety, we have a reign of mere whim, of unreason, of change for the sake of change, of wanton oscillations from either extreme to the other--a reign of usages without meaning, times without fitness, dress without taste. and thus life _à la mode_, instead of being life conducted in the most rational manner, is life regulated by spendthrifts and idlers, milliners and tailors, dandies and silly women. to these several corollaries--that the various orders of control exercised over men have a common origin and a common function, are called out by co-ordinate necessities and co-exist in like stringency, decline together and corrupt together--it now only remains to add that they become needless together. consequent as all kinds of government are upon the unfitness of the aboriginal man for social life; and diminishing in coerciveness as they all do in proportion as this unfitness diminishes; they must one and all come to an end as humanity acquires complete adaptation to its new conditions. that discipline of circumstances which has already wrought out such great changes in us, must go on eventually to work out yet greater ones. that daily curbing of the lower nature and culture of the higher, which out of cannibals and devil worshippers has evolved philanthropists, lovers of peace, and haters of superstition, cannot fail to evolve out of these, men as much superior to them as they are to their progenitors. the causes that have produced past modifications are still in action; must continue in action as long as there exists any incongruity between man's desires and the requirements of the social state; and must eventually make him organically fit for the social state. as it is now needless to forbid man-eating and fetishism, so will it ultimately become needless to forbid murder, theft, and the minor offences of our criminal code. when human nature has grown into conformity with the moral law, there will need no judges and statute-books; when it spontaneously takes the right course in all things, as in some things it does already, prospects of future reward or punishment will not be wanted as incentives; and when fit behaviour has become instinctive, there will need no code of ceremonies to say how behaviour shall be regulated. thus, then, may be recognised the meaning, the naturalness, the necessity of those various eccentricities of reformers which we set out by describing. they are not accidental; they are not mere personal caprices, as people are apt to suppose. on the contrary, they are inevitable results of the law of relationship above illustrated. that community of genesis, function, and decay which all forms of restraint exhibit, is simply the obverse of the fact at first pointed out, that they have in two sentiments of human nature a common preserver and a common destroyer. awe of power originates and cherishes them all: love of freedom undermines and periodically weakens them all. the one defends despotism and asserts the supremacy of laws, adheres to old creeds and supports ecclesiastical authority, pays respect to titles and conserves forms; the other, putting rectitude above legality, achieves periodical instalments of political liberty, inaugurates protestantism and works out its consequences, ignores the senseless dictates of fashion and emancipates men from dead customs. to the true reformer no institution is sacred, no belief above criticism. everything shall conform itself to equity and reason; nothing shall be saved by its prestige. conceding to each man liberty to pursue his own ends and satisfy his own tastes, he demands for himself like liberty; and consents to no restrictions on this, save those which other men's equal claims involve. no matter whether it be an ordinance of one man, or an ordinance of all men, if it trenches on his legitimate sphere of action, he denies its validity. the tyranny that would impose on him a particular style of dress and a set mode of behaviour, he resists equally with the tyranny that would limit his buyings and sellings, or dictate his creed. whether the regulation be formally made by a legislature, or informally made by society at large--whether the penalty for disobedience be imprisonment, or frowns and social ostracism, he sees to be a question of no moment. he will utter his belief notwithstanding the threatened punishment; he will break conventions spite of the petty persecutions that will be visited on him. show him that his actions are inimical to his fellow-men, and he will pause. prove that he is disregarding their legitimate claims--that he is doing what in the nature of things must produce unhappiness; and he will alter his course. but until you do this--until you demonstrate that his proceedings are essentially inconvenient or inelegant, essentially irrational, unjust, or ungenerous, he will persevere. some, indeed, argue that his conduct _is_ unjust and ungenerous. they say that he has no right to annoy other people by his whims; that the gentleman to whom his letter comes with no "esq." appended to the address, and the lady whose evening party he enters with gloveless hands, are vexed at what they consider his want of respect, or want of breeding; that thus his eccentricities cannot be indulged save at the expense of his neighbours' feelings; and that hence his nonconformity is in plain terms selfishness. he answers that this position, if logically developed, would deprive men of all liberty whatever. each must conform all his acts to the public taste, and not his own. the public taste on every point having been once ascertained, men's habits must thenceforth remain for ever fixed; seeing that no man can adopt other habits without sinning against the public taste, and giving people disagreeable feelings. consequently, be it an era of pig-tails or high-heeled shoes, of starched ruffs or trunk-hose, all must continue to wear pig-tails, high-heeled shoes, starched ruffs, or trunk-hose to the crack of doom. if it be still urged that he is not justified in breaking through others' forms that he may establish his own, and so sacrificing the wishes of many to the wishes of one, he replies that all religious and political changes might be negatived on like grounds. he asks whether luther's sayings and doings were not extremely offensive to the mass of his contemporaries; whether the resistance of hampden was not disgusting to the time-servers around him; whether every reformer has not shocked men's prejudices, and given immense displeasure by the opinions he uttered. the affirmative answer he follows up by demanding what right the reformer has, then, to utter these opinions; whether he is not sacrificing the feelings of many to the feelings of one; and so proves that, to be consistent, his antagonists must condemn not only all nonconformity in actions, but all nonconformity in thoughts. his antagonists rejoin that _his_ position, too, may be pushed to an absurdity. they argue that if a man may offend by the disregard of some forms, he may as legitimately do so by the disregard of all; and they inquire--why should he not go out to dinner in a dirty shirt, and with an unshorn chin? why should he not spit on the drawing-room carpet, and stretch his heels up to the mantle-shelf? the convention-breaker answers, that to ask this, implies a confounding of two widely-different classes of actions--the actions that are _essentially_ displeasurable to those around, with the actions that are but _incidentally_ displeasurable to them. he whose skin is so unclean as to offend the nostrils of his neighbours, or he who talks so loudly as to disturb a whole room, may be justly complained of, and rightly excluded by society from its assemblies. but he who presents himself in a surtout in place of a dress-coat, or in brown trousers instead of black, gives offence not to men's senses, or their innate tastes, but merely to their prejudices, their bigotry of convention. it cannot be said that his costume is less elegant or less intrinsically appropriate than the one prescribed; seeing that a few hours earlier in the day it is admired. it is the implied rebellion, therefore, that annoys. how little the cause of quarrel has to do with the dress itself, is seen in the fact that a century ago black clothes would have been thought preposterous for hours of recreation, and that a few years hence some now forbidden style may be nearer the requirements of fashion than the present one. thus the reformer explains that it is not against the natural restraints, but against the artificial ones, that he protests; and that manifestly the fire of sneers and angry glances which he has to bear, is poured upon him because he will not bow down to the idol which society has set up. should he be asked how we are to distinguish between conduct that is _absolutely_ disagreeable to others, and conduct that is _relatively_ so, he answers, that they will distinguish themselves if men will let them. actions intrinsically repugnant will ever be frowned upon, and must ever remain as exceptional as now. actions not intrinsically repugnant will establish themselves as proper. no relaxation of customs will introduce the practice of going to a party in muddy boots, and with unwashed hands; for the dislike of dirt would continue were fashion abolished to-morrow. that love of approbation which now makes people so solicitous to be _en règle_ would still exist--would still make them careful of their personal appearance--would still induce them to seek admiration by making themselves ornamental--would still cause them to respect the natural laws of good behaviour, as they now do the artificial ones. the change would simply be from a repulsive monotony to a picturesque variety. and if there be any regulations respecting which it is uncertain whether they are based on reality or on convention, experiment will soon decide, if due scope be allowed. when at length the controversy comes round, as controversies often do, to the point whence it started, and the "party of order" repeat their charge against the rebel, that he is sacrificing the feelings of others to the gratification of his own wilfulness, he replies once for all that they cheat themselves by misstatements. he accuses them of being so despotic, that, not content with being masters over their own ways and habits, they would be masters over his also; and grumble because he will not let them. he merely asks the same freedom which they exercise; they, however, propose to regulate his course as well as their own--to cut and clip his mode of life into agreement with their approved pattern; and then charge him with wilfulness and selfishness, because he does not quietly submit! he warns them that he shall resist, nevertheless; and that he shall do so, not only for the assertion of his own independence, but for their good. he tells them that they are slaves, and know it not; that they are shackled, and kiss their chains; that they have lived all their days in prison, and complain at the walls being broken down. he says he must persevere, however, with a view to his own release; and in spite of their present expostulations, he prophesies that when they have recovered from the fright which the prospect of freedom produces, they will thank him for aiding in their emancipation. unamiable as seems this find-fault mood, offensive as is this defiant attitude, we must beware of overlooking the truths enunciated, in dislike of the advocacy. it is an unfortunate hindrance to all innovation, that in virtue of their very function, the innovators stand in a position of antagonism; and the disagreeable manners, and sayings, and doings, which this antagonism generates, are commonly associated with the doctrines promulgated. quite forgetting that whether the thing attacked be good or bad, the combative spirit is necessarily repulsive; and quite forgetting that the toleration of abuses seems amiable merely from its passivity; the mass of men contract a bias against advanced views, and in favour of stationary ones, from intercourse with their respective adherents. "conservatism," as emerson says, "is debonnair and social; reform is individual and imperious." and this remains true, however vicious the system conserved, however righteous the reform to be effected. nay, the indignation of the purists is usually extreme in proportion as the evils to be got rid of are great. the more urgent the required change, the more intemperate is the vehemence of its promoters. let no one, then, confound with the principles of this social nonconformity the acerbity and the disagreeable self-assertion of those who first display it. * * * * * the most plausible objection raised against resistance to conventions, is grounded on its impolicy, considered even from the progressist's point of view. it is urged by many of the more liberal and intelligent--usually those who have themselves shown some independence of behaviour in earlier days--that to rebel in these small matters is to destroy your own power of helping on reform in greater matters. "if you show yourself eccentric in manners or dress, the world," they say, "will not listen to you. you will be considered as crotchety, and impracticable. the opinions you express on important subjects, which might have been treated with respect had you conformed on minor points, will now inevitably be put down among your singularities; and thus, by dissenting in trifles, you disable yourself from spreading dissent in essentials." only noting, as we pass, that this is one of those anticipations which bring about their own fulfilment--that it is because most who disapprove these conventions do not show their disapproval, that the few who do show it look eccentric--and that did all act out their convictions, no such inference as the above would be drawn, and no such evil would result;--noting this as we pass, we go on to reply that these social restraints, and forms, and requirements, are not small evils, but among the greatest. estimate their sum total, and we doubt whether they would not exceed most others. could we add up the trouble, the cost, the jealousies, vexations, misunderstandings, the loss of time and the loss of pleasure, which these conventions entail--could we clearly realise the extent to which we are all daily hampered by them, daily enslaved by them; we should perhaps come to the conclusion that the tyranny of mrs. grundy is worse than any other tyranny we suffer under. let us look at a few of its hurtful results; beginning with those of minor importance. it produces extravagance. the desire to be _comme il faut_, which underlies all conformities, whether of manners, dress, or styles of entertainment, is the desire which makes many a spendthrift and many a bankrupt. to "keep up appearances," to have a house in an approved quarter furnished in the latest taste, to give expensive dinners and crowded _soirées_, is an ambition forming the natural outcome of the conformist spirit. it is needless to enlarge on these follies: they have been satirised by hosts of writers, and in every drawing-room. all that here concerns us, is to point out that the respect for social observances, which men think so praiseworthy, has the same root with this effort to be fashionable in mode of living; and that, other things equal, the last cannot be diminished without the first being diminished also. if, now, we consider all that this extravagance entails--if we count up the robbed tradesmen, the stinted governesses, the ill-educated children, the fleeced relatives, who have to suffer from it--if we mark the anxiety and the many moral delinquencies which its perpetrators involve themselves in; we shall see that this regard for conventions is not quite so innocent as it looks. again, it decreases the amount of social intercourse. passing over the reckless, and those who make a great display on speculation with the occasional result of getting on in the world to the exclusion of much better men, we come to the far larger class who, being prudent and honest enough not to exceed their means, and yet having a strong wish to be "respectable," are obliged to limit their entertainments to the smallest possible number; and that each of these may be turned to the greatest advantage in meeting the claims upon their hospitality, are induced to issue their invitations with little or no regard to the comfort or mutual fitness of their guests. a few inconveniently-large assemblies, made up of people mostly strange to each other or but distantly acquainted, and having scarcely any tastes in common, are made to serve in place of many small parties of friends intimate enough to have some bond of thought and sympathy. thus the quantity of intercourse is diminished, and the quality deteriorated. because it is the custom to make costly preparations and provide costly refreshments; and because it entails both less expense and less trouble to do this for many persons on a few occasions than for few persons on many occasions; the reunions of our less wealthy classes are rendered alike infrequent and tedious. let it be further observed, that the existing formalities of social intercourse drive away many who most need its refining influence: and drive them into injurious habits and associations. not a few men, and not the least sensible men either, give up in disgust this going out to stately dinners, and stiff evening-parties; and instead, seek society in clubs, and cigar-divans, and taverns. "i'm sick of this standing about in drawing-rooms, talking nonsense, and trying to look happy," will answer one of them when taxed with his desertion. "why should i any longer waste time and money, and temper? once i was ready enough to rush home from the office to dress; i sported embroidered shirts, submitted to tight boots, and cared nothing for tailors' and haberdashers' bills. i know better now. my patience lasted a good while; for though i found each night pass stupidly, i always hoped the next would make amends. but i'm undeceived. cab-hire and kid gloves cost more than any evening party pays for; or rather--it is worth the cost of them to avoid the party. no, no; i'll no more of it. why should i pay five shillings a time for the privilege of being bored?" if, now, we consider that this very common mood tends towards billiard-rooms, towards long sittings over cigars and brandy-and-water, towards evans's and the coal hole, towards every place where amusement may be had; it becomes a question whether these precise observances which hamper our set meetings, have not to answer for much of the prevalent dissoluteness. men must have excitements of some kind or other; and if debarred from higher ones will fall back upon lower. it is not that those who thus take to irregular habits are essentially those of low tastes. often it is quite the reverse. among half a dozen intimate friends, abandoning formalities and sitting at ease round the fire, none will enter with greater enjoyment into the highest kind of social intercourse--the genuine communion of thought and feeling; and if the circle includes women of intelligence and refinement, so much the greater is their pleasure. it is because they will no longer be choked with the mere dry husks of conversation which society offers them, that they fly its assemblies, and seek those with whom they may have discourse that is at least real, though unpolished. the men who thus long for substantial mental sympathy, and will go where they can get it, are often, indeed, much better at the core than the men who are content with the inanities of gloved and scented party-goers--men who feel no need to come morally nearer to their fellow creatures than they can come while standing, tea-cup in hand, answering trifles with trifles; and who, by feeling no such need, prove themselves shallow-thoughted and cold-hearted. it is true, that some who shun drawing-rooms do so from inability to bear the restraints prescribed by a genuine refinement, and that they would be greatly improved by being kept under these restraints. but it is not less true that, by adding to the legitimate restraints, which are based on convenience and a regard for others, a host of factitious restraints based only on convention, the refining discipline, which would else have been borne with benefit, is rendered unbearable, and so misses its end. excess of government invariably defeats itself by driving away those to be governed. and if over all who desert its entertainments in disgust either at their emptiness or their formality, society thus loses its salutary influence--if such not only fail to receive that moral culture which the company of ladies, when rationally regulated, would give them, but, in default of other relaxation, are driven into habits and companionships which often end in gambling and drunkenness; must we not say that here, too, is an evil not to be passed over as insignificant? then consider what a blighting effect these multitudinous preparations and ceremonies have upon the pleasures they profess to subserve. who, on calling to mind the occasions of his highest social enjoyments, does not find them to have been wholly informal, perhaps impromptu? how delightful a picnic of friends, who forget all observances save those dictated by good nature! how pleasant the little unpretended gatherings of book-societies, and the like; or those purely accidental meetings of a few people well known to each other! then, indeed, we may see that "a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." cheeks flush, and eyes sparkle. the witty grow brilliant, and even the dull are excited into saying good things. there is an overflow of topics; and the right thought, and the right words to put it in, spring up unsought. grave alternates with gay: now serious converse, and now jokes, anecdotes, and playful raillery. every one's best nature is shown, every one's best feelings are in pleasurable activity; and, for the time, life seems well worth having. go now and dress for some half-past eight dinner, or some ten o'clock "at home;" and present yourself in spotless attire, with every hair arranged to perfection. how great the difference! the enjoyment seems in the inverse ratio of the preparation. these figures, got up with such finish and precision, appear but half alive. they have frozen each other by their primness; and your faculties feel the numbing effects of the atmosphere the moment you enter it. all those thoughts, so nimble and so apt awhile since, have disappeared--have suddenly acquired a preternatural power of eluding you. if you venture a remark to your neighbour, there comes a trite rejoinder, and there it ends. no subject you can hit upon outlives half a dozen sentences. nothing that is said excites any real interest in you; and you feel that all you say is listened to with apathy. by some strange magic, things that usually give pleasure seem to have lost all charm. you have a taste for art. weary of frivolous talk, you turn to the table, and find that the book of engravings and the portfolio of photographs are as flat as the conversation. you are fond of music. yet the singing, good as it is, you hear with utter indifference; and say "thank you" with a sense of being a profound hypocrite. wholly at ease though you could be, for your own part, you find that your sympathies will not let you. you see young gentlemen feeling whether their ties are properly adjusted, looking vacantly round, and considering what they shall do next. you see ladies sitting disconsolately, waiting for some one to speak to them, and wishing they had the wherewith to occupy their fingers. you see the hostess standing about the doorway, keeping a factitious smile on her face, and racking her brain to find the requisite nothings with which to greet her guests as they enter. you see numberless traits of weariness and embarrassment; and, if you have any fellow-feeling, these cannot fail to produce a feeling of discomfort. the disorder is catching; and do what you will you cannot resist the general infection. you struggle against it; you make spasmodic efforts to be lively; but none of your sallies or your good stories do more than raise a simper or a forced laugh: intellect and feeling are alike asphyxiated. and when, at length, yielding to your disgust, you rush away, how great is the relief when you get into the fresh air, and see the stars! how you "thank god, that's over!" and half resolve to avoid all such boredom for the future! what, now, is the secret of this perpetual miscarriage and disappointment? does not the fault lie with all these needless adjuncts--these elaborate dressings, these set forms, these expensive preparations, these many devices and arrangements that imply trouble and raise expectation? who that has lived thirty years in the world has not discovered that pleasure is coy; and must not be too directly pursued, but must be caught unawares? an air from a street-piano, heard while at work, will often gratify more than the choicest music played at a concert by the most accomplished musicians. a single good picture seen in a dealer's window, may give keener enjoyment than a whole exhibition gone through with catalogue and pencil. by the time we have got ready our elaborate apparatus by which to secure happiness, the happiness is gone. it is too subtle to be contained in these receivers, garnished with compliments, and fenced round with etiquette. the more we multiply and complicate appliances, the more certain are we to drive it away. the reason is patent enough. these higher emotions to which social intercourse ministers, are of extremely complex nature; they consequently depend for their production upon very numerous conditions; the more numerous the conditions, the greater the liability that one or other of them will be disturbed, and the emotions consequently prevented. it takes a considerable misfortune to destroy appetite; but cordial sympathy with those around may be extinguished by a look or a word. hence it follows, that the more multiplied the _unnecessary_ requirements with which social intercourse is surrounded, the less likely are its pleasures to be achieved. it is difficult enough to fulfil continuously all the _essentials_ to a pleasurable communion with others: how much more difficult, then, must it be continuously to fulfil a host of _non-essentials_ also! it is, indeed, impossible. the attempt inevitably ends in the sacrifice of the first to the last--the essentials to the non-essentials. what chance is there of getting any genuine response from the lady who is thinking of your stupidity in taking her in to dinner on the wrong arm? how are you likely to have agreeable converse with the gentleman who is fuming internally because he is not placed next to the hostess? formalities, familiar as they may become, necessarily occupy attention--necessarily multiply the occasions for mistake, misunderstanding, and jealousy, on the part of one or other--necessarily distract all minds from the thoughts and feelings that should occupy them--necessarily, therefore, subvert those conditions under which only any sterling intercourse is to be had. and this indeed is the fatal mischief which these conventions entail--a mischief to which every other is secondary. they destroy those highest of our pleasures which they profess to subserve. all institutions are alike in this, that however useful, and needful even, they originally were, they not only in the end cease to be so, but become detrimental. while humanity is growing, they continue fixed; daily get more mechanical and unvital; and by and by tend to strangle what they before preserved. it is not simply that they become corrupt and fail to act: they become obstructions. old forms of government finally grow so oppressive, that they must be thrown off even at the risk of reigns of terror. old creeds end in being dead formulas, which no longer aid but distort and arrest the general mind; while the state-churches administering them, come to be instruments for subsidising conservatism and repressing progress. old schemes of education, incarnated in public schools and colleges, continue filling the heads of new generations with what has become relatively useless knowledge, and, by consequence, excluding knowledge which is useful. not an organisation of any kind--political, religious, literary, philanthropic--but what, by its ever-multiplying regulations, its accumulating wealth, its yearly addition of officers, and the creeping into it of patronage and party feeling, eventually loses its original spirit, and sinks into a mere lifeless mechanism, worked with a view to private ends--a mechanism which not merely fails of its first purpose, but is a positive hindrance to it. thus is it, too, with social usages. we read of the chinese that they have "ponderous ceremonies transmitted from time immemorial," which make social intercourse a burden. the court forms prescribed by monarchs for their own exaltation, have, in all times and places, ended in consuming the comfort of their lives. and so the artificial observances of the dining-room and saloon, in proportion as they are many and strict, extinguish that agreeable communion which they were originally intended to secure. the dislike with which people commonly speak of society that is "formal," and "stiff," and "ceremonious," implies the general recognition of this fact; and this recognition, logically developed, involves that all usages of behaviour which are not based on natural requirements, are injurious. that these conventions defeat their own ends is no new assertion. swift, criticising the manners of his day, says--"wise men are often more uneasy at the over-civility of these refiners than they could possibly be in the conversation of peasants and mechanics." but it is not only in these details that the self-defeating action of our arrangements is traceable: it is traceable in the very substance and nature of them. our social intercourse, as commonly managed, is a mere semblance of the reality sought. what is it that we want? some sympathetic converse with our fellow-creatures: some converse that shall not be mere dead words, but the vehicle of living thoughts and feelings--converse in which the eyes and the face shall speak, and the tones of the voice be full of meaning--converse which shall make us feel no longer alone, but shall draw us closer to another, and double our own emotions by adding another's to them. who is there that has not, from time to time, felt how cold and flat is all this talk about politics and science, and the new books and the new men, and how a genuine utterance of fellow-feeling outweighs the whole of it? mark the words of bacon:--"for a crowd is not a company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love." if this be true, then it is only after acquaintance has grown into intimacy, and intimacy has ripened into friendship, that the real communion which men need becomes possible. a rationally-formed circle must consist almost wholly of those on terms of familiarity and regard, with but one or two strangers. what folly, then, underlies the whole system of our grand dinners, our "at homes," our evening parties--assemblages made up of many who never met before, many others who just bow to each other, many others who though familiar feel mutual indifference, with just a few real friends lost in the general mass! you need but look round at the artificial expressions of face, to see at once how it is. all have their disguises on; and how can there be sympathy between masks? no wonder that in private every one exclaims against the stupidity of these gatherings. no wonder that hostesses get them up rather because they must than because they wish. no wonder that the invited go less from the expectation of pleasure than from fear of giving offence. the whole thing is a gigantic mistake--an organised disappointment. and then note, lastly, that in this case, as in all others, when an organisation has become effete and inoperative for its legitimate purpose, it is employed for quite other ones--quite opposite ones. what is the usual plea put in for giving and attending these tedious assemblies? "i admit that they are stupid and frivolous enough," replies every man to your criticisms; "but then, you know, one must keep up one's connections." and could you get from his wife a sincere answer, it would be--"like you, i am sick of these frivolities; but then, we must get our daughters married." the one knows that there is a profession to push, a practice to gain, a business to extend: or parliamentary influence, or county patronage, or votes, or office, to be got: position, berths, favours, profit. the other's thoughts run upon husbands and settlements, wives and dowries. worthless for their ostensible purpose of daily bringing human beings into pleasurable relations with each other, these cumbrous appliances of our social intercourse are now perseveringly kept in action with a view to the pecuniary and matrimonial results which they indirectly produce. who then shall say that the reform of our system of observances is unimportant? when we see how this system induces fashionable extravagance, with its entailed bankruptcy and ruin--when we mark how greatly it limits the amount of social intercourse among the less wealthy classes--when we find that many who most need to be disciplined by mixing with the refined are driven away by it, and led into dangerous and often fatal courses--when we count up the many minor evils it inflicts, the extra work which its costliness entails on all professional and mercantile men, the damage to public taste in dress and decoration by the setting up of its absurdities as standards for imitation, the injury to health indicated in the faces of its devotees at the close of the london season, the mortality of milliners and the like, which its sudden exigencies yearly involve;--and when to all these we add its fatal sin, that it blights, withers up, and kills, that high enjoyment it professedly ministers to--that enjoyment which is a chief end of our hard struggling in life to obtain--shall we not conclude that to reform our system of etiquette and fashion, is an aim yielding to few in urgency? * * * * * there needs, then, a protestantism in social usages. forms that have ceased to facilitate and have become obstructive--whether political, religious, or other--have ever to be swept away; and eventually are so swept away in all cases. signs are not wanting that some change is at hand. a host of satirists, led on by thackeray, have been for years engaged in bringing our sham-festivities, and our fashionable follies, into contempt; and in their candid moods, most men laugh at the frivolities with which they and the world in general are deluded. ridicule has always been a revolutionary agent. that which is habitually assailed with sneers and sarcasms cannot long survive. institutions that have lost their roots in men's respect and faith are doomed; and the day of their dissolution is not far off. the time is approaching, then, when our system of social observances must pass through some crisis, out of which it will come purified and comparatively simple. how this crisis will be brought about, no one can with any certainty say. whether by the continuance and increase of individual protests, or whether by the union of many persons for the practice and propagation of some better system, the future alone can decide. the influence of dissentients acting without co-operation, seems, under the present state of things, inadequate. standing severally alone, and having no well-defined views; frowned on by conformists, and expostulated with even by those who secretly sympathise with them; subject to petty persecutions, and unable to trace any benefit produced by their example; they are apt, one by one, to give up their attempts as hopeless. the young convention-breaker eventually finds that he pays too heavily for his nonconformity. hating, for example, everything that bears about it any remnant of servility, he determines, in the ardour of his independence, that he will uncover to no one. but what he means simply as a general protest, he finds that ladies interpret into a personal disrespect. though he sees that, from the days of chivalry downwards, these marks of supreme consideration paid to the other sex have been but a hypocritical counterpart to the actual subjection in which men have held them--a pretended submission to compensate for a real domination; and though he sees that when the true dignity of women is recognised, the mock dignities given to them will be abolished; yet he does not like to be thus misunderstood, and so hesitates in his practice. in other cases, again, his courage fails him. such of his unconventionalities as can be attributed only to eccentricity, he has no qualms about: for, on the whole, he feels rather complimented than otherwise in being considered a disregarder of public opinion. but when they are liable to be put down to ignorance, to ill-breeding, or to poverty, he becomes a coward. however clearly the recent innovation of eating some kinds of fish with knife and fork proves the fork-and-bread practice to have had little but caprice for its basis, yet he dares not wholly ignore that practice while fashion partially maintains it. though he thinks that a silk handkerchief is quite as appropriate for drawing-room use as a white cambric one, he is not altogether at ease in acting out his opinion. then, too, he begins to perceive that his resistance to prescription brings round disadvantageous results which he had not calculated upon. he had expected that it would save him from a great deal of social intercourse of a frivolous kind--that it would offend the fools, but not the sensible people; and so would serve as a self-acting test by which those worth knowing would be separated from those not worth knowing. but the fools prove to be so greatly in the majority that, by offending them, he closes against himself nearly all the avenues though which the sensible people are to be reached. thus he finds, that his nonconformity is frequently misinterpreted; that there are but few directions in which he dares to carry it consistently out; that the annoyances and disadvantages which it brings upon him are greater than he anticipated; and that the chances of his doing any good are very remote. hence he gradually loses resolution, and lapses, step by step, into the ordinary routine of observances. abortive as individual protests thus generally turn out, it may possibly be that nothing effectual will be done until there arises some organised resistance to this invisible despotism, by which our modes and habits are dictated. it may happen, that the government of manners and fashion will be rendered less tyrannical, as the political and religious governments have been, by some antagonistic union. alike in church and state, men's first emancipations from excess of restriction were achieved by numbers, bound together by a common creed or a common political faith. what remained undone while there were but individual schismatics or rebels, was effected when there came to be many acting in concert. it is tolerably clear that these earliest instalments of freedom could not have been obtained in any other way; for so long as the feeling of personal independence was weak and the rule strong, there could never have been a sufficient number of separate dissentients to produce the desired results. only in these later times, during which the secular and spiritual controls have been growing less coercive, and the tendency towards individual liberty greater, has it become possible for smaller and smaller sects and parties to fight against established creeds and laws; until now men may safely stand even alone in their antagonism. the failure of individual nonconformity to customs, as above illustrated, suggests that an analogous series of changes may have to be gone through in this case also. it is true that the _lex non scripta_ differs from the _lex scripta_ in this, that, being unwritten, it is more readily altered; and that it has, from time to time, been quietly ameliorated. nevertheless, we shall find that the analogy holds substantially good. for in this case, as in the others, the essential revolution is not the substituting of any one set of restraints for any other, but the limiting or abolishing the authority which prescribes restraints. just as the fundamental change inaugurated by the reformation was not a superseding of one creed by another, but an ignoring of the arbiter who before dictated creeds--just as the fundamental change which democracy long ago commenced, was not from this particular law to that, but from the despotism of one to the freedom of all; so, the parallel change yet to be wrought out in this supplementary government of which we are treating, is not the replacing of absurd usages by sensible ones, but the dethronement of that secret, irresponsible power which now imposes our usages, and the assertion of the right of all individuals to choose their own usages. in rules of living, a west-end clique is our pope; and we are all papists, with but a mere sprinkling of heretics. on all who decisively rebel, comes down the penalty of excommunication, with its long catalogue of disagreeable and, indeed, serious consequences. the liberty of the subject asserted in our constitution, and ever on the increase, has yet to be wrested from this subtler tyranny. the right of private judgment, which our ancestors wrung from the church, remains to be claimed from this dictator of our habits. or, as before said, to free us from these idolatries and superstitious conformities, there has still to come a protestanism in social usages. parallel, therefore, as is the change to be wrought out, it seems not improbable that it may be wrought out in an analogous way. that influence which solitary dissentients fail to gain, and that perseverance which they lack, may come into existence when they unite. that persecution which the world now visits upon them from mistaking their nonconformity for ignorance or disrespect, may diminish when it is seen to result from principle. the penalty which exclusion now entails may disappear when they become numerous enough to form visiting circles of their own. and when a successful stand has been made, and the brunt of the opposition has passed, that large amount of secret dislike to our observances which now pervades society, may manifest itself with sufficient power to effect the desired emancipation. whether such will be the process, time alone can decide. that community of origin, growth, supremacy, and decadence, which we have found among all kinds of government, suggests a community in modes of change also. on the other hand, nature often performs substantially similar operations, in ways apparently different. hence these details can never be foretold. * * * * * meanwhile, let us glance at the conclusions that have been reached. on the one side, government, originally one, and afterwards subdivided for the better fulfilment of its function, must be considered as having ever been, in all its branches--political, religious, and ceremonial--beneficial; and, indeed, absolutely necessary. on the other side, government, under all its forms, must be regarded as subserving a temporary office, made needful by the unfitness of aboriginal humanity for social life; and the successive diminutions of its coerciveness in state, in church, and in custom, must be looked upon as steps towards its final disappearance. to complete the conception, there requires to be borne in mind the third fact, that the genesis, the maintenance, and the decline of all governments, however named, are alike brought about by the humanity to be controlled: from which may be drawn the inference that, on the average, restrictions of every kind cannot last much longer than they are wanted, and cannot be destroyed much faster than they ought to be. society, in all its developments, undergoes the process of exuviation. these old forms which it successively throws off, have all been once vitally united with it--have severally served as the protective envelopes within which a higher humanity was being evolved. they are cast aside only when they become hindrances--only when some inner and better envelope has been formed; and they bequeath to us all that there was in them good. the periodical abolitions of tyrannical laws have left the administration of justice not only uninjured, but purified. dead and buried creeds have not carried with them the essential morality they contained, which still exists, uncontaminated by the sloughs of superstition. and all that there is of justice and kindness and beauty, embodied in our cumbrous forms of etiquette, will live perennially when the forms themselves have been forgotten. [ ] _westminster review_, april . [ ] this was written before moustaches and beards had become common. on the genesis of science[ ] there has ever prevailed among men a vague notion that scientific knowledge differs in nature from ordinary knowledge. by the greeks, with whom mathematics--literally _things learnt_--was alone considered as knowledge proper, the distinction must have been strongly felt; and it has ever since maintained itself in the general mind. though, considering the contrast between the achievements of science and those of daily unmethodic thinking, it is not surprising that such a distinction has been assumed; yet it needs but to rise a little above the common point of view, to see that no such distinction can really exist: or that at best, it is but a superficial distinction. the same faculties are employed in both cases; and in both cases their mode of operation is fundamentally the same. if we say that science is organised knowledge, we are met by the truth that all knowledge is organised in a greater or less degree--that the commonest actions of the household and the field presuppose facts colligated, inferences drawn, results expected; and that the general success of these actions proves the data by which they were guided to have been correctly put together. if, again, we say that science is prevision--is a seeing beforehand--is a knowing in what times, places, combinations, or sequences, specified phenomena will be found; we are yet obliged to confess that the definition includes much that is utterly foreign to science in its ordinary acceptation. for example, a child's knowledge of an apple. this, as far as it goes, consists in previsions. when a child sees a certain form and colours, it knows that if it puts out its hand it will have certain impressions of resistance, and roundness, and smoothness; and if it bites, a certain taste. and manifestly its general acquaintance with surrounding objects is of like nature--is made up of facts concerning them, so grouped as that any part of a group being perceived, the existence of the other facts included in it is foreseen. if, once more, we say that science is _exact_ prevision, we still fail to establish the supposed difference. not only do we find that much of what we call science is not exact, and that some of it, as physiology, can never become exact; but we find further, that many of the previsions constituting the common stock alike of wise and ignorant, _are_ exact. that an unsupported body will fall; that a lighted candle will go out when immersed in water; that ice will melt when thrown on the fire--these, and many like predictions relating to the familiar properties of things have as high a degree of accuracy as predictions are capable of. it is true that the results predicated are of a very general character; but it is none the less true that they are rigorously correct as far as they go: and this is all that is requisite to fulfil the definition. there is perfect accordance between the anticipated phenomena and the actual ones; and no more than this can be said of the highest achievements of the sciences specially characterised as exact. seeing thus that the assumed distinction between scientific knowledge and common knowledge is not logically justifiable; and yet feeling, as we must, that however impossible it may be to draw a line between them, the two are not practically identical; there arises the question--what is the relationship that exists between them? a partial answer to this question may be drawn from the illustrations just given. on reconsidering them, it will be observed that those portions of ordinary knowledge which are identical in character with scientific knowledge, comprehend only such combinations of phenomena as are directly cognisable by the senses, and are of simple, invariable nature. that the smoke from a fire which she is lighting will ascend, and that the fire will presently boil water, are previsions which the servant-girl makes equally well with the most learned physicist; they are equally certain, equally exact with his; but they are previsions concerning phenomena in constant and direct relation--phenomena that follow visibly and immediately after their antecedents--phenomena of which the causation is neither remote nor obscure--phenomena which may be predicted by the simplest possible act of reasoning. if, now, we pass to the previsions constituting what is commonly known as science--that an eclipse of the moon will happen at a specified time; and when a barometer is taken to the top of a mountain of known height, the mercurial column will descend a stated number of inches; that the poles of a galvanic battery immersed in water will give off, the one an inflammable and the other an inflaming gas, in definite ratio--we perceive that the relations involved are not of a kind habitually presented to our senses; that they depend, some of them, upon special combinations of causes; and that in some of them the connection between antecedents and consequents is established only by an elaborate series of inferences. the broad distinction, therefore, between the two orders of knowledge, is not in their nature, but in their remoteness from perception. if we regard the cases in their most general aspect, we see that the labourer, who, on hearing certain notes in the adjacent hedge, can describe the particular form and colours of the bird making them; and the astronomer, who, having calculated a transit of venus, can delineate the black spot entering on the sun's disc, as it will appear through the telescope, at a specified hour; do essentially the same thing. each knows that on fulfilling the requisite conditions, he shall have a preconceived impression--that after a definite series of actions will come a group of sensations of a foreknown kind. the difference, then, is not in the fundamental character of the mental acts; or in the correctness of the previsions accomplished by them; but in the complexity of the processes required to achieve the previsions. much of our commonest knowledge is, as far as it goes, rigorously precise. science does not increase this precision; cannot transcend it. what then does it do? it reduces other knowledge to the same degree of precision. that certainty which direct perception gives us respecting coexistences and sequences of the simplest and most accessible kind, science gives us respecting coexistences and sequences, complex in their dependencies or inaccessible to immediate observation. in brief, regarded from this point of view, science may be called _an extension of the perceptions by means of reasoning_. on further considering the matter, however, it will perhaps be felt that this definition does not express the whole fact--that inseparable as science may be from common knowledge, and completely as we may fill up the gap between the simplest previsions of the child and the most recondite ones of the natural philosopher, by interposing a series of previsions in which the complexity of reasoning involved is greater and greater, there is yet a difference between the two beyond that which is here described. and this is true. but the difference is still not such as enables us to draw the assumed line of demarcation. it is a difference not between common knowledge and scientific knowledge; but between the successive phases of science itself, or knowledge itself--whichever we choose to call it. in its earlier phases science attains only to _certainty_ of foreknowledge; in its later phases it further attains to _completeness_. we begin by discovering _a_ relation: we end by discovering _the_ relation. our first achievement is to foretell the _kind_ of phenomenon which will occur under specific conditions: our last achievement is to foretell not only the kind but the _amount_. or, to reduce the proposition to its most definite form--undeveloped science is _qualitative_ prevision: developed science is _quantitative_ prevision. this will at once be perceived to express the remaining distinction between the lower and the higher stages of positive knowledge. the prediction that a piece of lead will take more force to lift it than a piece of wood of equal size, exhibits certainty, but not completeness, of foresight. the kind of effect in which the one body will exceed the other is foreseen; but not the amount by which it will exceed. there is qualitative prevision only. on the other hand, the prediction that at a stated time two particular planets will be in conjunction; that by means of a lever having arms in a given ratio, a known force will raise just so many pounds; that to decompose a specified quantity of sulphate of iron by carbonate of soda will require so many grains--these predictions exhibit foreknowledge, not only of the nature of the effects to be produced, but of the magnitude, either of the effects themselves, of the agencies producing them, or of the distance in time or space at which they will be produced. there is not only qualitative but quantitative prevision. and this is the unexpressed difference which leads us to consider certain orders of knowledge as especially scientific when contrasted with knowledge in general. are the phenomena _measurable_? is the test which we unconsciously employ. space is measurable: hence geometry. force and space are measureable: hence statics. time, force, and space are measureable: hence dynamics. the invention of the barometer enabled men to extend the principles of mechanics to the atmosphere; and aerostatics existed. when a thermometer was devised there arose a science of heat, which was before impossible. such of our sensations as we have not yet found modes of measuring do not originate sciences. we have no science of smells; nor have we one of tastes. we have a science of the relations of sounds differing in pitch, because we have discovered a way to measure them; but we have no science of sounds in respect to their loudness or their _timbre_, because we have got no measures of loudness and _timbre_. obviously it is this reduction of the sensible phenomena it represents, to relations of magnitude, which gives to any division of knowledge its especially scientific character. originally men's knowledge of weights and forces was in the same condition as their knowledge of smells and tastes is now--a knowledge not extending beyond that given by the unaided sensations; and it remained so until weighing instruments and dynamometers were invented. before there were hour-glasses and clepsydras, most phenomena could be estimated as to their durations and intervals, with no greater precision than degrees of hardness can be estimated by the fingers. until a thermometric scale was contrived, men's judgments respecting relative amounts of heat stood on the same footing with their present judgments respecting relative amounts of sound. and as in these initial stages, with no aids to observation, only the roughest comparisons of cases could be made, and only the most marked differences perceived; it is obvious that only the most simple laws of dependence could be ascertained--only those laws which, being uncomplicated with others, and not disturbed in their manifestations, required no niceties of observation to disentangle them. whence it appears not only that in proportion as knowledge becomes quantitative do its previsions become complete as well as certain, but that until its assumption of a quantitative character it is necessarily confined to the most elementary relations. moreover it is to be remarked that while, on the one hand, we can discover the laws of the greater proportion of phenomena only by investigating them quantitatively; on the other hand we can extend the range of our quantitative previsions only as fast as we detect the laws of the results we predict. for clearly the ability to specify the magnitude of a result inaccessible to direct measurement, implies knowledge of its mode of dependence on something which can be measured--implies that we know the particular fact dealt with to be an instance of some more general fact. thus the extent to which our quantitative previsions have been carried in any direction, indicates the depth to which our knowledge reaches in that direction. and here, as another aspect of the same fact, we may further observe that as we pass from qualitative to quantitative prevision, we pass from inductive science to deductive science. science while purely inductive is purely qualitative: when inaccurately quantitative it usually consists of part induction, part deduction: and it becomes accurately quantitative only when wholly deductive. we do not mean that the deductive and the quantitative are coextensive; for there is manifestly much deduction that is qualitative only. we mean that all quantitative prevision is reached deductively; and that induction can achieve only qualitative prevision. still, however, it must not be supposed that these distinctions enable us to separate ordinary knowledge from science, much as they seem to do so. while they show in what consists the broad contrast between the extreme forms of the two, they yet lead us to recognise their essential identity; and once more prove the difference to be one of degree only. for, on the one hand, the commonest positive knowledge is to some extent quantitative; seeing that the amount of the foreseen result is known within certain wide limits. and, on the other hand, the highest quantitative prevision does not reach the exact truth, but only a very near approximation to it. without clocks the savage knows that the day is longer in the summer than in the winter; without scales he knows that stone is heavier than flesh: that is, he can foresee respecting certain results that their amounts will exceed these, and be less than those--he knows _about_ what they will be. and, with his most delicate instruments and most elaborate calculations, all that the man of science can do, is to reduce the difference between the foreseen and the actual results to an unimportant quantity. moreover, it must be borne in mind not only that all the sciences are qualitative in their first stages,--not only that some of them, as chemistry, have but recently reached the quantitative stage--but that the most advanced sciences have attained to their present power of determining quantities not present to the senses, or not directly measurable, by a slow process of improvement extending through thousands of years. so that science and the knowledge of the uncultured are alike in the nature of their previsions, widely as they differ in range; they possess a common imperfection, though this is immensely greater in the last than in the first; and the transition from the one to the other has been through a series of steps by which the imperfection has been rendered continually less, and the range continually wider. these facts, that science and the positive knowledge of the uncultured cannot be separated in nature, and that the one is but a perfected and extended form of the other, must necessarily underlie the whole theory of science, its progress, and the relations of its parts to each other. there must be serious incompleteness in any history of the sciences, which, leaving out of view the first steps of their genesis, commences with them only when they assume definite forms. there must be grave defects, if not a general untruth, in a philosophy of the sciences considered in their interdependence and development, which neglects the inquiry how they came to be distinct sciences, and how they were severally evolved out of the chaos of primitive ideas. not only a direct consideration of the matter, but all analogy, goes to show that in the earlier and simpler stages must be sought the key to all subsequent intricacies. the time was when the anatomy and physiology of the human being were studied by themselves--when the adult man was analysed and the relations of parts and of functions investigated, without reference either to the relations exhibited in the embryo or to the homologous relations existing in other creatures. now, however, it has become manifest that no true conceptions, no true generalisations, are possible under such conditions. anatomists and physiologists now find that the real natures of organs and tissues can be ascertained only by tracing their early evolution; and that the affinities between existing genera can be satisfactorily made out only by examining the fossil genera to which they are allied. well, is it not clear that the like must be true concerning all things that undergo development? is not science a growth? has not science, too, its embryology? and must not the neglect of its embryology lead to a misunderstanding of the principles of its evolution and of its existing organisation? there are _à priori_ reasons, therefore, for doubting the truth of all philosophies of the sciences which tacitly proceed upon the common notion that scientific knowledge and ordinary knowledge are separate; instead of commencing, as they should, by affiliating the one upon the other, and showing how it gradually came to be distinguishable from the other. we may expect to find their generalisations essentially artificial; and we shall not be deceived. some illustrations of this may here be fitly introduced, by way of preliminary to a brief sketch of the genesis of science from the point of view indicated. and we cannot more readily find such illustrations than by glancing at a few of the various _classifications_ of the sciences that have from time to time been proposed. to consider all of them would take too much space: we must content ourselves with some of the latest. * * * * * commencing with those which may be soonest disposed of, let us notice first the arrangement propounded by oken. an abstract of it runs thus:-- part i. mathesis.--_pneumatogeny_: primary art, primary consciousness, god, primary rest, time, polarity, motion, man, space, point. line, surface, globe, rotation.--_hylogeny_: gravity, matter, ether, heavenly bodies, light, heat, fire. (he explains that mathesis is the doctrine of the whole; _pneumatogeny_ being the doctrine of immaterial totalities, and _hylogeny_ that of material totalities.) part ii. ontology.--_cosmogeny_: rest, centre, motion, line, planets, form, planetary system, comets.--_stöchiogeny_: condensation, simple matter, elements, air, water, earth--_stöchiology_: functions of the elements, etc., etc.--_kingdoms of nature_: individuals. (he says in explanation that "ontology teaches us the phenomena of matter. the first of these are the heavenly bodies comprehended by _cosmogeny_. these divide into elements--_stöchiogeny_. the earth element divides into minerals--_mineralogy_. these unite into one collective body--_geogeny_. the whole in singulars is the living, or _organic_, which again divides into plants and animals. _biology_, therefore, divides into _organogeny_, _phytosophy_, _zoosophy_.") first kingdom.--minerals. _mineralogy_, _geology_. part iii. biology.--_organosophy_, _phytogeny_, _phyto-physiology_, _phytology_, _zoogeny_, _physiology_, _zoology_, _psychology_. a glance over this confused scheme shows that it is an attempt to classify knowledge, not after the order in which it has been, or may be, built up in the human consciousness; but after an assumed order of creation. it is a pseudo-scientific cosmogony, akin to those which men have enunciated from the earliest times downwards; and only a little more respectable. as such it will not be thought worthy of much consideration by those who, like ourselves, hold that experience is the sole origin of knowledge. otherwise, it might have been needful to dwell on the incongruities of the arrangements--to ask how motion can be treated of before space? how there can be rotation without matter to rotate? how polarity can be dealt with without involving points and lines? but it will serve our present purpose just to point out a few of the extreme absurdities resulting from the doctrine which oken seems to hold in common with hegel, that "to philosophise on nature is to re-think the great thought of creation." here is a sample:-- "mathematics is the universal science; so also is physio-philosophy, although it is only a part, or rather but a condition of the universe; both are one, or mutually congruent. "mathematics is, however, a science of mere forms without substance. physio-philosophy is, therefore, _mathematics endowed with substance_." from the english point of view it is sufficiently amusing to find such a dogma not only gravely stated, but stated as an unquestionable truth. here we see the experiences of quantitative relations which men have gathered from surrounding bodies and generalised (experiences which had been scarcely at all generalised at the beginning of the historic period)--we find these generalised experiences, these intellectual abstractions, elevated into concrete actualities, projected back into nature, and considered as the internal framework of things--the skeleton by which matter is sustained. but this new form of the old realism is by no means the most startling of the physio-philosophic principles. we presently read that, "the highest mathematical idea, or the fundamental principle of all mathematics is the zero = .".... "zero is in itself nothing. mathematics is based upon nothing, and, _consequently_, arises out of nothing. "out of nothing, _therefore_, it is possible for something to arise; for mathematics, consisting of propositions, is something, in relation to ." by such "consequentlys" and "therefores" it is, that men philosophise when they "re-think the great thought of creation." by dogmas that pretend to be reasons, nothing is made to generate mathematics; and by clothing mathematics with matter, we have the universe! if now we deny, as we _do_ deny, that the highest mathematical idea is the zero;--if, on the other hand, we assert, as we _do_ assert, that the fundamental idea underlying all mathematics, is that of equality; the whole of oken's cosmogony disappears. and here, indeed, we may see illustrated, the distinctive peculiarity of the german method of procedure in these matters--the bastard _à priori_ method, as it may be termed. the legitimate _à priori_ method sets out with propositions of which the negation is inconceivable; the _à priori_ method as illegitimately applied, sets out either with propositions of which the negation is _not_ inconceivable, or with propositions like oken's, of which the _affirmation_ is inconceivable. it is needless to proceed further with the analysis; else might we detail the steps by which oken arrives at the conclusions that "the planets are coagulated colours, for they are coagulated light; that the sphere is the expanded nothing;" that gravity is "a weighty nothing, a heavy essence, striving towards a centre;" that "the earth is the identical, water the indifferent, air the different; or the first the centre, the second the radius, the last the periphery of the general globe or of fire." to comment on them would be nearly as absurd as are the propositions themselves. let us pass on to another of the german systems of knowledge--that of hegel. the simple fact that hegel puts jacob boehme on a par with bacon, suffices alone to show that his standpoint is far remote from the one usually regarded as scientific: so far remote, indeed, that it is not easy to find any common basis on which to found a criticism. those who hold that the mind is moulded into conformity with surrounding things by the agency of surrounding things, are necessarily at a loss how to deal with those, who, like schelling and hegel, assert that surrounding things are solidified mind--that nature is "petrified intelligence." however, let us briefly glance at hegel's classification. he divides philosophy into three parts:-- . _logic_, or the science of the idea in itself, the pure idea. . _the philosophy of nature_, or the science of the idea considered under its other form--of the idea as nature. . _the philosophy of the mind_, or the science of the idea in its return to itself. of these, the second is divided into the natural sciences, commonly so called; so that in its more detailed form the series runs thus:--logic, mechanics, physics, organic physics, psychology. now, if we believe with hegel, first, that thought is the true essence of man; second, that thought is the essence of the world; and that, therefore, there is nothing but thought; his classification, beginning with the science of pure thought, may be acceptable. but otherwise, it is an obvious objection to his arrangement, that thought implies things thought of--that there can be no logical forms without the substance of experience--that the science of ideas and the science of things must have a simultaneous origin. hegel, however, anticipates this objection, and, in his obstinate idealism, replies, that the contrary is true; that all contained in the forms, to become something, requires to be thought: and that logical forms are the foundations of all things. it is not surprising that, starting from such premises, and reasoning after this fashion, hegel finds his way to strange conclusions. out of _space_ and _time_ he proceeds to build up _motion_, _matter_, _repulsion_, _attraction_, _weight_, and _inertia_. he then goes on to logically evolve the solar system. in doing this he widely diverges from the newtonian theory; reaches by syllogism the conviction that the planets are the most perfect celestial bodies; and, not being able to bring the stars within his theory, says that they are mere formal existences and not living matter, and that as compared with the solar system they are as little admirable as a cutaneous eruption or a swarm of flies.[ ] results so outrageous might be left as self-disproved, were it not that speculators of this class are not alarmed by any amount of incongruity with established beliefs. the only efficient mode of treating systems like this of hegel, is to show that they are self-destructive--that by their first steps they ignore that authority on which all their subsequent steps depend. if hegel professes, as he manifestly does, to develop his scheme by reasoning--if he presents successive inferences as _necessarily following_ from certain premises; he implies the postulate that a belief which necessarily follows after certain antecedents is a true belief: and, did an opponent reply to one of his inferences, that, though it was impossible to think the opposite, yet the opposite was true, he would consider the reply irrational. the procedure, however, which he would thus condemn as destructive of all thinking whatever, is just the procedure exhibited in the enunciation of his own first principles. mankind find themselves unable to conceive that there can be thought without things thought of. hegel, however, asserts that there _can_ be thought without things thought of. that ultimate test of a true proposition--the inability of the human mind to conceive the negation of it--which in all other cases he considers valid, he considers invalid where it suits his convenience to do so; and yet at the same time denies the right of an opponent to follow his example. if it is competent for him to posit dogmas, which are the direct negations of what human consciousness recognises; then is it also competent for his antagonists to stop him at every step in his argument by saying, that though the particular inference he is drawing seems to his mind, and to all minds, necessarily to follow from the premises, yet it is not true, but the contrary inference is true. or, to state the dilemma in another form:--if he sets out with inconceivable propositions, then may he with equal propriety make all his succeeding propositions inconceivable ones--may at every step throughout his reasoning draw exactly the opposite conclusion to that which seems involved. hegel's mode of procedure being thus essentially suicidal, the hegelian classification which depends upon it falls to the ground. let us consider next that of m. comte. as all his readers must admit, m. comte presents us with a scheme of the sciences which, unlike the foregoing ones, demands respectful consideration. widely as we differ from him, we cheerfully bear witness to the largeness of his views, the clearness of his reasoning, and the value of his speculations as contributing to intellectual progress. did we believe a serial arrangement of the sciences to be possible, that of m. comte would certainly be the one we should adopt. his fundamental propositions are thoroughly intelligible; and if not true, have a great semblance of truth. his successive steps are logically co-ordinated; and he supports his conclusions by a considerable amount of evidence--evidence which, so long as it is not critically examined, or not met by counter evidence, seems to substantiate his positions. but it only needs to assume that antagonistic attitude which _ought_ to be assumed towards new doctrines, in the belief that, if true, they will prosper by conquering objectors--it needs but to test his leading doctrines either by other facts than those he cites, or by his own facts differently applied, to at once show that they will not stand. we will proceed thus to deal with the general principle on which he bases his hierarchy of the sciences. in the second chapter of his _cours de philosophic positive_, m. comte says:--"our problem is, then, to find the one _rational_ order, amongst a host of possible systems." ... "this order is determined by the degree of simplicity, or, what comes to the same thing, of generality of their phenomena." and the arrangement he deduces runs thus: _mathematics_, _astronomy_, _physics_, _chemistry_, _physiology_, _social physics_. this he asserts to be "the true _filiation_ of the sciences." he asserts further, that the principle of progression from a greater to a less degree of generality, "which gives this order to the whole body of science, arranges the parts of each science." and, finally, he asserts that the gradations thus established _à priori_ among the sciences, and the parts of each science, "is in essential conformity with the order which has spontaneously taken place among the branches of natural philosophy;" or, in other words--corresponds with the order of historic development. let us compare these assertions with the facts. that there may be perfect fairness, let us make no choice, but take as the field for our comparison, the succeeding section treating of the first science--mathematics; and let us use none but m. comte's own facts, and his own admissions. confining ourselves to this one science, of course our comparisons must be between its several parts. m. comte says, that the parts of each science must be arranged in the order of their decreasing generality; and that this order of decreasing generality agrees with the order of historical development. our inquiry must be, then, whether the history of mathematics confirms this statement. carrying out his principle, m. comte divides mathematics into "abstract mathematics, or the calculus (taking the word in its most extended sense) and concrete mathematics, which is composed of general geometry and of rational mechanics." the subject-matter of the first of these is _number_; the subject-matter of the second includes _space_, _time_, _motion_, _force_. the one possesses the highest possible degree of generality; for all things whatever admit of enumeration. the others are less general; seeing that there are endless phenomena that are not cognisable either by general geometry or rational mechanics. in conformity with the alleged law, therefore, the evolution of the calculus must throughout have preceded the evolution of the concrete sub-sciences. now somewhat awkwardly for him, the first remark m. comte makes bearing upon this point is, that "from an historical point of view, mathematical analysis _appears to have risen out of_ the contemplation of geometrical and mechanical facts." true, he goes on to say that, "it is not the less independent of these sciences logically speaking;" for that "analytical ideas are, above all others, universal, abstract, and simple; and geometrical conceptions are necessarily founded on them." we will not take advantage of this last passage to charge m. comte with teaching, after the fashion of hegel, that there can be thought without things thought of. we are content simply to compare the two assertions, that analysis arose out of the contemplation of geometrical and mechanical facts, and that geometrical conceptions are founded upon analytical ones. literally interpreted they exactly cancel each other. interpreted, however, in a liberal sense, they imply, what we believe to be demonstrable, that the two had _a simultaneous origin_. the passage is either nonsense, or it is an admission that abstract and concrete mathematics are coeval. thus, at the very first step, the alleged congruity between the order of generality and the order of evolution does not hold good. but may it not be that though abstract and concrete mathematics took their rise at the same time, the one afterwards developed more rapidly than the other; and has ever since remained in advance of it? no: and again we call m. comte himself as witness. fortunately for his argument he has said nothing respecting the early stages of the concrete and abstract divisions after their divergence from a common root; otherwise the advent of algebra long after the greek geometry had reached a high development, would have been an inconvenient fact for him to deal with. but passing over this, and limiting ourselves to his own statements, we find, at the opening of the next chapter, the admission, that "the historical development of the abstract portion of mathematical science has, since the time of descartes, been for the most part _determined_ by that of the concrete." further on we read respecting algebraic functions that "most functions were concrete in their origin--even those which are at present the most purely abstract; and the ancients discovered only through geometrical definitions elementary algebraic properties of functions to which a numerical value was not attached till long afterwards, rendering abstract to us what was concrete to the old geometers." how do these statements tally with his doctrine? again, having divided the calculus into algebraic and arithmetical, m. comte admits, as perforce he must, that the algebraic is more general than the arithmetical; yet he will not say that algebra preceded arithmetic in point of time. and again, having divided the calculus of functions into the calculus of direct functions (common algebra) and the calculus of indirect functions (transcendental analysis), he is obliged to speak of this last as possessing a higher generality than the first; yet it is far more modern. indeed, by implication, m. comte himself confesses this incongruity; for he says:--"it might seem that the transcendental analysis ought to be studied before the ordinary, as it provides the equations which the other has to resolve; but though the transcendental _is logically independent of the ordinary_, it is best to follow the usual method of study, taking the ordinary first." in all these cases, then, as well as at the close of the section where he predicts that mathematicians will in time "create procedures of _a wider generality_", m. comte makes admissions that are diametrically opposed to the alleged law. in the succeeding chapters treating of the concrete department of mathematics, we find similar contradictions m. comte himself names the geometry of the ancients _special_ geometry, and that of moderns the _general_ geometry. he admits that while "the ancients studied geometry with reference to the bodies under notice, or specially; the moderns study it with reference to the _phenomena_ to be considered, or generally." he admits that while "the ancients extracted all they could out of one line or surface before passing to another," "the moderns, since descartes, employ themselves on questions which relate to any figure whatever." these facts are the reverse of what, according to his theory, they should be. so, too, in mechanics. before dividing it into statics and dynamics, m. comte treats of the three laws of _motion_, and is obliged to do so; for statics, the more _general_ of the two divisions, though it does not involve motion, is impossible as a science until the laws of motion are ascertained. yet the laws of motion pertain to dynamics, the more _special_ of the divisions. further on he points out that after archimedes, who discovered the law of equilibrium of the lever, statics made no progress until the establishment of dynamics enabled us to seek "the conditions of equilibrium through the laws of the composition of forces." and he adds--"at this day _this is the method universally employed_. at the first glance it does not appear the most rational--dynamics being more complicated than statics, and precedence being natural to the simpler. it would, in fact, be more philosophical to refer dynamics to statics, as has since been done." sundry discoveries are afterwards detailed, showing how completely the development of statics has been achieved by considering its problems dynamically; and before the close of the section m. comte remarks that "before hydrostatics could be comprehended under statics, it was necessary that the abstract theory of equilibrium should be made so general as to apply directly to fluids as well as solids. this was accomplished when lagrange supplied, as the basis of the whole of rational mechanics, the single principle of virtual velocities." in which statement we have two facts directly at variance: with m. comte's doctrine; first, that the simpler science, statics, reached its present development only by the aid of the principle of virtual velocities, which belongs to the more complex science, dynamics; and that this "single principle" underlying all rational mechanics--this _most general form_ which includes alike the relations of statical, hydro-statical, and dynamical forces--was reached so late as the time of lagrange. thus it is _not_ true that the historical succession of the divisions of mathematics has corresponded with the order of decreasing generality. it is _not_ true that abstract mathematics was evolved antecedently to, and independently of concrete mathematics. it is _not_ true that of the subdivisions of abstract mathematics, the more general came before the more special. and it is _not_ true that concrete mathematics, in either of its two sections, began with the most abstract and advanced to the less abstract truths. it may be well to mention, parenthetically, that in defending his alleged law of progression from the general to the special, m. comte somewhere comments upon the two meanings of the word _general_, and the resulting liability to confusion. without now discussing whether the asserted distinction can be maintained in other cases, it is manifest that it does not exist here. in sundry of the instances above quoted, the endeavours made by m. comte himself to disguise, or to explain away, the precedence of the special over the general, clearly indicate that the generality spoken of is of the kind meant by his formula. and it needs but a brief consideration of the matter to show that, even did he attempt it, he could not distinguish this generality, which, as above proved, frequently comes last, from the generality which he says always comes first. for what is the nature of that mental process by which objects, dimensions, weights, times, and the rest, are found capable of having their relations expressed numerically? it is the formation of certain abstract conceptions of unity, duality and multiplicity, which are applicable to all things alike. it is the invention of general symbols serving to express the numerical relations of entities, whatever be their special characters. and what is the nature of the mental process by which numbers are found capable of having their relations expressed algebraically? it is just the same. it is the formation of certain abstract conceptions of numerical functions which are the same whatever be the magnitudes of the numbers. it is the invention of general symbols serving to express the relations between numbers, as numbers express the relations between things. and transcendental analysis stands to algebra in the same position that algebra stands in to arithmetic. to briefly illustrate their respective powers--arithmetic can express in one formula the value of a _particular_ tangent to a _particular_ curve; algebra can express in one formula the values of _all_ tangents to a _particular_ curve; transcendental analysis can express in one formula the values of _all_ tangents to _all_ curves. just as arithmetic deals with the common properties of lines, areas, bulks, forces, periods; so does algebra deal with the common properties of the numbers which arithmetic presents; so does transcendental analysis deal with the common properties of the equations exhibited by algebra. thus, the generality of the higher branches of the calculus, when compared with the lower, is the same kind of generality as that of the lower branches when compared with geometry or mechanics. and on examination it will be found that the like relation exists in the various other cases above given. having shown that m. comte's alleged law of progression does not hold among the several parts of the same science, let us see how it agrees with the facts when applied to separate sciences. "astronomy," says m. comte, at the opening of book iii., "was a positive science, in its geometrical aspect, from the earliest days of the school of alexandria; but physics, which we are now to consider, had no positive character at all till galileo made his great discoveries on the fall of heavy bodies." on this, our comment is simply that it is a misrepresentation based upon an arbitrary misuse of words--a mere verbal artifice. by choosing to exclude from terrestrial physics those laws of magnitude, motion, and position, which he includes in celestial physics, m. comte makes it appear that the one owes nothing to the other. not only is this altogether unwarrantable, but it is radically inconsistent with his own scheme of divisions. at the outset he says--and as the point is important we quote from the original--"pour la _physique inorganique_ nous voyons d'abord, en nous conformant toujours a l'ordre de généralité et de dépendance des phénomènes, qu'elle doit être partagée en deux sections distinctes, suivant qu'elle considère les phénomènes généraux de l'univers, ou, en particulier, ceux que présentent les corps terrestres. d'où la physique céleste, ou l'astronomie, soit géométrique, soit mechanique; et la physique terrestre." here then we have _inorganic physics_ clearly divided into _celestial physics_ and _terrestrial physics_--the phenomena presented by the universe, and the phenomena presented by earthly bodies. if now celestial bodies and terrestrial bodies exhibit sundry leading phenomena in common, as they do, how can the generalisation of these common phenomena be considered as pertaining to the one class rather than to the other? if inorganic physics includes geometry (which m. comte has made it do by comprehending _geometrical_ astronomy in its sub-section--celestial physics); and if its sub-section--terrestrial physics, treats of things having geometrical properties; how can the laws of geometrical relations be excluded from terrestrial physics? clearly if celestial physics includes the geometry of objects in the heavens, terrestrial physics includes the geometry of objects on the earth. and if terrestrial physics includes terrestrial geometry, while celestial physics includes celestial geometry, then the geometrical part of terrestrial physics precedes the geometrical part of celestial physics; seeing that geometry gained its first ideas from surrounding objects. until men had learnt geometrical relations from bodies on the earth, it was impossible for them to understand the geometrical relations of bodies in the heavens. so, too, with celestial mechanics, which had terrestrial mechanics for its parent. the very conception of _force_, which underlies the whole of mechanical astronomy, is borrowed from our earthly experiences; and the leading laws of mechanical action as exhibited in scales, levers, projectiles, etc., had to be ascertained before the dynamics of the solar system could be entered upon. what were the laws made use of by newton in working out his grand discovery? the law of falling bodies disclosed by galileo; that of the composition of forces also disclosed by galileo; and that of centrifugal force found out by huyghens--all of them generalisations of terrestrial physics. yet, with facts like these before him, m. comte places astronomy before physics in order of evolution! he does not compare the geometrical parts of the two together, and the mechanical parts of the two together; for this would by no means suit his hypothesis. but he compares the geometrical part of the one with the mechanical part of the other, and so gives a semblance of truth to his position. he is led away by a verbal delusion. had he confined his attention to the things and disregarded the words, he would have seen that before mankind scientifically co-ordinated _any one class of phenomena_ displayed in the heavens, they had previously co-ordinated _a parallel class of phenomena_ displayed upon the surface of the earth. were it needful we could fill a score pages with the incongruities of m. comte's scheme. but the foregoing samples will suffice. so far is his law of evolution of the sciences from being tenable, that, by following his example, and arbitrarily ignoring one class of facts, it would be possible to present, with great plausibility, just the opposite generalisation to that which he enunciates. while he asserts that the rational order of the sciences, like the order of their historic development, "is determined by the degree of simplicity, or, what comes to the same thing, of generality of their phenomena;" it might contrariwise be asserted, that, commencing with the complex and the special, mankind have progressed step by step to a knowledge of greater simplicity and wider generality. so much evidence is there of this as to have drawn from whewell, in his _history of the inductive sciences_, the general remark that "the reader has already seen repeatedly in the course of this history, complex and derivative principles presenting themselves to men's minds before simple and elementary ones." even from m. comte's own work, numerous facts, admissions, and arguments, might be picked out, tending to show this. we have already quoted his words in proof that both abstract and concrete mathematics have progressed towards a higher degree of generality, and that he looks forward to a higher generality still. just to strengthen this adverse hypothesis, let us take a further instance. from the _particular_ case of the scales, the law of equilibrium of which was familiar to the earliest nations known, archimedes advanced to the more _general_ case of the unequal lever with unequal weights; the law of equilibrium of which _includes_ that of the scales. by the help of galileo's discovery concerning the composition of forces, d'alembert "established, for the first time, the equations of equilibrium of _any_ system of forces applied to the different points of a solid body"--equations which include all cases of levers and an infinity of cases besides. clearly this is progress towards a higher generality--towards a knowledge more independent of special circumstances--towards a study of phenomena "the most disengaged from the incidents of particular cases;" which is m. comte's definition of "the most simple phenomena." does it not indeed follow from the familiarly admitted fact, that mental advance is from the concrete to the abstract, from the particular to the general, that the universal and therefore most simple truths are the last to be discovered? is not the government of the solar system by a force varying inversely as the square of the distance, a simpler conception than any that preceded it? should we ever succeed in reducing all orders of phenomena to some single law--say of atomic action, as m. comte suggests--must not that law answer to his test of being _independent_ of all others, and therefore most simple? and would not such a law generalise the phenomena of gravity, cohesion, atomic affinity, and electric repulsion, just as the laws of number generalise the quantitative phenomena of space, time, and force? the possibility of saying so much in support of an hypothesis the very reverse of m. comte's, at once proves that his generalisation is only a half-truth. the fact is, that neither proposition is correct by itself; and the actuality is expressed only by putting the two together. the progress of science is duplex: it is at once from the special to the general, and from the general to the special: it is analytical and synthetical at the same time. m. comte himself observes that the evolution of science has been accomplished by the division of labour; but he quite misstates the mode in which this division of labour has operated. as he describes it, it has simply been an arrangement of phenomena into classes, and the study of each class by itself. he does not recognise the constant effect of progress in each class upon _all_ other classes; but only on the class succeeding it in his hierarchical scale. or if he occasionally admits collateral influences and intercommunications, he does it so grudgingly, and so quickly puts the admissions out of sight and forgets them, as to leave the impression that, with but trifling exceptions, the sciences aid each other only in the order of their alleged succession. the fact is, however, that the division of labour in science, like the division of labour in society, and like the "physiological division of labour" in individual organisms, has been not only a specialisation of functions, but a continuous helping of each division by all the others, and of all by each. every particular class of inquirers has, as it were, secreted its own particular order of truths from the general mass of material which observation accumulates; and all other classes of inquirers have made use of these truths as fast as they were elaborated, with the effect of enabling them the better to elaborate each its own order of truths. it was thus in sundry of the cases we have quoted as at variance with m. comte's doctrine. it was thus with the application of huyghens's optical discovery to astronomical observation by galileo. it was thus with the application of the isochronism of the pendulum to the making of instruments for measuring intervals, astronomical and other. it was thus when the discovery that the refraction and dispersion of light did not follow the same law of variation, affected both astronomy and physiology by giving us achromatic telescopes and microscopes. it was thus when bradley's discovery of the aberration of light enabled him to make the first step towards ascertaining the motions of the stars. it was thus when cavendish's torsion-balance experiment determined the specific gravity of the earth, and so gave a datum for calculating the specific gravities of the sun and planets. it was thus when tables of atmospheric refraction enabled observers to write down the real places of the heavenly bodies instead of their apparent places. it was thus when the discovery of the different expansibilities of metals by heat, gave us the means of correcting our chronometrical measurements of astronomical periods. it was thus when the lines of the prismatic spectrum were used to distinguish the heavenly bodies that are of like nature with the sun from those which are not. it was thus when, as recently, an electro-telegraphic instrument was invented for the more accurate registration of meridional transits. it was thus when the difference in the rates of a clock at the equator, and nearer the poles, gave data for calculating the oblateness of the earth, and accounting for the precession of the equinoxes. it was thus--but it is needless to continue. here, within our own limited knowledge of its history, we have named ten additional cases in which the single science of astronomy has owed its advance to sciences coming _after_ it in m. comte's series. not only its secondary steps, but its greatest revolutions have been thus determined. kepler could not have discovered his celebrated laws had it not been for tycho brahe's accurate observations; and it was only after some progress in physical and chemical science that the improved instruments with which those observations were made, became possible. the heliocentric theory of the solar system had to wait until the invention of the telescope before it could be finally established. nay, even the grand discovery of all--the law of gravitation--depended for its proof upon an operation of physical science, the measurement of a degree on the earth's surface. so completely indeed did it thus depend, that newton _had actually abandoned his hypothesis_ because the length of a degree, as then stated, brought out wrong results; and it was only after picart's more exact measurement was published, that he returned to his calculations and proved his great generalisation. now this constant intercommunion, which, for brevity's sake, we have illustrated in the case of one science only, has been taking place with all the sciences. throughout the whole course of their evolution there has been a continuous _consensus_ of the sciences--a _consensus_ exhibiting a general correspondence with the _consensus_ of faculties in each phase of mental development; the one being an objective registry of the subjective state of the other. from our present point of view, then, it becomes obvious that the conception of a _serial_ arrangement of the sciences is a vicious one. it is not simply that the schemes we have examined are untenable; but it is that the sciences cannot be rightly placed in any linear order whatever. it is not simply that, as m. comte admits, a classification "will always involve something, if not arbitrary, at least artificial;" it is not, as he would have us believe, that, neglecting minor imperfections a classification may be substantially true; but it is that any grouping of the sciences in a succession gives a radically erroneous idea of their genesis and their dependencies. there is no "one _rational_ order among a host of possible systems." there is no "true _filiation_ of the sciences." the whole hypothesis is fundamentally false. indeed, it needs but a glance at its origin to see at once how baseless it is. why a _series_? what reason have we to suppose that the sciences admit of a _linear_ arrangement? where is our warrant for assuming that there is some _succession_ in which they can be placed? there is no reason; no warrant. whence then has arisen the supposition? to use m. comte's own phraseology, we should say, it is a metaphysical conception. it adds another to the cases constantly occurring, of the human mind being made the measure of nature. we are obliged to think in sequence; it is the law of our minds that we must consider subjects separately, one after another: _therefore_ nature must be serial--_therefore_ the sciences must be classifiable in a succession. see here the birth of the notion, and the sole evidence of its truth. men have been obliged when arranging in books their schemes of education and systems of knowledge, to choose _some_ order or other. and from inquiring what is the best order, have naturally fallen into the belief that there is an order which truly represents the facts--have persevered in seeking such an order; quite overlooking the previous question whether it is likely that nature has consulted the convenience of book-making. for german philosophers, who hold that nature is "petrified intelligence," and that logical forms are the foundations of all things, it is a consistent hypothesis that as thought is serial, nature is serial; but that m. comte, who is so bitter an opponent of all anthropomorphism, even in its most evanescent shapes, should have committed the mistake of imposing upon the external world an arrangement which so obviously springs from a limitation of the human consciousness, is somewhat strange. and it is the more strange when we call to mind how, at the outset, m. comte remarks that in the beginning "_toutes les sciences sont cultivées simultanément par les mêmes esprits_;" that this is "_inevitable et même indispensable_;" and how he further remarks that the different sciences are "_comme les diverses branches d'un tronc unique_." were it not accounted for by the distorting influence of a cherished hypothesis, it would be scarcely possible to understand how, after recognising truths like these, m. comte should have persisted in attempting to construct "_une échelle encyclopédique_." the metaphor which m. comte has here so inconsistently used to express the relations of the sciences--branches of one trunk--is an approximation to the truth, though not the truth itself. it suggests the facts that the sciences had a common origin; that they have been developing simultaneously; and that they have been from time to time dividing and subdividing. but it does not suggest the yet more important fact, that the divisions and subdivisions thus arising do not remain separate, but now and again reunite in direct and indirect ways. they inosculate; they severally send off and receive connecting growths; and the intercommunion has been ever becoming more frequent, more intricate, more widely ramified. there has all along been higher specialisation, that there might be a larger generalisation; and a deeper analysis, that there might be a better synthesis. each larger generalisation has lifted sundry specialisations still higher; and each better synthesis has prepared the way for still deeper analysis. and here we may fitly enter upon the task awhile since indicated--a sketch of the genesis of science, regarded as a gradual outgrowth from common knowledge--an extension of the perceptions by the aid of the reason. we propose to treat it as a psychological process historically displayed; tracing at the same time the advance from qualitative to quantitative prevision; the progress from concrete facts to abstract facts, and the application of such abstract facts to the analysis of new orders of concrete facts; the simultaneous advance in generalisation and specialisation; the continually increasing subdivision and reunion of the sciences; and their constantly improving _consensus_. to trace out scientific evolution from its deepest roots would, of course, involve a complete analysis of the mind. for as science is a development of that common knowledge acquired by the unaided senses and uncultured reason, so is that common knowledge itself gradually built up out of the simplest perceptions. we must, therefore, begin somewhere abruptly; and the most appropriate stage to take for our point of departure will be the adult mind of the savage. commencing thus, without a proper preliminary analysis, we are naturally somewhat at a loss how to present, in a satisfactory manner, those fundamental processes of thought out of which science ultimately originates. perhaps our argument may be best initiated by the proposition, that all intelligent action whatever depends upon the discerning of distinctions among surrounding things. the condition under which only it is possible for any creature to obtain food and avoid danger is, that it shall be differently affected by different objects--that it shall be led to act in one way by one object, and in another way by another. in the lower orders of creatures this condition is fulfilled by means of an apparatus which acts automatically. in the higher orders the actions are partly automatic, partly conscious. and in man they are almost wholly conscious. throughout, however, there must necessarily exist a certain classification of things according to their properties--a classification which is either organically registered in the system, as in the inferior creation, or is formed by experience, as in ourselves. and it may be further remarked, that the extent to which this classification is carried, roughly indicates the height of intelligence--that while the lowest organisms are able to do little more than discriminate organic from inorganic matter; while the generality of animals carry their classifications no further than to a limited number of plants or creatures serving for food, a limited number of beasts of prey, and a limited number of places and materials; the most degraded of the human race possess a knowledge of the distinctive natures of a great variety of substances, plants, animals, tools, persons, etc., not only as classes but as individuals. what now is the mental process by which classification is effected? manifestly it is a recognition of the _likeness_ or _unlikeness_ of things, either in respect of their sizes, colours, forms, weights, textures, tastes, etc., or in respect of their modes of action. by some special mark, sound, or motion, the savage identifies a certain four-legged creature he sees, as one that is good for food, and to be caught in a particular way; or as one that is dangerous; and acts accordingly. he has classed together all the creatures that are _alike_ in this particular. and manifestly in choosing the wood out of which to form his bow, the plant with which to poison his arrows, the bone from which to make his fish-hooks, he identifies them through their chief sensible properties as belonging to the general classes, wood, plant, and bone, but distinguishes them as belonging to sub-classes by virtue of certain properties in which they are _unlike_ the rest of the general classes they belong to; and so forms genera and species. and here it becomes manifest that not only is classification carried on by grouping together in the mind things that are _like_; but that classes and sub-classes are formed and arranged according to the _degrees of unlikeness_. things widely contrasted are alone distinguished in the lower stages of mental evolution; as may be any day observed in an infant. and gradually as the powers of discrimination increase, the widely contrasted classes at first distinguished, come to be each divided into sub-classes, differing from each other less than the classes differ; and these sub-classes are again divided after the same manner. by the continuance of which process, things are gradually arranged into groups, the members of which are less and less _unlike_; ending, finally, in groups whose members differ only as individuals, and not specifically. and thus there tends ultimately to arise the notion of _complete likeness_. for, manifestly, it is impossible that groups should continue to be subdivided in virtue of smaller and smaller differences, without there being a simultaneous approximation to the notion of _no difference_. let us next notice that the recognition of likeness and unlikeness, which underlies classification, and out of which continued classification evolves the idea of complete likeness--let us next notice that it also underlies the process of _naming_, and by consequence _language_. for all language consists, at the beginning, of symbols which are as _like_ to the things symbolised as it is practicable to make them. the language of signs is a means of conveying ideas by mimicking the actions or peculiarities of the things referred to. verbal language is also, at the beginning, a mode of suggesting objects or acts by imitating the sounds which the objects make, or with which the acts are accompanied. originally these two languages were used simultaneously. it needs but to watch the gesticulations with which the savage accompanies his speech--to see a bushman or a kaffir dramatising before an audience his mode of catching game--or to note the extreme paucity of words in all primitive vocabularies; to infer that at first, attitudes, gestures, and sounds, were all combined to produce as good a _likeness_ as possible, of the things, animals, persons, or events described; and that as the sounds came to be understood by themselves the gestures fell into disuse: leaving traces, however, in the manners of the more excitable civilised races. but be this as it may, it suffices simply to observe, how many of the words current among barbarous peoples are like the sounds appertaining to the things signified; how many of our own oldest and simplest words have the same peculiarity; how children tend to invent imitative words; and how the sign-language spontaneously formed by deaf mutes is invariably based upon imitative actions--to at once see that the nation of _likeness_ is that from which the nomenclature of objects takes its rise. were there space we might go on to point out how this law of life is traceable, not only in the origin but in the development of language; how in primitive tongues the plural is made by a duplication of the singular, which is a multiplication of the word to make it _like_ the multiplicity of the things; how the use of metaphor--that prolific source of new words--is a suggesting of ideas that are _like_ the ideas to be conveyed in some respect or other; and how, in the copious use of simile, fable, and allegory among uncivilised races, we see that complex conceptions, which there is yet no direct language for, are rendered, by presenting known conceptions more or less _like_ them. this view is further confirmed, and the predominance of this notion of likeness in primitive times further illustrated, by the fact that our system of presenting ideas to the eye originated after the same fashion. writing and printing have descended from picture-language. the earliest mode of permanently registering a fact was by depicting it on a wall; that is--by exhibiting something as _like_ to the thing to be remembered as it could be made. gradually as the practice grew habitual and extensive, the most frequently repeated forms became fixed, and presently abbreviated; and, passing through the hieroglyphic and ideographic phases, the symbols lost all apparent relations to the things signified: just as the majority of our spoken words have done. observe again, that the same thing is true respecting the genesis of reasoning. the _likeness_ that is perceived to exist between cases, is the essence of all early reasoning and of much of our present reasoning. the savage, having by experience discovered a relation between a certain object and a certain act, infers that the _like_ relation will be found in future cases. and the expressions we constantly use in our arguments--"_analogy_ implies," "the cases are not _parallel_," "by _parity_ of reasoning," "there is no _similarity_,"--show how constantly the idea of likeness underlies our ratiocinative processes. still more clearly will this be seen on recognising the fact that there is a certain parallelism between reasoning and classification; that the two have a common root; and that neither can go on without the other. for on the one hand, it is a familiar truth that the attributing to a body in consequence of some of its properties, all those other properties in virtue of which it is referred to a particular class, is an act of inference. and, on the other hand, the forming of a generalisation is the putting together in one class all those cases which present like relations; while the drawing a deduction is essentially the perception that a particular case belongs to a certain class of cases previously generalised. so that as classification is a grouping together of _like things_; reasoning is a grouping together of _like relations_ among things. add to which, that while the perfection gradually achieved in classification consists in the formation of groups of _objects_ which are _completely alike_; the perfection gradually achieved in reasoning consists in the formation of groups of _cases_ which are _completely alike_. once more we may contemplate this dominant idea of likeness as exhibited in art. all art, civilised as well as savage, consists almost wholly in the making of objects _like_ other objects; either as found in nature, or as produced by previous art. if we trace back the varied art-products now existing, we find that at each stage the divergence from previous patterns is but small when compared with the agreement; and in the earliest art the persistency of imitation is yet more conspicuous. the old forms and ornaments and symbols were held sacred, and perpetually copied. indeed, the strong imitative tendency notoriously displayed by the lowest human races, ensures among them a constant reproducing of likeness of things, forms, signs, sounds, actions, and whatever else is imitable; and we may even suspect that this aboriginal peculiarity is in some way connected with the culture and development of this general conception, which we have found so deep and widespread in its applications. and now let us go on to consider how, by a further unfolding of this same fundamental notion, there is a gradual formation of the first germs of science. this idea of likeness which underlies classification, nomenclature, language spoken and written, reasoning, and art; and which plays so important a part because all acts of intelligence are made possible only by distinguishing among surrounding things, or grouping them into like and unlike;--this idea we shall find to be the one of which science is the especial product. already during the stage we have been describing, there has existed _qualitative_ prevision in respect to the commoner phenomena with which savage life is familiar; and we have now to inquire how the elements of _quantitative_ prevision are evolved. we shall find that they originate by the perfecting of this same idea of likeness; that they have their rise in that conception of _complete likeness_ which, as we have seen, necessarily results from the continued process of classification. for when the process of classification has been carried as far as it is possible for the uncivilised to carry it--when the animal kingdom has been grouped not merely into quadrupeds, birds, fishes, and insects, but each of these divided into kinds--when there come to be sub-classes, in each of which the members differ only as individuals, and not specifically; it is clear that there must occur a frequent observation of objects which differ so little as to be indistinguishable. among several creatures which the savage has killed and carried home, it must often happen that some one, which he wished to identify, is so exactly like another that he cannot tell which is which. thus, then, there originates the notion of _equality_. the things which among ourselves are called _equal_--whether lines, angles, weights, temperatures, sounds or colours--are things which produce in us sensations that cannot be distinguished from each other. it is true we now apply the word _equal_ chiefly to the separate phenomena which objects exhibit, and not to groups of phenomena; but this limitation of the idea has evidently arisen by subsequent analysis. and that the notion of equality did thus originate, will, we think, become obvious on remembering that as there were no artificial objects from which it could have been abstracted, it must have been abstracted from natural objects; and that the various families of the animal kingdom chiefly furnish those natural objects which display the requisite exactitude of likeness. the same order of experiences out of which this general idea of equality is evolved, gives birth at the same time to a more complex idea of equality; or, rather, the process just described generates an idea of equality which further experience separates into two ideas--_equality of things_ and _equality of relations_. while organic, and more especially animal forms, occasionally exhibit this perfection of likeness out of which the notion of simple equality arises, they more frequently exhibit only that kind of likeness which we call _similarity_; and which is really compound equality. for the similarity of two creatures of the same species but of different sizes, is of the same nature as the similarity of two geometrical figures. in either case, any two parts of the one bear the same ratio to one another as the homologous parts of the other. given in any species, the proportions found to exist among the bones, and we may, and zoologists do, predict from any one, the dimensions of the rest; just as, when knowing the proportions subsisting among the parts of a geometrical figure, we may, from the length of one, calculate the others. and if, in the case of similar geometrical figures, the similarity can be established only by proving exactness of proportion among the homologous parts; if we express this relation between two parts in the one, and the corresponding parts in the other, by the formula a is to b as _a_ is to _b_; if we otherwise write this, a to b = _a_ to _b_; if, consequently, the fact we prove is that the relation of a to b _equals_ the relation of _a_ to _b_; then it is manifest that the fundamental conception of similarity is _equality of relations_. with this explanation we shall be understood when we say that the notion of equality of relations is the basis of all exact reasoning. already it has been shown that reasoning in general is a recognition of _likeness_ of relations; and here we further find that while the notion of likeness of things ultimately evolves the idea of simple equality, the notion of likeness of relations evolves the idea of equality of relations: of which the one is the concrete germ of exact science, while the other is its abstract germ. those who cannot understand how the recognition of similarity in creatures of the same kind can have any alliance with reasoning, will get over the difficulty on remembering that the phenomena among which equality of relations is thus perceived, are phenomena of the same order and are present to the senses at the same time; while those among which developed reason perceives relations, are generally neither of the same order, nor simultaneously present. and if further, they will call to mind how cuvier and owen, from a single part of a creature, as a tooth, construct the rest by a process of reasoning based on this equality of relations, they will see that the two things are intimately connected, remote as they at first seem. but we anticipate. what it concerns us here to observe is, that from familiarity with organic forms there simultaneously arose the ideas of _simple equality_, and _equality of relations_. at the same time, too, and out of the same mental processes, came the first distinct ideas of _number_. in the earliest stages, the presentation of several like objects produced merely an indefinite conception of multiplicity; as it still does among australians, and bushmen, and damaras, when the number presented exceeds three or four. with such a fact before us we may safely infer that the first clear numerical conception was that of duality as contrasted with unity. and this notion of duality must necessarily have grown up side by side with those of likeness and equality; seeing that it is impossible to recognise the likeness of two things without also perceiving that there are two. from the very beginning the conception of number must have been as it is still, associated with the likeness or equality of the things numbered. if we analyse it, we find that simple enumeration is a registration of repeated impressions of any kind. that these may be capable of enumeration it is needful that they be more or less alike; and before any _absolutely true_ numerical results can be reached, it is requisite that the units be _absolutely equal_. the only way in which we can establish a numerical relationship between things that do not yield us like impressions, is to divide them into parts that _do_ yield us like impressions. two unlike magnitudes of extension, force, time, weight, or what not, can have their relative amounts estimated only by means of some small unit that is contained many times in both; and even if we finally write down the greater one as a unit and the other as a fraction of it, we state, in the denominator of the fraction, the number of parts into which the unit must be divided to be comparable with the fraction. it is, indeed, true, that by an evidently modern process of abstraction, we occasionally apply numbers to unequal units, as the furniture at a sale or the various animals on a farm, simply as so many separate entities; but no true result can be brought out by calculation with units of this order. and, indeed, it is the distinctive peculiarity of the calculus in general, that it proceeds on the hypothesis of that absolute equality of its abstract units, which no real units possess; and that the exactness of its results holds only in virtue of this hypothesis. the first ideas of number must necessarily then have been derived from like or equal magnitudes as seen chiefly in organic objects; and as the like magnitudes most frequently observed magnitudes of extension, it follows that geometry and arithmetic had a simultaneous origin. not only are the first distinct ideas of number co-ordinate with ideas of likeness and equality, but the first efforts at numeration displayed the same relationship. on reading the accounts of various savage tribes, we find that the method of counting by the fingers, still followed by many children, is the aboriginal method. neglecting the several cases in which the ability to enumerate does not reach even to the number of fingers on one hand, there are many cases in which it does not extend beyond ten--the limit of the simple finger notation. the fact that in so many instances, remote, and seemingly unrelated nations, have adopted _ten_ as their basic number; together with the fact that in the remaining instances the basic number is either _five_ (the fingers of one hand) or _twenty_ (the fingers and toes); almost of themselves show that the fingers were the original units of numeration. the still surviving use of the word _digit_, as the general name for a figure in arithmetic, is significant; and it is even said that our word _ten_ (sax. _tyn_; dutch, _tien_; german, _zehn_) means in its primitive expanded form _two hands_. so that originally, to say there were ten things, was to say there were two hands of them. from all which evidence it is tolerably clear that the earliest mode of conveying the idea of any number of things, was by holding up as many fingers as there were things; that is--using a symbol which was _equal_, in respect of multiplicity, to the group symbolised. for which inference there is, indeed, strong confirmation in the recent statement that our own soldiers are even now spontaneously adopting this device in their dealings with the turks. and here it should be remarked that in this recombination of the notion of equality with that of multiplicity, by which the first steps in numeration are effected, we may see one of the earliest of those inosculations between the diverging branches of science, which are afterwards of perpetual occurrence. indeed, as this observation suggests, it will be well, before tracing the mode in which exact science finally emerges from the merely approximate judgments of the senses, and showing the non-serial evolution of its divisions, to note the non-serial character of those preliminary processes of which all after development is a continuation. on reconsidering them it will be seen that not only are they divergent growths from a common root, not only are they simultaneous in their progress; but that they are mutual aids; and that none can advance without the rest. that completeness of classification for which the unfolding of the perceptions paves the way, is impossible without a corresponding progress in language, by which greater varieties of objects are thinkable and expressible. on the one hand it is impossible to carry classification far without names by which to designate the classes; and on the other hand it is impossible to make language faster than things are classified. again, the multiplication of classes and the consequent narrowing of each class, itself involves a greater likeness among the things classed together; and the consequent approach towards the notion of complete likeness itself allows classification to be carried higher. moreover, classification necessarily advances _pari passu_ with rationality--the classification of _things_ with the classification of _relations_. for things that belong to the same class are, by implication, things of which the properties and modes of behaviour--the co-existences and sequences--are more or less the same; and the recognition of this sameness of co-existences and sequences is reasoning. whence it follows that the advance of classification is necessarily proportionate to the advance of generalisations. yet further, the notion of _likeness_, both in things and relations, simultaneously evolves by one process of culture the ideas of _equality_ of things and _equality_ of relations; which are the respective bases of exact concrete reasoning and exact abstract reasoning--mathematics and logic. and once more, this idea of equality, in the very process of being formed, necessarily gives origin to two series of relations--those of magnitude and those of number: from which arise geometry and the calculus. thus the process throughout is one of perpetual subdivision and perpetual intercommunication of the divisions. from the very first there has been that _consensus_ of different kinds of knowledge, answering to the _consensus_ of the intellectual faculties, which, as already said, must exist among the sciences. let us now go on to observe how, out of the notions of _equality_ and _number_, as arrived at in the manner described, there gradually arose the elements of quantitative prevision. equality, once having come to be definitely conceived, was readily applicable to other phenomena than those of magnitude. being predicable of all things producing indistinguishable impressions, there naturally grew up ideas of equality in weights, sounds, colours, etc.; and indeed it can scarcely be doubted that the occasional experience of equal weights, sounds, and colours, had a share in developing the abstract conception of equality--that the ideas of equality in size, relations, forces, resistances, and sensible properties in general, were evolved during the same period. but however this may be, it is clear that as fast as the notion of equality gained definiteness, so fast did that lowest kind of quantitative prevision which is achieved without any instrumental aid, become possible. the ability to estimate, however roughly, the amount of a foreseen result, implies the conception that it will be _equal to_ a certain imagined quantity; and the correctness of the estimate will manifestly depend upon the accuracy at which the perceptions of sensible equality have arrived. a savage with a piece of stone in his hand, and another piece lying before him of greater bulk of the same kind (a fact which he infers from the _equality_ of the two in colour and texture) knows about what effort he must put forth to raise this other piece; and he judges accurately in proportion to the accuracy with which he perceives that the one is twice, three times, four times, etc., as large as the other; that is--in proportion to the precision of his ideas of equality and number. and here let us not omit to notice that even in these vaguest of quantitative previsions, the conception of _equality of relations_ is also involved. for it is only in virtue of an undefined perception that the relation between bulk and weight in the one stone is _equal_ to the relation between bulk and weight in the other, that even the roughest approximation can be made. but how came the transition from those uncertain perceptions of equality which the unaided senses give, to the certain ones with which science deals? it came by placing the things compared in juxtaposition. equality being predicated of things which give us indistinguishable impressions, and no accurate comparison of impressions being possible unless they occur in immediate succession, it results that exactness of equality is ascertainable in proportion to the closeness of the compared things. hence the fact that when we wish to judge of two shades of colour whether they are alike or not, we place them side by side; hence the fact that we cannot, with any precision, say which of two allied sounds is the louder, or the higher in pitch, unless we hear the one immediately after the other; hence the fact that to estimate the ratio of weights, we take one in each hand, that we may compare their pressures by rapidly alternating in thought from the one to the other; hence the fact, that in a piece of music we can continue to make equal beats when the first beat has been given, but cannot ensure commencing with the same length of beat on a future occasion; and hence, lastly, the fact, that of all magnitudes, those of _linear extension_ are those of which the equality is most accurately ascertainable, and those to which by consequence all others have to be reduced. for it is the peculiarity of linear extension that it alone allows its magnitudes to be placed in _absolute_ juxtaposition, or, rather, in coincident position; it alone can test the equality of two magnitudes by observing whether they will coalesce, as two equal mathematical lines do, when placed between the same points; it alone can test _equality_ by trying whether it will become _identity_. hence, then, the fact, that all exact science is reducible, by an ultimate analysis, to results measured in equal units of linear extension. still it remains to be noticed in what manner this determination of equality by comparison of linear magnitudes originated. once more may we perceive that surrounding natural objects supplied the needful lessons. from the beginning there must have been a constant experience of like things placed side by side--men standing and walking together; animals from the same herd; fish from the same shoal. and the ceaseless repetition of these experiences could not fail to suggest the observation, that the nearer together any objects were, the more visible became any inequality between them. hence the obvious device of putting in apposition things of which it was desired to ascertain the relative magnitudes. hence the idea of _measure_. and here we suddenly come upon a group of facts which afford a solid basis to the remainder of our argument; while they also furnish strong evidence in support of the foregoing speculations. those who look sceptically on this attempted rehabilitation of the earliest epochs of mental development, and who more especially think that the derivation of so many primary notions from organic forms is somewhat strained, will perhaps see more probability in the several hypotheses that have been ventured, on discovering that all measures of _extension_ and _force_ originated from the lengths and weights of organic bodies; and all measures of _time_ from the periodic phenomena of either organic or inorganic bodies. thus, among linear measures, the cubit of the hebrews was the _length of the forearm_ from the elbow to the end of the middle finger; and the smaller scriptural dimensions are expressed in _hand-breadths_ and _spans_. the egyptian cubit, which was similarly derived, was divided into digits, which were _finger-breadths_; and each finger-breadth was more definitely expressed as being equal to four _grains of barley_ placed breadthwise. other ancient measures were the orgyia or _stretch of the arms_, the _pace_, and the _palm_. so persistent has been the use of these natural units of length in the east, that even now some of the arabs mete out cloth by the forearm. so, too, is it with european measures. the _foot_ prevails as a dimension throughout europe, and has done since the time of the romans, by whom, also, it was used: its lengths in different places varying not much more than men's feet vary. the heights of horses are still expressed in _hands_. the inch is the length of the terminal joint of _the thumb_; as is clearly shown in france, where _pouce_ means both thumb and inch. then we have the inch divided into three _barley-corns_. so completely, indeed, have these organic dimensions served as the substrata of all mensuration, that it is only by means of them that we can form any estimate of some of the ancient distances. for example, the length of a degree on the earth's surface, as determined by the arabian astronomers shortly after the death of haroun-al-raschid, was fifty-six of their miles. we know nothing of their mile further than that it was cubits; and whether these were sacred cubits or common cubits, would remain doubtful, but that the length of the cubit is given as twenty-seven inches, and each inch defined as the thickness of six barley-grains. thus one of the earliest measurements of a degree comes down to us in barley-grains. not only did organic lengths furnish those approximate measures which satisfied men's needs in ruder ages, but they furnished also the standard measures required in later times. one instance occurs in our own history. to remedy the irregularities then prevailing, henry i. commanded that the ulna, or ancient ell, which answers to the modern yard, should be made of the exact length of _his own arm_. measures of weight again had a like derivation. seeds seem commonly to have supplied the unit. the original of the carat used for weighing in india is _a small bean_. our own systems, both troy and avoirdupois, are derived primarily from wheat-corns. our smallest weight, the grain, is _a grain of wheat_. this is not a speculation; it is an historically registered fact. henry iii. enacted that an ounce should be the weight of dry grains of wheat from the middle of the ear. and as all the other weights are multiples or sub-multiples of this, it follows that the grain of wheat is the basis of our scale. so natural is it to use organic bodies as weights, before artificial weights have been established, or where they are not to be had, that in some of the remoter parts of ireland the people are said to be in the habit, even now, of putting a man into the scales to serve as a measure for heavy commodities. similarly with time. astronomical periodicity, and the periodicity of animal and vegetable life, are simultaneously used in the first stages of progress for estimating epochs. the simplest unit of time, the day, nature supplies ready made. the next simplest period, the mooneth or month, is also thrust upon men's notice by the conspicuous changes constituting a lunation. for larger divisions than these, the phenomena of the seasons, and the chief events from time to time occurring, have been used by early and uncivilised races. among the egyptians the rising of the nile served as a mark. the new zealanders were found to begin their year from the reappearance of the pleiades above the sea. one of the uses ascribed to birds, by the greeks, was to indicate the seasons by their migrations. barrow describes the aboriginal hottentot as denoting periods by the number of moons before or after the ripening of one of his chief articles of food. he further states that the kaffir chronology is kept by the moon, and is registered by notches on sticks--the death of a favourite chief, or the gaining of a victory, serving for a new era. by which last fact, we are at once reminded that in early history, events are commonly recorded as occurring in certain reigns, and in certain years of certain reigns: a proceeding which practically made a king's reign a measure of duration. and, as further illustrating the tendency to divide time by natural phenomena and natural events, it may be noticed that even by our own peasantry the definite divisions of months and years are but little used; and that they habitually refer to occurrences as "before sheep-shearing," or "after harvest," or "about the time when the squire died." it is manifest, therefore, that the more or less equal periods perceived in nature gave the first units of measure for time; as did nature's more or less equal lengths and weights give the first units of measure for space and force. it remains only to observe, as further illustrating the evolution of quantitative ideas after this manner, that measures of value were similarly derived. barter, in one form or other, is found among all but the very lowest human races. it is obviously based upon the notion of _equality of worth_. and as it gradually merges into trade by the introduction of some kind of currency, we find that the _measures of worth_, constituting this currency, are organic bodies; in some cases _cowries_, in others _cocoa-nuts_, in others _cattle_, in others _pigs_; among the american indians peltry or _skins_, and in iceland _dried fish_. notions of exact equality and of measure having been reached, there came to be definite ideas of relative magnitudes as being multiples one of another; whence the practice of measurement by direct apposition of a measure. the determination of linear extensions by this process can scarcely be called science, though it is a step towards it; but the determination of lengths of time by an analogous process may be considered as one of the earliest samples of quantitative prevision. for when it is first ascertained that the moon completes the cycle of her changes in about thirty days--a fact known to most uncivilised tribes that can count beyond the number of their fingers--it is manifest that it becomes possible to say in what number of days any specified phase of the moon will recur; and it is also manifest that this prevision is effected by an opposition of two times, after the same manner that linear space is measured by the opposition of two lines. for to express the moon's period in days, is to say how many of these units of measure are contained in the period to be measured--is to ascertain the distance between two points in time by means of a _scale of days_, just as we ascertain the distance between two points in space by a scale of feet or inches: and in each case the scale coincides with the thing measured--mentally in the one; visibly in the other. so that in this simplest, and perhaps earliest case of quantitative prevision, the phenomena are not only thrust daily upon men's notice, but nature is, as it were, perpetually repeating that process of measurement by observing which the prevision is effected. and thus there may be significance in the remark which some have made, that alike in hebrew, greek, and latin, there is an affinity between the word meaning moon, and that meaning measure. this fact, that in very early stages of social progress it is known that the moon goes through her changes in about thirty days, and that in about twelve moons the seasons return--this fact that chronological astronomy assumes a certain scientific character even before geometry does; while it is partly due to the circumstance that the astronomical divisions, day, month, and year, are ready made for us, is partly due to the further circumstances that agricultural and other operations were at first regulated astronomically, and that from the supposed divine nature of the heavenly bodies their motions determined the periodical religious festivals. as instances of the one we have the observation of the egyptians, that the rising of the nile corresponded with the heliacal rising of sirius; the directions given by hesiod for reaping and ploughing, according to the positions of the pleiades; and his maxim that "fifty days after the turning of the sun is a seasonable time for beginning a voyage." as instances of the other, we have the naming of the days after the sun, moon, and planets; the early attempts among eastern nations to regulate the calendar so that the gods might not be offended by the displacement of their sacrifices; and the fixing of the great annual festival of the peruvians by the position of the sun. in all which facts we see that, at first, science was simply an appliance of religion and industry. after the discoveries that a lunation occupies nearly thirty days, and that some twelve lunations occupy a year--discoveries of which there is no historical account, but which may be inferred as the earliest, from the fact that existing uncivilised races have made them--we come to the first known astronomical records, which are those of eclipses. the chaldeans were able to predict these. "this they did, probably," says dr. whewell in his useful history, from which most of the materials we are about to use will be drawn, "by means of their cycle of months, or about eighteen years; for at the end of this time, the eclipses of the moon begin to return, at the same intervals and in the same order as at the beginning." now this method of calculating eclipses by means of a recurring cycle,--the _saros_ as they called it--is a more complex case of prevision by means of coincidence of measures. for by what observations must the chaldeans have discovered this cycle? obviously, as delambre infers, by inspecting their registers; by comparing the successive intervals; by finding that some of the intervals were alike; by seeing that these equal intervals were eighteen years apart; by discovering that _all_ the intervals that were eighteen years apart were equal; by ascertaining that the intervals formed a series which repeated itself, so that if one of the cycles of intervals were superposed on another the divisions would fit. this once perceived, and it manifestly became possible to use the cycle as a scale of time by which to measure out future periods. seeing thus that the process of so predicting eclipses is in essence the same as that of predicting the moon's monthly changes, by observing the number of days after which they repeat--seeing that the two differ only in the extent and irregularity of the intervals, it is not difficult to understand how such an amount of knowledge should so early have been reached. and we shall be less surprised, on remembering that the only things involved in these previsions were _time_ and _number_; and that the time was in a manner self-numbered. still, the ability to predict events recurring only after so long a period as eighteen years, implies a considerable advance in civilisation--a considerable development of general knowledge; and we have now to inquire what progress in other sciences accompanied, and was necessary to, these astronomical previsions. in the first place, there must clearly have been a tolerably efficient system of calculation. mere finger-counting, mere head-reckoning, even with the aid of a regular decimal notation, could not have sufficed for numbering the days in a year; much less the years, months, and days between eclipses. consequently there must have been a mode of registering numbers; probably even a system of numerals. the earliest numerical records, if we may judge by the practices of the less civilised races now existing, were probably kept by notches cut on sticks, or strokes marked on walls; much as public-house scores are kept now. and there seems reason to believe that the first numerals used were simply groups of straight strokes, as some of the still-extant roman ones are; leading us to suspect that these groups of strokes were used to represent groups of fingers, as the groups of fingers had been used to represent groups of objects--a supposition quite in conformity with the aboriginal system of picture writing and its subsequent modifications. be this so or not, however, it is manifest that before the chaldeans discovered their _saros_, there must have been both a set of written symbols serving for an extensive numeration, and a familiarity with the simpler rules of arithmetic. not only must abstract mathematics have made some progress, but concrete mathematics also. it is scarcely possible that the buildings belonging to this era should have been laid out and erected without any knowledge of geometry. at any rate, there must have existed that elementary geometry which deals with direct measurement--with the apposition of lines; and it seems that only after the discovery of those simple proceedings, by which right angles are drawn, and relative positions fixed, could so regular an architecture be executed. in the case of the other division of concrete mathematics--mechanics, we have definite evidence of progress. we know that the lever and the inclined plane were employed during this period: implying that there was a qualitative prevision of their effects, though not a quantitative one. but we know more. we read of weights in the earliest records; and we find weights in ruins of the highest antiquity. weights imply scales, of which we have also mention; and scales involve the primary theorem of mechanics in its least complicated form--involve not a qualitative but a quantitative prevision of mechanical effects. and here we may notice how mechanics, in common with the other exact sciences, took its rise from the simplest application of the idea of _equality_. for the mechanical proposition which the scales involve, is, that if a lever with _equal_ arms, have _equal_ weights suspended from them, the weights will remain at _equal_ altitudes. and we may further notice how, in this first step of rational mechanics, we see illustrated that truth awhile since referred to, that as magnitudes of linear extension are the only ones of which the equality is exactly ascertainable, the equalities of other magnitudes have at the outset to be determined by means of them. for the equality of the weights which balance each other in scales, wholly depends upon the equality of the arms: we can know that the weights are equal only by proving that the arms are equal. and when by this means we have obtained a system of weights,--a set of equal units of force, then does a science of mechanics become possible. whence, indeed, it follows, that rational mechanics could not possibly have any other starting-point than the scales. let us further remember, that during this same period there was a limited knowledge of chemistry. the many arts which we know to have been carried on must have been impossible without a generalised experience of the modes in which certain bodies affect each other under special conditions. in metallurgy, which was extensively practised, this is abundantly illustrated. and we even have evidence that in some cases the knowledge possessed was, in a sense, quantitative. for, as we find by analysis that the hard alloy of which the egyptians made their cutting tools, was composed of copper and tin in fixed proportions, there must have been an established prevision that such an alloy was to be obtained only by mixing them in these proportions. it is true, this was but a simple empirical generalisation; but so was the generalisation respecting the recurrence of eclipses; so are the first generalisations of every science. respecting the simultaneous advance of the sciences during this early epoch, it only remains to remark that even the most complex of them must have made some progress--perhaps even a greater relative progress than any of the rest. for under what conditions only were the foregoing developments possible? there first required an established and organised social system. a long continued registry of eclipses; the building of palaces; the use of scales; the practice of metallurgy--alike imply a fixed and populous nation. the existence of such a nation not only presupposes laws, and some administration of justice, which we know existed, but it presupposes successful laws--laws conforming in some degree to the conditions of social stability--laws enacted because it was seen that the actions forbidden by them were dangerous to the state. we do not by any means say that all, or even the greater part, of the laws were of this nature; but we do say, that the fundamental ones were. it cannot be denied that the laws affecting life and property were such. it cannot be denied that, however little these were enforced between class and class, they were to a considerable extent enforced between members of the same class. it can scarcely be questioned, that the administration of them between members of the same class was seen by rulers to be necessary for keeping their subjects together. and knowing, as we do, that, other things equal, nations prosper in proportion to the justness of their arrangements, we may fairly infer that the very cause of the advance of these earliest nations out of aboriginal barbarism was the greater recognition among them of the claims to life and property. but supposition aside, it is clear that the habitual recognition of these claims in their laws implied some prevision of social phenomena. even thus early there was a certain amount of social science. nay, it may even be shown that there was a vague recognition of that fundamental principle on which all the true social science is based--the equal rights of all to the free exercise of their faculties. that same idea of _equality_ which, as we have seen, underlies all other science, underlies also morals and sociology. the conception of justice, which is the primary one in morals; and the administration of justice, which is the vital condition of social existence; are impossible without the recognition of a certain likeness in men's claims in virtue of their common humanity. _equity_ literally means _equalness_; and if it be admitted that there were even the vaguest ideas of equity in these primitive eras, it must be admitted that there was some appreciation of the equalness of men's liberties to pursue the objects of life--some appreciation, therefore, of the essential principle of national equilibrium. thus in this initial stage of the positive sciences, before geometry had yet done more than evolve a few empirical rules--before mechanics had passed beyond its first theorem--before astronomy had advanced from its merely chronological phase into the geometrical; the most involved of the sciences had reached a certain degree of development--a development without which no progress in other sciences was possible. only noting as we pass, how, thus early, we may see that the progress of exact science was not only towards an increasing number of previsions, but towards previsions more accurately quantitative--how, in astronomy, the recurring period of the moon's motions was by and by more correctly ascertained to be nineteen years, or two hundred and thirty-five lunations; how callipus further corrected this metonic cycle, by leaving out a day at the end of every seventy-six years; and how these successive advances implied a longer continued registry of observations, and the co-ordination of a greater number of facts--let us go on to inquire how geometrical astronomy took its rise. the first astronomical instrument was the gnomon. this was not only early in use in the east, but it was found also among the mexicans; the sole astronomical observations of the peruvians were made by it; and we read that b.c., the chinese found that, at a certain place, the length of the sun's shadow, at the summer solstice, was to the height of the gnomon as one and a half to eight. here again it is observable, not only that the instrument is found ready made, but that nature is perpetually performing the process of measurement. any fixed, erect object--a column, a dead palm, a pole, the angle of a building--serves for a gnomon; and it needs but to notice the changing position of the shadow it daily throws to make the first step in geometrical astronomy. how small this first step was, may be seen in the fact that the only things ascertained at the outset were the periods of the summer and winter solstices, which corresponded with the least and greatest lengths of the mid-shadow; and to fix which, it was needful merely to mark the point to which each day's shadow reached. and now let it not be overlooked that in the observing at what time during the next year this extreme limit of the shadow was again reached, and in the inference that the sun had then arrived at the same turning point in his annual course, we have one of the simplest instances of that combined use of _equal magnitudes_ and _equal relations_, by which all exact science, all quantitative prevision, is reached. for the relation observed was between the length of the sun's shadow and his position in the heavens; and the inference drawn was that when, next year, the extremity of his shadow came to the same point, he occupied the same place. that is, the ideas involved were, the equality of the shadows, and the equality of the relations between shadow and sun in successive years. as in the case of the scales, the equality of relations here recognised is of the simplest order. it is not as those habitually dealt with in the higher kinds of scientific reasoning, which answer to the general type--the relation between two and three equals the relation between six and nine; but it follows the type--the relation between two and three, equals the relation between two and three; it is a case of not simply _equal_ relations, but _coinciding_ relations. and here, indeed, we may see beautifully illustrated how the idea of equal relations takes its rise after the same manner that that of equal magnitude does. as already shown, the idea of equal magnitudes arose from the observed coincidence of two lengths placed together; and in this case we have not only two coincident lengths of shadows, but two coincident relations between sun and shadows. from the use of the gnomon there naturally grew up the conception of angular measurements; and with the advance of geometrical conceptions there came the hemisphere of berosus, the equinoctial armil, the solstitial armil, and the quadrant of ptolemy--all of them employing shadows as indices of the sun's position, but in combination with angular divisions. it is obviously out of the question for us here to trace these details of progress. it must suffice to remark that in all of them we may see that notion of equality of relations of a more complex kind, which is best illustrated in the astrolabe, an instrument which consisted "of circular rims, movable one within the other, or about poles, and contained circles which were to be brought into the position of the ecliptic, and of a plane passing through the sun and the poles of the ecliptic"--an instrument, therefore, which represented, as by a model, the relative positions of certain imaginary lines and planes in the heavens; which was adjusted by putting these representative lines and planes into parallelism and coincidence with the celestial ones; and which depended for its use upon the perception that the relations between these representative lines and planes were _equal_ to the relations between those represented. were there space, we might go on to point out how the conception of the heavens as a revolving hollow sphere, the discovery of the globular form of the earth, the explanation of the moon's phases, and indeed all the successive steps taken, involved this same mental process. but we must content ourselves with referring to the theory of eccentrics and epicycles, as a further marked illustration of it. as first suggested, and as proved by hipparchus to afford an explanation of the leading irregularities in the celestial motions, this theory involved the perception that the progressions, retrogressions, and variations of velocity seen in the heavenly bodies, might be reconciled with their assumed uniform movement in circles, by supposing that the earth was not in the centre of their orbits; or by supposing that they revolved in circles whose centres revolved round the earth; or by both. the discovery that this would account for the appearances, was the discovery that in certain geometrical diagrams the relations were such, that the uniform motion of a point would, when looked at from a particular position, present analogous irregularities; and the calculations of hipparchus involved the belief that the relations subsisting among these geometrical curves were _equal_ to the relations subsisting among the celestial orbits. leaving here these details of astronomical progress, and the philosophy of it, let us observe how the relatively concrete science of geometrical astronomy, having been thus far helped forward by the development of geometry in general, reacted upon geometry, caused it also to advance, and was again assisted by it. hipparchus, before making his solar and lunar tables, had to discover rules for calculating the relations between the sides and angles of triangles--_trigonometry_ a subdivision of pure mathematics. further, the reduction of the doctrine of the sphere to the quantitative form needed for astronomical purposes, required the formation of a _spherical trigonometry_, which was also achieved by hipparchus. thus both plane and spherical trigonometry, which are parts of the highly abstract and simple science of extension, remained undeveloped until the less abstract and more complex science of the celestial motions had need of them. the fact admitted by m. comte, that since descartes the progress of the abstract division of mathematics has been determined by that of the concrete division, is paralleled by the still more significant fact that even thus early the progress of mathematics was determined by that of astronomy. and here, indeed, we may see exemplified the truth, which the subsequent history of science frequently illustrates, that before any more abstract division makes a further advance, some more concrete division must suggest the necessity for that advance--must present the new order of questions to be solved. before astronomy presented hipparchus with the problem of solar tables, there was nothing to raise the question of the relations between lines and angles; the subject-matter of trigonometry had not been conceived. and as there must be subject-matter before there can be investigation, it follows that the progress of the concrete divisions is as necessary to that of the abstract, as the progress of the abstract to that of the concrete. just incidentally noticing the circumstance that the epoch we are describing witnessed the evolution of algebra, a comparatively abstract division of mathematics, by the union of its less abstract divisions, geometry and arithmetic--a fact proved by the earliest extant samples of algebra, which are half algebraic, half geometric--we go on to observe that during the era in which mathematics and astronomy were thus advancing, rational mechanics made its second step; and something was done towards giving a quantitative form to hydrostatics, optics, and harmonics. in each case we shall see, as before, how the idea of equality underlies all quantitative prevision; and in what simple forms this idea is first applied. as already shown, the first theorem established in mechanics was, that equal weights suspended from a lever with equal arms would remain in equilibrium. archimedes discovered that a lever with unequal arms was in equilibrium when one weight was to its arm as the other arm to its weight; that is--when the numerical relation between one weight and its arm was _equal_ to the numerical relation between the other arm and its weight. the first advance made in hydrostatics, which we also owe to archimedes, was the discovery that fluids press _equally_ in all directions; and from this followed the solution of the problem of floating bodies: namely, that they are in equilibrium when the upward and downward pressures are _equal_. in optics, again, the greeks found that the angle of incidence is _equal_ to the angle of reflection; and their knowledge reached no further than to such simple deductions from this as their geometry sufficed for. in harmonics they ascertained the fact that three strings of _equal_ lengths would yield the octave, fifth and fourth, when strained by weights having certain definite ratios; and they did not progress much beyond this. in the one of which cases we see geometry used in elucidation of the laws of light; and in the other, geometry and arithmetic made to measure the phenomena of sound. did space permit, it would be desirable here to describe the state of the less advanced sciences--to point out how, while a few had thus reached the first stages of quantitative prevision, the rest were progressing in qualitative prevision--how some small generalisations were made respecting evaporation, and heat, and electricity, and magnetism, which, empirical as they were, did not in that respect differ from the first generalisations of every science--how the greek physicians had made advances in physiology and pathology, which, considering the great imperfection of our present knowledge, are by no means to be despised--how zoology had been so far systematised by aristotle, as, to some extent, enabled him from the presence of certain organs to predict the presence of others--how in aristotle's _politics_ there is some progress towards a scientific conception of social phenomena, and sundry previsions respecting them--and how in the state of the greek societies, as well as in the writings of greek philosophers, we may recognise not only an increasing clearness in that conception of equity on which the social science is based, but also some appreciation of the fact that social stability depends upon the maintenance of equitable regulations. we might dwell at length upon the causes which retarded the development of some of the sciences, as, for example, chemistry; showing that relative complexity had nothing to do with it--that the oxidation of a piece of iron is a simpler phenomenon than the recurrence of eclipses, and the discovery of carbonic acid less difficult than that of the precession of the equinoxes--but that the relatively slow advance of chemical knowledge was due, partly to the fact that its phenomena were not daily thrust on men's notice as those of astronomy were; partly to the fact that nature does not habitually supply the means, and suggest the modes of investigation, as in the sciences dealing with time, extension, and force; and partly to the fact that the great majority of the materials with which chemistry deals, instead of being ready to hand, are made known only by the arts in their slow growth; and partly to the fact that even when known, their chemical properties are not self-exhibited, but have to be sought out by experiment. merely indicating all these considerations, however, let us go on to contemplate the progress and mutual influence of the sciences in modern days; only parenthetically noticing how, on the revival of the scientific spirit, the successive stages achieved exhibit the dominance of the same law hitherto traced--how the primary idea in dynamics, a uniform force, was defined by galileo to be a force which generates _equal_ velocities in _equal_ successive times--how the uniform action of gravity was first experimentally determined by showing that the time elapsing before a body thrown up, stopped, was _equal_ to the time it took to fall--how the first fact in compound motion which galileo ascertained was, that a body projected horizontally will have a uniform motion onwards and a uniformly accelerated motion downwards; that is, will describe _equal_ horizontal spaces in _equal_ times, compounded with _equal_ vertical increments in _equal_ times--how his discovery respecting the pendulum was, that its oscillations occupy _equal_ intervals of time whatever their length--how the principle of virtual velocities which he established is, that in any machine the weights that balance each other are reciprocally as their virtual velocities; that is, the relation of one set of weights to their velocities _equals_ the relation of the other set of velocities to their weights; and how thus his achievements consisted in showing the equalities of certain magnitudes and relations, whose equalities had not been previously recognised. when mechanics had reached the point to which galileo brought it--when the simple laws of force had been disentangled from the friction and atmospheric resistance by which all their earthly manifestations are disguised--when progressing knowledge of _physics_ had given a due insight into these disturbing causes--when, by an effort of abstraction, it was perceived that all motion would be uniform and rectilinear unless interfered with by external forces--and when the various consequences of this perception had been worked out; then it became possible, by the union of geometry and mechanics, to initiate physical astronomy. geometry and mechanics having diverged from a common root in men's sensible experiences; having, with occasional inosculations, been separately developed, the one partly in connection with astronomy, the other solely by analysing terrestrial movements; now join in the investigations of newton to create a true theory of the celestial motions. and here, also, we have to notice the important fact that, in the very process of being brought jointly to bear upon astronomical problems, they are themselves raised to a higher phase of development. for it was in dealing with the questions raised by celestial dynamics that the then incipient infinitesimal calculus was unfolded by newton and his continental successors; and it was from inquiries into the mechanics of the solar system that the general theorems of mechanics contained in the _principia_,--many of them of purely terrestrial application--took their rise. thus, as in the case of hipparchus, the presentation of a new order of concrete facts to be analysed, led to the discovery of new abstract facts; and these abstract facts having been laid hold of, gave means of access to endless groups of concrete facts before incapable of quantitative treatment. meanwhile, physics had been carrying further that progress without which, as just shown, rational mechanics could not be disentangled. in hydrostatics, stevinus had extended and applied the discovery of archimedes. torricelli had proved atmospheric pressure, "by showing that this pressure sustained different liquids at heights inversely proportional to their densities;" and pascal "established the necessary diminution of this pressure at increasing heights in the atmosphere:" discoveries which in part reduced this branch of science to a quantitative form. something had been done by daniel bernouilli towards the dynamics of fluids. the thermometer had been invented; and a number of small generalisations reached by it. huyghens and newton had made considerable progress in optics; newton had approximately calculated the rate of transmission of sound; and the continental mathematicians had succeeded in determining some of the laws of sonorous vibrations. magnetism and electricity had been considerably advanced by gilbert. chemistry had got as far as the mutual neutralisation of acids and alkalies. and leonardo da vinci had advanced in geology to the conception of the deposition of marine strata as the origin of fossils. our present purpose does not require that we should give particulars. all that it here concerns us to do is to illustrate the _consensus_ subsisting in this stage of growth, and afterwards. let us look at a few cases. the theoretic law of the velocity of sound enunciated by newton on purely mechanical considerations, was found wrong by one-sixth. the error remained unaccounted for until the time of laplace, who, suspecting that the heat disengaged by the compression of the undulating strata of the air, gave additional elasticity, and so produced the difference, made the needful calculations and found he was right. thus acoustics was arrested until thermology overtook and aided it. when boyle and marriot had discovered the relation between the density of gases and the pressures they are subject to; and when it thus became possible to calculate the rate of decreasing density in the upper parts of the atmosphere, it also became possible to make approximate tables of the atmospheric refraction of light. thus optics, and with it astronomy, advanced with barology. after the discovery of atmospheric pressure had led to the invention of the air-pump by otto guericke; and after it had become known that evaporation increases in rapidity as atmospheric pressure decreases; it became possible for leslie, by evaporation in a vacuum, to produce the greatest cold known; and so to extend our knowledge of thermology by showing that there is no zero within reach of our researches. when fourier had determined the laws of conduction of heat, and when the earth's temperature had been found to increase below the surface one degree in every forty yards, there were data for inferring the past condition of our globe; the vast period it has taken to cool down to its present state; and the immense age of the solar system--a purely astronomical consideration. chemistry having advanced sufficiently to supply the needful materials, and a physiological experiment having furnished the requisite hint, there came the discovery of galvanic electricity. galvanism reacting on chemistry disclosed the metallic bases of the alkalies, and inaugurated the electro-chemical theory; in the hands of oersted and ampère it led to the laws of magnetic action; and by its aid faraday has detected significant facts relative to the constitution of light. brewster's discoveries respecting double refraction and dipolarisation proved the essential truth of the classification of crystalline forms according to the number of axes, by showing that the molecular constitution depends upon the axes. in these and in numerous other cases, the mutual influence of the sciences has been quite independent of any supposed hierarchical order. often, too, their inter-actions are more complex than as thus instanced--involve more sciences than two. one illustration of this must suffice. we quote it in full from the _history of the inductive sciences_. in book xi., chap, ii., on "the progress of the electrical theory," dr. whewell writes:-- "thus at that period, mathematics was behind experiment, and a problem was proposed, in which theoretical results were wanted for comparison with observation, but could not be accurately obtained; as was the case in astronomy also, till the time of the approximate solution of the problem of three bodies, and the consequent formation of the tables of the moon and planets, on the theory of universal gravitation. after some time, electrical theory was relieved from this reproach, mainly in consequence of the progress which astronomy had occasioned in pure mathematics. about there appeared in the _bulletin des sciences_, an exact solution of the problem of the distribution of electric fluid on a spheroid, obtained by biot, by the application of the peculiar methods which laplace had invented for the problem of the figure of the planets. and, in , m. poisson applied laplace's artifices to the case of two spheres acting upon one another in contact, a case to which many of coulomb's experiments were referrible; and the agreement of the results of theory and observation, thus extricated from coulomb's numbers obtained above forty years previously, was very striking and convincing." not only do the sciences affect each other after this direct manner, but they affect each other indirectly. where there is no dependence, there is yet analogy--_equality of relations_; and the discovery of the relations subsisting among one set of phenomena, constantly suggests a search for the same relations among another set. thus the established fact that the force of gravitation varies inversely as the square of the distance, being recognised as a necessary characteristic of all influences proceeding from a centre, raised the suspicion that heat and light follow the same law; which proved to be the case--a suspicion and a confirmation which were repeated in respect to the electric and magnetic forces. thus again the discovery of the polarisation of light led to experiments which ended in the discovery of the polarisation of heat--a discovery that could never have been made without the antecedent one. thus, too, the known refrangibility of light and heat lately produced the inquiry whether sound also is not refrangible; which on trial it turns out to be. in some cases, indeed, it is only by the aid of conceptions derived from one class of phenomena that hypotheses respecting other classes can be formed. the theory, at one time favoured, that evaporation is a solution of water in air, was an assumption that the relation between water and air is _like_ the relation between salt and water; and could never have been conceived if the relation between salt and water had not been previously known. similarly the received theory of evaporation--that it is a diffusion of the particles of the evaporating fluid in virtue of their atomic repulsion--could not have been entertained without a foregoing experience of magnetic and electric repulsions. so complete in recent days has become this _consensus_ among the sciences, caused either by the natural entanglement of their phenomena, or by analogies in the relations of their phenomena, that scarcely any considerable discovery concerning one order of facts now takes place, without very shortly leading to discoveries concerning other orders. to produce a tolerably complete conception of this process of scientific evolution, it would be needful to go back to the beginning, and trace in detail the growth of classifications and nomenclatures; and to show how, as subsidiary to science, they have acted upon it, and it has reacted upon them. we can only now remark that, on the one hand, classifications and nomenclatures have aided science by continually subdividing the subject-matter of research, and giving fixity and diffusion to the truths disclosed; and that on the other hand, they have caught from it that increasing quantitativeness, and that progress from considerations touching single phenomena to considerations touching the relations among many phenomena, which we have been describing. of this last influence a few illustrations must be given. in chemistry it is seen in the facts, that the dividing of matter into the four elements was ostensibly based upon the single property of weight; that the first truly chemical division into acid and alkaline bodies, grouped together bodies which had not simply one property in common, but in which one property was constantly related to many others; and that the classification now current, places together in groups _supporters of combustion_, _metallic and non-metallic bases_, _acids_, _salts_, etc., bodies which are often quite unlike in sensible qualities, but which are like in the majority of their _relations_ to other bodies. in mineralogy again, the first classifications were based upon differences in aspect, texture, and other physical attributes. berzelius made two attempts at a classification based solely on chemical constitution. that now current, recognises as far as possible the _relations_ between physical and chemical characters. in botany the earliest classes formed were _trees_, _shrubs_, and _herbs_: magnitude being the basis of distinction. dioscorides divided vegetables into _aromatic_, _alimentary_, _medicinal_, and _vinous_: a division of chemical character. cæsalpinus classified them by the seeds, and seed-vessels, which he preferred because of the _relations_ found to subsist between the character of the fructification and the general character of the other parts. while the "natural system" since developed, carrying out the doctrine of linnæus, that "natural orders must be formed by attention not to one or two, but to _all_ the parts of plants," bases its divisions on like peculiarities which are found to be _constantly related_ to the greatest number of other like peculiarities. and similarly in zoology, the successive classifications, from having been originally determined by external and often subordinate characters not indicative of the essential nature, have been gradually more and more determined by those internal and fundamental differences, which have uniform _relations_ to the greatest number of other differences. nor shall we be surprised at this analogy between the modes of progress of positive science and classification, when we bear in mind that both proceed by making generalisations; that both enable us to make previsions differing only in their precision; and that while the one deals with equal properties and relations, the other deals with properties and relations that approximate towards equality in variable degrees. without further argument, it will, we think, be sufficiently clear that the sciences are none of them separately evolved--are none of them independent either logically or historically; but that all of them have, in a greater or less degree, required aid and reciprocated it. indeed, it needs but to throw aside these, and contemplate the mixed character of surrounding phenomena, to at once see that these notions of division and succession in the kinds of knowledge are none of them actually true, but are simple scientific fictions: good, if regarded merely as aids to study; bad, if regarded as representing realities in nature. consider them critically, and no facts whatever are presented to our senses uncombined with other facts--no facts whatever but are in some degree disguised by accompanying facts: disguised in such a manner that all must be partially understood before any one can be understood. if it be said, as by m. comte, that gravitating force should be treated of before other forces, seeing that all things are subject to it, it may on like grounds be said that heat should be first dealt with; seeing that thermal forces are everywhere in action; that the ability of any portion of matter to manifest visible gravitative phenomena depends on its state of aggregation, which is determined by heat; that only by the aid of thermology can we explain those apparent exceptions to the gravitating tendency which are presented by steam and smoke, and so establish its universality, and that, indeed, the very existence of the solar system in a solid form is just as much a question of heat as it is one of gravitation. take other cases:--all phenomena recognised by the eyes, through which only are the data of exact science ascertainable, are complicated with optical phenomena; and cannot be exhaustively known until optical principles are known. the burning of a candle cannot be explained without involving chemistry, mechanics, thermology. every wind that blows is determined by influences partly solar, partly lunar, partly hygrometric; and implies considerations of fluid equilibrium and physical geography. the direction, dip, and variations of the magnetic needle, are facts half terrestrial, half celestial--are caused by earthly forces which have cycles of change corresponding with astronomical periods. the flowing of the gulf-stream and the annual migration of icebergs towards the equator, depending as they do on the balancing of the centripetal and centrifugal forces acting on the ocean, involve in their explanation the earth's rotation and spheroidal form, the laws of hydrostatics, the relative densities of cold and warm water, and the doctrines of evaporation. it is no doubt true, as m. comte says, that "our position in the solar system, and the motions, form, size, equilibrium of the mass of our world among the planets, must be known before we can understand the phenomena going on at its surface." but, fatally for his hypothesis, it is also true that we must understand a great part of the phenomena going on at its surface before we can know its position, etc., in the solar system. it is not simply that, as we have already shown, those geometrical and mechanical principles by which celestial appearances are explained, were first generalised from terrestrial experiences; but it is that the very obtainment of correct data, on which to base astronomical generalisations, implies advanced terrestrial physics. until after optics had made considerable advance, the copernican system remained but a speculation. a single modern observation on a star has to undergo a careful analysis by the combined aid of various sciences--has to _be digested by the organism of the sciences_; which have severally to assimilate their respective parts of the observation, before the essential fact it contains is available for the further development of astronomy. it has to be corrected not only for nutation of the earth's axis and for precession of the equinoxes, but for aberration and for refraction; and the formation of the tables by which refraction is calculated, presupposes knowledge of the law of decreasing density in the upper atmospheric strata; of the law of decreasing temperature, and the influence of this on the density; and of hygrometric laws as also affecting density. so that, to get materials for further advance, astronomy requires not only the indirect aid of the sciences which have presided over the making of its improved instruments, but the direct aid of an advanced optics, of barology, of thermology, of hygrometry; and if we remember that these delicate observations are in some cases registered electrically, and that they are further corrected for the "personal equation"--the time elapsing between seeing and registering, which varies with different observers--we may even add electricity and psychology. if, then, so apparently simple a thing as ascertaining the position of a star is complicated with so many phenomena, it is clear that this notion of the independence of the sciences, or certain of them, will not hold. whether objectively independent or not, they cannot be subjectively so--they cannot have independence as presented to our consciousness; and this is the only kind of independence with which we are concerned. and here, before leaving these illustrations, and especially this last one, let us not omit to notice how clearly they exhibit that increasingly active _consensus_ of the sciences which characterises their advancing development. besides finding that in these later times a discovery in one science commonly causes progress in others; besides finding that a great part of the questions with which modern science deals are so mixed as to require the co-operation of many sciences for their solution; we find in this last case that, to make a single good observation in the purest of the natural sciences, requires the combined assistance of half a dozen other sciences. perhaps the clearest comprehension of the interconnected growth of the sciences may be obtained by contemplating that of the arts, to which it is strictly analogous, and with which it is inseparably bound up. most intelligent persons must have been, at one time or other, struck with the vast array of antecedents pre-supposed by one of our processes of manufacture. let him trace the production of a printed cotton, and consider all that is implied by it. there are the many successive improvements through which the power-looms reached their present perfection; there is the steam-engine that drives them, having its long history from papin downwards; there are the lathes in which its cylinder was bored, and the string of ancestral lathes from which those lathes proceeded; there is the steam-hammer under which its crank shaft was welded; there are the puddling-furnaces, the blast-furnaces, the coal-mines and the iron-mines needful for producing the raw material; there are the slowly improved appliances by which the factory was built, and lighted, and ventilated; there are the printing engine, and the die house, and the colour laboratory with its stock of materials from all parts of the world, implying cochineal-culture, logwood-cutting, indigo-growing; there are the implements used by the producers of cotton, the gins by which it is cleaned, the elaborate machines by which it is spun: there are the vessels in which cotton is imported, with the building-slips, the rope-yards, the sail-cloth factories, the anchor-forges, needful for making them; and besides all these directly necessary antecedents, each of them involving many others, there are the institutions which have developed the requisite intelligence, the printing and publishing arrangements which have spread the necessary information, the social organisation which has rendered possible such a complex co-operation of agencies. further analysis would show that the many arts thus concerned in the economical production of a child's frock, have each of them been brought to its present efficiency by slow steps which the other arts have aided; and that from the beginning this reciprocity has been ever on the increase. it needs but on the one hand to consider how utterly impossible it is for the savage, even with ore and coal ready, to produce so simple a thing as an iron hatchet; and then to consider, on the other hand, that it would have been impracticable among ourselves, even a century ago, to raise the tubes of the britannia bridge from lack of the hydraulic press; to at once see how mutually dependent are the arts, and how all must advance that each may advance. well, the sciences are involved with each other in just the same manner. they are, in fact, inextricably woven into the same complex web of the arts; and are only conventionally independent of it. originally the two were one. how to fix the religious festivals; when to sow: how to weigh commodities; and in what manner to measure ground; were the purely practical questions out of which arose astronomy, mechanics, geometry. since then there has been a perpetual inosculation of the sciences and the arts. science has been supplying art with truer generalisations and more completely quantitative previsions. art has been supplying science with better materials and more perfect instruments. and all along the interdependence has been growing closer, not only between art and science, but among the arts themselves, and among the sciences themselves. how completely the analogy holds throughout, becomes yet clearer when we recognise the fact that _the sciences are arts to each other_. if, as occurs in almost every case, the fact to be analysed by any science, has first to be prepared--to be disentangled from disturbing facts by the afore discovered methods of other sciences; the other sciences so used, stand in the position of arts. if, in solving a dynamical problem, a parallelogram is drawn, of which the sides and diagonal represent forces, and by putting magnitudes of extension for magnitudes of force a measurable relation is established between quantities not else to be dealt with; it may be fairly said that geometry plays towards mechanics much the same part that the fire of the founder plays towards the metal he is going to cast. if, in analysing the phenomena of the coloured rings surrounding the point of contact between two lenses, a newton ascertains by calculation the amount of certain interposed spaces, far too minute for actual measurement; he employs the science of number for essentially the same purpose as that for which the watchmaker employs tools. if, before writing down his observation on a star, the astronomer has to separate from it all the errors resulting from atmospheric and optical laws, it is manifest that the refraction-tables, and logarithm-books, and formulæ, which he successively uses, serve him much as retorts, and filters, and cupels serve the assayer who wishes to separate the pure gold from all accompanying ingredients. so close, indeed, is the relationship, that it is impossible to say where science begins and art ends. all the instruments of the natural philosopher are the products of art; the adjusting one of them for use is an art; there is art in making an observation with one of them; it requires art properly to treat the facts ascertained; nay, even the employing established generalisations to open the way to new generalisations, may be considered as art. in each of these cases previously organised knowledge becomes the implement by which new knowledge is got at: and whether that previously organised knowledge is embodied in a tangible apparatus or in a formula, matters not in so far as its essential relation to the new knowledge is concerned. if, as no one will deny, art is applied knowledge, then such portion of a scientific investigation as consists of applied knowledge is art. so that we may even say that as soon as any prevision in science passes out of its originally passive state, and is employed for reaching other previsions, it passes from theory into practice--becomes science in action--becomes art. and when we thus see how purely conventional is the ordinary distinction, how impossible it is to make any real separation--when we see not only that science and art were originally one; that the arts have perpetually assisted each other; that there has been a constant reciprocation of aid between the sciences and arts; but that the sciences act as arts to each other, and that the established part of each science becomes an art to the growing part--when we recognise the closeness of these associations, we shall the more clearly perceive that as the connection of the arts with each other has been ever becoming more intimate; as the help given by sciences to arts and by arts to sciences, has been age by age increasing; so the interdependence of the sciences themselves has been ever growing greater, their mutual relations more involved, their _consensus_ more active. * * * * * in here ending our sketch of the genesis of science, we are conscious of having done the subject but scant justice. two difficulties have stood in our way: one, the having to touch on so many points in such small space; the other, the necessity of treating in serial arrangement a process which is not serial--a difficulty which must ever attend all attempts to delineate processes of development, whatever their special nature. add to which, that to present in anything like completeness and proportion, even the outlines of so vast and complex a history, demands years of study. nevertheless, we believe that the evidence which has been assigned suffices to substantiate the leading propositions with which we set out. inquiry into the first stages of science confirms the conclusion which we drew from the analysis of science as now existing, that it is not distinct from common knowledge, but an outgrowth from it--an extension of the perception by means of the reason. that which we further found by analysis to form the more specific characteristic of scientific previsions, as contrasted with the previsions of uncultured intelligence--their quantitativeness--we also see to have been the characteristic alike in the initial steps in science, and of all the steps succeeding them. the facts and admissions cited in disproof of the assertion that the sciences follow one another, both logically and historically, in the order of their decreasing generality, have been enforced by the sundry instances we have met with, in which the more general or abstract sciences have been advanced only at the instigation of the more special or concrete--instances serving to show that a more general science as much owes its progress to the presentation of new problems by a more special science, as the more special science owes its progress to the solutions which the more general science is thus led to attempt--instances therefore illustrating the position that scientific advance is as much from the special to the general as from the general to the special. quite in harmony with this position we find to be the admissions that the sciences are as branches of one trunk, and that they were at first cultivated simultaneously; and this harmony becomes the more marked on finding, as we have done, not only that the sciences have a common root, but that science in general has a common root with language, classification, reasoning, art; that throughout civilisation these have advanced together, acting and reacting upon each other just as the separate sciences have done; and that thus the development of intelligence in all its divisions and subdivisions has conformed to this same law which we have shown that the sciences conform to. from all which we may perceive that the sciences can with no greater propriety be arranged in a succession, than language, classification, reasoning, art, and science, can be arranged in a succession; that, however needful a succession may be for the convenience of books and catalogues, it must be recognised merely as a convention; and that so far from its being the function of a philosophy of the sciences to establish a hierarchy, it is its function to show that the linear arrangements required for literary purposes, have none of them any basis either in nature or history. there is one further remark we must not omit--a remark touching the importance of the question that has been discussed. unfortunately it commonly happens that topics of this abstract nature are slighted as of no practical moment; and, we doubt not, that many will think it of very little consequence what theory respecting the genesis of science may be entertained. but the value of truths is often great, in proportion as their generality is wide. remote as they seem from practical application, the highest generalisations are not unfrequently the most potent in their effects, in virtue of their influence on all those subordinate generalisations which regulate practice. and it must be so here. whenever established, a correct theory of the historical development of the sciences must have an immense effect upon education; and, through education, upon civilisation. greatly as we differ from him in other respects, we agree with m. comte in the belief that, rightly conducted, the education of the individual must have a certain correspondence with the evolution of the race. no one can contemplate the facts we have cited in illustration of the early stages of science, without recognising the _necessity_ of the processes through which those stages were reached--a necessity which, in respect to the leading truths, may likewise be traced in all after stages. this necessity, originating in the very nature of the phenomena to be analysed and the faculties to be employed, more or less fully applies to the mind of the child as to that of the savage. we say more or less fully, because the correspondence is not special but general only. were the _environment_ the same in both cases, the correspondence would be complete. but though the surrounding material out of which science is to be organised, is, in many cases, the same to the juvenile mind and the aboriginal mind, it is not so throughout; as, for instance, in the case of chemistry, the phenomena of which are accessible to the one, but were inaccessible to the other. hence, in proportion as the environment differs, the course of evolution must differ. after admitting sundry exceptions, however, there remains a substantial parallelism; and, if so, it becomes of great moment to ascertain what really has been the process of scientific evolution. the establishment of an erroneous theory must be disastrous in its educational results; while the establishments of a true one must eventually be fertile in school-reforms and consequent social benefits. [ ] _british quarterly review_, july . [ ] it is somewhat curious that the author of _the plurality of worlds_, with quite other aims, should have persuaded himself into similar conclusions. on the physiology of laughter[ ] why do we smile when a child puts on a man's hat? or what induces us to laugh on reading that the corpulent gibbon was unable to rise from his knees after making a tender declaration? the usual reply to such questions is, that laughter results from a perception of incongruity. even were there not on this reply the obvious criticism that laughter often occurs from extreme pleasure or from mere vivacity, there would still remain the real problem--how comes a sense of the incongruous to be followed by these peculiar bodily actions? some have alleged that laughter is due to the pleasure of a relative self-elevation, which we feel on seeing the humiliation of others. but this theory, whatever portion of truth it may contain, is, in the first place, open to the fatal objection, that there are various humiliations to others which produce in us anything but laughter; and, in the second place, it does not apply to the many instances in which no one's dignity is implicated: as when we laugh at a good pun. moreover, like the other, it is merely a generalisation of certain conditions to laughter; and not an explanation of the odd movements which occur under these conditions. why, when greatly delighted, or impressed with certain unexpected contrasts of ideas, should there be a contraction of particular facial muscles, and particular muscles of the chest and abdomen? such answer to this question as may be possible can be rendered only by physiology. * * * * * every child has made the attempt to hold the foot still while it is tickled, and has failed; and probably there is scarcely any one who has not vainly tried to avoid winking, when a hand has been suddenly passed before the eyes. these examples of muscular movements which occur independently of the will, or in spite of it, illustrate what physiologists call reflex-action; as likewise do sneezing and coughing. to this class of cases, in which involuntary motions are accompanied by sensations, has to be added another class of cases, in which involuntary motions are unaccompanied by sensations:--instance the pulsations of the heart; the contractions of the stomach during digestion. further, the great mass of seemingly-voluntary acts in such creatures as insects, worms, molluscs, are considered by physiologists to be as purely automatic as is the dilatation or closure of the iris under variations in quantity of light; and similarly exemplify the law, that an impression on the end of an afferent nerve is conveyed to some ganglionic centre, and is thence usually reflected along an efferent nerve to one or more muscles which it causes to contract. in a modified form this principle holds with voluntary acts. nervous excitation always _tends_ to beget muscular motion; and when it rises to a certain intensity, always does beget it. not only in reflex actions, whether with or without sensation, do we see that special nerves, when raised to a state of tension, discharge themselves on special muscles with which they are indirectly connected; but those external actions through which we read the feelings of others, show us that under any considerable tension, the nervous system in general discharges itself on the muscular system in general: either with or without the guidance of the will. the shivering produced by cold, implies irregular muscular contractions, which, though at first only partly involuntary, become, when the cold is extreme, almost wholly involuntary. when you have severely burnt your finger, it is very difficult to preserve a dignified composure: contortion of face, or movement of limb, is pretty sure to follow. if a man receives good news with neither change of feature nor bodily motion, it is inferred that he is not much pleased, or that he has extraordinary self-control--either inference implying that joy almost universally produces contraction of the muscles; and so, alters the expression, or attitude, or both. and when we hear of the feats of strength which men have performed when their lives were at stake--when we read how, in the energy of despair, even paralytic patients have regained for a time the use of their limbs, we see still more clearly the relations between nervous and muscular excitements. it becomes manifest both that emotions and sensations tend to generate bodily movements and that the movements are vehement in proportion as the emotions or sensations are intense.[ ] this, however, is not the sole direction in which nervous excitement expends itself. viscera as well as muscles may receive the discharge. that the heart and blood-vessels (which, indeed, being all contractile, may in a restricted sense be classed with the muscular system) are quickly affected by pleasures and pains, we have daily proved to us. every sensation of any acuteness accelerates the pulse; and how sensitive the heart is to emotions, is testified by the familiar expressions which use heart and feeling as convertible terms. similarly with the digestive organs. without detailing the various ways in which these may be influenced by our mental states, it suffices to mention the marked benefits derived by dyspeptics, as well as other invalids, from cheerful society, welcome news, change of scene, to show how pleasurable feeling stimulates the viscera in general into greater activity. there is still another direction in which any excited portion of the nervous system may discharge itself; and a direction in which it usually does discharge itself when the excitement is not strong. it may pass on the stimulus to some other portion of the nervous system. this is what occurs in quiet thinking and feeling. the successive states which constitute consciousness, result from this. sensations excite ideas and emotions; these in their turns arouse other ideas and emotions; and so, continuously. that is to say, the tension existing in particular nerves, or groups of nerves, when they yield us certain sensations, ideas, or emotions, generates an equivalent tension in some other nerves, or groups of nerves, with which there is a connection: the flow of energy passing on, the one idea or feeling dies in producing the next. thus, then, while we are totally unable to comprehend how the excitement of certain nerves should generate feeling--while, in the production of consciousness by physical agents acting on physical structure, we come to an absolute mystery never to be solved; it is yet quite possible for us to know by observation what are the successive forms which this absolute mystery may take. we see that there are three channels along which nerves in a state of tension may discharge themselves; or rather, i should say, three classes of channels. they may pass on the excitement to other nerves that have no direct connections with the bodily members, and may so cause other feelings and ideas; or they may pass on the excitement to one or more motor nerves, and so cause muscular contractions; or they may pass on the excitement to nerves which supply the viscera, and may so stimulate one or more of these. for simplicity's sake, i have described these as alternative routes, one or other of which any current of nerve-force must take; thereby, as it may be thought, implying that such current will be exclusively confined to some one of them. but this is by no means the case. rarely, if ever, does it happen that a state of nervous tension, present to consciousness as a feeling, expends itself in one direction only. very generally it may be observed to expend itself in two; and it is probable that the discharge is never absolutely absent from any one of the three. there is, however, variety in the _proportions_ in which the discharge is divided among these different channels under different circumstances. in a man whose fear impels him to run, the mental tension generated is only in part transformed into a muscular stimulus: there is a surplus which causes a rapid current of ideas. an agreeable state of feeling produced, say by praise, is not wholly used up in arousing the succeeding phase of the feeling, and the new ideas appropriate to it; but a certain portion overflows into the visceral nervous system, increasing the action of the heart, and probably facilitating digestion. and here we come upon a class of considerations and facts which open the way to a solution of our special problem. for starting with the unquestionable truth, that at any moment the existing quantity of liberated nerve-force, which in an inscrutable way produces in us the state we call feeling, _must_ expend itself in some direction--_must_ generate an equivalent manifestation of force somewhere--it clearly follows that, if of the several channels it may take, one is wholly or partially closed, more must be taken by the others; or that if two are closed, the discharge along the remaining one must be more intense; and that, conversely, should anything determine an unusual efflux in one direction, there will be a diminished efflux in other directions. daily experience illustrates these conclusions. it is commonly remarked, that the suppression of external signs of feeling, makes feeling more intense. the deepest grief is silent grief. why? because the nervous excitement not discharged in muscular action, discharges itself in other nervous excitements--arouses more numerous and more remote associations of melancholy ideas, and so increases the mass of feelings. people who conceal their anger are habitually found to be more revengeful than those who explode in loud speech and vehement action. why? because, as before, the emotion is reflected back, accumulates, and intensifies. similarly, men who, as proved by their powers of representation, have the keenest appreciation of the comic, are usually able to do and say the most ludicrous things with perfect gravity. on the other hand, all are familiar with the truth that bodily activity deadens emotion. under great irritation we get relief by walking about rapidly. extreme effort in the bootless attempt to achieve a desired end greatly diminishes the intensity of the desire. those who are forced to exert themselves after misfortunes, do not suffer nearly so much as those who remain quiescent. if any one wishes to check intellectual excitement, he cannot choose a more efficient method than running till he is exhausted. moreover, these cases, in which the production of feeling and thought is hindered by determining the nervous energy towards bodily movements, have their counterparts in the cases in which bodily movements are hindered by extra absorption of nervous energy in sudden thoughts and feelings. if, when walking along, there flashes on you an idea that creates great surprise, hope, or alarm, you stop; or if sitting cross-legged, swinging your pendent foot, the movement is at once arrested. from the viscera, too, intense mental action abstracts energy. joy, disappointment, anxiety, or any moral perturbation rising to a great height, will destroy appetite; or if food has been taken, will arrest digestion; and even a purely intellectual activity, when extreme, will do the like. facts, then, fully bear out these _à priori_ inferences, that the nervous excitement at any moment present to consciousness as feeling, must expend itself in some way or other; that of the three classes of channels open to it, it must take one, two, or more, according to circumstances; that the closure or obstruction of one, must increase the discharge through the others; and conversely, that if to answer some demand, the efflux of nervous energy in one direction is unusually great, there must be a corresponding decrease of the efflux in other directions. setting out from these premises, let us now see what interpretation is to be put on the phenomena of laughter. * * * * * that laughter is a display of muscular excitement, and so illustrates the general law that feeling passing a certain pitch habitually vents itself in bodily action, scarcely needs pointing out. it perhaps needs pointing out, however, that strong feeling of almost any kind produces this result. it is not a sense of the ludicrous, only, which does it; nor are the various forms of joyous emotion the sole additional causes. we have, besides, the sardonic laughter and the hysterical laughter, which result from mental distress; to which must be added certain sensations, as tickling, and, according to mr. bain, cold, and some kinds of acute pain. strong feeling, mental or physical, being, then, the general cause of laughter, we have to note that the muscular actions constituting it are distinguished from most others by this, that they are purposeless. in general, bodily motions that are prompted by feelings are directed to special ends; as when we try to escape a danger, or struggle to secure a gratification. but the movements of chest and limbs which we make when laughing have no object. and now remark that these quasi-convulsive contractions of the muscles, having no object, but being results of an uncontrolled discharge of energy, we may see whence arise their special characters--how it happens that certain classes of muscles are affected first, and then certain other classes. for an overflow of nerve-force, undirected by any motive, will manifestly take first the most habitual routes; and if these do not suffice, will next overflow into the less habitual ones. well, it is through the organs of speech that feeling passes into movement with the greatest frequency. the jaws, tongue, and lips are used not only to express strong irritation or gratification; but that very moderate flow of mental energy which accompanies ordinary conversation, finds its chief vent through this channel. hence it happens that certain muscles round the mouth, small and easy to move, are the first to contract under pleasurable emotion. the class of muscles which, next after those of articulation, are most constantly set in action (or extra action, we should say) by feelings of all kinds, are those of respiration. under pleasurable or painful sensations we breathe more rapidly: possibly as a consequence of the increased demand for oxygenated blood. the sensations that accompany exertion also bring on hard-breathing; which here more evidently responds to the physiological needs. and emotions, too, agreeable and disagreeable, both, at first, excite respiration; though the last subsequently depress it. that is to say, of the bodily muscles, the respiratory are more constantly implicated than any others in those various acts which our feelings impel us to; and, hence, when there occurs an undirected discharge of nervous energy into the muscular system, it happens that, if the quantity be considerable, it convulses not only certain of the articulatory and vocal muscles, but also those which expel air from the lungs. should the feeling to be expended be still greater in amount--too great to find vent in these classes of muscles--another class comes into play. the upper limbs are set in motion. children frequently clap their hands in glee; by some adults the hands are rubbed together; and others, under still greater intensity of delight, slap their knees and sway their bodies backwards and forwards. last of all, when the other channels for the escape of the surplus nerve-force have been filled to overflowing, a yet further and less-used group of muscles is spasmodically affected: the head is thrown back and the spine bent inwards--there is a slight degree of what medical men call opisthotonos. thus, then, without contending that the phenomena of laughter in all their details are to be so accounted for, we see that in their _ensemble_ they conform to these general principles:--that feeling excites to muscular action; that when the muscular action is unguided by a purpose, the muscles first affected are those which feeling most habitually stimulates; and that as the feeling to be expended increases in quantity, it excites an increasing number of muscles, in a succession determined by the relative frequency with which they respond to the regulated dictates of feeling. there still, however, remains the question with which we set out. the explanation here given applies only to the laughter produced by acute pleasure or pain: it does not apply to the laughter that follows certain perceptions of incongruity. it is an insufficient explanation that, in these cases, laughter is a result of the pleasure we take in escaping from the restraint of grave feelings. that this is a part-cause is true. doubtless very often, as mr. bain says, "it is the coerced form of seriousness and solemnity without the reality that gives us that stiff position from which a contact with triviality or vulgarity relieves us, to our uproarious delight." and in so far as mirth is caused by the gush of agreeable feeling that follows the cessation of mental strain, it further illustrates the general principle above set forth. but no explanation is thus afforded of the mirth which ensues when the short silence between the _andante_ and _allegro_ in one of beethoven's symphonies, is broken by a loud sneeze. in this, and hosts of like cases, the mental tension is not coerced but spontaneous--not disagreeable but agreeable; and the coming impressions to which the attention is directed, promise a gratification that few, if any, desire to escape. hence, when the unlucky sneeze occurs, it cannot be that the laughter of the audience is due simply to the release from an irksome attitude of mind: some other cause must be sought. this cause we shall arrive at by carrying our analysis a step further. we have but to consider the quantity of feeling that exists under such circumstances, and then to ask what are the conditions that determine the direction of its discharge, to at once reach a solution. take a case. you are sitting in a theatre, absorbed in the progress of an interesting drama. some climax has been reached which has aroused your sympathies--say, a reconciliation between the hero and heroine, after long and painful misunderstanding. the feelings excited by this scene are not of a kind from which you seek relief; but are, on the contrary, a grateful relief from the painful feelings with which you have witnessed the previous estrangement. moreover, the sentiments these fictitious personages have for the moment inspired you with, are not such as would lead you to rejoice in any indignity offered to them; but rather, such as would make you resent the indignity. and now, while you are contemplating the reconciliation with a pleasurable sympathy, there appears from behind the scenes a tame kid, which, having stared round at the audience, walks up to the lovers and sniffs at them. you cannot help joining in the roar which greets this _contretemps_. inexplicable as is this irresistible burst on the hypothesis of a pleasure in escaping from mental restraint; or on the hypothesis of a pleasure from relative increase of self-importance, when witnessing the humiliation of others; it is readily explicable if we consider what, in such a case, must become of the feeling that existed at the moment the incongruity arose. a large mass of emotion had been produced; or, to speak in physiological language, a large portion of the nervous system was in a state of tension. there was also great expectation with respect to the further evolution of the scene--a quantity of vague, nascent thought and emotion, into which the existing quantity of thought and emotion was about to pass. had there been no interruption, the body of new ideas and feelings next excited would have sufficed to absorb the whole of the liberated nervous energy. but now, this large amount of nervous energy, instead of being allowed to expend itself in producing an equivalent amount of the new thoughts and emotions which were nascent, is suddenly checked in its flow. the channels along which the discharge was about to take place are closed. the new channel opened--that afforded by the appearance and proceedings of the kid--is a small one; the ideas and feelings suggested are not numerous and massive enough to carry off the nervous energy to be expended. the excess must therefore discharge itself in some other direction; and in the way already explained, there results an efflux through the motor nerves to various classes of the muscles, producing the half-convulsive actions we term laughter. this explanation is in harmony with the fact, that when, among several persons who witness the same ludicrous occurrence, there are some who do not laugh; it is because there has arisen in them an emotion not participated in by the rest, and which is sufficiently massive to absorb all the nascent excitement. among the spectators of an awkward tumble, those who preserve their gravity are those in whom there is excited a degree of sympathy with the sufferer, sufficiently great to serve as an outlet for the feeling which the occurrence had turned out of its previous course. sometimes anger carries off the arrested current; and so prevents laughter. an instance of this was lately furnished me by a friend who had been witnessing the feats at franconi's. a tremendous leap had just been made by an acrobat over a number of horses. the clown, seemingly envious of this success, made ostentatious preparations for doing the like; and then, taking the preliminary run with immense energy, stopped short on reaching the first horse, and pretended to wipe some dust from its haunches. in the majority of the spectators, merriment was excited; but in my friend, wound up by the expectation of the coming leap to a state of great nervous tension, the effect of the baulk was to produce indignation. experience thus proves what the theory implies: namely, that the discharge of arrested feelings into the muscular system, takes place only in the absence of other adequate channels--does not take place if there arise other feelings equal in amount to those arrested. evidence still more conclusive is at hand. if we contrast the incongruities which produce laughter with those which do not, we at once see that in the non-ludicrous ones the unexpected state of feeling aroused, though wholly different in kind, is not less in quantity or intensity. among incongruities that may excite anything but a laugh, mr. bain instances--"a decrepit man under a heavy burden, five loaves and two fishes among a multitude, and all unfitness and gross disproportion; an instrument out of tune, a fly in ointment, snow in may, archimedes studying geometry in a siege, and all discordant things; a wolf in sheep's clothing, a breach of bargain, and falsehood in general; the multitude taking the law in their own hands, and everything of the nature of disorder; a corpse at a feast, parental cruelty, filial ingratitude, and whatever is unnatural; the entire catalogue of the vanities given by solomon, are all incongruous, but they cause feelings of pain, anger, sadness, loathing, rather than mirth." now in these cases, where the totally unlike state of consciousness suddenly produced is not inferior in mass to the preceding one, the conditions to laughter are not fulfilled. as above shown, laughter naturally results only when consciousness is unawares transferred from great things to small--only when there is what we call a _descending_ incongruity. and now observe, finally, the fact, alike inferable _à priori_ and illustrated in experience, that an _ascending_ incongruity not only fails to cause laughter, but works on the muscular system an effect of exactly the reverse kind. when after something very insignificant there arises without anticipation something very great, the emotion we call wonder results; and this emotion is accompanied not by an excitement of the muscles, but by a relaxation of them. in children and country people, that falling of the jaw which occurs on witnessing something that is imposing and unexpected exemplifies this effect. persons who have been wonder-struck at the production of very striking results by a seemingly inadequate cause, are frequently described as unconsciously dropping the things they held in their hands. such are just the effects to be anticipated. after an average state of consciousness, absorbing but a small quantity of nervous energy, is aroused without the slightest notice, a strong emotion of awe, terror, or admiration, joined with the astonishment due to an apparent want of adequate causation. this new state of consciousness demands far more nervous energy than that which it has suddenly replaced; and this increased absorption of nervous energy in mental changes involves a temporary diminution of the outflow in other directions: whence the pendent jaw and the relaxing grasp. one further observation is worth making. among the several sets of channels into which surplus feeling might be discharged, was named the nervous system of the viscera. the sudden overflow of an arrested mental excitement, which, as we have seen, results from a descending incongruity, must doubtless stimulate not only the muscular system, as we see it does, but also the internal organs; the heart and stomach must come in for a share of the discharge. and thus there seems to be a good physiological basis for the popular notion that mirth-creating excitement facilitates digestion. * * * * * though in doing so i go beyond the boundaries of the immediate topic, i may fitly point out that the method of inquiry here followed, is one which enables us to understand various phenomena besides those of laughter. to show the importance of pursuing it, i will indicate the explanation it furnishes of another familiar class of facts. all know how generally a large amount of emotion disturbs the action of the intellect, and interferes with the power of expression. a speech delivered with great facility to tables and chairs, is by no means so easily delivered to an audience. every schoolboy can testify that his trepidation, when standing before a master, has often disabled him from repeating a lesson which he had duly learnt. in explanation of this we commonly say that the attention is distracted--that the proper train of ideas is broken by the intrusion of ideas that are irrelevant. but the question is, in what manner does unusual emotion produce this effect; and we are here supplied with a tolerably obvious answer. the repetition of a lesson, or set speech previously thought out, implies the flow of a very moderate amount of nervous excitement through a comparatively narrow channel. the thing to be done is simply to call up in succession certain previously-arranged ideas--a process in which no great amount of mental energy is expended. hence, when there is a large quantity of emotion, which must be discharged in some direction or other; and when, as usually happens, the restricted series of intellectual actions to be gone through, does not suffice to carry it off; there result discharges along other channels besides the one prescribed: there are aroused various ideas foreign to the train of thought to be pursued; and these tend to exclude from consciousness those which should occupy it. and now observe the meaning of those bodily actions spontaneously set up under these circumstances. the school-boy saying his lesson commonly has his fingers actively engaged--perhaps in twisting about a broken pen, or perhaps squeezing the angle of his jacket; and if told to keep his hands still, he soon again falls into the same or a similar trick. many anecdotes are current of public speakers having incurable automatic actions of this class: barristers who perpetually wound and unwound pieces of tape; members of parliament ever putting on and taking off their spectacles. so long as such movements are unconscious, they facilitate the mental actions. at least this seems a fair inference from the fact that confusion frequently results from putting a stop to them: witness the case narrated by sir walter scott of his school-fellow, who became unable to say his lesson after the removal of the waistcoat-button that he habitually fingered while in class. but why do they facilitate the mental actions? clearly because they draw off a portion of the surplus nervous excitement. if, as above explained, the quantity of mental energy generated is greater than can find vent along the narrow channel of thought that is open to it; and if, in consequence, it is apt to produce confusion by rushing into other channels of thought; then by allowing it an exit through the motor nerves into the muscular system, the pressure is diminished, and irrelevant ideas are less likely to intrude on consciousness. this further illustration will, i think, justify the position that something may be achieved by pursuing in other cases this method of psychological inquiry. a complete explanation of the phenomena, requires us to trace out _all_ the consequences of any given state of consciousness; and we cannot do this without studying the effects, bodily and mental, as varying in quantity at each other's expense. we should probably learn much if we in every case asked--where is all the nervous energy gone? [ ] _macmillan's magazine_, march . [ ] for numerous illustrations see essay on "the origin and function of music." on the origin and function of music[ ] when carlo, standing, chained to his kennel, sees his master in the distance, a slight motion of the tail indicates his but faint hope that he is about to be let out. a much more decided wagging of the tail, passing by and by into lateral undulations of the body, follows his master's nearer approach. when hands are laid on his collar, and he knows that he is really to have an outing, his jumping and wriggling are such that it is by no means easy to loose his fastenings. and when he finds himself actually free, his joy expends itself in bounds, in pirouettes, and in scourings hither and thither at the top of his speed. puss, too, by erecting her tail, and by every time raising her back to meet the caressing hand of her mistress, similarly expresses her gratification by certain muscular actions; as likewise do the parrot by awkward dancing on his perch, and the canary by hopping and fluttering about his cage with unwonted rapidity. under emotions of an opposite kind, animals equally display muscular excitement. the enraged lion lashes his sides with his tail, knits his brows, protrudes his claws. the cat sets up her back; the dog retracts his upper lip; the horse throws back his ears. and in the struggles of creatures in pain, we see that the like relation holds between excitement of the muscles and excitement of the nerves of sensation. in ourselves, distinguished from lower creatures as we are by feelings alike more powerful and more varied, parallel facts are at once more conspicuous and more numerous. we may conveniently look at them in groups. we shall find that pleasurable sensations and painful sensations, pleasurable emotions and painful emotions, all tend to produce active demonstrations in proportion to their intensity. in children, and even in adults who are not restrained by regard for appearances, a highly agreeable taste is followed by a smacking of the lips. an infant will laugh and bound in its nurse's arms at the sight of a brilliant colour or the hearing of a new sound. people are apt to beat time with head or feet to music which particularly pleases them. in a sensitive person an agreeable perfume will produce a smile; and smiles will be seen on the faces of a crowd gazing at some splendid burst of fireworks even the pleasant sensation of warmth felt on getting to the fireside out of a winter's storm, will similarly express itself in the face. painful sensations, being mostly far more intense than pleasurable ones, cause muscular actions of a much more decided kind. a sudden twinge produces a convulsive start of the whole body. a pain less violent, but continuous, is accompanied by a knitting of the brows, a setting of the teeth or biting of the lip, and a contraction of the features generally. under a persistent pain of a severer kind, other muscular actions are added: the body is swayed to and fro; the hands clench anything they can lay hold of; and should the agony rise still higher, the sufferer rolls about on the floor almost convulsed. though more varied, the natural language of the pleasurable emotions comes within the same generalisation. a smile, which is the commonest expression of gratified feeling, is a contraction of certain facial muscles; and when the smile broadens into a laugh, we see a more violent and more general muscular excitement produced by an intenser gratification. rubbing together of the hands, and that other motion which dickens somewhere describes as "washing with impalpable soap in invisible water," have like implications. children may often be seen to "jump for joy." even in adults of excitable temperament, an action approaching to it is sometimes witnessed. and dancing has all the world through been regarded as natural to an elevated state of mind. many of the special emotions show themselves in special muscular actions. the gratification resulting from success, raises the head and gives firmness to the gait. a hearty grasp of the hand is currently taken as indicative of friendship. under a gush of affection the mother clasps her child to her breast, feeling as though she could squeeze it to death. and so in sundry other cases. even in that brightening of the eye with which good news is received we may trace the same truth; for this appearance of greater brilliancy is due to an extra contraction of the muscle which raises the eyelid, and so allows more light to fall upon, and be reflected from, the wet surface of the eyeball. the bodily indications of painful emotions are equally numerous, and still more vehement. discontent is shown by raised eyebrows and wrinkled forehead; disgust by a curl of the lip; offence by a pout. the impatient man beats a tattoo with his fingers on the table, swings his pendent leg with increasing rapidity, gives needless pokings to the fire, and presently paces with hasty strides about the room. in great grief there is wringing of the hands, and even tearing of the hair. an angry child stamps, or rolls on its back and kicks its heels in the air; and in manhood, anger, first showing itself in frowns, in distended nostrils, in compressed lips, goes on to produce grinding of the teeth, clenching of the fingers, blows of the fist on the table, and perhaps ends in a violent attack on the offending person, or in throwing about and breaking the furniture. from that pursing of the mouth indicative of slight displeasure, up to the frantic struggles of the maniac, we shall find that mental irritation tends to vent itself in bodily activity. all feelings, then--sensations or emotions, pleasurable or painful--have this common characteristic, that they are muscular stimuli. not forgetting the few apparently exceptional cases in which emotions exceeding a certain intensity produce prostration, we may set it down as a general law that, alike in man and animals, there is a direct connection between feeling and motion; the last growing more vehement as the first grows more intense. were it allowable here to treat the matter scientifically, we might trace this general law down to the principle known among physiologists as that of _reflex action_.[ ] without doing this, however, the above numerous instances justify the generalisation, that mental excitement of all kinds ends in excitement of the muscles; and that the two preserve a more or less constant ratio to each other. * * * * * "but what has all this to do with _the origin and function of music_?" asks the reader. very much, as we shall presently see. all music is originally vocal. all vocal sounds are produced by the agency of certain muscles. these muscles, in common with those of the body at large, are excited to contraction by pleasurable and painful feelings. and therefore it is that feelings demonstrate themselves in sounds as well as in movements. therefore it is that carlo barks as well as leaps when he is let out--that puss purrs as well as erects her tail--that the canary chirps as well as flutters. therefore it is that the angry lion roars while he lashes his sides, and the dog growls while he retracts his lip. therefore it is that the maimed animal not only struggles, but howls. and it is from this cause that in human beings bodily suffering expresses itself not only in contortions, but in shrieks and groans--that in anger, and fear, and grief, the gesticulations are accompanied by shouts and screams--that delightful sensations are followed by exclamations--and that we hear screams of joy and shouts of exultation. we have here, then, a principle underlying all vocal phenomena; including those of vocal music, and by consequence those of music in general. the muscles that move the chest, larynx, and vocal chords, contracting like other muscles in proportion to the intensity of the feelings; every different contraction of these muscles involving, as it does, a different adjustment of the vocal organs; every different adjustment of the vocal organs causing a change in the sound emitted;--it follows that variations of voice are the physiological results of variations of feeling; it follows that each inflection or modulation is the natural outcome of some passing emotion or sensation; and it follows that the explanation of all kinds of vocal expression must be sought in this general relation between mental and muscular excitements. let us, then, see whether we cannot thus account for the chief peculiarities in the utterance of the feelings: grouping these peculiarities under the heads of _loudness_, _quality_, _or_ _timbre_, _pitch_, _intervals_, and _rate of variation_. * * * * * between the lungs and the organs of voice there is much the same relation as between the bellows of an organ and its pipes. and as the loudness of the sound given out by an organ-pipe increases with the strength of the blast from the bellows; so, other things equal, the loudness of a vocal sound increases with the strength of the blast from the lungs. but the expulsion of air from the lungs is effected by certain muscles of the chest and abdomen. the force with which these muscles contract, is proportionate to the intensity of the feeling experienced. hence, _à priori_, loud sounds will be the habitual results of strong feelings. that they are so we have daily proof. the pain which, if moderate, can be borne silently, causes outcries if it becomes extreme. while a slight vexation makes a child whimper, a fit of passion calls forth a howl that disturbs the neighbourhood. when the voices in an adjacent room become unusually audible, we infer anger, or surprise, or joy. loudness of applause is significant of great approbation; and with uproarious mirth we associate the idea of high enjoyment. commencing with the silence of apathy, we find that the utterances grow louder as the sensations or emotions, whether pleasurable or painful, grow stronger. that different _qualities_ of voice accompany different mental states, and that under states of excitement the tones are more sonorous than usual, is another general fact admitting of a parallel explanation. the sounds of common conversation have but little resonance; those of strong feeling have much more. under rising ill temper the voice acquires a metallic ring. in accordance with her constant mood, the ordinary speech of a virago has a piercing quality quite opposite to that softness indicative of placidity. a ringing laugh marks an especially joyous temperament. grief unburdening itself uses tones approaching in _timbre_ to those of chanting: and in his most pathetic passages an eloquent speaker similarly falls into tones more vibratory than those common to him. now any one may readily convince himself that resonant vocal sounds can be produced only by a certain muscular effort additional to that ordinarily needed. if after uttering a word in his speaking voice, the reader, without changing the pitch or the loudness, will _sing_ this word, he will perceive that before he can sing it, he has to alter the adjustment of the vocal organs; to do which a certain force must be used; and by putting his fingers on that external prominence marking the top of the larynx, he will have further evidence that to produce a sonorous tone the organs must be drawn out of their usual position. thus, then, the fact that the tones of excited feeling are more vibratory than those of common conversation is another instance of the connection between mental excitement and muscular excitement. the speaking voice, the recitative voice, and the singing voice, severally exemplify one general principle. that the _pitch_ of the voice varies according to the action of the vocal muscles scarcely needs saying. all know that the middle notes, in which they converse, are made without any appreciable effort; and all know that to make either very high or very low notes requires a considerable effort. in either ascending or descending from the pitch of ordinary speech, we are conscious of an increasing muscular strain, which, at both extremes of the register, becomes positively painful. hence it follows from our general principle, that while indifference or calmness will use the medium tones, the tones used during excitement will be either above or below them; and will rise higher and higher, or fall lower and lower, as the feelings grow stronger. this physiological deduction we also find to be in harmony with familiar facts. the habitual sufferer utters his complaints in a voice raised considerably above the natural key; and agonising pain vents itself in either shrieks or groans--in very high or very low notes. beginning at his talking pitch, the cry of the disappointed urchin grows more shrill as it grows louder. the "oh!" of astonishment or delight, begins several notes below the middle voice, and descends still lower. anger expresses itself in high tones, or else in "curses not loud but _deep_." deep tones, too, are always used in uttering strong reproaches. such an exclamation as "beware!" if made dramatically--that is, if made with a show of feeling--must be many notes lower than ordinary. further, we have groans of disapprobation, groans of horror, groans of remorse. and extreme joy and fear are alike accompanied by shrill outcries. nearly allied to the subject of pitch, is that of _intervals_; and the explanation of them carries our argument a step further. while calm speech is comparatively monotonous, emotion makes use of fifths, octaves, and even wider intervals. listen to any one narrating or repeating something in which he has no interest, and his voice will not wander more than two or three notes above or below his medium note, and that by small steps; but when he comes to some exciting event he will be heard not only to use the higher and lower notes of his register, but to go from one to the other by larger leaps. being unable in print to imitate these traits of feeling, we feel some difficulty in fully realising them to the reader. but we may suggest a few remembrances which will perhaps call to mind a sufficiency of others. if two men living in the same place, and frequently seeing one another, meet, say at a public assembly, any phrase with which one may be heard to accost the other--as "hallo, are you here?"--will have an ordinary intonation. but if one of them, after long absence, has unexpectedly returned, the expression of surprise with which his friend may greet him--"hallo! how came you here?"--will be uttered in much more strongly contrasted tones. the two syllables of the word "hallo" will be, the one much higher and the other much lower than before; and the rest of the sentence will similarly ascend and descend by longer steps. again, if, supposing her to be in an adjoining room, the mistress of the house calls "mary," the two syllables of the name will be spoken in an ascending interval of a third. if mary does not reply, the call will be repeated probably in a descending fifth; implying the slightest shade of annoyance at mary's inattention. should mary still make no answer, the increasing annoyance will show itself by the use of a descending octave on the next repetition of the call. and supposing the silence to continue, the lady, if not of a very even temper, will show her irritation at mary's seemingly intentional negligence by finally calling her in tones still more widely contrasted--the first syllable being higher and the last lower than before. now, these and analogous facts, which the reader will readily accumulate, clearly conform to the law laid down. for to make large intervals requires more muscular action than to make small ones. but not only is the _extent_ of vocal intervals thus explicable as due to the relation between nervous and muscular excitement, but also in some degree their _direction_, as ascending or descending. the middle notes being those which demand no appreciable effort of muscular adjustment; and the effort becoming greater as we either ascend or descend; it follows that a departure from the middle notes in either direction will mark increasing emotion; while a return towards the middle notes will mark decreasing emotion. hence it happens that an enthusiastic person uttering such a sentence as--"it was the most splendid sight i ever saw!" will ascend to the first syllable of the word "splendid," and thence will descend: the word "splendid" marking the climax of the feeling produced by the recollection. hence, again, it happens that, under some extreme vexation produced by another's stupidity, an irascible man, exclaiming--"what a confounded fool the fellow is!" will begin somewhat below his middle voice, and descending to the word "fool," which he will utter in one of his deepest notes, will then ascend again. and it may be remarked, that the word "fool" will not only be deeper and louder than the rest, but will also have more emphasis of articulation--another mode in which muscular excitement is shown. there is some danger, however, in giving instances like this; seeing that as the mode of rendering will vary according to the intensity of the feeling which the reader feigns to himself, the right cadence may not be hit upon. with single words there is less difficulty. thus the "indeed!" with which a surprising fact is received, mostly begins on the middle note of the voice, and rises with the second syllable; or, if disapprobation as well as astonishment is felt, the first syllable will be below the middle note, and the second lower still. conversely, the word "alas!" which marks not the rise of a paroxysm of grief, but its decline, is uttered in a cadence descending towards the middle note; or, if the first syllable is in the lower part of the register, the second ascends towards the middle note. in the "heigh-ho!" expressive of mental and muscular prostration, we may see the same truth; and if the cadence appropriate to it be inverted, the absurdity of the effect clearly shows how the meaning of intervals is dependent on the principle we have been illustrating. the remaining characteristic of emotional speech which we have to notice is that of _variability of pitch_. it is scarcely possible here to convey adequate ideas of this more complex manifestation. we must be content with simply indicating some occasions on which it may be observed. on a meeting of friends, for instance--as when there arrives a party of much-wished-for-visitors--the voices of all will be heard to undergo changes of pitch not only greater but much more numerous than usual. if a speaker at a public meeting is interrupted by some squabble among those he is addressing, his comparatively level tones will be in marked contrast with the rapidly changing one of the disputants. and among children, whose feelings are less under control than those of adults, this peculiarity is still more decided. during a scene of complaint and recrimination between two excitable little girls, the voices may be heard to run up and down the gamut several times in each sentence. in such cases we once more recognise the same law: for muscular excitement is shown not only in strength of contraction but also in the rapidity with which different muscular adjustments succeed each other. thus we find all the leading vocal phenomena to have a physiological basis. they are so many manifestations of the general law that feeling is a stimulus to muscular action--a law conformed to throughout the whole economy, not of man only, but of every sensitive creature--a law, therefore, which lies deep in the nature of animal organisation. the expressiveness of these various modifications of voice is therefore innate. each of us, from babyhood upwards, has been spontaneously making them, when under the various sensations and emotions by which they are produced. having been conscious of each feeling at the same time that we heard ourselves make the consequent sound, we have acquired an established association of ideas between such sound and the feeling which caused it. when the like sound is made by another, we ascribe the like feeling to him; and by a further consequence we not only ascribe to him that feeling, but have a certain degree of it aroused in ourselves: for to become conscious of the feeling which another is experiencing, is to have that feeling awakened in our own consciousness, which is the same thing as experiencing the feeling. thus these various modifications of voice become not only a language through which we understand the emotions of others, but also the means of exciting our sympathy with such emotions. have we not here, then, adequate data for a theory of music? these vocal peculiarities which indicate excited feeling _are those which especially distinguish song from ordinary speech_. every one of the alterations of voice which we have found to be a physiological result of pain or pleasure, _is carried to its greatest extreme in vocal music_. for instance, we saw that, in virtue of the general relation between mental and muscular excitement, one characteristic of passionate utterance is _loudness_. well, its comparative loudness is one of the distinctive marks of song as contrasted with the speech of daily life; and further, the _forte_ passages of an air are those intended to represent the climax of its emotion. we next saw that the tones in which emotion expresses itself are, in conformity with this same law, of a more sonorous _timbre_ than those of calm conversation. here, too, song displays a still higher degree of the peculiarity; for the singing tone is the most resonant we can make. again, it was shown that, from a like cause, mental excitement vents itself in the higher and lower notes of the register; using the middle notes but seldom. and it scarcely needs saying that vocal music is still more distinguished by its comparative neglect of the notes in which we talk, and its habitual use of those above or below them and, moreover, that its most passionate effects are commonly produced at the two extremities of its scale, but especially the upper one. a yet further trait of strong feeling, similarly accounted for, was the employment of larger intervals than are employed in common converse. this trait, also, every ballad and _aria_ carries to an extent beyond that heard in the spontaneous utterances of emotion: add to which, that the direction of these intervals, which, as diverging from or converging towards the medium tones, we found to be physiologically expressive of increasing or decreasing emotion, may be observed to have in music like meanings. once more, it was pointed out that not only extreme but also rapid variations of pitch are characteristic of mental excitement; and once more we see in the quick changes of every melody, that song carries the characteristic as far, if not farther. thus, in respect alike of _loudness_, _timbre_, _pitch_, _intervals_, and _rate of variation_, song employs and exaggerates the natural language of the emotions;--it arises from a systematic combination of those vocal peculiarities which are the physiological effects of acute pleasure and pain. besides these chief characteristics of song as distinguished from common speech, there are sundry minor ones similarly explicable as due to the relation between mental and muscular excitement; and before proceeding further these should be briefly noticed. thus, certain passions, and perhaps all passions when pushed to an extreme, produce (probably through their influence over the action of the heart) an effect the reverse of that which has been described: they cause a physical prostration, one symptom of which is a general relaxation of the muscles, and a consequent trembling. we have the trembling of anger, of fear, of hope, of joy; and the vocal muscles being implicated with the rest, the voice too becomes tremulous. now, in singing, this tremulousness of voice is very effectively used by some vocalists in highly pathetic passages; sometimes, indeed, because of its effectiveness, too much used by them--as by tamberlik, for instance. again, there is a mode of musical execution known as the _staccato_, appropriate to energetic passages--to passages expressive of exhilaration, of resolution, of confidence. the action of the vocal muscles which produces this staccato style is analogous to the muscular action which produces the sharp decisive, energetic movements of body indicating these states of mind; and therefore it is that the staccato style has the meaning we ascribe to it. conversely, slurred intervals are expressive of gentler and less active feelings; and are so because they imply the smaller muscular vivacity due to a lower mental energy. the difference of effect resulting from difference of _time_ in music is also attributable to the same law. already it has been pointed out that the more frequent changes of pitch which ordinarily result from passion are imitated and developed in song; and here we have to add, that the various rates of such changes, appropriate to the different styles of music, are further traits having the same derivation. the slowest movements, _largo_ and _adagio_, are used where such depressing emotions as grief, or such unexciting emotions as reverence, are to be portrayed; while the more rapid movements, _andante_, _allegro_, _presto_, represent successively increasing degrees of mental vivacity; and do this because they imply that muscular activity which flows from this mental vivacity. even the _rhythm_, which forms a remaining distinction between song and speech, may not improbably have a kindred cause. why the actions excited by strong feeling should tend to become rhythmical is not very obvious; but that they do so there are divers evidences. there is the swaying of the body to and fro under pain or grief, of the leg under impatience or agitation. dancing, too, is a rhythmical action natural to elevated emotion. that under excitement speech acquires a certain rhythm, we may occasionally perceive in the highest efforts of an orator. in poetry, which is a form of speech used for the better expression of emotional ideas, we have this rhythmical tendency developed. and when we bear in mind that dancing, poetry, and music are connate--are originally constituent parts of the same thing, it becomes clear that the measured movement common to them all implies a rhythmical action of the whole system, the vocal apparatus included; and that so the rhythm of music is a more subtle and complex result of this relation between mental and muscular excitement. but it is time to end this analysis, which possibly we have already carried too far. it is not to be supposed that the more special peculiarities of musical expression are to be definitely explained. though probably they may all in some way conform to the principle that has been worked out, it is obviously impracticable to trace that principle in its more ramified applications. nor is it needful to our argument that it should be so traced. the foregoing facts sufficiently prove that what we regard as the distinctive traits of song, are simply the traits of emotional speech intensified and systematised. in respect of its general characteristics, we think it has been made clear that vocal music, and by consequence all music, is an idealisation of the natural language of passion. * * * * * as far as it goes, the scanty evidence furnished by history confirms this conclusion. note first the fact (not properly an historical one, but fitly grouped with such) that the dance-chants of savage tribes are very monotonous; and in virtue of their monotony are much more nearly allied to ordinary speech than are the songs of civilised races. joining with this the fact that there are still extant among boatmen and others in the east, ancient chants of a like monotonous character, we may infer that vocal music originally diverged from emotional speech in a gradual, unobtrusive manner; and this is the inference to which our argument points. further evidence to the same effect is supplied by greek history. the early poems of the greeks--which, be it remembered, were sacred legends embodied in that rhythmical, metaphorical language which strong feeling excites--were not recited, but chanted: the tones and the cadences were made musical by the same influences which made the speech poetical. by those who have investigated the matter, this chanting is believed to have been not what we call singing, but nearly allied to our recitative (far simpler indeed, if we may judge from the fact that the early greek lyre, which had but _four_ strings, was played in _unison_ with the voice, which was therefore confined to four notes), and as such, much less remote from common speech than our own singing is. for recitative, or musical recitation, is in all respects intermediate between speech and song. its average effects are not so _loud_ as those of song. its tones are less sonorous in _timbre_ than those of song. commonly it diverges to a smaller extent from the middle notes--uses notes neither so high nor so low in _pitch_. the _intervals_ habitual to it are neither so wide nor so varied. its _rate of variation_ is not so rapid. and at the same time that its primary _rhythm_ is less decided, it has none of that secondary rhythm produced by recurrence of the same or parallel musical phrases, which is one of the marked characteristics of song. thus, then, we may not only infer, from the evidence furnished by existing barbarous tribes, that the vocal music of pre-historic times was emotional speech very slightly exalted; but we see that the earliest vocal music of which we have any account differed much less from emotional speech than does the vocal music of our days. that recitative--beyond which, by the way, the chinese and hindoos seem never to have advanced--grew naturally out of the modulations and cadences of strong feeling, we have indeed still current evidence. there are even now to be met with occasions on which strong feeling vents itself in this form. whoever has been present when a meeting of quakers was addressed by one of their preachers (whose practice it is to speak only under the influence of religious emotion), must have been struck by the quite unusual tones, like those of a subdued chant, in which the address was made. it is clear, too, that the intoning used in some churches is representative of this same mental state; and has been adopted on account of the instinctively felt congruity between it and the contrition, supplication, or reverence verbally expressed. and if, as we have good reason to believe, recitative arose by degrees out of emotional speech, it becomes manifest that by a continuance of the same process song has arisen out of recitative. just as, from the orations and legends of savages, expressed in the metaphorical, allegorical style natural to them, there sprung epic poetry, out of which lyric poetry was afterwards developed; so, from the exalted tones and cadences in which such orations and legends were delivered, came the chant or recitative music, from whence lyrical music has since grown up. and there has not only thus been a simultaneous and parallel genesis, but there is also a parallelism of results. for lyrical poetry differs from epic poetry, just as lyrical music differs from recitative: each still further intensifies the natural language of the emotions. lyrical poetry is more metaphorical, more hyperbolic, more elliptical, and adds the rhythm of lines to the rhythm of feet; just as lyrical music is louder, more sonorous, more extreme in its intervals, and adds the rhythm of phrases to the rhythm of bars. and the known fact that out of epic poetry the stronger passions developed lyrical poetry as their appropriate vehicle, strengthens the inference that they similarly developed lyrical music out of recitative. nor indeed are we without evidences of the transition. it needs but to listen to an opera to hear the leading gradations. between the comparatively level recitative of ordinary dialogue, the more varied recitative with wider intervals and higher tones used in exciting scenes, the still more musical recitative which preludes an air, and the air itself, the successive steps are but small; and the fact that among airs themselves gradations of like nature may be traced, further confirms the conclusion that the highest form of vocal music was arrived at by degrees. moreover, we have some clue to the influences which have induced this development; and may roughly conceive the process of it. as the tones, intervals, and cadences of strong emotion were the elements out of which song was elaborated, so we may expect to find that still stronger emotion produced the elaboration: and we have evidence implying this. instances in abundance may be cited, showing that musical composers are men of extremely acute sensibilities. the life of mozart depicts him as one of intensely active affections and highly impressionable temperament. various anecdotes represent beethoven as very susceptible and very passionate. mendelssohn is described by those who knew him to have been full of fine feeling. and the almost incredible sensitiveness of chopin has been illustrated in the memoirs of george sand. an unusually emotional nature being thus the general characteristic of musical composers, we have in it just the agency required for the development of recitative and song. intenser feeling producing intenser manifestations, any cause of excitement will call forth from such a nature tones and changes of voice more marked than those called forth from an ordinary nature--will generate just those exaggerations which we have found to distinguish the lower vocal music from emotional speech, and the higher vocal music from the lower. thus it becomes credible that the four-toned recitative of the early greek poets (like all poets, nearly allied to composers in the comparative intensity of their feelings), was really nothing more than the slightly exaggerated emotional speech natural to them, which grew by frequent use into an organised form. and it is readily conceivable that the accumulated agency of subsequent poet-musicians, inheriting and adding to the products of those who went before them, sufficed, in the course of the ten centuries which we know it took, to develop this four-toned recitative into a vocal music having a range of two octaves. not only may we so understand how more sonorous tones, greater extremes of pitch, and wider intervals, were gradually introduced; but also how there arose a greater variety and complexity of musical expression. for this same passionate, enthusiastic temperament, which naturally leads the musical composer to express the feelings possessed by others as well as himself, in extremer intervals and more marked cadences than they would use, also leads him to give musical utterance to feelings which they either do not experience, or experience in but slight degrees. in virtue of this general susceptibility which distinguishes him, he regards with emotion, events, scenes, conduct, character, which produce upon most men no appreciable effect. the emotions so generated, compounded as they are of the simpler emotions, are not expressible by intervals and cadences natural to these, but by combinations of such intervals and cadences: whence arise more involved musical phrases, conveying more complex, subtle, and unusual feelings. and thus we may in some measure understand how it happens that music not only so strongly excites our more familiar feelings, but also produces feelings we never had before--arouses dormant sentiments of which we had not conceived the possibility and do not know the meaning; or, as richter says--tells us of things we have not seen and shall not see. * * * * * indirect evidences of several kinds remain to be briefly pointed out. one of them is the difficulty, not to say impossibility, of otherwise accounting for the expressiveness of music. whence comes it that special combinations of notes should have special effects upon our emotions?--that one should give us a feeling of exhilaration, another of melancholy, another of affection, another of reverence? is it that these special combinations have intrinsic meanings apart from the human constitution?--that a certain number of aerial waves per second, followed by a certain other number, in the nature of things signify grief, while in the reverse order they signify joy; and similarly with all other intervals, phrases, and cadences? few will be so irrational as to think this. is it, then, that the meanings of these special combinations are conventional only?--that we learn their implications, as we do those of words, by observing how others understand them? this is an hypothesis not only devoid of evidence, but directly opposed to the experience of every one. how, then, are musical effects to be explained? if the theory above set forth be accepted, the difficulty disappears. if music, taking for its raw material the various modifications of voice which are the physiological results of excited feelings, intensifies, combines, and complicates them--if it exaggerates the loudness, the resonance, the pitch, the intervals, and the variability, which, in virtue of an organic law, are the characteristics of passionate speech--if, by carrying out these further, more consistently, more unitedly, and more sustainedly, it produces an idealised language of emotion; then its power over us becomes comprehensible. but in the absence of this theory, the expressiveness of music appears to be inexplicable. again, the preference we feel for certain qualities of sound presents a like difficulty, admitting only of a like solution. it is generally agreed that the tones of the human voice are more pleasing than any others. grant that music takes its rise from the modulations of the human voice under emotion, and it becomes a natural consequence that the tones of that voice should appeal to our feelings more than any others; and so should be considered more beautiful than any others. but deny that music has this origin, and the only alternative is the untenable position that the vibrations proceeding from a vocalist's throat are, objectively considered, of a higher order than those from a horn or a violin. similarly with harsh and soft sounds. if the conclusiveness of the foregoing reasonings be not admitted, it must be supposed that the vibrations causing the last are intrinsically better than those causing the first; and that, in virtue of some pre-established harmony, the higher feelings and natures produce the one, and the lower the other. but if the foregoing reasonings be valid, it follows, as a matter of course, that we shall like the sounds that habitually accompany agreeable feelings, and dislike those that habitually accompany disagreeable feelings. once more, the question--how is the expressiveness of music to be otherwise accounted for? may be supplemented by the question--how is the genesis of music to be otherwise accounted for? that music is a product of civilisation is manifest; for though savages have their dance-chants, these are of a kind scarcely to be dignified by the title musical: at most, they supply but the vaguest rudiment of music, properly so called. and if music has been by slow steps developed in the course of civilisation, it must have been developed out of something. if, then, its origin is not that above alleged, what is its origin? thus we find that the negative evidence confirms the positive, and that, taken together, they furnish strong proof. we have seen that there is a physiological relation, common to man and all animals, between feeling and muscular action; that as vocal sounds are produced by muscular action, there is a consequent physiological relation between feeling and vocal sounds; that all the modifications of voice expressive of feeling are the direct results of this physiological relation; that music, adopting all these modifications, intensifies them more and more as it ascends to its higher and higher forms, and becomes music simply in virtue of thus intensifying them; that, from the ancient epic poet chanting his verses, down to the modern musical composer, men of unusually strong feelings prone to express them in extreme forms, have been naturally the agents of these successive intensifications; and that so there has little by little arisen a wide divergence between this idealised language of emotion and its natural language: to which direct evidence we have just added the indirect--that on no other tenable hypothesis can either the expressiveness or the genesis of music be explained. * * * * * and now, what is the _function_ of music? has music any effect beyond the immediate pleasure it produces? analogy suggests that it has. the enjoyments of a good dinner do not end with themselves, but minister to bodily well-being. though people do not marry with a view to maintain the race, yet the passions which impel them to marry secure its maintenance. parental affection is a feeling which, while it conduces to parental happiness, ensures the nurture of offspring. men love to accumulate property, often without thought of the benefits it produces; but in pursuing the pleasure of acquisition they indirectly open the way to other pleasures. the wish for public approval impels all of us to do many things which we should otherwise not do,--to undertake great labours, face great dangers, and habitually rule ourselves in a way that smooths social intercourse: that is, in gratifying our love of approbation we subserve divers ulterior purposes. and, generally, our nature is such that in fulfilling each desire, we in some way facilitate the fulfilment of the rest. but the love of music seems to exist for its own sake. the delights of melody and harmony do not obviously minister to the welfare either of the individual or of society. may we not suspect, however, that this exception is apparent only? is it not a rational inquiry--what are the indirect benefits which accrue from music, in addition to the direct pleasure it gives? but that it would take us too far out of our track, we should prelude this inquiry by illustrating at some length a certain general law of progress;--the law that alike in occupations, sciences, arts, the divisions that had a common root, but by continual divergence have become distinct, and are now being separately developed, are not truly independent, but severally act and react on each other to their mutual advancement. merely hinting thus much, however, by way of showing that there are many analogies to justify us, we go on to express the opinion that there exists a relationship of this kind between music and speech. all speech is compounded of two elements, the words and the tones in which they are uttered--the signs of ideas and the signs of feelings. while certain articulations express the thought, certain vocal sounds express the more or less of pain or pleasure which the thought gives. using the word _cadence_ in an unusually extended sense, as comprehending all modifications of voice, we may say that _cadence is the commentary of the emotions upon the propositions of the intellect_. the duality of spoken language, though not formally recognised, is recognised in practice by every one; and every one knows that very often more weight attaches to the tones than to the words. daily experience supplies cases in which the same sentence of disapproval will be understood as meaning little or meaning much, according to the inflections of voice which accompany it; and daily experience supplies still more striking cases in which words and tones are in direct contradiction--the first expressing consent, while the last express reluctance; and the last being believed rather than the first. these two distinct but interwoven elements of speech have been undergoing a simultaneous development. we know that in the course of civilisation words have been multiplied, new parts of speech have been introduced, sentences have grown more varied and complex; and we may fairly infer that during the same time new modifications of voice have come into use, fresh intervals have been adopted, and cadences have become more elaborate. for while, on the one hand, it is absurd to suppose that, along with the undeveloped verbal forms of barbarism, there existed a developed system of vocal inflections; it is, on the other hand, necessary to suppose that, along with the higher and more numerous verbal forms needed to convey the multiplied and complicated ideas of civilised life, there have grown up those more involved changes of voice which express the feelings proper to such ideas. if intellectual language is a growth, so also, without doubt, is emotional language a growth. now, the hypothesis which we have hinted above, is, that beyond the direct pleasure which it gives, music has the indirect effect of developing this language of the emotions. having its root, as we have endeavoured to show, in those tones, intervals, and cadences of speech which express feeling--arising by the combination and intensifying of these, and coming finally to have an embodiment of its own--music has all along been reacting upon speech, and increasing its power of rendering emotion. the use in recitative and song of inflections more expressive than ordinary ones, must from the beginning have tended to develop the ordinary ones. familiarity with the more varied combinations of tones that occur in vocal music can scarcely have failed to give greater variety of combination to the tones in which we utter our impressions and desires. the complex musical phrases by which composers have conveyed complex emotions, may rationally be supposed to have influenced us in making those involved cadences of conversation by which we convey our subtler thoughts and feelings. that the cultivation of music has no effect on the mind, few will be absurd enough to contend. and if it has an effect, what more natural effect is there than this of developing our perception of the meanings of inflections, qualities, and modulations of voice; and giving us a correspondingly increased power of using them? just as mathematics, taking its start from the phenomena of physics and astronomy, and presently coming to be a separate science, has since reacted on physics and astronomy to their immense advancement--just as chemistry, first arising out of the processes of metallurgy and the industrial arts, and gradually growing into an independent study, has now become an aid to all kinds of production--just as physiology, originating out of medicine and once subordinate to it, but latterly pursued for its own sake, is in our day coming to be the science on which the progress of medicine depends;--so, music, having its root in emotional language, and gradually evolved from it, has ever been reacting upon and further advancing it. whoever will examine the facts will find this hypothesis to be in harmony with the method of civilisation everywhere displayed. it will scarcely be expected that much direct evidence in support of this conclusion can be given. the facts are of a kind which it is difficult to measure, and of which we have no records. some suggestive traits, however, may be noted. may we not say, for instance, that the italians, among whom modern music was earliest cultivated, and who have more especially practised and excelled in melody (the division of music with which our argument is chiefly concerned)--may we not say that these italians speak in more varied and expressive inflections and cadences than any other nation? on the other hand, may we not say that, confined almost exclusively as they have hitherto been to their national airs, which have a marked family likeness, and therefore accustomed to but a limited range of musical expression, the scotch are unusually monotonous in the intervals and modulations of their speech? and again, do we not find among different classes of the same nation, differences that have like implications? the gentleman and the clown stand in a very decided contrast with respect to variety of intonation. listen to the conversation of a servant-girl, and then to that of a refined, accomplished lady, and the more delicate and complex changes of voice used by the latter will be conspicuous. now, without going so far as to say that out of all the differences of culture to which the upper and lower classes are subjected, difference of musical culture is that to which alone this difference of speech is ascribable, yet we may fairly say that there seems a much more obvious connection of cause and effect between these than between any others. thus, while the inductive evidence to which we can appeal is but scanty and vague, yet what there is favours our position. * * * * * probably most will think that the function here assigned to music is one of very little moment. but further reflection may lead them to a contrary conviction. in its bearings upon human happiness, we believe that this emotional language which musical culture develops and refines is only second in importance to the language of the intellect; perhaps not even second to it. for these modifications of voice produced by feelings are the means of exciting like feelings in others. joined with gestures and expressions of face, they give life to the otherwise dead words in which the intellect utters its ideas; and so enable the hearer not only to _understand_ the state of mind they accompany, but to _partake_ of that state. in short, they are the chief media of _sympathy_. and if we consider how much both our general welfare and our immediate pleasures depend upon sympathy, we shall recognise the importance of whatever makes this sympathy greater. if we bear in mind that by their fellow-feeling men are led to behave justly, kindly, and considerately to each other--that the difference between the cruelty of the barbarous and the humanity of the civilised, results from the increase of fellow-feeling; if we bear in mind that this faculty which makes us sharers in the joys and sorrows of others, is the basis of all the higher affections--that in friendship, love, and all domestic pleasures, it is an essential element; if we bear in mind how much our direct gratifications are intensified by sympathy,--how, at the theatre, the concert, the picture gallery, we lose half our enjoyment if we have no one to enjoy with us; if, in short, we bear in mind that for all happiness beyond what the unfriended recluse can have, we are indebted to this same sympathy;--we shall see that the agencies which communicate it can scarcely be overrated in value. the tendency of civilisation is more and more to repress the antagonistic elements of our characters and to develop the social ones--to curb our purely selfish desires and exercise our unselfish ones--to replace private gratifications by gratifications resulting from, or involving, the happiness of others. and while, by this adaptation to the social state, the sympathetic side of our nature is being unfolded, there is simultaneously growing up a language of sympathetic intercourse--a language through which we communicate to others the happiness we feel, and are made sharers in their happiness. this double process, of which the effects are already sufficiently appreciable, must go on to an extent of which we can as yet have no adequate conception. the habitual concealment of our feelings diminishing, as it must, in proportion as our feelings become such as do not demand concealment, we may conclude that the exhibition of them will become much more vivid than we now dare allow it to be; and this implies a more expressive emotional language. at the same time, feelings of a higher and more complex kind, as yet experienced only by the cultivated few, will become general; and there will be a corresponding development of the emotional language into more involved forms. just as there has silently grown up a language of ideas, which, rude as it at first was, now enables us to convey with precision the most subtle and complicated thoughts; so, there is still silently growing up a language of feelings, which, notwithstanding its present imperfection, we may expect will ultimately enable men vividly and completely to impress on each other all the emotions which they experience from moment to moment. thus if, as we have endeavoured to show, it is the function of music to facilitate the development of this emotional language, we may regard music as an aid to the achievement of that higher happiness which it indistinctly shadows forth. those vague feelings of unexperienced felicity which music arouses--those indefinite impressions of an unknown ideal life which it calls up, may be considered as a prophecy, to the fulfilment of which music is itself partly instrumental. the strange capacity which we have for being so affected by melody and harmony may be taken to imply both that it is within the possibilities of our nature to realise those intenser delights they dimly suggest, and that they are in some way concerned in the realisation of them. on this supposition the power and the meaning of music become comprehensible; but otherwise they are a mystery. we will only add, that if the probability of these corollaries be admitted, then music must take rank as he highest of the fine arts--as the one which, more than any other, ministers to human welfare. and thus, even leaving out of view the immediate gratifications it is hourly giving, we cannot too much applaud that progress of musical culture which is becoming one of the characteristics of our age. [ ] _fraser's magazine_, october . [ ] those who seek information on this point may find it in an interesting tract by mr. alexander bain, on _animal instinct and intelligence_. the unseen world and other essays by john fiske transcriber's note: this reviews draper's science and religion and contrasts two dante translations. to james sime. my dear sime: life has now and then some supreme moments of pure happiness, which in reminiscence give to single days the value of months or years. two or three such moments it has been my good fortune to enjoy with you, in talking over the mysteries which forever fascinate while they forever baffle us. it was our midnight talks in great russell street and the addison road, and our bright may holiday on the thames, that led me to write this scanty essay on the "unseen world," and to whom could i so heartily dedicate it as to you? i only wish it were more worthy of its origin. as for the dozen papers which i have appended to it, by way of clearing out my workshop, i hope you will read them indulgently, and believe me ever faithfully yours, john fiske. harvard university, february , . contents. i. the unseen world ii. "the to-morrow of death" iii. the jesus of history iv. the christ of dogma v. a word about miracles vi. draper on science and religion vii. nathan the wise viii. historical difficulties ix. the famine of in bengal x. spain and the netherlands xi. longfellow's dante xii. paine's "st. peter" xiii. a philosophy of art xiv. athenian and american life essays. i. the unseen world. part first. "what are you, where did you come from, and whither are you bound?"--the question which from homer's days has been put to the wayfarer in strange lands--is likewise the all-absorbing question which man is ever asking of the universe of which he is himself so tiny yet so wondrous a part. from the earliest times the ultimate purpose of all scientific research has been to elicit fragmentary or partial responses to this question, and philosophy has ever busied itself in piecing together these several bits of information according to the best methods at its disposal, in order to make up something like a satisfactory answer. in old times the best methods which philosophy had at its disposal for this purpose were such as now seem very crude, and accordingly ancient philosophers bungled considerably in their task, though now and then they came surprisingly near what would to-day be called the truth. it was natural that their methods should be crude, for scientific inquiry had as yet supplied but scanty materials for them to work with, and it was only after a very long course of speculation and criticism that men could find out what ways of going to work are likely to prove successful and what are not. the earliest thinkers, indeed, were further hindered from accomplishing much by the imperfections of the language by the aid of which their thinking was done; for science and philosophy have had to make a serviceable terminology by dint of long and arduous trial and practice, and linguistic processes fit for expressing general or abstract notions accurately grew up only through numberless failures and at the expense of much inaccurate thinking and loose talking. as in most of nature's processes, there was a great waste of energy before a good result could be secured. accordingly primitive men were very wide of the mark in their views of nature. to them the world was a sort of enchanted ground, peopled with sprites and goblins; the quaint notions with which we now amuse our children in fairy tales represent a style of thinking which once was current among grown men and women, and which is still current wherever men remain in a savage condition. the theories of the world wrought out by early priest-philosophers were in great part made up of such grotesque notions; and having become variously implicated with ethical opinions as to the nature and consequences of right and wrong behaviour, they acquired a kind of sanctity, so that any thinker who in the light of a wider experience ventured to alter or amend the primitive theory was likely to be vituperated as an irreligious man or atheist. this sort of inference has not yet been wholly abandoned, even in civilized communities. even to-day books are written about "the conflict between religion and science," and other books are written with intent to reconcile the two presumed antagonists. but when we look beneath the surface of things, we see that in reality there has never been any conflict between religion and science, nor is any reconciliation called for where harmony has always existed. the real historical conflict, which has been thus curiously misnamed, has been the conflict between the more-crude opinions belonging to the science of an earlier age and the less-crude opinions belonging to the science of a later age. in the course of this contest the more-crude opinions have usually been defended in the name of religion, and the less-crude opinions have invariably won the victory; but religion itself, which is not concerned with opinion, but with the aspiration which leads us to strive after a purer and holier life, has seldom or never been attacked. on the contrary, the scientific men who have conducted the battle on behalf of the less-crude opinions have generally been influenced by this religious aspiration quite as strongly as the apologists of the more-crude opinions, and so far from religious feeling having been weakened by their perennial series of victories, it has apparently been growing deeper and stronger all the time. the religious sense is as yet too feebly developed in most of us; but certainly in no preceding age have men taken up the work of life with more earnestness or with more real faith in the unseen than at the present day, when so much of what was once deemed all-important knowledge has been consigned to the limbo of mythology. the more-crude theories of early times are to be chiefly distinguished from the less-crude theories of to-day as being largely the products of random guesswork. hypothesis, or guesswork, indeed, lies at the foundation of all scientific knowledge. the riddle of the universe, like less important riddles, is unravelled only by approximative trials, and the most brilliant discoverers have usually been the bravest guessers. kepler's laws were the result of indefatigable guessing, and so, in a somewhat different sense, was the wave-theory of light. but the guesswork of scientific inquirers is very different now from what it was in older times. in the first place, we have slowly learned that a guess must be verified before it can be accepted as a sound theory; and, secondly, so many truths have been established beyond contravention, that the latitude for hypothesis is much less than it once was. nine tenths of the guesses which might have occurred to a mediaeval philosopher would now be ruled out as inadmissible, because they would not harmonize with the knowledge which has been acquired since the middle ages. there is one direction especially in which this continuous limitation of guesswork by ever-accumulating experience has manifested itself. from first to last, all our speculative successes and failures have agreed in teaching us that the most general principles of action which prevail to-day, and in our own corner of the universe, have always prevailed throughout as much of the universe as is accessible to our research. they have taught us that for the deciphering of the past and the predicting of the future, no hypotheses are admissible which are not based upon the actual behaviour of things in the present. once there was unlimited facility for guessing as to how the solar system might have come into existence; now the origin of the sun and planets is adequately explained when we have unfolded all that is implied in the processes which are still going on in the solar system. formerly appeals were made to all manner of violent agencies to account for the changes which the earth's surface has undergone since our planet began its independent career; now it is seen that the same slow working of rain and tide, of wind and wave and frost, of secular contraction and of earthquake pulse, which is visible to-day, will account for the whole. it is not long since it was supposed that a species of animals or plants could be swept away only by some unusual catastrophe, while for the origination of new species something called an act of "special creation" was necessary; and as to the nature of such extraordinary events there was endless room for guesswork; but the discovery of natural selection was the discovery of a process, going on perpetually under our very eyes, which must inevitably of itself extinguish some species and bring new ones into being. in these and countless other ways we have learned that all the rich variety of nature is pervaded by unity of action, such as we might expect to find if nature is the manifestation of an infinite god who is without variableness or shadow of turning, but quite incompatible with the fitful behaviour of the anthropomorphic deities of the old mythologies. by thus abstaining from all appeal to agencies that are extra-cosmic, or not involved in the orderly system of events that we see occurring around us, we have at last succeeded in eliminating from philosophic speculation the character of random guesswork which at first of necessity belonged to it. modern scientific hypothesis is so far from being a haphazard mental proceeding that it is perhaps hardly fair to classify it with guesses. it is lifted out of the plane of guesswork, in so far as it has acquired the character of inevitable inference from that which now is to that which has been or will be. instead of the innumerable particular assumptions which were once admitted into cosmic philosophy, we are now reduced to the one universal assumption which has been variously described as the "principle of continuity," the "uniformity of nature," the "persistence of force," or the "law of causation," and which has been variously explained as a necessary datum for scientific thinking or as a net result of all induction. i am not unwilling, however, to adopt the language of a book which has furnished the occasion for the present discussion, and to say that this grand assumption is a supreme act of faith, the definite expression of a trust that the infinite sustainer of the universe "will not put us to permanent intellectual confusion." for in this mode of statement the harmony between the scientific and the religious points of view is well brought out. it is as affording the only outlet from permanent intellectual confusion that inquirers have been driven to appeal to the principle of continuity; and it is by unswerving reliance upon this principle that we have obtained such insight into the past, present, and future of the world as we now possess. the work just mentioned [ ] is especially interesting as an attempt to bring the probable destiny of the human soul into connection with the modern theories which explain the past and future career of the physical universe in accordance with the principle of continuity. its authorship is as yet unknown, but it is believed to be the joint production of two of the most eminent physicists in great britain, and certainly the accurate knowledge and the ingenuity and subtlety of thought displayed in it are such as to lend great probability to this conjecture. some account of the argument it contains may well precede the suggestions presently to be set forth concerning the unseen world; and we shall find it most convenient to begin, like our authors, with a brief statement of what the principle of continuity teaches as to the proximate beginning and end of the visible universe. i shall in the main set down only results, having elsewhere [ ] given a simple exposition of the arguments upon which these results are founded. [ ] the unseen universe; or, physical speculations on a future state. [attributed to professors tait and balfour stewart.] new york: macmillan & co. . vo. pp. . [ ] outlines of cosmic philosophy, based on the doctrine of evolution. boston: j. r. osgood & co. . vols. vo. the first great cosmological speculation which has been raised quite above the plane of guesswork by making no other assumption than that of the uniformity of nature, is the well-known nebular hypothesis. every astronomer knows that the earth, like all other cosmical bodies which are flattened at the poles, was formerly a mass of fluid, and consequently filled a much larger space than at present. it is further agreed, on all hands, that the sun is a contracting body, since there is no other possible way of accounting for the enormous quantity of heat which he generates. the so-called primeval nebula follows as a necessary inference from these facts. there was once a time when the earth was distended on all sides away out to the moon and beyond it, so that the matter now contained in the moon was then a part of our equatorial zone. and at a still remoter date in the past, the mass of the sun was diffused in every direction beyond the orbit of neptune, and no planet had an individual existence, for all were indistinguishable parts of the solar mass. when the great mass of the sun, increased by the relatively small mass of all the planets put together, was spread out in this way, it was a rare vapour or gas. at the period where the question is taken up in laplace's treatment of the nebular theory, the shape of this mass is regarded as spheroidal; but at an earlier period its shape may well have been as irregular as that of any of the nebulae which we now see in distant parts of the heavens, for, whatever its primitive shape, the equalization of its rotation would in time make it spheroidal. that the quantity of rotation was the same then as now is unquestionable; for no system of particles, great or small, can acquire or lose rotation by any action going on within itself, any more than a man could pick himself up by his waistband and lift himself over a stone wale so that the primitive rotating spheroidal solar nebula is not a matter of assumption, but is just what must once have existed, provided there has been no breach of continuity in nature's operations. now proceeding to reason back from the past to the present, it has been shown that the abandonment of successive equatorial belts by the contracting solar mass must have ensued in accordance with known mechanical laws; and in similar wise, under ordinary circumstances each belt must have parted into fragments, and the fragments chasing each other around the same orbit, must have at last coalesced into a spheroidal planet. not only this, but it has also been shown that as the result of such a process the relative sizes of the planets would be likely to take the order which they now follow; that the ring immediately succeeding that of jupiter would be likely to abort and produce a great number of tiny planets instead of one good-sized one; that the outer planets would be likely to have many moons, and that saturn, besides having the greatest number of moons, would be likely to retain some of his inner rings unbroken; that the earth would be likely to have a long day and jupiter a short one; that the extreme outer planets would be not unlikely to rotate in a retrograde direction; and so on, through a long list of interesting and striking details. not only, therefore, are we driven to the inference that our solar system was once a vaporous nebula, but we find that the mere contraction of such a nebula, under the influence of the enormous mutual gravitation of its particles, carries with it the explanation of both the more general and the more particular features of the present system. so that we may fairly regard this stupendous process as veritable matter of history, while we proceed to study it under some further aspects and to consider what consequences are likely to follow. our attention should first be directed to the enormous waste of energy which has accompanied this contraction of the solar nebula. the first result of such a contraction is the generation of a great quantity of heat, and when the heat thus generated has been lost by radiation into surrounding space it becomes possible for the contraction to continue. thus, as concentration goes on, heat is incessantly generated and incessantly dissipated. how long this process is to endure depends chiefly on the size of the contracting mass, as small bodies radiate heat much faster than large ones. the moon seems to be already thoroughly refrigerated, while jupiter and saturn are very much hotter than the earth, as is shown by the tremendous atmospheric phenomena which occur on their surfaces. the sun, again, generates heat so rapidly, owing to his great energy of contraction, and loses it so slowly, owing to his great size, that his surface is always kept in a state of incandescence. his surface-temperature is estimated at some three million degrees of fahrenheit, and a diminution of his diameter far too small to be detected by the finest existing instruments would suffice to maintain the present supply of heat for more than fifty centuries. these facts point to a very long future during which the sun will continue to warm the earth and its companion planets, but at the same time they carry on their face the story of inevitable ultimate doom. if things continue to go on as they have all along gone on, the sun must by and by grow black and cold, and all life whatever throughout the solar system must come to an end. long before this consummation, however, life will probably have become extinct through the refrigeration of each of the planets into a state like the present state of the moon, in which the atmosphere and oceans have disappeared from the surface. no doubt the sun will continue to give out heat a long time after heat has ceased to be needed for the support of living organisms. for the final refrigeration of the sun will long be postponed by the fate of the planets themselves. the separation of the planets from their parent solar mass seems to be after all but a temporary separation. so nicely balanced are they now in their orbits that they may well seem capable of rolling on in their present courses forever. but this is not the case. two sets of circumstances are all the while striving, the one to drive the planets farther away from the sun, the other to draw them all into it. on the one hand, every body in our system which contains fluid matter has tides raised upon its surface by the attraction of neighbouring bodies. all the planets raise tides upon the surface of the sun and the periodicity of sun-spots (or solar cyclones) depends upon this fact. these tidal waves act as a drag or brake upon the rotation of the sun, somewhat diminishing its rapidity. but, in conformity with a principle of mechanics well known to astronomers, though not familiar to the general reader, all the motion of rotation thus lost by the sun is added to the planets in the shape of annual motion of revolution, and thus their orbits all tend to enlarge,--they all tend to recede somewhat from the sun. but this state of things, though long-enduring enough, is after all only temporary, and will at any rate come to an end when the sun and planets have become solid. meanwhile another set of circumstances is all the time tending to bring the planets nearer to the sun, and in the long run must gain the mastery. the space through which the planets move is filled with a kind of matter which serves as a medium for the transmission of heat and light, and this kind of matter, though different in some respects from ordinary ponderable matter, is yet like it in exerting friction. this friction is almost infinitely little, yet it has a wellnigh infinite length of time to work in, and during all this wellnigh infinite length of time it is slowly eating up the momentum of the planets and diminishing their ability to maintain their distances from the sun. hence in course of time the planets will all fall into the sun, one after another, so that the solar system will end, as it began, by consisting of a single mass of matter. but this is by no means the end of the story. when two bodies rush together, each parts with some of its energy of motion, and this lost energy of motion reappears as heat. in the concussion of two cosmical bodies, like the sun and the earth, an enormous quantity of motion is thus converted into heat. now heat, when not allowed to radiate, or when generated faster than it can be radiated, is transformed into motion of expansion. hence the shock of sun and planet would at once result in the vaporization of both bodies; and there can be no doubt that by the time the sun has absorbed the outermost of his attendant planets, he will have resumed something like his original nebulous condition. he will have been dilated into a huge mass of vapour, and will have become fit for a new process of contraction and for a new production of life-bearing planets. we are now, however, confronted by an interesting but difficult question. throughout all this grand past and future career of the solar system which we have just briefly traced, we have been witnessing a most prodigal dissipation of energy in the shape of radiant heat. at the outset we had an enormous quantity of what is called "energy of position," that is, the outer parts of our primitive nebula had a very long distance through which to travel towards one another in the slow process of concentration; and this distance was the measure of the quantity of work possible to our system. as the particles of our nebula drew nearer and nearer together, the energy of position continually lost reappeared continually as heat, of which the greater part was radiated off, but of which a certain amount was retained. all the gigantic amount of work achieved in the geologic development of our earth and its companion planets, and in the development of life wherever life may exist in our system, has been the product of this retained heat. at the present day the same wasteful process is going on. each moment the sun's particles are losing energy of position as they draw closer and closer together, and the heat into which this lost energy is metamorphosed is poured out most prodigally in every direction. let us consider for a moment how little of it gets used in our system. the earth's orbit is a nearly circular figure more than five hundred million miles in circumference, while only eight thousand miles of this path are at any one time occupied by the earth's mass. through these eight thousand miles the sun's radiated energy is doing work, but through the remainder of the five hundred million it is idle and wasted. but the case is far more striking when we reflect that it is not in the plane of the earth's orbit only that the sun's radiance is being poured out. it is not an affair of a circle, but of a sphere. in order to utilize all the solar rays, we should need to have an immense number of earths arranged so as to touch each other, forming a hollow sphere around the sun, with the present radius of the earth's orbit. we may well believe professor tyndall, therefore, when he tells us that all the solar radiance we receive is less than a two-billionth part of what is sent flying through the desert regions of space. some of the immense residue of course hits other planets stationed in the way of it, and is utilized upon their surfaces; but the planets, all put together, stop so little of the total quantity that our startling illustration is not materially altered by taking them into the account. now this two-billionth part of the solar radiance poured out from moment to moment suffices to blow every wind, to raise every cloud, to drive every engine, to build up the tissue of every plant, to sustain the activity of every animal, including man, upon the surface of our vast and stately globe. considering the wondrous richness and variety of the terrestrial life wrought out by the few sunbeams which we catch in our career through space, we may well pause overwhelmed and stupefied at the thought of the incalculable possibilities of existence which are thrown away with the potent actinism that darts unceasingly into the unfathomed abysms of immensity. where it goes to or what becomes of it, no one of us can surmise. now when, in the remote future, our sun is reduced to vapour by the impact of the several planets upon his surface, the resulting nebulous mass must be a very insignificant affair compared with the nebulous mass with which we started. in order to make a second nebula equal in size and potential energy to the first one, all the energy of position at first existing should have been retained in some form or other. but nearly all of it has been lost, and only an insignificant fraction remains with which to endow a new system. in order to reproduce, in future ages, anything like that cosmical development which is now going on in the solar system, aid must be sought from without. we must endeavour to frame some valid hypothesis as to the relation of our solar system to other systems. thus far our view has been confined to the career of a single star,--our sun,--with the tiny, easily-cooling balls which it has cast off in the course of its development. thus far, too, our inferences have been very secure, for we have been dealing with a circumscribed group of phenomena, the beginning and end of which have been brought pretty well within the compass of our imagination. it is quite another thing to deal with the actual or probable career of the stars in general, inasmuch as we do not even know how many stars there are, which form parts of a common system, or what are their precise dynamic relations to one another. nevertheless we have knowledge of a few facts which may support some cautious inferences. all the stars which we can see are undoubtedly bound together by relations of gravitation. no doubt our sun attracts all the other stars within our ken, and is reciprocally attracted by them. the stars, too, lie mostly in or around one great plane, as is the case with the members of the solar system. moreover, the stars are shown by the spectroscope to consist of chemical elements identical with those which are found in the solar system. such facts as these make it probable that the career of other stars, when adequately inquired into, would be found to be like that of our own sun. observation daily enhances this probability, for our study of the sidereal universe is continually showing us stars in all stages of development. we find irregular nebulae, for example; we find spiral and spheroidal nebulae; we find stars which have got beyond the nebulous stage, but are still at a whiter heat than our sun; and we also find many stars which yield the same sort of spectrum as our sun. the inference seems forced upon us that the same process of concentration which has gone on in the case of our solar nebula has been going on in the case of other nebulae. the history of the sun is but a type of the history of stars in general. and when we consider that all other visible stars and nebulae are cooling and contracting bodies, like our sun, to what other conclusion could we very well come? when we look at sirius, for instance, we do not see him surrounded by planets, for at such a distance no planet could be visible, even sirius himself, though fourteen times larger than our sun, appearing only as a "twinkling little star." but a comparative survey of the heavens assures us that sirius can hardly have arrived at his present stage of concentration without detaching, planet-forming rings, for there is no reason for supposing that mechanical laws out there are at all different from what they are in our own system. and the same kind of inference must apply to all the matured stars which we see in the heavens. when we duly take all these things into the account, the case of our solar system will appear as only one of a thousand cases of evolution and dissolution with which the heavens furnish us. other stars, like our sun, have undoubtedly started as vaporous masses, and have thrown off planets in contracting. the inference may seem a bold one, but it after all involves no other assumption than that of the continuity of natural phenomena. it is not likely, therefore, that the solar system will forever be left to itself. stars which strongly gravitate toward each other, while moving through a perennially resisting medium, must in time be drawn together. the collision of our extinct sun with one of the pleiades, after this manner, would very likely suffice to generate even a grander nebula than the one with which we started. possibly the entire galactic system may, in an inconceivably remote future, remodel itself in this way; and possibly the nebula from which our own group of planets has been formed may have owed its origin to the disintegration of systems which had accomplished their career in the depths of the bygone eternity. when the problem is extended to these huge dimensions, the prospect of an ultimate cessation of cosmical work is indefinitely postponed, but at the same time it becomes impossible for us to deal very securely with the questions we have raised. the magnitudes and periods we have introduced are so nearly infinite as to baffle speculation itself: one point, however, we seem dimly to discern. supposing the stellar universe not to be absolutely infinite in extent, we may hold that the day of doom, so often postponed, must come at last. the concentration of matter and dissipation of energy, so often checked, must in the end prevail, so that, as the final outcome of things, the entire universe will be reduced to a single enormous ball, dead and frozen, solid and black, its potential energy of motion having been all transformed into heat and radiated away. such a conclusion has been suggested by sir william thomson, and it is quite forcibly stated by the authors of "the unseen universe." they remind us that "if there be any one form of energy less readily or less completely transformable than the others, and if transformations constantly go on, more and more of the whole energy of the universe will inevitably sink into this lower grade as time advances." now radiant heat, as we have seen, is such a lower grade of energy. "at each transformation of heat-energy into work, a large portion is degraded, while only a small portion is transformed into work. so that while it is very easy to change all of our mechanical or useful energy into heat, it is only possible to transform a portion of this heat-energy back again into work. after each change, too, the heat becomes more and more dissipated or degraded, and less and less available for any future transformation. in other words," our authors continue, "the tendency of heat is towards equalization; heat is par excellence the communist of our universe, and it will no doubt ultimately bring the system to an end..... it is absolutely certain that life, so far as it is physical, depends essentially upon transformations of energy; it is also absolutely certain that age after age the possibility of such transformations is becoming less and less; and, so far as we yet know, the final state of the present universe must be an aggregation (into one mass) of all the matter it contains, i. e. the potential energy gone, and a practically useless state of kinetic energy, i. e. uniform temperature throughout that mass." thus our authors conclude that the visible universe began in time and will in time come to an end; and they add that under the physical conditions of such a universe "immortality is impossible." concerning the latter inference we shall by and by have something to say. meanwhile this whole speculation as to the final cessation of cosmical work seems to me--as it does to my friend, professor clifford [ ]--by no means trustworthy. the conditions of the problem so far transcend our grasp that any such speculation must remain an unverifiable guess. i do not go with professor clifford in doubting whether the laws of mechanics are absolutely the same throughout eternity; i cannot quite reconcile such a doubt with faith in the principle of continuity. but it does seem to me needful, before we conclude that radiated energy is absolutely and forever wasted, that we should find out what becomes of it. what we call radiant heat is simply transverse wave-motion, propagated with enormous velocity through an ocean of subtle ethereal matter which bathes the atoms of all visible or palpable bodies and fills the whole of space, extending beyond the remotest star which the telescope can reach. whether there are any bounds at all to this ethereal ocean, or whether it is as infinite as space itself, we cannot surmise. if it be limited, the possible dispersion of radiant energy is limited by its extent. heat and light cannot travel through emptiness. if the ether is bounded by surrounding emptiness, then a ray of heat, on arriving at this limiting emptiness, would be reflected back as surely as a ball is sent back when thrown against a solid wall. if this be the case, it will not affect our conclusions concerning such a tiny region of space as is occupied by the solar system, but it will seriously modify sir william thomson's suggestion as to the fate of the universe as a whole. the radiance thrown away by the sun is indeed lost so far as the future of our system is concerned, but not a single unit of it is lost from the universe. sooner or later, reflected back in all directions, it must do work in one quarter or another, so that ultimate stagnation be comes impossible. it is true that no such return of radiant energy has been detected in our corner of the world; but we have not yet so far disentangled all the force-relations of the universe that we are entitled to regard such a return as impossible. this is one way of escape from the consummation of things depicted by our authors. another way of escape is equally available, if we suppose that while the ether is without bounds the stellar universe also extends to infinity. for in this case the reproduction of nebulous masses fit for generating new systems of worlds must go on through space that is endless, and consequently the process can never come to an end and can never have had a beginning. we have, therefore, three alternatives: either the visible universe is finite, while the ether is infinite; or both are finite; or both are infinite. only on the first supposition, i think, do we get a universe which began in time and must end in time. between such stupendous alternatives we have no grounds for choosing. but it would seem that the third, whether strictly true or not, best represents the state of the case relatively to our feeble capacity of comprehension. whether absolutely infinite or not, the dimensions of the universe must be taken as practically infinite, so far as human thought is concerned. they immeasurably transcend the capabilities of any gauge we can bring to bear on them. accordingly all that we are really entitled to hold, as the outcome of sound speculation, is the conception of innumerable systems of worlds concentrating out of nebulous masses, and then rushing together and dissolving into similar masses, as bubbles unite and break up--now here, now there--in their play on the surface of a pool, and to this tremendous series of events we can assign neither a beginning nor an end. [ ] fortnightly review, april, . we must now make some more explicit mention of the ether which carries through space the rays of heat and light. in closest connection with the visible stellar universe, the vicissitudes of which we have briefly traced, the all-pervading ether constitutes a sort of unseen world remarkable enough from any point of view, but to which the theory of our authors ascribes capacities hitherto unsuspected by science. the very existence of an ocean of ether enveloping the molecules of material bodies has been doubted or denied by many eminent physicists, though of course none have called in question the necessity for some interstellar medium for the transmission of thermal and luminous vibrations. this scepticism has been, i think, partially justified by the many difficulties encompassing the conception, into which, however, we need not here enter. that light and heat cannot be conveyed by any of the ordinary sensible forms of matter is unquestionable. none of the forms of sensible matter can be imagined sufficiently elastic to propagate wave-motion at the rate of one hundred and eighty-eight thousand miles per second. yet a ray of light is a series of waves, and implies some substance in which the waves occur. the substance required is one which seems to possess strangely contradictory properties. it is commonly regarded as an "ether" or infinitely rare substance; but, as professor jevons observes, we might as well regard it as an infinitely solid "adamant." "sir john herschel has calculated the amount of force which may be supposed, according to the undulatory theory of light, to be exerted at each point in space, and finds it to be , , , , times the elastic force of ordinary air at the earth's surface, so that the pressure of the ether upon a square inch of surface must be about , , , , , or seventeen billions of pounds." [ ] yet at the same time the resistance offered by the ether to the planetary motions is too minute to be appreciable. "all our ordinary notions," says professor jevons, "must be laid aside in contemplating such an hypothesis; yet [it is] no more than the observed phenomena of light and heat force us to accept. we cannot deny even the strange suggestion of dr. young, that there may be independent worlds, some possibly existing in different parts of space, but others perhaps pervading each other, unseen and unknown, in the same space. for if we are bound to admit the conception of this adamantine firmament, it is equally easy to admit a plurality of such." [ ] jevons's principles of science, vol. ii. p. . the figures, which in the english system of numeration read as seventeen billions, would in the american system read as seventeen trillions. the ether, therefore, is unlike any of the forms of matter which we can weigh and measure. in some respects it resembles a fluid, in some respects a solid. it is both hard and elastic to an almost inconceivable degree. it fills all material bodies like a sea in which the atoms of the material bodies are as islands, and it occupies the whole of what we call empty space. it is so sensitive that a disturbance in any part of it causes a "tremour which is felt on the surface of countless worlds." our old experiences of matter give us no account of any substance like this; yet the undulatory theory of light obliges us to admit such a substance, and that theory is as well established as the theory of gravitation. obviously we have here an enlargement of our experience of matter. the analysis of the phenomena of light and radiant heat has brought us into mental relations with matter in a different state from any in which we previously knew it. for the supposition that the ether may be something essentially different from matter is contradicted by all the terms we have used in describing it. strange and contradictory as its properties may seem, are they any more strange than the properties of a gas would seem if we were for the first time to discover a gas after heretofore knowing nothing but solids and liquids? i think not; and the conclusion implied by our authors seems to me eminently probable, that in the so-called ether we have simply a state of matter more primitive than what we know as the gaseous state. indeed, the conceptions of matter now current, and inherited from barbarous ages, are likely enough to be crude in the extreme. it is not strange that the study of such subtle agencies as heat and light should oblige us to modify them; and it will not be strange if the study of electricity should entail still further revision of our ideas. we are now brought to one of the profoundest speculations of modern times, the vortex-atom theory of helmholtz and thomson, in which the evolution of ordinary matter from ether is plainly indicated. the reader first needs to know what vortex-motion is; and this has been so beautifully explained by professor clifford, that i quote his description entire: "imagine a ring of india-rubber, made by joining together the ends of a cylindrical piece (like a lead-pencil before it is cut), to be put upon a round stick which it will just fit with a little stretching. let the stick be now pulled through the ring while the latter is kept in its place by being pulled the other way on the outside. the india-rubber has then what is called vortex-motion. before the ends were joined together, while it was straight, it might have been made to turn around without changing position, by rolling it between the hands. just the same motion of rotation it has on the stick, only that the ends are now joined together. all the inside surface of the ring is going one way, namely, the way the stick is pulled; and all the outside is going the other way. such a vortex-ring is made by the smoker who purses his lips into a round hole and sends out a puff of smoke. the outside of the ring is kept back by the friction of his lips while the inside is going forwards; thus a rotation is set up all round the smoke-ring as it travels out into the air." in these cases, and in others as we commonly find it, vortex-motion owes its origin to friction and is after a while brought to an end by friction. but in the equations of motion of an incompressible frictionless fluid were first successfully solved by helmholtz, and among other things he proved that, though vortex-motion could not be originated in such a fluid, yet supposing it once to exist, it would exist to all eternity and could not be diminished by any mechanical action whatever. a vortex-ring, for example, in such a fluid, would forever preserve its own rotation, and would thus forever retain its peculiar individuality, being, as it were, marked off from its neighbour vortex-rings. upon this mechanical truth sir william thomson based his wonderfully suggestive theory of the constitution of matter. that which is permanent or indestructible in matter is the ultimate homogeneous atom; and this is probably all that is permanent, since chemists now almost unanimously hold that so-called elementary molecules are not really simple, but owe their sensible differences to the various groupings of an ultimate atom which is alike for all. relatively to our powers of comprehension the atom endures eternally; that is, it retains forever unalterable its definite mass and its definite rate of vibration. now this is just what a vortex-ring would do in an incompressible frictionless fluid. thus the startling question is suggested, why may not the ultimate atoms of matter be vortex-rings forever existing in such a frictionless fluid filling the whole of space? such a hypothesis is not less brilliant than huyghens's conjectural identification of light with undulatory motion; and it is moreover a legitimate hypothesis, since it can be brought to the test of verification. sir william thomson has shown that it explains a great many of the physical properties of matter: it remains to be seen whether it can explain them all. of course the ether which conveys thermal and luminous undulations is not the frictionless fluid postulated by sir william thomson. the most conspicuous property of the ether is its enormous elasticity, a property which we should not find in a frictionless fluid. "to account for such elasticity," says professor clifford (whose exposition of the subject is still more lucid than that of our authors), "it has to be supposed that even where there are no material molecules the universal fluid is full of vortex-motion, but that the vortices are smaller and more closely packed than those of [ordinary] matter, forming altogether a more finely grained structure. so that the difference between matter and ether is reduced to a mere difference in the size and arrangement of the component vortex-rings. now, whatever may turn out to be the ultimate nature of the ether and of molecules, we know that to some extent at least they obey the same dynamic laws, and that they act upon one another in accordance with these laws. until, therefore, it is absolutely disproved, it must remain the simplest and most probable assumption that they are finally made of the same stuff, that the material molecule is some kind of knot or coagulation of ether." [ ] [ ] fortnightly review, june, , p. . another interesting consequence of sir william thomson's pregnant hypothesis is that the absolute hardness which has been attributed to material atoms from the time of lucretius downward may be dispensed with. somewhat in the same way that a loosely suspended chain becomes rigid with rapid rotation, the hardness and elasticity of the vortex-atom are explained as due to the swift rotary motion of a soft and yielding fluid. so that the vortex-atom is really indivisible, not by reason of its hardness or solidity, but by reason of the indestructibleness of its motion. supposing, now, that we adopt provisionally the vortex theory,--the great power of which is well shown by the consideration just mentioned,--we must not forget that it is absolutely essential to the indestructibleness of the material atom that the universal fluid in which it has an existence as a vortex-ring should be entirely destitute of friction. once admit even the most infinitesimal amount of friction, while retaining the conception of vortex-motion in a universal fluid, and the whole case is so far altered that the material atom can no longer be regarded as absolutely indestructible, but only as indefinitely enduring. it may have been generated, in bygone eternity, by a natural process of evolution, and in future eternity may come to an end. relatively to our powers of comprehension the practical difference is perhaps not great. scientifically speaking, helmholtz and thomson are as well entitled to reason upon the assumption of a perfectly frictionless fluid as geometers in general are entitled to assume perfect lines without breadth and perfect surfaces without thickness. perfect lines and surfaces do not exist within the region of our experience; yet the conclusions of geometry are none the less true ideally, though in any particular concrete instance they are only approximately realized. just so with the conception of a frictionless fluid. so far as experience goes, such a thing has no more real existence than a line without breadth; and hence an atomic theory based upon such an assumption may be as true ideally as any of the theorems of euclid, but it can give only an approximatively true account of the actual universe. these considerations do not at all affect the scientific value of the theory; but they will modify the tenour of such transcendental inferences as may be drawn from it regarding, the probable origin and destiny of the universe. the conclusions reached in the first part of this paper, while we were dealing only with gross visible matter, may have seemed bold enough; but they are far surpassed by the inference which our authors draw from the vortex theory as they interpret it. our authors exhibit various reasons, more or less sound, for attributing to the primordial fluid some slight amount of friction; and in support of this view they adduce le sage's explanation of gravitation as a differential result of pressure, and struve's theory of the partial absorption of light-rays by the ether,--questions with which our present purpose does not require us to meddle. apart from such questions it is every way probable that the primary assumption of helmholtz and thomson is only an approximation to the truth. but if we accredit the primordial fluid with even an infinitesimal amount of friction, then we are required to conceive of the visible universe as developed from the invisible and as destined to return into the invisible. the vortex-atom, produced by infinitesimal friction operating through wellnigh infinite time, is to be ultimately abolished by the agency which produced it. in the words of our authors, "if the visible universe be developed from an invisible which is not a perfect fluid, then the argument deduced by sir william thomson in favour of the eternity of ordinary matter disappears, since this eternity depends upon the perfect fluidity of the invisible. in fine, if we suppose the material universe to be composed of a series of vortex-rings developed from an invisible universe which is not a perfect fluid, it will be ephemeral, just as the smoke-ring which we develop from air, or that which we develop from water, is ephemeral, the only difference being in duration, these lasting only for a few seconds, and the others it may be for billions of years." thus, as our authors suppose that "the available energy of the visible universe will ultimately be appropriated by the invisible," they go on to imagine, "at least as a possibility, that the separate existence of the visible universe will share the same fate, so that we shall have no huge, useless, inert mass existing in after ages to remind the passer-by of a form of energy and a species of matter that is long since out of date and functionally effete. why should not the universe bury its dead out of sight?" in one respect perhaps no more stupendous subject of contemplation than this has ever been offered to the mind of man. in comparison with the length of time thus required to efface the tiny individual atom, the entire cosmical career of our solar system, or even that of the whole starry galaxy, shrinks into utter nothingness. whether we shall adopt the conclusion suggested must depend on the extent of our speculative audacity. we have seen wherein its probability consists, but in reasoning upon such a scale we may fitly be cautious and modest in accepting inferences, and our authors, we may be sure, would be the first to recommend such modesty and caution. even at the dimensions to which our theorizing has here grown, we may for instance discern the possible alternative of a simultaneous or rhythmically successive generation and destruction of vortex-atoms which would go far to modify the conclusion just suggested. but here we must pause for a moment, reserving for a second paper the weightier thoughts as to futurity which our authors have sought to enwrap in these sublime physical speculations. part second. up to this point, however remote from ordinary every-day thoughts may be the region of speculation which we have been called upon to traverse, we have still kept within the limits of legitimate scientific hypothesis. though we have ventured for a goodly distance into the unknown, we have not yet been required to abandon our base of operations in the known. of the views presented in the preceding paper, some are wellnigh certainly established, some are probable, some have a sort of plausibility, others--to which we have refrained from giving assent--may possibly be true; but none are irretrievably beyond the jurisdiction of scientific tests. no suggestion has so far been broached which a very little further increase of our scientific knowledge may not show to be either eminently probable or eminently improbable. we have kept pretty clear of mere subjective guesses, such as men may wrangle about forever without coming to any conclusion. the theory of the nebular origin of our planetary system has come to command the assent of all persons qualified to appreciate the evidence on which it is based; and the more immediate conclusions which we have drawn from that theory are only such as are commonly drawn by astronomers and physicists. the doctrine of an intermolecular and interstellar ether is wrapped up in the well-established undulatory theory of light. such is by no means the case with sir william thomson's vortex-atom theory, which to-day is in somewhat the same condition as the undulatory theory of huyghens two centuries ago. this, however, is none the less a hypothesis truly scientific in conception, and in the speculations to which it leads us we are still sure of dealing with views that admit at least of definite expression and treatment. in other words, though our study of the visible universe has led us to the recognition of a kind of unseen world underlying the world of things that are seen, yet concerning the economy of this unseen world we have not been led to entertain any hypothesis that has not its possible justification in our experiences of visible phenomena. we are now called upon, following in the wake of our esteemed authors, to venture on a different sort of exploration, in which we must cut loose altogether from our moorings in the world of which we have definite experience. we are invited to entertain suggestions concerning the peculiar economy of the invisible portion of the universe which we have no means of subjecting to any sort of test of probability, either experimental or deductive. these suggestions are, therefore, not to be regarded as properly scientific; but, with this word of caution, we may proceed to show what they are. compared with the life and death of cosmical systems which we have heretofore contemplated, the life and death of individuals of the human race may perhaps seem a small matter; yet because we are ourselves the men who live and die, the small event is of vastly greater interest to us than the grand series of events of which it is part and parcel. it is natural that we should be more interested in the ultimate fate of humanity than in the fate of a world which is of no account to us save as our present dwelling-place. whether the human soul is to come to an end or not is to us a more important question than whether the visible universe, with its matter and energy, is to be absorbed in an invisible ether. it is indeed only because we are interested in the former question that we are so curious about the latter. if we could dissociate ourselves from the material universe, our habitat, we should probably speculate much less about its past and future. we care very little what becomes of the black ball of the earth, after all life has vanished from its surface; or, if we care at all about it, it is only because our thoughts about the career of the earth are necessarily mixed up with our thoughts about life. hence in considering the probable ultimate destiny of the physical universe, our innermost purpose must be to know what is to become of all this rich and wonderful life of which the physical universe is the theatre. has it all been developed, apparently at almost infinite waste of effort, only to be abolished again before it has attained to completeness, or does it contain or shelter some indestructible element which having drawn sustenance for a while from the senseless turmoil of physical phenomena shall still survive their final decay? this question is closely connected with the time-honoured question of the meaning, purpose, or tendency of the world. in the career of the world is life an end, or a means toward an end, or only an incidental phenomenon in which we can discover no meaning? contemporary theologians seem generally to believe that one necessary result of modern scientific inquiry must be the destruction of the belief in immortal life, since against every thoroughgoing expounder of scientific knowledge they seek to hurl the charge of "materialism." their doubts, however, are not shared by our authors, thorough men of science as they are, though their mode of dealing with the question may not be such as we can well adopt. while upholding the doctrine of evolution, and all the so-called "materialistic" views of modern science, they not only regard the hypothesis of a future life as admissible, but they even go so far as to propound a physical theory as to the nature of existence after death. let us see what this physical theory is. as far as the visible universe is concerned, we do not find in it any evidence of immortality or of permanence of any sort, unless it be in the sum of potential and kinetic energies on the persistency of which depends our principle of continuity. in ordinary language "the stars in their courses" serve as symbols of permanence, yet we have found reason to regard them as but temporary phenomena. so, in the language of our authors, "if we take the individual man, we find that he lives his short tale of years, and that then the visible machinery which connects him with the past, as well as that which enables him to act in the present, falls into ruin and is brought to an end. if any germ or potentiality remains, it is certainly not connected with the visible order of things." in like manner our race is pretty sure to come to an end long before the destruction of the planet from which it now gets its sustenance. and in our authors opinion even the universe will by and by become "old and effete, no less truly than the individual: it is a glorious garment this visible universe, but not an immortal one; we must look elsewhere if we are to be clothed with immortality as with a garment." it is at this point that our authors call attention to "the apparently wasteful character of the arrangements of the visible universe." the fact is one which we have already sufficiently described, but we shall do well to quote the words in which our authors recur to it: "all but a very small portion of the sun's heat goes day by day into what we call empty space, and it is only this very small remainder that is made use of by the various planets for purposes of their own. can anything be more perplexing than this seemingly frightful expenditure of the very life and essence of the system? that this vast store of high-class energy should be doing nothing but travelling outwards in space at the rate of , miles per second is hardly conceivable, especially when the result of it is the inevitable destruction of the visible universe." pursuing this teleological argument, it is suggested that perhaps this apparent waste of energy is "only an arrangement in virtue of which our universe keeps up a memory of the past at the expense of the present, inasmuch as all memory consists in an investiture of present resources in order to keep a hold upon the past." recourse is had to the ingenious argument in which mr. babbage showed that "if we had power to follow and detect the minutest effects of any disturbance, each particle of existing matter must be a register of all that has happened. the track of every canoe, of every vessel that has yet disturbed the surface of the ocean, whether impelled by manual force or elemental power, remains forever registered in the future movement of all succeeding particles which may occupy its place. the furrow which is left is, indeed, instantly filled up by the closing waters; but they draw after them other and larger portions of the surrounding element, and these again, once moved, communicate motion to others in endless succession." in like manner, "the air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are forever written all that man has ever said or even whispered. there in their mutable but unerring characters, mixed with the earliest as well as the latest sighs of mortality, stand forever recorded vows unredeemed, promises unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united movements of each particle the testimony of man's changeful will." [ ] in some such way as this, records of every movement that takes place in the world are each moment transmitted, with the speed of light, through the invisible ocean of ether with which the world is surrounded. even the molecular displacements which occur in our brains when we feel and think are thus propagated in their effects into the unseen world. the world of ether is thus regarded by our authors as in some sort the obverse or complement of the world of sensible matter, so that whatever energy is dissipated in the one is by the same act accumulated in the other. it is like the negative plate in photography, where light answers to shadow and shadow to light. or, still better, it is like the case of an equation in which whatever quantity you take from one side is added to the other with a contrary sign, while the relation of equality remains undisturbed. thus, it will be noticed, from the ingenious and subtle, but quite defensible suggestion of mr. babbage, a leap is made to an assumption which cannot be defended scientifically, but only teleologically. it is one thing to say that every movement in the visible world transmits a record of itself to the surrounding ether, in such a way that from the undulation of the ether a sufficiently powerful intelligence might infer the character of the generating movement in the visible world. it is quite another thing to say that the ether is organized in such a complex and delicate way as to be like a negative image or counterpart of the world of sensible matter. the latter view is no doubt ingenious, but it is gratuitous. it is sustained not by scientific analogy, but by the desire to find some assignable use for the energy which is constantly escaping from visible matter into invisible ether. the moment we ask how do we know that this energy is not really wasted, or that it is not put to some use wholly undiscoverable by human intelligence, this assumption of an organized ether is at once seen to be groundless. it belongs not to the region of science, but to that of pure mythology. [ ] babbage, ninth bridgewater treatise, p. ; jevons, principles of science, vol. ii. p. . in justice to our authors, however, it should be remembered that this assumption is put forth not as something scientifically probable, but as something which for aught we know to the contrary may possibly be true. this, to be sure, we need not deny; nor if we once allow this prodigious leap of inference, shall we find much difficulty in reaching the famous conclusion that "thought conceived to affect the matter of another universe simultaneously with this may explain a future state." this proposition, quaintly couched in an anagram, like the discoveries of old astronomers, was published last year in "nature," as containing the gist of the forthcoming book. on the negative-image hypothesis it is not hard to see how thought is conceived to affect the seen and the unseen worlds simultaneously. every act of consciousness is accompanied by molecular displacements in the brain, and these are of course responded to by movements in the ethereal world. thus as a series of conscious states build up a continuous memory in strict accordance with physical laws of motion, [ ] so a correlative memory is simultaneously built up in the ethereal world out of the ethereal correlatives of the molecular displacements which go on in our brains. and as there is a continual transfer of energy from the visible world to the ether, the extinction of vital energy which we call death must coincide in some way with the awakening of vital energy in the correlative world; so that the darkening of consciousness here is coincident with its dawning there. in this way death is for the individual but a transfer from one physical state of existence to another; and so, on the largest scale, the death or final loss of energy by the whole visible universe has its counterpart in the acquirement of a maximum of life by the correlative unseen world. there seems to be a certain sort of rigorous logical consistency in this daring speculation; but really the propositions of which it consists are so far from answering to anything within the domain of human experience that we are unable to tell whether any one of them logically follows from its predecessor or not. it is evident that we are quite out of the region of scientific tests, and to whatever view our authors may urge we can only languidly assent that it is out of our power to disprove it. [ ] see my outlines of cosmic philosophy, vol. ii. pp. - . the essential weakness of such a theory as this lies in the fact that it is thoroughly materialistic in character. it is currently assumed that the doctrine of a life after death cannot be defended on materialistic grounds, but this is altogether too hasty an assumption. our authors, indeed, are not philosophical materialists, like dr. priestley,--who nevertheless believed in a future life,--but one of the primary doctrines of materialism lies at the bottom of their argument. materialism holds for one thing that consciousness is a product of a peculiar organization of matter, and for another thing that consciousness cannot survive the disorganization of the material body with which it is associated. as held by philosophical materialists, like buchner and moleschott, these two opinions are strictly consistent with each other; nay, the latter seems to be the inevitable inference from the former, though priestley did not so regard it. now our authors very properly refuse to commit themselves to the opinion that mind is the product of matter, but their argument nevertheless implies that some sort of material vehicle is necessary for the continuance of mind in a future state of existence. this material vehicle they seek to supply in the theory which connects by invisible bonds of transmitted energy the perishable material body with its counterpart in the world of ether. the materialism of the argument is indeed partly veiled by the terminology in which this counterpart is called a "spiritual body," but in this novel use or abuse of scriptural language there seems to me to be a strange confusion of ideas. bear in mind that the "invisible universe" into which energy is constantly passing is simply the luminiferous ether, which our authors, to suit the requirements of their hypothesis, have gratuitously endowed with a complexity and variety of structure analogous to that of the visible world of matter. their language is not always quite so precise as one could desire, for while they sometimes speak of the ether itself as the "unseen universe," they sometimes allude to a primordial medium yet subtler in constitution and presumably more immaterial. herein lies the confusion. why should the luminiferous ether, or any primordial medium in which it may have been generated, be regarded as in any way "spiritual"? great physicists, like less trained thinkers, are sometimes liable to be unconsciously influenced by old associations of ideas which, ostensibly repudiated, still lurk under cover of the words we use. i fear that the old associations which led the ancients to describe the soul as a breath or a shadow, and which account for the etymologies of such words as "ghost" and "spirit," have had something to do with this spiritualization of the interstellar ether. some share may also have been contributed by the platonic notion of the "grossness" or "bruteness" of tangible matter,--a notion which has survived in christian theology, and which educated men of the present day have by no means universally outgrown. save for some such old associations as these, why should it be supposed that matter becomes "spriritualized" as it diminishes in apparent substantiality? why should matter be pronounced respectable in the inverse ratio of its density or ponderability? why is a diamond any more chargeable with "grossness" than a cubic centimetre of hydrogen? obviously such fancies are purely of mythologic parentage. now the luminiferous ether, upon which our authors make such extensive demands, may be physically "ethereal" enough, in spite of the enormous elasticity which leads professor jevons to characterize it as "adamantine"; but most assuredly we have not the slightest reason for speaking of it as "immaterial" or "spiritual." though we are unable to weigh it in the balance, we at least know it as a transmitter of undulatory movements, the size and shape of which we can accurately measure. its force-relations with ponderable matter are not only universally and incessantly maintained, but they have that precisely quantitative character which implies an essential identity between the innermost natures of the two substances. we have seen reason for thinking it probable that ether and ordinary matter are alike composed of vortex-rings in a quasi-frictionless fluid; but whatever be the fate of this subtle hypothesis, we may be sure that no theory will ever be entertained in which the analysis of ether shall require different symbols from that of ordinary matter. in our authors' theory, therefore, the putting on of immortality is in no wise the passage from a material to a spiritual state. it is the passage from one kind of materially conditioned state to another. the theory thus appeals directly to our experiences of the behaviour of matter; and in deriving so little support as it does from these experiences, it remains an essentially weak speculation, whatever we may think of its ingenuity. for so long as we are asked to accept conclusions drawn from our experiences of the material world, we are justified in demanding something more than mere unconditioned possibility. we require some positive evidence, be it ever so little in amount; and no theory which cannot furnish such positive evidence is likely to carry to our minds much practical conviction. this is what i meant by saying that the great weakness of the hypothesis here criticized lies in its materialistic character. in contrast with this we shall presently see that the assertion of a future life which is not materially conditioned, though unsupported by any item of experience whatever, may nevertheless be an impregnable assertion. but first i would conclude the foregoing criticism by ruling out altogether the sense in which our authors use the expression "unseen universe." scientific inference, however remote, is connected by such insensible gradations with ordinary perception, that one may well question the propriety of applying the term "unseen" to that which is presented to "the mind's eye" as inevitable matter of inference. it is true that we cannot see the ocean of ether in which visible matter floats; but there are many other invisible things which yet we do not regard as part of the "unseen world." i do not see the air which i am now breathing within the four walls of my study, yet its existence is sufficiently a matter of sense-perception as it fills my lungs and fans my cheek. the atoms which compose a drop of water are not only invisible, but cannot in any way be made the objects of sense-perception; yet by proper inferences from their behaviour we can single them out for measurement, so that sir william thomson can tell us that if the drop of water were magnified to the size of the earth, the constituent atoms would be larger than peas, but not so large as billiard-balls. if we do not see such atoms with our eyes, we have one adequate reason in their tiny dimensions, though there are further reasons than this. it would be hard to say why the luminiferous ether should be relegated to the "unseen world" any more than the material atom. whatever we know as possessing resistance and extension, whatever we can subject to mathematical processes of measurement, we also conceive as existing in such shape that, with appropriate eyes and under proper visual conditions, we might see it, and we are not entitled to draw any line of demarcation between such an object of inference and others which may be made objects of sense-perception. to set apart the ether as constituting an "unseen universe" is therefore illegitimate and confusing. it introduces a distinction where there is none, and obscures the fact that both invisible ether and visible matter form but one grand universe in which the sum of energy remains constant, though the order of its distribution endlessly varies. very different would be the logical position of a theory which should assume the existence of an "unseen world" entirely spiritual in constitution, and in which material conditions like those of the visible world should have neither place nor meaning. such a world would not consist of ethers or gases or ghosts, but of purely psychical relations akin to such as constitute thoughts and feelings when our minds are least solicited by sense-perceptions. in thus marking off the "unseen world" from the objective universe of which we have knowledge, our line of demarcation would at least be drawn in the right place. the distinction between psychical and material phenomena is a distinction of a different order from all other distinctions known to philosophy, and it immeasurably transcends all others. the progress of modern discovery has in no respect weakened the force of descartes's remark, that between that of which the differential attribute is thought and that of which the differential attribute is extension, there can be no similarity, no community of nature whatever. by no scientific cunning of experiment or deduction can thought be weighed or measured or in any way assimilated to such things as may be made the actual or possible objects of sense-perception. modern discovery, so far from bridging over the chasm between mind and matter, tends rather to exhibit the distinction between them as absolute. it has, indeed, been rendered highly probable that every act of consciousness is accompanied by a molecular motion in the cells and fibres of the brain; and materialists have found great comfort in this fact, while theologians and persons of little faith have been very much frightened by it. but since no one ever pretended that thought can go on, under the conditions of the present life, without a brain, one finds it rather hard to sympathize either with the self-congratulations of dr. buchner's disciples [ ] or with the terrors of their opponents. but what has been less commonly remarked is the fact that when the thought and the molecular movement thus occur simultaneously, in no scientific sense is the thought the product of the molecular movement. the sun-derived energy of motion latent in the food we eat is variously transformed within the organism, until some of it appears as the motion of the molecules of a little globule of nerve-matter in the brain. in a rough way we might thus say that the chemical energy of the food indirectly produces the motion of these little nerve-molecules. but does this motion of nerve-molecules now produce a thought or state of consciousness? by no means. it simply produces some other motion of nerve-molecules, and this in turn produces motion of contraction or expansion in some muscle, or becomes transformed into the chemical energy of some secreting gland. at no point in the whole circuit does a unit of motion disappear as motion to reappear as a unit of consciousness. the physical process is complete in itself, and the thought does not enter into it. all that we can say is, that the occurrence of the thought is simultaneous with that part of the physical process which consists of a molecular movement in the brain. [ ] to be sure, the thought is always there when summoned, but it stands outside the dynamic circuit, as something utterly alien from and incomparable with the events which summon it. no doubt, as professor tyndall observes, if we knew exhaustively the physical state of the brain, "the corresponding thought or feeling might be inferred; or, given the thought or feeling, the corresponding state of the brain might be inferred. but how inferred? it would be at bottom not a case of logical inference at all, but of empirical association. you may reply that many of the inferences of science are of this character; the inference, for example, that an electric current of a given direction will deflect a magnetic needle in a definite way; but the cases differ in this, that the passage from the current to the needle, if not demonstrable, is thinkable, and that we entertain no doubt as to the final mechanical solution of the problem. but the passage from the physics of the brain to the corresponding facts of consciousness is unthinkable. granted that a definite thought and a definite molecular action in the brain occur simultaneously; we do not possess the intellectual organ, nor apparently any rudiment of the organ, which would enable us to pass by a process of reasoning from the one to the other. they appear together, but we do not know why." [ ] [ ] the nation once wittily described these people as "people who believe that they are going to die like the beasts, and who congratulate themselves that they are going to die like the beasts." [ ] for a fuller exposition of this point, see my outlines of cosmic philosophy, vol. ii. pp. - . [ ] fragments of science, p. . an unseen world consisting of purely psychical or spiritual phenomena would accordingly be demarcated by an absolute gulf from what we call the material universe, but would not necessarily be discontinuous with the psychical phenomena which we find manifested in connection with the world of matter. the transfer of matter, or physical energy, or anything else that is quantitatively measurable, into such an unseen world, may be set down as impossible, by reason of the very definition of such a world. any hypothesis which should assume such a transfer would involve a contradiction in terms. but the hypothesis of a survival of present psychical phenomena in such a world, after being denuded of material conditions, is not in itself absurd or self-contradictory, though it may be impossible to support it by any arguments drawn from the domain of human experience. such is the shape which it seems to me that, in the present state of philosophy, the hypothesis of a future life must assume. we have nothing to say to gross materialistic notions of ghosts and bogies, and spirits that upset tables and whisper to ignorant vulgar women the wonderful information that you once had an aunt susan. the unseen world imagined in our hypothesis is not connected with the present material universe by any such "invisible bonds" as would allow bacon and addison to come to boston and write the silliest twaddle in the most ungrammatical english before a roomful of people who have never learned how to test what they are pleased to call the "evidence of their senses." our hypothesis is expressly framed so as to exclude all intercourse whatever between the unseen world of spirit unconditioned by matter and the present world of spirit conditioned by matter in which all our experiences have been gathered. the hypothesis being framed in such a way, the question is, what has philosophy to say to it? can we, by searching our experiences, find any reason for adopting such an hypothesis? or, on the other hand, supposing we can find no such reason, would the total failure of experimental evidence justify us in rejecting it? the question is so important that i will restate it. i have imagined a world made up of psychical phenomena, freed from the material conditions under which alone we know such phenomena. can we adduce any proof of the possibility of such a world? or if we cannot, does our failure raise the slightest presumption that such a world is impossible? the reply to the first clause of the question is sufficiently obvious. we have no experience whatever of psychical phenomena save as manifested in connection with material phenomena. we know of mind only as a group of activities which are never exhibited to us except through the medium of motions of matter. in all our experience we have never encountered such activities save in connection with certain very complicated groupings of highly mobile material particles into aggregates which we call living organisms. and we have never found them manifested to a very conspicuous extent save in connection with some of those specially organized aggregates which have vertebrate skeletons and mammary glands. nay, more, when we survey the net results of our experience up to the present time, we find indisputable evidence that in the past history of the visible universe psychical phenomena have only begun to be manifested in connection with certain complex aggregates of material phenomena. as these material aggregates have age by age become more complex in structure, more complex psychical phenomena have been exhibited. the development of mind has from the outset been associated with the development of matter. and to-day, though none of us has any knowledge of the end of psychical phenomena in his own case, yet from all the marks by which we recognize such phenomena in our fellow-creatures, whether brute or human, we are taught that when certain material processes have been gradually or suddenly brought to an end, psychical phenomena are no longer manifested. from first to last, therefore, our appeal to experience gets but one response. we have not the faintest shadow of evidence wherewith to make it seem probable that mind can exist except in connection with a material body. viewed from this standpoint of terrestrial experience, there is no more reason for supposing that consciousness survives the dissolution of the brain than for supposing that the pungent flavour of table-salt survives its decomposition into metallic sodium and gaseous chlorine. our answer from this side is thus unequivocal enough. indeed, so uniform has been the teaching of experience in this respect that even in their attempts to depict a life after death, men have always found themselves obliged to have recourse to materialistic symbols. to the mind of a savage the future world is a mere reproduction of the present, with its everlasting huntings and fightings. the early christians looked forward to a renovation of the earth and the bodily resurrection from sheol of the righteous. the pictures of hell and purgatory, and even of paradise, in dante's great poem, are so intensely materialistic as to seem grotesque in this more spiritual age. but even to-day the popular conceptions of heaven are by no means freed from the notion of matter; and persons of high culture, who realize the inadequacy of these popular conceptions, are wont to avoid the difficulty by refraining from putting their hopes and beliefs into any definite or describable form. not unfrequently one sees a smile raised at the assumption of knowledge or insight by preachers who describe in eloquent terms the joys of a future state; yet the smile does not necessarily imply any scepticism as to the abstract probability of the soul's survival. the scepticism is aimed at the character of the description rather than at the reality of the thing described. it implies a tacit agreement, among cultivated people, that the unseen world must be purely spiritual in constitution. the agreement is not habitually expressed in definite formulas, for the reason that no mental image of a purely spiritual world can be formed. much stress is commonly laid upon the recognition of friends in a future life; and however deep a meaning may be given to the phrase "the love of god," one does not easily realize that a heavenly existence could be worth the longing that is felt for it, if it were to afford no further scope for the pure and tender household affections which give to the present life its powerful though indefinable charm. yet the recognition of friends in a purely spiritual world is something of which we can frame no conception whatever. we may look with unspeakable reverence on the features of wife or child, less because of their physical beauty than because of the beauty of soul to which they give expression, but to imagine the perception of soul by soul apart from the material structure and activities in which soul is manifested, is something utterly beyond our power. nay, even when we try to represent to ourselves the psychical activity of any single soul by itself as continuing without the aid of the physical machinery of sensation, we get into unmanageable difficulties. a great part of the contents of our minds consists of sensuous (chiefly visual) images, and though we may imagine reflection to go on without further images supplied by vision or hearing, touch or taste or smell, yet we cannot well see how fresh experiences could be gained in such a state. the reader, if he require further illustrations, can easily follow out this line of thought. enough has no doubt been said to convince him that our hypothesis of the survival of conscious activity apart from material conditions is not only utterly unsupported by any evidence that can be gathered from the world of which we have experience, but is utterly and hopelessly inconceivable. it is inconceivable because it is entirely without foundation in experience. our powers of conception are closely determined by the limits of our experience. when a proposition, or combination of ideas, is suggested, for which there has never been any precedent in human experience, we find it to be unthinkable,--the ideas will not combine. the proposition remains one which we may utter and defend, and perhaps vituperate our neighbours for not accepting, but it remains none the less an unthinkable proposition. it takes terms which severally have meanings and puts them together into a phrase which has no meaning. [ ] now when we try to combine the idea of the continuance of conscious activity with the idea of the entire cessation of material conditions, and thereby to assert the existence of a purely spiritual world, we find that we have made an unthinkable proposition. we may defend our hypothesis as passionately as we like, but when we strive coolly to realize it in thought we find ourselves baulked at every step. [ ] see my outlines of cosmic philosophy, vol. i. pp. - . but now we have to ask, how much does this inconceivability signify? in most cases, when we say that a statement is inconceivable, we practically declare it to be untrue; when we say that a statement is without warrant in experience, we plainly indicate that we consider it unworthy of our acceptance. this is legitimate in the majority of cases with which we have to deal in the course of life, because experience, and the capacities of thought called out and limited by experience, are our only guides in the conduct of life. but every one will admit that our experience is not infinite, and that our capacity of conception is not coextensive with the possibilities of existence. it is not only possible, but in the very highest degree probable, that there are many things in heaven, if not on earth, which are undreamed of in our philosophy. since our ability to conceive anything is limited by the extent of our experience, and since human experience is very far from being infinite, it follows that there may be, and in all probability is, an immense region of existence in every way as real as the region which we know, yet concerning which we cannot form the faintest rudiment of a conception. any hypothesis relating to such a region of existence is not only not disproved by the total failure of evidence in its favour, but the total failure of evidence does not raise even the slightest prima facie presumption against its validity. these considerations apply with great force to the hypothesis of an unseen world in which psychical phenomena persist in the absence of material conditions. it is true, on the one hand, that we can bring up no scientific evidence in support of such an hypothesis. but on the other hand it is equally true that in the very nature of things no such evidence could be expected to be forthcoming: even were there such evidence in abundance, it could not be accessible to us. the existence of a single soul, or congeries of psychical phenomena, unaccompanied by a material body, would be evidence sufficient to demonstrate the hypothesis. but in the nature of things, even were there a million such souls round about us, we could not become aware of the existence of one of them, for we have no organ or faculty for the perception of soul apart from the material structure and activities in which it has been manifested throughout the whole course of our experience. even our own self-consciousness involves the consciousness of ourselves as partly material bodies. these considerations show that our hypothesis is very different from the ordinary hypotheses with which science deals. the entire absence of testimony does not raise a negative presumption except in cases where testimony is accessible. in the hypotheses with which scientific men are occupied, testimony is always accessible; and if we do not find any, the presumption is raised that there is none. when dr. bastian tells us that he has found living organisms to be generated in sealed flasks from which all living germs had been excluded, we demand the evidence for his assertion. the testimony of facts is in this case hard to elicit, and only skilful reasoners can properly estimate its worth. but still it is all accessible. with more or less labour it can be got at; and if we find that dr. bastian has produced no evidence save such as may equally well receive a different interpretation from that which he has given it, we rightly feel that a strong presumption has been raised against his hypothesis. it is a case in which we are entitled to expect to find the favouring facts if there are any, and so long as we do not find such, we are justified in doubting their existence. so when our authors propound the hypothesis of an unseen universe consisting of phenomena which occur in the interstellar ether, or even in some primordial fluid with which the ether has physical relations, we are entitled to demand their proofs. it is not enough to tell us that we cannot disprove such a theory. the burden of proof lies with them. the interstellar ether is something concerning the physical properties of which we have some knowledge; and surely, if all the things are going on which they suppose in a medium so closely related to ordinary matter, there ought to be some traceable indications of the fact. at least, until the contrary can be shown, we must refuse to believe that all the testimony in a case like this is utterly inaccessible; and accordingly, so long as none is found, especially so long as none is even alleged, we feel that a presumption is raised against their theory. these illustrations will show, by sheer contrast, how different it is with the hypothesis of an unseen world that is purely spiritual. the testimony in such a case must, under the conditions of the present life, be forever inaccessible. it lies wholly outside the range of experience. however abundant it may be, we cannot expect to meet with it. and accordingly our failure to produce it does not raise even the slightest presumption against our theory. when conceived in this way, the belief in a future life is without scientific support; but at the same time it is placed beyond the need of scientific support and beyond the range of scientific criticism. it is a belief which no imaginable future advance in physical discovery can in any way impugn. it is a belief which is in no sense irrational, and which may be logically entertained without in the least affecting our scientific habit of mind or influencing our scientific conclusions. to take a brief illustration: we have alluded to the fact that in the history of our present world the development of mental phenomena has gone on hand in hand with the development of organic life, while at the same time we have found it impossible to explain mental phenomena as in any sense the product of material phenomena. now there is another side to all this. the great lesson which berkeley taught mankind was that what we call material phenomena are really the products of consciousness co-operating with some unknown power (not material) existing beyond consciousness. we do very well to speak of "matter" in common parlance, but all that the word really means is a group of qualities which have no existence apart from our minds. modern philosophers have quite generally accepted this conclusion, and every attempt to overturn berkeley's reasoning has hitherto resulted in complete and disastrous failure. in admitting this, we do not admit the conclusion of absolute idealism, that nothing exists outside of consciousness. what we admit as existing independently of our own consciousness is the power that causes in us those conscious states which we call the perception of material qualities. we have no reason for regarding this power as in itself material: indeed, we cannot do so, since by the theory material qualities have no existence apart from our minds. i have elsewhere sought to show that less difficulty is involved in regarding this power outside of us as quasi-psychical, or in some measure similar to the mental part of ourselves; and i have gone on to conclude that this power may be identical with what men have, in all times and by the aid of various imperfect symbols, endeavoured to apprehend as deity. [ ] we are thus led to a view of things not very unlike the views entertained by spinoza and berkeley. we are led to the inference that what we call the material universe is but the manifestation of infinite deity to our finite minds. obviously, on this view, matter--the only thing to which materialists concede real existence--is simply an orderly phantasmagoria; and god and the soul--which materialists regard as mere fictions of the imagination--are the only conceptions that answer to real existences. [ ] see my outlines of cosmic philosophy, part i. chap. iv.; part iii. chaps. iii., iv. in the foregoing paragraph i have been setting down opinions with which i am prepared to agree, and which are not in conflict with anything that our study of the development of the objective world has taught us. in so far as that study may be supposed to bear on the question of a future life, two conclusions are open to us. first we may say that since the phenomena of mind appear and run their course along with certain specialized groups of material phenomena, so, too, they must disappear when these specialized groups are broken up. or, in other words, we may say that every living person is an organized whole; consciousness is something which pertains to this organized whole, as music belongs to the harp that is entire; but when the harp is broken it is silent, and when the organized whole of personality falls to pieces consciousness ceases forever. to many well-disciplined minds this conclusion seems irresistible; and doubtless it would be a sound one--a good baconian conclusion--if we were to admit, with the materialists, that the possibilities of existence are limited by our tiny and ephemeral experience. but now, supposing some platonic speculator were to come along and insist upon our leaving room for an alternative conclusion; suppose he were to urge upon us that all this process of material development, with the discovery of which our patient study has been rewarded, may be but the temporary manifestation of relations otherwise unknown between ourselves and the infinite deity; suppose he were to argue that psychical qualities may be inherent in a spiritual substance which under certain conditions becomes incarnated in matter, to wear it as a perishable garment for a brief season, but presently to cast it off and enter upon the freedom of a larger existence;--what reply should we be bound to make, bearing in mind that the possibilities of existence are in no wise limited by our experience? obviously we should be bound to admit that in sound philosophy this conclusion is just as likely to be true as the other. we should, indeed, warn him not to call on us to help him to establish it by scientific arguments; and we should remind him that he must not make illicit use of his extra-experiential hypotheses by bringing them into the treatment of scientific questions that lie within the range of experience. in science, for example, we make no use of the conception of a "spiritual substance" (or of a "material substance" either), because we can get along sufficiently well by dealing solely with qualities. but with this general understanding we should feel bound to concede the impregnableness of his main position. i have supposed this theory only as an illustration, not as a theory which i am prepared to adopt. my present purpose is not to treat as an advocate the question of a future life, but to endeavour to point out what conditions should be observed in treating the question philosophically. it seems to me that a great deal is gained when we have distinctly set before us what are the peculiar conditions of proof in the case of such transcendental questions. we have gained a great deal when we have learned how thoroughly impotent, how truly irrelevant, is physical investigation in the presence of such a question. if we get not much positive satisfaction for our unquiet yearnings, we occupy at any rate a sounder philosophic position when we recognize the limits within which our conclusions, whether positive or negative, are valid. it seems not improbable that mr. mill may have had in mind something like the foregoing considerations when he suggested that there is no reason why one should not entertain the belief in a future life if the belief be necessary to one's spiritual comfort. perhaps no suggestion in mr. mill's richly suggestive posthumous work has been more generally condemned as unphilosophical, on the ground that in matters of belief we must be guided, not by our likes and dislikes, but by the evidence that is accessible. the objection is certainly a sound one so far as it relates to scientific questions where evidence is accessible. to hesitate to adopt a well-supported theory because of some vague preference for a different view is in scientific matters the one unpardonable sin,--a sin which has been only too often committed. even in matters which lie beyond the range of experience, where evidence is inaccessible, desire is not to be regarded as by itself an adequate basis for belief. but it seems to me that mr. mill showed a deeper knowledge of the limitations of scientific method than his critics, when he thus hinted at the possibility of entertaining a belief not amenable to scientific tests. the hypothesis of a purely spiritual unseen world, as above described, is entirely removed from the jurisdiction of physical inquiry, and can only be judged on general considerations of what has been called "moral probability"; and considerations of this sort are likely, in the future as in the past, to possess different values for different minds. he who, on such considerations, entertains a belief in a future life may not demand that his sceptical neighbour shall be convinced by the same considerations; but his neighbour is at the same time estopped from stigmatizing his belief as unphilosophical. the consideration which must influence most minds in their attitude toward this question, is the craving, almost universally felt, for some teleological solution to the problem of existence. why we are here now is a question of even profounder interest than whether we are to live hereafter. unfortunately its solution carries us no less completely beyond the range of experience! the belief that all things are working together for some good end is the most essential expression of religious faith: of all intellectual propositions it is the one most closely related to that emotional yearning for a higher and better life which is the sum and substance of religion. yet all the treatises on natural theology that have ever been written have barely succeeded in establishing a low degree of scientific probability for this belief. in spite of the eight bridgewater treatises, and the "ninth" beside, dysteleology still holds full half the field as against teleology. most of this difficulty, however, results from the crude anthropomorphic views which theologians have held concerning god. once admitting that the divine attributes may be (as they must be) incommensurably greater than human attributes, our faith that all things are working together for good may remain unimpugned. to many minds such a faith will seem incompatible with belief in the ultimate destruction of sentiency amid the general doom of the material universe. a good end can have no meaning to us save in relation to consciousness that distinguishes and knows the good from the evil. there could be no better illustration of how we are hemmed in than the very inadequacy of the words with which we try to discuss this subject. such words have all gained their meanings from human experience, and hence of necessity carry anthropomorphic implications. but we cannot help this. we must think with the symbols with which experience has furnished us; and when we so think, there does seem to be little that is even intellectually satisfying in the awful picture which science shows us, of giant worlds concentrating out of nebulous vapour, developing with prodigious waste of energy into theatres of all that is grand and sacred in spiritual endeavour, clashing and exploding again into dead vapour-balls, only to renew the same toilful process without end,--a senseless bubble-play of titan forces, with life, love, and aspiration brought forth only to be extinguished. the human mind, however "scientific" its training, must often recoil from the conclusion that this is all; and there are moments when one passionately feels that this cannot be all. on warm june mornings in green country lanes, with sweet pine-odours wafted in the breeze which sighs through the branches, and cloud-shadows flitting over far-off blue mountains, while little birds sing their love-songs, and golden-haired children weave garlands of wild roses; or when in the solemn twilight we listen to wondrous harmonies of beethoven and chopin that stir the heart like voices from an unseen world; at such times one feels that the profoundest answer which science can give to our questionings is but a superficial answer after all. at these moments, when the world seems fullest of beauty, one feels most strongly that it is but the harbinger of something else,--that the ceaseless play of phenomena is no mere sport of titans, but an orderly scene, with its reason for existing, its "one divine far-off event to which the whole creation moves." difficult as it is to disentangle the elements of reasoning that enter into these complex groups of feeling, one may still see, i think, that it is speculative interest in the world, rather than anxious interest in self, that predominates. the desire for immortality in its lowest phase is merely the outcome of the repugnance we feel toward thinking of the final cessation of vigorous vital activity. such a feeling is naturally strong with healthy people. but in the mood which i have above tried to depict, this feeling, or any other which is merely self-regarding, is lost sight of in the feeling which associates a future life with some solution of the burdensome problem of existence. had we but faith enough to lighten the burden of this problem, the inferior question would perhaps be less absorbing. could we but know that our present lives are working together toward some good end, even an end in no wise anthropomorphic, it would be of less consequence whether we were individually to endure. to the dog under the knife of the experimenter, the world is a world of pure evil; yet could the poor beast but understand the alleviation of human suffering to which he is contributing, he would be forced to own that this is not quite true; and if he were also a heroic or christian dog, the thought would perhaps take away from death its sting. the analogy may be a crude one; but the reasonableness of the universe is at least as far above our comprehension as the purposes of man surpass the understanding of the dog. believing, however, though as a simple act of trust, that the end will crown the work, we may rise superior to the question which has here concerned us, and exclaim, in the supreme language of faith, "though he slay me, yet will i trust in him!" july, . ii. "the to-morrow of death." few of those who find pleasure in frequenting bookstores can have failed to come across one or more of the profusely illustrated volumes in which m. louis figuier has sought to render dry science entertaining to the multitude. and of those who may have casually turned over their pages, there are probably none, competent to form an opinion, who have not speedily perceived that these pretentious books belong to the class of pests and unmitigated nuisances in literature. antiquated views, utter lack of comprehension of the subjects treated, and shameless unscrupulousness as to accuracy of statement, are faults but ill atoned for by sensational pictures of the "dragons of the prime that tare each other in their slime," or of the newton-like brow and silken curls of that primitive man in contrast with whom the said dragons have been likened to "mellow music." nevertheless, the sort of scientific reputation which these discreditable performances have gained for m. figuier among an uncritical public is such as to justify us in devoting a few paragraphs to a book [ ] which, on its own merits, is unworthy of any notice whatever. "the to-morrow of death"--if one were to put his trust in the translator's prefatory note--discusses a grave question upon "purely scientific methods." we are glad to see this remark, because it shows what notions may be entertained by persons of average intelligence with reference to "scientific methods." those--and they are many--who vaguely think that science is something different from common-sense, and that any book is scientific which talks about perihelia and asymptotes and cetacea, will find their vague notions here well corroborated. quite different will be the impression made upon those--and they are yet too few--who have learned that the method of science is the common-sense method of cautiously weighing evidence and withholding judgment where evidence is not forthcoming. if talking about remote and difficult subjects suffice to make one scientific, then is m. figuier scientific to a quite terrible degree. he writes about the starry heavens as if he had been present at the hour of creation, or had at least accompanied the arabian prophet on his famous night-journey. nor is his knowledge of physiology and other abstruse sciences at all less remarkable. but these things will cease to surprise us when we learn the sources, hitherto suspected only in mythology, from which favoured mortals can obtain a knowledge of what is going on outside of our planet. [ ] the to-morrow of death; or, the future life according to science. by louis figuier. translated from the french by s. r. crocker. boston: roberts brothers. . the four inner planets being nearly alike in size (?) and in length of day, m. figuier infers, by strictly scientific methods, that whatever is true of one of them, as our earth, will be true of the others (p. ). hence, they are all inhabited by human beings. it is true that human beings must find venus rather warm, and are not unlikely to be seriously incommoded by the tropical climate of mercury. but we must remember that "the men of venus and mercury are made by nature to resist heat, as those of jupiter and saturn are made to endure cold, and those of the earth and mars to live in a mean temperature: otherwise they could not exist" (p. ). in view of this charming specimen of a truly scientific inference, it is almost too bad to call attention to the fact that m. figuier is quite behind the age in his statement of facts. so far from jupiter and saturn being cold, observation plainly indicates that they are prodigiously hot, if not even incandescent and partly self-luminous; the explanation being that, by reason of their huge bulk, they still retain much of the primitive heat which smaller planets have more quickly radiated away. as for m. figuier's statement, that polar snows have been witnessed on these planets, it is simply untrue; no such thing has ever been seen there. mars, on the other hand, has been observed to resemble in many important respects its near neighbour, the earth; whence our author declares that if an aeronaut were to shoot clear of terrestrial gravitation and land upon mars, he would unquestionably suppose himself to be still upon the earth. for aerolites, it seems, are somehow fired down upon our planet both from mars and from venus; and aerolites sometimes contain vegetable matter (?). therefore, mars has a vegetation, and very likely its red colour is caused by its luxuriant autumnal foliage! (p. .) to return to jupiter: this planet, indeed, has inconveniently short days. "in his 'picture of the heavens,' the german astronomer, littrow (these germans think of nothing but gormandizing), asks how the people of jupiter order their meals in the short interval of five hours." nevertheless, says our author, the great planet is compensated for this inconvenience by its equable and delicious climate. in view, however, of our author's more striking and original disclosures, one would suppose that all this discussion of the physical conditions of existence on the various planets might have been passed over without detriment to the argument. after these efforts at proving (for m. figuier presumably regards this rigmarole as proof) that all the members of our solar system are habitable, the interplanetary ether is forthwith peopled thickly with "souls," without any resort to argument. this, we suppose, is one of those scientific truths which as m. figuier tells us, precede and underlie demonstration. upon this impregnable basis is reared the scientific theory of a future life. when we die our soul passes into some other terrestrial body, unless we have been very good, in which case we at once soar aloft and join the noble fraternity of the ether-folk. bad men and young children, on dying, must undergo renewed probation here below, but ultimately all pass away into the interplanetary ether. the dweller in ether is chiefly distinguished from the mundane mortal by his acute senses and his ability to subsist without food. he can see as if through a telescope and microscope combined. his intelligence is so great that in comparison an aristotle would seem idiotic. it should not be forgotten, too, that he possesses eighty-five per cent of soul to fifteen per cent of body, whereas in terrestrial man the two elements are mixed in equal proportions. there is no sex among the ether-folk, their numbers being kept up by the influx of souls from the various planets. "alimentation, that necessity which tyrannizes over men and animals, is not imposed upon the inhabitants of ether. their bodies must be repaired and sustained by the simple respiration of the fluid in which they are immersed, that is, of ether." most likely, continues our scientific author, the physiological functions of the ether-folk are confined to respiration, and that it is possible to breathe "without numerous organs is proved by the fact that in all of a whole class of animals--the batrachians--the mere bare skin constitutes the whole machinery of respiration" (p. ). allowing for the unfortunate slip of the pen by which "batrachians" are substituted for "fresh-water polyps," how can we fail to admire the severity of the scientific method employed in reaching these interesting conclusions? but the king of serendib must die, nor will the relentless scythe of time spare our etherians, with all their exalted attributes. they will die repeatedly; and after having through sundry periods of probation attained spiritual perfection, they will all pour into the sun. since it is the sun which originates life and feeling and thought upon the surface of our earth, "why may we not declare that the rays transmitted by the sun to the earth and the other planets are nothing more nor less than the emanations of these souls?" and now we may begin to form an adequate conception, of the rigorously scientific character of our author's method. there have been many hypotheses by which to account for the supply of solar radiance. one of the most ingenious and probable of these hypotheses is that of helmholtz, according to which the solar radiance is due to the arrested motion of the sun's constituent particles toward their common centre of gravity. but this is too fanciful to satisfy m. figuier. the speculations of helmholtz "have the disadvantage of resting on the idea of the sun's nebulosity,--an hypothesis which would need to be more closely examined before serving as a basis for so important a deduction." accordingly, m. figuier propounds an explanation which possesses the signal advantage that there is nothing hypothetical in it. "in our opinion, the solar radiation is sustained by the continual influx of souls into the sun." this, as the reader will perceive, is the well-known theory of mayer, that the solar heat is due to a perennial bombardment of the sun by meteors, save that, in place of gross materialistic meteors, m. figuier puts ethereal souls. the ether-folk are daily raining into the solar orb in untold millions, and to the unceasing concussion is due the radiation which maintains life in the planets, and thus the circle is complete. in spite of their exalted position, the ether-folk do not disdain to mingle with the affairs of terrestrial mortals. they give us counsel in dreams, and it is from this source, we presume, that our author has derived his rigid notions as to scientific method. in evidence of this dream-theory we have the usual array of cases, "a celebrated journalist, m. r----," "m. l----, a lawyer," etc., etc., as in most books of this kind. m. figuier is not a darwinian: the derivation of our bodies from the bodies of apes is a conception too grossly materialistic for him. our souls, however, he is quite willing to derive from the souls of lower animals. obviously we have pre-existed; how are we to account for mozart's precocity save by supposing his pre-existence? he brought with him the musical skill acquired in a previous life. in general, the souls of musical children come from nightingales, while the souls of great architects have passed into them from beavers (p. ). we do not remember these past existences, it is true; but when we become ether-folk, we shall be able to look back in recollection over the whole series. amid these sublime inquiries, m. figuier is sometimes notably oblivious of humbler truths, as might indeed be expected. thus he repeatedly alludes to locke as the author of the doctrine of innate ideas (!!), [ ] and he informs us that kepler never quitted protestant england (p. ), though we believe that the nearest kepler ever came to living in england was the refusing of sir henry wotton's request that he should move thither. [ ] pages , , . so in the twenty-first century some avatar of m. figuier will perhaps describe the late professor agassiz as the author of the darwinian theory. and lastly, we are treated to a real dialogue, with quite a dramatic mise en scene. the author's imaginary friend, theophilus, enters, "seats himself in a comfortable chair, places an ottoman under his feet, a book under his elbow to support it, and a cigarette of turkish tobacco between his lips, and sets himself to the task of listening with a grave air of collectedness, relieved by a certain touch of suspicious severity, as becomes the arbiter in a literary and philosophic matter." "and so," begins our author, "you wish to know, my dear theophilus, where i locate god? i locate him in the centre of the universe, or, in better phrase, at the central focus, which must exist somewhere, of all the stars that make the universe, and which, borne onward in a common movement, gravitate together around this focus." much more, of an equally scientific character, follows; but in fairness to the reader, who is already blaming us for wasting the precious moments over such sorry trash, we may as well conclude our sketch of this new line of speculation. may, . iii. the jesus of history. [ ] [ ] the jesus of history. anonymous. vo. pp. . london: williams & norgate, . vie de jesus, par ernest renan. paris, . (thirteenth edition, revised and partly rewritten.) in republishing this and the following article on "the christ of dogma," i am aware that they do but scanty justice to their very interesting subjects. so much ground is covered that it would be impossible to treat it satisfactorily in a pair of review-articles; and in particular the views adopted with regard to the new testament literature are rather indicated than justified. these defects i hope to remedy in a future work on "jesus of nazareth, and the founding of christianity," for which the present articles must be regarded as furnishing only a few introductory hints. this work has been for several years on my mind, but as it may still be long before i can find the leisure needful for writing it out, it seemed best to republish these preliminary sketches which have been some time out of print. the projected work, however, while covering all the points here treated, will have a much wider scope, dealing on the one hand with the natural genesis of the complex aggregate of beliefs and aspirations known as christianity, and on the other hand with the metamorphoses which are being wrought in this aggregate by modern knowledge and modern theories of the world. the views adopted in the present essay as to the date of the synoptic gospels may seem over-conservative to those who accept the ably-argued conclusions of "supernatural religion." quite possibly in a more detailed discussion these briefly-indicated data may require revision; but for the present it seems best to let the article stand as it was written. the author of "supernatural religion" would no doubt admit that, even if the synoptic gospels had not assumed their present form before the end of the second century, nevertheless the body of tradition contained in them had been committed to writing very early in that century. so much appears to be proved by the very variations of text upon which his argument relies. and if this be granted, the value of the synoptics as historical evidence is not materially altered. with their value as testimony to so-called supernatural events, the present essay is in no way concerned. of all the great founders of religions, jesus is at once the best known and the least known to the modern scholar. from the dogmatic point of view he is the best known, from the historic point of view he is the least known. the christ of dogma is in every lineament familiar to us from early childhood; but concerning the jesus of history we possess but few facts resting upon trustworthy evidence, and in order to form a picture of him at once consistent, probable, and distinct in its outlines, it is necessary to enter upon a long and difficult investigation, in the course of which some of the most delicate apparatus of modern criticism is required. this circumstance is sufficiently singular to require especial explanation. the case of sakyamuni, the founder of buddhism, which may perhaps be cited as parallel, is in reality wholly different. not only did sakyamuni live five centuries earlier than jesus, among a people that have at no time possessed the art of insuring authenticity in their records of events, and at an era which is at best but dimly discerned through the mists of fable and legend, but the work which he achieved lies wholly out of the course of european history, and it is only in recent times that his career has presented itself to us as a problem needing to be solved. jesus, on the other hand, appeared in an age which is familiarly and in many respects minutely known to us, and among a people whose fortunes we can trace with historic certainty for at least seven centuries previous to his birth; while his life and achievements have probably had a larger share in directing the entire subsequent intellectual and moral development of europe than those of any other man who has ever lived. nevertheless, the details of his personal career are shrouded in an obscurity almost as dense as that which envelops the life of the remote founder of buddhism. this phenomenon, however, appears less strange and paradoxical when we come to examine it more closely. a little reflection will disclose to us several good reasons why the historical records of the life of jesus should be so scanty as they are. in the first place, the activity of jesus was private rather than public. confined within exceedingly narrow limits, both of space and of duration, it made no impression whatever upon the politics or the literature of the time. his name does not occur in the pages of any contemporary writer, roman, greek, or jewish. doubtless the case would have been wholly different, had he, like mohammed, lived to a ripe age, and had the exigencies of his peculiar position as the messiah of the jewish people brought him into relations with the empire; though whether, in such case, the success of his grand undertaking would have been as complete as it has actually been, may well be doubted. secondly, jesus did not, like mohammed and paul, leave behind him authentic writings which might serve to throw light upon his mental development as well as upon the external facts of his career. without the koran and the four genuine epistles of paul, we should be nearly as much in the dark concerning these great men as we now are concerning the historical jesus. we should be compelled to rely, in the one case, upon the untrustworthy gossip of mussulman chroniclers, and in the other case upon the garbled statements of the "acts of the apostles," a book written with a distinct dogmatic purpose, sixty or seventy years after the occurrence of the events which it professes to record. it is true, many of the words of jesus, preserved by hearsay tradition through the generation immediately succeeding his death, have come down to us, probably with little alteration, in the pages of the three earlier evangelists. these are priceless data, since, as we shall see, they are almost the only materials at our command for forming even a partial conception of the character of jesus' work. nevertheless, even here the cautious inquirer has only too often to pause in face of the difficulty of distinguishing the authentic utterances of the great teacher from the later interpolations suggested by the dogmatic necessities of the narrators. bitterly must the historian regret that jesus had no philosophic disciple, like xenophon, to record his memorabilia. of the various writings included in the new testament, the apocalypse alone (and possibly the epistle of jude) is from the pen of a personal acquaintance of jesus; and besides this, the four epistles of paul, to the galatians, corinthians, and romans, make up the sum of the writings from which we may expect contemporary testimony. yet from these we obtain absolutely nothing of that for which we are seeking. the brief writings of paul are occupied exclusively with the internal significance of jesus' work. the epistle of jude--if it be really written by jesus' brother of that name, which is doubtful--is solely a polemic directed against the innovations of paul. and the apocalypse, the work of the fiery and imaginative disciple john, is confined to a prophetic description of the messiah's anticipated return, and tells us nothing concerning the deeds of that messiah while on the earth. here we touch upon our third consideration,--the consideration which best enables us to see why the historic notices of jesus are so meagre. rightly considered, the statement with which we opened this article is its own explanation. the jesus of history is so little known just because the christ of dogma is so well known. [ ] other teachers--paul, mohammed, sakyamuni--have come merely as preachers of righteousness, speaking in the name of general principles with which their own personalities were not directly implicated. but jesus, as we shall see, before the close of his life, proclaimed himself to be something more than a preacher of righteousness. he announced himself--and justly, from his own point of view--as the long-expected messiah sent by jehovah to liberate the jewish race. thus the success of his religious teachings became at once implicated with the question of his personal nature and character. after the sudden and violent termination of his career, it immediately became all-important with his followers to prove that he was really the messiah, and to insist upon the certainty of his speedy return to the earth. thus the first generation of disciples dogmatized about him, instead of narrating his life,--a task which to them would have seemed of little profit. for them the all-absorbing object of contemplation was the immediate future rather than the immediate past. as all the earlier christian literature informs us, for nearly a century after the death of jesus, his followers lived in daily anticipation of his triumphant return to the earth. the end of all things being so near at hand, no attempt was made to insure accurate and complete memoirs for the use of a posterity which was destined, in christian imagination, never to arrive. the first christians wrote but little; even papias, at the end of a century, preferring second-hand or third-hand oral tradition to the written gospels which were then beginning to come into circulation. [ ] memoirs of the life and teachings of jesus were called forth by the necessity of having a written standard of doctrine to which to appeal amid the growing differences of opinion which disturbed the church. thus the earlier gospels exhibit, though in different degrees, the indications of a modifying, sometimes of an overruling dogmatic purpose. there is, indeed, no conscious violation of historic truth, but from the varied mass of material supplied by tradition, such incidents are selected as are fit to support the views of the writers concerning the personality of jesus. accordingly, while the early gospels throw a strong light upon the state of christian opinion at the dates when they were successively composed, the information which they give concerning jesus himself is, for that very reason, often vague, uncritical, and contradictory. still more is this true of the fourth gospel, written late in the second century, in which historic tradition is moulded in the interests of dogma until it becomes no longer recognizable, and in the place of the human messiah of the earlier accounts, we have a semi-divine logos or aeon, detached from god, and incarnate for a brief season in the likeness of man. [ ] "wer einmal vergottert worden ist, der hat seine mensetheit unwiederbringlich eingebusst."--strauss, der alte und der neue glaube, p. . [ ] "roger was the attendant of thomas [becket] during his sojourn at pontigny. we might have expected him to be very full on that part of his history; but, writing doubtless mainly for the monks of pontigny, he says that he will not enlarge upon what every one knows, and cuts that part very short."--freeman, historical essays, st series, p. . not only was history subordinated to dogma by the writers of the gospel-narratives, but in the minds of the fathers of the church who assisted in determining what writings should be considered canonical, dogmatic prepossession went very much further than critical acumen. nor is this strange when we reflect that critical discrimination in questions of literary authenticity is one of the latest acquisitions of the cultivated human mind. in the early ages of the church the evidence of the genuineness of any literary production was never weighed critically; writings containing doctrines acceptable to the majority of christians were quoted as authoritative while writings which supplied no dogmatic want were overlooked, or perhaps condemned as apocryphal. a striking instance of this is furnished by the fortunes of the apocalypse. although perhaps the best authenticated work in the new testament collection, its millenarian doctrines caused it to become unpopular as the church gradually ceased to look for the speedy return of the messiah, and, accordingly, as the canon assumed a definite shape, it was placed among the "antilegomena," or doubtful books, and continued to hold a precarious position until after the time of the protestant reformation. on the other hand, the fourth gospel, which was quite unknown and probably did not exist at the time of the quartodeciman controversy (a. d. ), was accepted with little hesitation, and at the beginning of the third century is mentioned by irenaeus, clement, and tertullian, as the work of the apostle john. to this uncritical spirit, leading to the neglect of such books as failed to answer the dogmatic requirements of the church, may probably be attributed the loss of so many of the earlier gospels. it is doubtless for this reason that we do not possess the aramaean original of the "logia" of matthew, or the "memorabilia" of mark, the companion of peter,--two works to which papias (a. d. ) alludes as containing authentic reports of the utterances of jesus. these considerations will, we believe, sufficiently explain the curious circumstance that, while we know the christ of dogma so intimately, we know the jesus of history so slightly. the literature of early christianity enables us to trace with tolerable completeness the progress of opinion concerning the nature of jesus, from the time of paul's early missions to the time of the nicene council; but upon the actual words and deeds of jesus it throws a very unsteady light. the dogmatic purpose everywhere obscures the historic basis. this same dogmatic prepossession which has rendered the data for a biography of jesus so scanty and untrustworthy, has also until comparatively recent times prevented any unbiassed critical examination of such data as we actually possess. previous to the eighteenth century any attempt to deal with the life of jesus upon purely historical methods would have been not only contemned as irrational, but stigmatized as impious. and even in the eighteenth century, those writers who had become wholly emancipated from ecclesiastic tradition were so destitute of all historic sympathy and so unskilled in scientific methods of criticism, that they utterly failed to comprehend the requirements of the problem. their aims were in the main polemic, not historical. they thought more of overthrowing current dogmas than of impartially examining the earliest christian literature with a view of eliciting its historic contents; and, accordingly, they accomplished but little. two brilliant exceptions must, however, be noticed. spinoza, in the seventeenth century, and lessing, in the eighteenth, were men far in advance of their age. they are the fathers of modern historical criticism; and to lessing in particular, with his enormous erudition and incomparable sagacity, belongs the honour of initiating that method of inquiry which, in the hands of the so-called tubingen school, has led to such striking and valuable conclusions concerning, the age and character of all the new testament literature. but it was long before any one could be found fit to bend the bow which lessing and spinoza had wielded. a succession of able scholars--semler, eichhorn, paulus, schleiermacher bretschneider, and de wette--were required to examine, with german patience and accuracy, the details of the subject, and to propound various untenable hypotheses, before such a work could be performed as that of strauss. the "life of jesus," published by strauss when only twenty-six years of age, is one of the monumental works of the nineteenth century, worthy to rank, as a historical effort, along with such books as niebuhr's "history of rome," wolf's "prolegomena," or bentley's "dissertations on phalaris." it instantly superseded and rendered antiquated everything which had preceded it; nor has any work on early christianity been written in germany for the past thirty years which has not been dominated by the recollection of that marvellous book. nevertheless, the labours of another generation of scholars have carried our knowledge of the new testament literature far beyond the point which it had reached when strauss first wrote. at that time the dates of but few of the new testament writings had been fixed with any approach to certainty; the age and character of the fourth gospel, the genuineness of the pauline epistles, even the mutual relations of the three synoptics, were still undetermined; and, as a natural result of this uncertainty, the progress of dogma during the first century was ill understood. at the present day it is impossible to read the early work of strauss without being impressed with the necessity of obtaining positive data as to the origin and dogmatic character of the new testament writings, before attempting to reach any conclusions as to the probable career of jesus. these positive data we owe to the genius and diligence of the tubingen school, and, above all, to its founder, ferdinand christian baur. beginning with the epistles of paul, of which he distinguished four as genuine, baur gradually worked his way through the entire new testament collection, detecting--with that inspired insight which only unflinching diligence can impart to original genius--the age at which each book was written, and the circumstances which called it forth. to give any account of baur's detailed conclusions, or of the method by which he reached them, would require a volume. they are very scantily presented in mr. mackay's work on the "tubingen school and its antecedents," to which we may refer the reader desirous of further information. we can here merely say that twenty years of energetic controversy have only served to establish most of baur's leading conclusions more firmly than ever. the priority of the so-called gospel of matthew, the pauline purpose of "luke," the second in date of our gospels, the derivative and second-hand character of "mark," and the unapostolic origin of the fourth gospel, are points which may for the future be regarded as wellnigh established by circumstantial evidence. so with respect to the pseudo-pauline epistles, baur's work was done so thoroughly that the only question still left open for much discussion is that concerning the date and authorship of the first and second "thessalonians,"--a point of quite inferior importance, so far as our present subject is concerned. seldom have such vast results been achieved by the labour of a single scholar. seldom has any historical critic possessed such a combination of analytic and of co-ordinating powers as baur. his keen criticism and his wonderful flashes of insight exercise upon the reader a truly poetic effect like that which is felt in contemplating the marvels of physical discovery. the comprehensive labours of baur were followed up by zeller's able work on the "acts of the apostles," in which that book was shown to have been partly founded upon documents written by luke, or some other companion of paul, and expanded and modified by a much later writer with the purpose of covering up the traces of the early schism between the pauline and the petrine sections of the church. along with this, schwegler's work on the "post-apostolic times" deserves mention as clearing up many obscure points relating to the early development of dogma. finally, the "new life of jesus," by strauss, adopting and utilizing the principal discoveries of baur and his followers, and combining all into one grand historical picture, worthily completes the task which the earlier work of the same author had inaugurated. the reader will have noticed that, with the exception of spinoza, every one of the names above cited in connection with the literary analysis and criticism of the new testament is the name of a german. until within the last decade, germany has indeed possessed almost an absolute monopoly of the science of biblical criticism; other countries having remained not only unfamiliar with its methods, but even grossly ignorant of its conspicuous results, save when some german treatise of more than ordinary popularity has now and then been translated. but during the past ten years france has entered the lists; and the writings of reville, reuss, nicolas, d'eichthal, scherer, and colani testify to the rapidity with which the german seed has fructified upon her soil. [ ] [ ] but now, in annexing alsace, germany has "annexed" pretty much the whole of this department of french scholarship,--a curious incidental consequence of the late war. none of these books, however, has achieved such wide-spread celebrity, or done so much toward interesting the general public in this class of historical inquiries, as the "life of jesus," by renan. this pre-eminence of fame is partly, but not wholly, deserved. from a purely literary point of view, renan's work doubtless merits all the celebrity it has gained. its author writes a style such as is perhaps surpassed by that of no other living frenchman. it is by far the most readable book which has ever been written concerning the life of jesus. and no doubt some of its popularity is due to its very faults, which, from a critical point of view, are neither few nor small. for renan is certainly very faulty, as a historical critic, when he practically ignores the extreme meagreness of our positive knowledge of the career of jesus, and describes scene after scene in his life as minutely and with as much confidence as if he had himself been present to witness it all. again and again the critical reader feels prompted to ask, how do you know all this? or why, out of two or three conflicting accounts, do you quietly adopt some particular one, as if its superior authority were self-evident? but in the eye of the uncritical reader, these defects are excellences; for it is unpleasant to be kept in ignorance when we are seeking after definite knowledge, and it is disheartening to read page after page of an elaborate discussion which ends in convincing us that definite knowledge cannot be gained. in the thirteenth edition of the "vie de jesus," renan has corrected some of the most striking errors of the original work, and in particular has, with praiseworthy candour, abandoned his untenable position with regard to the age and character of the fourth gospel. as is well known, renan, in his earlier editions, ascribed to this gospel a historical value superior to that of the synoptics, believing it to have been written by an eyewitness of the events which it relates; and from this source, accordingly, he drew the larger share of his materials. now, if there is any one conclusion concerning the new testament literature which must be regarded as incontrovertibly established by the labours of a whole generation of scholars, it is this, that the fourth gospel was utterly unknown until about a. d. , that it was written by some one who possessed very little direct knowledge of palestine, that its purpose was rather to expound a dogma than to give an accurate record of events, and that as a guide to the comprehension of the career of jesus it is of far less value than the three synoptic gospels. it is impossible, in a brief review like the present, to epitomize the evidence upon which this conclusion rests, which may more profitably be sought in the rev. j. j. tayler's work on "the fourth gospel," or in davidson's "introduction to the new testament." it must suffice to mention that this gospel is not cited by papias; that justin, marcion, and valentinus make no allusion to it, though, since it furnishes so much that is germane to their views, they would gladly have appealed to it, had it been in existence, when those views were as yet under discussion; and that, finally, in the great quartodeciman controversy, a. d. , the gospel is not only not mentioned, but the authority of john is cited by polycarp in flat contradiction of the view afterwards taken by this evangelist. still more, the assumption of renan led at once into complicated difficulties with reference to the apocalypse. the fourth gospel, if it does not unmistakably announce itself as the work of john, at least professes to be johannine; and it cannot for a moment be supposed that such a book, making such claims, could have gained currency during john's lifetime without calling forth his indignant protest. for, in reality, no book in the new testament collection would so completely have shocked the prejudices of the johannine party. john's own views are well known to us from the apocalypse. john was the most enthusiastic of millenarians and the most narrow and rigid of judaizers. in his antagonism to the pauline innovations he went farther than peter himself. intense hatred of paul and his followers appears in several passages of the apocalypse, where they are stigmatized as "nicolaitans," "deceivers of the people," "those who say they are apostles and are not," "eaters of meat offered to idols," "fornicators," "pretended jews," "liars," "synagogue of satan," etc. (chap. ii.). on the other hand, the fourth gospel contains nothing millenarian or judaical; it carries pauline universalism to a far greater extent than paul himself ventured to carry it, even condemning the jews as children of darkness, and by implication contrasting them unfavourably with the gentiles; and it contains a theory of the nature of jesus which the ebionitish christians, to whom john belonged, rejected to the last. in his present edition renan admits the insuperable force of these objections, and abandons his theory of the apostolic origin of the fourth gospel. and as this has necessitated the omission or alteration of all such passages as rested upon the authority of that gospel, the book is to a considerable extent rewritten, and the changes are such as greatly to increase its value as a history of jesus. nevertheless, the author has so long been in the habit of shaping his conceptions of the career of jesus by the aid of the fourth gospel, that it has become very difficult for him to pass freely to another point of view. he still clings to the hypothesis that there is an element of historic tradition contained in the book, drawn from memorial writings which had perhaps been handed down from john, and which were inaccessible to the synoptists. in a very interesting appendix, he collects the evidence in favour of this hypothesis, which indeed is not without plausibility, since there is every reason for supposing that the gospel was written at ephesus, which a century before had been john's place of residence. but even granting most of renan's assumptions, it must still follow that the authority of this gospel is far inferior to that of the synoptics, and can in no case be very confidently appealed to. the question is one of the first importance to the historian of early christianity. in inquiring into the life of jesus, the very first thing to do is to establish firmly in the mind the true relations of the fourth gospel to the first three. until this has been done, no one is competent to write on the subject; and it is because he has done this so imperfectly, that renan's work is, from a critical point of view, so imperfectly successful. the anonymous work entitled "the jesus of history," which we have placed at the head of this article, is in every respect noteworthy as the first systematic attempt made in england to follow in the footsteps of german criticism in writing a life of jesus. we know of no good reason why the book should be published anonymously; for as a historical essay it possesses extraordinary merit, and does great credit not only to its author, but to english scholarship and acumen. [ ] it is not, indeed, a book calculated to captivate the imagination of the reading public. though written in a clear, forcible, and often elegant style, it possesses no such wonderful rhetorical charm as the work of renan; and it will probably never find half a dozen readers where the "vie de jesus" has found a hundred. but the success of a book of this sort is not to be measured by its rhetorical excellence, or by its adaptation to the literary tastes of an uncritical and uninstructed public, but rather by the amount of critical sagacity which it brings to bear upon the elucidation of the many difficult and disputed points in the subject of which it treats. measured by this standard, "the jesus of history" must rank very high indeed. to say that it throws more light upon the career of jesus than any work which has ever before been written in english would be very inadequate praise, since the english language has been singularly deficient in this branch of historical literature. we shall convey a more just idea of its merits if we say that it will bear comparison with anything which even germany has produced, save only the works of strauss, baur, and zeller. [ ] "the jesus of history" is now known to have been written by sir richard hanson, chief justice of south australia. the fitness of our author for the task which he has undertaken is shown at the outset by his choice of materials. in basing his conclusions almost exclusively upon the statements contained in the first gospel, he is upheld by every sound principle of criticism. the times and places at which our three synoptic gospels were written have been, through the labours of the tubingen critics, determined almost to a certainty. of the three, "mark" is unquestionably the latest; with the exception of about twenty verses, it is entirely made up from "matthew" and "luke," the diverse petrine and pauline tendencies of which it strives to neutralize in conformity to the conciliatory disposition of the church at rome, at the epoch at which this gospel was written, about a. d. . the third gospel was also written at rome, some fifteen years earlier. in the preface, its author describes it as a compilation from previously existing written materials. among these materials was certainly the first gospel, several passages of which are adopted word for word by the author of "luke." yet the narrative varies materially from that of the first gospel in many essential points. the arrangement of events is less natural, and, as in the "acts of the apostles," by the same author, there is apparent throughout the design of suppressing the old discord between paul and the judaizing disciples, and of representing christianity as essentially pauline from the outset. how far paul was correct in his interpretation of the teachings of jesus, it is difficult to decide. it is, no doubt, possible that the first gospel may have lent to the words of jesus an ebionite colouring in some instances, and that now and then the third gospel may present us with a truer account. to this supremely important point we shall by and by return. for the present it must suffice to observe that the evidences of an overruling dogmatic purpose are generally much more conspicuous in the third synoptist than in the first; and that the very loose manner in which this writer has handled his materials in the "acts" is not calculated to inspire us with confidence in the historical accuracy of his gospel. the writer who, in spite of the direct testimony of paul himself could represent the apostle to the gentiles as acting under the direction of the disciples at jerusalem, and who puts pauline sentiments into the mouth of peter, would certainly have been capable of unwarrantably giving a pauline turn to the teachings of jesus himself. we are therefore, as a last resort, brought back to the first gospel, which we find to possess, as a historical narrative, far stronger claims upon our attention than the second and third. in all probability it had assumed nearly its present shape before a. d. , its origin is unmistakably palestinian; it betrays comparatively few indications of dogmatic purpose; and there are strong reasons for believing that the speeches of jesus recorded in it are in substance taken from the genuine "logia" of matthew mentioned by papias, which must have been written as early as a. d. - , before the destruction of jerusalem. indeed, we are inclined to agree with our author that the gospel, even in its present shape (save only a few interpolated passages), may have existed as early as a. d. , since it places the time of jesus' second coming immediately after the destruction of jerusalem; whereas the third evangelist, who wrote forty-five years after that event, is careful to tell us, "the end is not immediately." moreover, it must have been written while the paulo-petrine controversy was still raging, as is shown by the parable of the "enemy who sowed the tares," which manifestly refers to paul, and also by the allusions to "false prophets" (vii. ), to those who say "lord, lord," and who "cast out demons in the name of the lord" (vii. - ), teaching men to break the commandments (v. - ). there is, therefore, good reason for believing that we have here a narrative written not much more than fifty years after the death of jesus, based partly upon the written memorials of an apostle, and in the main trustworthy, save where it relates occurrences of a marvellous and legendary character. such is our author's conclusion, and in describing the career of the jesus of history, he relies almost exclusively upon the statements contained in the first gospel. let us now after this long but inadequate introduction, give a brief sketch of the life of jesus, as it is to be found in our author. concerning the time and place of the birth of jesus, we know next to nothing. according to uniform tradition, based upon a statement of the third gospel, he was about thirty years of age at the time when he began teaching. the same gospel states, with elaborate precision, that the public career of john the baptist began in the fifteenth year of tiberius, or a. d. . in the winter of a. d. - , pontius pilate was recalled from judaea, so that the crucifixion could not have taken place later than in the spring of . thus we have a period of about six years during which the ministry of jesus must have begun and ended; and if the tradition with respect to his age be trustworthy, we shall not be far out of the way in supposing him to have been born somewhere between b. c. and a. d. . he is everywhere alluded to in the gospels as jesus of nazareth in galilee, where lived also his father, mother brothers and sisters, and where very likely he was born. his parents' names are said to have been joseph and mary. his own name is a hellenized form of joshua, a name very common among the jews. according to the first gospel (xiii. ), he had four brothers,--joseph and simon; james, who was afterwards one of the heads of the church at jerusalem, and the most formidable enemy of paul; and judas or jude, who is perhaps the author of the anti-pauline epistle commonly ascribed to him. of the early youth of jesus, and of the circumstances which guided his intellectual development, we know absolutely nothing, nor have we the data requisite for forming any plausible hypothesis. he first appears in history about a. d. or , in connection with a very remarkable person whom the third evangelist describes as his cousin, and who seems, from his mode of life, to have been in some way connected with or influenced by the hellenizing sect of essenes. here we obtain our first clew to guide us in forming a consecutive theory of the development of jesus' opinions. the sect of essenes took its rise in the time of the maccabees, about b. c. . upon the fundamental doctrines of judaism it had engrafted many pythagorean notions, and was doubtless in the time of jesus instrumental in spreading greek ideas among the people of galilee, where judaism was far from being so narrow and rigid as at jerusalem. the essenes attached but little importance to the messianic expectations of the pharisees, and mingled scarcely at all in national politics. they lived for the most part a strictly ascetic life, being indeed the legitimate predecessors of the early christian hermits and monks. but while pre-eminent for sanctity of life, they heaped ridicule upon the entire sacrificial service of the temple, despised the pharisees as hypocrites, and insisted upon charity toward all men instead of the old jewish exclusiveness. it was once a favourite theory that both john the baptist and jesus were members of the essenian brotherhood; but that theory is now generally abandoned. whatever may have been the case with john, who is said to have lived like an anchorite in the desert, there seems to have been but little practical essenism in jesus, who is almost uniformly represented as cheerful and social in demeanour, and against whom it was expressly urged that he came eating and drinking, making no presence of puritanical holiness. he was neither a puritan, like the essenes, nor a ritualist, like the pharisees. besides which, both john and jesus seem to have begun their careers by preaching the un-essene doctrine of the speedy advent of the "kingdom of heaven," by which is meant the reign of the messiah upon the earth. nevertheless, though we cannot regard jesus as actually a member of the essenian community or sect, we can hardly avoid the conclusion that he, as well as john the baptist, had been at some time strongly influenced by essenian doctrines. the spiritualized conception of the "kingdom of heaven" proclaimed by him was just what would naturally and logically arise from a remodelling of the messianic theories of the pharisees in conformity to advanced essenian notions. it seems highly probable that some such refined conception of the functions of the messiah was reached by john, who, stigmatizing the pharisees and sadducees as a "generation of vipers," called aloud to the people to repent of their sins, in view of the speedy advent of the messiah, and to testify to their repentance by submitting to the essenian rite of baptism. there is no positive evidence that jesus was ever a disciple of john; yet the account of the baptism, in spite of the legendary character of its details, seems to rest upon a historical basis; and perhaps the most plausible hypothesis which can be framed is, that jesus received baptism at john's hands, became for a while his disciple, and acquired from him a knowledge of essenian doctrines. the career of john seems to have been very brief. his stern puritanism brought him soon into disgrace with the government of galilee. he was seized by herod, thrown into prison, and beheaded. after the brief hints given as to the intercourse between jesus and john, we next hear of jesus alone in the desert, where, like sakyamuni and mohammed, he may have brooded in solitude over his great project. yet we do not find that he had as yet formed any distinct conception of his own messiahship. the total neglect of chronology by our authorities [ ] renders it impossible to trace the development of his thoughts step by step; but for some time after john's catastrophe we find him calling upon the people to repent, in view of the speedy approach of the messiah, speaking with great and commanding personal authority, but using no language which would indicate that he was striving to do more than worthily fill the place and add to the good work of his late master. the sermon on the mount, which the first gospel inserts in this place, was perhaps never spoken as a continuous discourse; but it no doubt for the most part contains the very words of jesus, and represents the general spirit of his teaching during this earlier portion of his career. in this is contained nearly all that has made christianity so powerful in the domain of ethics. if all the rest of the gospel were taken away, or destroyed in the night of some future barbarian invasion, we should still here possess the secret of the wonderful impression which jesus made upon those who heard him speak. added to the essenian scorn of pharisaic formalism, and the spiritualized conception of the messianic kingdom, which jesus may probably have shared with john the baptist, we have here for the first time the distinctively christian conception of the fatherhood of god and the brotherhood of men, which ultimately insured the success of the new religion. the special point of originality in jesus was his conception of deity. as strauss well says, "he conceived of god, in a moral point of view, as being identical in character with himself in the most exalted moments of his religious life, and strengthened in turn his own religious life by this ideal. but the most exalted religious tendency in his own consciousness was exactly that comprehensive love, overpowering the evil only by the good, which he therefore transferred to god as the fundamental tendency of his nature." from this conception of god, observes zeller, flowed naturally all the moral teaching of jesus, the insistence upon spiritual righteousness instead of the mere mechanical observance of mosaic precepts, the call to be perfect even as the father is perfect, the principle of the spiritual equality of men before god, and the equal duties of all men toward each other. [ ] "the biographers [of becket] are commonly rather careless as to the order of time. each.... recorded what struck him most or what he best knew, one set down one event and another; and none of them paid much regard to the order of details."--freeman, historical essays, st series, p. . how far, in addition to these vitally important lessons, jesus may have taught doctrines of an ephemeral or visionary character, it is very difficult to decide. we are inclined to regard the third gospel as of some importance in settling this point. the author of that gospel represents jesus as decidedly hostile to the rich. where matthew has "blessed are the poor in spirit," luke has "blessed are ye poor." in the first gospel we read, "blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled"; but in the third gospel we find, "blessed are ye that hunger now, for ye will be filled"; and this assurance is immediately followed by the denunciation, "woe to you that are rich, for ye have received your consolation! woe to you that are full now, for ye will hunger." the parable of dives and lazarus illustrates concretely this view of the case, which is still further corroborated by the account, given in both the first and the third gospels, of the young man who came to seek everlasting life. jesus here maintains that righteousness is insufficient unless voluntary poverty be superadded. though the young man has strictly fulfilled the greatest of the commandments,--to love his neighbour as himself,--he is required, as a needful proof of his sincerity, to distribute all his vast possessions among the poor. and when he naturally manifests a reluctance to perform so superfluous a sacrifice, jesus observes that it will be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to share in the glories of the anticipated messianic kingdom. it is difficult to escape the conclusion that we have here a very primitive and probably authentic tradition; and when we remember the importance which, according to the "acts," the earliest disciples attached to the principle of communism, as illustrated in the legend of ananias and sapphira, we must admit strong reasons for believing that jesus himself held views which tended toward the abolition of private property. on this point, the testimony of the third evangelist singly is of considerable weight; since at the time when he wrote, the communistic theories of the first generation of christians had been generally abandoned, and in the absence of any dogmatic motives, he could only have inserted these particular traditions because he believed them to possess historical value. but we are not dependent on the third gospel alone. the story just cited is attested by both our authorities, and is in perfect keeping with the general views of jesus as reported by the first evangelist. thus his disciples are enjoined to leave all, and follow him; to take no thought for the morrow; to think no more of laying up treasures on the earth, for in the messianic kingdom they shall have treasures in abundance, which can neither be wasted nor stolen. on making their journeys, they are to provide neither money, nor clothes, nor food, but are to live at the expense of those whom they visit; and if any town refuse to harbour them, the messiah, on his arrival, will deal with that town more severely than jehovah dealt with the cities of the plain. indeed, since the end of the world was to come before the end of the generation then living (matt. xxiv. ; cor. xv. - , vii. ), there could be no need for acquiring property or making arrangements for the future; even marriage became unnecessary. these teachings of jesus have a marked essenian character, as well as his declaration that in the messianic kingdom there was to be no more marriage, perhaps no distinction of sex (matt. xxii. ). the sect of ebionites, who represented the earliest doctrine and practice of christianity before it had been modified by paul, differed from the essenes in no essential respect save in the acknowledgment of jesus as the messiah, and the expectation of his speedy return to the earth. how long, or with what success, jesus continued to preach the coming of the messiah in galilee, it is impossible to conjecture. his fellow-townsmen of nazareth appear to have ridiculed him in his prophetical capacity; or, if we may trust the third evangelist, to have arisen against him with indignation, and made an attempt upon his life. to them he was but a carpenter, the son of a carpenter (matt. xiii. ; mark vi. ), who told them disagreeable truths. our author represents his teaching in galilee to have produced but little result, but the gospel narratives afford no definite data for deciding this point. we believe the most probable conclusion to be that jesus did attract many followers, and became famous throughout galilee; for herod is said to have regarded him as john the baptist risen from the grave. to escape the malice of herod, jesus then retired to syro-phoenicia, and during this eventful journey the consciousness of his own messiahship seems for the first time to have distinctly dawned upon him (matt. xiv. , ; xv. ; xvi. - ). already, it appears, speculations were rife as to the character of this wonderful preacher. some thought he was john the baptist, or perhaps one of the prophets of the assyrian period returned to the earth. some, in accordance with a generally-received tradition, supposed him to be elijah, who had never seen death, and had now at last returned from the regions above the firmament to announce the coming of the messiah in the clouds. it was generally admitted, among enthusiastic hearers, that he who spake as never man spake before must have some divine commission to execute. these speculations, coming to the ears of jesus during his preaching in galilee, could not fail to excite in him a train of self-conscious reflections. to him also must have been presented the query as to his own proper character and functions; and, as our author acutely demonstrates, his only choice lay between a profitless life of exile in syro-phoenicia, and a bold return to jewish territory in some pronounced character. the problem being thus propounded, there could hardly be a doubt as to what that character should be. jesus knew well that he was not john the baptist; nor, however completely he may have been dominated by his sublime enthusiasm, was it likely that he could mistake himself for an ancient prophet arisen from the lower world of shades, or for elijah descended from the sky. but the messiah himself he might well be. such indeed was the almost inevitable corollary from his own conception of messiahship. we have seen that he had, probably from the very outset, discarded the traditional notion of a political messiah, and recognized the truth that the happiness of a people lies not so much in political autonomy as in the love of god and the sincere practice of righteousness. the people were to be freed from the bondage of sin, of meaningless formalism, of consecrated hypocrisy,--a bondage more degrading than the payment of tribute to the emperor. the true business of the messiah, then, was to deliver his people from the former bondage; it might be left to jehovah, in his own good time, to deliver them from the latter. holding these views, it was hardly possible that it should not sooner or later occur to jesus that he himself was the person destined to discharge this glorious function, to liberate his countrymen from the thraldom of pharisaic ritualism, and to inaugurate the real messianic kingdom of spiritual righteousness. had he not already preached the advent of this spiritual kingdom, and been instrumental in raising many to loftier conceptions of duty, and to a higher and purer life? and might he not now, by a grand attack upon pharisaism in its central stronghold, destroy its prestige in the eyes of the people, and cause israel to adopt a nobler religious and ethical doctrine? the temerity of such a purpose detracts nothing from its sublimity. and if that purpose should be accomplished, jesus would really have performed the legitimate work of the messiah. thus, from his own point of view, jesus was thoroughly consistent and rational in announcing himself as the expected deliverer; and in the eyes of the impartial historian his course is fully justified. "from that time," says the first evangelist, "jesus began to show to his disciples that he must go to jerusalem, and suffer many things from the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be put to death, and rise again on the third day." here we have, obviously, the knowledge of the writer, after the event, reflected back and attributed to jesus. it is of course impossible that jesus should have predicted with such definiteness his approaching death; nor is it very likely that he entertained any hope of being raised from the grave "on the third day." to a man in that age and country, the conception of a return from the lower world of shades was not a difficult one to frame; and it may well be that jesus' sense of his own exalted position was sufficiently great to inspire him with the confidence that, even in case of temporary failure, jehovah would rescue him from the grave and send him back with larger powers to carry out the purpose of his mission. but the difficulty of distinguishing between his own words and the interpretation put upon them by his disciples becomes here insuperable; and there will always be room for the hypothesis that jesus had in view no posthumous career of his own, but only expressed his unshaken confidence in the success of his enterprise, even after and in spite of his death. at all events, the possibility of his death must now have been often in his mind. he was undertaking a wellnigh desperate task,--to overthrow the pharisees in jerusalem itself. no other alternative was left him. and here we believe mr. f. w. newman to be singularly at fault in pronouncing this attempt of jesus upon jerusalem a foolhardy attempt. according to mr. newman, no man has any business to rush upon certain death, and it is only a crazy fanatic who will do so. [ ] but such "glittering generalizations" will here help us but little. the historic data show that to go to jerusalem, even at the risk of death, was absolutely necessary to the realization of jesus' messianic project. mr. newman certainly would not have had him drag out an inglorious and baffled existence in syro-phoenicia. if the messianic kingdom was to be fairly inaugurated, there was work to be done in jerusalem, and jesus must go there as one in authority, cost what it might. we believe him to have gone there in a spirit of grand and careless bravery, yet seriously and soberly, and under the influence of no fanatical delusion. he knew the risks, but deliberately chose to incur them, that the will of jehovah might be accomplished. we next hear of jesus travelling down to jerusalem by way of jericho, and entering the sacred city in his character of messiah, attended by a great multitude. it was near the time of the passover, when people from all parts of galilee and judaea were sure to be at jerusalem, and the nature of his reception seems to indicate that he had already secured a considerable number of followers upon whose assistance he might hope to rely, though it nowhere appears that he intended to use other than purely moral weapons to insure a favourable reception. we must remember that for half a century many of the jewish people had been constantly looking for the arrival of the messiah, and there can be little doubt that the entry of jesus riding upon an ass in literal fulfilment of prophecy must have wrought powerfully upon the imagination of the multitude. that the believers in him were very numerous must be inferred from the cautious, not to say timid, behaviour of the rulers at jerusalem, who are represented as desiring to arrest him, but as deterred from taking active steps through fear of the people. we are led to the same conclusion by his driving the money-changers out of the temple; an act upon which he could hardly have ventured, had not the popular enthusiasm in his favour been for the moment overwhelming. but the enthusiasm of a mob is short-lived, and needs to be fed upon the excitement of brilliant and dramatically arranged events. the calm preacher of righteousness, or even the fiery denouncer of the scribes and pharisees, could not hope to retain undiminished authority save by the display of extraordinary powers to which, so far as we know, jesus (like mohammed) made no presence (matt. xvi. - ). the ignorant and materialistic populace could not understand the exalted conception of messiahship which had been formed by jesus, and as day after day elapsed without the appearance of any marvellous sign from jehovah, their enthusiasm must naturally have cooled down. then the pharisees appear cautiously endeavouring to entrap him into admissions which might render him obnoxious to the roman governor. he saw through their design, however, and foiled them by the magnificent repartee, "render unto caesar the things that are caesar's, and unto god the things that are god's." nothing could more forcibly illustrate the completely non-political character of his messianic doctrines. nevertheless, we are told that, failing in this attempt, the chief priests suborned false witnesses to testify against him: this sabbath-breaker, this derider of mosaic formalism, who with his messianic pretensions excited the people against their hereditary teachers, must at all events be put out of the way. jesus must suffer the fate which society has too often had in store for the reformer; the fate which sokrates and savonarola, vanini and bruno, have suffered for being wiser than their own generation. messianic adventurers had already given much trouble to the roman authorities, who were not likely to scrutinize critically the peculiar claims of jesus. and when the chief priests accused him before pilate of professing to be "king of the jews," this claim could in roman apprehension bear but one interpretation. the offence was treason, punishable, save in the case of roman citizens, by crucifixion. [ ] phases of faith, pp. - . such in its main outlines is the historic career of jesus, as constructed by our author from data furnished chiefly by the first gospel. connected with the narrative there are many interesting topics of discussion, of which our rapidly diminishing space will allow us to select only one for comment. that one is perhaps the most important of all, namely, the question as to how far jesus anticipated the views of paul in admitting gentiles to share in the privileges of the messianic kingdom. our author argues, with much force, that the designs of jesus were entirely confined to the jewish people, and that it was paul who first, by admitting gentiles to the christian fold without requiring them to live like jews, gave to christianity the character of a universal religion. our author reminds us that the third gospel is not to be depended upon in determining this point, since it manifestly puts pauline sentiments into the mouth of jesus, and in particular attributes to jesus an acquaintance with heretical samaria which the first gospel disclaims. he argues that the apostles were in every respect jews, save in their belief that jesus was the messiah; and he pertinently asks, if james, who was the brother of jesus, and peter and john, who were his nearest friends, unanimously opposed paul and stigmatized him as a liar and heretic, is it at all likely that jesus had ever distinctly sanctioned such views as paul maintained? in the course of many years' reflection upon this point, we have several times been inclined to accept the narrow interpretation of jesus' teaching here indicated; yet, on the whole, we do not believe it can ever be conclusively established. in the first place it must be remembered that if the third gospel throws a pauline colouring over the events which it describes, the first gospel also shows a decidedly anti-pauline bias, and the one party was as likely as the other to attribute its own views to jesus himself. one striking instance of this tendency has been pointed out by strauss, who has shown that the verses matt. v. - are an interpolation. the person who teaches men to break the commandments is undoubtedly paul, and in order to furnish a text against paul's followers, the "nicolaitans," jesus is made to declare that he came not to destroy one tittle of the law, but to fulfil the whole in every particular. such an utterance is in manifest contradiction to the spirit of jesus' teaching, as shown in the very same chapter, and throughout a great part of the same gospel. he who taught in his own name and not as the scribes, who proclaimed himself lord over the sabbath, and who manifested from first to last a more than essenian contempt for rites and ceremonies, did not come to fulfil the law of mosaism, but to supersede it. nor can any inference adverse to this conclusion be drawn from the injunction to the disciples (matt. x. - ) not to preach to gentiles and samaritans, but only "to the lost sheep of the house of israel"; for this remark is placed before the beginning of jesus' messianic career, and the reason assigned for the restriction is merely that the disciples will not have time even to preach to all the jews before the coming of the messiah, whose approach jesus was announcing (matt. x. ) these examples show that we must use caution in weighing the testimony even of the first gospel, and must not too hastily cite it as proof that jesus supposed his mission to be restricted to the jews. when we come to consider what happened a few years after the death of jesus, we shall be still less ready to insist upon the view defended by our anonymous author. paul, according to his own confession, persecuted the christians unto death. now what, in the theories or in the practice of the jewish disciples of jesus, could have moved paul to such fanatic behaviour? certainly not their spiritual interpretation of mosaism, for paul himself belonged to the liberal school of gamaliel, to the views of which the teachings and practices of peter, james, and john might easily be accommodated. probably not their belief in jesus as the messiah, for at the riot in which stephen was murdered and all the hellenist disciples driven from jerusalem, the jewish disciples were allowed to remain in the city unmolested. (see acts viii. , .) this marked difference of treatment indicates that paul regarded stephen and his friends as decidedly more heretical and obnoxious than peter, james, and john, whom, indeed, paul's own master gamaliel had recently (acts v. ) defended before the council. and this inference is fully confirmed by the account of stephen's death, where his murderers charge him with maintaining that jesus had founded a new religion which was destined entirely to supersede and replace judaism (acts vi. ). the petrine disciples never held this view of the mission of jesus; and to this difference it is undoubtedly owing that paul and his companions forbore to disturb them. it would thus appear that even previous to paul's conversion, within five or six years after the death of jesus, there was a prominent party among the disciples which held that the new religion was not a modification but an abrogation of judaism; and their name "hellenists" sufficiently shows either that there were gentiles among them or that they held fellowship with gentiles. it was this which aroused paul to persecution, and upon his sudden conversion it was with these hellenistic doctrines that he fraternized, taking little heed of the petrine disciples (galatians i. ), who were hardly more than a jewish sect. now the existence of these hellenists at jerusalem so soon after the death of jesus is clear proof that he had never distinctly and irrevocably pronounced against the admission of gentiles to the messianic kingdom, and it makes it very probable that the downfall of mosaism as a result of his preaching was by no means unpremeditated. while, on the other hand, the obstinacy of the petrine party in adhering to jewish customs shows equally that jesus could not have unequivocally committed himself in favour of a new gospel for the gentiles. probably jesus was seldom brought into direct contact with others than jews, so that the questions concerning the admission of gentile converts did not come up during his lifetime; and thus the way was left open for the controversy which soon broke out between the petrine party and paul. nevertheless, though jesus may never have definitely pronounced upon this point, it will hardly be denied that his teaching, even as reported in the first gospel, is in its utter condemnation of formalism far more closely allied to the pauline than to the petrine doctrines. in his hands mosaism became spiritualized until it really lost its identity, and was transformed into a code fit for the whole roman world. and we do not doubt that if any one had asked jesus whether circumcision were an essential prerequisite for admission to the messianic kingdom, he would have given the same answer which paul afterwards gave. we agree with zeller and strauss that, "as luther was a more liberal spirit than the lutheran divines of the succeeding generation, and sokrates a more profound thinker than xenophon or antisthenes, so also jesus must be credited with having raised himself far higher above the narrow prejudices of his nation than those of his disciples who could scarcely understand the spread of christianity among the heathen when it had become an accomplished fact." january, . iv. the christ of dogma. [ ] [ ] saint-paul, par ernest renan. paris, . histoire du dogme de la divinite de jesus-christ, par albert reville. paris, . the end of the world and the day of judgment. two discourses by the rev. w. r. alger. boston: roberts brothers, . the meagreness of our information concerning the historic career of jesus stands in striking contrast with the mass of information which lies within our reach concerning the primitive character of christologic speculation. first we have the four epistles of paul, written from twenty to thirty years after the crucifixion, which, although they tell us next to nothing about what jesus did, nevertheless give us very plain information as to the impression which he made. then we have the apocalypse, written by john, a. d. , which exhibits the messianic theory entertained by the earliest disciples. next we have the epistles to the hebrews, philippians, colossians, and ephesians, besides the four gospels, constituting altogether a connected chain of testimony to the progress of christian doctrine from the destruction of jerusalem to the time of the quartodeciman controversy (a. d. - ). finally, there is the vast collection of apocryphal, heretical, and patristic literature, from the writings of justin martyr, the pseudo-clement, and the pseudo-ignatius, down to the time of the council of nikaia, when the official theories of christ's person assumed very nearly the shape which they have retained, within the orthodox churches of christendom, down to the present day. as we pointed out in the foregoing essay, while all this voluminous literature throws but an uncertain light upon the life and teachings of the founder of christianity, it nevertheless furnishes nearly all the data which we could desire for knowing what the early christians thought of the master of their faith. having given a brief account of the historic career of jesus, so far as it can now be determined, we propose here to sketch the rise and progress of christologic doctrine, in its most striking features, during the first three centuries. beginning with the apostolic view of the human messiah sent to deliver judaism from its spiritual torpor, and prepare it for the millennial kingdom, we shall briefly trace the progressive metamorphosis of this conception until it completely loses its identity in the athanasian theory, according to which jesus was god himself, the creator of the universe, incarnate in human flesh. the earliest dogma held by the apostles concerning jesus was that of his resurrection from the grave after death. it was not only the earliest, but the most essential to the success of the new religion. christianity might have overspread the roman empire, and maintained its hold upon men's faith until to-day, without the dogmas of the incarnation and the trinity; but without the dogma of the resurrection it would probably have failed at the very outset. its lofty morality would not alone have sufficed to insure its success. for what men needed then, as indeed they still need, and will always need, was not merely a rule of life and a mirror to the heart, but also a comprehensive and satisfactory theory of things, a philosophy or theosophy. the times demanded intellectual as well as moral consolation; and the disintegration of ancient theologies needed to be repaired, that the new ethical impulse imparted by christianity might rest upon a plausible speculative basis. the doctrine of the resurrection was but the beginning of a series of speculative innovations which prepared the way for the new religion to emancipate itself from judaism, and achieve the conquest of the empire. even the faith of the apostles in the speedy return of their master the messiah must have somewhat lost ground, had it not been supported by their belief in his resurrection from the grave and his consequent transfer from sheol, the gloomy land of shadows, to the regions above the sky. the origin of the dogma of the resurrection cannot be determined with certainty. the question has, during the past century, been the subject of much discussion, upon which it is not necessary for us here to comment. such apparent evidence as there is in favour of the old theory of jesus' natural recovery from the effects of the crucifixion may be found in salvador's "jesus-christ et sa doctrine"; but, as zeller has shown, the theory is utterly unsatisfactory. the natural return of jesus to his disciples never could have given rise to the notion of his resurrection, since the natural explanation would have been the more obvious one; besides which, if we were to adopt this hypothesis, we should be obliged to account for the fact that the historic career of jesus ends with the crucifixion. the most probable explanation, on the whole, is the one suggested by the accounts in the gospels, that the dogma of the resurrection is due originally to the excited imagination of mary of magdala. [ ] the testimony of paul may also be cited in favour of this view, since he always alludes to earlier christophanies in just the same language which he uses in describing his own vision on the road to damascus. [ ] see taine, de l'intelligence, ii. . but the question as to how the belief in the resurrection of jesus originated is of less importance than the question as to how it should have produced the effect that it did. the dogma of the resurrection has, until recent times, been so rarely treated from the historical point of view, that the student of history at first finds some difficulty in thoroughly realizing its import to the minds of those who first proclaimed it. we cannot hope to understand it without bearing in mind the theories of the jews and early christians concerning the structure of the world and the cosmic location of departed souls. since the time of copernicus modern christians no longer attempt to locate heaven and hell; they are conceived merely as mysterious places remote from the earth. the theological universe no longer corresponds to that which physical science presents for our contemplation. it was quite different with the jew. his conception of the abode of jehovah and the angels, and of departed souls, was exceedingly simple and definite. in the jewish theory the universe is like a sort of three-story house. the flat earth rests upon the waters, and under the earth's surface is the land of graves, called sheol, where after death the souls of all men go, the righteous as well as the wicked, for the jew had not arrived at the doctrine of heaven and hell. the hebrew sheol corresponds strictly to the greek hades, before the notions of elysium and tartarus were added to it,--a land peopled with flitting shadows, suffering no torment, but experiencing no pleasure, like those whom dante met in one of the upper circles of his inferno. sheol is the first story of the cosmic house; the earth is the second. above the earth is the firmament or sky, which, according to the book of genesis (chap. i. v. , hebrew text), is a vast plate hammered out by the gods, and supports a great ocean like that upon which the earth rests. rain is caused by the opening of little windows or trap-doors in the firmament, through which pours the water of this upper ocean. upon this water rests the land of heaven, where jehovah reigns, surrounded by hosts of angels. to this blessed land two only of the human race had ever been admitted,--enoch and elijah, the latter of whom had ascended in a chariot of fire, and was destined to return to earth as the herald and forerunner of the messiah. heaven forms the third story of the cosmic house. between the firmament and the earth is the air, which is the habitation of evil demons ruled by satan, the "prince of the powers of the air." such was the cosmology of the ancient jew; and his theology was equally simple. sheol was the destined abode of all men after death, and no theory of moral retribution was attached to the conception. the rewards and punishments known to the authors of the pentateuch and the early psalms are all earthly rewards and punishments. but in course of time the prosperity of the wicked and the misfortunes of the good man furnished a troublesome problem for the jewish thinker; and after the babylonish captivity, we find the doctrine of a resurrection from sheol devised in order to meet this case. according to this doctrine--which was borrowed from the zarathustrian theology of persia--the messiah on his arrival was to free from sheol all the souls of the righteous, causing them to ascend reinvested in their bodies to a renewed and beautiful earth, while on the other hand the wicked were to be punished with tortures like those of the valley of hinnom, or were to be immersed in liquid brimstone, like that which had rained upon sodom and gomorrah. here we get the first announcement of a future state of retribution. the doctrine was peculiarly pharisaic, and the sadducees, who were strict adherents to the letter of mosaism, rejected it to the last. by degrees this doctrine became coupled with the messianic theories of the pharisees. the loss of jewish independence under the dominion of persians, macedonians, and romans, caused the people to look ever more earnestly toward the expected time when the messiah should appear in jerusalem to deliver them from their oppressors. the moral doctrines of the psalms and earlier prophets assumed an increasingly political aspect. the jews were the righteous "under a cloud," whose sufferings were symbolically depicted by the younger isaiah as the afflictions of the "servant of jehovah"; while on the other hand, the "wicked" were the gentile oppressors of the holy people. accordingly the messiah, on his arrival, was to sit in judgment in the valley of jehoshaphat, rectifying the wrongs of his chosen ones, condemning the gentile tyrants to the torments of gehenna, and raising from sheol all those jews who had lived and died during the evil times before his coming. these were to find in the messianic kingdom the compensation for the ills which they had suffered in their first earthly existence. such are the main outlines of the theory found in the book of enoch, written about b. c. , and it is adopted in the johannine apocalypse, with little variation, save in the recognition of jesus as the messiah, and in the transferrence to his second coming of all these wonderful proceedings. the manner of the messiah's coming had been variously imagined. according to an earlier view, he was to enter jerusalem as a king of the house of david, and therefore of human lineage. according to a later view, presented in the book of daniel, he was to descend from the sky, and appear among the clouds. both these views were adopted by the disciples of jesus, who harmonized them by referring the one to his first and the other to his second appearance. now to the imaginations of these earliest disciples the belief in the resurrection of jesus presented itself as a needful guarantee of his messiahship. their faith, which must have been shaken by his execution and descent into sheol, received welcome confirmation by the springing up of the belief that he had been again seen upon the face of the earth. applying the imagery of daniel, it became a logical conclusion that he must have ascended into the sky, whence he might shortly be expected to make his appearance, to enact the scenes foretold in prophecy. that such was the actual process of inference is shown by the legend of the ascension in the first chapter of the "acts," and especially by the words, "this jesus who hath been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same manner in which ye beheld him going into heaven." in the apocalypse, written a. d. , just after the death of nero, this second coming is described as something immediately to happen, and the colours in which it is depicted show how closely allied were the johannine notions to those of the pharisees. the glories of the new jerusalem are to be reserved for jews, while for the roman tyrants of judaea is reserved a fearful retribution. they are to be trodden underfoot by the messiah, like grapes in a wine-press, until the gushing blood shall rise to the height of the horse's bridle. in the writings of paul the dogma of the resurrection assumes a very different aspect. though paul, like the older apostles, held that jesus, as the messiah, was to return to the earth within a few years, yet to his catholic mind this anticipated event had become divested of its narrow jewish significance. in the eyes of paul, the religion preached by jesus was an abrogation of mosaism, and the truths contained in it were a free gift to the gentile as well as to the jewish world. according to paul, death came into the world as a punishment for the sin of adam. by this he meant that, had it not been for the original transgression, all men escaping death would either have remained upon earth or have been conveyed to heaven, like enoch and elijah, in incorruptible bodies. but in reality as a penance for disobedience, all men, with these two exceptions, had suffered death, and been exiled to the gloomy caverns of sheol. the mosaic ritual was powerless to free men from this repulsive doom, but it had nevertheless served a good purpose in keeping men's minds directed toward holiness, preparing them, as a schoolmaster would prepare his pupils, to receive the vitalizing truths of christ. now, at last, the messiah or christ had come as a second adam, and being without sin had been raised by jehovah out of sheol and taken up into heaven, as testimony to men that the power of sin and death was at last defeated. the way henceforth to avoid death and escape the exile to sheol was to live spiritually like jesus, and with him to be dead to sensual requirements. faith, in paul's apprehension, was not an intellectual assent to definitely prescribed dogmas, but, as matthew arnold has well pointed out, it was an emotional striving after righteousness, a developing consciousness of god in the soul, such as jesus had possessed, or, in paul's phraseology, a subjugation of the flesh by the spirit. all those who should thus seek spiritual perfection should escape the original curse. the messiah was destined to return to the earth to establish the reign of spiritual holiness, probably during paul's own lifetime ( cor. xv. ). then the true followers of jesus should be clothed in ethereal bodies, free from the imperfections of "the flesh," and should ascend to heaven without suffering death, while the righteous dead should at the same time be released from sheol, even as jesus himself had been released. to the doctrine of the resurrection, in which ethical and speculative elements are thus happily blended by paul, the new religion doubtless owed in great part its rapid success. into an account of the causes which favoured the spreading of christianity, it is not our purpose to enter at present. but we may note that the local religions of the ancient pagan world had partly destroyed each other by mutual intermingling, and had lost their hold upon people from the circumstance that their ethical teaching no longer corresponded to the advanced ethical feeling of the age. polytheism, in short, was outgrown. it was outgrown both intellectually and morally. people were ceasing to believe in its doctrines, and were ceasing to respect its precepts. the learned were taking refuge in philosophy, the ignorant in mystical superstitions imported from asia. the commanding ethical motive of ancient republican times had been patriotism,--devotion to the interests of the community. but roman dominion had destroyed patriotism as a guiding principle of life, and thus in every way the minds of men were left in a sceptical, unsatisfied state,--craving after a new theory of life, and craving after a new stimulus to right action. obviously the only theology which could now be satisfactory to philosophy or to common-sense was some form of monotheism;--some system of doctrines which should represent all men as spiritually subjected to the will of a single god, just as they were subjected to the temporal authority of the emperor. and similarly the only system of ethics which could have a chance of prevailing must be some system which should clearly prescribe the mutual duties of all men without distinction of race or locality. thus the spiritual morality of jesus, and his conception of god as a father and of all men as brothers, appeared at once to meet the ethical and speculative demands of the time. yet whatever effect these teachings might have produced, if unaided by further doctrinal elaboration, was enhanced myriadfold by the elaboration which they received at the hands of paul. philosophic stoics and epicureans had arrived at the conception of the brotherhood of men, and the greek hymn of kleanthes had exhibited a deep spiritual sense of the fatherhood of god. the originality of christianity lay not so much in its enunciation of new ethical precepts as in the fact that it furnished a new ethical sanction,--a commanding incentive to holiness of living. that it might accomplish this result, it was absolutely necessary that it should begin by discarding both the ritualism and the narrow theories of judaism. the mere desire for a monotheistic creed had led many pagans, in paul's time, to embrace judaism, in spite of its requirements, which to romans and greeks were meaningless, and often disgusting; but such conversions could never have been numerous. judaism could never have conquered the roman world; nor is it likely that the judaical christianity of peter, james, and john would have been any more successful. the doctrine of the resurrection, in particular, was not likely to prove attractive when accompanied by the picture of the messiah treading the gentiles in the wine-press of his righteous indignation. but here paul showed his profound originality the condemnation of jewish formalism which jesus had pronounced, paul turned against the older apostles, who insisted upon circumcision. with marvellous flexibility of mind, paul placed circumcision and the mosaic injunctions about meats upon a level with the ritual observances of pagan nations, allowing each feeble brother to perform such works as might tickle his fancy, but bidding all take heed that salvation was not to be obtained after any such mechanical method, but only by devoting the whole soul to righteousness, after the example of jesus. this was the negative part of paul's work. this was the knocking down of the barriers which had kept men, and would always have kept them, from entering into the kingdom of heaven. but the positive part of paul's work is contained in his theory of the salvation of men from death through the second adam, whom jehovah rescued from sheol for his sinlessness. the resurrection of jesus was the visible token of the escape from death which might be achieved by all men who, with god's aid, should succeed in freeing themselves from the burden of sin which had encumbered all the children of adam. the end of the world was at hand, and they who would live with christ must figuratively die with christ, must become dead to sin. thus to the pure and spiritual ethics contained in the teachings of jesus, paul added an incalculably powerful incentive to right action, and a theory of life calculated to satisfy the speculative necessities of the pagan or gentile world. to the educated and sceptical athenian, as to the critical scholar of modern times, the physical resurrection of jesus from the grave, and his ascent through the vaulted floor of heaven, might seem foolishness or naivete. but to the average greek or roman the conception presented no serious difficulty. the cosmical theories upon which the conception was founded were essentially the same among jews and gentiles, and indeed were but little modified until the establishment of the copernican astronomy. the doctrine of the messiah's second coming was also received without opposition, and for about a century men lived in continual anticipation of that event, until hope long deferred produced its usual results; the writings in which that event was predicted were gradually explained away, ignored, or stigmatized as uncanonical; and the church ended by condemning as a heresy the very doctrine which paul and the judaizing apostles, who agreed in little else, had alike made the basis of their speculative teachings. nevertheless, by the dint of allegorical interpretation, the belief has maintained an obscure existence even down to the present time; the antiochus of the book of daniel and the nero of the apocalypse having given place to the roman pontiff or to the emperor of the french. but as the millenarism of the primitive church gradually died out during the second century, the essential principles involved in it lost none of their hold on men's minds. as the generation contemporary with paul died away and was gathered into sheol, it became apparent that the original theory must be somewhat modified, and to this question the author of the second epistle to the thessalonians addresses himself. instead of literal preservation from death, the doctrine of a resurrection from the grave was gradually extended to the case of the new believers, who were to share in the same glorious revival with the righteous of ancient times. and thus by slow degrees the victory over death, of which the resurrection of jesus was a symbol and a witness, became metamorphosed into the comparatively modern doctrine of the rest of the saints in heaven, while the banishment of the unrighteous to sheol was made still more dreadful by coupling with the vague conception of a gloomy subterranean cavern the horrible imagery of the lake of fire and brimstone borrowed from the apocalyptic descriptions of gehenna. but in this modification of the original theory, the fundamental idea of a future state of retribution was only the more distinctly emphasized; although, in course of time, the original incentive to righteousness supplied by paul was more and more subordinated to the comparatively degrading incentive involved in the fear of damnation. there can hardly be a doubt that the definiteness and vividness of the pauline theory of a future life contributed very largely to the rapid spread of the christian religion; nor can it be doubted that to the desire to be holy like jesus, in order to escape death and live with jesus, is due the elevating ethical influence which, even in the worst times of ecclesiastic degeneracy, christianity has never failed to exert. doubtless, as lessing long, ago observed, the notion of future reward and punishment needs to be eliminated in order that the incentive to holiness may be a perfectly pure one. the highest virtue is that which takes no thought of reward or punishment; but for a conception of this sort the mind of antiquity was not ready, nor is the average mind of to-day yet ready; and the sudden or premature dissolution of the christian theory--which is fortunately impossible--might perhaps entail a moral retrogradation. the above is by no means intended as a complete outline of the religious philosophy of paul. we have aimed only at a clear definition of the character and scope of the doctrine of the resurrection of jesus, at the time when it was first elaborated. we have now to notice the influence of that doctrine upon the development of christologic speculation. in neither or the four genuine epistles of paul is jesus described as superhuman, or as differing in nature from other men, save in his freedom from sin. as baur has shown, "the proper nature of the pauline christ is human. he is a man, but a spiritual man, one in whom spirit or pneuma was the essential principle, so that he was spirit as well as man. the principle of an ideal humanity existed before christ in the bright form of a typical man, but was manifested to mankind in the person of christ." such, according to baur, is paul's interpretation of the messianic idea. paul knows nothing of the miracles, of the supernatural conception, of the incarnation, or of the logos. the christ whom he preaches is the man jesus, the founder of a new and spiritual order of humanity, as adam was the father of humanity after the flesh. the resurrection is uniformly described by him as a manifestation of the power of jehovah, not of jesus himself. the later conception of christ bursting the barred gates of sheol, and arising by his own might to heaven, finds no warrant in the expressions of paul. indeed, it was essential to paul's theory of the messiah as a new adam, that he should be human and not divine; for the escape of a divine being from sheol could afford no precedent and furnish no assurance of the future escape of human beings. it was expressly because the man jesus had been rescued from the grave because of his spirituality, that other men might hope, by becoming spiritual like him, to be rescued also. accordingly paul is careful to state that "since through man came death, through man came also the resurrection of the dead" ( cor. xv. ); a passage which would look like an express denial of christ's superhuman character, were it probable that any of paul's contemporaries had ever conceived of jesus as other than essentially human. but though paul's christology remained in this primitive stage, it contained the germs of a more advanced theory. for even paul conceived of jesus as a man wholly exceptional in spiritual character; or, in the phraseology of the time, as consisting to a larger extent of pneuma than any man who had lived before him. the question was sure to arise, whence came this pneuma or spiritual quality? whether the question ever distinctly presented itself to paul's mind cannot be determined. probably it did not. in those writings of his which have come down to us, he shows himself careless of metaphysical considerations. he is mainly concerned with exhibiting the unsatisfactory character of jewish christianity, and with inculcating a spiritual morality, to which the doctrine of christ's resurrection is made to supply a surpassingly powerful sanction. but attempts to solve the problem were not long in coming. according to a very early tradition, of which the obscured traces remain in the synoptic gospels, jesus received the pneuma at the time of his baptism, when the holy spirit, or visible manifestation of the essence of jehovah, descended upon him and became incarnate in him. this theory, however, was exposed to the objection that it implied a sudden and entire transformation of an ordinary man into a person inspired or possessed by the deity. though long maintained by the ebionites or primitive christians, it was very soon rejected by the great body of the church, which asserted instead that jesus had been inspired by the holy spirit from the moment of his conception. from this it was but a step to the theory that jesus was actually begotten by or of the holy spirit; a notion which the hellenic mind, accustomed to the myths of leda, anchises, and others, found no difficulty in entertaining. according to the gospel of the hebrews, as cited by origen, the holy spirit was the mother of jesus, and joseph was his father. but according to the prevailing opinion, as represented in the first and third synoptists, the relationship was just the other way. with greater apparent plausibility, the divine aeon was substituted for the human father, and a myth sprang up, of which the materialistic details furnished to the opponents of the new religion an opportunity for making the most gross and exasperating insinuations. the dominance of this theory marks the era at which our first and third synoptic gospels were composed,--from sixty to ninety years after the death of jesus. in the luxuriant mythologic growth there exhibited, we may yet trace the various successive phases of christologic speculation but imperfectly blended. in "matthew" and "luke" we find the original messianic theory exemplified in the genealogies of jesus, in which, contrary to historic probability (cf. matt. xxii. - ), but in accordance with a time-honoured tradition, his pedigree is traced back to david; "matthew" referring him to the royal line of judah, while "luke" more cautiously has recourse to an assumed younger branch. superposed upon this primitive mythologic stratum, we find, in the same narratives, the account of the descent of the pneuma at the time of the baptism; and crowning the whole, there are the two accounts of the nativity which, though conflicting in nearly all their details, agree in representing the divine pneuma as the father of jesus. of these three stages of christology, the last becomes entirely irreconcilable with the first; and nothing can better illustrate the uncritical character of the synoptists than the fact that the assumed descent of jesus from david through his father joseph is allowed to stand side by side with the account of the miraculous conception which completely negatives it. of this difficulty "matthew" is quite unconscious, and "luke," while vaguely noticing it (iii. ), proposes no solution, and appears undisturbed by the contradiction. thus far the christology with which we have been dealing is predominantly jewish, though to some extent influenced by hellenic conceptions. none of the successive doctrines presented in paul, "matthew," and "luke" assert or imply the pre-existence of jesus. at this early period he was regarded as a human being raised to participation in certain attributes of divinity; and this was as far as the dogma could be carried by the jewish metaphysics. but soon after the date of our third gospel, a hellenic system of christology arose into prominence, in which the problem was reversed, and jesus was regarded as a semi-divine being temporarily lowered to participation in certain attributes of humanity. for such a doctrine jewish mythology supplied no precedents; but the indo-european mind was familiar with the conception of deity incarnate in human form, as in the avatars of vishnu, or even suffering iii the interests of humanity, as in the noble myth of prometheus. the elements of christology pre-existing in the religious conceptions of greece, india, and persia, are too rich and numerous to be discussed here. a very full account of them is given in mr. r. w. mackay's acute and learned treatise on the "religious development of the greeks and hebrews{.}" it was in alexandria, where jewish theology first came into contact with hellenic and oriental ideas, that the way was prepared for the dogma of christ's pre-existence. the attempt to rationalize the conception of deity as embodied in the jehovah of the old testament gave rise to the class of opinions described as gnosis, or gnosticism. the signification of gnosis is simply "rationalism,"--the endeavour to harmonize the materialistic statements of an old mythology with the more advanced spiritualistic philosophy of the time. the gnostics rejected the conception of an anthropomorphic deity who had appeared visibly and audibly to the patriarchs; and they were the authors of the doctrine, very widely spread during the second and third centuries, that god could not in person have been the creator of the world. according to them, god, as pure spirit, could not act directly upon vile and gross matter. the difficulty which troubled them was curiously analogous to that which disturbed the cartesians and the followers of leibnitz in the seventeenth century; how was spirit to act upon matter, without ceasing, pro tanto, to be spirit? to evade this difficulty, the gnostics postulated a series of emanations from god, becoming successively less and less spiritual and more and more material, until at the lowest end of the scale was reached the demiurgus or jehovah of the old testament, who created the world and appeared, clothed in material form, to the patriarchs. according to some of the gnostics this lowest aeon or emanation was identical with the jewish satan, or the ahriman of the persians, who is called "the prince of this world," and the creation of the world was an essentially evil act. but all did not share in these extreme opinions. in the prevailing, theory, this last of the divine emanations was identified with the "sophia," or personified "wisdom," of the book of proverbs (viii. - ), who is described as present with god before the foundation of the world. the totality of these aeons constituted the pleroma, or "fulness of god" (coloss. i. ; eph. i. ), and in a corollary which bears unmistakable marks of buddhist influence, it was argued that, in the final consummation of things, matter should be eliminated and all spirit reunited with god, from whom it had primarily flowed. it was impossible that such views as these should not soon be taken up and applied to the fluctuating christology of the time. according to the "shepherd of hermas," an apocalyptic writing nearly contemporary with the gospel of "mark," the aeon or son of god who existed previous to the creation was not the christ, or the sophia, but the pneuma or holy spirit, represented in the old testament as the "angel of jehovah." jesus, in reward for his perfect goodness, was admitted to a share in the privileges of this pneuma (reville, p. ). here, as m. reville observes, though a gnostic idea is adopted, jesus is nevertheless viewed as ascending humanity, and not as descending divinity. the author of the "clementine homilies" advances a step farther, and clearly assumes the pre-existence of jesus, who, in his opinion, was the pure, primitive man, successively incarnate in adam, enoch, noah, abraham, isaac, jacob, moses, and finally in the messiah or christ. the author protests, in vehement language, against those hellenists who, misled by their polytheistic associations, would elevate jesus into a god. nevertheless, his own hypothesis of pre-existence supplied at once the requisite fulcrum for those gnostics who wished to reconcile a strict monotheism with the ascription of divine attributes to jesus. combining with this notion of pre-existence the pneumatic or spiritual quality attributed to jesus in the writings of paul, the gnosticizing christians maintained that christ was an aeon or emanation from god, redeeming men from the consequences entailed by their imprisonment in matter. at this stage of christologic speculation appeared the anonymous epistle to the "hebrews," and the pseudo-pauline epistles to the "colossians," "ephesians," and "philippians" (a. d. ). in these epistles, which originated among the pauline christians, the gnostic theosophy is skilfully applied to the pauline conception of the scope and purposes of christianity. jesus is described as the creator of the world (coloss. i. ), the visible image of the invisible god, the chief and ruler of the "throues, dominions, principalities, and powers," into which, in gnostic phraseology, the emanations of god were classified. or, according to "colossians" and "philippians," all the aeons are summed up in him, in whom dwells the pleroma, or "fulness of god." thus jesus is elevated quite above ordinary humanity, and a close approach is made to ditheism, although he is still emphatically subordinated to god by being made the creator of the world,--an office then regarded as incompatible with absolute divine perfection. in the celebrated passage, "philippians" ii. - , the aeon jesus is described as being the form or visible manifestation of god, yet as humbling himself by taking on the form or semblance of humanity, and suffering death, in return for which he is to be exalted even above the archangels. a similar view is taken in "hebrews"; and it is probable that to the growing favour with which these doctrines were received, we owe the omission of the miraculous conception from the gospel of "mark,"--a circumstance which has misled some critics into assigning to that gospel an earlier date than to "matthew" and "luke." yet the fact that in this gospel jesus is implicitly ranked above the angels (mark xiii. ), reveals a later stage of christologic doctrine than that reached by the first and third synoptists; and it is altogether probable that, in accordance with the noticeable conciliatory disposition of this evangelist, the supernatural conception is omitted out of deference to the gnosticizing theories of "colossians" and "philippians," in which this materialistic doctrine seems to have had no assignable place. in "philippians" especially, many expressions seem to verge upon docetism, the extreme form of gnosticism, according to which the human body of jesus was only a phantom. valentinus, who was contemporary with the pauline writers of the second century, maintained that jesus was not born of mary by any process of conception, but merely passed through her, as light traverses a translucent substance. and finally marcion (a. d. ) carried the theory to its extreme limits by declaring that jesus was the pure pneuma or spirit, who contained nothing in common with carnal humanity. the pseudo-pauline writers steered clear of this extravagant doctrine, which erred by breaking entirely with historic tradition, and was consequently soon condemned as heretical. their language, though unmistakably gnostic, was sufficiently neutral and indefinite to allow of their combination with earlier and later expositions of dogma, and they were therefore eventually received into the canon, where they exhibit a stage of opinion midway between that of paul and that of the fourth gospel. for the construction of a durable system of christology, still further elaboration was necessary. the pre-existence of jesus, as an emanation from god, in whom were summed up the attributes of the pleroma or full scale of gnostic aeons, was now generally conceded. but the relation of this pleroqma to the godhead of which it was the visible manifestation, needed to be more accurately defined. and here recourse was had to the conception of the "logos,"--a notion which philo had borrowed from plato, lending to it a theosophic significance. in the platonic metaphysics objective existence was attributed to general terms, the signs of general notions. besides each particular man, horse, or tree, and besides all men, horses, and trees, in the aggregate, there was supposed to exist an ideal man, horse, and tree. each particular man, horse, or tree consisted of abstract existence plus a portion of the ideal man, horse, or tree. sokrates, for instance, consisted of existence, plus animality, plus humanity, plus sokraticity. the visible world of particulars thus existed only by virtue of its participation in the attributes of the ideal world of universals. god created the world by encumbering each idea with an envelopment or clothing of visible matter; and since matter is vile or imperfect, all things are more or less perfect as they partake more or less fully of the idea. the pure unencumbered idea, the "idea of ideas," is the logos, or divine reason, which represents the sum-total of the activities which sustain the world, and serves as a mediator between the absolutely ideal god and the absolutely non-ideal matter. here we arrive at a gnostic conception, which the philonists of alexandria were not slow to appropriate. the logos, or divine reason, was identified with the sophia, or divine wisdom of the jewish gnostics, which had dwelt with god before the creation of the world. by a subtle play upon the double meaning of the greek term (logos = "reason" or "word"), a distinction was drawn between the divine reason and the divine word. the former was the archctypal idea or thought of god, existing from all eternity; the latter was the external manifestation or realization of that idea which occurred at the moment of creation, when, according to genesis, god spoke, and the world was. in the middle of the second century, this philonian theory was the one thing needful to add metaphysical precision to the gnostic and pauline speculations concerning the nature of jesus. in the writings of justin martyr (a. d. - ), jesus is for the first time identified with the philonian logos or "word of god." according to justin, an impassable abyss exists between the infinite deity and the finite world; the one cannot act upon the other; pure spirit cannot contaminate itself by contact with impure matter. to meet this difficulty, god evolves from himself a secondary god, the logos,--yet without diminishing himself any more than a flame is diminished when it gives birth to a second flame. thus generated, like light begotten of light (lumen de lumine), the logos creates the world, inspires the ancient prophets with their divine revelations, and finally reveals himself to mankind in the person of christ. yet justin sedulously guards himself against ditheism, insisting frequently and emphatically upon the immeasurable inferiority of the logos as compared with the actual god (gr o ontws qeos). we have here reached very nearly the ultimate phase of new testament speculation concerning jesus. the doctrines enunciated by justin became eventually, with slight modification, the official doctrines of the church; yet before they could thus be received, some further elaboration was needed. the pre-existing logos-christ of justin was no longer the human messiah of the first and third gospels, born of a woman, inspired by the divine pneuma, and tempted by the devil. there was danger that christologic speculation might break quite loose from historic tradition, and pass into the metaphysical extreme of docetism. had this come to pass, there might perhaps have been a fatal schism in the church. tradition still remained ebionitish; dogma had become decidedly gnostic; how were the two to be moulded into harmony with each other? such was the problem which presented itself to the author of the fourth gospel (a. d. - ). as m. reville observes, "if the doctrine of the logos were really to be applied to the person of jesus, it was necessary to remodel the evangelical history." tradition must be moulded so as to fit the dogma, but the dogma must be restrained by tradition from running into docetic extravagance. it must be shown historically how "the word became flesh" and dwelt on earth (john i. ), how the deeds of jesus of nazareth were the deeds of the incarnate logos, in whom was exhibited the pleroma or fulness of the divine attributes. the author of the fourth gospel is, like justin, a philonian gnostic; but he differs from justin in his bold and skilful treatment of the traditional materials supplied by the earlier gospels. the process of development in the theories and purposes of jesus, which can be traced throughout the messianic descriptions of the first gospel, is entirely obliterated in the fourth. here jesus appears at the outset as the creator of the world, descended from his glory, but destined soon to be reinstated. the title "son of man" has lost its original significance, and become synonymous with "son of god." the temptation, the transfiguration, the scene in gethsemane, are omitted, and for the latter is substituted a philonian prayer. nevertheless, the author carefully avoids the extremes of docetism or ditheism. not only does he represent the human life of jesus as real, and his death as a truly physical death, but he distinctly asserts the inferiority of the son to the father (john xiv. ). indeed, as m. reville well observes, it is part of the very notion of the logos that it should be imperfect relatively to the absolute god; since it is only its relative imperfection which allows it to sustain relations to the world and to men which are incompatible with absolute perfection, from the philonian point of view. the athanasian doctrine of the trinity finds no support in the fourth gospel, any more than in the earlier books collected in the new testament. the fourth gospel completes the speculative revolution by which the conception of a divine being lowered to humanity was substituted for that of a human being raised to divinity. we have here travelled a long distance from the risen messiah of the genuine pauline epistles, or the preacher of righteousness in the first gospel. yet it does not seem probable that the church of the third century was thoroughly aware of the discrepancy. the authors of the later christology did not regard themselves as adding new truths to christianity, but merely as giving a fuller and more consistent interpretation to what must have been known from the outset. they were so completely destitute of the historic sense, and so strictly confined to the dogmatic point of view, that they projected their own theories back into the past, and vituperated as heretics those who adhered to tradition in its earlier and simpler form. examples from more recent times are not wanting, which show that we are dealing here with an inveterate tendency of the human mind. new facts and new theories are at first condemned as heretical or ridiculous; but when once firmly established, it is immediately maintained that every one knew them before. after the copernican astronomy had won the day, it was tacitly assumed that the ancient hebrew astronomy was copernican, and the biblical conception of the universe as a kind of three-story house was ignored, and has been, except by scholars, quite forgotten. when the geologic evidence of the earth's immense antiquity could no longer be gainsaid, it was suddenly ascertained that the bible had from the outset asserted that antiquity; and in our own day we have seen an elegant popular writer perverting the testimony of the rocks and distorting the elohistic cosmogony of the pentateuch, until the twain have been made to furnish what bacon long ago described as "a heretical religion and a false philosophy." now just as in the popular thought of the present day the ancient elohist is accredited with a knowledge of modern geology and astronomy, so in the opinion of the fourth evangelist and his contemporaries the doctrine of the logos-christ was implicitly contained in the old testament and in the early traditions concerning jesus, and needed only to be brought into prominence by a fresh interpretation. hence arose the fourth gospel, which was no more a conscious violation of historic data than hugh miller's imaginative description of the "mosaic vision of creation." its metaphysical discourses were readily accepted as equally authentic with the sermon on the mount. its philonian doctrines were imputed to paul and the apostles, the pseudo-pauline epistles furnishing the needful texts. the ebionites--who were simply judaizing christians, holding in nearly its original form the doctrine of peter, james, and john--were ejected from the church as the most pernicious of heretics; and so completely was their historic position misunderstood and forgotten, that, in order to account for their existence, it became necessary to invent an eponymous heresiarch, ebion, who was supposed to have led them astray from the true faith! the christology of the fourth gospel is substantially the same as that which was held in the next two centuries by tertullian, clement of alexandria, origen, and arius. when the doctrine of the trinity was first announced by sabellius (a. d. - ), it was formally condemned as heretical, the church being not yet quite prepared to receive it. in the council of antioch solemnly declared that the son was not consubstantial with the father,--a declaration which, within sixty years, the council of nikaia was destined as solemnly to contradict. the trinitarian christology struggled long for acceptance, and did not finally win the victory until the end of the fourth century. yet from the outset its ultimate victory was hardly doubtful. the peculiar doctrines of the fourth gospel could retain their integrity only so long as gnostic ideas were prevalent. when gnosticism declined in importance, and its theories faded out of recollection, its peculiar phraseology received of necessity a new interpretation. the doctrine that god could not act directly upon the world sank gradually into oblivion as the church grew more and more hostile to the neo-platonic philosophy. and when this theory was once forgotten, it was inevitable that the logos, as the creator of the world, should be raised to an equality or identity with god himself. in the view of the fourth evangelist, the creator was necessarily inferior to god; in the view of later ages, the creator could be none other than god. and so the very phrases which had most emphatically asserted the subordination of the son were afterward interpreted as asserting his absolute divinity. to the gnostic formula, lumen de lumine, was added the athanasian scholium, deum verum de deo vero; and the trinitarian dogma of the union of persons in a single godhead became thus the only available logical device for preserving the purity of monotheism. february, . v. a word about miracles. [ ] [ ] these comments on mr. henry rogers's review of m. renan's les apotres, contained in a letter to mr. lewes, were shortly afterwards published by him in the fortnightly review, september , . it is the lot of every book which attempts to treat the origin and progress of christianity in a sober and scientific spirit, to meet with unsparing attacks. critics in plenty are always to be found, who, possessed with the idea that the entire significance and value of the christian religion are demolished unless we regard it as a sort of historical monstrosity, are only too eager to subject the offending work to a scathing scrutiny, displaying withal a modicum of righteous indignation at the unblushing heresy of the author, not unmixed with a little scornful pity at his inability to believe very preposterous stories upon very meagre evidence. "conservative" polemics of this sort have doubtless their function. they serve to purge scientific literature of the awkward and careless statements too often made by writers not sufficiently instructed or cautious, which in the absence of hostile criticism might get accepted by the unthinking reader along with the truths which they accompany. most scientific and philosophical works have their defects; and it is fortunate that there is such a thing as dogmatic ardour in the world, ever sharpening its wits to the utmost, that it may spy each lurking inaccuracy and ruthlessly drag it to light. but this useful spirit is wont to lead those who are inspired by it to shoot beyond the mark, and after pointing out the errors of others, to commit fresh mistakes of their own. in the skilful criticism of m. renan's work on the apostles, in no. of the "fortnightly review" there is now and then a vulnerable spot through which a controversial shaft may perhaps be made to pierce. it may be true that lord lyttelton's tract on the conversion of st. paul, as dr. johnson and dr. rogers have said, has never yet been refuted; but if i may judge from my own recollection of the work, i should say that this must be because no competent writer ever thought it worth his pains to criticize it. its argument contains about as much solid consistency as a distended balloon, and collapses as readily at the first puncture. it attempts to prove, first, that the conversion of st. paul cannot be made intelligible except on the assumption that there was a miracle in the case; and secondly, that if paul was converted by a miracle, the truth of christianity is impregnable. now, if the first of these points be established, the demonstration is not yet complete, for the second point must be proved independently. but if the first point be overthrown, the second loses its prop, and falls likewise. great efforts are therefore made to show that no natural influences could have intervened to bring about a change in the feelings of paul. he was violent, "thorough," unaffected by pity or remorse; and accordingly he could not have been so completely altered as he was, had he not actually beheld the risen christ: such is the argument which mr. rogers deems so conclusive. i do not know that from any of paul's own assertions we are entitled to affirm that no shade of remorse had ever crossed his mind previous to the vision near damascus. but waiving this point, i do maintain that, granting paul's feelings to have been as mr. rogers thinks they were, his conversion is inexplicable, even on the hypothesis of a miracle. he that is determined not to believe, will not believe, though one should rise from the dead. to make paul a believer, it was not enough that he should meet his lord face to face he must have been already prepared to believe. otherwise he would have easily found means of explaining the miracle from his own point of view. he would certainly have attributed it to the wiles of the demon, even as the pharisees are said to have done with regard to the miraculous cures performed by jesus. a "miraculous" occurrence in those days did not astonish as it would at present. "miracles" were rather the order of the day, and in fact were lavished with such extreme bounty on all hands, that their convincing power was very slight. neither side ever thought of disputing the reality of the miracles supposed to be performed on the other; but each side considered the miracles of its antagonist to be the work of diabolic agencies. such being the case, it is useless to suppose that paul could have distinguished between a true and a false miracle, or that a real miracle could of itself have had any effect in inducing him to depart from his habitual course of belief and action. as far as paul's mental operations were concerned, it could have made no difference whether he met with his future master in person, or merely encountered him in a vision. the sole point to be considered is whether or not he believed in the divine character and authority of the event which had happened. what the event might have really been was of no practical consequence to him or to any one else. what he believed it to be was of the first importance. and since he did believe that he had been divinely summoned to cease persecuting, and commence preaching the new faith, it follows that his state of mind must have been more or less affected by circumstances other than the mere vision. had he not been ripe for change, neither shadow nor substance could have changed him. this view of the case is by no means so extravagant as mr. rogers would have us suppose. there is no reason for believing that paul's character was essentially different afterwards from what it had been before. the very fervour which caused him, as a pharisee, to exclude all but orthodox jews from the hope of salvation, would lead him, as a christian, to carry the christian idea to its extreme development, and admit all persons whatever to the privileges of the church. the same zeal for the truth which had urged him to persecute the christians unto the death afterwards led him to spare no toil and shun no danger which might bring about the triumph of their cause. it must not be forgotten that the persecutor and the martyr are but one and the same man under different circumstances. he who is ready to die for his own faith will sometimes think it fair to make other men die for theirs. men of a vehement and fiery temperament, moreover,--such as paul always was,--never change their opinions slowly, never rest in philosophic doubt, never take a middle course. if they leave one extreme for an instant, they are drawn irresistibly to the other; and usually very little is needed to work the change. the conversion of omar is a striking instance in point, and has been cited by m. renan himself. the character of omar bears a strong likeness to that of paul. previous to his conversion, he was a conscientious and virulent persecutor of mohammedanism. [ ] after his conversion, he was mohammed's most efficient disciple, and it may be safely asserted that for disinterestedness and self-abnegation he was not inferior to the apostle of the gentiles. the change in his case was, moreover, quite as sudden and unexpected as it was with paul; it was neither more nor less incomprehensible; and if paul's conversion needs a miracle to explain it, omar's must need one likewise. but in truth, there is no difficulty in the case, save that which stupid dogmatism has created. the conversions of paul and omar are paralleled by innumerable events which occur in every period of religious or political excitement. far from being extraordinary, or inexplicable on natural grounds, such phenomena are just what might occasionally be looked for. [ ] saint-hilaire: mahomet et le coran, p. . but, says mr. rogers, "is it possible for a moment to imagine the doting and dreaming victim of hallucinations (which m. renan's theory represents paul) to be the man whose masculine sense, strong logic, practical prudence, and high administrative talent appear in the achievements of his life, and in the epistles he has left behind him?" m. renan's theory does not, however, represent paul as the "victim of hallucinations" to a greater degree than mohammed. the latter, as every one knows, laboured during much of his life under almost constant "hallucination"; yet "masculine sense, strong logic," etc., were qualities quite as conspicuous in him as in st. paul. here, as throughout his essay, mr. rogers shows himself totally unable to comprehend the mental condition of men in past ages. if an apostle has a dream or sees a vision, and interprets it according to the ideas of his time and country, instead of according to the ideas of scientific england in the nineteenth century mr. rogers thinks he must needs be mad: and when according to the well-known law that mental excitement is contagious, [ ] several persons are said to have concurred in interpreting some phenomenon supernaturally, mr. rogers cannot see why so many people should all go mad at once! "to go mad," in fact is his favourite designation for a mental act, which nearly all the human race have habitually performed in all ages; the act of mistaking subjective impressions for outward realities. the disposition to regard all strange phenomena as manifestations of supernatural power was universally prevalent in the first century of christianity, and long after. neither greatness of intellect nor thoroughness of scepticism gave exemption. even julius caesar, the greatest practical genius that ever lived, was somewhat superstitious, despite his atheism and his vigorous common-sense. it is too often argued that the prevalence of scepticism in the roman empire must have made men scrupulous about accepting miracles. by no means. nothing but physical science ever drives out miracles: mere doctrinal scepticism is powerless to do it. in the age of the apostles, little if any radical distinction was drawn between a miracle and an ordinary occurrence. no one supposed a miracle to be an infraction of the laws of nature, for no one had a clear idea that there were such things as laws of nature. a miracle was simply an extraordinary act, exhibiting the power of the person who performed it. blank, indeed, would the evangelists have looked, had any one told them what an enormous theory of systematic meddling with nature was destined to grow out of their beautiful and artless narratives. [ ] hecker's epidemics of the middle ages, pp. - . the incapacity to appreciate this frame of mind renders the current arguments in behalf of miracles utterly worthless. from the fact that celsus and others never denied the reality of the christian miracles, it is commonly inferred that those miracles must have actually happened. the same argument would, however, equally apply to the miracles of apollonius and simon magus, for the christians never denied the reality of these. what these facts really prove is that the state of human intelligence was as i have just described it: and the inference to be drawn from them is that no miraculous account emanating from an author of such a period is worthy of serious attention. when mr. rogers supposes that if the miracles had not really happened they would have been challenged, he is assuming that a state of mind existed in which it was possible for miracles to be challenged; and thus commits an anachronism as monstrous as if he had attributed the knowledge of some modern invention, such as steamboats, to those early ages. mr. rogers seems to complain of m. renan for "quietly assuming" that miracles are invariably to be rejected. certainly a historian of the present day who should not make such an assumption would betray his lack of the proper qualifications for his profession. it is not considered necessary for every writer to begin his work by setting out to prove the first principles of historical criticism. they are taken for granted. and, as m. renan justly says, a miracle is one of those things which must be disbelieved until it is proved. the onus probandi lies on the assertor of a fact which conflicts with universal experience. nevertheless, the great number of intelligent persons who, even now, from dogmatic reasons, accept the new testament miracles, forbids that they should be passed over in silence like similar phenomena elsewhere narrated. but, in the present state of historical science, the arguing against miracles is, as colet remarked of his friend erasmus's warfare against the thomists and scotists of cambridge, "a contest more necessary than glorious or difficult." to be satisfactorily established, a miracle needs at least to be recorded by an eyewitness; and the mental attainments of the witness need to be thoroughly known besides. unless he has a clear conception of the difference between the natural and the unnatural order of events, his testimony, however unimpeachable on the score of honesty, is still worthless. to say that this condition was fulfilled by those who described the new testament miracles, would be absurd. and in the face of what german criticism has done for the early christian documents, it would be an excess of temerity to assert that any one of the supernatural accounts contained in them rests on contemporary authority. of all history, the miraculous part should be attested by the strongest testimony, whereas it is invariably attested by the weakest. and the paucity of miracles wherever we have contemporary records, as in the case of primitive islamism, is a most significant fact. in attempting to defend his principle of never accepting a miracle, m. renan has indeed got into a sorry plight, and mr. rogers, in controverting him, has not greatly helped the matter. by stirring m. renan's bemuddled pool, mr. rogers has only bemuddled it the more. neither of these excellent writers seems to suspect that transmutation of species, the geologic development of the earth, and other like phenomena do not present features conflicting with ordinary experience. sir charles lyell and mr. darwin would be greatly astonished to be told that their theories of inorganic and organic evolution involved any agencies not known to exist in the present course of nature. the great achievement of these writers has been to show that all past changes of the earth and its inhabitants are to be explained as resulting from the continuous action of causes like those now in operation, and that throughout there has been nothing even faintly resembling a miracle. m. renan may feel perfectly safe in extending his principle back to the beginning of things; and mr. rogers's argument, even if valid against m. renan, does not help his own case in the least. on some points, indeed, m. renan has laid himself open to severe criticism, and on other points he has furnished good handles for his orthodox opponents. his views in regard to the authorship of the fourth gospel and the acts are not likely to be endorsed by many scholars; and his revival of the rationalistic absurdities of paulus merits in most instances all that mr. rogers has said about it. as was said at the outset, orthodox criticisms upon heterodox books are always welcome. they do excellent service. and with the feeling which impels their authors to defend their favourite dogmas with every available weapon of controversy i for one can heartily sympathize. their zeal in upholding what they consider the truth is greatly to be respected and admired. but so much cannot always be said for the mode of argumentation they adopt, which too often justifies m. renan's description, when he says, "raisonnements triomphants sur des choses que l'adversaire n'a pas dites, cris de victoire sur des erreurs qu'il n'a pas commises, rien ne parait deloyal a celui qui croft tenir en main les interets de la verite absolue." august, . vi. draper on science and religion. [ ] [ ] history of the conflict between religion and science, by john william draper, m. d., ll. d. fourth edition. new york: d. appleton & co. . mo, pp. xxii., . (international scientific series, xii.) some twelve years ago, dr. draper published a bulky volume entitled "a history of the intellectual development of europe," in which his professed purpose was to show that nations or races pass through certain definable epochs of development, analogous to the periods of infancy, childhood, youth, manhood, and old age in individuals. but while announced with due formality, the carrying out of the argument was left for the most part to the headings and running-titles of the several chapters, while in the text the author peacefully meandered along down the stream of time, giving us a succession of pleasant though somewhat threadbare anecdotes, as well as a superabundance of detached and fragmentary opinions on divers historical events, having apparently quite forgotten that he had started with a thesis to prove. in the arrangement of his "running heads," some points were sufficiently curious to require a word of explanation, as, for example, when the early ages of christianity were at one time labelled as an epoch of progress and at another time as an epoch of decrepitude. but the argument and the contents never got so far en rapport with each other as to clear up such points as this. on the contrary, each kept on the even tenour of its way without much regard to the other. from the titles of the chapters one was led to expect some comprehensive theory of european civilization continuously expounded. but the text merely showed a great quantity of superficial and second-hand information, serving to illustrate the mental idiosyncrasies of the author. among these idiosyncrasies might be noted a very inadequate understanding of the part played by rome in the work of civilization, a singular lack of appreciation of the political and philosophical achievements of greece under athenian leadership, a strong hostility to the catholic church, a curious disposition to overrate semi-barbarous, or abortive civilizations, such as those of the old asiatic and native american communities, at the expense of europe, and, above all, an undiscriminating admiration for everything, great or small, that has ever worn the garb of islam or been associated with the career of the saracens. the discovery that in some respects the mussulmans of the middle ages were more highly cultivated than their christian contemporaries, has made such an impression on dr. draper's mind that it seems to be as hard for him to get rid of it as it was for mr. dick to keep the execution of charles i. out of his "memorial." even in an essay on the "civil policy of america," the turbaned sage figures quite prominently; and it is needless to add that he reappears, as large as life, when the subject of discussion is the attitude of science toward religion. speaking briefly with regard to this matter, we may freely admit that the work done by the arabs, in scientific inquiry as well as in the making of events, was very considerable. it was a work, too, the value of which is not commonly appreciated in the accounts of european history written for the general reader, and we have no disposition to find fault with dr. draper for describing it with enthusiasm. the philosophers of bagdad and cordova did excellent service in keeping alive the traditions of greek physical inquiry at a time when christian thinkers were too exclusively occupied with transcendental speculations in theology and logic. in some departments, as in chemistry and astronomy, they made original discoveries of considerable value; and if we turn from abstract knowledge to the arts of life, it cannot be denied that the mediaeval mussulmans had reached a higher plane of material comfort than their christian contemporaries. in short, the work of all kinds done by these people would furnish the judicious advocate of the claims of the semitic race with materials for a pleasing and instructive picture. dr. draper, however, errs, though no doubt unintentionally, by so presenting the case as to leave upon the reader's mind the impression that all this scientific and practical achievement was the work of islamism, and that the mohammedan civilization was of a higher type than the christian. it is with an apparent feeling of regret that he looks upon the ousting of the moors from dominion in spain; but this is a mistaken view. as regards the first point, it is a patent fact that scientific inquiry was conducted at the cost of as much theological obloquy in the mohammedan as in the christian world. it is true there was more actual tolerance of heresy on the part of moslem governments than was customary in europe in those days; but this is a superficial fact, which does not indicate any superiority in moslem popular sentiment. the caliphate or emirate was a truly absolute despotism, such as the papacy has never been, and the conduct of a sceptical emir in encouraging scientific inquiry goes but little way toward proving anything like a general prevalence of tolerance or of free-thinking. and this brings us to the second point,--that mohammedan civilization was, on the whole, rather a skin-deep affair. it was superficial because of that extreme severance between government and people which has never existed in european nations within historic times, but which has always existed among the principal races that have professed moslemism. nowhere in the mohammedan world has there ever been what we call a national life, and nowhere do we find in its records any trace of such an intellectual impulse, thrilling through every fibre of the people and begetting prodigious achievements in art, poetry, and philosophy, as was awakened in europe in the thirteenth century and again in the fifteenth. under the peculiar form of unlimited material and spiritual despotism exemplified in the caliphate, a few men may discover gases or comment on aristotle, but no general movement toward political progress or philosophical inquiry is possible. such a society is rigid and inorganic at bottom, whatever scanty signs of flexibility and life it may show at the surface. there is no better illustration of this, when well considered, than the fact that moorish civilization remained, politically and intellectually, a mere excrescence in spain, after having been fastened down over half the country for nearly eight centuries. but we are in danger of forgetting our main theme, as dr. draper seems to do, while we linger with him over these interesting wayside topics. we may perhaps be excused, however, if we have not yet made any very explicit allusion to the "conflict between religion and science," because this work seems to be in the main a repetition en petit of the "intellectual development of europe," and what we have said will apply as well to one as to the other. in the little book, as in the big one, we hear a great deal about the arabs, and something about columbus and galileo, who made men accept sundry truths in the teeth of clerical opposition; and, as before, we float gently down the current of history without being over well-informed as to the precise didactic purpose of our voyage. here, indeed, even our headings and running-titles do not materially help us, for though we are supposed to be witnessing, or mayhap assisting in, a perennial conflict between "science" and "religion," we are nowhere enlightened as to what the cause or character of this conflict is, nor are we enabled to get a good look at either of the parties to the strife. with regard to it "religion" especially are we left in the dark. what this dreadful thing is towards which "science" is always playing the part of herakles towards the lernaean hydra, we are left to gather from the course of the narrative. yet, in a book with any valid claim to clearsightedness, one would think such a point as this ought to receive very explicit preliminary treatment. the course of the narrative, however, leaves us in little doubt as to what dr. draper means by a conflict between science and religion. when he enlarges on the trite story of galileo, and alludes to the more modern quarrel between the church and the geologists, and does this in the belief that he is thereby illustrating an antagonism between religion and science, it is obvious that he identifies the cause of the anti-geologists and the persecutors of galileo with the cause of religion. the word "religion" is to him a symbol which stands for unenlightened bigotry or narrow-minded unwillingness to look facts in the face. such a conception of religion is common enough, and unhappily a great deal has been done to strengthen it by the very persons to whom the interests of religion are presumed to be a professional care. it is nevertheless a very superficial conception, and no book which is vitiated by it can have much philosophic value. it is simply the crude impression which, in minds unaccustomed to analysis, is left by the fact that theologians and other persons interested in religion are usually alarmed at new scientific truths, and resist them with emotions so highly wrought that they are not only incapable of estimating evidence, but often also have their moral sense impaired, and fight with foul means when fair ones fail. if we reflect carefully on this class of phenomena, we shall see that something besides mere pride of opinion is involved in the struggle. at the bottom of changing theological beliefs there lies something which men perennially value, and for the sake of which they cling to the beliefs as long as possible. that which they value is not itself a matter of belief, but it is a matter of conduct; it is the searching after goodness,--after a higher life than the mere satisfaction of individual desires. all animals seek for fulness of life; but in civilized man this craving has acquired a moral significance, and has become a spiritual aspiration; and this emotional tendency, more or less strong in the human race, we call religious feeling or religion. viewed in this light, religion is not only something that mankind is never likely to get rid of, but it is incomparably the most noble as well as the most useful attribute of humanity. now, this emotional prompting toward completeness of life requires, of course, that conduct should be guided, as far as possible, in accordance with a true theory of the relations of man to the world in which he lives. hence, at any given era the religious feeling will always be found enlisted in behalf of some theory of the universe. at any time, whatever may be their shortcomings in practice, religious men will aim at doing right according to their conceptions of the order of the world. if men's conceptions of the order of nature remained constant, no apparent conflict between their religious feelings and their knowledge need ever arise. but with the first advance in our knowledge of nature the case is altered. new and strange theories are naturally regarded with fear and dislike by persons who have always been accustomed to find the sanction and justification of their emotional prompting toward righteousness in old familiar theories which the new ones are seeking to supplant. such persons oppose the new doctrine because their engrained mental habits compel them to believe that its establishment will in some way lower men's standard of life, and make them less careful of their spiritual welfare. this is the case, at all events, when theologians oppose scientific conclusions on religious grounds, and not simply from mental dulness or rigidity. and, in so far as it is religious feeling which thus prompts resistance to scientific innovation, it may be said, with some appearance of truth, that there is a conflict between religion and science. but there must always be two parties to a quarrel, and our statement has to be modified as soon as we consider what the scientific innovator impugns. it is not the emotional prompting toward righteousness, it is not the yearning to live im guten, ganzen, wahren, that he seeks to weaken; quite likely he has all this as much at heart as the theologian who vituperates him. nor is it true that his discoveries, in spite of him, tend to destroy this all-important mental attitude. it would be ridiculous to say that the fate of religious feeling is really involved in the fate of grotesque cosmogonies and theosophies framed in the infancy of men's knowledge of nature; for history shows us quite the contrary. religious feeling has survived the heliocentric theory and the discoveries of geologists; and it will be none the worse for the establishment of darwinism. it is the merest truism to say that religion strikes its roots deeper down into human nature than speculative opinion, and is accordingly independent of any particular set of beliefs. since, then, the scientific innovator does not, either voluntarily or involuntarily, attack religion, it follows that there can be no such "conflict" as that of which dr. draper has undertaken to write the history. the real contest is between one phase of science and another; between the more-crude knowledge of yesterday and the less-crude knowledge of to-day. the contest, indeed, as presented in history, is simply the measure of the difficulty which men find in exchanging old views for new ones. all along, the practical question has been, whether we should passively acquiesce in the crude generalizations of our ancestors or venture actively to revise them. but as for the religious sentiment, the perennial struggle in which it has been engaged has not been with scientific inquiry, but with the selfish propensities whose tendency is to make men lead the lives of brutes. the time is at hand when the interests of religion can no longer be supposed to be subserved by obstinate adherence to crude speculations bequeathed to us from pre-scientific antiquity. one good result of the doctrine of evolution, which is now gaining sway in all departments of thought, is the lesson that all our opinions must be held subject to continual revision, and that with none of them can our religious interests be regarded as irretrievably implicated. to any one who has once learned this lesson, a book like dr. draper's can be neither interesting nor useful. he who has not learned it can derive little benefit from a work which in its very title keeps open an old and baneful source of error and confusion. november. . vii. nathan the wise. [ ] [ ] nathan the wise: a dramatic poem, by gotthold ephraim lessing. translated by ellen frothingham. preceded by a brief account of the poet and his works, and followed by an essay on the poem by kuno fischer. second edition. new york: leypoldt & holt. . le christianisme moderne, etude sur lessing. par ernest fontanes. paris: bailliere. . the fame of lessing is steadily growing. year by year he is valued more highly, and valued by a greater number of people. and he is destined, like his master and forerunner spinoza, to receive a yet larger share of men's reverence and gratitude when the philosophic spirit which he lived to illustrate shall have become in some measure the general possession of the civilized part of mankind. in his own day, lessing, though widely known and greatly admired, was little understood or appreciated. he was known to be a learned antiquarian, a terrible controversialist, and an incomparable writer. he was regarded as a brilliant ornament to germany; and a paltry duke of brunswick thought a few hundred thalers well spent in securing the glory of having such a man to reside at his provincial court. but the majority of lessing's contemporaries understood him as little perhaps as did the duke of brunswick. if anything were needed to prove this, it would be the uproar which was made over the publication of the "wolfenbuttel fragments," and the curious exegesis which was applied to the poem of "nathan" on its first appearance. in order to understand the true character of this great poem, and of lessing's religious opinions as embodied in it, it will be necessary first to consider the memorable theological controversy which preceded it. during lessing's residence at hamburg, he had come into possession of a most important manuscript, written by hermann samuel reimarus, a professor of oriental languages, and bearing the title of an "apology for the rational worshippers of god." struck with the rigorous logic displayed in its arguments, and with the quiet dignity of its style, while yet unable to accept its most general conclusions, lessing resolved to publish the manuscript, accompanying it with his own comments and strictures. accordingly in , availing himself of the freedom from censorship enjoyed by publications drawn from manuscripts deposited in the ducal library at wolfenbuttel, of which he was librarian, lessing published the first portion of this work, under the title of "fragments drawn from the papers of an anonymous writer." this first fragment, on the "toleration of deists," awakened but little opposition; for the eighteenth century, though intolerant enough, did not parade its bigotry, but rather saw fit to disclaim it. a hundred years before, rutherford, in his "free disputation," had declared "toleration of alle religions to bee not farre removed from blasphemie." intolerance was then a thing to be proud of, but in lessing's time some progress had been achieved, and men began to think it a good thing to seem tolerant. the succeeding fragments were to test this liberality and reveal the flimsiness of the stuff of which it was made. when the unknown disputant began to declare "the impossibility of a revelation upon which all men can rest a solid faith," and when he began to criticize the evidences of christ's resurrection, such a storm burst out in the theological world of germany as had not been witnessed since the time of luther. the recent colenso controversy in england was but a gentle breeze compared to it. press and pulpit swarmed with "refutations," in which weakness of argument and scantiness of erudition were compensated by strength of acrimony and unscrupulousness of slander. pamphlets and sermons, says m. fontanes, "were multiplied, to denounce the impious blasphemer, who, destitute alike of shame and of courage, had sheltered himself behind a paltry fiction, in order to let loose upon society an evil spirit of unbelief." but lessing's artifice had been intended to screen the memory of reimarus, rather than his own reputation. he was not the man to quail before any amount of human opposition; and it was when the tempest of invective was just at its height that he published the last and boldest fragment of all,--on "the designs of jesus and his disciples." the publication of these fragments led to a mighty controversy. the most eminent, both for uncompromising zeal and for worldly position, of those who had attacked lessing, was melchior goetze, "pastor primarius" at the hamburg cathedral. though his name is now remembered only because of his connection with lessing, goetze was not destitute of learning and ability. he was a collector of rare books, an amateur in numismatics, and an antiquarian of the narrow-minded sort. lessing had known him while at hamburg, and had visited him so constantly as to draw forth from his friends malicious insinuations as to the excellence of the pastor's white wine. doubtless lessing, as a wise man, was not insensible to the attractions of good moselle; but that which he chiefly liked in this theologian was his logical and rigorously consistent turn of mind. "he always," says m. fontanes, "cherished a holy horror of loose, inconsequent thinkers; and the man of the past, the inexorable guardian of tradition, appeared to him far more worthy of respect than the heterodox innovator who stops in mid-course, and is faithful neither to reason nor to faith." but when lessing published these unhallowed fragments, the hour of conflict had sounded, and goetze cast himself into the arena with a boldness and impetuosity which lessing, in his artistic capacity, could not fail to admire. he spared no possible means of reducing his enemy to submission. he aroused against him all the constituted authorities, the consistories, and even the aulic council of the empire, and he even succeeded in drawing along with him the chief of contemporary rationalists, semler, who so far forgot himself as to declare that lessing, for what he had done, deserved to be sent to the madhouse. but with all goetze's orthodox valour, he was no match for the antagonist whom he had excited to activity. the great critic replied with pamphlet after pamphlet, invincible in logic and erudition, sparkling with wit, and irritating in their utter coolness. such pamphlets had not been seen since pascal published the "provincial letters." goetze found that he had taken up arms against a master in the arts of controversy, and before long he became well aware that he was worsted. having brought the case before the aulic council, which consisted in great part of catholics, the stout pastor, forgetting that judgment had not yet been rendered, allowed himself to proclaim that all who do not recognize the bible as the only source of christianity are not fit to be called christians at all. lessing was not slow to profit by this unlucky declaration. questioned, with all manner of ferocious vituperation, by goetze, as to what sort of christianity might have existed prior to and independently of the new testament canon, lessing imperturbably answered: "by the christian religion i mean all the confessions of faith contained in the collection of creeds of the first four centuries of the christian church, including, if you wish it, the so-called creed of the apostles, as well as the creed of athanasius. the content of these confessions is called by the earlier fathers the regula fidei, or rule of faith. this rule of faith is not drawn from the writings of the new testament. it existed before any of the books in the new testament were written. it sufficed not only for the first christians of the age of the apostles, but for their descendants during four centuries. and it is, therefore, the veritable foundation upon which the church of christ is built; a foundation not based upon scripture." thus, by a master-stroke, lessing secured the adherence of the catholics constituting a majority of the aulic council of the empire. like paul before him, he divided the sanhedrim. so that goetze, foiled in his attempts at using violence, and disconcerted by the patristic learning of one whom he had taken to be a mere connoisseur in art and writer of plays for the theatre, concluded that discretion was the surest kind of valour, and desisted from further attacks. lessing's triumph came opportunely; for already the ministry of brunswick had not only confiscated the fragments, but had prohibited him from publishing anything more on the subject without first obtaining express authority to do so. his last replies to goetze were published at hamburg; and as he held himself in readiness to depart from wolfenbuttel, he wrote to several friends that he had conceived the design of a drama, with which he would tear the theologians in pieces more than with a dozen fragments. "i will try and see," said he, "if they will let me preach in peace from my old pulpit, the theatre." in this way originated "nathan the wise." but it in no way answered to the expectations either of lessing's friends or of his enemies. both the one and the other expected to see the controversy with goetze carried on, developed, and generalized in the poem. they looked for a satirical comedy, in which orthodoxy should be held up for scathing ridicule, or at least for a direful tragedy, the moral of which, like that of the great poem of lucretius, should be "tantum religio potuit suadere malorum." had lessing produced such a poem, he would doubtless have gratified his free-thinking friends and wreaked due literary vengeance upon his theological persecutors. he would, perhaps, have given articulate expression to the radicalism of his own time, and, like voltaire, might have constituted himself the leader of the age, the incarnation of its most conspicuous tendencies. but lessing did nothing of the kind; and the expectations formed of him by friends and enemies alike show how little he was understood by either. "nathan the wise" was, as we shall see, in the eighteenth century an entirely new phenomenon; and its author was the pioneer of a quite new religious philosophy. reimarus, the able author of the fragments, in his attack upon the evidences of revealed religion, had taken the same ground as voltaire and the old english deists. and when we have said this, we have sufficiently defined his position, for the tenets of the deists are at the present day pretty well known, and are, moreover, of very little vital importance, having long since been supplanted by a more just and comprehensive philosophy. reimarus accepted neither miracles nor revelation; but in accordance with the rudimentary state of criticism in his time, he admitted the historical character of the earliest christian records, and was thus driven to the conclusion that those writings must have been fraudulently composed. how such a set of impostors as the apostles must on this hypothesis have been, should have succeeded in inspiring large numbers of their contemporaries with higher and grander religious notions than had ever before been conceived; how they should have laid the foundations of a theological system destined to hold together the most enlightened and progressive portion of human society for seventeen or eighteen centuries,--does not seem to have entered his mind. against such attacks as this, orthodoxy was comparatively safe; for whatever doubt might be thrown upon some of its leading dogmas, the system as a whole was more consistent and rational than any of the theories which were endeavouring to supplant it. and the fact that nearly all the great thinkers of the eighteenth century adopted this deistic hypothesis, shows, more than anything else, the crudeness of their psychological knowledge, and their utter lack of what is called "the historical sense." lessing at once saw the weak point in reimarus's argument, but his method of disposing of it differed signally from that adopted by his orthodox contemporaries. the more advanced german theologians of that day, while accepting the new testament records as literally historical, were disposed to rationalize the accounts of miracles contained in them, in such a way as to get rid of any presumed infractions of the laws of nature. this method of exegesis, which reached its perfection in paulus, is too well known to need describing. its unsatisfactory character was clearly shown, thirty years ago, by strauss, and it is now generally abandoned, though some traces of it may still be seen in the recent works of renan. lessing steadily avoided this method of interpretation. he had studied spinoza to some purpose, and the outlines of biblical criticism laid down by that remarkable thinker lessing developed into a system wonderfully like that now adopted by the tubingen school. the cardinal results which baur has reached within the past generation were nearly all hinted at by lessing, in his commentaries on the fragments. the distinction between the first three, or synoptic gospels, and the fourth, the later age of the fourth, and the method of composition of the first three, from earlier documents and from oral tradition, are all clearly laid down by him. the distinct points of view from which the four accounts were composed, are also indicated,--the judaizing disposition of "matthew," the pauline sympathies of "luke," the compromising or petrine tendencies of "mark," and the advanced hellenic character of "john." those best acquainted with the results of modern criticism in germany will perhaps be most surprised at finding such speculations in a book written many years before either strauss or baur were born. but such results, as might have been expected, did not satisfy the pastor goetze or the public which sympathized with him. the valiant pastor unhesitatingly declared that he read the objections which lessing opposed to the fragmentist with more horror and disgust than the fragments themselves; and in the teeth of the printed comments he declared that the editor was craftily upholding his author in his deistical assault upon christian theology. the accusation was unjust, because untrue. there could be no genuine cooperation between a mere iconoclast like reimarus, and a constructive critic like lessing. but the confusion was not an unnatural one on goetze's part, and i cannot agree with m. fontanes in taking it as convincing proof of the pastor's wrong-headed perversity. it appears to me that goetze interpreted lessing's position quite as accurately as m. fontanes. the latter writer thinks that lessing was a christian of the liberal school since represented by theodore parker in this country and by m. reville in france; that his real object was to defend and strengthen the christian religion by relieving it of those peculiar doctrines which to the freethinkers of his time were a stumbling-block and an offence. and, in spite of lessing's own declarations, he endeavours to show that he was an ordinary theist,--a follower of leibnitz rather than of spinoza. but i do not think he has made out his case. lessing's own confession to jacobi is unequivocal enough, and cannot well be argued away. in that remarkable conversation, held toward the close of his life, he indicates clearly enough that his faith was neither that of the ordinary theist, the atheist, nor the pantheist, but that his religious theory of the universe was identical with that suggested by spinoza, adopted by goethe, and recently elaborated in the first part of the "first principles" of mr. herbert spencer. moreover, while lessing cannot be considered an antagonist of christianity, neither did he assume the attitude of a defender. he remained outside the theological arena; looking at theological questions from the point of view of a layman, or rather, as m. cherbuliez has happily expressed it, of a pagan. his mind was of decidedly antique structure. he had the virtues of paganism: its sanity, its calmness, and its probity; but of the tenderness of christianity, and its quenchless aspirations after an indefinable ideal, of that feeling which has incarnated itself in gothic cathedrals, masses and oratorios, he exhibited but scanty traces. his intellect was above all things self-consistent and incorruptible. he had that imperial good-sense which might have formed the ideal alike of horace and of epictetus. no clandestine preference for certain conclusions could make his reason swerve from the straight paths of logic. and he examined and rejected the conclusions of reimarus in the same imperturbable spirit with which he examined and rejected the current theories of the french classic drama. such a man can have had but little in common with a preacher like theodore parker, or with a writer like m. fontanes, whose whole book is a noble specimen of lofty christian eloquence. his attribute was light, not warmth. he scrutinized, but did not attack or defend. he recognized the transcendent merits of the christian faith, but made no attempt to reinstate it where it had seemed to suffer shock. it was therefore with the surest of instincts, with that same instinct of self-preservation which had once led the church to anathematize galileo, that goetze. proclaimed lessing a more dangerous foe to orthodoxy than the deists who had preceded him. controversy, he doubtless thought, may be kept up indefinitely, and blows given and returned forever; but before the steady gaze of that scrutinizing eye which one of us shall find himself able to stand erect? it has become fashionable to heap blame and ridicule upon those who violently defend an antiquated order of things; and goetze has received at the hands of posterity his full share of abuse. his wrath contrasted unfavourably with lessing's calmness; and it was his misfortune to have taken up arms against an opponent who always knew how to keep the laugh upon his own side. for my own part i am constrained to admire the militant pastor, as lessing himself admired him. from an artistic point of view he is not an uninteresting figure to contemplate. and although his attempts to awaken persecution were reprehensible, yet his ardour in defending what he believed to be vital truth is none the less to be respected. he had the acuteness to see that lessing's refutation of deism did not make him a christian, while the new views proposed as a substitute for those of reimarus were such as goetze and his age could in no wise comprehend. lessing's own views of dogmatic religion are to be found in his work entitled, "the education of the human race." these views have since so far become the veriest commonplaces of criticism, that one can hardly realize that, only ninety years ago, they should have been regarded as dangerous paradoxes. they may be summed up in the statement that all great religions are good in their time and place; that, "as there is a soul of goodness in things evil, so also there is a soul of truth in things erroneous." according to lessing, the successive phases of religious belief constitute epochs in the mental evolution of the human race. so that the crudest forms of theology, even fetishism, now to all appearance so utterly revolting, and polytheism, so completely inadequate, have once been the best, the natural and inevitable results of man's reasoning powers and appliances for attaining truth. the mere fact that a system of religious thought has received the willing allegiance of large masses of men shows that it must have supplied some consciously felt want, some moral or intellectual craving. and the mere fact that knowledge and morality are progressive implies that each successive system may in due course of time be essentially modified or finally supplanted. the absence of any reference to a future state of retribution, in the pentateuch and generally in the sacred writings of the jews, and the continual appeal to hopes and fears of a worldly character, have been pronounced by deists an irremediable defect in the jewish religion. it is precisely this, however, says lessing, which constitutes one of its signal excellences. "that thy days may be long in the land which jehovah thy god giveth thee," was an appeal which the uncivilized jew could understand, and which could arouse him to action; while the need of a future world, to rectify the injustices of this, not yet being felt, the doctrine would have been of but little service. but in later hebrew literature, many magnificent passages revealed the despair felt by prophet and thinker over the insoluble problem presented by the evil fate of the good and the triumphant success of the wicked; and a solution was sought in the doctrine of a messianic kingdom, until christianity with its proclamation of a future life set the question entirely aside. by its appeal to what has been aptly termed "other-worldliness," christianity immeasurably intensified human responsibility, besides rendering clearer its nature and limits. but according to lessing, yet another step remains to be taken; and here we come upon the gulf which separates him from men of the stamp of theodore parker. for, says lessing, the appeal to unearthly rewards and punishments is after all an appeal to our lower feelings; other-worldliness is but a refined selfishness; and we are to cherish virtue for its own sake not because it will lead us to heaven. here is the grand principle of stoicism. lessing believed, with mr. mill, that the less we think about getting rewarded either on earth or in heaven the better. he was cast in the same heroic mould as muhamad efendi, who when led to the stake exclaimed: "though i have no hope of recompense hereafter, yet the love of truth constraineth me to die in its defence!" with the truth or completeness of these views of lessing we are not here concerned; our business being not to expound our own opinions, but to indicate as clearly as possible lessing's position. those who are familiar with the general philosophical spirit of the present age, as represented by writers otherwise so different as littre and sainte-beuve, will best appreciate the power and originality of these speculations. coming in the last century, amid the crudities of deism, they made a well-defined epoch. they inaugurated the historical method of criticism, and they robbed the spirit of intolerance of its only philosophical excuse for existing. hitherto the orthodox had been intolerant toward the philosophers because they considered them heretics; and the philosophers had been intolerant toward the orthodox because they considered them fools. to voltaire it naturally seemed that a man who could believe in the reality of miracles must be what in french is expressively termed a sot. but henceforth, to the disciple of lessing, men of all shade of opinion were but the representatives and exponents of different phases in the general evolution of human intelligence, not necessarily to be disliked or despised if they did not happen to represent the maturest phase. religion, therefore, from this point of view, becomes clearly demarcated from theology. it consists no longer in the mental assent to certain prescribed formulas, but in the moral obedience to the great rule of life; the great commandment laid down and illustrated by the founder of the christian religion, and concerning which the profoundest modern philosophy informs us that the extent to which a society has learned to conform to it is the test and gauge of the progress in civilization which that society has achieved. the command "to love one another," to check the barbarous impulses inherited from the pre-social state, while giving free play to the beneficent impulses needful for the ultimate attainment of social equilibrium,--or as tennyson phrases it, to "move upward, working out the beast, and letting the ape and tiger die,"--was, in lessing's view, the task set before us by religion. the true religious feeling was thus, in his opinion, what the author of "ecce homo" has finely termed "the enthusiasm of humanity." and we shall find no better language than that of the writer just mentioned, in which to describe lessing's conception of faith:-- "he who, when goodness is impressively put before him, exhibits an instinctive loyalty to it, starts forward to take its side, trusts himself to it, such a man has faith, and the root of the matter is in such a man. he may have habits of vice, but the loyal and faithful instinct in him will place him above many that practice virtue. he may be rude in thought and character, but he will unconsciously gravitate toward what is right. other virtues can scarcely thrive without a fine natural organization and a happy training. but the most neglected and ungifted of men may make a beginning with faith. other virtues want civilization, a certain amount of knowledge, a few books; but in half-brutal countenances faith will light up a glimmer of nobleness. the savage, who can do little else, can wonder and worship and enthusiastically obey. he who cannot know what is right can know that some one else knows; he who has no law may still have a master; he who is incapable of justice may be capable of fidelity; he who understands little may have his sins forgiven because he loves much." such was lessing's religion, so far as it can be ascertained from the fragmentary writings which he has left on the subject. undoubtedly it lacked completeness. the opinions which we have here set down, though constituting something more than a mere theory of morality, certainly do not constitute a complete theory of religion. our valiant knight has examined but one side of the shield,--the bright side, turned toward us, whose marvellous inscriptions the human reason can by dint of unwearied effort decipher. but the dark side, looking out upon infinity, and covered with hieroglyphics the meaning of which we can never know, he has quite forgotten to consider. yet it is this side which genuine religious feeling ever seeks to contemplate. it is the consciousness that there is about us an omnipresent power, in which we live and move and have our being, eternally manifesting itself throughout the whole range of natural phenomena, which has ever disposed men to be religious, and lured them on in the vain effort to construct adequate theological systems. we may, getting rid of the last traces of fetishism, eliminate arbitrary volition as much as we will or can. but there still remains the consciousness of a divine life in the universe, of a power which is beyond and above our comprehension, whose goings out and comings in no man can follow. the more we know, the more we reach out for that which we cannot know. and who can realize this so vividly as the scientific philosopher? for our knowledge being, according to the familiar comparison, like a brilliant sphere, the more we increase it the greater becomes the number of peripheral points at which we are confronted by the impenetrable darkness beyond. i believe that this restless yearning,--vague enough in the description, yet recognizable by all who, communing with themselves or with nature, have felt it,--this constant seeking for what cannot be found, this persistent knocking at gates which, when opened, but reveal others yet to be passed, constitutes an element which no adequate theory of religion can overlook. but of this we find nothing in lessing. with him all is sunny, serene, and pagan. not the dim aisle of a vast cathedral, but the symmetrical portico of an antique temple, is the worshipping-place into which he would lead us. but if lessing's theology must be considered imperfect, it is none the less admirable as far as it goes. with its peculiar doctrines of love and faith, it teaches a morality far higher than any that puritanism ever dreamed of. and with its theory of development it cuts away every possible logical basis for intolerance. it is this theology to which lessing has given concrete expression in his immortal poem of "nathan." the central idea of "nathan" was suggested to lessing by boccaccio's story of "the three rings," which is supposed to have had a jewish origin. saladin, pretending to be inspired by a sudden, imperious whim, such as is "not unbecoming in a sultan," demands that nathan shall answer him on the spur of the moment which of the three great religions then known--judaism, mohammedanism, christianity--is adjudged by reason to be the true one. for a moment the philosopher is in a quandary. if he does not pronounce in favour of his own religion, judaism, he stultifies himself; but if he does not award the precedence to mohammedanism, he will apparently insult his sovereign. with true oriental tact he escapes from the dilemma by means of a parable. there was once a man, says nathan, who possessed a ring of inestimable value. not only was the stone which it contained incomparably fine, but it possessed the marvellous property of rendering its owner agreeable both to god and to men. the old man bequeathed this ring to that one of his sons whom he loved the most; and the son, in turn, made a similar disposition of it. so that, passing from hand to hand, the ring finally came into the possession of a father who loved his three sons equally well. unto which one should he leave it? to get rid of the perplexity, he had two other rings made by a jeweller, exactly like the original, and to each of his three sons he bequeathed one. each then thinking that he had obtained the true talisman, they began violently to quarrel, and after long contention agreed to carry their dispute before the judge. but the judge said: "quarrelsome fellows! you are all three of you cheated cheats. your three rings are alike counterfeit. for the genuine ring is lost, and to conceal the loss, your father had made these three substitutes." at this unexpected denouement the sultan breaks out in exclamations of delight; and it is interesting to learn that when the play was brought upon the stage at constantinople a few years ago, the turkish audience was similarly affected. there is in the story that quiet, stealthy humour which is characteristic of many mediaeval apologues, and in which lessing himself loved to deal. it is humour of the kind which hits the mark, and reveals the truth. in a note upon this passage, lessing himself said: "the opinion of nathan upon all positive religions has for a long time been my own." let him who has the genuine ring show it by making himself loved of god and man. this is the central idea of the poem. it is wholly unlike the iconoclasm of the deists, and, coming in the eighteenth century, it was like a veritable evangel. "nathan" was not brought out until three years after lessing's death, and it kept possession of the stage for but a short time. in a dramatic point of view, it has hardly any merits. whatever plot there is in it is weak and improbable. the decisive incidents seem to be brought in like the deus ex machina of the later greek drama. there is no movement, no action, no development. the characters are poetically but not dramatically conceived. considered as a tragedy, "nathan" would be weak; considered as a comedy, it would be heavy. with full knowledge of these circumstances, lessing called it not a drama, but a dramatic poem; and he might have called it still more accurately a didactic poem, for the only feature which it has in common with the drama is that the personages use the oratio directa. "nathan" is a didactic poem: it is not a mere philosophic treatise written in verse, like the fragments of xenophanes. its lessons are conveyed concretely and not abstractly; and its characters are not mere lay figures, but living poetical conceptions. considered as a poem among classic german poems, it must rank next to, though immeasurably below, goethe's "faust." there are two contrasted kinds of genius, the poetical and the philosophical; or, to speak yet more generally, the artistic and the critical. the former is distinguished by a concrete, the latter by an abstract, imagination. the former sees things synthetically, in all their natural complexity; the latter pulls things to pieces analytically, and scrutinizes their relations. the former sees a tree in all its glory, where the latter sees an exogen with a pair of cotyledons. the former sees wholes, where the latter sees aggregates. corresponding with these two kinds of genius there are two classes of artistic productions. when the critical genius writes a poem or a novel, he constructs his plot and his characters in conformity to some prearranged theory, or with a view to illustrate some favourite doctrine. when he paints a picture, he first thinks how certain persons would look under certain given circumstances, and paints them accordingly. when he writes a piece of music, he first decides that this phrase expresses joy, and that phrase disappointment, and the other phrase disgust, and he composes accordingly. we therefore say ordinarily that he does not create, but only constructs and combines. it is far different with the artistic genius, who, without stopping to think, sees the picture and hears the symphony with the eyes and ears of imagination, and paints and plays merely what he has seen and heard. when dante, in imagination, arrived at the lowest circle of hell, where traitors like judas and brutus are punished, he came upon a terrible frozen lake, which, he says,-- "ever makes me shudder at the sight of frozen pools." i have always considered this line a marvellous instance of the intensity of dante's imagination. it shows, too, how dante composed his poem. he did not take counsel of himself and say: "go to, let us describe the traitors frozen up to their necks in a dismal lake, for that will be most terrible." but the picture of the lake, in all its iciness, with the haggard faces staring out from its glassy crust, came unbidden before his mind with such intense reality that, for the rest of his life, he could not look at a frozen pool without a shudder of horror. he described it exactly as he saw it; and his description makes us shudder who read it after all the centuries that have intervened. so michael angelo, a kindred genius, did not keep cutting and chipping away, thinking how moses ought to look, and what sort of a nose he ought to have, and in what position his head might best rest upon his shoulders. but, he looked at the rectangular block of carrara marble, and beholding moses grand and lifelike within it, knocked away the environing stone, that others also might see the mighty figure. and so beethoven, an artist of the same colossal order, wrote out for us those mysterious harmonies which his ear had for the first time heard; and which, in his mournful old age, it heard none the less plainly because of its complete physical deafness. and in this way shakespeare wrote his "othello"; spinning out no abstract thoughts about jealousy and its fearful effects upon a proud and ardent nature, but revealing to us the living concrete man, as his imperial imagination had spontaneously fashioned him. modern psychology has demonstrated that this is the way in which the creative artistic imagination proceeds. it has proved that a vast portion of all our thinking goes on unconsciously; and that the results may arise into consciousness piecemeal and gradually, checking each other as they come; or that they may come all at once, with all the completeness and definiteness of perceptions presented from without. the former is the case with the critical, and the latter with the artistic intellect. and this we recognize imperfectly when we talk of a genius being "inspired." all of us probably have these two kinds of imagination to a certain extent. it is only given to a few supremely endowed persons like goethe to possess them both to an eminent degree. perhaps of no other man can it be said that he was a poet of the first order, and as great a critic as poet. it is therefore apt to be a barren criticism which studies the works of creative geniuses in order to ascertain what theory lies beneath them. how many systems of philosophy, how many subtle speculations, have we not seen fathered upon dante, cervantes, shakespeare, and goethe! yet their works are, in a certain sense, greater than any systems. they partake of the infinite complexity and variety of nature, and no more than nature itself can they be narrowed down to the limits of a precise formula. lessing was wont to disclaim the title of poet; but, as goethe said, his immortal works refute him. he had not only poetical, but dramatic genius; and his "emilia galotti" has kept the stage until to-day. nevertheless, he knew well what he meant when he said that he was more of a critic than a poet. his genius was mainly of the critical order; and his great work, "nathan the wise," was certainly constructed rather than created. it was intended to convey a doctrine, and was carefully shaped for the purpose. and when we have pronounced it the greatest of all poems that have been written for a set purpose, and admit of being expressed in a definite formula, we have classified it with sufficient accuracy. for an analysis of the characters in the poem, nothing can be better than the essay by kuno fischer, appended to the present volume. the work of translation has been admirably done; and thanks are due to miss frothingham for her reproduction of this beautiful poem. june, . viii. historical difficulties. [ ] [ ] historical difficulties and contested events. by octave delepierre, ll. d., f. s. a., secretary of legation to the king of the belgians. vo. london: murray. . history, says sainte-beuve, is in great part a set of fables which people agree to believe in. and, on reading books like the present, one certainly needs a good deal of that discipline acquired by long familiarity with vexed historical questions, in order to check the disposition to accept the great critic's ironical remark in sober earnest. much of what is currently accredited as authentic history is in fact a mixture of flattery and calumny, myth and fable. yet in this set of fables, whatever may have been the case in past times, people will no longer agree to believe. during the present century the criticism of recorded events has gone far toward assuming the developed and systematized aspect of a science, and canons of belief have been established, which it is not safe to disregard. great occurrences, such as the trojan war and the siege of thebes, not long ago faithfully described by all historians of greece, have been found to be part of the common mythical heritage of the aryan nations. achilleus and helena, oidipous and iokasta, oinone and paris, have been discovered in india and again in scandinavia, and so on, until their nonentity has become the legitimate inference from their very ubiquity. legislators like romulus and numa, inventors like kadmos, have evaporated into etymologies. whole legions of heroes, dynasties of kings, and adulteresses as many as dante saw borne on the whirlwind, have vanished from the face of history, and terrible has been the havoc in the opening pages of our chronological tables. nor is it primitive history alone which has been thus metamorphosed. characters unduly exalted or defamed by party spirit are daily being set before us in their true, or at least in a truer, light. what mr. froude has done for henry viii. we know; and he might have done more if he had not tried to do so much. humpbacked richard turns out to have been one of the handsomest kings that ever sat on the throne of england. edward i., in his dealings with scotland, is seen to have been scrupulously just; while the dignity of the patriot hero wallace has been somewhat impaired. elizabeth is proved to have befriended the false mary stuart much longer than was consistent with her personal safety. eloquent cicero has been held up as an object of contempt; and even weighty tacitus has been said to owe much of his reputation to his ability to give false testimony with a grave face. it has lately been suspected that gloomy tiberius, apart from his gloominess, may have been rather a good fellow; not so licentious as puritanical, not cruel so much as exceptionally merciful,--a rare general, a sagacious statesman, and popular to boot with all his subjects save the malignant oligarchy which he consistently snubbed, and which took revenge on him by writing his life. and, to crown all, even catiline, abuser of our patience, seducer of vestal nuns, and drinker of children's blood,--whose very name suggests murder, incest, and robbery,--even catiline has found an able defender in professor beesly. it is claimed that catiline was a man of great abilities and average good character, a well-calumniated leader of the marian party which caesar afterwards led to victory, and that his famous plot for burning rome never existed save in the unscrupulous ciceronian fancy. and those who think it easy to refute these conclusions of professor beesly had better set to work and try it. such are a few of the surprising questions opened by recent historical research; and in the face of them the public is quite excusable if it declares itself at a loss what to believe. these, however, are cases in which criticism has at least made some show of ascertaining the truth and detecting the causes of the prevalent misconception. that men like catiline and tiberius should have had their characters blackened is quite easily explicable. president johnson would have little better chance of obtaining justice at the hands of posterity, if the most widely read history of his administration should happen to be written by a radical member of the rump congress. but the cases which mr. delepierre invites us to contemplate are of a different character. they come neither under the head of myths nor under that of misrepresentations. some of them are truly vexed questions which it may perhaps always be impossible satisfactorily to solve. others may be dealt with more easily, but afford no clew to the origin of the popularly received error. let us briefly examine a few of mr. delepierre's "difficulties." and first, because simplest, we will take the case of the alexandrian library. every one has heard how amrou, after his conquest of egypt, sent to caliph omar to know what should be done with the alexandrian library. "if the books agree with the koran," said the caliph, "they are superfluous; if they contradict it, they are damnable; in either case, destroy them." so the books were taken and used to light the fires which heated water for the baths; and so vast was the number that, used in this way, they lasted six months! all this happened because john the grammarian was over-anxious enough to request that the books might be preserved, and thus drew amrou's attention to them. great has been the obloquy poured upon omar for this piece of vandalism, and loud has been the mourning over the treasures of ancient science and literature supposed to have been irrecoverably lost in this ignominious conflagration theologians, catholic and protestant, have been fond of quoting it as an instance of the hostility of mahometanism to knowledge, and we have even heard an edifying sermon preached about it. on seeing the story put to such uses, one feels sometimes like using the ad hominem argument, and quoting the wholesale destruction of pagan libraries under valens, the burning of books by the latin stormers of constantinople, the alleged annihilation of , volumes by genoese crusaders at tripoli, the book-burning exploits of torquemada, the bonfire of , valuable arabic manuscripts, lighted up in the square of granada by order of cardinal ximenes, and the irreparable cremation of aztec writings by the first christian bishops of mexico. these examples, with perhaps others which do not now occur to us, might be applied in just though ungentle retort by mahometan doctors. yet the most direct rejoinder would probably not occur to them: the alexandrian library was not destroyed by the orders of omar, and the whole story is a figment! the very pithiness of it, so characteristic of the excellent but bigoted omar, is enough to cast suspicion upon it. de quincey tells us that "if a saying has a proverbial fame, the probability is that it was never said." how many amusing stories stand a chance of going down to posterity as the inventions of president lincoln, of which, nevertheless, he is doubtless wholly innocent! how characteristic was caesar's reply to the frightened pilot! yet in all probability caesar never made it. now for the evidence. alexandria was captured by armrou in . the story of the burning of the library occurs for the first time in the works of abulpharagius, who flourished in . six hundred years had elapsed. it is as if a story about the crusades of louis ix. were to be found for the first time in the writings of mr. bancroft. the byzantine historians were furiously angry with the saracens; why did they, one and all, neglect to mention such an outrageous piece of vandalism? their silence must be considered quite conclusive. moreover we know "that the caliphs had forbidden under severe penalties the destruction" of jewish and christian books, a circumstance wholly inconsistent with this famous story. and finally, what a mediaeval recklessness of dates is shown in lugging into the story john the grammarian, who was dead and in his grave when alexandria was taken by amrou! but the chief item of proof remains to be mentioned. the saracens did not burn the library, because there was no library there for them to burn! it had been destroyed just two hundred and fifty years before by a rabble of monks, incited by the patriarch theophilus, who saw in such a vast collection of pagan literature a perpetual insult and menace to religion. in the year this turbulent bigot sacked the temple of serapis, where the books were kept, and drove out the philosophers who lodged there. of this violent deed we have contemporary evidence, for orosius tells us that less than fifteen years afterwards, while passing through alexandria, he saw the empty shelves. this fact disposes of the story. passing from egypt to france, and from the seventh century to the fifteenth, we meet with a much more difficult problem. that jeanne d'arc was burnt at the stake, at rouen, on the th of may, , and her bones and ashes thrown into the seine, is generally supposed to be as indisputable as any event in modern history. such is, however, hardly the case. plausible evidence has been brought to prove that jeanne d'arc was never burnt at the stake, but lived to a ripe age, and was even happily married to a nobleman of high rank and reputation. we shall abridge mr. delepierre's statement of this curious case. in the archives of metz, father vignier discovered the following remarkable entry: "in the year , messire phlin marcou was sheriff of metz, and on the th day of may of the aforesaid year came the maid jeanne, who had been in france, to la grange of ormes, near st. prive, and was taken there to confer with any one of the sieurs of metz, and she called herself claude; and on the same day there came to see her there her two brothers, one of whom was a knight, and was called messire pierre, and the other 'petit jehan,' a squire, and they thought that she had been burnt, but as soon as they saw her they recognized her and she them. and on monday, the st day of the said month, they took their sister with them to boquelon, and the sieur nicole, being a knight, gave her a stout stallion of the value of thirty francs, and a pair of saddle-cloths; the sieur aubert boulle, a riding-hood, the sieur nicole groguet, a sword; and the said maiden mounted the said horse nimbly, and said several things to the sieur nicole by which he well understood that it was she who had been in france; and she was recognized by many tokens to be the maid jeanne of france who escorted king charles to rheims, and several declared that she had been burnt in normandy, and she spoke mostly in parables. she afterwards returned to the town of marnelle for the feast of pentecost, and remained there about three weeks, and then set off to go to notre dame d'alliance. and when she wished to leave, several of metz went to see her at the said marnelle and gave her several jewels, and they knew well that she was the maid jeanne of france; and she then went to erlon, in the duchy of luxembourg, where she was thronged,.... and there was solemnized the marriage of monsieur de hermoise, knight, and the said maid jeanne, and afterwards the said sieur hermoise, with his wife, the maid, came to live at metz, in the house the said sieur had, opposite st. seglenne, and remained there until it pleased them to depart." this is surprising enough; but more remains behind. dining shortly afterwards with m. des armoises, member of one of the oldest families in lorraine, father vignier was invited to look over the family archives, that he might satisfy his curiosity regarding certain ancestors of his host. and on looking over the family register, what was his astonishment at finding a contract of marriage between robert des armoises, knight, and jeanne d'arcy, the so-called maid of orleans! in , some time after these occurrences, there was found, in the town hall of orleans, a bill of one jacques l'argentier, of the year , in which mention is made of a small sum paid for refreshments furnished to a messenger who had brought letters from the maid of orleans, and of twelve livres given to jean du lis, brother of jeanne d'arc, to help him pay the expenses of his journey back to his sister. then come two charges which we shall translate literally. "to the sieur de lis, th october, , for a journey which he made through the said city while on his way to the maid, who was then at erlon in luxembourg, and for carrying letters from jeanne the maid to the king at loicher, where he was then staying, six livres." and again: "to renard brune, th july, , at evening, for paying the hire of a messenger who was carrying letters from jeanne the maid, and was on his way to william beliers, bailiff of troyes, two livres." as no doubt has been thrown upon the genuineness of these documents, it must be considered established that in , five years after the public execution at rouen, a young woman, believed to be the real jeanne d'arc, was alive in lorraine and was married to a m. hermoises or armoises. she may, of course, have been an impostor; but in this case it is difficult to believe that her brothers, jean and pierre, and the people of lorraine, where she was well known, would not have detected the imposture at once. and that jean du lis, during a familiar intercourse of at least several months, as indicated in the above extracts, should have continued to mistake a stranger for his own sister, with whom he had lived from childhood, seems a very absurd supposition. nor is it likely that an impostor would have exposed herself to such a formidable test. if it had been a bold charlatan who, taking advantage of the quite general belief, to which we have ample testimony, that there was something more in the execution at rouen than was allowed to come to the surface, had resolved to usurp for herself the honours due to the woman who had saved france, she would hardly have gone at the outset to a part of the country where the real maid had spent nearly all her life. her instant detection and exposure, perhaps a disgraceful punishment, would have been inevitable. but if this person were the real jeanne, escaped from prison or returning from an exile dictated by prudence, what should she have done but go straightway to the haunts of her childhood, where she might meet once more her own friends and family? but the account does not end here. m. wallon, in his elaborate history of jeanne d'arc, states that in the supposed maid visited france, and appears to have met some of the men-at-arms with whom she had fought. in she came to orleans, for in the accounts of the town we read, "july , for ten pints of wine presented to jeanne des armoises, sous." and on the day of her departure, the citizens of orleans, by a special decree of the town-council, presented her with livres, "for the services which she had rendered to the said city during the siege." at the same time the annual ceremonies for the repose of her soul were, quite naturally, suppressed. now we may ask if it is at all probable that the people of orleans, who, ten years before, during the siege, must have seen the maid day after day, and to whom her whole appearance must have been perfectly familiar, would have been likely to show such attentions as these to an impostor? "in ," says mr. delepierre, "the people so firmly believed that jeanne d'arc was still alive, and that another had been sacrificed in her place, that an adventuress who endeavoured to pass herself off as the maid of orleans was ordered by the government to be exposed before the public on the marble stone of the palace hall, in order to prove that she was an impostor. why were not such measures taken against the real maid of orleans, who is mentioned in so many public documents, and who took no pains to hide herself?" there is yet another document bearing on this case, drawn from the accounts of the auditor of the orleans estate, in the year , which we will here translate. "an island on the river loire is restored to pierre du lis, knight, 'on account of the supplication of the said pierre, alleging that for the acquittal of his debt of loyalty toward our lord the king and m. the duke of orleans, he left his country to come to the service of the king and m. the duke, accompanied by his sister, jeanne the maid, with whom, down to the time of her departure, and since, unto the present time, he has exposed his body and goods in the said service, and in the king's wars, both in resisting the former enemies of the kingdom who were besieging the town of orleans, and since then in divers enterprises,' &c., &c." upon this mr. delepierre justly remarks that the brother might have presented his claims in a much stronger light, "if in , instead of saying 'up to the time of her departure,' he had brought forward the martyrdom of his sister, as having been the means of saving france from the yoke of england." the expression here cited and italicized in the above translation, may indeed be held to refer delicately to her death, but the particular french phrase employed, "jusques a son absentement," apparently excludes such an interpretation. the expression, on the other hand, might well refer to jeanne's departure for lorraine, and her marriage, after which there is no evidence that she returned to france, except for brief visits. thus a notable amount of evidence goes to show that jeanne was not put to death in , as usually supposed, but was alive, married, and flourishing in . upon this supposition, certain alleged difficulties in the traditional account are easily disposed of. mr. delepierre urges upon the testimony of perceval de cagny, that at the execution in rouen "the victim's face was covered when walking to the stake, while at the same time a spot had been chosen for the execution that permitted the populace to have a good view. why this contradiction? a place is chosen to enable the people to see everything, but the victim is carefully hidden from their sight." whether otherwise explicable or not, this fact is certainly consistent with the hypothesis that some other victim was secretly substituted for jeanne by the english authorities. we have thus far contented ourselves with presenting and re-enforcing mr. delepierre's statement of the case. it is now time to interpose a little criticism. we must examine our data somewhat more closely, for vagueness of conception allows a latitude to belief which accuracy of conception considerably restricts. on the hypothesis of her survival, where was jeanne, and what was she doing all the time from her capture before compiegne, may , , until her appearance at metz, may , ? mr. delepierre reminds us that the duke of bedford, regent of france for the english king, died in , and "that most probably jeanne d'arc was released from prison after this event." now this supposition lands us in a fatally absurd conclusion. we are, in fact, asked to believe that the english, while holding jeanne fast in their clutches, gratuitously went through the horrid farce of burning some one else in her stead; and that, after having thus inexplicably behaved, they further stultified themselves by letting her go scot-free, that their foolishness might be duly exposed and confuted. such a theory is childish. if jeanne d'arc ever survived the th may, , it was because she escaped from prison and succeeded in hiding herself until safer times. when could she have done this? in a sortie from compiegne, may , , she was thrown from her horse by a picard archer and taken prisoner by the bastard of vendome, who sold her to john of luxembourg. john kept her in close custody at beaulieu until august. while there, she made two attempts to escape; first, apparently, by running out through a door, when she was at once caught by the guards; secondly, by jumping from a high window, when the shock of the fall was so great that she lay insensible on the ground until discovered. she was then removed to beaurevoir, where she remained until the beginning of november. by this time, philip "the good," duke of burgundy, had made up his mind to sell her to the english for , francs; and jeanne was accordingly taken to arras, and thence to cotoy, where she was delivered to the english by philip's officers. so far, all is clear; but here it may be asked, was she really delivered to the english, or did philip, pocketing his , francs, cheat and defraud his allies with a counterfeit jeanne? such crooked dealing would have been in perfect keeping with his character. though a far more agreeable and gentlemanly person, he was almost as consummate and artistic a rascal as his great-great-great-grandson and namesake, philip ii. of spain. his duplicity was so unfathomable and his policy so obscure, that it would be hardly safe to affirm a priori that he might not, for reasons best known to himself, have played a double game with his friend the duke of bedford. on this hypothesis, he would of course keep jeanne in close custody so long as there was any reason for keeping his treachery secret. but in , after the death of bedford and the final expulsion of the english from france, no harm could come from setting her at liberty. but as soon as we cease to reason a priori, this is seen to be, after all, a lame hypothesis. no one can read the trial of jeanne at rouen, the questions that were put to her and the answers which she made, without being convinced that we are here dealing with the genuine maid and not with a substitute. the first step of a counterfeit jeanne would have naturally been to save herself from the flames by revealing her true character. moreover, among the multitudes who saw her during her cruel trial, it is not likely that none were acquainted with the true jeanne's voice and features. we must therefore conclude that jeanne d'arc was really consigned to the tender mercies of the english. about the st of november she was taken on horseback, strongly guarded, from cotoy to rouen, where the trial began january , . on the st of february she appeared before the court; on the th of march she was examined in the prison by an inquisitor; and on may , the thursday after pentecost, upon a scaffold conspicuously placed in the cemetery of st. ouen, she publicly recanted, abjuring her "heresies" and asking the church's pardon for her "witchcraft." we may be sure that the church dignitaries would not knowingly have made such public display of a counterfeit jeanne; nor could they well have been deceived themselves under such circumstances. it may indeed be said, to exhaust all possible suppositions, that a young girl wonderfully similar in feature and voice to jeanne d'arc was palmed off upon the english by duke philip, and afterwards, on her trial, comported herself like the maid, trusting in this recantation to effect her release. but we consider such an hypothesis extremely far-fetched, nor does it accord with the events which immediately followed. it seems hardly questionable that it was the real jeanne who publicly recanted on the th of may. this was only six days before the execution. four days after, on monday the th, it was reported that jeanne had relapsed, that she had, in defiance of the church's prohibition, clothed herself in male attire, which had been left in a convenient place by the authorities, expressly to test her sincerity. on the next day but one, the woman purporting to be the maid of orleans was led out, with her face carefully covered, and burnt at the stake. here is the first combination of circumstances which bears a suspicious look. it disposes of our burgundy hypothesis, for a false jeanne, after recanting to secure her safety, would never have stultified herself by such a barefaced relapse. but the true jeanne, after recanting, might certainly have escaped. some compassionate guard, who before would have scrupled to assist her while under the ban of the church, might have deemed himself excusable for lending her his aid after she had been absolved. postulating, then, that jeanne escaped from rouen between the th and the th, how shall we explain what happened immediately afterward? the english feared jeanne d'arc as much as they hated her. she had, by her mere presence at the head of the french army, turned their apparent triumph into ignominious defeat. in those days the true psychological explanation of such an event was by no means obvious. while the french attributed the result to celestial interposition in their behalf, the english, equally ready to admit its supernatural character, considered the powers of hell rather than those of heaven to have been the prime instigators. in their eyes jeanne was a witch, and it was at least their cue to exhibit her as such. they might have put her to death when she first reached rouen. some persons, indeed, went so far as to advise that she should be sewed up in a sack and thrown at once into the seine; but this was not what the authorities wanted. the whole elaborate trial, and the extorted recantation, were devised for the purpose of demonstrating her to be a witch, and thus destroying her credit with the common people. that they intended afterwards to burn her cannot for an instant be doubted; that was the only fit consummation for their evil work. now when, at the end of the week after pentecost, the bishops and inquisitors at rouen learned, to their dismay, that their victim had escaped, what were they to do? confess that they had been foiled, and create a panic in the army by the news that their dreaded enemy was at liberty? or boldly carry out their purposes by a fictitious execution, trusting in the authority which official statements always carry, and shrewdly foreseeing that, after her recantation, the disgraced maid would no more venture to claim for herself the leadership of the french forces? clearly, the latter would have been the wiser course. we may assume, then, that, by the afternoon of the th, the story of the relapse was promulgated, as a suitable preparation for what was to come; and that on the th the poor creature who had been hastily chosen to figure as the condemned maid was led out, with face closely veiled, to perish by a slow fire in the old market-place. meanwhile the true jeanne would have made her way, doubtless, in what to her was the effectual disguise of a woman's apparel, to some obscure place of safety, outside of doubtful france and treacherous burgundy, perhaps in alsace or the vosges. here she would remain, until the final expulsion of the english and the conclusion of a treaty of peace in made it safe for her to show herself; when she would naturally return to lorraine to seek her family. the comparative obscurity in which she must have remained for the rest of her life, otherwise quite inexplicable on any hypothesis of her survival, is in harmony with the above-given explanation. the ingratitude of king charles towards the heroine who had won him his crown is the subject of common historical remark. m. wallon insists upon the circumstance that, after her capture at compiegne, no attempts were made by the french court to ransom her or to liberate her by a bold coup de main. and when, at rouen, she appealed in the name of the church to the pope to grant her a fair trial, not a single letter was written by the archbishop of rheims, high chancellor of france, to his suffragan, the bishop of beauvais, demanding cognizance of the proceedings. nor did the king make any appeal to the pope, to prevent the consummation of the judicial murder. the maid was deliberately left to her fate. it is upon her enemies at court, la tremouille and regnault de chartres, that we must lay part of the blame for this wicked negligence. but it is also probable that the king, and especially his clerical advisers, were at times almost disposed to acquiesce in the theory of jeanne's witchcraft. admire her as they might, they could not help feeling that in her whole behaviour there was something uncanny; and, after having reaped the benefits of her assistance, they were content to let her shift for herself. this affords the clew to the king's inconsistencies. it may be thought sufficient to explain the fact that jeanne is said to have received public testimonials at orleans, while we have no reason to suppose that she visited paris. it may help to dispose of the objection that she virtually disappears from history after the date of the tragedy at rouen. nevertheless, this last objection is a weighty one, and cannot easily be got rid of. it appears to me utterly incredible that, if jeanne d'arc had really survived, we should find no further mention of her than such as haply occurs in one or two town-records and dilapidated account-books. if she was alive in , and corresponding with the king, some of her friends at court must have got an inkling of the true state of things. why did they not parade their knowledge, to the manifest discomfiture of la tremouille and his company? or why did not pierre du lis cause it to be proclaimed that the english were liars, his sister being safely housed in metz? in the mere interests of historical criticism, we have said all that we could in behalf of mr. delepierre's hypothesis. but as to the facts upon which it rests, we may remark, in the first place, that the surname arc or "bow" was not uncommon in those days, while the christian name jeanne was and now is the very commonest of french names. there might have been a hundred jeanne d'arcs, all definable as pucelle or maid, just as we say "spinster": we even read of one in the time of the revolution. we have, therefore, no doubt that robert des hermoises married a jeanne d'arc, who may also have been a maid of orleans; but this does not prove her to have been the historic jeanne. secondly, as to the covering of the face, we may mention the fact, hitherto withheld, that it was by no means an uncommon circumstance: the victims of the spanish inquisition were usually led to the stake with veiled faces. thirdly, the phrase "jusques a son absentement" is hopelessly ambiguous, and may as well refer to pierre du lis himself as to his sister. these brief considerations seem to knock away all the main props of mr. delepierre's hypothesis, save that furnished by the apparent testimony of jeanne's brothers, given at second hand in the metz archives. and those who are familiar with the phenomena of mediaeval delusions will be unwilling to draw too hasty an inference from this alone. from the emperor nero to don sebastian of portugal, there have been many instances of the supposed reappearance of persons generally believed to be dead. for my own part, therefore, i am by no means inclined to adopt the hypothesis of jeanne's survival, although i have endeavoured to give it tangible shape and plausible consistency. but the fact that so much can be said in behalf of a theory running counter not only to universal tradition, but also to such a vast body of contemporaneous testimony, should teach us to be circumspect in holding our opinions, and charitable in our treatment of those who dissent from them. for those who can discover in the historian renan and the critic strauss nothing but the malevolence of incredulity, the case of jeanne d'arc, duly contemplated, may serve as a wholesome lesson. we have devoted so much space to this problem, by far the most considerable of those treated in mr. delepierre's book, that we have hardly room for any of the others. but a false legend concerning solomon de caus, the supposed original inventor of the steam-engine, is so instructive that we must give a brief account of it. in "there appeared in the musee des familles a letter from the celebrated marion delorme, supposed to have been written on the d february, , to her lover cinq-mars." in this letter it is stated that de caus came four years ago [ ] from normandy, to inform the king concerning a marvellous invention which he had made, being nothing less than the application of steam to the propulsion of carriages. "the cardinal [richelieu] dismissed this fool without giving him a hearing." but de caus, nowise discouraged, followed close upon the autocrat's heels wherever he went, and so teased him, that the cardinal, out of patience, sent him off to a madhouse, where he passed the remainder of his days behind a grated window, proclaiming his invention to the passengers in the street, and calling upon them to release him. marion gives a graphic account of her visit, accompanied by the famous lord worcester, to the asylum at bicetre, where they saw de caus at his window; and worcester, in whose mind the conception of the steam-engine was already taking shape, informed her that the raving prisoner was not a madman, but a genius. a great stir was made by this letter. the anecdote was copied into standard works, and represented in engravings. yet it was a complete hoax. de caus was not only never confined in a madhouse, but he was architect to louis xiii. up to the time of his death, in , just eleven years before marion delorme was said to have seen him at his grated window! "on tracing this hoax to its source," says mr. delepierre, "we find that m. henri berthoud, a literary man of some repute, and a constant contributor to the musee des familles, confesses that the letter attributed to marion was in fact written by himself. the editor of this journal had requested gavarni to furnish him with a drawing for a tale in which a madman was introduced looking through the bars of his cell. the drawing was executed and engraved, but arrived too late; and the tale, which could not wait, appeared without the illustration. however, as the wood-engraving was effective, and, moreover, was paid for, the editor was unwilling that it should be useless. berthoud was, therefore, commissioned to look for a subject and to invent a story to which the engraving might be applied. strangely enough, the world refused to believe in m. berthoud's confession, so great a hold had the anecdote taken on the public mind; and a paris newspaper went so far even as to declare that the original autograph of this letter was to be seen in a library in normandy! m. berthoud wrote again, denying its existence, and offered a million francs to any one who would produce the said letter." from this we may learn two lessons, the first being that utterly baseless but plausible stories may arise in queer ways. in the above case, the most far-fetched hypothesis to account for the origin of the legend could hardly have been as apparently improbable as the reality. secondly, we may learn that if a myth once gets into the popular mind, it is next to impossible to get it out again. in the castle of heidelberg there is a portrait of de caus, and a folio volume of his works, accompanied by a note, in which this letter of marion delorme is unsuspectingly cited as genuine. and only three years ago, at a public banquet at limoges, a well-known french senator and man of letters made a speech, in which he retailed the story of the madhouse for the edification of his hearers. truly a popular error has as many lives as a cat; it comes walking in long after you have imagined it effectually strangled. in conclusion, we may remark that mr. delepierre does very scant justice to many of the interesting questions which he discusses. it is to be regretted that he has not thought it worth while to argue his points more thoroughly, and that he has not been more careful in making statements of fact. he sometimes makes strange blunders, the worst of which, perhaps, is contained in his article on petrarch and laura. he thinks laura was merely a poetical allegory, and such was the case, he goes on to say, "with dante himself, whose beatrice was a child who died at nine years of age." dante's beatrice died on the th of june, , at the age of twenty-four, having been the wife of simone dei bardi rather more than three years. october, . ix. the famine of in bengal. [ ] [ ] the annals of rural bengal. by w. w. hunter. vol. i. the ethnical frontier of lower bengal, with the ancient principalities of beerbhoom and bishenpore. second edition. new york: leypoldt and holt. . vo., pp. xvi., . no intelligent reader can advance fifty pages in this volume without becoming aware that he has got hold of a very remarkable book. mr. hunter's style, to begin with, is such as is written only by men of large calibre and high culture. no words are wasted. the narrative flows calmly and powerfully along, like a geometrical demonstration, omitting nothing which is significant, admitting nothing which is irrelevant, glowing with all the warmth of rich imagination and sympathetic genius, yet never allowing any overt manifestation of feeling, ever concealing the author's personality beneath the unswerving exposition of the subject-matter. that highest art, which conceals art, mr. hunter appears to have learned well. with him, the curtain is the picture. such a style as this would suffice to make any book interesting, in spite of the remoteness of the subject. but the "annals of rural bengal" do not concern us so remotely as one might at first imagine. the phenomena of the moral and industrial growth or stagnation of a highly-endowed people must ever possess the interest of fascination for those who take heed of the maxim that "history is philosophy teaching by example." national prosperity depends upon circumstances sufficiently general to make the experience of one country of great value to another, though ignorant bourbon dynasties and rump congresses refuse to learn the lesson. it is of the intimate every-day life of rural bengal that mr. hunter treats. he does not, like old historians, try our patience with a bead-roll of names that have earned no just title to remembrance, or dazzle us with a bountiful display of "barbaric pearls and gold," or lead us in the gondolas of buddhist kings down sacred rivers, amid "a summer fanned with spice"; but he describes the labours and the sufferings, the mishaps and the good fortune, of thirty millions of people, who, however dusky may be their hue, tanned by the tropical suns of fifty centuries, are nevertheless members of the imperial aryan race, descended from the cool highlands eastward of the caspian, where, long before the beginning of recorded history, their ancestors and those of the anglo-american were indistinguishably united in the same primitive community. the narrative portion of the present volume is concerned mainly with the social and economical disorganization wrought by the great famine of , and with the attempts of the english government to remedy the same. the remainder of the book is occupied with inquiries into the ethnic character of the population of bengal, and particularly with an exposition of the peculiarities of the language, religion, customs, and institutions of the santals, or hill-tribes of beerbhoom. a few remarks on the first of these topics may not be uninteresting. throughout the entire course of recorded european history, from the remote times of which the homeric poems preserve the dim tradition down to the present moment, there has occurred no calamity at once so sudden and of such appalling magnitude as the famine which in the spring and summer of nearly exterminated the ancient civilization of bengal. it presents that aspect of preternatural vastness which characterizes the continent of asia and all that concerns it. the black death of the fourteenth century was, perhaps, the most fearful visitation which has ever afflicted the western world. but in the concentrated misery which it occasioned the bengal famine surpassed it, even as the himalayas dwarf by comparison the highest peaks of switzerland. it is, moreover, the key to the history of bengal during the next forty years; and as such, merits, from an economical point of view, closer attention than it has hitherto received. lower bengal gathers in three harvests each year; in the spring, in the early autumn, and in december, the last being the great rice-crop, the harvest on which the sustenance of the people depends. through the year there was great scarcity, owing to the partial failure of the crops of , but the spring rains appeared to promise relief, and in spite of the warning appeals of provincial officers, the government was slow to take alarm, and continued rigorously to enforce the land-tax. but in september the rains suddenly ceased. throughout the autumn there ruled a parching drought; and the rice-fields, according to the description of a native superintendent of bishenpore, "became like fields of dried straw." nevertheless, the government at calcutta made--with one lamentable exception, hereafter to be noticed--no legislative attempt to meet the consequences of this dangerous condition of things. the administration of local affairs was still, at that date, intrusted to native officials. the whole internal regulation was in the hands of the famous muhamad reza ehan. hindu or mussulman assessors pried into every barn and shrewdly estimated the probable dimensions of the crops on every field; and the courts, as well as the police, were still in native hands. "these men," says our author, "knew the country, its capabilities, its average yield, and its average requirements, with an accuracy that the most painstaking english official can seldom hope to attain to. they had a strong interest in representing things to be worse than they were; for the more intense the scarcity, the greater the merit in collecting the land-tax. every consultation is filled with their apprehensions and highly-coloured accounts of the public distress; but it does not appear that the conviction entered the minds of the council during the previous winter months, that the question was not so much one of revenue as of depopulation." in fact, the local officers had cried "wolf!" too often. government was slow to believe them, and announced that nothing better could be expected than the adoption of a generous policy toward those landholders whom the loss of harvest had rendered unable to pay their land-tax. but very few indulgences were granted, and the tax was not diminished, but on the contrary was, in the month of april, , increased by ten per cent for the following year. the character of the bengali people must also be taken into the account in explaining this strange action on the part of the government. "from the first appearance of lower bengal in history, its inhabitants have been reticent, self-contained, distrustful of foreign observation, in a degree without parallel among other equally civilized nations. the cause of this taciturnity will afterwards be clearly explained; but no one who is acquainted either with the past experiences or the present condition of the people can be ignorant of its results. local officials may write alarming reports, but their apprehensions seem to be contradicted by the apparent quiet that prevails. outward, palpable proofs of suffering are often wholly wanting; and even when, as in , such proofs abound, there is generally no lack of evidence on the other side. the bengali bears existence with a composure that neither accident nor chance can ruffle. he becomes silently rich or uncomplainingly poor. the emotional part of his nature is in strict subjection, his resentment enduring but unspoken, his gratitude of the sort that silently descends from generation to generation. the passion for privacy reaches its climax in the domestic relations. an outer apartment, in even the humblest households, is set apart for strangers and the transaction of business, but everything behind it is a mystery. the most intimate friend does not venture to make those commonplace kindly inquiries about a neighbour's wife or daughter which european courtesy demands from mere acquaintances. this family privacy is maintained at any price. during the famine of it was found impossible to render public charity available to the female members of the respectable classes, and many a rural household starved slowly to death without uttering a complaint or making a sign. "all through the stifling summer of the people went on dying. the husbandmen sold their cattle; they sold their implements of agriculture; they devoured their seed-grain; they sold their sons and daughters, till at length no buyer of children could be found; they ate the leaves of trees and the grass of the field; and in june, , the resident at the durbar affirmed that the living were feeding on the dead. day and night a torrent of famished and disease-stricken wretches poured into the great cities. at an early period of the year pestilence had broken out. in march we find small-pox at moorshedabad, where it glided through the vice-regal mutes, and cut off the prince syfut in his palace. the streets were blocked up with promiscuous heaps of the dying and dead. interment could not do its work quick enough; even the dogs and jackals, the public scavengers of the east, became unable to accomplish their revolting work, and the multitude of mangled and festering corpses at length threatened the existence of the citizens..... in , the rainy season brought relief, and before the end of september the province reaped an abundant harvest. but the relief came too late to avert depopulation. starving and shelterless crowds crawled despairingly from one deserted village to another in a vain search for food, or a resting-place in which to hide themselves from the rain. the epidemics incident to the season were thus spread over the whole country; and, until the close of the year, disease continued so prevalent as to form a subject of communication from the government in bengal to the court of directors. millions of famished wretches died in the struggle to live through the few intervening weeks that separated them from the harvest, their last gaze being probably fixed on the densely-covered fields that would ripen only a little too late for them..... three months later, another bountiful harvest, the great rice-crop of the year, was gathered in. abundance returned to bengal as suddenly as famine had swooped down upon it, and in reading some of the manuscript records of december it is difficult to realize that the scenes of the preceding ten months have not been hideous phantasmagoria or a long, troubled dream. on christmas eve, the council in calcutta wrote home to the court of directors that the scarcity had entirely ceased, and, incredible as it may seem, that unusual plenty had returned..... so generous had been the harvest that the government proposed at once to lay in its military stores for the ensuing year, and expected to obtain them at a very cheap rate." such sudden transitions from the depths of misery to the most exuberant plenty are by no means rare in the history of asia, where the various centres of civilization are, in an economical sense, so isolated from each other that the welfare of the population is nearly always absolutely dependent on the irregular: and apparently capricious bounty of nature. for the three years following the dreadful misery above described, harvests of unprecedented abundance were gathered in. yet how inadequate they were to repair the fearful damage wrought by six months of starvation, the history of the next quarter of a century too plainly reveals. "plenty had indeed returned," says our annalist, "but it had returned to a silent and deserted province." the extent of the depopulation is to our western imaginations almost incredible. during those six months of horror, more than ten millions of people had perished! it was as if the entire population of our three or four largest states--man, woman, and child--were to be utterly swept away between now and next august, leaving the region between the hudson and lake michigan as quiet and deathlike as the buried streets of pompeii. yet the estimate is based upon most accurate and trustworthy official returns; and mr. hunter may well say that "it represents an aggregate of individual suffering which no european nation has been called upon to contemplate within historic times." this unparalleled calamity struck down impartially the rich and the poor. the old, aristocratic families of lower bengal were irretrievably ruined. the rajah of burdwan, whose possessions were so vast that, travel as far as he would, he always slept under a roof of his own and within his own jurisdiction, died in such indigence that his son had to melt down the family plate and beg a loan from the government in order to discharge his father's funeral expenses. and our author gives other similar instances. the wealthy natives who were appointed to assess and collect the internal revenue, being unable to raise the sums required by the government, were in many cases imprisoned, or their estates were confiscated and re-let in order to discharge the debt. for fifteen years the depopulation went on increasing. the children in a community, requiring most nourishment to sustain their activity, are those who soonest succumb to famine. "until ," says our author, "the old died off without there being any rising generation to step into their places." from lack of cultivators, one third of the surface of bengal fell out of tillage and became waste land. the landed proprietors began each "to entice away the tenants of his neighbour, by offering protection against judicial proceedings, and farms at very low rents." the disputes and deadly feuds which arose from this practice were, perhaps, the least fatal of the evil results which flowed from it. for the competition went on until, the tenants obtaining their holdings at half-rates, the resident cultivators--who had once been the wealthiest farmers in the country--were no longer able to complete on such terms. they began to sell, lease, or desert their property, migrating to less afflicted regions, or flying to the hills on the frontier to adopt a savage life. but, in a climate like that of northeastern india, it takes but little time to transform a tract of untilled land into formidable wilderness. when the functions of society are impeded, nature is swift to assert its claims. and accordingly, in , "lord cornwallis after three years' vigilant inquiry, pronounced one third of the company's territories in bengal to be a jungle, inhabited only by wild beasts." on the western frontier of beerbhoom the state of affairs was, perhaps, most calamitous. in , four acres out of every seven remained untilled. though in earlier times this district had been a favourite highway for armies, by the year it had become an almost impassable jungle. a small company of sepoys, which in that year by heroic exertions forced its way through, was obliged to traverse miles of trackless forest, swarming with tigers and black shaggy bears. in this jungle "continued so dense as to shut off all communication between the two most important towns, and to cause the mails to be carried by a circuit of fifty miles through another district." such a state of things it is difficult for us to realize; but the monotonous tale of disaster and suffering is not yet complete. beerbhoom was, to all intents and purposes, given over to tigers. "a belt of jungle, filled with wild beasts, formed round each village." at nightfall the hungry animals made their dreaded incursions carrying away cattle, and even women and children, and devouring them. "the official records frequently speak of the mail-bag being carried off by wild beasts." so great was the damage done by these depredations, that "the company offered a reward for each tiger's head, sufficient to maintain a peasant's family in comfort for three months; an item of expenditure it deemed so necessary, that, when under extraordinary pressure it had to suspend all payments, the tiger-money and diet allowance for prisoners were the sole exceptions to the rule." still more formidable foes were found in the herds of wild elephants, which came trooping along in the rear of the devastation caused by the famine. in the course of a few years fifty-six villages were reported as destroyed by elephants, and as having lapsed into jungle in consequence; "and an official return states that forty market-towns throughout the district had been deserted from the same cause. in many parts of the country the peasantry did not dare to sleep in their houses, lest they should be buried beneath them during the night." these terrible beasts continued to infest the province as late as . but society during these dark days had even worse enemies than tigers and elephants. the barbarous highlanders, of a lower type of mankind, nourishing for forty centuries a hatred of their hindu supplanters, like that which the apache bears against the white frontiersman, seized the occasion to renew their inroads upon the lowland country. year by year they descended from their mountain fastnesses, plundering and burning. many noble hindu families, ousted by the tax-collectors from their estates, began to seek subsistence from robbery. others, consulting their selfish interests amid the general distress, "found it more profitable to shelter banditti on their estates, levying blackmail from the surrounding villages as the price of immunity from depredation, and sharing in the plunder of such as would not come to terms. their country houses were robber strongholds, and the early english administrators of bengal have left it on record that a gang-robbery never occurred without a landed proprietor being at the bottom of it." the peasants were not slow to follow suit, and those who were robbed of their winter's store had no alternative left but to become robbers themselves. the thieveries of the fakeers, or religious mendicants, and the bold, though stealthy attacks of thugs and dacoits--members of masonic brotherhoods, which at all times have lived by robbery and assassination--added to the general turmoil. in the cold weather of the province was ravaged far and wide by bands of armed freebooters, fifty thousand strong; and to such a pass did things arrive that the regular forces sent by warren hastings to preserve order were twice disastrously routed; while, in mr. hunter's graphic language, "villages high up the ganges lived by housebreaking in calcutta." in english mansions "it was the invariable practice for the porter to shut the outer door at the commencement of each meal, and not to open it till the butler brought him word that the plate was safely locked up." and for a long time nearly all traffic ceased upon the imperial roads. this state of things, which amounted to chronic civil war, induced lord cornwallis in to place the province under the direct military control of an english officer. the administration of mr. keating--the first hardy gentleman to whom this arduous office was assigned--is minutely described by our author. for our present purpose it is enough to note that two years of severe campaigning, attended and followed by relentless punishment of all transgressors, was required to put an end to the disorders. such was the appalling misery, throughout a community of thirty million persons, occasioned by the failure of the winter rice-crop in . in abridging mr. hunter's account we have adhered as closely to our original as possible, but he who would obtain adequate knowledge of this tale of woe must seek it in the ever memorable description of the historian himself. the first question which naturally occurs to the reader--though, as mr. hunter observes, it would have been one of the last to occur to the oriental mind--is, who was to blame? to what culpable negligence was it due that such a dire calamity was not foreseen, and at least partially warded off? we shall find reason to believe that it could not have been adequately foreseen, and that no legislative measures could in that state of society have entirely prevented it. yet it will appear that the government, with the best of intentions, did all in its power to make matters worse; and that to its blundering ignorance the distress which followed is largely due. the first duty incumbent upon the government in a case like that of the failure of the winter rice-crop of , was to do away with all hindrance to the importation of food into the province. one chief cause of the far-reaching distress wrought by great asiatic famines has been the almost complete commercial isolation of asiatic communities. in the middle ages the european communities were also, though to a far less extent, isolated from each other, and in those days periods of famine were comparatively frequent and severe. and one of the chief causes which now render the occurrence of a famine on a great scale almost impossible in any part of the civilized world is the increased commercial solidarity of civilized nations. increased facility of distribution has operated no less effectively than improved methods of production. now, in the province of lower bengal was in a state of almost complete commercial isolation from other communities. importation of food on an adequate scale was hardly possible. "a single fact speaks volumes as to the isolation of each district. an abundant harvest, we are repeatedly told, was as disastrous to the revenues as a bad one; for, when a large quantity of grain had to be carried to market, the cost of carriage swallowed up the price obtained. indeed, even if the means of intercommunication and transport had rendered importation practicable, the province had at that time no money to give in exchange for food. not only had its various divisions a separate currency which would pass nowhere else except at a ruinous exchange, but in that unfortunate year bengal seems to have been utterly drained of its specie..... the absence of the means of importation was the more to be deplored, as the neighbouring districts could easily have supplied grain. in the southeast a fair harvest had been reaped, except, in circumscribed spots; and we are assured that, during the famine, this part of bengal was enabled to export without having to complain of any deficiency in consequence..... indeed, no matter how local a famine might be in the last century, the effects were equally disastrous. sylhet, a district in the northeast of bengal, had reaped unusually plentiful harvests in and , but the next crop was destroyed by a local inundation, and, notwithstanding the facilities for importation afforded by water-carriage, one third of the people died." here we have a vivid representation of the economic condition of a society which, however highly civilized in many important respects, still retained, at the epoch treated of, its aboriginal type of organization. here we see each community brought face to face with the impossible task of supplying, unaided, the deficiencies of nature. we see one petty district a prey to the most frightful destitution, even while profuse plenty reigns in the districts round about it. we find an almost complete absence of the commercial machinery which, by enabling the starving region to be fed out of the surplus of more favoured localities, has in the most advanced countries rendered a great famine practically impossible. now this state of things the government of was indeed powerless to remedy. legislative power and wisdom could not anticipate the invention of railroads; nor could it introduce throughout the length and breadth of bengal a system of coaches, canals, and caravans; nor could it all at once do away with the time-honoured brigandage, which increased the cost of transport by decreasing the security of it; nor could it in a trice remove the curse of a heterogeneous coinage. none, save those uninstructed agitators who believe that governments can make water run up-hill, would be disposed to find fault with the authorities in bengal for failing to cope with these difficulties. but what we are to blame them for--though it was an error of the judgment and not of the intentions--is their mischievous interference with the natural course of trade, by which, instead of helping matters, they but added another to the many powerful causes which were conspiring to bring about the economic ruin of bengal. we refer to the act which in prohibited under penalties all speculation in rice. this disastrous piece of legislation was due to the universal prevalence of a prejudice from which so-called enlightened communities are not yet wholly free. it is even now customary to heap abuse upon those persons who in a season of scarcity, when prices are rapidly rising, buy up the "necessaries of life," thereby still increasing for a time the cost of living. such persons are commonly assailed with specious generalities to the effect that they are enemies of society. people whose only ideas are "moral ideas" regard them as heartless sharpers who fatten upon the misery of their fellow-creatures. and it is sometimes hinted that such "practices" ought to be stopped by legislation. now, so far is this prejudice, which is a very old one, from being justified by facts, that, instead of being an evil, speculation in breadstuffs and other necessaries is one of the chief agencies by which in modern times and civilized countries a real famine is rendered almost impossible. this natural monopoly operates in two ways. in the first place, by raising prices, it checks consumption, putting every one on shorter allowance until the season of scarcity is over, and thus prevents the scarcity from growing into famine. in the second place, by raising prices, it stimulates importation from those localities where abundance reigns and prices are low. it thus in the long run does much to equalize the pressure of a time of dearth and diminish those extreme oscillations of prices which interfere with the even, healthy course of trade. a government which, in a season of high prices, does anything to check such speculation, acts about as sagely as the skipper of a wrecked vessel who should refuse to put his crew upon half rations. the turning-point of the great dutch revolution, so far as it concerned the provinces which now constitute belgium, was the famous siege and capture of antwerp by alexander farnese, duke of parma. the siege was a long one, and the resistance obstinate, and the city would probably not have been captured if famine had not come to the assistance of the besiegers. it is interesting, therefore, to inquire what steps the civic authorities had taken to prevent such a calamity. they knew that the struggle before them was likely to be the life-and-death struggle of the southern netherlands; they knew that there was risk of their being surrounded so that relief from without would be impossible; they knew that their assailant was one of the most astute and unconquerable of men, by far the greatest general of the sixteenth century. therefore they proceeded to do just what our republican congress, under such circumstances, would probably have done, and just what the new york tribune, if it had existed in those days, would have advised them to do. finding that sundry speculators were accumulating and hoarding up provisions in anticipation of a season of high prices, they hastily decided, first of all to put a stop to such "selfish iniquity." in their eyes the great thing to be done was to make things cheap. they therefore affixed a very low maximum price to everything which could be eaten, and prescribed severe penalties for all who should attempt to take more than the sum by law decreed. if a baker refused to sell his bread for a price which would have been adequate only in a time of great plenty, his shop was to be broken open, and his loaves distributed among the populace. the consequences of this idiotic policy were twofold. in the first place, the enforced lowness of prices prevented any breadstuffs or other provisions from being brought into the city. it was a long time before farnese succeeded in so blockading the scheldt as to prevent ships laden with eatables from coming in below. corn and preserved meats might have been hurried by thousands of tons into the beleaguered city. friendly dutch vessels, freighted with abundance, were waiting at the mouth of the river. but all to no purpose. no merchant would expose his valuable ship, with its cargo, to the risk of being sunk by farnese's batteries, merely for the sake of finding a market no better than a hundred others which could be entered without incurring danger. no doubt if the merchants of holland had followed out the maxim vivre pour autrui, they would have braved ruin and destruction rather than behold their neighbours of antwerp enslaved. no doubt if they could have risen to a broad philosophic view of the future interests of the netherlands, they would have seen that antwerp must be saved, no matter if some of them were to lose money by it. but men do not yet sacrifice themselves for their fellows, nor do they as a rule look far beyond the present moment and its emergencies. and the business of government is to legislate for men as they are, not as it is supposed they ought to be. if provisions had brought a high price in antwerp, they would have been carried thither. as it was, the city, by its own stupidity, blockaded itself far more effectually than farnese could have done it. in the second place, the enforced lowness of prices prevented any general retrenchment on the part of the citizens. nobody felt it necessary to economize. every one bought as much bread, and ate it as freely, as if the government by insuring its cheapness had insured its abundance. so the city lived in high spirits and in gleeful defiance of its besiegers, until all at once provisions gave out, and the government had to step in again to palliate the distress which it had wrought. it constituted itself quartermaster-general to the community, and doled out stinted rations alike to rich and poor, with that stern democratic impartiality peculiar to times of mortal peril. but this served only, like most artificial palliatives, to lengthen out the misery. at the time of the surrender, not a loaf of bread could be obtained for love or money. in this way a bungling act of legislation helped to decide for the worse a campaign which involved the territorial integrity and future welfare of what might have become a great nation performing a valuable function in the system of european communities. the striking character of this instructive example must be our excuse for presenting it at such length. at the beginning of the famine in bengal the authorities legislated in very much the same spirit as the burghers who had to defend antwerp against parma. "by interdicting what it was pleased to term the monopoly of grain, it prevented prices from rising at once to their natural rates. the province had a certain amount of food in it, and this food had to last about nine months. private enterprise if left to itself would have stored up the general supply at the harvest, with a view to realizing a larger profit at a later period in the scarcity. prices would in consequence have immediately risen, compelling the population to reduce their consumption from the very beginning of the dearth. the general stock would thus have been husbanded, and the pressure equally spread over the whole nine months, instead of being concentrated upon the last six. the price of grain, in place of promptly rising to three half-pence a pound as in - , continued at three farthings during the earlier months of the famine. during the latter ones it advanced to twopence, and in certain localities reached fourpence." the course taken by the great famine of well illustrates the above views. this famine, also, was caused by the total failure of the december rice-crop, and it was brought to a close by an abundant harvest in the succeeding year. "even as regards the maximum price reached, the analogy holds good, in each case rice having risen in general to nearly twopence, and in particular places to fourpence, a pound; and in each the quoted rates being for a brief period in several isolated localities merely nominal, no food existing in the market, and money altogether losing its interchangeable value. in both the people endured silently to the end, with a fortitude that casual observers of a different temperament and widely dissimilar race may easily mistake for apathy, but which those who lived among the sufferers are unable to distinguish from qualities that generally pass under a more honourable name. during , when the famine was severest, i superintended public instruction throughout the southwestern division of lower bengal, including orissa. the subordinate native officers, about eight hundred in number, behaved with a steadiness, and when called upon, with a self-abnegation, beyond praise. many of them ruined their health. the touching scenes of self-sacrifice and humble heroism which i witnessed among the poor villagers on my tours of inspection will remain in my memory till my latest day." but to meet the famine of bengal was equipped with railroads and canals, and better than all, with an intelligent government. far from trying to check speculation, as in , the government did all in its power to stimulate it. in the earlier famine one could hardly engage in the grain trade without becoming amenable to the law. "in respectable men in vast numbers went into the trade; for government, by publishing weekly returns of the rates in every district, rendered the traffic both easy and safe. every one knew where to buy grain cheapest, and where to sell it dearest, and food was accordingly brought from the districts that could best spare it, and carried to those which most urgently needed it. not only were prices equalized so far as possible throughout the stricken parts, but the publicity given to the high rates in lower bengal induced large shipments from the upper provinces, and the chief seat of the trade became unable to afford accommodation for landing the vast stores of grain brought down the river. rice poured into the affected districts from all parts,--railways, canals, and roads vigorously doing their duty." the result of this wise policy was that scarcity was heightened into famine only in one remote corner of bengal. orissa was commercially isolated in , as the whole country had been in . "as far back as the records extend, orissa has produced more grain than it can use. it is an exporting, not an importing province, sending away its surplus grain by sea, and neither requiring nor seeking any communication with lower bengal by land." long after the rest of the province had begun to prepare for a year of famine, orissa kept on exporting. in march, when the alarm was first raised, the southwest monsoon had set in, rendering the harbours inaccessible. thus the district was isolated. it was no longer possible to apply the wholesome policy which was operating throughout the rest of the country. the doomed population of orissa, like passengers in a ship without provisions, were called upon to suffer the extremities of famine; and in the course of the spring and summer of , some seven hundred thousand people perished. january, . x. spain and the netherlands. [ ] [ ] history of the united netherlands: from the death of william the silent to the twelve years' truce, . by john lothrop motley, d. c. l. in four volumes. vols. iii. and iv. new york. . tandem fit surculus arbor: the twig which mr. motley in his earlier volumes has described as slowly putting forth its leaves and rootless, while painfully struggling for existence in a hostile soil, has at last grown into a mighty tree of liberty, drawing sustenance from all lands, and protecting all civilized peoples with its pleasant shade. we congratulate mr. motley upon the successful completion of the second portion of his great work; and we think that the netherlanders of our time have reason to be grateful to the writer who has so faithfully and eloquently told the story of their country's fearful struggle against civil and ecclesiastical tyranny, and its manifold contributions to the advancement of european civilization. mr. motley has been fortunate in his selection of a subject upon which to write. probably no century of modern times lends itself to the purposes of the descriptive historian so well as the sixteenth. while on the one hand the problems which it presents are sufficiently near for us to understand them without too great an effort of the imagination, on the other hand they are sufficiently remote for us to study them without passionate and warping prejudice. the contest between catholicism and the reformed religion--between ecclesiastical autocracy and the right of private investigation--has become a thing of the past, and constitutes a closed chapter in human history. the epoch which begins where mr. motley's history is designed to close--at the peace of westphalia--is far more complicated. since the middle of the seventeenth century a double movement has been going on in religion and philosophy, society and politics,--a movement of destruction typified by voltaire and rousseau, and a constructive movement represented by diderot and lessing. we are still living in the midst of this great epoch: the questions which it presents are liable to disturb our prejudices as well as to stimulate our reason; the results to which it must sooner or later attain can now be only partially foreseen; and even its present tendencies are generally misunderstood, and in many quarters wholly ignored. with the sixteenth century, as we have said, the case is far different. the historical problem is far less complex. the issues at stake are comparatively simple, and the historian has before him a straightforward story. from the dramatic, or rather from the epic, point of view, the sixteenth century is pre-eminent. the essentially transitional character of modern history since the breaking up of the papal and feudal systems is at no period more distinctly marked. in traversing the sixteenth century we realize that we have fairly got out of one state of things and into another. at the outset, events like the challenge of barletta may make us doubt whether we have yet quite left behind the middle ages. the belief in the central position of the earth is still universal, and the belief in its rotundity not yet, until the voyage of magellan, generally accepted. we find england--owing partly to the introduction of gunpowder and the consequent disuse of archery, partly to the results of the recent integration of france under louis xi.--fallen back from the high relative position which it had occupied under the rule of the plantagenets; and its policy still directed in accordance with reminiscences of agincourt, and garnet, and burgundian alliances. we find france just beginning her ill-fated career of intervention in the affairs of italy; and spain, with her moors finally vanquished and a new world beyond the ocean just added to her domain, rapidly developing into the greatest empire which had been seen since the days of the first caesars. but at the close of the century we find feudal life in castles changed into modern life in towns; chivalric defiances exchanged for over-subtle diplomacy; maurices instead of bayards; a henry iv. instead of a gaston de foix. we find the old theory of man's central position in the universe--the foundation of the doctrine of final causes and of the whole theological method of interpreting nature--finally overthrown by copernicus. instead of the circumnavigability of the earth, the discovery of a northwest passage--as instanced by the heroic voyage of barendz, so nobly described by mr. motley--is now the chief geographical problem. east india companies, in place of petty guilds of weavers and bakers, bear witness to the vast commercial progress. we find england, fresh from her stupendous victory over the whole power of spain, again in the front rank of nations; france, under the most astute of modern sovereigns, taking her place for a time as the political leader of the civilized world; spain, with her evil schemes baffled in every quarter, sinking into that terrible death-like lethargy, from which she has hardly yet awakened, and which must needs call forth our pity, though it is but the deserved retribution for her past behaviour. while the little realm of the netherlands, filched and cozened from the unfortunate jacqueline by the "good" duke of burgundy, carried over to austria as the marriage-portion of lady mary, sent down to spain as the personal inheritance of the "prudent" philip, and by him intolerably tormented with an inquisition, a blood-council, and a duke of alva, has after a forty years' war of independence taken its position for a time as the greatest of commercial nations, with the most formidable navy and one of the best disciplined armies yet seen upon the earth. but the central phenomenon of the sixteenth century is the culmination of the protestant movement in its decisive proclamation by luther. for nearly three hundred years already the power of the church had been declining, and its function as a civilizing agency had been growing more and more obsolete. the first great blow at its supremacy had been directed with partial success in the thirteenth century by the emperor frederick ii. coincident with this attack from without, we find a reformation begun within, as exemplified in the dominican and franciscan movements. the second great blow was aimed by philip iv. of france, and this time it struck with terrible force. the removal of the papacy to avignon, in , was the virtual though unrecognized abdication of its beneficent supremacy. bereft of its dignity and independence, from that time forth it ceased to be the defender of national unity against baronial anarchy, of popular rights against monarchical usurpation, and became a formidable instrument of despotism and oppression. through the vicissitudes of the great schism in the fourteenth century, and the refractory councils in the fifteenth, its position became rapidly more and more retrograde and demoralized. and when, in , it joined its forces with those of charles v., in crushing the liberties of the worthiest of mediaeval republics, it became evident that the cause of freedom and progress must henceforth be intrusted to some more faithful champion. the revolt of northern europe, led by luther and henry viii. was but the articulate announcement of this altered state of affairs. so long as the roman church had been felt to be the enemy of tyrannical monarchs and the steadfast friend of the people, its encroachments, as represented by men like dunstan and becket, were regarded with popular favour. the strength of the church lay ever in its democratic instincts; and when these were found to have abandoned it, the indignant protest of luther sufficed to tear away half of europe from its allegiance. by the end of the sixteenth century, we find the territorial struggle between the church and the reformed religion substantially decided. protestantism and catholicism occupied then the same respective areas which they now occupy. since there has been no instance of a nation passing from one form of worship to the other; and in all probability there never will be. since the wholesale dissolution of religious beliefs wrought in the last century, the whole issue between romanism and protestantism, regarded as dogmatic systems, is practically dead. m. renan is giving expression to an almost self-evident truth, when he says that religious development is no longer to proceed by way of sectarian proselytism, but by way of harmonious internal development. the contest is no longer between one theology and another, but it is between the theological and the scientific methods of interpreting natural phenomena. the sixteenth century has to us therefore the interest belonging to a rounded and completed tale. it contains within itself substantially the entire history of the final stage of the theological reformation. this great period falls naturally into two divisions, the first corresponding very nearly with the reigns of charles v. and henry viii., and the second with the age of philip ii. and elizabeth. the first of these periods was filled with the skirmishes which were to open the great battle of the reformation. at first the strength and extent of the new revolution were not altogether apparent. while the inquisition was vigorously crushing out the first symptoms of disaffection in spain, it at one time seemed as if the reformers were about to gain the whole of the empire, besides acquiring an excellent foothold in france. again, while england was wavering between the old and the new faith, the last hopes of the reform in germany seemed likely to be destroyed by the military genius of charles. but in maurice, the red-bearded hero of saxony, charles found more than his match. the picture of the rapid and desperate march of maurice upon innspruck, and of the great emperor flying for his life at the very hour of his imagined triumph, has still for us an intenser interest than almost any other scene of that age; for it was the event which proved that protestantism was not a mere local insurrection which a monarch like charles could easily put down, but a gigantic revolution against which all the powers in the world might well strive in vain. with the abdication of charles in the new period may be said to begin, and it is here that mr. motley's history commences. events crowded thick and fast. in philip ii., a prince bred and educated for the distinct purpose of suppressing heresy, succeeded to the rule of the most powerful empire which had been seen since the days of the antonines. in the previous year a new era had begun at the court of rome. the old race of pagan pontiffs, the borgias, the farneses, and the medicis, had come to an end, and the papal throne was occupied by the puritanical caraffa, as violent a fanatic as robespierre, and a foe of freedom as uncompromising as philip ii. himself. under his auspices took place the great reform in the church signalized by the rise of the jesuits, as the reform in the thirteenth century had been attended by the rise of the cordeliers and dominicans. his name should not be forgotten, for it is mainly owing to the policy inaugurated by him that catholicism was enabled to hold its ground as well as it did. in the next year, the strength of france was broken at st. quentin, and spain was left with her hands free to deal with the protestant powers. in , by the accession of elizabeth, england became committed to the cause of reform. in the stormy administration of margaret began in the netherlands. in the scotch nobles achieved the destruction of catholicism in north britain. by this time every nation except france, had taken sides in the conflict which was to last, with hardly any cessation, during two generations. mr. motley, therefore, in describing the rise and progress of the united republic of the netherlands, is writing not dutch but european history. on his pages france, spain, and england make almost as large a figure as holland itself. he is writing the history of the reformation during its concluding epoch, and he chooses the netherlands as his main subject, because during that period the netherlands were the centre of the movement. they constituted the great bulwark of freedom, and upon the success or failure of their cause the future prospect of europe and of mankind depended. spain and the netherlands, philip ii. and william the silent, were the two leading antagonists and were felt to be such by the other nations and rulers that came to mingle in the strife. it is therefore a stupid criticism which we have seen made upon mr. motley, that, having brought his narrative down to the truce of , he ought, instead of describing the thirty years' war, to keep on with dutch history, and pourtray the wars against cromwell and charles ii., and the struggle of the second william of orange against louis xiv. by so doing he would only violate the unity of his narrative. the wars of the dutch against england and france belong to an entirely different epoch in european history,--a modern epoch, in which political and commercial interests were of prime importance, and theological interests distinctly subsidiary. the natural terminus of mr. motley's work is the peace of westphalia. after bringing down his history to the time when the independence of the netherlands was virtually acknowledged, after describing the principal stages of the struggle against catholicism and universal monarchy, as carried on in the first generation by elizabeth and william, and in the second by maurice and henry, he will naturally go on to treat of the epilogue as conducted by richelieu and gustavus, ending in the final cessation of religious wars throughout europe. the conflict in the netherlands was indeed far more than a mere religious struggle. in its course was distinctly brought into prominence the fact which we have above signalized, that since the roman church had abandoned the liberties of the people they had found a new defender in the reformed religion. the dutch rebellion is peculiarly interesting, because it was a revolt not merely against the inquisition, but also against the temporal sovereignty of philip. besides changing their religion, the sturdy netherlanders saw fit to throw off the sway of their legitimate ruler, and to proclaim the thrice heretical doctrine of the sovereignty of the people. in this one respect their views were decidedly more modern than those of elizabeth and henry iv. these great monarchs apparently neither understood nor relished the republican theories of the hollanders; though it is hardly necessary for mr. motley to sneer at them quite so often because they were not to an impossible degree in advance of their age. the proclamation of a republic in the netherlands marked of itself the beginning of a new era,--an era when flourishing communities of men were no longer to be bought and sold, transferred and bequeathed like real estate and chattels, but were to have and maintain the right of choosing with whom and under whom they should transact their affairs. the interminable negotiations for a truce, which fill nearly one third of mr. motley's concluding volume, exhibit with striking distinctness the difference between the old and new points of view. here again we think mr. motley errs slightly, in calling too much attention to the prevaricating diplomacy of the spanish court, and too little to its manifest inability to comprehend the demands of the netherlanders. how should statesmen brought up under philip ii. and kept under the eye of the inquisition be expected to understand a claim for liberty originating in the rights of the common people and not in the gracious benevolence or intelligent policy of the king? the very idea must have been practically inconceivable by them. accordingly, they strove by every available device of chicanery to wheedle the netherlanders into accepting their independence as a gift from the king of spain. but to such a piece of self-stultification the clear-sighted dutchmen could by no persuasion be brought to consent. their independence, they argued, was not the king's to give. they had won it from him and his father, in a war of forty years, during which they had suffered atrocious miseries, and all that the king of spain could do was to acknowledge it as their right, and cease to molest them in future. over this point, so simple to us but knotty enough in those days, the commissioners wrangled for nearly two years. and when the spanish government, unable to carry on the war any longer without risk of utter bankruptcy, and daily crippled in its resources by the attacks of the dutch navy, grudgingly a reed to a truce upon the netherlanders' terms, it virtually acknowledged its own defeat and the downfall of the principles for which it had so obstinately fought. by the truce of the republican principle was admitted by the most despotic of governments. here was the first great triumph of republicanism over monarchy; and it was not long in bearing fruits. for the dutch revolution, the settlement of america by english puritans, the great rebellion of the commons, the revolution of , the revolt of the american colonies, and the general overthrow of feudalism in , are but successive acts in the same drama william the silent was the worthy forerunner of cromwell and washington; and but for the victory which he won, during his life and after his untimely death, the subsequent triumphs of civil liberty might have been long, postponed. over the sublime figure of william--saevis tranquillus in undis--we should be glad to dwell, but we are not reviewing the "rise of the dutch republic," and in mr. motley's present volumes the hero of toleration appears no longer. his antagonist, however,--the philip whom god for some inscrutable purpose permitted to afflict europe during a reign of forty-two years,--accompanies us nearly to the end of the present work, dying just in time for the historian to sum up the case against him, and pronounce final judgment. for the memory of philip ii. mr. motley cherishes no weak pity. he rarely alludes to him without commenting upon his total depravity, and he dismisses him with the remark that "if there are vices--as possibly there are--from which he was exempt, it is because it is not permitted to human nature to attain perfection in evil." the verdict is none the less just because of its conciseness. if there ever was a strife between hercules and cacus, between ormuzd and ahriman, between the power of light and the power of darkness, it was certainly the strife between the prince of orange and the spanish monarch. they are contrasted like the light and shade in one of dore's pictures. and yet it is perhaps unnecessary for mr. motley to say that if philip had been alive when spinola won for him the great victory of ostend, "he would have felt it his duty to make immediate arrangements for poisoning him." doubtless the imputation is sufficiently justified by what we know of philip; but it is uncalled for. we do not care to hear about what the despot might have done. we know what he did do, and the record is sufficiently damning. there is no harm in our giving the devil his due, or as llorente wittily says, "il ne faut pas calomnier meme l'inquisition." philip inherited all his father's bad qualities, without any of his good ones; and so it is much easier to judge him than his father. charles, indeed, is one of those characters whom one hardly knows whether to love or hate, to admire or despise. he had much bad blood in him. charles the bold and ferdinand of aragon were not grandparents to be proud of. yet with all this he inherited from his grandmother isabella much that one can like, and his face, as preserved by titian, in spite of its frowning brow and thick burgundian lip, is rather prepossessing, while the face of philip is simply odious. in intellect he must probably be called great, though his policy often betrayed the pettiness of selfishness. if, in comparison with the mediaeval emperor whose fame he envied, he may justly be called charles the little, he may still, when compared to a more modern emulator of charlemagne,--the first of the bonapartes,--be considered great and enlightened. if he could lie and cheat more consummately than any contemporary monarch, not excepting his rival, francis, he could still be grandly magnanimous, while the generosity of francis flowed only from the shallow surface of a maudlin good-nature. he spoke many languages and had the tastes of a scholar, while his son had only the inclinations of an unfeeling pedagogue. he had an inkling of urbanity, and could in a measure become all things to all men, while philip could never show himself except as a gloomy, impracticable bigot. it is for some such reasons as these, i suppose, that mr. buckle--no friend to despots--speaks well of charles, and that mr. froude is moved to tell the following anecdote: while standing by the grave of luther, and musing over the strange career of the giant monk whose teachings had gone so far to wreck his most cherished schemes and render his life a failure, some fanatical bystander advised the emperor to have the body taken up and burned in the market-place. "there was nothing," says mr. froude, "unusual in the proposal; it was the common practice of the catholic church with the remains of heretics, who were held unworthy to be left in repose in hallowed ground. there was scarcely, perhaps another catholic prince who would have hesitated to comply. but charles was one of nature's gentlemen. he answered, 'i war not with the dead.'" mr. motley takes a less charitable view of the great emperor. his generous indignation against all persecutors makes him severe; and in one of his earlier volumes, while speaking of the famous edicts for the suppression of heresy in the netherlands, he somewhere uses the word "murder." without attempting to palliate the crime of persecution, i doubt if it is quite fair to charles to call him a murderer. we must not forget that persecution, now rightly deemed an atrocious crime, was once really considered by some people a sacred duty; that it was none other than the compassionate isabella who established the spanish inquisition; and that the "bloody" mary tudor was a woman who would not wilfully have done wrong. with the progress of civilization the time will doubtless come when warfare, having ceased to be necessary, will be thought highly criminal; yet it will not then be fair to hold marlborough or wellington accountable for the lives lost in their great battles. we still live in an age when war is, to the imagination of some persons, surrounded with false glories; and the greatest of modern generals [ ] has still many undiscriminating admirers. yet the day is no less certainly at hand when the edicts of charles v. will be deemed a more pardonable offence against humanity than the wanton march to moscow. [ ] this was written before the deeds of moltke had eclipsed those of napoleon. philip ii. was different from his father in capacity as a drudging clerk, like boutwell, is different from a brilliant financier like gladstone. in organization he differed from him as a boor differs from a gentleman. he seemed made of a coarser clay. the difference between them is well indicated by their tastes at the table. both were terrible gluttons, a fact which puritanic criticism might set down as equally to the discredit of each of them. but even in intemperance there are degrees of refinement, and the impartial critic of life and manners will no doubt say that if one must get drunk, let it be on chateau margaux rather than on commissary whiskey. pickled partridges, plump capons, syrups of fruits, delicate pastry, and rare fish went to make up the diet of charles in his last days at yuste. but the beastly philip would make himself sick with a surfeit of underdone pork. whatever may be said of the father, we can hardly go far wrong in ascribing the instincts of a murderer to the son. he not only burned heretics, but he burned them with an air of enjoyment and self-complacency. his nuptials with elizabeth of france were celebrated by a vast auto-da-fe. he studied murder as a fine art, and was as skilful in private assassinations as cellini was in engraving on gems. the secret execution of montigny, never brought to light until the present century, was a veritable chef d'oeuvre of this sort. the cases of escobedo and antonio perez may also be cited in point. dark suspicions hung around the premature death of don john of austria, his too brilliant and popular half-brother. he planned the murder of william the silent, and rewarded the assassin with an annuity furnished by the revenues of the victim's confiscated estates. he kept a staff of ruffians constantly in service for the purpose of taking off elizabeth, henry iv., prince maurice, olden-barneveldt, and st. aldegonde. he instructed alva to execute sentence of death upon the whole population of the netherlands. he is partly responsible for the martyrdoms of ridley and latimer, and the judicial murder of cranmer. he first conceived the idea of the wholesale massacre of st. bartholomew, many years before catharine de' medici carried it into operation. his ingratitude was as dangerous as his revengeful fanaticism. those who had best served his interests were the least likely to escape the consequences of his jealousy. he destroyed egmont, who had won for him the splendid victories of st. quentin and gravelines; and "with minute and artistic treachery" he plotted "the disgrace and ruin" of farnese, "the man who was his near blood-relation, and who had served him most faithfully from earliest youth." contemporary opinion even held him accountable for the obscure deaths of his wife elizabeth and his son carlos; but m. gachard has shown that this suspicion is unfounded. philip appears perhaps to better advantage in his domestic than in his political relations. yet he was addicted to vulgar and miscellaneous incontinence; toward the close of his life he seriously contemplated marrying his own daughter isabella; and he ended by taking for his fourth wife his niece, anne of austria, who became the mother of his half-idiotic son and successor. we know of no royal family, unless it may be the claudians of rome, in which the transmission of moral and intellectual qualities is more thoroughly illustrated than in this burgundian race which for two centuries held the sceptre of spain. the son philip and the grandmother isabella are both needful in order to comprehend the strange mixture of good and evil in charles. but the descendants of philip--two generations of idiocy, and a third of utter impotence--are a sufficient commentary upon the organization and character of their progenitor. such was the man who for two generations had been considered the bulwark of the catholic church; who, having been at the bottom of nearly all the villany that had been wrought in europe for half a century, was yet able to declare upon his death-bed that "in all his life he had never consciously done wrong to any one." at a ripe old age he died of a fearful disease. under the influence of a typhus fever, supervening upon gout, he had begun to decompose while yet alive. "his sufferings," says mr. motley, "were horrible, but no saint could have manifested in them more gentle resignation or angelic patience. he moralized on the condition to which the greatest princes might thus be brought at last by the hand of god, and bade the prince observe well his father's present condition, in order that when he too should be laid thus low, he might likewise be sustained by a conscience void of offence." what more is needed to complete the disgusting picture? philip was fanatical up to the point where fanaticism borders upon hypocrisy. he was possessed with a "great moral idea," the idea of making catholicism the ruler of the world, that he might be the ruler of catholicism. why, it may be said, shall the charge of fanaticism be allowed to absolve isabella and extenuate the guilt of charles, while it only strengthens the case against philip? because isabella persecuted heretics in order to save their souls from a worse fate, while philip burnt them in order to get them out of his way. isabella would perhaps have gone to the stake herself, if thereby she might have put an end to heresy. philip would have seen every soul in europe consigned to eternal perdition before he would have yielded up an iota of his claims to universal dominion. he could send alva to browbeat the pope, as well as to oppress the netherlanders. he could compass the destruction of the orthodox egmont and farnese, as well as of the heretical william. his unctuous piety only adds to the abhorrence with which we regard him; and his humility in face of death is neither better nor worse than the assumed humility which had become second nature to uriah heep. in short, take him for all in all, he was probably the most loathsome character in all european history. he has frequently been called, by protestant historians, an incarnate devil; but we do not think that mephistopheles would acknowledge him. he should rather be classed among those creatures described by dante as "a dio spiacenti ed ai nemici sui." the abdication of charles v. left philip ruler over wider dominions than had ever before been brought together under the sway of one man. in his own right philip was master not only of spain, but of the netherlands, franche comte, lombardy, naples, and sicily, with the whole of north and south america; besides which he was married to the queen of england. in the course of his reign he became possessed of portugal, with all its vast domains in the east indies. his revenues were greater than those of any other contemporary monarch; his navy was considered invincible, and his army was the best disciplined in europe. all these great advantages he was destined to throw to the winds. in the strife for universal monarchy, in the mad endeavour to subject england, scotland, and france to his own dominion and the tyranny of the inquisition, besides re-conquering the netherlands, all his vast resources were wasted. the dutch war alone, like a bottomless pit, absorbed all that he could pour into it. long before the war was over, or showed signs of drawing to an end, his revenues were wasted, and his troops in flanders were mutinous for want of pay. he had to rely upon energetic viceroys like farnese and the spinolas to furnish funds out of their own pockets. finally, he was obliged to repudiate all his debts; and when he died the spanish empire was in such a beggarly condition that it quaked at every approach of a hostile dutch fleet. such a result is not evidence of a statesmanlike ability; but philip's fanatical selfishness was incompatible with statesmanship. he never could be made to believe that his projects had suffered defeat. no sooner had the invincible armada been sent to the bottom by the guns of the english fleet and the gales of the german ocean, than he sent orders to farnese to invade england at once with the land force under his command! he thought to obtain scotland, when, after the death of mary, it had passed under the undisputed control of the protestant noblemen. he dreamed of securing for his family the crown of france, even after henry, with free consent of the pope, had made his triumphal entry into paris. he asserted complete and entire sovereignty over the netherlands, even after prince maurice had won back from him the last square foot of dutch territory. such obstinacy as this can only be called fatuity. if philip had lived in pagan times, he would doubtless, like caligula, have demanded recognition of his own divinity. the miserable condition of the spanish people under this terrible reign, and the causes of their subsequent degeneracy, have been well treated by mr. motley. the causes of the failure of spanish civilization are partly social and partly economical; and they had been operating for eight hundred years when philip succeeded to the throne. the moorish conquest in had practically isolated spain from the rest of europe. in the crusades she took no part, and reaped none of the signal advantages resulting from that great movement. her whole energies were directed toward throwing off the yoke of her civilized but "unbelieving" oppressors. for a longer time than has now elapsed since the norman conquest of england, the entire gothic population of spain was engaged in unceasing religious and patriotic warfare. the unlimited power thus acquired by an unscrupulous clergy, and the spirit of uncompromising bigotry thus imparted to the whole nation, are in this way readily accounted for. but in spite of this, the affairs of spain at the accession of charles v. were not in an unpromising condition. the spanish visigoths had been the least barbarous of the teutonic settlers within the limits of the empire; their civil institutions were excellent; their cities had obtained municipal liberties at an earlier date than those of england; and their parliaments indulged in a liberty of speech which would have seemed extravagant even to de montfort. so late as the time of ferdinand, the spaniards were still justly proud of their freedom; and the chivalrous ambition which inspired the marvellous expedition of cortes to mexico, and covered the soil of italy with spanish armies, was probably in the main a healthy one. but the forces of spanish freedom were united at too late an epoch; in , the power of despotism was already in the ascendant. in england the case was different. the barons were enabled to combine and wrest permanent privileges from the crown, at a time when feudalism was strong. but the spanish communes waited for combined action until feudalism had become weak, and modern despotism, with its standing armies and its control of the spiritual power, was arrayed in the ranks against them. the war of the communes, early in the reign of charles v., irrevocably decided the case in favour of despotism, and from that date the internal decline of spain may be said to have begun. but the triumphant consolidation of the spiritual and temporal powers of despotism, and the abnormal development of loyalty and bigotry, were not the only evil results of the chronic struggle in which spain had been engaged. for many centuries, while christian spain had been but a fringe of debatable border-land on the skirts of the moorish kingdom, perpetual guerilla warfare had rendered consecutive labour difficult or impracticable; and the physical configuration of the country contributed in bringing about this result. to plunder the moors across the border was easier than to till the ground at home. then as the spaniards, exemplifying the military superiority of the feudal over the sultanic form of social organization, proceeded steadily to recover dominion over the land, the industrious moors, instead of migrating backward before the advance of their conquerors, remained at home and submitted to them. thus spanish society became compounded of two distinct castes,--the moorish spaniards, who were skilled labourers, and the gothic spaniards, by whom all labour, crude or skilful, was deemed the stigma of a conquered race, and unworthy the attention of respectable people. as mr. motley concisely says:-- "the highest industrial and scientific civilization that had been exhibited upon spanish territory was that of moors and jews. when in the course of time those races had been subjugated, massacred, or driven into exile, not only was spain deprived of its highest intellectual culture and its most productive labour, but intelligence, science, and industry were accounted degrading, because the mark of inferior and detested peoples." this is the key to the whole subsequent history of spain. bigotry, loyalty, and consecrated idleness are the three factors which have made that great country what it is to-day,--the most backward region in europe. in view of the circumstances just narrated, it is not surprising to learn that in philip ii.'s time a vast portion of the real estate of the country was held by the church in mortmain; that forty-nine noble families owned all the rest; that all great estates were held in tail; and that the property of the aristocracy and the clergy was completely exempt from taxation. thus the accumulation and the diffusion of capital were alike prevented; and the few possessors of property wasted it in unproductive expenditure. hence the fundamental error of spanish political economy, that wealth is represented solely by the precious metals; an error which well enough explains the total failure, in spite of her magnificent opportunities, of spain's attempts to colonize the new world. such was the frightful condition of spanish society under philip ii.; and as if this state of things were not bad enough, the next king, philip iii., at the instigation of the clergy, decided to drive into banishment the only class of productive labourers yet remaining in the country. in , this stupendous crime and blunder--unparalleled even in spanish history--was perpetrated. the entire moorish population were expelled from their homes and driven into the deserts of africa. for the awful consequences of this mad action no remedy was possible. no system of native industry could be created on demand, to take the place of that which had been thus wantonly crushed forever. from this epoch dates the social ruin of spain. in less than a century her people were riotous with famine; and every sequestered glen and mountain pathway throughout the country had become a lurking-place for robbers. whoever would duly realize to what a lamentable condition this beautiful peninsula had in the seventeenth century been reduced, let him study the immortal pages of lesage. he will learn afresh the lesson, not yet sufficiently regarded in the discussion of social problems, that the laws of nature cannot be violated without entailing a penalty fearful in proportion to the extent of the violation. but let him carefully remember also that the spaniards are not and never have been a despicable people. if spain has produced one of the lowest characters in history, she has also produced one of the highest. that man was every inch a spaniard who, maimed, diseased, and poor, broken down by long captivity, and harassed by malignant persecution, lived nevertheless a life of grandeur and beauty fit to be a pattern for coming generations,--the author of a book which has had a wider fame than any other in the whole range of secular literature, and which for delicate humour, exquisite pathos, and deep ethical sentiment, remains to-day without a peer or a rival. if philip ii. was a spaniard, so, too, was cervantes. spain could not be free, for she violated every condition by which freedom is secured to a people. "acuteness of intellect, wealth of imagination, heroic qualities of heart and hand and brain, rarely surpassed in any race and manifested on a thousand battle-fields, and in the triumphs of a magnificent and most original literature, had not been able to save a whole nation from the disasters and the degradation which the mere words philip ii. and the holy inquisition suggest to every educated mind." nor could spain possibly become rich, for, as mr. motley continues, "nearly every law, according to which the prosperity of a country becomes progressive, was habitually violated." on turning to the netherlands we find the most complete contrast, both in historical conditions and in social results; and the success of the netherlands in their long struggle becomes easily intelligible. the dutch and flemish provinces had formed a part of the renovated roman empire of charles the great and the othos. taking advantage of the perennial contest for supremacy between the popes and the roman emperors, the constituent baronies and municipalities of the empire succeeded in acquiring and maintaining a practical though unrecognized independence; and this is the original reason why italy and germany, unlike the three western european communities, have remained fragmentary until our own time. by reason of the practical freedom of action thus secured, the italian civic republics, the hanse towns, and the cities of holland and flanders, were enabled gradually to develop a vast commerce. the outlying position of the netherlands, remote from the imperial authorities, and on the direct line of commerce between italy and england, was another and a peculiar advantage. throughout the middle ages the flemish and dutch cities were of considerable political importance, and in the fifteenth century the netherland provinces were the most highly civilized portion of europe north of the alps. for several generations they had enjoyed, and had known how to maintain, civic liberties, and when charles and philip attempted to fasten upon them their "peculiar institution," the spanish inquisition, they were ripe for political as well as theological revolt. natural laws were found to operate on the rhine as well as on the tagus, and at the end of the great war of independence, holland was not only better equipped than spain for a european conflict, but was rapidly ousting her from the east indian countries which she had in vain attempted to colonize. but if we were to take up all the interesting and instructive themes suggested by mr. motley's work, we should never come to an end. we must pass over the exciting events narrated in these last volumes; the victory of nieuport, the siege of ostend, the marvellous career of maurice, the surprising exploits of spinola. we have attempted not so much to describe mr. motley's book as to indulge in sundry reflections suggested by the perusal of it. but we cannot close without some remarks upon a great man, whose character mr. motley seems to have somewhat misconceived. if mr. motley exhibits any serious fault, it is perhaps the natural tendency to take sides in the events which he is describing, which sometimes operates as a drawback to complete and thoroughgoing criticism. with every intention to do justice to the catholics, mr. motley still writes as a protestant, viewing all questions from the protestant side. he praises and condemns like a very fair-minded huguenot, but still like a huguenot. it is for this reason that he fails to interpret correctly the very complex character of henry iv., regarding him as a sort of selfish renegade whom he cannot quite forgive for accepting the crown of france at the hands of the pope. now this very action of henry, in the eye of an impartial criticism, must seem to be one of his chief claims to the admiration and gratitude of posterity. henry was more than a mere huguenot: he was a far-seeing statesman. he saw clearly what no ruler before him, save william the silent, had even dimly discerned, that not catholicism and not protestantism, but absolute spiritual freedom was the true end to be aimed at by a righteous leader of opinion. it was as a catholic sovereign that he could be most useful even to his huguenot subjects; and he shaped his course accordingly. it was as an orthodox sovereign, holding his position by the general consent of europe, that he could best subserve the interests of universal toleration. this principle he embodied in his admirable edict of nantes. what a huguenot prince might have done, may be seen from the shameful way in which the french calvinists abused the favour which henry--and richelieu afterwards--accorded to them. remembering how calvin himself "dragooned" geneva, let us be thankful for the fortune which, in one of the most critical periods of history, raised to the highest position in christendom a man who was something more than a sectarian. with this brief criticism, we must regretfully take leave of mr. motley's work. much more remains to be said about a historical treatise which is, on the whole, the most valuable and important one yet produced by an american; but we have already exceeded our limits. we trust that our author will be as successful in the future as he has been in the past; and that we shall soon have an opportunity of welcoming the first instalment of his "history of the thirty years' war." march, . xi. longfellow's dante. [ ] [ ] the divine comedy of dante alighieri. translated by henry wadsworth longfellow. vols. boston: ticknor & fields, . the task of a translator is a thankless one at best. be he never so skilful and accurate, be he never so amply endowed with the divine qualifications of the poet, it is still questionable if he can ever succeed in saying satisfactorily with new words that which has once been inimitably said--said for all time--with the old words. "psychologically, there is perhaps nothing more complex than an elaborate poem. the sources of its effect upon our minds may be likened to a system of forces which is in the highest degree unstable; and the slightest displacement of phrases, by disturbing the delicate rhythmical equilibrium of the whole, must inevitably awaken a jarring sensation." matthew arnold has given us an excellent series of lectures upon translating homer, in which he doubtless succeeds in showing that some methods of translation are preferable to others, but in which he proves nothing so forcibly as that the simplicity and grace, the rapidity, dignity, and fire, of homer are quite incommunicable, save by the very words in which they first found expression. and what is thus said of homer will apply to dante with perhaps even greater force. with nearly all of homer's grandeur and rapidity, though not with nearly all his simplicity, the poem of dante manifests a peculiar intensity of subjective feeling which was foreign to the age of homer, as indeed to all pre-christian antiquity. but concerning this we need not dilate, as it has often been duly remarked upon, and notably by carlyle, in his "lectures on hero-worship." who that has once heard the wail of unutterable despair sounding in the line "ahi, dura terra, perche non t' apristi?" can rest satisfied with the interpretation "ah, obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open?" yet this rendering is literally exact. a second obstacle, hardly less formidable, hardly less fatal to a satisfactory translation, is presented by the highly complicated system of triple rhyme upon which dante's poem is constructed. this, which must ever be a stumbling-block to the translator, seems rarely to interfere with the free and graceful movement of the original work. the mighty thought of the master felt no impediment from the elaborate artistic panoply which must needs obstruct and harass the interpretation of the disciple. dante's terza rima is a bow of odysseus which weaker mortals cannot bend with any amount of tugging, and which mr. longfellow has judiciously refrained from trying to bend. yet no one can fail to remark the prodigious loss entailed by this necessary sacrifice of one of the most striking characteristics of the original poem. let any one who has duly reflected upon the strange and subtle effect produced on him by the peculiar rhyme of tennyson's "in memoriam," endeavour to realize the very different effect which would be produced if the verses were to be alternated or coupled in successive pairs, or if rhyme were to be abandoned for blank verse. the exquisite melody of the poem would be silenced. the rhyme-system of the "divine comedy" refuses equally to be tampered with or ignored. its effect upon the ear and the mind is quite as remarkable as that of the rhyme-system of "in memoriam"; and the impossibility of reproducing it is one good reason why dante must always suffer even more from translation than most poets. something, too, must be said of the difficulties inevitably arising from the diverse structure and genius of the italian and english languages. none will deny that many of them are insurmountable. take the third line of the first canto,-- "che la diritta via era smarrita," which mr. longfellow translates "for the straightforward pathway had been lost." perhaps there is no better word than "lost" by which to translate smarrita in this place; yet the two words are far from equivalent in force. about the word smarrita there is thrown a wide penumbra of meaning which does not belong to the word lost. [ ] by its diffuse connotations the word smarrita calls up in our minds an adequate picture of the bewilderment and perplexity of one who is lost in a trackless forest. the high-road with out, beaten hard by incessant overpassing of men and beasts and wheeled vehicles, gradually becomes metamorphosed into the shady lane, where grass sprouts up rankly between the ruts, where bushes encroach upon the roadside, where fallen trunks now and then intercept the traveller; and this in turn is lost in crooked by-ways, amid brambles and underbrush and tangled vines, growing fantastically athwart the path, shooting up on all sides of the bewildered wanderer, and rendering advance and retreat alike hopeless. no one who in childhood has wandered alone in the woods can help feeling all this suggested by the word smarrita in this passage. how bald in comparison is the word lost, which might equally be applied to a pathway, a reputation, and a pocket-book! [ ] the english is no doubt the most copious and variously expressive of all living languages, yet i doubt if it can furnish any word capable by itself of calling up the complex images here suggested by smarrita. [ ] and this is but one example, out of many that might be cited, in which the lack of exact parallelism between the two languages employed causes every translation to suffer. [ ] see diez, romance dictionary, s. v. "marrir." [ ] on literally retranslating lost into italian, we should get the quite different word perduta. [ ] the more flexible method of dr. parsons leads to a more satisfactory but still inadequate result:-- "half-way on our life's journey, in a wood, from the right path i found myself astray." all these, however, are difficulties which lie in the nature of things,--difficulties for which the translator is not responsible; of which he must try to make the best that can be made, but which he can never expect wholly to surmount. we have now to inquire whether there are not other difficulties, avoidable by one method of translation, though not by another; and in criticizing mr. longfellow, we have chiefly to ask whether he has chosen the best method of translation,--that which most surely and readily awakens in the reader's mind the ideas and feelings awakened by the original. the translator of a poem may proceed upon either of two distinct principles. in the first case, he may render the text of his original into english, line for line and word for word, preserving as far as possible its exact verbal sequences, and translating each individual word into an english word as nearly as possible equivalent in its etymological force. in the second case, disregarding mere syntactic and etymologic equivalence, his aim will be to reproduce the inner meaning and power of the original, so far as the constitutional difference of the two languages will permit him. it is the first of these methods that mr. longfellow has followed in his translation of dante. fidelity to the text of the original has been his guiding principle; and every one must admit that, in carrying out that principle, he has achieved a degree of success alike delightful and surprising. the method of literal translation is not likely to receive any more splendid illustration. it is indeed put to the test in such a way that the shortcomings now to be noticed bear not upon mr. longfellow's own style of work so much as upon the method itself with which they are necessarily implicated. these defects are, first, the too frequent use of syntactic inversion, and secondly, the too manifest preference extended to words of romanic over words of saxon origin. to illustrate the first point, let me give a few examples. in canto i. we have:-- "so bitter is it, death is little more; but of the good to treat which there i found, speak will i of the other things i saw there"; which is thus rendered by mr. cary,-- "which to remember only, my dismay renews, in bitterness not far from death. yet to discourse of what there good befell, all else will i relate discovered there"; and by dr. parsons,-- "its very thought is almost death to me; yet, having found some good there, i will tell of other things which there i chanced to see." [ ] [ ] "tanto e amara, che poco e piu morte: ma per trattar del teen ch' i' vi trovai, diro dell' altre bose, ch' io v' ho scorte." inferno, i. - . again in canto x. we find:-- "their cemetery have upon this side with epicurus all his followers, who with the body mortal make the soul";-- an inversion which is perhaps not more unidiomatic than mr. cary's,-- "the cemetery on this part obtain with epicurus all his followers, who with the body make the spirit die"; but which is advantageously avoided by mr. wright,-- "here epicurus hath his fiery tomb, and with him all his followers, who maintain that soul and body share one common doom"; and is still better rendered by dr. parsons,-- "here in their cemetery on this side, with his whole sect, is epicurus pent, who thought the spirit with its body died." [ ] [ ] "suo cimitero da questa parte hanno con epieuro tutti i suoi seguaci, che l'anima col corpo morta fanno." inferno, x. - . and here my eyes, reverting to the end of canto ix., fall upon a similar contrast between mr. longfellow's lines,-- "for flames between the sepulchres were scattered, by which they so intensely heated were, that iron more so asks not any art,"-- and those of dr. parsons,-- "for here mid sepulchres were sprinkled fires, wherewith the enkindled tombs all-burning gleamed; metal more fiercely hot no art requires." [ ] [ ] "che tra gli avelli flamme erano sparte, per le quali eran si del tutto accesi, che ferro piu non chiede verun' arte." inferno, ix. - . does it not seem that in all these cases mr. longfellow, and to a slightly less extent mr. cary, by their strict adherence to the letter, transgress the ordinary rules of english construction; and that dr. parsons, by his comparative freedom of movement, produces better poetry as well as better english? in the last example especially, mr. longfellow's inversions are so violent that to a reader ignorant of the original italian, his sentence might be hardly intelligible. in italian such inversions are permissible; in english they are not; and mr. longfellow, by transplanting them into english, sacrifices the spirit to the letter, and creates an obscurity in the translation where all is lucidity in the original. does not this show that the theory of absolute literality, in the case of two languages so widely different as english and italian, is not the true one? secondly, mr. longfellow's theory of translation leads him in most cases to choose words of romanic origin in preference to those of saxon descent, and in many cases to choose an unfamiliar instead of a familiar romanic word, because the former happens to be etymologically identical with the word in the original. let me cite as an example the opening of canto iii.:-- "per me si va nella eitti dolente, per me si va nell' eterno dolore, per me si va tra la perduta gente." here are three lines which, in their matchless simplicity and grandeur, might well excite despair in the breast of any translator. let us contrast mr. longfellow's version.-- "through me the way is to the city dolent; through me the way is to eternal dole; through me the way among the people lost,"-- with that of dr. parsons,--, "through me you reach the city of despair; through me eternal wretchedness ye find; through me among perdition's race ye fare." i do not think any one will deny that dr. parsons's version, while far more remote than mr. longfellow's from the diction of the original, is somewhat nearer its spirit. it remains to seek the explanation of this phenomenon. it remains to be seen why words the exact counterpart of dante's are unfit to call up in our minds the feelings which dante's own words call up in the mind of an italian. and this inquiry leads to some general considerations respecting the relation of english to other european languages. every one is aware that french poetry, as compared with german poetry, seems to the english reader very tame and insipid; but the cause of this fact is by no means so apparent as the fact itself. that the poetry of germany is actually and intrinsically superior to that of france, may readily be admitted; but this is not enough to account for all the circumstances of the case. it does not explain why some of the very passages in corneille and racine, which to us appear dull and prosaic, are to the frenchman's apprehension instinct with poetic fervour. it does not explain the undoubted fact that we, who speak english, are prone to underrate french poetry, while we are equally disposed to render to german poetry even more than its due share of merit. the reason is to be sought in the verbal associations established in our minds by the peculiar composition of the english language. our vocabulary is chiefly made up on the one hand of indigenous saxon words, and on the other hand of words derived from latin or french. it is mostly words of the first class that we learn in childhood, and that are associated with our homeliest and deepest emotions; while words of the second class--usually acquired somewhat later in life and employed in sedate abstract discourse--have an intellectual rather than an emotional function to fulfil. their original significations, the physical metaphors involved in them, which are perhaps still somewhat apparent to the frenchman, are to us wholly non-existent. nothing but the derivative or metaphysical signification remains. no physical image of a man stepping over a boundary is presented to our minds by the word transgress, nor in using the word comprehension do we picture to ourselves any manual act of grasping. it is to this double structure of the english language that it owes its superiority over every other tongue, ancient or modern, for philosophical and scientific purposes. albeit there are numerous exceptions, it may still be safely said, in a general way, that we possess and habitually use two kinds of language,--one that is physical, for our ordinary purposes, and one that is metaphysical, for purposes of abstract reasoning and discussion. we do not say like the germans, that we "begripe" (begreifen) an idea, but we say that we "conceive" it. we use a word which once had the very same material meaning as begreifen, but which has in our language utterly lost it. we are accordingly able to carry on philosophical inquiries by means of words which are nearly or quite free from those shadows of original concrete meaning which, in german, too often obscure the acquired abstract signification. whoever has dealt in english and german metaphysics will not fail to recognize the prodigious superiority of english in force and perspicuity, arising mainly from the causes here stated. but while this homogeneity of structure in german injures it for philosophical purposes, it is the very thing which makes it so excellent as an organ for poetical expression, in the opinion of those who speak english. german being nearly allied to anglo-saxon, not only do its simple words strike us with all the force of our own homely saxon terms, but its compounds also, preserving their physical significations almost unimpaired, call up in our minds concrete images of the greatest definiteness and liveliness. it is thus that german seems to us pre-eminently a poetical language, and it is thus that we are naturally inclined to overrate rather than to depreciate the poetry that is written in it. with regard to french, the case is just the reverse. the frenchman has no saxon words, but he has, on the other hand, an indigenous stock of latin words, which he learns in early childhood, which give outlet to his most intimate feelings, and which retain to some extent their primitive concrete picturesqueness. they are to him just as good as our saxon words are to us. though cold and merely intellectual to us, they are to him warm with emotion; and this is one reason why we cannot do justice to his poetry, or appreciate it as he appreciates it. to make this perfectly clear, let us take two or three lines from shakespeare:-- "blow, blow, thou winter wind! thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude, thy tooth is not so keen," etc., etc.; which i have somewhere seen thus rendered into french: "souffle, souffle, vent d'hiver! tu n'es pas si cruel que l'ingratitude de l'homme. ta dent n'est pas si penetrante," etc., etc. why are we inclined to laugh as we read this? because it excites in us an undercurrent of consciousness which, if put into words, might run something like this:-- "insufflate, insufflate, wind hibernal! thou art not so cruel as human ingratitude. thy dentition is not so penetrating," etc., etc. no such effect would be produced upon a frenchman. the translation would strike him as excellent, which it really is. the last line in particular would seem poetical to us, did we not happen to have in our language words closely akin to dent and penetrante, and familiarly employed in senses that are not poetical. applying these considerations to mr. longfellow's choice of words in his translation of dante, we see at once the unsoundness of the principle that italian words should be rendered by their romanic equivalents in english. words that are etymologically identical with those in the original are often, for that very reason, the worst words that could be used. they are harsh and foreign to the english ear, however homelike and musical they may be to the ear of an italian. their connotations are unlike in the two languages; and the translation which is made literally exact by using them is at the same time made actually inaccurate, or at least inadequate. dole and dolent are doubtless the exact counterparts of dolore and dolente, so far as mere etymology can go. but when we consider the effect that is to be produced upon the mind of the reader, wretchedness and despairing are fat better equivalents. the former may compel our intellectual assent, but the latter awaken our emotional sympathy. doubtless by long familiarity with the romanic languages, the scholar becomes to a great degree emancipated from the conditions imposed upon him by the peculiar composition of his native english. the concrete significance of the romanic words becomes apparent to him, and they acquire energy and vitality. the expression dolent may thus satisfy the student familiar with italian, because it calls up in his mind, through the medium of its equivalent dolente, the same associations which the latter calls up in the mind of the italian himself. [ ] but this power of appreciating thoroughly the beauties of a foreign tongue is in the last degree an acquired taste,--as much so as the taste for olives and kirschenwasser to the carnal palate. it is only by long and profound study that we can thus temporarily vest ourselves, so to speak, with a french or italian consciousness in exchange for our english one. the literary epicure may keenly relish such epithets as dolent; but the common english reader, who loves plain fare, can hardly fail to be startled by it. to him it savours of the grotesque; and if there is any one thing especially to be avoided in the interpretation of dante, it is grotesqueness. [ ] a consummate italian scholar, the delicacy of whose taste is questioned by no one, and whose knowledge of dante's diction is probably not inferior to mr. longfellow's, has told me that he regards the expression as a noble and effective one, full of dignity and solemnity. those who have read over dante without reading into him, and those who have derived their impressions of his poem from m. dore's memorable illustrations, will here probably demur. what! dante not grotesque! that tunnel-shaped structure of the infernal pit; minos passing sentence on the damned by coiling his tail; charon beating the lagging shades with his oar; antaios picking up the poets with his fingers and lowering them in the hollow of his hand into the ninth circle; satan crunching in his monstrous jaws the arch-traitors, judas, brutus and cassius; ugolino appeasing his famine upon the tough nape of ruggieri; bertrand de born looking (if i may be allowed the expression) at his own dissevered head; the robbers exchanging form with serpents; the whole demoniac troop of malebolge,--are not all these things grotesque beyond everything else in poetry? to us, nurtured in this scientific nineteenth century, they doubtless seem so; and by leigh hunt, who had the eighteenth-century way of appreciating other ages than his own, they were uniformly treated as such. to us they are at first sight grotesque, because they are no longer real to us. we have ceased to believe in such things, and they no longer awaken any feeling akin to terror. but in the thirteenth century, in the minds of dante and his readers, they were living, terrible realities. that dante believed literally in all this unearthly world, and described it with such wonderful minuteness because he believed in it, admits of little doubt. as he walked the streets of verona the people whispered, "see, there is the man who has been in hell!" truly, he had been in hell, and described it as he had seen it, with the keen eyes of imagination and faith. with all its weird unearthliness, there is hardly another book in the whole range of human literature which is marked with such unswerving veracity as the "divine comedy." nothing is there set down arbitrarily, out of wanton caprice or for the sake of poetic effect, but because to dante's imagination it had so imposingly shown itself that he could not but describe it as he saw it. in reading his cantos we forget the poet, and have before us only the veracious traveller in strange realms, from whom the shrewdest cross-examination can elicit but one consistent account. to his mind, and to the mediaeval mind generally, this outer kingdom, with its wards of despair, expiation, and beatitude, was as real as the holy roman empire itself. its extraordinary phenomena were not to be looked on with critical eyes and called grotesque, but were to be seen with eyes of faith, and to be worshipped, loved, or shuddered at. rightly viewed, therefore, the poem of dante is not grotesque, but unspeakably awful and solemn; and the statement is justified that all grotesqueness and bizarrerie in its interpretation is to be sedulously avoided. therefore, while acknowledging the accuracy with which mr. longfellow has kept pace with his original through line after line, following the "footing of its feet," according to the motto quoted on his title-page, i cannot but think that his accuracy would have been of a somewhat higher kind if he had now and then allowed himself a little more liberty of choice between english and romanic words and idioms. a few examples will perhaps serve to strengthen as well as to elucidate still further this position. "inferno," canto iii., line , according to longfellow:-- "there sighs, complaints, and ululations loud resounded through the air without a star, whence i at the beginning wept thereat." according to cary:-- "here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans resounded through the air pierced by no star, that e'en i wept at entering." according to parsons:-- "mid sighs, laments, and hollow howls of woe, which, loud resounding through the starless air, forced tears of pity from mine eyes at first." [ ] [ ] "quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai risonavan per l' ner senza stelle, perch' io al cominciar ne lagrimai." canto v., line :-- longfellow.--"fly through the air by their volition borne." cary.--"cleave the air, wafted by their will along." parsons.--"sped ever onward by their wish alone." [ ] [ ] "volan per l' aer dal voler portate." canto xvii., line :-- longfellow.--"that he concede to us his stalwart shoulders." cary--"that to us he may vouchsafe the aid of his strong shoulders." parsons.--"and ask for us his shoulders' strong support." [ ] [ ] "che ne conceda i suoi omeri forti." canto xvii., line :-- longfellow.-- "his tail was wholly quivering in the void, contorting upwards the envenomed fork that in the guise of scorpion armed its point." cary.-- "in the void glancing, his tail upturned its venomous fork, with sting like scorpions armed." parsons.--"in the void chasm his trembling tail he showed, as up the envenomed, forked point he swung, which, as in scorpions, armed its tapering end." [ ] [ ] "nel vano tutta sue coda guizzava, torcendo in su la venenosa forca, che, a guisa di scorpion, la punta armava." canto v., line :-- longfellow.--"people whom the black air so castigates. cary.--"by the black air so scourged." [ ] [ ] "genti che l' aura nera si gastiga." line :-- longfellow.--"kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating." cary.--"my lips all trembling kissed." [ ] [ ] "la bocca mi bacio tutto tremante." "purgatorio," canto xv., line :-- longfellow.-- "we passed along, athwart the twilight peering forward as far as ever eye could stretch against the sunbeams serotine and lucent." [ ] [ ] "noi andavam per lo vespero attenti oltre, quanto potean gli occhi allungarsi, contra i raggi serotini e lucenti." mr. cary's "bright vespertine ray" is only a trifle better; but mr. wright's "splendour of the evening ray" is, in its simplicity, far preferable. canto xxxi., line :-- longfellow.--"did the other three advance singing to their angelic saraband." cary.--"to their own carol on they came dancing, in festive ring angelical " wright.--"and songs accompanied their angel dance." here mr. longfellow has apparently followed the authority of the crusca, reading "cantando al loro angelico carribo," and translating carribo by saraband, a kind of moorish dance. the best manuscripts, however, sanction m. witte's reading:-- "danzando al loro angelico carribo." if this be correct, carribo cannot signify "a dance," but rather "the song which accompanies the dance"; and the true sense of the passage will have been best rendered by mr. cary. [ ] [ ] see blanc, vocabolario dantesco, s. v. "caribo." whenever mr. longfellow's translation is kept free from oddities of diction and construction, it is very animated and vigorous. nothing can be finer than his rendering of "purgatorio," canto vi., lines - :-- "o german albert! who abandonest her that has grown recalcitrant and savage, and oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow, may a just judgment from the stars down fall upon thy blood, and be it new and open, that thy successor may have fear thereof: because thy father and thyself have suffered, by greed of those transalpine lands distrained, the garden of the empire to be waste. come and behold montecchi and cappelletti, monaldi and filippeschi, careless man! those sad already, and these doubt-depressed! come, cruel one! come and behold the oppression of thy nobility, and cure their wounds, and thou shalt see how safe [?] is santafiore. come and behold thy rome that is lamenting, widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims 'my caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?' come and behold how loving are the people; and if for us no pity moveth thee, come and be made ashamed of thy renown." [ ] [ ] "o alberto tedesco, che abbandoni costei ch' e fatta indomita e selvaggia, e dovresti inforcar li suoi arcioni, giusto gindizio dalle stelle caggia sopra il tuo sangue, e sia nuovo ed aperto, tal che il tuo successor temenza n' aggia: cheavete tu e il tuo padre sofferto, per cupidigia di costa distretti, che il giardin dell' imperio sia diserto. vieni a veder montecchi e cappelletti, monaldi e filippeschi, uom senza cura: color gia tristi, e questi con sospetti. vien, crudel, vieni, e vedi la pressura de' tuoi gentili, e cure lor magagne, e vedrai santafior com' e oscura [secura?]. vieni a veder la tua roma che piagne, vedova e sola, e di e notte chiama: cesare mio, perche non m' accompagne? vieni a veder la gente quanto s' ama; e se nulla di noi pieta ti move, a vergognar ti vien della tua fama." so, too, canto iii., lines - :-- "as sheep come issuing forth from out the fold by ones, and twos, and threes, and the others stand timidly holding down their eyes and nostrils, and what the foremost does the others do huddling themselves against her if she stop, simple and quiet, and the wherefore know not." [ ] [ ] "come le pecorelle escon del chiuso ad una, a due, a tre, e l' altre stanno timidette atterrando l' occhio e il muso; e cio che fa la prima, e l' altre sanno, addossandosi a lei s' ella s' arresta, semplici e quete, e lo 'mperche non sanno." francesca's exclamation to dante is thus rendered by mr. longfellow:-- "and she to me: there is no greater sorrow than to be mindful of the happy time in misery." [ ] [ ] "ed ella a me: nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria." inferno, v. - . this is admirable,--full of the true poetic glow, which would have been utterly quenched if some romanic equivalent of dolore had been used instead of our good saxon sorrow. [ ] so, too, the "paradiso," canto i., line :-- "whereupon she, after a pitying sigh, her eyes directed toward me with that look a mother casts on a delirious child." [ ] [ ] yet admirable as it is, i am not quite sure that dr. parsons, by taking further liberty with the original, has not surpassed it:-- "and she to me: the mightiest of all woes is in the midst of misery to be cursed with bliss remembered." [ ] "ond' ella, appresso d'un pio sospiro, gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante, che madre fa sopra figlinol deliro." and, finally, the beginning of the eighth canto of the "purgatorio":-- "'t was now the hour that turneth back desire in those who sail the sea, and melts the heart, the day they've said to their sweet friends farewell; and the new pilgrim penetrates with love, if he doth hear from far away a bell that seemeth to deplore the dying day." [ ] [ ] "era gia l' ora che volge il disio ai naviganti, e intenerisce il core lo di ch' hen detto ai dolci amici addio; e che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore punge, se ode squilla di lontano, che paia il giorno pianger che si more." this passage affords an excellent example of what the method of literal translation can do at its best. except in the second line, where "those who sail the sea" is wisely preferred to any romanic equivalent of naviganti the version is utterly literal; as literal as the one the school-boy makes, when he opens his virgil at the fourth eclogue, and lumberingly reads, "sicilian muses, let us sing things a little greater." but there is nothing clumsy, nothing which smacks of the recitation-room, in these lines of mr. longfellow. for easy grace and exquisite beauty it would be difficult to surpass them. they may well bear comparison with the beautiful lines into which lord byron has rendered the same thought:-- "soft hour which wakes the wish, and melts the heart, of those who sail the seas, on the first day when they from their sweet friends are torn apart; or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, as the far bell of vesper makes him start, seeming to weep the dying day's decay. is this a fancy which our reason scorns? ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns!" [ ] [ ] don juan, iii. . setting aside the concluding sentimental generalization,--which is much more byronic than dantesque,--one hardly knows which version to call more truly poetical; but for a faithful rendering of the original conception one can hardly hesitate to give the palm to mr. longfellow. thus we see what may be achieved by the most highly gifted of translators who contents himself with passively reproducing the diction of his original, who constitutes himself, as it were, a conduit through which the meaning of the original may flow. where the differences inherent in the languages employed do not intervene to alloy the result, the stream of the original may, as in the verses just cited, come out pure and unweakened. too often, however, such is the subtle chemistry of thought, it will come out diminished in its integrity, or will appear, bereft of its primitive properties as a mere element in some new combination. our channel is a trifle too alkaline perhaps; and that the transferred material may preserve its pleasant sharpness, we may need to throw in a little extra acid. too often the mere differences between english and italian prevent dante's expressions from coming out in mr. longfellow's version so pure and unimpaired as in the instance just cited. but these differences cannot be ignored. they lie deep in the very structure of human speech, and are narrowly implicated with equally profound nuances in the composition of human thought. the causes which make dolente a solemn word to the italian ear, and dolent a queer word to the english ear, are causes which have been slowly operating ever since the italian and the teuton parted company on their way from central asia. they have brought about a state of things which no cunning of the translator can essentially alter, but to the emergencies of which he must graciously conform his proceedings. here, then, is the sole point on which we disagree with mr. longfellow, the sole reason we have for thinking that he has not attained the fullest possible measure of success. not that he has made a "realistic" translation,--so far we conceive him to be entirely right; but that, by dint of pushing sheer literalism beyond its proper limits, he has too often failed to be truly realistic. let us here explain what is meant by realistic translation. every thoroughly conceived and adequately executed translation of an ancient author must be founded upon some conscious theory or some unconscious instinct of literary criticism. as is the critical spirit of an age, so among other things will be its translations. now the critical spirit of every age previous to our own has been characterized by its inability to appreciate sympathetically the spirit of past and bygone times. in the seventeenth century criticism made idols of its ancient models; it acknowledged no serious imperfections in them; it set them up as exemplars for the present and all future times to copy. let the genial epicurean henceforth write like horace, let the epic narrator imitate the supreme elegance of virgil,--that was the conspicuous idea, the conspicuous error, of seventeenth-century criticism. it overlooked the differences between one age and another. conversely, when it brought roman patricians and greek oligarchs on to the stage, it made them behave like french courtiers or castilian grandees or english peers. when it had to deal with ancient heroes, it clothed them in the garb and imputed to them the sentiments of knights-errant. then came the revolutionary criticism of the eighteenth century, which assumed that everything old was wrong, while everything new was right. it recognized crudely the differences between one age and another, but it had a way of looking down upon all ages except the present. this intolerance shown toward the past was indeed a measure of the crudeness with which it was comprehended. because mohammed, if he had done what he did, in france and in the eighteenth century, would have been called an impostor, voltaire, the great mouthpiece and representative of this style of criticism, portrays him as an impostor. recognition of the fact that different ages are different, together with inability to perceive that they ought to be different, that their differences lie in the nature of progress,--this was the prominent characteristic of eighteenth-century criticism. of all the great men of that century, lessing was perhaps the only one who outgrew this narrow critical habit. now nineteenth-century criticism not only knows that in no preceding age have men thought and behaved as they now think and behave, but it also understands that old-fashioned thinking and behaviour was in its way just as natural and sensible as that which is now new-fashioned. it does not flippantly sneer at an ancient custom because we no longer cherish it; but with an enlightened regard for everything human, it inquires into its origin, traces its effects, and endeavours to explain its decay. it is slow to characterize mohammed as an impostor, because it has come to feel that arabia in the seventh century is one thing and europe in the nineteenth another. it is scrupulous about branding caesar as an usurper, because it has discovered that what mr. mill calls republican liberty and what cicero called republican liberty are widely different notions. it does not tell us to bow down before lucretius and virgil as unapproachable models, while lamenting our own hopeless inferiority; nor does it tell us to set them down as half-skilled apprentices, while congratulating ourselves on our own comfortable superiority; but it tells us to study them as the exponents of an age forever gone, from which we have still many lessons to learn, though we no longer think as it thought or feel as it felt. the eighteenth century, as represented by the characteristic passage from voltaire, cited by mr. longfellow, failed utterly to understand dante. to the minds of voltaire and his contemporaries the great mediaeval poet was little else than a titanic monstrosity,--a maniac, whose ravings found rhythmical expression; his poem a grotesque medley, wherein a few beautiful verses were buried under the weight of whole cantos of nonsensical scholastic quibbling. this view, somewhat softened, we find also in leigh hunt, whose whole account of dante is an excellent specimen of this sort of criticism. mr. hunt's fine moral nature was shocked and horrified by the terrible punishments described in the "inferno." he did not duly consider that in dante's time these fearful things were an indispensable part of every man's theory of the world; and, blinded by his kindly prejudices, he does not seem to have perceived that dante, in accepting eternal torments as part and parcel of the system of nature, was nevertheless, in describing them, inspired with that ineffable tenderness of pity which, in the episodes of francesca and of brunetto latini, has melted the hearts of men in past times, and will continue to do so in times to come. "infinite pity, yet infinite rigour of law! it is so nature is made: it is so dante discerned that she was made." [ ] this remark of the great seer of our time is what the eighteenth century could in no wise comprehend. the men of that day failed to appreciate dante, just as they were oppressed or disgusted at the sight of gothic architecture; just as they pronounced the scholastic philosophy an unmeaning jargon; just as they considered mediaeval christianity a gigantic system of charlatanry, and were wont unreservedly to characterize the papacy as a blighting despotism. in our time cultivated men think differently. we have learned that the interminable hair-splitting of aquinas and abelard has added precision to modern thinking. [ ] we do not curse gregory vii. and innocent iii. as enemies of the human race, but revere them as benefactors. we can spare a morsel of hearty admiration for becket, however strongly we may sympathize with the stalwart king who did penance for his foul murder; and we can appreciate dante's poor opinion of philip the fair no less than his denunciation of boniface viii. the contemplation of gothic architecture, as we stand entranced in the sublime cathedrals of york or rouen, awakens in our breasts a genuine response to the mighty aspirations which thus became incarnate in enduring stone. and the poem of dante--which has been well likened to a great cathedral--we reverently accept, with all its quaint carvings and hieroglyphic symbols, as the authentic utterance of feelings which still exist, though they no longer choose the same form of expression. [ ] carlyle, heroes and hero-worship, p. . [ ] see my outlines of cosmic philosophy, vol. i. p. . a century ago, therefore, a translation of dante such as mr. longfellow's would have been impossible. the criticism of that time was in no mood for realistic reproductions of the antique. it either superciliously neglected the antique, or else dressed it up to suit its own notions of propriety. it was not like a seven-league boot which could fit everybody, but it was like a procrustes-bed which everybody must be made to fit. its great exponent was not a sainte-beuve, but a boileau. its typical sample of a reproduction of the antique was pope's translation of the iliad. that book, we presume, everybody has read; and many of those who have read it know that, though an excellent and spirited poem, it is no more homer than the age of queen anne was the age of peisistratos. of the translations of dante made during this period, the chief was unquestionably mr. cary's. [ ] for a man born and brought up in the most unpoetical of centuries, mr. cary certainly made a very good poem, though not so good as pope's. but it fell far short of being a reproduction of dante. the eighteenth-century note rings out loudly on every page of it. like much other poetry of the time, it is laboured and artificial. its sentences are often involved and occasionally obscure. take, for instance, canto iv. - of the "paradiso": [ ] this work comes at the end of the eighteenth-century period, as pope's translation of homer comes at the beginning. "these are the questions which they will urge equally; and therefore i the first of that will treat which hath the more of gall. of seraphim he who is most enskied, moses, and samuel, and either john, choose which thou wilt, nor even mary's self, have not in any other heaven their seats, than have those spirits which so late thou saw'st; nor more or fewer years exist; but all make the first circle beauteous, diversely partaking of sweet life, as more or less afflation of eternal bliss pervades them." here mr. cary not only fails to catch dante's grand style; he does not even write a style at all. it is too constrained and awkward to be dignified, and dignity is an indispensable element of style. without dignity we may write clearly, or nervously, or racily, but we have not attained to a style. this is the second shortcoming of mr. cary's translation. like pope's, it fails to catch the grand style of its original. unlike pope's, it frequently fails to exhibit any style. it is hardly necessary to spend much time in proving that mr. longfellow's version is far superior to mr. cary's. it is usually easy and flowing, and save in the occasional use of violent inversions, always dignified. sometimes, as in the episode of ugolino, it even rises to something like the grandeur of the original: "when he had said this, with his eyes distorted, the wretched skull resumed he with his teeth, which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong." [ ] [ ] "quand' ebbe detto cio, eon gli occhi torti riprese il teschio misero coi denti, che furo all' osso, come d'un can, forti." inferno, xxxiii. . that is in the grand style, and so is the following, which describes those sinners locked in the frozen lake below malebolge:-- "weeping itself there does not let them weep, and grief that finds a barrier in the eyes turns itself inward to increase the anguish. [ ] [ ] "lo pianto stesso li pianger non lascia, e il duol, che trova in sugli occhi rintoppo, si volve in entro a far crescer l' ambascia." inferno, xxxiii. . and the exclamation of one of these poor "wretches of the frozen crust" is an exclamation that shakespeare might have written:-- "lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that i may vent the sorrow which impregns my heart." [ ] [ ] "levatemi dal viso i duri veli, si ch' io sfoghi il dolor che il cor m' impregna." ib. . there is nothing in mr. cary's translation which can stand a comparison with that. the eighteenth century could not translate like that. for here at last we have a real reproduction of the antique. in the shakespearian ring of these lines we recognize the authentic rendering of the tones of the only man since the christian era who could speak like shakespeare. in this way mr. longfellow's translation is, to an eminent degree, realistic. it is a work conceived and executed in entire accordance with the spirit of our time. mr. longfellow has set about making a reconstructive translation, and he has succeeded in the attempt. in view of what he has done, no one can ever wish to see the old methods of pope and cary again resorted to. it is only where he fails to be truly realistic that he comes short of success. and, as already hinted, it is oftenest through sheer excess of literalism that he ceases to be realistic, and departs from the spirit of his author instead of coming nearer to it. in the "paradiso," canto x. - , his method leads him into awkwardness:-- "looking into his son with all the love which each of them eternally breathes forth, the primal and unutterable power whate'er before the mind or eye revolves with so much order made, there can be none who this beholds without enjoying him." this seems clumsy and halting, yet it is an extremely literal paraphrase of a graceful and flowing original:-- "guardando nel suo figlio con l' amore che l' uno e l' altro eternalmente spire, lo primo ed ineffabile valore, quanto per mente o per loco si gira con tanto ordine fe', ch' esser non puote senza gustar di lui ehi cio rimira " now to turn a graceful and flowing sentence into one that is clumsy and halting is certainly not to reproduce it, no matter how exactly the separate words are rendered, or how closely the syntactic constructions match each other. and this consideration seems conclusive as against the adequacy of the literalist method. that method is inadequate, not because it is too realistic, but because it runs continual risk of being too verbalistic. it has recently been applied to the translation of dante by mr. rossetti, and it has sometimes led him to write curious verses. for instance, he makes francesca say to dante,-- "o gracious and benignant animal!" for "o animal grazioso e benigno!" mr. longfellow's good taste has prevented his doing anything like this, yet mr. rossetti's extravagance is due to an unswerving adherence to the very rules by which mr. longfellow has been guided. good taste and poetic genius are, however, better than the best of rules, and so, after all said and done, we can only conclude that mr. longfellow has given us a great and noble work not likely soon to be equalled. leopardi somewhere, in speaking of the early italian translators of the classics and their well-earned popularity, says, who knows but caro will live in men's remembrance as long as virgil? "la belie destinee," adds sainte-beuve, "de ne pouvoir plus mourir, sinon avec un immortel!" apart from mr. longfellow's other titles to undying fame, such a destiny is surely marked out for him, and throughout the english portions of the world his name will always be associated with that of the great florentine. june, . xii. paine's "st. peter." for music-lovers in america the great event of the season has been the performance of mr. paine's oratorio, "st. peter," at portland, june . this event is important, not only as the first appearance of an american oratorio, but also as the first direct proof we have had of the existence of creative musical genius in this country. for mr. paine's mass in d--a work which was brought out with great success several years ago in berlin--has, for some reason or other, never been performed here. and, with the exception of mr. paine, we know of no american hitherto who has shown either the genius or the culture requisite for writing music in the grand style, although there is some of the kapellmeister music, written by our leading organists and choristers, which deserves honourable mention. concerning the rank likely to be assigned by posterity to "st. peter," it would be foolish now to speculate; and it would be equally unwise to bring it into direct comparison with masterpieces like the "messiah," "elijah," and "st. paul," the greatness of which has been so long acknowledged. longer familiarity with the work is needed before such comparisons, always of somewhat doubtful value, can be profitably undertaken. but it must at least be said, as the net result of our impressions derived both from previous study of the score and from hearing, the performance at portland, that mr. paine's oratorio has fairly earned for itself the right to be judged by the same high standard which we apply to these noble works of mendelssohn and handel. in our limited space we can give only the briefest description of the general structure of the work. the founding of christianity, as illustrated in four principal scenes of the life of st. peter, supplies the material for the dramatic development of the subject. the overture, beginning with an adagio movement in b-flat minor, gives expression to the vague yearnings of that time of doubt and hesitancy when the "oracles were dumb," and the dawning of a new era of stronger and diviner faith was matter of presentiment rather than of definite hope or expectation. though the tonality is at first firmly established, yet as the movement becomes more agitated, the final tendency of the modulations also becomes uncertain, and for a few bars it would seem as if the key of f-sharp minor might be the point of destination. but after a short melody by the wind instruments, accompanied by a rapid upward movement of strings, the dominant chord of c major asserts itself, being repeated, with sundry inversions, through a dozen bars, and leading directly into the triumphant and majestic chorus, "the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of heaven is at hand." the second subject, introduced by the word "repent" descending through the interval of a diminished seventh and contrasted with the florid counterpoint of the phrase, "and believe the glad tidings of god," is a masterpiece of contrapuntal writing, and, if performed by a choir of three or four hundred voices, would produce an overpowering effect. the divine call of simon peter and his brethren is next described in a tenor recitative; and the acceptance of the glad tidings is expressed in an aria, "the spirit of the lord is upon me," which, by an original but appropriate conception, is given to the soprano voice. in the next number, the disciples are dramatically represented by twelve basses and tenors, singing in four-part harmony, and alternating or combining with the full chorus in description of the aims of the new religion. the poem ends with the choral, "how lovely shines the morning star!" then follows the sublime scene from matthew xvi. - , where peter declares his master to be "the christ, the son of the living god,"--one of the most impressive scenes, we have always thought, in the gospel history, and here not inadequately treated. the feeling of mysterious and awful grandeur awakened by peter's bold exclamation, "thou art the christ," is powerfully rendered by the entrance of the trombones upon the inverted subdominant triad of c-sharp minor, and their pause upon the dominant of the same key. throughout this scene the characteristic contrast between the ardent vigour of peter and the sweet serenity of jesus is well delineated in the music. after peter's stirring aria, "my heart is glad," the dramatic climax is reached in the c-major chorus, "the church is built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets." the second scene is carried out to somewhat greater length, corresponding nearly to the last half of the first part of "elijah," from the point where the challenge is given to the prophets of baal. in the opening passages of mingled recitative and arioso, peter is forewarned that he shall deny his master, and his half-indignant remonstrance is sustained, with added emphasis, by the voices of the twelve disciples, pitched a fourth higher. then judas comes, with a great multitude, and jesus is carried before the high-priest. the beautiful f-minor chorus, "we hid our faces from him," furnishes the musical comment upon the statement that "the disciples all forsook him and fled." we hardly dare to give full expression to our feelings about this chorus (which during the past month has been continually singing itself over and over again in our recollection), lest it should be supposed that our enthusiasm has got the better of our sober judgment. the second theme, "he was brought as a lamb to the slaughter, yet he opened not his mouth," is quite handel-like in the simplicity and massiveness of its magnificent harmonic progressions. with the scene of the denial, for which we are thus prepared, the dramatic movement becomes exceedingly rapid, and the rendering of the events in the high-priest's hall--peter's bass recitative alternating its craven protestations with the clamorous agitato chorus of the servants--is stirring in the extreme. the contralto aria describing the lord's turning and looking upon peter is followed by the orchestra with a lament in b-flat minor, introducing the bass aria of the repentant and remorse-stricken disciple, "o god, my god, forsake me not." as the last strains of the lamentation die away, a choir of angels is heard, of sopranos and contraltos divided, singing, "remember from whence thou art fallen," to an accompaniment of harps. the second theme, "he that overcometh shall receive a crown of life," is introduced in full chorus, in a cheering allegro movement, preparing the way for a climax higher than any yet reached in the course of the work. this climax--delayed for a few moments by an andante aria for a contralto voice, "the lord is faithful and righteous"--at last bursts upon us with a superb crescendo of strings, and the words, "awake, thou that sleepest, arise from the dead, and christ shall give thee light." this chorus, which for reasons presently to be given was heard at considerable disadvantage at portland, contains some of the best fugue-writing in the work, and is especially rich and powerful in its instrumentation. the second part of the oratorio begins with the crucifixion and ascension of jesus. here we must note especially the deeply pathetic opening chorus, "the son of man was delivered into the hands of sinful men," the joyous allegro, "and on the third day he rose again," the choral, "jesus, my redeemer, lives," and the quartet, "feed the flock of god," commenting upon the command of jesus, "feed my lambs." this quartet has all the heavenly sweetness of handel's "he shall feed his flock," which it suggests by similarity of subject, though not by similarity of treatment; but in a certain quality of inwardness, or religious meditativeness, it reminds one more of mr. paine's favourite master, bach. the choral, like the one in the first part and the one which follows the scene of pentecost, is taken from the lutheran choral book, and arranged with original harmony and instrumentation, in accordance with the custom of bach, mendelssohn, and other composers, "of introducing into their sacred compositions the old popular choral melodies which are the peculiar offspring of a religious age." thus the noblest choral ever written, the "sleepers, wake," in "st. paul," was composed in by praetorius, the harmonization and accompaniment only being the work of mendelssohn. in "st. peter," as in "elijah," the second part, while forming the true musical climax of the oratorio, admits of a briefer description than the first part. the wave of emotion answering to the sensuously dramatic element having partly spent itself, the wave of lyric emotion gathers fresh strength, and one feels that one has reached the height of spiritual exaltation, while, nevertheless, there is not so much which one can describe to others who may not happen to have gone through with the same experience. something of the same feeling one gets in studying dante's "paradiso," after finishing the preceding divisions of his poem: there is less which can be pictured to the eye of sense, or left to be supplied by the concrete imagination. nevertheless, in the scene of pentecost, which follows that of the ascension, there is no lack of dramatic vividness. indeed, there is nothing in the work more striking than the orchestration of the introductory tenor recitative, the mysterious chorus, "the voice of the lord divideth the flames of fire," or the amazed query which follows, "behold, are not all these who speak galileans? and how is it that we every one hear them in our own tongue wherein we were born?" we have heard the opinion expressed that mr. paine's oratorio must be lacking in originality, since it suggests such strong reminiscences of "st. paul." now, this suggestion, it seems to us, is due partly to the similarity of the subjects, independently of any likeness in the modes of treatment, and partly, perhaps, to the fact that mr. paine, as well as mendelssohn, has been a devoted student of bach, whose characteristics are so strong that they may well have left their mark upon the works of both composers. but especially it would seem that there is some real, though very general resemblance between this colloquial chorus, "behold," etc., and some choruses in "st. paul," as, for example nos. and - . in the same way the scene in the high-priest's hall might distantly suggest either of these passages, or others in "elijah;" these resemblances, however, are very superficial, pertaining not to the musical but to the dramatic treatment of situations which are generically similar in so far, and only in so far, as they represent conversational passages between an apostle or prophet and an ignorant multitude, whether amazed or hostile, under the sway of violent excitement. as regards the musical elaboration of these terse and striking alternations of chorus and recitative, its originality can be questioned only after we have decided to refer all originality on such matters to bach, or, indeed, even behind him, into the middle ages. after the preaching of peter, and the sweet contralto aria, "as for man, his days are as grass," the culmination of this scene comes in the d-major chorus, "this is the witness of god." what follows, beginning with the choral, "praise to the father," is to be regarded as an epilogue or peroration to the whole work. it is in accordance with a sound tradition that the grand sacred drama of an oratorio should conclude with a lyric outburst of thanksgiving, a psalm of praise to the giver of every good and perfect gift. thus, after peter's labours are ended in the aria, "now as ye were redeemed," in which the twelve disciples and the full chorus join, a duet for tenor and soprano, "sing unto god," brings us to the grand final chorus in c major, "great and marvellous are thy works, lord god almighty." the cadence of this concluding chorus reminds us that one of the noteworthy points in the oratorio is the character of its cadences. the cadence prepared by the / chord, now become so hackneyed from its perpetual and wearisome repetition in popular church music, seems to be especially disliked by mr. paine, as it occurs but once or twice in the course of the work. in the great choruses the cadence is usually reached either by a pedal on the tonic, as in the chorus, "awake, thou that sleepest," or by a pedal on the dominant culminating in a chord of the major ninth, as in the final chorus; or there is a plagal cadence, as in the first chorus of the second part; or, if the / chord is introduced, as it is in the chorus, "he that overcometh," its ordinary effect is covered and obscured by the movement of the divided sopranos. we do not remember noticing anywhere such a decided use of the / chord as is made, for example, by mendelssohn, in "thanks be to god," or in the final chorus of "st. paul." perhaps if we were to confess our lingering fondness for the cadence prepared by the / chord, when not too frequently introduced, it might only show that we retain a liking for new england "psalm-tunes"; but it does seem to us that a sense of final repose, of entire cessation of movement, is more effectually secured by this cadence than by any other. yet while the / cadence most completely expresses finality and rest, it would seem that the plagal and other cadences above enumerated as preferred by mr. paine have a certain sort of superiority by reason of the very incompleteness with which they express finality. there is no sense of finality whatever about the phrygian cadence; it leaves the mind occupied with the feeling of a boundless region beyond, into which one would fain penetrate; and for this reason it has, in sacred music, a great value. something of the same feeling, too, attaches to those cadences in which an unexpected major third usurps the place of the minor which the ear was expecting, as in the "incarnatus" of mozart's "twelfth mass," or in bach's sublime "prelude," part i., no. of the "well-tempered clavichord." in a less degree, an analogous effect was produced upon us by the cadence with a pedal on the tonic in the choruses, "the church is built," and "awake, thou that sleepest." on these considerations it may become intelligible that to some hearers mr. paine's cadences have seemed unsatisfactory, their ears having missed the positive categorical assertion of finality which the / cadence alone can give. to go further into this subject would take us far beyond our limits. the pleasant little town of portland has reason to congratulate itself, first, on being the birthplace of such a composer as mr. paine; secondly, on having been the place where the first great work of america in the domain of music was brought out; and thirdly, on possessing what is probably the most thoroughly disciplined choral society in this country. our new york friends, after their recent experiences, will perhaps be slow to believe us when we say that the portland choir sang this new work even better, in many respects, than the handel and haydn society sing the old and familiar "elijah"; but it is true. in their command of the pianissimo and the gradual crescendo, and in the precision of their attack, the portland singers can easily teach the handel and haydn a quarter's lessons. and, besides all this, they know how to preserve their equanimity under the gravest persecutions of the orchestra; keeping the even tenour of their way where a less disciplined choir, incited by the excessive blare of the trombones and the undue scraping of the second violins, would be likely to lose its presence of mind and break out into an untimely fortissimo. no doubt it is easier to achieve perfect chorus-singing with a choir of one hundred and twenty-five voices than with a choir of six hundred. but this diminutive size, which was an advantage so far as concerned the technical excellence of the portland choir, was decidedly a disadvantage so far as concerned the proper rendering of the more massive choruses in "st. peter." all the greatest choruses--such as nos. , , , , , , and --were seriously impaired in the rendering by the lack of massiveness in the voices. for example, the grand chorus, "awake, thou that sleepest," begins with a rapid crescendo of strings, introducing the full chorus on the word "awake," upon the dominant triad of d major; and after a couple of beats the voices are reinforced by the trombones, producing the most tremendous effect possible in such a crescendo. unfortunately, however, the brass asserted itself at this point so much more emphatically than the voices that the effect was almost to disjoin the latter portion of the chord from its beginning, and thus to dwarf the utterance of the word "awake." to us this effect was very disagreeable; and it was obviously contrary to the effect intended by the composer. but with a weight of four or five hundred voices, the effect would be entirely different. instead of entering upon the scene as intruders, the mighty trombones would only serve to swell and enrich the ponderous chord which opens this noble chorus. given greater weight only, and the performance of the admirable portland choir would have left nothing to be desired. we cannot speak with so much satisfaction of the performance of the orchestra. the instrumentation of "st. peter" is remarkably fine. but this instrumentation was rather clumsily rendered by the orchestra, whose doings constituted the least enjoyable part of the performance. there was too much blare of brass, whine of hautboy, and scraping of strings. but in condonation of this serious defect, one must admit that the requisite amount of rehearsal is out of the question when one's choir is in portland and one's orchestra in boston; besides which the parts had been inaccurately copied. for a moment, at the beginning of the orchestral lament, there was risk of disaster, the wind instruments failing to come in at the right time, when mr. paine, with fortunate presence of mind, stopped the players, and the movement was begun over again,--the whole occurring so quickly and quietly as hardly to attract attention. in conclusion we would say a few words suggested by a recent critical notice of mr. paine's work in the "nation." while acknowledging the importance of the publication of this oratorio, as an event in the art-history of america, the writer betrays manifest disappointment that this work should not rather have been a symphony, [ ] and thus have belonged to what he calls the "domain of absolute music." now with regard to the assumption that the oratorio is not so high a form of music as the symphony, or, in other words, that vocal music in general is artistically inferior to instrumental music, we may observe, first, that ambros and dommer--two of the most profound musical critics now living--do not sustain it. it is beanquier, we think, who suggests that instrumental music should rank above vocal, because it is "pure music," bereft of the fictitious aids of language and of the emotional associations which are grouped about the peculiar timbre of the human voice. [ ] at first the suggestion seems plausible; but on analogous grounds we might set the piano above the orchestra, because the piano gives us pure harmony and counterpoint, without the adventitious aid of variety in timbre. and it is indeed true that, for some such reason as this, musicians delight in piano-sonatas, which are above all things tedious and unintelligible to the mind untrained in music. nevertheless, in spite of its great and peculiar prerogatives, it would be absurd to prefer the piano to the orchestra; and there is a kindred absurdity involved in setting the orchestra above that mighty union of orchestra, organ, and voices which we get in the oratorio. when the reason alleged for ranking the symphony above the oratorio leads us likewise to rank the sonata above the symphony, we seem to have reached a reductio ad absurdum. [ ] now within two years, mr. paine's c-minor symphony has followed the completion of his oratorio. [ ] these peculiar associations are no doubt what is chiefly enjoyed in music, antecedent to a properly musical culture. persons of slight acquaintance with music invariably prefer the voice to the piano. rightly considered, the question between vocal and instrumental music amounts to this, what does music express? this is a great psychological question, and we have not now the space or the leisure requisite for discussing it, even in the most summary way. we will say, however, that we do not see how music can in any way express ideas, or anything but moods or emotional states to which the ideas given in language may add determination and precision. the pure symphony gives utterance to moods, and will be a satisfactory work of art or not, according as the composer has been actuated by a legitimate sequence of emotional states, like beethoven, or by a desire to produce novel and startling effects, like liszt. but the danger in purely instrumental music is that it may run riot in the extravagant utterance of emotional states which are not properly concatenated by any normal sequence of ideas associated with them. this is sometimes exemplified in the most modern instrumental music. now, as in real life our sequent clusters of emotional states are in general determined by their association with our sequent groups of intellectual ideas, it would seem that music, regarded as an exponent of psychical life, reaches its fullest expressiveness when the sequence of the moods which it incarnates in sound is determined by some sequence of ideas, such as is furnished by the words of a libretto. not that the words should have predominance over the music, or even coequal sway with it, but that they should serve to give direction to the succession of feelings expressed by the music. "lift up your heads" and "hallelujah" do not owe their glory to the text, but to that tremendous energy of rhythmic and contrapuntal progression which the text serves to concentrate and justify. when precision and definiteness of direction are thus added to the powerful physical means of expression which we get in the combination of chorus, orchestra, and organ, we have attained the greatest sureness as well as the greatest wealth of musical expressiveness. and thus we may see the reasonableness of dommer's opinion that in order to restrain instrumental music from ruining itself by meaningless extravagance, it is desirable that there should be a renaissance of vocal music, such as it was in the golden age of palestrina and orlando lasso. we are not inclined to deny that in structural beauty--in the symmetrical disposition and elaboration of musical themes--the symphony has the advantage. the words, which in the oratorio serve to give definite direction to the currents of emotion, may also sometimes hamper the free development of the pure musical conception, just as in psychical life the obtrusive entrance of ideas linked by association may hinder the full fruition of some emotional state. nevertheless, in spite of this possible drawback, it may be doubted if the higher forms of polyphonic composition fall so very far short of the symphony in capability of giving full elaboration to the musical idea. the practical testimony of beethoven, in his ninth symphony, is decidedly adverse to any such supposition. but to pursue this interesting question would carry us far beyond our limits. whatever may be the decision as to the respective claims of vocal and instrumental music, we have every reason for welcoming the appearance, in our own country, of an original work in the highest form of vocal music. it is to be hoped that we shall often have the opportunity to "hear with our ears" this interesting work; for as a rule great musical compositions are peculiarly unfortunate among works of art, in being known at first hand by comparatively few persons. in this way is rendered possible that pretentious kind of dilettante criticism which is so common in musical matters, and which is often positively injurious, as substituting a factitious public opinion for one that is genuine. we hope that the favour with which the new oratorio has already been received will encourage the author to pursue the enviable career upon which he has entered. even restricting ourselves to vocal music, there is still a broad field left open for original work. the secular cantata--attempted in recent times by schumann, as well as by english composers of smaller calibre--is a very high form of vocal music; and if founded on an adequate libretto, dealing with some supremely grand or tragical situation, is capable of being carried to an unprecedented height of musical elaboration. here is an opportunity for original achievement, of which it is to be hoped that some gifted and well-trained composer, like the author of "st. peter," may find it worth while to avail himself. june, . xiii. a philosophy of art. [ ] [ ] the philosophy of art. by h. taine. new york: leypoldt & holt. . we are glad of a chance to introduce to our readers one of the works of a great writer. though not yet [ ] widely known in this country, m. taine has obtained a very high reputation in europe. he is still quite a young man, but is nevertheless the author of nineteen goodly volumes, witty, acute, and learned; and already he is often ranked with renan, littre, and sainte-beuve, the greatest living french writers. [ ] that is, in . hippolyte adolphe taine was born at vouziers, among the grand forests of ardennes, in , and is therefore about forty years old. his family was simple in habits and tastes, and entertained a steadfast belief in culture, along with the possession of a fair amount of it. his grandfather was sub-prefect at rocroi, in and , under the first restoration of the bourbons. his father, a lawyer by profession, was the first instructor of his son, and taught him latin, and from an uncle, who had been in america, he learned english, while still a mere child. having gone to paris with his mother in , he began his studies at the college bourbon and in was promoted to the ecole normale. weiss, about, and prevost-paradol were his contemporaries at this institution. at that time great liberty was enjoyed in regard to the order and the details of the exercises; so that taine, with his surprising rapidity, would do in one week the work laid out for a month, and would spend the remainder of the time in private reading. in he left college, and after two or three unsatisfactory attempts at teaching, in paris and in the provinces, he settled down at paris as a private student. he gave himself the very best elementary preparation which a literary man can have,--a thorough course in mathematics and the physical sciences. his studies in anatomy and physiology were especially elaborate and minute. he attended the school of medicine as regularly as if he expected to make his daily bread in the profession. in this way, when at the age of twenty-five he began to write books, m. taine was a really educated man; and his books show it. the day is past when a man could write securely, with a knowledge of the classics alone. we doubt if a philosophical critic is perfectly educated for his task, unless he can read, for instance, donaldson's "new cratylus" on the one hand, and rokitansky's "pathological anatomy" on the other, for the sheer pleasure of the thing. at any rate, it was an education of this sort which m. taine, at the outset of his literary career, had secured. by this solid discipline of mathematics, chemistry, and medicine, m. taine became that which above all things he now is,--a man possessed of a central philosophy, of an exact, categorical, well-defined system, which accompanies and supports him in his most distant literary excursions. he does not keep throwing out ideas at random, like too many literary critics, but attaches all his criticisms to a common fundamental principle; in short, he is not a dilettante, but a savant. his treatise on la fontaine, in , attracted much attention, both the style and the matter being singularly fresh and original. he has since republished it, with alterations which serve to show that he can be docile toward intelligent criticisms. about the same time he prepared for the french academy his work upon the historian livy, which was crowned in . suffering then from overwork, he was obliged to make a short journey to the pyrenees, which he has since described in a charming little volume, illustrated by dore. his subsequent works are a treatise on the french philosophers of the present century, in which the vapid charlatanism of m. cousin is satisfactorily dealt with; a history of english literature in five volumes; a humorous book on paris; three volumes upon the general theory of art; and two volumes of travels in italy; besides a considerable collection of historical and critical essays. we think that several of these works would be interesting to the american public, and might profitably be translated. some three or four years ago, m. taine was appointed professor in the ecole des beaux arts, and we suppose his journey to italy must have been undertaken partly with a view to qualify himself for his new position. he visited the four cities which may be considered the artistic centres of italy,--rome, naples, florence, and venice,--and a large part of his account of his journey is taken up with descriptions and criticisms of pictures, statues, and buildings. this is a department of criticism which, we may as well frankly acknowledge, is far better appreciated on the continent of europe than in england or america. over the english race there passed, about two centuries ago, a deluge of puritanism, which for a time almost drowned out its artistic tastes and propensities. the puritan movement, in proportion to its success, was nearly as destructive to art in the west, as mohammedanism had long before been in the east. in its intense and one-sided regard for morality, puritanism not only relegated the love for beauty to an inferior place, but contemned and spat upon it, as something sinful and degrading. hence, the utter architectural impotence which characterizes the americans and the modern english; and hence the bewildered ignorant way in which we ordinarily contemplate pictures and statues. for two centuries we have been removed from an artistic environment, and consequently can with difficulty enter into the feelings of those who have all this time been nurtured in love for art, and belief in art for its own sake. these peculiarities, as mr. mill has ably pointed out, have entered deep into our ethnic character. even in pure morals there is a radical difference between the englishman and the inhabitant of the continent of europe. the englishman follows virtue from a sense of duty, the frenchman from an emotional aspiration toward the beautiful the one admires a noble action because it is right, the other because it is attractive. and this difference underlies the moral judgments upon men and events which are to be found respectively in english and in continental literature. by keeping it constantly in view, we shall be enabled to understand many things which might otherwise surprise us in the writings of french authors. we are now slowly outgrowing the extravagances of puritanism. it has given us an earnestness and sobriety of character, to which much of our real greatness is owing, both here and in the mother country. it has made us stronger and steadier, but it has at the same time narrowed us in many respects, and rendered our lives incomplete. this incompleteness, entailed by puritanism, we are gradually getting rid of; and we are learning to admire and respect many things upon which puritanism set its mark of contempt. we are beginning, for instance, to recognize the transcendent merits of that great civilizing agency, the drama; we no longer think it necessary that our temples for worshipping god should be constructed like hideous barracks; we are gradually permitting our choirs to discard the droning and sentimental modern "psalm-tune" for the inspiring harmonies of beethoven and mozart; and we admit the classical picture and the undraped statue to a high place in our esteem. yet with all this it will probably be some time before genuine art ceases to be an exotic among us, and becomes a plant of unhindered native growth. it will be some time before we cease to regard pictures and statues as a higher species of upholstery, and place them in the same category with poems and dramas, duly reverencing them as authentic revelations of the beauty which is to be found in nature. it will be some time before we realize that art is a thing to be studied, as well as literature, and before we can be quite reconciled to the familiar way in which a frenchman quotes a picture as we would quote a poem or novel. artistic genius, as m. taine has shown, is something which will develop itself only under peculiar social circumstances; and, therefore, if we have not art, we can perhaps only wait for it, trusting that when the time comes it will arise among us. but without originating, we may at least intelligently appreciate. the nature of a work of art, and the mode in which it is produced, are subjects well worthy of careful study. architecture and music, poetry, painting and sculpture, have in times past constituted a vast portion of human activity; and without knowing something of the philosophy of art, we need not hope to understand thoroughly the philosophy of history. in entering upon the study of art in general, one may find many suggestive hints in the little books of m. taine, reprinted from the lectures which he has been delivering at the ecole des beaux arts. the first, on the philosophy of art, designated at the head of this paper, is already accessible to the american reader; and translations of the others are probably soon to follow. we shall for the present give a mere synopsis of m. taine's general views. and first it must be determined what a work of art is. leaving for a while music and architecture out of consideration, it will be admitted that poetry, painting, and sculpture have one obvious character in common: they are arts of imitation. this, says taine, appears at first sight to be their essential character. it would appear that their great object is to imitate as closely as possible. it is obvious that a statue is intended to imitate a living man, that a picture is designed to represent real persons in real attitudes, or the interior of a house, or a landscape, such as it exists in nature. and it is no less clear that a novel or drama endeavours to represent with accuracy real characters, actions, and words, giving as precise and faithful an image of them as possible. and when the imitation is incomplete, we say to the painter, "your people are too largely proportioned, and the colour of your trees is false"; we tell the sculptor that his leg or arm is incorrectly modelled; and we say to the dramatist, "never has a man felt or thought as your hero is supposed to have felt and thought." this truth, moreover, is seen both in the careers of individual artists, and in the general history of art. according to taine, the life of an artist may generally be divided into two parts. in the first period, that of natural growth, he studies nature anxiously and minutely, he keeps the objects themselves before his eyes, and strives to represent them with scrupulous fidelity. but when the time for mental growth ends, as it does with every man, and the crystallization of ideas and impressions commences, then the mind of the artist is no longer so susceptible to new impressions from without. he begins to nourish himself from his own substance. he abandons the living model, and with recipes which he has gathered in the course of his experience, he proceeds to construct a drama or novel, a picture or statue. now, the first period, says taine, is that of genuine art; the second is that of mannerism. our author cites the case of michael angelo, a man who was one of the most colossal embodiments of physical and mental energy that the world has ever seen. in michael angelo's case, the period of growth, of genuine art, may be said to have lasted until after his sixtieth year. but look, says taine, at the works which he executed in his old age; consider the conversion of st. paul, and the last judgment, painted when he was nearly seventy. even those who are not connoisseurs can see that these frescos are painted by rule, that the artist, having stocked his memory with a certain set of forms, is making use of them to fill out his tableau; that he wantonly multiplies queer attitudes and ingenious foreshortenings; that the lively invention, the grand outburst of feeling, the perfect truth, by which his earlier works are distinguished, have disappeared; and that, if he is still superior to all others, he is nevertheless inferior to himself. the careers of scott, of goethe, and of voltaire will furnish parallel examples. in every school of art, too, the flourishing period is followed by one of decline; and in every case the decline is due to a failure to imitate the living models. in painting, we have the exaggerated foreshorteners and muscle-makers who copied michael angelo; the lovers of theatrical decorations who succeeded titian and giorgione and the degenerate boudoir-painters who followed claucle and poussin. in literature, we have the versifiers, epigrammatists, and rhetors of the latin decadence; the sensual and declamatory dramatists who represent the last stages of old english comedy; and the makers of sonnets and madrigals, or conceited euphemists of the gongora school, in the decline of italian and spanish poetry. briefly it may be said, that the masters copy nature and the pupils copy the masters. in this way are explained the constantly recurring phenomena of decline in art, and thus, also, it is seen that art is perfect in proportion as it successfully imitates nature. but we are not to conclude that absolute imitation is the sole and entire object of art. were this the case, the finest works would be those which most minutely correspond to their external prototypes. in sculpture, a mould taken from the living features is that which gives the most faithful representation of the model; but a well-moulded bust is far from being equal to a good statue. photography is in many respects more accurate than painting; but no one would rank a photograph, however exquisitely executed, with an original picture. and finally, if exact imitation were the supreme object of art, the best tragedy, the best comedy, and the best drama would be a stenographic report of the proceedings in a court of justice, in a family gathering, in a popular meeting, in the rump congress. even the works of artists are not rated in proportion to their minute exactness. neither in painting nor in any other art do we give the precedence to that which deceives the eye simply. every one remembers how zeuxis was said to have painted grapes so faithfully that the birds came and pecked at them; and how, parrhasios, his rival, surpassed even this feat by painting a curtain so natural in its appearance that zeuxis asked him to pull it aside and show the picture behind it. all this is not art, but mere knack and trickery. perhaps no painter was ever so minute as denner. it used to take him four years to make one portrait. he would omit nothing,--neither the bluish lines made by the veins under the skin, nor the little black points scattered over the nose, nor the bright spots in the eye where neighbouring objects are reflected; the head seems to start out from the canvas, it is so like flesh and blood. yet who cares for denner's portraits? and who would not give ten times as much for one which van dyck or tintoretto might have painted in a few hours? so in the churches of naples and spain we find statues coloured and draped, saints clothed in real coats, with their skin yellow and bloodless, their hands bleeding, and their feet bruised; and beside them madonnas in royal habiliments, in gala dresses of lustrous silk, adorned with diadems, precious necklaces, bright ribbons, and elegant laces, with their cheeks rosy, their eyes brilliant, their eyelashes sweeping. and by this excess of literal imitation, there is awakened a feeling, not of pleasure, but always of repugnance, often of disgust, and sometimes of horror so in literature, the ancient greek theatre, and the best spanish and english dramatists, alter on purpose the natural current of human speech, and make their characters talk under all the restraints of rhyme and rhythm. but we pronounce this departure from literal truth a merit and not a defect. we consider goethe's second "iphigenie," written in verse, far preferable to the first one written in prose; nay, it is the rhythm or metre itself which communicates to the work its incomparable beauty. in a review of longfellow's "dante," published last year, we argued this very point in one of its special applications; the artist must copy his original, but he must not copy it too literally. what then must he copy? he must copy, says taine, the mutual relations and interdependences of the parts of his model. and more than this, he must render the essential characteristic of the object--that characteristic upon which all the minor qualities depend--as salient and conspicuous as possible. he must put into the background the traits which conceal it, and bring into the foreground the traits which manifest it. if he is sculpturing a group like the laocoon, he must strike upon the supreme moment, that in which the whole tragedy reveals itself, and he must pass over those insignificant details of position and movement which serve only to distract our attention and weaken our emotions by dividing them. if he is writing a drama, he must not attempt to give us the complete biography of his character; he must depict only those situations which stand in direct subordination to the grand climax or denoument. as a final result, therefore. taine concludes that a work of art is a concrete representation of the relations existing between the parts of an object, with the intent to bring the essential or dominating character thereof into prominence. we should overrun our limits if we were to follow out the admirable discussion in which m. taine extends this definition to architecture and music. these closely allied arts are distinguished from poetry, painting, and sculpture, by appealing far less directly to the intelligence, and far more exclusively to the emotions. yet these arts likewise aim, by bringing into prominence certain relations of symmetry in form as perceived by the eye, or in aerial vibrations as perceived by the ear, to excite in us the states of feeling with which these species of symmetry are by subtle laws of association connected. they, too, imitate, not literally, but under the guidance of a predominating sentiment or emotion, relations which really exist among the phenomena of nature. and here, too, we estimate excellence, not in proportion to the direct, but to the indirect imitation. a gothic cathedral is not, as has been supposed, directly imitated from the towering vegetation of northern forests; but it may well be the expression of the dim sentiment of an unseen, all-pervading power, generated by centuries of primeval life amid such forests. so the sounds which in a symphony of beethoven are woven into a web of such amazing complexity may exist in different combinations in nature; but when a musician steps out of his way to imitate the crowing of cocks or the roar of the tempest, we regard his achievement merely as a graceful conceit. art is, therefore, an imitation of nature; but it is an intellectual and not a mechanical imitation; and the performances of the camera and the music-box are not to be classed with those of the violinist's bow or the sculptor's chisel. and lastly, in distinguishing art from science, taine remarks, that in disengaging from their complexity the causes which are at work in nature, and the fundamental laws according to which they work, science describes them in abstract formulas conveyed in technical language. but art reveals these operative causes and these dominant laws, not in arid definitions, inaccessible to most people, intelligible only to specially instructed men, but in a concrete symbol, addressing itself not only to the understanding, but still more to the sentiments of the ordinary man. art has, therefore, this peculiarity, that it is at once elevated and popular, that it manifests that which is often most recondite, and that it manifests it to all. having determined what a work of art is, our author goes on to study the social conditions under which works of art are produced; and he concludes that the general character of a work of art is determined by the state of intellect and morals in the society in which it is executed. there is, in fact, a sort of moral temperature which acts upon mental development much as physical temperature acts upon organic development. the condition of society does not produce the artist's talent; but it assists or checks its efforts to display itself; it decides whether or not it shall be successful and it exerts a "natural selection" between different kinds of talents, stimulating some and starving others. to make this perfectly clear, we will cite at some length taine's brilliant illustration. the case chosen for illustration is a very simple one,--that of a state of society in which one of the predominant feelings is melancholy. this is not an arbitrary supposition, for such a time has occurred more than once in human history; in asia, in the sixth century before christ, and especially in europe, from the fourth to the tenth centuries of our era. to produce such a state of feeling, five or six generations of decadence, accompanied with diminution of population, foreign invasions, famines, pestilences, and increasing difficulty in procuring the necessaries of life, are amply sufficient. it then happens that men lose courage and hope, and consider life an evil. now, admitting that among the artists who live in such a time, there are likely to be the same relative numbers of melancholy, joyous, or indifferent temperaments as at other times, let us see how they will be affected by reigning circumstances. let us first remember, says taine, that the evils which depress the public will also depress the artist. his risks are no less than those of less gifted people. he is liable to suffer from plague or famine, to be ruined by unfair taxation or conscription, or to see his children massacred and his wife led into captivity by barbarians. and if these ills do not reach him personally, he must at least behold those around him affected by them. in this way, if he is joyous by temperament, he must inevitably become less joyous; if he is melancholy, he must become more melancholy. secondly, having been reared among melancholy contemporaries, his education will have exerted upon him a corresponding influence. the prevailing religious doctrine, accommodated to the state of affairs, will tell him that the earth is a place of exile, life an evil, gayety a snare, and his most profitable occupation will be to get ready to die. philosophy, constructing its system of morals in conformity to the existing phenomena of decadence, will tell him that he had better never have been born. daily conversation will inform him of horrible events, of the devastation of a province, the sack of a town by the goths, the oppression of the neighbouring peasants by the imperial tax-collectors, or the civil war that has just burst out between half a dozen pretenders to the throne. as he travels about, he beholds signs of mourning and despair, crowds of beggars, people dying of hunger, a broken bridge which no one is mending, an abandoned suburb which is going to ruin, fields choked with weeds, the blackened walls of burned houses. such sights and impressions, repeated from childhood to old age (and we must remember that this has actually been the state of things in what are now the fairest parts of the globe), cannot fail to deepen whatever elements of melancholy there may be already in the artist's disposition. the operation of all these causes will be enhanced by that very peculiarity of the artist which constitutes his talent. for, according to the definitions above given, that which makes him an artist is his capacity for seizing upon the essential characteristics and the salient traits of surrounding objects and events. other men see things in part fragmentarily; he catches the spirit of the ensemble. and in this way he will very likely exaggerate in his works the general average of contemporary feeling. lastly, our author reminds us that a man who writes or paints does not remain alone before his easel or his writing-desk. he goes out, looks about him, receives suggestions from friends, from rivals, from books, and works of art whenever accessible, and hears the criticisms of the public upon his own productions and those of his contemporaries. in order to succeed, he must not only satisfy to some extent the popular taste, but he must feel that the public is in sympathy with him. if in this period of social decadence and gloom he endeavours to represent gay, brilliant, or triumphant ideas, he will find himself left to his own resources; and, as taine rightly says, the power of an isolated man is always insignificant. his work will be likely to be mediocre. if he attempts to write like rabelais or paint like rubens, he will get neither assistance nor sympathy from a public which prefers the pictures of rembrandt, the melodies of chopin, and the poetry of heine. having thus explained his position by this extreme instance, signified for the sake of clearness, taine goes on to apply such general considerations to four historic epochs, taken in all their complexity. he discusses the aspect presented by art in ancient greece, in the feudal and catholic middle ages, in the centralized monarchies of the seventeenth century, and in the scientific, industrial democracy in which we now live. out of these we shall select, as perhaps the simplest, the case of ancient greece, still following our author closely, though necessarily omitting many interesting details. the ancient greeks, observes taine, understood life in a new and original manner. their energies were neither absorbed by a great religious conception, as in the case of the hindus and egyptians, nor by a vast social organization, as in the case of the assyrians and persians, nor by a purely industrial and commercial regime, as in the case of the phoenicians and carthaginians. instead of a theocracy or a rigid system of castes, instead of a monarchy with a hierarchy of civil officials, the men of this race invented a peculiar institution, the city, each city giving rise to others like itself, and from colony to colony reproducing itself indefinitely. a single greek city, for instance, miletos, produced three hundred other cities, colonizing with them the entire coast of the black sea. each city was substantially self-ruling; and the idea of a coalescence of several cities into a nation was one which the greek mind rarely conceived, and never was able to put into operation. in these cities, labour was for the most part carried on by slaves. in athens there were four or five for each citizen, and in places like korinth and aigina the slave population is said to have numbered four or five hundred thousand. besides, the greek citizen had little need of personal service. he lived out of doors, and, like most southern people, was comparatively abstemious in his habits. his dinners were slight, his clothing was simple, his house was scantily furnished, being intended chiefly for a den to sleep in. serving neither king nor priest, the citizen was free and sovereign in his own city. he elected his own magistrates, and might himself serve as city-ruler, as juror, or as judge. representation was unknown. legislation was carried on by all the citizens assembled in mass. therefore politics and war were the sole or chief employments of the citizen. war, indeed, came in for no slight share of his attention. for society was not so well protected as in these modern days. most of these greek cities, scattered over the coasts of the aigeian, the black sea, and the mediterranean, were surrounded by tribes of barbarians, scythians, gauls spaniards, and africans. the citizen must therefore keep on his guard, like the englishman of to-day in new zealand, or like the inhabitant of a massachusetts town in the seventeenth century. otherwise gauls samnites, or bithynians, as savage as north american indians, would be sure to encamp upon the blackened ruins of his town. moreover, the greek cities had their quarrels with each other, and their laws of war were very barbarous. a conquered city was liable to be razed to the ground, its male inhabitants put to the sword, its women sold as slaves. under such circumstances, according to taine's happy expression, a citizen must be a politician and warrior, on pain of death. and not only fear, but ambition also tended to make him so. for each city strove to subject or to humiliate its neighbours, to acquire tribute, or to exact homage from its rivals. thus the citizen passed his life in the public square, discussing alliances, treaties, and constitutions, hearing speeches, or speaking himself, and finally going aboard of his ship to fight his neighbour greeks, or to sail against egypt or persia. war (and politics as subsidiary to it) was then the chief pursuit of life. but as there was no organized industry, so there were no machines of warfare. all fighting was done hand to hand. therefore, the great thing in preparing for war was not to transform the soldiers into precisely-acting automata, as in a modern army, but to make each separate soldier as vigorous and active as possible. the leading object of greek education was to make men physically perfect. in this respect, sparta may be taken as the typical greek community, for nowhere else was physical development so entirely made the great end of social life. in these matters sparta was always regarded by the other cities as taking the lead,--as having attained the ideal after which all alike were striving. now sparta, situated in the midst of a numerous conquered population of messenians and helots, was partly a great gymnasium and partly a perpetual camp. her citizens were always in training. the entire social constitution of sparta was shaped with a view to the breeding and bringing up of a strong and beautiful race. feeble or ill-formed infants were put to death. the age at which citizens might marry was prescribed by law; and the state paired off men and women as the modern breeder pairs off horses, with a sole view to the excellence of the off-spring. a wife was not a helpmate, but a bearer of athletes. women boxed, wrestled, and raced; a circumstance referred to in the following passage of aristophanes, as rendered by mr. felton:-- lysistrata. hail! lampito, dearest of lakonian women. how shines thy beauty, o my sweetest friend! how fair thy colour, full of life thy frame! why, thou couldst choke a bull. lampito. yes, by the twain; for i do practice the gymnastic art, and, leaping, strike my backbone with my heels. lysistrata. in sooth, thy bust is lovely to behold. the young men lived together, like soldiers in a camp. they ate out-of-doors, at a public table. their fare was as simple as that of a modern university boat-crew before a race. they slept in the open air, and spent their waking hours in wrestling, boxing, running races, throwing quoits, and engaging in mock battles. this was the way in which the spartans lived; and though no other city carried this discipline to such an extent, yet in all a very large portion of the citizen's life was spent in making himself hardy and robust. the ideal man, in the eyes of a greek, was, therefore not the contemplative or delicately susceptible thinker but the naked athlete, with firm flesh and swelling muscles. most of their barbarian neighbours were ashamed to be seen undressed, but the greeks seem to have felt little embarrassment in appearing naked in public. their gymnastic habits entirely transformed their sense of shame. their olympic and other public games were a triumphant display of naked physical perfection. young men of the noblest families and from the farthest greek colonies came to them, and wrestled and ran, undraped, before countless multitudes of admiring spectators. note, too, as significant, that the greek era began with the olympic games, and that time was reckoned by the intervals between them; as well as the fact that the grandest lyric poetry of antiquity was written in celebration of these gymnastic contests. the victor in the foot-race gave his name to the current olympiad; and on reaching home, was received by his fellow-citizens as if he had been a general returning from a successful campaign. to be the most beautiful man in greece was in the eyes of a greek the height of human felicity; and with the greeks, beauty necessarily included strength. so ardently did this gifted people admire corporeal perfection that they actually worshipped it. according to herodotos, a young sicilian was deified on account of his beauty, and after his death altars were raised to him. the vast intellectual power of plato and sokrates did not prevent them from sharing this universal enthusiasm. poets like sophokles, and statesmen like alexander, thought it not beneath their dignity to engage publicly in gymnastic sports. their conceptions of divinity were framed in accordance with these general habits. though sometimes, as in the case of hephaistos, the exigencies of the particular myth required the deity to be physically imperfect, yet ordinarily the greek god was simply an immortal man, complete in strength and beauty. the deity was not invested with the human form as a mere symbol. they could conceive no loftier way of representing him. the grandest statue, expressing most adequately the calmness of absolutely unfettered strength, might well, in their eyes, be a veritable portrait of divinity. to a greek, beauty of form was a consecrated thing. more than once a culprit got off with his life because it would have been thought sacrilegious to put an end to such a symmetrical creature. and for a similar reason, the greeks, though perhaps not more humane than the europeans of the middle ages, rarely allowed the human body to be mutilated or tortured. the condemned criminal must be marred as little as possible; and he was, therefore, quietly poisoned, instead of being hung, beheaded, or broken on the wheel. is not the unapproachable excellence of greek statuary--that art never since equalled, and most likely, from the absence of the needful social stimulus, destined never to be equalled--already sufficiently explained? consider, says our author, the nature of the greek sculptor's preparation. these men have observed the human body naked and in movement, in the bath and the gymnasium, in sacred dances and public games. they have noted those forms and attitudes in which are revealed vigour, health, and activity. and during three or four hundred years they have thus modified, corrected and developed their notions of corporeal beauty. there is, therefore, nothing surprising in the fact that greek sculpture finally arrived at the ideal model, the perfect type, as it was, of the human body. our highest notions of physical beauty, down to the present day, have been bequeathed to us by the greeks. the earliest modern sculptors who abandoned the bony, hideous, starveling figures of the monkish middle ages, learned their first lessons in better things from greek bas-reliefs. and if, to-day, forgetting our half-developed bodies, inefficiently nourished, because of our excessive brain-work, and with their muscles weak and flabby from want of strenuous exercise, we wish to contemplate the human form in its grandest perfection, we must go to hellenic art for our models. the greeks were, in the highest sense of the word, an intellectual race; but they never allowed the mind to tyrannize over the body. spiritual perfection, accompanied by corporeal feebleness, was the invention of asceticism; and the greeks were never ascetics. diogenes might scorn superfluous luxuries, but if he ever rolled and tumbled his tub about as rabelais says he did, it is clear that the victory of spirit over body formed no part of his theory of things. such an idea would have been incomprehensible to a greek in plato's time. their consciences were not over active. they were not burdened with a sense of sinfulness. their aspirations were decidedly finite; and they believed in securing the maximum completeness of this terrestrial life. consequently they never set the physical below the intellectual. to return to our author, they never, in their statues, subordinated symmetry to expression, the body to the head. they were interested not only in the prominence of the brows, the width of the forehead, and the curvature of the lips, but quite as much in the massiveness of the chest, the compactness of the thighs, and the solidity of the arms and legs. not only the face, but the whole body, had for them its physiognomy. they left picturesqueness to the painter, and dramatic fervour to the poet; and keeping strictly before their eyes the narrow but exalted problem of representing the beauty of symmetry, they filled their sanctuaries and public places with those grand motionless people of brass, gold, ivory, copper, and marble, in whom humanity recognizes its highest artistic types. statuary was the central art of greece. no other art was so popular, or so completely expressed the national life. the number of statues was enormous. in later days, when rome had spoiled the greek world of its treasures, the imperial city possessed a population of statues almost equal in number to its population of human beings. and at the present day, after all the destructive accidents of so many intervening centuries, it is estimated that more than sixty thousand statues have been obtained from rome and its suburbs alone. in citing this admirable exposition as a specimen of m. taine's method of dealing with his subject, we have refrained from disturbing the pellucid current of thought by criticisms of our own. we think the foregoing explanation correct enough, so far as it goes, though it deals with the merest rudiments of the subject, and really does nothing toward elucidating the deeper mysteries of artistic production. for this there is needed a profounder psychology than m. taine's. but whether his theory of art be adequate or not, there can be but one opinion as to the brilliant eloquence with which it is set forth. june, . xiv. athenian and american life. in a very interesting essay on british and foreign characteristics, published a few years ago, mr. w. r. greg quotes the famous letter of the turkish cadi to mr. layard, with the comment that "it contains the germ and element of a wisdom to which our busy and bustling existence is a stranger"; and he uses it as a text for an instructive sermon on the "gospel of leisure." he urges, with justice, that the too eager and restless modern man, absorbed in problems of industrial development, may learn a wholesome lesson from the contemplation of his oriental brother, who cares not to say, "behold, this star spinneth round that star, and this other star with a tail cometh and goeth in so many years"; who aspires not after a "double stomach," nor hopes to attain to paradise by "seeking with his eyes." if any one may be thought to stand in need of some such lesson, it is the american of to-day. just as far as the turk carries his apathy to excess, does the american carry to excess his restlessness. but just because the incurious idleness of the turk is excessive, so as to be detrimental to completeness of living, it is unfit to supply us with the hints we need concerning the causes, character, and effects of our over-activity. a sermon of leisure, if it is to be of practical use to us, must not be a sermon of laziness. the oriental state of mind is incompatible with progressive improvement of any sort, physical, intellectual, or moral. it is one of the phenomena attendant upon the arrival of a community at a stationary condition before it has acquired a complex civilization. and it appears serviceable rather as a background upon which to exhibit in relief our modern turmoil, than by reason of any lesson which it is itself likely to convey. let us in preference study one of the most eminently progressive of all the communities that have existed. let us take an example quite different from any that can be drawn from oriental life, but almost equally contrasted with any that can be found among ourselves; and let us, with the aid of it, examine the respective effects of leisure and of hurry upon the culture of the community. what do modern critics mean by the "healthy completeness" of ancient life, which they are so fond of contrasting with the "heated," "discontented," or imperfect and one-sided existence of modern communities? is this a mere set of phrases, suited to some imaginary want of the literary critic, but answering to nothing real? are they to be summarily disposed of as resting upon some tacit assumption of that old-grannyism which delights in asseverating that times are not what they used to be? is the contrast an imaginary one, due to the softened, cheerful light with which we are wont to contemplate classic antiquity through the charmed medium of its incomparable literature? or is it a real contrast, worthy of the attention and analysis of the historical inquirer? the answer to these queries will lead us far into the discussion of the subject which we have propounded, and we shall best reach it by considering some aspects of the social condition of ancient greece. the lessons to be learned from that wonderful country are not yet exhausted each time that we return to that richest of historic mines, and delve faithfully and carefully, we shall be sure to dig up some jewel worth carrying away. and in considering ancient greece, we shall do well to confine our attention, for the sake of definiteness of conception, to a single city. comparatively homogeneous as greek civilization was, there was nevertheless a great deal of difference between the social circumstances of sundry of its civic communities. what was true of athens was frequently not true of sparta or thebes, and general assertions about ancient greece are often likely to be collect only in a loose and general way. in speaking, therefore, of greece, i must be understood in the main as referring to athens, the eye and light of greece, the nucleus and centre of hellenic culture. let us note first that athens was a large city surrounded by pleasant village-suburbs,--the demes of attika,--very much as boston is closely girdled by rural places like brookline, jamaica plain, and the rest, village after village rather thickly covering a circuit of from ten to twenty miles' radius. the population of athens with its suburbs may perhaps have exceeded half a million; but the number of adult freemen bearing arms did not exceed twenty-five thousand. [ ] for every one of these freemen there were four or five slaves; not ignorant, degraded labourers, belonging to an inferior type of humanity, and bearing the marks of a lower caste in their very personal formation and in the colour of their skin, like our lately-enslaved negroes; but intelligent, skilled labourers, belonging usually to the hellenic, and at any rate to the aryan race, as fair and perhaps as handsome as their masters, and not subjected to especial ignominy or hardship. these slaves, of whom there were at least one hundred thousand adult males, relieved the twenty-five thousand freemen of nearly all the severe drudgery of life; and the result was an amount of leisure perhaps never since known on an equal scale in history. [ ] see herod. v. ; aristoph. ekkl. ; thukyd. ii. ; plutarch, perikl. . the relations of master and slave in ancient athens constituted, of course, a very different phenomenon from anything which the history of our own southern states has to offer us. our southern slaveholders lived in an age of industrial development; they were money-makers: they had their full share of business in managing the operations for which their labourers supplied the crude physical force. it was not so in athens. the era of civilization founded upon organized industry had not begun; money-making had not come to be, with the greeks, the one all-important end of life; and mere subsistence, which is now difficult, was then easy. the athenian lived in a mild, genial, healthy climate, in a country which has always been notable for the activity and longevity of its inhabitants. he was frugal in his habits,--a wine-drinker and an eater of meat, but rarely addicted to gluttony or intemperance. his dress was inexpensive, for the greek climate made but little protection necessary, and the gymnastic habits of the greeks led them to esteem more highly the beauty of the body than that of its covering. his house was simple, not being intended for social purposes, while of what we should call home-life the greeks had none. the house was a shelter at night, a place where the frugal meal might be taken, a place where the wife might stay, and look after the household slaves or attend to the children. and this brings us to another notable feature of athenian life. the wife having no position in society, being nothing, indeed, but a sort of household utensil, how greatly was life simplified! what a door for expenditure was there, as yet securely closed, and which no one had thought of opening! no milliner's or dressmaker's bills, no evening parties, no protean fashions, no elegant furniture, no imperious necessity for kleanthes to outshine kleon, no coaches, no chateau margaux, no journeys to arkadia in the summer! in such a state of society, as one may easily see, the labour of one man would support half a dozen. it cost the athenian but a few cents daily to live, and even these few cents might be earned by his slaves. we need not, therefore, be surprised to learn that in ancient athens there were no paupers or beggars. there might be poverty, but indigence was unknown; and because of the absence of fashion, style, and display, even poverty entailed no uncomfortable loss of social position. the athenians valued wealth highly, no doubt, as a source of contributions to public festivals and to the necessities of the state. but as far as the circumstances of daily life go, the difference between the rich man and the poor man was immeasurably less than in any modern community, and the incentives to the acquirement of wealth were, as a consequence, comparatively slight. i do not mean to say that the athenians did not engage in business. their city was a commercial city, and their ships covered the mediterranean. they had agencies and factories at marseilles, on the remote coasts of spain, and along the shores of the black sea. they were in many respects the greatest commercial people of antiquity, and doubtless knew, as well as other people, the keen delights of acquisition. but my point is, that with them the acquiring of property had not become the chief or only end of life. production was carried on almost entirely by slave-labour; interchange of commodities was the business of the masters, and commerce was in those days simple. banks, insurance companies, brokers' boards,--all these complex instruments of mammon were as yet unthought of. there was no wall street in ancient athens; there were no great failures, no commercial panics, no over-issues of stock. commerce, in short, was a quite subordinate matter, and the art of money-making was in its infancy. the twenty-five thousand athenian freemen thus enjoyed, on the whole, more undisturbed leisure, more freedom from petty harassing cares, than any other community known to history. nowhere else can we find, on careful study, so little of the hurry and anxiety which destroys the even tenour of modern life,--nowhere else so few of the circumstances which tend to make men insane, inebriate, or phthisical, or prematurely old. this being granted, it remains only to state and illustrate the obverse fact. it is not only true that athens has produced and educated a relatively larger number of men of the highest calibre and most complete culture than any other community of like dimensions which has ever existed; but it is also true that there has been no other community, of which the members have, as a general rule, been so highly cultivated, or have attained individually such completeness of life. in proof of the first assertion it will be enough to mention such names as those of solon, themistokles, perikles, and demosthenes; isokrates and lysias; aristophanes and menander; aischylos, sophokles, and euripides; pheidias and praxiteles; sokrates and plato; thukydides and xenophon: remembering that these men, distinguished for such different kinds of achievement, but like each other in consummateness of culture, were all produced within one town in the course of three centuries. at no other time and place in human history has there been even an approach to such a fact as this. my other assertion, about the general culture of the community in which such men were reared, will need a more detailed explanation. when i say that the athenian public was, on the whole, the most highly cultivated public that has ever existed, i refer of course to something more than what is now known as literary culture. of this there was relatively little in the days of athenian greatness; and this was because there was not yet need for it or room for it. greece did not until a later time begin to produce scholars and savants; for the function of scholarship does not begin until there has been an accumulation of bygone literature to be interpreted for the benefit of those who live in a later time. grecian greatness was already becoming a thing of the past, when scholarship and literary culture of the modern type began at rome and alexandria. the culture of the ancient athenians was largely derived from direct intercourse with facts of nature and of life, and with the thoughts of rich and powerful minds orally expressed. the value of this must not be underrated. we moderns are accustomed to get so large a portion of our knowledge and of our theories of life out of books, our taste and judgment are so largely educated by intercourse with the printed page, that we are apt to confound culture with book-knowledge; we are apt to forget the innumerable ways in which the highest intellectual faculties may be disciplined without the aid of literature. we must study antiquity to realize how thoroughly this could be done. but even in our day, how much more fruitful is the direct influence of an original mind over us, in the rare cases when it can be enjoyed, than any indirect influence which the same mind may exert through the medium of printed books! what fellow of a college, placed amid the most abundant and efficient implements of study, ever gets such a stimulus to the highest and richest intellectual life as was afforded to eckermann by his daily intercourse with goethe? the breadth of culture and the perfection of training exhibited by john stuart mill need not surprise us when we recollect that his earlier days were spent in the society of james mill and jeremy bentham. and the remarkable extent of view, the command of facts, and the astonishing productiveness of such modern frenchmen as sainte-beuve and littre become explicable when we reflect upon the circumstance that so many able and brilliant men are collected in one city, where their minds may continually and directly react upon each other. it is from the lack of such personal stimulus that it is difficult or indeed wellnigh impossible, even for those whose resources are such as to give them an extensive command of books, to keep up to the highest level of contemporary culture while living in a village or provincial town. and it is mainly because of the personal stimulus which it affords to its students, that a great university, as a seat of culture, is immeasurably superior to a small one. nevertheless, the small community in any age possesses one signal advantage over the large one, in its greater simplicity of life and its consequent relative leisure. it was the prerogative of ancient athens that it united the advantages of the large to those of the small community. in relative simplicity of life it was not unlike the modern village, while at the same time it was the metropolis where the foremost minds of the time were enabled to react directly upon one another. in yet another respect these opposite advantages were combined. the twenty-five thousand free inhabitants might perhaps all know something of each other. in this respect athens was doubtless much like a new england country town, with the all-important difference that the sordid tone due to continual struggle for money was absent. it was like the small town in the chance which it afforded for publicity and community of pursuits among its inhabitants. continuous and unrestrained social intercourse was accordingly a distinctive feature of athenian life. and, as already hinted, this intercourse did not consist in evening flirtations, with the eating of indigestible food at unseasonable hours, and the dancing of "the german." it was carried on out-of-doors in the brightest sunlight; it brooked no effeminacy; its amusements were athletic games, or dramatic entertainments, such as have hardly since been equalled. its arena was a town whose streets were filled with statues and adorned with buildings, merely to behold which was in itself an education. the participators in it were not men with minds so dwarfed by exclusive devotion to special pursuits that after "talking shop" they could find nothing else save wine and cookery to converse about. they were men with minds fresh and open for the discussion of topics which are not for a day only. a man like sokrates, living in such a community, did not need to write down his wisdom. he had no such vast public as the modern philosopher has to reach. he could hail any one he happened to pass in the street, begin an argument with him forthwith, and set a whole crowd thinking and inquiring about subjects the mere contemplation of which would raise them for the moment above matters of transient concern. for more than half a century any citizen might have gratis the benefit of oral instruction from such a man as he. and i sometimes think, by the way, that--curtailed as it is to literary proportions in the dialogues of plato, bereft of all that personal potency which it had when it flowed, instinct with earnestness, from the lips of the teacher--even to this day the wit of man has perhaps devised no better general gymnastics for the understanding than the sokratic dialectic. i am far from saying that all athens listened to sokrates or understood him: had it been so, the caricature of aristophanes would have been pointless, and the sublime yet mournful trilogy of dialogues which pourtray the closing scenes of the greatest life of antiquity would never have been written. but the mere fact that such a man lived and taught in the way that he did goes far in proof of the deep culture of the athenian public. further confirmation is to be found in the fact that such tragedies as the antigone, the oidipous, and the prometheus were written to suit the popular taste of the time; not to be read by literary people, or to be performed before select audiences such as in our day listen to ristori or janauschek, but to hold spell-bound that vast concourse of all kinds of people which assembled at the dionysiac festivals. still further proof is furnished by the exquisite literary perfection of greek writings. one of the common arguments in favour of the study of greek at the present day is based upon the opinion that in the best works extant in that language the art of literary expression has reached wellnigh absolute perfection. i fully concur in this opinion, so far as to doubt if even the greatest modern writers, even a pascal or a voltaire, can fairly sustain a comparison with such athenians as plato or lysias. this excellence of the ancient books is in part immediately due to the fact that they were not written in a hurry, or amid the anxieties of an over-busy existence; but it is in greater part due to the indirect consequences of a leisurely life. these books were written for a public which knew well how to appreciate the finer beauties of expression; and, what is still more to the point, their authors lived in a community where an elegant style was habitual. before a matchless style can be written, there must be a good style "in the air," as the french say. probably the most finished talking and writing of modern times has been done in and about the french court in the seventeenth century; and it is accordingly there that we find men like pascal and bossuet writing a prose which for precision, purity, and dignity has never since been surpassed. it is thus that the unapproachable literary excellence of ancient greek books speaks for the genuine culture of the people who were expected to read them, or to hear them read. for one of the surest indices of true culture, whether professedly literary or not, is the power to express one's self in precise, rhythmical, and dignified language. we hardly need a better evidence than this of the superiority of the ancient community in the general elevation of its tastes and perceptions. recollecting how herodotos read his history at the olympic games, let us try to imagine even so picturesque a writer as mr. parkman reading a few chapters of his "jesuits in north america" before the spectators assembled at the jerome park races, and we shall the better realize how deep-seated was hellenic culture. as yet, however, i have referred to but one side of athenian life. though "seekers after wisdom," the cultivated people of athens did not spend all their valuable leisure in dialectics or in connoisseurship. they were not a set of dilettanti or dreamy philosophers, and they were far from subordinating the material side of life to the intellectual. also, though they dealt not in money-making after the eager fashion of modern men, they had still concerns of immediate practical interest with which to busy themselves. each one of these twenty-five thousand free athenians was not only a free voter, but an office-holder, a legislator, a judge. they did not control the government through a representative body, but they were themselves the government. they were, one and all, in turn liable to be called upon to make laws, and to execute them after they were made, as well as to administer justice in civil and criminal suits. the affairs and interests, not only of their own city, but of a score or two of scattered dependencies, were more or less closely to be looked after by them. it lay with them to declare war, to carry it on after declaring it, and to pay the expenses of it. actually and not by deputy they administered the government of their own city, both in its local and in its imperial relations. all this implies a more thorough, more constant, and more vital political training than that which is implied by the modern duties of casting a ballot and serving on a jury. the life of the athenian was emphatically a political life. from early manhood onward, it was part of his duty to hear legal questions argued by powerful advocates, and to utter a decision upon law and fact; or to mix in debate upon questions of public policy, arguing, listening, and pondering. it is customary to compare the political talent of the greeks unfavourably with that displayed by the romans, and i have no wish to dispute this estimate. but on a careful study it will appear that the athenians, at least, in a higher degree than any other community of ancient times, exhibited parliamentary tact, or the ability to sit still while both sides of a question are getting discussed,--that sort of political talent for which the english races are distinguished, and to the lack of which so many of the political failures of the french are egregiously due. one would suppose that a judicature of the whole town would be likely to execute a sorry parody of justice; yet justice was by no means ill-administered at athens. even the most unfortunate and disgraceful scenes,--as where the proposed massacre of the mytilenaians was discussed, and where summary retribution was dealt out to the generals who had neglected their duty at arginusai,--even these scenes furnish, when thoroughly examined, as by mr. grote, only the more convincing proof that the athenian was usually swayed by sound reason and good sense to an extraordinary degree. all great points in fact, were settled rather by sober appeals to reason than by intrigue or lobbying; and one cannot help thinking that an athenian of the time of perikles would have regarded with pitying contempt the trick of the "previous question." and this explains the undoubted pre-eminence of athenian oratory. this accounts for the fact that we find in the forensic annals of a single city, and within the compass of a single century, such names as lysias, isokrates, andokides, hypereides, aischines, and demosthenes. the art of oratory, like the art of sculpture, shone forth more brilliantly then than ever since, because then the conditions favouring its development were more perfectly combined than they have since been. now, a condition of society in which the multitude can always be made to stand quietly and listen to a logical discourse is a condition of high culture. readers of xenophon's anabasis will remember the frequency of the speeches in that charming book. whenever some terrible emergency arose, or some alarming quarrel or disheartening panic occurred, in the course of the retreat of the ten thousand, an oration from one of the commanders--not a demagogue's appeal to the lower passions, but a calm exposition of circumstances addressed to the sober judgment--usually sufficed to set all things in order. to my mind this is one of the most impressive historical lessons conveyed in xenophon's book. and this peculiar kind of self-control, indicative of intellectual sobriety and high moral training, which was more or less characteristic of all greeks, was especially characteristic of the athenians. these illustrations will, i hope, suffice to show that there is nothing extravagant in the high estimate which i have made of athenian culture. i have barely indicated the causes of this singular perfection of individual training in the social circumstances amid which the athenians lived. i have alleged it as an instance of what may be accomplished by a well-directed leisure and in the absence or very scanty development of such a complex industrial life as that which surrounds us to-day. but i have not yet quite done with the athenians. before leaving this part of the subject, i must mention one further circumstance which tends to make ancient life appear in our eyes more sunny and healthy and less distressed, than the life of modern times. and in this instance, too, though we are not dealing with any immediate or remote effects of leisureliness, we still have to note the peculiar advantage gained by the absence of a great complexity of interests in the ancient community. with respect to religion, the athenians were peculiarly situated. they had for the most part outgrown the primitive terrorism of fetishistic belief. save in cases of public distress, as in the mutilation of the hermai, or in the refusal of nikias to retreat from syracuse because of an eclipse of the moon, they were no longer, like savages, afraid of the dark. their keen aesthetic sense had prevailed to turn the horrors of a primeval nature-worship into beauties. their springs and groves were peopled by their fancy with naiads and dryads, not with trolls and grotesque goblins. their feelings toward the unseen powers at work about them were in the main pleasant; as witness the little story about pheidippides meeting the god pan as he was making with hot haste toward sparta to announce the arrival of the persians. now, while this original source of mental discomfort, which afflicts the uncivilized man, had ceased materially to affect the athenians, they on the other hand lived at a time when the vague sense of sin and self-reproof which was characteristic of the early ages of christianity, had not yet invaded society. the vast complication of life brought about by the extension of the roman empire led to a great development of human sympathies, unknown in earlier times, and called forth unquiet yearnings, desire for amelioration, a sense of short-coming, and a morbid self-consciousness. it is accordingly under roman sway that we first come across characters approximating to the modern type, like cicero, seneca, epictetus, and marcus aurelius. it is then that we find the idea of social progress first clearly expressed, that we discover some glimmerings of a conscious philanthropy, and that we detect the earliest symptoms of that unhealthy tendency to subordinate too entirely the physical to the moral life, which reached its culmination in the middle ages. in the palmy days of the athenians it was different. when we hint that they were not consciously philanthropists, we do not mean that they were not humane; when we accredit them with no idea of progress, we do not forget how much they did to render both the idea and the reality possible; when we say that they had not a distressing sense of spiritual unworthiness, we do not mean that they had no conscience. we mean that their moral and religious life sat easily on them, like their own graceful drapery,--did not gall and worry them, like the hair-cloth garment of the monk. they were free from that dark conception of a devil which lent terror to life in the middle ages; and the morbid self-consciousness which led mediaeval women to immure themselves in convents would have been to an athenian quite inexplicable. they had, in short, an open and childlike conception of religion; and, as such, it was a sunny conception. any one who will take the trouble to compare an idyl of theokritos with a modern pastoral, or the poem of kleanthes with a modern hymn, or the aphrodite of melos with a modern madonna, will realize most effectually what i mean. and, finally, the religion of the athenians was in the main symbolized in a fluctuating mythology, and had never been hardened into dogmas. the athenian was subject to no priest, nor was he obliged to pin his faith to any formulated creed. his hospitable polytheism left little room for theological persecution, and none for any heresy short of virtual atheism. the feverish doubts which rack the modern mind left him undisturbed. though he might sink to any depth of scepticism in philosophy, yet the eternal welfare of his soul was not supposed to hang upon the issue of his doubts. accordingly athenian society was not only characterized in the main by freedom of opinion, in spite of the exceptional cases of anaxagoras and sokrates; but there was also none of that gothic gloom with which the deep-seated christian sense of infinite responsibility for opinion has saddened modern religious life. in these reflections i have wandered a little way from my principal theme, in order more fully to show why the old greek life impresses us as so cheerful. returning now to the keynote with which we started, let us state succinctly the net result of what has been said about the athenians. as a people we have seen that they enjoyed an unparalleled amount of leisure, living through life with but little turmoil and clatter. their life was more spontaneous and unrestrained, less rigorously marked out by uncontrollable circumstances, than the life of moderns. they did not run so much in grooves. and along with this we have seen reason to believe that they were the most profoundly cultivated of all peoples; that a larger proportion of men lived complete, well-rounded, harmonious lives in ancient athens than in any other known community. keen, nimble-minded, and self-possessed; audacious speculators, but temperate and averse to extravagance; emotionally healthy, and endowed with an unequalled sense of beauty and propriety; how admirable and wonderful they seem when looked at across the gulf of ages intervening,--and what a priceless possession to humanity, of what noble augury for the distant future, is the fact that such a society has once existed! the lesson to be drawn from the study of this antique life will impress itself more deeply upon us after we have briefly contemplated the striking contrast to it which is afforded by the phase of civilization amid which we live to-day. ever since greek civilization was merged in roman imperialism, there has been a slowly growing tendency toward complexity of social life,--toward the widening of sympathies, the multiplying of interests, the increase of the number of things to be done. through the later middle ages, after roman civilization had absorbed and disciplined the incoming barbarism which had threatened to destroy it, there was a steadily increasing complication of society, a multiplication of the wants of life, and a consequent enhancement of the difficulty of self-maintenance. the ultimate causes of this phenomenon lie so far beneath the surface that they could be satisfactorily discussed only in a technical essay on the evolution of society. it will be enough for us here to observe that the great geographical discoveries of the sixteenth century and the somewhat later achievements of physical science have, during the past two hundred years, aided powerfully in determining the entrance of the western world upon an industrial epoch,--an epoch which has for its final object the complete subjection of the powers of nature to purposes of individual comfort and happiness. we have now to trace some of the effects of this lately-begun industrial development upon social life and individual culture. and as we studied the leisureliness of antiquity where its effects were most conspicuous, in the city of athens, we shall now do well to study the opposite characteristics of modern society where they are most conspicuously exemplified, in our own country. the attributes of american life which it will be necessary to signalize will be seen to be only the attributes of modern life in their most exaggerated phase. to begin with, in studying the united states, we are no longer dealing with a single city, or with small groups of cities. the city as a political unit, in the antique sense, has never existed among us, and indeed can hardly be said now to exist anywhere. the modern city is hardly more than a great emporium of trade, or a place where large numbers of people find it convenient to live huddled together; not a sacred fatherland to which its inhabitants owe their highest allegiance, and by the requirements of which their political activity is limited. what strikes us here is that our modern life is diffused or spread out, not concentrated like the ancient civic life. if the athenian had been the member of an integral community, comprising all peninsular greece and the mainland of asia minor, he could not have taken life so easily as he did. now our country is not only a very large one, but compared to its vast territorial extent it contains a very small population. if we go on increasing at the present rate, so that a century hence we number four or five hundred millions, our country will be hardly more crowded than china is to-day. or if our whole population were now to be brought east of niagara falls, and confined on the south by the potomac, we should still have as much elbow-room as they have in france. political economists can show the effects of this high ratio of land to inhabitants, in increasing wages, raising the interest of money, and stimulating production. we are thus living amid circumstances which are goading the industrial activity characteristic of the last two centuries, and notably of the english race, into an almost feverish energy. the vast extent of our unwrought territory is constantly draining fresh life from our older districts, to aid in the establishment of new frontier communities of a somewhat lower or less highly organized type. and these younger communities, daily springing up, are constantly striving to take on the higher structure,--to become as highly civilized and to enjoy as many of the prerogatives of civilization as the rest. all this calls forth an enormous quantity of activity, and causes american life to assume the aspect of a life-and-death struggle for mastery over the material forces of that part of the earth's surface upon which it thrives. it is thus that we are traversing what may properly be called the barbarous epoch of our history,--the epoch at which the predominant intellectual activity is employed in achievements which are mainly of a material character. military barbarism, or the inability of communities to live together without frequent warfare, has been nearly outgrown by the whole western world. private wars, long since made everywhere illegal, have nearly ceased; and public wars, once continual, have become infrequent. but industrial barbarism, by which i mean the inability of a community to direct a portion of its time to purposes of spiritual life, after providing for its physical maintenance,--this kind of barbarism the modern world has by no means outgrown. to-day, the great work of life is to live; while the amount of labour consumed in living has throughout the present century been rapidly increasing. nearly the whole of this american community toils from youth to old age in merely procuring the means for satisfying the transient wants of life. our time and energies, our spirit and buoyancy, are quite used up in what is called "getting on." another point of difference between the structure of american and of athenian society must not be left out of the account. the time has gone by in which the energies of a hundred thousand men and women could be employed in ministering to the individual perfection of twenty-five thousand. slavery, in the antique sense,--an absolute command of brain as well as of muscle, a slave-system of skilled labour,--we have never had. in our day it is for each man to earn his own bread; so that the struggle for existence has become universal. the work of one class does not furnish leisure for another class. the exceptional circumstances which freed the athenian from industrial barbarism, and enabled him to become the great teacher and model of culture for the human race, have disappeared forever. then the general standard of comfortable living, as already hinted, has been greatly raised, and is still rising. what would have satisfied the ancient would seem to us like penury. we have a domestic life of which the greek knew nothing. we live during a large part of the year in the house. our social life goes on under the roof. our houses are not mere places for eating and sleeping, like the houses of the ancients. it therefore costs us a large amount of toil to get what is called shelter for our heads. the sum which a young married man, in "good society," has to pay for his house and the furniture contained in it, would have enabled an athenian to live in princely leisure from youth to old age. the sum which he has to pay out each year, to meet the complicated expense of living in such a house, would have more than sufficed to bring up an athenian family. if worthy strepsiades could have got an asmodean glimpse of fifth avenue, or even of some unpretending street in cambridge, he might have gone back to his aristocratic wife a sadder but a more contented man. wealth--or at least what would until lately have been called wealth--has become essential to comfort; while the opportunities for acquiring it have in recent times been immensely multiplied. to get money is, therefore, the chief end of life in our time and country. "success in life" has become synonymous with "becoming wealthy." a man who is successful in what he undertakes is a man who makes his employment pay him in money. our normal type of character is that of the shrewd, circumspect business man; as in the middle ages it was that of the hardy warrior. and as in those days when fighting was a constant necessity, and when the only honourable way for a gentleman of high rank to make money was by freebooting, fighting came to be regarded as an end desirable in itself; so in these days the mere effort to accumulate has become a source of enjoyment rather than a means to it. the same truth is to be witnessed in aberrant types of character. the infatuated speculator and the close-fisted millionaire are our substitutes for the mediaeval berserkir,--the man who loved the pell-mell of a contest so well that he would make war on his neighbour, just to keep his hand in. in like manner, while such crimes as murder and violent robbery have diminished in frequency during the past century, on the other hand such crimes as embezzlement, gambling in stocks, adulteration of goods, and using of false weights and measures, have probably increased. if dick turpin were now to be brought back to life, he would find the new york custom-house a more congenial and profitable working-place than the king's highway. the result of this universal quest for money is that we are always in a hurry. our lives pass by in a whirl. it is all labour and no fruition. we work till we are weary; we carry our work home with us; it haunts our evenings, and disturbs our sleep as well as our digestion. our minds are so burdened with it that our conversation, when serious, can dwell upon little else. if we step into a railway-car, or the smoking-room of a hotel, or any other place where a dozen or two of men are gathered together, we shall hear them talking of stocks, of investments, of commercial paper, as if there were really nothing in this universe worth thinking of, save only the interchange of dollars and commodities. so constant and unremitted is our forced application, that our minds are dwarfed for everything except the prosecution of the one universal pursuit. are we now prepared for the completing of the contrast? must we say that, as athens was the most leisurely and the united states is the most hurried community known in history, so the americans are, as a consequence of their hurry, lacking in thoroughness of culture? or, since it is difficult to bring our modern culture directly into contrast with that of an ancient community, let me state the case after a different but equivalent fashion. since the united states present only an exaggerated type of the modern industrial community, since the turmoil of incessant money-getting, which affects all modern communities in large measure, affects us most seriously of all, shall it be said that we are, on the whole, less highly cultivated than our contemporaries in western europe? to a certain extent we must confess that this is the case. in the higher culture--in the culture of the whole man, according to the antique idea--we are undoubtedly behind all other nations with which it would be fair to compare ourselves. it will not do to decide a question like this merely by counting literary celebrities, although even thus we should by no means get a verdict in our favour. since the beginning of this century, england has produced as many great writers and thinkers as france or germany; yet the general status of culture in england is said--perhaps with truth--to be lower than it is in these countries. it is said that the average englishman is less ready than the average german or frenchman to sympathize with ideas which have no obvious market-value. yet in england there is an amount of high culture among those not professionally scholars, which it would be vain to seek among ourselves. the purposes of my argument, however, require that the comparison should be made between our own country and western europe in general. compare, then, our best magazines--not solely with regard to their intrinsic excellence, but also with regard to the way in which they are sustained--with the revue des deux mondes or the journal des debats. or compare our leading politicians with men like gladstone, disraeli, or sir g. c. lewis; or even with such men as brougham or thiers. or compare the slovenly style of our newspaper articles, i will not say with the exquisite prose of the lamented prevost-paradol, but with the ordinary prose of the french or english newspaper. but a far better illustration--for it goes down to the root of things--is suggested by the recent work of matthew arnold on the schools of the continent of europe. the country of our time where the general culture is unquestionably the highest is prussia. now, in prussia, they are able to have a minister of education, who is a member of the cabinet. they are sure that this minister will not appoint or remove even an assistant professor for political reasons. only once, as arnold tells us, has such a thing been done; and then public opinion expressed itself in such an emphatic tone of disapproval that the displaced teacher was instantly appointed to another position. nothing of this sort, says arnold, could have occurred in england; but still less could it occur in america. had we such an educational system, there would presently be an "education ring" to control it. nor can this difference be ascribed to the less eager political activity of germany. the prussian state of things would have been possible in ancient athens, where political life was as absorbing and nearly as turbulent as in the united states. the difference is due to our lack of faith in culture, a lack of faith in that of which we have not had adequate experience. we lack culture because we live in a hurry, and because our attention is given up to pursuits which call into activity and develop but one side of us. on the one hand contemplate sokrates quietly entertaining a crowd in the athenian market-place, and on the other hand consider broadway with its eternal clatter, and its throngs of hurrying people elbowing and treading on each other's heels, and you will get a lively notion of the difference between the extreme phases of ancient and modern life. by the time we have thus rushed through our day, we have no strength left to devote to things spiritual. to-day finds us no nearer fruition than yesterday. and if perhaps the time at last arrives when fruition is practicable, our minds have run so long in the ruts that they cannot be twisted out. as it is impossible for any person living in a given state of society to keep himself exempt from its influences, detrimental as well as beneficial, we find that even those who strive to make a literary occupation subservient to purposes of culture are not, save in rare cases, spared by the general turmoil. those who have at once the ability, the taste, and the wealth needful for training themselves to the accomplishment of some many-sided and permanent work are of course very few. nor have our universities yet provided themselves with the means for securing to literary talent the leisure which is essential to complete mental development, or to a high order of productiveness. although in most industrial enterprises we know how to work together so successfully, in literature we have as yet no co-operation. we have not only no paris, but we have not even a tubingen, a leipsic, or a jena, or anything corresponding to the fellowships in the english universities. our literary workers have no choice but to fall into the ranks, and make merchandise of their half-formed ideas. they must work without co-operation, they must write in a hurry, and they must write for those who have no leisure for aught but hasty and superficial reading. bursting boilers and custom-house frauds may have at first sight nothing to do with each other or with my subject. it is indisputable, however, that the horrible massacres perpetrated every few weeks or mouths by our common carriers, and the disgraceful peculation in which we allow our public servants to indulge with hardly ever an effective word of protest, are alike to be ascribed to the same causes which interfere with our higher culture. it is by no means a mere accidental coincidence that for every dollar stolen by government officials in prussia, at least fifty or a hundred are stolen in the united states. this does not show that the germans are our superiors in average honesty, but it shows that they are our superiors in thoroughness. it is with them an imperative demand that any official whatever shall be qualified for his post; a principle of public economy which in our country is not simply ignored in practice, but often openly laughed at. but in a country where high intelligence and thorough training are imperatively demanded, it follows of necessity that these qualifications must insure for their possessors a permanent career in which the temptations to malfeasance or dishonesty are reduced to the minimum. on the other hand, in a country where intelligence and training have no surety that they are to carry the day against stupidity and inefficiency, the incentives to dishonourable conduct are overpowering. the result in our own political life is that the best men are driven in disgust from politics, and thus one of the noblest fields for the culture of the whole man is given over to be worked by swindlers and charlatans. to an athenian such a severance of the highest culture from political life would have been utterly inconceivable. obviously the deepest explanation of all this lies in our lack of belief in the necessity for high and thorough training. we do not value culture enough to keep it in our employ or to pay it for its services; and what is this short-sighted negligence but the outcome of the universal shiftlessness begotten of the habit of doing everything in a hurry? on every hand we may see the fruits of this shiftlessness, from buildings that tumble in, switches that are misplaced, furnaces that are ill-protected, fire-brigades that are without discipline, up to unauthorized meddlings with the currency, and revenue laws which defeat their own purpose. i said above that the attributes of american life which we should find it necessary for our purpose to signalize are simply the attributes of modern life in their most exaggerated phase. is there not a certain sense in which all modern handiwork is hastily and imperfectly done? to begin with common household arts, does not every one know that old things are more durable than new things? our grandfathers wore better shoes than we wear, because there was leisure enough to cure the leather properly. in old times a chair was made of seasoned wood, and its joints carefully fitted; its maker had leisure to see that it was well put together. now a thousand are turned off at once by machinery, out of green wood, and, with their backs glued on, are hurried off to their evil fate,--destined to drop in pieces if they happen to stand near the fireplace, and liable to collapse under the weight of a heavy man. some of us still preserve, as heirlooms, old tables and bedsteads of cromwellian times: in the twenty-first century what will have become of our machine-made bedsteads and tables? perhaps it may seem odd to talk about tanning and joinery in connection with culture, but indeed there is a subtle bond of union holding together all these things. any phase of life can be understood only by associating with it some different phase. sokrates himself has taught us how the homely things illustrate the grand things. if we turn to the art of musical composition and inquire into some of the differences between our recent music and that of handel's time, we shall alight upon the very criticism which mr. mill somewhere makes in comparing ancient with modern literature: the substance has improved, but the form has in some respects deteriorated. the modern music expresses the results of a richer and more varied emotional experience, and in wealth of harmonic resources, to say nothing of increased skill in orchestration, it is notably superior to the old music. along with this advance, however, there is a perceptible falling off in symmetry and completeness of design, and in what i would call spontaneousness of composition. i believe that this is because modern composers, as a rule, do not drudge patiently enough upon counterpoint. they do not get that absolute mastery over technical difficulties of figuration which was the great secret of the incredible facility and spontaneity of composition displayed by handel and bach. among recent musicians mendelssohn is the most thoroughly disciplined in the elements of counterpoint; and it is this perfect mastery of the technique of his art which has enabled him to outrank schubert and schumann, neither of whom would one venture to pronounce inferior to him in native wealth of musical ideas. may we not partly attribute to rudimentary deficiency in counterpoint the irregularity of structure which so often disfigures the works of the great wagner and the lesser liszt, and which the more ardent admirers of these composers are inclined to regard as a symptom of progress? i am told that a similar illustration might be drawn from the modern history of painting; that, however noble the conceptions of the great painters of the present century, there are none who have gained such a complete mastery over the technicalities of drawing and the handling of the brush as was required in the times of raphael, titian, and rubens. but on this point i can only speak from hearsay, and am quite willing to end here my series of illustrations, fearing that i may already have been wrongly set down as a lavulator temporis acti. not the idle praising of times gone by, but the getting a lesson from them which may be of use to us, has been my object. and i believe enough has been said to show that the great complexity of modern life, with its multiplicity of demands upon our energy, has got us into a state of chronic hurry, the results of which are everywhere to be seen in the shape of less thorough workmanship and less rounded culture. for one moment let me stop to note a further source of the relative imperfection of modern culture, which is best illustrated in the case of literature. i allude to the immense, unorganized mass of literature in all departments, representing the accumulated acquisitions of past ages, which must form the basis of our own achievement, but with which our present methods of education seem inadequate to deal properly. speaking roughly, modern literature may be said to be getting into the state which roman jurisprudence was in before it was reformed by justinian. philosophic criticism has not yet reached the point at which it may serve as a natural codifier. we must read laboriously and expend a disproportionate amount of time and pains in winnowing the chaff from the wheat. this tends to make us "digs" or literary drudges; but i doubt if the "dig" is a thoroughly developed man. goethe, with all his boundless knowledge, his universal curiosity, and his admirable capacity for work, was not a "dig." but this matter can only be hinted at: it is too large to be well discussed at the fag end of an essay while other points are pressing for consideration. a state of chronic hurry not only directly hinders the performance of thorough work, but it has an indirect tendency to blunt the enjoyment of life. let us consider for a moment one of the psychological consequences entailed by the strain of a too complex and rapid activity. every one must have observed that in going off for a vacation of two or three weeks, or in getting freed in any way from the ruts of every-day life, time slackens its gait somewhat, and the events which occur are apt a few years later to cover a disproportionately large area in our recollections. this is because the human organism is a natural timepiece in which the ticks are conscious sensations. the greater the number of sensations which occupy the foreground of consciousness during the day, the longer the day seems in the retrospect. but the various groups of sensations which accompany our daily work tend to become automatic from continual repetition, and to sink into the background of consciousness; and in a very complex and busied life the number of sensations or states of consciousness which can struggle up to the front and get attended to, is comparatively small it is thus that the days seem so short when we are busy about every-day matters, and that they get blurred together, and as it were individually annihilated in recollection. when we travel, a comparatively large number of fresh sensations occupy attention, there is a maximum of consciousness, and a distinct image is left to loom up in memory. for the same reason the weeks and years are much longer to the child than to the grown man. the life is simpler and less hurried, so that there is time to attend to a great many sensations. now this fact lies at the bottom of that keen enjoyment of existence which is the prerogative of childhood and early youth. the day is not rushed through by the automatic discharge of certain psychical functions, but each sensation stays long enough to make itself recognized. now when once we understand the psychology of this matter, it becomes evident that the same contrast that holds between the child and the man must hold also between the ancient and the modern. the number of elements entering into ancient life were so few relatively, that there must have been far more than there is now of that intense realization of life which we can observe in children and remember of our own childhood. space permitting, it would be easy to show from greek literature how intense was this realization of life. but my point will already have been sufficiently apprehended. already we cannot fail to see how difficult it is to get more than a minimum of conscious fruition out of a too complex and rapid activity. one other point is worth noticing before we close. how is this turmoil of modern existence impressing itself upon the physical constitutions of modern men and women? when an individual man engages in furious productive activity, his friends warn him that he will break down. does the collective man of our time need some such friendly warning? let us first get a hint from what foreigners think of us ultra-modernized americans. wandering journalists, of an ethnological turn of mind, who visit these shores, profess to be struck with the slenderness, the apparent lack of toughness, the dyspeptic look, of the american physique. and from such observations it has been seriously argued that the stalwart english race is suffering inevitable degeneracy in this foreign climate. i have even seen it doubted whether a race of men can ever become thoroughly naturalized in a locality to which it is not indigenous. to such vagaries it is a sufficient answer that the english are no more indigenous to england than to america. they are indigenous to central asia, and as they have survived the first transplantation, they may be safely counted on to survive the second. a more careful survey will teach us that the slow alteration of physique which is going on in this country is only an exaggeration of that which modern civilization is tending to bring about everywhere. it is caused by the premature and excessive strain upon the mental powers requisite to meet the emergencies of our complex life. the progress of events has thrown the work of sustaining life so largely upon the brain that we are beginning to sacrifice the physical to the intellectual. we are growing spirituelle in appearance at the expense of robustness. compare any typical greek face, with its firm muscles, its symmetry of feature, and its serenity of expression, to a typical modern portrait, with its more delicate contour, its exaggerated forehead, its thoughtful, perhaps jaded look. or consider in what respects the grand faces of the plantagenet monarchs differ from the refined countenances of the leading english statesmen of to-day. or again, consider the familiar pictures of the oxford and harvard crews which rowed a race on the thames in , and observe how much less youthful are the faces of the americans. by contrast they almost look careworn. the summing up of countless such facts is that modern civilization is making us nervous. our most formidable diseases are of nervous origin. we seem to have got rid of the mediaeval plague and many of its typhoid congeners; but instead we have an increased amount of insanity, methomania, consumption, dyspepsia, and paralysis. in this fact it is plainly written that we are suffering physically from the over-work and over-excitement entailed by excessive hurry. in view of these various but nearly related points of difference between ancient and modern life as studied in their extreme manifestations, it cannot be denied that while we have gained much, we have also lost a good deal that is valuable, in our progress. we cannot but suspect that we are not in all points more highly favoured than the ancients. and it becomes probable that athens, at all events, which i have chosen as my example, may have exhibited an adumbration of a state of things which, for the world at large, is still in the future,--still to be remotely hoped for. the rich complexity of modern social achievement is attained at the cost of individual many-sidedness. as tennyson puts it, "the individual withers and the world is more and more." yet the individual does not exist for the sake of society, as the positivists would have us believe, but society exists for the sake of the individual. and the test of complete social life is the opportunity which it affords for complete individual life. tried by this test, our contemporary civilization will appear seriously defective,--excellent only as a preparation for something better. this is the true light in which to regard it. this incessant turmoil, this rage for accumulation of wealth, this crowding, jostling, and trampling upon one another, cannot be regarded as permanent, or as anything more than the accompaniment of a transitional stage of civilization. there must be a limit to the extent to which the standard of comfortable living can be raised. the industrial organization of society, which is now but beginning, must culminate in a state of things in which the means of expense will exceed the demand for expense, in which the human race will have some surplus capital. the incessant manual labour which the ancients relegated to slaves will in course of time be more and more largely performed by inanimate machinery. unskilled labour will for the most part disappear. skilled labour will consist in the guiding of implements contrived with versatile cunning for the relief of human nerve and muscle. ultimately there will be no unsettled land to fill, no frontier life, no savage races to be assimilated or extirpated, no extensive migration. thus life will again become comparatively stationary. the chances for making great fortunes quickly will be diminished, while the facilities for acquiring a competence by steady labour will be increased. when every one is able to reach the normal standard of comfortable living, we must suppose that the exaggerated appetite for wealth and display will gradually disappear. we shall be more easily satisfied, and thus enjoy more leisure. it may be that there will ultimately exist, over the civilized world, conditions as favourable to the complete fruition of life as those which formerly existed within the narrow circuit of attika; save that the part once played by enslaved human brain and muscle will finally be played by the enslaved forces of insentient nature. society will at last bear the test of providing for the complete development of its individual members. so, at least, we may hope; such is the probability which the progress of events, when carefully questioned, sketches out for us. "need we fear," asks mr. greg, "that the world would stagnate under such a change? need we guard ourselves against the misconstruction of being held to recommend a life of complacent and inglorious inaction? we think not. we would only substitute a nobler for a meaner strife,--a rational for an excessive toil,--an enjoyment that springs from serenity, for one that springs from excitement only..... to each time its own preacher, to each excess its own counteraction. in an age of dissipation, languor, and stagnation, we should join with mr. carlyle in preaching the 'evangel of work,' and say with him, 'blessed is the man who has found his work,--let him ask no other blessedness.' in an age of strenuous, frenzied,.... and often utterly irrational and objectless exertion, we join mr. mill in preaching the milder and more needed 'evangel of leisure.'" bearing all these things in mind, we may understand the remark of the supremely cultivated goethe, when asked who were his masters: die griechen, die griechen, und immer die griechen. we may appreciate the significance of mr. mill's argument in favour of the study of antiquity, that it preserves the tradition of an era of individual completeness. there is a disposition growing among us to remodel our methods of education in conformity with the temporary requirements of the age in which we live. in this endeavour there is much that is wise and practical; but in so far as it tends to the neglect of antiquity, i cannot think it well-timed. our education should not only enhance the value of what we possess; is should also supply the consciousness of what we lack. and while, for generations to come, we pass toilfully through an era of exorbitant industrialism, some fragment of our time will not be misspent in keeping alive the tradition of a state of things which was once briefly enjoyed by a little community, but which, in the distant future, will, as it is hoped, become the permanent possession of all mankind. january, . transcriber's note: a few typographical errors have been corrected: they are listed at the end of the text. in mathematical formulae the carat (^) and underscore (_) introduce superscripts or subscripts respectively, of one character or a group enclosed in curly braces ({xyz}). elsewhere underscores delimit italics in the text, and braces enclose the original page numbers thus { }. by augustus de morgan a budget of paradoxes reprinted with the author's additions from the athenaeum second edition edited by david eugene smith with a new introduction by ernest nagel professor of philosophy, columbia university unabridged edition--two volumes bound as one volume ii dover publications, inc., new york * * * * * _this new dover edition, published in , is an unabridged republication of the second edition of , with a new introduction by professor ernest nagel._ _copyright by dover publications, inc. manufactured in the united states of america_ * * * * * { } a budget of paradoxes. volume ii. on some philosophical atheists. with the general run of the philosophical atheists of the last century the notion of a god was an hypothesis. there was left an admitted possibility that the vague somewhat which went by more names than one, might be personal, intelligent, and superintendent. in the works of laplace,[ ] who is sometimes called an atheist from his writings, there is nothing from which such an inference can be drawn: unless indeed a reverend fellow of the royal society may be held to be the fool who said in his heart, etc., etc., if his contributions to the _philosophical transactions_ go no higher than _nature_. the following anecdote is well known in paris, but has never been printed entire. laplace once went in form to present some edition of his "système du monde" to the first consul, or emperor. napoleon, whom some wags had told that this book contained no mention of the name of god, and who was fond of putting embarrassing questions, received it with--"m. laplace, they tell me you have written this large book on the system of the universe, and have never even mentioned its creator." laplace, who, though the most supple of politicians, was as stiff as a martyr on every point of his philosophy or religion (e. g., even under charles x he never concealed his dislike of the priests), drew himself up and answered { } bluntly, "je n'avais pas besoin de cette hypothèse-là."[ ] napoleon, greatly amused, told this reply to lagrange, who exclaimed, "ah! c'est une belle hypothèse; ça explique beaucoup de choses."[ ] it is commonly said that the last words of laplace were, "ce que nous connaissons est peu de chose; ce que nous ignorons est immense."[ ] this looks like a parody on newton's pebbles:[ ] the following is the true account; it comes to me through one remove from poisson.[ ] after the publication (in ) of the fifth volume of the _mécanique céleste_, laplace became gradually weaker, and with it musing and abstracted. he thought much on the great problems of existence, and often muttered to himself, _qu'est ce que c'est que tout cela!_[ ] after many alternations, he appeared at last so permanently prostrated that his family applied to his favorite pupil, m. poisson, to try to get a word from him. poisson paid a visit, and after a few words of salutation, said, "j'ai une bonne nouvelle à vous annoncer: on a reçu au bureau des longitudes une lettre d'allemagne annonçant que m. bessel a vérifié par l'observation vos découvertes théoriques sur les satellites de jupiter."[ ] laplace opened his eyes and answered with deep { } gravity, "_l'homme ne poursuit que des chimères_."[ ] he never spoke again. his death took place march , . the language used by the two great geometers illustrates what i have said: a supreme and guiding intelligence--apart from a blind rule called _nature of things_--was an _hypothesis_. the absolute denial of such a ruling power was not in the plan of the higher philosophers: it was left for the smaller fry. a round assertion of the non-existence of anything which stands in the way is the refuge of a certain class of minds: but it succeeds only with things subjective; the objective offers resistance. a philosopher of the appropriative class tried it upon the constable who appropriated _him_: i deny your existence, said he; come along all the same, said the unpsychological policeman. euler[ ] was a believer in god, downright and straightforward. the following story is told by thiébault,[ ] in his _souvenirs de vingt ans de séjour à berlin_,[ ] published in his old age, about . this volume was fully received as trustworthy; and marshall mollendorff[ ] told the duc de bassano[ ] in that it was the most veracious of books written by the most honest of men. thiébault says that he has no personal knowledge of the truth of the story, but { } that it was believed throughout the whole of the north of europe. diderot[ ] paid a visit to the russian court at the invitation of the empress. he conversed very freely, and gave the younger members of the court circle a good deal of lively atheism. the empress was much amused, but some of her councillors suggested that it might be desirable to check these expositions of doctrine. the empress did not like to put a direct muzzle on her guest's tongue, so the following plot was contrived. diderot was informed that a learned mathematician was in possession of an algebraical demonstration of the existence of god, and would give it him before all the court, if he desired to hear it. diderot gladly consented: though the name of the mathematician is not given, it was euler. he advanced towards diderot, and said gravely, and in a tone of perfect conviction: _monsieur,_ (a + b^{n}) / n = x, _donc dieu existe; répondez!_[ ] diderot, to whom algebra was hebrew, was embarrassed and disconcerted; while peals of laughter rose on all sides. he asked permission to return to france at once, which was granted. rotation of the moon. an examination of the astronomical doctrine of the moon's rotation. by j. l.[ ] edinburgh, , vo. a systematic attack of the character afterwards made with less skill and more notice by mr. jellinger symons. july , j. l. appears as mr. james laurie, with a new pamphlet "the astronomical doctrines of the moon's rotation ..." edinburgh. of all the works i have seen on the question, this is the most confident, and the sorest. { } a writer on astronomy said of mr. jellinger symons,[ ] "of course he convinced no one who knew anything of the subject." this "ungenerous slur" on the speculator's memory appears to have been keenly felt; but its truth is admitted. those who knew anything of the subject are "the so-called men of science," whose three p's were assailed; prestige, pride, and prejudice: this the author tries to effect for himself with three q's; quibble, quirk, and quiddity. he explains that the scribes and pharisees would not hear jesus, and that the lordly bishop of rome will not cast his tiara and keys at the feet of the "humble presbyter" who now plays the part of pope in scotland. i do not know whom he means: but perhaps the friends of the presbyter-pope may consider this an ungenerous slur. the best proof of the astronomer is just such "as might have been expected from the merest of blockheads"; but as the giver is of course not a blockhead, this circumstance shows how deeply blinded by prejudice he must be. of course the paradoxers do not persuade any persons who know their subjects: and so these scribes and pharisees reject the messiah. we must suppose that the makers of this comparison are christians: for if they thought the messiah an enthusiast or an impostor, they would be absurd in comparing those who reject what they take for truth with others who once rejected what they take for falsehood. and if christians, they are both irreverent and blind to all analogy. the messiah, with his divine mission proved by miracles which all might see who chose to look, is degraded into a prototype of james laurie, ingeniously astronomizing upon ignorant geometry and false logic, and comparing to blockheads those who expose his nonsense. their comparison is as foolish as--supposing { } them christians--it is profane: but, like errors in general, its other end points to truth. there were pseudochrists and antichrists; and a concordance would find the real forerunners of all the paradoxers. but they are not so clever as the old false prophets: there are none of whom we should be inclined to say that, if it were possible, they would deceive the very educated. not an egyptian among them all can make uproar enough to collect four thousand men that are murderers--of common sense--to lead out into the wilderness. nothing, says the motto of this work, is so difficult to destroy as the errors and false facts propagated by illustrious men whose words have authority. i deny it altogether. there are things much more difficult to destroy: it is much more difficult to destroy the truths and real facts supported by such men. and again, it is much more difficult to prevent men of no authority from setting up false pretensions; and it is much more difficult to destroy assertions of fancy speculation. many an error of thought and learning has fallen before a gradual growth of thoughtful and learned opposition. but such things as the quadrature of the circle, etc., are never put down. and why? because thought can influence thought, but thought cannot influence self-conceit: learning can annihilate learning: but learning cannot annihilate ignorance. a sword may cut through an iron bar; and the severed ends will not reunite: let it go through the air, and the yielding substance is whole again in a moment. miracles _versus_ nature: being an application of certain propositions in the theory of chances to the christian miracles. by protimalethes.[ ] cambridge, , vo. the theory, as may be supposed, is carried further than most students of the subject would hold defensible. { } an astronomical lecture. by the rev. r. wilson.[ ] greenock, , mo. against the moon's rotation on her axis. [handed about in the streets in : i quote the whole:] important discovery in astronomy, communicated to the astronomer royal, december st, . that the sun revolve round the planets in - / years, in consequence of the combined attraction of the planets and their satellites, and that the earth revolve round the moon in years and days. d. t. glazier [altered with a pen into glazion.] price one penny. . in the _united service magazine_ for september, , mrs. borron,[ ] of shrewsbury, published some remarks tending to impeach the fact that neptune, the planet found by galle,[ ] really was the planet which le verrier and adams[ ] had a right to claim. this was followed (september ) by two pages, separately circulated, of "further observations upon the planets neptune and uranus, with a theory of perturbations"; and (october , ) by three pages of "a review of m. leverrier's exposition." several persons, when the remarkable discovery was made, contended that the planet actually discovered was an intruder; and the future histories of the discovery must contain some account of this little afterpiece. tim linkinwater's theory that there is no place like london for coincidences, would have been utterly overthrown in favor of what they used to call the celestial spaces, if there had been a planet which by chance was put { } near the place assigned to neptune at the time when the discovery was made. early ideas of aviation. aerial navigation; containing a description of a proposed flying machine, on a new principle. by dædalus britannicus. london, , vo. in - a mr. henson[ ] had proposed what he called an aeronaut steam-engine, and a bill was brought in to incorporate an "aerial transit company." the present plan is altogether different, the moving power being the explosion of mixed hydrogen and air. nothing came of it--not even a bill. what the final destiny of the balloon may be no one knows: it may reasonably be suspected that difficulties will at last be overcome. darwin,[ ] in his "botanic garden" ( ), has the following prophecy: "soon shall thy arm, unconquered steam! afar drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car; or, on wide-waving wings expanded, bear the flying chariot through the fields of air." darwin's contemporaries, no doubt, smiled pity on the poor man. it is worth note that the two true prophecies have been fulfilled in a sense different from that of the predictions. darwin was thinking of the suggestion of jonathan hulls,[ ] when he spoke of dragging the slow barge: it is only very recently that the steam-tug has been employed on the canals. the car was to be driven, not drawn, and on the common roads. perhaps, the flying chariot will { } be something of a character which we cannot imagine, even with the two prophecies and their fulfilments to help us.[ ] the secret of the universe divulged. a book for the public. new discovery. the causes of the circulation of the blood; and the true nature of the planetary system. london, , vo. light is the sustainer of motion both in the earth and in the blood. the natural standard, the pulse of a person in health, four beats to one respiration, gives the natural second, which is the measure of the earth's progress in its daily revolution. the greek fable of the titans is an elaborate exposition of the atomic theory: but any attempt to convince learned classics would only meet their derision; so much does long-fostered prejudice stand in the way of truth. the author complains bitterly that men of science will not attend to him and others like him: he observes, that "in the time occupied in declining, a man of science might test the merits." this is, alas! too true; so well do applicants of this kind know how to stick on. but every rule has its exception: i have heard of one. the late lord spencer[ ]--the lord althorp of the house of commons--told me that a speculator once got access to him at the home office, and was proceeding to unfold his way of serving the public. "i do not understand these things," said lord althorp, "but i happen to have ---- (naming an eminent engineer) upstairs; suppose you talk to him on the subject." the discoverer went up, and in half-an-hour returned, and said, "i am very much obliged to your lordship for introducing me to mr. ----; he has convinced me { } that i am quite wrong." i supposed, when i heard the story--but it would not have been seemly to say it--that lord a. exhaled candor and sense, which infected those who came within reach: he would have done so, if anybody. the trisection and quadrature again. a method to trisect a series of angles having relation to each other; also another to trisect any given angle. by james sabben. (two quarto pages). "the consequence of years of intense thought": very likely, and very sad. . the following was sent to me in manuscript. i give the whole of it: "_quadrature of the circle_.--a quadrant is a curvilinear angle traversing round and at an equal distance from a given point, called a center, no two points in the curve being at the same angle, but irreptitiously graduating from to . it is therefore a mean angle of and , which is , because it is more than , and less than , approximately from to , and from to , with equal generation in each irreptitious approximation, therefore meeting in , and which is the mean angle of the quadrant. "or suppose a line drawn from a given point at , and from the same point at . let each of these lines revolve on this point toward each other at an equal ratio. they will become one line at , and bisect the curve, which is one-sixth of the entire circle. the result, taking as a diameter, gives an area of . , and a circumference of . . "the original conception, its natural harmony, and the result, to my own mind is a demonstrative truth, which i presume it right to make known, though perhaps at the hazard of unpleasant if not uncourteous remarks." i have added punctuation: the handwriting and spelling { } are those of an educated person; the word _irreptitious_ is indubitable. the whole is a natural curiosity. the quadrature and exact area of the circle demonstrated. by wm. peters. vo. _n. d._ (circa ).[ ] suggestions as to the necessity for a revolution in philosophy; and prospectus for the establishment of a new quarterly, to be called the _physical philosopher and heterodox review_. by q. e. d. vo. . these works are by one author, who also published, as appears by advertisement, "newton rescued from the precipitancy of his followers through a century and a half,"[ ] and "dangers along a coast by correcting (as it is called) a ship's reckoning by bearings of the land at night fall, or in a fog, nearly out of print. subscriptions are requested for a new edition." the area of a circle is made four-fifths of the circumscribed square: proved on an assumption which it is purposed to explain in a longer essay.[ ] the author, as q. e. d., was in controversy with the _athenæum_ journal, and criticised a correspondent, d., who wrote against a certain class of discoverers. he believed the common theories of hydrostatics to be wrong, and one of his questions was: "have you ever taken into account anent gravity and gravitation the fact that a five grain cube of cork will of itself half sink in the water, whilst it will take grains of brass, which will sink of itself, to pull under the other half? fit this if you can, friend d., to your notions of gravity and specific gravity, as applied to the construction of a universal law of gravitation." this the _athenæum_ published--but without some italics, for which the editor was sharply reproved, as a sufficient { } specimen of the _quod erat_ d. _monstrandum_: on which the author remarks--"d,--wherefore the e caret? is it d apostrophe? d', d'm, d'mo, d'monstrandum; we cannot find the _wit_ of it." this i conjecture to contain an illusion to the name of the supposed author; but whether de mocritus, de mosthenes, or de moivre was intended, i am not willing to decide. the scriptural calendar and chronological reformer, for the statute year . including a review of recent publications on the sabbath question. london, , mo.[ ] this is the almanac of a sect of christians who keep the jewish sabbath, having a chapel at mill yard, goodman's fields. they wrote controversial works, and perhaps do so still; but i never chanced to see one. geometry _versus_ algebra; or the trisection of an angle geometrically solved. by w. upton, b.a.[ ] bath (circa ). vo. the author published two tracts under this title, containing different alleged proofs: but neither gives any notice of the change. both contain the same preface, complaining of the british association for refusing to examine the production. i suppose that the author, finding his first proof wrong, invented the second, of which the association never had the offer; and, feeling sure that they would have equally refused to examine the second, thought it justifiable to { } present that second as the one which they had refused. mr. upton has discovered that the common way of finding the circumference is wrong, would set it right if he had leisure, and, in the mean time, has solved the problem of the duplication of the cube. _the trisector of an angle, if he demand attention from any mathematician, is bound to produce, from his construction, an expression for the sine or cosine of the third part of any angle, in terms of the sine or cosine of the angle itself, obtained by help of no higher than the square root._ the mathematician knows that such a thing cannot be; but the trisector virtually says it can be, and is bound to produce it, to save time. this is the misfortune of most of the solvers of the celebrated problems, that they have not knowledge enough to present those consequences of their results by which they can be easily judged. sometimes they have the knowledge and quibble out of the use of it. in many cases a person makes an honest beginning and presents what he is sure is a solution. by conference with others he at last feels uneasy, fears the light, and puts self-love in the way of it. dishonesty sometimes follows. the speculators are, as a class, very apt to imagine that the mathematicians are in fraudulent confederacy against them: i ought rather to say that each one of them consents to the mode in which the rest are treated, and fancies conspiracy against himself. the mania of conspiracy is a very curious subject. i do not mean these remarks to apply to the author before me. one of mr. upton's trisections, if true, would prove the truth of the following equation: cos ([theta] / ) = + [root]( - sin^ [theta]) which is certainly false.[ ] { } in i examined a terrific construction, at the request of the late dr. wallich,[ ] who was anxious to persuade a poor countryman of his, that trisection of the angle was waste of time. one of the principles was, that "magnitude and direction determine each other." the construction was equivalent to the assertion that, [theta] being any angle, the cosine of its third part is sin [theta] . cos( [theta]/ ) + sin^ [theta] sin ( [theta]/ ) divided by the square root of sin^ [theta] . cos^ ( [theta]/ ) + sin^ [theta] + sin [theta] . sin [theta] . sin^ [theta]. this is from my rough notes, and i believe it is correct.[ ] it is so nearly true, unless the angle be very obtuse, that common drawing, applied to the construction, will not detect the error. there are many formulae of this kind: and i have several times found a speculator who has discovered the corresponding construction, has seen the approximate success of his drawing--often as great as absolute truth could give in graphical practice,--and has then set about his demonstration, in which he always succeeds to his own content. there is a trisection of which i have lost both cutting and reference: i think it is in the _united service journal_. i could not detect any error in it, though certain there must { } be one. at least i discovered that two parts of the diagram were incompatible unless a certain point lay in line with two others, by which the angle to be trisected--and which was trisected--was bound to be either ° or °. aug. , . mr. upton sticks to his subject. he has just published "the uptonian trisection. respectfully dedicated to the schoolmasters of the united kingdom." it seems to be a new attempt. he takes no notice of the sentence i have put in italics: nor does he mention my notice of him, unless he means to include me among those by whom he has been "ridiculed and sneered at" or "branded as a brainless heretic." i did neither one nor the other: i thought mr. upton a paradoxer to whom it was likely to be worth while to propound the definite assertion now in italics; and mr. upton does not find it convenient to take issue on the point. he prefers general assertions about algebra. so long as he cannot meet algebra on the above question, he may issue as many "respectful challenges" to the mathematicians as he can find paper to write: he will meet with no attention. there is one trisection which is of more importance than that of the angle. it is easy to get half the paper on which you write for margin; or a quarter; but very troublesome to get a third. show us how, easily and certainly, to fold the paper into three, and you will be a real benefactor to society. early in the century there was a turkish trisector of the angle, hussein effendi, who published two methods. he was the father of ameen bey, who was well known in england thirty years ago as a most amiable and cultivated gentleman and an excellent mathematician. he was then a student at cambridge; and he died, years ago, in command of the army in syria. hussein effendi was instructed in mathematics by ingliz selim effendi, who translated a work { } of bonnycastle[ ] into turkish.[ ] this englishman was richard baily, brother of francis baily[ ] the astronomer, who emigrated to turkey in his youth, and adopted the manners of the turks, but whether their religion also i never heard, though i should suppose he did. i now give the letters from the agricultural laborer and his friend, described on page , vol. i. they are curiosities; and the history of the quadrature can never be well written without some specimens of this kind: "doctor morgan, sir. permit me to address you "brute creation may perhaps enjoy the faculty of beholding visible things with a more penitrating eye than ourselves. but spiritual objects are as far out of their reach as though they had no being "nearest therefore to the brute creation are those men who suppose themselves to be so far governed by external objects as to believe nothing but what they see and feel and can accomedate to their shallow understanding and imaginations "my dear sir let us all consult ourselves by the wise proverb. "i believe that evry man^s merit & ability aught to be appreciated and valued in proportion to its worth & utility "in whatever state or circumstances they may fortunately or unfortunately be placed "and happy it is for evry man to know his worth and place "when a gentleman of your standing in society clad with those honors can not understand or solve a problem that is explicitly explained by words and letters and { } mathematically operated by figuers he had best consult the wise proverd "do that which thou canst understand and comprehend for thy good. "i would recommend that such gentleman change his business "and appropriate his time and attention to a sunday school to learn what he could and keep the litle children form durting their close "with sincere feelings of gratitude for your weakness and inability i am "sir your superior in mathematics ----" " june th ." "dor morgin sir "i wrote and sent my work to professor ---- of ---- state of ---- united states "i am now in the possession of the facts that he highly approves of my work. and says he will insure me reward in the states "i write this that you may understand that i have knowledge of the unfair way that i am treated in my own nati county "i am told and have reasons to believe that it is the clergy that treat me so unjust. "i am not desirous of heaping disonors upon my own nation. but if i have to leave this kingdom without my just dues. the world shall know how i am and have been treated. "i am sir desirous of my "just dues ----" " july ." "july th, . "sir, i have been given to understand that a friend of mine one whom i shall never be ashamed to acknowledge as { } such tho' lowly his origine; nay not only not ashamed but proud of doing so for i am one of those who esteem and respect a man according to his ability and probity, deeming with dr. watts 'that the mind is the standard of the man,'[ ] has laid before you and asked your opinion of his extraordinary performance, viz. the quadrature of the circle, he did this with the firmest belief that you would not only treat the matter in a straightforward manner but with the conviction that from your known or supposed knowledge of mathematicks would have given an upright and honorable decision upon the subject; but the question is have you done so? could i say yes i would with the greatest of pleasure and have congratulated you upon your decision whatever it might have been but i am sorry to say that i cannot your letter is a paltry evasion, you say 'that it is a great pity that you (mr. ----) should have attempted this (the quadrature of the circle) for your mathematical knowledge is not sufficient to make you know in what the problem consists,' you don't say in what it does consist _according to your ideas_, oh! no nothing of the sort, you enter into no disquisition upon the subject in order to show where you think mr. ---- is wrong and why you have not is simply--_because you cannot_--you know that he has done it and what is if i am not wrongly informed _you have been heard to say so_. he has done what you nor any other mathematician as those who call themselves such have done. and what is the reason that you will not candidly acknowledge to him as you have to others that he has squared the circle shall i tell you? it is because he has performed the feat to obtain the glory of which mathematicians have battled from time immemorial that they might encircle their brows with a wreath of laurels far more glorious than ever conqueror won it is simply this that it is a poor man a { } humble artisan who has gained that victory that you don't like to acknowledge it you don't like to be beaten and worse to acknowledge that you have miscalculated, you have in short too small a soul to acknowledge that he is right. "i was asked my opinion and _i_ gave it unhesitatingly in the affirmative and i am backed in my opinion not only by mr. ---- a mathematician and watchmaker residing in the boro of southwark but by no less an authority than the professor of mathematics of ---- college ---- ---- united states mr. ---- and i presume that he at least is your equal as an authority and mr. ---- says that the government of the u.s. will recompense m. d. for the discovery he has made if so what a reflection upon old england the boasted land of freedom the nursery of arts and sciences that her sons are obliged to go to a foreign country to obtain that recompense to which they are justly entitled "in conclusion i had to contradict an assertion you made to the effect that 'there is not nor ever was any reward offered by the government of this country for the discovery of the quadrature of the circle.' i beg to inform you that there _was_ but that it having been deemed an impossibility the government has withdrawn it. i do this upon no less an authority than the marquis of northampton.[ ] "i am, sir, yours ----" "dr. morgan." the moon's rotation. notes on the kinematic effects of revolution and rotation, with reference to the motions of the moon and of the earth. by henry perigal, jun. esq. london, - , vo. on the misuse of technical terms. ambiguity of the terms _rotation_ and _revolution_, owing to the double meaning improperly { } attributed to each of the words. (no date nor place, but by mr. perigal,[ ] i have no doubt, and containing letters of and .) the moon controversy. facts _v._ definitions. by h. p., jun. london, , vo. (pp. .) mr. henry perigal helped me twenty years ago with the diagrams, direct from the lathe to the wood, for the article "trochoidal curves," in the _penny cyclopædia_: these cuts add very greatly to the value of the article, which, indeed, could not have been made intelligible without them. he has had many years' experience, as an amateur turner, in combination of double and triple circular motions, and has published valuable diagrams in profusion. a person to whom the double circular motion is familiar in the lathe naturally looks upon one circle moving upon another as in _simple_ motion, if the second circle be fixed to the revolving radius, so that one and the same point of the moving circle travels upon the fixed circle. mr. perigal commenced his attack upon the moon for moving about her axis, in the first of the tracts above, ten years before mr. jellinger symons;[ ] but he did not think it necessary to make it a subject for the _times_ newspaper. his familiarity with combined motions enabled him to handle his arguments much better than mr. j. symons could do: in fact, he is the clearest assailant of the lot which turned out with mr. j. symons. but he is as wrong as the rest. the assault is now, i suppose, abandoned, until it becomes epidemic again. this it will do: it is one of those fallacies which are very tempting. there was a dispute on the subject in , between james ferguson[ ] and an anonymous opponent; and i think there have been others. { } a poet appears in the field (july , ) who calls himself cyclops, and writes four octavo pages. he makes a distinction between _rotation_ and _revolution_; and his doctrines and phrases are so like those of mr. perigal that he is a follower at least. one of his arguments has so often been used that it is worth while to cite it: "would mathematicals--forsooth-- if true, have failed to prove its truth? would not they--if they could--submit some overwhelming proofs of it? but still it totters _proofless_! hence there's strong presumptive evidence none do--or can--such proof profound because _the dogma is unsound_. for, were there means of doing so, they would have proved it long ago." this is only one of the alternatives. proof requires a person who can give and a person who can receive. i feel inspired to add the following: "a blind man said, as to the sun, i'll take my bible oath there's none; for if there had been one to show they would have shown it long ago. how came he such a goose to be? did he not know he couldn't see? not he!" the absurdity of the verses is in the argument. the writer was not so ignorant or so dishonest as to affirm that nothing had been offered by the other side as proof; accordingly, his syllogism amounts to this: if your proposition were true, you could have given proof satisfactory to _me_; but this you have not done, therefore, your proposition is not true. the echoes of the moon-controversy reached benares in , in which year was there published a pamphlet "does the moon rotate?" in sanskrit and english. the { } arguments are much the same as those of the discussion at home. on the names of religious bodies. we see that there are paradoxers in argument as well as in assertion of fact: my plan does not bring me much into contact with these; but another instance may be useful. sects, whether religious or political, give themselves names which, in meaning, are claimed also by their opponents; loyal, liberal, conservative (of good), etc. have been severally appropriated by parties. _whig_ and _tory_ are unobjectionable names: the first--which occurs in english ballad as well as in scotland--is sour milk;[ ] the second is a robber. in theology, the greek church is _orthodox_, the roman is _catholic_, the modern puritan is _evangelical_, etc. the word _christian_ (vol. i, p. [ ]) is an instance. when words begin, they carry their meanings. the jews, who had their messiah to come, and the followers of jesus of nazareth, who took _him_ for their messiah, were both _christians_ (which means _messianites_): the jews would never have invented the term to signify _jesuans_, nor would the disciples have invented such an ambiguous term for themselves; had they done so, the jews would have disputed it, as they would have done in later times if they had had fair play. the jews of our day, i see by their newspapers, speak of jesus christ as the _rabbi joshua_. but the { } heathens, who knew little or nothing about the jewish hope, would naturally apply the term _christians_ to the only followers of a _messiah_ of whom they had heard. for the _jesuans_ invaded them in a missionary way; while the jews did not attempt, at least openly, to make proselytes. all such words as catholic, etc., are well enough as mere nomenclature; and the world falls for the most part, into any names which parties choose to give themselves. silly people found inferences on this concession; and, as usually happens, they can cite some of their betters. st. augustine,[ ] a freakish arguer, or, to put it in the way of an old writer, _lectorem ne multiloquii tædio fastidiat, punicis quibusdam argutiis recreare solet_,[ ] asks, with triumph, to what chapel a stranger would be directed, if he inquired the way to the _catholic assembly_. but the best exhibition of this kind in our own century is that made by the excellent dr. john milner,[ ] in a work (first published in or ) which i suppose still circulates, "the end of religious controversy": a startling title which, so far as its truth is concerned, might as well have been "the floor of the bottomless pit." this writer, whom every one of his readers will swear to have been a worthy soul, though many, even of his own sect, will not admire some of his logic, speaks as follows: "letter xxv. _on the true church being catholic._ in treating of this third mark of the true church, as expressed in our common creed, i feel my spirits sink within me, and i am almost tempted to throw away my pen in despair. for what chance is there of opening the eyes of candid protestants to the other marks of the church, if they are capable of keeping them shut to this? every time they address the { } god of truth, either in solemn worship or in private devotion [stretch of rhetoric], they are forced, each of them, to repeat: _i believe in_ the catholic _church_, and yet if i ask any of them the question: _are you a_ catholic? he is sure to answer me, _no, i am a_ protestant! was there ever a more glaring instance of inconsistency and self-condemnation among rational beings!" "john milner, honest and true, did what honest people still may do, if they write for the many and not for the few, but what by and bye they must eschew." he _shortened his clause_; and for a reason. if he had used the whole epithet which he knew so well, any one might have given his argument a half-turn. had he written, as he ought, "the _holy_ catholic church" and then argued as above, some sly protestant would have parodied him with "and yet if i ask any of them the question: _are you_ holy? he is sure to answer me _no, i am a_ sinner." to take the adjective from the church, and apply it to the individual partisan, is recognized slipslop, but not ground of argument. if dr. m. had asked his protestant whether he belonged to the catholic _church_, the answer would have been yes, but not to the roman branch. when he put his question as he did, he was rightly answered and in his own division. this leaving out words is a common practice, especially when the omitter is in authority, and cannot be exposed. a year or two ago a bishop wrote a snubbing letter to a poor parson, who had complained that he was obliged, in burial, to send the worst of sinners to everlasting happiness. the bishop sternly said, "_hope_[ ] is not _assurance_." { } could the clergyman have dared to answer, he would have said, "no, my lord! but '_sure and certain_ hope' is as like assurance as a _minikin_ man is like a dwarf." sad to say, a theologian must be illogical: i feel sure that if you took the clearest headed writer on logic that ever lived, and made a bishop of him, he would be shamed by his own books in a twelvemonth. milner's sophism is glaring: but why should dr. milner be wiser than st. augustine, one of his teachers? i am tempted to let out the true derivation of the word _catholic, as exclusively applied to the church of rome_. all can find it who have access to the _rituale_ of bonaventura piscator[ ] (lib. i. c. , _de nomine sacræ ecclesiæ_, p. of the venice { } folio of ). i am told that there is a _rituale_ in the index expurgatorius, but i have not thought it worth while to examine whether this be the one: i am rather inclined to think, as i have heard elsewhere, that the book was held too dangerous for the faithful to know of it, even by a prohibition: it would not surprise me at all if roman christians should deny its existence.[ ] it amuses me to give, at a great distance of time, a small rowland for a small oliver,[ ] which i received, _de par l'eglise_,[ ] so far as lay in the oliver-carrier more than twenty years ago. the following contribution of mine to _notes and queries_ ( d ser. vi. p. , aug. , ) will explain what i say. there had been a complaint that a contributor had used the term _papist_, which a very excellent dignitary of the papal system pronounced an offensive term: papist. the term _papist_ should be stripped of all except its etymological meaning, and applied to those who give the higher and final authority to the declaration _ex cathedrâ_[ ] of the pope. see dr. wiseman's[ ] article, _catholic church_, in the _penny cyclopædia_. what is one to do about these names? first, it is clear that offence should, when possible, be avoided: secondly, no one must be required to give a name which favors _any_ assumption made by those to whom it is given, and not { } granted by those who give it. thus the subdivision which calls itself distinctly _evangelical_ has no right to expect others to concede the title. now the word _catholic_, of course, falls under this rule; and even _roman catholic_ may be refused to those who would restrict the word _catholic_ to themselves. _roman christian_ is unobjectionable, since the roman church does not deny the name of christian to those whom she calls heretics. no one is bound in this matter by acts of parliament. in many cases, no doubt, names which have offensive association are used merely by habit, sometimes by hereditary transmission. boswell records of johnson that he always used the words "dissenting teacher," refusing _minister_ and _clergyman_ to all but the recipients of episcopal ordination. this distinctive phrase has been widely adopted: it occurs in the index of d s. iv. [_notes and queries_]. here we find "platts (rev. john), unitarian teacher, ;" the article indexed has "unitarian minister." this, of course is habit: an intentional refusal of the word _minister_ would never occur in an index. i remember that, when i first read about sam johnson's little bit of exclusiveness, i said to myself: "teacher? teacher? surely i remember one who is often called _teacher_, but never _minister_ or _clergyman_: have not the dissenters got the best of it?" when i said that the roman church concedes the epithet christians to protestants, i did not mean that all its adherents do the same. there is, or was, a roman newspaper, the _tablet_, which, seven or eight years ago, was one of the most virulent of the party journals. in it i read, referring to some complaint of grievance about mixed marriages, that if _christians_ would marry _protestants_ they must take the consequences. my memory notes this well; because i recollected, when i saw it, that there was in the stable a horse fit to run in the curricle with this one. about seventeen years ago an oxford m. a., who hated { } mathematics like a genuine oxonian of the last century, was writing on education, and was compelled to give some countenance to the nasty subject. he got out cleverly; for he gave as his reason for the permission, that man is an arithmetical, geometrical, and mechanical _animal_, as well as a rational _soul_. the _tablet_ was founded by an old pupil of mine, mr. frederic lucas,[ ] who availed himself of his knowledge of me to write some severe articles--even abusive, i was told, but i never saw them--against me, for contributing to the _dublin review_, and poking my heretic nose into orthodox places. dr. wiseman, the editor, came in for his share, and ought to have got all. who ever blamed the pig for intruding himself into the cabin when the door was left open? when mr. lucas was my pupil, he was of the society of friends--in any article but this i should say _quaker_--and was quiet and gentlemanly, as members of that church--in any article but this i should, from mere habit, say _sect_--usually are. this is due to his memory; for, by all i heard, when he changed his religion he ceased to be lucas couchant, and became lucas rampant, fanged and langued gules. (i looked into guillim[ ] to see if my terms were right: i could not find them; but to prove i have been there, i notice that he calls a violin a _violent_. how comes the word to take this form?) i met with several roman christians, born and bred, who were very much annoyed at mr. lucas and his doings; and said some severe things about new converts needing kicking-straps. { } the mention of dr. wiseman reminds me of another word, appropriated by christians to themselves: _fides_;[ ] the roman faith is _fides_, and nothing else; and the adherents are _fideles_.[ ] hereby hangs a retort. when dr. wiseman was first in england, he gave a course of lectures in defence of his creed, which were thought very convincing by those who were already convinced. they determined to give him a medal, and there was a very serious discussion about the legend. dr. wiseman told me himself that he had answered to his subscribers that he would not have the medal at all unless--(naming some italian authority, whom i forget) approved of the legend. at last _pro fide vindicata_[ ] was chosen: this may be read either in a popish or heretical sense. the feminine substantive _fides_ means confidence, trust, (it is made to mean _belief_), but _fidis_, with the same ablative, _fide_, and also feminine, is a _fiddle-string_.[ ] if a latin writer had had to make a legend signifying "for the defence of the fiddle-string," he could not have done it otherwise, in the terseness of a legend, than by writing _pro fide vindicata_. accordingly, when a roman christian talks to you of the _faith_, as a thing which is his and not yours, you may say _fiddle_. i have searched bonaventura piscator in vain for notice of this ambiguity. but the greeks said fiddle; according to suidas,[ ] [greek: skindapsos][ ]--a word meaning a four stringed instrument played with a quill--was an exclamation of contemptuous dissent. how the wits of different races jump! { } i am reminded of a case of _fides vindicata_, which, being in a public letter, responding to a public invitation, was not meant to be confidential. some of the pupils of university college, in which all subdivisions of religion are ( ; _were_, ) on a level, have of course changed their views in after life, and become adherents of various high churches. on the occasion of a dinner of old students of the college, convened by circular, one of these students, whether then roman or tractarian christian i do not remember, not content with simply giving negative answer, or none at all, concocted a jorum of theological rebuke, and sent it to the dinner committee. heyday! said one of them, this man got out of bed backwards! how is that? said the rest. why, read his name backwards, and you will see. as thus read it was--_no grub_![ ] the word church. to return to _notes and queries_. the substitution in the (editorial) index of "unitarian teacher," for the contributor's "unitarian minister," struck me very much. i have seldom found such things unmeaning. but as the journal had always been free from editorial sectarianisms,--and very apt to check the contributorial,--i could not be sure in this case. true it was, that the editor and publisher had been changed more than a year before; but this was not of much force. though one swallow does not make a summer, i have generally found it show that summer is coming. however, thought i to myself, if this be little shibboleth, we shall have big shibboleth by-and-bye. at last it came. about a twelvemonth afterwards, ( d s. vii. p. ) the following was the _editorial_ answer to the question when the establishment was first called the "church of england and ireland": { } "that unmeaning clause, 'the united church of england and ireland,' which occurs on the title-page of _the book of common prayer_, was first used at the commencement of the present century. the authority for this phrase is the fifth article of the union of : 'that the churches of england and ireland be united into one _protestant_ (!) episcopal church, to be called "the united church of england and ireland."' of course, churchmen are not responsible for the theology of acts of parliament, especially those passed during the dark ages of the georgian era." that is to say, the journal gives its adhesion to the party which--under the assumed title of _the_ church of england--claims for the endowed corporation for the support of religion rights which parliament cannot control, and makes it, in fact, a power above the state. the state has given an inch: it calls this corporation by the name of the "united _church_ of england and ireland," as if neither england nor ireland had any other church. the corporation, accordingly aspires to an ell. but this the nation will only give with the aspiration prefixed. to illustrate my allusion in a delicate way to polite ears, i will relate what happened in a johnian lecture-room at cambridge, some fifty years ago, my informant being present. a youth of undue aspirations was giving a proposition, and at last said, "let e f be produced to 'l':" "not quite so far, mr. ----," said the lecturer, quietly, to the great amusement of the class, and the utter astonishment of the aspirant, who knew no more than a tractarian the tendency of his construction. this word _church_ is made to have a very mystical meaning. the following dialogue between ecclesiastes and hæreticus, which i cannot vouch for, has often taken place in spirit, if not in letter: e. the word _church_ ([greek: ekklêsia])[ ] is never used in the new testament except generally or locally for that holy and mystical body to which the sacraments and the ordinances of christianity are entrusted. { } h. indeed! e. it is beyond a doubt (here he quoted half a dozen texts in support). h. do you mean that any doctrine or ordinance which was solemnly practised by the [greek: ekklêsia] is binding upon you and me? e. certainly, unless we should be cut off from the congregation of the faithful. h. have you a couple of hours to spare? e. what for? h. if you have, i propose we spend them in crying, great is diana of the ephesians! e. what do you mean? h. you ought to know the solemn service of the [greek: ekklêsia] (acts xix. , ), at ephesus; which any one might take to be true church, by the more part not knowing wherefore they were come together, and which was dismissed, after one of the most sensible sermons ever preached, by the recorder. e. i see your meaning: it is true, there is that one exception! h. why, the recorder's sermon itself contains another, the [greek: ennomos ekklêsia],[ ] legislative assembly. e. ah! the new testament can only be interpreted by the church! h. i see! the church interprets itself into existence out of the new testament, and then interprets the new testament out of existence into itself! i look upon all the churches as fair game which declare of me that _absque dubio in æternum peribo_;[ ] not for their presumption towards god, but for their personal insolence towards myself. i find that their sectaries stare when i say this. why! they do not speak of you in _particular_! these poor reasoners seem to think that there could be no meaning, as against me, unless it should be propounded that "without doubt he shall perish everlastingly, especially a. de morgan." but i hold, with the schoolmen, that "_omnis_ homo est animal" in conjunction with "sortes est homo" amounts to "_sortes_ est animal."[ ] but they do not mean it _personally_! every universal proposition is { } personal to every instance of the subject. if this be not conceded, then i retort, in their own sense and manner, "whosoever would serve god, before all things he must not pronounce god's decision upon his neighbor. which decision, except every one leave to god himself, without doubt he is a bigoted noodle." the reasoning habit of the educated community, in four cases out of five, permits universal propositions to be stated at one time, and denied, _pro re nata_,[ ] at another. "before we proceed to consider any question involving physical principles, we should set out with _clear ideas_ of the naturally possible and impossible." the eminent man who said this, when wanting it for his views of mental education (!) never meant it for more than what was in hand, never assumed it in the researches which will give him to posterity! i have heard half-a-dozen defences of his having said this, not one of which affirmed the truth of what was said. a worthy clergyman wrote that if a. b. had said a certain thing the point in question would have been established. it was shown to him that a. b. _had_ said it, to which the reply was a refusal to admit the point because a. b. said it in a second pamphlet and in answer to objections. and i might give fifty such instances with very little search. always assume more than you want; because you cannot tell how much you may want: put what is over into the didn't-mean-that basket, or the extreme case what-not. protestant and papal christendom. something near forty years of examination of the theologies on and off--more years very much on than quite off--have given me a good title--to myself, i ask no one else for leave--to make the following remarks: a conclusion has _premises_, facts or doctrines from proof or authority, and _mode of inference_. there may be invention or { } falsehood of premise, with good logic; and there may be tenable premise, followed by bad logic; and there may be both false premise _and_ bad logic. the roman system has such a powerful manufactory of premises, that bad logic is little wanted; there is comparatively little of it. the doctrine-forge of the roman church is one glorious compound of everything that could make heraclitus[ ] sob and democritus[ ] snigger. but not the only one. the protestants, in tearing away from the church of rome, took with them a fair quantity of the results of the roman forge, which they could not bring themselves to give up. they had more in them of martin than of jack. but they would have no premises, except from the new testament; though some eked out with a few general councils. the consequence is that they have been obliged to find such a logic as would bring the conclusions they require out of the canonical books. and a queer logic it is; nothing but the roman forge can be compared with the protestant loom. the picking, the patching, the piecing, which goes to the protestant _termini ad quem_,[ ] would be as remarkable to the general eye, as the roman manufacture of _termini a quo_,[ ] if it were not that the world at large seizes the character of an asserted fact better than that of a mode of inference. a grand step towards the deification of a lady, made by alleged revelation years after her death, is of glaring evidence: two or three additional shiffle-shuffles towards defence of saying the athanasian curse in church and unsaying it out of church, are hardly noticed. swift has bungled his satire where he makes peter a party to finding out what he wants, _totidem syllabis_ and _totidem literis_, { } when he cannot find it _totidem verbis_[ ] this is protestant method: the roman plan is _viam faciam_; the protestant plan is _viam inveniam_.[ ] the public at large begins to be conversant with the ways of _wriggling out_, as shown in the interpretations of the damnatory parts of the athanasian creed, the phrases of the burial service, etc. the time will come when the same public will begin to see the ways of _wriggling in_. but one thing at a time: neither papal rome nor protestant rome was built--nor will be pulled down--in a day. the distinction above drawn between the two great antitheses of christendom may be illustrated as follows. two sets of little general dealers lived opposite to one another: all sold milk. each vaunted its own produce: one set said that the stuff on the other side the way was only chalk and water; the other said that the opposites sold all sorts of filth, of which calves' brain was the least nasty. now the fact was that both sets sold milk, and from the same dairy: but adulterated with different sorts of dirty water: and both honestly believed that the mixture was what they were meant to sell and ought to sell. the great difference between them, about which the apprentices fought each other like trojans, was that the calves' brain men poured milk into the water, and the chalk men poured water into the milk. the greek and roman sects on one side, the protestant sects on the other, must all have _churches_: the greek and roman sects pour the new testament into their churches; the protestant sects pour their churches into the new testament. the greek and roman insist upon the new testament being no more than part and parcel of their churches: the protestant insist upon their churches being as much part and parcel of the new testament. all dwell vehemently upon the doctrine that there must be milk { } somewhere; and each says--i have it. the doctrine is true: and can be verified by any one who can and will go to the dairy for himself. him will the several traders declare to have no milk at all. they will bring their own wares, and challenge a trial: they want nothing but to name the judges. to vary the metaphor, those who have looked at christianity in open day, know that all who see it through painted windows shut out much of the light of heaven and color the rest; it matters nothing that the stains are shaped into what are meant for saints and angels. but there is another side to the question. to decompose any substance, it must be placed between the poles of the battery. now theology is but one pole; philosophy is the other. no one can make out the combinations of our day unless he read the writings both of the priest and the philosopher: and if any one should hold the first word offensive, i tell him that i mean _both_ words to be _significant_. in reading these writings, he will need to bring both wires together to find out what it is all about. time was when most priests were very explicit about the fate of philosophers, and most philosophers were very candid about their opinion of priests. but though some extremes of the old sorts still remain, there is now, in the middle, such a fusion of the two pursuits that a plain man is wofully puzzled. the theologian writes a philosophy which seems to tell us that the new testament is a system of psychology; and the philosopher writes a christianity which is utterly unintelligible as to the question whether the resurrection be a fact or a transcendental allegory. what between the theologian who assents to the athanasian denunciation in what seems the sense of no denunciation, and the philosopher who parades a christianity which looks like no revelation, there is a maze which threatens to have the only possible clue in the theory that everything is something else, and nothing is anything at all. but this is a paradox far beyond my handling: it is a budget of itself. { } religion and philosophy. religion and philosophy, the two best gifts of heaven, set up in opposition to each other at the revival of letters; and never did competing tradesmen more grossly misbehave. bad wishes and bad names flew about like swarms of wasps. the athanasian curses were intended against philosophers; who, had they been a corporation, with state powers to protect them, would have formulized a _per contra_. but the tradesmen are beginning to combine: they are civil to each other; too civil by half. i speak especially of great britain. old theology has run off to ritualism, much lamenting, with no comfort except the discovery that the cloak paul left at troas was a chasuble. philosophy, which always had a little sense sewed up in its garments--to pay for its funeral?--has expended a trifle in accommodating itself to the new system. but the two are poles of a battery; and a question arises. if peter piper picked a peck of pepper, where is the peck of pepper peter piper picked? if religion and philosophy be the two poles of a battery, whose is the battery religion and philosophy have been made the poles of? is the change in the relation of the wires any presumption of a removal of the managers? we know pretty well who handled the instrument: has he resigned or been[ ] turned out? has he been put under { } restriction? a fool may ask more questions than twenty sages can answer: but there is hope; for twenty sages cannot ask more questions than one reviewer can answer. i should like to see the opposite sides employed upon the question, what are the _commoda_, and what the _pericula_,[ ] of the current approximation of religion and philosophy? all this is very profane and irreverent! it has always been so held by those whose position demands such holding. to describe the church as it is passes for assailing the church as it ought to be with all who cannot do without it. in bedlam[ ] a poor creature who fancied he was st. paul, was told by another patient that he was an impostor; the first maniac lodged a complaint against the second for calling st. paul an impostor, which, he argued, with much appearance of sanity, ought not to be permitted in a well regulated madhouse. nothing could persuade him that he had missed the question, which was whether _he_ was st. paul. the same thing takes place in the world _at large_. and especially must be noted the refusal to permit to the _profane_ the millionth part of the licence assumed by the _sacred_. i give a sound churchman the epitaph of st. john long; the usual pronunciation of whose name must be noted-- "behold! ye quacks, the vengeance strong on deeds like yours impinging: for here below lies st. john long[ ] who now must be _long singeing_." how shameful to pronounce this of the poor man! what, mr. orthodox! may i not do in joke to one pretender what { } you do in earnest--unless you quibble--to all the millions of the greek church, and a great many others. enough of you and your reasoning! go and square the circle! the few years which end with have shown, not merely the intermediate fusion of theology and philosophy of which i have spoken, but much concentration of the two extremes, which looks like a gathering of forces for some very hard fought armageddon. extreme theology has been aiming at a high church in england, which is to show a new front to all heresy: and extreme philosophy is contriving a physical organization which is to _think_, and to show that mind is a consequence of matter, or thought a recreation of brain. the physical speculators begin with a possible hypothesis, in which they aim at explanation: and so the bold aspirations of the author of the _vestiges_ find standing-ground in the variation of species by "natural selection." some relics--so supposed--of extremely ancient men are brought to help the general cause. only distant hints are given that by possibility it may end in the formation of all living organisms from a very few, if not from one. the better heads above mentioned know that their theory, if true, does not bear upon morals. the formation of solar systems from a nebular hypothesis, followed by organizations gradually emerging from some curious play of particles, nay, the very evolution of mind and thought from such an apparatus, are all as consistent with a personal creative power to whom homage and obedience are due, and who has declared himself, as with a blind nature of things. a pure materialist, as to all things visible, may be even a bigotted christian: this is not frequent, but it is possible. there is a proverb which says, a pig may fly, but it isn't a likely bird. but when the psychological speculator comes in, he often undertakes to draw inferences from the physical conclusions, by joining on his tremendous apparatus of _a priori_ knowledge. he deduces that he can _do without_ a god: he can deduce all things { } without any such necessity. with occam[ ] and newton he will have no more causes than are necessary to explain phenomena _to him_: and if by pure head-work combined with results of physical observation he can construct his universe, he must be a very _unphilosophical_ man who would encumber himself with a useless creator! there is something tangible about my method, says he; yours is vague. he requires it to be granted that his system is _positive_ and that yours is _impositive_. so reasoned the stage coachman when the railroads began to depose him--"if you're upset in a stage-coach, why, there you are! but if you're upset on the railroad, where are you?" the answer lies in another question, which is most positive knowledge, god deduced from man and his history, or the postulates of the few who think they can reason _a priori_ on the tacit assumption of unlimited command of data? we are not yet come to the existence of a school of philosophers who explicitly deny a creator: but we are on the way, though common sense may interpose. there are always straws which show the direction of the wind. i have before me the printed letter of a medical man--to whose professional ability i have good testimony--who finds the vital principle in highly rarefied oxygen. with the usual logic of such thinkers, he dismisses the "eternal personal identity" because "if soul, spirit, mind, which are merely modes of sensation, be the attribute or function of nerve-tissue, it cannot possibly have any existence apart from its material organism!" how does he know this _impossibility_? if all the mind _we_ know be from nerve-tissue, how does it appear that mind in other planets may not be another thing? nay, when we come to _possibilities_, does not his own system give a queer one? if highly rarefied oxygen be vital power, more highly rarefied oxygen { } may be more vital and more powerful. where is this to stop? is it _impossible_ that a finite quantity, rarefied _ad infinitum_, may be an omnipotent? perhaps the true genesis, when written, will open with "in the beginning was an imperial quart of oxygen at ° of fahrenheit, and the pressure of the atmosphere; and this oxygen was infinitely rarefied; and this oxygen became god." for myself, my aspirations as to this system are manichæan. the quart of oxygen is the ormuzd, or good principle: another quart, of hydrogen, is the ahriman, or evil principle! my author says that his system explains freewill and immortality so obviously that it is difficult to read previous speculations with becoming gravity. my deduction explains the conflict of good and evil with such clearness that no one can henceforward read the new testament with becoming reverence. the surgeon whom i have described is an early bud which will probably be nipped by the frost and wither on the ground: but there is a good crop coming. material pneuma is destined to high functions; and man is to read by gas-light. the sun an electric space. the solar system truly solved; demonstrating by the perfect harmony of the planets, founded on the four universal laws, the sun to be an electric space; and a source of every natural production displayed throughout the solar system. by james hopkins.[ ] london, , vo. the author says: "i am satisfied that i have given the true _laws_ constituting the _sun_ to be _space_; and i call upon those disposed to maintain the contrary, to give true _laws_ showing him to be a body: until such can be satisfactorily established, i have an undoubted claim to the credit of my theory,--that the sun is an _electric space_, fed and governed by the { } planets, which have the property of attracting heat from it; and the means of supplying the necessary _pabulum_ by their degenerated air driven off towards the central space--the wonderful alembic in which it becomes transmuted to the revivifying necessities of continuous action; and the central space or sun being perfectly electric, has the counter property of repulsing the bodies that attract it. how wonderful a conception! how beautiful, how magnificent an arrangement! "o centre! o space! o electric space!" joseph ady. . _joseph ady_[ ] is entitled to a place in this list of discoverers: his great fault, like that of some others, lay in pushing his method too far. he began by detecting unclaimed dividends, and disclosing them to their right owners, exacting his fee before he made his communication. he then generalized into trying to get fees from all of the _name_ belonging to a dividend; and he gave mysterious hints of danger impending. for instance, he would write to a clergyman that a legal penalty was hanging over him; and when the alarmed divine forwarded the sum required for disclosure, he was favored with an extract from some old statute or canon, never repealed, forbidding a clergyman to be a member of a corporation, and was reminded that he had insured his life in the ---- office, which had a royal charter. he was facetious, was joseph: he described himself in his circulars as "personally known to sir peter laurie[ ] and all other aldermen"; which was nearly true, { } as he had been before most of them on charges of false pretence; but i believe he was nearly always within the law. sir james duke, when lord mayor, having particularly displeased him by a decision, his circulars of contain the following: "should you have cause to complain of any party, sir j. duke has contrived a new law of evidence, viz., write to him, he will consider your letter sufficient proof, and make the parties complained of pay without judge or jury, and will frank you from every expense." i strongly suspect that joseph ady believed in himself. he sometimes issued a second warning, of a sibylline character: "should you find cause to complain of anybody, my voluntary referee, the rt. hon. sir peter laurie, kt., perpetual deputy lord mayor, will see justice done you without any charge whatever: he and his toady, -- ---- ----. the accursed of moses can hang any man: thus, by catching him alone and swearing naboth spake evil against god and the king. therefore (!) i admit no strangers to a personal conference without a prepayment of s. each. had you attended to my former notice you would have received twice as much: neglect this and you will lose all." on modern astrology. zadkiel's almanac for . nineteenth number. raphael's prophetic almanac for . twenty-ninth number. reasons for belief in judicial astrology, and remarks on the dangerous character of popish priestcraft. london, , mo. astronomy in a nutshell: or the leading problems of the solar system solved by simple proportion only, on the theory of magnetic attraction. by lieut. morrison,[ ] n. n. london (_s. a._) mo. { } lieut. morrison is zadkiel tao sze, and declares himself in real earnest an astrologer. there are a great many books on astrology, but i have not felt interest enough to preserve many of them which have come in my way. if anything ever had a fair trial, it was astrology. the idea itself is natural enough. a human being, set down on this earth, without any tradition, would probably suspect that the heavenly bodies had something to do with the guidance of affairs. i think that any one who tries will ascertain that the planets do not prophesy: but if he should find to the contrary, he will of course go on asking. a great many persons class together belief in astrology and belief in apparitions: the two things differ in precisely the way in which a science of observation differs from a science of experiment. many make the mistake which m. le marquis made when he came too late, and hoped m. cassini[ ] would do the eclipse over again for his ladies. the apparition chooses its own time, and comes as seldom or as often as it pleases, be it departed spirit, nervous derangement, or imposition. consequently it can only be observed, and not experimented upon. but the heavens, if astrology be true, are prophesying away day and night all the year round, and about every body. experiments can be made, then, except only on rare phenomena, such as eclipses: anybody may choose his time and his question. this is the great difference: and experiments were made, century after century. if astrology had been true, it must have lasted in an ever-improving state. if it be true, it is a truth, and a useful truth, which had experience and prejudice both in its favor, and yet lost ground as soon as astronomy, its working tool, began to improve. . a letter in the handwriting of an educated man, dated from a street in which it must be taken that educated persons live, is addressed to the secretary of the { } astronomical society about a matter on which the writer says "his professional pursuit will enable him to give a satisfactory reply." in a question before a court of law it is sworn on one side that the moon was shining at a certain hour of a certain night on a certain spot in london; on the other side it is affirmed that she was clouded. the secretary is requested to decide. this is curious, as the question is not astrological. persons still send to greenwich, now and then, to have their fortunes told. in one case, not very many years ago, a young gentleman begged to know who his wife was to be, and what fee he was to remit. sometimes the astronomer turns conjurer for fun, and his prophesies are fulfilled. it is related of flamsteed[ ] that an old woman came to know the whereabouts of a bundle of linen which had strayed. flamsteed drew a circle, put a square into it, and gravely pointed out a ditch, near her cottage, in which he said it would be found. he meant to have given the woman a little good advice when she came back: but she came back in great delight, with the bundle in her hand, found in the very place. the late baron zach[ ] received a letter from pons,[ ] a successful finder of comets, complaining that for a certain period he had found no comets, though he had searched diligently. zach, a man of much sly humor, told him that no spots had been seen on the sun for about the same time--which was true,--and assured him that when the spots came back, the comets would come with them. some time after he got a letter { } from pons, who informed him with great satisfaction that he was quite right, that very large spots had appeared on the sun, and that he had found a fine comet shortly after. i do not vouch for the first story, but i have the second in zach's handwriting. it would mend the joke exceedingly if some day a real relation should be established between comets and solar spots: of late years good reason has been shown for advancing a connection between these spots and the earth's magnetism.[ ] if the two things had been put to zach, he would probably have chosen the comets. here is a hint for a paradox: the solar spots are the dead comets, which have parted with their light and heat to feed the sun, as was once suggested. i should not wonder if i were too late, and the thing had been actually maintained. my list does not contain the twentieth part of the possible whole. the mention of coincidences suggests an everlasting source of explanations, applicable to all that is extraordinary. the great paradox of coincidence is that of leibnitz, known as the _pre-established harmony_, or _law of coincidences_, by which, separately and independently, the body receives impressions, and the mind proceeds as if it had perceived them from without. every sensation, and the consequent state of the soul, are independent things coincident in time by the pre-established law. the philosopher could not otherwise _account for_ the connection of mind and matter; and he never goes by so vulgar a rule as _whatever is, is_; to him that which is not clear as to how, is not at all. philosophers in general, who tolerate each other's theories much better than christians do each other's failings, seldom revive leibnitz's fantasy: they seem to act upon the maxim quoted by father eustace[ ] from the { } decretals, _facinora ostendi dum puniuntur, flagitia autem abscondi debent_.[ ] the great _ghost-paradox_, and its theory of _coincidences_, will rise to the surface in the mind of every one. but the use of the word _coincidence_ is here at variance with its common meaning. when a is constantly happening, and also b, the occurrence of a and b at the same moment is the mere coincidence which may be casualty. but the case before us is that a is constantly happening, while b, when it does happen, almost always happens with a, and very rarely without it. that is to say, such is the phenomenon asserted: and all who rationally refer it to casualty, affirm that b is happening very often as well as a, but that it is not thought worthy of being recorded except when a is simultaneous. of course a is here a death, and b the spectral appearance of the person who dies. in talking of this subject it is necessary to put out of the question all who play fast and loose with their secret convictions: these had better give us a reason, when they feel internal pressure for explanation, that there is no weathercock at kilve; this would do for all cases. but persons of real inquiry will see that first, experience does not bear out the asserted frequency of the spectre, without the alleged coincidence of death: and secondly, that if the crowd of purely casual spectres were so great that it is no wonder that, now and then the person should have died at or near the moment, we ought to expect a much larger proportion of cases in which the spectre should come at the moment of the death of one or another of all the cluster who are closely connected with the original of the spectre. but this, we know, is almost without example. it remains then, for all, who speculate at all, to look upon the asserted phenomenon, think what they may of it, the thing which is to be explained, as a _connection_ in time of the death, and the { } simultaneous appearance of the dead. any person the least used to the theory of probabilities will see that purely casual coincidence, the _wrong spectre_ being comparatively so rare that it may be said never to occur, is not within the rational field of possibility. the purely casual coincidence, from which there is no escape except the actual doctrine of special providences, carried down to a very low point of special intention, requires a junction of the things the like of each of which is always happening. i will give three instances which have occurred to myself within the last few years: i solemnly vouch for the literal truth of every part of all three: in august , m. senarmont,[ ] of the french institute, wrote to me to the effect that fresnel[ ] had sent to england, in or shortly after , a paper for translation and insertion in the _european review_, which shortly afterwards expired. the question was what had become of that paper. i examined the _review_ at the museum, found no trace of the paper, and wrote back to that effect at the museum, adding that everything now depended on ascertaining the name of the editor, and tracing his papers: of this i thought there was no chance. i posted this letter on my way home, at a post office in the hampstead road at the junction with edward street, on the opposite side of which is a bookstall. lounging for a moment over the exposed books, _sicut meus est mos_,[ ] i saw, within a few minutes of the posting of the letter, a little catch-penny book of anecdotes of macaulay, which i bought, and ran over for a minute. my eye was soon caught by this sentence: "one of the young fellows immediately wrote to the editor (mr. walker) { } of the _european review_." i thus got the clue by which i ascertained that there was no chance of recovering fresnel's paper. of the mention of current reviews, not one in a thousand names the editor. in the summer of i made my first acquaintance with the tales of nathaniel hawthorne, and the first i read was about the siege of boston in the war of independence. i could not make it out: everybody seemed to have got into somebody else's place. i was beginning the second tale, when a parcel arrived: it was a lot of old pamphlets and other rubbish, as he called it, sent by a friend who had lately sold his books, had not thought it worth while to send these things for sale, but thought i might like to look at them and possibly keep some. the first thing i looked at was a sheet which, being opened, displayed "a plan of boston and its environs, shewing the true situation of his majesty's army and also that of the rebels, drawn by an engineer, at boston oct. ." such detailed plans of current sieges being then uncommon, it is explained that "the principal part of this plan was surveyed by richard williams, lieutenant at boston; and sent over by the son of a nobleman to his father in town, by whose permission it was published." i immediately saw that my confusion arose from my supposing that the king's troops were besieging the rebels, when it was just the other way. april , , while engaged in making some notes on a logical point, an idea occurred which was perfectly new to me, on the mode of conciliating the notions _omnipresence_ and _indivisibility into parts_. what it was is no matter here: suffice it that, since it was published elsewhere (in a paper on _infinity_, _camb. phil. trans._ vol. xi. p. ) i have not had it produced to me. i had just finished a paragraph on the subject, when a parcel came in from a bookseller containing heywood's[ ] _analysis of kant's critick_, . { } on turning over the leaves i found (p. ) the identical thought which up to this day, i only know as in my own paper, or in kant. i feel sure i had not seen it before, for it is in kant's first edition, which was never translated to my knowledge; and it does not appear in the later editions. mr. heywood gives some account of the first edition. in the broadsheet which gave account of the dying scene of charles ii, it is said that the roman catholic priest was introduced by p. m. a. c. f. the chain was this: the duchess of portsmouth[ ] applied to the duke of york, who may have consulted his cordelier confessor, mansuete, about procuring a priest, and the priest was smuggled into the king's room by the duchess and chiffinch.[ ] now the letters are a verbal acrostic of _père mansuete a cordelier friar_, and a syllabic acrostic of _portsmouth and chiffinch_. this is a singular coincidence. macaulay adopted the first interpretation, preferring it to the second, which i brought before him as the conjecture of a near relative of my own. but mansuete is not mentioned in his narrative: it may well be doubted whether the writer of a broadside for english readers would use _père_ instead of _father_. and the person who really "reminded" the duke of "the duty he owed to his brother," was the duchess and not mansuete. but my affair is only with the coincidence. but there are coincidences which are really connected without the connection being known to those who find in them matter of astonishment. presentiments furnish marked cases: sometimes there is no mystery to those who have the clue. in the _gentleman's magazine_ (vol. , part , p. ) we read, the subject being presentiment of death, as follows: "in , to come nearer the recollection of { } survivors, at the taking of pondicherry, captain john fletcher, captain de morgan, and lieutenant bosanquet, each distinctly foretold his own death on the morning of his fate." i have no doubt of all three; and i knew it of my grandfather long before i read the above passage. he saw that the battery he commanded was unduly exposed: i think by the sap running through the fort when produced. he represented this to the engineer officers, and to the commander-in-chief; the engineers denied the truth of the statement, the commander believed them, my grandfather quietly observed that he must make his will, and the french fulfilled his prediction. his will bore date the day of his death; and i always thought it more remarkable than the fulfilment of the prophecy that a soldier should not consider any danger short of one like the above, sufficient reason to make his will. i suppose the other officers were similarly posted. i am told that military men very often defer making their wills until just before an action: but to face the ordinary risks intestate, and to wait until speedy death must be the all but certain consequence of a stupid mistake, is carrying the principle very far. in the matter of coincidences there are, as in other cases, two wonderful extremes with every intermediate degree. at one end we have the confident people who can attribute anything to casual coincidence; who allow zadok imposture and nathan coincidence to anoint solomon selfconceit king. at the other end we have those who see something _very curious_ in any coincidence you please, and whose minds yearn for a deep reason. a speculator of this class happened to find that matthew viii. - and luke viii. - contain the same account, that of the demons entering into the swine. very odd! chapters tallying, and verses so nearly: is the versification rightly managed? examination is sure to show that there are monstrous inconsistencies in the mode of division, which being corrected, the verses tally as well as the chapters. and then how comes it? i cannot go on, { } for i have no gift at torturing a coincidence, but i would lay twopence, if i could make a bet--which i never did in all my life--that some one or more of my readers will try it. some people say that the study of chances tends to awaken a spirit of gambling: i suspect the contrary. at any rate, i myself, the writer of a mathematical book and a comparatively popular book, have never laid a bet nor played for a stake, however small: not one single time. it is useful to record such instances as i have given, with precision and on the solemn word of the recorder. when such a story as that of flamsteed is told, _a priori_ assures us that it could not have been: the story may have been a _ben trovato_,[ ] but not the bundle. it is also useful to establish some of the good jokes which all take for inventions. my friend mr. j. bellingham inglis,[ ] before , saw the tobacconist's carriage with a sample of tobacco in a shield, and the motto _quid rides_[ ] (_n._ & _q._, d s. i. ). his father was able to tell him all about it. the tobacconist was jacob brandon, well known to the elder mr. inglis, and the person who started the motto, the instant he was asked for such a thing, was harry calender of lloyd's, a scholar and a wit. my friend mr. h. crabb robinson[ ] remembers the king's counsel (samuel marryat) who took the motto _causes produce effects_, when his success enabled him to start a carriage. the coincidences of errata are sometimes very remarkable: it may be that the misprint has a sting. the death of sir w. hamilton[ ] of edinburgh was known in london on a thursday, and the editor of the _athenæum_ wrote to { } me in the afternoon for a short obituary notice to appear on saturday. i dashed off the few lines which appeared without a moment to think: and those of my readers who might perhaps think me capable of contriving errata with meaning will, i am sure, allow the hurry, the occasion, and my own peculiar relation to the departed, as sufficient reasons for believing in my entire innocence. of course i could not see a proof: and two errata occurred. the words "addition to stewart"[ ] require "_for_ addition to _read_ edition of." this represents what had been insisted on by the edinburgh publisher, who, frightened by the edition of reid,[ ] had stipulated for a simple reprint without notes. again "principles of logic and mathematics" required "_for_ mathematics _read_ metaphysics." no four words could be put together which would have so good a title to be hamilton's motto. april , found in the letter-box, three loose leaves, well printed and over punctuated, being chapter vi. brethren, lo i come, holding forth the word of life, for so i am commanded.... chapter vii. hear my prayer, o generations! and walk by the way, to drink the waters of the river.... chapter viii. hearken o earth, earth, earth, and the kings of the earth, and their armies.... a very large collection might be made of such apostolic writings. they go on well enough in a misty--meant for mystical--imitation of st. paul or the prophets, until at last some prodigious want of keeping shows the education of the writer. for example, after half a page which might { } pass for irving's[ ] preaching--though a person to whom it was presented as such would say that most likely the head and tail would make something more like head and tail of it--we are astounded by a declaration from the _holy spirit_, speaking of himself, that he is "not ashamed of the gospel of christ." it would be long before we should find in _educated_ rhapsody--of which there are specimens enough--such a thing as a person of the trinity taking merit for moral courage enough to stand where st. peter fell. the following declaration comes next--"i will judge between cattle and cattle, that use their tongues." the figure of the earth. the figure of the earth. by j. l. murphy,[ ] of birmingham. (london and birmingham, pages, mo.) ( ?) mr. murphy invites attention and objection to some assertions, as that the earth is prolate, not oblate. "if the philosopher's conclusion be right, then the pole is the center of a valley (!) thirteen miles deep." hence it would be very warm. it is answer enough to ask--who knows that it is not? *** a paragraph in the ms. appears to have been inserted in this place by mistake. it will be found in the appendix at the end of this volume.--s. e. de m. perpetual motion. . the following letter was written by one of a class of persons whom, after much experience of them, i { } do _not_ pronounce insane. but in this case the second sentence gives a suspicion of actual delusion of the senses; the third looks like that eye for the main chance which passes for sanity on the stock exchange and elsewhere: th sept. . "gentlemen,--i pray you take steps to make known that yesterday i completed my invention which will give motion to every country on the earth;--to move machinery!--the long sought in vain 'perpetual motion'!!--i was supported at the time by the queen and h.r.h. prince albert. if, gentlemen, you can advise me how to proceed to claim the reward, if any is offered by the government, or how to secure the patent for the machine, or in any way assist me by advice in this great work, i shall most graciously acknowledge your consideration. these are my convictions that my several discoveries will be realized: and this great one can be at once acted upon: although at this moment it only exists in my mind, from my knowledge of certain fixed principles in nature:--the machine i have not made, as i only completed the discovery yesterday, sunday! i have, etc. ---- ----" to the directors of the london university, gower street. on spiritualism. the divine drama of history and civilisation. by the rev. james smith, m.a.[ ] london, , vo. i have several books on that great paradox of our day, _spiritualism_, but i shall exclude all but three. the bibliography of this subject is now very large. the question is one both of evidence and speculation;--are the facts { } true? are they caused by spirits? these i shall not enter upon: i shall merely recommend this work as that of a spiritualist who does not enter on the subject, which he takes for granted, but applies his derived views to the history of mankind with learning and thought. mr. smith was a man of a very peculiar turn of thinking. he was, when alive, the editor, or _an_ editor, of the _family herald_: i say when alive, to speak according to knowledge; for, if his own views be true, he may have a hand in it still. the answers to correspondents, in his time, were piquant and original above any i ever saw. i think a very readable book might be made out of them, resembling "guesses at truth:" the turn given to an inquiry about morals, religion, or socials, is often of the highest degree of _unexpectedness_; the poor querist would find himself right in a most unpalatable way. answers to correspondents, in newspapers, are very often the fag ends of literature. i shall never forget the following. a person was invited to name a rule without exception, if he could: he answered "a man _must_ be present when he is shaved." a lady--what right have ladies to decide questions about shaving?--said this was not properly a rule; and the oracle was consulted. the editor agreed with the lady; he said that "a man _must_ be present when he is shaved" is not a _rule_, but a _fact_. [among my anonymous communicants is one who states that i have done injustice to the rev. james smith in "referring to him as a spiritualist," and placing his "divine drama" among paradoxes: "it is no paradox, nor do _spiritualistic_ views mar or weaken the execution of the design." quite true: for the design is to produce and enforce "spiritualistic views"; and leather does not mar nor weaken a shoemaker's plan. i knew mr. smith well, and have often talked to him on the subject: but more testimony from me is unnecessary; his book will speak for itself. { } his peculiar style will justify a little more quotation than is just necessary to prove the point. looking at the "battle of opinion" now in progress, we see that mr. smith was a prescient: (p. .) "from the general review of parties in england, it is evident that no country in the world is better prepared for the great battle of opinion. where else can the battle be fought but where the armies are arrayed? and here they all are, greek, roman, anglican, scotch, lutheran, calvinist, established and territorial, with baronial bishops, and nonestablished of every grade--churches with living prophets and apostles, and churches with dead prophets and apostles, and apostolical churches without apostles, and philosophies without either prophets or apostles, and only wanting one more, 'the christian church,' like aaron's rod, to swallow up and digest them all, and then bud and flourish. as if to prepare our minds for this desirable and inevitable consummation, different parties have been favored with a revival of that very spirit of revelation by which the church itself was originally founded. there is a complete series of spiritual revelations in england and the united states, besides mesmeric phenomena that bear a resemblance to revelation, and thus gradually open the mind of the philosophical and infidel classes, as well as the professed believers of that old revelation which they never witnessed in living action, to a better understanding of that law of nature (for it is a law of nature) in which all revelation originates and by which its spiritual communications are regulated." mr. smith proceeds to say that there are _only_ thirty-five incorporated churches in england, all formed from the new testament except five, to each of which five he concedes a revelation of its own. the five are the quakers, the swedenborgians, the southcottians, the irvingites, and the mormonites. of joanna southcott he speaks as follows: { } (p. .) "joanna southcott[ ] is not very gallantly treated by the gentlemen of the press, who, we believe, without knowing anything about her, merely pick up their idea of her character from the rabble. we once entertained the same rabble idea of her; but having read her works--for we really have read them--we now regard her with great respect. however, there is a great abundance of chaff and straw to her grain; but the grain is good, and as we do not eat either the chaff or straw if we can avoid it, nor even the raw grain, but thrash it and winnow it, and grind it and bake it, we find it, after undergoing this process, not only very palatable, but a special dainty of its kind. but the husk is an insurmountable obstacle to those learned and educated gentlemen who judge of books entirely by the style and the grammar, or those who eat grain as it grows, like the cattle. such men would reject all prological revelation; for there never was and probably never will be a revelation by voice and vision communicated in classical manner. it would be an invasion of the rights and prerogatives of humanity, and as contrary to the divine and established order of mundane government, as a field of quartern loaves or hot french rolls." mr. smith's book is spiritualism from beginning to end; and my anonymous gainsayer, honest of course, is either ignorant of the work he thinks he has read, or has a most remarkable development of the organ of imperception.] a condensed history of mathematics. i cut the following from a sunday paper in : "x. y.--the chaldeans began the mathematics, in which the egyptians excelled. then crossing the sea, by means { } of thales,[ ] the milesian, they came into greece, where they were improved very much by pythagoras,[ ] anaxagoras,[ ] and anopides[ ] of chios. these were followed by briso,[ ] antipho, [two circle-squarers; where is euclid?] and hippocrates,[ ] but the excellence of the algebraic art was begun by geber,[ ] an arabian astronomer, and was carried on by cardanus,[ ] tartaglia,[ ] clavius,[ ], stevinus,[ ] ghetaldus,[ ] herig_e_nius,[ ] fran. van schooten [meaning francis van schooten[ ]], florida de beau_m_e,[ ] etc." bryso was a mistaken man. antipho had the disadvantage of being in advance of his age. he had the notion of which the modern geometry has made so much, that of { } a circle being the polygon of an infinitely great number of sides. he could make no use of it, but the notion itself made him a sophist in the eyes of aristotle, eutocius,[ ] etc. geber, an arab astronomer, and a reputed conjurer in europe, seems to have given his name to unintelligible language in the word _gibberish_. at one time _algebra_ was traced to him; but very absurdly, though i have heard it suggested that _algebra_ and _gibberish_ must have had one inventor. any person who meddles with the circle may find himself the crane who was netted among the geese: as antipho for one, and olivier de serres[ ] for another. this last gentleman ascertained, by weighing, that the area of the circle is very nearly that of the square on the side of the inscribed equilateral triangle: which it is, as near as . ... to . .... he did not pretend to more than approximation; but montucla and others misunderstood him, and, still worse, misunderstood their own misunderstanding, and made him say the circle was exactly double of the equilateral triangle. he was let out of limbo by lacroix, in a note to his edition of montucla's _history of quadrature_. st. vitus, patron of cyclometers. quadratura del cerchio, trisezione dell' angulo, et duplicazione del cubo, problemi geometricamente risolute e dimostrate dal reverendo arciprete di san vito d. domenico angherà,[ ] malta, , vo. { } equazioni geometriche, estratte dalla lettera del rev. arciprete ... al professore pullicino[ ] sulla quadratura del cerchio. milan, or , vo. il mediterraneo gazetta di malta, decembre , no. : also , , , , , . the malta times, tuesday, th june . misura esatta del cerchio, dal rev. d. angherà. malta, , mo. quadrature of the circle ... by the rev. d. angherà, archpriest of st. vito. malta, , mo. i have looked for st. vitus in catalogues of saints, but never found his legend, though he figures as a day-mark in the oldest almanacs. he must be properly accredited, since he was an archpriest. and i pronounce and ordain, by right accruing from the trouble i have taken in this subject, that he, st. vitus, who leads his votaries a never-ending and unmeaning dance, shall henceforth be held and taken to be the patron saint of the circle-squarer. his day is the th of june, which is also that of st. modestus,[ ] with whom the said circle-squarer often has nothing to do. and he must not put himself under the first saint with a slantendicular reference to the other, as is much to be feared was done by the cardinal who came to govern england with a title containing st. pudentiana,[ ] who shares a day with _st. dunstan_. the archpriest of st. vitus will have it that the square inscribed in a semicircle is half of the semicircle, or the circumference - / diameters. he is active and able, with { } nothing wrong about him except his paradoxes. in the second tract named he has given the testimonials of crowned heads and ministers, etc. as follows. louis-napoleon gives thanks. the minister at turin refers it to the academy of sciences, and hopes so much labor will be judged _degna di pregio_.[ ] the vice-chancellor of oxford--a blunt englishman--begs to say that the university has never proposed the problem, as some affirm. the prince regent of baden has received the work with lively interest. the academy of vienna is not in a position to enter into the question. the academy of turin offers the most _distinct_ thanks. the academy della crusca attends only to literature, but gives thanks. the queen of spain has received the work with the highest appreciation. the university of salamanca gives infinite thanks, and feels true satisfaction in having the book. lord palmerston gives thanks, by the hand of "william san." the viceroy of egypt, not being yet up in italian, will spend his first moments of leisure in studying the book, when it shall have been translated into french: in the mean time he congratulates the author upon his victory over a problem so long held insoluble. all this is seriously published as a rate in aid of demonstration. if these royal compliments cannot make the circumference of a circle about per cent. larger than geometry will have it --which is all that is wanted--no wonder that thrones are shaky. i am informed that the legend of st. vitus is given by ribadeneira[ ] in his lives of saints, and that baronius,[ ] in { } his _martyrologium romanum_, refers to several authors who have written concerning him. there is an account in mrs. jameson's[ ] _history of sacred and legendary art_ (ed. of , p. ). but it seems that st. vitus is the patron saint of _all_ dances; so that i was not so far wrong in making him the protector of the cyclometers. why he is represented with a cock is a disputed point, which is now made clear: next after _gallus gallinaceus_[ ] himself, there is no crower like the circle-squarer. celebrated approximations of [pi]. the following is an extract from the _english cyclopædia_, art. tables: " . william shanks,[ ] _contributions to mathematics, comprising chiefly the rectification of the circle to places of tables_, london, . (quadrature of the circle.) here is a _table_, because it tabulates the results of the subordinate steps of this enormous calculation as far as decimals: the remainder being added as results only during the printing. for instance, one step is the calculation of the reciprocal of . ^{ }; and the result is given. the number of pages required to describe these results is . mr. shanks has also thrown off, as chips or splinters, the values of the base of napier's logarithms, and of its logarithms of , , , , to decimals; and the value of the modulus . ... to decimals: with the th, th, th ... up to the st powers of . these tremendous stretches of calculation--at least we so call them in our day--are useful in several respects; they prove more than { } the capacity of this or that computer for labor and accuracy; they show that there is in the community an increase of skill and courage. we say in the community: we fully believe that the unequalled turnip which every now and then appears in the newspapers is a sufficient presumption that the average turnip is growing bigger, and the whole crop heavier. all who know the history of the quadrature are aware that the several increases of numbers of decimals to which [pi] has been carried have been indications of a general increase in the power to calculate, and in courage to face the labor. here is a comparison of two different times. in the day of cocker,[ ] the pupil was directed to perform a common subtraction with a voice-accompaniment of this kind: ' from i cannot, but add , from remains , set down and carry ; and which i carry is , from i cannot, etc.' we have before us the announcement of the following _table_, undated, as open to inspection at the crystal palace, sydenham, in two diagrams of ft. in, by ft. in.: 'the figure involved into the th power, and antecedent powers or involutions, containing upwards of , figures. also, the proofs of the above, containing upwards of , figures. by samuel fancourt, of mincing lane, london, and completed by him in the year , at the age of sixteen. n.b. the whole operation performed by simple arithmetic.' the young operator calculated by successive squaring the d, th, th, etc., powers up to the th, with proof by division. but multiplications by , in the short (or - ) way, would have been much easier. the d, d, th, th, th, and th powers are given at the back of the announcement. the powers of have been calculated for many purposes. in vol. ii of his _magia universalis naturæ et artis_, herbipoli, , to, the jesuit gaspar schott[ ] having discovered, on some grounds of theological { } magic, that the degrees of grace of the virgin mary were in number the th power of , calculated that number. whether or no his number correctly represented the result he announced, he certainly calculated it rightly, as we find by comparison with mr. shanks." there is a point about mr. shanks's figures of the value of [pi] which attracts attention, perhaps without deserving it. it might be expected that, in so many figures, the nine digits and the cipher would occur each about the same number of times; that is, each about times. but the fact stands thus: occurs times; and occur times each; occurs times; and occur times each; occurs times; occurs times; occurs times; and occurs only times. now, if all the digits were equally likely, and drawings were made, it is to against the number of sevens being as distant from the probable average (say ) as on one side or on the other. there must be some reason why the number is thus deprived of its fair share in the structure. here is a field of speculation in which two branches of inquirers might unite. there is but one number which is treated with an unfairness which is incredible as an accident; and that number is the mystic number _seven_! if the cyclometers and the apocalyptics would lay their heads together until they come to a unanimous verdict on this phenomenon, and would publish nothing until they are of one mind, they would earn the gratitude of their race.--i was wrong: it is the pyramid-speculator who should have been appealed to. a correspondent of my friend prof. piazzi smyth[ ] notices that is the number of most frequency, and that - / is the nearest approximation to it in simple digits. professor smyth himself, whose word on egypt is paradox of a very high order, backed by a great quantity of useful labor, the results which will be made available by those who do not receive { } the paradoxes, is inclined to see confirmation for some of his theory in these phenomena. curious calculations. these paradoxes of calculation sometimes appear as illustrations of the value of a new method. in , mr. g. suffield,[ ] m.a., and mr. j. r. lunn,[ ] m.a., of clare college and of st. john's college, cambridge, published the whole quotient of ... divided by , throughout the whole of one of the recurring periods, having digits. this was done in illustration of mr. suffield's method of _synthetic division_. another instance of computation carried to paradoxical length, in order to illustrate a method, is the solution of x^ - x = , the example given of newton's method, on which all improvements have been tested. in , fourier's[ ] posthumous work on equations showed figures of solution, got with enormous labor. thinking this a good opportunity to illustrate the superiority of the method of w. g. horner,[ ] not yet known in france, and not much known in { } england, i proposed to one of my classes, in , to beat fourier on this point, as a christmas exercise. i received several answers, agreeing with each other, to places of decimals. in , i repeated the proposal, requesting that places might be exceeded: i obtained answers of , , , , , and places. but one answer, by mr. w. harris johnston,[ ] of dundalk, and of the excise office, went to decimal places. to test the accuracy of this, i requested mr. johnston to undertake another equation, connected with the former one in a way which i did not explain. his solution verified the former one, but he was unable to see the connection, even when his result was obtained. my reader may be as much at a loss: the two solutions are: . ... . ... the results are published in the _mathematician_, vol. iii, p. . in , another pupil of mine, mr. j. power hicks,[ ] carried the result to decimal places, without knowing what mr. johnston had done. the result is in the _english cyclopædia_, article involution and evolution. i remark that when i write the initial of a christian name, the most usual name of that initial is understood. i never saw the name of w. g. horner written at length, until i applied to a relative of his, who told me that he was, as i supposed, wm. _george_, but that he was named after a relative of that _surname_. the square root of , to decimal places, was given { } me in by my pupil, mr. william henry colvill, now ( ) civil surgeon at baghdad. it was . mr. james steel[ ] of birkenhead verified this by actual multiplication, and produced - / ^{ } as the square. calcolo decidozzinale del barone silvio ferrari. turin, , to. this is a serious proposal to alter our numeral system and to count by twelves. thus would be twelve, thirteen, etc., two new symbols being invented for ten and eleven. the names of numbers must of course be changed. there are persons who think such changes practicable. i thought this proposal absurd when i first saw it, and i think so still:[ ] but the one i shall presently describe beats it so completely in that point, that i have not a smile left for this one. on comets. the successful and therefore probably true theory of comets. london, . ( pp. duodecimo.) the author is the late mr. peter legh,[ ] of norbury booths hall, knutsford, who published for eight or ten { } years the _ombrological almanac_, a work of asserted discovery in meteorology. the theory of comets is that the joint attraction of the new moon and several planets in the direction of the sun, draws off the gases from the earth, and forms these cometic meteors. but how these meteors come to describe orbits round the sun, and to become capable of having their returns predicted, is not explained. a new phase of mormonism. the mormon, new york, saturday, oct. , . a newspaper headed by a grand picture of starred and striped banners, beehive, and eagle surmounting it. a scroll on each side: on the left, "mormon creed. mind your own business. brigham young;"[ ] on the right, "given by inspiration of god. joseph smith."[ ] a leading article on the discoveries of prof. orson pratt[ ] says, "mormonism has long taken the lead in religion: it will soon be in the van both in science and politics." at the beginning of the paper is professor pratt's "law of planetary rotation." the cube roots of the densities of the planets are as the square roots of their periods of rotation. the squares of the cube roots of the masses divided by the squares of the diameters are as the periods of rotation. arithmetical verification attempted, and the whole very modestly stated { } and commented on. dated g. s. l. city, utah ter., aug. , . if the creed, as above, be correctly given, no wonder the mormonites are in such bad odor. mathematical illustrations of doctrine. the two estates; or both worlds mathematically considered. london, , small (pp. ). the author has published mathematical works with his name. the present tract is intended to illustrate mathematically a point which may be guessed from the title. but the symbols do very little in the way of illustration: thus, x being the _present value_ of the future estate (eternal happiness), and a of all that this world can give, the author impresses it on the mathematician that, x being infinitely greater than a, x + a = x, so that a need not be considered. this will not act much more powerfully on a mathematician by virtue of the symbols than if those same symbols had been dispensed with: even though, as the author adds, "it was this method of neglecting infinitely small quantities that sir isaac newton was indebted to for his greatest discoveries." there has been a moderate quantity of well-meant attempt to enforce, sometimes motive, sometimes doctrine, by arguments drawn from mathematics, the proponents being persons unskilled in that science for the most part. the ground is very dangerous: for the illustration often turns the other way with greater power, in a manner which requires only a little more knowledge to see. i have, in my life, heard from the pulpit or read, at least a dozen times, that all sin is infinitely great, proved as follows. the greater the being, the greater the sin of any offence against him: therefore the offence committed against an infinite being is infinitely great. now the mathematician, of which the proposers of this argument are not aware, is perfectly familiar with quantities which increase together, and never cease increasing, but so that one of them remains finite when { } the other becomes infinite. in fact, the argument is a perfect _non sequitur_.[ ] those who propose it have in their minds, though in a cloudy and indefinite form, the idea of the increase of guilt being _proportionate_ to the increase of greatness in the being offended. but this it would never do to state: for by such statement not only would the argument lose all that it has of the picturesque, but the asserted premise would have no strong air of exact truth. how could any one undertake to appeal to conscience to declare that an offence against a being - / times as great as another is exactly, no more and no less, - / times as great an offence against the other? the infinite character of the offence against an infinite being is laid down in dryden's _religio laici_,[ ] and is, no doubt, an old argument: "for, granting we have sinned, and that th' offence of man is made against omnipotence, some price that bears proportion must be paid, and infinite with infinite be weighed. see then the deist lost; remorse for vice not paid; or, paid, inadequate in price." dryden, in the words "bears proportion" is in verse more accurate than most of the recent repeaters in prose. and this is not the only case of the kind in his argumentative poetry. my old friend, the late dr. olinthus gregory,[ ] who was a sound and learned mathematician, adopted this dangerous kind of illustration in his _letters on the christian religion_. { } he argued, by parallel, from what he supposed to be the necessarily mysterious nature of the _impossible_ quantity of algebra to the necessarily mysterious nature of certain doctrines of his system of christianity. but all the difficulty and mystery of the impossible quantity is now cleared away by the advance of algebraical thought: and yet dr. gregory's book continues to be sold, and no doubt the illustration is still accepted as appropriate. the mode of argument used by the author of the tract above named has a striking defect. he talks of reducing this world and the next to "present value," as an actuary does with successive lives or next presentations. does value make interest? and if not, why? and if it do, then the present value of an eternity is _not_ infinitely great. who is ignorant that a perpetual annuity at five per cent is worth only twenty years' purchase? this point ought to be discussed by a person who treats heaven as a deferred perpetual annuity. i do not ask him to do so, and would rather he did not; but if he _will_ do it, he must either deal with the question of discount, or be asked the reason why. when a very young man, i was frequently exhorted to one or another view of religion by pastors and others who thought that a mathematical argument would be irresistible. and i heard the following more than once, and have since seen it in print, i forget where. since eternal happiness belonged to the particular views in question, a benefit infinitely great, then, even if the probability of their arguments were small, or even infinitely small, yet the product of the chance and benefit, according to the usual rule, might give a result which no one ought in prudence to pass over. they did not see that this applied to all systems as well as their own. i take this argument to be the most perverse of all the perversions i have heard or read on the subject: there is some high authority for it, whom i forget. the moral of all this is, that such things as the preceding should be kept out of the way of those who are not { } mathematicians, because they do not understand the argument; and of those who are, because they do. [the high authority referred to above is pascal, an early cultivator of mathematical probability, and obviously too much enamoured of his new pursuit. but he conceives himself bound to wager on one side or the other. to the argument (_pensées_, ch. )[ ] that "le juste est de ne point parier," he answers, "oui: mais il faut parier: vous êtes embarqué; et ne parier point que dieu est, c'est parier qu'il n'est pas."[ ] leaving pascal's argument to make its way with a person who, _being a sceptic_, is yet positive that the issue is salvation or perdition, if a god there be,--for the case as put by pascal requires this,--i shall merely observe that a person who elects to believe in god, as the best chance of gain, is not one who, according to pascal's creed, or any other worth naming, will really secure that gain. i wonder whether pascal's curious imagination ever presented to him in sleep his convert, in the future state, shaken out of a red-hot dice-box upon a red-hot hazard-table, as perhaps he might have been, if dante had been the later of the two. the original idea is due to the elder arnobius,[ ] who, as cited by bayle,[ ] speaks thus: "sed et ipse [christus] quæ pollicetur, non probat. ita est. nulla enim, ut dixi, futurorum potest existere comprobatio. cum ergo hæc sit conditio futurorum, ut teneri et comprehendi nullius possint anticipationis attactu; nonne { } purior ratio est, ex duobus incertis, et in ambigua expectatione pendentibus, id potius credere, quod aliquas spes ferat, quam omnino quod nullas? in illo enim periculi nihil est, si quod dicitur imminere, cassum fiat et vacuum: in hoc damnum est maximum, id est salutis amissio, si cum tempus advenerit aperiatur non fuisse mendacium."[ ] really arnobius seems to have got as much out of the notion, in the third century, as if he had been fourteen centuries later, with the arithmetic of chances to help him.] novum organum moralium. the sentinel, vol. ix. no. . london, saturday, may , . this is the first london number of an irish paper, protestant in politics. it opens with "suggestions on the subject of a _novum organum moralium_," which is the application of algebra and the differential calculus to morals, socials, and politics. there is also a leading article on the subject, and some applications in notes to other articles. a separate publication was afterwards made, with the addition of a long preface; the author being a clergyman who i presume must have been the editor of the _sentinel_. suggestions as to the employment of a _novum organum moralium_. or, thoughts on the nature of the differential calculus, and on the application of its principles to metaphysics, with a view to the attainment of demonstration and certainty in moral, { } political and ecclesiastical affairs. by tresham dames gregg,[ ] chaplain of st. mary's, within the church of st. nicholas intra muros, dublin. london, , vo. (pp. xl + ). i have a personal interest in this system, as will appear from the following extract from the newspaper: "we were subsequently referred to de morgan's _formal logic_ and boole's _laws of thought_[ ] both very elaborate works, and greatly in the direction taken by ourselves. that the writers amazingly surpass us in learning we most willingly admit, but we venture to pronounce of both their learned treatises, that they deal with the subject in a mode that is scholastic to an excess.... that their works have been for a considerable space of time before the world and effected nothing, would argue that they have overlooked the vital nature of the theme.... on the whole, the writings of de morgan and boole go to the full justification of our principle without in any wise so trenching upon our ground as to render us open to reproach in claiming our calculus as a great discovery.... but we renounce any paltry jealousy as to a matter so vast. if de morgan and boole have had a priority in the case, to them we cheerfully shall resign the glory and honor. if such be the truth, they have neither done justice to the discovery, nor to themselves [quite true]. they have, under the circumstances, acted like 'the foolish man, who roasteth not that which he taketh { } in hunting.... it will be sufficient for us, however, to be the columbus of these great americi, and popularize what they found, _if_ they found it. we, as from the mountain top, will then become _their_ trumpeters, and cry glory to de morgan and glory to boole, under him who is the source of all glory, the only good and wise, to whom be glory for ever! _if_ they be our predecessors in this matter, they have, under him, taken moral questions out of the category of probabilities, and rendered them perfectly certain. in that case, let their books be read by those who may doubt the principles this day laid before the world as a great discovery, by our newspaper. our cry shall be [greek: eurêkasi]![ ] let us hope that they will join us, and henceforth keep their light [_sic_] from under their bushel." for myself, and for my old friend mr. boole, who i am sure would join me, i disclaim both priority, simultaneity, and posteriority, and request that nothing may be trumpeted from the mountain top except our abjuration of all community of thought or operation with this _novum organum_. to such community we can make no more claim than americus could make to being the forerunner of columbus who popularized his discoveries. we do not wish for any [greek: eurêkasi] and not even for [greek: heurêkasi]. for self and boole, i point out what would have convinced either of us that this house is divided against itself. [alpha] being an apostolic element, [delta] the doctrinal element, and [chi] the body of the faithful, the church is [alpha] [delta] [chi], we are told. also, that if [alpha] become negative, or the apostolicity become diabolicity [my words]; or if [delta] become negative, and doctrine become heresy; or if [chi] become negative, that is, if the faithful become unfaithful; the church becomes negative, "the very opposite to what it ought to be." for self and boole, i admit this. but--which is not noticed--if [alpha] and [delta] should _both_ become negative, diabolical origin { } and heretical doctrine, then the church, [alpha] [delta] [chi], is still positive, what it ought to be, unless [chi] be also negative, or the people unfaithful to it, in which case it is a bad church. now, self and boole--though i admit i have not asked my partner--are of opinion that a diabolical church with false doctrine does harm when the people are faithful, and can do good only when the people are unfaithful. we may be wrong, but this is what we _do_ think. accordingly, we have caught nothing, and can therefore roast nothing of our own: i content myself with roasting a joint of mr. gregg's larder. these mathematical vagaries have uses which will justify a large amount of quotation: and in a score of years this may perhaps be the only attainable record. i therefore proceed. after observing that by this calculus juries (heaven help them! say i) can calculate damages "almost to a nicety," and further that it is made abundantly evident that c e x is "the general expression for an individual," it is noted that the number of the beast is not given in the revelation in words at length, but as [greek: chxw'].[ ] on this the following remark is made: "can it be possible that we have in this case a specimen given to us of the arithmetic of heaven, and an expression revealed, which indicates by its function of addibility, the name of the church in question, and of each member of it; and by its function of multiplicability the doctrine, the mission, and the members of the great synagogue of apostacy? we merely propound these questions;--we do not pretend to solve them." after a translation in blank verse--a very pretty one--of the th psalm, the author proceeds as follows, to render it into differential calculus: { } "and the whole tells us just this, that david did what he could. he augmented those elements of his constitution which were (_exceptis excipiendis_)[ ] subject to himself, and the almighty then augmented his personal qualities, and his vocational _status_. otherwise, to throw the matter into the expression of our notation, the variable e was augmented, and c x rose proportionally. the law of the variation, according to our theory, would be thus expressed. the resultant was david the king c e x [c = r?] (who had been david the shepherd boy), and from the conditions of the theorem we have du/de = ce(dx/de) + ex(dc/de)x + cx which, in the terms of ordinary language, just means, the increase of david's educational excellence or qualities--his piety, his prayerfulness, his humility, obedience, etc.--was so great, that when multiplied by his original talent and position, it produced a product so great as to be equal in its amount to royalty, honor, wealth, and power, etc.: in short, to all the attributes of majesty."[ ] the "solution of the family problem" is of high interest. it is to determine the effect on the family in general from a change [of conduct] in one of them. the person chosen is one of the maid-servants. "let c e x be the father; c_ e_ x_ the mother, etc. the family then consists of the maid's master, her mistress, her young master, her young mistress, and fellow servant. now the master's calling (or c) is to exercise his share of control over this servant, and mind the rest of his business: call this remainder a, and let his calling generally, or all his affairs, be to his maid-servant as m : y, i.e., y = (mz/c); ... { } and this expression will represent his relation to the servant. consequently, c e x = (a + mz/c)e x; otherwise (a + mz/c)e x is the expression for the father when viewed as the girl's master." i have no objection to repeat so far; but i will not give the formula for the maid's relation to her young master; for i am not quite sure that all young masters are to be trusted with it. suffice it that the son will be affected directly as his influence over her, and inversely as his vocational power: if then he should have some influence and no vocational power, the effect on him would be infinite. this is dismal to think of. further, the formula brings out that if one servant improve, the other must deteriorate, and _vice versa_. this is not the experience of most families: and the author remarks as follows: "that is, we should venture to say, a very beautiful result, and we may say it yielded us no little astonishment. what our calculation might lead to we never dreamt of; that it should educe a conclusion so recondite that our unassisted power never could have attained to, and which, if we could have conjectured it, would have been at best the most distant probability, that conclusion being itself, as it would appear, the quintessence of truth, afforded us a measure of satisfaction that was not slight." that the writings of mr. boole and myself "go to the full justification of" this "principle," is only true in the sense in which the scotch use, or did use, the word _justification_. a tribute to boole. [the last number of this budget had stood in type for months, waiting until there should be a little cessation of correspondence more connected with the things of the day. { } i had quite forgotten what it was to contain; and little thought, when i read the proof, that my allusions to my friend mr. boole, then in life and health, would not be printed till many weeks after his death. had i remembered what my last number contained, i should have added my expression of regret and admiration to the numerous obituary testimonials, which this great loss to science has called forth. the system of logic alluded to in the last number of this series is but one of many proofs of genius and patience combined. i might legitimately have entered it among my _paradoxes_, or things counter to general opinion: but it is a paradox which, like that of copernicus, excited admiration from its first appearance. that the symbolic processes of algebra, invented as tools of numerical calculation, should be competent to express every act of thought, and to furnish the grammar and dictionary of an all-containing system of logic, would not have been believed until it was proved. when hobbes,[ ] in the time of the commonwealth, published his _computation or logique_, he had a remote glimpse of some of the points which are placed in the light of day by mr. boole. the unity of the forms of thought in all the applications of reason, however remotely separated, will one day be matter of notoriety and common wonder: and boole's name will be remembered in connection with one of the most important steps towards the attainment of this knowledge.] decimals run riot. the decimal system as a whole. by dover statter.[ ] london and liverpool, , vo. { } the proposition is to make everything decimal. the day, now hours, is to be made hours. the year is to have ten months, unusber, duober, etc. fortunately there are ten commandments, so there will be neither addition to, nor deduction from, the moral law. but the twelve apostles! even rejecting judas, there is a whole apostle of difficulty. these points the author does not touch. on phonetic spelling. the first book of phonetic reading. london, fred. pitman,[ ] phonetic depot, , paternoster row, , mo. the phonetic journal. devoted to the propagation of phonetic reading, phonetic longhand, phonetic shorthand, and phonetic printing. no. . saturday, november . vol. . i write the titles of a couple out of several tracts which i have by me. but the number of publications issued by the promoters of this spirited attempt is very large indeed.[ ] the attempt itself has had no success with the mass of the public. this i do not regret. had the world found that the change was useful, i should have gone contentedly with the stream; but not without regretting our old language. i admit the difficulties which our unpronounceable spelling puts in the way of learning to read: and i have no doubt that, as affirmed, it is easier to teach children phonetically, and afterwards to introduce them to our common system, than to proceed in the usual way. but by the usual way i mean proceeding by letters from the very beginning. if, which i am sure is a better plan, children be taught at the commencement very much by _complete words_, as if they were learning chinese, and be gradually accustomed to { } resolve the known words into letters, a fraction, perhaps a considerable one, of the advantage of the phonetic system is destroyed. it must be remembered that a phonetic system can only be an approximation. the differences of pronunciation existing among educated persons are so great, that, on the phonetic system, different persons ought to spell differently. but the phonetic party have produced something which will immortalize their plan: i mean their _shorthand_, which has had a fraction of the success it deserves. all who know anything of shorthand must see that nothing but a phonetic system can be worthy of the name: and the system promulgated is skilfully done. were i a young man i should apply myself to it systematically. i believe this is the only system in which books were ever published. i wish some one would contribute to a public journal a brief account of the dates and circumstances of the phonetic movement, not forgetting a list of the books published in shorthand. a child beginning to read by himself may owe terrible dreams and waking images of horror to our spelling, as i did when six years old. in one of the common poetry-books there is an admonition against confining little birds in cages, and the child is asked what if a great giant, amazingly strong, were to take you away, shut you up, and feed you with vic-tu-als you ne-ver could bear. the book was hyphened for the beginner's use; and i had not the least idea that _vic-tu-als_ were _vittles_: by the sound of the word i judged they must be of iron; and it entered into my soul. the worst of the phonetic shorthand book is that they nowhere, so far as i have seen, give _all_ the symbols, in every stage of advancement, together, in one or following pages. it is symbols and talk, more symbols and more talk, etc. a universal view of the signs ought to begin the works. { } a handful of little paradoxers. ombrological almanac. seventeenth year. an essay on anemology and ombrology. by peter legh,[ ] esq. london, , mo. mr. legh, already mentioned, was an intelligent country gentleman, and a legitimate speculator. but the clue was not reserved for him. the proof that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles looked for in the inflation of the circle. by gen. perronet thompson. london, , vo. (pp. .) another attempt, the third, at this old difficulty, which cannot be put into few words of explanation.[ ] comets considered as volcanoes, and the cause of their velocity and other phenomena thereby explained. london (_circa_ ), vo. the title explains the book better than the book explains the title. . a stranger applied to me to know what the ideas of a friend of his were worth upon the magnitude of the earth. the matter being one involving points of antiquity, i mentioned various persons whose speculations he seemed to have ignored; among others, thales. the reply was, "i am instructed by the author to inform you that he is perfectly acquainted with the works of thales, euclid, archimedes, ..." i had some thought of asking whether he had used the elzevir edition of thales,[ ] which is known to be very incomplete, or that of professor niemand with the lections, nirgend, , vols. folio; just to see whether the { } last would not have been the very edition he had read. but i refrained, in mercy. the moon is the image of the earth, and is not a solid body. by t^{he} longitude.[ ] (private circulation.) in five parts. london, , , ; calcutta, , , vo. the earth is "brought to a focus"; it describes a "looped orbit round the sun." the eclipse of the sun is thus explained: "at the time of eclipses, the image is more or less so directly before or behind the earth that, in the case of new moon, bright rays of the sun fall and bear upon the spot where the figure of the earth is brought to a focus, that is, bear upon the image of the earth, when a darkness beyond is produced reaching to the earth, and the sun becomes more or less eclipsed." how the earth is "brought to a focus" we do not find stated. writers of this kind always have the argument that some things which have been ridiculed at first have been finally established. those who put into the lottery had the same kind of argument; but were always answered by being reminded how many blanks there were to one prize. i am loath to pronounce against anything: but it does force itself upon me that the author of these tracts has drawn a blank. lunar motion again. _times_, april or , . the moon has no rotary motion. a letter from mr. jellinger symons,[ ] inspector of schools, which commenced a controversy of many letters and pamphlets. this dispute comes on at intervals, and will continue to do so. it sometimes arises from inability to understand the character of simple rotation, geometrically; sometimes from not understanding the mechanical doctrine of rotation. { } lunar motion. the whole argument stated, and illustrated by diagrams; with letters from the astronomer royal. by jellinger c. symons. london, , vo. the astronomer royal endeavored to disentangle mr. j. c. symons, but failed. mr. airy[ ] can correct the error of a ship's compasses, because he can put her head which way he pleases: but this he cannot do with a speculator. mr. symons, in this tract, insinuated that the rotation of the moon is one of the silver shrines of the craftsmen. to see a thing so clearly as to be satisfied that all who say they do not see it are telling wilful falsehood, is the nature of man. many of all sects find much comfort in it, when they think of the others; many unbelievers solace themselves with it against believers; priests of old time founded the right of persecution upon it, and of our time, in some cases, the right of slander: many of the paradoxers make it an argument against students of science. but i must say for men of science, for the whole body, that they are fully persuaded of the honesty of the paradoxers. the simple truth is, that all those i have mentioned, believers, unbelievers, priests, paradoxers, are not so sure they are right in their points of difference that they can safely allow themselves to be persuaded of the honesty of opponents. those who know demonstration are differently situated. i suspect a train might be laid for the formation of a better habit in this way. we know that suvaroff[ ] taught his russians at ismail not to fear the turks by accustoming them to charge bundles of faggots dressed in turbans, etc. at which your wise men sneered in phrases witty, he made no answer--but he took the city! would it not be a good thing to exercise boys, in pairs, in the following dialogue:--sir, you are quite wrong!--sir, { } i am sure you honestly think so! this was suggested by what used to take place at cambridge in my day. by statute, every b.a. was obliged to perform a certain number of disputations, and the _father_ of the college had to affirm that it had been done. some were performed in earnest: the rest were huddled over as follows. two candidates occupied the places of the respondent and the opponent: _recte statuit newtonus_, said the respondent: _recte non statuit newtonus_,[ ] said the opponent. this was repeated the requisite number of times, and counted for as many _acts_ and _opponencies_. the parties then changed places, and each unsaid what he had said on the other side of the house: i remember thinking that it was capital drill for the house of commons, if any of us should ever get there. the process was repeated with every pair of candidates. the real disputations were very severe exercises. i was badgered for two hours with arguments given and answered in latin,--or what we called latin--against newton's first section, lagrange's[ ] derived functions, and locke[ ] on innate principles. and though i _took off_ everything, and was pronounced by the moderator to have disputed _magno honore_,[ ] i never had such a strain of thought in my life. for the inferior opponents were made as sharp as their betters by their tutors, who kept lists of queer objections, drawn from all quarters. the opponents used to meet the day before to compare their arguments, that the same might not come twice over. but, after i left cambridge, it became the fashion to invite the respondent to be present, who therefore learnt all that was to be brought against him. this made the whole thing a farce: and the disputations were abolished. { } the doctrine of the moon's rotation, considered in a letter to the astronomical censor of the _athenæum_. by jones l. macelshender.[ ] edinburgh, , vo. this is an appeal to those cultivated persons who will read it "to overrule the _dicta_ of judges who would sacrifice truth and justice to professional rule, or personal pique, pride, or prejudice"; meaning, the great mass of those who have studied the subject. but how? suppose the "cultivated persons" were to side with the author, would those who have conclusions to draw and applications to make consent to be wrong because the "general body of intelligent men," who make no special study of the subject, are against them? they would do no such thing: they would request the general body of intelligent men to find their own astronomy, and welcome. but the truth is, that this intelligent body knows better: and no persons know better that they know better than the speculators themselves. but suppose the general body were to combine, in opposition to those who have studied. of course all my list must be admitted to their trial; and then arises the question whether both sides are to be heard. if so, the general body of the intelligent must hear all the established side have to say: that is, they must become just as much of students as the inculpated orthodox themselves. and will they not then get into _professional rule_, pique, pride, and prejudice, as the others did? but if, which i suspect, they are intended to judge as they are, they will be in a rare difficulty. all the paradoxers are of like pretensions: they cannot, as a class, be right, for each one contradicts a great many of the rest. there will be the puzzle which silenced the crew of the cutter in marryat's novel of the dog fiend.[ ] "a tog is a tog," said jansen.--"yes," replied another, "we all know a dog is a dog; but the question is--is _this_ dog { } a dog?" and this question would arise upon every dog of them all. zetetic astronomy. zetetic astronomy: earth not a globe. (broadsheet). though only a traveling lecturer's advertisement, there are so many arguments and quotations that it is a little pamphlet. the lecturer gained great praise from provincial newspapers for his ingenuity in proving that the earth is a flat, surrounded by ice. some of the journals rather incline to the view: but the _leicester advertiser_ thinks that the statements "would seem very seriously to invalidate some of the most important conclusions of modern astronomy," while the _norfolk herald_ is clear that "there must be a great error on one side or the other." this broadsheet is printed at aylesbury in , and the lecturer calls himself _parallax_: but at trowbridge, in , he was s. goulden.[ ] in this last advertisement is the following announcement: "a paper on the above subjects was read before the council and members of the royal astronomical society, somerset house, strand, london (sir john f. w. herschel,[ ] president), friday, dec. , ." no account of such a paper appears in the _notice_ for that month: i suspect that the above is mr. s. goulden's way of representing the following occurrence: dec. , , the secretary of the astronomical society (de morgan by name) said, at the close of the proceedings,--"now, gentlemen, if you will promise not to tell the council, i will read something for your amusement": and he then read a few of the arguments which had been transmitted by the lecturer. the fact is worth noting that from to , arguments on the roundness or flatness of the earth did itinerate. i have { } no doubt they did much good: for very few persons have any distinct idea of the evidence for the rotundity of the earth. the _blackburn standard_ and _preston guardian_ (dec. and , ) unite in stating that the lecturer ran away from his second lecture at burnley, having been rather too hard pressed at the end of his first lecture to explain why the large hull of a ship disappeared before the sails. the persons present and waiting for the second lecture assuaged their disappointment by concluding that the lecturer had slipped off the icy edge of his flat disk, and that he would not be seen again till he peeped up on the opposite side. but, strange as it may appear, the opposer of the earth's roundness has more of a case--or less of a want of case--than the arithmetical squarer of the circle. the evidence that the earth is round is but cumulative and circumstantial: scores of phenomena ask, separately and independently, what other explanation can be imagined except the sphericity of the earth. the evidence for the earth's figure is tremendously powerful of its kind; but the proof that the circumference is . ... times the diameter is of a higher kind, being absolute mathematical demonstration. the zetetic system still lives in lectures and books; as it ought to do, for there is no way of teaching a truth comparable to opposition. the last i heard of it was in lectures at plymouth, in october, . since this time a prospectus has been issued of a work entitled "the earth not a globe"; but whether it has been published i do not know. the contents are as follows: "the earth a plane--how circumnavigated.--how time is lost or gained.--why a ship's hull disappears (when outward bound) before the mast head.--why the polar star sets when we proceed southward, etc.--why a pendulum vibrates with less velocity at the equator than { } at the pole.--the allowance for rotundity _supposed_ to be made by surveyors, not made in practice.--measurement of arcs of the meridian unsatisfactory.--degrees of longitude north and south of the equator considered.--eclipses and earth's form considered.--the earth no motion on axis or in orbit.--how the sun moves above the earth's surface concentric with the north pole.--cause of day and night, winter and summer; the long alternation of light and darkness at the pole.--cause of the sun rising and setting.--distance of the sun from london, , miles--how measured.--_challenge to mathematicians._--cause of tides.--moon self-luminous, not a reflector.--cause of solar and lunar eclipses.--stars _not worlds_; their distance.--earth, the _only material_ world; its true position in the universe; its condition and ultimate destruction by fire ( peter iii.), etc." i wish there were geoplatylogical lectures in every town; in england (_platylogical_, in composition, need not mean _babbling_). the late mr. henry archer[ ] would, if alive, be very much obliged to me for recording his vehement denial of the roundness of the earth: he was excited if he heard any one call it a globe. i cannot produce his proof from the pyramids, and from some caves in arabia. he had other curious notions, of course: i should no more believe that a flat earth was a man's only paradox, than i should that dutens,[ ] the editor of leibnitz, was eccentric only in supplying a tooth which he had lost by one which he found in an italian tomb, and fully believed that it had once belonged to scipio africanus, whose family vault was discovered, it is supposed, in . mr. archer is of note as { } the suggester of the perforated border of the postage-stamps, and, i think, of the way of doing it; for this he got l. reward. he was a civil engineer. (_august , ._) the _zetetic astronomy_ has come into my hands. when, in , i went to see the great exhibition, i heard an organ played by a performer who seemed very desirous to exhibit one particular stop. "what do you think of that stop?" i was asked.--"that depends on the name of it," said i.--"oh! what can the name have to do with the sound? 'that which we call a rose,' etc."--"the name has everything to do with it: if it be a flute-stop, i think it very harsh; but if it be a railway-whistle-stop, i think it very sweet." so as to this book: if it be childish, it is clever; if it be mannish, it is unusually foolish. the flat earth, floating tremulously on the sea; the sun moving always over the flat, giving day when near enough, and night when too far off; the self-luminous moon, with a semi-transparent invisible moon, created to give her an eclipse now and then; the new law of perspective, by which the vanishing of the hull before the masts, usually thought to prove the earth globular, really proves it flat;--all these and other things are well fitted to form exercises for a person who is learning the elements of astronomy. the manner in which the sun dips into the sea, especially in tropical climates, upsets the whole. mungo park,[ ] i think, gives an african hypothesis which explains phenomena better than this. the sun dips into the western ocean, and the people there cut him in pieces, fry him in a pan, and then join him together again, take him round the underway, and set him up in the east. i hope this book will be read, and that many will be puzzled by it: for there are many whose notions of astronomy deserve no better fate. there is no subject on which there is so little { } accurate conception as that of the motions of the heavenly bodies. the author, though confident in the extreme, neither impeaches the honesty of those whose opinions he assails, nor allots them any future inconvenience: in these points he is worthy to live on a globe, and to revolve in twenty-four hours. (_october, ._) a follower appears, in a work dedicated to the preceding author: it is _theoretical astronomy examined and exposed by common sense_. the author has well-stuffed octavo pages. i hope he will not be the last. he prints the newspaper accounts of his work: the _church times_ says--not seeing how the satire might be retorted--"we never began to despair of scripture until we discovered that 'common sense' had taken up the cudgels in its defence." this paper considers our author as the type of a _protestant_. the author himself, who gives a summary of his arguments in verse, has one couplet which is worth quoting: "how is't that sailors, bound to sea, with _a 'globe'_ would never start, but in its place will always take _mercator's_[ ] level _chart_!" to which i answer: why, really mr. common sense, you've never got so far as to think mercator's planisphere shows countries as they are; it won't do to measure distances; it points out how to steer, but this distortion's not for you; another is, i fear. the earth must be a cylinder, if seaman's charts be true, or else the boundaries, right and left, are one as well as two; they contradict the notion that we dwell upon a plain, for straight away, without a turn, will bring you home again. there are various plane projections; and each one has its use: i wish a milder word would rhyme--but really you're a goose! the great wish of persons who expose themselves as above, is to be argued with, and to be treated as reputable { } and refutable opponents. "common sense" reminds us that no amount of "blatant ridicule" will turn right into wrong. he is perfectly correct: but then no amount of bad argument will turn wrong into right. these two things balance; and we are just where we were: but you should answer our arguments, for whom, i ask? would reason convince this kind of reasoner? the issue is a short and a clear one. if these parties be what i contend they are, then ridicule is made for them: if not, for what or for whom? if they be right, they are only passing through the appointed trial of all good things. appeal is made to the future: and my budget is intended to show samples of the long line of heroes who have fallen without victory, each of whom had his day of confidence and his prophecy of success. let the future decide: they say roundly that the earth is flat; i say flatly that it is round. the paradoxers all want reason, and not ridicule: they are all accessible, and would yield to conviction. well then, let them reason with one another! they divide into squads, each with a subject, and as many different opinions as persons in each squad. if they be really what they say they are, the true man of each set can put down all the rest, and can come crowned with glory and girdled with scalps, to the attack on the orthodox misbelievers. but they know, to a man, that the rest are not fit to be reasoned with: they pay the regulars the compliment of believing that the only chance lies with them. they think in their hearts, each one for himself, that ridicule is of fit appliance to the rest. miranda. a book divided into three parts, entitled souls, numbers, stars, on the neo-christian religion ... vol. i. london, , , . vo. the name of the author is filopanti.[ ] he announces himself as the th and last emanuel: his immediate { } predecessors were emanuel washington, emanuel newton, and emanuel galileo. he is to collect nations into one family. he knows the transmigrations of the whole human race. thus descartes became william iii of england: roger bacon became boccaccio. but charles ix,[ ] in retribution for the massacre of st. bartholomew, was hanged in london under the name of barthélemy for the murder of collard: and many of the protestants whom he killed as king of france were shouting at his death before the old bailey. the sabbath--the great pyramid a letter to the members of the anglo-biblical institute, dated sept. , , and signed 'herman heinfetter.'[ ] (broadsheet.) this gentleman is well known to the readers of the _athenæum_, in which, for nearly twenty years, he has inserted, as advertisements, long arguments in favor of christians keeping the jewish sabbath, beginning on friday evening. the present letter maintains that, by the force of the definite article, the _days_ of creation may not be consecutive, but may have any time--millions of years--between them. this ingenious way of reconciling the author of genesis and the indications of geology is worthy to be added to the list, already pretty numerous. mr. heinfetter has taken such pains to make himself a public agitator, that { } i do not feel it to be any invasion of private life if i state that i have heard he is a large corn-dealer. no doubt he is a member of the congregation whose almanac has already been described. the great pyramid. why was it built? and who built it? by john taylor, ,[ ] mo. this work is very learned, and may be referred to for the history of previous speculations. it professes to connect the dimensions of the pyramid with a system of metrology which is supposed to have left strong traces in the systems of modern times; showing the egyptians to have had good approximate knowledge of the dimensions of the earth, and of the quadrature of the circle. these are points on which coincidence is hard to distinguish from intention. sir john herschel[ ] noticed this work, and gave several coincidences, in the _athenæum_, nos. and , april and may , : and there are some remarks by mr. taylor in no. , june , . mr. taylor's most recent publication is-- the battle of the standards: the ancient, of four thousand years, against the modern, of the last fifty years--the less perfect of the two. london, , mo. this is intended as an appendix to the work on the pyramid. mr. taylor distinctly attributes the original system to revelation, of which he says the great pyramid is the record. we are advancing, he remarks, towards the end of the christian dispensation, and he adds that it is satisfactory to see that we retain the standards which were given by unwritten revelation years before moses. this is lighting the candle at both ends; for myself, i shall not undertake to deny or affirm either what is said about the dark past or what is hinted about the dark future. { } my old friend mr. taylor is well known as the author of the argument which has convinced many, even most, that sir philip francis[ ] was junius: pamphlet, ; supplement, ; second edition "the identity of junius with a distinguished living character established," london, , vo. he told me that sir philip francis, in a short conversation with him, made only this remark, "you may depend upon it you are quite mistaken:" the phrase appears to me remarkable; it has an air of criticism on the book, free from all personal denial. he also mentioned that a hearer told him that sir philip said, speaking of writers on the question,--"those fellows, for half-a-crown, would prove that jesus christ was junius." mr. taylor implies, i think, that he is the first who started the suggestion that sir philip francis was junius, which i have no means either of confirming or refuting. if it be so [and i now know that mr. taylor himself never heard of any predecessor], the circumstance is very remarkable: it is seldom indeed that the first proposer of any solution of a great and vexed question is the person who so nearly establishes his point in general opinion as mr. taylor has done. as to the junius question in general, there is a little bit of the philosophy of horse-racing which may be usefully applied. a man who is so confident of his horse that he places him far above any other, may nevertheless, and does, refuse to give odds against all in the field: for many small adverse chances united make a big chance for one or other of the opponents. i suspect mr. taylor has made it at least to for francis against any one competitor who has been named: but what the odds may be against the { } whole field is more difficult to settle. what if the real junius should be some person not yet named? mr. jopling, _leisure hour_, may , , relies on the porphyry coffer of the great pyramid, in which he finds "the most ancient and accurate standard of measure in existence." i am shocked at being obliged to place a thoughtful and learned writer, and an old friend, before such a successor as he here meets with. but chronological arrangement defies all other arrangement. (i had hoped that the preceding account would have met mr. taylor's eye in print: but he died during the last summer. for a man of a very thoughtful and quiet temperament, he had a curious turn for vexed questions. but he reflected very long and very patiently before he published: and all his works are valuable for their accurate learning, whichever side the reader may take.) mrs. elizabeth cottle. . _the cottle church._--for more than twenty years printed papers have been sent about in the name of elizabeth cottle.[ ] it is not so remarkable that such papers should be concocted as that they should circulate for such a length of time without attracting public attention. eighty years ago mrs. cottle might have rivalled lieut. brothers or joanna southcott.[ ] long hence, when the now current volumes of our journals are well-ransacked works of reference, those who look into them will be glad to see this { } feature of our time: i therefore make a few extracts, faithfully copied as to type. the italic is from the new testament; the roman is the requisite interpretation: "robert cottle '_was numbered_ ( ) _with the transgressors_' at the back of the church in norwood cemetery, may , --isa. liii. . the rev. j. g. collinson, minister of st. james's church, chapham, the then district church, before all saints was built, read the funeral service _over the sepulchre wherein never before man was laid_. "_hewn on the stone_, 'at the mouth of the sepulchre,' is his name,--robert cottle, born at bristol, june , ; died at kirkstall lodge, clapham park, may , . _and that day_ (may , ) _was the preparation_ (day and year for 'the prepared place for you'--cottleites---by the widowed mother of the father's house, at kirkstall lodge--john xiv. , ). _and the sabbath_ (christmas day, dec. , ) _drew on_ (for the resurrection of the christian body on 'the third [protestant sun]-day'-- cor. xv. ). _why seek ye the living_ (god of the new jerusalem--heb. xii. ; rev. iii. ) _among the dead_ (men): _he_ (the god of jesus) _is not here_ (in the grave), _but is risen_ (in the person of the holy ghost, from the supper of 'the dead in the second death' of paganism). _remember how he spake unto you_ (in the church of the rev. george clayton,[ ] april , ). _i will not drink henceforth_ (at this last cottle supper) _of the fruit of this_ (trinity) _vine, until that day_ (christmas day, ), _when i_ (elizabeth cottle) _drink it new with you_ (cottleites) _in my father's kingdom_--john xv. _if this_ (trinitarian) _cup may not pass away from me_ (elizabeth cottle, april , ), _except i drink it_ ('new with you cottleites, in my father's kingdom'), _thy will be done_--matt. xxvi. , , . 'our father which art (god) in heaven,' _hallowed be thy name, thy_ (cottle) _kingdom_ { } _come, thy will be done in earth, as it is_ (done) _in_ (the new) _heaven_ (and new earth of the new name of cottle--rev. xxi. ; iii. ). "... queen elizabeth, from a.d. to . _and this_ word _yet once more_ (by a second elizabeth--the word of his oath) _signifieth_ (at john scott's baptism of the holy ghost) _the removing of those things_ (those gods and those doctrines) _that are made_ (according to the creeds and commandments of men) _that those things_ (in the moral law of god) _which cannot be shaken_ (as a rule of faith and practice) _may remain, wherefore we receiving_ (from elizabeth) _a kingdom_ (of god,) _which cannot be moved_ (by satan) _let us have grace_ (in his grace of canterbury) _whereby we may serve god acceptably_ (with the acceptable sacrifice of elizabeth's body and blood of the communion of the holy ghost) _with reverence_ (for truth) _and godly fear_ (of the unpardonable sin of blasphemy against the holy ghost) _for our god_ (the holy ghost) _is a consuming fire_ (to the nation that will not serve him in the cottle church). we cannot defend ourselves against the almighty, and if he is our defence, no nation can invade us. "in verse the church of st. peter is _in prison between four quaternions of soldiers_--the holy alliance of . rev. vii. i. elizabeth, _the angel of the lord_ jesus _appears_ to the jewish and christian body with _the vision_ of prophecy to the rev. geo. clayton and his clerical brethren, april th, . _rhoda_ was the name of her maid at putney terrace who used _to open the door to her peter_, the rev. robert ashton,[ ] the pastor of 'the little flock' 'of names together, assembled in an upper (school) room' at putney chapel, to which little flock she gave the revelation (acts. i. , ) _of jesus the same_ king of the jews _yesterday_ at the prayer meeting, dec. , , _and to-day_, { } jan. , , _and for ever_. see book of life, page . matt. xviii. , xxi. - . in verse the italian body of st. peter _is sleeping_ 'in the second death' _between the two_ imperial _soldiers_ of france and austria. the emperor of france from jan. , to july , , causes the italian _chains of st. peter to fall off from his_ imperial _hands_. "_i say unto thee_, robert ashton, _thou art peter_, a stone, _and upon this rock_, of truth, _will i_ elizabeth, the angel of jesus, _build my_ cottle _church, and the gates of hell_, the doors of st. peter, at rome, shall not prevail against it--matt. xvi. . rev. iii. - ." this will be enough for the purpose. when any one who pleases can circulate new revelations of this kind, uninterrupted and unattended to, new revelations will cease to be a good investment of excentricity. i take it for granted that the gentlemen whose names are mentioned have nothing to do with the circulars or their doctrines. any lady who may happen to be intrusted with a revelation may nominate her own pastor, or any other clergyman, one of her apostles; and it is difficult to say to what court the nominees can appeal to get the commission abrogated. _march , ._ during the last two years the circulars have continued. it is hinted that funds are low: and two gentlemen who are represented as gone "to bethlehem asylum in despair" say that mrs. cottle "will spend all that she hath, while her majesty's ministers are flourishing on the wages of sin." the following is perhaps one of the most remarkable passages in the whole: "_extol and magnify him_ (jehovah, the everlasting god, see the magnificat and luke i. , -- -- -- ), _that rideth_ (by rail and steam over land and sea, from his holy habitation at kirkstall lodge, psa. lxxvii. , ), _upon the_ (cottle) _heavens, as it were_ (sept. , , see pages , ), _upon an_ (exercising, psa. cxxxi. ), _horse_-(chair, bought of mr. john ward, leicester-square)." { } i have pretty good evidence that there is a clergyman who thinks mrs. cottle a very sensible woman. [_the cottle church._ had i chanced to light upon it at the time of writing, i should certainly have given the following. a printed letter to the _western times_, by mr. robert cottle, was accompanied by a manuscript letter from mrs. cottle, apparently a circular. the date was nov^{r}. , and the subject was the procedure against mr. maurice[ ] at king's college for doubting that god would punish human sins by an existence of torture lasting through years numbered by millions of millions of millions of millions (repeat the word _millions_ without end,) etc. the memory of mr. cottle has, i think, a right to the quotation: he seems to have been no participator in the notions of his wife: "the clergy of the established church, taken at the round number of , , may, in their first estate, be likened to , gold blanks, destined to become sovereigns, in succession,--they are placed between the matrix of the mint, when, by the pressure of the screw, they receive the impress that fits them to become part of the current coin of the realm. in a way somewhat analogous this great body of the clergy have each passed through the crucibles of oxford and cambridge,--have been assayed by the bishop's chaplain, touching the health of their souls, and the validity of their call by the divine spirit, and then the gentle pressure of a prelate's hand upon their heads; and the words--'receive the holy ghost,' have, in a brief space of time, wrought a { } change in them, much akin to the miracle of transubstantiation--the priests are completed, and they become the current ecclesiastical coin of our country. the whole body of clergy, here spoken of, have undergone the preliminary induction of baptism and confirmation; and all have been duly ordained, _professing_ to hold one faith, and to believe in the selfsame doctrines! in short, to be as identical as the , sovereigns, if compared one with the other. but mind is not malleable and ductile, like gold; and all the preparations of tests, creeds, and catechisms will not insure uniformity of belief. no stamp of orthodoxy will produce the same impress on the minds of different men. variety is manifest, and patent, upon everything mental and material. the almighty has not created, nor man fashioned, two things alike! how futile, then, is the attempt to shape and mould man's apprehension of divine truth by one fallible standard of man's invention! if proof of this be required, an appeal might be made to history and the experience of eighteen hundred years." this is an argument of force against the reasonableness of expecting tens of thousands of educated readers of the new testament to find the doctrine above described in it. the lady's argument against the doctrine itself is very striking. speaking of an outcry on this matter among the dissenters against one of their body, who was the son of "the white stone (rev. ii. ), or the roman cement-maker," she says-- "if the doctrine for which they so wickedly fight were true, what would become of the black gentlemen for whose redemption i have been sacrificed from april ." there are certainly very curious points about this revelation. there have been many surmises about the final restoration of the infernal spirits, from the earliest ages of christianity until our own day: a collection of them would be worth making. on reading this in proof, i see a possibility that by "black gentlemen" may be meant the clergy: { } i suppose my first interpretation must have been suggested by context: i leave the point to the reader's sagacity.] james smith, arch-paradoxer. the problem of squaring the circle solved; or, the circumference and area of the circle discovered. by james smith.[ ] london, , vo. on the relations of a square inscribed in a circle. read at the british association, sept. , published in the liverpool courier, oct. , , and reprinted in broadsheet. the question: are there any commensurable relations between a circle and other geometrical figures? answered by a member of the british association ... london, , vo.--[this has been translated into french by m. armand grange, bordeaux, , vo.] the quadrature of the circle. correspondence between an eminent mathematician and james smith, esq. (member of the mersey docks and harbour board), london, , vo. (pp. ). letter to the ... british association ... by james smith, esq. liverpool, , vo. letter to the ... british association ... by james smith, esq. liverpool, , vo.--[these letters the author promised to continue.] a nut to crack for the readers of professor de morgan's 'budget of paradoxes.' by james smith, esq. liverpool, , vo. paper read at the liverpool literary and philosophical society, reported in the liverpool daily courier, jan. , . reprinted as a pamphlet. the quadrature of the circle, or the true ratio between the diameter and circumference geometrically and mathematically demonstrated. by james smith, esq. liverpool, , vo. { } [on the relations between the dimensions and distances of the sun, moon, and earth; a paper read before the literary and philosophical society of liverpool, jan. , . by james smith, esq. the british association in jeopardy, and dr. whewell, the master of trinity, in the stocks without hope of escape. printed for the authors (j. s. confessed, and also hidden under _nauticus_). (no date, ). the british association in jeopardy, and professor de morgan in the pillory without hope of escape. london, , vo.] when my work appeared in numbers, i had not anything like an adequate idea of mr. james smith's superiority to the rest of the world in the points in which he is superior. he is beyond a doubt the ablest head at unreasoning, and the greatest hand at writing it, of all who have tried in our day to attach their names to an error. common cyclometers sink into puny orthodoxy by his side. the behavior of this singular character induces me to pay him the compliment which achilles paid hector, to drag him round the walls again and again. he was treated with unusual notice and in the most gentle manner. the unnamed mathematician, e. m. bestowed a volume of mild correspondence upon him; rowan hamilton[ ] quietly proved him wrong in a way accessible to an ordinary schoolboy; whewell,[ ] as we shall see, gave him the means of seeing himself wrong, even more easily than by hamilton's method. nothing would do; it was small kick and silly fling at all; and he exposed his conceit by alleging that he, james smith, had placed whewell in the stocks. he will therefore be universally pronounced a proper object of the severest literary punishment: but the opinion of all who can put two propositions together will be that of the many strokes i have given, the hardest and most telling are my republications of his own attempts to reason. he will come out of my hands in the position he ought { } to hold, the supreme pontiff of cyclometers, the vicegerent of st. vitus upon earth, the mamamouchi of burlesque on inference. i begin with a review of him which appeared in the _athenæum_ of may , . mr. smith says i wrote it: this i neither affirm nor deny; to do either would be a sin against the editorial system elsewhere described. many persons tell me they know me by my style; let them form a guess: i can only say that many have declared as above while fastening on me something which i had never seen nor heard of. the quadrature of the circle: correspondence between an eminent mathematician and james smith, esq. (edinburgh, oliver & boyd; london, simpkin, marshall & co.) "a few weeks ago we were in perpetual motion. we did not then suppose that anything would tempt us on a circle-squaring expedition: but the circumstances of the book above named have a peculiarity which induces us to give it a few words. "mr. james smith, a gentleman residing near liverpool, was some years ago seized with the _morbus cyclometricus_.[ ] the symptoms soon took a defined form: his circumference shrank into exactly - / times his diameter, instead of close to - / , which the mathematician knows to be so near to truth that the error is hardly at the rate of a foot in , miles. this shrinking of the circumference remained until it became absolutely necessary that it should be examined by the british association. this body, which as mr. james smith found to his sorrow, has some interest in 'jealously guarding the mysteries of their profession,' refused at first to entertain the question. on this mr. smith changed his 'tactics' and the name of his paper, and smuggled in the subject under the form of 'the relations of a circle inscribed in a square'! the paper was thus forced upon the association, for mr. smith informs us that he { } 'gave the section to understand that he was not the man that would permit even the british association to trifle with him.' in other words, the association bore with and were bored with the paper, as the shortest way out of the matter. mr. smith also circulated a pamphlet. some kind-hearted man, who did not know the disorder as well as we do, and who appears in mr. smith's handsome octavo as e. m.--the initials of 'eminent mathematician'--wrote to him and offered to show him in a page that he was all wrong. mr. smith thereupon opened a correspondence, which is the bulk of the volume. when the correspondence was far advanced, mr. smith announced his intention to publish. his benevolent instructor--we mean in intention--protested against the publication, saying 'i do not wish to be gibbeted to the world as having been foolish enough to enter upon what i feel now to have been a ridiculous enterprise.' "for this mr. smith cared nothing: he persisted in the publication, and the book is before us. mr. smith has had so much grace as to conceal his kind adviser's name under e. m., that is to say, he has divided the wrong among all who may be suspected of having attempted so hopeless a task as that of putting a little sense into his head. he has violated the decencies of private life. against the will of the kind-hearted man who undertook his case, he has published letters which were intended for no other purpose than to clear his poor head of a hopeless delusion. he deserves the severest castigation; and he will get it: his abuse of confidence will stick by him all his days. not that he has done his benefactor--in intention, again--any harm. the patience with which e. m. put the blunders into intelligible form, and the perseverance with which he tried to find a cranny-hole for common reasoning to get in at, are more than respectable: they are admirable. it is, we can assure e. m., a good thing that the nature of the circle-squarer should be so completely exposed as in this volume. the benefit which he intended mr. james smith may be { } conferred upon others. and we should very much like to know his name, and if agreeable to him, to publish it. as to mr. james smith, we can only say this: he is not mad. madmen reason rightly upon wrong premises: mr. smith reasons wrongly upon no premises at all. "e. m. very soon found out that, to all appearance, mr. smith got a circle of - / times the diameter by making it the supposition to set out with that there was such a circle; and then finding certain consequences which, so it happened, were not inconsistent with the supposition on which they were made. error is sometimes self-consistent. however, e. m., to be quite sure of his ground, wrote a short letter, stating what he took to be mr. smith's hypothesis, containing the following: 'on ac as diameter, describe the circle d, which by hypothesis shall be equal to three and one-eighth times the length of ac.... i beg, before proceeding further, to ask whether i have rightly stated your argument.' to which mr. smith replied: 'you have stated my argument with perfect accuracy.' still e. m. went on, and we could not help, after the above, taking these letters as the initials of everlasting mercy. at last, however, when mr. smith flatly denied that the area of the circle lies between those of the inscribed and circumscribed polygons, e. m. was fairly beaten, and gave up the task. mr. smith was left to write his preface, to talk about the certain victory of truth--which, oddly enough, is the consolation of all hopelessly mistaken men; to compare himself with galileo; and to expose to the world the perverse behavior of the astronomer royal, on whom he wanted to fasten a conversation, and who replied, 'it would be a waste of time, sir, to listen to anything you could have to say on such a subject.' "having thus disposed of mr. james smith, we proceed to a few remarks on the subject: it is one which a journal would never originate, but which is rendered necessary from time to time by the attempts of the autopseustic to become { } heteropseustic. to the mathematician we have nothing to say: the question is, what kind of assurance can be given to the world at large that the wicked mathematicians are not acting in concert to keep down their superior, mr. james smith, the current galileo of the quadrature of the circle. "let us first observe that this question does not stand alone: independently of the millions of similar problems which exist in higher mathematics, the finding of the diagonal of a square has just the same difficulty, namely, the entrance of a pair of lines of which one cannot be definitely expressed by means of the other. we will show the reader who is up to the multiplication-table how he may go on, on, on, ever nearer, never there, in finding the diagonal of a square from the side. "write down the following rows of figures, and more, if you like, in the way described: after the second, each number is made up of double the last increased by the last but one: thus, is more than twice , is more than twice , is more than twice . now, take out two adjacent numbers from the upper line, and the one below the first from the lower: as . multiply together and , giving , . if, then, you will say that diagonals are exactly equal to sides, you are in error about the diagonal, but an error the amount of which is not so great as the , st part of the diagonal. similarly, to say that five diagonals make exactly seven sides does not involve an error of the th part of the diagonal. "now, why has not the question of _crossing the square_ been as celebrated as that of _squaring the circle_? merely because euclid demonstrated the impossibility of the first { } question, while that of the second was not demonstrated, completely, until the last century. "the mathematicians have many methods, totally different from each other, of arriving at one and the same result, their celebrated approximation to the circumference of the circle. an intrepid calculator has, in our own time, carried his approximation to what they call decimal places: this has been done by mr. shanks,[ ] of houghton-le-spring, and dr. rutherford[ ] has verified of these places. but though looks large, the general public will form but a hazy notion of the extent of accuracy acquired. we have seen, in charles knight's[ ] _english cyclopædia_, an account of the matter which may illustrate the unimaginable, though rationally conceivable, extent of accuracy obtained. "say that the blood-globule of one of our animalcules is a millionth of an inch in diameter. fashion in thought a globe like our own, but so much larger that our globe is but a blood-globule in one of its animalcules: never mind the microscope which shows the creature being rather a bulky instrument. call this the first globe _above_ us. let the first globe above us be but a blood-globule, as to size, in the animalcule of a still larger globe, which call the second globe above us. go on in this way to the twentieth globe above us. now go down just as far on the other side. let the blood-globule with which we started be a globe peopled with animals like ours, but rather smaller: { } and call this the first globe below us. take a blood-globule out of this globe, people it, and call it the second globe below us: and so on to the twentieth globe below us. this is a fine stretch of progression both ways. now give the giant of the twentieth globe _above_ us the decimal places, and, when he has measured the diameter of his globe with accuracy worthy of his size, let him calculate the circumference of his equator from the places. bring the little philosopher from the twentieth globe _below_ us with his very best microscope, and set him to see the small error which the giant must make. he will not succeed, unless his microscopes be much better for his size than ours are for ours. "now it must be remembered by any one who would laugh at the closeness of the approximation, that the mathematician generally goes _nearer_; in fact his theorems have usually no error at all. the very person who is bewildered by the preceding description may easily forget that if there were _no error at all_, the lilliputian of the millionth globe below us could not find a flaw in the brobdingnagian of the millionth globe above. the three angles of a triangle, of perfect accuracy of form, are _absolutely_ equal to two right angles; no stretch of progression will detect _any_ error. "now think of mr. lacomme's mathematical adviser (_ante_, vol. i, p. ) making a difficulty of advising a stonemason about the quantity of pavement in a circular floor! "we will now, for our non-calculating reader, put the matter in another way. we see that a circle-squarer can advance, with the utmost confidence, the assertion that when the diameter is , , the circumference is accurately , : the mathematician declaring that it is a trifle more than , ½. if the squarer be right, the mathematician has erred by about a th part of the whole: or has not kept his accounts right by about s. in every l. of course, if he set out with such an error he will accumulate blunder upon blunder. now, if there be a process in which { } close knowledge of the circle is requisite, it is in the prediction of the moon's place--say, as to the time of passing the meridian at greenwich--on a given day. we cannot give the least idea of the complication of details: but common sense will tell us that if a mathematician cannot find his way round the circle without a relative error four times as big as a stockbroker's commission, he must needs be dreadfully out in his attempt to predict the time of passage of the moon. now, what is the fact? his error is less than a second of time, and the moon takes days odd to revolve. that is to say, setting out with s. in l. of error in his circumference, he gets within the fifth part of a farthing in l. in predicting the moon's transit. now we cannot think that the respect in which mathematical science is held is great enough--though we find it not small--to make this go down. that respect is founded upon a notion that right ends are got by right means: it will hardly be credited that the truth can be got to farthings out of data which are wrong by shillings. even the celebrated hamilton[ ] of edinburgh, who held that in mathematics there was no way of going wrong, was fully impressed with the belief that this was because error was avoided from the beginning. he never went so far as to say that a mathematician who begins wrong must end right somehow. "there is always a difficulty about the mode in which the thinking man of common life is to deal with subjects he has not studied to a professional extent. he must form opinions on matters theological, political, legal, medical, and social. if he can make up his mind to choose a guide, there is, of course, no perplexity: but on all the subjects mentioned the direction-posts point different ways. now why should he not form his opinion upon an abstract mathematical question? why not conclude that, as to the circle, it is possible mr. james smith may be the man, just { } as adam smith[ ] was the man of things then to come, or luther, or galileo? it is true that there is an unanimity among mathematicians which prevails in no other class: but this makes the chance of their all being wrong only different in degree. and more than this, is it not generally thought among us that priests and physicians were never so much wrong as when there was most appearance of unanimity among them? to the preceding questions we see no answer except this, that the individual inquirer may as rationally decide a mathematical question for himself as a theological or a medical question, so soon as he can put himself into a position in mathematics, level with that in which he stands in theology or medicine. the every-day thought and reading of common life have a certain resemblance to the thought and reading demanded by the learned faculties. the research, the balance of evidence, the estimation of probabilities, which are used in a question of medicine, are closely akin in character, however different the matter of application, to those which serve a merchant to draw his conclusions about the markets. but the mathematicians have methods of their own, to which nothing in common life bears close analogy, as to the nature of the results or the character of the conclusions. the logic of mathematics is certainly that of common life: but the data are of a different species; they do not admit of doubt. an expert arithmetician, such as is mr. j. smith, may fancy that calculation, merely as such, is mathematics: but the value of his book, and in this point of view it is not small, is the full manner in which it shows that a practised arithmetician, venturing into the field of mathematical demonstration, may show himself utterly destitute of all that distinguishes the reasoning geometrical investigator from the calculator. { } "and further, it should be remembered that in mathematics the power of verifying results far exceeds that which is found in anything else: and also the variety of distinct methods by which they can be attained. it follows from all this that a person who desires to be as near the truth as he can will not judge the results of mathematical demonstration to be open to his criticism, in the same degree as results of other kinds. should he feel compelled to decide, there is no harm done: his circle may be - / times its diameter, if it please him. but we must warn him that, in order to get this circle, he must, as mr. james smith has done, _make it at home_: the laws of space and thought beg leave respectfully to decline the order." i will insert now at length, from the _athenæum_ of june , , the easy refutation given by my deceased friend, with the remarks which precede. "mr. james smith, of whose performance in the way of squaring the circle we spoke some weeks ago in terms short of entire acquiescence, has advertised himself in our columns, as our readers will have seen. he has also forwarded his letter to the liverpool _albion_, with an additional statement, which he did not make in _our_ journal. he denies that he has violated the decencies of private life, since his correspondent revised the proofs of his own letters, and his 'protest had respect only to making his name public.' this statement mr. james smith precedes by saying that we have treated as true what we well knew to be false: and he follows by saying that we have not read his work, or we should have known the above facts to be true. mr. smith's pretext is as follows. his correspondent e. m. says, 'my letters were not intended for publication, and i protest against their being published,' and he subjoins 'therefore i must desire that my name may not be used.' the obvious meaning is that e. m. protested against the publication altogether, but, judging that mr. smith was { } determined to publish, desired that his name should not be used. that he afterwards corrected the proofs merely means that he thought it wiser to let them pass under his own eyes than to leave them entirely to mr. smith. "we have received from sir w. rowan hamilton[ ] a proof that the circumference is more than - / diameters, requiring nothing but a knowledge of four books of euclid. we give it in brief as an exercise for our juvenile readers to fill up. it reminds us of the old days when real geometers used to think it worth while seriously to demolish pretenders. mr. smith's fame is now assured: sir w. r. hamilton's brief and easy exposure will procure him notice in connection with this celebrated problem. "it is to be shown that the perimeter of a regular polygon of sides is greater than - / diameters of the circle, and still more, of course, is the circumference of the circle greater than - / diameters. " . it follows from the th book of euclid, that the rectangle under the side of a regular decagon inscribed in a circle, and that side increased by the radius, is equal to the square of the radius. but the product ( + ) is less than × ; if then the radius be the side of the decagon is greater than . " . when a diameter bisects a chord, the square of the chord is equal to the rectangle under the doubles of the segments of the diameter. but the product ( × - ) is less than × . if then the bisected chord be a side of the decagon, and if the radius be still , the double of the lesser segment exceeds . " . the rectangle under this doubled segment and the radius is equal to the square of the side of an inscribed regular polygon of sides. but the product × is equal to × ; therefore, the side of the last-mentioned polygon is greater than , if the radius be still . in other words, if the radius be represented by the new { } member , and therefore the diameter by , this side is greater than , and the perimeter exceeds . so that, finally, if the diameter be , the perimeter of the inscribed regular polygon of sides, and still more the circumference of the circle, is greater than : that is, the circumference is more than - / diameters." the last work in the list was thus noticed in the _athenæum_, may , . "mr. james smith appears to be tired of waiting for his place in the budget of paradoxes, and accordingly publishes a long letter to professor de morgan, with various prefaces and postscripts. the letter opens by a hint that the budget appears at very long intervals, and 'apparently without any sufficient reason for it.' as mr. smith hints that he should like to see mr. de morgan, whom he calls an 'elephant of mathematics,' 'pumping his brains' 'behind the scenes'--an odd thing for an elephant to do, and an odd place to do it in--to get an answer, we think he may mean to hint that the budget is delayed until the pump has worked successfully. mr. smith is informed that we have had the whole manuscript of the budget, excepting only a final summing-up, in our hands since october, . [this does not refer to the supplement.] there has been no delay: we knew from the beginning that a series of historical articles would be frequently interrupted by the things of the day. mr. james smith lets out that he has never been able to get a private line from mr. de morgan in answer to his communications: we should have guessed it. he says, 'the professor is an old bird and not to be easily caught, and by no efforts of mine have i been able, up to the present moment, either to induce or twit him into a discussion....' mr. smith curtails the proverb: old birds are not to be caught with _chaff_, nor with _twit_, which seems to be mr. smith's word for his own chaff, and, so long as the first letter is sounded, a very proper word. why does he not try a little grain of sense? mr. smith evidently { } thinks that, in his character as an elephant, the professor has not pumped up brain enough to furnish forth a bird. in serious earnest, mr. smith needs no answer. in one thing he excites our curiosity: what is meant by demonstrating 'geometrically _and_ mathematically?'" i now proceed to my original treatment of the case. mr. james smith will, i have no doubt, be the most uneclipsed circle-squarer of our day. he will not owe this distinction to his being an influential and respected member of the commercial world of liverpool, even though the power of publishing which his means give him should induce him to issue a whole library upon one paradox. neither will he owe it to the pains taken with him by a mathematician who corresponded with him until the joint letters filled an octavo volume. neither will he owe it to the notice taken of him by sir william hamilton, of dublin, who refuted him in a manner intelligible to an ordinary student of euclid, which refutation he calls a remarkable paradox easily explainable, but without explaining it. what he will owe it to i proceed to show. until the publication of the _nut to crack_ mr. james smith stood among circle-squarers in general. i might have treated him with ridicule, as i have done others: and he says that he does not doubt he shall come in for his share at the tail end of my budget. but i can make a better job of him than so, as locke would have phrased it: he is such a very striking example of something i have said on the use of logic that i prefer to make an example of his writings. on one point indeed he well deserves the _scutica_,[ ] if not the _horribile flagellum_.[ ] he tells me that he will bring his solution to me in such a form as shall compel me to admit it as _un fait accompli_ [_une faute accomplie?_][ ] { } or leave myself open to the humiliating charge of mathematical ignorance and folly. he has also honored me with some private letters. in the first of these he gives me a "piece of information," after which he cannot imagine that i, "as an honest mathematician," can possibly have the slightest hesitation in admitting his solution. there is a tolerable reservoir of modest assurance in a man who writes to a perfect stranger with what he takes for an argument, and gives an oblique threat of imputation of dishonesty in case the argument be not admitted without hesitation; not to speak of the minor charges of ignorance and folly. all this is blind self-confidence, without mixture of malicious meaning; and i rather like it: it makes me understand how sam johnson came to say of his old friend mrs. cobb,[ ]--"i love moll cobb for her impudence." i have now done with my friend's _suaviter in modo_,[ ] and proceed to his _fortiter in re_[ ]: i shall show that he _has_ convicted himself of ignorance and folly, with an honesty and candor worthy of a better value of [pi]. mr. smith's method of proving that every circle is - / diameters is to assume that it is so,--"if you dislike the term datum, then, by hypothesis, let circumferences be exactly equal to diameters,"--and then to show that every other supposition is thereby made absurd. the right to this assumption is enforced in the "nut" by the following analogy: "i think you (!) will not dare (!) to dispute my right to this hypothesis, when i can prove by means of it that every other value of [pi] will lead to the grossest absurdities; unless indeed, you are prepared to dispute the right of euclid to adopt a false line hypothetically for the purpose { } of a '_reductio ad absurdum_'[ ] demonstration, in pure geometry." euclid assumes what he wants to _disprove_, and shows that his _assumption_ leads to absurdity, and so _upsets itself_. mr. smith assumes what he wants to _prove_, and shows that _his_ assumption makes _other propositions_ lead to absurdity. this is enough for all who can reason. mr. james smith cannot be argued with; he has the whip-hand of all the thinkers in the world. montucla would have said of mr. smith what he said of the gentleman who squared his circle by giving and the same square root, _il a perdu le droit d'être frappé de l'évidence_.[ ] it is mr. smith's habit, when he finds a conclusion agreeing with its own assumption, to regard that agreement as proof of the assumption. the following is the "piece of information" which will settle me, if i be honest. assuming [pi] to be - / , he finds out by working instance after instance that the mean proportional between one-fifth of the area and one-fifth of eight is the radius. that is, if [pi] = / , sqrt(([pi]r^ )/ · / ) = r. this "remarkable general principle" may fail to establish mr. smith's quadrature, even in an honest mind, if that mind should happen to know that, a and b being any two numbers whatever, we need only assume-- [pi] = a^ /b, to get at sqrt(([pi]r^ )/a · b/a) = r. we naturally ask what sort of glimmer can mr. smith have of the subject which he professes to treat? on this point he has given satisfactory information. i had mentioned the old problem of finding two mean proportionals, { } as a preliminary to the duplication of the cube. on this mention mr. smith writes as follows. i put a few words in capitals; and i write rq[ ] for the sign of the square root, which embarrasses small type: "this establishes the following _infallible_ rule, for finding two mean proportionals of equal value, and is more than a preliminary, to the famous old problem of 'squaring the circle.' let any finite number, say , and its fourth part = ¼( ) = , be given numbers. then rq( × ) = rq = , is their mean proportional. let this be a given mean proportional to find another mean proportional of equal value. then × [pi]/ = × . / = × . = . will be the first number; as : :: rq : rq . : and (rq . )^ × [pi]/ = . × . = . will be the second number; therefore rq( . × . ) = rq = , is the required mean proportional.... now, my good sir, however competent you may be to prove every man a fool [not _every_ man, mr. smith! only _some_; pray learn logical quantification] who now thinks, or in times gone by has thought, the 'squaring of the circle' _a possibility_; i doubt, and, on the evidence afforded by your budget, i cannot help doubting, whether you were ever before competent to find two mean proportionals _by my unique method_."--(_nut_, pp. , .) [that i never was, i solemnly declare!] all readers can be made to see the following exposure. when and are given, x is a mean proportional when in , x, , is to x as x to . and x must be . but x and y are two mean proportionals when in , x, y, , x { } is a mean proportional between and y, and y is a mean proportional between x and . and these means are x = [cuberoot] , y = [cuberoot] . but mr. smith finds _one_ mean, finds it _again_ in a roundabout way, and produces and as the two (equal!) means, in solution of the "famous old problem." this is enough: if more were wanted, there is more where this came from. let it not be forgotten that mr. smith has found a translator abroad, two, perhaps three, followers at home, and--most surprising of all--a real mathematician to try to set him right. and this mathematician did not discover the character of the subsoil of the land he was trying to cultivate until a goodly octavo volume of letters had passed and repassed. i have noticed, in more quarters than one, an apparent want of perception of the _full_ amount of mr. smith's ignorance: persons who have not been in contact with the non-geometrical circle-squarers have a kind of doubt as to whether anybody can carry things so far. but i am an "old bird" as mr. smith himself calls me; a simorg, an "all-knowing bird of ages" in matters of cyclometry. the curious phenomena of thought here exhibited illustrate, as above said, a remark i have long ago made on the effect of proper study of logic. most persons reason well enough on matter to which they are accustomed, and in terms with which they are familiar. but in unaccustomed matter, and with use of strange terms, few except those who are practised in the abstractions of pure logic can be tolerably sure to keep their feet. and one of the reasons is easily stated: terms which are not quite familiar partake of the vagueness of the x and y on which the student of logic learns to see the formal force of a proposition independently of its material elements. i make the following quotation from my fourth paper on logic in the _cambridge transactions_: "the uncultivated reason proceeds by a process almost entirely material. though the necessary law of thought { } must determine the conclusion of the ploughboy as much as that of aristotle himself, the ploughboy's conclusion will only be tolerably sure when the matter of it is such as comes within his usual cognizance. he knows that geese being all birds does not make all birds geese, but mainly because there are ducks, chickens, partridges, etc. a beginner in geometry, when asked what follows from 'every a is b,' answers 'every b is a.' that is, the necessary laws of thought, except in minds which have examined their tools, are not very sure to work correct conclusions except upon familiar matter.... as the cultivation of the individual increases, the laws of thought which are of most usual application are applied to familiar matter with tolerable safety. but difficulty and risk of error make a new appearance with a new subject; and this, in most cases, until new subjects are familiar things, unusual matter common, untried nomenclature habitual; that is, until it is a habit to be occupied upon a novelty. it is observed that many persons reason well in some things and badly in others; and this is attributed to the consequence of employing the mind too much upon one or another subject. but those who know the truth of the preceding remarks will not have far to seek for what is often, perhaps most often, the true reason.... i maintain that logic tends to make the power of reason over the unusual and unfamiliar more nearly equal to the power over the usual and familiar than it would otherwise be. the second is increased; but the first is almost created." mr. james smith, by bringing ignorance, folly, dishonesty into contact with my name, in the way of conditional insinuation, has done me a good turn: he has given me right to a freedom of personal remark which i might have declined to take in the case of a person who is useful and respected in matters which he understands. tit for tat is logic all the world over. by the way, what has become of the rest of the maxim: we never hear it { } now. when i was a boy, in some parts of the country at least, it ran thus: "tit for tat; butter for fat: if you kill my dog, i'll kill your cat." he is a glaring instance of the truth of the observations quoted above. i will answer for it that, at the mersey dock board, he never dreams of proving that the balance at the banker's is larger than that in the book by assuming that the larger sum is there, and then proving that the other supposition--the smaller balance--is upon that assumption, an absurdity. he never says to another director, how can you dare to refuse me a right to assume the larger balance, when you yourself, the other day, said,--suppose, for argument's sake, we had , l. at the banker's, though you knew the book only showed , l.? this is the way in which he has supported his geometrical paradox by euclid's example: and this is not the way he reasons at the board; i know it by the character of him as a man of business which has reached my ears from several quarters. but in geometry and rational arithmetic he is a smatterer, though expert at computation; at the board he is a trained man of business. the language of geometry is so new to him that he does not know what is meant by "two mean proportionals:" but all the phrases of commerce are rooted in his mind. he is most unerasably booked in the history of the squaring of the circle, as the speculator who took a right to assume a proposition for the destruction of other propositions, on the express ground that euclid assumes a proposition to show that it destroys itself: which is as if the curate should demand permission to throttle the squire because st. patrick drove the vermin to suicide to save themselves from slaughter. he is conspicuous as a speculator who, more visibly than almost any other known to history, reasoned in a circle by way of reasoning on a circle. but { } what i have chiefly to do with is the force of instance which he has lent to my assertion that men who have not had real training in pure logic are unsafe reasoners in matter which is not familiar. it is hard to get first-rate examples of this, because there are few who find the way to the printer until practice and reflection have given security against the grossest slips. i cannot but think that his case will lead many to take what i have said into consideration, among those who are competent to think of the great mental disciplines. to this end i should desire him to continue his efforts, to amplify and develop his great principle, that of proving a proposition by assuming it and taking as confirmation every consequence that does not contradict the assumption. since my budget commenced, mr. smith has written me notes: the portion which i have preserved--i suppose several have been mislaid--makes a hundred and seven pages of note-paper, closely written. to all this i have not answered one word: but i think i cannot have read fewer than forty pages. in the last letter the writer informs me that he will not write at greater length until i have given him an answer, according to the "rules of good society." did i not know that for every inch i wrote back he would return an ell? surely in vain the net is spread in the eyes of anything that hath a wing. there were several good excuses for not writing to mr. j. smith: i will mention five. first, i distinctly announced at the beginning of this budget that i would not communicate with squarers of the circle. secondly, any answer i might choose to give might with perfect propriety be reserved for this article; had the imputation of incivility been made after the first note, i should immediately have replied to this effect: but i presumed it was quite understood. thirdly, mr. smith, by his publication of e. m.'s letters against the wish of the writer, had put himself out of the pale of correspondence. fourthly, he had also gone beyond the rules of good society in sending { } letter after letter to a person who had shown by his silence an intention to avoid correspondence. fifthly, these same rules of good society are contrived to be flexible or frangible in extreme cases: otherwise there would be no living under them; and good society would be bad. father aldrovand has laid down the necessary distinction--"i tell thee, thou foolish fleming, the text speaketh but of promises made unto christians, and there is in the rubric a special exemption of such as are made to welchmen." there is also a rubric to the rules of good society; and squarers of the circle are among those whom there is special permission not to answer: they are the wild welchmen of geometry, who are always assailing, but never taking, the garde douloureuse[ ] of the circle. "at this commentary," proceeds the story, "the fleming grinned so broadly as to show his whole case of broad strong white teeth." i know not whether the welchman would have done the like, but i hope mr. james smith will: and i hope he has as good a case to show as wilkin flammock. for i wish him long life and long health, and should be very glad to see so much energy employed in a productive way. i hope he wishes me the same: if not, i will give him what all his judicious friends will think a good reason for doing so. his pamphlets and letters are all tied up together, and will form a curious lot when death or cessation of power to forage among book-shelves shall bring my little library to the hammer. and this time may not be far off: for i was x years old in a.d. x^ ; not in a.d. , nor in a.d. , but still in one case under that law. and now i have made my own age a problem of quadrature, and mr. j. smith may solve it. but i protest against his method of assuming a result, and making itself prove itself: he might in this way, as sure as eggs is eggs (a corruption of x is x), make me , years old, which is a great deal too much. { } _april , ._--mr. smith continues to write me long letters, to which he hints that i am to answer. in his last, of closely written sides of note-paper, he informs me, with reference to my obstinate silence, that though i think myself and am thought by others to be a mathematical goliath, i have resolved to play the mathematical snail, and keep within my shell. a mathematical _snail_! this cannot be the thing so called which regulates the striking of a clock; for it would mean that i am to make mr. smith sound the true time of day, which i would by no means undertake upon a clock that gains seconds odd in every hour by false quadrature. but he ventures to tell me that pebbles from the sling of simple truth and common sense will ultimately crack my shell, and put me _hors de combat_.[ ] the confusion of images is amusing: goliath turning himself into a snail to avoid [pi] = - / , and james smith, esq., of the mersey dock board: and put _hors de combat_--which should have been _caché_[ ]--by pebbles from a sling. if goliath had crept into a snail-shell, david would have cracked the philistine with his foot. there is something like modesty in the implication that the crack-shell pebble has not yet taken effect; it might have been thought that the slinger would by this time have been singing-- "and thrice [and one-eighth] i routed all my foes, and thrice [and one-eighth] i slew the slain." but he promises to give the public his nut-cracker if i do not, before the budget is concluded, "unravel" the paradox, which is the mathematico-geometrical nut he has given me to crack. mr. smith is a crack man: he will crack his own nut; he will crack my shell; in the mean time he cracks himself up. heaven send he do not crack himself into lateral contiguity with himself. on june i received a letter, in the handwriting of mr. james smith, signed nauticus. i have ascertained { } that one of the letters to the _athenæum_ signed nauticus is in the same handwriting. i make a few extracts: "... the important question at issue has been treated by a brace of mathematical birds with too much levity. it may be said, however, that sarcasm and ridicule sometimes succeed, where reason fails.... such a course is not well suited to a discussion.... for this reason i shall for the future [this implies there has been a past, so that nauticus is not before me for the first time] endeavor to confine myself to dry reasoning from incontrovertible premises. ... it appears to me that so far as his theory is concerned he comes off unscathed. you might have found "a hole in smith's circle" (have you seen a pamphlet bearing this title? [i never heard of it until now]), but after all it is quite possible the hole may have been left by design, for the purpose of entrapping the unwary." [on the publication of the above, the author of the pamphlet obligingly forwarded a copy to me of _a hole in smith's circle_--by a cantab: longman and co., , (pp. ). "it is pity to lose any fun we can get out of the affair," says my almamaternal brother: to which i add that in such a case warning without joke is worse than none at all, as giving a false idea of the nature of the danger. the cantab takes some absurdities on which i have not dwelt: but there are enough to afford a cantab from every college his own separate hunting ground.] does this hint that his mode of proof, namely, assuming the thing to be proved, was a design to entrap the unwary? if so, it bangs banagher. was his confounding two mean proportionals with one mean proportional found twice over a trick of the same intent? if so, it beats cockfighting. that nauticus is mr. smith appears from other internal evidence. in , mr. j. c. hobhouse[ ] was sent to newgate for a { } libel on the house of commons which was only intended for a libel on lord erskine.[ ] the ex-chancellor had taken mr. hobhouse to be thinking of him in a certain sentence; this mr. hobhouse denied, adding, "there is but one man in the country who is always thinking of lord erskine." i say that there is but one man of our day who would couple me and mr. james smith as a "brace of mathematical birds." mr. smith's "theory" is unscathed by me. not a doubt about it: but how does he himself come off? i should never think of refuting a theory proved by assumption of itself. i left mr. smith's [pi] untouched: or, if i put in my thumb and pulled out a plum, it was to give a notion of the cook, not of the dish. the "important question at issue" was not the circle: it was, wholly and solely, whether the abbreviation of _james_ might be spelled _jimm_.[ ] this is personal to the verge of scurrility: but in literary controversy the challenger names the weapons, and mr. smith begins with charge of ignorance, folly, and dishonesty, by conditional implication. so that the question is, not the personality of a word, but its applicability to the person designated: it is enough if, as the latin grammar has it, _verbum personale concordat cum nominativo_.[ ] i may plead precedent for taking a liberty with the orthography of _jem_. an instructor of youth was scandalized at the abrupt and irregular--but very effective--opening of wordsworth's little piece: { } "a simple child that lightly draws its breath, and feels its life in every limb, what should it know of death?" so he mended the matter by instructing his pupils to read the first line thus: "a simple child, dear brother ----." the brother, we infer from sound, was to be james, and the blank must therefore be filled up with _jimb_. i will notice one point of the letter, to make a little more distinction between the two birds. nauticus lays down--quite correctly--that the sine of an angle is less than its circular measure. he then takes . for °, and finds that ' is . . but this is exactly what he finds for the sine of ' in tables: he concludes that either . or the tables must be wrong. he does not know that sines, as well as [pi], are interminable decimals, of which the tables, to save printing, only take in a finite number. he is a six-figure man: let us go thrice again to make up nine, and we have as follows: circular measure of ' . ... sine of ' . ... excess of measure over sine . ... mr. smith invites me to say which is wrong, the quadrature, or the tables: i leave him to guess. he says his assertions "arise naturally and necessarily out of the arguments of a circle-squarer:" he might just as well lay down that all the pigs went to market because it is recorded that "_this_ pig went to market." i must say for circle-squarers that very few bring their pigs to so poor a market. i answer the above argument because it is, of all which mr. james smith has produced, the only one which rises to the level of a schoolboy: to meet him halfway i descend to that level. mr. smith asks me to solve a problem in the _athenæum_: { } and i will do it, because the question will illustrate what is _below_ schoolboy level. "let x represent the circular measure of an angle of °, and y half the sine of an angle of ° = area of the square on the radius of a circle of diameter unity = . . if x - y = xy, firstly, what is the arithmetical value of xy? secondly, what is the angle of which xy represents the circular measure?" if x represent ° and y be ¼, xy represents ° ', whether x - y be xy or no. but, y being ¼, x - y is _not_ xy unless x be / , that is, unless x or [pi] be , which mr. smith would not admit. how could a person who had just received such a lesson as i had given immediately pray for further exposure, furnishing the stuff so liberally as this? is it possible that mr. smith, because he signs himself nauticus, means to deny his own very regular, legible, and peculiar hand? it is enough to make the other members of the liverpool dock board cry, mersey on the man! mr. smith says that for the future he will give up what he calls sarcasm, and confine himself, "as far as possible," to what he calls dry reasoning from incontrovertible premises. if i have fairly taught him that _his_ sarcasm will not succeed, i hope he will find that his wit's end is his logic's beginning. i now reply to a question i have been asked again and again since my last budget appeared: why do you take so much trouble to expose such a reasoner as mr. smith? i answer as a deceased friend of mine used to answer on like occasions--a man's capacity is no measure of his power to do mischief. mr. smith has untiring energy, which does something; self-evident honesty of conviction, which does more; and a long purse, which does most of all. he has made at least ten publications, full of figures which few readers can criticize. a great many people are staggered to this extent, that they imagine there must be { } the indefinite _something_ in the mysterious _all this_. they are brought to the point of suspicion that the mathematicians ought not to treat "all this" with such undisguised contempt, at least. now i have no fear for [pi]: but i do think it possible that general opinion might in time demand that the crowd of circle-squarers, etc. should be admitted to the honors of opposition; and this would be a time-tax of five per cent., one man with another, upon those who are better employed. mr. james smith may be made useful, in hands which understand how to do it, towards preventing such opinion from growing. a speculator who expressly assumes what he wants to prove, and argues that all which contradicts it is absurd, _because_ it cannot stand side by side with his assumption, is a case which can be exposed to all. and the best person to expose it is one who has lived in the past as well as the present, who takes misthinking from points of view which none but a student of history can occupy, and who has something of a turn for the business. whether i have any motive but public good must be referred to those who can decide whether a missionary chooses his pursuit solely to convert the heathen. i shall certainly be thought to have a little of the spirit of col. quagg, who delighted in strapping the grace-walking brethren. i must quote this myself: if i do not, some one else will, and then where am i? the colonel's principle is described as follows: "i licks ye because i kin, and because i like, and because ye'se critters that licks is good for. skins ye have on, and skins i'll have off; hard or soft, wet or dry, spring or fall. walk in grace if ye like till pumpkins is peaches; but licked ye must be till your toe-nails drop off and your noses bleed blue ink. and--licked--they--were--accordingly." i am reminded of this by the excessive confidence with which mr. james smith predicted that he would treat me as zephaniah stockdolloger (sam slick calls it _slockdollager_) treated goliah quagg. he has announced his { } intention of bringing me, with a contrite heart, and clean shaved,-- ... razored down to ,--to a camp-meeting of circle-squarers. but there is this difference: zephaniah only wanted to pass the colonel's smithy in peace; mr. james smith sought a fight with me. as soon as this budget began to appear, he oiled his own strap, and attempted to treat me as the terrible colonel would have treated the inoffensive brother. he is at liberty to try again. the moon hoax. the moon-hoax; or the discovery that the moon has a vast population of human beings. by richard adams locke.[ ] new york, , vo. this is a reprint of the hoax already mentioned. i suppose r. a. locke is the name assumed by m. nicollet.[ ] the publisher informs us that when the hoax first appeared day by day in a morning paper, the circulation increased fivefold, and the paper obtained a permanent footing. besides this, an edition of , was sold off in less than one month. the discovery was also published under the name of a. r. grant.[ ] sohncke's[ ] _bibliotheca mathematica_ confounds this grant with prof. r. grant[ ] of glasgow, the author of the _history of physical astronomy_, who is accordingly made to guarantee the discoveries in the moon. i hope adams locke will not merge in j. c. adams,[ ] the co-discoverer of neptune. sohncke gives the titles of { } three french translations of the moon hoax at paris, of one at bordeaux, and of italian translations at parma, palermo, and milan. a correspondent, who is evidently fully master of details, which he has given at length, informs me that the moon hoax appeared first in the _new york sun_, of which r. a. locke was editor. it so much resembled a story then recently published by edgar a. poe, in a southern paper, "adventures of hans pfaal," that some new york journals published the two side by side. mr. locke, when he left the _new york sun_, started another paper, and discovered the manuscript of mungo park;[ ] but this did not deceive. the _sun_, however, continued its career, and had a great success in an account of a balloon voyage from england to america, in seventy-five hours, by mr. monck mason,[ ] mr. harrison ainsworth,[ ] and others. i have no doubt that m. nicollet was the author of the moon hoax,[ ] written in a way which marks the practised observatory astronomer beyond all doubt, and by evidence seen in the most minute details. nicollet had an eye to europe. i suspect that he took poe's story, and made it a basis for his own. mr. locke, it would seem, when he attempted a fabrication for himself, did not succeed. the earth we inhabit, its past, present, and future. by capt. drayson.[ ] london, , vo. the earth is growing; absolutely growing larger: its diameter increases three-quarters of an inch per mile every year. the foundations of our buildings will give way in { } time: the telegraph cables break, and no cause ever assigned except ships' anchors, and such things. the book is for those whose common sense is unwarped, who can judge evidence as well as the ablest philosopher. the prospect is not a bad one, for population increases so fast that a larger earth will be wanted in time, unless emigration to the moon can be managed, a proposal of which it much surprises me that bishop wilkins has a monopoly. impalement by request. _athenæum_, august, , . _notice to correspondents._ "r. w.--if you will consult the opening chapter of the budget of paradoxes, you will see that the author presents only works in his own library at a given date; and this for a purpose explained. for ourselves we have carefully avoided allowing any writers to present themselves in our columns on the ground that the budget has passed them over. we gather that mr. de morgan contemplates additions at a future time, perhaps in a separate and augmented work; if so, those who complain that others of no greater claims than themselves have been ridiculed may find themselves where they wish to be. we have done what we can for you by forwarding your letter to mr. de morgan." the author of "an essay on the constitution of the earth," published in , demanded of the _athenæum_, as an _act of fairness_, that a letter from him should be published, proving that he had as much right to be "impaled" as capt. drayson. he holds, on speculative grounds, what the other claims to have proved by measurement, namely, that the earth is growing; and he believes that in time--a good long time, not _our_ time--the earth and other planets may grow into suns, with systems of their own. this gentleman sent me a copy of his work, after the commencement of my budget; but i have no recollection of having received it, and i cannot find it on the (nursery? { } quarantine?) shelves on which i keep my unestablished discoveries. had i known of this work in time, (see the introduction) i should of course, have impaled it (heraldically) with the other work; but the two are very different. capt. drayson professes to prove his point by results of observation; and i think he does not succeed. the author before me only speculates; and a speculator can get any conclusion into his premises, if he will only build or hire them of shape and size to suit. it reminds me of a statement i heard years ago, that a score of persons, or near it, were to dine inside the skull of one of the aboriginal animals, dear little creatures! whereat i wondered vastly, nothing doubting; facts being stubborn and not easy drove, as mrs. gamp said. but i soon learned that the skull was not a real one, but artificially constructed by the methods--methods which have had striking verifications, too--which enable zoologists to go the whole hog by help of a toe or a bit of tail. this took off the edge of the wonder: a hundred people can dine inside an inference, if you draw it large enough. the method might happen to fail for once: for instance, the toe-bone might have been abnormalized by therian or saurian malady; and the possibility of such failure, even when of small probability, is of great alleviation. the author before me is, apparently, the sole fabricator of his own premises. with vital force in the earth and continual creation on the part of the original creator, he expands our bit of a residence as desired. but, as the newtoness of cookery observed, first catch your hare. when this is done, when you _have_ a growing earth, you shall dress it with all manner of proximate causes, and serve it up with a growing moon for sauce, a growing sun, if it please you, at the other end, and growing planets for side-dishes. hoping this amount of impalement will be satisfactory, i go on to something else. { } the hailesean system of astronomy. _the hailesean system of astronomy._ by john davey hailes[ ] (two pages duodecimo, ). he offers to _take_ , l. to , l. that he shows the sun to be less than seven millions of miles from the earth. the earth in the center, revolving eastward, the sun revolving westward, so that they "meet at half the circle distance in the hours." the diameter of the circle being , the circumference is . the following written challenge was forwarded to the council of the astronomical society: it will show the "general reader"--and help him towards earning his name--what sort of things come every now and then to our scientific bodies. i have added punctuation: _challenge._ , to , . "leverrier's[ ] name stand placed first. do the worthy frenchman justice. by awarding him the medal in a trice. give adams[ ] an extra--of which neck and neck the race. now i challenge to meet them and the f.r.s.'s all, for good will and _one_ thousand pounds to their _thirty_ thousand withall, that i produce a system, which shall measure the time, when the sun was vertical to gibeon, afterward to syene. to meet any time in london--name your own period, to be decided by a majority of twelve persons--a president, _odd_. that mean, if the twelve equally divide, the president decide, i should prefer the bishop of london, over the meeting to preside. john davy hailes." feb. , ." mr. hailes still issues his flying sheets. the last i have met with (october , ) informs us that the latitude of { } england is slowly increasing, which is the true cause of the alteration in the variation of the magnet. [mr. hailes continues his researches. witness his new hailesean system of astronomy, displaying joshua's miracle-time, origin of time from science, with bible and egyptian history. rewards offered for astronomical problems. with magnetism, etc. etc. astronomical challenge to all the world. published at cambridge, in . the author agrees with newton in one marked point. _errores quam minimi non sunt contemnendi_,[ ] says isaac: meaning in figures, not in orthography. mr. hailes enters into the spirit, both positive and negative, of this dictum, by giving the distance of _sidius_ from the center of the earth at , , miles feet inches - ths of an inch. of course, he is aware that the center of _figure_ of the earth is . inches from the center of _gravity_. which of the two is he speaking of?] the divine mystery of life. london [ ], mo. (pp. ). the author has added one class to zoology, which is printed in capitals, as derived from _zoé_, life, not from _zôon_, animal. that class is of _incorporealia_, order i., _infinitum_, of one genus without plurality, _deus_: order ii., _finita_, angels good and evil. the rest is all about a triune system, with a diagram. the author is not aware that [greek: zôon] is not _animal_, but _living being_. aristotle had classed gods under [greek: zôa], and has been called to account for it by moderns who have taken the word to mean _animal_. a chance for inventors. explication du zodiaque de denderah, des pyramides, et de genèse. par le capitaine au longcours justin roblin.[ ] caen, . vo. { } capt. roblin, having discovered the sites of gold and diamond mines by help of the zodiac of denderah, offered half to the shareholders of a company which he proposed to form. one of our journals, by help of the zodiac of esné, offered, at five francs a head, to tell the shareholders the exact amount of gold and diamonds which each would get, and to make up the amount predicted to those who got less. there are moods of the market in england in which this company could have been formed: so we must not laugh at our neighbors. johannes von gumpach. a million's worth of property, and five hundred lives annually lost at sea by the theory of gravitation. a letter on the true figure of the earth, addressed to the astronomer royal, by johannes von gumpach.[ ] london, , vo. (pp. ). the true figure and dimensions of the earth, in a letter addressed to the astronomer royal. by joh. von gumpach. nd ed. entirely recast. london, , vo. (pp. ). two issues of a letter published with two different title-pages, one addressed to the secretary of the royal society, the other to the secretary of the royal astronomical society. it would seem that the same letter is also issued with two other titles, addressed to the british association and the royal geographical society. by joh. von gumpach. london, , vo. baby-worlds. an essay on the nascent members of our solar household. by joh. von gumpach. london, , vo. the earth, it appears, instead of being flattened, is elongated at the poles: by ignorance of which the loss above mentioned occurs yearly. there is, or is to be, a substitute for attraction and an "application hitherto neglected, of a { } recognized law of optics to the astronomical theory, showing the true orbits of the heavenly bodies to be perfectly circular, and their orbital motions to be perfectly uniform." all irregularities being, i suppose, optical delusions. mr. von gumpach is a learned man; what else, time must show. slander paradoxes. perpetuum mobile: or search for self-motive power. by henry dircks.[ ] london, , vo. a useful collection on the history of the attempts at perpetual motion, that is, at obtaining the consequences of power without any power to produce them. september , , a correspondent of the _times_ gave an anecdote of george stephenson,[ ] which he obtained from robert stephenson.[ ] a perpetual motionist wanted to explain his method; to which george replied--"sir! i shall believe it when i see you take yourself up by the waistband, and carry yourself about the room." never was the problem better stated. there is a paradox of which i ought to give a specimen, i mean the _slander-paradox_; the case of a person who takes it into his head, upon evidence furnished entirely by the workings of his own thoughts, that some other person has committed a foul act of which the world at large would no more suppose him guilty than they would suppose that the earth is a flat bordered by ice. if i were to determine on giving cases in which the self-deluded person imagines { } a conspiracy against _himself_, there would be no end of choices. many of the grosser cases are found at last to be accompanied by mental disorder, and it is difficult to avoid referring the whole class to something different from simple misuse of the reasoning power. the first instance is one which puts in a strong light the state of things in which we live, brought about by our glorious freedom of thought, speech, and writing. the government treated it with neglect, the press with silent contempt, and i will answer for it many of my readers now hear of it for the first time, when it comes to be enrolled among circle-squarers and earth-stoppers, where, as the old philosopher said, it will not gravitate, being _in proprio loco_.[ ] . on new year's day, , when the nation was in the full tide of sympathy with the queen, and regret for its own loss, a paper called the _free press_ published a number devoted to the consideration of the causes of the death of the prince consort. it is so rambling and inconsecutive that it takes more than one reading to understand it. it is against the _times_ newspaper. first, the following insinuation: "to the legal mind, the part of [the part taken by] the _times_ will present a _prima facie_ case of the gravest nature, in the evident fore-knowledge of the event, and the preparation to turn it to account when it should have occurred. the article printed on saturday must have been written on friday. that article could not have appeared had the prince been intended to live." next, it is affirmed that the _times_ intended to convey the idea that the prince had been poisoned. "up to this point we are merely dealing with words which the _times_ publishes, and these can leave not a shadow of doubt that there is an intention to promulgate the idea that prince albert had been poisoned." the article then goes on with a strange olio of { } insinuations to the effect that the prince was the obstacle to russian intrigue, and that if he should have been poisoned,--which the writer strongly hints may have been the case,--some minister under the influence of russia must have done it. enough for this record. _un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire_:[ ] who can he be in this case? the neptune controversy. . at the end of this year arose the celebrated controversy relative to the discovery of neptune. those who know it are well aware that mr. adams's[ ] now undoubted right to rank with le verrier[ ] was made sure at the very outset by the manner in which mr. airy,[ ] the astronomer royal, came forward to state what had taken place between himself and mr. adams. those who know all the story about mr. airy being arrested in his progress by the neglect of mr. adams to answer a letter, with all the imputations which might have been thrown upon himself for laxity in the matter, know also that mr. airy's conduct exhibited moral courage, honest feeling, and willingness to sacrifice himself, if need were, to the attainment of the ends of private justice, and the establishment of a national claim. a writer in a magazine, in a long and elaborate article, argued the supposition--put in every way except downright assertion, after the fashion of such things--that mr. airy had communicated mr. adams's results to m. le verrier, with intention that they should be used. his presumption as to motive is that, had mr. adams been recognized, "then the discovery must have been indisputably an _englishman's_, and that englishman not the astronomer royal." mr. adams's conclusions were "retouched in france, and sent { } over the year after." the proof given is that it cannot be "imagined" otherwise. "can it then be imagined that the astronomer royal received such results from mr. adams, supported as they were by professor challis's[ ] valuable testimony as to their probable accuracy, and did not bring the french astronomer acquainted with them, especially as he was aware that his friend was engaged in matters bearing directly upon these results?" the whole argument the author styles "evidence which i consider it difficult to refute." he ends by calling upon certain persons, of whom i am one, to "see ample justice done." this is the duty of every one, according to his opportunities. so when the reputed author--the article being anonymous--was, in , proposed as a fellow of the astronomical society, i joined--if i remember right, i originated--an opposition to his election, until either the authorship should be denied, or a proper retraction made. the friends of the author neither denied the first, nor produced the second: and they judged it prudent to withdraw the proposal. had i heard of any subsequent repentance, i would have taken some other instance, instead of this: should i yet hear of such a thing, i will take care to notice it in the continuation of this list, which i confidently expect, life and health permitting, to be able to make in a few years. this much may be said, that the author, in a lecture on the subject, given in , and published with his name, did _not_ repeat the charge. [the libel was published in the _mechanics' magazine_,[ ] (vol. for , pp. - ): and the editor supported it as follows, (vol. for , p. ). in answer to mr. sheepshanks's charitable hope that he had been hoaxed, { } he says: "mr. sheepshanks cannot certainly have read the article referred to.... severe and inculpatory it is--unjust some may deem it (though we ourselves are out of the number.)... a 'hoax' forsooth! may we be often the dupes of such hoaxes!" he then goes on to describe the article as directed against the astronomer royal's alleged neglect to give mr. adams that "encouragement and protection" which was his due, and _does not hint one word_ about the article containing the charge of having secretly and fraudulently transmitted news of mr. adams's researches to france, that an englishman might not have the honor of the discovery. mr. sheepshanks having called this a "deliberate calumny," without a particle of proof or probability to support it, the editor says "what the reverend gentleman means by this, we are at a loss to understand." he then proceeds _not_ to remember. i repeat here, what i have said elsewhere, that the management of the journal has changed hands; but from to , it had the collar of s.s. (scientific slander). the prayer for more such things was answered (see p. ).] james ivory.[ ] i have said that those who are possessed with the idea of conspiracy against themselves are apt to imagine both conspirators and their bad motives and actions. a person who should take up the idea of combination against himself without feeling ill-will and originating accusations would be indeed a paradox. but such a paradox has existed. it is very well known, both in and beyond the scientific world, that the late james ivory was subject to the { } impression of which i am speaking; and the diaries and other sources of anecdote of our day will certainly, sooner or later, make it a part of his biography. the consequence will be that to his memory will be attached the unfavorable impression which the usual conduct of such persons creates; unless it should happen that some one who knows the real state of the case puts the two sides of it properly together. ivory was of that note in the scientific world which may be guessed from laplace's description of him as the first geometer in britain and one of the first in europe. being in possession of accurate knowledge of his peculiarity in more cases than one; and in one case under his own hand: and having been able to make full inquiry about him, especially from my friend the late thomas galloway[ ]--who came after him at sandhurst--one of the few persons with whom he was intimate:--i have decided, after full deliberation, to forestall the future biographies. that ivory was haunted by the fear of which i have spoken, to the fullest extent, came to my own public and official knowledge, as secretary of the astronomical society. it was the duty of mr. epps,[ ] the assistant secretary, at the time when francis baily[ ] first announced his discovery of the flamsteed papers, to report to me that mr. ivory had called at the society's apartments to inquire into the contents of those papers, and to express his hope that mr. baily was not attacking living persons under the names of newton and flamsteed.[ ] mr. galloway, to whom i communicated this, immediately went to mr. ivory, and succeeded, after some explanation, in setting him right. this is but one of many instances in which a man of thoroughly sound judgment in every other respect seemed to be under a complete chain of delusions about the conduct of { } others to himself. but the paradox is this:--i never could learn that ivory, passing his life under the impression that secret and unprovoked enemies were at work upon his character, ever originated a charge, imputed a bad motive, or allowed himself an uncourteous expression. some letters of his, now in my possession, referring to a private matter, are, except in the main impression on which they proceed, unobjectionable in every point: they might have been written by a cautious friend, whose object was, if possible, to prevent a difference from becoming a duel without compromising his principal's rights or character. knowing that in some quarters the knowledge of ivory's peculiarity is more or less connected with a notion that the usual consequences followed, i think the preceding statement due to his memory. three classes of journals. in such a record as the present, which mixes up the grossest speculative absurdities with every degree of what is better, an instance of another kind may find an appropriate place. the faults of journalism, when merely exposed by other journalism pass by and are no more regarded. a distinct account of an undeniable meanness, recorded in a work of amusement and reference both, may have its use: such a thing may act as a warning. an editor who is going to indulge his private grudge may be prevented from counting upon oblivion as a matter of certainty. there are three kinds of journals, with reference to the mode of entrance of contributors. first, as a thing which has been, but which now hardly exists, there is the journal in which the editor receives a fixed sum to _find the matter_. in such a journal, every article which the editor can get a friend to give him is so much in his own pocket, which has a great tendency to lower the character of the articles; but i am not concerned with this point. secondly, there is the journal which is supported by voluntary contributions of { } matter, the editor selecting. thirdly, there is the journal in which the contributor is paid by the proprietors in a manner with which the literary editor has nothing to do. the third class is the safe class, as its editors know: and, as a usual rule, they refuse unpaid contributions of the editorial cast. it is said that when canning[ ] declined a cheque forwarded for an article in the _quarterly_, john murray[ ] sent it back with a blunt threat that if he did not take his money he could never be admitted again. the great publisher told him that if men like himself in position worked for nothing, all the men like himself in talent who could not afford it would not work for the _quarterly_. if the above did not happen between canning and murray, it _must have happened_ between some other two. now journals of the second class--and of the first, if such there be--have a fault to which they alone are very liable, to say nothing of the editorial function (see the paper at the beginning, p. et seq.), being very much cramped, a sort of gratitude towards effective contributors leads the journal to help their personal likes and dislikes, and to sympathize with them. moreover, this sort of journal is more accessible than others to articles conveying personal imputation: and when these provoke discussion, the journal is apt to take the part of the assailant to whom it lent itself in the first instance. the mechanics' magazine. among the journals which went all lengths with contributors whom they valued, was the _mechanics' magazine_[ ] in the period - . i cannot say that matters have not mended in the last ten years: and i draw some { } presumption that they have mended from my not having heard, since , of anything resembling former proceedings. and on actual inquiry, made since the last sentence was written, i find that the property has changed hands, the editor is no longer the same, and the management is of a different stamp. this journal is chiefly supported by voluntary articles: and it is the journal in which, as above noted, the ridiculous charge against the astronomer royal was made in . the following instance of attempt at revenge is so amusing that i select it as the instance of the defect which i intend to illustrate; for its puerility brings out in better relief the points which are not so easily seen in more adult attempts. the _mechanics' magazine_, which by its connection with engineering, etc., had always taken somewhat of a mathematical character, began, a little before , to have more to do with abstract science. observing this, i began to send short communications, which were always thankfully received, inserted, and well spoken of. any one who looks for my name in that journal in - , will see nothing but the most respectful and even laudatory mention. in may occurred the affair at the astronomical society, and my share in forcing the withdrawal of the name of the alleged contributor to the journal. in february occurred the opportunity of payment. the _companion to the almanac_[ ] had to be noticed, in which, as then usual, was an article signed with my name. i shall give the review of this article entire, as a sample of a certain style, as well as an illustration of my point. the reader will observe that my name is not mentioned. this would not have done; the readers of the magazine would have stared to see a name of not infrequent occurrence in previous years all of a sudden fallen from the heaven of respect into the pit of contempt, like lucifer, son of the morning. but before { } giving the review, i shall observe that mr. adams, in whose _favor_ the attack on the astronomer royal was made, did not appreciate the favor; and of course did not come forward to shield his champion. this gave deadly offence, as appear from the following passage, (february , ): "it was our intention to enter into a comparison of the contents of our nautical almanack with those of its rival, the _connaissance des temps_; but we shall defer it for the present. the nautical almanack for will contain mr. adams's paper 'on the perturbation of uranus'; and when it comes, in due course, before the public, we are quite sure that that gentleman will expect that we shall again enter upon the subject with peculiar delight. whilst we have a thorough loathing for mean, cowardly, crawlers--we have an especial pleasure in maintaining the claims of men who are truly grateful as well as highly talented: mr. adams, therefore, will find that he cannot be disappointed--and the occasion will afford us an opportunity for making the comparison to which we have adverted." this passage illustrates what i have said on the editorial function (vol. i, p. ). what precedes and follows has some criticism on the government, the astronomer royal, etc., but reserved in allusion, oblique in sarcasm, and not fiercely uncourteous. the coarseness of the passage i have quoted shows editorial insertion, which is also shown by its blunder. the inserter is waiting for the almanac of that he may review mr. adams's paper, which is to be contained in it. his own contributor, only two sentences before the insertion, had said, "the nautical almanac, we believe, is published three or four years in advance." in fact, the almanac for --with mr. adams's paper at the end--was published at the end of or very beginning of ; it had therefore been more than two years before the public when the passage quoted was written. and probably every person in the country who was fit to review mr. adams's { } paper--and most of those who were fit to read it--knew that it had been widely circulated, in revise, at the end of : my copy has written on it, " d revise, december , , at noon," in the handwriting of the superintendent of the almanac; and i know that there was an extensive issue of these revises, brought out by the le-verrier-and-adams discussion. i now give the review of myself, (february , ): "_the british almanack and companion._ "the companion to this almanack, for some years after its first publication, annually contained scientific articles by sir j. lubbock[ ] and others of a high order and great interest; we have now, however, closed the publication as a scientific one in remembrance of what it was, and not in consequence of what it is. its list of contributors on science, has grown 'small by degrees and beautifully less,' until it has dwindled down to one--'a last rose of summer left withering alone.' the one contributor has contributed one paper 'on ancient and modern usage in reckoning.' "the learned critic's _chef d'oeuvre_, is considered, by competent judges, to be an essay on _old almanacks_ printed a few years ago in this annual, and supposed to be written with the view of surpassing a profound memoir on the same subject by james o. halliwell,[ ] esq., f.r. and a.s.s., but the tremendous effort which the learned writer then made to excel many titled competitors for honors in the antique line appears to have had a sad effect upon his mental powers--at any rate, his efforts have since yearly become duller and duller; happily, at last, we should suppose, 'the ancient { } and modern usage in reckoning' indicates the lowest point to which the _vis inertia_ of the learned writer's peculiar genius can force him. "we will give a few extracts from the article. "the learned author says, 'those who are accustomed to settle the meaning of ancient phrases by self-examination will find some _strange_ conclusions arrived at by us.' the writer never wrote a more correct sentence--it admits of no kind of dispute. "'language and counting,' says the learned author, 'both came before the logical discussion of either. it is not allowable to argue that something is or was, because it ought to be or ought to have been. that two negatives make an affirmative, ought to be; if _no_ man have done _nothing_, the man who has done nothing does not exist, and _every_ man has done _something_. but in greek, and in uneducated english, it is unquestionable that 'no man has done nothing' is only an emphatic way of saying that no man has done _anything_; and it would be absurd to reason that it could not have been so, because it should not.'--p. . "'but there _is_ another difference between old and new times, yet more remarkable, for we have _nothing_ of it now: whereas in things indivisible we count with our fathers, and should say in buying an acre of land, that the result has no parts, and that the purchaser, till he owns all the ground, owns none, the change of possession being instantaneous. this second difference lies in the habit of considering nothing, nought, zero, cipher, or whatever it may be called, to be at the beginning of the scale of numbers. count four days from monday: we should now say tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday; formerly, it would have been monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday. had we asked, what at that rate is the first day from monday, all would have stared at a phrase they had never heard. those who were capable of extending language would have said, why it must be monday itself: the rest would have said, there can { } be no first day from monday, for the day after is tuesday, which must be the second day: monday, one; tuesday, two,'--p. . "we assure our readers that the whole article is equally lucid, and its logic alike formal. "there are some exceedingly valuable footnotes; we give one of the most interesting, taken from the learned mr. halliwell's profound book on nursery rhymes[ ]--a celebrated production, for which it is supposed the author was made f.r.s. "'_one's nine_, two's some, three's a many, four's a penny, five's a little hundred.' 'the last line refers to five score, the so-called hundred being more usually six score. the first line, looked at etymologically, is _one is not one_, and the change of thought by which _nine_, the decimal of _one_, aims to be associated with the decimal of _plurality_ is curious:'--very. "this valuable and profound essay will very probably be transferred to the next edition of the learned mr. halliwell's rare work, of kindred worth, entitled 'rara mathematica,' it will then be deservedly handed down to posterity as a covering for cheap trunks--a most appropriate archive for such a treasure." in december, , the _mechanics' magazine_ published a libel on airy in the matter of the discovery of neptune. in may, , one * * * was to have been brought forward for election at the astronomical society, and was opposed by me and others, on the ground that he was the probable author of this libel, and that he would not, perhaps could { } not, deny it. [n.b. i no more doubt that he was the author then i doubt that i am the author of this sentence.][ ] accordingly, * * * was withdrawn, and a discussion took place, for which see the _athenæum_, no. , may , , p. . the _mechanics' magazine_ was very sore, but up to this day has never ventured beyond an attack on airy, private whisperings against adams--(see _ante_, p. ),--and the above against myself. in due time, i doubt not my name will appear as one of the _âmes damnées_[ ] of the _mechanics' magazine_.[ ] t. s. davies on euclid. first, as to mr. halliwell. the late thomas stephens davies,[ ] excellent in geometry, and most learned in its history, was also a good hand at enmity, though not implacable. he and mr. halliwell, who had long before been very much one, were, at this date, very much two. i do not think t. s. davies wrote this article; and i think that by giving my reasons i shall do service to his memory. it must have been written at the beginning of february; and within three days of that time t. s. davies was making over to me, by his own free act, to be kept until claimed by the relatives, what all who knew even his writings knew that he considered as the most precious deposit he had ever had in his keeping--horner's[ ] papers. his letter announcing the transmission is dated february , . this is a strong point; but there is another quite as strong. euclid and { } his writings were matters on which t. s. davies knew neither fear nor favor: he could not have written lightly about a man who stood high with him as a judge of euclid. now in this very letter of feb. , there is a sentence which i highly value, because, as aforesaid, it is on a point on which he would never have yielded anything, to which he had paid life-long attention, and on which he had the bias of having long stood alone. in fact, knowing--and what i shall quote confirms me,--that in the matter of euclid his hand was against every man, i expected, when i sent him a copy of my -column article, "eucleides" in smith's _dictionary_,[ ] to have received back a criticism, that would have blown me out of the water: and i thought it not unlikely that a man so well up in the subject might have made me feel demolished on some points. instead of this, i got the following: "although on one or two minor points i do not quite accord with your views, yet as a whole and without regard to any minor points, i think you are the first who has succeeded in a delineation of euclid as a geometer." all this duly considered, it is utterly incredible that t. s. davies should have written the review in question. and yet mr. halliwell is treated just as t. s. davies would have treated him, as to tone and spirit. the inference in my mind is that we have here a marked instance of the joining of hatreds which takes place in journals supported by voluntary contributions of matter. should anything ever have revived this article--and no one ever knows what might have been fished up from the forgotten mass of journals--the treatment of mr. halliwell would certainly have thrown a suspicion on t. s. davies, a large and regular contributor to the magazine. it is good service to his memory to point out what makes it incredible that he should have written so unworthy an article. the fault is this. there are four extracts: the first { } three are perfectly well printed. the printing of the _mechanics' magazine_ was very good. i was always exceedingly satisfied with the manner in which my articles appeared, without my seeing proof. most likely these extracts were printed from my printed paper; if not the extractor was a good copier. i know this by a test which has often served me. i use the subjunctive--"if no man _have_ done nothing," an ordinary transcriber, narrating a quotation almost always lets his own habit write _has_. the fourth extract has three alterations, all tending to make me ridiculous. _none_ is altered, in two places, into _nine_, _denial_ into _decimal_, and _comes_ into _aims_; so that "none, the denial of one, comes to be associated with the denial of plurality," reads as "nine, the decimal of one, aims to be associated with the decimal of plurality." this is intentional; had it been a compositor's reading of bad handwriting, these would not have been the only mistakes; to say nothing of the corrector of the press. and both the compositor and reader would have guessed, from the first line being translated into "one is not one," that it must have been "one's none," not "one's nine." but it was not intended that the gem should be recovered from the unfathomed cave, and set in a budget of paradoxes. we have had plenty of slander-paradox. i now give a halfpennyworth of bread to all this sack, an instance of the paradox of benevolence, in which an individual runs counter to all the ideas of his time, and sees his way into the next century. at amiens, at the end of the last century, an institution was endowed by a m. de morgan, to whom i hope i am of kin, but i cannot trace it; the name is common at amiens. it was the first of the kind i ever heard of. it is a salle d'asyle for children, who are taught and washed and taken care of during the hours in which their parents must be at work. the founder was a large wholesale grocer and colonial importer, who was made a baron by napoleon i for his commercial success and his charities. { } jas. smith again. . mr. smith replies to me, still signing himself nauticus: i give an extract: "by hypothesis [what, again!] let ° ' be the chord of an arc of ° [but i wont, says ° '], and consequently equal to a side of a regular polygon of sides inscribed in the circle. then times ° ' = ° ' = the radius of the circle ..." that is, four times the chord of an arc is the chord of four times the arc: and the sum of four sides of a certain pentagon is equal to the fifth. this is the capital of the column, the crown of the arch, the apex of the pyramid, the watershed of the elevation. oh! j. s.! j. s.! groans geometry--_summum j. s. summa injuria_![ ] the other j. s., joseph scaliger,[ ] as already mentioned, had his own way of denying that a straight line is always the shortest distance between two points. a parallel might be instituted, but not in half a column. and j. s. the _second_ has been so tightly handled that he may now be dismissed, with an inscription for his circular shield, obtained by changing _lexica contexat_ into _circus quadrandus_ in an epigram of j. s. the _first_: "si quem dura manet sententia judicis, olim damnatum ærumnis suppliciisque caput, hunc neque fabrili lassent ergastula massa, nec rigidas vexent fossa metalla manus. circus quadrandus: nam--cætera quid moror?--omnes poenarum facies hic labor unus habet."[ ] { } i had written as far as _damnatum_ when in came the letter of nauticus as a printed slip, with a request that i would consider the slip as a 'revised copy.' not a word of alteration in the part i have quoted! and in the evening came a letter desiring that i would alter a gross error; but not the one above: this is revising without revision! if there were cyclometers enough of this stamp, they would, as cultivation progresses--and really, with john stuart mill in for westminster, it seems on the move, even though, as i learn while correcting the proof, gladstone be out from oxford; for oxford is no worse than in , while westminster is far above what she ever has been: election time excuses even such a parenthesis as this--be engaged to amuse those who can afford it with paralogism at their meals, after the manner of the other jokers who wore the caps and bells. the rich would then order their dinners with _panem et circenses_,--up with the victuals and the circle-games--as the poor did in the days of old. mr. smith is determined that half a column shall not do. not a day without something from him: letter, printed proof, pamphlet. in what is the last at this moment of writing he tells me that part of the title of a work of his will be "professor de morgan in the pillory without hope of escape." and where will he be himself? this i detected by an effort of reasoning which i never could have made except by following in his steps. in all matters connected with [pi] the letters l and g are closely related: this appears in the well-known formula for the time of oscillation [pi] [sqrt](l : g). hence g may be written for l, but only once: do it twice, and you require the time to be [pi] [sqrt](l^ : g^ ). this may be reinforced by observing that if as a datum, or if you dislike that word, by hypothesis, the first l be a g, it is absurd that it should be an l. write g for the first l, and we have _un fait accompli_. i shall be in pillory; and overhead, in a cloud, will sit mr. james smith on one stick laid across two others, under a nimbus of - / diameters to { } the circumference--in [pi]-glory. oh for a drawing of this scene! mr. de morgan presents his compliments to mr. james smith, and requests the honor of an exchange of photographs. _july ._--another printed letter.--mr. james smith begs for a distinct answer to the following plain question: "have i not in this communication brought under your notice _truths_ that were never before dreamed of in your geometrical and mathematical philosophy?" to which, he having taken the precaution to print the word _truths_ in italics, i can conscientiously answer, yes, you have. and now i shall take no more notice of these _truths_, until i receive something which surpasses all that has yet been done. a few small paradoxers. the circle secerned from the square; and its area gauged in terms of a triangle common to both. by wm. houlston,[ ] esq. london and jersey, , to. mr. houlston squares at about four poetical quotations in a page, and brings out [pi] = . .... his frontispiece is a variegated diagram, having parts designated inigo and outigo. all which relieves the subject, but does not remove the error. considerations respecting the figure of the earth.... by c. f. bakewell.[ ] london, , vo. newton and others think that in a revolving sphere the { } loose surface matter will tend to the equator: mr. bakewell thinks it will tend to the poles. on eccentric and centric force: a new theory of projection. by h. f. a. pratt, m.d.[ ] london, , vo. dr. pratt not only upsets newton, but cuts away the very ground he stands on: for he destroys the first law of motion, and will not have the natural tendency of matter in motion to be rectilinear. this, as we have seen, was john walsh's[ ] notion. in a more recent work "on orbital motion," london, , vo., dr. pratt insists on another of walsh's notions, namely, that the precession of the equinoxes is caused by the motion of the solar system round a distant central sun. in this last work the author refers to a few notes, which completely destroy the theory of gravitation in terms "perfectly intelligible as well to the unlearned as to the learned": to me they are quite unintelligible, which rather tends to confirm a notion i have long had, that i am neither one thing nor the other. there is an ambiguity of phrase which delights a writer on logic, always on the look-out for specimens of _homonymia_ or _æquivocatio_. the author, as a physician, is accustomed to "appeal from mere formulæ": accordingly, he sets at nought the whole of the mathematics, which he does not understand. this equivocation between the formula of the physician and that of the mathematician is as good, though not so perceptible to the world at large, as that made by mr. briggs's friend in _punch's_ picture, which i cut out to paste into my logic. mr. briggs wrote for a couple of _bruisers_, meaning to prepare oats for his horses: his friend sent him the whitechapel chicken and the bayswater slasher, with the gloves, all ready. { } on matter and ether, and the secret laws of physical change. by t. r. birks, m.a.[ ] cambridge, , vo. bold efforts are made at molecular theories, and the one before me is ably aimed. when the newton of this subject shall be seated in his place, books like the present will be sharply looked into, to see what amount of anticipation they have made. dr. thorn and mr. biden. the history of the 'thorn tree and bush' from the earliest to the present time: in which is clearly and plainly shown the descent of her most gracious majesty and her anglo-saxon people from the half tribe of ephraim, and possibly from the half tribe of manasseh; and consequently her right and title to possess, at the present moment, for herself and for them, a share or shares of the desolate cities and places in the land of their forefathers! by theta, m.d.[ ] (private circulation.) london, , vo. this is much about _thorn_, and its connected words, thor, thoth, theta, etc. it is a very mysterious vagary. the author of it is the person whom i have described elsewhere as having for his device the round man in the three-cornered hole, the writer of the little heap of satirical anonymous letters about the beast and . by accident i discovered the writer: so that if there be any more thorns to crackle under the pot, they need not be anonymous. nor will they be anonymous. since i wrote the above, i have received _onymous_ letters, as _ominous_ as the rest. the writer, william thorn, m.d., is obliged to reveal { } himself, since it is his object to prove that he himself is one . by using w for double vau (or ) he cooks the number out of his own name. but he says it is the number not of a beast but of a man, and adds, "thereby hangs a tale!" which sounds like contradiction. he informs me that he will talk the matter over with me: but i shall certainly have nothing to say to a gentleman of his number; it is best to keep on the safe side. in one letter i am informed that not a line should i have had, but for my "sneer at ," which, therefore, i am well pleased to have given. i am also told that my name means the "'garden of death,' that place in which the tree of knowledge was plucked, and so you are like your name 'dead' to the fact that you are an israelite, like those in ezekiel ch." some hints are given that i shall not fare well in the next world, which any one who reads the chapter in ezekiel will see is quite against his comparison. the reader must not imagine that my prognosticator means _morgan_ to be a corruption of _mortjardin_; he proves his point by hebrew: but any philologist would tell him the true derivation of the name, and how _glamorgan_ came to get it. it will be of much comfort to those young men who have not got through to know that the tree of knowledge itself was once in the same case. and so good bye to for the present, and the assumption that the enigma is to be solved by the united numeral forces of the letters of a word. it is worthy of note that, as soon as my budget commenced, two guardian spirits started up, fellow men as to the flesh, both totally unknown to me: they have stuck to me from first to last. james smith, esq., finally nauticus, watches over my character in this world, and would fain preserve me from ignorance, folly, and dishonesty, by inclosing me in a magic circle of - / diameters in circumference. the round man in the three-cornered hole, finally william thorn, m.d., takes charge of my future destiny, { } and tries to bring me to the truth by unfolding a score of meanings--all right--of . he hints that i, and my wife, are servants of satan: at least he desires us both to remember that we cannot serve god and satan; and he can hardly mean that we are serving the first, and that he would have us serve the second. as becomes an interpreter of the apocalypse, he uses seven different seals; but not more than one to one letter. if his seals be all signet-rings, he must be what aristophanes calls a sphragidonychargocometical fellow. but--and many thanks to him for the same--though an m.d., he has not sent me a single vial. and so much for my tree of secular knowledge and my tree of spiritual life: i dismiss them with thanks from myself and thanks from my reader. the dual of the pythagorean system was isis and diana; of the jewish law, moses and aaron; and of the city of london, gog and magog; of the paradoxiad, james smith, esq., and william thorn, m.d. _september, ._ mr. james biden[ ] has favored me with some of his publications. he is a rival of dr. thorn; a prophet by name-right and crest-right. he is of royal descent through the de biduns. he is the _watchman_ of ezekiel: god has told him so. he is the author of _the true church_, a phrase which seems to have a book-meaning and a mission-meaning. he shall speak for himself: "a crest of the bidens has significance. it is a lion rampant between wings--wings in scripture denote the flight of time. thus the beasts or living creatures of the revelations have each six wings, intimating a condition of mankind up to and towards the close of six thousand years of bible teaching. the two wings of the crest would thus intimate power towards the expiration of years, as time is marked in the history of great britain. { } "in a recent publication, _the pestilence, why inflicted_, are given many reasons why the writer thinks himself to be the appointed watchman foretold by ezekiel, chapters iii. and xxxiii. among the reasons are many prophecies fulfilled in him. of these it is now needful to note two as bearing especially on the subject of the reign of darius. " .--in daniel it is said, 'darius the median took the kingdom, being about threescore and two years old.'--daniel v. . "when 'belshazzar' the king of the chaldeans is found wanting, darius takes the kingdom. it is not given him by the popular voice; he asserts his right, and this is not denied. he takes it when about sixty-two years of age. the language of daniel is prophetic, and darius has in another an antitype. the writer was born july th, ; and the claim was asserted at the close of , when he was about sixty-two years of age. "the claims which have been asserted demand a settled faith, and which could only be reached through a long course of divine teaching." when i was a little boy at school, one of my school-fellows took it into his head to set up a lottery of marbles: the thing took, and he made a stony profit. soon, one after another, every boy had his lottery, and it was, "i won't put into yours unless you put into mine." this knocked up the scheme. it will be the same with the prophets. dr. thorn, mr. biden, mrs. cottle,[ ] etc. will grow imitators, until we are all pointed out in the bible: but a will not admit b's claim unless b admits his. for myself, as elsewhere shown, i am the first beast in the revelations. every contraband prophet gets a few followers: it is a great point to make these sequacious people into buridan's asses, which they will become when prophets are so numerous that there is no choosing. { } sir g. c. lewis. an historical survey of the astronomy of the ancients. by the rt. hon. sir g. c. lewis.[ ] vo. . there are few men of our day whom i admire more than the late sir g. lewis: he was honest, earnest, sagacious, learned, and industrious. he probably sacrificed his life to his conjunction of literature and politics: and he stood high as a minister of state in addition to his character as a man of letters. the work above named is of great value, and will be read for its intrinsic merit, consulted for its crowd of valuable references, quoted for its aid to one side of many a discussion, and opposed for its force against the other. its author was also a wit and a satirist. i know of three classical satires of our day which are inimitable imitations: mr. malden's[ ] _pragmatized legends_, mr. mansel's[ ] _phrontisterion_, and sir g. cornewall lewis's _inscriptio antiqua_. in this last, heydiddlediddlethecatandthefiddle etc. is treated as an oscan inscription, and rendered into latin by approved methods. as few readers have seen it, i give the result: "hejus dedit libenter, dedit libenter. deus propitius [est], deus [donatori] libenter favet. deus in viarum { } juncturâ ovorum dape [colitur], deus mundi. deus in litatione voluit, benigno animo, hædum, taurum intra fines [loci sacri] portandos. deus, bis lustratus, beat fossam sacræ libationis."[ ] how then comes the history of astronomy among the paradoxes? simply because the author, so admirably when writing about what he knew, did not know what he did not know, and blundered like a circle-squarer. and why should the faults of so good a writer be recorded in such a list as the present? for three reasons: first, and foremost, because if the exposure be not made by some one, the errors will gradually ooze out, and the work will get the character of inaccurate. nothing hurts a book of which few can fathom the depths so much as a plain blunder or two on the surface. secondly, because the reviews either passed over these errors or treated them too gently, rather implying their existence than exposing them. thirdly, because they strongly illustrate the melancholy truth, that no one knows enough to write about what he does not know. the distinctness of the errors is a merit; it proceeds from the clear-headedness of the author. the suppression in the journals may be due partly to admiration of the talent and energy which lived two difficult lives at once, partly to respect for high position in public affairs, partly to some of the critics being themselves men of learning only, unable to detect the errors. but we know that action and reaction are equal and contrary. if our generation take no notice of defects, and allow them to go down undetected among merits, the next generation will discover them, will perhaps believe us incapable of detecting them, at least will pronounce our judgment good for nothing, and will form an { } opinion in which the merits will be underrated: so it has been, is, and will be. the best thing that can be done for the memory of the author is to remove the unsound part that the remainder may thrive. the errors do not affect the work; they occur in passages which might very well have been omitted: and i consider that, in making them conspicuous, i am but cutting away a deleterious fungus from a noble tree. (p. ). the periodic times of the five planets were stated by eudoxus,[ ] as we learn from simplicius;[ ] the following is his statement, to which the true times are subjoined, for the sake of comparison: statement of eudoxus true time mercury year -- d. h. venus " -- d. h. mars " y. d. h. jupiter " y. d. h. saturn " y. d. h. upon this determination two remarks may be made. first, the error with respect to mercury and venus is considerable; with respect to mercury, it is, in round numbers, instead of days, more than four times too much. aristotle remarks that eudoxus distinguishes mercury and venus from the other three planets by giving them one sphere each, with the poles in common. the proximity of mercury to the sun would render its course difficult to observe and to measure, but the cause of the large error with respect to venus ( days) is not apparent. { } sir g. lewis takes eudoxus as making the planets move round the sun; he has accordingly compared the _geocentric_ periods of eudoxus with our _heliocentric_ periods. what greater blunder can be made by a writer on ancient astronomy than giving eudoxus the copernican system? if mercury were a black spot in the middle of the sun it would of course move round the earth in a year, or appear to do so: let it swing a little on one side and the other of the sun, and the average period is still a year, with slight departures both ways. the same for venus, with larger departures. say that a person not much accustomed to the distinction might for once write down the mistake; how are we to explain its remaining in the mind in a permanent form, and being made a ground for such speculation as that of the difficulty of observing mercury leading to a period four times what it ought to be, corrected in proof and published by an industrious and thoughtful person? only in one way: the writer was quite out of his depth. this one case is conclusive; be it said with all respect for the real staple of the work and of the author. he knew well the difference of the systems, but not the effect of the difference: he is another instance of what i have had to illustrate by help of a very different person, that it is difficult to reason well upon matter which is not familiar. (p. ). copernicus, in fact, supposed the axis of the earth to be always turned towards the sun.^{( )} [( ). see delambre, _hist. astr. mod._, vol. i, p. ]. it was reserved to kepler to propound the hypothesis of the constant parallelism of the earth's axis to itself. if there be one thing more prominent than another in the work of copernicus himself, in the popular explanations of it, and in the page of delambre[ ] cited, it is that the _parallelism of the earth's axis_ is a glaring part of the { } theory of copernicus. what kepler[ ] did was to throw away, as unnecessary, the method by which copernicus, _per fas et nefas_,[ ] secured it. copernicus, thinking of the earth's orbital revolution as those would think who were accustomed to the _solid orbs_--and much as the stoppers of the moon's rotation do now: why do they not strengthen themselves with copernicus?--thought that the earth's axis would always incline the same end towards the sun, unless measures were taken to prevent it. he _did_ take measures: he invented a _compensating_ conical motion of the axis to preserve the parallelism; and, which is one of the most remarkable points of his system, he obtained the precession of the equinoxes by giving the necessary trifle more than compensation. what stares us in the face at the beginning of the paragraph to which the author refers? "c'est donc pour arriver à ce parallelisme, ou pour le conserver, que copernic a cru devoir recourir à ce mouvement égal et opposé qui détruit l'effet qu'il attribue si gratuitement au premier, de déranger le parallelisme."[ ] parallelism at any price, is the motto of copernicus: you need not pay so dear, is the remark of kepler. the opinions given by sir g. lewis about the effects of modern astronomy, which he does not understand and singularly undervalues, will now be seen to be of no authority. he fancies that--to give an instance--for the determination of a ship's place, the invention of chronometers has been far more important than any improvement in astronomical theory (p. ). not to speak of latitude,--though the omission is not without importance,--he ought to have known that longitude is found by the difference between what o'clock it is at greenwich and at the ship's place, at { } one absolute moment of time. now if a chronometer were quite perfect--which no chronometer is, be it said--and would truly tell greenwich mean time all over the world, it ought to have been clear that just as good a watch is wanted for the time at _the place of observation_, before the longitude of that place with respect to greenwich can be found. there is no such watch, except the starry heaven itself: and that watch can only be read by astronomical observation, aided by the best knowledge of the heavenly motions. i think i have done sir g. lewis's very excellent book more good than all the reviewers put together. i will give an old instance in which literature got into confusion about astronomy. theophrastus,[ ] who is either the culprit or his historian, attributes to meton,[ ] the contriver of the lunar calendar of nineteen years, which lasts to this day, that his solstices were determined for him by a certain phaeinus of elis on mount lycabettus. nobody else mentions this astronomer: though it is pretty certain that meton himself made more than one appointment with him for the purpose of observing solstices; and we may be sure that if either were behind his time, it was meton. for _phaeinus helius_ is the shining sun himself; and in the astronomical poet aratus[ ] we read about the nineteen years of the shining sun: [greek: enneakaideka kukla phaeinou êelioio].[ ] some man of letters must have turned apollo into phaeinus of elis; and there he is in the histories of astronomy to { } this day. salmasius[ ] will have aratus to have meant him, and proposes to read [greek: êleioio]: he did not observe that phaeinus is a very common adjective of aratus, and that, if his conjecture were right, this phaeinus would be the only non-mythical man in the poems of aratus. [when i read sir george lewis's book, the points which i have criticized struck me as not to be wondered at, but i did not remember why at the time. a chancellor of the exchequer and a writer on ancient astronomy are birds of such different trees that the second did not recall the first. in i was one of a deputation of about twenty persons who waited on sir g. lewis, as chancellor of the exchequer, on the subject of a decimal coinage. the deputation was one of much force: mr. airy, with myself and others, represented mathematics; william brown,[ ] whose dealings with the united states were reckoned by yearly millions, counted duodecimally in england and decimally in america, was the best, but not the only, representative of commerce. there were bullionists, accountants, retailers, etc. sir g. l. walked into the room, took his seat, and without waiting one moment, began to read the deputation a smart lecture on the evils of a decimal coinage; it would require alteration of all the tables, it would impede calculation, etc. etc. of those arguments against it which weighed with many of better knowledge than his, he obviously knew nothing. the members of the deputation began to make their statements, and met with curious denials. he interrupted me with "surely there is no doubt that the calculations of our books of arithmetic are easier { } than those in the french books." he was not aware that the _universally admitted_ superiority of decimal _calculation_ made many of those who prefer our system for the market and the counter cast a longing and lingering look towards decimals. my answer and the smiles which he saw around, made him give a queer puzzled look, which seemed to say, "i may be out of my depth here!" his manner changed, and he listened. i saw both the slap-dash mode in which he dealt with subjects on which he had not thought, and the temperament which admitted suspicion when the means of knowledge came in his way. having seen his two phases, i wonder neither at his more than usual exhibition of shallowness when shallow, nor at the intensity of the contrast when he had greater depth.] decimal coinage. among the paradoxers are the political paradoxers who care not how far they go in debate, their only object being to carry the house with them for the current evening. what i have said of editors i repeat of them. the preservation of a very marked instance, the association of political recklessness with cyclometrical and apocalyptic absurdity, may have a tendency to warn, not indeed any hardened public-man and sinner, but some young minds which have yearnings towards politics, and are in formation of habits. in the debate on decimal coinage of july , , mr. lowe,[ ] then member for kidderminster, an effective speaker and a smart man, exhibited himself in a speech on which i wrote a comment for the decimal association. i have seldom seen a more wretched attempt to distort the points of a public question than the whole of this speech. looking at the intelligence shown by the speaker on other occasions, { } it is clear that if charity, instead of believing all things, believed only all things but one, he might tremble for his political character; for the honesty of his intention on this occasion might be the incredible exception. i give a few paragraphs with comments: "in commenting on the humorous, but still argumentative speech of mr. lowe, the member for kidderminster, we may observe, in general, that it consists of points which have been several times set forth, and several times answered. mr. lowe has seen these answers, but does not allude to them, far less attempt to meet them. there are, no doubt, individuals, who show in their public speaking the outward and visible signs of a greater degree of acuteness than they can summon to guide their private thinking. if mr. lowe be not one of these, if the power of his mind in the closet be at all comparable to the power of his tongue in the house, it may be suspected that his reserve with respect to what has been put forward by the very parties against whom he was contending, arises from one or both of two things--a high opinion of the arguments which he ignored--a low opinion of the generality of the persons whom he addressed. [both, i doubt not]. "did they calculate in florins in the name of common sense, ?" how can it be objected to a system that people do not use it before it is introduced? let the decimal system be completed, and calculation shall be made in florins; that is, florins shall take their proper place. if florins were introduced _now_, there must be a column for the odd shilling. "he was glad that some hon. if the hon. gentleman make gentleman had derived benefit this assertion of himself, it from the issue of florins. his is not for us to gainsay it. only experience of their it only proves that he is one convenience was, that when he of that class of { } men who ought to have received are described in the old song, half-a-crown, he had generally of which one couplet runs received a florin, and when he thus: ought to have paid a florin, he had generally paid i sold my cow to buy me a half-a-crown." (hear, hear, calf; and laughter.) i never make a bargain but i lose half, with a etc. etc. etc. but he cannot mean that englishmen in general are so easily managed. and as to jonathan, who is but john lengthened out a little, he would see creation whittled into chips before he would even split what may henceforth be called the kidderminster difference. the house, not unmoved--for it laughed--with sly humor decided that the introduction of the florin had been "eminently successful and satisfactory." the truth is that mr. lowe here attacks nothing except the coexistence of the florin and half-crown. we are endeavoring to abolish the half-crown. let mr. lowe join us; and he will, if we succeed, be relieved from the pressure on his pocket which must arise from having the turn of the market always against him. "from a florin they get to note the sophism of expressing - ths of a penny, but who our coin in terms of the ever bought anything, who ever penny, which we abandon, reckoned or wished to reckon instead of the florin, which in such a coin as that?" we retain. remember that this (hear, hear.) - ths is the hundredth part of the pound, which is called, as yet, a _cent_. nobody buys anything at a cent, because the cent is not yet introduced. nobody reckons in cents for the same reason. everybody wishes to reckon in cents, who wishes to combine the advantage of decimal reckoning with the preservation of the pound as { } the highest unit of account; amongst others, a majority of the house of commons, the bank of england, the majority of london bankers, the chambers of commerce in various places, etc. etc. etc. "such a coin could never come does ½d. never pass from hand into general circulation to hand? and is ½d. so because it represents nothing precisely the modulus of which corresponds with any of popular wants, that an the wants of the people." alteration of per cent. would make it useless? of all the values which ½d. measures, from three pounds of potatoes down to certain arguments used in the house of commons, there is not one for which a cent would not do just as well. mr. lowe has fallen into the misconception of the person who admired the dispensation of providence by which large rivers are made to run through cities so great and towns so many. if the cent were to be introduced to-morrow, straightway the buns and cakes, the soda-water bottles, the short omnibus fares, the bunches of radishes, etc. etc. etc., would adapt themselves to the coin. "if the proposed system were the confusion of ideas here adopted, they would all be exhibited is most instructive. compelled to live in decimals the speaker is under the for ever; if a man dined at a impression that _we_ are public house he would have to introducing fractions: the pay for his dinner in decimal truth is, that we only want to fractions. (hear, hear.) he abandon the _more difficult_ objected to that, for he fractions which we _have got_, thought that a man ought to be and to introduce _easier able to pay for his dinner in fractions_. does he deny this? integers." (hear, hear, and a let us trace his denial to its laugh.) legitimate consequences. a man ought to pay for his dinner in integers. { } now, if mr. lowe insists on it that our integer is the pound, he is bound to admit that the present integer is the pound, of which a shilling, etc., are fractions. the next time he has a chop and a pint of stout in the city, the waiter should say--"a pound, sir, to you," and should add, "please to remember the waiter in integers." mr. lowe fancies that when he pays one and sixpence, he pays in integers, and so he does, if his integer be a penny or a sixpence. let him bring his mind to contemplate a mil as the integer, the lowest integer, and the seven cents five mils which he would pay under the new system would be payment in integers also. but, as it happens with some others, he looks _up_ the present system, with cocker,[ ] and walkingame,[ ] and always looks _down_ the proposed system. the word _decimal_ is obstinately associated with _fractions_, for which there is no need. hence it becomes so much of a bugbear, that, to parody the lines of pope, which probably suggested one of mr. lowe's phrases-- "dinner he finds too painful an endeavor, condemned to pay in decimals for ever." "the present system, however, a pleasant sum even for an had not yet been changed into accomplished mathematician. decimal system. that change what does divided by the might appear very easy to decimal of a pound mean? accomplished mathematicians perhaps it means _reduced_ to and men of science, but it was the decimal of a pound! mr. one which it would be very lowe supposes, as many others difficult to carry out. (hear, do, that, after the change, hear). what would have to be all calculations will be done? every sum would have to _proposed in old money_, and be reduced into a vulgar then _converted into new_. he fraction of a pound, and then cannot hit the { } idea that divided by the decimal of a the new coins will take the pound--a pleasant sum for an place of the old. this lack of old applewoman to work out!" apprehension will presently (hear, hear, and laughter.) appear further. "it would not be an agreeable let the members be assured task, even for some members of that nine half-pence will be, that house, to reduce ½d., or for every practical purpose, nine half-pence, to mils." mils. but now to the fact (hear, hear.) asserted. davies gilbert[ ] used to maintain that during the long period he sat in the house, he never knew more than three men in it, at one time, who had a tolerable notion of fractions. [i heard him give the names of three at the time when he spoke: they were warburton,[ ] pollock,[ ] and hume.[ ] he himself was then out of parliament.] joseph hume affirmed that he had never met with more than ten members who were arithmeticians. but both these gentlemen had a high standard. mr. lowe has given a much more damaging opinion. he evidently means that the general run of members could not do his question. it is done as follows: since farthings gain on mils, at the rate of a whole mil in farthings ( farthings being mils), it is clear that farthings being three-quarters of farthings, will gain three-quarters of a mil; that is, farthings are eighteen { } mils and three-quarters of a mil. any number of farthings is as many mils and as many twenty-fourths of a mil. to a certain extent, we feel able to protest against the manner in which kidderminster has treated the other constituencies. we do not hold it impossible to give the members of the house in general a sufficient knowledge of the meaning and consequences of the _decimal_ succession of units, tens, hundreds, thousands, etc.; and we believe that there are in the house itself competent men, in number enough to teach all the rest. all that is wanted is the power of starting from the known to arrive at the unknown. now there is one kind of decimals with which every member is acquainted--the _chiltern hundreds_. if public opinion would enable the competent minority to start from this in their teaching, not as a basis, but as an alternative, in three weeks the fundamentals would be acquired, and members in general would be as fit to turn ½d. into mils, as any boys on the lower forms of a commercial school. for a long period of years, allusion to the general ignorance of arithmetic, has been a standing mode of argument, and has always been well received: whenever one member describes others as _knownothings_, those others cry _hear_ to the country in a transport of delight. in the meanwhile the country is gradually arriving at the conclusion that a true joke is no joke. "the main objection was, if fine words, wrongly used. the they went below d., that the new coins are commensurable new scale of coins would not with, and in a finite ratio be commensurate in any finite to, the old ones. the farthing ratio with anything in this is to the mil as to . the new currency of mils." speaker has something here in the bud, which we shall presently meet with in the flower; and fallacies are more easily nipped in flower than in bud. { } "no less than five of our this dreadful change of value present coins must be called consists in sixpence farthing in, or else--which would be going to the half-shilling worse--new values must be instead of sixpence. whether given to them." the new farthings be called mils or not is of no consequence. "if a poor man put a penny in mr. lowe, who cannot pass a his pocket, it would come out half-crown for more than a a coin of different value, florin, or get in a florin at which he would not understand. less than half-a-crown, has suppose he owed another man a such a high faith in the penny, how was he to pay him ? sterner stuff of his fellow was he to pay him in mils? countrymen, that he believes four mils would be too little, any two of them would go to and five mils would be too fisty cuffs for the th part much. the hon. gentlemen said of a farthing. he reasons there would be only a mil thus: he has often heard in between them. that was exactly the streets, "i'd fight you it. he believed there would be for the fiftieth part of a a 'mill' between them." (much farden:" and having (that is, laughter.) for a member) a notion both of fractions and logic, he infers that those who would fight for the th of a farthing would, _a fortiori_, fight for a th. his mistake arises from his not knowing that when a person offers to fight another for / d., he really means to fight for love; and that the stake is merely a matter of form, a feigned issue, a _pro forma_ report of progress. do the members of the house think they have all the forms to themselves? "what would be the present we should hardly believe all expression for four-pence? this to be uttered in earnest, why, . (a laugh); for if we had not known { } that threepence? . ; for a several persons who have not penny? . , and so on _ad mr. lowe's humor, nevertheless infinitum_ (a laugh); for a have his impressions on this half-penny? . _ad point. it must therefore be infinitum_. (a laugh). what answered; but how is this to would be the present be done seriously? expression for a farthing? why, . _ad infinitum_. _dialogue between a member of (a laugh). and this was the parliament and an orange-boy, system which was to cause such three days after the a saving in figures, and these introduction of the complete were the quantities into which decimal system. the member, the poor would have to reduce going down to the house, wants the current coin of the realm. oranges to sustain his voice (cheers). with every respect in a two hours' speech on for decimal fractions, of moving that l. be placed which he boasted no profound at the disposal of her knowledge, he doubted whether majesty, to supply the poor the poor were equal to mental with ready-reckoners._ arithmetic of this kind, (hear, hear) and he hoped the _boy._ fine oranges! two a adoption of the system would penny! two a penny! { } be deferred until there were some proof that they would be _member._ here boy, two! now, able to understand it; for, how am i to pay you? after all, this was the question of the poor, and the _boy._ give you change, your whole weight of the change honor. would fall upon them. let the rich by all means have _member._ ah! but how? where's permission to perplex your ready-reckoner? themselves by any division of a pound they pleased; but do _boy._ i sells a better sort not let them, by any nor them. mine's real cheyny. experiment like this, impose difficulties upon the poor and _member._ but you see a compel men to carry farthing is now . ready-reckoners in their _ad infinitum_, and if we pocket to give them all these multiply this by ---- fractional quantities." (hear, hear.) _boy._ hold hard, guv'ner; i sees what you're arter. now what'll you stand if i puts you up to it? which bill smith he put me up in two minutes, cause he goes to the ragged school. _member._ you don't mean that you do without a book! _boy._ book be blowed. come now, old un, here's summut for both on us. i got a florin, you gives me a half-a-crown for it, and i larns you the new money, gives you your oranges, and calls you a brick into the bargain. _member_ (_to himself_). never had such a chance of getting off half-a-crown for value since that ---- fellow bowring carried his crochet. (_aloud._) well, boy, it's a bargain. now! _boy._ why, look 'e here, my trump, its a farden more to the tizzy--that's what it is. _member_. what's that? _boy._ why, you knows a sixpence when you sees it. (_aside_). blest if i think he does! well, its six browns and a farden now. a lady buys two oranges, and forks { } out a sixpence; well in coorse, i hands over fippence farden astead of fippence. i always gives a farden more change, and takes according. _member_ (_in utter surprise, lets his oranges tumble into the gutter_). never mind! they won't be wanted now. (_walks off one way. boy makes a pass of naso-digital mesmerism, and walks off the other way_). to the poor, who keep no books, the whole secret is "sixpence farthing to the half shilling, twelve pence halfpenny to the shilling." the _new twopence halfpenny_, or cent, will be at once five to the shilling. in conclusion, we remark that three very common misconceptions run through the hon. member's argument; and, combined in different proportions, give variety to his patterns. first, he will have it that we design to bring the uneducated into contact with _decimal fractions_. if it be so, it will only be as m. jourdain was brought into contact with prose. in fact, _quoi! quand je dis, nicole, apportez-moi mes pantoufles, c'est de la prose?_[ ] may be rendered: "what! do you mean that _ten to the florin is a cent a piece_ must be called decimal reckoning?" if we had to comfort a poor man, horror-struck by the threat of _decimals_, we should tell him what manner of fractions had been inflicted upon him hitherto; nothing less awful than _quarto-duodecimo-vicesimals_, we should assure him. secondly, he assumes that the penny, such as it now is, will remain, as a coin of estimation, after it has ceased to be a coin of exchange; and that the mass of the people will continue to think of prices in old pence, and to calculate them in new ones, or else in new mils. no answer is required to this, beyond the mere statement of the nature of the assumption and denial. { } thirdly, he attributes to the uneducated community a want of perception and of operative power which really does not belong to them. the evidence offered to the committee of the house shows that no fear is entertained on this point by those who come most in contact with farthing purchasers. and this would seem to be a rule,--that is, fear of the intelligence of the lower orders in the minds of those who are not in daily communication with them, no fear at all in the minds of those who are. a remarkable instance of this distinction happened five-and-twenty years ago. the admiralty requested the astronomical society to report on the alterations which should be made in the _nautical almanac_, the seaman's guide-book over the ocean. the greatest alteration proposed was the description of celestial phenomena in _mean_ (or clock time), instead of _apparent_ (or sundial) time, till then always employed. this change would require that in a great many operations the seaman should let alone what he formerly altered by addition or subtraction, and alter by addition or subtraction what he formerly let alone; provided always that what he formerly altered by addition he should, when he altered at all, alter by subtraction, and _vice versa_. this was a tolerably difficult change for uneducated skippers, working by rules they had only learned by rote. the astronomical society appointed a committee of forty, of whom nine were naval officers or merchant seamen [i was on this committee]. some men of science were much afraid of the change. they could not trust an ignorant skipper or mate to make those alterations in their routine, on the correctness of which the ship might depend. had the committee consisted of men of science only, the change might never have been ventured on. but the naval men laughed, and said there was nothing to fear; and on their authority the alteration was made. the upshot was, that, after the new almanacs appeared, not a word of complaint was ever heard on the matter. had the house of commons had to { } decide this question, with mr. lowe to quote the description given by basil hall[ ] (who, by the way, was one of the committee) of an observation on which the safety of the ship depended, worked out by the light of a lantern in a gale of wind off a lee shore, this simple and useful change might at this moment have been in the hands of its tenth government commission. [_aug. , ._ the committee was appointed in the spring of : it consisted of forty members. death, of course, has been busy; there are now left lord shaftesbury,[ ] mr. babbage,[ ] sir john herschel,[ ] sir thomas maclear[ ] (astronomer royal at the cape of good hope), dr. robinson[ ] (of armagh), sir james south,[ ] lord wrottesley,[ ] and myself]. { } the tonal system. project of a new system of arithmetic, weight, measure, and coins, proposed to be called the tonal system, with sixteen to the base. by j. w. mystrom.[ ] philadelphia, , vo. that is to say, sixteen is to take the place of ten, and to be written . the whole language is to be changed; every man of us is to be sixteen-stringed jack and every woman sixteen-stringed jill. our old _one_, _two_, _three_, up to sixteen, are to be (_noll_ going for nothing, which will please those who dislike the memory of _old noll_) replaced by an, de, ti, go, su, by, ra, me, ni, ko, hu, vy, la, po, fy, ton; and then ton-an, ton-de, etc. for , , etc. the number which in the system has the symbol ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) (using our present compounds instead of new types) is to be pronounced detam-memill-lasan-suton-hubong-ramill-posanfy. the year is to have sixteen months, and here they are: anuary, debrian, timander, gostus, suvenary, bylian, ratamber, mesudius, nictoary, kolumbian, husamber, vyctorius, lamboary, polian, fylander, tonborius. surely an-month, de-month, etc. would do as well. probably the wants of poetry were considered. but what are we to do with our old poets? for example-- "it was a night of lovely june, high rose in cloudless blue the moon." let us translate-- "it was a night of lovely nictoary, high rose in cloudless blue the (what, in the name of all that is absurd?)." and again, _fylander_ thrown into our december! what is { } to become of those lines of praed, which i remember coming out when i was at cambridge,-- "oh! now's the time of all the year for flowers and fun, the maydays; to trim your whiskers, curl your hair, and sinivate the ladies." if i were asked which i preferred, this system or that of baron ferrari[ ] already mentioned, proceeding by _twelves_, i should reply, with candide, when he had the option given of running the gauntlet or being shot: les volontés sont libres, et je ne veux ni l'un ni l'autre.[ ] we can imagine a speculator providing such a system for utopia as it would be in the mind of a laputan: but to explain how an engineer who has surveyed mankind from philadelphia to rostof on the don should for a moment entertain the idea of such a system being actually adopted, would beat a jury of solar-system-makers, though they were shut up from the beginning of anuary to the end of tonborius. when i see such a scheme as this imagined to be practicable, i admire the wisdom of providence in providing the quadrature of the circle, etc., to open a harmless sphere of action to the possessors of the kind of ingenuity which it displays. those who cultivate mathematics have a right to speak strongly on such efforts of arithmetic as this: for, to my knowledge, persons who have no knowledge are frequently disposed to imagine that their makers are true brothers of the craft, a little more intelligible than the rest. some small paradoxers. vis inertiae victa,[ ] or fallacies affecting science. by james reddie.[ ] london, , vo. { } an attack on the newtonian mechanics; revolution by gravitation demonstrably impossible; much to be said for the earth being the immovable center. a good analysis of contents at the beginning, a thing seldom found. the author has followed up his attack in a paper submitted to the british association, but which it appears the association declined to consider. it is entitled-- _victoria toto coelo_; or, modern astronomy recast. london, , vo. at the end is a criticism of sir g. lewis's _history of ancient astronomy_. on the definition and nature of the science of political economy. by h. dunning macleod,[ ] esq. cambridge, , vo. a paper read--but, according to the report, not understood--at the british association. there is a notion that political economy is entirely mathematical; and its negative quantity is strongly recommended for study: it contains "the whole of the funds, credit, parts out of of the value of land...." the mathematics are described as consisting of--first, number, or arithmetic; secondly, the theory of dependent quantities, subdivided into dependence by cause and effect, and dependence by simultaneous variations; thirdly, "independent quantities or unconnected events, which is the theory of probabilities." i am not ashamed, having the british association as a co-non-intelligent, to say i do not understand this: there is a paradox in it, and the author should give further explanation, especially of his negative quantity. mr. macleod has gained { } praise from great names for his political economy; but this, i suspect, must have been for other parts of his system. on the principles and practice of just intonation, with a view to the abolition of temperament.... by general perronet thompson.[ ] sixth edition. london, , vo. here is general thompson again, with another paradox: but always master of the subject, always well up in what his predecessors have done, and always aiming at a useful end. he desires to abolish temperament by additional keys, and has constructed an enharmonic organ with forty sounds in the octave. if this can be introduced, i, for one, shall delight to hear it: but there are very great difficulties in the way, greater than stood even in the way of the repeal of the bread-tax. in a paper on the beats of organ-pipes and on temperament published some years ago, i said that equal temperament appeared to me insipid, and not so agreeable as the effect of the instrument when in progress towards being what is called out of tune, before it becomes offensively wrong. there is throughout that period unequal temperament, determined by accident. general thompson, taking me one way, says i have launched a declaration which is likely to make an epoch in musical practice; a public musical critic, taking me another way, quizzes me for preferring music _out of tune_. i do not think i deserve either one remark or the other. my opponent critic, i suspect, takes _equally tempered_ and _in tune_ to be phrases of one meaning. but by equal temperament is meant equal distribution among all the keys of the error which an instrument _must_ have, which, with twelve sounds only in the octave, professes to be fit for all the keys. i am reminded of the equal temperament which was once applied to the postmen's jackets. the coats were all made for the average man: the { } consequence was that all the tall men had their tails too short; all the short men had them too long. some one innocently asked why the tall men did not change coats with the short ones. a diagram illustrating a discovery in the relation of circles to right-lined geometrical figures. london, , mo. the circle is divided into equal sectors, which are joined head and tail: but a property is supposed which is not true. an attempt to assign the square roots of negative powers; or what is [sqrt] - ? by f.h. laing.[ ] london, , vo. if i understand the author, -a and +a are the square roots of -a^ , as proved by multiplying them together. the author seems quite unaware of what has been done in the last fifty years. byrne's dual arithmetic. dual arithmetic. a new art. by oliver byrne.[ ] london, , vo. the plan is to throw numbers into the form a( . )^{b} ( . )^{c} ( . )^{d}... and to operate with this form. this is an ingenious and elaborate speculation; and i have no doubt the author has practised his method until he could surprise any one else by his use of it. but i doubt if he will persuade others to use it. as asked of wilkins's universal language, where is the second man to come from? an effective predecessor in the same line of invention { } was the late mr. thomas weddle,[ ] in his "new, simple, and general method of solving numeric equations of all orders," to, . the royal society, to which this paper was offered, declined to print it: they ought to have printed an organized method, which, without subsidiary tables, showed them, in six quarto pages, the solution (x= . ) of the equation . x^{ } + × ^{ } x^{ } - × ^{ } x^{ } + × ^{ } = . the method proceeds by successive factors of the form, a being the first approximation, a × .b × . c × . d.... in my copy i find a few corrections made by me at the time in mr. weddle's announcement. "it was read before that learned body [the r. s.] and they were pleased [but] to transmit their thanks to the author. the en[dis]couragement which he received induces [obliges] him to lay the result of his enquiries in this important branch of mathematics before the public [, at his own expense; he being an usher in a school at newcastle]." which is most satirical, mr. weddle or myself? the society, in the account which it gave of this paper, described it as a "new and remarkably simple method" possessing "several important advantages." mr. rutherford's[ ] extended value of [pi] was read at the very next meeting, and was printed in the _transactions_; and very properly: mr. weddle's paper was excluded, and very very improperly. horner's method. i think it may be admited that the indisposition to look at and encourage improvements of calculation which once { } marked the royal society is no longer in existence. but not without severe lessons. they had the luck to accept horner's[ ] now celebrated paper, containing the method which is far on the way to become universal: but they refused the paper in which horner developed his views of this and other subjects: it was printed by t. s. davies[ ] after horner's death. i make myself responsible for the statement that the society could not reject this paper, yet felt unwilling to print it, and suggested that it should be withdrawn; which was done. but the severest lesson was the loss of _barrett's method_,[ ] now the universal instrument of the actuary in his highest calculations. it was presented to the royal society, and refused admission into the _transactions_: francis baily[ ] printed it. the society is now better informed: "_live and learn_," meaning "_must live, so better learn_," ought to be the especial motto of a corporation, and is generally acted on, more or less. horner's method begins to be introduced at cambridge: it was published in . i remember that when i first went to cambridge (in ) i heard my tutor say, in conversation, there is no doubt that the true method of solving equations is the one which was published a few years ago in the _philosophical transactions_. i wondered it was not taught, but presumed that it belonged to the higher mathematics. this horner himself had in his head: and in a sense it is true; for all lower branches belong to the higher: but he would have stared to have been told that he, horner, { } was without a european predecessor, and in the distinctive part of his discovery was heir-at-law to the nameless brahmin--tartar--antenoachian--what you please--who concocted the extraction of the square root. it was somewhat more than twenty years after i had thus heard a cambridge tutor show sense of the true place of horner's method, that a pupil of mine who had passed on to cambridge was desired by his college tutor to solve a certain cubic equation--one of an integer root of two figures. in a minute the work and answer were presented, by horner's method. "how!" said the tutor, "this can't be, you know." "there is the answer, sir!" said my pupil, greatly amused, for my pupils learnt, not only horner's method, but the estimation it held at cambridge. "yes!" said the tutor, "there is the answer certainly; but it _stands to reason_ that a cubic equation cannot be solved in this space." he then sat down, went through a process about ten times as long, and then said with triumph: "there! that is the way to solve a cubic equation!" i think the tutor in this case was never matched, except by the country organist. a master of the instrument went into the organ-loft during service, and asked the organist to let him _play the congregation out_; consent was given. the stranger, when the time came, began a voluntary which made the people open their ears, and wonder who had got into the loft: they kept their places to enjoy the treat. when the organist saw this, he pushed the interloper off the stool, with "you'll never play 'em out this side christmas." he then began his own drone, and the congregation began to move quietly away. "there," said he, "that's the way to play 'em out!" i have not scrupled to bear hard on my own university, on the royal society, and on other respectable existences: being very much the friend of all. i will now clear the royal society from a very small and obscure slander, simply because i know how. this dissertation began with { } the work of mr. oliver byrne, the dual arithmetician, etc. this writer published, in , a method of calculating logarithms.[ ] first, a long list of instances in which, as he alleges, foreign discoverers have been pillaged by englishmen, or turned into englishmen: for example, o'neill,[ ] so called by mr. byrne, the rectifier of the semi-cubical parabola claimed by the saxons under the name of _neal_: the grandfather of this mathematician was conspicuous enough as _neal_; he was archbishop of york. this list, says the writer, might be continued without end; but he has mercy, and finishes with his own case, as follows:--"about twenty years ago, i discovered this method of directly calculating logarithms. i could generally find the logarithm of any number in a minute or two without the use of books or tables. the importance of the discovery subjected me to all sorts of prying. some asserted that i committed a table of logarithms to memory; others attributed it to a peculiar mental property; and when societies and individuals failed to extract my secret, they never failed to traduce the inventor and the invention. among the learned societies, the royal society of london played a very base part. when i have more space and time at my disposal, i will revert to this subject again." such a trumpery story as this remains unnoticed at the time; but when all are gone, a stray copy from a stall falls into hands which, not knowing what to make of it, make history of it. it is a very curious distortion. the reader may take it on my authority, that the royal society played no part, good or bad, nor had the option of playing a part. { } but i myself _pars magna fui_:[ ] and when the author has "space and time" at his disposal, he must not take all of them; i shall want a little of both. are atoms worlds? the mystery of being; or are ultimate atoms inhabited worlds? by nicholas odgers.[ ] redruth and london, , vo. this book, as a paradox, beats quadrature, duplication, trisection, philosopher's stone, perpetual motion, magic, astrology, mesmerism, clairvoyance, spiritualism, homoeopathy, hydropathy, kinesipathy, essays and reviews, and bishop colenso,[ ] all put together. of all the suppositions i have given as actually argued, this is the one which is hardest to deny, and hardest to admit. reserving the question--as beyond human discussion--whether our particles of carbon, etc. are _clusters_ of worlds, the author produces his reasons for thinking that they are at least single worlds. of course--though not mentioned--the possibility is to be added of the same thing being true of the particles which make up our particles, and so down, for ever: and, on the other hand, of our planets and stars as being particles in some larger universe, and so up, for ever. "great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite 'em, and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so _ad infinitum._ and the great fleas themselves, in turn, have greater fleas to go on; while these again have greater still, and greater still, and so on."[ ] i have often had the notion that all the nebulæ we see, including our own, which we call the milky way, may be particles of snuff in the box of a giant of a proportionately { } larger universe. of course the minim of time--a million of years or whatever the geologists make it[ ]--which our little affair has lasted, is but a very small fraction of a second to the great creature in whose nose we shall all be in a few tens of thousands of millions of millions of millions of years. all this is quite possible, and the probabilities for and against are quite out of reach. perhaps also all the worlds, both above and below us, are fac-similes of our own. if so, away goes free will for good and all; unless, indeed, we underpin our system with the hypothesis that all the fac-simile bodies of different sizes are actuated by a common soul. these acute supplementary notions of mine go far to get rid of the difficulty which some have found in the common theory that the soul inhabits the body: it has been stated that there is, somewhere or another, a world of souls which communicate with their bodies by wondrous filaments of a nature neither mental nor material, but of a _tertium quid_ fit to be a go-between; as it were a corporispiritual copper encased in a spiritucorporeal gutta-percha. my theory is that every soul is everywhere _in posse_, as the schoolmen said, but not anywhere _in actu_, except where it finds one of its bodies. these _a priori_ difficulties being thus removed, the system of particle-worlds is reduced to a dry question of fact, and remitted to the decision of the microscope. and a grand field may thus be opened, as optical science progresses! for the worlds are not fac-similes of ours in time: there is not a moment of _our_ past, and not a moment of _our_ future, but is the _present_ of one or more of the particles. a will write the death of cæsar, and b the building of the pyramids, by actual observation of the processes with a power of a thousand millions; c will discover the commencement of the millennium, and d the { } termination of ersch and gruber's lexicon,[ ] as mere physical phenomena. against this glorious future there is a sad omen: the initials of the forerunner of this discovery are--no! the supernatural. the history of the supernatural in all ages and nations, and in all churches, christian and pagan: demonstrating a universal faith. by wm. howitt.[ ] london, vols. vo. . mr. howitt is a preacher of spiritualism. he cements an enormous collection of alleged facts with a vivid outpouring of exhortation, and an unsparing flow of sarcasm against the scorners of all classes. he and the rev. j. smith[ ] (_ante_, ) are the most thoroughgoing universalists of all the writers i know on spiritualism. if either can insert the small end of the wedge, he will not let you off one fraction of the conclusion that all countries, in all ages, have been the theaters of one vast spiritual display. and i suspect that this consequence cannot be avoided, if any part of the system be of truly spiritual origin. mr. howitt treats the philosophers either as ignorant babies, or as conscious spirit-fearers: and seems much inclined to accuse the world at large of dreading, lest by the actual presence of the other world their christianity should imbibe a spiritual element which would unfit it for the purposes of their lives. { } from matter to spirit. from matter to spirit. by c. d. with a preface by a. b.[ ] london, , vo. this is a work on spiritual manifestations. the author upholds the facts for spiritual phenomena: the prefator suspends his opinion as to the cause, though he upholds the facts. the work begins systematically with the lower class of phenomena, proceeds to the higher class, and offers a theory, suggested by the facts, of the connection of the present and future life. i agree in the main with a. b.; but can, of course, make none but horrescent reference to his treatment of the smaller philosophers. this is always the way with your paradoxers: they behave towards orthodoxy as the thresher fish behaves towards the whale. but if true, as is said, that the drubbing clears the great fish of parasites which he could not otherwise get rid of, he ought to bear no malice. this preface retorts a little of that contempt which the "philosophical world" has bestowed with heaped measure upon those who have believed their senses, and have drawn natural, even if hasty, inferences. there is philosophercraft as well as priestcraft, both from one source, both of one spirit. in english cities and towns, the minister of religion has been tamed: so many weapons are bared against him when he obtrudes his office in a dictatory manner, that, as a rule, there is no more quiet and modest member of society than the urban clergyman. domination over religious belief is reserved for the exclusive use of those who admit the right: the rare exception to this mode of behavior is laughed at as a bigot, or shunned as a nuisance. but the overbearing minister of nature, who snaps you with _unphilosophical_ as the clergyman once frightened you with _infidel_, is still a recognized member of society, wants taming, and will get it. he wears the priest's cast-off { } clothes, dyed to escape detection: the better sort of philosophers would gladly set him to square the circle. the book just named appeared about the same time as this budget began in the _athenæum_. it was commonly attributed, the book to my wife, the preface to myself. some time after, our names were actually announced by the publisher, who ought to know. it will be held to confirm this statement that i announce our having in our possession some twenty reviews of different lengths, and of all characters: who ever collects a number of reviews of a book, except the author? a great many of these reviews settle the matter _a priori_. if there had been spirits in the matter, they would have done this, and they would not have done that. jean meslier[ ] said there could be no god over all, for, _if_ there had been one, he would have established a universal religion. if j. m. _knew_ that, j. m. was right: but if j. m. did not know that, then j. m. was on the "high priori road," and may be left to his course. the same to all who know what spirits would do and would not do. a. b. very distinctly said that he knew some of the asserted facts, believed others on testimony, but did not pretend to know whether they were caused by spirits, or had some unknown and unimagined origin. this he said as clearly as i could have said it myself. but a great many persons cannot understand such a frame of mind: their own apparatus is a kind of spirit-level, and their conclusion on any subject is the little bubble, which is always at one end or the other. many of the reviewers declare that a. b. is a secret believer in the spirit-hypothesis: and one of them wishes that he had "endorsed his opinion more boldly." according to this reviewer, any one who writes "i boldly { } say i am unable to choose," contradicts himself. in truth, a person who does say it has a good deal of courage, for each side believes that he secretly favors the other; and both look upon him as a coward. in spite of all this, a. b. boldly repeats that he feels assured of many of the facts of _spiritualism_, and that he cannot pretend to affirm or deny anything about their cause. the great bulk of the illogical part of the educated community--whether majority or minority i know not; perhaps six of one and half-a-dozen of the other--have not power to make a distinction, cannot be made to take a distinction, and of course, never attempt to shake a distinction. with them all such things are evasions, subterfuges, come-offs, loopholes, etc. they would hang a man for horse-stealing under a statute against sheep-stealing; and would laugh at you if you quibbled about the distinction between a horse and a sheep. i divide the illogical--i mean people who have not that amount of natural use of sound inference which is really not uncommon--into three classes:--first class, three varieties: the niddy, the noddy, and the noodle. second class, three varieties: the niddy-noddy, the niddy-noodle, and the noddy-noodle. third class, undivided: the niddy-noddy-noodle. no person has a right to be angry with me for more than one of these subdivisions. the want of distinction was illustrated to me, when a boy, about , by the report of a trial which i shall never forget: boys read newspapers more keenly than men. every now and then a bench of country magistrates rather astonishes the town populations, accustomed to rub their brains[ ] against one another. such a story as the following would, { } in our day, bring down grave remarks from above: but i write of the olden (or eldon[ ]) time, when nothing but conviction in a court of record would displace a magistrate. in that day the third-class amalgamator of distinct things was often on the bench of quarter-sessions. an attorney was charged with having been out at night poaching. a clear _alibi_ was established; and perjury had certainly been committed. the whole gave reason to suspect that some ill-willers thought the bench disliked the attorney so much that any conviction was certain on any evidence. the bench did dislike the attorney: but not to the extent of thinking he could snare any partridges in the fields while he was asleep in bed, except the dream-partridges which are not always protected by the dream-laws. so the chairman said, "mr. ----, you are discharged; but you should consider this one of the most fortunate days of your life." the attorney indignantly remonstrated, but the magistrate was right; for he said, "mr. ----, you have frequently been employed to defend poachers: have you been careful to impress upon them the enormity of their practices?" it appeared in a wrangling conversation that the magistrates saw little moral difference between poaching and being a poacher's professional defender without lecturing him on his wickedness: but they admitted with reluctance, that there was a legal distinction; and the brain of n^ could no further go. this is nearly fifty years ago; and westernism was not quite extinct. if the present lords of the hills and the valleys want to shine, let them publish a true history of their own order. i am just old enough to remember some of the last of the squires and parsons who protested against teaching the poor to read and write. they now write books for the working classes, give them lectures, and the like. there is now no class, as a class, more highly educated, broadly educated, and deeply educated, { } than those who were, in old times, best described as partridge-popping squireens. i have myself, when a boy, heard old booby speaking with pride of young booby as having too high a spirit to be confined to books: and i suspected that his dislike to teaching the poor arose in fact from a feeling that they would, if taught a little, pass his heir. a. b. recommended the spirit-theory as an hypothesis on which to ground inquiry; that is, as the means of suggestion for the direction of inquiry. every person who knows anything of the progress of physics understands what is meant; but not the reviewers i speak of. many of them consider a. b. as _adopting_ the spirit-hypothesis. the whole book was written, as both the authors point out, to suggest inquiry to those who are curious; c. d. firmly believing, a. b. as above. neither c. d. nor a. b. make any other pretence. both dwell upon the absence of authentications and the suppression of names as utterly preventive of anything like proof. and a. b. says that his reader "will give him credit, if not himself a goose, for seeing that the tender of an anonymous cheque would be of equal effect, whether drawn on the bank of england or on aldgate pump." by this test a number of the reviewers are found to be geese: for they take the authors as offering proof, and insist, against the authors, on the very point on which the authors had themselves insisted beforehand. leaving aside imperceptions of this kind, i proceed to notice a clerical and medical review. i have lived much in the middle ages, especially since the invention of printing; and from thence i have brought away a high respect for and grateful recollection of--the priest in everything but theology, and the physician in everything but medicine. the professional harness was unfavorable to all progress, except on a beaten road; the professional blinkers prevented all but the beaten road from being seen: the professional reins were pulled at the slightest attempt to quicken pace, even on the permitted path; and the { } professional whip was heavily laid on at the slightest attempt to diverge. but when the intelligent man of either class turned his attention out of his ordinary work, he had, in most cases, the freshness and vigor of a boy at play, and like the boy, he felt his freedom all the more from the contrast of school-restraint. in the case of medicine, and physics generally, the learned were, in some essential points, more rational than many of their present impugners. they pass for having put _a priori_ obstacles in the way of progress: they might rather be reproved for too much belief in progress obtained by _a priori_ means. they would have shouted with laughter at a dunce who--in a review i read, but without making a note--declared that he would not believe his senses except when what they showed him was capable of explanation upon some known principle. i have seen such stuff as this attributed to the schoolmen; but only by those who knew nothing about them. the following, which i wrote some years ago, will give a notion of a distinction worth remembering. it is addressed to the authorities of the college of physicians. "the ignominy of the word _empiric_ dates from the ages in which scholastic philosophy deduced physical consequences _a priori_;--the ages in which, because a lion is strong, rubbing with lion's fat would have been held an infallible tonic. in those happy days, if a physician had given decoction of a certain bark, only because in numberless instances that decoction had been found to strengthen the patient, he would have been a miserable empiric. not that the colleges would have passed over his returns because they were empirical: they knew better. they were as skilful in finding causes for facts, as facts for causes. the president and the elects of that day would have walked out into the forest with a rope, and would have pulled heartily at the tree which yielded the bark: nor would they ever have left it until they had pulled out a legitimate { } reason. if the tree had resisted all their efforts, they would have said, 'ah! no wonder now; the bark of a strong tree makes a strong man.' but if they had managed to serve the tree as you would like to serve homoeopathy, then it would have been 'we might have guessed it; all the _virtus roborativa_ has settled in the bark.' they admitted, as we know from molière, the _virtus dormitiva_[ ] of opium, for no other reason than that opium _facit dormire_.[ ] had the medicine not been previously _known_, they would, strange as it may seem to modern pharmacopoeists, have accorded a _virtus dormitiva_ to the new _facit dormire_. on this point they have been misapprehended. they were prone to infer _facit_ from a _virtus_ imagined _a priori_; and they were ready in supplying _facit_ in favor of an orthodox _virtus_. they might have gone so far, for example, under pre-notional impressions, as the alliterative allopath, who, when maintenance of truth was busy opposing the progress of science called _vaccination_, declared that some of its patients coughed like cows, and bellowed like bulls; but they never refused to find _virtus_ when _facit_ came upon them, no matter whence. they would rather have accepted tenterden steeple than have rejected the goodwin sands. they would have laughed their modern imitators to scorn: but as they are not here, we do it for them. "the man of our day--the _a priori_ philosopher--tries the question whether opium can cause sleep by finding out in the recesses of his own noddle whether the drug can have a dormitive power: well! but did not the schoolman do the same? he did; but mark the distinction. the schoolman had recourse to first principles, when there was no opium to try it by: our man settles the point in the same way _with a lump of opium before him_. the schoolman shifted his principles with his facts: the man of our drawing-rooms will fight facts with his principles, just as an old { } physician would have done in actual practice, with the rod of his _church_ at his back. "the story about galileo--which seems to have been either a joke made against him, or by him--illustrates this. _nature abhors a vacuum_ was the explanation of the water rising in a pump: but they found that the water would not rise more than feet. they asked for explanation: what does the satirist make the schoolmen say? that the stoppage is _not_ a fact, because nature abhors a vacuum? no! but that the principle should be that nature abhors a vacuum as far as feet. and this is what would have been done. "there are still among us both priests and physicians who would have belonged, had they lived three or four centuries ago, to the glorious band of whom i have spoken, the majority of the intelligent, working well for mankind out of the professional pursuit. but we have a great many who have helped to abase their classes. go where we may, we find specimens of the lower orders of the ministry of religion and the ministry of health showing themselves smaller than the small of other pursuits. and how is this? first, because each profession is entered upon a mere working smack of its knowledge, without any depth of education, general or professional. not that this is the whole explanation, nor in itself objectionable: the great mass of the world must be tended, soul and body, by those who are neither hookers[ ] nor harveys[ ]: let such persons not venture _ultra crepidam_, and they are useful and respectable. but, secondly, there is a vast upheaving of thought from the depths of commonplace learning. i am a clergyman! sir! i am a medical man! sir! and forthwith the nature of things is picked to pieces, and there is a race, with the last the winner, between philosophy mounted on folly's donkey, and folly mounted on philosophy's donkey. how fortunate { } it is for law that her battles are fought by politicians in the houses of parliament. not that it is better done: but then _politics_ bears the blame." i now come to the medical review. after a quantity of remark which has been already disposed of, the writer shows greek learning, a field in which the old physician would have had a little knowledge. a. b., for the joke's sake, had left untranslated, as being too deep, a remarkably easy sentence of aristotle, to the effect that what has happened was possible, for if impossible it would not have happened. the reviewer, in "simple astonishment,"--it was simple--at the pretended incapacity--i was told by a. b. that the joke was intended to draw out a reviewer--translates:--he says that this sentence is a. b.'s summing up of the evidence of spiritualism. now, being a sort of _alter ego_[ ] of a. b., i do declare that he is not such a fool as to rest the evidence of spiritualism--the _spirit explanation_--upon the occurrence of certain facts proving the possibility of those very facts. in truth, a. b. refuses to receive spiritualism, while he receives the facts: this is the gist of his whole preface, which simply admits spiritualism among the qualified candidates, and does not know what others there may be. the reviewer speaks of aristotle as "that clear thinker and concise writer." i strongly suspect that his knowledge of aristotle was limited to the single sentence which he had translated or got translated. aristotle is concise in _phrase_, not in book, and is powerful and profound in thought: but no one who knows that his writing, all we have of him, is the very opposite of clear, will pretend to decide that he thought clearly. as his writing, so probably was his thought; and his books are, if not anything but clear, at least anything good but clear. nobody thinks them clear except a person who always clears difficulties: which i have no doubt was the reviewer's habit; that is, if he ever took the field { } at all. the gentleman who read euclid, all except the as and bs and the pictures of scratches and scrawls, is the type of a numerous class. the reviewer finds that the word _amosgepotically_, used by a. b., is utterly mysterious and incomprehensible. he hopes his translation of the bit of greek will shield him from imputation of ignorance: and thinks the word may be referred to the "obscure dialect" out of which sprung _aneroid_, _kalos geusis sauce_, and _anaxyridian trousers_. to lump the first two phrases with the third smacks of ignorance in a greek critic; for [greek: anaxuridia], _breeches_, would have turned up in the lexicon; and _kalos geusis_, though absurd, is not obscure. and [greek: amôsgepôs], _somehow or other_, is as easily found as [greek: anaxuridia]. the word _aneroid_, i admit, has puzzled better scholars than the critic: but never one who knows the unscholarlike way in which words ending in [greek: eidês] have been rendered. the _aneroid barometer_ does _not_ use a column of air in the same way as the old instrument. now [greek: aeroeidês]--properly _like_ the atmosphere--is by scientific non-scholarship rendered having to do with the atmosphere; and [greek: anaeroeidês]--say _anaëroid_--denies having to do with the atmosphere; a nice thing to say of an instrument which is to measure the weight of the atmosphere. one more absurdity, and we have _aneroid_, and there you are. the critic ends with a declaration that nothing in the book shakes his faith in a _quarterly_ reviewer who said that suspension of opinion, until further evidence arrives, is justifiable: a strange summing up for an article which insists upon utter rejection being unavoidable.[ ] the expressed aim of both a. b. and c. d. was to excite inquiry, and get further evidence: until this is done, neither asks for a verdict. oh where! and oh where! is old medicine's learning gone! there _was_ some in the days of yore, when popery { } was on! and it's oh! for some greek, just to find a word upon! the reviewer who, lexicon in hand, can neither make out _anaxyridical_, _amosgepotical_, _kalos geusis_, nor distinguish them from _aneroid_, cannot be trusted when he says he has translated a sentence of aristotle. he may have done it; but, as he says of spiritualism, we must suspend our opinion until further evidence shall arrive. we now come to the theological review. i have before alluded to the faults of logic which are protestant necessities: but i never said that protestant argument had _nothing but_ paralogism. the writer before me attains this completeness: from beginning to end he is of that confusion and perversion which, as applied to interpretation of the new testament, is so common as to pass unnoticed by sermon-hearers; but which, when applied out of church, is exposed with laughter in all subjects except theology. i shall take one instance, putting some words in italics. _a. b._ _theological critic._ my state of mind, which refers ... he proceeds to argue that the whole _either_ to unseen he himself is outside its intelligence, _or something sacred pale because he refers which man has never had any all these strange phenomena to conception of_, proves me to _unseen spiritual be out of the pale of the intelligence_. royal society. the possibility of a _yet unimagined_ cause is insisted on in several places. on this ground it is argued by a. b. that spiritualists are "incautious" for giving in at once to the spirit doctrine. but, it is said, they may be justified by the philosophers, who make the flint _axes_, as they call them, to be the works of men, because no one can see _what else they can be_. this kind of adoption, _condemned_ as a conclusion, is _approved_ as a provisional theory, suggestive of direction of inquiry: experience having shown that { } inquiry directed by a _wrong_ theory has led to more good than inquiry without any theory at all. all this a. b. has fully set forth, in several pages. on it the reviewer remarks that "with infinite satisfaction he tries to justify his view of the case by urging that there is no other way of accounting for it; after the fashion of the philosophers of our own day, who conclude that certain flints found in the drift are the work of men, because the geologist does not see what else they can be." after this twist of meaning, the reviewer proceeds to say, and a. b. would certainly join him, "there is no need to combat any such mode of reasoning as this, because it would apply with equal force and justice to any theory whatever, however fantastic, profane, or silly." and so, having shown how the reviewer has hung himself, i leave him funipendulous. one instance more, and i have done. a reviewer, not theological, speaking of the common argument that things which are derided are not _therefore_ to be rejected, writes as follows:--"it might as well be said that they who laughed at jenner[ ] and vaccination were, in a certain but very unsatisfactory way, witnesses to the possible excellence of the system of st. john long."[ ] of course it _might_: and of course it _is_ said by all people of common sense. in introducing the word "possible," the reviewer has hit the point: i suspect that this word was introduced during revision, to put the sentence into fighting order; hurry preventing it being seen that the sentence was thus made to fight on the wrong side. jenner, who was laughed at, was right; therefore, it is not impossible--that is, it is _possible_--that a derided system may be right. mark the three gradations: _in medio tutissimus ibis_.[ ] { } _reviewer._--if a system be derided, it is no ground of suspense that derided systems have turned out true: if it were, you would suspend your opinion about st. john long on account of jenner.--_ans._ you ought to do so, as to _possibility_; and _before examination_; not with the notion that j. proves st. j. _probable_; only _possible_. _common sense._--the past emergence of truths out of derided systems proves that there is a practical certainty of like occurrence to come. but, inasmuch as a hundred speculative fooleries are started for one truth, the mind is permitted to approach the examination of any one given novelty with a bias against it of a hundred to one: and this permission is given because so it will be, leave or no leave. every one has licence not to jump over the moon. _paradoxer._--great men have been derided, and i am derided: which proves that my system ought to be adopted. this is a summary of all the degrees in which paradoxers contend for the former derision of truths now established, giving their systems _probability_. i annex a paragraph which d [e &c.] inserted in the _athenæum_ of october , . "_discoverers and discoveries._ "aristotle once sent his servant to the cellar to fetch wine:--and the fellow brought him back small beer. the stagirite (who knew the difference) called him a blockhead. 'sir,' said the man, 'all i can say is, that i found it in the cellar.' the philosopher muttered to himself that an affirmative conclusion could not be proved in the second figure,--and mrs. aristotle, who was by, was not less effective in her remark, that small beer was not wine because it was in the same cellar. both were right enough: and our philosophers might take a lesson from either--for they insinuate an affirmative conclusion in the second figure. great discoverers have been little valued by established { } schools,--and they are little valued. the results of true science are strange at first,--and so are their's. many great men have opposed existing notions,--and so do they. all great men were obscure at first,--and they are obscure. thinking men doubt,--and they doubt. their small beer, i grant, has come out of the same cellar as the wine; but this is not enough. if they had let it stand awhile in the old wine-casks, it might have imbibed a little of the flavor." there are better reviews than i have noticed; which, though entirely dissenting, are unassailable on their own principles. what i have given represents five-sixths of the whole. but it must be confessed that the fraction of fairness and moderation and suspended opinion which the doctrine of _spirit manifestations_ has met with--even in the lower reviews--is strikingly large compared to what would have been the case fifty years ago. it is to be hoped that our popular and periodical literatures are giving us one thinker created for twenty geese double-feathered: if this hope be realized, we shall do! seeing all that i see, i am not prepared to go the length of a friend of mine who, after reading a good specimen of the lower reviewing, exclaimed--oh! if all the fools in the world could be rolled up into one fool, what a reviewer he would make! calendrier universel et perpétuel; par le commandeur p. j. arson.[ ] publié par ses enfans (oeuvre posthume). nice, , to. i shall not give any account of this curious calendar, with all its changes and symbols. but there is one proposal, which, could we alter the general notions of time--a thing of very dubious possibility--would be convenient. the week is made to wax and wane, culminating on the sunday, { } which comes in the middle. thursday, friday, saturday, are ascending or waxing days; monday, tuesday, wednesday, are descending or waning days. our six days, lumped together after the great distinguishing day, sunday, are too many to be distinctly thought of together: a division of three preceding and three following the day of most note would be much more easily used. but all this comes too late. it may be, nevertheless, that some individuals may be able to adjust their affairs with advantage by referring thursday, friday, saturday, to the following sunday, and monday, tuesday, wednesday, to the preceding sunday. but m. arson's proposal to alter the names of the days is no more necessary than it is practicable. cyclometry. i am not to enter anything i do not possess. the reader therefore will not learn from me the feats of many a man-at-arms in these subjects. he must be content, unless he will bestir himself for himself, not to know how mr. patrick cody trisects the angle at mullinavat, or professor recalcati squares the circle at milan. but this last is to be done by subscription, at five francs a head: a banker is named who guarantees restitution if the solution be not perfectly rigorous; the banker himself, i suppose, is the judge. i have heard of a man of business who settled the circle in this way: if it can be reduced to a debtor and creditor account, it can certainly be done; if not, it is not worth doing. montucla will give the accounts of the lawsuits which wagers on the problem have produced in france. neither will i enter at length upon the success of the new squarer who advertises (nov. ) in a country paper that, having read that the circular ratio was undetermined, "i thought it very strange that so many great scholars in all ages should have failed in finding the true ratio, and have been determined to try myself.... i am about to secure the { } benefit of the discovery, so until then the public cannot know my new and true ratio." i have been informed that this trial makes the diameter to the circumference as to , giving [pi] = . exactly. the result was obtained by the discoverer in three weeks after he first heard of the existence of the difficulty. this quadrator has since published a little slip, and entered it at stationers' hall. he says he has done it by actual measurement; and i hear from a private source that he uses a disk of inches diameter, which he rolls upon a straight rail. mr. james smith did the same at one time; as did also his partisan at bordeaux. we have, then, both . and . , by actual measurement. the second result is more than the first by about one part in . the second rolling is a very creditable one; it is about as much below the mark as archimedes was above it. its performer is a joiner, who evidently knows well what he is about when he measures; he is not wrong by in , . the reader will smile at the quiet self-sufficiency with which "i have been determined to try myself" follows the information that "so many great scholars in all ages" have failed. it is an admirable spirit, when accompanied by common sense and uncommon self-knowledge. when i was an undergraduate there was a little attendant in the library who gave me the following,--"as to cleaning this library, sir, if i have spoken to the master once about it, i have spoken fifty times: but it is of no use; he will not employ _littery_ men; and so i am obliged to look after it myself." i do not think i have mentioned the bright form of quadrature in which a square is made equal to a circle by making each side equal to a quarter of the circumference. the last squarer of this kind whom i have seen figures in the last number of the _athenæum_ for : he says the thing is no longer a _problem_, but an _axiom_. he does not know that the area of the circle is greater than that of any other figure of the same circuit. this any one might see without { } mathematics. how is it possible that the figure of greatest area should have any one length in its circuit unlike in form to any other part of the same length? the feeling which tempts persons to this problem is that which, in romance, made it impossible for a knight to pass a castle which belonged to a giant or an enchanter. i once gave a lecture on the subject: a gentleman who was introduced to it by what i said remarked, loud enough to be heard by all around, "only prove to me that it is impossible, and i will set about it this very evening." this rinderpest of geometry cannot be cured, when once it has seated itself in the system: all that can be done is to apply what the learned call prophylactics to those who are yet sound. when once the virus gets into the brain, the victim goes round the flame like a moth; first one way and then the other, beginning where he ended, and ending where he begun: thus verifying the old line "in girum imus nocte, ecce! et consumimur igni."[ ] every mathematician knows that scores of methods, differing altogether from each other in process, all end in this mysterious . ..., which insists on calling itself the circumference to a unit of diameter. a reader who is competent to follow processes of arithmetic may be easily satisfied that such methods do actually exist. i will give a sketch, carried out to a few figures, of three: the first two i never met with in my reading; the third is the old method of vieta.[ ] [i find that both the first and second methods are contained in a theorem of euler.] what mr. james smith says of these methods is worth noting. he says i have given three "_fancy_ proofs" of the value of [pi]: he evidently takes me to be offering demonstration. he proceeds thus:-- "his first proof is traceable to the diameter of a circle { } of radius . his second, to the side of any inscribed equilateral triangle to a circle of radius . his third, to a radius of a circle of diameter . now, it may be frankly admitted that we can arrive at the same result by many other modes of arithmetical calculation, all of which may be shown to have some sort of relation to a circle; but, after all, these results are mere exhibitions of the properties of numbers, and have no more to do with the ratio of diameter to circumference in a circle than the price of sugar with the mean height of spring tides. (_corr._ oct. , )." i quote this because it is one of the few cases--other than absolute assumption of the conclusion--in which mr. smith's conclusions would be true if his premise were true. had i given what follows as _proof_, it would have been properly remarked, that i had only exhibited properties of numbers. but i took care to tell my reader that i was only going to show him _methods_ which end in . .... the proofs that these methods establish the value of [pi] are for those who will read and can understand. -------- -------- ------- { } . take any diameter, double it, take - d of that double, - ths of the last, - ths of the last, - ths of the last, - ths of the last, and so on. the sum of all is the circumference of that diameter. the preceding is the process when the diameter is a hundred millions: the errors arising from rejection of fractions being lessened by proceeding on a thousand millions, and striking off one figure. here etc. is double of the diameter; etc. is - rd of etc.; etc. is - ths of etc.; etc. is - ths of etc.; etc. is - ths of etc.; and so on. . to the square root of add its half. take _half_ the third part of this; half - ths of the last; half - ths of the last; and so on. the sum is the circumference to a unit of diameter. square root of .... . . ------------ . . . ------------ . . take the square root of ½; the square root of half of one more than this; the square root of half of one more { } than the last; and so on, until we come as near to unity as the number of figures chosen will permit. multiply all the results together, and divide by the product: the quotient is an approximation to the circumference when the diameter is unity. taking aim at four figures, that is, working to five figures to secure accuracy in the fourth, we have . for the square root of ½; . for the square root of half one more than . ; and so on, through . , . , . , . , . , . . the product of the eight results is . ; divide by this, and the quotient is . ..., of which four figures are correct. had the product been . ... instead of . ..., the famous result of archimedes, - ths, would have been accurately true. it is singular that no cyclometer maintains that archimedes hit it exactly. a literary journal could hardly admit as much as the preceding, if it stood alone. but in my present undertaking it passes as the halfpennyworth of bread to many gallons of sack. many more methods might be given, all ending in the same result, let that result mean what it may. now since dozens of methods, to which dozens more might be added at pleasure, concur in giving one and the same result; and since these methods are declared by all who have shown knowledge of mathematics to be _demonstrated_: it is not asking too much of a person who has just a little knowledge of the first elements that he should learn more, and put his hand upon the error, before he intrudes his assertion of the existence of error upon those who have given more time and attention to it than himself, and who are in possession, over and above many demonstrations, of many consequences verifying each other, of which he can know nothing. this is all that is required. let any one square the circle, and persuade his friends, if he and they please: let him print, and let all read who choose. but let him abstain from intruding himself upon those who have been satisfied by existing demonstration, until he is prepared { } to lay his finger on the point in which existing demonstration is wrong. let him also say what this mysterious . ... really is, which comes in at every door and window, and down every chimney, calling itself the circumference to a unit of diameter. this most impudent and successful impostor holds false title-deeds in his hands, and invites examination: surely those who can find out the rightful owner are equally able to detect the forgery. all the quadrators are agreed that, be the right what it may, . ... is wrong. it would be well if they would put their heads together, and say what this wrong result really means. the mathematicians of all ages have tried all manner of processes, with one object in view, and by methods which are admitted to yield demonstration in countless cases. they have all arrived at one result. a large number of opponents unite in declaring this result wrong, and all agree in two points: first, in differing among themselves; secondly, in declining to point out what that curious result really is which the mathematical methods all agree in giving. most of the quadrators are not aware that it has been fully demonstrated that no two numbers whatsoever can represent the ratio of the diameter to the circumference with perfect accuracy. when therefore we are told that either to or to is the true ratio, we know that it is no such thing, without the necessity of examination. the point that is left open, as not fully demonstrated to be impossible, is the _geometrical_ quadrature, the determination of the circumference by the straight line and circle, used as in euclid. the general run of circle-squarers, hearing that the quadrature is not pronounced to be _demonstratively_ impossible, imagine that the _arithmetical_ quadrature is open to their ingenuity. before attempting the arithmetical problem, they ought to acquire knowledge enough to read lambert's[ ] demonstration (last given in brewster's[ ] translation { } of legendre's[ ] geometry) and, if they can, to refute it. [it will be given in an appendix.] probably some have begun this way, and have caught a tartar who has refused to let them go: i have never heard of any one who, in producing his own demonstration, has laid his finger on the faulty part of lambert's investigation. this is the answer to those who think that the mathematicians treat the arithmetical squarers too lightly, and that as some person may succeed at last, all attempts should be examined. those who have so thought, not knowing that there is demonstration on the point, will probably admit that a person who contradicts a theorem of which the demonstration has been acknowledged for a century by all who have alluded to it as read by themselves, may reasonably be required to point out the error before he demands attention to his own result. _apopempsis of the tutelaries._--again and again i am told that i spend too much time and trouble upon my two tutelaries: but when i come to my summing-up i shall make it appear that i have a purpose. some say i am too hard upon them: but this is quite a mistake. both of them beat little oliver himself in the art and science of asking for more; but without oliver's excuse, for i had given good allowance. both began with me, not i with them: and both knew what they had to expect when they applied for a second helping. on july , the monday after the publication of my remarks on my correspondent, i found _three_ notes in separate envelopes, addressed to me at " a, university college." when i saw the three new digits i was taken rhythmopoetic, as follows-- here's the doctor again with his figs, and by heavens! he was always at sixes, and now he's at sevens. to understand this fully the reader must know that the greater part of apocalyptic interpretation has long been condensed, in my mind, into the turkish street-cry--in the { } name of the prophet! figs! i make a few extracts. the reader will observe that dr. thorn grumbles at his _private_ letters being _publicly_ ridiculed. a man was summoned for a glutolactic assault; he complained of the publication of his proceeding: i kicked etc. _in confidence_, he said. "after reading your last, which tries in every way to hold me up to public ridicule for daring to write you privately ['that you would be d----d,' omitted by accident] one would say, why have anything to do with such a testy person? [wrong word; no testy person can manage cool and consecutive ridicule. quære, what is this word? is it anything but a corruption of the obsolete word _tetchy_ of the same meaning? some think _touchy_ is our modern form of _tetchy_, which i greatly doubt]. my answer is, the poor man is lamentably ignorant; he is not only so, but 'out of the way' [quite true; my readers know me by this time for an out-of-the-way person. what other could tackle my squad of paradoxers? what other would undertake the job?] can he be brought back and form one of those who in ezekiel ch. have the spirit breathed into them and live.... have i any other feeling towards you except that of peace and goodwill? [not to your distinct knowledge; but in all those who send people to 'the other place' for contempt of their interpretations, there is a lurking wish which is father to the thought; 'you _will_ be d----d' and 'you _be_ d--d' are siamese twins]. of course your sneer at brought plain words; but when men meddle with what they do not understand (not having the double _vahu_) they must be dealt with faithfully by those who do.... [they must; which justifies the budget of paradoxes: but no occasion to send them anywhere; no preachee and floggee too, as the negro said]. many will find the text prov. i. fully realized. [all this contains distinct assumption of a right 'of course' to declare accursed those who do not respect the writer's vagary].... if i could but get the [hebrew: a], the ox-head, which in old hebrew was just the latin digamma, f, out { } of your name, and could then thau you with the thau of ezekiel ix, , the [chi], then you would bear the number of a man! but this is too hard for me, although not so for the lord! jer. xxxii. .... and now a word: is ridicule the right thing in so solemn a matter as the discussion of holy writ? [is food for ridicule the right thing? did i discuss holy writ? i did not: i concussed profane scribble. even the doctor did not _discuss_; he only enunciated and denunciated out of the mass of inferences which a mystical head has found premises for in the bible]." m o r g n ---- [hebrew: t]=[chi] [that ill opinions are near relations of ill wishes, will be detected by those who are on the look out. the following was taken down in a scotch church by mr. cobden,[ ] who handed it to a roman friend of mine, for his delectation (in ): "lord, we thank thee that thou hast brought the pope into trouble; and we pray that thou wouldst be mercifully pleased to increase the same."] here is a martyr who quarrels with his crown; a missionary who reviles his persecutor: send him to new zealand, and he would disagree with the maoris who ate him. man of unilateral reciprocity! have you, who write to a stranger with hints that that stranger and his wife are children of perdition, the bad taste to complain of a facer in return? as james smith[ ]--the attorney-wit, not the dock-cyclometer--said, or nearly said, "a pretty thing, forsooth! is he to burn, all scalding hot, me and my wife, and am i not to job him out a tooth?" { } those who think parody vulgar will be pleased to substitute for the above a quotation from butler[ ]:-- "there's nothing so absurd or vain or barbarous or inhumane, but if it lay the least pretence to piety and godliness, or tender-hearted conscience, and zeal for gospel truths profess,-- does sacred instantly commence, and all that dare but question it are straight pronounced th' uncircumcised and reprobate, as malefactors that escape and fly into a sanctuary for defence, must not be brought to justice thence, although their crimes be ne'er so great and high. and he that dares presume to do't is sentenced and delivered up to satan that engaged him to't." the number of the beast. of all the drolleries of controversy none is more amusing than the manner in which those who provoke a combat expect to lay down the laws of retaliation. you must not strike this way! you must not parry that way! if you don't take care, we shall never meddle with you again! we were not _prepared_ for such as this! why did we have anything to do with such a testy person? m. jourdain must needs show nicole, his servant-maid, how good a thing it was to be sure of fighting without being killed, by care and tierce.[ ] "et cela n'est il pas beau d'être assuré de son fait quand on se bat contre quelqu'un? là, pousse moi un peu, pour voir. nicole. eh bien! quoi? m. jourdain. tout beau. hola! { } ho! doucement. diantre soit la coquine! nicole. vous me dites de pousser. m. jourdain. oui; mais tu me pousses en tierce, avant que de pousser en quarte, et tu n'as pas la patience que je pare." his colleague, my secular tutelary, who also made an anachronistic onset, with his repartees and his retorts, before there was anything to fire at, takes what i give by way of subsequent provocation with a good humor which would make a convert of me if he could afford . ... of a grain of logic. he instantly sent me his photograph for the asking, and another letter in proof. the thor-hammerer does nothing but grumble, except when he tells a good story, which he says he had from dr. abernethy.[ ] a mr. james dunlop was popping at the papists with a -rifled gun, when dr. chalmers[ ] quietly said, "why, dunlop, you bear it yourself," and handed him a paper on which the numerals in i a c o b v s d v n l o p v s were added up. this is almost as good as the _filii dei vicarius_, the numerical letters of which also make . no more of these crazy--i first wrote _puerile_, but why should young cricketers be libelled?--attempts to extract religious use from numerical vagaries, and to make god over all a proposer of _salvation conundrums_: and no more of the trumpery hints about future destiny which is too great a compliment to call blasphemous. if the doctor will cipher upon the letter in [greek: en hôi metrôi metreite metrêthêsetai humin][ ] with _double vahu_ cubic measure, he will perhaps learn to leave off trying to frighten me into gathering grapes from thorns. mystical hermeneutics may be put to good use by out-of-the-way people. they may be made to call the attention { } of the many to a distinction well known among the learned. the books of the new testament have been for , years divided into two classes: the _acknowledged_ ([greek: homologoumena]), which it has always been paradox not to receive; and the _controverted_ ([greek: antilegomena]), about which there has always been that difference of opinion which no scholar overlooks, however he may decide for himself after balance of evidence. eusebius,[ ] who first (l. , c. ) recorded the distinction--which was much insisted on by the early protestants--states the books which are questioned as doubtful, but which yet are approved and acknowledged by _many_--or _the many_, it is not easy to say which he means--to be the epistles of james and jude, the second of peter and the second and third of john. in other places he speaks doubtingly of the epistle to the hebrews. the apocalypse he does not even admit into this class, for he proceeds as follows--i use the second edition of the english folio translation ( ), to avert suspicion of bias from myself:-- "among the _spurious_ [[greek: nothoi]] let there be ranked both the work entitled the _acts of paul_, and the book called _pastor_, and the _revelation of peter_: and moreover, that which is called the _epistle of barnabas_, and that named the _doctrines of the apostles_: and moreover, as i said, the _revelation of john_ (if you think good), which some, as i have said, do reject, but others allow of, and admit among those books which are received as unquestionable and undoubted." eusebius, though he will not admit the apocalypse even into the _controverted_ list, but gives permission to call it _spurious_, yet qualifies his permission in a manner which almost annihilates the distinctive force of [greek: nothos], and gives the book a claim to rank (if you think good, again) in the controverted list. and this is the impression received by { } the mind of lardner, who gives eusebius fully and fairly, but when he sums up, considers his author as admitting the apocalypse into the second list. a stick may easily be found to beat the father of ecclesiastical history. there are whole faggots in writers as opposite as baronius and gibbon, who are perhaps his two most celebrated sons. but we can hardly imagine him totally misrepresenting the state of opinion of those for whom and among whom he wrote. the usual plan, that of making an author take the views of his readers, is more easy in his case than in that of any other writer: for, as the riddle says, he is you-see-by-us; and to this reading of his name he has often been subjected. dr. nathaniel lardner,[ ] who, though heterodox in doctrine, tries hard to be orthodox as to the canon, is "sometimes apt to think" that the list should be collected and divided as in eusebius. he would have no one of the controverted books to be allowed, by itself, to establish any doctrine. even without going so far, a due use of early opinion and long continued discussion would perhaps prevent rational people from being induced by those who have the _double vahu_ to place the apocalypse _above_ the gospels, which all the bivahuites do in effect, and some are said to have done in express words. but my especial purpose is to point out that an easy way of getting rid of out of of the mystics is to require them to establish the apocalypse before they begin. see if they even know so much as that there is a crowd of testimonies for and against, running through the first four centuries, which makes this book the most difficult of the whole canon. try this method, and you will escape beautiful, as the french say. dean alford,[ ] in vol. iv, p. , of his new testament, gives an elaborate handling of this question. he concludes by saying that he cannot { } venture to refuse his consent to the tradition that the apostle is the author. this modified adherence, or non-nonadherence, pretty well represents the feeling of orthodox protestants, when learning and common sense come together. i have often, in former days, had the attempt made to place the apocalypse on my neck as containing prophecies yet unfulfilled. the preceding method prevents success; and so does the following. it may almost be taken for granted that theological system-fighters do not read the new testament: they hunt it for detached texts; they listen to it in church in that state of quiescent nonentity which is called reverent attention: but they never read it. when it is brought forward, you must pretend to find it necessary to turn to the book itself: you must read "the revelation ... to show unto his servants _things which must shortly come to pass_.... blessed is he that readeth ... _for the time is at hand_." you must then ask your mystic whether things deferred for years were shortly to come to pass, etc.? you must tell him that the greek [greek: en tachei], rendered "shortly," is as strong a phrase as the language has to signify _soon_. the interpreter will probably look as if he had never read this opening: the chances are that he takes up the book to see whether you have been committing a fraud. he will then give you some exquisite evasion: i have heard it pleaded that the above was a _mere preamble_. this word _mere_ is all-sufficient: it turns anything into nothing. perhaps he will say that the argument is that of the papists: if so, tell him that there is no christian sect but bears true witness against some one or more absurdities in other sects. an anonyme suggests that [greek: en tachei] may not be "soon," it may be "quickly, without reference to time when:" he continues thus, "may not time be 'at hand' when it is ready to come, no matter how long delayed?" i now understand what *** and *** meant when they borrowed my books and promised to return them quickly, it was "without { } reference to time when." as to time at _hand_--provided you make a long _arm_--i admire the quirk, but cannot receive it: the word is [greek: engus], which is a word of _closeness_ in time, in place, in reckoning, in kindred, etc. another gentleman is not surprised that apocalyptic reading leads to a doubt of the "canonicity" of the book: it ought not to rest on church testimony, but on visible miracle. he offers me, or any reader of the _athenæum_, the "sight of a miracle to that effect, and within forty-eight hours' journey (fare paid)." i seldom travel, and my first thought was whether my carpet-bag would be found without a regular hunt: but, on reading further, i found that it was only a concordance that would be wanted. forty hours' collection and numerical calculation of greek nouns would make it--should i happen to agree with the writer--many hundred millions to one that revelation xiii is superhuman. there is but one verse (the fifth) which the writer does not see verified. i looked at this verse, and was much startled. the budget began in october : should it last until march --it is now august --it is clear that i am the first beast, and my paradoxers are the saints whom i persecute. [the budget _did_ terminate in march : i hope the gentleman will be satisfied with the resulting interpretation.] the same opponent is surprised that i should suppose a thing which "comes to pass" must be completed, and cannot contain what is to happen years after. all who have any knowledge of english idiom know that a thing _comes_ to pass when it happens, and _came_ to pass afterwards. but as the original is greek, we must look at the greek: it is [greek: dei genesthai] for "must come to pass," and we know that [greek: egeneto] is what is usually translated "came to pass." no word of more finished completion exists in greek. and now for a last round of biter-bit with the thor-hammerer, of whom, as in the other case, i shall take no { } more notice until he can contrive to surpass himself, which i doubt his being able to do. he informs me that by changing a into [hebrew: t] in my name he can make a of _me_; adding, "this is too hard for me, although not so for the lord!" sheer nonsense! he could just as easily have directed to "prof. de morg[hebrew: t]n" as have assigned me apartment a in university college. it would have been seen for whom it was intended: and if not, it would still have reached me, for my colleagues have for many a year handed all out-of-the-way things over to me. there is no a: but is the museum of materia medica. i took the only hint which the address gave: i inquired for hellebore, but they told me it was not now recognized, that the old notion of its value was quite obsolete, and that they had nothing which was considered a specific in senary or septenary cases. the great platitude is the reference of such a difficulty as writing [hebrew: t] for a to the almighty! not childish, but fatuous: real childishness is delightful. i knew an infant to whom, before he could speak plain, his parents had attempted to give notions of the divine attributes: a wise plan, many think. his father had dandled him up-side-down, ending with, there now! papa could not dance on his head! the mannikin made a solemn face, and said, _but dod tood_! i think the doctor has rather mistaken the way of becoming as a little child, intended in matt. xviii. : let us hope the will may be taken for the deed. two poets have given images of transition from infancy to manhood: dryden,--for the hind is dryden himself on all fours! and wordsworth, in his own character of broad-nailed, featherless biped: "the priest continues what the nurse began, and thus the child imposes on the man." "the child's the father of the man, and i could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety." { } in wordsworth's aspiration it is meant that sense and piety should grow together: in dryden's description a combination of mysticism and bigotry (can this be the _double vahu_?), personified as "the priest,"--who always catches it on this score, though the same spirit is found in all associations,--succeeds the boguey-teaching of the nurse. never was the contrast of smile and scowl, of light and darkness, better seen than in the two pictures. but an acrostic distinction may be drawn. when mysticism predominates over bigotry, we have the grotesque picturesque, and the natural order of words gives us _mab_, an appropriate suggestion. but when bigotry has the upper hand, we see _bam_, which is just as appropriate; for bigotry nearly always deals with facts and logic so as to require the application of at least one of the minor words by which dishonesty is signified. i think that m is the doctor's initial, and that queen mab tickles him in his sleep with the sharp end of a . (_monday, august ._) three weeks having elapsed without notice from me of the doctor, i receive a reminder of his existence, in which i find that as i am the daniel who judges the magi of babylon, it is to be pointed out that daniel "bore a certain number, that of a man (beloved), daniel, ch. . v. , and which you certainly do not." then, "by greek power," belteshazzar is made = . here is another awkward imitation of the way of a baby child. when you have sported with the tiny creature until it runs away offended, by the time you have got into conversation again you will find the game is to be renewed: a little head peeps out from a hiding-place with "i don't love you." the proper rejoinder is, "very well! then i'll have pussy." but in the case before me there is a rule of three sums to do; as baby : pussy dr. :: : the answer required. i will work it out, if i can. the squaring of the circle and the discovery of the beast are the two goals--and goals also--of many unbalanced intellects, and of a few instances of the better kind. { } i might have said more of , but i am not deep in its bibliography. a work has come into my hands which contains a large number of noted cases: to some of my readers it will be a treat to see the collection; and the sight will perhaps be of some use to those who have read controversy on the few celebrated cases which are of general notoriety. it is written by a learned decipherer, a man who really knew the history of the subject, the rev. david thom,[ ] of bold street chapel, liverpool, who died, i am told, a few years ago. anybody who reads his book will be inclined to parody a criticism which was once made on paley's[ ] evidences--"well! if there be anything in christianity, this man is no fool." and, if he should chance to remember it, he will be strongly reminded of a sentence in my opening chapter,--"the manner in which a paradoxer will show himself, as to sense or nonsense, will not depend upon what he maintains, but upon whether he has or has not made a sufficient knowledge of what has been done by others, _especially as to the mode of doing it_, a preliminary to inventing knowledge for himself." and this is reinforced by the fact that mr. thom, though a scholar, was not conspicuous for learning, except in this his great pursuit. he was a paradoxer on other points. he reconciled calvinism and eternal reprobation with universalism and final salvation; showing these two doctrines to be all one. this gentleman must not be confounded with the rev. john hamilton thom[ ] (no relation), at or near the same { } time and until recently, of renshaw street chapel, liverpool who was one of the minority in the liverpool controversy when, nearly thirty years ago, _three_ heretical unitarian schooners exchanged shotted sermons with _thirteen_ orthodox ships of the line, and put up their challengers' dander--an american corruption of _d--d anger_--to such an extent, by quiet and respectful argument, that those opponents actually addressed a printed intercession to the almighty for the unitarian triad, as for "jews, turks, infidels, and heretics." so much for the distinction, which both gentlemen would thank me for making very clear: i take it quite for granted that a guesser at would feel horrified at being taken for a unitarian, and that a unitarian would feel queerified at being taken for a guesser at . mr. david thom's book is _the number and names of the apocalyptic beasts_, part i, , vo.: i think the second part was never published. i give the greek and latin solutions, omitting the hebrew: as usual, all the greek letters are numeral, but only m d c l x v i of the latin. i do not give either the decipherers or their reasons: i have not room for this; nor would i, if i could, bias my reader for one rather than another. d. f. julianus cæsar atheus (or aug.[ ]); diocles augustus; ludovicus; silvester secundus; linus secundus; { } vicarius filii dei; doctor et rex latinus; paulo v. vice-deo; vicarius generalis dei in terris; ipse catholicæ ecclesiæ visibile caput; dux cleri; una, vera, catholica, infallibilis ecclesia; auctoritas politica ecclesiasticaque papalis (latina will also do); lutherus ductor gregis; calvinus tristis fidei interpres; dic lux ; ludvvic; will. laud; [greek: lateinos];[ ] [greek: hê latinê basileia]; [greek: ekklêsia italika]; [greek: euanthas]; [greek: teitan]; [greek: arnoume]; [greek: lampetis]; [greek: ho nikêtês]; [greek: kakos hodêgos]; [greek: alêthês blaberos]; [greek: palai baskanos]; [greek: amnos adikos]; [greek: antemos]; [greek: gensêrikos]; [greek: euinas]; [greek: benediktos]; [greek: bonibazios g. papa x. ê. e. e. a.], meaning boniface iii. pope th, bishop of bishops the first! [greek: oulpios]; [greek: dios eimi hê hêras]; [greek: hê missa hê papikê]; [greek: loutherana]; [greek: saxoneios]; [greek: bezza antitheos] (beza); [greek: hê alazoneia biou]; [greek: maometis]; [greek: maometês b.]; [greek: theos eimi epi gaiês]; [greek: iapetos]; [greek: papeiskos]; [greek: dioklasianos]; [greek: cheina]; [greek: braski]; [greek: ion paune]; [greek: koupoks]; (cowpox, [greek: s] being the _vau_; certainly the { } vaccinated have the mark of the beast); [greek: bonnepartê]; [greek: n. bonêparte]; [greek: euporia]; [greek: paradosis]; [greek: to megathêrion]. all sects fasten this number on their opponents. it is found in _martin lauter_, affirmed to be the true way of writing the name, by carrying numbers through the roman alphabet. some jews, according to mr. thorn, found it in [hebrew: jshw ntsrj] _jesus of nazareth_. i find on inquiry that this satire was actually put forth by some medieval rabbis, but that it is not idiomatic: it represents quite fairly "jesus nazarene," but the hebrew wants an article quite as much as the english wants "the." mr. david thom's own solution hits hard at all sides: he finds a for both beasts; [greek: hê phrên] (the mind) for the first, and [greek: ekklêsiai sarkikai] (fleshly churches) for the second. a solution which embodies all mental philosophy in one beast and all dogmatic theology in the other, is very tempting: for in these are the two great supports of antichrist. it will not, however, mislead me, who have known the true explanation a long time. the three sixes indicate that any two of the three subdivisions, roman, greek, and protestant, are, in corruption of christianity, six of one and half a dozen of the other: the distinctions of units, tens, hundreds, are nothing but the old way ( samuel xviii. , and concordance at _ten_, _hundred_, _thousand_) of symbolizing differences of number in the subdivisions. it may be good to know that, even in speculations on , there are different degrees of unreason. all the diviners, when they get a colleague or an opponent, at once proceed to reckon him up: but some do it in play and some in earnest. mr. david thom found a young gentleman of the name st. claire busy at the beast number: he forthwith added the letters in [greek: st klaire] and found : this was good fun. but my spiritual tutelary, when he found that he could not make a beast of me, except by changing [hebrew: a] into [hebrew: t], solemnly referred the difficulty to the almighty: this was poor earnest. { } i am glad i did not notice, in time to insert it in the _athenæum_, a very remarkable paradoxer brought forward by mr. thom, his friend mr. wapshare[ ]: it is a little too strong for the general public. in the _athenæum_ they would have seen and read it: but this book will be avoided by the weaker brethren. it is as follows: "god, the elohim, was six days in creating all things, and having made man he entered into his rest. he is no more seen as a creator, as elohim, but as jehovah, the _lord_ of the sabbath, and the spirit of life in man, which spirit worketh _sin in the flesh_; for the spirit of love, in all flesh, is lust, or the spirit of a beast, so rom. vii. and which spirit is _crucified_ in the flesh. he then, as jehovah--as the power of the law, _in_ and _over_ all flesh, john viii. --increases that which he has made as the elohim, and his power shall last for days, or periods of time, computed at a millennium of years; and at the end of which six days, he who is the spirit of all flesh shall manifest himself as the holy spirit of almighty love, and of all truth; and so shall the church have her sabbath of rest--all contention being at an end. this is, as well as i may now express it, my solution of the mystery in hebrew, and in greek, and also in latin, ihs. for he that was lifted up _is_ king of the jews, and is the lord of all life, working in us, both to will and to do; as is manifest in the jews--they slaying him that his blood might be _good_ for the healing of the nations, of all people and tongues. as the father of all _natural_ flesh, he is the spirit of lust, as in all _beasts_; as the father, or king of the jews, he is the devil, as he himself witnesseth in john viii., already referred to. as lifted up, he is transformed into the spirit of love, a light to the gentiles, and the glory of his people israel.... for there is but one god, one lord, one spirit, one body, etc. and he who was satan, the spirit of life in that body, is, in { } christ crucified, seen in the spirit that is in all, and through all and over all, god blessed for ever." all this seems well meant, and mr. thom prints it as convinced of its piety, and "pronounces no opinion." mystics of all sorts! see what you may come to, or what may come to you! i have inserted the above for your good. there is nothing in this world so steady as some of the paradoxers. they are like the spiders who go on spinning after they have web enough to catch all the flies in the neighborhood, if the flies would but come. they are like the wild bees who go on making honey which they never can eat, proving _sic vos non vobis_ to be a physical necessity of their own contriving. but nobody robs their hives: no, unlike the bees, they go about offering their ware to any who will take it as a gift. i had just written the last sentence (oct. , , . a.m.) when in comes the second note received this morning from dr. thorn: at . p.m. came in a third. these arise out of the above account of the rev. d. thom, published oct. : three notes had arrived before. for curiosity i give one day's allowance, supposing these to be all: more may arrive before night. th oct. . "dear sir,-- in re [swastika].[ ] "so that 'zaphnath paaneah' may be after all the revealer of the 'northern tau' [greek: phaneroô]--to make manifest, shew, or explain; and this may satisfy the house of joseph in amos ^c. while belteshazzar = may be also satisfactory to the house of david, and so we may have zech. ^c. ^v. in operation when ezekiel ^c. ^v. has been realised;--but there, what is the use of writing, it is all coptic { } to a man who has not [swastika], the thau of the north, the double vahu [hebrew: w\qamats\w]. look at jeremiah ^c. ^v. and then to psalm for 'hidden ones' [hebrew: ts\sheva\pw\dagesh\n\segol\y y\sheva\hw\qamats\h]--the zephoni jehovah, and say whether they have any connection with the zephon _thau_. the hammer of thor of jeremiah ^c. ^v. as i gave you in no. of my present edition. yours truly le chevalier au cin." _by greek power._ c = h = e = v = a = l = i = e = r = a = u = c = i = n = ---- there will be thousands of morgans who will be among the wise and prudent of hosea ^c. ^v. when the seventh angel sounds, let me number _that one_ by greek, rev. ^c. ^v: { } s = e = × v = e = n = t = h = a = n = × g = e = l = ---- v and g = ought to be equal to one gammadion or ^ [swastika] × = , what say you? london, october , . "dear sir,-- in re [swastika] versus [maltese cross]. however pretentious the x or [maltese cross] may be, and it is peculiarly so just now in this land; after all it is only made of two roman v's--and so is only = [ one inverted]( )--and therefore is not the perfect number of revel^n, but is the mark of the goddess _decima_! yours truly wm. thorn." had the _one_ who sent forth a pastoral (romish) the other day, remained amongst the faithful expectants, see how he would have numbered, whereas he sold himself for the privilege of signing [maltese cross] henry e. manning.[ ] { } _by english key._ h = e = n = r = y = e = d = w = a = r = d = m = a = n = n = i = n = g = [swastika] = ---- can you now understand the difference between [swastika] and [maltese cross] or x? look to my challenge. cutting from newspaper:-- italy. rome (_via_ marseilles), october mr. gladstone has paid a visit to the pope. _by greek power._ g = l = a = d = s = t = o = n = e = ---- and what then [swastika]? { } in other letters _john stuart mill_ is if the _a_ be left out; _chasuble_ is perfect. _john brighte_[ ] is a _fait accompli_; and i am asked whether intellect can account for the final e. very easily: this beast is not the m. p., but another person who spells his name differently. but if john sturt mill and john brighte choose so to write themselves, they may. a curious collection; a mystical phantasmagoria! there are those who will try to find meaning: there are those who will try to find purpose. "and some they said--what are you at? and some--what are you arter?" my account of mr. thom and his appeared on october : and on the th i received from the editor a copy of mr. thom's sermons published in (he died feb. , ) with best wishes for my health and happiness. the editor does not name himself in the book; but he signed his name in my copy: and may my circumference never be more than - / of my diameter if the signature, name and writing both, were not that of my [circle square] ing friend mr. james smith! and so i have come in contact with him on as well as on [pi]! i should have nothing left to live for, had i not happened to hear that he has a perpetual motion on hand. i returned thanks and kind regards: and miss miggs's words--"here's forgivenesses of injuries! here's amicablenesses!"--rang in my ears. but i was made slightly uncomfortable: how could the war go on after this armistice? could i ever make it understood that the truce only extended to the double vahu and things thereunto relating? it was once held by seafaring men that there was no peace with spaniards beyond the line: i was determined that there must be no concord with j. s. inside the circle; that this must be a special exception, like father huddleston { } and old grouse in the gun-room. i was not long in anxiety; twenty-four hours after the book of sermons there came a copy of the threatened exposure--_the british association in jeopardy, and professor de morgan in the pillory without hope of escape_. by james smith, esq. london and liverpool, vo., (pp. ). this exposure consists of reprints from the _athenæum_ and _correspondent_: of things new there is but one. in a short preface mr. j. s. particularly recommends to "_read to the end_." at the end is an appendix of two pages, in type as large as the work; a very prominent peroration. it is an article from the _athenæum_, left out of its place. in the last sentence mr. j. smith, who had asked whether his character as an honest geometer and mathematician was not at stake, is warned against the _fallacia plurium interrogationum_.[ ] he is told that there is not a more honest what's-his-name in the world: but that as to the counter which he calls his character as a mathematician, he is assured that it has been staked years ago, and lost. and thus truth has the last word. there is no occasion to say much about reprints. one of them is a letter [that given above] of august , , written by mr. j. s. to the _correspondent_. it is one of his quadratures; and the joke is that i am made to be the writer: it appears as what mr. j. s. hopes i shall have the sense to write in the _athenæum_ and forestall him. when i saw myself thus quoted--yes! quoted! double commas, first person--i felt as i suppose did wm. wilberforce[ ] when he set eyes on the affectionate benediction of the potato which waggish comrades had imposed on a raw irish reporter as part of his speech. i felt as martin[ ] of { } galway--kind friend of the poor dumb creatures!--when he was told that the newspapers had put him in italics. "i appeal to you, mr. speaker! i appeal to the house! did i speak in italics? do i ever speak in italics?" i appeal to editor and readers, whether i ever squared the circle until a week or two ago, when i gave my charitable mode of reconciling the discrepant cyclometers. the absurdity of the imitation of symbolic reasoning is so lusciously rich, that i shall insert it when i make up my final book. somebody mastered spanish merely to read don quixote: it would be worth while to learn a little algebra merely to enjoy this a b-istical attack on the windmills. the principle is, prove something in as roundabout a way as possible, mention the circle once or twice irrelevantly in the course of your proof, and then make an act of q. e. d. in words at length. the following is hardly caricature:-- to prove that and make . let a = , b = : let c = , the number of the house: let d = , the number of the beast. then of necessity d = a + b + c + ; so that is a harmonious and logical quantification of the number of which we are to take care. now, b, the middle of our digital system, is, by mathematical and geometrical combination, a mean between + and + . let be removed to be taken care of, a thing no real mathematician can refuse without serious injury to his mathematical and geometrical reputation. it follows of necessity that + = , _quod erat demonstrumhorrendum_. if simpkin & marshall have not, after my notice, to account for a gross of copies more than would have gone off without me, the world is not worthy of its james smith! the only fault of the above is, that there is more { } connection than in the process of faber cyclometricus: so much, in fact, that the blunders are visible. the utter irrelevance of premises to conclusion cannot be exhibited with the requisite obscurity by any one who is able to follow reasoning: it is high art displayed in a certain toning down of the _ægri somnia_, which brings them to a certain look of reproach to reasoning which i can only burlesque. mr. j. s. produces something which resembles argument much as a chimpanzee in dolor, because balked of his dinner, resembles a thinking man at his studies. my humble attempt at imitation of him is more like a monkey hanging by his tail from a tree and trying to crack a cocoa-nut by his chatter. i could forgive mr. j. s. anything, properly headed. i would allow him to prove--_for himself_--that the quadrature of the circle is the child of a private marriage between the bull unigenitus and the pragmatic sanction, claiming tithe of onions for repeal of the mortmain act, before the bishops in committee under the kitchen table: his mode of imitating reason would do this with ease. but when he puts his imitation into my mouth, to make me what _he_ calls a "real mathematician," my soul rises in epigram against him. i say with the doll's dressmaker--such a job makes me feel like a puppet's tailor myself--"he ought to have a little pepper? just a few grains? i think the young man's tricks and manners make a claim upon his friends for a little pepper?" de fauré[ ] and joseph scaliger[ ] come into my head: my reader may look back for them. "three circlesquarers to the manner born, switzerland, france, and england did adorn, de fauré in equations did surpass, joseph at contradictions was an ass. groaned folly, i'm used up! what shall i do to make james smith? grinned momus, _join the two_!" { } as to my _locus poenitentiæ_,[ ] the reader who is fit to enjoy the letter i have already alluded to will see that i have a soft and easy position; that the thing is really a _pillowry_; and that i am, like perrette's pot of milk, "bien posé sur un coussinet."[ ] joanna southcott[ ] never had a follower who believed in her with more humble piety than mr. james smith believes in himself. after all that has happened to him, he asks me with high confidence to "favor the writer with a proof" that i still continue of opinion that "the best of the argument is in my jokes, and the best of the joke is in his arguments." i will not so favor him. at the very outset i told him in plain english that he has the whiphand of all the reasoners in the world, and in plain french that _il a perdu le droit d'être frappé de l'évidence_[ ]; i might have said _pendu_.[ ] to which i now add, in plain latin, _sapienti pauca, indocto nihil_.[ ] the law of chancery says that he who will have equity must do equity: the law of reasoning says that he who will have proof must see proof. the introduction of things quite irrelevant, by way of reproach, is an argument in universal request: and it often happens that the argument so produced really tells against the producer. so common is it that we forget how boyish it is; but we are strikingly reminded when it actually comes from a boy. in a certain police court, certain small boys were arraigned for conspiring to hoot an obnoxious individual on his way from one of their school exhibitions. this proceeding was necessary, because there seemed to be a permanent conspiracy to annoy the gentleman; and the { } masters did not feel able to interfere in what took place outside the school. so the boys were arraigned; and their friends, as silly in their way as themselves, allowed one of them to make the defence, instead of employing counsel; and did not even give them any useful hints. the defence was as follows; and any one who does not see how richly it sets off the defences of bigger boys in bigger matters has much to learn. the innocent conviction that there was answer in the latter part is delightful. of course fine and recognizance followed. a---- said the boys had received great provocation from b----. he was constantly threatening them with a horsewhip which he carried in his hand [the boy did not say what had passed to induce him to take such a weapon], and he had repeatedly insulted the master, which the boys could not stand. b---- had in his own drawing-room told him (a----) that he had drawn his sword against the master and thrown away the scabbard. b---- knew well that if he came to the college he would catch it, and then he went off through a side door--which was no sign of pluck; and then he brought mrs. b---- with him, thinking that her presence would protect him. my readers may expect a word on mr. thom's sermons, after my account of his queer doings about . he is evidently an honest and devout man, much wanting in discrimination. he has a sermon about private _judgment_, in which he halts between the logical and legal meanings of the word. he loathes those who apply their private judgment to the word of god: here he means those who decide what it _ought to be_. he seems in other places aware that the theological phrase means taking right to determine what it _is_. he uses his own private judgment very freely, and is strong in the conclusion that others ought not to use theirs except as he tells them how; he leaves all the rest of mankind free to think with him. in this he is not original: his fame must rest on his senary tripod. { } james smith once more. mr. james smith's procedures are not caricature of reasoning; they are caricature of blundering. the old way of proving that = is solemn earnest compared with his demonstrations. as follows:[ ] let x = then x^ = x and x^ - = x - divide both sides by x - ; then x + = ; but x = , whence = . when a man is regularly snubbed, bullied, blown up, walked into, and put down, there is usually some reaction in his favor, a kind of deostracism, which cannot bear to hear him always called the blunderer. i hope it will be so in this case. there is nothing i more desire than to see _sects_ of paradoxers. there are fully five thousand adults in england who ought to be the followers of some one false quadrature. and i have most hope of - / , because i think mr. james smith better fitted to be the leader of an organized infatuation than any one i know of. he wants no pity, and will get none. he has energy, means, good humor, strong conviction, character, and popularity in his own circle. and, most indispensable point of all, he sticks at nothing; "in coelum jusseris, ibit."[ ] when my instructor found i did not print an acceptance of what i have quoted, he addressed me as follows (_corr._, sept ):-- "in this life, however, we must do our duty, and, when { } necessary, use the rod, not in a spirit of revenge, but for the benefit of the culprit and the good of society. now, sir, the opportunity has been thrown in your way of slipping out of the pillory without risk of serious injury; but, like an obstinate urchin, you have chosen to quarrel with your opportunity and remain there, and thus you compel me to deal with you as schoolmasters used to do with stupid boys in bygone days--that is to say, you force me to the use of the critic's rod, compel me to put you where little jack horner sat, and, as a warning to other naughty boys, to ornament you with a dunce's cap. the task i set you was a very simple one, as i shall make manifest at the proper time." in one or more places, as well as this, mr. smith shows that he does not know the legend of little jack horner, whom he imagines to be put in the corner as a bad boy. this is curious; for there had been many allusions to the story in the journal he was writing in, and the christmas pie had become altered into the seaforth [pi]. mr. smith is satisfied at last that--what between argument and punishment he has convinced me. he says (_corr._, jan. , ): "i tell him without hesitation that he knows the true ratio of diameter to circumference as well as i do, and if he be wise he will admit it." i should hope i do, and better; but there is no occasion to admit what everybody knows. i have often wished that we could have a slight glimpse of the reception which was given to some of the old cyclometers: but we have nothing, except the grave disapprobation of historians. i am resolved to give the new zealander a chance of knowing a little more than this about one of them at least; and, by the fortunate entrance into life of the _correspondent_, i am able to do it. i omit sober mathematical answers, of which there were several. the following letter is grave earnest: "sir,--i have watched mr. james smith's writings on this subject from the first, and i did hope that, as the more { } he departs from truth the more easy it must be to refute him, [this by no means always true] some of your correspondents would by this time have done so. i own that i am unable to detect the fallacy of his argument; and i am quite certain that '[pi]' is wrong, in no. , where he declares that mr. smith is 'ignorant of the very elements of mathematical truth.' i have observed an immense amount of geometrical reasoning on his part, and i cannot see that it is either fair or honest to deny this, which may be regarded as the 'elements' of mathematical truth. would it not be better for '[pi]' to answer mr. smith, to refute his arguments, to point out their fallacies, and to save learners from error, than to plunge into gross insult and unmanly abuse? would it not be well, also, that professor de morgan should favour us with a little reasoning? "i have hitherto seen no attempt to overthrow mr. smith's arguments; i trust that this will not continue, since the subject is one of immense importance to science in general, especially to nautical science, and all that thereto belongs. yours, etc., a captain, r.n." on looking at this homoeopathic treatment of the - / quadrature--remember, homoeopathic, _similia similibus_,[ ] not infinitesimal--and at the imputation thrown upon it, i asked myself, what _is_ vulgarity? no two agree, except in this, that every one sees vulgarity in what is directed against himself. mark the world, and see if anything be so common as the description of the other side's remarks as "vulgar attempt at wit." "i suppose you think that very witty:" the answer is "no my friend! your remark shows that you feel it as wit, so that the purpose is answered; i keep my razor for something else than cutting blocks;" i am inclined to think that "out of place" is a necessary attribute of true vulgarity. and further, it is to be noticed that nothing is { } unproducible--_salvo pudore_[ ]--which has classical authority, modern or ancient, in its favor. "he is a vulgar fellow; i asked him what he was upon, and what do you think he answered, my legs!"--"well, and has he not justification? what do you find in terence? _quid agitur? statur._"[ ] i do not even blench from my principle where i find that it brings what is called "taking a sight" within permissible forms of expression: rabelais not only establishes its antiquity, but makes it english. our old translation[ ] has it thus (book . ch. ): "then made the englishman this sign. his left hand, all open, he lifted up into the air, then instantly shut into his fist the four fingers thereof; and his thumb extended at length he placed upon the tip of his nose. presently after he lifted up his right hand all open and abased and bent it downwards, putting the thumb thereof in the very place where the little finger of the left hand did close in the fist, and the four right hand fingers he softly moved in the air. then contrarily he did with the right hand what he had done with the left, and with the left what he had done with the right." an impressive sight! the making of a fist of the left hand is a great addition of power, and should be followed in modern practice. the gentle sullation of the front fingers, with the clenched fist behind them, says as plainly as possible, put _suaviter in modo_ in the van, but don't forget to have _fortiter in re_[ ] in the rear. { } my budget was announced (march , ) for completion on the th. mr. james smith wrote five letters, one before the completion, four after it; the five contained pages of quarto letter paper. mr. j. s. had picked up a clerical correspondent, with whom he was in the heat of battle. "_march ._--dear sir. very truly yours. duty; for my own sake; just time left to retrieve my errors; sends copy of letter to clergyman; new proof never before thought of; merest tyro would laugh if i were to stifle it, whether by rhodomontade or silent contempt; keep your temper. i shall be convinced; and if world be right in supposing me incapable of a foul act, i shall proclaim glorious discovery in the _athenæum_. "_april ._--sir,... my dear sir, your sincere tutelary. copy of another letter to clergyman; discovery tested by logarithms; reasons such as none but a knave or a sinner can resist. let me advise you to take counsel before it is too late! keep your temper. let not your _pride_ get the better of your discretion! screw up your courage, my good friend, and _resolve_ to show the world that you are an _honest_ man.... "_april ._--sir ... your very sincere and favorite tutelary. i have long played the _cur_, snapping and snarling...; suddenly lost my power, and became _half-starved_ dog without _spirit_ to bark; try if air cannot restore me; calls himself the _thistle_ in allusion to my other tutelary, the _thorn_; would i prefer his next work to be, 'a whip for the mathematical cur, prof. de m.' in some previous letter which i have mislaid, he told me his next would be 'a muzzle for the mathematical bull dog, prof. de m.' "_april ._--sir. very sincerely yours. more letters to clergyman; you may as well knock your head against a stone wall to improve your intellect as attempt to controvert my proofs. [i thought so too; and tried neither]. { } "_may ._--my dear sir. very sincerely yours. all to myself, and nothing to note. "_july ._--no more in this interval. all that precedes is a desperate attempt to induce me to continue my descriptions: notoriety at any price." i dare say the matter is finished: the record of so marked an instance of self-delusion will be useful. i append to the foregoing a letter from dr. whewell[ ] to mr. james smith. the master of trinity was conspicuous as a rough customer, an intellectual bully, an overbearing disputant: the character was as well established as that of sam johnson. but there was a marked difference. it was said of johnson that if his pistol missed fire, he would knock you down with the butt end of it: but whewell, in like case, always acknowledged the miss, and loaded again or not, as the case might be. he reminded me of dennis brulgruddery, who says to dan, pacify me with a good reason, and you'll find me a dutiful master. i knew him from the time when he was my teacher at cambridge, more than forty years. as a teacher, he was anything but dictatorial, and he was perfectly accessible to proposal of objections. he came in contact with me in his slashing way twice in our after joint lives, and on both occasions he acknowledged himself overcome, by that change of manner, and apologetic mode of continuance, which i had seen him employ towards others under like circumstances. i had expressed my wish to have a _thermometer of probability_, with impossibility at one end, as and make , and necessity at the other, as and make , and a graduated rise of examples between them. down came a blow: "what! put necessary and contingent propositions together! it's absurd!" i pointed out that the two kinds of necessity are but such extremes of probability as and [infinity] are of number, and illustrated by an urn with white and _n_ black { } balls, _n_ increasing without limit. it was frankly seen, and the point yielded; a large company was present. again, in a large party, after dinner, and politics being the subject, i was proceeding, in discussion with mr. whewell, with "i think"...--"ugh! _you_ think!" was the answer. i repeated my phrase, and gave as a reason the words which lord grey[ ] had used in the house of lords the night before (the celebrated advice to the bishops to set their houses in order). he had not heard of this, and his manner changed in an instant: he was the rational discutient all the rest of the evening, having previously been nothing but a disputant with all the distinctions strongly marked. i have said that whewell was gentle with his pupils; it was the same with all who wanted teaching: it was only on an armed enemy that he drew his weapon. the letter which he wrote to mr. j. smith is an instance: and as it applies with perfect fidelity to the efforts of unreasoning above described, i give it here. mr. james smith is skilfully exposed, and felt it; as is proved by "putting the writer in the stocks." "the lodge, cambridge, september th, . "sir,--i have received your explanation of your proposition that the circumference of the circle is to its diameter as to . i am afraid i shall disappoint you by saying that i see no force in your proof: and i should hope that you will see that there is no force in it if you consider this: in the whole course of the proof, though the word cycle occurs, there is no property of the circle employed. you may do this: you may put the word _hexagon_ or _dodecagon_, or any other word describing a polygon in the place of _circle_ in your proof, and the proof would be just as good as before. does not this satisfy you that you cannot have proved a property of that special figure--a circle? { } "or you may do this: calculate the side of a polygon of sides inscribed in a circle. i think you are a mathematician enough to do this. you will find that if the radius of the circle be one, the side of this polygon is . etc. now, the arc which this side subtends is according to your proposition . / = . , and therefore the chord is greater than its arc, which you will allow is impossible. "i shall be glad if these arguments satisfy you, and "i am, sir, your obedient servant, "w. whewell." an m.p.'s arithmetic. in the debate of may, , on electoral qualifications, a question arose about arithmetical capability. mr. gladstone asked how many members of the house could divide l. s. d. by l. s. d. six hundred and fifty-eight, answered one member; the thing cannot be done, answered another. there is an old paradox to which this relates: it arises out of the ignorance of the distinction between abstract and concrete arithmetic. _magnitude_ may be divided by _magnitude_; and the answer is number: how often does d. contain d.; answer three times. _magnitude_ may be divided by _number_, and the answer is _magnitude_: d. is divided in four equal parts, what is each part? answer three _pence_. the honorable objector, whose name i suppress, trusting that he has mended his ways, gave the following utterance: "with regard to the division sum, it was quite possible to divide by a sum, but not by money. how could any one divide money by l. s. d.? (laughter.) the question might be asked, 'how many times s. will go into l.?' but that was not dividing by money; it was simply dividing by . he might be asked, 'how many times will s. d. go into a pound?' but it was only required to divide by . if the right hon. gentleman were to ask the hon. { } member for brighton (professor fawcett),[ ] or any other authority, he would receive the same answer--viz., that it was possible to divide by a sum, but not by money. (hear.)" i shall leave all comment for the second edition, if i publish one.[ ] i shall be sure to have something to laugh at. anything said from a respectable quarter, or supposed to be said, is sure to find defenders. sam johnson, a sound arithmetician, comparing himself, and what he alone had done in three years, with forty french academicians and their forty years, said it proved that an englishman is to a frenchman as × to , or as to . boswell, who was no great hand at arithmetic, made him say that an englishman is to a frenchman as to . when i pointed this out, the supposed johnson was defended through thick and thin in _notes and queries_. i am now curious to see whether the following will find a palliator. it is from "tristram shandy," book v. chapter . there are two curious idioms, "for for" and "half in half"; but these have nothing to do with my point: "a blessing which tied up my father's tongue, and a misfortune which set it loose with a good grace, were pretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better of the two; for, for instance, where the pleasure of harangue was as _ten_, and the pain of the misfortune but as _five_, my father gained half in half; and consequently was as well again off as if it had never befallen him." this is a jolly confusion of ideas; and wants nothing but a defender to make it perfect. a person who invests five { } with a return of ten, and one who loses five with one hand and gains ten with the other, both leave off five richer than they began, no doubt. the first gains "half in half," more properly "half _on_ half," that is, of the return, , the second is gain upon the first invested. "half _in_ half" is a queer way of saying cent. per cent. if the l. invested be all the man had in the world, he comes out, after the gain, twice as well off as he began, with reference to his whole fortune. but it is very odd to say that balance of l. gain is _twice_ as good as if nothing had befallen, either loss or gain. a mathematician thinks an infinite number of times as great as . the whole confusion is not so apparent when money is in question: for money is money whether gained or lost. but though pleasure and pain stand to one another in the same algebraical relation as money gained and lost, yet there is more than algebra can take account of in the difference. next, ri. milward[ ] (richard, no doubt, but it cannot be proved) who published selden's[ ] table talk, which he had collected while serving as amanuensis, makes selden say, "a subsidy was counted the fifth part of a man's estate; and so fifty subsidies is five and forty times more than a man is worth." for _times_ read _subsidies_, which seems part of the confusion, and there remains the making all the subsidies equal to the first, though the whole of which they are to be the fifths is perpetually diminished. thirdly, there is the confusion of the great misomath { } of our own day, who discovered two quantities which he avers to be identically the same, but the greater the one the less the other. he had a truth in his mind, which his notions of quantity were inadequate to clothe in language. this erroneous phraseology has not found a defender; and i am almost inclined to say, with falstaff, the poor abuses of the time want countenance. erroneous arithmetical notions. "shallow numerists," as cocker[ ] is made to call them, have long been at work upon the question how to _multiply_ money by money. it is, i have observed, a very common way of amusing the tedium of a sea voyage: i have had more than one bet referred to me. because an oblong of five inches by four inches contains × or _square_ inches, people say that five inches multiplied by four inches _is_ twenty _square_ inches: and, thinking that they have multiplied length by length, they stare when they are told that money cannot be multiplied by money. one of my betters made it an argument for the thing being impossible, that there is no _square money_: what could i do but suggest that postage-stamps should be made legal tender. multiplication must be _repetition_: the repeating process must be indicated by _number_ of times. i once had difficulty in persuading another of my betters that if you repeat five shillings as often as there are hairs in a horse's tail, you do not _multiply five shillings by a horsetail_.[ ] i am very sorry to say that these wrong notions have found support--i think they do so no longer--in the university of cambridge. in or , an examiner was displaced by a vote of the senate. the pretext was that he was too severe an examiner: but it was well known that { } great dissatisfaction had been expressed, far and wide through the colleges, at an absurd question which he had given. he actually proposed such a fraction as s. d. --------. s. d. as common sense gained a hearing very soon, there is no occasion to say more. in , it was proposed at a college examination, to divide days, hours, minutes, seconds, by minutes, seconds, and also to explain the fraction l. s. d. -------------. l. s. d. all paradoxy, in matters of demonstration, arises out of muddle about first principles. who can say how much of it is to be laid at the door of the university of cambridge, for not taking care of the elements of arithmetical thought? on literary bargains. the phenomena of the two ends of society, when brought together, give interesting comparisons: i mean the early beginnings of thought and literature, and our own high and finished state, as we think it. there is one very remarkable point. in the early day, the letter was matter of the closest adherence, and implied meanings were not admitted. the blessing of isaac meant for esau, went to false jacob, in spite of the imposition; and the writer of genesis seems to intend to give the notion that isaac had no power to pronounce it null and void. and "jacob's policy, whereby he became rich"--as the chapter-heading puts it--in speckled and spotted stock, is not considered as a violation of the agreement, which contemplated natural proportions. in { } the story of lycurgus the lawgiver is held to have behaved fairly when he bound the spartans to obey his laws until he returned--intimating a short absence--he intending never to return. and vishnoo, when he asked the usurper for three steps of territory as a dwarf, and then enlarged himself until he could bring heaven and earth under the bargain, was thought clever, certainly, but quite fair. there is nothing of this kind recognized in our day: so far good. but there is a bad contrary: the age is apt, in interpretation, to upset the letter in favor of the view--very often the after thought--of one side only. the case of john palmer,[ ] the improver of the mail coach system, is smothered. he was to have an office and a salary, and ½ per cent for life on the increased _revenue_ of the post-office. his rights turned out so large, that government would not pay them. for misconduct, real or pretended, they turned him out of his _office_: but his bargain as to the percentage had nothing to do with his future conduct; it was payment for his _plan_. i know nothing, except from the debates of in the two houses: if any one can redeem the credit of the nation, the field is open. when i was young, the old stagers spoke of this transaction sparingly, and dismissed it speedily. the government did not choose to remember what private persons must remember, and are made to remember, if needful. when dr. lardner[ ] made his bargain with the { } publishers for the _cabinet cyclopædia_ he proposed that he, as editor, should have a certain sum for every hundred sold above a certain number: the publishers, who did not think there was any chance of reaching the turning sale of this stipulation, readily consented. but it turned out that dr. lardner saw further than they: the returns under this stipulation gave him a very handsome addition to his other receipts. the publishers stared; but they paid. they had no idea of standing out that the amount was too much for an editor; they knew that, though the editor had a percentage, they had all the rest; and they would not have felt aggrieved if he had received ten times as much. but governments, which cannot be brought to book before a sworn jury, are ruled only by public opinion. john palmer's day was also the day of thomas fyshe palmer,[ ] and the governments, in their prosecutions for sedition, knew that these would have a reflex action upon the minds of all who wrote about public affairs. declaration of belief - .--it often happens that persons combine to maintain and enforce an opinion; but it is, in our state of society, a paradox to unite for the sole purpose of blaming the opposite side. to invite educated men to do this, and above all, men of learning or science, is the next paradoxical thing of all. but this was done by a small combination in . they got together and drew up a _declaration_, to be signed by "students of the natural sciences," who were to express their "sincere regret that researches into { } scientific truth are perverted by some in our own times into occasion for casting doubt upon the truth and authenticity of the holy scriptures." in words of ambiguous sophistry, they proceeded to request, in effect, that people would be pleased to adopt the views of churches as to the _complete_ inspiration of all the canonical books. the great question whether the word of god is _in_ the bible, or whether the word of god is _all_ the bible, was quietly taken for granted in favor of the second view; to the end that men of science might be induced to blame those who took the first view. the first public attention was drawn to the subject by sir john herschel,[ ] who in refusing to sign the writ sent to him, administered a rebuke in the _athenæum_, which would have opened most eyes to see that the case was hopeless. the words of a man whose _suaviter in modo_ makes his _fortiter in re_[ ] cut blocks with a razor are worth preserving: "i consider the act of calling upon me publicly to avow or disavow, to approve or disapprove, in writing, any religious doctrine or statement, however carefully or cautiously drawn up (in other words, to append my name to a religious manifesto) to be an infringement of that social forbearance which guards the freedom of religious opinion in this country with especial sanctity.... i consider this movement simply mischievous, having a direct tendency (by putting forward a new shibboleth, a new verbal test of religious partisanship) to add a fresh element of discord to the already too discordant relations of the christian world.... but no nicety of wording, no artifice of human language, will suffice to discriminate the hundredth part of the shades of meaning in which the most world-wide differences of thought on such subjects may be involved; or prevent the most gentle worded and apparently justifiable expression of regret, so embodied, from grating on the { } feelings of thousands of estimable and well-intentioned men with all the harshness of controversial hostility." other doses were administered by sir j. bowring,[ ] sir w. rowan hamilton,[ ] and myself. the signed declaration was promised for christmas, : but nothing presentable was then ready; and it was near midsummer, , before it was published. persons often incautiously put their names without seeing the _character_ of a document, because they coincide in its _opinions_. in this way, probably, fifteen respectable names were procured before printing; and these, when committed, were hawked as part of an application to "solicit the favor" of other signatures. it is likely enough no one of the fifteen saw that the declaration was, not _maintenance_ of their own opinion, but _regret_ (a civil word for _blame_) that others should _think differently_. when the list appeared, there were no fewer than names! but analysis showed that this roll was not a specimen of the mature science of the country. the collection was very miscellaneous: were designated as "students of the college of chemistry," meaning young men who attended lectures in that college. but as all the royal society had been applied to, a test results as follows. of fellows of the royal society, in number, gave their signatures; of writers in the _philosophical transactions_, in number, gave their signatures. roughly speaking, then, only one out of ten could be got to express disapprobation of the free comparison of the results of science with the statements of the canonical books. and i am satisfied that many of these thought they were signing only a declaration of difference of opinion, not of blame for that difference. the number of persons is not small who, when it comes to signing printed documents, would put their names to a declaration that the coffee-pot ought to be taken down-stairs, meaning that the teapot ought to be brought { } up-stairs. and many of them would defend it. some would say that the two things are not contradictory; which, with a snort or two of contempt, would be very effective. others would, in the candid and quiet tone, point out that it is all one, because coffee is usually taken before tea, and it keeps the table clear to send away the coffee-pot before the teapot is brought up. the original signatures were decently interred in the bodleian library: and the advocates of scattering indefinite blame for indefinite sins of opinion among indefinite persons are, i understand, divided in opinion about the time at which the next attempt shall be made upon men of scientific studies: some are for the greek calends, and others for the roman olympiads. but, with their usual love of indefiniteness, they have determined that the choice shall be argued upon the basis that which comes first cannot be settled, and is of no consequence. i give the declaration entire, as a curiosity: and parallel with it i give a substitute which was proposed in the _athenæum_, as worthy to be signed both by students of theology, and by students of science, especially in past time. when a new attempt is made, it will be worth while to look at both: _declaration._ _proposed substitute._ we, the undersigned students we, the undersigned students of the natural sciences, of theology and of nature, desire to express our sincere desire to express our sincere regret, that researches into regret, that common notions of scientific truth are perverted religious truth are perverted by some in our own times into by some in our own times into occasion for casting doubt occasion for casting reproach upon the truth and upon the advocates of authenticity of the holy demonstrated or highly scriptures. probable scientific theories. { } we conceive that it is we conceive that it is impossible for the word of impossible for the word of god, as written in the book of god, as correctly read in the nature, and god's word written book of nature, and the word in holy scripture, to of god, as truly interpreted contradict one another, out of the holy scripture, to however much they may appear contradict one another, to differ. however much they may appear to differ. we are not forgetful that we are not forgetful that physical science is not neither theological complete, but is only in a interpretation nor physical condition of progress, and knowledge is yet complete, but that at present our finite that both are in a condition reason enables us only to see of progress; and that at as through a glass darkly, present our finite reason enables us only to see both one and the other as through a glass darkly [the writers of the original declaration have distinctively applied to physical science the phrase by which st. paul denotes the imperfections of theological vision, which they tacitly assume to be quite perfect], and we confidently believe, and we confidently believe, that a time will come when the that a time will come when the two records will be seen to two records will be seen to agree in every particular. we agree in every particular. we cannot but deplore that cannot but deplore that natural science should be religion should be looked upon looked upon with suspicion by with suspicion by some and many who do not make a study science by others, of the of it, merely on account of students of either who do not the unadvised manner in which make a study of the { } some are placing it in other, merely on account of opposition to holy writ. the unadvised manner in which some are placing religion in opposition to science, and some are placing science in opposition to religion. we believe that it is the duty we believe that it is the duty of every scientific student to of every theological student investigate nature simply for to investigate the scripture, the purpose of elucidating and of every scientific truth, student to investigate nature, simply for the purpose of elucidating truth. and that if he finds that some and if either should find that of his results appear to be in some of his results appear to contradiction to the written be in contradiction, whether word, or rather to his own to scripture or to nature, or _interpretations_ of it, which rather to his own may be erroneous, he should _interpretation_ of one or the not presumptuously affirm that other, which may be erroneous, his own conclusions must be he should not affirm as with right, and the statements of certainty that his own scripture wrong; conclusion must be right, and the other interpretation wrong: rather, leave the two side by but should leave the two side side till it shall please god by side for further inquiry to allow us to see the manner into both, until it shall in which they may be please god to allow us to reconciled; arrive at the manner in which they may be reconciled. and, instead of insisting upon in the mean while, instead of the seeming differences insisting, and least of all between science and the with acrimony or injurious scriptures, it would be as { } statements about others, well to rest in faith upon the upon the seeming differences points in which they agree. between science and the scriptures, it would be a thousand times better to rest in faith as to our future state, in hope as to our coming knowledge, and in charity as to our present differences. the distinctness of the fallacies is creditable to the composers, and shows that scientific habits tend to clearness, even to sophistry. nowhere does it so plainly stand out that the _written word_ means the sense in which the accuser takes it, while the sense of the other side is _their interpretation_. the infallible church on one side, arrayed against heretical pravity on the other, is seen in all subjects in which men differ. at school there were various games in which one or another advantage was the right of those who first called for it. in adult argument the same thing is often attempted: we often hear--i cried _church_ first! i end with the answer which i myself gave to the application: its revival may possibly save me from a repetition of the like. if there be anything i hate more than another it is the proposal to place any persons, especially those who allow freedom to me, under any abridgment of their liberty to think, to infer, and to publish. if they break the law, take the law; but do not make the law: [greek: agoraioi agontai enkaleitôsan allêlois.][ ] i would rather be asked to take shares in an argyrosteretic company (with limited liability) for breaking into houses by night on fork and spoon errands. i should put aside this proposal with _nothing but laughter_. it was a joke against sam rogers[ ] that his appearance was very like that of a corpse. the _john bull_ { } newspaper--suppose we now say theodore hook[ ]--averred that when he hailed a coach one night in st. paul's churchyard, the jarvey said, "ho! ho! my man; i'm not going to be taken in that way: go back to your grave!" this is the answer i shall make for the future to any relics of a former time who shall want to call me off the stand for their own purposes. what obligation have i to admit that they belong to our world? "scripture and science. "_the writ de hæretico commiserando._[ ] nov. , . "this document was sent to me four days ago. it 'solicits the favor'--i thought at first it was a grocer's supplication for tea and sugar patronage--of my signature to expression of 'sincere regret' that some persons unnamed--general warrants are illegal--differ from what i am supposed--by persons whom it does not concern--to hold about scripture and science in their real or alleged discrepancies. "no such favor from me: for three reasons. first, i agree with sir. j. herschel that the solicitation is an intrusion to be publicly repelled. secondly, i do _not_ regret that others should differ from me, think what i may: those others are as good as i, and as well able to think, and as much entitled to their conclusions. thirdly, even if i did regret, i should be ashamed to put my name to bad chemistry made to do duty for good reasoning. the declaration is an awkward attempt to saturate sophism with truism; but the sophism is left largely in excess. { } "i owe the inquisitors a grudge for taking down my conceit of myself. for two months i have crowed in my own mind over my friend sir j. herschel, fancying that the promoters instinctively knew better than to bring their fallacies before a writer on logic. ah! my dear sir john! thought i, if you had shown yourself to be well up in _barbara celarent_,[ ] and had ever and anon astonished the natives with the distinction between _simpliciter_ and _secundum quid_, no autograph-hunters would have baited a trap with _non sequitur_[ ] to catch your signature. what can i say now? i hide my diminished head, diminished by the horns which i have been compelled to draw in. "those who make personal solicitation for support to an opinion about religion are bound to know their men. the king had a right to brother neale's money, because brother neale offered it. had he put his hand into purse after purse by way of finding out all who were of brother neale's mind, he would have been justly met by a rap on the knuckles whenever he missed his mark. "the kind of test before me is the utmost our time will allow of that inquisition into opinion which has been the curse of christianity ever since the state took providence under its protection. the writ _de hæretico commiserando_ is little more than the smell of the empty cask: and those who issue it may represent the old woman with her "o suavis anima, quale in te dicam bonum antehac fuisse; tales cum sint reliquiæ."[ ] it is no excuse that the illegitimate bantling is a very little one. its parents may think themselves hardly treated when they are called lineal successors of tony fire-the-faggot: { } but, degenerate though they be, such is their ancestry. let every allowance be made for them: but their unholy fire must be trodden out; so long as a spark is left, nothing but fuel is wanted to make a blaze. if this cannot be done, let the flame be confined to theology, though even there it burns with diminished vigor: and let charity, candor, sense, and ridicule, be ready to play upon it whenever there is any chance of its extending to literature and science. "what would be the consequence if this test-signing absurdity were to grow? deep would call unto deep; counter-declaration would answer declaration, each stronger than the one before. the moves would go on like the dispute of two german students, of whom each is bound to a sharper retort on a graduated scale, until at last comes _dummer junge_![ ]--and then they must fight. there is a gentleman in the upper fifteen of the signers of the writ--the hawking of whose names appears to me very bad taste--whom i met in cordial cooperation for many a year at a scientific board. all i knew about his religion was that he, as a clergyman, must in some sense or other receive the articles:--all that he could know about mine was that i was some kind of heretic, or so reputed. if we had come to signing opposite manifestoes, turn-about, we might have found ourselves in the lowest depths of party discussion at our very council-table. i trust the list of subscribers to the declaration, when it comes to be published, will show that the bulk of those who have really added to our knowledge have seen the thing in its true light. "the promoters--i say nothing about the subscribers--of the movement will, i trust, not feel aggrieved at the course i have taken or the remarks i have made. walter scott says that before we judge napoleon by the temptation to which he yielded, we ought to remember how much he may have resisted: i invite them to apply this rule to myself; they can have no idea of the feeling with which i { } contemplate all attempts to repress freedom of inquiry, nor of the loathing with which i recoil from the proposal to be art and part. they have asked me to give a public opinion upon a certain point. it is true that they have had the kindness to tender both the opinion they wish me to form, and the shape in which they would have it appear: i will let them draw me out, but i will not let them take me in. if they will put an asterisk to my name, and this letter to the asterisk, they are welcome to my signature. as i do not expect them to relish this proposal, i will not solicit the favor of its adoption. but they have given a right to think, for they have asked me to think; to publish, for they have asked me to allow them to publish; to blame them, for they have asked me to blame their betters. should they venture to find fault because my direction of disapproval, publicly given, is half a revolution different from theirs, they will be known as having presented a loaded document at the head of a traveler in the highway of discussion, with--your signature or your silence!" the fly-leaf paradox. the paradox being the proposition of something which runs counter to what would generally be thought likely, may present itself in many ways. there is a _fly-leaf paradox_, which puzzled me for many years, until i found a probable solution. i frequently saw, in the blank leaves of old books, learned books, bibles of a time when a bible was very costly, etc., the name of an owner who, by the handwriting and spelling, must have been an illiterate person or a child, followed by the date of the book itself. accordingly, this uneducated person or young child seemed to be the first owner, which in many cases was not credible. looking one day at a barker's[ ] bible of , i saw an { } inscription in a child's writing, which certainly belonged to a much later date. it was "martha taylor, her book, giuen me by granny scott to keep for her sake." with this the usual verses, followed by , the date of the book. but it so chanced that the blank page opposite the title, on which the above was written, was a verso of the last leaf of a prayer book, which had been bound before the bible; and on the recto of this leaf was a colophon, with the date . it struck me immediately that uneducated persons and children, having seen dates written under names, and not being quite up in chronology, did frequently finish off with the date of the book, which stared them in the face. always write in your books. you may be a silly person--for though your reading my book is rather a contrary presumption, yet it is not conclusive--and your observations may be silly or irrelevant, but you cannot tell what use they may be of long after you are gone where budgeteers cease from troubling. i picked up the following book, printed by j. franklin[ ] at boston, during the period in which his younger brother benjamin was his apprentice. and as benjamin was apprenticed very early, and is recorded as having learned the mechanical art very rapidly, there is some presumption that part of it may be his work, though he was but thirteen at the time. as this set of editions of hodder[ ] (by { } mose[ ]) is not mentioned, to my knowledge, i give the title in full: "hodder's arithmetick: or that necessary art made most easy: being explained in a way familiar to the capacity of any that desire to learn it in a little time. by james hodder, writing-master. the five and twentieth edition, revised, augmented, and above a thousand faults amended, by henry mose, late servant and successor to the author. boston: printed by j. franklin, for s. phillips, n. buttolph, b. elliot, d. henchman, g. phillips, j. elliot, and e. negus, booksellers in boston, and sold at their shops. ." the book is a very small octavo, the type and execution are creditable, the woodcut at the beginning is clumsy. it is a perfect copy, page for page, of the english editions of mose's hodder, of which the one called seventeenth is of london, . there is not a syllable to show that the edition above described might not be of boston in england. presumptions, but not very strong ones, might be derived from the name of _franklin_, and from the large number of booksellers who combined in the undertaking. it chanced, however, that a former owner had made the following note in my copy: "wednessday, july y^e , , att ten in y^e forenoon we sail^d from boston, came too twice, once in king rode, and once in y^e narrows. sail^d by y^e lighthouse in y^e even^g." { } no ordinary map would decide these points: so i had to apply to my friend sir francis beaufort,[ ] and the charts at the admiralty decided immediately for massachusetts. paradoxes of orthography and computation. the french are able paradoxers in their spelling of foreign names. the abbé sabatier de castres,[ ] in , gives an account of an imaginary dialogue between swif, adisson, otwai, and bolingbrocke. i had hoped that this was a thing of former days, like the literal roasting of heretics; but the charity which hopeth all things must hope for disappointments. looking at a recent work on the history of the popes, i found referred to, in the matter of urban viii[ ] and galileo, references to the works of two englishmen, the rev. win worewel and the rev. raden powen. [wm. whewell and baden powell].[ ] i must not forget the "moderate computation" paradox. this is the way by which large figures are usually obtained. anything surprisingly great is got by the "lowest computation," anything as surprisingly small by the "utmost computation"; and these are the two great subdivisions of "moderate computation." in this way we learn that , persons were executed in one reign, and , persons { } burned for witchcraft in one century. sometimes this computation is very close. by a card before me it appears that all the christians, including those dispersed in heathen countries, those of great britain and ireland excepted, are , , people, and pay their clergy , , l. but , , people pay the clergy of the anglo-irish establishment , , l.; and , , of other denominations pay , , l. when i read moderate computations, i always think of voltaire and the "mémoires du fameux évêque de chiapa, par lesquels il paraît qu'il avait égorgé, ou brulé, ou noyé dix millions d'infidèles en amérique pour les convertir. je crus que cet évêque exaggérait; mais quand on réduisait ces sacrifices à cinq millions de victimes, cela serait encore admirable."[ ] centrifugal force. my budget has been arranged by authors. this is the only plan, for much of the remark is personal: the peculiarities of the paradoxer are a large part of the interest of the paradox. as to subject-matter, there are points which stand strongly out; the quadrature of the circle, for instance. but there are others which cannot be drawn out so as to be conspicuous in a review of writers: as one instance, i may take the _centrifugal force_. when i was about nine years old i was taken to hear a course of lectures, given by an itinerant lecturer in a country town, to get as much as i could of the second half of a good, sound, philosophical omniscience. the first half (and sometimes more) comes by nature. to this end i smelt chemicals, learned that they were different kinds of _gin_, saw young wags try to kiss the girls under the excuse of what was called _laughing gas_--which i was sure { } was not to blame for more than five per cent of the requisite assurance--and so forth. this was all well so far as it went; but there was also the excessive notion of creative power exhibited in the millions of miles of the solar system, of which power i wondered they did not give a still grander idea by expressing the distances in inches. but even this was nothing to the ingenious contrivance of the centrifugal force. "you have heard what i have said of the wonderful centripetal force, by which divine wisdom has retained the planets in their orbits round the sun. but, ladies and gentlemen, it must be clear to you that if there were no other force in action, this centripetal force would draw our earth and the other planets into the sun, and universal ruin would ensue. to prevent such a catastrophe, the same wisdom has implanted a centrifugal force of the same amount, and directly opposite," etc. i had never heard of alfonso x of castile,[ ] but i ventured to think that if divine wisdom had just let the planets alone it would come to the same thing, with equal and opposite troubles saved. the paradoxers deal largely in speculation conducted upon the above explanation. they provide external agents for what they call the centrifugal force. some make the sun's rays keep the planets off, without a thought about what would become of our poor eyes if the _push_ of the light which falls on the earth were a counterpoise to all its gravitation. the true explanation cannot be given here, for want of room. cambridge poets. sometimes a person who has a point to carry will assert a singular fact or prediction for the sake of his point; and { } this paradox has almost obtained the sole use of the name. persons who have reputation to care for should beware how they adopt this plan, which now and then eventuates a spanker, as the american editor said. lord byron, in "english bards, etc." ( ), ridiculing cambridge poetry, wrote as follows: "but where fair isis rolls her purer wave, the partial muse delighted loves to lave; on her green banks a greener wreath she wove, to crown the bards that haunt her classic grove; where richards[ ] wakes a genuine poet's fires, and modern britons glory in their sires."[ ] there is some account of the rev. geo. richards, fellow of oriel and vicar of bampton, (m.a. in ) in the _living authors_ by watkins[ ] and shoberl[ ] ( ). in rivers's _living authors_, of , which is best fitted for citation, as being published before lord byron wrote, he is spoken of in high terms. the _aboriginal britons_ was an oxford (special) prize poem, of . charles lamb mentions richards as his school-fellow at christ's hospital, "author of the _aboriginal britons_, the most spirited of the oxford prize poems: a pale, studious grecian." as i never heard of richards as a poet,[ ] i conclude that his fame is defunct, except in what may prove to be a very ambiguous kind of immortality, conferred by lord byron. the awkwardness of a case which time has broken down { } is increased by the eulogist himself adding so powerful a name to the list of cambridge poets, that his college has placed his statue in the library, more conspicuously than that of newton in the chapel; and this although the greatness of poetic fame had some serious drawbacks in the moral character of some of his writings. and it will be found on inquiry that byron, to get his instance against cambridge, had to go back eighteen years, passing over seven intermediate productions, of which he had either never heard, or which he would not cite as waking a genuine poet's fires. the conclusion seems to be that the _aboriginal britons_ is a remarkable youthful production, not equalled by subsequent efforts. to enhance the position in which the satirist placed himself, two things should be remembered. first, the glowing and justifiable terms in which byron had spoken,--a hundred and odd lines before he found it convenient to say no cambridge poet could compare with richards,--of a cambridge poet who died only three years before byron wrote, and produced greatly admired works while actually studying in the university. the fame of kirke white[ ] still lives; and future literary critics may perhaps compare his writings and those of richards, simply by reason of the curious relation in which they are here placed alongside of each other. and it is much to byron's credit that, in speaking of the deceased cambridge poet, he forgot his own argument and its exigencies, and proved himself only a paradoxer _pro re nata_. secondly, byron was very unfortunate in another passage of the same poem: { } "what varied wonders tempt us as they pass! the cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas. in turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air!" three of the bubbles have burst to mighty ends. the metallic tractors are disused; but the force which, if anything, they put in action, is at this day, under the name of mesmerism, used, prohibited, respected, scorned, assailed, defended, asserted, denied, declared utterly obscure, and universally known. it was hard lines to select for candidates for oblivion not one of whom got in. i shall myself, i am assured, be some day cited for laughing at the great discovery of ----: the blank is left for my reader to fill up in his own way; but i think i shall not be so unlucky in four different ways. falsified prediction. the narration before the fact, as prophecy has been called, sometimes quite as true as the narration after the fact, is very ridiculous when it is wrong. why, the pre-narrator could not know; the post-narrator might have known. a good collection of unlucky predictions might be made: i hardly know one so fit to go with byron's as that of the rev. daniel rivers, already quoted, about johnson's biographers. peter pindar[ ] may be excused, as personal satire was his object, for addressing boswell and mrs. piozzi[ ] as follows: "instead of adding splendor to his name, your books are downright gibbets to his fame; you never with posterity can thrive, 'tis by the rambler's death alone you live." but rivers, in prose narrative, was not so excusable. he says: { } "as admirers of the learning and moral excellence of their hero, we glow at almost every page with indignation that his weaknesses and his failings should be disclosed to public view.... johnson, after the luster he had reflected on the name of thrale ... was to have his memory tortured and abused by her detested itch for scribbling. more injury, we will venture to affirm, has been done to the fame of johnson by this lady and her late biographical helpmate, than his most avowed enemies have been able to effect: and if his character becomes unpopular with some of his successors, it is to those gossiping friends he is indebted for the favor." poor dear old sam! the best known dead man alive! clever, good-hearted, logical, ugly bear! where would he have been if it had not been for boswell and thrale, and their imitators? what would biography have been if boswell had not shown how to write a life? rivers is to be commended for not throwing a single stone at mrs. thrale's second marriage. this poor lady begins to receive a little justice. the literary world seems to have found out that a blue-stocking dame who keeps open house for a set among them has a right, if it so please her, to marry again without taking measures to carry on the cake-shop. i was before my age in this respect: as a boy-reader of boswell, and a few other things that fell in my way, i came to a clearness that the conduct of society towards mrs. piozzi was _blackguard_. she wanted nothing but what was in that day a woman's only efficient protection, a male relation with a brace of pistols, and a competent notion of using them. byron and wordsworth. byron's mistake about hallam in the pindar story may be worth placing among absurdities. for elucidation, suppose that some poet were now to speak-- { } "of man's first disobedience, and the fruit eve gave to adam in his birthday suit--" and some critic were to call it nonsense, would that critic be laughing at milton? payne knight,[ ] in his _taste_, translated part of gray's _bard_ into greek. some of his lines are [greek: therma d' ho tengôn dakrua stonachais] [greek: oulon melos phoberai] [greek: êeide phônai.] literally thus: "wetting warm tears with groans, continuous chant with fearful voice he sang." on which hallam remarks: "the twelfth line [our first] is nonsense." and so it is, a poet can no more wet his tears with his groans than wet his ale with his whistle. now this first line is from pindar, but is only part of the sense; in full it is: [greek: therma de tengôn dakrua stonachais] [greek: horthion phônase.] pindar's [greek: tengôn] must be englished by _shedding_, and he stands alone in this use. he says, "shedding warm tears, he cried out loud, with groans." byron speaks of "classic hallam, much renowned for greek:" and represents him as criticising _the greek_ of all payne's lines, and not discovering that "the lines" were pindar's { } until after publication. byron was too much of a scholar to make this blunder himself: he either accepted the facts from report, or else took satirical licence. and why not? if you want to laugh at a person, and he will not give occasion, whose fault is it that you are obliged to make it? hallam did criticise some of payne knight's greek; but with the caution of his character, he remarked that possibly some of these queer phrases might be "critic-traps" justified by some one use of some one author. i remember well having a latin essay to write at cambridge, in which i took care to insert a few monstrous and unusual idioms from cicero: a person with a nizolius,[ ] and without scruples may get scores of them. so when my tutor raised his voice against these oddities, i was up to him, for i came down upon him with cicero, chapter and verse, and got round him. and so my own solecisms, many of them, passed unchallenged. byron had more good in his nature than he was fond of letting out: whether he was a soured misanthrope, or whether his _vein_ lay that way in poetry, and he felt it necessary to fit his demeanor to it, are matters far beyond me. mr. crabb robinson[ ] told me the following story more than once. he was at charles lamb's chambers in the temple when wordsworth came in, with the new _edinburgh review_ in his hand, and fume on his countenance. "these reviewers," said he, "put me out of patience! here is a young man--they say he is a lord--who has written a volume of poetry; and these fellows, just because he is a lord, set upon him, laugh at him, and sneer at his writing. the young man will do something, if he goes on as he has begun. but these reviewers seem to think { } that nobody may write poetry, unless he lives in a garret." crabb robinson told this long after to lady byron, who said, "ah! if byron had known that, he would never have attacked wordsworth. he went one day to meet wordsworth at dinner; when he came home i said, 'well, how did the young poet get on with the old one?' 'why, to tell you the truth,' said he, 'i had but one feeling from the beginning of the visit to the end, and that was--_reverence_!'" lady byron told my wife that her husband had a very great respect for wordsworth. i suppose he would have said--as the archangel said to his satan--"our difference is po[li = e]tical." i suspect that fielding would, if all were known, be ranked among the unlucky railers at supposed paradox. in his _miscellanies_ ( , vo) he wrote a satire on the chrysippus or guinea, an animal which multiplies itself by division, like the polypus. this he supposes to have been drawn up by petrus gualterus, meaning the famous usurer, peter walter. he calls it a paper "proper to be read before the r----l society": and next year, , a quarto reprint was made to resemble a paper in the _philosophical transactions_. so far as i can make out, one object is ridicule of what the zoologists said about the polypus: a reprint in the form of the _transactions_ was certainly satire on the society, not on peter walter and his knack of multiplying guineas. old poets have recognized the quadrature of the circle as a well-known difficulty. dante compares himself, when bewildered, to a geometer who cannot find the principle on which the circle is to be measured: "quale è 'l geometra che tutto s' affige per misurar lo cerchio, e non ritruova, pensando qual principio ond' egli indige."[ ] { } and quarles[ ] speaks as follows of the _summum bonum_: "or is't a tart idea, to procure an edge, and keep the practic soul in ure, like that dear chymic dust, or puzzling quadrature?" the poetic notion of the quadrature must not be forgotten. aristophanes, in the _birds_, introduces a geometer who announces his intention to _make a square circle_. pope, in the _dunciad_, delivers himself as follows, with a greek pronunciation rather strange in a translator of homer. probably pope recognized, as a general rule, the very common practice of throwing back the accent in defiance of quantity, seen in o´rator, au´ditor, se´nator, ca´tenary, etc. "mad _mathesis_ alone was unconfined, too mad for mere material chains to bind,-- now to pure space lifts her ecstatic stare, now, running round the circle, finds it square." the author's note explains that this "regards the wild and fruitless attempts of squaring the circle." the poetic idea seems to be that the geometers try to make a square circle. disraeli quotes it as "finds _its_ square," but the originals do not support this reading. de becourt. i have come in the way of a work, entitled _the grave of human philosophies_ ( ), translated from the french of r. de bécourt[ ] by a. dalmas. it supports, but i suspect not very accurately, the views of the old hindu books. { } that the sun is only miles from us, and only miles in diameter, may be passed over; my affair is with the state of mind into which persons of m. bécourt's temperament are brought by a fancy. he fully grants, as certain, four millions of years as the duration of the hindu race, and as that of the universe. it must be admitted he is not wholly wrong in saying that our errors about the universe proceed from our ignorance of its origin, antiquity, organization, laws, and final destination. living in an age of light, he "avails himself of that opportunity" to remove this veil of darkness, etc. the system of the brahmins is the only true one: he adds that it has never before been attempted, as it could not be obtained except by him. the author requests us first, to lay aside prejudice; next, to read all he says in the order in which he says it: we may then pronounce judgment upon a work which begins by taking the brahmins for granted. all the paradoxers make the same requests. they do not see that compliance would bring thousands of systems before the world every year: we have scores as it is. how is a poor candid inquirer to choose. fortunately, the mind has its grand jury as well as its little one: and it will not put a book upon its trial without a _prima facie_ case in its favor. and with most of those who really search for themselves, that case is never made out without evidence of knowledge, standing out clear and strong, in the book to be examined. bequest of a quadrature. there is much private history which will never come to light, _caret quia vate sacro_,[ ] because no budgeteer comes across it. many years ago a man of business, whose life was passed in banking, amused his leisure with quadrature, was successful of course, and bequeathed the result in a sealed book, which the legatee was enjoined not to sell { } under a thousand pounds. the true ratio was . : i have the anecdote from the legatee's executor, who opened the book. that a banker should square the circle is very credible: but how could a city man come by the notion that a thousand pounds could be got for it? a friend of mine, one of the twins of my zodiac, will spend a thousand pounds, if he have not done it already, in black and white cyclometry: but i will answer for it that he, a man of sound business notions, never entertained the idea of [pi] recouping him, as they now say. i speak of individual success: of course if a company were formed, especially if it were of unlimited lie-ability, the shares would be taken. no offence; there is nothing but what a pun will either sanctify, justify, or nullify: "it comes o'er the soul like the sweet south that breathes upon a bank of _vile hits_." the shares would be at a premium of - / on the day after issue. if they presented me with the number of shares i deserve, for suggestion and advertisement, i should stand up for the archpriest of st. vitus[ ] and - / , with a view to a little more gold on the bridge. i now insert a couple of reviews, one about cyclopædias, one about epistolary collections. should any reader wish for explanation of this insertion, i ask him to reflect a moment, and imagine me set to justify all the additions now before him! in truth these reviews are the repositories of many odds and ends: they were not made to the books; the materials were in my notes, and the books came as to a ready-made clothes shop, and found what would fit them. many remember curll's[ ] bequest of some very good titles { } which only wanted treatises written to them. well! here were some tolerable reviews--as times go--which only wanted books fitted to them. accordingly, some tags were made to join on the books; and then as the reader sees. i should find it hard to explain why the insertion is made in this place rather than another. but again, suppose i were put to make such an explanation throughout the volume. the improver who laid out grounds and always studied what he called _unexpectedness_, was asked what name he gave it for those who walked over his grounds a second time. he was silenced; but i have an answer: it is that which is given by the very procedure of taking up my book a second time. review of cyclopÆdias. october , . _the english cyclopædia._ conducted by charles knight.[ ] vols.: viz., _geography_, vols.; _biography_, vols.; _natural history_, vols.; _arts and sciences_, vols. (bradbury & evans.) _the encyclopædia britannica: a dictionary of arts, sciences, and general literature._ eighth edition. vols. and index. (black.) the two editions above described are completed at the same time: and they stand at the head of the two great branches into which pantological undertakings are divided, as at once the largest and the best of their classes. when the works are brought together, the first thing that strikes the eye is the syllable of difference in the names. the word _cyclopædia_ is a bit of modern purism. though [greek: enkuklopaideia][ ] is not absolutely greek of greece, we learn from both pliny[ ] and quintilian[ ] that the circle { } of the sciences was so called by the greeks, and vitruvius[ ] has thence naturalized _encyclium_ in latin. nevertheless we admit that the initial _en_ would have euphonized but badly with the word _penny_: and the _english cyclopædia_ is the augmented, revised, and distributed edition of the _penny cyclopædia_. it has indeed been said that cyclopædia should mean the education _of_ a circle, just as cyropædia is the education _of_ cyrus. but this is easily upset by aristotle's word [greek: kuklophoria],[ ] motion _in_ a circle, and by many other cases, for which see the lexicon. the earliest printed encyclopædia of this kind was perhaps the famous "myrrour of the worlde," which caxton[ ] translated from the french and printed in . the original latin is of the thirteenth century, or earlier. this is a collection of very short treatises. in or shortly after appeared the _margarita philosophica_ of gregory reisch,[ ] the same we must suppose, who was confessor to the emperor maximilian.[ ] this is again a collection of treatises, of much more pretension: and the estimation formed of it is proved by the number of editions it went through. in appeared the little collection of _works_ of ringelberg,[ ] which is truly called an encyclopædia by { } morhof, though the thumbs and fingers of the two hands will meet over the length of its one volume. there are more small collections; but we pass on to the first work to which the name of _encyclopædia_ is given. this is a ponderous _scientiarum omnium encyclopædia_ of alsted,[ ] in four folio volumes, commonly bound in two: published in and again in ; the true parent of all the encyclopædias, or collections of treatises, or works in which that character predominates. the first great _dictionary_ may perhaps be taken to be hofman's _lexicon universale_[ ] ( ); but chambers's[ ] (so called) _dictionary_ ( ) has a better claim. and we support our proposed nomenclature by observing that alsted accidentally called his work _en_cyclopædia, and chambers simply cyclopædia. we shall make one little extract from the _myrrour_, and one from ringelberg. caxton's author makes a singular remark for his time; and one well worthy of attention. the grammar rules of a language, he says, must have been invented by foreigners: "and whan any suche tonge was perfytely had and usyd amonge any people, than other people not used to the same tonge caused rulys to be made wherby they myght lerne the same tonge ... and suche rulys be called the gramer of that tonge." ringelberg says that if the right nostril bleed, the little finger of the right hand should be crooked, and squeezed with great force; and the same for the left. { } we pass on to _the_ encyclopédie,[ ] commenced in ; the work which has, in many minds, connected the word _encyclopædist_ with that of _infidel_. readers of our day are surprised when they look into this work, and wonder what has become of all the irreligion. the truth is, that the work--though denounced _ab ovo_[ ] on account of the character of its supporters--was neither adapted, nor intended, to excite any particular remark on the subject: no work of which d'alembert[ ] was co-editor would have been started on any such plan. for, first, he was a real _sceptic_: that is, doubtful, with a mind not made up. next, he valued his quiet more than anything; and would as soon have gone to sleep over an hornet's nest as have contemplated a systematic attack upon either religion or government. as to diderot[ ]--of whose varied career of thought it is difficult to fix the character of any one moment, but who is very frequently taken among us for a pure atheist--we will quote one sentence from the article "_encyclopédie_," which he wrote himself:--"dans le moral, il n'y a que dieu qui doit servir de modèle a 'homme; dans les art, que la nature."[ ] a great many readers in our country have but a very hazy idea of the difference between the political encyclopædia, as we may call it, and the _encyclopédie méthodique_,[ ] which we always take to be meant--whether rightly or not we cannot tell--when we hear of the "great french encyclopædia." this work, which takes much from its { } predecessor, professing to correct it, was begun in , and finished in . there are volumes of text, and plates, which are sometimes incorporated with the text, sometimes make about more volumes. this is still the monster production of the kind; though probably the german cyclopædia of ersch and gruber,[ ] which was begun in , and is still in progress, will beat it in size. the great french work is a collection of dictionaries; it consists of cyclopædias of all the separate branches of knowledge. it is not a work, but a collection of works, one or another department is to be bought from time to time; but we never heard of a complete set for sale in one lot. as ships grow longer and longer, the question arises what limit there is to the length. one answer is, that it will never do to try such a length that the stern will be rotten before the prow is finished. this wholesome rule has not been attended to in the matter before us; the earlier parts of the great french work were antiquated before the whole were completed: something of the kind will happen to that of ersch and gruber. the production of a great dictionary of either of the kinds is far from an easy task. there is one way of managing the _en_cyclopædia which has been largely resorted to; indeed, we may say that no such work has been free from it. this plan is to throw all the attention upon the great treatises, and to resort to paste and scissors, or some process of equally easy character, for the smaller articles. however it may be done, it has been the rule that the encyclopædia of treatises should have its supplemental dictionary of a very incomplete character. it is true that the treatises are intended to do a good deal; and that the index, if it be good, knits the treatises and the dictionary into one whole of reference. still there are two stools, and between them a great deal will fall to the ground. the dictionary portion of the _britannica_ is not to be compared with its { } treatises; the part called miscellaneous and lexicographical in the _metropolitana_[ ] is a great failure. the defect is incompleteness. the biographical portion, for example, of the britannica is very defective: of many names of note in literature and science, which become known to the reader from the treatises, there is no account whatever in the dictionary. so that the reader who has learnt the results of a life in astronomy, for example, must go to some other work to know when that life began and ended. this defect has run through all the editions; it is in the casting of the work. the reader must learn to take the results at their true value, which is not small. he must accustom himself to regard the britannica as a splendid body of treatises on all that can be called heads of knowledge, both greater and smaller; with help from the accompanying dictionary, but not of the most complete character. practically, we believe, this defect cannot be avoided: two plans of essentially different structure cannot be associated on the condition of each or either being allowed to abbreviate the other. the defect of all others which it is most difficult to avoid is inequality of performance. take any dictionary you please, of any kind which requires the association of a number of contributors, and this defect must result. we do not merely mean that some will do their work better than others; this of course: we mean that there will be structural differences of execution, affecting the relative extent of the different parts of the whole, as well as every other point by which a work can be judged. a wise editor will not attempt any strong measures of correction: he will remember that if some portions be below the rest, which is a disadvantage, it follows that some portions must be above the rest, which is an advantage. the only practical level, if { } level there must be, is that of mediocrity, if not of absolute worthlessness: any attempt to secure equality of strength will result in equality of weakness. efficient development may be cut down into meager brevity, and in this way only can apparent equality of plan be secured throughout. it is far preferable to count upon differences of execution, and to proceed upon the acknowledged expectation that the prominent merits of the work will be settled by the accidental character of the contributors; it being held impossible that any editorial efforts can secure a uniform standard of goodness. wherever the greatest power is found, it should be suffered to produce its natural effect. there are, indeed, critics who think that the merit of a book, like the strength of a chain, is that of its weakest part: but there are others who know that the parallel does not hold, and who will remember that the union of many writers must show exaggeration of the inequalities which almost always exist in the production of one person. the true plan is to foster all the good that can be got, and to give development in the directions in which most resources are found: a cyclopædia, like a plant, should grow towards the light. the _penny cyclopædia_ had its share of this kind of defect or excellence, according to the way in which the measure is taken. the circumstance is not so much noticed as might be expected, and this because many a person is in the habit of using such a dictionary chiefly with relation to one subject, his own; and more still want it for the pure dictionary purpose, which does not go much beyond the meaning of the word. but the person of full and varied reference feels the differences; and criticism makes capital of them. the useful knowledge society was always odious to the organs of religious bigotry; and one of them, adverting to the fact that geography was treated with great ability, and most unusual fullness, in the _penny cyclopædia_, announced it by making it the sole merit of { } the work that, with sufficient addition, it would make a tolerably good gazetteer. some of our readers may still have hanging about them the feelings derived from this old repugnance of a class to all that did not associate direct doctrinal teaching of religion with every attempt to communicate knowledge. i will take one more instance, by way of pointing out the extent to which stupidity can go. if there be an astronomical fact of the telescopic character which, next after saturn's ring and jupiter's satellites, was known to all the world, it was the existence of multitudes of double stars, treble stars, etc. a respectable quarterly of the theological cast, which in mercy we refrain from naming, was ignorant of this common knowledge,--imagined that the mention of such systems was a blunder of one of the writers in the _penny cyclopædia_, and lashed the presumed ignorance of the statement in the following words, delivered in april, : "we have forgotten the name of that sidrophel who lately discovered that the fixed stars were not single stars, but appear in the heavens like soles at billingsgate, in pairs; while a second astronomer, under the influence of that competition in trade which the political economists tell us is so advantageous to the public, professes to show us, through his superior telescope, that the apparently single stars are really three. before such wondrous mandarins of science, how continually must _homunculi_ like ourselves keep in the background, lest we come between the wind and their nobility." certainly these little men ought to have kept in the background; but they did not: and the growing reputation of the work which they assailed has chronicled them in literary history; grubs in amber. this important matter of inequality, which has led us so far, is one to which the _encyclopædia_ is as subject as the _cyclopædia_; but it is not so easily recognized as a fault. { } we receive the first book as mainly a collection of treatises: we know their authors, and we treat them as individuals. we see, for instance, the names of two leading writers on optics, brewster[ ] and herschel.[ ] it would not at all surprise us if either of these writers should be found criticising the other by name, even though the very view opposed should be contained in the same _encyclopædia_ with the criticism. and in like manner, we should hold it no wonder if we found some third writer not comparable to either of those we have named. it is not so in the _cyclopædia_: here we do not know the author, except by inference from a list of which we never think while consulting the work. we do not dissent from this or that author: we blame the book. the _encyclopædia britannica_ is an old friend. though it holds a proud place in our present literature, yet the time was when it stood by itself, more complete and more clear than anything which was to be found elsewhere. there must be studious men alive in plenty who remember when they were studious boys, what a literary luxury it was to pass a few days in the house of a friend who had a copy of this work. the present edition is a worthy successor of those which went before. the last three editions, terminating in , , and , seem to show that a lunar cycle cannot pass without an amended and augmented edition. detailed criticism is out of the question; but we may notice the effective continuance of the plan of giving general historical dissertations on the progress of knowledge. of some of these dissertations we have had to take separate notice; and all will be referred to in our ordinary treatment of current literature.[ ] the literary excellence of these two extensive undertakings is of the same high character. to many this will { } need justification: they will not easily concede to the cheap and recent work a right to stand on the same shelf with the old and tried magazine, newly replenished with the best of everything. those who are cognizant by use of the kind of material which fills the _penny cyclopædia_ will need no further evidence: to others we shall quote a very remarkable and certainly very complete testimony. the _cyclopædia of the physical sciences_, published by dr. nichol[ ] in (noticed by us, april ), is one of the most original of our special dictionaries. the following is an extract from the editor's preface: "when i assented to mr. griffin's proposal that i should edit such a cyclopædia, i had it in my mind that i might make the _scissors_ eminently effective. alas! on narrowly examining our best cyclopædias, i found that the scissors had become blunted through too frequent and vigorous use. one great exception exists: viz., the _penny cyclopædia_ of charles knight.[ ] the cheapest and the least pretending, it is really the most philosophical of our _scientific_ dictionaries. it is not made up of a series of treatises, some good and many indifferent, but is a thorough _dictionary_, well proportioned and generally written by the best men of the time. the more closely it is examined, the more deeply will our obligation be felt to the intelligence and conscientiousness of its projector and editor." after dr. nichol's candid and amusing announcement of his scissorial purpose, it is but fair to state that nothing of the kind was ultimately carried into effect, even upon the work in which he found so much to praise. i quote this testimony because it is of a peculiar kind. { } the success of the _penny magazine_ led mr. charles knight in to propose to the useful knowledge society a cyclopædia in weekly penny numbers. these two works stamp the name of the projector on the literature of our day in very legible characters. eight volumes of pages each were contemplated; and mr. long[ ] and mr. knight were to take the joint management. the plan embraced a popular account of art and science, with very brief biographical and geographical information. the early numbers of the work had some of the _penny magazine_ character: no one can look at the pictures of the abbot and abbess in their robes without seeing this. by the time the second volume was completed, it was clearly seen that the plan was working out its own extension: a great development of design was submitted to, and mr. long became sole editor. contributors could not be found to make articles of the requisite power in the assigned space. one of them told us that when he heard of the eight volumes, happening to want a shelf to be near at hand for containing the work as it went on, he ordered it to be made to hold twenty-five volumes easily. but the inexorable logic of facts beat him after all: for the complete work contained twenty-six volumes and two thick volumes of supplement. the penny issue was brought to an end by the state of the law, which required, in , that the first and last page of everything sold separately should contain the name and address of the printer. the penny numbers contained this imprint on the fold of the outer leaf: and _qui tam_[ ] informations were laid against the agents in various towns. { } it became necessary to call in the stock; and the penny issue was abandoned. monthly parts were substituted, which varied in bulk, as the demands of the plan became more urgent, and in price from one sixpence to three. the second volume of supplement appeared in , and during the fourteen years of issue no one monthly part was ever behind its time. this result is mainly due to the peculiar qualities of mr. long, who unites the talents of the scholar and the editor in a degree which is altogether unusual. if any one should imagine that a mixed mass of contributors is a punctual piece of machinery, let him take to editing upon that hypothesis, and he shall see what he shall see and learn what he shall learn. the _english_ contains about ten per cent more matter than the _penny cyclopædia_ and its supplements; including the third supplementary volume of , which we now mention for the first time. the literary work of the two editions cost within l. and , l.: that of the two editions of the _britannica_ cost , l. but then it is to be remembered that the _britannica_ had matter to begin upon, which had been paid for in the former editions. roughly speaking, it is probable that the authorship of a page of the same size would have cost nearly the same in one as in the other. the longest articles in the _penny cyclopædia_ were "rome" in columns and "yorkshire" in columns. the only article which can be called a treatise is the astronomer royal's "gravitation," founded on the method of newton in the eleventh section, but carried to a much greater extent. in the _english cyclopædia_, the longest article of geography is "asia," in columns. in natural history the antelopes demand columns. in biography, "wellington" uses up columns, and his great military opponent columns. in the division of arts and sciences, which includes much of a social and commercial character, the length of articles often depends upon the state of the { } times with regard to the subject. our readers would not hit the longest article of this department in twenty guesses: it is "deaf and dumb" in columns. as other specimens, we may cite astronomy, ; banking, ; blind, ; british museum, ; cotton, ; drama, ; gravitation, ; libraries, ; painting, ; railways, ; sculpture, ; steam, etc., ; table, ; telegraph, ; welsh language and literature, ; wool, . these are the long articles of special subdivisions: the words under which the _en_cyclopædia gives treatises are not so prominent. as in algebra, ; chemistry, ; geometry, ; logic, ; mathematics, ; music, . but the difference between the collection of treatises and the dictionary may be illustrated thus: though "mathematics" have only five columns, "mathematics, recent terminology of," has eight: and this article we believe to be by mr. cayley,[ ] who certainly ought to know his subject, being himself a large manufacturer of the new terms which he explains. again, though "music" _in genere_, as the schoolmen said, has only nine columns, "temperament and tuning," has eight, and "chord" alone has two. and so on. in a dictionary of this kind it is difficult to make a total clearance of _personality_: by which we mean that exhibition of peculiar opinion which is offensive to taste when it is shifted from the individual on the corporate book. the treatise of the known author may, as we have said, carry that author's controversies on its own shoulders: and even his crotchets, if we may use such a word. but { } the dictionary should not put itself into antagonism with general feeling, nor even with the feelings of classes. we refer particularly to the ordinary and editorial teaching of the article. if, indeed, the writer, being at issue with mankind, should confess the difference, and give abstract of his full grounds, the case is altered: the editor then, as it were, admits a correspondent to a statement of his own individual views. the dictionary portion of the britannica is quite clear of any lapses on this point, so far as we know: the treatises and dissertations rest upon their authors. the penny cyclopædia was all but clear: and great need was there that it should have been so. the useful knowledge society, starting on the principle of perfect neutrality in politics and religion, was obliged to keep strict watch against the entrance of all attempt even to look over the hedge. there were two--we believe only two--instances of what we have called personality. the first was in the article "bunyan." it is worth while to extract all that is said--in an article of thirty lines--about a writer who is all but universally held to be the greatest master of allegory that ever wrote: "his works were collected in two volumes, folio, - : among them 'the pilgrim's progress' has attained the greatest notoriety. if a judgment is to be formed of the merits of a book by the number of times it has been reprinted, and the many languages into which it has been translated, no production in english literature is superior to this coarse allegory. on a composition which has been extolled by dr. johnson, and which in our own times has received a very high critical opinion in its favor [probably southey], it is hazardous to venture a disapproval, and we, perhaps, speak the opinion of a small minority when we confess that to us it appears to be mean, jejune and wearisome." --if the unfortunate critic who thus individualized himself had been a sedulous reader of bunyan, his power over { } english would not have been so _jejune_ as to have needed that fearful word. this little bit of criticism excited much amusement at the time of its publication: but it was so thoroughly exceptional and individual that it was seldom or never charged on the book. the second instance occurred in the article "socinians." it had been arranged that the head-words of christian sects should be intrusted to members of the sects themselves, on the understanding that the articles should simply set forth the accounts which the sects themselves give of their own doctrines. thus the article on the roman church was written by dr. wiseman.[ ] but the unitarians were not allowed to come within the rule: as in other quarters, they were treated as the gypsies of christianity. under the head "socinians"--a name repudiated by themselves--an opponent was allowed not merely to state their alleged doctrines in his own way, but to apply strong terms, such as "audacious unfairness," to some of their doings. the protests which were made against this invasion of the understanding produced, in due time, the article "unitarians," written by one of that persuasion. we need not say that these errors have been amended in the english cyclopædia: and our chief purpose in mentioning them is to remark, that this is all we can find on the points in question against twenty-eight large volumes produced by an editor whose task was monthly, and whose issue was never delayed a single hour. how much was arrested before publication none but himself can say. we have not alluded to one or two remonstrances on questions of absolute fact, which are beside the present purpose. both kinds of encyclopædic works have been fashioned upon predecessors, from the very earliest which had a predecessor to be founded upon; and the undertakings before us will be themselves the ancestors of a line of successors. those who write in such collections should be { } careful what they say, for no one can tell how long a mis-statement may live. on this point we will give the history of a pair of epithets. when the historian de thou[ ] died, and left the splendid library which was catalogued by bouillaud[ ] and the brothers dupuis[ ] (bullialdus and puteanus), there was a manuscript of de thou's friend vieta,[ ] the _harmonicon coeleste_, of which it is on record, under bouillaud's hand, that he himself lent it to cosmo de' medici,[ ] to which must be added that m. libri[ ] found it in the magliabecchi library at florence in our own day. bouillaud, it seems, entirely forgot what he had done. something, probably, that peter dupuis said to bouillaud, while they were at work on the catalogue, remained on his memory, and was published by him in , long after; to the effect that dupuis lent the manuscript to mersenne,[ ] from whom it was procured by some intending plagiarist, who would not give it back. this was repeated by sherburne,[ ] in , who speaks of the work, which "being communicated to mersennus was, by some perfidious acquaintance of that honest-minded person, surreptitiously taken from him, and irrecoverably lost or suppressed, to the unspeakable detriment of the lettered world." now let the { } reader look through the dictionaries of the last century and the present, scientific or general, at the article, "vieta," and he will be amused with the constant recurrence of "honest-minded" mersenne, and his "surreptitious" acquaintance. we cannot have seen less than thirty copies of these epithets. review of macclesfield letters. october , . _correspondence of scientific men of the seventeenth century, in the collection of the earl of macclesfield._[ ] vols. (oxford, university press.) though the title-page of this collection bears the date , it is only just completed by the publication of its table of contents and index. without these, a work of the kind is useless for consultation, and cannot make its way. the reason of the delay will appear: its effect is well known to us. we have found inquirers into the history of science singularly ignorant of things which this collection might have taught them. in the same year, , the historical society of science, which had but a brief existence, published a collection of letters, eighty-three in number, edited by mr. halliwell,[ ] of english men of science, which dovetails with the one before us, and is for the most part of a prior date. the two should be bound up together. the smaller collection runs from to ; the larger, from to past . we shall speak of the two as the museum collection and the macclesfield collection. and near them should be placed, in every scientific library, the valuable collection published, by mr. edleston,[ ] for trinity college, in . { } the history of these letters runs back to famous john collins, the attorney-general of the mathematics, as he has been called, who wrote to everybody, heard from everybody, and sent copies of everybody's letter to everybody else. he was in england what mersenne[ ] was in france: as early as , e. bernard[ ] addresses him as "the very mersennus and intelligence of this age." john collins[ ] was never more than accountant to the excise office, to which he was promoted from teaching writing and ciphering, at the restoration: he died in . we have had a man of the same office in our own day, the late prof. schumacher,[ ] who made the little danish observatory of altona the junction of all the lines by which astronomical information was conveyed from one country to another. when the collision took place between denmark and the duchies, the english government, moved by the astronomical society, instructed its diplomatic agents to represent strongly to the danish government, when occasion should arise, the great importance of the observatory of altona to the astronomical communications of the whole world. but schumacher had his own celebrated journal, the _astronomische nachrichten_, by which to work out part of his plan; private correspondence was his supplementary assistant. collins had only correspondence to rely on. nothing is better known than that it was collins's collection which furnished the materials put forward by the committee of the royal society in , as a defence of newton against the partisans of leibnitz. the noted _commercium epistolicum_ is but the abbreviation of a title which runs on with "d. johannis collins et aliorum ..." the whole of this collection passed into the hands of { } william jones,[ ] the father of the indian judge of the same name, who died in . jones was originally a teacher, but was presented with a valuable sinecure by the interest of george, second earl of macclesfield, the mover of the bill for the change of style in britain, who died president of the royal society. this change of style may perhaps be traced to the union of energies which were brought into concert by the accident of a common teacher: lord macclesfield and lord chesterfield,[ ] the mover and the seconder, and daval,[ ] who drew the bill, were pupils of de moivre.[ ] jones, who was a respectable mathematician though not an inventor, collected the largest mathematical library of his day, and became possessor of the papers of collins, which contained those of oughtred[ ] and others. some of these papers passed into the custody of the royal society: but the bulk was either bequeathed to, or purchased by, lord macclesfield; and thus they found their way to shirburn castle, where they still remain. a little before , this collection attracted the attention of a searching inquirer into points of mathematical history, the late professor rigaud,[ ] who died in . he examined the whole collection of letters, obtained lord macclesfield's consent to their publication, and induced the oxford press to bear the expense. it must be particularly remembered that there still remains at shirburn castle a { } valuable mass of non-epistolary manuscripts. so far as we can see, the best chance of a further examination and publication lies in public encouragement of the collection now before us: the oxford press might be induced to extend its operations if it were found that the results were really of interest to the literary and scientific world. rigaud died before the work was completed, and the publication was actually made by one of his sons, s. jordan rigaud,[ ] who died bishop of antigua. but this publication was little noticed, for the reasons given. the completion now published consists of a sufficient table of contents, of the briefest kind, by professor de morgan, and an excellent index by the rev. john rigaud.[ ] the work is now fairly started on its career. if we were charged to write a volume with the title "small things in their connection with great," we could not do better than choose the small part of this collection of letters as our basis. the names, as well as the contents, are both great and small: the great names, those which are known to every mathematician who has any infusion of the history of his pursuit, are briggs,[ ] oughtred, charles cavendish,[ ] gascoigne,[ ] seth ward,[ ] wallis,[ ] { } hu[y]gens,[ ] collins,[ ] william petty,[ ] hooke,[ ] boyle,[ ] pell,[ ] oldenburg,[ ] brancker,[ ] slusius,[ ] bertit,[ ] bernard,[ ] borelli,[ ] mouton,[ ] pardies,[ ] fermat,[ ] towneley,[ ] auzout,[ ] { } d. gregory,[ ] halley,[ ] machin,[ ] montmort,[ ] cotes,[ ] jones,[ ] saunderson,[ ] reyneau,[ ] brook taylor,[ ] maupertuis,[ ] bouguer,[ ] la condamine,[ ] folkes,[ ] macclesfield,[ ] { } baker,[ ] barrow,[ ] flamsteed,[ ] lord brounker,[ ] j. gregory,[ ] newton[ ] and keill.[ ] to these the museum collection adds the names of thomas digges,[ ] dee,[ ] tycho brahe,[ ] harriot,[ ] lydyat,[ ] briggs,[ ] warner,[ ] tarporley, pell,[ ] lilly,[ ] oldenburg,[ ] collins,[ ] morland.[ ] { } the first who appears on the scene is the celebrated oughtred, who is related to have died of joy at the restoration: but it should be added, by way of excuse, that he was eighty-six years old. he is an animal of extinct race, an eton mathematician. few eton men, even of the minority which knows what a sliding rule is, are aware that the inventor was of their own school and college: but they may be excused, for dr. hutton,[ ] so far as his dictionary bears witness, seems not to have known it any more than they. a glance at one of his letters reminds us of a letter from the astronomer royal on the discovery of neptune, which we printed march , . mr. airy[ ] there contends, and proves it both by leverrier[ ] and by adams,[ ] that the limited publication of a private letter is more efficient than the more general publication of a printed memoir. the same may be true of a dead letter, as opposed to a dead book. our eye was caught by a letter of oughtred ( ), containing systematic use of contractions for the words _sine_, _cosine_, etc., prefixed to the symbol of the angle. this is so very important a step, simple as it is, that euler[ ] is justly held to have greatly advanced trigonometry by its introduction. nobody that we know of has noticed that oughtred was master of the improvement, and willing to have taught it, if people would have learnt. after looking at his dead letter, we naturally turned to his dead book on trigonometry, and there we found the abbreviations _s_, _sco_, _t_, _tco_, _se_, _seco_, regularly established as part of the system of the work. but not one of those who have investigated the contending claims of euler and thomas { } simpson[ ] has chanced to know of oughtred's "trigonometrie": and the present revival is due to his letter, not to his book. a casual reader, turning over the pages, would imagine that almost all the letters had been printed, either in the general dictionary, or in birch,[ ] etc.: so often does the supplementary remark begin with "this letter has been printed in ----." for ourselves we thought, until we counted, that a large majority of the letters had been given, either in whole or in part. but the positive strikes the mind more forcibly than the negative: we find that all of which any portion has been in type makes up very little more than a quarter; the cases in which the whole letter is given being a minority of this quarter. the person who has been best ransacked is flamsteed: of letters from him, had been previously given in whole or in part. of letters to and from newton, only have been culled. the letters have been modernized in spelling, and, to some extent, in algebraical notation; it also seems that conjectural methods of introducing interpolations into the text have been necessary. for all this we are sorry: the scientific value of the collection is little altered, but its literary value is somewhat lowered. but it could not be helped: the printers could not work from the originals, and professor rigaud had to copy everything himself. a fac-simile must have been the work of more time than he had to give: had he attempted it, his death would have cut short the whole undertaking, instead of allowing him to prepare everything but a preface, and to superintend the printing of one of the volumes. we may also add, that we believe we have notices of _all_ the letters in the macclesfield collection. we judge this because several which are too trivial to print are numbered and described; and those would certainly not have been noticed if _any_ omissions had { } been made. and we know that every letter was removed from shirburn castle to oxford. two persons emerge from oblivion in this series of letters. the first is michael dary,[ ] an obscure mathematician, who was in correspondence with newton and other stars. he was a gauger at bristol, by the interest of collins; afterwards a candidate for the mathematical school at christ's hospital, with a certificate from newton: he was then a gunner in the tower, and is lastly described by wallis as "mr. dary, the tobacco-cutter, a knowing man in algebra." in , dary writes to newton at cambridge, as follows:--"although i sent you three papers yesterday, i cannot refrain from sending you this. i have had fresh thoughts this morning." two months afterwards poor newton writes to collins, "mr. dary is very solicitous about mathematics": but in spite of the persecution, he subscribes himself to dary "your loving friend." dary's _problem_ is that of finding the rate of interest of an annuity of which the value and term are given. dary's _theorem_, which he seems to have invented specially for the solution of his problem, though it is of wide range, can be exhibited to mathematical readers even in our columns. in modern language, it is that the limit of [phi]^{_n_}_x_, when _n_ increases without limit, is a solution of [phi]_x_ = _x_. we have mentioned the i. newton to whom dary looked up; we add a word about the one on whom he looked down. dr. john newton,[ ] a sedulous publisher of logarithms, tables of interest, etc., who began his career before isaac newton, sometimes puzzles those who do not know him, when described as i. newton. the scientific world was of opinion that all that was valuable in one of his works was taken from dary's private communications. { } the second character above alluded to is one who carried mathematical researches a far greater length than newton himself: the assistance which he rendered in this respect, even to newton, has never been acknowledged in modern times: though the work before us shows that his contemporaries were fully aware of it, and never thought of concealing it. in his theory of gravitation, in which, so far as he went, we have every reason to believe he was prior to newton, he did not extend his calculations to the distance of the moon; his views in this matter were purely terrestrial, and led him to charge according to weight. he was john stiles, the london and cambridge carrier: his name is a household word in the macclesfield letters, and is even enshrined in the depths of birch's quartos. dary informs newton--let us do his memory this justice--that he had paid john stiles for the carriage. at the time when the railroad to cambridge was opened, a correspondent recommended the directors, in our columns, to call an engine by the name of john stiles, and never to let that name go off the road. we do not know whether the advice was followed: if not, we repeat it. little points of life and manners come out occasionally. baker, the author of a work on algebra much esteemed at the time, wrote to collins that their circumstances are alike, "having a just and equal number of chargeable olive-branches, and being in the same predicament and blessed condemnation with you, not more preaching than unpaid, and preaching the art of contentment to others, am forced to practise it." but the last sentence of his letter runs as follows: "i have sent by the bearer ... twenty shillings, as a token to you; desiring you to accept of it, as a small taste from yours, thos. baker." in our day, men of a station to pay parish taxes do not offer their friends hard money to buy liquor. but flamsteed[ ] writes to collins as follows: "last week he sent us down the counterpart, which { } my father has scaled, and i return up to you by the carrier, with l. to be paid to mr. leneve for the writing, i have added s. d. over, which will pay the expenses and serve to drink, with him." this would seem as odd to us as it would have seemed thirty years ago that half-a-crown should pay carriage for a deed from derby to london, and leave margin for a bottle of wine: in our day, the post-office and the french treaty would just manage it between them. but flamsteed does not limit his friend to one bottle; he adds, "if you expend more than the half-crown, i will make it good after whitsuntide." collins does not remember exactly where he had met james gregory, and mentions two equally likely places thus: "sir, it was once my good hap to meet with you in an alehouse or in sion college." there is a little proof how universally the dinner-hour was twelve o'clock. astronomers well know the method of finding time by equal altitudes of the sun before and after noon: huyghens calls it "le moyen de deux égales hauteurs du soleil devant et après _dîner_."[ ] there is one mention of "mr. cocker,[ ] our famous english graver and writer, now a schoolmaster at northampton." this is the true cocker: his genuine works are specimens of writing, such as engraved copy-books, including some on arithmetic, with copper-plate questions and space for the working; also a book of forms for law-stationers, with specimens of legal handwriting. it is recorded somewhere that cocker and another, whose name we forget, competed with the italians in the beauty of their flourishes. this was his real fame: and in these matters he was great. the eighth edition of his book of law forms ( ), published shortly after cocker's death, has a preface signed "j. h." this was john hawkins, who became possessed of cocker's papers--at least he said so--and { } subsequently forged the famous arithmetic,[ ] a second work on decimal arithmetic, and an english dictionary, all attributed to cocker. the proofs of this are set out in de morgan's _arithmetical books_. among many other corroborative circumstances, the clumsy forger, after declaring that cocker to his dying day resisted strong solicitation to publish his arithmetic, makes him write in the preface _ille ego qui quondam_[ ] of this kind: "i have been instrumental to the benefit of many, by virtue of those useful arts, writing and engraving; and do _now_, with the same _wonted alacrity_, cast this my arithmetical mite into the public treasury." the book itself is not comparable in merit to at least half-a-dozen others. how then comes cocker to be the impersonation of arithmetic? unless some one can show proof, which we have never found, that he was so before , the matter is to be accounted for thus. arthur murphy,[ ] the dramatist, was by taste a man of letters, and ended by being the translator of tacitus; though many do not know that the two are one. his friends had tried to make him a man of business; and no doubt he had been well plied with commercial arithmetic. his first dramatic performance, the farce of "the apprentice," produced in , is about an idle young man who must needs turn actor. two of the best known books of the day in arithmetic were those of cocker and wingate.[ ] murphy chooses _wingate_ to be the name of an old merchant who { } delights in vulgar fractions, and _cocker_ to be his arithmetical catchword--"you read shakespeare! get cocker's arithmetic! you may buy it for a shilling on any stall; best book that ever was wrote!" and so on. the farce became very popular, and, as we believe, was the means of elevating cocker to his present pedestal, where wingate would have been, if his name had had the droller sound of the two to english ears. a notoriety of an older day turns up, major-general lambert.[ ] the common story is that he was banished to guernsey, where he passed thirty years in confinement, rearing and painting flowers. but baker, in , represents him as a prisoner at plymouth, sending equations for solution as a challenge: probably his place of confinement was varied, and his occupation also. [general lambert was removed to plymouth, probably about . his daughter captured the son of the governor of guernsey, who therefore probably was reckoned an unsafe custodier thenceforward; though he assured the king that he had turned the young couple out of doors, and had never given them a penny. great importance was attached to lambert's safe detention: probably the remaining republicans looked upon him as to be their next cromwell, if such a thing were to be. there were standing orders to shoot him at once on the first appearance of any enemy before the island. see _notes and queries_, d s. iv. .] collins informs james gregory that "some of the royal academy wrote over to mr. oldenburg, who was desired to impart the same to the council of the royal society, that the french king was willing to allow pensions to one or two learned englishmen, but they never made any answer { } to such a proposal." this was written in , and the thing probably happened several years before. mr. de morgan communicated the account of the proposal to lord macaulay, who replied that he did not think that any englishman _received_ a literary pension from louis; but that there is a curious letter, about , from the french ambassador, in which he says that he has, by his master's orders, been making inquiries as to the state of learning in england, and that he is sorry to find that the best writer is _the infamous miltonus_. on two such independent testimonies it may be held proved that the french king had attempted to buy a little adherence from english literature and science; and the silent contempt of the royal society is an honorable fact in their history. another little bit of politics is as follows. oughtred is informed that "mr. foster,[ ] our lecturer on astronomy at gresham college, is put out because he will not kneel down at the communion-table. a scotsman [mungo murray], one that is _verbi bis minister_,[ ] is now lecturer in mr. foster's place." ward in his work on the gresham professors,[ ] suppresses the reason, and the suppression lowers the character of his book. foster was expelled in , and re-elected on a vacancy in , when puritanism had gained strength. the correspondence of newton would require deeper sifting than could be given in such an article as the present. the first of the letters ( ) is curious, as presenting the { } appearance of forms belonging to the great calculus which, in this paragraph, we ought to call that of fluxions. we find, of the date february , - , what we believe is the earliest manifestation of that morbid part of newton's temperament which has been so variously represented. he had solved a problem--being that which we have called dary's--on which he writes as follows: "the solution of the annuity problem, if it will be of any use, you have my leave to insert into the _philosophical transactions_, so it be without my name to it. for i see not what there is desirable in public esteem, were i able to acquire and maintain it. it would perhaps increase my acquaintance, the thing which i chiefly study to decline." three letters touch upon "the experiment of glass rubbed to cause various motions in bits of paper underneath": they are supplements to the account given by newton to the royal society, and printed by birch. it was newton, so far as appears, who added _glass_ to the substances known to be electric. soon afterwards we come to a little bit of the history of the appointment to the mint. it has appeared from the researches of late years that newton was long an aspirant for public employment: the only coolness which is known to have taken place between him and charles montague[ ] [halifax] arose out of his imagining that his friend was not in earnest about getting him into the public service. march , , newton writes thus to halley: "and if the rumour of preferment for me in the mint should hereafter, upon the death of mr. hoar [the comptroller], or any other occasion, be revived, i pray that you would { } endeavour to obviate it by acquainting your friends that i neither _put in_ for _any_ place in the mint, nor would meddle with _mr. hoar's place_, were it offered to me." this means that mr. hoar's place had been suggested, which newton seems to have declined. five days afterwards, montague writes to newton that he is to have the _wardenship_. it is fair to newton to say that in all probability this was not--or only in a smaller degree--a question of personal dignity, or of salary. it must by this time have been clear to him that the minister, though long bound to make him an object of patronage, was actually seeking him for the mint, because he wanted both newton's name and his talents for business--which he knew to be great--in the weighty and dangerous operation of restoring the coinage. it may have been, and probably was, the case that newton had a tolerably accurate notion of what he would have to do, and of what degree of power would be necessary to enable him to do it in his own way. we have said that the non-epistolary manuscripts are still unexamined. there is a chance that one of them may answer a question of two centuries' standing, which is worth answering, because it has been so often asked. about , warner,[ ] afterwards assisted by pell,[ ] commenced a table of _antilogarithms_, of the kind which dodson[ ] afterwards constructed anew and published. in the museum collection there is inquiry after inquiry from charles cavendish,[ ] first, as to when the _analogics_, as he called them, would be finished; next, when they would be printed. pell answers, in , that warner left his papers to a kinsman, who had become bankrupt, and proceeds thus: "i am not a little afraid that all mr. warner's papers, { } and no small share of my labours therein, are seazed upon, and most unmathematically divided between the sequestrators and creditors, who (not being able to ballance the account where there appeare so many numbers, and much troubled at the sight of so many crosses and circles in the superstitious algebra and that black art of geometry) will, no doubt, determine once in their lives to become figure-casters, and so vote them all to be throwen into the fire, if some good body doe not reprieve them for pye-bottoms, for which purposes you know analogicall numbers are incomparably apt, if they be accurately calculated." pell afterwards told wallis[ ] that the papers had fallen into the hands of dr. busby,[ ] and collins[ ] writes that they were left in the hands of dr. thorndike,[ ] a prebendary of westminster; whence rigaud[ ] seems to say that thorndike had left them to dr. busby. birch[ ] says that he procured for the royal society four boxes from busby's trustees, containing papers of warner and pell: but there is no other tradition of such things in the society. but in the birch manuscripts at the british museum, there turns up, as printed in what we call the museum collection, a list of warner's papers, with _collins's_ receipt to dr. thorndike at the bottom, and engagement to restore them on demand. the date is december , ; wallis's statement being in . it is possible that busby may be a mistake altogether: he was very unlikely to have had charge of any mathematical papers: there may have been a confusion between the prebendary of westminster and the head master of westminster school. if so, in all probability thorndike handed { } the cumbrous lot over to the notorious collector of mathematical papers, blessing himself that he got rid of them in a manner which would insure their return if he were called upon by the owners to restore them. it is much against this hypothesis that dodson, who certainly recalculated, can say nothing more about warner than a repetition of wallis's story: though, had collins kept the papers, they would probably have been in jones's possession at the very time when dodson, who was a friend of jones and a user of his library, was engaged on his own computations. but even books, and still more manuscripts, are often singularly overlooked; and it remains not very improbable that warner's table is now at shirburn castle, among the unexamined manuscripts. cyclometry and steel pens. _redit labor actus in orbem._[ ] among the matters which have come to me since the budget opened, there is a pamphlet of quadrature of two pages and a half from professor recalcati,[ ] already mentioned. it ends with "quelque objection qu'on fasse touchant les raisonnements ci-dessus on tombera toujours dans l'absurde."[ ] a civil engineer--so he says--has made the quadrature "no longer a problem, but an axiom." as follows: "take the quadrant of a circle whose circumference is given, square the quadrant which gives the true square of the circle. because ÷ = . × . = . = the positive square of a circle whose circumference is ." brevity, the soul of wit, is the "wings of mighty-winds" to quadrature, and sends it "flying all abroad." a _surbodhicary_--something like m.a. or ll.d., i understand--at calcutta, published in the division of an { } angle into any odd number of parts, demonstration and all in--when the diagram is omitted--one page, good-sized, well-leaded type, small duodecimo. but in the preface he acknowledges "sheer inability" to execute his task. mr. william dean, of todmorden, in , announced - / as proved both practically and geometrically: he has been already mentioned anonymously. next i have the tract of don juan larriva, published at leiria in , and dedicated to queen victoria. mr. w. peters,[ ] already mentioned, who has for some months been circulating diagrams on a card, publishes (august, ) _the circle squared_. he agrees with the archpriest of st. vitus. he hints that a larger publication will depend partly on the support he receives, and partly on the castigation, for which last, of course, he looks to me. cyclometers have their several styles of wit; so have anticyclometers too, for that matter. mr. peters will not allow me any extra-journal being: i am essentially a quotation from the _athenæum_; "a. de morgan" _et præterea nihil_.[ ] if he had to pay for keeping me set up, he would find out his mistake, and would be glad to compound handsomely for a stereotype. next comes a magnificent sheet of pasteboard, printed on both sides. having glanced at it and detected quadrature, i began methodically at the beginning--"by royal command," with the lion and unicorn, and all that comes between. mercy on us! thought i to myself: has her majesty referred the question to the judicial committee of the privy council, where all the great difficulties go now-a-days, and is this proclamation the result? on reading further i was relieved by finding that the first side is entirely an advertisement of joseph gillott's[ ] steel pens, with engraving of his { } premises, and notice of novel application of his unrivalled machinery. the second side begins with "the circle rectified" by w. e. walker,[ ] who finds [pi] = . .... this is an off-shoot from an accurate geometrical rectification, on which is to be presumed mr. gillott's new machinery is founded. i have no doubt that mr. walker's error, which is only in the sixth place of decimals, will not hurt the pens, unless it be by the slightest possible increase of the tendency to open at the points. this arises from mr. walker having rectified above proof by . .... lastly, i, even i myself, who have long felt that i was a quadrature below par, have solved the problem by means which, in the present state of the law of libel, i dare not divulge. but the result is permitted; and it goes far to explain all the discordances. the ratio of the circumference to the diameter is not always the same! not that it varies with the radius; the geometers are right enough on that point: but it varies with the time, in a manner depending upon the difference of the true longitudes of the sun and moon. a friend of mine--at least until he misbehaved--insisted on the mean right ascensions: but i served him as abraham served his guest in franklin's parable. the true formula is, a and a being the sun's and moon's longitudes, [pi] = - / + / cos(a - a). mr. james smith obtained his quadrature at full moon; the archpriest of st. vitus and some others at new moon. until i can venture to publish the demonstration, i recommend the reader to do as i do, which is to adopt . ..., and to think of the matter only at the two points of the lunar month at which it is correct. the _nautical almanac_ will no doubt give these points in a short time: i am in correspondence with the admiralty, with nothing { } to get over except what i must call a perverse notion on the part of the superintendent of the _almanac_, who suspects one correction depending on the moon's latitude; and the astronomer royal leans towards another depending on the date of the queen's accession. i have no patience with these men: what can the moon's node of the queen's reign possibly have to do with the ratio in question? but this is the way with all the regular men of science; newton is to them etc. etc. etc. etc. the following method of finding the circumference of a circle (taken from a paper by mr. s. drach[ ] in the _phil. mag._, jan. , suppl.) is as accurate as the use of . . from three diameters deduct -thousandths and -millionths of a diameter; to the result add five per cent. we have then not quite enough; but the shortcoming is at the rate of about an inch and a sixtieth of an inch in , miles. jacob behmen. though i have met with nothing but a little tract from the school of jacob behmen[ ] (or böhme; i keep to the old english version of his name), yet there has been more, and of a more recent date. i am told of an "introduction to theosophy [_theo_ private, i suppose, as in theological]; or, the science of the mystery of christ," published in , mostly from the writings of william law[ ]: and also of a volume of pages, of the same year, printed for private circulation, containing notes for a biography of william law. the editor of the first work wishes to grow "a { } generation of perfect christians" by founding a theosophic college, for which he requests the public to raise a hundred thousand pounds. there is a good account of jacob behmen in the _penny cyclopædia_. the author mentions inaccurate accounts, one of which he quotes, as follows: "he derived all his mystical and rapturous doctrine from wood's[ ] _athenæ oxonienses_, vol. i, p. , and _hist. et antiq. acad. oxon._, vol. ii, p. ." on which the author remarks that wood was born after behmen's death. there must have been a few words which slipped out: what is meant is that behmen "derived his doctrine from _robert fludd_,[ ] _for whom see_ wood's etc. etc." even this is absurd enough: for behmen began to publish in , and fludd in . fludd was a rosicrucian, and a mystic of a different type from behmen. i have some of his works, and could produce out of them paradoxes enough, according to our ways of thinking, to fit out a host. but the rosicrucian system was a recognized school of its day, and fludd, a man of great learning, had abettors enough in all which he advanced, and predecessors in most of it. [a correspondent has recently sent a short summary of the claims of jacob behmen to rank higher than i have placed him. i shall gladly insert this summary in the book i contemplate, as a statement of what is said of behmen far less liable to suspicion of exaggeration than anything i could write. i shall add a few extracts from behmen himself, in support of his right to be in my list.] "_jacob behmen._--that prof. de morgan classes jacob behmen among paradoxers can only be attributed to the fact of his being avowedly unacquainted with the writings { } of that author. perhaps you may think a few words from one who knows them well of sufficient interest to the learned professor, and your readers in general, to be worthy of space in your columns. the metaphysical system of behmen--the most perfect and only true one--still awaits a qualified commentator. behmen's countryman, dionysius andreas freher,[ ] who spent the greater part of his life in this country, and whose exposition of behmen exists only in ms., filling many volumes, written in english, with the exception of two, written in german, with numerous beautiful, highly ingenious, and elaborate illustrations,--copies of some of which are in the british museum, but all the originals of which are in the possession of the gentleman who is the editor of the two works alluded to by professor de morgan,--this freher was the first to philosophically expound behmen's system, which was afterwards, with the help of these mss., as it were, popularized by william law; but both freher and law confined themselves chiefly to its theological aspect. in behmen, however, is to be found, not only the true ground of all theology, but also that of all physical science. he demonstrated with a fullness, accuracy, completeness and certainty that leave nothing to be desired, the innermost ground of deity and nature; and, confining myself to the latter, i can from my own knowledge assert, that in behmen's writings is to be found the true and clear demonstration of every physical fact that has been discovered since his day. thus, the science of electricity, which was not yet in existence when he wrote, is there anticipated; and not only does behmen describe all the now known phenomena of that force, but he even gives us the origin, generation and birth of electricity itself. again, positive evidence can be adduced that newton derived all his knowledge of gravitation and its { } laws from behmen, with whom gravitation or attraction is, and very properly so, as he shows us, the first of the seven properties of nature. the theory defended by mr. grove,[ ] at the nottingham meeting of last year, that all the apparently distinct causes of moral and physical phenomena are but so many manifestations of one central force, and that continuity is the law of nature, is clearly laid down, and its truth demonstrated, by behmen, as well as the distinction between spirit and matter, and that the moral and material world is pervaded by a sublime unity. and though all this was not admitted in behmen's days, because science was not then sufficiently advanced to understand the deep sense of our author, many of his passages, then unintelligible, or apparently absurd, read by the light of the present age, are found to contain the positive enunciation of principles at whose discovery and establishment science has only just arrived by wearisome and painful investigations. every new scientific discovery goes to prove his profound and intuitive insight into the most secret workings of nature; and if scientific men, instead of sharing the prejudice arising from ignorance of behmen's system, would place themselves on the vantage ground it affords, they would at once find themselves on an eminence whence they could behold all the arcana of nature. behmen's system, in fact, shows us the _inside_ of things, while modern physical science is content with looking at the _outside_. behmen traces back every outward manifestation or development to its one central root,--to that one central energy which, as yet, is only suspected; every link in the chain of his demonstration is perfect, and there is not one link wanting. he carries us from the out-births of the circumference, along the radius to the center, { } or point, and beyond that even to the zero, demonstrating the constitution of the zero, or nothing, with mathematical precision. c. w. h." and so behmen is no subject for the budget! i waited until i should chance to light on one of his volumes, knowing that any volume would do, and almost any page. my first hap was on the second volume of the edition of ( to, published by m. richardson) and opening near the beginning, a turn or two brought me to page , where i saw about _sulphur_ and _mercurius_ as follows: "thus sul is the soul, in an herb it is the oil, and in man also, according to the spirit of _this_ world in the third principle, which is continually generated out of the anguish of the will in the mind, and the brimstone-worm is the spirit, which hath the fire and _burneth_: phur is the sour wheel in itself which causeth that. "_mercurius_ comprehendeth all the four forms, even as the life springeth up, and yet hath not its dark beginning in the center as the phur hath, but after the flash of fire, when the sour dark form is terrified, where the hardness is turned into pliant sharpness, and where the second will (_viz._ the will of nature, which is called the anguish) ariseth, there mercurius hath its original. for mer is the shivering wheel, very horrible, sharp, venomous, and hostile; which assimulateth it thus in the sourness in the flash of fire, where the sour wrathful life _ariseth_. the syllable cu is the pressing out, of the _anxious_ will of the mind, from nature: which is climbing up, and _willeth_ to be out aloft. ri is the comprehension of the flash of fire, which in mer giveth a clear sound and tune. for the flash maketh the tune, and it is the salt-spirit which _soundeth_, and its form (or quality) is gritty like sand, and herein arise noises, sounds and voices, and thus cu comprehendeth the flash, and so the pressure is as a _wind_ which thrusteth, and giveth a spirit to the flash, so that it liveth and burneth. thus the { } syllable us is called the burning fire, which with the spirit continually driveth itself forth: and the syllable cu presseth continually upon the flash." shades of tauler[ ] and paracelsus,[ ] how strangely you do mix! well may hallam call germany the native soil of mysticism. had behmen been the least of a scholar, he would not have divided _sulph-ur_ and _merc-ur-i-us_ as he has done: and the inflexion _us_, that boy of all work, would have been rejected. i think it will be held that a writer from whom hundreds of pages like the above could be brought together, is fit for the budget. if sampson arnold mackay[ ] had tied his etymologies to a mystical christology, instead of a mystical infidelity, he might have had a school of followers. the nonsense about newton borrowing gravitation from behmen passes only with those who know neither what newton did, nor what was done before him. the above reminds me of a class of paradoxers whom i wonder that i forgot; they are without exception the greatest bores of all, because they can put the small end of their paradox into any literary conversation whatever. i mean the people who have heard the local pronunciation of celebrated names, and attempt not only to imitate it, but to impose on others their broken german or arabic, or what not. they also learn the vernacular names of those who are generally spoken of in their latin forms; at least, they learn a few cases, and hawk them as evidences of erudition. they are miserably mistaken: scholarship, as a rule, { } always accepts the vernacular form of a name which has vernacular celebrity. hallam writes behmen: his index-maker, rather superfluously, gives "_behmen_ or boehm." and he retains melanchthon,[ ] the name given by reuchlin[ ] to his little kinsman schwartzerd, because the world has adopted it: but he will none of capnio, the name which reuchlin fitted on to himself, because the world has not adopted it. he calls the old forms pedantry: but he sees that the rejection of well-established results of pedantry would be greater pedantry still. the paradoxers assume the question that it is more _correct_ to sound a man by lame imitation of his own countrymen than as usual in the country in which the sound is to be made. against them are, first, the world at large; next, an overpowering majority of those who know something about surnames and their history. some thirty years ago--a fact--there appeared at the police-office a complainant who found his own law. in the course of his argument, he asked, "what does kitty say?"--"who's kitty?" said the magistrate, "your wife, or your nurse?"--"sir! i mean kitty, the celebrated lawyer."--"oh!" said the magistrate, "i suspect you mean mr. chitty,[ ] the author of the great work on pleading."--"i do sir! but chitty is an italian name, and ought to be pronounced _kitty_." this man was a full-blown flower: but there is many a modest bud; and all ought either to blush when seen or to waste their pronunciation on the desert air. { } a plea for king custom. i stand up for king custom, or _usus_, as horace called him, with whom is _arbitrium_ the decision, and _jus_ the right, and _norma_ the way of deciding, simply because he has _potestas_ the power. he may admit one and another principle to advise: but custom is not a constitutional king; he may listen to his cabinet, but he decides for himself: and if the ministry should resign, he blesses his stars and does without them. we have a glorious liberty in england of owning neither dictionary, grammar, nor spelling-book: as many as choose write by either of the three, and decide all disputed points their own way, those following them who please. throughout this book i have called people by the names which denote them in their books, or by our vernacular names. this is the intelligible way of proceeding. i might, for instance (vol. i, p. ), have spoken of charles de bovelles,[ ] of lefèvre d'Étaples,[ ] of pèlerin,[ ] and of etienne.[ ] but i prefer the old plan. those who like another plan better, are welcome to substitute with a pen, when they know what to write; when they do not, it is clear that they would not have understood me if i had given modern names. the principal advisers of king custom are as follows. first, there is etymology, the _chiffonnier_, or general rag-merchant, who has made such a fortune of late years in his own business that he begins to be considered highly respectable. he gives advice which is more thought of than followed, partly on account of the fearful extremes into which he runs. he lately asked some boys of sixteen, at a matriculation examination in _english_, to what branch of { } the indo-germanic family they felt inclined to refer the pushto language, and what changes in the force of the letters took place in passing from greek into moeso-gothic. because all syllables were once words, he is a little inclined to insist that they shall be so still. he would gladly rule english with a saxon rod, which might be permitted with a certain discretion which he has never attained: and when opposed, he defends himself with analogies of the aryan family until those who hear him long for the discovery of an athanasyus. he will transport a word beyond seas--he is recorder of rhematopolis--on circumstantial evidence which looks like mystery gone mad; but, strange to say, something very often comes to light after sentence is passed which proves the soundness of the conviction. the next adviser is logic, a swearing old justice of peace, quorum, and rotulorum, whose excesses brought on such a fit of the gout that for many years he was unable to move. he is now mending, and his friends say he has sown his wild oats. he has some influence with the educated subjects of custom, and will have more, if he can learn the line at which interference ought to stop: with them he has succeeded in making an affirmative of two negatives; but the vulgar won't never have nothing to say to him. he has always railed at milton for writing that eve was the fairest of her daughters; but has never satisfactorily shown what milton ought to have said instead. the third adviser has more influence with the mass of the subjects of king custom than the other two put together; his name is fiddlefaddle, the toy-shop keeper; and the other two put him forward to do their worst work. in return, he often uses their names without authority. he took etymology to witness that _means_ to an end must be plural: and he would have any one method to be a _mean_. but etymology proved him wrong, king custom referred him to his catechism, in which is "a means whereby we receive the same," and analogy--a subordinate of { } etymology--asked whether he thought it a great _new_ to hear that he was wrong. it was either this fiddlefaddle, or lindley murray[ ] his traveler, who persuaded the miss slipslops, of the ladies seminary, to put "the misses slipslop" over the gate. sixty years ago, this bagman called at all the girls' schools, and got many of the teachers to insist on the pupils saying "is it not" and "can i not" for "isn't it" and "can't i": of which it came that the poor girls were dreadfully laughed at by their irreverent brothers when they went home for the holidays. had this bad adviser not been severely checked, he might by this time have proposed our saying "the queen's of england son," declaring, in the name of logic, that the prince was the queen's son, not england's. lastly, there is typography the metallurgist, an executive officer who is always at work in secret, and whose lawless mode of advising is often done by carrying his notions into effect without leave given. he it is who never ceases suggesting that the same word is not to occur in a second place within sight of the first. when the authorized version was first printed, he began this trick at the passage, "let there be light, and there was light;" he drew a line on the proof under the second _light_, and wrote "_luminosity?_" opposite. he is strongest in the punctuations and other signs; he has a pepper-box full of commas always by his side. he puts everything under marks of quotation which he has ever heard before. an earnest preacher, in a very moving sermon, used the phrase alas! and alack a day! typography stuck up the inverted commas because he had read the old anglo-indian toast, "a lass and a lac a day!" if any one should have the sense to leave out of his greek { } the unmeaning scratches which they call accents, he goes to a lexicon and puts them in. he is powerful in routine; but when two routines interlace or overlap, he frequently takes the wrong one. subject to bad advice, and sometimes misled for a season, king custom goes on his quiet way and is sure to be right at last. "treason does never prosper: what's the reason? why, when it prospers, none dare call it treason." language is in constant fermentation, and all that is thrown in, so far as it is not fit to assimilate, is thrown off; and this without any obvious struggle. in the meanwhile every one who has read good authors, from shakspeare downward, knows what is and what is not english; and knows, also, that our language is not one and indivisible. two very different turns of phrase may both be equally good, and as good as can be: we may be relieved of the consequences of contempt of one court by _habeas corpus_ issuing out of another. test of language. hallam remarks that the authorized version of the bible is not in the language of the time of james the first: that it is not the english of raleigh or of bacon. here arises the question whether raleigh and bacon are the true expositors of the language of their time; and whether they were not rather the incipient promoters of a change which was successfully resisted by--among other things--the authorized version of the testaments. i am not prepared to concede that i should have given to the english which would have been fashioned upon that of bacon by imitators, such as they usually are, the admiration which is forced from me by bacon's english from bacon's pen. on this point we have a notable parallel. samuel johnson { } commands our admiration, at least in his matured style: but we nauseate his followers. it is an opinion of mine that the works of the leading writers of an age are seldom the proper specimens of the language of their day, when that language is in its state of progression. i judge of a language by the colloquial idiom of educated men: that is, i take this to be the best medium between the extreme cases of one who is ignorant of grammar and one who is perched upon a style. dialogue is what i want to judge by, and plain dialogue: so i choose robert recorde[ ] and his pupil in the _castle of knowledge_, written before . when dr. robert gets into his altitudes of instruction, he differs from his own common phraseology as much as probably did bacon when he wrote morals and philosophy. but every now and then i come to a little plain talk about a common thing, of which i propose to show a specimen. anything can be made to look old by such changes as _makes_ into _maketh_, with a little old spelling. i shall invert these changes, using the newer form of inflexion, and the modern spelling: with no other variation whatever. "_scholar._ yet the reason of that is easy enough to be conceived, for when the day is at the longest the sun must needs shine the more time, and so must it needs shine the less time when the day is at the shortest: this reason i have heard many men declare. _master._ that may be called a crabbed reason, for it { } goes backward like a crab. the day makes not the sun to shine, but the sun shining makes the day. and so the length of the day makes not the sun to shine long, neither the shortness of the day causes not [_sic_] the sun to shine the lesser time, but contrariwise the long shining of the sun makes the long day, and the short shining of the sun makes the lesser day: else answer me what makes the days long or short? _scholar._ i have heard wise men say that summer makes the long days, and winter makes the long nights. _master._ they might have said more wisely, that long days make summer and short days make winter. _scholar._ why, all that seems one thing to me. _master._ is it all one to say, god made the earth, and the earth made god? covetousness overcomes all men, and all men overcome covetousness? _scholar._ no, not so; for here the effect is turned to be the cause, and the agent is made the patient. _master._ so is it to say summer makes long days, when you should say: long days make summer. _scholar._ i perceive it now: but i was so blinded with the vulgar error, that if you had demanded of me further what did make the summer, i had been like to have answered that green leaves do make summer; and the sooner by remembrance of an old saying that a year should come in which the summer should not be known but by the green leaves. _master._ yet this saying does not import that green leaves do make summer, but that they betoken summer; so are they the sign and not the cause of summer." i have taken a whole page of our author, without omission, that the reader may see that i do not pick out sentences convenient for my purpose. i have done nothing but alter the third person of the verb and the spelling: but great is the effect thereof. we say "the sun shining makes the day"; recorde, "the sonne shynynge maketh the daye." { } these points apart, we see a resemblance between our english and that of three hundred years ago, in the common talk of educated persons, which will allow us to affirm that the language of the authorized bible must have been very close to that of its time. for i cannot admit that much change can have taken place in fifty years: and the language of the version represents both our common english and that of recorde with very close approximation. take sentences from bacon and raleigh, and it will be apparent that these writers will be held to differ from all three, recorde, the version, and ourselves, by differences of the same character. but we speak of recorde's conversation, and of our own. we conclude that it is the plain and almost colloquial character of the authorized version which distinguishes it from the english of bacon and raleigh, by approximating it to the common idiom of the time. if any one will cast an eye upon the letters of instruction written by cecil[ ] and the bishop of london to the translators themselves, or to the general directions sent to them in the king's name, he will find that these plain business compositions differ from the english of bacon and raleigh by the same sort of differences which distinguish the version itself. pronunciation. the foreign word, or the word of a district, or class of people, passes into the general vernacular; but it is long before the specially learned will acknowledge the right of those with whom they come in contact to follow general usage. the rule is simple: so long as a word is technical or local, those who know its technical or local pronunciation may reasonably employ it. but when the word has become general, the specialist is not very wise if he refuse to follow { } the mass, and perfectly foolish if he insist on others following him. there have been a few who demanded that euler should be pronounced in the german fashion:[ ] euler has long been the property of the world at large; what does it matter how his own countrymen pronounce the letters? shall we insist on the french pronouncing _newton_ without that final _tong_ which they never fail to give him? they would be wise enough to laugh at us if we did. we remember that a pedant who was insisting on all the pronunciations being retained, was met by a maxim in contradiction, invented at the moment, and fathered upon kaen-foo-tzee,[ ] an authority which he was challenged to dispute. whom did you speak of? said the bewildered man of accuracy. learn your own system, was the answer, before you impose it on others; confucius says that too.[ ] the old english has _fote_, _fode_, _loke_, _coke_, _roke_, etc., for _foot_, etc. and _above_ rhymes in chaucer to _remove_. suspecting that the broader sounds are the older, we may surmise that _remove_ and _food_ have retained their old sounds, and that _cook_, once _coke_, would have rhymed to our _luke_, the vowel being brought a little nearer, perhaps, to the _o_ in our present _coke_, the fuel, probably so called as used by cooks. if this be so, the chief justice _cook_[ ] of our lawyers, and the _coke_ (pronounced like the fuel) of the greater part of the world, are equally wrong. the lawyer has no right whatever to fasten his pronunciation upon us: even leaving aside the general custom, he cannot prove himself right, and is probably wrong. those who { } know the village of rokeby (pronounced rookby) despise the world for not knowing how to name walter scott's poem: that same world never asked a question about the matter, and the reception of the parody of _jokeby_, which soon appeared, was a sufficient indication of their notion. those who would fasten the hodiernal sound upon us may be reminded that the question is, not what they call it now, but what it was called in cromwell's time. throw away general usage as a lawgiver, and this is the point which emerges. probably _r[=u]ke-by_ would be right, with a little turning of the italian [=u] towards [=o] of modern english. [some of the above is from an old review. i do not always notice such insertions: i take nothing but my own writings. a friend once said to me, "ah! you got that out of the _athenæum_!" "excuse me," said i. "the _athenæum_ got that out of me!"] apologies to cluvier. it is part of my function to do justice to any cyclometers whose methods have been wrongly described by any orthodox sneerers (myself included). in this character i must notice _dethlevus cluverius_,[ ] as the leipzig acts call him (probably dethleu cluvier), grandson of the celebrated geographer, philip cluvier. the grandson was a fellow of the royal society, elected on the same day as halley,[ ] november , : i suppose he lived in england. this { } man is quizzed in the leipzig acts for ; and, if montucla insinuate rightly, by leibnitz, who is further suspected of wanting to embroil cluvier with his own opponent nieuwentiit,[ ] on the matter of infinitesimals. so far good: i have nothing against leibnitz, who though he was ironical, told us what he laughed at. but montucla has behaved very unfairly: he represents cluvier as placing the essence of his method in the solution of the problem _construere mundum divinæ menti analogum_, to construct a world corresponding to the divine mind. nothing to begin with: no way of proceeding. now, it ought to have been _ex data linea construere_,[ ] etc.: there is a given line, which is something to go on. further, there is a way of proceeding: it is to find the product of , , , , etc. for ever. moreover, montucla charges cluvier with _unsquaring_ the parabola, which archimedes had squared as tight as a glove. but he never mentions how very nearly cluvier agrees with the greek: they only differ by divided by n^ , where n is the infinite number of parts of which a parabola is composed. this must have been the conceit that tickled leibnitz, and made him wish that cluvier and nieuwentiit should fight it out. cluvier, was admitted, on terms of irony, into the leipzig acts: he appeared on a more serious footing in london. it is very rare for one cyclometer to refute another: _les corsaires ne se battent pas_.[ ] the only instance i recall is that of m. cluvier, who (_phil. trans._, , no. ) refuted m. mallemont de messange,[ ] who { } published at paris in . he does it in a very serious style, and shows himself a mathematician. and yet in the year in which, in the _phil. trans._, he was a geometer, and one who rebukes his squarer for quoting matthew xi. , in that very year he was the visionary who, in the leipzig acts, professed to build a world resembling the divine mind by multiplying together , , , , etc. up to infinity. the rainbow paradox. there is a very pretty opening for a paradox which has never found its paradoxer in print. the philosophers teach that the rainbow is not material: it comes from rain-drops, but those rain-drops do not _take_ color. they only _give_ it, as lenses and mirrors; and each one drop gives _all_ the colors, but throws them in different directions. accordingly, the same drop which furnishes red light to one spectator will furnish violet to another, properly placed. enter the paradoxer whom i have to invent. the philosopher has gulled you nicely. look into the water, and you will see the reflected rainbow: take a looking-glass held sideways, and you see another reflection. how could this be, if there were nothing colored to reflect? the paradoxer's facts are true: and what are called the reflected rainbows are _other_ rainbows, caused by those _other_ drops which are placed so as to give the colors to the eye after reflection, at the water or the looking-glass. a few years ago an artist exhibited a picture with a rainbow and its apparent reflection: he simply copied what he had seen. when his picture was examined, some started the idea that there could be no reflection of a rainbow; they were right: they inferred that the artist had made a mistake; they were wrong. when it was explained, some agreed and some dissented. wanted, { } immediately, an able paradoxer: testimonials to be forwarded to either end of the rainbow, no. . no circle-squarer need apply, his variegatedness having been pleased to adopt . ... from noah downwards. tycho brahe revived. the system of tycho brahé,[ ] with some alteration and addition, has been revived and contended for in our own day by a dane, w. zytphen,[ ] who has published _the motion of the sun in the universe_, (second edition) copenhagen, , vo, and _le mouvement sidéral_, , vo. i make an extract. "how can one explain copernically that the velocity of the moon must be added to the velocity of the earth on the one place in the earth's orbit, to learn how far the moon has advanced from one fixed star to another; but in another place in the orbit these velocities must be subtracted (the movements taking place in opposite directions) to attain the same result? in the copernican and other systems, it is well known that the moon, abstracting from the insignificant excentricity of the orbit, always in twenty-four hours performs an equally long distance. why has copernicus never been denominated fundamentus or fundator? because he has never convinced anybody so thoroughly that this otherwise so natural epithet has occurred to the mind." really the second question is more effective against newton than against copernicus; for it upsets gravity: the first is of great depth. { } james smith will not down. the _correspondent_ journal makes a little episode in the history of my budget (born may, , died april, ). it consisted entirely of letters written by correspondents. in august, a correspondent who signed "fair play"--and who i was afterwards told was a lady--thought it would be a good joke to bring in the cyclometers. accordingly a letter was written, complaining that though mr. sylvester's[ ] demonstration of newton's theorem--then attracting public attention--was duly lauded, the possibly greater discovery of the quadrature seemed to be blushing unseen, and wasting etc. it went on as follows: "prof. de morgan, who, from his position in the scientific world, might fairly afford to look favourably on less practised efforts than his own, seems to delight in ridiculing the discoverer. science is, of course, a very respectable person when he comes out and makes himself useful in the world [it must have been a lady; each sex gives science to the other]: but when, like a monk of the middle ages, he shuts himself up [it must have been a lady; they always snub the bachelors] in his cloistered cell, repeating his mumpsimus from day to day, and despising the labourers on the outside, we begin to think of galileo,[ ] jenner,[ ] harvey,[ ] and other glorious trios, who have been contemned ..." the writer then called upon mr. james smith[ ] to come { } forward. the irony was not seen; and that day fortnight appeared the first of more than thirty letters from his pen. mr. smith was followed by mr. reddie,[ ] zadkiel,[ ] and others, on their several subjects. to some of the letters i have referred; to others i shall come. the _correspondent_ was to become a first-class scientific journal; the time had arrived at which truth had an organ: and i received formal notice that i could not stifle it by silence, nor convert it into falsehood by ridicule. when my reader sees my extracts, he will readily believe my declaration that i should have been the last to stifle a publication which was every week what james mill[ ] would call a dose of capital for my budget. a few anti-paradoxers brought in common sense: but to the mass of the readers of the journal it all seemed to be the difference between tweedledum and tweedledee. some said that the influx of scientific paradoxes killed the journal: but my belief is that they made it last longer than it otherwise would have done. twenty years ago i recommended the paradoxers to combine and publish their views in a common journal: with a catholic editor, who had no pet theory, but a stern determination not to exclude anything merely for absurdity. i suspect it would answer very well. a strong title, or motto, would be wanted: not so coarse as was roared out in a cambridge mob when i was an undergraduate--"no king! no church! no house of lords! no nothing, blast me!"--but something on that _principle_. at the end of i addressed the following letter to the _athenæum_: pseudomath, philomath, and graphomath. _december , _ many thanks for the present of mr. james smith's letters { } of sept. and of oct. and . he asks where you will be if you read and digest his letters: you probably will be somewhere first. he afterwards asks what the we of the _athenæum_ will be if, finding it impossible to controvert, it should refuse to print. i answer for you, that we-we of the _athenæum_, not being wa-wa the wild goose, so conspicuous in "hiawatha," will leave what controverts itself to print itself, if it please. _philomath_ is a good old word, easier to write and speak than _mathematician_. it wants the words between which i have placed it. they are not well formed: _pseudomathete_ and _graphomathete_ would be better: but they will do. i give an instance of each. the _pseudomath_ is a person who handles mathematics as the monkey handled the razor. the creature tried to shave himself as he had seen his master do; but, not having any notion of the angle at which the razor was to be held, he cut his own throat. he never tried a second time, poor animal! but the pseudomath keeps on at his work, proclaims himself clean-shaved, and all the rest of the world hairy. so great is the difference between moral and physical phenomena! mr. james smith is, beyond doubt, the great pseudomath of our time. his - / is the least of a wonderful chain of discoveries. his books, like whitbread's barrels, will one day reach from simpkin & marshall's to kew, placed upright, or to windsor laid length-ways. the queen will run away on their near approach, as bishop hatto did from the rats: but mr. james smith will follow her were it to john o' groats. the _philomath_, for my present purpose, must be exhibited as giving a lesson to presumption. the following anecdote is found in thiébault's[ ] _souvenirs de vingt ans de séjours à berlin_, published in . the book itself got a high character for truth. in marshal mollendorff[ ] { } answered an inquiry of the duc de bassano,[ ] by saying that it was the most veracious of books, written by the most honest of men. thiébault does not claim personal knowledge of the anecdote, but he vouches for its being received as true all over the north of europe.[ ] diderot[ ] paid a visit to russia at the invitation of catherine the second. at that time he was an atheist, or at least talked atheism: it would be easy to prove him either one thing or the other from his writings. his lively sallies on this subject much amused the empress, and all the younger part of her court. but some of the older courtiers suggested that it was hardly prudent to allow such unreserved exhibitions. the empress thought so too, but did not like to muzzle her guest by an express prohibition: so a plot was contrived. the scorner was informed that an eminent mathematician had an algebraical proof of the existence of god, which he would communicate before the whole court, if agreeable. diderot gladly consented. the mathematician, who is not named, was euler.[ ] he came to diderot with the gravest air, and in a tone of perfect conviction said, "_monsieur!_ (a + b^n)/n = x _donc dieu existe; répondez!_"[ ] diderot, to whom algebra was hebrew, though this is expressed in a very roundabout way by thiébault--and whom we may suppose to have expected some verbal argument of alleged algebraical closeness, was disconcerted; while peals of laughter sounded on all sides. next day he asked permission to return to france, which was granted. an algebraist would have { } turned the tables completely, by saying, "monsieur! vous savez bien que votre raisonnement demande le développement de x suivant les puissances entières de n".[ ] goldsmith could not have seen the anecdote, or he might have been supposed to have drawn from it a hint as to the way in which the squire demolished poor moses. the _graphomath_ is a person who, having no mathematics, attempts to describe a mathematician. novelists perform in this way: even walter scott now and then burns his fingers. his dreaming calculator, davy ramsay, swears "by the bones of the immortal napier." scott thought that the the philomaths worshiped relics: so they do, in one sense. look into hutton's[ ] dictionary for _napier's bones_, and you shall learn all about the little knick-knacks by which he did multiplication and division. but never a bone of his own did he contribute; he preferred elephants' tusks. the author of _headlong hall_[ ] makes a grand error, which is quite high science: he says that laplace proved the precession of the equinoxes to be a periodical inequality. he should have said the variation of the obliquity. but the finest instance is the following: mr. warren,[ ] in his well-wrought tale of the martyr-philosopher, was incautious enough to invent the symbols by which his _savant_ satisfied himself laplace[ ] was right on a doubtful point. and this is what he put together-- [sqrt]- a^ , [rectangle]y^ / z^ + - n = , n × log e. now, to diderot and the mass of mankind this might be laplace all over: and, in a forged note of pascal, would { } prove him quite up to gravitation. but i know of nothing like it, except in the lately received story of the american orator, who was called on for some latin, and perorated thus: "committing the destiny of the country to your hands, gentlemen, i may without fear declare, in the language of the noble roman poet, e pluribus unum, multum in parvo, ultima thule, sine qua non."[ ] but the american got nearer to horace than the martyr-philosopher to laplace. for all the words are in horace, except _thule_, which might have been there. but [rectangle] is not a symbol wanted by laplace; nor can we see how it could have been; in fact, it is not recognized in algebra. as to the junctions, etc., laplace and horace are about equally well imitated. further thanks for mr. smith's letters to you of oct. , , , , and nov. , . the last of these letters has two curious discoveries. first, mr. smith declares that he has _seen_ the editor of the _athenæum_: in several previous letters he mentions a name. if he knew a little of journalism he would be aware that editors are a peculiar race, obtained by natural selection. they are never seen, even by their officials; only heard down a pipe. secondly, "an ellipse or oval" is composed of four arcs of circles. mr. smith has got hold of the construction i was taught, when a boy, for a pretty four-arc oval. but my teachers knew better than to call it an ellipse: mr. smith does not; but he produces from it such confirmation of - / as would convince any _honest_ editor. surely the cyclometer is a darwinite development of a spider, who is always at circles, and always begins again when his web is brushed away. he informs you that he { } has been privileged to discover truths unknown to the scientific world. this we know; but he proceeds to show that he is equally fortunate in art. he goes on to say that he will make use of you to bring those truths to light, "just as an artist makes use of a dummy for the purpose of arranging his drapery." the painter's lay-figure is for flowing robes; the hairdresser's dummy is for curly locks. mr. james smith should read sam weller's pathetic story of the "four wax dummies." as to _his_ use of a dummy, it is quite correct. when i was at university college, i walked one day into a room in which my latin colleague was examining. one of the questions was, "give the lives and fates of sp. mælius,[ ] and sp. cassius."[ ] umph! said i, surely all know that spurius mælius was whipped for adulterating flour, and that spurius cassius was hanged for passing bad money. now, a robe arranged on a dummy would look just like the toga of cassius on the gallows. accordingly, mr. smith is right in the drapery-hanger which he has chosen: he has been detected in the attempt to pass bad circles. he complains bitterly that his geometry, instead of being read and understood by you, is handed over to me to be treated after my scurrilous fashion. it is clear enough that he would rather be handled in this way than not handled at all, or why does he go on writing? he must know by this time that it is a part of the institution that his "untruthful and absurd trash" shall be distilled into mine at the rate of about - / pages of the first to one column of the second. your readers will never know how much they gain by the process, until mr. james smith publishes it all in a big book, or until they get hold of what he has already published. i have six pounds avoirdupois of pamphlets and letters; and there is more than half a pound of letters { } written to you in the last two months. your compositor must feel aggrieved by the rejection of these clearly written documents, without erasures, and on one side only. your correspondent has all the makings of a good contributor, except the knowledge of his subject and the sense to get it. he is, in fact, only a mask: of whom the fox "o quanta species, inquit, cerebrum non habet."[ ] i do not despair of mr. smith on any question which does not involve that unfortunate two-stick wicket at which he persists in bowling. he has published many papers; he has forwarded them to mathematicians: and he cannot get answers; perhaps not even readers. does he think that he would get more notice if you were to print him in your journal? who would study his columns? not the mathematician, we know; and he knows. would others? his balls are aimed too wide to be blocked by any one who is near the wicket. he has long ceased to be worth the answer which a new invader may get. rowan hamilton,[ ] years ago, completely knocked him over; and he has never attempted to point out any error in the short and easy method by which that powerful investigator condescended to show that, be right who may, he must be wrong. there are some persons who feel inclined to think that mr. smith should be argued with: let those persons understand that he has been argued with, refuted, and has never attempted to stick a pen into the refutation. he stated that it was a remarkable paradox, easily explicable; and that is all. after this evasion, mr. james smith is below the necessity of being told that he is unworthy of answer. his friends complain that i do nothing but _chaff_ him. absurd! i winnow him; and if nothing but chaff results, whose fault is that? i am usefully employed: for he is the type of a class which ought to be known, and which i have done much to make known. { } nothing came of this until july , when i received a reprint of the above letter, with a comment, described as appendix d of a work in course of publication on the geometry of the circle. the _athenæum_ journal received the same: but the editor, in his private capacity, received the whole work, being _the geometry of the circle and mathematics as applied to geometry by mathematicians, shown to be a mockery, delusion, and a snare_, liverpool, vo, . mr. j. s. here appears in deep fight with professor whitworth,[ ] and mr. wilson,[ ] the author of the alleged amendment of euclid. how these accomplished mathematicians could be inveigled into continued discussion is inexplicable. mr. whitworth began by complaining of mr. smith's attacks upon mathematicians, continued to correspond after he was convinced that j. s. proved an arc and its chord to be equal, and only retreated when j. s. charged him with believing in - / , and refusing acknowledgment. mr. wilson was introduced to j. s. by a volunteer defense of his geometry from the assaults of the _athenæum_. this the editor would not publish; so j. s. sent a copy to mr. wilson himself. some correspondence ensued, but mr. wilson soon found out his man, and withdrew. there is a little derision of the _athenæum_ and a merited punishment for "that unscrupulous critic and contemptible mathematical twaddler, de morgan." mr. reddie's astronomy. at p. i mentioned mr. reddie,[ ] the author of _vis inertiæ victa_ and of _victoria toto coelo_,[ ] which last is not { } an address to the whole heaven, either from a roman goddess or a british queen, whatever a scholar may suppose. between these mr. reddie has published _the mechanics of the heavens_, vo, : this i never saw until he sent it to me, with an invitation to notice it, he very well knowing that it would catch. his speculations do battle with common notions of mathematics and of mechanics, which, to use a feminine idiom, he blasphemes so you can't think! and i suspect that if you do not blaspheme them too, _you_ can't think. he appeals to the "truly scientific," and would be glad to have readers who have read what he controverts, i.e., newton's _principia_: i wish he may get them; i mean i hope he may obtain them. to none but these would an account of his speculations be intelligible: i accordingly disposed of him in a very short paragraph of description. now many paradoxers desire notice, even though it be disparaging. i have letters from more than one--besides what have been sent to the editor of the _athenæum_--complaining that they are not laughed at; although they deserve it, they tell me, as much as some whom i have inserted. mr. reddie informs me that i have not said a single word against his books, though i have given nearly a column to sixteen-string arithmetic, and as much to animalcule universes. what need to say anything to readers of newton against a book from which i quoted that revolution by gravitation is _demonstrably_ impossible? it would be as useless as evidence against a man who has pleaded guilty. mr. reddie derisively thanks me for "small mercies"; he wrote me private letters; he published them, and more, in the _correspondent_. he gave me, _pro viribus suis_,[ ] such a dressing you can't think, both for my budget non-notice, and for reviews which he assumed me to have written. he outlawed himself by declaring (_correspondent_, nov. , ) that i--in a review--had made a quotation which was "garbled, evidently on purpose { } to make it appear that" he "was advocating solely a geocentric hypothesis, which is not true." in fact, he did his best to get larger "mercy." and he shall have it; and at a length which shall content him, unless his mecometer be an insatiable apparatus. but i fear that in other respects i shall no more satisfy him than the irish drummer satisfied the poor culprit when, after several times changing the direction of the stroke at earnest entreaty, he was at last provoked to call out, "bad cess to ye, ye spalpeen! strike where one will, there's no _plasing_ ye!" mr. reddie attaches much force to berkeley's[ ] old arguments against the doctrine of fluxions, and advances objections to newton's second section, which he takes to be new. to me they appear "such as have been often made," to copy a description given in a review: though i have no doubt mr. reddie got them out of himself. but the whole matter comes to this: mr. reddie challenged answer, especially from the british association, and got none. he presumes that this is because he is right, and cannot be answered: the association is willing to risk itself upon the counter-notion that he is wrong, and need not be answered; because so wrong that none who could understand an answer would be likely to want one. mr. reddie demands my attention to a point which had already particularly struck me, as giving the means of showing to _all_ readers the kind of confusion into which paradoxers are apt to fall, in spite of the clearest instruction. it is a very honest blunder, and requires notice: it may otherwise mislead some, who may suppose that no one able to read could be mistaken about so simple a matter, { } let him be ever so wrong about newton. according to his own mis-statement, in less than five months he made the astronomer royal abandon the theory of the solar motion in space. the announcement is made in august, , as follows: the italics are not mine: "the third (_victoria ..._), although only published in september, , has already had its triumph. _it is the book that forced the astronomer royal of england, after publicly teaching the contrary for years, to come to the conclusion, "strange as it may appear," that "the whole question of solar motion in space is at the present time in doubt and abeyance."_ this admission is made in the annual report of the council of the royal astronomical society, published in the society's _monthly notices_ for february, ." it is added that solar motion is "full of self-contradiction, which "the astronomers" simply overlooked, but which they dare not now deny after being once pointed out." the following is another of his accounts of the matter, given in the _correspondent_, no. , : "... you ought, when you came to put me in the 'budget,' to have been aware of the report of the council of the royal astronomical society, where it appears that professor airy,[ ] with a better appreciation of my demonstrations, had admitted--'strange,' say the council, 'as it may appear,'--that 'the whole question of solar motion in space [and here mr. reddie omits some words] is now in _doubt and abeyance_.' you were culpable as a public teacher of no little pretensions, if you were 'unaware' of this. if aware of it, you ought not to have suppressed such an important testimony to my really having been 'very successful' in drawing the teeth of the pegtops, though you thought them so firmly fixed. and if you still suppress { } it, in your appendix, or when you reprint your 'budget,' you will then be guilty of a _suppressio veri_, also of further injury to me, who have never injured you...." mr. reddie must have been very well satisfied in his own mind before he ventured such a challenge, with an answer from me looming in the distance. the following is the passage of the report of the council, etc., from which he quotes: "and yet, strange to say, notwithstanding the near coincidence of all the results of the before-mentioned independent methods of investigation, the inevitable logical inference deduced by mr. airy is, that the whole question of solar motion in space, _so far at least as accounting for the proper motion of the stars is concerned_, [i have put in italics the words omitted by mr. reddie] appears to remain at this moment in doubt and abeyance." mr. reddie has forked me, as he thinks, on a dilemma: if unaware, culpable ignorance; if aware, suppressive intention. but the thing is a _trilemma_, and the third horn, on which i elect to be placed, is surmounted by a doubly-stuffed seat. first, mr. airy has not changed his opinion about the _fact_ of solar motion in space, but only suspends it as to the sufficiency of present means to give the amount and direction of the motion. secondly, all that is alluded to in the astronomical report was said and printed before the victoria proclamation appeared. so that the author, instead of drawing the tooth of the astronomer royal's pegtop, has burnt his own doll's nose. william herschel,[ ] and after him about six other astronomers, had aimed at determining, by the proper motions of the stars, the point of the heavens towards which the solar system is moving: their results were tolerably accordant. mr. airy, in , proposed an improved method, and, applying it to stars of large proper motion, produced { } much the same result as herschel. mr. e. dunkin,[ ] one of mr. airy's staff at greenwich, applied mr. airy's method to a very large number of stars, and produced, again, nearly the same result as before. this paper was read to the astronomical society in _march_, , was printed in abstract in the _notice_ of that month, was printed in full in the volume then current, and was referred to in the annual report of the council in _february_, , under the name of "the astronomer royal's elaborate investigation, as exhibited by mr. dunkin." both mr. airy and mr. dunkin express grave doubts as to the sufficiency of the data: and, regarding the coincidence of all the results as highly curious, feel it necessary to wait for calculations made on better data. the report of the council states these doubts. mr. reddie, who only published in _september_, , happened to see the report of february, , assumes that the doubts were then first expressed, and declares that his book of september had the triumph of forcing the astronomer royal to abandon the _fact_ of motion of the solar system by the february following. had mr. reddie, when he saw that the council were avowedly describing a memoir presented some time before, taken the precaution to find out _when_ that memoir was presented, he would perhaps have seen that doubts of the results obtained, expressed by one astronomer in march, , and by another in , could not have been due to his publication of september, . and any one else would have learnt that neither astronomer doubts the _solar motion_, though both doubt the sufficiency of present means to determine its _amount_ and _direction_. this is implied in the omitted words, which mr. reddie--whose omission would have been dishonest if he had seen their meaning--no doubt took for pleonasm, superfluity, overmuchness. the rashness which pushed him headlong { } into the quillet that _his_ thunderbolt had stopped the chariot of the sun and knocked the greenwich phaeton off the box, is the same which betrayed him into yet grander error--which deserves the full word, _quidlibet_--about the _principia_ of newton. there has been no change of opinion at all. when a person undertakes a long investigation, his opinion is that, at a certain date, there is _prima facie_ ground for thinking a sound result may be obtained. should it happen that the investigation ends in doubt upon the sufficiency of the grounds, the investigator is not put in the wrong. he knew beforehand that there was an alternative: and he takes the horn of the alternative indicated by his calculations. the two sides of this case present an instructive contrast. eight astronomers produce nearly the same result, and yet the last two doubt the sufficiency of their means: compare them with the what's-his-name who rushes in where thing-em-bobs fear to tread. i was not aware, until i had written what precedes, that mr. airy had given a sufficient answer on the point. mr. reddie says (_correspondent_, jan. , ): "i claim to have forced professor airy to give up the notion of 'solar motion in space' altogether, for he admits it to be 'at present in doubt and abeyance.' i first made that claim in a letter addressed to the astronomer royal himself in june, , and in replying, very courteously, to other portions of my letter, he did not gainsay that part of it." mr. reddie is not ready at reading satire, or he never would have so missed the meaning of the courteous reply on one point, and the total silence upon another. mr. airy must be one of those peculiar persons who, when they do not think an assertion worth notice, let it alone, without noticing it by a notification of non-notice. he would never commit the bull of "sir! i will not say a word on that subject." he would put it thus, "sir! i will only say ten words on that subject,"--and, having thus said them, would { } proceed to something else. he assumed, as a matter of form, that mr. reddie would draw the proper inference from his silence: and this because he did not care whether or no the assumption was correct. the _mechanics of the heavens_, which mr. reddie sends to be noticed, shall be noticed, so far as an extract goes: "my connection with this subject is, indeed, very simply explained. in endeavoring to understand the laws of physical astronomy as generally taught, i happened to entertain some doubt whether gravitating bodies could revolve, and having afterwards imbibed some vague idea that the laws of the universe were chemical and physical rather than mechanical, and somehow connected with electricity and magnetism as opposing correlative forces--most probably suggested to my mind, as to many others, by the transcendent discoveries made in electro-magnetism by professor faraday[ ]--my former doubts about gravitation were revived, and i was led very naturally to try and discover whether a gravitating body really could revolve; and i became convinced it could not, before i had ever presumed to look into the demonstrations of the _principia_." this is enough against the book, without a word from me: i insert it only to show those who know the subject what manner of writer mr. reddie is. it is clear that "presumed" is a slip of the pen; it should have been _condescended_. mr. reddie represents me as dreaming over paltry paradoxes. he is right; many of my paradoxes are paltry: he is wrong; i am wide awake to them. a single moth, beetle, or butterfly, may be a paltry thing; but when a cabinet is arranged by genus and species, we then begin to admire the { } infinite variety of a system constructed on a wonderful sameness of leading characteristics. and why should paradoxes be denied that collective importance, paltry as many of them may individually be, which is accorded to moths, beetles, or butterflies? mr. reddie himself sees that "there is a method in" my "mode of dealing with paradoxes." i hope i have atoned for the scantiness of my former article, and put the demonstrated impossibility of gravitation on that level with hubongramillposanfy arithmetic and inhabited atoms which the demonstrator--not quite without reason--claims for it. in the introduction to a collected edition of the three works, mr. reddie describes his _mechanism of the heavens_, from which i have just quoted, as-- "a public challenge offered to the british association and the mathematicians at cambridge, in august, , calling upon them to point to a single demonstration in the _principia_ or elsewhere, which even attempts to prove that universal gravitation is possible, or to show that a gravitating body could possibly revolve about a center of attraction. the challenge was not accepted, and never will be. no such demonstration exists. and the public must judge for themselves as to the character of a so-called "certain science," which thus shrinks from rigid examination, and dares not defend itself when publicly attacked: also of the character of its teachers, who can be content to remain dumb under such circumstances." on paradoxers in general. the above is the commonplace talk of the class, of which i proceed to speak without more application to this paradoxer than to that. it reminds one of the funny young rascals who used, in times not yet quite forgotten, to abuse the passengers, as long as they could keep up with the { } stage coach; dropping off at last with "why don't you get down and thrash us? you're afraid, you're afraid!" they will allow the public to judge for themselves, but with somewhat of the feeling of the worthy uncle in _tom jones_, who, though he would let young people choose for themselves, would _have them_ choose wisely. they try to be so awfully moral and so ghastly satirical that they must be answered: and they are best answered in their own division. we have all heard of the way in which sailors cat's-pawed the monkeys: they taunted the dwellers in the trees with stones, and the monkeys taunted them with cocoa-nuts in return. but these were silly dendrobats: had they belonged to the british association they would have said--no! no! dear friends; it is not in the itinerary: if you want nuts, you must climb, as we do. the public has referred the question to time: the procedure of this great king i venture to describe, from precedents, by an adaptation of some smart anapæstic tetrameters--your anapæst is the foot for satire to halt on, both in greek and english--which i read about twenty years ago, and with the point of which i was much tickled. poetasters were laughed at; but mr. slum, whom i employed--mr. charles dickens obliged me with his address--converted the idea into that of a hit at mathematicasters, as easily as he turned the warren acrostic into jarley. as he observed, when i settled his little account, it is cheaper than any prose, though the broom was not stolen quite ready made: _forty stripes save one for the smaller paradoxers._ hark to the wisdom the sages preach who never have learnt what they try to teach. we are the lights of the age, they say! we are the men, and the thinkers we! so we build up guess-work the livelong day, in a topsy-turvy sort of way, some with and some wanting _a_ plus b. let the british association fuss; what are theirs to the feats to be wrought by us? { } shall the earth stand still? will the round come square? must isaac's book be the nest of a mare? ought the moon to be taught by the laws of space to turn half round without right-about-face? our whimsey crotchets will manage it all; deep! deep! posterity will them call! though the world, for the present, lets them fall down! down! to the twopenny box of the stall! thus they--but the marplot time stands by, with a knowing wink in his funny old eye. he grasps by the top an immense fool's cap, which he calls a philosophaster-trap: and rightly enough, for while these little men croak loud as a concert of frogs in a fen, he first singles out one, and then another, down goes the cap--lo! a moment's pother, a spirit like that which a rushlight utters as just at the last it kicks and gutters: when the cruel smotherer is raised again only snuff, and but little of that, will remain. but though _uno avulso_ thus comes every day _non deficit alter_ is also in play: for the vacant parts are, one and all, soon taken by puppets just as small; who chirp, chirp, chirp, with a grasshopper's glee, we're the lamps of the universe, we! we! we! but time, whose speech is never long,-- he hasn't time for it--stops the song and says--lilliput lamps! leave the twopenny boxes, and shine in the budget of paradoxes! when a paradoxer parades capital letters and diagrams which are as good as newton's to all who know nothing about it, some persons wonder why science does not rise and triturate the whole thing. this is why: all who are fit to read the refutation are satisfied already, and can, if they please, detect the paradoxer for themselves. those who are not fit to do this would not know the difference between the true answer and the new capitals and diagrams on which the delighted paradoxer would declare { } that he had crumbled the philosophers, and not they him. trust him for having the last word: and what matters it whether he crow the unanswerable sooner or later? there are but two courses to take. one is to wait until he has committed himself in something which all can understand, as mr. reddie has done in his fancy about the astronomer royal's change of opinion: he can then be put in his true place. the other is to construct a budget of paradoxes, that the world may see how the thing is always going on, and that the picture i have concocted by cribbing and spoiling a bit of poetry is drawn from life. he who wonders at there being no answer has seen one or two: he does not know that there are always fifty with equal claims, each of whom regards his being ranked with the rest as forty-nine distinct and several slanders upon himself, the great mully ully gue. and the fifty would soon be five hundred if any notice were taken of them. they call mankind to witness that science _will not_ defend itself, though publicly attacked in terms which might sting a pickpocket into standing up for his character: science, in return, allows mankind to witness or not, at pleasure, that it _does not_ defend itself, and yet receives no injury from centuries of assault. demonstrative reason never raises the cry of _church in danger_! and it cannot have any dictionary of heresies except a budget of paradoxes. mistaken claimants are left to time and his extinguisher, with the approbation of all thinking non-claimants: there is no need of a succession of exposures. time gets through the job in his own workmanlike manner as already described. on looking back more than twenty years, i find among my cuttings the following passage, relating to a person who had signalized himself by an effort to teach comets to the conductor of the _nautical almanac_: "our brethren of the literary class have not the least idea of the small amount of appearance of knowledge { } which sets up the scientific charlatan. their world is large, and there are many who have that moderate knowledge, and perception of what is knowledge, before which extreme ignorance is detected in its first prank. there is a public of moderate cultivation, for the most part sound in its judgment, always ready in its decisions. accordingly, all their successful pretenders have _some pretension_. it is not so in science. those who have a right to judge are fewer and farther between. the consequence is, that many scientific pretenders have _nothing but pretension_." this is nearly as applicable now as then. it is impossible to make those who have not studied for themselves fully aware of the truth of what i have quoted. the best chance is collection of cases; in fact, a budget of paradoxes. those who have no knowledge of the subject can thus argue from the seen to the unseen. all can feel the impracticability of the hubongramillposanfy numeration, and the absurdity of the equality of contour of a regular pentagon and hexagon in one and the same circle. many may accordingly be satisfied, on the assurance of those who have studied, that there is as much of impracticability, or as much of absurdity, in things which are hidden under "sines, tangents, secants, radius, cosines subtangents, segments and all those signs; enough to prove that he who read 'em was just as mad as he who made 'em." not that i mean to be disrespectful to mathematical terms: they are short and easily explained, and compete favorably with those of most other subjects: for instance, with "horse-pleas, traverses, demurrers, jeofails, imparlances, and errors, averments, bars, and protestandos, and puis d'arreign continuandos." { } from which it appears that, taking the selections made by satirists for our samples, there are, one with another, four letters more in a law term than in one of mathematics. but pleading has been simplified of late years. all paradoxers can publish; and any one who likes may read. but this is not enough; they find that they cannot publish, or those who can find they are _not_ read, and they lay their plans athwart the noses of those who, they think, ought to read. to recommend them to be content with publication, like other authors, is an affront: of this i will give the reader an amusing instance. my good nature, of which i keep a stock, though i do not use it all up in this budget, prompts me to conceal the name. i received the following letter, accompanied by a prospectus of a work on metaphysics, physics, astronomy, etc. the author is evidently one whom i should delight to honor: "sir,--a friend of mine has mentioned your name in terms of panigeric [_sic_], as being of high standing in mathematics, and of greatly original thought. i send you the enclosed without comment; and, assuming that the bent of your mind is in free inquiry, shall feel a pleasure in showing you my portfolio, which, as a mathematician, you will acknowledge to be deeply interesting, even in an educational point of view. the work is complete, and the system so far perfected as to place it above criticism; and, so far as regards astronomy, as will ptolemy beyond rivalry [_sic_: no doubt some words omitted]. believe me to be, sir, with the profoundest respect, etc. the work is the result of thirty-five years' travel and observation, labor, expense, and self-abnegation." i replied to the effect that my time was fully occupied, and that i was obliged to decline discussion with many persons who have views of their own; that the proper way is to publish, so that those who choose may read when they can find leisure. i added that i should advise a precursor in the shape of a small pamphlet, as two octavo volumes { } would be too much for most persons. this was sound advice; but it is not the first, second, or third time that it has proved very unpalatable. i received the following answer, to which i take the liberty of prefixing a bit of leonine wisdom: "si doceas stultum, lætum non dat tibi vultum; odit te multum; vellet te scire sepultum.[ ]" "sir,--i pray you pardon the error i unintentionally have fallen into; deceived by the f.r.s. [i am not f.r.s.] i took you to be a man of science [_omnis homo est animal, sortes est homo, ergo sortes est animal_][ ] instead of the mere mathematician, or human calculating-machine. believe me, sir, you also have mistaken your mission, as i have mine. i wrote to you as i would to any other man well up in mathematics, with the intent to call your attention to a singular fact of omission by euclid, and other great mathematicians: and, in selecting you, i did you an honor which, from what i have just now heard, was entirely out of place. i think, considering the nature of the work set forth in the prospectus, you are guilty of both folly and presumption, in assuming the character of a patron; for your own sense ought to have assured you that was such my object i should not have sought him in a de morgan, who exists only by patronage of others. on the other hand, i deem it to be an unpardonable piece of presumption in offering your advice upon a subject the magnitude, importance, and real utility of which you know nothing about: by doing so you have offered me a direct insult. the system is a manual of philosophy, a one inseparable whole of metaphysics and physic; embracing points the most interesting, laws the most important, { } doctrines the most essential to advance man in accordance with the spirit of the times. i may not live to see it in print; for, at ----, life at best is uncertain: but, live or die, be assured sir, it is not my intention to debase the work by seeking patronage, or pandering to the public taste. your advice was the less needed, seeing i am an old-established ----. i remain, etc.--p.s. you will oblige me by returning the prospectus of my work." my reader will, i am sure, not take this transition from the "profoundest respect" to the loftiest insolence for an _apocraphical_ correspondence, to use a word i find in the prospectus: on my honor it is genuine. he will be better employed in discovering whether i exist by patronizing others, or by being patronized by them. i make any one who can find it out a fair offer: i will give him my patronage if i turn out to be bufo, on condition he gives me his, if i turn out to be bavius.[ ] i need hardly say that i considered the last letter to be one of those to which no answer is so good as no answer. these letters remind me in one respect of the correspondents of the newspapers. my other party wrote because a friend had pointed me out: but he would not have written if he had known what another friend told him just in time for the second letter. the man who sends his complaint to the newspaper very often says, in effect, "don't imagine, sir, that i read your columns; but a friend who sometimes does has told me ..." it is worded thus: "my attention { } has been directed to an article in your paper of ..." many thanks to my friend's friends for not mentioning the budget: had my friend's attention been directed to it i might have lost a striking example of the paradoxer in search of a patron. that my friend was on this scent in the first letter is revealed in the second. language was given to man to conceal his thoughts; but it is not every one who can do it. among the most valuable information which my readers will get from me is comparison of the reactions of paradoxers, when not admitted to argument, or when laughed at. of course, they are misrepresented; and at this they are angry, or which is the same thing, take great pains to assure the reader that they are not. so far natural, and so far good; anything short of concession of a case which must be seriously met by counter-reasons is sure to be misrepresentation. my friend mr. james smith and my friend mr. reddie are both terribly misrepresented: they resent it by some insinuations in which it is not easy to detect whether i am a conscious smotherer of truth, or only muddle-headed and ignorant. [this was written before i received my last communication from mr. james smith. he tells me that i am wrong in saying that his work in which i stand in the pillory is all reprint: i have no doubt i confounded some of it with some of the manuscript or slips which i had received from my much not-agreed-with correspondent. he adds that my mistake was intentional, and that my reason is obvious to the reader. this _is_ information, as the sea-serpent said when he read in the newspaper that he had a mane and tusks.] the double vahu process. my friend dr. thorn[ ] sees deeper into my mystery. by the way, he still sends an occasional touch at the old { } subject; and he wants me particularly to tell my readers that the latin numeral letters, if m be left out, give . and so they do: witness dclxvi. a person who thinks of the origin of symbols will soon see that is our number because we have five fingers on each hand: had we had but four, our mystic number would have been expressed by , and would have stood for our present . had n been the number on each hand, the great number would have been (n + ) ( n^ + n + ) with no finger on each hand, the number would have been : with one finger less than none at all on each hand, it would have been . but what does this mean? here is a question for an algebraical paradoxer! so soon as we have found out how many fingers the inhabitants of any one planet have on each hand, we have the means of knowing their number of the beast, and thence all about them. very much struck with this hint of discovery, i turned my attention to the means of developing it. the first point was to clear my vision of all the old cataracts. i propose the following experiment, subject of course to the consent of parties. let dr. thorn double-vahu mr. james smith, and thau mr. reddie: if either be deparadoxed by the treatment, i will consent to undergo it myself. provided always that the temperature required be not so high as the doctor hints at: if the turkish baths will do for this world, i am content. the three paradoxers last named and myself have a pentasyllable convention, under which, though we go far beyond civility, we keep within civilization. though mr. james smith pronounced that i must be dishonest if i did not see his argument, which he knew i should not do [to say nothing of recent accusation]; though dr. thorn declared me a competitor for fire and brimstone--and my wife, too, which doubles the joke: though mr. reddie { } was certain i had garbled him, evidently on purpose to make falsehood appear truth; yet all three profess respect for me as to everything but power to see truth, or candor to admit it. and on the other hand, though these were the modes of opening communication with me, and though i have no doubt that all three are proper persons of whom to inquire whether i should go up-stairs or down-stairs, etc., yet i am satisfied they are thoroughly respectable men, as to everything but reasoning. and i dare say our several professions are far more true in extent than in many which are made under more parliamentary form. we find excuses for each other: they make allowances for my being hoodwinked by aristotle, by newton, by the devil; and i permit them to feel, for i know they cannot get on without it, that their reasons are such as none but a knave or a sinner can resist. but _they_ are content with cutting a slice each out of my character: neither of them is more than an uncle, a bone-a-part; i now come to a dreadful nephew, bone-the-whole. i will not give the name of the poor fellow who has fallen so far below both the _honestum_ and the _utile_, to say nothing of the _decorum_ or the _dulce_.[ ] he is the fourth who has taken elaborate notice of me; and my advice to him would be, _nec quarta loqui persona laboret_.[ ] according to him, i scorn humanity, scandalize learning, and disgrace the press; it admits of no manner of doubt that my object is to mislead the public and silence truth, at the expense of the interests of science, the wealth of the nation, and the lives of my fellow men. the only thing left to be settled is, whether this is due to ignorance, natural distaste for truth, personal malice, a wish to curry favor with the astronomer royal, or mere toadyism. the only accusation which has truth in it is, that i have made myself a "public scavenger of science": the assertion, which is the { } most false of all is, that the results of my broom and spade are "shot right in between the columns of" the _athenæum_. i declare i never in my life inserted a word between the columns of the _athenæum_: i feel huffed and miffed at the very supposition. i _have_ made myself a public scavenger; and why not? is the mud never to be collected into a heap? i look down upon the other scavengers, of whom there have been a few--mere historical drudges; montucla, hutton, etc.--as not fit to compete with me. i say of them what one crossing-sweeper said of the rest: "they are well enough for the common thing; but put them to a bit of fancy-work, such as sweeping round a post, and see what a mess they make of it!" who can touch me at sweeping round a paradoxer? if i complete my design of publishing a separate work, an old copy will be fished up from a stall two hundred years hence by the coming man, and will be described in an article which will end by his comparing our century with his own, and sighing out in the best new zealand pronunciation-- "dans ces tems-là c'était déjà comme ça!"[ ] orthodox paradoxers. and pray, sir! i have been asked by more than one--do your orthodox never fall into mistake, nor rise into absurdity? they not only do both, but they admit it of each other very freely; individually, they are convinced of sin, but not of any particular sin. there is not a syndoxer among them all but draws his line in such a way as to include among paradoxers a great many whom i should exclude altogether from this work. my worst specimens are but exaggerations of what may be found, occasionally, in the thoughts of sagacious investigators. at the end of the { } glorious dream, we learn that there is a way to hell from the gates of heaven, as well as from the city of destruction: and that this is true of other things besides christian pilgrimage is affirmed at the end of the budget of paradoxes. if d'alembert[ ] had produced _enough_ of a quality to match his celebrated mistake on the chance of throwing head in two throws, he would have been in my list. if newton had produced _enough_ to match his reception of the story that nausicaa, homer's phæacian princess, invented the celestial sphere, followed by his serious surmise that she got it from the argonauts,--then newton himself would have had an appearance entered for him, in spite of the _principia_. in illustration, i may cite a few words from _tristram shandy_: "'a soldier,' cried my uncle toby, interrupting the corporal, 'is no more exempt from saying a foolish thing, trim, than a man of letters.'--'but not so often, an' please your honor,' replied the corporal. my uncle toby gave a nod." i now proceed to die out. some prefatory remarks will follow in time.[ ] i shall have occasion to insist that all is not barren: i think i shall find, on casting up, that two out of five of my paradoxers are not to be utterly condemned. among the better lot will be found all gradations of merit; at the same time, as was remarked on quite a different subject, there may be little to choose between the last of the saved and the first of the lost. the higher and better class is worthy of blame; the lower and worse class is worthy of praise. the higher men are to be reproved for not taking up things in which they could do some good: the lower men are to be commended for taking up things in which they can do no great harm. the circle problem is like peter peebles's lawsuit: { } "'but, sir, i should really spoil any cause thrust on me so hastily.'--'ye cannot spoil it, alan,' said my father, 'that is the very cream of the business, man,--... the case is come to that pass that stair or arniston could not mend it, and i don't think even you, alan, can do it much harm.'" i am strongly reminded of the monks in the darker part of the middle ages. to a certain proportion of them, perhaps two out of five, we are indebted for the preservation of literature, and their contemporaries for good teaching and mitigation of socials evils. but the remaining three were the fleas and flies and thistles and briars with whom the satirist lumps them, about a century before the reformation: "flen, flyys, and freris, populum domini male cædunt; thystlis and breris crescentia gramina lædunt. christe nolens guerras qui cuncta pace tueris, destrue per terras breris, flen, flyys, and freris. flen, flyys, and freris, foul falle hem thys fyften yeris, for non that her is lovit flen, flyys ne freris."[ ] i should not be quite so savage with my second class. taken together, they may be made to give useful warning to those who are engaged in learning under better auspices: aye, even useful hints; for bad things are very often only good things spoiled or misused. my plan is that of a predecessor in the time of edward the second: "meum est propositum genti imperitæ artes frugi reddere melioris vitæ."[ ] to this end i have spoken with freedom of books as books, of opinions as opinions, of ignorance as ignorance, of { } presumption as presumption; and of writers as i judge may be fairly inferred from what they have written. some--to whom i am therefore under great obligation--have permitted me to enlarge my plan by assaults to which i have alluded; assaults which allow a privilege of retort, of which i have often availed myself; assaults which give my readers a right of partnership in the amusement which i myself have received. for the present i cut and run: a catiline, pursued by a chorus of ciceros, with _quousque tandem? quamdiu nos? nihil ne te?_[ ] ending with, _in te conferri pestem istam jam pridem oportebat, quam tu in nos omnes jamdiu machinaris!_ i carry with me the reflection that i have furnished to those who need it such a magazine of warnings as they will not find elsewhere; _a signatis cavetote_:[ ] and i throw back at my pursuers--_valete, doctores sine doctrina; facite ut proxima congressu vos salvos corporibus et sanos mentibus videamus._[ ] here ends the budget of paradoxes. { } * * * * * appendix. i think it right to give the proof that the ratio of the circumference to the diameter is incommensurable. this method of proof was given by lambert,[ ] in the _berlin memoirs_ for , and has been also given in the notes to legendre's[ ] geometry, and to the english translation of the same. though not elementary algebra, it is within the reach of a student of ordinary books.[ ] let a continued fraction, such as a ----- b + c ----- d + e - f + etc., be abbreviated into a/b+ c/d+ e/f+ etc.: each fraction being understood as falling down to the side of the preceding sign +. in every such fraction we may suppose b, d, f, etc. { } positive; a, c, e, &c. being as required: and all are supposed integers. if this succession be continued ad infinitum, and if a/b, c/d, e/f, etc. all lie between - and + , exclusive, the limit of the fraction must be incommensurable with unity; that is, cannot be a/b, where a and b are integers. first, whatever this limit may be, it lies between - and + . this is obviously the case with any fraction p/(q + [omega]), where [omega] is between ± : for, p/q, being < , and p and q integer, cannot be brought up to , by the value of [omega]. hence, if we take any of the fractions a/b, a/b+ c/d, a/b+ c/d+ e/f, etc. say a/b+ c/d+ e/f+ g/h we have, g/h being between ± , so is e/f+ g/h, so therefore is c/d+ e/f+ g/h; and so therefore is a/b+ c/d+ e/f+ g/h. now, if possible, let a/b+ c/d+ etc. be a/b at the limit; a and b being integers. let p = a c/d+ e/f+ etc., q = p e/f+ g/h+ etc., r = q g/h + i/k + etc. p, q, r, etc. being integer or fractional, as may be. it is easily shown that all must be integer: for { } a/b = a/b+ p/a, or, p = ab - ba p/a = c/d+ q/p, or, q = ca - dp q/p = e/f+ r/q, or, r = ep - fq etc., etc. now, since a, b, b, a, are integers, so also is p; and thence q; and thence r, etc. but since a/b, p/a, q/p, r/q, etc. are all between - and + , it follows that the unlimited succession of integers p, q, r, are each less in numerical value than the preceding. now there can be no such _unlimited_ succession of _descending_ integers: consequently, it is impossible that a/b+ c/d+, etc. can have a commensurable limit. it easily follows that the continued fraction is incommensurable if a/b, c/d, etc., being at first greater than unity, become and continue less than unity after some one point. say that i/k, l/m,... are all less than unity. then the fraction i/k+ l/m+ ... is incommensurable, as proved: let it be [kappa]. then g/(h + [kappa]) is incommensurable, say [lambda]; e/(f + [lambda]) is the same, say [mu]; also c/(d + [mu]), say [nu], and a/(b + [nu]), say [rho]. but [rho] is the fraction a/b+ c/d+ ... itself; which is therefore incommensurable. let [phi]z represent a a^ a^ + - + ------- + -------------- + .... z z(z+ ) · ·z(z+ )(z+ ) { } let z be positive: this series is convergent for all values of a, and approaches without limit to unity as z increases without limit. change z into z + , and form [phi]z - [phi](z+ ): the following equation will result-- a [phi]z-[phi](z+ ) = ------([phi](z+ )) z(z+ ) a [phi](z+ ) a [phi](z+ ) a [phi](z+ ) or a = - ---------- · z + - ---------- · --- ---------- z [phi]z z [phi]z z+ [phi](z+ ) a = [psi]z(z+[psi](z+ )) [psi]z being (a/z)([phi](z+ )/[phi]z); of which observe that it diminishes without limit as z increases without limit. accordingly, we have [psi]z = a/z+ [psi](z+ ) = a/z+ a/(z+ )+ [psi](z+ ) = a/z+ a/(z+ )+ a/(z+ )+ [psi](z+ ), etc. and, [psi](z + n) diminishing without limit, we have a/z · [phi](z+ )/[phi]z = (a/z+) (a/(z+ )+) (a/(z+ )+) (a/((z+ )+ ...)) let z = ½; and let a = -x^ . then (a/z)[phi](z+ ) is -(x^ / ) ( - x^ /( · ) + x^ /( · · · ...)) or -(x/ ) sin x. again [phi]z is - x^ / + x^ /( · · ) or cos x: and the continued fraction is (¼)x^ /(½)+ (¼)x^ /( / )+ (¼)x^ /( / )+ ... or -x/ x/ + -x^ / + -x^ / + ... { } whence tan x = x/ + -x^ / + -x^ / + -x^ / + ... or, as written in the usual way, tan x = x ------- - x^ ------- - x^ ------- - x^ ------- - ... this result may be proved in various ways: it may also be verified by calculation. to do this, remember that if a_ /b_ + a_ /b_ + a_ /b_ + ... a_n/b_n = p_n/q_n; then p_ =a_ , p_ =b_ p_ , p_ =b_ p_ +a_ p_ , p_ =b_ p_ +a_ p_ , etc. q_ =b_ , q_ =b_ q_ +a_ , q_ =b_ q_ +a_ q_ , q_ =b_ q_ +a_ q_ , etc. in the case before us we have a_ =x, a_ =-x^ , a_ =-x^ , a_ =-x^ , a_ =-x^ , etc. b_ = , b_ = , b_ = , b_ = , b_ = , etc. p_ =x q_ = p_ = x q_ = -x^ p_ = x-x^ q_ = - x^ p_ = x- x^ q_ = - x^ +x^ p_ = x- x^ +x^ q_ = - x^ + x^ p_ = x- x^ + x^ q_ = - x^ + x^ -x^ we can use this algebraically, or arithmetically. if we divide p_n by q_n, we shall find a series agreeing with the known series for tan x, _as far as_ n _terms_. that series is x + x^ / + x^ / + x^ / + x^ / + ... { } take p_ , and divide it by q_ in the common way, and the first five terms will be as here written. now take _x_ = . , which means that the angle is to be one tenth of the actual unit, or, in degrees °. . we find that when x = . , p_ = . , q_ = . ; whence p_ divided by q_ gives . . now °. is ° ' ½"; and from the old tables of rheticus[ ]--no modern tables carry the tangents so far--the tangent of this angle is . . now let x = ¼[pi]; in which case tan x = . if ¼[pi] be commensurable with the unit, let it be (m/n), m and n being integers: we know that ¼[pi] < . we have then =(m/n)/ - (m^ /n^ )/ - (m^ /n^ )/ - ... = m/n- m^ / n- m^ / n- m^ / n- ... now it is clear that m^ / n, m^ / n, m^ / n, etc. must at last become and continue severally less than unity. the continued fraction is therefore incommensurable, and cannot be unity. consequently [pi]^ cannot be commensurable: that is, [pi] is an incommensurable quantity, and so also is [pi]^ . i thought i should end with a grave bit of appendix, deeply mathematical: but paradox follows me wherever i go. the foregoing is--in my own language--from dr. (now sir david) brewster's[ ] english edition of legendre's geometry, (edinburgh, , vo.) translated by some one who is not named. i picked up a notion, which others had at cambridge in , that the translator was the late mr. galbraith,[ ] then known at edinburgh as a writer and teacher. { } but it turns out that it was by a very different person, and one destined to shine in quite another walk; it was a young man named thomas carlyle.[ ] he prefixed, from his own pen, a thoughtful and ingenious essay on proportion, as good a substitute for the fifth book of euclid as could have been given in the space; and quite enough to show that he would have been a distinguished teacher and thinker on first principles. but he left the field immediately. * * * * * (the following is the passage referred to at vol. ii, page .) michael stifelius[ ] edited, in , a second edition of the algebra (_die coss._), of christopher rudolff.[ ] this is one of the earliest works in which + and - are used. stifelius was a queer man. he has introduced into this very work of rudolff his own interpretation of the number of the beast. he determined to fix the character of pope leo: so he picked the numeral letters from leodecimvs, and by taking in x from leo x. and striking out m as standing for _mysterium_, he hit the number exactly. this discovery completed his conversion to luther, and his determination to throw off his monastic vows. luther dealt with him as straight-forwardly as with melanchthon about his astrology: he accepted the conclusions, but told him to clear his mind of all the premises about the beast. stifelius { } did not take the advice, and proceeded to settle the end of the world out of the prophet daniel: he fixed on october, . the parishioners of some cure which he held, having full faith, began to spend their savings in all kinds of good eating and drinking; we may charitably hope this was not the way of preparing for the event which their pastor pointed out. they succeeded in making themselves as fit for heaven as lazarus, so far as beggary went: but when the time came, and the world lasted on, they wanted to kill their deceiver, and would have done so but for the interference of luther. { } * * * * * index. pages denoted by numerals of this kind (_ _) refer to biographical notes, chiefly by the editor. numerals like refer to books discussed by de morgan, or to leading topics in the text. numerals like indicate minor references. abbott, justice, i, _ _. abernethy, j., ii, _ _. aboriginal britons, a poem, ii, . academy of sciences, french, i, . adair, j., i, _ _. adam, m., i, _ _. adams, j. c., i, _ _, , , ; ii, , , , . ady, joseph, ii, , _ _. agnew, h. c., i, . agricola, j., i, . agricultural laborer's letter, ii, . agrippa, h. c., i, _ _, . ainsworth, w. h., ii, _ _. airy, i, _ _, , , ; ii, , , , , . alchemy, i, . alfonso x (el sabio), ii, _ _. alford, h., ii, _ _. alfred, king, ballad of, ii, . algebra, i, . algebraic symbols, i, . almanac, i, ; ii, , , . (_see easter._) aloysius lilius, i, . alsted, j. h., ii, _ _. ameen bey, ii, . amicable society, i, . ampère, i, . amphisbæna serpent, i, . anagrams, de morgan, i, . anaxagoras, ii, _ _. angherà, ii, , _ _, , . annuities, fallacies of, i, . antichrist, i, . antimony, i, . antinewtonism, i, . antinomians, i, . antiphon, ii, _ _. antonie, f., i, _ _, . apollonius, i, , . apparitions, ii, . arago, i, _ _, . aratus, ii, _ _. arbuthnot, i, _ _, . archer, h., ii, . archimedes, i, , , , , . archytas, i, _ _. argoli, i, _ _. aristocrat, as a scientist, i, . aristotle, i, , . arnobius, ii, _ _. arson, p. j., ii, _ _. ashton, r., ii, _ _. astrology, i, , , , ; ii, . astronomer's drinking song, i, . astronomical aphorisms, i, . paradox, i, . police report, i, . society. (_see royal astronomical society._) astronomy, bailly's exaggerated view of, i, . astunica, didacas, i, . athanasian creed, i, . atheists, philosophical, i, . atoms, ii, . { } attraction, i, , , . augustine, st., ii, _ _. aurora borealis, i, . austen, jane, i, . auzout, a., ii, _ _. aviation, early ideas of, ii, . babbage, c., i, _ _, , ; ii, . bachet, de méziriac, i, _ _. bacon, f., i, , _ _, , , , , , . bacon, r., i, , _ _, , ; ii, . baconian controversy, i, . baden powell, ii, _ _. bailly, j. s., i, , _ _, . baily, f., i, , _ _; ii, , , . baily, r., ii, . baker, t., ii, _ _. bakewell, f. c., ii, , _ _. banks, j., i, . barberini, m., ii, _ _. barker, c., ii, _ _. baronius, i, , ; ii, _ _. barrême, i, _ _. barrett, g., ii, _ _. barrow, i., i, _ _; ii, . baruel, de, i, . bassano, duc de, ii, , . baxter, t., i, . bayle, p., ii, _ _. beaufort, f., ii, _ _. beaugrand, i, , _ _. beaulieu, i, _ _, , . beaune, de, ii, _ _. bécourt, r., ii, . bedford, duke of, ( th), i, _ _. behmen, i, _ _, ; ii, . bellenden, w., i, _ _. bentley, i, _ _. berkeley, g., ii, . bernard, e., ii, _ _, . bernardus trevisanus, i, _ _, . bernoullis, i, , _ _, _ _, . bertius, p., ii, _ _. bèse, i, _ _. bessel, i, _ _; ii, . bethune, i, _ _, , . bettesworth, i, . beza. (_see bèse._) bickersteth, e. h., i, _ _. bidder, i, _ _. biden, j., ii, , _ _. bidle, (biddle), i, . biot, i, _ _. birch, t., i, _ _; ii, , . birks, t. r., ii, , _ _. bishop, g., i, _ _. bishops as paradoxers, i, . boccaccio, i, . boethius, i, _ _, . böhme. (_see behmen._) boncompagni, i, _ _. boniface, st., i, . bonnycastle, j., ii, _ _. booker, i, . boole, g., i, _ _, ; ii, , . --a tribute to, ii, . borelli, g. a., ii, _ _. borello, i, _ _. boreman, i, . borron, mrs., ii, . boscovich, i, _ _, . bouguer, ii, _ _. bouillaud, i, _ _; ii, . bouvard, a., i, _ _. bovillus, i, _ _; ii, . --epitome of, i, . bowdler, h. m., i, _ _. bowring, j., i, _ _; ii, . boyle, r., i, , _ _; ii, . bradley, i, . bradwardine, i, _ _, , . brahe. (_see tycho b._) brancker, i, ; ii, _ _. brenan, j., i, , _ _. brewster, d., i, , _ _, ; ii, , , . briggs, i, _ _; ii, , . bright, j., ii, _ _. brinkley, j., i, _ _. britannicus, d., ii, . british museum library, i, . brothers, r., i, _ _; ii, . brougham, henry, lord, i, _ _. brouncker (brounker), i, _ _; ii, . brown, w., ii, _ _. browne, t., i, . brucker, i, _ _. brunet, i, _ _. brünnow, i, _ _. bruno, i, _ _, . bryson, ii, _ _. bürgi, i, . buffon, i, _ _. bulstrode, ii, . bungus, i, _ _, , . buoncompagno, u., i, _ _. { } burgon, j. w., ii, _ _. buridan, i, _ _. --questiones morales, i, . buridan's ass, i, . burke, e., i, _ _. burlesque, frend's, i, . burnet, g., i, _ _. burney, frances, i, _ _. burton, frances b., i, . busby, r., ii, _ _. buteo, i, _ _. butler, g., i, _ _. butler, s., ii, _ _. buxton, j., i, _ _. byrgius. (_see bürgi._) byrne, o., i, _ _; ii, , . byron, i, ; ii, , . cabbala, i, . calculating boys, i, . calculus, i, . calendar. (_see easter._) cambridge poets, ii, . campanus, i, , _ _. canning, geo., ii, _ _. carcavi, i, _ _. cardanus, ii, _ _. carlile, r., i, _ _. carlyle, t., ii, _ _. carnot, i, . caroline tables, i, . casaubon, i, _ _. case, j., i, _ _, . cassini, j., i, _ _. castel, i, _ _, . castiglioni, i, _ _. castlereagh, i, , _ _. cataldi, i, _ _, . catcott, a., i, _ _. causans, de, i, _ _. cavalieri, i, _ _. cavendish, c., i, _ _; ii, , . cavendish, w., i, _ _. caxton, w., ii, _ _. cayley, a., ii, _ _. cecil, r. ( st earl of salisbury), ii, _ _. centrifugal force, ii, . ceulen. (_see van ceulen._) challis, j., i, _ _; ii, . chalmers, i, _ _; ii, . chambers, e., ii, _ _. chambers, r., i, _ _, . charles ix, ii, . charles x, ii, . chasles, i, _ _, . chesterfield, earl of ( th), ii, _ _. chiffinch, w., ii, _ _. ch'in chiu-shang, ii, . chitty, j., ii, _ _. chiu-chang, suan-shu, ii, . christian evidence society, i, . christie, i, . christmann, i, , _ _. church question, i, . church, the word, ii, . circle squarers. (_see squaring the circle._) circulating media of mathematics, i, . ciruelo. (_see sanchez._) clairaut, i, _ _, . clarence, duke of, i, . clarke, r., i, _ _. clavius, i, , _ _, , , , , , ; ii, . clayton., geo., ii, _ _. cluvier, d., ii, , _ _. cobb, mary, ii, . cobbett, w., i, _ _, , . cobden, r., ii, . cocker, i, _ _; ii, , , , . cody, p., ii, . coke, e., ii, _ _. colburn, z., i, _ _. colenso, i, _ _, ; ii, . collins, j., i, _ _; ii, , , , . colvill, w. h., ii, . cometic astrology, i, . comets, i, ; ii, , . cominale, c., i, _ _, . compton, s. j. a., ii, _ _. computation, paradoxes of, ii, , . condamine, c. m. de la, ii, _ _. conduitt, john, i, _ _. conduitt, mrs., i, _ _. congregation of the index, i, . converse propositions, i, . convocation at oxford, i, . cooke, margaret, i, _ _. cooper, a. a. (shaftsbury), ii, _ _. copernicus, i, , , _ _, , , , ; ii, , . copley, j. s., i, _ _. cormouls, i, . cosmology, i, . { } cotes, r., ii, _ _. cottle, mrs., ii, , _ _, . craig, j., i, _ _, . creed, mathematics of a, i, . cribb, t., i, _ _. crotus, j., i, . cruickshank, g., i, _ _. cube, duplication of, i, . cumyns, eliza, i, . cunningham, i, , _ _. curabelle, i, _ _. curious calculations, ii, . curll, e., ii, _ _. cusa, i, _ _, , . custom, ii, . cyclometry, ii, . (_see squaring of the circle._) cyclopædias, review of, ii, . d'alembert, i, _ _; ii, , . dalgarno, i, , _ _. dalton, j., i, _ _. d'arblay, mme., i, _ _. darwin, e., ii, _ _. darwinism, primitive, i, . dary, m., ii, _ _. daval, p., ii, _ _. davies, t. s., ii, , _ _, . day, a., i, , _ _. de baruel, i, . de beaune. (_see beaune._) de becourt, ii, , _ _. debenham, j., i, _ _. de causans. (_see causans._) dechales. (_see de challes._) de challes, i, _ _. decimal coinage, ii, , , . decimals run riot, ii, . dee, j., ii, _ _. de fauré, i, . de la leu, i, _ _. delambre, i, _ _, , ; ii, . democritus, ii, _ _. de moivre, i, , _ _; ii, . de molières, i, _ _. de molina, i, _ _. demonville, i, , . de morgan, a., i, , ; ii, . --refusal of ll. d., i, . de morgan, g. c., i, . de morgan, mrs., i, _ _; ii, . denison, j., i, , . desaguliers, i, _ _, , . desargues, i, _ _, . descartes, i, , , , , , , ; ii, . de serres, ii, _ _. de sluse. (_see sluse._) de thou, i, , _ _, ; ii, . de vausenville, i, . devonshire, duke of ( th), i, _ _. diamandi, i, . didacus astunica, i, . diderot, ii, _ _, , . digby, k., i, _ _. digges, t., and l., ii, _ _. dionysius exiguus, i, _ _. dircks, h., ii, , _ _. discoverers and discoveries, ii, . discovery, basis of, i, . d'israeli, i., i, _ _, , , , . ditton, i, _ _, . division, nature of, ii, . dobson, j., i, _ _, . dodson, j., ii, _ _. dodt, i, _ _. doggerel verse, i, . dolland, i, _ _. double vahu process, ii, . douglas, g., i, _ _. drach, s. m., ii, _ _. drayson, g. a. w., ii, _ _, . dryden, ii, _ _. dual arithmetic, ii, . duchesne, i, _ _. dumortier, i, . duncan, a., i, _ _. dunkin, e., ii, _ _. duodecimal scale, ii, . duplication problem, i, . dupuy, j. and p., ii, _ _. dutens, l., ii, _ _. dyer, g., i, _ _. earth, figure of, ii, . easter, i, . easter day paradoxes, i, . ebrington, thos., i, _ _. edgeworth, maria, i, _ _. editorial system, i, . edleston, i, _ _; ii, . edwards, j., i, _ _. edwards, t., i, _ _. eirenæus philalethes, i, _ _, , . eldon, lord ( st), ii, _ _. elephant story, i, . elizabeth, queen, i, . ellenborough, baron, i, _ _. { } ellicot, i, . ellis, i, _ _, . engel, i, . english language, origin of, i, . enriques, f., ii, _ _. epps, j., i, _ _; ii, . equation of fifth degree, i, , . erasmus, i, . erastus, i, _ _. erichsen, i, . ersch, ii, _ _, . erskine, t., ii, _ _. esperanto, forerunner of, i, . euclid, i, , ; ii, , . --without axioms, i, . eudoxus, ii, _ _. euler, i, , _ _; ii, , , , , . eusebius, ii, _ _. eustace, j. c., ii, _ _. eutocius, i, _ _; ii, . evelyn, j., i, _ _. everett, j., i, _ _. evidence, i, , . faber. (_see stapulensis._) fairfax, mary, i, _ _. falco, i, . faraday, m., ii, _ _. fauré, de, i, ; ii, . fawcett, h., ii, _ _. ferguson, j., ii, _ _. fermat, i, , ; ii, _ _. ferrari, s., ii, . fiction, new era in, i, . fienus, i, _ _, . filopanti, q. b., ii, _ _. finæus, i, _ _, , . finleyson, j., i, , _ _. flamsteed, i, _ _, ; ii, , , , . fletcher, i, . fludd, ii, _ _. fly-leaf paradox, ii, . folkes, m., i, _ _; ii, . fontenelle, i, _ _. forbes, d., i, _ _. forman, w., i, , _ _, . forster, t. i. m., i, , _ _. foscarini, i, _ _. foster, s., ii, _ _. fourier, ii, _ _. fox, g., i, _ _. francis, p., ii, _ _. francoeur, i, _ _. frankland, w. b., i, , . franklin, j., ii, _ _. freedom of opinion, growth of, i, . freher, a., ii, . french academy on circle squaring, i, . frend, w., i, _ _, , , , . fresnel, ii, _ _. fromondus, i, _ _, , . frost, i. and j., i, . fry, elizabeth, i, . fuller, t., i, _ _. fulton, r., i, _ _. gadbury, j., i, _ _, . galbraith, j. a., ii, . galileo, i, , , , _ _, , , , , . galle, j. g., i, _ _; ii, . galloway, i, _ _, ; ii, . gamblers, i, . garrick, i, . gascoigne, w., ii, _ _. gassendi, i, _ _. gauss, i, , , . gemistus, g., i, _ _. gentleman's monthly, miscellany, i, . gephryander. (_see salicetus._) gergonne, i, _ _. ghetaldi, i, _ _; ii, . ghost paradox, ii, . giddy (gilbert), ii, _ _. gilbert, davies, ii, , _ _. gilbert, william, i, , _ _, , . gillot, ii, _ _. glazier (glazion), ii, . godwin, f., i, _ _. godwin, w., i, _ _. golius, i, _ _. gompertz, b., i, _ _. goulburn, i, _ _. goulden, s., ii, . graham, i, . grandamicus, i, _ _, . granger, j., i, _ _. grant, a. r., ii, . grant, r., i, _ _; ii, . grassi, o., i, _ _. grassini, i, _ _. graunt, j., i, , _ _, . gravity, i, , , , . { } --newton's apple, i, . greek numerals, ii, _ _. greene, r., i, _ _, . greenhill, sir g., i, . greenwich observatory, i, . gregg, t. d., ii, , _ _. gregorian calendar, i, . gregory, d., i, _ _; ii, . gregory, j., i, _ _, , ; ii, . gregory o., ii, _ _. gregory, pope, i, . grevil, i, _ _. grey, c., ( d earl), i, _ _; ii, . grosart, i, _ _, , . grove, w. r., ii, _ _. gruber, ii, _ _, . gruenberger, i, _ _. grynaeus, i, _ _. guaricus, i, _ _. guillim, j., ii, _ _. guldin, i, _ _. gumpach, von, ii, , _ _. gunning, h., i, _ _. gurney. (_see fry, e._) guthrie, w., i, _ _. hailes, j. d., ii, , _ _. hailesean system of astronomy, ii, . hale, m., i, _ _, . hales, s., i, _ _. hall, b., ii, _ _. hallam, i, . halley, i, , _ _, ; ii, , . halliwell-phillips, ii, _ _, . hamilton, w., i, _ _, , , , , , ; ii, , , . hamilton, w. rowan, i, _ _; ii, , , . hanover, king of, i, . hardy, c., i, _ _. hardy, t., i, _ _. harriot, t., ii, _ _. harvey, i, _ _, ; ii, . hauff, i, _ _. haughton, s., ii, . hauksbee, f., i, _ _. hayes, c., i, _ _, . heath, d. d., i, _ _. heinfetter, h., ii, , _ _. helmont, j. b. van, i, _ _. henson, ii, . heraclitus, ii, _ _. herbart, j. f., i, , _ _; ii, . hérigone, ii, _ _. herschel, j., i, _ _, , , , ; ii, , , , , , . herschel, w., i, _ _, , , , , ; ii, , . heywood, f., ii, _ _. hicks, j. p., ii, _ _. higgins, g., i, _ _, . hilarius, pope, i, _ _. hill, j., i, , , , . hill, rev. r., i, _ _. hill, sir r., i, _ _, . hind, j. r., i, _ _. hippocrates, ii, _ _. hoax, an interesting, i, . --lunar caustic, i, . --moon (herschel), i, ; ii, . hobbes, i, _ _, , , ; ii, . hobhouse, j. c., ii, _ _. hodder, j., ii, _ _. hodge, c. b., i, . hodges, w., i, . hoffmann, j. j., ii, _ _. hoffmann, j. j. i. von, i, _ _. holloway, b., i, _ _. holmes, o. w., i, . holyoake, g. j., i, _ _, . hone, w., i, , , , . hook, t. e., ii, _ _. hooke, i, _ _; ii, . hooker, r., ii, _ _. hopkins, j., ii, . horace, i, . horne, g., i, _ _, , , , . horne, j., i, _ _. horner, l., i, _ _. horner, w. g., ii, _ _, , . houlston, w., ii, , _ _. howard, e., i, . howison, w., i, , _ _. howitt, w., ii, , _ _. howley, i, . hulls, i, _ _, ; ii, . hume, j., i, _ _; ii, . husaín rifki, ii, . hussein effendi, ii, . hutchinson, j., i, , _ _. hutton, c., i, _ _, ; ii, , . huyghens, i, _ _, ; ii, . imaginary numbers, ii, . impalement by request, ii, . inaudi, i, . index expurgatorius, i, . { } infant prodigies, i, . inglis, j. b., ii, _ _. inglis, r. h., i, _ _. ingliz selim effendi, ii, . innocent i., i, _ _. irving, e., ii, _ _. ivory, j., ii, , _ _. jabir ben aflah, ii, _ _. jack, r., i, . jacotot, j., i, , _ _. jameson, mrs., ii, _ _. jeffreys, g., i, _ _. jenner, e., ii, _ _. jesuit contributions, i, . johnson, h. c., i, . johnson, s., i, , _ _, ; ii, . johnston, w. h., ii, . jombert, i, _ _. jonchère, i, _ _, . jones, w., i, _ _; ii, , . jones, rev. w., i, _ _. jonson, b., i, . journals, three classes of, ii, . kantesian jeweler, i, . karsten, i, _ _. kästner, i, _ _, , . kater, i, . keckermann, i, . keill, j., ii, _ _. kepler, i, , _ _, , ; ii, . kerigan, t., i, _ _, . keroualle, de, ii, . kersey, i, . king, wm., i, _ _. kircher, adolphe, i, . kircher, athanasius, i, _ _. kirkringius, t., i, , _ _. kittle, i, . klein, f., ii, . knight, c., ii, _ _, , . knight, g., i, , _ _. knight, r. p., ii, _ _. knight, wm., i, _ _. koenig, s., i, _ _. lacomme, i, . la condamine, ii, _ _. lacroix, i, , , . lactantius, i, , _ _. lagrange, i, , _ _, , ; ii, . laing, f. h., ii, _ _, . lalande, i, _ _. lamb, c., i, ; ii, . lambert, j. h., i, _ _; ii, , . lambert, john, ii, _ _. language, test of, ii, . lansbergius, i, _ _, . laplace, i, , _ _, ; ii, , . lardner, d., ii, _ _. lardner, n., i, ; ii, _ _. laud, i, _ _. lauder, w., i, . laurent, p., i, _ _, . laurie, j., ii, . laurie, p., ii, _ _. laurus, i, . law, edmund, i, _ _. law, edward, i, _ _. law, w., i, , _ _; ii, . le coq, i, _ _. lee, r., i, _ _. lee, s., i, _ _. lee, w., i, . legate, i, _ _. legendre, i, _ _; ii, , . legh, p., ii, _ _, . leibnitz, i, , ; ii, . leo, st., i, _ _. leverrier, i, _ _, , , , , ; ii, , , , . lewis, g. c., ii, , _ _. libri, i, _ _, ; ii, . lilius, aloysius, i, . lilly, i, _ _; ii, . lipen, m., i, _ _. little, j., i, . livingston, r., i, _ _. locke, j., i, _ _, , ; --and socinianism, i, . locke, r., i, . locke, r. a., i, _ _; ii, , . logan, w. e., i, _ _. logic, formal, i, ; ii, . --has no paradoxes, i, . london mathematical society, i, . london, university of, i, ; ii, . long, g., ii, _ _. long, j. st. j., ii. _ _, . longitude problems, i, , , . longley, c. t., i, _ _. longomontanus, i, _ _, . lottery, i. . lovett, r., i, , _ _. lowe, r., ii, _ _. lowndes, w. t., i. _ _. lubbock, j., i, _ _; ii, . { } lucas, f., ii, _ _. lucian, i, _ _. lunar caustic joke, i, . lunn, j. r., ii, _ _. lydiat, t., ii, _ _. lyndhurst, i, _ _. macclesfield, earls of, i, ; ii, _ _, . macclesfield, letters, ii, . macelshender, ii, . machin, j., ii, _ _. mackey, john, i, . mackey, s. a., i, _ _. maclear, t., ii, _ _. macleod, h. d., ii, , _ _. magic, i, . magna charta, i, . magnus, i, . maitland, s., i, _ _, . malacarne, i, . malden, h., ii, _ _. malius, ii, _ _. mallemens, ii, _ _. mankind gullible, i, . manning, h. e., (card.), ii, _ _. mansel, h. l., ii, _ _. marcelis, j., i, _ _, . maret, ii, _ _. margarita philosophica. (_see reisch._) marryat, capt., ii, _ _. marsh, h., i, _ _, . martin, b., i, _ _, . martin, r., ii, _ _. maseres, f., i, _ _, . mason, m., ii, _ _. mathematical illustrations of doctrine, ii, ; --psychology, i, ; --society, i, , , ; --theology, i, . mathematics, condensed history of, ii, . matter to spirit, ii, . maty, i, . maupertuis, ii, _ _. maurice, f. d., ii, _ _. maurolycus, i, _ _. maxwell, a., i, _ _. meadley, g. w., i, _ _. mechanics magazine, ii, , . medici, cosmo de, ii, _ _. medicine, status of, i, . melanchthon, ii, _ _. menestrier, i, _ _, . mercator, g., ii, _ _. mercator's projection, i, . mersenne, i, _ _, ; ii, , . meslier, j., ii, _ _. meteorologist, an early, i, . meteorology, i, . metius, a. and p., i, _ _, _ _, . meton, ii, . metric system, forerunner of, i, . méziriac, i, . milbanke, a. i., i, . mill, jas., i, . miller, joe, i, _ _. miller, s., i, . mills, elizabeth, w., ii, . milne, j., i, _ _. milner, i., i, _ _, . milner, j., ii, _ _. milner's lamp, i, . milward, ii, _ _. miracles _vs_. nature, ii, . mitchell, j., i, _ _. molière, i, _ _. molina, a. c. de, i, _ _. mollendorff, von, ii, _ _, . mondeux, i, . montague, c., ii, _ _. montmort, p. r. de, ii, _ _. montucla, i, , , , , , , , ; ii, . moon hoax, i, ; ii, . moon, nature of, ii, ; --rotation of, ii, , , , . more, hannah, i, _ _, . more, henry, i, . moore, dr. john, i, _ _. moore, sir john, i, _ _. morgan, s., i, . morgan, t., i, . morgan, w., i, _ _, . morhof, i, _ _. morin, i, _ _, . morinus, j. b., i, . morland, s., ii, _ _. mormonism, ii, . morrison, r. j., i, _ _; ii, . mose, h., ii, _ _. mottelay, i, . motti, ii, . mouton, i, _ _; ii, . muggleton, i, , _ _. multiplication, nature of, ii, . murchison, r. i., i, _ _. murhard, i, _ _, . { } murphy, a., ii, _ _. murphy, j. l., ii, , _ _. murphy, p., i, _ _, . murphy, r., i, , _ _. murray, j., i, _ _; ii, . murray, l., ii, _ _. murray, mungo, ii, . musgrave, t., i, _ _. mydorge, i, _ _. mystrom, j. w., ii, . mythological paradoxes, i, . names of religious bodies, ii, . napier, j., i, , , _ _, . napoleon, doubts as to, i, . nautical almanac, i, ; ii, . neal, i, _ _. negative numbers, i, , . neile, w., ii, _ _. neptune, discovery of, i, ; ii, . (_see adams, leverrier._) nesse, c, i, _ _, . newcomb, s., i, . newcomen, t., i, _ _. newton, sir isaac, i, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; ii, , , , , _ _, . newton, john, ii, _ _. nicene creed, i, . nichol, j. p., ii, _ _. nicholas. (_see cusa._) nichols, j., i, _ _. nicolas, n. h., i, _ _. nicollet, i, _ _; ii, . nicolson, w., i, _ _. nieuwentijt, ii, _ _. nizzoli, m., ii, . non-euclidean geometry, ii, . northampton, marquis of ( d), ii, _ _. novum organum moralium, ii, . number, mystery of, i, , , . number of the beast ( ), i, , , , , ; ii, , , , , , . numeral system, ii, . nursery rhymes, ii, . occam, wm. of, ii, _ _. odgers, n., ii, , _ _. oinopides of chios, ii, _ _. oldenburgh, h., ii, _ _, . orthodox paradoxes, ii, . orthography, paradoxes of, ii, . ortwinus, i, . oughtred, w., ii, _ _, . owenson, i, _ _. ozanam, i, _ _, . pagi, i, . paine, t., i, , _ _, . paley, w., i, _ _; ii, . palmer, c., i, . palmer, h., i, _ _, , . palmer, j., ii, _ _. palmer, t. f., ii, _ _. palmer, w., ii, _ _. palmerston, viscount ( d), i, _ _, . palmézeaux, i, . panizzi, a., i, _ _. papist, ii, . paracelsus, ii, . paradox defined, i, , . paradox, religious, i, . paradoxers in general, ii, . parallels, theory of, i, , . pardies, i. g., ii, _ _. park, mungo, ii, _ _, . parker, f., ii, _ _. parker, g. (earl of macclesfield), ii, _ _. parr, s., i, , _ _, , , . parsey, i, , _ _. partridge, j., i, _ _. pasbergius, i, . pascal, i, , , , _ _, _ _; ii, . pascal's hexagram, i, . passot, i, , _ _. passover, i, , . patriotic paradox, i, . paucton, i, _ _. paulian, i, , _ _. peacock, geo., i, _ _, . peacock, t. l., i, _ _, . pearce, a. j., ii, . pearne, t., i, _ _. peel, sir r., i, , _ _. peel, w. y., i, _ _. pèlerin, j., ii, _ _. pell, j., i, _ _, , ; ii, , , . pepys, i, _ _, . perigal, h., ii, , _ _. { } perpetual motion, i, , ; ii, , . perspective, new theory of, i, . peters, w., ii, , . petitioning comet, i, . petrie, w. m. f., i, _ _. petty, i, _ _; ii, . philalethes, eirenaeus, i, _ _, , . philalethes, eugenius, i, _ _. phillips, r., i, , _ _, . philo of gadara, i, , _ _. philosopher's stone, i, , . philosophical atheists, ii, . philosophy and religion, ii, . phonetic spelling, ii, . [pi], values of, i, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; ii, , , , , , , , , , , . pighius, i, _ _. pike, s., i, , _ _. pindar, p., ii, _ _. piozzi, mrs., i, _ _; ii, . piscator, b., ii, . pitman, f., ii, , _ _. place, f., i, _ _. planets inhabitable, i, , . plato, i, . platt, h., i, _ _, . playfair, j., i, _ _. pletho, g., i, _ _. pliny, ii, . ploucquet, i, _ _, . poe, e. a., ii, . poincaré, i, . poisson, i, _ _; ii, . pollock, j. f., ii, _ _. pons, ii, _ _. pope, wm., i, , _ _. porta, i, _ _, , . porteus, b., i, _ _, . porteus, h. f. a., ii, , _ _. porus, i, . powell, baden, ii, _ _. powell, w. s., i, _ _. pratt, h. f. a., ii, , _ _. pratt, o., ii, _ _. predaval, count de, i, _ _. prescot, b., i, , _ _, . prester john, i, , _ _, . price, r., i, _ _. probability, discourse on, i, . proclus, i, , _ _. prodigies, youthful, i, , . pronunciation, ii, . protestant and papal christendom, ii, . protimalethes, ii, . ptolemy, i, , , _ _. pullicino, ii, , _ _. pusey, i, _ _. pyramids, the, i, ; ii, , . pythagoras, ii, _ _. quadrature problem. (_see squaring the circle._) quarles, f., ii, _ _. quintilian, ii, . quotem, c., i, . rabelais, i, _ _. rainbow paradox, ii, . ramachandra, y., i, _ _. ramchundra, i, . ramus, i, . recalcati, ii, , . recorde, r., ii, _ _. reddie, jas., ii, , _ _, , . reeve, j., i, _ _. regiomontanus, i, _ _, . reisch, i, _ _; ii, . religion and philosophy, ii, . religious bodies, names of, ii, ; --customs, attacks on, i, ; --insurance, i, ; --paradox, i, ; --tract society, i, . remigius, i, _ _. reuchlin, j., ii, _ _. revelations, napier on, i, . revilo, (o. byrne), i, , , _ _. reyneau, c. r., ii, _ _. rheticus, i, _ _; ii, . rhonius, ii, . ribadeneira, p. de, ii, _ _. riccioli, i, _ _. richards, g., ii, _ _. rigaud, j., ii, _ _. rigaud, s. j., ii, _ _. rigaud, s. p., i, _ _; ii, , . ringelbergh, j. s., ii, _ _. ripley, g., i, _ _, . ritchie, w., i, , _ _. ritterhusius, i, _ _. rive, j.-j., i, _ _. robertson, jas., i, _ _. roberval, i, _ _, . { } robinson, b., i, _ _, . robinson, h. c., i, _ _; ii, , . robinson, r., i, _ _. robinson, t. r., ii, _ _. roblin, j., ii, . rogers, s., ii, _ _. roget, p. m., i, _ _. roomen, a. van, i, _ _. ross, j. c., i, _ _. rosse, i, . rossi, g., i, , _ _. rotation of the moon, ii, , . rough, w., i, . rowning, j., i, _ _. royal astronomical society, i, ; --forerunner of, i, . royal society, i, , , - , , , , , , , . rudio, i, ; ii, . rudolff, c., ii, . russell, earl ( st), i, _ _. rutherford, w., ii, _ _. sabatíer, a., ii, _ _. sabellius, i, _ _. sacrobosco, i, _ _. sadler, t., i, _ _, . saint-martin, i, , _ _, . st.-mesmin, m. de., i, . st. vincent, g. de., i, _ _, . st. vitus, patron of cyclometers, ii, . sales, de, i, . salicetus, i, . salisbury, earl of ( st), ii, _ _. salmasius, claudius, ii, _ _. salusbury, hester, i, _ _. sanchez, petro, i, , _ _. sanders, w., i, . sanderson, r., i, _ _. sara, r., i, _ _. saunderson, n., i, _ _; ii, . scaliger, i, _ _, , , , ; ii, . scévole de st. marthe, i, . schooten, van, ii, _ _. schopp, i, _ _. schott, i, _ _; ii, . schumacher, h. c., i, _ _; ii, . schwab, i, _ _. scientific paradoxes, i, . scott, michael, i, _ _. scott's devils, i, . scott, w., i, , , , , , _ _. scripture and science, ii, . search, john, i, . selden, j., ii, _ _. sénarmont, ii, _ _. serres, de, ii, _ _. shaftesbury, earl of, ii, _ _. shakespeare, i, . shanks, ii, _ _, , . shaw, p., i, _ _. sheepshanks, j., i, _ _. sheepshanks, r., i, _ _. shelley, i, . shepherd, s., i, _ _. sherburne, e., ii, _ _. sheridan, r. b., i, _ _. sheridan, t., i, _ _. shoberl, f., ii, _ _. shrewsbury, i, _ _. siddons, mrs., i, . simms, w., i, _ _. simplicius, ii, _ _. simpson, t., i, ; ii, . simson, r., i, _ _, , . sinclair, g., i, _ _. slander paradoxes, ii, . sloane, i, . sluse, r. de, i, _ _, ; ii, . smith, adam, ii, _ _. smith, jas., i, _ _; ii, , _ _, , , , , , , . smith, jas., ii, _ _. smith, jas. (shepherd), ii, _ _, . smith, joseph, ii, _ _. smith, richarda, i, _ _. smith, thomas, i, , _ _. smith, wm., ii, _ _. smyth, c. p., i, _ _; ii, . snell, i, _ _, . socinianism, i, , . socinus, i, , _ _. socrates scholasticus, i, _ _. sohncke, l. a., ii, _ _. somerville, mrs., i, _ _. south, j., ii, _ _. southcott, joanna, ii, _ _, , . spearman, r., i, _ _. speculative thought in england, i, . spedding, i, _ _, , . speed, j., i, _ _. speke, i, _ _. spelling, phonetic, ii, . spence, w., i, _ _, . spencer, earl ( d), ii, _ _. { } spinoza, i, , _ _. spiritualism, ii, , , . spurius cassius viscellinus, ii, _ _. spurius maelius, ii, _ _. squaring the circle, i, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; ii, , , , , , , , , . stäckel, i, . stanhope, p. d., (earl of chesterfield), ii, _ _. stapulensis, i, _ _; ii, . star polygons, i, . starkie, g., i, _ _, . statter, d., ii, . steamship suggested, i, . steel, jas., ii, . stenography, ii, . stephens, i, _ _; ii, . stephenson, g., ii, _ _. stephenson, r., ii, _ _. stevin, i, _ _, ; ii, . stewart, d., ii, _ _. stewart, r., i, _ _. stifel, m., ii, _ _. strafford, earl of, i, _ _. stratford, w. s., i, _ _. street, t., i, _ _. stukely, w., i, _ _. suffield, g., ii, _ _. suidas, ii, _ _. sumner, c. r., i, _ _. sumner, j. b., i, _ _. sun as an electric space, ii, . supernatural, the, ii, . suvaroff, ii, _ _. swastika, ii, . swedenborg, e., i, _ _. swift, i, , . sylvester, j. j., ii, _ _. symington, w., i, _ _. symons, ii, , , , , . sympathetic powder, i, . synesius, i, . talbot, g., i, _ _, _ _. talbot's powder, i, . tartaglia, ii, . tasse, i, _ _. tate, j., i, _ _. tauler, j., ii, _ _. taylor, brook, ii, _ _. taylor, john, i, _ _; ii, . taylor, robt., i, _ _. taylor, t., i, , _ _. teissier, i, _ _. temple, h. j., i, . tenterden, chief justice, i, _ _. thales, ii, _ _, . theism independent of revelation, i, . thelwall, j., i, _ _. theodoretus, i, _ _. theological paradoxes, i, . theology, mathematical, i, , . theophrastus, ii, _ _. thiébault, ii, _ _, . thom, d., ii, _ _, . thom, j. h., ii, _ _. thompson, p., i, _ _. thompson, t. p., i, _ _, , ; ii, , . thomson, dr., i, . thomson, w., i, _ _. thorn, w., ii, , _ _, . thorndike, h., ii, _ _. thrale, mrs., i, _ _. thurlow, baron, i, _ _. thyræus, i, . tides, new theory of, i, . tombstones of mathematicians, i, . tonal system, ii, . tooke, h., i, _ _. torriano, e., i, . towneley, ii, . townley, c., ii, _ _. trisection problem, i, ; ii, , , , . troughton, i, _ _. turnor, e., i, _ _. tycho brahe, i, , _ _, ; ii, , . upton, w., ii, , _ _, . ursus, i, _ _. valentine, b., i, _ _, . van ceulen, i, , , . van de weyer, i, _ _. van etten, i, _ _. van helmont, i, _ _, . van roomen, i, _ _. van schooten, ii, _ _. vaughan, t., i, _ _. victorinus, i, _ _. viète, i, _ _; ii, , . virgil, st., i, , _ _, , . { } virginia, university of, i, . viscellinus, ii, _ _. vitruvius, ii, _ _. vivian, t., i, , _ _. vogel, a. f., i, . voltaire, i, , , , , , ; ii, . von gumpach, ii, , _ _. von hutten, i, . von wolzogen. (_see wolzogen._) vyse, r. w. h., i, _ _. walker, w. e., ii, _ _. walkingame, f., ii, _ _. wallich, n., ii, _ _. wallis, j., i, , , ; ii, , . walpole, i, _ _, . walsh, john, i, , _ _; ii, . wapshare, j., ii, _ _. warburton, h., i, _ _. warburton, wm., i, _ _, ; ii, . ward, s., ii, _ _. waring, e., i, _ _, . warner, w., ii, _ _, . warren, s., ii, _ _. watkins, j., ii, _ _. watson, bp., i, _ _. watt, r., i, _ _, . watts, i., ii, . weddle, t., ii, _ _. wentworth, thos., i, _ _. wharton, i, . whately, r., i, , _ _, . whately's paradox, i, . whewell, i, _ _, , , , ; ii, , , . whigs, ii, . whiston, j., i, _ _. whiston, w., i, , _ _, , , . white, h. k., ii, _ _. white, j. b., i, . white, r., i, . whitford, i, . whitworth, w. a., ii, _ _. whizgig, on the, i, . wightman, i, . wilberforce, w., ii, _ _. wilkins, j., i, , _ _, , . williams, j. b., i, _ _. williams, t., i, , _ _. wilson, sir j., i, _ _. wilson, j. m., ii, _ _. wilson, r., ii, , _ _. wilson's theorem, i, _ _. wingate, e., ii, _ _. winter, i, . wirgman, t., i, , _ _. wiseman, n. p. s., ii, _ _, , . wolcot, j. (peter pindar), ii, _ _. wollstonecraft, i, , _ _. wolzogen, i, _ _. wood, a., i, _ _. wood, john, i, _ _. wood, wm., i, , _ _. woodley, w., i, , _ _. wordsworth, ii, . wright, e., i, . wright, t., i, , _ _, , . wright, w., ii, . wronski, i, , _ _. wrottesley, j. (baron), ii, _ _. young, b., ii, _ _. young, j. w. a., ii, . young, t., i, , , _ _. youthful prodigies, i, . yvon, i, _ _. zach, von, ii, _ _, . zachary, pope, i, , . zadkiel, i, _ _; ii, . zetetic astronomy, ii, . zodiac, ii, . zytphen, ii, _ _. * * * * * notes transcriber's note: references to notes in volume i are shown as in the printed book, with the resequenced footnote numbers in the project gutenberg edition (etext-no. ) added thus { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "i have no need for this hypothesis." [ ] "ah, it is a beautiful hypothesis; it explains many things." [ ] "what we know is very slight; what we don't know is immense." [ ] brewster relates (_life of sir isaac newton_, vol. ii, p. ) that, a short time before his death, newton remarked: "i do not know what i may appear to the world, but to myself i seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me." [ ] see vol. i, p. , note { }. [ ] "what is all that!" [ ] "i have some good news to tell you: at the bureau of longitudes they have just received a letter from germany announcing that m. bessel has verified by observation your theoretical discoveries on the satellites of jupiter." [ ] "man follows only phantoms." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] dieudonné thiébault ( - ) was a jesuit in his early life, but he left the order and took up the study of law. in he went to prussia and became a favorite of frederick the great. he returned to france in and became head of the lycée at versailles. [ ] _memories of twenty years of residence in berlin._ there was a second french and an english edition in . [ ] richard joachim heinrich von mollendorff ( - ) began his career as a page of frederick the great ( ) and became field marshal ( ) and commander of the prussian army on the rhine ( ). [ ] hugues bernard maret ( - ) was not duc de bassano in , this title not being conferred upon him until . he was ambassador to england in and to naples in . napoleon made him head of the cabinet and his special confidant. the bourbons exiled him in . [ ] denis diderot ( - ), whose _lettre sur les aveugles_ ( ) introduced him to the world as a philosopher, and whose work on the _encyclopédie_ is so well known. [ ] "sir, (a + b^{n}) / n = x, whence god exists; answer!" [ ] this was one james laurie of musselburgh. [ ] jelinger cookson symons ( - ) was an office-holder with a decided leaning towards the improvement of education and social conditions. he wrote _a plea for schools_ ( ), _the industrial capacities of south wales_ ( ), and _lunar motion_ ( ), to which last work the critic probably refers. [ ] "protimalethes" followed this by another work along the same line the following year, _the independence of the testimony of st. matthew and st. john tested and vindicated by the theory of chances_. [ ] wilson had already taken up the lance against science in his _strictures on geology and astronomy, in reference to a supposed want of harmony between these sciences and some parts of divine revelation_, glasgow, . he had also ventured upon poetry in his _pleasures of piety_, glasgow, . [ ] mrs. borron was elizabeth willesford mills before her marriage. she made an attempt at literature in her _sibyl's leaves_, london (printed at devonport), . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , notes { } and { }. [ ] his flying machine, designed in , was one of the earliest attempts at aviation on any extensive scale. [ ] erasmus darwin ( - ) was the grandfather of charles darwin. the work here mentioned had great influence, being translated into french, portuguese, and italian. canning parodied it in his _loves of the triangles_. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] the notes on this page were written on the day of the funeral of wilbur wright, june , , the man who realized all of these prophecies, and then died a victim of municipal crime,--of typhoid fever. [ ] john charles, third earl spencer ( - ), to whose efforts the reform bill was greatly indebted for its final success. [ ] this was published in london in instead of . [ ] this appeared in . [ ] this was done in _the circle squared_, published at brighton in . [ ] it first appeared in , under the title, _the scriptural calendar and chronological reformer, . including a review of tracts by dr. wardlaw and others on the sabbath question. by w. h. black._ the one above mentioned, for , was printed in , and was also by black ( - ). he was pastor of the seventh day baptists and was interested in archeology and in books. he catalogued the manuscripts of the ashmolean museum at oxford. [ ] william upton, a trinity college man, dublin. he also wrote _upton's physioglyphics_, london, ; _pars prima. geometria vindicata; antiquorumque problematum, ad hoc tempus desperatorum, trisectionis anguli, circulique quadraturae, solutio, per eucliden effecta, london_ (printed at southampton), ; _the uptonian trisection_, london, ; and _the circle squared_, london, . [ ] for example, if [theta] = ° we should have cos ° = + [root]( - sin^ °), or .½ [root] = + [root] , or ½ [root] = . [ ] nathaniel wallich ( - ) was surgeon at the danish settlement at serampore when the east india company took over the control in . he entered the british medical service and was invalided to england in . his _plantae asiaticae rariores_ ( vols., london, - ) was recognized as a standard. he became vice-president of the linnean society, f. r. s., and fellow of the royal asiatic society. [ ] but if [theta] = ° this asserts that cos ° = (sin ° . cos ° + sin^ ° . sin °) / [root](sin^ ° . cos^ ° + sin^{ } ° + sin ° . sin ° . sin^ °), or that ½ [root] = (- . (- /[root] ) + . (- /[root] ) / [root] . ½ + - . . ) = / [root]½, so that de morgan must have made some error in copying. [ ] john bonnycastle (died in ) was professor of mathematics at woolwich. his edition of bossut's _history of mathematics_ ( ), and his works on elementary mathematics were well known. [ ] the bibliographies give husaín rifki as the translator, a practical geometry as the work, and as the date. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] probably in _the improvement of the mind_ which isaac watts ( - ) published in . his _horae lyricae_ appeared in , and the _hymns_, by which he is still well known, in . [ ] spencer joshua alwyne compton, second marquis of northampton ( - ), was a poet, a scientist, and a statesman. he was president of the royal society from to . [ ] besides the writings here mentioned perigal published a work on _geometric maps_ (london, ), and _graphic demonstrations of geometric problems_ ( ). [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] james ferguson ( - ) was a portrait painter, an astronomer, and a popular writer and lecturer on various subjects. [ ] in the old ballad of king alfred and the shepherd, when the latter is tempting the disguised king into his service, he says: "of whig and whey we have good store, and keep good pease-straw fire." _whig_ is then a preparation of milk. but another commonly cited derivation may be suspected from the word _whiggamor_ being used before _whig_, as applied to the political party; _whig_ may be a contraction. perhaps both derivations conspired: the word _whiggamor_, said to be a word of command to the horses, might contract into _whig_, and the contraction might be welcomed for its own native meaning.--a. de m. [ ] this was p. in the first edition. [ ] st. augustine ( - ) was bishop of hippo. his _confessiones_, in books, was written in , and his _de civitate dei_ in . [ ] "he was wont to indulge in certain punic subtleties lest he should weary the reader by much speaking." [ ] john milner ( - ), bishop of castabala, a well-known antiquarian. [ ] it will be said that when the final happiness is spoken of in "sure and certain hope," it is _the_ resurrection, generally; but when afterwards application is made to the individual, simple "hope" is all that is predicated which merely means "wish?" i know it: but just before the general declaration, it is declared that it _has_ pleased god of his great mercy to _take unto himself_, the soul of our dear brother: and between the "hopes" hearty thanks are given that it _has_ pleased god to deliver our dear brother out of the miseries of this wicked world, with an additional prayer that the number of the elect may shortly be accomplished. all which means, that our dear brother is declared to be taken to god, to be in a place not so miserable as this world--a description which excludes the "wicked place"--and to be of the elect. yes, but it will be said again! do you not know that when this liturgy was framed, all who were not in the road to heaven were excommunicated burial service read over them. supposing the fact to have been true in old time, which is a very spicy supposition, how does that excuse the present practice? have you a right _always_ to say what you believe _cannot always_ be true, because you think it was once _always_ true? yes, but, choose whom you please, you cannot be _certain_ he is _not_ gone to heaven. true, and choose which bishop you please, you cannot be demonstratively _certain_, he is _not_ a concealed unbeliever: may i therefore say of the whole bench, _singulatim et seriatim_, that they _are_ unbelievers? no! no! the voice of common sense, of which common logic is a part, is slowly opening the eyes of the multitude to the unprincipled reasoning of theologians. remember . what chance had parliamentary reform when the house of commons thanked the manchester sabre-men? if you do not reform your liturgy, it will be reformed for you, and sooner than you think! the dishonest interpretations, by defence of which even the minds of children are corrupted, and which throw their shoots into literature and commerce, will be sent to the place whence they came: and over the door of the established organization for teaching religion will be posted the following notice: "shift and subterfuge, shuffle and dodge, no longer here allowed to lodge!" all this ought to be written by some one who belongs to the establishment: in him, it would be quite prudent and proper; in me, it is kind and charitable.--a. de m. [ ] but few do have access to it, for the work is not at all common, and this piscator is rarely mentioned. [ ] this derivation has been omitted.--s. e. de m. [ ] a blow for a blow. roland and oliver were two of the paladins of charlemagne whose exploits were so alike that each was constantly receiving credit for what the other did. finally they met and fought for five days on an island in the rhine, but even at the end of that period it was merely a drawn battle. [ ] "in the name of the church." [ ] "from the chair," officially. [ ] nicholas patrick stephen wiseman ( - ), whose elevation to the archbishopric of westminster and the cardinalate ( ) led to the act prohibiting roman catholics from assuming episcopal titles in england, a law that was never enforced. [ ] he was born in and was converted to catholicism in . he founded the _tablet_ in london in , removing its office to dublin in . he became m. p. in , and at the time of his death ( ) he was preparing a memorial to the pope asking him to annul the proclamation of an irish bishop prohibiting his priests from taking part in politics. [ ] john guillim ( - ) was the first to systematize and illustrate the whole science of heraldry. he published _a display of heraldrie: manifesting a more easie accesse to the knowledge thereof_ in . [ ] "faith." [ ] "faithful." [ ] "for the faith vindicated." [ ] the words are of the same root, and hence our word _fiddle_. some suppose this root means a _rope_, which, as that to which you trust, becomes, in one divergence, confidence itself--just as a _rock_, and other words, come to mean reliance--and in another, a little string.--a. de m. [ ] the greek lexicographer, a christian, living after a. d. his lexicon was first printed at milan in . [ ] _skindapsos._ [ ] this was john william burgon ( - ), gresham professor of theology ( ) and dean of chichester. he was an ultra-conservative, opposing the revised version of the new testament, and saying of the admission of women to the university examinations that it was "a thing inexpedient and immodest." [ ] _ekklesia_, or _ecclesia_. [ ] _ennomos ekklesia._ [ ] "without doubt i shall perish forever." [ ] "every man is an animal." "sortes is a man." "sortes is an animal." [ ] "for a special purpose." [ ] heraclitus of ephesus, the weeping philosopher, th century b. c. [ ] democritus, the laughing philosopher, founder of the atomistic theory, th century b. c. [ ] "ends to which." [ ] "ends from which." [ ] "in just as many syllables," "with just as many letters," "in just as many words." [ ] "i shall make a way," "i shall find a way." [ ] the notion that the evil spirit is a functionary liable to be dismissed for not attending to his duty, is, so far as my reading goes, utterly unknown in theology. my first wrinkle on the subject was the remark of the somersetshire farmer upon palmer the poisoner-- "well! if the devil don't take he, he didn't ought to be allowed to be devil no longer."--a. de m. william palmer ( - ) was a member of the royal college of surgeons and practised medicine at london. he was hanged in for having poisoned a friend and was also suspected of having poisoned his wife and brother for their insurance money, besides being guilty of numerous other murders. his trial was very much in the public attention at the time. [ ] advantages and dangers. [ ] the old priory of st. mary of bethlehem in london, was used as an asylum for the insane. the name was corrupted to bedlam. [ ] referring to the common english pronunciation of st. john, almost sinjin. john st. john long ( - ), an irishman by birth, practised medicine in london. he claimed to have found a specific for rheumatism and tuberculosis, but upon the death of one of his patients in he was tried for manslaughter. he died of tuberculosis four years later, refusing to take his own treatment. [ ] william of occam (d. ), so called from his birthplace, ockham, in surrey. he was a franciscan, and lectured on philosophy in the sorbonne. [ ] he signs himself "james hopkins, schoolmaster," and this seems to have been his only published effort. [ ] joseph ady ( - ) was a famous swindler. one of his best-known schemes was to send out letters informing the recipients that they would learn something to their advantage on payment of a certain sum. he spent some time in prison. [ ] sir peter laurie (c. - ) was worth referring to, for he was prominent as a magistrate and was honored because of his interest in all social reforms. he made a fortune as a contractor, became sheriff of london in , and was knighted in the following year. he became lord mayor of london in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. the _astronomy in a nutshell_ appeared in . _the herald of astrology_ was first published in london in , "by zadkiel the seer." it was continued as _the astrological almanac_ (london, ), as _zadkiel's almanac and herald of astrology_ (_ibid._, , edited by r. j. morrison, and subsequently by a. j. pearce), and as _raphael's prophetic almanac_ ( - ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] franz xaver, freiherr von zach ( - ) was director of the observatory at seeberge near gotha. he wrote the _tabulae speciales aberrationis et mutationis_ ( - ), _novae et correctae tabulae solis_ ( ), and _l'attraction des montagnes et ses effets sur le fil à plomb_ ( ). [ ] jean louis pons ( - ) was connected with the observatory at marseilles for thirty years ( - ). he later became director of the observatory at marlia, near lucca, and subsequently filled the same office at florence. he was an indefatigable searcher for comets, discovering between and , among them being the one that bears encke's name. [ ] this hypothesis has now become an established fact. [ ] john chetwode eustace (c. - ) was born in ireland. although a roman catholic priest he lived for a time at cambridge where he did some tutoring. his _classical tour_ appeared in and went through several editions. [ ] "crimes should be exposed when they are punished, but disgraceful acts should be hidden." [ ] henri hureau de sénarmont ( - ) was professor of mineralogy at the _ecole des mines_ and examiner at the _ecole polytechnique_ at paris. [ ] augustin jean fresnel ( - ), "ingenieur des ponts et chaussées," gave the first experimental proofs of the wave theory of light. he studied the questions of interference and polarization, and determined the approximate velocity of light. [ ] "as is my custom." [ ] francis heywood ( - ) made the first english translation of kant's _critick of pure reason_ ( , reprinted in ). the _analysis_ came out, as here stated, in . [ ] louise renée de keroualle, duchess of portsmouth and aubigny ( - ), was a favorite of charles ii. she used her influence to keep him under the control of louis xiv. [ ] william chiffinch (c. - ) was page of the king's bed-chamber and keeper of the private closet to charles ii. he was one of the king's intimates and was an unscrupulous henchman. [ ] "well devised." [ ] "john bellingham inglis. his _philobiblion_ "translated from the first edition (of ricardus d'aungervile, bishop of durham), ," appeared at london in . it was republished in america (albany, n. y.) in . [ ] "what are you laughing at?" [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] referring to hamilton's edition of the _collected works of dugald stewart_, volumes, edinburgh, - . it is not commonly remembered that stewart ( - ) taught mathematics at the university of edinburgh before he took up philosophy. [ ] this was hamilton's edition of the _works of thomas reid_ ( vols., edinburgh, - ). reid ( - ) included mathematics in his work in philosophy at aberdeen. in he succeeded adam smith at glasgow. [ ] edward irving ( - ), the famous preacher. at first he assisted dr. chalmers at glasgow, but in he went to london where he met with great success. a few years later he became mentally unbalanced and was finally expelled from his church ( ) for heresy. he was a great friend of carlyle. [ ] he also wrote a number of other paradoxes, including _an essay towards a science of consciousness_ ( ), _instinctive natural religion_ ( ), _popular treatise on the structure, diseases, and treatment of the human teeth_ ( ), and _on headache_ ( ). [ ] james smith ( - ), known as shepherd smith, was a socialist and a mystic, with a philosophy that was wittily described as "oriental pantheism translated into scotch." he was editor of several journals. [ ] joanna southcott ( - ) was known for her rhyming prophecies in which she announced herself as the woman spoken of in revelations xii. she had at one time as many as , disciples, and she established a sect that long survived her. [ ] thales, c. - b. c. [ ] pythagoras, - b. c. [ ] anaxagoras, - b. c., the last of the ionian school, teacher of euripides and pericles. plutarch speaks of him as having squared the circle. [ ] oinopides of chios, contemporary of anaxagoras. proclus tells us that oinopides was the first to show how to let fall a perpendicular to a line from an external point. [ ] bryson and antiphon, contemporaries of socrates, invented the so-called method of exhaustions, one of the forerunners of the calculus. [ ] he wrote, c. b. c., the first elementary textbook on mathematics in the greek language. the "lunes of hippocrates" are well known in geometry. [ ] jabir ben aflah. he lived c. , at seville, and wrote on astronomy and spherical trigonometry. the _gebri filii affla hispalensis de astronomia libri_ ix was published at nuremberg in . [ ] hieronymus cardanus, or girolamo cardano ( - ), the great algebraist. his _artis magnae sive de regulis algebrae_ was published at nuremberg in . [ ] nicolo tartaglia (c. - ), the great rival of cardan. [ ] see note { }, vol. i, page . [ ] see note { }, vol. i., page . [ ] see note { }, vol. i, page . [ ] pierre hérigone lived in paris the first half of the th century. his _cours mathématique_ ( vols., - ) had some standing but was not at all original. [ ] franciscus van schooten (died in ) was professor of mathematics at leyden. he edited descartes's _la géométrie_. [ ] florimond de beaune ( - ) was the first frenchman to write a commentary on descartes's _la géométrie_. he did some noteworthy work in the theory of curves. [ ] see note { }, vol. i, page . [ ] olivier de serres (b. in ) was a writer on agriculture. montucla speaks of him in his _quadrature du cercle_ (page ) as having asserted that the circle is twice the inscribed equilateral triangle, although, as de morgan points out, this did not fairly interpret his position. [ ] angherà wrote not only the three works here mentioned, but also the _problemi del più alto interesse scientifico, geometricamente risoluti e dimostrati_, naples, . his quadrature was defended by giovanni motti in a work entitled _matematica vera. falsità del sistema ciclometrico d'archimede, quadratura del cerchio d'angherà, ricerca algebraica dei lati di qualunque poligono regolare inscritto in un circolo_, voghera, . the _problemi_ of contains angherà's portrait, and states that he lived at malta from to . it further states that the malta publications are in part reproduced in this work. [ ] this was his friend paolo pullicino whose _elogio_ was pronounced by l. farrugia at malta in . he wrote a work _la santa effegie della blata vergine maria_, published at valetta in . [ ] st. vitus, st. modestus, and st. crescentia were all martyred the same day, being torn limb from limb after lions and molten lead had proved of no avail. at least so the story runs. [ ] the reference is to cardinal wiseman. see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] "worthy of esteem." [ ] pedro de ribadeneira (ribadeneyra, rivadeneira), was born at toledo in and died in . he held high position in the jesuit order. the work referred to is the _flos sanctorum o libro de las vidas de los santos_, of which there was an edition at barcelona in . his life of loyola ( ) and _historia ecclesiástica del cisma del reino de inglaterra_ were well known. [ ] cæsar baronius ( - ) was made a cardinal in and became librarian at the vatican in . the work referred to appeared at rome in . [ ] mrs. jameson's ( - ) works were very popular half a century ago, and still have some circulation among art lovers. the first edition of the work mentioned appeared in . [ ] the barnyard cock. [ ] shanks did nothing but computing. the title should, of course, read "to places of _decimals_." he later carried the computation to decimal places. (_proc. roy. society_, xxi, p. .) he also prepared a table of prime numbers up to , . (_proc. roy. society_, xxii, p. .) [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] george suffield published _synthetic division in arithmetic_, to which reference is made, in . [ ] john robert lunn wrote chiefly on church matters, although he published a work on motion in . [ ] jean baptiste joseph, baron fourier ( - ), sometime professor in the military school at paris, and later at the _ecole polytechnique_. he is best known by his _théorie analytique de la chaleur_ (paris, ), in which the fourier series is used. the work here referred to is the _analyse des équations déterminées_ (paris, ). [ ] william george horner ( - ) acquired a name for himself in mathematics in a curious manner. he was not a university man nor was he a mathematician of any standing. he taught school near bristol and at bath, and seems to have stumbled upon his ingenious method for finding the approximate roots of numerical higher equations, including as a special case the extracting of the various roots of numbers. davies gilbert presented the method to the royal society in , and it was reprinted in the _ladies' diary_ for , and in the _mathematician_ in . the method was original as far as horner was concerned, but it is practically identical with the one used by the chinese algebraist ch'in chiu-shang, in his _su-shu chiu-chang_ of . but even ch'in chiu-shang can hardly be called the discoverer of the method since it is merely the extension of a process for root extracting that appeared in the _chiu-chang suan-shu_ of the second century b. c. [ ] he afterwards edited loftus's _inland revenue officers' manual_ (london, ). the two equations mentioned were x^ - x = and y^ - y^ + y - , = , in which y = - x. hence each place of y is the complement of the following place of x with respect to . [ ] probably the john power hicks who wrote a memoir on t. h. key, london, . [ ] possibly the one who wrote on the quadrature of the circle in . [ ] as it is. but what a pity that we have not fingers, with duodecimal fractions instead of decimals! we should then have . for ½, . for / , . for / , . for ¼, . for ¾, and . for / , instead of . , . +, . +, . , . , and . as we now have with our decimal system. in other words, the most frequently used fractions in business would be much more easily represented on the duodecimal scale than on the decimal scale that we now use. [ ] he wrote hints for an _essay on anemology and ombrology_ (london, - ) and _the music of the eye_ (london, ). [ ] brigham young ( - ) was born at whitingham, vermont, and entered the mormon church in . in he was sent as a missionary to england. after the death of joseph smith he became president of the mormons ( ), leading the church to salt lake city ( ). [ ] joseph smith ( - ) was also born in vermont, and was four years the junior of brigham young. the _book of mormon_ appeared in , and the church was founded in . he was murdered in . [ ] orson pratt ( - ) was one of the twelve apostles of the mormon church ( ), and made several missionary journeys to england. he was professor of mathematics in the university of deseret (the mormon name for utah). besides the paper mentioned pratt wrote the _divine authenticity of the book of mormon_ ( ), _cubic and biquadratic equations_ ( ), and a _key to the universe_ ( ). [ ] "it does not follow." [ ] dryden ( - ) published his _religio laici_ in . the use of the word "proportion" in the sense of ratio was common before his time, but he uses it in the sense of having four terms; that is, that price is to price as offence is to offence. [ ] olinthus gilbert gregory ( - ) succeeded hutton as professor of mathematics at woolwich. he was, with de morgan, much interested in founding the university of london. he wrote on astronomy ( ), mechanics ( ), practical mathematics ( ), and christian evidences ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. the _pensées_ appeared posthumously in . [ ] "the right thing to do is not to wager at all." "yes, but you ought to wager; you have started out; and not to wager at all that god exists is to wager that he does not exist." [ ] he lived about a.d., in africa, and wrote _libri septem adversus gentes_. this was printed at rome in - . [ ] pierre bayle ( - ) was professor of philosophy at the prostestant university at sedan from until its dissolution in . he then became professor at rotterdam ( - ). in he began the publication of his journal of literary criticism _nouvelles de la république des lettres_. he is best known for his erudite _dictionnaire historique et critique_ ( ). [ ] "but christ himself does not prove what he promises. it is true. for, as i have said, there cannot be any absolute proof of future events. therefore since it is a condition of future events that they cannot be grasped or comprehended by any efforts of anticipation, is it not more reasonable, out of two alternatives that are uncertain and that are hanging in doubtful expectation, to give credence to the one that gives some hope rather than to the one that offers none at all? for in the former case there is no danger if, as is said to threaten, it becomes empty and void; while in the latter case the danger is greatest, that is, the loss of salvation, if when the time comes it is found that it was not a falsehood." [ ] gregg wrote several other paradoxes, including the following: _the authentic report of the extraordinary case of tresham dames gregg ... his committal to bridewell for refusing to give his recognizance_ (dublin, ), _an appeal to public opinion upon a case of injury and wrong ... in the case of a question of prerogative that arose between_ [r. whately] _... archbishop of dublin and the author_ (london, ), _the cosmology of sir isaac newton proved to be in accordance with the bible_ (london, ), _the steam locomotive as revealed in the bible_ (london ) and _on the sacred law of , conferring perpetual life with immunity from decay and disease. a cento of decisive scriptural oracles strangely discovered_ (london and dublin, ). these titles will help the reader to understand the man whom de morgan so pleasantly satirizes. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "they have found it." [ ] the late greeks used the letters of their alphabet as numerals, adding three early alphabetic characters. the letter [chi] represented , [xi] represented , and [digamma] stood for . this gives , the number of the beast given in the revelation. [ ] "allowing for necessary exceptions." [ ] mr. gregg is not alone in his efforts to use the calculus in original lines, as any one who has read herbart's application of the subject to psychology will recall. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }; page , note { }. [ ] the full title shows the plan,--_the decimal system as a whole, in its relation to time, measure, weight, capacity, and money, in unison with each other._ but why is this so much worse than the french plan of which we have only the metric system and the decimal division of the angle left? [ ] one of the brothers of sir isaac pitman ( - ), the inventor of modern stenography. of these brothers, benjamin taught the art in america, jacob in australia, and joseph, henry, and frederick in england. [ ] for example, _the phonographic lecturer_ (london, etc.), _the phonographic student_ ( , etc.), and _the shorthand magazine_ ( , etc.). [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] it involves the theory of non-euclidean geometry, euclid's postulate of parallels being used in proving this theorem. [ ] referring to the fact that none of the works of thales is extant. [ ] the author was one b. bulstrode. parts and were printed at calcutta. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] alexander vasilievich suvaroff ( - ), a russian general who fought against the turks, in the polish wars, and in the early napoleonic campaigns. when he took ismail in he sent this couplet to empress catherine. [ ] "newton hath determined rightly," "newton hath not determined rightly." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "with great honor." [ ] apparently unknown to biographers. he seems to have written nothing else. [ ] captain marryat ( - ) published _snarley-yow, or the dog fiend_ in . [ ] he is not known to biographers, and published nothing else under this name. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] he published a _family and commercial illustrated almanack and year book ... for _ (bath, ). [ ] louis dutens ( - ) was born at tours, but went to england as a young man. he made the first collection of the works of leibnitz, against the advice of voltaire, who wrote to him: "les écrits de leibnitz sont épars comme les feuilles de la sybille, et aussi obscurs que les écrits de cette vieille." the work appeared at geneva, in six volumes, in . [ ] mungo park ( - ), the first european to explore the niger ( - ). his _travels in the interior of africa_ appeared in . he died in africa. [ ] gerhard mercator ( - ) the well-known map maker of louvain. the "mercator's projection" was probably made as early as , but the principle of its construction was first set forth by edward wright (london, ). [ ] quirico barilli filopanti wrote a number of works and monographs. he succeeded in getting his _cesare al rubicone_ and _degli_ _usi idraulici della tela_ in the _memoria letta ... all' accademia delle scienze in bologna_ ( , ). he also wrote _dio esiste_ ( ), _dio liberale_ ( ), and _sunto della memoria sulle geuranie ossia di alcune singolari relazioni cosmiche della terra e del cielo_ ( ). [ ] the periods of disembodiment may be interesting. they will be seen from the following dates: descartes ( - ), william iii ( - ); roger bacon ( to c. ), boccaccio ( - ). charles ix was born in and died in . [ ] his real name was frederick parker, and he wrote several works on the greek language and on religion. among these were a translation of the new testament from the vatican ms. ( ), _the revealed history of man_ ( ), _an enquiry respecting the punctuation of ancient greek_ ( ), and _rules for ascertaining the sense conveyed in ancient greek manuscripts_ ( , the seventh edition appearing in ). [ ] see vol. i, page , second note { }. the literature on the subject of the great pyramid, considered from the standpoint of metrology, is extensive. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] sir philip francis ( - ) was a whig politician. the evidence that he was the author of the _letters of junius_ ( - ) is purely circumstantial. he was clerk in the war office at the time of their publication. in he was made a member of the supreme council of bengal, and was a vigorous opponent of warren hastings, the two fighting a duel in . he entered parliament in and was among the leaders in the agitation for parliamentary reform. [ ] mrs. cottle published a number of letters that attracted attention at the time. among these were letters to the emperor of france and king of sardinia ( ) relating to the prophecies of the war between france and austria; to g. c. lavis and her majesty's ministers ( ) relating to her claims as a prophetess; and to the "crowned heads" at st. james, the king of prussia, and others ( ), relating to certain passages of scripture. she also wrote _the lamb's book of life for the new jerusalem church and kingdom, interpreted for all nations_ ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }, and vol. ii, page , note . [ ] a congregational minister, who published a number of sermons, chiefly obituaries, between and . his _frailty of human life_, two sermons delivered on the occasion of the death of princess charlotte, went through at least three editions. [ ] he was secretary of the congregational board and editor of the _congregational year book_ (from ) and the _congregational manual_. [ ] frederick denison maurice ( - ) began his preaching as a unitarian but entered the established church in , being ordained in . he was professor of english and history at king's college, london, from to . he was one of the founders of queen's college for women, and was the first principal of the working men's college, london. the subject referred to by de morgan is his expression of opinion in his _theological essays_ ( ) that future punishment is not eternal. as a result of this expression he lost his professorship at king's college. in he was made knightbridge professor of casuistry, moral theology, and moral philosophy at cambridge. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. besides the books mentioned in this list he wrote _the ratio between diameter and circumference demonstrated by angles, and euclid's theorem, proposition , book i, proved to be fallacious_ (liverpool, ). this is the theorem which asserts that the exterior angle of a triangle is equal to the sum of the two opposite interior angles, and that the sum of the interior angles equals two right angles. he also published his _curiosities of mathematics_ in , a work containing an extensive correspondence with every one who would pay any attention to him. de morgan was then too feeble to show any interest in the final effort of the subject of some of his keenest satire. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "the circle-squaring disease"; literally, "the circle-measuring disease." [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] william rutherford (c. - ), teacher of mathematics at woolwich, secretary of the royal astronomical society, editor of _the mathematician_, and author of various textbooks. _the extension of [pi] to places_, appeared in the _proceedings_ of the royal society in (p. ). [ ] charles knight ( - ) was associated with de morgan for many years. after he superintended the publications of the society for the diffusion of useful knowledge, to which de morgan contributed, and he edited the _penny cyclopedia_ ( - ) for which de morgan wrote the articles on mathematics. [ ] sir william hamilton. see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] adam smith ( - ) was not only known for his _wealth of nations_ ( ), but for his _theory of moral sentiments_ ( ), published while he was professor of moral philosophy at glasgow ( - ). he was lord rector of the university in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "whip." [ ] "terrible lash." [ ] "an accomplished fact [an accomplished fault]." [ ] see _extracts from the diary and letters of mrs. mary cobb_, london, . [ ] "gentle in manner." [ ] "brave in action." the motto of earl newborough was "suaviter in modo, fortiter in re." [ ] "reduction to an absurdity," a method of proof occasionally used in geometry and in logic. [ ] "he has lost the right of being moved (struck) by evidence." [ ] for _radix quadratus_. the usual root sign is supposed to be derived from _r_ (for radix), and at one time _q_ was commonly used for square, as in viète's style of writing aq for a^ . [ ] the garde douloureuse was a castle in the marches of wales and received its name because of its exposure to attacks by the welsh. [ ] "out of the fight." [ ] "hidden." [ ] john cam hobhouse ( - ), baron broughton, was committed to newgate for two months in for his anonymous pamphlet, _a trifling mistake_. this was a great advertisement for him, and upon his release he was at once elected to parliament for westminster. he was a strong supporter of all reform measures, and was secretary for war in . he was created baron broughton de gyfford in . [ ] thomas erskine ( - ), the famous orator. he became lord chancellor in , but sat in the house of commons most of his life. [ ] the above is explained in the ms. by a paragraph referring to some anagrams, in one of which, by help of the orthography suggested, a designation for this cyclometer was obtained from the letters of his name.--s. e. de m. [ ] "a personal verb agrees with its subject." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] apparently unknown to biographers. [ ] the _bibliotheca mathematica_ of ludwig adolph sohncke ( - ), professor of mathematics at königsberg and halle, covered the period from to , being completed by w. engelmann. it appeared in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] mason made a notable balloon trip from london to weilburg, in the duchy of nassau, in november, , covering miles in hours. he published an account of this trip in , and a work entitled _aeronautica_ in . [ ] william harrison ainsworth ( - ) the novelist. [ ] on this question see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] major general alfred wilks drayson, author of various works on geology, astronomy, military surveying, and adventure. [ ] hailes also wrote several other paradoxes on astronomy and circle squaring during the period - . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "very small errors are not to be condemned." [ ] he seems to have written nothing else. [ ] besides the paradoxes here mentioned by de morgan he wrote several other works, including the following: _abriss der babylonisch-assyrischen geschichte_ (mannheim, ), _a popular inquiry into the moon's rotation on her axis_ (london, ), _practical tables for the reduction of the mahometan dates to the christian kalendar_ (london, ), _grundzüge einer neuen weltlehre_ (munich, ), and _on the historical antiquity of the people of egypt_ (london, ). [ ] dircks ( - ) was a civil engineer of prominence, and a member of the british association and the royal society of edinburgh. he wrote ( ) on "pepper's ghost," an ingenious optical illusion invented by him. there was a second edition of the _perpetuum mobile_ in . [ ] george stephenson ( - ), the inventor of the first successful steam locomotive. his first engine was tried in . [ ] robert stephenson ( - ), the only son of george. most of the early improvements in locomotive manufacture were due to him. he was also well known for his construction of great bridges. [ ] "in its proper place." [ ] "a fool always finds a bigger fool to admire him." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] from to it was edited by i. c. robertson; from to by r. a. brooman; and from to by brooman and e. j. reed. [ ] sir james ivory ( - ) was, as a young man, manager of a flax mill in scotland. in he was made professor of mathematics at the royal military college, then at marlow and later at sandhurst. he was deeply interested in mathematical physics, and there is a theorem on the attraction of ellipsoids that bears his name. he was awarded three medals of the royal society, and was knighted together with herschel and brewster, in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] george canning ( - ), the tory statesman and friend of scott, was much interested in founding the _quarterly review_ ( ) and was a contributor to its pages. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] de morgan had a number of excellent articles in this publication. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] james orchard halliwell ( - ), afterwards halliwell-phillips, came into prominence as a writer at an early age. when he was seventeen he wrote a series of lives of mathematicians for the _parthenon_. his _rara mathematica_ appeared when he was but nineteen. he was a great bibliophile and an enthusiastic student of shakespeare. [ ] this was written at the age of twenty-two. [ ] the subject of this criticism is of long past date, and as it has only been introduced by the author as an instance of faulty editorship, i have omitted the name of the writer of the libel, and a few lines of further detail.--s. e. de m. [ ] "condemned souls." [ ] the editor of the _mechanics' magazine_ died soon after the above was written.--s. e. de m. [ ] thomas stephens davies ( - ) was mathematical master at woolwich and f. r. s. he contributed a series of "geometrical notes" to the _mechanics' magazine_ and edited the _mathematician_. he also published a number of text-books. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] the _dictionary of greek and roman biography_ ( ), edited by sir william smith ( - ), whose other dictionaries on classical and biblical matters are well known. [ ] "o j. s.! this is the worst! the greatest possible injury!" [ ] see vol. i, page , note { } and page , note { }. [ ] "if there's a man whom the judge's pitiless sentence awaiteth, his head condemned to penalties and tribulations, let neither penitentiaries tire him with laborer's burdens nor let his stiffened hands be harrassed by work in the mines. he must square the circle! for what else do i care?--all known punishments this one task hath surely included." [ ] houlston was in the customs service. he also published _inklings of areal autometry_, london, . [ ] this is frederick c. bakewell. he had already published _natural evidence of a future life_ (london, ), _philosophical conversations_ (london, , with other editions), and _electric science_ (london, , with other editions). [ ] henry f. a. pratt had already published _a dissertation on the power of the intercepted pressure of the atmosphere_ (london, ) and _the genealogy of creation_ ( ). later he published a work _on orbital motion_ ( ), and _astronomical investigations_ ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] thomas rawson birks ( - ), a theologian and controversialist, fellow of trinity college, cambridge, and ( ) professor of moral philosophy in that university. he wrote _modern rationalism_ ( ), _the bible and modern thought_ ( ), _the first principles of moral science_ ( ), and _modern physical fatalism and the doctrine of evolution_ ( ), the last being an attack on herbert spencer's _first principles_. [ ] pseudonym for william thorn. in the following year ( ) he published a second work, _the thorn-tree: being a history of thorn worship_, a reply to bishop colenso's work entitled _the pentateuch and the book of joshua critically examined_. [ ] besides _the pestilence_ ( ) he published _the true church_ ( ), _the church and her destinies_ ( ), _religious reformation imperatively demanded_ ( ), and _the bible plan unfolded_ (second edition, ). [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] sir george cornewall lewis ( - ) also wrote an _essay on the origin and formation of the romance languages_ ( ), an _essay on the government of dependencies_ ( ), and an _essay on foreign jurisdiction and the extradition of criminals_ ( ). he was chancellor of the exchequer in and home secretary in . [ ] henry malden ( - ), a classical scholar, fellow of trinity college, cambridge, and professor of greek at university college ( - ), then ( ) the university of london. he wrote a _history of rome to b. c._ ( ), and _on the origin of universities and academical degrees_ ( ). [ ] henry longueville mansel ( - ), theologian and metaphysician, reader in theology at magdalen college, oxford ( ), and professor of ecclesiastical history and dean of st. paul's ( ). he wrote on metaphysics, and his bampton lectures ( ) were reprinted several times. [ ] "hejus gave freely, gave freely. god is propitious, god is favorable to him who gives freely. god is honored with a banquet of eggs at the cross roads, the god of the world. god, with benignant spirit, desired in sacrifice a goat, a bull to be carried within the precincts of the holy place. god, twice propitiated, blesses the pit of the sacred libation." [ ] eudoxus of cnidus ( - b. c.) had much to do with the early scientific astronomy of the greeks. the fifth book of euclid is generally attributed to him. his astronomical works are known chiefly through the poetical version of aratus mentioned in note , page . [ ] simplicius, a native of cilicia, lived in the th century of our era. he was driven from athens by justinian and went to persia ( ), but he returned later and had some fame as a teacher. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "through right and wrong." [ ] "it is therefore to arrive at this parallelism, or to preserve it, that copernicus feared to be obliged to have recourse to this equal and opposite movement which destroys the effect which he attributed so freely to the first, of deranging the parallelism." [ ] a contemporary of plato and a disciple of aristotle. [ ] meton's solstice, the beginning of the metonic cycles, has been placed at b. c. ptolemy states that he made the length of the year ¼ + / days. [ ] aratus lived about b. c., at the court of antigonus of macedonia, and probably practiced medicine there. he was the author of two astronomical poems, the [greek: phainomena], apparently based on the lost work of eudoxus, and the [greek: diosêeia] based on aristotle's _meteorologica_ and _de signis ventorum_ of theophrastus. [ ] "the nineteen (-year) cycle of the shining sun." [ ] claudius salmasius ( - ), or claude saumaise, was a distinguished classicist, and professor at the university of leyden. the word [greek: êleioio] means elian, thus making the phrase refer to the brilliant one of elis. [ ] sir william brown ( - ). in the family moved to baltimore, and there the father, alexander brown, became prominent in the linen trade. william went to liverpool where he acquired great wealth as a merchant and banker. he was made a baronet in . [ ] robert lowe ( - ), viscount sherbrooke, was a fellow of magdalen college, oxford ( ). he went to australia in and was very successful at the bar. he returned to england in and became leader writer on the _times_. he was many years in parliament, and in was raised to the peerage. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] francis walkingame (fl. about - ), whose _tutor's assistant_ went through many editions from - . [ ] davies gilbert ( - ). his family name was giddy, but he assumed his wife's name. he sat in parliament from to . in he secured the establishment of the cape of good hope observatory. he was treasurer ( - ) and president ( - ) of the royal society. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] sir jonathan frederick pollock ( - ) entered parliament in and was knighted in . [ ] joseph hume ( - ) entered parliament in and for thirty years was leader of the radical party. [ ] "what! when i say, 'nicole, bring me my slippers,' is that prose?" [ ] captain basil hall ( - ), a naval officer, carried on a series of pendulum observations in - , while on a cruise of the west coast of north america. the results were published in in the _philosophical transactions_. he also wrote two popular works on travel that went through numerous editions. [ ] anthony ashley cooper ( - ), earl of shaftesbury. his name is connected with philanthropic work and factory legislation. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] sir thomas maclear ( - ), an irishman by birth, became astronomer royal at the cape of good hope in . he was an indefatigable observer. he was knighted in . [ ] thomas romney robinson ( - ), another irish astronomer of prominence. he was a deputy professor at trinity college, dublin, but took charge of the armagh observatory in and remained there until his death. [ ] sir james south ( - ) was in early life a surgeon, but gave up his practice in and fitted up a private observatory. he contributed to the science of astronomy, particularly with respect to the study of double stars. [ ] sir john wrottesley ( - ), second baron wrottesley. like sir james south, he took up the study of astronomy after a professional career,--in his case in law. he built a private observatory in and made a long series of observations, publishing three star catalogues. he was president of the astronomical society from to , and of the royal society from to . [ ] he seems to have written nothing else. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] "the wills are free, and i wish neither the one nor the other." [ ] "the force of inertia conquered." [ ] reddie also wrote _the mechanics of the heavens_, referred to later in this work. he must not be confused with judge james reddie ( - ), of glasgow, who wrote on international law, although this is done in the printed edition of the british museum catalogue, for he is mentioned by de morgan somewhat later as alive in . [ ] henry dunning macleod ( - ), a lawyer and writer on political economy, was a scotchman by birth. he wrote on economical questions, and lectured on banking at cambridge ( ) and at king's college, london ( ). he was a free lance in his field, and was not considered orthodox by the majority of economists of his time. he was an unsuccessful candidate for the chairs of political economy at cambridge ( ), edinburgh ( ), and oxford ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] francis henry laing ( - ) was a graduate of queen's college, cambridge, and a clergyman in the church of england until , when he entered the church of rome. he taught in various jesuit colleges until , when his eccentricity was too marked to warrant the church in allowing him to continue. he published various controversial writings during his later years. of course if he had known the works of wessel, gaus, buée, argand, and others, he would not have made such a sorry exhibition of his ignorance of mathematics. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. the book went into a second edition in . [ ] thomas weddle ( - ) was, at the time of publishing this paper, a teacher in a private school. in he became professor of mathematics at sandhurst. he contributed several papers to the _cambridge and dublin mathematical journal_, chiefly on geometry. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] george barrett ( - ) worked from to on a set of life insurance and annuity tables. he invented a plan known as the "columnar method" for the construction of such tables, and as de morgan states, this was published by francis baily, appearing in the appendix to his work on annuities, in the edition of . some of his tables were used in babbage's _comparative view of the various institutions for the assurance of lives_ ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] this was his _practical short and direct method of calculating the logarithm of any given number, and the number corresponding to any given logarithm_ ( ). [ ] this is william neile ( - ), grandson of richard neile (not neal), archbishop of york. at the age of , in , he gave the first rectification of the semicubical parabola. although he communicated it to brouncker, wren, and others, it was not published until , when it appeared in john wallis's _de cycloide_. [ ] i myself "was a considerable part." [ ] he also wrote _a glance at the universe_ (" d thousand" in ), and _the resurrection body_ ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] as swift gave it in his _poetry. a rhapsody_, it is as follows: "so, naturalists observe, a flea has smaller fleas that on him prey; and these have smaller still to bite 'em. and so proceed _ad infinitum_." [ ] perhaps , , , years, if boltwood's recent computations based on radium disintegration stand the test. this would mean, according to maccurdy's estimate, , , years since life first appeared on the earth. [ ] de morgan wrote better than he knew, for this work, the _allgemeine encyclopädie der wissenschaften und künste_, begun at leipsic in , is still ( ) unfinished. section i, a-g, consists of parts in volumes; section ii, h-n, consists of volumes and is not yet completed; and section iii, o-z, consists of volumes thus far, with most of the work still to be done. johann samuel ersch ( - ), the founder, was head librarian at halle. johann gottfried gruber ( - ), his associate, was professor of philosophy at the same university. [ ] william howitt ( - ) was a poet, a spiritualist, and a miscellaneous writer. he and his wife became spiritualists about . he wrote numerous popular works on travel, nature and history. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] as will be inferred from the text, c. d. was mrs. de morgan, and a. b. was de morgan. [ ] jean meslier ( - ), curé of estrepigny, in champagne, was a skeptic, but preached only strict orthodoxy to his people. it was only in his manuscript, _mon testament_, that was published after his death, and that caused a great sensation in france, that his antagonism to christianity became known. [ ] baron zach relates that a friend of his, in a writing intended for publication, said _un esprit doit se frotter contre un autre_. the censors struck it out. the austrian police have a keen eye for consequences.--a. de m. "one mind must rub against another." on baron zach, see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] referring to the first lord eldon ( - ), who was lord chancellor from to , with the exception of one year. [ ] "sleeping power." [ ] "causes sleep." [ ] richard hooker (c. - ), a theologian, "the ablest living advocate of the church of england as by law established." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "other i,"--other self. [ ] this "utter rejection" has been repeated ( ) by the same writer.--s. e. de m. [ ] edward jenner ( - ) was a physician and biologist. his first experiments in vaccination were made in , and his discovery was published in . [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] "you will go most safely in the middle (way)." [ ] pierre joseph arson was known early in the th century for his controversy with hoëné wronski the mathematician, whom he attacked in his _document pour l'histoire des grands fourbes qui ont figuré sur la terre_ ( - ). [ ] "we enter the course by night and are consumed by fire." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] richard cobden ( - ), the cotton manufacturer and statesman who was prominent in his advocacy of the repeal of the corn laws. [ ] james smith ( - ), solicitor to the board of ordnance. with his brother horatio he wrote numerous satires. his _horace in london_ ( ) imitated the roman poet. his works were collected and published in . [ ] samuel butler ( - ), the poet and satirist, author of _hudibras_ ( - ). [ ] "is it not fine to be sure of one's action when entering in a combat with another? there, push me a little in order to see. nicole. well! what's the matter? m. jourdain. slowly. ho there! ho! gently. deuce take the rascal! nicole. you told me to push. m. jourdain. yes, but you pushed me _en tierce_, before you pushed _en quarte_, and you did not give me time to parry." [ ] john abernethy ( - ), the famous physician and surgeon. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again." [ ] eusebius of cæsarea (c. - ), leader of the moderate party at the council of nicæa, and author of a _history of the christian church_ in ten books (c. a. d.). [ ] nathaniel lardner ( - ), a non-conformist minister and one of the first to advocate the scientific study of early christian literature. [ ] henry alford ( - ) dean of canterbury ( - ) and editor of the greek testament ( - ). [ ] the work was _the number and names of the apocalyptic beasts: with an explanation and application. part i._ london, , as mentioned below. thom also wrote _the assurance of faith, or calvinism identified with universalism_ (london, ), and various other religious works. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] john hamilton thom ( - ) was converted to unitarianism and was long a minister in that church, preaching in the renshaw street chapel from to . de morgan refers to the liverpool unitarian controversy conducted by james martineau and henry giles in response to a challenge by thirteen anglican clergy. in thom contributed four lectures and a letter to this controversy. among his religious works were a _life of blanco white_ ( ) and _hymns, chants, and anthems_ ( ). [ ] the spelling of these names is occasionally changed to meet the condition that the numerical value of the letters shall be , "the number of the beast" of revelations. the names include julius cæsar; valerius jovius diocletianus ( - ), emperor from to , persecutor of the christians; louis, presumably louis xiv; gerbert ( - ), who reigned as pope sylvester ii from to , known to mathematicians for his abacus and his interest in geometry, and accused by his opponents as being in league with the devil; linus, the second bishop of rome, the successor of peter; camillo borghese ( - ), who reigned as pope paul v from to , and who excommunicated all venice in for its claim to try ecclesiastics before lay tribunals, thus taking a position which he was forced to abandon; luther, calvin; laud (see vol. i, page , note { }); genseric (c. - ), king of the vandals, who sacked rome in and persecuted the orthodox christians in africa; boniface iii, who was pope for nine months in ; beza (see vol. i, page , note { }); mohammed; [greek: braski], who was giovanni angelo braschi ( - ), and who reigned as pope pius vi from to , dying in captivity because he declined to resign his temporal power to napoleon; bonaparte; and, under [greek: ion paune], possibly pope john xiv, who reigned in and during the absence of boniface vii in constantinople. [ ] the greek words and names are also occasionally misspelled so as to fit them to the number . they are [greek: lateinos] (latin), [greek: hê latinê basileia] (the latin kingdom), [greek: ekklêsia italika] (the italian church), [greek: euanthas] (blooming), [greek: teitan] (titan), [greek: arnoume] (renounce), [greek: lampetis] (the lustrous), [greek: ho nikêtês] (conqueror), [greek: kakos hodêgos] (bad guide), [greek: alêthês blaberos] (truthful harmful one), [greek: palai baskanos] (a slanderer of old), [greek: amnos adikos] (unmanageable lamb), [greek: antemos] (antemos), [greek: gensêrikos] (genseric), [greek: euinas] (with stout fibers), [greek: benediktos] (benedict), [greek: bonibazios g. papa x. ê. e. e. a.] (boniface iii, pope , bishop of bishops i), [greek: oulpios] (baneful), [greek: dios eimi hê hêras] (i, a god, am the), [greek: hê missa hê papikê] (the papal brief), [greek: loutherana] (lutheran), [greek: saxoneios] (saxon), [greek: bezza antitheos] (beza antigod), [greek: hê alazoneia biou] (the illusion of life), [greek: maometis] (mahomet); [greek: maometês b.] (mahomet ii), [greek: theos eimi epi gaiês] (i am lord over the earth), [greek: iapetos] (iapetos, father of atlas), [greek: papeiskos] (papeiskos), [greek: dioklasianos] (diocletian), [greek: cheina] (cheina = cain? china?), [greek: braski] (braschi, as explained in note ), [greek: ion paune] (paunian violet, but see note ), [greek: koupoks] (cowpox), [greek: bonnepartê] (bonneparte), [greek: n. bonêparte] (n. boneparte), [greek: euporia] (facility), [greek: paradosis] (surrender), [greek: to megathêrion] (the megathereum, the beast). [ ] james wapshare, whose _harmony of the word of god in spirit and in truth_ appeared in . [ ] the literature relating to the _swastika_ is too extended to permit of any adequate summary in these notes. [ ] henry edward manning ( - ), at first an anglican clergyman, he became a roman catholic priest in , and became cardinal in . he succeeded cardinal wiseman as archbishop of westminster in . he wrote a number of religious works. [ ] john bright ( - ), quaker, cotton manufacturer, and statesman. he worked with cobden for free trade, peace, and reform of the electorate. [ ] "the fallacy of many questions." [ ] william wilberforce ( - ), best known for his long fight for the abolition of the slave trade. [ ] richard martin ( - ), high sheriff of county galway and owner of a large estate in connemara. curiously enough, he was known both for his readiness in duelling and for his love for animals. he was known as "humanity martin," and in secured the passage of an act "to prevent the cruel and improper treatment of cattle." he was one of the founders ( ) of the royal society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. he is usually considered the original of godfrey o'malley in lever's novel, _charles o'malley_. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }, also text on same page. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }, also text, vol. i, page . [ ] "penitential seat." [ ] "well placed upon the cushion." [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] "he has lost the right of being influenced by evidence." [ ] "hung up." [ ] "a few things to the wise, nothing to the unlettered." [ ] the fallacy results from dividing both members of an equation by , x - being the same as - , and calling the quotients finite. [ ] "if you order him to the sky he will go." [ ] _similia similibus curanter_, "like cures like," the homeopathic motto. [ ] "without harm to the proprieties." [ ] "what are you doing? i am standing here." [ ] lors feist l'anglois tel signe. la main gausche toute ouverte il leva hault en l'aer, puis ferma au poing les quatres doigtz d'icelle et le poulce estendu assit sus la pinne du nez. soubdain après leva la dextre toute ouverte, et toute ouverte la baissa, joignant la poulce au lieu que fermait le petit doigt de la gausche, et les quatre doigtz d'icelle mouvoit lentement en l'aer. puis au rebours feit de la dextre ce qu'il avoit faict de la gausche, et de la gausche ce que avoit faict de la dextre.--a. de m. [ ] _suaviter in modo, fortiter in re_, "gentle in manners, firm in action." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] henry fawcett ( - ) became totally blind in , but in spite of this handicap he became professor of political economy at cambridge and sat in parliament for a number of years. he championed the cause of reform and in particular he was prominent in the protection of the native interests of india. the establishing of the parcels post ( ) took place while he was postmaster general ( - ). [ ] of course the whole thing depends upon what definition of division is taken. we can multiply ft. by ft. if we define multiplication so as to allow it, or ft. by lb, getting foot-pounds, as is done in physics. [ ] richard milward ( - ), for so the name is usually given, was rector of great braxted (essex) and canon of windsor. he was long the amanuensis of john selden, and the _table talk_ was published nine years after milward's death, from notes that he left. some doubt has been cast upon the authenticity of the work owing to many of the opinions that it ascribes to selden. [ ] john selden ( - ) was a jurist, legal antiquary, and oriental scholar. he sat in the long parliament, and while an advocate of reform he was not an extremist. he was sent to the tower for his support of the resolution against "tonnage and poundage," in . his _history of tythes_ ( ) was suppressed at the demand of the bishops. his _de diis syriis_ ( ) is still esteemed a classic on semitic mythology. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] john palmer ( - ) was a theatrical manager. in he set forth a plan for forwarding the mails by stage coaches instead of by postmen. pitt adopted the plan in . palmer was made comptroller-general of the post office in and was dismissed six years later for arbitrarily suspending a deputy. he had been verbally promised ½% on the increased revenue, but pitt gave him only a pension of £ . in he was awarded £ , in addition to his pension. [ ] dionysius lardner ( - ), professor of natural philosophy in london university (now university college). his _cabinet cyclopædia_ ( - ) contained volumes. de morgan wrote on probabilities, and lardner on various branches of mathematics, and there were many other well-known contributors. lardner is said to have made $ , on a lecture tour in america. [ ] thomas fysche palmer ( - ) joined the unitarians in , and in took a charge in dundee. he was arrested for sedition because of an address that it was falsely alleged that he gave before a society known as the "friends of liberty." as a matter of fact the address was given by an uneducated weaver, and palmer was merely asked to revise it, declining to do even this. nevertheless he was sentenced to botany bay ( ) for seven years. the trial aroused great indignation. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "the lawyers are brought into court; let them accuse each other." [ ] samuel rogers ( - ), the poet and art connoisseur. he declined the laureateship on the death of wordsworth ( ). byron, his pretended friend, wrote a lampoon ( ) ridiculing his cadaverous appearance. [ ] theodore edward hook ( - ), the well-known wit. he is satirized as mr. wagg in _vanity fair_. the _john bull_ was founded in and hook was made editor. [ ] "on pitying the heretic." [ ] a term of medieval logic. barbara: all m is p, all s is m, hence all s is p. celarent: no m is p, all s is m, hence no s is p. [ ] "simply," "according to which," "it does not follow." [ ] "o sweet soul, what good shall i declare that heretofore was thine, since such are thy remains!" [ ] "stupid fellow!" [ ] christopher barker (c. - ), also called barkar, was the queen's printer. he began to publish books in , but did no actual printing until . in the geneva bible was first printed in england, the work being done for barker. he published partial or complete editions of the bible from to , and were published by his deputies ( - ). [ ] james franklin ( - ) was born in boston, mass., and was sent to london to learn the printer's trade. he returned in and started a printing house. benjamin, his brother, was apprenticed to him but ran away ( ). james published the _new england courant_ ( - ), and benjamin is said to have begun his literary career by writing for it. [ ] james hodder was a writing master in tokenhouse yard, lothbury, in , and later kept a boarding school in bromley-by-bow. his famous arithmetic appeared at london in and went through many editions. it was the basis of cocker's work. (see vol. i, page , note { }.) it was long thought to have been the first arithmetic published in america, and it was the first english one. there was, however, an arithmetic published much earlier than this, in mexico, the _sumario compendioso ... con algunas reglas tocantes al aritmética_, by "juan diaz freyle," in . [ ] henry mose, hodder's successor, kept a school in sherborne lane, london. [ ] rear admiral sir francis beaufort ( - ), f.r.s., was hydrographer to the navy from to . he prepared an atlas that was printed by the society for the diffusion of useful knowledge. [ ] antoine sabatier ( - ), born at castres, was known as the abbé but was really nothing more than a "clerc tonsuré." he lived at court and was pensioned to write against the philosophers of the voltaire group. he posed as the defender of morality, a commodity of which he seems to have possessed not the slightest trace. [ ] maffeo barberini was pope, as urban viii, from to . it was during his ambitious reign that galileo was summoned to rome to make his recantation ( ), the exact nature of which is still a matter of dispute. [ ] this baden powell ( - ) was the savilian professor of geometry ( - ) at oxford. [ ] "memoirs of the famous bishop of chiapa, by which it appears that he had butchered or burned or drowned ten million infidels in america in order to convert them. i believe that this bishop exaggerated; but if we should reduce these sacrifices to five million victims, this would still be admirable." [ ] alfonso x ( - ), known as el sabio (the wise), was interested in astronomy and caused the alphonsine tables to be prepared. these table were used by astronomers for a long time. it is said that when the ptolemaic system of the universe was explained to him he remarked that if he had been present at the creation he could have shown how to arrange things in a much simpler fashion. [ ] george richards (c. - ), fellow of oriel ( - ), bampton lecturer ( ), vicar of st. martin's-in-the-fields, westminster ( ), and a poet of no mean ability. [ ] the "aboriginal britons," an excellent poem, by richards. (note by byron.)--a. de m. [ ] john watkins (d. after ), a teacher and miscellaneous writer. [ ] frederic shoberl ( - ), a miscellaneous writer. [ ] he wrote, besides the _aboriginal britons_, _songs of the aboriginal bards_ ( ), _modern france: a poem_ ( ), _odin, a drama_ ( ), _emma, a drama on the model of the greek theatre_ ( ), _poems_ ( volumes, ), and a _monody on the death of lord nelson_ ( ). [ ] henry kirke white ( - ), published his first volume of poems at the age of . southey and william wilberforce became interested in him and procured for him a sizarship at st. john's college, cambridge. he at once showed great brilliancy, but he died of tuberculosis at the age of . [ ] john wolcot, known as peter pindar ( - ), was a london physician. he wrote numerous satirical poems. his _bozzy and piozzi, or the british biographers_, appeared in , and reached the th edition in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] richard payne knight ( - ) was a collector of bronzes, gems, and coins, many of his pieces being now in the british museum. he sat in parliament for twenty-six years ( - ), but took no active part in legislation. he opposed the acquisition of the elgin marbles, holding them to be of little importance. his _analytical inquiry into the principles of taste_ appeared in . [ ] mario nizzoli ( - ), a well-known student of cicero, was for a time professor at the university of parma. his _observationes in m. tullium ciceronem_ appeared at pratalboino in . it was revised by his nephew under the title _thesaurus ciceronianus_ (venice, ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "like the geometer, who bends all his powers to measure the circle, and does not succeed, thinking what principle he needs." [ ] francis quarles ( - ), a religious poet. he wrote paraphrases of the bible and numerous elegies. in the early days of the revolutionary struggle he sided with the royalists. one of his most popular works was the _emblems_ ( ), with illustrations by william marshall. [ ] regnault de bécourt wrote _la création du monde, ou système d'organisation primitive suivi de l'interprétation des principaux phénomènes et accidents que se sont opérés dans la nature depuis l'origine de univers jusqu'à nos jours_ ( ). this may be the work translated by dalmas. [ ] "because it lacks a holy prophet." [ ] angherà. see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] edmund curll ( - ), a well-known bookseller, publisher, and pamphleteer. he was for a time at "the peacock without temple bar," and later at "the dial and bible against st. dunstan's church." he was fined repeatedly for publishing immoral works, and once stood in the pillory for it. he is ridiculed in the _dunciad_ for having been tossed in a blanket by the boys of westminster school because of an oration that displeased them. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] encyclopædia. [ ] author of the _historia naturalis_ ( a.d.) [ ] author of the _de institutione oratorio libri_ xii (c. a.d.) [ ] his _de architectures libri_ x was not merely a work on architecture and building, but on the education of the architect. [ ] cyclophoria. [ ] william caxton (c. -c. ), sometime governor of the company of merchant adventurers in bruges (between and ). he learned the art of printing either at bruges or cologne, and between and set up a press at westminster. tradition says that the first book printed in england was his _game and playe of chesse_ ( ). the _myrrour of the worlde and th'ymage of the same_ appeared in . it contains a brief statement on arithmetic, the first mathematics to appear in print in england. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. de morgan is wrong as to the date of the _margarita philosophica_. the first edition appeared at freiburg in . [ ] reisch was confessor to maximilian i ( - ), king of the romans ( ) and emperor ( - ). [ ] joachim sterck ringelbergh (c. -c. ), teacher of philosophy and mathematics in various cities of france and germany. his _institutionum astronomicarum libri iii_ appeared at basel in , his _cosmographia_ at paris in , and his _opera_ at leyden in . [ ] johannes heinrich alsted ( - ) was professor of philosophy and theology at his birthplace, herborn, in nassau, and later at weissenberg. he published several works, including the _elementale mathematicum_ ( ), _systema physicae harmonicae_ ( ), _methodus admirandorum mathematicorum_ ( ), _encyclopædia septem tomis distincta_ ( ), and the work mentioned above. [ ] johann jakob hoffmann ( - ), professor of greek and history at his birthplace, basel. he also wrote the _epitome metrica historiæ universalis civilis et sacræ ab orbe condito_ ( ). [ ] ephraim chambers (c. - ), a crotchety, penurious, but kind-hearted freethinker. his _cyclopædia, or an universal dictionary_ was translated into french and is said to have suggested the great _encyclopédie_. [ ] _encyclopédie, ou dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, par un société de gens de lettres. mis en ordre et publié par m. diderot, et quant à la partie mathématique, par m. d'alembert._ paris, - , volumes. [ ] "from the egg" (state). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] "in morals nothing should serve man as a model but god; in the arts, nothing but nature." [ ] _encyclopédie méthodique, ou par ordre de matières._ paris, - , ½ volumes. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] _encyclopædia metropolitana; or, universal dictionary of knowledge._ london, , volumes. a second edition came out in - in volumes. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] de morgan should be alive to satirize some of the statements on the history of mathematics in the eleventh edition. [ ] john pringle nichol ( - ), regius professor of astronomy at glasgow and a popular lecturer on the subject. he lectured in the united states in - . his _views of the architecture of the heavens_ ( ) was a very popular work, and his _planetary system_ ( , ) contains the first suggestion for the study of sun spots by the aid of photography. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] george long ( - ), a native of poulton, in lancashire, was called to the university of virginia when he was only twenty-four years old as professor of ancient languages. he returned to england in to become professor of greek at london university. from to he edited the twenty-nine volumes of the _penny cyclopædia_. he was an authority on roman law. [ ] a legal phrase, "qui tam pro domina regina, quam pro se ipso sequitur,"--"who sues as much on the queen's account as on his own." [ ] arthur cayley ( - ) was a fellow of trinity college, cambridge ( - ) and was afterwards a lawyer ( - ). during his fourteen years at the bar he published some two hundred mathematical papers. in he became professor of mathematics at cambridge, and so remained until his death. his collected papers, nine hundred in number, were published by the cambridge press in volumes ( - ). he contributed extensively to the theory of invariants and covariants. de morgan's reference to his coining of new names is justified, although his contemporary, professor sylvester, so far surpassed him in this respect as to have been dubbed "the mathematical adam." [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] pierre dupuy ( - ) was a friend and relative of de thou. with the collaboration of his brother and nicolas rigault he published the and editions of de thou's history. he also wrote on law and history. his younger brother, jacques (died in ), edited his works. the two had a valuable collection of books and manuscripts which they bequeathed to the royal library at paris. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] it was cosmo de' medici ( - ) who was the patron of galileo. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] sir edward sherburne ( - ), a scholar of considerable reputation. the reference by de morgan is to _the sphere of marcus manilius_, in the appendix to which is a _catalogue of astronomers, ancient and modern_. [ ] george parker, second earl of macclesfield ( - ). he erected an observatory at shirburn castle, oxfordshire, in , and fitted it out with the best equipment then available. he was president of the royal society in . [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] edward bernard ( - ), although savilian professor of astronomy at oxford, was chiefly interested in archeology. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] philip dormer stanhope, fourth earl of chesterfield ( - ), well known for the letters written to his son which were published posthumously ( ). [ ] peter daval (died in ), vice-president of the royal society, and an astronomer of some ability. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] william oughtred (c. - ), a fellow of king's college, cambridge, and afterwards vicar of aldbury, surrey, wrote the best-known arithmetic and trigonometry of his time. his _arithmeticæ in numero & speciebus institutio ... quasi clavis mathematicæ est_ ( ) went through many editions and appeared in english as _the key to the mathematicks new forged and filed_ in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] stephen jordan rigaud ( - ) was senior assistant master of westminster school ( ) and head master of queen elizabeth's school at ipswich ( ). he was made bishop of antigua in and died of yellow fever the following year. [ ] he also wrote a memoir of his father, privately printed at oxford in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] william gascoigne was born at middleton before and was killed in the battle of marston moor in . he was an astronomer and invented the micrometer with movable threads (before ). [ ] seth ward ( - ) was deprived of his fellowship at cambridge for refusing to sign the covenant. he became professor of astronomy at oxford ( ), bishop of exeter ( ), bishop of salisbury ( ), and chancellor of the garter ( ). he is best known for his solution of kepler's problem to approximate a planet's orbit, which appeared in his _astronomia geometrica_ in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] heinrich oldenburgh ( - ) was consul in england for the city of bremen, his birthplace, and afterwards became a private teacher in london. he became secretary of the royal society and contributed on physics and astronomy to the _philosophical transactions_. [ ] thomas brancker, or branker ( - ) wrote the _doctrinæ sphæricæ adumbratio et usus globorum artificialium_ ( ) and translated the algebra of rhonius with the help of pell. the latter work appeared under the title of _an introduction to algebra_ ( ), and is noteworthy as having brought before english mathematicians the symbol ÷ for division. the symbol never had any standing on the continent for this purpose, but thereafter became so popular in england that it is still used in all the english-speaking world. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] pierre bertius ( - ) was a native of flanders and was educated at london and leyden. he became a professor at leyden, and later held the chair of mathematics at the collège de france. he wrote chiefly on geography. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] giovanni alphonso borelli ( - ) was professor of mathematics at messina ( - ) and at pisa ( - ), after which he taught in rome at the convent of st. panteleon. he wrote several works on geometry, astronomy, and physics. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] ignace gaston pardies (c. - ), a jesuit, professor of ancient languages and later of mathematics and physics at the collège of pau, and afterwards professor of rhetoric at the collège louis-le-grand at paris. he wrote on geometry, astronomy and physics. [ ] pierre fermat was born in (or possibly in ) near toulouse, and died in . although connected with the parliament of toulouse, his significant work was in mathematics. he was one of the world's geniuses in the theory of numbers, and was one of the founders of the theory of probabilities and of analytic geometry. after his death his son published his edition of diophantus ( ) and his _varia opera mathematica_ ( ). [ ] this may be christopher townley ( - ) the antiquary, or his nephew, richard, who improved the micrometer already invented by gascoigne. [ ] adrien auzout a native of rouen, who died at rome in . he invented a screw micrometer with movable threads ( ) and made many improvements in astronomical instruments. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] john machin (d. ) was professor of astronomy at gresham college ( - ) and secretary of the royal society. he translated newton's _principia_ into english. his computation of [pi] to places is given in william jones's _synopsis palmariorum matheseos_ ( ). [ ] pierre rémond de montmort ( - ) was canon of notre dame until his marriage. he was a gentleman of leisure and devoted himself to the study of mathematics, especially of probabilities. [ ] roger cotes ( - ), first plumian professor of astronomy and physics at cambridge, and editor of the second edition of newton's _principia_. his posthumous _harmonia mensurarum_ ( ) contains "cotes's theorem" on the binomial equation. newton said of him, "if mr. cotes had lived we had known something." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] charles réné reyneau ( - ) was professor of mathematics at angers. his _analyse démontrée, ou manière de resoudre les problèmes de mathématiques_ ( ) was a successful attempt to popularize the theories of men like descartes, newton, leibnitz, and the bernoullis. [ ] brook taylor ( - ), secretary of the royal society, and student of mathematics and physics. his _methodus incrementorum directa et inversa_ ( ) was the first treatise on the calculus of finite differences. it contained the well-known theorem that bears his name. [ ] pierre louis moreau de maupertuis ( - ) was sent with clairaut ( ) to measure an arc of a meridian in lapland. he was head of the physics department in the berlin academy from until . he wrote _sur la figure de la terre_ ( ) and on geography and astronomy. [ ] pierre bouguer ( - ) was professor of hydrography at paris, and was one of those sent by the academy of sciences to measure an arc of a meridian in peru ( ). the object of this and the work of maupertuis was to determine the shape of the earth and see if newton's theory was supported. [ ] charles marie de la condamine ( - ) was a member of the paris academy of sciences and was sent with bouguer to peru, for the purpose mentioned in the preceding note. he wrote on the figure of the earth, but was not a scientist of high rank. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] thomas baker (c. - ) gave a geometric solution of the biquadratic in his _geometrical key, or gate of equations unlocked_ ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , second note { }. [ ] the name of newton is so well known that no note seems necessary. he was born at woolsthorpe, lincolnshire, in , and died at kensington in . [ ] john keill ( - ), professor of astronomy at oxford from , is said to have been the first to teach the newtonian physics by direct experiment, the apparatus being invented by him for the purpose. he wrote on astronomy and physics. his _epistola de legibus virium centripetarum_, in the philosophical transactions for , accused leibnitz of having obtained his ideas of the calculus from newton, thus starting the priority controversy. [ ] thomas digges (d. in ) wrote _an arithmeticall militare treatise, named stratioticos_ ( ), and completed _a geometrical practise, named pantometria_ ( ) that had been begun by his father, leonard digges. [ ] john dee ( - ), the most famous astrologer of his day, and something of a mathematician, wrote a preface to billingsley's translation of euclid into english ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] thomas harriot ( - ) was tutor in mathematics to sir walter raleigh, who sent him to survey virginia ( ). he was one of the best english algebraists of his time, but his _artis analyticæ praxis ad aequationes algebraicas resolvendas_ ( ) did not appear until ten years after his death. [ ] thomas lydiat ( - ), rector of alkerton, devoted his life chiefly to the study of chronology, writing upon the subject and taking issue with scaliger ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] walter warner edited harriot's _artis analyticae praxis_ ( ). tarporley is not known in mathematics. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] sir samuel morland ( - ) was a diplomat and inventor. for some years he was assistant to john pell, then ambassador to switzerland. he wrote on arithmetical instruments invented by him ( ), on hydrostatics ( ) and on church history ( ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. the history of the subject may be followed in braunmühl's _geschichte der trigonometrie_. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] michael dary wrote _dary's miscellanies_ ( ), _gauging epitomised_ ( ), and _the general doctrine of equation_ ( ). [ ] john newton ( - ), canon of hereford ( ), educational reformer, and writer on elementary mathematics and astronomy. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "the average of the two equal altitudes of the sun before and after dinner." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] london, . it went though many editions. [ ] "this i who once ..." [ ] arthur murphy ( - ) worked in a banking house until . he then went on the stage and met with some success at covent garden. his first comedy, _the apprentice_ ( ) was so successful that he left the stage and took to play writing. his translation of tacitus appeared in , in four volumes. [ ] edmund wingate ( - ) went to paris in as tutor to princess henrietta maria and remained there several years. he wrote _l'usage de la règle de proportion_ (paris, , with an english translation in ), _arithmétique logarithmétique_ (paris, , with an english translation in ), and _of natural and artificial arithmetick_ (london, , revised in - ), part i of which was one of the most popular textbooks ever produced in england. [ ] john lambert ( - ) was major-general during the revolution and helped to draw up the request for cromwell to assume the protectorate. he was imprisoned in the tower by the rump parliament. he was confined in guernsey until the clandestine marriage of his daughter mary to charles hatton, son of the governor, after which he was removed ( ) to st. nicholas in plymouth sound. [ ] samuel foster (d. in ) was made professor of astronomy at gresham college in march, , but resigned in november of that year, being succeeded by mungo murray. murray vacated his chair by marriage in and foster succeeded him. he wrote on dialling and made a number of improvements in geometric instruments. [ ] "twice of the word a minister," that is, twice a minister of the gospel. [ ] this is _the lives of the professors of gresham college to which is prefixed the life of the founder, sir thomas gresham_, london, . it was written by john ward (c. - ), professor of rhetoric ( ) at gresham college and vice-president ( ) of the royal society. [ ] charles montagu ( - ), first earl of halifax, was lord of the treasury in , and was created baron halifax in and viscount sunbury and earl of halifax in . he introduced the bill establishing the bank of england, the bill becoming a law in . he had troubles of his own, without considering newton, for he was impeached in , and was the subject of a damaging resolution of censure as auditor of the exchequer in . although nothing came of either of these attacks, he was out of office during much of queen anne's reign. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] james dodson (d. ) was master of the royal mathematical school, christ's hospital. he was de morgan's great-grandfather. the _anti-logarithmic canon_ was published in . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] richard busby, ( - ), master of westminster school ( ) had among his pupils dryden and locke. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] herbert thorndike ( - ), fellow of trinity college, cambridge ( - ), and prebend of westminster ( ), was a well-known theological writer of the time. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "labor performed returns in a circle." [ ] see vol. ii, page . [ ] "whatever objections one may make to the above arguments, one always falls into an absurdity." [ ] see vol. ii. page , note . _the circle squared; and the solution of the problem adapted to explain the difference between square and superficial measurement_ appeared at brighton in . [ ] "and beyond that nothing." [ ] gillott ( - ) was the pioneer maker of steel pens by machinery, reducing the price from s. each to d. a gross. he was a great collector of paintings and old violins. [ ] william edward walker wrote five works on circle squaring ( , , , , ), mostly and perhaps all published at birmingham. [ ] solomon m. drach wrote _an easy rule for formulizing all epicyclical curves_ (london, ), _on the circle area and heptagon-chord_ (london, ), _an easy general rule for filling up all magic squares_ (london, ), and _hebrew almanack-signs_ (london, ), besides numerous articles in journals. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] robert fludd or flud ( - ) was a physician with a large london practice. he denied the diurnal rotation of the earth, and was attacked by kepler and mersenne, and accused of magic by gassendi. his _apologia compendiania, fraternitatem de rosea cruce suspicionis ... maculis aspersam, veritatis quasi fluctibus abluens_ (leyden, ) is one of a large number of works of the mystic type. [ ] consult _to the christianity of the age. notes ... comprising an elucidation of the scope and contents of the writings ... of dionysius andreas freher_ ( ). [ ] sir william robert grove ( - ), although called to the bar ( ) and to the bench ( ), is best known for his work as a physicist. he was professor of experimental philosophy ( - ) at the london institution, and invented a battery ( ) known by his name. his _correlation of physical forces_ ( ) went through six editions and was translated into french. [ ] johann tauler (c. - ), a dominican monk of strassburg, a mystic, closely in touch with the gottesfreunde of basel. his _sermons_ first appeared in print at leipsic in . [ ] paracelsus (c. - ). his real name was theophrastes bombast von hohenheim, and he took the name by which he is generally known because he held himself superior to celsus. he was a famous physician and pharmacist, but was also a mystic and neo-platonist. he lectured in german on medicine at basel, but lost his position through the opposition of the orthodox physicians and apothecaries. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] philip schwarzerd ( - ) was professor of greek at wittenberg. he helped luther with his translation of the bible. [ ] johann reuchlin ( - ), the first great german humanist, was very influential in establishing the study of greek and hebrew in germany. his lectures were mostly delivered privately in heidelberg and stuttgart. unlike melanchthon, he remained in the catholic church. [ ] joseph chitty ( - ) published his _precedents of pleading_ in and his _reports of cases on practice and pleading_ in - ( volumes). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] jean pèlerin, also known as viator, who wrote on perspective. his work appeared in , with editions in and . [ ] henry stephens. see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] the well-known grammarian ( - ). he was born at swatara, in pennsylvania, and practised law in new york until , after which he resided in england. his grammar ( ) went through editions, and the abridgment ( ) through editions. murray's friend dalton, the chemist, said that "of all the contrivances invented by human ingenuity for puzzling the brains of the young, lindley murray's grammar was the worst." [ ] robert recorde (c. - ) read and probably taught mathematics and medicine at cambridge up to . after that he taught mathematics at oxford and practised medicine in london. his _grounde of artes_, published about , was the first arithmetic published in english that had any influence. it went through many editions. the _castle of knowledge_ appeared in . it was a textbook on astronomy and the first to set forth the copernican theory in england. like recorde's other works it was written on the catechism plan. his _whetstone of witte ... containying thextraction of rootes: the cosike practise, with the rule of equation: and the woorkes of surde nombres_ appeared in , and it is in this work that the modern sign of equality first appears in print. the word "cosike" is an adjective that was used for a long time in germany as equivalent to algebraic, being derived from the italian _cosa_, which stood for the unknown quantity. [ ] robert cecil (c. - ), first earl of salisbury, secretary of state under elizabeth ( - ) and under james i ( - ). [ ] in america the german pronunciation is at present universal among mathematicians, as in the case of most other german names. this is due, no doubt, to the great influence that germany has had on american education in the last fifty years. [ ] the latest transliteration is substantially k'ung-fu-tz[vu]. [ ] the tendency seems to be, however, to adopt the forms used of individuals or places as rapidly as the mass of people comes to be prepared for it. thus the spelling leipzig, instead of leipsic, is coming to be very common in america. [ ] sir edward coke ( - ), the celebrated jurist. [ ] dethlef cluvier or clüver (d. at hamburg) was a nephew, not a grandson, of philippe cluvier, or philipp clüver ( -c. ). dethlef traveled in france and italy and then taught mathematics in london. he wrote on astronomy and philosophy and also published in the _acta eruditorum_ ( ) his _schediasma geometricum de nova infinitorum scientia_. _quadratura circuli infinitis modis demonstrata_, and his _monitum ad geometras_ ( ). philippe was geographer of the academy of leyden. his _introductionis in universam geographiam tam veterem quam novam libri sex_ appeared at leyden in , about the time of his death. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] bernard nieuwentijt ( - ), a physician and burgomaster at purmerend. his _considerationes circa analyseos ad quantitates infinite parvas applicatæ principia et calculi differentialis usum_ (amsterdam, ) was attacked by leibnitz. he replied in his _considerationes secundæ_ ( ), and also wrote the _analysis infinitorum, seu curvilineorum proprietates ex polygonorum natura deductæ_ ( ). his most famous work was on the existence of god, _het regt gebruik der werelt beschouwingen_ ( ). [ ] "from a given line to construct" etc. [ ] "pirates do not fight one another." [ ] claude mallemens (mallement) de messanges ( - ) was professor of philosophy at the collège du plessis, in paris, for years. the work to which de morgan refers is probably the _fameux problème de la quadrature du cercle, résolu géometriquement par le cercle et a ligne droite_ that appeared in . [ ] on tycho brahe see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] wilhelm frederik von zytphen also published the _tidens ström_, a chronological table, in . the work to which de morgan refers, the _solens bevægelse i verdensrummet_, appeared first in . de morgan seems to have missed his _nogl ord om cirkelens quadratur_ which appeared in , at copenhagen. [ ] james joseph sylvester ( - ), professor of natural philosophy at university college, london ( - ), professor of mathematics at the university of virginia ( - ), actuary in london ( - ), professor of mathematics at woolwich ( - ) and at johns hopkins university, baltimore ( - ), and savilian professor of geometry at oxford ( - ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] james mill, born , died . [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] this anecdote is printed at page (vol. ii); but as it is used in illustration here, and is given more in detail, i have not omitted it.--s.e. de m. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "monsieur, (a + b^{n})/n = x, whence god exists; answer that!" [ ] "monsieur, you know very well that your argument requires the development of x according to integral powers of n." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] thomas love peacock ( - ) an english novelist and poet. [ ] perhaps dr. samuel warren ( - ), the author of _ten thousand a year_ (serially in blackwood's in ; london, ). [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] "from many, one; much in little; ultima thule (the most remote region); without which not." [ ] spurius mælius (fl. b. c.), who distributed corn freely among the poor in the famine of b. c. and was assassinated by the patricians. [ ] spurius cassius viscellinus, roman consul in , , and b. c. put to death in . [ ] "o what a fine bearing, he said, that has no brain." [ ] sir william rowan hamilton. see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] william allen whitworth, the author of the well-known _choice and chance_ (cambridge, ), and other works. [ ] james maurice wilson, whose _elementary geometry_ appeared in and went through several editions. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] "force of inertia conquered," and "victory in the whole heavens." [ ] "with all his might." [ ] george berkeley ( - ), bishop of cloyne, the idealistic philosopher and author of the _principles of human knowledge_ ( ), _the analyst, or a discourse addressed to an infidel mathematician_ ( ), and _a defense of freethinking in mathematics_ ( ). he asserted that space involves the idea of movement without the sensation of resistance. space sensation less than the "minima sensibilia" is, therefore, impossible. from this he argues that infinitesimals are impossible concepts. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] edwin dunkin revised lardner's _handbook of astronomy_ ( ) and milner's _the heavens and the earth_ ( ) and wrote _the midnight sky_ ( ). [ ] michael faraday ( - ) the celebrated physicist and chemist. he was an assistant to sir humphrey davy ( ) and became professor of chemistry at the royal institution, london, in . [ ] "if you teach a fool he shows no joyous countenance; he cordially hates you; he wishes you buried." [ ] "every man is an animal, sortes is a man, therefore sortes is an animal." [ ] "may some choice patron bless each grey goose quill; may every bavius have his bufo still."--pope, _prologue to the satires._ bavius has become proverbial as a bad poet from the lines in vergil's _eclogues_ (iii, ): "qui bavium non odit, amet tua carmina, maevi, atque idem jungat vulpes, et mulgeat hircos." "he who does not hate bavius shall love thy verses, o maevius; and the same shall yoke foxes and shall milk he-goats." bavius and maevius were the worst of latin poets, condemned by horace as well as vergil. [ ] see vol. ii, page , note . [ ] "honest," "useful," "handsome," "sweet." [ ] "let not the fourth man attempt to speak." [ ] "in those old times,--ah 'twas just like this, ah!" [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] these remarks were never written.--s. e. de m. [ ] "fleas, flies, and friars, are masters who sadly the people abuse, and thistles and briars are sure growing grains to abuse. o christ, who hatest strife and slayst all things in peace, destroy where'er are rife, briars, friars, flies and fleas. fleas, flies, and friars foul fall them these fifteen years for none that there is loveth fleas, flies, nor freres." [ ] "it is my plan to restore to an unskilled race the worthy arts of a better life." [ ] the first sentences of the first oration of cicero against catiline: "quo usque tandem abutere, catilina, patientia nostra?" (how long, o catiline, will you abuse our patience?) "quamdiu etiam furor iste tuus nos eludet?" (how long will this your madness baffle us?) "nihilne te nocturnum praesidium palati, ... nihil horum ora voltusque moverunt?" (does the night watch of the palatium, ... do the faces and expressions of all these men fail to move you?) "in te conferri ..." (this plague should have been inflicted upon you long ago, which you have plotted against us so long.) [ ] "beware of the things that are marked." [ ] "farewell, ye teachers without learning! see to it that at our next meeting we may find you strong in body and sound in mind." [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] this proof, although capable of improvement, is left as in the original. those who may be interested in the mathematics of the question, may consult f. enriques, _fragen der elementargeometrie_ (german by fleischer), leipsic, , part ii, p. ; f. rudio, _archimedes_, _huygens_, _lambert_, _legendre_. _vier abhandlungen über die kreismessung_, leipsic, ; f. klein, _famous problems of elementary geometry_ (english by beman and smith), boston, ; j. w. a. young, _monographs on modern mathematics_, new york, , chap. ix (by the editor of the present edition of de morgan.) [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] see vol. i, page , note { }. [ ] joseph allen galbraith who, with samuel haughton, wrote the galbraith and haughton's _scientific manuals_. (euclid, ; algebra, ; trigonometry, ; optics, , and others.) [ ] this note on carlyle ( - ) is interesting. the translation of legendre appeared in the same year ( ) as his translation of goethe's _wilhelm meister_. [ ] michael stifel ( - ), also known as stiefel, styfel, and stifelius, was an augustine monk but became a convert to lutheranism. he was professor of mathematics at jena ( - ). his edition of the _coss_ appeared at königsberg in , the first edition having been published in . the + and - signs first appeared in print in widman's arithmetic of , but for purposes of algebra this book was one of the first to make them known. [ ] christoff rudolff was born about and died between and . _die coss_ appeared in and his arithmetic in . * * * * * corrections made to printed original. page , "long-fostered prejudice": 'perjudice' in original. page , "pensées, ch. ": 'pansées' in original. page , "and pulled out a plum": 'und' in original. page , "did not come forward": 'forword' in original. page , "come into general circulation": 'circulalation' in original. ibid., "the more difficult fractions which we have got": 'he have got' in original. page , "it has been stated": 'started' in original. page , "the obsolete word tetch of the same meaning": 'meaing' in original. page , "[greek: dioklasianos]": 'dioklalasianos' in original. page . after `henry e. manning' were printed two paragraphs `shilling versus franc.' and `teutonic long hundred versus or the decimal question.' these appear to have been set in error, there is no applicable context. page , "in a manner depending upon the difference": 'maner' in original. page , "neither what newton did, nor what was done before him.": 'not' (for 'nor') in original. page , "victoria toto coelo": 'tolo' in original. page , "cannot be brought up to ": 'up to ±' in original. page , "q_ =b_ q_ +a_ ": 'q_ =b_ q_ -a_ ' in original. note , "all who were not in the road to heaven were excommunicated": 'excomunicated' in original. note , "[greek: hê alazoneia biou]": 'alaxoneia' in original. ibid., "iapetos": 'ispetos' in original. ibid., "papeiskos": 'paspeisoks' in original. ibid., "[greek: dioklasianos]": 'dioklalasianos' in original. studies in literature and history by the late sir alfred c. lyall p.c., g.c.i.e., k.c.b., d.c.l., ll.d. london john murray, albemarle street, w. preface in the second series of his _asiatic studies_ the late sir alfred lyall republished a number of articles that he had contributed to various reviews up to the year . after that date he wrote frequently, especially for the _edinburgh review_, and he left amongst his papers a note naming a number of articles from which he considered that a selection might be made for publication. the present volume contains, with two exceptions, the articles so mentioned, together with one that was not included by the author. a large number of sir alfred lyall's contributions[ ] to the reviews deal, as might be expected, with india--with its political and administrative problems, or with the careers of its statesmen and soldiers. he appears, however, to have regarded such articles as not of sufficient permanent value for republication, and his selection was confined almost exclusively to writings on literary, historical or religious subjects. he made an exception in favour of an essay on his old friend sir henry maine; but as the limitations imposed by the publisher made it necessary to sacrifice one of the larger articles, this essay was, with some reluctance, excluded. it dealt chiefly with maine's influence on indian administration and legislation; and would more appropriately be included in a collection of his writings on india, should these ever be published. while indian official subjects have been excluded, readers of the earlier 'studies' will recognise that many of the writings in this volume follow out lines of thought suggested in the earlier works, or apply in a larger sphere the results of observations made when the author was studying indian myths and indian religions in berar, or the 'rare and antique stratification of society' in rajputana. the two addresses on religion placed at the end of the volume form the most obvious example, but there is a close connection between a group of the other articles and the views developed in _asiatic studies_. in the last edition of that work a chapter on 'history and fable' was inserted because of its bearing on the author's general views 'regarding the elementary commixture of fable and fact in ages that may be called prehistoric.' in this chapter the author made a rapid survey of the 'kinship between history and fable,' tracing it through the times of myth and romance to the period of the historic novel. 'at their birth,' he says, 'history and fable were twin sisters;' and again, 'there is always a certain quantity of fable in history, and there is always an element of history in one particular sort of fable.' the reviews of english and anglo-indian fiction, and of 'heroic poetry' in the present work, give opportunities of further illustrations from fiction of his views: which reappear from another standpoint in the 'remarks on the reading of history'--a short address, which it has been thought worth while to reprint, though it was not specially indicated by the author for publication. several of the other articles contain criticism of a more purely literary character; the article on 'frontiers,' which recounts exciting but little-known episodes in the russian advance in asia, has an important bearing on a branch of indian policy in which sir alfred lyall to the end of his career took a deep interest, and of which he had a profound knowledge; and 'l'empire libéral' may, it is thought, be found to contain much that is of special interest at the present time. these articles have not had the benefit of any general revision by their author, but in a few cases he had indicated in the printed copies alterations or additions that he desired to be made. _the quarterly._ _the anglo-saxon._ _the edinburgh._ _the fortnightly._ except that the two essays on 'race and religion' and 'the state in its relation to religion' have been brought together at the end of the volume, the chronological order of original publication has been observed. the source from which each article is drawn has in all cases been indicated, and this opportunity is taken of acknowledging the permission to republish that has courteously been accorded by the editors or proprietors of the reviews concerned. permission has also been given to publish the article on 'sir spencer walpole' written for the british academy, and the address on the 'reading of history.' john o. miller _december ._ contents page novels of adventure and manners english letter-writing in the nineteenth century thackeray the anglo-indian novelist heroic poetry the works of lord byron the english utilitarians characteristics of mr. swinburne's poetry frontiers ancient and modern l'empire libÉral sir spencer walpole remarks on the reading of history race and religion the state in its relation to eastern and western religions index novels of adventure and manners[ ] mr. raleigh[ ] very rightly goes back to mediæval romance for the origins of english fiction. in all countries the metrical tale is many generations older than the prose story; for prose writing is a refinement of the literary art which flourishes only when reading has become popular; while verse, being at first a kind of _memoria technica_ used for the correct transmission of sacred texts and the heroic tradition, strikes the ear and fixes the recollection of an audience. the exploits of mighty warriors and the miracles of saints--love, fighting, and theology--form the subject matter of these stories in verse. they are, as mr. raleigh says, epical in spirit though not in form: 'they carry their hero through the actions and adventures of his life ... they display a marked preference for deeds done, and attempt no character-drawing.... a sense of the instability of human life, very present to the minds of men familiar with battle and plague, is everywhere mirrored in these romances.' then came chaucer, who not only wrote prose tales, but also carried far toward perfection the art of narration in verse; and 'in the fifteenth century both of the ancestors of the modern novel--that is, the novella or short pithy story after the manner of the italians, and the romance of chivalry--appear in an english prose dress.' but the genius of english fiction was still loaded with the chains of allegory and pedantic moralisation; and in the _gesta romanorum_, the most popular collection of english prose stories which had been translated from the latin at the end of the fifteenth century, 'human beings are mere puppets, inhabiting the great fabric of mediæval thought and mediæval institution.... it was the work of the renaissance to recover the literal and obvious sense of human life, as it was the work of the closely-allied reformation to recover the literal sense of the bible.' the playwright has always been a formidable rival to the novelist, insomuch that in a period of dramatic activity the novel, as our author remarks, can hardly maintain itself. but from the middle of the seventeenth century the stage had fallen low, while the formal and fantastic romance, the long-winded involved story, was losing its vogue. so the heroic romances, we are told, 'availed themselves skilfully of the opportunity to foster a new taste in the reading public--a delight, namely, born of the fashionable leisure of a self-conscious society, in minute introspection, and the analysis and portraiture of emotional states.' we are inclined to suspect that these words, which would serve well enough to describe the taste for the analytic novel of our own day, must be taken with considerable reserve in their application to the writings and the readers of two centuries ago. but we may agree that certain tendencies of style and developments of feeling which are now predominant may be traced back to this time. and when, toward the end of the seventeenth century, mrs. aphra behn began to enlist incidents of real life into the service of her fiction, she was making a distinct attempt, as mr. raleigh points out, to bring romance into closer relation with contemporary life, although a conventional treatment of facts and character still overlay all her work. mr. raleigh holds, however, that this attempt was abortive; that it failed at the time; and that the great eighteenth-century school of english novelists, with richardson and fielding at their head, took its rise, quite independently of predecessors in the seventeenth century, out of the general stock of miscellaneous literature--plays, books of travel, adventures, satires, journals, and broadsides--which had been drawn at first hand from observation and experience of the various forms of surrounding life. we are quite ready to agree that the eighteenth-century novel of manners belongs to a family distinct from that of the romantic story, or is at any rate very distantly connected with it. but when mr. raleigh goes on to say that the heroic romance died in the seventeenth century and left no issue, although it was revived again in the latter half of the eighteenth century, to this view we are much inclined to demur. such complete interruptions in the transmission of species are as rare in the intellectual as in the physical world; and we prefer to maintain that the romance, although it was for a time eclipsed by the brilliancy of the writers who described the manners and sentiments of contemporary society, was never extinguished, but became transformed gradually, by successive modifications of environment, into the modern novel of adventure. it is true that defoe entirely rejected the marvellous, while horace walpole, fifty years later, dealt immoderately in the elements of mystery and wonder; yet, notwithstanding these violent oscillations of style and method, we believe that the great historical novels of the early nineteenth century, and the tales of stirring incident which flourish at the present day, descend by an unbroken filiation from the fabulous romance of elder times. mr. raleigh does not carry his brief yet instructive history of the english novel beyond the time of walter scott, with whom, he says, 'the wheel has come full circle,' the romantic revival was victorious, prose finally superseded verse as the vehicle of adventurous story, and realism was wedded to romance. we trust that in some future work he will carry on up to a later date his survey of the course and currents of imaginative fiction. in the meantime, it may not be irrelevant to follow up further and a little more closely the ruling characteristics and the formative influences that have contributed toward the production of english light literature as it exists at the present day. the novels with which our fortunate generation is so abundantly supplied may be divided broadly into two classes, overlapping and interlaced with each other, yet on the whole distinguishable as separate species--the novel of adventure and the novel of manners. the former class has a very long pedigree. the early romance writer drew his incidents from the field of heroic action and marvellous enterprise; he revelled in noble sentiments, astonishing feats, and the exhibition of all the cardinal virtues in tragic situations; his mission was to preserve and hand down to us magnified figures of mighty men, or the pictures of great events, as they had impressed themselves upon the popular imagination. for such material he was obliged to travel abroad into remote countries, or backward to bygone ages; but if his images of gallant knights and fair damsels were well modelled, if the language was superb, and the deeds or sufferings sufficiently astonishing, no one cared about anachronisms, incongruities, or improbabilities. but as the heroic romance dwindled and withered under the dry light of precise knowledge and extending erudition, the purveyors of fiction, accommodating themselves to a more exacting taste, applied themselves seriously to the reproduction of famous scenes and portraits by the aid and guidance of historic documents and antiquarian research. the modern romantic school, of whom the master, if not the founder, is scott, represented a clear step forward to what is now called realism, and a proportionate abandonment of the classic convention, or the method of drawing from traditional or imaginary models. to scott may be ascribed the authoritative introduction of descriptions of landscape, of storms, sunsets, and picturesque effects; not the artificial scene-painting of mrs. radcliffe, but artistic delineations of the aspects of earth, sea, and sky which gave depth and atmosphere to his dramatic situations. from this period, also, may be dated the practice, so entirely contrary to the spirit of true romance, of verifying by documentary evidence the details of a story. it was scott who, in the first years of this century, set prominently the example of appending copious notes to his stories in verse or prose, wherein he displayed his archæologic lore and produced his authorities for any striking illustration of manners or characteristic incident. this practice, which was largely adopted by others, was at least an improvement upon the old unregenerate system of seasoning the conversation of warriors and peasants with uncouth phrases picked up at random, or trusting to mere fancy or accepted formula for the description of battles or of the ways of folk in mediæval castles and cottages. but the process savoured too much of the workshop. a novel or poem that required an appendix of notes and glossaries must be of high excellence to avoid suspicious resemblance to an elaborate literary counterfeit, since open and avowed borrowing from dictionaries of antiquities or volumes of travel must damage the illusion which is the indispensable element of romance. in moore's fantastic metrical romance of _lalla rookh_ the system was carried to an extent that now seems ridiculous, for certain passages are loaded with outlandish phrases or metaphors that are unintelligible except by reference to the notes. nevertheless the english public, being then quite ignorant of the true east, tolerated moore's sham orientalism, even though byron's fine poems were just then exposing the difference between working up the subject in a library and wandering in asiatic countries. byron's language seems in the present day turgid, and his greeks and turks may have a theatrical air, but his splendid descriptive passages were drawn by a master hand straight from nature, while his colouring, landscape, and costume are usually excellent; so that his work also is a distinct movement in the direction of realism. yet it is to be observed that after byron and scott the metrical romance, that most ancient form of tale-telling, fell rapidly into disuse. the fact that byron's latest poem, _don juan_, belonged essentially to the coming realistic school, is a significant indication of transition; and scott's abandonment of poetry for prose, which was a necessary consequence of his advance toward realism, gave its death-blow to the earlier fashion. by this time, indeed, the conventional writer of adventures, though he held his ground up to or even beyond the middle of the century, was in a state of incurable decadence. he was losing the confidence of the general reader, who had picked up some precise notions regarding appropriate scenery, language, and costume in sundry periods and divers places, from china to peru; and he was persecuted by that mortal foe of the old romancer, the well-informed critic, who trampled even upon a commonplace book well filled with references to standard authorities, insisting upon careful study of the whole environment, the dexterous incorporation of details, and delicate blending of local colours. severe pedagogic handling of a historic novel, as if it were a paper done at some competitive examination, was too much for the old school, which finally subsided into cheap popular editions, making way for a new class of writers that adapted the novel of adventure to the requirements of latter-day taste, to the widening of knowledge, and the diversified expansion of our national life. the prevailing tendency was now to confine the range of scene and action more and more approximately to the contemporary period, to insist on genuine materials, and to observe a stricter canon of probabilities, wherein the discriminating reader fancied himself to be a judge. the use of notes was discarded as contrary to the high artistic principle that in fiction everything must resemble reality while nothing must be demonstrably matter of fact. the appearance of famous personages must be occasional, after the manner of gods in an epic poem; they must not be, as formerly, the leading characters and chief actors in the drama. and great battles, instead of marking the grand climacteric of a story's development, were now merely traversed, so to speak, on their outskirts, or were only approached near enough to throw a glowing sidelight on certain groups and situations. the gradual adoption of these limitations may be traced back to the naval and military novels that reflect the traditions of the great french war. no one even then thought of writing a romance with nelson or bonaparte as the hero, or of finishing off in the full blaze of trafalgar or in the rout of waterloo; although with marryat and lever the english reader revelled in the dashing exploits or bacchanalian revels of sailors and soldiers. lever did indeed give glimpses of wellington or napoleon; but his business was with connaught rangers and french guardsmen; while marryat and michael scott gave us daring sea-captains and reckless sailors with inimitable vigour and animation. but as the echo of thunderous battles by sea and land died away, this particular offshoot of modern romance ceased to flourish, and has never had any considerable revival. the tale-teller of adventure, like his ancestor the epic poet, requires a certain haziness of atmosphere; he must have elbow room for his inventive faculty; and he is liable to be stifled in the flood of lucid narrative and inflexible facts let loose upon recent events in our day by complete histories, personal memoirs, public documents, war correspondence, and all-pervading journalism. this is probably the main reason why the crimean war and the indian mutiny, which broke for brief intervals the long peace of england, have furnished no fresh material contribution of importance to the romance of war, either in prose or poetry, to stamp the memory of a long weary siege, or of a short and bloody struggle, upon the popular imagination. another reason must be, of course, the non-appearance in england of the _vates sacer_; for tolstoi has shown us that within and without sebastopol there might be found material for work of the highest order. however this may be, it is a remarkable fact that just about that time the novel of adventure turned back for a moment, in kingsley's hands, to the spacious times of great elizabeth, to the armada and the legends of filibustering on the spanish main; and at the present time we may observe that the leading writer of this school goes back at least a hundred years for the field of his best stories. the eighteenth century, whose politics, philosophy, and literature seemed to carlyle's somewhat bookish conception to be flat, prosaic, and comparatively uninteresting, was in truth for englishmen pre-eminently the age of energetic activity, which touched the high level of romantic enterprise at two points, the scottish rebellions and the exploits of famous buccaneers. mr. stevenson has reopened, with great skill and success, these mines of literary ore that had been discovered but only partially worked by walter scott. his rare artistic instinct divined the rich veins which they still contained; while in other stories his intimate acquaintance with actual life and circumstance on the coasts and islands of the pacific ocean has provided him with those elements of distance and unfamiliarity which are essential, as we have suggested, to the composition of the novel of adventure. other less original writers have travelled in search of these elements to the australian bush or the outlying half-explored regions of south africa. this very cursory survey of the main influences and circumstances that have shaped the course and set the fashion of our modern novel of adventure may be useful in explaining its actual position at the present moment. scepticism and research have effectually retrenched the very liberal credit formerly assigned to romance writing; the art now consists in spinning a long narrative out of authentic materials which must be disguised or kept hidden; while its leading features are a delight in elaborate accessories and that very modern sentiment, a horror of anachronism. a few living artists, like mr. shorthouse and mr. stevenson, can still excel under these difficult conditions, which have driven a crowd of second-rate novelists into the extreme of minute realism. into this retreat, however, they have been followed by a host of readers; for in these days of universal instruction and flat uneventful existence nothing satisfies the average mind like photographic detail, which is a commodity to be had of every industrious or studious composer. as the range of accurate information extends, as the dust heap of old records, private as well as public, is sifted more narrowly, as the antique habit of taking things readily for granted disappears, the novel becomes more and more an arrangement of genuine facts and circumstances, interleaved by such fiction as the skill and imagination of the author can produce. it may be worth observing that this demand for exact verification has affected the use of the early chronicles in two contrary ways; they are relied upon implicitly or they are arbitrarily discredited, in proportion as the facts stated appear credible or not credible to critics or professors who are working upon them. all the particulars of a great battle or of some famous event that can be gleaned out of some ancient monkish annalist, who must always have collected his information by hearsay and often after many years, are treated as authentic so long as they do not sound improbable; but if they offend against the canon of probability set up by a library-hunting student, they are liable to be summarily rejected. we may venture upon the conjecture that the true result of this process is to assimilate the work of the critical historian much more nearly than he would for a moment allow to that of a skilful historic novelist. a romancer of insight and imaginative power, who studied his period, would be quite as likely to make a lucky selection of real incidents, motives, and characters, in a story of the roman empire or of england under the plantagenets, as an erudite writer of history. perhaps the best measure available to us of what we may believe in regard to far-off times is afforded by observation of what now happens in rough societies or remote places; and this test the novelist is rather more apt, on the whole, to employ than the historian. in the novels, as upon the stage, this demand for minute accuracy of scenic or historical details has necessarily elicited an abundant supply; though whether the entire picture is rendered much more natural and real by an accumulation of correct particulars may be questioned. 'la recherche exagérée du vrai peut conduire au faux.' it is most doubtful whether laborious research can reconstruct a life-like presentation of a vanished society, its modes of life, its ways of thinking and acting. in vain the novelist or the painter studies archæology, takes a journey to the holy land for his local colouring, reads up the records of the time, or works in museums. the result may be ingenious and even instructive; but there are sure to be great errors and anachronisms, although they may now be undiscoverable; while the general tone, point of view, and balance of motives are nearly certain to be obscured or distorted. for the modern novelist, like the ancient myth-maker, is necessarily the child of his time; his work takes the bent of his personal temperament, and is moulded by the environment of ideas and circumstances within which he lives. the myth, the romance, the historic novel, each in its successive period, did at least this service to later generations: they preserved and handed down to us the popular impressions, the figures or pictures of great men and striking events, as they were reflected upon the imagination of subsequent ages. it can never be discovered, and it does not very much matter, whether these images have any close resemblance to the lost originals; it may be that some artists in some periods saw far more clearly than in others. the true criterion for estimating the true value of romantic fiction, of tales of action and adventure, must be always its artistic and intellectual qualities, the question whether it succeeds in filling a broad canvas, in dealing with masculine sentiment and stirring action, in striking the deeper chords of human emotion and energy. but the historic novel of our day strives principally after exact reproduction, as may be seen even in a book of such incontestable talent as _marius the epicurean_, and very notably in archdeacon farrar's book, _darkness and dawn, or scenes in the days of nero_ ( ), which may stand as the type and complete specimen of erudite fiction. in his preface he tells us that 'those who are familiar with the literature of the first century will recognise that even for the minutest allusions and particulars i have contemporary authority. expressions and incidents which to some might seem startlingly modern, are in reality suggested by passages in the satirists, epigrammatists, and romancers of the (roman) empire, or by anecdotes preserved in the grave pages of seneca and the elder pliny.' here we have reached, in this conscientious explanation of method, the extreme point of remoteness from the original spirit of historic romance. archdeacon farrar's figures and descriptions are worked out upon the pattern of a mosaic, by piecing together the loose fragmentary bits of our knowledge regarding life and society under nero. a glance at these books shows that they belong to the latest school of nineteenth-century fiction, to a period when careful scholarly accumulation of accessories and adroit adaptation of history have taken the place, not only of convention and clumsy invention, but also of the free untrammelled handling of types and traditions which gave freshness and originality to the simpler forms of early romance. we believe, then, that these attempts at exact reproduction, this method of the multiplication of particulars, involve a fallacy, and are detrimental to the more enduring forms of art. but the people is willing to be deceived; the general reader has acquired a taste that must be gratified; with the result that the elder romancers in prose and verse, including scott and byron, are falling out of fashion with the middle classes, though scott holds his own in the sixpenny edition. the rule of realism is becoming so despotic that the story of adventure is reverting more and more to that shape which lends itself most completely to life-like narrative, the shape of a memoir. and it may be pointed out accordingly that in france the editor of memoirs has lately entered into substantial rivalry with the novelist of adventure. it must have been noticed by those who attend to the course of french literature, that of late years the publication of memoirs relating to the period of the revolutionary war, and especially of the first empire, has rather suddenly increased. the causes are undoubtedly to a considerable degree political, connected with the reorganisation of the french army and navy, which has revived the military ardour of the nation, and has given an edge to the deep-seated spirit of rivalry with germany on land and with england at sea. whatever immediately interests a nation gives a sharp turn to its literature, and the immense success of general marbot's book, containing the extraordinary personal experiences of one who passed through the most famous scenes of the heroic era, exactly hit off the public taste at a moment when various motives combined to revive the napoleonic legend. the historians of that era had done their harvesting; the crop had been reaped, raked, and gleaned; the time was too near and too thoroughly known for fiction; and yet there never was a finer field for the production of romance. no one can doubt that if napoleon bonaparte had conquered half europe, won his tremendous battles, and founded his empire in an illiterate prehistoric age, he would have taken everlasting rank with alexander the great and charlemagne as the central figure of a third world-wide cycle of heroic myths; nor is it necessary to read archbishop whately's _historic doubts_ to perceive how readily napoleon's real story lends itself to extravagant myth-making. at a later period he might have been the leading character in some prolix and pedantic romance, and still more recently his life and deeds would have been built up into the scaffolding within which the historic novelist used to construct his love idylls, his tragic situations, or even his illustrations of some social theory. all these methods and devices have become obsolete; and though the spirit of hero-worship that animated those who listened to the ancient tales still possesses mankind at certain seasons, romance must now submit to the hard conditions of modern realism. in this predicament it finds a new and satisfactory embodiment in the form of memoirs concerning the great emperor and his companions, which dispense copious anecdotes of his court and camp, his sayings and doings, his domestic habits, his private manners and peccadilloes. if these particulars can be served up as sauce to the description of mighty events, the contrast renders them all the more savoury. but there is now a large class of readers who care less about jena and austerlitz than for such books as _napoléon intime, napoléon et les femmes_, which have all the attraction always possessed by the intermixture of love and war, and by the blending of arms with amours in the conventional style of historic fiction. the lowest depth is reached when the reminiscences of an emperor's valet, to whom he is still a kind of hero, are served up with that succulent dressing of vivid particularity which is swallowed with relish because it brings down a great man to the level of the most trivial experience. how far these memoirs are genuine in the sense which makes them so attractive--that is to say, as literally authentic pictures of a great man's interior life, of his actual words and behaviour as witnessed by his intimates--must always remain doubtful to the sceptical mind. true reminiscences are naturally somewhat cloudy in outline, hanging loose together with gaps and interruptions; whereas these are all coherent, clear-cut, and written in a style that gives superior polish and setting to every scene and anecdote. that they are compiled upon a solid substratum of truth need not be questioned; nevertheless some of them seem to differ only in degree from the realistic novel of the very latest type, such as zola's _débâcle_, which contains a very strong and pervading mixture of pure historical fact. but whatever may be the exact proportion of authenticity which this class of memoirs can justly claim, they completely fulfil the prime conditions of popularity prescribed for the modern novel, which must work out minute details with the greatest possible resemblance to actual life and circumstance. upon this ground, indeed, the ablest professors of fiction might despair of competing with those who exhibit a mighty man of valour in undress, who lead us where we may hear him talk, watch him eat or shave, and study his conjugal relations. it is to be feared that if the multiplication of such reminiscences continues, they will seriously trench upon the province of the novelist, who will be left no scope for the employment of his craft in a field that has been thoroughly ransacked, and who must inevitably retire before writers who have discovered the art of making truth quite as amusing as fiction, than which it must always be more interesting. the brilliant success of marbot's memoirs, which were undoubtedly written by himself, seems to have warmed into activity and circulation various other volumes of similar reminiscences that must have been hibernating for one or two generations in the family archives, or have otherwise fallen into temporary oblivion; for in many cases one is inclined to wonder why authentic documents of such value and interest were not sooner produced. the latest example of this class of memoirs, belonging to the revolutionary or napoleonic cycle, is to be found in the _adventures_ of a. moreau de jonnés, who died in at the age of ninety-two, having been for fifty years a member of the institut and a great authority on statistics. 'we should never have supposed,' says m. léon say in his preface to this book, 'that moreau had been the hero of warlike adventures, or that he might possibly have been placed in a line with marbot.' the men of m. say's generation who knew marbot were quite unaware, he adds, that here was a naval and colonial marbot, whose fighting life was one of the strangest of stories. m. say's preface seems to be intended as a guarantee of this story's authenticity, though he notices casually the remarkable fact that 'on every occasion when moreau is on the brink of destruction, it is his luck to be saved by a pretty girl'; also that 'a charming portrait-gallery might be made of the women who, between and , rescued this hardy rover, who was both sailor and soldier, from death by sword or sickness in divers parts of the world,' from the west india islands to the banks of the thames. his guarantee must be accepted; yet if this book had not been the genuine autobiography of a known personage, there would really be nothing to distinguish it from the historic novel, in which an imaginary person, such as thackeray's esmond, describes well-known scenes of history as an eye-witness and actor in them. moreau was present at the great naval engagement of june , ; at the hanging of parker, the ringleader of the famous mutiny at the nore, when he was saved by parker's widow; he was in bantry bay with the ships of hoche's unlucky expedition; he landed with humbert in donegal, and saw the race of castlebar; he had some marvellous experiences in the west indies, and everywhere the devotion of women facilitated his hairbreadth escapes. there need be no irony in repeating that avowed fiction can have no chance at all in competition with literature of this class. 'times are changed,' observes m. léon say in his preface. 'the taste of the public of our own day grows more and more keen for the romance of the cloak and rapier, when the heroes relate their own adventures. the authentic memoirs of the d'artagnans of our own century are now preferred even to the works of alexandre dumas, so dear to our youth.' undoubtedly they must be preferred, for being more real than the most realistic novel, and just as full of fascinating adventures, the memoir is superior precisely at those points which have given the modern romance an advantage over its more conventional predecessors. there may be consolation for the novelist in the reflection that the fund from which these memoirs are drawn must soon be running low, whereas the resources of fiction are comparatively inexhaustible. in the meantime one result, already perceptible, will be that the novel will tend more and more to imitate the personal memoir, by reverting to the autobiographical form which, since defoe's day, has always been fiction's most effective disguise, permitting the author to efface himself completely, while it gives the whole composition an air of dramatic vigour. it will have been observed that the most vivid modern english romances, from _barry lyndon_ and _esmond_ to _john inglesant_, _kidnapped_, and _the master of ballantrae_, are all written as the direct narratives of men who have taken a comparatively secondary or even humble share in great transactions. on the other hand, the famous characters who stand in the foremost line of history, and who were the delight and ornament of the elder romances, must now be struck out of the repertory of the modern story-teller, since the public now will no longer tolerate ancient or mediæval heroes, while the great men of recent times have been too often photographed. the only novelist of our own day who has attempted with some success to draw thinly-veiled portraits of contemporary celebrities is disraeli, and his whole style and treatment show him to be a true-bred descendant of the old romantic stock. our argument is, therefore, that various causes and tendencies, the change of environment, the limitation of the average reader's experiences, his taste for accuracy, his rejection of tradition, convention, anachronism and improbabilities, the extension of exact knowledge and the critical spirit, have all combined to limit the sphere of the novel of adventure and to check the free sweep of its inventive genius. to these conditions the first-class artist can accommodate himself; but for the average writer they serve fatally to expedite his descent into the regions of everyday life, among all the emotions known to middle-class folk, from murders, bankruptcies, and railway accidents down to their religious doubts and the psychology of their love-making. * * * * * against all these adverse circumstances the novel of adventure strives gallantly, and, of late years, with such conspicuous success, that it is difficult to decide whether the tide of popular inclination has not turned against the novel of manners. this branch of the great story-telling family has, as we know, a long descent and an illustrious pedigree, although for our present purpose we need not go back further than the eighteenth century, to _gil blas_ in france and _tom jones_ in england. it will be found that these masterpieces consist principally of a series of scenes and comical or semi-tragical situations, rather loosely strung together on the thread of the experiences undergone by the principal personages. the main object is not so much ingenuity of plot as the presentation with much humour, some strokes of caricature, and a touch of pathos, of morals and manners, of public abuses and private vices, the way of living and standard of thinking, the distinctive prejudices and ingrained beliefs, that characterised different classes at a time when their ideas and habits were often in sharp contrast. the sketches are admirably done, the conversation is full of wit, the whole work may be relied upon as a faithful though coarsely drawn picture of contemporary society. fielding constantly makes a halt in his narrative to moralise and discourse ironically with the reader, in a vein that was reopened a century later by thackeray, and by him pretty nearly exhausted, for at any rate it has since been closed. mr. raleigh's book contains a just and discriminating appreciation of fielding's place in the line of great novelists, and of the strong formative influence that his work exercised over the early development of what is now called naturalism. this note is struck, as he points out, in the invocation at the beginning of the thirteenth book of _tom jones_, addressed to experience, to the inspiration which is derived from what one has actually seen and known among all sorts and conditions of men: 'others before him had seen and known these things, but in fielding's pages they are for the first time introduced, with no loss of reality, to subserve the ends of fiction; common life is the material of the story, but it is handled here for the first time with the freedom and imagination of a great artist.'[ ] and here, we may add, is the fruitful and vigorous stock out of which has since radiated that immense growth of realistic novels which now tends to overshadow and supersede the earlier species of romance literature. but fielding's style is unblushingly masculine; his scenes are in the street, the tavern, the sponging-house, and other places unmentionable. by the end of his century the novel of manners had fallen into very different hands, and to these it owes mainly the shaping, both as to tone and subject, that decisively laid down its course of future development. the electricity of that stormful period which comprises the last years of the eighteenth and the opening of the nineteenth century seems to have generated an efflorescence of high original capacity in the department of imagination as well as of action. nevertheless nothing is more remarkable, probably nothing was less expected, than the sudden accession of women to the first rank of popular novelists. miss burney, miss edgeworth, miss austen (not to mention miss ferrier), entered upon the same field from different points and divided it among them. they may be said to have virtually created the decent story of contemporary life, the light satirical pictures of familiar folk, the representation of ordinary society in the form of a delicate comedy, which rose to the pitch of racy humour when the scenes and characters were irish. under the touch of this feminine genius convention vanishes altogether; the painting is direct from nature; the plot and incidents are saturated with probability; the personages might be met at the corner of any street in town or village; the very voice, gesture, and language are almost ludicrously familiar. no heroics, not much use of the pathetic; very slight landscape-painting and background; no psychology; there is no systematic attempt to introduce, under the story's disguise, the serious discussion of social, political, or polemical questions. for an artist who deals so largely with country life, the absence of landscape-painting in miss austen is very noticeable. the fine vein of satire that pervades all her work, the constant presence of the human element, leave her no room for expatiating on the aspects of nature; and indeed she was manifestly impatient with enthusiasts over the picturesque. she only touched upon such tastes in order to bring out character: '"it is very true," said marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. everybody pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. i detest jargon of every kind; and sometimes i have kept my feelings to myself, because i could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning." '"i am convinced," said edward, "that you really feel all the delight in a fair prospect which you profess to feel. but, in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than i profess. i like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles; i do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. i admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. i do not like ruined, tattered cottages. i am not fond of nettles or thistles or heath blossoms. i have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower, and a troop of tidy happy villagers please me better than the finest banditti in the world."'[ ] there can be no doubt, indeed, that in the novels of this period two main features of the modern story, the word-painting of scenery and the analysis of subjective emotions, are conspicuously absent. yet among the manifold causes to which may be ascribed the wide recent expansion of the novel of manners, we may well reckon the decisive impulse that it received from these famous authoresses. they were, in fact, the founders of the dominion which women bid fair to establish over this class of fiction, where they are already extending it to a degree that threatens to evict the men. various circumstances have co-operated toward this curious literary revolution. the conventional romance, though apparently flourishing, was in their time on the brink of a decline; and as women have never succeeded in the novel of adventure--for the obvious reason that their tastes and experiences are opposed to success--they had no difficulty in abandoning a decaying school, and in throwing all their freshness of mind and subtlety of observation into the department which precisely suited their idiosyncrasy. the spread of education among female readers and writers has undoubtedly aided them. and thus the rise of feminine novelists has operated as a formidable contingent of fresh troops that has joined the camp of manners, to which alliance it may be noticed that, with very few exceptions, the women have faithfully adhered. for although in the last century mrs. radcliffe had revived, as mr. raleigh observes, the romance proper, and miss jane porter claimed in the first years of this century the honour of having invented the historical romance, women have been practically superseded in this class of literature, so far as it survives, by men, george eliot's _romola_ being the only notable exception. the true representatives of female novelists are now the leaders of that school which confines itself to minute observation, whether of outward facts or inward feeling, and which is above all things devoted to the close delineation of contemporary society. the analysis of character within the range of ordinary experience, the play of civilised emotion, the vicissitudes of grief or joy in the parsonage, the ball-room, and the village, the troubled course of legitimate love-making, have all contributed the congenial material whereby the novel of manners treated realistically, as the phrase goes, has been moulded by the adroit hands of women. we do not forget that the most remarkable mannerists that have appeared in this century were male authors--thackeray and dickens. but we are not now attempting to survey the whole field of modern english fiction, or to assign to every star its place in that wide firmament. our aim is only to indicate the main lines of filiation that have produced the prevailing novel of the day. the permanent influence of the two great artists who have been mentioned has not been, we think, proportionate to the rare and original value of their work. both of them had many imitators in their lifetime and for a little time afterward; but before they died they were both showing symptoms of loss of power; and one could see that the special fibre or faculty that distinguished them was becoming overstrained; it was betraying effort and exaggeration. in their latest productions their peculiar qualities became mannerisms, of which readers soon began to be weary; and this may partly account for the speedy subsequent diversion of the popular taste into other channels. at any rate they did not found an enduring school, like jane austen, of whom it may be said that a great proportion of those novels of ordinary society which fill annually the lists of circulating libraries may be referred to her work as their type and forerunner. the novels of anthony trollope, for example, follow very much the same range of subject, the same level of emotion and incident; they consist mainly of satirical yet good-humoured descriptions of middle-class life in the country, the suburbs, and occasionally in the higher walks of society--they are always decorous and never dull, but they never rise to the note of romance or adventure. it may even be added, in further proof of trollope's literary ancestry, that the predominant quality of these very clever but eminently commonplace stories, with their interminable flirtations and their amusing dialogues which might have been reported by phonograph, is essentially feminine. our view is, therefore, that three famous women authors accomplished for the novel of manners very much what scott at the same period did for the novel of adventure; they stamped its lasting form and shaped its subsequent development. and in both classes, in tales of adventure as of society, we may detect clearly the rising spirit of what has been since called realism or naturalism, the discarding of convention, the abandonment of mere attitudes for action studied from the life, the direct appropriation of material from surrounding facts and perceptible feelings, from the familiar humours and concerns of everyday existence. in _le roman naturaliste_, by m. brunetière, one chapter is allotted to english naturalism, and the author declares that the standard of naturalism was raised in by the author of _adam bede_, quoting certain passages in which george eliot, he says, has distinctly preached the fundamental doctrines of that school. undoubtedly george eliot declared her purpose to be the rendering of a faithful account of men and things as they mirrored themselves in her mind. 'i feel as much bound,' she says, 'to tell you as precisely as i can what that reflection is, as if i were in the witness-box narrating my evidence on oath'; and she set up as her ideal 'this rare precious quality of truthfulness, for which i delight in many dutch paintings.' but the cardinal virtue of this fine and sombre genius lay in her power of raising realism to a high artistic level, of diffusing a poetic light over humble scenes, of touching the deeper and vital relations of common things. in charlotte brontë, again, we have naturalism throwing out a fresh shoot of great vigour and originality; the old-fashioned masculine hero is supplanted by a heroine who strives against adverse circumstance upon an ordinary, often an humble, plane of society, never travelling for a moment beyond the possibilities of everyday existence. this ominous dismissal of the male hero from his previous position in the centre of the story's movement may be taken as a sign that he is not of so much account in the sphere of domestic fiction as he was erst in the arena of perilous adventure. it is true that mankind is still glorified by ouida, a lady who may yet be occasionally found sitting, almost alone, by the shores of old romance; but with mrs. gaskell, mrs. oliphant, miss broughton, and even miss braddon, the majority of their leading characters may be said to be female. and the most deservedly popular of our latest novels by women is _marcella_. we must not be understood to maintain that the novel of manners has been, or is being, completely monopolised, as a department of light literature, by women, for of course there are many men who are achieving success in that field, among whom henry james holds a high place for distinction and delicacy of workmanship. and among certain special branches in which women have not as yet competed at all, we may mention the sporting novel, where provincial manners and the humour of the coverside have been portrayed by surtees with wonderful exactitude and a kind of coarse yet irresistible comicality that remind one of fielding. it is true that he never moralises, as fielding does; but then the interjection by the author of moral reflections went out, as we have said, with thackeray. the description of landscape drawn from nature occupies large and extending space in the latter-day novel of manners, where it is used very sparingly as subservient to character or situation, but commonly as an illustration or pictorial background. let us compare the two following extracts. the first is from jane austen's _mansfield park_: 'now we shall have no more rough road, miss crawford; our difficulties are over. the rest of the way is such as it ought to be. mr. rushworth has made it since he succeeded to the estate.--here begins the village. those cottages are really a disgrace. the church spire is reckoned remarkably handsome. i am glad the church is not so close to the great house as often happens in old places. the annoyance of the bells must be terrible. there is the parsonage, a tidy-looking house, and i understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people. those are almshouses, built by some of the family. to the right is the steward's house; he is a very respectable man. now we are coming to the lodge gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still. it is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine timber, but the situation of the house is dreadful. we go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for it would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach.' the second is from the opening pages of mrs. humphry ward's _marcella_: 'she looked out upon a broad and level lawn, smoothed by the care of centuries, flanked on either side by groups of old trees--some scotch firs, some beeches, a cedar or two--groups where the slow selective hand of time had been at work for generations, developing here the delightful roundness of quiet mass and shade, and there the bold caprice of bare fir trunks and ragged branches, standing back against the sky. beyond the lawn stretched a green descent indefinitely long, carrying the eye indeed almost to the limit of the view, and becoming from the lawn onwards a wide irregular avenue, bordered by beeches of a splendid maturity, ending at last in a far distant gap where a gate--and a gate of some importance--clearly should have been, yet was not. the size of the trees, the wide uplands of the falling valley to the left of the avenue, now rich in the tints of harvest, the autumn sun pouring steadily through the vanishing mists, the green breadth of the vast lawn, the unbroken peace of wood and cultivated ground, all carried with them a confused general impression of well-being and of dignity. marcella drew it in--this impression--with avidity. yet at the same moment she noticed involuntarily the gateless gap at the end of the avenue, the choked condition of the garden paths on either side of the lawn, and the unsightly tufts of grass spotting the broad gravel terrace beneath her window.' in the former passage, which is brimful of humorous suggestion, the writer is exclusively intent upon setting out points of human character in an effective light. the latter is a highly-finished piece of word-painting, taken direct, as an artist would take a picture, from a landscape that lay before the writer, and as such it is excellently done; but, except for the slight indication of a neglected estate, it stands apart from the plot or the play of character, and might be bound up with the volume or omitted like a woodcut. undoubtedly the art of descriptive writing, which demands poetic feeling and a delicate hand upon the organ of language, is practised finely by the best of our modern novelists, and is a valuable element of their popularity. yet there are signs that it is already threatened by the inexorable demands of the lower realism, which takes slight account of the intimations that can be conveyed or the emotions that may be roused by using language as an instrument for the interpretation of nature, and requires to be shown the thing itself, as it is seen in a photograph. 'the tendency of the times,' we are told, 'seems to be to read less and less, and to depend more upon pictorial records of events.' and the author from whom we quote[ ] proceeds to show how a few lines of sketch at once elucidate and vivify whole pages of word-painting. he goes further, and relates how 'the fallacy of the accepted system of describing landscapes, buildings, and the like in words,' was proved experimentally by reading slowly a description of a castle, mountains, and a river winding to the sea, from one of the waverley novels, before a number of students, three of whom proceeded to indicate on a black board the leading lines of the mental picture produced by the words. the drawings were all different and all wrong, as might indeed have been confidently foretold; for the two sister arts of the pen and of the pencil cannot possibly interpret each other reciprocally after this fashion, or produce identical effects by their widely differing methods. yet it is not impossible that the lower ranks of writers, who exaggerate the prevailing fashion of exactly reproducing what any one can see and hear, may find themselves outbid and overpowered on this ground by illustration in line and colour. in this direction, indeed, lies the danger of extreme realism. it wages war against romance, which subsists upon idealistic conceptions of noble thought and action; it pretends to hold up a true mirror to society, because it reflects faithfully and without discrimination, like a photograph, the street, the club, or the drawing-room, and arranges dramatically the commonplace talk of everyday people. all this is fatal to high art, in writing as in painting; nor can very clever dialogue, ingenious situations, variety of style and subject, or even a high average morality, preserve such literature from triviality and gradual degradation. * * * * * it is the saying of a french writer, that the novel of to-day has abjured both the past and the future, and lives wholly in the present. we are so far of his opinion in regard to the past, that we doubt, for reasons already given, whether the reading public can be induced to travel backward into distant periods and unfamiliar scenes, even though facts, anecdotes, costume, and other accessories be scrupulously and historically exact. the future is a domain upon which the novelist has rarely trespassed; but in close propinquity to it lies theologic speculation, and we have not long ago witnessed the fascination that can be exercised over a multitude of readers by a novel which described the unhappiness brought upon the peaceful home of an anglican clergyman who was driven forth from his parsonage by imbibing some tincture of modern biblical criticism. the sensation, for so it must be called, produced by _robert elsmere_, illustrated the degree to which in these days popularity depends on hitting the intellectual level of the general reader, and on touching the fancy or the conscience of that very numerous class whose culture is of the medium sort, neither high nor low. for while it seems certain that to a great many people the views and arguments which overthrew elsmere's orthodoxy and brought him to martyrdom must have seemed profound, daring, and novel, to others they are but too familiar and by no means fresh. to some of us, indeed, the overpowering effect produced on elsmere's mind by his remarkable discoveries may be not unlike the awe and gratitude with which an african chief receives the present of an obsolete cannon. but the main reason why the future is no better field than the distant past for the modern novelist, is that in both cases there is a want of actuality, and that the positive temper of the age requires in either case something more definite and verifiable. it may be affirmed, moreover, as a general observation, that the spirit of realism is hostile to the novel with a purpose, whether it be that species which undertakes to argue or instruct under the cloak of agreeable fiction, or that other species, much cultivated by dickens in his later works, which attacks antiquated institutions and public abuses in a story so contrived as to expose their absurdity and injustice. there is an air of artificiality about such compositions which damages the artistic illusion, the photographic rendering of actual life, upon which the author relies, because it throws over the stage a shadow of his own personality. for one tendency of excessive realism is to encourage an approximation between literary and theatrical effects, since the whole interest becomes concentrated upon figures acting and moving under a strong light in the foreground of scenes carefully adjusted, so that anything which betrays the author's presence interrupts the performance. yet although our contemporary novelist is thus subjected, in respect of his period and his repertory, to limitations from which his predecessors were free, there has never been a time when english fiction has exhibited, in competent hands, greater fertility of invention and resource, or so high an average proficiency in the art of writing. the vastly increased demand for amusement in modern life has stimulated the production of light literature, which is now cultivated far more widely than heretofore, like tea, and the market is flooded with an article of sound moderate quality. at this moment we have in very truth a democracy of letters, for while no mighty masters overtop the rest, the number of writers who stand on an equality of merit, who can produce one or more excellent stories, is very large. their field has widened with the expansion of british enterprise; they can draw their plots, descriptions, and characters from the colonies, from africa, from the south sea islands, or from india; and it will be observed that not only the tale of adventure, but also the quiet story of domestic interiors and family troubles, is easily acclimatised, and gains something from a sparing use of variety of dialect and landscape. as for the novel of adventure, it is drawing copious sustenance from these outlying regions. for although it is only from first favourites that the home-keeping reader will tolerate an elaborate romance about africa or the pacific, he has taken a very strong liking to short stories of scenes and actions strictly contemporaneous, written in a rough, vigorous, and utterly unconventional style, which convey to his mind impressions as distinctly as a set of pictorial sketches. we believe that this style, which retains a strong flavour of its american origin (it can hardly be dated earlier than bret harte), may be reckoned to be peculiar to the light literature of the english language. we are not aware that it prevails to any extent in other countries; for although the short story of love, intrigue, and manners in general has flourished from mediæval times, and at this moment is almost exclusively confined to these subjects in france, the class of works to which we are now referring differs entirely in subject and style. in england and america the roving life of the colonies, the backwoods, the western states, and the indian frontiers has created an unique school of realistic fiction in which mr. kipling is at this moment the chief professor. there is moreover a manifest affinity between these short prose narratives and the strain of racy strenuous versification upon the quaint unvarnished notions and hardy exploits of the bush, the prairie, or the frontier, by which bret harte, lindsay gordon, and again kipling have attained celebrity. as these poems echo the far-off ring of the ancient ballad, so we may venture to surmise that the short prose story of adventure, which appeals to modern taste by its vivid reality, its terseness of style, and its picturesque outline, represents the latest form reached by romance in its long evolution. such a tale will squeeze into fifty or a hundred pages what fenimore cooper or g. p. r. james would have distended into three volumes of slow-moving narrative, whereby infinite labour is saved to the hasty and indolent reader of these railroad days. here, in short, we perceive the influence of that very characteristic school of contemporary art, which we know to have always existed, but to which men have recently given the exceedingly modern title of impressionist,--the school of authors who desire to strike the imagination vividly and with a few sharp strokes, grouping their figures in a strong light, rounding off their compact story upon a small canvas, and rejecting every detail that is not strictly accessory to the main purpose. already it is beginning to be said in france that zola with his laborious particularism has passed his climacteric of fashion, and that the swift impressionist is sailing in on a fair wind of spreading popularity. now in france, though no longer in england, the critics still do their duty; they are not merely, to borrow a phrase from coleridge, the eunuchs who guard the temple of the muses; they are often prolific authors who exercise great influence upon public opinion, so that their forecast of the course and tendencies of fiction is worth bearing in mind. we ourselves are ever a restless, bustling, far-wandering folk, great lovers of fiction and travel, who not only carry forth the english language into the uttermost parts of the earth, to be moulded in strange dialects to queer uses, but also bring back fresh ideas and incidents, and various aspects of a many-sided world-ranging life. if, as has been often asserted, literature be the collective expression of the ideas and aspirations, the tastes, feelings, and habits of the generation which produces it, we may not be altogether wrong in treating the short highly finished story, whether of adventure or manners, as the impress and reflection of modern english society. but no operation is more delicate than the endeavour to trace the subtle connection between constant modifications of literary form and the pressure of its ever-changing moral and material environment. footnotes: [ ] the list of these contributions at page of his _life_ is not complete. [ ] ( ) _the english novel._ by walter raleigh. being a short sketch of its history from the earliest times to the appearance of 'waverley.' london, . ( ) _aventures de guerre au temps de la république et du consulat._ par a. moreau de jonnés. préface de m. léon say. paris, guillaumin et cie., .--_quarterly review_, october . [ ] now sir walter raleigh. [ ] page . [ ] _sense and sensibility._ [ ] _the art of illustration_, by henry blackburn, . english letter-writing in the nineteenth century[ ] the preservation and posthumous publication of private correspondence has supplied modern society with one of its daintiest literary luxuries. the art of letter-writing is, of course, no recent invention; it reached a high level of excellence, like almost every other branch of refined expression in prose or verse, in the older world of rome. nevertheless, the exceeding rarity of the specimens that have come down to us from those times is an important element of their value; while in our own day the letters of eminent persons fill many book-shelves in every decent library, and their quantity increases out of all proportion to their quality. it may be said, generally, of fine letter-writing that it is a distinctive product of a high civilisation, denoting the existence of a cultured and leisurely class, implying the conditions of secure intercourse, confidence, sociability, many common interests, and that peculiar delight in the stimulating interchange of ideas and feelings which is one characteristic of modern life. the language of a country must have thrown off its archaic stiffness, must have acquired suppleness and variety; the writer's instrument must be a style that combines familiarity with distinction, correctness of thought with easy diction. it is from the lack of these conditions that the asiatic world has given us no such letters; the material as well as the intellectual environment has been wanting. for similar reasons the middle ages of europe produced us none of the kind with which we are now dealing; the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries have left us very few samples of them; and since in this article we propose to treat only of english letter-writers, we may affirm that the art did not flourish in england until the eighteenth century, when according to certain authorities it rose to something like perfection. it is a notable observation of hume's that swift is the first englishman who wrote polite prose; and swift is one of the earliest, as he is still one of the pleasantest, writers of private correspondence that has taken a permanent place in our literature. we can understand without difficulty why the eighteenth century was a period favourable to the growth of excellent letter-writing. there were very few newspapers, and those which appeared were low in tone and ill-informed--political pamphleteers abounded and the essayists on morals and manners were numerous--but it was chiefly by private hands that accurate information and ideas were circulated in a small and highly cultivated society with an exquisite taste in literature, with a keen interest in public affairs, and a very strong appetite for philosophic discussion. side by side with the intellectual conditions we may take into account the national circumstances of that age. the post was expensive, with a slow and intermittent circulation, so that letters, being infrequent, were worth writing carefully and at length; while correspondents were nevertheless not separated by distances of time and space sufficient to weaken or extinguish the desire of interchanging thoughts and news. for it is within the experience of most of us that the difficulty of keeping up regular correspondence increases with distance; that friends who meet seldom write to each other rarely; and that, although letters are most valued by those who are far from home and long absent, yet it is precisely in the case of prolonged separation that the chain of friendly communication is apt gradually to slacken until it becomes entirely disconnected. so long, indeed, as men depended for news on private sources, there was always a kind of obligation to write; but the telegraph and the newspaper have now monopolised the intelligence department. on the whole, it may be concluded that the art of letter-writing flourishes best within a limited radius of distance, among persons living neither very near to each other nor yet far apart, who meet occasionally yet not often, and who are within the same range of social, political, and intellectual influences. its best period is probably before the advent of copious indefatigable journalism, before men have taken to publishing letters in the morning papers, and when they have not yet acquired the economical habit of reserving all their valuable ideas and information for signed articles in some monthly review. it was under these conditions that the letters of eminent men in the eighteenth century and the early part of the nineteenth century were generally written. in the former century letter-writing was undoubtedly a recognised form of high literary workmanship, with close affinities on one side to the diary or private journal, and on another to the essay. long, continuous, and intimate correspondence, as in the case of swift and walpole, gravitated toward the journal; dissertations on literature, politics, and manners were more akin to the essay; while in the hands of the novelist the journalistic series of letters took artificial development into a method of story-telling. on the other side, the tendency of epistles to become essays reached its climax in the letters of burke, some of which are only distinguishable from brilliant pamphlets by the formal address and subscription. with the nineteenth century begins an era of amusing and animated letter-writing. the classic and somewhat elaborate style of the preceding age falls into disuse; the essayist draws gradually back into a department of his own; the new school reflects, as is natural, the general tendency of english literature toward a livelier and more varied movement, with a wider range of subjects and sympathies. in his letters, as in his poetry, the precursor of the naturalistic school was cowper, who could be simple without being trivial, was never prosy and often pathetic, and who possessed the rare art of stamping on his reader's mind an enduring impression of quiet and somewhat commonplace society in the english midlands. that poets should usually have been good letter-writers is probably no more than might have been expected, for imagination and word-power must tell everywhere; yet the list is so long as to be worth noticing. swift, pope, gray, and cowper in the last century, and in the present century scott, byron, shelley, coleridge, and southey, have all left us distinctive and copious correspondence. wordsworth may, perhaps, be classed as a notable exception; for wordsworth's letters are dull, being at their best more like essays or literary dissertations than the free outpouring of intimate thought. they have none of the charm which comes from the revelation of private doubt or passionate affection that is ordinarily stifled by convention; they are, on the contrary, eminently respectable, deliberate, and carefully expressed. 'it has ever been the habit of my mind,' he writes, 'to trust that expediency will come out of fidelity to principles, rather than to seek my principles of action in calculations of expediency.' this is what the americans call 'high toned'; but the metal is too heavy for the light calibre of a letter. whether tennyson had the gift of letter-writing we shall be able to judge when his biography appears; though we may anticipate that it will contain some things worthy of a great master in the art of language. the publication of letters deriving their sole or principal interest from the general reputation of the writer is indeed quite legitimate and intelligible. they are often biographical documents of considerable value, apart from all questions of style and intellectual quality; they can be handled and arranged to exhibit a man's character; they may be used as negative proofs of reserve and reticence, as showing his mental attitude toward various subjects, his domestic habits and virtues, or merely as annals of where he went and what he did. they may be carefully selected and revised for occasional insertion at different stages of a long biography, where the editor sees fit to let the dead man speak for himself; they may be employed as an advocate chooses the papers in his brief, for attack or defence. or they may be produced without commentary, sifting, or omissions, as the unvarnished presentation of a man's private life and particular features which a candid friend commits to the judgment of posterity. or, lastly, they may be mere relics, not much more in some instances than curiosities, valued for much the same reasons that would set a high price on the autograph or the inkstand of a celebrated man, on his furniture, his house, or anything that was his. in proportion as little or nothing is known of such a man's private life, every scrap of his writing increases in value; and so a letter of shakespeare or of dante would be priceless. but of shakespeare no letter has come down to us; and of dante not even, we believe, his signature; though we do know something of what dante did and thought, for his religion and his politics are manifested in his poems; whereas shakespeare's works have the divine attribute of impersonality. here is one supreme poet of whom the world would gladly hear anything; but nothing remains to feed the modern appetite, which is never so well gratified as when a rare and sublime genius stands revealed as the writer of ordinary letters upon petty domesticities. it is evidently impossible to draw a line that shall accurately divide the interest that men feel in a celebrated person from the interest that they take in his posthumous correspondence; so as to determine how far the letters are good in themselves. when the writer is well known, he and his writings are inseparable. yet some attempt must be made, for the purposes of this article, to distinguish critically between letters that are readable and will survive by their own literary quality, as fine specimens of the art, and those which are preserved and published on the score of the writer's name and fame, with little aid from their merits. in which category are we to place the letters of keats, including those that have been very recently unearthed by diligent literary excavation? his poetry is so exquisite, so radiant with imaginative colour, that to see such a man in the light of common day, among the ordinary cares and circumstances of the lower world, is necessarily a descent and a disillusion. he was young, he was poor, he had few acquaintances worthy of him; he roved about england and scotland without adventures; his letters were perfectly familiar and unsophisticated. as mr. sidney colvin has written, in an excellent preface to an edition of , 'he poured out to those he loved his whole self indiscriminately, generosity and fretfulness, ardour and despondency, boyish petulance side by side with manful good sense, the tattle of suburban parlours with the speculations of a spirit unsurpassed for native gift and insight.' every now and then the level of his easygoing discourse is lit up by a flash of wit, and occasionally by a jet of brilliant fancies among which some of his finest poetry may be traced in the process of incubation. his whole mind is set upon his art; for that only, and for a few intimate friends, does he care to live and work; his letters often tell us when and where, under what influences, his best pieces were composed; one likes to know, for example, that the _ode to autumn_ came to him on a fine september day during a sunday's walk over the stubbles near winchester. his criticisms are always good, and their form picturesque. he compares human life to a chamber that becomes gradually darkened, in which one door after another is set open, showing only dim passages leading out into darkness. this, he says, is the burden of the mystery which wordsworth felt and endeavoured to explore; and he thinks that wordsworth is deeper than milton, though he attributes this, justly, more to 'the general and gregarious advance of intellect, than individual greatness of mind.' so far as spontaneity and the free unguarded play of sportive and serious ideas, taken as they came uppermost, are tests and conditions of excellence in this kind of writing, keats's letters must rank high. nevertheless there is still room for doubt whether these juvenile productions would have left any but a most ephemeral mark apart from their connection with his poetry. in the case of other poets, who were his contemporaries, the verdict will be different. they are all to be classed, though not in the same line, as writers of letters that have great original and intrinsic value. scott's letters exhibit his generous and masculine nature; the buoyancy of his spirits in good or bad fortune; and that romantic attachment to old things and ideas which hardened latterly into inveterate toryism. southey's prose writings will probably survive his metrical compositions, which indeed have already fallen into oblivion. there is life in a poet so long as he is quoted; but no verses or even lines of southey have fixed themselves in the popular memory. and whereas the letters of keats disclose a mind filled with the sense of beauty and rich with poetic seedlings that blossomed into beautiful flowers, in southey's correspondence we discern only an erudite man of taste labouring diligently upon epics which he expected to be immortal. the letters of byron stand upon broader ground, because byron was so much more of a personage than either keats, or southey, or wordsworth. they supply, in the first place, an invaluable, and indeed indispensable, interpretation of his poetry, which is to a great extent the imaginative and romantic presentation of his own feelings, fortunes, and peculiar experiences. secondly, they are full of good sayings and caustic criticism; they touch upon the domain of politics and society as well as upon literature; they give the opinions passed upon contemporary events and persons, during a stirring period of european history, by a man of genius who was also a man of the world; they float on the current of a strangely troubled existence. in these letters we have an important contribution to our acquaintance with literary circles and london society, and with several notable figures on either stage, during the years immediately before and after waterloo. they were published in an introduction to the works of a famous poet; yet, although they cannot be detached from his poetry, they possess great independent merits of their own. they echo the sounds of revelry by night; they strike a note of careless vivacity, the tone of a man who is at home alike in good and bad company, whose judgment on books and politics, on writers and speakers, is always fresh, bold, and original. we may lament that the spirit of reckless devilry and dissipation should have entered into byron; and the lessons to be drawn from the scenes and adventures in venice and elsewhere, described for the benefit of tom moore, are very different from the moral examples furnished by the tranquil and well-ordered correspondence of our own day. yet the world would have been poorer for the loss of this memorial of an unquiet life, and the historical gallery of literature would have missed the full-length portrait of an extraordinary man. the letters of coleridge, like their writer, belong to another class, yet, like byron's, they have the clear-cut stamp of individuality. here again we have the man himself, with his intensity of feeling, his erratic moods and singular phraseology, the softness of his heart and the weakness of his will. he belongs to the rapidly diminishing class of notable men who have freely poured their real sentiments and thoughts out of their brain into their letters, who have given their best (without keeping their worst) to their correspondents, so that the letters abound with pathetic and amusing confessions, and with ideas that bear the stamp of the author's singular idiosyncrasy. the _memorials of coleorton_ are a collection of letters written to the beaumont family by coleridge, wordsworth, southey, and scott; the reader may pass from one to another by taking them as they come; the book is like the _menu_ of a dinner with varied courses. wordsworth's letters are the product of cultivated taste, a fine eye for rural scenery, and lofty moral sentiment. southey is the high-class _littérateur_, with a strong dash of toryism in church and state; in both there is a total absence of eccentricity, but in neither case is the attention forcibly arrested or any striking passage retained. when coleridge is served up the flavour of unique expression and a sort of divine simplicity is unmistakable; he is alternately indignant and remorseful; he soars to themes transcendent, and sinks anon to the humble details of his errors and embarrassments. uncongenial society plunged him into such dark depression that he is not ashamed to confess that he found 'bodily relief in weeping.' 'on tuesday evening mr. r----, the author of ----, drank tea and spent the evening with us at grasmere; and this had produced a very unpleasant effect upon my spirits.... if to be a poet or man of genius entailed on us the necessity of housing such company in our bosoms, i would pray the very flesh off my knees to have a head as dark and unfurnished as wordsworth's old molly's.... if i believed it possible that the man liked me, upon my soul i should feel exactly as if i were tarred and feathered.' and so on through the whole letter, with a comical energy of phrase that scorns reserve or compass in giving vent to the misery caused by uninteresting conversation. we may contrast this melancholy tea-drinking with byron's rollicking account of a dinner with some friends 'of note and notoriety': 'like other parties of the same kind, it was first silent, then talking, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogethery, then articulate, and then drunk. when we had reached the last step of this glorious ladder it was difficult to get down again without stumbling; and, to crown all, kinnaird and i had to conduct sheridan down a damned corkscrew staircase, which had been certainly constructed before the invention of fermented liquors, and to which no legs, however crooked, could possibly accommodate themselves. both he and coleman were, as usual, very good; but i carried away much wine, and the wine carried away my memory, so that all was hiccup and happiness for the last hour or so, and i am not impregnated with any of the conversation.' we are, of course, not reviewing byron or coleridge; we are only giving samples by the way. here are two great poets, remote from each other as the two poles in social circumstances and habit of mind, but at any rate alike in this one quality--that their life is in their letters, and that in such passages as these the genuine undisguised temperament of each writer stands forth in a relief that could only be brought out by his own unintentional master-strokes. for neither of them was aware that in these scenes he was describing his own character--though byron may have intended to display his wit, and coleridge may have been to some extent conscious of his own humour. in the way of literary criticism, again, coleridge throws out the quaint and uncommon remark upon addison's essays, that they 'have produced a passion for the unconnected in the minds of englishmen.' and he touches delicately upon the negative or barren side of the critical mind in his observation that the critics are the eunuchs that guard the temple of the muses. of shelley's letters, again, we may say that they are unconsciously autobiographical; they are confessions of character, spontaneous, unguarded, abounding with brilliancies and extravagances. they betray his shortcomings, but they attest his generosity and courage; they are the outpourings of a new spirit, who detests what would now be called philistinism in literature and society; who does not stop to pick his words, or to mix water with the red wine of his enthusiasm. he abandons himself in his letters to the feelings of the moment; he ardently pursues his immediate object by sophistical arguments which convict himself but could never convince a correspondent, and which astonish and amuse the calm reader of after days. 'a kind of ineffable, sickening disgust seizes my mind when i think of this most despotic, most unrequired fetter which prejudice has forged to confine its energies.... anti-matrimonialism is as necessarily connected with scepticism as if religion and marriage began their course together,' for both are the fruit of odious superstition. he was endeavouring to persuade harriet westbrook to join him in testifying by example against the obsolete and ignoble ceremony of the marriage service, which he held to be a degradation that no one could ask 'an amiable and beloved female' to undergo. in shelley's case, as in byron's, the letters are of inestimable biographical value as witnesses to character, as reflecting the vicissitudes of a life which was to the writer more like the 'fierce vexation of a dream' than a well-spent leisurely existence, and as the sincere unstudied expression of his emotions. for all these reasons they are essential to a right appreciation of his magnificent poetry. william godwin, pedantic, self-conceited, and impecunious, has come down to us as a kind of central figure in a literary group which included such men as coleridge, shelley, and lamb, of whom the somewhat formal english world at the beginning of this century was not worthy. by reason of this position, and because shelley married his daughter, he became the cause and subject of excellent letter-writing, though his own correspondence is heavy with philosophic platitudes. it is of the class which, as we have said, is akin to essays; he discourses at large upon first principles in religion and politics; and out of his frigid philosophy came some of shelley's most ardent paradoxes. but some of the most amusing letters in the english language were addressed to him. it was after a supper at godwin's that coleridge wrote remorsefully acknowledging 'a certain tipsiness'--not that he felt any 'unpleasant titubancy'--whereby he had been seduced into defending a momentary idea as if it had been an old and firmly established principle; which (we may add) has been the way of other talkers since coleridge. no one, he goes on to say, could have a greater horror than himself of the principles he thus accidentally propounded, or a deeper conviction of their irrationality; 'but the whole thinking of my life will not bear me up against the crowd and press of my mind, when it is elevated beyond its natural pitch.' the effect of punch, after wine, was to make a philosopher argue hotly against his profoundest beliefs; yet it is to godwin's supper that we owe this diverting palinodia. and all englishmen should be grateful to godwin for having written the tragedy of _antonio_; for not only was it most justly damned, but it also elicited some letters to the unlucky author that are unmatched in the record of candid criticism. mrs. inchbald writes, briefly: 'i thank you for the play of antonio, and i most sincerely wish you joy of having produced a work which will protect you from being classed with the successful dramatists of the present time, but which will hand you down to posterity among the honoured few who, during the past century, have totally failed in writing for the stage.' coleridge goes to work more elaborately: 'in the tragedy i have frequently used certain marks (which he gives). of these, the first calls your attention to my suspicions that your language is false or intolerable english. the second marks the passages that struck me as _flat_ or mean. the third is a note of reprobation, levelled at those sentences in which you have adopted that worst sort of vulgar language, commonplace book language. the last mark implies bad metre.' all this is free speaking beyond the compass of modern literary consultations. it may be added that lamb also discussed the play, before it was performed, in his letters to godwin; and that his description of godwin's deportment, of his own feelings, and of the behaviour of the audience on the memorable night that witnessed its utter failure, has bequeathed to us a comedy over which the tragic muse herself might well become hysterical. there is, indeed, in the correspondence of this remarkable group a tone of frankness and sincerity which, combined with the absence of malice and a strong element of fun, distinguishes it from the half-veiled disapproval and prudish reserve of later days. 'when you next write so eloquently and well against law and lawyers,' says coleridge to godwin, 'be so good as to leave a larger place for your wafer, as by neglect of this a part of your last was obliterated.' again, in a more serious tone, 'ere i had yet read or seen your works, i, at southey's recommendation, wrote a sonnet in praise of the author. when i had read them, religious bigotry, the but half understanding of your principles, and the _not_ half understanding of my own, combined to render me a warm and boisterous anti-godwinist.' his moods and circumstances, his joys and pains, are reflected in his language with remarkable fertility of metaphor; his feelings vary with his society. of lamb he writes that 'his taste acts so as to appear like the mechanic simplicity of an instinct--in brief, he is worth a hundred men of more talents: conversation with the latter tribe is like the use of leaden bells, one warms by exercise, lamb every now and then _irradiates_.' in the best letters of this remarkable group we perceive the exquisite sensitiveness of open and eager minds, giving free play to their ideas and feelings, their delight and disgust, so that their life and thoughts are mirrored in their correspondence as in their conversation. such writing has become very rare, if it is not entirely extinct, in these latter days of temperate living and guarded writing. lamb's own letters are all in a similar key; and that which he wrote to coleridge, who had a bad habit of borrowing books, is a model of jocose expostulation: 'you never come but you take away some folio that is part of my existence.... my third shelf from the top has two devilish gaps, where you have knocked out its two eye teeth.' and his lament over the desolation of london, as it appears to a man who has lived there jovially, and revisits it as a stranger in after years, may even now touch a chord in the hearts of some of us. 'in london i passed houses and places, empty caskets now. the streets, the shops are left, but all old friends are gone. the bodies i cared for are in graves or dispersed. my old clubs that lived so long and flourished so steadily are crumbled away. when i took leave of our friend at charing cross, 'twas heavy unfeeling rain, and i had nowhere to go ... not a sympathising house to turn to in the great city. never did the waters of heaven pour down on a forlorner head. yet i tried ten days at a sort of friend's house, large and straggling; one of the individuals of my old long knot of friends, card-players, and pleasant companions, that have tumbled to pieces into dust and other things; and i got home convinced that i was better to get to my hole in enfield and hide like a sick cat in my corner.' we might, indeed, multiply indefinitely our quotations from the correspondence of this literary period to show its sincerity, its spontaneity, its uncommonness, the tone of intimate brotherhood and natural unruly affection that pervades it everywhere. nothing of the kind has come down to us from the eighteenth century; and the last fifty years of this century, so prolific in biographies and posthumous publications of the papers of eminent men, go to prove that in the general transformation of letter-writing these peculiar qualities have almost, though not altogether, disappeared. probably conversation has suffered a like change; and we may ascribe it generally to a lowering of the social temperature, to the habits of reserve, respectability, and conventional self-restraint that in these days govern so largely the intercourse of men. something may be due to cautious expurgation of passages which tell against the writer, or might offend modern taste; yet in other respects contemporary editors have been sufficiently indiscreet. and the growth of these habits, so discouraging to free and fearless correspondence, may be partly ascribed to the influence of journalism, which makes every subject stale and sterile by incessantly threshing and tearing at it, and which reviews biographies in a manner that acts as a solemn warning to all men of mark that they take heed what they put into a private letter. there are other causes, to which we may presently advert; but it is quite clear that this fine art is undergoing certain transmutations, and that on the whole it does not flourish quite so vigorously as heretofore. in a recent article upon matthew arnold's letters it is laid down by a consummate critic[ ] that the first canon of unsophisticated letter-writing is that a letter is meant for the eye of a friend, and not for the world. 'even the lurking thought in anticipation of an audience destroys the charm; the best letters are always improvisations; the public breaks the spell.' in this, as we have already suggested, there is much truth; yet the conditions seem to us too straitly enjoined; for not every man of genius has the gift of striking out his best thoughts, in their best form, clear and true from the hot iron of his mind; and in some of our best writers the improvising spirit is very faint. if a man writes with leisurely care, selecting deliberately the word that exactly matches his thought, aiming directly at the heart of his subject and avoiding prolixity, he may, like walpole, gray, and others, produce a delightful letter, provided only that he is sincere and open, has good stuff to give, and does not condescend to varnish his pictures. we want his best thoughts; we should like to have his best form; we do not always care so much for negligent undress. and as for the copious outpouring of his personal feelings, one says many things to a friend or kinsman that are totally without interest to the public, unless they are expressed in some distinctive manner or embody some originality of handling an ordinary event. this a writer may have the knack of doing artistically, even in a private and confidential letter, without betraying the touch of art; nor, indeed, can we ever know how many of the best modern letters are really improvised. then, again, with regard to the anticipation of an audience, it is a risk to which every man of note must feel that he is exposed; the shadow of eventual publicity is always in the background; his letters have passed out of his control during his lifetime, and he can only trust in the uncertain discretion of his literary executor. he does not care to leave the record of his passing moods, his confessions of weakness, his personal likings and antipathies, to be discussed by the general reader; and it is probable that he only lets his pen run freely when he feels assured that his confidential improvisations will be judiciously omitted. it is, we think, impossible to suppose that these considerations have not weighed materially upon the minds of eminent men in our own day, when biographies have become so much more numerous, and when they are so much more closely criticised than formerly. and in comparing the letters written in the early part of this century--such as those from which we have given a few characteristic quotations--with those which have been recently published, we have to take account of these things, among other changes of the social and literary environment. undoubtedly the comparison is to the advantage of the earlier writings; they seem infinitely more amusing, more genuine, more biographical, more redolent of the manners and complexion of the time. there is in them a flavour of heartiness and irresponsibility which may partly be attributed to the fact that the best writers were poets, whose genius flowered as early as their manhood, and most of whom died young; so that their letters are fresh, audacious, and untempered by the chilly caution of middle or declining age. their spirits were high, they were ardent in the pursuit of ideals; they were defying society, they either had no family or were at feud with it, and they gave not a thought to the solemn verdict of posterity. for correspondents who were brimming over with humour, imagination, and enthusiasm, no situation could be more thoroughly favourable to sparkling improvisation; and accordingly they have left us letters which will be a joy for ever. the correspondence of our own generation has been written under a different intellectual climate, and various circumstances have combined to lower the temperature of its vivacity. posthumous publicity is now the manifest destiny that overhangs the private life of all notable persons, especially of popular authors, who can observe and inwardly digest continual warnings of the treatment which they are likely to receive from an insatiable and inconsistent criticism. they may have lived long and altered their opinions; they may have quarrelled with friends or rivals, and may have become sworn allies later; they may have publicly praised one whom in private they may have laughed at; for when you have to think what you say, it does not follow that you say what you think. all these considerations, enforced by repeated examples, are apt to damp the natural ardour of improvisation; the more so because the writer may be sure either that his genuine utterances will be suppressed by the editor, or that, if they are produced, the editor will be roundly abused for giving him away. for in these matters the judgment of the general reader is wayward, and his attitude undecided, with a leaning toward hypocrisy. the story of the domestic tribulations and the conjugal bickerings of a great writer, of the irritability that belongs to highly nervous temperaments, and which has always made genius, like the finest animals, hard to domesticate, has lost none of its savour with the public. but if all letters that record such scenes and sayings are faithfully reproduced in preparing the votive tablet upon which the dead man's life is to be delineated, the ungrateful reader answers with an accusation of imprudence, indiscretion, and betrayal of confidence; and the surviving friends protest still more vehemently. within the last three months these consequences have been forcibly illustrated by the reception of cardinal manning's life, in which the letters are of extraordinary value toward the formation of a right understanding of that remarkable personage. much of all this sensitiveness is clearly due to the hasty fashion of publishing private correspondence within a few years of the writer's decease, but more to the fitful and somewhat feminine temper of an inquisitive yet censorious society. if, on the other hand, expurgation is freely employed, the result is a kind of emasculation. nothing is left that can offend or annoy living people, or that might damage the writer's own reputation with an audience that enjoys, yet condemns, unmeasured confidences. and so we get clever, sensible letters of men who have travelled, worked, and mixed much in society, who have already put into essays or reviews all that they wanted the public to know, and whose private doubts, or follies, or frolics, have been neatly removed from their correspondence. let us take, for example, two batches of letters very lately published, and written by two men who have left their mark upon their generation. of dean stanley it may be affirmed that no ecclesiastic of his time was better known, or had a higher reputation for strength of character and undaunted liberalism. his public life and his place in the anglican church had been already described in a meritorious biography; and it might have been expected that these letters would bring the reader closer to the man himself, would accentuate the points of a striking individuality. there are few of these letters, we think, by which such expectations have been fulfilled to any appreciable degree. in one or two of them stanley writes with his genuine sincerity and earnestness on the state of his mind in regard to the new spirit of ecclesiasticism that had arisen in oxford nearly sixty years ago; we see that he saw and felt the magnitude of a coming crisis, and we can observe the formation of the opinions which he consistently and valiantly upheld throughout his career. the whole instinct of his intellectual nature--and he never lost his trust in reason--was against the high roman or sacerdotal absolutism in matters of dogma; he ranked morals far above faith; and he had that dislike of authoritative uniformity in church government which is in englishmen a reflection of their political habits. yet he discerned plainly enough the spring of a movement that was bringing about a roman catholic revival. 'not that i am turned or turning newmanist, but that i do feel that the crisis in my opinions is coming on, and that the difficulties i find in my present views are greater than i thought them to be, and that here i am in the presence of a magnificent and consistent system shooting up on every side, whilst all that i see against it is weak and grovelling.' (letter to c. j. vaughan, .) 'i expect,' he writes a year later, 'that the whole thing will have the effect of making me either a great newmanite or a great radical'; and it did end in making him an advanced liberal. his practical genius, and his free converse with general society (from which manning deliberately turned away as fatal to ecclesiasticism), very soon parted him from the theologians. 'i think it is true,' he writes to jowett ( ), 'that we have not the same mental interest in talking over subjects of theology that we had formerly. they have lost their novelty, i suppose; we know better where we are, having rolled to the bottom together, and being now able only to make a few uphill steps. i acknowledge fully my own want of freshness; my mind seems at times quite dried up.... and at times i have felt an unsatisfied desire after a better and higher sort of life, which makes me impatient of the details of theology.' in these, and perhaps one or two other passages, we can trace the development of character and convictions in the man to whom jowett wrote, thirty years afterwards, that he was 'the most distinguished clergyman in the church of england, who could do more than any one towards the great work of placing religion on a rational basis.'[ ] but, on the whole, the quality of these letters is by no means equal to their quantity; and too many of them belong to a class which, though it may have some ephemeral interest among friends and kinsfolk, can retain, we submit, no permanent value at all. it is best described under a title common in french literature--_impressions de voyage_. a very large part of the volume consists of letters written by stanley, an intelligent and indefatigable tourist, from the countries and cities which he visited, from petersburg and palestine, from paris and athens, from spain and scotland. the standpoint from which he surveys the holy land is rather historical and archæological than devotional; but he had everywhere a clear eye for the picturesque in manners and scenery. he had excellent opportunities of seeing the places and the people; his descriptive powers are considerable; and there is a finely drawn picture of all souls' day in the sistine chapel, written from rome to hugh pearson, although a ludicrous incident comes in at the end like a false note. such correspondence might be so arranged separately as to make an interesting narrative of travel, but when judged by a high literary or intellectual criterion of letter-writing it is out of court. it is not too much to aver that most, if not all, of these letters might have been written by any refined and cultivated englishman, whose education and social training had given him correct tastes and a many-sided interest in the world. they belong to the type of private diary or chronicle, and as such they inevitably include trivialities, though not many. some of stanley's letters are from scotland, where he travels about admiring its wildness, and with a cultured interest in its antiquities. but no country has been better ransacked in search of the picturesque; it is the original hunting-ground of the romantic tourist, and what stanley said about it to his family is pleasantly but not powerfully written. it is more than doubtful whether excellence in letter-writing lies that way, or, indeed, whether mediocrity is avoidable. charles lamb's letters are none the worse because he stayed in london and had no time for the beauties of nature. 'for my part,' he wrote, 'with reference to my friends northwards, i must confess that i am not romance-bit about nature. the earth and sea and sky (when all is said) is but a house to dwell in. if the inmates be courteous, and good liquors flow like the conduits at an old coronation, if they can talk sensibly and feel properly, i have no need to stand staring at the gilded looking-glass, nor at the five-shilling print over the mantelpiece. just as important to me (in a sense) is all the furniture of my world; eye pampering, but satisfies no heart.' this may be cockney taste, yet it is better reading than stanley's account of edinburgh or the valley of glencoe. the editor assures us, in his preface, that none of these letters touch upon theological controversies, yet many readers might have been very willing to part with some of the travelling journal for closer knowledge of stanley's inward feelings while he was bearing up the fight of liberty and toleration against the gathering forces that have since scattered and well-nigh overwhelmed the once flourishing broad church party. well might jowett write to him in , 'you and i, and our dear friend hugh pearson, and william rogers, and some others, are rather isolated in the world, and we must hold together as long as we can.' all those who are here named have passed away, leaving no party leaders of equal rank and calibre, and if stanley's letters survive at all, they will live upon those passages which remind us how strenuously he contended for the intellectual freedom that he believed to be the true spiritual heritage of english churchmen. the latest contribution to the department of national literature that we have been surveying is the volume containing the letters of matthew arnold ( - ). 'here and there,' writes their editor, 'i have been constrained, by deference to living susceptibilities, to make some slight excisions; but with regard to the bulk of the letters this process had been performed before the manuscript came into my hands.' no one has any business to question the exercise of a discretion which must have been necessary in publishing private correspondence so recently written, and only those who saw the originals can decide whether they have been weakened or strengthened by the pruning. on the other hand, the first canon of unsophistical letter-writing, as laid down by the eminent critic already cited--that they should be written for the eye of a friend, never for the public--is amply fulfilled. 'it will be seen' (we quote again from the preface) 'that the letters are essentially familiar and domestic, and were evidently written without a thought that they would ever be read beyond the circle of his family.' they are, in short, mostly family letters that have been necessarily subjected to censorship, and it would be unreasonable to measure a collection of this kind by the high standard that qualifies for admission to the grade of permanent literature. as these letters are to supply the lack of a biography (which was expressly prohibited by his own wish), we are not to look for further glimpses of a character which his editor rightly terms 'unique and fascinating.' the general reader may therefore feel some disappointment at finding that the correspondence takes no wider or more varied range; for matthew arnold's circle of acquaintances must have been very large, and he must have been in touch with the leading men in the political, academical, and official society of his day. the letters are as good as they could be expected to be under these conditions, which are to our mind heavily disadvantageous. we must set aside those which fall under the class of _impressions de voyage_, for the reasons already stated in discussing stanley's travelling correspondence. one would not gather from this collection that arnold was a considerable poet. and the peculiar method of expression, the vein of light irony, the flexibility of style, that distinguish his prose works are here curiously absent; he does not write his letters, as carlyle did, in the same character as his books. yet the turn of thought, the prevailing note, can be often detected; as, for instance, in a certain impatience with english defects, coupled with a strong desire to take the conceit out of his fellow-countrymen: 'the want of independence of mind, the shutting their eyes and professing to believe what they do not, the running blindly together in herds for fear of some obscure danger and horror if they go alone, is so eminently a vice of the english, i think, of the last hundred years, has led them and is leading them into such scrapes and bewilderment, that,' etc., etc. it is certainly hard to recognise in this picture the features of the rough roving englishman who in the course of the last hundred years has conquered india, founded great colonies, and fought the longest and most obstinate war of modern times: who has been the type of insularity and an incurable antinomian in religion and politics. not many pages afterwards, however, we find arnold sharing with the herd of his countrymen the shallow 'conviction as to the french always beating any number of germans who come into the field against them.' he adds that 'they will never be beaten by any other nation but the english, for to every other nation they are in efficiency and intelligence decidedly superior'--an opinion which contradicts his previous judgment of them, and replaces the national superiority on a lofty though insecure basis; for if he was wrong about the french, he may be wrong about us whom he puts above them. arnold admired the french as much as carlyle liked the germans, and both of them enjoyed ridiculing or rating the english; but each was unconsciously swayed by his own particular tastes and temperament, and neither of them had the gift of political prophecy, which is, indeed, very seldom vouchsafed to the highly imaginative mind. he had a strong belief, rare among englishmen, in administrative organisation. 'depend upon it,' he writes, 'that the great states of the continent have two great elements of cohesion, in their administrative system and in their army, which we have not.' the general conclusion which arnold seems to have drawn from his travels in europe and america is that england was far behind france in lucidity of ideas, and inferior to the united states in straightforward political energy and the faculties of national success. 'heaven forbid that the english nation should become like this (the french) nation; but heaven forbid that it should remain as it is. if it does, it will be beaten by america on its own line, and by the continental nations on the european line. i see this as plain as i see the paper before me.' since this was written in , england has been perversely holding her own course, nor has she yet fulfilled arnold's melancholy foreboding, by which he was 'at times overwhelmed with depression' that england was sinking into a sort of greater holland, 'for want of perceiving how the world is going and must go, and preparing herself accordingly.' on the other hand, his imaginative faculty comes out in his speculation upon the probable changes in the development of the american people that might follow their separation into different groups, if the civil war between the northern and southern states (which had just begun) should break up the union. 'climate and mixture of race will then be able fully to tell, and i cannot help thinking that the more diversity of nation there is on the american continent, the more chance there is of one nation developing itself with grandeur and richness. it has been so in europe. what should we all be if we had not one another to check us and to be learned from? imagine an english europe. how frightfully _borné_ and dull! or a french europe either, for that matter.' the suggestion is, perhaps, more fanciful than profound; for history does not repeat itself; and, in fact, the result of breaking up south america into a dozen political groups has not yet produced any very satisfactory development of national character. much more than political subdivision goes to the creation of a new europe; nevertheless arnold is probably right in supposing that uniformity of institutions and a somewhat monotonous level of social conditions over a vast area, may have depressed and stunted the free and diversified growth of north american civilisation. the literary criticism to be found in these letters shows a fastidious and delicate taste that had been nurtured almost too exclusively upon the masterpieces of classic antiquity. homer he ranked far above shakespeare, though one might think them too different for comparison; and he praises 'two articles in _temple bar_ ( ), one on tennyson, the other on browning,' which were afterwards republished in a book that made some stir in its day, and has brought down upon its author the unquenchable resentment of his brother poets. he thought that both macaulay and carlyle were encouraging the english nation in its emphatic philistinism, and thus counteracting his own exertions to lighten the darkness of earnest but opaque intelligences. as his interest in religious movements was acute, so his observations occasionally throw some light upon the exceedingly complicated problem of ascertaining the general drift of the english mind in regard to things spiritual. the force which is shaping the future, is it with the ritualists or with the undogmatical disciples of a purely moral creed? with neither, arnold replies; not with any of the orthodox religions, nor with the neo-religious developments which are pretending to supersede them. 'both the one and the other give to what they call religion, and to religious ideas and discussions, too large and absorbing a place in human life. man feels himself to be a more various and richly endowed animal than the old religious theory of human life allowed, and he is endeavouring to give satisfaction to the long suppressed and imperfectly understood instincts of their varied nature.' no man studied more closely than arnold the intellectual tendencies of his generation, so that on the most difficult of contemporary questions this opinion is worth quoting, although the ritualistic leanings of the present day hardly operate to support it. but here, as in his published works, his religious utterances are somewhat ambiguous and oracular; and one welcomes the marking of a definite epoch in church history when he writes emphatically that 'the broad church _among the clergy_ may be said to have almost perished with stanley.' but correspondence that was never meant for publication is hardly a fair subject for literary criticism. arnold seems to have written hurriedly, in the intervals of hard work, of journeyings to and fro upon his rounds of inspection, and of much social bustle; he had not the natural gift of letter-writing, and he probably did it more as a duty than a pleasure. he had none of the ever-smouldering irritability which compelled carlyle to slash right and left of him at the people whom he met, at everything that he disliked, and every one whom he despised. nor was he born to chronicle the small beer of everyday life in that spirit of contemplative quietism which is bred out of abundant leisure and retirement. a few lines from one of cowper's letters may serve to indicate the circumstances in which 'our best letter-writer,' as southey calls him, lived and wrote a hundred years ago in a muddy buckinghamshire village: 'a long confinement in the winter, and indeed for the most part in the autumn too, has hurt us both. a gravel walk, thirty yards long, affords but indifferent scope to the locomotive faculty; yet it is all that we have had to move in for eight months in the year, during thirteen years that i have been a prisoner here.' if we compare this manner of spending one's days with arnold's hasty and harassed existence among the busy haunts of men, we can understand that in this century a hard-working literary man has neither the taste nor the time for the graceful record of calm meditations, or for throwing a charm over commonplace details. and, on the whole, arnold's correspondence, though it has some biographical value, must undoubtedly be relegated to the class of letters that would never have been published upon their own intrinsic merits. carlyle's letters, on the other hand, fall into the opposite category; they stand on their own feet, they are as significant of style and character as arnold's, and even stanley's, letters were comparatively insignificant; they are the fearless outspoken expression of the humours and feelings of the moment, and it is probable that the writer did not trouble himself to consider whether they would or would not be published. in these respects they as nearly fulfil the authorised conditions of good letter-writing as any work of the sort that has been produced in our own generation, though one may be permitted some doubt in regard to improvisation; for the work is occasionally so clean cut and pointed, his strokes are so keen and straight to the mark, that it is difficult to believe the composition to be altogether unstudied. whether any writer ever excelled in this or, indeed, in any other branch of the art literary without taking much trouble over it, is, in our judgment, an open question; but surely carlyle must have selected and sharpened with some care the barbed epithets upon which he suspends his grotesque and formidable caricatures. for example, he writes, in , of godwin, who still figures, in advanced age, as a martyr in the cause of good letter-writing--'a bald, bushy browed, thick, hoary, hale little figure, with a very long blunt characterless nose--the whole visit the most unutterable stupidity.' lord althorp is 'a thick, large, broad-whiskered, farmer-looking man.' o'connell, 'a well-doing country shopkeeper with a bottle-green frock and brown scratch wig.... i quitted them all (the house of commons) with the highest contempt.' of thomas campbell, the poet, it is written that 'his talk is small, contemptuous, and shallow; his face has a smirk which would befit a shopman or an auctioneer.' wordsworth, 'an old, very loquacious, indeed, quite prosing man.' southey 'the shallowest chin, prominent snubbed roman nose, small carelined brow, the most vehement pair of faint hazel eyes i have ever seen.' there is a savage caricature of roebuck, and so carlyle goes on hanging up portraits of the notables whom he met and conversed with, to the great edification of these latter days. no more dangerous interviewer has ever practised professionally than this artist in epithets, on whom the outward visible figure of a man evidently made deep impressions; whereas the ordinary letter-writer is usually content to record the small talk. as material for publication his correspondence had three singular advantages. his earlier letters were excellent, and we may hazard the generalisation that almost all first-class letter-writing, like poetry, has been inspired by the ardour and freshness and audacity of youth. he lived so long that these letters could be published very soon after his death without much damage to the susceptibilities of those whom his hard hitting might concern; and, lastly, his biographer was a man of nerve, who loved colour and strong lineaments, and would always sacrifice minor considerations to the production of a striking historical portrait. undoubtedly, carlyle's letters have this virtue--that they largely contribute to the creation of a true likeness of the writer, for in sketching other people he was also drawing himself. he could also paint the interior of a country house, as at fryston, and his landscapes are vivid. he was, in short, an impressionist of the first order, who grouped all his details in subordination to a general effect, and never gave his correspondent a mere catalogue of trivial particulars. it was originally in a letter to his brother that carlyle wrote his celebrated description of an interview with coleridge. no two men could be more different in taste or temperament, and yet any one who reads attentively coleridge's letters may observe a certain similarity to carlyle's writing, not only in the figured style and prophetic manner, but also in the tendency of their political ideas. in the matter of linguistic eccentricities, it may be guessed that both of them had been affected by the study of german literature; and in politics they had both a horror of disorder, an aversion to the ordinary radicalism of their day, and a contempt for mechanic philosophy and complacent irreligion. each of them had a strong belief in the power and duties of the state; but coleridge held also that salvation lay in a reconstitution of the church on a sound metaphysical basis, whereas for carlyle all articles and liturgies were dying or dead. a comparison of these two supreme intellectual forces may help us to distinguish some of the most favourable conditions of good letter-writing. they were men of highly nervous mental constitution of mind, on whom the ideas and impressions that had been secreted produced an excitability that was discharged upon correspondents in a torrent of language, sweeping away considerations of reserve or self-regard, and submerging the commonplace bits of news and everyday observations which accumulate in the letters of respectable notabilities. to whomsoever the letters may be addressed, they are in consequence equally good and characteristic. carlyle's epistles to his wife and brother are among the best in the collection; and coleridge threw himself with the same ardour into letters to charles lamb and to lord liverpool. it is this capacity for pouring out the soul in correspondence, for draining the bottom of one's heart to a friend, which, combined with exaltation under the stimulus of spleen or keen sensibility, raises correspondence to the high-water mark of english literature. but in saying that these conditions are eminently favourable to the production of fine letter-writing, we do not mean to affirm that they are essential. against such a theory it would be sufficient to quote cowper, though he had the poetic fire, and was subject to the religious frenzy; and we know that repose and refinement have a tendency to develop good correspondents. among these we may number edward fitzgerald, whose letters are, perhaps, the most artistic of any that have recently appeared, and may be placed without hesitation in the class of letters that have a high intrinsic merit independently of the writer's extraneous reputation; for fitzgerald was a recluse with a tinge of misanthropy, nearly unknown to the outer world, except by one exquisite paraphrase of a persian poem, and his popularity rests almost entirely upon his published correspondence. of these letters, so excellent of their kind, can it be said that they have the note of improvisation, that they were written for a friend's eye, without thought or care for that ordeal of posthumous publication which has added, as we have been told, a fresh terror to death? the composition is exactly suited to the tone of easy, pleasant conversation; the writing has a serene flow, with ripples of wit and humour; sometimes occupied with east anglian rusticities and local colouring, sometimes with pungent literary criticisms; it is never exuberant, but nowhere dull or commonplace; the language is concise, with a sedulous nicety of expression. a man of delicate irony, living apart from the rough, tumbling struggle for existence, he was in most things the very opposite to carlyle, whose _french revolution_ he admired not much, and who, he thinks, 'ought to be laughed at a little.' such a man was not likely to write even the most ordinary letter without a certain degree of mental preparation, without some elaboration of thought, or solicitude as to form and finish, for all which processes he had ample leisure. it may be noticed that he never condescends to the travelling journal, and that his voyaging impressions are given in a few fine strokes; but, although he was a home-keeping englishman, he was free from household cares, nor did he keep up that obligatory family correspondence which, when it is published to exhibit the domestic habits and affections of an eminent person, becomes ever after a dead-weight upon his biography. in endeavouring to analyse the charm of these delightful letters, we may suggest that they gain their special flavour from his talent for compounding them, like a skilful _chef de cuisine_, out of various materials or intellectual condiments assorted and dexterously blended. he is an able and accomplished egoist, one of the few modern englishmen who are able to plant themselves contentedly, like a tree, in one spot, and who prefer books to company, the sedentary to the stirring life. he was not cut off, like cowper, a hundred years earlier, from the outer world in winter and rough weather, yet he had few visitors and went abroad little; so that he had ample leisure for perusal and re-perusal of the classic masterpieces, ancient and modern, and for surveying the field of contemporary literature. his letters to fanny kemble have the advantage of unity in tone that belongs to a series written to the same person, though the absence of replies is apt to produce the effect of a monologue. how far good letter-writing depends upon the course of exchange, upon the stimulus of pleasant and prompt replies, is a question not easily answered, since the correspondence on both sides of two good writers is very rarely put together. mrs. kemble had certain fixed rules which must have been fatal to the free epistolary spirit. 'i never write,' she said, 'until i am written to; i always write when i am written to, and i make a point of always returning the same amount of paper that i receive;' but at any rate it is evident that fitzgerald's letters to her were regularly answered. he had a light hand on descriptions of season and scenery; he could give the autumnal atmosphere, the awakening of leaf and flower in spring, the distant roar of the german ocean on the east anglian coast. as he could record his daily life without the minute prolixity of a diary, so he could throw off criticisms on books without falling into the manner of an essayist. in regard to the 'fuliginous and spasmodic carlyle,' he asks doubtfully whether he with all his genius will not subside into the level that covers, and consists of, decayed literary vegetation. 'and dickens, with all _his_ genius, but whose men and women act and talk already after a more obsolete fashion than shakespeare's?' none of the contemporary poets--tennyson, browning, or swinburne--seem to have entirely satisfied him; he loved the quiet landscapes and rural tales of crabbe, who is now read by very few; and he quotes with manifest enjoyment the lines: 'in a small cottage on the rising ground, west of the waves, and just beyond the sound.' 'the sea,' he writes, 'somehow talks to one of old things,' probably because it is changeless by comparison with the land; and a man whose life is still and solitary is affected by the transitory aspect of natural things, because he can watch them pass. as old friends drop off he touches in his letters upon the memories of days that are gone, and he consorts more and more with the personages of his favourite poets and romancers, living thus, as he says, among shadows. here is a man to whom correspondence was a real solace and a vehicle of thought and feeling, not a mere note-book of travel, nor a conduit of confidential small talk. a faint odour of the seasons hangs round some of these letters, of the sunshine and rain, of dark days and roads blocked with snow, of the first spring crocus and the faded autumnal garden plots. we can perceive that, as his retirement became habitual with increasing age, the correspondence became his main outlet of ideas and sensations, taking more and more the place of friendly visits and personal discussion as a channel of intercourse with the external world. the hindu sages despised action as destructive of thought; and undoubtedly the cool secluded vale of life is good for the cultivation of letter-writing, in one who has the artistic hand, and to whom this method of gathering up the fruits of reading and meditation, the harvest of a quiet eye, comes easily. in many respects the letters of fitzgerald, like his life, are in strong contrast to carlyle's; and fitzgerald was somewhat startled by the publication of carlyle's 'reminiscences.' he thinks that, on the whole, 'they had better have been kept unpublished;' though on reading the 'biography' he writes: 'i did not know that carlyle was so good, grand, and even lovable, till i read the letters which froude now edits.' he himself was not likely to give the general reader more than he wished to be known about his private affairs; and if one or two remarks with a sting in them appeared when these letters were first published in a magazine, they have been carefully excerpted from the book. the mellow music of his tones, the self-restraint and meditative attitude, are pleasant to the reader after the turbid utterances and twisted language of carlyle; we may compare the stirring rebellious spirit brooding over the folly of mankind with the man who takes humanity as he finds it, and is content to make the best of a world in which he sees not much, beyond art and nature and a few old friends, to interest him. upon the whole, we may place carlyle and fitzgerald, each in his very different manner, at the head of all the letter-writers of the generation to which they belong, which is not precisely our own. it is to be recollected that a man must be dead before he can win reputation in this particular branch of literature, and that he cannot be fairly judged until time has removed many obstacles to unreserved publication. but both carlyle and fitzgerald had long lives. mr. stevenson, whose letters are the latest important contribution to this department of the national library, died early, in the full force of his intellect, at the zenith of his fame as a writer of romance. his letters have been edited by mr. sidney colvin, with all the sympathy and insight into character that are inspired by congenial tastes and close friendship; and his preface gives an excellent account of the conditions, physical and mental, under which they were written, and of the limitations observed in the editing of them. 'begun,' mr. colvin says, 'without a thought of publicity, and simply to maintain an intimacy undiminished by separation, they assumed in the course of two or three years a bulk so considerable, and contained so much of the matter of his daily life and thoughts, that it by-and-by occurred to him ... that "some kind of a book" might be extracted out of them after his death.... in a correspondence so unreserved, the duty of suppression and selection must needs be delicate. belonging to the race of scott and dumas, of the romantic narrators and creators, stevenson belonged no less to that of montaigne and the literary egotists.... he was a watchful and ever interested observer of the motions of his own mind.' the whole passage, too long to be quoted, suggests an instructive analysis of the mental qualities and disposition that go to make a good letter-writer--a dash of egotism, sensitiveness to outward impressions, literary charm, the habit of keeping a frank and familiar record of every day's moods, thoughts, and doings, the picturesque surroundings of a strange land. in these journal letters from samoa the canon of improvisation is to a certain extent infringed, for stevenson wrote with publicity in distant view; and the depressing influence of remoteness is in his case overcome, for he lived in tropical polynesia, 'far off amid the melancholy main,' and had speech with his correspondent only at long intervals. but it is the privilege of genius to disconcert the rules of criticism; the letters have none of the vices of the diary, the trivialities are never dull, the incidents are uncommon or uncommonly well told, and the writer is never caught looking over his shoulder at posterity. for extracts there is now little space left in this article; but we may quote, to show stevenson's style of landscape-painting, a few lines describing a morning in samoa after a heavy gale: 'i woke this morning to find the blow quite ended. the heaven was all a mottled grey; even the east quite colourless. the downward slope of the island veiled in wafts of vapour, blue like smoke; not a leaf stirred on the tallest tree. only three miles below me on the barrier reef i could see the individual breakers curl and fall, and hear their conjunct roaring rise, like the roar of a thoroughfare close by.' it is good for the imaginative letter-writer to live within sight and sound of the sea, to hear the long roll, and to see from his window 'a nick of the blue pacific.' it is also good for him to be within range of savage warfare, and to take long rough rides in a disturbed country. on one such occasion he writes: 'conceive such an outing, remember the pallid brute that lived in skerryvore like a weevil in a biscuit, and receive the intelligence that i was rather the better for my journey. twenty miles ride, sixteen fences taken, ten of the miles in a drenching rain, seven of them fasting and in the morning chill, and six stricken hours' political discussions with an interpreter; to say nothing of sleeping in a native house, at which many of our excellent literati would look askance of itself.' the feat might not seem miraculous to a captain of frontier irregulars in hard training; but for a delicate novelist in weak health it was pluckily done. these letters would be readable if stevenson had written nothing else, though of course their worth is doubled by our interest in a man of singular talent who died prematurely. they illustrate the tale of his life and portray his character; and they form an addition, valuable in itself, and unique as a variety, to the series of memorable english letter-writers. mr. colvin mentions, in his preface, that stevenson's talk was irresistibly sympathetic and inspiring, full of matter and mirth. it cannot be denied that between correspondence and conversation, regarded as fine arts, there is a close kinship; and very similar reasons have been alleged for the common belief that both are on the decline. whether such a belief has any solid foundation in the case of letter-writing, we may be warranted in doubting. observations of this sort, which have a false air of acuteness and profundity, are repeated periodically. the remark so constantly made at this moment, that nowadays people read nothing but magazines, was made by coleridge early in this century; and southey prophesied the ruin of good letters from the penny post. it is true that the number of letters written must have increased enormously; it is also true that many more are published than heretofore, and that as a great many of these are not above mediocrity, are valueless as literature, and of little worth biographically, they produce on the disappointed reader the effect of a general depreciation of the standard. nevertheless, this article will have been written to little purpose, unless it has shown fair cause for rejecting such a conclusion, and for maintaining that, although fine letter-writers, like poets, are few and far between, yet they have not been wanting in our own time, and are not likely to disappear. there will always be men, like coleridge or carlyle, whose impetuous thoughts and humoristic conceptions cannot perpetually submit to the forms and limitations and delays of printing and publishing, but must occasionally demand instant liberation and prompt delivery by the natural process of private letters. and although the stir and bustle of the world is increasing, so that quiet corners in it are not easily kept, yet it is probable that the race of literary recluses--of those who pass their days in reading books, in watching the course of affairs, and in corresponding with a select circle of friends--will also continue. whether englishwomen, who write letters up to a certain point better than englishmen, will now rise, as frenchwomen have done, to the highest line, and why they have not done so heretofore, are points that we have no space here for taking up. but it is the exceptional peculiarity of letters, as a form of literature, that the writer can never superintend their publication. during his lifetime he has no control over them, they are not in his hands; and they do not appear until after his death. he must rely entirely, therefore, upon the discretion of his editor, who has to balance the wishes of a family, or the susceptibilities of an influential party in politics or religion, against his own notions of duty toward a departed friend, or against his artistic inclination toward presenting to the world a true and unvarnished picture of some remarkable personage. he may resolve, as froude did in the case of carlyle, that 'the sharpest scrutiny is the condition of enduring fame,' and may determine not to conceal the frailties or the underlying motives which explain conduct and character. he may refuse, as in the case of cardinal manning, to set up a smooth and whitened monumental effigy, plastered over with colourless panegyric, and may insist on showing a man's true proportions in the alternate light and shadow through which every life naturally and inevitably passes. but such considerations would lead us beyond our special subject into the larger field of biography; and we must be content, on the present occasion, with this endeavour to sketch in bare outline the history and development of english letter-writing, and to examine very briefly the elementary conditions that conduce to success in an art that is universally practised, but in which high excellence is so very rarely attained. footnotes: [ ] ( ) _the letters of charles lamb._ edited, with introduction and notes, by alfred ainger. london, . ( ) _letters of john keats to his family and friends._ edited by sidney colvin. london, . ( ) _letters and verses of arthur penrhyn stanley._ edited by rowland e. prothero. london, . ( ) _letters of matthew arnold_, - . collected and arranged by george russell. london and new york, . ( ) _letters of edward fitzgerald to fanny kemble._ edited by william aldis wright. london, . ( ) _vailima letters, from robert louis stevenson to sidney colvin_, - . london, .--_edinburgh review_, april . [ ] mr. john morley, _nineteenth century_, december . [ ] _dean stanley's letters_, p. . thackeray it is remarkable that in a century which is far more profusely supplied with biographies than any preceding age, and at a time when chronicles of small beer no less than of fine vintages seem to gratify the rather indiscriminate taste of the british public, no formal life has ever been produced of thackeray. that this omission has been due to his express wish is well understood, and at any rate it may be cited as a praiseworthy breach of the latter-day custom of publishing a man's private affairs and correspondence as soon as possible after his funeral. nevertheless the generation of those who knew thackeray, for whom and among whom he wrote, is now rapidly vanishing; so that it would have been a kind of national misfortune if posterity had been left without some authentic record of his personal history, his earlier experiences, his characteristic sayings and doings, and the general environment in which he worked. for the biographical introductions, therefore, which are appended to each volume of this new edition,[ ] we owe gratitude to his daughter, mrs. richmond ritchie.[ ] no more than seven volumes have been actually published up to this date, but since these include a large proportion of thackeray's most important and characteristic work, we make no apology for anticipating the completion of the series by an attempt to make a critical examination of the salient points which distinguish his genius, and mark his place in general literature. mrs. ritchie tells us in a brief prefatory note that although her father's wishes have prevented her from writing his complete biography she has at last determined to publish memories which chiefly concern his books. her desire has also been 'to mark down some of the truer chords to which his life was habitually set'; and accordingly we have in every volume an instalment, too brief and intermittent for such interesting matter, of the incidents and vicissitudes belonging to successive stages of his life and work, with glimpses of his mind and tastes, of the friendships that he made, and the society in which he moved. the form in which these reminiscences and _reliquiæ_ appear has necessarily disconnected them, since they have been evidently chosen on the plan of connecting each novel with the circumstances or particular field of observation which may have suggested the plot, the scenery, or the characters. one can thus see that thackeray's mind, like his sketch-book, was constantly taking down vivid impressions of people and places, and in some of his notes of travel can be easily traced the sources whence he took hints for elaborate studies. but under this arrangement the chronology becomes here and there somewhat entangled. _pendennis_, for example, was finished in , but as the hero's life at oxbridge is described in the novel, its introduction takes us back to the period when the writer himself was at cambridge in . _vanity fair_, again, written in , contains a well-known episode of dobbin's school life, and the story carries us more than once to the continent; so the introduction gives us recollections of charterhouse, where thackeray went in , and of travels about germany in the early thirties. the _contributions to punch_, which form the sixth volume of this series, began in , and lasted ten years. they provide occasion for many diverting anecdotes, and for references to his colleagues who founded the fortunes of that most successful of comic papers; but as on this plan the biographical lines cross and recross each other it is not easy for the reader to obtain a connected or comprehensive view of thackeray's career. nevertheless as the system fortunately affords room and reason for giving many fresh details of his daily life, with some of his letters, or extracts from them, which are fresh and amusing, we may cheerfully pass over these petty drawbacks. we are heartily thankful for our admission to a closer acquaintance with an author who has drawn some immortal pictures of english society, its manners, prejudices, and characteristic types, in novels that will always hold the first rank in our lighter literature. how his boyhood was passed is tolerably well known already. returning home in childhood from india he was put first to a preparatory school, and afterwards, for nigh seven years, to charterhouse. at eighteen he went up to cambridge, where he spoke in the union, wrote in university magazines, criticised shelley's _revolt of islam_, 'a beautiful poem, though the story is absurd,' and composed a parody on tennyson's prize poem, _timbuctoo_. in he travelled in germany, and had his interview at weimar with goethe; and from we find him settled in a london pleader's office, reading law with temporary assiduity, frequenting the theatres and caves of harmony, making many literary acquaintances, taking runs into the country to canvass for charles buller, and trying his 'prentice hand at journalism. his vocation for literature speedily damped his legal ardour, and drew him out of mr. tapsell's chambers, where he left a desk full of sketches and caricatures. in may he wrote: 'this lawyer's preparatory education is certainly one of the most cold-blooded, prejudicial pieces of invention that ever a man was slave to;' and he longs for fresh air and fresh butter. by august he had fled to paris, where he read french, worked at a painter's _atelier_, and took seriously to the work of a newspaper correspondent. on the romantic school, which was just then at its height, he makes the following remark, which betrays the antipathy to artificial and theatrical tendencies in literature that always provoked his satire: 'in the time of voltaire the heroes of poetry and drama were fine gentlemen; in the days of victor hugo they bluster about in velvet and mustachios and gold chains, but they seem in nowise more poetical than their rigid predecessors.' he had little taste, in fact, for mediævalism in any shape, and 'old montaigne' was more to his liking. we are told, also, that he became absorbed in cousin's _philosophy_, noting upon it that 'the excitement of metaphysics must equal almost that of gambling'; and finding, perhaps, no great attraction in either. after his marriage in he settled down in london, devoting himself thenceforward to literature as a profession; the _yellowplush papers_, published in by _fraser's magazine_, being his earliest contribution of any length or significance. in the introductory chapter mrs. ritchie says: 'i hardly know--nor, if i knew, should i care to give here--the names and the details of the events which suggested some of the _yellowplush papers_. the history of mr. deuceace was written from life during a very early period of my father's career. nor can one wonder that his views were somewhat grim at that particular time, and still bore the impress of an experience lately and very dearly bought.... as a boy he had lost money at cards to some cardsharpers who scraped acquaintance with him. he never blinked at the truth or spared himself; but neither did he blind himself to the real characters of the people in question, when once he had discovered them. his villains became curious studies in human nature; he turned them over in his mind, and he caused deuceace, barry lyndon, and ikey solomons, esq., to pay back some of their ill-gotten spoils, in an involuntary but very legitimate fashion, when he put them into print and made them the heroes of those grim early histories.' we may infer from this passage that thackeray's mind acted not only as a microscope but as a magnifying glass; he had an eye, as one knows, for characteristic details, and it appears that he could also enlarge the small fry of scoundrelism into magnificent rascals. there can be no doubt that he had the image-making faculty of sensitive genius, and that much of all he saw and felt went to fill up his canvas and fix his point of view. writing to his mother, he once said, 'it is the fashion to say that people are unfortunate who have lost their money. dearest mother, we know better than that;' though 'for years and years he had to face the great question of daily bread.' but while he could battle stoutly against losses of this kind, he had no mercy on the rogues who caused them; and his indignation, accentuated by the strain of married life on a very narrow income, may account in some degree for the cynical tone, now sombre, now mocking, which so perceptibly dominates his earlier writings, and pervades all his books, though in a lesser and more tolerant way, up to the end. against this shaded background, however, we may set many kindly figures, and the contrast is heightened by the humorous joviality which finds vent in his talent for caricature. to this we owe the full-length portrait of major gahagan, and a whole gallery of other drawings, usually of irishmen, which have been the delight of innumerable readers. the striking alternation between two extremes of character and conduct, between tragedy and farce, between ridiculous meanness and pathetic unselfishness, is to be found in all his novels, though in his later and finer work it is controlled and tempered to more artistic proportions. but in the productions of his youth the darker tints so predominate as to disconcert the judgment of a generation which has become habituated, at the present day, to a less energetic and uncompromising style of exposing fools and gibbeting knaves. and after making due allowance for those indescribable differences of taste which separate us from our fathers in every region of art--and even admitting, what is by no means sure, that sixty years ago rascality, snobbery, and humbug were more rampant in society than nowadays--we are still disposed to regret that a writer whose best work is superlatively good should have dwelt so persistently in his earlier stories upon the dreary and ignoble side of english life. from some passages in them it might be inferred by foreigners that the better born englishmen habitually indulged in rudeness toward their social inferiors, and that english domestics in good houses broke out into vulgar insolence whenever they could do so with impunity. take, for an example, in the scene from _the great hoggarty diamond_, the behaviour of mr. preston, 'one of her majesty's secretaries of state,' to an underbred but good-tempered little city clerk, whom lady drum takes in her carriage for a drive in hyde park, and whom she hints he might ask to dinner. mr. preston acts on the hint, but with savage sarcasm, and titmarsh, the clerk, accepts in order to plague the minister for his astounding rudeness: '"i did not," he says, "intend to dine with the man, but only to give him a lesson in manners."' and so, when the carriage drove up to mr. preston's door, he says to him: '"when you came up and asked who the devil i was, i thought you might have put the question in a more polite manner, but it wasn't my business to speak. when, by way of a joke, you invited me to dinner, i answered in a joke too, and here i am. but don't be frightened, i'm not agoing to dine with you."... '"is that all, sir?" says mr. preston, still in a rage. "if you have done, will you leave the house, or shall my servants turn you out? turn out this fellow; do you hear me?"' assuming that sixty years ago a secretary of state was much the same sort of man that he is to-day, what are we to think of this spirited colloquy? and what kind of impression will it, and others no less forcible, produce upon the future student of manners who turns to light literature as the mirror of contemporary society? with regard, again, to the _yellowplush papers_, is it from unpardonable fastidiousness, the affectation of an over-refined literary taste, that we are inclined to question whether they have been wisely preserved in standard editions of so great a novelist? the use of ludicrously distorted spelling intensifies the impression of ignorant vulgarity, and there is a moral lesson in the story of mr. deuceace that atones in some degree for the very low company whom we meet in it. but the labour of deciphering the ugly words, and the cheerless atmosphere of sordid vice and servility which they are most appropriately used to describe, are so unfamiliar to contemporary novel-readers that we think few will master two hundred pages of this dialect in the present edition. on the whole, after renewing our old acquaintance with mr. jeames, with captain rook and mr. pigeon, with mr. stubbs of the fatal boots, and others of the same kidney, we doubt whether these immature character sketches, which all belong to the author's first and most hogarthian manner, do not range below the legitimate boundaries of literature as a fine art, and whether they do not much rather harm than heighten his permanent reputation when they are placed on a line with his masterpieces by formal reproduction. it is impossible to take much interest in personages with an unbroken record of profligacy and baseness; and we are reminded of the aristotelian maxim that pure wickedness is no subject for dramatic treatment. yet we are aware that it may be practically impossible to publish incomplete editions of a very popular writer; and in the extravagances of his youth one may discern the promise of much higher things. very rapidly, in fact, in the work which comes next, thackeray rises at once to a far superior level of artistic performance. we are not indisposed to endorse the opinion, pronounced more than once by good judges, that the high-water mark of his peculiar genius was touched by _barry lyndon_, which first exhibits the rare and distinctive qualities that were completely developed in his later and larger novels. it may be affirmed, as a general rule, that most of our eminent writers of fiction have leapt, as scott did, into the arena with some work of first-class merit, which has immediately caught public attention and established their position in literature. their fugitive pieces, their crudities and imperfect essays, have been either judiciously suppressed or consigned to oblivion. they have followed, one may say, the goodly custom prescribed by the governor of the cana marriage feast; they put forth in the beginning their good wine, and they fall back upon inferior brands only when the public, having well drunk of the potent vintage, will swallow anything from a favourite author. we may regret that thackeray's start as a man of letters should have furnished an exception to this salutary rule; and in surveying, after the lapse of many years, his collected works, we are disposed to observe that no first-class writer has suffered more from the enduring popularity which has encouraged the republication of everything that is his, from the finished _chefs-d'oeuvres_ down to the ephemeral and unripe products of an exuberant youth. he would have given the world a notable confirmation of the rule that a great author usually leads off on a high note, if he had opened his munificent literary entertainment with _barry lyndon_. we quote here from mrs. ritchie's introduction: 'my father once said to me when i was a girl, "you needn't read _barry lyndon_; you won't like it." indeed it is scarcely a book to _like_, but one to admire and to wonder at for its consummate power and mastery.... barry lyndon tells his own story, so as to enlist every sympathy against himself, and yet all flows so plausibly, so glibly, that one can hardly explain how the effect was produced. from the very first sentence, almost, one receives the impression of a lawless adventurer, brutal, heartless, with low instincts and rapid perceptions. together with his own autobiography, he gives a picture of the world in which he lives and brags, a picture so vivid ... that as one reads one almost seems to hear the tread of remorseless fate sounding through all the din and merriment. take those descriptions of the prussian army during the seven years' war, and of that hand of man which weighs so heavily upon man--what a haunting page in history!' these remarks are very justly appreciative, for the book stamps thackeray as a fine impressionist, as an artist who skilfully mixes the colours of reality and imagination into a composition of striking scenes and the effective portrayal of character. with extraordinary ability and consistency to the type he works out the gradual evolution of a wild irish boy, hot-headed in love and fighting, full of daring impetuosity and ignorant vanity, into the ruffianly soldier, the intrepid professional gambler, and finally into the selfish profligate, who marries a great heiress and sets up as a county magnate. instead of the mere unadulterated villainy and meanness which were impersonated in his previous stories, we have here the complex strength and weakness of real human nature; we have the whole action lifted above the platform of city swindlers, insignificant scoundrels, and needy cardsharpers, up to a stage exhibiting historic personages and scenes, courts and battlefields; and we breathe freely in the wider air of immorality on a grand scale. as a sample of spirited freehand drawing, the sketches of continental society, 'before that vulgar corsican upset the gentry of the world,' are admirable for their force and originality; and what can be better as a touch of character than the following defence of his profession by a prince of gamblers? 'i speak of the good old days of europe, before the cowardice of the french aristocracy (in the shameful revolution, which served them right) brought ruin on our order.... you call a doctor an honourable man--a swindling quack, who does not believe in the nostrums which he prescribes, and takes your guinea for whispering in your ear that it's a fine morning; and yet, forsooth, a gallant man who sits him down before the baize and challenges all comers, his money against theirs, his fortune against theirs, is proscribed by your modern moral world. it is a conspiracy of the middle classes against gentlemen; it is only the shopkeeper cant which is to go down nowadays. i say that play was an institution of chivalry; it has been wrecked along with other privileges of men of birth.' here we have the romance of the gaming-table; and in the same chapter barry lyndon recounts the evil chance that befell him at cards with two young students, who had never played before: 'as ill luck would have it, they were tipsy, and against tipsiness i have often found the best calculations of play fail entirely. a few officers joined; they played in the most perfectly insane way, and won always.... and in this ignoble way, in a tavern room thick with tobacco smoke, across a deal table besmeared with beer and liquor, and to a parcel of hungry subalterns and beardless students, three of the most skilful and renowned players in europe lost seventeen hundred louis. it was like charles xii. or richard coeur de lion falling before a petty fortress and an unknown hand.' the picture of gamblers in a grimy tavern, the unconscious humour of lyndon's heroic lament, the comparison between the cardsharpers' discomfiture and the fall of mighty warriors, make up a fine example of thackeray's eye for graphic detail, and prove the force and temper of his incisive irony. yet, in spite of its great excellence, the book still labours under the artistic disadvantage of having a rogue for its hero. thackeray was too good an artist to be unconscious of this defect, and in a footnote to page he defends his choice characteristically. after admitting that mr. lyndon maltreated his lady in every possible way, bullied her, robbed her to spend the money in gambling and taverns, kept mistresses in her house, and so on, he argues: 'the world contains scores of such amiable people, and, indeed, it is because justice has not been done them that we have edited this autobiography. had it been that of a mere hero of romance--one of those heroic youths who figure in the novels of scott or james, there would have been no call to introduce the reader to a personage already so often and so charmingly depicted. mr. barry is not, we repeat, a hero of the common pattern; but let the reader look round and ask himself, "do not as many rogues succeed in life as honest men, more fools than men of talent?" and is it not just that the lives of this class should be described by the students of human nature as well as the actions of those fairy-tale princes, those perfectly impossible heroes,' etc., etc. one would be almost inclined to infer from this passage that the author had identified himself so completely with his own creation as to have become slightly infected with mr. barry lyndon's sophistry; for it is impossible to maintain seriously that rogues and fools are no less successful in life than men of honesty and talent. but the truth is that thackeray found in a daring rogue a much finer subject for character-drawing than in the blameless hero, while he was deeply implicated in the formidable revolt which carlyle was leading against the respectabilities of that day. it is worth notice that in barry lyndon's military reminiscences, done with great vigour and fidelity of detail, we have a very early example of the realistic as contrasted with the romantic treatment of campaigns, of life in the bivouac and the barrack. this method, which has latterly had immense vogue, seems to have been first invented in france, where thackeray may have taken the hint from stendhal; but we are disposed to believe that he was the first who proclaimed it in england. as it professes to give the true unvarnished aspect of war it would certainly have accorded with thackeray's natural contempt, so often shown in his writings, for the commonplaces of the military romancer who revelled in the pomp and circumstance of glorious battles, the charges, the heroic exploits, the honours, rather than the horrors, of the fighting business. moreover, it is not only in style and treatment but also in sentiment and in certain peculiar prepossessions, that we can trace in this novel the lines which the writer followed throughout his narratives, and his favourite delineations of character. for diplomatists he has always a curious contempt, and he never misses an opportunity of ridiculing them. 'mon dieu,' says lyndon, 'what fools they are; what dullards, what fribbles, what addle-headed coxcombs; this is one of the lies of the world, this diplomacy'--as if it were not also a most important and difficult branch of the national services. abject reverence of great folk he regarded as the besetting disease of middle-class englishmen; and so we find lyndon remarking, by the way, that mr. hunt, lord bullingdon's governor, 'being a college tutor and an englishman, was ready to go on his knees to any one who resembled a man of fashion.' and the kindly cynicism which discoloured thackeray's ideas about women, notwithstanding his tender admiration and love for the best of them, comes out pointedly in old sir charles lyndon's advice to barry on the subject of matrimony: 'get a friend, sir, and that friend a woman, a good household drudge, who loves you. _that_ is the most precious sort of friendship, for the expense of it is all on the woman's side. the man need not contribute anything. if he's a rogue, she'll vow he's an angel; if he's a brute, she will like him all the better for his ill-treatment of her. they like it, sir, these women; they are born to be our greatest comforts and conveniences, our moral boot-jacks, as it were.' barry lyndon discloses the promise and potency of thackeray's genius. in _vanity fair_, his next work, it has attained its climax; the dramatic figures are more finely conceived, the plot is varied and more skilfully elaborated, the actors more numerous and life-like; and whereas in his preceding stories he has mainly used the form of a fictitious memoir, whereby the hero is made to tell his own tale, in this 'novel without a hero' the author proceeds by narration. the tone is still governed by irony and pathos, wherein thackeray chiefly excels; yet the contrasts between weak and strong natures, the superiority of honesty and the moral sense over craftiness and unscrupulous cleverness, are now touched off with a lighter and surer hand. the unmitigated villain and the coarse-tongued hard-hearted virago have disappeared with other primitive stage properties; the human comedy is played by men and women of the upper world, with their virtues and frailties sufficiently set in relief, yet not exaggerated, for the purposes of the social drama. the book's very title, _vanity fair_, denotes a transition from the scathing satire of his earlier manner to more indulgent irony, from swift to sterne, two authors whom thackeray had evidently studied attentively. in his short preface the author preludes with the gentler note when he invites people of a lazy, benevolent, or sarcastic mood to step into the puppet show for a moment and look at the performance. the book's success, mrs. ritchie tells us, was slow; the sale hung fire. 'one has heard of the journeys which the manuscript made to various publishers' houses before it could find any one ready to undertake the venture, and how long its appearance was delayed by various doubts and hesitations, until it was at last brought out in its yellow covers by messrs. bradbury and evans on january , .' but when the last numbers were appearing thackeray wrote that, 'although it does everything but sell, it appears really to increase my reputation immensely'--as it assuredly did. that a signal success in literature is nearly always achieved, not by following the beaten road, but by a bold departure from it, is a principle that could be abundantly established by examples, and which seems almost a truism when it is stated. _vanity fair_ was decidedly a work of great freshness and originality; but publishers are circumspect and rarely adventurous, they distrust novelties and prefer to follow the prevailing fashion as far as it will go, wherein we may discern one reason why the accouchement of the first literary child is usually so laborious. to criticise at length any single novel of thackeray's would be far beyond the scope or purpose of this article. our object is rather to illustrate the course and development of his distinctive literary qualities, the slow effacement of prejudices which never entirely disappeared, and the rapid expansion of his highest artistic faculties. to begin with the prejudices. in _vanity fair_ he still makes merciless war upon the poor paltry snob, whom one must suppose to have infested english society of that day in a very rampant form; though unless we have had great changes for the better in the last fifty years, one might suspect exaggeration. and another important reform of manners must have supervened in the same period if we are to believe that in these novels the english servant is not unfairly caricatured. as we know him at the present day, in the class that lives with gentle-folk, he may be touchy and troublesome, with much self-assertiveness, but also with much self-respect. he has as many faults as other people, but among them brutal rudeness is practically unknown; yet when rebecca sharp is driven in mr. sedley's carriage to sir pitt crawley's, having given nothing to the domestics on leaving the sedleys, the coachman is ludicrously rude to a poor governess. '"i shall write to mr. sedley, and inform him of your conduct," said miss sharp to him. '"don't," replied that functionary; "i hope you've forgot nothink? miss 'melia's gownds--have you got them--as the lady's maid was to have 'ad? i hope they'll fit you. shut the door, jim, you'll get no good out of _'er_," continued john, pointing with his thumb towards miss sharp; "a bad lot, i tell you, a bad lot."' one may conjecture that thackeray's natural turn for comic burlesque, which comes out so plainly in his drawings, had become ingrained and inveterate by early practice, and certainly his immoderate delight in setting snobs and flunkeys on a pillory became a flaw in the perfection of his higher composition. it might well produce, among foreigners at any rate, an unreal impression of the true relations existing between different classes of english society. but these are slight blemishes upon the surface of an epoch-making book, for _vanity fair_ inaugurated a new school of novel-writing in this country, with its combined vigour and subtlety of character-drawing, and with the marvellous dexterity of its scenes and dramatic situations. the army and military life in all its phases had a remarkable attraction for him; in all his larger books one or more officers are brought prominently upon the foreground of his canvas. he hits off the strong and weak points of the profession, in war and peace, with a truth and humour that gave freshness and originality to the whole subject, and the best of these pictures are in _vanity fair_. there is not one of its leading _militaires_--dobbin and osborne, crawley and major o'dowd--in whom a typical representative of well-known varieties may not be recognised. his fine picturesque handiwork, his consistent preference of the real to the romantic, and his reserve in the use of such tempting materials as the battlefield affords to the story-teller, are shown in his treatment of the episode of waterloo. he is far too good an artist to lay out for us a grand scene of fierce fighting and carnage; nor does he, like lever, produce wellington and bonaparte acting or speaking up to the popular conception of these mighty heroes. he is content to follow his own personages into that famous field, and to show how perilous circumstance brings out the force or feebleness of each character, male and female, whether of the wives left behind at brussels, or the soldiers in the fighting line at waterloo. it is only at the end of his chapter, after some seriocomic incidents and dialogues exhibiting the behaviour of the non-combatants--of jos sedley, mrs. o'dowd, lady bareacres, and the rest--that his narrative rises suddenly to the epic note in a brief passage full of admirable energy and pathos: 'all our friends took their share and fought like men in the great field. all day long, whilst the women were praying ten miles away, the lines of the dauntless english infantry were receiving and repelling the furious charges of the french horsemen. guns which were heard at brussels were ploughing up their ranks, and comrades falling, and the resolute survivors closing in. toward evening the attack of the french, repeated and resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury ... they were preparing for a final onset. it came at last, the columns of the imperial guard marched up the hill of st. jean.... unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which hurled death from the english line, the dark rolling column pressed on and up the hill. it seemed almost to crest the eminence, when it began to wave and falter. then it stopped, still facing the shot. then at last the english troops rushed from the post from which no enemy had been able to dislodge them, and the guard turned and fled. 'no more firing was heard at brussels; the pursuit rolled miles away. darkness came down on the field and city; and amelia was praying for george who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.' the military critic might pick holes in this description, and thackeray might as well have thrown the english infantry into squares instead of into line. yet the passage is instinct with compressed emotion; and the sudden transition from the general battle to the single death is a good touch of tragic art. in _pendennis_ ( ) we may discern the slowly softening influences of years that bring the philosophic mind, of a calmer and easier time, and perhaps also of a different class of readers. thackeray has now discovered that, as he says in his preface, 'to describe a real rascal you must make him too hideous to show;' and that 'society will not tolerate the natural in our art.' even the attempt to describe, in _pendennis_, one of 'the gentlemen of our age, no better nor worse than most educated men,' has startled the prudery of the public for whom he now finds himself writing. 'many ladies have remonstrated, and subscribers left me, because, in the course of the story, i described a young man resisting and affected by temptation.' here, again, is another instance of the changes which rules of taste and convention may undergo in the course of a generation; for surely not even the straitest middle-class sect would in our day banish _pendennis_ on the score of impropriety. mrs. ritchie mentions that the author's descriptions of literary life were criticised on the ground that he was trying to win favour with the non-literary classes by decrying his own profession--an absurd accusation which nettled him into replying. the truth seems to be that thackeray, who poked fun at the weak sides of every class and calling, saw no reason why he should leave out his own; and the men of letters might have been comforted by observing that he dealt with them much more tenderly than with their natural enemy the publisher, who has taken philosophically, for all we have ever heard, the unmerciful caricatures of bungay and bacon in paternoster row. yet it may have been annoying to find such a writer confidentially whispering to his readers 'that there is no race of people who talk about books, or perhaps read books, so little as literary men.' _pendennis_ is in thackeray's best style, as the novelist of manners. it opens, like _vanity fair_, with a short amusing scene that poses, as the french say, some leading actor in the play, and encourages the reader to go on. next follows, as is usual with our author, a short retrospective account of the people and places among whom the plot is laid, with a descriptive pedigree of his hero. in his habit of setting his portraits in a framework of family history (compare the crawleys, the newcomes, the esmonds) he resembles, though with less prolixity, balzac, and he displays much knowledge and observation of english provincial life. he is, we imagine, the first high-class writer who brought the bohemian, possibly an importation from france, into the english novel; and the contrast between the seedy strolling adventurer and strait-laced respectability provides him with material for inexhaustible irony, with much good-natured sympathy for the waifs and strays. he has always a soft corner in his heart for reckless hardihood; and every one must be glad that his 'poor friend colonel altamont,' who had been doomed to execution, was respited at the last moment, as thackeray tells us in his preface, on the very technical plea that the author had not sufficient experience of gaol-birds and the gallows. merciful good nature toward a daring scamp, who was free with his money and kind to women, was probably at the bottom of the condonation. we know from a paper, reproduced (to our thinking unnecessarily) in one of these volumes, that in thackeray went to see courvoisier hanged, and was so much upset by the spectacle that he prayed for the abolition of capital punishment to wipe out its stain of national blood-guiltiness. it may be noticed, moreover, that his stern denunciation of crime and folly has by this time settled down into a philosophic mood that is almost fatalistic, as when he suggests that 'circumstance only brings out the latent defect or quality, and does not create it'; that 'our mental changes are, like our grey hairs and wrinkles, no more than the fulfilment of the plan of mortal growth and decay,' so that each man is born with the natural seed of fortune or failure. the voyage of life 'has been prosperous, and you are riding into port, the people huzzaing and the guns saluting, and the lucky captain bows from the ship's side, and there is a care under the star on his breast that nobody knows of; or you are wrecked and lashed, hopeless, to a solitary spar out at sea; the sinking man and the successful one are thinking each about home, very likely, and remembering the time when they were children; alone on the hopeless spar, drowning out of sight; alone in the midst of the crowd applauding you.' in such fine passages as these we hear the elegiac strain of the antique world, wherein remorseless fate held dominion over human efforts and destiny. like other great writers who are touched with humorous melancholy, he falls often into the moralising vein; he stops his narrative to address his reader with some ironical observation, after the manner of fielding, whose leisurely tone of satire is so audible in the following quotation from _pendennis_ that he might well have written it: 'even his child, his cruel emily, he would have taken to his heart and forgiven with tears; and what more can one say of the christian charity of a man than that he is actually ready to forgive those who have done him every kindness, and with whom he is wrong in a dispute?' as we have said that _vanity fair_ touches the climax of thackeray's peculiar genius, so in our judgment _esmond_ shows the gathered strength and maturity of his literary power, and has won for him an eminent place in the distinguished order of historical novelists. we may say that the art of historical romance was brought to perfection in our own century, although french writers trace far back into the eighteenth century, and even further, the method of weaving authentic events and famous personages into the tissue of a story which turns upon fictitious adventures in love and war. the elder novelists dealt largely in extravagant sentiment, in conventional language, and in marvellous exploits embroidered upon the sober chronicles which served as the framework of their drama; they were content to set upon stilts the traditional hero or heroine of former days, whose ideas and conversation expressed with little disguise the manners, not of the period to which they belonged, but of the author's own time and of the society for whom he was writing. these books are, therefore, full of glaring anachronisms and improbabilities; the knights and dames are sometimes (as in the _grand cyrus_) thinly veiled portraits of contemporary notabilities, but they are often mere lay figures representing the prevailing fashions of thought and feeling. the virtuous hero abounds in judicious reflections; the heroines are chaste and beauteous damsels--joan of arc herself appears in one romance as an adorable shepherdess--and love-making is conducted after the model of a parisian _précieuse_. it is the opinion of a recent french critic, who has made careful study of his subject, that the new school was founded by chateaubriand, who first, at the last century's end, laid an axe to the root of all this rhetorical artifice, these frigid and grotesque incongruities, and filled his romances with local colour, stamping them with the impress of reality and conformity to nature, by picturesque reproduction of the landscape, costumes, usages, and conditions of existence of the time and country in which he might be unwinding his tale. but chateaubriand, like byron (who was of a similar temperament), never could put himself, to use a french phrase, into another man's skin; he is to be detected soliloquising and dispensing noble sentiments under the costume of a christian martyr or an american savage, and thus the fidelity of his scene-painting was still marred by the artificiality of the discourse. it was the waverley novel that lifted the historical romance far beyond chateaubriand's level, that established it, in england, france, and italy on the true principle of creating vivid representations of a bygone age by a skilful mixture of fact and fiction, and by a correct and harmonious combination of characters, manners, and environment. but during the twenty years that intervene between the dates, taken roughly, of scott's worst novel and thackeray's best, the flood tide of romanticism had risen to its highest point, and had then ebbed very low, on both sides of the british channel. and we can see that the younger writer was no votary of the older school of high-flying chivalrous romance, with its tournaments, its crusaders, its valiant warriors, and distressed maidens. his youthful aversion for shams and conventionalities, his strong propensity toward burlesque and persiflage, his early life among cities and commonplace folk, seem to have obscured in some degree his appreciation of even such splendid compositions as _ivanhoe_ or _the talisman_; or, at any rate, his sense of the ridiculous overpowered his admiration. the result was that, as scott had exalted his mediæval heroes and heroines far above the level of real life, had revived the legendary age of chivalry and adventure with all the magnificence of his poetic imagination, thackeray had at first set himself, conversely, to strip the trappings off these fine folk, and to poke his fun at the feudal lords and ladies by treating them as ordinary middle-class men and women masquerading in old armour or drapery. he came in as a writer on the ebb-tide of romanticism, when the reaction showed its popular form in a curious outburst of the taste for burlesques and parodies on the stage and in the light reading of the time. whether the creation of this taste is to be ascribed to the appearance of two writers with such genius for wit and fun as thackeray and dickens, or whether they only supplied a natural demand, may be questionable; they undoubtedly headed the army of comus, and thereby raised the whole standard of facetious literature. but the defect of this school was its propensity to take a hilarious or sardonic view, not only of mediæval romance, but of quaint old times generally; and one leading embodiment of this mocking spirit was _punch_ founded in . a'beckett's _comic history of england_, which ran through many numbers, seems to this generation a dreary and deleterious specimen of misplaced farce; though historically it is not quite such bad work as dickens's _child's history of england_, which he meant to be serious. among thackeray's very numerous contributions to _punch_ are _miss tickletoby's lectures on english history_, which might well have been consigned to oblivion, _rebecca and rowena_, and _the prize novelists_. the sarcastic and the sentimental temper must always be hostile to each other; between romance and ridicule the antipathy is fundamental; and although one regrets that he ever wrote _rebecca and rowena_, the melodramatic novels of bulwer-lytton were fair enough game for the parodist. however, it is certain that in his earlier writings thackeray did much to laugh away the novel of mediæval chivalry; and while we think he often carried his irreverent jocosity much too far, since after all chivalry is better than cockneyism, we may award him the very high honour of becoming, latterly, one of the founders of a new and admirable historical school in england. the eighteenth century was always thackeray's favourite period; he liked the rational, unpretentious tone of its best literature, its practical politics and tolerance, its common sense, and its habit of keeping very close, in art as in action, to the realities of the world as we find it. swift is the most unromantic of any writer that possessed great imaginative faculty; defoe was a master of minute life-like detail, an inimitable imitator of truth; hogarth's paintings are like wesley's or whitefield's sermons, they are stern, unvarnished denunciations of vice and profligacy; fielding was the easy, large-hearted moralist, who hated above all sins cant and knavery, loved to banter the parsons, to bring fops and boobies upon his stage, and to place in contrast the wide difference that then separated manners in town and in country. perhaps thackeray owes more to fielding than to any other single literary ancestor; but all these influences were most congenial to his temperament, and informed his best work. his instinctive dislike of unreality, exaggeration, and fanciful ideals would have always prevented him from laying the situation of his story in some distant age, of which hardly anything is known accurately, and supplementing his ignorance by giving free scope to fantastic invention, as was the usage of the humble followers who tried in vain to conjure with the wand of scott. he required a period which he could study, master, and sympathise with, and he found it in the eighteenth century; though in _esmond_ the plot, being founded on jacobite intrigues and conspiracies, opens with the revolution of . he had taken great trouble, as usual, with the localities, knowing well that you never understand a battle clearly until you have seen its field. '"i was pleased to find blenheim," he wrote to his mother, "was just exactly the place i had figured to myself, except that the village is larger; but i fancied i had actually been there, so like the aspect of it was to what i looked for. i saw the brook which harry esmond crossed, and almost the spot where he fell wounded."' mrs. ritchie quotes this letter as illustrating 'a sort of second sight as to places which my father used to speak of'; and it certainly attests his possession of the strong imaginative faculty which puts together vivid mental pictures. the first page strikes the note of disenchantment, of escape from the spell of conventionalism and the shores of romance. colonel esmond, who tells his own tale, wishes the muse of history to disrobe, to discard her buskins, and to deliver herself like a woman of the everyday world. 'i wonder shall history ever pull off her periwig and cease to be court-ridden? shall we see something of france and england besides versailles and windsor? i saw queen anne tearing down the park slopes after her staghounds, in her one-horse chaise--a hot redfaced woman.... she was neither better bred nor wiser than you and me, though we knelt to hand her a letter or a washhand basin. why shall history go on kneeling to the end of time? i am for having her rise off her knees, and take her natural posture, not to be for ever performing cringes and congees like a court chamberlain, and shuffling backward out of doors in the presence of the sovereign. in a word, i would have history familiar rather than heroic.' no very deep philosophy in this, we might say, for surely historians up to esmond's day had not all been pompous and servile, while something like dignity is desirable. but here we have thackeray speaking through esmond his own thoughts about history, and proclaiming the rise of naturalism against the romantic high-heeled school. and in a much later chapter, where esmond visits addison, we have the true realistic method of tolstoi and other quite modern novelists, as compared with the old classic style of describing war. addison has been writing a poem on the blenheim campaign: '"i admire your art," says esmond to addison; "the murder of the campaign is done to military music, like a battle at the opera, and the virgins shriek in harmony, as our victorious grenadiers march into their villages. do you know what a scene it was? what a triumph you are celebrating, what scenes of shame and horror were enacted, over which the commander's genius presided as calm as though he didn't belong to our sphere? you talk of 'the listening soldier fixed in sorrow,' the 'leader's grief swayed by generous pity'; to my belief the leader cared no more for bleating flocks than he did for infants' cries, and many of our ruffians butchered one or the other with equal alacrity. you hew out of your polished verses a stately image of smiling victory; i tell you 'tis an uncouth, distorted, savage idol, hideous, bloody, and barbarous. the rites performed before it are shocking to think of. you great poets should show it as it is, ugly and horrible, not beautiful and serene."' when colonel esmond has to describe the battles in which he himself took part, he avoids, as might be supposed, the high romantic style. but he does not, therefore, fall on the other side, into the mire of the writers who at the present day conscientiously give us the horrors of the hospital and all the brutalities of war, which esmond knows, but does not choose to set down in his memoir. in his account of the blenheim victory there is a skilful touch of the professional soldier, who records briefly the position of the armies and the tactical movements; and it lights up with suppressed enthusiasm when he records the intrepidity of the english regiments in that fierce and famous struggle. we read of major-general wilkes, 'on foot, at the head of the attacking column, marching with his hat off intrepidly in the face of the enemy, who was pouring in a tremendous fire from his guns and musketry, to which our people were instructed not to reply except with pike and bayonet when they reached the french palisades. to these wilkes walked intrepidly, and struck the woodwork with his sword before our people charged it. he was shot down on the instant, with his colonel, major, and several officers,' and the assault was repelled with great slaughter. in this and other similar passages, you have the historic novelist at his best; the true facts are selected and arranged so as to form pictures of soul-stirring action; while their connection with his story is maintained by giving esmond himself a very modest and natural share in the glorious victory: 'and now the conquerors were met by a furious charge of the english horse under esmond's general, lumley, behind whose squadrons the flying foot took refuge and formed again, while lumley drove back the french horse, charging up to the village of blenheim and the palisades where wilkes, and many hundred more gallant englishmen, lay in slaughtered heaps. beyond this moment, and of this famous victory, mr. esmond knows nothing, for a shot brought down his horse and our young gentleman on it, who fell crushed and stunned under the animal.' a lesser artist would have made his hero perform some brilliant exploit; but thackeray prefers to sketch the scene as wouvermans might have done it. we have not here the incomparable fire and spirit which scott throws into the skirmishes at bothwell brig and drumclog; we see the difference of mind and method; but we can have nothing except admiration for the rare imaginative faculty which enabled a quiet man of letters to deal so finely and faithfully, with such reserve and discrimination, with a subject that might easily have been spoiled by the noisy clatter and coarse colouring of the inferior artist. his full length portrait of marlborough has been too often quoted to be reproduced here--'impassible before victory, before danger, before defeat; the splendid calm of his face as he rode along the lines to battle, or galloped up in the nick of time to a battalion reeling before the enemy's charge or shot.' of swift, esmond says--'i have always thought of him and of marlborough as the two greatest men of that age ... a lonely fallen prometheus, groaning as the vultures tear him'; and with a few such strokes he gives etchings of other celebrities in letters and politics. one may observe with astonishment that the youthful thackeray, who delighted in suburban chronicles, in mean lives and paltry incidents, has risen by middle age to the rank of an illustrious painter on the broad canvas of history. the annals of literature contain few, if any, other examples of so remarkable a transformation. it is evident that thackeray, like scott, was an industrious collector of material for his novels from all sources; we may refer, for an instance, to a scene which will have left a passing impression upon many readers, where, as the french and english armies are facing each other on two sides of a little stream in the low countries, prince charles edward rides down to the french bank and exchanges a salute with esmond. it falls quite naturally and easily into the narrative, and reads like a very happy original conception; yet the incident, which is quite authentic, may be found in the papers obtained in the last century from the scottish convent at paris by macpherson. in _the virginians_, which might have had for its second title _forty years later_, the chronicle of the esmond family is continued; with north america during the french war for the battlefields, braddock, wolfe, and washington for the military figures, and esmond's grandsons as the personages round whom the story's interest centres. it is a novel of very great merit, skilfully constructed, full of vivacious writing and delineation of character; and the novelist avails himself with his usual adroitness of the celebrated incidents of this period and the salient features of english society in the middle of the last century. yet we must reluctantly admit that thackeray has passed his climacteric, and that as a work of the historical school this book cannot claim parity with esmond. george warrington was on braddock's staff at the fatal rout and massacre on the ohio; his brother harry was with wolfe on the plains of abraham; they witnessed a battle lost and a battle won, and each saw his commander fall. but george's recital of his hairbreadth escape lacks the stern simplicity with which his grandfather told the story of marlborough's wars; and the device of his being saved from the indians by a french officer, who was his intimate friend, is so ingenious as to be a trifle commonplace. the author does not sketch in any details or personal adventures from the great fight under the walls of quebec; he has fallen back, at this part of the story, into personal narrative, and _the warrington memoirs_ only describe how the news of wolfe's victory and death were acclaimed in london. in the war of independence, george warrington, who takes the british side, records the feelings and situation of an american loyalist--a class to whom only mr. lecky, among historians, has done fair justice. there is much acute and well-informed reflection upon the state of the colonies at this time, the strong currents of party politics, and the exasperation which brought about the rebellion; but, on the whole, this part of the narrative has too much resemblance to real history. it has not enough of the imaginative and picturesque element to lift it above the comparatively prosaic level of an interesting memoir, though some good scenes and situations are obtained by making the two warrington brothers take opposite sides. when we learn that, in , the english lord castlewood repaired his shattered fortunes by marrying an american heiress, we are inclined to suspect that our author has taken a hint from the fashion of a century later. in the story of _esmond_ thackeray dropped the satirical tone, and indulged very rarely indeed in the habit of pausing to moralise, as writer to reader, upon social hypocrisy, servile obsequiousness, and whited sepulchres generally. in _the virginians_ he is less attentive to dramatic propriety; he begins again to turn aside and lecture us, in the midst of his tale, upon the text of _de te fabula narratur_. sir miles and lady warrington are scandalised by their nephew's extravagance, and refuse all help to the spendthrift. 'how much of this behaviour goes on daily in respectable society, think you? you can fancy lord and lady macbeth concocting a murder, and coming together with some little awkwardness, perhaps, when the transaction was done and over; but my lord and lady skinflint, when they consult in their bedroom about giving their luckless nephew a helping hand, and determine to refuse, and go down to family prayers and meet their children and domestics, and discourse virtuously before them...?' and so on, for a page or two, in a tone that some may think almost as sophistical as the reasoning by which the skinflints might excuse to themselves their pharisaical behaviour. such interpolations are artistically incorrect, and out of harmony with the proper conception of a well-wrought work of fiction, in which the moral should be conveyed through the action and the dialogue, and the meditations should be left to be done by the reader himself. we must, therefore, place _the virginians_ below _esmond_ in the order of merit. nevertheless, these two novels, with _barry lyndon_, are most important and valuable contributions to the english historical series. nothing like them had been written before, and nothing equal has been written after them, with the single exception of _john inglesant_. they possess one essential quality that ought to distinguish all fiction founded on the history of bygone times--they are, so far as posterity can judge at all, faithful and effective representations of manners. now, the inferior practitioner in this particular school, being prevented by indolence or incapacity from mastering his period and acquiring insight into its ways of thought and living, is too often content to cover up his deficiencies by indenting freely on the theatrical wardrobe and armoury. he deals largely in the costumes of the day; he supplies himself plentifully with old-fashioned phrases; he is fond of old furniture; he is strongest, in fact, upon the external and decorative aspect of the society to which he introduces us. most of the romances written in imitation of scott had this tendency; and this same feebleness underlies the superfluous minuteness of detail that may be observed in the decadent realists of the present day. nothing of this sort can be alleged against thackeray, who works from inward outwardly in his creations of character, and whose personages are truly historical in the sense that they move and speak naturally according to the ideas and circumstances of their age, the dialect and dress being merely added as appropriate colouring. it is, indeed, a peculiarity of thackeray's novels, which distinguishes him alike from the romancer and the modern naturalist that they contain hardly any description, that he is never professedly picturesque, that he relies entirely on passing strokes and effective details given by the way. in scott we have superb descriptive pieces of scenery, of storms, of the interiors of a castle or a gothic cathedral; and some of the best living novelists are much given to elaborate landscape painting. but we doubt whether half a page of deliberately picturesque description can be found in any of thackeray's first-class works. he will sometimes sketch off the inside of a house or the look of a town, but with natural scenery he does not concern himself; he is, for the most part, entirely occupied with the analysis of character, or with the emotional side of life; and he seems constantly to bear in mind the aristotelian maxim that life consists in action. his principal instrument for the exhibition of motive, for the evolution of his story, for bringing out qualities, is dialogue, which he manages with great dexterity and effect, giving it point and raciness, and avoiding the snare--into which recent social novelists have been falling--of insignificance and prolixity. the method of easy, sparkling, natural dialogue for developing the plot and distinguishing the personages is said to have been first transferred from the theatre to the novel by walter scott. at any rate, the use of it on a large scale, which has since been carried to the verge of abuse, began with the waverley novels; where we find abundance of that humorous vernacular talk in which shakespeare excelled, though for the romance cervantes may be registered as its inventor. in thackeray's hands dramatic conversation, as of actors on the stage, becomes of very prominent importance, not only for the illustration of manners in society, but also for dressing up the subordinate figures of his company. he is now no longer the caricaturist of earlier days; he employs the popular dialect and comic touches with effective moderation. and he avails himself very freely, in _the virginians_, of the privilege which belongs to the historical novelist, who is allowed to make the reader acquainted with the notabilities of the period not only for the movement of his drama, but also for a passing glance or casual introduction, as might happen in any place of public resort or in a crowded _salon_. franklin, johnson, and richardson, george selwyn and lord chesterfield, cross the stage and disappear, after a few remarks of their own or the author's. for military officers, who figure in all his novels, he has ever a kindly word; and also for sailors, although it is only in his last (unfinished) novel that he takes up the navy. for english clergymen, especially for bishops, he has no indulgence at all; and he seems to be possessed by the commonplace error of believing that the prevailing types of the anglican church in the eighteenth century were the courtier-bishop and the humble obsequious chaplain. the typical irishman of fiction, with his mixture of recklessness and cunning, warm-hearted and unveracious, is to be found, we think, in every one of thackeray's larger novels, except in _the virginians_; the scotsman is rare, having been considerably used up by walter scott and his assiduous imitators. we may notice (parenthetically) that our own day is witnessing a marvellous revival of highlanders and lowlanders in fiction, from jacobite adventures to the pawky wit and humble incidents of the kailyard. in _the newcomes_ we return regretfully to the novel of contemporary society; wherewith disappears all the light haze of enchantment that hangs over the revival of distant times, even though they lie no further behind us than the eighteenth century. such a change of scene necessitates and completes the transition from the romantic to the realistic; for how can a picture of our own environment, which any one can verify, avoid being more or less photographic? in one sense it is a continuation of the historic novel, which has only to put off its archaic or literary costume to appear as a presentation of social history brought up to date; the method of minute description, the portrayal of manners, are the same, with the drawback that the celebrities of the day must be kept off the stage. any eighteenth-century personage might figure, with effect, in _the virginians_, while macaulay and palmerston could hardly have been sketched off, however briefly and good-naturedly, in _the newcomes_. in all essential respects the tone and treatment are unaltered in the two stories; although the ironical spirit, restrained in the historical novels by a sense of dramatic consistency, is again among us having great wrath, as thackeray surveys the aspect of the london world around him. the character of colonel newcome, his distinguished gallantry, his spotless honour, his simplicity and credulity, is drawn with truth and tenderness; and some of the lesser folk are admirable for their kindliness and unselfishness. but what a society is this in which the colonel is landed upon his return from india! he calls, with his son, at his brother's house in bryanston square: '"it's my father," said clive to the "menial" who opened the door; "my aunt will see colonel newcome." '"missis not at home," said the man. "missis is gone in the carriage. not at this door. take them things down the area steps, young man," bawls out the domestic to a pastry-cook's boy ... and john struggles back, closing the door on the astonished colonel.' an astonishment that most londoners of his time would have assuredly shared; unless, indeed, the west-end doorstep has gained wonderfully by the scrubbing of sixty years. on the relations between masters and servants thackeray was never more severe than in this book; he is irritated by the marching in of the household brigade to family prayers, and he declares that we 'know no more of that race which inhabits the basement floor, than of the men and brethren of timbuctoo, to whom some among us send missionaries'--a monstrous imputation. he constantly resumes the moralising attitude; and his pungent persiflage is poured out, as if from an apocalyptic vial, upon worldliness and fashionable insolence. sir barnes newcome's divorce from the unhappy lady clara furnishes a text for sad and solemn anathema upon the mercenary marriages in hanover square, where 'st. george of england may behold virgin after virgin offered up to the devouring monster, mammon, may see virgin after virgin given away, just as in the soldan of babylon's time, but with never a champion to come to the rescue.' we would by no means withhold from the modern satirist of manners the privilege of using forcibly figurative language or of putting a lash to his whip. yet if his novels are, as we have suggested, to be regarded as historical, in the sense of recording impressions drawn from life for the benefit of posterity, such passages as those just quoted from thackeray raise the general question whether documentary evidence of this kind as to the state of society at a given period is as valuable and trustworthy as it has usually been reckoned to be. he has himself declared that 'upon the morals and national manners, works of satire afford a world of light that one would in vain look for in regular books of history'--that _pickwick_, _roderick random_, and _tom jones_, 'give us a better idea of the state and ways of the people than one could gather from any pompous or authentic histories.' whether fielding and smollett's contemporaries would have endorsed this opinion is the real question; for on such a point the judgment of thackeray, who lived a century after them, cannot be conclusive. it is probable that to an englishman of that day the novels of these two authors appeared to be extraordinary caricatures of actual society, in town or country. on the other hand, the story is excellently conducted, and each actor performs with consummate skill his part or hers; for in none of his works has thackeray given higher proof of that dramatic power which brings out situations, leads on to the _dénouement_, and points the moral of the story, by a skilful manipulation of various incidents and a remarkably numerous variety of characters. there, is one chapter (ix. of vol. ii.), headed 'two or three acts of a little comedy,' where he carries on the plot entirely by a light and sparkling dialogue which may be compared to some of a. de musset's wittiest _proverbes_. it is a book that could only have been composed by a first-class artist in the maturity of his powers; and for that very reason we must regret that it is steeped in bitterness; while thackeray's rooted hostility to mothers-in-law misguides him into the æsthetic error of admitting a virago to scold frantically almost over the colonel's death-bed. the unvarying meanness and selfishness of mrs. mackenzie, and of sir barnes newcome, fatigue the reader; for whereas in the delineation of his amiable and high-principled characters thackeray is careful to shade off their bright qualities by a mixture of natural weakness, these ill-favoured portraits stand out in the full glare of unredeemed insolence and low cunning. in his last novel, broken off half-way by his death, thackeray went back once more to that eighteenth century, which, as he says in one of his letters, 'occupied him to the exclusion almost of the nineteenth,' and to the method of weaving fiction out of historical materials. we have already remarked upon his practice of opening with a kind of family history, which explains the antecedent connections, relationship, and pedigree of the persons who are coming upon the stage, and marks out the background of his story. in _denis duval_ he carries this preamble through two chapters, and arranges all the pieces on his board so carefully that an inattentive reader might lose his way among the preliminary details. one sees with what pleasure he has studied his favourite period in france and england, and how he enjoyed constructing, like defoe, a fictitious autobiography that reads like a picturesque and genuine memoir of the times. having thus laid out his plan, and prepared his _mise en scène_, he begins his third chapter with an animated entry of his actors, who thenceforward play their parts in a succession of incidents and adventures, that are all adjusted and fitted in to the framework of time and place that he has taken so much pains to design for them. in this manner he touches upon the great events of contemporary history, like the french war, or illustrates the state of england by bringing in highwaymen and the press-gang; while a minute description of localities lends an air of simplicity to the tale of an old man who has (as he says) an extraordinarily clear remembrance of his boyhood. the notes which appeared in the _cornhill magazine_, june , as an epilogue to the last lines written by thackeray, when the story stopped abruptly, throw curious light on the methods of gathering his material and preparing his work. just as he visited the blenheim battlefield, when he was engaged upon _esmond_, so he went down to romney marsh, where denis duval was born and bred, surveyed rye and winchelsea as if he were drawing plans of those towns, and collected local traditions of the coast and the country, of the smugglers, the huguenot settlements, and the old war time of - . the _annual register_ and the _gentleman's magazine_ furnished him with suggestive incidents and circumstantial reports which he expanded with admirable fertility of imagination; so that by combining what he saw with what he read he could lift the curtain and light up again an obscure corner of the kentish coast, and the doings of the queer folk who lived on it a century before he went there. that he never finished this novel is much to be lamented, for denis had just become a midshipman on board the _serapis_, and we learn from these 'notes' that he was to take part in the great fight which ended in the capture of that ship by paul jones, after the most bloody and desperate duel in the long and glorious record of the british navy. captain pearson, who commanded the _serapis_, reported his defeat to the admiralty in a letter of which 'mr. thackeray seems to have thought much,' and, indeed, it is precisely the sort of document--quiet, formal, with a masculine contempt for adjectives (there is not one in the whole letter)--which denotes a character after thackeray's own heart. 'we dropt alongside of each other, head and stern, when, the fluke of our spare anchor hooking his quarter, we became so close, fore and aft, that the muzzles of our guns touched each other's sides.' here we have the style which thackeray loved; and 'tis pity that we have so narrowly missed the picture of a fierce naval battle by an artist who could describe strenuous action in steady phrase, and who knew that the hard-fighting commander is usually a cool, resolute, resourceful man, for whom it is a matter of plain duty to fight his ship till he is fairly beaten, and to report the result briefly, whatever it may be, to his superiors. one can observe the mellowing influence upon thackeray of the atmosphere of past times and the afterglow of heroic deeds; for in _denis duval_ there is no trace of the scorching satire which pursues us in _the newcomes_; nor does he once pause to moralise, or to enlarge upon the innumerable hypocrisies of modern society. it is questionable, indeed, whether this fine fragment binds up well in a volume with the _roundabout papers_, which bring the author back into the light of common day, and to the trivialities of ordinary society. it has not been thought necessary, in this biographical edition, to issue the several volumes in the order of the dates at which they were written; nor has the attempt been made to preserve some serial continuity of their style or subject. the arrangement, moreover, serves to accentuate unnecessarily the undeniable imparity of thackeray's different books; for _punch_ and the _sketch books_ are interposed between _barry lyndon_ and _esmond_; while even the wild and wicked lyndon hardly deserved to be handcuffed in the same volume with fitzboodle, whom in the body he would have crushed like an insect. yet the classification of thackeray's novels might be easily made, for _barry lyndon_, _esmond_, _the virginians_, and _denis duval_ fall together in one homogeneous group, having a strong family resemblance in tone and treatment, and following generally the chronological succession of the periods with which they are concerned. if to esmond is awarded the precedence that is due to him not by seniority, but by importance, we have the wars of the eighteenth century between england and france from marlborough's campaigns down to rodney's great naval victory of , in which duval was destined to take part. these works represent thackeray's very considerable contribution to the historic school of english novelists; and we may count them also a valuable commentary upon english history, for without doubt every luminous illustration of past times and personages acts as a powerful stimulant to the national mind, by exciting a keener interest in the nation's story and a clearer appreciation of its reality. chateaubriand has affirmed that walter scott's romances produced a revolution in the art of writing histories, that no greater master of the art of historical divination has ever lived, and that his profound insight into the mediæval world, its names, the true relation between different classes, its political and social aspects, originated a new and brilliant historical method which superseded the dim and limited views of scholarly erudition. for thackeray we make no such extensive or extravagant claims; but it may be said that the dramatic conception of history in his novels and lectures was of great service to his readers and hearers by the vivid impressions which they conveyed of the life, character, and feelings of their forefathers, of their failings, virtues, and memorable achievements. some material objections may be taken to the system of teaching by graphic pictures in thackeray, as in carlyle's _french revolution_, and in both cases the philosophy leaves much to be desired, for the writer's own idiosyncrasy colours all his work. yet when we remember how few are the readers to whom the accurate dryasdust, with his careful research and well attested facts, brings any lasting enlightenment, we may well believe that very many owe their distinct ideas of the state of england and its people during the last century to thackeray's genius for carefully studied autobiographical fiction. to the four historical novels mentioned above let us add three novels of nineteenth-century manners--_vanity fair_, _pendennis_, _the newcomes_--and we have seven books (one incomplete) upon which thackeray's name and fame survive, and will be handed down to posterity. the list is by no means long if it be compared with the outturn of scott and bulwer-lytton, or of his foremost contemporary dickens; and stevenson, who resembles him in the subdued realistic style of narrating a perilous fight or adventure, has left us a larger bequest. but they are amply sufficient to build up for him a lasting monument in english literature; and their very paucity may serve as a warning against the prevailing sin of copious and indiscriminate productiveness, by which so many second-rate novelists of the present day exhaust their powers and drown a respectable reputation in a flood of writing, which sinks in quality in proportion to the rise in quantity. how far the character and personal experiences of an author are revealed or disguised in his writings is a question which has often been discussed. bulwer once endeavoured, in a whimsical essay, to prove that men of letters are the only people whose characters are really ascertainable, because you may know them intimately by their works; but herein he merely touched upon the general truth or truism that society at large judges every man only by his public performances, and does not trouble itself at all about anything else. in the category of those who display in their writings their tastes and prejudices, their feelings and the special bent of their mind, we may certainly place thackeray, who was a moralist and a satirist, very sensitive to the ills and follies of humanity, and impressionable in the highest degree. for such a man it was impossible to refrain from giving his opinions, his praise or his blame, in all that he wrote upon everything that interested him; and in portraying the society which surrounded him, he inevitably portrayed himself. he displayed as much as any writer the general complexion of his intellectual propensities and sympathies; and we can even trace in him the existence of some of the minor human frailties which he was most apt to condemn, an unconscious tendency which is not altogether uncommon. but he is essentially a high-minded man of letters, acutely sensitive to absurdities, impatient of meanness, of affectation, and of ignominious admiration of trivial things; a resolute representative of the independent literary spirit, with a strong desire to see things as they are, and with the gift of describing them truthfully. he repudiated 'the absurd outcry about neglected men of genius'; and in a letter quoted by mrs. ritchie he writes: 'i have been earning my own bread with my own pen for near twenty years now, and sometimes very hardly too; but in the worst time, please god, never lost my own respect.' his delicacy of feeling comes out in a letter from the united states, where he was lecturing-- 'as for writing about this country, about goshen, about the friends i have found here, and who are helping me to procure independence for my children, if i cut jokes upon them, may i choke on the instant'-- having probably in remembrance, as he wrote, charles dickens and the _american notes_. on the other hand, he was not free from the defects of his qualities, mental and artistic, from the propensity to set points of character in violent relief, or from the somewhat unfair generalisation which grows out of the habit of drawing types and distributing colours for satirical effect. in regard to his religion, it appears to have been of the rationalistic eighteenth-century order in which moral ideas are entirely dominant, to the exclusion of the deeply spiritual modes of thought; and we may say of him, as of carlyle, that his philosophy was more practical than profound. the subjoined quotation is from a letter to his daughter: 'what is right must always be right, before it was practised as well as after. and if such and such a commandment delivered by moses was wrong, depend upon it, it was not delivered by god, and the whole question of complete inspiration goes at once. and the misfortune of dogmatic belief is that, the first principle granted that the book called the bible is written under the direct dictation of god--for instance, that the catholic church is under the direct dictation of god, and solely communicates with him--that quashimaboo is the directly appointed priest of god, and so forth--pain, cruelty, persecution, separation of dear relatives, follow as a matter of course.... smith's truth being established in smith's mind as the divine one, persecution follows as a matter of course--martyrs have roasted over all europe, over all god's world, upon this dogma. to my mind scripture only means a writing, and bible means a book.... every one of us in every part, book, circumstance of life, sees a different meaning and moral, and so it must be about religion. but we can all love each other and say "our father."' this is true, stout-hearted, individualistic liberty of believing--an excellent thing and wholesome, though it by no means covers the whole ground, or meets all difficulties. the logical consequence is a strong distaste for theology, and no very high opinion of the priesthood, wherein we may probably find the root of thackeray's proclivity, already mentioned, toward unmerited sarcasm upon the clergy. in the introduction to _pendennis_ is a letter written from spa, in which he says, 'they have got a sunday service here in an extinct gambling-house, and a clerical professor to perform, whom you have to pay just like any other showman who comes.' it does not seem to have occurred to thackeray that the turning of a gambling-house into a place of prayer is no bad thing of itself, or that you have no more right to expect your religious services to be done for you in a foreign land without payment than your newspapers or novels. but these are blemishes or eccentricities which are only worth notice in a character of exceptional interest and a writer of great originality. thackeray's work had a distinct influence on the light literature of his generation, and possibly also on its manners, for it is quite conceivable that one reason why his descriptions of snobbery and shams appear to us now overdrawn, may be that his trenchant blows at social idols did materially discredit the worship of them. his literary style had the usual following of imitators who caught his superficial form and missed the substance, as, for example, in the habit which arose of talking with warm-hearted familiarity of great eighteenth-century men, and parodying their conversation. it was easy enough to speak of johnson as 'grand old samuel,' and to hob-nob with swift or sterne, seeing that, like the lion's part in _pyramus and thisbe_, 'you can do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.' thackeray will always stand in the front rank of the very remarkable array of novelists who have illustrated the victorian era; and this new edition is a fresh proof that his reputation is undiminished, and will long endure. footnotes: [ ] _the works of william makepeace thackeray, with biographical introductions by his daughter_, anne ritchie. in volumes. london, .--_edinburgh review_, october . [ ] now lady ritchie. the anglo-indian novelist[ ] for the last one hundred and fifty years india has been to englishmen an ever-widening field of incessant activity, military, commercial, and administrative. they have been occupied, during a temporary sojourn in that country, in acquiring and developing a great dominion. no situation more unfavourable to the development of imaginative literature could be found than that of a few thousand europeans isolated, far from home, among millions of asiatics entirely different from them in race, manners, and language. their hands have been always full of business, they have been absorbed in the affairs of war and government, they have been cut off from the culture which is essential to the growth of art and letters, they have had little time for studying the antique and alien civilisation of the country. it seldom happens that the men who play a part in historical events, or who witness the sombre realities of war and serious politics, where kingdoms and lives are at stake, have either leisure or inclination for that picturesque side of things which lies at the source of most poetry and romance. and thus it has naturally come to pass that while englishmen in india have produced histories full of matter, though often deficient in composition, and have also written much upon oriental antiquities, laws, social institutions, and economy, they have done little in the department of novels. that a good novel should have been produced in india was, therefore, until very recent times improbable; that it should have been successful in england was still less to be expected. for the modern reader will have nothing to do with a story full of outlandish scenes and characters; he must be told what he thinks he knows; he must be able to realise the points and the probabilities of a plot and of its personages; he wants a tale that falls more or less within his ordinary experience, or that tallies with his preconceived notions. accordingly, any close description of native indian manners or people is apt to lose interest in proportion as it is exact; its value as a painting of life is usually discernible only by those who know the country. the popular traditional east was long, and indeed still is, that which has been for generations fixed in the imagination of western folk by the _arabian nights_, by the legends of crusaders, and by pictorial editions of the old testament. it is seen in the oriental landscape and figures presented by walter scott in _the talisman_, which every one, at least in youth, has read; whereas _the surgeon's daughter_, where the scene is laid in india, is hardly read at all. of course there are other reasons why the former book is much more liked than the latter; yet it was certainly not bad local colouring or unreality of detail that damaged _the surgeon's daughter_, for scott knew quite as much about mysore and haidar ali as he did about syria in the thirteenth century and saladin. but in _the talisman_ he was on the well-trodden ground of mediæval english history and legend; whereas the readers of his indian tale found themselves wandering in the fresh but then almost unknown field of india in the eighteenth century. these are the serious obstacles which have discouraged anglo-indians from attempting the pure historical romance. they knew the country too well for concocting stories after the fashion of thomas moore's _lalla rookh_, with gallant chieftains and beauteous maidens who have nothing oriental about them except a few set eastern phrases, turbans, daggers, and jewellery. they could not use the true local colour, the real temper and talk of the indian east, without great risk of becoming neither intelligible nor interesting to the english public at large. it may be said that before our own day there has been only one author who has successfully overcome these difficulties--meadows taylor, who wrote a romantic novel, now almost forgotten, founded upon the history of western india in the seventeenth century. the period was skilfully chosen, for it is the time of the moghul emperor aurungzeb's long war against the mohammedan kingdoms in the dekhan, and of the maratha insurrection under sivaji, which eventually ruined the moghul empire. the daring murder of a mohammedan governor by sivaji, the maratha hero who freed his countrymen from an alien yoke, is still kept in patriotic remembrance throughout western india. nor is there anything in such a natural sentiment that need give umbrage to englishmen; although the liberality of a recent english governor of bombay who headed a list of subscriptions for public commemoration of the deed, betrayed a somewhat simple-minded unreadiness to appreciate the significance of historical analogies. meadows taylor has treated this subject with very creditable success. he had lived long in that part of the country; he knew the localities; he was unusually conversant with the manners and feelings of the people, and he had the luck to be among them before the old and rough state of society, with its lawless and turbulent elements, had disappeared. he had himself been in the service of a native prince whose governing methods were no better, in some respects worse, than those of the seventeenth century; and his possession of good natural literary faculty made up in him a rare combination of qualifications for venturing upon an indian romance. the result has been that _tara_ has not fallen into complete oblivion, though one may doubt whether it would now be thought generally readable. although written so late as , the influence of walter scott's mediæval romanticism shows itself in the chivalrous language of the nobles, and in a somewhat formal drawing of the leading figures, as if they were taken from a model. but all the details are truly executed. there are sketches of scenery, of interiors, of dress, arms, and manners, which are clearly the outcome of direct observation; and the incidents have a genuine flavour. the misfortune is that these are just the sterling qualities which require special knowledge and insight for their appreciation, and are therefore missed by the great majority of readers. the following picture of a party of maratha horsemen returning from a raid may be taken as an example: 'there might have been twenty-five to thirty men, from the youth unbearded to the grizzled trooper, whose swarthy, sunburnt face, large whiskers and moustaches touched with grey, wiry frame, and easy lounging seat in saddle, as he balanced his heavy maratha spear across his shoulder, showed the years of service he had done. there was no richness of costume among the party; the dresses were worn and weather stained, and of motley character. some wore thickly quilted white doublets, strong enough to turn a sword-cut, or light shirts of chain-mail, with a piece of the mail or of twisted wire folded into their turbans; and a few wore steel morions with turbans tied round them, and steel gauntlets inlaid with gold and silver in delicate arabesque patterns. all were now soiled by the wet and mud of the day. it was clear that this party had ridden far; and the horses, from their drooping crests and sluggish action, were evidently weary. four of the men had been wounded in some skirmish, for they sat their horses with difficulty, and the bandages about them were covered with blood.' no indian novel, indeed, has been written which displays greater power of picturesque description, or better acquaintance with the distinctive varieties of castes, race, and habits, that make up the composite population of india. it was for a long time the only indian novel in which the _dramatis personæ_ are entirely native. although _tara_ is unique as an indian romance, there is another story which renders indian life and manners with equal fidelity. _pandurang hari_ was written by a member of the indian civil service, and first published in , though it reappeared in , with a preface by sir bartle frere. here again the scene is in western india, among the marathas; but the period belongs to the first quarter of this century. it purports to be a free translation from a manuscript given to the author by a hindu who had in his youth served with the maratha armies, and latterly fell in with the pindaree hordes, from whom he heard tales of their plundering raids. he eventually joins a band of robbers, and leads a wandering, adventurous life in the hills and jungles of the dekhan, until the general pacification of the country by the british permits or obliges him to settle down quietly. the merit of the book consists entirely in its precise and valuable delineation of the condition of the country when it was harried by the freebooting maratha companies, and in certain glimpses which are given of anglo-indian life in those rough days; for the writer, unlike meadows taylor, has no literary power, and can only relate accurately what he has seen or has carefully gathered from authentic sources. we have thus only two novels worth mention which have preserved true pictures of the times before all the wild irregularity of indian circumstance and rulership had been flattened down under the irresistible pressure of english law and order. the historical romance has shared the general decline and fall of that school in europe; while as for the exact reproduction of stories dealing entirely with native life, very few anglo-indians would now attempt it, for such a book would find very scanty favour in england. nearly all recent indian novels have for their subject, not native, but anglo-indian society; the heroes and heroines, in war or love, in peril or pastime, are english; the natives take the minor or accessory part in the drama, and give the prevailing colour, tragical or comical, to the background. one of the best and earliest novels of this class is _oakfield_, written about by william arnold, a son of dr. arnold of rugby, who, after spending some years in one of the east india company's sepoy regiments, obtained a civil appointment in india, and died at gibraltar on his way homeward. some pathetic lines in the short poem by matthew arnold called _a southern night_ commemorate his untimely death. the book is remarkable for the autobiographic description, too austere and censorious, of life in indian cantonments, or during an indian campaign, before the great mutiny swept away the old sepoy army of bengal. it represents the impression made upon a young oxonian of high culture and serious religious feeling by the unmannerly and sometimes vicious dissipation of the officers' mess in an ill-managed regiment stationed up the country. oakfield, a clergyman's son, carefully bred up in arnold's school of indifference to dogma and strictness in morals, finds himself oppressed by the hollow conventionality of religious and social ideas at home, and sees no prospect of a higher level in the ordinary english professions. he leaves oxford abruptly for an indian cadetship, and sets out with the hope of finding wider scope for work and the earnest pursuit of loftier ideals in india. he is intensely disappointed and disgusted at finding himself, on joining his regiment, among men who have very slight education and wild manners, whose talk is coarse, who gamble, fight duels, dislike the country, and care nothing for the people. the aims and methods of the government itself appear to him eminently unsatisfactory, being chiefly directed towards such grovelling business as revenue collection, superficial order, and public works, with little or no concern for the moral elevation of the people. when his friends urge him to study for the purpose of rising in the service, civil or military, he asks: 'what then? what if the extra allowances have really no attraction? i want to know what the life is in which you think it good to get on. it seems to me that my object in life must be not so much to get an appointment, or to get on in the world, as to work, and the only work worth doing in the country is helping to civilise it.' we have here the interesting, though not uncommon, case of a youthful enthusiast transported as if by one leap--for the sea voyage is a blank interval--from england to the far east, from a sober and disciplined home to a loose society, from the centre of ancient peace and calm study to a semi-barbarous miscellany of races under an elementary kind of government. ovid's banishment from rome to the shores of the euxine, to live among rude roman centurions and subject scythians, could have been no greater change, though ovid and oakfield are not comparable otherwise. the sight of a great hindu fair on the river bank at allahabad, as surveyed from the deck of a steamer, strikes him with that ever-recurrent feeling of a great gulf fixed between europeans and natives: 'what an inconceivable separation there apparently and actually is between us few english, silently making a servant of the ganges with our steam engines and paddles, and these asiatics, with shouts and screams worshipping the same river!' he meets a cool and capable civilian, who expounds to him the practical side of all these questions and administrative problems; and he makes a few military friends of the higher stamp, who stand by him in his refusal to fight a duel and in the court-martial which follows. then comes the second sikh war, with a vivid description, evidently by an eye-witness, of an officer's share in the hard-fought action at chillianwalla, and of the other sharp contests in that eventful campaign. it is an excellent example of the skilful interweaving of real incident with the texture of fiction, showing the clear-cut lines and colour of actual experience gained in the fiercest battle ever won by the english in india: 'the cavalry and horse-artillery dashed forward, and soon the rolling of wheels and clanking of sabres were lost in one continual roar from above a hundred pieces of artillery. on every side the shot crashed through the jungle; branches of trees were shattered and torn from their stems; rolling horses and falling men gave an early character to this fearful evening.... the rd division advanced, with what fatal results to the gallant th regiment is well known.... either by an injudicious order, or, as stated in the official despatch, by mistaking a chance movement of their commandant for a signal, the th broke into a double at a distance from the guns far too great for a charge; they arrived breathless and exhausted at the guns, where a terrific and hitherto concealed fire of musketry awaited them. the native corps came up and well sustained their european comrades; but both were repulsed--not until twenty-one english officers, twelve sergeants, and rank and file of the th had been killed or wounded.... oakfield counted the bodies of nine officers lying dead in as many square yards; there lay the dead bodies of the two pennycuicks side by side; those of the men almost touched each other.' the transfer of oakfield to a civil appointment in no way diminishes his dissatisfaction at the spectacle of a government that has no apparent ethical programme and misconceives its true mission: 'the indian government is perhaps the best, the most perfect, nay, perhaps the only specimen of pure professing secularism that the civilised world has ever seen since the christian era, and sometimes, when our eyes are open to see things as they are, such a secularism does appear a most monstrous phenomenon to be stalking through god's world.... when the spirit of philosophy, poetry, and godliness shall move across the world, when the philosophical reformer shall come here as governor-general, then the spirit of mammon may tremble for its empire, but not till then.' yet, notwithstanding the author's solicitude for india's welfare, the natives make no figure at all in his story; they are barely mentioned, except where oakfield denounces the unblushing perjury committed daily in our courts; and one can see that he does them the very common injustice of measuring their conduct by an ideal standard of morality. anglo-indian officials leave their country at an early age, in almost total ignorance of the darker side of english life, as seen in a police court or wherever the passions and interests of men come into sharp conflict. but this is just the side of indian life that is brought prominently before them, at first, as junior magistrates and revenue officers, who sometimes do not care to look into any other aspects of it; and in consequence they stand aghast at the exhibition of vice and false-swearing. a london magistrate transferred to lucknow or lahore would find much less reason for astonishment. the same criticism applies, for similar reasons, to oakfield's unmeasured censure of the tone and habits prevalent among officers of the old indian army; he probably knew nothing of regimental life in the english army sixty years ago, and therefore supposed the delinquencies of his own mess to be monstrous. it must be admitted, however, that morals and manners were loose and low in a bad sepoy regiment before the mutiny. no two men could have differed more widely in antecedents or character than william arnold and john lang, whose novel, _the wetherbys; or, a few chapters of indian experience_, was written a few years earlier than _oakfield_. it deals with precisely the same scenes and society, at the same period, in the form of an indian officer's autobiography. the book is clever, amusing with a touch of vulgarity, yet undoubtedly composed with a complete knowledge of its subject; for lang was the editor of a meerut newspaper, who took his full share of anglo-indian revelry, and who knew the indian army thoroughly. whereas in _oakfield_ the tone rises often to righteous indignation, in _the wetherbys_ it falls to a strain of caustic humour, and in the modern reader's mouth it might leave an unpleasant taste; yet the verisimilitude of the narrative would be questioned by no competent judge. as oakfield fought at chillianwalla, so wetherby fights in the almost equally desperate battle of ferozeshah, where the english narrowly escaped a great disaster; and here, again, we have a momentary ray of vivid light thrown upon the battlefield by a writer who had associated with eye-witnesses, though he was not one of them. it is difficult to give an extract from this part of the tale, because lang's power lies not in description, but in characteristic conversation; so we may be content, for the purpose of bringing out the contrast between two very diverse styles, with a specimen of his comic talent, as exhibited in the injunctions laid upon her husband by the vulgar half-caste wife of a poor henpecked officer just starting for the campaign: 'well, then,' she continued, 'keep out of danger. if your troop wishes to charge into a safe place, let 'em. _you_ don't want brevet rank, or any of that nonsense, i hope. make as much bluster and row as you like, but for heaven's sake keep out of harm's way.... you need not write to me every day, but every third or fourth day, for the postage is serious. if you should happen to kill any sikhs, search them, and pull down their back hair; that's where they carry their money and jewels and valuables. a sergeant of the rd dragoons, like a good husband, has sent his wife down a lot of gold mohurs and some precious stones that he found tied up in the hair of a sikh officer. and, by the by, you may as well leave me your watch. you can always learn the time of day from somebody; and if anything happened to you, it would be sold by the committee of adjustment, and would fetch a mere nothing.' this is unquestionably a grotesque caricature; yet the ladies of mixed parentage were quaint and singular persons in the india of sixty years ago. as arnold could hardly have failed to read _the wetherbys_ before he wrote _oakfield_, the book may have suggested to him the plan of going over the same ground upon a higher plane of thought and treatment. the two books stand as records of a state of society that has now entirely passed away, and from their perusal we may conclude that, among the many radical changes wrought upon india by the sweeping cyclone of the great mutiny, not the least of them has been a thorough reformation of the native army. when we turn to the indian novels written after the mutiny we are in the clearer and lighter atmosphere of the contemporary social novel. we have left behind the theoretic enthusiast, perplexed by the contrast between the semi-barbarism of the country and the old-fashioned apathy of its rulers; we have no more descriptions, serious or sarcastic, of rakish subalterns and disorderly regiments under ancient, incapable colonels; we are introduced to a reformed anglo-india, full of hard-working, efficient officers, civil and military, and sufficiently decorous, except where hill-stations foster flirting and the ordinary dissipation of any garrison town. it is, however, still a characteristic of the post-mutiny stories that they find very little room for natives; the secret of successfully interpreting indian life and ideas to the english public in this form still awaits discovery. one of the best and most popular of the new school was the late sir george chesney, whose _battle of dorking_ was a stroke of genius, and who utilised his indian experiences with very considerable literary skill, weaving his projects of army reform into a lively tale of everyday society abroad and at home. the scene of _a true reformer_ opens at simla, under lord mayo's vice-royalty, names and places being very thinly disguised; the hero marries a pretty girl, and starts homeward on furlough, thereby giving the writer his opportunity for bringing in a description of a railway journey across india to bombay in the scorching heat of may: 'and now the day goes wearily on, marked only by the change of the sun's shadow, the rising of the day-wind and its accompaniment of dust, and the ever-increasing heat. the country is everywhere the same--a perfectly flat, desert-looking plain of reddish brown hue, with here and there a village, its walls of the same colour. it looks a desert, because there are no signs of crops, which were reaped two months ago, and no hedgerows, but here and there an acacia tree. not a traveller is stirring on the road, not a soul to be seen in the fields, but an occasional stunted bullock is standing in such shade as their trees afford. at about every ten miles a station is reached, each exactly like the previous one and the next following.... gradually the sun went down, the wind and dust subsided, and another stifling night succeeded, with uneasy slumbers, broken by the ever-recurring hubbub of the stoppages.' on reaching home captain west learns, like the elder wetherby in lang's story, that an uncle has died leaving him a good income; so he enters parliament, and the remainder of his autobiography is entirely occupied by an account of his efforts in the cause of army reform, which eventually succeed when he has overcome the scruples and hesitation of the prime minister--mr. merriman, a transparent pseudonym. the author's plan of endeavouring to interest his readers in professional and technical questions is very creditably carried out, for the book is throughout readable; and it also shows that on the subject of military organisation chesney was often in advance of his time; but the scene changes from india to england so very early in the narrative that this novel takes a place on our list more by reason of its anglo-indian authorship than of its connection with india. in _the dilemma_, on the other hand, chesney gives us a story with characters and catastrophes drawn entirely from the sepoy mutiny. the main interest centres round the defence of a house in some up-country station that is besieged by the mutineers, and for such a purpose the writer could supply himself, at discretion, from the abundant repertory of adventures and the variety of personal conduct--heroic, humorous, or otherwise astonishing--which had been provided by actual and recent events. we have here, indeed, a dramatic version of real history; and, since the original of an intensely tragic situation must always transcend a literary adaptation of it, the fiction necessarily suffers by comparison with the fact. yet the novel contends not unsuccessfully with this disadvantage, and in the lapse of years, as the real scenes and piercing emotions stirred up by a bloody struggle fade into distance, the value of chesney's work may increase. for it preserves a true picture, drawn at first hand, of the time, the circumstances, and the behaviour of an isolated group of english folk who, while living in a state of profound peace and apparent security, found themselves suddenly obliged to fight desperately for their lives against an enemy from whom no quarter, even for women and children, could be expected in case of defeat. we may now take up a book of a very different kind, the production, not of an anglo-indian amateur, but of an eminent english novelist who has lived, though not long, in india--mr. marion crawford. here we are back again in the region of romance, for, although the story opens at simla in lord lytton's reign and during the second afghan war, mr. isaacs, the hero (whose name gives the book its title) is outwardly a persian dealer in precious gems, but esoterically an adept in the mysteries of what has been called occult buddhism. this queer science, as professed by a certain madame blavatsky, had much vogue in northern india about , particularly at simla. to sceptics it appeared to be an adroit mixture of charlatanry and mere juggling tricks, with some elementary knowledge of the beliefs and practices of the true indian yogi, who seeks to attain supernatural powers by rigid asceticism, and who has really some insight into secret mental phenomena, being in this line of discovery the forerunner of the english psychical society. the part played in this story by mr. isaacs, who is not in all respects an imaginary personage, might remind one of disraeli's sidonia. he is an enigmatic character, versed in the philosophy of the east and the west, who excels on horseback and in tiger shooting, yet can discourse mystically and can bring the mysterious influences at his command to bear upon critical situations. the novel has thus two sides: we have the usual sketch of anglo-indian society--the soldiers, the civilians, the charming young english girl whom mr. isaacs fascinates. but a writer of mr. crawford's high repute is bound to put some depth and originality into his indian tale, and so we have the pandit ram lal, who is somehow also a buddhist, and who is mr. isaacs's colleague whenever occult buddhism is to give warning or timely succour. the chief exploit occurs in a wondrous expedition to rescue and carry away into tibet the afghan amir, sher ali, who had just then actually fled from kabul before the advance of an english army; and it must be confessed that so fantastic an adventure sounds rather startling in connection with a bit of authentic contemporary history. on the whole, whether we assume that the object of a novel is to illustrate history, or to present a faithful reflection of life and manners, or to render strenuous action dramatically yet not improbably--by whatever standard we measure mr. crawford's book, it cannot be awarded a high place on the list of indian fiction. but we have run over this list so rapidly, touching only upon typical examples, that we are now among the latest writers of the present day; and we may take _helen treveryan_ ( ) as a very favourable specimen of their productions. comparing it with earlier novels, we may remark, in the first place, that there is no great variety of plot or treatment, anglo-indian society being everywhere, and at most times, very much the same, except so far as closer intercourse with europe softens down its roughness, materially and morally, increases the feminine element, and assimilates its outer form to the english model. _helen treveryan_, whose author is a very distinguished member of the indian civil service, is, like all other novels of the kind, the narrative of the adventures, in love and war, of a young english military officer in india. the characters are evidently drawn from life; the main incidents belong to very recent indian history; the description of society in an up-country station, with which the movement of the drama begins, is an exact and humorous photograph. a tiger hunt is done better, with more knowledge of the business, than a similar episode in mr. crawford's novel; and the passionate love between guy langley and helen treveryan is well painted in bright colours to intensify the gloom and pathos of langley's death in battle. as chesney went to the sepoy mutiny for his scenes of tragedy and heroism, so sir mortimer durand (we believe that the original pseudonym has been dropped) takes them from the second afghan war, having been at kabul with general roberts in the midst of hard fighting, where he first placed his foot on the ladder which has led him upward to high places and unusual distinction. in the chapters describing the march upon kabul, its occupation, the rising of the tribes, and their attack upon the british army beleaguered in the sherpur entrenchments, we have simply a memoir of actual events, written with truth, spirit, and with the pictorial skill of an artist who understands the value and proportion of romantic details. the english commanders, the afghan sirdars, and several other well-known folk are mentioned by name; the skirmishes and perilous situations are described just as they really occurred. no book could better serve the purpose of a home-keeping englishman who might desire to see as in a moving photograph what was going on in the british camp before kabul during the perilous winter of - , to hear the camp-talk, and to realise the nature and methods of afghan fighting. 'he turned to the westward, and as he did so there was a flicker in the darkness, where the rugged top of the asmai hill could just be made out. for an instant there was perfect silence; then, as the flame caught and flared, there rose from the men around him a low, involuntary "a--h," such as one may sometimes hear at lord's when a dangerous wicket goes down. then in the distance two musket shots rang out, and after them a few more; but along the cantonment wall all was silent; men stood with beating hearts awaiting the onslaught. for some minutes the suspense lasted, and then suddenly burst from the darkness a wild storm of yells, "allah, allah, allah," and fifty thousand afghans came with a rush at the wall, shouting and firing. the cantonment was surrounded by a broad continuous ring of rifle-flashes, and over the parapet and over the trenches the bullets began to stream.' but the subjoined extract, which gives langley's death, is a better example of the book's general style--cool, circumstantial, abhorrent of glitter or exaggeration, leaving a clear impression of things actually witnessed and done, a brief glimpse of one of the incidents that remain stamped on the brain of those who saw it, but are otherwise forgotten in war-time, after a day or two's regret for the lost comrade.[ ] 'they were all weary, and marched carelessly forward in silence. the night was closing fast, and a little fine snow was falling.... there was a sudden flash in the darkness to the right, a shot, and then a scattering volley. guy langley threw up his arms with a cry, and as the startled horse swerved across the road he fell with a dull thud on the snow. there was a moment of confusion, but the sikhs, though careless, were good soldiers, and two or three of them dashed towards the low wall from which the shots had come. they were just in time to see four men running across a bit of broken ground towards a deep water-cut, fringed with poplars. the horsemen were very quick after them, being light men on hardy horses; and one of the four afghans, a big man in a dirty sheepskin coat, lost his head, and ran down under a bit of wall; the other three crossed the water-cut. the horsemen saw the position at once, and rode after the man on their side of the trench. they were up to him in a minute, and atar singh made a lunge at him with his lance; but the afghan avoided it, and swinging up his heavy knife cut the boy across the hand. before he could turn to run again a second horseman was on him, and with a grim "hyun--would you?" drove the lance through his chest.' the dialogue is occasionally used to bring out contending views in regard to indian politics, as might be expected from a writer who has thoroughly studied them. at a simla dinner-party the conversation turns upon the question whether, in the event of a collision between the armed forces of russia and england on the indian frontier, the anglo-indian army could hold its own successfully against such a serious enemy. we have on one side the man of dismal forebodings, so well known in india, and against him the hopeful, resolute officer, who lays just stress on england's superior position, with all the strength and resources of india and the british empire at her back. one supremely important point in the discussion is, by consent of both speakers, the probable behaviour in such a crisis of the native indian army; and we may here express our agreement with the view that our best native regiments would prove themselves faithful soldiers and formidable antagonists to the russians. as is well said in the course of the argument, the sikhs and goorkhas faced us well when they fought us, 'and with english officers to lead them, why should they not face the russians?... i believe the natives will be true to us if we are true to ourselves; some few are actively disloyal, but not the mass of them. if we begin to falter they will go, of course; but if we show them we mean fighting they will fight too.' this is the true political creed for englishmen in india, outside of which there is no salvation, but the reverse. it is perhaps to be regretted that so capable a writer upon indian subjects has given us nothing of native life and character beyond a few silhouettes; and after guy langley's death, when the scene is transferred entirely to england, the story's interest decidedly flags. yet we may fairly assign a high place in the series of indian novels to _helen treveryan_, not only for its literary merits, but also for the historical value of the chapters which preserve the day by day experience of one who took his share in the culminating dangers and difficulties of an arduous campaign. mrs. steel's book, _on the face of the waters_, has been so widely read and reviewed since it appeared, so lately as , that another criticism of it may appear stale and superfluous; yet to omit mentioning in this article the most popular of recent indian novels would be impossible. here, at any rate, is a book which is not open to the remark that the anglo-indian novelist usually leaves the natives in the background, or admits them only as supernumeraries. for mrs. steel's canvas is crowded with indian figures; their talk, their distinctive peculiarities of character and costume, their parts in the great tragedy which is taken as the ground-plan of her story, are so abundantly described as occasionally to bewilder the inexperienced reader. the scene of action is the sepoy mutiny at meerut and the siege of delhi, and while the indian _dramatis personæ_ are mainly types of different classes and castes--except where, like the king of delhi, they are historical--the english army leaders act and speak under their own names, as in durand's book, being of course modelled upon the ample personal knowledge of them still obtainable from their surviving contemporaries in india. the book, in fact, attempts, as is frankly stated in its preface, 'to be at once a story and a history.' and we observe that mrs. steel tells us, as if it were a credit and a recommendation to her work, that she 'has not allowed fiction to interfere with fact in the slightest degree.' 'the reader may rest assured that every incident bearing in the remotest degree on the indian mutiny, or on the part which real men took in it, is scrupulously exact, even to the date, the hour, the scene, the weather. nor have i allowed the actual actors in the great tragedy to say a word regarding it which is not to be found in the accounts of eye-witnesses, or in their own writings.' is such minute matter-of-fact copying a virtue in the novelist? or is it not rather a defect arising out of a misunderstanding of the principles of his art? in our opinion the business of the novelist, even when he chooses an historical subject, is not to reproduce as many exact details as he can pick out of memoirs, official reports, and histories, but, on the contrary, to avoid making up his story out of a string of extracts and personal reminiscences, or at any rate to use his skill rather for disguising than for disclosing the precise verbal accuracy of his borrowed material. what would be thought of a naval romance that adopted, word for word, the authentic account of nelson's death, or of a military novel that seasoned a full and particular account of waterloo with a few imaginary characters and incidents? any one who has observed how two fine writers, thackeray and stendhal, have brought that famous battle into the plot of their masterpieces (_vanity fair_ and _la chartreuse de parme_), will have noticed that they carefully avoid the crude and undisguised employment of detail, either in words or incidents; they allow fiction to interfere very constantly with fact in all petty matters of this sort; their art consists, not in historical accuracy, but in verisimilitude; they discard authentic phrases and incidents; they do not aim at precision, but at dramatic probabilities. but mrs. steel does not only draw too copiously, for a novelist, upon history; she also undertakes to pass authoritative judgments upon disputable questions of fact and situation, with which fiction, we submit, has no concern. she very plainly intimates that nothing but culpable inaction and want of energy prevented instant pursuit by a force from meerut of the mutineers who made a forced march upon delhi on the night of may , and whose arrival produced the insurrection in that city. 'delhi lay,' she says, 'but thirty miles distant on a broad white road, and there were horses galore and men ready to ride them--men like captain rosser, of the carabineers, who pleaded for a squadron, a field battery, a troop, or a gun--anything with which to dash down the road and cut off that retreat to delhi.' to argue the point in this review would be to fall into the very error on which we desire to lay stress, of attempting to deal with serious history in a light, literary way. we shall therefore be content with reminding our readers that lord roberts, who is perhaps the very best living authority on the subject, has come to the conclusion, after a careful survey of the circumstances, that the refusal of the meerut commanders to pursue the mutineers was justifiable. yet mrs. steel's performance is better than her principles. the unquestionable success of _on the face of the waters_ is in no way due to her scrupulous exactitude in particulars, for if this had been the book's chief feature it would have failed. she has a clear and spirited style; she knows enough of india to be able to give a fine natural colour to the stirring scenes of the sepoy mutiny, and to execute good character-drawing of the natives, as they are to be studied among the various classes in a great city. and whenever her good genius takes her off the beaten road of recorded fact her narrative shows considerable imaginative vigour. the massacres at meerut and delhi, the wild tumult, terror, and agony, are energetically described; and her picture of the confusion inside delhi during the siege is admirably worked up, remembering that she wrote forty years after the event, at a time when the people and even the places had very greatly changed. the storming of the breach at the kashmir gate by the forlorn hope that led the english columns is dexterously brought into an animated narrative; and although that story has been much better told in lord roberts's autobiography, we need not look too austerely on the crowd of readers who find history more attractive under a thin and embroidered veil of fiction. a still more recent novel, entitled _bijli the dancer_ ( ), should be mentioned here, not only for its intrinsic merits, but also because the author has boldly faced the problem of constructing a story out of the materials available from purely native society, the stock themes and characters of anglo-india being entirely discarded. bijli is a professional dancing girl, whose grace and accomplishments so fascinate a great mohammedan landholder of north india, that he persuades her to abandon her profession and to abide with him as his mistress. this arrangement is correctly treated in the book as quite consistent with the maintenance of due respect and consideration for the nawab's lawful wife, who occupies separate apartments, and, according to mohammedan ideas in that rank of society, has no reasonable ground for complaint. yet bijli, though she has every comfort, and is deeply attached to her lord, grows restless in her luxurious solitude; she pines for the excitement and triumphs of singing and dancing before an assembly. so, in the nawab's absence, she takes professional disguise, and sings with a lute in the harem before his wife. to those who would like to see a mohammedan lady of high rank in full dress, the following description of costume may be commended: 'she was dressed and adorned with scrupulous care; her eyebrows trimmed of every stray hair that might deform the beauty-arch; the lids pencilled with lampblack; the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet stained with henna; not one stray lock encroached on the straight parting of her glossy hair. 'she wore gold-embroidered trousers of purple satin, loose below the knee and full over the ankles, and fastened round her waist by a gold cord with jewelled tassels. a black crape bodice adorned with spangles and gold edging confined her full bosom, and an open vest of grey gauze with long, tight sleeves hung loosely over her waistband. upon the back of her head was thrown a veiling-sheet of the fine muslin known as the dew of dacca. her feet and hands, arms and wrists and neck, were adorned with numerous rings, jewels, and chains, and from her nose was hung a ring of gold wire, on which was strung a ruby between two grey pearls.' but bijli's intrusion into the harem is a grave breach of etiquette; she is detected, and told to be gone, though the lady bears her no malice. the incident brings home to her a sense of degradation; she asks the nawab to marry her, and her discontent is increased by his refusal, until at last she escapes secretly from his house. the nawab follows, and finds her in a hut on the bank of a flooded river which has stopped her flight; but after a really pathetic interview she returns to her free life--and 'thus ended the romance of bijli the dancer.' in this short story, written with much truth and feeling, the style and handling rises above the commonplace device of dressing up european sentimentality in the garb and phraseology of asia; and we have, so far as can be judged, a fairly real picture of the inner and the emotional side of native life in india, sufficiently tinged with romantic colouring. the fascination which professional dancers often exercise over natives of the highest rank is a well-known feature of indian society; and although the dancer is always a courtesan, yet to invest her with a capacity for tender and honourable affection is by no means to overstep the limits of probability. we have noticed this book because it proves that the study of native manners, and sympathetic insight into their feelings and character, still survive among anglo-indians, albeit officials; and because it stands out in quiet relief among tales of fierce wars and savage mutiny; it neither chronicles the heroic deeds of englishmen, nor does it devote even a single page to the loves, sorrows, or comic misadventures that break the monotony of a british cantonment. _the chronicles of dustypore_, by h. s. cunningham, takes us back again from the sombre, half-veiled interior of an indian household, into the fierce light which beats upon english society at some station in the sun-dried plains of the punjab. we have here a sketch, half satirical, half in earnest, of official work and ways, with one or two personages that can be easily identified from among the provincial notabilities of twenty years ago. the book, which had considerable success in its time, will still provide interest and amusement for those who enjoy an exceedingly clever delineation of familiar scenes and characters; and it is in the main as true and lively a picture of anglo-indian life as when it was first written. here is the summer landscape of the sandy tracts, a region just annexed to british administration after the usual skirmish with, and discomfiture of, the native ruler: 'vast plains, a dead level but for an occasional clump of palms or the dome of some despoiled and crumbling tomb, stretched away on every side and ended in a hazy, quivering horizon that spoke of infinite heat. over these ranged herds of cattle and goats, browsing on no one could see what; or bewildered buffaloes would lie, panting and contented, in some muddy pool, with little but horns, eyes, and nostrils exposed above the surface. little ill-begotten stunted plants worked hard to live and grow and to weather the roaring fierce winds. the crows sat gasping, open-beaked, as if protesting against having been born into so sulphurous an existence. here and there a well, with its huge lumbering wheel and patient bullocks, went creaking and groaning night and day, as if earth grudged the tiny rivulet coming so toilfully from her dry breast, and gave it up with sighs of pain. the sky was cloudless, pitiless, brazen. the sun rose into it without a single fleck of vapour to mitigate its fierceness ... all day it shone and glistened and blazed, until the very earth seemed to crack with heat and the mere thought of it was pain.' such is the environment in which many english officers live and labour for years; and this is the side of anglo-indian existence that is unknown to, and consequently unappreciated by, the rapid tourist, who runs by railway from one town to another during the bright cold winter months, is delighted with the climate and the country, takes note of the deficiencies or peculiarities of anglo-indians, and has a very short memory for their hospitality. the narrative carries us, as a matter of course, to a himalayan elysium, with its balls, picnics, and its flirtations, among which the leading lady of the piece is drawn to the brink of indiscretion, but steps happily back again into the secure haven of domestic felicity. a good deal of excellent light comedy and sparkling dialogue will always maintain for this novel a creditable place upon the indian list; and as an indirect illustration of the social wall that separates ordinary english folk from the population which surrounds them, it is complete, since we have here a story plotted out upon the stage of a great indian province which contains absolutely no mention of the natives beyond occasional necessary reference to the servants. for a strong contrast to _dustypore_, both in subject and style of treatment, we may take a story which merits notice, even though it be hardly long enough to be ranked among indian novels. _the bond of blood_, by r. e. forrest ( ), draws, like _bijli the dancer_, its incidents and their environment exclusively from indian life; and the book may be placed high in this class of difficult work, which few have ventured to attempt, and where success has been very rare. it is a study of peculiarly local manners, that may be also called contemporary; for though the period belongs to the early years of this century, yet the sure drawing from life of a skilful hand may still be verified by those readers who actually know the customs and feelings at the present day of the rajpût clans, among whom primitive ideas and institutions have been less obliterated in the independent states than in any other region of india. the descriptive and personal sketches attest the writer's gift of close observation; there is good workmanship in all the details; his sentences hit the mark and are never overcharged or superfluous. the tale is of a dissipated rajpût chief, to whom a moneylender has lent a large sum upon a bond which has been endorsed by the sign-manual of the family bhât, or hereditary bard, herald, and genealogist--an office of great repute and importance in every noble rajpût house. debauchees and cunning gamblers empty the chief's purse; the moneylender, an honest man enough in his way, is obliged to press him for the sum due; until at last the bewildered chief is persuaded by one of the gamblers to declare flatly that he will not pay at all, whereupon the creditor falls back upon the surety. now the bhât has pledged upon the bond not his property but his life, according to an ancient and authentic custom among rajpût folk, as formerly throughout india, whereby a man who has no other means of enforcing a just claim against a powerful debtor has always the resource of bringing down upon him a fearful curse by committing suicide before his door. the rajpût chief pretends that the bond is illegal and void, being founded upon an obsolete custom disallowed by the english rulers; but in truth he has brought himself to believe that the blood penalty will not really be paid, and he is struck with horror when the bhât, after formal and public warning, stabs his own mother in the chief's presence, whereupon the curse falls and clings to the family. we may add that the substitution of the bhât's mother for himself as an expiatory victim is in accordance with accepted precedents on such occasions, while it makes room for a pathetic situation, and greatly enhances the dramatic interest of the closing scene. here we have the antique oriental version of the story in shakespeare's _merchant of venice_, where shylock takes the same kind of security from antonio, upon whose person he subsequently demands execution of his bond of blood; nor does the law refuse it to him. but the hindu custom is so far milder than the venetian code that the rajpût shylock could not have rejected a tender of full payment in cash. mr. forrest's tale might be turned into an effective stage-tragedy if the main incident were not too shockingly improbable for europeans, although to an indian audience it would be credible enough. the final scene of the mother's death is stamped on the reader's imagination by the writer's power of giving intense significance not only to the speech but to slight movements of the actors, so that the mental picture becomes almost objective, while the strained expectation of the crowd makes itself felt by the force of the words. '"will you redeem the bond?" asks the herald once more. '"say 'no,'" exclaims takht singh. '"no," shouts hurdeo singh (the chief). '"then blood must be shed at your door, and the life forfeit paid at your threshold, so that the curse may alight upon you and your house." 'he draws the dagger from its sheath. he had not laid his hand upon its handle in the same manner that he would have laid it on the hilt of his sword, but the reverse way to that; he puts the palm of his hand under it and not over it, so he could best use it in the way he intended to use it--so could he best strike the blow he meant to strike. '"begone! begone!" shouts hurdeo singh, waving him away with his hand. 'the people around stand fixed as statues, eyes straining, necks craning. the herald stretches his left arm behind his mother, and she, throwing open her _chudder_, leans back against it.... 'the money-lender had given a sudden cry, stretched out his hand, uttered some words. 'when hurdeo singh had beheld the herald raise his right arm, his own had gone up with it, and from his mouth had come the cry, "don't! don't." 'but it was too late. the herald had raised his arm, turned round his head, and plunged the sharp stiletto into his mother's breast.' it would be scarcely possible in an article that ranges over the light literature of anglo-india to omit mentioning the name of mr. rudyard kipling, who is the most prominent and by far the most popular of anglo-indian authors. yet our reference to his writings must be very brief, since most of them lie beyond the scope of our present subject; for although mr. kipling's short stories are famous, and he is a consummate artist in black and white, yet in the complete edition of his volumes up to date there is, in fact, but one full-sized indian novel, and for this he is only responsible in part. nor, assuming that the indian chapters of the _naulakha_[ ] may be ascribed to him, would it be fair criticism to treat them as good samples of his work, or as illustrating his distinctive genius. the attempt in this story to bring together west and east, and to strike bold contrasts by setting down a yankee fresh from colorado before the palace gate of a maharaja in the sands of western rajputana, is too daring a venture; and the plot's development, though here and there are some touches of true vision and some vigorous passages, labours under the weight of its extravagant improbability. the american's restless energy, brought face to face with oriental immobility, expresses itself in the following way: 'it made him tired to see the fixedness, the apathy, and lifelessness of this rich and populous world, which should be up and stirring by rights--trading, organising, inventing, building new towns, making the old ones keep up with the procession, laying new railroads, going in for fresh enterprises, and keeping things humming. '"they've got resources enough," he said. "it isn't as if they had the excuse that the country's poor. it's a good country. move the population of a lively colorado town to rhatore, set up a good local paper, organise a board of trade, and let the world know what is here, and we'd have a boom in six months that would shake the empire. but what's the use? they're dead. they're mummies. they're wooden images. there isn't enough real, old-fashioned, downright rustle and razzle-dazzle and 'git up and git' in gokral seetaram to run a milk-cart."' such indeed might be the sentiments of an eager speculator who found himself among primitive folk. but the discord of ideas puts the whole piece so completely out of tune as to produce only a harsh and jarring sensation; the rough western man is thoroughly out of his element, and flounders heavily, like a cockney among mediæval crusaders. this must be taken in fairness to be the result of collaboration, for in his own short stories mr. kipling never commits solecisms of the kind; on the contrary, he excels in the shading of strong local colours, and in the rapid, unerring delineation of characters that stand out in clear relief, yet blend with and act upon each other when they encounter. but mr. kipling's volumes would require a separate article to themselves, so that we will merely take this occasion of recording our wish that he may some day turn his unique faculty of painting real indian pictures toward the composition of a novel which shall _not_ be about anglo-indian society (for the thin soil of that field has already been over-harrowed), but shall give a true and lively rendering of the thoughts which strike an imaginative englishman when he surveys the whole moving landscape of our indian empire, watches the course of actual events, and tries to forecast its probable destiny. it has been manifestly impossible in this brief article to do more than touch upon a few books that may illustrate the prominent characteristics, and the general place in light literature, of indian novels. this must explain why we have omitted several other works, of which _transgression_[ ] is the latest. in this tale we have a sketch of life on the north-west frontier at the present day, with some well-known incidents of the afridi war of - introduced, and so coloured from the writer's own point of view as to convey, under a thin varnish of fiction, some sharp and sarcastic criticism on the management of affairs, the politics of the government, and the personal behaviour of certain officials, who can be at once identified. although the book is not without interest as a true account of hazardous and stirring frontier duties, we are bound to repeat our warning that this abuse of the novel for controversial purposes is not only unfair, but profoundly inartistic. no literary success, but failure and the confusion of styles, lies that way. what, then, are the conclusions which we may draw from this brief survey of the more prominent and typical indian novels? to the repertory of english fiction, which is perhaps the largest and most varied that any national literature contains, they have undoubtedly made a not unworthy contribution; for we may agree that fiction has some, if not the highest, value when it produces an animated representation of life and manners, even upon a limited and distant field. in the present instance the narrow range of plot and character that may be observed in the pure anglo-indian novel reflects the uniformity of a society which consists almost entirely, outside the presidency capitals on the sea-coast, of civil and military officials--a society that is also upon one level of class and of age, for among the english in india there are neither old men nor boys and girls; the men and women are in the prime of life, with a number of small children. this age-limit lops off from both ends of human existence a certain proportion of the characters that are available for filling up the canvas of the social novelist at home. and it is in truth a peculiar feature, not only of anglo-indian society, but of the anglo-indian administration, because the enforced retirement of almost every officer after the age of fifty-five years greatly diminishes the influence of weighty and mature experience exercised by the senior men in the services and government of most countries. in regard to the equality of class it may be observed that here also the lack of variety produces a similar dearth of materials; we miss the picturesque contrasts of rich and poor, of townsfolk and country folk, of the diverse groups which make up a european population. the 'short and simple annals of the poor' cannot be woven into the indian tapestry which records higher and broader scenes; the peasantry, for example, whose quaint figures and idioms are so useful in english novels, do not come into the anglo-indian tale. they cannot be blended in fiction with the foreign element because they are wholly apart in reality. in short, the whole company that play upon the exclusively anglo-indian stage belong to one grade of society, and the hero is invariably a military officer. the most popular of anglo-indian novels are probably those which deal in exact reproduction of ordinary incidents and conversation, related in a sprightly and humorous style. this accords with the taste of present-day readers, many of whom take up a book only for the momentary amusement that it gives them, and are well content with interminable dialogues that do little more than echo, with a certain spice of epigram and smart repartee, the commonplaces interchanged among clever people at a country house or in a london drawing-room. nevertheless, we believe that anglo-indian fiction is seen at its best in the novel of action, since war and love-making must still, as formerly, rule the whole kingdom of romance; since as emotional forces they are the same in every climate and country. each successive campaign in india, from the first afghan war to the latest expedition across the afridi frontier, has furnished the anglo-indian writer with a new series of striking incidents that can be used for his heroic deeds and dire catastrophes, for new landscapes and figures, all of them bearing the very form and stamp of impressive reality. if he is artist enough to avoid abusing these advantages, if he is neither an extravagant colourist nor a mere copyist or compiler, he has this fresh field to himself, he can give us a stirring narrative of frontier adventures, he can sketch in the aspect of a country or the distinctive qualities of a people that have preserved many of the features which in europe have now vanished into the dim realms of early romance. his danger lies, as we have seen from some examples already quoted, in the temptation to make too much use of the attractive materials that are readily found to hand in military records or in such a real tragedy as the sepoy mutiny, so that the novel is liable to become little more than authentic history related in a glowing, exuberant style of writing and portraiture. in short, the indian novel belongs to the objective outdoor class; it is full of open air and activity, and the introspective psychological vein is almost entirely wanting. there are, indeed, passages which indicate that peculiar sense of the correlation, so to speak, of the environment with the moods and feelings of men, the influence upon the human mind of nature--a sense which has inspired some of our finest poetry, and which is so well rendered by the best russian novelists, by tourguéneff and by tolstoi. one work of tolstoi's, _les cosaques_, might be especially recommended for study to the anglo-indian novelist of the future, as an example of the true impress that can be made upon a reader's mind by the literary art, when it succeeds in giving vivid interest to the picture of a solitary officer's life upon a dull and distant frontier. footnotes: [ ] ( ) _tara._ by meadows taylor. london, . ( ) _oakfield._ by william d. arnold. london, . ( ) _the wetherbys, father and son._ by john lang. london, ? . ( ) _mr. isaacs._ by f. marion crawford. london, . ( ) _helen treveryan._ by john roy. london, . ( ) _on the face of the waters._ by mrs. steel. london, . ( ) _bijli the dancer._ by james blythe patton. london, . ( ) _the chronicles of dustypore._ by h. s. cunningham. london, . and other novels.--_edinburgh review_, october . [ ] [greek] 'alla chrê ton katathaptein, hos ke thanêsi, nêlea thumon echontas, ep hêmati hoakrusants.' (_iliad_, xix. , .) [ ] _naulakha_, by rudyard kipling and w. balestier. london, . [ ] _transgression_, by s. s. thorburn. london, . heroic poetry[ ] i have taken the words 'heroic poetry' to signify the poetry of strenuous action, the art of describing in vigorous animating verse those scenes and emergent situations in which the energies of mankind are strung up to the higher tones, and where the emotions are brought into full play by the exhibition of valour, endurance, and suffering. it seems to me remarkable that modern english poetry, with all its splendid variety, should have produced very little in this particular form; because no one can deny that the latter-day story of the english has been full of enterprise and perilous adventure, providing ample material to the artist who knows how to use it. nor can it be said that there is any lack of demand for this sort of poetry, and consequently little inducement to supply it. on the contrary, any one can see that hero worship is as strong as ever, that any striking incident, or example of personal valour, or exploit of war, brings out the verse-writer, and that his efforts, if only very moderately successful, are sure to win him great popularity. but it must be admitted that most of these efforts fail rather lamentably, insomuch that at the present day we may seem to be losing one of the finest forms of a noble art. from this point of view there may be some advantage in looking back to the heroic poetry of earlier ages, and in endeavouring to mark briefly and imperfectly its distinctive qualities, to recall the conditions and circumstances in which it flourished, and possibly to hazard some suggestions as to the causes of its decline. i do not know any recent book which throws more light upon this subject than professor ker's book on _epic and romance_, published in . it is, to my mind, most valuable as an exposition of the right nature and methods of heroic narrative, in poetry and in prose. the author has the rare gift of insight into the ways and feelings of primitive folk, and the critical faculty of discerning the characteristics of a style or a period, showing how men, who knew what to say and the right manner of saying it, have shaped the true form of heroic poetry. we can see that its elementary principles, the methods of composition in verse and prose, are essentially the same in all times and countries, in the _iliad_, in the icelandic sagas, in the old teutonic and anglo-saxon poems, and to some extent in the french chansons de geste; they might be used to-morrow for a heroic subject by any one gifted with the requisite skill, imagination, and the eye for impressive realities. 'few nations have attained, at the close of their heroic age, to a form of poetical art in which men are represented freely in action and conversation. the labour and meditation of all the world has not discovered, for the purposes of narrative, any essential modification of the procedure of homer.' professor ker's essays are a brilliant and scholarly contribution to the external history of poetical forms: and it would be great presumption in me to attempt a review of his work. but it is so eminently suggestive, and to my mind so valuable as a study for verse writers of the present day, that i have ventured to place this book in the foreground of an attempt to sketch rapidly some clear outline of the conditions and the essential qualities of heroic poetry, which is too commonly regarded as an easy off-hand kind of versification, largely made up of dash, glowing words, and warlike clatter; although in reality nothing is more rare or difficult than success in it. we may say, then, that the first heroic poets and tale-tellers were those who related the deeds and sufferings, the life and death of the mighty men of earlier times; and that their verse was the embodiment of the living traditions of men and manners. they were bards and chroniclers who lived close enough to the age of which they wrote to understand and keep touch with it--an age when battles and adventures were ordinary incidents in the annals of a tribe, a city, or a country--when valour, skill at arms, and a stout heart were supremely important, being almost the only virtues that led to high distinction and a great career. heroic poetry of the higher kind could not exist in a period of mere barbarism, for among barbarous folk there is no art of poetic form. it could not have arisen before the people were so far civilised as to have among them artistic singers or story-tellers who gave fine and forcible expression to the acts they celebrated or the scenes they described. the old heroic poets were neither too near to the time of which they sung or wrote, nor too far from it; and this gave them another special advantage, they had a good audience. the song, or the story, must have often been recited before listeners to whom the whole subject was more or less familiar, who knew the facts and ways of war, the true aspect and usages of a rough and perilous existence. they were too well acquainted, at any rate, with such things to be captivated by vague imaginative descriptions of fighting and refined chivalrous methods of dealing with a mortal foe, such as are found in the later romance. among primitive folk there would have been no taste for fantastic, allegoric, and extravagant though highly poetical accounts of valorous exploits by noble knights, with their tournaments and their adventures with giants, dwarfs, or enchanters. the tradition was of a community encompassed by dangers for men and for women, where life and goods depended on strength and sagacity. and so the original hero was strictly a practical soldier, a man who knew his business, who had very few troublesome scruples; he was a man of war from his youth up, struggling with arduous circumstance; and he usually came at last, as in actual life, to a bloody though glorious end. for the experience of a rough age is that the drama mostly finishes tragically, not happily as in a modern novel. there was always a strain of romance in the heroic tale, and softer feelings were never quite absent: but all this was subordinate to facts: whereas romance seems to have prevailed and grown popular in proportion as the writer stood further away from the actualities, trusted to imagination rather than to authentic experience, preferred literary ornament to probability, and indeed took his readers as far away as possible from scenes or situations which they could recognise or verify. it may thus be suggested that the essential quality of heroic poetry is this--that it gives a true picture of the time. not that the poet was an eye-witness of what he narrated, or even that he lived in the same generation with the men or the events that he celebrated. on the contrary, the distance which lends enchantment to the view is needed to surround heroes with a golden haze of glorification. but the bard did live on the outer edge, so to speak, of the period which he wrote about; he was more or less in the same atmosphere; his audience kept him very near the truth because they could detect any exaggeration, absurdity, or very unlikely incident; just as we should mark and reject any particularly foolish story of the war that might appear in to-morrow's newspaper. they would indeed swallow strange marvels of a supernatural kind, the doings of gods and goddesses, and of magicians. but i think it will be agreed that in all ages this has been a separate matter, because men will believe what is plainly miraculous, when they will not accept what is merely improbable. so far as the natural world was concerned, the heroic artist worked upon genuine material, transmitted orally or by fragmentary records, producing a right image of remarkable men and the world in which they lived. it was a world, in most cases, of small communities and petty wars, in which a good chief or warrior came rapidly to the front, and was all-important individually. the word hero is one of those greek words which have been adopted into all european languages, because they signify precisely a universal idea of the thing. he must be strong and able in battle, for a lost fight might mean the death or slavery of all his people. if the hero does his living and dying in a noble fashion, the folk trouble themselves very moderately about minor questions of religion or ethics, and are very moderately scandalised by occasional ferocity. such a man is not to be hampered by ordinary rules; he is like a general commanding in the field, who may do anything for the preservation of his army, and the consequence is that he is seldom expected to moralise. he acknowledges and pays great honour to the cardinal virtues of truth-speaking, mutual fidelity, hospitality, strict observance of pledges. he is in many ways a religious man; though he is apt to break away from the priests when they interfere seriously with the business in hand. for the chastity of wives he has a high esteem, yet although he and his people are constantly brought into trouble about women, he is tolerant of them, even when their behaviour is what might be called regrettable; he treats them in some degree as irresponsible beings, on the ground, perhaps, that they are the only non-combatants in the world as he knows it, and that this gives them special privileges. we can measure the importance of such a personage in ancient days, by the noise which a first-class hero made in the primitive world. he became literally and figuratively immortal: he was regarded as a god, or at least godlike--the greatest of them were actually deified. he was seized upon by fable, myth, miraculous legend, and poetry--his name was handed down for centuries until the heroic lineaments were softened down, disfigured, and at last faded away in the magical haze of later romance. but in very rare instances he had the good luck to be taken in hand, before it was too late, by some man of genius, who knew the temper of heroic times because he lived within range of them, and who has preserved for us a story, an incident, or a typical character--not, indeed, an authentic narrative, for the true story disappears under the tradition which is built over it; nor would such accurate knowledge be of much use to the poet, whose business it is only to give us a fine spirited account of what might have occurred. for the evidence that an ancient battle was really fought we must go to the historian; the poet will tell us how it was fought, he stirs the blood and fires the imagination by his tale of noble deeds and deaths. his strength rests upon the foundation of reality that underlies his artistic construction: he has never let go his hold upon sound experience: and the truth is felt in all the colour and detail of the picture, though the whole is a work of vivid imagination. we cannot verify, obviously, the facts and motives which led to the siege of troy, although herodotus appears to agree that the cause of that war was a spartan woman's abduction, and only examines the point whether the asiatic or the european greeks were first to blame in the matter. professor murray prefers to believe in a myth growing out of the strife of light and darkness in the sky: but the rape of beautiful girls by seafaring rovers was evidently common enough in those times, so why should not the homeric version be right? we can always be sure that the old poems represent accurately life, manners, and character; and from the analogy of those legends whose origin is known, we may fairly infer that the root of a famous story, divine or human, is first planted in fact, not in fancy; just as the chanson de roland is founded on a real battle in the pass of roncevalles. such, therefore, were the conditions and fortunate coincidences which produced the finest heroic poetry. you had the popular hero--the noble warrior who knew his business; and you had also the poet or story-teller who knew his art, could give you a dramatic picture founded upon fact, and could always keep close to reality, without crowding his canvas with unnecessary particulars; he gave you the ruling motives, actions, and feelings of the age. the excellence of the work lay in simplicity and directness of treatment, in a sureness of line drawing, in a power of striking the right note, whether of praise or sorrow, of glory or grief. there is no staginess or far-fetched emotion, or artificial scene-painting: the style strikes the right chords of passion or pity, and stamps upon the mind a vivid impression of situation and character. moreover, the heroic poet, as a composer, had this advantage in early days, that continual recital before an appreciative public must have had the effect of polishing up his best verses, and polishing off his bad ones. as the theme was always some well-known story or personage, it was possible to omit details and explanations, and to go straight to the points that repetition had proved to be the most effective, so that the criterion of excellence must have been immediate popularity with the audience as in a play. it may be conjectured also that the metre, in length of line and cadence, formed itself to a great degree on the natural conditions of oral delivery and listening. for all poetry, i think, makes its primary appeal to the ear; and the modern habit of reading it seems to me to have thrown this essential test of quality somewhat into the background. the arrangement of metre and rhyme may have been gradually invented to correspond with and satisfy that natural expectation of the recurrence of certain tones and measures which always delights primitive men, and of which one may possibly trace some symptoms even in animals, as when the snake sways slowly to the simple sounds of a snake-charmer's pipe. the order of all modern versification (except in blank verse, which is never popular) depends on the echoing rhyme, which marks time like the stroke of a bell, and is waited for with keen anticipation by the sensitive listener. it is strange, to my mind, that such a beautiful creation as the beat of tonic sounds at a line's terminal should have been comparatively so recent a discovery in european poetry. that a master of this art must have been very rare is shown by the very few pieces of first-class heroic poetry still extant out of the immense quantity that must have been attempted in different ages and countries. yet the materials lie strewn around us, awaiting the skilful hand; they are to be found wherever a high-spirited warlike race is fighting its way upward out of barbarism into some less wretched stage of society that may allow breathing time for working the precious mines of recent traditions. the state of society described in some icelandic sagas, for example, with its hereditary blood feuds and perpetual assassinations, with its code of honour making vengeance a pious duty, its tariff of blood money, and its council for adjusting civil and criminal wrongs, has a close resemblance to everyday life among the free afghan tribes beyond the north-west frontier of india. but the saga writers flourished, i understand, when this state of things had passed or was passing away; while the afghans are still a rude illiterate folk who have only songs, recited by the professional bards. the best collection of these popular songs has been made by a frenchman, the late james darmesteter, who remarks that 'english people in india care little for indian songs'; though one may reply that he has made use of english writers and collectors of frontier folklore, and indeed he acknowledges his debt to mr. thorburn's excellent book on _bannu or our afghan frontier_. however that may be, we have here, in these unwritten lays, the stuff out of which is developed, first, the established tradition, and, secondly, not only poetry but also the beginnings of history, for these lays are the oral records of contemporary events--'c'est le cri même de l'histoire.' they tell of the last afghan war, and of the most famous border forays made by the english lords on the afghan marches: they preserve the names and deeds of english officers and of the leading warriors of the afghan tribes: they tell how cavagnari 'drank the stirrup-cup of the great journey' when the english mission was slaughtered at kabul in , and how general roberts, his heart shot through with grief, set out in fiery speed on his avenging march against the afghan capital. here then is for the modern historian a rare opportunity of comparing the contemporary popular version of events with exact authentic official record; and the result ought to aid him in deciding, by analogy, what value is to be placed on similar material that has been handed down in the ancient songs and stories of other countries. he will be fortified, i think, in the sound conclusion that all far-sounding legend has a solid substratum of fact. as poetry, these songs render forcibly the temper and feelings of the people; they illustrate their virtues and vices, their worship of courage and devotion to the clan, their fanaticism and ferocity. the sense of afghan honour, in the matter of sheltering a guest, is shown in the ballad which relates how a son killed his father for violating this law of hospitality. like all popular verse, the afghan songs have their recurrent phrases and familiar commonplaces; yet, says darmesteter, 'in spite of the limited range of ideas and interests, and a rather low ideal, all such defects find their excuse in the passion, the simplicity, the direct spontaneous outspeaking, that supreme gift which has been lost in our intellectual decadence.' the stirring events of the time have been immediately put into verse; the scenes and feelings are struck off in the die of actual circumstance; the heated metal takes a clear-cut impression. it is in rough songs like these that are to be found the germs of the higher heroic poetry. the ballad, the short stories, the favourite anecdotes of remarkable men at their exploits, have the luck to fall, later, into the hands of a skilful reciter or verse-maker; they are enlarged, knit together, and fashioned according to the ideas of the day, with an infusion of rhetoric and literary decoration. the heroic ideal, to use professor ker's words, is thus worked up out of the sayings and doings of great men of the fore-time, who stand forth as the type and embodiment of the virtues and vices of their age, as it was conceived by poets who could handle the popular traditions. and we may guess that all anecdotes, words of might, and feats of arms that were current before and after him, if they were appropriate to the type, would cluster round the hero, and be used for bringing his character into strong relief. we can even discern this tendency in modern society, where a notable personage, like the duke of wellington or talleyrand, is credited with any vigorous or caustic saying that suits the idea of him, and may be passed on in another generation to the account of the next popular favourite. the literary habit of providing impressive 'last words' for great men at death's door might be taken as another example of the magnetic attraction of types. of course the perfect samples of heroic verse, of famous songs and stories woven into an epic poem, are to be found in homer.[ ] nowhere, in the whole range of the world's poetry, can we see such splendid impersonations of primitive life and character treated artistically. yet the plot is simple enough. agamemnon, the chief commander of the greek army, has carried off the daughter of a priest of apollo, and flatly refuses to give her back; whereupon the priest appeals to the god, who brings the chief to reason by spreading a plague in the grecian camp; and so the girl goes home with apologies. but agamemnon indemnifies himself by seizing a captive damsel belonging to achilles, who, being justly infuriated, will go no more to battle, but sits sulkily in his tent, until the greek army is very nearly destroyed, for want of his help, by the trojans. here we have at once a picture of manners not unlike those of the afghan tribes, though very differently treated. the poet is at no pains to put on any moral varnish, or to tone down the roughness romantically; because he is writing, or reciting, for people of much the same way of thinking as his heroes, who are fierce chiefs quarrelling over captured women; and the whole plot is developed by sheer pressure of circumstance and character. then on the trojan side we have the figure of hector, the true patriotic hero, who is naturally displeased with paris for the abduction of helen, which has brought a disastrous war upon troy; yet what is done cannot be undone, and his clear duty is to fight for his own people. to helen herself he is gentle and kind; and the religious men only irritate him when they interfere in military matters. but although he is far the noblest character in the whole poem, he is eventually slain by achilles, for the plain reason that achilles is the most terrible warrior of both armies. it was hector's fate, which is the poet's way of saying that the inexorable logic of facts, as he knows them, must always prevail. with regard to the position of women in homeric poetry. they are mainly irresponsible creatures: how could they be otherwise, when everything depends on the sword, and a woman cannot wield it? as the equality of sexes implies a high state of civilisation and security, so in the old fighting times a woman had to stand aside; yet though she could not take part in a battle, there were incessant battles about her: the fatal woman, who is the ruin of her country, is well-known in all legend and romance, from helen of troy to la cava, whose seduction by king roderick brought the moors into spain.[ ] in the _iliad_ king priam treats helen with delicate consideration, as is seen in the beautiful passage that describes her sitting by him on the walls of troy, and pointing out to him the leaders of the greek army marshalled in the plain before them. nor is any more perfect female character to be found in poetry than andromache, hector's wife, high-spirited, virtuous, and passionately affectionate. yet helen, the erring woman, is brought home eventually by menelaus, and appears again in the _odyssey_ as a highly respected matron, who has had an adventure in early life; while andromache, having seen her husband slain and dragged round the walls of troy behind the chariot of achilles, is carried off a childless widow into dolorous servitude. here one may feel the tragic power of an artist who draws life from the sombre verities, not as it is seen through the romantic colouring of a softer moralising age; he never wastes himself on vain lamentations, never suggests that virtue will save you from bitter unmerited calamity: he gives the true situation. there is one short passage in the _odyssey_ where the poet, merely by the way, and to illustrate something else, lets us have a glimpse of an incident that was probably familiar to him and his audience. he wishes to show what he means by a burst of grief, and this he does, not by a string of epithets, but by a picture.[ ] from the historic books of the old testament, particularly from the books of samuel and the kings, one might take some fine specimens of the peculiar quality distinguishing the heroic style, in prose that is very near poetry. nothing can be more simple than the narrative, it is cool and quiet: there are whole chapters without an unnecessary adjective; and yet it is most impressive, both in the drawing of such characters as saul, david, and joab, who stand out dramatically, like homeric heroes, and in the stories of their deeds and death. professor ker's essays contain a masterly and luminous survey of the vicissitudes undergone by the songs and legends of western and northern nations in the course of transmutation from the primitive heroic stage into deliberate literary composition. the original material never attained the grand epical form; the process was interrupted by the advancement of learning, by ecclesiastical influences, and by vast social changes. 'even before the people had fairly escaped from barbarism, before they had made a fair beginning of civilisation and of reflective literature on their own account, they were drawn within the empire, within christendom.' a similar fate, it may here be noticed, has overtaken, or awaits, the heroic songs of the afghans; for darmesteter tells us that as the oral tradition becomes written it falls into the net of translation and paraphrase, it is absorbed into the elegant literature of persia, arabia, and hindustan, it becomes theological and romanesque. and another dangerous enemy has now appeared in the shape of the anglo-indian schools which follow and fix the english dominion; for the primitive folklore has no more chance against systematic education than the wild fighting men have against drilled and disciplined soldiers. in europe the sagas of iceland, which lay furthest from the civilising influences, had the luck of preserving the true elements of heroic narrative; and the anglo-saxon poem of beowulf, though it falls far short of the epic, has a certain homeric flavour. the chief is the 'folces-hyrde,' his people's shepherd; and we have beowulf, like hector,[ ] desiring that after his death a mound may be raised at the headland which juts out into the sea, 'that seafaring men may afterward call it beowulf's mound, they who drive from far their roaring vessels over the mists of the flood.'[ ] let us turn now to the romantic poetry of england, which for some centuries ruled all our imaginative literature, and annexed, so to speak, almost the whole field of battles, adventures, and energetic activity generally. the subjects are much the same: the gallantry of men, the beauty, virtues, and frailties of women: but the writers have got a loose uncertain grip upon the actualities of life; they wander away into fanciful stories of noble knights, distressed damsels, and marvellous feats of chivalry--in short they are _romancing_. they care little whether the details accord with natural fact--whether, for instance, the account of a fight is incredible to any one who knows what a battle really is; the heroes are chivalrous knight-errants, noble, pious, devoted to their lady loves; but they are not hard-headed, hard-fisted men like ulysses, david, or some old icelandic sea-rover. the true heroic spirit shoots up occasionally, nevertheless the prevailing idea of the romance-writer is to tell a wondrous tale of love and adventure, in which he lets his fancy run riot, rather enjoying than avoiding magnificent improbabilities. undoubtedly the beautiful mystic romance of the morte d'arthur does light up at the end with a true flash of heroic poetry, in the famous lamentation over lancelot, when he is found at last dead in the hermitage: but in this passage the elegiac strain rises far above the ordinary level of romantic composers. meanwhile, as the english nation at home settled down into peaceful habits under the strong organising pressure of church and state, and arms gave way to laws, the hero's occupation disappeared from our everyday society, and the heroic tradition decayed out of imaginative literature, which was often picturesque, sublime, and profoundly reflective, but had parted with the special qualities of energetic simplicity and the vivid impression of fact. nevertheless, heroic poetry in this sense has never been quite extinguished in great britain; it survived, naturally, wherever it could be preserved by a living popular tradition. and so it found a congenial refuge, though in greatly reduced circumstances, in the rough outlying regions where personal strength and daring were still vitally necessary--in the borderland between england and scotland. an epic poem gave heroic poetry on a grand scale, it told the incidents of a great war: the ballad tells of a single skirmish or foray. yet the difference is but one of degree, for both epic and ballad were composed for men and by men, who were in the right atmosphere; and so we have here very different work from that of the fanciful romancer. there are not many good examples; yet the antique tone rings out now and then, as in the ballad of chevy chase, which commemorates a fierce northumbrian fight at otterburne that must have stirred the hearts of the whole countryside. here you have no knightly tournament, or duel for rescue of dames, but the sharp clash of bloody conflict between english and scots borderers, the best fighting men of our island. of course the genuine account, given in froissart, is very different; but the ballad-singer knows his art; and whereas from history we only learn that a scottish knight, sir hugh montgomery, was slain in the medley, in the ballad an english archer draws his bow 'an arrow of a cloth yard long to the hard head hayled he.' and then 'against sir hugh montgomery so right his shaft he set, the swan's feather that his arrow bare in his heart's blood was wet.' in the compressed energy of these four lines, without an epithet or a superfluous word, we have a picture, drawn by a sure hand, of a man drawing his long bow, and driving it from steel to feathers through a knight in armour. well, the border fighting disappeared with the union of the two kingdoms, and as great britain became civilised and began to transfer her wars oversea, the heroic verse decayed under the influence of the higher culture. for a civilised and literary society to have preserved its ancient lays and ballads is the rarest of lucky chances; the enthusiastic collector, like percy or walter scott, is generally born too late, for indeed all antiquarianism is a very modern task. and poetry of this sort must decay under what shakespeare calls 'the cankers of a calm world': while it also tends to disappear with the introduction of professional soldiers and great armies, where personal heroism counts for little. these may be, i suppose, the main reasons why great wars produce so little heroic verse: it may be questioned whether even our civil wars of the seventeenth century inspired any genuine poetry of this sort. and when in the eighteenth century the clang of arms had completely died away at home, the battle pieces were done after an artificial literary fashion, by writers who were content to describe vaguely the charging of hosts, the thunder of cannon, the groans of the wounded, and other such mechanical generalities. if any one could have revived the true heroic style, it would have been done by walter scott, with his delight in the border minstrelsy, and his martial ardour; but the romantic spirit was too strong upon him. he had laid hold of the right tradition, could give picturesque scenes and characters of a bygone time, and _bonnie dundee_ is a ringing ballad; yet his style in the longer metrical tales is distinctly romantic and conventional. if he had not been writing for readers to whom the rough riders of the border in the sixteenth century were totally strange and unreal beings, he could never have said that they 'carved at the meal with gloves of steel, and drank the red wine through the helmet barred.' an unsophisticated audience would have laughed outright at such a comical performance. and we can see how scott, as a poet of the battlefield, had become possessed with the idea that the grand style must be a lofty strain, something magnificently unusual, by his two poems upon waterloo, which are fine failures; though we may admit the impossibility of making a heroic poem out of a battle that has just been minutely described in newspapers. on the other hand, his prose novels afford us a remarkable example of the two styles contrasted. when he wrote of the middle ages, as in _ivanhoe_, _the talisman_, and others, he was a pure romancer; whereas in his tales of scotland in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, in the _legend of montrose_, _old mortality_, _the bride of lammermoor_, there are two or three rapid sketches of sharp fighting which are true and spirited, full of vivacity and character. on this ground he trod firmly, knowing the country, the times, and the people of scotland: while the petty skirmishes at drumclog or bothwell brig were easier to manage artistically than a great battle. poetry, indeed, like painting, can do nothing on a vast scale, cannot manage masses of men; and moreover it fails to deal effectively with a state of war in which mechanical skill and the tactical movement of large bodies of troops win the day. there may be as much personal heroism as ever, but it is lost in the multitude. nevertheless sea-fighting, where separate ships may encounter and grapple like two mortal foes, with the deep water around and beneath them, gives heroism a better chance; and the mariner is always a poetic figure. so thomas campbell did rise very nearly to the heroic level in his poem on the battle of the baltic, written when the true story of nelson's famous exploit was still fresh; we have a clear and forcible impression of the british ships moving silently to the attack; and the closing lines touch the ancient ever-living feeling of gratitude to captain riou and his brave comrades, 'so tried and yet so true,' who fell in the great victory. with this exception, the prolonged conflict between england and france, which lasted twenty years up to its end at waterloo, struck out hardly a spark of heroic poetry. yet the peninsular war is full of splendid military exploits, of fierce battles and the desperate storming of fortresses: it was a period of great national energy, when the people were contending with all their heart and strength against a most dangerous enemy; it was also a time when england was singularly rich in poets of the highest order. nevertheless the only verses that may be assigned to the peculiar class which i have been attempting to define, were written, not by one of the famous group of poets, but by an unknown hand; and they relate not to a great battle, but to a slight incident, not to a victory, but to a hasty retreat. i am alluding to the well-known stanzas on the _burial of sir john moore_, who was killed at corunna in ; and my apology for quoting anything so hackneyed must be that it is trite by reason of its excellence; for a short poem, like a single happy phrase, wins incessant repetition and lasting popularity, because the words precisely fit some universal feeling. why have these verses made such an effect that they are familiar to all of us, and fresh as when they were first read? is it not because the writer had one clear flash of imaginative light, which showed him the reality of the scene, so that the description speaks for itself, without literary epithets, creating, as the french say, the true image. he struck the right note of soldierly emotion, brief, stern, and compressed, when there is no time for vain lamentation--as when in the _iliad_ ulysses says to achilles, who is inconsolable for the death of his friend, that a soldier must bury his comrade with a pitiless heart, and that in war a day's mourning is all that can be spared for slain men.[ ] it may be allowable to suggest, therefore, among the reasons for the prevailing dearth and scarcity of first-class heroic poetry, notwithstanding the universal demand for it, the impossibility of thus handling war on a great scale, and also the serious difficulty of giving this poetic form to contemporary events, which are not easily grouped in artistic perspective because they are so accurately described elsewhere. this suggestion may derive support from the observation that whenever, in our own day, we have had brief samples of verse-writing with a strain of the genuine old quality, they have almost always come from a distant scene, usually from the frontiers of the british empire, far away from the centres of academic culture and the fields of organised war. two or three of rudyard kipling's short poems about life on the afghan border and indian camp life have the right ring: they are instinct with the colour and sensation of the environment: they stir the blood with a conviction of reality. if it be permissible for a moment to compare these rough energetic verses with the battle pieces of an immeasurably greater artist--with tennyson's _charge of the light brigade_, for example--one may see that in the poetry of action the grand style misses something which has been caught by the eye that has seen the thing itself; the charge is a splendid composition, but the frontier ballad sets you down on the ground and shows you life. undoubtedly, also, the romantic literary style, which prevailed so long in this country, and which is the natural product of high culture, has been unfavourable, because it was radically unsuitable, to the poetry of energetic action. it is true that all the highest compositions of the heroic poet are set off by a tinge of romance, as fine drawing is perfected by superb colouring; but the drawbacks of romance lie in a tendency to vagueness of thought, and to the preference of archaic words and overstrained sentiments which were given as poetic mainly because they were far-fetched and did not sound commonplace. in fact the later poets adopted mechanically the strong natural language of those who wrote under the inspiration of actual emotion or events, and therefore they used it awkwardly and ineffectively; or else in their consciousness of not knowing how things really happened, they kept within sonorous generalities, which are the resource of artistic impotence. in our own day we have witnessed a sharp revolt against romantic verse, and a reversion toward those forms of art which reflect the actual experience of men, toward precision and accurate detail: romance has been abandoned for what is called realism. but here we are threatened by a danger from the opposite direction: for a clumsy realist is apt to suppose that his business is merely to describe facts without adding anything out of his own imaginative faculty, that he may bring his characters on the stage in their daily garb, in the dirty slovenliness with which they go about dreaming or acting in their own petty sphere,[ ] and so he overcharges with technicalities or trivial particulars. nevertheless one may say that the poetry of action has found better methods since it shook off the influence of fantastic romance, and is distinctly improving: though its strength lies in short pieces repeating some notable incident or dramatic situations bringing out character, which is just where it began originally, and where indeed it is likely to remain, for the epic poem, or heroic verse on the grand scale, may be thought to have disappeared finally. to conclude a very brief and inadequate dissertation, we may, i think, lay it down as a principle of the art, that heroic poetry must be true to circumstances and to character, must have the qualities of simplicity and sincerity, combined with the magnetic power of stirring the heart by showing how men and women can behave when really confronted by danger, death, or irremediable misfortune. its background, in skilful hands, is the contrast of calm nature looking on at human strife and sorrow, at stern fortitude and energetic effort in tragic situations. we are reading every day of such situations in the south african war, where there has been no lack of brave men 'so tried and yet so true,' who have found themselves back again suddenly in the rough fighting world of their forefathers, and have felt and acted like the men of old time. there is abundant proof that the english folk can display as much heroism as ever men did; but we may look in vain for the poet who knows how to commemorate their valour and patriotic self-sacrifice in heroic verse. footnotes: [ ] _anglo-saxon review_, june . [ ] _epic and romance_, p. . [ ] 'ay españa perdita por un gusto y por la cava.' _romance del rey rodrigo._ [ ] so doth a woman weep, as her husband in death she embraces, him, who in front of his people and city has fallen in battle, striving in vain to defend his home from the fate of the vanquished. she there, seeing him die, and gasping his life out before her, clings to him bitterly moaning. and round her the others, the foemen, beat her, and bid her arise, and stab at her back with the lances, dragging her off as a slave to the bondage of labour and sorrow. _odyssey_, viii. - . [ ] _iliad_, vi. - . [ ] arnold's translation. [ ] _iliad_, xix. - . [ ] lessing. the works of lord byron[ ] 'when the year is turned, and our nation comes to recount her poetic glories in the century which has then just ended, the first names will be wordsworth and byron.' thus wrote matthew arnold in , and now that the century's last autumn is passing away, a new edition of byron's works appears in the fullness of time to quicken our memories and rekindle our curiosity, by placing before us a complete record of the life, letters, and poetry of one whom macaulay declared in to be the most celebrated englishman of the nineteenth century, and who seventy years later may still be counted among its most striking and illustrious figures. as the new edition is issued by instalments, and several volumes are still to come, to compare its contents, arrangement, and the editorial accessories with those of preceding editions might be thought premature. we may say, however, that a large number of byron's letters, not before printed, have now been added; and that the text of this new material has been prepared from originals, whereas it is now impossible so to collate the text of the greater number of the letters heretofore published. moore is supposed to have destroyed many of those entrusted to him; and moreover he handled the originals very freely, making large omissions, and transposing passages from one letter to another, though we presume that he did not re-write and amplify passages after the fashion in which certain french editors have dealt with recent memoirs. the letters now for the first time published by mr. murray were for the most part inaccessible to moore. but for all these details we may refer our readers to the concise and valuable prefaces appended to the three volumes of letters and journals. we have now, therefore, a substantial acquisition of fresh and quite authentic material, though it would be rash to assume that all important documents are included, for the family archives are still held in reserve. it is admitted by the editor that the literary value of the letters now printed for the first time is not high, but he explains that in publishing, with a few exceptions, the whole available correspondence, he has acted on the principle that they form an aggregate collection of great biographical interest, and may thus serve as the best substitute for the lost memoirs. we may agree that any scrap of a great man's writing, or even any words spoken, may throw some light upon his character, whether the subject be trivial or tremendous, a business letter to his solicitor or a defiance of society; for even though careless readers chance to miss some pearl strung at random on a string of commonplaces, to the higher criticism nothing is quite valueless. in this instance, at any rate, no pains have been spared to place the real lord byron, as described more or less unconsciously by himself, before his fellow-countrymen; and the result is to confirm his reputation as a first-class letter-writer. the private and confidential correspondence of eminent literary men would be usually more decorous than interesting; but byron, though he is not always respectable, is never dull. the correspondence and journals, taken all together, constitute the most interesting and characteristic collection of its kind in english literature. in regard to the effect upon his personal reputation, we have long known what manner of man was byron; nor is it likely that, after passing in review the complete array of evidence collected in these volumes, the general verdict of posterity will be sensibly modified. those who judge him should bear in mind that perhaps no famous life has ever been so thoroughly laid bare, or scrutinised with greater severity. the tendency of biographers is to soften down errors and praise where they can; and in an autobiography the writer can tell his own story. but the assiduous searching out and publication of every letter and diary that can be gathered or gleaned is a different ordeal, which might try the reputation of most of us; while in the case of an impulsive, wayward, high-spirited man, exposed to strong temptations, with all a poet's traditional irritability, whose rank and genius concentrated public attention on his writings from his early youth, this test must be extremely severe. many of the letters are of a sort that do not ordinarily appear in a biography. byron's letters to his wife at the time of their separation, which are moderate and even dignified, are supplemented by his wife's letters to him and to her friends, full of mysterious imputations; and there are letters to and from the lady with whom his _liaison_ was notorious. his own reckless letters from venice to moore, and those from shelley and others describing his dissipated habits, were clearly never intended for general reading after his death. of course most of these are not now produced for the first time, nor do we argue that they ought never to have appeared, for the biographical interest is undeniable. our point is that the publication of such private and damaging correspondence is so very unusual in biographies that it places byron at a special disadvantage, and that when we pass our judgment upon him we are bound to take into account the unsparing use that has been made of papers connected with the most intimate transactions of a lifetime which was no more than a short and stormy passage from youth to manhood; for he was cut off before the age at which men abandon the wild ways of their springtide, and are usually disposed to obliterate the record of them. at least one recent biography might be mentioned which would have read differently if it had been compiled with similar candour. the annotations subjoined to almost every page of the text are so ample and particular as to furnish in themselves extensive reading. the notices of every person named would go far to serve as a brief biographical dictionary of byron's contemporaries, whether known or unknown to fame. we get a concise account of madame de staël--her birth, books, and political opinions--very useful to those who had no previous acquaintance with her. lady morgan and joanna southcote obtain quite as much space as would be allotted to them in any handbook of celebrities. beau brummell and lord castlereagh are treated with similar liberality. there is a full account, taken from the _examiner_, of the procession with which louis xviii. made his entry into london in . the notes--of about four pages each--upon hobhouse and lord carlisle may be justified by their close connection with byron's affairs; though some of us might have been content with less. allusions to such notorious evildoers as tarquin are explained, and stock quotations from shakespeare have been carefully verified. the result is that a reader might go through this edition of byron with the very slightest previous knowledge of general literature or of contemporary history, and might give himself a very fair middle-class education in the process, although the consequence might be to imbue him with what coleridge has called 'a passion for the disconnected.' nevertheless we readily acknowledge the thorough execution of this part of the editorial work, and the very meritorious labour that has been spent upon bringing together every kind of document and reference that can inform or enlighten us upon the main subjects of byron's life and writings. in the poems the practice of giving in notes the rough drafts and rejected versions of passages and lines, so as to show the poet at work, seems to us not altogether fair to him, and is occasionally distracting to those readers who enjoy a fine picture without asking how the colours were mixed, or are not anxious about the secrets of a good dinner. yet to students of method, to the fellow-craftsman, and to the literary virtuoso, these variant readings, of which there are sometimes four to a single line, may often be of substantial interest, as throwing light on the tendencies and predilections of taste which are the formative influences upon style in prose or poetry. probably the most favourable circumstance for a poet is that he should only be known, like the divinity of nature, from his works; or at least that, like wordsworth, he should keep the noiseless tenor of his way down some secluded vale of life, whereby his poems stand out in clear relief like fine paintings on a plain wall. is there any modern english poet of the first class, except byron, whose entire prose writings and biography are bound up in standard editions with his poetry? the question is at any rate worth asking, because certainly there is no case in which the record of a poet's private life and personal fortunes has so greatly affected, for good or for ill, his poetic reputation. those who detested his character and condemned his way of living found it difficult to praise his verses; they detected the serpent under every stone. for those who were fascinated by the picture of a reckless prodigal, always in love and in debt, with fierce passions and a haughty contempt for the world, who defied public opinion and was suspected of unutterable things--such a personality added enormous zest to his poetry. but now that byron's whole career has been once more laid out before his countrymen, with light poured on to it from every cranny and peephole, those who take up this final edition of his life and works must feel that their main object and duty should be to form an unbiased estimate of the true value, apart from the author's rank and private history, of poems which must always hold a permanent place in the high imaginative literature of england. it may be said that every writer of force and originality traverses two phases of opinion before his substantive rank in the great order of merit is definitely fixed: he is either depressed or exalted unduly. he may be neglected or cheapened by his own generation, and praised to the sides by posterity; or his fame may undergo the inverse treatment, until he settles down to his proper level. byron's reputation has passed through sharper vicissitudes than have befallen most of his compeers; for though no poet has ever shot up in a brief lifetime to a higher pinnacle of fame, or made a wider impression upon the world around him, after his death he seems to have declined slowly, in england, to a point far below his real merits. and at this moment there is no celebrated poet, perhaps no writer, in regard to whom the final judgment of critics and men of letters is so imperfectly determined. here is a man whom goethe accounted a character of unique eminence, with supreme creative power, whose poetry, he admitted, had influenced his own later verse--one of those who gave strenuous impulse to the romantic movement throughout england, france, and germany in the first quarter of this century, who set the fashion of his day in england, stirred and shaped the popular imagination, and struck a far resonant note in our poetry. yet after his death he suffered a kind of eclipse; his work was much more unduly depreciated than it had been extolled; while in our own time such critics as matthew arnold and mr. swinburne have been in profound disagreement on the question of his worth and value as a poet. nor is it possible for impartial persons to accept the judgment of either of these two eminent artists in poetry, since arnold placed wordsworth and byron by anticipation on the same level at this century's end, whereas wordsworth stands now far higher. and the bitter disdain which sir. swinburne has poured upon byron's verse and character, though tempered by acknowledgment of his strength and cleverness, and by approbation of his political views, excites some indignation and a sympathetic reaction in his favour. one can imagine the ghost of byron rebuking his critic with the words of the miltonic satan, 'ye knew me once no mate for you, there sitting where ye durst not soar'; for in his masculine defiant attitude and daring flights the elder poet overtops and looks down upon the fine musical artist of our own day. some of the causes which have combined to lower byron's popularity are not far to seek. the change of times, circumstance, and taste has been adverse to him. the political school which he so ardently represented has done its work; the tory statesmen of the metternich and castlereagh type, who laid heavy hands upon nations striving for light and liberty, have gone down to their own place; the period of stifling repression has long ended in europe. italy and greece are free, the lofty appeals to classic heroism are out of date, and such fiery high-swelling trumpet notes as 'yet, freedom! yet, thy banner, torn, but flying, streams like a thunderstorm _against_ the wind,' fall upon cold and fastidious ears. 'the day will come,' said mazzini in after-years, 'when the democracy will acknowledge its debt to byron;' but the demos is notoriously ungrateful, and the subject races have now won their independence. the shadow of discouragement and weariness which passed over sensitive minds at the beginning of this century, a period of political disillusion, has long been swept away by the prosperity and sanguine activities of the victorian era; and the literary style has changed with the times. melancholy moods, attitudes of scornful despair, tales of fierce love and bloody revenge are strange and improbable to readers who delight in situations and emotions with which they are familiar, who demand exactitude in detail and correct versification; while sweet harmonies, perfection of metre, middle-class pastorals, and a blameless moral tone came in with tennyson. in short, many of the qualities which enchanted byron's own generation have disenchanted our own, both in his works and his life; for when macaulay wrote in that the time would come when his 'rank and private history will not be regarded in estimating his poetry,' he took no account of future editions enlarged and annotated, or of biographies of _the real lord byron_; whereby it has come to pass, as we suspect, that the present world knows more of byron's private history than of his poems. his faults and follies stand out more prominently than ever; his story is more attractive reading than most romances; and the stricter morality of the day condemns him more severely than did the society to which he belonged. psychological speculation is now so much more practised in literature than formerly, there is so much more interest in 'the man behind the book,' that serious moral delinquencies, authentically recorded and eagerly read, operate more adversely than ever in affecting the public judgment upon byron's poetry, because they provide a damaging commentary upon it. his contemporaries--coleridge, keats, shelley--lived so much apart from the great world of their day that important changes in manners and social opinion have made much less difference in the standard by which their lives are compared with their work. their poetry, moreover, was mainly impersonal. whereas byron, by stamping his own character on so much of his verse, created a dangerous interest in the man himself; and his _empeiria_ (as goethe calls it), his too exclusively worldly experience, identified him with his particular class in society, rendering him largely the responsible representative of a libertinism in habits and sentiments that was more pardonable in his time than in our own. his poetry belongs also in another sense to the world he lived in: it is incessantly occupied with current events and circumstance, with spain, italy, and greece as he actually saw them, with comparisons of their visible condition and past glories, with peninsular battlefields, and with waterloo. of worldliness in this objective meaning his contemporaries had some share, yet they instinctively avoided the waste of their power upon it; and so their finest poetry is beautiful by its detachment, by a certain magical faculty of treating myth, romance, and the mystery of man's sympathetic relations with universal nature. a recent french critic of chateaubriand, who defines the 'romantisme' of that epoch as no more than a great waking up of the poetic spirit, says that the movement was moral and psychological generally before it spread into literature. in criticising byron's poetry we have to bear in mind that he came in on the first wave of this flood, which overflowed the exhausted and arid field of poetry at the end of the last century, fertilising it with colour and emotion. the comparison between byron in england and chateaubriand in france must have been often drawn. the similarity in their style, their moody, melancholy outlook upon common humanity, their aristocratic temper, their self-consciousness, their influence upon the literature of the two countries, the enthusiasm that they excited among the ardent spirits of the generation that reached manhood immediately after them, and the vain attempts of the elder critics to resist their popularity and deny their genius--form a remarkable parallel in literary history. as jeffrey failed at first to discern the promise of byron, so morellet could only perceive the obviously weak points of chateaubriand, laying stress on his affectations, his inflated language, his sentimental exaggeration, upon all the faults which were common to these two men of genius, the defects of their qualities, the energetic rebound from the classic level of orderly taste and measured style. it was the ancient _régime_ contending against a revolutionary uprising, and in poetry, as in politics, the leaders of revolution are sure to be excessive, to force their notes, to frighten their elders, and to scandalise the conservative mind. yet just as chateaubriand, after passing through his period of depression, is now rising again to his proper place in french literature, so we may hope that an impartial survey of byron's verse will help to determine the rank that he is likely to hold permanently, although the high tide of romance in poetry has at this moment fallen to a low ebb, and the spell which it laid upon our forefathers may have lost its power in an altered world. it must be counted to the credit of these romantic writers that at any rate they widened and varied the sphere and the resources of their art, by introducing the oriental element, so to speak, into the imaginative literature of modern europe. they brought the lands of ancient civilisation again within the sphere of poetry, reviving into fresh animation the classic glories of hellas, reopening the gates of the mysterious east, and showing us the greek races still striving, as they were twenty-two centuries earlier, for freedom against the barbarous strength of an asiatic empire. byron was the first of the poets who headed this literary crusade for the succour of christianity against islam in the unending contest between east and west on the shores of the mediterranean, and in this cause he eventually died. chateaubriand, lamartine, and victor hugo were also travellers in asia, and had drawn inspiration from that source; they all instinctively obeyed, like bonaparte, the impulse which sends adventurous and imaginative spirits toward that region of strong passions and primitive manners, where human life is of little matter, and where the tragic situations of drama and fiction may at any time be witnessed in their simple reality. the effect was to introduce fresh blood into the veins of old romance; and byron led the van of an illustrious line of poets who turned their _impressions de voyage_ into glowing verse, for the others only trod in his footsteps and wrote on his model, while lamartine openly imitated him in his _dernier chant de childe harold_. for the first time the eastern tale was now told by a poet who had actually seen eastern lands and races, their scenery and their cities, who drew his figures and landscape with his eye on the objects, and had not mixed his local colours by the process of skimming books of travel for myths, legends, costume, or customs, with such result as may be seen in moore's _lalla rookh_ and in southey's _thalaba_, or even in scott's _talisman_. the preface to this novel shows that scott fully appreciated the risk of competing with byron, albeit in prose, in the field of asiatic romance, yet all his skill avails little to diminish the sense of conventional figure-drawing and of uncertainty in important details when they are not gathered in the field, but only transplanted from the library. byron has noticed in one of his letters the errors of this kind into which a great poet must fall whose accurate observation has been confined mainly to his own country. 'there is much natural talent,' he writes, 'spilt over the _excursion_, yet wordsworth says of greece that it is a land of 'rivers, fertile plains, and sounding shores under a cope of variegated sky. the rivers are dry half the year, the plains are barren, the shores still and tideless, the sky is anything but variegated, being for months and months beautifully blue.' this may be thought trivial criticism, yet it is evidence of the attention given by byron to precise description. his accuracy in oriental costume was also a novelty at that time, when so little was known of oriental lore that even mr. murray 'doubted the propriety of putting the name of cain into the mouth of a mohammedan.' with regard to his characters, we may readily admit that in the _giaour_ or the _bride of abydos_ the heroes and heroines behave and speak after the fashion of high-flying western romance, and that their lofty sentiments in love or death have nothing specifically oriental about them. but this was merely the romantic style used by all byron's contemporaries, and generally accepted by the taste of that day as essential to the metrical rendering of a passionate love-story. it may be argued, with scott, that when a writer of fiction takes in hand a distant age or country, he is obliged to translate ideas and their expression into forms with which his readers are, to some extent, familiar. byron seasoned his oriental tales with phrases and imagery borrowed from the east; but whatever scenic or characteristic effects might have thus been produced are seriously marred by the explanatory notices and erudite references to authorities that are appended to the text. this fashion of garnishing with far-fetched outlandish words, in order to give the requisite flavour of time or place, was peculiar to the new romantic school of his era; it was the poetical dialect of the time, and byron employed it too copiously. yet, with all his faults, he remains a splendid colourist, who broke through a limited mannerism in poetry, and led forth his readers into an unexplored region of cloudless sky and purple sea, where the serene aspect of nature could be powerfully contrasted with the shadow of death and desolation cast over it by the violence of man. undoubtedly this contrast, between fair scenery and foul barbarism, had been presented more than once in poetry; yet no one before byron had brought it out with the sure hand of an eye-witness, or with such ardent sympathy for a nation which had been for centuries trodden under the feet of aliens in race and religion, yet still clung to its ancient traditions of freedom. throughout his descriptive poems, from _childe harold_ to _don juan_, it is the true and forcible impression, taken from sight of the thing itself, that gives vigour and animation to his pictures, and that has stamped on the memory the splendid opening of the _giaour_, the meditations in venice and rome, the glorious scenery of the greek islands, and even such single lines as 'by the blue rushing of the arrowy rhone.' in the art of painting what may be called historical landscape, where retrospective associations give intellectual colour to the picture, byron has very few rivals. his descriptions of the lake of geneva, of clarens, of the trojan plain-- 'high barrows, without marble or a name, a vast, untilled, and mountain-skirted plain, and ida in the distance'-- have the quality of faithful drawing illumined by imaginative power. they have certainly touched the emotions and enhanced the pleasure of all travellers in the last three generations whose minds are accessible to poetic suggestion; and if at the present day their style be thought too elaborate and the allusions commonplace, it cannot be denied that the fine art of english composition would be poorer without them. the stanzas in _childe harold_ on waterloo are full of the energy which takes hold of and poetically elevates the incidents of war--the distant cannon, the startled dancers, the transition from the ball-room to the battlefield, from the gaiety of life to the stillness of death. nothing very original or profound in all this, it may be said; yet the great difficulty of dealing adequately with heroic action in contemporary verse, of writing a poem on a campaign that has just been reported in the newspapers, is exemplified by the fact that walter scott's two compositions on waterloo are failures; nor has any poet since byron yet succeeded in giving us a good modern battlepiece. nevertheless there is much in byron's longer poems (excepting always _don juan_) that seems tedious to the modern reader; there are descriptions and declamations too long drawn-out to sustain the interest; and there are many lines that are superfluous, untidy, and sometimes ungrammatical. one can only plead, in extenuation of these defects, that the fashion of his day was for long metrical romance, in which it is difficult to maintain the high standard of careful composition exacted by the latest criticism. it is almost impossible to tell a long story in verse that shall be throughout poetical. and one main reason why this fashion has nearly passed away may be surmised to be that the versified narrative cannot adapt itself in this respect to the present taste, which is impatient of fluent lengthy heroics, refusing to accept them for the sake of some finely executed passages. southey's epics are now quite unreadable, and many of the blemishes in byron's poetry are inseparable from the romantic style; they are to be found in scott's metrical tales, which have much redundancy and some weak versification; while his chiefs and warriors often talk a stilted chivalrous language which would now be discarded as theatrical. byron's personages have the high tragic accent and costume; yet one must admit that they have also a fierce vitality; and as for the crimes and passions of his turkish pashas and greek patriots, he had actually seen the men and heard of their deeds. the fact that he also portrayed more unreal characters in dismal drapery--lara, conrad, and manfred, as the mouthpieces of splenetic misanthropy--has led to some unjust depreciation of his capacity for veritable delineation. macaulay, for example, in his essay on byron, observes that 'johnson, the man whom don juan met in the slave-market, is a striking failure. how differently would sir walter scott have drawn a bluff, fearless englishman in such a situation!' and mr. swinburne echoes this criticism. but it is unfair to compare a minor character, slightly sketched into a poem for the purposes of the plot, with the full-length portrait that might have been made of him by a first-class artist in prose. the proper comparison would be between the figures in the metrical romances of the two poets, whereby it might be shown that scott could take as little trouble as byron did about an unimportant subsidiary actor. in regard to the leading heroes and heroines, scott's poetic creations are hardly more interesting or dramatic than byron's; and whenever he makes, even in prose, an excursion into asia, his figure-drawing becomes conventional. but he was usually at the disadvantage, from which byron was certainly free, of being hampered by an inartistic propensity to make virtuous heroes triumph in the long run. yet it must be admitted that no poet of the same calibre has turned out so much loose uneven work as byron. his lapses into lines that are lame or dull are the more vexatious to the correct modern ear when, as sometimes happens, they spoil a fine passage, and in the midst of a superb flight his muse comes down with a broken wing. in the subjoined stanza, for example, from the waterloo episode in _childe harold_, the first five lines are clear, strenuous, and concise, while the next three are confused and clumsy; so that though he recovers himself in the final line, the general effect is much damaged: 'last noon beheld them full of lusty life, last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, the midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, the morn the marshalling in arms--the day battle's magnificently stern array. the thunder-clouds close o'er it, _which when rent, the earth is covered thick with other clay, which her own clay shall cover_, heaped and pent, rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent.' these blots, and there are many, become less pardonable when we observe, from the new edition, that byron by no means neglected revision of his work. but his impetuous temper, and the circumstance of his writing far from the printing-press, encouraged hasty execution; and though the most true remark that 'easy writing is devilish hard reading' is his own, though he praised excessively the chiselled verse of pope, he was always inclined to pose as one who threw off jets of boiling inspiration, and in one letter he compares himself to the tiger who makes or misses his point in one spring. he ranked pope first among english poets, yet he learnt nothing in that school; he pretended to undervalue shakespeare, yet he must have had the plays by heart, for his letters bristle with quotations from them. his avowed taste in poetry is hard to reconcile with his own performances: his verse was rushing, irregular, audacious, yet he overpraises the smooth composition of rogers; he dealt in heroic themes and passionate love-stories, yet crabbe's humble pastorals had their full charm for him. except crabbe and rogers, he declared, 'we are all--scott, wordsworth, moore, campbell, and i--upon a wrong revolutionary poetical system, not worth a damn in itself;' but among these are some leaders of the great nineteenth-century renaissance in english verse; and byron was foremost in the revolt against unnatural insipidity which has brought us through romance to realism, by his clear apprehension of natural form and colour, and even by the havoc which he made among conventional respectabilities. he dwelt too incessantly upon his own sorrows and sufferings; and in the gloomy soliloquies of his dramatic characters we have an actor constantly reappearing in his favourite part. yet this also was a novelty to the generation brought up on the impersonal poetry of the classic school; and here, again, he is a forerunner of the self-reflecting analytical style that is common in our own day; for there is a byronic echo in the 'divine despair' of tennyson. the melancholy brooding spirit, dissatisfied with society and detesting complacency, had for some time been in the air; it had affected the literature of france and germany; werther, obermann, and rené are all moulded on the same type with childe harold; yet sainte-beuve rightly says that this identity of type does not mean imitation--it means that the writers were all in the same atmosphere. there is everywhere the same reaction against philosophic optimism and the same antipathy to the ways of mankind 'so vain and melancholy,' they sought refuge from inborn ennui or irritability among the mountains, on the sea, or in distant voyages, and they instinctively embodied these moods and feelings in various personages of fiction, in the solitary wanderer, in the fierce outlaw, in the man 'with chilling mystery of mien,' who rails against heaven and humanity. their literature, in short, however overcoloured it may have been, did represent a generally prevailing characteristic among men of excessive sensibility at a time of stir and tumult in the world around them; it was not a mere unnatural invention, though we must leave to the psychologist the task of tracing a connection between this mental attitude and the circumstances that generated it. but the self-occupied mind has no dramatic power, and so their repertory contained one single character, a reproduction of their own in different attitudes and situations. chateaubriand may be said never to have dropped his mask; whereas byron, whose english sense of humour must have fought against taking himself so very seriously, relieved his conscience by lapses into epigram, irony, and persiflage. thus in the same year ( ), and from the same place (venice), he produced the fourth canto of _childe harold_, full of deep longing for unbroken solitude: 'there is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there is society, where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar;' and also _beppo_, a satirical sketch of the loose and easy venetian society in which he was actually living. here, again, his somewhat ribald letters from venice do his romantic poetry some wrong; but in fact he had a diabolic pleasure in betraying himself, and his _mémoires d'outre tombe_, if they had been preserved, would have been very different from chateaubriand's elaborate autobiography. it was the spectacle of christians groaning under turkish oppression, and of their heroic resistance, that inspired three of byron's finest poems, the _giaour_, the _bride of abydos_, the _siege of corinth_. on this subject he was so heartily in earnest that he could even lose sight of his own woes; and notwithstanding the exuberance of colour and sentiment, these tales still hold their place in the first rank of metrical romance. their construction is imperfect, even fragmentary; yet while scott could put together and tell his story much better, not even scott could drive it onward and sustain the verse at a high level with greater energy, or decorate his narrative with finer description of scenery, or give more intensity to the moments of fierce action. the splendid apostrophe to greece in the _giaour_-- 'clime of the unforgotten brave! whose land from plain to mountain cave was freedom's home or glory's grave'-- has forty lines of unsurpassed beauty and fire, written in the manuscript, as a note tells us, in a hurried and almost illegible hand--an authentic example of true improvisation which the elaborate poets of our own day may match if they can. the tumid phrase and melodramatic figuring-- 'dark and unearthly is the scowl that glares beneath his dusky cowl'-- are now worn-out theatrical properties; yet those who have seen the untamed asiatic might find it hard to overdraw the murderous hate and sullen ferocity that his face, or his victim's, will occasionally disclose. the heroes, at any rate, love and die in a masculine way; it is the old tragic theme of bitter unmerited misfortune, of daring adventure that ends fatally, without any of the wailing sensuality that infects the more harmonious poetry of a later day. there are, perhaps, for modern taste, too many outlandish words and references to eastern customs or beliefs, requiring glossaries and marginal explanations; nor does the profuse annotation of the present edition lighten a reader's burden in this respect. byron had no business to write 'by pale phingari's trembling light,' leaving us at the mercy of assiduous editors to expound that 'phingari' is the greek [greek: phengarion], and stands here for the moon. and if he could have spared us such orientalisms as 'al sirât's arch,' or 'avenging monkir's scythe,' we should have mixed up less desultory reading with the enjoyment of fine passages. he gives us too much of his local colouring, he checks the rush of his verse by superfluous metaphors, he has weak and halting lines. the style is heated and fuming, yet the dainty art-critic who lays hands on such metal thrown red hot from the forge may chance to burn his fingers over it. nor must we forget that in these poems byron brought the classic lands of greece and the levant within the sphere of modern romance, and has unquestionably added some 'deathless pages' to english literature. byron has told us why he adopted for the _corsair_, and afterwards for _lara_, 'the good old and now neglected heroic couplet': 'the stanza of spenser is, perhaps, too slow and dignified for narrative, though i confess it is the measure after my own heart; scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto triumphed completely over the fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius; in blank verse milton, thomson, and our dramatists are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rocks on which they are kindled.'[ ] we doubt much, from a comparison of the poems, whether the experiment of changing his metre was successful. the short eight-syllabled line displayed byron's capacity for vigorous concision and swift movement; it is eminently suited for strength and speed; whereas in the slow processional couplet he becomes diffuse, often tedious; he has room for more rhetoric and verbosity; he falls more into the error of describing at length the character and sentiments of his gloomy heroes, instead of letting them act and speak for themselves. at moments when inspiration is running low, and a gap has to be filled up, the shorter line needs less padding, and can be more rapidly run over when it is weak. whereas a feeble heroic couplet becomes ponderous and sinks more quickly into bathos--as in the following sample from the _corsair_: 'oh! burst the haram, wrong not on your lives one female form--remember--_we_ have wives.' and the consequence has been that _lara_ and the _corsair_ are now, we believe, the least readable of byron's metrical romances. of byron's dramas we are obliged to say that, to borrow his own metaphor, he would have fared better as a poet if he had taken warning from the beacons, and had given blank verse a wide berth, instead of setting himself boldly on a course which, as he evidently knew, is full of peril for fast-sailing, free-going versifiers. he saw that he could not approach the great masters of this measure, he was resolved not to imitate them; and so he appears to have chosen the singular alternative of writing nothing that should in the least resemble them. his general object as a playwriter is stated, in a letter about _sardanapalus_, to have been 'to dramatise striking passages of history and mythology.' 'you will find,' he adds most truly, 'all this very unlike shakespeare; and so much the better in one sense, for i look upon him to be the worst of models, though the most extraordinary of writers. it has been my object to be as simple and severe as alfieri, and i have broken down the poetry as nearly as i could to common language.' and undoubtedly he did break it down so effectually that much of his blank verse hobbles like a lame horse, being often mere prose printed in short lines. here are two specimens, not cut into lengths, which have no metrical construction at all: 'unless you keep company with him, and you seem scarce used to such high society, you can't tell how he approaches.'[ ] 'where thou shalt pass thy days in peace, but on condition that the three young princes are given up as hostages,'[ ] many others of the same quality might be given, in which the _disjecti membra poetæ_ would be exceedingly hard to find. it is surprising that a writer of byron's experience should have fallen into the error of supposing that simplicity could be attained by the mere use of common language. for even wordsworth, who is a master of simple strength, could never allow his peasants to talk their ordinary vernacular without a fatal drop into the commonplace; and all verse that is to be plain and unaffected in style and thought requires the most studious composition. byron seems scarcely to have understood that blank verse has any rules of scansion, and his signal failure in this metre has become less tolerable and more conspicuous, since keats in his day, and tennyson after him, have carefully studied the construction of blank verse, and have left us admirable examples of its capacity for romantic expression. it is indeed strange that byron should have fancied that he could use so delicate an instrument with a rough unpractised hand. there are some vigorous passages scattered through the plays, and we have it on record that dr. parr could not sleep a wink after reading _sardanapalus_. nevertheless, we fear that the present generation will find little cause for demurring to jeffrey's judgment upon the tragedies, that they are for the most part 'solemn, prolix, and ostentatious.' they were not composed, as byron himself explained, 'with the most remote view to the stage,' so that he had not before his eyes the wholesome fear of a critical audience. in truth it must be admitted that he lacked the true dramatic instinct; he could only set up his leading figures to deliver imposing speeches appropriate to a tragic situation; and one may guess that the consciousness of awkward handling weighed upon the spirit and style of his blank verse, for his ear seems to have completely misled him when it had lost the guidance of recurrent rhyme. of _cain: a mystery_, one must speak reverently, since walter scott, to whom it was dedicated, wrote that the author had 'matched milton on his own ground'; yet in lucifer, who leads the dialogue, we have little more than a spectral embodiment of byron's own rebellious temper; and in this poem, as in _manfred_, the discussion of metaphysical problems carries him beyond his depth. there are, nevertheless, some fine declamatory passages; and we may quote as a curiosity one soft line, fresh from the swiss mountains: 'pipes in the liberal air _mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd_,' which is to be found in _manfred_ and might have been taken from the _excursion_. when we turn from the plays to the lyrics, we see at once the importance, to a poet, of choosing rightly the metrical form that is the best expression of his peculiar genius. in some of these shorter poems byron rises to his highest level, and by these will his popularity be permanently maintained. they are certainly of very unequal merit; yet when byron is condemned for artificiality and glaring colour, we may point to the poem beginning 'and thou art dead, as young and fair,' where form and feeling are in harmony throughout eight long stanzas, without a single line that is feeble or overcharged: 'the better days of life were ours; the worst can be but mine; the sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, shall never more be thine. the silence of that dreamless sleep i envy now too much to weep; nor need i to repine that all those charms have passed away, i might have watched through long decay.' there is no novelty in the ideas, nor does he open the deeper vein of thoughts that touch the mind with a sense of mortality. yet the verse has a masculine brevity that renders effectively the attitude in which men may well be content firmly to confront an irreparable misfortune. in his poems of strenuous action, although byron has not the rare quality of heroic simplicity, he could at times strike a high vibrating war note, and could interpret romantically the patriotic spirit. the two stanzas which we quote from the hebrew melodies show that he could now and then shake off the redundant metaphors and epithets that overload too much of his impetuous verse, and use his strength freely: 'though thou art fall'n, while we are free thou shalt not taste of death! the generous blood that flowed from thee disdained to sink beneath; within our veins its currents be, thy spirit on our breath. 'thy name, our charging hosts along, shall be their battle word! thy fall, the theme of choral song from virgin voices poured! to weep would do thy glory wrong; thou shalt not be deplored.' and we have another magnificent example of byron's lyrical power in the _isles of greece_, where the two lines, 'ah, no! the voices of the dead sound like a distant torrent's fall,' drop suddenly into the elegiac strain, into a mournful echo that dwells upon the ear, followed by the rising note of a call to arms. it must be remembered that nothing is so rare as a stirring war-song, and that in our time we have had a good many attempts--almost all failures; whereas the _isles of greece_ will long continue to stir the masculine imagination of englishmen. on the other hand, it must be admitted that byron's occasional pieces abound with cheap pathos, dubious fervour, and a kind of commonplace sentimentality that comes out in the form as well as in the feeling of his inferior work. the rhymes are apt to be hackneyed, the similes are sometimes tagged on awkwardly instead of being weaved into the texture, the expression has often lost its strength, and the emotion lacks sincerity. byron, like his brother poets, wrote copiously what was published indiscriminately; but if the first-class work had not been very good it would never have buoyed up above sheer oblivion so much that was third-rate and bad. his pieces are much _too_ occasional, for he was prone to indulgence in hasty verse whenever the fit was upon him, or as a method of enlisting public sympathy with his own misconduct, so that he was constantly appearing before the world as a perfidious sentimentalist, with a false air of lamentation over the misfortunes which he had brought upon himself, as in the poems of the separation. yet when he shook off his personal grief and took to politics, no other poet could more vividly express his intense living interest in the great events of his time, or strike the proper note of some great catastrophe. it may be affirmed that the _ode to napoleon_ is better than anything else that has been written in english upon the most astonishing career in modern history: 'the triumph and the vanity, the rapture of the strife-- the earthquake-voice of victory, to thee the breath of life; the sword, the sceptre, and that sway which man seemed made but to obey, wherewith renown was rife-- all quelled; dark spirit, what must be the madness of thy memory! 'the desolator desolate! the victor overthrown! the arbiter of others' fate a suppliant for his own! is it some yet imperial hope that with such change can calmly cope? or dread of death alone? to die a prince--or live a slave-- thy choice is most ignobly brave.' in the first of these two stanzas the seventh line is weak and breaks the rapid rush of the verse; but the high pressure and impetus of the poem are sustained throughout twenty stanzas, producing the effect of an improvisatore who stops rather from want of breath than from any other lack of inspiration. in this respect the ode is a rare poetical exploit; for all poems composed under the spur of the moment, upon some memorable incident that has just startled the world, must be more or less improvised, and must hit the right pitch of extraordinary popular emotion. it is the difficulty of turning out good work under such arduous conditions that has too often shipwrecked or stranded some unlucky laureate. there is one province of verse, if not exactly of poetry, in which byron reigns undisputedly, though it is far distant from the land of lyrics. in his latest and longest production, _don juan_, he tells us that his 'sere fancy has fallen into the yellow leaf': 'and the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk turns what was once romantic to burlesque.' it was in _beppo: a venetian story_ that he dropped, for the first time, the weapon of trenchant sarcasm and invective, with no very fine edge upon it, which he flourished in his youth, and took up the tone of light humorous satire upon society. he soon acquired mastery over the metre (which was suggested, as is well known, by hookham frere's _whistlecraft_); and in _don juan_ he produced a long, rambling poem of a kind never before attempted, and still far beyond any subsequent imitations, in the english language. of a certainty there is much that it is by no means desirable to imitate, for the english literature does not assimilate the element of cynical libertinism, which indeed becomes coarse on an english tongue. yet it is remarkable that the whistlecraft metre, although byron could manage it with point and spirit, has never produced more than insipid _pastiche_ in later hands. but while _beppo_ may be classed as pure burlesque, _don juan_ strikes various keys, ironical and voluptuous, grave and gay, rising sometimes to the level of strenuous realistic narrative in the episodes of the shipwreck and the siege, falling often into something like grotesque buffoonery, with much picturesque description, many animated lines, and occasional touches of effective pathos. as a story it has the picaresque flavour of _gil blas_, presenting a variety of scenes and adventures strung together without any definite plot; as a poem its reputation rests upon some passages of indisputable beauty; while byron's own experiences, grievances, and animosities, personal or political, run through the whole performance like an accompaniment, and break out occasionally into humorous sarcasm or violent denunciations. that the overheated fervour of a stormy youth should cool down into disdainful irony, under the chill of disappointment and exhaustion, was natural enough; and this unfinished poem may be regarded as typical of byron's erratic life, full of loose intrigue and adventure, with its sudden and premature ending. it is in _don juan_ that byron stands forth as the founder and precursor of modern realism in poetry. he has now finally exorcised the hyperbolic fiend that vexed his youth, he has cast off the illusions of romance, he knows the ground he treads upon, and his pictures are drawn from life; he is the foremost of those who have ventured boldly upon the sombre actualities of war and bloodshed:-- 'but let me put an end unto my theme, there was an end of ismail, hapless town, far flashed her burning towers o'er danube's stream, and redly ran his blushing waters down. the horrid warwhoop and the shriller scream rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown; of forty thousand that had manned the wall some hundreds breathed, the rest were silent all.' 'a versified paraphrase,' it may be said, 'of sober history,' yet withal very different from the most animated prose, which must be kept at a lower temperature of intense expression. if we turn to quieter scenes--which are called picturesque because the artist, like a painter, has selected the right subject and point of view, and has grouped his details with exquisite skill--we may take the stanzas describing the return of the pirate lambro to his greek island-- 'he saw his white walls shining in the sun, his garden trees all shadowy and green'-- as a fine example of pure objective writing, which lays out the whole scene truthfully, with the direct vision of one who has seen it. one does not find here the suggestive intimations, the wide imaginative horizon of higher poetry; there are no musical blendings of sound and sense, as in such lines as tennyson's 'by the long wash of australasian seas.' yet in these passages byron has after his own fashion served nature faithfully, and he has preserved to us some masterly sketches of life and manners that have long since disappeared. the greek islands have since fallen under the dominion of european uniformity; the costume of the people, the form of their government, are shabby imitations of western models. but the cloudless sky, the sun slowly sinking behind morea's hills, the sea on whose azure brow time writes no wrinkle, and the marbled steep of sunium, are still unchanged; and the peaceful tourist in these waters will see at once that byron was a true workman in line and colour, and will feel the intellectual pleasure that comes from accurate yet artistic interpretation of natural beauties. the poem of _don juan_ is, therefore, a miscellany, connected on the picturesque side with _childe harold_, and by its mocking spirit with _beppo_ and the _vision of judgment_, the two pieces that may be classed as pure burlesque. the irreverent persiflage of the _vision_ belongs to the now obsolete school of voltaire, and in biting wit and daring ridicule the performance is not unworthy of that supreme master in _diablerie_. nor can it be asserted that this lashing sarcasm was undeserved, or that all the profanity was in byron's parody, for southey's conception of the almighty as a high tory judge, with an obsequious jury of angels, holding a trial of george iii., browbeating the witnesses against him and acquitting him with acclamation, so that he leaves the court without a stain on his character, was false and abject enough to stir the bile of a less irritable liberal than byron. there exists, moreover, in the mind of every good english whig a lurking sympathy with the miltonic satan, insomuch that all subsequent attempts by minor poets to humiliate and misrepresent him have invariably failed. southey's _vision_, and robert montgomery's libel upon satan, have each undergone the same fate of being utterly extinguished, knocked clean out of english literature by one single crushing onslaught of byron and macaulay respectively. our conclusion must be brief, for in fact it is not easy to propound to the readers of this review any general observations, which shall be new as well as true, upon a man's life and works that have been subjected to incessant scrutiny and criticism throughout the nineteenth century. at the beginning of this period byron found himself matched, in the poetic arena, against contemporary rivals of first-class genius and striking originality. and from his death almost up to the century's close there has been no time when some considerable poet has not occupied the forefront of english letters, and stamped his impression on the public mind. variety in style and ideas has produced many vicissitudes of taste in poetry; it has been discovered that narrative can be better done in prose, and so the novel has largely superseded story-telling in verse. there have also been great political and social changes, and all these things have severely tested the staying powers of a writer who is too closely associated with his own period to be reckoned among those wide-ranging spirits whom shelley has called 'the kings of thought.' nevertheless the new edition of byron is appearing at a moment which is, we think, not inopportune. there is just now, as by a coincidence there was in the year , a dearth of poetic production; we have fallen among lean years; we have come to a break in the succession of notable poets; the victorian celebrities have one by one passed away; and we can only hope that the first quarter of the twentieth century may bring again some such bountiful harvest as was vouchsafed to our grandfathers at the beginning of the nineteenth. in the meantime the reading of byron may operate as a wholesome tonic upon the literary nerves of the rising generation; for, as mr. swinburne has generously acknowledged, with the emphatic concurrence of matthew arnold, his poems have 'the excellence of sincerity and strength.' now one tendency of latter-day verse has been toward that over-delicacy of fibre which has been termed decadence, toward the preference of correct metrical harmonies over distinct and incisive expression, toward vague indications of meaning. in this form the melody prevails over the matter; the style inclines to become precious and garnished with verbal artifice. some recent french poets, indeed, in their anxiety to correct the troublesome lucidity of their mother-tongue, have set up the school of symbolism, which deals in half-veiled metaphor and sufficiently obscure allusion, relying upon subtly suggestive phrases for evoking associations. for ephemeral infirmities of this kind the straightforward virility of byron's best work may serve as an antidote. on the other hand, we have the well-knit strenuous verse of extreme realism, wrought out by a poet in his shirt-sleeves, with rhymes clear-sounding like the tap of hammer on anvil, who sings of rough folk by sea and land, and can touch national emotion in regard to the incidents or politics of the moment. he paints without varnish, in hard outline, avoiding metaphor and ornamental diction generally; taking his language so freely out of the mouths of men in actual life that he makes occasional slips into vulgarity. he is at the opposite pole from the symbolist; but true poetry demands much more distinction of style and nobility of thought. and here again byron's high lyrical notes may help to maintain elevation of tone and to preserve the romantic tradition. his poetry, like his character, is full of glaring imperfections; yet he wrote as one of the great world in which he made for a time such a noise; and after all that has been said about his moral delinquencies, it is certain that we could have better spared a better man. in one of tennyson's earlier letters is the following passage, with reference to something written at the time in _philip van artevelde_: 'he does not sufficiently take into consideration the peculiar strength evolved by such writers as byron and shelley, who, however mistaken they may be, did yet give the world another heart, and a new pulse, and so we are kept going. blessed be those who grease the wheels of the old world.' this is the large-hearted, far-seeing judgment of one who could survey the whole line and evolutionary succession of english verse, being himself destined to close the long list of nineteenth-century poets, which was opened by byron and his contemporaries. the time has surely now come when we may leave discussing byron as a social outlaw, and cease groping after more evidence of his misdeeds. the office of true criticism is to show that he made so powerful an impression on our literature as to win for himself permanent rank in its annals, and that his work, with all its shortcomings, does yet mark and illustrate an important stage in the connected development of our english poetry. footnotes: [ ] _the works of lord byron: a new, revised, and enlarged edition._--'letters and journals.' edited by rowland e. prothero, m. a. 'poetry.' edited by ernest hartley coleridge, m. a. london, john murray, .--_edinburgh review_, october . [ ] preface to the _corsair_. [ ] _the deformed transformed_ (part i. scene i.). [ ] _sardanapalus_ (act v. scene i.). the english utilitarians[ ] mr. leslie stephen combines the faculty of acute and searching criticism with a style that is singularly clear, incisive, and exact. his wide knowledge of english literature, and the close study which he has given to the history of english opinions and controversies, speculative, political, and economical, have enabled him to survey an extensive field, to trace the lines of origin and development, to disentangle complicated ideas, and to summarise conclusions in a masterly manner. nearly twenty-five years have passed since he published his work on _english thought in the eighteenth century_, and his present book on the utilitarians continues, and indeed brings down to our own time, a similar investigation of the course of certain views, principles, and doctrines which had taken their shape in england and france during the period preceding the french revolution, and which profoundly influenced political discussion throughout the first half of the nineteenth century. but on this occasion mr. stephen's inquiry does not range over the whole area thus laid open, though his subject compels him to make several excursions into the general region of philosophical and political disputation. his main purpose is to relate the history of a creed propagated by a group of remarkable men, who took hold of some prominent theories and doctrines generated by the rationalism of the preceding century, and endeavoured to make them the basis and framework of a system for improving the condition of the english people. their immediate object was to abolish intolerable abuses of power by the governing classes, and radically to reform on scientific principles the haphazard blundering administration which was assumed to be the source of all evil. mr. stephen describes and explains, in short, the rise, progress, and decay of utilitarianism. such a system, by its nature and aims, is evidently practical; it is directed towards a change of laws and an alteration of the prevailing methods of government. to the philosophic minds of the eighteenth-century reformers in england and france, it seemed evident, that any general conclusions upon questions vitally concerning the interests of mankind should be reached by convincing demonstration, should start from axioms, and proceed by a connected chain of logical argument. during the latter half of that century england and france, so incessantly at war and so different in character and in their governing institutions, were nevertheless in alliance intellectually. they were then (with holland) the only countries in the world where public opinion had free play, and where discussion of philosophic problems was actively carried on; and between them there was a constant interchange of ideas. now in all speculations, on things human or divine, there have existed immemorially two schools or tendencies of thought, two ways of approaching the subject, corresponding, we may conjecture, to a radical difference of intellectual predispositions. you may start by the high _a priori_ road, or you may feel your way gradually by induction from verifiable experiences; and of these two main currents of speculative opinion whichever is the stronger at any given period will affect every branch of thought and action. coleridge appealed to history as proving that all epoch-making revolutions coincide with the rise or fall of metaphysical systems, and he attributed the power of abstract theories over revolutionary movements to the craving of man for higher guidance than sensations. however this may be, it may be affirmed that the rationalism of the eighteenth century in england and france found room by replacing the decaying theologies and substituting reason for the traditional authority. this was the period that produced in france the philosophic conception of abstract humanity, everywhere the same naturally, with a superficial distinction of circumstances, but differentiated in the main by bad laws, artificial inequalities, and social injustice. in france the method of deducing conclusions from abstract principles concerning the rights of man and the social compact gained predominance, until they were shaped by rousseau and others into the formal indictment of a corrupt society. it was the point and impulse thus given to very real grievances and irritation against privilege, that precipitated the french revolution. among the english, on the other hand, their public spirit, the connection of large classes with national affairs, and their habit of compromise, had predisposed the leading minds towards cautious views in philosophy and in politics; and at the century's end their inbred distrust of abstract propositions as a basis for social reconstruction received startling confirmation from the tremendous explosion in france. the foregoing remarks give in bare outline the conditions and circumstances, very carefully examined and skilfully analysed by mr. leslie stephen, that prepared and cleared the ground for the utilitarians. their object was not to reconstruct, hardly to remodel, existing forms of government; it was to remove abuses, and to devise remedies for the evils of an unwieldy and complicated administrative machine, clogged by stupidity and selfishness. and the plan of mr. stephen's first volume is to describe the state of society at this period, the condition of agriculture and the industries, the position of the church and the universities, of the army and navy, the intellectual tendencies indicated by the philosophic doctrines, and generally to sketch the political and social aspects of england rather more than a hundred years ago. he is writing, as he says, the history of a sect; and in dealing with the tenets of that sect he lays prominent stress upon what may be called the environment, upon the various circumstances which may influence forms of belief, and particularly upon the idiosyncrasies of the men who held and propagated them. it is for this latter reason that he has given us brief and interesting biographies of those whose influence was greatest in shaping and directing the movement, illustrating his narrative by portraits of them as they lived and acted. all these things help us towards understanding how it comes to pass that conclusions which seem clear as daylight to earnest thinkers in one generation may be abandoned by succeeding generations as manifestly erroneous. the inquiry also shows why, and to what extent, some of the doctrines that were scientifically propounded by the utilitarians did initiate and lead up to an important reformation in the methods of english government. 'it might be stated as a paradox' (mr. stephen observes) 'that, whereas in france the most palpable evils arose from the excessive power of the central government, and in england the most palpable evils arose from the feebleness of the central government, the french reformers demanded more government, and the english reformers less government.... the solution seems to be easy. in france, reformers such as turgot and the economists were in favour of an enlightened despotism, because ... it would suppress the exclusive privileges of a class which, doing nothing in return, had become a mere burthen, encumbering all social development. but in england the privileged class was identical with the governing class.' the english aristocracy, in fact, were actually doing the country's business, though they were doing it badly, and paid themselves much too highly for very indifferent administration. yet the english nation acquiesced in the system, because the middle classes were growing rich and prosperous, and the state interfered very little with their private affairs. to this general statement of the case we agree; but we may point out that in terming our aristocracy a privileged class one material distinction has been passed over. for whereas the french _noblesse_ constituted a caste partly exempted by birthright from the general taxation, and vested with certain vexatious rights to which no duties corresponded, the english aristocracy possessed legally no privileges at all. it was not an exclusive order, but an upper class that was constantly recruited, being open to all successful men; and such a governing body is naturally indifferent to reforms, because it is very little affected by administrative imperfections or abuses. pauperism and ignorance may fester long among the masses before wealthy and prosperous rulers discover that the interests of their own class are imperilled; the state of prisons does not concern them personally; and so long as life and property are fairly secure, they care little about an efficient police. the englishman of whom a frenchman reported with amazement that he consoled himself for having been robbed by the reflection that there were no policemen in his country, must have belonged to this comfortable class. and the inveterate conservation of abuses in the church, the law, and the army may be partially explained in a similar way. in france the church and the army were really privileged bodies: the vast ecclesiastical revenues were protected from taxation, and the commissioned ranks of the army were reserved for the _noblesse_; the french parliaments were close magisterial corporations. in england these were all open professions, with no special fiscal rights or social limitations; the prizes were available for general competition, and as every one had a chance of winning them by interest or even merit, there was no formidable outcry against the system. in politics, therefore, as well as in philosophy, the prevailing habit of the english mind was more moderate, less thorough-going and subversive, than in france. mr. stephen makes a keen and rapid analysis of the common-sense psychology, as expounded by reid and dugald stewart, to show the correspondence at this period between abstract reasoning and concrete political views, and to illustrate the limitations which cautious scotch professors endeavoured to place upon the inexorable scepticism of hume. the general spirit of their teaching was empirical, but the logical consequence of taking experience as the sole foundation of belief was evidently to cut off the hidden springs of moral consciousness, and to support the derivation of ethics from utility. in philosophy, as in politics, there was a sympathetic recoil from extremes. so common sense was brought in as capable of certain intuitive or original judgments which were in themselves necessary, and which luckily coincided with some of the firmest convictions among intelligent mankind. as carlyle said long afterwards, the scottish philosophers started from the mechanical premises suggested by hume. 'they let loose instinct as an indiscriminatory bandog to guard them against his conclusions; they tugged lustily against the logical chain by which hume was so coldly towing them and the world into bottomless abysses of atheism and fatalism.' to save themselves from materialism they invented intuitions, and thereby incurred the wrath of orthodox utilitarianism, which was rigidly empirical. they were, however, accepted in england, where any haven was welcome, however uncertain might be the holding ground, which sheltered the vessel from being blown by windy speculation out into a shoreless sea. the scottish philosophy therefore 'was in philosophy what whiggism was in politics. like political whiggism, it included a large element of enlightened and liberal rationalism; but, like whiggism, it covered an aversion to thorough-going logic. the english politician was suspicious of abstract principle, but would cover his acceptance of tradition and rule of thumb by general phrases about liberty and toleration. the whig in philosophy equally accepted the traditional creed, sufficiently purified from cruder elements, and sheltered his doctrine by speaking of intuitions and laws of thought.' the foregoing quotation may serve to indicate briefly the situation, in politics and philosophy, at the time when bentham, 'the patriarch of the english utilitarians,' appeared upon the scene. mr. stephen's sketch of his life and doctrines, which occupies the latter half of the book's first volume, is eminently instructive and often amusing. he excels in tracing the continuity of ideas, and in showing how they converge upon the point of view that is gradually reached by some writer of superior force and activity, who rejects, alters, or uses them in the process of working out the doctrines of some new school. it was the spread of philanthropy, of a conscientious fellow-feeling for those classes of society who suffered from neglect and misrule, that fostered the movement towards political and social reform. this feeling was represented in bentham's celebrated formula, originally invented by hutcheson, about 'the greatest happiness of the greatest number'; and the criterion of utility was laid down as having the widest possible application to all sorts and conditions of men. self-help, individualism, _laisser-faire_, the economic view that each should be left free to pursue his own interests, were principles intended to operate for the removal of abuses and the destruction of unfair privileges: they were promulgated for the relief of humanity at large, although the system which was built up on them came afterwards to be denounced as narrow, selfish, and materialistic. these ideas were undoubtedly congenial to the habits and character of englishmen, who, like free men everywhere, had a traditional distrust of strong and active government, preferring king log, on the whole, to king stork. inequalities and incomprehensible laws were to be seen in the course of nature no less than in the english constitution; and in either case a man might rely upon his wits and energy to deal with them. it might be that the defects in human government could only be remedied by employing the forces of government to cure them; but if you began to set going the administrative engine there was no saying where it might stop. bentham held all government to be an evil, though he differed from the modern anarchist in holding it to be a necessary evil; yet he needed a strong scientific administration for the purpose of rooting out inveterate abuses. and this was the dilemma that confronted him. he worked out his solution of the problem by laying out a whole system of morals and a science of politics, with utility as their base and standard, which has profoundly influenced all subsequent legislation, and led eventually to much more extensive theories regarding the sphere and duties of government than he himself would have advocated or approved. the principal events of bentham's life, and the development of his opinions, are condensed by mr. stephen into one chapter with his usual biographical skill. bentham started in life as a barrister, and attended blackstone's lectures, with the result that he was deeply impressed by the fallacies of the legal theories there expounded, and soon afterward vowed eternal war against the demon of chicane. he struggled against narrow means and obscurity until he made the acquaintance of lord shelburne, through whom he became acquainted with other leading statesmen, and with miss caroline fox, to whom he made a futile proposal of marriage some years later. at bowood he also met dumont, and thereby formed his connection with the french jurists, though in his old age he declared that dumont, his chief interpreter abroad, 'did not understand a word of his meaning'; the true cause of his quarrel being that dumont criticised bentham's dinners. he travelled on the continent, and lived some time in russia. soon afterward the revolution made a clean sweep of all the old institutions in france, and thus laid open a bare and level ground just suited, as bentham thought, for an architect who had his portfolio full of new administrative plans. it was long, indeed, before he could understand why systematic reforms were not immediately accepted as soon as their utility was logically demonstrated. he lost no time in providing the french national assembly with elaborate schemes for the reconstruction of various departments of government, and he even offered to go to france to set up his model prison, proposing himself 'to become gratuitously the gaoler thereof.' the assembly requited his zeal by conferring on him the title of a french citizen; but social reorganisation took the shape of september massacres and the reign of terror, whereat bentham was disgusted, though in no way disheartened, as a theorist. 'never' (says mr. stephen) 'was an adviser more at cross purposes with the advised. it would be impossible to draw a more striking portrait of the abstract reasoner, whose calculations of human motives omit all reference to passion, and who fancied that all prejudice can be dispelled by a few bits of logic.' here, in fact, we have the key to bentham's character, to its weakness and also to its strength. a philosopher who plunges into the practical affairs of the world without taking human feelings and imagination into account is sure to find himself stumbling about among blocks and blockheads, and tripped up by the ill-will of vested interests; but on the other hand, if he has taken the right direction, his ardent energies have the impetus of some natural force. bentham's earlier notion had been that political reforms could be introduced like improvements in machinery; you had only to prove the superior utility of your new invention to obtain its adoption by all who were concerned in the business. latterly he made the surprising discovery that in the public offices, in the law, and in the church, the heads of these professions are usually quite satisfied with their own monopolies, are opposed to change, and are always ready with a stock of plausible arguments to show the folly and danger of innovation. if the utilitarian appeals to facts, common sense, and experience, so also does the conservative; and until public opinion is decidedly for progress the dead weight prevails. not for a day did bentham relax his strenuous exertions, but he changed his tactics; he turned from his mechanical workshop to the study of political dynamics, and he found what he wanted in the rising radicalism--'his principal occupation, in a word, was to provide political philosophy for radical reformers.' of the philosophic creed which bentham undertook to proclaim from his hermitage at ford abbey, with james mill as his leading apostle, mr. stephen gives us a very shrewd and incisively critical examination. the founder of a new faith has usually begun by the earnest and authoritative declaration of a few simple truths and positive doctrines, for which his disciples provide, in course of time, the necessary philosophical basis. bentham's voice had been crying ineffectually in the wilderness; and he now set about laying with his own hands the foundations of his beliefs upon primary scientific principles, always with unswerving aim and application to concrete facts. he was a thorough-going iconoclast, wielding, like mohammed, a single formula, to the destruction of idols of the market or tribe, and to the confusion of those who fattened upon antique superstitions. 'all government is one vast evil,' and can only be kept from mischief by minute regulations and constant vigilance. whatever is plainly illogical must be radically wrong--'to make a barrister a judge is as sensible as it would be to select a procuress for mistress of a girls' school;' and a parish boy, if he could read properly, might go through the church services with the prayer book and the homilies, so that an established church is a costly and indefensible luxury. taking utility, founded on observation of actual facts, as his guide and his measure of existing institutions, he treated them as colossal iniquities, as frauds upon the people, as dead and ineffectual for the purposes of moral and political life. nevertheless, although he condemned the whole fabric as it stood, bentham was an absolute believer in the unlimited power of laws and institutions; nor was he far from wishing to deal with them on the principles applicable to the reform of prisons, as undesirable but necessary instruments of coercion to be despotically administered upon a scientific model, after the fashion of his favourite panopticon. he was, in short, as mr. stephen points out, an unconscious follower of hobbes, with this difference, that in bentham's case the omnipotent leviathan, for control and direction, was to be enlightened public opinion. and he was apparently convinced, without misgivings, that a model government, framed logically upon that common sense which is a public property, could be introduced and enforced under popular sanction as easily as new regulations for an ill-managed gaol. he was fully prepared to make liberal allowance, in framing his constitution, for the different needs, circumstances, and habits of communities; he was quite aware that precisely the same legislation would not suit england and india; but he believed national circumstance and character to be extensively modifiable by manifestly useful institutions, and he was ready to begin the operation at once, 'to legislate for hindostan as well as for his own parish, and to make codes not only for england, spain, and russia, but also for morocco.' mr. stephen has no difficulty in exposing the shortcomings and inadequacy of these doctrines. but he is writing the history of certain political ideas; so his main object is to show how such ideas are formed, the course they have followed, and their influence upon thought and action up to the present day. to trace the links and continuity of ideas is to analyse their elements, and to show the impress that they received from external circumstance, permanent or temporary; it is an important method in the science of politics. upon the empiricism of english philosophy in the eighteenth century bentham constructed a theory of morals that purported to rest exclusively on facts ascertained and verifiable, with happiness as our being's end and aim, with pain and pleasure as the ultimate principles of conduct; and upon this foundation he proceeded to build up his system of politics and legislation. any attempt to derive morality from other sources, or to measure it by other standards, he denounced as arbitrary and misleading; he threw aside metaphysics, and therefore theology, as illusory. the exclusive appeal to experience, to plain reasoning from the evidence of our senses, from actual observation of human propensities, was sufficient for his purposes, and tallied with his designs as a practical reformer. in these views he was a disciple of hume, whose influence has surreptitiously percolated all modern thought, and his unintentional allies were the teachers of natural religion, with paley as its principal exponent. having thus defined and explained the basis of ethical philosophy, the utilitarian has to build up the superstructure of legal ordinance; and he is at once confronted by the difficult problem of distinguishing the sphere of ethics from the province of law. upon this vital question mr. stephen, as an expert in ethics, gives a dissertation that is exceedingly acute and instructive; and we may commend, in particular, his criticism of the doctrine that the morality of an act depends upon its consequences, not upon its motives. as he observes, this may be true, with certain reserves, in law, where the business of the legislature is to prohibit and punish acts that directly endanger the order and security of a community. but 'the exclusion of motive justifiable in law may take all meaning out of morality'; and yet nothing is more complicated than the question of demarcating a clear frontier between the two provinces. mr. stephen's examination of this question is the more important because it involves the problem of regulating private morals by public enactments; and also because the confusion of motives with intentions lies at the bottom of much mischievous sophistry, for some of the worst crimes in history have been suggested by plausible motives, and have been defended on that ground. he shows that bentham's survey of the springs of human action was incomplete, that he overstrained his formula to make it universally applicable, and that he nevertheless gave a far-reaching impulse to clearer notions and an effective advance in the simplification of legal procedure and the codification of laws. as a moral philosophy, bentham's system appeared so arid and materialistic that its unpopularity has obscured his real services. for he was the engineer who first led a scientific attack up to the ramparts of legal chicanery, and made a breach through which all subsequent reform found its entry. the axiom that utility is the source of justice and equity is of very ancient date, and indeed the word is sufficiently elastic to comprehend every conceivable human motive; but no one before bentham had employed it so energetically as a lever to overturn ponderous abuses, or had pointed his theory so directly against notorious facts. on the other hand, since he despised and rejected historical studies, he greatly miscalculated the binding strength of long usage and possession. he forgot, what hume had been careful to remember, that whether men's reasoning on these subjects be right or wrong, the conclusions have not really been reached by logic, but have grown up out of instincts, and correspond with certain immemorial needs and aspirations of humanity. hume had sketched, before bentham, his idea of a perfect commonwealth; yet he begins by the warning that 'it is not with forms of government as with other artificial contrivances; where an old engine may be rejected if we can discover another more accurate and commodious ... the bulk of mankind' (he adds) 'being governed by authority, not by reason, and never attributing authority to anything that has not the recommendation of antiquity.' hume's mission was to undermine settled fallacies, and to scatter doubt among conventional certitudes; and this loosening of foundations prepared the way for a bolder political projector, who delivered his frontal attack in disdain of the philosopher's warnings. political projectors, says the cautious hume, are pernicious if they have power, and ridiculous if they want it. bentham was quite confident that if he could only get the power he could radically change for the better the circumstances of a people in any part of the world, by legislation on the principles of utility; and he was sure that character is indefinitely modifiable by circumstances. that human nature is constantly altering with, and adapting itself to, the environment, is an undeniable truth; but in the moral as in the physical world the natural changes occupy long periods, and to stir the soil hastily may produce a catastrophe. the latter result actually followed in france; while in england the doctrine of the unlimited power of legislation, to be used for the greatest happiness of the greatest number, and wielded by a sovereign state according to the dictates of public opinion, was met by alarm, suspicion, and protracted opposition. it is the habit of englishmen to admit no proposition, however clear and convincing, until they discover what the propounder intends to do with it. yet it will be seen that bentham's plans of reform, if not his principles, did suggest, and to some extent shape, the main direction of judicial and administrative changes during the nineteenth century, though with some consequences that he neither anticipated nor desired. he thought that the state might be invested with power to modify society, and yet might be strictly controlled in the exercise of that power. he might have foreseen, what has actually happened, that the state, once established on a democratic basis, would exercise the power and disregard his carefully drawn limitations. a tendency toward state socialism he would have detested above all things; and yet that is the direction inevitably taken by supreme authority when the responsibility for the greatest happiness of the greatest number is imposed upon it by popular demand. mr. stephen's second volume describes the later phase of the utilitarian creed, when it passed from its founder into the hands of ardent disciples. the transition necessarily involves some divergence of views and methods. in religious movements it usually begins after the founder's death; but as bentham lived to superintend his apostolic successors, his relations with them were not invariably harmonious. the leadership fell upon james mill, whose early life and general character, the development of his opinions, and the bearing of his philosophy upon his politics, are the subjects of one of those condensed biographical sketches in which mr. stephen excels. in the _history of india_, which brought to james mill reputation and pecuniary independence, he could apply his deductive theories to a remote and little known country without much risk of contradiction from actual circumstances or of checks from the misapprehension of facts. in england the utilitarian doctrines, as propounded in mill's writings, raised up opposition and hostile criticism from various quarters. the general current of ideas and feelings had now set decidedly toward the suppression of inveterate abuses, and toward constitutional reform. radicalism was gaining ground rapidly, and even socialism had come to the surface, while political economy was in the ascendant. but the old tories closed their ranks for a fierce resistance against theories that menaced, as it seemed to them, nothing less than destruction to time-honoured institutions; and the whigs had no taste for doctrines that pretended to be reasonable, but appeared to them in effect revolutionary. the different positions of contending parties were illustrated, as mr. stephen shows, by their respective attitudes towards church reform. the tories defended ecclesiastical establishment as one of the main bastions of the citadel; the whigs would preserve the church in subjection to the state; while james mill, in the _westminster review_, declared the church of england to be a mere state machine, worked in subservience to the sinister interest of the governing classes. he desired 'to abolish all dogmas and ceremonies, and to employ the clergy to give lectures on ethics, botany, and political economy, with decent dances and social meals for the celebration of sunday.' mr. stephen, after observing that this plan exemplifies 'the incapacity of an isolated clique to understand the real tone of public opinion,' adds that 'it seems to have some sense, but one would like to know whether newman read his article.' our own notion would be that it is a signal instance of shortsightedness and of insensibility, on the part of a psychologist, to the strength and persistence of one of the most powerful among the emotions that dominate mankind. mill's article proclaiming these views appeared in , just at the time when the oxford movement was stirring up a wave of enthusiasm for the dogmas and ritual which he treated as obsolete and nonsensical; nor is there anything more remarkable or unexpected in the political changes of the last sixty years, than the discomfiture of those prophets who have foretold the decay of all liturgies and the speedy dissolution of ecclesiastical establishments. this phenomenon is by no means confined to england, or even to europe; and at the present day, when the power of religious idealism is better understood upon wider experience, no practical politician attempts to disregard sentiments that defy logic and pass the understanding. nevertheless utilitarianism, as represented by james mill's 'essay on government,' was attracting increased attention, and was provoking serious alarm. it was a period of confidence in theories which have been partly confirmed and partly contradicted by subsequent experiences of those 'principles of human nature' in which political speculators so unreservedly trusted. in france, some fifty years earlier, the destructive theorist had swept all before him; in england, while he was assaulting with effect the entrenchments of conservatism, he was taken in flank by the moderate reformers. mill had denounced the whigs as half-hearted and even treacherous allies, who dallied with radicalism to conceal their nefarious design of obtaining political mastery with the fewest concessions possible. he relied upon universal education to qualify the masses for the possession of an extensive franchise, and upon enlightened self-interest to guarantee their proper use of it. macaulay rejoined, in the _edinburgh review_, that the masses might possibly conclude that they would get more pleasure than pain out of universal spoliation; and that if his opponent's principles were correct and his scheme adopted, 'literature, science, commerce, and manufactures might be swept away, and a few half-naked fishermen would divide with the owls and foxes the ruins of the greatest of european cities.' it was a notable controversial tournament, at which the intelligent bystander probably assisted with much satisfaction and no excessive alarm, having little faith in the absolute theorist, and not much in the disinterestedness of the whigs. for the moment it was sufficient that both parties agreed in supporting the reform bill, although, as mr. stephen remarks, the radical regarded it as a payment on account, while the whig hoped that it would be a full and final discharge. we may observe, to the honour of a great liberal family, that as the first lord lansdowne discerned bentham's talents and gave him his start in life, so the impression made upon the second marquis by macaulay's articles induced him to offer the writer his first seat in parliament. mr. stephen deals with the duel between mill and macaulay from the standpoint of an impartial umpire, with an expert's appreciation of their logical fencing and some humorous glances at the heated combatants. mill was an austere puritan, who would fell the tory like an ox and would trample upon the cunning self-seeking whig. the edinburgh reviewers were a set of brilliant young men who represented intellectual liberalism; but 'they were men who meant to become judges, members of parliament, or even bishops, and nothing in their social atmosphere had stimulated the deep resentment against social injustice which makes the fanatic or the enthusiast.' as a sample of whiggism mr. stephen takes mackintosh, who, on the subject of the french revolution, stood half-way between burke's holy horror of a diabolic outburst and the applause of root-and-branch radicals. for a type of conservatism he gives us robert southey, whose fortune it was to be fiercely abused by the utilitarians and ridiculed by the whigs. southey, like many others, had been frightened out of early liberalism into the conviction that reform would be the inevitable precursor of revolution; and in he had written to lord liverpool that the only hope of saving the country lay in gagging the seditious press. 'concessions,' he said, 'can only serve to hasten the catastrophe. woe be to the garrison who hoist a white flag to an enemy that gives no quarter.' yet southey had a deep feeling for the misery of the lower classes at this period of widespread distress. in his belief in the power of government to remedy social evils, he was much nearer the accepted line of later public opinion than macaulay, who would have confined the state's business to the maintenance of order, the defence of property, and the practice of departmental economy. and when southey, following coleridge and preceding gladstone, insisted upon the vital importance of religion as a principle of state policy, neither he nor gladstone deserved all the ridicule cast upon them by macaulay in his brilliant essays; for at any rate no first-class government in europe has hitherto ventured upon dissolving connection with the church. for his philosophy, mr. stephen tells us, southey was in the habit of referring to coleridge, whose hostility to the utilitarians went on different and deeper grounds. coleridge had convinced himself that all the errors of the time, and their political dangers, arose from a false and godless empiricism. he declared that revolutionary periods have always been connected with the popular prevalence of abstract ideas, and that the speculative principles of men between twenty and thirty are the great source of political prophecy. he developed this view in a singular letter upon the state of affairs and opinions which he also, like southey, addressed to lord liverpool in , and which somewhat bewildered that veteran statesman. with the moderns, he said, 'nothing grows, all is made'; whereas growth itself is but a disguised mode of being made by the superinduction of the _jam data_ on the _jam datum_; and he insisted that 'the flux of individuals at any moment in existence in a country is there for the value of the state, far more than the state for them, though both positions are true proportionately.' in other words, coleridge pressed the evolutionary view against the sharp set, shortsighted utilitarian propositions; and he would have agreed that antiquated prejudices are absurd only to those who have not looked back to their origin, when they can be found to proceed in logical order from natural causes. he had not been always a resolute opponent of the utilitarian theory of morals; but, like other philosophers, he had become alarmed at the consequence of being shut up within the prison of finite senses, and he grasped at kant's discovery of the difference between understanding and reason, in order to retire upon a metaphysical basis of religion and morality, and to withstand the prudential calculus. we are inclined to suggest that mr. stephen, who does little more than glance at coleridge's position, has underestimated his influence upon the intellectual direction of politics in the first half of this century. coleridge certainly provided an antidote to the crudity of eager radicalism in church and state, and his ideas may be recognised not only in the great high church movement that was stirred up by the tractarians, but also in the larger comprehension of the duties and attributes of the state that has been slowly gaining ground up to our own day. it is, indeed, the growth and development of english opinion regarding these public duties and attributes, as it is traced in mr. stephen's book, that forms, in our opinion, its chief value; and we are reviewing it mainly as a history of political ideas. this is, we believe, the practical outcome of the increasing feeling of sympathy between different classes of the community, of a sense of responsibility, of what is called altruism, of solidarity among all the diverse interests that have lately characterised our legislation: 'the two great rival theories of the functions of the state are--the theory which was for so many years dominant in england, and which may for convenience be called the individualist theory; and the theory which is stated most fully and powerfully by the greek philosophers, which we may call the socialist theory. the individualist theory regards the state as a purely utilitarian institution, a mere means to an end.... it represents the state as existing mainly for the protection of property and personal liberty, and as having therefore no concern with the private life and character of the citizen, except in so far as these may make him dangerous to the material welfare of his neighbour. 'the greek theory, on the other hand, though it likewise regards the state as a means to certain ends, regards it as something more.... according to this theory, no department of life is outside the scope of politics; and a healthy state is at once the end at which the science aims, and the engine by which its decrees are carried out.'[ ] accepting this passage as a philosophical statement of tendencies, we may observe that neither theory has ever been definitely adopted in england. the utilitarians desired to recast institutions for the greater happiness of all citizens, but they were averse to investing the state with autocratic powers of interference. the tories, on the other hand, were awakening to the conviction that the government must do more for the people; but their fear of change and their own 'sinister interests,' persuaded them that this might be done without radical reforms. the whigs faced both ways, and since in england the truly valuable effect of extreme opinions is always to drive the majority into a middle course, they rose to power on that compromise which is represented by the reform measures of . the reform bill was accepted by the utilitarians as an instalment of the rightful authority of the people over the conduct of public affairs, and therefore a provisional method of promoting their welfare. the first tory statesman of that day, on the contrary, was convinced that for the public welfare the existing constitution could not be bettered: 'during one hundred and fifty years the constitution in its present form has been in force; and i would ask any man who hears me to declare whether the experience of history has produced any form of government so calculated to promote the happiness and secure the liberties of a free and enlightened people.'[ ] both parties, in fact, appealed to experience; but peel took his stand upon history, which the utilitarians disregarded as a mere record of unscientific errors, or at most as a lighthouse to give warning of rocks, rather than a lamp to show the road ahead. and the point upon which they joined issue was as to the consequences of staking the whole fabric of government upon the basis of public opinion, operating through almost unlimited popular suffrage. the tory foretold that this would end in wrecking the constitution, with the ship among breakers, and steering by ballot voting. the benthamite persuaded himself that enlightened self-interest, empirical perceptions of utility, and general education, would prevail with the multitude for their support of a rational system. but with those who demanded sovereignty for the people a strict limitation of the sphere of government was one essential maxim; and the utilitarians would have agreed with guizot when he declared it to be 'a mere commonplace that as civilisation and reason progress, the sphere of public authority contracts.' they do not appear to have foreseen that whenever the masses should have got votes legislation would become democratic, or even socialistic, in order to capture them. this discovery was eventually made by the tories, who availed themselves of it to dish the whigs, and to come forward again upon a popular suffrage as the true friends and guardians of the people. in mr. stephen's second volume james mill is the principal figure, as the apostle of benthamism, though he also describes briefly, in his terse and incisive style, the lives and opinions of some notable men, foes as well as friends to the party, who represented different expressions of energetic protest against existing institutions. to each of them is allotted his proper place in the line of attack, and his due share in the general enterprise of rousing, by argument or invective, the slow-thinking english people to a sense of their lamentable condition. cobbett and owen were at feud with true utilitarians, and in unconscious alliance, against the orthodox economists, with the tories, who, as we have said, have eventually found their advantage in the democratic movement. cobbett fought for the cause of the agricultural labourer, trodden under foot by squires and parsons. owen believed that the grasping capitalist, with his steam machinery, would further degrade and impoverish the working classes. godwin, who is merely mentioned by mr. stephen, was a peaceful anarchist, who proposed 'to abolish the whole craft and mystery of government,' to abandon coercion and rely upon just reasoning, upon the enlightened assent of individuals to the payment of taxes. they all embodied ideas that are incessantly fermenting in some ardent minds, and that maintain a perceptible influence on political controversies at the present day. godwin agreed with the utilitarians that government is a bad thing in itself, but he went beyond them in concluding that it is, or ought to be, unnecessary to society. to both radical and socialist, utilitarianism, with its frigid philanthropy and its reliance on self-help, prudence, and free competition for converting miserable masses into a healthy and moral population, was the gospel of selfishness, invented for the salvation of landlords and capitalists. malthus was the heartless exponent of natural laws that kept down multiplication by famine, while the rich man fared sumptuously every day; and the ricardians, with their mechanical balancing of supply and demand, were mocking distress by solemn formulas. it must be admitted that these sharp assailants hit some palpable rifts in the utilitarian armour of proof; and we know that popular sentiment has since been compelling later economists to take up much wider ground in defence of their scientific position. the doctrines of malthus, of ricardo and of ricardo's disciples are subjected to a searching analysis by mr. stephen, who brings out their limitations very effectively. yet it is by no means easy, even under our author's skilful guidance, to follow the utilitarian track through the fields of economy, philosophy, and theology, and to show in what manner or degree it led up to the issues under discussion in our own time. all these 'streams of tendency' have had their influence on the main current and direction of contemporary politics, but they cannot be measured or mapped out upon the scale of a review. and, in regard to political economy, we may even venture to question whether the earlier dogmatic theories now retain sufficient interest to justify the space which, in this volume, has been devoted to a scrutiny of them; for their methods, as well as their conclusions, have now become to a certain extent obsolete. a strictly empirical science must be continually changing with fresh data and a broader outlook; it is always shifting under stress of new interests, changed feelings, and unforeseen contingencies; it is very serviceable for the exposure of errors, but its own demonstrations are in time proved to be erroneous or inadequate. moreover, to explain the ills that afflict a society, and to declare them incurable except by patience and slow alterative medicines, is often to render them intolerable; nor is it of much practical importance to lay out, on hard scientific principles, the methodical operation of causes and effects that have always been understood in a rough experimental way. 'the truth that scarcity meant dearness was apparently well known to joseph in egypt, and applied very skilfully for his purpose. economists have framed a theory of value which explains more precisely the way in which this is brought about. a clear statement may be valuable to psychologists; but for most purposes of political economy joseph's knowledge is sufficient,' if joseph had written a treatise on the agrarian tenures of egypt he might not have bought them up so easily at famine prices, and he might have entangled himself in a discussion upon peasant properties. the economist who makes an inductive demonstration of unalterable natural laws and propensities may be likened to the scientific legislator who undertakes to codify prevailing usages: he turns an elastic custom, constantly modified in practice by needs and sentiments, into an unbending statute, when the bare unvarnished statement of the principle produces an outcry. natural processes will not bear calm philosophic explanations that are understood to imply approval of them as cruel but inevitable; not even in such an essentially moralistic argument as that of butler's 'analogy,' which some have regarded as a plea of ambiguous advantage to the cause of natural religion. malthus, for example, proved undeniably the pernicious consequences of reckless propagation; but he who forces a great evil upon public attention is expected to find the practical remedy; and malthus had little to prescribe beyond a few palliative measures and the expediency of self-restraint, while his proposal to abolish the poor laws in the interest of pauperism was interpreted as a recommendation that poor folk should be starved into prudential and self-reliant habits. malthus held, indeed, that the improvement of the condition of the labouring classes should be considered as the main interest of society. but he also thought that 'to improve their condition, it is essential to impress them with the conviction that they can do much more for themselves than others can do for them, and that the _only_ source of their permanent improvement is the improvement of their moral and religious habits. what government can do, therefore, is to maintain such institutions as may strengthen the _vis medicatrix_, or desire to better our condition, which poor laws had directly tended to weaken.' there is much wisdom to be found in these counsels; but good advice rather excites than allays the ignorant impatience of acute suffering, and popular opinion soon began to inquire whether the _vis medicatrix_ might not be administered in some more drastic form by the state. the conception of a rational government superintending, without interference, the slow evolution of morals, had a kind of correspondence, in the religious sphere, with the doctrine of pre-established harmonies so clearly ordained that to suggest any need of further divine interposition to readjust them occasionally was a reflection upon the wisdom and foresight of providence. but the stress and exigencies of modern party politics has rendered this attitude untenable for the temporal ruler. the pure economists, however, prescribed moral remedies without investigating the elements of morality. they settled the laws of production and distribution as eliminated from the observation of ordinary facts; they corrected errors and registered the mechanical working of human desires and efforts. it is mr. stephen's plan, throughout this book, to show the bearing of philosophical speculation on practical conduct; and accordingly, after his chapter on malthus and the ricardians, he turns back again to philosophy and ethics. his clear and cogent exposition of the views and conclusions put forward on these subjects by thomas brown, with the express approval of james mill, is an illustration of coleridge's dictum regarding the connection between abstract theories and political movements. admitting the connection, we may again observe that there is a certain danger in stating the theories too scientifically. neither morals nor religion are much aided by digging down into their foundations. yet the logical constructor of a new system usually finds himself driven by controversy into a discussion of ultimate ideas, though the utilitarians refused to be forced back into metaphysics. no professor of philosophy, however, can altogether avoid asking himself what underlies experience and the formation of beliefs; and brown did his best for the utilitarians by defining intuition as a belief that passes analysis, a principle independent of human reasoning, which 'does not allow us to pass a single step beyond experience, but merely authorises us to interpret experience.' it was james mill's mission to cut short and to simplify philosophical aberrations for his practical purposes: 'as a publicist, a historian, and a busy official, he had not much time to spare for purely philosophic reading. he was not a professor in want of a system, but an energetic man of business, wishing to strike at the root of superstitions to which his political opponents appealed for support. he had heard of kant, and seen "what the poor man would be at".' his own views are elaborated in his book on the _analysis of the phenomena of the human mind_, for a close criticism of which we must refer readers to mr. stephen's second volume. the connection of these dissertations with the social and political ends of the utilitarians lies, it may be said briefly, in the support which a purely experiential psychology gives to the doctrine that human character depends on external circumstance, and that such vague terms as the 'moral sense' only disguise the true identity of rules of morality with the considerations that can be shown to produce general happiness. whenever there appears to be a conflict between these rules and considerations, utility is the only sure criterion. to the extreme situations in which casuistry revels, as when a man is called upon to sacrifice his life or his personal honour for his country's good, the utilitarian would apply this unfailing test inexorably; in such cases a man ought to decide upon a calculation of the greatest happiness of the majority. he does not, in fact, apply this reckoning; he may possibly not have time, at the urgent moment, to work it out; his heroism is inspired by the universal praise or blame that reward self-devotion or punish shrinking from it, and thus render acts moral or immoral by the habitual association of ideas. the martyr or patriot does not, indeed, stop to calculate; he does not feel the subtle egoism that is hidden in the desire for applause; he believes himself to be acting with the perfect disinterestedness which can only be accounted for by superficial reasoners on the assumption of some such abstract notion as religion, moral sense, or duty. since the behaviour of mankind at large, therefore, is invariably guided by a remote or proximate consideration of utility; since conduct depends upon character, and character is shaped by external conditions and positive sanctions, it is possible to frame, on utilitarian principles, scientific rules of behaviour which can be powerfully, though indirectly, promoted by legislation and a system of enlightened polity. for morality, it is argued, can be materially assisted by pointing to, or even providing, the serious consequences that are inseparable from human misdeeds, by proving that pain or pleasure follows different kinds of behaviour; while motives are so complex that they can never be verified with certainty, and must therefore be left out of account. this anatomy of the springs of action obviously lays bare some truths, although they fit in much better with the department of the legislator than of the moralist. as mr. stephen forcibly shows, although the consideration of motive may fall very seldom within the sphere of legislation, yet no theory which should exclude its influence on the moral standard could be tolerated, since the motive is of primary importance in our ethical judgment of conduct. nor has motive, as discriminated from intention, ever been kept entirely outside the criminal law, notwithstanding the danger of admitting, as an extenuation of some violent crime, that the offender had convinced himself that some religious or patriotic cause would be served by it. james mill's view of morals as theoretically coordinate with law--because in both departments the intention is the essential element in measuring actions according to their consequences--operated in practical contradiction to his principle of restraining state interference within narrow limits. it is this latter principle which has since given way. for the general trend of later political opinion has evidently been towards bringing public morality more and more under administrative regulation; and this manifestly indicates a growing expansion of ideas upon the legitimate duties and jurisdiction of the state. upon james mill's psychology mr. stephen's conclusion, with which we may agree, is that his analysis of virtue into enlightened self-interest is unsuccessful, and we have seen that his conception of government, as an all-powerful machine resting upon, yet strictly limited by, public opinion, has failed on the side of the limitations. yet although mill could not explain virtue, he was, after his fashion, a virtuous man, whose life was conscientiously devoted to public objects. 'his main purpose, too, was to lay down a rule of duty, almost mathematically ascertainable, and not to be disturbed by any sentimentalism, mysticism, or rhetorical foppery. if, in the attempt to free his hearers from such elements, he ran the risk of reducing morality to a lower level, and made it appear as unamiable as sound morality can appear, it must be admitted that in this respect, too, his theories reflected his personal character.' it is also probable that his theories, and his bitter controversies in defence of them, reacted on his personal character, and that both influences are to be traced beyond james mill's own life, in the mental and social prepossessions which he bequeathed to his son. mr. stephen's third volume is chiefly occupied by the history of the later utilitarians, and the expansion of their cardinal principle in its application to a changing temper of the times, under the leadership of john stuart mill. we have, first, a closely written and critical description of this remarkable man's early life, his stringent educational training, the development of his opinions, and their influence upon the orthodox tenets of the sect. upon all these subjects mill has left us, under his own hand, more intimate and circumstantial particulars than are to be found, perhaps, in any other personal memoir. the writer who tells his own story usually passes hastily over boyhood; the ordinary biographer gives some family details, or endeavours to amuse us with trivial anecdotes of the child who became an important man. j. s. mill hardly alludes to any member of his family except his father, and his early days are marked by a total absence of triviality. he was bound over to hard intellectual labour at home during the years that for most of us pass so lightly and unprofitably at a public school; he was a voracious and indefatigable reader and writer from his youth up, with a wolfish hunger (as browning calls it) for knowledge; he plunged into all the current discussions of philosophy and politics; he became a practised writer and made a good figure at debating clubs; he became so intent on the solution of complex social problems as to acquire a distaste for general society; his mental concentration blunted his sensibility to the physical passions that so powerfully sway mankind. nevertheless, mill's outlook upon the world was much wider than his father's, and his aim was so to adjust the utilitarian creed as to bring it into closer working accord with the advancing ideas and projects of the political parties to whom he was nearest in sympathy. he allied himself in the beginning with the philosophical radicals, in the hope of organising them for active service in the cause. but this group soon broke up, and mr. stephen ascribes their failure in part to their name, observing that the word '"philosophical" in english is synonymous with visionary, unpractical, and perhaps simply foolish.' there would be less satire, and possibly more justice, in saying that the word gives a chill to the energetic hot-gospeller of active radicalism, who pushes past the philosopher as one standing too far behind the fighting line, although he may be useful in forging explosives in some quiet laboratory. mill himself was continually hampered, as an ardent combatant, by the impedimenta which he brought into the field in the shape of abstract speculations, which could not be made to fit in with the immediate demands of thorough-going partisans. his democratic fervour was tempered by his conviction of the incapacity of the masses. he was a socialist 'in the sense that he looked forward to a complete, though distant, revolution in the whole structure of society'; he discovered that the chartists had crude views upon political economy; his attitude toward factory legislation was very dubious. yet in the main purpose of his life and writings, which was to mend and guide public opinion on social and political questions by theoretical treatment--that is, by a logically connected survey of the facts--he was undoubtedly successful, as is shown by the popularity of his two great works on _logic_ and _political economy_, which became the text-books of higher study on these subjects for a whole generation. on the other hand, he exposed himself to the distrust and hostility that are always aroused by philosophical arguments which strike at the roots of established beliefs and prejudices, and are discovered to be really more dangerous to them than a direct assault. it was the philosophic strategy of j. s. mill to prosecute the utilitarian war against metaphysics, and finally to exterminate intuitions, being convinced, as he said, that the _a priori_ and spiritualistic thinkers still far exceeded the partisans of experience, and that a great majority of englishmen were still intuitionists. is this actually a true account of english thought? mr. stephen thinks not, for he believes that if mill had not lived much apart from ordinary folk he would have found englishmen practically, though not avowedly, predisposed to empiricism, which has been the philosophic tradition in this country since hobbes. we so far agree with mr. stephen that we believe englishmen, in general, to practise a great deal more of empiricism than they avow. but mill proposed to demonstrate and declare it as a weapon in polemics and an engine of action, and it was here, probably, that the main body of englishmen deserted him. they were not ready to cut themselves off from theology and from all ideas that transcend experience, and they demurred to the paramount jurisdiction of logic in temporal affairs. to every section of churchmen the relegation of moral sanctions within the domain of verifiable consequences was a doctrine to be resisted strenuously. with the high sacerdotalist it amounted to a denial of the christian mysteries; to the broad churchman it was ethically inadequate and ignoble; to the scholastic professor of divinity it meant ruinous materialism. that a vigorous thinker should have begun by striking at what seemed to him the root of obstructive fallacies was natural enough. he supposed that a logical demonstration would clear the ground for his plans of reform; whereas, on the contrary, it entangled him in preliminary disputations, and his inflexible reasoning alarmed people who followed experience as the guide of life, but instinctively felt that there must be something beyond phenomenal existence. in political economy mill relied upon common sense and practice in affairs to make the requisite allowance for general laws founded on human propensities regarded abstractedly. his conviction was, in short, that nothing should be taken for granted because everything might be explained; and he desired to tie men down to accepting no belief, or even feeling, that could not be justified by reason. his _system of logic_ was, as he has himself written, a text-book for the doctrine 'which derives all knowledge from experience, and all moral and intellectual qualities principally from the direction given to the associations.' when he proceeded to construct a systematic psychology upon this basis, he fell into the fundamental perplexities that are concisely brought out by mr. stephen in his scrutiny of mill's doctrine of causation. he followed hume in severing any necessary connection between cause and effect, and even invariable sequence became incapable of proof. but when he resolved cause into a statement of existing conditions that can never be completely known until we have mastered the whole series of physical phenomena, and showed that all human induction is fallible because necessarily imperfect, it became clear that mill had very little to offer in substitution for those grounds of ordinary belief that he was bent on demolishing. the word cause is reduced, for ordinary use, to a signification not unlike that which is understood in loose popular language by the word chance, since chance means no more than ignorance of how an event came to pass; and in no case, according to mill, can we ever calculate with security what undiscoverable conditions may suddenly bring about an unexpected event contrary to previous experience. the uniformity of nature, as mr. stephen remarks, is thus made exceedingly precarious; and to the practical intelligence, which looks for some basis that cannot be argued about, there is still something to be said for intuition. and when mill, still in search of some precise formula, undertook to interpret persistent sequences by his theory of real kinds possessing an indeterminate number of coherent properties--so that our belief in the invariable blackness of crows is justified as a collocation of these visible properties--he merely throws the problem of causation farther backward. we have to be content with direct observation of phenomena that can be classified as co-existent; we can perceive that things accompany each other, but we can never be sure that they follow each other, as they appear to do. it may be doubted whether mill's treatment of these problems has materially affected subsequent psychological speculation, which has since taken different and deeper courses. his main objective was social and political. 'the notion,' he has written, 'that truths external to the mind may be known by intuition, or consciousness, independently of observation and experience, is, i am persuaded, in these times the great intellectual support of false doctrines and bad institutions.' in confounding the metaphysicians, and eliminating all mysterious assumptions or axioms, he aimed at clearing the ground for a demonstrable science of character, and to establish the great principle that character can be indefinitely modified. the way is thus opened to questions of conduct, to positive remedies for social and political evils which, as they have been generated and fostered by external circumstances, can be removed by a change of those circumstances. 'the greatest problems of the time were either economical or closely connected with economical principles. mill had followed the political struggles with the keenest interest; he saw clearly their connection with underlying social movements; and he had thoroughly studied the science--or what he took to be the science--which must afford guidance for a satisfactory working out of the great problems. the philosophical radicals were deserting the old cause, and becoming insignificant as a party. but mill had not lost his faith in the substantial soundness of their economic doctrines. he thought, therefore, that a clear and full exposition of their views might be of the highest use in the coming struggle.... the _political economy_ speedily acquired an authority unapproached by any work published since the _wealth of nations_.' we cannot follow mr. stephen through his elaborate and effective review of this celebrated book. its appearance marked an epoch in the history of utilitarianism, for it took a much wider survey of social and political considerations, and the author undertook to expand the orthodox economic theories so that they might embrace and be reconciled with some daring projects of comprehensive reform. but mill had to put some strain on the principles to which he adhered, and to accommodate certain inconsistencies in order to keep pace with moving ideas. he held on with some effort to the cardinal tenets of the older utilitarians, to a dislike of interference by governments, to reliance on individual effort, to protest against the deadening influence of paternal administration, to his own trust in the gradual effect of educational agencies, and in the slow emancipation of the popular mind from unreasoning prejudices. on the other hand, he advocated a radical reform of the land laws, peasant proprietorship, the acquisition by the state of railways and canals, the limitation of the right of bequest; and he went even so far as to speak with approval of laws in restraint of improvident marriages. all these proposals could only be carried out by arbitrary and drastic legislation. as he put it, the state must interfere for the purpose of making the people independent of further interference; and he overlooked or set aside the question whether the eventual result of thus calling in the state's agency would not be contrary to the principles and professed intentions of the utilitarian school, whether the provisional _régime_ would not become permanent, as, in fact, it has been rapidly becoming ever since. we can see, moreover, that while j. s. mill's sympathy with the popular cause and with the most ardent reformers was sincere, he was at issue with them in regard to the means, though not in regard to the ends; he wished to better the intelligence of the people as the first step toward bettering their condition. but when he had convinced himself, as he said, that no great improvements in the lot of mankind are possible until a great change takes place in the fundamental constitution of their modes of thought, he had still to persuade men who were stirring and pressing for immediate action that gradual methods were the best. most of them may have preferred to try whether, if the lot of mankind were improved materially, the moral changes and mental habits would not follow; for indeed mill's proposition might stand examination and hold good either way. it may be argued that an elevation or widening of intellectual views is the consequence, as often as it is the cause, of increasing comfort and leisure. he thought that all reading and writing which does not tend to promote a renovation of the world's belief is of very little value beyond the moment, which is, of course, true in a general sense; though literature can act much more directly than by dealing with first principles. he welcomes free trade as one triumph of utilitarian doctrines, yet he sadly observes that the english public are quite as raw and undiscerning on subjects of political economy since the nation was converted to free trade as before. the nation, in fact, went straight at the immediate point, got what it wanted at the moment, and was satisfied. mr. stephen's criticism of mill's later writings exhibits further his difficulties in adjusting the essential utilitarian principles to closer contact with the urgent questions of the day. mill still held to competition, to the full liberty of individuals, to the inevitable mechanical working of economic laws; he still doubted the expediency of factory legislation, and condemned any laws in restraint of usury. he was opposed, broadly, to all authoritative intrusion upon human existence wherever its necessity could not be proved conclusively to be in the interest of a self-reliant community. yet he was forced to make concessions and exceptions in the face of actual needs and grievances; and especially he found himself more and more impelled to tolerate and even advocate interference by the state as the only effective instrument for demolishing obstacles to the moral and material betterment of the people. since unjust social inequalities could be traced to an origin in force or fraud, the legislature might be logically called in to remove them; and as this is manifestly the revolutionary argument (as embodied, for example, in the writings of thomas paine), it enabled him to join hands with radicalism in proposing some very thorough-going measures. 'landed property in europe derives its origin from force;' so the legislature is entitled to interpose for the reclamation of rights unjustly usurped from the community; while, as economical science shows that the value of land rises from natural causes, the conclusion is that the state may confiscate the unearned increment. but it was not so easy to convince the hungry mechanic, by rather fine-drawn distinctions, that the capitalist had a better right to monopolise profits than the landlord; for the rise of value in manufactured commodities has very complex causes, some of them superficially natural. so here, again, is a plausible case of social injustice. again, it may be affirmed that all powerful associations, private as well as public, operate in restriction of individual liberty. you may argue that great industrial companies are voluntary; the question is whether they are innocuous to the common weal, and we may add that this point is coming seriously to the front at the present time. the distinction, as mr. stephen remarks, drawn by the old individualism between state institutions and those created by private combination is losing its significance; and, what is more, public bodies are now continually encouraged to absorb private enterprise in all matters that directly concern the people. in short, we are on the high road to state socialism, though mill helps us to console ourselves with having taken that road on strictly scientific principles. it is the not unusual result of stating large benevolent theories for popular application; the principle is accepted and its limitations are disregarded. nevertheless mill contends gallantly in his later works for intellectual liberty, complete freedom of discussion, and the utility of tolerating the most eccentric opinions. into what practical difficulties and questionable logical distinctions he was drawn by the necessity of fencing round his propositions and making his reservations is well known; and mr. stephen hits the weak points with keen critical acumen. we all agree that persecution has done frightful mischief, at times, by suppressing the free utterance of unorthodox opinions. but mill argues that contradiction, even of truth, is desirable in itself, because a doctrine, true or false, becomes a dead belief without the invigorating conflict of opposite reasonings. resistance to authority in matters of opinion is a sacred privilege essential to the formation of belief; wherefore originality, even when it implies stupidity, is to be carefully protected as a factor of human progress. we need not follow mr. stephen in his victorious analysis of the arguments wherewith mill seeks to uphold this uncompromising individualism, and to guard human perversity against the baneful influence of authority. it is clear enough that society cannot waste its time in perpetual wrangling over issues upon which an authoritative verdict has been delivered; and for most of us a reasonable probability, founded on the judgment of experts, is sufficient in moral or physical questions as well as in litigation. the religious arena still remains open, where experts differ and decisions are always disputable. yet mr. arthur balfour devotes a chapter in his _foundations of belief_ to the contention that our convictions on all the deeper subjects of thought are determined not by reason but by authority; whereby he provides us with an escape from the scepticism that menaces a philosopher who has proved all experience to be at bottom illusory. mill, on the other hand, would make short work with authority wherever it checks or discourages the unlimited exercise of free individual inquiry; and in politics he would entrust the sovereign power to a representation of the entire aggregate of the community, with the most ample encouragement of incessant discussion. this is, indeed, the system actually in force, and in england it has answered very well; but mill hardly foresaw that its tendency would be to make the state, as the embodiment of popular will, not less but more authoritative, with a tendency to encroach steadily upon the sphere of individual effort and private enterprise. it may be said that the abstract utilitarian doctrine reached its high-water mark in mill's book on the subjection of women, to which mr. stephen allots one section of a chapter. the book is a particular enlargement upon mill's general view that it is a pestilent error to regard such marked distinctions of human character as sex or race as innate and in the main indelible. what is called the nature of women he treats as an artificial thing, an isolated fact which need not at any rate be recognised by law; the proper test was, he argued, to leave free competition to determine whether the distinction is radical or merely the result of external circumstance. but, as mr. stephen answers, such a plain physiological difference is at least not negligible; and competition between the sexes may favour the despotism of the stronger, while complete independence on both sides implies freedom to separate at will; and mill had only glanced evasively at the question of divorce. here, again, is a theory which the pressure of social conditions, much more than abstract reasoning, is bringing more and more into prominence with our own generation. on the wider and more complicated question of race distinctions mill never worked out his argument against their indelibility into a regular treatise; nor could he foresee the increasing influence upon contemporary politics that is now exercised by racial feelings and their claims to recognition. in the eighteenth century the french encyclopédistes, who were the direct philosophic ancestors of the utilitarians, regarded frontiers, classes, and races as so many barriers against the spread of universal fraternity; and the revolutionary government took up the idea as a war-cry. the armies of the french republic proclaimed the rights of the people in all countries, until napoleon turned the democratic doctrine into the form of imperialism. m. eugène de vogüé has told us recently that this armed propaganda produced a reaction in europe toward that strong sentiment of nationality which has been vigorously manifested during the second half of the nineteenth century. the assertion of separate nationalities, by the demand for political autonomy and by the attempt to revive the public teaching of obscure languages, is the form taken in western and central europe by the problem of race. no movement could be more contrary to the views or anticipations of the utilitarians, for whom it would have been merely a recrudescence of one of those inveterate and unreasoning prejudices which still retard human progress, a fiction accepted by indolent thinkers to avoid the trouble of investigating the true causes that modify human character. yet not only is national particularism making a fresh stir in europe, but the spread of european dominion over asia has forced upon our attention the immense practical importance of racial distinctions. we find that they signify real and profound characteristics; the european discovers that in asia he is himself one of a ruling race, and thereby isolated among the other groups into which the population is subdivided. if he is a sound utilitarian he will nevertheless cherish the belief that economical improvements, public instruction, good laws, and regular administration will obliterate antipathies, eradicate irrational prejudices, and reconcile asiatic folk to the blessings of scientific civilisation. but he will confess that it is a stubborn element, if not innate yet very like such a quality; if not ineffaceable yet certain to outlast his dominion. it is at least remarkable that mill's protest against explaining differences of character by race, to which buckle 'cordially subscribed,' should have been answered in our time by a clamorous demand for the recognition of those very differences, and by an increasing tendency to admit them. upon mill's theological speculations mr. stephen has written an interesting chapter, illustrating mill's desire to treat religion more sympathetically, with a deeper sense of its importance in life, than in the absolute theories of the older utilitarians. bentham had declared that the principle of theology, of referring everything to god's will, was no more than a covert application of the test of utility. you must first know whether a thing is right in order to discover whether it is conformable to god's pleasure; and a religious motive, he said, is good or bad according as the religious tenets of the person acting upon it approach more or less to a coincidence with the dictates of utility. the next step, as bentham probably knew well, is to throw aside an abstraction that has become virtually superfluous, and to march openly under the utilitarian standard. but there was in mill a moral and emotional instinct that deterred him from resting without uneasiness upon such a bare empirical conclusion. he rejected all transcendental conceptions; yet he did his best, as mr. stephen shows, to find reasonable proofs of a deity whose existence and attributes may be inferred by observation and experience. he agreed that such an inference is not inconsistent, _a priori_, with natural laws, and the argument from design was admitted as providing by analogy, or even inductively, a large balance of probability in favour of creation by intelligence. the difficulty is to attain by these methods the idea of a deity perfect in power, wisdom, and goodness; for the order of nature, apart from human intervention and contrivances for making the earth habitable, discloses no tincture of morality. we are thus reduced to the dilemma propounded by hume, between an omnipotent deity who cannot be benevolent because misery is permitted, and a benevolent deity with limited powers; and mill sums up the discussion, doubtfully, in favour of a being with great but limited powers, whose motives cannot be satisfactorily fathomed by the human intellect. this halting conclusion indicates a departure from the pure empiricism of his school, and even the inadequacy of the argument shows the effort that mill was making towards some fellow-feeling with spiritual conceptions. as mr. stephen points out, there is a curious approximation, on some points, between mill and his arch-enemy mansel--between the conditioned and unconditioned philosophies. both of them lay stress on the moral perplexities involved in arguing from the wasteful and relentless course of nature to an estimate of the divine attributes. and both agree that the existence of evil is a serious difficulty; though mansel's solution, or evasion, of it is by insisting that the ways of the unconditioned are necessarily for the most part unknowable, while mill leans to the possibility that god's power or intelligence may be incomplete. upon either hypothesis we must confess that our knowledge is imperfect and very fallible. mr. stephen has no trouble in exposing the philosophical weakness of mill's attitude; but we are mainly concerned to compare it briefly with the position of his predecessors, for the purpose of continuing a rapid survey of the course and filiation of utilitarian doctrines. when the orthodox utilitarians definitely rejected all theology--though until philip beauchamp appeared, in , they made no direct attack upon it--they believed that the fall of theology would also bring down religion, which they regarded as the source of motives that were fictitious, misleading, and profoundly unscientific. mill agreed that a supernatural origin could not be ascribed to received maxims of morality without harming them, because to consecrate rules of conduct was to interdict free examination of them, and to paralyse their natural development in accordance with changes of circumstance. looking back over the interminable controversies, and the successive variations in form and spirit that every great religion has undergone, this objection does not seem to us very formidable. but mill's evident object was to reconcile the cultivation of religious feelings with his principle of free thought for individuals. in accepting comte's ideal of a religion of humanity, he had entirely condemned comte's reproduction of the spiritual authority in the shape of a philosophical priesthood. and it is remarkable, as indicating a radical discordance between the french and the english moralist, that while comte's adoration, in his later years, of a woman led him to ordain a formal worship of the feminine representative of the family, coupled with the strict seclusion of women from politics, mill's lifelong attachment greatly strengthened his ardour for the complete emancipation of the whole sex. our readers will bear in mind that we are endeavouring to measure the permanent influence of utilitarian doctrines, to determine how far they have fixed the direction, and shaped the ends, of contemporary thought and political action. it cannot be said that these doctrines are now predominant in either of these two closely interacting departments. national instincts and prepossessions have lost none of their force; national character now divides neighbouring peoples more sharply, perhaps, than a hundred years ago. militarism is stronger than ever; cosmopolitan philanthropy is overridden by the growth of national interests; political economy is overruled by political necessities; nor have ethical systems displaced the traditional religions. empiricism has fallen into discredit as a narrow and inadequate philosophy; it is superseded in the spiritual world by transcendental interpretations of dogmas as metaphysical representations of underlying realities. mr. stephen's most instructive work draws to its close with a dissertation on liberalism and dogmatism, showing how and why utilitarianism failed in convincing or converting englishmen to a practical assent to its principles and modes of thought. upon many minds they produced more repulsion than attraction. maurice earnestly protested that we were to believe in god, not in a theory about god, though the distinction, as mr. stephen says, is vague; he appealed to the inner light, to the conscience of mankind; he went back into the slough of intuitionism. carlyle cried aloud against materialistic views and logical machinery; he denounced 'the great steam-engine, utilitarianism'; he was for the able despot and hero-worship against grinding competition and government by discussion. in theology the mystical spirit rose again with its immemorial power of enchanting human imagination; the moral law is discerned to be the vesture of divinity, in which he arrays himself to become apprehensible by the finite intellect; and a science that tries to understand everything explains nothing. authority, instead of being discarded, is invoked to deliver men out of the great waters of spiritual and political anarchy. the tractarians struck in with a fierce attack on rationalism, propounding faith and revelation as imperative grounds of belief. you must accept the dogmas, not as useful, not as moral or reasonable, not even as derived intuitively, but as the necessary fundamental truths declared by the infallible church to be essential to salvation. those who could not find infallibility in a state church went over to rome, abandoning the via media; others were content with the high sacramental position of anglicanism; the moderate rationalists took shelter with the broad church; a few retreated into the cloudy refuge of transcendental idealism. the two extreme parties, the broad church and the sacerdotalists, were at bitter feud with each other; yet they both denounced the common enemy. arnold 'agreed with carlyle that the liberals greatly overrate bentham, and the political economists generally; the _summum bonum_ of their science is not identical with human life ... and the economical good is often, from the neglect of other points, a social evil.' newman held that to allow the right of private judgment was to enter upon the path of scepticism; and the latest infidel device, he says, is to leave theology alone. he set up the argument, well-worn but always impressive, that science gives no certainty; and mr. stephen contends against it with the weapons of empiricism:-- 'the scientific doctrines must lay down the base to which all other truth, so far as it is discoverable, must conform. the essential feature of contemporary thought was just this: that science was passing from purely physical questions to historical, ethical, and social problems. the dogmatist objects to private judgment or free thought on the ground that, as it gives no criterion, it cannot lead to certainty. his real danger was precisely that it leads irresistibly to certainty. the scientific method shows how such certainty as is possible must be obtained. the man of science advocates free inquiry precisely because it is the way to truth, and the only way, though a way which leads through many errors.' mr. stephen is himself a large-minded utilitarian. he will have nothing to do with a transcendental basis of morals; and the dogmatist who dislikes cross-examination is out of his court. dogmatic authority, he says, stands only on its own assertions; and if you may not reason upon them, the inference is that on those points reason is against them. you may withdraw beyond this range by sublimating religion into a philosophy, but then it loses touch with terrestrial affairs, and has a very feeble control over the unruly affections of sinful men. newman himself resorted to scientific methods in his theory of development, that is, of the growth and evolution of doctrine. we may agree that these destructive arguments have much logical force, yet on the other hand such certitude as empiricism can provide brings little consolation to the multitude, who require some imperative command; they look for a pillar of cloud or fire to go before them day and night, and a land of promise in the distance. scientific exposition works slowly for the improvement of ethics, which to the average mind are rather weakened than strengthened by loosening their foundations; and religious beliefs suffer from a similar constitutional delicacy. conduct is not much fortified by being treated as a function of character and circumstance; for in religion and morals ordinary humanity demands something impervious to reasoning, wherein lies the advantage of the intuitionist. mr. stephen, however, is well aware that empirical certitude will not supply the place of religion. in his concluding pages he states, fairly and forcibly, the great problems by which men are still perplexed. religion, as j. s. mill felt, is a name for something far wider than the utilitarian views embrace. 'men will always require some religion, if religion corresponds not simply to their knowledge, but to the whole impression made upon feeling and thinking beings by the world in which they must live. the condition remains that the conception must conform to the facts; our imagination and our desires must not be allowed to over-ride our experience, or our philosophy to construct the universe out of _a priori_ guesses.... to find a religion which shall be compatible with all known truth, which shall satisfy the imagination and the emotions, and which shall discharge the functions hitherto assigned to the churches, is a problem for the future.' the utilitarian doctrines, in short, though propagated by leaders of high intellectual power, and inspired by a pure unselfish morality, achieved little success in the enterprise of providing new and firmer guidance and support to mankind in their troubles and perplexities. but they were not content to look down from serene heights upon the world, leaving the crowd 'errare atque viam palantes quærere vitæ.' they laboured devotedly to dispel ignorance and to advance knowledge; they spared no pains to promote the material well-being of society. they helped to raise the wind that filled the sails of practical reform; they headed the attack upon legal and administrative abuses; they stirred up the national conscience against social injustice; they proclaimed a lofty standard of moral obligation. they laid down principles that in the long run accord with human progress, yet in their hopes of rapidly modifying society by the application of those principles they were disappointed; for their systematic theories were blocked by facts, feelings, and misunderstandings which had not been taken into calculation. they were averse to coercion, as an evil in itself; but though they would have agreed with mr. bright's dictum that 'force is no remedy,' they were latterly brought to perceive that in another sense there is no remedy except force, and that the vested interests and preconceptions of society make a stiff and prolonged opposition to enlightened persuasion. they were disposed to rely too confidently upon the spread of intelligence by general education for preparing the minds of people to accept and act upon doctrines that were logically demonstrable, and to reject what could not be proved. mr. stephen has somewhere written that to support a religion by force instead of by argument is to admit that argument condemns it. the proposition is too absolutely stated even for the domain of spiritual authority, since it might be replied that no great religion, certainly no organised church, has existed by argument alone, and it has usually been supported by laws. but at any rate the temporal power subsists and operates by coercion, and the sphere of the state's direct action, instead of diminishing, as the earlier utilitarians expected it to do, with the spread of education and intelligence, is perceptibly extending itself. the utilitarians demurred to religion as an ultimate authority in morals, and substituted the plain unvarnished criterion of utility. upon this ground the state steps in, replaces religious precept by positive law, and public morality is enforced by acts of parliament. they were for entrusting the people with full political power, to be exercised in vigilant restraint of the interference by government with individual rights and conduct; the people have obtained the power, and are using it more and more to place their affairs and even their moral interests under the control of organised authority. we do not here question the expediency of the movement; we are simply registering the tendency. there are few literary enterprises more arduous than the task of following and demarcating from the written record of a period the general course of political and philosophic movements. the tendencies are so various, the conditions which determine them are so complicated, that it is difficult to keep hold of the clue which guides and connects them. mr. leslie stephen's _history of english thought in the eighteenth century_ took the broad ground that is denoted by its title; but, as he now tells us in his preface, he has found it expedient to reduce his present work within less comprehensive limits, by confining it to 'an account of the compact and energetic school of the english utilitarians.' this reduction of its scope has not, however, damaged the continuity of the narrative, since in the great departments of morals, religion, and political philosophy the utilitarians were mainly the lineal heirs of the characteristic english writers in the preceding century. it is true that mr. stephen has not been able to bring within the compass of his three volumes the subject of general literature, especially of poetry and novels, which in the nineteenth century have given their vivid expression to the doubts and the hopes, to the aims and aspirations of the time. but we can see that such an enlargement of his plan would have rendered it unmanageable, and that mr. stephen may have wisely considered the example of buckle's _history of civilisation in england_, which was projected on too large a scale, exhausted the author's strength, and remains unfinished. mr. stephen's present work fulfils its promise and completes its design. the utilitarians are very fortunate in having found a historian whose vivacity of style, consummate literary knowledge, and masculine power of thought will have revived their declining reputations, and secured to them their proper place in the literature of the nineteenth century. footnotes: [ ] _the english utilitarians._ by leslie stephen. vols. london, duckworth and co., .--_edinburgh review_, april . [ ] _the greek theory of the state_, by charles john shebbeare, b.a., . [ ] sir robert peel's speech on reform, march . characteristics of mr. swinburne's poetry[ ] there is probably some foundation for the belief, often held in these days, that the production of high poetry is becoming more difficult, partly because the environment of modern civilisation lends itself less and less to artistic treatment, as mechanism supersedes human effort, and partly through the operation of other causes. it has been plausibly argued that most things worth saying have been said already; that even the words best fitted for poetic expression have been worn out, have been weakened by familiar usage or soiled by misuse, and that the resources of language for adequate presentation of ideas and feelings are running very low. nevertheless, we all look forward hopefully to the coming of the original genius who is to strike a fresh note and inaugurate a new era, as pious mohammedans expect another imam. yet his coming may not be in our time, and meanwhile the poetic lamp is burning dimly; it is just kept alight by the assiduous trimming of the disciples of the great men who have passed or are passing away, by the minor poets who strike a few musical chords that catch the ear, but who are not recalled by the audience when they have played their part and left the stage. the stars that shone in the bright constellation of victorian poets have been setting one by one, until two only remain of those who were the pride of the generation to which they belong, for whom we may predict that they will hold a permanent place in english literature. it is now nearly sixty years since mr. meredith's first poems were published. mr. swinburne is about ten years his junior, both in age and in authorship; one may perhaps assume that the work upon which their reputations will rest is finished for both of them. mr. meredith's poetry has very recently been the subject of a very complete and sympathetic study by mr. george trevelyan. in this article we shall make an attempt to delineate, briefly of necessity and therefore inadequately, the characteristic qualities of form and thought, the technical methods and intellectual temperament which distinguish the younger poet, who may be destined to be the last survivor of an illustrious company. if we accept the theory that art, like nature, follows the principle of continuous development, that its existing state is closely linked with its past, it is not easy to affiliate mr. swinburne to any direct literary predecessors. undoubtedly we may assign to him poetical kinship with shelley; he has the same love for classical myths and allegories, for the embodiment of nature in the beautiful figures of the antique. light and shade, a quiet landscape, a tumultuous storm, stir him with the same sensuous emotion. he has shelley's passion for the sea; he is fond of invoking the old divinities who presided over the fears, hopes, and desires of mankind. he has also shelley's rebellious temper, the unflinching revolt against dogmatic authority and fundamental beliefs which rightly shocked our grandfathers in 'queen mab' and a few other poems; he is even less disposed than shelley to the hypocrisy which does unwilling homage to virtue. on the other hand, mr. swinburne's pantheism has not shelley's metaphysical note; the conception of an indwelling spirit guiding and moulding the phenomenal world has dropped out; there is no pure idealism of this sort in mr. swinburne's verse. it may be said, truly, that some of mr. swinburne's poetry shows the influence of the later french romanticists, of the reaction toward mediævalism which is represented in england by scott, and which culminated in france with victor hugo, for whom the english poet's admiration is unmeasured. that movement, however, had almost ceased on our side of the channel at the time when it had reached, or was just passing, its climax in france. and, indeed, by the style and sentiment of english poetry was undergoing a remarkable change. its magnificent efflorescence, which the first quarter of the nineteenth century had seen in full bloom, had faded away. it had sprung up in an era of great wars and revolution, amid the struggles of nations to shake off the incubus of despotisms, to free themselves from the yoke of foreigners. the cause of political liberty inspired the noblest verse of shelley, coleridge, and byron: yet freedom, yet, thy banner, torn but flying, streams like a thunderstorm against the wind--' but in england this ardent spirit had evaporated during the years of industrial prosperity and mechanical progress which came in with a long peace after twenty years of fighting; and during the next generation a milder tone prevailed. for an interval we had only second-rate artists in verse. the fiery enthusiasts, the despisers of respectability, were succeeded by poets who were decently emotional, pensive in thought, tame or affected in style, domestic in theme, with feeble echoes of the true romantic note in mrs. hemans and others. next, in the fulness of time, came tennyson and browning, to raise the level of english poetry by their deeper views of life, their elevation of thought, and their incomparably greater imaginative power. tennyson's composition is pellucid and exquisitely refined. browning is rugged and often obscure; he cares more for the force than for the form of expression. the great problems of religion and politics are seriously and cautiously handled. browning analyses them with caustic irony, while tennyson, after making vain attempts to solve them, finds consolation in the 'higher pantheism.' they are soon joined by matthew arnold and clough, who represent the melancholy resignation of sensitive minds that have discarded the creeds, for whom the miraculous history of christianity is an illusion that has faded into the common light of day. meredith, poet and novelist, falls back upon communion with nature; he preaches the doctrine of duty, of working while the light lasts; he is a high moralist who accepts stoically the conclusion that nothing beyond terrestrial existence is knowable. thus mr. swinburne's elder contemporaries and precursors in poetry were all in different modes and fashions optimists; at any rate in their earlier writings. they stood outside the churches; dogmatic beliefs they tacitly put away; they were in sympathy with the christian ideal apart from its supernatural element; they professed a vague trust in an unseen power, chequered here and there by intimations of pantheism; they made no frontal assault upon the central positions of theology. when we turn to their emotional poetry we find that they were always decorous; there is much discourse of love, often passionate, never erotic, no tearing aside of drapery, not a line to scare modesty. in tennyson's most impassioned lyrics the principal figure is the broken-hearted lover, jilted by cousin amy, or caught in the garden with maud--with intentions strictly honourable in both cases. the treatment of love by browning and meredith is chiefly psychological; they are usually concerned with the tragic situations that it can involve, though the comic aspect of sexual infatuation occasionally provokes cynicism. in politics all these poets are no friends to democracy or seething radicalism; they adore liberty, yet they are votaries of law and order; they have a hatred of misrule, and generally a cheerful confidence in the world's evolution toward better things. on social ethics the poets of the mid-victorian period wrote with philosophic sobriety; they maintained a strict moral standard. in their wildest emotional flights they abstained from irreverence or indecorum. they undoubtedly represented the prevailing cast of thought, the taste and tendencies of the society to which they belonged; the growing scepticism, the influence on established ideas of advancing science and philosophy. literature had been showing distinct signs of sympathy with these novelties, but in the early 'sixties an open revolt was generally discountenanced. mr. swinburne's first publications were two historic plays, of which something will be said hereafter. in he turned suddenly from modern history to ancient legend for his dramatic subject, when he aroused immediate attention by _atalanta in calydon_, which reproduced the structure and metrical arrangement of a greek tragedy. the dialogue has the purity of tone, the clear-cut concision that belong to its hellenic model. at the beginning we have a joyous chant full of sound and colour, gradually changing into the elegiac strain of foreboding, the dread of pitiless divinities, the lamentation for the hero's unmerited fate. the exquisite modulations of the verse, the splendid choral antiphonies captivated all who were susceptible to the enchantment of poetry. the delicate adaptation of the english language to quantitative harmonies in high resonant lyrics showed extraordinary skill in the difficult enterprise of communicating the charm and cadences of the antique masterpieces. it is a heroic drama, severe in style and character as the _antigone_ of sophocles. then in came _chastelard_, conceived and partly written, as mr. swinburne has told us, when he was yet at oxford, a play in which he turns from the greek tragedians to rejoin the historical dramatists. the turn is abrupt, for no character could have been more alien to the greek notions of heroism than that of the love-sick knight who joyfully throws away his life for an hour in his lady's chamber, tears up the warrant reprieving him from execution, and accepts death to save queen mary's fragile reputation. but although the keynote of mr. swinburne's coming poetry is struck in _chastelard_--the overpowering enthralment of love, a joy to live and die for-- 'the mistress and mother of pleasure, the one thing as certain as death'-- yet it gave the british public no fair warning of what followed almost immediately. into the midst of a well-regulated, self-respecting modern society, much moved by tennyson's 'idylls,' and altogether sympathetic with the misfortunes of the blameless king--justly appreciative of the domestic affection so tenderly portrayed by coventry patmore's 'angel in the house'--mr. swinburne charged impetuously with his _poems and ballads_, waving the banner of revolt against conventional reticence, kicking over screens and rending drapery--a reckless votary of astarte, chanting the 'laus veneris' and the worship of 'dolores, our lady of pain.' from the calm and bright aspect of paganism he is turning toward its darker side, to the mystic rites and symbolism which cloaked the fierce primitive impulses of the natural man. the burden of these first poems is chiefly the bitter sweetness of love, the sighs and transports of those who writhe in the embrace of the dread goddess, known by many names in all lands, or the glory of man's brief springtide, when the veins are hot, soon to be cooled and covered by frost and fallen leaves. in the clear ringing stanzas of the 'triumph of time,' who sweeps away the brief summer of lovers' delight, bringing them to autumnal regrets 'for days that are over and dreams that are done,' and lastly to wintry oblivion, we have almost a surfeit of voluptuous melancholy. in this, as in other poems, the sea, changeful in mood, alternately fair and fierce, a bright smiling surface covering a thousand graves, fascinating and treacherous, is the mythical aphrodite, the fatal woman, merciless to men. all this is set out in lyrics which amaze the reader by their exuberance of language, profusion of metaphor, and classic allusion; in rhymes that strike on the ear like the clashing of cymbals. it is as if atys and his wild mænads were flying through the quiet english woodlands. the long-drawn, undulating lines, in a quieter strain, of the 'hymn to proserpine' and of 'hesperia,' with their subtle music, lay the reader under their charm; but too many of these poems are tainted by a flavour of morbidity, and the average englishman is not easily thrown by the most potent spells into a state of amorous delirium. it is not surprising, therefore, that this first volume of poems, saturated with intoxicating hedonism, had, as mr. swinburne wrote in the dedicatory preface appended to the full collection of his works, 'as quaint a reception and as singular a fortune as i have ever heard or read of.' the eruption of neo-paganism was sudden and unexpectedly violent--the rumblings of scientific and philosophic scepticism had given no warning of a volcanic explosion in this direction. the current literature of was much more prudish and less outspoken than it is at the present day; the gentlemanly licentiousness of byron's time had been completely suppressed; the moral tone of the middle class was still outwardly puritanic. english folk were by no means prepared to rebuild the altars of the primitive deities who presided over man's unquenchable desire, or to be otherwise than somewhat aghast at the invocations of astarte or ashtaroth, or the cry to our lady of pain, the 'noble and nude and antique.' the result was that the first edition of the _poems and ballads_ was withdrawn, though they were reissued in the same year, when mr. swinburne published a reply to his critics. nevertheless, although the graver and, we may say, the higher judges of what was admissible to a nineteenth-century poet were entirely against him, it cannot be denied that the impulsive youth of that generation felt the enchantment of mr. swinburne's intoxicating love-potions--were sorely tempted to dash down tennyson on the drawing-room table, and to join the wild dance round the shrine of aphrodite pandemia. in the _poems and ballads_ mr. swinburne keeps on some terms, so to speak, with theology. in the poem entitled 'a litany' the lord god discourses with biblical sternness to his people, who tremble before him, and threatens them with 'the inevitable hell,' while the people implore mercy--a strange excursion into the semitic desert out of the flowery field of paganism. and another poem is a pathetic rendering of the story of st. dorothy, a christian martyr. it is true that he looks back with æsthetic regret to the triumph of christianity over the picturesque polytheism, and that perhaps the finest poem in this volume is the 'hymn to proserpine,' where a votary of the ancient divinities confesses sorrowfully that a new and austere faith has triumphed, but predicts that its kingdom will not last, will decline and fall like the empire of the elder gods-- 'all ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past; ye are gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon you at last. in the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the changes of things, ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall forget you for kings.' the 'hymn to proserpine' is a fine conception of the champion of a lost cause standing unmoved among the ruins of his pantheon. but the quiet dignity of his attitude is marred by the lines in which the votary of fair forms turns with loathing from the new faith which has conquered by the blood and agony of saints and martyrs. the violent invective is like a red streak across the canvas of a picturesque and highly imaginative composition. yet if he had been reminded that lucretius, standing in the midst of paganism, sternly denounced the evils and cruelties of religion, mr. swinburne would probably have replied that the roman poet, could he have been born again fourteen or fifteen centuries later in his native country, would have found these evils enormously increased, and that the sacrifice of iphigenia in aulis was as nothing to the hecatombs of the inquisition. his intense imagination summons up a bright and luxurious vision of the pre-christian civilisation in greece and rome, as yet little affected by the deeper spiritualism of asia; he is absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful sensuous aspect of the old nature-worship, as it is represented by poetry and the plastic arts, by singers and sculptors who (one may remark) knew better than to deal with its darker and degrading side, its orgies and unabashed animalism. and we may add that mr. swinburne would have done well to follow the example, in this respect, of these great masters of his own art; since his early defects and excesses are mainly due to his having missed their lesson by disregarding the limitations which they scrupulously observed. when he reissued the _poems and ballads_, mr. swinburne took occasion, as we have said, to reply, in a pamphlet, to the strictures and strong protests which they had aroused. he was at some trouble to discover the passages or phrases 'that had drawn down such sudden thunder from the serene heavens of public virtue': he was comically puzzled to comprehend why the reviewers were scandalised. he trampled with sarcasm and scorn upon canting critics, and retorted that the prurient prudery of their own minds suggested the impurities which they found in works of pure art. there is nothing, he insists, lovelier, as there is nothing more famous in later hellenic art, than the statue of hermaphroditus, yet his translation of a sculptured poem into written verse has given offence! one might reply that a subject which is irreproachable, on the score of purity, in cold marble, may take a very different colour when it is dilated upon in burning verse. the controversy had its humorous side; but we have no intention of stirring up again the smoke and fire of battles fought long ago. mr. swinburne held his ground defiantly, and the appearance of _songs and ballads_, published in , showed no signs of contrition, or of concession to inveterate prejudices. in the course of the intervening five years the empire of napoleon iii. had fallen with a mighty crash; italy had been united under one italian dynasty; garibaldi had become famous, and the papal states had been absorbed into the italian kingdom. this volume, which was dedicated to joseph mazzini, shows the ardent enthusiasm for the triumph of liberty, intellectual and political, which runs through all mr. swinburne's poetry. the 'song of the standard,' the 'halt before rome,' the 'marching song,' the 'insurrection of candia,' are poems that reflect current events; and the 'litany of nations' is the national anthem of peoples striving for freedom. but his verse rises to its highest pitch of exultation in the glorification of emancipation of man. the final line of the 'hymn to man' is 'glory to man in the highest, for man is the master of things'; and in one stanza of 'hertha' is condensed all the wild declamation against deities and despots that pervades his poetry at this stage, with his joy in the deification of humanity: 'a creed is a rod, and a crown is of night; but this thing is god, to be man with thy might, to grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light.' there are no love-lyrics in this volume. he now stands forth as the uncompromising enemy of established religions, a fierce assailant of tyrannies, spiritual or temporal, an iconoclast who denounces churches and tabernacles, priests and kings, the roman pope and the jewish jehovah; one for whom the papacy is, as it was to hobbes, the kingdom of darkness, its record blotted with tears and stained with blood, the 'grey spouse of satan,' as he styled her in a later poem, sitting by a fire that is fed with the bones of her victims. from this time forward he declares open war upon theology, and even upon theism; he is the mortal foe of bigots and tyrants; his praise is for giordano bruno, for pelagius the british monk, born by the northern sea; for voltaire, for all who have fought and suffered in the cause of intellectual emancipation. the prevailing religious beliefs seem to him relics of mediæval superstition, sophistry, and metaphysic--he contrasts them with the bright and free nature worship of the old world; he is a bitter enemy of the lofty spiritualism, the mighty world-religion, before which the fair humanities of the _juventus mundi_ had faded away. his delight is in the virile qualities of the earlier civilisations, the patriotism, the heroic temper, the ardour for civic liberties, the hellenic delight in noble form and in physical beauty. he is fretted by the restraint which christian authority imposes upon the unruly affections of sinful men; he scorns the terrors of judgment to come, the prostration of the multitude before the threat of eternal punishment, and the promise of celestial recompense for terrestrial misery. death is the 'sleep eternal in an eternal night'; and the one thing as certain as death is pleasure. he is the prophet of hedonism; he is for giving the passions a loose rein, for drinking the wine of rapture to the lees before we lie 'deep in dim death, beneath the grass where no thought stings.' nevertheless, as the years go on, the note of regret and despair quiets down, the restless spirit of the poet is subdued to the calmer influences of nature; the charm of scenery, the association of places with memories more frequently bring softer inspirations. in his earlier poems his imaginative power found full scope in rendering the impressions of natural beauty, the glory of elemental strife; as in the 'songs of the four seasons,' where the approach of a storm from the sea is likened to a descent of the norse pirates on to the peaceful coast, and the metaphor produces a spirited picture: 'as men's cheeks faded on shores invaded when shorewards waded the lords of fight; when churl and craven saw hard on haven the wide-winged raven at mainmast height; when monks affrighted to windward sighted the birds full-flighted of swift sea-kings; so earth turns paler when storm the sailor steers in with a roar in the race of his wings.' but more frequently the outlook on sea and land induces reverie, vague yearnings, retrospective sadness, and, like all true artists, he transposes into the landscape his own personal emotions, what he sees, feels, and remembers. in the poem of 'hesperia' the view of the sunset over the sea stirs tender memories; the 'deep-tide wind blowing in with the water' seems to be wafting his absent love back to him, and his heart floats out toward her 'as the refluent seaweed moves in the languid exuberant stream.' in such pieces the fierce amorous obsession has been shaken off; he is no longer vexed by shakespeare's[ ] hyperbolic fiend, his mood is comparatively gentle and pathetic, as in the beautiful verses of 'a forsaken garden,' where his consummate faculty of metrical expression, wherein sense and sound are matched and inseparable, reaches, perhaps, its highest watermark: 'over the meadows that blossom and wither rings but the note of a sea-bird's song; only the sun and the rain come hither all year long.' in the series of landscape sketches grouped under the title of _a midsummer holiday_, published nearly twenty years after the _poems and ballads_, the treatment of his subject has become more impersonal. the impression or idea is still coloured by transmission through the spectator's mind. mr. swinburne has himself observed, very truly, that 'mere descriptive poetry of the prepense and formal kind is exceptionally liable to incur and to deserve the charge of dulness: it is unnecessary to emphasise or obtrude the personal note, the presence or emotion of a spectator, but it is necessary to make it felt and keep it perceptible if the poem is to have life in it or even a right to live.'[ ] this is the right doctrine, and we may add that it is applicable as a criticism to some of his earlier descriptive pieces, where the intense personal feeling is somewhat too intense and disproportionate; so that a reader gifted with less keenness of sensibility is disconcerted by insistence on effusive moods with which he cannot be expected to be in full sympathy. mr. swinburne might reply that for such dullards he does not write; but the finest wines are too heady for a morning's draught. in his more mature poems he appears to have deliberately held back what may be termed the subjective emotion; the landscapes are no longer peopled by figures or memories of the past; the thoughts which they suggest are such as find response in all minds that are in accord with the deeper and more subtle relations of human life to its environment. he himself has indeed told us[ ] that to many of his studies of english land and sea no intimacy of years and no association with the past has given any colour of emotion, that only so much of the personal note is retained as is sufficient to bring these various poems into touch with each other. and we can perceive that their inspiration is drawn, chiefly if not exclusively, from the spiritual influence of inanimate nature, the effects of inland or woodland solitude, of the land silent under the noontide heat, of the sterile shore, or the raging of the sea. the _midsummer holiday_ group has two pictures of sweet homeliness--'the mill garden' and 'on a country road'--the harvest of a quiet eye (in wordsworth's phrase), such as a rambling artist might jot down in his travelling sketch book, of value the more remarkable because they are not in mr. swinburne's usual manner. they give relief to the breadth and grandeur of the other descriptions of the ocean, the crags, and the storms. for to swinburne, as to all the romantic english poets, the ocean stream which encircles their island is an inexhaustible source of delight and pride; it is our ever present defence in time of trouble; the fountain of our country's wealth and honour; it is our traditional battlefield; the winds and the waves are the breath and the force of our national being. and through mr. swinburne's poetry runs a vein of undiluted love for his native land. in his poem 'on the south coast' he looks out from 'the green, smooth-swelling downs' over the broad blue water, and his thought is expressed in its final stanza: fair and dear is the land's face here, and fair man's work as a man's may be: dear and fair as the sunbright air is here the record that speaks him free; free by birth of a sacred earth, and regent ever of all the sea.' the 'autumn vision' is an ode to the south-west wind, which has so often filled the sails of the english warships: 'wind beloved of earth and sky and sea beyond all winds that blow, wind whose might in fight was england's on her mightiest warrior day, south-west wind, whose breath for her was life, and fire to scourge her foe, steel to smite and death to drive him down an unreturning way, well-beloved and welcome, sounding all the clarions of the sky, rolling all the marshalled waters toward the charge that storms the shore.' charles kingsley, like a hardy norseman, preferred the north-east gale. to him the south-west wind is 'the ladies' breeze, bringing back their lovers out of all the seas,' while mr. swinburne hears in the rushing south-western gale 'the sound of wings gigantic, wings whose measure is the measure of the measureless atlantic,' and, after the storm, 'the grim sea swell, grey, sleepless and sad as a soul estranged.' 'a swimmer's dream' gives us the poetry of floating on the slow roll of the waves, some cloudy november morning. 'dawn is dim on the dark soft water, soft and passionate, dark and sweet.' 'loch torridon' preserves the charm of what might be a landlocked lake, if it were not that the rippling tide flows in by an almost invisible inlet from the sea. from his earliest to his latest poems the magic of nature's changing aspects fascinates him; they inspire him with a kind of ecstasy that finds utterance in the variety of his verse, which reflects all the lights and shades of earth, sea, and atmosphere. one may remark, by the way, that in proportion as his poetic strength matures, the pagan gods and goddesses, who disported themselves so freely in his juvenile verse, visit him much more rarely; his imagery draws much less profusely upon the classic mythology for symbols and figures of divinities whose diaphanous robes are ill suited to our northern climate and puritanic traditions, in the wolds and forests once sacred to thor and woden. * * * * * it will be admitted by mr. swinburne's least indulgent critics that his poetry displays throughout a marvellous power of execution. he runs over all the lyrical and elegiac chords with unabated facility; his metrical variations and musical phrasing bring out and extend the capacity and fertility of our language as a poetic instrument; he is master of his materials. no doubt there is some repetition, some iteration, which becomes slightly wearisome, of his favourite rhymes, indicating, what has been observed independently of reference to this particular writer, that the resources of the english language for terminal assonance, under the stringent conditions required by the modern rules of versification, are inevitably limited and show signs of exhaustion. in a note on poetry appended to his latest volume of verses,[ ] mr. john davidson has classed rhyme as a kind of disease of poetry. rhyme, he says, is probably more than seven hundred years old--in europe, he must mean, for it is far older in asia, whence it originally came--and since the days of the troubadours and minnesingers it has corrupted, in his opinion, the ear of the world. at best it is, he thinks, a decadent mode, imposing shackles on free poetic expression; and though in these fetters great poets have done magnificent work, in their finest rhymed verse he finds a feeling of effort. they have always been obliged to throw in something that need not have been said, some words inserted under compulsion, to bring the rhyme about. mr. davidson declares that the true glory of free untrammelled poetry shines out in the rhythmic periods of blank verse. that there may be some truth, or at least some convenience, in this theory of the poetic art, the modern poet may not be concerned to deny; for, as we have already said, rhymes will not withstand incessant and familiar usage; they become commonplaces, and the rhymer wanders away from the natural direction of his thought in search of fresh ones. the most devout admirers of browning must admit that his verse is often distorted in this way--so that a fine stanza sometimes finishes with a jolt and ends with a tag--and it must be allowed that this necessity of making both ends meet is bad for the poetic conscience, a temptation to indefensible laxities. even mr. swinburne, the inventor of exquisite harmonies, whose work is indisputably sincere, can be occasionally observed to be diverging from the straight line of his impetuous flight, hovering and making circuits that lead up skilfully to the indispensable rhyme. more frequently, perhaps, there is a tendency to interpose some metaphor, or rather far-fetched allusion, for the sake of the clear, full, recurrent intonation of echoing words that can only be marshalled into their places by artistic ingenuity. we may so far agree with mr. davidson that most of the sublime passages in english poetry are in blank verse, though it may be noticed that the four lines which he quotes from _macbeth_,[ ] as containing the 'topmost note in the stupendous agony of the drama,' are rhymed. the management of rhyme is a difficult and very delicate art; it is an instrument that requires a first-class performer, like mr. swinburne, to bring out its potency; to this art the english lyric, the ode and the song, owe their musical perfection. mr. swinburne, in an essay upon matthew arnold's _new poems_ ( ), has said, truly, that 'rhyme is the native condition of lyric verse in england'; and that 'to throw away the natural grace of rhyme from a modern song is a wilful abdication of half the charm and half the power of verse.' to this general rule he might possibly admit one exception--tennyson's short poem beginning with 'tears, idle tears,' which is so delicately modulated that the absence of rhyme is not missed. at any rate it is certain that all popular verse needs this terminal note; for a ballad in blank verse is inconceivable. on the other hand, the proper use of rhyme demands a fine ear, which is a rare gift; for our language has no formal rules of prosody, so that in maladroit hands rhyme becomes an intolerable jingle. at the present day, however, there is a tendency to run into excessive elaboration, largely due to superficial imitation of such masters of the poetic art as tennyson, and especially swinburne, so that we have a copious outpouring of feeble melodies. mr. swinburne, on the contrary, is never feeble; he combines technical excellence with the power of vehement, often much too violent, expression. his character may be defined by the french word 'entier'; he is uncompromising in praise or blame. he insists (to quote his own words) that 'the worship of beauty, though beauty be itself transformed and incarnate in shapes diverse without end, must be simple and absolute'; nor will he tolerate reserve or veiled intimations of a poet's inmost thought. 'nothing,' he has written, 'in verse or out of verse is more wearisome than the delivery of reluctant doubt, of half-hearted hope and half-incredulous faith. a man who suffers from the strong desire either to believe or disbelieve something he cannot, may be worthy of sympathy, is certainly worthy of pity, until he begins to speak; and if he tries to speak in verse, he misses the implement of an artist.' he is pained by matthew arnold's 'occasional habit of harking back and loitering in mind among the sepulchres.... nothing which leaves us depressed is a true work of art.' yet, it may be answered, the habit of musing among tombs has inspired good poetry; and when doubt and dejection, perplexed meditation over insoluble problems, are in the air, a poet does well to express the dominant feelings of his time; and a modern hamlet is no inartistic figure. in this respect, however, mr. swinburne may have found reason to qualify, latterly, the absoluteness of his poetic principles. he has been from the first a generous critic of those contemporary poets whom he recognised as kindred souls. he awards unmeasured praise to matthew arnold, while of his defects and shortcomings he speaks plainly. he does loyal homage to browning in a sequence of sonnets, and his tribute to tennyson was paid in a lofty 'threnody,' when that noble spirit passed away. for victor hugo he proclaimed, as all know, nothing short of unbounded adoration--he is 'the greatest writer whom the world has seen since shakespeare'; though it may be doubted whether in his own country hugo now stands upon so supreme a pinnacle. to other eminent men of his time his poetry accords admiration, chiefly to the champions of free thought and of resistance to oppression; and, in a poem entitled 'two leaders,' he salutes two antagonists as he might do before crossing swords with them. the leaders are not named; the first is evidently newman: 'o great and wise, clear-souled and high of heart, one the last flower of catholic love, that grows amid bare thorn their only thornless rose, from the fierce juggling of the priest's loud mart yet alien, yet unspotted and apart from the blind hard foul rout whose shameless shows mock the sweet heaven whose secret no man knows with prayers and curses and the soothsayers' art.' the second is 'like a storm-god of the northern foams strong, wrought of rock that breasts and breaks the sea,' in whom we recognise carlyle. they are the powers of darkness, doomed to fall and to vanish before the light; yet their genius commands respect and even sympathy. 'with all our hearts we praise you whom ye hate, high souls that hate us; for our hopes are higher, * * * * * honour not hate we give you, love not fear, last prophets of past kind, who fill the dome of great dead gods with wrath and wail, nor hear time's word and man's: "go honoured hence, go home, night's childless children; here your hour is done; pass with the stars, and leave us with the sun."' the concise energy of these lines, their slow metrical movement, invest them with singular weight and dignity. the poet is confronting two representatives, in principle, of force and authority, whose prototypes in bygone times would undoubtedly have sent him to the scaffold or to the stake; nor is it improbable that both carlyle and newman, though in all other opinions they differed widely, would have agreed that a revolutionary firebrand and a pestilent infidel deserved some such fate. the poet might console himself with the reflection that they must have abhorred each other's principles quite as much as they detested his own. in his later verse mr. swinburne still continues to wield his flaming sword against priests and despots, against intellectual and political servility. what may be termed the historical plea, the excuse for ideas and institutions that they are the relics of evil days long past, is no palliation for them to his mind; he would stamp them out and utterly destroy them. in this respect his temperament has unconsciously a strong tincture of the intolerance which he denounces; he would sweep away christianity as christianity swept away polytheism. toward its founder, as the type of human love and purity, he is uniformly reverential; there is nothing in that supreme figure that jars with that religion of humanity, which 'the altar of righteousness' proclaims with high dithyrambic enthusiasm: 'christ the man lives yet, remembered of man as dreams that leave light on eyes that wake and know not if memory bids them grieve. * * * * * far above all wars and gospels, all ebb and flow of time, lives the soul that speaks in silence, and makes mute the earth sublime.' but of theology reigning by force and terror he is the implacable enemy; and his intemperate violence leaves a stain on the bright radiance of his poetry. it amounts to an artistic fault, undiminished even in the later years which should have brought the philosophic mind. moreover, it has materially lessened the influence which so fine a poetic genius should have exercised over the present generation, among whom polemical ardour and bitterness may be thought to have perceptibly cooled down, and to have become much less aggressive, in science, philosophy, and literature, than among the preceding generation. an age of tacit indifference, content with rationalistic explanations, with the slow working of disillusion, dislikes and discountenances outrageous scorn poured upon things that are traditionally sacred; and to the english character extremes are always distressing. mr. swinburne's dramatic work, at any rate, takes us out of the strife and turmoil of theologic war; we are on firm historic ground, dealing with authentic events and persons. the plays of _chastelard_, _bothwell_, and _mary stuart_ form a trilogy in which the most romantic and eventful period of scottish history is presented; they constitute the epic-drama of scotland, to adopt a definition applied by victor hugo to the tragedy of _bothwell_. it is impossible, in this article, to find space for an adequate criticism of these remarkable productions. every leading poet of the nineteenth century has made excursions into the dramatic field. we doubt whether any of them has come out of the adventure much better than mr. swinburne. all of them have given us, each in his own way, fine poetry, and, if we except byron, they have shown that the masters of lyrical music can strike with power the high chords of blank verse. none of them have produced plays that took any hold of a theatrical audience; in most cases they were not intended for the stage. the play of _chastelard_ is too deeply saturated with amorous essences throughout to be forcibly dramatic. the hero is in a high love-fever from first to last, the passionate strain becomes monotonous, and though he dies to save the queen's honour, our minds are not purged with much pity for him. in the long historical drama of _bothwell_, which has twenty-one scenes in its two acts, we have spirited portraits of the fierce nobles who surrounded mary stuart during her brief and distracted reign. the love passages are pauses in a course of violent action, the assassination of rizzio, the murder of darnley are not overcoloured melodramatically, and the scenes in and about the kirk of field are darkened with the shadow of darnley's imminent fate. but darnley's dream, presaging his coming doom, inevitably recalls the dream of clarence, and cannot but suffer from the reminiscence. we might have something to say on the metrical construction of swinburne's blank verse, for he shares with tennyson, though in a minor degree, the distinction of having enlarged its scope and varied its measure. but the subject would demand careful comparative examination and analysis of different styles, such as is to be read, with profit to all students of the art poetic, in mr. j. b. mayor's _chapters on english metres_. it will be understood that this article attempts no more than to review the salient characteristics of mr. swinburne's poetry, to indicate in some degree their connexion and development. it cannot but fall far short, obviously, of being a comprehensive survey of his contributions to english literature. we have made no reference, for lack of space, to his treatment of chivalrous romance in _tristram of lyonesse_, which mr. swinburne has rightly called 'the deathless legend,' though, since its fascination has made it a subject for three other contemporary poets, a comparison of their diverse manners of handling the story would be interesting. it is with regret that we have been compelled, also, to refrain from any adequate notice of mr. swinburne's prose writings, for in regard to the poetry of his own period the dissertations and judgments of one who combines high imaginative faculty with scientific mastery of the metrical art must have special value. of the ordinary untrained criticism, the 'chorus of indolent reviewers,' to use tennyson's phrase, he is, we think, too impatient. from a passage in his dedicatory epistle we gather that some of the tribe have ventured so far as to insinuate that poetry ought not to become a mere musical exercise. mr. swinburne's rejoinder is that 'except to such ears as should always be closed against poetry, there is no music in verse which has not in it sufficient fulness and ripeness of meaning, sufficient adequacy of emotion or of thought, to abide the analysis of any other than the purblind scrutiny of prepossession or the squint-eyed inspection of malignity.' apart from the wrathful form, the substance of what is here said merits consideration, for undoubtedly the most musical of our poets, from shakespeare and milton to coleridge and shelley, are those whose verse has embodied the richest thought and has been instinct with the deeper emotions. we must muster up courage to remark, nevertheless, that while in mr. swinburne's finest poems the musical setting accompanies and illuminates the thought or feeling, in some others the underlying idea is too unsubstantial; its real presence is only visible to the eye of implicit faith. toward his fellow poets, his equals and contemporaries, mr. swinburne's attitude is that of generous enthusiasm, not excluding outspoken, yet courteous, indication of defects, as may be seen in the essay[ ] on matthew arnold's _new poems_, which is full of important observations on poetry in general, beside some well-deserved strictures on arnold's shortcomings, in criticism as well as in verse. for victor hugo he has nothing but panegyric. his articles on byron and coleridge are luminous appreciations of the very diverse excellences belonging to two illustrious predecessors; while in his _notes on the text of shelley_, high-soaring and incomparable, an unlucky emendation of a line in 'the skylark--the insertion of a superfluous word conjecturally--by an editor whose work he commends on the whole, provokes him to sheer exasperation: 'for the conception of this atrocity the editor is not responsible; for its adoption he is. a thousand years of purgatorial fire would be insufficient expiation for the criminal on whose deaf and desperate head must rest the original guilt of defacing the text of shelley with this damnable corruption.' 'fas est et ab hoste doceri.' mr. swinburne has borrowed the style of sacerdotal anathema from his mortal enemies, and pronounces it no less inexorably. but these notes were written nigh forty years ago, so we may hope that by this time he has cast out, or at least subdued by diligent exorcism, that same hyperbolic fiend which entered in and rent him at certain seasons of his youth. mr. swinburne has, indeed, the defects of his qualities. he is an ardent friend and an unflinching adversary, but we have seen that in prose no less than in poetry, in polemics as in politics, his style is liable to become overheated and thunderous. he has no patience with mediocrity in art; he disdains the _via media_ in thought and action. in these respects he stands alone among the victorian poets, most of whom anticipate with misgivings the evaporation of faith in the supernatural, while they acknowledge that for themselves such faith has little meaning, and are inclined to melancholy musing over the 'doubtful doom of human kind' which haunted the imagination of tennyson. and his attitude is still further apart from the intellectual tendencies discernible at the present moment in pure literature, which is now less concerned, we think, with these questions than when mr. arnold wrote _literature and dogma_, and seems more disposed to leave theology in the hands of the physical scientists and the professional metaphysicians. however this may be, it is to be seriously regretted that mr. swinburne's peremptory, unscrupulous manner of dealing with religious forms and beliefs which the world, perhaps, would not unwillingly let die, though by painless extinction rather than by violence, has alienated reverent minds from him, and has tarnished the brilliancy of his strenuous verse. the sensuous frenzy of his juvenile poems is still remembered against him; it betrayed a lack of moral dignity, of what the greek poets, whom he so much admired, meant by the word [greek: aidos]. but we very willingly acknowledge that of these excesses hardly a trace is to be found in the very numerous pieces that fill the later volumes of his collected poetry. from these causes it has resulted that mr. swinburne does not, in our opinion, now hold the position or command the influence which would otherwise be accorded to one who may be reckoned the chief lyrical poet of the second half of the nineteenth century; for after the publication, in , of _maud_, tennyson had passed his lyrical climax, and mr. swinburne's superiority, as a lyrist, over all other writers of that period is incontestable. his neo-paganism, moreover, jars upon the realistic modernity of a generation for whom primitive symbolism is obsolete as a form of expression, and whose prevailing thought is too profoundly rationalistic to be attracted by a pagan paradise. all this is to be regretted, since mr. swinburne undoubtedly has the pagan virtues. his aspirations are concentrated on ideals that ennoble the present life, on justice, inflexible courage, patriotism, the unsophisticated intelligence; he loves liberty and he hates oppression in all their shapes. he is throughout an optimist, who believes and predicts that a clearer and brighter prospect is before humanity. to mr. swinburne, in short, may be applied the words with which matthew arnold summed up his essay upon heine: 'he is not an adequate interpreter of the modern world; he is a brilliant soldier in the liberation war of humanity.' and future generations may remember him as the poet who passed on to them the message of his spiritual forefather, shelley: 'o man, hold thee on in courage of soul through the stormy shades of thy worldly way; and the billows of clouds that round thee roll shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, when heaven and hell shall leave thee free to the universe of destiny.' footnotes: [ ] _the poems of algernon charles swinburne._ in six volumes. with a dedicatory epistle to theodore watts-dunton. london, chatto and windus, .--_edinburgh review_, october . [ ] 'out, hyperbolic fiend! how vexest thou this man?'--_twelfth night._ [ ] dedicatory preface. [ ] dedicatory preface. [ ] _holiday and other poems_, . [ ] note on poetry, p. . [ ] _essays and studies_, . frontiers ancient and modern[ ] it may be doubted whether many students of history are aware that the demarcation of frontiers, of precise lines dividing the possessions of adjacent sovereignties and distinguishing their respective jurisdictions, is a practice of modern origin. at the present time it is the essential outcome of territorial disputes, it is the operation by which they are formally settled at the end of a war: it registers conquests and cessions; and occasionally it has been the result of pacific arbitration. among compact and civilised nationalities an exterior frontier, thus carefully defined, remains, like the human skin, the most sensitive and irritable part of their corporate constitution. the slightest infringement of it by a neighbouring power is instantly resented; to break through it violently is to be inflicting a wound which may draw blood; and even interference with any petty state that may lie between the frontiers of two great governments is regarded as a serious menace. the whole continent of europe has now been laid out upon this system of strict delimitation. yet it may be maintained that among the kingdoms of the ancient world no such exact and recognised distribution of territory existed; and, further, that up to a very recent period none of the great empires in asia had any boundaries that could be traced on a map. their landmarks were incessantly shifting forward or backward as their military strength rose or fell; and where their territories marched with some rough mountainous tract inhabited by warlike tribes, they were perpetually plagued by petty warfare on a zone of debateable land. on both sides some temporary intrusion upon or occupation of country held by a neighbour, which would now be the signal for mobilising an army, was treated as a trespass of small importance, to be resented and rectified at leisure. it is true that in earlier times the romans marked off distinct frontiers, and guarded them by military posts; but their policy was to acknowledge no frontier power with equal rights, and their actual political jurisdiction usually extended far beyond their lines of defence, which were advanced or withdrawn as political or military considerations might require. in fact, the roman empire, like the british empire in asia, was a great organised state, surrounded, for the most part, by small and weak principalities, or by warlike tribal communities, and it grew by a natural process of inevitable expansion. the emperors were often reluctant to enlarge their possessions; but the raids and incursions of intractable barbarians, or the revolt of some protected chiefship, frequently left them no option but to conquer and annex. they soon found themselves compelled to overstep the limits of empire prescribed by the policy of augustus, and to lay down an advanced frontier in the lands beyond the rhine and the danube. in europe, where, as we have said, all national frontiers are now fixed and registered, the position of a civilised government entangled in chronic border warfare has long been unknown; the tradition of such a state of things is preserved in popular recollection mainly by local records and old ballads. yet for englishmen the subject possesses peculiar interest, since it is connected with their earlier history; and moreover our dominion in india invests it with special importance, for it is there a matter of immediate experience and active concern. we may recollect, in the first place, that britain was an outlying province of the roman empire, for at this moment we are excavating the ruins of the wall built by the romans to protect their northern frontier from the incursions of the warlike tribes beyond it, by the first administration that established, for a time, peace and civilisation in england. then, in the middle ages, and long afterwards, the border between the kingdoms of england and scotland which ran northward of the old roman line, was for centuries the scene of plundering raids, punitive expeditions, and internecine feuds that often laid waste the countryside with fire and sword. we may observe, in this instance, how shifting and indeterminate was the exact frontier line between the two kingdoms, and how the local fighting, the inroads from one side or the other, did not necessarily involve a rupture of their formal relations. the wardens on each side executed rough justice upon marauding clans; they wasted and slaughtered in reprisal for raids; the great nobles engaged in a kind of private warfare; but all this might go on without embroiling the two governments in a national war. on the western english border the welsh hillmen kept the neighbouring counties in continual alarm; and their chiefs played an important part in the civil wars and rebellions of england. they were at last quieted by edward i., who succeeded in subduing wales though he failed in scotland. lastly, though the union of the two kingdoms brought peace to the anglo-scottish border, the highland line along the forth river still kept up, though in a much less serious degree, the troubles of a regular government in contact with restless tribes. nor was it until the middle of the eighteenth century that these relics of an archaic condition of society, which had long ago disappeared in other parts of western europe, were finally effaced in great britain. long afterwards, in the nineteenth century, when the conquest of the punjab carried the north-western frontier of british india up to the slopes of the afghan mountains, the scene of perpetual strife between a strong settled administration and turbulent borderers which had passed away on the tweed or the forth, and on the welsh marches, reappeared in the districts beyond the indus. to englishmen, therefore, whose experience of this situation is long, varied, and actual, mr. baddeley's book on the russians in the caucasus should be of exceptional interest. it is indeed well worth studying by those upon whom, whether at home or in india, has been imposed the arduous duty of superintending our policy in dealing with the afghan tribes for the protection of our indian districts. it is true that the conditions and circumstances, military and political, under which russia prosecuted her long war with the caucasian mountaineers, rendered her position in many respects different from that in which the english found themselves when they first came into contact with afghanistan, and which has changed very little in the course of sixty years. the aims and purposes of the two governments were by no means the same. yet in both cases we have a story of the obstinate resistance opposed by fierce and free clans to the arms of a powerful empire, of perilous campaigns amid rugged hills and passes, of the hazards and misfortunes to which disciplined troops are always liable when they encounter resolute and fanatical defenders of a difficult country. mr. baddeley's book contains an authentic narrative, founded on diligent study of official documents and on the accounts of those who took part in the fighting, of the operations by which the mohammedan tribes of the caucasus were finally subdued, after fierce and protracted resistance, by russian armies, and their country was annexed to the dominions of the czar. his knowledge of this region is evidently derived from personal exploration; and in the introduction to his book he has spared no pains to explain to his readers its geographical position, its topography, its physical features, and the extraordinary diversity of races and languages which it contained. we learn that the chain of mountains which was originally known by the name of the caucasus stretches, with a total length of miles, from the caspian to the black sea. toward the north is a tract of dense forest, intersected by numerous streams flowing down from the mountains; and beyond lies the high plateau of daghestan, 'through which the rivers have cut their way to a depth often of thousands of feet, the whole backed and ribbed, south and west, by mountain ranges having many peaks often over , feet in height.' in the forest tract, to which the russians gave the name of tchetchnia, their armies were constantly entangled; and their difficulties in reducing the inhabitants to subjection were quite as great as in conquering the highland tribes of daghestan. throughout the eighteenth century, and even earlier, the russians had been pushing southward toward the black sea and the caspian, and had gradually taken under their authority and protection the cossack tribes who were settled on the steppes that spread along the northern border of the caucasus. on this border they had established by the end of the century the cossack line of forts, military colonies and plantations of armed cultivators, linked together to form a barrier against the incursions and marauding raids of the wild folk in the woods and mountains in front of them, and gradually strengthened and supported by stations of regular troops in the background. on the south of the central mountain ranges the russians held georgia, inhabited by christian races whom the russians had liberated from the turkish or persian yoke before the close of the eighteenth century, and who ever afterwards remained loyal subjects of the czar. the georgian road which traversed the whole caucasian region from north to south, formed a most important line of communication which was never seriously interrupted. to the south-east, when the nineteenth century opened, lay mohammedan khanates, vassals of persia; on the south-west were the semi-independent pachaliks of the ottoman empire. we must pass over, reluctantly, mr. baddeley's very interesting sketch of the gradual approach made by russia toward the caucasus during the eighteenth century, which may be said to have begun in earnest with the expedition of peter the great, who led an army to the caspian shore and captured derbend about . this threatening movement upon the confines of asia inevitably involved russia in war with the turks and with the persians, for whom the caucasian mountains represented a great fortress, barring the onward march of a powerful christian empire toward their dominions. for the russians, on their side, it became of vital importance to break through the barrier that separated them from georgia, to occupy the country between the two seas, and to make an end of the perpetual warfare with the tribes, who kept their frontier on the cossack line in unceasing agitation and disorder, and were a standing menace to the christian population of georgia. it should be understood, however, that the cossacks discharged their duties of watch and ward after a very rough fashion, raiding and fighting on their own account, making incursions upon their mohammedan neighbours in retaliation for attacks and forays, and laying waste the enemy's country with the bitter vindictiveness of antagonistic races and religions. at the beginning of the nineteenth century georgia and some other christian principalities in trans-caucasia--that is, on the southern border of the mountains--had been absorbed into the russian empire, which now held continuous territory on this line from the black sea to the caspian. along the caspian shore the vassal states of persia had been reduced to submission, while the turks had been driven back from their fortified posts on the black sea. the turkish and persian governments naturally took alarm at the approach of a military power whom they had already good reason to mistrust and dread; the russian viceroys and generals on the frontier treated these oriental kingdoms with high-handed arrogance, and gave ample provocation for the wars which speedily broke out with both of them. the annals of the next few years record many vicissitudes of fortune. the russian armies achieved some brilliant victories, and suffered some heavy disasters. by disease and the strain of forced marches through rugged and almost pathless country, by the storming of petty fortresses, by incessant skirmishing and treacherous surprises, the troops were reduced in number and gradually worn out; they were outnumbered by the persian and turkish soldiery, whose military qualities were at that time by no means despicable; while at this time the great european wars against napoleon made reinforcements hard to obtain. in the russians could barely hold their ground against the combined forces of turkey and persia; but just when the whole situation was at its worst the russian government, under the imminent emergency of napoleon's march upon moscow, patched up a peace (may ) with turkey that reinstated the sultan in some important positions on the black sea coast, and made considerable retrocessions of territory. by strenuous exertion the persians were defeated and beaten off, and next year there was comparative peace on the caucasian border. yet it was but a calm interval before storms, for mr. baddeley remarks that nearly half a century of fighting was to elapse before the conquest of the mountains could be completed. this era of long and sanguinary contest may be said to have begun, on a deliberate plan, with the appointment of general yermoloff, in , to be commander-in-chief in georgia, with jurisdiction over the whole caucasus. it was carried on with undaunted courage, hardihood, and obstinate endurance on both sides; and in the matter of merciless ferocity there was little to choose between the two antagonists. yermoloff appears to have belonged to the type of military commander whom the russian soldier follows with complete trust and unhesitating devotion--a leader inured to hardship and perils, treating his men as comrades but unsparing of their lives, rigid in discipline, reckless of bloodshed, a relentless conqueror yet capable of occasional generosity. his stern and implacable temper recognised but one method of dealing with barbarian enemies--the unflinching use of fire and sword, the policy of devastation and massacre. 'i desire,' said yermoloff, 'that the terror of my name shall guard our frontiers more potently than chains of fortresses; that my word shall be for the natives a law more inevitable than death. condescension in the eyes of asiatics is a sign of weakness, and out of pure humanity i am inexorably severe. one execution saves hundreds of russians from destruction, and thousands of mussulmans from treason.' he demanded unconditional submission from all the tribes of the caucasus; and he substituted for the former system of bribery and subsidies the policy of treating all resistance as rebellion, and suppressing it with cruel severity, 'but' (says one writer) 'always combined with justice and magnanimity.' upon this mr. baddeley remarks that it is difficult to see where justice came in, 'but in this respect russia was only doing what england and all other civilised states have done, and still do, wherever they come into contact with savage or semi-savage races. by force or fraud a portion of the country is taken and sooner or later, on one excuse or another, the rest is sure to follow.' to this it may be rejoined that on the north-west frontier of india, and nowhere else, england has come into contact with a race quite as savage and untamable as the caucasian mountaineers, but that it would be a great mistake to suppose that the methods of yermoloff have ever been adopted in dealing with the turbulent fanaticism of the afghan tribes. on the cossack line, when yermoloff assumed charge of operations, 'there was no open warfare, but there was continual unrest. no man's life was safe outside the forts and stanitzas; robbery and murder were rife; raiding parties, great and small, harried the fields, the farms and the weaker settlements.' to this state of things he was resolved to put an end. he built fortresses, pushed forward his outposts, formed moving columns of troops, and assiduously trained his soldiers to the peculiar conditions of warfare on this borderland. the russian regiments, like the roman legions, were often stationed in their camps or garrisons for twenty-five years; and for the service required of them their efficiency was admirable. for ten years yermoloff carried on this tribal war with inflexible rigour, by expeditions to punish some marauding village, which was razed to the ground, and most of the men, women and children burnt or killed after defending the place with the fury of despair; by night marches to surprise and storm the hill forts; by exterminating bands of brigands; and more than once by laying deathtraps for notorious rebels or fanatics. there can be no doubt that this system of ruthless chastisement, of beating down the enemy's defences by sharp and rapid strokes, by sudden and daring inroads into the heart of their country, intimidated the tribes, and went far toward compelling them to sullen acquiescence in the russian overlordship. of the petty independent chiefships some were seized forcibly, others submitted and paid tribute. the russians were advancing step by step into the interior of the country, piercing it with roads and riveting their hold on it by throwing forward their chain of connected forts. by yermoloff appears to have convinced himself that in a few years the whole of the caucasus--mountain and forest--would be permanently conquered and pacified; and for some time after that date there was little or no fighting, though the border was frequently disquieted by outbreaks that were sternly crushed. with the persians and the turks there was an interval of peace. but the harsh measures taken by the russians to bring the forest tribes under their authority were bitterly resented; and in two of their generals were fatally stabbed in tchetchnia by one of several villagers whom they were disarming. this murder was avenged by yermoloff, as usual, relentlessly, but it was his last campaign in the caucasus. in the persians, who had been incensed by yermoloff's rough ways on their frontier and by his insolent diplomacy, invaded russian territory with a strong army. the russians were unprepared, and at first could only act on the defensive. the flames of insurrection at once broke out among the tribes; the whole country fell back into confusion, and the emperor nicholas, holding yermoloff responsible for this disastrous state of affairs, reprimanded and recalled him. he lived in retirement until , revered by the russian nation as the type and model of a valiant soldier and a devoted patriot who won brilliant victories and conquered large territories for the empire. but on his system and its consequences mr. baddeley pronounces a judgment which in fact points the moral of his whole narrative, and explains the history of the events that followed yermoloff's departure: 'he gained brilliant victories at slight cost; and brought for a time the greater part of daghestan under russian dominion.... he absorbed the persian and tartar khanates, and treated persia with astonishing arrogance. but it was these very measures and successes that led, on the one hand, to the persian war and the revolt of the newly-acquired provinces; on the other, to that great outburst of religious and racial fanaticism which, under the banner of muridism, welded into one powerful whole so many weak and antagonistic elements in daghestan and tchetchnia, thereby initiating the bloody struggle waged unceasingly for the next forty years. daghestan speedily threw off the russian yoke, and defied the might of the mother empire until . in tchetchnia mere border forays conducted by independent partisan leaders ... developed into a war of national independence under a chieftain as cruel, capable, and indomitable as yermoloff himself.' the persian war ended in , but in the same year hostilities broke out with turkey, involving the russian troops on the georgian frontier in hard and hazardous fighting, which lasted, with a great expenditure of men and money, until peace was concluded in . from that year until , when the crimean war began, russia had a free hand in the caucasus, and applied her strength with inexorable energy to its subjugation. and it is to the rise and spread of the ferocious enthusiasm which mr. baddeley has called _muridism_ that he attributes the striking fact that the complete conquest of the country was only accomplished in --that the tribes held out against the forces of the russian empire for more than thirty years. muridism, in which this spirit of heroic and hopeless resistance by armed peasants against the russian armies was, so to speak, incarnate, is a word employed by mr. baddeley with a special purpose and meaning, which he explains at some length. for our present purpose it may be sufficient to say that _murshid_ denotes a religious teacher who expounds the mystic way of salvation to his _murids_, or disciples, who gather round him, adopt his doctrines, obey his commands, and cheerfully accept martyrdom in his service. muridism, therefore, may be taken to signify the passionate fanaticism of religious devotees, of warriors who follow a spiritual leader and fight in the sacred cause of islam against the infidel. it was this movement that united the mohammedan tribes in a holy war against the russians, who, as our author observes, had never gauged correctly the latent forces of the twin passions, religious fanaticism and the love of liberty--two elements which always form a very dangerous compound, and which became heated up to the point of explosion as the tribes found the iron framework of russian administration steadily closing up around them. any attempt to break out of this house of bondage was repulsed with inflexible severity. in this inflammable atmosphere, charged with ferocious suspicion, hatred, and superstition, one kazi mullah was elected to the rank of 'imam'; and on his proclamation of holy war against the infidel oppressor the whole country rose and rallied to his standard. he was, if we may borrow mr. baddeley's description of the class, 'one of those strange beings, compounded of fanaticism, military ardour, and a nature prone to adventure, for whom only the dreaming, fighting, tumultuous, ignorant east, in its days of trouble and unrest, can supply a fitting field of action.' he came forward as a man sent by god to deliver the faithful from their servitude, holding in his hands the power of life or death, and those who refused to obey him or denied his authority were denounced and slain without mercy. under such leadership the war spread again along the border, some russian detachments were cut to pieces, and even when the insurgents were defeated the troops suffered terribly, for as no quarter was asked or expected none was given on either side. after some two years of incessant fighting kazi mullah made his last stand in a mountain stronghold, where he was surrounded by the russian troops, who in their first assault were repulsed with heavy loss; but on a second attempt the place was stormed, and kazi mullah with a band of devoted murids died sword in hand on the last breastwork. of the sixty men who stood by their chief to the end two only escaped; but one of these was shamil, who became afterwards the most famous and formidable champion of the mohammedan tribes in the caucasus. 'his marvellous strength, agility, and swordsmanship served him in good stead. with an alvarado's leap he landed behind the line of soldiers about to fire a volley through the raised doorway where he stood, and whirling his sword in his left hand he cut down three of them, but was bayoneted by the fourth clean through the breast. undismayed, he grasped the weapon in one hand, cut down its owner, pulled it out of his own body, and escaped into the forest, though in addition to the bayonet wound he had a rib and shoulder broken by stones.' shamil had been born and bred in the same village with kazi mullah, whose disciple he became, and whose rules of rigid adherence to the strictest injunctions of islam he adopted and enforced. he even attempted to put down, as a practice forbidden by the law of mahomet, the inveterate blood feuds that divided and weakened the tribes, with the politic object of uniting them in the holy war against the infidels; and when the kazi had been killed his mantle fell upon shamil, who soon proved himself a far more able and terrible leader of fanatic insurrection. the russians, who at first believed that the kazi's death was a decisive and final blow to the cause of muridism, soon found that they were grievously mistaken. mr. baddeley's narrative shows occasionally some disregard of orderly arrangement, so that the sequence in time and interconnection of incidents is not always clear. we gather from this part of it, however, that very soon after shamil took command the whole country had risen against the russians, that their posts were attacked and their detachments cut off, and that expeditions sent to seize the positions or disperse the gatherings of the tribes paid dearly for their victories, while they were more than once repulsed with defeat and disaster. villages were burnt; the vineyards and orchards were destroyed; desperate fights, hand to hand, ended only with the extermination of the defenders by the exasperated russian soldiers; and after one campaign, when the russian commander-in-chief led a considerable force against shamil's stronghold, he was content to conclude, in the emperor's name, a treaty of peace with the tribal chief, being 'compelled to retire by the total disorganisation of the expeditionary corps, the enormous loss in _personnel_, and the want of ammunition.' a treaty with the russian emperor raised shamil's reputation high among the tribes; while the slaughter and devastation inflamed his revengeful temper. when the emperor nicholas came next year to the caucasus, general klugenau met shamil and tried to persuade him to tender submission in person, with the result that klugenau narrowly escaped assassination at the interview. he was saved by shamil's intervention. in almost all the tribes were united under shamil's command; and the russian government, seriously alarmed, determined that he must be effectively crushed. in the story of this campaign we have a signal and striking example of the perils that beset regular troops who encounter fierce and fearless barbarians on their own ground. the russians had a powerful artillery; they were led by experienced commanders; their officers and soldiers fought with astonishing courage and endurance. after several bloody actions shamil was shut up in the hill fort of akhlongo, and here the undaunted murids turned to bay. it was a stronghold surrounded by ravines and sheer precipices, accessible only along narrow ridgeways. mr. baddeley has related in full detail the operations and incidents of this eventful siege. the first assault failed after a prolonged and desperate struggle. 'only at nightfall,' writes an eye-witness, 'and at the word of command, did our troops retire from the bloodstained rock.' the bombardment went on 'until the castle was reduced to a heap of ruins, in which the heroic defenders seemed literally buried.' after a siege which lasted eighty days the place was at last taken with a total loss of russians, including officers, killed and wounded. the defenders were slaughtered almost to the last man; many women and children were killed; but shamil again escaped miraculously. 'vanquished, wounded, a homeless fugitive, without means, with hardly a follower, it might well seem that nothing was left to the indomitable chieftain but the life of a hunted outlaw ... yet within a year shamil was again the leader of a people in arms; within three he had inflicted a bloody defeat on his present victor; yet another, and all northern daghestan was reconquered, every russian garrison there beleaguered or destroyed, and muridism triumphant in the forest and on the mountain, from the samour to the terek river, from vladikavkaz to the caspian.' by the tchetchnia tribes of the wooded lowlands under the mountains had broken out into outrageous rebellion, for shamil had established himself in the forests, and was harassing the whole russian border. 'we have never,' wrote general golovine, 'had in the caucasus an enemy so savage and dangerous as shamil'; and it was again decided to send an overwhelming army against him. the two first expeditions virtually failed. between and the russians had lost in killed or wounded officers and men, and 'had accomplished little or nothing.' in the emperor nicholas had despatched large reinforcements to the caucasus, with stringent orders to make an end of shamil's 'terrible despotism' and to subdue the whole country. on his side shamil mustered all his forces for an energetic defence. his mounted bands traversed the borderlands with amazing rapidity, rushing in suddenly upon the russian outposts, waylaying detachments, and bewildering the commanders by the speed and secrecy of their movements. count vorontzoff marched against him with an army of about , , horse, foot, and artillery. shamil retreated gradually before him, drawing on the russians, and abandoning his forward positions after a show of defending them. he had laid waste the country on the line of the russian advance; so, as supplies were running very short, vorontzoff pushed on hastily toward shamil's headquarters at dargo. this place, surrounded by forests, 'lay along the crest of a steep wooded spur of the betchel ridge, nowhere very broad, narrowed here and there to a few feet, and consisting of a series of long descents with shorter intervening rises. abattis of giant trunks with branches cunningly interlaced barred the way at short intervals, and the densely-wooded ravines on either side swarmed with hidden foes.' mr. baddeley's vivid description of the hurried advance upon dargo, and of the russian retreat after capturing it, has all the tragic interest of a situation where heroic valour strives vainly against calamitous misfortune, and brave men, caught in a well-laid snare, tear their way out of it with the energy of despair. the six barriers of twisted branches were attacked and carried without serious loss, though at one point, where the path along the hill-top was narrowest, the troops fell into confusion, suffered heavily, and were rescued with some difficulty. dargo was then occupied without resistance; but the army had only food for a few days, and vorontzoff, instead of retiring immediately, resolved to wait for a convoy that was coming up from the rear and had reached the edge of the forest. but the force despatched to protect and bring it into camp had to pass again over the strait ridgeway, where all the barriers had been reconstructed; and the russians again ran the gauntlet of incessant and murderous fire, losing one of their generals with many officers and men. there still remained the most arduous task of all, to force a way for the third time along the ridge with weakened and disheartened troops encumbered by the provision train that they were escorting to dargo. 'the enemy were in greater numbers than before; the barriers had once more been renewed, and a heavy rain added greatly to the difficulties of the march.... on the narrow neck the advance guard found the breastwork of trees faced with the russian dead of the previous day, stripped, mutilated, and piled up; it was enfiladed by four smaller breastworks on each side.' passek, a daring and fearless commander, was killed in leading the attack with other officers and many men. the foremost regiments fell back in disorder. yet the main body, with their general, who charged at the head of companies like any captain, struggled along the ridge, fighting all the way, though the mohammedans kept up an unceasing rifle-fire, and from time to time they dashed right into the russian line. nevertheless the predicament of the russians was becoming hopeless, when a fresh regiment sent out to their rescue from dargo threw itself between the exhausted troops and their assailants, and thus enabled them to reach the camp. but most of the convoy had been lost, the total list of casualties was frightful, and for vorontzoff, with little to eat, surrounded by victorious hordes, encumbered with more than a thousand wounded men, the only prospect of saving the rest of his army lay in cutting his way homeward through many miles of forest. mr. baddeley's description of the retreat is intensely dramatic. after fighting every step of the road the starving and demoralised army was brought to a standstill, and was eventually saved from annihilation by fresh troops that arrived just in time under the russian commander on the frontier, who had foreseen the emergency, and made forced marches to the rescue of his chief. thus the attempt to piece the heart of shamil's country had been completely foiled; and vorontzoff now confined himself to strengthening his fortified posts, linking up more effectively their connection, and improving his communications. but in this situation the russians were acting upon the outer circle of shamil's central position in the mountains, whereas their enemy held the interior lines, and could choose his point of attack. shamil's strategy was directed toward keeping the whole russian frontier in constant alarm, breaking in upon various and distant parts of the line by incessant raids and surprises, in order to prevent concentration of the russian forces on either flank. he made a daring attempt to seize kabarda, on the extreme west of the border, but was hunted out of it by the activity of freytag, the general whose foresight and promptitude had extricated vorontzoff from destruction. this desultory warfare went on until in vorontzoff, having secured his base, again tried conclusions with shamil, being resolved that it was necessary to reduce the fortified village (or _aoul_) of ghergebil, which shamil was no less determined to defend. on the morning of the assault the russians, in their camps below the precipitous rocks, above which stood the aoul, 'heard the melancholy, long-drawn notes of the death-chant rising from behind its wall as from an open grave,' the sure prelude to a stubborn and sanguinary fight. the forlorn hope rushed forward, but lost its way and suffered severely; the supports kept the right direction and made for the breach. 'a withering fire from hundreds of rifles mowed down the troops like grass. their gallant commander, yeodskeemoff, fell dead, pierced by a dozen bullets. the captain of the grenadier company strode over his body and gained the top of the breach, to fall in turn; the men were exasperated rather than daunted; a danish officer, more fortunate and not less brave than his predecessors, led them forward, and the wall was won. in front was the first row of low _saklias_ (stone houses) and, climbing their walls, the attackers rushed forward, when to their horror the ground gave way beneath their feet, and amid shouts of demoniac laughter they fell on to the swords and daggers of the murids below. the flat roofs had been taken off the whole row of houses and replaced by layers of brushwood thinly covered with earth; every house, in fact, was a death-trap.' nevertheless the troops came on, and most of them got inside the village, but they were entangled in the labyrinth of narrow streets, and were obliged to retire. another assault ended with another repulse, 'and the victorious murids, driving the broken columns before them, followed until stopped by the bayonets of the reserve.' vorontzoff had now been twice beaten off by shamil: he had been repulsed, and had nearly lost his army in the forests; his troops had been hurled back with slaughter from the mountain fort. next year he despatched another large army, furnished with heavy artillery, against ghergebil, which drove out the murid garrison by a tremendous bombardment, but retired without occupying the place. during the next few years, though wild work went on as usual along the border, where a sharp guerilla warfare was kept up, neither shamil nor vorontzoff attempted to strike any decisive blow. but the lowlands were devastated by perpetual incursions and reprisals, and the forest tribes, placed between two fires, driven to choose between the murids and the russians, gradually transferred their allegiance to the side best able to protect them, and migrated northward across the russian line. the uninhabited woodlands became a kind of neutral ground which neither side cared to occupy; and from this time shamil's sphere of action was confined to the mountains of daghestan. then, in , began the war in the crimea, when according to mr. baddeley the allies might have ruined russia in the caucasus by making common cause with shamil and supporting him vigorously. but england and france were absorbed in besieging sebastopol, and omar pasha's transcaucasian campaign was undertaken too late for any effective result. mr. baddeley considers that in neglecting their opportunity of backing shamil the allies made a strategic blunder; yet we agree with him that this is not to be regretted. for the credit of civilisation it is well that they did not let loose the savage mohammedan fanatics upon christian georgia and the peaceful russian settlements beyond the frontier, to their own dishonour, and to the misery of the people whom russia was protecting. shamil did make one foray into georgia, when a party of his men carried off two georgian princesses, the wife and sister of the viceroy, who were kept by shamil in rigorous captivity and treated cruelly for eight months while negotiations went on for their release. his object was to exchange them for his son, who had been captured by the russians some fourteen years earlier, had been brought up from childhood among them, and at this time was a lieutenant in a russian lancer regiment. as shamil demanded not only his son but a large ransom for the princesses, there was long haggling over the money, but this point was at last settled, and the exchange took place on the banks of the river. the princesses and jamal-ud-deen crossed from opposite banks to the escorts appointed to deliver and receive them; the youth was then made to change his russian uniform for a native dress and rode up the hill to his father, who welcomed him with tears and embraces. the scene must have been strangely picturesque; and the whole story illustrates the accidents and incongruities of warfare between nations whose standard of morals and manners is entirely different. the abduction and brutal treatment of the princesses were altogether contrary to the rules and ideas of modern belligerents; but what would have been to the russians a foul disgrace was to the rude caucasian chief no more than a simple and justifiable method of extorting his son's release. on the other hand the russians had bred up their captive at their capital; they had converted him to their own social habits and ways of life. and the sequel is instructive for those who have yet to learn how completely european education may incapacitate an asiatic from returning to associate with his own people, how effectually it may obliterate the early influences of race and religion. 'the fate of jamal-ud-deen was indeed a sad one. brought up from the age of twelve years in st. petersburg and entered in the russian army, he was now a stranger to his own father, an alien in the land of his birth, and totally unfitted to resume his place among a semi-barbarous people. he had looked forward to his return with the gloomiest forebodings, which were fully justified by the event. as a matter of fact, there could be little real sympathy between his fellow-countrymen and himself; they soon began to look upon him with suspicion and distrust. even shamil was estranged when he found his son imbued with russian ideas, and convinced of russia's right to the extent of counselling surrender.' ... nothing 'could reconcile him to the change from civilisation to barbarism; he grew melancholy, fell into a decline, and died within three years.' after the end of the crimean war the russian government could turn its undivided attention to the enterprise of finishing the conquest of the caucasus. the preliminary work of cutting roads through the forests, throwing bridges over rivers and ravines, destroying the enemy's petty forts, and throwing forward detachments to occupy important points, was carried out actively during ; and in the next summer three separate columns, under one supreme command, drove back shamil's bands, and took up strong positions in the heart of his country. the inhabitants, severely harried by the murids, who maltreated ferociously all villages that would not join them, took refuge under russian protection; and though shamil made several bold attempts to break through the circle that was gradually encompassing him, he was compelled to abandon vedén, so long his home, which was taken in april . the forest tracts were now entirely under russian control, and the highland tribes were rapidly surrendering to the russian commanders, whose strategy it was to avoid frontal attacks upon large bodies prepared to fight behind entrenchments, but to make resistance impossible by enveloping movements. in the mountains, which had so long defied the armies of the czar, the local chiefs and their clansmen were now falling away from shamil, who was forced to retreat hastily with a few hundred followers to his stronghold at gooneeb, where he entrenched himself for a final stand, knowing well that defence was hopeless, yet resolved to die fighting. but his men were almost exterminated by the overpowering numbers which the russians threw upon the fortifications in their assault. when the outworks had fallen, and the place was practically won, the russian commander, who desired to capture shamil alive, suspended the final rush upon the spot where he still held out, and sent him a message that his life would be spared on surrender. he yielded, and rode out to meet the russian lines; but a burst of cheering from the russian soldiers at sight of him so startled him that he went back. a russian officer persuaded him to turn again. 'followed by about fifty of his murids, the sole remnant of his once mighty hosts, he rode towards where bariatinsky, surrounded by his staff, sat waiting on a stone. shamil dismounted and was led to the feet of his conqueror, who told him that he answered for his personal safety and that of his family; but he had refused terms when offered, and all else must now depend on the will of the emperor. the stern imam bowed his head in silence and was led off captive. next day he was sent to shoura, and thence to russia, where later on his family was allowed to join him.' in the foregoing pages we have run rapidly over mr. baddeley's narrative of the long and laborious operations by which the russians gradually made good their footing in the caucasus, and at last consolidated their dominion. we have necessarily omitted many curious incidents and exploits characteristic of a deadly struggle between antagonists representing the collision of archaic with modern societies, the clash of two religions eternally irreconcilable, the deadly wrestle of assailants and defenders unlike in everything but their tenacious intrepidity. the story, until mr. baddeley wrote it, has hitherto been little known in england. yet englishmen should be interested in this singular and striking example of the obstinate resistance that can be opposed by free and warlike tribes to the organised military forces of a first-class european government; for they are not without similar experiences of their own. and moreover the long contest for possession of the tracts lying between the black sea and the caspian, on the borderland between europe and asia, had its effect in the wider sphere of asiatic politics. if the russians, in their wars with turkey and persia, had not been constantly distracted by the raids and revolts of the caucasian highlanders, the consequences to these two eastern kingdoms might have been much more serious. it will be remembered that at this period ( - ) we were actively concerned in preserving persia's independence insomuch that the russians had accused us of fomenting hostilities against them. at a later time also sir henry rawlinson, writing in , when shamil was still formidable and undefeated, observes that it would have been impossible for russia, with her communications at the mercy of such an enemy, to carry her arms farther eastward into asia, or to contemplate territorial extension in that direction. and in a subsequent note, of , he points out that not until after shamil's surrender in did russia begin to push her way continuously along the upper course of the jaxartes river toward tashkend and the asiatic midlands. so long, indeed, as the mountains between the two seas were unsubdued, they formed an effectual barrier to the expansion of russia into central asia; but when that frontier fortress of islam had been captured, and when the circassians had emigrated into turkish territory, the onward march of russia went on securely and speedily. tashkend was taken and kokand annexed in ; and soon afterward the communications between the russian base in georgia and the russian garrisons in turkestan were firmly established. thereafter the flood of russian conquest overflowed irresistibly the plains of central asia, until it was arrested by another breakwater, the kingdom of afghanistan. it is true that the north-western afghan borderlands were comparatively open and easily penetrable by an invading force; but beyond them lie lofty ranges with passes at high altitudes, guarded by a hard-fighting and intractable people, and on the farther side of these mountains stands the rival european power whose policy it had been always to retard and obstruct the russian advance across the asiatic continent. we may conjecture that if afghanistan had been left, as the caucasus was left after the crimean war, isolated and obliged to rely on its own resources for defence, the drama of the caucasian wars would have been repeated. the russians would have besieged and reduced without great difficulty this second mountain fortress; and after another similar though less protracted struggle the afghans would have undergone the same fate as the daghestanis. the czar's rulership, solidly established in the two natural strongholds that stand on either side of the great central plains, and command, east and west, the exits and entrances, would have been supreme throughout mohammedan asia. that the russian armies were forced to halt on the edge of afghanistan is thus a point of cardinal importance, and it marks a turning-point in the career of her expansion. it also produced a situation that is the outcome of the different strategy adopted by england and russia respectively, in circumstances not otherwise very dissimilar. for whereas the russians had been compelled by imperative political and military exigencies to conquer and occupy the caucasian highlands, the policy of the british government has always been not to subjugate afghanistan, but to preserve its independence and to fortify it as an outwork for the protection of the gates of india. it is due to this fundamental distinction of aim and object that the history of the relations of the british with afghanistan during the nineteenth century, and of their management of the tribes on the afghan border, differs widely from mr. baddeley's narrative of events and transactions in the caucasus. nevertheless in both instances the general situation presented a strong resemblance. the russians, pushing their dominion down from the north to the black sea and the caspian, were checked and baffled for many years by the woods and precipices that lay across the line of their march into trans-caspia. the british, moving up by long strides north-westward across india, came to a halt at the foot of the afghan hills fifty years ago; and to this day they have scarcely moved farther. here they were met by races almost identical in character and circumstances with the tribes of daghestan, fanatically attached to the faith of islam, profoundly influenced by religious preachers, prizing their liberty above their lives, and looking down from their rugged uplands upon a great military power that had swept away many principalities and subdued all the cities of the plain below. if the british had pressed onward and endeavoured to take possession of afghanistan [which had indeed been occupied by the moghul empire in its prime] they would certainly have been involved in a series of sanguinary conflicts, revolts, and costly expeditions not unlike those which put so severe a strain upon the russian armies in the caucasus. this, as we know, they did not do; they adopted the alternative of asserting an exclusive protectorate over the country; they were content to remain outside it so long as no rival power was allowed to set foot in it. yet we know that even this much more prudent policy was carried out at a heavy cost. the british army suffered at least one grave disaster by the total destruction of a division in the retreat from kabul in the winter of - . and the afghan war of - , with the massacre of the british envoy and his escort at kabul in , showed us the perils and difficulties of even a temporary and partial occupation. at the present moment, however, the objects of our policy have been satisfactorily fulfilled. the russians have settled with us the frontier line between their dominion and afghanistan, and have bound themselves to respect it. with the afghan amir we are on friendly terms, and we have taken up our permanent position on his eastern border towards india, reserving to ourselves the control of the tribes within a broad belt of territory, otherwise independent, between the afghan kingdom and british india. this tract is intersected by lofty ridges running parallel for the most part to our frontier, with precipitous slopes toward india, with a few practicable passes and numerous gorges formed by the drainage from the watershed, enclosing some fertile valleys along the courses of the rivers, inhabited by a hardy population that is broken up into manifold clans and sects by the configuration of their country. the caucasus, as we learn from mr. baddeley, 'is peopled by a greater number of different tribes and races than any similar extent on the surface of the globe'; and it is precisely from the same causes, difficulty of intercourse between villages secluded in the valleys or perched on the heights, scarcity of sustenance, inbred jealousy of each other, feuds and factions, that the groups of the afghan borderland dwell apart, become estranged or hostile, are at constant war with each other, and cannot unite against a common enemy. but while in the caucasus this trituration of the people has produced a multiplicity of dialects, the afghan borderers speak a language that is generally the same. in dr. pennell's book, the title of which stands at the head of this article, we have a vivid description, drawn from life, of the names, habits, and peculiarities of these primitive communities, with many incidental examples of the relations existing between them and the british officers who are in touch with them on the frontier. lord roberts, in a short introduction that may be taken as a guarantee of the accuracy and authenticity of the volume's contents, tells us that it is a valuable record of sixteen years' good work by a medical missionary in charge of a mission station at bannu, on the north-western frontier of india. and dr. pennell's experience, acquired in the prodigious enterprise of taming and converting to christianity some of the most murderous ruffians and inveterate robbers in asia, has provided him with a rare insight into their character, and furnished him with numerous anecdotes of their strange inconsistencies and wayward, impulsive nature. on the afghan frontier, indeed, we may survey a situation that has frequently recurred in the history of organised governments, whenever they have found themselves in contact, and therefore in collision, with intractable barbarism. immediately across the border line may be seen in the afridi tribes a complete and living picture of man in his aboriginal condition of perpetual war, under no government at all, in daily peril of ending by a violent death a life that in the pithy words of hobbes is 'poor, nasty, brutish, and short.' a few steps back into the british district brings us among men, often of the same breed and tribe, dwelling without arms in peace and security, pleading before regular law courts, learning in english schools, occupied in commerce and industry under the protection of magistrates and police. the contrast in morals and manners is as abrupt as the transition from the afghan hills to the indian plains. such is the frontier along which british officers are charged with duties of watch and ward. their business is to guard the indian districts that march with the wild borderland, to prevent or punish incursions by the marauding tribes who have continued from time immemorial to live in practical anarchy. they obey no laws and acknowledge no ruler, though in emergencies they appeal alternately to the afghan amir for assistance against the british and to the british government against any encroachments by the amir. the afghan character, writes dr. pennell, is a strange medley of contradictory qualities, in which courage blends with stealth, the basest treachery with the most touching fidelity, intense religious fanaticism with an avarice that will even induce a man to play false with his faith, and a lavish hospitality with an irresistible propensity for thieving. it will be remembered how 'muridism,' the spirit of religious enthusiasm inflaming political hostility, was stirred up by the mullahs of the caucasus against the russians, and embittered the resistance of the tribes. the same elements of fiery hatred lie close below the surface on the afghan borderland. dr. pennell tells us that there is no section of the afghan people which has a greater influence on their life than the mullahs, who sometimes use their power to rouse the tribes to join in warfare against the english infidels; and that a prelude to one of the little frontier wars has often been some ardent mullah going up and down the frontier, like peter the hermit, inciting them to break out. the notorious mullah powindah, who is still a firebrand on the border, is reported to possess a magical charm that renders his followers invulnerable before english bullets. whether he led them in person to battle is not mentioned; though he could hardly adopt the excuse of friar john, who, as rabelais tells us, made a liberal distribution of mirific amulets to his soldiers, assuring them that those who had firm faith in their efficacy would come to no harm. he added, however, that to himself the charm would be useless, because unfortunately he could not believe in it. such an explanation would be coldly received among the afghans. under the exhortations of these mullahs their students often became ghazis. 'the ghazi is a man who has taken an oath to kill some non-mohammedan, preferably a european, as representing the ruling race, but, failing this, a hindu or a sikh is a lawful object of his fanaticism.... when the disciple has been worked up to the requisite degree of religious excitement, he is usually further fortified by copious draughts of intoxicating drugs.... not a year passes on the frontier but some young officer falls a victim to one of these ghazis.' it is manifest that this sporadic muridism might become epidemic under serious and widespreading excitement, but the provocation that leads to petty frontier wars comes entirely from the tribes, who make predatory incursions upon the indian villages and refuse all reparation. in every tribe, as dr. pennell tells us, the outlaws who live by raiding and robbery, and the mullahs who detest the infidel and fear his rule, are the fomenters of crime and outrage. the vendetta, or blood-feud, our author tells us, has eaten into the very core of afghan life. at present some of the best and noblest families in afghanistan are on the verge of extermination through this wretched system. even the women are not exempt. in a village which the missionary visited he noticed that the houses communicated laterally by little doors all down one long street; and on inquiry he was told that some time before a great faction fight had been carried on between the two rows of houses. the villagers 'were always in ambush to fire at each other across the street. the only way to get to the supply of water was to go from house to house to the bottom, and in order to do this without exposure the doors had been made, while by common consent they had agreed not to shoot while getting their supplies from the stream.' another anecdote relates how a british officer visited a petty chief in his tower, and would have opened a window to look at the country round. 'he was hurriedly and unceremoniously pulled back by the afghan, who told him that his cousin had been watching that window for months in the hope of an opportunity of shooting him there.' in fact the chief was actually shot at this window a short time after the visit. from the universal enmity existing between cousins in afghanistan the proverb 'as great an enemy as a cousin' has become a household word. 'the causes of per cent. of these feuds are described by the afghans as belonging to one of three heads--women, money, and land; and on such matters disputes are more likely to arise between cousins than strangers.' we may compare mr. baddeley's account of an almost identical state of things in daghestan. it was split up (he says) 'into numerous khanates and free communities of many different races and languages, for the most part bitterly hostile one to another. strife and bloodshed were chronic between village and village, between house and house ... and of many contributory causes none had operated so powerfully in originating and perpetuating this state of things as the elaborate system of blood-feud and vengeance.' and he gives one instance of a quarrel that arose from the theft of a hen from a villager, who retaliated by appropriating a cow. the retort was by taking a horse, upon which the murders began. 'the blood-feud was now in full swing, and was kept up for three centuries, during which some scores, some say hundreds, were sacrificed in the name of honour to this terrible custom; and all for a hen.' but it may be more interesting to remind our readers that these feuds were 'in full swing' not so very long ago in our own island. a remarkable description of the state of the border between england and scotland in the sixteenth century and earlier has recently been published.[ ] in a chapter headed 'the deadly feud' the author tells us that blood-feuds set family against family and clan against clan; and he quotes from a report submitted by burghley to the english government a passage in which the term is defined thus: 'deadly foed, the word of enmytie on the borders, implacable without the blood and whole family destroyed.' feuds of the most bitter and hostile character, we are told, were an everyday occurrence, and were carried on with the most ferocious animosity on both sides. the feud was inherited along with the rest of the family property. it was handed down from generation to generation. the son and grandson maintained it with a bitterness which in some cases seemed year by year to grow more intense. it affected a man's whole social relationship, and gave rise to endless animosities and heart-burnings. in fact the whole description in mr. borland's book of the feuds prevalent three centuries ago on our own border might be applied to those now actually raging among the afghans, with the simple alteration of time, places, and names. the comparison is worth making, if only to show that similar conditions and circumstances produce everywhere the same results; and that there is yet hope for the wild afghan, if hereafter it should be his destiny to fall under a strong government that can enforce laws, though this is the fate which he most dreads. no axiom is more easily refuted by historic experience than the commonplace saying that men cannot be made moral by statutes; the truth is that respect for a neighbour's purse or person cannot be inculcated by any other method. it was the political division along the scottish border that so long prevented the suppression of lawlessness, and when the two kingdoms were united it gradually ceased. on the frontier between afghanistan and india the british government keeps the peace within its own districts, but maintains only a fluctuating and ineffectual control over the tribal territory. yet it is manifest that no permanent pacification can be accomplished until both sides of the line are brought under the same firm and civilised administration. for such a purpose it would be necessary, and would be practicable, to establish strong posts among the turbulent highlanders, to make roads, and probably to insist on a general disarmament, as the russians did in the caucasus. but the british government has always been reluctant to undertake so arduous and so costly a task; though until some measure of that kind is found possible, the intestine strife and chronic disorder must continue; and in fact it is the natural and inevitable solution of the problem. 'no doubt,' dr. pennell observes, 'the government desires not to make any further annexation of this barren, mountainous, and uninviting region, but it is not always easy to avoid doing so; and it is an universal experience of history that when there are a number of disorganised and ill-governed units on the borders of a great power, they become inevitably, though it may be gradually and piece by piece, absorbed into the latter.' in short, to manage a country without occupying it is no less impossible than to steer a boat without taking a seat in it. the process of subordinating the afghan tribes to effective control will probably go forward slowly and at intervals. it may be that when one part of the country is taken resolutely into hand, the rest will be overawed and quieted; but we doubt whether any other remedy can be found for the feuds and forays that from time immemorial have distracted this borderland, which has preserved the primitive conditions of life and habits that have long disappeared from the frontiers of all other civilised nations. yet the objections to pushing forward our landmarks into these mountains are great and manifest, while the disadvantages of the present system are equally patent. the attempt to protect our subjects by a line of outposts, to adopt the tactics of stationary defence, varied by occasional sallies forth from our cantonments to pursue assassins or to punish depredators by destroying houses and crops, is to assume a somewhat impotent and undignified attitude, hardly creditable in the case of a mighty empire worried by mere highland caterans. the indian government, therefore, finds itself placed in a dilemma: to advance or to stand still is equally difficult; nor is any practicable issue out of this situation to be foreseen. we are compelled, unwillingly, to pass over without the notice that it undoubtedly deserves dr. pennell's very impressive accounts of his intercourse, as medical missionary, with the strange folk whom he was trying to reclaim from savagery, of the risks which he faced with cool courage and self-command in his travels among them, and of his quaint theological disputations with arrogant mullahs, whose invincible ignorance easily convinced a congenial audience of their argumentative superiority. his skill in surgery naturally invested him with a high reputation among people who were incessantly fighting--he had more success in healing their wounds than in curing their vices. his general 'deductions' in regard to the present state and prospect of christian missions in india are well worth attention, and with his survey of the existing conditions and tendencies of religious movements in india all who have studied the subject will generally agree. he lays stress on the delusion that to assault and overthrow the citadels of islam and hinduism, if such an achievement were possible, would be to lay open a clear field for the success of christianity. 'much more probably we should find an atheistic and materialistic india, in which mammon, wealth, industrial success, and worldliness had become new gods.' such attacks upon eastern religion 'may for the moment win a pyrrhic victory ... but they are at the same time undermining the religious spirit, the ardent faith, the unquestioning devotion which have been the crown and glory of india for ages.' the wisdom and enlightened morality of these warnings are incontestable. but at such questions we can only glance, although from one point of view they may be said to have an important bearing upon the main subject of this article. in conclusion, we may observe that the frontiers of european dominion in asia are the battleground upon which the forces of archaic and modern societies meet in arms for decisive conflict. in the ancient world the contest was only ethnical and political; the rude tribes were coerced into amalgamation with an expanding state, far superior in power and usually more humane. 'the nations of the empire[ ] insensibly melted away into the roman name and people.' but the antique polytheism had no fanatical element; the deities of the victorious romans were often acknowledged and accepted by the conquered population. whereas in these latter days the russians in the caucasus and the english on the afghan border have discovered that in the passionate religious animosity between islam and christendom lies the mainspring of the stubborn energy and fierce hatred that so long held their armies in check, and that still prevents the establishment of even a pacific _modus vivendi_ on the most important frontier of india. footnotes: [ ] ( ) _the russian conquest of the caucasus._ by john f. baddeley. london, longmans, green and co., . ( ) _among the wild tribes of the afghan frontier._ by j. l. pennell, m.d., f.r.c.s. london, seeley and co., .--_edinburgh review_, july . [ ] _border raids and reivers_, by robert borland, minister of yarrow ( ). this valuable work, founded entirely on the study of original documents, may be heartily commended to all who are interested in the political and social life, the customs and traditions, of the old border. [ ] gibbon. l'empire libÉral[ ] the fourteenth volume of _l'empire libéral_, issued in , carries m. Émile ollivier's very interesting reminiscences of that eventful period up to the outbreak of the franco-german war in july . it contains many curious particulars of the incidents and transactions culminating in the rupture with prussia that brought about the downfall of his ministry and the ruin of the second empire. autobiographies by men who have taken a prominent part in the momentous scenes which they describe have often the powerful effect of a dramatic representation: the actors reappear on the stage; they plead for themselves; they give vivid impressions of the scenes; they repeat the very words that were spoken; they revive the intense emotion of the audience during the contest between those who are hurrying on toward some fatal catastrophe and those who are striving to prevent it. m. ollivier's volume is the story of a great historic tragedy; the principal _dramatis personæ_ are celebrities of the first rank; on their speech and action depend the destinies of france, and the spectators are the nations of europe. if we make due allowance for the fact that the author's main object is to explain and defend the part which he himself played in these important affairs, we may credit him with an honest desire to set a strange, complicated, and oft-told story in a clear light before the present generation. m. ollivier cites, in the first page of this volume, machiavelli's observation that mankind at large judges those who give advice in affairs of state not by the wisdom of their counsels but by the results. he agrees that this method is not rational, looking to the haphazard course of human affairs, but he admits that the multitude can judge by no other standard; and he appeals to historians for an impartial revision of the popular verdict, founded on careful examination of the real facts and circumstances. yet he fears lest in his own country the decline of patriotic enthusiasm, the cooling of military ardour, that he notices in france at the present time, may have rendered frenchmen incapable of realising the hot resentment, the intense susceptibility to affronts, the element of heroism, which were dominant forty years ago in the national character. and he therefore has little or no expectation that the falsehood of legends which have been circulated regarding the events of will be proved, to his countrymen, even by the most irrefragable demonstration. all political parties in france, he says, have combined to hold their own ministry responsible for that calamitous war; he despairs of obtaining from them a hearing. he awaits with resignation the time when some inquisitive student of history may light upon a dusty copy of his book in the recesses of a library, and may set himself to explain how these things actually happened to readers of the future. the story of the decline and fall of the second french empire has often been told; yet it may be worth while to remind english readers of the political situation in france just forty years ago. the emperor napoleon iii., importuned by reformers and reactionaries, by those who pressed him to step forward into liberalism, and by those who insisted that he must stand still, had at last decided upon making those changes in the form of his government that inaugurated the liberal empire; and on january , , the new ministry took office, supported by the goodwill of the moderate party in the chamber of deputies and by the general approval of the country. m. ollivier was recognised as its leader and spokesman, chosen by the emperor, and enjoying his particular confidence; though he was not prime minister in the english constitutional sense, for the power of issuing direct orders, and of overruling the cabinet, was still reserved to the sovereign; nor was he always consulted in important military or foreign affairs. the complex and enigmatic character of napoleon iii. is becoming gradually intelligible to the world at large, and public opinion has lately been veering round to a less unfavourable conclusion upon it than heretofore. he had long been reviled as a truculent despot, artful and dangerous, powerful and perfidious; the genius of victor hugo had set on him a brand of infamy. in reality, if we may trust later french writers, there was much that was good in his nature, and they are disposed to regard him with compassion. m. de la gorce says that throughout his life napoleon had been a humane prince. from the entertaining memoirs of general du barail, whose military services brought him into frequent relations with the emperor, we should draw the impression that the emperor was affable, considerate, and sincerely well-intentioned. giuseppe pasolini, the italian statesman, found him simple and easy in conversation, naturally right-minded and kindly,[ ] though weak and irresolute. he was equally capable of forming bold projects or adopting cautious decisions; but he was apt to hesitate and turn round at the moment for action; and it was just here that he was so unlike his uncle, napoleon i., who would have classed him among the _idéologues_ whom he despised. he invented the theory of nationalities to justify his polity of encouraging the unification of italy, and of permitting the aggrandisement of germany; in the former instance he alienated the italians by refusing obstinately to allow them to occupy rome; in the latter case his neutrality when prussia attacked austria in was the proximate cause of his ruin. he might have read in machiavelli's _principe_ a warning of the danger of standing aside when the neighbouring potentates come to blows. the result, it is there said, is that the winner in such a contest becomes doubly formidable, while the loser resents your neutral attitude, and will not help you when the victor turns upon you with all his strength. machiavelli declares that this policy has always been _perniciosissimo_; and so it proved to be in the case of the french empire. in domestic affairs also the liberal empire took up a kind of half-way position, which was assailed by the extreme parties on both sides; for thorough-going imperialists like rouher asserted that a napoleon could only rule by retaining absolute authority; while uncompromising liberals demanded full parliamentary control. ollivier's ministry took office with the avowed object of gradually extending constitutional administration; but he found that, as tocqueville had said in his _ancien régime_, the most dangerous moment for an absolute government is when it endeavours to introduce reforms. general du barail, in the memoirs already quoted, gives m. ollivier full credit for his honesty, ability, and sincere patriotism in undertaking his difficult task, which was begun in an evil hour, and failed through adverse circumstance. in may , ollivier, who was holding the portfolio of foreign affairs, transferred it to the duc de gramont, foreseeing no troubles abroad, and desiring to give his whole attention to politics at home. the external policy of the ministry was decidedly pacific; they relied on a quiet moment for developing the new constitutional system; they had no notion of changing horses in mid-stream, yet most unluckily they were caught by a sudden flood. at the end of june it was announced in madrid that leopold of hohenzollern, son of the roumanian prince, had accepted the crown of spain that had been secretly offered to him by marshal prim; and the news, m. ollivier says, startled all france like the bursting of a bomb. it had always, we must remember, been a cardinal maxim of french statesmanship that the maintenance of a preponderant influence in spain was essential to the security of france; while, on the other hand, a complete subordination of spanish to french interests has been held by other governments to be dangerous to the balance of power in europe. the collision between these two principles had been the cause of great wars and diplomatic quarrels. louis xiv. only succeeded in securing the spanish throne for his grandson after a long war. when napoleon i. made his nefarious attempt to impose his brother on the spaniards as their king, his pretext was that under the bourbon dynasty spain had always been a dependency of france; and it had been the invariable aim of english policy to prevent a close association of the two kingdoms. the question had long been regarded on all sides as one of vital importance; and in , when some information of secret negotiations between bismarck and marshal prim had leaked out, the french ambassador at berlin, benedetti, had warned bismarck that france would oppose the election of a prussian prince to the vacant throne of spain. bismarck had treated the information as an improbable rumour, yet he had carefully abstained from a formal assurance that the king would forbid prince leopold to accept any such offer.[ ] it was therefore quite certain that in , when the relations between france and prussia were in a very critical state, the announcement that prince leopold had been chosen for spain would be treated as a most threatening move on the political chessboard. italy was under deep obligation to prussia for aid in expelling the austrians from venice; the st. gothard railway had been openly promoted and subsidised by germany for direct and secure communication with italy in case of need; and now the family connection which was obviously contemplated would bring spain into the circle of alliances that bismarck was drawing round the french frontier. it was a strategical manoeuvre that the imperial government was bound to resist. within france all factions were for once unanimous in demanding immediate and resolute protest; and the clerical party, very powerful in that country, were especially vehement in denouncing the project of placing the scion of a great protestant dynasty on the 'throne of charles v.' m. ollivier tells us that when the news first reached him it brought upon him suddenly and painfully the presentiment of impending war, to the discomfiture of all his efforts for the preservation of peace until the liberal empire should have been consolidated in france. the plot--for it was nothing less--had been skilfully concerted between berlin and madrid; and even the parts to be played in anticipation of french remonstrances had been rehearsed. when benedetti went to the berlin foreign office for explanations, he found that bismarck was absent at his country house and the king at ems; and von thiele, the under-secretary, cut short his interrogation by replying at once that the prussian government knew nothing of, and had no concern with, the hohenzollern candidature, adding that the spanish people had a right to choose their own king. at madrid, notwithstanding the french ambassador's attempts to check prim's jubilant activity, leopold's acceptance of the crown was proclaimed to all the foreign courts as a matter for joyful congratulation; and the cortes were summoned for july to elect their new monarch. to demand satisfaction from spain would have been to fall into bismarck's net; for the hohenzollern prince would have been elected nevertheless, and if french troops had then marched into spain the prussian army would have crossed the rhine, whereby the french would have been placed between two fires. it was necessary to fix the responsibility for these proceedings upon prussia, and to act promptly; but the precise line to be adopted was the subject of anxious deliberation in the emperor's council--that is, in a meeting of the cabinet presided over by him. finally, ollivier proposed, as he has told us, to speak out so plainly that prussia must understand france to be in earnest, and to say that the hohenzollern could not be permitted to reign at madrid. marshal le boeuf had assured the council that the army was in the highest condition of efficiency and readiness; and when m. ollivier inquired whether, in the event of war, any help from other governments could be relied upon, napoleon produced certain letters from the austrian emperor and the king of italy, which he interpreted as distinct assurances of armed support in the case of a rupture with prussia. the wording of a declaration to be made before the french chamber of deputies was carefully settled--it was delivered next day (july ) by the duc de gramont, and received with immense enthusiasm. some objection was taken, then and afterwards, to its menacing tone; but we may agree with m. ollivier that this outspoken warning to prussia was at the moment judicious and effective; and we may admit that up to this point no exception could be taken to the procedure of the french government. m. ollivier dates from july the first of five phases, or alternating changes (_péripéties_), which the diplomatic campaign, as he terms it, traversed in its headlong course. they are successively described and commented upon in the chapters of his volume; and they may be here set down in his own language, for the guidance of our readers through the complicated transactions that ensued: 'le premier moment est la déclaration ministérielle du juillet; le second, la renonciation du prince antoine ( juillet); le troisième, la demande de garanties de la droite ( juillet); le quatrième, le soufflet de bismarck et la fabrication de la dépêche d'ems; le cinquième, notre réponse au soufflet de bismarck par notre déclaration de guerre du juillet.' these are, in fact, the five acts of a portentous drama, full of shifting scenes and striking situations, on the issues of which depended the fortunes of france and of germany; it was played out with ill-omened rapidity in nine days. in regard to the train of causes and consequences that brought france to the tremendous disaster upon which the curtain fell, diverse accounts have been given to the world by the leading actors--by m. de gramont, by bismarck, benedetti, and, the latest by many years, by m. ollivier. his narrative does raise somewhat higher the veil which has hitherto kept in partial obscurity certain dark corners of the stage upon which these things went on. we know more now of the precise motives and considerations, the personal influences and impulses which diverted the cabinet, after starting on the right path, into leaving it for rash and perilous adventures. on some points of interest he is, indeed, still reticent, and on others his evidence is in conflict with different narratives; but in regard to facts actually known to him we may accept his testimony, though in matters of opinion we may sometimes differ from him. m. ollivier insists that gramont's declaration of july was altogether _irréprochable_; he writes that he has read it again after so many years with satisfaction. he admits that it contained, substantially, an intimation to prussia that she must choose between withdrawing the hohenzollern candidate and accepting war with france; but he argues that this straightforward and peremptory warning was justified by its effects; that bismarck was taken aback and discomfited by the resolute attitude of the french ministry, supported enthusiastically by the chamber of deputies; and that prince antoine was thereby so intimidated as to compel his son leopold to retract his acceptance of the spanish crown. on the other hand, this stern language alarmed cautious deputies, and though it stirred paris to a pitch of wild excitement it was read with uneasiness in the cooler air of the french provinces, where the prospect of imminent war met with scanty welcome.[ ] the foreign governments were startled. bismarck, in his _reminiscences_, says that it was an 'official international threat, uttered with the hand on the sword-hilt,' from the austrian chancellor, count beust, came earnest advice against marching hastily into prussia; while the british cabinet, in particular, doubted the wisdom of taking up such high ground, from which it might be difficult to retreat, at the opening of a grave and complicated question. and our ambassador in paris, lord lyons, whose calm judgment and friendly counsels m. ollivier acknowledges unreservedly, exerted himself throughout this critical time to deprecate precipitate words and deeds. simultaneously benedetti, the french ambassador at berlin, had been ordered to seek an interview with the prussian king, and to impress upon him the necessity of appeasing the just indignation of the french people by forbidding leopold to accept the crown of spain. the king replied, as is well known, that he had treated the candidature entirely as a family matter, quite apart from the sphere of international politics; that he had nevertheless communicated with leopold, and could give benedetti no positive answer until he should have heard from that prince. if, as has been asserted, the king had been cognisant of bismarck's secret negotiations, this reply was more evasive than ingenuous; and we may note that he immediately directed his own ambassador, werther, who was present at ems, to return at once to paris. m. ollivier scores the king's order to the credit of benedetti's diplomacy, since it amounted to an admission that the question in debate was much more than a mere family concern. and he adds that he immediately urged gramont to allow no more equivocation upon this essential point, but to press werther for a straightforward reply upon it. it will be seen that this pressure was carried rather too far at the french foreign office, with an important effect upon the course of negotiations. but at this juncture supervened the _coup de théâtre_, as m. ollivier styles it, which opens the second act of the drama. olozaga, the spanish ambassador at paris, had been left in complete ignorance of the privy correspondence between prim and bismarck for procuring the nomination of a king from the hohenzollern family, and this sudden revelation of its result by no means pleased him. he proposed to the emperor napoleon to despatch to prince antoine at sigmaringen (in prussian territory) an agent of his own, who should use every effort to convince the prince that his son must be imperatively commanded to withdraw his acceptance of prim's offer. the emperor, whose sincere wish was for peace, consented willingly, and the mission was entirely successful. by long and strenuous argument the envoy had finally persuaded the father that his son, leopold, would find himself in a precarious position on the spanish throne, with france alienated and openly hostile; and the result was that prince antoine not only laid on his son a positive command to withdraw, but also telegraphed the decision to the principal german newspapers, to olozaga at paris, and to madrid. according to m. ollivier, bismarck felt the blow keenly; it shattered his carefully organised plans; he found himself baffled and humiliated; he has himself said that his first thought was to resign office.[ ] to the king, on the other hand, the news brought welcome relief; he supposed that he had now only to await prince antoine's letter confirming the public telegram, when the dispute would naturally drop with the disappearance of its cause. this was, moreover, the expectation at that moment of the french emperor, who observed that, if france and england were preparing to fight for the possession of an island in the channel, it would be absurd to go to war after discovering that the island had sunk to the bottom of the sea. in those days, m. ollivier explains, any telegram of political interest that passed over the paris wires was communicated, by special arrangement, to the ministère de l'intérieur; and accordingly he received a copy of prince antoine's message to olozaga before it reached its address. the contents filled him with exultation--he could feel no doubt that peace had now been triumphantly secured, mainly by the unflinching tone of the cabinet's declaration. he carried the paper with him to the chamber, where olozaga rushed up to him in the lobby, drew him into a corner, read to him with much obvious excitement the telegram which ollivier had already in his pocket, and hurried on to the foreign office. naturally the incident aroused general curiosity; the deputies surrounded the minister, and eagerly pressed him for information. m. ollivier tells us that he hesitated for some time before divulging his secret; but that on the whole he found no good reason for withholding news that would certainly appear within a few hours in the evening papers, so he read out the telegram to all present. we believe that few men, who had not been trained by experience to the cautious habits of official life, would have done otherwise. but m. de la gorce[ ] has pointed out that the chief minister ought to have kept silence until the renunciation had been approved and confirmed by the king of prussia, who was in hourly expectation of prince antoine's letter, and whose acquiescence, transmitted through benedetti to the french government, would have probably brought the whole affair to an honourable termination. it may be objected that this is to argue from consequences, since known, which could hardly be foreseen at the moment; yet one must admit that reticence would have been preferable, for we have to remember that m. ollivier was disclosing a telegram intercepted, so to speak, on its passage to a foreign embassy, thereby forestalling not only the spanish ambassador but also the french foreign office. the news ran round the palais législatif, inside and outside, and spread through paris with electrical rapidity. 'en même temps débouchait du palais législatif une bande agitée; c'était à qui envahirait les fiacres de la place, à qui les escaladerait, à qui les prendrait d'assaut. À la bourse, criaient les hommes d'affaires; nous doublons le prix de la course, et au triple galop. parmi les journalistes, même empressement et concert de même nature, et on voyait les haridelles de la place sortir l'une après l'autre et s'élancer rapides comme des flèches.' apparently all this stir and hurry had already affected m. ollivier with some misgivings; for when, on going into one of the committee-rooms, he met gressier, formerly a minister, he assured him that he (ollivier) had no intention of making the renunciation a stepping-stone toward further demands. 'to take up that ground,' replied gressier, 'will be a proof of courage, but it will bring down your ministry, for the country will never be content with this degree of satisfaction.' m. ollivier soon found that he was right; for a crowd of deputies began to protest against the faint-heartedness of a government that seemed willing to drop the whole affair, leaving prussia to escape scot-free; and m. ollivier had scarcely entered the chamber when clément duvernois rose with an interpellation asking what guarantees the cabinet proposed to require for the purpose of restraining prussia from inventing more complications of this sort. olozaga had taken his telegram to m. de gramont, who by no means shared m. ollivier's joy over it. he observed that the effect was rather to embarrass his negotiations with prussia, since that government could now make the renunciation a pretext for disowning the responsibility which he desired to fix upon the king with regard to the whole business; and, moreover, he added, public opinion in france will consider such a conclusion unsatisfactory. he was at that moment engaged in colloquy with werther, the prussian ambassador, who had presented himself at the foreign office, where presently m. ollivier joined them, olozaga having departed. what followed is treated by some french writers as the most ill-conceived of all the false moves made by the french players in this hazardous diplomatic game. gramont had been urging werther to advise the prussian king to write a letter to the emperor, to the effect that in authorising the acceptance of the spanish throne by leopold he had no idea of giving umbrage to france; that the king associated himself with the prince's renunciation, and hoped that all causes of misunderstanding between the two governments were thereby removed. gramont sketched out what he thought the king might say, and actually made over his note to the prussian ambassador, by way of _aide-mémoire_; precisely as in benedetti had trusted bismarck with his draft of the secret treaty proposed for the annexation of belgium to france, which bismarck afterwards published in the _times_ of july . m. ollivier, who agreed with and supported gramont, now maintains that his arrival changed the character of the conference, that it ceased to be an official interview between the minister of foreign affairs and an ambassador, and thenceforward became merely one of those free unofficial conversations in which politicians explain their views without compromising their respective governments. but we are obliged to remark that in our judgment this plea is inadmissible, for m. de gramont has explicitly stated that the interview, so far as he was concerned, was official,[ ] and werther could not have been expected to appreciate this subtle yet important distinction--of which nothing seems to have been said to him--while m. ollivier should have foreseen that bismarck would certainly ignore it. the result was that werther did transmit to his king the suggestion of the two french ministers; that the king was deeply offended at having been required to send what he called, not unreasonably, a letter of excuses; that bismarck used werther's despatch to kindle national indignation throughout germany; and that werther himself was reprimanded and recalled. the scene now shifts to st. cloud, where the poor emperor, who had supposed that prince antoine's telegram signified peace with honour, found a military party eager for war, and hotly asserting that the empire would be totally discredited unless satisfaction were demanded from prussia for conniving at the hohenzollern candidature. the interpellation of duvernois in the chamber was cited as a forcible expression of public opinion. m. gramont now arrived at the palace with his report of the interview with werther, in which the latter had persistently declared that the king had nothing whatever to do with leopold's withdrawal. the emperor's unstable mind began to waver; he forgot or put aside his arrangement with m. ollivier--that the ministers should meet him next morning for consultation over this new aspect of the affair--and he proceeded then and there to hold a cabinet council. what passed at this council has never been exactly known. the reproach of a ruinous blunder lies heavy on those who took part in it. gramont says no more than that the deliberations were conscientious, and that every one, including the emperor, earnestly desired peace.[ ] m. ollivier tells us, in the volume now before us, that of all the cabinet ministers the duc de gramont alone was summoned; whether he learnt subsequently who were also present, and what share they took in promoting the decision, he leaves his readers to guess. it is clear that the proceeding was irregular and totally unconstitutional, and other french writers hint that gramont's silence is intended to shield _une personne auguste_ from responsibility for a decision that was fatally wrong. when the council broke up at p. m. (july ) gramont immediately despatched from the foreign office his famous telegram to benedetti at ems, instructing him to require from the prussian king a positive assurance that he would not authorise the renewal of leopold's candidature--a demand, in short, for guarantees. at his office he met lord lyons, to whom he expounded his reasons for treating the single renunciation as inadequate, to the great surprise of our ambassador, who objected so strenuously to gramont's views and intentions that the minister, somewhat shaken, merely said that the formal decision would be made public next morning. while the emperor and two councillors were then taking irrevocable steps toward a collision, and were unconsciously playing into the hands of their arch-enemy, the leaders of the warlike faction in the chamber and the parisian press were clamouring with fury and vitriolic sarcasm against a faint-hearted and contemptible ministry that shrank from seizing the opportunity of humbling prussia. again the scene changes, this time to the foreign office, where m. ollivier, in total ignorance of that evening's council at st. cloud, sought and found the duc de gramont about midnight. he had come to ask whether any fresh news had been received from benedetti at ems; and gramont answered by showing him the telegram just despatched by the council's order to benedetti, with a letter to himself from the emperor desiring that its language should be stiffened. naturally m. ollivier could hardly control his resentment at discovering that an extremely grave resolution had been adopted and acted upon without consulting or even warning him beforehand; that the emperor, in spite of his promises to govern constitutionally, had reverted to such an extreme use of autocratic power; and that gramont had made no attempt to check it, had even abetted the irregularity. however, the telegram had gone to ems--it was too late to remedy that mischief--but the cabinet would have to answer before the chamber for its despatch. he said to gramont: 'on va vous accuser d'avoir prémédité la guerre et de n'avoir vu dans l'incident hohenzollern qu'un prétexte de la provocation. n'accentuez pas votre première dépêche comme vous le prescrit l'empereur, atténuez la. benedetti aura déjà accompli sa mission lorsque cette atténuation lui parviendra, mais devant la chambre vous y trouverez un argument pour établir vos intentions pacifiques.'[ ] and he at once drafted a telegram instructing benedetti to require from the king no more than that he should agree not to permit leopold to retract the particular renunciation which his father had obtained from him; instead of requiring a general assurance against _any future_ retractation. gramont telegraphed accordingly, but in continuation, not in correction, of his earlier message, so that the latter part of the instructions to benedetti was inconsistent with the former part. but this second telegram reached ems, as m. ollivier had foreseen, too late, for benedetti had already seen the king, and had been urging him persistently to satisfy the french government by conceding the general assurance. m. ollivier's description of the distress and perplexity that kept him without sleep during the rest of that eventful night will be read with a feeling of sincere commiseration. this, then, he reflected, was the first fruit of imperial liberalism, that the chief minister was slighted by his sovereign, ill-served and even betrayed by his colleagues, and committed, behind his back, to a most hazardous policy. he had been too soft-hearted to insist on making a clean sweep of the old official class in forming his cabinet; he had thought to replace the decrepit absolutism by a young and liberal empire; and here was the personal power reappearing at the first crisis. the idea of having given the signal for war was abhorrent to him; he felt violently tempted to resign and retire. yet, on reflection, to tender his resignation at such a moment would be, he felt, an act of culpable egoism, it would inevitably bring on the war; for the government would pass into the hands of a rash and impetuous war-party, manifestly bent on marching against prussia if the king persisted in refusing, as on hearing of ollivier's resignation he would assuredly refuse, the guarantees that had been demanded by the council held at st. cloud. on the other hand, by remaining in the ministry he might still command a majority in the cabinet; nor did he despair of a majority in the chamber to support him in cancelling, at some future stage of the negotiations, this demand for guarantees if he could recover the emperor's confidence. he might fail, but then he would fall honourably, having subordinated personal susceptibilities to considerations of his country's interest; so he finally determined not to resign office. our sympathies are unquestionably due to a minister who, finding himself placed, by no act of his own, in a situation of the utmost perplexity, resolves to take no account of his political reputation and personal interests, and to choose the course that he believes to be necessary, in arduous circumstances, for the honour and safety of his country. to a british prime minister his duty would have been clear, he would have tendered his resignation immediately; but under the liberal empire the ultimate decision upon questions before the cabinet still lay with the sovereign, and thus the responsibilities of his principal minister remained ambiguous and indefinite. nevertheless, though it is easy to be wise after the event, our opinion must be that m. ollivier would have done his country better service by resigning office; for though it is very probable that war could not have been thereby averted, yet unqualified disapproval of the demand for guarantees might have rallied to his side all those who, in the cabinet, the chamber, and the country, were undoubtedly opposed to incurring terrible risks in order to obtain pledges against future contingencies. among the late lord acton's _historical essays_ there is a remarkable paper on 'the causes of the franco-prussian war,' in which the considerations that may justify gramont's demand for guarantees are fairly stated. it is there argued that the prussian king, who had first 'sanctioned' prince leopold's candidature, and afterwards its withdrawal, had left the initiative in both cases to prince leopold. he had thus kept himself quite free to sanction a second acceptance as he had done the first--'he held in his hands a convenient _casus belli_, to be used or dropped at pleasure'; remembering that the hohenzollern candidature had been 'a meditated offence, long and carefully prepared, insolently denied, which demanded reparation.'[ ] but one might reply that the best way of foiling these deep and deliberate designs, manifestly contrived to provoke war, was to give the adversary no such plausible pretext for driving france into hostilities as was furnished to bismarck by gramont's demand. it is evident, however, that in july all paris was in a state of irrepressible agitation, that the imperialists in the chamber were determined to push the government into a defiant and warlike policy, and that they were acting in the foolhardy conviction that the french army could beat the prussians, and that a victorious campaign would consolidate the napoleonic dynasty. the next day, july , is an evil date in the history of france, when she was hurried into war by a swift succession and very unlucky conjunction of incidents. the council met early, and decided by a majority not to call out the army reserves, although marshal le boeuf energetically declared that if there were any prospect of war, not an hour should be lost in preparation. m. de la gorce relates that four of the councillors passed grave censure on the irregular proceedings of the previous evening, and condemned gramont's telegram. m. ollivier says that it was resolved not to insist further if the guarantees were refused by the king, and for the moment to keep the demand for them secret, merely informing the chamber that negotiations with prussia were in progress. ollivier took his _déjeuner_ at the palace, where the household staff greeted him very coldly, and the empress, by whom he sat, turned her back on him. in the chamber duvernois asked in a surly tone when the debate on his interpellation would come on, and july was fixed for it. everything now depended on the issue of benedetti's interview with the king at ems, which took place early on the morning of the th, when they met as the king was returning by the public promenade from taking the waters. what followed is well known. the king was surprised and disappointed at learning from the ambassador that prince leopold's resignation had not settled everything; benedetti pressed on him gramont's new demand for ulterior guarantees; the king positively refused to give them, and parted from him coldly though courteously, promising, however, to see him again after receiving the letter expected from prince antoine. but in the course of that day came werther's report of his conversation with the two french ministers, which the king's private secretary opened and carried, in some trepidation, to his majesty. the king was grievously offended; he wrote to queen augusta that to require him to stand before the world as a repentant sinner was nothing less than impertinence, and he sent his aide-de-camp, prince radziwill (one of the highest prussian nobles), to inform benedetti that leopold's letter of resignation had arrived, and that, as the affair was thus completely ended, no further audience was necessary. the ambassador replied that he was particularly instructed to obtain the king's specific approbation of leopold's action, and was therefore obliged to solicit another interview. the king replied by his aide-de-camp that so far as he had approved leopold's acceptance of the crown he approved the retractation; but the request for another interview, though it was twice repeated during the day, was civilly and firmly refused. m. ollivier argues that werther's report in no way affected the king's behaviour to benedetti; he affirms that it made no difference at all, and that the king's determination to hold no further intercourse with him was entirely due to benedetti's indiscreet importunity at the morning's meeting, which was witnessed, it may be noted, by a crowd of observant bystanders. we may assume that the king had at no time the slightest intention of acceding to the demand for guarantees; but it seems to us impossible to maintain that werther's report, which was put into his majesty's hand at such a critical moment, and which undeniably gave serious offence, did not exacerbate relations which had already been strained, or induce the king to break off abruptly the personal negotiations with the french minister. and we may add that if benedetti had been cognisant of this report, he might have understood the king's sudden change of temper, and might have spared himself some rebuffs. when the matter came afterwards to his knowledge, he declared that the effect on the king of werther's report had been deplorable. bismarck had been telegraphing from berlin to ems that if the king accorded to benedetti any more interviews he must resign office; and the news of prince leopold's renunciation seemed to cut away the ground upon which he had been manoeuvring for a quarrel with france. but his spirits revived on receiving by telegraph from the king a brief summary of the ems incidents, stating that benedetti's importunate requisition for guarantees had been rejected by his majesty, who had subsequently resolved 'de ne plus recevoir le comte benedetti à cause de sa prétention, et de lui faire dire simplement par un aide de camp ... que sa majesté avait reçu du prince léopold confirmation de la nouvelle mandée de paris, et qu'elle n'avait plus rien à dire à l'ambassadeur.' the telegram also authorised bismarck to communicate this statement to the foreign courts and to the press, whereupon bismarck gave it immediate publication, having made (to use his own phrase) 'some suppressions'; having, in fact, maliciously tampered with the text and falsified the tone, according to m. ollivier and other french writers. his official organ, the _north german gazette_, was directed to print off a supplement and to paste it up all over berlin, and copies of this supplement were distributed gratis in the streets. a thrill of patriotic enthusiasm electrified the nation, who were unanimous in applauding the king in defying the french, and mocking at their ambassador's humiliation. 'dans toutes les langues, dans tous les pays, courait la falsification offensée lancée par bismarck. l'effet de cette publicité effroyable se produisit d'abord en allemagne avec autant d'intensité qu'à berlin. les journaux faisaient rage.' this is what m. ollivier has called 'le soufflet de bismarck'; and never was the art of changing the tone and import of words without altering their substance more effectively employed; for it must be acknowledged that the communication to the press was an accurate rendering of the facts contained in the king's telegram, which was stiff but not actually discourteous; whereas bismarck put the sting into it by little more than adroit condensation. we are told that when the king received this revised edition of his message he read it twice, was much moved, and said, 'this means war'; and that it rang throughout europe like an alarm-bell. at the same time, and before bismarck's action had been known in paris, m. ollivier, as he tells us, was struggling vigorously against the torrent of reproaches and imputations of cowardice which threatened to overthrow his cabinet if they flinched from the demand for guarantees. late on july came a telegram from benedetti that the king had consented to approve unreservedly prince leopold's renunciation, but distinctly refused any further concession. this, cried the war-party at st. cloud, is totally insufficient; the emperor was irresolute, and merely summoned his council for next day. ollivier was determined, for his part, to accept the king's assurance as conclusively satisfactory; and he relates how, on the morning of the th, he was engaged in drafting, for approval by the council, a ministerial declaration to that effect, when the duc de gramont entered his room with a copy of bismarck's circular telegram, and said: '"mon cher, vous voyez un homme qui vient de recevoir une gifle." il me tend alors une petite feuille de papier jaune que je verrai éternellement devant mes yeux.... on n'échoua jamais plus près du port. je restai quelques instants silencieux et atterré.' at the council, which was immediately summoned, gramont threw his portfolio on the table, saying that after what had happened a foreign minister who should not vote for war would be unworthy to hold office; and marshal le boeuf informed his colleagues that they had not a moment to lose, for prussia was already arming. nevertheless the council set themselves to a deliberate investigation of the actual facts. their conclusion, after six hours of discussion, was that, according to diplomatic rule and international custom, no exception could have been taken to the king's refusal, courteously worded, of the interview which benedetti had, it seemed to them, rather pertinaciously desired; but that a reasonable refusal had been converted into one that was offensive by its publication in terms that were intentionally curt and stinging. nevertheless ollivier, clinging to any slight chance of avoiding war, persuaded the emperor and the council to agree that leopold's resignation, as approved by the prussian king, should be accepted by france, and that, on the further question, whether members of a reigning family in one country could be permitted to become kings in another, an appeal for some authoritative ruling should be made to a general congress. but in the course of that day the ministers received from various quarters more evidence that bismarck's inflammatory telegram had been sent officially to the prussian diplomatists at all the foreign courts; and they heard that paris was literally foaming with exasperation at their dilatory indecision, while the temper of the chamber convinced them that the proposal for a congress would be rejected with fiery scorn. berlin and paris vied with each other in turbulent patriotism and warlike fury, and marshal le boeuf, being again and for the last time questioned by the council, replied positively that the french army was quite ready, and that no better opportunity of settling accounts with prussia could be expected. the council rescinded its former decision, and voted unanimously for war. the empress alone (ollivier notes particularly) expressed no opinion and gave no vote. on july ollivier pronounced in the chamber the declaration that had been drawn up by himself and the duc de gramont. it was to the effect that the cabinet had throughout made every possible exertion to preserve peace, but that their patience was exhausted when they found that the king of prussia had sent an aide-de-camp to the french ambassador informing him that no more interviews could be granted, and that the prussian government, by way of giving point and unequivocal significance to this message, had circulated it to all other foreign governments in europe. having spared no pains to avoid war, the ministers would now accept the challenge, and prepare for the consequences. m. ollivier has given a vivid description of the scene that ensued. his final words were barely audible in the storm of applause that swept through the assembly, and the vote of urgency for the motion to provide the necessary war-funds was demanded with enthusiastic outcries, varied by angry vituperation of the few deputies who stood up to oppose it. but thiers immediately arose and, in spite of many disorderly interruptions, made a passionate appeal to the assembly to reflect before precipitating the country into war. his speech, with the violent cries of dissent interjected by the war-party, is reproduced by m. ollivier in order, as he says, that his readers may judge for themselves how far it merited the unstinted eulogy that has since been bestowed upon it; for m. ollivier evidently considers that those who have credited thiers with heroic patriotism in making this strenuous effort to avert the catastrophe have over-praised him. yet with this view we believe that few of those who read the pages in this volume which contain the speech will agree. they will admire, rather, the courage and fervid eloquence of a veteran statesman who vainly strove to persuade a frantic assembly that it was fatally misled, that it was plunging the nation into war on a mere point of form, grasping at a shadow after the substantial and reasonable demand for satisfaction had been obtained by leopold's renunciation; who reminded the deputies that the official papers authenticating the supposed insult had never been laid before them, and implored them not to risk the issues of a terrible contest upon a doubtful question of national susceptibility. m. ollivier goes so far as to affirm that no one could be more justly accused of having brought on the war of than thiers himself, because it was his vehement condemnation of the policy which allowed prussia to beat down austria in , and to set up a formidable military power on the frontier of france, that inspired the whole french people with the suspicion, jealous animosities, and alarm which rendered a war on the rhine between the two nations eventually unavoidable. but thiers in his speech emphatically repeated his conviction that sooner or later france must fight prussia to redress the balance of military power between the rival countries; and the whole point of his speech lay in one sentence: 'je trouve l'occasion détestablement choisie' ('your _casus belli_ is ill chosen and utterly indefensible'). it cannot be denied that in the public opinion of europe was on his side: for england and austria, whose goodwill toward france was unquestionable, were foremost in their efforts to deter the french ministers from war and in deploring their infatuation when it had been proclaimed. at st. petersburg the russian emperor told the french ambassador plainly that the demand for guarantees was unreasonable. nor is it likely that the general judgment of the time--that thiers did his best to save the empire from a disastrous blunder--will have been revoked by posterity, or affected by anything that has since been pleaded in extenuation. 'if (said thiers) the hohenzollern candidature had not been withdrawn, all france would have rallied to the support of your declaration, and all europe would have held you to be in the right; but it _has_ been withdrawn with the approbation of the prussian king, and you had absolutely no pretext for making any further demand. what will europe say when you shed torrents of blood on a point of form?' m. thiers concluded his speech by urging the ministers to lay before the chamber the actual documents which, as they asserted, rendered war inevitable. m. ollivier, in his reply, declined to communicate certain documents which, he said, were confidential and could not be produced without infringement of diplomatic rules; and he laid stress on the impossibility of tolerating the affront which had been intentionally put upon france by bismarck's circular telegram. and it was at the end of this speech that he made use of the phrase which has become historical as the typical expression of the levity and rashness with which his ministry threw their nation into a tremendous war, insomuch that it has become one main cause why he is so commonly charged, very unfairly, with the whole responsibility for the blind haste that led to the defeat and dismemberment of his country. 'oui, de ce jour commence pour les ministres mes collègues et pour moi, une grande responsabilité. nous l'acceptons le coeur léger.' the words were at once taken up sharply and severely; and m. ollivier went on to explain that he meant a heart not weighted by remorse, since he and his colleagues had done everything that was consistent with humanity and with honour to avert a dire necessity; and since the armies of france would be upholding a cause that was just. he now comments bitterly on the malignity which has fastened this stigma on his name, merely because in the heat and flurry of debate, which left him not a moment to pick his words or arrange his sentences, he said something that he is sure no honest man who listened to his explanation could misconstrue into unfeeling frivolity. and in his criticism of the speech in which m. thiers so vehemently condemned the conduct of the ministers he repeats emphatically that the war was not brought on by the demand for guarantees, but by bismarck's false and insulting publication of the king's refusal to consider that demand. this affront, he maintains, was insufferable. yet we learn from his narrative that before entering the chamber on this eventful day m. ollivier had found at the foreign office benedetti, just arrived from ems, who had already seen bismarck's telegram in a newspaper, and could have assured the ministers that it was a perfidious misrepresentation, since the king had not treated him with actual discourtesy. nevertheless m. ollivier quotes and entirely adopts the 'proud and manly' utterances of the duc de gramont who stood up and addressed the assembly towards the close of the debate. 'after what you have just heard,' he said, 'one fact is enough. the prussian government has informed all the cabinets of europe of the refusal to receive our ambassador or to continue the discussion with him. that is an affront to the emperor and to france, and if (_par impossible_) a chamber could be found in my country to bear or suffer it, i would not remain minister of foreign affairs for five minutes.' these haughty words (we are told) electrified the chamber, and a committee to examine the papers on which the ministers relied to prove their case was immediately appointed. these were brought by gramont, who, however, said that he would not lay before the committee the precise words of bismarck's insulting telegram, because his knowledge of it came only from a very confidential communication made to him by the french representatives at certain foreign courts who had been permitted to see the original, so that the authentic text was not in his possession. this excuse was accepted, somewhat imprudently, by the committee; and their chairman proceeded to question gramont closely on one point--whether, after leopold's retirement had become known, the king of prussia had been required at one and the same time to approve it formally and to promise that the candidature should never be revived. during the debate it had been objected by those who opposed the war-party that after obtaining the king's approval, and not till then, the foreign secretary demanded this promise, and that on this new demand the king took offence and briefly declined any further interview with benedetti. gramont answered the chairman with a direct affirmative; he stated that the two concessions had been required simultaneously, and m. ollivier undertakes to prove that this statement was correct. he argues, if we understand him rightly, that before leopold had withdrawn his candidature, the king had been pressed to advise or order him to do so, and that this requisition included by implication the demand for a guarantee against its renewal. when leopold had retired without the king's intervention, the royal order became unnecessary; but the implied demand still remained in force, and was merely repeated in subsequent telegrams.[ ] on this we must remark that both benedetti and the prussian king entirely missed the alleged implication; that the question of guarantees was never raised by the telegrams interchanged between gramont and benedetti before leopold's retirement had become public, when both the king and the ambassador treated it as entirely new; and that at any rate such an important and highly contentious demand should obviously have been stated with unequivocal distinctness, since any other course was quite certain to produce misunderstandings and recriminations. and it is no matter for surprise that various french writers have since accused the duc de gramont of misstating the facts upon which the committee reported to the chamber that the papers laid before them amply sustained the ministerial request for the grant of an urgent war-subsidy, which was thereupon voted by an immense majority. in the senate, where the money was granted with even more promptitude and with zealous unanimity, the proceedings were expedited by a report from marshal le boeuf that the enemy had already crossed the french frontier, and m. rouher, a thorough imperialist, headed a deputation of senators to congratulate the emperor, in the name of the senate, on having drawn the sword when the prussian king rejected the demand for guarantees. m. ollivier reasonably complains that this unauthorised demonstration was awkward and mischievous; for while the senate was thus made to attribute the rupture to the king's refusal, the ministry was declaring war on account of the 'soufflet de bismarck'--the insult embodied in the prussian telegram. yet m. ollivier, looking back in the calm evening of life on these stormy days, might have brought himself by reflection to admit that between these two pretexts there was little to choose--that neither of them justified a government in staking the fortunes of the nation and the empire on the hazard of a great war. when rouher had read his address, the sovereigns conversed with the senators, and it was remarked that while the empress was lively and confident of success, the emperor spoke sadly of the long and difficult task, requiring a most violent effort, that lay before them. having brought his narrative up to the moment when the chamber by voting the subsidy had practically determined upon war, m. ollivier stops to comment upon and explain the strenuous opposition made to the vote by m. thiers and by the small section of deputies who represented the radical left. he is convinced that this latter party were mainly actuated in their ardent protests by a desire to embarrass and, if possible, to overthrow his government, of which they had been consistent adversaries. they had calculated, he explains, on the probability that the ministry would flinch from the rupture with prussia, would adopt some pacific compromise that would be rejected with indignation by the chamber, and would be contemptuously expelled from office. when this calculation had been foiled by the resolutely courageous attitude of the cabinet, they foresaw (he believes) that a triumphant campaign would greatly strengthen the government and would utterly discredit the opposition, so they changed their tactics and fought against the ministerial proposals with accusations of criminal recklessness and prophecies of disaster. it is hardly possible, after so long an interval of time, to form any opinion upon these somewhat invidious suggestions. the action of those who opposed the war, whatever may have been their motives, was outwardly consistent enough, and the construction placed upon it by m. ollivier may seem rather subtle and far-fetched. at the present day, however, this question does not particularly concern any one, though we may agree that at that moment no one in france contemplated the possibility of defeat in the field. the french army was assumed by all parties to be invincible, and the minority in opposition did undoubtedly believe and fear that the empire would be consolidated by victories. m. thiers in his speech only touched generally upon the chances and perils of war, and even gambetta voted with the government upon the conviction that success was beyond doubt; while not only in paris, but in all the great towns, the determination to fight was acclaimed because a triumphant campaign was supposed to be certain. it was to be anticipated, indeed, that a brave and high-spirited nation, very sensitive on the point of honour, and confident in its military superiority, would respond enthusiastically to the signal of war against a rival whose ill-will was notorious, who was accused of plotting the injury of their country and of deliberately insulting their government. a public declaration of hostilities was sent to berlin, though m. ollivier tells us that his ministry regarded it as a superfluous formality which they would have preferred leaving to prussia. 'la déclaration fut libellée d'une manière assez maladroite par les commis des affaires étrangères, et elle ne fut pas même lue au conseil. elle fut communiquée uniquement par la forme et sans discussion aux assemblées, et envoyée à la prusse le juillet.' this perfunctory method of composition is characteristic of the prevailing official atmosphere. the document was delivered by the french chargé d'affaires to bismarck, and in the dialogue that followed between the two diplomatists, which m. ollivier relates in full, we have an excellent sample of the prussian chancellor's sardonic and incisive manner. bismarck asserted that if he had been present at the interviews with benedetti he might have prevented the war, whereas the king's conciliatory tone at ems had misled the french ministers into the blunder of using threats and making intolerable demands, until at last they found themselves confronted by a strong government, backed by the prussian nation in the firm resolution to defend itself. in reporting this conversation to the foreign office the chargé d'affaires said that bismarck appeared to be sincerely afflicted with regret for the rupture between the two countries, that he evidently saw, too late, his error in having secretly encouraged the hohenzollern candidature, and that the result of all these unhappy complications had left the well-meaning chancellor inconsolable. such a candid confession of remorse and regret moved the frenchman's compassion to a degree that profoundly irritates m. ollivier: 'un tel excès de crédulité finit par exaspérer. et la plupart des diplomates de ce temps-là étaient de cette force. bien piètre serait l'histoire qui se modélerait sur leurs appréciations.' we may agree that the sympathy of the chargé d'affaires with bismarck's ingenuous contrition was ill-bestowed. but the tendency to fix upon french diplomacy a responsibility for national calamities that is much more justly chargeable to the account of the imperial government, is somewhat unduly prominent in certain parts of m. ollivier's otherwise fair and conscientious narrative of the transactions that culminated in the war. when bismarck announced to the prussian reichstag that war had been declared, he was interrupted by an outburst of long and enthusiastic cheering. he said, briefly, that he had no papers to lay before them, because the single official document received from the french government was the declaration of war; and the only motive for hostilities he understood to be his own circular _télégramme de journal_ addressed to prussian envoys abroad and to other friendly powers for the purpose of explaining what had occurred. this, he observed, was not at all an official document. he added that a demand for a letter of excuses had been made through werther to the king; and the real origin of the war he alleged to be the hatred and jealousy with which the independence and prosperity of germany were regarded in france. upon this adroit but incomplete exposition of causes and circumstances m. ollivier comments with intelligible severity, laying stress on the fact that afterwards bismarck threw off his disguise, and openly took to himself the credit of having deliberately contrived to bring on the war at his own time. in fact, the later german historians have confirmed this statement by their critical examination of the records and other evidence; though instead of concluding that his conduct was immoral they unite, according to m. ollivier, in applauding his political genius. almost the whole story of the connected machinations by which france was led step by step into war have since been disclosed, and the only part which is still unrevealed relates to the original devices by which bismarck and marshal prim concerted the preliminaries to the offer of the spanish throne to leopold.[ ] it is cheerfully admitted by the german historians who are cited in this volume that the train of incidents which produced so well-timed an explosion was scientifically laid by the prussian chancellor. but they maintain that he was only countermining the underground combinations of the french, who were known to be organising a triple alliance with italy and austria for a combined assault upon prussia; and that the journey of the austrian archduke albert to paris in march convinced bismarck that he had no time to lose, because war must be provoked before these alliances were consummated. and they cite the example of frederick the great, who disconcerted the secret preparations of his enemies by the sudden dash upon dresden which opened the seven years' war. this defence of his own very skilful and not less astute manoeuvres was endorsed by bismarck in a speech before the chamber in ; nor does it appear to us so untenable as m. ollivier holds it to be. he argues that the fear of being attacked by france, if it had really influenced bismarck's conduct in , must have been a wild hallucination, for the chancellor must have been well aware that the emperor's policy at that time was decidedly pacific, and that his own (ollivier's) views were still more so. he assures us that the project of a triple alliance was intended to be exclusively defensive, that it never passed beyond the 'academic' stage, or reached any practical form. the confidential negotiations of with austria and italy had been left, he says, in the stage of unfinished outline, nor was it even suspected either by the french or by the italian ministry that they had been carried further. on the other hand, it cannot be denied that in these negotiations had been carried quite far enough to inspire the prussian chancellor with serious disquietude, if, as is very probable, he had good information of them. we know, from m. ollivier's very interesting account of what passed at the first meeting of the cabinet on july , when the ministers resolved to announce to the chamber their determination to resent and resist the hohenzollern candidature, that the emperor and m. de gramont regarded the understanding with italy and austria as being much more than academic. it is there stated that when ollivier hesitated to accept gramont's assurance that the assistance of these two powers, in the event of hostilities with prussia, had been virtually secured, the emperor napoleon took from a drawer in his bureau certain letters written in by the austrian emperor and the king of italy, and, after reading them aloud, told the ministers that these writings undoubtedly amounted to promises of help in the circumstances that were then actually under discussion. the cabinet accepted these proofs that the alliances might be reckoned upon as substantial, so that it is not unreasonable to suppose that bismarck had drawn the same conclusion from the intimations that had reached him, and had set himself to provoke a war before the secret combinations against him should be ready for action. it must be borne in mind that from he had been deliberately preparing for it, being convinced, as he said later, that until france had been defeated in the field, his grand design of founding a german empire, with its capital at berlin, could not be realised. we may therefore be permitted to suggest that the discussion with which m. ollivier closes this volume is to some extent superfluous, for it is incontestable that bismarck had reasons for desiring the war, and that france was inveigled into declaring it. in the final section he returns to the question whether france or prussia were responsible for the rupture; and after summing up the evidence he pronounces judgment against prussia. it was prussia that invented the hohenzollern candidature, against which france was bound to protest forcibly; and even if it be admitted, he says, that the french cabinet was wrong in taking mortal offence at the insolent official version of the king's refusal to receive the french ambassador, there can be no doubt that this public affront infuriated the french nation, and drove it to the extremity of war. that the explosion was instantaneous he regards as a proof that it had not been expected nor premeditated by france. all these things are, indeed, neither denied nor deniable, for bismarck's own arrogant revelations leave no doubt that the war had been desired and premeditated by that astute and far-seeing politician; and though upon the methods by which the hohenzollern candidature was originally started bismarck is judiciously silent, we may be morally certain that the instigation came from berlin. the maxim _fecit cui prodest_ affords fair ground for this inference, particularly when we remember the obvious improbability that the spanish ministry would have gratuitously set up a candidature which must infallibly have brought their country into collision with its formidable neighbour. how the french government fell into a net that had been spread for them is to most of us sufficiently clear. whether the emperor and his ministers ought to have detected and avoided it, is the real question, and it is practically the only question that concerns m. ollivier. in the final pages of his book, which touch in dignified and pathetic words upon the injustice of the reproaches that have been heaped upon him and the rancorous calumnies by which he has been pursued, his readers are told that, having done his best to defend the cause of his nation, he will terminate his work without taking up his personal justification, though on one point he desires not to be misunderstood. it has been pleaded on his behalf, he says, that he was in fact opposed to the declaration of war, but agreed to it under the violent pressure of public opinion, or else from reluctance to betray internal dissensions that would have broken up the ministry, or for other reasons. m. ollivier insists, on the contrary, that after bismarck's 'soufflet' he was convinced that peace could be maintained only at the price of his country's abject humiliation; and that he chose the alternative of war as infinitely preferable, without the least regard to his personal reputation or interests. we may willingly agree that m. ollivier acted throughout from motives of high-minded patriotism, and although we cannot acquit him on the charge of grave imprudence we may freely admit that he was entangled in a situation of extraordinary difficulty. to englishmen, who are familiar with the regular and recognised working of constitutional government, it will be plain that he was the victim of a system that had placed him before the public as the nominal head of a cabinet that he was supposed to have formed, and of a party in the chamber that he was expected to lead. whereas in fact he had no proper control over the policy of the cabinet, and no solid support in the chamber. the emperor presided at the meetings of the cabinet; and it is clear that the ultimate decision in the supremely important departments of the army and of foreign affairs was still reserved to the sovereign, on whom the foreign secretary (as we should call him) could urge his views separately, and from whom he could take orders independently of the first minister. in this radically false position m. ollivier found himself committed to measures on which he had not been consulted, and hurried into dangerous courses of action for which he had no recognised official responsibility, since they were sanctioned by the emperor's unquestionable authority. we have to remember, also, that in july , liberal institutions had been no more than six months under trial after eighteen years of autocratic rule, that the advocates of the old _régime_ were numerous and openly hostile to the reforms, and that all the ministers of the new _régime_ lacked experience in the art and practice of constitutional administration. it is among those conditions and circumstances that we must find some explanation of their imprudence, and of their inability to make a stand against the emperor's weakness, the clamour of hot-headed deputies, and the war-cries of journalists; some excuse, in short, for the heedlessness with which a well-meaning ministry stepped into the snare that had been laid for them. when, in , the ex-emperor was told of m. ollivier's earnest protest against the cruel injustice of holding him alone answerable for the national disasters, napoleon is reported to have replied that this responsibility must be shared by the ministry, the chamber, and himself. 'si je n'avais pas voulu la guerre, j'aurais renvoyé mes ministres; si l'opposition était venue d'eux, ils auraient donné leur démission; enfin, si la chambre avait été contraire à l'entreprise, elle eût voté contre.'[ ] in a broad and general sense this conclusion may be accepted, for all parties concerned were heavily to blame; and manifestly the disasters were the outcome of a situation in which weakness and rashness were matched against unscrupulous statecraft and the deep-laid combinations of a consummate strategist. footnotes: [ ] _l'empire libéral: Études, récits, souvenirs._ par Émile ollivier. vol. xiv.: la guerre. .--_edinburgh review_, january . [ ] 'animo retto e buono' (_memorie_, p. ). [ ] benedetti, _ma mission en prusse_. [ ] _papiers secrets: les préfets._ [ ] _reflections and reminiscences of prince bismarck._ [ ] _histoire du second empire_, vi. . [ ] 'rien n'était plus officiel que l'entretien qui se poursuivait en ce moment entre le ministre des affaires étrangères et l'ambassadeur de prusse.'--gramont, _la france et la prusse_, p. . [ ] _la france et la prusse_ ( ), pp. - . [ ] _l'empire libéral_, p. . [ ] _historical essays_, p. . [ ] 'au début nous avions demandé au roi de conseiller ou d'ordonner à son parent de renoncer, ce qui entraînait implicitement une garantie que la candidature ne se reproduirait plus. le roi ayant refusé d'intervenir, et la candidature ayant disparu à son insu, nous avions réclamé sous une forme explicite, notre première demande.'--_l'empire libéral_, p. . [ ] some light is thrown on these obscure intrigues by lord acton in the essay already cited. he writes that in bismarck learned from florence that napoleon was preparing a triple alliance against him, and sent a prussian officer, bernhardi, to madrid. 'what he did in spain has been committed to oblivion. seven volumes of his diary have been published; the family assures me (acton) that the spanish portion will never appear.... the austrian first secretary said that he betrayed his secret one day at dinner. somebody spoke indiscreetly on the subject, and bernhardi aimed a kick at him under the table, which caught the shin of the austrian instead. he was considered to have mismanaged the thing, and it was whispered that he had gone too far--i infer that he offered a heavy bribe to secure a majority in the cortes. fifty thousand pounds of prussian bonds were sent to spain at midsummer .... i know the bankers through whose hands they passed.'--_historical essays_, p. . [ ] _l'empire libéral_, p. , footnote. prince napoleon told m. ollivier that the emperor repeated this to him several times. sir spencer walpole[ ] - sir spencer walpole's death in left a gap in the front rank of contemporary english historians. to a volume of his collected essays, published in the following year, his daughter, mrs. f. holland, prefixed an admirable memoir of his private life and character, with affectionate reminiscences of her father's 'strenuous work, his universal kindliness, and his simplicity of soul.' on this personal subject, therefore, little or nothing remains to be said. i will only add that during several years of intimacy with him i had every reason to feel honoured by his friendship, to set high value on his literary judgments, and to appreciate his scrupulous intellectual integrity. from that memoir i take the main incidents that belong to sir spencer walpole's personal biography. after leaving eton he entered the civil service at an early age, and worked for some time in the war office, until he was transferred to a position of larger independence. he was subsequently appointed to the governorship of the isle of man, where he remained for about twelve years; and afterwards he became secretary to the post office until his retirement in . in the discharge of the duties of these offices he was indefatigable; his services were fully approved by all with whom he came into public relations; yet throughout these years he found time for hard and unceasing literary work. in his earlier days he was a regular contributor to the periodical press, mainly on questions of finance; he wrote the lives of two prime ministers--his grandfather spencer perceval and lord john russell--while from up to the year of his death he was engaged upon his _history of england_. five volumes were published, at intervals, on the period between and ; and four subsequent volumes, under the title of the _history of twenty-five years_, brought the whole narrative up to . but the proofs of the two final volumes had not been revised by his hand, when he was struck down by a sudden and fatal malady of the brain. other recent publications were a small book on the isle of man, entitled the _land of home rule; studies in biography_; and the collection of essays to which i have already referred. it is upon this history of england from to that sir spencer walpole's lasting reputation, as a man of letters, will rest. to have combined the writing of such a book with the duties of a very diligent official is no slight achievement; though one may observe that direct contact with administration, with political affairs, and with parliamentary leaders, is for the historian a distinct advantage. it is worth remarking that his family connections, which brought walpole into the civil service, in no way biased his judgment on public questions. the grandson of a high tory prime minister, the son of a conservative secretary of state, he was throughout his life an advanced liberal, with an unswerving trust in popular government as essential to the welfare of his country and to the just and proper management of its affairs at home and abroad. his literary bent was evidently taken from hereditary association with politics, and from his own official training. as an historian he enters with intense interest into the strife of parties, the parliamentary vicissitudes, into the swing backward and forward of reform and reaction, into the exact causes and incidents that affected the rise and the fall of ministries. in describing the state of manners at certain periods, and the changes wrought in the national life by the efforts of philosophic writers and philanthropists, his facts and figures are always ample and accurate; he pays close attention to financial and economical movements. as a politician he distrusted the spirited policy that involved england in the warlike adventures and hazards of an eventful and stirring time. the afghan war of - was, he said, the most ruinous and unnecessary war which the english had ever waged. the crimean war he evidently regarded as a useless expenditure of blood and money, which might well have been avoided. on lord beaconsfield's imperialism he passes severe censure: and the interference of that statesman in to protect the turkish sultan against russia is very sharply condemned. he has even some doubt whether the purchase of the suez canal shares was a wise stroke of policy. this book, in short, is a corroboration of the well-known remark that the history of our country has been mainly written by whigs and liberals, with the exception of a few authors who, like hume and alison, have hardly preserved an historic reputation. nevertheless, whether we agree or not with the prudent and pacific views towards which walpole manifestly leaned, his narrative, his statements of disputable cases, his distribution of the arguments for and against his conclusions, are invariably accurate, fair, and dispassionate. his anxiety to give full authority for facts and opinions is shown in an almost too copious supply of foot-notes. lord acton, who found the late bishop creighton too economical of these citations, compares his practice to mr. walpole's if several hundred references to hansard and the annual register had been struck out from the history of england. in his preface to the first volume the author explains briefly the method that he has adopted. history, he says, may be written in two ways--you may relate each event in chronological order, or you may deal with each subject in a separate episode--and he tells us that he has chosen the latter way. this method enabled him to introduce sketches of the state of english society at different periods, by way of illustrating his narrative, which are certainly attractive and impressive. they are composed to a large degree upon the model set by macaulay, by grouping together a number of characteristic particulars to bring out into strong relief the morals and manners of the time. walpole's picture of the eton boy in the early nineteenth century, who could write admirable greek and latin verse but knew not a word of any modern language--'who regarded the gracchi as patriots but had only an obscure notion that adam smith was a dangerous character'--is almost a parody of macaulay's style. nevertheless these sketches are on the whole truthful and instructive, if we allow for some exuberance of colouring that may have been thought necessary for artistic effect. but walpole studied literature, as the measure of intellectual evolution, with the same interest that he devoted to economical and administrative developments. his aim was to show how all kinds of mental and material activity acted and reacted upon each other, how the feelings and aspirations of the nation were reflected in philosophy and in poetry, and how literary genius could stir the imagination of the people. he observes that while english literature had declined towards the close of the eighteenth century, it rose again rapidly with the opening of the nineteenth century. for a short time, indeed, the furious outbreak of the french revolution had scared men of letters into recoil from the optimistic speculations of the preceding age--they abandoned the worship of liberty. but the storm blew over; and a general revival of literary animation signalised the end of the long war-time, with a magnificent efflorescence of poetry. walpole records, as notable signs of this intellectual expansion, the appearance of women in the field of literature, the immediate success of the two famous reviews, the _edinburgh_ and the _quarterly_, and the rapid growth of journalism. the whole subject of mental progress has, indeed, a peculiar charm for him. he insists that 'the history of human thought is the most comprehensive and the most difficult subject which can occupy the student's attention, far more interesting and important than the progress of society.' he would probably have agreed with coleridge that knowledge of current speculative opinions is the surest ground for political prophecy; and he delights in tracing back to distant sources the religious movements of the nineteenth century. he declares that the heroic measures introduced by legislation within our own recollections are the links of a continuous chain extending from a prehistoric past to an invisible future. we have here a writer who in one chapter handles complicated statistics and economical calculations with obvious relish, and turns from them with equal pleasure to abstruse disquisitions on the filiation of ideas and the march of mind. there are at least two chapters in the history that exemplify the attention given by walpole to ecclesiastical controversies, and to the significance of the antagonism between the new learning and dogmatic orthodoxy. in his fourth volume the story of the oxford tractarians is related at some length, and he remarks on the singular coincidence, that almost simultaneously with the secession of the english high churchmen the free church was established by disrupture from the established church in scotland. he affirms that both these schisms, so different in motive and direction, had their origin in events dating from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. the disintegrating forces of geology, astronomy, and scientific research generally upon the received tradition are examined; the beginning of modern church reform is noted; and in a chapter of the final volume of the _history of twenty-five years_ it is maintained that the great question before the religious world in the middle of the nineteenth century was the possibility of resisting the inroads of science. he describes the vigour with which the polemical campaign was conducted on both sides; how the orthodox position was assailed by writers of the _essays and reviews_, by the criticism of bishop colenso, by broad churchmen and the champions of free thought; how it was defended by prosecutions in the ecclesiastical courts and in appeals to the privy council from both parties. it was certainly a remarkable epoch in the history of opinions, when the country was agitated by the ardent zeal of disputants over questions of ritual and dogma that now seem to have fallen into cool neglect; and walpole gives, as usual, a careful array of the particular cases, with the points in debate, and the characteristics of the prominent leaders in each party. to estimate the position of the clergy as a body, and to show, as walpole undertakes to do, that in the middle of the nineteenth century they were losing caste as a class, and that between the middle and end of that century they had fallen in social status, was a much more difficult and delicate problem. all generalisations upon the condition of society in times that have passed away, however recently, are of doubtful value, because the evidence of documents must always be incomplete, and even personal recollections are partial and become indistinct; they are all seen in a fading and uncertain light. moreover the chronicler of disputations over ritual and articles, and of matters concerning churches and the clergy, may be said to move over the surface of the spiritual waters; and walpole draws nearer to the deeper undercurrents when he appeals to the higher literature for signs of alternating tendencies of religious thought in that generation; though the famous stanzas from tennyson's 'in memoriam,' which he quotes at the end of his chapter, represent rather the poetic than the philosophic conclusions of thinkers in the nineteenth century. but walpole was quite aware of the difficulties that beset any writer who endeavours to relate the history of a very recent period, especially of that part to which his own lifetime belongs, and to pass judgments on the conduct or opinions of statesmen and writers who may be still living, or have only lately departed. yet, as lord acton has said, the secrets of our own time cannot be learnt from books, but from men; and walpole's social relations, his personal popularity, his familiarity with official business, and his literary culture, provided him with valuable opportunities for composing his last four volumes from direct impressions of his subject, for preserving the right atmosphere. his studies in biography show an aptitude for personal delineation; and in one of his earlier volumes there is a full-length portrait of sir robert peel, executed with much skill and comprehension. therein lay the artistic quality of his work; he aimed at the presentation of individual character and action; he laid stress on the influence of remarkable men on their country's fortunes; for true historical art is concerned with bringing prominent figures into formal relief, and with arranging a mass of disorderly facts under some scheme that produces a definite impression. otherwise walpole's style was clear, level, and straightforward; with no pretence to be ornamental. perhaps the best example of his talent for well-ordered and compact narrative is found in two chapters of the fifth volume of the history, which contain an excellent summary of the rise and expansion of british dominion in india during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with a very correct appreciation of the causes and circumstances to which that memorable episode in the annals of the british empire is due. walpole lived just long enough to bring his historical work, which occupied him for about thirty years, to the end which he had assigned to it. in traversing such an extensive and varied field of arduous labour some errors and shortcomings were inevitable, for the history of england in the nineteenth century is the history of the british empire at its climacteric, of moral and material changes and developments more numerous and perhaps more important than in any former century. nor did he limit his survey to the particular period that he had chosen; for his theory, as he has stated it, of the function of history, was that it shall not merely catalogue events but shall go back to an analysis of their causes, and of the general progress of the human family. he believed, with lord acton, that the recent past contained the key to the present time. it has been said that walpole undertook to do for the nineteenth century what lecky did for the eighteenth century: and we may agree that both historians have filled up, with distinguished merit and ability, large vacant spaces in the history of our country. perhaps lecky had more of the philosophic mind, while the distance of time that lay between that writer and his period enabled him to see men and things in their true proportion, and to judge of events by their outcome. walpole, on the other hand, wrote under the disadvantages as well as the advantages of close proximity to the scenes which he described; and the conclusion of his history marks the fall of the curtain on a drama of which the final acts are still to be played out. footnotes: [ ] _proceedings of the british academy_, vol. iii. remarks on the reading of history[ ] since i have accepted, at the request of your warden, the honour of delivering an inaugural address on this occasion, it has appeared to me appropriate to choose, for such an audience, some literary subject. and i propose, with some diffidence, to offer a few observations on the reading of history, because in these latter days, when education has come in upon us like a flood, rising higher and spreading wider every year among our people, no part of literature is more sedulously studied than the field of history. on the other hand, this field is being very rapidly enlarged. it has been said that the output of histories during the nineteenth century has exceeded in bulk and volume the production of all previous centuries. and in all the countries now standing in the forefront of civilisation, the chief product of their serious literature is at this time historical and biographical--for i take authentic biography to be a kind of handmaid of history. it has been reported that during the ten years ending there were published in england books under the head of history, and biographies. moreover, of those who are not actually writing history, an important number are occupied in criticising the historians. now the first observation that i submit to you is that the production of all history has been almost entirely the work of europeans, among whom i reckon the american writers, as belonging by language and culture to europe. so far as the african continent has any trustworthy history, it is in some european language. in asia there have been annalists, chroniclers, and genealogists, mostly mohammedan, who narrate the wars and exploits of great conquerors, the succession of kings, and the rise and fall of dynasties. and i believe that in china official record of public events and transactions has been kept up from very early ages. but if we measure these asiatic narratives by the standard of literary merit and the demand for authentication of facts, i fear that they will be found wanting; though they may be relied upon to give the general course of important events, and an outline of the result of battles and the upsetting of thrones. when these asiatic chroniclers wrote of the times in and near which they were living, they were fairly trustworthy. but whenever they attempted to write of times long past and of countries unknown to them personally, their narratives became for the most part fabulous and romantic, confused and improbable, with some grains of truth here and there. our best information regarding the earlier ages of asia is derived, i think, from greek and latin literature, and latterly from the researches of quite modern scholars and archæologists. so that it may be affirmed that authentic history began in europe, and that to europe it has ever since been practically confined. at this day the history of all parts of the world is being written by europeans. the result has been that for the last years historical material, collected from and relating to all parts of the world, has been accumulating in europe. such masses of records and monuments necessarily require methodical treatment by men of trained intelligence and of untiring industry, learned, and accurate. their systematic labours, their acute and intelligent criticism, have created what is now usually termed the science of history, which abstracts general conclusions from the mass of particulars. and so, i think, we may agree with renan, who has declared that to the nineteenth century may be accorded the title of the age of historians, and that this has been the special distinction of that century's literature. now i believe that the question, whether history is an art or a science, is not yet universally settled. but whatever may be the case in these modern days, i submit that in earlier times, and certainly when history began to be written, it was mainly an art. indeed, it could hardly have been otherwise. in all ages and countries, from the time when men first attained to some stage of elementary culture, they have been curious about the past, they have enjoyed hearing of the deeds and fame of their ancestors, of far-off things and battles long ago. but the primitive chronicler had very slight material for his stories of bygone times--he had few, if any, documents--he was himself creating the documentary evidence for those who came after him; he could only compile his narratives from tradition, legends, anecdotes of heroic ancestors, from information picked up by travel to famous places, and so on. yet from sources of this kind he composed tales of inestimable value as representing the ideas, habits, and social condition of preceding generations that were very like his own. herodotus, who is our best example of the class, reconstructs, revives, and relates conversations that neither he nor his informants could have actually heard; but he does this in order to give a dramatic version of great events. in the opening sentence of his first book he says that he has written in order that the actions of men may not be effaced by time, nor great and wondrous deeds be deprived of renown. and one may notice the same style and method in the historical books of the old testament. in both these ancient histories the narratives represent life, action, speech, situations. it is futile, i may suggest, to subject work of this sort to critical analysis by attempting to sift out what is probably true from what is certainly false. you only break up the picture, you destroy the artistic effect, which is at least a true reflection of real life. moreover, it is dangerous for learned men sitting in libraries to regard as incredible facts stated by these old writers. the legend of romulus and remus having been suckled by a wolf has been dismissed as a childish fable. yet it is certain that this very thing has happened more than once in the forests of india within the memory of living men. you cannot be particular about details, you must take the story as a whole. from this standpoint we may agree, i think, that in illiterate times, and, indeed, throughout the middle ages of europe, history-writing was practised as an art. the unlearned chronicler wrote in no fear of critics or sceptics; he drew striking scenes and portraits; he described warlike exploits; he related characteristic sayings and dialogues which completely satisfied his audience or his readers. the society in which he lived was not far different, in morals and manners, from that which he portrayed, so that he can have committed very few anachronisms or incongruities; and in sentiments and character-drawing he could not go far astray. he produced, at any rate, vivid impressions of reality, just as shakespeare's historical plays have stamped upon the english mind the figures of hotspur or richard iii., which have been thus set up in permanent type for all subsequent ages. at any rate portraits of this kind have not been modernised to suit the taste of a later age, as has been done with king arthur in tennyson's 'idylls of the king.' and when work of this sort has been finely executed, the question whether the details are untrustworthy or even fictitious is immaterial, particularly in cases where the precise facts can never be recovered. we do not know exactly how the battle of marathon, or, indeed, the battle of hastings, was fought, but we have in the chronicles something of great value--a true outline of the general situation, and some stirring narratives of the clash and wrestling of armed men, compiled either at first hand from the recollections of those who were actually on the field, or else taken at second hand from others who made notes of what had been told them by those present at the battles. this, then, is what i meant when i said that in early times history was an art. its method was picturesque. now my next observation is that, although the science of history has since been invented, we have, among quite modern english writers, men of singular genius, who have to some extent followed the example, adopted the manner, of the ancient annalist. like him, they are artists, their aim has been to depict famous men, to reproduce striking incidents and scenes dramatically. their technical methods, so to speak, are entirely different from those of the old chronicler, who sketched with a free hand, and trusted largely to his inspirations, to his own experience of what was likely to have been said or done, or to popular tradition, which is always animated and distinct. the modern historian, of what i may call the school of impressionists, has no such experience, he knows nothing personally of violent scenes or fierce deeds; he composes his picture of things that happened long ago from a mass of papers, books, memoirs, that have come down to us. yet although style and substance are quite different, the chief aim, the design, of the ancient and modern artist in history is the same. they both strive to set before their reader a vision of certain scenes and figures at moments of energetic action--not only to tell him a story, but to make him see it. let me give an example. every one here may remember the story in the old testament ( nd book of kings) of jehu driving furiously into jezreel, how on his way he smote ahaziah, king of judah, with an arrow, and how jezebel, the phoenician queen, was hurled down out of her palace window to be devoured by dogs in the street. and some of you may have read in froude's _history of the reign of queen elizabeth_ his description of the murder of david rizzio by the fierce scotch nobles, how he was killed clinging to queen mary's knees in her chamber in holyrood palace. now the manner, the artistic presentation of ferocious action, are in both cases alike; we have the words spoken and the deeds done; we can look on at the bloody tragedy; we have a dramatic version of the story. the ancient writer of the old testament probably did his work naturally, instinctively; he tells the story as he received it by word of mouth, briefly--laying stress only on the things that cut into the imagination of an eye-witness, and remain in the memory of those to whom they were related. he troubles us with no moral reflections, but goes on quietly to the next chapter of incidents. the modern historian has composed his picture from details collected by study of documents; he puts in adjectives as a painter lays on colour; yet the effect, the impression, is of the same quality: it is artistic. now the principal english historians of the modern school, who revived what one may call the dramatic presentation of history, i take to be macaulay, froude, and carlyle. they all worked upon genuine material, upon authentic records of the period which they were writing about. lord acton mentions that froude spoke of having consulted , papers in manuscript, at home and abroad, for one of his histories. macaulay was industrious and indefatigable. yet ranke, the great german historian, said of macaulay that he could hardly be called a historian at all, judged by the strict tests of german criticism. and freeman, the english historian, brought violent charges against froude of deliberately twisting his facts and misquoting his authorities; though i believe that freeman's bitter jealousies led him into grave exaggerations. then take carlyle. his cromwell is a fine portrait by an eminent literary artist. but is it a genuine delineation of the man himself, of his motives, of the working of his mind in speech and action? later investigation, minute scrutiny of old and new material, suggest doubts, different interpretations of conduct and character. take, again, his description of the battle of dunbar, cromwell's great victory. carlyle explains to us the nature of the ground, the movements of the troops, the tactics, the points of attack, with admirable force and clearness--it is a marvellous specimen of literary execution. yet recent and very careful examination of the locality, and a comparison of the evidence of eye-witnesses, have proved beyond doubt that carlyle had not studied the ground, had made some important errors. he was, in fact, giving a dramatic representation of the battle, which, if it had come down to us from some mediæval annalist, would have been universally accepted as genuine. in short, these three artists have all suffered damage under scientific treatment. now i am not here to disparage macaulay, froude, or carlyle. they were all, in my opinion, authors of rare genius, whose places in the forefront of the literature of the nineteenth century are permanently secure. yet i fear that the tendency of the twentieth century is unfavourable to the artistic historian. it seems to me probable, much to my personal regret, that the scientific writing of history, based upon exhaustive research, accumulation and minute sifting of all available details, relentless verification of every statement, will gradually discourage and supersede the art of picturesque composition. in the first place the spirit of doubt and distrust is abroad, every statement is scrutinised and tested. the imaginative historian cannot lay on his colours, or fill up his canvas, by effective and lively touches without finding his work placed under the microscope of erudite analysts, some of whom, like iago, are nothing if not critical, are not only exact but very exacting. in these days a writer who endeavours to illuminate some scene of ages past, to show us, as by a magic lantern, the moving figures brought out in relief against the surrounding darkness, is liable to be set down as an illusionist, possibly even as a charlatan or conjurer. yet one feels the charm of the splendid vision, though it may fade into the light of common day when it falls under relentless scrutiny, and one is haunted by the doubt whether the scientific historian, with all his conscientious accuracy, is after all much nearer the reality than the literary artist. for it is seriously questionable whether the precise truth about bygone events and men long dead can ever actually be discovered, whether, by piecing together what has come down to us in documents, we can resuscitate from the dust-heap of records the state of society many centuries ago. and in regard to historical portrait painting lord acton has warned intending historians to seek no unity of character--to remember that allowance must always be made for human inconsistencies; that a man is never all of one piece. but cautious conclusions, nice weighing of evidence, do not satisfy the ordinary reader. the vivid impressions that are stamped on his mind by the power of style are what he mostly requires and retains; and these we are all reluctant to lose. we must concede to the writer, as to the painter, some indulgence of his imaginative faculty. otherwise we must leave the battle scenes and the national portrait gallery to the poets and romancers of genius--to shakespeare and walter scott, whose art had nothing to gain from accuracy, who have only to give us the types, the right colouring and strong outline of life and character in days bygone. however, i think we shall be compelled to accept the change from the artistic to the scientific school of historians, though we may regret it as unavoidable. it is the vast enlargement of the field of historical study, the strong critical searchlight that is turned on all the dark corners and outlying tracts of this field, that is irresistibly affecting the work of writers, enforcing the need of caution, of scrutinising every point, of weighing evidence in the finest scales, of assaying its precise value. the contemporary writer has to deal with the huge accumulation of material to which i have already referred; he must ransack archives, hunt through records piled up, public and private, must decipher ancient manuscript, must follow the labours of the wandering collector of inscriptions and the excavator of old tombs. he has to make extracts from correspondence, diaries, and notes of travel which are coming for the first time to the light; he must keep abreast of foreign literature and criticism. the mass and multiplicity of documentary evidence now at his disposal, most of which may not have been available to his predecessors, is enormous. some twelve years ago lord acton wrote: 'the honest student has to hew his way through multitudinous transactions, periodicals and official publications, where it is difficult to sweep the horizon or to keep abreast. the result has been that the classics of historical literature are found inadequate, are being re-written, and the student has to be warned that they have been superseded by later discoveries.' what has been the effect of this altered situation upon the writer of history at the present time? on such an extensive field of operations, which has to be cultivated so intensely, he finds himself compelled to contract the scope of his operations; he can only take up very narrow ground. so in many instances he limits himself to a period, or even to a single reign, to a particular class of historical personage, or to some special department of human activity. he looks about for a plot that he can work thoroughly; he concentrates his attention upon some line or aspect of a subject in which he may hope that he has not been anticipated by others. lord acton has laid down that 'every student ought to know that mastery is acquired by acknowledged limitation'--he must peg out his small holding and keep within its bounds. histories are now written by many and various hands--as in the case of the cambridge modern history, which already counts numerous volumes--and so the general area is divided and subdivided among experts, each of whom dips deeply into his particular allotment, and takes heavy crops off his ground. yet the productiveness of the field at large seems still inexhaustible, for there is always some new theory to be established, some fresh vein of facts to be opened, some corrections or additions to be made. moreover, the experts, while they toil at their own special work, while they attack a difficult problem from different sides, must nevertheless co-operate with each other. sir william ramsay, a noted archæologist, tells us that for a new study of history there is needed a group of scholars working in unison; that the solitary historian is doomed to failure. he adds that the history of the roman empire has still to be re-written. the late lord acton, when as professor of modern history at cambridge he drew out his plan for a modern history that would satisfy the scientific demand for completeness and exactitude, proposed to distribute the work among more than a hundred writers. he observed that the entire bulk of new matter which the last forty years have supplied amounts to many thousand volumes. when history becomes the product of many hands and various minds the artistic element is likely to disappear. one obvious result of this state of things is that we hear no more of the old-fashioned histories embracing vast subjects, the work of a single author--of histories of the world, or a history of europe like alison's in thirty volumes. indeed it is not long since buckle found his _history of european civilisation_ unmanageable; he died before he could finish it. at the present time historical subjects are divided and subdivided by classes, periods, or even single events. art, literature, philosophy, war, diplomacy, receive separate treatment. we have colonial histories in numerous thick volumes; though no english colony has a long past. we have histories of the queens who have reigned in their own right, like queen elizabeth, and of queens consort: we have even a book on the bachelor kings of england, written by a lady who proves undeniably that these unlucky bachelors--there were only three of them--all came to a bad or sad end. as to military historians, kinglake's _history of the crimean war_ takes up, i think, some eight volumes. the whole course of the recent boer war has been related in five substantial volumes. neither of these wars lasted more than two years, yet both histories are many times larger than schiller's history of the thirty years' war in germany. the only edition of schiller's work that i have found in the library of this university is in four small volumes. now, the drawback to the composition of histories on this ample and elaborate scale is obviously this--that the ordinary man or woman can hardly be expected to read them, or at most to read more than two or three of them. so there has sprung up a natural demand for something lighter and shorter; the amplification has produced a supply of abbreviation. the massive volumes, the heaps of material, are taken in hand by very capable writers with a clear eye for the main points, for striking incidents and personalities. the big books are sliced up into convenient portions, and served up in attractive form and manageable quantities. the work is often done with admirable skill and judgment. you thus obtain a bird's-eye view of the past; you have the loftier prominences and bold outlines of the historic landscape. in these serials, which are deservedly popular, you can read short biographies, for example, of english men of letters, of english men of action, of famous scotsmen, rulers of india, heroes of the nation. you have also a story of all the nations in series, and thus you can limit your mental survey to separate periods, events, countries, and figures. you are carried swiftly and adroitly over the dry interspaces which lie between startling incidents or between supremely interesting epochs. now i have no doubt that these series, which contain much sound information very skilfully condensed, have been of real service in the propagation of historical knowledge. on the other hand, we have to consider that this kind of reading is disconnected in style and subject. the reader can make a long jump from one period to another, or from the statesman of one century to another who flourished in a very different country and age. and the handling of these diverse subjects is not uniform; the points of view or lines of thought are various, and may be contradictory. it may be expedient to warn those who use these excellent summaries against the habit of neglecting the great english classics for short biographies or compendious sketches of periods and personages, as if one could learn enough of edmund burke, or milton, or oliver cromwell, or master the events of some important period, from a well-written serial in some two hundred pages. the demand for these historical handbooks has evidently been created by the spread of general education, which stimulates the laudable desire to learn something about subjects of which it is hardly respectable, in these days, to be ignorant. such knowledge is very useful to those who have no leisure for more; and it is far superior to mere desultory reading, to the habit of picking out amusing bits here and there. yet i hope it is unnecessary to impress on earnest students of history that they must go further; must push up as near as possible to the fountain heads of the rivers of knowledge; must make acquaintance with the masterpieces of literature--that their reading must be continuous and consecutive. now those among you who are studying for university honours have no need for any advice from me; they are well aware that the wide expansion, in these days, of the field of history has raised the standard of examinations, and that they must be prepared for questions testing a candidate's critical acumen, the breadth and depth of his reading, much more closely than was required formerly. but there must also be many here present who have no examinations in front of them, who have no ardent inclination or even leisure for abstruse labours. and i presume that all of you read history for a clear understanding of past ages, of the acts and thoughts of the great men who illustrate those times. you all desire to comprehend the sequence and significance of events. you feel the intellectual pleasure of appreciating rightly the character and motive of the men and women who stand in the foreground of our country's annals, and also of those who are famous in other countries, to know how and why they rose or fell, whether they deserved the success that they won, or won it without deserving it. moreover, for us english folk, who live at the centre of an empire containing races and communities in various stages of political development, the lessons of history have a special value. they teach us to judge leniently of acts and opinions that appear to us irrational and even iniquitous as we see them in other backward countries at the present day. we learn that manners and morals may not be unchangeable in a nation; that fallacies and prejudices are not ineradicable; that even cruelty, tyranny, reckless bloodshed, are not incurable vices. for history tells us that some of the nations now foremost in the ranks of civilisation have passed through the stages of society in which such things are possible. and thus we can study the circumstances and conditions of political existence which have retarded the upward progress of certain nations and accelerated the advance of others. such inquiries belong to the philosophy of history. when we read, for example, the history of england in the fifteenth or sixteenth century, we find that our ancestors, born and bred in this same island, kindly men in private life and sincerely religious, intellectually not our inferiors, yet, when they took sides in politics or church questions, did things which appear to us utterly cruel, against reason, justice, and humanity. to remember this helps us to realise the difficulty of passing fair judgment not only on the conduct of our forefathers, but upon the actions and character of other peoples and governments that are doing very similar things at the present time in other parts of the world. we shall find it an arduous task to assign motives, to weigh considerations, to acquit or condemn. so that, to the politician of to-day, history ought to be an invaluable guide and monitor for taking an impartial measure of the difficulties of government in troubled or perilous circumstances. yet one sometimes wishes that the record of the fierce and bitter struggles of former days had been forgotten, for it still breeds rancour and resentment among the descendants of the people that fought for lost causes, and suffered the penalty of defeat. the remembrance keeps alive grievances, and the ancient tale of wrongs that have long been remedied survives to perpetuate national antipathies. moreover, in some of the most celebrated cases known to our own annals, we are never sure that we have the whole case before us, for the historians give doubtful help, since the best authorities often take opposite views, as, for instance, on the question whether mary queen of scots was her husband's murderess, or a much injured and calumniated lady. the admitted facts are valued differently, interpreted variously, and made to support contradictory conclusions. the latest historian of rome, signor ferrero, sums up a long and elaborate dissertation on the acts and character of julius cæsar by a judgment which differs emphatically from the views of all preceding historians. on some of these disputed questions we may make up our minds after studying the evidence; but many historical problems are in truth insoluble; the evidence is imperfect and untrustworthy. these, then, are some of the warnings we may take from history. we must not be hasty about condemning misdeeds of past generations, whether of the rulers or their people. the times were hard, so were the men; they were encompassed by dangers, while we who criticise them live in ease and safety. and when we hear at the present day of misrule and strife and bloodshed among other races--in asia, for example--we may remember our own story, and we may trust that they also will work their way upward to peace and concord. but the truth is that, as our knowledge of the past is very imperfect, so also our predictions of the future are very fallible. the best observers can see only a very short way ahead. history shows us how frequently the course of affairs has taken quite unexpected turns, for good or for ill, forward or backward. on the whole, we may believe that the main direction is certainly toward the gradual betterment of the world at large, though the theory of progress is quite modern, for the ancients looked behind them for the golden age. nowadays we trumpet the glory of our british empire; yet at intervals our confidence in its fortunes is shaken by some sharp panic; the decline and fall of england is predicted. it is, indeed, perilous to be overconfident, to live in a fool's paradise, for some of us have seen in our lifetime the sudden catastrophes that have overtaken great empires. but history may comfort us when we read how often the downfall of england has been predicted, how we have been on the brink of shooting down niagara, as carlyle declared, or threatened with imminent invasion, with total loss of commerce and colonies, with defeat abroad and bankruptcy at home. and yet our country is still fairly prosperous and free, and as for invasions, we may still trust that, as coleridge has written: 'ocean 'mid the uproar wild speaks safety to his island child.' but on the whole history gives political prophets little encouragement--we cannot foretell the future from the past. nevertheless, there is some truth in the saying that history is like an old almanac, if we may take this to mean that, although the same events never happen again in the same way, yet in the great movements of the tide of the world's affairs a sort of periodical recurrence, an ebb and flow, may be noticed. for example, we know that from the fifteenth until near the end of the seventeenth century the asiatic armies of the turkish sultans were invading and conquering south-eastern europe--they reached the gates of vienna. then followed a swing backward of the pendulum, and from the eighteenth to the end of the nineteenth century the european powers, russia and england, were each extending a great dominion over asia. again, up to a few years ago, the turkish empire was a barbarous despotism, and we all believed that it must break up and be extinguished. yet it has now revived in a new form, which may possibly restore its power and prosperity. to search for and distinguish the operating causes, the powers that underlie these incalculable changes, is a task for the student of history. there must be many of you for whom these high problems have a strong attraction, who enjoy rapid flights over the broad surface of history, wide outlooks over the past and future. now, i admit that bold generalisations are hazardous, unless founded upon very solid knowledge; but in historical as well as in physical science they are needed to sum up results, to bring facts into focus. they enable us, so the late lord acton has said, to fasten on abiding issues, to distinguish the temporary from the transient. the late lord acton, who, as you may remember, was professor of modern history at cambridge, is reckoned by general consent to have surpassed all his contemporaries, at least in england, by his encyclopædic, accurate, and profound knowledge of history. his reading was vast, his learning prodigious, his industry never slackened. yet the literary production of his life is contained in three volumes of essays, lectures, and articles; he has left us no complete book. indeed, his writing is so disproportionate to his reading that one is tempted to liken his luminous intellect to a fire on which too much fuel had been heaped; the ardent mind glowed and shot up its streaks of radiance through the weight of erudition that overlaid it. among lord acton's published papers is a 'note of advice to persons about to write history,' of which the first word is _don't_. but he then proceeds to jot down some hints and maxims, brief and caustic, for the benefit of those who nevertheless persist in writing; and to some of these i commend the attention of readers, since upon readers as well as upon writers lies the duty of forming careful opinions, of judging impartially, in working out their conclusions upon the events and personages of past times. for lord acton was an indefatigable researcher after truth; his standard of public morality was austere, lofty, and uncompromising. i myself venture to think that he was too rigid; he admitted no excuse for breaches of the moral law on the pretext, however urgent, of political necessity; he refused to allow extenuation of violence or bloodshed even in times of great emergency. 'the inflexible integrity of the moral code,' he said, 'is to me the secret of the authority, the dignity, the utility of history.' now this is hard doctrine for most of us to follow when we set ourselves, as students, to condemn or acquit, to blame or to praise the prominent actors in the drama of our national history. on that stage, as we all know, the real tragedies that stand on record were sanguinary enough, and the parts occasionally played in them by our ancestors were of a sort that now appear most unnatural and indefensible to their descendants. yet most of us are disposed to regard with some leniency even the crimes of a violent and lawless age. but however this may be, some of lord acton's counsels are undoubtedly valuable as warnings or for guidance, either as lamps to show the right road, or as lighthouses to keep us from going wrong. his inaugural lecture at cambridge on the study of history is full of precepts, maxims, warnings, injunctions, all of which may be pondered by students with advantage. we are enjoined, for example, to beware of permitting our historic judgment to be warped by influences, whether of country, class, church, college, or party; and it is said, by way of driving home the warning, that the most respectable of these influences is the most dangerous. but very few writers, and, i suspect, not many readers, can hold their mental balance quite steadily, can weigh testimony on either side of a question quite dispassionately, when our church, or our country, perhaps even our university, is concerned. nor is it easy for students to find historians who are entirely unmoved by bias of these kinds, who have neither a theory to prove, nor a cause to support, nor a hero to be exalted, nor a sinner to be whitewashed. indeed, the wicked men of history have always found some ingenious advocate to defend them by attempting to justify bad acts on the ground of excellent motives and intentions, of the exigencies of the situation, or other excuses and explanations. it is certain that some of the worst crimes on record, assassinations and savage persecutions, have been defended on pretexts of this kind, by allegations of patriotism or devotion to a faith. not many weeks have passed since a dastardly murder was perpetrated in london, close to this spot, by a crazy wretch who declared himself a patriot. so we may profitably lay to mind lord acton's stern denunciation, not only of criminals in high places, but of all, high or low, who pretend that foul deeds may be justified by asserting pure motives. let me quote again from lord acton. he has said: 'of killing, from private motives or from public, _eadem est ratio_, there is no difference. morally, the worst is the last; the fanatic assassin, the cruel inquisitor, are the worst of all; they are more, not less, infamous, because they use religion or political expediency as a cloak for their crimes.' he affirms elsewhere that crimes by constitutional authorities--by popes and kings--are more indefensible than those committed by private malefactors. and he holds that the theorist is more guilty than the actual assassin; that the worst use of theory is to make men insensible to fact, to the real complexion and true quality of conduct. he would probably have insisted that journalists and others who instigate political crimes are at least quite as bad as the actual criminal. herein, at any rate, we may thoroughly agree with him, though the question whether the intercourse of nations and their governments can be strictly regulated by the same moral standard which rules among individuals, does raise difficult points for the conscientious student of history. we have to remember that no power exists to enforce international laws or police, so that every government has to rely upon its own strength for the defence of its people and the preservation of its rights. on the whole, i do not know any recent works that may be more profitable for advice and guidance in reading history than these three volumes of lord acton's. they contain the essence of his unceasing labours in collecting, comparing, and testing an immense quantity of historic material. they are particularly valuable for the flashes of insight into the deeper relations of events, for brief, sententious observations in which he sums up his judgments upon men and their doings. they are not to be taken lightly; they demand all your attention, for the style is compressed and packed with meaning; and the author seems to expect his readers to be prepared with more knowledge than, i think, most of us possess. his allusions take for granted so much learning that they occasionally puzzle the average man. for example, in one of his essays he makes a passing reference to 'those who in the year shared the worst crimes that christian nations have committed.' what these crimes were he does not say; and how many of us could answer the question off-hand? certainly i could not. but the lectures and essays abound in far-ranging ideas, and show profound penetration into historic causes and consequences. some of the essays, written in comparative youth, betray here and there a natural leaning towards the church of rome, in which he was born, and against protestantism; yet his hatred of intolerance and despotism, spiritual or temporal, was sincere and intense. in politics he was a liberal, yet he saw that liberal institutions, representative government, are by no means a sure and speedy remedy for misrule in all times and countries, as in our day simple folk are apt to suppose. in writing of the condition of europe during the earlier middle ages he observes: 'to bring order out of chaotic mire, to rear a new civilisation and blend hostile and unequal races into a nation, the thing wanted was not liberty, but force.' here is a bold and clear-sighted deduction from the lessons of history, which revolutionary politicians in asia, where no nationalities have yet been formed, may well take to heart. parliamentary institutions, as lord acton has well said, presuppose unity of a people. scattered through these volumes may be found, indeed, certain brief paragraphs which, as they contain the essence of much learning and deep thought, may well set us all thinking. in a remarkable essay on the historical relations of church and state lord acton observes: 'the state is so closely linked with religion, that no nation that has changed its religion has ever survived in its old political form.' here again is a striking generalisation which a student might set himself to verify by careful examination of the facts. and now i will make an end of my address by quoting one more remark of lord acton, in which he gives his definition of history taken as a whole. 'by universal history,' he says, 'i understand that which is distinct from the combined history of all countries, which is not a rope of sand, but a continuous development, and is not a burden on the memory, but an illumination of the soul. it moves in a succession to which the nations are subsidiary. their story will be told, not for their own sake, but in subordination to a higher series, according to the time and the degree in which they contribute to the common fortunes of mankind.' footnotes: [ ] inaugural address to the students of king's college for women, university of london, october , . race and religion[ ] i propose to offer for consideration some very general views upon the effects and interaction of the ideas of race and religion upon the political grouping of the population in various countries of eastern europe and of asia, with the object of showing how they unite and divide mankind over a great portion of the earth. it will be understood, i hope, that it is impossible in a brief discussion to go far or thoroughly over such a wide field. i can only try to indicate some salient points that may be worth attention. if we look back upon the ancient world, as it was known to greece and to rome, and as it can be dimly surveyed through the records of classic antiquity, we find that before the christian era the populations were divided and subdivided into races or tribes, with names signifying a common origin or descent; at any rate some kind of tribal association. the designation of their country was usually derived from the name of some dominant race, as gallia from the gauls or judea from the jews; indeed i might say, as france from the franks or england from the angles. religious denominations of any large community were, i venture to suggest, unknown, at any rate in ancient europe. the polytheism of these ages was too local and miscellaneous to weld together any considerable groups on the basis of a common worship or belief; for although three great religions then existed, buddhism, hinduism, and the faith of zoroaster (still represented by the parsees), these were confined to central and eastern asia. and, moreover, these religions had not the missionary spirit; i mean that they made no vigorous open attempts to spread and gain proselytes, still less did they use force to convert great multitudes. but after the christian era a change came over the face of the western world. the roman empire--that greatest monument of human power, as dean church has called it--began the fusion of races into one vast political society; its dominion extended continuously from britain on the west to asia minor and the countries bordering on the caspian sea; it settled the law and language of southern europe. the establishment of the roman empire is a cardinal epoch of the world's political history. then followed two events of immense political importance that changed the whole aspect and condition of the religious world--the rise and spread of two powerful missionary and militant religions. first came christianity to overspread the lands which the empire had levelled politically. islam followed in the seventh century, and the conflict between these two rival faiths, each claiming universal spiritual dominion, altered not only the spiritual but also the temporal order of things in europe and western asia. in asia the victorious creed of mohammed imposed upon immense multitudes a religious denomination; they became mussulmans. in western europe the dominion of the roman empire had by this time fallen to pieces; it was torn asunder by barbarian invaders; but upon the ruins of that empire was built up the great catholic church of rome, which gathered together all races of the west under the common denomination of christianity. beneath the canopies of these two great religions the primitive grouping of the people survived; throughout europe there were no settled kingdoms or nations, but a jumble of races and tribes contending for land and power. now we know that in western europe this strife and confusion of the middle ages at last ended in the formation, on a large scale, of separate nationalities, and perhaps we may take, roughly, the end of the fifteenth century as the period when the great territorial kingdoms were definitely marked out, and when the rulers were rounding off their possessions under designations that may be called national. in these countries the subdivisions according to race had now lost almost all political significance; but in the sixteenth century another great disturbing element reappeared. the great wars of religion again made a fresh division of the people into two camps of roman catholics and protestants. this ferment has gradually subsided, and at the present time all minor groups of the population in western europe have been absorbed under large national designations; the nations are marked off within clearly cut frontiers, and separated by the paramount distinction of languages. in western europe you do not now define a man by his original race or by his religion, you ask whose natural-born subject he is, in whose territory he lives, and you class him accordingly as french, english, spanish or italian. now it has been, i think, one result of this consolidation of the west into states and nationalities, with religion mostly corresponding to the region, that the persistence in other parts of the world of the earlier ideas of race and religion, the primordial grouping of mankind, has been far too commonly overlooked and undervalued. my present object is to lay stress on the importance of realising and understanding them. and i may begin by throwing out the suggestion that this oversight, this neglect of ideas and facts that still have great strength and vitality, may be connected with the influence, in france and england, of a certain school of political philosophy that arose in the eighteenth century, in france. the encyclopédistes, as they were called, because their leaders wrote the celebrated french encyclopædia, treated in theory all notions of separate races, religions, and frontiers as so many barriers against the spread of a common civilisation, which was to unite all peoples on general principles of reason, scientific knowledge, and emancipation from local or national prejudices. as a theory this might not have had much practical effect; but at the end of the eighteenth century came the french revolution, when these philosophical notions took a very seriously practical shape; for the french republican armies invaded the kingdoms of western europe with the war-cry of universal fraternity and equality. revolutionary france ignored both race and religion. it proclaimed, de tocqueville says, above and instead of all peculiar nationalities, an intellectual citizenship that was intended to include the people of every country to which it extended, superseding all distinctions of language, tradition, and national character. under napoleon this fierce impulse of democratic levelling was transformed into imperialism: he aimed at restoring an empire in the west. but this aroused equally fierce resistance, and when napoleon had been beaten down, the national feeling emerged stronger than ever. the doctrines of the french encyclopédistes were inherited by the english school of utilitarians, led by bentham and the two mills; and john stuart mill in particular, declared that one of the chief obstacles to human improvement was the tendency to regard difference of race as indelible. in fact, all this school, which had considerable influence some forty years ago, treated religious and social distinctions as inconvenient and decaying barriers against rational progress, or as fictions invented by indolent thinkers to save themselves the trouble of investigating the true causes that modify human character. there is undoubtedly a certain degree of truth underlying this view. in the settled nationalities of the west these distinctions of race and religion have a tendency to become unimportant and obsolete for political purposes, although a glance across the water to ireland will remind us that they have by no means disappeared. what i wish to lay stress upon is the very serious importance of race and religion, politically, in other parts of the world, and particularly in some asiatic countries with which england is closely connected and concerned. for, in the first place, there has been a notable revival of the sentiment of race in eastern europe. and, secondly, the spread of european dominion over asia may be regarded as one of the most prominent and powerful movements in the politics of the latter half of the nineteenth century; one which may become the dominant feature of politics in the twentieth century. it is this movement that is forcing upon our serious attention the immense practical importance of race and religion. the plan which i shall attempt to follow in making a brief survey of my subject, is to begin with a glance at the political condition of central europe, and to travel rapidly eastward. in the west, as i have said, we have compact and permanently established states with national governments. but as soon as we pass to central europe we find the austro-hungarian empire distracted and threatened by internal feuds, arising out of the contention for ascendency of two races, germans and slavonians, and also out of the demands of the various provinces and dependencies for political recognition of their separate identities, founded on claims to represent internal sections or subdivisions of the two chief races. the slavonic populations in the north-west of the empire are parted asunder from those in the south-east by the hungarians, who came in from the east, and are of a different stock, and who have succeeded in establishing the federated kingdom of hungary. i will not trouble you with statistical or geographical details. for my present purpose it is enough to mention that the subjects of austria, apart from hungary, are classed in eight separate sections, differentiated by separate languages, and that poles, bohemians, germans, and italians, are all and each claiming a kind of home rule within the empire, and show an increasing tendency to group themselves by distinctions of race. in bohemia the population is nearly equally divided between germans and slavs, who speak different languages, have separate schools, and contend violently for political preponderance. in moravia and silesia, where the slav element is stronger, the same conflict goes on. in galicia the contest is between poles and ruthenians, between the roman catholic and the greek churches. in hungary proper the magyars have political predominance, but the population of german descent and language is more numerous than the magyars: in transylvania, further eastward, the magyars are politically overriding the slav races; in croatia to the southward a similar struggle is going on. throughout every province of the austro-hungarian empire we see the same intermixture of races, religions, and languages--the more numerous and better united sections are striving for political ascendency: the weaker sections contend against them by demanding autonomy. and, as all these various antipathies and jealousies are represented in the parliament of the empire, the peaceful consolidation of the empire into a large national state is interrupted by resistance under the watchword of separate nationalities. religious differences between roman catholicism, calvinism, and the greek church in the eastern provinces, accentuate the incoherence. each separate group takes for its symbol, the standard round which people rally, a language--german, polish, tcheque, ruthenian, and so on. they are all being energetically maintained and jealously preserved in speech and writing in the schools and the assemblies. moreover, three different churches, at least, are rallying their adherents and driving in the wedge of religious dissension. all these groups go back to the early traditions and history of the races, they sharpen up old grievances, and oppose each other vigorously in the imperial chamber of representatives. they are, in fact, endeavouring to construct an earlier formation of civil society, and to reverse the order of political amalgamation of small states into large ones which has been operating for centuries in western europe. in western europe the principle of nationalities has been a method not of disintegration, but of concentration. it has led within the last fifty years to the establishment of two states of first-class magnitude, germany and italy; and louis napoleon, who had proclaimed the idea of national unification, was ruined by his own policy, for the germans destroyed his dynasty, and italy gave him no help. but in austro-hungary, on the contrary, the movement is not toward centralisation--it is centrifugal and separatist; and if it continues to increase in force it may threaten with dissolution an ancient and powerful empire. you will observe that since we entered, in our survey, the austrian territories, we have found ourselves within the jurisdiction of an empire in the true sense of that word, which i take to mean the dominion of one superior sovereignty over many subordinate races, tribes, or petty states that obey its authority. i may be permitted to regard the german emperor as the military head of a constitutional federation, which is a different thing. now i think it may be said that from austria eastward across south-eastern europe and asia, from vienna to pekin, the general form of government is not national but imperial. every government is holding together a number of different groups, all jealous of each other, all of whom would fall apart and probably fight among themselves, if they were not kept under by one ruler over them. it may be affirmed, broadly, that the structure of modern europe, as represented by the massing of the populations into great homogeneous nations within fixed limits, has now been completely left behind in the west, and that from the shores of the adriatic sea right across asia to the pacific ocean, the real subdivisions of the people, the bonds that unite and separate them into different groups, are denoted by race and religion, sometimes by one, sometimes by the other, occasionally by both. our first step over the boundaries of the austro-hungarian empire, proceeding south-east beyond the danube and the carpathian mountains, brings us into the various principalities and provinces that were once under the dominion of the ottoman empire, though almost all of them are now independent of it. nearly all of them lie in the region south of the danube, which is usually known as the balkan peninsula. here the complexities of race and religion are abundantly manifest, and these archaic divisions of political society surround us everywhere. this region has indeed been parcelled out, within our own time, into territories of diverse states, but this is quite a modern formation, and the idea of such political citizenship has been very recently introduced. if, now, it is asked why, in this corner of south-eastern europe, this medley of internal distinctions, which was the prevailing characteristic of the ancient world, has been so long preserved, the answer is that all this country, the balkan peninsula, was under the direct government of the ottoman empire up to about seventy years ago, and that most of the provinces were only liberated from the turkish yoke in the latter part of the nineteenth century. the effect of the long dominion of the turks over this country had been to perpetuate the state of things which existed when they first conquered it. their policy, the policy of all asiatic empires, was not to consolidate, or to obliterate differences produced by race and religion, but to maintain them in order to rule more securely. and here i may quote from a book recently published under the title of _turkey in europe_, which is unique of its kind, for in no other work can we find so complete and particular a history of the balkan lands, or so accurate a description of the grouping of the people, taken from personal knowledge and local investigation. the author, who calls himself odysseus, reminds us that the ottoman sultans acquired these territories when they were in the confusion and dismemberment which followed the decay and fall of the byzantine empire; and he explains that the turks, who have been always inferior in number to the aggregate of their christian subjects, could hardly have kept up their dominion if at any time the christians had united against them. as the christians were not converted, religious unification, which in asia was the basis of mohammedan power, was here impossible, so the turks divided that they might rule. 'the turks have thoroughly learned,' he says, 'and daily put into practice with admirable skill, the lesson of _divide et impera_, and hence they have always done, and still do, all in their power to prevent the obliteration of racial, linguistic, and religious differences.' they have perpetuated and preserved, as if in a museum, the strange medley that was existing when these lands were first conquered by turkish sultans nearly five hundred years ago. their idea of government has always been simply to take tribute and secure their paramount supremacy. the result has been that the confusion, intermixture, and rivalry of race and religion is far more intricate than even in the austro-hungarian empire, where the central government has tried to reconcile and amalgamate. in turkey, odysseus tells us, 'not only is there a medley of races, but the races inhabit, not different districts, but the same district. of three villages within ten miles of one another, one will be turkish, one greek, one bulgarian--or perhaps one albanian, one bulgarian, and one servian, each with their own language, dress, and religion, and eight races and languages may be found in one large town.' what has been the upshot and consequence of this turkish system? it has been to make the balkan peninsula a battlefield, during the last four centuries, of two great militant creeds, christianity and islam, collecting the population into two religious camps; while inside these two main religious divisions there are manifold subdivisions of race. men of the same creed are in different groups of race; nor are the race-groups always of the same creed, for one section may have become fanatic mohammedans, while the rest have adhered to christianity. the intermixture is the more complicated because one cannot attempt to distinguish a race by physical characteristics, by their personal appearance or features as marking descent from one stock. the practices of polygamy, slavery, of the purchase of women, and their capture in the interminable wars, have produced incessant crossing of breeds. it is not often understood or remembered that in former times a tribe or band of foreign invaders, when they had to cross the sea or to make long expeditions, very rarely brought women with them. so when they settled on the conquered lands they must have intermarried, forcibly or otherwise, with the subject race. if they massacred the men, the women were part of their booty. neither is the test of language a sure one, though it is the best we have, and is becoming more and more the criterion of race; for a kind of struggle for existence goes on among the languages, they spread or contract under various influences, mainly political. the folk may change their language as they may change their creed; and, what is more remarkable, they may even change their race. according to the book i have just quoted, the ottoman government classes all its subject population into religious communities. whatever be a man's race or language, if he professes islam, he is called a mohammedan; if he is of the orthodox greek church at constantinople, he is greek or rûmi, for stambul was the capital of the roman empire; or else he is katholik, armenian, or jew, according to his creed, not according to his birthplace or his blood. so the official designations are religious, while the popular usage is various, sometimes following race, sometimes creed, and it is still constantly shifting, as i shall presently try to explain. and here it may be interesting to mention a peculiarity of the growth and constitution of the eastern or greek church, in contrast with the western church of rome. the roman church has always claimed universality--it has ignored and attempted to trample down all political and national divisions; it demands of all roman catholics, whoever they may be, submission to the supreme spiritual dictation of the roman pontiff, and those who accept any other authority are outside the pale. from the beginning the roman catholic church has made incessant war upon every kind of heresy or dissent, transforming the old rites and worships where they could not be exterminated. it proclaims independence of the state, it has no local centres or national branches. the pope at rome claims spiritual authority over all roman catholics everywhere. but the historical fact that the eastern or greek church was always under the control of the byzantine empire at constantinople, has kept this church much more closely allied to the temporal power; and the result has been that throughout its development it has remained closely connected with the state. so that wherever a fresh state has been formed, the greek church has become national, and the spiritual authority, adapting itself to political changes, has become a separate institution. the most signal example of this is to be seen in russia, where the greek church, being cut off from constantinople, had its own independent patriarch up to the time of peter the great; and very lately, when bulgaria became a state, it set up its own head of the church, or exarch. when bosnia and herzegovina were ruled by the turkish sultan, the chief of the greek church in that country was the patriarch at constantinople. now that these provinces have passed under the administration of austria, the ecclesiastical authority has also been transferred from the patriarch to local metropolitans. each new state shows a tendency to establish what i may call spiritual home rule. we know that in western europe the establishment of national churches came in by one great religious upheaval that is called the reformation. in eastern europe the movement has proceeded gradually, keeping pace with the rise and recognition of separate governments, and the result has been the multiplication of internal ecclesiastical divisions. i have said that the ottoman empire recognises only religious denominations in the classification of the people. apparently this was the general usage in former times. a greek meant a member of the orthodox greek church, who might or might not be an inhabitant of greece, nor would he necessarily have spoken the greek tongue. if a christian changed his religion, as a matter of course he changed his name and his designation; he was placed in another group. but the pressure of political independence has been latterly bringing into prominence the idea of race. odysseus, from whose book i quote again, gives us the very curious fact that even race is not immutable, it changes like religion, with the political movement; it has become a question of political expediency. when a separate state has been organised, as in bulgaria, or when a league for shaking off the turkish yoke is being organised, as in macedonia, the plan of the leaders is to induce the people to drop minor distinctions of origin and to unite for the purposes of political combination, under some larger national name, to call themselves hellenes in greece, bulgarians in bulgaria, and macedonians in the turkish province of macedonia. moreover, when a new state has been thus formed, like greece, servia, bulgaria, on the principle of race, the patriotic party begins to discover that many greeks or bulgarians are outside the territory, and they set up a claim to enlarge their boundaries in order to bring these people inside. so that the questions of races and churches are used to keep up continual intrigues, dissensions, and a lively agitation throughout these countries. for since religion is always a powerful uniting force, there is a constant effort to bring the people to congregate under the established church of their new state, to renounce their obedience to any spiritual head outside its limits. we have, therefore, the curious spectacle of a frequent shifting of denominations of race and creed for the purpose of political consolidation. in fact we are witnessing in the balkan peninsula a struggle among the petty states to strengthen themselves by capturing each other's population. i think i may have said enough to prove, briefly and superficially, the importance, in central and south-eastern europe, of the ideas of race and religion, the necessity of understanding their strength and operation. so soon as we cross into asia we find these ideas universally paramount. it will perhaps be remembered that henry maine pointed out long ago, in his book on ancient law, that during a large part of what we call modern history no such conception was entertained as that of territorial sovereignty, as indicated by such a title as the king of france. 'sovereignty,' he said, 'was not associated with dominion over a portion or subdivision of the earth.' now i do not believe that a territorial title is assumed at this moment by any of the great asiatic sovereigns in asia. here in europe we talk of the sultan of turkey, the shah of persia, or the emperor of china; but these are not the styles or designations which are actually used by these potentates; they are each known, on their coins, and in their public proclamations, by a string of lofty titles, generally religious, like our 'defender of the faith,' which make no reference to their territories. such were the titles of the moghul emperors of india, and i may here observe that the term emperor of india, now borne by the english king, is entirely of british manufacture. the truth is that asiatic kingdoms have no settled territorial boundaries, they are always changing, just as our indian frontiers are constantly moving forward; and wherever in asia there exists a demarcated line of frontier, it has been fixed by the intervention of european governments interested in maintaining order. in mohammedan lands the basis of a ruler's authority, in theory at least, is religious, and all through western asia there is the closest connection between the state and the dominant creed of islam; for a mohammedan sovereign's authority is ecclesiastical, so to speak, as well as civil; he is bound, in the words of our litany, not only to 'execute justice,' but to 'maintain truth'; and the theory of two separate jurisdictions, spiritual and temporal, is practically unknown, though of course in dealing with religious questions the ruler must be supported by the chief expounders of the law of islam. to borrow a phrase from hobbes, 'the religion of the mohammedans is a part of their policy,' as it is also the fundamental bond of their whole society. we have seen that in south-eastern europe there is an intricate intermixture of the distinctions of race and religion, with a tendency of race to win the mastery. this is because the people of those countries were conquered by islam, but only partially converted, and the turkish sultans, as i have already said, encouraged discord among their christian subjects. but in western asia the faith of islam not only conquered but converted much more completely; it almost extirpated other faiths in asia minor and persia, leaving in asia minor only a few obscure sects, like the nestorians, in a region that had been wholly christian, and leaving in persia only some scattered relics of the great zoroastrian religion, still represented in two or three towns by those whom we call parsees. in these lands, therefore, religion has generally mastered race, for the laws that regulate the whole personal condition and property of the people are determined by their religion, with a certain variety of local customs. nevertheless, beneath the overspreading religious denomination there are a large number of tribal groups, all of whom are known by tribal names. most of these tribes are fanatic islamites, but in the midst of them is one group which is distinct by religion and probably by race--i mean the armenians. they do not form a majority of the population in armenia, they are scattered about western asia, and are divided into two christian sects, which under the turkish empire are regarded as two religious communities. their recent terrible misfortunes afford a signal and melancholy warning of the danger of interfering in oriental affairs without a full understanding of the complications arising out of these very differences and antagonisms of race and religion that i have been endeavouring to explain. and the whole story is a striking example of the tremendous power of religion in asiatic politics. in the european powers interposed in the name of justice and humanity to press upon the turkish government the reforms that had been promised by treaty, and thus to better the condition of the armenians, by securing to them a certain share in the local and municipal government. but the armenians are a scattered and subject people, different in race and religion and language from the ruling turks, and the demand for giving them some kind of independence alarmed the turkish government and inflamed the fanaticism of the mohammedans. the only result of european intervention was a frightful massacre of the armenians, which the european powers witnessed without any serious attempt to stop. such are the consequences of misunderstanding the real political situation and the forces at work. probably many people in england had a very hazy notion of what the armenians were, or what their name signified. we have always to remember that throughout asia, and indeed over the greater part of the non-christian world, the various sections of the population very rarely use for themselves, or indeed for the country that they dwell in, the name that is used for them by europeans. as our own system has become territorial, as we call any natural-born inhabitant of france a frenchman, and so on, we are led by a false analogy to talk of turkey and the turks, persia and the persians, india and the indians, china and the chinese. but these broad designations denoting modern nationalities are not used in asia by the people themselves, to whom such a conception is foreign. i know of no terms in the languages of these countries that correspond to our words, turkey, india, china, as geographical expressions, and i think that the names used by europeans for outlying countries or peoples often come from some accident or chance, or mistake, or by taking the name of a part of a country for the name of the whole. in asia the people still class themselves, in their ordinary talk, by names designating religion or race. a curious example of a religious designation still survives, by the way, among europeans in south africa. when the first portuguese explorers of the african coast asked the arab traders about the indigenous tribes, they, being mohammedans, said that the natives were all kafirs, which means infidels. this was supposed to be the general name of a people, and it has been handed down to us so that we still call the south african natives kaffirs. i doubt whether the tribes concerned have ever used or recognised among themselves this unsavoury name. i may note, by the way, that one of the most ancient tribal names in asia is that by which the greeks, outside the turkish empire, are often known--yunâni, or ionian--which must have been in use from the days when the greek colonies settled on the coast of asia minor, many centuries before the christian era. we are pushing our survey eastward across asia. the kingdom known to europe by the name of persia is styled by its inhabitants _irân_, though i doubt whether a persian subject belonging to a particular tribe or sect would call himself _irâni_. the next independent kingdom, beyond persia, is afghanistan; and here we have an example of a designation originally implying race, gradually merging into one that is territorial and political. afghanistan originally meant, i believe, the great central mass of mountains occupied by a tribe called afghans; it is now becoming a name that includes the whole territory ruled by the afghan amir at kabul. the causes that are producing this change in the signification of the word are, first, that the amir of kabul has subdued, more or less, all the tribes inhabiting the country; and secondly, that the pressure of england and russia on two sides of that country has necessitated an accurate demarcation of frontiers all round it, in order that the amir's territories, which are under our protection, may be precisely known. the kingdom is thus acquiring a territorial designation. but this kingdom of afghanistan is really composed of a number of chiefships and provinces very loosely knit together under the sway of the amir, which might fall asunder again if the rulership at kabul became weak. and the population is all parcelled out into various races and tribes, usually dwelling in separate tracts under local chiefs; they are always known among themselves by names, denoting race or tribe; sometimes patriarchal, like the children of israel, or the clans of our own highlands; sometimes local, and in one case historical, for the dominant tribe to which the amir belongs has called itself durâni or royal. it is therefore the distinction of race or tribe, not of religion, that governs the whole interior population throughout this vast region of high mountains and valleys in the centre, with comparatively open country on the north and south; the whole area has been peopled by a conflux of tribes. yet afghanistan has some of the symptoms of national growth--i mean that if it could hold together as one kingdom it might grow into a nationality. in religion the afghans are almost all fanatical mohammedans, for afghanistan is the great bulwark and citadel on the eastern frontier of islam, and beyond it, in eastern asia, there are no independent mohammedan principalities. the kingdom has a strictly defined territory, and a dynasty which has risen from the chiefship of a powerful tribe to the heritable possession of that territory. this dynasty, moreover, is identical in race and religion with a large majority of its subjects, which is another peculiar source of strength; for almost all the other first-class kingdoms of asia are ruled by dynasties of alien race, who sometimes profess a religion different from that of many of their subjects. we are frequently reminded of the important fact that in india the english rulers are aliens in race and religion from the people; but we may also remember that after all this is only a difference of degree, a wider separation between the governors and the governed than elsewhere in asia. the principal kingdoms of asia are ruled by foreign families or dynasties that have come in by conquest. the moghul dynasty that preceded our own government in india was foreign; and it was a mohammedan rulership over an enormous hindu population. the ottoman turk was a foreign invader from central asia, who still governs a variety of races and religions. in persia the shah's family is of a turkish tribe. and the emperor of china is a mandchoo tartar, of a race quite apart from that of the immense majority of the chinese. of course the russians are as much aliens in central asia as the english in india; they govern from st. petersburg as we do from london. i doubt, therefore, whether there is any other kingdom in asia that has more of the element of national unity than afghanistan, though unfortunately its political condition is precarious, because there is still much tribal disunion inside it. eastward again beyond afghanistan we enter the indian empire, a vast dominion stretching south-eastward from the slopes of the outer afghan hills and the persian border to the western frontiers of the chinese empire and of siam, and controlling the whole seaboard of southern asia, from aden to singapore. it is the possession of this wide territory that has given to the english a direct and most important interest in the problems of race and religion. for, in the first place, in this empire we have to deal with three out of the four great faiths of the world--islam, hinduism and buddhism--and we have to uphold for ourselves the fourth, christianity. secondly, we have also within the borders of our empire a multiplicity of races and tribes; and we have the peculiar indian institution of caste, which marks off all hindu society into innumerable groups, distinguished one from another by the rules that forbid intermarriage and (in most cases) the sharing of food. now the word hindu requires a special explanation, because there is nothing exactly like it elsewhere in the world; it is not exclusively a religious denomination; it denotes also a country and a race. when we speak of a christian, a mohammedan, or a buddhist, we mean a particular religious community without distinction of race or country. when we talk of persians or chinese, we indicate country or parentage without any necessary distinction of creed. but when a man tells me he is a hindu, i know that he means all three things together--religion, race and country. i can be almost sure that he is an inhabitant of india, quite sure that he is of indian parentage; and as to religion, the word hindu undoubtedly locates him within one of the manifold groups who follow the ordinances and worship the gods of hinduism. next in importance to the hindus, as a religious community, come the mohammedans, who number over sixty millions in india. the two faiths, hinduism and islam--polytheism and monotheism--are in strong opposition to each other; yet they are not quite clean cut apart, for some hindu tribes that have been converted to islam retain in part their primitive customs of worship and caste. and in burmah, as in ceylon, the population is almost wholly buddhist. in a very able article that has recently appeared in an indian magazine, the writer, a hindu, observes: 'the hindus offer a curious instance of a people without any feeling of nationality.' he finds an explanation in 'the intensity of religiousness, which led to sectarianism, and allying itself with caste, tended to preserve all local and tribal differences.' other causes, historical, political, and geographical, might be mentioned, but i agree that the chief separating influence has been religious. and, however this may be, it may be affirmed that within our indian empire at the present moment the primary superior designation of a man is according to his religion--he is either a hindu, a mohammedan, or a buddhist. but inside these general religious denominations are very many distinctions of caste, race, or tribe. the sikhs are a sect of hindus who belong exclusively to the punjab. the marathas and rajpûts are races who profess hinduism and who always call themselves by their racial names: and there are many aboriginal tribes, like the bheels and gonds, who are being gradually absorbed into hinduism. race and religion are, in fact, more profoundly intermixed in india than perhaps in any other country of the world; and into such an intricate subject i cannot now enter. my present point is that in india we are governing an empire of the antique pattern, quite different from the western nationalities, a country where complexities of race and creed meet us at every turn in the course of our administration; an empire which, as mr. bryce has pointed out in a recent essay that is full of light and knowledge, has many striking resemblances with the dominion of imperial rome.[ ] there is the same miscellany of tribes and races in diverse stages of civilisation, warlike and half-tamed on the frontiers, softened and reconciled by peace, prosperity, and culture in the older provinces of the empire, wild and barbarous in remote interior tracts. there is just visible in india a similar though much slighter tendency of the language of the ruling race to prevail among the educated classes, because the english language, like the latin, has greater literary power, and conveys to the indians the latest ideas and scientific discoveries of the foremost nations of the world. there is also a certain diffusion of european manners and even dress, resembling in some degree what took place even in such a remote province of the roman empire as britain, where, as we know from tacitus, it was made a reproach against the romanising britons that they were abandoning their own costume for the roman toga and adopting the manners of their conquerors. all these tendencies are slightly affecting distinctions of race and religion; though in india these distinctions are far deeper than they were under the roman empire, and so far as one can judge they are ineffaceable. in regard to religious differences, so long as the people were almost universally polytheistic the romans had little trouble on this score, since every deity and every ritual was tolerated indifferently by their government, provided that public order and decency were observed; and this is the practice of our government in india. but we have one difficulty in governing india that did not trouble the romans at the time when they first founded their empire by conquest. i think that religion had then very little influence on politics. it was the advent of two great militant and propagating faiths, first christianity, next islam, that first made religion a vital element in politics, and afterwards made a common creed the bond of union for great masses of mankind. it has now become in asia a powerful instrument of political association. therefore when we proclaim for our government in india the principle of religious neutrality we do indeed avoid collision with other faiths, but we are without the advantage that is possessed by a state which represents and is supported by the religious enthusiasm of a great number of its subjects. i take the separation of the state from religion to be a principle that is quite modern in europe; and outside our indian empire it is unknown in asia. everywhere else the ruler is the head of some dominant church or creed. on the other hand our neutral attitude enables us to arbitrate and keep the peace between the two formidable rivals, islam and hinduism, which in a large measure balance and restrain each other. and it is easier to govern a great empire full of diverse castes and creeds when you only demand from them obedience to the civil law, than when the government takes one side on religious questions. nevertheless, though in india we proclaim and practise religious neutrality, we must always remember that india is, of all great countries in the world, that in which religious beliefs and antagonisms affect the administration most profoundly, and subdivide the population with the greatest complexity. for the empire contains a wonderful variety of races and tribes, especially on its frontiers; it has the fierce afghan tribes under our protectorate on the north-west, a cluster of utterly barbarous tribes in the north-east, and in the far east beyond burmah we have undertaken the control of a border tract, full of petty rival chiefships, where the language, manners and origins are related to the neighbouring population of china. in china we have the true type of asiatic empire, by far the oldest in the world, a sovereignty that, with various changes of dynasty, has governed the far east of asia from time almost immemorial; an immense conglomeration of different races under the rulership of a dynasty that is foreign to the great majority of its subjects. here again i must remark on the absence of territorial or national designations. the word china, as designating this empire, is not used by the people themselves; the official name means, i believe, the great pure kingdom; and the emperor himself is known by various titles signifying august, lofty, or sacred. i suppose that almost the whole population belongs to the great mongolian or tartar family of mankind; but the subdivisions of different tribes, races, and languages must be numerous, as might be expected in such a vastly extended empire, and the tribesmen are all known by their tribal names. in regard to religion the situation is peculiar, it is without parallel elsewhere in asia; for three great systems exist in china separately and independently, each of them working in peace side by side with the others: the religion founded by confucius, which is a great system of morals; buddhism, which is a church with a splendid ritual, priesthood, and monastic orders; and taoism, which is a kind of naturalistic religion, the worship of stars, natural forces, spirits, deified heroes and local gods. it is said to be a common thing for one person to belong to all three religions, and the state superintends them all impartially. one very remarkable and peculiar fact, which i give on excellent authority, is that in china religious denominations are never used to denote sections of the people, except by the mohammedans, who are not numerous and form a class apart. but any attempt to describe the religion of china would lead me far beyond the scope of this address. my present point is only to lay stress on the enormous political importance, in china as elsewhere in asia, of the religious idea. for whereas powerful religious movements, affecting the destinies of kingdoms and causing great wars, have ceased in western and central europe, in asia all governments have constantly to apprehend some fresh outburst of religious enthusiasm, the appearance of some prophet or new spiritual teacher, who gathers a following, like the mahdi in the soudan, and attacks the ruling power. the taeping rebellion, which devastated china some forty years ago, is a case in point; it was begun by a fanatic leader who denounced the established religions, and it soon became a dangerous revolt against the imperial dynasty. and the outbreak against the foreigners in china last year is understood to have originated in religious fanaticism. these events go to illustrate the enormous influence on politics which religion, whether you call it enthusiasm or superstition, exercises everywhere in asia. but of all empires in asia, the russian empire is the greatest and the most powerful. i have only space to say here that it is of the same type with the others; it is a vast dominion over an infinite variety of races, tribes, and creeds; it is a government which has come in by foreign conquest; a christian power which has among its subjects a great number of mohammedans. it differs from our indian empire in this respect, that the russian conquests were made gradually by land, across central asia, or by slow immigration and extension, as in siberia, whereas the english reached india by a long sea-journey. so that in the asiatic empire of russia the separation of race between the rulers and their subjects is not so sharply defined as between england and india. nevertheless the problems that confront russia in asia are similar in kind to those which face us in india; she has to reconcile to her permanent dominion a miscellany of alien peoples, whom it is almost impossible to fuse and consolidate into anything like a nationality. i have now endeavoured, very imperfectly, to show how race and religion still powerfully affect society, and trouble politics, throughout a great part of the world. how far they influence and interact upon each other is a difficult problem; but one may say that some religions seem to accord with the peculiar temperament and intellectual disposition of certain races; that, for instance, the active propagating spirit of islam flourishes in western asia, while in eastern asia a quiet and contemplative faith, with little missionary impulse, no strong desire to make converts, has always prevailed. but in the east everywhere race and religion still unite and isolate the populations in groups--they are the great dividing and disturbing forces that prevent or delay the consolidation of settled nationalities; and so far as our experience goes, a fixed nationality of the western type is the most solid and permanent form of political government and social aggregation. an empire is a different and looser mode of binding people together, yet at certain stages of civilisation and the world's progress it is a necessity; and an empire well administered is the best available instrument for promoting civilisation and good order among backward races. so managed it may last long; and its dominion may be practically permanent, for commerce and industry, literature and science, rapid and easy communication by land and sea, spread far more quickly, and connect distant countries far more closely, in modern times than in the ancient world. yet there is always an element of unrest and insecurity underlying the position of imperial rulership over different and often discordant groups of subjects; and this has been one main cause of the immemorial weakness of asiatic empires, and of the indifference of the people to a change of masters, because no single dynasty represented the whole people. it is just this weakness of the native rulers that has enabled the european to make his conquests in asia; and we have carefully to remember that although our governments are superior in skill and strength, we have inherited the old difficulties. for it is my belief that in many parts of the world, particularly in asia, the strength of the racial and religious sentiments is rather increasing than diminishing. this is indeed the view--the fact, if i am right--that i especially desire to press home, because it is of the highest importance at the present time, when all the european nations, and england among the foremost, are extending their dominion over peoples of races and creeds different from their own. our governments are now no longer confined to the continent which we inhabit; we are acquiring immense possessions in asia and africa; we can survey the whole earth with its confusion of tongues; its multitude of beliefs and customs, its infinitely miscellaneous populations. we must recognise the variety of the human species; we must acknowledge that we cannot impose a uniform type of civilisation, just as we admit that a uniform faith is beyond mere human efforts to impose, and that to attempt it would be politically disastrous. this is the conclusion upon which i venture to lay stress, because some such warning seems to me neither untimely nor unimportant. for there is still a dangerous tendency among the enterprising commercial nations of the west to assume that the importation into asia of economical improvements, public instruction, regular administration, and religious neutrality will conquer antipathies, overcome irrational prejudices, and reconcile old-world folk to an alien civilisation. undoubtedly a foreign government that rules wisely, justly, and very cautiously, acquires a strong hold on its subjects, and may stand, like the roman empire, for centuries. but this can only be achieved by recognising, instead of ignoring, certain ineffaceable characteristics in the origins and history of the people, for whom the tradition and sentiment of race is often their bond of union and the base of their society, as their religion is the embodiment of their spiritual instincts and imaginations. footnotes: [ ] address delivered as president of the social and political education league, may , .--_fortnightly review_, december . [ ] _studies in history and jurisprudence_, vol. i., chap. i. the state in its relation to eastern and western religions in considering the subject of my address,[ ] i have been confronted by this difficulty--that in the sections which regulate the order of our proceedings, we have a list of papers that range over all the principal religions, ancient and modern, that have existed and still exist in the world. they are to be treated and discussed by experts whose scholarship, particular studies, and close research entitle them all to address you authoritatively. i have no such special qualifications; and in any case it would be most presumptuous in me to trespass upon their ground. all that i can venture to do, therefore, in the remarks which i propose to address to you to-day, is to attempt a brief general survey of the history of religions from a standpoint which may possibly not fall within the scope of these separate papers. the four great religions now prevailing in the world, which are historical in the sense that they have been long known to history, i take to be--christianity, islam, buddhism, and hinduism. having regard to their origin and derivation, to their history and character, i may be permitted, for my present purpose only, to class the two former as the religions of the west, and the two latter as the religions of the east. these are the faiths which still maintain a mighty influence over the minds of mankind. and my object is to compare the political relations, the attitude, maintained toward them, from time to time, by the states and rulers of the people over which these religions have established their spiritual dominion. the religion of the jews is not included, though its influence has been incalculable, because it has been caught up, so to speak, into christianity and islam, and cannot therefore be counted among those which have made a partition of the religious world. for this reason, perhaps, it has retained to this day its ancient denomination, derived from the tribe or country of its origin; whereas the others are named from a faith or a founder. the word nazarene, denoting the birthplace of christianity, which is said to be still used in that region, was, as we know, very speedily superseded by its wider title, as the creed broke out of local limits and was proclaimed universal. there has evidently been a fore-time, though it is prehistorical, when, so far as we know, mankind was universally polytheistic; when innumerable rites and worships prevailed without restraint, springing up and contending with each other like the trees in a primeval forest, reflecting a primitive and precarious condition of human society. i take polytheism to have been, in this earliest stage, the wild growth of superstitious imagination, varied indefinitely by the pressure of circumstance, by accident, by popular caprice, or by the good or evil fortunes of the community. in this stage it can now be seen among barbarous tribes--as, for instance, in central africa. and some traces of it still survive, under different pretexts and disguises, in the lowest strata of civilised nations, where it may be said to represent the natural reluctance of the vagrant human fancy to be satisfied with higher forms and purer conceptions that are always imperfectly assimilated by the multitude. among primitive societies the spheres of human and divine affairs were intermixed and identical; they could not be disentangled. but with the growth of political institutions came gradual separation, or at any rate the subordination of religion to the practical necessities of orderly government and public morals. that polytheism can exist and flourish in the midst of a highly intellectual and civilised society, we know from the history of greece and rome. but in ancient greece its direct influence upon political affairs seems to have been slight; though it touched at some points upon morality. the function of the state, according to greek ideas, was to legislate for all the departments of human life and to uphold the moral standard. the law prohibited sacrilege and profanity; it punished open impiety that might bring down divine wrath upon the people at large. the philosophers taught rational ethics; they regarded the popular superstitions with indulgent contempt; but they inculcated the duty of honouring the gods, and the observance of public ceremonial. beyond these limits the practice of local and customary worship was, i think, free and unrestrained; though i need hardly add that toleration, as understood by the states of antiquity, was a very different thing from the modern principle of religious neutrality. under the roman government the connection between the state and religion was much closer, as the dominion of rome expanded and its power became centralised. the roman state maintained a strict control and superintendence over the official rituals and worships, which were regulated as a department of the administration, to bind the people together by established rites and worships, in order to cement political and social unity. it is true that the usages of the tribes and principalities that were conquered and annexed were left undisturbed; for the roman policy, like that of the english in india, was to avoid giving offence to religion; and undoubtedly this policy, in both instances, materially facilitated the rapid building up of a wide dominion. nevertheless, there was a tendency to draw in the worship toward a common centre. the deities of the conquered provinces were respected and conciliated; the roman generals even appealed to them for protection and favour, yet they became absorbed and assimilated under roman names; they were often identified with the gods of the roman pantheon, and were frequently superseded by the victorious divinities of the new rulers--the strange deities, in fact, were romanised as well as the foreign tribes and cities. after this manner the roman empire combined the tolerance of great religious diversity with the supremacy of a centralised government. political amalgamation brought about a fusion of divine attributes; and latterly the emperor was adored as the symbol of manifest power, ruler and pontiff; he was the visible image of supreme authority. this _régime_ was easily accepted by the simple unsophisticated paganism of europe. the romans, with all their statecraft, had as yet no experience of a high religious temperature, of enthusiastic devotion and divine mysteries. but as their conquest and commerce spread eastward, the invasion of asia let in upon europe a flood of oriental divinities, and thus rome came into contact with much stronger and deeper spiritual forces. the european polytheism might be utilised and administered, the asiatic deities could not be domesticated and subjected to regulation; the oriental orgies and strange rites broke in upon the organised state worship; the new ideas and practices came backed by a profound and fervid spiritualism. nevertheless the roman policy of bringing religion under authoritative control was more or less successful even in the asiatic provinces of the empire; the privileges of the temples were restricted; the priesthoods were placed under the general superintendence of the proconsular officials; and roman divinities gradually found their way into the asiatic pantheon. but we all know that the religion of the roman empire was falling into multitudinous confusion when christianity arose--an austere exclusive faith, with its army of saints, ascetics, and unflinching martyrs, proclaiming worship to be due to one god only, and sternly refusing to acknowledge the divinity of the emperor. against such a faith an incoherent disorderly polytheism could make no better stand than tribal levies against a disciplined army. the new religion struck directly at the sacrifices that symbolised imperial unity; the passive resistance of christians was necessarily treated as rebellion, the state made implacable war upon them. yet the spiritual and moral forces won the victory, and christianity established itself throughout the empire. universal religion, following upon universal civil dominion, completed the levelling of local and national distinctions. the churches rapidly grew into authority superior to the state within their own jurisdiction; they called in the temporal government to enforce theological decisions and to put down heresies; they founded a powerful hierarchy. the earlier roman constitution had made religion an instrument of administration. when one religion became universal, the churches enlisted the civil ruler into the service of orthodoxy; they converted the state into an instrument for enforcing religion. the pagan empire had issued edicts against christianity and had suppressed christian assemblies as tainted with disaffection; the christian emperors enacted laws against the rites and worships of paganism, and closed temples. it was by the supreme authority of constantine that, for the first time in the religious history of the world, uniformity of belief was defined by a creed, and sanctioned by the ruler's assent. then came, in western europe, the time when the empire at rome was rent asunder by the inrush of barbarians; but upon its ruins was erected the great catholic church of the papacy, which preserved in the ecclesiastical domain the autocratic imperial tradition. the primacy of the roman church, according to harnack, is essentially the transference to her of rome's central position in the religions of the heathen world; the church united the western races, disunited politically, under the common denomination of christianity. yet christianity had not long established itself throughout all the lands, in europe and asia, which had once been under the roman sovereignty, when the violent irruptions of islam upset not only the temporal but also the spiritual dominion throughout western asia, and along the southern shores of the mediterranean. the eastern empire at constantinople had been weakened by bitter theological dissensions and heresies among the christians; the votaries of the new, simple, unswerving faith of mohammed were ardent and unanimous. in egypt and syria the mohammedans were speedily victorious; the latin church and even the latin language were swept out of north africa. in persia the sassanian dynasty was overthrown, and although there was no immediate and total conversion of the people, mohammedanism gradually superseded the ancient zoroastrian cultus as the religion of the persian state. it was not long before the armies of islam had triumphed from the atlantic coast to the jaxartes river in central asia; and conversion followed, speedily or slowly, as the direct result of conquest. moreover, the mohammedans invaded europe. in the south-west they subdued almost all spain; and in the south-east they destroyed, some centuries later, the greek empire, though not the greek church, and consolidated a mighty rulership at constantinople. with this prolonged conflict between islam and christianity along the borderlands of europe and asia began the era of those religious wars that have darkened the history of the western nations, and have perpetuated the inveterate antipathy between asiatic and european races, which the spread of christianity into both continents had softened and might have healed. in the end christianity has fixed itself permanently in europe, while islam is strongly established throughout half asia. but the sharp collision between the two faiths, the clash of armies bearing the cross and the crescent, generated fierce fanaticism on both sides. the crusades kindled a fiery militant and missionary spirit previously unknown to religions, whereby religious propagation became the mainspring and declared object of conquest and colonisation. finally, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the great secession from the roman church divided the nations of western europe into hostile camps, and throughout the long wars of that period political jealousies and ambitions were inflamed by religious animosities. in eastern europe the greek church fell under almost complete subordination to the state. the history of europe and western asia records, therefore, a close connection and community of interests between the states and the orthodox faiths; a combination which has had a very potent influence, during many centuries, upon the course of civil affairs, upon the fortunes, or misfortunes, of nations. up to the sixteenth century, at least, it was universally held, by christianity and by islam, that the state was bound to enforce orthodoxy; conversion and the suppression or expulsion of heretics were public duties. unity of creed was thought necessary for national unity--a government could not undertake to maintain authority, or preserve the allegiance of its subjects, in a realm divided and distracted by sectarian controversies. on these principles christianity and islam were consolidated, in union with the states or in close alliance with them; and the geographical boundaries of these two faiths, and of their internal divisions respectively, have not materially changed up to the present day. * * * * * let me now turn to the history of religion in those countries of further asia, which were never reached by greek or roman conquest or civilisation, where the ancient forms of worship and conceptions of divinity, which existed before christianity and islam, still flourish. and here i shall only deal with the relations of the state to religion in india and china and their dependencies, because these vast and populous empires contain the two great religions, hinduism and buddhism, of purely asiatic origin and character, which have assimilated to a large extent, and in a certain degree elevated, the indigenous polytheism, and which still exercise a mighty influence over the spiritual and moral condition of many millions. we know what a tremendous power religion has been in the wars and politics of the west. i submit that in eastern asia, beyond the pale of islam, the history of religion has been very different. religious wars--i mean wars caused by the conflict of militant faiths contending for superiority--were, i believe, unknown on any great scale to the ancient civilisations. it seems to me that until islam invaded india the great religious movements and changes in that region had seldom or never been the consequence of, nor had been materially affected by, wars, conquests, or political revolutions. throughout europe and mohammedan asia the indigenous deities and their temples have disappeared centuries ago; they have been swept away by the forces of church and state combined to exterminate them; they have all yielded to the lofty overruling ideal of monotheism. but the tide of mohammedanism reached its limit in india; the people, though conquered, were but partly converted, and eastward of india there have been no important mohammedan rulerships. on this side of asia, therefore, two great religions, buddhism and brahmanism, have held their ground from times far anterior to christianity; they have retained the elastic comprehensive character of polytheism, purified and elevated by higher conceptions, developed by the persistent competition of diverse ideas and forms among the people, unrestrained by attempts of superior organised faiths to obliterate the lower and weaker species. in that region political despotism has prevailed immemorially; religious despotism, in the sense of the legal establishment of one faith or worship to the exclusion of all others, of uniformity imposed by coercion, of proselytism by persecution, is unknown to history: the governments have been absolute and personal; the religions have been popular and democratic. they have never been identified so closely with the ruling power as to share its fortunes, or to be used for the consolidation of successful conquest. nor, on the other hand, has a ruler ever found it necessary, for the security of his throne, to conform to the religion of his subjects, and to abjure all others. the political maxim, that the sovereign and his subjects should be of one and the same religion,[ ] has never prevailed in this part of the world. and although in india, the land of their common origin, buddhism widely displaced and overlaid brahmanism, while it was in its turn, after several centuries, overcome and ejected by a brahmanic revival, yet i believe that history records no violent contests or collisions between them; nor do we know that the armed force of the state played any decisive part in these spiritual revolutions. i do not maintain that buddhism has owed nothing to state influence. it represents certain doctrines of the ancient indian theosophy, incarnate, as one might say, in the figure of a spiritual master, the indian prince, sakya gautama, who was the type and example of ascetic quietism; it embodies the idea of salvation, or emancipation attainable by man's own efforts, without aid from priests or divinities. buddhism is the earliest, by many centuries, of the faiths that claim descent from a personal founder. it emerges into authentic history with the empire of asoka, who ruled over the greater part of india some years before christ, and its propagation over his realm and the countries adjacent is undoubtedly due to the influence, example, and authority of that devout monarch. according to mr. vincent smith, from whose valuable work on the early history of india i take the description of asoka's religious policy, the king, renouncing after one necessary war all further military conquest, made it the business of his life to employ his autocratic power in directing the preaching and teaching of the law of piety, which he had learnt from his buddhist priesthood. all his high officers were commanded to instruct the people in the way of salvation; he sent missions to foreign countries; he issued edicts promulgating ethical doctrines, and the rules of a devout life; he made pilgrimages to the sacred places; and finally he assumed the yellow robe of a buddhist monk. asoka elevated, so mr. smith has said, a sect of hinduism to the rank of a world-religion. nevertheless, i think it may be affirmed that the emperor consistently refrained from the forcible conversion of his subjects, and indeed the use of compulsion would have apparently been a breach of his own edicts, which insist on the principle of toleration, and declare the propagation of the law of piety to be his sole object. asoka made no attempt to persecute brahmanism; and it seems clear that the extraordinary success of buddhism in india cannot be attributed to war or to conquest. to imperial influence and example much must be ascribed, yet i think buddhism owed much more to its spiritual potency, to its superior faculty of transmuting and assimilating, instead of abolishing, the elementary instincts and worships, endowing them with a higher significance, attracting and stimulating devotion by impressive rites and ceremonies, impressing upon the people the dogma of the soul's transmigration and its escape from the miseries of sentient existence by the operation of merits. and of all great religions it is the least political, for the practice of asceticism and quietism, of monastic seclusion from the working world, is necessarily adverse to any active connection with mundane affairs. i do not know that the mysterious disappearance of buddhism from india can be accounted for by any great political revolution, like that which brought islam into india. it seems to have vanished before the mohammedans had gained any footing in the country. meanwhile buddhism is said to have penetrated into the chinese empire by the first century of the christian era. before that time the doctrines of confucius and laotze were the dominant philosophies; rather moral than religious, though ancestral worship and the propitiation of spirits were not disallowed, and were to a certain extent enjoined. laotze, the apostle of taoism, appears to have preached a kind of stoicism--the observance of the order of nature in searching for the right way of salvation, the abhorrence of vicious sensuality--and the cultivation of humility, self-sacrifice, and simplicity of life. he condemned altogether the use of force in the sphere of religion or morality; though he admitted that it might be necessary for the purposes of civil government. the system of confucius inculcated justice, benevolence, self-control, obedience and loyalty to the sovereign--all the civic virtues; it was a moral code without a metaphysical background; the popular worships were tolerated, reverence for ancestors conduced to edification; the gods were to be honoured, though it was well to keep aloof from them; he disliked religious fervour, and of things beyond experience he had nothing to say. buddhism, with its contempt for temporal affairs, treating life as a mere burden, and the soul's liberation from existence as the end and object of meditative devotion, must have imported a new and disturbing element into the utilitarian philosophies of ancient china. for many centuries buddhism, taoism, and confucianism are said to have contended for the patronage and recognition of the chinese emperors. buddhism was alternately persecuted and protected, expelled and restored by imperial decree. priesthoods and monastic orders are institutions of which governments are naturally jealous; the monasteries were destroyed or rebuilt, sacerdotal orders and celibacy suppressed or encouraged by imperial decrees, according to the views and prepossessions of successive dynasties or emperors. nevertheless the general policy of chinese rulers and ministers seems not to have varied essentially. their administrative principle was that religion must be prevented from interfering with affairs of state, that abuses and superstitious extravagances are not so much offences against orthodoxy as matters for the police, and as such must be put down by the secular arm. upon this policy successive dynasties appear to have acted continuously up to the present day in china, where the relations of the state to religions are, i think, without parallel elsewhere in the modern world. one may find some resemblance to the attitude of the roman emperors towards rites and worships among the population, in the chinese emperor's reverent observance and regulation of the rites and ceremonies performed by him as the religious chief and representative before heaven of the great national interests. the deification of deceased emperors is a solemn rite ordained by proclamation. as the _ius sacrum_, the body of rights and duties in the matter of religion, was regarded in rome as a department of the _ius publicum_, belonging to the fundamental constitution of the state, so in china the ritual code was incorporated into the statute books, and promulgated with imperial sanction. now we know that in rome the established ritual was legally prescribed, though otherwise strange deities and their worships were admitted indiscriminately. but the chinese government goes much further. it appears to regard all novel superstitions, and especially foreign worships, as the hotbed of sedition and disloyalty. unlicensed deities and sects are put down by the police; magicians and sorcerers are arrested; and the peculiar chinese practice of canonising deceased officials and paying sacrificial honours to local celebrities after death is strictly reserved by the board of ceremonies for imperial consideration and approval. the censor, to whom any proposal of this kind must be entrusted, is admonished that he must satisfy himself by inquiry of its validity. an official who performs sacred rites in honour of a spirit or holy personage not recognised by the ritual code, was liable, under laws that may be still in force, to corporal punishment; and the adoration by private families of spirits whose worship is reserved for public ceremonial was a heinous offence. no such rigorous control over the multiplication of rites and deities has been instituted elsewhere. on the other hand, while in other countries the state has recognised no more than one established religion, the chinese government formally recognises three denominations. buddhism has been sanctioned by various edicts and endowments, yet the state divinities belong to the taoist pantheon, and their worship is regulated by public ordinances; while confucianism represents official orthodoxy, and its precepts embody the latitudinarian spirit of the intellectual classes. we know that the chinese people make use, so to speak, of all three religions indiscriminately, according to their individual whims, needs, or experience of results. so also a politic administration countenances these divisions and probably finds some interest in maintaining them. the morality of the people requires some religious sanction; and it is this element with which the state professes its chief concern. we are told on good authority that one of the functions of high officials is to deliver public lectures freely criticising and discouraging indolent monasticism and idolatry from the standpoint of rational ethics, as follies that are reluctantly tolerated. yet the government has never been able to keep down the fanatics, mystics, and heretical sects that are incessantly springing up in china, as elsewhere in asia; though they are treated as pestilent rebels and law-breakers, to be exterminated by massacre and cruel punishments; and bloody repression of this kind has been the cause of serious insurrections. it is to be observed that all religious persecution is by the direct action of the state, _not_ instigated or insisted upon by a powerful orthodox priesthood. but a despotic administration which undertakes to control and circumscribe all forms and manifestations of superstition in a vast polytheistic multitude of its subjects, is inevitably driven to repressive measures of the utmost severity. neither christianity nor islam attempted to regulate polytheism, their mission was to exterminate it, and they succeeded mainly because in those countries the state was acting with the support and under the uncompromising pressure of a dominant church or faith. some writers have noticed a certain degree of resemblance between the policy of the roman empire and that of the chinese empire toward religion. we may read in gibbon that the roman magistrates regarded the various modes of worship as equally useful, that sages and heroes were exalted to immortality and entitled to reverence and adoration, and that philosophic officials, viewing with indulgence the superstitions of the multitude, diligently practised the ceremonies of their fathers. so far, indeed, his description of the attitude of the state toward polytheism may be applicable to china; but although the roman and chinese emperors both assumed the rank of divinity, and were supreme in the department of worships, the roman administration never attempted to regulate and restrain polytheism at large on the chinese system. the religion of the gentiles, said hobbes, is a part of their policy; and it may be said that this is still the policy of oriental monarchies, who admit no separation between the secular and the ecclesiastic jurisdiction. they would agree with hobbes that temporal and spiritual government are but two words brought into the world to make men see double and mistake their lawful sovereign. but while in mohammedan asia the state upholds orthodox uniformity, in china and japan the mainspring of all such administrative action is political expediency. it may be suggested that in the mind of these far-eastern people religion has never been conceived as something quite apart from human experience and the affairs of the visible world; for buddhism, with its metaphysical doctrines, is a foreign importation, corrupted and materialised in china and japan. and we may observe that from among the mongolian races, which have produced mighty conquerors and founded famous dynasties from constantinople to pekin, no mighty prophet, no profound spiritual teacher, has arisen. yet in china, as throughout all the countries of the asiatic mainland, an enthusiast may still gather together ardent proselytes, and fresh revelations may create among the people unrest that may ferment and become heated up to the degree of fanaticism, and explode against attempts made to suppress it. the taeping insurrection, which devastated cities and provinces in china, and nearly overthrew the manchu dynasty, is a striking example of the volcanic fires that underlie the surface of asiatic societies. it was quenched in torrents of blood after lasting some ten years. and very recently there has been a determined revolt of the lamas in eastern tibet, where the provincial administration is, as we know, sacerdotal. the imperial troops are said to be crushing it with unrelenting severity. these are the perilous experiences of a philosophic government that assumes charge and control over the religions of some three hundred millions of asiatics. i can only make a hasty reference to japan. in that country the relations of the state to religions appear to have followed the chinese model. buddhism, confucianism, shintoism, are impartially recognised. the emperor presides over official worship as high priest of his people; the liturgical ordinances are issued by imperial rescripts not differing in form from other public edicts. the dominant article of faith is the divinity of japan and its emperor; and shinto, the worship of the gods of nature, is understood to be patronised chiefly with the motive of preserving the national traditions. but in japan the advance of modern science and enlightened scepticism may have diminished the importance of the religious department. shinto, says a recent writer, still embodies the religion of the people; yet in a decree was issued declaring it to be no more than a convenient system of state ceremonial.[ ] and in an article of the constitution granted freedom of belief and worship to all japanese subjects, without prejudice to peace, order, and loyalty. * * * * * in india the religious situation is quite different. i think it is without parallel elsewhere in the world. here we are at the fountain-head of metaphysical theology, of ideas that have flowed eastward and westward across asia. and here, also, we find every species of primitive polytheism, unlimited and multitudinous; we can survey a confused medley of divinities, of rites and worships incessantly varied by popular whim and fancy, by accidents, and by the pressure of changing circumstances. hinduism permits any doctrine to be taught, any sort of theory to be held regarding the divine attributes and manifestations, the forces of nature, or the mysterious functions of mind or body. its tenets have never been circumscribed by a creed; its free play has never been checked or regulated by state authority. now, at first sight, this is not unlike the popular polytheism of the ancient world, before the triumph of christianity. there are passages in st. augustine's _civitas dei_, describing the worship of the unconverted pagans among whom he lived, that might have been written yesterday by a christian bishop in india. and we might ask why all this polytheism was not swept out from among such a highly intellectual people as the indians, with their restless pursuit of divine knowledge, by some superior faith, by some central idea. undoubtedly the material and moral conditions, and the course of events which combine to stamp a particular form of religion upon any great people, are complex and manifold; but into this inquiry i cannot go. i can only point out that the institution of caste has riveted down hindu society into innumerable divisions upon a general religious basis, and that the sacred books separated the hindu theologians into different schools, preventing uniformity of worship or of creed. and it is to be observed that these books are not historical; they give no account of the rise and spread of a faith. the hindu theologian would say, in the words of an early christian father, that the objects of divine knowledge are not historical, that they can only be apprehended intellectually, that within experience there is no reality. and the fact that brahmanism has no authentic inspired narrative, that it is the only great religion not concentrated round the life and teachings of a person, may be one reason why it has remained diffuse and incoherent. all ways of salvation are still open to the hindus; the canon of their scripture has never been authoritatively closed. new doctrines, new sects, fresh theological controversies, are incessantly modifying and superseding the old scholastic interpretations of the mysteries, for hindus, like asiatics everywhere, are still in that condition of mind when a fresh spiritual message is eagerly received. vishnu and siva are the realistic abstractions of the understanding from objects of sense, from observation of the destructive and reproductive operations of nature; they represent among educated men separate systems of worship which, again, are parted into different schools or theories regarding the proper ways and methods of attaining to spiritual emancipation. yet the higher philosophy and the lower polytheism are not mutually antagonistic; on the contrary, they support each other; for brahmanism accepts and allies itself with the popular forms of idolatry, treating them as outward visible signs of an inner truth, as indications of all-pervading pantheism. the peasant and the philosopher reverence the same deity, perform the same rite; they do not mean the same thing, but they do not quarrel on this account. nevertheless, it is certainly remarkable that this inorganic medley of ideas and worships should have resisted for so many ages the invasion and influence of the coherent faiths that have won ascendancy, complete or dominant, on either side of india, the west and the east; it has thrown off buddhism, it has withstood the triumphant advance of islam, it has as yet been little affected by christianity. probably the political history of india may account in some degree for its religious disorganisation. i may propound the theory that no religion has obtained supremacy, or at any rate definite establishment, in any great country except with the active co-operation, by force or favour, of the rulers, whether by conquest, as in western asia, or by patronage and protection, as in china. the direct influence and recognition of the state has been an indispensable instrument of religious consolidation. but until the nineteenth century the whole of india, from the mountains to the sea, had never been united under one stable government; the country was for ages parcelled out into separate principalities, incessantly contending for territory. and even the moghul empire, which was always at war upon its frontiers, never acquired universal dominion. the moghul emperors, except aurungzeb, were by no means bigoted mohammedans; and their obvious interest was to abstain from meddling with hinduism. yet the irruption of islam into india seems rather to have stimulated religious activity among the hindus, for during the mohammedan period various spiritual teachers arose, new sects were formed, and theological controversies divided the intellectual classes. to these movements the mohammedan governments must have been for a long time indifferent; and among the new sects the principle of mutual toleration was universal. towards the close of the moghul empire, however, hinduism, provoked by the bigotry of the emperor aurungzeb, became a serious element of political disturbance. attempts to suppress forcibly the followers of nanak guru, and the execution of one spiritual leader of the sikhs, turned the sikhs from inoffensive quietists into fanatical warriors; and by the eighteenth century they were in open revolt against the empire. they were, i think, the most formidable embodiment of militant hinduism known to indian history. by that time, also, the marathas in south-west india were declaring themselves the champions of the hindu religion against the mohammedan oppression; and to the sikhs and marathas the dislocation of the moghul empire may be very largely attributed. we have here a notable example of the dynamic power upon politics of revolts that are generated by religious fermentation, and a proof of the strength that can be exerted by a pacific inorganic polytheism in self-defence, when ambitious rebels proclaim themselves defenders of a faith. the marathas and the sikhs founded the only rulerships whose armies could give the english serious trouble in the field during the nineteenth century. on the whole, however, when we survey the history of india, and compare it with that of western asia, we may say that although the hindus are perhaps the most intensely religious people in the world, hinduism has never been, like christianity, islam, and to some extent buddhism, a religion established by the state. nor has it suffered much from the state's power. it seems strange, indeed, that mohammedanism, a compact proselytising faith, closely united with the civil rulership, should have so slightly modified, during seven centuries of dominion, this infinitely divided polytheism. of course, mohammedanism made many converts, and annexed a considerable number of the population--yet the effect was rather to stiffen than to loosen the bonds that held the mass of the people to their traditional divinities, and to the institution of castes. moreover the antagonism of the two religions, the popular and the dynastic, was a perpetual element of weakness in a mohammedan empire. in india polytheism could not be crushed, as in western asia, by islam; neither could it be controlled and administered, as in eastern asia; yet the moghul emperors managed to keep on good terms with it, so long as they adhered to a policy of toleration. to the mohammedan empire has succeeded another foreign dominion, which practises not merely tolerance but complete religious neutrality. looking back over the period of a hundred years, from to , during which the british dominion was gradually extended over india, we find that the british empire, like the roman, met with little or no opposition from religion. hindus and mohammedans, divided against each other, were equally willing to form alliances with, and to fight on the side of, the foreigner who kept religion entirely outside politics. and the british government, when established, has so carefully avoided offence to caste or creed that on one great occasion only, the sepoy mutiny of , have the smouldering fires of credulous fanaticism broken out against our rule. i believe the british-indian position of complete religious neutrality to be unique among asiatic governments, and almost unknown in europe. the anglo-indian sovereignty does not identify itself with the interests of a single faith, as in mohammedan kingdoms, nor does it recognise a definite ecclesiastical jurisdiction in things spiritual, as in catholic europe. still less has our government adopted the chinese system of placing the state at the head of different rituals for the purpose of controlling them all, and proclaiming an ethical code to be binding on all denominations. the british ruler, while avowedly christian, ignores all religions administratively, interfering only to suppress barbarous or indecent practices when the advance of civilisation has rendered them obsolete. public instruction, so far as the state is concerned, is entirely secular; the universal law is the only authorised guardian of morals; to expound moral duties officially, as things apart from religion, has been found possible in china, but not in india. but the chinese government can issue edicts enjoining public morality and rationalism because the state takes part in the authorised worship of the people, and the emperor assumes pontifical office. the british government in india, on the other hand, disowns official connection with any religion. it places all its measures on the sole ground of reasonable expediency, of efficient administration; it seeks to promote industry and commerce, and material civilisation generally; it carefully avoids giving any religious colour whatever to its public acts; and the result is that our government, notwithstanding its sincere professions of absolute neutrality, is sometimes suspected of regarding all religion with cynical indifference, possibly even with hostility. moreover, religious neutrality, though it is right, just, and the only policy which the english in india could possibly adopt, has certain political disadvantages. the two most potent influences which still unite and divide the asiatic peoples, are race and religion; a government which represents both these forces, as, for instance, in afghanistan, has deep roots in a country. a dynasty that can rely on the support of an organised religion, and stands forth as the champion of a dominant faith, has a powerful political power at its command. the turkish empire, weak, ill-governed, repeatedly threatened with dismemberment, embarrassed internally by the conflict of races, has been preserved for the last hundred years by its incorporation with the faith of islam, by the sultan's claim to the caliphate. to attack it is to assault a religious citadel; it is the bulwark on the west of mohammedan asia, as afghanistan is the frontier fortress of islam on the east. a leading turkish politician has very recently said: 'it is in islam pure and simple that lies the strength of turkey as an independent state; and if the sultan's position as religious chief were encroached upon by constitutional reforms, the whole ottoman empire would be in danger.' we have to remember that for ages religious enthusiasm has been, and still is in some parts of asia, one of the strongest incentives to military ardour and fidelity to a standard on the battlefield. identity of creed has often proved more effective, in war, than territorial patriotism; it has surmounted racial and tribal antipathies; while religious antagonism is still in many countries a standing impediment to political consolidation. when, therefore, we survey the history of religions, though this sketch is necessarily very imperfect and inadequate, we find mohammedanism still identified with the fortunes of mohammedan rulers; and we know that for many centuries the relations of christianity to european states have been very close. in europe the ardent perseverance and intellectual superiority of great theologians, of ecclesiastical statesmen supported by autocratic rulers, have hardened and beat out into form doctrines and liturgies that it was at one time criminal to disregard or deny, dogmatic articles of faith that were enforced by law. by these processes orthodoxy emerged compact, sharply defined, irresistible, out of the strife and confusion of heresies; the early record of the churches has pages spotted with tears and stained with blood. but at the present time european states seem inclined to dissolve their alliance with the churches, and to arrange a kind of judicial separation between the altar and the throne, though in very few cases has a divorce been made absolute. no state, in civilised countries, now assists in the propagation of doctrine; and ecclesiastical influence is of very little service to a government. the civil law, indeed, makes continual encroachments on the ecclesiastical domain, questions its authority, and usurps its jurisdiction. modern erudition criticises the historical authenticity of the scriptures, philosophy tries to undermine the foundations of belief; the governments find small interest in propping up edifices that are shaken by internal controversies. in mohammedan asia, on the other hand, the connection between the orthodox faith and the states is firmly maintained, for the solidarity is so close that disruptions would be dangerous, and a mohammedan rulership over a majority of unbelievers would still be perilously unstable. i have thus endeavoured to show that the historical relations of buddhism and hinduism to the state have been in the past, and are still in the present time, very different from the situation in the west. there has always existed, i submit, one essential distinction of principle. religious propagation, forcible conversion, aided and abetted by the executive power of the state, and by laws against heresy or dissent, have been defended in the west by the doctors of islam, and formerly by christian theologians, by the axiom that all means are justifiable for extirpating false teachers who draw souls to perdition. the right and duty of the civil magistrate to maintain truth, in regard to which bossuet declared all christians to be unanimous, and which is still affirmed in the litany of our church, is a principle from which no government, three centuries ago, dissented in theory, though in practice it needed cautious handling. i do not think that this principle ever found its way into hinduism or buddhism; i doubt, that is to say, whether the civil government was at any time called in to undertake or assist propagation of those religions as part of its duty. nor do i know that the states of eastern asia, beyond the pale of islam, claim or exercise the right of insisting on conformance to particular doctrines, because they are true. the erratic manifestations of the religious spirit throughout asia, constantly breaking out in various forms and figures, in thaumaturgy, mystical inspiration, in orgies and secret societies, have always disquieted these asiatic states, yet, so far as i can ascertain, the employment of force to repress them has always been justified on administrative or political grounds, as distinguishable from theological motives pure and simple. sceptics and agnostics have been often marked out for persecution in the west, but i do not think that they have been molested in india, china, or japan, where they abound, because they seldom meddle with politics.[ ] it may perhaps be admitted, however, that a government which undertakes to regulate impartially all rites and worship among its subjects is at a disadvantage by comparison with a government that acts as the representative of a great church or an exclusive faith. it bears the sole undivided responsibility for measures of repression; it cannot allege divine command or even the obligation of punishing impiety for the public good. to conclude. in asiatic states the superintendence of religious affairs is an integral attribute of the sovereignty, which no government, except the english in india, has yet ventured to relinquish; and even in india this is not done without some risk, for religion and politics are still intermingled throughout the world; they act and react upon each other everywhere. they are still far from being disentangled in our own country, where the theory that a government in its collective character must profess and even propagate some religion has not been very long obsolete. it was maintained seventy years ago by a great statesman who was already rising into prominence, by mr. gladstone. the text of mr. gladstone's argument, in his book on the relations of the state with the church, was hooker's saying, that the religious duty of kings is the weightiest part of their sovereignty; while macaulay, in criticising this position, insisted that the main, if not the only, duty of a government, to which all other objects must be subordinate, was the protection of persons and property. these two eminent politicians were, in fact, the champions of the ancient and the modern ideas of sovereignty; for the theory that a state is bound to propagate the religion that it professes was for many centuries the accepted theory of all christian rulerships, though i think it now survives only in mohammedan kingdoms. as the influence of religion in the sphere of politics declines, the state becomes naturally less concerned with the superintendence of religion; and the tendency of constitutional governments seems to be towards abandoning it. the states that have completely dissolved connection with ecclesiastical institutions are the two great republics, the united states of america and france. we can discern at this moment a movement towards constitutional reforms in mohammedan asia, in turkey, and persia, and if they succeed it will be most interesting to observe the effect which liberal reforms will produce upon the relation of mohammedan governments with the dominant faith, and on which side the religious teachers will be arrayed. it is certain, at any rate, that for a long time to come religion will continue to be a potent factor in asiatic politics; and i may add that the reconciliation of civil with religious liberty is one of the most arduous of the many problems to be solved by the promoters of national unity. footnotes: [ ] delivered as president of the congress for the history of religions, september .--_fortnightly review_, november . [ ] 'cujus regio ejus religio.' [ ] _the development of religion in japan_, g. w. knox, . [ ] 'atheism did never disturb states' (bacon). index acton, lord: on causes of franco-german war, . quoted, (footnote), , , . advice to writers of history, , . also , , , . addison's _blenheim_ criticised in _esmond_, . adventure, see novels of. adventures of moreau de jonnés, . popularity of, in short stories, . afghan: blood feuds, border forays, etc., , . war, , . songs, . frontier and frontier policy, , . character, . afghanistan: barrier to russian advance in asia, . british policy towards, compared with russian policy in caucasus, . is acquiring a territorial connotation, . eastern bulwark of islam, , . akhlongo, siege of, . althorp, lord, . armenians, their position and misfortunes, . arnold, matthew: lord morley's article on his letters, . his letters reviewed, . quoted, , , , , , . praised and criticised by swinburne, , . also , , , , . asia and foreign dynasties, . asoka, . austen, jane, as novelist of manners, , . austria-hungary, intermixture of races and religions in, . balfour, arthur james, _foundations of belief_, . balkans, policy of the turks in the, . balzac, . bariatinsky, . beauchamp and the utilitarian rejection of theology, . behn, mrs. aphra, . benedetti, , etc. bentham, see 'utilitarians.' beowulf, . bismarck, see 'l'empire libéral,' _passim_. blavatsky, madame, . blood feuds in afghanistan, . on the scotch borders, . bonaparte, , . bossuet, . braddock, general, . braddon, miss, . bret harte, . bright, john: 'force no remedy,' . broad church, , . brontë, charlotte, . broughton, miss, . brown: definition of 'intuition,' . browning, robert, , , . swinburne's homage to, . buckle, , . buddhism, , , and see 'the state in relation to religion.' bulwer-lytton, sir e., , . _burial of sir john moore_, . burke's letters, . burney, miss, . butler's _analogy_, . =byron, works of lord=, - . additions to his published letters, . their bearing on his reputation, . causes affecting his popularity, . comparison with chateaubriand, , . his success in oriental romance, ; and in heroic verse, . defects, tendency to declamation, etc., . carelessness, contrast between his theory and practice, . comparison with scott, _the giaour_, . metre of his romantic poems, . his dramas, failure in blank verse, . his lyrical power, examples, . _beppo_ and _don juan_, . founder of modern realism in poetry, . _vision of judgment_, . conclusions: value of his influence, . byron, lord, as realist, . also and , and see under 'letter-writing.' campbell, thomas: carlyle's description, . as heroic poet, . carlyle, thomas, see 'letter-writing.' denounces utilitarianism, . swinburne's tribute, . his descriptive method, . see also , , , . castlereagh, lord, , . caucasus, see 'frontiers,' , etc. cavagnari, in afghan ballads, . cervantes, . chanson de roland, . charles edward, prince, authentic incident in _esmond_, . chateaubriand, , , - , . chaucer, . _chevy chase_, . chillianwalla in fiction, . china, religious systems, . religious polity, . christian missions in india, . christianity and islam, as militant religions, , , . compared with buddhism, etc., . form alliances with the state, , . church and state: lord acton on, . separation a modern idea, . importance to the church of recognition, . diminishing closeness of the connection, . gladstone and macaulay on, . clough, . coleridge, s. t., see 'letter-writing.' connection of speculative ideas and political movements, , , , . quoted, , , . also mentioned, , , , . colvin, sidney, quoted, , . comte and j. s. mill, . cooper, fenimore, . cowper, as letter-writer, , . quoted, . crabbe, . quoted, . crimean war, , . _cujus regio ejus religio_, . dante, . dargo, in the caucasus, attack on, - . darmesteter, afghan ballads, , . davidson on rhyme in poetry, , . defoe, , . de la gorce: on napoleon iii., . on the french ministry, , . de musset, alfred, . de staël, madame, . de tocqueville, , . de vogüé, . dickens, charles, , , , . direct narration in fiction, . disraeli, benjamin, as novelist, . drama, rival of the novel, . du barail, general: on napoleon iii., . on ollivier, . due de gramont, , etc. duvernois' interpellation in french chamber, , . edgeworth, miss, . eliot, george: _romola_, . _adam bede_, . empire, defined, . ems, benedetti and king of prussia at, - , . encyclopédistes, ancestors of the utilitarians, , . european dominion in asia, importance of, . farrar, archdeacon, quoted, . ferozeshah, . ferrero on julius cæsar, . fiction and fact in the novel and in history, , . fiction, doubt as to its value as evidence of manners, . see also and . fielding, henry, , , , . _tom jones_, . influence on thackeray, . fitzgerald, edward, see 'letter-writing,' - . franco-german war, see 'l'empire libéral.' french revolution, , . =frontiers, ancient and modern=, - . demarcation of frontiers a modern development, . interest of the subject to england, . mr. baddeley's work on the caucasus, . description of the caucasus, . the russian advance, . yermoloff and his policy, . its failure for the time, and his recall, . rise of muridism, . shamil succeeds kazi mullah, . capture of akhlongo, . repulse of vorontzoff at dargo; . and at ghergebil, . shamil ransoms his son, . surrenders at gooneeb ( ), . effect on asiatic politics, . russian policy compared with british in afghanistan, . dr. pennell on the afghans, . ghazis, blood feuds, . dr. pennell on missions, . frontiers, not strictly demarcated in the east, . froude, j. a., quoted, . his methods as a historian, . gambetta votes for war with prussia, . garibaldi, . gaskell, mrs., . _gesta romanorum_, . _gil blas_, , . gladstone, w. e., . godwin, william: as recipient of good letters, . his tragedy, _antonio_, . carlyle's description, . a peaceful anarchist, . goethe, , . gordon, lindsay, . _grand cyrus_, . gray, thomas, , . greek church, . comparison with rome, . hemans, mrs., . herodotus, , . =heroic poetry=, - . definition, . professor ker's _epic and romance_, . early bards and chroniclers, . their work based on fact, , . the hero and the heroic poet, . icelandic sagas, and afghan songs, . homer, . position of women in homeric poetry, . the heroic style in the old testament, . romantic poetry of england, _morte d arthur_ and ballads, . sir walter scott, . limitations of heroic poetry, . its decline, unfavourable influences of both the romantic and the realistic spirit, . hindu, meaning of, . hinduism, not a missionary religion, . never established by the state, . historical romance brought to perfection in nineteenth century, . =history, remarks on the reading of=, - . almost all real history written in some european language, . history, formerly an art, becoming a science, . macaulay, froude, and carlyle as historical artists, . the scientific method, possible drawbacks, . limitation and subdivision necessary, . short abstracts, their use and abuse, . motives for studying history, . our knowledge imperfect, and our predictions fallible, . lord acton's advice and principles, . hobbes, thomas, , . followed by bentham, . quoted, , , . hogarth, william, . hookham frere, . hugo, victor, , . swinburne's admiration, , , . hume, , . influence on bentham, ; on mill, , . quoted, . humphry ward, mrs., example of her descriptive method, . hutcheson, . iliad, . impressionist school in fiction, . inchbald, mrs., quoted, . india, mill's history of, . importance of frontier questions, . indian empire: resemblance to roman, . comparison with russian, . see also 'race and religion,' and 'the state in relation to religion.' irish characters, thackeray's partiality for, . islam: its militant policy, , . spread of, . in india, . importance to turkey of sultan's position in, . james, g. p. r., . jeffrey, thomas, , . jehu's story, . _john inglesant_, , . johnson, samuel, . jones, paul, . jowett, benjamin, quoted, , . kaffir, origin of the name, . keats, john, , . see also 'letter-writing.' kemble, fanny, fitzgerald's letters to, . ker's _epic and romance_, , , . _kidnapped_, direct narration in, . kingsley, charles, . quoted, . kipling, rudyard, , , . klugenau, russian general, . lamartine, . lamb, charles, . quoted, , . lansdowne, lord, . laotze, . le boeuf, marshal, , , , . lecky, w. e. h., on american loyalists, . comparison with walpole, . =l'empire libéral=, - . constitutional reforms and character of napoleon iii., . ollivier's difficult position as chief minister, . crown of spain accepted by leopold, . effect in france, warning to prussia, - . benedetti's interview at ems, . leopold's compulsory renunciation, . incautious action of ollivier, ; and of gramont, . assurances demanded from prussia, . ollivier meditates resignation, . benedetti at ems, . 'le soufflet de bismarck,' . declaration of war, . thiers' opposition, ollivier's defence, , . french enthusiasm, . reception of declaration by bismarck; ; and by the reichstag, . bismarck's real responsibility, . ollivier's acts and motives examined, . =letter-writing (english) in the nineteenth century=, - . conditions of fine letter-writing, . affinities with the diary and the essay, . poets as good letter-writers, . value of letters for biographical and other purposes, . earlier writers--keats, scott, southey, byron, coleridge, wordsworth, shelley, lamb, - . lord morley's canon, . later writers and their difficulties, . dean stanley's letters, . matthew arnold's, . thomas carlyle's, . edward fitzgerald's, . r. l. stevenson's, . lever, charles, , . liverpool, lord, , , . lucretius, . macaulay, t. b., , . on byron, , . his rejoinder to james mill, . influence on walpole, . ranke's criticism, . machiavelli: on judging by results, . on standing neutral in war, . mackintosh, as typical whig, . maine, sir h., on 'sovereignty,' . malthus, t., , . manning, cardinal, , . marbot, success of his memoirs, , . _marcella_, quoted, . marlborough, thackeray's description of, . marryat, captain, . _master of ballantrae_, direct narration in, . maurice, . mayor's _english metres_, . mazzini, . quoted, . memoirs and fiction, . _memorials of coleorton_, . meredith, george, . mill, see 'utilitarians.' milton, , . quoted, . mongolians have not produced spiritual teachers, . moore, thomas, , , . his sham orientalism, , , . his dealings with byron's letters, . _morte d'arthur_, . mullahs, . muridism, see 'frontiers,' . murray, john, . quoted, . murray, professor, and solar myths, . myths, historical value of, . napoleon: his story adapted to myth-making, . transformer of democracy into imperialism, , . _napoléon intime_, . napoleon iii; and see 'l'empire libéral.' nationalities, formation of, in europe, . naturalism or realism defined, . newman, cardinal, , . swinburne's tribute to, . =novels of adventure and manners=, - . mr. raleigh on origins of fiction, . metrical tales, heroic romance, the eighteenth-century school of novelists, , . novel of adventure derived from the fabulous romance, . scott's influence, . later tendencies, . approximation of the historian and novelist, . the novelist rivalled by the writer of memoirs, . adventures of de jonnés reviewed, . causes limiting the sphere of the novel of adventure, . novel of manners, its pedigree: fielding, . influence of women writers: miss austen, etc., . growth of realism, . description of nature, its uses, . danger of excessive realism, . short stories: the impressionist school, . =novelist, the anglo-indian=, - . causes affecting output of good fiction in india, . _tara_, a successful historical novel, . _pandurang hari_, valuable as picture of pre-english times, . _oakfield_, good battle pictures, absence of native characters noted, . _the wetherbys_, . _a true reformer_, and _the dilemma_, . _mr. isaacs_, . _helen treveryan_, assigned a high place as a historical novel, . _on the face of the waters_, indian characters freely introduced, minute adherence to fact, . _bijli the dancer_, a purely native story, . _chronicles of dustypore_, a picture of anglo-indian life, . _the bond of blood_, a dramatic presentation of incidents of indian life, . _the naulakha_, . _transgression_, . conclusions: uniformity of anglo-indian society, . conditions favour the novel of action, . absence of the psychological vein, . o'connell, daniel, described by carlyle, . _odyssey_ quoted, . old testament and heroic narration, . oliphant, mrs., . ollivier, see 'l'empire libéral.' olozaga, . ottoman empire, its complexities of race and religion, . ouida, . paley, . parr, dr., . patmore, coventry, . pearson, hugh, , . peel, sir robert, quoted, . peninsular war and heroic poetry, . peter the great's caspian expedition, . phingari, . polytheism, formerly universal, ; gives way to christianity, . pope, . byron's praise, . porter, jane, and historical romance, . rabelais, . =race and religion=, - . ancient groupings of peoples, . effect of ( ) the roman empire, ( ) christianity and islam, . consolidation of states in the west, . importance of 'race' overlooked by utilitarians, . gravity of the question in austria, . its complexity in turkey, . maintenance of racial and religious differences by asiatic empires, . close alliance of greek church with the state, . classification of the people by religion in ottoman empire, . importance of 'race and religion' in asia, . religious distinctions predominant in western asia, . causes of the armenian massacres, . racial distinctions predominant in afghanistan, . india, connotation of 'hindu,' . complexities of race and creed, . policy of religious neutrality, . peculiarity of religious situation in china, . russian empire, conclusions, . race distinctions, increasing influence of, . radcliffe, mrs., the novelist, . raleigh, sir walter, on _the english novel_, . ramsay, sir william, on writing of history, . rawlinson on the effect of troubles in the caucasus on russian policy, . realism defined, . its dangers, , , , (cf. , ). reform bill, . =religions, the state in its relation to eastern and western=, - . eastern religions, buddhism and hinduism; western, christianity and islam, . growth of state domination under roman empire, . domination of the church when christianity established, . conflict with islam, its effects, . close alliance of both faiths with the state, . absence of religious wars and of persecution in ancient india, . the situation in china, ; and in japan, . india, political independence of hinduism, . toleration by mohammedan rulers, . hinduism never an established religion, . british policy of neutrality, . some political disadvantages, . conclusions: difference in relations of eastern and western religions to the state, . renan, . ricardo, . richardson, the novelist, . ritchie, lady richmond, . quoted, . _robert elsmere_, its popularity, . roberts, lord, , , , . rodney, admiral, . roman catholic church, its polity compared with the greek, . inheritor of imperial tradition, . roman empire, its frontier policy, ; also , , , . _roman naturaliste_, by brunetière, . rousseau, j. j., . sagas, , . sainte-beuve, . say, léon, . scotch common sense philosophy, . scotsman, the, in fiction, . scott, michael, . scott, sir walter: head of modern romantic school of fiction, . abandoned poetry for prose, . transferred dialogue from the drama to the novel, . his historical insight, . his descriptions of fighting, , , , . quoted, . shakespeare, , , , , , . quoted, , . shamil, see 'frontiers,' , etc. shelley, , , . his letters, . quoted, , . comparison with swinburne, . swinburne's admiration, . shintoism, . shorthouse, j. h., . smollett, . south african war, . southey, robert, , , , , . carlyle's description, . type of conservatism, . sovereignty, territorial, a modern idea, . spenserian stanza, byron's admiration for, . stanley, dean, see 'letter-writing.' stendhal, , . sterne, laurence, . stevenson, r. l., see 'letter-writing,' also , . surtees and the sporting novel, . swift, , . thackeray's description, . swinburne, a. c., . on byron, , , . =swinburne, characteristics of his poetry=, - . swinburne's predecessors and contemporaries, . earlier poems, _atalanta in calydon_, _chastelard_, . _poems and ballads_, published and withdrawn, ; reissued with reply to critics, . _songs and ballads_, war upon theology, . _songs of the four seasons_, . _a midsummer holiday_, . love of the sea and of his country, . his power of musical phrasing, . his attitude to eminent contemporaries, . his dramas, . concluding remarks: his high aspirations and his defects, . taeping rebellion, . taoism, , , . tchetchnia, in the caucasus, , etc. tennyson, , , , , , , , , , , . quoted, , , , . absence of rhyme in 'tears, idle tears,' . swinburne's tribute, . thackeray, w. m., , , . =thackeray, william makepeace=, - . lady ritchie's biographical contributions, . brief sketch of his life, . early works, _yellowplush papers_, etc., . his rare qualities first shown in _barry lyndon_, . his defence of taking a rogue for hero, . _vanity fair_, his irony and pathos, . his merciless war on snobbery, . his pictures from military life, . _pendennis_, a novel of manners, . tendency to moralise, , , . _esmond_, . thackeray as historical novelist contrasted with scott, , . _the virginians_, . _the newcomes_, a return to the novel of society, . tendency to caricature, . _denis duval_, . classification of his works as historical novels and novels of manners, . his character, religion and influence, . thiers, opposed to war of , , etc. thorburn's _bannu_, . tolstoi, , , . tractarians, . walpole's account of, . trollope, anthony, . turgot, . =utilitarians, the english=, - . objects of mr. stephen's history, . a system with a practical aim, . its influence on government, . philosophy of reid and stewart, . bentham's doctrines, . brief account of his life, . mr. stephen's criticisms, . bentham's neglect of history, . james mill, . attitude to the church, . his 'essay on government,' macaulay's attack, . position of southey and coleridge, . english and greek theories of the state, . criticism of malthus and ricardo, ; and of james mill, . john stuart mill, his life and training, . his doctrines and policy, . his _political economy_, . his later writings criticised, . _the subjection of women_, . mill's theology, . opposition to utilitarianism, . mr. stephen's position, . voltaire, , . vorontzoff, russian general, , . walpole, horace, , , . =walpole, sir spencer=, - . his literary bent as an historian, . his method described by himself, . his treatment of ecclesiastical controversies, . comparison with lecky, . waterloo in scott and byron's verse, , . 'waverley' novel, , . see 'scott.' wellington, duke of, , . werther, prussian minister at paris, . whately, _historic doubts_, . wolfe, general, . wordsworth, william: his letters, , . described by carlyle, . criticised by byron, . also , , , , . yermoloff, general, . zola, , . zoroaster, , . * * * * * printed by t. and a. constable, printers to his majesty at the edinburgh university press reflections and comments - by edwin lawrence godkin to charles eliot norton to whom the foundation of "the nation" was largely due, in grateful acknowledgment of a long friendship contents peace culture and war the comparative morality of nations the "comic-paper" question mr. froude as a lecturer mr. horace greeley the morals and manners of the kitchen john stuart mill panics the odium philologicum professor huxley's lectures circumstantial evidence tyndall and the theologians the church and science the church and good conduct rÔle of the universities in politics the hopkins university the south after the war chromo-civilization "the short-hairs" and "the swallow-tails" judges and witnesses "the debtor class" commencement admonition "organs" evidence about character physical force in politics "court circles" living in europe and going to it carlyle's political influence the evolution of the summer resort summer rest the survival of types will wimbles reflections and comments - peace the horrors of war are just now making a deeper impression than ever on the popular mind, owing to the close contact with the battle-field and the hospital into which the railroad and the telegraph and the newspaper have brought the public of all civilized countries. wars are fought out now, so to speak, under every man's and woman's eyes; and, what is perhaps of nearly as much importance, the growth of commerce and manufactures, and the increased complication of the social machine, render the smallest derangement of it anywhere a concern and trouble to all nations. the consequence is that the desire for peace was never so deep as it is now, and the eagerness of all good people to find out some other means of deciding international disputes than mutual killing never so intense. and yet the unconsciousness of the true nature and difficulties of the problem they are trying to solve, which is displayed by most of those who make the advocacy of peace their special work, is very discouraging. we are far from believing that the incessant and direct appeals to the public conscience on the subject of war are not likely in the long run to produce some effect; but it is very difficult to resist the conclusion that the efforts of the special advocates of peace have thus far helped to spread and strengthen the impression that there is no adequate substitute for the sword as an arbiter between nations, or, in other words, to harden the popular heart on the subject of military slaughter. it is certain that, during the last fifty years, the period in which peace societies have been at work, armies have been growing steadily larger, the means of destruction have been multiplying, and wars have been as frequent and as bloody as ever before; and, what is worse, the popular heart goes into war as it has never done in past ages. the great reason why the more earnest enemies of war have not made more progress toward doing away with it, has been that, from the very outset of their labors down to the present moment, they have devoted themselves mainly to depicting its horrors and to denouncing its cruelty. in other words, they almost invariably approach it from a side with which nations actually engaged in it are just as familiar as anybody, but which has for the moment assumed in their eyes a secondary importance. the peace advocates are constantly talking of the guilt of killing, while the combatants only think, and will only think, of the nobleness of dying. to the peace advocates the soldier is always a man going to slaughter his neighbors; to his countrymen he is a man going to lose his life for their sake--that is, to perform the loftiest act of devotion of which a human being is capable. it is not wonderful, then, that the usual effect of appeals for peace made by neutrals is to produce mingled exasperation and amusement among the belligerents. to the great majority of europeans our civil war was a shocking spectacle, and the persistence of the north in carrying it on a sad proof of ferocity and lust of dominion. to the great majority of those engaged in carrying it on the struggle was a holy one, in which it was a blessing to perish. probably nothing ever fell more cruelly on human ears than the taunts and execrations which american wives and mothers heard from the other side of the ocean, heaped on the husbands and sons whom they had sent to the battle-field, never thinking at all of their slaying, but thinking solely of their being slain; and very glad indeed that, if death had to come, it should come in such a cause. if we go either to france or germany to-day, we shall find a precisely similar state of feeling. if the accounts we hear be true--and we know of no reason to doubt them--there is no more question in the german and french mind that french and german soldiers are doing their highest duty in fighting, than there was in the most patriotic northern or southern home during our war; and we may guess, therefore, how a german or french mother, the light of whose life had gone out at gravelotte or orleans, and who hugs her sorrow as a great gift of god, would receive an address from new york on the general wickedness and folly of her sacrifice. the fact is--and it is one of the most suggestive facts we know of--that the very growth of the public conscience has helped to make peace somewhat more difficult, war vastly more terrible. when war was the game of kings and soldiers, the nations went into it in a half-hearted way, and sincerely loathed it; now that war is literally an outburst of popular feeling, the friend of peace finds most of his logic powerless. there is little use in reasoning with a man who is ready to die on the folly or wickedness of dying. when a nation has worked itself up to the point of believing that there are objects within its reach for which life were well surrendered, it has reached a region in which the wise saws and modern instances of the philosopher or lawyer cannot touch it, and in which pictures of the misery of war only help to make the martyr's crown seem more glorious. therefore, we doubt whether the work of peace is well done by those who, amidst the heat and fury of actual hostilities, dwell upon the folly and cruelty of them, and appeal to the combatants to stop fighting, on the ground that fighting involves suffering and loss of life, and the destruction of property. the principal effect of this on "the average man" has been to produce the impression that the friends of peace are ninnies, and to make him smile over the earnestness with which everybody looks on his own wars as holy and inevitable, and his neighbors' wars as unnecessary and wicked. any practical movement to put an end to war must begin far away from the battle-field and its horrors. it must take up and deal with the various influences, social and political, which create and perpetuate the state of mind which makes people ready to fight. preaching up peace and preaching down war generally are very like general homilies in praise of virtue and denunciation of vice. everybody agrees with them, but nobody is ever ready to admit their applicability to his particular case. war is, in our time, essentially the people's work. its guilt is theirs, as its losses and sufferings are theirs. all attempts to saddle emperors, kings, and nobles with the responsibility of it may as well be given up from this time forward. now, what are the agencies which operate in producing the frame of mind which makes people ready to go to war on small provocation? it is at these the friends of peace must strike, in time of peace, and not after the cannon has begun to roar and the country has gone mad with patriotism and rage. they are, first of all, the preaching in the press and elsewhere of the false and pernicious doctrine that one nation gains by another's losses, and can be made happy by its misery; that the united states, for instance, profits in the long run by the prostration of french, german, or english industry. one of the first duties of a peace society is to watch this doctrine, and hunt it down wherever they see it, as one of the great promoters of the pride and hardness of heart which make war seem a trifling evil. america can no more gain by french or german ruin than new york can gain by that of massachusetts. secondly, there is the mediaeval doctrine that the less commercial intercourse nations carry on with each other the better for both, and that markets won or kept by force are means of gain. there has probably been no more fruitful source of war than this. it has for three centuries desolated the world, and all peace associations should fix on it, wherever they encounter it, the mark of the beast. thirdly, there is the tendency of the press, which is now the great moulder of public opinion, to take what we may call the pugilist's view of international controversies. the habit of taunting foreign disputants, sneering at the cowardice or weakness of the one who shows any sign of reluctance in drawing the sword, and counting up the possible profit to its own country of one or other being well thrashed, in which it so frequently indulges, has inevitably the effect not only of goading the disputants into hostilities, but of connecting in the popular mind at home the idea of unreadiness or unwillingness to fight with baseness and meanness and material disadvantage. fourthly, there is the practice, to which the press, orators, and poets in every civilized country steadily adhere, of maintaining, as far as their influence goes, the same notions about national honor which once prevailed about individual "honor"--that is, the notion that it is discreditable to acknowledge one's self in the wrong, and always more becoming to fight than apologize. "the code" has been abandoned in the northern states and in england in the regulations of the relations of individual men, and a duellist is looked on, if not as a wicked, as a crack-brained person; but in some degree in both of them, and in a great degree in all other countries, it still regulates the mode in which international quarrels are brought to a conclusion. last of all, and most important of all, it is the duty of peace societies to cherish and exalt the idea of _law_ as the only true controller of international relations, and discourage and denounce their submission to _sentiment_. the history of civilization is the history of the growth amongst human beings of the habit of submitting their dealings with each other to the direction of rules of universal application, and their withdrawal of them from the domain of personal feeling. the history of "international law" is the history of the efforts of a number of rulers and statesmen to induce nations to submit themselves to a similar régime--that is, to substitute precedents and rules based on general canons of morality and on principles of municipal law, for the dictates of pride, prejudice, and passion, in their mode of seeking redress of injuries, of interpreting contracts, exchanging services, and carrying on commercial dealings. their success thus far has been only partial. a nation, even the most highly civilized, is still, in its relations with its fellows, in a condition somewhat analogous to that of the individual savage. it chooses its friends from whim or fancy, makes enemies through ignorance or caprice, avenges its wrongs in a torrent of rage, or through a cold-blooded thirst for plunder, and respects rules and usages only fitfully, and with small attention to the possible effect of its disregard of them on the general welfare. the man or the woman and, let us say, "the mother"--since that is supposed to be, in this discussion, a term of peculiar potency--who tries to exert a good influence on public opinion on all these points, to teach the brotherhood of man as an economical as well as a moral and religious truth; to spread the belief that war between any two nations is a general calamity to the civilized world; that it is as unchristian and inhuman to rouse national combativeness as to rouse individual combativeness, as absurd to associate honor with national wrong-doing as with individual wrong-doing; and that peace among nations, as among individuals, is, and can only be, the product of general reverence for _law_ and general distrust of _feeling_--may rest assured that he or she is doing far more to bring war to an end than can be done by the most fervid accounts of the physical suffering it causes. it will be a sorrowful day for any people when their men come to consider death on the battle-field the greatest of evils, and the human heart will certainly have sadly fallen off when those who stay at home have neither gratitude nor admiration for those who shoulder the musket, or are impressed less by the consideration that the soldiers are going to kill others than by the consideration that they are going to die themselves. there are things worth cherishing even in war; and the seeds of what is worst in it are sown not in camps, barracks, or forts, but in public meetings and newspapers and legislatures and in literature. culture and war the feeling of amazement with which the world is looking on at the prussian campaigns comes not so much from the tremendous display of physical force they afford--though there is in this something almost appalling--as from the consciousness which everybody begins to have that to put such an engine of destruction as the german army into operation there must be behind it a new kind of motive power. it is easy enough for any government to put its whole male population under arms, or even to lead them on an emergency to the field. but that an army composed in the main of men suddenly taken from civil pursuits should fight and march, as the prussian army is doing, with more than the efficiency of any veteran troops the world has yet seen, and that the administrative machinery by which they are fed, armed, transported, doctored, shrived, and buried should go like clock-work on the enemy's soil, and that the people should submit not only without a murmur, but with enthusiasm, to sacrifices such as have never before been exacted of any nation except in the very throes of despair, show that something far more serious has taken place in prussia than the transformation of the country into a camp. in other words, we are not witnessing simply a levy _en masse_, nor yet the mere maintenance of an immense force by a military monarchy, but the application to military affairs of the whole intelligence of a nation of great mental and moral culture. the peculiarity of the prussian system does not lie in the size of its armies or the perfection of its armament, but in the character of the men who compose it. all modern armies, except cromwell's "new model army" and that of the united states during the rebellion, have been composed almost entirely of ignorant peasants drilled into passive obedience to a small body of professional soldiers. the prussian army is the first, however, to be a perfect reproduction of the society which sends it to the field. to form it, all prussian men lay down their tools or pens or books, and shoulder muskets. consequently, its excellences and defects are those of the community at large, and the community at large being cultivated in a remarkable degree, we get for the first time in history a real example of the devotion of mind and training, on a great scale, to the work of destruction. of course, the quality of the private soldier has in all wars a good deal to do with making or marring the fortunes of commanders; but it is safe to say that no strategists have over owed so much to the quality of their men as the prussian strategists. their perfect handling of the great masses which are now manoeuvring in france has been made in large degree possible by the intelligence of the privates. this has been strikingly shown on two or three occasions by the facility with which whole regiments or brigades have been sacrificed in carrying a single position. with ordinary troops, only a certain amount can be deliberately and openly exacted of any one corps. the highest heights of devotion are often beyond their reach. but if it serves the purposes of a prussian commander to have all the cost of an assault fall on one regiment, he apparently finds not the slightest difficulty in getting it to march to certain destruction, and not blindly as peasants march, but as men of education, who understand the whole thing, but having made it for this occasion their business to die, do it like any other duty of life--not hilariously or enthusiastically or recklessly, but calmly and energetically, as they study or manufacture or plough. they get themselves killed not one particle more than is necessary, but also not one particle less. a nation organized in this way is a new phenomenon, and is worth attentive study. it gives one a glimpse of possibilities in the future of modern civilization of which few people have hitherto dreamed, and it must be confessed that the prospect is not altogether pleasing. we have been flattering ourselves--in anglo-saxondom, at least--for many years back that all social progress was to be hereafter in the direction of greater individualism, and among us, certainly, this view has derived abundant support from observed facts. but it is now apparent that there is a tendency at work, which appears to grow stronger and stronger every day, toward combination in all the work of life. it is specially observable in the efforts of the working classes to better their condition; it still more observable in the efforts of capital to fortify itself against them and against the public at large; and there is, perhaps, nothing in which more rapid advances have been made of late years than in the power of organization. the working of the great railroads and hotels and manufactories, of the trades unions, of the co-operative associations, and of the monster armies now maintained by three or four powers, are all illustrations of it. the growth of power is, of course, the result of the growth of intelligence, and it is in the ratio of the growth of intelligence. prussia has got the start of all other countries by combining the whole nation in one vast organization for purposes of offence and defence. hitherto nations have simply subscribed toward the maintenance of armies and concerned themselves little about their internal economy and administration; but the prussians have converted themselves into an army, and have been enabled to do so solely by subjecting themselves to a long process of elaborate training, which has changed the national character. when reduced to the lowest point of humiliation after the battle of jena, they went to work and absolutely built up the nation afresh. we may not altogether like the result. to large numbers of people the prussian type of character is not a pleasing one, nor prussian society an object of unmixed admiration, and there is something horrible in a whole people's passing their best years learning how to kill. but we cannot get over the fact that the prussian man is likely to furnish, consciously or unconsciously, the model to other civilized countries, until such time as some other nation has so successfully imitated him as to produce his like. let those who believe, as mr. wendell phillips says that he believes, that "the best education a man can get is what he gets in picking up a living," and that universities are humbugs, and that from the newspapers and lyceum lecture the citizen can always get as much information on all subjects, human and divine, as is good for him or the state, take a look at the prussian soldier as he marches past in his ill-fitting uniform and his leather helmet. first of all, we observe that he smokes a great deal. according to some of us, the "tobacco demon" ought by this time to have left him a thin, puny, hollow-eyed fellow, with trembling knees and palpitating heart and listless gait, with shaking hands and an intense craving for ardent spirits. you perceive, however, that a burlier, broader-shouldered, ruddier, brighter-eyed, and heartier-looking man you never set eyes on; and as he swings along in column, with his rifle, knapsack, seventy rounds of ammunition, blanket, and saucepan, you must confess you cannot help acknowledging that you feel sorry for any equal body of men in the world with which that column may get into "a difficulty." he drinks, too, and drinks a great deal, both of strong beer and strong wine, and has always done so, and all his family friends do it, and have only heard of teetotalism through the newspapers, and, if you asked him to confine himself to water, would look on you as an amiable idiot. nevertheless, you never see him drunk, nor does his beer produce on him that utterly bemuddling or brain-paralyzing effect which is so powerfully described by our friend mr. james parton as produced on him by lager-bier, in that inquiry into the position of "the coming man" toward wine, some copies of which, we see, he is trying to distribute among the field-officers. on the contrary, he is, on the whole, a very sober man, and very powerful thinker, and very remarkable scholar. there is no field of human knowledge which he has not been among the first to explore; no heights of speculation which he has not scaled; no problem of the world over which he is not fruitfully toiling. moreover, his thoroughness is the envy of the students of all other countries, and his hatred of sham scholarship and slipshod generalization is intense. but what with the tobacco and the beer, and the scholarship and his university education, you might naturally infer that he must be a kid-glove soldier, and a little too nice and dreamy and speculative for the actual work of life. but you never were more mistaken. he is leaving behind him some of the finest manufactories and best-tilled fields in the world. moreover, he is an admirable painter and, as all the world knows, an almost unequalled musician; or if you want proof of his genius for business, look at the speed and regularity with which he and his comrades have transported themselves to the rhine, and see the perfection of all the arrangements of his regiment. and now, if you think his "bad habits," his daily violations of your notions of propriety, have diminished his power of meeting death calmly--that noblest of products of culture--you have only to follow him up as far as sedan and see whether he ever flinches; whether you have ever read or heard of a soldier out of whom more marching and fighting and dying, and not flighty, boisterous dying either, could be got. now, we can very well understand why people should be unwilling to see the prussian military system spread into other countries, or even be preserved where it is. it is a pitiful thing to have the men of a whole civilized nation spending so much time out of the flower of their years learning to kill other men; and the lesson to be drawn from the recent prussian successes is assuredly not that every country ought to have an army like the prussian army, though we confess that, if great armies must be kept up, there is no better model than the prussian. the lesson is that, whether you want him for war or peace, there is no way in which you can get so much out of a man as by training him, and training him not in pieces but the whole of him; and that the trained men, other things being equal, are pretty sure in the long run to be the masters of the world. the comparative morality of nations we had, four or five weeks ago, a few words of controversy with the _christian union_ as to the comparative morality of the prussians and americans, or, rather, their comparative religiousness--meaning by religiousness a disposition "to serve others and live as in god's sight;" in other words, unselfishness and spirituality. we let it drop, from the feeling that the question whether the americans or prussians were the better men was only a part, and a very small part, of the larger question. how do we discover which of any two nations is the purer in its life or in its aims? and, is not any judgment we form about it likely to be very defective, owing to the inevitable incompleteness of our premises? we are not now going to try to fix the place of either prussia or the united states in the scale of morality, but to point out some reasons why all comparisons between them should be made by americans with exceeding care and humility. there is hardly any field of inquiry in which even the best-informed man is likely to fall into so many errors; first, because there is no field in which the vision is so much affected by prejudices of education and custom; and, secondly, because there is none in which the things we see are so likely to create erroneous impressions about the things we do not see. but we may add that it is a field which no intelligent and sensible man ever explores without finding his charity greatly stimulated. let us give some illustrations of the errors into which people are apt to fall in it. count gasparin, a french protestant, and as spiritually minded a man as breathed, once talking with an american friend expressed in strong terms his sense of the pain it caused him that mr. lincoln should have been at the theatre when he was killed, not, the friend found, because he objected in the least to theatre-going, but because it was the evening of good friday--a day which the continental calvinists "keep" with great solemnity, but to which american non-episcopal protestants pay no attention whatever. count gasparin, on the other hand, would have no hesitation in taking a ride on sunday, or going to a public promenade after church hours, and, from seeing him there, his american friend would draw deductions just as unfavorable to the count's religious character as the count himself drew with regard to mr. lincoln's. take, again, the question of drinking beer and wine. there is a large body of very excellent men in america who, from a long contemplation of the evils wrought by excessive indulgence in intoxicating drinks, have worked themselves up to a state of mind about all use of such drinks which is really discreditable to reasonable beings, leads to the most serious platform excesses, and is perfectly incomprehensible to continental europeans. to the former, the drinking even of lager beer connotes, as the logicians say, ever so many other vices--grossness and sensuality of nature, extravagance, indifference to home pleasures, repugnance to steady industry, and a disregard of the precepts of religion and morality. to many of them a german workman, and his wife and children, sitting in a beer-garden on a summer's evening, which to european moralists and economists is one of the most pleasing sights in the world, is a revolting spectacle, which calls for the interference of the police. now, if you go to a beer-garden in berlin you may, any sunday afternoon, see doctors of divinity--none of your rationalists--but doctors of real divinity, to whom american theologians go to be taught, doing this very thing, and, what is worse, smoking pipes. an american who applied to this the same course of reasoning which he would apply to a similar scene in america, would simply be guilty of outrageous folly. if he argued from it that the german doctor was selfish, or did not "live as in the sight of god," the whole process would be a model of absurdity. foreigners have drawn, on the other hand, from the american "diligence in business," conclusions with regard to american character far more uncomplimentary than those the _christian union_ has expressed with regard to the prussians. there are not a few religious and moral and cultivated circles in europe in which the suggestion that americans, as a nation, were characterized by thoughtfulness for others and a sense of god's presence would be received with derisive laughter, owing to the application to the phenomena of american society of the process of reasoning on which, we fear, the _union_ relies. down to the war, so candid and perspicacious a man as john stuart mill might have been included in this class. the earlier editions of his "elements of political economy" contained a contemptuous statement that one sex in america was entirely given up to "dollar-hunting" and the other to "breeding dollar-hunters." in other words, he held that the american people were plunged in the grossest materialism, and he doubtless based this opinion on that intense application of the men to commercial and industrial pursuits which we see all around us, which no church finds fault with, but which, we know, bad as its effects are on art and literature, really coexists with great generosity, sympathy, public spirit, and ideality. take, again, the matter of chastity, on which the _union_ touched. we grant at the outset that wherever you have classes, the women of the lower class suffer more or less from the men of the upper class, and anybody who says that seductions, accomplished through the effect on female vanity of the addresses of "superiors in station," while almost unknown here, are very numerous in europe, would find plenty of facts to support him. but, on the other hand, an attempt made to persuade a frenchman that the familiar intercourse which the young people of both sexes in this country enjoy was generally pure, would fail in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. that it should be pure is opposed to all his experience of human nature, both male and female; and the result of your argument with him would be that he would conclude either that you were an extraordinarily simple person, or took him for one. on the other hand, we believe the german, who thinks nothing of drinking as much wine or beer as he cares for, draws from the conduct of the american young woman whom he sees abroad, and from what he reads in our papers about "free love," indiana divorces, abortion, and what not, conclusions with regard to american chastity very different from those of the _union_; and, if you sought to meet him in discussion, he would overwhelm you with facts and cases which, looked at apart from the general tenor of american life and manners, it would be very hard to dispose of. he would say, for instance, that we are not, perhaps, guilty of as many violations of the marriage vows as europeans; but that we make it so light a vow that, instead of violating it, we get it abrogated, and then follow our will; and then he would come down on us with boarding-house and hotel life, and other things of the same kind, which might make us despise him, but would make it a little difficult to get rid of him. there is probably no minor point of manners which does more to create unfavorable impressions of europeans among the best class of americans--morally the best, we mean--than the importance attached by the former to their eating and drinking; while there is nothing which does more to spread in europe impressions unfavorable to american civilization than the indifference of americans, and, we may add, as regards the progressive portion of american society--cultivated indifference--to the quality of their meals and the time of eating them. in no european country is moderate enjoyment of the pleasures of the table considered incompatible with high moral aims, or even a sincerely religious character; but a man to whom his dinner was of serious importance would find his position in an assembly of american reformers very precarious. the german or frenchman or englishman, indeed, treats a man's views of food, and his disposition or indisposition to eat it in company with his fellows as an indication of his place in civilization. savages love to eat alone, and it has been observed in partially civilized communities relapsing into barbarism, that one of the first indications of their decline was the abandonment of regular meals on tables, and a tendency on the part of the individuals to retire to secret places with their victuals. this is probably a remnant of the old aboriginal instinct which we still see in domesticated dogs, and was, doubtless, implanted for the protection of the species in times when everybody looked on his neighbor's bone with a hungry eye, and the man with the strong hand was apt to have the fullest stomach. accordingly, there is in europe, and indeed everywhere, a tendency to regard the growth of a delicacy in eating, and close attention to the time and manner of serving meals and their cookery, and the use of them as promoters of social intercourse, as an indication of moral as well as material progress. to a large number of people here, on the other hand, the bolting of food--ten-minute dinners, for instance--and general unconsciousness of "what is on the table," is a sign of preoccupation with serious things. it may be; but the german love of food is not necessarily a sign of grossness, and that "overfed" appearance, of which the _union_ spoke, is not necessarily a sign of inefficiency, any more than leanness or cadaverousness is a sign of efficiency. there is certainly some power of hard work in king william's army, and, indeed, we could hardly point to a better illustration of the truth, that all the affairs of men, whether political, social, or religious, depend for their condition largely on the state of the digestion. honesty, by which we mean that class of virtues which cicero includes in the term _bona fides_, has, to a considerable extent, owing, we think, to the peculiar humanitarian character which the circumstances of the country have given to the work of reform, been subordinated in the united states to brotherly kindness. now, this right to arrange the virtues according to a scale of its own, is something which not only every age, but every nation, has claimed, and, accordingly, we find that each community, in forming its judgment of a man's character, gives a different degree of weight to different features of it. keeping a mistress would probably, anywhere in the united states, damage a man's reputation far more seriously than fraudulent bankruptcy; while horse-stealing, which in new england would be a comparatively trifling offence, out in montana is a far fouler thing than murder. but in the european scale, honesty still occupies the first place. bearing this in mind, it is worth any man's while who proposes to pass judgment on the morality of any foreign country, to consider what is the impression produced on foreign opinion about american morality by the story of the erie railroad, by the career of fisk, by the condition of the judicial bench in the commercial capital of the country, by the charges of corruption brought against such men as trumbull and fessenden at the time of the impeachment trial; by the comically prominent and beloved position which butler has held for some years in our best moral circles, and by the condition of the civil service. the truth is that it is almost impossible for anybody to compare one nation with another fairly, unless he possesses complete familiarity with the national life of both, and therefore can distinguish isolated facts from symptomatic facts. the reason why some of the phenomena of american society which shock foreigners greatly, do not shock even the best americans so much, is not that the latter have become hardened to them--though this counts for something--but that they know of various counteracting and compensating phenomena which prevent, or are sure to prevent, them in the long run from doing the mischief which they seem to threaten. in other words, they understand the checks and balances of their society as well as its tendencies. anybody who considers these things will be careful how he denounces people whose manners differ from his own for want of spirituality or morality, and we may add that any historical student engaged in comparing the morality of the age in which he lives with that of any other age which he knows only through chronicles, will do well to exercise the same caution for the same reasons. the "comic-paper" question it is recorded of a patriotic member of the committee of ways and means, that after hearing from the special commissioner of the revenue an elaborate and strongly fortified argument which made a deep impression on the committee in favor of a reduction of the whiskey tax, on the ground that the then rate, two dollars a gallon, could not be collected--he closed the debate, and carried the majority with him, by declaring that, for his part, he never would admit that a government which had just suppressed the greatest rebellion the world ever saw, could not collect two dollars a gallon on whiskey. a large portion of the public approaches the comic-paper problem in much the same spirit in which this gentleman approached the whiskey tax. the country has plenty of humor, and plenty of humorists. it fills whole pages of numerous magazines and whole columns of numerous newspapers with really good jokes every month. it supplies great numbers of orators and lecturers and diners-out with "little stories," which, of their kind, cannot be surpassed. there is probably no country in the world, too, in which there is so much constantly going on of the fun which does not need local knowledge or coloring to be enjoyed, but will bear exportation, and be recognized as the genuine article in any english-speaking part of the world. moreover, there is in the real american stories an amount of suggestiveness, a power of "connotation," which cannot be affirmed of those of any other country. a very large number of them are real contributions to sociology, and of considerable value too. besides all this, the united states possesses, what no other nation does, several professed jesters--that is, men who are not only humorous in the ordinary sense of the term, but make a business of cracking jokes, and are recognized as persons whose duty it is to take a jocose view of things. artemus ward, josh billings, and mark twain, and the rev. p. v. nasby, and one or two others of less note, are a kind of personages which no other society has produced, and could in no other society attain equal celebrity. in fact, when one examines the total annual production of jokes in the united states, one who knows nothing of the past history of the comic-paper question can hardly avoid the conclusion that such periodicals would run serious risk of being overwhelmed with "good things" and dying of plethora. yet the melancholy fact is that several--indeed, all that have been started--have died of inanition; that is, of the absence of jokes. the last one says it offered all the great humorists in the country plenty of work, and their own terms as to pay, and failed to enlist them, and the chance jokes apparently were neither numerous enough nor good enough to keep it afloat. now what is the cause of this disheartening state of things? why can the united states not have a comic paper of their own? the answers to this question vary, though of course not greatly. they are mostly given in the shape of a history, with appropriate comments, of the unsuccessful attempts made to establish comic papers; one went down because it did not sympathize with the liberal and humane movements of the day, and laughed in the pro-slavery interest; another, because it never succeeded in getting hold of a good draughtsman for its engravings; and another venture failed, among other mistakes, we are told, because it made fun of the new york _tribune_. the explanation which finds most general favor with the public is, that while in england, france, and germany "the great dailies" confine themselves to the serious treatment of the topics of the day, and thus leave room for the labors of _punch_, or _kladderadatsch_, or _charivari_, in america all papers do their own joking; and, if it seems desirable to take a comic view of anything or anybody, take it on the spot in their own columns. hence any paper which starts on a comic basis alone meets with rivals in all its sober-minded contemporaries, and comes to grief. the difficulty it has to contend with is, in short, very like that which the professional laundress or baker has to contend with, owing to the fact that families are accustomed to do their own washing and bake their own bread. and, indeed, it is not unlike that with which professional writers of all kinds have to contend, owing to the readiness of clergymen, lawyers, and professors to write, while doing something else. an ordinary daily paper supplies, besides its serious disquisitions, fun enough for one average household--sometimes in single jokes, and sometimes in the shape of "sparkle" or "spiciness" in grave articles. often enough it is very poor stuff, but it amuses people, without turning their attention away from the sober work of life, which is the only way in which the vast body of americans are willing to be amused. newspaper comedians have here, what they would not have in london, a chance of letting off a joke once a day, and six or seven jokes a week is more than any comic paper is willing or able to take from any one contributor, partly owing to the need of variety in a paper given wholly to humor, and partly owing to want of space. anybody, therefore, who has humor for sale finds a readier market among the dailies or magazines, and a far wider circle of readers, than he would in any comic paper. the charge that our comic papers have generally opposed the friends of liberty and progress--that is the most intelligent and appreciative portion of the public--is quite true, but it does not go far to account for their failure. _punch_ has done this steadily ever since its establishment, without serious injury. no good cause has ever received much backing from it till it became the cause of the majority, or indeed has escaped being made the butt of its ridicule; and we confess we doubt whether "the friends of progress," using the term in what we may call its technical sense, were ever a sufficiently large body, or had ever sufficient love of fun, to make their disfavor of any great consequence. most people in the united states who are very earnestly enlisted in the service of "a cause" look on all ridicule as "wicked," and regard with great suspicion anybody who indulges in it, whether he makes them the object of it or not. they bore with it, when turned against slavery, from one or two distinguished humorists, because its effectiveness was plain; but we doubt whether any man who had the knack of seeing the ludicrous side of things ever really won their confidence, partly owing to their own natural want of humor, and partly to their careful cultivation of a habit of solemnity of mind as the only thing that can make an "advanced" position really tenable, to say nothing of comfortable. the causes of all successes, as of all failures, in the literary world are of course various, and no doubt there is a good deal of truth in all that has been said in solution of the comic-paper problem. american humorists of the best class can find something better or more lucrative to do than writing for a comic paper; while the poor american humorists, like the poor humorists of all countries, are coarse and vulgar, even where they are not stupid. but there is one striking difference between american society and those societies in which comic papers have succeeded which not only goes a good way to explain their failure here, but puts a better face on some of their efforts--such as their onslaughts on the friends of progress--than they seem to wear at first sight. to furnish sufficient food for fun to keep a comic paper afloat, a country must supply a good many strong social contrasts for the professional joker to play upon, and must have a large amount of reverence for social distinctions and dignities for him to shock. two-thirds of the zest with which foreign comic papers are read is due to the fact that they caricature persons or social circles with which the mass of their readers are not thoroughly familiar, and whose habits and ways of looking at things they do not share or only partly share. a good deal of the fun in _punch_, for instance, consists in making costermongers or cabmen quarrel with the upper classes, in ridicule of jeames's attempts to imitate his master, of brown's efforts to scrape acquaintance with a peer, of the absurd figure cut by the "cad" in the hunting-field, and of the folly of the city clerk in trying to dress and behave like a guardsman. in short, the point of a great number of its best jokes is made by bringing different social strata into sharp comparison. the peculiarities of irishmen and scotchmen also furnish rich materials to the caricaturist. he never tires of illustrating the blunders and impudence of the one and the hot patriotism and niggardliness of the other. the irish highlander, who denies, in a rich brogue, that any irish are ever admitted into his regiment, and the cannie burgher from aberdeen, who, on his return home from a visit to london, says it's an "awfu' dear place; that he hadna' been twa oors in the toon when bang went saxpence," are types which raise a laugh all over the united kingdom, and all because, again, they furnish materials for ludicrous contrast which everybody is capable of appreciating. neither the irishman, scotchman, nor englishman, as such, can be made to yield much fun, if sketched alone. it is when ranged alongside of each other, and measured by the english middle-class standard of propriety, that they become entertaining. in a homogeneous society, like that of the united states, none of this material is to be found. the new englander, to be sure, furnishes a type which differs from the middle-states man or the southerner or westerner, but none of them differs enough to make him worth caricaturing. his speech, his dress, his modes of acting and thinking so nearly resemble those of his neighbors in other parts of the country that after the comic writer or draughtsman had done his best or his worst upon him, it would remain still a little doubtful where the joke came in. the irishman, and especially the new york irish voter, and his sister bridget, the cook, have during the past ten years rendered more or less service as butts for caricaturists, but they are rapidly wearing out. they are not many-sided persons at best, and their characteristics have become associated in the american mind with so much that is uncomfortable and repulsive in domestic and political life, that it becomes increasingly difficult to get a native to laugh at them. it must be confessed, too, that the irish in america have signally belied the poet's assertion, "_coelum non animam mutant qui trans mare currunt_." there is nothing more striking in their condition than the almost complete disappearance from their character, at least in its outward manifestations, of the vivacity, politeness, kindliness, comical blundering impetuosity, and double-sightedness, out of which the irishman of the stage and jo miller's irishman who made all the bulls were manufactured in the last century. of the other nationalities we need hardly speak, as the english-speaking public knows little of them, although the german jew is perhaps the most durable material the comic writer has ever worked on. the absence of class distinctions here, too, and the complete democratization of institutions during the last forty years, have destroyed the reverence and sense of mystery by shocking which the european comic paper produces some of its most tickling effects. gladstone and disraeli figuring as pugilists in the ring, for instance, diverts the english public, because it gives a very smart blow to the public sense of fitness, and makes a strong impression of absurdity, these two men being to the english public real dignitaries, in the strict sense of the word, and under the strongest obligations to behave properly. but a representation of grant and sumner as pugilists would hardly make americans laugh, because, though absurd, it would not be nearly so absurd, or run counter to any so sharply defined standard of official demeanor. the lord chief-justice playing croquet with a pretty girl owes nearly all its point, as a joke, to the popular awe of him and the mystery which surrounds his mode of life in popular eyes; a picture of chief-justice chase doing the same thing would hardly excite a smile, because everybody knows him, and has known him all his life, and can have access to him at any hour of the night or day. and then it must be borne in mind that paris and london contain all the famous men of france and england, and anybody who jokes about them is sure of having the whole public for an audience; while the best new york joke falls flat in boston or philadelphia, and flatter still in cincinnati or chicago, owing to want of acquaintance with the materials of which it is composed. we might multiply these illustrations indefinitely, but we have probably said enough to show anyone that the field open to our comic writer is very much more restricted than that in which his european rival labors. he has, in short, to seek his jokes in character, while the european may draw largely upon manners, and it is doubtful whether character will ever supply materials for a really brilliant weekly comedian. its points are not sufficiently salient. the american comic papers have evidently perceived the value of reverence and of violent contrast for the purposes of their profession, and this it is which leads them so constantly to select reformers and reform movements as their butts. the earnest man, intensely occupied with "a cause," comes nearer to standing in the relation to the popular mind occupied in england by the aristocrat or statesman than anybody else in america. the politician is notorious for his familiarity with all comers, and "the gentleman" has become too insignificant a person to furnish materials for a contrast; but the progressive man is sufficiently well known, and sufficiently stiff in his moral composition, to make it funny to see him in a humorous tableau. mr. froude as a lecturer mr. froude announced that his object in coming to america was to enlighten the american public as to the true nature of irish discontent, in such manner that american opinion, acting on irish opinion, would reconcile the irish to the english connection, and turn their attention to practical remedies for whatever was wrong in their condition--american opinion being now, in irish eyes, the court of last resort in all political controversies. it is casting no reflection on the historical or literary value of his lectures to say that mr. froude, in proposing to himself any such undertaking, fell into error as to the kind of audience he was likely to command, and as to the nature of the impression he was likely to make. the class of persons who listen to him is one of great intelligence and respectability, but it is a class to which the irish are not in the habit of listening, and which has already formed as unfavorable opinions about the political character of the irish as mr. froude could wish. he will be surrounded during his whole tour by a public to whose utterances the irish pay no more attention than to the preachings of mr. newdegate or mr. whalley, and who have long ago reached, from their observation of the influence of the irish immigration on american politics, the very conclusions for which mr. froude proposes to furnish historical justification. in short, he is addressing people who have either already made up their minds, or whose minds have no value for the purpose of his mission. on the other hand, he will not reach at all the political class which panders to irish hatred of england, and, if he does reach it, he will produce no effect on it. not one speech the less will be uttered, or article the less written, in encouragement of fenianism in consequence of anything he may say. indeed, the idea that the bankses will be more careful in their congressional reports, or the coxes or mortons in their political harangues, either after or before election, in consequence of mr. froude's demonstration of the groundlessness of fenian complaints, is one which to "the men inside politics" must be very amusing. we think, however, we can safely go a little further than this, and say that however much light he may throw on the troubled waters of irish history, his deductions will not find a ready acceptance among thinking americans. the men who will heartily agree with him in believing that the irish have, on the whole, only received their due, are not, as a rule, fair exponents of the national temper or of the tendencies of the national mind. those who listened on friday night last to his picturesque account of the elizabethan and cromwellian attempts to pacify ireland, must have felt in their bones that--in spite of the cheers which greeted some of his own more eloquent and some of his bolder passages, and in particular his dauntless way of dealing with the drogheda massacre--his political philosophy was not one which the average american could be got to carry home with him and ponder and embrace. mr. froude, it must in justice to him be said, by no means throws all the responsibility of irish misery on ireland. he deals out a considerable share of this responsibility to england, but then his mode of apportioning it is one which is completely opposed to most of the fundamental notions of american politics. for instance, his whole treatment of irish history is permeated by an idea which, whatever marks it may have left on american practice in dealing with the indians, has no place now in american political philosophy--we mean what is called in english politics "the imperial idea"--the idea, that is, that a strong, bold, and courageous race has a sort of "natural right" to invade the territory of weak, semi-civilized, and distracted races, and undertake the task of governing them by such methods as seem best, and at such cost of life as may be necessary. this idea is a necessary product of english history; it is not likely to disappear in england as long as she possesses such a school for soldiers and statesmen as is furnished by india. indeed, she could not stay in india without some such theory to support her troops, but it is not one which will find a ready acceptance here. american opinion has, within the last twenty years, run into the very opposite extreme, and now maintains with some tenacity the right even of barbarous communities to be let alone and allowed to work out their own salvation or damnation in their own way. there is little or no faith left in this country in the value of superimposed civilization, or of "superior minds," or of higher organization, while there is a deep suspicion of, or we might say there is deep hostility toward, all claims to rule based on alleged superiority of race or creed or class. we doubt if mr. froude could have hit on a more unpalatable mode, or a mode more likely to clash with the prevailing tendencies of american opinion, of defending english rule in ireland than the argument that, englishmen being stronger and wiser than irishmen, irishmen ought to submit to have themselves governed on english ideas whether they like it or not. he has produced this argument already in england, and it has elicited there a considerable amount of indignant protest. we are forced to say of it here that it is likely to do great mischief, over and above the total defeat of mr. froude's object in coming to this country. the irish in america are more likely to be exasperated by it than the irish at home, and we feel sure that no native american will ever venture to use it to an irish audience. there is one other point to which mr. froude's attention ought to be called, as likely seriously to diminish the political weight of his exposition of the causes of irish discontent. the sole justification of a conquest, even of a conquest achieved over barbarians by a civilized people, is that it supplies good government--that is, protection for life and property. unless it does this, no picture, however dark, of the discords and disorder and savagery of the conquered can set the conqueror right at the bar of civilized opinion. therefore, the shocking and carefully darkened pictures of the social and political degradation of the native irish in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries with which mr. froude is furnishing us, are available for english vindication only on the supposition that the invasion, even if it destroyed liberty, brought with it law and order. but according to mr. froude's eloquent confession, it brought nothing of the kind. queen elizabeth made the first serious attempt to subjugate ireland, but she did it, mr. froude tells us, with only a handful of english soldiers--who acted as auxiliaries to irish clans engaged on the queen's instigation in mutual massacre. after three years of this sort of thing, the whole southern portion of the island was reduced, to use mr. froude's words, "to a smoking wilderness," men, women, and children having been remorselessly slaughtered; but no attempt whatever was then made to establish either courts or police, or any civil rule of any kind. society was left in a worse condition than before. why was this? because, says mr. froude, the english constitution made no provision for the maintenance of a standing army for any such purpose. the second attempt was made by cromwell. he slaughtered the garrisons of drogheda and wexford, and scattered the armies of the various irish factions, but he made no more attempt to police the island than elizabeth. the only mode of establishing order resorted to by the commonwealth was the wholesale confiscation of the land, and its distribution among the officers and soldiers of the army, the natives of all ages and sexes being driven into connaught. the "policing" was then left to be done by the new settlers, each man with the strong hand, on his own account. the third attempt was made by william iii., who also followed the cromwellian plan, and left the island to be governed during the following century by the military adventurers who had entered into possession of the soil. the excuse for not endeavoring to set up an honest and efficient government remained the same in all three cases; the absence of an army, or occupation elsewhere. in other words, the conquest from first to last wanted the only justification which any conquest can have. england found the irish much in the same stage of social and political progress in which caesar found the gauls, destitute of nearly all the elements of political organization; but instead of founding a political system, and maintaining it, she interfered for century after century only to subjugate and lay waste, and set the natives by the ears. mr. froude's answer to this is, that if the irish had been better men they could easily have driven the english out, which is perhaps a good reason for not bestowing much pity on the irish, but it is not a good reason for telling the irish they ought not to hate england. no pity can be made welcome which is ostentatiously mingled with contempt. it is quite true, to our minds, that during the last fifty years england has supplied the irish with a better government than the irish could provide for themselves within the next century at least. there is no doubt of the substantial value of the english connection to ireland _now_; but there is just as little that in the past history of this connection there is reason enough for irish suspicion and dislike. the tenacity of the irish memory, too, is one of the great political defects and misfortunes of the race. inability to forget past "wrongs" in the light of present prosperity, is a sure sign of the absence of the political sense; and that the irish are wanting in the political sense no candid man can deny. that they are really still, to a considerable extent, in the tribal stage of progress, there is little doubt. but they are surrounded by ideas, and institutions, and influences which make it useless to try to raise them out of that stage by the "imperial" method of government, or, in other words, by trying to persuade them that they have richly deserved all their misfortunes, and that the best thing they can do is to let a superior race mould their destinies. if it were possible for englishmen to be a little more patient with their weaknesses, to yield a little more to the childish vanities and aspirations which form the nearest approach they have yet made to a feeling of nationality, and take upon themselves in word as well as in deed their share of the horrible burdens of irish history, it would do more toward winning them irish confidence than anything americans are ever likely to say. mr. horace greeley there has been something almost tragic about the close of mr. greeley's career. after a life of, on the whole, remarkable success and prosperity, he fell finally under the weight of accumulated misfortunes. nobody who heard him declare that "he accepted the cincinnati convention and its consequences," but must be struck by the illustration of what is called "the irony of fate," which nearly everything that occurred afterwards affords. his nomination, from whatever point of view we look at it, was undoubtedly a high honor. the manner in which it was received down to the baltimore convention was very flattering. whether it was a proper thing to "beat grant" or not, that so large and so shrewd a body of his countrymen should have thought mr. greeley the man to do it was a great compliment. it found him, too, in possession of all the influence which the successful pursuit of his own calling could give a man--the most powerful editor in the union, surrounded by friends and admirers, feared or courted by nearly everybody in public life, and in the full enjoyment of widespread popular confidence in his integrity. in six short months he was well-nigh undone. he had endured a humiliating defeat, which seemed to him to indicate the loss of what was his dearest possession, the affection of the american people; he had lost the weight in public affairs which he had built up by thirty years of labor; he saw his property and, as he thought, that of his friends diminished by the attempt to give him a prize which he had in his own estimation fairly earned, and, though last not least, he found his home invaded by death, and one of the strongest of the ties which bind a man to this earth broken. it would not be wonderful if, under these circumstances, the coldest and toughest of men should lie down and die. but mr. greeley was neither cold nor tough. he was keenly sensitive both to praise and blame. the applause of even paltry men gladdened him, and their censure stung him. moreover, he had that intense longing for reputation as a man of action by which men of the closet are so often torn. in spite of all that his writing brought him in reputation, he writhed under the popular belief that he could do nothing but write, and he spent the flower of his years trying to convince the public that it was mistaken about him. it was to this we owed whatever was ostentatious in his devotion to farming, and in his interest in the manufacturing industry of the country. it was to this, too, that he owed his keen and lifelong desire for office, and, in part at least, his activity in getting offices for other people. office-seekers have become in the united states so ridiculous and so contemptible a class, that a man can hardly seek a place in the public service without incurring a certain amount of odium; and perhaps nothing did more damage to mr. greeley's reputation than his anxiety to be put in places of trust or dignity. and yet it is doubtful if many men seek office with more respectable motives than his. for pecuniary emolument he cared nothing; but he did pine all his life long for some conspicuous recognition of his capacity for the conduct of affairs, and he never got it. the men who have nominations to bestow either never had confidence enough in his judgment or ability to offer him anything which he would have thought worthy of his expectations when there was the least chance of their choice receiving a popular ratification. they disliked him, as politicians are apt to dislike an editor in the political arena, as a man who, in having a newspaper at his back, is sure not to play their game fairly. the consequence was that he was constantly irritated by finding how purely professional his influence was, or, in other words, what a mortifying disproportion existed between his editorial and his personal power. the first revelation the public had of the bitterness of his disappointment on this score was caused by the publication of the famous seward letter, and the surprise it caused was perhaps the highest compliment mr. greeley ever received. it showed with what success he had prevented his private griefs from affecting his public action, and people are always ready to forgive ambition as an "infirmity of noble minds," even when they do not feel disposed to reward it. unfortunately for mr. greeley, however, he never could persuade himself that the public was of the same mind as the politicians regarding his personal capacity. he persisted to the last in believing himself the victim of their envy, hatred, and malice, and looking with unabated hope to some opportunity of obtaining a verdict on his merits as a man of action, in which his widespread popularity and his long and laborious teachings would fairly tell. the result of the cincinnati convention, which his friends and emissaries from this city went out to prepare, but which perhaps neither he nor they in the beginning ventured to hope for, seemed to promise him at last the crown and consummation of a life's longings, and he received it with almost childlike joy. the election was, therefore, a crushing blow. it was not, perhaps, the failure to get the presidency that was hardest to bear--for this might have been accompanied by such a declaration of his fitness for the presidency as would have sweetened the remainder of his years--it was the contemptuous greatness of his opponent's majority which was killing. it dissipated the illusion of half a lifetime on the one point on which illusions are dearest--a man's exact place in the estimation of his countrymen. very few--even of those whose fame rests on the most solid foundation of achievement--ever ask to have this ascertained by a positive test without dread or misgiving, or face the test without a strain, which the nerves of old men are often ill fitted to bear. that mr. greeley's nerves were unequal to the shock of failure we now know. but it needed no intimate acquaintance with him to see that the card in which he announced, two days after the election, that he would thereafter be a simple editor, would seek office no more, and would confine himself to the production of a candid and judicial-minded paper, must have been written in bitterness of spirit for which this world had no balm. in addition to the deceptions caused by his editorial influence, mr. greeley had others to contend with, more subtle, but not less potent. the position of the editor of a leading daily paper is one which, in our time, is hardly possible for the calmest and most candid man to fill without having his judgment of himself perverted by flattery. our age is intensely commercial; it is not the dry-goods man or the grain merchant only who has goods for sale, but the poet, the orator, the scholar, the philosopher, and the politician. we are all, in a measure, seeking a market for our wares. what we desire, therefore, above all things, is a good advertising medium, or, in other words, a good means of making known to all the world where our store is and what we have to sell. this means the editor of a daily paper can furnish to anybody he pleases. he is consequently the object of unceasing adulation from a crowd of those who shrink from fighting the slow and doubtful battle of life in the open field, and crave the kindly shelter of editorial plaudits, "puffs," and "mentions." he finds this adulation offered freely, and by all classes and conditions, without the least reference to his character or talents or antecedents. what wonder if it turns the heads of unworthy men, and begets in them some of the vices of despots--their unscrupulousness, their cruelty, and their impudence. what wonder, too, if it should have thrown off his balance a man like mr. greeley, whose head was not strong, whose education was imperfect, and whose self-confidence had been fortified by a brave and successful struggle with adversity. of his many private virtues, of his kind-heartedness, his generosity, his sympathy with all forms of suffering and anxiety, we do not need to speak. his career, too, has little in it to point any moral that is not already trite and familiar. the only lesson we can gather from it with any clearness is the uncertainty of this world, and all that it contains, and the folly of seeking the presidency. nobody can hope to follow in his footsteps. he began life as a kind of editor of which he was one of the last specimens, and which will shortly be totally extinct--the editor who fought as the man-at-arms of the party. this kind of work mr. greeley did with extraordinary earnestness and vehemence and success--so much success that a modern newspaper finally grew up around him, in spite of him, almost to his surprise, and often to his embarrassment. the changed condition of journalism, the substitution of the critical for the party views of things, he never wholly accepted, and his frequent personal appearance in his columns, under the signature of "h. g." hurling defiance at his enemies or exposing their baseness, showed how stifling he found the changed atmosphere. he was fast falling behind his age when he died. new men, and new issues, and new processes, which he either did not understand at all or only understood imperfectly, crowded upon him. if the dazzling prize of the presidency had not been held before his eyes, we should probably have witnessed his gradual but certain retirement into well-won repose. those who opposed him most earnestly must now regret sincerely that in his last hours he should have known the bitterness of believing, what was really not true, that the labors of his life, which were largely devoted to good causes, had not met the appreciation they merited at the hands of his countrymen. it is for his own sake, as well as that of the public, greatly to be regretted that he should not have lived until the smoke of the late conflict had cleared away. the morals and manners of the kitchen mr. froude's attempt to secure from the american public a favorable judgment on the dealings of england with ireland has had one good result--though we fear only one--in leading to a little closer examination of the real state of american opinion about irish grievances than it has yet received. he will go back to england with the knowledge--which he evidently did not possess when he came here--that the great body of intelligent americans care very little about the history of "the six hundred years of wrong," and know even less than they care, and could not be induced, except by a land-grant, or a bounty, or a drawback, to acquaint themselves with it; that those of them who have ever tried to form an opinion on the anglo-irish controversy have hardly ever got farther than a loose notion that england had most likely behaved like a bully all through, but that her victim was beyond all question an obstreperous and irreclaimable ruffian, whose ill-treatment must be severely condemned by the moralist, but over whom no sensible man can be expected to weep or sympathize. the agencies which have helped to form the popular idea of the english political character are well known; those which have helped to deprive the irish of american sympathy--and which, if mr. froude had judiciously confined himself to describing the efforts made by england to promote irish well-being _now_, would probably have made his lectures very successful--are more obscure. we ourselves pointed out one of the most prominent, and probably most powerful--the conduct of the irish servant-girl in the american kitchen. to this must of course be added the specimen of "home rule" to which the country has been treated in this city; but we doubt if this latter has really exercised as much influence on american opinion as some writers try to make out. a community which has produced butler, banks, parker, bullock, tweed, tom fields, oakey hall, fernando wood, barnard, and scores of others whom we might name, as the results of good protestant and anglo-saxon breeding, cannot really be greatly shocked by the bad workings of celtic blood and catholic theology in the persons of peter b. sweeny, billy mcmullen, jimmy o'brien, reddy the blacksmith, or judge mccunn. it is in the kitchen that the irish iron has entered into the american soul; and it is in the kitchen that a great triumph was prepared for mr. froude, had he been a judicious man. the memory of burned steaks, of hard-boiled potatoes, of smoked milk, would have done for him what no state papers, or records, or correspondence of the illustrious dead can ever do; it had prepared the american mind to believe the very worst he could say of irish turbulence and disorder. not one of his auditors but could find in his own experience of irish cooking circumstances which would probably have led him to accept without question the execution of silken thomas, the massacre of drogheda, or even the penal laws, as perfectly justifiable exercises of authority, and would certainly have made it easy for him to believe that english rule in ireland at the present day is beneficent beyond example. nevertheless, we are constrained to say that in our opinion a great deal of the odium which surrounds bridget, and which has excited so much prejudice, not only against her countrymen, but against her ancestors, in american eyes, has a very insufficient foundation in reason. there are three characters in which she is the object of public suspicion and dislike--( ) as a cook; ( ) as a party to a contract; ( ) as a member of a household. the charges made against her in all of these have been summed up in a recent attack on her in the _atlantic monthly_, as "a lack of every quality which makes service endurable to the employer, or a wholesome life for the servant." and the same article charges her with "proving herself, in obedience, fidelity, care, and accuracy, the inferior of every kind of servant known to modern society." of course, there is hardly a family in the country which has not had, in its own experience, illustrations of the extravagance of these charges. there is probably nobody who has long kept servants, who has not had irish servants who were obedient, faithful, careful, and even accurate in a remarkable degree. but then it must be admitted that this indictment is a tolerably fair rendering, if not of the actual facts of the case, at least of the impression the facts have left on the mind of the average employer. this impression, however, needs correction, as a few not very recondite considerations will show. as a cook, bridget is an admitted failure. but cooking is, it is now generally acknowledged, very much an affair of instinct, and this instinct seems to be very strong in some races and very weak in others, though why the french should have it highly developed, and the irish be almost altogether deprived of it, is a question which would require an essay to itself. no amount of teaching will make a person a good cook who is not himself fond of good food and has not a delicate palate, for it is the palate which must test the value of rules. we may deduce from this the conclusion, which experience justifies, that women are not naturally good cooks. they have had the cookery of the world in their hands for several thousand years, but all the marked advances in the art, and indeed all that can be called the cultivation of it, have been the work of men. whatever zeal women have displayed in it, and whatever excellence they have achieved in it, have been the result of influences in no way gastronomic, and which we might perhaps call emotional, such as devotion to male relatives, or a desire to minister to the pleasure of men in general. few or no women cook a dinner in an artistic spirit, and their success in doing it is nearly always the result of affection or loyalty--which is of course tantamount to saying that female cookery as a whole is, and always has been, comparatively poor. as a proof of this, we may mention the fact--for fact we think it is--that the art of cooking among women has declined at any given time or place--in the northern states of the union, for instance--_pari passu_, with the growth of female independence. that is, as the habit or love of ministering to men's tastes has become weaker, the interest in cookery has fallen off. there are no such cooks among native american women now as there were fifty years ago; and passages in foreign cookery books which assume the existence among women of strong interest in their husbands' and brothers' likings, and strong desire to gratify them, furnish food for merriment in american households. bridget, therefore, can plead, first of all, the general incapacity of women as cooks; and, secondly, the general falling off in the art under the influence of the new ideas. it may be that she _ought_ to cultivate assiduously or with enthusiasm a calling which all the other women of the country ostentatiously despise, but she would be more than human if she did so. she imitates american women as closely as she can, and cannot live on the same soil without imbibing their ideas; and unhappily, as in all cases of imitation, vices are more easily and earlier caught than virtues. she can make, too, an economical defence of the most powerful kind, to the attacks on her in this line, and it is this: that whether her cooking be bad or good, she offers it without deception or subterfuge, at a fair rate, and without compulsion; that nobody who does not like her dishes need eat them; and that her defects of taste or training can only be fairly made a cause of hatred and abuse when she does work badly, which somebody else is waiting to do better, if she would get out of the way. she has undertaken the task of cooking for the american nation, not of her own motion, but simply and solely because the american nation could find nobody else to do it. she does not, therefore, occupy the position of a broken-down or incompetent artist, but of a volunteer at a fire, or a passer-by when you are lying in the ditch with your leg broken. the plain truth of the matter is, that the whole native population of the united states has almost suddenly, and with one accord, refused to perform for hire any of the services usually called "menial" or indoor. the men have found other more productive fields of industry, and the women, under the influence of the prevailing theory of life, have resolved to accept any employment at any wages sooner than do other people's housework. the result has been a demand for trained servants which the whole european continent could not supply if it would, and which has proved so intense that it has drawn the peasantry out of the fields _en masse_ from the one european country in which the peasantry was sufficiently poor to be tempted, and spoke or understood the american language. no such phenomenon has ever been witnessed before. no country before has ever refused to do its own "chores," and called in an army of foreigners for the purpose. to complain bitterly of their want of skill is therefore, under the circumstances, almost puerile, from an economical point of view; while, to anyone who looks at the matter as a moralist, it is hard to see why bridget, doing the work badly in the kitchen, is any more a contemptible object than the american sewing-girl killing herself in a garret at three dollars a week, out of devotion to "the principle of equality." as a party to a contract, bridget's defects are very strongly marked. her sense of the obligation of contracts is feeble. the reason why this particular vice excites so much odium in her case is, that the inconveniences of her breaches of contract are greater than those of almost any other member of the community. they touch us in our most intimate social relations, and cause us an amount of mental anguish out of all proportion to their real importance. but her spirit about contracts is really that of the entire community in which she lives. her way of looking at her employer is, we sincerely believe, about the way of looking at him common among all employees. the only real restraint on laborers of any class among us nowadays is the difficulty of finding another place. whenever it becomes as easy for clerks, draughtsmen, mechanics, and the like to "suit themselves" as it is for cooks or housemaids, we find them as faithless. native mechanics and seamstresses are just as perfidious as bridget, but incur less obloquy, because their faithlessness causes less annoyance; but they have no more regard in making their plans for the interest or wishes of their employer than she has, and they all take the "modern view" of the matter. what makes her so fond of change is that she lives in a singularly restless society, in which everybody is engaged in a continual struggle to "better himself"--her master, in nine cases out of ten, setting her an example of dislike to steady industry and slow gains. moreover, domestic service is a kind of employment which, if not sweetened by personal affection, is extraordinarily full of wear and tear. in it there is no real end to the day, and in small households, the pursuit and oversight, and often the "nagging," of the employer, or, in other words, the presence of an exacting, semi-hostile, and slightly contemptuous person is constant. this and confinement in a half-dark kitchen produce that nervous crisis which sends male mechanics and other male laborers, engaged in monotonous callings, off "on a spree." in bridget's case it works itself off by a change of place, with a few days of squalid repose among "her own people" in a tenement-house. as regards her general bearing as a member of a household, she has to contend with three great difficulties--ignorance of civilized domestic life, for which she is no more to blame than russian moujiks; difference of race and creed on the part of her employer (and this is one which the servants of no other country have to contend with); and lastly, the strong contempt for domestic service felt and manifested by all that portion of the american population with which she comes in contact, and to which it is her great ambition to assimilate herself. those who have ever tried the experiment of late years of employing a native american as a servant, have, we believe, before it was over, generally come to look on bridget as the personification of repose, if not of comfort; and those who have to call on native americans, even occasionally, for services of a quasi-personal character, such as those of expressmen, hotel clerks, plumbers, we believe are anxious to make their intercourse with these gentlemen as brief as possible. most expressmen are natives, and are freemen of intelligence and capacity, but they carry your trunk into your hall with the air of convicts doing forced labor for a tyrannical jailer. if the spirit in which they discharge their duties--and they are specimens of a large class--were to make its way into our kitchens, society would go to pieces. in short, bridget is the legitimate product of our economical, political, and moral condition. we have called her, in our extremity, to do duties for which she is not trained, and having got her here have surrounded her with influences and ideas which american society has busied itself for fifty years in fostering and spreading, and which, taking hold of persons in her stage of development, work mental and moral ruin. the things which american life and manners preach to her are not patience, sober-mindedness, faithfulness, diligence, and honesty, and eagerness for physical enjoyment. whenever the sound of the new gospel which is to win the natives back to the ancient and noble ways is heard in the land, it is fair to expect that it will not find her ears wholly closed, and that when the altar of duty is again set up by her employers, she will lay on it attractive beefsteaks, potatoes done to a turn, make libations of delicious soup, and will display remarkable fertility in "sweets," and an extreme fondness for washing, and learn to grow old in one family. john stuart mill mr. mill was, in many respects, one of the most singular men ever produced by english society. his father was a prominent member of the small sect or coterie of benthamites, whose attempts to reform the world, during the whole of the earlier part of the present century, furnished abundant matter for ridicule to the common run of politicians and social philosophers; and this ridicule was heightened, as the years rolled on, by the extraordinary jargon which their master adopted for the communication of his discoveries to the world. the author of the "defence of usury," of the "fragment on government," and of the "book of fallacies," had, however, secured a reputation very early in his career which his subsequent eccentricities could not shake, but the first attempts of his disciples to catch the public ear were not fortunate. macaulay's smart review of james mill's book on "government" gives a very fair expression to the common feeling about them in english literary and political circles during john stuart's boyhood. about the value of the father's labors as a mental philosopher there are of course a variety of opinions, but he gave two proofs of capacity for the practical work of life which there was no gainsaying. he came to london an obscure man of humble origin, but managed, without ever having been in india, and at a period when authors were held in much less esteem by politicians than they were at a later period, to produce such an impression of his knowledge of indian affairs, by his elaborate history of that country, on the minds of the directors of the company, that they gave him an important office in the india house, and this, too, in spite of the fact that he lived in a circle generally considered visionary--answering, in fact, in some degree to what we call the "long-haired people." besides this, he himself personally gave his son an education which made him, perhaps, all things considered, the most accomplished man of his age, and without help from the universities or any other institution of learning. the son grew up with a profound reverence for his father as a scholar and thinker, and rarely lost an opportunity of expressing it, though, curiously enough, he began very early to look on bentham, the head of the school, with a critical eye. the young man's course was, however, still more remarkable than the father's. although brought up in a narrow coterie holding peculiar and somewhat unpopular opinions, and displaying, from his first entrance in life, as intense hostility as it was in his nature to feel against anything, against the english universities as then organized and conducted, though they were the centre of english culture and indeed one might say of intellectual activity, he saw himself, before he reached middle life, the most potent influence known to educated englishmen, and perhaps that which has most contributed to the late grave changes in english public opinion on several of the leading social and political problems. indeed, it is not too much to say that his writings produced a veritable _débâcle_ in the english mind. the younger generation were a good deal stirred by carlyle; but carlyle, after all, only woke people up, and made them look out of the window to see what was the matter, after which most of them went to bed again and slept comfortably. his cries were rather too inarticulate to furnish anything like a new gospel, and he never took hold of the intellectual class. but mill did. the "logic" and "political economy," as reinforced and expounded by his earlier essays, were generally accepted by the younger men as the teachings of a real master, and even those who fully accepted neither his mental philosophy nor his social economy, acknowledged that the day of old things was passing away under his preaching. his method, however, as applied to politics, was not original--in fact, it was bentham's. bentham, who was perhaps, in the field of jurisprudence, the most destructive critic that ever appeared, had the merit which in his day was somewhat novel among reformers, and marked him out as something very different from continental radicals--of being also highly constructive. indeed, his labors in providing substitutes for what he sought to overthrow are among the most curious, and, we might add, valuable monuments of human industry and ingenuity. his proposed reforms were based, too, on a theory of human nature which differed from that in use among a large number of radicals in our day in being perfectly sound, that is, in perfect accordance with observed facts, as far as it went. but it did not go nearly far enough. it did not embrace the whole of human nature, or even the greater part of it, and for the simple reason, which mr. mill himself has pointed out in his analysis of bentham's character, that its author was almost entirely wanting in sympathy and imagination. a very large proportion of the springs of human action were unknown or incomprehensible to him. the result was that, although he exerted a powerful influence on english law reform by his exposure of specific abuses, he made little impression on english sociology, properly so called. this was in part due to his narrowness of view, and in part to the absence of an interpreter, none of his followers having attempted to put his wisdom into readable shape, except dumont, and he only partially and in french. the application of his method to the work of general reform was indeed left to mr. mill, who brought to the task an amount of culture to which bentham could make no claim, and a large share of the sympathy of which there was also so little in bentham's composition, and a style which, for expository and didactic purposes, has perhaps never been surpassed. moreover, mr. mill lost no time, as most men do, in maturing. he was a full-blown philosopher at twenty-five, and discourses in his earliest essays with almost the same measure, circumspection, and gravity exhibited in the latest of his works, and with all the benthamite precision and attention to limitations. he was, however, wanting, as his master was, in imagination, and wanting, too, in what we may call, though not in any bad sense, the animal side of man's nature. he suffered in his treatment of all the questions of the day from excess of culture and deficiency of blood. he understood and allowed for men's errors of judgment and for their ignorance, and for their sloth and indifference; but of appreciation of the force of their passions his speculations contain little sign. for instance, he was the first to point out the fact that the principle of competition, the eager desire to sell, which furnishes the motive power of the english and american social organization, is almost unknown and unfelt among the greater part of mankind, but his remedy for redundancy of population, and his lamentations over "the subjection of women," are those of a recluse or a valetudinarian. his influence as a political philosopher may be said to have stood highest after the appearance of the "political economy." he had, then, perhaps the most remarkable following of hard-headed men which any english philosopher was ever able to show. but the reverence of his disciples waned somewhat rapidly after he began to take a more active part in the treatment of the questions of the day. his "representative government," valuable as it was as a philosophical discussion, offered no solution of the problem then pressing on the public minds in england, which bitter radicals or conservatives could consider comforting. the plan of having the number of a man's votes regulated by his calling and intelligence was thoroughly benthamite. it was as complete and logical as a proposition in euclid, and in would have looked attractive; but in the power of doing this nice work had completely passed out of everybody's hands--indeed, the desire of political perfection had greatly abated. his lofty and eloquent plaints on the decline of social freedom helped to strengthen the charge of want of practicalness, which in our day is so injurious to a man's political influence, and when he entered parliament, although he disappointed none of those who best understood him, the outside multitude, who had begun to look on him as a prophet, were somewhat chagrined that he was not readier in parrying the thrusts of the trained gladiators of the house of commons. it was the book on the "subjection of women," however, which most shook the allegiance of his more educated followers, because it was marked by the widest departures from his own rules of thinking. it would be impossible to find any justification in his other works for the doctrine that women are inferior to men for the same reason that male serfs are inferior to their masters. his refusal to consider difference of sex as even one probable cause of women's inferiority to men in mental and moral characteristics, was something for which few of his disciples were prepared, or which they ever got over; and indeed his whole treatment of the question of sex showed, in the opinion of many, a constitutional incapacity to deal with the gravest problems of social economy. the standing of mr. mill as a mental philosopher appears to be very differently estimated by late critics and opponents and by himself, whether we consider the extent of his influence, or the relations of his doctrines to his nation and time; and there is a most singular inversion in these estimates of what we should naturally expect from friend and foe--an estimate of mill's position and influence by his opponents, which, compared to his own, seems greatly exaggerated. for example, dr. mccosh, a thorough-going opponent, regards mill's influence as the most active and effective philosophical force now alive in great britain, the strongest current of philosophic thought even at oxford; and m. taine, who some years ago discovered at oxford that the british nation was not wanting in "general ideas" or principles in its modes of thought above the requirements of the accountant and assayer, found these principles in a really living english philosophy, which has brought forth one of m. taine's most elaborate critical studies in his work on "intelligence." in contrast with these estimates, we have from mr. mill himself the opinion, in a letter to m. taine, that his views are not especially english, and that they have not been so since the philosophical reaction in scotland, germany, and later in england, against hume; that when his "system of logic" was written he "stood almost alone in his opinions; and though they have met with a degree of sympathy which he by no means expected, we may still count in england twenty _a priori_ and spiritualist philosophers for every partisan of the doctrine of experience." this estimate of his own influence and of the importance to metaphysical discussion at the present time of the philosophy he "adopted" is entitled to much more consideration than ought in general to be allowed for an opinion inspired by the ambition, the enthusiasm, the disappointments, or even the modesty of a philosophical thinker. nevertheless, the far different opinion of his standing as a metaphysician which his critics entertain is undoubtedly more correct, though in a sense which was not so clearly apparent to him. they see clearly that a philosophy of which he was not the founder, and never pretended to be, has gained through his writings a hold, not only on english speculation, but on that of the civilized world, which it did not acquire even in england when it was an especially english philosophy, as it was "in the first half of the eighteenth century, from the time of locke to that of the reaction against hume." what, then, is it in mill's philosophical writings that has given him this eminence as a thinker? two qualities, we think, very rarely combined: a philosophical style which for clearness and cogency has, perhaps, never been surpassed, and a conscientious painstaking, with a seriousness of conviction, and an earnestness of purpose which did not in general characterize the thinkers whose views he adopted. it was by bringing to the support of doctrines previously regarded as irreligious a truly religious spirit that mill acquired in part the influence and respect which have given him his eminence as a thinker. he thus redeemed the word "utility" and the utilitarian doctrine of morals from the ill repute they had, for "the greatest happiness principle" was with him a religious principle. an equally important part of his influence is doubtless due to the thoroughness of his early training--the education received from his father's instruction--which, as we have said, has made him truly regarded as the most accomplished of modern dialecticians. to these grounds of influence may be added, so far as his influence on english thought is concerned, the fact that he was not a metaphysician in a positive fashion, though he dealt largely with metaphysical topics. he represented the almost instinctive aversion to metaphysics, as such, which has characterized the english since the time of newton and locke, we might also say since the time of bacon. metaphysics, to pass current in england, has now to be baptized and become part of the authoritative religious instruction, else it is foreign and barbarous to the english matter-of-fact ways of thinking. mill's "system of logic" was not intended as a system of _philosophy_ in the german, french, or even scotch sense of the term. it is not through the _a priori_ establishment or refutation of highest principles that experiential, inductive, fact-proven principles of science are regarded or tested by the unmetaphysical english mind. metaphysical doctrines prevail, it is true, in england, to the extent, probably, that mr. mill estimates--twenty to one of its thinkers holding to some such views. yet it would be a misconception to suppose these to be products of modern english _thought_. they are rather preserves, tabooed, interdicted to discussion, not the representatives of its living thought. mr. mill estimated the worth of contemporary thinkers in accordance with this almost instinctive distrust of rational "illumination;" setting archbishop whately, for example, as a thinker, above sir w. hamilton, for his services to philosophy, on account of "the number of true and valuable thoughts" which he originated and put into circulation, not as parts of a system, but as independent truths of sagacious or painstaking observation and reflection. it is by such a standard that mr. mill would doubtless wish to be judged, and by it he would be justly placed above all, or nearly all, of his contemporaries. nevertheless, as a conscientious student of metaphysics he held in far higher esteem than is shown in general by english thinkers the powers peculiar to the metaphysician--the ability and disposition to follow out into their consequences, and to concatenate in a system the assumption of _a priori_ principles. descartes, leibnitz, comte, and, as an exceptional english thinker, even mr. spencer, receive commendation from him on this account. it is clear, however, that his respect for this talent was of the sort which does not aspire to imitate what is admired. panics it is impossible to see, much less experience, a financial panic without an almost appalling consciousness that a new and terrible form of danger and distress has been added in comparatively recent times to the list of those by which human life is menaced or perplexed. any one who stood on wall street, or in the gallery of the stock exchange last thursday and friday and saturday ( ), and saw the mad terror, we might almost say the brute terror like that by which a horse is devoured who has a pair of broken shafts hanging to his heels, or a dog flying from a tin saucepan attached to his tail, with which great crowds of men rushed to and fro, trying to get rid of their property, almost begging people to take it from them at any price, could hardly avoid feeling that a new plague had been sent among men; that there was an impalpable, invisible force in the air, robbing them of their wits, of which philosophy had not as yet dreamt. no dog was ever so much alarmed by the clatter of the saucepan as hundreds seemed to be by the possession of really valuable and dividend-paying securities; and no horse was ever more reckless in extricating himself from the _débris_ of a broken carriage than these swarms of acute and shrewd traders in divesting themselves of their possessions. hundreds must really, to judge by their conduct, have been so confused by terror and anxiety as to be unable to decide whether they desired to have or not to have, to be poor or rich. if a roman or a man of the middle ages had been suddenly brought into view of the scene, he would have concluded without hesitation that a ruthless invader was coming down the island; that his advanced guard was momentarily expected; and that anybody found by his forces in possession of western union, or harlem, or lake shore, or any other paying stock or bond, would be subjected to cruel tortures, if not put to death. for neither the roman nor the mediaeval could understand a rich man's being terrified by anything but armed violence. seneca enumerates as the three great sources of anxiety in life the fear of want, of disease, and of oppression by the powerful, and he pronounces the last the greatest. if he had seen wall-street brokers and bankers last week trying to get rid of stocks and bonds, he could not of course have supposed that they were poor or feared poverty; he would have judged from their physical activity that they were in perfect health, so that he would have been driven to the conclusion that some barbarian host, commanded by sitting bull or red cloud, was entering the city, and was breathing out threatenings and slaughter against the owners of personal property. if you had tried to explain to him that there was no conqueror at the gates, that the fear of violence was almost unknown in our lives, that each man in that struggling crowd enjoyed an amount of security against force in all its forms which no roman senator could ever count upon, and that the terror he witnessed was caused by precisely the same agency as the flight of an army before it has been beaten, or, in other words, by "panic," he would have gazed at you in incredulous amazement. he would have said that panic in an army was caused by the sudden dissolution of the bonds of discipline, by each soldier's losing his confidence that his comrades and his officers would stand their ground; but these traders, he would have added, are not subject to discipline; they do not belong to an organization of any kind; each buys and sells for himself; he has his property there in that tin box, and if nobody is going to rob him what is frightening him? why is he pale and trembling? why does he run and shout and weep, and ask people to give him a trifle, only a trifle, for all he possesses and let him go? if you were then to set about explaining to seneca that the way the god pan worked confusion in our day in the commercial world was by destroying "credit," you would find yourself brought suddenly face to face with one of the most striking differences between ancient and modern, or, even as we have said, mediaeval society. the most prominent and necessary accompaniment or incident of property in the ancient world was possession. what a man owned he held. his wealth was in his farm, or his house, or his granary, or his ships. he could hardly separate the idea of property from that of possession, and the state of society strengthened the association. the frugal man hoarded, and when he was terrified he buried his money, a practice to which we owe the preservation of the greater portion of the old coins now in our collections. the influence of this sense of insecurity, of the constant fear of invasion or violence, lasted long enough in all continental countries, as mr. bagehot has recently pointed out, to prevent the establishment of banks of issue until very lately. the prospect of war was so constantly in men's minds that no bank could make arrangements for the run which would surely follow the outbreak of hostilities, and, in view of this contingency, nobody would be willing to hold paper promises to pay in lieu of gold and silver. it is therefore in england and america, the two countries possessing not only most commercial enterprise, but most security against invasion, that the paper money has come into earliest and widest use. to the paper of the banks have been added the checks and bills of exchange of private individuals, until money proper plays a greatly diminishing part in the operations of commerce. goods are exchanged and debts paid by a system of balancing claims against claims, which really has almost ceased to rest on money at all. so that a man may be a very rich man in our day, and have really nothing to show for his wealth whatever. you go to his house, and you find nothing but a lot of shabby furniture. the only thing there which seneca would have called wealth is perhaps his wife's jewels, which would not bring a few thousand dollars. you think his money must be in the bank, but you go there with him and find that all he has there is a page on the ledger bearing his name, with a few figures on it. the bank bills which you see lying about, and which look a little like money, are not only not money in the sense seneca understood the term, but they do not represent over a third of what the bank owes to various people. you go to some safe-deposit vaults, thinking that it is perhaps there he keeps his valuables, but all you find is a mass of papers signed by thomas smith or john jones, declaring that he is entitled to so many shares of some far-off bank, or that some railroad will pay him a certain sum some thirty years hence. in fact, looked at with roman eyes, our millionaire seems to be possessed of little or nothing, and likely to be puzzled about his daily bread. now, this wonderful change in the character and incidents of property may be said to be the work of the last century, and it may be said to consist in the substitution of an agency wholly moral for an agency wholly material in the work of exchange and distribution. for the giving and receiving of gold and silver we have substituted neither more nor less than faith in the honesty and industry and capacity of our fellow-men. there is hardly one of us who does not literally live by faith. we lay up fortunes, marry, eat, drink, travel, and bequeath, almost without ever handling a cent; and the best reason which ninety-nine out of every hundred of us can give for feeling secure against want, or having the means of enjoyment or of charity, is not the possession of anything of real value, but his confidence that certain thousands of his fellow-creatures, whom he has never seen and never expects to see, scattered, it may be, over the civilized world, will keep their promises, and do their daily work with fidelity and efficiency. this faith is every year being made to carry a greater and greater load. the transactions which rest on it increase every year in magnitude and complexity. it has to extend itself every year over a larger portion of the earth's surface, and to include a greater variety of race and creed and custom. london and paris and berlin and vienna now tremble when new york is alarmed. we have, in short, to believe every year in a greater and greater number of people, and to depend for our daily bread on the successful working of vast combinations, in which human character is, after all, the main element. the consequence is that, when for any reason a shade of doubt comes over men's minds that the combination is not working, that the machine is at some point going to give way, that somebody is not playing his part fairly, the solid ground seems to shake under their feet, and we have some of the phenomena resulting from an earthquake, and among others blind terror. but to anyone who understands what this new social force, credit, is, and the part it plays in human affairs, the wonder is, not that it gives way so seldom, but that it stands so firm; that these hundreds of millions of laborers, artisans, shopkeepers, merchants, bankers, and manufacturers hold so firmly from day to day the countless engagements into which they enter, and that each recurring year the result of the prodigious effort which is now put forth in the civilized world in the work of production should be distributed with so much accuracy and honesty, and, on the whole, with so much wise adjustment to the value of each man's contributions to civilization. there is one fact, however, which throws around credit, as around so many others of the influences by which our lives are shaped, a frightful mystery. its very strength helps to work ruin. the more we believe in our fellow-toilers, and the more they do to warrant our belief, the more we encourage them to work, the more we excite their hopefulness; and out of this hopefulness come "panics" and "crashes." prosperity breeds credit, and credit stimulates enterprise, and enterprise embarks in labors which, about every ten years in england, and every twenty years in this country, it is found that the world is not ready to pay for. panics have occurred in england in , , , , , , , and there was very near being a very severe one in . in this country we have had them in , , , and , and by panics we do not mean such local whirlwinds as have desolated wall street, but wide-spread commercial crises, affecting all branches of business. this periodicity is ascribed, and with much plausibility, to the fact that inasmuch as panics are the result of certain mental conditions, they recur as soon as the experience of the previous one has lost its influence, or, in other words, as often as a new generation comes into the management of affairs, which is about every ten years in the commercial world both in england and here. the fact that this country seems to be only half as liable to them as england, is perhaps due to the fact that the extent of our resources, and the greater ratio of increase of population make it much harder to overdo in the work of production here than in england, and to this must be added the greater strength of nerves produced by greater hopefulness. in spite of the enormous abundance of british capital and the rashness of the owners in making investments, there hangs over the london money market a timidity and doubtfulness about the future which is unknown on this side of the water, and which very slight accidents develop into distrust and terror. outside those who are actually engaged in a financial panic--such as brokers, bankers, merchants and manufacturers, who have loans to pay or receive, or acceptances falling due, and who are therefore too busy and too sorely beset to moralize on it or look at it objectively, as the philosophers say--there is a large body of persons who are not immediately affected by it, such as professional men, owners of secure investments, persons in receipt of well-assured salaries, ministers, newspaper writers, speculative economists, financiers, and farmers, to whom it is a source of secret enjoyment. they are obliged, out of sympathy with their neighbors, to look blue, and probably few of them are entirely exempt from the general anxiety about the future, but, nevertheless, they are on the whole rather gratified than otherwise by the thing's having happened. in the first place, all those persons who give their attention to the currency question are divided into two great schools--the paper men and the hard-money men; and every panic affords each of them what it considers a legitimate ground of triumph. the paper men say that the crisis is due to failure to issue more paper at the proper moment, and the hard-money men ascribe it to the irredeemability of what is already issued; and each side chuckles over the convulsion as a startling confirmation of its views, and goes about calling attention to it almost gleefully. there is a similar division on the banking question. indeed the feud between the friends of free banking and restricted banking is fiercer than that between the two currency schools, and has raged longer, and every monetary crisis feeds the flame. it is maintained, on the one hand, that if banks were let alone by the state their issues would be proportioned to the exact wants of business; and, on the other, that if the state would only restrict them more rigidly business would be kept within proper limits, and all would go well. each disputant draws from a panic about the same amount of support for his views, because in the great variety of circumstances which surround it there are always some which favor any theory of its origin. in one thing, however, both sets of observers are apt to agree thoroughly, and that is in believing the "thing will not blow over," and that "we are going to feel it for a long time." they have long foreseen it, and have only been surprised that it did not come sooner; and they lower their voices to a hoarse whisper while telling you this. but there is no class of observers which extracts so much solid comfort from a panic as that large body of social philosophers who are hostile to luxury, and believe that the world is going to the dogs through self-indulgence. it may even be said that two-thirds of the community, or indeed all except the very few, hold this opinion with a greater or less degree of strength. the farmers hold it strongly with regard to the city people, the artisans with regard to merchants, bankers, brokers, and manufacturers, and among the latter nearly every man is inclined to it with regard to persons of more means than himself. moreover, it would probably astonish us if we knew how large was the number of those who fancy that their more well-to-do neighbors, if they do not belong to the category of millionaires, are living beyond their means. every man whose own means are small, or even moderate, finds himself rather hard put to it to make both ends meet, and is constantly harassed by desires which he is unable to gratify. when he sees others gratifying them, his self-love drives him often unconsciously into ascribing it to recklessness and improvidence. very close people, too, who have a constitutional repugnance to spending money freely for any purpose, and especially for purposes of personal enjoyment, can hardly persuade themselves that other persons who do so, spend it honestly. and then behind these come the large army of lovers of simplicity and frugality on moral and religious grounds, who believe that material luxury contains a snare for the soul, and that true happiness and real virtue are not to be found in gilded saloons. they write to the newspapers denouncing the reluctance of young people to marry on small incomes, and urging girls to begin life as their mothers began it, and despise the silly chatter of those who think luxurious surroundings more important than the union of hearts. the occurrence of a panic fills the breasts of all these with various degrees of rejoicing. they always take a very dark view of it, and laugh contemptuously at those who consider it a "wall-street flurry," or ascribe it to any vice in the currency or in the banking system. extravagant living they believe to be at the bottom of it, and, like the hard-money men, they are only surprised that it has not come sooner, and they believe most firmly that it is going to effect a sort of social revolution, and bring the world more nearly to their own ideal of what it ought to be. the amount of "rottenness" which they expect it to reveal is always enormous, and they look forward to the exposure and the general coming-down of their guilty neighbors to "the hard pan" with the keenest relish. they have long, for instance, been unable to imagine where the multitude of people who live in brown-stone houses get the money to keep them. there was something wrong about it, they felt satisfied, though they could not tell what, and when the panic comes they half fancy that the murder will out, and that there will be a great migration of fraudulent bankrupts from fifth avenue and its neighborhood into tenement-houses on the east and north rivers. how mrs. smith, too, dressed as she did, and where smith got the money to take her to sharon every summer, and how jones managed to entertain as he was doing, have often been puzzling problems, which "the crash" in the money market is at last going to solve. it is also highly gratifying to those who consider yachting a senseless amusement to reflect that the panic will probably diminish the number of yachts, and they even flatter themselves that it may stop yachting in future, and reduce the general style of living among rich young men. "we shall now," they say, "have fewer fast horses, and less champagne, and less gaudy furniture, and more honest, hard work, and plain, wholesome food." they accordingly rejoice in the panic as a means adopted by providence to bring a gluttonous and ungodly generation to its senses, and lead it back to that state of things which is known, as "republican simplicity." the curious thing about this expectation is that it has survived innumerable disappointments without apparently losing any of its vigor. it was strong after , and strong after , and stronger than ever after . the war was surely, people said, to bring back the golden age, when all the men were prudent, sober, and industrious, and all the women simple, modest, and homekeeping. the war did nothing of the kind. in fact, it left us more extravagant and lavish and self-indulgent than ever; yet the ancient and tough belief in the purifying influence of a stringent money market still lasts, and is at this moment cropping out in the moral department of a thousand newspapers. the belief belongs to what may be called the cataclysmal theory of progress, which improves the world by sudden starts, and clings so fondly to liquor-laws, and has profound faith in specific remedies for moral and political diseases. what commercial panics and great national misfortunes do not do, particular bits of legislation are sure to do. you put something in the constitution, or forbid something, or lose a battle, or have a "shrinkage of values," or have a cholera season, and forthwith the community turns over a new leaf, and becomes moral, economical, and sober-minded. we doubt whether this theory will ever die out, however much philosophers may preach against it, or however often facts may refute it, because it gratifies, or promises to gratify, one of the deepest longings of the human heart--the desire which each man feels to have a great deal of history crowded into his own little day. none of us can bear to quit the scene without witnessing the solution of the problems by which his own life has been vexed or over which he has long labored. indeed a great many men would find it impossible to work with any zeal to bring about results which would probably not be witnessed until they had been centuries in the tomb. we accordingly find that the most eager reformers are apt to be those who look for the triumph of virtue by the close of the current year. of all dreams of eager reformers, however, there is probably none more substantial than that which looks for a restoration of that vague thing called "simplicity of manners." simplicity and economy are, of course, relative terms. the luxurious gentleman in the fourteenth century lived in a way which the well-to-do artisan in our own time would not tolerate; and when we undertake to carry people back to ancient ways of living we find that there is hardly a point short of barbarism at which we can consistently stop. a country in which money is easily made and abounds, will be one in which money will always be freely spent, and in which personal comfort and even display will occupy men's and women's thoughts a great deal. we can no more prevent this than we can prevent the growth of wealth itself; and our duty is, instead of wasting our breath in denouncing extravagance, or hailing panics as purging fires, to do what in us lies to give rich people more taste, more conscience, more sense of responsibility for curable ills, and a keener relish of the higher forms of pleasure. extravagance--or, in other words, the waste of money on sensual enjoyment, the production of hideous furniture or jewelry, or of barbarous display--has to be checked not by the preaching of poor people, but by the rich man's own superiority to these things, and his own repugnance for them. this repugnance can only be inspired by education, whether that of school and college, or that of a refined and cultivated social atmosphere. much would be done in this direction if public opinion exacted of the owners of large fortunes that they should give their sons the best education the country affords; or, in other words, send them to college, instead of setting them up in the dry-goods business or the grocery business. a man who has made a large fortune in honest trade or industry has not contributed his share to moral and intellectual interests by merely making donations. it is his duty, also, if he leaves children behind him, to see to it, as far as he can, that they are men who will be an addition to the general culture and taste of the nation, and who will stimulate its nobler ambition, raise its intellectual standard, quicken its love of excellence in all fields, and deepen its faith in the value of things not seen. the odium philologicum our readers and those of _the galaxy_ are familiar with the controversy between dr. fitzedward hall and mr. grant white (november, ). when one comes to inquire what it was all about, and why mr. white was led to consider dr. hall a "yahoo of literature," and "a man born without a sense of decency," one finds himself engaged in an investigation of great difficulty, but of considerable interest. the controversy between these two gentlemen by no means brings up the problem for the first time. that verbal criticism, such as mr. white has been producing for some time back, is sure to end, sooner or later, in one or more savage quarrels, is one of the most familiar facts of the literary life of our day. indeed, so far as our observation has gone, the rule has no exceptions. whenever we see a gentleman, no matter how great his accomplishments or sweet his temper, announcing that he is about to write articles or deliver lectures on "words and their uses," or on the "english of every-day life," or on "familiar faults of conversation," or "newspaper english," or any cognate theme, we feel all but certain that we shall soon see him engaged in an encounter with another laborer in the same field, in which all dignity will be laid aside, and in which, figuratively speaking, clothes, hair, and features will suffer terribly, and out of which, unless he is very lucky, he will issue with the gravest imputations resting on his character in every relation of life. now why is it that attempts to get one's fellow-men to talk correctly, to frame their sentences in accordance with good usage, and take their words from the best authors, have this tendency to arouse some of the worst passions of our nature, and predispose even eminent philologists--men of dainty language, and soft manners, and lofty aims--to assail each other in the rough vernacular of the fish-market and the forecastle? a careless observer will be apt to say that it is an ordinary result of disputation; that when men differ or argue on any subject they are apt to get angry and indulge in "personalities." but this is not true. lawyers, for instance, live by controversy, and their controversies touch interests of the gravest and most delicate character--such as fortune and reputation; and yet the spectacle of two lawyers abusing each other in cold blood, in print, is almost unknown. currency and banking are, at certain seasons, subjects of absorbing interest, and, for the last seventy years, the discussions over them have been numerous and voluminous almost beyond example, and yet we remember no case in which a bullionist called a paper-money man bad names, or in which a friend of free banking accused a restrictionist of defrauding the poor or defacing tombstones. politics, too, home and foreign, is a fertile source of difference of opinion; and yet gross abuse, on paper, of each other, by political disputants, discussing abstract questions having no present relation to power or pay, are very rare indeed. it seems, at first blush, as if an examination of the well-known _odium theologicum_, or the traditional bitterness which has been apt to characterize controversies about points of doctrine, from the middle ages down to a period within our own memory, would throw some light on the matter. but a little consideration will show that there are special causes for the rancor of theologians for which word-criticism has no parallel. the _odium theologicum_ was the natural and inevitable result of the general belief that the holding of certain opinions was necessary to salvation, and that the formation of opinions could be wholly regulated by the will. this belief, pushed to its extreme limits and embodied in legislation, led to the burning of heretics in nearly all christian countries. when b's failure to adopt a's conclusions was by a regarded as a sign of depravity of nature which, would lead to b's damnation, nothing was more natural than that when they came into collision in pamphlets or sermons they should have attributed to each other the worst motives. a man who was deliberately getting himself ready for perdition was not a person to whom anybody owed courtesy or consideration, or whose arguments, being probably supplied by satan, deserved respectful examination. we accordingly find that as the list of "essential" opinions has become shortened, and as doubts as to men's responsibility for their opinions have made their way from the world into the church, theological controversy has lost its acrimony and indeed has almost ceased. no theologian of high standing or character now permits himself to show bad temper in a doctrinal or hermeneutical discussion, and a large and increasing proportion of theologians acknowledge that the road to heaven is so hard for us all that the less quarrelling and jostling there is in it, the better for everybody. nor does the _odium scientificum_, of which we have now happily but occasional manifestations, furnish us with any suggestions. controversy between scientific men begins to be bitter and frequent, as the field of investigation grows wider and the investigation itself grows deeper. but then this is easily accounted for. all scientific men of the first rank are engaged in original research--that is, in attempts to discover laws and phenomena previously unknown. the workers in all departments are very numerous, and are scattered over various countries, and as one discovery, however slight, is very apt to help in some degree in the making of another, scientific men are constantly exposed to having their claims to originality contested, either as regards priority in point of time or as regards completeness. consequently, they may be said to stand in delicate relations to each other, and are more than usually sensitive about the recognition of their achievements by their brethren--a state of things which, while it cultivates a very nice sense of honor, leads occasionally to encounters in which free-will seems for the moment to get the better of law. the differences of the scientific world, too, are complicated by the theological bearing of a good deal of scientific discovery and discussion, and many a scientific man finds himself either compelled to defend himself against theologians, or to aid theologians in bringing an erring brother to reason. the true source of the _odium philologicum_ is, we think, to be found in the fact that a man's speech is apt to be, or to be considered, an indication of the manner in which he has been bred, and of the character of the company he keeps. criticism of his mode of using words, or his pronunciation, or the manner in which he compounds his sentences, almost inevitably takes the character of an attack on his birth, parentage, education, and social position; or, in other words, on everything which he feels most sensitive about or holds most dear. if you say that his pronunciation is bad, or that his language is slangy or ill-chosen, you insinuate that when he lived at home with his papa and mamma he was surrounded by bad models, or, in plain english, that his parents were vulgar or ignorant people; when you say that he writes bad grammar, or is guilty of glaring solecisms, or displays want of etymological knowledge, you insinuate that his education was neglected, or that he has not associated with correct speakers. usually, too, you do all this in the most provoking way by selecting passages from his writings on which he probably prided himself, and separating them totally from the thought of which he was full when he produced them, and then examining them mechanically, as if they were algebraic signs, which he used without knowing what they meant or where they would bring him out. nobody stands this process very long with equanimity, because nobody can be subjected to it without being presented to the public somewhat in the light of an ignorant, careless, and pretentious donkey. nor will it do to cite your examples from deceased authors. you cannot do so without assailing some form of expression which an eager, listening enemy is himself in the habit of using, and is waiting for you to take up, and through which he hopes to bring you to shame. no man, moreover, can perform the process without taking on airs which rouse his victim to madness, because he assumes a position not only of grammatical, but, as we have said, of social superiority. he says plainly enough, no matter how polite or scientific he may try to seem, "i was better born and bred than you, and acquired these correct turns of expression, of which you know nothing, from cultivated relatives;" or, "i live in cultivated circles, and am consequently familiar with the best usage, which you, poor fellow! are not. i am therefore able to decide this matter without argument or citations, and your best course is to take my corrections in silence or with thankfulness." it is easy to understand how all interest in orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody speedily disappears in a controversy of this sort, and how the disputants begin to burn with mutual dislike, and how each longs to inflict pain and anguish on his opponent, and make him, no matter by what means, an object of popular pity and contempt, and make his parts of speech odious and ridiculous. the influence of all good men ought to be directed either to repressing verbal criticism, or restricting indulgence in it to the family circle or to schools and colleges. professor huxley's lectures biologist like professor huxley have, as popular lecturers, the advantage over scientific men in other fields, of occupying themselves with what is to ninety-nine men and women out of a hundred the most momentous of all problems--the manner in which life on this globe began, and in which men and other animals came to be what they are. the doctrine of evolution as a solution of these problems, or of one of them, derives additional interest from the fact that in many minds it runs counter to ideas which a very large proportion of the population above the age of thirty imbibed with the earliest and most impressive portion of their education. down to the bulk of intelligent men and women believed that the world, and all that is therein, originated in the precise manner described in the first chapter of genesis, and about six thousand years ago. most of the adaptations, or attempts at adaptation, of what is called the mosaic account of the creation, of the chronological theories of the geologists and evolutionists by theologians and biblical scholars have been made within that period, and it may be safely said that it is only within ten or fifteen years that any clear knowledge of the "conflict between science and religion" has reached that portion of the people who take a lively or, indeed, any interest, in religious matters. it would not, in fact, be rash to say that little or nothing is known about this conflict to this hour among the great body of methodists or catholics, or the evangelical portion of other denominations, and that their religious outlook is little, if at all, affected by it. one would never detect, for instance, in mr. moody's preaching, any indication that he had ever heard of any such conflict, or that the doctrines of the orthodox protestant church had undergone any sensible modification within a hundred years. professor huxley and men like him, therefore, make their appearance now not simply as manipulators of a most interesting subject, but as disturbers of beliefs which are widely spread, deeply rooted, and surrounded by the tenderest and most sacred associations of human existence. that under such circumstances he has met with so little opposition is, on the whole, rather surprising. as far as our observation has gone, no strong hostility whatever to himself or his teachings has been shown, except in one or two instances, by either the clergy or the religious press. indeed, ministers formed a very prominent and attentive portion of his audience at the recent lectures at chickering hall. but it has been made very apparent by the articles and letters which these lectures have called out in the newspapers that the religious public has hardly understood him. the collision between the theologians and the scientific men has been very slight among us; and, indeed, the waves of the controversy hardly reached this country until the storm had passed away in europe, so that it is difficult for americans to appreciate the combative tone of mr. huxley's oratory. of this difficulty the effect of his substitution of milton for moses as the historian of the creation, on the night of his first lecture, has furnished an amusing illustration. the audience, or at least that portion of it which was gifted with any sense of humor, saw the joke and laughed over it heartily. it was simply a telling rhetorical device, intended to point a sarcasm directed against the biblical commentators who have been trying to extract the doctrines of evolution from the first chapter of genesis. but many of the newspapers all over the country took it up seriously, and the professor must, if he saw them, have enjoyed mightily the various letters and articles which have endeavored in solemn earnest to show that milton was not justly entitled to the rank of a scientific expositor, and that it was a cowardly thing in the lecturer to attack moses over milton's shoulders. whenever professor huxley enters on the defence of his science, as distinguished from the exposition of it, there are traces in his language of the _gaudium certaminis_ which has found expression in so many hard-fought fields in his own country, and which has made him perhaps the most formidable antagonist, in so far as dialectics go, that the transcendental philosophers have ever encountered. he is, _par excellence_, a fighting man, but certainly his pugnacity diminishes neither his worth nor his capacity. in many of the comments which his lectures have called out in the newspapers one meets every now and then with a curious failure to comprehend the position which an average non-scientific man occupies in such a conflict as in now going on over the doctrines of evolution. professor huxley was very careful not to repeat the error which delivered professor tyndall into the hands of the enemy at belfast. he expressed no opinion as to the nature of the causal force which called the world into existence. he did not profess to know anything about the sources of life. he consequently did not once place himself on the level of the theologian or the unscientific spectator. what he undertook to do and did was to present to the audience some specimens of the evidence by which evolutionists have been led to the conclusion that their theory is correct. now, the mistake which a good many newspaper writers--some of them ministers--have made in passing judgment on the lectures lies in their supposing that this evidence must be weak and incomplete because _they_ have not been convinced. there is probably no more widely diffused fallacy, or one which works more mischief in all walks of life, than the notion that it is only those whose business it is to persuade who need to be trained in the art of proof, and that those who are to be persuaded need no process of preparation at all. the fact is that skill in reasoning is as necessary on the one side as the other. he cannot be fully and rightly convinced who does not himself know how to convince, and no man is competent to judge in the last resort of the force of an argument who is not on something like an equality of knowledge and dialectical skill with the person using it. this is true in all fields of discussion; it is pre-eminently true in scientific fields. of course, therefore, the real public of the scientific man--the public which settles finally whether he has made out his case--is a small one. outside of it there is another and larger one on which his reasoning may act with irresistible force; but just as the fact that it does so act does not prove that his hypothesis is true, so also the fact that it has failed to convince proves nothing against its soundness. in other words, a man's occupying the position of a listener does not necessarily clothe him with the attributes of a judge, and there may be as much folly and impertinence in his going about saying, "i do not agree with huxley; he has not satisfied me; he will have to produce more proof than that before i believe in evolution," as in going about saying, "i know as much about evolution as huxley and could give as good a lecture on it as he any day." and yet a good many people are guilty of the one who would blush at the mere thought of the other. another fertile source of confusion in this and similar controversies is the habit which transcendentalists, theological and other, have of using the term "truth" in two different senses, the scientific sense and the religious or spiritual sense. the scientific man only uses it in one. truth to him is something capable of demonstration by some one of the canons of induction. he knows nothing of any truth which cannot be proved. the religious man, on the other hand, and especially the minister, has been bred in the application of the term to facts of an entirely different order--that is, to emotions produced by certain beliefs which he cannot justify by any arguments, and about which to him no argument is necessary. these are the "spiritual truths" which are said to be perceptible often to the simple-minded and unlearned, though hidden from the wise and prudent. now there is no decently educated religious man who does not perceive the distinction between these two kinds of truths, and few who do not think they keep this distinction in mind when passing upon the great problems of the origin and growth of the universe. but, as a matter of fact, we see the distinction ignored every day. people go to scientific lectures and read scientific books with their heads filled with spiritual truths, which have come they know not whence, and which give them infinite comfort in all the trying passages of life, and in view of this comfort must, they think, connect them by invisible lines of communication with the great secret of the universe, toward which philosophers try to make their way by visible lines. when, then, they find that the scientific man's induction makes no impression on this other truth, and that he cannot dislodge any theory of the growth or government of the world which has become firmly imbedded in it, they are apt to conclude that there is something faulty in his methods, or rash and presumptuous in his conclusions. but there is only one course for the leaders of religious thought to follow in order to prevent the disastrous confusion which comes of the sudden and complete break-down of the moral standards and sanctions by which the mass of mankind live, and that is to put an end at once, and gracefully, to the theory that the spiritual truth which brings the peace which passeth understanding has any necessary connection with any theory of the physical universe, or can be used to refute it or used as a substitute for it, or is dependent on the authenticity or interpretation of any book. they must not flatter themselves because a scientific man here and there doubts or gainsays, or because some learned theologian is still unconvinced, or because the mental habits of which faith is born seem to hold their ground or show signs of revival, that the philosophy of which huxley is a master is not slowly but surely gaining ground. the proofs may not yet be complete, but they grow day by day; some of the elder scientific men may scout, but no young ones are appearing to take their places and preach their creed. the tide seems sometimes to ebb from month to month, but it rises from year to year. the true course of spiritually minded men under these circumstances is to separate their faith from all theories of the precise manner in which the world originated, or of the length of time it has lasted, as matters, for their purposes, of little or no moment. the secret springs of hope and courage from which each of us draws strength in the great crises of existence would flow all the same whether life appeared on the planet ten million or ten thousand years ago, and whether the present forms of life were the product of one day or of many ages. and we doubt very much whether anyone has ever listened in a candid and dispassionate frame of mind to the evolutionist's history of the globe without finding that it had deepened for him the mystery of the universe, and magnified the power which stands behind it. not the least interesting feature in the discussion about the theory of evolution is the prominent part taken in it by clergymen of various denominations. there is hardly one of them who, since huxley's lectures, has not preached a sermon bearing on the matter in some way, and several have made it the topic of special articles or lectures. in fact, we do not think we exaggerate when we say that three-fourths of all that has been recently said or written about the hypothesis in this country has been said or written by ministers. there is no denying that the theory, if true, does, in appearance at least, militate against the account of the creation given in the first chapter of genesis, or, in other words, against the view of the origin of life on the globe which has been held by the christian world for seventeen centuries. it would, therefore, be by no means surprising that ministers should meet it, either by showing that the mosaic account of the creation was really inspired--was, in short, the account given by the creator himself--or that the modern interpretations of it were incorrect, and that it was really, when perfectly understood, easily reconciled with the conclusions reached of late years by geologists and biologists. this is the way in which a great many ministers have hitherto met the evolutionists, and for this sort of work they are undoubtedly fitted by education and experience. if it can be done by anyone, they are the men to do it. if it be maintained that the biblical account is literally true, they are more familiar than any other class of men with the evidence and arguments accumulated by the church in favor of the inspiration of the scriptures; or if, on the other hand, it be desired to reconcile the bible with evolution, they are more familiar than any other class of men with the exegetical process by which this reconciliation can be effected. they are specially trained in ecclesiastical history and tradition, in greek and hebrew religious literature, and in the methods of interpretation which have been for ages in use among theologians. of late, however, they have shown a decided inclination to abandon the purely ecclesiastical approach to the controversy altogether, and this is especially remarkable in the discussion now pending over huxley. they do not seek to defend the biblical account of the creation, or to reconcile it with the theory of the evolutionists. far from it, they have come down, in most of the recent cases, into the scientific arena, and are meeting the men of science with their own weapons. they tell huxley and darwin and tyndall that their evidence is imperfect, and their reasoning from it faulty. noticing their activity in this new field, and the marked contrast which this activity presents to the modesty or indifference of the other professions--the lawyers and doctors, for instance, who on general grounds have fully as much reason to be interested in evolution as the ministers, and have hitherto been at least as well fitted to discuss it--we asked ourselves whether it was possible that, without our knowledge, any change had of late years been made in the curriculum of the divinity schools or theological seminaries with the view of fitting ministers to take a prominent part in the solution of the increasingly important and startling problems raised by physical science. in order to satisfy ourselves, we lately turned over the catalogues of all the principal divinity schools in the country, to see if any chairs of natural science had been established, or if candidates for the ministry had to undergo any compulsory instruction in geology or physics, or the higher mathematics, or biology, or palaeontology, or astronomy, or had to become versed in the methods of scientific investigation in the laboratory or in the dissecting-room, or were subjected to any unusually severe discipline in the use of the inductive process. not much to our surprise, we found nothing of the kind. we found that, to all appearance, not even the smallest smattering of natural science in any of its branches is considered necessary to a minister's education; no astronomy, no chemistry, no biology, no geology, no higher mathematics, no comparative anatomy, and nothing severe in logic. in fact, of special preparation for the discussion of such a theme as the origin of life on the earth, there does not appear to be in the ordinary course of our divinity schools any trace. we then said to ourselves, but ministers are modest, truthful men; they would not knowingly pass themselves off as competent on a subject with which they were unfitted to deal. they are no less candid and self-distrustful, for instance, than lawyers and doctors, and a lawyer or doctor who ventured to tackle a professed scientist on a scientific subject to which he had given no systematic study would be laughed at by his professional brethren, and would suffer from it even in his professional reputation, as it would be taken to indicate a dangerous want of self-knowledge. perhaps, then, the training given in the divinity schools, though it does not touch special fields of science, is such as to prepare the mind for the work of induction by some course of intellectual gymnastics. perhaps, though it does not familiarize a man with the facts of geology and biology and astronomy, it so disciplines him in the work of collecting and arranging facts of any kind, and reasoning from them, that he will be a master in the art of proof, and that, in short, though he may not have a scientific man's knowledge, he will have his mental habits. but we found this second supposition as far from the truth as the first one was. moreover, the mental constitution of the young men who choose the ministry as a profession is not apt to be of a kind well fitted for scientific investigation. reverence is one of their prominent characteristics, and reverence predisposes them to accept things on authority. they are inclined to seek truth rather as a means of repose than for its own sake, and to fancy that it is associated closely with spiritual comfort, and that they have secured the truth when they feel the comfort. though, last not least, they enter the seminary with a strong bias in favor of one particular theory of the origin of life and of the history of the race, and their subsequent studies are marked out and pursued with the set purpose of strengthening this bias and of qualifying them to defend it and spread it, and of associating in their minds the doubt or rejection of it with moral evil. the consequence is that they go forth, trained not as investigators or inquirers, but as advocates, charged with the defence against all comers of a view of the universe which they have accepted ready-made from teachers. a worse preparation for scientific pursuits of any kind can hardly be imagined. the slightest trace of such a state of mind in a scientific man--that is, of a disposition to believe a thing on grounds of feeling or interest, or with reference to practical consequences, or to jump over gaps in proof in order to reach pleasant conclusions--discredits him with his fellows, and throws doubt on his statements. we are not condemning this state of mind for all purposes. indeed, we think the wide-spread prevalence of the philosophic way of looking at things would be in many respects a great misfortune for the race, and we acknowledge that a rigidly trained philosopher would be unfit for most of a minister's functions; but we have only to describe a minister's education in order to show his exceeding unreadiness for contentions such as some of his brethren are carrying on with geologists and physicists and biologists. in fact, there is no educated calling whose members are not, on the whole, better equipped for fighting in scientific fields over the hypothesis of evolution. our surprise at seeing lawyers and doctors engaged in it would be very much less justifiable, for a portion at least of the training received in these professions is of a scientific cast, and concerns the selection and classification of facts, while a clergyman's is almost wholly devoted to the study of the opinions and sayings of other men. in truth, theology, properly so called, is a collection of opinions. nor do these objections to a clergyman's mingling in scientific disputes arise out of his belief about the origin and government of the world _per se_, because one does not think of making them to trained religious philosophers; for instance, to principal dawson or mr. st. george mivart. some may think or say that the religious prepossessions of these gentlemen lessen the weight of their opinions on a certain class of scientific questions, but no one would question their right to share in scientific discussions. circumstantial evidence some of the letters from clergymen which have been called out by our article on the part recently taken by them in scientific discussion maintain that, although ministers may not be familiar with the facts of science, many of them are fully competent to weigh the arguments founded on these facts put forward by scientific men, and decide whether they have proved their case or not; or, in other words, that we were mistaken in saying that the theological seminaries did not afford severe training in the use of the inductive process, and that it could not be used effectively without knowledge of the matters on which it was used. more than one of these letters points, in support of this view, to the answer of the rev. dr. taylor, of this city, to professor huxley's lectures, published some weeks ago in the _tribune_, and we believe the _tribune_ presented the author to the public as "a trained logician." we have accordingly turned to dr. taylor's letter and given it a much more attentive reading than we confess we gave it when it first appeared, for the purpose of seeing whether it was really true that ministers were such dexterous and highly taught dialecticians that they could overthrow a scientific man, even on a subject of which they knew little or nothing--whether, in short, they could really treat the question of evolution algebraically, and, by the mere aid of signs of the meaning of which they were ignorant, put the huxleys and darwins to confusion. for dr. taylor opens in this way: "let it be understood, then, that i have no fault to find with mr. huxley as a discoverer of facts or as an exponent of comparative anatomy. in both of these respects he is beyond all praise of mine, and i am ready to sit at his feet; but when he begins to reason from the facts which he sets forth, then, like every other reasoner, he is amenable to the laws of argumentation, and his conclusions are to be tested by the relation which they bear to the premises which he has advanced, and by the proof which he furnishes for the premises themselves." we pass over, as of no consequence for our present purpose, the various exceptions which he then takes to huxley's arrangement of his lectures, to the tone of his exceptions, and to his mode of referring to the biblical hypothesis, and come to what he has to say of huxley's evidence, which he truly calls "circumstantial evidence." the first thing he does is to define circumstantial evidence; but here, at the very outset, we have been surprised to find a logician who conceives himself capable of overhauling the argumentation of the masters of science, going to a lawyer to get "a statement of the principles which regulate the value of circumstantial evidence." this is a matter which lay logicians usually have at their fingers' ends, and we have never known one yet who would not be puzzled by a suggestion that he should do as dr. taylor did--go to a "distinguished legal friend" for information as to the conditions of this kind of proof. for, as we have more than once pointed out, lawyers, as such, have no special skill or training in the use of circumstantial evidence as scientific men know it--that is, as evidence which derives all its force from the laws of the human mind. the circumstantial evidence with which lawyers, _quâ_ lawyers, are familiar under our system of jurisprudence is an artificial thing created by legislation or custom, with the object of preventing the minds of the jury-- presumably a body of untrained and unlearned men--from being confused or led astray. moreover, they are only familiar with its use in one very narrow field--human conduct under one set of social conditions. for example, a lawyer might be a very good judge of circumstantial evidence in america, and a very poor one in india or china; might have a keen eye for the probable or improbable in a new england village, and none at all in a prussian barrack. a familiar illustration of the restrictions on his experience of it is to be found in the rule which compels the calling of "experts" when there is a question as to any point of science or art. "the words science or art," says mr. fitzjames stephen, "include all subjects on which a _course of special study or experience is necessary to the formation of an opinion_," and the opinion of such an expert is a "relevant fact." so that dr. taylor's "distinguished legal friend," if a good lawyer, would not, in spite of his proficiency in circumstantial evidence, undertake to dispute with professor huxley about the relation of the anchitherium, hipparion, and horse; and if dr. taylor offered himself for examination on such a point he would be laughed out of court. in none of our courts is the presentation allowed of _all_ the circumstances which strengthen or weaken a probability. a lawyer, therefore, though he might not be as ill fitted for a scientific discussion as a minister, is, _as such_, hardly more of an authority on the force and limits of that portion of scientific proof which is drawn from simple observation. dr. taylor's consulting one as a final authority as to the very nature of the argument on which he was himself about to sit in judgment is at the outset a suspicious incident. the definition of circumstantial evidence which he got from his legal friend was this: "the process of proof by circumstantial evidence consists in reasoning from such facts as are known or proved, and thence establishing such as are conjectured to exist. the process is fatally vicious, first, if any material circumstance from which we seek to deduce the conclusion depends itself on conjecture; and, second, if the known facts are not such as to exclude to a reasonable degree of certainty every other hypothesis." "now, tried by these two tests," says dr. taylor, "the professor's argument was a failure." taking this definition as it stands, however, we think it will not be difficult to show that dr. taylor is not competent to apply the tests, or to say whether the professor's argument is a failure or not. it is hardly necessary to say that all the evidence in our possession or attainable, with regard to the history of the earth and of animal and vegetable life on its surface, is circumstantial evidence. the sciences of geology, palaeontology, and, to a certain extent, biology are sciences of observation, and but few of their conclusions can be reached or tested by experimentation. they are the result of a collection of facts, observed in various places, at various times, and by various persons, and variously related to other facts; and the collection of these facts, and the arrangement of them, and the formation of a judgment as to their value both positive and relative, form the greater portion of the work of a scientific man in these fields. professor huxley's argument, which dr. taylor disposes of so summarily, consists of a series of inferences from facts so collected and arranged. they are the things "known or proved," on which, as his legal friend truly says, the reasoning in the process of proof by circumstantial evidence must rest. now, dr. taylor, by his own confession, is no authority in either geology, biology, or palaeontology. he has neither collected, observed, nor experimented in these fields. he does not know how many facts have been discovered in them, or what bearing they have on other facts in other fields. therefore, he is entirely unable to say whether huxley is arguing from things "known or proved" or not. moreover, he does not, for similar reasons, know whether huxley's process has been "fatally vitiated" by the dependence of any "material circumstance" on conjecture, or by the insufficiency of the "known facts" to exclude every other hypothesis; for, first, he does not know what is in geological, biological, or palaeontological induction a "material circumstance"--nor does any man know except by prolonged study and observation--and, second, he does not know whether "the known or proved facts" are sufficient to exclude every other hypothesis, because he neither knows what facts are known nor what is the probative force of such as are known. we can, however, make dr. taylor's position still clearer by a homely illustration. a wild indian will, owing to prolonged observation and great acuteness of the senses, tell by a simple inspection of grass or leaf-covered ground, on which a scholar will perceive nothing unusual whatever, that a man has recently passed over it. he will tell whether he was walking or running, whether he carried a burden, whether he was young or old, and how long ago and what hour of the day he went by. he reaches all his conclusions by circumstantial evidence of precisely the same character as that used by the geologist, though he knows nothing about the formal logic or the process of induction. now, what dr. taylor would have us believe is that he can come out of his study and pass judgment on the indian's reasoning without being able to see one of the "known facts" on which the reasoning rests, or appreciate in any degree which of them is material to the conclusion and which is not, or even to conjecture whether, taken together, they exclude the hypothesis that it was not a man but a cow or a dog which passed over the ground, and not to-day but yesterday that the marks were made. dr. taylor further on makes a display of this inability to appreciate the logical value of scientific facts by asking: "where is the evidence, scientific or other, that there was evolution? we see these fossils (those of the horse). huxley _says_ they are as they are because the higher evolved itself out of the lower; we _say_ they are as they are because god created them in series." to recur to the former illustration, it is as if the indian should show dr. taylor the marks on which he relied in his induction, and the doctor should calmly reply: "i see the marks; you _say_ they were made by a man's foot in walking; i, who have never given any attention to the subject, and have never been in the woods before, _say_ they were made by the rain." the fact is that if there were any weight whatever in this kind of talk--if no equality of knowledge were necessary between two disputants--it would enable an ignorant field-hand to sweep away in one sentence the whole science of geology and palaeontology, and even astronomy, and to dispose of every conclusion on any subject drawn from a skilled and experienced balancing of probabilities, or nice mathematical calculation, by simply saying that he was not satisfied with the proofs. dr. taylor's reasons for believing that the appearance of fossil horses with a diminishing number of toes is caused by the creation at separate periods of a four-, a three-, a two-, and a one-toed horse are, he says, "personal, philosophical, historical," and he opposes them with the utmost apparent sincerity to huxley's assertion that "there can be no scientific evidence" of such creation. the "personal reason" for believing in successive creations of sets of horses with a varying number of toes can, of course, only be the reason so often urged in ball-room disputation--that "i _feel_ it must be so;" the "philosophic reason" can only be the one with which those who have frequented the society of metaphysicians are very familiar, namely, a deduction from some eminent speculator's opinion about the nature of the supreme being, the conclusion being apparently that if the creator wished to diminish the number of a horse's toes, it would not do for him to let one drop into disuse and so gradually disappear, but he would have to make a new horse, on a new design. what dr. taylor means by the "historical reason" we can only conjecture from his saying that it is of the same order as his historical reason for believing "that the bible is the word of god." the historical reason for this, we presume, is that there are various literary and traditional proofs that the old testament was held to be the word of god by the jewish nation at a very early period, and was by them transmitted as such to the modern christian world, and that many of the prophecies contained in it have received partial or a complete fulfilment. but how by a process of this kind, partly literary and partly conjectural, and attended by great difficulties at every step, he would reach a fact of _prehistoric times_ of so much gravity as creation in series, we think it would puzzle dr. taylor to explain. indeed, the mere production in a controversy of this nature of these vague fancies, half pious, half poetical, conjured up in most cases as a help to mental peace, by a leading minister in the character of a logician, is a very remarkable proof of the extent of those defects in clerical education to which we recently called attention. tyndall and the theologians the recent address delivered by professor tyndall before the british association at belfast, in which he "confessed" that he "prolonged the vision backward across the boundary of experimental evidence, and discerned in matter the promise and potency of every quality and form of life," produced one by no means very surprising result. dr. watts, a professor of theology in the presbyterian college in that city, was led by it to offer to read before the biological section of the association a paper containing a plan of his own for the establishment of "peace and co-operation between science and religion." the paper was, as might have been expected, declined. the author then read it before a large body of religious people, who apparently liked it, and they passed him a vote of thanks. the whole religious world, indeed, is greatly excited against both tyndall and huxley for their performances on this occasion, and papers by no means in sympathy with the religious world--the _pall mall gazette_, for instance--are very severe on them for having "recourse to a style of oratory and disquisition more appropriate to the chapel than the lecture-room," or, in other words, for using the meetings of the association for a sort of propagandism not much superior in method to that of theological missionaries, and thus challenging the theologians to a conflict which may make it necessary, in the interest of fair play, to add a theological section to the association. of course, when professor tyndall passed "beyond the boundary of experimental evidence," and began to see with his "mind's eye" instead of with the microscope and telescope, he got into a region in which the theologian is not only more at home than he, but which theology claims as its exclusive domain, and in which ministers look on physicists as intruders. but then, dr. watts's "plea for peace and co-operation between science and religion" is one of many signs that theologians are, in spite of all that has as yet been said, hardly alive to the exact nature of the attitude they occupy toward science. they evidently look upon scientific men as they look on a hostile school of theologians--as the princeton men look on the yale men, for instance, or the new looked on the old school presbyterians, or the calvinists on the arminians--that is, as persons having a common standard of orthodoxy, but differing somewhat in their method of applying it, and who may, therefore, be induced from considerations of expediency to suppress all outward marks of divergence and work together harmoniously for the common end. all schools of theology seek the glory of god and salvation of souls, and, this being the case, differences on points of doctrine do seem trifling and capable of being put aside. it is this way of regarding the matter which has led dr. watts to propose an alliance between religion and science, and which produces the arguments one sometimes sees in defence of christianity against positivism, drawn from a consideration of the services which christianity has rendered to the race, and of the gloomy and desolate condition in which its disappearance would leave the world. tyndall and huxley do not, however, occupy the position of religious prophets or fathers. they preside over no church or other organization. they have no power or authority to draft any creed or articles which will bind anybody else, or which would have any claims on anybody's reverence or adhesion. no person, in short, is authorized to bring science into an alliance with religion or with anything else. such "peace and co-operation" as dr. watts proposed would be peace and co-operation between him and professor tyndall, or between the theologians and the british association, but "peace and co-operation between science and religion" is a term which carries absurdity on its face. science is simply a body of facts which lead people familiar with them to infer the existence of certain laws. how can it, therefore, be either at peace or war with anybody, or co-operate with anybody? what professor tyndall might promise would be either not to discover any more facts, or to discover only certain classes of facts, or to draw no inferences from facts which would be unfavorable to dr. watts's theory of the universe; but the only result of this would be that tyndall would lose his place as a scientific man, and others would go on discovering the facts and drawing the inferences. in like manner, the supposition that christianity can be defended against positivism on grounds of expediency implies a singular conception of the mental operations of those persons who are affected by positivist theories, and indeed, we might add, of the thinking world generally. no man believes in a religion simply because he thinks it useful, and therefore no man's real adhesion to the christian creed can be secured by showing him how human happiness would suffer by its extinction. this argument, if it had any weight at all, would only induce persons either to pretend to be christians when they were not, or to refrain from assailing christianity, or to avoid all inquiries which might possibly lead to sceptical conclusions. it is therefore, perhaps, a good argument to address to believers, because it may induce them to suppress doubts and avoid lines of thought or social relations likely to beget doubt; but it is an utterly futile argument to address to those who have already lost their faith. men believe because they are convinced; it is not in their power to believe from motives of prudence or from public spirit. however, the complaints of the theologians excited by professor tyndall's last utterances are not wholly unreasonable. science has done nothing hitherto to give it any authority in the region of the unseen. "beyond the boundary of experimental evidence" one man's vision is about as good as another's. it is interesting to know that professor tyndall there "discerns in matter the potency and promise of every quality and form of life," but only because he is a distinguished man, who gives much thought to this class of subjects and occupies a very prominent place in the public eye. as a basis for belief of any kind, his vision is of no more value than that of the archbishop of canterbury, who would probably in that region discern the promise and potency of every form of life in a supreme and creative intelligence. scientific men are continually pushing back the limits of our knowledge of the material universe. they have during the last eighty years made an enormous addition to the sum of that knowledge, but they have not, since democritus, taken away one hair's-breadth from the mystery which lies behind. in fact, their labors have in many ways deepened this mystery. we can appeal confidently to any candid man to say, for instance, whether darwin's theory of the origin of life and the evolution of species does not make this globe and its inhabitants a problem vastly darker and more inscrutable than the mosaic account of the creation. take, again, the light thrown on the constitution of the sun by the spectroscope; it is a marvellous addition to our knowledge of our environment, but then, does it not make our ignorance as to the origin of the sun seem deeper? no scientific man pretends that any success in discovery will ever lead the human mind beyond the resolution of the number of laws which now seem to govern phenomena into a smaller number; but if we reached the limit of the possible in that direction to-morrow, we should be as far from the secret of the universe as ever. when we have all got to the blank wall which everybody admits lies at the boundary of experimental evidence, the philosopher will know no more about what lies beyond than the peasant, though the peasant will probably do then what he does now--people it with the creatures of his imagination. if a philosopher in our day likes to anticipate that period, and hazards the conjecture that matter lies beyond, he is welcome to his guess, but it ought to be understood that it is only a guess. the danger to society from the men of science does not, we imagine, lie in the direction in which the theologians look for it. we do not think they need feel particularly troubled by professor tyndall's speculations as to the origin of things, for these speculations are very old, and have, after all, only a remote connection with human affairs. but there are signs both in his and professor huxley's methods of popularizing science, and in those of a good many of their followers, that we may fear the growth of something in the nature of a scientific priesthood, who, tempted by the great facilities for addressing the public which our age affords, and to which nearly every other profession has fallen a victim, will no longer confine themselves to their laboratories and museums and scientific journals, but serve as "ministers of nature" before great crowds of persons, for the most part of small knowledge and limited capacity, on whom their hints, suggestions, and denunciations will have a dangerously stimulating effect, particularly as the contempt of scientific men for what is called "literature"--that is, the recorded experience of the human race and the recorded expression of human feelings--grows every year stronger, and exerts more and more influence on the masses. the number of dabblers in science--of persons with a slight smattering of chemistry, geology, botany, and so on--too, promises to be largely increased for some time to come by the arrangements of one sort or another made by colleges and schools for scientific education; and though there is reason to expect from this education a considerable improvement in knowledge of the art of reasoning, there is also reason to fear a considerable increase of dogmatic temper, of eagerness for experimentation in all fields, and of scorn for the experience of persons who have never worked in the laboratory or done any deep-sea dredging. now, whatever views we may hold as to the value of science in general and in the long run to the human race, and in particular its value for purposes of legislation and social economy, which we are far from denying, there is some risk that lectures like professor huxley's at belfast, dressed up for promiscuous crowds, and produced with the polite scorn of infallibility, in which the destruction of moral responsibility is broadly hinted at as one of the probable results of researches in biology, will do great mischief. for what does it matter, or rather ought it to matter, for social purposes, in what part of a man's system his conscience lies, or whether pressure on a particular portion of the brain may convert him into a thief, when we know, as of experience, that the establishment of good courts and police turns a robbers' den into a hive of peaceful industry, and when we see the wonders which discipline works in an ignorant crowd? the church and science a considerable body of the graduates of the irish catholic university, including members of the legal and medical professions, presented a long and solemn memorial to cardinal cullen and the other catholic bishops at the late commencement of that institution, which throws a good deal of light not only on the vexed question of catholic education in ireland, but on the relations of the catholic church to education everywhere. the memorial examined in detail the management of the university, which it pronounces so bad as to endanger the existence of the college. but what it most complains of is the all but total absence of instruction in science. the memorialists say that the neglect of science by the university has afforded a very plausible argument to the enemies of the university, who never tire of repeating that the catholic church is the enemy of science, and that she will carry out her usual policy in ireland with respect to it; that "no one can deny that the irish catholics are miserably deficient in scientific education, and that this deficiency is extremely galling to them; and, in a commercial sense, involves a loss to them, while, in an intellectual sense, it involves a positive degradation." they speak regretfully of the secession of professor sullivan, to take the presidency of the queen's college, cork, and declare that "no irish-catholic man of science can be found to take his place." they then go on to make several astounding charges. the lecture-list of the university does not include for the faculty of arts a single professor of the physical or natural sciences, or the name of a solitary teacher in descriptive geometry, geology, zoölogy, comparative anatomy, mineralogy, mining, astronomy, philology, ethnology, mechanics, electricity, or optics. of the prizes and exhibitions, the number offered in classics equals that of those offered in all other studies put together, while in other universities the classical prizes do not exceed one-fourth of the whole. they wind up their melancholy recital by declaring that they are determined that the scientific inferiority of irish catholics shall not last any longer; and that if they cannot obtain a scientific education in their own universities, they will seek it at trinity or the queen's colleges, or study it for themselves in the works of haeckel, darwin, huxley, tyndall, and lyell. they make one other singular complaint, viz., that no provision is made for supplying the lay students with instruction in theology. it ought to be said in defence of the cardinal and the bishops, though the memorialists probably could not venture to say it, that the church hardly pretends that the university is an efficient or complete instrument of education. it has been in existence, it is true, twenty years, but the main object of its promoters during this period has apparently been to harass or frighten the government by means of it into granting them an endowment, or giving them control of the queen's colleges. had they succeeded in this, they would doubtless before now have made a show of readiness to afford something in the nature of scientific instruction, because, as the memorialists remark, there is no denying "that the physical and natural sciences have become the chief studies of the age." but the memorialists must be either very simple-minded or very ignorant catholics, if they suppose that any endowment or any pressure from public opinion would ever induce the catholic hierarchy to undertake to turn out students who would make a respectable figure among the scientific graduates of other universities, or even hold their own among the common run of amateur readers of huxley and darwin and tyndall. there is no excuse for any misunderstanding as regards the policy of the church on this point. she has never given the slightest encouragement or sanction to the idea which so many protestant divines have of late years embraced, that theology is a progressive science, capable of continued development in the light of newly discovered facts, and of gradual adaptation to the changing phases of our knowledge of the physical universe. she has hundreds of times given out as absolute truth a certain theory of the origin of man and of the globe he lives on, and she cannot either abandon it or encourage any study or habit of mind which would naturally or probably lead to doubt of the correctness of this theory, or of the church's authority in enunciating it. in fact, the pope, who is now an infallible judge in all matters of faith and discipline, has, within the last five years, in the famous "syllabus" of modern follies, pronounced damnable and erroneous nearly all the methods and opinions by which irish or any other catholics could escape the deficiency in scientific knowledge which they say they find so injurious and so degrading. it is safe to say, therefore, that a catholic cannot receive an education which would fit him to acquire distinction among scientific men in our day, without either incurring everlasting damnation or running the risk of it. beside a danger of this kind, of course, as any priest will tell him, commercial loss and social inferiority are small matters. of course, if we take the facts of a great many branches of physical science by themselves, it would be easy enough to show that a good catholic might safely accept them. but no man can reach these facts by investigations of his own, or hold to them intelligently and fruitfully, without acquiring intellectual habits and making use of tests which the church considers signs of a rebellious and therefore sinful temper. moreover, nobody who has attained the limits of our present knowledge in chemistry, geology, comparative anatomy, ethnography, philology, and mythology can stand there with closed eyes. he must inevitably peer into the void beyond, and would be more than human if he did not indulge in speculations as to the history of the universe and its destiny which the church must treat as endangering his salvation. this is so well known that one reads the lamentations of these catholic laymen with considerable surprise. they may be fairly supposed to know something of church history, and, even if they do not, they must profess some knowledge of the teaching given by the church in those universities of other countries which she controls. she does not encourage the study of natural science anywhere. mathematics and astronomy she looks on with some favor, though we do not know how the spectroscope may have affected her toward the latter; and we venture to assert that these are the only fields of science in which any catholic layman attains distinction without forfeiting his standing in the eyes of the clergy. we do not now speak of the french, italian, and german catholic laymen who go on with their investigations without caring whether the clergy like them or not, and without taking the trouble to make any formal repudiation of the church's authority over their intellects. we simply say there are no pious catholic scientific men of any note, and never will be if the catholic clergy can help it, and the lamentations of catholics over the fact are logically absurd. the legislation which prussia is now putting into force on the subject of clerical education is founded on a candid recognition of the church's position on this matter. prince bismarck is well aware that in no seminary or college controlled by priests is there any chance that a young man will receive the best instruction of the day on the subjects in which the modern world is most interested, and by which the affairs of the state are most influenced. he has, therefore, wisely decided that it is the duty of the state to see that men who still exert as much power over popular thought as priests do, and are to receive state pay as popular instructors, shall also receive the best obtainable secular education before being subjected to purely professional training in the theological seminaries. the desperation of the fight made against him by the clergy is due to their well-grounded belief that in order to get a young man in our time to swallow a fair amount of catholic theology, he must be caught early and kept close. the warfare which is raging in prussia is one which has broken out in every country in which the government has formal relations with the church. the appearance of a mutinous spirit among the irish laity, and this not on political but scientific subjects, shows that the poison has sunk very deep and is very virulent; for the irish laity have been until now the foremost catholics in the world in silence and submissiveness, and there is nothing in ecclesiastical history which can equal in absurdity a request, addressed to cardinal cullen, that he would supply them with the kind of teaching which other men get from tyndall and huxley. with ecclesiastical insubordination arising out of differences on matters of doctrine or discipline, such as that manifested by the old catholics, it is comparatively easy to deal. schismatics can be excommunicated by an authority which they have themselves venerated, and from an organization in which they loved to live and would fain have died. but over wanderers into the fields of science the church loses all hold. her weapons are the jest of the museum and the laboratory, and her lore the babbling of the ignorant or blind. the church and good conduct the episcopal church, at the late triennial convention, took up and determined to make a more vigorous effort to deal with the problem presented by the irreligion of the poor and the dishonesty of church-members. it is an unfortunate and, at first sight, somewhat puzzling circumstance, that so many of the culprits in the late cases of fraud and defalcation should have been professing christians, and in some cases persons of unusual ecclesiastical activity, and that this activity should apparently have furnished no check whatever to the moral descent. it is proposed to meet the difficulty by more preaching, more prayer, and greater use of lay assistance in church-work. there is nothing very new, however, about the difficulty. there is hardly a year in which it is not deplored at meetings of church organizations, and in which solemn promises are not made to devise some mode of keeping church-members up to their professions, and gathering more of the church-less working-classes into the fold; but somehow there is not much visible progress to be recorded. the church scandals multiply in spite of pastors and people, and the workingmen decline to show themselves at places of worship, although the number of places of worship and of church-members steadily increases. we are sorry not to notice in any of the discussions on the subject a more frank and searching examination of the reason why religion does not act more powerfully as a rule of conduct. until such an examination is made, and its certain results boldly faced by church reformers, the church cannot become any more of a help to right living than it is now, be this little or much. the first thing which such an examination would reveal is a thing which is in everybody's mind and on everybody's tongue in private, but which is apt to be evaded or only slightly alluded to at ecclesiastical synods and conventions--we mean the loss of faith in the dogmatic part of christianity. people do not believe in the fall, the atonement, the resurrection, and a future state of reward and punishment at all, or do not believe in them with the certainty and vividness which are needed to make faith a constant influence on man's daily life. they do not believe they will be damned for sin with the assurance they once did, and they are consequently indifferent to most of what is said to them of the need of repentance. they do not believe the story of christ's life and the theory of his character and attributes given in the new testament, or they regard them as merely a picturesque background to his moral teachings, about which a christian may avoid coming to any positive conclusion. no man who keeps himself familiar with the intellectual and scientific movements of the day, however devout a christian he may be, likes to question himself as to his beliefs about these matters, or would like to have to define accurately where his faith ended and his doubts began. if he is assailed in discussion by a sceptic and his combativeness roused, he will probably proclaim himself an implicit and literal acceptor of the gospel narratives; but he will not be able to maintain this mental attitude alone in his own room. the effort that has been made by unitarians and others to meet this difficulty by making christ's influence and authority rest on his moral teachings and example, without the support of a divine nature or mission or sacrifice, has failed. the christian church cannot be held together as a great social force by his teaching or example as a moral philosopher. a church organized on this theory speedily becomes a lecture association or a philanthropic club, of about as much aid to conduct as freemasonry. christ's sermons need the touch of supernatural authority to make them impressive enough for the work of social regeneration, and his life was too uneventful and the society in which he lived too simple, to give his example real power over the imagination of a modern man who regards him simply as a social reformer. this decline of faith in christian dogma and history has not, however, produced by any means a decline in religious sentiment, but it has deprived religion of a good deal of its power as a means of moral discipline. moral discipline is acquired mainly by the practice of doing what one does not like to do, under the influence of mastering fear or hope. the conquest of one's self, of which christian moralists speak so much, is simply the acquisition of the power of doing easily things to which one's natural inclinations are opposed; and in this work the mass of mankind are powerfully aided--indeed, we may say, have to be aided--by the prospect of reward or punishment. the wonderful results which are achieved in the army, by military authority, in inspiring coarse and common natures with a spirit of the loftiest devotion, are simply due to the steady application by day and by night of a punishing and rewarding authority. the loss of this, or its great enfeeblement, undoubtedly has deprived the church of a large portion of its means of discipline, and reduced it more nearly to the __rôle_ of a stimulater and gratifier of certain tender emotions. it contains a large body of persons whose religious life consists simply of a succession of sensations not far removed from one's enjoyment of music and poetry; and another large body, to whom it furnishes refuge and consolation of a vague and ill-defined sort in times of sorrow and disappointment. to these persons the church prayers and hymns are not trumpet-calls to the battle-field, but soothing melodies, which give additional zest to home comforts and luxuries, and make the sharper demands of a life of the highest integrity less unbearable. nay, the case is rather worse than this. we have little doubt that this sentimental religion, as we may call it, in many cases deceives a man as to his own moral condition, and hides from him the true character and direction of the road he is travelling, and furnishes his conscience with a false bottom. the revelations of the last few years as to its value as a guide in the conduct of life have certainly been plain and deplorable. the evil in some degree suggests the remedy, though we do not mean to say that we know of any complete remedy. church-membership ought to involve discipline of some kind in order to furnish moral aid. it ought, that is to say, to impose some restraint on people's inclinations, the operation of which will be visible, and enforced by some external sanction. if, in short, christians are to be regarded as more trustworthy and as living on a higher moral plane than the rest of the world, they must furnish stronger evidence of their sincerity than is now exacted from them, in the shape of plain and open self-denial. the church, in short, must be an organization held together by some stronger ties than enjoyment of weekly music and oratory in a pretty building, and alms-giving which entails no sacrifice and is often only a tickler of social vanity. there is in monasticism a suggestion of the way in which it must retain its power over men's lives, and be enabled to furnish them with a certificate of character. its members will have to have a good deal of the ascetic about them, but without any withdrawal from the world. how to attain this without sacrificing the claims of art, and denying the legitimacy of honestly acquired material power, and, in fact, restricting individual freedom to a degree which the habits and social theories of the day would make very odious, is the problem to be solved, and, it is, no doubt, a very tough one. general inculcation of "plain living" will not solve it, as long as "plain living" is not defined and the "self-made man" who has made a great fortune and spends it lavishly is held up to the admiration of every school-boy. the church has been making of late years a gallant effort to provide accommodation for the successful, and enable them to be good christians without sacrificing any of the good things of this life, and, in fact, without surrendering anything they enjoy, or favoring the outside public with any recognizable proof of their sincerity. we do not say that this is reprehensible, but it is easy to see that it has the seeds of a great crop of scandals in it. donations in an age of great munificence, and horror of far-off or unattractive sins, like the slaveholding of southerners and the intemperance of the miserable poor, are not, and ought not to be, accepted as signs of inward and spiritual grace, and of readiness to scale "the toppling crags of duty." the conversion of the working-classes, too, it is safe to say, will never be accomplished by any ecclesiastical organization which sells cushioned pews at auction, or rents them at high rates, and builds million-dollar churches for the accommodation of one thousand worshippers. the passion for equality has taken too strong hold of the workingman to make it possible to catch him with cheap chapels and assistant pastors. he will not seek salvation _in forma pauperis_, and thinks the best talent in the ministerial market not a whit too good for him. he not unnaturally doubts the sincerity of christians who are not willing to kneel beside badly dressed persons in prayer on the one day of the week when prayer is public. in fact, to fit the protestant church in this country to lay hold of the laboring population a great process of reconstruction would be necessary. the congregational system would have to be abandoned or greatly modified, the common fund made larger and administered in a different way. there would have, in short, to be a close approach to the roman catholic organization, and the churches would have to lose the character of social clubs, which now makes them so comfortable and attractive. well-to-do christians would have to sacrifice their tastes in a dozen ways, and give up the expectation of aesthetic pleasure in public worship. there cannot be a vast gothic cathedral for the multitude in every city. the practice of the church would have to be forced up to its own theory of its character and mission, which would involve serious collision with some of the most deeply rooted habits and ideas of modern social and political life. that there is any immediate probability of this we do not believe. until it is brought about, its members must make up their minds to have religious professions treated by some as but slight guarantees of character, and by others as but cloaks of wrong-doing, hard as this may be for that large majority to whom they are an honest expression of sure hopes and noble aims. rÔle of the universities in politics mr. galton, in his work on "hereditary genius," has drawn attention in a striking chapter to the effect which the systematic destruction and expatriation, by the inquisition or the religious intolerance of the government, of the leading men of the nation--its boldest thinkers, most ardent investigators, most prudent and careful and ingenious workers, in generation after generation--had in bringing about the moral and political decline of the three great latin countries, france, spain, and italy--a decline of which, in the case of the two former at least, we have probably not seen the end. the persons killed or banished amounted only to a few thousands every year, but they were--no matter from what rank they came--the flower of the population: the men whose labor and whose influence enabled the state to keep its place in the march of civilization. the picture is very valuable (particularly just now, when there is so great a disposition to revel in the consciousness of vast numbers), as calling attention to the smallness of the area within which, after all, the sources of national greatness and progress are to be sought. the mind which keeps the mass in motion, which saves and glorifies it, would most probably, if we could lay bare the secret of national life, be found in the possession of a very small proportion of the people, though not in any class in particular-- neither among the rich nor the poor, the learned nor simple, capitalists nor laborers; but the abstraction of these few from the sum of national existence, though it would hardly be noticed in the census, would produce a fatal languor, were the nation not constantly receiving fresh blood from other countries. this element was singled out with considerable accuracy in france and spain by religious persecution. it would happily be impossible to devise any process of selection one-quarter as efficient in our age or in this country. the one we have been using for the last twenty years, and on which a good deal of popular reliance has been placed, is the accumulation of wealth; and under this "the self-made man"--that is, the man who, starting in life ignorant and poor, has made a large fortune, and got control of a great many railroads and mines and factories--has risen into the front rank of eminence. the events of the last five years, however, have had a damaging effect on his reputation, and he now stands as low as his worst enemies could desire. as he declines, the man of some kind of training naturally rises; and it would be running no great risk to affirm that the popular mind inclines more than it has usually done to the belief that trained men--that is, men who have been prepared for their work by teaching on approved methods--are after all the most valuable possession a country can have, and that a country is well or ill off in proportion as they are numerous or the reverse. one does not need to travel very far from this position to reach the conclusion that there is probably no way in which we could strike so deadly a blow at the happiness and progress of the united states as by sweeping away, by some process of proscription kept up during a few generations, the graduates of the principal colleges. in no other way could we make so great a drain on the reserved force of character, ambition, and mental culture which constitutes so large a portion of the national vitality. they would not be missed at the polls, it is true, and if they were to run a candidate for the presidency to-morrow their vote would excite great merriment among the politicians; but if they were got rid of regularly for forty or fifty years in the manner we have suggested, and nothing came in from the outside to supply their places, the politicians would somehow find that they themselves had less public money to vote or steal, less national aspiration to trade upon, less national force to direct, less national dignity to maintain or lose, and that, in fact, by some mysterious process, they were getting to be of no more account in the world than their fellows in guatemala or costa rica. there will come to the colleges of the united states during the next fifty years a larger and larger number of men who either strongly desire training for themselves or are the sons of men who are deeply sensible of its advantages, and therefore are at the head of families which possess and appreciate the traditions of high civilization, and would like to live in them and contribute their share to perpetuating them--and they will not come from any one portion of the country. there are, unhappily, "universities" in all parts of the union, but there is hardly a doubt that as the means of communication are improved and cheapened, and as the real nature and value of the university education become better understood, the tendency to use the small local institutions passing by this name as, what they really are, high schools, and resort to the half-dozen colleges which can honestly call themselves universities, will increase. the demands which modern culture, owing to the advance of science and research in every field, now makes on a university, in the shape of professors, books, apparatus, are so great that only the largest and wealthiest institutions can pretend to meet them, and in fact there is something very like false pretence in the promise to do so held out to poor students by many of the smaller colleges. these colleges doubtless do a certain amount of work very creditably; but they are uncandid in saying that they give a university education, and in issuing diplomas purporting to be certificates that any such education has either been sought or received. the idea of maintaining a university for the sake of the local glory of it is a form of folly which ought not to be associated with education in any stage. these considerations are now felt to be so powerful in other countries that they threaten the destruction of a whole batch of universities in italy which have come down famous and honored from the middle ages and have sent out twenty generations of students, and they are causing even the very best of the smaller universities in germany, great and efficient as many of them are, to tremble for their existence. there is no interest of learning, therefore, which would not be served by the greater concentration of the resources of the country as regards university education, still less is there any interest of society or politics. it is of the last importance that the class of men from all parts of the country whom the universities send out into the world should as far as possible be educated together, and start on their careers with a common stock of traditions, tastes, and associations. much as steam and the telegraph have done, and will do, to diminish for administrative purposes the size of the republic, and to simplify the work of government, they cannot prevent the creation of a certain diversity of interests, and even of temperament and manners, through differences of climate and soil and productions. there will never come a time when we shall not have more or less of such folly as the notion that the south and west need more money than the east, because they have less capital, or the struggle of some parts of the country for a close market against other parts which seek an open one. nothing but a reign of knowledge and wisdom, such as centuries will not bring, will prevent states on the gulf or on the pacific from fancying that their interests are not identical with those of the northern atlantic, and nothing but profound modifications in the human constitution will ever bring the california wheat-raiser into complete sympathy with the new england shoemaker. the work of our political system for ages to come will consist largely in keeping these differences in check; and in doing it, it will need all the help it can get from social and educational influences. it ought to be the aim, therefore, of the larger institutions of learning to offer every inducement in their power to students from all parts of the union, and more especially from the south, as the region which is most seriously threatened by barbarism, and in which the sense of national unity and the hold of national traditions on the popular mind are now feeblest. we at the north owe to the civilized men at the south who are now, no matter what their past faults or delusions may have been, struggling to save a large portion of the union from descent into heathen darkness and disorder, the utmost help and consideration. we owe them above all a free and generous welcome to a share in whatever means of culture we have at our disposal, and ought to offer it, as far as is consistent with our self-respect, in a shape that will not wound theirs. the question of the manner of doing this came up incidentally at harvard the other day, at the dedication of the great hall erected in memory of the graduates of the university who died in the war. the hall is to be used for general college purposes, for examinations, and some of the ceremonial of commencement, as well as for dinner, and a portion of the walls is covered with tablets bearing the names of those to whose memory it is dedicated. the question whether the building would keep alive the remembrance of the civil war in any way in which it is inexpedient to keep it alive, or in any way which would tend to keep southern students away from the university, has been often asked, and by some answered in the affirmative. general devens, who presided at the alumni dinner, gave full and sufficient answer to those who find fault with the rendering of honor on the northern side to those who fell in its cause; but general bartlett--who perhaps more than any man living is qualified to speak for those who died in the war--uttered, in a burst of unpremeditated eloquence, at the close of the proceedings, the real reason why no southern man need, and we hope will never, feel hurt by northern memorials of the valor and constancy of northern soldiers. it is not altogether the cause which ennobles fighting; it is the spirit in which men fight; and no horror of the objects of the southern insurrection need prevent anybody from admiring or lamenting the gallant men who honestly, loyally, and from a sense of duty perished in its service. it is not given to the wisest and best man to choose the right side; but the simplest and humblest knows whether it is his conscience which bids him lay down his life. and this test may be applied by each side to all the victims of the late conflict without diminishing by one particle its faith in the justice of its own cause. moreover, as general bartlett suggested, the view of the nature of the struggle which is sure to gain ground all over the country as the years roll on is that it was a fierce and passionate but inevitable attempt to settle at any cost a controversy which could be settled in no other way; and that all who shared in it, victors or vanquished, helped to save the country and establish its government on sure and lasting foundations. this feeling cannot grow without bringing forcibly to mind the fact that the country was saved through the war that virtue might increase, that freedom might spread and endure, and that knowledge might rule, and not that politicians might have a treasury to plunder and marble halls to exchange their vituperation in; thus uniting the best elements of northern and southern society by the bonds of honest indignation as well as of noble hopes. the hopkins university the _baltimore american_, discussing the plan of the hopkins university in that city, says: "the _nation_ suggests to the board of trustees a university that would leave latin, greek, mathematics, and the elements of natural science out of its curriculum." this is so great a mistake that we are at a loss to understand how it could have been made. the _nation_ has never suggested anything of the kind. the university which the _nation_ has expressed the hope the trustees would found is simply a university with such a high standard for admission on all subjects that the professors would be saved the necessity of teaching the rudiments of either latin, greek, mathematics, or natural science; or, in other words, that the country would be saved considerable waste of skilled labor. the reason why we have ventured to expect this of the hopkins trustees is that they enjoy the all but unprecedented advantage of being left in possession of a very large bequest, with complete liberty, within very wide limits, as to the disposition of it. in other words, they are to found a university with it, but as to the kind of university they may exercise their discretion. that this is a very exceptional position everybody familiar with the history of american colleges knows. all the older colleges are bound to the state, or to certain religious denominations, by laws or usages or precedents which impose a certain tolerably fixed character either on the subjects or on the mode of teaching them, or on both. they have traditions to uphold, or denominational interests to care for, or political prejudices to satisfy. the newer ones, on the other hand, are apt to have incurred a bondage even worse still, in having to carry out the wishes of a founder who, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, had only a faint notion of the nature and needs of a university, and in endowing one sought rather to erect a monument to his memory than to found a seat of learning. in so far as he was interested in the curriculum, he probably desired that it should be such as would satisfy some want which he himself felt, or thought he felt, in early life, or should diffuse some social or religious or political crotchet on which his fancy had secretly fed during his years of active exertion, and on the success of which he came to think, in the latter part of his life, that the best interests of the community were dependent. the number of these honorably ambitious but ill-informed and somewhat eccentric testators increases every year, as the country grows in wealth and the habit of giving to public objects gains in strength. the consequence is that we are threatened with the spectacle during the coming century of a great waste of money by well-meaning persons in the establishment all over the country of institutions calling themselves "universities," which are either so feebly equipped as rather to hinder than help the cause of education, or so completely committed by their organization to the propagation of certain social or religious theories as to deserve the appellation of mission stations rather than of colleges. education is now an art of exceeding delicacy and complexity. to master it, so as to have a trustworthy opinion as to the relative value of studies and as to the best mode of pursuing them, and as to the organization of institutions devoted to the work of instruction, a man needs both learning and experience. the giving him money to employ in his special work, therefore, without leaving him discretion as to the manner in which he shall use it, is to prepare almost certainly for its waste in more than one direction. to make the most of the resources of the country for educational purposes, it is necessary above all things that they should be placed at the disposal of those who have made education a special study, and who are free, as we understand the hopkins trustees to be, from any special bias or bond, and are ready or willing to look at the subject from every side. their liberty, of course, brings with it great responsibility--all the greater for the reasons we have been enumerating. now, as to the use which they should make of this liberty, the _baltimore american_ fears that if they found a university of the class sketched by us some weeks ago, "the people of maryland would be greatly disappointed--there would not be over fifty students," and "there would be a great outcry against the investment of three and a half millions of dollars for the benefit of so small a number." whether the people of maryland will be disappointed or not, depends on the amount of consideration they give the matter. if they are satisfied that the foundation of such a university as is now talked of is the best use that can be made of the money, they will not be disappointed, and there will be no "outcry" at all. being an intelligent people, they will on reflection see that the value of a university by no means depends solely on the proportion borne by the number of its students to the amount of its revenues, because, judged in this way--that is, as instruments of direct popular benefit--all the universities in the country might be pronounced failures. the bulk of the community derives no direct benefit from them at all. harvard, for instance, has an endowment of about five million dollars, we believe, and the total number of the students is only , , while the population of the state of massachusetts is , , , so that, even supposing all the students to come from massachusetts, which they do not, less than one person in every thousand profits by the university. the same story might be told of yale or any other college. considered as what are called popular institutions--that is, institutions from which everybody can or does derive some calculable, palpable benefit--the universities of this and every other country are useless, and there ought on this theory to be a prodigious "outcry" against them, and they ought, on the principle of equality, if allowed to exist at all, to be allowed to exist only on condition that they will give a degree, or at least offer an education, to every male citizen of sound mind. but nobody takes this view of them. the poorest and most ignorant hod-carrier would not hold, if asked, that because he cannot go to college there ought to be no colleges. sensible people in every country acknowledge that a high education can in the nature of things be only obtained by a very small proportion of the population; but that the few who seek it, and can afford to take it, should get it, and should get it of the best quality, they hold to be a public benefit. now, why a public benefit? the service that harvard or yale renders to the community certainly does not lie simply in the fact that it qualifies a thousand young men every year to earn a livelihood. they would earn a livelihood whether they went to college or not. the vast majority of men earn a livelihood without going to college or thinking of it. indeed, it is doubted by many persons, and with much show of reason, whether a man does not earn it all the more readily for not going to college at all; and as regards the work of the world of all kinds, the great bulk of it is done, and well done, by persons who have not received a university education and do not regret it. so that the benefits which the country derives from the universities consists mainly in the refining and elevating influences which they create, in the taste for study and research which they diffuse, in the social and political ideals which they frame and hold up for admiration, in the confidence in the power of knowledge which they indirectly spread among the people, and in the small though steady contributions they make to that reverence for "things not seen" in which the soul of the state may be said to lie, and without which it is nothing better than a factory or an insurance company. there is nothing novel about the considerations we are here urging. the problem over which university reformers have been laboring in every country during the past forty years has been, how to rid the universities, properly so called, of the care of the feeble, inefficient, and poorly prepared students, and reserve their teaching for the better-fitted, older, and more matured; or, in other words, how, in the interest both of economy and culture, to reserve the highest teaching power of the community for the most promising material. it is forty years since john stuart mill wrote a celebrated attack on the english universities, then in a very low condition, in which he laid it down broadly that the end above all for which endowed universities ought to exist was "to keep alive philosophy," leaving "the education of common minds for the common business of life" for the most part to private enterprise. this seemed at the time exacting too much, and it doubtless seems so still; but it is nevertheless true that ever since that period universities of the highest class, both in europe and in this country, have been working in that direction--striving, that is to say, either to sift the applicants for admission, by imposing increasingly severe tests, and thus presenting to the professors only pupils of the highest grade to work upon; or, at all events, if not repelling the ill-fitted, expending all their strength in furnishing the highest educational advantages to the well-fitted. in the last century, harvard and yale were doing just the kind of work that the high schools now do--that is, taking young lads and teaching them the elements of literature. at the present day they are throwing this work as far as possible on the primary schools, and reserving their professors and libraries and apparatus, as far as the state of the country and the conditions of their organization will permit, for those older and more advanced students who bring to the work of learning both real ardor and real preparation. a boy has to know more to get into either of them to-day than his grandfather knew when he graduated. nevertheless, with all the efforts they can make after this true economy of power and resources, there is in both of them a large amount of waste of labor. there are men in both of them, and in various other colleges, much of whose work is almost as much a misuse of energy and time as if they were employed so many hours a day in carrying hods of mortar, simply because they are doing what the masters of primary schools ought to do, and what no man at a university ought to be asked to do. it is a kind of work, too, which, if it have to be done in colleges at all, is already abundantly provided for by endowment. no maryland youth who desires to learn a little mathematics, get a smattering of classics, and some faint notions of natural science, or even to support himself by manual labor while doing this, will suffer if the hopkins endowment is used for higher work. the country swarms already with institutions which meet his needs, and in which he can graduate with ease to himself and credit to his state. the trustees of this one will do him and the state and the whole country most service, therefore, by providing a place to which, after he has got hold of the rudiments at some other college, he can come, if he has the right stuff in him, and pursue to the end the studies for which all universities should really be reserved. the south after the war i september , . having just returned from a few weeks' stay in virginia it has occurred to me as probable that your readers would be interested in hearing how such changes in southern manners and tone of thought and economical outlook as could be noted in a brief visit strike one who had travelled in that region before the war had revolutionized it. it is now twenty years since i spent a winter traversing the cotton states on horseback, sleeping at the house which happened to be nearest when the night caught me. buchanan had just been elected; the friends of slavery, though anxious, were exultant and defiant, and the possibility of a separate political future had begun to take definite shape in the public mind, at least in the gulf states. i am unable to compare the economical condition of that part of the country at that time with its condition to-day, because both slavery and agriculture in virginia differed then in many important respects from slavery and agriculture farther south. but the habits and modes of thought and feeling bred by slavery were essentially the same all over the south; and i do not think that i shall go far astray in assuming that the changes in these which i have noticed in virginia would be found to-day in all the other states. the first which struck me, and it was a most agreeable one, was what i may call the emancipation which conversation and social intercourse with northerners had undergone. in the tone of nearly everybody with whom i came in contact, however veiled by politeness, was in some degree irritable and defiant. my host and i were never long before the evening fire without my finding that he was impatient to talk about slavery, that he suspected me of disliking it, and yet that he wished to have me understand that he did not care, and that nobody at the south cared two cents what i thought about it, and that it was a little impertinent in me, who knew so little of the negro, to have any opinion about it at all. i was obliged, too, to confess inwardly that there was a good deal of justification for his bad temper. there was i, a curious stranger, roving through his country and eating at his board, and all the while secretly or openly criticising or condemning his relations with his laborers and servants, and, in fact, the whole scheme of his domestic life. i was not a pleasant companion, and nothing could make me one, and no matter on what themes our talk ran, it was colored by our opinions on the institution. he looked at nearly everything in politics and society from what might be called the slaveholder's point of view, and suspected me, on the other hand, of disguising reprobation of the south and its institutions in any praise of the north or of france or england which i might utter. so that there was a certain acridity and a sense of strong and deep limitations and reserves in our discussions, somewhat like those which are felt in the talk of a pious evangelical protestant with a pious catholic. in virginia of to-day i was conscious of a curious change in the atmosphere, as if the windows of a close room had been suddenly opened. i found that i was in a country where all things were debatable, and where i had not to be on the lookout for susceptibilities. the negro, too, about whom i used to have to be so careful, with whom i used to make it a point of honor not to talk privately or apart from his master when i was staying on a plantation, was wandering about loose, as it were, and nobody seemed to care anything about him any more than about any poor man. i found every southerner i spoke to as ready to discuss him as to discuss sheep or oxen, to let you have your own views about him just as you had them about sheep or oxen. moreover, i found instead of the stereotyped orthodox view of his place and capacity which prevailed in , a great variety of opinions about him, mostly depreciatory, it is true, but still varying in degree as well as in kind. it is difficult to give anyone who has never had any experience of the old slave society an idea of the difference this makes in a stranger's position at the south. in short, as one southerner expressed it to me on my mentioning the change, "yes, sir, we have been brought into intellectual and moral relations with the rest of the civilized world." all subjects are now open at the south in conversation. is this true? it will probably be asked, with regard to the late war. can you talk freely about that? not exactly; but then the limitations on your discourse on this point are not peculiar to the south; they are such as would be put upon the discourse of two parties to a bloody contest in any civilized country among well-bred men or women. the events of the war you can discuss freely, but you are hardly at liberty to denounce southern soldiers or officers, or accuse them of "rebellion," or to assume that they fought for base or wicked motives. moreover, in a certain sense, all southerners are still "unrepentant rebels." doubtless, in view of the result, they will acknowledge that the war was a gigantic mistake; but i found that if i sought for an admission that, if it was all to do over again, they would not fight, i was touching on a very tender point, and i was gently but firmly repelled. the reason is plain enough. in confessing this, they would, they think, be confessing that their sons and brothers and fathers had perished miserably in a causeless struggle on which they ought never to have entered, and this, of course, would look like a slur on their memory, and their memory is still, after the lapse of twelve years, very sacred and very dear. i doubt if many people at the north have an adequate notion of the intensity of the emotions with which southerners look back on the war; and i mean tender and not revengeful or malignant emotions. the losses of the battle-field were deeply felt at the north--in many households down to the very roots of life; but on the whole they fell on a large and prosperous population, on a community which in the very thick of the fray seemed to be rolling up wealth, which revelled as it fought, and came out of the battle triumphant, exultant, and powerful. at the south they swept through a scanty population with the most searching destructiveness, and when all was over they had to be wept over in ruined homes and in the midst of a society which was wrecked from top to bottom, and in which all relatives and friends had sunk together to common perdition. there has been no other such cataclysm in history. great states have been conquered before now, but conquest did not mean a sudden and desolating social revolution; so that to a southerner the loss of relatives on the battle-field or in the hospital is associated with the loss of everything else. a gentleman told me of his going, at the close of the war, into a little church in south carolina on sunday, and finding it filled with women, who were all in black, and who cried during the singing. it reminded one of the scene in the cathedral at leyden, when the people got together to chant a _te deum_ on hearing that the besieging army was gone; but, the music suddenly dying out, the air was filled with the sounds of sobbing. the leydeners, however, were weak and half-starved people, weeping over a great deliverance; these south carolinians were weeping before endless bereavement and hopeless poverty. i doubt much if any community in the modern world was ever so ruthlessly brought face to face with what is sternest and hardest in human life; and those of them who have looked at it without flinching have something which any of us may envy them. but then i think it would be a mistake to suppose that southerners came out of the war simply sorrowful. at the close, and for some time afterward, they undoubtedly felt fiercely and bitterly, and hated while they wept; and this was the primal difficulty of reconstruction. frequently in conversation i heard some violent speech or act occurring soon after the war mentioned with the parenthetical explanation, "you know, i felt very bitterly at that time." but, then, i have always heard it from persons who are to day good-tempered, conciliatory, and hopeful, and desirous of cultivating good relations with northerners; from which the inference, which so many northern politicians find it so hard to swallow, is easy--viz., that time produces on southerners its usual effects. what mr. boutwell and mr. blaine would have us believe is that southerners are a peculiar breed of men, on whom time produces no effect whatever, and who feel about things that happened twenty years ago just as they feel about things which happened a month ago. the fact is, however, that they are in this respect like the rest of the human race. time has done for their hearts and heads what it has done for the old virginia battle-fields. there was not in a fence standing between the potomac and gordonsville, and but few, if any, undamaged houses. when i passed manassas junction the other day there was a hospitable-looking tavern and several houses at the station; the flowers were blooming in the yard, and crowds of young men and women in their sunday clothes were gathered from the country around to see a base-ball match, and a well-tilled and well-fenced and smiling farming country stretched before my eyes in every direction. the only trace of the old fights was a rude graveyard filled, as a large sign informed us, with "the confederate dead." all the rest of the way down to the springs the road ran through farms which looked as prosperous and peaceful as if the tide of war had not rolled over them inside a hundred years, and it is impossible to talk with the farmers ten minutes without seeing how thoroughly human and anglo-saxon they are. with them the war is history--tender, touching, and heroic history if you will, but having no sort of connection with the practical life of to-day. some of us at the north think their minds are occupied with schemes for the assassination and spoliation of negroes, and for a "new rebellion." their minds are really occupied with making money, and the farms show it, and their designs on the negro are confined to getting him to work for low wages. his wages are low--forty cents a day and rations, which cost ten cents--but he is content with it. i saw negroes seeking employment at this rate, and glad to get it; and in the making of the bargain nothing could be more commercial, apparently, than the relations of the parties. they were evidently laborer and employer to each other, and nothing more. the state of things on two farms which i visited may serve as illustrations of the process of regeneration which is going on all over virginia. they are two hundred miles apart. on one of two thousand acres there were, before the war, about one hundred and fifty slaves of all ages. the owner, at emancipation, put them in wagons and deposited them in ohio. his successor now works the plantation with twelve hired men, who see to his cattle, of which he raises and feeds large herds. his cultivation is carried on on shares by white tenants. he has an overseer, makes a snug income, and spends a good part of his winters in baltimore and new york. he laughs when you ask him if he regrets slavery. nothing would induce him to take care of one hundred and fifty men, women, and children, furnishing perhaps thirty able-bodied men, littering the house with a swarm of lazy servants, and making heavy drafts on the meat-house and corn-crib, and running up doctor's bills. the other was owned at the close of the war by a regular "virginia gentleman," with the usual swarm of negroes, and who was in debt. he sold it to an enterprising young farmer from another county, paid his debts, and retired to a small place, where, with two or three hired men, he makes a living. the young farmer, instead of seventy-five slaves, works it with twelve hands in the busy season and three in winter, is up at five o'clock in the morning superintending them himself, raises all raisable crops, and is as intent on the markets and the experiments made by his neighbors as if he lived in illinois or the carse of gowrie. he was led by colonel waring's book to try tile-draining, and made the tiles for the purpose on his own land. he was so successful that he now manufactures and soils tiles extensively to others. it would be difficult to meet at the north or in england two men with their faces turned away from the old times more completely than these, more averse from the old plantation ways; and, as far as i could learn or hear, they are fair specimens of the kind of men who are taking possession of the old dominion. their neighbors consist of three classes: men who had by extraordinary exertions saved some or all of their land after the war, and had by borrowing or economizing managed to stock it, and are now prospering, by dint of close management and constant attention, on the northern plan; young and enterprising men who had bought at low rates from original proprietors whom the war left hopelessly involved, and too old or incapable to recover; and a sprinkling of northern and english immigrants. ii the part played by the virginia springs in the political and social life of "the states lately in rebellion," is to a traveller most interesting. the attraction of these springs to southerners has been in times past, and is still, largely due to the fact that the south has, properly speaking, no other watering-places. seaside resorts there are none worth mention, from norfolk down to mexico, and there are but few points of the long, level, dull, and sandy coast-line which are not more or less unhealthy. suspicion on this point even hangs around the places in florida now frequented by northerners for the sake of the mild winter temperature. but oven if the sea-coast were healthy, it is in summer too hot to be attractive, and offers no relief to persons whose livers and kidneys have got out of order in the lowlands. these naturally seek the hills for coolness, and they go to the sulphur springs of virginia because the sulphur waters are very powerful and efficacious in their effects on people afflicted with what the doctors call "hepatic troubles." but then they never would or could have gone from the southern seaboard to places so far off if it had not been for the inestimable negro. the extent to which he contributed to the rapid pushing out of the scanty white population of the slave states to the mississippi has never, i think, received due attention. he robbed pioneering, indeed, at the south of most of the hardship with which it is associated in the northern mind--i was going to say discomfort as well as hardship, but this would be going too far. to the southern planter, however, who could go west with a party of stalwart negroes to do the clearing, building, ploughing, and cooking and washing, the wilderness had but few of the terrors it presented to the northern frontiersman. he was speedily provided with a very tolerable home; not certainly the kind of home which the taste of a man as well off at the north would be satisfied with, but a vastly better one than any new settler in the northwestern states ever had. the springs in the virginia mountains became popular a century ago, and were greatly resorted to in much the same way. they were remote and in the woods, but, owing to slavery, they swarmed from the very first with servants who could not "give notice" if they did not like the place, or felt lonesome. the first accommodation at the springs consisted of a circle of log-cabins with a dining-hall and ball-room in the centre, and this constitutes the fundamental plan of a spring to this day. there is now always a hotel in which a considerable number of the visitors both sleep and eat, but the bulk of them, or a very large proportion of them, still live in the long rows of one-storied wooden huts, with galleries running along in front of the doors, which are dignified with the name of "cottages," but are in reality simply the log-cabin in the next stage of evolution; and the hotel has taken the place of the original dining and ball-rooms to which all resorted. in looking at the cottages, and thinking of the log-cabins which preceded them, and seeing what rude places they are, one wonders a little how people could ever have been, or can now be, induced to leave comfortable homes for the purpose of spending long summers in them. but this brings up one of the marked characteristics of southern life, namely, the extent to which nearly all southern men and women were led in the slavery days to associate comfort not with the trimness and order of northern or english homes, but with an abundance of service. well-to-do northerners used to be surprised, in fact, at the amount of what they would consider discomfort in the way of rude or unfinished surroundings, hard beds, poor fare, want of order of all sorts, which even southerners in easy circumstances were willing to put up with; but the explanation lay in the fact that southerners placed their luxury in having plenty of servants at command. all the ladies had maids and the men "body servants" wherever they went, and this saved them, even on the frontier, from a great deal of drudgery and inconvenience. even a log-cabin is not a bad place to lodge in if you have a valet (who cannot leave you) to dress you, and brush your boots and your clothes, and light your fire, and bring you ice-water and juleps and cocktails, and anything else you happen to think of, who sleeps comfortably in a blanket across your door. in fact, without this the virginia springs could never have become a popular resort until railroads were opened. people used to take twenty days in reaching them from the coast-- some in their own carriages with four horses, and a wagon for the baggage and "darkies," and some in stages, sleeping in taverns on the roadside; but nothing could have made this practicable or tolerable but the band of negroes by whom they were always accompanied. this, too, enabled them to make their plans with certainty for staying at the springs all summer, which they could not have done had they been unable to count on their servants. one gentleman, a charlestonian, telling me his reminiscences of these long journeys to the springs taken with his parents in their own carriage, when he was a boy, said his mother was very delicate and her health required it. this at the north would have been a joke, as it would have killed a delicate woman to go into the woods with hired "help" or without any service at all. partly owing to the efficacy of the waters and partly to the absence of other southern watering-places, the springs became very early the resort of every southerner who could afford to leave home in the summer, and they grew in favor owing to the peculiarities of southern society and the delicate state of southern relations with the north. in the first place, at the south people know each other, and know about each other, in a way of which the inhabitants of a denser and busier community have little idea. the number of persons in illinois, or ohio, or michigan that a new yorker knows anything about, or cares to see for social purposes, is exceedingly small. at the south everybody with the means to travel has relatives or friends or acquaintances of longer or shorter standing, in nearly every southern state, whom it is agreeable for him to meet, and he knows that they will probably, at some part of the season or other, appear at the springs. they will not go north because the north is far away, is, in a certain sense, a strange community, and before the war a hostile or critical one. then, too, the south abounded or abounds with local notables to a degree of which we have no idea at the north, with persons of a certain weight and consequence in their own state or county, and to whom this weight and consequence are so agreeable and important that they cannot bear to part with them when they go on a journey. they could always carry them with them to the springs. there everybody was sure to know their standing, while if they had gone up north they would be lost in the crowd and be nobodies, and, before the war, have been deprived of the services of their "body servants" or labored under constant anxiety about their security. the springs, too, became, very early, and are now, a great marrying-place. the "desirable young men, all riding on horses," as the prophet called the assyrian swells, go there in search of wives, and are pretty sure to find there all the marriageable young women of the south who can be said in any sense to be in society. widows abound at the springs just now--by which i mean widows who would not object to trying the chances of matrimony again. i have been told that, since the war, it is not uncommon for families whose means are small to make up a purse to send one attractive youth or maid or forlorn widow to the springs, in the hope that during the season they may find the unknown soul which is to complete their destiny, somewhat like the "culture" donations made to promising people at the north to enable them to visit europe. then, too, to that very large proportion of the population at the south who lead during the rest of the year absolutely solitary lives on plantations, the visit to the springs gives the only society of any kind they ever see, and the one chance of showing their clothes and seeing what the other women wear. in short, i do not believe that any one place of summer resort serves so many purposes to any community as the virginia springs serve to that of the south, and by the springs i mean that circle of mineral waters of various kinds which lie round the white sulphur, and to which the white sulphur acts as a kind of distributing reservoir of visitors. as regards the opinions of the very representative company at the springs on the subject of slavery, it seemed, as well as i could get at it, to be that about one per cent, of the white people regretted the emancipation; but this was composed almost entirely of old persons, who were unable to accommodate themselves to a new order of things, and to whom it meant the loss of personal attendance--perhaps the greatest inconvenience which elderly persons who have been used to valets and maids can undergo. many such persons at the south were really killed by the social changes produced by the war, as truly as if they had been struck on the battle-field; the bewildered resignation of the survivors is sometimes touching to witness, and the calamity was generally embittered by the wholesale flight of the most trusted household servants, who it was supposed would have despised freedom even if offered in a gold box by phillips, garrison, and greeley in person. telling one old gentleman who was mourning over the change that the young men to whom i spoke did not agree with him, but thought it an excellent thing, he replied "that those fellows never had known what domestic comfort was"--meaning that their experience did not run back beyond . the traditions of the old system are, however, unquestionably a better basis for good hotel-keeping than anything we have at the north. the first condition of excellence in all places of entertainment for man and beast is exactingness on the part of the public. to be well cared for you must expect it and be used to it, and this condition the southerners fulfil in a much higher degree than we do. they look for more attention, and they therefore get it; and the waiter world, partly from habit and partly, no doubt, from race temperament, render it with a cheerfulness we are not familiar with here. but the superiority of manners in all classes is very striking. one rarely meets a man on a virginia road who does not raise or touch his hat, and this not in a servile way either, but simply as politeness. the bearing of the men toward each other generally, too, has the ineffable charm, which northern manners are so apt to want, of indicating a recognition of the fact that even if you are no better than any other man, you are different, and that your peculiarities are respectable, and that you are entitled to a certain amount of deference for your private tastes and habits. at the north, on the other hand, manners, even as taught to children, are apt to concede nothing except that you have an immortal soul and a middling chance of salvation, and to avoid anything which is likely to lead you to forget that you are simply a human male. chromo-civilization the last "statement," it is reasonable to hope, has been made in the beecher-tilton case previous to the trial at law, and it is safe to say that it has left the public mind in as unsettled a state as ever before. people do not know what to believe, but they do not want to hear any more newspaper discussion by the principal actors. we are not going to attempt any analysis or summing-up of the case at present. it will be time enough to do that after the _dramatis personae_ have undergone an examination in court, but we would again warn our readers against looking for any decisive result from the legal trial. the expectations on this point which some of the newspapers and a good many lawyers are encouraging are in the highest degree extravagant. the truth is that only a very small portion of the stuff contained in the various "statements" can, under the rules of evidence, be laid before the jury--not, we venture to assert, more than would fill half a newspaper column in all. what _will_ be laid before the jury is, in the main, "questions of veracity" between three or four persons whose credit is already greatly shaken, or, in other words, the very kind of questions on which juries are most likely to disagree, even when the jurymen are entirely unprejudiced. in the present case they are sure to be prejudiced, and are sure to be governed, consciously or unconsciously, in reaching their conclusions by agencies wholly foreign to the matter in hand, and are thus very likely to disagree. there are very few men whose opinions about mr. beecher's guilt or innocence are not influenced by their own religious and political beliefs, or by their social antecedents or surroundings. a curious and somewhat instructive illustration of the way in which a man's fate in such cases as this may be affected by considerations having no sort of relation to the facts, is afforded by the attitude of the western press toward the chief actors in the present scandal. it may be said, roughly, that while the press east of the alleghanies has inclined in beecher's favor, the newspapers west of them have gone somewhat savagely and persistently against him, and have treated tilton as a martyr. the cause of such a divergence of views, considering that both tilton and beecher are eastern men, is of course somewhat obscure, but we have no doubt that it is due to a vague feeling prevalent in the west that tilton's cause is the democratic one--that is, the cause of the poor, friendless man against the rich and successful one--a feeling somewhat like that which in england enlisted the working-classes in london on the side of the tichborne claimant, in defiance of all reason and evidence, as a poor devil fighting a hard battle with the high and mighty. one of the reporters of a western paper which has made important contributions to the literature of the scandal, recently accounted for his support of tilton by declaring that in standing by him he was "fighting the battle of the bohemians against capital." another western paper, in analyzing the causes of the position taken by the leading new york papers on beecher's side, ascribed it to the social relations of the editors with him, believing that they met him frequently at dinners and breakfasts, and found him a jovial companion. all this would be laughable enough if it did not show the amount of covert peril--peril against which no precautions can be taken--to which every prominent man's character is exposed. the moment he gets into a scrape of any kind he finds a host of persons whose enmity he never suspected clamoring to have him thrown to the beasts "on general grounds"--that is, in virtue of certain tests adopted by themselves, judged by which, apart from the facts of any particular accusation, a man of his kind is unquestionably a bad fellow. the accusation, in short, furnishes the occasion for destroying him, not necessarily the reason for it. in europe there are already abundant signs that the scandal will be considered a symptomatic phenomenon--that is, a phenomenon illustrative of the moral condition of american society generally; for it must not be overlooked that, putting aside altogether the question of beecher's guilt or innocence, the "statements" furnish sociological revelations of a most singular and instructive kind. the witnesses, in telling their story, although their minds are wholly occupied with the proof or disproof of certain propositions, describe ways of living, standards of right and wrong, traits of manners, codes of propriety, religious and social ideas, which, taken together, form social pictures of great interest and value. now, if these were really pictures of american society in general, as some european observers are disposed to conclude, we do not hesitate to say that the prospects of the anglo-saxon race on this continent would be somewhat gloomy. but we believe we only express the sentiment of all parts of the country when we say that the state of things in brooklyn revealed by the charges and countercharges has filled the best part of the american people with nearly as much amazement as if an unknown tribe worshipping strange gods had been suddenly discovered on brooklyn heights. in fact, the actors in the scandal have the air of persons who are living, not _more majorum_, by rules with which they are familiar, but like half-civilized people who have got hold of a code which they do not understand, and the phrases of which they use without being able to adapt their conduct to it. we have not space at our command to illustrate this as fully as we could wish, even if the patience of our readers would permit of it, but we can perhaps illustrate sufficiently within a very short compass. we have already spoken of the oriental extravagance of the language used in the scandal, which might pass in persia or central arabia, where wild hyperbole is permitted by the genius of the language, and where people are accustomed to it in conversation, understand it perfectly, and make unconscious allowance for it. displayed here in the united states, in a mercantile community, and in a tongue characterized by directness and simplicity, it makes the actors almost entirely incomprehensible to people outside their own set, as is shown by the attempts made to explain and understand the letters in the case. most of the critics, both the friendly and hostile, are compelled to treat them as written in a sort of dialect which has to be read with the aid of commentary, glosses, and parallels, and accompanied, like the study of homer or the reg-veda, by a careful examination of the surroundings of the writers, the conditions of their birth and education, the usages of the circle in which they live, and the social and religious influences by which they have been moulded, and so on. their almost entire want of any sense of necessary connection between facts and written statements has been strikingly revealed by moulton's production of various drafts or outlines of cards, reports, and letters which the actors proposed from time to time to get up and publish for the purpose of settling their troubles and warding off exposure by imposing on the public. no savages could have acted with a more simple-minded unconsciousness of truth. moulton, according to his own story, helped beecher to publish a lying card; got tilton to procure from his wife a lying letter; and tilton concocted a lying report for the committee, in which he made them express the highest admiration for himself, his adulterous wife, and her paramour. here we have a bit of the machinery of high civilization--a committee, with its investigation and report, used, or attempted to be used, with just the kind of savage directness with which a bongo would use it, when once he came to understand it, and found he could make it serve some end, and with just as little reference to the moral aspect of the transaction. take, again, tilton's account of the motives which governed him in his treatment of his wife and of beecher. he is evidently aware that there are two codes regulating a man's conduct under such circumstances--one the christian code and the other the conventional code of honor, or, as he calls it, "club-house morality"; but it soon became clear that he had no distinct conception of their difference. having been brought up under the christian code, and taught, doubtless, to regard the term "gentleman" as a name for a heartless epicurean, he started off by forgiving both beecher and his wife, or, as the lawyers say, condoning their offence; and he speaks scornfully of the religious ignorance of the committee in assuming in their report that there was any offence for which a christian was not bound to accept an apology as a sufficient atonement. the club-house code would, however, have prescribed the infliction of vengeance on beecher by exposing him. accordingly, tilton mixes the two codes up in the most absurd way. having, as a christian, forgiven beecher, he began, thirty days after the discovery of the offence, to expose him as a "gentleman," and kept forgiving and exposing him continuously through the whole four years, the _éclat_ of such a relation to beecher having evidently an irresistible temptation for him. finally, when dr. bacon called him a "dog," he threw aside the christian __rôle_ altogether and began assailing his enemy with truly heathen virulence and vigor. a more curious blending of two conceptions of duty is not often seen, and it was doubtless due to the fact that no system of training or culture had made any impression on the man or gone more than skin deep. his interview with beecher, too, by appointment, at his own house, for the purpose of ascertaining by a comparison of dates and reference to his wife's diary the probable paternity of her youngest child, which he describes with the utmost simplicity, is, we venture to say, an incident absolutely without precedent, and one which may safely be pronounced foreign to our civilization. whether it really occurred, or tilton invented it, it makes him a problem in social philosophy of considerable interest. moulton's story, too, furnishes several puzzles of the same kind. that an english-speaking protestant married couple in easy circumstances and of fair education, and belonging to a religious circle, should not only be aware that their pastor was a libertine and should be keeping it a secret for him, but should make his adulteries the subject of conversation with him in the family circle, is hardly capable of explanation by reference to any known and acknowledged tendency of our society. but perhaps the most striking thing in moulton's _rôle_ is that while he appears on the scene as a gentleman or "man of the world," who does for honor's sake what the other actors do from fear of god, his whole course is a kind of caricature of what a gentleman under like circumstances would really do. for instance, he accepts beecher's confidence, which may have been unavoidable, and betrays it by telling various people, from time to time, of the several incidents of beecher's trouble, which is something of which a weak or loose-tongued person--vain of the task in which he was engaged, as it seemed to him, _i.e._, of keeping the peace between two great men--might readily be guilty. but he tells the public of it in perfect unconsciousness that there was anything discreditable in it, as he does of his participation in the writing of lying letters and cards, and his passing money over from the adulterer to pacify the injured husband. in fact, he carries, according to his own account, his services to beecher to a point at which it is very difficult to distinguish them from those of a pander, maintaining at the same time relations of the most disgusting confidence with mrs. tilton. finally, too, when greatly perplexed as to his course, he goes publicly and with _éclat_ for advice to a lawyer, with whom no gentleman, in the proper sense of the term, could maintain intimate personal relation or safely consult on a question of honor. the moral insensibility shown in his visit to general butler is one of the strange parts of the affairs. we have, of course, only indicated in the briefest way some of the things which may be regarded as symptomatic of strange mental and moral conditions in the circle in which the affair has occurred. the explanation of them in any way that would generally be considered satisfactory would be a difficult task. the influences which bring about a certain state of manners at any given time or place are always numerous and generally obscure, but we think something of this sort may be safely offered in consideration of the late "goings on" in brooklyn. in the first place, the newspapers and other cheap periodicals, and the lyceum lectures and small colleges, have diffused through the community a kind of smattering of all sorts of knowledge, a taste for reading and for "art"--that is, a desire to see and own pictures-- which, taken together, pass with a large body of slenderly equipped persons as "culture," and give them an unprecedented self-confidence in dealing with all the problems of life, and raise them in their own minds to a plane on which they see nothing higher, greater, or better than themselves. now, culture, in the only correct and safe sense of the term, is the result of a process of discipline, both mental and moral. it is not a thing that can be picked up, or that can be got by doing what one pleases. it cannot be acquired by desultory reading, for instance, or travelling in europe. it comes of the protracted exercise of the faculties for given ends, under restraints of some kind, whether imposed by one's self or other people. in fact, it might not improperly be called the art of doing easily what you don't like to do. it is the breaking-in of the powers to the service of the will; and a man who has got it is not simply a person who knows a good deal, for he may know very little, but a man who has obtained an accurate estimate of his own capacity, and of that of his fellows and predecessors, who is aware of the nature and extent of his relations to the world about him, and who is at the same time capable of using his powers to the best advantage. in short, the man of culture is the man who has formed his ideals through labor and self-denial. to be real, therefore, culture ought to affect a man's whole character and not merely store his memory with facts. let us add, too, that it may be got in various ways, through home influences as well as through schools or colleges; through living in a highly organized society, making imperious demands on one's time and faculties, as well as through the restraints of a severe course of study. a good deal of it was obtained from the old calvinistic theology, against which, in the days of its predominance, the most bumptious youth hit his head at an early period of his career, and was reduced to thoughtfulness and self-examination, and forced to walk in ways that were not always to his liking. if all this be true, the mischievous effects of the pseudo-culture of which we have spoken above may be readily estimated. a society of ignoramuses who know they are ignoramuses might lead a tolerably happy and useful existence, but a society of ignoramuses each of whom thinks he is a solon would be an approach to bedlam let loose, and something analogous to this may really be seen to-day in some parts of this country. a large body of persons has arisen, under the influence of the common schools, magazines, newspapers, and the rapid acquisition of wealth, who are not only engaged in enjoying themselves after their fashion, but who firmly believe that they have reached, in the matter of social, mental, and moral culture, all that is attainable or desirable by anybody, and who, therefore, tackle all the problems of the day--men's, women's, and children's rights and duties, marriage, education, suffrage, life, death, and immortality--with supreme indifference to what anybody else thinks or has ever thought, and have their own trumpery prophets, prophetesses, heroes and heroines, poets, orators, scholars and philosophers, whom they worship with a kind of barbaric fervor. the result is a kind of mental and moral chaos, in which many of the fundamental rules of living, which have been worked out painfully by thousands of years of bitter human experience, seem in imminent risk of disappearing totally. now, if we said that a specimen of this society had been unearthed in brooklyn by the recent exposures, we should, doubtless to many people, seem to say a very hard thing, and yet this, with the allowances and reservations which have of course to be made for all attempts to describe anything so vague and fleeting as a social state, is what we do mean to say. that mr. beecher's preaching, falling on such a mass of disorder, should not have had a more purifying and organizing effect, is due, we think, to the absence from it of anything in the smallest degree disciplinary, either in the shape of systematic theology, with its tests and standards, or of a social code, with its pains and penalties. what he has most encouraged, if we may judge by some of the fruits, is vague aspiration and lachrymose sensibility. the ability to dare and do, the readiness to ask one's due which comes of readiness to render their due to others, the profound consciousness of the need of sound habits to brace and fortify morals, which are the only true foundation and support of a healthy civilization, are things which he either has not preached or which his preaching has only stifled. "the short-hairs" and "the swallow-tails" there is a story afloat that mr. john morrissey made his appearance, one day during the past week, in madison square, in full evening dress, including white gloves and cravat, and bearing a french dictionary under his arm, and that, being questioned by his friends as to the object of this display, he replied that he was going to see major wickham and ask him for an office in the only costume in which such an application would have a chance of success. in other words, he was acting what over in brooklyn would be called "an allegory," and which was intended to expose in a severe and telling way the mayor's gross partiality, in the use of his patronage, for the well-dressed and well-educated members of society--a partiality which mr. morrissey and his party consider not only unfair but ridiculous. this demonstration, too, was one of the few indications which have as yet met the public eye of a very real division of the democratic party in this city into two sets of politicians, known familiarly as "short-hairs" and "swallow-tails"--the former comprising the rank and file of the voters and the latter "the property-owners and substantial men," who are endeavoring to make tammany an instrument of reform and to manage the city in the interest of the taxpayers. mayor wickham belongs, it is said, to the latter class, and has given, it seems, in the eyes of the former, some proofs of a desire to reserve responsible offices for persons of some pretensions to gentility, and exhibited some disfavor for the selections of the "workers" in the various wards. but we do not undertake to describe with accuracy the origin or nature of the split; all we know is that the short-hairs are disgusted, and that their hostility to the swallow-tails is very bitter, and that when mr. morrissey proclaimed, in the manner we have described, that a man needed to wear evening dress and to know french in order to get a place, he gave feeble expression to the rage of the masses. they have, too, concocted an arrangement which embodies their idea of a well-administered government, and which consists in compelling the departments to spend in wages in each district at least $ . for each democratic vote cast, and to apportion the appropriations with strict reference to this rule, the money, of course, to go to the nominees of democratic politicians. the plan departs from that of the french national workshops in that it discriminates between laborers, but in other respects it has all the characteristics of well-developed communism. the way to meet it, according to our venerable contemporary, the _evening post_, is to have the taxpayers point out to the voters who are to receive the money that they (the taxpayers) cannot well spare it, that they need it for their own use, and that this mode of administering corporate funds is condemned by all the leading writers on government. the swallow-tails know so well, however, with what howls of mingled mirth and indignation the short-hairs would receive such suggestions that they never make them, but content themselves with confining the distribution of the money to the members of their own division quietly and unostentatiously, as far as lies in their power, which, we candidly confess, we do not think is very far. it would be doing the short-hairs injustice, however, if we allowed the reader to remain under the impression that the unwillingness to have the swallow-tails monopolize or even have a share of the office was peculiar to them, or that john morrissey's protest would be unintelligible anywhere out of new york. on the contrary, when he started out with his french dictionary he was giving expression to a feeling which is to be found in greater or less intensity in every state in the union. the great division of politicians into short-hairs and swallow-tails is not confined to this city. it is found in every city in the country in which there is much diversity of condition among the inhabitants. nor did morrissey mean simply to protest against training as a qualification for the work of administration, as the _tribune_ assumed in a sharp and incisive lecture which it read him the other day. we doubt if any pugilist in his secret heart despises training. he knows how much depends on it, and as he is not apt to possess much discriminating power, he is not likely to mark off any particular class of work as not needing it. what the short-hairs dislike in the swallow-tails is the feeling of personal superiority which they imagine them to entertain, and which they think finds a certain expression in careful dressing and in the possession of certain accomplishments. in fact, the swallow-tails whom the new york rough detests and would like to keep out of public life, belong to the class known in massachusetts as the "white-cravat-and-daily-bath gentlemen," and which is there just as unpopular as here, and has even greater difficulty in getting office there than here. the line of division in new york is, however, drawn much lower down. the massachusetts short-hair is a man of intelligence, of some education, who wears a plain black négligé and rumpled shirt-front and soft hat, and disregards the condition of his nails, and takes a warm bath occasionally. the new yorker, on the other hand, wears such clothes as he can get, and only bathes in the hot weather and off the public wharf. if he has good luck and makes money, either in the public service or otherwise, he displays it not in any richness in his toilet or in greater care of his person, but in the splendor of his jewels. one of his first purchases is a diamond-pin, which he sticks in his shirt-front, but he never sees any connection of an aesthetic kind between the linen and the pin, and will wear the latter in a very dirty shirt-front as cheerfully as in a clean one--in fact, more cheerfully, as he has a vague feeling that by showing it he atones for or excuses the condition of the linen. in fact, the short-hair view of dress would be found on examination to be, in nearly ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, something of this kind: that the constant care of the person which produces an impression of neatness and appropriateness, and makes a man look "genteel," is the expression of a certain state of mind; that a man would not take so much trouble to make himself look different from the ordinary run of people whom he meets, unless he thought himself in some way superior to them, or, in other words, thought himself a "gentleman" and them common fellows, and that he therefore fairly deserves the hatred of those of whom he thus openly parades his contempt. a new york short-hair seldom goes farther than this in his speculations, though he doubtless has also a vague idea that a well-dressed man is not so likely to stand by his friends in politics as a more careless one. in new england, as might be expected, however, the popular dislike of that "culte de la personne," as some frenchman has called it, which distinguishes "the white-cravat-and-daily-bath gentleman," has provided itself with a moral basis. there is there a strong presumption that the swallow-tail is a frivolous person, who bestows on his tailoring, and his linen, and his bathing, and his manners the time and attention which the short-hair or "plain blunt man" reserves for reflection on the graver concerns of life, and especially on the elevation of his fellow-men, and this presumption even a career of philanthropy and the composition of the "principia" would not in many minds suffice to overthrow. we believe it is authentic that general grant never got over the impression produced on him by seeing that mr. motley parted his hair in the middle, and it is said--and if not true is not unlikely,--that mr. r. h. dana's practice of wearing kid gloves told heavily against him in his memorable contest with butler in the essex district. we may all remember, too, the gigantic efforts made by mr. sumner and others in congress to have our representatives abroad prohibited from wearing court-dress. what dress they wore was of course, _per se_, a matter of no consequence, provided it was not immodest. the fervor on the subject was due to the deeply rooted feeling that even the amount of care for externals exhibited in putting on an embroidered coat or knee-breeches indicated a light-mindedness against the very appearance of which the minister of a republic ought to guard carefully. it is partly to produce the effect of seriousness of purpose, but mainly to avoid the appearance of airs of social or mental superiority, that nearly all skilful politicians dress with elaborate negligence. in most country districts no complaints can be made of men in office such as the new york short-hair makes against the swallow-tail. they fling on their easy-fitting black clothes in a way that leaves them their whole time for the study of public affairs and attention to the wants of their constituents, and at the same time recalls their humble beginnings. what strikes one, however, as most curious in the controversy between the short-hairs and the swallow-tails is the illustration it affords of the rigidity with which every class or grade in civilization treats its own social conventions, whatever they may be, as final, and as having some subtle but necessary connection with morals. when the indian squats round the tribal pot in his breech-clout, and eats his dinner with his dirty paw, he is fully satisfied that he is as well equipped, both as regards dress and manners, not only as a man need be, but as a man ought to be. the toilet, the chamber, and the dinner-table of a plain new england farmer he treats as wasteful and ridiculous excess, and if good for anything, good only for plunder. the farmer, on the other hand, loathes the indian and his ways, and thinks him a filthy beast, and that he (the farmer) has reached the limits of the proper as regards clothes and food and personal habits, and that the city man who puts greater elaboration into his life is a fribble, who is to be pitied, if not despised and distrusted. in short, we can hardly go one step into the controversy without coming on the old question, what are luxuries and what necessities? and, as usual, the majority decides it in the manner that best suits itself. it may be said without exaggeration that the progress of civilization has consisted largely in the raising of what is called "the standard of living," or, in other words, the multiplication of the things deemed necessary for personal comfort, and, as this raising of the standard has always been begun by the few, the many have always fought against it as a sign of selfishness or affectation until they themselves were able to adopt it. the history of the bath furnishes a curious though tolerably familiar illustration of this. the practice of bathing disappeared from western europe with the fall of the roman empire. the barbarians were themselves dirty fellows, like the indians, and their descendants remained dirty in spite of the growth of civilization among them, putting their money, like the short-hair, mainly into jewels and other ornaments. as long as linen was scarce and dear, changes were, of course, seldom made, and the odor of even "the best society" was so insupportable that perfumes had to be lavishly used to overcome it. the increased cheapness of linen and more recently of cotton, and the increased facilities for bathing, have in our own day made personal cleanliness a common virtue; but an occasional bath is still as much as is thought, through the greater part of the world, compatible with moral earnestness and high aims. of late, indeed within the memory of the present generation, persons mainly belonging to the wealthier class in england have boldly begun to bathe every day, and they have finally succeeded in establishing the rule that a gentleman is bound to bathe, or "tub," as they call it, every day, and that the usage cannot be persistently neglected without loss of position. indeed, there are few social casuists in england who would decide, without great hesitation and anxiety, that any english-speaking man was a gentleman who did not take a daily bath. that this view of the matter should be accepted by the great body of those who would rather not bathe every day is not to be expected, nor is it to be wondered at that they should consider it offensive, and that the practice of sponging one's self in cold water every morning should in caucuses be looked on as a disqualification for political life. there is, of course, a necessary and provoking, though tacit, assumption of superiority in the display of greater cleanliness than other people show, just as there is in coming into a room and finding fault with the closeness of the air in which other people are sitting comfortably. it is tantamount to saying that what is good enough for them is not good enough for you, and they always either openly or secretly resent it. the popular distrust of the practice of wearing white cravats in the evening may be traced to the same causes. the savage makes no change of toilet for the evening. he dresses for war and religious ceremonies, but he goes to a social reunion or feast in such clothes as he happens to have on when the invitation finds him. the plain man of civilized life, under similar circumstances, puts on a clean shirt and his best suit of clothes. this suit, among the european peasantry, is apt to be of simply the same cut and material as the working suit, or, as it would be called in brooklyn, "the garb of toil." among americans, it is a black suit, like that of a clergyman, and includes a silk cravat, generally black, but permissibly colored. the whole matter is, however, one of pure convention. now, it has been found of late years a matter of convenience, and of great convenience especially to hard-worked men and men of moderate means who are exposed to the constant social demands of the great cities of the world, to have a costume in which one can appear on any festive occasion, great or small, which all, gentle or simple, are alike expected to wear, which is neither rich nor gaudy, and in which every man may feel sure that he is properly dressed; and the dress fixed on for this purpose now throughout the civilized world is the plain suit of black, with the swallow-tailed coat, commonly called "evening dress." nothing can be simpler or less pretentious, or more democratic. nobody can add anything to it or take anything away from it. many attempts to modify it have been made during the last thirty years by leaders of fashion, and they have all failed, because it meets one of the great wants of human nature. it is only within the last fifteen years that it has obtained a firm foothold in american cities. people looked on it with suspicion, as a sign of some inward and spiritual naughtiness, and regarded the frock-coat with its full skirts as the only garment in which a serious-minded man, with a proper sense of his origin and destiny, and correct feelings about popular government, could make his appearance in a lady's parlor. why, nobody could tell, for there was a time, not very far back, when the frock-coat was itself an innovation. of late--that is, within, perhaps, twenty years--the swallow-tails of the world have exchanged the black or colored for a white cravat, and justify themselves by saying that it not only looks cleaner, but is cleaner of necessity than a silk one, and that you cannot look too clean or fresh about your throat when you present yourself in a lady's house on a festive occasion. nevertheless, the plain, blunt men are not satisfied. they do not as yet feel sure as to its meaning. they think it indicates either over-thoughtfulness about trifles or else a leaning, slight though it be, toward despotism and free-trade. they will now all, or nearly all, wear evening dress with a black cravat, but even those of them who will consent to put on a white one do so with a certain shamefacedness and sense of backsliding, and of treachery to some good cause, though they do not exactly know which. judges and witnesses the proceedings in the recent bravo poisoning case have raised a good deal of discussion in england as to the license of counsel in cross-examination--a question which recent trials in this country have shown to possess no little interest for us also. in the bravo inquest, as in the tichborne case and the beecher trial of the last year, the cross-examination of the witnesses was pushed into matters very remotely connected with the issue under trial, so that the general result of the inquiry was not, as in most cases, the eliciting of a certain number of facts bearing on the question in court, but a complete revelation of the whole private life of a family, or of a certain part of it, and even of a whole circle of families. the glaring exposure of matters usually kept close, and not even talked about, formed in fact the great fascination of these _causes célèbres_. it was difficult at the first blush to see how in the beecher trial tilton's eccentric nocturnal habits could have thrown any light upon the question of beecher's guilt; nor in the tichborne case was it at all apparent that an answer to the inquiry put to some witness--whether he had, at some distant period of time, had improper relations with some persons not connected with the case--could even remotely tend to settle the claimant's identity. the _pall mall gazette_, discussing this kind of cross-examination resorted to for the purpose of breaking down the credit of a witness--of "showing him up" to the jury, and thus inducing them to pay less attention to his evidence than they otherwise would--has stated the case in the following manner: "suppose, it says, that the legislature of a free country were some fine morning to pass a law authorizing anyone who chose to take it into his head to compel any inhabitant of the country to answer any questions he might think fit to put with regards to the other's moral character, his relations with his parents, brothers and sisters, wife and children, his business affairs, his property, his debts, and in fact his whole private life, and to do all this without there being any dispute between them or even any alleged grievance, what would be thought of such a law? would it be endured for an instant?" now, this, the _pall mall gazette_ continues, is to-day the law of england. it is just to this odious tyranny which anyone, by bringing a suit, can, under the vague and almost unlimited power to punish for "contempt of court," force submission. the law on this subject is, generally speaking, the same in the united states as in england, and this tyranny, if it really exists, weighs upon us as heavily as it does upon englishmen. the first question that suggests itself is whether this is really a fair statement of law, and, of course, the _pall mall gazette_ admits that there exist limitations of the right of cross-examination, but it contends that these are so undefined as to amount to little or nothing in the way of protection. the authorities contain little on the subject, except that cross-examination as to credit is allowed to go very far, and that judges may in their discretion stop it when it goes too far. but judicial discretion is proverbially an uncertain thing. it varies not merely with the court, but even in the same judge it is affected by the state of his temper, his curiosity, his feeling toward the counsel who is examining, and by thousands of other things that no one can know anything about or depend upon. usually it is easier not to exercise than to exercise discretion, and the result is that the right of cross-examination is usually unchecked, and in most important cases which are widely reported the right is pushed to lengths which, with witnesses of any sensibility, amount to a process of slow torture. if the right is abused in england, it is unquestionably abused here, and probably at the time of the beecher trial we should have had complaints about it but for the fact that in the singular society in which the parties to that case lives, a craving for notoriety had been developed which made any discussion of their private affairs less disagreeable than it is to most people. but with the great majority of mankind there is nothing more odious than the extraction, by a sharp, hostile lawyer, from their own unwilling lips, of the details of their moral history. there is probably no one in existence, however good, and however quiet his conscience may be, who can endure without a shudder the thought of every transaction of his past life being dragged out in a court of justice for the amusement of a gaping crowd. exactly how far the right is abused, and how far the discretionary powers of courts to limit its abuse accomplish their end, it is impossible to say, for it is only in sporadic cases of unusual importance that interest in the result is strong enough to warrant a lawyer's going to great length in cross-examination. usually, too, it should be said for the credit of the profession, reputable lawyers shrink from outraging a witness's sensibility. but after everything is admitted that can be admitted in favor of the existing state of the law, it is impossible to deny that the door is left very wide open to disgraceful assaults upon credit which inflict serious and irreparable damage. the difficulty is not in pointing out the evil, which is plain enough, but in suggesting a remedy. the right of cross-examination is one of the most important instruments provided by the machinery of our law for the discovery of facts, and on the credibility of witnesses all cases hinge. the moment we begin to limit it by fixed rules we enter on dangerous ground. it might seem as if the solution of the problem lay in the enactment of a rule that witnesses should only be cross-examined as to their general reputation with regard to truth, and as to the matters involved in the case directly affecting their credibility; but this would by no means do. suppose, for instance, that the suit is a common action for the purchase-money of a piece of cloth, and the defendant brings a witness who swears that he saw the defendant pay the money to the plaintiff, while the plaintiff has only his own evidence to rely upon in proof of non-payment; if, in such case, the plaintiff were merely allowed to cross-examine the witness directly, he would in all probability lose the case. the testimony would be two to one against him, and the story of the witness as the only disinterested person would probably be believed by the jury. but suppose that, on cross-examination, it turns out that this witness can give no good account of his manner of earning his living or of his place of residence; that he had been arrested not long before as a vagrant, and that down to the time of the action he had no respectable clothes, and that he suddenly became possessed of some; that he deserted from the army immediately after getting his bounty-money, and so on, there can be little doubt that his credit with the jury would be much impaired, and justly so, although no direct evidence of his being a perjurer had been introduced, and not a particle of his testimony had been strictly controverted. everyone who has followed with any care the evidence taken in celebrated murder trials or divorce cases knows how frequently a rigid cross-examination lays bare motives and prejudices on the part of witnesses which, often without their knowing it themselves, tend to bias their account of facts. the problem, therefore, is to devise some means by which these benefits of a searching cross-examination may be retained and yet the abuse got rid of. the only feasible way of meeting the difficulty yet proposed is that of drawing up a series of rules or general directions as to evidence which shall not attempt to prescribe formal limits for cross-examination, but shall lay down in explicit words the general principles which should govern a judge in such cases. these rules would practically be a definition of the "discretion" he is now supposed to exercise. they would, for example, direct him not to allow an examination into matters so remote in time from the case in hand that they can have no bearing on the credibility of the witness; not to allow questions to be put which are plainly malicious and asked for the purpose of irritating the witness; and not to allow any examination into transactions which, though they may have a bearing on the character of a witness, have none on his credibility, _e.g._, an inquiry, in a murder case, of a witness in good standing, as to domestic difficulties with a deceased wife. it is not easy to lay down beforehand any rules by which we can discriminate the kind of evidence as to transactions involving moral character which ought not to affect credibility, but every one can easily imagine instances of such evidence. general directions of the kind we have just suggested are no more than a formal enunciation of the manner in which the "discretion" of a good judge would be and is exercised. they do not change the law, but they remind judges of what they may forget, and they may be appealed to by a persecuted witness with far more certainty than judicial "discretion." in the indian code, which is probably the best body of law that the legal reform movement begun by bentham in the last century has yet produced, rules of this kind have been laid down, and we believe have been found to work with success. "the debtor class" a washington correspondent, describing, the other day, the motives which animated the majority in congress in its performances on the currency question, said, and we believe truly, that most of the inflationists in that body knew very well what the evils of paper-money were, so that argument on that point was wasted on them. but they knew also that large issues of irredeemable paper would make it easier for debtors to pay off their creditors, and came to the conclusion that as the number of debtors in the country was greater than the number of creditors, it was wise policy for a politician to curry favor with the former by helping them to cheat the persons who had lent them money or sold them goods. this explanation of the conduct of the majority may be a startling and sad one, but that it is highly probable nobody can deny. all the debates help to confirm it. in every speech, made either in opposition to resumption or in favor of inflation, a portion of the community known as "the debtor class" has appeared as the object of the orator's tenderest solicitude. the great reason for not returning to specie payments hitherto has been the fear that contraction would press hard on "the debtor class;" it is for "the debtor class" we need more paper "_per capita_;" and indeed, no matter what proposal we make in the direction of financial reform, we are met by pictures of the frightful effects which will be produced by it on the "debtor class." moreover, in listening to its champions, a foreigner might conclude that in america debtors either all live together in a particular part of the country, or worse, a particular costume, like mediaeval jews, and are divided from the rest of the community by tastes and habits, so that it would be proper for an american to put "debtor" or "creditor" on his card as a description of his social status. he might, too, not unnaturally begin to mourn over the negligence of the framers of the constitution in not recognizing this marked distribution of american society. truly, he would say, the debtors ought to have representatives in the senate and house to look after their special interests; these unfortunate and helpless men ought not to be left to the charitable care of volunteers like messrs. morton, and logan, and kelly. the great sham and pretence with which america has so long tried to impose on europe, that there were no classes in the united states, ought at last to be formally swept away, and proper legal provision made for the protection of a body of men which has been in all ages the object of atrocious oppression, and seems in america, strange to say, to constitute the larger portion of the community. in travelling through the country, too, he would be constantly on the lookout for the debtors. he would ask in the cities for the "debtors' quarter," and when introduced to a gentleman in the cars or in the hotels, would inquire privately whether he was a debtor or a creditor, so as to avoid hurting his feelings by indiscreet allusion to specie or contraction. his amazement would be very great on learning that there was no way of telling whether an american citizen was either debtor or creditor; that the "debtor class" was not to be found, as such, in any part of the country, or, indeed, anywhere but in the brains of the logans and mortons, and was introduced into the debates simply as a john doe or richard roe, to give a little vividness to the speaker's railings against property. now, as in every civilized society, the vast majority of the population of this country are in debt, to some slight degree. it is only paupers, criminals, and lunatics who owe absolutely nothing. the day-laborer is pretty sure to have a small bill at the grocer's, and all his neighbors, in the ascending grades of commercial respectability, no matter how prompt and accurate they may be in the discharge of their obligations, are sure to owe the butcher and baker and milkman a greater or less amount. in fact the conduct of life on a cash basis would be impossible or intolerable. of course, too, there are scattered all over the country men who owe a great deal of money and to whom little is due, and whose interest it would be to have the coinage adulterated. but then the number of these persons is very small, and they are mostly great speculators, who pass for rich men, and whose interests congress is in reality not in the least desirous of protecting. poor men, as a rule, are hardly ever greatly in debt, because nobody will trust them. we suspect that the number of those in this city who could borrow fifty dollars without security would not be found to be over one-twentieth of the population. the persons to whom loans are made by banks, insurance companies, and other institutions are almost all men of wealth or men who have the conduct of great enterprises, and do not need legislation to help them to take care of themselves. they are great merchants, or manufacturers, or brokers, or contractors, or railroad-builders. in fact, in so far as the debtors can be called a class, they form a very small class, and a class of remarkable shrewdness and of enormous power, over whom it is ludicrous for the government to exercise a fatherly care. the bulk of the population in this, as in every moderately prosperous community in the western world is composed of creditors. the creditor class, in other words, contains the great body of the american people, and any legislation intended to enable debtors to cheat is aimed at nineteen-twentieths, at the very least, of american citizens. any mail who remains very long in the position of a debtor simply, and acquires no footing as a creditor, disappears from the surface of society. bankruptcy or the house of correction is pretty sure to overtake him. it would be well-nigh impossible in this large city or in any other to find a man who had no pecuniary claims on someone else. the humblest hod-carrier becomes a creditor every day after making his first ascent of the ladder, and remains so until saturday night, and continually replaces himself in "the creditor class," as long as life and health remain to him; and the same phenomenon presents itself in all fields of industry. every sewing-girl and maid-servant is looking forward to a payment of earned money, and has the strongest interest in knowing for certain what its purchasing power will be. all depositors in savings-banks, and their number in new york city is greater than that of the voters, belong to the creditor class; all holders of policies of insurances, all owners of government bonds and state and bank stocks, belong to it also. the western farmers and house-owners who have borrowed money at the east on bond and mortgage, who probably make as near an approach to a debtor class as any other body or persons in the community, and whom congressional demagogues probably hoped to serve by enabling them to outwit their creditors, even these are not simply or mainly debtors. any man who is carrying on his business with borrowed money, on which he pays eight or ten per cent., must be every week putting other people in debt to him or he would speedily be ruined. the means of paying those who have trusted him is acquired by his trusting others. either he is selling goods on credit, or entering into contracts, or rendering services which give him the position of a creditor, and make it of the last importance to him that the value of money and the state of the public mind about money should not be materially different six months hence from what they are now. of course there is more than one way of defining the term "self-interest." there is one sense in which it is used by children, savages, and thieves, and which makes it mean immediate gratification, and this appears to be the sense in which it is used by the inflationists in congress, in considering what is for the good of those western men who owe money at the east. in that sense, it is a good thing for a man to lie, cheat, steal, and embezzle whenever it shall appear that by so doing he will satisfy his appetites or put money in his pockets. but civilized and commercial, to say nothing of christian, society is founded on the theory that men look forward and expect to carry on business for several years, and to lay up money for their old age, and establish their children in life, and that they recognize the necessity of self-restraint and loyalty to engagements. the doctrines, on the other hand, which are preached in congress about the best mode of dealing with debts--that is, with other people's money--have never before been heard in a civilized legislature, or anywhere outside of a council of buccaneers, and, if acted on by the community, would produce anarchy. the fact that morton and butler, who preach them and get them embodied in forms of words called "acts," are legislators, disguises, but ought not to disguise, the other fact, that these two men are simply playing the part of receivers or "fences." there probably never was a more striking illustration of the immorality in which, as it was long ago remarked, any principle of government is sure to land people if pushed to its last extreme, than the theory which is now urged on our attention--that superiority of numbers will justify fraud; or, in other words, that if the number of those who borrow should happen to be greater than the number of those who lend, "a vote" is all that is needed to wipe out the debts, either openly or by payment in bits of paper or pebbles. of course, the converse of this would also be true--that if the lenders were in a majority, they would be justified in reducing the debtors to slavery. if the question of humanity or brotherhood were raised as an objection, that, too, could be settled by a ballot. we laugh at the poor african who consults his wooden fetish before he takes any step in the business of his wretched and darkened life; but when a caucasian demagogue tries to show us that the springs of justice and truth are to be found in a comparison of ten thousand bits of paper with nine thousand similar bits, we listen with gravity, and are half inclined to believe that there is something in it. commencement admonition it is quite evident that with, the multiplication of colleges, which is very rapid, it will, before long, become impossible for the newspapers to furnish the reports of the proceedings in and about commencement which they now lay before their readers with such profuseness. the long letters describing with wearisome minuteness what has been described already fifty times will undoubtedly before long be given up. so also, we fancy, will the reports of the "baccalaureate sermons," if these addresses are to retain their value as pieces of parting advice to young men. there is nothing in the newspaper literature, on the whole, less edifying, and sometimes more amusing, than the reporter's _précis_ of pulpit discourses, so thoroughly does he deprive them of force find vigor and point, and often of intelligibility. the ordinary sermon addressed on sunday to the ordinary congregation deals with a great variety of topics, and from many different points of view, and with more or less diversity of method. the baccalaureate sermon, on the other hand, consists, from the necessity of the case, in the main of advice to youths at their entrance on life, and the substance of such discourses can, in the nature of things, undergo no great change from year to year, and must be strikingly similar in all the colleges. any freshness they may have they must owe to the rhetorical powers of particular preachers, and even these cannot greatly vary in dealing with so familiar a theme. what the old man has to say to the young man, the teacher to the pupil, the father to the son, at the moment when the gates of the great world are flung open to the college graduate, has undergone but little modification in a thousand years, and has become very well known to all collegians long before they take their degree. to make the parting words of warning and encouragement tell on ears that are now eager for other and louder sounds, everything that can be done needs to be done to preserve their freshness and their pathos, and certainly nothing could do as much to deprive them of both one and the other as hashing them up annually in a slovenly report as part of the news of the day. it is not, however, the advice contained in baccalaureate sermons, but all advice to young men, that needs in our time to be dealt out with greater circumspection and economy. authority has within the last hundred or even fifty years undergone a serious loss of power, and this loss of power has shown itself nowhere more markedly than in the work of education. it has indeed almost completely changed the relation of parents and children, and teachers and scholars, so that it is now almost as necessary to prove the reasonableness and utility of any course of action which is required of boys as of mature men. persuasion has, in other words, taken the place of command, and there is nobody left whose dictum owes much of its weight to his years or his office. boys as well as their elders now expect advice to be based on personal experience, and do not listen with any great seriousness or deference to admonitions the value of which the utterer has not himself personally tested. it follows, therefore, that the persons whom the young men of our time hear most readily on the conduct of life are those who have had practical acquaintance with the difficulties of living up to the ideals which are so eloquently painted in the college chapel, and who have found out in their own persons what it costs to be pure and upright, and faithful and industrious, and persistent in the struggle that goes on in the various callings which lie outside the college walls. for this reason, probably, no addresses at commencement have the value of those which are delivered now and then by men who have come back for a brief day to tell the next generation of the way life looks to those who for years have been wrestling with its problems, and have had actual experience of the virtues and defects of that early equipment and training on which such enormous sums are now spent in this country. the more advice from this quarter young men get the better. nobody can talk so effectively to them at the moment when they are about to face the world on their own responsibility as the lawyers and merchants and ministers and politicians who have been facing it for twenty-five or thirty years with all the outward signs of success. if it were possible for every college in the country to get one such man at commencement whose powers of expression would do justice to his experience, and who for this one day in the year would without fear or favor tell what he thought about success and about the conditions of success--about the kind of troubles which beset men in the callings with which he is most familiar--we should probably soon have a body of advice so impressive and fruitful that it would serve the needs and excite the interest of more than one generation. the young have been told to be good until they have grown weary of hearing it, particularly as it is always represented to them as a comparatively simple matter, and when they go out in the world and find what a hard and complex thing duty is they are very apt to look back to the ethical instruction of their college as when in college they looked back to the admonitions of the nursery, and return to their alma mater in later years with much the feeling with which a man visits a kindly old grandmother. but commencements certainly draw forth nothing so curious as the newspaper article addressed to the graduating class, and which now seems to be a regular part of the summer's editorial work. it seems to have one object in view, and only one, and that is preventing the graduate from thinking much of his education and his degree, or supposing that they will be of any particular use to him in his entrance on life, or make him any more acceptable to the community. he is warned that they will raise him in nobody's estimation, and prove rather a hinderance than a help to him in getting a living, and that it will be well for him to begin his career by trying to forget that he has ever been in college at all. not unfrequently the discourse closes with a suggestion or hint that the best university is, after all, the office of "a great daily," and that the kindest thing a fond father could do for a promising boy would be to start him as a local reporter and make him get his first experience of life in the collection of "city items." there is in all this the expression, though in a somewhat grotesque form, of a widespread popular feeling that nothing is worthy of the name of education which does not fit a man to earn his bread rapidly and dexterously. considering with how large a proportion of the human race the mere feeding and clothing of the body is the first and hardest of tasks, there is nothing at all surprising in this view. but the preservation and growth of civilization in any country depends much on the extent to which it is able out of its surplus production to provide some at least of its people with the means of cherishing and satisfying nobler appetites than hunger and thirst. the immense sum which is now spent every year on colleges--misspent though much of it may be--and the increasing number of students who throng to them, regardless of the fact that the training they get may make them at first feel a little strange and helpless in the fierce struggle for meat and drink, show that the increasing wealth of the nation is accompanied by an increasing recognition of the fact that life, after all, is not all living, that there are gains which cannot be entered in any ledger, and that a man may carry about with him, through a long and it may be outwardly unfortunate career, sources of pleasure and consolation which are none the less precious for being unsalable and invisible. "organs" the untimely decease of the _republic_, the paper which was set up some months ago to express in a semi-official way the views of the administration and its immediate adherents on public questions, has a good deal that is tragic about it, as far as its principal conductor is concerned. that a man of as much experience of politics and of newspapers as mr. norvell, the editor, had, should have supposed it possible to start a daily morning paper in this city at a time when a successful daily is worth millions, and when there are four already in possession of the field, without any other claims on popular attention than its being the mouth-piece of the leading politicians of the party in power, and with a capital which in his dreams only reached $ , , and in fact only $ , , is a curious though sad illustration of the power of the press over the imagination even of persons long familiar with it. the failure of the enterprise, however distressing in some of its aspects, is valuable as establishing more conspicuously and firmly than ever two facts of considerable importance in relation to journalism. one is, that when politicians so deeply desire an organ as to be willing to set one up for the exclusive use of the party, it is a sure sign that the party is in serious danger of extinction. the other is, that the public mind is so fully made up that the position of a newspaper ought to be a judicial one, that all attempts to make a paper avowedly partisan can only be saved from commercial failure by large capital, extraordinary ability, and well-established prestige. "organs" took their rise when the sole use of a newspaper was to communicate intelligence, and when men in power found it convenient to have a channel through which they could let out certain things which they wished to be spread abroad. out of this kind of relation to the government a small paper, which did not object to the humble _rôle_ of a sort of official gazette, from which the earlier newspapers indeed differed but little, could, of course, always get a livelihood, and perhaps a little of the dignity which comes from having or being supposed to have state secrets to keep. but the gradual addition to the "news-letter" of the sermon known as a "leader" or "editorial article" made the relation more and more difficult and finally impossible. the more pompous, portentous, and prophetic in their character the editor's comments on public affairs became, the less disposed was the public to allow him to retain the position of a paid agent of the state. it began to feel toward him as it would have felt toward the town-crier if he had put on a gown and bands, and insisted on accompanying his announcement of thefts and losses with homilies on the vanity of life and the right use of opportunities. the editor had, in short, to conduct his business in a manner befitting his newly assumed duties as a prophet, and to pretend at least that his utterances were wholly independent and were due simply to a desire for the public good, as a prophet's ought to be. it is now very rare indeed that a government is able to induce a well-established newspaper of the first class to act as its organ in the proper sense of that term, except by working on the vanity of editors. almost all editors are a little sensitive about the imputation of being mere commentators or critics, and a little desirous of being thought "practical men," by those engaged in the actual working of political machinery. the "old editor" in this country in fact preferred to be thought a working politician, and liked to use his paper as a piece of political machinery for producing solid party gains, and in this way to be received into the circle of "workers" and "managers" as one of themselves; and to retain this position he was always willing to "write up" any view they suggested. his successor, though he cares less about being "a worker," and is able to secure the attendance of politicians at his office without running after them, is, nevertheless, more or less flattered by the confidences of men in power, and it often takes only a small amount of these confidences to make him surrender the judicial position and accept that of an advocate, and stand by them through thick and thin. but no leading journal has ever tried this position in our day very long without being forced out of it by the demand of the public for impartiality and the consequent difficulty of avoiding giving offence in official quarters. every administration does things either through its chief or subordinates which will not bear defence, and which its judicious friends prefer to pass over in silence. but a journalist cannot keep silent. the government may require him to hold his tongue, but the reader demands that he shall speak; and as the public supplies the sinews of war, and pays for the prophet's robes, he is sooner or later compelled to break with the government and to reproach it for not listening to the advice of its friends in time. moreover, in a country in which the press is free and newspapers abound, a party which contains a majority of the people cannot fail to have the support of a large and influential portion of the press. its conductors, though prophets, do not wear camel's hair, nor is their diet locusts and wild honey. they form part of the community, live among the voters, and share, to a greater or less extent, their prejudices and expectations and sympathies. every party, therefore, is sure, as long as it has a strong hold on the public, of having a strong hold on the press, and of having a considerable number of the most influential editors among its defenders. one of the sure signs that it is losing its hold on the public is the defection of the press or its growing lukewarmness. newspapers cannot, perhaps, build a party up or pull one down, but when you see the newspapers deserting a party it is all but proof that the agencies which dissolve a political organization are at work. the successful editors may have no originating power or no organizing power, and no capacity for legislation, and may even want the prophetic instinct; but a certain intuitive sense of the direction in which the tide of popular feeling is running is the principal condition of their success, and an anxious politician may therefore always safely credit them with possessing it. if they had not had it, their papers would not have succeeded. if the incident or its lessons should result in establishing better relations between political men and the press, the sacrifice of the unfortunate projector of the _republic_ will, however, be a small price to pay for a great gain. we do not, as our readers know, set up to be champions of the press, and have certainly never shown any disposition to underrate its defects or shortcomings. but there is one thing which no candid and careful observer can avoid seeing, and that is that the press of the country, as an instrument of discussion and popular education, has undergone within twenty years an improvement nothing analogous to which is to be found in the class of politicians. the newspapers are now, in the vast majority of cases in all our leading cities, conducted by men who are familiar with the leading ideas of our time and with the latest advances in science and the art, including the art of government, and who write under the influence of these ideas and these advances, and who have consequently got a standard of efficiency in legislative administration which has not yet made its way into the political class. the result is that, after making all possible allowance for the carelessness and recklessness and dishonesty of reporters, and the personal biases and enmities of editors, the men who carry on the government, excepting a few experts, have become objects of criticism on the part of the daily press, the depreciatory tone of which is not wholly unjustifiable or unnatural, and politicians repay this contempt with a hatred which is none the less fierce for having no adequate means of expression. evidence about character there has been during the week a loud and increasing demand for the application of the legal process of discovering truth to the tilton-beecher case. people ask that it be carried into court, not only because all witnesses might thus be compelled to appear and testify, but because apparently there is, in the minds of many, a peculiar virtue in "the rules of evidence" used by lawyers. witnesses examined under these rules are supposed to receive from them a strong stimulus in veracity and explicitness, while they at once expose prevarication or concealment. one newspaper eulogist went so far the other day as to pronounce the rules the product of the wisdom of all ages, beginning with the phoenicians and coming down to our own time. there is, however, only one good reason that we know of for carrying any attack on character into court, and that is the obvious one, that the courts only can compel those who are supposed to know anything about a matter of litigation to appear and state it. but we do not know of any other advantage which can be claimed for a trial in court, in such a case, over a trial before a well-selected lay tribunal. "the rules of evidence" in use in our courts are not, as too many persons seem to suppose, deductions from the constitution of the human mind, or, in other words, natural rules for the discovery of truth under all conditions. on the contrary, they are a system of artificial presumptions created for the use of a tribunal of a somewhat low order of intelligence, and are intended to produce certain well-defined and limited results, which the law considers generally beneficial. they have, that is to say, grown up for the use of the jury. the large number of exclusions which they contain are due simply to a desire to prevent jurymen's being confused by kinds of testimony which they are not supposed to have learning or acumen enough to weigh. if anyone will go into the city hall and listen to the trial of even a trifling cause, he will find that the proceedings consist largely in the attempt of one lawyer to have certain facts laid before the jury and the attempts of the other to prevent it, the judge sitting as arbiter between them and applying the rules of admission and exclusion to each of these facts as it comes up. if he examines, too, in each instance what it is that is thus pertinaciously offered and pertinaciously opposed, he will find that it almost invariably has _something_ to do with the controversy before the court--it may be near or more remote--but still something. consequently it has, logically, a certain bearing on the case, or is, under the constitution of the human mind, proper evidence. when the judge says it is irrelevant, he does not mean that it is logically irrelevant; he means that it has been declared irrelevant on certain grounds of expediency by the system of jurisprudence which he administers. he refuses to let it go to the jury because he thinks it would befog them or turn their attention away from the "legal issue" or, in other words, from the one little point on which the law compels the plaintiff and defendant to concentrate their dispute, in order to render it triable at all by the peculiar tribunal which the anglo-saxon race has chosen for the protection of its rights. it follows that our rules of evidence are unknown on the european continent and in every country in which courts are composed of judges only--that is, of men with special training and capacity for the work of weighing testimony--or in which the legal customs have been created by such courts. there the litigants follow the natural order, and carry with them before the bench everything that has any relation to the case whatever, and leave the court to examine it and allow it its proper force. our own changes in the law of evidence are all in this direction. the amount of excluded testimony--that is, of testimony with which we are afraid to trust the jury--has been greatly diminished during the last few years, and, considering the growth of popular intelligence, properly diminished. the tendency of legislation now is toward letting the jury hear everybody--the plaintiff and defendant, the prisoner, the wife, the husband, and the witness with a pecuniary interest in the result of the trial--and put its own estimate on what the testimony amounts to. but nevertheless, even now, who is there that has ever watched the preparation of a cause for trial who has not listened to lamentations over the difficulty or impossibility of getting this or that important fact before the jury, or has not witnessed elaborate precautions, on one side or another, to prevent some fact from getting before the jury? the skill of a counsel in examining or cross-examining a witness, for instance, is shown almost as much by what he avoids bringing out as by what he brings out, and no witness is allowed to volunteer any statement lest he should tell something which, however pertinent in reality, the rules pronounce inadmissible. now, rules of this kind are singularly unsuited to the conduct of inquiries touching character. it is true the law provides a process nominally for the vindication of character, called an action for libel, but the remedy it supplies is not a vindication properly so called, but a sum of money as a kind of penalty on the libeller, not for having assailed you, but for not having been able to prove his case under the rules of evidence. in a suit for libel, too, the parties fight their battle in the strict legal order--the plaintiff, that is to say, stands by and challenges the defendant to produce his proofs, and then fights bitterly through his counsel to keep out as much of the proof as he can. he supplies no evidence himself that is not strictly called for, and proffers no explanation that does not seem necessary to procure an award of pecuniary damages, and takes all the pains possible to bring confusing influences to bear on the jury. when we consider, too, that the jury is composed of men who may be said to be literally called in from the street, without the slightest regard to their special qualifications for the conduct of any inquiry, and that they are apt to represent popular passions and prejudices in all conspicuous and exciting cases, we easily see why a trial by a jury, under the common-law rules of evidence, is not the process through which a high-minded man who sought not for "damages," but to keep his reputation absolutely spotless in the estimation of his neighbors, would naturally seek his vindication. it cannot be too often said, in these times when great reputations are so often assailed and so often perish, that nobody who has not deliberately chosen the life of a stoical recluse is justified either in refusing to defend his reputation or in defending it by technical processes if any others are within his reach. it is, of course, open to any man to say that he cares nothing for the opinion of mankind, and will not take the trouble to influence it in any manner in regard to himself. but, if he says so, he is bound not to identify with himself, in any manner, either great interests or great causes. if he makes himself the champion of other people's rights, or the exponent of important principles, or has through any power of his achieved an influence over other people's minds sufficiently great to make it appear that certain doctrines or ideas must stand or fall by him, he has surrendered his freedom in all that regards the maintenance of his fame. it is no longer his only to maintain. it has become, as it were, embodied in popular morality, been made the basis of popular hopes, and a test under which popular faith or approval is bestowed on a great variety of ways and means of living. such a man is bound to defend himself from the instant at which he finds the assaults on him begin to tell on the public conception of his character. dignified reserve is a luxury in which it is not permitted to him to indulge; and when he comes to defend himself, it must not be with the calculating shrewdness of the strategist or tactician. the only rules of evidence of which he can claim the benefit are the laws of the human mind. the tribunal, too, before which he seeks reparation should not be what the state supplies only, but the very best he can reach, and it should, if possible, be composed of men with no motive for saving him and with no reason for hating him, and with such training and experience as may best fit them for the task of weighing his enemy's charges and his own excuses and explanations. his course before such a tribunal, too, should be marked by ardor rather than by prudence. he should chafe under delay, clamor for investigation, and invite scrutiny, and put away from him all advisers whose experience is likely to incline them to chicane or make them satisfied with a technical victory. such men are always dangerous in delicate cases. he should not wait for his accuser to get in all his case if the substantial part of it is already before the court, because his answer ought not, as in a court of law, to cover the complaint simply and no more. it ought to contain a plain unvarnished tale of the whole transaction, and not those parts only which the accusation may have touched, because his object is not only to wrest a verdict of "not proven" from his judges, but to satisfy even the timid and sensitive souls whose faith in their idols is so large a part of their moral life, not only that he is not guilty, but that he never even inclined toward guilt. physical force in politics the late discussion on the possibility or expediency of maintaining governments at the south which had no physical force at their disposal has not failed to attract the attention of the friends of woman suffrage. they see readily what, indeed, most outsiders have seen all along, that the failure of the numerical majority in certain southern states to hold the power to which the law entitled them simply because they were unable or unwilling to fight, has a very important bearing on the fitness of women to participate in the practical work of government, and a well-known writer, "t. w. h.," in a late number of the _woman's journal_, endeavors to show that what has happened at the south is full of encouragement for the woman suffragists. his argument is in substance this: you (the opponents) have always maintained as the great objection to the admission of women to the franchise, that if women voted, cases might arise in which the physical force of the community would be in the hands of one party and the legal authority in those of the other, and we should then witness the great scandal of a majority government unable to execute the laws. we have just seen at the south, however, that the possession of physical force is not always sufficient to put the majority even of the male voters in possession of the government. in south carolina and louisiana the government has been seized and successfully held by a minority, in virtue of their greater intelligence and self-confidence. to use his own language: "the present result in south carolina is not a triumph of bodily strength over weakness, but, on the contrary, of brains over bodily strength. and however this reasoning affects the condition of south carolina--which is not here my immediate question--it certainly affects, in a very important degree, the argument for woman suffrage. if the ultimate source of political power is muscle, as is often maintained, then woman suffrage is illogical; but if the ultimate source of political power is, as the nation implies, 'the intelligence, sagacity, and the social and political experience of the population,' then the claims of women are not impaired. for we rest our case on the ground that women equal men on these points, except in regard to political experience, which is a thing only to be acquired by practice. "so the showing of the _nation_ is, on the whole, favorable to women. it looks in the direction of mr. bagehot's theory, that brains now outweigh muscle in government. just in proportion as man becomes civilized and comes to recognize laws as habitually binding, does the power of mere brute force weaken. in a savage state the ruler of a people must be physically as well as mentally the strongest; in a civilized state the commander-in-chief may be physically the weakest person in the army. the english military power is no less powerful for obeying the orders of a queen. the experience of south carolina does not vindicate, but refutes, the theory that muscle is the ruling power. it shows that an educated minority is more than a match for an ignorant majority, even though this be physically stronger. whether this forbodes good or evil to south carolina is not now the question; but so far as woman suffrage is concerned, the moral is rather in its favor than against it." what is singular in all this is, that the writer is evidently under the impression that the term "physical force" in politics means muscle, or, to put the matter plainly, that the fact that the south carolina negroes, who unquestionably surpass the whites in lifting power, could not hold their own against them, shows that government has become a mere question of brains, and that as women have plenty of brains, though they can lift very little, they could perfectly well carry on, or help to carry on, a government which has only moral force on its side. now, as a matter of fact, there has been no recent change in the meaning attached to "physical force" in political nomenclature. it does not mean muscle or weight now, as we see in south carolina; and it has never meant muscle or weight since the dawn of civilization. the races and nations which have made civilization and ruled the world have done so by virtue of their possessing the very superiority, in a greater or less degree, which the carolina whites have shown in their late struggle with the blacks. the greeks, the romans, the turks, the english, the french, and the germans have all succeeded in government--that is, in seizing and keeping power--not through superiority of physical force which consists in muscle, but through the superiority which consists in the ability to organize and bring into the field, and reinforce large bodies of men, with the resolution to kill and be killed in order to have their own way in disputes. no matter how much intelligence a people may have, unless they are able and willing to apply their intelligence to the art of war, and have the personal courage necessary to carry out in action the plans of their leaders, they cannot succeed in politics. brains are necessary for political success, without doubt, but it must be brains applied, among other things to the organization of physical force in fleets and armies. an "educated minority," as such, is no more a match for a "physically stronger ignorant majority" than a delicate minister for a pugilist in "condition," unless it can furnish well-equipped and well-led troops. the greeks were better educated than the romans, but this did not help them. the romans of the empire were vastly more intelligent and thoughtful than the barbarians, but they could not save the empire. the italians of the middle ages were the superiors of the french and germans in every branch of culture, and yet this did not prevent italy being made the shuttlecock of northern politicians and free-booters. the french overran germany in the beginning of the present century, and the germans have overrun france within the last ten years, not in either case owing to superiority in lifting or boxing, or in literary "culture," but to superiority in the art of fighting-- that is, of bringing together large bodies of armed men who will not flinch, and will advance when ordered on the battle-field. it is skill in this art which is meant by the term "physical force" in politics, and it is this physical force which lies behind all successful government. the superiority of the north in numbers, wealth, machinery, literature, and common schools would have profited it nothing, and the american republic would have disappeared from the map if it had not been possible, thirty years ago, to apply a vast amount of intelligence to the purposes of destruction, and to find large numbers of men willing to fight under orders. in quiet times, under a government in which the numerical majority and the intelligence and property of the community are on the same side, and take substantially the same views of public polity, and the display of coercive force, except for ordinary police purposes, is not called for, we not unnaturally slide readily into the pleasant belief that government is purely a moral agency, and that people obey the law through admiration of intellectual power and the dread of being "cornered" in argument, or of being exposed as selfish or lawless. such occurrences as the late civil war and the recent deadlock at the south are very useful in uncovering the secret springs of society, and reminding people of the tremendous uncertainties and responsibilities by which national as well as individual life is surrounded, reminding the voter, in short, that he may not always be able to discharge his duty to the country by depositing his ballot in the box; that he may have to make the result sure by putting everything he values in the world at stake. the poor negroes in south carolina have not been deposed simply because they are ignorant; the russian peasants who fought at borodino were grossly ignorant. how many of the english hinds who stood rooted in the soil at waterloo could read and write? the carolinian majority failed because it did not contain men willing to fight, or leaders capable of organization for military purposes, or, in other words, did not possess what has since the dawn of civilization been the first and greatest title to political power. the carolinian minority did not drive their opponents out of the offices by simply offering the spectacle of superior intelligence of self-confidence, but by the creation of a moral certainty that, if driven to extremities, they would outdo the republicans in the marshalling, marching, provisioning, and manoeuvring of riflemen. if this be true, it will be readily seen that the lesson of the south carolina troubles, far from containing encouragement for the friends of female suffrage, is full of doubt and difficulty. those who believe that women voters would constitute a new and valuable force in politics must recognize the possibility that they would at some time or other constitute the bulk of a majority claiming the government, and they must also recognize the probability that the male portion of this majority would be composed of the milder and less energetic class of men, people with much brains and but little physical courage, ready to go to the stake for a conviction, but not ready to shoulder a musket or assault a redoubt. if under these circumstances the minority, composed exclusively of men, inferior if you will, to the majority in the purity of their motives, the breadth of their culture, and in capacity for drawing constitutions and laws and administering charities, should refuse to obey the majority, and should say that its government was a ridiculous "fancy" government, administered by crackbrained people, and likely to endanger property and the public credit, and that it must be abolished, what would the women and their "gentlemen friends" do? they would doubtless remonstrate with the recusants and show them the wickedness of their course, but then the recusants would be no more moved by this than wade hampton and his people by mr. chamberlain's eloquent and affecting inaugural address. they would tell the ladies that their intelligence was doubtless of a high order, and their aims noble, but that as they were apparently unable to supply policemen to arrest the persons who disobeyed their laws, their administration was a farce and its disappearance called for in the interest of public safety. accordingly it would be removed to the great garret of history, to lie side by side with innumerable other disused plans for human improvement. the cause of much of the misconception about the part played by physical force in modern society now current in reformatory circles is doubtless to be found in the disappearance of sporadic and lawless displays of it, such as, down to a very recent period, seriously disturbed even the most civilized communities. the change that has taken place, however, consists not in the total disuse of force as a social agency, but in the absorption of all force by the government, making it so plainly irresistible that the occasions are rare when anything approaching to organized resistance or defiance of it is attempted. when it lays its commands on a man he knows that obedience will, if necessary, be enforced by an agency of such tremendous power that he does not think of revolt. but it is not the high intelligence of those who carry it on that he bows to; it is to their ability to crush him like an egg-shell. of course, it is not surprising that his submissiveness should at meetings of philanthropists be ascribed to the establishment of a consensus between his mind and the mind of the law-giver, or in other words, the subjection of society to purely moral influences; but it is perhaps well that complications like those of south carolina should now and then occur to infuse sobriety into speculation and explain the machinery of civilization. "court circles" the passionate excitement created in canada by the arrival of a daughter of the queen, and the prospect of the establishment of "a court" in ottawa which will have the appearance of a real court--that is, a court with blood royal in it, instead of a court held merely by the queen's legal representatives--is a phenomenon of considerable interest. it affords a fresh illustration of that growth of reverence for royalty which all the best observers agree has for the last forty years been going on in england, side by side with the growth of democratic feeling and opinion in politics--that is, the sovereign has more than gained as a social personage what she has lost as a political personage. the less she has had to do with the government the more her drawing-rooms have been crowded, and the more eager have people become for personal marks of her favor. the reason of this is not far to seek. it lies in the enormous increase during that period in the size of the class which is not engaged in that, to the heralds, accursed thing--trade, and has money enough to bear the expense of "a presentation," and of living or trying to live afterward in the circle of those who might be invited to court, or might meet the prince of wales at dinner. the accumulation of fortunes since the queen's accession has been very great, and they have, however made, come into possession now of a generation which has never been engaged in any occupation frowned on by the lord chamberlain, and which owns estates, or at all events possesses all outward marks of gentility, when it has been received by the queen, and has got into burke's dictionary at the end of an interesting though perhaps apocryphal genealogy. this reception is the crown of life's struggle, a sort of certificate that the hero or heroine of it is fit company for anybody in the world. it is, in fact, a social graduation. when you get somebody who is himself a graduate to agree to present you, and the lord chamberlain, after examining your card, makes no objection to you, he virtually furnishes you with a sort of diploma which guarantees you against what may be called authorized snubs. people may afterward decline your invitations on the ground that they do not like you, or that your entertainments bore them, but not on the ground that your social position is inferior to their own. that the struggle for this diploma in a wealthy and large society should be great and increasing is nothing wonderful. the desire for it among the women especially, to whose charge the creation and preservation of "position" are mainly committed, is very deep. it inflames their imagination in a way which makes husbands ready for anything in order to get it, and in fact makes it indispensable to their peace of mind and body that they should get it as soon as their pecuniary fortune seems to put it within their reach. since the queen ascended the throne the population has risen from , , to , , , and the number of great fortunes and presentable people has increased in a still greater ratio, and the pressure on the court has grown correspondingly; but there remains after all only one court to gratify the swarm of new applicants. the colonies, too, have of late years contributed largely to swell the tide. every year london society and the ranks of the landed gentry are reinforced by returned australians and new zealanders and cape-of-good-hopers and china and india merchants, who feel that their hard labors and long exile have left life empty and joyless until they see the names of their wives and daughters in the _gazette_ among the presentations at a drawing-room or levee. in the colonies, and especially in canada, where there is so little in the local life to gratify the imagination, the court shines with a splendor which the distance only intensifies. to a certain class of canadians, who enjoy more frequent opportunities than the inhabitants of the other great colonies of renewing or fortifying their love of the competition of english social life, and of the marks of success in it, the court, as the fountain of honor, apart from all political significance, is an object of almost fierce interest. in england itself the signs of social distinction are not so much prized. this kind of canadian is, in fact, apt to be rather more of an englishman than the englishman himself in all these things. he imitates and cultivates english usages with a passion which takes no account of the restrictions of time or place. it is "the thing" too in canadian society, as in the american colony in paris, to be much disgusted by the "low americans" who invade the dominion in summer, and to feel that even the swells of new york and boston could achieve much improvement in their manners by faithful observation of the doings in the toronto and ottawa drawing-rooms. as far as admiration of courts and a deep desire for court-life and a belief in the saving grace of contact with royalty can go, therefore, there are canadians fully prepared for the establishment of a court "in their midst." the society of the province was, in fact, in an imflammable eagerness to kiss hands, and back out from the presence of royalty, and perform the various exercises pertaining to admission to court circles, and in a proper state of jingo distrust of the wicked czar and his minions--which in the colonies is now one of the marks of gentility--when the magician, lord beaconsfield, determined to apply the match to it by sending out a real princess. in spite of his contempt for the "flat-nosed franks," however, he can hardly have been prepared for the response which he elicited. he cannot have designed to make monarchy and royalty seem ridiculous, and yet the articles and addresses and ceremonies with which the new governor-general and his wife have been received look as if the minister had determined, before he died, to have the best laugh of his farcical career over the barbarians who have called him in to rule over them. a court is a very delicate thing, and a strong capacity for enjoying it does not of itself make good courtiers. in england the reasons which prevent a man's being received at court--such as active prosecution of the dry-goods business--are a thousand years old; in fact, they may be said to have come down from the ancient world along with the roman law. they have, therefore, a certain natural fitness and force in the eyes of the natives of that country. that is, it seems to "stand to reason" that a trader should not go to court. moreover, they can be enforced in england and still leave an abundant supply of spotless persons for the purposes of court society. the court-line is drawn along an existing and well-marked social division. in canada this preparation for court gayeties does not exist. if the persons soiled by commerce were to be excluded from the princess's presence, she would lead a lonely and dismal life, and the court would be substantially a failure. if, on the other hand, the court is to be made up exclusively of rich traders, it will not only excite the fiercest jealousies and bitterness among those who are excluded, but it will be very difficult to provide a rule for passing on claims for presentation when once the line of official position is passed. but, it may be said, why not throw all restrictions aside and admit everybody, as at white house receptions? nobody will ask this question who has mastered even the rudiments of royalty, and we shall not take the trouble of answering it fully. we are now discussing the question for the benefit of persons of some degree of knowledge. suffice it to say that any laxity of practice at ottawa would do a good deal of damage to the monarchical principle itself, which, as mr. bagehot has pointed out, owes much of its force and permanence even in england to its hold on the imagination. the princess cannot go back to england receiving tom, dick, and harry in canada without a certain loss of prestige both for herself and her house. not the least curious feature of the crisis is the interest the prospect of a canadian court has excited in this country. our newspapers know what they are about when they give whole pages to accounts of the voyage and the reception, including a history of the house of argyll and a brief sketch of the feelings of captain the duke of edinburgh, now on the halifax station, over his approaching meeting with his sister. they recognize the existence of a deep and abiding curiosity, at least among the women of our country, about all that relates to royalty and its doings, in spite of the labor expended for nearly a century by orators and editors in showing up the vanity and hollowness of monarchical distinctions. in fact, if the secrets of american hearts could be revealed, we fear it would be found that the materials for about a million of each order of nobility, from dukes down, exist among us under quiet republican exteriors, and that if a court circle were set up among us no earthly power could prevent its assuming unnatural and unmanageable proportions. a prince like the late emperor maximilian, whose purse was meagre but whose connection with a reigning house was unquestioned and close, might find worse ways of repairing his fortune than setting up an amateur court in some of the atlantic cities and charging a moderate fee for presentation, and drawing the line judiciously so as to keep up the distinction without damaging his revenues. to prevent cutting remarks on the members of the circle, however, and too much ridicule of the whole enterprise, he would have to give the editors high places about his person, and provide offices for the reporters in his basement. if the scheme were well organized and did not attempt too much, its value in settling people's "position," and in giving the worthy their proper place without the prolonged struggles they now have sometimes to undergo, would be very great, and it would enable foreign students of our institutions to pursue successfully certain lines of inquiry into our manners and customs in which they are now too often baffled. living in europe and going to it every year a great deal of discussion of the best mode of spending the summer, and the course of the people who go to europe, instead of submitting to the discomfort and extortion of american hotels, is for the most part greatly commended. the story told about the hotels and lodging-houses is the same every year. the food is bad, the rooms uncomfortable, and the charges high. the fashion, except perhaps at newport and beverly, near boston, bar harbor, and one or two other highly favored localities, grows stronger and stronger, to live in the city in the winter and spend the three hot months in france or england or switzerland. moreover, the accounts which come from europe of the increase in the number of american colonists now to be found in every attractive town of the continent are not exactly alarming, but they are sufficient to set people thinking. the number of those who pass long years in europe, educate their children there, and retain little connection with america beyond drawing their dividends, grows steadily, and as a general rule they are persons whose minds or manners or influence makes their prolonged absence a sensible loss to our civilization. moreover, when they come back, they find it difficult to stay, and staying is not made easy for them. people here are a little suspicious of them, and are apt to fancy that they have got out of sympathy with american institutions, and have grown too critical for the rough processes by which the work of life in america has in a large degree to be done. they themselves, on the other hand, besides being soured by the coldness of their reception, are apt to be disgusted by the want of finish of all their surroundings, by the difficulty with which the commoner and coarser needs are met in this country, and by the reluctance with which allowance is made by legislation and opinion for the gratification of unusual or unpopular tastes. the result is a breach, which is already wide, and tends to widen, between the class which is hard at work making its fortune and the class which has either made its fortune or has got all it desires, which is the same thing as a fortune. there is a great deal of work which this latter would like to do. there is a great deal of the work of legislation and administration and education for which it is eminently fitted, but in which, nevertheless, it has little or no chance of sharing, owing to the loss of the art of winning the confidence of others, and working with others, which is more easily learned in america than elsewhere, and which is readily lost by prolonged residence in any european country, and the absence of which here makes all other gifts for practical purposes almost worthless. so that it must be said that the amount of intellectual and aesthetic culture which an american acquires in europe is somewhat dearly purchased. when he gets home, he is apt to find it a useless possession, as far as the world without is concerned, unless he is lucky enough, as sometimes but not often happens, to drop into some absorbing occupation or to lose his fortune. failing this, he begins that melancholy process of vibration between the two continents in which an increasingly large number of persons pass a great part of their lives, their hearts and affections being wholly in neither. the remedy for the mania for _living_ abroad is an elaborate one, and one needing more time for its creation. no country retains the hearty affection of its educated class which does not feed its imagination. the more we cultivate men, the higher their ideals grow in all directions, political and social, and they like best the places in which these ideals are most satisfied. the long and varied history of older countries offers their citizens a series of pictures which stimulate patriotism in the highest degree; and it will generally be found that the patriotism and love of home of the cultivated class is in the ratio of the supply of this kind of food. they are languid among the russians, and among the germans prior to the late war, as compared to the english and french. in default of a long history, however, historic incidents are apt to lose their power on the imagination through over-use. the jocose view of washington and of the pilgrim fathers, of bunker hill and of the fourth of july, already gains ground rapidly among us, through too great familiarity. when professor tyndall, in one of his lectures here, made an allusion which he meant to be solemn and impressive, to plymouth rock, its triteness drew a titter from the audience which for a moment confounded him. unluckily, history cannot be made to order. it is the product of ages. the proper substitute for it, as well as for the spectacular effects of monarchy, in new democratic societies, is perfection. there is no way in which we can here kindle the imaginations of the large body of men and women to whom we are every year giving an increasingly high education so well as by finish in the things we undertake to do. nothing does so much to produce despondency about the republic, or alienation from republican institutions, among the young of the present day, as the condition of the civil service, the poor working of the post-office and the treasury or the courts, or the helplessness of legislators in dealing with the ordinary every- day problems. the largeness of the country, and the rapidity of its growth, and the comparatively low condition of foreign nations in respect to freedom, which roused people in fourth-of-july orations forty years ago, have, like the historical reminiscences, lost their magic, and the material prosperity is now associated in people's minds with so much moral corruption that the mention of it produces in some of the best of us a feeling not far removed from nausea. nothing will do so much now to rouse the old enthusiasm as the spectacle of the pure working of our administrative machinery, of able and independent judges, a learned and upright bar, a respectable and purified custom-house, an enlightened and efficient treasury, and a painstaking post-office. the colleges of the country and the railroads, and indeed everything that depends on private enterprise, are rapidly becoming objects of pride; but a good deal needs to be done by the government to prevent its being a source of shame. mrs. stevenson, a philadelphia lady; the president of the civic club in that city, delivered an address to the club some weeks ago on its work of reform, in which we find the following passage: "there seems to exist a mysterious, unwritten law governing the social organism which causes a natural and wholesome reaction to take place whenever tendencies, perhaps inherent in certain classes, threaten to become general, and thereby dangerous to the community. a few years ago, for instance, with the increasing facilities for foreign travel, and the corresponding increase of international intercourse, anglomania had become so much in vogue as to form an incipient danger to the true democratic american spirit that constitutes the real strength of our nation. it was fast becoming a national habit to extol everything european--from monarchy and its aristocratic institutions down to the humblest article of dress or of household use--to the detriment of everything american; and from the upper 'four hundred' this habit was fast extending to the upper forty thousand. but just as our wealthy classes were beginning to make themselves positively ridiculous abroad, and almost intolerable at home, a reaction set in, and upon all sides there sprang up patriotic associations of a social order--'sons and daughters of the revolution,' 'colonial dames,' etc.--which revived proper american self-respect among our people by teaching us to rest our pride, if pride we _must_ have, where it legitimately should rest--upon good service rendered to our own country." this seems to be a shaft aimed at the practice of "going to europe," for the decline of "the true american spirit" and the growth of anglomania are ascribed to the "increasing facilities for foreign travel" and "the corresponding increase of international intercourse." if the charge be true, it is one of the most afflicting over made, because it shows that "the true democratic american spirit" suffers from what the world has hitherto considered one of the greatest triumphs of modern science, and one of the greatest blessings conferred on the race--the enormous improvement in oceanic steam navigation; that, in fact, american patriotism is very much like the catholic faith in the middle ages--something naturally hostile to progress in the arts. if, too, the practice of going to europe be dangerous to american faith and morals, the number of those who go makes it of immense importance. there is probably no american who has risen above very narrow circumstances who does not go to europe at least once in his life. there is hardly a village in the country in which the man who has succeeded in trade or commerce does not announce his success to his neighbors by a trip to europe for himself and his family. there is hardly a professor, or teacher, or clergyman, or artist, or author who does not save out of a salary, however small, in order to make the voyage. tired professional or business men make it constantly, under the pretence that it is the only way they can get "a real holiday." journalists make it as the only way of getting out of their heads such disgusting topics as croker and gilroy, and hill and murphy. rich people make it every year, or oftener, through mere restlessness. we are now leaving out of account, of course, immigrants born in the old world, who go back to see their friends. we are talking of native americans. of course, all native americans cannot go, because, even when they can afford it, they cannot always get the time. but we venture on the proposition that there is hardly any american "in this broad land," as members of congress say, who, having both time and money, has not gone to europe, or does not mean to go some day or other. so that, if mrs. stevenson's account of the moral effects of the voyage were true, it would show that the very best portion of our population, the most moral, the most religious, and the most educated were constantly exposing themselves by tens of thousands to most debasing influences. but is it true? we think not. americans who go to europe with some knowledge of history, of the fine arts, and of literature, all recognize the fact that they could not have completed their education without going. to such people travel in europe is one of the purest and most elevating of pleasures, for europe contains the experience of mankind in nearly every field of human endeavor. they often, it is true, come back discontented with america, but out of this discontent have grown some of our most valuable improvements--libraries, museums, art-galleries, colleges. what they have seen in europe has opened their eyes to the possibilities and shortcomings of their own country. to take a familiar example, it is travel in europe which has done most to stimulate the movement for municipal reform. it is seeing london and paris, and berlin and birmingham, which has done most to wake people up to the horrors of the croker-gilroy rule, and inflame the determination to end it as a national disgrace. the class of americans who do not come back discontented are usually those who had no education to start with. "knowledge to their eyes her ample page, rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll!" so, even when standing on the acropolis at athens or in the tribuna at florence, they feel themselves sadly "out of it." they think longingly of billy or jimmy, and the coffee and cakes of their far missouri or arkansas home, and come back cursing europe and its contents. no damage is ever done by foreign travel to the "true democratic american spirit" of this class. and now as to "anglomania," a subject to be handled with as much delicacy as an anarchist bomb. anglomania in one form or other is to be met with in all countries, especially france and germany, and has shown itself here and there all over the continent ever since the peace of . the things in which it most imitates the english are riding, driving, men's clothes, sports in general, and domestic comfort. the reason is that the english have for two centuries given more attention to these things than any other people. no other has so cultivated the horse for pleasure purposes. no other has devoted so much thought and money to suitability in dress and to field sports. no other has brought to such perfection the art of living in country houses. in all these things people who can afford it try to imitate them. we say, with a full consciousness of the responsibility which the avowal entails on us, that they do right. it is well in any art to watch and imitate the man who has best succeeded in it. the sluggard has been exhorted even to imitate the ant, and anyone who wishes to ride or drive well, or dress appropriately, or entertain in a country house, ought to study the way the english do these things, and follow their example, for anything worth doing ought to be done well. it is mostly in these things that anglomania consists. mrs. stevenson, we fear, exaggerates greatly the number of anglomaniacs. a few dozen are as many as are to be found in any country, and any government or polity which their presence puts in peril ought to be overthrown, for assuredly it is rotten to the core. there is nothing, in fact, better calculated to make americans hang their heads for shame than the list of small things which one hears from "good americans," put our institutions in danger. we remember a good old publisher, in the days before international copyright, who thought we could not much longer stand the circulation of british novels. their ideas, he said, were dangerous to a republic. an anglomaniac can hardly turn up his trousers on fifth avenue without eliciting shrieks of alarm from the american patriot. and yet a more harmless creature really does not exist. these matters are worth notice because we are the only great nation in the world whom people try to preach into patriotism. the natives of other countries love their country simply, naturally, and for the most part silently, as they love their mothers and their wives. but to get an american to do so he has, one would think, to be followed about by a preacher with a big stick exhorting him to be a "good american," or he will catch it. but nobody was ever preached into love of country. he may be preached into sacrifices in its behalf, but the springs of love cannot be got at by any system of persuasion. no man will love his country unless he feels it to be lovable; and it is to making it lovable that the exertions of those who have american patriotism in charge should be devoted. every good american may take comfort in the fact that very few people indeed of any social or political value who have once lived in america ever want again to live in europe, unless they go for purposes of study or education. for there is no question that there is no country in the world in which the atmosphere is so friendly, and in which one is so sure of sympathy in misfortune, of acceptance on his own merits independently of birth or money, and has so many opportunities of escape from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, as america. these are the things which, after all, in the vast majority of cases, win and hold the human heart; and a country which has them can well afford to let its citizens travel, and even let some of them "be early english if they can." carlyle's political influence the numerous articles called forth by carlyle's "reminiscences," both in this country and in england, while varying greatly in the proportions in which they mix their praise and blame, leave no doubt that there has occurred a very strong revulsion of feeling about him, so strong in england that we are told that the subscriptions for a proposed memorial to him have almost if not entirely ceased. the censure which carlyle's friends are visiting on mr. froude for his indiscretion in printing the book, though deserved, has done but little to mitigate the severity of the judgment passed on the writer himself. in fact, we are inclined to believe that mr. froude's want of judgment rather helps to deepen the surprise and disappointment with which the book has been received, as affording an additional proof of the feebleness of carlyle's own powers in estimating the people about him. that, after heaping contempt on so many of whom the world has been accustomed to think highly, he should have retained to the last his confidence in, and respect for, a person capable of dealing his fame such a deadly blow as mr. froude, not unnaturally increases the irritation with which the public has read his recollections of his friends and contemporaries. the "disillusion and disenchantment" worked by the book, in so far as it affects carlyle's fame as a prophet, is, of course, a misfortune, and a very serious one. what it was he preached when his preaching first startled the world, but very few now undertake to say, and these few by no means agree in their story. his influence, apparently, was not of the kind which reaches a man through articulate speech, but rather that which comes through the blast of a trumpet or the marching tune of a good band, and fills the heart with a feeling of capacity for high endeavor, though one cannot say in what particular field it is to be displayed. but though he founded no school and taught no system of morals, his eminence as a mere preacher was one of the very valuable possessions of the anglo-saxon world, as a sort of standing protest against the materialistic tendencies of the age; and this eminence rested a good deal on the popular conception of the elevation of his own character. this conception has undoubtedly, whether justly or unjustly, been greatly shaken, if not destroyed, by the revelation that invidious comparison between himself and others was almost a habit of his life; that, while preaching patient endurance, he did not himself endure patiently even the minor ills of existence; that, when looking at the fine equipages at hyde park corner, he had to support himself by "sternly thinking"--"yes, and perhaps none of you could do what i am at;" that his mental attitude during the preparation of most of his books was that of a man not properly appreciated who was going to cast pearls before swine; or, in other words, the attitude of an ordinary literary man burdened with too much vanity for his powers, and more concerned about the effect his work was likely to have on his personal fortunes than on the mental or moral condition of the world. while full of contempt for sciolists and pretenders and newspapers, he wrote, and was ready to write, on the american war without any knowledge of the facts, and scorned darwinism without ever bestowing a thought on it. carlyle's public were long ago conscious, as one of his critics has said, that he canted prodigiously about cant, and talked voluminously in praise of silence; but then it recognized that much repetition has always the air of cant, and that to persuade men to be silent, as well as to do anything else, one must talk a great deal. a prophet has to be diffuse and loud, and often shrill, and his disciples will always forgive any number of mistakes in method or manner as long as they believe that behind the preaching there is perfect simplicity and self-forgetfulness. that this belief has been weakened in many minds with regard to carlyle by the "reminiscences" there is no question, and the consequence of it is that the anglo saxon world has lost one of its best possessions; and it is a kind of possession which no apologies or explanations, and no proof of mr. froude's indiscretion, can restore. there is, however, some compensation in the catastrophe. if there was nothing positive in carlyle's moral teachings, if nobody could extract from his earlier utterances anything more definite than advice to "be up and doing with a heart for every fate," there was in the political teachings of his later works something very positive and definite, and something which he managed to surround with some of the diviner light of his first arraignments of modern civilization. there is, for instance, nothing in literature more ingenious than the way in which he presents cromwell as the apostle of "truth" during the campaigns in ireland after the death of the king. he lets slip no opportunity of setting forth the importance of those military operations as a means of bringing "truth" to the irish, so much so that the reader at last begins to expect the revelation of some formula in which the lord-general presented the truth to them. but long before the end is reached one finds that the only truth which cromwell was spreading in ireland was the simple one that anybody who resisted him in arms would probably be knocked on the head. this collocation of truth and superiority of physical force, and of falsehood and weakness, was, in fact, worked into all carlyle's writings of a political character, and did, through his writings, become a very positive political influence after the generation which was roused by the first blasts of his moral trumpet had grown old, or had passed away. to most men under fifty, in fact, carlyle is more known as a very truculent political philosopher than as a moralist, and most of his later imitators--mr. froude for one--have imitated him rather in preparing the way of the strong man in government, and recommending the helpless and forlorn to strip for a salutary dozen on the bare back, than in preaching self-knowledge or the inner worship of the "veracities." that the effect of this on english politics has been bad, and very bad, during the past thirty years few will deny. it beyond question has had an evil influence on english opinion both about ireland and about india, and about the civil war in the united states. it had much to do with the production of that great scandal, the defence of governor eyre, by nearly the whole of london society. nay, we think we are not far wrong in saying that it did much to prepare the way for that remarkable episode in english history, the late administration of lord beaconsfield, with its jingo fever; its lavish waste of blood and treasure; its ferocious assertion of the beauty of national selfishness; its contempt for all that portion of the population of turkey which was weak and subject and unhappy. when one contrasts the spirit in which john stuart mill approached all such subjects in his day, his patient pursuit of the facts, his almost over-earnest efforts to get at the point of view of those who differed with him, his steady indifference to his own fame in dealing with all public questions, and then reads the contemptuous way in which carlyle disposes of him in the "reminiscences," one gets, we were going to say, an almost painful sense of the contrast between the influence of the two men on their day and generation. in so far as the "reminiscences," therefore, ruin carlyle as a politician, their publication must be considered a gain for the english race. the particular political vice his influence fostered, that nobody who cannot thrash you in fight is worth listening to, is, it must be said, a vice peculiar to the english race. it is only in the anglo-saxon forum that a man of foreign birth and unfamiliar ways of thinking has to obtain a _locus standi_ by making himself an object of physical terror. the story which has lately gone the rounds of the papers, of carlyle's discussion with some irishman who got the better of him in an argument in support of the logical right of the irish to manage their own affairs, in which he met his opponent in the last resort in half-humorous vehemence by informing him that he would cut his throat before he would let him have his independence, is not a bad expression of the spirit which has governed english policy in dealing with dependent communities. there is a certain wisdom and justice in exacting from every malcontent who asks for great changes in his condition some strong proof of his earnestness; but it is a test which has to be applied with great discretion, which nations that have made a great fortune with a strong right hand are not likely to apply with discretion, and which is apt to make weakness seem ridiculous as well as contemptible. the history of english politics for fifty years at least has been the history of the efforts of the nation to accustom itself to some other than the english standard of political respectability, to familiarize itself with the idea that pacific people, and poor people, and queer people had something to say for themselves, and were entitled to a place in the world. to the success of that effort it is safe to say that mr. carlyle's political writings have been more or less of an obstacle, and that the destruction of his influence will contribute something to the solution of some of the more serious pending problems of english politics. the evolution of the summer resort nothing is more remarkable in the history of american summering than the number of new resorts which are discovered and taken possession of by "the city people" every year, the rapid increase in the means of transportation both to the mountains and the sea, and the steady encroachments of the cottager on the boarder in all the more desirable resorts. the growth of the american watering-place, indeed, now seems to be as much regulated by law as the growth of asparagus or strawberries, and is almost as easy to foretell. the place is usually first discovered by artists in search of sketches, or by a family of small means in search of pure air, and milk fresh from the cow, and liberty--not to say license--in the matter of dress. its development then begins by some neighboring farmer's agreeing to take them to board--a thing he has never done before, and does now unwillingly, and he is very uncertain what to charge for it. but at a venture he fixes what seems to him an enormous sum--say $ to $ a week for each adult. his ideas about food for city people are, however, very vague. the only thing about their tastes of which he feels certain is that what they seek in the country is, above all things, change, and that they accordingly do not desire what they get at home. accordingly he furnishes them with a complete set of novelties in the matter of food and drink, forgetting, however, that they might have got them at home if they pleased. the tea and coffee and bread differ from what they are used to at home simply in being worse. he is, too, at the seaside, very apt to put them on an exclusively fish diet, in the belief that it is only people who live by the sea who get fish, and that city people, weary of meat, must be longing for fish. the boarders, this first summer, having persuaded him to take them, are of course too modest to remonstrate, or even to hint, and go on to the end eating what is set before them, and pretending to be thankful, and try to keep up their failing strength by being a great deal in the open air, and admiring the scenery. after they leave, he is apt to be astonished by the amount of cash he finds himself possessed of, probably more than he ever handled before at one time, except when he mortgaged his farm, and comes to the conclusion that taking summer boarders is an excellent thing, and worth cultivating. in the next stage he seeks them, and perhaps is emboldened by the advice of somebody to advertise the place, and try to get hold of some editors or ministers whose names he can use as references, and who will talk it up. he soon secures one or two of each, and they then tell him that his house is frequented by intellectual or "cultured" people; and he becomes more elated and more enterprising, enlarges the dining-room, adds on a wing, relieves his wife of the cooking by hiring a woman in the nearest town, and gives more meat and stronger coffee, and, little by little, grows into a hotel-keeper, with an office and a register. his neighbors, startled by his success, follow his example, it may be only _longo intervallo_, and soon the place becomes a regular "resort," with girls and boys in white flannel, lawn-tennis (which succeeds croquet), a livery-stable, stages, an ice-cream store with a soda-water fountain, a new church, and with strange names taken out of books for the neighboring hills and lanes and brooks. this stage may last for years--in some places it has been known to last thirty or forty without any change, beyond the opening of new hotels--and it becomes marked by crowds of people, who go back every year in the character of old boarders, get the best rooms, and are on familiar terms of friendship with the proprietor and the older waiter-girls. but it may be brought to a close, and is now being brought to a close in scores of american watering-places, by the appearance of the cottager, who has become to the boarder what the red squirrel is to the gray, a ruthless invader and exterminator. the first cottager is almost always a boarder, so that there is no means of discovering his approach and resisting his advances. in nine cases out of ten he is a simple guest at the farm-house or the hotel, without any discoverable airs or pretensions, on whom the scenery has made such an impression that he quietly buys a lot with a fine view. the next year he builds a cottage on it, and gradually, and it may be at first imperceptibly, separates himself in feeling and in standards from his fellow-boarders. the year after he is in the cottage, and the mischief is done. the change has come. caste has been established, with all its attendant evils. the community, once so simple and homogeneous, is now divided into two classes, one of which looks down on the other. more cottages are built, with trim lawns and private lawn-tennis grounds, with "shandy-gaff" and "tennis-cup" concealed on tables in tents. then the dog-cart with the groom in buckskin and boots, the irish red setter, the saddle-horse with the banged tail, the phaeton with the two ponies, the young men in knickerbockers carrying imported racquets, the girls with the banged hair, the club, ostensibly for newspaper reading, but really for secret gin-fizzes and soda-cocktails, make their appearance, with numerous other monarchical excrescences. the original farmer, whose pristine board was the beginning of all this, has probably by this time sold enough land to the cottagers to enable him to give up taking boarders and keeping a hotel, and is able to stay in bed like a gentleman most of the winter, and sit on a bench in his shirt-sleeves all summer. very soon the boarder, unable to put up with the growing haughtiness of the cottager, and with exclusion from his entertainments, withdraws silently and unobtrusively from the scenes he once enjoyed so much, to seek out another unsophisticated farmer, and begin once more, probably when well on in life, with hope and strength abated, the heavy work of opening up another watering-place and developing its resources. the silent suffering there is in this process, which may be witnessed to-day in hundreds of the most beautiful spots in america, probably none know but those who have gone through it. in fact, the dislodgment along our coast and in our mountains of the boarder by the cottager is to-day the great summer tragedy of american life. winter has tragedies of its own, which may be worse; but summer has nothing like it, nothing which imposes such a strain on character and so severely tests early training. the worst of it--the pity of it, we might say--is that this is not the expulsion of the inferior by the superior race, which is going on in so many parts of the world, and which darwin is teaching us to look upon with equanimity. the boarder is often, if not generally, the cottager's superior in culture, in acquirements, and in variety of social experience. he does not board because he likes the food, but simply because it enables him to live in the midst of beautiful scenery. he eats the farmer's poor fare contentedly, because he finds it is sufficient to maintain his sense of natural beauty and the clearness of all his moral perceptions unimpaired, and to brace his nerves for the great battle with evil which he has been carrying on in the city, and to which he means to return after a fortnight or a month or six weeks, as the case may be. we fear, in fact, that very few indeed of our summer cottages contain half so much noble endeavor and power of self-sacrifice as the boarding-houses they are displacing. the progress made by the cottager in driving the boarder away from some of the most attractive places, both in the hills and on the seaboard, is very steady. among these bar harbor occupies a leading position. it was, for fully fifteen years after its discovery, frequented exclusively by a very high order of boarders, and probably has been the scene of more plain living and high thinking than any other summer spot on the seacoast. it was, in fact, remarkable at one time for an almost unhealthy intellectual stimulation through an exclusively fish diet. but the purity of the air and the grandeur of the scenery brought a yearly increasing tide of visitors from about onward. these visitors were, until about five years ago, almost exclusively boarders, and the development of the place as a summer resort was prodigious. the little houses of the original half farmers, half fishermen, who welcomed, or rather did not welcome, the first explorers, grew rapidly into little boarding-houses, then into big boarding-houses, then into hotels with registers. then the hotels grew larger and larger, and the callings of the steamer more frequent, until the place became famous and crowded. all this while, however, the hold of the boarder on it remained unshaken. he was monarch of all he surveyed. no one on the island, except the landlords, held his head higher. there was one distinction between boarders, but it was not one to wound anybody's self-love: some were "mealers," or persons eating in the hotel where they lodged; and others were "haul-mealers," or persons who were collected and brought to their food in wagons. but this classification produced no heart-burning. the mealer loved and respected the haul-mealer, or wished him in jericho, and the haul-mealer in like manner the mealer, on general grounds, like other persons with whom he came in contact, without any reference to his place of abode. all were covered by the grand old name of boarder, and that was enough. a happier, easier, freer, and more curiously dressed summer community than bar harbor in those early days was not to be found on our coast. we do not know exactly when the cottager first made his appearance on those rugged shores, but it is certain that his approaches were more insidious than they have ever been anywhere. he did not proclaim himself all at once. the first cottages were very plain structures, which he cunningly spoke of as "shanties," or "log huts," in which he simply lodged, and went to the hotels or neighboring farm-houses for his food in the simple and unpretending character of a haul-mealer. for a good while, therefore, he excited neither suspicion nor alarm, and the hotel-keepers welcomed him heartily, and all went on smoothly. gradually, however, he threw off all disguise, bought land at high prices, and began unblushingly to erect "marine villas" on it, with everything that the name implies. he has now got possession of all the desirable sites from the ovens down to the great head, and has surrounded himself with all the luxuries, just as at newport. the consequence is, although the sea and sky and the mountains and the rocks retain all their charm, the boarder is no longer happy. he finds himself relegated to a secondary position. he is abashed when on foot or in his humble buckboard he meets the haughty cottager in his dog-cart or victoria. he has neither dog nor horse, while the cottager has both. he was once proud of staying at rodick's or lyman's; now he begins to be ashamed of it. he finds that the cottagers, who are the permanent residents, have a society of their own, in which he is either not welcome or is a mere outsider. he finds that the very name of boarder, which he once wore like a lily, has become a term of inferiority. worse than all, he finds himself confounded with a still lower class, known at bar harbor as "the tourist"--elsewhere called the excursionist--who comes by the hundred on the steamers in linen dusters, and is compelled by force of circumstances to "do" mount desert in twenty-four hours, and therefore enters on his task without shame or scruple, roams over the cottager's lawn, stares into his windows, breaks his fences, and sometimes asks him for a free lunch. the boarder, of course, looks down on this man, but when both are on the road or on the piazza of the hotel how are they to be distinguished? they are not, and cannot be. the worst of it all is, however, that the boarder finds that the cottager has enclosed some of his favorite walks. he can no longer get to them without trespassing or intruding. he can only look wistfully from the dusty high-road at the spots on which he probably once "rocked" with the girl who is now his wife, or chopped logic with professional or clerical friends, whom "the growth of the place" has long ago driven to fresh fields and pastures new. there is something very interesting and touching about these old mount deserters of the first period, between and , who fled even before the enlargement of the hotels, and to whom cottages at bar harbor are almost unthinkable. one finds them in undeveloped summer resorts in out-of-the-way places along the american coast, often on the alps or in norway, or on the scotch lakes, still tender, and simple, and unassuming, and cheery, older of course and generally stouter, but with the memories of the mountains, and the rocks, and the islands, of the poor food, "which made no difference, because the air was fine," still as fresh as ever, but without a particle of bitterness. they wander much, but wander as they may they find no summer resorts which can have for them the charm of frenchman's bay or newport mountain, and no vehicle which touches so many chords in their hearts as the primeval buckboard, in the days when it could only be hired as a great favor. the cottager, too, sets no bounds to his pretensions as to territory. his policy, apparently the old policy of the conqueror everywhere, is to let the boarder go up the coast and discover the most attractive resorts, and allow him to report on them in the newspapers, write poetry about them, lay the scene of novels and plays in them, and then pursue him and eradicate him from the soil as a burden if not a nuisance. that he makes a resort far more beautiful to the eye than the boarder there is no denying. he covers it with beautiful houses; he converts the scraggy, yellow pastures into smooth, green lawns; he fills the rock crevices with flowers; he introduces better food and neater clothing and the latest dodges in plumbing. but these things are only for the few--in fact, the very few. an area which supports a hundred happy boarders will only bring one cottager to perfection. moreover, it is impossible, no matter how much the country may flourish, that all americans who leave the city in summer should by any effort become cottagers. the mass of them must always be boarders and remain boarders, and we would warn the cottagers that it may become dangerous to push them too hard and too far. much farther east or north on the coast they will not go without turning on their persecutors. they will not put up with the shores of labrador or greenland, no matter how hot the season may be. the survival of the fittest is a great law, and has worked wonders in the animal world, but it must be remembered that it has to work in our day in subordination to that greater law of morality which makes weakness itself a strong tower of defence. the future at all our leading seashore places, in truth, belongs to the cottager, and it is really useless to resist him. his march along the american coast is nearly as resistless as that of the hordes who issued from the plains of scythia to overthrow the roman empire. he moves on all the "choice sites" without haste, with the calm and remorselessness of the man who knows that the morrow is his. he has two tremendous forces at his back, against which no boarder can stand up. one is the growing passion, or fashion, if any one likes to call it so, of americans to live in their own houses, both summer and winter. this is rapidly taking possession of all classes, from the new england mechanic, who puts up his shanty or tent on the seashore, to the millionaire who builds his hundred-thousand dollar villa on his thirty-thousand dollar lot. everybody who can seeks to be at home all the year round, let the home be never so small or humble, and the life in it never so rough. this is a change in the national manners which nobody can regret, but it is a change from which the boarder must suffer, and which must cost him much wandering and many tears. the other is the spread of the love of the seashore among the vast population of the mississippi valley, whose wealth is becoming great, for whom long railroad journeys have no terrors, and who are likely now to send their thousands every year to compete with the "money kings" of the east for the best villa sites along the coast. and be it remembered that although our population doubles every twenty-five years, our rocky atlantic shore, which is what all most love to seek--the sand is tame and dreary in comparison--remains a fixed quantity. it only extends from new york to eastport, me., and it only contains a limited number of building lots. these are now being rapidly bought up and built on, or hold on speculation, and in some places, where land only brought ten dollars an acre fifteen years ago, are held at monstrous prices. to fight against these tendencies is useless. the wise boarder will not so do, nor waste his time in bewailing his fate. it is absurd for him to expect that long stretches of delightful shore will be left wild and uninhabited and unimproved, for him to walk over for three or four weeks every summer. not even the henry george régime would oust the cottager, for under it he would simply rent what he owns; a cottager he would still remain. finally, the boarder must remember that though the cottager, like woman, when he is bad is very bad, when good is delightful. nothing the american summer has to show can surpass a cottager, and we rejoice to know that the number of good cottagers every year grows larger. at his best though he may be stern in the assertion of his rights of property, there is no simpler, honester gentleman than he, and the moral earnestness with the want of which the more austere boarder has been apt to reproach him, grows very rapidly after he gets his lawn made and his place in order. summer rest the question has occurred to a good many, and has been more than once publicly asked, when do the people who frequent "summer schools" of philosophy, theology, and the like, which are now showing themselves at some of the watering-places, get their rest or vacation? at these schools both the lecturers or "paper" readers and the audience are engaged in the same or nearly the same work as during the rest of the year, and therefore in summer get no rest. we have been asked, for instance, whether a clergyman or professor who has a period of leisure allotted to him in summer, in order that he may "recruit," as it is called, is not guilty of some sort of abuse of confidence, if, instead of amusing himself or lying fallow, he goes to a summer school, and passes several weeks in discussions which, to be profitable either to himself or his hearers, must put some degree of strain on his faculties. the answer undoubtedly is, that nobody goes to a summer school who could get refreshment through sheer idleness. one of the greatest mistakes of the middle ages, and one which has come down to our own time in education, in theology, and in medicine, was that all men's needs, both spiritual, mental, and physical, are the same; and it long made the world a dreadful place for the exceptional or peculiar. in most things we have given up the theory. it was soonest given up as regards food, because the evidence against it was there plainest and most overwhelming, in the severe suffering inflicted on some people by things "disagreeing with them," as it was called, which others relished and profited by. it has only been surrendered with regard to children and youths, however, after a hard struggle. the idea of a young person being entitled to special treatment of any kind--that is, having in any respect a marked individuality--remains to this day odious to a great many of our theologians and teachers. it is, however, rapidly making its way, and has already obtained a secure footing in some of the colleges. it is the hotels, perhaps, which are now the strongholds of the old doctrine, and in which a person who wants what nobody else wants is considered most odious; partly, of course, because he gives extra trouble, but mainly because he is considered to be given up to a delusion about himself and his constitution. there is probably nothing which excites the anger and contempt of a summer-hotel clerk more than a request for something which is not supplied to everybody or which nobody else asks for. we remember once irritating a white mountain hotel-keeper extremely by asking to be allowed to ride up mount washington alone, instead of in a party of forty. he not only refused our request, but he punished us for making it by selecting for our use the worst pony in his stable, and watching us mounting it with a diabolical sneer. there is, however, still a good deal of intolerance about people's mode of spending their vacation. those who take it by simply sitting still or lounging with no particular occupation, are more or less worried by the people who take their rest actively and with much movement and bustle. so also the young man who goes off fishing and hunting, on the other hand, scorns the young man who hangs about the hotels and plays lawn-tennis, or goes to picnics with the girls--a rapidly diminishing class, let us add. a correspondent, who takes a low view of sermons, wrote to us the other day complaining of some mention which recently appeared in our columns of mount desert as a good place for "tired clergymen," and wished to know what there was to tire them, seeing that they did nothing but produce two essays a week, which need not be very original. the truth is, however, that everybody's occupation, including that of the young man who does nothing at all, does a great deal to tire him. what probably tires a minister most is not the sermons, but his parishioners; and we suspect that nine-tenths of the ministers, if they made a clean breast of it, would confess that rest to them meant getting away from their parishioners, and not in getting away from the sermons. sermon-writing in our day, when the area over which a preacher may select his subject is so greatly widened, is probably to a reflective man a great help and relief, as furnishing what nearly every student needs to stimulate study--a means of expression. sustained solitary thinking is something of which very few men are capable. to keep up what is called active-mindedness nearly everyone needs somebody to talk to. conversation with a friend is enough for most, but those who have more to say find a sermon or a magazine article just the kind of intellectual stimulus they need. what probably most wears on a clergyman's nerves are his pastoral duties, which do not consist simply in consoling people in great trials, but in listening to their fussy accounts of small ones. nine-tenths of a minister's patients, like a doctor's, do not know what is the matter with them, and consult a physician largely because they take comfort in talking to anybody about themselves, and doctors and clergymen are the only persons who are bound to listen to them. a professor or teacher is somewhat similarly situated. his business is the most wearing of human occupations--that of putting knowledge into heads only half willing to receive it, and persuading a large number of people to do their duty to whom duty is odious. to these men, a summer school of philosophy or theology, or anything else, must be repose of the best sort. it gives light work of the kind they love, free from all nagging, and in good air and fine scenery. at such schools, too, one finds uses for "papers" that no periodical will print, and which no audience would assemble to listen to in a city in the busy part of the year, and to many men an audience of any sort, interested or uninterested, is a great luxury. the persons who perhaps find it hardest to get rest in summer are brokers. their activity in their business and the excitement attending it are so great, that quiet to them, more than to most other men, is a hell; so that their vacation is a problem not easy of solution, except to the rich ones, who have yachts and horses without limit. even to those, every day of a vacation has to be full of movement and change. an hour not filled by some sort of activity, spent on a piazza or under a tree, is to them an hour wasted. a land where it was always afternoon would be to them the most "odious section of country" on earth. the story of one of them, who in rome lost flesh through pining for "the corner of wall and william," is well known. such a man finds nearly all summer resorts vanity and vexation of spirit, because none of them provides excitement. the class known as financiers, such as presidents of banks and insurance companies, is much better off, because it has saratoga. its members have generally reached the time of life when men love to sit still, and when the liver is torpid, and they are generally men of means, and wear black broadcloth at all seasons, as being what they have from their youth considered outward and visible signs of "respectability" in the financial sense. what they need is a place where they can have their livers roused without exercise, and this the mineral water does for them; where they can see a good deal going on and many evidences of wealth, without moving from their chairs; and where their financial standing will follow them; and for this there is perhaps no place in the country like saratoga. newport has not nearly as much solidity. it is brighter and gayer and more select, but though it contains enormous fortunes, a great fortune does not here do so much for a man. it has to bear the competition of youth and beauty and polo and lawn-tennis. the young man with little besides a polo pony, an imported racquet, and good looks counts for a good deal at newport; at saratoga he would be nobody. the survival of types the london _daily news_, in the course of an article on what it calls "international reproaches," refers to the fact that there is much that is "traditional" in them. it thinks that, both in america and in france, the qualities and peculiarities attributed to english people are derived, to a great extent, less from experience than from inherited tradition. "we hear that englishmen are rude to ladies; that they fail to yield them precedence at the ticket-offices of steamboats and railway stations; that they complain of everything that is given them as food; that they occupy more than their share of public conveyances with multitudinous wraps, sticks, and umbrellas. they assert themselves, it would seem, when they have placed , miles between themselves and their old home. there is, however, in all these complaints the ring of old coin." in the same way it says that the parisian of the boulevards still believes the english man to be a creature who wears long red whiskers of the mutton-chop species, and wears a plaid--although, as a matter of fact, the typical englishman of to-day does not look like this at all. anyone interested in the matter might make a very queer collection of types which, having disappeared from actual life, survive in the popular imagination, and by surviving keep alive international prejudice, hostility, suspicion, or distrust, and which go on doing duty in this way for years and years, until suddenly some fine day it is discovered that they are out of date and must in future be dispensed with. there is, for instance, our old friend, the stage irishman. how often have our hearts been touched by the qualities of gratitude, devotion to sentiment, faithful friendship, and heroism of this noble creature. no doubt, there must have been a time when he was as common in ireland as he has been in our day in melodrama. but the irishman, as he exists in new york, and as he is described by those who have seen him at home, is strangely unlike the type. he is a decidedly practical, hard-headed man, with a keen eye to the main chance, a considerable fondness for fighting, and a disposition which we should call the reverse of sentimental. harrigan and hart represent the actual irishman in america capitally at their little theatre in broadway, yet the stage irishman is to multitudes of americans a more real creature than the actual irishman, and we suppose there is hardly a democratic statesman from one end of the country to the other who has not constantly before his mind an image of him, by the contemplation of which he solves many of the knottiest problems of contemporary politics. then there is the dundreary englishman, first-cousin or lineal descendant of the englishman so dear to the french imagination. dundreary really represents, as we know very well, when we think about it, a past type of swell as extinct as the dodo. it is not common any longer for english swells to change all their rs to ws, and to spice their sentences with "aw-aws." we have numbers of them over here every year, but we do not hear them talk nowadays the once familiar dundreary language. yet there is hardly a newspaper in the united states whose funny man does not assume for the benefit of his readers that dundreary is alive, and every now and then reproduce him with gusto. it is not in _punch_ that we find dundreary, but in the funny department of the oshkosh _monitor_ and the "all sorts" column of the bungtown _clarion_. even _puck_ contributes to perpetuate the belief in the continued existence of dundreary by devoting a column a week to observations on american society in the dundreary dialect, which thirty years ago might have been decidedly funny. _punch_ still has john bull as a national type; but it shows great reserve in the use of him, and now continually resorts to britannia as a substitute. is not this because our old friend john is now only a survival, a tradition of the past? the bluff, stout, honest, red-faced, irascible rural person--of whom the photographs of john bright remind us--has really been supplanted by a more modern, thinner, nervous, intellectual, astute type. for english use the yankee type of uncle sam still seems to represent america, although it belongs to the past as much as slavery or the stage-coach. he would be a bold man who should undertake to say what the national type is now; but it is safe to say that it is not a long, thin, cute yankee, dressed in a swallow-tailed coat with brass buttons, whittling a stick, and interlarding his conversation with "i swan!" and "i calc'late." if mr. lowell were writing the "biglow papers" now, would "uncle s." serve his purpose as he did during the war? by a merciful dispensation of providence, however, brother jonathan and uncle sam still live on in the imaginations of large masses of conservative englishmen, and no doubt enable many a tory to people the united states with a race as alien from that which actually inhabits it as zulus would be. in the same way it may be possible--to the providence that guides the destinies of nations nothing is impossible--that the rude englishman is, as the _daily news_ suggests, getting to be a survival. the _daily news's_ portrait of him is fair enough, though it would require americans who have suffered from him to do him real justice. he is, or, was, a very rude person, and always seemed to take great delight in "asserting himself" in such a way as to produce as much general annoyance and discomfort as possible. during the war he had a brilliant career. he used to come over and express great surprise at the silly fuss made about the constitution and secession, and profess an entire inability to discover what it was "all about." if they want to go, he always said, why don't you let 'em go? what is the use of fighting about the meaning of a word in the dictionary? it was in small things as in great. when he went into society he dressed to suit himself, and not as gentlemen in england or anywhere else do, thus contriving to exhibit a general contempt for his host and his friends. when his meek entertainer ventured to offer him some american dish which he did not like, he would frankly warn his companions against it; and if he asked for sugar in his coffee he would, in the same outspoken way, explain that he always sweetened it "when it was bad." one of his favorite topics of conversation was the awful corruption and rottenness of american society and politics, and he dwelt so much upon this that it often seemed as if what he was really interested in was to find out whether the people he was staying with, and being entertained by, were not themselves, if the truth were known, rotten to the core. he was a very rude man, and he did exist. but is he gone, or going? is the time coming when we shall have to regard him too as a survival, and admit that the rude englishman is a creature of the past? time and continued international experience can alone settle this question. there are, however, bitter memories of past sufferings at his hands in hundreds of american homes, that make it better for both countries not to probe the subject too deeply. will wimbles mr. thomas hughes's attempt to provide a refuge in tennessee for the large class of young englishmen whom he calls "will wimbles," after one of sir roger de coverley's friends in addison's _spectator_, is said to be a failure, owing mainly to the poverty of the land and the remoteness of the markets. an acute writer in the _pall mall gazette_ maintains that there is another and more potent cause to be found in the quality of the will wimbles. the will wimbles are the young men who are educated in the public schools and universities, or at least in the public schools, and are turned out into the world between eighteen and twenty-one, without any special training whatever, but with the manners and instincts of gentlemen, and with entire willingness to take to any calling but the lower walks of "trade." the great body of them are the sons of middle-class parents--clergymen, doctors, lawyers, and small squires--whose means are very moderate, and who have to submit to more or less privation in order to send their sons to the public schools at all. they do it in order to launch them in the world unmistakably in the gentle class, and in order to enable them to form their first social relations in that class. unfortunately, however, as the writer in the _pall mall gazette_ points out, the tone and temper of the public schools, and their way of looking at life, are the products of a vague, but none the less powerful, assumption that every boy is the son of a man with about five thousand pounds a year. the whole atmosphere of the school is permeated with this assumption. the boys' code of manners is formed in it. their intercourse with each other is more or less influenced by it, and they all look out on the world, up to their last day at school, with the eyes of youths whose home is a well-equipped manor-house surrounded by a prosperous estate. the love of the middle-class englishman of every age for this point of view is curiously exemplified in the social articles, not only in the "society paper," properly so called, but in the _saturday review_. the troubles and perplexities and minor disappointments of life form a favorite topic with the writer of the "sub-leaders" in this last-named paper, but they are always of the troubles, perplexities, and disappointments of a landed gentleman who keeps hunters, and has a stud groom and extensive covers. he hardly ever examines the state of mind of anyone less well-to-do than a younger son whose means only allow him to hunt two days in a week instead of six, and who has to rely on invitations for his shooting. these and their sisters, cousins, and aunts, apparently form the reviewer's entire world, and the only world in which there are any social phenomena worth discussion. it is, in other words, a world made up exclusively of "gentlemen," and of the persons, male and female, who wait upon them. its sorrows are the sorrows of gentlemen, and arise mostly out of the failure of some amusement, or the loss of the money with which amusements are provided, the missing of some social distinction, or the misconduct of "upper servants." it is, however, really the only world that the english public-school boy or university man sees, or hears of, or thinks about while in _statu pupillari_. this is true, let his own home be never so modest, or the sacrifices made by his father to secure him the fashionable curriculum be never so painful. the result is, of course, that when his "education" is finished, he is really only prepared for what is technically called a gentleman's life. he has only thought of certain employments as possible to him, and all these are exceedingly hard to get. the manners of the great bulk of mankind, too, are more or less repulsive to him, and so is a good deal of the popular morality. in short, he is turned out a will wimble--or, in other words, a good-hearted, kindly, gentlemanly, honorable fellow, who is, however, entirely unfitted for the social _milieu_, in which he must not only live, but make a living. mr. hughes's idea has been that, though he dislikes trade, and is a little too nice for it as now carried on, at least on the retail side, he has an innate liking and readiness for agriculture, and that, if enabled to till the soil under pleasant, or at least not too novel, social conditions, he would do it successfully. out of this the rugby, tenn., experiment has grown, and if it has not actually failed, as some say, it is certainly too early to pronounce it a success. at all events, the signs that it is going to fail are numerous. among them is the deep disappointment of the settlers, few of whom probably realized not only the monotony and drudgery of labor in the fields--these things can be borne by men with stout hearts and strong arms--but its effect in unfitting a man for any kind of amusement. there has been much delusion on this subject in this country, where far more is known by the reading class about all kinds of manual labor than is known in england. the possibility of working hard in the fields and keeping up at the same time some process of intellectual culture, has been much preached among us both by educational projectors and social reformers, though nearly every man who listens to them here knows the effect of physical toil in the open air in producing sleepiness and mental inertness. it is not surprising, therefore, that it should find ready acceptance in england among people who think ability to bear a hard day on the moors after grouse, or a long run in the saddle after the hounds, argues capacity to hoe potatoes or corn for twelve hours, and settle down in the evening, after a bath and a good dinner, to dante, or wallace, or huxley. will wimbles are much less common among us than in england. we fortunately have not a dozen great endowments used in turning them out, or a large and rich society occupied in spreading the gentlemanly view of life. but they, nevertheless, are more numerous than is altogether pleasant. the difficulty which our college graduate experiences in getting room for what the newspapers call his "bark" on the stream of life, is one of the standing jokes of our light literature. we have no schools which take the place of the english public schools in our scheme of education. but the view of life which prevails in the english public schools and turns out the will wimbles, is more or less prevalent in our colleges, and tends to spread as the wealth of the class which sends its boys to college increases. in other words, colleges are to a much greater extent than they used to be places in which social relations are found, rather than places of preparation for the active work of life. this last character, indeed, they almost wholly lost when they ceased to have the training of ministers as their main function. scarcely any man who can afford it now likes to refuse his son a college education if the boy wants it; but probably not one boy in one thousand can say, five years after graduating, that he has been helped by his college education in making his start in life. it may have been never so useful to him as a means of moral and intellectual culture, but it has not helped to adapt him to the environment in which he has to live and work; or, in other words, to a world in which not one man in a thousand has either the manners or cultivation of a gentleman, or changes his shirt more than once a week, or eats with a fork. college education is prevented from suffering as much from this source in popular estimation in england as it does here, by the fact that, owing to the peculiar political traditions of the country, college-bred men begin life in a large number of cases in possession of great advantages of other kinds, such as hereditary wealth. here they have almost all to face the world on their own merits, and in so far as they face it feebly or unskilfully their defects are set down in the popular mind to the fact that they went to college. if the discredit ended here, it would perhaps be of small consequence. but it may be safely said that the college graduate is never seen groping about in a helpless and timid way for "a position," and shrinking from the turmoil and dirt of some walks of life, without spreading among the uncultivated a contempt for culture and increasing their confidence in the rule of thumb. the mere "going to college" is recognized as a sign of pecuniary ease, and of a desire for social advancement, but not as preparation for the kind of work which the bulk of the community is doing, and thus makes mental culture seem less desirable, and cultivated men less potent, especially in politics. the question is a serious one for all colleges, and it is not here only, but in england and france, that it is undergoing grave consideration. in germany society may be said to have been organized as an appendage to the universities, but here the universities are simply appendages to society, which is continually doubting whether their existence can be justified. literary and philosophical essays harvard classics v contents that we should not judge of our happiness until after our death that to philosophise is to learne how to die of the institution and education of children of friendship of bookes by montaigne montaigne what is a classic? by chasles-augustin sainte-beuve the poetry of the celtic races by ernest renan the education of the human race by gotthold ephraim lessing letters upon the aesthetic education of man by j. c. friedrich von schiller fundamental principles of the metaphysic of morals transition from popular moral philosophy to the metaphysic of morals immanuel kant byron and goethe by giuseppe mazzini introductory note michel eyquem de montaigne, the founder of the modern essay, was born february , , at the chateau of montaigne in pirigord. he came of a family of wealthy merchants of bordeaux, and was educated at the college de guyenne, where he had among his teachers the great scottish latinist, george buchanan. later he studied law, and held various public offices; but at the age of thirty-eight he retired to his estates, where he lived apart from the civil wars of the time, and devoted himself to study and thought. while he was traveling in germany and italy, in - , he was elected mayor of bordeaux, and this office he filled for four years. he married in , and had six daughters, only one of whom grew up. the first two books of his "essays" appeared in ; the third in ; and four years later he died. these are the main external facts of montaigne's life: of the man himself the portrait is to be found in his book. "it is myself i portray," he declares; and there is nowhere in literature a volume of self-revelation surpassing his in charm and candor. he is frankly egotistical, yet modest and unpretentious; profoundly wise, yet constantly protesting his ignorance; learned, yet careless, forgetful, and inconsistent. his themes are as wide and varied as his observation of human life, and he has written the finest eulogy of friendship the world has known. bacon, who knew his book and borrowed from it, wrote on the same subject; and the contrast of the essays is the true reflection of the contrast between the personalities of their authors. shortly after montaigne's death the "essays" were translated into english by john florio, with less than exact accuracy, but in a style so full of the flavor of the age that we still read montaigne in the version which shakespeare knew. the group of examples here printed exhibits the author in a variety of moods, easy, serious, and, in the essay on "friendship," as nearly impassioned as his philosophy ever allowed him to become. reader, be here a well-meaning booke. it doth at the firth entrance forewarne thee, that in contriving the same i have proposed unto my selfe no other than a familiar and private end: i have no respect or consideration at all, either to thy service, or to my glory: my forces are not capable of any such desseigne. i have vowed the same to the particular commodity of my kinsfolks and friends: to the end, that losing me (which they are likely to doe ere long), they may therein find some lineaments of my conditions and humours, and by that meanes reserve more whole, and more lively foster the knowledge and acquaintance they have had of me. had my intention beene to forestal and purchase the world's opinion and favour, i would surely have adorned myselfe more quaintly, or kept a more grave and solemne march. i desire therein to be delineated in mine owne genuine, simple and ordinarie fashion, without contention, art or study; for it is myself e i pourtray. my imperfections shall therein be read to the life, and my naturall forme discerned, so farre-forth as publike reverence hath permitted me. for if my fortune had beene to have lived among those nations which yet are said to live under the sweet liberty of nature's first and uncorrupted lawes, i assure thee, i would most willingly have pourtrayed my selfe fully and naked. thus, gentle reader, myself i am the groundworke of my booke: it is then no reason thou shouldest employ thy time about so frivolous and vaine a subject. therefore farewell. from montaigne, the first of march, . that we should not judge of our happinesse untill after our death scilicet ultima semper expectanda dies homini est, dicique beatus ante obitum nemo, supremaque funera debat. [footnote: ovid. met. , iii. .] we must expect of man the latest day, nor ere he die, he's happie, can we say. the very children are acquainted with the storie of croesus to this purpose: who being taken by cyrus, and by him condemned to die, upon the point of his execution, cried out aloud: "oh solon, solon!" which words of his, being reported to cyrus, who inquiring what he meant by them, told him, hee now at his owne cost verified the advertisement solon had before times given him; which was, that no man, what cheerefull and blandishing countenance soever fortune shewed them, may rightly deeme himselfe happie, till such time as he have passed the last day of his life, by reason of the uncertaintie and vicissitude of humane things, which by a very light motive, and slight occasion, are often changed from one to another cleane contrary state and degree. and therefore agesilaus answered one that counted the king of persia happy, because being very young, he had gotten the garland of so mightie and great a dominion: "yea but said he, priam at the same age was not unhappy." of the kings of macedon that succeeded alexander the great, some were afterward seene to become joyners and scriveners at rome: and of tyrants of sicilie, schoolemasters at corinth. one that had conquered halfe the world, and been emperour over so many, armies, became an humble and miserable suter to the raskally officers of a king of aegypte: at so high a rate did that great pompey purchase the irkesome prolonging of his life but for five or six moneths. and in our fathers daies, lodowicke sforze, tenth duke of millane, under whom the state of italic had so long beene turmoiled and shaken, was seene to die a wretched prisoner at loches in france, but not till he had lived and lingered ten yeares in thraldom, which was the worst of his bargaine. the fairest queene, wife to the greatest king of christendome, was she not lately scene to die by the hands of an executioner? oh unworthie and barbarous cruelties and a thousand such examples. for, it seemeth that as the sea-billowes and surging waves, rage and storme against the surly pride and stubborne height of our buildings, so are there above, certaine spirits that envie the rising prosperities and greatnesse heere below. vsque adeb res humanas vis abdita quadam obterit, et pulchros fasces sav&sque secures proculcare, ac ludibrio sibi habere videtur. [footnote: lucret. i. v. .] a hidden power so mens states hath out-worne faire swords, fierce scepters, signes of honours borne, it seemes to trample and deride in scorne. and it seemeth fortune doth sometimes narrowly watch the last day of our life, thereby to shew her power, and in one moment to overthrow what for many yeares together she had been erecting, and makes us cry after laberius, nimirum hoc die una plus vixi, mihi quam vivendum fuit. [footnote: machob, , ii. .] thus it is, "i have lived longer by this one day than i should." so may that good advice of solon be taken with reason. but forsomuch as he is a philosopher, with whom the favours or disfavours of fortune, and good or ill lucke have no place, and are not regarded by him; and puissances and greatnesses, and accidents of qualitie, are well-nigh indifferent: i deeme it very likely he had a further reach, and meant that the same good fortune of our life, which dependeth of the tranquillitie and contentment of a welborne minde, and of the resolution and assurance of a well ordered soule, should never be ascribed unto man, untill he have beene scene play the last act of his comedie, and without doubt the hardest. in all the rest there may be some maske: either these sophisticall discourses of philosophie are not in us but by countenance, or accidents that never touch us to the quick, give us alwaies leasure to keep our countenance setled. but when that last part of death, and of our selves comes to be acted, then no dissembling will availe, then is it high time to speake plaine english, and put off all vizards: then whatsoever the pot containeth must be shewne, be it good or bad, foule or cleane, wine or water. nam vera voces tum demum pectore ab imo ejiciuntur, et eripitur persona, manet res. [footnote: luceet. . iii. .] for then are sent true speeches from the heart, we are ourselves, we leave to play a part. loe heere, why at this last cast, all our lives other actions must be tride and touched. it is the master-day, the day that judgeth all others: it is the day, saith an auncient writer, that must judge of all my forepassed yeares. to death doe i referre the essay [footnote: assay, exact weighing.] of my studies fruit. there shall wee see whether my discourse proceed from my heart, or from my mouth. i have scene divers, by their death, either in good or evill, give reputation to all their forepassed life. scipio, father-in-law to pompey, in well dying, repaired the ill opinion which untill that houre men had ever held of him. epaminondas being demanded which of the three he esteemed most, either chabrias, or iphicrates, or himselfe: "it is necessary," said he, "that we be scene to die, before your question may well be resolved." [footnote: answered.] verily, we should steale much from him, if he should be weighed without the honour and greatnesse of his end. god hath willed it, as he pleased: but in my time three of the most execrable persons that ever i knew in all abomination of life, and the most infamous, have beene seen to die very orderly and quietly, and in every circumstance composed even unto perfection. there are some brave and fortunate deaths. i have seene her cut the twine of some man's life, with a progresse of wonderful advancement, and with so worthie an end, even in the flowre of his growth and spring of his youth, that in mine opinion, his ambitious and haughtie couragious signes, thought nothing so high as might interrupt them who without going to the place where he pretended, arived there more gloriously and worthily than either his desire or hope aimed at, and by his fall fore-went the power and name, whither by his course he aspired. when i judge of other men's lives, i ever respect how they have behaved themselves in their end; and my chiefest study is, i may well demeane my selfe at my last gaspe, that is to say, quietly and constantly. that to philosophise is to learne how to die cicero saith, that to philosophise is no other thing than for a man to prepare himselfe to death: which is the reason that studie and contemplation doth in some sort withdraw our soule from us, and severally employ it from the body, which is a kind of apprentisage and resemblance of death; or else it is, that all the wisdome and discourse of the world, doth in the end resolve upon this point, to teach us not to feare to die. truly either reason mockes us, or it only aimeth at our contentment, and in fine, bends all her travell to make us live well, and as the holy scripture saith, "at our ease." all the opinions of the world conclude, that pleasure is our end, howbeit they take divers meanes unto and for it, else would men reject them at their first comming. for, who would give eare unto him, that for it's end would establish our paine and disturbance? the dissentions of philosophicall sects in this case are verbal: transcurramus solertissimas hugos [footnote: travails, labours.] "let us run over such over-fine fooleries and subtill trifles." there is more wilfulnesse and wrangling among them, than pertains to a sacred profession. but what person a man undertakes to act, he doth ever therewithal! personate his owne. allthough they say, that in vertue it selfe, the last scope of our aime is voluptuousnes. it pleaseth me to importune their eares still with this word, which so much offends their hearing. and if it imply any chief pleasure or exceeding contentments, it is rather due to the assistance of vertue, than to any other supply, voluptuousnes being more strong, sinnowie, sturdie, and manly, is but more seriously voluptuous. and we should give it the name of pleasure, more favorable, sweeter, and more naturall; and not terme it vigor, from which it hath his denomination. should this baser sensuality deserve this faire name, it should be by competencie, and not by privilege. i finde it lesse void of incommodities and crosses than vertue. and besides that> her taste is more fleeting, momentarie, and fading, she hath her fasts, her eyes, and her travels, and both sweat and blood. furthermore she hath particularly so many wounding passions, and of so severall sorts, and so filthie and loathsome a societie waiting upon her, that shee is equivalent to penitencie. wee are in the wrong, to thinke her incommodities serve her as a provocation and seasoning to her sweetnes, as in nature one contrarie is vivified by another contrarie: and to say, when we come to vertue, that like successes and difficulties overwhelme it, and yeeld it austere and inaccessible. whereas much more properly then unto voluptuousnes, they ennobled, sharpen, animate, and raise that divine and perfect pleasure, which it meditates and procureth us. truly he is verie unworthie her acquaintance, that counter-ballanceth her cost to his fruit, and knowes neither the graces nor use of it. those who go about to instruct us, how her pursuit is very hard and laborious, and her jovisance [footnote: enjoyment] well-pleasing and delightfull: what else tell they us, but that shee is ever unpleasant and irksome? for what humane meane [footnote: human meana. man's life is subject, it is not with an equall care: as well because accidents are not of such a necessitie, for most men passe their whole life without feeling any want or povertie, and othersome without feeling any griefe or sicknes, as xenophilus the musitian, who lived an hundred and six yeares in perfect and continuall health: as also if the worst happen, death may at all times, and whensoever it shall please us, cut off all other inconveniences and crosses. but as for death, it is inevitable.] did ever attaine unto an absolute enjoying of it? the perfectest have beene content but to aspire and approach her, without ever possessing her. but they are deceived; seeing that of all the pleasures we know, the pursute of them is pleasant. the enterprise is perceived by the qualitie of the thing, which it hath regard unto: for it is a good portion of the effect, and consubstantiall. that happines and felicitie, which shineth in vertue, replenisheth her approaches and appurtenances, even unto, the first entrance and utmost barre. now of all the benefits of vertue, the contempt of death is the chiefest, a meane that furnisheth our life with an ease-full tranquillitie, and gives us a pure and amiable taste of it: without which every other voluptuousnes is extinguished. loe, here the reasons why all rules encounter and agree with this article. and albeit they all leade us with a common accord to despise povertie, and other accidental! crosses, to which omnes eodem cogimur, omnium versatur urna, serius, ocius sors exitura, et nos in aeternum exilium impositura cymbae, [footnote: hor. i. iii. od. iii. .] all to one place are driv'n, of all shak't is the lot-pot, where-hence shall sooner or later drawne lots fall, and to deaths boat for aye enthrall. and by consequence, if she makes us affeard, it is a continual subject of torment, and which can no way be eased. there is no starting-hole will hide us from her, she will finde us wheresoever we are, we may as in a suspected countrie start and turne here and there: quae quasi saxum tantalo semper impendet.[footnote: cic. de fin. i. i.] "which evermore hangs like the stone over the head of tantalus:" our lawes doe often condemne and send malefactors to be executed in the same place where the crime was committed: to which whilest they are going, leade them along the fairest houses, or entertaine them with the best cheere you can, non siculae dapes dulcem elaborabunt saporem: non avium, citharaeque cantus somnum reducent. [footnote: hor. i. iii. od. i, .] not all king denys daintie fare, can pleasing taste for them prepare: no song of birds, no musikes sound can lullabie to sleepe profound. doe you thinke they can take any pleasure in it? or be any thing delighted? and that the finall intent of their voiage being still before their eies, hath not altered and altogether distracted their taste from all these commodities and allurements? audit iter, numeratque dies, spatioque viarum metitur vitam, torquetur peste futura. [footnote: claud, in ruff. . ii. ] he heares his journey, counts his daies, so measures he his life by his waies length, vext with the ill shall be. the end of our cariere is death, it is the necessarie object of our aime: if it affright us, how is it possible we should step one foot further without an ague? the remedie of the vulgar sort is, not to think on it. but from what brutall stupiditie may so grosse a blindnesse come upon him? he must be made to bridle his asse by the taile, qiti capite ipse suo instituit vestigia retro. [footnote: lucret. . iv. ] who doth a course contrarie runne with his head to his course begunne. it is no marvell if he be so often taken tripping; some doe no sooner heare the name of death spoken of, but they are afraid, yea the most part will crosse themselves, as if they heard the devill named. and because mention is made of it in mens wils and testaments, i warrant you there is none will set his hand to them, til the physitian hath given his last doome, and utterly forsaken him. and god knowes, being then betweene such paine and feare, with what sound judgment they endure him. for so much as this syllable sounded so unpleasantly in their eares, and this voice seemed so ill boding and unluckie, the romans had learned to allay and dilate the same by a periphrasis. in liew of saying, he is dead, or he hath ended his daies, they would say, he hath lived. so it be life, be it past or no, they are comforted: from whom we have borrowed our phrases quondam, alias, or late such a one. it may haply be, as the common saying is, the time we live is worth the mony we pay for it. i was borne betweene eleven of the clocke and noone, the last of februarie , according to our computation, the yeare beginning the first of januarie. it is but a fortnight since i was yeares old. i want at least as much more. if in the meane time i should trouble my thoughts with a matter so farre from me, it were but folly. but what? we see both young and old to leave their life after one selfe-same condition. no man departs otherwise from it, than if he but now came to it, seeing there is no man so crazed,[footnote: infirm] bedrell, [footnote: bedridden.] or decrepit, so long as he remembers methusalem, but thinkes he may yet live twentie yeares. moreover, seely [footnote: simple, weak.] creature as thou art, who hath limited the end of thy daies? happily thou presumest upon physitians reports. rather consider the effect and experience. by the common course of things long since thou livest by extraordinarie favour. thou hast alreadie over-past the ordinarie tearmes of common life: and to prove it, remember but thy acquaintances, and tell me how many more of them have died before they came to thy age, than have either attained or outgone the same: yea, and of those that through renoune have ennobled their life, if thou but register them, i will lay a wager, i will finde more that have died before they came to five and thirty years, than after. it is consonant with reason and pietie, to take example by the humanity of jesus christ, who ended his humane life at three and thirtie yeares. the greatest man that ever was, being no more than a man, i meane alexander the great, ended his dayes, and died also of that age. how many severall meanes and waies hath death to surprise us! quid quisque vitet, nunquam homini satis cautum est in horas [footnote: hor. . ii. od. xiii. .] a man can never take good heed, hourely what he may shun and speed. i omit to speak of agues and pleurisies; who would ever have imagined that a duke of brittanie should have beene stifled to death in a throng of people, as whilome was a neighbour of mine at lyons, when pope clement made his entrance there? hast thou not seene one of our late kings slaine in the middest of his sports? and one of his ancestors die miserably by the chocke [footnote: shock.] of an hog? eschilus fore threatned by the fall of an house, when he stood most upon his guard, strucken dead by the fall of a tortoise shell, which fell out of the tallants of an eagle flying in the air? and another choaked with the kernell of a grape? and an emperour die by the scratch of a combe, whilest he was combing his head? and aemylius lepidus with hitting his foot against a doore-seele? and aufidius with stumbling against the consull-chamber doore as he was going in thereat? and cornelius gallus, the praetor, tigillinus, captaine of the romane watch, lodowike, sonne of guido gonzaga, marquis of mantua, end their daies betweene womens thighs? and of a farre worse example speusippus, the platonian philosopher, and one of our popes? poore bebius a judge, whilest he demurreth the sute of a plaintife but for eight daies, be hold, his last expired: and caius iulius a physitian, whilest he was annointing the eies of one of his patients, to have his owne sight closed for ever by death. and if amongst these examples, i may adde one of a brother of mine, called captain saint martin, a man of three and twentie yeares of age, who had alreadie given good testimonie of his worth and forward valour, playing at tennis, received a blow with a ball, that hit him a little above the right eare, without apparance of any contusion, bruse, or hurt, and never sitting or resting upon it, died within six houres after of an apoplexie, which the blow of the ball caused in him. these so frequent and ordinary examples, hapning, and being still before our eies, how is it possible for man to forgo or for get the remembrance of death? and why should it not continually seeme unto us, that shee is still ready at hand to take us by the throat? what matter is it, will you say unto me, how and in what manner it is, so long as a man doe not trouble and vex himselfe therewith? i am of this opinion, that howsoever a man may shrowd or hide himselfe from her dart, yea, were it under an oxe-hide, i am not the man would shrinke backe: it sufficeth me to live at my ease; and the best recreation i can have, that doe i ever take; in other matters, as little vain glorious, and exemplare as you list. --praetulerim delirus inersque videri, dum mea delectent mala me, vel denique fallant, quam sapere et ringi [footnote: hor. . ii. episi. ii ] a dotard i had rather seeme, and dull, sooner my faults may please make me a gull, than to be wise, and beat my vexed scull. but it is folly to thinke that way to come unto it. they come, they goe, they trot, they daunce: but no speech of death. all that is good sport. but if she be once come, and on a sudden and openly surprise, either them, their wives, their children, or their friends, what torments, what out cries, what rage, and what despaire doth then overwhelme them? saw you ever anything so drooping, so changed, and so distracted? a man must looke to it, and in better times fore-see it. and might that brutish carelessenesse lodge in the minde of a man of understanding (which i find altogether impossible) she sels us her ware at an overdeere rate: were she an enemie by mans wit to be avoided, i would advise men to borrow the weapons of cowardlinesse: but since it may not be, and that be you either a coward or a runaway, an honest or valiant man, she overtakes you, nempe et fugacem persequitur virum, nec parcit imbellis juventae poplitibus, timidoque tergo. [footnote: hor. . iii. od. ii. .] shee persecutes the man that flies, shee spares not weake youth to surprise, but on their hammes and backe turn'd plies. and that no temper of cuirace [footnote: cuirass.] may shield or defend you, ille licet ferro cauius se condat et aere, mors tamen inclusum protraket inde caput. [footnote: propert. . iii. et xvii. ] though he with yron and brasse his head empale, yet death his head enclosed thence will hale. let us learne to stand, and combat her with a resolute minde. and being to take the greatest advantage she hath upon us from her, let us take a cleane contrary way from the common, let us remove her strangenesse from her, let us converse, frequent, and acquaint our selves with her, let us have nothing so much in minde as death, let us at all times and seasons, and in the ugliest manner that may be, yea with all faces shapen and represent the same unto our imagination. at the stumbling of a horse, at the fall of a stone, at the least prick with a pinne, let us presently ruminate and say with our selves, what if it were death it selfe? and thereupon let us take heart of grace, and call our wits together to confront her. amiddest our bankets, feasts, and pleasures, let us ever have this restraint or object before us, that is, the remembrance of our condition, and let not pleasure so much mislead or transport us, that we altogether neglect or forget, how many waies, our joyes, or our feastings, be subject unto death, and by how many hold-fasts shee threatens us and them. so did the aegyptians, who in the middest of their banquetings, and in the full of their greatest cheere, caused the anatomie [footnote: skeleton] of a dead man to be brought before them, as a memorandum and warning to their guests. omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum, grata superveniet; quae non sperabitur, hora? [footnote: hor. . i. epist. iv. .] thinke every day shines on thee as thy last, welcome it will come, whereof hope was past. it is uncertaine where death looks for us; let us expect her everie where: the premeditation of death, is a forethinking of libertie. he who hath learned to die, hath unlearned to serve. there is no evill in life, for him that hath well conceived, how the privation of life is no evill. to know how to die, doth free us from all subjection and constraint. paulus aemilius answered one, whom that miserable king of macedon his prisoner sent to entreat him he would not lead him in triumph, "let him make that request unto himselfe." verily, if nature afford not some helpe in all things, it is very hard that art and industrie should goe farre before. of my selfe, i am not much given to melancholy, but rather to dreaming and sluggishness. there is nothing wherewith i have ever more entertained my selfe, than with the imaginations of death, yea in the most licentious times of my age. iucundum, cum atas florida ver ageret [footnote: catul. eleg. iv. .] when my age flourishing did spend its pleasant spring. being amongst faire ladies, and in earnest play, some have thought me busied, or musing with my selfe, how to digest some jealousie, or meditating on the uncertaintie of some conceived hope, when god he knowes, i was entertaining my selfe with the remembrance of some one or other, that but few daies before was taken with a burning fever, and of his sodaine end, comming from such a feast or meeting where i was my selfe, and with his head full of idle conceits, of lore, and merry glee; supposing the same, either sickness or end, to be as neere me as him. iam fuerit, nec post, unquam revocare licebit. [footnote: lucr. i. iii. .] now time would be, no more you can this time restore. i did no more trouble my selfe or frowne at such conceit, [idea.] than at any other. it is impossible we should not apprehend or feele some motions or startings at such imaginations at the first, and comming sodainely upon us; but doubtlesse, he that shall manage and meditate upon them with an impartiall eye, they will assuredly, in tract [course.] of time, become familiar to him: otherwise, for my part, i should be in continuall feare and agonie; for no man did ever more distrust his life, nor make lesse account of his continuance: neither can health, which hitherto i have so long enjoied, and which so seldome hath beene crazed, [enfeebled.] lengthen my hopes, nor any sicknesse shorten them of it. at every minute me thinkes i make an escape. and i uncessantly record unto my selfe, that whatsoever may be done another day, may be effected this day. truly hazards and dangers doe little or nothing approach us at our end: and if we consider, how many more there remaine, besides this accident, which in number more than millions seeme to threaten us, and hang over us; we shall find, that be we sound or sicke, lustie or weake, at sea or at land, abroad or at home, fighting or at rest, in the middest of a battell or, in our beds, she is ever alike neere unto us. nemo altero fragilior est, nemo in crastinum sui certior: "no man is weaker then other; none surer of himselfe (to live) till to morrow." whatsoever i have to doe before death, all leasure to end the same seemeth short unto me, yea were it but of one houre. some body, not long since turning over my writing tables, found by chance a memoriall of something i would have done after my death: i told him (as indeed it was true), that being but a mile from my house, and in perfect health and lustie, i had made haste to write it, because i could not assure my self i should ever come home in safety: as one that am ever hatching of mine owne thoughts, and place them in my selfe: i am ever prepared about that which i may be: nor can death (come when she please) put me in mind of any new thing. a man should ever, as much as in him lieth, be ready booted to take his journey, and above all things, looke he have then nothing to doe but with himselfe. quid brevi fortes jaculamur aevo multa: [footnote: hor. . ii. od. xiv] to aime why are we ever bold, at many things in so short hold? for then we shall have worke sufficient, without any more accrease. some man complaineth more that death doth hinder him from the assured course of an hoped for victorie, than of death it selfe; another cries out, he should give place to her, before he have married his daughter, or directed the course of his childrens bringing up; another bewaileth he must forgoe his wives company; another moaneth the losse of his children, the chiefest commodities of his being. i am now by meanes of the mercy of god in such a taking, that without regret or grieving at any worldly matter, i am prepared to dislodge, whensoever he shall please to call me: i am every where free: my farewell is soone taken of all my friends, except of my selfe. no man did ever pre pare himselfe to quit the world more simply and fully, or more generally spake of all thoughts of it, than i am assured i shall doe. the deadest deaths are the best. --miser, de miser (aiunt) omnia ademit. vna dies infesta mihi tot praemia vitae: [footnote: luce. . iii. .] o wretch, o wretch (friends cry), one day, all joyes of life hath tane away: and the builder, --manent (saith he) opera interrupta, minaeque murorum ingentes. [footnote: virg. aen. . iv. .] the workes unfinisht lie, and walls that threatned hie. a man should designe nothing so long afore-hand, or at least with such an intent, as to passionate[footnote: long passionately.] himselfe to see the end of it; we are all borne to be doing. cum moriar, medium solvar et inter opus [footnote: ovid. am. . ii. el. x. ] when dying i my selfe shall spend, ere halfe my businesse come to end. i would have a man to be doing, and to prolong his lives offices as much as lieth in him, and let death seize upon me whilest i am setting my cabiges, carelesse of her dart, but more of my unperfect garden. i saw one die, who being at his last gaspe, uncessantly complained against his destinie, and that death should so unkindly cut him off in the middest of an historie which he had in hand, and was now come to the fifteenth or sixteenth of our kings. illud in his rebus non addunt, nec tibi earum, iam desiderium rerum super insidet uno. [footnote: luce. . iii. .] friends adde not that in this case, now no more shalt thou desire, or want things wisht before. a man should rid himselfe of these vulgar and hurtful humours. even as churchyards were first place adjoyning unto churches, and in the most frequented places of the city, to enure (as lycurgus said) the common people, women and children, not to be skared at the sight of a dead man, and to the end that continuall spectacle of bones, sculs, tombes, graves and burials, should forewarne us of our condition, and fatall end. quin etiam exhilarare viris convivia caede mos olim, et miscere epulis spectacula dira certantum ferro, saepe et super ipsa cadentum pocula, respersis non parco sanguine mensis. [footnote: syl. . xi. ] nay more, the manner was to welcome guests, and with dire shewes of slaughter to mix feasts. of them that fought at sharpe, and with bords tainted of them with much bloud, who o'er full cups fainted. and even as the aegyptians after their feastings and carousings caused a great image of death to be brought in and shewed to the guests and bytanders, by one that cried aloud, "drinke and be merry, for such shalt thou be when thou art dead: "so have i learned this custome or lesson, to have alwaies death, not only in my imagination, but continually in my mouth. and there is nothing i desire more to be informed of than of the death of men; that is to say, what words, what countenance, and what face they shew at their death; and in reading of histories, which i so attentively observe. it appeareth by the shuffling and hudling up[footnote: collecting] of my examples, i affect[footnote: like] no subject so particularly as this. were i a composer of books, i would keepe a register, commented of the divers deaths, which in teaching men to die, should after teach them to live. dicearcus made one of that title, but of another and lesse profitable end. some man will say to mee, the effect exceeds the thought so farre, that there is no fence so sure, or cunning so certaine, but a man shall either lose or forget if he come once to that point; let them say what they list: to premeditate on it, giveth no doubt a great advantage: and it is nothing, at the least, to goe so farre without dismay or alteration, or without an ague? there belongs more to it: nature her selfe lends her hand, and gives us courage. if it be a short and violent death, wee have no leisure to feare it; if otherwise, i perceive that according as i engage my selfe in sicknesse, i doe naturally fall into some disdaine and contempt of life. i finde that i have more adoe to digest this resolution, that i shall die when i am in health, than i have when i am troubled with a fever: forsomuch as i have no more such fast hold on the commodities of life, whereof i begin to lose the use and pleasure, and view death in the face with a lesse undanted looke, which makes me hope, that the further i goe from that, and the nearer i approach to this, so much more easily doe i enter in composition for their exchange. even as i have tried in many other occurrences, which caesar affirmed, that often some things seeme greater, being farre from us, than if they bee neere at hand: i have found that being in perfect health, i have much more beene frighted with sicknesse, than when i have felt it. the jollitie wherein i live, the pleasure and the strength make the other seeme so disproportionable from that, that by imagination i amplifie these commodities by one moitie, and apprehended them much more heavie and burthensome, than i feele them when i have them upon my shoulders. the same i hope will happen to me of death. consider we by the ordinary mutations, and daily declinations which we suffer, how nature deprives us of the sight of our losse and empairing; what hath an aged man left him of his youths vigor, and of his forepast life? heu senibus vita portio quanta manet [footnote: com. gal. . i. .] alas to men in yeares how small a part of life is left in all? caesar, to a tired and crazed [footnote: diseased] souldier of his guard, who in the open street came to him, to beg leave he might cause himselfe to be put to death; viewing his decrepit behaviour, answered pleasantly: "doest thou thinke to be alive then?" were man all at once to fall into it, i doe not thinke we should be able to beare such a change, but being faire and gently led on by her hand, in a slow, and as it were unperceived descent, by little and little, and step by step, she roules us into that miserable state, and day by day seekes to acquaint us with it. so that when youth failes in us, we feele, nay we perceive no shaking or transchange at all in our selves: which in essence and veritie is a harder death, than that of a languishing and irkesome life, or that of age. forsomuch as the leape from an ill being unto a not being, is not so dangerous or steepie; as it is from a delightfull and flourishing being unto a painfull and sorrowfull condition. a weake bending, and faint stopping bodie hath lesse strength to beare and under goe a heavie burden: so hath our soule. she must bee rouzed and raised against the violence and force of this adversarie. for as it is impossible she should take any rest whilest she feareth: whereof if she be assured (which is a thing exceeding humane [footnote: human] condition) she may boast that it is impossible unquietnesse, torment, and feare, much lesse the least displeasure should lodge in her. non vultus instantis tyranni mente quatit solida, neque auster, dux inquieti turbidus adria, nec fulminantis magna jovis manus. [footnote: hor. i. iii. od. iii.] no urging tyrants threatning face, where minde is found can it displace, no troublous wind the rough seas master, nor joves great hand, the thunder-caster. she is made mistris of her passions and concupiscence, lady of indulgence, of shame, of povertie, and of all for tunes injuries. let him that can, attaine to this advantage: herein consists the true and soveraigne liberty, that affords us meanes wherewith to jeast and make a scorne of force and injustice, and to deride imprisonment, gives [footnote: gyves, shackles] or fetters. --in manicis, et compedibus, savo te sub custode tenebo. ipse deus simui atque volam, me solvet: opinor hoc sentit, moriar. mors ultima linea rerum est. [footnote: hor. i. i. ep. xvi. .] in gyves and fetters i will hamper thee, under a jayler that shall cruell be: yet, when i will, god me deliver shall, he thinkes, i shall die: death is end of all. our religion hath had no surer humane foundation than the contempt of life. discourse of reason doth not only call and summon us unto it. for why should we feare to lose a thing, which being lost, cannot be moaned? but also, since we are threatened by so many kinds of death, there is no more inconvenience to feare them all, than to endure one: what matter is it when it commeth, since it is unavoidable? socrates answered one that told him, "the thirty tyrants have condemned thee to death." "and nature them," said he. what fondnesse is it to carke and care so much, at that instant and passage from all exemption of paine and care? as our birth brought us the birth of all things, so shall our death the end of all things. therefore is it as great follie to weepe, we shall not live a hundred yeeres hence, as to waile we lived not a hundred yeeres agoe. "death is the beginning of another life." so wept we, and so much did it cost us to enter into this life; and so did we spoile us of our ancient vaile in entring into it. nothing can be grievous that is but once. is it reason so long to fear a thing of so short time? long life or short life is made all one by death. for long or short is not in things that are no more. aristotle saith, there are certaine little beasts alongst the river hyspanis, that live but one day; she which dies at o'clocke in the morning, dies in her youth, and she that dies at in the afternoon, dies in her decrepitude, who of us doth not laugh, when we shall see this short moment of continuance to be had in consideration of good or ill fortune? the most and the least is ours, if we compare it with eternitie, or equall it to the lasting of mountains, rivers, stars, and trees, or any other living creature, is not lesse ridiculous. but nature compels us to it. depart (saith she) out of this world, even as you came into it. the same way you came from death to life, returne without passion or amazement, from life to death: your death is but a peece of the worlds order, and but a parcell of the worlds life. --inter se mortales mutua vivunt, et quasi cursores vitae lampada tradunt. [footnote: lucret. ii. . .] mortall men live by mutuall entercourse: and yeeld their life-torch, as men in a course. shal i not change this goodly contexture of things for you? it is the condition of your creation: death is a part of yourselves: you flie from yourselves. the being you enjoy is equally shared betweene life and death. the first day of your birth doth as wel addresse you to die, as to live. prima quae vitam dedit, hora, carpsit. [footnote: sen. her. sw. ckor. iii.] the first houre, that to men gave life, strait, cropt it then. nascentes morimur, finisque ab origine pendet: [footnote: manil. at. l. iv] as we are borne we die; the end doth of th' originall depend. all the time you live, you steale it from death: it is at her charge. the continuall worke of your life, is to contrive death: you are in death, during the time you continue in life: for, you are after death, when you are no longer living. or if you had rather have it so, you are dead after life: but during life, you are still dying: and death doth more rudely touch the dying than the dead, and more lively and essentially. if you have profited by life, you have also beene fed thereby, depart then satisfied. cur non ut plenus vitae conviva recedis? [footnote: lucret. . iii. .] why like a full-fed guest, depart you not to rest? if you have not knowne how to make use of it: if it were unprofitable to you, what need you care to have lost it to what end would you enjoy it longer? --cur amplius addere quaeris rursum quod pereat male, et ingratum occidat omne? [footnote: lucret. . iii. .] why seeke you more to gaine, what must againe all perish ill, and passe with griefe or paine? life in itselfe is neither good nor evill: it is the place of good or evill, according as you prepare it for them. and if you have lived one day, you have seene all: one day is equal to all other daies. there is no other light, there is no other night. this sunne, this moone, these starres, and this disposition, is the very same which your forefathers enjoyed, and which shall also entertaine your posteritie. non alium videre patres, aliumve nepotes aspicient. [footnote: manil. i. .] no other saw our sires of old, no other shall their sonnes behold. and if the worst happen, the distribution and varietie of all the acts of my comedie, is performed in one yeare. if you have observed the course of my foure seasons; they containe the infancie, the youth, the viriltie, and the old age of the world. he hath plaied his part: he knowes no other wilinesse belonging to it, but to begin againe, it will ever be the same, and no other. versamur ibidem, atque insumus usque, [footnote: lucret. . iii. .] we still in one place turne about, still there we are, now in, now out. atque in se sua per vestigia volvitur annus. [footnote: virg. georg. . ii. .] the yeare into it selfe is cast by those same steps, that it hath past. i am not purposed to devise you other new sports. nam tibi praterea quod machiner, inveniamque quod placeat nihil est; eadem suni omnia semper. [footnote: lucret. . ii. .] else nothing, that i can devise or frame, can please thee, for all things are still the same. make roome for others, as others have done for you. equalitie is the chiefe ground-worke of equitie, who can complaine to be comprehended where all are contained? so may you live long enough, you shall never diminish anything from the time you have to die: it is bootlesse; so long shall you continue in that state which you feare, as if you had died, being in your swathing-clothes, and when you were sucking. --licet, quot vis, vivendo vincere secla. mors sterna tamen, nihilominus ilia manebit. [footnote: ib. .] though yeares you live, as many as you will, death is eternall, death remaineth still. and i will so please you, that you shall have no discontent. in vera nescis nullum fore morte alium te, qui possit vivus tibi te lugere peremptum, stansque jacentem. [footnote: idt. . iii. .] thou know'st not there shall be not other thou, when thou art dead indeed, that can tell how alive to waile thee dying, standing to waile thee lying. nor shall you wish for life, which you so much desire nec sibi enim quisquam tum se vitamque requirit, [footnote: ib. .] nec desiderium nostri nos afficit ullum. [footnote: ib. .] for then none for himselfe or life requires: nor are we of our selves affected with desires. death is lesse to be feared than nothing, if there were anything lesse than nothing. --multo mortem minus ad nos esse putandum, si minus esse potest quam quod nihil esse videmus. [footnote: ib. .] death is much less to us, we ought esteeme, if lesse may be, than what doth nothing seeme. nor alive, nor dead, it doth concern you nothing. alive because you are: dead, because you are no more. moreover, no man dies before his houre. the time you leave behinde was no more yours than that which was before your birth, and concerneth you no more. respice enim quam nil ad nos anteacta vetustas temporis aeterni fuerit. [footnote: ib. .] for marke, how all antiquitie foregone of all time ere we were, to us was none. wheresoever your life ended, there is it all. the profit of life consists not in the space, but rather in the use. some man hath lived long, that hath a short life, follow it whilst you have time. it consists not in number of yeeres, but in your will, that you have lived long enough. did you thinke you should never come to the place, where you were still going? there is no way but hath an end. and if company may solace you, doth not the whole world walke the same path? --omnia te, vita perfuncta, sequentur. [footnote: ib. .] life past, all things at last shall follow thee as thou hast past. doe not all things move as you doe, or keepe your course? is there any thing grows not old together with yourselfe? a thousand men, a thousand beasts, and a thousand other creatures die in the very instant that you die. nam nox nulla diem, neque noctem aurora sequuta est, que non audierit mistus vagitibus aegris ploratus, mortis comites et funeris atri. [footnote: id. i. ii. .] no night ensued day light; no morning followed night, which heard not moaning mixt with sick-mens groaning, with deaths and funerals joyned was that moaning. to what end recoile you from it, if you cannot goe backe. you have seene many who have found good in death, ending thereby many many miseries. but have you seene any that hath received hurt thereby? therefore it is meere simplicitie to condemne a thing you never approve, neither by yourselfe nor any other. why doest thou complaine of me and of destinie? doe we offer thee any wrong? is it for thee to direct us, or for us to governe thee? although thy age be not come to her period, thy life is. a little man is a whole man as well as a great man. neither men nor their lives are measured by the ell. chiron refused immortalitie, being informed of the conditions thereof, even by the god of time and of continuance, saturne his father. imagine truly how much an ever-during life would be lesse tolerable and more painfull to a man, than is the life which i have given him. had you not death you would then uncessantly curse, and cry out against me, that i had deprived you of it. i have of purpose and unwittingly blended some bitternesse amongst it, that so seeing the commoditie of its use, i might hinder you from over- greedily embracing, or indiscreetly calling for it. to continue in this moderation that is, neither to fly from life nor to run to death (which i require of you) i have tempered both the one and other betweene sweetnes and sowrenes. i first taught thales, the chiefest of your sages and wisemen, that to live and die were indifferent, which made him answer one very wisely, who asked him wherefore he died not: "because," said he, "it is indifferent. the water, the earth, the aire, the fire, and other members of this my universe, are no more the instruments of thy life than of thy death. why fearest thou thy last day? he is no more guiltie, and conferreth no more to thy death, than any of the others. it is not the last step that causeth weariness: it only declares it. all daies march towards death, only the last comes to it." behold heere the good precepts of our universall mother nature. i have oftentimes bethought my self whence it proceedeth, that in times of warre, the visage of death (whether wee see it in us or in others) seemeth without all comparison much lesse dreadful and terrible unto us, than in our houses, or in our beds, otherwise it should be an armie of physitians and whiners, and she ever being one, there must needs bee much more assurance amongst countrie-people and of base condition, than in others. i verily believe, these fearefull lookes, and astonishing countenances wherewith we encompass it, are those that more amaze and terrifie us than death: a new forme of life; the out cries of mothers; the wailing of women and children; the visitation of dismaid and swouning friends; the assistance of a number of pale-looking, distracted, and whining servants; a darke chamber; tapers burning round about; our couch beset round with physitians and preachers; and to conclude, nothing but horror and astonishment on every side of us: are wee not already dead and buried? the very children are afraid of their friends, when they see them masked; and so are we. the maske must as well be taken from things as from men, which being removed, we shall find nothing hid under it, but the very same death, that a seely[footnote: weak, simple] varlet, or a simple maid-servant, did latterly suffer without amazement or feare. happie is that death which takes all leasure from the preparations of such an equipage. of the institution and education of children; to the ladie diana of foix, countesse of gurson i never knew father, how crooked and deformed soever his sonne were, that would either altogether cast him off, or not acknowledge him for his owne: and yet (unlesse he be meerely besotted or blinded in his affection) it may not be said, but he plainly perceiveth his defects, and hath a feeling of his imperfections. but so it is, he is his owne. so it is in my selfe. i see better than any man else, that what i have set downe is nought but the fond imaginations of him who in his youth hath tasted nothing but the paring, and seen but the superficies of true learning: whereof he hath retained but a generall and shapelesse forme: a smacke of every thing in generall, but nothing to the purpose in particular: after the french manner. to be short, i know there is an art of phisicke; a course of lawes; foure parts of the mathematikes; and i am not altogether ignorant what they tend unto. and perhaps i also know the scope and drift of sciences in generall to be for the service of our life. but to wade further, or that ever i tired my selfe with plodding upon aristotle (the monarch of our moderne doctrine ) or obstinately continued in search of any one science: i confesse i never did it. nor is there any one art whereof i am able so much as to draw the first lineaments. and there is no scholler (be he of the lowest forme) that may not repute himselfe wiser than i, who am not able to oppose him in his first lesson: and if i be forced to it, i am constrained verie impertinently to draw in matter from some generall discourse, whereby i examine, and give a guesse at his naturall judgement: a lesson as much unknowne to them as theirs is to me. i have not dealt or had commerce with any excellent booke, except plutarke or seneca, from whom (as the danaides) i draw my water, uncessantly filling, and as fast emptying: some thing whereof i fasten to this paper, but to my selfe nothing at all. and touching bookes: historie is my chiefe studie, poesie my only delight, to which i am particularly affected: for as cleanthes said, that as the voice being forciblie pent in the narrow gullet of a trumpet, at last issueth forth more strong and shriller, so me seemes, that a sentence cunningly and closely couched in measure keeping posie, darts it selfe forth more furiously, and wounds me even to the quicke. and concerning the naturall faculties that are in me (whereof behold here an essay), i perceive them to faint under their owne burthen; my conceits, [footnote: ideas.] and my judgement march but uncertaine, and as it were groping, staggering, and stumbling at every rush: and when i have gone as far as i can, i have no whit pleased my selfe: for the further i saile the more land i descrie, and that so dimmed with fogges, and overcast with clouds, that my sight is so weakned, i cannot distinguish the same. and then undertaking to speake indifferently of all that presents it selfe unto my fantasie, and having nothing but mine owne naturall meanes to imploy therein, if it be my hap (as commonly it is) among good authors, to light upon those verie places which i have undertaken to treat off, as even now i did in plutarke reading his discourse of the power of imagination, wherein in regard of those wise men, i acknowledge my selfe so weake and so poore, so dull and grose-headed, as i am forced both to pittie and disdaine my selfe, yet am i pleased with this, that my opinions have often the grace to jump with theirs, and that i follow them a loofe-off, [footnote: at a distance.] and thereby possesse at least, that which all other men have not; which is, that i know the utmost difference betweene them and my selfe: all which notwithstanding, i suffer my inventions to run abroad, as weake and faint as i have produced them, without bungling and botching the faults which this comparison hath discovered to me in them. a man had need have a strong backe, to undertake to march foot to foot with these kind of men. the indiscreet writers of our age, amidst their triviall [footnote: commonplace.] compositions, intermingle and wrest in whole sentences taken from ancient authors, supposing by such filching-theft to purchase honour and reputation to themselves, doe cleane contrarie. for, this infinite varietie and dissemblance of lustres, makes a face so wan, so il-favored, and so uglie, in respect of theirs, that they lose much more than gaine thereby. these were two contrarie humours: the philosopher chrisippus was wont to foist-in amongst his bookes, not only whole sentences and other long-long discourses, but whole bookes of other authors, as in one, he brought in euripides his medea. and apollodorus was wont to say of him, that if one should draw from out his bookes what he had stolne from others, his paper would remaine blanke. whereas epicurus cleane contrarie to him in three hundred volumes he left behind him, had not made use of one allegation. [footnote: citation.] it was my fortune not long since to light upon such a place: i had languishingly traced after some french words, so naked and shallow, and so void either of sense or matter, that at last i found them to be nought but meere french words; and after a tedious and wearisome travell, i chanced to stumble upon an high, rich, and even to the clouds-raised piece, the descent whereof had it been somewhat more pleasant or easie, or the ascent reaching a little further, it had been excusable, and to be borne with-all; but it was such a steepie downe-fall, and by meere strength hewen out of the maine rocke, that by reading of the first six words, me thought i was carried into another world: whereby i perceive the bottome whence i came to be so low and deep, as i durst never more adventure to go through it; for, if i did stuffe any one of my discourses with those rich spoiles, it would manifestly cause the sottishnesse [footnote: foolishness.] of others to appeare. to reprove mine owne faults in others, seemes to me no more unsufferable than to reprehend (as i doe often) those of others in my selfe. they ought to be accused every where, and have all places of sanctuarie taken from them: yet do i know how over boldly, at all times i adventure to equall my selfe unto my filchings, and to march hand in hand with them; not without a fond hardie hope, that i may perhaps be able to bleare the eyes of the judges from discerning them. but it is as much for the benefit of my application, as for the good of mine invention and force. and i doe not furiously front, and bodie to bodie wrestle with those old champions: it is but by flights, advantages, and false offers i seek to come within them, and if i can, to give them a fall. i do not rashly take them about the necke, i doe but touch them, nor doe i go so far as by my bargaine i would seeme to doe; could i but keepe even with them, i should then be an honest man; for i seeke not to venture on them, but where they are strongest. to doe as i have seen some, that is, to shroud themselves under other armes, not daring so much as to show their fingers ends unarmed, and to botch up all their works (as it is an easie matter in a common subject, namely for the wiser sort) with ancient inventions, here and there hudled up together. and in those who endeavoured to hide what they have filched from others, and make it their owne, it is first a manifest note of injustice, then a plaine argument of cowardlinesse; who having nothing of any worth in themselves to make show of, will yet under the countenance of others sufficiencie goe about to make a faire offer: moreover (oh great foolishnesse) to seek by such cosening [footnote: cheating.] tricks to forestall the ignorant approbation of the common sort, nothing fearing to discover their ignorance to men of understanding (whose praise only is of value) who will soone trace out such borrowed ware. as for me, there is nothing i will doe lesse. i never speake of others, but that i may the more speake of my selfe. this concerneth not those mingle-mangles of many kinds of stuffe, or as the grecians call them rapsodies, that for such are published, of which kind i have (since i came to yeares of discretion) seen divers most ingenious and wittie; amongst others, one under the name of capilupus; besides many of the ancient stampe. these are wits of such excellence, as both here and elsewhere they will soone be perceived, as our late famous writer lipsius, in his learned and laborious work of the politikes: yet whatsoever come of it, for so much as they are but follies, my intent is not to smother them, no more than a bald and hoarie picture of mine, where a painter hath drawne not a perfect visage, but mine owne. for, howsoever, these are but my humors and opinions, and i deliver them but to show what my conceit [footnote: notion] is, and not what ought to be beleeved. wherein i ayme at nothing but to display my selfe, who peradventure (if a new prentiship change me) shall be another to morrow. i have no authoritie to purchase beliefe, neither do i desire it; knowing well that i am not sufficiently taught to instruct others. some having read my precedent chapter [footnote: "of pedantism"], told me not long since in mine owne house, i should somewhat more have extended my selfe in the discourse concerning the institution of children. now (madam) if there were any sufficiencie in me touching that subject, i could not better employ the same than to bestow it as a present upon that little lad, which ere long threatneth to make a happie issue from out your honorable woombe; for (madame) you are too generous to begin with other than a man childe. and having had so great a part in the conduct of your successeful marriage, i may challenge some right and interest in the greatnesse and prosperitie of all that shall proceed from it: moreover, the ancient and rightfull possession, which you from time to time have ever had, and still have over my service, urgeth me with more than ordinarie respects, to wish all honour, well-fare and advantage to whatsoever may in any sort concerne you and yours. and truly, my meaning is but to show that the greatest difficultie, and importing all humane knowledge, seemeth to be in this point, where the nurture and institution of young children is in question. for, as in matters of husbandrie, the labor that must be used before sowing, setting, and planting, yea in planting itselfe, is most certaine and easie. but when that which was sowen, set and planted, commeth to take life; before it come to ripenesse, much adoe, and great varietie of proceeding belongeth to it. so in men, it is no great matter to get them, but being borne, what continuall cares, what diligent attendance, what doubts and feares, doe daily wait to their parents and tutors, before they can be nurtured and brought to any good? the fore-shew of their inclination whilest they are young is so uncertaine, their humours so variable, their promises so changing, their hopes so false, and their proceedings so doubtful, that it is very hard (yea for the wisest) to ground any certaine judgment, or assured successe upon them. behold cymon, view themistocles, and a thousand others, how they have differed, and fallen to better from themselves, and deceive the expectation of such as knowe them. the young whelps both of dogges and beares at first sight shew their naturall disposition, but men headlong embracing this custome or fashion, following that humor or opinion, admitting this or that passion, allowing of that or this law, are easily changed, and soone disguised; yet it is hard to force the naturall propension or readinesse of the mind, whereby it followeth, that for want of heedie fore-sight in those that could not guide their course well, they often employ much time in vaine, to addresse young children in those matters whereunto they are not naturally addicted. all which difficulties notwithstanding, mine opinion is, to bring them up in the best and profitablest studies, and that a man should slightly passe over those fond presages, and deceiving prognostikes, which we over precisely gather in their infancie. and (without offence be it said) me thinks that plato in his "commonwealth" allowed them too- too much authoritie. madame, learning joyned with true knowledge is an especiall and gracefull ornament, and an implement of wonderful use and consequence, namely, in persons raised to that degree of fortune wherein you are. and in good truth, learning hath not her owne true forme, nor can she make shew of her beauteous lineaments, if she fall into the hands of base and vile persons. [for, as famous torquato tasso saith: "philosophie being a rich and noble queene, and knowing her owne worth, graciously smileth upon and lovingly embraceth princes and noble men, if they become suiters to her, admitting them as her minions, and gently affoording them all the favours she can; whereas upon the contrarie, if she be wooed, and sued unto by clownes, mechanicall fellowes, and such base kind of people, she holds herselfe disparaged and disgraced, as holding no proportion with them. and therefore see we by experience, that if a true gentleman or nobleman follow her with any attention, and woo her with importunitie, he shall learne and know more of her, and prove a better scholler in one yeare, than an ungentle or base fellow shall in seven, though he pursue her never so attentively."] she is much more readie and fierce to lend her furtherance and direction in the conduct of a warre, to attempt honourable actions, to command a people, to treat a peace with a prince of forraine nation, than she is to forme an argument in logick, to devise a syllogisme, to canvase a case at the barre, or to prescribe a receit of pills. so (noble ladie) forsomuch as i cannot perswade myselfe, that you will either forget or neglect this point, concerning the institution of yours, especially having tasted the sweetnesse thereof, and being descended of so noble and learned a race. for we yet possesse the learned compositions of the ancient and noble earles of foix, from out whose heroicke loynes your husband and you take your of-spring. and francis lord of candale, your worthie uncle, doth daily bring forth such fruits thereof, as the knowledge of the matchlesse qualitie of your house shall hereafter extend itselfe to many ages; i will therefore make you acquainted with one conceit of mine, which contrarie to the common use i hold, and that is all i am able to affoord you concerning that matter. the charge of the tutor, which you shall appoint your sonne, in the choice of whom consisteth the whole substance of his education and bringing up; on which are many branches depending, which (forasmuch as i can adde nothing of any moment to it) i will not touch at all. and for that point, wherein i presume to advise him, he may so far forth give credit unto it, as he shall see just cause. to a gentleman borne of noble parentage, and heire of a house that aymeth at true learning, and in it would be disciplined, not so much for gane or commoditie to himselfe (because so abject an end is far unworthie the grace and favour of the muses, and besides, hath a regard or dependencie of others) nor for externall shew and ornament, but to adorne and enrich his inward minde, desiring rather to shape and institute an able and sufficient man, than a bare learned man; my desire is therefore, that the parents or overseers of such a gentleman be very circumspect, and careful in chusing his director, whom i would rather commend for having a well composed and temperate braine, than a full stuft head, yet both will doe well. and i would rather prefer wisdome, judgement, civill customes, and modest behaviour, than bare and meere literall learning; and that in his charge he hold a new course. some never cease brawling in their schollers eares (as if they were still pouring in a tonell) to follow their booke, yet is their charge nothing else but to repeat what hath beene told them before. i would have a tutor to correct this part, and that at first entrance, according to the capacitie of the wit he hath in hand, he should begin to make shew of it, making him to have a smacke of all things, and how to choose and distinguish them, without helpe of others, sometimes opening him the way, other times leaving him to open it by himselfe. i would not have him to invent and speake alone, but suffer his disciple to speake when his turne commeth. socrates, and after him arcesilaus, made their schollers to speake first, and then would speake themselves. obest plerumque iis qui discere volunt, auctoritas eorum qui docent: [footnote: cic. de nat. . i] "most commonly the authoritie of them that teach, hinders them that would learne." it is therefore meet that he make him first trot-on before him, whereby he may the better judge of his pace, and so guesse how long he will hold out, that accordingly he may fit his strength; for want of which proportion we often marre all. and to know how to make a good choice, and how far forth one may proceed (still keeping a due measure), is one of the hardest labours i know. it is a signe of a noble, and effect of an undanted spirit, to know how to second, and how far forth he shall condescend to his childish proceedings, and how to guide them. as for myselfe, i can better and with more strength walke up than downe a hill. those which, according to our common fashion, undertake with one selfe-same lesson, and like maner of education, to direct many spirits of divers formes and different humours, it is no marvell if among a multitude of children, they scarce meet with two or three that reap any good fruit by their discipline, or that come to any perfection. i would not only have him to demand an accompt of the words contained in his lesson, but of the sense and substance thereof, and judge of the profit he hath made of it, not by the testimonie of his memorie, but by the witnesse of his life. that what he lately learned, he cause him to set forth and pourtray the same into sundrie shapes, and then to accommodate it to as many different and severall subjects, whereby he shal perceive, whether he have yet apprehended the same, and therein enfeoffed himselfe, [footnote: taken possession.] at due times taking his instruction from the institution given by plato. it is a signe of cruditie and indigestion for a man to yeeld up his meat, even as he swallowed the same; the stomacke hath not wrought his full operation, unlesse it have changed forme, and altered fashion of that which was given him to boyle and concoct. [wee see men gape after no reputation but learning, and when they say, such a one is a learned man, they thinke they have said enough;] our minde doth move at others pleasure, and tyed and forced to serve the fantasies of others, being brought under by authoritie, and forced to stoope to the lure of their bare lesson; wee have beene so subjected to harpe upon one string, that we have no way left us to descant upon voluntarie; our vigor and libertie is cleane extinct. nunquam tutelae suae fiunt: "they never come to their owne tuition." it was my hap to bee familiarlie acquainted with an honest man at pisa, but such an aristotelian, as he held this infallible position; that a conformitie to aristotles doctrine was the true touchstone and squire [footnote: square.] of all solid imaginations and perfect veritie; for, whatsoever had no coherencie with it, was but fond chimeraes and idle humors; inasmuch as he had knowne all, seene all, and said all. this proposition of his being somewhat over amply and injuriously interpreted by some, made him a long time after to be troubled in the inquisition of rome. i would have him make his scholler narrowly to sift all things with discretion, and harbour nothing in his head by mere authoritie, or upon trust. aristotles principles shall be no more axiomes unto him, than the stoikes or epicurians. let this diversitie of judgements be proposed unto him, if he can, he shall be able to distinguish the truth from falsehood, if not, he will remaine doubtful. che non men che saper dubbiar m'aggrata. [footnote: dante, inferno, cant. xi. .] no lesse it pleaseth me, to doubt, than wise to be. for if by his owne discourse he embrace the opinions of xenophon or of plato, they shall be no longer theirs, but his. he that meerely followeth another, traceth nothing, and seeketh nothing: non sumus sub rege, sibi quisque se vindicet: [footnote: sen. epist. xxxiii.] "we are not under a kings command, every one may challenge himselfe, for let him at least know that he knoweth." it is requisite he endevour as much to feed himselfe with their conceits, as labour to learne their precepts; which, so he know how to applie, let him hardily forget, where or whence he had them. truth and reason are common to all, and are no more proper unto him that spake them heretofore, then unto him that shall speake them hereafter. and it is no more according to platoes opinion than to mine, since both he and i understand and see alike. the bees do here and there sucke this and cull that flower, but afterward they produce the hony, which is peculiarly their owne, then is it no more thyme or majoram. so of peeces borrowed of others, he may lawfully alter, transforme, and confound them, to shape out of them a perfect peece of worke, altogether his owne; alwaies provided his judgement, his travell, [footnote: travail, labor.] studie, and institution tend to nothing, but to frame the same perfect. let him hardily conceale where or whence he hath had any helpe, and make no shew of anything, but of that which he hath made himselfe. pirates, pilchers, and borrowers, make a shew of their purchases and buildings, but not of that which they have taken from others: you see not the secret fees or bribes lawyers take of their clients, but you shall manifestly discover the alliances they make, the honours they get for their children, and the goodly houses they build. no man makes open shew of his receits, but every one of his gettings. the good that comes of studie (or at least should come) is to prove better, wiser and honester. it is the understanding power (said epicharmus) that seeth and heareth, it is it that profiteth all and disposeth all, that moveth, swayeth, and ruleth all: all things else are but blind, senselesse, and without spirit. and truly in barring him of libertie to doe any thing of himselfe, we make him thereby more servile and more coward. who would ever enquire of his scholler what he thinketh of rhetorike, of grammar, of this or of that sentence of cicero? which things thoroughly fethered (as if they were oracles) are let flie into our memorie; in which both letters and syllables are substantiall parts of the subject. to know by roat is no perfect knowledge, but to keep what one hath committed to his memories charge, is commendable: what a man directly knoweth, that will he dispose of, without turning still to his booke or looking to his pattern. a meere bookish sufficiencie is unpleasant. all i expect of it is an imbellishing of my actions, and not a foundation of them, according to platoes mind, who saith, constancie, faith, and sinceritie are true philosophie; as for other sciences, and tending elsewhere, they are but garish paintings. i would faine have paluel or pompey, those two excellent dauncers of our time, with all their nimblenesse, teach any man to doe their loftie tricks and high capers, only with seeing them done, and without stirring out of his place, as some pedanticall fellowes would instruct our minds without moving or putting it in practice. and glad would i be to find one that would teach us how to manage a horse, to tosse a pike, to shoot-off a peece, to play upon the lute, or to warble with the voice, without any exercise, as these kind of men would teach us to judge, and how to speake well, without any exercise of speaking or judging. in which kind of life, or as i may terme it, prentiship, what action or object soever presents itselfe into our eies, may serve us in stead of a sufficient booke. a prettie pranke of a boy, a knavish tricke of a page, a foolish part of a lackey, an idle tale or any discourse else, spoken either in jest or earnest, at the table or in companie, are even as new subjects for us to worke upon: for furtherance whereof, commerce or common societie among men, visiting of forraine countries, and observing of strange fashions, are verie necessary, not only to be able (after the manner of our yong gallants of france) to report how many paces the church of santa rotonda is in length or breadth, or what rich garments the curtezan signora livia weareth, and the worth of her hosen; or as some do, nicely to dispute how much longer or broader the face of nero is, which they have seene in some old ruines of italie, than that which is made for him in other old monuments else-where. but they should principally observe, and be able to make certaine relation of the humours and fashions of those countries they have seene, that they may the better know how to correct and prepare their wits by those of others. i would therefore have him begin even from his infancie to travell abroad; and first, that at one shoot he may hit two markes he should see neighbour- countries, namely where languages are most different from ours; for, unlesse a mans tongue be fashioned unto them in his youth, he shall never attaine to the true pronunciation of them if he once grow in yeares. moreover, we see it received as a common opinion of the wiser sort, that it agreeth not with reason, that a childe be alwaies nuzzled, cockered, dandled, and brought up in his parents lap or sight; forsomuch as their naturall kindnesse, or (as i may call it) tender fondnesse, causeth often, even the wisest to prove so idle, so over-nice, and so base-minded. for parents are not capable, neither can they find in their hearts to see them checkt, corrected, or chastised, nor indure to see them brought up so meanly, and so far from daintinesse, and many times so dangerously, as they must needs be. and it would grieve them to see their children come home from those exercises, that a gentleman must necessarily acquaint himselfe with, sometimes all wet and bemyred, other times sweatie and full of dust, and to drinke being either extreme hot or exceeding cold; and it would trouble them to see him ride a rough-untamed horse, or with his weapon furiously incounter a skilful fencer, or to handle or shoot-off a musket; against which there is no remedy, if he will make him prove a sufficient, compleat, or honest man: he must not be spared in his youth; and it will come to passe, that he shall many times have occasion and be forced to shocke the rules of physicke. vitamque sub dio et trepidis agat in rebus. [footnote: hor. i. i. od. ii. .] leade he his life in open aire, and in affaires full of despaire. it is not sufficient to make his minde strong, his muskles must also be strengthened: the mind is over-borne if it be not seconded: and it is too much for her alone to discharge two offices. i have a feeling how mine panteth, being joyned to so tender and sensible [footnote: sensitive.] a bodie, and that lieth so heavie upon it and in my lecture, i often perceive how my authors in their writings sometimes commend examples for magnanimitie and force, that rather proceed from a thicke skin and hardnes of the bones. i have knowne men, women and children borne of so hard a constitution, that a blow with a cudgell would lesse hurt them, than a filip would doe me, and so dull and blockish, that they will neither stir tongue nor eyebrowes, beat them never so much. when wrestlers goe about to counterfeit the philosophers patience, they rather shew the vigor of their sinnewes than of their heart. for the custome to beare travell, is to tolerate griefe: labor callum obducit dolori. [footnote: cic. tusc. qu. i. ii.] "labour worketh a hardnesse upon sorrow." hee must be enured to suffer the paine and hardnesse of exercises, that so he may be induced to endure the paine of the colicke, of cauterie, of fals, of sprains, and other diseases incident to mans bodie: yea, if need require, patiently to beare imprisonment and other tortures, by which sufferance he shall come to be had in more esteeme and accompt: for according to time and place, the good as well as the bad man may haply fall into them; we have seen it by experience. whosoever striveth against the lawes, threats good men with mischiefe and extortion. moreover, the authoritie of the tutor (who should be soveraigne over him) is by the cockering and presence of the parents, hindred and interrupted: besides the awe and respect which the houshold beares him, and the knowledge of the meane, possibilities, and greatnesse of his house, are in my judgement no small lets [footnote: hindrances.]in a young gentleman. in this schoole of commerce, and societie among men, i have often noted this vice, that in lieu of taking acquaintance of others, we only endevour to make our selves knowne to them: and we are more ready to utter such merchandize as we have, than to ingrosse and purchase new commodities. silence and modestie are qualities very convenient to civil conversation. it is also necessary that a young man be rather taught to be discreetly-sparing and close-handed, than prodigally-wastfull and lavish in his expences, and moderate in husbanding his wealth when he shall come to possesse it. and not to take pepper in the nose for every foolish tale that shall be spoken in his presence, because it is an uncivil importunity to contradict whatsoever is not agreeing to our humour: let him be pleased to correct himselfe. and let him not seeme to blame that in others which he refuseth to doe himselfe, nor goe about to withstand common fashions, licet sapere sine pompa, sine invidia: [footnote: sen. epist. ciii. f.] "a man may bee wise without ostentation, without envie." let him avoid those imperious images of the world, those uncivil behaviours and childish ambition wherewith, god wot, too-too many are possest: that is, to make a faire shew of that which is not in him: endevouring to be reputed other than indeed he is; and as if reprehension and new devices were hard to come by, he would by that meane acquire into himselfe the name of some peculiar vertue. as it pertaineth but to great poets to use the libertie of arts; so is it tolerable but in noble minds and great spirits to have a preheminence above ordinarie fashions. si quid socrates et aristippus contra morem et consuetudinem fecerunt, idem sibi ne arbitretur licere: magis enim illi et divinis bonis hanc licentiam assequebantur: [footnote: cic. off. . i.] "if socrates and aristippus have done ought against custome or good manner, let not a man thinke he may doe the same: for they obtained this licence by their great and excellent good parts:" he shall be taught not to enter rashly into discourse or contesting, but when he shall encounter with a champion worthie his strength; and then would i not have him imploy all the tricks that may fit his turne, but only such as may stand him in most stead. that he be taught to be curious in making choice of his reasons, loving pertinency, and by consequence brevitie. that above all, he be instructed to yeeld, yea to quit his weapons unto truth, as soone as he shall discerne the same, whether it proceed from his adversarie, or upon better advice from himselfe; for he shall not be preferred to any place of eminencie above others, for repeating of a prescript [footnote: fixed beforehand.] part; and he is not engaged to defend any cause, further than he may approove it; nor shall he bee of that trade where the libertie for a man to repent and re-advise himselfe is sold for readie money, neque, ut omnia, que praescripta et imperata sint, defendat, necessitate ulla cogitur: [footnote: cic. acad. qu. i. iv.] "nor is he inforced by any necessitie to defend and make good all that is prescribed and commanded him." if his tutor agree with my humour, he shall frame his affection to be a most loyall and true subject to his prince, and a most affectionate and couragious gentleman in al that may concerne the honor of his soveraigne or the good of his countrie, and endevour to suppresse in him all manner of affection to undertake any action otherwise than for a publike good and dutie. besides many inconveniences, which greatly prejudice our libertie by reason of these particular bonds, the judgment of a man that is waged and bought, either it is lesse free and honest, or else it is blemisht with oversight and ingratitude. a meere and precise courtier can neither have law nor will to speake or thinke otherwise than favourablie of his master, who among so many thousands of his subjects hath made choice of him alone, to institute and bring him up with his owne hand. these favours, with the commodities that follow minion [footnote: favorite.] courtiers, corrupt (not without some colour of reason) his libertie, and dazle his judgement. it is therefore commonly scene that the courtiers- language differs from other mens, in the same state, and to be of no great credit in such matters. let therefore his conscience and vertue shine in his speech, and reason be his chiefe direction, let him be taught to confesse such faults as he shall discover in his owne discourses, albeit none other perceive them but himselfe; for it is an evident shew of judgement, and effect of sinceritie, which are the chiefest qualities he aymeth at. that wilfully to strive, and obstinately to contest in words, are common qualities, most apparent in basest mindes: that to readvise and correct himselfe, and when one is most earnest, to leave an ill opinion, are rare, noble, and philosophicall conditions. being in companie, he shall be put in minde, to cast his eyes round about, and every where: for i note, that the chiefe places are usually seezed upon by the most unworthie and lesse capable; and that height of fortune is seldome joyned with sufficiencie. i have scene that whilst they at the upper end of a board were busie entertaining themselves with talking of the beautie of the hangings about a chamber, or of the taste of some good cup of wine, many good discourses at the lower end have utterly been lost. he shall weigh the carriage of every man in his calling, a heardsman, a mason, a stranger, or a traveller; all must be imployed; every one according to his worth; for all helps to make up houshold; yea, the follie and the simplicitie of others shall be as instructions to him. by controlling the graces and manners of others, he shall acquire unto himselfe envie of the good and contempt of the bad. let him hardly be possest with an honest curiositie to search out the nature and causes of all things: let him survay whatsoever is rare and singular about him; a building, a fountaine, a man, a place where any battell hath been fought, or the passages of caesar or charlemaine. quae tellus sit lenta gelu, qua putris ab aestu, ventus in italiam quis bene vela ferat. [footnote: prop. . iv. el. iii. .] what land is parcht with heat, what clog'd with frost. what wind drives kindly to th' italian coast. he shall endevour to be familiarly acquainted with the customes, with the meanes, with the state, with the dependances and alliances of all princes; they are things soone and pleasant to be learned, and most profitable to be knowne. in this acquaintance of men, my intending is, that hee chiefely comprehend them, that live but by the memorie of bookes. he shall, by the help of histories, in forme himselfe of the worthiest minds that were in the best ages. it is a frivolous studie, if a man list, but of unvaluable worth to such as can make use of it, and as plato saith, the only studie the lacedemonians reserved for themselves. what profit shall he not reap, touching this point, reading the lives of our plutark? alwayes conditioned, the master bethinke himselfe whereto his charge tendeth, and that he imprint not so much in his schollers mind the date of the ruine of carthage, as the manners of hanniball and scipio, nor so much where marcellus died, as because he was unworthy of his devoire [footnote: task.] he died there: that he teach him not so much to know histories as to judge of them. it is amongst things that best agree with my humour, the subject to which our spirits doe most diversly applie themselves. i have read in titus livius a number of things, which peradventure others never read, in whom plutarke haply read a hundred more than ever i could read, and which perhaps the author himselfe did never intend to set downe. to some kind of men it is a meere gramaticali studie, but to others a perfect anatomie [footnote: dissection, analytical exposition.] of philosophie; by meanes whereof the secretest part of our nature is searched into. there are in plutarke many ample discourses most worthy to be knowne: for in my judgement, he is the chiefe work- master of such works, whereof there are a thousand, whereat he hath but slightly glanced; for with his finger he doth but point us out a way to walke in, if we list; and is sometimes pleased to give but a touch at the quickest and maine point of a discourse, from whence they are by diligent studie to be drawne, and so brought into open market. as that saying of his, that the inhabitants of asia served but one alone, because they could not pronounce one onely syllable, which is non, gave perhaps both subject and occasion to my friend boetie to compose his booke of voluntarie servitude. if it were no more but to see plutarke wrest a slight action to mans life, or a word that seemeth to beare no such sence, it will serve for a whole discourse. it is pittie men of understanding should so much love brevitie; without doubt their reputation is thereby better, but we the worse. plutarke had rather we should commend him for his judgement than for his knowledge, he loveth better to leave a kind of longing-desire in us of him, than a satietie. he knew verie well that even in good things too much may be said: and that alexandridas did justly reprove him who spake verie good sentences to the ephores, but they were over tedious. oh stranger, quoth he, thou speakest what thou oughtest, otherwise then [footnote: than.] thou shouldest. those that have leane and thin bodies stuffe them up with bumbasting. [footnote: padding.] and such as have but poore matter, will puffe it up with loftie words. there is a marvelous cleerenesse, or as i may terme it an enlightning of mans judgement drawne from the commerce of men, and by frequenting abroad in the world; we are all so contrived and compact in our selves, that our sight is made shorter by the length of our nose. when socrates was demaunded whence he was, he answered, not of athens, but of the world; for he, who had his imagination more full and farther stretching, embraced all the world for his native citie, and extended his acquaintance, his societie, and affections to all man- kind: and not as we do, that looke no further than our feet. if the frost chance to nip the vines about my village, my priest doth presently argue that the wrath of god hangs over our head, and threatneth all mankind: and judgeth that the pippe [footnote: a disease.] is alreadie falne upon the canibals. in viewing these intestine and civill broiles of ours, who doth not exclaime, that this worlds vast frame is neere unto a dissolution, and that the day of judgement is readie to fall on us? never remembering that many worse revolutions have been seene, and that whilest we are plunged in griefe, and overwhelmed in sorrow, a thousand other parts of the world besides are blessed with happinesse, and wallow in pleasures, and never thinke on us? whereas, when i behold our lives, our licence, and impunitie, i wonder to see them so milde and easie. he on whose head it haileth, thinks all the hemispheare besides to be in a storme and tempest. and as that dull-pated savoyard said, that if the seelie [footnote : simple.] king of france could cunningly have managed his fortune, he might verie well have made himselfe chiefe steward of his lords household, whose imagination conceived no other greatnesse than his masters; we are all insensible of this kind of errour: an errour of great consequence and prejudice. but whosoever shall present unto his inward eyes, as it were in a table, the idea of the great image of our universall mother nature, attired in her richest robes, sitting in the throne of her majestic, and in her visage shall read so generall and so constant a varietie; he that therein shall view himselfe, not himselfe alone, but a whole kingdome, to be in respect of a great circle but the smallest point that can be imagined, he onely can value things according to their essentiall greatnesse and proportion. this great universe (which some multiplie as species under one genus) is the true looking-glasse wherein we must looke, if we will know whether we be of a good stamp or in the right byase. to conclude, i would have this worlds-frame to be my schollers choise-booke. [footnote: book of examples] so many strange humours, sundrie sects, varying judgements, diverse opinions, different lawes, and fantasticall customes teach us to judge rightly of ours, and instruct our judgement to acknowledge his imperfections and naturall weaknesse, which is no easie an apprentiship: so many innovations of estates, so many fals of princes, and changes of publike fortune, may and ought to teach us, not to make so great accompt of ours: so many names, so many victories, and so many conquests buried in darke oblivion, makes the hope to perpetuate our names but ridiculous, by the surprising of ten argo-lettiers, [footnote: mounted bowmen.] or of a small cottage, which is knowne but by his fall. the pride and fiercenesse of so many strange and gorgeous shewes: the pride-puft majestie of so many courts, and of their greatnesse, ought to confirme and assure our sight, undauntedly to beare the affronts and thunder-claps of ours, without feeling our eyes: so many thousands of men, lowlaide in their graves afore us, may encourage us not to feare, or be dismaied to go meet so good companie in the other world, and so of all things else. our life (said pithagoras) drawes neare unto the great and populous assemblies of the olympike games, wherein some, to get the glorie and to win the goale of the games, exercise their bodies with all industrie; others, for greedinesse of gaine, bring thither marchandise to sell: others there are (and those be not the worst) that seek after no other good, but to marke how wherefore, and to what end, all things are done: and to be spectators or observers of other mens lives and actions, that so they may the better judge and direct their owne. unto examples may all the most profitable discourses of philosophic be sorted, which ought to be the touch- stone of human actions, and a rule to square them by, to whom may be said, ---quid fas optare, quid asper vtile nummus habet, patriae charisque propinquis quantum elargiri deceat, quem te deus esse lussit, et humana qua parte locaius es in re. [footnote: pers. sat. iii. .] quid sumus, aut quidnam victuri gignimur. [footnote: ib. .] what thou maiest wish, what profit may come cleare, from new-stampt coyne, to friends and countrie deare what thou ought'st give: whom god would have thee bee, and in what part mongst men he placed thee. what we are, and wherefore, to live heer we were bore. what it is to know, and not to know (which ought to be the scope of studie), what valour, what temperance, and what justice is: what difference there is betweene ambition and avarice, bondage and freedome, subjection and libertie, by which markes a man may distinguish true and perfect contentment, and how far-forth one ought to feare or apprehend death, griefe, or shame. et quo quemque modo fugiatque. feratque laborem. [footnote: virg. aen. . iii. .] how ev'ry labour he may plie, and beare, or ev'ry labour flie. what wards or springs move us, and the causes of so many motions in us: for me seemeth, that the first discourses, wherewith his conceit should be sprinkled, ought to be those that rule his manners and direct his sense; which will both teach him to know himselfe, and how to live and how to die well. among the liberall sciences, let us begin with that which makes us free: indeed, they may all, in some sort stead us, as an instruction to our life, and use of it, as all other things else serve the same to some purpose or other. but let us make especiall choice of that which may directly and pertinently serve the same. if we could restraine and adapt the appurtenances of our life to their right byase and naturall limits, we should find the best part of the sciences that now are in use, cleane out of fashion with us: yea, and in those that are most in use, there are certaine by-wayes and deep-flows most profitable, which we should do well to leave, and according to the institution of socrates, limit the course of our studies in those where profit is wanting. ----sapere aude, incipe: vivendi qui recte prorogat horam, rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis, at ille labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis avum. [footnote: hor. i. i. epist. ii. .] be bold to be wise: to begin, be strong, he that to live well doth the time prolong, clowne-like expects, till downe the streame be run, that runs, and will run, till the world be done. it is mere simplicitie to teach our children, quid moveant pisces, animosaque signa leonis, lotus et hesperia quid capricornus aqua. [footnote: prop. i. el. i. .] what pisces move, or hot breath'd leos beames, or capricornus bath'd in western streames, the knowledge of the starres, and the motion of the eighth spheare, before their owne; [greek text quote omited] [footnote: anacr. od. xvii. , .] what longs it to the seaven stars, and me, or those about bootes be. anaximenes writing to pythagoras, saith, "with what sense can i amuse my selfe in the secrets of the starres, having continually death or bondage before mine eyes?" for at that time the kings of persia were making preparations to war against his countrie. all men ought to say so: being beaten with ambition, with avarice, with rashnesse, and with superstition, and having such other enemies unto life within him. wherefore shall i study and take care about the mobility and variation of the world? when hee is once taught what is fit to make him better and wiser, he shall be entertained with logicke, naturall philosophy, geometry, and rhetoricke, then having setled his judgement, looke what science he doth most addict himselfe unto, he shall in short time attaine to the perfection of it. his lecture shall be somtimes by way of talke and sometimes by booke: his tutor may now and then supply him with the same author, as an end and motive of his institution: sometimes giving him the pith and substance of it ready chewed. and if of himselfe he be not so throughly acquainted with bookes, that hee may readily find so many notable discourses as are in them to effect his purpose, it shall not be amisse that some learned man bee appointed to keepe him, company, who at any time of need may furnish him with such munition as hee shall stand in need of; that hee may afterward distribute and dispense them to his best use. and that this kind of lesson be more easie and naturall than that of gaza, who will make question? those are but harsh, thornie, and unpleasant precepts; vaine, idle and immaterial words, on which small hold may be taken; wherein is nothing to quicken the minde. in this the spirit findeth substance to bide and feed upon. a fruit without all comparison much better, and that will soone be ripe. it is a thing worthy consideration, to see what state things are brought unto in this our age; and how philosophie, even to the wisest, and men of best understanding, is but an idle, vaine and fantasticall name, of small use and lesse worth, both in opinion and effect. i thinke these sophistries are the cause of it, which have forestalled the wayes to come unto it: they doe very ill that goe about to make it seeme as it were inaccessible for children to come unto, setting it foorth with a wrimpled [footnote: wrinkled.] gastlie, and frowning visage; who hath masked her with so counterfet, pale, and hideous a countenance? there is nothing more beauteous, nothing more delightful, nothing more gamesome; and as i may say, nothing more fondly wanton: for she presenteth nothing to our eyes, and preacheth nothing to our eares, but sport and pastime. a sad and lowring looke plainly declareth that that is not her haunt. demetrius the gramarian, finding a companie of philosophers sitting close together in the temple of delphos, said unto them, "either i am deceived, or by your plausible and pleasant lookes, you are not in any serious and earnest discourse amongst your selves;" to whom one of them, named heracleon the megarian, answered, "that belongeth to them, who busie themselves in seeking whether the future tense of the verbe ___, hath a double, or that labour to find the derivation of the comparatives, [omitted] and of the superlatives [omitted], it is they that must chafe in intertaining themselves with their science: as for discourses of philosophie they are wont to glad, rejoyce, and not to vex and molest those that use them." deprendas animi tormenta latentis in agro corpore, deprendas et gaudia; sumit utrumque inde habitum facies. [footnote: juven, sat. ix, ] you may perceive the torments of the mind, hid in sicke bodie, you the joyes may find; the face such habit takes in either kind. that mind which harboureth philosophie, ought by reason of her sound health, make that bodie also sound and healthie: it ought to make her contentment to through-shine in all exteriour parts: it ought to shapen and modell all outward demeanours to the modell of it: and by consequence arme him that doth possesse it, with a gracious stoutnesse and lively audacite, with an active and pleasing gesture, and with a setled and cheerefull countenance. the most evident token and apparant signe of true wisdome is a constant and unconstrained rejoycing, whose estate is like unto all things above the moone, that is ever cleare, alwaies bright. it is baroco [footnote: mnemonic words invented by the scholastic logicians] and baralipton [footnote: mnemonic words invented by the scholastic logicians], that makes their followers prove so base and idle, and not philosophie; they know her not but by heare-say; what? is it not shee that cleereth all stormes of the mind? and teacheth miserie, famine, and sicknesse to laugh? not by reason of some imaginarie epicicles [footnote: a term of the old astronomy.], but by naturall and palpable reasons. shee aymeth at nothing but vertue; it is vertue shee seekes after; which as the schoole saith, is not pitcht on the top of an high, steepie, or inaccessible hill; for they that have come unto her, affirme that cleane-contrarie shee keeps her stand, and holds her mansion in a faire, flourishing, and pleasant plaine, whence as from an high watch tower, she survaieth all things, to be subject unto her, to whom any man may with great facilitie come, if he but know the way or entrance to her palace: for, the pathes that lead unto her are certaine fresh and shadie greene allies, sweet and flowrie waies, whose ascent is even, easie, and nothing wearisome, like unto that of heavens vaults. forsomuch as they have not frequented this vertue, who gloriously, as in a throne of majestie sits soveraigne, goodly, triumphant, lovely, equally delicious, and couragious, protesting her selfe to be a professed and irreconcileable enemie to all sharpnesse, austeritie, feare, and compulsion; having nature for her guide, fortune and voluptuousnesse for her companions; they according to their weaknesse have imaginarily fained her, to have a foolish, sad, grim, quarelous, spitefull, threatning, and disdainfull visage, with an horride and unpleasant looke; and have placed her upon a craggie, sharpe, and unfrequented rocke, amidst desert cliffes and uncouth crags, as a scar-crow, or bugbeare, to affright the common people with. now the tutour, which ought to know that he should rather seek to fill the mind and store the will of his disciple, as much, or rather more, with love and affection, than with awe, and reverence unto vertue, may shew and tell him, that poets follow common humours, making him plainly to perceive, and as it were palpably to feele, that the gods have rather placed labour and sweat at the entrances which lead to venus chambers, than at the doores that direct to pallas cabinets. and when he shall perceive his scholler to have a sensible feeling of himselfe, presenting bradamant [footnote: a warlike heroine in boiardo's "orlando innamorato" and ariosto's "orlando furioso."] or angelica [footnote: the faithless princess, on account of whom orlando goes mad, in the same poems.] before him, as a mistresse to enjoy, embelished with a naturall, active, generous, and unspotted beautie not uglie or giant-like, but blithe and livelie, in respect of a wanton, soft, affected, and artificiall-flaring beautie; the one attired like unto a young man, coyfed with a bright-shining helmet, the other disguised and drest about the head like unto an impudent harlot, with embroyderies, frizelings, and carcanets of pearles: he will no doubt deeme his owne love to be a man and no woman, if in his choice he differ from that effeminate shepheard of phrygia. in this new kind of lesson he shall declare unto him, that the prize, the glorie, and height of true vertue, consisted in the facilitie, profit, and pleasure of his exercises: so far from difficultie and incumbrances, that children as well as men, the simple as soone as the wise, may come unto her. discretion and temperance, not force or way-wardnesse are the instruments to bring him unto her. socrates (vertues chiefe favorite) that he might the better walke in the pleasant, naturall, and open path of her progresses, doth voluntarily and in good, earnest, quit all compulsion. shee is the nurse and foster-mother of all humane [footnote: human.] pleasures, who in making them just and upright, she also makes them sure and sincere. by moderating them, she keepeth them in ure [footnote: practice.] and breath. in limiting and cutting them off, whom she refuseth; she whets us on toward those she leaveth unto us; and plenteously leaves us them, which nature pleaseth, and like a kind mother giveth us over unto satietie, if not unto wearisomnesse, unlesse we will peradventure say that the rule and bridle, which stayeth the drunkard before drunkennesse, the glutton before surfetting, and the letcher before the losing of his haire, be the enemies of our pleasures. if common fortune faile her, it cleerely scapes her; or she cares not for her, or she frames another unto herselfe, altogether her owne, not so fleeting nor so rowling. she knoweth the way how to be rich, mightie and wise, and how to lie in sweet-perfumed beds. she loveth life; she delights in beautie, in glorie, and in health. but her proper and particular office is, first to know how to use such goods temperately, and how to lose them constantly. an office much more noble than severe, without which all course of life is unnaturall, turbulent, and deformed, to which one may lawfully joyne those rocks, those incumbrances, and those hideous monsters. if so it happen, that his disciple prove of so different a condition, that he rather love to give eare to an idle fable than to the report of some noble voiage, or other notable and wise discourse, when he shall heare it; that at the sound of a drum or clang of a trumpet, which are wont to rowse and arme the youthly heat of his companions, turneth to another that calleth him to see a play, tumbling, jugling tricks, or other idle lose-time sports; and who for pleasures sake doth not deeme it more delightsome to returne all sweatie and wearie from a victorious combat, from wrestling, or riding of a horse, than from a tennis-court or dancing schoole, with the prize or honour of such exercises; the best remedy i know for such a one is, to put him prentice to some base occupation, in some good towne or other, yea, were he the sonne of a duke; according to platoes rule, who saith "that children must be placed, not according to their fathers conditions, but the faculties of their mind." since it is philosophie that teacheth us to live, and that infancie as well as other ages, may plainly read her lessons in the same, why should it not be imparted unto young schollers? vdum et molle lutum est, nunc nunc properandus, et acri fingendus sine fine rota. [footnote: pes. sat. iii. .] he's moist and soft mould, and must by and by be cast, made up, while wheele whirls readily. we are taught to live when our life is well-nigh spent. many schollers have been infected with that loathsome and marrow-wasting disease before ever they came to read aristotles treatise of temperance. cicero was wont to say, "that could he out-live the lives of two men, he should never find leasure to study the lyrike poets." and i find these sophisters both worse and more unprofitable. our childe is engaged in greater matters; and but the first fifteene or sixteene yeares of his life are due unto pedantisme, the rest unto action: let us therefore imploy so short time as we have to live in more necessarie instructions. it is an abuse; remove these thornie quiddities of logike, whereby our life can no whit be amended, and betake our selves to the simple discourses of philosophy; know how to chuse and fitly to make use of them: they are much more easie to be conceived than one of bocace his tales. a childe comming from nurse is more capable of them, than he is to learne to read or write. philosophy hath discourses, whereof infancie as well as decaying old-age may make good use. i am of plutarkes mind, which is, that aristotle did not so much ammuse his great disciple about the arts how to frame syllogismes, or the principles of geometric, as he endevoured to instruct him with good precepts concerning valour, prowesse, magnanimitie, and temperance, and an undanted assurance not to feare any thing; and with such munition he sent him, being yet verie young, to subdue the empire of the world, only with footmen, horsemen, and crownes in monie. as for other arts and sciences; he saith alexander honoured them, and commended their excellencie and comlinesse; but for any pleasure he tooke in them, his affection could not easily be drawne to exercise them. --petite hinc juvenesque senesque finem animo certum, miserisque viatica canis. [footnote: sat. v. ] young men and old, draw hence (in your affaires) your minds set marke, provision for gray haires. it is that which epicurus said in the beginning of his letter to memiceus: "neither let the youngest shun nor the oldest wearie himselfe in philosophying, for who doth otherwise seemeth to say, that either the season to live happily is not yet come, or is already past." yet would i not have this young gentleman pent-up, nor carelesly cast-off to the heedlesse choler, or melancholy humour of the hasty schoole-master. i would not have his budding spirit corrupted with keeping him fast-tied, and as it were labouring fourteene or fifteene houres a day poaring on his booke, as some doe, as if he were a day-labouring man; neither doe i thinke it fit, if at any time, by reason of some solitairie or melancholy complexion, he should be scene with an over-indiscreet application given to his booke, it should be cherished in him; for, that doth often make him both unapt for civill conversation and distracts him from better imployments: how many have i scene in my daies, by an over-greedy desire of knowledge, become as it were foolish? carneades was so deeply plunged, and as i may say besotted in it, that he could never have leasure to cut his haire, or pare his nailes: nor would i have his noble manners obscured by the incivilitie and barbarisme of others. the french wisdome hath long since proverbially been spoken of as verie apt to conceive study in her youth, but most unapt to keepe it long. in good truth, we see at this day that there is nothing lovelier to behold than the young children of france; but for the most part, they deceive the hope which was fore-apprehended of them: for when they once become men, there is no excellencie at all in them. i have heard men of understanding hold this opinion, that the colleges to which they are sent (of which there are store) doe thus besot them: whereas to our scholler, a cabinet, a gardin, the table, the bed, a solitarinesse, a companie, morning and evening, and all houres shall be alike unto him, all places shall be a study for him: for philosophy (as a former of judgements, and modeler of customes) shall be his principall lesson, having the privilege to entermeddle her selfe with all things, and in all places. isocrates the orator, being once requested at a great banket to speake of his art, when all thought he had reason to answer, said, "it is not now time to doe what i can, and what should now be done, i cannot doe it; for, to present orations, or to enter into disputation of rhetorike, before a companie assembled together to be merrie, and make good cheere, would be but a medley of harsh and jarring musicke." the like may be said of all other sciences. but touching philosophy, namely, in that point where it treateth of man, and of his duties and offices, it hath been the common judgement of the wisest, that in regard of the pleasantnesse of her conversatione, she ought not to be rejected, neither at banquets nor at sports. and plato having invited her to his solemne feast, we see how kindly she entertaineth the companie with a milde behaviour, fitly suting her selfe to time and place, notwithstanding it be one of his learned'st and profitable discourses. aeque pauperibus prodest, locupletibus aque, et neglecta aeque pueris senibusque nocebit. [footnote: hor. . i. epist. .] poore men alike, alike rich men it easeth, alike it, scorned, old and young displeaseth. so doubtlesse he shall lesse be idle than others; for even as the paces we bestow walking in a gallerie, although they be twice as many more, wearie us not so much as those we spend in going a set journey: so our lesson being past over, as it were, by chance, or way of encounter, without strict observance of time or place, being applied to all our actions, shall be digested, and never felt. all sports and exercises shall be a part of his study; running, wrestling, musicke, dancing, hunting, and managing of armes and horses. i would have the exterior demeanor or decencie, and the disposition of his person to be fashioned together with his mind: for, it is not a mind, it is not a body that we erect, but it is a man, and we must not make two parts of him. and as plato saith, they must not be erected one without another, but equally be directed, no otherwise than a couple of horses matched to draw in one selfe-same teeme. and to heare him, doth he not seeme to imploy more time and care in the exercises of his bodie: and to thinke that the minde is together with the same exercised, and not the contrarie? as for other matters, this institution ought to be directed by a sweet- severe mildnesse; not as some do, who in liew of gently-bidding children to the banquet of letters, present them with nothing but horror and crueltie. let me have this violence and compulsion removed, there is nothing that, in my seeming, doth more bastardise and dizzie a welborne and gentle nature: if you would have him stand in awe of shame and punishment, doe not so much enure him to it: accustome him patiently to endure sweat and cold, the sharpnesse of the wind, the heat of the sunne, and how to despise all hazards. remove from him all nicenesse and quaintnesse in clothing, in lying, in eating, and in drinking: fashion him to all things, that he prove not a faire and wanton-puling boy, but a lustie and vigorous boy: when i was a child, being a man, and now am old, i have ever judged and believed the same. but amongst other things, i could never away with this kind of discipline used in most of our colleges. it had peradventure been lesse hurtfull, if they had somewhat inclined to mildnesse, or gentle entreatie. it is a verie prison of captivated youth, and proves dissolute in punishing it before it be so. come upon them when they are going to their lesson, and you heare nothing but whipping and brawling, both of children tormented, and masters besotted with anger and chafing. how wide are they, which go about to allure a childs mind to go to its booke, being yet but tender and fearefull, with a stearne-frowning countenance, and with hands full of rods? oh wicked and pernicious manner of teaching! which quintillian hath very wel noted, that this imperious kind of authoritie, namely, this way of punishing of children, drawes many dangerous inconveniences within. how much more decent were it to see their school-houses and formes strewed with greene boughs and flowers, than with bloudy burchen-twigs? if it lay in me, i would doe as the philosopher speusippus did, who caused the pictures of gladness and joy, of flora and of the graces, to be set up round about his school-house. where their profit lieth, there should also be their recreation. those meats ought to be sugred over, that are healthful for childrens stomakes, and those made bitter that are hurtfull for them. it is strange to see how carefull plato sheweth him selfe in framing of his lawes about the recreation and pastime of the youth of his citie, and how far he extends him selfe about their exercises, sports, songs, leaping, and dancing, whereof he saith, that severe antiquitie gave the conduct and patronage unto the gods themselves, namely, to apollo, to the muses, and to minerva. marke but how far-forth he endevoreth to give a thousand precepts to be kept in his places of exercises both of bodie and mind. as for learned sciences, he stands not much upon them, and seemeth in particular to commend poesie, but for musickes sake. all strangenesse and selfe-particularitie in our manners and conditions, is to be shunned, as an enemie to societie and civill conversation. who would not be astonished at demophons complexion, chiefe steward of alexanders household, who was wont to sweat in the shadow, and quiver for cold in the sunne? i have seene some to startle at the smell of an apple more than at the shot of a peece; some to be frighted with a mouse, some readie to cast their gorge [footnote: vomit.] at the sight of a messe of creame, and others to be scared with seeing a fether bed shaken: as germanicus, who could not abide to see a cock, or heare his crowing. there may haply be some hidden propertie of nature, which in my judgement might easilie be removed, if it were taken in time. institution hath gotten this upon me (i must confesse with much adoe) for, except beere, all things else that are mans food agree indifferently with my taste. the bodie being yet souple, ought to be accommodated to all fashions and customes; and (alwaies provided, his appetites and desires be kept under) let a yong man boldly be made fit for al nations and companies; yea, if need be, for al disorders and surfetings; let him acquaint him selfe with al fashions; that he may be able to do al things, and love to do none but those that are commendable. some strict philosophers commend not, but rather blame calisthenes, for losing the good favour of his master alexander, only because he would not pledge him as much as he had drunke to him. he shall laugh, jest, dally, and debauch himselfe with his prince. and in his debauching, i would have him out-go al his fellowes in vigor and constancie, and that he omit not to doe evill, neither for want of strength or knowledge, but for lacke of will. multum interest utrum peccare quis nolit, aut nesciat: [footnote: hor. epist. xvii. .] "there is a great difference, whether one have no will, or no wit to doe amisse." i thought to have honoured a gentleman (as great a stranger, and as far from such riotous disorders as any is in france) by enquiring of him in verie good companie, how many times in all his life he had bin drunke in germanie during the time of his abode there, about the necessarie affaires of our king; who tooke it even as i meant it, and answered three times, telling the time and manner how. i know some, who for want of that qualitie, have been much perplexed when they have had occasion to converse with that nation. i have often noted with great admiration, that wonderfull nature of alcibiades, to see how easilie he could sute himselfe to so divers fashions and different humors, without prejudice unto his health; sometimes exceeding the sumptuousnesse and pompe of the persians, and now and then surpassing. the austeritie and frugalitie of the lacedemonians; as reformed in sparta, as voluptuous in ionia. omnis atistippum decuit color, et status, et res. [footnote: hor. epist. xvii. .] all colours, states, and things are fit for courtly aristippus wit. such a one would i frame my disciple, --quem duplici panno patientia velat, mirabor, vita via si conversa decebit. whom patience clothes with sutes of double kind, i muse, if he another way will find. personavnque feret non inconcinnus utramque. [footnote: cic. tusc. qu. . iv.] he not unfitly may, both parts and persons play. loe here my lessons, wherein he that acteth them, profiteth more than he that but knoweth them, whom if you see, you heare, and if you heare him, you see him. god forbid, saith some bodie in plato, that to philosophize, be to learne many things, and to exercise the arts. hanc amplissimam omnium artium bene vivendi disciplinam, vita magis quant litteris persequntd sunt [footnote: ib. .] "this discipline of living well, which is the amplest of all other arts, they followed rather in their lives than in their learning or writing." leo prince of the phliasians, enquiring of heraclides ponticus, what art he professed, he answered, "sir, i professe neither art nor science; but i am a philosopher." some reproved diogenes, that being an ignorant man, he did neverthelesse meddle with philosophie, to whom he replied, "so much the more reason have i and to greater purpose doe i meddle with it." hegesias praid him upon a time to reade some booke unto him: "you are a merry man," said he: "as you chuse naturall and not painted, right and not counterfeit figges to eat, why doe you not likewise chuse, not the painted and written, but the true and naturall exercises?" he shall not so much repeat, as act his lesson. in his actions shall he make repetition of the same. we must observe, whether there bee wisdome in his enterprises, integritie in his demeanor, modestie in his jestures, justice in his actions, judgement and grace in his speech, courage in his sicknesse, moderation in his sports, temperance in his pleasures, order in the government of his house, and indifference in his taste, whether it be flesh, fish, wine, or water, or whatsoever he feedeth upon. qui disciplinam suam non ostentationem scientiae sed legem vitae putet: quique obtemperet ipse sibi, et decretis pareat [footnote: ib. i. ii.] "who thinks his learning not an ostentation of knowledge, but a law of life, and himselfe obayes himselfe, and doth what is decreed." the true mirror of our discourses is the course of our lives. zeuxidamus answered one that demanded of him, why the lacedemonians did not draw into a booke, the ordinances of prowesse, that so their yong men might read them; "it is," saith he, "because they would rather accustome them to deeds and actions, than to bookes and writings." compare at the end of fifteene or sixteene yeares one of these collegiall latinizers, who hath imployed all that while onely in learning how to speake, to such a one as i meane. the world is nothing but babling and words, and i never saw man that doth not rather speake more than he ought, than lesse. notwithstanding halfe our age is consumed that way. we are kept foure or five yeares learning to understand bare words, and to joine them into clauses, then as long in proportioning a great bodie extended into foure or five parts; and five more at least ere we can succinctly know how to mingle, joine, and interlace them handsomly into a subtil fashion, and into one coherent orbe. let us leave it to those whose profession is to doe nothing else. being once on my journey to orleans, it was my chance to meet upon that plaine that lieth on this side clery, with two masters of arts, traveling toward bordeaux, about fiftie paces one from another; far off behind them, i descride a troupe of horsemen, their master riding formost, who was the earle of rochefocault; one of my servants enquiring of the first of those masters of arts, what gentleman he was that followed him; supposing my servant had meant his fellow-scholler, for he had not yet seen the earles traine, answered pleasantly, "he is no gentleman, sir, but a gramarian, and i am a logitian." now, we that contrariwise seek not to frame a gramarian, nor a logitian, but a compleat gentleman, let us give them leave to mispend their time; we have else-where, and somewhat else of more import to doe. so that our disciple be well and sufficiently stored with matter; words will follow apace, and if they will hot follow gently, he shall hale them on perforce. i heare some excuse themselves, that they cannot expresse their meaning, and make a semblance that their heads are so full stuft with many goodly things, but for want of eloquence they can neither titter nor make show of them. it is a meere fopperie. and will you know what, in my seeming, the cause is? they are shadows and chimeraes, proceeding of some formelesse conceptions, which they cannot distinguish or resolve within, and by consequence are not able to produce them in as-much as they understand not themselves: and if you but marke their earnestnesse, and how they stammer and labour at the point of their deliverle, you would deeme that what they go withall, is but a conceiving, and therefore nothing neere downelying; and that they doe but licke that imperfect and shapelesse lump of matter. as for me, i am of opinion, and socrates would have it so, that he who had a cleare and lively imagination in his mind, may easilie produce and utter the same, although it be in bergamaske [footnote: a rustic dialect of the north of italy.] or welsh, and if he be dumbe, by signes and tokens. verbaque praevisam rem non invita sequentur. [footnote: hor. art. poet. .] when matter we fore-know, words voluntarie flow. as one said, as poetically in his prose, cum res animum occupavere, verba ambiunt; [footnote: sed. controv. . vii. prae.] "when matter hath possest their minds, they hunt after words:" and another: ipsa res verba rapiunt: [footnote: cic. de fin. i. iii. c. .] "things themselves will catch and carry words:" he knowes neither ablative, conjunctive, substantive, nor gramar, no more doth his lackey, nor any oyster-wife about the streets, and yet if you have a mind to it he will intertaine you, your fill, and peradventure stumble as little and as seldome against the rules of his tongue, as the best master of arts in france. he hath no skill in rhetoricke, nor can he with a preface fore-stall and captivate the gentle readers good will: nor careth he greatly to know it. in good sooth, all this garish painting is easilie defaced, by the lustre of an in-bred and simple truth; for these dainties and quaint devices serve but to ammuse the vulgar sort; unapt and incapable to taste the most solid and firme meat: as afer verie plainly declareth in cornelius tacitus. the ambassadours of samos being come to cleomenes king of sparta, prepared with a long prolix oration, to stir him up to war against the tyrant policrates, after he had listned a good while unto them, his answer was: "touching your exordium or beginning i have forgotten it; the middle i remember not; and for your conclusion i will do nothing in it." a fit, and (to my thinking) a verie good answer; and the orators were put to such a shift; as they knew not what to replie. and what said another? the athenians from out two of their cunning architects, were to chuse one to erect a notable great frame; the one of them more affected and selfe presuming, presented himselfe before them, with a smooth fore- premeditated discourse, about the subject of that piece of worke, and thereby drew the judgements of the common people unto his liking; but the other in few words spake thus: "lords of athens, what this man hath said i will performe." in the greatest earnestnesse of ciceroes eloquence many were drawn into a kind of admiration; but cato jesting at it, said, "have we not a pleasant consull?" a quicke cunning argument, and a wittie saying, whether it go before or come after, it is never out of season. if it have no coherence with that which goeth before, nor with what commeth after; it is good and commendable in it selfe. i am none of those that think a good ryme, to make a good poeme; let him hardly (if so he please) make a short syllable long, it is no great matter; if the invention be rare and good, and his wit and judgement have cunningly played their part. i will say to such a one; he is a good poet, but an ill versifier. emunciae naris, durus componere versus. [footnote: hor. . i. sat. iv.] a man whose sense could finely pierce, but harsh and hard to make a verse. let a man (saith horace) make his worke loose all seames, measures, and joynts. tempora certa moddsque, et quod prius ordine verbum est, [footnote: ib. .] posterius facias, praeponens ultima primis: invenias etiam disjecti membra poetae. [footnote: ib. .] set times and moods, make you the first word last, the last word first, as if they were new cast: yet find th' unjoynted poets joints stand fast. he shall for all that, nothing gain-say himselfe, every piece will make a good shew. to this purpose answered menander those that chid him, the day being at hand, in which he had promised a comedy, and had not begun the same, "tut-tut," said he, "it is alreadie finished, there wanteth nothing but to adde the verse unto it;" for, having ranged and cast the plot in his mind, he made small accompt of feet, of measures, or cadences of verses, which indeed are but of small import in regard of the rest. since great ronsarde and learned bellay have raised our french poesie unto that height of honour where it now is: i see not one of these petty ballad-makers, or prentise dogrell rymers, that doth not bombast his labours with high-swelling and heaven-disimbowelling words, and that doth not marshall his cadences verie neere as they doe. plus sonat quam valet. [footnote: sen, epist. xl.] "the sound is more than the weight or worth." and for the vulgar sort there were never so many poets, and so few good: but as it hath been easie for them to represent their rymes, so come they far short in imitating the rich descriptions of the one, and rare inventions of the other. but what shall he doe, if he be urged with sophisticall subtilties about a sillogisme? a gammon of bacon makes a man drink, drinking quencheth a mans thirst; ergo, a gammon of bacon quencheth a mans thirst. let him mock at it, it is more wittie to be mockt at than to be answered. let him borrow this pleasant counter-craft of aristippus; "why shall i unbind that, which being bound doth so much trouble me?" some one proposed certaine logicall quiddities against cleanthes, to whom chrisippus said; use such jugling tricks to play with children, and divert not the serious thoughts of an aged man to such idle matters. if such foolish wiles, contorta et aculeata sophismata, [footnote: cic. acad. qu. . iv.] "intricate and stinged sophismes," must perswade a lie, it is dangerous: but if they proove void of any effect, and move him but to laughter, i see not why he shall beware of them. some there are so foolish that will go a quarter of a mile out of the way to hunt after a quaint new word, if they once get in chace; aut qui non verba rebus aptant, sed res extrinsecus arcessunt, quibus verba conveniant: "or such as fit not words to matter, but fetch matter from abroad, whereto words be fitted." and another, qui alicujus verbi decore placentis, vocentur ad id quod non proposuerant scribere: [footnote: sen. epist. liii.] "who are allured by the grace of some pleasing word, to write what they intended not to write." i doe more willingly winde up a wittie notable sentence, that so i may sew it upon me, than unwinde my thread to go fetch it. contrariwise, it is for words to serve and wait upon the matter, and not for matter to attend upon words, and if the french tongue cannot reach unto it, let the gaskonie, or any other. i would have the matters to surmount, and so fill the imagination of him that harkeneth, that he have no remembrance at all of the words. it is a naturall, simple, and unaffected speech that i love, so written as it is spoken, and such upon the paper, as it is in the mouth, a pithie, sinnowie, full, strong, compendious and materiall speech, not so delicate and affected as vehement and piercing. hac demum sapiet dictio qua feriet. [footnote: epitaph on lucan, .] in fine, that word is wisely fit, which strikes the fence, the marke doth hit. rather difficult than tedious, void of affection, free, loose and bold, that every member of it seeme to make a bodie; not pedanticall, nor frier-like, nor lawyer-like, but rather downe right, souldier-like. as suetonius calleth that of julius caesar, which i see no reason wherefore he calleth it. i have sometimes pleased myselfe in imitating that licenciousnesse or wanton humour of our youths, in wearing of their garments; as carelessly to let their cloaks hang downe over one shoulder; to weare their cloakes scarfe or bawdrikewise, and their stockings loose hanging about their legs. it represents a kind of disdainful fiercenesse of these forraine embellishings, and neglect carelesnesse of art: but i commend it more being imployed in the course and forme of speech. all manner of affectation, namely [footnote: especially,] in the livelinesse and libertie of france, is unseemely in a courtier. and in a monarchie every gentleman ought to addresse himselfe unto [footnote: aim at] a courtiers carriage. therefore do we well somewhat to incline to a native and carelesse behaviour. i like not a contexture, where the seames and pieces may be seen: as in a well compact bodie, what need a man distinguish and number all the bones and veines severally? quae veritati operam dat oratio, incomposita sit et simplex [footnote: sen. epist. xl] quis accurate loquitur nisi qui vult putide loqui [footnote: ib. epist. ixxr.] "the speach that intendeth truth must be plaine and unpollisht: who speaketh elaborately, but he that meanes to speake unfavourably?" that eloquence offereth injurie unto things, which altogether drawes us to observe it. as in apparell, it is a signe of pusillanimitie for one to marke himselfe, in some particular and unusuall fashion: so likewise in common speech, for one to hunt after new phrases, and unaccustomed quaint words, proceedeth of a scholasticall and childish ambition. let me use none other than are spoken in the hals of paris. aristophanes the gramarian was somewhat out of the way, when he reproved epicurus, for the simplicitie of his words, and the end of his art oratorie, which was onely perspicuitie in speech. the imitation of speech, by reason of the facilitie of it, followeth presently a whole nation. the imitation of judging and inventing comes more slow. the greater number of readers, because they have found one self-same kind of gowne, suppose most falsely to holde one like bodie. outward garments and cloakes may be borrowed, but never the sinews and strength of the bodie. most of those that converse with me, speake like unto these essayes; but i know not whether they think alike. the athenians (as plato averreth) have for their part great care to be fluent and eloquent in their speech; the lacedemonians endevour to be short and compendious; and those of creet labour more to bee plentifull in conceits than in language. and these are the best. zeno was wont to say, "that he had two sorts of disciples; the one he called [greek word omitted], curious to learne things, and those were his darlings, the other he termed [greek word omitted], who respected nothing more than the language." yet can no man say, but that to speake well, is most gracious and commendable, but not so excellent as some make it: and i am grieved to see how we imploy most part of our time about that onely. i would first know mine owne tongue perfectly, then my neighbours with whom i have most commerce. i must needs acknowledge, that the greeke and latine tongues are great ornaments in a gentleman, but they are purchased at over-high a rate. use it who list, i will tell you how they may be gotten better, cheaper, and much sooner than is ordinarily used, which was tried in myselfe. my late father, having, by all the meanes and industrie that is possible for a man, sought amongst the wisest, and men of best understanding, to find a most exquisite and readie way of teaching, being advised of the inconveniences then in use; was given to understand that the lingring while, and best part of our youth, that we imploy in learning the tongues, which cost them nothing, is the onely cause we can never attaine to that absolute perfection of skill and knowledge of the greekes and romanes. i doe not beleeve that to be the onely cause. but so it is, the expedient my father found out was this; that being yet at nurse, and before the first loosing of my tongue, i was delivered to a germane (who died since, a most excellent physitian in france) he being then altogether ignorant of the french tongue, but exquisitely readie and skilfull in the latine. this man, whom my father had sent for of purpose, and to whom he gave verie great entertainment, had me continually in his armes, and was mine onely overseer. there were also joyned unto him two of his countrimen, but not so learned; whose charge was to attend, and now and then to play with me; and all these together did never entertaine me with other than the latine tongue. as for others of his household, it was an inviolable rule, that neither himselfe, nor my mother, nor man, nor maid-servant, were suffered to speake one word in my companie, except such latine words as every one had learned to chat and prattle with me. it were strange to tell how every one in the house profited therein. my father and my mother learned so much latine, that for a need they could understand it, when they heard it spoken, even so did all the household servants, namely such as were neerest and most about me. to be short, we were all so latinized, that the townes round about us had their share of it; insomuch as even at this day, many latine names both of workmen and of their tooles are yet in use amongst them. and as for myselfe, i was about six years old, and could understand no more french or perigordine than arabike; and that without art, without bookes, rules, or grammer, without whipping or whining, i had gotten as pure a latin tongue as my master could speake; the rather because i could neither mingle or confound the same with other tongues. if for an essay they would give me a theme, whereas the fashion in colleges is, to give it in french, i had it in bad latine, to reduce the same into good. and nicholas grouchy, who hath written de comitiis romanorum, william guerente, who hath commented aristotele: george buchanan, that famous scottish poet, and marke antonie muret, whom (while he lived) both france and italie to this day, acknowledge to have been the best orator: all which have beene my familiar tutors, have often told me, that in mine infancie i had the latine tongue so readie and so perfect, that themselves feared to take me in hand. and buchanan, who afterward i saw attending on the marshall of brissacke, told me, he was about to write a treatise of the institution of children, and that he tooke the model and patterne from mine: for at that time he had the charge and bringing up of the young earle of brissack, whom since we have scene prove so worthy and so valiant a captaine. as for the greeke, wherein i have but small understanding, my father purposed to make me learne it by art; but by new and uncustomed meanes, that is, by way of recreation and exercise. we did tosse our declinations and conjugations to and fro, as they doe, who by way of a certaine game at tables learne both arithmetike and geometrie. for, amongst other things he had especially beene persuaded to make me taste and apprehend the fruits of dutie and science by an unforced kinde of will, and of mine owne choice; and without any compulsion or rigor to bring me up in all mildnesse and libertie: yea with such kinde of superstition, that, whereas some are of opinion that suddenly to awaken young children, and as it were by violence to startle and fright them out of their dead sleepe in a morning (wherein they are more heavie and deeper plunged than we) doth greatly trouble and distemper their braines, he would every morning cause me to be awakened by the sound of some instrument; and i was never without a servant who to that purpose attended upon me. this example may serve to judge of the rest; as also to commend the judgement and tender affection of so carefull and loving a father: who is not to be blamed, though hee reaped not the fruits answerable to his exquisite toyle and painefull manuring. [footnote: cultivation.] two things hindered the same; first the barrennesse and unfit soyle: for howbeit i were of a sound and strong constitution, and of a tractable and yeelding condition, yet was i so heavie, so sluggish, and so dull, that i could not be rouzed (yea were it to goe to play) from out mine idle drowzinesse. what i saw, i saw it perfectly; and under this heavy, and as it were lethe-complexion did i breed hardie imaginations, and opinions farre above my yeares. my spirit was very slow, and would goe no further than it was led by others; my apprehension blockish, my invention poore; and besides, i had a marvelous defect in my weake memorie: it is therefore no wonder, if my father could never bring me to any perfection. secondly, as those that in some dangerous sicknesse, moved with a kind of hope-full and greedie desire of perfect health againe, give eare to every leach or emperike, [footnote: doctor or quack.] and follow all counsels, the good man being exceedingly fearefull to commit any oversight, in a matter he tooke so to heart, suffered himselfe at last to be led away by the common opinion, which like unto the cranes, followeth ever those that go before, and yeelded to customer having those no longer about him, that had given him his first directions, and which they had brought out of italie. being but six yeares old i was sent to the college of guienne, then most flourishing and reputed the best in france, where it is impossible to adde any thing to the great care he had, both to chuse the best and most sufficient masters that could be found, to reade unto me, as also for all other circumstances partaining to my education; wherein contrary to usuall customes of colleges, he observed many particular rules. but so it is, it was ever a college. my latin tongue was forthwith corrupted, whereof by reason of discontinuance, i afterward lost all manner of use: which new kind of institution stood me in no other stead, but that at my first admittance it made me to overskip some of the lower formes, and to be placed in the highest. for at thirteene yeares of age, that i left the college, i had read over the whole course of philosophie (as they call it) but with so small profit, that i can now make no account of it. the first taste or feeling i had of bookes, was of the pleasure i tooke in reading the fables of ovids metamorphosies; for, being but seven or eight yeares old, i would steale and sequester my selfe from all other delights, only to reade them: forsomuch as the tongue wherein they were written was to me naturall; and it was the easiest booke i knew, and by reason of the matter therein contained most agreeing with my young age. for of king arthur, of lancelot du lake, of amadis, of huon of burdeaux, and such idle time consuming and wit-besotting trash of bookes wherein youth doth commonly ammuse it selfe, i was not so much as acquainted with their names, and to this day know not their bodies, nor what they containe: so exact was my discipline. whereby i became more carelesse to studie my other prescript lessons. and well did it fall out for my purpose, that i had to deale with a very discreet master, who out of his judgement could with such dexterite winke at and second my untowardlinesse, and such other faults that were in me. for by that meanes i read over virgils aeneados, terence, plautus, and other italian comedies, allured thereunto by the pleasantnesse of their severall subjects: had he beene so foolishly- severe, or so severely froward as to crosse this course of mine, i thinke verily i had never brought any thing from the college, but the hate and contempt of bookes, as doth the greatest part of our nobilitie. such was his discretion, and so warily did he behave himselfe, that he saw and would not see: hee would foster and increase my longing: suffering me but by stealth and by snatches to glut my selfe with those bookes, holding ever a gentle hand over me, concerning other regular studies. for, the chiefest thing my father required at their hands (unto whose charge he had committed me) was a kinde of well conditioned mildnesse and facilitie of complexion. [footnote: easiness of disposition.] and, to say truth, mine had no other fault, but a certaine dull languishing and heavie slothfullnesse. the danger was not, i should doe ill, but that i should doe nothing. no man did ever suspect i would prove a bad, but an unprofitable man: foreseeing in me rather a kind of idlenesse than a voluntary craftinesse. i am not so selfe-conceited but i perceive what hath followed. the complaints that are daily buzzed in mine eares are these; that i am idle, cold, and negligent in offices of friendship, and dutie to my parents and kinsfolkes; and touching publike offices, that i am over singular and disdainfull. and those that are most injurious cannot aske, wherefore i have taken, and why i have not paied? but may rather demand, why i doe not quit, and wherefore i doe not give? i would take it as a favour, they should wish such effects of supererogation in me. but they are unjust and over partiall, that will goe about to exact that from me which i owe not, with more vigour than they will exact from themselves that which they owe; wherein if they condemne me, they utterly cancell both the gratifying of the action, and the gratitude, which thereby would be due to me. whereas the active well doing should be of more consequence, proceeding from my hand, in regard i have no passive at all. wherefore i may so much the more freely dispose of my fortune, by how much more it is mine, and of my selfe that am most mine owne. notwithstanding, if i were a great blazoner of mine owne actions, i might peradventure barre such reproches, and justly upraid some, that they are not so much offended, because i doe not enough, as for that i may, and it lies in my power to doe much more than i doe. yet my minde ceased not at the same time to have peculiar unto it selfe well setled motions, true and open judgements concerning the objects which it knew; which alone, and without any helpe or communication it would digest. and amongst other things, i verily beleeve it would have proved altogether incapable and unfit to yeeld unto force, or stoope unto violence. shall i account or relate this qualitie of my infancie, which was, a kinde of boldnesse in my lookes, and gentle softnesse in my voice, and affabilitie in my gestures, and a dexterite in conforming my selfe to the parts i undertooke? for before the age of the alter ab undecimo turn me vix ceperat annus. [footnote: virg. buc. ecl. viii. .] yeares had i (to make even) scarce two above eleven. i have under-gone and represented the chiefest part in the latin tragedies of buchanan, guerente, and of muret; which in great state were acted and plaid in our college of guienne: wherein andreas goveanus our rector principall; who as in all other parts belonging to his charge, was without comparison the chiefest rector of france, and my selfe (without ostentation be it spoken) was reputed, if not a chiefe-master, yet a principall actor in them. it is an exercise i rather commend than disalow in young gentlemen: and have seene some of our princes (in imitation of some of former ages) both commendably and honestly, in their proper persons act and play some parts in tragedies. it hath heretofore been esteemed a lawfull exercise, and a tolerable profession in men of honor, namely in greece. aristoni tragico actori rem aperit: huic et genus et fortuna honesta erant: nec ars, quia nihil tale apud graecos pudori est, ea deformabat. [footnote: liv. deo. iii. . iv.] "he imparts the matter to ariston a player of tragedies, whose progenie and fortune were both honest; nor did his profession disgrace them, because no such matter is a disparagement amongst the grecians." and i have ever accused them of impertinencie, that condemne and disalow such kindes of recreations, and blame those of injustice, that refuse good and honest comedians, or (as we call them) players, to enter our good townes, and grudge the common people such publike sports. politike and wel ordered commonwealths endevour rather carefully to unite and assemble their citizens together; as in serious offices of devotion, so in honest exercises of recreation. common societie and loving friendship is thereby cherished and increased. and besides, they cannot have more formal and regular pastimes allowed them, than such as are acted and represented in open view of all, and in the presence of the magistrates themselves; and if i might beare sway, i would thinke it reasonable, that princes should sometimes, at their proper charges, gratifie the common people with them, as an argument of a fatherly affection, and loving goodnesse towards them: and that in populous and frequented cities, there should be theatres and places appointed for such spectacles; as a diverting of worse inconveniences, and secret actions. but to come to my intended purpose there is no better way to allure the affection, and to entice the appetite: otherwise a man shall breed but asses laden with bookes. with jerks of rods they have their satchels full of learning given them to keepe. which to doe well, one must not only harbor in himselfe, but wed and marry the same with his minde. of friendship considering the proceeding of a painters worke i have, a desire hath possessed mee to imitate him: he maketh choice of the most convenient place and middle of everie wall, there to place a picture, laboured with all his skill and sufficiencie; and all void places about it he filleth up with antike boscage [footnote: foliated ornament] or crotesko [footnote: grotesque] works; which are fantasticall pictures, having no grace, but in the variety and strangenesse of them. and what are these my compositions in truth, other than antike workes, and monstrous bodies, patched and hudled up together of divers members, without any certaine or well ordered figure, having neither order, dependencie, or proportion, but casuall and framed by chance? definit in piscem mulier formosa superne. [footnote: hon. art. poet. .] a woman faire for parts superior, ends in a fish for parts inferior. touching this second point i goe as farre as my painter, but for the other and better part i am farre behinde: for my sufficiency reacheth not so farre as that i dare undertake a rich, a polished, and, according to true skill, an art-like table. i have advised myselfe to borrow one of steven de la boetie, who with this kinde of worke shall honour all the world. it is a discourse he entitled voluntary servitude, but those who have not knowne him, have since very properly rebaptized the same, the against-one. in his first youth he writ, by way of essaie, in honour of libertie against tyrants. it hath long since beene dispersed amongst men of understanding, not without great and well deserved commendations: for it is full of wit, and containeth as much learning as may be: yet doth it differ much from the best he can do. and if in the age i knew him in, he would have undergone my dessigne to set his fantasies downe in writing, we should doubtlesse see many rare things, and which would very neerely approch the honour of antiquity: for especially touching that part of natures gifts, i know none may be compared to him. but it was not long of him, that ever this treatise came to mans view, and i beleeve he never saw it since it first escaped his hands: with certaine other notes concerning the edict of januarie, famous by reason of our intestine warre, which haply may in other places finde their deserved praise. it is all i could ever recover of his reliques (whom when death seized, he by his last will and testament, left with so kinde remembrance, heire and executor of his librarie and writings) besides the little booke, i since caused to be published: to which his pamphlet i am particularly most bounden, for so much as it was the instrumentall meane of our first acquaintance. for it was shewed me long time before i saw him; and gave me the first knowledge of his name, addressing, and thus nourishing that unspotted friendship which we (so long as it pleased god) have so sincerely, so entire and inviolably maintained betweene us, that truly a man shall not commonly heare of the like; and amongst our moderne men no signe of any such is scene. so many parts are required to the erecting of such a one, that it may be counted a wonder if fortune once in three ages contract the like. there is nothing to which nature hath more addressed us than to societie. and aristotle saith that perfect law- givers have had more regardfull care of friendship than of justice. and the utmost drift of its perfection is this. for generally, all those amities which are forged and nourished by voluptuousnesse or profit, publike or private need, are thereby so much the lesse faire and generous, and so much the lesse true amities, in that they intermeddle other causes, scope, and fruit with friendship, than it selfe alone: nor doe those foure ancient kindes of friendships, naturall, sociall, hospitable, and venerian, either particularly or conjointly beseeme the same. that from children to parents may rather be termed respect: friendship is nourished by communication, which by reason of the over-great disparitie cannot bee found in them, and would happly offend the duties of nature: for neither all the secret thoughts of parents can be communicated unto children, lest it might engender an unbeseeming familiaritie betweene them, nor the admonitions and corrections (which are the chiefest offices of friendship) could be exercised from children to parents. there have nations beene found, where, by custome, children killed their parents, and others where parents slew their children, thereby to avoid the hindrance of enterbearing [footnote: mutually supporting.] one another in after-times: for naturally one dependeth from the ruine of another. there have philosophers beene found disdaining this naturall conjunction: witnesse aristippus, who being urged with the affection he ought [footnote: owed.] his children, as proceeding from his loyns, began to spit, saying, that also that excrement proceeded from him, and that also we engendred wormes and lice. and that other man, whom plutarke would have perswaded to agree with his brother, answered, "i care not a straw the more for him, though he came out of the same wombe i did." verily the name of brother is a glorious name, and full of loving kindnesse, and therefore did he and i terme one another sworne brother: but this commixture, dividence, and sharing of goods, this joyning wealth to wealth, and that the riches of one shall be the povertie of another, doth exceedingly distemper and distract all brotherly alliance, and lovely conjunction: if brothers should conduct the progresse of their advancement and thrift in one same path and course, they must necessarily oftentimes hinder and crosse one another. moreover, the correspondencie and relation that begetteth these true and mutually perfect amities, why shall it be found in these? the father and the sonne may very well be of a farre differing complexion, and so many brothers: he is my sonne, he is my kinsman; but he may be a foole, a bad, or a peevish-minded man. and then according as they are friendships which the law and dutie of nature doth command us, so much the lesse of our owne voluntarie choice and libertie is there required unto it: and our genuine libertie hath no production more properly her owne, than that of affection and amitie. sure i am, that concerning the same i have assaied all that might be, having had the best and most indulgent father that ever was, even to his extremest age, and who from father to sonne was descended of a famous house, and touching this rare-seene vertue of brotherly concord very exemplare: ----et ipse notus in fratres animi paterni. [footnote: hor. . ii. qd. li. .] to his brothers knowne so kinde. as to beare a fathers minde. to compare the affection toward women unto it, although it proceed from our owne free choice, a man cannot, nor may it be placed in this ranke: her fire, i confesse it to be more (---neque enim est dea nescia nostri quae dulcem curis miscet amaritiem.) [footnote: catul. epig. lxvi.] (nor is that goddesse ignorant of me, whose bitter-sweets with my cares mixed be.) active, more fervent, and more sharpe. but it is a rash and wavering fire, waving and divers: the fire of an ague subject to fits and stints, and that hath but slender hold-fast of us. in true friendship, it is a generall and universall heat, and equally tempered, a constant and setled heat, all pleasure and smoothnes, that hath no pricking or stinging in it, which the more it is in lustfull love, the more is it but a raging and mad desire in following that which flies us, come segue la lepre il cacciatore alfreddo, al caldo, alia montagna, a lito, ne pin l'estima poi che presa vede, e sol dietro a chi fugge affretta il piede. [footnote: ariost. can. x. st. .] ev'n as the huntsman doth the hare pursue, in cold, in heat, on mountaines, on the shore, but cares no more, when he her ta'en espies speeding his pace only at that which flies. as soone as it creepeth into the termes of friendship, that is to say, in the agreement of wits, it languisheth and vanisheth away: enjoying doth lose it, as having a corporall end, and subject to satietie. on the other side, friendship is enjoyed according as it is desired, it is neither bred, nourished, nor increaseth but in jovissance, as being spirituall, and the minde being refined by use custome. under this chiefe amitie, these fading affections have sometimes found place in me, lest i should speake of him, who in his verses speakes but too much of it. so are these two passions entered into me in knowledge one of another, but in comparison never: the first flying a high, and keeping a proud pitch, disdainfully beholding the other to passe her points farre under it. concerning marriage, besides that it is a covenant which hath nothing free but the entrance, the continuance being forced and constrained, depending else-where than from our will, and a match ordinarily concluded to other ends: a thousand strange knots are therein commonly to be unknit, able to break the web, and trouble the whole course of a lively affection; whereas in friendship there is no commerce or busines depending on the same, but it selfe. seeing (to speake truly) that the ordinary sufficiency of women cannot answer this conference and communication, the nurse of this sacred bond: nor seeme their mindes strong enough to endure the pulling of a knot so hard, so fast, and durable. and truly, if without that, such a genuine and voluntarie acquaintance might be contracted, where not only mindes had this entire jovissance, [footnote: enjoyment.] but also bodies, a share of the alliance, and where a man might wholly be engaged: it is certaine, that friendship would thereby be more compleat and full: but this sex could never yet by any example attaine unto it, and is by ancient schooles rejected thence. and this other greeke licence is justly abhorred by our customes, which notwithstanding, because according to use it had so necessarie a disparitie of ages, and difference of offices betweene lovers, did no more sufficiently answer the perfect union and agreement, which here we require: quis est enim iste amor amicitiae? cur neque deformem adolescentem quisquam amat, neque formosum senem? [footnote: cic. tusc. qu. lv. c. .] "for, what love is this of friendship? why doth no man love either a deformed young man, or a beautifull old man?" for even the picture the academic makes of it, will not (as i suppose) disavowe mee, to say thus in her behalfe: that the first furie, enspired by the son of venus in the lovers hart, upon the object of tender youths-flower, to which they allow all insolent and passionate violences, an immoderate heat may produce, was simply grounded upon an externall beauty; a false image of corporall generation: for in the spirit it had no power, the sight whereof was yet concealed, which was but in his infancie, and before the age of budding. for, if this furie did seize upon a base minded courage, the meanes of its pursuit were riches, gifts, favour to the advancement of dignities, and such like vile merchandice, which they reprove. if it fell into a more generous minde, the interpositions [footnote: means of approach.] were likewise generous: philosophicall instructions, documents [footnote: teachings.] to reverence religion, to obey the lawes, to die for the good of his countrie: examples of valor, wisdome and justice; the lover endevoring and studying to make himselfe acceptable by the good grace and beauty of his minde (that of his body being long since decayed) hoping by this mentall society to establish a more firme and permanent bargaine. when this pursuit attained the effect in due season (for by not requiring in a lover, he should bring leasure and discretion in his enterprise, they require it exactly in the beloved; forasmuch as he was to judge of an internall beauty, of difficile knowledge, and abstruse discovery) then by the interposition of a spiritual beauty was the desire of a spiritual conception engendred in the beloved. the latter was here chiefest; the corporall, accidentall and second, altogether contrarie to the lover. and therefore doe they preferre the beloved, and verifie that the gods likewise preferre the same: and greatly blame the poet aeschylus, who in the love betweene achilles and patroclus ascribeth the lovers part unto achilles, who was in the first and beardlesse youth of his adolescency, and the fairest of the graecians. after this general communitie, the mistris and worthiest part of it, predominant and exercising her offices (they say the most availefull commodity did thereby redound both to the private and publike). that it was the force of countries received the use of it, and the principall defence of equitie and libertie: witnesse the comfortable loves of hermodius and aristogiton. therefore name they it sacred and divine, and it concerns not them whether the violence of tyrants, or the demisnesse of the people be against them: to conclude, all that can be alleged in favour of the academy, is to say, that it was a love ending in friendship, a thing which hath no bad reference unto the stoical definition of love: amorem conatum esse amicitiae faciendae ex pulchritudinis specie: [footnote: cic. tusc. qu. ir. c. . ] "that love is an endevour of making friendship, by the shew of beautie." i returne to my description in a more equitable and equall manner. omnino amicitiae, corroboratis jam confirmatisque ingeniis et aetatibus, judicandae sunt. [footnote: cic. amic.] "clearely friendships are to be judged by wits, and ages already strengthened and confirmed." as for the rest, those we ordinarily call friendes and amities, are but acquaintances and familiarities, tied together by some occasion or commodities, by meanes whereof our mindes are entertained. in the amitie i speake of, they entermixe and confound themselves one in the other, with so universall a commixture, that they weare out and can no more finde the seame that hath conjoined them together. if a man urge me to tell wherefore i loved him, i feele it cannot be expressed, but by answering; because it was he, because it was my selfe. there is beyond all my discourse, and besides what i can particularly report of it, i know not what inexplicable and fatall power, a meane and mediatrix of this indissoluble union. we sought one another before we had scene one another, and by the reports we heard one of another; which wrought a greater violence in us, than the reason of reports may well beare; i thinke by some secret ordinance of the heavens, we embraced one another by our names. and at our first meeting, which was by chance at a great feast, and solemne meeting of a whole towneship, we found our selves so surprized, so knowne, so acquainted, and so combinedly bound together, that from thence forward, nothing was so neer unto us as one unto anothers. he writ an excellent latyne satyre since published; by which he excuseth and expoundeth the precipitation of our acquaintance, so suddenly come to her perfection; sithence it must continue so short a time, and begun so late (for we were both growne men, and he some yeares older than my selfe) there was no time to be lost. and it was not to bee modelled or directed by the paterne of regular and remisse [footnote: slight, languid.] friendship, wherein so many precautions of a long and preallable conversation [footnote: preceding intercourse.] are required. this hath no other idea than of it selfe, and can have no reference but to itselfe. it is not one especiall consideration, nor two, nor three, nor foure, nor a thousand: it is i wot not what kinde of quintessence, of all this commixture, which having seized all my will, induced the same to plunge and lose it selfe in his, which likewise having seized all his will, brought it to lose and plunge it selfe in mine, with a mutuall greedinesse, and with a semblable concurrance. i may truly say, lose, reserving nothing unto us, that might properly be called our owne, nor that was either his or mine. when lelius in the presence of the romane consuls, who after the condemnation of tiberius gracchus, pursued all those that had beene of his acquaintance, came to enquire of caius blosius (who was one of his chiefest friends) what he would have done for him, and that he answered, "all things." "what, all things?" replied he. "and what if he had willed thee to burne our temples?" blosius answered, "he would never have commanded such a thing." "but what if he had done it?" replied lelius. the other answered, "i would have obeyed him." if hee were so perfect a friend to gracchus as histories report, he needed not offend the consuls with this last and bold confession, and should not have departed from the assurance hee had of gracchus his minde. but yet those who accuse this answer as seditious, understand not well this mysterie: and doe not presuppose in what termes he stood, and that he held gracchus his will in his sleeve, both by power and knowledge. they were rather friends than citizens, rather friends than enemies of their countrey, or friends of ambition and trouble. having absolutely committed themselves one to another, they perfectly held the reines of one anothers inclination: and let this yoke be guided by vertue and conduct of reason (because without them it is altogether impossible to combine and proportion the same). the answer of blosius was such as it should be. if their affections miscarried, according to my meaning, they were neither friends one to other, nor friends to themselves. as for the rest, this answer sounds no more than mine would doe, to him that would in such sort enquire of me; if your will should command you to kill your daughter, would you doe it? and that i should consent unto it: for, that beareth no witnesse of consent to doe it: because i am not in doubt of my will, and as little of such a friends will. it is not in the power of the worlds discourse to remove me from the certaintie i have of his intentions and judgments of mine: no one of its actions might be presented unto me, under what shape soever, but i would presently finde the spring and motion of it. our mindes have jumped [footnote: agreed.] so unitedly together, they have with so fervent an affection considered of each other, and with like affection so discovered and sounded, even to the very bottome of each others heart and entrails, that i did not only know his, as well as mine owne, but i would (verily) rather have trusted him concerning any matter of mine, than my selfe. let no man compare any of the other common friendships to this. i have as much knowledge of them as another, yea of the perfectest of their kinde: yet wil i not perswade any man to confound their rules, for so a man might be deceived. in these other strict friendships a man must march with the bridle of wisdome and precaution in his hand: the bond is not so strictly tied but a man may in some sort distrust the same. love him (said chilon) as if you should one day hate him againe. hate him as if you should love him againe. this precept, so abhominable in this soveraigne and mistris amitie, is necessarie and wholesome in the use of vulgar and customarie friendships: toward which a man must employ the saying aristotle was wont so often repeat, "oh you my friends, there is no perfect friend." in this noble commerce, offices and benefits (nurses of other amities) deserve not so much as to bee accounted of: this confusion so full of our wills is cause of it: for even as the friendship i beare unto my selfe, admits no accrease, [footnote: increase.] by any succour i give my selfe in any time of need, whatsoever the stoickes allege; and as i acknowledge no thanks unto my selfe for any service i doe unto myselfe, so the union of such friends, being truly perfect, makes them lose the feeling of such duties, and hate, and expell from one another these words of division, and difference: benefit, good deed, dutie, obligation, acknowledgement, prayer, thanks, and such their like. all things being by effect common betweene them; wils, thoughts, judgements, goods, wives, children, honour, and life; and their mutual agreement, being no other than one soule in two bodies, according to the fit definition of aristotle, they can neither lend or give ought to each other. see here the reason why lawmakers, to honour marriage with some imaginary resemblance of this divine bond, inhibite donations between husband and wife; meaning thereby to inferre, that all things should peculiarly bee proper to each of them, and that they have nothing to divide and share together. if in the friendship whereof i speake, one might give unto another, the receiver of the benefit should binde his fellow. for, each seeking more than any other thing to doe each other good, he who yeelds both matter and occasion, is the man sheweth himselfe liberall, giving his friend that contentment, to effect towards him what he desireth most. when the philosopher diogenes wanted money, he was wont to say that he redemanded the same of his friends, and not that he demanded it: and to show how that is practised by effect, i will relate an ancient singular example. eudamidas the corinthiam had two friends: charixenus a sycionian, and aretheus a corinthian; being upon his death-bed, and very poore, and his two friends very rich, thus made his last will and testament: "to aretheus, i bequeath the keeping of my mother, and to maintaine her when she shall be old: to charixenus the marrying of my daughter, and to give her as great a dowry as he may: and in case one of them shall chance to die before, i appoint the survivor to substitute his charge, and supply his place." those that first saw this testament laughed and mocked at the same; but his heires being advertised thereof, were very well pleased, and received it with singular contentment. and charixenus, one of them, dying five daies after eudamidas, the substitution being declared in favour of aretheus, he carefully and very kindly kept and maintained his mother, and of five talents that he was worth he gave two and a halfe in marriage to one only daughter he had, and the other two and a halfe to the daughter of eudamidas, whom he married both in one day. this example is very ample, if one thing were not, which is the multitude of friends: for, this perfect amity i speake of, is indivisible; each man doth so wholly give himselfe unto his friend, that he hath nothing left him to divide else-where: moreover he is grieved that he is not double, triple, or quadruple, and hath not many soules, or sundry wils, that he might conferre them all upon this subject. common friendships may bee divided; a man may love beauty in one, facility of behaviour in another, liberality in one, and wisdome in another, paternity in this, fraternity in that man, and so forth: but this amitie which possesseth the soule, and swaies it in all sovereigntie, it is impossible it should be double. if two at one instant should require helpe, to which would you run? should they crave contrary offices of you, what order would you follow? should one commit a matter to your silence, which if the other knew would greatly profit him, what course would you take? or how would you discharge your selfe? a singular and principall friendship dissolveth all other duties, and freeth all other obligations. the secret i have sworne not to reveale to another, i may without perjurie impart it unto him, who is no other but my selfe. it is a great and strange wonder for a man to double himselfe; and those that talke of tripling know not, nor cannot reach into the height of it. "nothing is extreme that hath his like." and he who shal presuppose that of two i love the one as wel as the other, and that they enter-love [footnote: love mutually.] one another, and love me as much as i love them: he multiplied! in brotherhood, a thing most singular, and a lonely one, and than which one alone is also the rarest to be found in the world. the remainder of this history agreeth very wel with what i said; for, eudamidas giveth us a grace and favor to his friends to employ them in his need: he leaveth them as his heires of his liberality, which consisteth in putting the meanes into their hands to doe him good. and doubtlesse the force of friendship is much more richly shewen in his deed than in aretheus. to conclude, they are imaginable effects to him that hath not tasted them; and which makes me wonderfully to honor the answer of that young souldier to cyrus, who enquiring of him what he would take for a horse with which he had lately gained the prize of a race, and whether he would change him for a kingdome? "no surely, my liege (said he), yet would i willingly forgot him to game a true friend, could i but finde a man worthy of so precious an alliance." he said not ill, in saying "could i but finde." for, a man shall easily finde men fit for a superficiall acquaintance; but in this, wherein men negotiate from the very centre of their harts, and make no spare of any thing, it is most requisite all the wards and springs be sincerely wrought and perfectly true. in confederacies, which hold but by one end, men have nothing to provide for, but for the imperfections, which particularly doe interest and concerne that end and respect. it is no great matter what religion my physician or lawyer is of: this consideration hath nothing common with the offices of that friendship they owe mee. so doe i in the familiar acquaintances that those who serve me contract with me. i am nothing inquisitive whether a lackey be chaste or no, but whether he be diligent: i feare not a gaming muletier, so much as if he be weake: nor a hot swearing cooke, as one that is ignorant and unskilfull; i never meddle with saying what a man should doe in the world; there are over many others that doe it; but what my selfe doe in the world. mihi sic usus est: tibi, ut opus est facto, face [footnote: ter. heau. act. i. sc. i, .] so is it requisite for me: doe thou as needfull is for thee. concerning familiar table-talke, i rather acquaint my selfe with and follow a merry conceited [footnote: fanciful] humour, than a wise man: and in bed i rather prefer beauty than goodnesse; and in society or conversation of familiar discourse, i respect rather sufficiency, though without preud'hommie, [footnote: probity.] and so of all things else. even as he that was found riding upon an hobby-horse, playing with his children besought him who thus surprized him not to speake of it untill he were a father himselfe, supposing the tender fondnesse and fatherly passion which then would posesse his minde should make him an impartiall judge of such an action; so would i wish to speake to such as had tried what i speake of: but knowing how far such an amitie is from the common use, and how seld scene and rarely found, i looke not to finde a competent judge. for, even the discourses, which sterne antiquitie hath left us concerning this subject, seeme to me but faint and forcelesse in respect of the feeling i have of it; and in that point the effects exceed the very precepts of philosophie. nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. [footnote: hor. . i. sat. vii. ] for me, be i well in my wit, nought, as a merry friend, so fit. ancient menander accounted him happy that had but met the shadow of a true friend: verily he had reason to say so, especially if he had tasted of any: for truly, if i compare all the rest of my forepassed life, which although i have, by the meere mercy of god, past at rest and ease, and except the losse of so deare a friend, free from all grievous affliction, with an ever-quietnesse of minde, as one that have taken my naturall and originall commodities in good payment, without searching any others: if, as i say, i compare it all unto the foure yeares i so happily enjoied the sweet company and deare- deare society of that worthy man, it is nought but a vapour, nought but a darke and yrkesome light. since the time i lost him, quem semper acerbum, semper honoratum (sic dii voluistis) habebo, [footnote: virg. aen. iii. .] which i shall ever hold a bitter day, yet ever honour'd (so my god t' obey), i doe but languish, i doe but sorrow: and even those pleasures, all things present me with, in stead of yeelding me comfort, doe but redouble the griefe of his losse. we were copartners in all things. all things were with us at halfe; me thinkes i have stolne his part from him. --nee fas esse iilla me voluptate hic frui decrevi, tantisper dum ille abest meus particeps. [footnote: ter. heau. act. i. sc. i, .] i have set downe, no joy enjoy i may, as long as he my partner is away. i was so accustomed to be ever two, and so enured [footnote: accustomed] to be never single, that me thinks i am but halfe my selfe. illam mea si partem animce tulit, maturior vis, quid moror altera. nec charus aeque nec superstes, integer? ille dies utramque duxit ruinam. [footnote: hor. . ii. od. xvii.] since that part of my soule riper fate reft me, why stay i heere the other part he left me? nor so deere, nor entire, while heere i rest: that day hath in one mine both opprest. there is no action can betide me, or imagination possesse me, but i heare him saying, as indeed he would have done to me: for even as he did excell me by an infinite distance in all other sufficiencies and vertues, so did he in all offices and duties of friendship. quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus, tam chari capitis? [footnote: id. . i. od. xxiv.] what modesty or measure may i beare, in want and wish of him that was so deare? o misero frater adempte mihi! omnia tecum una perieruni gaudia nostra. qua tuus in vita dulcis alebat amor. [footnote: catul. eleg. iv. , , , .] tu mea, tu moriens fregisti commoda frater. [footnote: ib. .] tecum una tota est nostra sepulta anima, cujus ego interitu tota de mente fugavi hac studia, atque omnes delicias animi [footnote: catul. bl. iv. .] alloquar? audiero nunquam tua verba loquentem? [footnote: ib. .] nunquam ego te vita frater amabilior, aspiciam posthac? at certe semper amabo. [footnote: el. i. .] o brother rest from miserable me, all our delights are perished with thee, which thy sweet love did nourish in my breath. thou all my good hast spoiled in thy death: with thee my soule is all and whole enshrinde, at whose death i have cast out of my minde all my mindes sweet-meats, studies of this kinde; never shall i, heare thee speake, speake with thee? thee brother, than life dearer, never see? yet shalt them ever be belov'd of mee. but let us a little feare this yong man speake, being but sixteene yeares of age. because i have found this worke to have since beene published (and to an ill end) by such as seeke to trouble and subvert the state of our common-wealth, nor caring whether they shall reforme it or no; which they have fondly inserted among other writings of their invention, i have revoked my intent, which was to place it here. and lest the authors memory should any way be interessed with those that could not thoroughly know his opinions and actions, they shall understand that this subject was by him treated of in his infancie, only by way of exercise, as a subject, common, bareworne, and wyer- drawne in a thousand bookes. i will never doubt but he beleeved what he writ, and writ as he thought: for hee was so conscientious that no lie did ever passe his lips, yea were it but in matters of sport or play: and i know, that had it beene in his choyce, he would rather have beene borne at venice than at sarlac; and good, reason why: but he had another maxime deepely imprinted in his minde, which was, carefully to obey, and religiously to submit himselfe to the lawes, under which he was borne. there was never a better citizen, nor more affected to the welfare and quietnesse of his countrie, nor a sharper enemie of the changes, innovations, newfangles, and hurly- burlies of his time: he would more willingly have imployed the utmost of his endevours to extinguish and suppresse, than to favour or further them: his minde was modelled to the patterne of other best ages. but yet in exchange of his serious treatise, i will here set you downe another, more pithie, materiall, and of more consequence, by him likewise produced at that tender age. of books i make no doubt but it shall often befall me to speake of things which are better, and with more truth, handled by such as are their crafts-masters. here is simply an essay of my natural faculties, and no whit of those i have acquired. and he that shall tax me with ignorance shall have no great victory at my hands; for hardly could i give others reasons for my discourses that give none unto my selfe, and am not well satisfied with them. he that shall make search after knowledge, let him seek it where it is there is nothing i professe lesse. these are but my fantasies by which i endevour not to make things known, but my selfe. they may haply one day be knowne unto me, or have bin at other times, according as fortune hath brought me where they were declared or manifested. but i remember them no more. and if i be a man of some reading, yet i am a man of no remembering, i conceive no certainty, except it bee to give notice how farre the knowledge i have of it doth now reach. let no man busie himselfe about the matters, but on the fashion i give them. let that which i borrow be survaied, and then tell me whether i have made good choice of ornaments to beautifie and set foorth the invention which ever comes from mee. for i make others to relate (not after mine owne fantasie but as it best falleth out) what i cannot so well expresse, either through unskill of language or want of judgement. i number not my borrowings, but i weigh them. and if i would have made their number to prevail, i would have had twice as many. they are all, or almost all, of so famous and ancient names, that me thinks they sufficiently name themselves without mee. if in reasons, comparisons, and arguments, i transplant any into my soile, or confound them with mine owne, i purposely conceale the author, thereby to bridle the rashnesse of these hastie censures that are so headlong cast upon all manner of compositions, namely young writings of men yet living; and in vulgare that admit all the world to talke of them, and which seemeth to convince the conception and publike designe alike. i will have them to give plutarch a barb [footnote: thrust, taunt] upon mine own lips, and vex themselves in wronging seneca in mee. my weaknesse must be hidden under such great credits. i will love him that shal trace or unfeather me; i meane through clearenesse of judgement, and by the onely distinction of the force and beautie of my discourses. for my selfe, who for want of memorie am ever to seeke how to trie and refine them by the knowledge of their country, knowe perfectly, by measuring mine owne strength, that my soyle is no way capable of some over-pretious flowers that therein i find set, and that all the fruits of my increase could not make it amends. this am i bound to answer for if i hinder my selfe, if there be either vanitie or fault in my discourses that i perceive not or am not able to discerne if they be showed me. for many faults do often escape our eyes; but the infirmitie of judgement consisteth in not being able to perceive them when another discovereth them unto us. knowledge and truth may be in us without judgement, and we may have judgment without them: yea, the acknowledgement of ignorance is one of the best and surest testimonies of judgement that i can finde. i have no other sergeant of band to marshall my rapsodies than fortune. and looke how my humours or conceites present themselves, so i shuffle them up. sometimes they prease out thicke and three fold, and other times they come out languishing one by one. i will have my naturall and ordinarie pace scene as loose and as shuffling as it is. as i am, so i goe on plodding. and besides, these are matters that a man may not be ignorant of, and rashly and casually to speake of them. i would wish to have a more perfect understanding of things, but i will not purchase it so deare as it cost. my intention is to passe the remainder of my life quietly and not laboriously, in rest and not in care. there is nothing i will trouble or vex myselfe about, no not for science it selfe, what esteeme soever it be of. i doe not search and tosse over books but for an honester recreation to please, and pastime to delight my selfe: or if i studie, i only endevour to find out the knowledge that teacheth or handleth the knowledge of my selfe, and which may instruct me how to die well and how to live well. has meus ad metas sudet oportet equus. [footnote: propeet. . iv. el. i. ] my horse must sweating runne, that this goale may be wonne. if in reading i fortune to meet with any difficult points, i fret not my selfe about them, but after i have given them a charge or two, i leave them as i found them. should i earnestly plod upon them, i should loose both time and my selfe, for i have a skipping wit. what i see not at the first view, i shall lesse see it if i opinionate my selfe upon it. i doe nothing without blithnesse; and an over obstinate continuation and plodding contention doth dazle, dul, and wearie the same: my sight is thereby confounded and diminished. i must therefore withdraw it, and at fittes goe to it againe. even as to judge well of the lustre of scarlet we are taught to cast our eyes over it, in running over by divers glances, sodaine glimpses and reiterated reprisings. [footnote: repeated observations.] if one booke seeme tedious unto me i take another, which i follow not with any earnestnesse, except it be at such houres as i am idle, or that i am weary with doing nothing. i am not greatly affected to new books, because ancient authors are, in my judgement, more full and pithy: nor am i much addicted to greeke books, forasmuch as my understanding cannot well rid [footnote: accomplish.] his worke with a childish and apprentise intelligence. amongst moderne bookes meerly pleasant, i esteeme bocace his decameron, rabelais, and the kisses of john the second (if they may be placed under this title), worth the paines-taking to reade them. as for amadis and such like trash of writings, they had never the credit so much as to allure my youth to delight in them. this i will say more, either boldly or rashly, that this old and heavie-pased minde of mine will no more be pleased with aristotle, or tickled with good ovid: his facility and quaint inventions, which heretofore have so ravished me, they can now a days scarcely entertaine me. i speake my minde freely of all things, yea, of such as peradventure exceed my sufficiencie, and that no way i hold to be of my jurisdiction. what my conceit is of them is told also to manifest the proportion of my insight, and not the measure of things. if at any time i finde my selfe distasted of platoes axiochus, as of a forceles worke, due regard had to such an author, my judgement doth nothing beleeve it selfe: it is not so fond-hardy, or selfe-conceited, as it durst dare to oppose it selfe against the authority of so many other famous ancient judgements, which he reputeth his regents and masters, and with whom hee had rather erre. he chafeth with, and condemneth himselfe, either to rely on the superficiall sense, being unable to pierce into the centre, or to view the thing by some false lustre. he is pleased only to warrant himselfe from trouble and unrulinesse: as for weaknesse, he acknowledgeth and ingeniously avoweth the same. he thinks to give a just interpretation to the apparences which his conception presents unto him, but they are shallow and imperfect. most of aesopes fables have divers senses, and severall interpretations: those which mythologize them, chuse some kinde of colour well suting with the fable; but for the most part, it is no other than the first and superficiall glosse: there are others more quicke, more sinnowie, more essentiall, and more internall, into which they could never penetrate; and thus thinke i with them. but to follow my course, i have ever deemed that in poesie, virgil, lucretius, catullus, and horace, doe doubtles by far hold the first ranke: and especially virgil in his georgiks, which i esteeme to be the most accomplished peece of worke of poesie: in comparison of which one may easily discerne, that there are some passages in the aeneidos to which the author (had he lived) would no doubt have given some review or correction: the fifth booke whereof is (in my mind) the most absolutely perfect. i also love lucan, and willingly read him, not so much for his stile, as for his owne worth and truth of his opinion and judgement. as for good terence, i allow the quaintnesse and grace of his latine tongue, and judge him wonderfull conceited and apt, lively to represent the motions and passions of the minde, and the condition of our manners: our actions make me often remember him. i can never reade him so often but still i discover some new grace and beautie in him. those that lived about virgil's time, complained that some would compare lucretius unto him. i am of opinion that verily it is an unequall comparison; yet can i hardly assure my selfe in this opinion whensoever i finde my selfe entangled in some notable passage of lucretius. if they were moved at this comparison, what would they say now of the fond, hardy and barbarous stupiditie of those which now adayes compare ariosto unto him? nay, what would ariosto say of it himselfe? o seclum insipiens et infacetutn. [footnote: catul. epig, xl. .] o age that hath no wit, and small conceit in it. i thinke our ancestors had also more reason to cry out against those that blushed not to equall plautus unto terence (who makes more show to be a gentleman) than lucretius unto virgil. this one thing doth greatly advantage the estimation and preferring of terence, that the father of the roman eloquence, of men of his quality doth so often make mention of him; and the censure [footnote: opinion.] which the chiefe judge of the roman poets giveth of his companion. it hath often come unto my minde, how such as in our dayes give themselves to composing of comedies (as the italians who are very happy in them) employ three or foure arguments of terence and plautus to make up one of theirs. in one onely comedy they will huddle up five or six of bocaces tales. that which makes them so to charge themselves with matter, is the distrust they have of their owne sufficiency, and that they are not able to undergoe so heavie a burthen with their owne strength. they are forced to finde a body on which they may rely and leane themselves: and wanting matter of their owne wherewith to please us, they will have the story or tale to busie and ammuse us: where as in my authors it is cleane contrary: the elegancies, the perfections and ornaments of his manner of speech, make us neglect and lose the longing for his subject. his quaintnesse and grace doe still retaine us to him. he is every where pleasantly conceited, [footnote: full of pleasant notions.] liquidus puroque simillimus amni [footnote: hor. . ii. epist. ii. .] so clearely-neate, so neately-cleare, as he a fine-pure river were, and doth so replenish our minde with his graces that we forget those of the fable. the same consideration drawes me somewhat further. i perceive that good and ancient poets have shunned the affectation and enquest, not only of fantasticall, new fangled, spagniolized, and petrarchisticall elevations, but also of more sweet and sparing inventions, which are the ornament of all the poeticall workes of succeeding ages. yet is there no competent judge that findeth them wanting in those ancient ones, and that doth not much more admire that smoothly equall neatnesse, continued sweetnesse, and flourishing comelinesse of catullus his epigrams, than all the sharpe quips and witty girds wherewith martiall doth whet and embellish the conclusions of his. it is the same reason i spake of erewhile, as martiall of himselfe. minus illi ingenio laborandum fuit, in cuius locum materia successerat. [footnote: mart. praf. . viii.] "he needed the lesse worke with his wit, in place whereof matter came in supply." the former without being moved or pricked cause themselves to be heard lowd enough: they have matter to laugh at every where, and need not tickle themselves; where as these must have foraine helpe: according as they have lesse spirit, they must have more body. they leape on horsebacke, because they are not sufficiently strong in their legs to march on foot. even as in our dances, those base conditioned men that keepe dancing-schooles, because they are unfit to represent the port and decencie of our nobilitie, endevour to get commendation by dangerous lofty trickes, and other strange tumbler-like friskes and motions. and some ladies make a better shew of their countenances in those dances, wherein are divers changes, cuttings, turnings, and agitations of the body, than in some dances of state and gravity, where they need but simply to tread a naturall measure, represent an unaffected cariage, and their ordinary grace; and as i have also seene some excellent lourdans, or clownes, attired in their ordinary worky-day clothes, and with a common homely countenance, affoord us all the pleasure that may be had from their art: but prentises and learners that are not of so high a forme, besmeare their faces, to disguise themselves, and in motions counterfeit strange visages and antickes, to enduce us to laughter. this my conception is no where better discerned than in the comparison betweene virgils aeneidos and orlando furioso. the first is seene to soare aloft with full-spread wings, and with so high and strong a pitch, ever following his point; the other faintly to hover and flutter from tale to tale, and as it were skipping from bough to bough, always distrusting his owne wings, except it be for some short flight, and for feare his strength and breath should faile him, to sit downe at every fields- end; excursusque breves tentat. [footnote: virg. aen. . iv. .] out-lopes [footnote: wanderings out.] sometimes he doth assay, but very short, and as he may. loe here then, concerning this kinde of subjects, what authors please me best: as for my other lesson, which somewhat more mixeth profit with pleasure, whereby i learne to range my opinions and addresse my conditions, the bookes that serve me thereunto are plutarke (since he spake [footnote: was translated by angot] french) and seneca; both have this excellent commodity for my humour, that the knowledge i seeke in them is there so scatteringly and loosely handled, that whosoever readeth them is not tied to plod long upon them, whereof i am uncapable. and so are plutarkes little workes and senecas epistles, which are the best and most profitable parts of their writings. it is no great matter to draw mee to them, and i leave them where i list. for they succeed not and depend not one of another. both jumpe [footnote: agree] and suit together, in most true and profitable opinions: and fortune brought them both into the world in one age. both were tutors unto two roman emperours: both were strangers, and came from farre countries; both rich and mighty in the common-wealth, and in credit with their masters. their instruction is the prime and creame of philosophy, and presented with a plaine, unaffected, and pertinent fashion. plutarke is more uniforme and constant; seneca more waving and diverse. this doth labour, force, and extend himselfe, to arme and strengthen vertue against weaknesse, feare, and vitious desires; the other seemeth nothing so much to feare their force or attempt, and in a manner scorneth to hasten or change his pace about them, and to put himselfe upon his guard. plutarkes opinions are platonicall, gentle and accommodable unto civill societie: senecaes stoicall and epicurian, further from common use, but in my conceit [footnote: opinion.] more proper, particular, and more solid. it appeareth in seneca that he somewhat inclineth and yeeldeth to the tyrannic of the emperors which were in his daies; for i verily believe, it is with a forced judgement he condemneth the cause of those noblie- minded murtherers of caesar; plutarke is every where free and open hearted; seneca full-fraught with points and sallies; plutarke stuft with matters. the former doth move and enflame you more; the latter content, please, and pay you better: this doth guide you, the other drive you on. as for cicero, of all his works, those that treat of philosophie (namely morall) are they which best serve my turne, and square with my intent. but boldly to confess the truth (for, since the bars of impudencie were broken downe, all curbing is taken away), his manner of writing seemeth verie tedious unto me, as doth all such like stuffe. for his prefaces, definitions, divisions, and etymologies consume the greatest part of his works; whatsoever quick, wittie, and pithie conceit is in him is surcharged and confounded by those his long and far-fetcht preambles. if i bestow but one hour in reading them, which is much for me, and let me call to minde what substance or juice i have drawne from him, for the most part i find nothing but wind and ostentation in him; for he is not yet come to the arguments which make for his purpose, and reasons that properly concerne the knot or pith i seek after. these logicall and aristotelian ordinances are not avail full for me, who onely endeavour to become more wise and sufficient, and not more wittie or eloquent. i would have one begin with the last point: i understand sufficiently what death and voluptuousnesse are: let not a man busie himselfe to anatomize them. at the first reading of a booke i seeke for good and solid reasons that may instruct me how to sustaine their assaults. it is neither grammaticall subtilties nor logicall quiddities, nor the wittie contexture of choice words or arguments and syllogismes, that will serve my turne. i like those discourses that give the first charge to the strongest part of the doubt; his are but flourishes, and languish everywhere. they are good for schooles, at the barre, or for orators and preachers, where we may slumber: and though we wake a quarter of an houre after, we may finde and trace him soone enough. such a manner of speech is fit for those judges that a man would corrupt by hooke or crooke, by right or wrong, or for children and the common people, unto whom a man must tell all, and see what the event would be. i would not have a man go about and labour by circumlocutions to induce and winne me to attention, and that (as our heralds or criers do) they shall ring out their words: now heare me, now listen, or ho-yes. [footnote: oyez, hear.] the romanes in their religion were wont to say, "hoc age; [footnote: do this.] "which in ours we say, "sursum corda. [footnote: lift up your hearts.] there are so many lost words for me. i come readie prepared from my house. i neede no allurement nor sawce, my stomacke is good enough to digest raw meat: and whereas with these preparatives and flourishes, or preambles, they thinke to sharpen my taste or stir my stomacke, they cloy and make it wallowish. [footnote: mawkish.] shall the privilege of times excuse me from this sacrilegious boldnesse, to deem platoes dialogismes to be as languishing, by over-filling and stuffing his matter? and to bewaile the time that a man who had so many thousands of things to utter, spends about so many, so long, so vaine, and idle interloqutions, and preparatives? my ignorance shall better excuse me, in that i see nothing in the beautie of his language. i generally enquire after bookes that use sciences, and not after such as institute them. the two first, and plinie, with others of their ranke, have no hoc age in them, they will have to doe with men that have forewarned themselves; or if they have, it is a materiall and substantial! hoc age, and that hath his bodie apart i likewise love to read the epistles and ad atticum, not onely because they containe a most ample instruction of the historic and affaires of his times, but much more because in them i descrie his private humours. for (as i have said elsewhere) i am wonderfull curious to discover and know the minde, the soul, the genuine disposition and naturall judgement of my authors. a man ought to judge their sufficiencie and not their customes, nor them by the shew of their writings, which they set forth on this world's theatre. i have sorrowed a thousand times that ever we lost the booke that brutus writ of vertue. oh it is a goodly thing to learne the theorike of such as understand the practice well. but forsomuch as the sermon is one thing and the preacher an other, i love as much to see brutus in plutarke as in himself: i would rather make choice to know certainly what talk he had in his tent with some of his familiar friends, the night fore-going the battell, than the speech he made the morrow after to his armie; and what he did in his chamber or closet, than what in the senate or market place. as for cicero, i am of the common judgement, that besides learning there was no exquisite [footnote: overelaborate.] eloquence in him: he was a good citizen, of an honest, gentle nature, as are commonly fat and burly men: for so was he: but to speake truly of thim? full of ambitious vanity and remisse niceness. [footnote: ineffectual fastidiousness.] and i know not well how to excuse him, in that he deemed his poesie worthy to be published. it is no great imperfection to make bad verses, but it is an imperfection in him that he never perceived how unworthy they were of the glorie of his name. concerning his eloquence, it is beyond all comparison, and i verily beleeve that none shall ever equall it. cicero the younger, who resembled his father in nothing but in name, commanding in asia, chanced one day to have many strangers at his board, and amongst others, one caestius sitting at the lower end, as the manner is to thrust in at great mens tables: cicero inquired of one of his men what he was, who told him his name, but he dreaming on other matters, and having forgotten what answere his man made him, asked him his name twice or thrice more: the servant, because he would not be troubled to tell him one thing so often, and by some circumstance to make him to know him better, "it is," said he, "the same caestius of whom some have told you that, in respect of his owne, maketh no accompt of your fathers eloquence:" cicero being suddainly mooved, commanded the said poore caestius to be presently taken from the table, and well whipt in his presence: lo heere an uncivill and barbarous host. even amongst those which (all things considered) have deemed his eloquence matchlesse and incomparable, others there have been who have not spared to note some faults in it. as great brutus said, that it was an eloquence broken, halting, and disjoynted, fractam et elumbem: "incoherent and sinnowlesse." those orators that lived about his age, reproved also in him the curious care he had of a certaine long cadence at the end of his clauses, and noted these words, esse videatur, which he so often useth. as for me, i rather like a cadence that falleth shorter, cut like iambikes: yet doth he sometimes confounde his numbers, [footnote: confuse his rhythm.] but it is seldome: i have especially observed this one place: "ego vero me minus diu senem esse mallem, quam esse senem, antequam essem? [footnote: cic. de senect.] "but i had rather not be an old man, so long as i might be, than to be old before i should be." historians are my right hand, for they are pleasant and easie; and therewithall the man with whom i desire generally to be acquainted may more lively and perfectly be discovered in them than in any other composition: the varictic and truth of his inward conditions, in grosse and by retale: the diversitie of the meanes of his collection and composing, and of the accidents that threaten him. now those that write of mens lives, forasmuch as they ammuse and busie themselves more about counsels than events, more about that which commeth from within than that which appeareth outward; they are fittest for me: and that's the reason why plutarke above all in that kind doth best please me. indeed i am not a little grieved that we have not a dozen of laertius, or that he is not more knowne, or better understood; for i am no lesse curious to know the fortunes and lives of these great masters of the world than to understand the diversitie of their decrees and conceits. in this kind of studie of historie a man must, without distinction, tosse and turne over all sorts of authors, both old and new, both french and others, if he will learne the things they so diversly treat of. but me thinkes that caesar above all doth singularly deserve to be studied, not onely for the understanding of the historie as of himselfe; so much perfection and excellencie is there in him more than in others, although salust be reckoned one of the number. verily i read that author with a little more reverence and respects than commonly men reade profane and humane workes: sometimes considering him by his actions and wonders of his greatnesse, and other times waighing the puritie and inimitable polishing and elegancie of his tongue, which (as cicero saith) hath not onely exceeded all historians, but haply cicero himselfe: with such sinceritie in his judgement, speaking of his enemies, that except the false colours wherewith he goeth about to cloake his bad cause, and the corruption and filthinesse of his pestilent ambition, i am perswaded there is nothing in him to be found fault with: and that he hath been over-sparing to speake of himselfe; for so many notable and great things could never be executed by him, unlesse he had put more of his owne into them than he setteth downe. i love those historians that are either very simple or most excellent. the simple who have nothing of their owne to adde unto the storie and have but the care and diligence to collect whatsoever come to their knowledge, and sincerely and faithfully to register all things, without choice or culling, by the naked truth leave our judgment more entire and better satisfied. such amongst others (for examples sake) plaine and well-meaning froissard, who in his enterprise hath marched with so free and genuine a puritie, that having committed some oversight, he is neither ashamed to acknowledge nor afraid to correct the same, wheresoever he hath either notice or warning of it; and who representeth unto us the diversitie of the newes then current and the different reports that were made unto him. the subject of an historie should be naked, bare, and formelesse; each man according to his capacitie or understanding may reap commoditie out of it. the curious and most excellent have the sufficiencie to cull and chuse that which is worthie to be knowne and may select of two relations that which is most likely: from the condition of princes and of their humours, they conclude their counsels and attribute fit words to them: they assume a just authoritie and bind our faith to theirs. but truly that belongs not to many. such as are betweene both (which is the most common fashion), it is they that spoil all; they will needs chew our meat for us and take upon them a law to judge, and by consequence to square and encline the storie according to their fantasie; for, where the judgement bendeth one way, a man cannot chuse but wrest and turne his narration that way. they undertake to chuse things worthy to bee knowne, and now and then conceal either a word or a secret action from us, which would much better instruct us: omitting such things as they understand not as incredible: and haply such matters as they know not how to declare, either in good latin or tolerable french. let them boldly enstall their eloquence and discourse: let them censure at their pleasure, but let them also give us leave to judge after them: and let them neither alter nor dispense by their abridgements and choice anything belonging to the substance of the matter; but let them rather send it pure and entire with all her dimensions unto us. most commonly (as chiefly in our age) this charge of writing histories is committed unto base, ignorant, and mechanicall kind of people, only for this consideration that they can speake well; as if we sought to learne the grammer of them; and they have some reason, being only hired to that end, and publishing nothing but their tittle-tattle to aime at nothing else so much. thus with store of choice and quaint words, and wyre drawne phrases, they huddle up and make a hodge-pot of a laboured contexture of the reports which they gather in the market places or such other assemblies. the only good histories are those that are written by such as commanded or were imploied themselves in weighty affaires or that were partners in the conduct of them, or that at least have had the fortune to manage others of like qualitie. such in a manner are all the graecians and romans. for many eye-witnesses having written of one same subject (as it hapned in those times when greatnesse and knowledge did commonly meet) if any fault or over-sight have past them, it must be deemed exceeding light and upon some doubtful accident. what may a man expect at a phisitians hand that discourseth of warre, or of a bare scholler treating of princes secret designes? if we shall but note the religion which the romans had in that, wee need no other example: asinius pollio found some mistaking or oversight in caesars commentaries, whereinto he was falne, only because he could not possiblie oversee all things with his owne eyes that hapned in his armie, but was faine to rely on the reports of particular men, who often related untruths unto him: or else because he had not been curiously advertized [footnote: minutely informed.] and distinctly enformed by his lieutenants and captaines of such matters as they in his absence had managed or effected. whereby may be seen that nothing is so hard or so uncertaine to be found out as the certaintie of the truth, sithence [footnote: since.] no man can put any assured confidence concerning the truth of a battel, neither in the knowledge of him that was generall or commanded over it, nor in the soldiers that fought, of anything that hath hapned amongst them; except after the manner of a strict point of law, the severall witnesses are brought and examined face to face, and that all matters be nicely and thorowly sifted by the objects and trials of the successe of every accident. verily the knowledge we have of our owne affaires is much more barren and feeble. but this hath sufficiently been handled by bodin, and agreeing with my conception. somewhat to aid the weaknesse of my memorie and to assist her great defects; for it hath often been my chance to light upon bookes which i supposed to be new and never to have read, which i had not understanding diligently read and run over many years before, and all bescribled with my notes; i have a while since accustomed my selfe to note at the end of my booke (i meane such as i purpose to read but once) the time i made an end to read it, and to set downe what censure or judgement i gave of it; that so it may at least at another time represent unto my mind the aire and generall idea i had conceived of the author in reading him. i will here set downe the copie of some of my annotations, and especially what i noted upon my guicciardine about ten yeares since: (for what language soever my books speake unto me i speake unto them in mine owne.) he is a diligent historiographer and from whom in my conceit a man may as exactly learne the truth of such affaires as passed in his time, as of any other writer whatsoever: and the rather because himselfe hath been an actor of most part of them and in verie honourable place. there is no signe or apparance that ever he disguised or coloured any matter, either through hatred, malice, favour, or vanitie; whereof the free and impartiall judgements he giveth of great men, and namely of those by whom he had been advanced or imployed in his important charges, as of pope clement the seaventh, beareth undoubted testimony. concerning the parts wherein he most goeth about to prevaile, which are his digressions and discourses, many of them are verie excellent and enriched with faire ornaments, but he hath too much pleased himselfe in them: for endeavouring to omit nothing that might be spoken, having so full and large a subject, and almost infinite, he proveth somewhat languishing, and giveth a taste of a kind of scholasticall tedious babling. moreover, i have noted this, that of so severall and divers armes, successes, and effects he judgeth of; of so many and variable motives, alterations, and counsels, that he relateth, he never referreth any one unto vertue, religion or conscience: as if they were all extinguished and banished the world. and of all actions how glorious soever in apparance they be of themselves, he doth ever impute the cause of them to some vicious and blame-worthie occasion, or to some commoditie and profit. it is impossible to imagine that amongst so infinite a number of actions whereof he judgeth, some one have not been produced and compassed by way of reason. no corruption could ever possesse men so universally but that some one must of necessity escape the contagion; which makes me to feare he hath had some distaste or blame in his passion, and it hath haply fortuned that he hath judged or esteemed of others according to himselfe. in my philip de comines there is this: in him you shall find a pleasing- sweet and gently-gliding speech, fraught with a purely sincere simplicitie, his narration pure and unaffected, and wherein the authours unspotted good meaning doth evidently appeare, void of all manner of vanitie or ostentation speaking of himselfe, and free from all affection or envie-speaking of others; his discourses and perswasions accompanied more with a well-meaning zeale and meere [footnote: pure.] veritie than with any laboured and exquisite sufficiencie, and allthrough with gravitie and authoritie, representing a man well-borne and brought up in high negotiations. upon the memoires and historic of monsieur du bellay: it is ever a well-pleasing thing to see matters written by those that have as said how and in what manner they ought to be directed and managed: yet can it not be denied but that in both these lords there will manifestly appeare a great declination from a free libertie of writing, which clearely shineth in ancient writers of their kind: as in the lord of louinille, familiar unto saint lewis; eginard, chancellor unto charlemaine; and of more fresh memorie in philip de comines. this is rather a declamation or pleading for king francis against the emperour charles the fifth, than an historic. i will not beleeve they have altered or changed any thing concerning the generalitie of matters, but rather to wrest and turne the judgement of the events many times against reason, to our advantage, and to omit whatsoever they supposed to be doubtful or ticklish in their masters life: they have made a business of it: witnesse the recoylings of the lords of momorancy and byron, which therein are forgotten; and which is more, you shall not so much as find the name of the ladie of estampes mentioned at all. a man may sometimes colour and haply hide secret actions, but absolutely to conceal that which all the world knoweth, and especially such things as have drawne-on publike effects, and of such consequence, it is an inexcusable defect, or as i may say unpardonable oversight. to conclude, whosoever desireth to have perfect information and knowledge of king francis the first, and of the things hapned in his time, let him addresse himselfe elsewhere if he will give any credit unto me. the profit he may reap here is by the particular description of the battels and exploits of warre wherein these gentlemen were present; some privie conferences, speeches, or secret actions of some princes that then lived, and the practices managed, or negotiations directed by the lord of langeay, in which doubtless are verie many things well worthy to be knowne, and diverse discourses not vulgare. montaigne what is a classic? by charles-augustin sainte-beuve translated by e. lee introductory note charles augustin sainte-beuve, the foremost french critic of the nineteenth century, and, in the view of many, the greatest literary critic of the world, was born at boulogne-sur-mer, december , . he studied medicine, but soon abandoned it for literature; and before he gave himself up to criticism he made some mediocre attempts in poetry and fiction. he became professor at the college de france and the ecole normale and was appointed senator in . a course of lectures given at lausanne in resulted in his great "histoire de port-royal" and another given at liege in his "chateaubriand et son groupe litteraire." but his most famous productions were his critical essays published periodically in the "constitutionnel" the "moniteur" and the "temps" later collected in sets under the names of "critiques et portraits litteraires" "portraits contemporains" "causeries du lundi" and "nouveaux lundis." at the height of his vogue, these monday essays were events of european importance. he died in . sainte-beuve's work was much more than literary criticism as that type of writing had been generally conceived before his time. in place of the mere classification of books and the passing of a judgment upon them as good or bad, he sought to illuminate and explain by throwing light on a literary work from a study of the life, circumstances, and aim of the writer, and by a comparison with the literature of other times and countries. thus his work was historical, psychological, and ethical, as well as esthetic, and demanded vast learning and a literary outlook of unparalleled breadth. in addition to this equipment he had fine taste and an admirable style; and by his universality, penetration, and balance he raised to a new level the profession of critic. montaigne while the good ship france is taking a somewhat haphazard course, getting into unknown seas, and preparing to double what the pilots (if there is a pilot) call the stormy cape, while the look-out at the mast-head thinks he sees the spectre of the giant adamastor rising on the horizon, many honourable and peaceable men continue their work and studies all the same, and follow out to the end, or as far as they can, their favourite hobbies. i know, at the present time, a learned man who is collating more carefully than has ever yet been done the different early editions of rabelais--editions, mark you, of which only one copy remains, of which a second is not to be found: from the careful collation of the texts some literary and maybe philosophical result will be derived with regard to the genius of the french lucian-aristophanes. i know another scholar whose devotion and worship is given to a very different man--to bossuet: he is preparing a complete, exact, detailed history of the life and works of the great bishop. and as tastes differ, and "human fancy is cut into a thousand shapes" (montaigne said that), montaigne also has his devotees, he who, himself, was so little of one: a sect is formed round him. in his lifetime he had mademoiselle de gournay, his daughter of alliance, who was solemnly devoted to him; and his disciple, charron, followed him closely, step by step, only striving to arrange his thoughts with more order and method. in our time amateurs, intelligent men, practice the religion under another form: they devote themselves to collecting the smallest traces of the author of the essays, to gathering up the slightest relics, and dr. payen may be justly placed at the head of the group. for years he has been preparing a book on montaigne, of which the title will be--"michel de montaigne, a collection of unedited or little known facts about the author of the essays, his book, and his other writings, about his family, his friends, his admirers, his detractors." while awaiting the conclusion of the book, the occupation and amusement of a lifetime, dr. payen keeps us informed in short pamphlets of the various works and discoveries made about montaigne. if we separate the discoveries made during the last five or six years from the jumble of quarrels, disputes, cavilling, quackery, and law-suits (for there have been all those), they consist in this- - in m. mace found in the (then) royal library, amongst the "collection du puys," a letter of montaigne, addressed to the king, henri iv., september , . in m. payen printed a letter, or a fragment of a letter of montaigne of february , , a letter corrupt and incomplete, coming from the collection of the comtesse boni de castellane. but, most important of all, in , m. horace de viel-castel found in london, at the british museum, a remarkable letter of montaigne, may , , when mayor of bordeaux, addressed to m. de matignon, the king's lieutenant in the town. the great interest of the letter is that it shows montaigne for the first time in the full discharge of his office with all the energy and vigilance of which he was capable. the pretended idler was at need much more active than he was ready to own. m. detcheverry, keeper of the records to the mayoralty of bordeaux, found and published ( ) a letter of montaigne, while mayor, to the jurats, or aldermen of the town, july , . m. achille jubinal found among the manuscripts of the national library, and published ( ), a long, remarkable letter from montaigne to the king, henri iv., january , , which happily coincides with that already found by m. mace. lastly, to omit nothing and do justice to all, in a "visit to montaigne's chateau in perigord," of which the account appeared in , m. bertrand de saint-germain described the place and pointed out the various greek and latin inscriptions that may still be read in montaigne's tower in the third-storey chamber (the ground floor counting as the first), which the philosopher made his library and study. m. payen, collecting together and criticising in his last pamphlet the various notices and discoveries, not all of equal importance, allowed himself to be drawn into some little exaggeration of praise; but we cannot blame him. admiration, when applied to such noble, perfectly innocent, and disinterested subjects, is truly a spark of the sacred fire: it produces research that a less ardent zeal would quickly leave aside, and sometimes leads to valuable results. however, it would be well for those who, following m. payen's example, intelligently understand and greatly admire montaigne, to remember, even in their ardour, the advice of the wise man and the master. "there is more to do," said he, speaking of the commentators of his time, "in interpreting the interpretations than in interpreting the things themselves; and more bdoks about books than on any other subject. we do nothing, but everything swarms with commentators; of authors there is a great rarity." authors are of great price and very scared at all times--that is to say, authors who really increase the sum of human knowledge. i should like all who write on montaigne, and give us the details of their researches and discoveries, to imagine one thing,--montaigne himself reading and criticising them. "what would he think of me and the manner in which i am going to speak of him to the public?" if such a question was put, how greatly it would suppress useless phrases and shorten idle discussions! m. payen's last pamphlet was dedicated to a man who deserves equally well of montaigne--m. gustave brunet, of bordeaux. he, speaking of m. payen, in a work in which he pointed out interesting and various corrections of montaigne's text, said: "may he soon decide to publish the fruits of his researches: he will have left nothing for future montaignologues" montaignologues! great heaven! what would montaigne say of such a word coined in his honour? you who occupy yourselves so meritoriously with him, but who have, i think, no claim to appropriate him to yourselves, in the name of him whom you love, and whom we all love by a greater or lesser title, never, i beg of you, use such words; they smack of the brotherhood and the sect, of pedantry and of the chatter of the schools--things utterly repugnant to montaigne. montaigne had a simple, natural, affable mind, and a very happy disposition. sprung from an excellent father, who, though of no great education, entered with real enthusiasm into the movement of the renaissance and all the liberal novelties of his time, the son corrected the excessive enthusiasm, vivacity, and tenderness he inherited by a great refinement and justness of reflection; but he did not abjure the original groundwork. it is scarcely more than thirty years ago that whenever the sixteenth century was mentioned it was spoken of as a barbarous epoch, montaigne only excepted: therein lay error and ignorance. the sixteenth century was a great century, fertile, powerful, learned, refined in parts, although in some aspects it was rough, violent, and seemingly coarse. what it particularly lacked was taste, if by taste is meant the faculty of clear and perfect selection, the extrication of the elements of the beautiful. but in the succeeding centuries taste quickly became distaste. if, however, in literature it was crude, in the arts properly so-called, in those of the hand and the chisel, the sixteenth century, even in france, is, in the quality of taste, far greater than the two succeeding centuries: it is neither meagre nor massive, heavy nor distorted. in art its taste is rich and of fine quality,--at once unrestrained and complex, ancient and modern, special to itself and original. in the region of morals it is unequal and mixed. it was an age of contrasts, of contrasts in all their crudity, an age of philosophy and fanaticism, of scepticism and strong faith. everything was at strife and in collision; nothing was blended and united. everything was in ferment; it was a period of chaos; every ray of light caused a storm. it was not a gentle age, or one we can call an age of light, but an age of struggle and combat. what distinguished montaigne and made a phenomenon of him was, that in such an age he should have possessed moderation, caution, and order. born on the last day of february, , taught the ancient languages as a game while still a child, waked even in his cradle by the sound of musical instruments, he seemed less fitted for a rude and violent epoch than for the commerce and sanctuary of the muses. his rare good sense corrected what was too ideal and poetical in his early education; but he preserved the happy faculty of saying everything with freshness and wit. married, when past thirty, to an estimable woman who was his companion for twenty-eight years, he seems to have put passion only into friendship. he immortalised his love for etienne de la boetie, whom he lost after four years of the sweetest and closest intimacy. for some time counsellor in the parliament of bordeaux, montaigne, before he was forty, retired from public life, and flung away ambition to live in his tower of montaigne, enjoying his own society and his own intellect, entirely given up to his own observations and thoughts, and to the busy idleness of which we know all the sports and fancies. the first edition of the essays appeared in , consisting of only two books, and in a form representing only the first rough draft of what we have in the later editions. the same year montaigne set out on a voyage to switzerland and italy. it was during that voyage that the aldermen of bordeaux elected him mayor of their town. at first he refused and excused himself, but warned that it would be well to accept, and enjoined by the king, he took the office, "the more beautiful," he said, "that there was neither renunciation nor gain other than the honour of its performance." he filled the office for four years, from july to july , being re-elected after the first two years. thus montaigne, at the age of fifty, and a little against his will, re- entered public life when the country was on the eve of civil disturbances which, quieted and lulled to sleep for a while, broke out more violently at the cry of the league. although, as a rule, lessons serve for nothing, since the art of wisdom and happiness cannot be taught, let us not deny ourselves the pleasure of listening to montaigne; let us look on his wisdom and happiness; let him speak of public affairs, of revolutions and disturbances, and of his way of conducting himself with regard to them. we do not put forward a model, but we offer our readers an agreeable recreation. although montaigne lived in so agitated and stormy a time, a period that a man who had lived through the terror (m. daunou) called the most tragic century in all history, he by no means regarded his age as the worst of ages. he was not of those prejudiced and afflicted persons, who, measuring everything by their visual horizon, valuing everything according to their present sensations, alway declare that the disease they suffer from is worse than any ever before experienced by a human being. he was like socrates, who did not consider himself a citizen of one city but of the world; with his broad and full imagination he embraced the universality of countries and of ages; he even judged more equitably the very evils of which he was witness and victim. "who is it," he said, "that, seeing the bloody havoc of these civil wars of ours, does not cry out that the machine of the world is near dissolution, and that the day of judgment is at hand, without considering that many worse revolutions have been seen, and that, in the mean time, people are being merry in a thousand other parts of the earth for all this? for my part, considering the license and impunity that always attend such commotions, i admire they are so moderate, and that there is not more mischief done. to him who feels the hailstones patter about his ears, the whole hemisphere appears to be in storm and tempest." and raising his thoughts higher and higher, reducing his own suffering to what it was in the immensity of nature, seeing there not only himself but whole kingdoms as mere specks in the infinite, he added in words which foreshadowed pascal, in words whose outline and salient points pascal did not disdain to borrow: "but whoever shall represent to his fancy, as in a picture, that great image of our mother nature, portrayed in her full majesty and lustre, whoever in her face shall read so general and so constant a variety, whoever shall observe himself in that figure, and not himself but a whole kingdom, no bigger than the least touch or prick of a pencil in comparison of the whole, that man alone is able to value things according to their true estimate and grandeur." thus montaigne gives us a lesson, a useless lesson, but i state it all the same, because among the many unprofitable ones that have been written down, it is perhaps of greater worth than most. i do not mean to underrate the gravity of the circumstances in which france is just now involved, for i believe there is pressing need to bring together all the energy, prudence, and courage she possesses in order that the country may come out with honour [footnote: this essay appeared april , ]. however, let us reflect, and remember that, leaving aside the empire, which as regards internal affairs was a period of calm, and before of prosperity, we who utter such loud complaints, lived in peace from to , fifteen long years; that the three days of july only inaugurated another order of things that for eighteen years guaranteed peace and in dustrial prosperity; in all, thirty-two years of repose. stormy days came; tempests burst, and will doubtless burst again. let us learn how to live through them, but do not let us cry out every day, as we are disposed to do, that never under the sun were such storms known as we are enduring. to get away from the present state of feeling, to restore lucidity and proportion to our judgments, let us read every evening a page of montaigne. a criticism of montaigne on the men of his day struck me, and it bears equally well on those of ours. our philosopher says somewhere that he knows a fair number of men possessing various good qualities--one, intelligence; another, heart; another, address, conscience or knowledge, or skill in languages, each has his share: "but of a great man as a whole, having so many good qualities together, or one with such a degree of excellence that we ought to admire him, or compare him with those we honour in the past, my fortune has never shown me one." he afterwards made an exception in favour of his friend etienne de la boetie, but he belonged to the company of great men dead before attaining maturity, and showing promise without having time to fulfil it. montaigne's criticism called up a smile. he did not see a true and wholly great man in his time, the age of l'hopital, coligny, and the guises. well! how does ours seem to you? we have as many great men as in montaigne's time, one distinguished for his intellect, another for his heart, a third for skill, some (a rare thing) for conscience, many for knowledge and language. but we too lack the perfect man, and he is greatly to be desired. one of the most intelligent observers of our day recognised and proclaimed it some years ago: "our age," said m. de remusat, "is wanting in great men." [footnote: essais de philosophie, vol. i, p. ] how did montaigne conduct himself in his duties as first magistrate of a great city? if we take him literally and on a hasty first glance we should believe he discharged them slackly and languidly. did not horace, doing the honours to himself, say that in war he one day let his shield fall (relicta non bene parmula)? we must not be in too great a hurry to take too literally the men of taste who have a horror of over-estimating themselves. minds of a fine quality are more given to vigilance and to action than they are apt to confess. the man who boasts and makes a great noise, will, i am almost sure, be less brave in the combat than horace, and less vigilant at the council board than montaigne. on entering office montaigne was careful to warn the aldermen of bordeaux not to expect to find in him more than there really was; he presented himself to them without affectation. "i represented to them faithfully and conscientiously all that i felt myself to be,--a man without memory, without vigilance, without experience, and without energy; but also, without hate, without ambition, without avarice, and without violence." he should be sorry, while taking the affairs of the town in hand, that his feelings should be so strongly affected as those of his worthy father had been, who in the end had lost his place and health. the eager and ardent pledge to satisfy an impetuous desire was not his method. his opinion was "that you must lend yourself to others, and only give yourself to yourself." and repeating his thought, according to his custom in all kinds of metaphors and picturesque forms, he said again that if he some times allowed himself to be urged to the management of other men's affairs, he promised to take them in hand, not "into my lungs and liver." we are thus forewarned, we know what to expect. the mayor and montaigne were two distinct persons; under his role and office he reserved to himself a certain freedom and secret security. he continued to judge things in his own fashion and impartially, although acting loyally for the cause confided to him. he was far from approving or even excusing all he saw in his party, and he could judge his adversaries and say of them: "he did that thing wickedly, and this virtuously." "i would have," he added, "matters go well on our side; but if they do not, i shall not run mad. i am heartily for the right party; but i do not affect to be taken notice of for an especial enemy to others." and he entered into some details and applications which at that time were piquant. let us remark, however, in order to explain and justify his somewhat extensive profession of impartiality, that the chiefs of the party then in evidence, the three henris, were famous and considerable men on several counts: henri, duke of guise, head of the league; henri, king of navarre, leader of the opposition; and the king henri iii. in whose name montaigne was mayor, who wavered between the two. when parties have neither chief nor head, when they are known by the body only, that is to say, in their hideous and brutal reality, it is more difficult and also more hazardous to be just towards them and to assign to each its share of action. the principle which guided him in his administration was to look only at the fact, at the result, and to grant nothing to noise and outward show: "how much more a good effect makes a noise, so much i abate of the goodness of it." for it is always to be feared that it was more performed for the sake of the noise than upon the account of goodness: "being exposed upon the stall, 'tis half sold." that was not montaigne's way: he made no show; he managed men and affairs as quietly as he could; he employed in a manner useful to all alike the gifts of sincerity and conciliation; the personal attraction with which nature endowed him was a quality of the highest value in the management of men. he preferred to warn men of evil rather than to take on himself the honour of repressing it: "is there any one who desires to be sick that he may see his physician's practice? and would not that physician deserve to be whipped who should wish the plague amongst us that he might put his art into practice?" far from desiring that trouble and disorder in the affairs of the city should rouse and honour his govern ment, he had ever willingly, he said, contributed all he could to their tranquillity and ease. he is not of those whom municipal honours intoxicate and elate, those "dignities of office" as he called them, and of which all the noise "goes from one cross-road to another." if he was a man desirous of fame, he recognised that it was of a kind greater than that. i do not know, however, if even in a vaster field he would have changed his method and manner of proceed ing. to do good for the public imperceptibly would always seem to him the ideal of skill and the culminating point of happiness. "he who will not thank me," he said, "for the order and quiet calm that has accompanied my administration, cannot, however, deprive me of the share that belongs to me by the title of my good fortune." and he is inexhaustible in describing in lively and graceful expressions the kinds of effective and imperceptible services he believed he had rendered--services greatly superior to noisy and glorious deeds: "actions which come from the workman's hand carelessly and noiselessly have most charm, that some honest man chooses later and brings from their obscurity to thrust them into the light for their own sake." thus fortune served montaigne to perfection, and even in his administration of affairs, in difficult conjunctures, he never had to belie his maxim, nor to step very far out of the way of life he had planned: "for my part i commend a gliding, solitary, and silent life." he reached the end of his magistracy almost satisfied with himself, having accomplished what he had promised himself, and much more than he had promised others. the letter lately discovered by m. horace de viel-castel corroborates the chapter in which montaigne exhibits and criticises himself in the period of his public life. "that letter," says m. payen, "is entirely on affairs. montaigne is mayor; bordeaux, lately disturbed, seems threatened by fresh agitations; the king's lieutenant is away. it is wednesday, may , ; it is night, montaigne is wakeful, and writes to the governor of the province." the letter, which is of too special and local an interest to be inserted here, may be summed up in these words:--montaigne regretted the absence of marshal de matignon, and feared the consequences of its prolongation; he was keeping, and would continue to keep, him acquainted with all that was going on, and begged him to return as soon as his circumstances would permit. "we are looking after our gates and guards, and a little more carefully in your absence. . . . if anything important and fresh occurs, i shall send you a messenger immediately, so that if you hear no news from me, you may consider that nothing has happened." he begs m. de matignon to remember, however, that he might not have time to warn him, "entreating you to consider that such movements are usually so sudden, that if they do occur they will take me by the throat without any warning." besides, he will do everything to ascertain the march of events beforehand. "i will do what i can to hear news from all parts, and to that end shall visit and observe the inclinations of all sorts of men." lastly, after keeping the marshal informed of everything, of the least rumours abroad in the city, he pressed him to return, assuring him "that we spare neither our care, nor, if need be, our lives to preserve everything in obedience to the king." montaigne was never prodigal of protestations and praises, and what with others was a mere form of speech, was with him a real undertaking and the truth. things, however, became worse and worse: civil war broke out; friendly or hostile parties (the difference was not great) infested the country. montaigne, who went to his country house as often as he could, whenever the duties of his office, which was drawing near its term, did not oblige him to be in bordeaux, was exposed to every sort of insult and outrage. "i underwent," he said, "the inconveniences that moderation brings along with it in such a disease. i was pitied on all hands; to the ghibelline i was a guelph, and to the guelph a ghibelline." in the midst of his personal grievances he could disengage and raise his thoughts to reflections on the public misfortunes and on the degradation of men's characters. considering closely the disorder of parties, and all the abject and wretched things which developed so quickly, he was ashamed to see leaders of renown stoop and debase themselves by cowardly complacency; for in those circumstances we know, like him, "that in the word of command to march, draw up, wheel, and the like, we obey him indeed; but all the rest is dissolute and free." "it pleases me," said montaigne ironically, "to observe how much pusillanimity and cowardice there is in ambition; by how abject and servile ways it must arrive at its end." despising ambition as he did, he was not sorry to see it unmasked by such practices and degraded in his sight. however, his goodness of heart overcoming his pride and contempt, he adds sadly, "it displeases me to see good and generous natures, and that are capable of justice, every day corrupted in the management and command of this confusion. . . . we had ill-contrived souls enough without spoiling those that were generous and good." he rather sought in that misfortune an opportunity and motive for fortifying and strengthening himself. attacked one by one by many disagreeables and evils, which he would have endured more cheerfully in a heap--that is to say, all at once- -pursued by war, disease, by all the plagues (july ), in the course things were taking, he already asked himself to whom he and his could have recourse, of whom he could ask shelter and subsistence for his old age; and having looked and searched thoroughly all around, he found himself actually destitute and ruined. for, "to let a man's self fall plumb down, and from so great a height, it ought to be in the arms of a solid, vigorous, and fortunate friendship. they are very rare, if there be any." speaking in such a manner, we perceive that la boetie had been some time dead. then he felt that he must after all rely on himself in his distress, and must gain strength; now or never was the time to put into practice the lofty lessons he spent his life in collecting from the books of the philosophers. he took heart again, and attained all the height of his virtue: "in an ordinary and quiet time, a man prepares himself for moderate and common accidents; but in the confusion wherein we have been for these thirty years, every frenchman, whether in particular or in general, sees himself every hour upon the point of the total ruin and overthrow of his fortune." and far from being discouraged and cursing fate for causing him to be born in so stormy an age, he suddenly congratulated himself: "let us thank fortune that has not made us live in an effeminate, idle and languishing age." since the curiosity of wise men seeks the past for disturbances in states in order to learn the secrets of history, and, as we should say, the whole physiology of the body social, "so does my curiosity," he declares, "make me in some sort please myself with seeing with my own eyes this notable spectacle of our public death, its forms and symptoms; and, seeing i could not hinder it, am content to be destined to assist in it, and thereby to instruct myself." i shall not suggest a consolation of that sort to most people; the greater part of mankind does not possess the heroic and eager curiosity of empedocles and the elder pliny, the two intrepid men who went straight to the volcanoes and the disturbances of nature to examine them at close quarters, at the risk of destruction and death. but to a man of montaigne's nature, the thought of that stoical observation gave him consolation even amid real evils. considering the condition of false peace and doubtful truce, the regime of dull and profound corruption which had preceded the last disturbances, he almost congratulated himself on seeing their cessation; for "it was," he said of the regime of henri iii., "an universal juncture of particular members, rotten to emulation of one another, and the most of them with inveterate ulcers, that neither required nor admitted of any cure. this conclusion therefore did really more animate than depress me." note that his health, usually delicate, is here raised to the level of his morality, although what it had suffered through the various disturbances might have been enough to undermine it. he had the satisfaction of feeling that he had some hold against fortune, and that it would take a greater shock still to crush him. another consideration, humbler and more humane, upheld him in his troubles, the consolation arising from a common misfortune, a misfortune shared by all, and the sight of the courage of others. the people, especially the real people, they who are victims and not robbers, the peasants of his district, moved him by the manner in which they endured the same, or even worse, troubles than his. the disease or plague which raged at that time in the country pressed chiefly on the poor; montaigne learned from them resignation and the practice of philosophy. "let us look down upon the poor people that we see scattered upon the face of the earth, prone and intent upon their business, that neither know aristotle nor cato, example nor precept. even from these does nature every day extract effects of constancy and patience, more pure and manly than those we so inquisitively study in the schools." and he goes on to describe them working to the bitter end, even in their grief, even in disease, until their strength failed them. "he that is now digging in my garden has this morning buried his father, or his son. . . . they never keep their beds but to die." the whole chapter is fine, pathetic, to the point, evincing noble, stoical elevation of mind, and also the cheerful and affable disposition which montaigne said, with truth, was his by inheritance, and in which he had been nourished. there could be nothing better as regards "consolation in public calamities," except a chapter of some not more human, but of some truly divine book, in which the hand of god should be everywhere visible, not perfunctorily, as with montaigne, but actually and lovingly present. in fact, the consolation montaigne gives himself and others is perhaps as lofty and beautiful as human consolation without prayer can be. he wrote the chapter, the twelfth of the third book, in the midst of the evils described, and before they were ended. he concluded it in his graceful and poetical way with a collection of examples, "a heap of foreign flowers," to which he furnished only the thread for fastening them together. there is montaigne to the life; no matter how seriously he spoke, it was always with the utmost charm. to form an opinion on his style you have only to open him indifferently at any page and listen to his talk on any subject; there is none that he did not enliven and make suggestive. in the chapter "of liars," for instance, after enlarging on his lack of memory and giving a list of reasons by which he might console himself, he suddenly added this fresh and delightful reason, that, thanks to his faculty for forgetting, "the places i revisit, and the books i read over again, always smile upon me with a fresh novelty." it is thus that on every subject he touched he was continually new, and created sources of freshness. montesquieu, in a memorable exclamation, said: "the four great poets, plato, malebranche, shaftesbury, montaigne!" how true it is of montaigne! no french writer, including the poets proper, had so lofty an idea of poetry as he had. "from my earliest childhood," he said, "poetry had power over me to transport and transpierce me." he considered, and therein shows penetration, that "we have more poets than judges and interpreters of poetry. it is easier to write than to understand." in itself and its pure beauty his poetry defies definition; whoever desired to recognise it at a glance and discern of what it actually consisted would see no more than "the brilliance of a flash of lightning." in the constitution and continuity of his style, montaigne is a writer very rich in animated, bold similes, naturally fertile in metaphors that are never detached from the thought, but that seize it in its very centre, in its interior, that join and bind it. in that respect, fully obeying his own genius, he has gone beyond and some times exceeded the genius of language. his concise, vigorous and always forcible style, by its poignancy, emphasises and repeats the meaning. it may be said of his style that it is a continual epigram, or an ever-renewed metaphor, a style that has only been successfully employed by the french once, by montaigne himself. if we wanted to imitate him, supposing we had the power and were naturally fitted for it--if we desired to write with his severity, exact proportion, and diverse continuity of figures and turns--it would be necessary to force our language to be more powerful, and poetically more complete, than is usually our custom. style a la montaigne, consistent, varied in the series and assortment of the metaphors, exacts the creation of a portion of the tissue itself to hold them. it is absolutely necessary that in places the woof should be enlarged and extended, in order to weave into it the metaphor; but in defining him i come almost to write like him. the french language, french prose, which in fact always savours more or less of conversation, does not, naturally, possess the resources and the extent of canvas necessary for a continued picture: by the side of an animated metaphor it will often exhibit a sudden lacuna and some weak places. in filling this by boldness and invention as montaigne did, in creating, in imagining the expression and locution that is wanting, our prose should appear equally finished. style a la montaigne would, in many respects, be openly at war with that of voltaire. it could only come into being and flourish in the full freedom of the sixteenth century, in a frank, ingenious, jovial, keen, brave, and refined mind, of an unique stamp, that even for that time, seemed free and somewhat licentious, and that was inspired and emboldened, but not intoxicated by the pure and direct spirit of ancient sources. such as he is, montaigne is the french horace; he is horatian in the groundwork, often in the form and expression, although in that he sometimes approaches seneca. his book is a treasure-house of moral observations and of experience; at whatever page it is opened, and in what ever condition of mind, some wise thought expressed in a striking and enduring fashion is certain to be found. it will at once detach itself and engrave itself on the mind, a beautiful meaning in full and forcible words, in one vigorous line, familiar or great. the whole of his book, said etienne pasquier, is a real seminary of beautiful and remarkable sentences, and they come in so much the better that they run and hasten on without thrusting them selves into notice. there is something for every age, for every hour of life: you cannot read in it for any time without having the mind filled and lined as it were, or, to put it better, fully armed and clothed. we have just seen how much useful counsel and actual consolation it contains for an honourable man, born for private life, and fallen on times of disturbance and revolution. to this i shall add the counsel he gave those who, like myself and many men of my acquaintance, suffer from political disturbances without in any way provoking them, or believing ourselves capable of averting them. montaigne, as horace would have done, counsels them, while apprehending everything from afar off, not to be too much preoccupied with such matters in advance; to take advantage to the end of pleasant moments and bright intervals. stroke on stroke come his piquant and wise similes, and he concludes, to my thinking, with the most delightful one of all, and one, besides, entirely appropriate and seasonable: it is folly and fret, he said, "to take out your furred gown at saint john because you will want it at christmas." what is a classic? a delicate question, to which somewhat diverse solutions might be given according to times and seasons. an intelligent man suggests it to me, and i intend to try, if not to solve it, at least to examine and discuss it face to face with my readers, were it only to persuade them to answer it for themselves, and, if i can, to make their opinion and mine on the point clear. and why, in criticism, should we not, from time to time, venture to treat some of those subjects which are not personal, in which we no longer speak of some one but of some thing? our neighbours, the english, have well succeeded in making of it a special division of literature under the modest title of "essays." it is true that in writing of such subjects, always slightly abstract and moral, it is advisable to speak of them in a season of quiet, to make sure of our own attention and of that of others, to seize one of those moments of calm moderation and leisure seldom granted our amiable france; even when she is desirous of being wise and is not making revolutions, her brilliant genius can scarcely tolerate them. a classic, according to the usual definition, is an old author canonised by admiration, and an authority in his particular style. the word classic was first used in this sense by the romans. with them not all the citizens of the different classes were properly called classici, but only those of the chief class, those who possessed an income of a certain fixed sum. those who possessed a smaller income were described by the term infra classem, below the preeminent class. the word classicus was used in a figurative sense by aulus gellius, and applied to writers: a writer of worth and distinction, classicus assiduusque scriptor, a writer who is of account, has real property, and is not lost in the proletariate crowd. such an expression implies an age sufficiently advanced to have already made some sort of valuation and classification of literature. at first the only true classics for the moderns were the ancients. the greeks, by peculiar good fortune and natural enlightenment of mind, had no classics but themselves. they were at first the only classical authors for the romans, who strove and contrived to imitate them. after the great periods of roman literature, after cicero and virgil, the romans in their turn had their classics, who became almost exclusively the classical authors of the centuries which followed. the middle ages, which were less ignorant of latin antiquity than is believed, but which lacked proportion and taste, confused the ranks and orders. ovid was placed above homer, and boetius seemed a classic equal to plato. the revival of learning in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries helped to bring this long chaos to order, and then only was admiration rightly proportioned. thenceforth the true classical authors of greek and latin antiquity stood out in a luminous background, and were harmoniously grouped on their two heights. meanwhile modern literatures were born, and some of the more precocious, like the italian, already possessed the style of antiquity. dante appeared, and, from the very first, posterity greeted him as a classic. italian poetry has since shrunk into far narrower bounds; but, whenever it desired to do so, it always found again and preserved the impulse and echo of its lofty origin. it is no indifferent matter for a poetry to derive its point of departure and classical source in high places; for example, to spring from dante rather than to issue laboriously from malherbe. modern italy had her classical authors, and spain had every right to believe that she also had hers at a time when france was yet seeking hers. a few talented writers en dowed with originality and exceptional animation, a few brilliant efforts, isolated, without following, interrupted and recommenced, did not suffice to endow a nation with a solid and imposing basis of literary wealth. the idea of a classic implies something that has continuance and consistence, and which produces unity and tradition fashions and transmits itself, and endures. it was only after the glorious years of louis xiv. that the nation felt with tremor and pride that such good fortune had happened to her. every voice in formed louis xiv. of it with flattery, exaggeration, and emphasis, yet with a certain sentiment of truth. then arose a singular and striking contradiction: those men of whom perrauit was the chief, the men who were most smitten with the marvels of the age of louis the great, who even went the length of sacrificing the ancients to the moderns, aimed at exalting and canonising even those whom they regarded as inveterate opponents and adversaries. boileau avenged and angrily upheld the ancients against perrault, who extolled the moderns--that is to say, corneille, moliere, pascal, and the eminent men of his age, boileau, one of the first, included. kindly la fontaine, taking part in the dispute in behalf of the learned huet, did not perceive that, in spite of his defects, he was in his turn on the point of being held as a classic himself. example is the best definition. from the time france possessed her age of louis xiv. and could contemplate it at a little distance, she knew, better than by any arguments, what to be classical meant. the eighteenth century, even in its medley of things, strengthened this idea through some fine works, due to its four great men. read voltaire's age of louis xiv., montesquieu's greatness and fall of the romans, buffon's epochs of nature, the beautiful pages of reverie and natural description of rousseau's savoyard vicar, and say if the eighteenth century, in these memorable works, did not understand how to reconcile tradition with freedom of development and independence. but at the be ginning of the present century and under the empire, in sight of the first attempts of a decidedly new and somewhat adventurous literature, the idea of a classic in a few resist ing minds, more sorrowful than severe, was strangely nar rowed and contracted. the first dictionary of the academy ( ) merely defined a classical author as "a much-approved ancient writer, who is an authority as regards the subject he treats." the dictionary of the academy of narrows that definition still more, and gives precision and even limit to its rather vague form. it describes classical authors as those "who have become models in any language whatever," and in all the articles which follow, the expressions, models, fixed rules for composition and style, strict rules of art to which men must conform, continually recur. that definition of classic was evidently made by the respectable academicians, our predecessors, in face and sight of what was then called romantic--that is to say, in sight of the enemy. it seems to me time to renounce those timid and restrictive definitions and to free our mind of them. a true classic, as i should like to hear it defined, is an author who has enriched the human mind, increased its treasure, and caused it to advance a step; who has discovered some moral and not equivocal truth, or revealed some eternal passion in that heart where all seemed known and discovered; who has expressed his thought, observation, or invention, in no matter what form, only provided it be broad and great, refined and sensible, sane and beautiful in itself; who has spoken to all in his own peculiar style, a style which is found to be also that of the whole world, a style new without neologism, new and old, easily contemporary with all time. such a classic may for a moment have been revolutionary; it may at least have seemed so, but it is not; it only lashed and subverted whatever prevented the restoration of the balance of order and beauty. if it is desired, names may be applied to this definition which i wish to make purposely majestic and fluctuating, or in a word, all- embracing. i should first put there corneille of the polyeucte, cinna, and horaces. i should put moliere there, the fullest and most complete poetic genius we have ever had in france. goethe, the king of critics, said:-- "moliere is so great that he astonishes us afresh every time we read him. he is a man apart; his plays border on the tragic, and no one has the courage to try and imitate him. his avare, where vice destroys all affection between father and son, is one of the most sublime works, and dramatic in the highest degree. in a drama every action ought to be important in itself, and to lead to an action greater still. in this respect tartuffe is a model. what a piece of exposition the first scene is! from the beginning everything has an important meaning, and causes something much more important to be foreseen. the exposition in a certain play of lessing that might be mentioned is very fine, but the world only sees that of tartuffe once. it is the finest of the kind we possess. every year i read a play of moliere, just as from time to time i contemplate some engraving after the great italian masters." i do not conceal from myself that the definition of the classic i have just given somewhat exceeds the notion usually ascribed to the term. it should, above all, include conditions of uniformity, wisdom, moderation, and reason, which dominate and contain all the others. having to praise m. royer-collard, m. de remusat said--"if he derives purity of taste, propriety of terms, variety of expression, attentive care in suiting the diction to the thought, from our classics, he owes to himself alone the distinctive character he gives it all." it is here evident that the part allotted to classical qualities seems mostly to depend on harmony and nuances of expression, on graceful and temperate style: such is also the most general opinion. in this sense the pre-eminent classics would be writers of a middling order, exact, sensible, elegant, always clear, yet of noble feeling and airily veiled strength. marie-joseph chenier has described the poetics of those temperate and accomplished writers in lines where he shows himself their happy disciple:-- "it is good sense, reason which does all,--virtue, genius, soul, talent, and taste.--what is virtue? reason put in practice;--talent? reason expressed with brilliance;--soul? reason delicately put forth;--and genius is sublime reason." while writing those lines he was evidently thinking of pope, boileau, and horace, the master of them all. the peculiar characteristic of the theory which subordinated imagination and feeling itself to reason, of which scaliger perhaps gave the first sign among the moderns, is, properly speaking, the latin theory, and for a long time it was also by preference the french theory. if it is used appositely, if the term reason is not abused, that theory possesses some truth; but it is evident that it is abused, and that if, for instance, reason can be confounded with poetic genius and make one with it in a moral epistle, it cannot be the same thing as the genius, so varied and so diversely creative in its expression of the passions, of the drama or the epic. where will you find reason in the fourth book of the aeneid and the transports of dido? be that as it may, the spirit which prompted the theory, caused writers who ruled their inspiration, rather than those who abandoned themselves to it, to be placed in the first rank of classics; to put virgil there more surely than homer, racine in preference to corneille. the masterpiece to which the theory likes to point, which in fact brings together all conditions of prudence, strength, tempered boldness, moral elevation, and grandeur, is athalie. turenne in his two last campaigns and racine in athalie are the great examples of what wise and prudent men are capable of when they reach the maturity of their genius and attain their supremest boldness. buffon, in his discourse on style, insisting on the unity of design, arrangement, and execution, which are the stamps of true classical works, said:--"every subject is one, and however vast it is, it can be comprised in a single treatise. interruptions, pauses, sub- divisions should only be used when many subjects are treated, when, having to speak of great, intricate, and dissimilar things, the march of genius is interrupted by the multiplicity of obstacles, and contracted by the necessity of circumstances: otherwise, far from making a work more solid, a great number of divisions destroys the unity of its parts; the book appears clearer to the view, but the author's design remains obscure." and he continues his criticism, having in view montesquieu's spirit of laws, an excellent book at bottom, but sub-divided: the famous author, worn out before the end, was unable to infuse inspiration into all his ideas, and to arrange all his matter. however, i can scarcely believe that buffon was not also thinking, by way of contrast, of bossuet's discourse on universal history, a subject vast indeed, and yet of such an unity that the great orator was able to comprise it in a single treatise. when we open the first edition, that of , before the division into chapters, which was introduced later, passed from the margin into the text, very thing is developed in a single series, almost in one breath. it might be said that the orator has here acted like the nature of which buffon speaks, that "he has worked on an eternal plan from which he has nowhere departed," so deeply does he seem to have entered into the familiar counsels and designs of providence. are athalie and the discourse on universal history the greatest masterpieces that the strict classical theory can present to its friends as well as to its enemies? in spite of the admirable simplicity and dignity in the achievement of such unique productions, we should like, nevertheless, in the interests of art, to expand that theory a little, and to show that it is possible to enlarge it without relaxing the tension. goethe, whom i like to quote on such a subject, said:-- "i call the classical healthy, and the romantic sickly. in my opinion the nibelungen song is as much a classic as homer. both are healthy and vigorous. the works of the day are romantic, not because they are new, but because they are weak, ailing, or sickly. ancient works are classical not because they are old, but because they are powerful, fresh, and healthy. if we regarded romantic and classical from those two points of view we should soon all agree." indeed, before determining and fixing the opinions on that matter, i should like every unbiassed mind to take a voyage round the world and devote itself to a survey of different literatures in their primitive vigour and infinite variety. what would be seen? chief of all a homer, the father of the classical world, less a single distinct individual than the vast living expression of a whole epoch and a semi-barbarous civilisation. in order to make him a true classic, it was necessary to attribute to him later a design, a plan, literary invention, qualities of atticism and urbanity of which he had certainly never dreamed in the luxuriant development of his natural inspirations. and who appear by his side? august, venerable ancients, the aeschyluses and the sophocles, mutilated, it is true, and only there to present us with a debris of themselves, the survivors of many others as worthy, doubtless, as they to survive, but who have succumbed to the injuries of time. this thought alone would teach a man of impartial mind not to look upon the whole of even classical literatures with a too narrow and restricted view; he would learn that the exact and well-proportioned order which has since so largely prevailed in our admiration of the past was only the outcome of artificial circumstances. and in reaching the modern world, how would it be? the greatest names to be seen at the beginning of literatures are those which disturb and run counter to certain fixed ideas of what is beautiful and appropriate in poetry. for example, is shakespeare a classic? yes, now, for england and the world; but in the time of pope he was not considered so. pope and his friends were the only pre-eminent classics; directly after their death they seemed so for ever. at the present time they are still classics, as they deserve to be, but they are only of the second order, and are for ever subordinated and relegated to their rightful place by him who has again come to his own on the height of the horizon. it is not, however, for me to speak ill of pope or his great disciples, above all, when they possess pathos and naturalness like goldsmith: after the greatest they are perhaps the most agreeable writers and the poets best fitted to add charm to life. once when lord bolingbroke was writing to swift, pope added a postscript, in which he said--"i think some advantage would result to our age, if we three spent three years together." men who, without boasting, have the right to say such things must never be spoken of lightly: the fortunate ages, when men of talent could propose such things, then no chimera, are rather to be envied. the ages called by the name of louis xiv. or of queen anne are, in the dispassionate sense of the word, the only true classical ages, those which offer protection and a favourable climate to real talent. we know only to well how in our untrammelled times, through the instability and storminess of the age, talents are lost and dissipated. nevertheless, let us acknowledge our age's part and superiority in greatness. true and sovereign genius triumphs over the very difficulties that cause others to fail: dante, shakespeare, and milton were able to attain their height and produce their imperishable works in spite of obstacles, hardships and tempests. byron's opinion of pope has been much discussed, and the explanation of it sought in the kind of contradiction by which the singer of don juan and childe harold extolled the purely classical school and pronounced it the only good one, while himself acting so differently. goethe spoke the truth on that point when he remarked that byron, great by the flow and source of poetry, feared that shakespeare was more powerful than himself in the creation and realisation of his characters. "he would have liked to deny it; the elevation so free from egoism irritated him; he felt when near it that he could not display himself at ease. he never denied pope, because he did not fear him; he knew that pope was only a low wall by his side." if, as byron desired, pope's school had kept the supremacy and a sort of honorary empire in the past, byron would have been the first and only poet in his particular style; the height of pope's wall shuts out shakespeare's great figure from sight, whereas when shakespeare reigns and rules in all his greatness, byron is only second. in france there was no great classic before the age of louis xiv.; the dantes and shakespeares, the early authorities to whom, in times of emancipation, men sooner or later return, were wanting. there were mere sketches of great poets, like mathurin regnier, like rabelais, without any ideal, without the depth of emotion and the seriousness which canonises. montaigne was a kind of premature classic, of the family of horace, but for want of worthy surroundings, like a spoiled child, he gave himself up to the unbridled fancies of his style and humour. hence it happened that france, less than any other nation, found in her old authors a right to demand vehemently at a certain time literary liberty and freedom, and that it was more difficult for her, in enfranchising herself, to remain classical. however, with moliere and la fontaine among her classics of the great period, nothing could justly be refused to those who possessed courage and ability. the important point now seems to me to be to uphold, while extending, the idea and belief. there is no receipt for making classics; this point should be clearly recognised. to believe that an author will become a classic by imitating certain qualities of purity, moderation, accuracy, and elegance, independently of the style and inspiration, is to believe that after racine the father there is a place for racine the son; dull and estimable role, the worst in poetry. further, it is hazardous to take too quickly and without opposition the place of a classic in the sight of one's contemporaries; in that case there is a good chance of not retaining the position with posterity. fontanes in his day was regarded by his friends as a pure classic; see how at twenty-five years' distance his star has set. how many of these precocious classics are there who do not endure, and who are so only for a while! we turn round one morning and are surprised not to find them standing behind us. madame de sevigne would wittily say they possessed but an evanescent colour. with regard to classics, the least expected prove the best and greatest: seek them rather in the vigorous genius born immortal and flourishing for ever. apparently the least classical of the four great poets of the age of louis xiv. was moliere; he was then applauded far more than he was esteemed; men took delight in him without understanding his worth. after him, la fontaine seemed the least classical: observe after two centuries what is the result for both. far above boileau, even above racine, are they not now unanimously considered to possess in the highest degree the characteristics of an all-embracing morality? meanwhile there is no question of sacrificing or depreciating anything. i believe the temple of taste is to be rebuilt; but its reconstruction is merely a matter of enlargement, so that it may become the home of all noble human beings, of all who have permanently increased the sum of the mind's delights and possessions. as for me, who cannot, obviously, in any degree pretend to be the architect or designer of such a temple, i shall confine myself to expressing a few earnest wishes, to submit, as it were, my designs for the edifice. above all i should desire not to exclude any one among the worthy, each should be in his place there, from shakespeare, the freest of creative geniuses, and the greatest of classics without knowing it, to andrieux, the last of classics in little. "there is more than one chamber in the mansions of my father;" that should be as true of the kingdom of the beautiful here below, as of the kingdom of heaven. homer, as always and everywhere, should be first, likest a god; but behind him, like the procession of the three wise kings of the east, would be seen the three great poets, the three homers, so long ignored by us, who wrote epics for the use of the old peoples of asia, the poets valmiki, vyasa of the hindoos, and firdousi of the persians: in the domain of taste it is well to know that such men exist, and not to divide the human race. our homage paid to what is recognized as soon as perceived, we must not stray further; the eye should delight in a thousand pleasing or majestic spectacles, should rejoice in a thousand varied and surprising combinations, whose apparent confusion would never be without concord and harmony. the oldest of the wise men and poets, those who put human morality into maxims, and those who in simple fashion sung it, would converse together in rare and gentle speech, and would not be surprised at understanding each other's meaning at the very first word. solon, hesiod, theognis, job, solomon, and why not confucius, would welcome the cleverest moderns, la rochefoucauld and la bruyere, who, when listening to them, would say "they knew all that we know, and in repeating life's experiences, we have discovered nothing." on the hill, most easily discernible, and of most accessible ascent, virgil, surrounded by menander, tibullus, terence, fenelon, would occupy himself in discoursing with them with great charm and divine enchantment: his gentle countenance would shine with an inner light, and be tinged with modesty; as on the day when entering the theatre at rome, just as they finished reciting his verses, he saw the people rise with an unanimous movement and pay to him the same homage as to augustus. not far from him, regretting the separation from so dear a friend, horace, in his turn, would preside (as far as so accomplished and wise a poet could preside) over the group of poets of social life who could talk although they sang,--pope, boileau, the one become less irritable, the other less fault-finding. montaigne, a true poet, would be among them, and would give the finishing touch that should deprive that delightful corner of the air of a literary school. there would la fontaine forget himself, and becoming less volatile would wander no more. voltaire would be attracted by it, but while finding pleasure in it would not have patience to remain. a little lower down, on the same hill as virgil, xenophon, with simple bearing, looking in no way like a general, but rather resembling a priest of the muses, would be seen gathering round him the attics of every tongue and of every nation, the addisons, pellissons, vauvenargues--all who feel the value of an easy persuasiveness, an exquisite simplicity, and a gentle negligence mingled with ornament. in the centre of the place, in the portico of the principal temple (for there would be several in the enclosure), three great men would like to meet often, and when they were together, no fourth, however great, would dream of joining their discourse or their silence. in them would be seen beauty, proportion in greatness, and that perfect harmony which appears but once in the full youth of the world. their three names have become the ideal of art--plato, sophocles, and demosthenes. those demi-gods honoured, we see a numerous and familiar company of choice spirits who follow, the cervantes and molieres, practical painters of life, indulgent friends who are still the first of benefactors, who laughingly embrace all mankind, turn man's experience to gaiety, and know the powerful workings of a sensible, hearty, and legitimate joy. i do not wish to make this description, which if complete would fill a volume, any longer. in the middle ages, believe me, dante would occupy the sacred heights: at the feet of the singer of paradise all italy would be spread out like a garden; boccaccio and ariosto would there disport themselves, and tasso would find again the orange groves of sorrento. usually a corner would be reserved for each of the various nations, but the authors would take delight in leaving it, and in their travels would recognise, where we should least expect it, brothers or masters. lucretius, for example, would enjoy discussing the origin of the world and the reducing of chaos to order with milton. but both arguing from their own point of view, they would only agree as regards divine pictures of poetry and nature. such are our classics; each individual imagination may finish the sketch and choose the group preferred. for it is necessary to make a choice, and the first condition of taste, after obtaining knowledge of all, lies not in continual travel, but in rest and cessation from wandering. nothing blunts and destroys taste so much as endless journeyings; the poetic spirit is not the wandering jew. however, when i speak of resting and making choice, my meaning is not that we are to imitate those who charm us most among our masters in the past. let us be content to know them, to penetrate them, to admire them; but let us, the late-comers, endeavour to be ourselves. let us have the sincerity and naturalness of our own thoughts, of our own feelings; so much is always possible. to that let us add what is more difficult, elevation, an aim, if possible, towards an exalted goal; and while speaking our own language, and submitting to the conditions of the times in which we live, whence we derive our strength and our defects, let us ask from time to time, our brows lifted towards the heights and our eyes fixed on the group of honoured mortals: what would that say of us? but why speak always of authors and writings? maybe an age is coming when there will be no more writing. happy those who read and read again, those who in their reading can follow their unrestrained inclination! there comes a time in life when, all our journeys over, our experiences ended, there is no enjoyment more delightful than to study and thoroughly examine the things we know, to take pleasure in what we feel, and in seeing and seeing again the people we love: the pure joys of our maturity. then it is that the word classic takes its true meaning, and is defined for every man of taste by an irresistible choice. then taste is formed, it is shaped and definite; then good sense, if we are to possess it at all, is perfected in us. we have neither more time for experiments, nor a desire to go forth in search of pastures newf we cling to our friends, to those proved by long intercourse. old wine, old books, old friends. we say to ourselves with voltaire in these delightful lines:--"let us enjoy, let us write, let us live, my dear horace!...i have lived longer than you: my verse will not last so long. but on the brink of the tomb i shall make it my chief care--to follow the lessons of your philosophy--to despise death in enjoying life--to read your writings full of charm and good sense--as we drink an old wine which revives our senses." in fact, be it horace or another who is the author preferred, who reflects our thoughts in all the wealth of their maturity, of some one of those excellent and antique minds shall we request an interview at every moment; of some one of them shall we ask a friendship which never deceives, which could not fail us; to some one of them shall we appeal for that sensation of serenity and amenity (we have often need of it) which reconciles us with mankind and with ourselves. the poetry of the celtic races by ernest renan translated by w. g. hutchison introductory note ernest renan was born in , at treguier in brittany. he was educated for the priesthood, but never took orders, turning at first to teaching. he continued his studies in religion and philology, and, after traveling in syria on a government commission, he returned to paris and became professor of hebrew in the college de france, from which he was suspended for a time on account of protests against his heretical teachings. he died in . renan's activity divides itself into two parts. the first culminated in his two great works on the "origins of christianity" and on the "history of israel." as to the scientific value of these books there is difference of opinion, as was to be expected in a treatment of such subjects to the exclusion of the miraculous. but the delicacy and vividness of his portraits of the great personalities of hebrew history, and the acuteness of his analysis of national psychology, are not to be denied. the other part of his work is more miscellaneous, but most of it is in some sense philosophical or autobiographical. believing profoundly in scientific method, renan was unable to find in science a basis for either ethics or metaphysics, and ended in a skepticism often ironical, yet not untinged with mysticism. "he was an amazing writer," says m. faguet, "and disconcerted criticism by the impossibility of explaining his methods of procedure; he was luminous, supple, naturally pliant and yielding; beneath his apparently effeminate grace an extraordinary strength of character would suddenly make itself felt; he had, more than any nineteenth-century writer, the quality of charm; he exercised a caressing innuence which enveloped, and finally conquered, the reader." in no kind of writing was renan's command of style more notable than in the description of scenery; and in his pictures of his native brittany in the essay on "the poetry of the celtic races," as well as in his analysis of national qualities, two of his most characteristic powers are admirably displayed. the poetry of the celtic races every one who travels through the armorican peninsula experiences a change of the most abrupt description, as soon as he leaves behind the district most closely bordering upon the continent, in which the cheerful but commonplace type of face of normandy and maine is continually in evidence, and passes into the true brittany, that which merits its name by language and race. a cold wind arises full of a vague sadness, and carries the soul to other thoughts; the tree-tops are bare and twisted; the heath with its monotony of tint stretches away into the distance; at every step the granite protrudes from a soil too scanty to cover it; a sea that is almost always sombre girdles the horizon with eternal moaning. the same contrast is manifest in the people: to norman vulgarity, to a plump and prosperous population, happy to live, full of its own interests, egoistical as are all these who make a habit of enjoyment, succeeds a timid and reserved race living altogether within itself, heavy in appearance but capable of profound feeling, and of an adorable delicacy in its religious instincts. a like change is apparent, i am told, in passing from england into wales, from the lowlands of scotland, english by language and manners, into the gaelic highlands; and too, though with a perceptible difference, when one buries oneself in the districts of ireland where the race has remained pure from all admixture of alien blood. it seems like entering on the subterranean strata of another world, and one experiences in some measure the impression given us by dante, when he leads us from one circle of his inferno to another. sufficient attention is not given to the peculiarity of this fact of an ancient race living, until our days and almost under our eyes, its own life in some obscure islands and peninsulas in the west, more and more affected, it is true, by external influences, but still faithful to its own tongue, to its own memories, to its own customs, and to its own genius. especially is it forgotten that this little people, now concentrated on the very confines of the world, in the midst of rocks and mountains whence its enemies have been powerless to force it, is in possession of a literature which, in the middle ages, exercised an immense influence, changed the current of european civilisation, and imposed its poetical motives on nearly the whole of christendom. yet it is only necessary to open the authentic monuments of the gaelic genius to be convinced that the race which created them has had its own original manner of feeling and thinking, that nowhere has the eternal illusion clad itself in more seductive hues, and that in the great chorus of humanity no race equals this for penetrative notes that go to the very heart. alas! it too is doomed to disappear, this emerald set in the western seas. arthur will return no more from his isle of faery, and st. patrick was right when he said to ossian, "the heroes that thou weepest are dead; can they be born again?" it is high time to note, before they shall have passed away, the divine tones thus expiring on the horizon before the growing tumult of uniform civilisation. were criticism to set itself the task of calling back these distant echoes, and of giving a voice to races that are no more, would not that suffice to absolve it from the reproach, unreasonably and too frequently brought against it, of being only negative? good works now exist which facilitate the task of him who undertakes the study of these interesting literatures. wales, above all, is distinguished by scientific and literary activity, not always accompanied, it is true, by a very rigorous critical spirit, but deserving the highest praise. there, researches which would bring honour to the most active centres of learning in europe are the work of enthusiastic amateurs. a peasant called owen jones published in - , under the name of the myvyrian archaiology of wales, the precious collection which is to this day the arsenal of cymric antiquities. a number of erudite and zealous workers, aneurin owen, thomas price of crickhowell, william rees, and john jones, following in the footsteps of the myvyrian peasant, set themselves to finish his work, and to profit from the treasures which he had collected. a woman of distinction, lady charlotte guest, charged herself with the task of acquainting europe with the collection of the mabinogion, [footnote: the mabinogion, from the llyfr coch o hergest and other ancient welsh manuscripts, with an english translation and notes. by lady charlotte guest. london and llandovery, - . the word mabinogi (in the plural mabinogion) designates a form of romantic narrative peculiar to wales. the origin and primitive meaning of this word are very uncertain, and lady guest's right to apply it to the whole of the narratives which she has published is open to doubt.] the pearl of gaelic literature, the completest expression of the cymric genius. this magnificent work, executed in twelve years with the luxury that the wealthy english amateur knows how to use in his publications, will one day attest how full of life the consciousness of the celtic races remained in the present century. only indeed the sincerest patriotism could inspire a woman to undertake and achieve so vast a literary monument. scotland and ireland have in like measure been enriched by a host of studies of their ancient history. lastly, our own brittany, though all too rarely studied with the philological and critical rigour now exacted in works of erudition, has furnished celtic antiquities with her share of worthy research. does it not suffice to cite m. de la villemarque, whose name will be henceforth associated among us with these studies, and whose services are so incontestable, that criticism need have no fear of depreciating him in the eyes of a public which has accepted him with so much warmth and sympathy? i. if the excellence of races is to be appreciated by the purity of their blood and the inviolability of their national character, it must needs be admitted that none can vie in nobility with the still surviving remains of the celtic race. [footnote: to avoid all misunderstanding, i ought to point out that by the word celtic i designate here, not the whole of the great race which, at a remote epoch, formed the population of nearly the whole of western europe, but simply the four groups which, in our days, still merit this name, as opposed to the teutons and to the neo-latin peoples. these four groups are: (i) the inhabitants of wales or cambria, and the peninsula of cornwall, bearing even now the ancient name of cymry; ( ) the bretons bretonnants, or dwellers in french brittany speaking bas-breton, who represent an emigration of the cymry from wales; ( ) the gaels of the north of scotland speaking gaelic; ( ) the irish, although a very profound line of demarcation separates ireland from the rest of the celtic family. [it is also necessary to point out that renan in this essay applies the name breton both to the bretons proper, i. e. the inhabitants of brittany, and to the british members of the celtic race.--translator's note.]] never has a human family lived more apart from the world, and been purer from all alien admixture. confined by conquest within forgotten islands and peninsulas, it has reared an impassable barrier against external influences; it has drawn all from itself; it has lived solely on its own capital. from this ersues that powerful individuality, that hatred of the foreigner, which even in our own days has formed the essential feature of the celtic peoples. roman civilisation scarcely reached them, and left among them but few traces. the teutonic invasion drove them back, but did not penetrate them. at the present hour they are still constant in resistance to an invasion dangerous in an altogether different way,- -that of modern civilisation, destructive as it is of local variations and national types. ireland in particular (and herein we perhaps have the secret of her irremediable weakness) is the only country in europe where the native can produce the titles of his descent, and designate with certainty, even in the darkness of prehistoric ages, the race from which he has sprung. it is in this secluded life, in this defiance of all that comes from without, that we must search for the explanation of the chief features of the celtic character. it has all the failings, and all the good qualities, of the solitary man; at once proud and timid, strong in feeling and feeble in action, at home free and unreserved, to the outside world awkward and embarrassed. it distrusts the foreigner, because it sees in him a being more refined than itself, who abuses its simplicity. indifferent to the admiration of others, it asks only one thing, that it should be left to itself. it is before all else a domestic race, fitted for family life and fireside joys. in no other race has the bond of blood been stronger, or has it created more duties, or attached man to his fellow with so much breadth and depth. every social institution of the celtic peoples was in the beginning only an extension of the family. a common tradition attests, to this very day, that nowhere has the trace of this great institution of relationship been better preserved than in brittany. there is a widely-spread belief in that country, that blood speaks, and that two relatives, unknown one to the other, in any part of the world wheresoever it may be, recognise each other by the secret and mysterious emotion which they feel in each other's presence. respect for the dead rests on the same principle. nowhere has reverence for the dead been greater than among the briton peoples; nowhere have so many memories and prayers clustered about the tomb. this is because life is not for these people a personal adventure, undertaken by each man on his own account, and at his own risks and perils; it is a link in a long chain, a gift received and handed on, a debt paid and a duty done. it is easily discernible how little fitted were natures so strongly concentrated to furnish one of those brilliant developments, which imposes the momentary ascendency of a people on the world; and that, no doubt, is why the part played externally by the cymric race has always been a secondary one. destitute of the means of expansion, alien to all idea of aggression and conquest, little desirous of making its thought prevail outside itself, it has only known how to retire so far as space has permitted, and then, at bay in its last place of retreat, to make an invincible resistance to its enemies. its very fidelity has been a useless devotion. stubborn of submission and ever behind the age, it is faithful to its conquerors when its conquerors are no longer faithful to themselves. it was the last to defend its religious independence against rome--and it has become the staunchest stronghold of catholicism; it was the last in france to defend its political independence against the king--and it has given to the world the last royalists. thus the celtic race has worn itself out in resistance to its time, and in the defence of desperate causes. it does not seem as though in any epoch it had any aptitude for political life. the spirit of family stifled within it all attempts at more extended organisation. moreover, it does not appear that the peoples which form it are by themselves susceptible of progress. to them life appears as a fixed condition, which man has no power to alter. endowed with little initiative, too much inclined to look upon themselves as minors and in tutelage, they are quick to believe in destiny and resign themselves to it. seeing how little audacious they are against god, one would scarcely believe this race to be the daughter of japhet. thence ensues its sadness. take the songs of its bards of the sixth century; they weep more defeats than they sing victories. its history is itself only one long lament; it still recalls its exiles, its flights across the seas. if at times it seems to be cheerful, a tear is not slow to glisten behind its smile; it does not know that strange forgetfulness of human conditions and destinies which is called gaiety. its songs of joy end as elegies; there is nothing to equal the delicious sadness of its national melodies. one might call them emanations from on high which, falling drop by drop upon the soul, pass through it like memories of another world. never have men feasted so long upon these solitary delights of the spirit, these poetic memories which simultaneously intercross all the sensations of life, so vague, so deep, so penetrative, that one might die from them, without being able to say whether it was from bitterness or sweetness. the infinite delicacy of feeling which characterises the celtic race is closely allied to its need of concentration. natures that are little capable of expansion are nearly always those that feel most deeply, for the deeper the feeling, the less it tends to express itself. thence we have that charming shamefastness, that veiled and exquisite sobriety, equally far removed from the sentimental rhetoric too familiar to the latin races, and the reflective simplicity of germany, which are so admirably displayed in the ballads published by m. de la villemarque. the apparent reserve of the celtic peoples, often taken for coldness, is due to this inward timidity which makes them believe that a feeling loses half its value if it be expressed; and that the heart ought to have no other spectator than itself. if it be permitted us to assign sex to nations as to individuals, we should have to say without hesitance that the celtic race, especially with regard to its cymric or breton branch, is an essentially feminine race. no human family, i believe, has carried so much mystery into love. no other has conceived with more delicacy the ideal of woman, or been more fully dominated by it. it is a sort of intoxication, a madness, a vertigo. read the strange mabinogi of peredur, or its french imitation parceval le gallois; its pages are, as it were, dewy with feminine sentiment. woman appears therein as a kind of vague vision, an intermediary between man and the supernatural world. i am acquainted with no literature that offers anything analogous to this. compare guinevere or iseult with those scandinavian furies gudrun and chrimhilde, and you will avow that woman such as chivalry conceived her, an ideal of sweetness and loveliness set up as the supreme end of life, is a creation neither classical, nor christian, nor teutonic, but in reality celtic. imaginative power is nearly always proportionate to concentration of feeling, and lack of the external development of life. the limited nature of greek and italian imagination is due to the easy expansiveness of the peoples of the south, with whom the soul, wholly spread abroad, reflects but little within itself. compared with the classical imagination, the celtic imagination is indeed the infinite contrasted with the finite. in the fine mabinogi of the dream of maxem wledig, the emperor maximus beholds in a dream a young maiden so beautiful, that on waking he declares he cannot live without her. for several years his envoys scour the world in search of her; at last she is discovered in brittany. so is it with the celtic race; it has worn itself out in taking dreams for realities, and in pursuing its splendid visions. the essential element in the celt's poetic life is the adventure--that is to say, the pursuit of the unknown, an endless quest after an object ever flying from desire. it was of this that st. brandan dreamed, that peredur sought with his mystic chivalry, that knight owen asked of his subterranean journeyings. this race desires the infinite, it thirsts for it, and pursues it at all costs, beyond the tomb, beyond hell itself. the characteristic failing of the breton peoples, the tendency to drunkenness--a failing which, according to the traditions of the sixth century, was the cause of their disasters--is due to this invincible need of illusion. do not say that it is an appetite for gross enjoyment; never has there been a people more sober and more alien to all sensuality. no, the bretons sought in mead what owen, st. brandan, and peredur sought in their own way,--the vision of the invisible world. to this day in ireland drunkenness forms a part of all saint's day festivals--that is to say, the festivals which best have retained their national and popular aspect. thence arises the profound sense of the future and of the eternal destinies of his race, which has ever borne up the cymry, and kept him young still beside his conquerors who have grown old. thence that dogma of the resurrection of the heroes, which appears to have been one of those that christianity found most difficulty in rooting out. thence celtic messianism, that belief in a future avenger who shall restore cambria, and deliver her out of the hands of her oppressors, like the mysterious leminok promised by merlin, the lez- breiz of the armoricans, the arthur of the welsh. [footnote: m. augustin thierry has finely remarked that the renown attaching to welsh prophecies in the middle ages was due to their steadfastness in affirming the future of their race. (histoire de la conquete d'angleterre.)] the hand that arose from the mere, when the sword of arthur fell therein, that seized it, and brandished it thrice, is the hope of the celtic races. it is thus that little peoples dowered with imagination revenge themselves on their conquerors. feeling themselves to be strong inwardly and weak outwardly, they protest, they exult; and such a strife unloosing their might, renders them capable of miracles. nearly all great appeals to the supernatural are due to peoples hoping against all hope. who shall say what in our own times has fermented in the bosom of the most stubborn, the most powerless of nationalities--poland? israel in humiliation dreamed of the spiritual conquest of the world, and the dream has come to pass. ii at a first glance the literature of wales is divided into three perfectly distinct distinct branches: the bardic or lyric, which shines forth in splendour in the sixth century by the works of taliessin, of aneurin, and of liware'h hen, and continues through an uninterrupted series of imitations up to modern times; the mabinogion, or literature of romance, fixed towards the twelfth century, but linking themselves in the groundwork of their ideas with the remotest ages of the celtic genius; finally, an ecclesiastical and legendary literature, impressed with a distinct stamp of its own. these three literatures seem to have existed side by side, almost without knowledge of one another. the bards, proud of their solemn rhetoric, held in disdain the popular tales, the form of which they considered careless; on the other hand, both bards and romancers appear to have had few relations with the clergy; and one at times might be tempted to suppose that they ignored the existence of christianity. to our thinking it is in the mabinogion that the true expression of the celtic genius is to be sought; and it is surprising that so curious a literature, the source of nearly all the romantic creations of europe, should have remained unknown until our own days. the cause is doubtless to be ascribed to the dispersed state of the welsh manuscripts, pursued till last century by the english, as seditious books compromising those who possessed them. often too they fell into hands of ignorant owners whose caprice or ill-will sufficed to keep them from critical research. the mabinogion have been preserved for us in two principal documents--one of the thirteenth century from the library of hengurt, belonging to the vaughan family; the other dating from the fourteenth century, known under the name of the red book of hergest, and now in jesus college, oxford. no doubt it was some such collection that charmed the weary hours of the hapless leolin in the tower of london, and was burned after his condemnation, with the other welsh books which had been the companions of his captivity. lady charlotte guest has based her edition on the oxford manuscript; it cannot be sufficiently regretted that paltry considerations have caused her to be refused the use of the earlier manuscript, of which the later appears to be only a copy. regrets are redoubled when one knows that several welsh texts, which were seen and copied fifty years ago, have now disappeared. it is in the presence of facts such as these that one comes to believe that revolutions--in general so destructive of the works of the past--are favourable to the preservation of literary monuments, by compelling their concentration in great centres, where their existence, as well as their publicity, is assured. the general tone of the mabinogion is rather romantic than epic. life is treated naively and not too emphatically. the hero's individuality is limitless. we have free and noble natures acting in all their spontaneity. each man appears as a kind of demi-god characterised by a supernatural gift. this gift is nearly always connected with some miraculous object, which in some measure is the personal seal of him who possesses it. the inferior classes, which this people of heroes necessarily supposes beneath it, scarcely show themselves, except in the exercise of some trade, for practising which they are held in high esteem. the somewhat complicated products of human industry are regarded as living beings, and in their manner endowed with magical properties. a multiplicity of celebrated objects have proper names, such as the drinking-cup, the lance, the sword, and the shield of arthur; the chess-board of gwendolen, on which the black pieces played of their own accord against the white; the horn of bran galed, where one found whatever liquor one desired; the chariot of morgan, which directed itself to the place to which one wished to go; the pot of tyrnog, which would not cook when meat for a coward was put into it; the grindstone of tudwal, which would only sharpen brave men's swords; the coat of padarn, which none save a noble could don; and the mantle of tegan, which no woman could put upon herself were she not above reproach. [footnote: here may be recognised the origin of trial by court mantle, one of the most interesting episodes in lancelot of the lake.] the animal is conceived in a still more individual way; it has a proper name, personal qualities, and a role which it develops at its own will and with full consciousness. the same hero appears as at once man and animal, without it being possible to trace the line of demarcation between the two natures. the tale of kilhwch and olwen, the most extraordinary of the mabinogion, deals with arthur's struggle against the wild-boar king twrch trwyth, who with his seven cubs holds in check all the heroes of the round table. the adventures of the three hundred ravens of kerverhenn similarly form the subject of the dream of rhonabwy. the idea of moral merit and demerit is almost wholly absent from all these compositions. there are wicked beings who insult ladies, who tyrannise over their neighbours, who only find pleasure in evil because such is their nature; but it does not appear that they incur wrath on that account. arthur's knights pursue them, not as criminals but as mischievous fellows. all other beings are perfectly good and just, but more or less richly gifted. this is the dream of an amiable and gentle race which looks upon evil as being the work of destiny, and not a product of the human conscience. all nature is enchanted, and fruitful as imagination itself in indefinitely varied creations. christianity rarely discloses itself; although at times its proximity can be felt, it alters in no respect the purely natural surroundings in which everything takes place. a bishop figures at table beside arthur, but his function is strictly limited to blessing the dishes. the irish saints, who at one time present themselves to give their benediction to arthur and receive favours at his hands, are portrayed as a race of men vaguely known and difficult to understand. no mediaeval literature held itself further removed from all monastic influence. we evidently must suppose that the welsh bards and story-tellers lived in a state of great isolation from the clergy, and had their culture and traditions quite apart. the charm of the mabinogion principally resides in the amiable serenity of the celtic mind, neither sad nor gay, ever in suspense between a smile and a tear. we have in them the simple recital of a child, unwitting of any distinction between the noble and the common; there is something of that softly animated world, of that calm and tranquil ideal to which ariosto's stanzas transport us. the chatter of the later mediaeval french and german imitators can give no idea of this charming manner of narration. the skilful chretien de troyes himself remains in this respect far below the welsh story- tellers, and as for wolfram of eschenbach, it must be avowed that the joy of the first discovery has carried german critics too far in the exaggeration of his merits. he loses himself in interminable descriptions, and almost completely ignores the art of his recital. what strikes one at a first glance in the imaginative compositions of the celtic races, above all when they are contrasted with those of the teutonic races, is the extreme mildness of manners pervading them. there are none of those frightful vengeances which fill the edda and the niebelungen. compare the teutonic with the gaelic hero,--beowulf with peredur, for example. what a difference there is! in the one all the horror of disgusting and blood-embrued barbarism, the drunkenness of carnage, the disinterested taste, if i may say so, for destruction and death; in the other a profound sense of justice, a great height of personal pride it is true, but also a great capacity for devotion, an exquisite loyalty. the tyrannical man, the monster, the black man, find a place here like the lestrigons and the cyclops of homer only to inspire horror by contrast with softer manners; they are almost what the wicked man is in the naive imagination of a child brought up by a mother in the ideas of a gentle and pious morality. the primitive man of teutonism is revolting by his purposeless brutality, by a love of evil that only gives him skill and strength in the service of hatred and injury. the cymric hero on the other hand, even in his wildest flights, seems possessed by habits of kindness and a warm sympathy with the weakv. sympathy indeed is one of the deepest feelings among the celtic peoples. even judas is not denied a share of their pity. st. brandan found him upon a rock in the midst of the polar seas; once a week he passes a day there to refresh himself from the fires of hell. a cloak that he had given to a beggar is hung before him, and tempers his sufferings. if wales has a right to be proud of her mabinogion, she has not less to felicitate herself in having found a translator truly worthy of interpreting them. for the proper understanding of these original beauties there was needed a delicate appreciation of welsh narration, and an intelligence of the naive order, qualities of which an erudite translator would with difficulty have been capable. to render these gracious imaginings of a people so eminently dowered with feminine tact, the pen of a woman was necessary. simple, animated, without effort and without vulgarity, lady guest's translation is a faithful mirror of the original cymric. even supposing that, as regards philology, the labours of this noble welsh lady be destined to receive improvement, that does not prevent her book from for ever remaining a work of erudition and highly distinguished taste. [footnote: m. de la villemarque published in under the title of cantes populaires des anciens bretons, a french translation of the narratives that guest had already presented in english at that time.] the mabinogion, or at least the writings which lady guest thought she ought to include under this common name, divide themselves into two perfectly distinct classes--some connected exclusively with the two peninsulas of wales and cornwall, and relating to the heroic personality of arthur; the others alien to arthur, having for their scene not only the parts of england that have remained cymric, but the whole of great britain, and leading us back by the persons and traditions mentioned in them to the later years of the roman occupation. the second class, of greater antiquity than the first, at least on the ground of subject, is also distinguished by a much more mythological character, a bolder use of the miraculous, an enigmatical form, a style full of alliteration and plays upon words. of this number are the tales of pwyll, of bramwen, of manawyddan, of math the son of mathonwy, the dream of the emperor maximus, the story of llud and llewelys, and the legend of taliessin. to the arthurian cycle belong the narratives of owen, of geraint, of peredur, of kilhwch and olwen, and the dream of rhonabwy. it is also to be remarked that the two last-named narratives have a particularly antique character. in them arthur dwells in cornwall, and not as in the others at caerleon on the usk. in them he appears with an individual character, hunting and taking a personal part in warfare, while in the more modern tales he is only an emperor all- powerful and impassive, a truly sluggard hero, around whom a pleiad of active heroes groups itself. the mabinogi of kilhwch and olwen, by its entirely primitive aspect, by the part played in it by the wild-boar in conformity to the spirit of celtic mythology, by the wholly supernatural and magical character of the narration, by innumerable allusions the sense of which escapes us, forms a cycle by itself. it represents for us the cymric conception in all its purity, before it had been modified by the introduction of any foreign element. without attempting here to analyse this curious poem, i should like by some extracts to make its antique aspect and high originality apparent. kilhwch, the son of kilydd, prince of kelyddon, having heard some one mention the name of olwen, daughter of yspaddaden penkawr, falls violently in love, without having ever seen her. he goes to find arthur, that he may ask for his aid in the difficult undertaking which he meditates; in point of fact, he does not know in what country the fair one of his affection dwells. yspaddaden is besides a frightful tyrant who suffers no man to go from his castle alive, and whose death is linked by destiny to the marriage of his daughter. [footnote: the idea of making the death of the father the condition of possession of the daughter is to be found in several romances of the breton cycle, in lancelot for example.] arthur grants kilhwch some of his most valiant comrades in arms to assist him in this enterprise. after wonderful adventures the knights arrive at the castle of yspaddaden, and succeed in seeing the young maiden of kilhwch's dream. only after three days of persistent struggle do they manage to obtain a response from olwen's father, who attaches his daughter's hand to conditions apparently impossible of realisation. the performance of these trials makes a long chain of adventures, the framework of a veritable romantic epic which has come to us in a very fragmentary form. of the thirty-eight adventures imposed on kilhwch the manuscript used by lady guest only relates seven or eight. i choose at random one of these narratives, which appears to me fitted to give an idea of the whole composition. it deals with the finding of mabon the son of modron, who was carried away from his mother three days after his birth, and whose deliverance is one of the labours exacted of kilhwch. "his followers said unto arthur, 'lord, go thou home; thou canst not proceed with thy host in quest of such small adventures as these.' then said arthur, 'it were well for thee, gwrhyr gwalstawd ieithoedd, to go upon this quest, for thou knowest all languages, and art familiar with those of the birds and the beasts. thou, eidoel, oughtest likewise to go with my men in search of thy cousin. and as for you, kai and bedwyr, i have hope of whatever adventure ye are in quest of, that ye will achieve it. achieve ye this adventure for me.'" they went forward until they came to the ousel of cilgwri. and gwrhyr adjured her for the sake of heaven, saying, "tell me if thou knowest aught of mabon the son of modron, who was taken when three nights old from between his mother and the wall." and the ousel answered, "when i first came here there was a smith's anvil in this place, and i was then a young bird; and from that time no work has been done upon it, save the pecking of my beak every evening, and now there is not so much as the size of a nut remaining thereof; yet all the vengeance of heaven be upon me, if during all that time i have ever heard of the man for whom you enquire. nevertheless i will do that which is right, and that which it is fitting i should do for an embassy from arthur. there is a race of animals who were formed before me, and i will be your guide to them." so they proceeded to the place where was the stag of redynvre. "stag of redynvre, behold we are come to thee, an embassy from arthur, for we have not heard of any animal older than thou. say, knowest thou aught of mabon the son of modron, who was taken from his mother when three nights old?" the stag said, "when first i came hither there was a plain all around me, without any trees save one oak sapling, which grew up to be an oak with an hundred branches. and that oak has since perished, so that now nothing remains of it but the withered stump; and from that day to this i have been here, yet have i never heard of the man for whom you enquire. nevertheless, being an embassy from arthur, i will be your guide to the place where there is an animal which was formed before i was." so they proceeded to the place where was the owl of cwm cawlwyd. "owl of cwm cawlwyd, here is an embassy from arthur; knowest thou aught of mabon the son of modron, who was taken after three nights from his mother?" "if i knew i would tell you. when first i came hither, the wide valley you see was a wooded glen. and a race of men came and rooted it up. and there grew there a second wood; and this wood is the third. my wings, are they not withered stumps? yet all this time, even until to-day, i have never heard of the man for whom you enquire. nevertheless i will be the guide of arthur's embassy until you come to the place where is the oldest animal in the world, and the one that has travelled most, the eagle of gwern abwy." gwrhyr said, "eagle of gwern abwy, we have come to thee an embassy from arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of mabon the son of modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old." the eagle said, "i have been here for a great space of time, and when i first came hither there was a rock here, from the top of which i pecked at the stars every evening; and now it is not so much as a span high. from that day to this i have been here, and i have never heard of the man for whom you enquire, except once when i went in search of food as far as llyn llyw. and when i came there, i struck my talons into a salmon, thinking he would serve me as food for a long time. but he drew me into the deep, and i was scarcely able to escape from him. after that i went with my whole kindred to attack him, and to try to destroy him, but he sent messengers, and made peace with me; and came and besought me to take fifty fish spears out of his back. unless he know something of him whom you seek, i cannot tell who may. however, i will guide you to the place where he is." so they went thither; and the eagle said, "salmon of llyn llyw, i have come to thee with an embassy from arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught concerning mabon the son of modron, who was taken away at three nights old from his mother." "as much as i know i will tell thee. with every tide i go along the river upwards, until i come near to the walls of gloucester, and there have i found such wrong as i never found elsewhere; and to the end that ye may give credence thereto, let one of you go thither upon each of my two shoulders." so kai and gwrhyr gwalstawd ieithoedd went upon the shoulders of the salmon, and they proceeded until they came unto the wall of the prison, and they heard a great wailing and lamenting from the dungeon. said gwrhyr, "who is it that laments in this house of stone?" "alas there is reason enough for whoever is here to lament. it is mabon the son of modron who is here imprisoned; and no imprisonment was ever so grievous as mine, neither that of lludd llaw ereint, nor that of greid the son of eri." "hast thou hope of being released for gold or for silver, or for any gifts of wealth, or through battle and fighting?" "by fighting will whatever i may gain be obtained." we shall not follow the cymric hero through trials the result of which can be foreseen. what, above all else, is striking in these strange legends is the part played by animals, transformed by the welsh imagination into intelligent beings. no race conversed so intimately as did the celtic race with the lower creation, and accorded it so large a share of moral life. [footnote: see especially the narratives of nennius, and of giraldus cambrensis. in them animals have at least as important a part as men.] the close association of man and animal, the fictions so dear to mediaeval poetry of the knight of the lion, the knight of the falcon, the knight of the swan, the vows consecrated by the presence of birds of noble repute, are equally breton imaginings. ecclesiastical literature itself presents analogous features; gentleness towards animals informs all the legends of the saints of brittany and ireland. one day st. kevin fell asleep, while he was praying at his window with outstretched arms; and a swallow perceiving the open hand of the venerable monk, considered it an excellent place wherein to make her nest. the saint on awaking saw the mother sitting upon her eggs, and, loth to disturb her, waited for the little ones to be hatched before he arose from his knees. this touching sympathy was derived from the singular vivacity with which the celtic races have inspired their feeling for nature. their mythology is nothing more than a transparent naturalism, not that anthropomorphic naturalism of greece and india, in which the forces of the universe, viewed as living beings and endowed with consciousness, tend more and more to detach themselves from physical phenomena, and to become moral beings; but in some measure a realistic naturalism, the love of nature for herself, the vivid impression of her magic, accompanied by the sorrowful feeling that man knows, when, face to face with her, he believes that he hears her commune with him concerning his origin and his destiny. the legend of merlin mirrors this feeling. seduced by a fairy of the woods, he flies with her and becomes a savage. arthur's messengers come upon him as he is singing by the side of a fountain; he is led back again to court; but the charm carries him away. he returns to his forests, and this time for ever. under a thicket of hawthorn vivien has built him a magical prison. there he prophesies the future of the celtic races; he speaks of a maiden of the woods, now visible and now unseen, who holds him captive by her spells. several arthurian legends are impressed with the same character. arthur himself in popular belief became, as it were, a woodland spirit. "the foresters on their nightly round by the light of the moon," says gervais of tilbury, [footnote: an english chronicler of the twelfth century.] "often hear a great sound as of horns, and meet bands of huntsmen; when they are asked whence they come, these huntsmen make reply that they are of king arthur's following." [footnote: this manner of explaining all the unknown noises of the wood by arthur's hunting is still to be found in several districts. to understand properly the cult of nature, and, if i may say so, of landscape among the celts, see gildas and nennius, pp. , , , etc. (edit. san marte, berlin. );] even the french imitators of the breton romances keep an impression--although a rather insipid one--of the attraction exercised by nature on the celtic imagination. elaine, the heroine of lancelot, the ideal of breton perfection, passes her life with her companions in a garden, in the midst of flowers which she tends. every flower culled by her hands is at the instant restored to life; and the worshippers of her memory are under an obligation, when they cut a flower, to sow another in its place. the worship of forest, and fountain, and stone is to be explained by this primitive naturalism, which all the councils of the church held in brittany united to proscribe. the stone, in truth, seems the natural symbol of the celtic races. it is an immutable witness that has no death. the animal, the plant, above all the human figure, only express the divine life under a determinate form; the stone on the contrary, adapted to receive all forms, has been the fetish of peoples in their childhood. pausanias saw, still standing erect, the thirty square stones of pharse, each bearing the name of a divinity. the men-hir to be met with over the whole surface of the ancient world, what is it but the monument of primitive humanity, a living witness of its faith in heaven? [footnote: it is, however, doubtful whether the monuments known in france at celtic (men-hir. dot-men, etc.) are the work of the celts. with m. worsaae and the copenhagen archaeologists, i am inclined to think that these monuments belong to a more ancient humanity. never, in fact, has any branch of the indo-european race built in this fashion. (see two articles by m. merimee in l'athenaum franfais, sept. th, , and april th, .)] it has frequently been observed that the majority of popular beliefs still extant in our different provinces are of celtic origin. a not less remarkable fact is the strong tinge of naturalism dominant in these beliefs. nay more, every time that the old celtic spirit appears in our history, there is to be seen, re-born with it, faith in nature and her magic influences. one of the most characteristic of these manifestations seems to me to be that of joan of arc. that indomitable hope, that tenacity in the affirmation of the future, that belief that the salvation of the kingdom will come from a woman,--all those features, far removed as they are from the taste of antiquity, and from teutonic taste, are in many respects celtic. the memory of the ancient cult perpetuated itself at domremy, as in so many other places, under the form of popular superstition. the cottage of the family of arc was shaded by a beech tree, famed in the country and reputed to be the abode of fairies. in her childhood joan used to go and hang upon its branches garlands of leaves and flowers, which, so it was said, disappeared during the night. the terms of her accusation speak with horror of this innocent custom, as of a crime against the faith; and indeed they were not altogether deceived, those unpitying theologians who judged the holy maid. although she knew it not, she was more celtic than christian. she has been foretold by merlin; she knows of neither pope nor church,-- she only believes the voice that speaks in her own heart. this voice she hears in the fields, in the sough of the wind among the trees, when measured and distant sounds fair upon her ears. during her trial, worn out with questions and scholastic subtleties, she is asked whether she still hears her voices. "take me to the woods." she says, "and i shall hear them clearly." her legend is tinged with the same colours; nature loved her, the wolves never touched the sheep of her flock. when she was a little girl, the birds used to come and eat bread from her lap as though they were tame. [footnote: since the first publication of these views, on which i should not like more emphasis to be put than what belongs to a passing impression, similar considerations have been developed, in terms that appear a little too positive, by m. h. martin (history of france, vol. vi., ). the objections raised to it are, for the most part, due to the fact that very few people are capable of delicately appreciating questions of this kind, relative to the genius of races. it frequently happens that the resurrection of an old national genius takes place under a very different form from that which one would have expected, and by means of individuals who have no idea of the ethnographical part which they play.] iii the mabinogion do not recommend themselves to our study, only as a manifestation of the romantic genius of the breton races. it was through them that the welsh imagination exercised its influence upon the continent, that it transformed, in the twelfth century, the poetic art of europe, and realised this miracle,--that the creations of a half-conquered race have become the universal feast of imagination for mankind. few heroes owe less to reality than arthur. neither gildas nor aneurin, his contemporaries, speak of him; bede did not even know his name; taliessin and liwarc'h hen gave him only a secondary place. in nennius, on the other hand, who lived about , the legend has fully unfolded. arthur is already the exterminator of the saxons; he has never experienced defeat; he is the suzerain of an army of kings. finally, in geoffrey of monmouth, the epic creation culminates. arthur reigns over the whole earth; he conquers ireland, norway, gascony, and france. at caerleon he holds a tournament at which all the monarchs of the world are present; there he puts upon his head thirty crowns, and exacts recognition as the sovereign lord of the universe. so incredible is it that a petty king of the sixth century, scarcely remarked by his contemporaries, should have taken in posterity such colossal proportions, that several critics have supposed that the legendary arthur and the obscure chieftain who bore that name have nothing in common, the one with the other, and that the son of uther pendragon is a wholly ideal hero, a survivor of the old cymric mythology. as a matter of fact, in the symbols of neo-druidism--that is to say, of that secret doctrine, the outcome of druidism, which prolonged its existence even to the middle ages under the form of freemasonry--we again find arthur transformed into a divine personage, and playing a purely mythological part. it must at least be allowed that, if behind the fable some reality lies hidden, history offers us no means of attaining it. it cannot be doubted that the discovery of arthur's tomb in the isle of avalon in was an invention of norman policy, just as in , the very year in which edward i. was engaged in crushing out the last vestiges of welsh independence, arthur's crown was very conveniently found, and forthwith united to the other crown jewels of england. we naturally expect arthur, now become the representative of welsh nationality, to sustain in the mabinogion a character analogous to this role, and therein, as in nennius, to serve the hatred of the vanquished against the saxons. but such is not the case. arthur, in the mabinogion, exhibits no characteristics of patriotic resistance; his part is limited to uniting heroes around him, to maintaining the retainers of his palace, and to enforcing the laws of his order of chivalry. he is too strong for any one to dream of attacking him. he is the charlemagne of the carlovingian romances, the agamemnon of homer,--one of those neutral personalities that serve but to give unity to the poem. the idea of warfare against the alien, hatred towards the saxon, does not appear in a single instance. the heroes of the mabinogion have no fatherland; each fights to show his personal excellence, and satisfy his taste for adventure, but not to defend a national cause. britain is the universe; no one suspects that beyond the cymry there may be other nations and other races. it was by this ideal and representative character that the arthurian legend had such an astonishing prestige throughout the whole world. had arthur been only a provincial hero, the more or less happy defender of a little country, all peoples would not have adopted him, any more than they have adopted the marco of the serbs, [footnote: a servian ballad-hero.] or the robin hood of the saxons. the arthur who has charmed the world is the head of an order of equality, in which all sit at the same table, in which a man's worth depends upon his valour and his natural gifts. what mattered to the world the fate of an unknown peninsula, and the strife waged on its behalf? what enchanted it was the ideal court presided over by gwenhwyvar (guinevere), where around the monarchical unity the flower of heroes was gathered together, where ladies, as chaste as they were beautiful, loved according to the laws of chivalry, and where the time was passed in listening to stories, and learning civility and beautiful manners. this is the secret of the magic of that round table, about which the middle ages grouped all their ideas of heroism, of beauty, of modesty, and of love. we need not stop to inquire whether the ideal of a gentle and polished society in the midst of the barbarian world is, in all its features, a purely breton creation, whether the spirit of the courts of the continent has not in some measure furnished the model, and whether the mabinogion themselves have not felt the reaction of the french imitations;[footnote: the surviving version of the mdbinogian has a later date than these imitations, and the red book includes several tales borrowed from the french trouveres. but it is out of the question to maintain that the really welsh narratives have been borrowed in a like manner, since among them are some unknown to the trouveres, which could only possess interest for breton countries] it suffices for us that the new order of sentiments which we have just indicated was, throughout the whole of the middle ages, persistently attached to the groundwork of the cymric romances. such an association could not be fortuitous; if the imitations are all so glaring in colour, it is evidently because in the original this same colour is to be found united to particularly strong character. how otherwise shall we explain why a forgotten tribe on the very confines of the world should have imposed its heroes upon europe, and, in the domain of imagination, accomplished one of the most singular revolutions known to the historian of letters? if, in fact, one compares european literature before the introduction of the cymric romances, with what it became when the trouveres set themselves to draw from breton sources, one recognises readily that with the breton narratives a new element entered into the poetic conception of the christian peoples, and modified it profoundly. the carlovingian poem, both by its structure and by the means which it employs, does not depart from classical ideas. the motives of man's action are the same as in the greek epic. the essentially romantic element, the life of forests and mysterious adventure, the feeling for nature, and that impulse of imagination which makes the breton warrior unceasingly pursue the unknown;-- nothing of all this is as yet to be observed. roland differs from the heroes of homer only by his armour; in heart he is the brother of ajax or achilles. perceval, on the contrary, belongs to another world, separated by a great gulf from that in which the heroes of antiquity live and act. it was above all by the creation of woman's character, by introducing into mediaeval poetry, hitherto hard and austere, the nuances of love, that the breton romances brought about this curious metamorphosis. it was like an electric spark; in a few years european taste was changed. nearly all the types of womankind known to the middle ages, guinevere, iseult, enid, are derived from arthur's court. in the carlovingian poems woman is a nonentity without character or individuality; in them love is either brutal, as in the romance of "ferebras," or scarcely indicated, as in the "song of roland." in the "mabinogion," on the other hand, the principal part always belongs to the women. chivalrous gallantry, which makes the warrior's happiness to consist in serving a woman and meriting her esteem, the belief that the noblest use of strength is to succour and avenge weakness, results, i know, from a turn of imagination which possessed nearly all european peoples in the twelfth century; but it cannot be doubted that this turn of imagination first found literary expression among the breton peoples. one of the most surprising features in the mabinogion is the delicacy of the feminine feeling breathed in them; an impropriety or a gross word is never to be met with. it would be necessary to quote at length the two romances of peredur and geraint to demonstrate an innocence such as this; but the naive simplicity of these charming compositions forbids us to see in this innocence any underlying meaning. the zeal of the knight in the defence of ladies' honour became a satirical euphemism only in the french imitators, who transformed the virginal modesty of the breton romances into a shameless gallantry--so far indeed that these compositions, chaste as they are in the original, became the scandal of the middle ages, provoked censures, and were the occasion of the ideas of immorality which, for religious people, still cluster about the name of romance. certainly chivalry is too complex a fact for us to be permitted to assign it to any single origin. let us say however that in the idea of envisaging the esteem of a woman as the highest object of human activity, and setting up love as the supreme principle of morality, there is nothing of the antique spirit, or indeed of the teutonic. is it in the "edda" or in the "niebelungen" that we shall find the germ of this spirit of pure love, of exalted devotion, which forms the very soul of chivalry? as to following the suggestion of some critics and seeking among the arabs for the beginnings of this institution, surely of all literary paradoxes ever mooted, this is one of the most singular. the idea of conquering woman in a land where she is bought and sold, of seeking her esteem in a land where she is scarcely considered capable of moral merit! i shall oppose the partizans of this hypothesis with one single fact,--the surprise experienced by the arabs of algeria when, by a somewhat unfortunate recollection of mediaeval tournaments, the ladies were entrusted with the presentation of prizes at the beiram races. what to the knight appeared an unparalleled honour seemed to the arabs a humiliation and almost an insult. the introduction of the breton romances into the current of european literature worked a not less profound revolution in the manner of conceiving and employing the marvellous. in the carlovingian poems the marvellous is timid, and conforms to the christian faith; the supernatural is produced directly by god or his envoys. among the cymry, on the contrary, the principle of the marvel is in nature herself, in her hidden forces, in her inexhaustible fecundity. there is a mysterious swan, a prophetic bird, a suddenly appearing hand, a giant, a black tyrant, a magic mist, a dragon, a cry that causes the hearer to die of terror, an object with extraordinary properties. there is no trace of the monotheistic conception, in which the marvellous is only a miracle, a derogation of eternal laws. nor are there any of those personifications of the life of nature which form the essential part of the greek and indian mythologies. here we have perfect naturalism, an unlimited faith in the possible, belief in the existence of independent beings bearing within themselves the principle of their strength,--an idea quite opposed to christianity, which in such beings necessarily sees either angels or fiends. and besides, these strange beings are always presented as being outside the pale of the church; and when the knight of the round table has conquered them, he forces them to go and pay homage to guinevere, and have themselves baptised. now, if in poetry there is a marvellous element that we might accept, surely it is this. classical mythology, taken in its first simplicity, is too bold, taken as a mere figure of rhetoric, too insipid, to give us satisfaction. as to the marvellous element in christianity, boileau is right: no fiction is compatible with such a dogmatism. there remains then the purely naturalistic marvellous, nature interesting herself in action and acting herself, the great mystery of fatality unveiling itself by the secret conspiring of all beings, as in shakespeare and ariosto. it would be curious to ascertain how much of the celt there is in the former of these poets; as for ariosto he is the breton poet par excellence. all his machinery, all his means of interest, all his fine shades of sentiment, all his types of women, all his adventures, are borrowed from the breton romances. do we now understand the intellectual role of that little race which gave to the world arthur, guinevere, lancelot, perceval, merlin, st. brandan, st. patrick, and almost all the poetical cycles of the middle ages? what a striking destiny some nations have, in alone possessing the right to cause the acceptance of their heroes, as though for that were necessary a quite peculiar degree of authority, seriousness, and faith! and it is a strange thing that it is to the normans, of all peoples the one least sympathetically inclined towards the bretons, that we owe the renown of the breton fables. brilliant and imitative, the norman everywhere became the pre- eminent representative of the nation on which he had at first imposed himself by force. french in france, english in england, italian in italy, russian at novgorod, he forgot his own language to speak that of the race which he had conquered, and to become the interpreter of its genius. the deeply suggestive character of the welsh romances could not fail to impress men so prompt to seize and assimilate the ideas of the foreigner. the first revelation of the breton fables, the latin chronicle of geoffrey of monmouth, appeared about the year , under the auspices of robert of gloucester, natural son of henry i. henry ii. acquired a taste for the same narratives, and at his request robert wace, in , wrote in french the first history of arthur, thus opening the path in which walked after him a host of poets or imitators of all nationalities, french, provencal, italian, spanish, english, scandinavian, greek, and georgian. we need not belittle the glory of the first trouveres who put into a language, then read and understood from one end of europe to the other, fictions which, but for them, would have doubtless remained for ever unknown. it is however difficult to attribute to them an inventive faculty, such as would permit them to merit the title of creators. the numerous passages in which one feels that they do not fully understand the original which they imitate, and in which they attempt to give a natural significance to circumstances of which the mythological bearing escaped them, suffice to prove that, as a rule, they were satisfied to make a fairly faithful copy of the work before their eyes. what part has armorican brittany played in the creation or propagation of the legends of the round table? it is impossible to say with any degree of precision; and in truth such a question becomes a matter of secondary import once we form a just idea of the close bonds of fraternity, which did not cease until the twelfth century to unite the two branches of the breton peoples. that the heroic traditions of wales long continued to live in the branch of the cymric family which came and settled in armorica cannot be doubted when we find geraint, urien, and other heroes become saints in lower brittany; [footnote: i shall only cite a single proof; it is a law of edward the confessor: "britones vero armorici quum venerint in regno isto, suscipi debent et in regno protegi sicut probi cives de corpore regni hujus; exierunt quondam de sanguine britonum regni hujus."--wilkins, leges anglo-saxonicae, p. .]and above all when we see one of the most essential episodes of the arthurian cycle, that of the forest of broceliande, placed in the same country. a large number of facts collected by m. de la villemarrque [footnote: "les romans de la table-ronde et les contes des anciens bretons" (paris, ), pp. et seq. in the "contes populaires des anciens bretons," of which the above may be considered as a new edition, the learned author had somewhat exaggerated the influence of french brittany. in the present article, when first published, i had, on the other hand, depreciated it too much.] prove, on the other hand, that these same traditions produced a true poetic cycle in brittany, and even that at certain epochs they must have recrossed the channel, as though to give new life to the mother country's memories. the fact that gauthier calenius, archdeacon of oxford, brought back from brittany to england (about ) the very text of the legends which were translated into latin ten years afterwards by geoffrey of monmouth is here decisive. i know that to readers of the mabinogion such an opinion will appear surprising at a first glance, all is welsh in these fables, the places, the genealogies, the customs; in them armorica is only represented by hoel, an important personage no doubt, but one who has not achieved the fame of the other heroes of arthur's court. again, if armorica saw the birth of the arthurian cycle, how is it that we fail to find there any traces of that brilliant nativity? [footnote: m. de la villemarque makes appeal to the popular songs still extant in brittany, in which arthur's deeds are celebrated. in fact, in his chants populaires de la bretagne two poems are to be found in which that hero's name figures.] these objections, i avow, long barred my way, but i no longer find them insoluble. and first of all there is a class of mabinogion, including those of owen, geraint, and peredur, stories which possess no very precise geographical localisation. in the second place, national written literature being less successfully defended in brittany than in wales against the invasion of foreign culture, it may be conceived that the memory of the old epics should be there more obliterated. the literary share of the two countries thus remains sufficiently distinct. the glory of french brittany is in her popular songs; but it is only in wales that the genius of the breton people has succeeded in establishing itself in authentic books and achieved creations. iv. in comparing the breton cycle as the french trouveres knew it, and the same cycle as it is to be found in the text of the mabinogion, one might be tempted to believe that the european imagination, enthralled by these brilliant fables, added to them some poetical themes unknown to the welsh. two of the most celebrated heroes of the continental breton romances, lancelot and tristan, do not figure in the mabinogion; on the other hand, the characteristics of the holy grail are presented in a totally different way from that which we find in the french and german poets. a more attentive study shows that these elements, apparently added by the french poets, are in reality of cymric origin. and first of all, m. de la villemarque has demonstrated to perfection that the name of lancelot is only a translation of that of the welsh hero mael, who in point of fact exhibits the fullest analogy with the lancelot of the french romances. [footnote: ancelot is the diminutive of ancel, and means servant, page, or esquire. to this day in the cymric dialects mael has the same signification. the surname of poursigant, which we find borne by some welshmen in the french service in the early part of the fourteenth century, is also no doubt a translation of mael.] the context, the proper names, all the details of the romance of lancelot also present the most pronounced breton aspect. as much must be said of the romance of tristan. it is even to be hoped that this curious legend will be discovered complete in some welsh manuscript. dr. owen states that he has seen one of which he was unable to obtain a copy. as to the holy grail, it must be avowed that the mystic cup, the object after which the french parceval and the german parsifal go in search, has not nearly the same importance among the welsh. in the romance of peredur it only figures in an episodical fashion, and without a well-defined religious intention. "then peredur and his uncle discoursed together, and he beheld two youths enter the hall, and proceed up to the chamber, bearing a spear of mighty size, with three streams of blood flowing from the point to the ground. and when all the company saw this, they began wailing and lamenting. but for all that, the man did not break off his discourse with peredur. and as he did not tell peredur the meaning of what he saw, he forbore to ask him concerning it. and when the clamour had a little subsided, behold two maidens entered, with a large salver between them, in which was a man's head, surrounded by a profusion of blood. and thereupon the company of the court made so great an outcry, that it was irksome to be in the same hall with them. but at length they were silent." this strange and wondrous circumstance remains an enigma to the end of the narrative. then a mysterious young man appears to peredur, apprises him that the lance from which the blood was dropping is that with which his uncle was wounded, that the vessel contains the blood and the head of one of his cousins, slain by the witches of kerloiou, and that it is predestined that he, peredur, should be their avenger. in point of fact, peredur goes and convokes the round table; arthur and his knights come and put the witches of kerloiou to death. if we now pass to the french romance of parceval, we find that all this phantasmagoria clothes a very different significance. the lance is that with which longus pierced christ's side, the grail or basin is that in which joseph of arimathea caught the divine blood. this miraculous vase procures all the good things of heaven and earth; it heals wounds, and is filled at the owner's pleasure with the most exquisite food. to approach it one must be in a state of grace; only a priest can tell of its marvels. to find these sacred relics after the passage of a thousand trials,--such is the object of peredur's chivalry, at once worldly and mystical. in the end he becomes a priest; he takes the grail and the lance into his hermitage; on the day of his death an angel bears them up to heaven. let us add that many traits prove that in the mind of the french trouvere the grail is confounded with the eucharist. in the miniatures which occasionally accompany the romance of parceval, the grail is in the form of a pyx, appearing at all the solemn moments of the poem as a miraculous source of succour. is this strange myth, differing as it does from the simple narrative presented in the welsh legend of peredur, really cymric, or ought we rather to see in it an original creation of the trouveres, based upon a breton foundation? with m. de la villemarque we believe that this curious fable is essentially cymric. [footnote: see the excellent discussion of this interesting problem in the introduction to "contes populaires des anciens bretons" (pp. et seq.).] in the eighth century a breton hermit had a vision of joseph of arimathea bearing the chalice of the last supper, and wrote the history called the gradal. the whole celtic mythology is full of the marvels of a magic caldron under which nine fairies blow silently, a mysterious vase which inspires poetic genius, gives wisdom, reveals the future, and unveils the secrets of the world. one day as bran the blessed was hunting in ireland upon the shore of a lake, he saw come forth from it a black man bearing upon his back an enormous caldron, followed by a witch and a dwarf. this caldron was the instrument of the supernatural power of a family of giants. it cured all ills, and gave back life to the dead, but without restoring to them the use of speech--an allusion to the secret of the bardic initiation. in the same way perceval's wariness forms the whole plot of the quest of the holy grail. the grail thus appears to us in its primitive meaning as the pass-word of a kind of free-masonry which survived in wales long after the preaching of the gospel, and of which we find deep traces in the legend of taliessin. christianity grafted its legend upon the mythological data, and a like transformation was doubtless made by the cymric race itself. if the welsh narrative of peredur does not offer the same developments as the french romance of parceval, it is because the red book of hergest gives us an earlier version than that which served as a model for chretien de troyes. it is also to be remarked that, even in parceval, the mystical idea is not as yet completely developed, that the trouvere seems to treat this strange theme as a narrative which he has found already complete, and the meaning of which he can scarcely guess. the motive that sets parceval a-field in the french romance, as well as in the welsh version, is a family motive; he seeks the holy grail as a talisman to cure his uncle the fisherman- king, in such a way that the religious idea is still subordinated to the profane intention. in the german version, on the other hand, full as it is of mysticism and theology, the grail has a temple and priests. parsifal, who has become a purely ecclesiastical hero, reaches the dignity of king of the grail by his religious enthusiasm and his chastity. [footnote: it is indeed remarkable that all the breton heroes in their last transformation are at once gallant and devout. one of the most celebrated ladies of arthur's court, luned, becomes a saint and a martyr for her chastity, her festival being celebrated on august st. she it is who figures in the french romances under the name of lunette. see lady guest, vol. i., pp. , .] finally, the prose versions, more modern still, sharply distinguish the two chivalries, the one earthly, the other mystical. in them parceval becomes the model of the devout knight. this was the last of the metamorphoses which that all-powerful enchantress called the human imagination made him undergo; and it was only right that, after having gone through so many dangers, he should don a monkish frock, wherein to take his rest after his life of adventure. v. when we seek to determine the precise moment in the history of the celtic races at which we ought to place ourselves in order to appreciate their genius in its entirety, we find ourselves led back to the sixth century of our era. races have nearly always a predestined hour at which, passing from simplicity to reflection, they bring forth to the light of day, for the first time, all the treasures of their nature. for the celtic races the poetic moment of awakening and primal activity was the sixth century. christianity, still young amongst them, has not completely stifled the national cult; the religion of the druids defends itself in its schools and holy places; warfare against the foreigner, without which a people never achieves a full consciousness of itself, attains its highest degree of spirit. it is the epoch of all the heroes of enduring fame, of all the characteristic saints of the breton church; finally, it is the great age of bardic literature, illustrious by the names of taliessin, of aneurin, of liwarc'h hen. to such as would view critically the historical use of these half- fabulous names and would hesitate to accept as authentic, poems that have come down to us through so long a series of ages, we reply that the objections raised to the antiquity of the bardic literature-- objections of which w. schlegel made himself the interpreter in opposition to m. fauriel--have completely disappeared under the investigations of an enlightened and impartial criticism. [footnote: this evidently does not apply to the language of the poems in question. it is well known that mediaeval scribes, alien as they were to all ideas of archaeology, modernised the texts, in measure as they copied them; and that a manuscript in the vulgar tongue, as a rule, only attests the language of him who transcribed it.] by a rare exception sceptical opinion has for once been found in the wrong. the sixth century is in fact for the breton peoples a perfectly historical century. we touch this epoch of their history as closely and with as much certainty as greek or roman antiquity. it is indeed known that, up to a somewhat late period, the bards continued to compose pieces under the names--which had become popular--of aneurin, taliessin, and liwarc'h hen; but no confusion can be made between these insipid rhetorical exercises and the really ancient fragments which bear the names of the poets cited-- fragments full of personal traits, local circumstances, and individual passions and feelings. such is the literature of which m. de la villemarque has attempted to unite the most ancient and authentic monuments in his "breton bards of the sixth century." wales has recognised the service that our learned compatriot has thus rendered to celtic studies. we confess, however, to much preferring to the "bards" the "popular songs of brittany." it is in the latter that m. de la villemarque has best served celtic studies, by revealing to us a delightful literature, in which, more clearly than anywhere else, are apparent these features of gentleness, fidelity, resignation, and timid reserve which form the character of the breton peoples. [footnote: this interesting collection ought not, however, to be accepted unreservedly; and the absolute confidence with which it has been quoted is not without its inconveniences. we believe that when m. de la villemarque comments on the fragments which, to his eternal honour, he has been the first to bring to light, his criticism is far from being proof against all reproach, and that several of the historical allusions which he considers that he finds in them are hypotheses more ingenious than solid. the past is too great, and has come down to us in too fragmentary a manner, for such coincidences to be probable. popular celebrities are rarely those of history, and when the rumours of distant centuries come to us by two channels, one popular, the other historical, it is a rare thing for these two forms of tradition to be fully in accord with one another. m. de la villemarque is also too ready to suppose that the people repeats for centuries songs that it only half understands. when a song ceases to be intelligible, it is nearly always altered by the people, with the end of approximating it to the sounds farmliar and significant to their ears. is it not also to be feared that in this case the editor, in entire good faith, may lend some slight inflection to the text, so as to find in it the sense that he desires, or has in his mind?] the theme of the poetry of the bards of the sixth century is simple and exclusively heroic; it ever deals with the great motives of patriotism and glory. there is a total absence of all tender feeling, no trace of love, no well-marked religious idea, but only a vague and naturalistic mysticism,--a survival of druidic teaching,-- and a moral philosophy wholly expressed in triads, similar to that taught in the half-bardic, half-christian schools of st. cadoc and st. iltud. the singularly artificial and highly wrought form of the style suggests the existence of a system of learned instruction possessing long traditions. a more pronounced shade, and there would be a danger of falling into a pedantic and mannered rhetoric. the bardic literature, by its lengthened existence through the whole of the middle ages, did not escape this danger. it ended by being no more than a somewhat insipid collection of unoriginalities in style, and conventional metaphors. [footnote: a welsh scholar, mr. stephens, in his history of cymric literature (llandovery, ), has demonstrated these successive transformations very well.] the opposition between bardism and christianity reveals itself in the pieces translated by m. de la villemarque by many features of original and pathetic interest. the strife which rent the soul of the old poets, their antipathy to the grey men of the monastery, their sad and painful conversion, are to be found in their songs. the sweetness and tenacity of the breton character can alone explain how a heterodoxy so openly avowed as this maintained its position in face of the dominant christianity, and how holy men, kolumkill for example, took upon themselves the defence of the bards against the kings who desired to stamp them out. the strife was the longer in its duration, in that christianity among the celtic peoples never employed force against rival religions, and, at the worst, left to the vanquished the liberty of ill humour. belief in prophets, indestructible among these peoples, created, in despite of faith the anti-christian type of merlin, and caused his acceptance by the whole of europe. gildas and the orthodox bretons were ceaseless in their thunderings against the prophets, and opposed to them elias and samuel, two bards who only foretold good; even in the twelfth century giraldus cambrensis saw a prophet in the town of caerleon. thanks to this toleration bardism lasted into the heart of the middle ages, under the form of a secret doctrine, with a conventional language, and symbols almost wholly borrowed from the solar divinity of arthur. this may be termed neo-druidism, a kind of druidism subtilised and reformed on the model of christianity, which may be seen growing more and more obscure and mysterious, until the moment of its total disappearance. a curious fragment belonging to this school, the dialogue between arthur and eliwlod, has transmitted to us the latest sighs of this latest protestation of expiring naturalism. under the form of an eagle eliwlod introduces the divinity to the sentiment of resignation, of subjection, and of humility, with which christianity combated pagan pride. hero-worship recoils step by step before the great formula, which christianity ceases not to repeat to the celtic races to sever them from their memories: there is none greater than god. arthur allows himself to be persuaded to abdicate from his divinity, and ends by reciting the pater. i know of no more curious spectacle than this revolt of the manly sentiments of hero-worship against the feminine feeling which flowed so largely into the new faith. what, in fact, exasperates the old representatives of celtic society are the exclusive triumph of the pacific spirit and the men, clad in linen and chanting psalms, whose voice is sad, who preach asceticism, and know the heroes no more. [footnote: the antipathy to christianity attributed by the armorican people to the dwarfs and korigans belongs in like measure to traditions of the opposition encountered by the gospel in its beginnings. the korigans in fact are, for the breton peasant, great princesses who would not accept christianity when the apostles came to brittany. they hate the clergy and the churches, the bells of which make them take to flight. the virgin above all is their great enemy; she it is who has hounded them forth from their fountains, and on saturday, the day consecrated to her, whosoever beholds them combing their hair or counting their treasures is sure to perish. (villemarque, chants populaires, introduction.)] we know the use that ireland has made of this theme, in the dialogues which she loves to imagine between the representatives of her profane and religious life, ossian and st. patrick. [footnote: see miss brooke's reliques of irish poetry, dublin, , pp. et seq., pp. et seq.] ossian regrets the adventures, the chase, the blast of the horn, and the kings of old time. "if they were here," he says to st. patrick, "thou should'st not thus be scouring the country with the psalm-singing flock." patrick seeks to calm him by soft words, and sometimes carries his condescension so far as to listen to his long histories, which appear to interest the saint but slightly. "thou hast heard my story," says the old bard in conclusion; "albeit my memory groweth weak, and i am devoured with care, yet i desire to continue still to sing the deeds of yore, and to live upon ancient glories. now am i stricken with years, my life is frozen within me, and all my joys are fleeting away. no more can my hand grasp the sword, nor mine arm hold the lance in rest. among priests my last sad hour lengtheneth out, and psalms take now the place of songs of victory." "let thy songs rest," says patrick, "and dare not to compare thy finn to the king of kings, whose might knoweth no bounds: bend thy knees before him, and know him for thy lord." it was indeed necessary to surrender, and the legend relates how the old bard ended his days in the cloister, among the priests whom he had so often used rudely, in the midst of these chants that he knew not. ossian was too good an irishman for any one to make up his mind to damn him utterly. merlin himself had to cede to the new spell. he was, it is said, converted by st. columba; and the popular voice in the ballads repeats to him unceasingly this sweet and touching appeal: "merlin, merlin, be converted; there is no divinity save that of god." vi. we should form an altogether inadequate idea of the physiognomy of the celtic races, were we not to study them under what is perhaps the most singular aspect of their development--that is to say, their ecclesiastical antiquities and their saints. leaving on one side the temporary repulsion which christian mildness had to conquer in the classes of society which saw their influence diminished by the new order of things, it can be truly said, that the gentleness of manners and the exquisite sensibility of the celtic races, in conjunction with the absence of a formerly existing religion of strong organisation, predestined them to christianity. christianity in fact, addressing itself by preference to the more humble feelings in human nature, met here with admirably prepared disciples; no race has so delicately understood the charm of littleness, none has placed the simple creature, the innocent, nearer god. the ease with which the new religion took possession of these peoples is also remarkable. brittany and ireland between them scarce count two or three martyrs; they are reduced to venerating as such those of their compatriots who were slain in the anglo-saxon and danish invasions. here comes to light the profound difference dividing the celtic from the teutonic race. the teutons only received christianity tardily and in spite of themselves, by scheming or by force, after a sanguinary resistance, and with terrible throes, christianity was in fact on several sides repugnant to their nature; and one understands the regrets of pure teutonists who, to this day, reproach the new faith with having corrupted their sturdy ancestors. such was not the case with the celtic peoples; that gentle little race was naturally christian. far from changing them, and taking away some of their qualities, christianity finished and perfected them. compare the legends relating to the introduction of christianity into the two countries, the kristni saga for instance, and the delightful legends of lucius and st. patrick. what a difference we find! in iceland the first apostles are pirates, converted by some chance, now saying mass, now massacring their enemies, now resuming their former profession of sea-rovers; everything is done in accord with expediency, and without any serious faith. in ireland and brittany grace operates through women, by i know not what charm of purity and sweetness. the revolt of the teutons was never effectually stifled; never did they forget the forced baptisms, and the sword-supported carlovingian missionaries, until the day when teutonism took its revenge, and luther through seven centuries gave answer to witikind. on the other hand, the celts were, even in the third century, perfect christians. to the teutons christianity was for long nothing but a roman institution, imposed from without. they entered the church only to trouble it; and it was not without very great difficulty that they succeeded in forming a national clergy. to the celts, on the contrary, christianity did not come from rome; they had their native clergy, their own peculiar usages, their faith at first hand. it cannot, in fact, be doubted that in apostolic times christianity was preached in brittany; and several historians, not without justification, have considered that it was borne there by judaistic christians, or by disciples of the school of st. john. everywhere else christianity found, as a first substratum, greek or roman civilisation. here it found a virgin soil of a nature analogous to its own, and naturally prepared to receive it. few forms of christianity have offered an ideal of christian perfection so pure as the celtic church of the sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries. nowhere, perhaps, has god been better worshipped in spirit than in those great monastic communities of hy, or of iona, of bangor, of clonard, or of lindisfarne. one of the most distinguished developments of christianity--doubtless too distinguished for the popular and practical mission which the church had to undertake--pelagianism, arose from it. the true and refined morality, the simplicity, and the wealth of invention which give distinction to the legends of the breton and irish saints are indeed admirable. no race adopted christianity with so much originality, or, while subjecting itself to the common faith, kept its national characteristics more persistently. in religion, as in all else, the bretons sought isolation, and did not willingly fraternise with the rest of the world. strong in their moral superiority, persuaded that they possessed the veritable canon of faith and religion, having received their christianity from an apostolic and wholly primitive preaching, they experienced no need of feeling themselves in communion with christian societies less noble than their own. thence arose that long struggle of the breton churches against roman pretensions, which is so admirably narrated by m. augustin thierry, [footnote: in his history of the conquest. the objections raised by m. varin and some other scholars to m. thierry's narrative only affect some secondary details, which were rectified in the edition published after the illustrious historian's death.] thence those inflexible characters of columba and the monks of iona, defending their usages and institutions against the whole church, thence finally the false position of the celtic peoples in catholicism, when that mighty force, grown more and more aggressive, had drawn them together from all quarters, and compelled their absorption in itself. having no catholic past, they found themselves unclassed on their entrance into the great family, and were never able to succeed in creating for themselves an archbishopric. all their efforts and all their innocent deceits to attribute that title to the churches of dol and st. davids were wrecked on the overwhelming divergence of their past; their bishops had to resign themselves to being obscure suffragans of tours and canterbury. it remains to be said that, even in our own days, the powerful originality of celtic christianity is far from being effaced. the bretons of france, although they have felt the consequences of the revolutions undergone by catholicism on the continent, are, at the present hour, one of the populations in which religious feeling has retained most independence. the new devotions find no favour with it; the people are faithful to the old beliefs and the old saints; the psalms of religion have for them an ineffable harmony. in the same way, ireland keeps, in her more remote districts, quite unique forms of worship from those of the rest of the world, to which nothing in other parts of christendom can be compared. the influence of modern catholicism, elsewhere so destructive of national usages, has had here a wholly contrary effect, the clergy having found it incumbent on them to seek a vantage ground against protestantism, in attachment to local practices and the customs of the past. it is the picture of these christian institutions, quite distinct from those of the remainder of the west, of this sometimes strange worship, of these legends of the saints marked with so distinct a seal of nationality, that lends an interest to the ecclesiastical antiquities of ireland, of wales, and of armorican brittany. no hagiology has remained more exclusively natural than that of the celtic peoples; until the twelfth century those peoples admitted very few alien saints into their martyrology. none, too, includes so many naturalistic elements. celtic paganism offered so little resistance to the new religion, that the church did not hold itself constrained to put in force against it the rigour with which elsewhere it pursued the slightest traces of mythology. the conscientious essay by w. rees on the "saints of wales", and that by the rev. john williams, an extremely learned ecclesiastic of the diocese of st. asaph, on the "ecclesiastical antiquities of the cymry", suffice to make one understand the immense value which a complete and intelligent history of the celtic churches, before their absorption in the roman church, would possess. to these might be added the learned work of dom lobineau on the saints of brittany, re-issued in our days by the abbe tresvaux, had not the half- criticism of the benedictine, much worse than a total absence of criticism, altered those naive legends and cut away from them, under the pretext of good sense and religious reverence, that which to us gives them interest and charm. ireland above all would offer a religious physiognomy quite peculiar to itself, which would appear singularly original, were history in a position to reveal it in its entirety. when we consider the legions of irish saints who in the sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries inundated the continent and arrived from their isle bearing with them their stubborn spirit, their attachment to their own usages, their subtle and realistic turn of mind, and see the scots (such was the name given to the irish) doing duty, until the twelfth century, as instructors in grammar and literature to all the west, we cannot doubt that ireland, in the first half of the middle ages, was the scene of a singular religious movement. studious philologists and daring philosophers, the hibernian monks were above all indefatigable copyists; and it was in part owing to them that the work of the pen became a holy task. columba, secretly warned that his last hour is at hand, finishes the page of the psalter which he has commenced, writes at the foot that he bequeaths the continuation to his successor, and then goes into the church to die. nowhere was monastic life to find such docile subjects. credulous as a child, timid, indolent, inclined to submit and obey, the irishman alone was capable of lending himself to that complete self-abdication in the hands of the abbot, which we find so deeply marked in the historical and legendary memorials of the irish church. one easily recognises the land where, in our own days, the priest, without provoking the slightest scandal, can, on a sunday before quitting the altar, give the orders for his dinner in a very audible manner, and announce the farm where he intends to go and dine, and where he will hear his flock in confession. in the presence of a people which lived by imagination and the senses alone, the church did not consider itself under the necessity of dealing severely with the caprices of religious fantasy. it permitted the free action of the popular instinct; and from this freedom emerged what is perhaps of all cults the most mythological and most analogous to the mysteries of antiquity, presented in christian annals, a cult attached to certain places, and almost exclusively consisting in certain acts held to be sacramental. without contradiction the legend of st. brandan is the most singular product of this combination of celtic naturalism with christian spiritualism. the taste of the hibernian monks for making maritime pilgrimages through the archipelago of the scottish and irish seas, everywhere dotted with monasteries, [footnote: the irish saints literally covered the western seas. a very considerable number of the saints of brittany, st. tenenan, st. renan, etc., were emigrants from ireland. the breton legends of st. malo, st. david, and of st. pol of leon are replete with similar stories of voyages to the distant isles of the west.] and the memory of yet more distant voyages in polar seas, furnished the framework of this curious composition, so rich in local impressions. from pliny (iv. xxx. ) we learn that, even in his time, the bretons loved to venture their lives upon the high seas, in search of unknown isles. m. letronne has proved that in , sixty-five years consequently before the danes, irish monks landed in iceland and established themselves on the coast. in this island the danes found irish books and bells; and the names of certain localities still bear witness to the sojourn of those monks, who were known by the name of papae (fathers). in the faroe isles, in the orkneys, and the shetlands, indeed in all parts of the northern seas, the scandinavians found themselves preceded by those papas, whose habits contrasted so strangely with their own. [footnote: on this point see the careful researches of humboldt in his history of the geography of the new continent, vol. ii.] did they not have a glimpse too of that great land, the vague memory of which seems to pursue them, and which columbus was to discover, following the traces of their dreams? it is only known that the existence of an island, traversed by a great river and situated to the west of ireland, was, on the faith of the irish, a dogma for mediaeval geographers. the story went that, towards the middle of the sixth century, a monk called barontus, on his return from voyaging upon the sea, came and craved hospitality at the monastery of clonfert. brandan the abbot besought him to give pleasure to the brothers by narrating the marvels of god that he had seen on the high seas. barontus revealed to them the existence of an island surrounded by fogs, where he had left his disciple mernoc; it is the land of promise that god keeps for his saints. brandan with seventeen of his monks desired to go in quest of this mysterious land. they set forth in a leather boat, bearing with them as their sole provision a utensil of butter, wherewith to grease the hides of their craft. for seven years they lived thus in their boat, abandoning to god sail and rudder, and only stopping on their course to celebrate the feasts of christmas and easter on the back of the king of fishes, jasconius. every step of this monastic odyssey is a miracle, on every isle is a monastery, where the wonders of a fantastical universe respond to the extravagances of a wholly ideal life. here is the isle of sheep, where these animals govern themselves according to their own laws; elsewhere the paradise of birds, where the winged race lives after the fashion of monks, singing matins and lauds at the canonical hours. brandan and his companions celebrate mass here with the birds, and remain with them for fifty days, nourishing themselves with nothing but the singing of their hosts. elsewhere there is the isle of delight, the ideal of monastic life in the midst of the seas. here no material necessity makes itself felt; the lamps light of themselves for the offices of religion, and never burn out, for they shine with a spiritual light. an absolute stillness reigns in the island; every one knows precisely the hour of his death; one feels neither cold, nor heat, nor sadness, nor sickness of body or soul. all this has endured since the days of st. patrick, who so ordained it. the land of promise is more marvellous still; there an eternal day reigns; all the plants have flowers, all the trees bear fruits. some privileged men alone have visited it. on their return a perfume is perceived to come from them, which their garments keep for forty days. in the midst of these dreams there appears with a surprising fidelity to truth the feeling for the picturesque in polar voyages,- -the transparency of the sea, the aspect of bergs and islands of ice melting in the sun, the volcanic phenomena of iceland, the sporting of whales, the characteristic appearance of the norwegian fiords, the sudden fogs, the sea calm as milk, the green isles crowned with grass which grows down to the very verge of the waves. this fantastical nature created expressly for another humanity, this strange topography at once glowing with fiction and speaking of truth, make the poem of st. brandan one of the most extraordinary creations of the human mind, and perhaps the completest expression of the celtic ideal. all is lovely, pure, and innocent; never has a gaze so benevolent and so gentle been cast upon the earth; there is not a single cruel idea, not a trace of frailty or repentance. it is the world seen through the crystal of a stainless conscience, one might almost say a human nature, as pelagius wished it, that has never sinned. the very animals participate in this universal mildness. evil appears under the form of monsters wandering on the deep, or of cyclops confined in volcanic islands; but god causes them to destroy one another, and does not permit them to do hurt to the good. we have just seen how, around the legend of a monk the irish imagination grouped a whole cycle of physical and maritime myths. the purgatory of st. patrick became the framework of another series of fables, embodying the celtic ideas concerning the other life and its different conditions. [footnote: see thomas wright's excellent dissertation, saint patrick's purgatory (london, ), and calderon's the well of saint patrick.] perhaps the profoundest instinct of the celtic peoples is their desire to penetrate the unknown. with the sea before them, they wish to know what lies beyond; they dream of a promised land. in the face of the unknown that lies beyond the tomb, they dream of that great journey which the pen of dante has celebrated. the legend tells how, while st. patrick was preaching about paradise and hell to the irish, they confessed that they would feel more assured of the reality of these places, if he would allow one of them to descend there, and then come back with information st. patrick consented. a pit was dug, by which an irishman set out upon the subterranean journey. others wished to attempt the journey after him. with the consent of the abbot of the neighbouring monastery, they descended into the shaft, they passed through the torments of hell and purgatory, and then each told of what he had seen. some did not emerge again; those who did laughed no more, and were henceforth unable to join in any gaiety. knight owen made a descent in , and gave a narrative of his travels which had a prodigious success. other legends related that when st. patrick drove the goblins out of ireland, he was greatly tormented in this place for forty days by legions of black birds. the irish betook themselves to the spot, and experienced the same assaults which gave them an immunity from purgatory. according to the narrative of giraldus cambrensis, the isle which served as the theatre of this strange superstition was divided into two parts. one belonged to the monks, the other was occupied by evil spirits, who celebrated religious rites in their own manner, with an infernal uproar. some people, for the expiation of their sins, voluntarily exposed themselves to the fury of those demons. there were nine ditches in which they lay for a night, tormented in a thousand different ways. to make the descent it was necessary to obtain the permission of the bishop. his duty it was to dissuade the penitent from attempting the adventure, and to point out to him how many people had gone in who had never come out again. if the devotee persisted, he was ceremoniously conducted to the shaft. he was lowered down by means of a rope, with a loaf and a vessel of water to strengthen him in the combat against the fiend which he proposed to wage. on the following morning the sacristan offered the rope anew to the sufferer. if he mounted to the surface again, they brought him back to the church, bearing the cross and chanting psalms. if he were not to be found, the sacristan closed the door and departed. in more modern times pilgrims to the sacred isles spent nine days there. they passed over to them in a boat hollowed out of the trunk of a tree. once a day they drank of the water of the lake; processions and stations were performed in the beds or cells of the saints. upon the ninth day the penitents entered into the shaft. sermons were preached to them warning them of the danger they were about to run, and they were told of terrible examples. they forgave their enemies and took farewell of one another, as though they were at their last agony. according to contemporary accounts, the shaft was a low and narrow kiln, into which nine entered at a time, and in which the penitents passed a day and a night, huddled and tightly pressed against one another. popular belief imagined an abyss underneath, to swallow up the unworthy and the unbelieving. on emerging from the pit they went and bathed in the lake, and so their purgatory was accomplished. it would appear from the accounts of eye-witnesses that, to this day, things happen very nearly after the same fashion. the immense reputation of the purgatory of st. patrick filled the whole of the middle ages. preachers made appeal to the public notoriety of this great fact, to controvert those who had their doubts regarding purgatory. in the year edward iii. gave to a hungarian of noble birth, who had come from hungary expressly to visit the sacred well, letters patent attesting that he had undergone his purgatory. narratives of those travels beyond the tomb became a very fashionable form of literature; and it is important for us to remark the wholly mythological, and as wholly celtic, characteristics dominant in them. it is in fact evident that we are dealing with a mystery or local cult, anterior to christianity, and probably based upon the physical appearance of the country. the idea of purgatory, in its final and concrete form, fared specially well amongst the bretons and the irish. bede is one of the first to speak of it in a descriptive manner, and the learned mr. wright very justly observes that nearly all the descriptions of purgatory come from irishmen, or from anglo-saxons who have resided in ireland, such as st. fursey, tundale, the northumbrian dryhthelm, and knight owen. it is likewise a remarkable thing that only the irish were able to behold the marvels of their purgatory. a canon from hemstede in holland, who descended in , saw nothing at all. evidently this idea of travels in the other world and its infernal categories, as the middle ages accepted it, is celtic. the belief in the three circles of existence is again to be found in the triads, [footnote: a series of aphorisms under the form of triplets, which give us, with numerous interpolations, the ancient teaching of the bards, and that traditional wisdom which, according to the testimony of the ancients, was transmitted by means of mnemonic verses in the schools of the druids. under an aspect which does not permit one to see any christian interpolation.] the soul's peregrinations after death are also the favourite theme of the most ancient armorican poetry. among the features by which the celtic races most impressed the romans were the precision of their ideas upon the future life, their inclination to suicide, and the loans and contracts which they signed with the other world in view. the more frivolous peoples of the south saw with awe in this assurance the fact of a mysterious race, having an understanding of the future and the secret of death. through the whole of classical antiquity runs the tradition of an isle of shadows, situated on the confines of brittany, and of a folk devoted to the passage of souls, which lives upon the neighbouring coast. in the night they hear dead men prowling about their cabin, and knocking at the door. then they rise up; their craft is laden with invisible beings; on their return it is lighter. several of these features reproduced by plutarch, claudian, procopius, [footnote: a byzantine historian of the fifth and sixth centuries.] and tzetzes [footnote: a greek poet and grammarian of the twelfth century.] would incline one to believe that the renown of the irish myths made its way into classical antiquity about the first or second century. plutarch, for example, relates, concerning the cronian sea, fables identical with those which fill the legend of st. malo. procopius, describing the sacred island of brittia, which consists of two parts separated by the sea, one delightful, the other given over to evil spirits, seems to have read in advance the description of the purgatory of st. patrick, which giraldus cambrensis was to give seven centuries later. it cannot be doubted for a moment, after the able researches of messrs. ozanam, labitte, and wright, that to the number of poetical themes which europe owes to the genius of the celts, is to be added the framework of the divine comedy. one can understand how greatly this invincible attraction to fables must have discredited the celtic race in the eyes of nationalities that believed themselves to be more serious. it is in truth a strange thing, that the whole of the mediaeval epoch, whilst submitting to the influence of the celtic imagination, and borrowing from brittany and ireland at least half of its poetical subjects, believed itself obliged, for the saving of its own honour, to slight and satirise the people to which it owed them. even chretien de troyes, for example, who passed his life in exploiting the breton romances for his own purposes, originated the saying-- "les gallois sont tous par nature plus sots que betes de pature." some english chronicler, i know not who, imagined he was making a charming play upon words when he described those beautiful creations, the whole world of which deserved to live, as "the childish nonsense with which those brutes of bretons amuse themselves." the bollandists [footnote: a group of jesuits who issued a collection of "lives of the saints". the first five volumes were edited by john bolland.] found it incumbent to exclude from their collection, as apocryphal extravagances, those admirable religious legends, with which no church has anything to compare. the decided leaning of the celtic race towards the ideal, its sadness, its fidelity, its good faith, caused it to be regarded by its neighbours as dull, foolish, and superstitious. they could not understand its delicacy and refined manner of feeling. they mistook for awkwardness the embarrassment experienced by sincere and open natures in the presence of more artificial natures. the contrast between french frivolity and breton stubbornness above all led, after the fourteenth century, to most deplorable conflicts, whence the bretons ever emerged with a reputation for wrong-headedness. it was still worse, when the nation that most prides itself on its practical good sense found confronting it the people that, to its own misfortune, is least provided with that gift. poor ireland, with her ancient mythology, with her purgatory of st. patrick, and her fantastic travels of st. brandan, was not destined to find grace in the eyes of english puritanism. one ought to observe the disdain of english critics for these fables, and their superb pity for the church which dallies with paganism, so far as to keep up usages which are notoriously derived from it. assuredly we have here a praiseworthy zeal, arising from natural goodness; and yet, even if these flights of imagination did no more than render a little more supportable many sufferings which are said to have no remedy, that after all would be something. who shall dare to say where, here on earth, is the boundary between reason and dreaming? which is worth more, the imaginative instinct of man, or the narrow orthodoxy that pretends to remain rational, when speaking of things divine? for my own part, i prefer the frank mythology, with all its vagaries, to a theology so paltry, so vulgar, and so colourless, that it would be wronging god to believe that, after having made the visible world so beautiful he should have made the invisible world so prosaically reasonable. in presence of the ever-encroaching progress of a civilisation which is of no country, and can receive no name, other than that of modern or european, it would be puerile to hope that the celtic race is in the future to succeed in obtaining isolated expression of its originality. and yet we are far from believing that this race has said its last word. after having put in practice all chivalries, devout and worldly, gone with peredur in quest of the holy grail and fair ladies, and dreamed with st. brandan of mystical atlantides, who knows what it would produce in the domain of intellect, if it hardened itself to an entrance into the world, and subjected its rich and profound nature to the conditions of modern thought? it appears to me that there would result from this combination, productions of high originality, a subtle and discreet manner of taking life, a singular union of strength and weakness, of rude simplicity and mildness. few races have had so complete a poetic childhood as the celtic; mythology, lyric poetry, epic, romantic imagination, religious enthusiasm--none of these failed them; why should reflection fail them? germany, which commenced with science and criticism, has come to poetry; why should not the celtic races, which began with poetry, finish with criticism? there is not so great a distance from one to the other as is supposed; the poetical races are the philosophic races, and at bottom philosophy is only a manner of poetry. when one considers how germany, less than a century ago, had her genius revealed to her, how a multitude of national individualities, to all appearance effaced, have suddenly risen again in our own days, more instinct with life than ever, one feels persuaded that it is a rash thing to lay down any law on the intermittence and awakening of nations; and that modern civilisation, which appeared to be made to absorb them, may perhaps be nothing more than their united fruition. the education of the human race by gotthold ephraim lessino translated by f. w. robertson introductory note lessing's life has been sketched in the introduction to his "minna von barnhelm" in the volume of continental dramas in the harvard classics. "the education of the human race" is the culmination of a bitter theological controversy which began with the publication by lessing, in - , of a series of fragments of a work on natural religion by the german deist, reimarus. this action brought upon lessing the wrath of the orthodox german protestants, led by j. m. goeze, and in the battle that followed lessing did his great work for the liberalising of religious thought in germany. the present treatise is an extraordinarily condensed statement of the author's attitude towards the fundamental questions of religion, and gives his view of the signification of the previous religious history of mankind, along with his faith and hope for the future. as originally issued, the essay purported to be merely edited by lessing; but there is no longer any doubt as to his having been its author. it is an admirable and characteristic expression of the serious and elevated spirit in which he dealt with matters that had then, as often, been degraded by the virulence of controversy. the education of the human race that which education is to the individual, revelation is to the race. education is revelation coming to the individual man; and revelation is education which has come, and is yet coming, to the human race. whether it can be of any advantage to the science of instruction to contemplate education in this point of view, i will not here inquire; but in theology it may unquestionably be of great advantage, and may remove many difficulties, if revelation be conceived of as the educator of humanity. education gives to man nothing which he might not educe out of himself; it gives him that which he might educe out of himself, only quicker and more easily. in the same way too, revelation gives nothing to the human species, which the human reason left to itself might not attain; only it has given, and still gives to it, the most important of these things earlier. and just as in education, it is not a matter of indifference in what order the powers of a man are developed, as it cannot impart to a man all at once; so was god also necessitated to maintain a certain order, and a certain measure in his revelation. even if the first man were furnished at once with a conception of the one god; yet it was not possible that this conception, imparted, and not gained by thought, should subsist long in its clearness. as soon as the human reason, left to itself, began to elaborate it, it broke up the one immeasurable into many measurables, and gave a note or sign of mark to every one of these parts. hence naturally arose polytheism and idolatry. and who can say how many millions of years human reason would have been bewildered in these errors, even though in all places and times there were individual men who recognized them as errors, had it not pleased god to afford it a better direction by means of a new impulse? but when he neither could nor would reveal himself any more to each individual man, he selected an individual people for his special education; and that exactly the most rude and the most unruly, in order to begin with it from the very commencement. this was the hebrew people, respecting whom we do not in the least know what kind of divine worship they had in egypt. for so despised a race of slaves was not permitted to take part in the worship of the egyptians; and the god of their fathers was entirely unknown to them. it is possible that the egyptians had expressly prohibited the hebrews from having a god or gods, perhaps they had forced upon them the belief that their despised race had no god, no gods, that to have a god or gods was the prerogative of the superior egyptians only, and this may have been so held in order to have the power of tyrannising over them with a greater show of fairness. do christians even now do much better with their slaves? to this rude people god caused himself to be announced first, simply as "the god of their fathers," in order to make them acquainted and familiar with the idea of a god belonging to them also, and to begin with confidence in him. through the miracles with which he led them out of egypt, and planted them in canaan, he testified of himself to them as a god mightier than any other god. and as he proceeded, demonstrating himself to be the mightiest of all, which only one can be, he gradually accustomed them thus to the idea of the one. but how far was this conception of the one, below the true transcendental conception of the one which reason learnt to derive, so late with certainty, from the conception of the infinite one? although the best of the people were already more or less approaching the true conception of the one only, the people as a whole could not for a long time elevate themselves to it. and this was the sole true reason why they so often abandoned their one god, and expected to find the one, i. e., as they meant, the mightiest, in some god or other, belonging to another people. but of what kind of moral education was a people so raw, so incapable of abstract thoughts, and so entirely in their childhood capable? of none other but such as is adapted to the age of children, an education by rewards and punishments addressed to the senses. here too education and revelation meet together. as yet god could give to his people no other religion, no other law than one through obedience to which they might hope to be happy, or through disobedience to which they must fear to be unhappy. for as yet their regards went no further than this earth. they knew of no immortality of the soul; they yearned after no life to come. but now to reveal these things to one whose reason had as yet so little growth, what would it have been but the same fault in the divine rule as is committed by the schoolmaster, who chooses to hurry his pupil too rapidly, and boast of his progress, rather than thoroughly to ground him? but, it will be asked, to what purpose was this education of so rude a people, a people with whom god had to begin so entirely from the beginning? i reply, in order that in the process of time he might employ particular members of this nation as the teachers of other people. he was bringing up in them the future teachers of the human race. it was the jews who became their teachers, none but jews; only men out of a people so brought up, could be their teachers. for to proceed. when the child by dint of blows and caresses had grown and was now come to years of understanding, the father sent it at once into foreign countries: and here it recognised at once the good which in its father's house it had possessed, and had not been conscious of. . while god guided his chosen people through all the degrees of a child-like education, the other nations of the earth had gone on by the light of reason. the most part had remained far behind the chosen people. only a few had got before them. and this too, takes place with children, who are allowed to grow up left to themselves: many remain quite raw, some educate themselves even to an astonishing degree. but as these more fortunate few prove nothing against the use and necessity of education, so the few heathen nations, who even appear to have made a start in the knowledge of god before the chosen people, prove nothing against a revelation. the child of education begins with slow yet sure footsteps; it is late in overtaking many a more happily organised child of nature; but it does overtake it; and thenceforth can never be distanced by it again. similarly--putting aside the doctrine of the unity of god, which in a way is found, and in a way is not found, in the books of the old testament--that the doctrine of immortality at least is not discoverable in it, is wholly foreign to it, that all doctrine connected therewith of reward and punishment in a future life, proves just as little against the divine origin of these books. notwithstanding the absence of these doctrines, the account of miracles and prophecies may be perfectly true. for let us suppose that these doctrines were not only wanting therein, but even that they were not at all true; let us suppose that for mankind all was over in this life; would the being of god be for this reason less demonstrated? would god be for this less at liberty, would it less become him to take immediate charge of the temporal fortunes of any people out of this perishable race? the miracles which he performed for the jews, the prophecies which he caused to be recorded through them, were surely not for the few mortal jews, in whose time they had happened and been recorded: he had his intentions therein in reference to the whole jewish people, to the entire human race, which, perhaps, is destined to remain on earth forever, though every individual jew and every individual man die forever. once more, the absence of those doctrines in the writings of the old testament proves nothing against their divinity. moses was sent from god even though the sanction of his law only extended to this life. for why should it extend further? he was surely sent only to the israelitish people of that time, and his commission was perfectly adapted to the knowledge, capacities, yearnings of the then existing israelitish people, as well as to the destination of that which belonged to the future. and this is sufficient. so far ought warburton to have gone, and no further. but that learned man overdrew his bow. not content that the absence of these doctrines was no discredit to the divine mission of moses, it must even be a proof to him of the divinity of the mission. and if he had only sought this proof in the adaptation of such a law to such a people! but he betook himself to the hypothesis of a miraculous system continued in an unbroken line from moses to christ, according to which, god had made every individual jew exactly happy or unhappy, in the proportion to his obedience or disobedience to the law deserved. he would have it that this miraculous system had compensated for the want of those doctrines (of eternal rewards and punishments, &c.), without which no state can subsist; and that such a compensation even proved what that want at first sight appeared to negative. how well it was that warburton could by no argument prove or even make likely this continuous miracle, in which he placed the existence of israelitish theocracy! for could he have done so, in truth, he could then, and not till then, have made the difficulty really insuperable, to me at least. for that which was meant to prove the divine character of the mission of moses, would have rendered the matter itself doubtful, which god, it is true, did not intend then to reveal; but which on the other hand, he certainly would not render unattainable. i explain myself by that which is a picture of revelation. a primer for children may fairly pass over in silence this or that important piece of knowledge or art which it expounds, respecting which the teacher judged, that it is not yet fitted for the capacities of the children for whom he was writing. but it must contain absolutely nothing which blocks up the way towards the knowledge which is held back, or misleads the children from it. rather far, all the approaches towards it must be carefully left open; and to lead them away from even one of these approaches, or to cause them to enter it later than they need, would alone be enough to change the mere imperfection of such a primer into an actual fault. in the same way, in the writings of the old testament those primers for the rude israelitish people, unpractised in thought, the doctrines of the immortality of the soul, and future recompenses, might be fairly left out: but they were bound to contain nothing which could have even procrastinated the progress of the people, for whom they were written, in their way to this grand truth. and to say but a small thing, what could have more procrastinated it than the promise of such a miraculous recompense in this life? a promise made by him who promises nothing that he does not perform. for although unequal distribution of the goods of this life, virtue and vice seem to be taken too little into consideration, although this unequal distribution docs not exactly afford a strong proof of the immortality of the soul and of a life to come, in which this difficulty will be reserved hereafter, it is certain that without this difficulty the human understanding would not for a long time, perhaps never, have arrived at better or firmer proofs. for what was to impel it to seek for these better proofs? mere curiosity? an israelite here and there, no doubt, might have extended to every individual member of the entire commonwealth, those promises and threatenings which belong to it as a whole, and be firmly persuaded that whosoever should be pious must also be happy, and that whoever was unhappy must be bearing the penalty of his wrong-doing, which penalty would forthwith change itself into blessing, as soon as he abandoned his sin. such a one appears to have written job, for the plan of it is entirely in this spirit. but daily experience could not possibly be permitted to confirm this belief, or else it would have been all over, for ever, with people who had this experience, so far as all recognition and reception was concerned of the truth as yet unfamiliar to them. for if the pious were absolutely happy, and it also of course was a necessary part of his happiness that his satisfaction should be broken by no uneasy thoughts of death, and that he should die old, and satisfied with life to the full: how could he yearn after another life? and how could he reflect upon a thing after which he did not yearn? but if the pious did not reflect thereupon, who then should reflect? the transgressor? he who felt the punishments of his misdeeds, and if he cursed this life, must have so gladly renounced that other existence? much less would it signify if an israelite here and there directly and expressly denied the immortality of the soul and future recompense, on account of the law having no reference thereto. the denial of an individual, had it even been a solomon, did not arrest the progress of the general reason, and was even in itself a proof that the nation had now come a great step nearer the truth for individuals only deny what the many are bringing into consideration; and to bring into consideration that, concerning which no one troubled himself at all before, is half way to knowledge. let us also acknowledge that it is a heroic obedience to obey the laws of god simply because they are god's laws, and not because he has promised to reward the obedience to them here and there; to obey them even though there be an entire despair of future recompense, and uncertainty respecting a temporal one. must not a people educated in this heroic obedience towards god have been destined, must they not have been capable beyond all others of executing divine purpose? of quite a special character? let the soldier, who pays blind obedience to his leader, become also convinced of his leader's wisdom, and then say what that leader may not undertake to achieve with him. as yet the jewish people had reverenced in their jehovah rather the mightiest than the wisest of all gods; as yet they had rather feared him as a jealous god than loved him: a proof this too, that the conception which they had of their eternal one god was not exactly the right conception which we should have of god. however, now the time was come that these conceptions of theirs were to be expanded, ennobled, rectified, to accomplish which god availed himself of a quite natural means, a better and more correct measure, by which it got the opportunity of appreciating him. instead of, as hitherto, appreciating him in contrast with the miserable idols of the small neighboring peoples, with whom they lived in constant rivalry, they began, in captivity under the wise persians, to measure him against the "being of all beings" such as a more disciplined reason recognized and reverenced. revelation had guided their reason, and now, all at once, reason gave clearness to their revelation. this was the first reciprocal influence which these two (reason and revelation) exercised on one another; and so far is the mutual influence from being unbecoming to the author of them both, that without it either of them would have been useless. the child, sent abroad, saw other children who knew more, who lived more becomingly, and asked itself, in confusion, "why do i not know that too? why do i not live so too? ought i not to have been taught and admonished of all this in my father's house?" thereupon it again sought out its primer, which had long been thrown into a corner, in order to throw off a blame upon the primer. but behold, it discovers that the blame does not rest upon the books, that the shame is solely its own, for not having long ago, known this very thing, and lived in this very way. since the jews, by this time, through the medium of the pure persian doctrine, recognized in their jehovah, not simply the greatest of all national deities, but god; and since they could, the more readily find him and indicate him to others in their sacred writings, inasmuch as he was really in them; and since they manifested as great an aversion for sensuous representations, or at all events, were instructed in these scriptures, to have an aversion to them as great as the persians had always felt; what wonder that they found favor in the eyes of cyrus, with a divine worship which he recognized as being, no doubt, far below pure sabeism, but yet far above the rude idolatries which in its stead had taken possession of the forsaken land of the jews. thus enlightened respecting the treasures which they had possessed, without knowing it, they returned, and became quite another people, whose first care it was to give permanency to this illumination amongst themselves. soon an apostacy and idolatry among them was out of the question. for it is possible to be faithless to a national deity, but never to god, after he has once been recognised. the theologians have tried to explain this complete change in the jewish people in a different way; and one, who has well demonstrated the insufficiency of these explanations, at last was for giving us, as a true account--"the visible fulfilment of the prophecies which had been spoken and written respecting the babylonish captivity and the restoration from it." but even this reason can be only so far the true one, as it presupposes the, by this time, exalted ideas of god. the jews must by this time have recognised that to do miracles, and to predict the future, belonged only to god, both of which they had ascribed formerly to false idols, by which it came to pass that even miracles and prophecies had hitherto made so weak an impression upon them. doubtless, the jews were made more acquainted with the doctrine of immortality among the chaldeans and persians. they became more familiar with it too in the schools of the greek philosophers in egypt. however, as this doctrine was not in the same condition in reference to their scriptures that the doctrines of god's unity and attributes were--since the former were entirely overlooked by that sensual people, while the latter would be sought for:--and since too, for the former, previous exercising was necessary, and as yet there had been only hints and allusions, the faith in the immortality of the soul could naturally never be the faith of the entire people. it was and continued to be only the creed of a certain section of them. an example of what i mean by "previous exercising" for the doctrine of immortality, is the divine threatenings of punishing the misdeeds of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation. this accustomed the fathers to live in thought with their remotest posterity, and to feel, as it were, beforehand, the misfortune which they had brought upon these guiltless ones. by an allusion i mean that which was intended only to excite curiosity and to occasion questions. as, for instance, the oft- recurring mode of expression, describing death by "he was gathered to his fathers." by a "hint" i mean that which already contains any germ, out of which the, as yet, held back truth allows itself to be developed. of this character was the inference of christ from the naming of god "the god of abraham, isaac, and jacob." this hint appears to me to be unquestionably capable of being worked out into a strong proof. in such previous exercitations, allusions, hints, consists the positive perfection of a primer; just as the above-mentioned peculiarity of not throwing difficulties or hindrances in the way to the suppressed truth constitutes the negative perfection of such a book. add to all this the clothing and style. . the clothing of abstract truths, which were not entirely to be passed over, in allegories and instructive single circumstances, which were narrated as actual occurrences. of this character are the creation under the image of growing day; the origin of evil in the story of the forbidden tree; the source of the variety of languages in the history of the tower of babel, &c. . the style--sometimes plain and simple, sometimes poetical, throughout full of tautologies, but of such a kind as practised sagacity, since they sometimes appear to be saying something else, and yet the same thing; sometimes the same thing over again, and yet to signify or to be capable of signifying at the bottom, something else:-- and then you have all the properties of excellence which belong to a primer for a childlike people, as well as for children. but every primer is only for a certain age. to delay the child, that has outgrown it, longer in it than it was intended for, is hurtful. for to be able to do this is a way in any sort profitable, you must insert into it more than there is really in it, and extract from it more than it can contain. you must look for and make too much of allusions and hints; squeeze allegories too closely; interpret examples too circumstantially; press too much upon words. this gives the child a petty, crooked, hair splitting understanding: it makes him full of mysteries, superstitions; full of contempt for all that is comprehensible and easy. the very way in which the rabbins handled their sacred books! the very character which they thereby imparted to the character of their people! a better instructor must come and tear the exhausted primer from the child's hands. christ came! that portion of the human race which god had willed to comprehend in one educational plan, was ripe for the second step of education. he had, however, only willed to comprehend on such a plan, one which by language, mode of action, government, and other natural and political relationships, was already united in itself. that is, this portion of the human race was come so far in the exercise of its reason, as to need, and to be able to make use of nobler and worthier motives of moral action than temporal rewards and punishments, which had hitherto been its guides. the child had become a youth. sweetmeats and toys have given place to the budding desire to go as free, as honored, and as happy as its elder brother. for a long time, already, the best individuals of that portion of the human race (called above the elder brother); had been accustomed to let themselves be ruled by the shadow of such nobler motives. the greek and roman did everything to live on after this life, even if it were only in the remembrance of their fellow-citizens. it was time that another true life to be expected after this should gain an influence over the youth's actions. and so christ was the first certain practical teacher of the immortality of the soul. the first certain teacher. certain, through the prophecies which were fulfilled in him; certain, through the miracles which he achieved; certain, through his own revival after a death through which he had sealed his doctrine. whether we can still prove this revival, these miracles, i put aside, as i leave on one side who the person of christ was. all that may have been at that time of great weight for the reception of his doctrine, but it is now no longer of the same importance for the recognition of the truth of his doctrine. the first practical teacher. for it is one thing to conjecture, to wish, and to believe the immortality of the soul, as a philosophic speculation: quite another thing to direct the inner and outer acts by it. and this at least christ was the first to teach. for although, already before him, the belief had been introduced among many nations, that bad actions have yet to be punished in that life; yet they were only such actions as were injurious to civil society, and consequently, too, had already had their punishment in civil society. to enforce an inward purity of heart in reference to another life, was reserved for him alone. his disciples have faithfully propagated these doctrines: and if they had even had no other merit, than that of having effected a more general publication, among other nations, of a truth which christ had appeared to have destined only for the jews, yet would they have even on that account alone, to be reckoned among the benefactors and fosterers of the human race. if, however, they transplanted this one great truth together with other doctrines, whose truth was less enlightening, whose usefulness was of a less exalted character, how could it be otherwise. let us not blame them for this, but rather seriously examine whether these very commingled doctrines have not become a new impulse of directions for human reason. at least, it is already clear that the new testament scriptures, in which these doctrines after some time were found preserved, have afforded, and still afford, the second better primer for the race of man. for seven hundred years past they have exercised human reason more than all other books, and enlightened it more, were it even only through the light which the human reason itself threw into them. it would have been impossible for any other book to become so generally known among different nations: and indisputably, the fact that modes of thought so diverse from each other have been occupied on the same book, has helped on the human reason more than if every nation had had its own primer specially for itself. it was also highly necessary that each people for a period should hold this book as the ne plus ultra of their knowledge. for the youth must consider his primer as the first of all books, that the impatience to finish this book, may not hurry him on to things for which he has, as yet, laid no basis. and one thing is also of the greatest importance even now. thou abler spirit, who art fretting and restless over the last page of the primer, beware! beware of letting thy weaker fellow scholars mark what thou perceivest afar, or what thou art beginning to see! until these weaker fellow scholars are up with thee, rather return once more into this primer, and examine whether that which thou takest only for duplicates of the method, for a blunder in the teaching, is not perhaps something more. thou hast seen in the childhood of the human race, respecting the doctrine of god's unity, that god makes immediate revelations of mere truths of reason, or has permitted and caused pure truths of reason to be taught, for some time, as truths of immediate revelation, in order to promulgate them the more rapidly, and ground them the more firmly. thou experiencest in the boyhood of the race the same thing in reference to the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. it is preached in the better primer as a revelation, instead of taught as a result of human reason. as we by this time can dispense with the old testament, in reference to the doctrine of the unity of god, and as we are by degrees beginning also to be less dependent on the new testament, in reference to the immortality of the soul: might there not in this book also be other truths of the same sort prefigured, mirrored, as it were, which we are to marvel at, as revelations, exactly so long as until the time shall come when reason shall have learned to educe them, out of its other demonstrated truths and bind them up with them? for instance, the doctrine of the trinity. how if this doctrine should at last, after endless errors, right and left, only bring men on the road to recognise that god cannot possibly be one in the sense in which finite things are one, that even his unity must be a transcendental unity, which does not exclude a sort of purality? must not god at least have the most perfect conception of himself, i. e., a conception in which is found everything which is in him? but would everything be found in it which is in him, if a mere conception, a mere possibility, were found even of his necessary reality as well as of his other qualities? this possibility exhausts the being of his other qualities. does it that of his necessary reality? i think not. consequently god can either have no perfect conception of himself at all, or this perfect conception is just as necessarily real, i. e., actually existent, as he himself is. certainly the image of myself in the mirror is nothing but an empty representation of me, because it only has that of me upon the surface of which beams of light fall. but now if this image had everything, everything without exception, which i have myself, would it then still be a mere empty representation, or not rather a true reduplication of myself? when i believe that i recognise in god a familiar reduplication, i perhaps do not so much err, as that my language is insufficient for my ideas: and so much at least for ever incontrovertible, that they who wish to make the idea thereof popular for comprehension, could scarcely have expressed themselves more intelligibly and suitably than by giving the name of a son begotten from eternity. and the doctrine of original sin. how, if at last everything were to convince us that man standing on the first and lowest step of his humanity, is not so entirely master of his actions as to be able to obey moral laws? and the doctrine of the son's satisfaction. how, if at last, all compelled us to assume that god, in spite of that original incapacity of man, chose rather to give him moral laws, and forgive him all transgressions in consideration of his son, i. e., in consideration of the self-existent total of all his own perfections, compared with which, and in which, all imperfections of the individual disappear, than not to give him those laws, and then to exclude him from all moral blessedness, which cannot be conceived of without moral laws. let it not be objected that speculations of this description upon the mysteries of religion are forbidden. the word mystery signified, in the first ages of christianity, something quite different from what it means now: and the cultivation of revealed truths into truths of reason, is absolutely necessary, if the human race is to be assisted by them. when they were revealed they were certainly no truths of reason, but they were revealed in order to become such. they were like the "that makes"--of the ciphering master, which he says to the boys, beforehand, in order to direct them thereby in their reckoning. if the scholars were to be satisfied with the "that makes," they would never learn to calculate, and would frustrate the intention with which their good master gave them a guiding clue in their work. and why should not we too, by the means of a religion whose historical truth, if you will, looks dubious, be conducted in a familiar way to closer and better conceptions of the divine being, our own nature, our relation to god, truths at which the human reason would never have arrived of itself? it is not true that speculations upon these things have ever done harm or become injurious to the body politic. you must reproach, not the speculations, but the folly and the tyranny of checking them. you must lay the blame on those who would not permit men having their own speculations to exercise them. on the contrary, speculations of this sort, whatever the result, are unquestionably the most fitting exercises of the human heart, generally, so long as the human heart, generally, is at best only capable of loving virtue for the sake of its eternal blessed consequences. for in this selfishness of the human heart, to will to practice the understanding too, only on that which concerns our corporal needs, would be to blunt rather than to sharpen it. it absolutely will be exercised on spiritual objects, if it is to attain its perfect illumination, and bring out that purity of heart which makes us capable of loving virtue for its own sake alone. or, is the human species never to arrive at this highest step of illumination and purity?--never? never?--let me not think this blasphemy, all merciful! education has its goal, in the race, no less than in the individual. that which is educated is educated for something. the flattering prospects which are open to the people, the honor and well-being which are painted to him, what are they more than the means of educating him to become a man, who, when these prospects of honor and well-being have vanished, shall be able to do his duty? this is the aim of human education, and should not the divine education extend as far? is that which is successful in the way of art with the individual, not to be successful in the way of nature with the whole? blasphemy! blasphemy!! no! it will come! it will assuredly come! the time of the perfecting, when man, the more convinced his understanding feels itself of an ever better future, will nevertheless not be necessitated to borrow motives of action from this future; for he will do the right because it is right, not because arbitrary rewards are annexed thereto, which formerly were intended simply to fix and strengthen his unsteady gaze in recognising the inner, better, rewards of well-doing. it will assuredly come! the time of a new eternal gospel, which is promised us in the primer of the new testament itself! perhaps even some enthusiasts of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries had caught a glimpse of a beam of this new eternal gospel, and only erred in that they predicted its outburst at so near to their own time. perhaps their "three ages of the world" were not so empty a speculation after all, and assuredly they had no contemptible views when they taught that the new covenant must become as much antiquated as the old has been. there remained by them the similarity of the economy of the same god. ever, to let them speak my words, ever the self-same plan of the education of the race. only they were premature. only they believed that they could make their contemporaries, who had scarcely outgrown their childhood, without enlightenment, without preparation, men worthy of their third age. and it was just this which made them enthusiasts. the enthusiast often casts true glances into the future, but for this future he cannot wait. he wishes this future accelerated, and accelerated through him. that for which nature takes thousands of years is to mature itself in the moment of his existence. for what possession has he in it if that which he recognises as the best does not become the best in his lifetime? does he come back? does he expect to come back? marvellous only that this enthusiastic expectation does not become more the fashion among enthusiasts. go thine inscrutable way, eternal providence! only let me not despair in thee, because of this inscrutableness. let me not despair in thee, even if thy steps appear to me to be going back. it is not true that the shortest line is always straight. thou hast on thine eternal way so much to carry on together, so much to do! so many aside steps to take! and what if it were as good as proved that the vast flow wheel which brings mankind nearer to this perfection is only put in motion by smaller, swifter wheels, each of which contributes its own individual unit thereto? it is so! the very same way by which the race reaches its perfection, must every individual man--one sooner--another later-- have travelled over. have travelled over in one and the same life? can he have been, in one and the self-same life, a sensual jew and a spiritual christian? can he in the self-same life have overtaken both? surely not that! but why should not every individual man have existed more than once upon this world? is this hypothesis so laughable merely because it is the oldest? because the human understanding, before the sophistries of the schools had dissipated and debilitated it, lighted upon it at once? why may not even i have already performed those steps of my perfecting which bring to man only temporal punishments and rewards? and once more, why not another time all those steps, to perform which the views of eternal rewards so powerfully assist us? why should i not come back as often as i am capable of acquiring fresh knowledge, fresh expertness? do i bring away so much from once, that there is nothing to repay the trouble of coming back? is this a reason against it? or, because i forget that i have been here already? happy is it for me that i do forget. the recollection of my former condition would permit me to make only a bad use of the present. and that which even i must forget now, is that necessarily forgotten for ever? or is it a reason against the hypothesis that so much time would have been lost to me? lost?--and how much then should i miss?--is not a whole eternity mine? letters upon the aesthetic education of man by j. c. friedrich von schiller introductory note an outline of the life of schiller will be found prefixed to the translation of "wilhelm tell" in the volume of continental dramas in the harvard classics. schiller's importance in the intellectual history of germany is by no means confined to his poetry and dramas. he did notable work in history and philosophy, and in the department of esthetics especially, he made significant contributions, modifying and developing in important respects the doctrines of kant. in the letters on "esthetic education" which are here printed, he gives the philosophic basis for his doctrine of art, and indicates clearly and persuasively his view of the place of beauty in human life. letters upon the aesthetic education of man letter i. by your permission i lay before you, in a series of letters, the results of my researches upon beauty and art. i am keenly sensible of the importance as well as of the charm and dignity of this undertaking. i shall treat a subject which is closely connected with the better portion of our happiness and not far removed from the moral nobility of human nature. i shall plead this cause of the beautiful before a heart by which her whole power is felt and exercised, and which will take upon itself the most difficult part of my task in an investigation where one is compelled to appeal as frequently to feelings as to principles. that which i would beg of you as a favour, you generously impose upon me as a duty; and, when i solely consult my inclination, you impute to me a service. the liberty of action you prescribe is rather a necessity for me than a constraint little exercised in formal rules, i shall scarcely incur the risk of sinning against good taste by any undue use of them; my ideas, drawn rather from within than from reading or from an intimate experience with the world, will not disown their origin; they would rather incur any reproach than that of a sectarian bias, and would prefer to succumb by their innate feebleness than sustain themselves by borrowed authority and foreign support. in truth, i will not keep back from you that the assertions which follow rest chiefly upon kantian principles; but if in the course of these researches you should be reminded of any special school of philosophy, ascribe it to my incapacity, not to those principles. no; your liberty of mind shall be sacred to me; and the facts upon which i build will be furnished by your own sentiments; your own unfettered thought will dictate the laws according to which we to proceed. with regard to the ideas which predominate in the practical part of kant's system, philosophers only disagree, whilst mankind, i am confident of proving, have never done so. if stripped of their technical shape, they will appear as the verdict of reason pronounced from time immemorial by common consent, and as facts of the moral instinct which nature, in her wisdom, has given to man in order to serve as guide and teacher until his enlightened intelligence gives him maturity. but this very technical shape which renders truth visible to the understanding conceals it from the feelings; for, unhappily, understanding begins by destroying the object of the inner sense before it can appropriate the object. like the chemist, the philosopher finds synthesis only by analysis, or the spontaneous work of nature only through the torture of art. thus, in order to detain the fleeting apparition, he must enchain it in the fetters of rule, dissect its fair proportions into abstract notions, and preserve its living spirit in a fleshless skeleton of words. is it surprising that natural feeling should not recognise itself in such a copy, and if in the report of the analyst the truth appears as paradox? permit me therefore to crave your indulgence if the following researches should remove their object from the sphere of sense while endeavouring to draw it towards the understanding. that which i before said of moral experience can be applied with greater truth to the manifestation of "the beautiful." it is the mystery which enchants, and its being is extinguished with the extinction of the necessary combination of its elements. letter ii. but i might perhaps make a better use of the opening you afford me if i were to direct your mind to a loftier theme than that of art. it would appear to be unseasonable to go in search of a code for the aesthetic world, when the moral world offers matter of so much higher interest, and when the spirit of philosophical inquiry is so stringently challenged by the circumstances of our times to occupy itself with the most perfect of all works of art--the establishment and structure of a true political freedom. it is unsatisfactory to live out of your own age and to work for other times. it is equally incumbent on us to be good members of our own age as of our own state or country. if it is conceived to be unseemly and even unlawful for a man to segregate himself from the customs and manners of the circle in which he lives, it would be inconsistent not to see that it is equally his duty to grant a proper share of influence to the voice of his own epoch, to its taste and its requirements, in the operations in which he engages. but the voice of our age seems by no means favorable to art, at all events to that kind of art to which my inquiry is directed. the course of events has given a direction to the genius of the time that threatens to remove it continually further from the ideal of art. for art has to leave reality, it has to raise itself bodily above necessity and neediness for art is the daughter of freedom, and it requires its prescriptions and rules to be furnished by the necessity of spirits and not by that of matter. but in our day it is necessity, neediness, that prevails, and bends a degraded humanity under its iron yoke. utility is the great idol of the time, to which all powers do homage and all subjects are subservient. in this great balance of utility, the spiritual service of art has no weight, and, deprived of all encouragement, it vanishes from the noisy vanity fair of our time. the very spirit of philosophical inquiry itself robs the imagination of one promise after another, and the frontiers of art are narrowed, in proportion as the limits of science are enlarged. the eyes of the philosopher as well as of the man of the world are anxiously turned to the theatre of political events, where it is presumed the great destiny of man is to be played out. it would almost seem to betray e culpable indifference to the welfare of society if we did not share this general interest. for this great commerce in social and moral principles is of necessity a matter of the greatest concern to every human being, on the ground both of its subject and of its results. it must accordingly be of deepest moment to every man to think for himself. it would seem that now at length a question that formerly was only settled by the law of the stronger is to be determined by the calm judgment of the reason, and every man who is capable of placing himself in a central position, and raising his individuality into that of his species, can look upon himself as in possession of this judicial faculty of reason; being moreover, as man and member of the human family, a party in the case under trial and involved more or less in its decisions. it would thus appear that this great political process is not only engaged with his individual case, it has also to pronounce enactments, which he as a rational spirit is capable of enunciating and entitled to pronounce. it is evident that it would have been most attractive to me to inquire into an object such as this, to decide such a question in conjunction with a thinker of powerful mind, a man of liberal sympathies, and a heart imbued with a noble enthusiasm for the weal of humanity. though so widely separated by worldly position, it would have been a delightful surprise to have found your unprejudiced mind arriving at the same result as my own in the field of ideas, nevertheless, i think i can not only excuse, but even justify by solid grounds, my step in resisting this attractive purpose and in preferring beauty to freedom. i hope that i shall succeed in convincing you that this matter of art is less foreign to the needs than to the tastes of our age; nay, that, to arrive at a solution even in the political problem, the road of aesthetics must be pursued, because it is through beauty that we arrive at freedom. but i cannot carry out this proof without my bringing to your remembrance the principles by which the reason is guided in political legislation. letter iii. man is not better treated by nature in his first start than her other works are; so long as he is unable to act for himself as an independent intelligence, she acts for him. but the very fact that constitutes him a man is, that he does not remain stationary, where nature has placed him, that he can pass with his reason, retracing the steps nature had made him anticipate, that he can convert the work of necessity into one of free solution, and elevate physical necessity into a moral law. when man is raised from his slumber in the senses, he feels that he is a man, he surveys his surroundings, and finds that he is in a state. he was introduced into this state, by the power of circumstances, before he could freely select his own position. but as a moral being he cannot possibly rest satisfied with a political condition forced upon him by necessity, and only calculated for that condition; and it would be unfortunate if this did satisfy him. in many cases man shakes off this blind law of necessity, by his free spontaneous action, of which among many others we have an instance, in his ennobling by beauty and suppressing by moral influence the powerful impulse implanted in him by nature in the passion of love. thus, when arrived at maturity, he recovers his childhood by an artificial process, he founds a state of nature in his ideas, not given him by any experience, but established by the necessary laws and conditions of his reason, and he attributes to this ideal condition an object, an aim, of which he was not cognisant in the actual reality of nature. he gives himself a choice of which he was not capable before, and sets to work just as if he were beginning anew, and were exchanging his original state of bondage for one of complete independence, doing this with complete insight and of his free decision. he is justified in regarding this work of political thraldom as non-existing, though a wild and arbitrary caprice may have founded its work very artfully; though it may strive to maintain it with great arrogance and encompass it with a halo of veneration. for the work of blind powers possesses no authority, before which freedom need bow, and all must be made to adapt itself to the highest end which reason has set up in his personality. it is in this wise that a people in a state of manhood is justified in exchanging a condition of thraldom for one of moral freedom. now the term natural condition can be applied to every political body which owes its establishment originally to forces and not to laws, and such a state contradicts the moral nature of man, because lawfulness can alone have authority over this. at the same time this natural condition is quite sufficient for the physical man, who only gives himself laws in order to get rid of brute force. moreover, the physical man is a reality, and the moral man problematical. therefore when the reason suppresses the natural condition, as she must if she wishes to substitute her own, she weighs the real physical man against the problematical moral man, she weighs the existence of society against a possible, though morally necessary, ideal of society. she takes from man something which he really possesses, and without which he possesses nothing, and refers him as a substitute to something that he ought to possess and might possess; and if reason had relied too exclusively on him, she might, in order to secure him a state of humanity in which he is wanting and can want without injury to his life, have robbed him even of the means of animal existence which is the first necessary condition of his being a man. before he had opportunity to hold firm to the law with his will, reason would have withdrawn from his feet the ladder of nature. the great point is therefore to reconcile these two considerations: to prevent physical society from ceasing for a moment in time, while the moral society is being formed in the idea; in other words, to prevent its existence from being placed in jeopardy, for the sake of the moral dignity of man. when the mechanic has to mend a watch, he lets the wheels run out, but the living watchworks of the state have to be repaired while they act, and a wheel has to be exchanged for another during its revolutions. accordingly props must be sought for to support society and keep it going while it is made independent of the natural condition from which it is sought to emancipate it. this prop is not found in the natural character of man, who, being selfish and violent, directs his energies rather to the destruction than to the preservation of society. nor is it found in his moral character, which has to be formed, which can never be worked upon or calculated on by the lawgiver, because it is free and never appears. it would seem therefore that another measure must be adopted. it would seem that the physical character of the arbitrary must be separated from moral freedom; that it is incumbent to make the former harmonise with the laws and the latter dependent on impressions; it would be expedient to remove the former still farther from matter and to bring the latter somewhat more near to it; in short to produce a third character related to both the others--the physical and the moral--paving the way to a transition from the sway of mere force to that of law, without preventing the proper development of the moral character, but serving rather as a pledge in the sensuous sphere of a morality in the unseen. letter iv. thus much is certain. it is only when a third character, as previously suggested, has preponderance that a revolution in a state according to moral principles can be free from injurious consequences; nor can anything else secure its endurance. in proposing or setting up a moral state, the moral law is relied upon as a real power, and free will is drawn into the realm of causes, where all hangs together, mutually with stringent necessity and rigidity. but we know that the condition of the human will always remains contingent, and that only in the absolute being physical coexists with moral necessity. accordingly if it is wished to depend on the moral conduct of man as on natural results, this conduct must become nature, and he must be led by natural impulse to such a course of action as can only and invariably have moral results. but the will of man is perfectly free between inclination and duty, and no physical necessity ought to enter as a sharer in this magisterial personality. if therefore he is to retain this power of solution, and yet become a reliable link in the causal concatenation of forces, this can only be effected when the operations of both these impulses are presented quite equally in the world of appearances. it is only possible when, with every difference of form, the matter of man's volition remains the same, when all his impulses agreeing with his reason are sufficient to have the value of a universal legislation. it may be urged that every individual man carries, within himself, at least in his adaptation and destination, a purely ideal man. the great problem of his existence is to bring all the incessant changes of his outer life into conformity with the unchanging unity of this ideal. this pure ideal man, which makes itself known more or less clearly in every subject, is represented by the state, which is the objective and, so to speak, canonical form in which the manifold differences of the subjects strive to unite. now two ways present themselves to the thought, in which the man of time can agree with the man of idea, and there are also two ways in which the state can maintain itself in individuals. one of these ways is when the pure ideal man subdues the empirical man, and the state suppresses the individual, or again when the individual becomes the state, and the man of time is ennobled to the man of idea. i admit that in a one-sided estimate from the point of view of morality this difference vanishes, for the reason is satisfied if her law prevails unconditionally. but when the survey taken is complete and embraces the whole man (anthropology), where the form is considered together with the substance, and a living feeling has a voice, the difference will become far more evident. no doubt the reason demands unity, and nature variety, and both legislations take man in hand. the law of the former is stamped upon him by an incorruptible consciousness, that of the latter by an ineradicable feeling. consequently education will always appear deficient when the moral feeling can only be maintained with the sacrifice of what is natural; and a political administration will always be very imperfect when it is only able to bring about unity by suppressing variety. the state ought not only to respect the objective and generic but also the subjective and specific in individuals; and while diffusing the unseen world of morals, it must not depopulate the kingdom of appearance, the external world of matter. when the mechanical artist places his hand on the formless block, to give it a form according to his intention, he has not any scruples in doing violence to it. for the nature on which he works does not deserve any respect in itself, and he does not value the whole for its parts, but the parts on account of the whole. when the child of the fine arts sets his hand to the same block, he has no scruples either in doing violence to it, he only avoids showing this violence. he does not respect the matter in which he works, any more than the mechanical artist; but he seeks by an apparent consideration for it to deceive the eye which takes this matter under its protection. the political and educating artist follows a very different course, while making man at once his material and his end. in this case the aim or end meets in the material, and it is only because the whole serves the parts that the parts adapt themselves to the end. the political artist has to treat his material--man--with a very different kind of respect from that shown by the artist of fine art to his work. he must spare man's peculiarity and personality, not to produce a deceptive effect on the senses, but objectively and out of consideration for his inner being. but the state is an organisation which fashions itself through itself and for itself, and for this reason it can only be realised when the parts have been accorded to the idea of the whole. the state serves the purpose of a representative, both to pure ideal and to objective humanity, in the breast of its citizens, accordingly it will have to observe the same relation to its citizens in which they are placed to it, and it will only respect their subjective humanity in the same degree that it is ennobled to an objective existence. if the internal man is one with himself, he will be able to rescue his peculiarity, even in the greatest generalisation of his conduct, and the state will only become the exponent of his fine instinct, the clearer formula of his internal legislation. but if the subjective man is in conflict with the objective and contradicts him in the character of the people, so that only the oppression of the former can give the victory to the latter, then the state will take up the severe aspect of the law against the citizen, and in order not to fall a sacrifice, it will have to crush under foot such a hostile individuality, without any compromise. now man can be opposed to himself in a twofold manner: either as a savage, when his feelings rule over his principles; or as a barbarian, when his principles destroy his feelings. the savage despises art, and acknowledges nature as his despotic ruler; the barbarian laughs at nature, and dishonours it, but he often proceeds in a more contemptible way than the savage, to be the slave of his senses. the cultivated man makes of nature his friend, and honours its friendship, while only bridling its caprice. consequently, when reason brings her moral unity into physical society, she must not injure the manifold in nature. when nature strives to maintain her manifold character in the moral structure of society, this must not create any breach in moral unity; the victorious form is equally remote from uniformity and confusion. therefore, totality of character must be found in the people which is capable and worthy to exchange the state of necessity for that of freedom. letter v. does the present age, do passing events, present this character? i direct my attention at once to the most prominent object in this vast structure. it is true that the consideration of opinion is fallen, caprice is unnerved, and, although still armed with power, receives no longer any respect. man has awaked from his long lethargy and self- deception, and he demands with impressive unanimity to be restored to his imperishable rights. but he does not only demand them; he rises on all sides to seize by force what, in his opinion, has been unjustly wrested from him. the edifice of the natural state is tottering, its foundations shake, and a physical possibility seems at length granted to place law on the throne, to honour man at length as an end, and to make true freedom the basis of political union. vain hope! the moral possibility is wanting, and the generous occasion finds an unsusceptible rule. man paints himself in his actions, and what is the form depicted in the drama of the present time? on the one hand, he is seen running wild, on the other in a state of lethargy; the two extremest stages of human degeneracy, and both seen in one and the same period. in the lower larger masses, coarse, lawless impulses come to view, breaking loose when the bonds of civil order are burst asunder, and hastening with unbridled fury to satisfy their savage instinct. objective humanity may have had cause to complain of the state; yet subjective man must honour its institutions. ought he to be blamed because he lost sight of the dignity of human nature, so long as he was concerned in preserving his existence? can we blame him that he proceeded to separate by the force of gravity, to fasten by the force of cohesion, at a time when there could be no thought of building or raising up? the extinction of the state contains its justification. society set free, instead of hastening upward into organic life, collapses into its elements. on the other hand, the civilized classes give us the still more repulsive sight of lethargy, and of a depravity of character which is the more revolting because it roots in culture. i forget who of the older or more recent philosophers makes the remark, that what is more noble is the more revolting in its destruction. the remark applies with truth to the world of morals. the child of nature, when he breaks loose, becomes a madman; but the art scholar, when he breaks loose, becomes a debased character. the enlightenment of the understanding, on which the more refined classes pride themselves with some ground, shows on the whole so little of an ennobling influence on the mind that it seems rather to confirm corruption by its maxims. we deny nature in her legitimate field and feel her tyranny in the moral sphere, and while resisting her impressions, we receive our principles from her. while the affected decency of our manners does not even grant to nature a pardonable influence in the initial stage, our materialistic system of morals allows her the casting vote in the last and essential stage. egotism has founded its system in the very bosom of a refined society, and without developing even a sociable character, we feel all the contagions and miseries of society. we subject our free judgment to its despotic opinions, our feelings to its bizarre customs, and our will to its seductions. we only maintain our caprice against her holy rights. the man of the world has his heart contracted by a proud self- complacency, while that of the man of nature often beats in sympathy; and every man seeks for nothing more than to save his wretched property from the general destruction, as it were from some great conflagration. it is conceived that the only way to find a shelter against the aberrations of sentiment is by completely foregoing its indulgence, and mockery, which is often a useful chastener of mysticism, slanders in the same breath the noblest aspirations. culture, far from giving us freedom, only develops, as it advances, new necessities; the fetters of the physical close more tightly around us, so that the fear of loss quenches even the ardent impulse toward improvement, and the maxims of passive obedience are held to be the highest wisdom of life. thus the spirit of the time is seen to waver between perversions and savagism, between what is unnatural and mere nature, between superstition and moral unbelief, and it is often nothing but the equilibrium of evils that sets bounds to it. letter vi. have i gone too far in this portraiture of our times? i do not anticipate this stricture, but rather another--that i have proved too much by it. you will tell me that the picture i have presented resembles the humanity of our day, but it also bodies forth all nations engaged in the same degree of culture, because all, without exception, have fallen off from nature by the abuse of reason, before they can return to it through reason. but if we bestow some serious attention to the character of our times, we shall be astonished at the contrast between the present and the previous form of humanity, especially that of greece. we are justified in claiming the reputation of culture and refinement, when contrasted with a purely natural state of society, but not so comparing ourselves with the grecian nature. for the latter was combined with all the charms of art and with all the dignity of wisdom, without, however, as with us, becoming a victim to these influences. the greeks put us to shame not only by their simplicity, which is foreign to our age; they are at the same time our rivals, nay, frequently our models, in those very points of superiority from which we seek comfort when regretting the unnatural character of our manners. we see that remarkable people uniting at once fulness of form and fulness of substance, both philosophising and creating, both tender and energetic, uniting a youthful fancy; to the virility of reason in a glorious humanity. at the period of greek culture, which was an awakening of the powers of the mind, the senses and the spirit had no distinctly separated property; no division had yet torn them asunder, leading them to partition in a hostile attitude, and to mark off their limits with precision. poetry had not yet become the adversary of wit, nor had speculation abused itself by passing into quibbling. in cases of necessity both poetry and wit could exchange parts, because they both honoured truth only in their special way. however high might be the flight of reason, it drew matter in a loving spirit after it, and, while sharply and stiffly defining it, never mutilated what it touched. it is true the greek mind displaced humanity, and recast it on a magnified scale in the glorious circle of its gods; but it did this not by dissecting human nature, but by giving it fresh combinations, for the whole of human nature was represented in each of the gods. how different is the course followed by us moderns! we also displace and magnify individuals to form the image of the specks, but we do this in a fragmentary way, not by altered combinations, so that it is necessary to gather up from different individuals the elements that form the species in its totality. it would almost appear is if the powers of mind express themselves with us in real life or empirically as separately as the psychologist distinguishes them in the representation. for we see not only individual subjects, but whole classes of men, uphold their capacities only in part, while the rest of their faculties scarcely show a germ of activity, as in the case of the stunted growth of plants. i do not overlook the advantages to which the present race, regarded as a unity and in the balance of the understanding, may lay claim over what is best in the ancient world; but it is obliged to engage in the contest as a compact mass, and measure itself as a whole against a whole. who among the moderns could step forth, man against man, and strive with an athenian for the prize of higher humanity? whence comes this disadvantageous relation of individuals coupled with great advantages of the race? why could the individual greek be qualified as the type of his time? and why can no modern dare to offer himself as such? because all-uniting nature imparted its forms to the greek, and an all-dividing understanding gives our forms to us. it was culture itself that gave these wounds to modern humanity. the inner union of human nature was broken, and a destructive contest divided its harmonious forces directly; on the one hand, an enlarged experience and a more distinct thinking necessitated a sharper separation of the sciences, while on the other hand, the more complicated machinery of states necessitated a stricter sundering of ranks and occupations. intuitive and speculative understanding took up a hostile attitude in opposite fields, whose borders were guarded with jealousy and distrust; and by limiting its operation to a narrow sphere, men have made unto themselves a master who is wont not unfrequently to end by subduing and oppressing all the other faculties. whilst on the one hand a luxuriant imagination creates ravages in the plantations that have cost the intelligence so much labour, on the other hand a spirit of abstraction suffocates the fire that might have warmed the heart and inflamed the imagination. this subversion, commenced by art and learning in the inner man, was carried out to fulness and finished by the spirit of innovation in government. it was, no doubt, reasonable to expect that the simple organisation of the primitive republics should survive the quaintness of primitive manners and of the relations of antiquity. but, instead of rising to a higher and nobler degree of animal life, this organisation degenerated into a common and coarse mechanism. the zoophyte condition of the grecian states, where each individual enjoyed an independent life, and could, in cases of necessity, become a separate whole and unit in himself, gave way to an ingenious mechanism, when, from the splitting up into numberless parts, there results a mechanical life in the combination. then there was a rupture between the state and the church, between laws and customs; enjoyment was separated from labour, the means from the end, the effort from the reward. man himself eternally chained down to a little fragment of the whole, only forms a kind of fragment; having nothing in his ears but the monotonous sound of the perpetually revolving wheel, he never develops the harmony of his being; and instead of imprinting the seal of humanity on his being, he ends by being nothing more than the living impress of the craft to which he devotes himself, of the science that he cultivates. this very partial and paltry relation, linking the isolated members to the whole, does not depend on forms that are given spontaneously; for how could a complicated machine, which shuns the light, confide itself to the free will of man? this relation is rather dictated, with a rigorous strictness, by a formulary in which the free intelligence of man is chained down. the dead letter takes the place of a living meaning, and a practised memory becomes a safer guide than genius and feeling. if the community or state measures man by his function, only asking of its citizens memory, or the intelligence of a craftsman, or mechanical skill, we cannot be surprised that the other faculties of the mind are neglected, for the exclusive culture of the one that brings in honour and profit. such is the necessary result of an organisation that is indifferent about character, only looking to acquirements, whilst in other cases it tolerates the thickest darkness, to favour a spirit of law and order; it must result if it wishes that individuals in the exercise of special aptitudes 'should gain in depth what they are permitted to lose in extension. we are aware, no doubt, that a powerful genius does not shut up its activity within the limits of its functions; but mediocre talents consume in the craft fallen to their lot the whole of their feeble energy; and if some of their energy is reserved for matters of preference, without prejudice to its functions, such a state of things at once bespeaks a spirit soaring above the vulgar. moreover, it is rarely a recommendation in the eye of a state to have a capacity superior to your employment, or one of those noble intellectual cravings of a man of talent which contend in rivalry with the duties of office. the state is so jealous of the exclusive possession of its servants that it would prefer--nor can it be blamed in this--for functionaries to show their powers with the venus of cytherea rather than the uranian venus. it is thus that concrete individual life is extinguished, in order that the abstract whole may continue its miserable life, and the state remains for ever a stranger to its citizens, because feeling does not discover it anywhere. the governing authorities find themselves compelled to classify, and thereby simplify, the multiplicity of citizens, and only to know humanity in a representative form and at second hand. accordingly they end by entirely losing sight of humanity, and by confounding it with a simple artificial creation of the understanding, whilst on their part the subject classes cannot help receiving coldly laws that address themselves so little to their personality. at length society, weary of having a burden that the state takes so little trouble to lighten, falls to pieces and is broken up--a destiny that has long since attended most european states. they are dissolved in what may be called a state of moral nature, in which public authority is only one function more, hated and deceived by those who think it necessary, respected only by those who can do without it. thus compressed between two forces, within and without, could humanity follow any other course than that which it has taken? the speculative mind, pursuing imprescriptible goods and rights in the sphere of ideas, must needs have become a stranger to the world of sense, and lose sight of matter for the sake of form. on its part, the world of public affairs, shut up in a monotonous circle of objects, and even there restricted by formulas, was led to lose sight of the life and liberty of the whole, while becoming impoverished at the same time in its own sphere. just as the speculative mind was tempted to model the real after the intelligible, and to raise the subjective of its imagination into laws constituting the existence of things, so the state spirit rushed into the opposite extreme, wished to make a particular and fragmentary experience the measure of all observation, and to apply without exception to all affairs the rules of its own particular craft. the speculative mind had necessarily to become the prey of a vain subtlety, the state spirit of a narrow pedantry; for the former was placed too high to see the individual, and the latter too low to survey the whole. but the disadvantage of this direction of mind was not confined to knowledge and mental production; it extended to action and feeling. we know that the sensibility of the mind depends, as to degree, on the liveliness, and for extent on the richness of the imagination. now the predominance of the faculty of analysis must necessarily deprive the imagination of its warmth and energy, and a restricted sphere of objects must diminish its wealth. it is for this reason that the abstract thinker has very often a cold heart, because he analyses impressions, which only move the mind by their combination or totality; on the other hand, the man of business, the statesman, has very often a narrow heart, because shut up in the narrow circle of his employment his imagination can neither expand nor adapt itself to another manner of viewing things. my subject has led me naturally to place in relief the distressing tendency of the character of our own times to show the sources of the evil, without its being my province to point out the compensations offered by nature. i will readily admit to you that, although this splitting up of their being was unfavourable for individuals, it was the only road open for the progress of the race. the point at which we see humanity arrived among the greeks was undoubtedly a maximum; it could neither stop there nor rise higher. it could not stop there, for the sum of notions acquired forced infallibly the intelligence to break with feeling and intuition, and to lead to clearness of knowledge. nor could it rise any higher; for it is only in a determinate measure that clearness can be reconciled with a certain degree of abundance and of warmth. the greeks had attained this measure, and to continue their progress in culture, they, as we, were obliged to renounce the totality of their being, and to follow different and separate roads in order to seek after truth. there was no other way to develop the manifold aptitudes of man than to bring them in opposition with one another. this antagonism of forces is the great instrument of culture, but it is only an instrument; for as long as this antagonism lasts, man is only on the road to culture. it is only because these special forces are isolated in man, and because they take on themselves to impose an exclusive legislation, that they enter into strife with the truth of things, and oblige common sense, which generally adheres imperturbably to external phaenomena, to dive into the essence of things. while pure understanding usurps authority in the world of sense, and empiricism attempts to subject this intellect to the conditions of experience, these two rival directions arrive at the highest possible development, and exhaust the whole extent of their sphere. while on the one hand imagination, by its tyranny, ventures to destroy the order of the world, it forces reason, on the other side, to rise up to the supreme sources of knowledge, and to invoke against this predominance of fancy the help of the law of necessity. by an exclusive spirit in the case of his faculties, the individual is fatally led to error; but the species is led to truth. it is only by gathering up all the energy of our mind in a single focus, and concentrating a single force in our being, that we give in some sort wings to this isolated force, and that we draw it on artificially far beyond the limits that nature seems to have imposed upon it. if it be certain that all human individuals taken together would never have arrived, with the visual power given them by nature, to see a satellite of jupiter, discovered by the telescope of the astronomer, it is just as well established that never would the human understanding have produced the analysis of the infinite, or the critique of pure reason, if in particular branches, destined for this mission, reason had not applied itself to special researches, and if, after having, as it were, freed itself from all matter, it had not by the most powerful abstraction given to the spiritual eye of man the force necessary, in order to look into the absolute. but the question is, if a spirit thus absorbed in pure reason and intuition will be able to emancipate itself from the rigorous fetters of logic, to take the free action of poetry, and seize the individuality of things with a faithful and chaste sense? here nature imposes even on the most universal genius a limit it cannot pass, and truth will make martyrs as long as philosophy will be reduced to make its principal occupation the search for arms against errors. but whatever may be the final profit for the totality of the world, of this distinct and special perfecting of the human faculties, it cannot be denied that this final aim of the universe, which devotes them to this kind of culture, is a cause of suffering, and a kind of malediction for individuals. i admit that the exercises of the gymnasium form athletic bodies; but beauty is only developed by the free and equal play of the limbs. in the same way the tension of the isolated spiritual forces may make extraordinary men; but it is only the well-tempered equilibrium of these forces that can produce happy and accomplished men. and in what relation should we be placed with past and future ages if the perfecting of human nature made sach a sacrifice indispensable? in that case we should have been the slaves of humanity, we should have consumed our forces in servile work for it during some thousands of years, and we should have stamped on our humiliated, mutilated nature the shameful brand of this slavery--all this in order that future generations, in a happy leisure, might consecrate themselves to the cure of their moral health, and develop the whole of human nature by their free culture. but can it be true that man has to neglect himself for any end whatever? can nature snatch from us; for any end whatever, the perfection which is prescribed to us by the aim of reason? it must be false that the perfecting of particular faculties renders the sacrifice of their totality necessary; and even if the law of nature had imperiously this tendency, we must have the power to reform by a superior art this totality of our being, which art has destroyed. letter vii. can this effect of harmony be attained by the state? that is not possible, for the state, as at present constituted, has given occasion to evil, and the state as conceived in the idea, instead of being able to establish this more perfect humanity, ought to be based upon it. thus the researches in which i have indulged would have brought me back to the same point from which they had called me off for a time. the present age, far from offering us this form of humanity, which we have acknowledged as a necessary condition of an improvement of the state, shows us rather the diametrically opposite form. if therefore the principles i have laid down are correct, and if experience confirms the picture i have traced of the present time, it would be necessary to qualify as unseasonable every attempt to effect a similar change in the state, and all hope as chimerical that would be based on such an attempt, until the division of the inner man ceases, and nature has been sufficiently developed to become herself the instrument of this great change and secure the reality of the political creation of reason. in the physical creation, nature shows us the road that we have to follow in the moral creation. only when the struggle of elementary forces has ceased in inferior organisations, nature rises to the noble form of the physical man. in like manner, the conflict of the elements of the moral man and that of blind instincts must have ceased, and a coarse antagonism in himself, beiore the attempt can be hazarded. on the other hand, the independence of man's character must be secured, and his submission to despotic forms must have given place to a suitable liberty, before the variety in his constitution can be made subordinate to the unity of the ideal. when the man of nature still makes such an anarchical abuse of his will, his liberty ought hardly to be disclosed to him. and when the man fashioned by culture makes so little use of his freedom, his free will ought not to be taken from him. the concession of liberal principles becomes a treason to social order when it is associated with a force still in fermentation, and increases the already exuberant energy of its nature. again, the law of conformity under one level becomes tyranny to the individual when it is allied to a weakness already holding sway and to natural obstacles, and when it comes to extinguish the last spark of spontaneity and of originality. the tone of the age must therefore rise from its profound moral degradation; on the one hand it must emancipate itself from the blind service of nature, and on the other it must revert to its simplicity, its truth, and its fruitful sap; a sufficient task for more than a century. however, i admit readily, more than one special effort may meet with success, but no improvement of the whole will result from it, and contradictions in action will be a continual protest against the unity of maxims. it will be quite possible, then, that in remote corners of the world humanity may be honoured in the person of the negro, while in europe it may be degraded in the person of the thinker. the old principles will remain, but they will adopt the dress of the age, and philosophy will lend its name to an oppression that was formerly authorised by the church. in one place, alarmed at the liberty which in its opening efforts always shows itself an enemy, it will cast itself into the arms of a convenient servitude. in another place, reduced to despair by a pedantic tutelage, it will be driven into the savage license of the state of nature. usurpation will invoke the weakness of human nature, and insurrection will invoke its dignity, till at length the great sovereign of all human things, blind force, shall come in and decide, like a vulgar pugilist, this pretended contest of principles. letter viii. must philosophy therefore retire from this field, disappointed in its hopes? whilst in all other directions the dominion of forms is extended, must this the most precious of all gifts be abandoned to a formless chance? must the contest of blind forces last eternally in the political world, and is social law never to triumph over a hating egotism? not in the least. it is true that reason herself will never attempt directly a struggle with this brutal force which resists her arms, and she will be as far as the son of saturn in the 'iliad' from descending into the dismal field of battle, to fight them in person. but she chooses the most deserving among the combatants, clothes him with divine arms as jupiter gave them to his son-in-law, and by her triumphing force she finally decides the victory. reason has done all that she could in finding the law and promulgating it; it is for the energy of the will and the ardour of feeling to carry it out. to issue victoriously from her contest with force, truth herself must first become a force, and turn one of the instincts of man into her champion in the empire of phenomena. for instincts are the only motive forces in the material world. if hitherto truth has so little manifested her victorious power, this has not depended on the understanding, which could not have unveiled it, but on the heart which remained closed to it, and on instinct which did not act with it. whence, in fact, proceeds this general sway of prejudices, this might of the understanding in the midst of the light disseminated by philosophy and experience? the age is enlightened, that is to say, that knowledge, obtained and vulgarised, suffices to set right at least our practical principles. the spirit of free inquiry has dissipated the erroneous opinions which long barred the access to truth, and has undermined the ground on which fanaticism and deception had erected their throne. reason has purified itself from the il lusions of the senses and from a mendacious sophistry, and philosophy herself raises her voice and exhorts us to return to the bosom of nature, to which she had first made us unfaithful. whence then is it that we remain still barbarians? there must be something in the spirit of man--as it is not in the objects themselves--which prevents us from receiving the truth, notwithstanding the brilliant light she diffuses, and from accepting her, whatever may be her strength for producing conviction. this something was perceived and expressed by an ancient sage in this very significant maxim: sapere aude [footnote: dare to be wise]. dare to be wise! a spirited courage is required to triumph over the impediments that the indolence of nature as well as the cowardice of the heart oppose to our in struction. it was not without reason that the ancient mythos made minerva issue fully armed from the head of jupiter, for it is with warfare that this instruction com mences. from its very outset it has to sustain a hard fight against the senses, which do not like to be roused from their easy slumber. the greater part of men are much too exhausted and enervated by their struggle with want to be able to engage in a new and severe contest with error. satisfied if they themselves can escape from the hard labour of thought, they willingly abandon to others the guardianship of their thoughts. and if it happens that nobler necessities agitate their soul, they cling with a greedy faith to the formulas that the state and the church hold in reserve for such cases. if these unhappy men deserve our compassion, those others deserve our just contempt, who, though set free from those necessities by more fortunate circumstances, yet willingly bend to their yoke. these latter persons prefer this twilight of obscure ideas; where the feelings have more intensity, and the imagination can at will create convenient chimeras, to the rays of truth which put to flight the pleasant illusions of their dreams. they have founded the whole structure of their happiness on these very illusions, which ought to be combated and dissipated by the light of knowledge, and they would think they were paying too dearly for a truth which begins by robbing them of all that has value in their sight. it would be necessary that they should be already sages to love wisdom: a truth that was felt at once by him to whom philosophy owes its name. [footnote: the greek word means, as is known, love of wisdom.] it is therefore not going far enough to say that the light of the understanding only deserves respect when it reacts on the character; to a certain extent it is from the character that this light proceeds; for the road that terminates in the head must pass through the heart. accordingly, the most pressing need of the present time is to educate the sensibility, because it is the means, not only to render efficacious in practice the improvement of ideas, but to call this improvement into existence. letter ix. but perhaps there is a vicious circle in our previous reasoning? theoretical culture must it seems bring along with it practical culture, and yet the latter must be the condition of the former. all improvement in the political sphere must proceed from the ennobling of the character. but, subject to the influence of a social constitution still barbarous, how can character become ennobled? it would then be necessary to seek for this end an instrument that the state does not furnish, and to open sources that would have preserved themselves pure in the midst of political corruption. i have now reached the point to which all the considerations tended that have engaged me up to the present time. this instrument is the art of the beautiful; these sources are open to us in its immortal models. art, like science, is emancipated from all that is positive, and all that is humanly conventional; both are completely independent of the arbitrary will of men. the political legislator may place their empire under an interdict, but he cannot reign there. he can proscribe the friend of truth, but truth subsists; he can degrade the artist, but he cannot change art. no doubt, nothing is more common than to see science and art bend before the spirit of the age, and creative taste receive its law from critical taste. when the character becomes stiff and hardens itself, we see science severely keeping her limits, and art subject to the harsh restraint of rules; when the character is relaxed and softened, science endeavours to please and art to rejoice. for whole ages philosophers as well as artists show themselves occupied in letting down truth and beauty to the depths of vulgar humanity. they themselves are swallowed up in it; but, thanks to their essential vigour and indestructible life, the true and the beautiful make a victorious fight, and issue triumphant from the abyss. no doubt the artist is the child of his time, but unhappy for him if he is its disciple or even its favourite. let a beneficent deity carry off in good time the suckling from the breast of its mother, let it nourish him on the milk of a better age, and suffer him to grow up and arrive at virility under the distant sky of greece. when he has attained manhood, let him come back, presenting a face strange to his own age; let him come, not to delight it with his apparition, but rather to purify it, terrible as the son of agamemnon. he will, indeed, receive his matter from the present time, but he will borrow the form from a nobler time and even beyond all time, from the essential, absolute, immutable unity. there, issuing from the pure ether of its heavenly nature, flows the source of all beauty, which was never tainted by the corruption of generations or of ages, which roll along far beneath it in dark eddies. its matter may be dishonoured as well as ennobled by fancy, but the ever chaste form escapes from the caprices of imagination. the roman had already bent his knee for long years to the divinity of the emperors, and yet the statues of the gods stood erect; the temples retained their sanctity for the eye long after the gods had become a theme for mockery, and the noble architecture of the palaces that shielded the infamies of nero and of commodus were a protest against them. humanity has lost its dignity, but art has saved it, and preserves it in marbles full of meaning; truth continues to live in illusion, and the copy will serve to re- establish the model. if the nobility of art has survived the nobility of nature, it also goes before it like an inspiring genius, forming and awakening minds. before truth causes her triumphant light to penetrate into the depth of the heart, poetry intercepts her rays, and the summits of humanity shine in a bright light, while a dark and humid night still hangs over the valleys. but how will the artist avoid the corruption of his time which encloses him on all hands? let him raise his eyes to his own dignity, and to law; let him not lower them to necessity and fortune. equally exempt from a vain activity which would imprint its trace on the fugitive moment, and from the dreams of an impatient enthusiasm which applies the measure of the absolute to the paltry productions of time, let the artist abandon the real to the understanding, for that is its proper field. but let the artist endeavour to give birth to the ideal by the union of the possible and of the necessary. let him stamp illusion and truth with the effigy of this ideal; let him apply it to the play of his imagination and his most serious actions, in short, to all sensuous and spiritual forms; then let him quietly launch his work into infinite time. but the minds set on fire by this ideal have not all received an equal share of calm from the creative genius--that great and patient temper which is required to impress the ideal on the dumb marble, or to spread it over a page of cold, sober letters, and then entrust it to the faithful hands of time. this divine instinct, and creative force, much too ardent to follow this peaceful walk, often throws itself immediately on the present, on active life, and strives to transform the shapeless matter of the moral world. the misfortune of his brothers, of the whole species, appeals loudly to the heart of the man of feeling; their abasement appeals still louder; enthusiasm is inflamed, and in souls endowed with energy the burning desire aspires impatiently to action and facts. but has this innovator examined himself to see if these disorders of the moral world wound his reason, or if they do not rather wound his self-love? if he does not determine this point at once, he will find it from the impulsiveness with which he pursues a prompt and definite end. a pure, moral motive has for its end the absolute; time does not exist for it, and the future becomes the present to it directly, by a necessary development, it has to issue from the present. to a reason having no limits the direction towards an end becomes confounded with the accomplishment of this end, and to enter on a course is to have finished it. if, then, a young friend of the true and of the beautiful were to ask me how, notwithstanding the resistance of the times, he can satisfy the noble longing of his heart, i should reply: direct the world on which you act towards that which is good, and the measured and peaceful course of time will bring about the results. you have given it this direction if by your teaching you raise its thoughts towards the necessary and the eternal; if, by your acts or your creations, you make the necessary and the eternal the object of your leanings. the structure of error and of all that is arbitrary, must fall, and it has already fallen, as soon as you are sure that it is tottering. but it is important that it should not only totter in the external but also in the internal man. cherish triumphant truth in the modest sanctuary of your heart; give it an incarnate form through beauty, that it may not only be the understanding that does homage to it, but that feeling may lovingly grasp its appearance. and that you may not by any chance take from external reality the model which you yourself ought to furnish, do not venture into its dangerous society before you are assured in your own heart that you have a good escort furnished by ideal nature. live with your age, but be not its creation; labour for your contemporaries, but do for them what they need, and not what they praise. without having shared their faults, share their punishment with a noble resignation, and bend under the yoke which they find is as painful to dispense with as to bear. by the constancy with which you will despise their good fortune, you will prove to them that it is not through cowardice that you submit to their sufferings. see them in thought such as they ought to be when you must act upon them; but see them as they are when you are tempted to act for them. seek to owe their suffrage to their dignity; but to make them happy keep an account of their unworthiness; thus, on the one hand, the nobleness of your heart will kindle theirs, and, on the other, your end will not be reduced to nothingness by their unworthiness. the gravity of your principles will keep them off from you, but in play they will still endure them. their taste is purer than their heart, and it is by their taste you must lay hold of this suspicious fugitive. in vain will you combat their maxims, in vain will you condemn their actions; but you can try your moulding hand on their leisure. drive away caprice, frivolity, and coarseness, from their pleasures, and you will banish them imperceptibly from their acts, and at length from their feelings. everywhere that you meet them, surround them with great, noble, and ingenious forms; multiply around them the symbols of perfection, till appearance triumphs over reality, and art over nature. letter x. convinced by my preceding letters, you agree with me on this point, that man can depart from his destination by two opposite roads, that our epoch is actually moving on these two false roads, and that it has become the prey, in one case, of coarseness, and elsewhere of exhaustion and de pravity. it is the beautiful that must bring it back from this twofold departure. but how can the cultivation of the fine arts remedy, at the same time, these opposite defects, and unite in itself two contradictory qualities? can it bind nature in the savage, and set it free in the barbarian? can it at once tighten a spring and loose it, and if it cannot produce this double effect, how will it be reasonable to expect from it so important a result as the education of man? it may be urged that it is almost a proverbial adage that the feeling developed by the beautiful refines manners, and any new proof offered on the subject would appear superfluous. men base this maxim on daily experience, which shows us almost always clearness of intellect, deli cacy of feeling, liberality and even dignity of conduct, associated with a cultivated taste, while an uncultivated taste is almost always accompanied by the opposite qualities. with considerable assurance, the most civilised nation of antiquity is cited as an evidence of this, the greeks, among whom the perception of the beautiful attained its highest development, and, as a contrast, it is usual to point to nations in a partial savage state, and partly barbarous, who expiate their insensibility to the beautiful by a coarse or, at all events, a hard austere character. nevertheless, some thinkers are tempted occasionally to deny either the fact itself or to dispute the legitimacy of the consequences that are derived from it. they do not entertain so unfavourable an opinion of that savage coarseness which is made a reproach in the case of certain nations; nor do they form so advantageous an opinion of the refinement so highly lauded in the case of cultivated nations. even as far back as in antiquity there were men who by no means regarded the culture of the liberal arts as a benefit, and who were consequently led to forbid the entrance of their republic to imagination. i do not speak of those who calumniate art, because they have never been favoured by it. these persons only appreciate a possession by the trouble it takes to acquire it, and by the profit it brings; and how could they properly appreciate the silent labour of taste in the exterior and in terior man? how evident it is that the accidental disadvantages attending liberal culture would make them lose sight of its essential advantages! the man deficient in form despises the grace of diction as a means of corruption, courtesy in the social relations as dissimulation, delicacy and generosity in conduct as an affected exaggeration. he cannot forgive the favourite of the graces for having enlivened all assemblies as a man of the world, of having directed all men to his views like a statesman, and of giving his impress to the whole century as a writer; while he, the victim of labour, can only obtain, with all his learning, the least attention or overcome the least difficulty. as he cannot learn from his fortunate rival the secret of pleasing, the only course open to him is to deplore the corruption of human nature, which adores rather the appearance than the reality. but there are also opinions deserving respect, that pronounce themselves adverse to the effects of the beautiful, and find formidable arms in experience, with which to wage war against it. "we are free to admit"--such is their language--"that the charms of the beautiful can further honourable ends in pure hands; but it is not repugnant to its nature to produce, in impure hands, a directly contrary effect, and to employ in the service of injustice and error the power that throws the soul of man into chains. it is exactly because taste only attends to the form and never to the substance; it ends by placing the soul on the dangerous incline, leading it to neglect all reality and to sacrifice truth and morality to an attractive envelope. all the real difference of things vanishes, and it is only the appearance that determines their value! how many men of talent"--thus these arguers proceed--"have been turned aside from all effort by the seductive power of the beautiful, or have been led away from all serious exercise of their activity, or have been induced to use it very feebly? how many weak minds have been impelled to quarrel with the organisation of society, simply because it has pleased the imagination of poets to present the image of a world constituted differently, where no propriety chains down opinion and no artifice helds nature in thraldom? what a dangerous logic of the passions they have learned since the poets have painted them in their pictures in the most brilliant colours and since, in the contest with law and duty, they have commonly re mained masters of the battlefield. what has society gained by the relations of society, formerly under the sway of truth, being now subject to the laws of the beautiful, or by the external impression deciding the estimation in which merit is to be held? we admit that all virtues whose appearance produces an agreeable effect are now seen to flourish, and those which, in society, give a value to the man who possesses them. but, as a compensation, all kinds of excesses are seen to prevail, and all vices are in vogue that can be reconciled with a graceful exterior." it is certainly a matter entitled to reflection that, at almost all the periods of history when art flourished and taste held sway, humanity is found in a state of decline; nor can a single instance be cited of the union of a large diffusion of aesthetic culture with political liberty and social virtue, of fine manners associated with good morals, and of politeness fraternising with truth and loyalty of character and life. as long as athens and sparta preserved their independence, and as long as their institutions were based on respect for the laws, taste did not reach its maturity, art remained in its infancy, and beauty was far from exer cising her empire over minds. no doubt, poetry had already taken a sublime flight, but it was on the wings of genius, and we know that genius borders very closely on savage coarseness, that it is a light which shines readily in the midst of darkness, and which therefore often argues against rather than in favour of the taste of the time. when the golden age of art appears under pericles and alexander, and the sway of taste becomes more general, strength and liberty have abandoned greece; eloquence corrupts the truth, wisdom offends it on the lips of socrates, and virtue in the life of phocion. it is well known that the romans had to exhaust their energies in civil wars, and, corrupted by oriental luxury, to bow their heads under the yoke of a fortunate despot, before grecian art triumphed over the stiffness of their character. the same was the case with the arabs: civilisation only dawned upon them when the vigour of their military spirit became softened under the sceptre of the abbassides. art did not appear in modern italy till the glorious lombard league was dissolved, florence submitting to the medici, and all those brave cities gave up the spirit of independ ence for an inglorious resignation. it is almost super fluous to call to mind the example of modern nations, with whom refinement has increased in direct proportion to the decline of their liberties. wherever we direct our eyes in past times, we see taste and freedom mutually avoiding each other. everywhere we see that the beautiful only founds its sway on the ruins of heroic virtues. and yet this strength of character, which is commonly sacrificed to establish aesthetic culture, is the most power ful spring of all that is great and excellent in man, and no other advantage, however great, can make up for it. accordingly, if we only keep to the experiments hitherto made, as to the influence of the beautiful, we cannot certainly be much encouraged in developing feelings so dangerous to the real culture of man. at the risk of being hard and coarse, it will seem preferable to dispense with this dissolving force of the beautiful, rather than see human nature a prey to its enervating influence, notwithstanding all its refining advantages. however, experience is perhaps not the proper tribunal at which to decide such a question; before giving so much weight to its testimony, it would be well to inquire if the beauty we have been discussing is the power that is condemned by the previous examples. and the beauty we are discussing seems to assume an idea of the beautiful derived from a source different from experience, for it is this higher notion of the beautiful which has to decide if what is called beauty by experience is entitled to the name. this pure and rational idea of the beautiful--supposing it can be placed in evidence--cannot be taken from any real and special case, and must, on the contrary, direct and give sanction to our judgment in each special case. it must therefore be sought for by a process of abstraction, and it ought to be deduced from the simple possibility of a nature both sensuous and rational; in short, beauty ought to present itself as a necessary condition of humanity. it is therefore essential that we should rise to the pure idea of humanity, and as experience shows us nothing but individuals, in particular cases, and never humanity at large, we must endeavour to find in their individual and variable mode of being the absolute and the permanent, and to grasp the necessary conditions of their existence, suppressing all accidental limits. no doubt this transcendental procedure will remove us for some time from the familiar circle of phaenomena and the living presence of objects, to keep us on the unproductive ground of abstract ideas; but we are engaged in the search after a principle of knowledge solid enough not to be shaken by anything, and the man who does not dare to rise above reality will never conquer this truth. letter xi. if abstraction rises to as great an eievation as possible, it arrives at two primary ideas, before which it is obliged to stop and to recognise its limits. it distinguishes in man something that continues, and something that changes in cessantly. that which continues it names his person; that which changes his position, his condition. the person and the condition, i and my determinations, which we represent as one and the same thing in the neces sary being, are eternally distinct in the finite being. not withstanding all continuance in the person, the condition changes; in spite of all change of condition, the person remains. we pass from rest to activity, from emotion to indifference, from assent to contradiction, but we are always we ourselves, and what immediately springs from ourselves remains. it is only in the absolute subject that all his determinations continue with his personality. all that divinity is, it is because it is so; consequently it is eternally what it is, because it is eternal. as the person and the condition are distinct in man, be cause he is a finite being, the condition cannot be founded on the person, nor the person on the condition. admitting the second case, the person would have to change; and in the former case, the condition would have to continue. thus in either supposition either the personality or the quality of a finite being would necessarily cease. it is not because we think, feel, and will, that we are; it is not because we are that we think, feel, and will. we are because we are. we feel, think, and will, because there is out of us something that is not ourselves. consequently the person must have its principle of exist ence in itself because the permanent cannot be derived from the changeable, and thus we should be at once in possession of the idea of the absolute being, founded on itself; that is to say, of the idea of freedom. the condition must have a foundation, and as it is not through the person, and is not therefore absolute, it must be a sequence and a result; and thus, in the second place, we should have arrived at the condition of every dependent being, of everything in the process of becoming something else: that is, of the idea of time. "time is the necessary condition of all processes, of becoming (werden);" this is an indentical proposition, for it says nothing but this: "that something may follow, there must be a succession." the person which manifests itself in the eternally continuing ego, or i myself, and only in him, cannot become something or begin in time, because it is much rather time that must begin with him, because the permanent must serve as basis to the changeable. that change may take place, something must change; this something cannot therefore be the change itself. when we say the flower opens and fades, we make of this flower a permanent being in the midst of this transformation; we lend it, in some sort, a personality, in which these two conditions are manifested. it cannot be objected that man is born, and becomes something; for man is not only a person simply, but he is a person finding himself in a determinate condition. now our determinate state of condition springs up in time, and it is thus that man, as a phenomenon or appearance, must have a beginning, though in him pure intelligence is eternal. without time, that is, without a becoming, he would not be a determinate being; his personality would exist virtually, no doubt, but not in action. it is not by the succession of its perceptions that the immutable ego or person manifests himself to himself. thus, therefore, the matter of activity, or reality, that the supreme intelligence draws from its own being, must be received by man; and he does, in fact, receive it, through the medium of perception, as something which is outside him in space, and which changes in him in time. this matter which changes in him is always accompanied by the ego, the personality, that never changes; and the rule prescribed for man by his rational nature is to remain immutably himself in the midst of change, to refer all perceptions to experience, that is, to the unity of knowledge, and to make of each of its manifestations of its modes in time the law of all time. the matter only exists in as far as it changes; he, his personality, only exists in as far as he does not change. consequently, represented in his perfection, man would be the permanent unity, which remains always the same, among the waves of change. now, although an infinite being, a divinity could not become (or be subject to time), still a tendency ought to be named divine which has for its infinite end the most characteristic attribute of the divinity; the absolute manifestation of power--the reality of all the possible--and the absolute unity of the manifestation (the necessity of all reality). it cannot be disputed that man bears within himself, in his personality, a predisposition for divinity. the way to divinity--if the word "way" can be applied to what never leads to its end-is open to him in every direction. considered in itself and independently of all sensuous matter, his personality is nothing but the pure virtuality of a possible infinite manifestation, and so long as there is neither intuition nor feeling, it is nothing more than a form, an empty power. considered in itself, and independently of all spontaneous activity of the mind, sensuousness can only make a material man; without it, it is a pure form; but it cannot in any way establish a union between matter and it. so long as he only feels, wishes, and acts under the influence of desire, he is nothing more than the world, if by this word we point out only the formless contents of time. without doubt, it is only his sensuousness that makes his strength pass into efficacious acts, but it is his personality alone that makes this activity his own. thus, that he may not only be a world, he must give form to matter, and in order not to be a mere form, he must give reality to the virtuality that he bears in him. he gives matter to form by creating time, and by opposing the immutable to change, the diversity of the world to the eternal unity of the ego. he gives a form to matter by again suppressing time, by maintaining permanence in change, and by placing the diversity of the world under the unity of the ego. now from this source issue for man two opposite exigencies, the two fundamental laws of sensuous-rational nature. the first has for its object absolute reality; it must make a world of what is only form, manifest all that in it is only a force. the second law has for its object absolute formality; it must destroy in him all that is only world, and carry out harmony in all changes. in other terms, he must manifest all that is internal, and give form to all that is external. considered in its most lofty accomplishment, this twofold labour brings us back to the idea of humanity which was my starting- point. letter xii. this twofold labour or task, which consists in making the necessary pass into reality in us and in making out of us reality subject to the law of necessity, is urged upon us as a duty by two opposing forces, which are justly styled impulsions or instincts, because they impel us to realise their object. the first of these impulsions, which i shall call the sensuous instinct, issues from the physical existence of roan, or from sensuous nature; and it is this instinct which tends to enclose him in the limits of time and to make of him a material being; i do not say to give him matter, for to do that a certain free activity of the personality would be necessary, which, receiving matter, distinguishes it from the ego, or what is permanent. by matter i only understand in this place the change or reality that fills time. consequently the instinct requires that there should be change, and that time should contain something. this simply filled state of time is named sensation, and it is only in this state that physical existence manifests itself. as all that is in time is successive, it follows by that fact alone that something is: all the remainder is excluded. when one note on an instrument is touched, among all those that it virtually offers, this note alone is real. when man is actually modified, the infinite possibility of all his modifications is limited to this single mode of existence. thus, then, the exclusive action of sensuous impulsion has for its necessary consequence the narrowest limitation. in this state man is only a unity of magnitude, a complete moment in time; or, to speak more correctly, he is not, for his personality is suppressed as long as sensation holds sway over him and carries time along with it. this instinct extends its domains over the entire sphere of the finite in man, and as form is only revealed in matter, and the absolute by means of its limits, the total manifestation of human nature is connected on a close analysis with the sensuous instinct. but though it is only this instinct that awakens and develops what exists virtually in man, it is nevertheless this very instinct which renders his perfection impossible. it binds down to the world of sense by indestructible ties the spirit that tends higher and it calls back to the limits of the present, abstraction which had its free development in the sphere of the infinite. no doubt, thought can escape it for a moment, and a firm will victoriously resists its exigencies; but soon compressed nature resumes her rights to give an imperious reality to our existence, to give it contents, substance, knowledge, and an aim for our activity. the second impulsion, which may be named the formal instinct, issues from the absolute existence of man, or from his rational nature, and tends to set free, and bring harmony into the diversity of its manifestations, and to maintain personality notwithstanding all the changes of state. as this personality, being an absolute and indivisible unity, can never be in contradiction with itself, as we are ourselves for ever, this impulsion, which tends to maintain personality, can never exact in one time anything but what it exacts and requires for ever. it therefore decides for always what it decides now, and orders now what it orders for ever. hence it embraces the whole series of times, or what comes to the same thing, it suppresses time and change. it wishes the real to be necessary and eternal, and it wishes the eternal and the necessary to be real; in other terms, it tends to truth and justice. if the sensuous instinct only produces accidents, the formal instinct gives laws, laws for every judgment when it is a question of knowledge, laws for every will when it is a question of action. whether, therefore, we recognise an object or conceive an objective value to a state of the subject, whether we act in virtue of knowledge or make of the objective the determining principle of our state; in both cases we withdraw this state from the jurisdiction of time, and we attribute to it reality for all men and for all time, that is, universality and necessity. feeling can only say: "that is true for this subject and at this moment," and there may come another moment, another subject, which withdraws the affirmation from the actual feeling. but when once thought pronounces and says: "that is" it decides for ever and ever, and the validity of its decision is guaranteed by the personality itself, which defies all change. inclination can only say: "that is good for your individuality and present necessity?" but the changing current of affairs will sweep them away, and what you ardently desire to-day will form the object of your aversion to-morrow. but when the moral feeling says: "that ought to be," it decides for ever. if you confess the truth because it is the truth, and if you practice justice because it is justice, you have made of a particular case the law of all possible cases, and treated one moment of your life as eternity. accordingly, when the formal impulse holds sway and the pure object acts in us, the being attains its highest expansion, all barriers disappear, and from the unity of magnitude in which man was enclosed by a narrow sensuousness, he rises to the unity of idea, which embraces and keeps subject the entire sphere of phenomena. during this operation we are no longer in time, but time is in us with its infinite succession. we are no longer individuals but a species; the judgment of all spirits is expressed by our own, and the choice of all hearts is represented by our own act. letter xiii. on a first survey, nothing appears more opposed than these two impulsions; one having for its object change, the other immutability, and yet it is these two notions that exhaust the notion of humanity, and a third fundamental impulsion, holding a medium between them, is quite inconceivable. how then shall we re- establish the unity of human nature, a unity that appears completely destroyed by this primitive and radical opposition? i admit these two tendencies are contradictory, but it should be noticed that they are not so in the same objects. but things that do not meet cannot come into collision. no doubt the sensuous impulsion desires change; but it does not wish that it should extend to personality and its field, nor that there should be a change of principles. the formal impulsion seeks unity and permanence, but it does not wish the condition to remain fixed with the person, that there should be identity of feeling. therefore these two impulsions are not divided by nature, and if, nevertheless, they appear so, it is because they have become divided by transgressing nature freely, by ignoring themselves, and by confounding their spheres. the office of culture is to watch over them and to secure to each one its proper limits; therefore culture has to give equal justice to both, and to defend not only the rational impulsion against the sensuous, but also the latter against the former. hence she has to act a twofold part: first, to protect sense against the attacks of freedom; secondly, to secure personality against the power of sensations. one of these ends is attained by the cultivation of the sensuous, the other by that of the reason. since the world is developed in time, or change, the perfection of the faculty that places men in relation with the world will necessarily be the greatest possible mutability and extensiveness. since personality is permanence in change, the perfection of this faculty, which must be opposed to change, will be the greatest possible freedom of action (autonomy) and intensity. the more the receptivity is developed under manifold aspects, the more it is movable and offers surfaces to phaenomena, the larger is the part of the world seized upon by man, and the more virtualities he develops in himself. again, in proportion as man gains strength and depth, and depth and reason gain in freedom, in that proportion man takes in a larger share of the world, and throws out forms outside himself. therefore his culture will consist, first, in placing his receptivity on contact with the world in the greatest number of points possible, and is raising passivity to the highest exponent on the side of feeling; secondly, in procuring for the determining faculty the greatest possible amount of independence, in relation to the receptive power, and in raising activity to the highest degree on the side of reason. by the union of these two qualities man will associate the highest degree of self-spontaneity (autonomy) and of freedom with the fullest plenitude of existence, and instead of abandoning himself to the world so as to get lost in it, he will rather absorb it in himself, with all the infinitude of its phenomena, and subject it to the unity of his reason. but man can invert this relation, and thus fail in attaining his destination in two ways. he can hand over to the passive force the intensity demanded by the active force; he can encroach by material impulsion on the formal impulsion, and convert the receptive into the determining power. he can attribute to the active force the extensiveness belonging to the passive force, he can encroach by the formal impulsion on the material impulsion, and substitute the determining for the receptive power. in the former case, he will never be an ego, a personality; in the second case, he will never be a non-ego, and hence in both cases he will be neither one nor the other, consequently he will nothing. in fact, if the sensuous impulsion becomes determining, if the senses become law-givers, and if the world stifles personality, he loses as object what he gains in force. it may be said of man that when he is only the contents of time, he is not and consequently he has no other contents. his condition is destroyed at the same time as his personality, because these are two correlative ideas, because change presupposes permanence, and a limited reality implies an infinite reality. if the formal impulsion becomes receptive, that is, if thought anticipates sensation, and the person substitutes itself in the place of the world, it loses as a subject and autonomous force what it gains as object, because immutability implies change, and that to manifest itself also absolute reality requires limits. as soon as man is only form, he has no form, and the personality vanishes with the condition. in a word, it is only inasmuch as he is spontaneous, autonomous, that there is reality out of him, that he is also receptive; and it is only inasmuch as he is receptive that there is reality in him, that he is a thinking force. consequently these two impulsions require limits, and looked upon as forces, they need tempering; the former that it may not encroach on the field of legislation, the latter that it may not invade the ground of feeling. but this tempering and moderating the sensuous impulsion ought not to be the effect of physical impotence or of a blunting of sensations, which is always a matter for contempt. it must be a free act, an activity of the person, which by its moral intensity moderates the sensuous intensity, and by the sway of impressions takes from them in depth what it gives them in surface or breadth. the character must place limits to temperament, for the senses have only the right to lose elements if it be to the advantage of the mind. in its turn, the tempering of the formal impulsion must not result from moral impotence, from a relaxation of thought and will, which would degrade humanity. it is necessary that the glorious source of this second tempering should be the fulness of sensations; it is necessary that sensuousness itself should defend its field with a victorious arm and resist the violence that the invading activity of the mind would do to it. in a word, it is necessary that the material impulsion should be contained in the limits of propriety by personality, and the formal impulsion by receptivity or nature. letter xiv. we have been brought to the idea of such a correlation between the two impulsions that the action of the one establishes and limits at the same time the action of the other, and that each of them, taken in isolation, does arrive at its highest manifestation just because the other is active. no doubt this correlation of the two impulsions is simply a problem advanced by reason, and which man will only be able to solve in the perfection of his being. it is in the strictest signification of the term: the idea of his humanity; accordingly, it is an infinite to which he can approach nearer and nearer in the course of time, but without ever reaching it. "he ought not to aim at form to the injury of reality, nor to reality to the detriment of the form. he must rather seek the absolute being by means of a determinate being, and the determinate being by means of an infinite being. he must set the world before him because he is a person, and he must be a person because he has the world before him. he must feel because he has a consciousness of himself, and he must have a consciousness of himself because he feels." it is only in conformity with this idea that he is a man in the full sense of the word; but he cannot be convinced of this so long as he gives himself up exclusively to one of these two impulsions, or only satisfies them one after the other. for as long as he only feels, his absolute personality and existence remain a mystery to him, and as long as he only thinks, his condition or existence in time escapes him. but if there were cases in which he could have at once this twofold experience in which he would have the consciousness of his freedom and the feeling of his existence together, in which he would simultaneously feel as matter and know himself as spirit, in such cases, and in such only, would he have a complete intuition of his humanity, and the object that would procure him this intuition would be a symbol of his accomplished destiny, and consequently serve to express the infinite to him--since this destination can only be fulfilled in the fulness of time. presuming that cases of this kind could present themselves in experience, they would awake in him a new impulsion, which, precisely because the two other impulsions would co-operate in it, would be opposed to each of them taken in isolation, and might, with good grounds, be taken for a new impulsion. the sensuous impulsion requires that there should be change, that time should have contents; the formal impulsion requires that time should be suppressed, that there should be no change. consequently, the impulsion in which both of the others act in concert--allow me to call it the instinct of play, till i explain the term--the instinct of play would have as its object to suppress time in time to conciliate the state of transition or becoming with the absolute being, change with identity. the sensuous instinct wishes to be determined, it wishes to receive an object; the formal instinct wishes to determine itself, it wishes to produce an object. therefore the instinct of play will endeavor to receive as it would itself have produced, and to produce as it aspires to receive. the sensuous impulsion excludes from its subject all autonomy and freedom; the formal impulsion excludes all dependence and passivity. but the exclusion of freedom is physical necessity; the exclusion of passivity is moral necessity. thus the two impulsions subdue the mind: the former to the laws of nature, the latter to the laws of reason. it results from this that the instinct of play, which unites the double action of the two other instincts, will content the mind at once morally and physically. hence, as it suppresses all that is contingent, it will also suppress all coercion, and will set man free physically and morally. when we welcome with effusion some one who deserves our contempt, we feel painfully that nature is constrained. when we have a hostile feeling against a person who commands our esteem, we feel painfully the constraint of reason. but if this person inspires us with interest, and also wins our esteem, the constraint of feeling vanishes together with the constraint of reason, and we begin to love him, that is to say, to play, to take recreation, at once with our inclination and our esteem. moreover, as the sensuous impulsion controls us physically, and the formal impulsion morally, the former makes our formal constitution contingent, and the latter makes our material constitution contingent, that is to say, there is contingence in the agreement of our happiness with our perfection, and reciprocally. the instinct of play, in which both act in concert, will render both our formal and our material constitution contingent; accordingly, our perfection and our happiness in like manner. and on the other hand, exactly because it makes both of them contingent, and because the contingent disappears with necessity, it will suppress this contingence in both, and will thus give form to matter and reality to form. in proportion that it will lessen the dynamic influence of feeling and passion, it will place them in harmony with rational ideas, and by taking from the laws of reason their moral constraint, it will reconcile them with the interest of the senses. letter xv. i approach continually nearer to the end to which i lead you, by a path offering few attractions. be pleased to follow me a few steps further, and a large horizon will open up to you and a delightful prospect will reward you for the labour of the way. the object of the sensuous instinct, expressed in a universal conception, is named life in the widest acceptation: a conception that expresses all material existence and all that is immediately present in the senses. the object of the formal instinct, expressed in a universal conception, is called shape or form, as well in an exact as in an inexact acceptation; a conception that embraces all formal qualities of things and all relations of the same to the thinking powers. the object of the play instinct, represented in a general statement, may therefore bear the name of living form; a term that serves to describe all aesthetic qualities of phaenomena, and what people style, in the widest sense, beauty. beauty is neither extended to the whole field of all living things nor merely enclosed in this field. a marble block, though it is and remains lifeless, can nevertheless become a living form by the architect and sculptor; a man, though he lives and has a form, is far from being a living form on that account. for this to be the case, it is necessary that his form should be life, and that his life should be a form. as long as we only think of his form, it is lifeless, a mere abstraction; as long as we only feel his life, it is without form, a mere impression. it is only when his form lives in our feeling, and his life in our understanding, he is the living form, and this will everywhere be the case where we judge him to be beautiful. but the genesis of beauty is by no means declared because we know how to point out the component parts, which in their combination produce beauty. for to this end it would be necessary to comprehend that combination itself, which continues to defy our exploration, as well as all mutual operation between the finite and the infinite. the reason, on transcendental grounds, makes the following demand: there shall be a communion between the formal impulse and the material impulse-that is, there shall be a play instinct--because it is only the unity of reality with the form, of the accidental with the necessary, of the passive state with freedom, that the conception of humanity is completed. reason is obliged to make this demand, because her nature impels her to completeness and to the removal of all bounds; while every exclusive activity of one or the other impulse leaves human nature incomplete and places a limit in it. accordingly, as soon as reason issues the mandate, "a humanity shall exist," it proclaims at the same time the law, "there shall be a beauty." experience can answer us if there is a beauty, and we shall know it as soon as she has taught us if a humanity can exist. but neither reason nor experience can tell us how beauty can be, and how a humanity is possible. we know that man is neither exclusively matter nor exclusively spirit. accordingly, beauty, as the consummation of humanity, can neither be exclusively mere life, as has been asserted by sharp- sighted observers, who kept too close to the testimony of experience, and to which the taste of the time would gladly degrade it; nor can beauty be merely form, as has been judged by speculative sophists, who departed too far from experience, and by philosophic artists, who were led too much by the necessity of art in explaining beauty; it is rather the common object of both impulses, that is, of the play instinct. the use of language completely justifies this name, as it is wont to qualify with the word play what is neither subjectively nor objectively accidental, and yet does not impose necessity either externally or internally. as the mind in the intuition of the beautiful finds itself in a happy medium between law and necessity, it is, because it divides itself between both, emancipated from the pressure of both. the formal impulse and the material impulse are equally earnest in their demands, because one relates in its cognition to things in their reality and the other to their necessity; because in action the first is directed to the preservation of life, the second to the preservation of dignity, and therefore both to truth and perfection. but life becomes more indifferent when dignity is mixed up with it, and duty no longer coerces when inclination attracts. in like manner the mind takes in the reality of things, material truth, more freely and tranquilly as soon as it encounters formal truth, the law of necessity; nor does the mind find itself strung by abstraction as soon as immediate intuition can accompany it. in one word, when the mind comes into communion with ideas, all reality loses its serious value because it becomes small; and as it comes in contact with feeling, necessity parts also with its serious value because it is easy. but perhaps the objection has for some time occurred to you, is not the beautiful degraded by this, that it is made a mere play? and is it not reduced to the level of frivolous objects which have for ages passed under that name? does it not contradict the conception of the reason and the dignity of beauty, which is nevertheless regarded as an instrument of culture, to confine it to the work of being a mere play? and does it not contradict the empirical conception of play, which can coexist with the exclusion of all taste, to confine it merely to beauty? but what is meant by a mere play, when we know that in all conditions of humanity that very thing is play, and only that is play which makes man complete and develops simultaneously his twofold nature? what you style limitation, according to your representation of the matter, according to my views, which i have justified by proofs, i name enlargement. consequently, i should have said exactly the reverse: man is serious only with the agreeable, with the good, and with the perfect, but he plays with beauty. in saying this we must not indeed think of the plays that are in vogue in real life, and which commonly refer only to his material state. but in real life we should also seek in vain for the beauty of which we are here speaking. the actually present beauty is worthy of the really, of the actually, present play-impulse; but by the ideal of beauty, which is set up by the reason, an ideal of the play-instinct is also presented, which man ought to have before his eyes in all his plays. therefore, no error will ever be incurred if we seek the ideal of beauty on the same road on which we satisfy our play-impulse. we can immediately understand why the ideal form of a venus, of a juno, and of an apollo, is to be sought not at rome, but in greece, if we contrast the greek population, delighting in the bloodless athletic contests of boxing, racing, and intellectual rivalry at olympia, with the roman people gloating over the agony of a gladiator. now the reason pronounces that the beautiful must not only be life and form, but a living form, that is, beauty, inasmuch as it dictates to man the twofold law of absolute formality and absolute reality. reason also utters the decision that man shall only play with beauty, and he shall only play with beauty. for, to speak out once for all, man only plays when in the full meaning of the word he is a man, and he is only completely a man when he plays. this proposition, which at this moment perhaps appears paradoxical, will receive a great and deep meaning if we have advanced far enough to apply it to the twofold seriousness of duty and of destiny. i promise you that the whole edifice of aesthetic art and the still more difficult art of life will be supported by this principle. but this proposition is only unexpected in science; long ago it lived and worked in art and in the feeling of the greeks, her most accomplished masters; only they removed to olympus what ought to have been preserved on earth. influenced by the truth of this principle, they effaced from the brow of their gods the earnestness and labour which furrow the cheeks of mortals, and also the hollow lust that smoothes the empty face. they set free the ever serene from the chains of every purpose, of every duty, of every care, and they made indolence and indifference the envied condition of the godlike race; merely human appellations for the freest and highest mind. as well the material pressure of natural laws as the spiritual pressure of moral laws lost itself in its higher idea of necessity, which embraced at the same time both worlds, and out of the union of these two necessities issued true freedom. inspired by this spirit, the greeks also effaced from the features of their ideal, together with desire or inclination, all traces of volition, or, better still, they made both unrecognisable, because they knew how to wed them both in the closest alliance. it is neither charm nor is it dignity which speaks from the glorious face of the juno ludovici; it is neither of these, for it is both at once. while the female god challenges our veneration, the godlike woman at the same time kindles our love. but while in ecstacy we give ourselves up to the heavenly beauty, the heavenly self-repose awes us back. the whole form rests and dwells in itself--a fully complete creation in itself--and as if she were out of space, without advance or resistance; it shows no force contending with force, no opening through which time could break in. irresistibly carried away and attracted by her womanly charm, kept off at a distance by her godly dignity, we also find ourselves at length in the state of the greatest repose, an the result is a wonderful impression, for which the understanding has no idea and language no name. letter xvi. from the antagonism of the two impulsions, and from the association of two opposite principles, we have seen beauty to result, of which the highest ideal must therefore be sought in the most perfect union and equilibrium possible of the reality and of the form. but this equilibrium remains always an idea that reality can never completely reach. in reality, there will always remain a preponderance of one of these elements over the other, and the highest point to which experience can reach will consist in an oscillation between two principles, when sometimes reality and at others form will have the advantage. ideal beauty is therefore eternally one and indivisible, because there can only be one single equilibrium; on the contrary, experimental beauty will be eternally double, because in the oscillation the equilibrium may be destroyed in two ways--this side and that. i have called attention in the foregoing letters to a fact that can also be rigorously deduced from the considerations that have engaged our attention to the present point; this fact is that an exciting and also a moderating action may be expected from the beautiful. the tempering action is directed to keep within proper limits the sensuous and the formal impulsions; the exciting, to maintain both of them in their full force. but these two modes of action of beauty ought to be completely identified in the idea. the beautiful ought to temper while uniformly exciting the two natures, and it ought also to excite while uniformly moderating them. this result flows at once from the idea of a correlation, in virtue of which the two terms mutually imply each other, and are the reciprocal condition one of the other, a correlation of which the purest product is beauty. but experience does not offer an example of so perfect a correlation. in the field of experience it will always happen more or less that excess on the one side will give rise to deficiency on the other, and deficiency will give birth to excess. it results from this that what in the beau-ideal is only distinct in the idea, is different in reality in empirical beauty, the beau-ideal, though simple and indivisible, discloses, when viewed in two different aspects, on the one hand a property of gentleness and grace, and on the other an energetic property; in experience there is a gentle and graceful beauty, and there is an energetic beauty. it is so, and it will be always so, so long as the absolute is enclosed in the limits of time, and the ideas of reason have to be realised in humanity. for example, the intellectual man has the idea of virtue, of truth, and of happiness; but the active man will only practise virtues, will only grasp truths, and enjoy happy days. the business of physical and moral education is to bring back this multiplicity to unity, to put morality in the place of manners, science in the place of knowledge; the business of aesthetic education is to make out of beauties the beautiful. energetic beauty can no more preserve a man from a certain residue of savage violence and harshness than graceful beauty can secure him against a certain degree of effeminacy and weakness. as it is the effect of the energetic beauty to elevate the mind in a physical and moral point of view and to augment its momentum, it only too often happens that the resistance of the temperament and of the character diminishes the aptitude to receive impressions, that the delicate part of humanity suffers an oppression which ought only to affect its grosser part, and that this course nature participates in an increase of force that ought only to tun? to the account of free personality. it is for this reason that at the periods when we find much strength and abundant sap in humanity, true greatness of thought is seen associated with what is gigantic and extravagant, and the sublimest feeling is found coupled with the most horrible excess of passion. it is also the reason why, in the periods distinguished for regularity and form, nature is as often oppressed as it is governed, as often outraged as it isi surpassed. and as the action of gentle and graceful beauty is to relax the mind in the moral sphere as well as the physical, it happens quite as easily that the energy of feelings is extinguished with the violence of desires, and that character shares in the loss of strength which ought only to affect the passions. this is the reason why, in ages assumed to be refined, it is not a rare thing to see gentleness degenerate into effeminacy, politeness into platitude, correctness into empty sterility, liberal ways into arbitrary caprice, ease into frivolity, calm into apathy, and, lastly, a most miserable caricature treads on the heels of the noblest, the most beautiful type of humanity. gentle and graceful beauty is therefore a want to the man who suffers the constraint of matter and of forms, for he is moved by grandeur and strength long before he becomes sensible to harmony and grace. energetic beauty is a necessity to the man who is under the indulgent sway of taste, for in his state of refinement he is only too much disposed to make light of the strength that he retained in his state of rude savagism. i think i have now answered and also cleared up the contradiction commonly met in the judgments of men respecting the influence of the beautiful, and the appreciation of aesthetic culture. this contradiction is explained directly we remember that there are two sorts of experimental beauty, and that on both hands an affirmation is extended to the entire race, when it can only be proved of one of the species. this contradiction disappears the moment we distinguish a twofold want in humanity to which two kinds of beauty correspond. it is therefore probable that both sides would make good their claims if they come to an understanding respecting the kind of beauty and the form of humanity that they have in view. consequently in the sequel of my researches i shall adopt the course that nature herself follows with man considered from the point of view of sesthetics, and setting out from the two kinds of beauty, i shall rise to the idea of the genus. i shall examine the effects produced on man by the gentle and graceful beauty when its springs of action are in full play, and also those produced by energetic beauty when they are relaxed. i shall do this to confound these two sorts of beauty in the unity of the beau-ideal, in the same way that the two opposite forms and modes of being of humanity are absorbed in the unity of the ideal man. letter xvii. while we were only engaged in deducing the universal idea of beauty from the conception of human nature in general, we had only to consider in the latter the limits established essentially in itself, and inseparable from the notion of the finite. without attending to the contingent restrictions that human nature may undergo in the real world of phenomena, we have drawn the conception of this nature directly from reason, as a source of every necessity, and the ideal of beauty has been given us at the same time with the ideal of humanity. but now we are coming down from the region of ideas to the scene of reality, to find man in a determinate state, and consequently in limits which are not derived from the pure conception of humanity, but from external circumstances and from an accidental use of his freedom. but although the limitation of the idea of humanity may be very manifold in the individual, the contents of this idea suffice to teach us that we can only depart from it by two opposite roads. for if the perfection of man consist in the harmonious energy of his sensuous and spiritual forces, he can only lack this perfection through the want of harmony and the want of energy. thus then, before having received on this point the testimony of experience, reason suffices to assure us that we shall find the real and consequently limited man in a state of tension or relaxation, according as the exclusive activity of isolated forces troubles the harmony of his being, or as the unity of his nature is based on the uniform relaxation of his physical and spiritual forces. these opposite limits are, as we have now to prove, suppressed by the beautiful, which re-establishes harmony in man when excited, and energy in man when relaxed; and which, in this way, in conformity with the nature of the beautiful, restores the state of limitation to an absolute state, and makes of man a whole, complete in himself. thus the beautiful by no means belies in reality the idea which we have made of it in speculation; only its action is much less free in it than in the field of theory, where we were able to apply it to the pure conception of humanity. in man, as experience shows him to us, the beautiful finds a matter, already damaged and resisting, which robs him in ideal perfection of what it communicates to him of its individual mode of being. accordingly in reality the beautiful will always appear a peculiar and limited species, and not as the pure genus; in excited minds in the state of tension, it will lose its freedom and variety; in relaxed minds, it will lose its vivifying force; but we, who have become familiar with the true character of this contradictory phenomenon, cannot be led astray by it. we shall not follow the great crowd of critics, in determining their conception by separate experiences, and to make them answerable for the deficiencies which man shows under their influence. we know rather that it is man who transfers the imperfections of his individuality over to them, who stands perpetually in the way of their perfection by his subjective limitation, and lowers their absolute ideal to two limited forms of phenomena. it was advanced that soft beauty is for an unstrung mind, and the energetic beauty for the tightly strung mind. but i apply the term unstrung to a man when he is rather under the pressure of feelings than under the pressure of conceptions. every exclusive sway of one of his two fundamental impulses is for man a state of compulsion and violence, and freedom only exists in the co-operation of his two natures. accordingly, the man governed preponderately by feelings, or sensuously unstrung, is emancipated and set free by matter. the soft and graceful beauty, to satisfy this twofold problem, must therefore show herself under two aspects--in two distinct forms. first as a form in repose, she will tone down savage life, and pave the way from feeling to thought. she will, secondly, as a living image equip the abstract form with sensuous power, and lead back the conception to intuition and law to feeling. the former service she does to the man of nature, the second to the man of art. but because she does not in both cases hold complete sway over her matter, but depends on that which is furnished either by formless nature or unnatural art, she will in both cases bear traces of her origin, and lose herself in one place in material life and in another in mere abstract form. to be able to arrive at a conception how beauty can become a means to remove this twofold relaxation, we must explore its source in the human mind. accordingly, make up your mind to dwell a little longer in the region of speculation, in order then to leave it for ever, and to advance with securer footing on the ground of experience. letter xviii. by beauty the sensuous man is led to form and to thought; by beauty the spiritual man is brought back to matter and restored to the world of sense. from this statement it would appear to follow that between matter and form, between passivity and activity, there must be a middle state, and that beauty plants us in this state. it actually happens that the greater part of mankind really form this conception of beauty as soon as they begin to reflect on its operations, and all experience i seems to point to this conclusion. but, on the other hand, nothing is more unwarrantable and contradictory than such a conception, because the aversion of matter and form, the passive and the active, feeling and thought, is eternal and i cannot be mediated in any way. how can we remove this contradiction? beauty weds the two opposed conditions of feeling and thinking, and yet there is absolutely no medium between them. the former is immediately certain through experience, the other through the reason. this is the point to which the whole question of beauty leads, and if we succeed in settling this point in a satisfactory way, we have at length found the clue that will conduct us through the whole labyrinth of aesthetics. but this requires two very different operations, which must necessarily support each other in this inquiry. beauty it is said, weds two conditions with one another which are opposite to each other, and can never be one. we must start from this opposition; we must grasp and recognise them in their entire purity and strictness, so that both conditions are separated in the most definite matter; otherwise we mix, but we do not unite them. secondly, it is usual to say, beauty unites those two opposed conditions, and therefore removes the opposition. but because both conditions remain eternally opposed to one another, they cannot be united in any other way than by being suppressed. our second business is therefore to make this connection perfect, to carry them out with such purity and perfection that both conditions disappear entirely in a third one, and no trace of separation remains in the whole; otherwise we segregate, but do not unite. all the disputes that have ever prevailed and still prevail in the philosophical world respecting the conception of beauty have no other origin than their commencing without a sufficiently strict distinction, or that it is not carried out fully to a pure union. those philosophers who blindly follow their feeling in reflecting on this topic can obtain no other conception of beauty, because they distinguish nothing separate in the totality of the sensuous impression. other philosophers, who take the understanding as their exclusive guide, can never obtain a conception of beauty, because they never see anything else in the whole than the parts, and spirit and matter remain eternally separate, even in their most perfect unity. the first fear to suppress beauty dynamically, that is, as a working power, if they must separate what is united in the feeling. the others fear to suppress beauty logically, that is, as a conception, when they have to hold together what in the understanding is separate. the former wish to think of beauty as it works; the latter wish it to work as it is thought. both therefore must miss the truth; the former because they try to follow infinite nature with their limited thinking power; the others, because they wish to limit unlimited nature according to their laws of thought the first fear to rob beauty of its freedom by a too strict dissection, the others fear to destroy the distinctness of the conception by a too violent union. but the former do not reflect that the freedom in which they very properly place the essence of beauty is not lawlessness, but harmony of laws; not caprice, but the highest internal necessity. the others do not remember that distinctness, which they with equal right demand from beauty, does not consist in the exclusion of certain realities, but the absolute including of all; that is not therefore limitation, but infinitude. we shall avoid the quicksands on which both have made shipwreck if we begin from the two elements in which beauty divides itself before the understanding, but then afterwards rise to a pure aesthetic unity by which it works on feeling, and in which both those conditions completely disappear. letter xix two principal and different states of passive and active capacity of being determined [footnote: bestimmbarkeit] can be distinguished in man; in like manner two states of passive and active determination. [footnote: bestimmung.] the explanation of this proposition leads us most readily to our end. the condition of the state of man before destination or direction is given him by the impressions of the senses is an unlimited capacity of being determined. the infinite of time and space is given to his imagination for its free use; and, because nothing is settled in this kingdom of the possible, and therefore nothing is excluded from it, this state of absence of determination can be named an empty infiniteness, which must not by any means be confounded with an infinite void. now it is necessary that his sensuous nature should be modified, and that in the indefinite series of possible determinations one alone should become real. one perception must spring up in it. that which, in the previous state of determinableness, was only an empty potency becomes now an active force, and receives contents; but at the same time, as an active force it receives a limit, after having been, as a simple power, unlimited. reality exists now, but the infinite has disappeared. to describe a figure in space, we are obliged to limit infinite space; to represent to ourselves a change in time, we are obliged to divide the totality of time. thus we only arrive at reality by limitation, at the positive, at a real position, by negation or exclusion; to determination, by the suppression of our free determinableness. but mere exclusion would never beget a reality, nor would a mere sensuous impression ever give birth to a perception, if there were not something from which it was excluded, if by an absolute act of the mind the negation were not referred to something positive, and if opposition did not issue out of non-position. this act of the mind is styled judging or thinking, and the result is named thought. before we determine a place in space, there is no space for us; but without absolute space we could never determine a place. the same is the case with time. before we have an instant, there is no time to us; but without infinite time--eternity--we should never have a representation of the instant. thus, therefore, we can only arrive at the whole by the part, to the unlimited through limitation; but reciprocally we only arrive at the part through the whole, at limitation through the unlimited. it follows from this, that when it is affirmed of beauty that it mediates for man, the transition from feeling to thought, this must not be understood to mean that beauty can fill up the gap that separates feeling from thought, the passive from the active. this gap is infinite; and, without the interposition of a new and independent faculty, it is impossible for the general to issue from the individual, the necessary from the contingent. thought is the immediate act of this absolute power, which, i admit, can only be manifested in connection with sensuous impressions, but which in this manifestation depends so little on the sensuous that it reveals itself specially in an opposition to it. the spontaneity or autonomy with which it acts excludes every foreign influence; and it is not in as far as it helps thought--which comprehends a manifest contradiction--but only in as far as it procures for the intellectual faculties the freedom to manifest themselves in conformity with their proper laws. it does it only because the beautiful can become a means of leading man from matter to form, from feeling to laws, from a limited existence to an absolute existence. but this assumes that the freedom of the intellectual faculties can be balked, which appears contradictory to the conception of an autonomous power. for a power which only receives the matter of its activity from without can only be hindered in its action by the privation of this matter, and consequently by way of negation; it is therefore a misconception of the nature of the mind, to attribute to the sensuous passions the power of oppressing positively the freedom of the mind. experience does indeed present numerous examples where the rational forces appear compressed in proportion to the violence of the sensuous forces. but instead of deducing this spiritual weakness from the energy of passion, this passionate energy must rather be explained by the weakness of the human mind. for the sense can only have a sway such as this over man when the mind has spontaneously neglected to assert its power. yet in trying by these explanations to move one objection, i appear to have exposed myself to another, and i have only saved the autonomy of the mind at the cost of its unity. for how can the mind derive at the same time from itself the principles of inactivity and of activity, if it is not itself divided, and if it is not in opposition with itself? here we must remember that we have before us, not the infinite mind, but the finite. the finite mind is that which only becomes active through the passive, only arrives at the absolute through limitation, and only acts and fashions in as far as it receives matter. accordingly, a mind of this nature must associate with the impulse towards form or the absolute, an impulse towards matter or limitation, conditions without which it could not have the former impulse nor satisfy it. how can two such opposite tendencies exist together in the same being? this is a problem that can no doubt embarrass the metaphysician, but not the transcendental philosopher. the latter does not presume to explain the possibility of things, but he is satisfied with giving a solid basis to the knowledge that makes us understand the possibility of experience. and as experience would be equally impossible without this autonomy in the mind, and without the absolute unity of the mind, it lays down these two conceptions as two conditions of experience equally necessary without troubling itself any more to reconcile them. moreover, this immanence of two fundamental impulses does not in any degree contradict the absolute unity of the mind, as soon as the mind itself, its selfhood, is distinguished from these two motors. no doubt, these two impulses exist and act in it, but itself is neither matter nor form, nor the sensuous nor reason, and this is a point that does not seem always to have occurred to those who only look upon the mind as itself acting when its acts are in harmony with reason, and who declare it passive when its acts contradict reason. arrived at its development, each of these two fundamental impulsions tends of necessity and by its nature to satisfy itself; but precisely because each of them has a necessary tendency, and both nevertheless have an opposite tendency, this twofold constraint mutually destroys itself, and the will preserves an entire freedom between them both. it is therefore the will that conducts itself like a power--as the basis of reality--with respect to both these impulses; but neither of them can by itself act as a power with respect to the other. a violent man, by his positive tendency to justice, which never fails in him, is turned away from injustice; nor can a temptation of pleasure, however strong, make a strong character violate its principles. there is in man no other power than his will; and death alone, which destroys man, or some privation of self-consciousness, is the only thing that can rob man of his internal freedom. an external necessity determines our condition, our existence in time, by means of the sensuous. the latter is quite involuntary, and directly it is produced in us, we are necessarily passive. in the same manner an internal necessity awakens our personality in connection with sensations, and by its antagonism with them; for consciousness cannot depend on the will, which presupposes it. this primitive manifestation of personality is no more a merit to us than its privation is a defect in us. reason can only be required in a being who is self-conscious, for reason is an absolute consecutiveness and universality of consciousness; before this is the case, he is not a man, nor can any act of humanity be expected from him. the metaphysician can no more explain the limitation imposed by sensation on a free and autonomous mind than the natural philosopher can understand the infinite, which is revealed in consciousness in connection with these limits. neither abstraction nor experience can bring us back to the source whence issue our ideas of necessity and of universality; this source is concealed in its origin in time from the observer, and its super-sensuous origin from the researches of the metaphysician. but, to sum up in a few words, consciousness is there, and, together with its immutable unity, the law of all that is for man is established, as well as of all that is to be by man, for his understanding and his activity. the ideas of truth and of right present themselves inevitable, incorruptible, immeasurable, even in the age of sensuousness; and without our being able to say why or how, we see eternity in time, the necessary following the contingent. it is thus that, without any share on the part of the subject, the sensation and self-consciousness arise, and the origin of both is beyond our volition, as it is out of the sphere of our knowledge. but as soon as these two faculties have passed into action, and man has verified by experience, through the medium of sensation, a determinate existence, and through the medium of consciousness, its absolute existence, the two fundamental impulses exert their influence directly their object is given. the sensuous impulse is awakened with the experience of life--with the beginning of the individual; the rational impulsion with the experience of law--with the beginning of his personality; and it is only when these two inclinations have come into existence that the human type is realised. up to that time, everything takes place in man according to the law of necessity; but now the hand of nature lets him go, and it is for him to keep upright humanity which nature places as a germ in his heart. and thus we see that directly the two opposite and fundamental impulses exercise their influence in him, both lose their constraint, and the autonomy of two necessities gives birth to freedom. letter xx. that freedom is an active and not a passive principle results from its very conception; but that liberty itself should be an effect of nature (taking this word in its widest sense), and not the work of man, and therefore that it can be favoured or thwarted by natural means, is the necessary consequence of that which precedes. it begins only when man is complete, and when these two fundamental impulsions have been developed. it will then be wanting whilst he is incomplete, and while one of these impulsions is excluded, and it will be re-established by all that gives back to man his integrity. thus it is possible, both with regard to the entire species as to the individual, to remark the moment when man is yet incomplete, and when one of the two exclusions acts solely in him. we know that man commences by life simply, to end by form; that he is more of an individual than a person, and that he starts from the limited or finite to approach the infinite. the sensuous impulsion comes into play therefore before the rational impulsion, because sensation precedes consciousness; and in this priority of sensuous impulsion we find the key of the history of the whole of human liberty. there is a moment, in fact, when the instinct of life, not yet opposed to the instinct of form, acts as nature and as necessity; when the sensuous is a power because man has not begun; for even in man there can be no other power than his will. but when man shall have attained to the power of thought, reason, on the contrary, will be a power, and moral or logical necessity will take the place of physical necessity. sensuous power must then be annihilated before the law which must govern it can be established. it is not enough that something shall begin which as yet was not; previously something must end which had begun. man cannot pass immediately from sensuousness to thought. he must step backwards, for it is only when one determination is suppressed that the contrary determination can take place. consequently, in order to exchange passive against active liberty, a passive determination against an active, he must be momentarily free from all determination, and must traverse a state of pure determinability. he has then to return in some degree to that state of pure negative indetermination in which he was before his senses were affected by anything. but this state was absolutely empty of all contents, and now the question is to reconcile an equal determination and a determinability equally without limit, with the greatest possible fulness, because from this situation something positive must immediately follow. the determination which man received by sensation must be preserved, because he should not lose the reality; but at the same time, in so far as finite, it should be suppressed, because a determinability without limit would take place. the problem consists then in annihilating the determination of the mode of existence, and yet at the same time in preserving it, which is only possible in one way: in opposing to it another. the two sides of a balance are in equilibrium when empty; they are also in equilibrium when their contents are of equal weight. thus, to pass from sensation to thought, the soul traverses a medium position, in which sensibility and reason are at the same time active, and thus they mutually destroy their determinant power, and by their antagonism produce a negation. this medium situation in which the soul is neither physically nor morally constrained, and yet is in both ways active, merits essentially the name of a free situation; and if we call the state of sensuous determination physical, and the state of rational determination logical or moral, that state of real and active determination should be called the aesthetic. letter xxi. i have remarked in the beginning of the foregoing letter that there is a twofold condition of determinableness and a twofold condition of determination. and now i can clear up this proposition. the mind can be determined--is determinate--only in as far as it is not determined; it is, however, determinable also, in as far as it is not exclusively determined; that is, if it is not confined in its determination. the former is only a want of determination--it is without limits, because it is without reality; but the latter, the aesthetic determinableness, has no limits, because it unites all reality. the mind is determined, inasmuch as it is only limited; but it is also determined because it limits itself of its own absolute capacity. it is situated in the former position when it feels, in the second when it thinks. accordingly the aesthetic constitution is in relation to determinableness what thought is in relation to determination. the latter is a negative from internal and infinite completeness, the former a limitation from internal infinite power. feeling and thought come into contact in one single point, the mind is determined in both conditions, the man becomes something and exists--either as individual or person--by exclusion; in other cases these two faculties stand infinitely apart. just in the same manner, the aesthetic determinableness comes in contact with the mere want of determination in a single point, by both excluding every distinct determined existence, by thus being in all other points nothing and all, and hence by being infinitely different. therefore, if the latter, in the absence of determination from deficiency, is represented as an empty infiniteness, the aesthetic freedom of determination, which forms the proper counterpart to the former, can be considered, as a completed infiniteness; a representation which exactly agrees with the teachings of the previous investigations. man is therefore nothing in the aesthetic state, if attention is given to the single result, and not to the whole faculty, and if we regard only the absence or want of every special determination. we must therefore do justice to those who pronounce the beautiful, and the disposition in which it places the mind, as entirely indifferent and unprofitable, in relation to knowledge and feeling. they are perfectly right; for it is certain that beauty gives no separate, single result, either for the understanding or for the will; it does not carry out a single intellectual or moral object; it discovers no truth, does not help us to fulfil a single duty, and, in one word, is equally unfit to found the character or to clear the head. accordingly, the personal worth of a man, or his dignity, as far as this can only depend on himself, remains entirely undetermined by aesthetic culture, and nothing further is attained than that, on the part of nature, it is made profitable for him to make of himself what he will; that the freedom to be what he ought to be is restored perfectly to him. but by this, something infinite is attained. but as soon as we remember that freedom is taken from man by the one-sided compulsion of nature in feeling, and by the exclusive legislation of the reason in thinking, we must consider the capacity restored to him by the aesthetical disposition, as the highest of all gifts, as the gift of humanity. i admit that he possesses this capacity for humanity, before every definite determination in which he may be placed. but as a matter of fact, he loses it with every determined condition, into which he may come, and if he is to pass over to an opposite condition, humanity must be in every case restored to him by the aesthetic life. it is therefore not only a poetical license, but also philosophically correct, when beauty is named our second creator. nor is this inconsistent with the fact that she only makes it possible for us to attain and realise humanity, leaving this to our free will. for in this she acts in common with our original creator, nature, which has imparted to us nothing further than this capacity for humanity, but leaves the use of it to our own determination of will. letter xxii. accordingly, if the aesthetic disposition of the mind must be looked upon in one respect as nothing--that is, when we confine our view to separate and determined operations--it must be looked upon in another respect as a state of the highest reality, in as far as we attend to the absence of all limits and the sum of powers which are commonly active in it. accordingly we cannot pronounce them, again, to be wrong who describe the aesthetic state to be the most productive in relation to knowledge and morality. they are perfectly right, for a state of mind which comprises the whole of humanity in itself must of necessity include in itself also--necessarily and potentially--every separate expression of it. again, a disposition of mind that removes all limitation from the totality of human nature must also remove it from every social expression of the same. exactly because its "aesthetic disposition" does not exclusively shelter any separate function of humanity, it is favourable to all without distinction, nor does it favour any particular functions, precisely because it is the foundation of the possibility of all. all other exercises give to the mind some special aptitude, but for that very reason give it some definite limits; only the aesthetical leads him to the unlimited. every other condition, in which we can live, refers us to a previous condition, and requires for its solution a following condition; only the aesthetic is a complete whole in itself, for it unites in itself all conditions of its source and of its duration. here alone we feel ourselves swept out of time, and our humanity expresses itself with purity and integrity as if it had not yet received any impression or interruption from the operation of external powers. that which flatters our senses in immediate sensation opens our weak and volatile spirit to every impression, but makes us in the same degree less apt for exertion. that which stretches our thinking power and invites to abstract conceptions strengthens our mind for every kind of resistance, but hardens it also in the same proportion, and deprives us of susceptibility in the same ratio that it helps us to greater mental activity. for this very reason, one as well as the other brings us at length to exhaustion, because matter cannot long do without the shaping, constructive force, and the force cannot do without the constructible material. but on the other hand, if we have resigned ourselves to the enjoyment of genuine beauty, we are at such a moment of our passive and active powers in the same degree master, and we shall turn with ease from grave to gay, from rest to movement, from submission to resistance, to abstract thinking and intuition. this high indifference and freedom of mind, united with power and elasticity, is the disposition in which a true work of art ought to dismiss us, and there is no better test of true aesthetic excellence. if after an enjoyment of this kind we find ourselves specially impelled to a particular mode of feeling or action, and unfit for other modes, this serves as an infallible proof that we have not experienced any pure aesthetic effect, whether this is owing to the object, to our own mode of feeling--as generally happens--or to both together. as in reality no purely aesthetical effect can be met with--for man can never leave his dependence on material forces--the excellence of a work of art can only consist in its greater approximation to its ideal of aesthetic purity, and however high we may raise the freedom of this effect, we shall always leave it with a particular disposition and a particular bias. any class of productions or separate work in the world of art is noble and excellent in proportion to the universality of the disposition and the unlimited character of the bias thereby presented to our mind. this truth can be applied to works in various branches of art, and also to different works in the same branch. we leave a grand musical performance with our feelings excited, the reading of a noble poem with a quickened imagination, a beautiful statue or building with an awakened understanding; but a man would not choose an opportune moment who attempted to invite us to abstract thinking after a high musical enjoyment, or to attend to a prosaic affair of common life after a high poetical enjoyment, or to kindle our imagination and astonish our feelings directly after inspecting a fine statue or edifice. the reason of this is that music, by its matter, even when most spiritual, presents a greater affinity with the senses than is permitted by aesthetic liberty; it is because even the most happy poetry, having for tis medium the arbitrary and contingent play of the imagination, always shares in it more than the intimate necessity of the really beautiful allows; it is because the best sculpture touches on severe science by what is determinate in its conception. however, these particular affinities are lost in proportion as the works of these three kinds of art rise to a greater elevation, and it is a natural and necessary consequence of their perfection, that, without confounding their objective limits, the different arts come to resemble each other more and more, in the action which they exercise on the mind. at its highest degree of ennobling, music ought to become a form, and act on us with the calm power of an antique statue; in its most elevated perfection, the plastic art ought to become music and move us by the immediate action exercised on the mind by the senses; in its most complete developmentment, poetry ought both to stir us powerfully like music and like plastic art to surround us with a peaceful light. in each art, the perfect style consists exactly in knowing how to remove specific limits, while sacrificing at the same time the particular advantages of the art, and to give it by a wise use of what belongs to it specially a more general character. nor is it only the limits inherent in the specific character of each kind of art that the artist ought to overstep in putting his hand to the work; he must also triumph over those which are inherent in the particular subject of which he treats. in a really beautiful work of art, the substance ought to be inoperative, the form should do everything; for by the form, the whole man is acted on; the substance acts on nothing but isolated forces. thus, however vast and sublime it may be, the substance always exercises a restrictive action on the mind, and true aesthetic liberty can only be expected from the form. consequently the true search of the master consists in destroying matter by the form; and the triumph of art is great in proportion as it overcomes matter and maintains its sway over those who enjoy its work. it is great particularly in destroying matter when most imposing, ambitious, and attractive, when therefore matter has most power to produce the effect proper to it, or, again, when it leads those who consider it more closely to enter directly into relation with it. the mind of the spectator and of the hearer must remain perfectly free and intact; it must issue pure and entire from the magic circle of the artist, as from the hands of the creator. the most frivolous subject ought to be treated in such a way that we preserve the faculty to exchange it immediately for the most serious work. the arts which have passion for their object, as a tragedy for example, do not present a difficulty here; for, in the first place these arts are not entirely free, because they are in the service of a particular end (the pathetic), and then no connoisseur will deny that even in this class a work is perfect in proportion as amidst the most violent storms of passion it respects the liberty of the soul. there is a fine art of passion, but an impassioned fine art is a contradiction in terms, for the infallible effect of the beautiful is emancipation from the passions. the idea of an instructive fine art (didactic art) or improving (moral) art is no less contradictory, for nothing agrees less with the idea of the beautiful than to give a determinate tendency to the mind. however, from the fact that a work produces effects only by its substance, it must not always be inferred that there is a want of form in this work; this conclusion may quite as well testify to a want of form in the observer. if his mind is too stretched or too relaxed, if it is only accustomed to receive things either by the senses or the intelligence, even in the most perfect combination, it will only stop to look at the parts, and it will only see matter in the most beautiful form. only sensible of the coarse elements, he must first destroy the aesthetic organisation of a work to find enjoyment in it, and carefully disinter the details which genius has caused to vanish, with infinite art, in the harmony of the whole. the interest he takes in the work is either solely moral or exclusively physical; the only thing wanting to it is to be exactly what it ought to be--aesthetical. the readers of this class enjoy a serious and pathetic poem as they do a sermon; a simple and playful work, as an inebriating draught; and if on the one hand they have so little taste as to demand edification from a tragedy or from an epos, even such as the "messias," on the other hand they will be infallibly scandalised by a piece after the fashion of anacreon and catullus. letter xxiii. i take up the thread of my researches, which i broke off only to apply the principles i laid down to practical art and the appreciation of its works. the transition from the passivity of sensuousness to the activity of thought and of will can be effected only by the intermediary state of aesthetic liberty; and though in itself this state decides nothing respecting our opinions and our sentiments, and therefore leaves our intellectual and moral value entirely problematical, it is, however, the necessary condition without which we should never attain to an opinion or a sentiment. in a word, there is no other way to make a reasonable being out of a sensuous man than by making him first aesthetic. but, you might object: is this mediation absolutely indispensable? could not truth and duty, one or the other, in themselves and by themselves, find access to the sensuous man? to this i reply: not only is it possible, but it is i absolutely necessary that they owe solely to themselves their determining force, and nothing would be more contradictory to our preceding affirmations than to appear to defend the contrary opinion. it has been expressly proved that the beautiful furnishes no result, either for the comprehension or for the will; that it mingles with no operations, either of thought or of resolution; and that it confers this double power without determining anything with regard to the real exercise of this power. here all foreign help disappears, and the pure logical form, the idea, would speak immediately to the intelligence, as the pure moral form, the law, immediately to the will. but that the pure form should be capable of it, and that there is in general a pure form for sensuous man, is that, i maintain, which should be rendered possible by the aesthetic disposition of the soul. truth is not a thing which can be received from without like reality or the visible existence of objects. it is the thinking force, in his own liberty and activity, which produces it, and it is just this liberty proper to it, this liberty which we seek in vain in sensuous man. the sensuous man is already determined physically, and thenceforth he has no longer his free determinability; he must necessarily first enter into possession of this lost determinability before he can exchange the passive against an active determination. therefore, in order to recover it, he must either lose the passive determination that he had, or he should enclose already in himself the active determination to which he should pass. if he confined himself to lose passive determination, he would at the same time lose with it the possibility of an active determination, because thought needs a body, and form can only be realised through matter. he must therefore contain already in himself the active determination that he may be at once both actively and passively determined, that is to say, he becomes necessarily aesthetic. consequently, by the aesthetic disposition of the soul the proper activity of reason is already revealed in the sphere of sensuousness, the power of sense is already broken within its own boundaries, and the ennobling of physical man carried far enough, for spiritual man has only to develop himself according to the laws of liberty. the transition from an aesthetic state to a logical and moral state (from the beautiful to truth and duty) is then infinitely more easy than the transition from the physical state to the aesthetic state (from life pure and blind to form). this transition man can effectuate alone by his liberty, whilst he has only to enter into possession of himself not to give it himself; but to separate the elements of his nature, and not to enlarge it. having attained to the aesthetic disposition, man will give to his judgments and to his actions a universal value as soon as he desires it this passage from brute nature to beauty, in which an entirely new faculty would awaken in him, nature would render easier, and his will has no power over a disposition which, we know, itself gives birth to the will. to bring the aesthetic man to profound views, to elevated sentiments, he requires nothing more than important occasions; to obtain the same thing from the sensuous man, his nature must at first be changed. to make of the former a hero, a sage, it is often only necessary to meet with a sublime situation, which exercises upon the faculty of the will the more immediate action; for the second, it must first be transplanted under another sky. one of the most important tasks of culture, then, is to submit man to form, even in a purely physical life, and to render it aesthetic as far as the domain of the beautiful can be extended, for it is alone in the aesthetic state, and not in the physical state, that the moral state can be developed. if in each particular case man ought to possess the power to make his judgment and his will the judgment of the entire species; if he ought to find in each limited existence the transition to an infinite existence; if, lastly, he ought from every dependent situation to take his flight to rise to autonomy and to liberty, it must be observed that at no moment is he only individual and solely obeys the law of nature. to be apt and ready to raise himself from the narrow circle of the ends of nature, to rational ends, in the sphere of the former he must already have exercised himself in the second; he must already have realised his physical destiny with a certain liberty that belongs only to spiritual nature, that is to say, according to the laws of the beautiful. and that he can effect without thwarting in the least degree his physical aim. the exigencies of nature with regard to him turn only upon what he does--upon the substance of his acts; but the ends of nature in no degree determine the way in which he acts, the form of his actions. on the contrary, the exigencies of reason have rigorously the form of his activity for its object. thus, so much as it is necessary for the moral destination of man, that he be purely moral, that he shows an absolute personal activity, so much is he indifferent that his physical destination be entirely physical, that he acts in a manner entirely passive. henceforth with regard to this last destination, it entirely depends on him to fulfil it solely as a sensuous being and natural force (as a force which acts only as it diminishes) or, at the same time, as absolute force, as a rational being. to which of these does his dignity best respond? of this, there can be no question. it is as disgraceful and contemptible for him to do under sensuous impulsion that which he ought to have determined merely by the motive of duty, as it is noble and honourable for him to incline towards conformity with laws, harmony, independence; there even where the vulgar man only satisfies a legitimate want. in a word, in the domain of truth and morality, sensuousness must have nothing to determine; but in the sphere of happiness, form may find a place, and the instinct of play prevail. thus then, in the indifferent sphere of physical life, man ought to already commence his moral life; his own proper activity ought already to make way in passivity, and his rational liberty beyond the limits of sense; he ought already to impose the law of his will upon his inclinations; he ought--if you will permit me the expression--to carry into the domain of matter the war against matter, in order to be dispensed from combatting this redoubtable enemy upon the sacred field of liberty; he ought to learn to have nobler desires, not to be forced to have sublime volitions. this is the fruit of aesthetic culture, which submits to the laws of the beautiful, in which neither the laws of nature nor those of reason suffer, which does not force the will of man, and which by the form it gives to exterior life already opens internal life. letter xxiv. accordingly three different moments or stages of development can be distinguished, which the individual man, as well as the whole race, must of necessity traverse in a determinate order if they are to fulfil the circle of their determination. no doubt, the separate periods can be lengthened or shortened, through accidental causes which are inherent either in the influence of external things or under the free caprice of men; but neither of them can be overstepped, and the order of their sequence cannot be inverted either by nature or by the will. man, in his physical condition, suffers only the power of nature; he gets rid of this power in the aesthetical condition, and he rules them in the moral state. what is man before beauty liberates him from free pleasure, and the serenity of form tames down the savageness of life? eternally uniform in his aims, eternally changing in his judgments, self- seeking without being himself, unfettered without being free, a slave without serving any rule. at this period, the world is to him only destiny, not yet an object; all has existence for him only in as far as it procures existence to him; a thing that neither seeks from nor gives to him is non-existent. every phenomenon stands out before him, separate and cut off, as he finds himself in the series of beings. all that is, is to him through the bias of the moment; every change is to him an entirely fresh creation, because with the necessary in him, the necessary out of him is wanting, which binds together all the changing forms in the universe, and which holds fast the law on the theatre of his action, while the individual departs. it is in vain that nature lets the rich variety of her forms pass before him; he sees in her glorious fulness nothing but his prey, in her power and greatness nothing but his enemy. either he encounters objects, and wishes to draw them to himself in desire, or the objects press in a destructive manner upon him, and he thrusts them away in dismay and terror. in both cases his relation to the world of sense is immediate contact; and perpetually anxious through its pressure, restless and plagued by imperious wants, he nowhere finds rest except in enervation, and nowhere limits save in exhausted desire. "true, his is the powerful breast and the mighty hand of the titans... a certain inheritance; yet the god welded round his forehead a brazen band; advice, moderation, wisdom, and patience,-- hid it from his shy, sinister look. every desire is with him a rage, and his rage prowls around limitless."--"iphigenia in tauris" ignorant of his own human dignity, he is far removed from honouring it in others, and conscious of his own savage greed, he fears it in every creature that he sees like himself. he never sees others in himself, only himself in others, and human society, instead of enlarging him to the race, only shuts him up continually closer in his individuality. thus limited, he wanders through his sunless life, till favouring nature rolls away the load of matter from his darkened senses, reflection separates him from things, and objects show themselves at length in the after-glow of the consciousness. it is true we cannot point out this state of rude nature as we have here portrayed it in any definite people and age. it is only an idea, but an idea with which experience agrees most closely in special features. it may be said that man was never in this animal condition, but he has not, on the other hand, ever entirely escaped from it. even in the rudest subjects, unmistakable traces of rational freedom can be found, and even in the most cultivated, features are not wanting that remind us of that dismal natural condition. it is possible for man, at one and the same time, to unite the highest and the lowest in his nature; and if his dignity depends on a strict separation of one from the other, his happiness depends on a skilful removal of this separation. the culture which is to bring his dignity into agreement with his happiness will therefore have to provide for the greatest purity of these two principles in their most intimate combination. consequently the first appearance of reason in man is not the beginning of humanity. this is first decided by his freedom, and reason begins first by making his sensuous dependence boundless; a phenomenon that does not appear to me to have been sufficiently elucidated, considering its importance and universality. we know that the reason makes itself known to man by the demand for the absolute--the self-dependent and necessary. but as this want of the reason cannot be satisfied in any separate or single state of his physical life, he is obliged to leave the physical entirely and to rise from a limited reality to ideas. but although the true meaning of that demand of the reason is to withdraw him from the limits of time and to lead him up from the world of sense to an ideal world, yet this same demand of reason, by a misapplication--scarcely to be avoided in this age, prone to sensuousness--can direct him to physical life, and, instead of making man free, plunge him in the most terrible slavery. facts verify this supposition. man raised on the wings of imagination leaves the narrow limits of the present, in which mere animality is enclosed, in order to strive on to an unlimited future. but while the limitless is unfolded to his dazed imagination, his heart has not ceased to live in the separate, and to serve the moment. the impulse towards the absolute seizes him suddenly in the midst of his animality, and as in this cloddish condition all his efforts aim only at the material and temporal, and are limited by his individuality, he is only led by that demand of the reason to extend his individuality into the infinite, instead of to abstract from it. he will be led to seek instead of form an inexhaustible matter, instead of the unchangeable an everlasting change and an absolute securing of his temporal existence. the same impulse which, directed to his thought and action, ought to lead to truth and morality, now directed to his passion and emotional state, produces nothing but an unlimited desire and an absolute want. the first fruits, therefore, that he reaps in the world of spirits, are cares and fear--both operations of the reason; not of sensuousness, but of a reason that mistakes its object and applies its categorical imperative to matter. all unconditional systems of happiness are fruits of this tree, whether they have for their object the present day or the whole of life, or what does not make them any more respectable, the whole of eternity, for their object. an unlimited duration of existence and of well-being is only an ideal of the desires; hence a demand which can only be put forth by an animality striving up to the absolute. man, therefore, without gaining anything for his humanity by a rational expression of this sort, loses the happy limitation of the animal over which he now only possesses the unenviable superiority of losing the present for an endeavour after what is remote, yet without seeking in the limitless future anything but the present. but even if the reason does not go astray in its object, or err in the question, sensuousness will continue to falsify the answer for a long time. as soon as man has begun to use his understanding and to knit together phenomena in cause and effect, the reason, according to its conception, presses on to an absolute knitting together and to an unconditional basis. in order merely to be able to put forward this demand man must already have stepped beyond the sensuous, but the sensuous uses this very demand to bring back the fugitive. in fact it is now that he ought to abandon entirely the world of sense in order to take his flight into the realm of ideas; for the intelligence temains eternally shut up in the finite and in the contingent, and does not cease putting questions without reaching the last link of the chain. but as the man with whom we are engaged is not yet capable of such an abstraction, and does not find it in the sphere of sensuous knowledge, and because he does not look for it in pure reason, he will seek for it below in the region of sentiment, and will appear to find it. no doubt the sensuous shows him nothing that has its foundation in itself, and that legislates for itself, but it shows him something that does not care for foundation or law; therefore thus not being able to quiet the intelligence by showing it a final cause, he reduces it to silence by the conception which desires no cause; and being incapable of understanding the sublime necessity of reason, he keeps to the blind constraint of matter. as sensuousness knows no other end than its interest, and is determined by nothing except blind chance, it makes the former the motive of its actions, and the latter the master of the world. even the divine part in man, the moral law, in its first manifestation in the sensuous cannot avoid this perversion, as this moral law is only prohibited and combats in man the interest of sensuous egotism, it must appear to him as something strange until he has come to consider this self-love as the stranger, and the voice of reason as his true self. therefore he confines himself to feeling the fetters which the latter imposes on him, without having the consciousness of the infinite emancipation which it procures for him. without suspecting in himself the dignity of lawgiver, he only experiences the constraint and the impotent revolt of a subject fretting under the yoke, because in this experience the sensuous impulsion precedes the moral impulsion, he gives to the law of necessity a beginning in him, a positive origin, and by the most unfortunate of all mistakes he converts the immutable and the eternal in himself into a transitory accident he makes up his mind to consider the notions of the just and the unjust as statutes which have been introduced by a will, and not as having in themselves an eternal value. just as in the explanation of certain natural phenomena he goes beyond nature and seeks out of her what can only be found in her, in her own laws; so also in the explanation of moral phenomena he goes beyond reason and makes light of his humanity, seeking a god in this way. it is not wonderful that a religion which he has purchased at the cost of his humanity shows itself worthy of this origin, and that he only considers as absolute and eternally binding laws that have never been binding from all eternity. he has placed himself in relation with, not a holy being, but a powerful. therefore the spirit of his religion, of the homage that he gives to god, is a fear that abases him, and not a veneration that elevates him in his own esteem. though these different aberrations by which man departs from the ideal of his destination cannot all take place at the same time, because several degrees have to be passed over in the transition from the obscure of thought to error, and from the obscure of will to the corruption of the will; these degrees are all, without exception, the consequence of his physical state, because in all the vital impulsion sways the formal impulsion. now, two cases may happen: either reason may not yet have spoken in man, and the physical may reign over him with a blind necessity, or reason may not be sufficiently purified from sensuous impressions, and the moral may still be subject to the physical; in both cases the only principle that has a real power over him is a material principle, and man, at least as regards his ultimate tendency, is a sensuous being. the only difference is, that in the former case he is an animal without reason, and in the second case a rational animal. but he ought to be neither one nor the other: he ought to be a man. nature ought not to rule him exclusively; nor reason conditionally. the two legislations ought to be completely independent and yet mutually complementary. letter xxv. whilst man, in his first physical condition, is only passively affected by the world of sense, he is still entirely identified with it; and for this reason the external world, as yet, has no objective existence for him. when he begins in his aesthetic state of mind to regard the world objectively, then only is his personality severed from it, and the world appears to him an objective reality, for the simple reason that he has ceased to form an identical portion of it. that which first connects man with the surrounding universe is the power of reflective contemplation. whereas desire seizes at once its object, reflection removes it to a distance and renders it inalienably her own by saving it from the greed of passion. the necessity of sense which he obeyed during the period of mere sensations, lessens during the period of reflection; the senses are for the time in abeyance; even ever-fleeting time stands still whilst the scattered rays of consciousness are gathering and shape themselves; an image of the infinite is reflected upon the perishable ground. as soon as light dawns in man, there is no longer night outside of him; as soon as there is peace within him the storm lulls throughout the universe, and the contending forces of nature find rest within prescribed limits. hence we cannot wonder if ancient traditions allude to these great changes in the inner man as to a revolution in surrounding nature, and symbolise thought triumphing over the laws of time, by the figure of zeus, which terminates the reign of saturn. as long as man derives sensations from a contact with nature, he is her slave; but as soon as he begins to reflect upon her objects and laws he becomes her lawgiver. nature, which previously ruled him as a power, now expands before him as an object. what is objective to him can have no power over him, for in order to become objective it has to experience his own power. as far and as long as he impresses a form upon matter, he cannot be injured by its effect; for a spirit can only be injured by that which deprives it of its freedom. whereas he proves his own freedom by giving a form to the formless; where the mass rules heavily and without shape, and its undefined outlines are for ever fluctuating between uncertain boundaries, fear takes up its abode; but man rises above any natural terror as soon as he knows how to mould it, and transform it into an object of his art. as soon as he upholds his independence toward phaenomenal nature, he maintains his dignity toward her as a thing of power and with a noble freedom he rises against his gods. they throw aside the mask with which they had kept him in awe during his infancy, and to his surprise his mind perceives the reflection of his own image. the divine monster of the oriental, which roams about changing the world with the blind force of a beast of prey, dwindles to the charming outline of humanity in greek fable; the empire of the titans is crushed, and boundless force is tamed by infinite form. but whilst i have been merely searching for an issue from the material world and a passage into the world of mind, the bold flight of my imagination has already taken me into the very midst of the latter world. the beauty of which we are in search we have left behind by passing from the life of mere sensations to the pure form and to the pure object. such a leap exceeds the condition of human nature; in order to keep pace with the latter we must return to the world of sense. beauty is indeed the sphere of unfettered contemplation and reflection; beauty conducts us into the world of ideas, without however taking us from the world of sense, as occurs when a truth is perceived and acknowledged. this is the pure product of a process of abstraction from everything material and accidental, a pure object free from every subjective barrier, a pure state of self-activity without any admixture of passive sensations. there is indeed a way back to sensation from the highest abstraction; for thought teaches the inner sensation, and the idea of logical and moral unity passes into a sensation of sensual accord. but if we delight in knowledge we separate very accurately our own conceptions from our sensations; we look upon the latter as something accidental, which might have been omitted without the knowledge being impaired thereby, without truth being less true. it would, however, be a vain attempt to suppress this connection of the faculty of feeling with the idea of beauty, consequently, we shall not succeed in representing to ourselves one as the effect of the other, but we must look upon them both together and reciprocally as cause and effect. in the pleasure which we derive from knowledge we readily distinguish the passage from the active to the passive state, and we clearly perceive that the first ends when the second begins. on the contrary, from the pleasure which we take in beauty, this transition from the active to the passive is not perceivable, and reflection is so intimately blended with feeling that we believe we feel the form immediately. beauty is then an object to us, it is true, because reflection is the condition of the feeling which we have of it; but it is also a state of our personality (our ego), because the feeling is the condition of the idea we conceive of it: beauty is therefore doubtless form, because we contemplate it, but it is equally life because we feel it. in a word, it is at once our state and our act. and precisely because it is at the same time both a state and an act, it triumphantly proves to us that the passive does not exclude the active, neither matter nor form, neither the finite nor the infinite; and that consequently the physical dependence to which man is necessarily devoted does not in any way destroy his moral liberty. this is the proof of beauty, and i ought to add that this alone can prove it. in fact, as in the possession of truth or of logical unity, feeling is not necessarily one with the thought, but follows it accidentally; it is a fact which only proves that a sensitive nature can succeed a rational nature, and vice versa; not that they co-exist, that they exercise a reciprocal action one over the other, and lastly that they ought to be united in an absolute and necessary manner. from this exclusion of feeling as long as there is thought, and of thought so long as there is feeling, we should on the contrary conclude that the two natures are incompatible, so that in order to demonstrate that pure reason is to be realised in humanity, the best proof given by the analysis is that this realisation is demanded. but, as in the realisation of beauty or of aesthetic unity, there is a real union, mutual substitution of matter and of form, of passive and of active, by this alone is proved the compatibility of the two natures, the possible realisation of the infinite in the finite, and consequently also the possibility of the most sublime humanity. henceforth we need no longer be embarrassed to find a transition from dependent feeling to moral liberty, because beauty reveals to us the fact that they can perfectly co-exist, and that to show himself a spirit, man need not escape from matter. but if on one side he is free, even in his relation with a visible world, as the fact of beauty teaches, and if on the other side freedom is something absolute and super-sensuous, as its idea necessarily implies, the question is no longer how man succeeds in raising himself from the finite to the absolute, and opposing himself in his thought and will to sensuality, as this has already been produced in the fact of beauty. in a word, we have no longer to ask how he passes from virtue to truth, which is already included in the former, but how he opens a way for himself from vulgar reality to aesthetic reality, and from the ordinary feelings of life to the perception of the beautiful. letter xxvi. i have shown in the previous letters that it is only the aesthetic disposition of the soul that gives birth to liberty, it cannot therefore be derived from liberty nor have a moral origin. it must be a gift of nature; the favour of chance alone can break the bonds of the physical state and bring the savage to duty. the germ of the beautiful will find an equal difficulty in developing itself in countries where a severe nature forbids man to enjoy himself, and in those where a prodigal nature dispenses him from all effort; where the blunted senses experience no want, and where violent desire can never be satisfied. the delightful flower of the beautiful will never unfold itself in the case of the troglodyte hid in his cavern always alone, and never finding humanity outside himself; nor among nomads, who, travelling in great troops, only consist of a multitude, and have no individual humanity. it will only flourish in places where man converses peacefully with himself in his cottage, and with the whole race when he issues from it. in those climates where a limpid ether opens the senses to the lightest impression, whilst a life-giving warmth developes a luxuriant nature, where even in the inanimate creation the sway of inert matter is overthrown, and the victorious form ennobles even the most abject natures; in this joyful state and fortunate zone, where activity alone leads to enjoyment, and enjoyment to activity, from life itself issues a holy harmony, and the laws of order develope life, a different result takes place. when imagination incessantly escapes from reality, and does not abandon the simplicity of nature in its wanderings: then and there only the mind and the senses, the receptive force and the plastic force, are developed in that happy equilibrium which is the soul of the beautiful and the condition of humanity. what phaenomenon accompanies the initiation of the savage into humanity? however far we look back into history the phaenomenon is identical among all people who have shaken off the slavery of the animal state, the love of appearance, the inclination for dress and for games. extreme stupidity and extreme intelligence have a certain affinity in only seeking the real and being completely insensible to mere appearance. the former is only drawn forth by the immediate presence of an object in the senses, and the second is reduced to a quiescent state only by referring conceptions to the facts of experience. in short, stupidity cannot rise above reality, nor the intelligence descend below truth. thus, in as far as the want of reality and attachment to the real are only the consequence of a want and a defect, indifference to the real and an interest taken in appearances are a real enlargement of humanity and a decisive step towards culture. in the first place it is the proof of an exterior liberty, for as long as necessity commands and want solicits, the fancy is strictly chained down to the real; it is only when want is satisfied that it developes without hindrance. but it is also the proof of an internal liberty, because it reveals to us a force which, independent of an external substratum, sets itself in motion, and has sufficient energy to remove from itself the solicitations of nature. the reality of things is effected by things, the appearance of things is the work of man, and a soul that takes pleasure in appearance does not take pleasure in what it receives but in what it makes. it is self-evident that i am speaking of aesthetical evidence different from reality and truth, and not of logical appearance identical with them. therefore if it is liked it is because it is an appearance, and not because it is held to be something better than it is: the first principle alone is a play whilst the second is a deception. to give a value to the appearance of the first kind can never injure truth, because it is never to be feared that it will supplant it--the only way in which truth can be injured. to despise this appearance is to despise in general all the fine arts of which it is the essence. nevertheless, it happens sometimes that the understanding carries its zeal for reality as far as this intolerance, and strikes with a sentence of ostracism all the arts relating to beauty in appearance, because it is only an appearance. however, the intelligence only shows this vigorous spirit when it calls to mind the affinity pointed out further back. i shall find some day the occasion to treat specially of the limits of beauty in its appearance. it is nature herself which raises man from reality to appearance by endowing him with two senses which only lead him to the knowledge of the real through appearance. in the eye and the ear the organs of the senses are already freed from the persecutions of nature, and the object with which we are immediately in contact through the animal senses is remoter from us. what we see by the eye differs from what we feel; for the understanding to reach objects overleaps the light which separates us from them. in truth, we are passive to an object; in sight and hearing the object is a form we create. while still a savage, man only enjoys through touch merely aided by sight and sound. he either does not rise to perception through sight, or does not rest there. as soon as he begins to enjoy through sight, vision has an independent value, he is aesthetically free, and the instinct of play is developed. the instinct of play likes appearance, and directly it is awakened it is followed by the formal imitative instinct which treats appearance as an independent thing. directly man has come to distinguish the appearance from the reality, the form from the body, he can separate, in fact he has already done so. thus the faculty of the art of imitation is given with the faculty of form in general. the inclination that draws us to it reposes on another tendency i have not to notice here. the exact period when the aesthetic instinct, or that of art, developes, depends entirely on the attraction that mere appearance has for men. as every real existence proceeds from nature as a foreign power, whilst every appearance comes in the first place from man as a percipient subject, he only uses his absolute sight in separating semblance from essence, and arranging according to subjective law. with an unbridled liberty he can unite what nature has severed, provided he can imagine his union, and he can separate what nature has united, provided this separation can take place in his intelligence. here nothing can be sacred to him but his own law: the only condition imposed upon him is to respect the border which separates his own sphere from the existence of things or from the realm of nature. this human right of ruling is exercised by man in the art of appearance; and his success in extending the empire of the beautiful, and guarding the frontiers of truth, will be in proportion with the strictness with which he separates form from substance: for if he frees appearance from reality he must also do the converse. but man possesses sovereign power only in the world of appearance, in the unstibstantial realm of imagination, only by abstaining from giving being to appearance in theory, and by giving it being in practice. it follows that the poet transgresses his proper limits when he attributes being to his ideal, and when he gives this ideal aim as a determined existence. for he can only reach this result by exceeding his right as a poet, that of encroaching by the ideal on the field of experience, and by pretending to determine real existence in virtue of a simple possibility, or else he renounces his right as poet by letting experience encroach on the sphere of the ideal, and by restricting possibility to the conditions of reality. it is only by being frank or disclaiming all reality, and by being independent or doing without reality, that the appearance is aesthetical. directly it apes reality or needs reality for effect it is nothing more than a vile instrument for material ends, and can prove nothing for the freedom of the mind. moreover, the object in which we find beauty need not be unreal if pur judgment disregards this reality; nor if it regards this the judgment is no longer aesthetical. a beautiful woman if living would no doubt please us as much and rather more than an equally beautiful woman seen in painting; but what makes the former please men is not her being an independent appearance; she no longer pleases the pure aesthetic feeling. in the painting, life must only attract as an appearance, and reality as an idea. but it is certain that to feel in a living object only the pure appearance, requires a greatly higher aesthetic culture than to do without life in the appearance. when the frank and independent appearance is found in man separately, or in a whole people, it may be inferred they have mind, taste, and all prerogatives connected with them. in this case, the ideal will be seen to govern real life, honour triumphing over fortune, thought over enjoyment, the dream of immortality over a transitory existence. in this case public opinion will no longer be feared and an olive crown will be more valued than a purple mantle. impotence and perversity alone have recourse to false and paltry semblance, and individuals as well as nations who lend to reality the support of appearance, or to the aesthetical appearance the support of reality, show their moral unworthiness and their aesthetical impotence. therefore, a short and conclusive answer can be given to this question--how far will appearance be permitted in the moral world? it will run thus in proportion as this appearance will be sesthetical, that is, an appearance that does not try to make up for reality, nor requires to be made up for by it. the aesthetical appearance can never endanger the truth of morals: wherever it seems to do so the appearance is not aesthetical. only a stranger to the fashionable world can take the polite assurances, which are only a form, for proofs of affection, and say he has been deceived; but only a clumsy fellow in good society calls in the aid of duplicity and flatters to become amiable. the former lacks the pure sense for independent appearance; therefore he can only give a value to appearance by truth. the second lacks reality, and wishes to replace it by appearance. nothing is more common than to hear depreciators of the times utter these paltry complaints--that all solidity has disappeared from the world, and that essence is neglected for semblance. though i feel by no means called upon to defend this age against these reproaches, i must say that the wide application of these criticisms shows that they attach blame to the age, not only on the score of the falsez but also of the frank appearance. and even the exceptions they admit in favour of the beautiful have for their object less the independent appearance than the needy appearance. not only do they attack the artificial colouring that hides truth and replaces reality, but also the beneficent appearance that fills a vacuum and clothes poverty; and they even attack the ideal appearance that ennobles a vulgar reality. their strict sense of truth is rightlyl offended by the falsity of manners; unfortunately, they class politeness in this category. it displeases them that the noisy and showy so often eclipse true merit, but they are no less shocked that appearance is also demanded from merit, and that a real substance does not dispense with an agreeable form. they regret the cordiality, the energy, and solidity of ancient times; they would restore with them ancient coarseness, heaviness, and the old gothic profusion. by judgments of this kind they show an esteem for the matter itself unworthy of humanity, which ought only to value tne matter inasmuch as it can receive a form and enlarge the empire of ideas. accordingly, the taste of the age need not much fear these criticisms, if it can clear itself before better judges. our defect is not to grant a value to aesthetic appearance (we do not do this enough): a severe judge of the beautiful might rather reproach us with not having arrived at pure appearance, with not having separated clearly enough existence from the phaenomenon, and thus established their limits. we shall deserve this reproach so long as we cannot enjoy the beautiful in living nature without desiring it; as long as we cannot admire the beautiful in the imitative arts without having an end in view; as long as we do not grant to imagination an absolute legislation of its own; and as long as we do not inspire it with care for its dignity by the esteem we testify for its works. letter xxvii. do not fear for reality and truth. even if the elevated idea of aesthetic appearance became general, it would not become so, as long as man remains so little cultivated as to abuse it; and if it became general, this would result from a culture that would prevent all abuse of it. the pursuit of independent appearance requires more power of abstraction, freedom of heart, and energy of will than man requires to shut himself up in reality; and he must have left the latter behind him if he wishes to attain to aesthetic appearance. therefore a man would calculate very badly who took the road of the ideal to save himself that of reality. thus reality would not have much to fear from appearance, as we understand it; but, on the other hand, appearance would have more to fear from reality. chained to matter, man uses appearance for his purposes before he allows it a proper personality in the art of the ideal: to come to that point a complete revolution must take place in his mode of feeling, otherwise he would not be even on the way to the ideal. consequently, when we find in man the signs of a pure and disinterested esteem, we can infer that this revolution has taken place in his nature, and that humanity has really begun in him. signs of this kind are found even in the first and rude attempts that he makes to embellish his existence, even at the risk of making it worse in its material conditions. as soon as he begins to prefer form to substance and to risk reality for appearance (known by him to be such), the barriers of animal life fall, and he finds himself on a track that has no end. not satisfied with the needs of nature, he demands the superfluous. first, only the superfluous of matter, to secure his enjoyment beyond the present necessity; but afterwards he wishes a superabundance in matter, an aesthetical supplement to satisfy the impulse for the formal, to extend enjoyment beyond necessity. by piling up provisions simply for a future use, and anticipating their enjoyment in the imagination, he outsteps the limits of the present moment, but not those of time in general. he enjoys more; he does not enjoy differently. but as soon as he makes form enter into his enjoyment, and he keeps in view the forms of the objects which satisfy his desires, he has not only increased his pleasure in extent and intensity, but he has also ennobled it in mode and species. no doubt nature has given more than is necessary to unreasoning beings; she has caused a gleam of freedom to shine even in the darkness of animal life. when the lion is not tormented by hunger, and when no wild beast challenges him to fight, his unemployed energy creates an object for himself; full of ardour, he fills the re-echoing desert with his terrible roars, and his exuberant force rejoices in itself, showing itself without an object. the insect flits about rejoicing in life in the sunlight, and it is certainly not the cry of want that makes itself heard in the melodious song of the bird; there is undeniably freedom in these movements, though it is not emancipation from want in general, but from a determinate external necessity. the animal works, when a privation is the motor of its activity, and it plays when the plenitude of force is this motor, when an exuberant life is excited to action. even in inanimate nature a luxury of strength and a latitude of determination are shown, which in this material sense might be styled play. the tree produces numberless germs that are abortive without developing, and it sends forth more roots, branches and leaves, organs of nutrition, than are used for the preservation of the species. whatever this tree restores to the elements of its exuberant life, without using it, or enjoying it, may be expended by life in free and joyful movements. it is thus that nature offers in her material sphere a sort of prelude to the limitless, and that even there she suppresses partially the chains from which she will be completely emancipated in the realm of form. the constraint of superabundance or physical play, answers as a transition from the constraint of necessity, or of physical seriousness, to aesthetical play; and before shaking off, in the supreme freedom of the beautiful, the yoke of any special aim, nature already approaches, at least remotely, this independence, by the free movement which is itself its own end and means. the imagination, like the bodily organs, has in man its free movement and its material play, a play in which, without any reference to form, it simply takes pleasure in its arbitrary power and in the absence of all hindrance. these plays of fancy, inasmuch as form is not mixed up with them, and because a free succession of images makes all their charm, though confined to man, belong exclusively to animal life, and only prove one thing--that he is delivered from all external sensuous constraint--without our being entitled to infer that there is in it an independent plastic force. from this play of free association of ideas, which is still quite material in nature and is explained by simple natural laws, the imagination, by making the attempt of creating a free form, passes at length at a jump to the aesthetic play: i say at one leap, for quite a new force enters into action here; for here, for the first time, the legislative mind is mixed with the acts of a blind instinct, subjects the arbitrary march of the imagination to its eternal and immutable unity, causes its independent permanence to enter in that which is transitory, and its infinity in the sensuous. nevertheless, as long as rude nature, which knows of no other law than running incessantly from change to change, will yet retain too much strength, it will oppose itself by its different caprices to this necessity; by its agitation to this permanence; by its manifold needs to this independence, and by its insatiability to this sublime simplicity. it will be also troublesome to recognise the instinct of play in its first trials, seeing that the sensuous impulsion, with its capricious humour and its violent appetites, constantly crosses. it is on that account that we see the taste, still coarse, seize that which is new and startling, the disordered, the adventurous and the strange, the violent and the savage, and fly from nothing so much as from calm and simplicity. it invents grotesque figures, it likes rapid transitions, luxurious forms, sharply marked changes, acute tones, a pathetic song. that which man calls beautiful at this time, is that which excites him, that which gives him matter; but that which excites him to give his personality to the object, that which gives matter to a possible plastic operation, for otherwise it would not be the beautiful for him. a remarkable change has therefore taken place in the form of his judgments; he searches for these objects, not because they affect him, but because they furnish him with the occasion of acting; they please him, not because they answer to a want, but because they satisfy a law, which speaks in his breast, although quite low as yet. soon it will not be sufficient for things to please him; he will wish to please: in the first place, it is true, only by that which belongs to him; afterwards by that which he is. that which he possesses, that which he produces, ought not merely to bear any more the traces of servitude, nor to mark out the end, simply and scrupulously, by the form. independently of the use to which it is destined, the object ought also to reflect the enlightened intelligence which imagines it, the hand which shaped it with affection, the mind free and serene which chose it and exposed it to view. now, the ancient german searches for more magnificent furs, for more splendid antlers of the stag, for more elegant drinking horns; and the caledonian chooses the prettiest shells for his festivals. the arms themselves ought to be no longer only objects of terror, but also of pleasure; and the skilfully worked scabbard will not attract less attention than the homicidal edge of the sword. the instinct of play, not satisfied with bringing into the sphere of the necessary an aesthetic superabundance for the future more free, is at last completely emancipated from the bonds of duty, and the beautiful becomes of itself an object of man's exertions. he adorns himself. the free pleasure comes to take a place among his wants, and the useless soon becomes the best part of his joys. form, which from the outside gradually approaches him, in his dwelling, his furniture, his clothing, begins at last to take possession of the man himself, to transform him, at first exteriorly, and afterwards in the interior. the disordered leaps of joy become the dance, the formless gesture is changed into an amiable and harmonious pantomime, the confused accents of feeling are developed, and begin to obey measure and adapt themselves to song. when, like the flight of cranes, the trojan army rushes on to the field of battle with thrilling cries, the greek army approaches in silence and with a noble and measured step. on the one side we see but the exuberance of a blind force, on the other; the triumph of form and the simple majesty of law. now, a nobler necessity binds the two sexes mutually, and the interests of the heart contribute in rendering durable an alliance which was at first capricious and changing like the desire that knits it. delivered from the heavy fetters of desire, the eye, now calmer, attends to the form, the soul contemplates the soul, and the interested exchange of pleasure becomes a generous exchange of mutual inclination. desire enlarges and rises to love, in proportion as it sees humanity dawn in its object; and, despising the vile triumphs gained by the senses, man tries to win a nobler victory over the will. the necessity of pleasing subjects the powerful nature to the gentle laws of taste; pleasure may be stolen, but love must be a gift. to obtain this higher recompense, it is only through the form and not through matter that it can carry on the contest. it must cease to act on feeling as a force, to appear in the intelligence as a simple phenomenon; it must respect liberty, as it is liberty it wishes to please. the beautiful reconciles the contrast of different natures in its simplest and purest expression. it also reconciles the eternal contrast of the two sexes, in the whole complex framework of society, or at all events it seeks to do so; and, taking as its model the free alliance it has knit between manly strength and womanly gentleness, it strives to place in harmony, in the moral world, all the elements of gentleness and of violence. now, at length, weakness becomes sacred, and an unbridled strength disgraces; the injustice of nature is corrected by the generosity of chivalrous manners. the being whom no power can make tremble, is disarmed by the amiable blush of modesty, and tears extinguish a vengeance that blood could not have quenched. hatred itself hears the delicate voice of honour, the conqueror's sword spares the disarmed enemy, and a hospitable hearth smokes for the stranger on the dreaded hill-side where murder alone awaited him before. in the midst of the formidable realm of forces, and of the sacred empire of laws, the aesthetic impulse of form creates by degrees a third and a joyous realm, that of play and of the appearance, where she emancipates man from fetters, in all his relations, and from all that is named constraint, whether physical or moral. if in the dynamic state of rights men mutually move and come into collision as forces, in the moral (ethical) state of duties, man opposes to man the majesty of the laws, and chains down his will. in this realm of the beautiful or the aesthetic state, man ought to appear to man only as a form, and an object of free play. to give freedom through freedom is the fundamental law of this realm. the dynamic state can only make society simply possible by subduing nature through nature; the moral (ethical) state can only make it morally necessary by submitting the will of the individual to the general will. the aesthetic state alone can make it real, because it carries out the will of all through the nature of the individual. if necessity alone forces man to enter into society, and if his reason engraves on his soul social principles, it is beauty only that can give him a social character; taste alone brings harmony into society, because it creates harmony in the individual. all other forms of perception divide the man, because they are based exclusively either in the sensuous or in the spiritual part of his being. it is only the perception of beauty that makes of him an entirety, because it demands the co-operation of his two natures. all other forms of communication divide society, because they apply exclusively either to the receptivity or to the private activity of its members, and therefore to what distinguishes men one from the other. the aesthetic communication alone unites society, because it applies to what is common to all its members. we only enjoy the pleasures of sense as individuals, without the nature of the race in us sharing in it; accordingly, we cannot generalise our individual pleasures, because we cannot generalise our individuality. we enjoy the pleasures of knowledge as a race, dropping the individual in our judgment; but we cannot generalise the pleasures of the understanding, because we cannot eliminate individuality from the judgments of others as we do from our own. beauty alone can we enjoy both as individuals and as a race, that is, as representing a race. good appertaining to sense can only make one person happy, because it is founded on inclination, which is always exclusive; and it can only make a man partially happy, because his real personality does not share in it. absolute good can only render a man happy conditionally, for truth is only the reward of abnegation, and a pure heart alone has faith in a pure will. beauty alone confers happiness on all, and under its influence every being forgets that he is limited. taste does not suffer any superior or absolute authority, and the sway of beauty is extended over appearance. it extends up to the seat of reason's supremacy, suppressing all that is material. it extends down to where sensuous impulse rules with blind compulsion, and form is undeveloped. taste ever maintains its power on these remote borders, where legislation is taken from it. particular desires must renounce their egotism, and the agreeable, otherwise tempting the senses, must in matters of taste adorn the mind with the attractions of grace. duty and stern necessity must change their forbidding tone, only excused by resistance, and do homage to nature by a nobler trust in her. taste leads our knowledge from the mysteries of science into the open expanse of common sense, and changes a narrow scholasticism into the common property of the human race. here the highest genius must leave its particular elevation, and make itself familiar to the comprehension even of a child. strength must let the graces bind it, and the arbitrary lion must yield to the reins of love. for this purpose taste throws a veil over physical necessity, offending a free mind by its coarse nudity, and dissimulating our degrading parentage with matter by a delightful illusion of freedom. mercenary art itself rises from the dust; and the bondage of the bodily, at its magic touch, falls off from the inanimate and animate. in the aesthetic state the most slavish tool is a free citizen, having the same rights as the noblest; and the intellect which shapes the mass to its intent must consult it concerning its destination. consequently in the realm of aesthetic appearance, the idea of equality is realised, which the political zealot would gladly see carried out socially. it has often been said that perfect politeness is only found near a throne. if thus restricted in the material, man has, as elsewhere appears, to find compensation in the ideal world. does such a state of beauty in appearance exist, and where? it must be in every finely harmonised soul; but as a fact, only in select circles, like the pure ideal of the church and state--in circles where manners are not formed by the empty imitations of the foreign, but by the very beauty of nature; where man passes through all sorts of complications in all simplicity and innocence, neither forced to trench on another's freedom to preserve his own, nor to show grace at the cost of dignity. fundamental principles of the metaphysic of morals by immanuel kant translated by t. k. abbott introductory note immanuel kant was born in konigsberg, east prussia, april , , the son of a saddler of scottish descent. the family was pietist, and the future philosopher entered the university of his native city in , with a view to studying theology. he developed, however, a many-sided interest in learning, and his earlier publications were in the field of speculative physics. after the close of his period of study at the university he became a private tutor; then in , privat-docent; and in , professor. during the first eleven years of his professorship kant published little, spending his energies in the meditation that was to result in the philosophical system of which the first part was given to the world in his "critique of pure reason" in . from that time till near the end of the century he issued volume after volume; yet when he died in he regarded his statement of his system as fragmentary. of the enormous importance of kant in the history of philosophy, no idea can be given here. the important document which follows was published in , and forms the basis of the moral system on which he erected the whole structure of belief in god, freedom, and immortality. kant is often difficult and obscure, and became more so as he grew older; but the present treatise can be followed, in its main lines, by any intelligent person who is interested enough in the fundamental problems of human life and conduct to give it serious and concentrated attention. to such a reader the subtle yet clear distinctions, and the lofty and rigorous principles of action, which it lays down, will prove an intellectual and moral tonic such as hardly any other modern writer affords. preface ancient greek philosophy was divided into three sciences: physics, ethics, and logic. this division is perfectly suitable to the nature of the thing, and the only improvement that can be made in it is to add the principle on which it is based, so that we may both satisfy ourselves of its completeness, and also be able to determine correctly the necessary subdivisions. all rational knowledge is either material or formal: the former considers some object, the latter is concerned only with the form of the understanding and of the reason itself, and with the universal laws of thought in general without distinction of its objects. formal philosophy is called logic. material philosophy, however, which has to do with determinate objects and the laws to which they are subject, is again two-fold; for these laws are either laws of nature or of freedom. the science of the former is physics, that of the latter, ethics; they are also called natural philosophy and moral philosophy respectively. logic cannot have any empirical part; that is, a part in which the universal and necessary laws of thought should rest on grounds taken from experience; otherwise it would not be logic, i. e. a canon for the understanding or the reason, valid for all thought, and capable of demonstration. natural and moral philosophy, on the contrary, can each have their empirical part, since the former has to determine the laws of nature as an object of experience; the latter the laws of the human will, so far as it is affected by nature: the former, however, being laws according to which everything does happen; the latter, laws according to which everything ought to happen. [footnote: the word "law" is here used in two different senses, on which see whately's logic, appendix, art. "law."] ethics, however, must also consider the conditions under which what ought to happen frequently does not. we may call all philosophy empirical, so far as it is based on grounds of experience: on the other hand, that which delivers its doctrines from a priori principles alone we may call pure philosophy. when the latter is merely formal it is logic; if it is restricted to definite objects of the understanding it is metaphysic. in this way there arises the idea of a two-fold metaphysic--a metaphysic of nature and a metaphysic of morals. physics will thus have an empirical and also a rational part. it is the same with ethics; but here the empirical part might have the special name of practical anthropology, the name morality being appropriated to the rational part. all trades, arts, and handiworks have gained by division of labour, namely, when, instead of one man doing everything, each confines himself to a certain kind of work distinct from others in the treatment it requires, so as to be able to perform it with greater facility and. in the greatest perfection. where the different kinds of work are not so distinguished and divided, where everyone is a jack-of-all-trades, there manufactures remain still in the greatest barbarism. it might deserve to be considered whether pure philosophy in all its parts does not require a man specially devoted to it, and whether it would not be better for the whole business of science if those who, to please the tastes of the public, are wont to blend the rational and empirical elements together, mixed in all sorts of proportions unknown to themselves, and who call themselves independent thinkers, giving the name of minute philosophers to those who apply themselves to the rational part only--if these, i say, were warned not to carry on two employments together which differ widely in the treatment they demand, for each of which perhaps a special talent is required, and the combination of which in one person only produces bunglers. but i only ask here whether the nature of science does not require that we should always carefully separate the empirical from the rational part, and prefix to physics proper (or empirical physics) a metaphysic of nature, and to practical anthropology a metaphysic of morals, which must be carefully cleared of everything empirical, so that we may know how much can be accomplished by pure reason in both cases, and from whnat sources it draws this its a priori teaching, and that whether the latter inquiry is conducted by all moralists (whose name is legion), or only by some who feel a calling thereto. as my concern here is with moral philosophy, i limit the question suggested to this: whether it is not of the utmost necessity to construct a pure moral philosophy, perfectly cleared of everything which is only empirical, and which belongs to anthropology? for that such a philosophy must be possible is evident from the common idea of duty and of the moral laws. every one must admit that if a law is to have moral force, i. e. to be the basis of an obligation, it must carry with it absolute necessity; that, for example, the precept, "thou shalt not lie," is not valid for men alone, as if other rational beings had no need to observe it; and so with all the other moral laws properly so called; that, therefore, the basis of obligation must not be sought in the nature of man, or in the circumstanced in the world in which he is placed, but a priori simply in the conceptions of pure reason; and although any other precept which is founded on principles of mere experience may be in certain respects universal, yet in as far as it rests even in the least degree on an empirical basis, perhaps only as to a motive, such a precept, while it may be a practical rule, can never be called a moral law. thus not only are moral laws with their principles essentially distinguished from every other kind of practical knowledge in which there is anything empirical, but all moral philosophy rests wholly on its pure part. when applied to man, it does not borrow the least thing from the knowledge of man himself (anthropology), but gives laws a priori to him as a rational being. no doubt these laws require a judgment sharpened by experience, in order on the one hand to distinguish in what cases they are applicable, and on the other to procure for them access to the will of the man, and effectual influence on conduct; since man is acted on by so many inclinations that, though capable of the idea of a practical pure reason, he is not so easily able to make it effective in concrete in his life. a metaphysic of morals is therefore indispensably necessary, not merely for speculative reasons, in order to investigate the sources of the practical principles which are to be found a priori in our reason, but also because morals themselves are liable to all sorts of corruption, as long as we are without that clue and supreme canon by which to estimate them correctly. for in order that an action should be morally good, it is not enough that it conform to the moral law, but it must also be done for the sake of the law, otherwise that conformity is only very contingent and uncertain; since a principle which is not moral, although it may now and then produce actions conformable to the law, will also often produce actions which contradict it. now it is only in a pure philosophy that we can look for the moral law in its purity and genuineness (and, in a practical matter, this is of the utmost consequence): we must, therefore, begin with pure philosophy (metaphysic), and without it there cannot be any moral philosophy at all. that which mingles these pure principles with the empirical does not deserve the name of philosophy (for what distinguishes philosophy from common rational knowledge is, that it treats in separate sciences what the latter only comprehends confusedly); much less does it deserve that of moral philosophy, since by this confusion it even spoils the purity of morals themselves, and counteracts its own end. let it not be thought, however, that what is here demanded is already extant in the propaedeutic prefixed by the celebrated wolf [footnote: johann christian von wolf ( - ) was the author of treatises on philosophy, mathematics, &c., which were for a long time the standard text-books in the german universities. his philosophy was founded on that of leibnitz.] to his moral philosophy, namely, his so-called general practical philosophy, and that, therefore, we have not to strike into an entirely new field. just because it was to be a general practical philosophy, it has not taken into consideration a will of any particular kind-say one which should be determined solely from a priori principles without any empirical motives, and which we might call a pure will, but volition in general, with all the actions and conditions which belong to it in this general signification. by this it is distinguished from a metaphysic of morals, just as general logic, which treats of the acts and canons of thought in general, is distinguished from transcendental philosophy, which treats of the particular acts and canons of pure thought, i. e. that whose cognitions are altogether a priori. for the metaphysic of morals has to examine the idea and the principles of a possible pure will, and not the acts and conditions of human volition generally, which for the most part are drawn from psychology. it is true that moral laws and duty are spoken of in the general practical philosophy (contrary indeed to all fitness). but this is no objection, for in this respect, also the authors of that science remain true to their idea of it; they do not distinguish the motives which are prescribed as such by reason alone altogether a priori, and which are properly moral, from the empirical motives which the understanding raises to general conceptions merely by comparison of experiences; but without noticing the difference of their sources, and looking on them all as homogeneous, they consider only their greater or less amount. it is in this way they frame their notion of obligation, which though anything but moral, is all that can be asked for in a philosophy which passes no judgment at all on the origin of all possible practical concepts, whether they are a priori, or only a posteriori. intending to publish hereafter a metaphysic of morals, i issue in the first instance these fundamental principles. indeed there is properly no other foundation for it than the critical examination of a pure practical reason; just as that of metaphysics is the critical examination of the pure speculative reason, already published. but in the first place the former is not so absolutely necessary as the latter, because in moral concerns human reason can easily be brought to a high degree of correctness and completeness, even in the commonest understanding, while on the contrary in its theoretic but pure use it is wholly dialectical; and in the second place if the critique of a pure practical reason is to be complete, it must be possible at the same time to show its identity with the speculative reason in a common principle, for it can ultimately be only one and the same reason which has to be distinguished merely in its application. i could not, however, bring it to such completeness here, without introducing considerations of a wholly different kind, which would be perplexing to the reader. on this account i have adopted the title of fundamental principles of the metaphysic of morals, instead of that of a critical examination of the pure practical reason. but in the third place, since a metaphysic of morals, in spite of the; discouraging title, is yet capable of being presented in a popular form, and one adapted to the common understanding, i find it useful to separate from it this preliminary treatise on its fundamental principles, in order that i may not hereafter have need to introduce these necessarily subtle discussions into a book of a more simple character. the present treatise is, however, nothing more than the investigation and establishment of the supreme principle of morality, and this alone constitutes a study complete in itself, and one which ought to be kept apart from every other moral investigation. no doubt my conclusions on this weighty question, which has hitherto been very unsatisfactorily examined, would receive much light from the application of the same principle to the whole system, and would be greatly confirmed by the adequacy which it exhibits throughout; but i must forego this advantage, which indeed would be after all more gratifying than useful, since the easy applicability of a principle and its apparent adequacy give no very certain proof of its soundness, but rather inspire a certain partiality, which prevents us from examining and estimating it strictly in itself, and without regard to consequences. i have adopted in this work the method which i think most suitable, proceeding analytically from common knowledge to the determination of its ultimate principle, and again descending synthetically from the examination of this principle and its sources to the common knowledge in which we find it employed. the division will, therefore, be as follows:-- . first section.--transition from the common rational knowledge of morality to the philosophical. . second section.--transition from popular moral philosophy to the metaphysic of morals. . third section.--final step from the metaphysic of morals to the critique of the pure practical reason. fundamental principles of the metaphysic of morals first section transition from the common rational knowledge of morality to the philosophical nothing can possibly be conceived in the world, of even out of it, which can be called good without qualification, except a good will intelligence, wit, judgment, and the other talents of the mind, however they may be named, or courage, resolution, perseverance, as qualities of temperament, are undoubtedly good and desirable in many respects; but these gifts of nature may also become extremely bad and mischievous if the will which is to make use of them, and which, therefore, constitutes what is called character, is not good. it is the same with the gifts of fortune. power, riches, honour, even health, and the general well-being and contentment with one's condition which is called happiness, inspire pride, and often presumption, if there is not a good will to correct the influence of these on the mind, and with this also to rectify the whole principle of acting, and adapt it to its end. the sight of a deing who is not adorned with a single feature of a pure and good will, enjoying unbroken prosperity, can never give pleasure to an impartial rational spectator. thus a good will appears to constitute the indispensable condition even of being worthy of happiness. there are even some qualities which are of service to this good will itself, and may facilitate its action, yet which have no intrinsic unconditional value, but always presuppose a good will, and this qualifies the esteem that we justly have for them, and does not permit us to regard them as absolutely good. moderation in the affections and passions, self-control and calm deliberation are not only good in many respects, but even seem to constitute part of the intrinsic worth of the person; but they are far from deserving to be called good without qualification, although they have been so unconditionally praised by the ancients. for without the principles of a good will, they may become extremely bad, and the coolness of a villain not only makes him far more dangerous, but also directly makes him more abominable in our eyes than he would have been without it. a good will is good not because of what it performs or effects, not by its aptness for the attainment of some proposed end, but simply by virtue of the volition, that is, it is good in itself, and considered by itself is to be esteemed much higher than all that can be brought about by it in favour of any inclination, nay, even of the sum total of all inclinations. even if it should happen that, owing to special disfavour of fortune, or the niggardly provision of a stepmotherly nature, this will should wholly lack power to accomplish its purpose, if with its greatest efforts it should yet achieve nothing, and there should remain only the good will (not, to be sure, a mere wish, but the summoning of all means in our power), then, like a jewel, it would still shine by its own light, as a thing which has its whole value in itself. its usefulness or fruitfulness can neither add to nor take away anything from this value. it would be, as it were, only the setting to enable us to handle it the more conveniently in common commerce, or to attract to it the attention of those who are not yet connoisseurs, but not to recommend it to true connoisseurs, or to determine its value. there is, however, something so strange in this idea of the absolute value of the mere will, in which no account is taken of its utility, that notwithstanding the thorough assent of even common reason to the idea, yet a suspicion must arise that it may perhaps really be the product of mere high-flown fancy, and that we may have misunderstood the purpose of nature in assigning reason as the governor of our will. therefore we will examine this idea from this point of view. in the physical constitution of an organized being, that is, a being adapted suitably to the purposes of life, we assume it as a fundamental principle that no organ for any purpose will be found but what is also the fittest and best adapted for that purpose. now in a being which has reason and a will, if the proper object of nature were its conservation, its welfare, in a word, its happiness, then nature would have hit upon a very bad arrangement in selecting the reason of the creature to carry out this purpose. for all the actions which the creature has to perform with a view to this purpose, and the whole rule of its conduct, would be far more surely prescribed to it by instinct, and that end would have been attained thereby much more certainly than it ever can be by reason. should reason have been communicated to this favoured creature over and above, it must only have served it to contemplate the happy constitution of its nature, to admire it, to congratulate itself thereon, and to feel thankful for it to the beneficent cause, but not that it should subject its desires to that weak and delusive guidance, and meddle bunglingly with the purpose of nature. in a word, nature would have taken care that reason should not break forth into practical exercise, nor have the presumption, with its weak insight, to think out for itself the plan of happiness, and of the means of attaining it. nature would not only have taken on herself the choice of the ends, but also of the means, and with wise foresight would have entrusted both to instinct. and, in fact, we find that the more a cultivated reason applies itself with deliberate purpose to the enjoyment of life and happiness, so much the more does the man fail of true satisfaction. and from this circumstance there arises in many, if they are candid enough to confess it, a certain degree of misology, that is, hatred of reason, especially in the case of those who are most experienced in the use of it, because after calculating all the advantages they derive, i do not say from the invention of all the arts of common luxury, but even from the sciences (which seem to them to be after all only a luxury of the understanding), they find that they have, in fact, only brought more trouble on their shoulders, rather than gained in happiness; and they end by envying, rather than despising, the more common stamp of men who keep closer to the guidance of mere instinct, and do not allow their reason much influence on their conduct. and this we must admit, that the judgment of those who would very much lower the lofty eulogies of the advantages which reason gives us in regard to the happiness and satisfaction of life, or who would even reduce them below zero, is by no means morose or ungrateful to the goodness with which the world is governed, but that there lies at the root of these judgments the idea that our existence has a different and far nobler end, for which, and not for happiness, reason is properly intended, and which must, therefore, be regarded as the supreme condition to which the private ends of man must, for the most part, be postponed. for as reason is not competent to guide the will with certainty in regard to its objects and the satisfaction of all our wants (which it to some extent even multiplies), this being an end to which an implanted instinct would have led with much greater certainty; and since, nevertheless, reason is imparted to us as a practical faculty, i. e. as one which is to have influence on the will, therefore, admitting that nature generally in the distribution of her capacities has adapted the means to the end, its true destination must be to produce a will, not merely good as a means to something else, but good in itself, for which reason was absolutely necessary. this will then, though not indeed the sole and complete good, must be the supreme good and the condition of every other, even of the desire of happiness. under these circumstances, there is nothing inconsistent with the wisdom of nature in the fact that the cultivation of the reason, which is requisite for the first and unconditional purpose, does in many ways interfere, at least in this life, with the attainment of the second, which is always conditional, namely, happiness. nay, it may even reduce it to nothing, without nature thereby failing of her purpose. for reason recognises the establishment of a good will as its highest practical destination, and in attaining this purpose is capable only of a satisfaction of its own proper kind, namely, that from the attainment of an end, which end again is determined by reason only, notwithstanding that this may involve many a disappointment to the ends of inclination. we have then to develop the notion of a will which deserves to be highly esteemed for itself, and is good without a view to anything further, a notion which exists already in the sound natural understanding, requiring rather to be cleared up than to be taught, and which in estimating the value of our actions always takes the first place, and constitutes the condition of all the rest. in order to do this we will take the notion of duty, which includes that of a good will, although implying certain subjectve restrictions and hindrances. these, however, far from concealing it, or rendering it unrecognisable, rather bring it out by contrast, and make it shine forth so much the brighter. i omit here all actions which are already recognised as inconsistent with duty, although they may be useful for this or that purpose, for with these the question whether they are done from duty cannot arise at all, since they even conflict with it. i also set aside those actions which really conform to duty, but to which men have no direct inclination, performing them because they are impelled thereto by some other inclination. for in this case we can readily distinguish whether the action which agrees with duty is done from duty, or from a selfish view. it is much harder to make this distinction when the action accords with duty, and the subject has besides a direct inclination to it. for example, it is always a matter of duty that a dealer should not overcharge an inexperienced purchaser, and wherever there is much commerce the prudent tradesman does not overcharge, but keeps a fixed price for everyone, so that a child buys of him as well as any other. men are thus honestly served; but this is not enough to make us believe that the tradesman has so acted from duty and from principles of honesty: his own advantage required it; it is out of the question in this case to suppose that he might besides have a direct inclination in favour of the buyers, so that, as it were, from love he should give no advantage to one over another. accordingly the action was done neither from duty nor from direct inclination, but merely with a selfish view. on the other hand, it is a duty to maintain one's life; and, in addition, everyone has also a direct inclination to do so. but on this account the often anxious care which most men take for it has no intrinsic worth, and their maxim has no moral import. they preserve their life as duty requires, no doubt, but not because duty requires. on the other hand, if adversity and hopeless sorrow have completely taken away the relish for life; if the unfortunate one, strong in mind, indignant at his fate rather than desponding or dejected, wishes for death, and yet preserves his life without loving it--not from inclination or fear, but from duty--then his maxim has a moral worth. to be beneficent when we can is a duty; and besides this, there are many minds so sympathetically constituted that, without any other motive of vanity or self-interest, they find a pleasure in spreading joy around them and can take delight in the satisfaction of others so far as it is their own work. but i maintain that in such a case an action of this kind, however proper, however amiable it may be, has nevertheless no true moral worth, but is on a level with other inclinations, e. g. the inclination to honour, which, if it is happily directed to that which is in fact of public utility and accordant with duty, and consequently honourable, deserves praise and encouragement, but not esteem. for the maxim lacks the moral import, namely, that such actions be done from duty, not from inclination. put the case that the mind of that philanthropist were clouded by sorrow of his own, extinguishing all sympathy with the lot of others, and that while he still has the power to benefit others in distress, he is not touched oy their trouble because he is absorbed with his own; and now suppose that he tears himself out of this dead insensibility, and performs the action without any inclination to it, but simply from duty, then first has his action its genuine moral worth. further still; if nature has put little sympathy in the heart of this or that man; if he, supposed to be an upright man, is by temperament cold and indifferent to the sufferings of others, perhaps because in respect of his own he is provided with the special gift of patience and fortitude, and supposes, or even requires, that others should have the same--and such a man would certainly not be the meanest product of nature--but if nature had not specially framed him for a philanthropist, would he not still find in himself a source from whence to give himself a far higher worth than that of a good-natured temperament could be? unquestionably. it is just in this that the moral worth of the character is brought out which is incomparably the highest of all, namely, that he is beneficent, not from inclination, but from duty. to secure one's own happiness is a duty, at least indirectly; for discontent with one's condition, under a pressure of many anxieties and amidst unsatisfied wants, might easily become a great temptation to transgression of duty. but here again, without looking to duty, all men have already the strongest and most intimate inclination to happiness, because it is just in this idea that all inclinations are combined in one total. but the precept of happiness is often of such a sort that it greatly interferes with some inclinations, and yet a man cannot form any definite and certain conception of the sum of satisfaction of all of them which is called happiness. it is not then to be wandered at that a single inclination, definite both as to what it promises and as to the time within which it can be gratified, is often able to overcome such a fluctuating idea, and that a gouty patient, for instance, can choose to enjoy what he likes, and to suffer what he may, since, according to his calculation, on this occasion at least, he has [only] not sacrificed the enjoyment of the present moment to a possibly mistaken expectation of a happiness which is supposed to be found in health. but even in this case, if the general desire for happiness did not influence his will, and supposing that in his particular case health was not a necessary element in this calculation, there yet remains in this, sas in all other cases, this law, namely, that he should promote his happiness not from inclination but from duty, land by this would his conduct first acquire true moral worth. it is in this manner, undoubtedly, that we are to understand those passages of scripture also in which we are commanded to love our neighbour, even our enemy. for love, as an affection, cannot be commanded, but beneficence for duty's sake may; even though we are not impelled to it by any inclination--nay, are even repelled by a natural and unconquerable aversion. this is practical love, and not pathological--a love which is seated in the will, and not in the propensions of sense--in principles of action and not of tender sympathy; and it is this love alone which can be commanded. the second [footnote: the first proposition was that to have moral worth an action must be done from duty.] proposition is: that an action done from duty derives its moral worth, not from the purpose which is to be attained by it, but from the maxim by which it is determined, and therefore does not depend on the realization of the object of the action, but merely on the principle of volition by which the action has taken place, without regard to any object of desire. it is clear from what precedes that the purposes which we may have in view in our actions, or their effects regarded as ends and springs of the will, cannot give to actions any unconditional or moral worth. in what, then, can their worth lie, if it is not to consist in the will and in reference to its expected effect? it cannot lie anywhere but in the principle of the will without regard to the ends which can be attained by the action. for the will stands between its a priori principle, which is formal, and its a posteriori spring, which is material, as between two roads, and as it must be determined by something, it follows that it must be determined by the formal principle of volition when an action is done from duty, in which case every material principle has been withdrawn from it. the third proposition, which is a consequence of the two preceding, i would express thus: duty is the necessity "of acting from respect for the law." i may have inclination for an object as the effect of my proposed action, but i cannot have respect for it, just for this reason, that it is an effect and not an energy of will. similarly, i cannot have respect for inclination, whether my own or another's; i can at most, if my own, approve it; if another's, sometimes even love it; i.e. look on it as favourable to my own interest. it is only what is connected with my will as a principle, by no means as an effect--what does not subserve my inclination, but overpowers it, or at least in case of choice excludes it from its calculation--in other words, simply the law of itself, which can be an object of respect, and hence a command. now an action done from duty must wholly exclude the influence of inclination, and with it every object of the will, so that nothing remains which can determine the will except objectively the law, and subjectively pure respect for this practical law, and consequently the maxim [footnote: a maxim is the subjective principle of volition. the objective principle (i. e. that which would also serve subjectively as a practical principle to all rational beings if reason had full power over the faculty of desire) is the practical law.] that i should follow this law even to the thwarting of all my inclinations. thus the moral worth of an action does not lie in the effect expected from it, nor in any principle of action which requires to borrow its motive from this expected effeet. for all these effects-- agreeableness of one's condition, and even the promotion of the happiness of others--could have been also brought about by other causes, so that for this there would have been no need of the will of a rational being; whereas it is in this alone that the supreme and unconditional good can be found. the pre-eminent good which we call moral can therefore consist in nothing else than the conception of law in itself, which certainly is only possible in a rational being, in so far as this conception, and not the expected effect, determines the will. this is a good which is already present in the person who acts accordingly, and we have not to wait for it to appear first in the result. [footnote: it might be here objected to me that i take refuge behind the word respect in an obscure feeling, instead of giving a distinct solution of the question by a concept of the reason. but although respect is a feeling, it is not a feeling received through influence, but is self-wrought by a rational concept, and, therefore, is specifically distinct from all feelings of the former kind, which may be referred either to inclination or fear, what i recognise immediately as a law for me, i recognise with respect. this merely signifies the consciousness that my will is subordinate to a law, without the intervention of other influences on my sense. the immediate determination of the will by the law, and the consciousness of this is called respect, so that this is regarded as an effect of the law on the subject, and not as the cause of it. respect is properly the conception of a worth which thwarts my self-love. accordingly it is something which is considered neither as am object of inclination nor of fear, although it has something analogous to both. the object of respect is the law only, and that, the law which we impose on ourselves, and yet recognise as necessary in itself. as a law, we are subjected to it without consulting self-love; as imposed by us on ourselves, it is a result of our will. in the former aspect it has an analogy to fear, in the latter to inclination. respect for a person is properly only respect for the law (of honesty, &c.), of which he gives us an example. since we also look on the improvement of our talents as a duty, we consider that we see in a person of talents, as it were, the example of a law (viz. to become like him in this by exercise), and this constitutes our respect. all so-called moral interest consists simply in respect for the law.] but what sort of law can that be, the conception of which must determine the will, even without paying any regard to the effect expected from it, in order that this will may be called good absolutely and without qualification? as i have deprived the will of every impulse which could arise to it from obedience to any law, there remains nothing but the universal conformity of its actions to law in general, which alone is to serve the will as a principle, i. e. i am never to act otherwise than so that _i_ could also will that my maxim should become a universal law. here now, it is the simple conformity to law in general, without assuming any particular law applicable to certain actions, that serves the will as its principle, and must so serve it, if duty is not to be a vain delusion and a chimerical notion. the common reason of men in its practical judgments perfectly coincides with this, and always has in view the principle here suggested. let the question be, for example: may i when in distress make a promise with the intention not to keep it? i readily distinguish here between the two significations which the question may have. whether it is prudent, or whether it is right, to make a false promise. the former may undoubtedly often be the case. i see clearly indeed that it is not enough to extricate myself from a present difficulty by means of this subterfuge, but it must be well considered whether there may not hereafter spring from this lie much greater inconvenience than that from which i now free myself, and as, with all my supposed cunning, the consequences cannot be so easily foreseen but that credit once lost may be much more injurious to me than any mischief which i seek to avoid at present, it should be considered whether it would not be more prudent to act herein according to a universal maxim, and to make it a habit to promise nothing except with the intention of keeping it. but it is soon clear to me that such a maxim will still only be based on the fear of consequences. now it is a wholly different thing to be truthful from duty, and to be so from apprehension of injurious consequences. in the first case, the very notion of the action already implies a law for me; in the second case, i must first look about elsewhere to see what results may be combined with it which would affect myself. for to deviate from the principle of duty is beyond all doubt wicked; but to be unfaithful to my maxim of prudence may often be very advantageous to me, although to abide by it is certainly safer. the shortest way, however, and an unerring one, to discover the answer to this question whether a lying promise is consistent with duty, is to ask myself, should i be content that my maxim (to extricate myself from difficulty by a false promise) should hold good as a universal law, for myself as well as for others? and should i be able to say to myself, "every one may make a deceitful promise when he finds himself in a difficulty from which he cannot otherwise extricate himself"? then i presently become aware that while i can will the lie, i can by no means will that lying should be a universal law. for with such a law there would be no promises at all, since it would be in vain to allege my intention in regard to my future actions to those who would not believe this allegation, or if they overhastily did so, would pay me back in my own coin. hence my maxim, as soon as it should be made a universal law, would necessarily destroy itself. i do not, therefore, need any far-reaching penetration to discern what i have to do in order that my will may be morally good. inexperienced in the course of the world, incapable of being prepared for all its contingencies, i only ask myself: canst thou also will that thy maxim should be a universal law? if not, then it must be rejected, and that not because of a disadvantage accruing from it to myself or even to others, but because it cannot enter as a principle into a possible universal legislation, and reason extorts from me immediate respect for such legislation. i do not indeed as yet discern on what this respect is based (this the philosopher may inquire), but at least i understand this, that it is an estimation of the worth which far outweighs all worth of what is recommended by inclination, and that the necessity of acting from pure respect for the practical law is what constitutes duty, to which every other motive must give place, because it is the condition of a will being good in itself, and the worth of such a will is above everything. thus, then, without quitting the moral knowledge of common human reason, we have arrived at its principle. and although, no doubt, common men do not conceive it in such an abstract and universal form, yet they always have it really before their eyes, and use it as the standard of their decision. here it would be easy to show how, with this compass in hand, men are well able to distinguish, in every case that occurs, what is good, what bad, conformably to duty or inconsistent with it, if, without in the least teaching them anything new, we only, like socrates, direct their attention to the principle they themselves employ; and that therefore we do not need science and philosophy to know what we should do to be honest and good, yea, even wise and virtuous. indeed we might well have conjectured beforehand that the knowledge of what every man is bound to do, and therefore also to know, would be within the reach of every man, even the commonest. [footnote: compare the note to the preface to the critique of the practical reason, p. . a specimen of kant's proposed application of the socratic method may be found in mr. semple'a translation of the metaphysic of ethics, p. .] here we cannot forbear admiration when we see how great an advantage the practical judgment has over the theoretical in the common understanding of men. in the latter, if common reason ventures to depart from the laws of experience and from the perceptions of the senses it falls into mere inconceivabilities and self-contradictions, at least into chaos of uncertainty, obscurity, and instability. but in the practical sphere it is just when the common understanding excludes all sensible springs from practical laws that its power of judgment begins to show itself to advantage. it then becomes even subtle, whether it be that it chicanes with its own conscience or with other claims respecting what is to be called right, or whether it desires for its own instruction to determine honestly the worth of actions; and, in the latter case, it may even have as good a hope of hitting the mark as any philosopher whatever can promise himself. nay, it is almost more sure of doing so, because the philosopher cannot have any other principle, while he may easily perplex his judgment by a multitude of considerations foreign to the matter, and so turn aside from the right way. would it not therefore be wiser in moral concerns to acquiesce in the judgment of common reason or at most only to call in philosophy for the purpose of rendering the system of morals more complete and intelligible, and its rules more convenient for use (especially for disputation), but not so as to draw off the common understanding from its happy simplicity, or to bring it by means of philosophy into a new path of inquiry and instruction? innocence is indeed a glorious thing, only, on the other hand, it is very sad that it cannot well maintain itself, and is easily seduced. on this account even wisdom--which otherwise consists more in conduct than in knowledge--yet has need of science, not in order to learn from it, but to secure for its precepts admission and permanence. against all the commands of duty which reason represents to man as so deserving of respect, he feels in himself a powerful counterpoise in his wants and inclinations, the entire satisfaction of which he sums up under the name of happiness. now reason issues its commands unyieldingly, without promising anything to the inclinations, and, as it were, with disregard and contempt for these claims, which are so impetuous, and at the same time so plausible, and which will not allow themselves to be suppressed by any command. hence there arises a natural dialectic, i. e. a disposition, to argue against these strict laws of duty and to question their validity, or at least their purity and strictness; and, if possible, to make them more accordant with our wishes and inclinations, that is to say, to corrupt them at their very source, and entirely to destroy their worth--a thing which even common practical reason cannot ultimately call good. thus is the common reason of man compelled to go out of its sphere, and to take a step into the field of a practical philosophy, not to satisfy any speculative want (which never occurs to it as long as it is content to be mere sound reason), but even on practical grounds, in order to attain in it information and clear instruction respecting the source of its principle, and the correct determination of it in opposition to the maxims which are based on wants and inclinations, so that it may escape from the perplexity of opposite claims, and not run the risk of losing all genuine moral principles through the equivocation into which it easily falls. thus, when practical reason cultivates itself, there insensibly arises in it a dialectic which forces it to seek aid in philosophy, just as happens to it in its theoretic use; and in this case, therefore, as well as in the other, it will find rest nowhere but in a thorough critical examination of our reason. second section transition from popular moral philosophy to the metaphysic of morals if we have hitherto drawn our notion of duty from the common use of our practical reason, it is by no means to be inferred that we have treated it as an empirical notion. on the contrary, if we attend to the experience of men's conduct, we meet frequent and, as we ourselves allow, just complaints that one cannot find a single certain example of the disposition to act from pure duty. although many things are done in conformity with what duty prescribes, it is nevertheless always doubtful whether they are done strictly from duty, so as to have a moral worth. hence there have, at all times, been philosophers who have altogether denied that this disposition actually exists at all in human actions, and have ascribed everything to a more or less refined self-love. not that they have on that account questioned the soundness of the conception of morality; on the contrary, they spoke with sincere regret of the frailty and corruption of human nature, which thought noble enough to take as its rule an idea so worthy of respect, is yet too weak to follow it, and employs reason, which ought to give it the law only for the purpose of providing for the interest of the inclinations, whether singly or at the best in the greatest possible harmony with one another. in fact, it is absolutely impossible to make out by experience with complete certainty a single case in which the maxim of an action, however right in itself, rested simply on moral grounds and on the conception of duty. sometimes it happens that with the sharpest self-examination we can find nothing beside the moral principle of duty which could have been powerful enough to move us to this or that action and to so great a sacrifice; yet we cannot from this infer with certainty that it was not really some secret impulse of self-love, under the false appearance of duty, that was the actual determining cause of the will. we like then to flatter ourselves by falsely taking credit for a more noble motive; whereas in fact we can never, even by the strictest examination, get completely behind the secret springs of action; since, when the question is of moral worth, it is not with the actions which we see that we are concerned, but with those inward principles of them which we do not see. moreover, we cannot better serve the wishes of those who ridicule all morality as a mere chimera of human imagination overstepping itself from vanity, than by conceding to them that notions of duty must be drawn only from experience (as from indolence, people are ready to think is also the case with all other notions); for this is to prepare for them a certain triumph. i am willing to admit out of love of humanity that even most of our actions are correct, but if we look closer at them we everywhere come upon the dear self which is always prominent, and it is this they have in view, and not the strict command of duty which would often require self-denial. without being an enemy of virtue, a cool observer, one that does not mistake the wish for good, however lively, for its reality, may sometimes doubt whether true virtue is actually found anywhere in the world, and this especially as years increase and the judgment is partly made wiser by experience, and partly also more acute in observation. this being so, nothing can secure us from falling away altogether from our ideas of duty, or maintain in the soul a well- grounded respect for its law, but the clear conviction that although there should never have been actions which really sprang from such pure sources, yet whether this or that takes place is not at all the question; but that reason of itself, independent on all experience, ordains what ought to take place, that accordingly actions of which perhaps the world has hitherto never given an example, the feasibility even of which might be very much doubted by one who founds everything on experience, are nevertheless inflexibly commanded by reason; that, ex. gr. even though there might never yet have been a sincere friend, yet not a whit the less is pure sincerity in friendship required of every man, because, prior to all experience, this duty is involved as duty in the idea of a reason determining the will by a priori principles. when we add further that, unless we deny that the notion of morality has any truth or reference to any possible object, we must admit that its law must be valid, not merely for men, but for all rational creatures generally, not merely under certain contingent conditions or with exceptions, but with absolute necessity, then it is clear that no experience could enable us to infer even the possibility of such apodictic laws. for with what right could we bring into unbounded respect as a universal precept for every rational nature that which perhaps holds only under the contingent conditions of humanity? or how could laws of the determination of our will be regarded as laws of the determination of the will of rational beings generally, and for us only as such, if they were merely empirical, and did not take their origin wholly a priori from pure but practical reason? nor could anything be more fatal to morality than that we should wish to derive it from examples. for every example of it that is set before me must be first itself tested by principles of morality, whether it is worthy to serve as an original example, i. e., as a pattern, but by no means can it authoritatively furnish the conception of morality. even the holy one of the gospels must first be compared with our ideal of moral perfection before we can recognise him as such; and so he says of himself, "why call ye me (whom you see) good; none is good (the model of good) but god only (whom ye do not see)?" but whence have we the conception of god as the supreme good? simply from the idea of moral perfection, which reason frames a priori, and connects inseparably with the notion of a free-will. imitation finds no place at all in morality, and examples serve only for encouragement, i. e. they put beyond doubt the feasibility of what the law commands, they make visible that which the practical rule expresses more generally, but they can never authorise us to set aside the true original which lies in reason, and to guide ourselves by examples. if then there is no genuine supreme principle of morality but what must rest simply on pure reason, independent on all experience, i think it is not necessary even to put the question, whether it is good to exhibit these concepts in their generality (in abstracto) as they are established a priori along with the principles belonging to them, if our knowledge is to be distinguished from the vulgar, and to be called philosophical. in our times indeed this might perhaps be necessary; for if we collected votes, whether pure rational knowledge separated from everything empirical, that is to say, metaphysic of morals, or whether popular practical philosophy is to be preferred, it is easy to guess which side would preponderate. this descending to popular notions is certainly very commendable, if the ascent to the principles of pure reason has first taken place and been satisfactorily accomplished. this implies that we first found ethics on metaphysics, and then, when it is firmly established, procure a hearing for it by giving it a popular character. but it is quite absurd to try to be popular in the first inquiry, on which the soundness of the principles depends. it is not only that this proceeding can never lay claim to the very rare merit of a true philosophical popularity, since there is no art in being intelligible if one renounces all thoroughness of insight; but also it produces a disgusting medley of compiled observations and half- reasoned principles. shallow pates enjoy this because it can be used for every-day chat, but the sagacious find in it only confusion, and being unsatisfied and unable to help themselves, they turn away their eyes, while philosophers, who see quite well through this delusion, are little listened to when they call men off for a time from this pretended popularity, in order that they might be rightfully popular after they have attained a definite insight. we need only look at the attempts of moralists in that favourite fashion, and we shall find at one time the special constitution of human nature (including, however, the idea of a rational nature generally), at one time perfection, at another happiness, here moral sense, there fear of god, a little of this, and a little of that, in marvellous mixture, without its occurring to them to ask whether the principles of morality are to be sought in the knowledge of human nature at all (which we can have only from experience); and, if this is not so, if these principles are to be found altogether a priori free from everything empirical, in pure rational concepts only, and nowhere else, not even in the smallest degree; then rather to adopt the method of making this a separate inquiry, as pure practical philosophy, or (if one may use a name so decried) as metaphysic of morals, [footnote: just as pure mathematics are distinguished from applied, pure logic from applied, so if we choose we may alse distinguish pure philosophy of morals (metaphysic) from applied (viz. applied to human nature). by this designation we are also at once reminded that moral principles are not based on properties of human nature, but must subsist a priori of themselves while from such principles practical rules must be capable of being deduced for every rational nature, and accordingly for that of man.] to bring it by itself to completeness, and to require the public, which wishes for popular treatment, to await the issue of this undertaking. such a metaphysic of morals, completely isolated, not mixed with any anthropology, theology, physics, or hyperphysics, and still less with occult qualities (which we might call hypophysical), is not only an indispensable substratum of all sound theoretical knowledge of duties, but is at the same time a desideratum of the highest importance to the actual fulfilment of their precepts. for the pure conception of duty, unmixed with any foreign addition of empirical attractions, and, in a word, the conception of the moral law, exercises on the human heart, by way of reason alone (which first becomes aware with this that it can of itself be practical), an influence so much more powerful than all other springs [footnote: i have a letter from the late excellent sulzer, in which he asks me what can be the reason that moral instruction, although containing much that is convincing for the reason, yet accomplishes so little? my answer was postponed in order that i might make it complete. but it is simply this, that the teachers themselves have not got their own notions clear, and when they endeavour to make up for this by raking up motives of moral goodness from every quarter, trying to make their physic right strong, they spoil it. for the commonest understanding shows that if we imagine, on the one hand, an act of honesty done with steadfast mind, apart from every view to advantage of any kind in this world or another, and even under the greatest temptations of necessity or allurement, and, on the other hand, a similar act which was affected, in however low a degree, by a foreign motive, the former leaves far behind and eclipses the second; it elevates the soul, and inspires the wish to be able to act in like manner oneself. even moderately young children feel this impression, and one should never represent duties to them in any other light.] which may be derived from the field of experience, that in the consciousness of its worth, despises the latter, and can by degrees become their master; whereas a mixed ethics, compounded partly of motives drawn from feelings and inclinations, and partly also of conceptions of reason, must make the mind waver between motives which cannot be brought under any principle, which lead to good only by mere accident, and very often also to evil. from what has been said, it is clear that all moral conceptions have their seat and origin completely a priori in the reason, and that, moreover, in the commonest reason just as truly as in that which is in the highest degree speculative; that they cannot be obtained by abstraction from any empirical, and therefore merely contingent knowledge; that it is just this purity of their origin that makes them worthy to serve as our supreme practical principle, and that just in proportion as we add anything empirical, we detract from their genuine influence, and from the absolute value of actions; that it is not only of the greatest necessity, in a purely speculative point of view, but is also of the greatest practical importance to derive these notions and laws from pure reason, to present them pure and unmixed, and even to determine the compass of this practical or pure rational knowledge, i. e. to determine the whole faculty of pure practical reason; and, in doing so, we must not make its principles dependent on the particular nature of human reason, though in speculative philosophy this may be permitted, or may even at times be necessary; but since moral laws ought to hold good for every rational creature, we must derive them from the general concept of a rational being. in this way, although for its application to man morality has need of anthropology, yet, in the first instance, we must treat it independently as pure philosophy, i. e. as metaphysic, complete in itself (a thing which in such distinct branches of science is easily done); knowing well that unless we are in possession of this, it would not only be vain to determine the moral element of duty in right actions for purposes of speculative criticism, but it would be impossible to base morals on their genuine principles, even for common practical purposes, especially of moral instruction, so as to produce pure moral dispositions, and to engraft them on men's minds to the promotion of the greatest possible good in the world. but in order that in this study we may not merely advance by the natural steps from the common moral judgment (in this case very worthy of respect) to the philosophical, as has been already done, but also from a popular philosophy, which goes no further than it can reach by groping with the help of examples, to metaphysic (which does not allow itself to be checked by anything empirical, and as it must measure the whole extent of this kind of rational knowledge, goes as far as ideal conceptions, where even examples fail us), we must follow and clearly describe the practical faculty of reason, from the general rules of its determination to the point where the notion of duty springs from it. everything in nature works according to laws. rational beings alone have the faculty of acting according to the conception of laws, that is according to principles, i. e., have a will. since the deduction of actions from principles requires reason, the will is nothing but practical reason. if reason infallibly determines the will, then the actions of such a being which are recognised as objectively necessary are subjectively necessary also, i. e., the will is a faculty to choose that only which reason independent on inclination recognises as practically necessary, i. e., as good. but if reason of itself does not sufficiently determine the will, if the latter is subject also to subjective conditions (particular impulses) which do not always coincide with the objective conditions; in a word, if the will does not in itself completely accord with reason (which is actually the case with men), then the actions which objectively are recognised as necessary are subjectively contingent, and the determination of such a will according to objective laws is obligation, that is to say, the relation of the objective laws to a will that is not thoroughly good is conceived as the determination of the will of a rational being by principles of reason, but which the will from its nature does not of necessity follow. the conception of an objective principle, in so far as it is obligatory for a will, is called a command (of reason); and the formula of the command is called an imperative. all imperatives are expressed by the word ought [or shall], and thereby indicate the relation of an objective law of reason to a will, which from its subjective constitution is not necessarily determined by it (an obligation). they say that something would be good to do or to forbear, but they say it to a will which does not always do a thing because it is conceived to be good to do it. that is practically good, however, which determines the will by means of the conceptions of reason, and consequently not from subjective causes, but objectively, that is on principles which are valid for every rational being as such. it is distinguished from the pleasant, as that which influences the will only by means of sensation from merely subjective causes, valid only for the sense of this or that one, and not as a principle of reason, which holds for every one. [footnote : the dependence of the desires on sensations is called inclination, and this accordingly always indicates a want. the dependence of a contingently determinable will on principles of reason is called an interest. this therefore is found only in the case of a dependent will, which does not always of itself conform to reason; in the divine will we cannot conceive any interest. but the human will can also take an interest in a thing without therefore acting from interest. the former signifies the practical interest in the action, the latter the pathological in the object of the action. the former indicates only dependence of the will or principles of reason in themselves; the second, dependence on principles of reason for the sake of inclination, reason supplying only the practical rules how the requirement of the inclination may he satisfied. in the first case the action interests me; in the second the object of the action (because it is pleasant to me), we have seen in the first section that in an action done from duty we must look not to the interest in the object, but only to that in the action itself, and in its rational principle (viz. the law).] a perfectly good will would therefore be equally subject to objective laws (viz. laws of good), but could not be conceived as obliged thereby to act lawfully, because of itself from its subjective constitution it can only be determined by the conception of good. therefore no imperatives hold for the divine will, or in general for a holy will; ought is here out of place, because the volition is already of itself necessarily in unison with the law. therefore imperatives are only formulae to express the relation of objective laws of all volition to the subjective imperfection of the will of this or that rational being, e. g. the human will. now all imperatives command either hypothetically or categorically. the former represent the practical necessity of a possible action as means to something else that is willed (or at least which one might possibly will). the categorical imperative would be that which represented an action as necessary of itself without reference to another end, i. e., as objectively necessary. since every practical law represents a possible action as good, and on this account, for a subject who is practically determinable by reason, necessary, all imperatives are formulae determining an action which is necessary according to the principle of a will good in some respects. if now the action is good only as a means to something else, then the imperative is hypothetical; if it is conceived as good in itself and consequently as being necessarily the principle of a will which of itself conforms to reason, then it is categorical. thus the imperative declares what action possible by me would be good, and presents the practical rule in relation to a will which does not forthwith perform an action simply because it is good, whether because the subject does not always know that it is good, or because, even if it know this, yet its maxims might be opposed to the objective principles of practical reason. accordingly the hypothetical imperative only says that the action is good for some purpose, possible or actual. in the first case it is a problematical, in the second an assertorial practical principle. the categorical imperative which declares an action to be objectively necessary in itself without reference to any purpose, i. e., without any other end, is valid as an apodictic (practical) principle. whatever is possible only by the power of some rational being may also be conceived as a possible purpose of some will; and therefore the principles of action as regards the means necessary to attain some possible purpose are in fact infinitely numerous. all sciences have a practical part, consisting of problems expressing that some end is possible for us, and of imperatives directing how it may be attained. these may, therefore, be called in general imperatives of skill. here there is no question whether the end is rational and good, but only what one must do in order to attain it. the precepts for the physician to make his patient thoroughly healthy, and for a poisoner to ensure certain death, are of equal value in this respect, that each serves to effect its purpose perfectly. since in early youth it cannot be known what ends are likely to occur to us in the course of life, parents seek to have their children taught a great many things, and provide for their skill in the use of means for all sorts of arbitrary ends, of none of which can they determine whether it may not perhaps hereafter be an object to their pupil, but which it is at all events possible that he might aim at; and this anxiety is so great that they commonly neglect to form and correct their judgment on the value of the things which may be chosen as ends. there is one end, however, which may be assumed to be actually such to all rational beings (so far as imperatives apply to them, viz. as dependent beings), and therefore, one purpose which they not merely may have, but which we may with certainty assume that they all actually have by a natural necessity, and this is happiness. the hypothetical imperative which expresses the practical necessity of an action as means to the advancement of happiness is assertorial. we are not to present it as necessary for an uncertain and merely possible purpose, but for a purpose which we may presuppose with certainty and a priori in every man, because it belongs to his being. now skill in the choice of means to his own greatest well- being may be called prudence [the word prudence is taken in two senses; in the one it may bear the name of knowledge of the world, in the other that of private prudence. the former is a man's ability to influence others so as to use them for his own purposes. the latter is the sagacity to combine all these purposes for his own lasting benefit. this latter is properly that to which the value even of the former is reduced, and when a man is prudent in the former sense, but not in the latter, we might better say of him that he is clever and cunning, but, on the whole, imprudent. compare on the difference between klug and gescheu here alluded to, anthropologie, , ed. schubert, p. no.] in the narrowest sense. and thus the imperative which refers to the choice of means to one's own happiness, i. e., the precept of prudence, is still always hypothetical; the action is not commanded absolutely, but only as means to another purpose. finally, there is an imperative which commands a certain conduct immediately, without having as its condition any other purpose to be attained by it. this imperative is categorical. it concerns not the matter of the action, or its intended result, but its form and the principle of which it is itself a result, and what is essentially good in it consists in the mental disposition, let the consequence be what it may. this imperative may be called that of morality. there is a marked distinction also between the volitions on these three sorts of principles in the dissimilarity of the obligation of the will. in order to mark this difference more clearly, i think they would be most suitably named in their order if we said they are either rules of skill, or counsels of prudence, or commands (laws) of morality. for it is law only that involves the conception of an unconditional and objective necessity, which is consequently universally valid; and commands are laws which must be obeyed, that is, must be followed, even in opposition to inclination. counsels, indeed, involve necessity, but one which can only hold under a contingent subjective condition, viz. they depend on whether this or that man reckons this or that as part of his happiness; the categorical imperative, on the contrary, is not limited by any condition, and as being absolutely, although practically, necessary, may be quite properly called a command. we might also call the first kind of imperatives technical (belonging to art), the second pragmatic (to welfare), [it seems to me that the proper signification of the word pragmatic may be most accurately defined in this way. for sanctions [see cr. of pract. reas., p. ] are called pragmatic which flow properly, not from the law of the states as necessary enactments, but from precaution for the general welfare. a history is composed pragmatically when it teaches prudence, i. e. instructs the world how it can provide for its interests better, or at least as well as the men of former time.]; the third moral (belonging to free conduct generally, that is, to morals). now arises the question, how are all these imperatives possible? this question does not seek to know how we can conceive the accomplishment of the action which the imperative ordains, but merely how we can conceive the obligation of the will which the imperative expresses. no special explanation is needed to show how an imperative of skill is possible. whoever wills the end, wills also (so far as reason decides his conduct) the means in his power which are indispensably necessary thereto. this proposition is, as regards the volition, analytical; for, in willing an object as my effect, there is already thought the causality of myself as an acting cause, that is to say, the use of the means; and the imperative educes from the conception of volition of an end the conception of actions necessary to this end. synthetical propositions must no doubt be employed in denning the means to a proposed end; but they do not concern the principle, the act of the will, but the object and its realization. ex. gr., that in order to bisect a line on an unerring principle i must draw from its extremities two intersecting arcs; this no doubt is taught by mathematics only in synthetical propositions; but if i know that it is only by this process that the intended operation can be performed, then to say that if i fully will the operation, i also will the action required for it, is an analytical proposition; for it is one and the same thing to conceive something as an effect which i can produce in a certain way, and to conceive myself as acting in this way. if it were only equally easy to give a definite conception of happiness, the imperatives of prudence would correspond exactly with those of skill, and would likewise be analytical. for in this case as in that, it could be said, whoever wills the end, wills also (according to the dictate of reason necessarily) the indispensable means thereto which are in his power. but, unfortunately, the notion of happiness is so indefinite that although every man wishes to attain it, yet he never can say definitely and consistently what it is that he really wishes and wills. the reason of this is that all the elements which belong to the notion of happiness are altogether empirical, i. e. they must be borrowed from experience, and nevertheless the idea of happiness requires an absolute whole, a maximum of welfare in my present and all future circumstances. now it is impossible that the most clear-sighted, and at the same time most powerful being (supposed finite), should frame to himself a definite conception of what he really wills in this. does he will riches, how much anxiety, envy, and snares might he not thereby draw upon his shoulders? does he will knowledge and discernment, perhaps it might prove to be only an eye so much the sharper to show him so much the more fearfully the evils that are now concealed from him, and that cannot be avoided, or to impose more wants on his desires, which already give him concern enough. would he have long life, who guarantees to him that it would not be a long misery? would he at least have health? how often has uneasiness of the body restrained from excesses into which perfect health would have allowed one to fall? and so on. in short he is unable, on any principle, to determine with certainty what would make him truly happy; because to do so he would need to be omniscient. we cannot therefore act on any definite principles to secure happiness, but only on empirical counsels, ex. gr. of regimen, frugality, courtesy, reserve, &c., which experience teaches do, on the average, most promote well- being. hence it follows that the imperatives of prudence do not, strictly speaking, command at all, that is, they cannot present actions objectively as practically necessary; that they are rather to be regarded as counsels (consilia) than precepts (praecepta) of reason, that the problem to determine certainly and universally what action would promote the happiness of a rational being is completely insoluble, and consequently no imperative respecting it is possible which should, in the strict sense, command to do what makes happy; because happiness is not an ideal of reason but of imagination, resting solely on empirical grounds, and it is vain to expect that these should define an action by which one could attain the totality of a series of consequences which is really endless. this imperative of prudence would however be an analytical proposition if we assume that the means to happiness could be certainly assigned; for it is distinguished from the imperative of skill only by this, that in the latter the end is merely possible, in the former it is given; as however both only ordain the means to that which we suppose to be willed as an end, it follows that the imperative which ordains the willing of the means to him who wills the end is in both cases analytical. thus there is no difficulty in regard to the possibility of an imperative of this kind either. on the other hand the question, how the imperative of morality is possible, is undoubtedly one, the only one? demanding a solution, as this is not at all hypothetical, and the objective necessity which it presents cannot rest on any hypothesis, as is the case with the hypothetical imperatives. only here we must never leave out of consideration that we cannot make out by any example, in other words empirically, whether there is such an imperative at all; but it is rather to be feared that all those which seem to be categorical may yet be at bottom hypothetical. for instance, when the precept is: thou shalt not promise deceitfully; and it is assumed that the necessity of this is not a mere counsel to avoid some other evil, so that it should mean: thou shalt not make a lying promise, lest if it become known thou shouldst destroy thy credit, but that an action of this kind must be regarded as evil in itself, so that the imperative of the prohibition is categorical; then we cannot show with certainty in any example that the will was determined merely by the law, without any other spring of action, although it may appear to be so. for it is always possible that fear of disgrace, perhaps also obscure dread of other dangers, may have a secret influence on the will. who can prove by experience the non-existence of a cause when all that experience tells us is that we do not perceive it? but in such a case the so-called moral imperative, which as such appears to be categorical and unconditional, would in reality be only a pragmatic precept, drawing our attention to our own interests, and merely teaching us to take these into consideration. we shall therefore have to investigate a priori the possibility of a categorical imperative, as we have not in this case the advantage of its reality being given in experience, so that [the elucidation of] its possibility should be requisite only for its explanation, not for its establishment. in the mean-time it may be discerned beforehand that the categorical imperative alone has the purport of a practical law: all the rest may indeed be called principles of the will but not laws, since whatever is only necessary for the attainment of some arbitrary purpose may be considered as in itself contingent, and we can at any time be free from the precept if we give up the purpose: on the contrary, the unconditional command leaves the will no liberty to choose the opposite; consequently it alone carries with it that necessity which we require in a law. secondly, in the case of this categorical imperative or law of morality, the difficulty (of discerning its possibility) is a very profound one. it is an a priori synthetical practical proposition; [footnote: i connect the act with the will without presupposing any condition resulting from any inclination, but d priori, and therefore necessarily (though only objectively, i. e. assuming the idea of a reason possessing full power over all subjective motives). this is accordingly a practical proposition which does not deduce the willing of an action by mere analysis from another already presupposed (for we have not such a perfect will), but connects it immediately with the conception of the will of a rational being, as something not contained in it.] and as there is so much difficulty in discerning the possibility of speculative propositions of this kind, it may readily be supposed that the difficulty will be no less with the practical. in this problem we will first inquire whether the mere conception of a categorical imperative may not perhaps supply us also with the formula of it, containing the proposition which alone can be a categorical imperative; for even if we know the tenor of such absolute command, yet how it is possible will require further special and laborious study, which we postpone to the last section. when i conceive a hypothetical imperative in general i do not know beforehand what it will contain until i am given the condition. but when i conceive a categorical imperative i know at once what it contains. for as the imperative contains besides the law only the necessity that the maxims [footnote: a maxim is a subjective principle of action, and must be distinguished from the objective principle, namely, practical law. the former contains the practical rule set by reason according to the conditions of the subject (often its ignorance or its inclinations), so that it is the principle on which the subject acts; but the law is the objective principle valid for every rational being, and is the principle on which it ought to act that is an imperative.] shall conform to this law, while the law contains no conditions restricting it, there remains nothing but the general statement that the maxim of the action should conform to a universal law, and it is this conformity alone that the imperative properly represents as necessary. [footnote: i have no doubt that "den" in the original before "imperativ" is a misprint for "der," and have translated accordingly. mr. semple has done the same. the editions that i have seen agree in reading "den," and m. barni so translates. with this reading, it is the conformity that presents the imperative as necessary.] there is therefore but one categorical imperative, namely this: act only on that maxim whereby thou canst at the same time will that it should become a universal law. now if all imperatives of duty can be deduced from this one imperative as from their principle, then, although it should remain undecided whether what is called duty is not merely a vain notion, yet at least we shall be able to show what we understand by it and what this notion means. since the universality of the law according to which effects are produced constiutes what is properly called nature in the most general sense (as to form), that is the existence of things so far as it is determined by general laws, the imperative of duty may be expressed thus: act as if the maxim of thy action were to become by thy will a universal law of nature. we will now enumerate a few duties, adopting the usual division of them into duties to ourselves and to others, and into perfect and imperfect duties. [footnote: it must be noted here that i reserve the division of duties for a future metaphysic of morals; so that i give it here only as an arbitrary one (in order to arrange my examples). for the rest, i understand by a perfect duty one that admits no exception in favour of inclination, and then i have not merely external, but also internal perfect duties. this is contrary to the use of the word adopted in the schools; but i do not intend to justify it here, as it is all one for my purpose whether it is admitted or not. [perfect duties are usually understood to be those which can be enforced by external law; imperfect, those which cannot be enforced. they are also called respectively determinate and indeterminate, officia juris and officia virtutis.]] i. a man reduced to despair by a series of misfortunes feels wearied of life, but is still so far in possession of his reason that he can ask himself whether it would not be contrary to his duty to himself to take his own life. now he inquires whether the maxim of his action could become a universal law of nature. his maxim is: from self-love i adopt it as a principle to shorten my life when its longer duration is likely to bring more evil than satisfaction. it is asked then simply whether this principle founded on self-love can become a universal law of nature. now we see at once that a system of nature of which it should be a law to destroy life by means of the very feeling whose special nature it is to impel to the improvement of life would contradict itself, and therefore could not exist as a system of nature; hence that maxim cannot possibly exist as a universal law of nature, and consequently would be wholly inconsistent with the supreme principle of all duty. [footnote: on suicide cf. further metaphysik der sitten, p. .] . another finds himself forced by necessity to borrow money. he knows that he will not be able to repay it, but sees also that nothing will be lent to him, unless he promises stoutly to repay it in a definite time. he desires to make this promise, but he has still so much conscience as to ask himself: is it not unlawful and inconsistent with duty to get out of a difficulty in this way? suppose, however, that he resolves to do so, then the maxim of his action would be expressed thus: when i think myself in want of money, i will borrow money and promise to repay it, although i know that i never can do so. now this principle of self-love or of one's own advantage may perhaps be consistent with my whole future welfare; but the question now is, is it right? i change then the suggestion of self-love into a universal law, and state the question thus: how would it be if my maxim were a universal law? then i see at once that it could never hold as a universal law of nature, but would necessarily contradict itself. for supposing it to be a universal law that everyone when he thinks himself in a difficulty should be able to promise whatever he pleases, with the purpose of not keeping his promise, the promise itself would become impossible, as well as the end that one might have in view in it, since no one would consider that anything was promised to him, but would ridicule all such statements as vain pretences. . a third finds in himself a talent which with the help of some culture might make him a useful man in many respects. but he finds himself in comfortable circumstances, and prefers to indulge in pleasure rather than to take pains in enlarging and improving his happy natural capacities. he asks, however, whether his maxim of neglect of his natural gifts, besides agreeing with his inclination to indulgence, agrees also with what is called duty. he sees then that a system of nature could indeed subsist with such a universal law although men (like the south sea islanders) should let their talents rust, and resolve to devote their lives merely to idleness, amusement, and propagation of their species--in a word, to enjoyment; but he cannot possibly will that this should be a universal law of nature, or be implanted in us as such by a natural instinct. for, as a rational being, he necessarily wills that his faculties be developed, since they serve him, and have been given him, for all sorts of possible purposes. . a fourth, who is in prosperity, while he sees that others have to contend with great wretchedness and that he could help them, thinks: what concern is it of mine? let everyone be as happy as heaven pleases, or as he can make himself; i will take nothing from him nor even envy him, only i do not wish to contribute anything to his welfare or to his assistance in distress! now no doubt if such a mode of thinking were a universal law, the human race might very well subsist, and doubtless even better than in a state in which everyone talks of sympathy and good-will, or even takes care occasionally to put it into practice, but on the other side, also cheats when he can, betrays the rights of men, or otherwise violates them. but although it is possible that a universal law of nature might exist in accordance with that maxim, it is impossible to will that such a principle should have the universal validity of a law of nature. for a will which resolved this would contradict itself, inasmuch as many cases might occur in which one would have need of the love and sympathy of others, and in which, by such a law of nature, sprung from his own will, he would deprive himself of all hope of the aid he desires. these are a few of the many actual duties, or at least what we regard as such, which obviously fall into two classes on the one principle that we have laid down. we must be able to will that a maxim of our action should be a universal law. this is the canon of the moral appreciation of the action generally. some actions are of such a character that their maxim cannot without contradiction be even conceived as a universal law of nature, far from it being possible that we should will that it should be so. in others this intrinsic impossibility is not found, but still it is impossible to will that their maxim should be raised to the universality of a law of nature, since such a will would contradict itself. it is easily seen that the former violate strict or rigorous (inflexible) duty; the latter only laxer (meritorious) duty. thus it has been completely shown by these examples how all duties depend as regards the nature of the obligation (not the object of the action) on the same principle. if now we attend to ourselves on occasion of any transgression of duty, we shall find that we in fact do not will that our maxim should be a universal law, for that is impossible for us; on the contrary we will that the opposite should remain a universal law, only we assume the liberty of making an exception in our own favour or (just for this time only) in favour of our inclination. consequently if we considered all cases from one and the same point of view, namely, that of reason, we should find a contradiction in our own will, namely, that a certain principle should be objectively necessary as a universal law, and yet subjectively should not be universal, but admit of exceptions. as however we at one moment regard our action from the point of view of a will wholly conformed to reason, and then again look at the same action from the point of view of a will affected by inclination, there is not really any contradiction, but an antagonism of inclination to the precept of reason, whereby the universality of the principle is changed into a mere generality, so that the practical principle of reason shall meet the maxim half way. now, although this cannot be justified in our own impartial judgment, yet it proves that we do really recognise the validity of the categorical imperative and (with all respect for it) only allow ourselves a few exceptions, which we think unimportant and forced from us. we have thus established at least this much, that if duty is a conception which is to have any import and real legislative authority for our actions, it can only be expressed in categorical, and not at all in hypothetical imperatives. we have also, which is of great importance, exhibited clearly and definitely for every practical application the content of the categorical imperative, which must contain the principle of all duty if there is such a thing at all. we have not yet, however, advanced so far as to prove a priori that there actually is such an imperative, that there is a practical law which commands absolutely of itself, and without any other impulse, and that the following of this law is duty. with the view of attaining to this it is of extreme importance to remember that we must not allow ourselves to think of deducing the reality of this principle from the particular attributes of human nature. for duty is to be a practical, unconditional necessity of action; it must therefore hold for all rational beings (to whom an imperative can apply at all) and for this reason only be also a law for all human wills. on the contrary, whatever is deduced from the particular natural characteristics of humanity, from certain feelings and propensions, [footnote: kant distinguishes "hang (propensio)" from "neigung (inclinatio)" as follows:--"hang" is a predisposition to the desire of some enjoyment; in other words, it is the subjective possibility of excitement of a certain desire, which precedes the conception of its object. when the enjoyment has been experienced, it produces a "neigung" (inclination) to it, which accordingly is defined "habitual sensible desire."--anthropologie, , ; religion, p. .] nay even, if possible, from any particular tendency proper to human reason, and which need not necessarily hold for the will of every rational being; this may indeed supply us with a maxim, but not with a law; with a subjective principle on which we may have a propension and inclination to act, but not with an objective principle on which we should be enjoined to act, even though all our propensions, inclinations, and natural dispositions were opposed to it. in fact the sublimity and intrinsic dignity of the command in duty are so much the more evident, the less the subjective impulses favour it and the more they oppose it, without being able in the slightest degree to weaken the obligation of the law or to distinguish its validity. here then we see philosophy brought to a critical position, since it has to be firmly fixed, notwithstanding that it has nothing to support it either in heaven or earth. here it must show its purity as absolute dictator of its own laws, not the herald of those which are whispered to it by an implanted sense or who knows what tutelary nature. although these may be better than nothing, yet they can never afford principles dictated by reason, which must have their source wholly a priori and thence their commanding authority, expecting everything from the supremacy of the law and the due respect for it, nothing from inclination, or else condemning the man to self-contempt and inward abhorrence. thus every empirical element is not only quite incapable of being an aid to the principle of morality, but is even highly prejudicial to the purity of morals, for the proper and inestimable worth of an absolutely good will consists just in this, that the principle of action is free, from all influence of contingent grounds, which alone experience can furnish. we cannot too much or too often repeat our warning against this lax and even mean habit of thought which seeks for its principle amongst empirical motives and laws; for human reason in its weariness is glad to rest on this pillow, and in a dream of sweet illusions (in which, instead of juno, it embraces a cloud) it substitutes for morality a bastard patched up from limbs of various derivation, which looks like anything one chooses to see in it; only not like virtue to one who has once beheld her in her true form. [footnote: to behold virtue in her proper form is nothing else but to contemplate morality stripped of all admixture of sensible things and of every spurious ornament of reward or self- love. how much she then eclipses everything else that appears charming to the affections, every one may readily perceive with the least exertion of his reason, if it be not wholly spoiled for abstraction.] the question then is this: is it a necessary law for all rational beings that they should always judge of their actions by maxims of which they can themselves will that they should serve as universal laws? if it is so, then it must be connected (altogether a priori) with the very conception of the will of a rational being generally. but in order to discover this connexion we must, however reluctantly, take a step into metaphysic, although into a domain of it which is distinct from speculative philosophy, namely, the metaphysic of morals. in a practical philosophy, where it is not the reasons of what happens that we have to ascertain, but the laws of what ought to happen, even although it never does, i. e., objective practical laws, there it is not necessary to inquire into the reasons why anything pleases or displeases, how the pleasure of mere sensation differs from taste, and whether the latter is distinct from a general satisfaction of reason; on what the feeling of pleasure or pain rests, and how from it desires and inclinations arise, and from these again maxims by the co-operation of reason: for all this belongs to an empirical psychology, which would constitute the second part of physics, if we regard physics as the philosophy of nature, so far as it is based on empirical laws. but here we are concerned with objective practical laws, and consequently with the relation of the will to itself so far as it is determined by reason alone, in which case whatever has reference to anything empirical is necessarily excluded; since if reason of itself alone determines the conduct (and it is the possibility of this that we are now investigating), it must necessarily do so a priori. the will is conceived as a faculty of determining oneself to action in accordance with the conception of certain laws. and such a faculty can be found only in rational beings. now that which serves the will as the objective ground of its self-determination is the end, and if this is assigned by reason alone, it must hold for all rational beings. on the other hand, that which merely contains the ground of possibility of the action of which the effect is the end, this is called the means. the subjective ground of the desire is the spring, the objective ground of the volition is the motive; hence the distinction between subjective ends which rest on springs and objective ends which depend on motives valid for every rational being. practical principles are formal when they abstract from all subjective ends, they are material when they assume these, and therefore particular springs of action. the ends which a rational being proposes to himself at pleasure as effects of his actions (material ends) are all only relative, for it is only their relation to the particular desires of the subject that gives them their worth, which therefore cannot furnish principles universal and necessary for all rational beings and for every volition, that is to say practical laws. hence all these relative ends can give rise only to hypothetical imperatives. supposing, however, that there were something whose existence has in itself an absolute worth, something which, being an end in itself, could be a source of definite laws, then in this and this alone would he the source of a possible categorical imperative, i. e., a practical law. now i say: man and generally any rational being exists as an end in himself, not merely as a means to be arbitrarily used by this or that will, but in all his actions, whether they concern himself or other rational beings, must be always regarded at the same time as an end. all objects of the inclinations have only a conditional worth, for if the inclinations and the wants founded on them did not exist, then their object would be without value. but the inclinations themselves being sources of want, are so far from having an absolute worth for which they should be desired, that on the contrary it must be the universal wish of every rational being to be wholly free from them. thus the worth of any object which is to be acquired by our action is always conditional. beings whose existence depends not on our will but on nature's, have nevertheless, if they are irrational beings, only a relative value as means, and are therefore called things; rational beings, on the contrary, are called persons, because their very nature points them out as ends in themselves, that is as something which must not be used merely as means, and so far therefore restricts freedom of action (and is an object of respect). these, therefore, are not merely subjective ends whose existence has a worth for us as an effect of our action but objective ends, that is things whose existence is an end in itself: an end moreover for which no other can be substituted, which they should subserve merely as means, for otherwise nothing whatever would possess absolute worth; but if all worth were conditioned and therefore contingent, then there would be no supreme practical principle of reason whatever. if then there is a supreme practical principle or, in respect of the human will, a categorical imperative, it must be one which, being drawn from the conception of that which is necessarily an end for every one because it is an end in itself, constitutes an objective principle of will, and can therefore serve as a universal practical law. the foundation of this principle is: rational nature exists as an end in itself. man necessarily conceives his own existence as being so; so far then this is a subjective principle of human actions. but every other rational being regards its existence similarly, just on the same rational principle that holds for me: [footnote: this proposition is here stated as a postulate. the grounds of it will be found in the concluding section.] so that it is at the same time an objective principle, from which as a supreme practical law all laws of the will must be capable of being deduced. accordingly the practical imperative will be as follows: so act as to treat humanity, whether in thine own person or in that of any other, in every case as an end withal, never as means only. we will now inquire whether this can be practically carried out. to abide by the previous examples: firstly, under the head of necessary duty to oneself: he who contemplates suicide should ask himself whether his action can be consistent with the idea of humanity as an end in itself. if he destroys himself in order to escape from painful circumstances, he uses a person merely as a mean to maintain a tolerable condition up to the end of life. but a man is not a thing, that is to say, something which can be used merely as means, but must in all his actions be always considered as an end in himself. i cannot, therefore, dispose in any way of a man in my own person so as to mutilate him, to damage or kill him. (it belongs to ethics proper to define this principle more precisely so as to avoid all misunderstanding, e. g., as to the amputation of the limbs in order to preserve myself; as to exposing my life to danger with a view to preserve it, &c. this question is therefore omitted here.) secondly, as regards necessary duties, or those of strict obligation, towards others; he who is thinking of making a lying promise to others will see at once that he would be using another man merely as a mean, without the latter containing at the same time the end in himself. for he whom i propose by such a promise to use for my own purposes cannot possibly assent to my mode of acting towards him, and therefore cannot himself contain the end of this action. this violation of the principle of humanity in other men is more obvious if we take in examples of attacks on the freedom and property of others. for then it is clear that he who transgresses the rights of men, intends to use the person of others merely as means, without considering that as rational beings they ought always to be esteemed also as ends, that is, as beings who must be capable of containing in themselves the end of the very same action. [footnote: let it not be thought that the common: quod tibi non vis fieri, &c., could serve here as the rule or principle. for it is only a deduction from the former, though with several limitations; it cannot be a universal law, for it does not contain the principle of duties to oneself, nor of the duties of benevolence to others (for many a one would gladly consent that others should not benefit him, provided only that he might be excused from showing benevolence to them), nor finally that of duties of strict obligation to one another, for on this principle the criminal might argue against the judge who punishes him, and so on.] thirdly, as regards contingent (meritorious) duties to oneself; it is not enough that the action does not violate humanity in our own person as an end in itself, it must also harmonise with it. now there are in humanity capacities of greater perfection which belong to the end that nature has in view in regard to humanity in ourselves as the subject: to neglect these might perhaps be consistent with the maintenance of humanity as an end in itself, but not with the advancement of this end. fourthly, as regards meritorious duties towards others: the natural end which all men have in their own happiness. now humanity might indeed subsist, although no one should contribute anything to the happiness of others, provided he did not intentionally withdraw anything from it; but after all, this would only harmonise negatively not positively with humanity as an end in itself, if everyone does not also endeavor, as far as in him lies, to forward the ends of others. for the ends of any subject which is an end in himself, ought as far as possible to be my ends also, if that conception is to have its full effect with me. this principle, that humanity and generally every rational nature is an end in itself (which is the supreme limiting condition of every man's freedom of action), is not borrowed from experience, firstly, because it is universal, applying as it does to all rational beings whatever, and experience is not capable of determining anything about them; secondly, because it does not present humanity as an end to men (subjectively), that is as an object which men do of themselves actually adopt as an end; but as an objective end, which must as a law constitute the supreme limiting condition of all our subjective ends, let them be what we will; it must therefore spring from pure, reason. in fact the objective principle of all practical legislation lies (according to the first principle) in the rule and its form of universality which makes it capable of being a law (say, e. g., a law of nature); but the subjective principle is in the end; now by the second principle the subject of all ends is each rational being, inasmuch as it is an end in itself. hence follows the third practical principle of the will, which is the ultimate condition of its harmony with the universal practical reason, viz.: the idea of the will of every rational being as a universally legislative will. on this principle all maxims are rejected which are inconsistent with the will being itself universal legislator. thus the will is not subject simply to the law, but so subject that it must be regarded as itself giving the law, and on this ground only, subject to the law (of which it can regard itself as the author). in the previous imperatives, namely, that based on the conception of the conformity of actions to general laws, as in a physical system of nature, and that based on the universal prerogative of rational beings as ends in themselves--these imperatives just because they were conceived as categorical, excluded from any share in their authority all admixture of any interest as a spring of action; they were however only assumed to be categorical, because such an assumption was necessary to explain the conception of duty. but we could not prove independently that there are practical propositions which command categorically, nor can it be proved in this section; one thing however could be done, namely, to indicate in the imperative itself by some determinate expression, that in the case of volition from duty all interest is renounced, which is the specific criterion of categorical as distinguished from hypothetical imperatives. this is done in the present (third) formula of the principle, namely, in the idea of the will of every rational being as a universally legislating will. for although a will which is subject to laws may be attached to this law by means of an interest, yet a will which is itself a supreme lawgiver so far as it is such cannot possibly depend on any interest, since a will so dependent would itself still need another law restricting the interest of its self-love by the condition that it should be valid as universal law. thus the principle that every human will is a will which in all its maxims gives universal laws [footnote: i may be excused from adducing examples to elucidate this principle, as those which have already been used to elucidate the categorical imperative and its formula would all serve for the like purpose here.] provided it be otherwise justified, would be very well adapted to be the categorical imperative, in this respect, namely, that just because of the idea of universal legislation it is not based on any interest, and therefore it alone among all possible imperatives can be unconditional. or still better, converting the proposition, if there is a categorical imperative (i.e. a law for the will of every rational being), it can only command that everything be done from maxims of one's will regarded as a will which could at the same time will that it should itself give universal laws, for in that case only the practical principle and the imperative which it obeys are unconditional, since they cannot be based on any interest. looking back now on all previous attempts to discover the principle of morality, we need not wonder why they all fail. it was seen that man was bound to laws by duty, but it was not observed that the laws to which he is subject are only those of his own giving, though at the same time they are universal, and that he is only bound to act in conformity with his own will; a will, however, which is designed by nature to give universal laws. for when one has conceived man only as subject to a law (no matter what), then this law required some interest, either by way of attraction or constraint, since it did not originate as a law from his own will, but this will was according to a law obliged by something else to act in a certain manner. now by this necessary consequence all the labour spent in finding a supreme principle of duty was irrevocably lost. for men never elicited duty, but only a necessity of acting from a certain interest. whether this interest was private or otherwise, in any case the imperative must be conditional, and could not by any means be capable of being a moral command. i will therefore call this the principle of autonomy of the will, in contrast with every other which i accordingly reckon as heteronomy? [footnote: cp. "critical examination of practical reason," p. .] the conception of every rational being as one which must consider itself as giving in all the maxims of its will universal laws, so as to judge itself and its actions from this point of view--this conception leads to another which depends on it and is very fruitful, namely, that of a kingdom of ends. by a kingdom i understand the union of different rational beings in a system by common laws. now since it is by laws that ends are determined as regards their universal validity, hence, if we abstract from the personal differences of rational beings, and likewise from all the content of their private ends, we shall be able to conceive all ends combined in a systematic whole (including both rational beings as ends in themselves, and also the special ends which each may propose to himself), that is to say, we can conceive a kingdom of ends, which on the preceding principles is possible. for all rational beings come under the law that each of them must treat itself and all others never merely as means, but in every case at the same time as ends in themselves. hence results a systematic union of rational beings by common objective laws, i.e. a kingdom which may be called a kingdom of ends, since what these laws have in view is just the relation of these beings to one another as ends and means. it is certainly only an ideal. a rational being belongs as a member to the kingdom of ends when, although giving universal laws in it, he is also himself subject to these laws. he belongs to it as sovereign when, while giving laws, he is not subject to the will of any other. a rational being must always regard himself as giving laws either as member or as sovereign in a kingdom of ends which is rendered possible by the freedom of will. he cannot, however, maintain the latter position merely by the maxims of his will, but only in case he is a completely independent being without wants and with unrestricted power adequate to his will. morality consists then in the reference of all action to the legislation which alone can render a kingdom of ends possible. this legislation must be capable of existing in every rational being, and of emanating from his will, so that the principle of this will is, never to act on any maxim which could not without contradiction be also a universal law, and accordingly always so to act that the will could at the same time regard itself as giving in its maxims universal laws. if now the maxims of rational beings are not by their own nature coincident with this objective principle, then the necessity of acting on it is called practical necessitation, i. e., duty. duty does not apply to the sovereign in the kingdom of ends, but it does to every member of it and to all in the same degree. the practical necessity of acting on this principle, i. e., duty, does not rest at all on feelings, impulses, or inclinations, but solely on the relation of rational beings to one another, a relation in which the will of a rational being must always be regarded as legislative, since otherwise it could not be conceived as an end in itself. reason then refers every maxim of the will, regarding it as legislating universally, to every other will and also to every action towards oneself; and this not on account of any other practical motive or any future advantage, but from the idea of the dignity of a rational being, obeying no law but that which he himself also gives. in the kingdom of ends everything has either value or dignity. whatever has a value can be replaced by something else which is equivalent; whatever, on the other hand, is above all value, and therefore admits of no equivalent, has a dignity. whatever has reference to the general inclinations and wants of mankind has a market value; whatever, without presupposing a want, corresponds to a certain taste, that is to a satisfaction in the mere purposeless play of our faculties, has a fancy value; but that which constitutes the condition under which alone anything can be an end in itself, this has not merely a relative worth, i. e., value, but an intrinsic worth, that is dignity. now morality is the condition under which alone a rational being can be an end in himself, since by this alone it is possible that he should be a legislating member in the kingdom of ends. thus morality, and humanity as capable of it, is that which alone has dignity. skill and diligence in labour have a market value; wit, lively imagination, and humour, have fancy value; on the other hand, fidelity to promises, benevolence from principle (not from instinct), have an intrinsic worth. neither nature nor art contains anything which in default of these it could put in their place, for their worth consists not in the effects which spring from them, not in the use and advantage which they secure, but in the disposition of mind, that is, the maxims of the will which are ready to manifest themselves in such actions, even though they should not have the desired effect. these actions also need no recommendation from any subjective taste or sentiment, that they may be looked on with immediate favour and satisfaction: they need no immediate propension or feeling for them; they exhibit the will that performs them as an object of an immediate respect, and nothing but reason is required to impose them on the will; not to flatter it into them, which, in the case of duties, would be a contradiction. this estimation therefore shows that the worth of such a disposition is dignity, and places it infinitely above all value, with which it cannot for a moment be brought into comparison or competition without as it were violating its sanctity. what then is it which justifies virtue or the morally good disposition, in making such lofty claims? it is nothing less than the privilege it secures to the rational being of participating in the giving of universal laws, by which it qualifies him to be a member of a possible kingdom of ends, a privilege to which he was already destined by his own nature as being an end in himself, and on that account legislating in the kingdom of ends; free as regards all laws of physical nature, and obeying those only which he himself gives, and by which his maxims can belong to a system of universal law, to which at the same time he submits himself. for nothing has any worth except what the law assigns it. now the legislation itself which assigns the worth of everything, must for that very reason possess dignity, that is an unconditional incomparable worth, and the word respect alone supplies a becoming expression for the esteem which a rational being must have for it. autonomy then is the basis of the dignity of human and of every rational nature. the three modes of presenting the principle of morality that have been adduced are at bottom only so many formulae of the very same law, and each of itself involves the other two. there is, however, a difference in them, but it is rather subjectively than objectively practical, intended namely to bring an idea of the reason nearer to intuition (by means of a certain analogy), and thereby nearer to feeling. all maxims, in fact, have-- . a form, consisting in universality; and in this view the formula of the moral imperative is expressed thus, that the maxims must be so chosen as if they were to serve as universal laws of nature. . a matter [footnote: the reading "maxima," which is that both of rosenkranz and hartenstein, is obviously an error for "materie."] namely, an end, and here the formula says that the rational being, as it is an end by its own nature and therefore an end in itself, must in every maxim serve as the condition limiting all merely relative and arbitrary ends. . a complete characterisation of all maxims by means of that formula, namely, that all maxims ought by their own legislation to harmonise with a possible kingdom of ends as with a kingdom of nature. [footnote: teleology considers nature as a kingdom of ends; ethics regards a possible kingdom of ends as a kingdom of nature. in the first case, the kingdom of ends is a theoretical idea, adopted to explain what actually is. in the latter it is a practical idea, adopted to bring about that which is not yet, but which can be realised by our conduct, namely, if it conforms to this idea.] there is a progress here in the order of the categories of unity of the form of the will (its universality), plurality of the matter (the objects, i. e. the ends), and totality of the system of these. in forming our moral judgment of actions it is better to proceed always on the strict method, and start from the general formula of the categorical imperative: act according to a maxim which can at the same time make itself a universal law. if, however, we wish to gain an entrance for the moral law, it is very useful to bring one and the same action under the three specified conceptions, and thereby as far as possible to bring it nearer to intuition. we can now end where we started at the beginning, namely, with the conception of a will unconditionally good. that will is absolutely good which cannot be evil, in other words, whose maxim, if made a universal law, could never contradict itself. this principle then is its supreme law: act always on such a maxim as thou canst at the same time will to be a universal law; this is the sole condition under which a will can never contradict itself; and such an imperative is categorical. since the validity of the will as a universal law for possible actions is analogous to the universal connexion of the existence of things by general laws, which is the formal notion of nature in general, the categorical imperative can also be expressed thus: act on maxims which can at the same time have for their object themselves as universal laws of nature. such then is the formula of an absolutely good will. rational nature is distinguished from the rest of nature by this, that it sets before itself an end. this end would be the matter of every good will. but since in the idea of a will that is absolutely good without being limited by any condition (of attaining this or that end) we must abstract wholly from every end to be effected (since this would make every will only relatively good), it follows that in this case the end must be conceived, not as an end to be effected, but as an independently existing end. consequently it is conceived only negatively, i.e., as that which we must never act against, and which, therefore, must never be regarded merely as means, but must in every volition be esteemed as an end likewise. now this end can be nothing but the subject of all possible ends, since this is also the subject of a possible absolutely good will; for such a will cannot without contradiction be postponed to any other object. the principle: so act in regard to every rational being (thyself and others), that he may always have place in thy maxim as an end in himself, is accordingly essentially identical with this other: act upon a maxim which, at the same time, involves its own universal validity for every rational being. for that in using means for every end i should limit my maxim by the condition of its holding good as a law for every subject, this comes to the same thing as that the fundamental principle of all maxims of action must be that the subject of all ends, i. e., the rational being himself, be never employed merely as means, but as the supreme condition restricting the use of all means, that is in every case as an end likewise. it follows incontestably that, to whatever laws any rational being may be subject, he being an end in himself must be able to regard himself as also legislating universally in respect of these same laws, since it is just this fitness of his maxims for universal legislation that distinguishes him as an end in himself; also it follows that this implies his dignity (prerogative) above all mere physical beings, that he must always take his maxims from the point of view which regards himself, and likewise every other rational being, as lawgiving beings (on which account they are called persons). in this way a world of rational beings (mundus intelligibilis) is possible as a kingdom of ends, and this by virtue of the legislation proper to all persons as members. therefore every rational being must so act as if he were by his maxims in every case a legislating member in the universal kingdom of ends. the formal principle of these maxims is: so act as if thy maxim were to serve likewise as the universal law (of all rational beings). a kingdom of ends is thus only possible on the analogy of a kingdom of nature, the former however only by maxims, that is self-imposed rules, the latter only by the laws of efficient causes acting under necessitation from without. nevertheless, although the system of nature is looked upon as a machine, yet so far as it has reference to rational beings as its ends, it is given on this account the name of a kingdom of nature. now such a kingdom of ends would be actually realised by means of maxims conforming to the canon which the categorical imperative prescribes to all rational beings, if they were universally followed. but although a rational being, even if he punctually follows this maxim himself, cannot reckon upon all others being therefore true to the same, nor expect that the kingdom of nature and its orderly arrangements shall be in harmony with him as a fitting member, so as to form a kingdom of ends to which he himself contributes, that is to say, that it shall favour his expectation of happiness, still that law: act according to the maxims of a member of a merely possible kingdom of ends legislating in it universally, remains in its full force, inasmuch as it commands categorically. and it is just in this that the paradox lies; that the mere dignity of a man as a rational creature, without any other end or advantage to be attained thereby, in other words, respect for a mere idea, should yet serve as an inflexible precept of the will, and that it is precisely in this independence of the maxim on all such springs of action that its sublimity consists; and it is this that makes every rational subject worthy to be a legislative member in the kingdom of ends: for otherwise he would have to be conceived only as subject to the physical law of his wants. and although we should suppose the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of ends to be united under one sovereign, so that the latter kingdom thereby ceased to be a mere idea and acquired true reality, then it would no doubt gain the accession of a strong spring, but by no means any increase of its intrinsic worth. for this sole absolute lawgiver must, notwithstanding this, be always conceived as estimating the worth of rational beings only by their disinterested behaviour, as prescribed to themselves from that idea [the dignity of man] alone. the essence of things is not altered by their external relations, and that which abstracting from these, alone constitutes the absolute worth of man, is also that by which he must be judged, whoever the judge may be, and even by the supreme being. morality then is the relation of actions to the autonomy of the will, that is, to the potential universal legislation by its maxims. an action that is consistent with the autonomy of the will is permitted; one that does not agree therewith is forbidden. a will whose maxims necessarily coincide with the laws of autonomy is a holy will, good absolutely. the dependence of a will not absolutely good on the principle of autonomy (moral necessitation) is obligation. this then cannot be applied to a holy being. the objective necessity of actions from obligation is called duty. from what has just been said, it is easy to see how it happens that although the conception of duty implies subjection to the law, we yet ascribe a certain dignity and sublimity to the person who fulfills all his duties. there is not, indeed, any sublimity in him, so far as he is subject to the moral law; but inasmuch as in regard to that very law he is like-wise a legislator, and on that account alone subject to it, he has sublimity. we have also shown above that neither fear nor inclination, but simply respect for the law, is the spring which can give actions a moral worth. our own will, so far as we suppose it to act only under the condition that its maxims are potentially universal laws, this ideal will which is possible to us is the proper object of respect, and the dignity of humanity consists just in this capacity of being universally legislative, though with the condition that it is itself subject to this same legislation. the autonomy of the will as the supreme principle of morality autonomy of the will is that property of it by which it is a law to itself (independently on any property of the objects of volition). the principle of autonomy then is: always so to choose that the same volition shall comprehend the maxims of our choice as a universal law. we cannot prove that this practical rule is an imperative, i.e., that the will of every rational being is necessarily bound to it as a condition, by a mere analysis of the conceptions which occur in it, since it is a synthetical proposition; we must advance beyond the cognition of the objects to a critical examination of the subject, that is of the pure practical reason, for this synthetic proposition which commands apodictically must be capable of being cognised wholly a priori. this matter, however, does not belong to the present section. but that the principle of autonomy in question is the sole principle of morals can be readily shown by mere analysis of the conceptions of morality. for by this analysis we find that its principle must be a categorical imperative, and that what this commands is neither more nor less than this very autonomy. heteronomy of the will as the source of all spurious principles of morality if the will seeks the law which is to determine it anywhere else than in the fitness of its maxims to be universal laws of its own dictation, consequently if it goes out of itself and seeks this law in the character of any of its objects, there always results heteronomy. the will in that case does not give itself the law, but it is given by the object through its relation to the will. this relation whether it rests on inclination or on conceptions of reason only admits of hypothetical imperatives: i ought to do something because _i_ wish for something else. on the contrary, the moral, and therefore categorical, imperative says: i ought to do so and so, even though i should not wish for anything else. ex. gr., the former says: i ought not to lie if i would retain my reputation; the latter says: i ought not to lie although it should not bring me the least discredit. the latter therefore must so far abstract from all objects that they shall have no influence on the will, in order that practical reason (will) may not be restricted to administering an interest not belonging to it, but may simply show its own commanding authority as the supreme legislation. thus, ex. gr., i ought to endeavour to promote the happiness of others, not as if its realization involved any concern of mine (whether by immediate inclination or by any satisfaction indirectly gained through reason), but simply because a maxim which excludes it cannot be comprehended as a universal law [footnote: i read allgemeines instead of allgemeinem.] in one and the same volition. classification of all principles of morality which can be founded on the conception of heteronomy. here as elsewhere human reason in its pure use, so long as it was not critically examined, has first tried all possible wrong ways before it succeeded in finding the one true way. all principles which can be taken from this point of view are either empirical or rational. the former, drawn from the principle of happiness, are built on physical or moral feelings; the latter, drawn from the principle of perfection, are built either on the rational conception of perfection as a possible effect, or on that of an independent perfection (the will of god) as the determining cause of our will. empirical principles are wholly incapable of serving as a foundation for moral laws. for the universality with which these should hold for all rational beings without distinction, the unconditional practical necessity which is thereby imposed on them, is lost when their foundation is taken from the particular constitution of human nature, or the accidental circumstances in which it is placed. the principle of private happiness, however, is the most objectionable, not merely because it is false, and experience contradicts the supposition that prosperity is always proportioned to good conduct, nor yet merely because it contributes nothing to the establishment of morality--since it is quite a different thing to make a prosperous man and a good man, or to make one prudent and sharp- sighted for his own interests, and to make him virtuous--but because the springs it provides for morality are such as rather undermine it and destroy its sublimity, since they put the motives to virtue and to vice in the same class, and only teach us to make a better calculation, the specific difference between virtue and vice being entirely extinguished. on the other hand, as to moral feeling, this supposed special sense [footnote: i class the principle of moral feeling under that of happiness, because every empirical interest promises to contribute to our well-being by the agreeableness that a thing affords, whether it be immediately and without a view to profit, or whether profit be regarded. we must likewise, with hutcheson, class the principle of sympathy with the happiness of others under his assumed moral sense.] the appeal to it is indeed superficial when those who cannot think believe that feeling will help them out, even in what concerns general laws: and besides, feelings which naturally differ infinitely in degree cannot furnish a uniform standard of good and evil, nor has anyone a right to form judgments for others by his own feelings: nevertheless this moral feeling is nearer to morality and its dignity in this respect, that it pays virtue the honour of ascribing to her immediately the satisfaction and esteem we have for her, and does not, as it were, tell her to her face that we are not attached to her by her beauty but by profit. amongst the rational principles of morality, the ontological conception of perfection, notwithstanding its defects, is better than the theological conception which derives morality from a divine absolutely perfect will. the former is, no doubt, empty and indefinite, and consequently useless for finding in the boundless field of possible reality the greatest amount suitable for us; moreover, in attempting to distinguish specifically the reality of which we are now speaking from every other, it inevitably tends to turn in a circle, and cannot avoid tacitly presupposing the morality which it is to explain; it is nevertheless preferable to the theological view, first, because we have no intuition of the divine perfection, and can only deduce it from our own conceptions, the most important of which is that of morality, and our explanation would thus be involved in a gross circle; and, in the next place, if we avoid this, the only notion of the divine will remaining to us is a conception made up of the attributes of desire of glory and dominion, combined with the awful conceptions of might and vengeance, and any system of morals erected on this foundation would be directly opposed to morality. however, if i had to choose between the notion of the moral sense and that of perfection in general (two systems which at least do not weaken morality, although they are totally incapable of serving as its foundation), then i should decide for the latter, because it at least withdraws the decision of the question from the sensibility and brings it to the court of pure reason; and although even here it decides nothing, it at all events preserves the indefinite idea (of a will good in itself) free from corruption, until it shall be more precisely defined. for the rest i think i may be excused here from a detailed refutation of all these doctrines; that would only be superfluous labour, since it is so easy, and is probably so well seen even by those whose office requires them to decide for one of these theories (because their hearers would not tolerate suspension of judgment). but what interests us more here is to know that the prime foundation of morality laid down by all these principles is nothing but heteronomy of the will, and for this reason they must necessarily miss their aim. in every case where an object of the will has to be supposed in order that the rule may be prescribed which is to determine the will, there the rule is simply heteronomy; the imperative is conditional, namely, if or because one wishes for this object, one should act so and so: hence it can never command morally, that is categorically. whether the object determines the will by means of inclination, as in the principle of private happiness, or by means of reason directed to objects of our possible volition generally, as in the principle of perfection, in either case the will never determines itself immediately by the conception of the action, but only by the influence which the foreseen effect of the action has on the will; _i_ ought to do something, on this account, because _i_ wish for something else; and here there must be yet another law assumed in me as its subject, by which i necessarily will this other thing, and this law again requires an imperative to restrict this maxim. for the influence which the conception of an object within the reach of our faculties can exercise on the will of the subject in consequence of its natural properties, depends on the nature of the subject, either the sensibility (inclination and taste), or the understanding and reason, the employment of which is by the peculiar constitution of their nature attended with satisfaction. it follows that the law would be, properly speaking, given by nature, and as such, it must be known and proved by experience, and would consequently be contingent, and therefore incapable of being an apodictic practical rule, such as the moral rule must be. not only so, but it is inevitably only heteronomy; the will does not give itself the law, but it is given by a foreign impulse by means of a particular natural constitution of the subject adapted to receive it. an absolutely good will, then, the principle of which must be a categorical imperative, will be indeterminate as regards all objects, and will contain merely the form of volition generally, and that as autonomy, that is to say, the capability of the maxims of every good will to make themselves a universal law, is itself the only law which the will of every rational being imposes on itself, without needing to assume any spring or interest as a foundation. how such a synthetical practical a priori proposition is possible and why it is necessary, is a problem whose solution does not lie within the bounds of the metaphysic of morals; and we have not here affirmed its truth, much less professed to have a proof of it in our power. we simply showed by the development of the universally received notion of morality that an autonomy of the will is inevitably connected with it, or rather is its foundation. whoever then holds morality to be anything real, and not a chimerical idea without any truth, must likewise admit the principle of it that is here assigned. this section then, like the first, was merely analytical. now to prove that morality is no creation of the brain, which it cannot be if the categorical imperative and with it the autonomy of the will is true, and as an a priori principle absolutely necessary, this supposes the possibility of a synthetic use of pure practical reason, which however we cannot venture on without first giving a critical examination of this faculty of reason. in the concluding section we shall give the principle outlines of this critical examination as far as is sufficient for our purpose. third section transition from the metaphysic of morals to the critique of pure practical reasoh the concept of freedom is the key that explains the autonomy of the will the will is a kind of causality belonging to living beings in so far as they are rational, and freedom would be this property of such causality that it can be efficient, independently on foreign causes determining it; just as physical necessity is the property that the causality of all irrational beings has of being determined to activity by the influence of foreign causes. the preceding definition of freedom is negative, and therefore unfruitful for the discovery of its essence; but it leads to a positive conception which is so much the more full and fruitful since the conception of causality involves that of laws, according to which, by something that we call cause, something else, namely, the effect, must be produced [laid down]; [footnote: (gesetzt.-there is in the original a play on the etymology of gesetz, which does not admit of reproduction in english. it must be confessed that without it the statement is not self-evident.)] hence, although freedom is not a property of the will depending on physical laws, yet it is not for that reason lawless; on the contrary it must be a causality acting according to immutable laws, but of a peculiar kind; otherwise a free will would be an absurdity. physical necessity is a heteronomy of the efficient causes, for every effect is possible only according to this law, that something else determines the efficient cause to exert its causality. what else then can freedom of the will be but autonomy, that is the property of the will to be a law to itself? but the proposition: the will is in every action a law to itself, only expresses the principle, to act on no other maxim than that which can also have as an object itself as a universal law. now this is precisely the formula of the categorical imperative and is the principle of morality, so that a free will and a will subject to moral laws are one and the same. on the hypothesis then of freedom of the will, morality together with its principle follows from it by mere analysis of the conception. however the latter is still a synthetic proposition; viz., an absolutely good will is that whose maxim can always include itself regarded as a universal law; for this property of its maxim can never be discovered by analysing the conception of an absolutely good will. now such synthetic propositions are only possible in this way: that the two cognitions are connected together by their union with a third in which they are both to be found. the positive concept of freedom furnishes this third cognition, which cannot, as with physical causes, be the nature of the sensible world (in the concept of which we find conjoined the concept of something in relation as cause to something else as effect). we cannot now at once show what this third is to which freedom points us, and of which we have an idea a priori, nor can we make intelligible how the concept of freedom is shown to be legitimate from principles of pure practical reason, and with it the possibility of a categorical imperative; but some further preparation is required. freedom must be presupposed as a property of the will of all rational beings it is not enough to predicate freedom of our own will, from whatever reason, if we have not sufficient grounds for predicating the same of all rational beings. for as morality serves as a law for us only because we are rational beings, it must also hold for all rational beings; and as it must be deduced simply from the property of freedom, it must be shown that freedom also is a property of all rational beings. it is not enough then to prove it from certain supposed experiences of human nature (which indeed is quite impossible, and it can only be shown a priori), but we must show that it belongs to the activity of all rational beings endowed with a will. now i say every being that cannot act except under the idea of freedom is just for that reason in a practical point of view really free, that is to say, all laws which are inseparably connected with freedom have the same force for him as if his will had been shown to be free in itself by a proof theoretically conclusive. [footnote: i adopt this method of assuming freedom merely as an idea which rational beings suppose in their actions, in order to avoid the necessity of proving it in its theoretical aspect also. the former is sufficient for my purpose; for even though the speculative proof should not be made out, yet a being that cannot act except with the idea of freedom is bound by the same laws that would oblige a being who was actually free. thus we can escape here from the onus which presses on the theory. (compare butler's treatment of the question of liberty in his "analogy," part i., ch. vi.)] now i affirm that we must attribute to every rational being which has a will that it has also the idea of freedom and acts entirely under this idea. for in such a being we conceive a reason that is practical, that is, has causality in reference to its objects. now we cannot possibly conceive a reason consciously receiving a bias from any other quarter with respect to its judgments, for then the subject would ascribe the determination of its judgment not to its own reason, but to an impulse. it must regard itself as the author of its principles independent on foreign influences. consequently as practical reason or as the will of a rational being it must regard itself as free, that is to say, the will of such a being cannot be a will of its own except under the idea of freedom. this idea must therefore in a practical point of view be ascribed to every rational being. of the interest attaching to the ideas of morality we have finally reduced the definite conception of morality to the idea of freedom. this latter, however, we could not prove to be actually a property of ourselves or of human nature; only we saw that it must be presupposed if we would conceive a being as rational and conscious of its causality in respect of its actions, i. e., as endowed with a will; and so we find that on just the same grounds we must ascribe to every being endowed with reason and will this attribute of determining itself to action under the idea of its freedom. now it resulted also from the presupposition of this idea that we became aware of a law that the subjective principles of action, i.e., maxims, must always be so assumed that they can also hold as objective, that is, universal principles, and so serve as universal laws of our own dictation. but why then should i subject myself to this principle and that simply as a rational being, thus also subjecting to it all other beings endowed with reason? i will allow that no interest urges me to this, for that would not give a categorical imperative, but i must take an interest in it and discern how this comes to pass; for this "i ought" is properly an "i would," valid for every rational being, provided only that reason determined his actions without any hindrance. but for beings that are in addition affected as we are by springs of a different kind, namely, sensibility, and in whose case that is not always done which reason alone would do, for these that necessity is expressed only as an "ought," and the subjective necessity is different from the objective. it seems then as if the moral law, that is, the principle of autonomy of the will, were properly speaking only presupposed in the idea of freedom, and as if we could not prove its reality and objective necessity independently. in that case we should still have gained something considerable by at least determining the true principle more exactly than had previously been done; but as regards its validity and the practical necessity of subjecting oneself to it, we should not have advanced a step. for if we were asked why the universal validity of our maxim as a law must be the condition restricting our actions, and on what we ground the worth which we assign to this manner of acting--a worth so great that there cannot be any higher interest; and if we were asked further how it happens that it is by this alone a man believes he feels his own personal worth, in comparison with which that of an agreeable or disagreeable condition is to be regarded as nothing, to these questions we could give no satisfactory answer. we find indeed sometimes that we can take an interest [footnote: "interest" means a spring of the will, in so far as this spring is presented by reason. see note, p. .] in a personal quality which does not involve any interest of external condition, provided this quality makes us capable of participating in the condition in case reason were to effect the allotment; that is to say, the mere being worthy of happiness can interest of itself even without the motive of participating in this happiness. this judgment, however, is in fact only the effect of the importance of the moral law which we before presupposed (when by the idea of freedom we detach ourselves from every empirical interest); but that we ought to detach ourselves from these interests, i. e., to consider ourselves as free in action and yet as subject to certain laws, so as to find a worth simply in our own person whiph can compensate us for the loss of everything that give worth to our condition; this we are not yet able to discern in this way, nor do we see how it is possible so to act--in other words, whence the moral law derives its obligation. it must be freely admitted that there is a sort of circle here from which it seems impossible to escape. in the order of efficient causes we assume ourselves free, in order that in the order of ends we may conceive ourselves as subject to moral laws: and we afterwards conceive ourselves as subject to these laws, bjecause we have attributed to ourselves freedom of will: for freedom and self- legislation of will are both autonomy, and therefore are reciprocal conceptions, and for this very reason one must not be used to explain the other or give the reason of it, but at most only for logical purposes to reduce apparently different notions of the same object to one single concept (as we reduce different fractions of the same value to the lowest terms). one resource retrains to us, namely, to inquire whether we do not occupy different points of view when by means of freedom we think ourselves as causes efficient a priori, and when we form our conception of ourselves from our actions as effects which we see before our eyes. it is a remark which needs no subtle reflection to make, but which we may assume that even the commonest understanding can make, although it be after its fashion by an obscure discernment of judgment which it calls feeling, that all the "ideas" [footnote: the common understanding being here spoken of, i use the word "idea" in its popular sense.] that comes to us involuntarily (as those of the senses) do not enable us to know objects otherwise than as they affect us; so that what they may be in themselves remains unknown to us, and consequently that as regards "ideas" of this kind even with the closest attention and clearness that the understanding can apply to them, we can by them only attain to the knowledge of appearances, never to that of things in themselves. as soon as this distinction has once been made (perhaps merely in consequence of the difference observed between the ideas given us from without, and in which we are passive, and those that we produce simply from ourselves, and in which we show our own activity), then it follows of itself that we must admit and assume behind the appearance something else that is not an appearance, namely, the things in themselves; although we must admit that as they can never be known to us except as they affect us, we can come no nearer to them, nor can we ever know what they are in themselves. this must furnish a distinction, however crude, between a world of sense and the world of understanding, of which the former may be different according to the difference of the sensuous impressions in--various observers, while the second which is its basis always remains the same. even as to himself, a man cannot pretend to know what he is in himself from the knowledge he has by internal sensation. for as he does not as it were create himself, and does not come by the conception of himself a priori but empirically, it naturally follows that he can obtain his knowledge even of himself only by the inner sense, and consequently only through the appearances of his nature and the way in which his consciousness is affected. at the same time beyond these characteristics of his own subject, made up of mere appearances, he must necessarily suppose something else as their basis, namely, his ego, whatever its characteristics in itself may be. thus in respect to mere perception and receptivity of sensations he must reckon himself as belonging to the world of sense, but in respect of whatever there may be of pure activity in him (that which reaches consciousness immediately and not through affecting the senses) he must reckon himself as belonging to the intellectual world, of which, however, he has no further knowledge. to such a conclusion the reflecting man must come with respect ito all the things which can be presented to him: it is probably to be met with even in persons of the commonest understanding, who, as is well known, are very much inclined to suppose behind the objects of the senses something else invisible and acting of itself. they spoil it, however, by presently sensualizing this invisible again; that is to say, wanting to make it an object of intuition, so that they do not become a whit the wiser. now man really finds in himself a faculty by which he distinguishes himself from everything else, even from himself as affected by objects, and that is reason. this being pure spontaneity is even elevated above the understanding. for although the latter is a spontaneity and does not, like sense, merely contain intuitions that arise when we are affected by things (and are therefore passive), yet it cannot produce from its activity any other conceptions than those which merely serve to bring the intuitions of sense under rulesf and thereby to unite them in one consciousness, and without this use of the sensibility it could not think at all; whereas, on the contrary, reason shows so pure a spontaneity in the case of what i call ideas [ideal conceptions] that it thereby far transcends everything that the sensibility can give it, and exhibits its most important function in distinguishing the world of sense from that of understanding, and thereby prescribing the limits of the understanding itself. for this reason a rational being must regard himself qua intelligence (not from the side of his lower faculties) as belonging not to the world of sense, but to that of understanding; hence he has two points of view from which he can regard himself, and recognise laws of the exercise of his faculties, and consequently of all his actions: first, so far as he belongs to the world of sense, he finds himself subject to laws of nature (heteronomy); secondly, as belonging to the intelligible world, under laws which being independent on nature have their foundation not in experience but in reason alone. as a rational being, and consequently belonging to the intelligible world, man can never conceive the causality of his own will otherwise than on condition of the idea of freedom. for independence on the determining causes of the sensible world (an independence which reason must always ascribe to itself) is freedom. now the idea of freedom is inseparably connected with the conception of autonomy, and this again with the universal principle of morality which is ideally the foundation of all actions of rational beings, just as the law of nature is of all phenomena. now the suspicion is removed which we raised above, that there was a latent circle involved in our reasoning from freedom to autonomy, and from this to the moral law, viz.: that we laid down the idea of freedom because of the moral law only that we might afterwards in turn infer the latter from freedom and that consequently we could assign no reason at all for this law, but could only [present] [footnote: the verb is wanting in the original.] it as a petitio principii which well disposed minds would gladly concede to us, but which we could never put forward as a provable proposition. for now we see that when we conceive ourselves as free we transfer ourselves into the--world of understanding as members of it, and recognise the autonomy of the will with its consequence, morality; whereas, if we conceive ourselves as under obligation we consider ourselves as belonging to the world of sense, and at the same time to the world of understanding. how is a categorical imperative possible? every rational being reckons himself qua intelligence as belonging to the world of understanding, and it is simply as an efficient cause belonging to that world that he calls his causality a will. on the other side he is also conscious of himself as a part of the world of sense in which his actions which are mere appearances [phenomena] of that causality are displayed; we cannot, however, discern how they are possible from this causality which we do not know; but instead of that, these actions as belonging to the sensible world must be viewed as determined by other phenomena, namely,--desires and inclinations. if therefore i were only a member of the world of understanding, then all my actions would perfectly conform to the principle of autonomy of the pure will; if i were only a part of the world of sense they would necessarily be assumed to conform wholly to the natural law of desires and inclinations, in other words, to the heteronomy of nature. (the former would rest on morality as the supreme principle, the latter on happiness.), since, however, the world of understanding contains the foundation of the world of sense, and consequently of its laws alsof and accordingly gives the law to my will (which belongs wholly to the world of understanding) directly, and must be conceived as doing so, it follows that, although on the one side i must regard myself as a being belonging to the world of sense, yet on the other side i must recognise myself as subject as an intelligence to the law of the world of understanding, i. e., to reason, which contains this law in the idea of freedom, and therefore as subject to the autonomy of the will: consequently i must regard the laws of the world of understanding as imperatives for me, and the actions which conform to them as duties. and thus what makes categorical imperatives possible is this, that the idea of freedom makes me a member of an intelligible world, in consequence of which if i were nothing else all my actions would always conform to the autonomy of the will; but as i at the same time intuite myself as a member of the world of sense, they ought so to conform, and this categorical "ought" implies a synthetic a priori proposition, inasmuch as besides my will as affected by sensible desires there is added further the idea of the same will but as belonging to the world of the understanding, pure and practical of itself, which contains the supreme condition according to reason of the former will; precisely as to the intuitions of sense there are added concepts of the understanding which of themselves signify nothing but regular form in general, and in this way synthetic a priori propositions become possible, on which all knowledge of physical nature rests. the practical use of common human reason confirms this reasoning. there is no one, not even the most consummate villain, provided only that he is otherwise accustomed to the use of reason, who, when we set before him examples of tionesty of purposea of steadfastness in following good maxims, of sympathy and general benevolence (even combined with great sacrifices of advantages and comfort), does not wish that he might also possess these qualities. only on account of his inclinations and impulses he cannot attain this in himself, but at the same time he wishes to be free from such inclinations which are burdensome to himself. he proves by this that he transfers himself in thought with a will free from the impulses of--the sensibility into an order of things wholly different from that of his desires in the field of the sensibility; since he cannot expect to obtain by that wish any gratification of his desires, nor any position which would satisfy any of his actual or supposable inclinations (for this would destroy the pre-eminence of the very idea which wrests that wish from him): he can only expect a greater intrinsic worth of his own person. this better person, however, he imagines himself to be when he transfers himself to the point of view of a member of the world of the understanding, to which he is involuntarily forced by the idea of freedom, i. e., of independence on determining causes of the world of sense; and from this point of view he is conscious of a good will, which by his own confession constitutes the law for the bad will that he possesses as a member of the world of sense-a law whose authority he recognises while transgressing it. what he morally "ought" is then what he necessarily "would" as a member of the world of the understanding, and is conceived by him as an "ought" only inasmuch as he likewise considers himself as a member of the world of sense. on the extreme limits of all practical philosophy all men attribute to themselves freedom of will. hence come all judgments upon actions as being such as ought to have been done, although they have not been done. however, this freedom is not a conception of experience, nor can it be so, since it still remains, even though experience shows the contrary of what on supposition of freedom are conceived as its necessary consequences. on the other side it is equally necessary that everything that takes place should be fixedly determined according to laws of nature. this necessity of nature is likewise tot an empirical conception, just for this reason, that it involves the motion of necessity and consequently of a priori cognition. but this conception of a system of nature is confirmed by experience, and it must even be inevitably presupposed if experience itself is to be possible, that is, a connected knowledge of the objects of sense resting on general laws. therefore freedom is only an idea [ideal conception] of reason, and its objective reality in itself is doubtful, while nature is a concept of the understanding which proves, and must necessarily prove, its reality in examples of experience. there arises from this a dialectic of reason, since the freedom attributed to the will appears to contradict the necessity of nature, and placed between these two ways reason for speculative purposes finds the road of physical necessity much more beaten and more appropriate than that of freedom; yet for practical purposes the narrow footpath of freedom is the only one on which it is possible to make use of reason in our conduct; hence it is just as impossible for the subtlest philosophy as for the commonest reason of men to argue away freedom. philosophy must then assume that no real contradiction will be found between freedom and physical necessity of the same human actions, for it cannot give up the conception of nature any more than that of freedom. nevertheless, even though we should never be able to comprehend how freedom is possible, we must at least remove this apparent contradiction in a convincing manner. for if the thought of freedom contradicts either itself or nature, which is equally necessary, it must in competition with physical necessity be entirely given up. it would, however, be impossible to escape this contradiction if the thinking subject, which seems to itself free, conceived itself in the same sense or in the very same relation when it calls itself free as when in respect of the same action it assumes itself to be subject to the law of nature. hence it is an indispensable problem of speculative philosophy to show that its illusion respecting the contradiction rests on this, that we think of man in a different sense and relation when we call him free, and when we regard him as subject to the laws of nature as being part and parcel of nature. it must, therefore, show that not only can both these very well co- exist, but that both must be thought as necessarily united in the same subject, since otherwise no reason could be given why we should burden reason with an idea which, though it may possibly without contradiction be reconciled with another that is sufficiently established, yet entangles us in a perplexity which sorely embarrasses reason in its theoretic employment. this duty, however, belongs only to speculative philosophy, in order that it may clear the way for practical philosophy. the philosopher then has no option whether he will remove the apparent contradiction or leave it untouched; for in fhe latter case the theory respecting this would be bonum vacans into the possession of which the fatalist would have a right to enter, and chase all morality out of its supposed domain as occupying it without title. we cannot, however, as yet say that we are touching the bounds of practical philosophy. for the settlement of that controversy does not belong to it; it only demands from speculative reason $hat it should put an end to the discord in which it entangles itself in theoretical questions, so that practical reason may have rest and security from external attacks which might make the ground debatable on which it desires to build. the claims to freedom of will made even by common reason are founded on the consciousness and the admitted supposition that reason is independent on merely subjectively determined causes which together constitute what belongs to sensation only, and which consequently come under the general designation of sensibility. man considering himself in this way as an intelligence, places himself thereby in a different order of things and in a relation to determining grounds of a wholly different kind when on the one hand he thinks of himself as an intelligence endowed with a will, and consequently with causality, and when on the other he perceives himself as a phenomenon in the world of sense (as he really is also), and affirms that his causality is subject to external determination according to laws of nature. [footnote: the punctuation of the original gives the following sense: "submits his causality, as regards its external determination, to laws of nature." have ventured to make what appears to be a necessary correction, by simply removing a comma.] now he soon becomes aware that both can hold good, nay, must hold good at the same time. for there is not the smallest contradiction in saying that a thing in appearance (belonging to the world of sense) is subject to certain laws, on which the very same as a thing or being in itself is independent; and that he must conceive and think of himself in this twofold way, rests as to the first on the consciousness of himself as an object affected through the senses, and as to the second on the consciousness of himself as an intelligence, i. e., as independent on sensible impressions in the employment of his reason (in other words as belonging to the world of understanding). hence it comes to pass that man claims the possession of a will which takes no account of anything that comes under the head of desires and inclinations, and on the contrary conceives actions as possible to him, nay, even as necessary, which can only be done by disregarding all desires and sensible inclinations. the causality of such actions [footnote: m. barni translates as if he read desselben instead of derselben, "the causality of this will." so also mr. semple.] lies in him as an intelligence and in the laws of effects and actions [which depend] on the principles of an intelligible world, of which indeed he knows nothing more than that in it pure reason alone independent on sensibility gives the law; moreover since it is only in that world, as an intelligence, that he is his proper self (being as man only the appearance of himself) those laws apply to him directly and categorically, so that the incitements of inclinations and appetites (in other words the whole nature of the world of sense) cannot impair the laws of his volition as an intelligence. nay, he does not even hold himself responsible for the former or ascribe them to his proper self, i. e., his will: he only ascribes to his will any indulgence which he might yield them if he allowed them to influence his maxims to the prejudice of the rational laws of the will. when practical reason thinks itself into a world of understanding it does not thereby transcend its own limits, as it would if it tried to enter it by intuition or sensation. the former is only a negative thought in respect of the world of sense, which does not give any laws to reason in determining the will, and is positive only in this single point that this freedom as a negative characteristic is at the same time conjoined with a (positive) faculty and even with a causality of reason, which we designate a will, namely, a faculty of so acting that the principle of the actions shall conform to the essential character of a rational motive, i. e., the condition that the maxim have universal validity as a law. but were it to borrow an object of will, that is, a motive, from the world of understanding, then it would overstep its bounds and pretend to be acquainted with something of which it knows nothing. the conception of a world of the understanding is then only a point of view which reason finds itself compelled to take outside the appearances in order to conceive itself as practical, which would not be possible if the influences of the sensibility had a determining power on man, but which is necessary unless he is to be denied the consciousness of himself as an intelligence, and consequently as a rational cause, energizing by reason, that is, operating freely. this thought certainly involves the idea of an order and a system of laws different from that of the mechanism of nature which belongs to the sensible world, and it makes the conception of an intelligible world necessary (that is to say, the whole system of rational beings as things in themselves). but it does not in the least authorize us to think of it further than as to its formal condition only, that is, the universality of the maxims of the will as laws, and consequently the autonomy of the latter, which alone is consistent with its freedom; whereas, on the contrary, all laws that refer to a definite object give heteronomy, which only belongs to laws of nature, and can only apply to the sensible world. but reason would overstep all its bounds if it undertook to explain how pure reason can be practical, which would be exactly the same problem as to explain how freedom is possible. for we can explain nothing but that which we can reduce to laws, the object of which can be given in some possible experience. but freedom is a mere idea [ideal conception], the objective reality of which can in no wise be shown according to laws of nature, and consequently not in any possible experience; and for this reason it can never be comprehended or understood, because we cannot support it by any sort of example or analogy. it holds good only as a necessary hypothesis of reason in a being that believes itself conscious of a will, that is, of a faculty distinct from mere desire (namely, a faculty of determining itself to action as an intelligence), in other words, by laws of reason independently on natural instincts. now where determination according to laws of nature ceases, there all explanation ceases also, and nothing remains but defence, i. e. the removal of the objections of those who pretend to have seen deeper into the nature of things, and thereupon boldly declare freedom impossible. we can only point out to them that the supposed contradiction that they have discovered in it arises only from this, that in order to be able to apply the law of nature to human actions, they must necessarily consider man as an appearance: then when we demand of them that they should also think of him qua intelligence as a thing in itself, they still persist in considering him in this respect also as an appearance. in this view it would no doubt be a contradiction to suppose the causality of the same subject (that is, his will) to be withdrawn from all the natural laws of the sensible world. but this contradiction disappears, if they would only bethink themselves and admit, as is reasonable, that behind the appearances there must also lie at their root (although hidden) the things in themselves, and that we cannot expect the laws of these to be the same as those that govern their appearances. the subjective impossibility of explaining the freedom of the will is identical with the impossibility of discovering and explaining an interest [footnote: interest is that by which reason becomes practical, i. e., a cause determining the will. hence we say of rational beings only that they take an interest in a thing; irrational beings only feel sensual appetites. reason takes a direct interest in action then only when the universal validity of its maxims is alone sufficient to determine the will. such an interest alone is pure. but if it can determine the will only by means of another object of desire or on the suggestion of a particular feeling of the subject, then reason takes only an indirect interest in the action, and as reason by itself without experience cannot discover either objects of the will or a special feeling actuating it, this latter interest would only be empirical, and not a pure rational interest. the logical interest of reason (namely, to extend its insight) is never direct, but presupposes purposes for which reason is employed.] which man can take in the moral law. nevertheless he does actually take an interest in it, the basis of which in us we call the moral feeling, which some have falsely assigned as the standard of our moral judgment, whereas it must rather be viewed as the subjective effect that the law exercises on the will, the objective principle of which is furnished by reason alone. in order indeed that a rational being who is also affected through the senses should will what reason alone directs such beings that they ought to will, it is no doubt requisite that reason should have a power to infuse a feeling of pleasure or satisfaction in the fulfilment of duty, that is to say, that it should have a causality by which it determines the sensibility according to its own principles. but it is quite impossible to discern, i. e., to make it intelligible a priori, how a mere thought, which itself contains nothing sensible, can itself produce a sensation of pleasure or pain; for this is a particular kind of causality of which as of every other causality we can determine nothing whatever a priori, we must only consult experience about it. but as this cannot supply us with any relation of cause and effect except between two objects of experience, whereas in this case, although indeed the effect produced lies within experience, yet the cause is supposed to be pure reason acting through mere ideas which offer no object to experience, it follows that for us men it is quite impossible to explain how and why the universality of the maxim as a law, that is, morality, interests. this only is certain, that it is not because it interests us that it has validity for us (for that would be heteronomy and dependence of practical reason on sensibility, namely, on a feeling as its principle, in which case it could never give moral laws), but that it interests us because it is valid for us as men, inasmuch as it had its source in our will as intelligences, in other words in our proper self, and what belongs to mere appearance is necessarily subordinated by reason to the nature of the thing in itself. the question then: how a categorical imperative is possible can be answered to this extent that we can assign the only hypothesis on which it is possible, namely, the idea of freedom; and we can also discern the necessity of this hypothesis, and this is sufficient for the practical exercise of reason, that is, for the conviction of the validity of this imperative, and hence of the moral law; but how this hypothesis itself is possible can never be discerned by any human reason. on the hypothesis, however, that the will of an intelligence is free, its autonomy, as the essential formal condition of its determination, is a necessary consequence. moreover, this freedom of will is not merely quite possible as a hypothesis (not involving any contradiction to the principle of physical necessity in the connexion of the phenomena of the sensible world) as speculative philosophy can show: but further, a rational being who is conscious of a causality [footnote: reading "einer" for "seiner."] through reason, that is to say, of a will (distinct from desires), must of necessity make it practically, that is, in idea, the condition of all his voluntary actions. but to explain how pure reason can be of itself practical without the aid of any spring of action that could be derived from any other source, i. e. how the mere principle of the universal validity of all its maxims as laws (which would certainly be the form of a pure practical reason) can of itself supply a spring, without any matter (object) of the will in which one could antecedently take any interest; and how it can produce an interest which would be called purely moral; or in other words, how pure reason can be practical--to explain this is beyond the power of human reason, and all the labour and pains of seeking an explanation of it are lost. it is just the same as if i sought to find out how freedom itself is possible as the causality of a will. for then i quit the ground of philosophical explanation, and i have no other to go upon. i might indeed revel in the world of intelligences which still remains to me, but although i have an idea of it which is well founded, yet i have not the least knowledge of it, nor can i ever attain to such knowledge with all the efforts of my natural faculty of reason. it signifies only a something that remains over when i have eliminated everything belonging to the world of sense from the actuating principles of my will, serving merely to keep in bounds the principle of motives taken from the field of sensibility; fixing its limits and showing that it does not contain all in all within itself, but that there is more beyond it; but this something more i know no further. of pure reason which frames this ideal, there remains after the abstraction of all matter, i. e., knowledge of objects, nothing but the form, namely, the practical law of the universality of the maxims, and in conformity with this the conception of reason in reference to a pure world of understanding as a possible efficient cause, that is a cause determining the will. there must here be a total absence of springs; unless this idea of an intelligible world is itself the spring, or that in which reason primarily takes an interest; but to make this intelligible is precisely the problem that we cannot solve. here now is the extreme limit of all moral inquiry, and it is of great importance to determine it even on this account, in order that reason may not on the one hand, to the prejudice of morals, seek about in the world of sense for the supreme motive and an interest comprehensible but empirical; and on the other hand, that it may not impotently flap its wings without being able to move in the (for it) empty space of transcendent concepts which we call the intelligible world, and so lose itself amidst chimeras. for the rest, the idea of a pure world of understanding as a system of all intelligences, and to which we ourselves as tational beings belong (although we are likewise on the other side members of the sensible world), this remains always a useful and legitimate idea for the purposes of rational belief, although all knowledge stops at its threshold, useful, namely, to produce in us a lively interest in the moral law by means of the noble ideal of a universal kingdom of ends in themselves (rational beings), to which we can belong as members then only when we carefully conduct ourselves according to the maxims of freedom as if they were laws of nature. concluding remark the speculative employment of reason with respect to nature leads to the absolute necessity of some supreme cause of the world: the practical employment of reason with a view to freedom leads also to absolute necessity, but only of the laws of the actions of a rational being as such. now it is an essential principle of reason, however employed, to push its knowledge to a consciousness of its necessity (without which it would not be rational knowledge). it is however an equally essential restriction of the same reason that it can neither discern the necessity of what is or what happens, nor of what ought to happen, unless a condition is supposed on which it is or happens or ought to happen. in this way, however, by the constant inquiry for the condition, the satisfaction of reason is only further and further postponed. hence it unceasingly seeks the unconditionally necessary, and finds itself forced to assume it, although without any means of making it comprehensible to itself, happy enough if only it can discover a conception which agrees with this assumption. it is therefore no fault in our deduction of the supreme principle of morality, but an objection that should be made to human reason in general, that it cannot enable us to conceive the absolute necessity of an unconditional practical law (such as the categorical imperative must be). it cannot be blamed for refusing to explain this necessity by a condition, that is to say, by means of some interest assumed as a basis, since the law would then cease to be a moral law, i. e. a supreme law of freedom. and thus while we do not comprehend the practical unconditional necessity of the moral imperative, we yet comprehend its incomprehensibility, and this is all that can be fairly demanded of a philosophy which strives to carry its principles up to the very limit of human reason. byron and goethe by giuseppe mazzini introductory note giuseppe mazzini, the great political idealist of the italian struggle for independence, was born at genoa, june , . his faith in democracy and his enthusiasm for a free italy he inherited from his parents; and while still a student in the university of genoa he gathered round him a circle of youths who shared his dreams. at the age of twenty-two he joined the secret society of the carbonari, and was sent on a mission to tuscany, where he was entrapped and arrested. on his release, he set about the formation, among the italian exiles in marseilles, of the society of young italy, which had for its aim the establishment of a free and united italian republic. his activities led to a decree for his banishment from france, but he succeeded in outwitting the spies of the government and going on with his work. the conspiracy for a national rising planned by young italy was discovered, many of the leaders were executed, and mazsini himself condemned to death. almost at once, however, he resumed operations, working this time from geneva; but another abortive expedition led to his expulsion from switzerland. he found refuge, but at first hardly a livelihood, in london, where he continued his propaganda by means of his pen. he went back to italy when the revolution of broke out, and fought fiercely but in vain against the french, when they besieged rome and ended the roman republic in . defeated and broken, he returned to england, where he remained till called to italy by the insurrection of . he worked with garibaldi for some time; but the kingdom established under victor emmanuel by cavour and garibaldi was far from the ideal italy for which mazsini had striven. the last years of his life were spent mainly in london, but at the end he returned to italy, where he died on march , . hardly has any age seen a political martyr of a purer or nobler type. massini's essay on byron and goethe is more than literary criticism, for it exhibits that philosophical quality which gives so remarkable a unity to the writings of massini, whether literary, social, or political. byron and goethe i stood one day in a swiss village at the foot of the jura, and watched the coming of the storm. heavy black clouds, their edges purpled by the setting sun, were rapidly covering the loveliest sky in europe, save that of italy. thunder growled in the distance, and gusts of biting wind were driving huge drops of rain over the thirsty plain. looking upwards, i beheld a large alpine falcon, now rising, now sinking, as he floated bravely in the very midst of the storm and i could almost fancy that he strove to battle with it. at every fresh peal of thunder, the noble bird bounded higher aloft, as if in answering defiance. i followed him with my eyes for a long time, until he disappeared in the east. on the ground, about fifty paces beneath me, stood a stork; perfectly tranquil and impassive in the midst of the warring elements. twice or thrice she turned her head towards the quarter from whence the wind came, with an indescribable air of half indifferent curiosity; but at length she drew up one of her long sinewy legs, hid her head beneath her wing, and calmly composed herself to sleep. i thought of byron and goethe; of the stormy sky that overhung both; of the tempest-tossed existence, the lifelong struggle, of the one, and the calm of the other; and of the two mighty sources of poetry exhausted and closed by them. byron and goethe--the two names that predominate, and, come what may, ever will predominate, over our every recollection of the fifty years that have passed away. they rule; the master-minds, i might almost say the tyrants, of a whole period of poetry; brilliant, yet sad; glorious in youth and daring, yet cankered by the worm in the bud, despair. they are the two representative poets of two great schools; and around them we are compelled to group all the lesser minds which contributed to render the era illustrious. the qualities which adorn and distinguish their works are to be found, although more thinly scattered, in other poets their contemporaries; still theirs are the names that involuntarily rise to our lips whenever we seek to characterize the tendencies of the age in which they lived. their genius pursued different, even opposite routes; and yet very rarely do our thoughts turn to either without evoking the image of the other, as a sort of necessary complement to the first. the eyes of europe were fixed upon the pair, as the spectators gaze on two mighty wrestlers in the same arena; and they, like noble and generous adversaries, admired, praised, and held out the hand to each other. many poets have followed in their footsteps; none have been so popular. others have found judges and critics who have appreciated them calmly and impartially; not so they: for them there have been only enthusiasts or enemies, wreaths or stones; and when they vanished into the vast night that envelops and transforms alike men and things--silence reigned around their tombs. little by little, poetry had passed away from our world, and it seemed as if their last sigh had extinguished the sacred flame. a reaction has now commenced; good, in so far as it reveals a desire for and promise of new life; evil, in so far as it betrays narrow views, a tendency to injustice towards departed genius, and the absence of any fixed rule or principle to guide our appreciation of the past. human judgment, like luther's drunken peasant, when saved from falling on one side, too often topples over on the other. the reaction against goethe, in his own country especially, which was courageously and justly begun by menzel during his lifetime, has been carried to exaggeration since his death. certain social opinions, to which i myself belong, but which, although founded on a sacred principle, should not be allowed to interfere with the impartiality of our judgment, have weighed heavily in the balance; and many young, ardent, and enthusiastic minds of our day have reiterated with bonne that goethe is the worst of despots; the cancer of the german body. the english reaction against byron--i do not speak of that mixture of cant and stupidity which denies the poet his place in westminster abbey, but of literary reaction--has shown itself still more unreasoning. i have met with adorers of shelley who denied the poetic genius of byron; others who seriously compared his poems with those of sir walter scott. one very much overrated critic writes that "byron makes man after his own image, and woman after his own heart; the one is a capricious tyrant, the other a yielding slave." the first forgot the verses in which their favorite hailed "the pilgrim of eternity, whose fame over his living head like heaven is bent;" [footnote: adonais.] the second, that after the appearance of "the giaour" and "childe harold," sir walter scott renounced writing poetry. [footnote: lockhart.] the last forgot that while he was quietly writing criticisms, byron was dying for new-born liberty in greece. all judged, too many in each country still judge, the two poets, byron and goethe, after an absolute type of the beautiful, the true, or the false, which they had formed in their own minds; without regard to the state of social relations as they were or are; without any true conception of the destiny or mission of poetry, or of the law by which it, and every other artistic manifestation of human life, is governed. there is no absolute type on earth: the absolute exists in the divine idea alone; the gradual comprehension of which man is destined to attain; although its complete realization is impossible on earth; earthly life being but one stage of the eternal evolution of life, manifested in thought and action; strengthened by all the achievements of the past, and advancing from age to age towards a less imperfect expression of that idea. our earthly life is one phase of the eternal aspiration of the soul towards progress, which is our law ascending in increasing power and purity from the finite towards the infinite; from the real towards the ideal; from that which is, towards that which is to come. in the immense storehouse of the past evolutions of life constituted by universal tradition, and in the prophetic instinct brooding in the depths of the human soul, does poetry seek inspiration. it changes with the times, for it is their expression; it is transformed with society, for-- consciously or unconsciously--it sings the lay of humanity; although, according to the individual bias or circumstances of the singer, it assumes the hues of the present, or of the future in course of elaboration, and foreseen by the inspiration of genius. it sings now a dirge and now a cradle song; it initiates or sums up. byron and goethe summed up. was it a defect in them? no; it was the law of the times, and yet society at the present day, twenty years after they have ceased to sing, assumes to condemn them for having been born too soon. happy indeed are the poets whom god raises up at the commencement of an era, under the rays of the rising sun. a series of generations will lovingly repeat their verses, and attribute to them the new life which they did but foresee in the germ. byron and goethe summed up. this is at once the philosophical explanation of their works, and the secret of their popularity. the spirit of an entire epoch of the european world became incarnate in them ere its decease, even as--in the political sphere--the spirit of greece and rome became incarnate before death in caesar and alexander. they were the poetic expression of that principle, of which england was the economic, france the political, and germany the philosophic expression: the last formula, effort, and result of a society founded on the principle of individuality. that epoch, the mission of which had been, first through the labors of greek philosophy, and afterwards through christianity, to rehabilitate, emancipate, and develop individual man--appears to have concentrated in them, in fichte, in adam smith, and in the french school des drolls de l'homme, its whole energy and power, in order fully to represent and express all that it had achieved for mankind. it was much; but it was not the whole; and therefore it was doomed to pass away. the epoch of individuality was deemed near the goal; when low immense horizons were revealed; vast unknown lands in whose untrodden forests the principle of individuality was an insufficient guide. by the long and painful labors of that epoch the human unknown quantity had been disengaged from the various quantities of different nature by which it had been surrounded; but only to be left weak, isolated, and recoiling in terror from the solitude in which it stood. the political schools of the epoch had proclaimed the sole basis of civil organization to be the right to liberty and equality (liberty for all), but they had encountered social anarchy by the way. the philosophy of the epoch had asserted the sovereignty of the human ego, and had ended in the mere adoration of fact, in hegelian immobility. the economy of the epoch imagined it had organized free competition, while it had but organized the oppression of the weak by the strong; of labor by capital; of poverty by wealth. the poetry of the epoch had represented individuality in its every phase; had translated in sentiment what science had theoretically demonstrated; and it had encountered the void. but as society at last discovered that the destinies of the race were not contained in a mere problem of liberty, but rather in the harmonization of liberty with association--so did poetry discover that the life it had hitherto drawn from individuality alone was doomed to perish for want of aliment; and that its future existence depended on enlarging and transforming its sphere. both society and poetry uttered a cry of despair: the death-agony of a form of society produced the agitation we have seen constantly increasing in europe since : the death-agony of a form of poetry evoked byron and goethe. i believe this point of view to be the only one that can lead us to a useful and impartial appreciation of these two great spirits. there are two forms of individuality; the expressions of its internal and external, or--as the germans would say--of its subjective and objective life. byron was the poet of the first, goethe of the last. in byron the ego is revealed in all its pride of power, freedom, and desire, in the uncontrolled plenitude of all its faculties; inhaling existence at every pore, eager to seize "the life of life." the world around him neither rules nor tempers him. the byronian ego aspires to rule it; but solely for dominion's sake, to exercise upon it the titanic force of his will. accurately speaking, he cannot be said to derive from it either color, tone, or image; for it is he who colors; he who sings; he whose image is everywhere reflected and reproduced. his poetry emanates from his own soul; to be thence diffused upon things external; he holds his state in the centre of the universe, and from thence projects the light radiating from the depths of his own mind; as scorching and intense as the concentrated solar ray. hence that terrible unity which only the superficial reader could mistake for monotony. byron appears at the close of one epoch, and before the dawn of the other; in the midst of a community based upon an aristocracy which has outlived the vigor of its prime; surrounded by a europe containing nothing grand, unless it be napoleon on one side and pitt on the other, genius degraded to minister to egotism; intellect bound to the service of the past. no seer exists to foretell the future: belief is extinct; there is only its pretence: prayer is no more; there is only a movement of the lips at a fixed day or hour, for the sake of the family, or what is called the people; love is no more; desire has taken its place; the holy warfare of ideas is abandoned; the conflict is that of interests. the worship of great thoughts has passed away. that which is, raises the tattered banner of some corpse-like traditions; that which would be, hoists only the standard of physical wants, of material appetites: around him are ruins, beyond him the desert; the horizon is a blank. a long cry of suffering and indignation bursts from the heart of byron: he is answered by anathemas. he departs; he hurries through europe in search of an ideal to adore; he traverses it distracted, palpitating, like mazeppa on the wild horse; borne onwards by a fierce desire; the wolves of envy and calumny follow in pursuit. he visits greece; he visits italy; if anywhere a lingering spark of the sacred fire, a ray of divine poetry, is preserved, it must be there. nothing. a glorious past, a degraded present; none of life's poetry; no movement, save that of the sufferer turning on his couch to relieve his pain. byron, from the solitude of his exile, turns his eyes again towards england; he sings. what does he sing? what springs from the mysterious and unique conception which rules, one would say in spite of himself, over all that escapes him in his sleepless vigil? the funeral hymn, the death-song, the epitaph of the aristocratic idea; we discovered it, we continentalists; not his own countrymen. he takes his types from amongst those privileged by strength, beauty, and individual power. they are grand, poetical, heroic, but solitary; they hold no communion with the world around them, unless it be to rule, over it; they defy alike the good and evil principle; they "will bend to neither." in life and in death "they stand upon their strength;" they resist every power, for their own is all their, own; it was purchased by "superior science--penance--daring- and length of watching-strength of mind--and skill in knowledge of our fathers." each of them is the personification, slightly modified, of a single type, a single idea--the individual; free, but nothing more than free; such as the epoch now closing has made him; faust, but without the compact which submits him to the enemy; for the heroes of byron make no such compact. cain kneels not to arimanes; and manfred, about to die, exclaims: "the mind, which is immortal, makes itself requital for its good and evil thoughts- is its own origin of ill, and end- and its own place and time, its innate sense, when stripped of this mortality, derives no color from the fleeting things without, but is absorbed in sufferance or in joy; born from the knowledge of its own desert." they have no kindred: they live from their own life only they repulse humanity, and regard the crowd with disdain. each of them says: "i have faith in myself"; never, "i have faith in ourselves." they all aspire to power or to happiness. the one and the other alike escape them; for they bear within them, untold, unacknowledged even to themselves, the presentiment of a life that mere liberty can never give them. free they are; iron souls in iron frames, they climb the alps of the physical world as well as the alps of thought; still is their visage stamped with a gloomy and ineffaceable sadness; still is their soul-whether, as in cain and manfred, it plunge into the abyss of the infinite, "intoxicated with eternity," or scour the vast plain and boundless ocean with the corsair and giaour--haunted by a secret and sleepless dread. it seems as if they were doomed to drag the broken links of the chain they have burst asunder, riveted to their feet. not only in the petty society against which they rebel does their soul feel fettered and restrained; but even in the world of the spirit. neither is it to the enmity of society that they succumb; but under the assaults of this nameless anguish; under the corroding action of potent faculties "inferior still to their desires and their conceptions"; under the deception that comes from within. what can they do with the liberty so painfully won? on whom, on what, expend the exuberant vitality within them? they are alone; this is the secret of their wretchedness and impotence. they "thirst for good"--cain has said it for them all--but cannot achieve it; for they have no mission, no belief, no comprehension even of the world around them. they have never realized the conception of humanity in the multitudes that have preceded, surround, and will follow after them; never thought on their own place between the past and future; on the continuity of labor that unites all the generations into one whole; on the common end and aim, only to be realized by the common effort; on the spiritual post-sepulchral life even on earth of the individual, through the thoughts he transmits to his fellows; and, it may be-- when he lives devoted and dies. in faith--through the guardian agency he is allowed to exercise over the loved ones left on earth. gifted with a liberty they know not how to use; with a power and energy they know not how to apply; with a life whose purpose and aim they comprehend not; they drag through their useless and convulsed existence. byron destroys them one after the other, as if he were the executioner of a sentence decreed in heaven. they fall unwept, like a withered leaf into the stream of time. "nor earth nor sky shall yield a single tear, nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all." they die, as they have lived, alone; and a popular malediction hovers round their solitary tombs. this, for those who can read with the soul's eyes, is what byron sings; or rather what humanity sings through him. the emptiness of the life and death of solitary individuality has never been so powerfully and efficaciously summed up as in the pages of byron. the crowd do not comprehend him: they listen; fascinated for an instant; then repent, and avenge their momentary transport by calumniating and insulting the poet. his intuition of the death of a form of society they call wounded self-love; his sorrow for all is misinterpreted as cowardly egotism. they credit not the traces of profound suffering revealed by his lineaments; they credit not the presentiment of a new life which from time to time escapes his trembling lips; they believe not in the despairing embrace in which he grasps the material universe--stars, lakes, alps, and sea--and identifies himself with it, and through it with god, of whom--to him at least--it is a symbol. they do, however, take careful count of some unhappy moments, in which, wearied out by the emptiness of life, he has raised--with remorse i am sure--the cup of ignoble pleasures to his lips, believing he might find forgetfulness there. how many times have not his accusers drained this cup, without redeeming the sin by a single virtue; without--i will not say bearing--but without having even the capacity of appreciating the burden which weighed on byron! and did he not himself dash into fragments the ignoble cup, so soon as he beheld something worthy the devotion of his life? goethe--individuality in its objective life--having, like byron, a sense of the falsehood and evil of the world round him-followed exactly the opposite path. after having--he, too, in his youth-- uttered a cry of anguish in his werther; after having laid bare the problem of the epoch in all its terrific nudity, in faust; he thought he had done enough, and refused to occupy himself with its solution. it is possible that the impulse of rebellion against social wrong and evil which burst forth for an instant in werther may long have held his soul in secret travail; but that he despaired of the task of reforming it as beyond his powers. he himself remarked in his later years, when commenting on the exclamation made by a frenchman on first seeing him: "that is the face of a man who has suffered much": that he should rather have said: "that is the face of a man who has struggled energetically;" but of this there remains no trace in his works. whilst byron writhed and suffered under the sense of the wrong and evil around him, he attained the calm--i cannot say of victory--but of indifference. in byron the man always ruled, and even at times, overcame the artist: the man was completely lost in the artist in goethe. in him there was no subjective life; no unity springing either from heart or head. goethe is an intelligence that receives, elaborates, and reproduces the poetry affluent to him from all external objects: from all points of the circumference; to him as centre. he dwells aloft alone; a mighty watcher in the midst of creation. his curious scrutiny investigates, with equal penetration and equal interest, the depths of the ocean and the calyx of the floweret. whether he studies the rose exhaling its eastern perfume to the sky, or the ocean casting its countless wrecks upon the shore, the brow of the poet remains equally calm: to him they are but two forms of the beautiful; two subjects for art. goethe has been called a pantheist. i know not in what sense critics apply this vague and often ill-understood word to him. there is a materialistic pantheism and a spiritual pantheism; the pantheism of spinoza and that of giordano bruno; of st. paul; and of many others- -all different. but there is no poetic pantheism possible, save on the condition of embracing the whole world of phenomena in one unique conception: of feeling and comprehending the life of the universe in its divine unity. there is nothing of this in goethe. there is pantheism in some parts of wordsworth; in the third canto of "childe harold," and in much of shelley; but there is none in the most admirable compositions of goethe; wherein life, though admirably comprehended and reproduced in each of its successive manifestations, is never understood as a whole. goethe is the poet of details, not of unity; of analysis, not of synthesis. none so able to investigate details; to set off and embellish minute and apparently trifling points; none throw so beautiful a light on separate parts; but the connecting link escapes him. his works resemble a magnificent encyclopaedia, unclassified. he has felt everything but he has never felt the whole. happy in detecting a ray of the beautiful upon the humblest blade of grass gemmed with dew; happy in seizing the poetic elements of an incident the most prosaic in appearance--he was incapable of tracing all to a common source, and recomposing the grand ascending scale in which, to quote a beautiful expression of herder's "every creature is a numerator of the grand denominator, nature." how, indeed, should he comprehend these things, he who had no place in his works or in his poet's heart for humanity, by the light of which conception only can the true worth of sublunary things be determined? "religion and politics," [footnote: goethe and his contemporaries.] said he, "are a troubled element for art. i have always kept myself aloof from them as much as possible." questions of life and death for the millions were agitated around him; germany re-echoed to the war songs of korner; fichte, at the close of one of his lectures, seized his musket, and joined the volunteers who were hastening (alas! what have not the kings made of that magnificent outburst of nationality!) to fight the battles of their fatherland. the ancient soil of germany thrilled beneath their tread; he, an artist, looked on unmoved; his heart knew no responsive throb to the emotion that shook his country; his genius, utterly passive, drew apart from the current that swept away entire races. he witnessed the french revolution in all its terrible grandeur, and saw the old world crumble beneath its strokes; and while all the best and purest spirits of germany, who had mistaken the death-agony of the old world for the birth-throes of a new, were wringing their hands at the spectacle of dissolution, he saw in it only the subject of a farce. he beheld the glory and the fall of napoleon; he witnessed the reaction of down-trodden nationalities--sublime prologue of the grand epopee of the peoples destined sooner or later to be unfolded- -and remained a cold spectator. he had neither learned to esteem men, to better them, nor even to suffer with them. if we except the beautiful type of berlichingen, a poetic inspiration of his youth, man, as the creature of thought and action; the artificer of the future, so nobly sketched by schiller in his dramas, has no representative in his works. he has carried something--of this nonchalance even into the manner in which his heroes conceive love. goethe's altar is spread with the choicest flowers, the most exquisite perfumes, the first-fruits of nature; but the priest is wanting. in his work of second creation--for it cannot be denied that such it was--he has gone through the vast circle of living and visible things; but stopped short before the seventh day. god withdrew from him before that time; and the creatures the poet has evoked wander within the circle, dumb and prayerless; awaiting until the man shall come to give them a name, and appoint them to a destination. no, goethe is not the poet of pantheism; he is a polytheist in his method as an artist; the pagan poet of modern times. his world is, above all things, the world of forms: a multiplied olympus. the mosaic heaven and the christian are veiled to him. like the pagans, he parcels out nature into fragments, and makes of each a divinity; like them, he worships the sensuous rather than the ideal; he looks, touches, and listens far more than he feels. and what care and labor are bestowed upon the plastic portion of his art! what importance is given--i will not say to the objects themselves--but to the external representation of objects! has he not somewhere said that "the beautiful is the result of happy position?"[footnote: in the kunst und alterthum, i think.] under this definition is concealed an entire system of poetic materialism, substituted for the worship of the ideal; involving a whole series of consequences, the logical result of which was to lead goethe to indifference, that moral suicide of some of the noblest energies of genius. the absolute concentration of every faculty of observation on each of the objects to be represented, without relation to the ensemble; the entire avoidance of every influence likely to modify the view taken of that object, became in his hands one of the most effective means of art. the poet, in his eyes, was neither the rushing stream a hundred times broken on its course, that it may carry fertility to the surrounding country; nor the brilliant flame, consuming itself in the light it sheds around while ascending to heaven; but rather the placid lake, reflecting alike the tranquil landscape and the thunder-cloud; its own surface the while unruffled even by the lightest breeze. a serene and passive calm with the absolute clearness and distinctness of successive impressions, in each of which he was for the time wholly absorbed, are the peculiar characteristics of goethe. "i allow the objects i desire to comprehend, to act tranquilly upon me," said he; "i then observe the impression i have received from them, and i endeavor to render it faithfully." goethe has here portrayed his every feature to perfection. he was in life such as madame von arnim proposed to represent him after death; a venerable old man, with a serene, almost radiant countenance; clothed in an antique robe, holding a lyre resting on his knees, and listening to the harmonies drawn from it either by the hand of a genius, or the breath of the winds. the last chords wafted his soul to the east; to the land of inactive contemplation. it was time: europe had become too agitated for him. such were byron and goethe in their general characteristics; both great poets; very different, and yet, complete as is the contrast between them, and widely apart as are the paths they pursue, arriving at the same point. life and death, character and poetry, everything is unlike in the two, and yet the one is the complement of the other. both are the children of fatality--for it is especially at the close of epochs that the providential law which directs the generations assumes towards individuals the semblance of fatality--and compelled by it unconsciously to work out a great mission. goethe contemplates the world in parts, and delivers the impressions they make upon him, one by one, as occasion presents them. byron looks upon the world from a single comprehensive point of view; from the height of which he modifies in his own soul the impressions produced by external objects, as they pass before him. goethe successively absorbs his own individuality in each of the objects he reproduces. byron stamps every object he portrays with his own individuality. to goethe, nature is the symphony; to byron it is the prelude. she furnishes to the one the entire subject; to the other the occasion only of his verse. the one executes her harmonies; the other composes on the theme she has suggested. goethe better exgresses lives; byron life. the one is most vast; the other more deep. the first searches everywhere for the beautiful, and loves, above all things, harmony and repose; the other seeks the sublime, and adores action and force. characters, such as coriolanus or luther, disturbed goethe. i know not if, in his numerous pieces of criticism, he has ever spoken of dante; but assuredly he must have shared the antipathy felt for him by sir walter scott; and although he would undoubtedly have sufficiently respected his genius to admit him into his pantheon, yet he would certainly have drawn a veil between his mental eye and the grand but sombre figure of the exiled seer, who dreamed of the future empire of the world for his country, and of the world's harmonious development under her guidance. byron loved and drew inspiration from dante. he also loved washington and franklin, and followed, with all the sympathies of a soul athirst for action, the meteor-like career of the greatest genius of action our age has produced, napoleon; feeling indignant-- perhaps mistakenly--that he did not die in the struggle. when travelling in that second fatherland of all poetic souls-- italy--the poets still pursued divergent routes; the one experienced sensations; the other emotions; the one occupied himself especially with nature; the other with the greatness dead, the living wrongs, the human memories. [footnote: the contrast between the two poets is nowhere more strikingly displayed than by the manner in which they were affected by the sight of rome. in goethe's elegies and in his travels in italy we find the impressions of the artist only. he did not understand rome. the eternal synthesis that, from the heights of the capitol and st. peter, is gradually unfolded in ever-widening circles, embracing first a nation and then europe, as it will ultimately embrace humanity, remained unrevealed to him; he saw only the inner circle of paganism; the least prolific, as well as least indigenous. one might fancy that he caught a glimpse of it for an instant, when he wrote: "history is read here far otherwise than in any other spot in the universe; elsewhere we read it from without to within; here one seems to read it from within to without; "but if so, he soon lost sight of it again, and became absorbed in external nature." whether we halt or advance, we discover a landscape ever renewing itself in a thousand fashions. we have palaces and ruins; gardens and solitudes: the horizon lengthens in the distance, or suddenly contracts; huts and stables, columns and triumphal arches, all lie pell-mell, and often so close that we might find room for all on the same sheet of paper." at rome byron forgot passions, sorrows, his own individuality, all, in the presence of a great idea; witness this utterance of a soul born for devotedhess:-- "o rome! my country! city of the soul! the orphans of the heart must turn to thee, lone mother of dead empires! and control in their shut breasts their petty misery." when at last he came to a recollection of himself and his position, it was with a hope for the world (stanza ) and a pardon for his enemies. from the fourth canto of childe harold, the daughter of byron might learn more of the true spirit of her father than from all the reports she may have heard, and all the many volumes that have been written upon him.] and yet, notwithstanding all the contrasts, which i have only hinted at, but which might be far more elaborately displayed by extracts from their works; they arrived--goethe, the poet of individuality in its objective life--at the egotism of indifference; byron--the poet of individuality an its subjective life--at the egotism (i say it with regret, but it, too, is egotism) of despair: a double sentence upon the epoch which it was their mission to represent and to close! both of them--i am not speaking of their purely literary merits, incontestable and universally acknowledged--the one by the spirit of resistance that breathes through all his creations; the other by the spirit of sceptical irony that pervades his works, and by the independent sovereignty attributed to art over all social relations- -greatly aided the cause of intellectual emancipation, and awakened in men's minds the sentiment of liberty. both of them--the one, directly, by the implacable war he waged against the vices and absurdities of the privileged classes, and indirectly, by investing his heroes with all the most brilliant qualities of the despot, and then dashing them to pieces as if in anger;--the other, by the poetic rehabilitation of forms the most modest, and objects the most insignificant, as well as by the importance attributed to details-- combated aristocratic prejudices, and developed in men's minds the sentiment of equality. and having by their artistic excellence exhausted both forms of the poetry of individuality, they have completed the cycle cf its poets; thereby reducing all followers in the same sphere to the subaltern position of imitators, and creating the necessity of a new order of poetry; teaching us to recognize a want where before we felt only a desire. together they have laid an era in the tomb; covering it with a pall that none may lift; and, as if to proclaim its death to the young generation, the poetry of goethe has written its history, while that of byron has graven its epitaph. and now farewell to goethe; farewell to byron! farewell to the sorrows that crush but sanctify not--to the poetic flame that illumines but warms not--to the ironical philosophy that dissects without reconstructing--to all poetry which, in an age where there is so much to do, teaches us inactive contemplation; or which, in a world where there is so much need of devotedness, would instil despair. farewell to all types of power without an aim; to all personifications of the solitary individuality which seeks an aim to find it not, and knows not how to apply the life stirring within it; to all egotistic joys and griefs: "bastards of the soul; o'erweening slips of idleness: weeds--no more- self-springing here and there from the rank soil; o'erflowings of the lust of that same mind whose proper issue and determinate end, when wedded to the love of things divine, is peace, complacency, and happiness." farewell, a long farewell to the past! the dawn of the future is announced to such as can read its signs, and we owe ourselves wholly to it. the duality of the middle ages, after having struggled for centuries under the banners of emperor and pope; after having left its trace and borne its fruit in every branch of intellectual development; has reascended to heaven--its mission accomplished--in the twin flames of poesy called goethe and byron. two hitherto distinct formulae of life became incarnate in these two men. byron is isolated man, representing only the internal aspect of life; goethe isolated man, representing only the external. higher than these two incomplete existences; at the point of intersection between the two aspirations towards a heaven they were unable to reach, will be revealed the poetry of the future; of humanity; potent in new harmony, unity, and life. but because, in our own day, we are beginning, though vaguely, to foresee this new social poetry, which will soothe the suffering soul by teaching it to rise towards god through humanity; because we now stand on the threshold of a new epoch, which, but for them, we should not have reached; shall we decry those who were unable to do more for us than cast their giant forms into the gulf that held us all doubting and dismayed on the other side? from the earliest times has genius been made the scapegoat of the generations. society has never lacked men who have contented themselves with reproaching the chattertons of their day with not being patterns of self-devotion, instead of physical or moral suicides; without ever asking themselves whether they had, during their lifetime, endeavored to place aught within the reach of such but doubt and destitution. i feel the necessity of protesting earnestly against the reaction set on foot by certain thinkers against the mighty-souled, which serves as a cloak for the cavilling spirit of mediocrity. there is something hard, repulsive, and ungrateful in the destructive instinct which so often forgets what has been done by the great men who preceded us, to demand of them merely an account of what more might have been done. is the pillow of scepticism so soft to genius as to justify the conclusion that it is from egotism only that at times it rests its fevered brow thereon? are we so free from the evil reflected in their verse as to have a right to condemn their memory? that evil was not introduced into the world by them. they saw it, felt it, respired it; it was around, about, on every side of them, and they were its greatest victims. how could they avoid reproducing it in their works? it is not by deposing goethe or byron that we shall destroy either sceptical or anarchical indifference amongst us. it is by becoming believers and organizers ourselves. if we are such, we need fear nothing. as is the public, so will be the poet. if we revere enthusiasm, the fatherland, and humanity; if our hearts are pure, and our souls steadfast and patient, the genius inspired to interpret our aspirations, and bear to heaven our ideas and our sufferings, will not be wanting. let these statues stand. the noble monuments of feudal times create no desire to return to the days of selfdom. but i shall be told, there are imitators. i know it too well; but what lasting influence can be exerted on social life by those who have no real life of their own? they will but flutter in the void, so long as void there be. on the day when the living shall arise to take the place of the dead, they will vanish like ghosts at cock- crow. shall we never be sufficiently firm in our own faith to dare to show fitting reverence for the grand typical figures of an anterior age? it would be idle to speak of social art at all, or of the comprehension of humanity, if we could not raise altars to the new gods, without overthrowing the old. those only should dare to utter the sacred name of progress, whose souls possess intelligence enough to comprehend the past, and whose hearts possess sufficient poetic religion to reverence its greatness. the temple of the true believer is not the chapel of a sect; it is a vast pantheon, in which the glorious images of goethe and byron will hold their honored place, long after goetheism and byronism shall have ceased to be. when, purified alike from imitation and distrust, men learn to pay righteous reverence to the mighty fallen, i know not whether goethe will obtain more of their admiration as an artist, but i am certain that byron will inspire them with more love, both as man and poet--a love increased even by the fact of the great injustice hitherto shown to him. while goethe held himself aloof from us, and from the height of his olympian calm seemed to smile with disdain at our desires, our struggles, and our sufferings--byron wandered through the world, sad, gloomy, and unquiet; wounded, and bearing the arrow in the wound. solitary and unfortunate in his infancy; unfortunate in his first love, and still more terribly so in his ill-advised marriage; attacked and calumniated both in his acts and intentions without inquiry or defence; harassed by pecuniary difficulties; forced to quit his country, home, and child; friendless--we have seen it too clearly since his death--pursued even on the continent by a thousand absurd and infamous falsehoods, and by the cold malignity of a world that twisted even his sorrows into a crime; he yet, in the midst of inevitable reaction, preserved his love for his sister and his ada; his compassion for misfortune; his fidelity to the affections of his childhood and youth, from lord clare to his old servant murray, and his nurse mary gray. he was generous with his money to all whom he could help or serve, from his literary friends down to the wretched libeller ashe. though impelled by the temper of his genius, by the period in which he lived, and by that fatality of his mission to which i have alluded, towards a poetic individualism, the inevitable incompleteness of which i have endeavored to explain, he by no means set it up as a standard. that he presaged the future with the prevision of genius is proved by his definition of poetry in his journal--a definition hitherto misunderstood, but yet the best i know: "poetry is the feeling of a former world and of a future." poet as he was, he preferred activity for good, to all that his art could do. surrounded by slaves and their oppressors; a traveller in countries where even remembrance seemed extinct; never did he desert the cause of the peoples; never was he false to human sympathies. a witness of the progress of the restoration, and the triumph of the principles of the holy alliance, he never swerved from his courageous opposition; he preserved and publicly proclaimed his faith in the rights of the peoples and in the final [footnote: yet, freedom! yet, thy banner torn, but flying, streams, like the thunder-storm, against the wind: thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, the loudest still the tempest leaves behind. the tree hath lost its blossomes, and the rind, chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth, but the sap lasts--and still the seed we find sown deep, even in the bosom of the north, so shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth."] triumph of liberty. the following passage from his journal is the very abstract of the law governing the efforts of the true party of progress at the present day: "onwards! it is now the time to act; and what signifies self, if a single spark of that which would be worthy of the past [footnote: written in italy.] can be bequeathed unquenchably to the future? it is not one man, nor a million, but the spirit of liberty which must be spread. the waves which dash on the shore are, one by one, broken; but yet the ocean conquers nevertheless. it overwhelms the armada; it wears the rock; and if the neptunians are to be believed, it has not only destroyed but made a world." at naples, in the romagna, wherever he saw a spark of noble life stirring, he was ready for any exertion; or danger, to blow it into a flame. he stigmatized baseness, hypocrisy, and injustice, whencesoever they sprang. thus lived byron, ceaselessly tempest-tossed between the ills of the present and his yearnings after the future; often unequal; sometimes sceptical; but always suffering--often most so when he seemed to laugh; [footnote: "and if i laugh at any mortal thing, 'tis that i may not weep."] and always loving, even when he seemed to curse. never did "the eternal spirit of the chainless mind" make a brighter apparition amongst us. he seems at times a transformation of that immortal prometheus, of whom he has written so nobly; whose cry of agony, yet of futurity, sounded above the cradle of the european world; and whose grand and mysterious form, transfigured by time, reappears from age to age, between the entombment of one epoch and the accession of another; to wail forth the lament of genius, tortured by the presentment of things it will not see realized in its time. byron, too, had the "firm will" and the "deep sense;" he, too, made of his "death a victory." when he heard the cry of nationality and liberty burst forth in the land he had loved and sung in early youth, he broke his harp and set forth. while the christian powers were protocolizing or worse--while the christian nations were doling forth the alms of a few piles of ball in aid of the cross struggling with the crescent; he, the poet, and pretended sceptic, hastened to throw his fortune, his genius, and his life at the feet of the first people that had arisen in the name of the nationality and liberty he loved. i know no more beautiful symbol of the future destiny and mission of art than the death of byron in greece. the holy alliance of poetry with the cause of the peoples; the union--still so rare--of thought and action--which alone completes the human word, and is destined to emancipate the world; the grand solidarity of all nations in the conquest of the rights ordained by god for all his children, and in the accomplishment of that mission for which alone such rights exist--all that is now the religion and the hope of the party of progress throughout europe, is gloriously typified in this image, which we, barbarians that we are, have already forgotten. the day will come when democracy will remember all that it owes to byron. england, too, will, i hope, one day remember the mission--so entirely english, yet hitherto overlooked by her--which byron fulfilled on the continent; the european role given by him to english literature, and the appreciation and sympathy for england which he awakened amongst us. before he came, all that was known of english literature was the french translation of shakespeare, and the anathema hurled by voltaire against the "intoxicated barbarian." it is since byron that we continentalists have learned to study shakespeare and other english writers. from him dates the sympathy of all the true-hearted amongst us for this land of liberty, whose true vocation he so worthily represented among the oppressed. he led the genius of britain on a pilgrimage throughout all europe. england will one day feel how ill it is--not for byron but for herself--that the foreigner who lands upon her shores should search in vain in that temple which should be her national pantheon, for the poet beloved and admired by all the nations of europe, and for whose death greece and italy wept as it had been that of the noblest of their own sons. in these few pages--unfortunately very hasty--my aim has been, not so much to criticise either goethe or byron, for which both time and space are wanting, as to suggest, and if possible lead, english criticism upon a broader, more impartial, and more useful path than the one generally followed. certain travellers of the eleventh century relate that they saw at teneriffe a prodigiously lofty tree, which, from its immense extent of foliage, collected all the vapors of the atmosphere; to discharge them, when its branches were shaken, in a shower of pure and refreshing water. genius is like this tree, and the mission of criticism should be to shake the branches. at the present day it more resembles a savage striving to hew down the noble tree to the roots. transcriber's note: footnotes that describe the subject or circumstances of the interview are placed immediately after its title, or where they occur in the narrative. other footnotes are at the end of the interview. the digraph "ae" has been spelled out for clarity. "employe", used throughout with no accent, has been replaced by "employee". "buechner" appeared with the umlaut in the original. typographical and grammatical errors and misspellings have been corrected, but th-century variants have been retained. question marks have been added where required. loc call number: bl .a [frontispiece: v .jpg] "_with daughters' babes upon his knees, the white hair mingling with the gold_." eva ingersoll-brown robert g. ingersoll brown. dresden edition the works of _robert g. ingersoll_ "happiness is the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest." in twelve volumes volume viii. interviews new york the dresden publishing co., c. p. farrell mcmxv copyright, by c. p. farrell copyright, by the dresden publishing co. contents of volume viii. interviews. the bible and a future life, washington post mrs. van cott, the revivalist, buffalo express european trip and greenback question, washington post the pre-millennial conference, buffalo express the solid south and resumption, cincinnati commercial sunday laws of pittsburg, pittsburg leader political and religious, chicago times politics and gen. grant, indianapolis journal politics, religion and thomas paine, chicago times reply to chicago critics, chicago tribune the republican victory, new york herald ingersoll and beecher, new york herald political, washington post religion in politics, new york evening express miracles and immortality, pittsburg dispatch the political outlook, cincinnati commercial mr. beecher, moses and the negro, brooklyn eagle hades, delaware and freethought, brooklyn eagle a reply to the rev. mr. lansing, new haven sunday union beaconsfield, lent and revivals, brooklyn eagle answering the new york ministers, chicago times guiteau and his crime, washington sunday gazette district suffrage, washington capital funeral of john g. mills and immortality, washington post star route and politics, new york herald the interviewer, new york morning journal politics and prohibition, chicago times the republican defeat in ohio, dayton democrat the civil rights bill, washington national republican justice harlan and the civil rights bill, chicago inter-ocean politics and theology, denver tribune morality and immortality, detroit news politics, mormonism and mr. beecher, denver news free trade and christianity, denver republican the oath question, london secular review wendell phillips, fitz john porter and bismarck, chicago times general subjects, kansas city times reply to kansas city clergy, kansas city journal swearing and affirming, buffalo courier reply to a buffalo critic, buffalo times blasphemy, philadelphia press politics and british columbia, san francisco evening post ingersoll catechised, san francisco san franciscan blaine's defeat, topeka commonwealth blaine's defeat, louisville commercial plagiarism and politics, cleveland plain dealer religious prejudice, new york mail and express cleveland and his cabinet, new york mail and express religion, prohibition and gen. grant, iowa state register hell or sheol and other subjects, boston evening record interviewing, politics and spiritualism, cleveland plain dealer my belief, philadelphia times some live topics, new york truth seeker the president and the senate, chicago inter-ocean atheism and citizenship, new york herald the labor question, cincinnati enquirer railroads and politics, cincinnati times star prohibition, boston evening traveler henry george and labor, new york herald labor question and socialism, new york world henry george and socialism, chicago times reply to the rev. b. f. morse, new york herald ingersoll on mcglynn, brooklyn citizen trial of the chicago anarchists, new york mail and express the stage and the pulpit, new york truth seeker roscoe conkling, new york herald the church and the state, new york dramatic mirror protection--free trade, new york press labor and tariff reform, new york press cleveland and thurman, new york press the republican platform of , new york press james g. blaine and politics, new york press the mills bill, new york press society and its criminals, new york world woman's right to divorce, new york world secularism, toronto secular thought summer recreation--mr. gladstone, unpublished prohibition, new york world robert elsmere, new york world working girls, new york world protection for american actors, new york star liberals and liberalism, toronto secular thought pope leo xiii., new york herald the sacredness of the sabbath, new york journal the west and south, indianapolis journal the westminster creed and other subjects, rochester post-express shakespeare and bacon, minneapolis tribune growing old gracefully, and presbyterianism, toledo blade creeds, new york morning advertiser the tendency of modern thought, chicago tribune woman suffrage, horse racing, and money, chicago inter-ocean missionaries, cleveland press my belief and unbelief, toledo blade must religion go? new york evening advertiser word painting and college education, indianapolis news personal magnetism and the sunday question, cincinnati commercial gazette authors, kansas city star inebriety, unpublished miracles, theosophy and spiritualism, unpublished tolstoy and literature, buffalo evening express woman in politics, new york advertiser spiritualism, st. louis globe-democrat plays and players, new york dramatic mirror woman, a fragment strikes, expansion and other subjects, new york, may , sunday a day of pleasure, new york times the parliament of religions, new york herald cleveland's hawaiian policy, chicago inter-ocean orators and oratory, london sketch catholicism and protestantism.--the pope.--the a. p. a., agnosticism and the church, new york herald woman and her domain, grand rapids democrat professor swing, chicago inter-ocean senator sherman and his book, st. louis globe-democrat reply to the christian endeavorers, new york journal spiritualism, new york journal a little of everything, rochester herald is life worth living?--christian science and politics, chicago inter-ocean vivisection, new york evening telegram divorce, new york herald music, newspapers, lynching and arbitration, chicago inter-ocean a visit to shaw's garden, st. louis republic the venezuela boundary discussion and the whipping post, new york journal colonel shepard's stage horses, new york morning advertiser a reply to the rev. l. a. banks, cleveland plain dealer cuba--zola and theosophy, louisville courier-journal how to become an orator, new york sun john russell young and expansion, philadelphia press psychical research and the bible, new york mind this century's glories, new york sun capital punishment and the whipping post, chicago tribune expansion and trusts, philadelphia north american interviews the bible and a future life _question_. colonel, are your views of religion based upon the bible? _answer_. i regard the bible, especially the old testament, the same as i do most other ancient books, in which there is some truth, a great deal of error, considerable barbarism and a most plentiful lack of good sense. _question_. have you found any other work, sacred or profane, which you regard as more reliable? _answer_. i know of no book less so, in my judgment. _question_. you have studied the bible attentively, have you not? _answer_. i have read the bible. i have heard it talked about a good deal, and am sufficiently well acquainted with it to justify my own mind in utterly rejecting all claims made for its divine origin. _question_. what do you base your views upon? _answer_. on reason, observation, experience, upon the discoveries in science, upon observed facts and the analogies properly growing out of such facts. i have no confidence in anything pretending to be outside, or independent of, or in any manner above nature. _question_. according to your views, what disposition is made of man after death? _answer_. upon that subject i know nothing. it is no more wonderful that man should live again than he now lives; upon that question i know of no evidence. the doctrine of immortality rests upon human affection. we love, therefore we wish to live. _question_. then you would not undertake to say what becomes of man after death? _answer_. if i told or pretended to know what becomes of man after death, i would be as dogmatic as are theologians upon this question. the difference between them and me is, i am honest. i admit that i do not know. _question_. judging by your criticism of mankind, colonel, in your recent lecture, you have not found his condition very satisfactory? _answer_. nature, outside of man, so far as i know, is neither cruel nor merciful. i am not satisfied with the present condition of the human race, nor with the condition of man during any period of which we have any knowledge. i believe, however, the condition of man is improved, and this improvement is due to his own exertions. i do not make nature a being. i do not ascribe to nature intentions. _question_. is your theory, colonel, the result of investigation of the subject? _answer_. no one can control his own opinion or his own belief. my belief was forced upon me by my surroundings. i am the product of all circumstances that have in any way touched me. i believe in this world. i have no confidence in any religion promising joys in another world at the expense of liberty and happiness in this. at the same time, i wish to give others all the rights i claim for myself. _question_. if i asked for proofs for your theory, what would you furnish? _answer_. the experience of every man who is honest with himself, every fact that has been discovered in nature. in addition to these, the utter and total failure of all religionists in all countries to produce one particle of evidence showing the existence of any supernatural power whatever, and the further fact that the people are not satisfied with their religion. they are continually asking for evidence. they are asking it in every imaginable way. the sects are continually dividing. there is no real religious serenity in the world. all religions are opponents of intellectual liberty. i believe in absolute mental freedom. real religion with me is a thing not of the head, but of the heart; not a theory, not a creed, but a life. _question_. what punishment, then, is inflicted upon man for his crimes and wrongs committed in this life? _answer_. there is no such thing as intellectual crime. no man can commit a mental crime. to become a crime it must go beyond thought. _question_. what punishment is there for physical crime? _answer_. such punishment as is necessary to protect society and for the reformation of the criminal. _question_. if there is only punishment in this world, will not some escape punishment? _answer_. i admit that all do not seem to be punished as they deserve. i also admit that all do not seem to be rewarded as they deserve; and there is in this world, apparently, as great failures in matter of reward as in matter of punishment. if there is another life, a man will be happier there for acting according to his highest ideal in this. but i do not discern in nature any effort to do justice. --_the post_, washington, d. c., . mrs. van cott, the revivalist _question_. i see, colonel, that in an interview published this morning, mrs. van cott (the revivalist), calls you "a poor barking dog." do you know her personally? _answer_. i have never met or seen her. _question_. do you know the reason she applied the epithet? _answer_. i suppose it to be the natural result of what is called vital piety; that is to say, universal love breeds individual hatred. _question_. do you intend making any reply to what she says? _answer_. i have written her a note of which this is a copy: _buffalo, feb. th, ._ mrs. van cott; my dear madam:--were you constrained by the love of christ to call a man who has never injured you "a poor barking dog?" did you make this remark as a christian, or as a lady? did you say these words to illustrate in some faint degree the refining influence upon women of the religion you preach? what would you think of me if i should retort, using your language, changing only the sex of the last word? i have the honor to remain, yours truly, r. g. ingersoll _question_. well, what do you think of the religious revival system generally? _answer_. the fire that has to be blown all the time is a poor thing to get warm by. i regard these revivals as essentially barbaric. i think they do no good, but much harm, they make innocent people think they are guilty, and very mean people think they are good. _question_. what is your opinion concerning women as conductors of these revivals? _answer_. i suppose those engaged in them think they are doing good. they are probably honest. i think, however, that neither men nor women should be engaged in frightening people into heaven. that is all i wish to say on the subject, as i do not think it worth talking about. --_the express_, buffalo, new york, feb., . european trip and greenback question _question_. what did you do on your european trip, colonel? _answer_. i went with my family from new york to southampton, england, thence to london, and from london to edinburgh. in scotland i visited every place where burns had lived, from the cottage where he was born to the room where he died. i followed him from the cradle to the coffin. i went to stratford-upon-avon for the purpose of seeing all that i could in any way connected with shakespeare; next to london, where we visited again all the places of interest, and thence to paris, where we spent a couple of weeks in the exposition. _question_. and what did you think of it? _answer_. so far as machinery--so far as the practical is concerned, it is not equal to ours in philadelphia; in art it is incomparably beyond it. i was very much gratified to find so much evidence in favor of my theory that the golden age in art is in front of us; that mankind has been advancing, that we did not come from a perfect pair and immediately commence to degenerate. the modern painters and sculptors are far better and grander than the ancient. i think we excel in fine arts as much as we do in agricultural implements. nothing pleased me more than the painting from holland, because they idealized and rendered holy the ordinary avocations of life. they paint cottages with sweet mothers and children; they paint homes. they are not much on ariadnes and venuses, but they paint good women. _question_. what did you think of the american display? _answer_. our part of the exposition is good, but nothing to what is should and might have been, but we bring home nearly as many medals as we took things. we lead the world in machinery and in ingenious inventions, and some of our paintings were excellent. _question_. colonel, crossing the atlantic back to america, what do you think of the greenback movement? _answer_. in regard to the greenback party, in the first place, i am not a believer in miracles. i do not believe that something can be made out of nothing. the government, in my judgment, cannot create money; the government can give its note, like an individual, and the prospect of its being paid determines its value. we have already substantially resumed. every piece of property that has been shrinking has simply been resuming. we expended during the war--not for the useful, but for the useless, not to build up, but to destroy--at least one thousand million dollars. the government was an enormous purchaser; when the war ceased the industries of the country lost their greatest customer. as a consequence there was a surplus of production, and consequently a surplus of labor. at last we have gotten back, and the country since the war has produced over and above the cost of production, something near the amount that was lost during the war. our exports are about two hundred million dollars more than our imports, and this is a healthy sign. there are, however, five or six hundred thousand men, probably, out of employment; as prosperity increases this number will decrease. i am in favor of the government doing something to ameliorate the condition of these men. i would like to see constructed the northern and southern pacific railroads; this would give employment at once to many thousands, and homes after awhile to millions. all the signs of the times to me are good. the wretched bankrupt law, at last, is wiped from the statute books, and honest people in a short time can get plenty of credit. this law should have been repealed years before it was. it would have been far better to have had all who have gone into bankruptcy during these frightful years to have done so at once. _question_. what will be the political effect of the greenback movement? _answer_. the effect in maine has been to defeat the republican party. i do not believe any party can permanently succeed in the united states that does not believe in and advocate actual money. i want to see the greenback equal with gold the world round. a money below par keeps the people below par. no man can possibly be proud of a country that is not willing to pay its debts. several of the states this fall may be carried by the greenback party, but if i have a correct understanding of their views, that party cannot hold any state for any great length of time. but all the men of wealth should remember that everybody in the community has got, in some way, to be supported. i want to see them so that they can support themselves by their own labor. in my judgment real prosperity will begin with actual resumption, because confidence will then return. if the workingmen of the united states cannot make their living, cannot have the opportunity to labor, they have got to be supported in some way, and in any event, i want to see a liberal policy inaugurated by the government. i believe in improving rivers and harbors. i do not believe the trans-continental commerce of this country should depend on one railroad. i want new territories opened. i want to see american steamships running to all the great ports of the world. i want to see our flag flying on all the seas and in all the harbors. we have the best country, and, in my judgment, the best people in the world, and we ought to be the most prosperous nation on the earth. _question_. then you only consider the greenback movement a temporary thing? _answer_. yes; i do not believe that there is anything permanent in anything that is not sound, that has not a perfectly sound foundation, and i mean sound, sound in every sense of that word. it must be wise and honest. we have plenty of money; the trouble is to get it. if the greenbackers will pass a law furnishing all of us with collaterals, there certainly would be no trouble about getting the money. nothing can demonstrate more fully the plentifulness of money than the fact that millions of four per cent. bonds have been taken in the united states. the trouble is, business is scarce. _question_. but do you not think the greenback movement will help the democracy to success in ? _answer_. i think the greenback movement will injure the republican party much more than the democratic party. whether that injury will reach as far as depends simply upon one thing. if resumption--in spite of all the resolutions to the contrary-- inaugurates an era of prosperity, as i believe and hope it will, then it seems to me that the republican party will be as strong in the north as in its palmiest days. of course i regard most of the old issues as settled, and i make this statement simply because i regard the financial issue as the only living one. of course, i have no idea who will be the democratic candidate, but i suppose the south will be solid for the democratic nominee, unless the financial question divides that section of the country. _question_. with a solid south do you not think the democratic nominee will stand a good chance? _answer_. certainly, he will stand the best chance if the democracy is right on the financial question; if it will cling to its old idea of hard money, he will. if the democrats will recognize that the issues of the war are settled, then i think that party has the best chance. _question_. but if it clings to soft money? _answer_. then i think it will be beaten, if by soft money it means the payment of one promise with another. _question_. you consider greenbackers inflationists, do you not? _answer_. i suppose the greenbackers to be the party of inflation. i am in favor of inflation produced by industry. i am in favor of the country being inflated with corn, with wheat, good houses, books, pictures, and plenty of labor for everybody. i am in favor of being inflated with gold and silver, but i do not believe in the inflation of promise, expectation and speculation. i sympathize with every man who is willing to work and cannot get it, and i sympathize to that degree that i would like to see the fortunate and prosperous taxed to support his unfortunate brother until labor could be found. the greenback party seems to think credit is just as good as gold. while the credit lasts this is so; but the trouble is, whenever it is ascertained that the gold is gone or cannot be produced the credit takes wings. the bill of a perfectly solvent bank may circulate for years. now, because nobody demands the gold on that bill it doesn't follow that the bill would be just as good without any gold behind it. the idea that you can have the gold whenever you present the bill gives it its value. to illustrate: a poor man buys soup tickets. he is not hungry at the time of purchase, and will not be for some hours. during those hours the greenback gentlemen argue that there is no use of keeping any soup on hand with which to redeem these tickets, and from this they further argue that if they can be good for a few hours without soup, why not forever? and they would be, only the holder gets hungry. until he is hungry, of course, he does not care whether any soup is on hand or not, but when he presents his ticket he wants his soup, and the idea that he can have the soup when he does present the ticket gives it its value. and so i regard bank notes, without gold and silver, as of the same value as tickets without soup. --_the post_, washington, d. c., . the pre-millennial conference. _question_. what do you think of the pre-millennial conference that was held in new york city recently? _answer_. well, i think that all who attended it were believers in the bible, and any one who believes in prophecies and looks to their fulfillment will go insane. a man that tries from daniel's ram with three horns and five tails and his deformed goats to ascertain the date of the second immigration of christ to this world is already insane. it all shows that the moment we leave the realm of fact and law we are adrift on the wide and shoreless sea of theological speculation. _question_. do you think there will be a second coming? _answer_. no, not as long as the church is in power. christ will never again visit this earth until the freethinkers have control. he will certainly never allow another church to get hold of him. the very persons who met in new york to fix the date of his coming would despise him and the feeling would probably be mutual. in his day christ was an infidel, and made himself unpopular by denouncing the church as it then existed. he called them liars, hypocrites, thieves, vipers, whited sepulchres and fools. from the description given of the church in that day, i am afraid that should he come again, he would be provoked into using similar language. of course, i admit there are many good people in the church, just as there were some good pharisees who were opposed to the crucifixion. --_the express_, buffalo, new york, nov. th, . the solid south and resumption. _question_. colonel, to start with, what do you think of the solid south? _answer_. i think the south is naturally opposed to the republican party; more, i imagine, to the name, than to the personnel of the organization. but the south has just as good friends in the republican party as in the democratic party. i do not think there are any republicans who would not rejoice to see the south prosperous and happy. i know of none, at least. they will have to get over the prejudices born of isolation. we lack direct and constant communication. i do not recollect having seen a newspaper from the gulf states for a long time. they, down there, may imagine that the feeling in the north is the same as during the war. but it certainly is not. the northern people are anxious to be friendly; and if they can be, without a violation of their principles, they will be. whether it be true or not, however, most of the republicans of the north believe that no republican in the south is heartily welcome in that section, whether he goes there from the north, or is a southern man. personally, i do not care anything about partisan politics. i want to see every man in the united states guaranteed the right to express his choice at the ballot-box, and i do not want social ostracism to follow a man, no matter how he may vote. a solid south means a solid north. a hundred thousand democratic majority in south carolina means fifty thousand republican majority in new york in . i hope the sections will never divide, simply as sections. but if the republican party is not allowed to live in the south, the democratic party certainly will not be allowed to succeed in the north. i want to treat the people of the south precisely as though the rebellion had never occurred. i want all that wiped from the slate of memory, and all i ask of the southern people is to give the same rights to the republicans that we are willing to give to them and have given to them. _question_. how do you account for the results of the recent elections? _answer_. the republican party won the recent election simply because it was for honest money, and it was in favor of resumption. and if on the first of january next, we resume all right, and maintain resumption, i see no reason why the republican party should not succeed in . the republican party came into power at the commencement of the rebellion, and necessarily retained power until its close; and in my judgment, it will retain power so long as in the horizon of credit there is a cloud of repudiation as large as a man's hand. _question_. do you think resumption will work out all right? _answer_. i do. i think that on the first of january the greenback will shake hands with gold on an equality, and in a few days thereafter will be worth just a little bit more. everything has resumed, except the government. all the property has resumed, all the lands, bonds and mortgages and stocks. all these things resumed long ago--that is to say, they have touched the bottom. now, there is no doubt that the party that insists on the government paying all its debts will hold control, and no one will get his hand on the wheel who advocates repudiation in any form. there is one thing we must do, though. we have got to put more silver in our dollars. i do not think you can blame the new york banks--any bank --for refusing to take eighty-eight cents for a dollar. neither can you blame any depositor who puts gold in the bank for demanding gold in return. yes, we must have in the silver dollar a dollar's worth of silver. --_the commercial_, cincinnati, ohio, november, . the sunday laws of pittsburg.* _question_. colonel, what do you think of the course the mayor has pursued toward you in attempting to stop your lecture? _answer_. i know very little except what i have seen in the morning paper. as a general rule, laws should be enforced or repealed; and so far as i am personally concerned, i shall not so much complain of the enforcing of the law against sabbath breaking as of the fact that such a law exists. we have fallen heir to these laws. they were passed by superstition, and the enlightened people of to-day should repeal them. ministers should not expect to fill their churches by shutting up other places. they can only increase their congregations by improving their sermons. they will have more hearers when they say more worth hearing. i have no idea that the mayor has any prejudice against me personally and if he only enforces the law, i shall have none against him. if my lectures were free the ministers might have the right to object, but as i charge one dollar admission and they nothing, they ought certainly be able to compete with me. _question_. don't you think it is the duty of the mayor, as chief executive of the city laws, to enforce the ordinances and pay no attention to what the statutes say? _answer_. i suppose it to be the duty of the mayor to enforce the ordinance of the city and if the ordinance of the city covers the same ground as the law of the state, a conviction under the ordinance would be a bar to prosecution under the state law. _question_. if the ordinance exempts scientific, literary and historical lectures, as it is said it does, will not that exempt you? _answer_. yes, all my lectures are historical; that is, i speak of many things that have happened. they are scientific because they are filled with facts, and they are literary of course. i can conceive of no address that is neither historical nor scientific, except sermons. they fail to be historical because they treat of things that never happened and they are certainly not scientific, as they contain no facts. _question_. suppose they arrest you what will you do? _answer_. i will examine the law and if convicted will pay the fine, unless i think i can reverse the case by appeal. of course i would like to see all these foolish laws wiped from the statute books. i want the law so that everybody can do just as he pleases on sunday, provided he does not interfere with the rights of others. i want the christian, the jew, the deist and the atheist to be exactly equal before the law. i would fight for the right of the christian to worship god in his own way just as quick as i would for the atheist to enjoy music, flowers and fields. i hope to see the time when even the poor people can hear the music of the finest operas on sunday. one grand opera with all its thrilling tones, will do more good in touching and elevating the world than ten thousand sermons on the agonies of hell. _question_. have you ever been interfered with before in delivering sunday lectures? _answer_. no, i postponed a lecture in baltimore at the request of the owners of a theatre because they were afraid some action might be taken. that is the only case. i have delivered lectures on sunday in the principal cities of the united states, in new york, boston, buffalo, chicago, san francisco, cincinnati and many other places. i lectured here last winter; it was on sunday and i heard nothing of its being contrary to law. i always supposed my lectures were good enough to be delivered on the most sacred days. --_the leader_, pittsburg, pa., october , . [* the manager of the theatre, where col. ingersoll lectured, was fined fifty dollars which col. ingersoll paid.] political and religious. _question_. what do you think about the recent election, and what will be its effect upon political matters and the issues and candidates of ? _answer_. i think the republicans have met with this almost universal success on account, first, of the position taken by the democracy on the currency question; that is to say, that party was divided, and was willing to go in partnership with anybody, whatever their doctrines might be, for the sake of success in that particular locality. the republican party felt it of paramount importance not only to pay the debt, but to pay it in that which the world regards as money. the next reason for the victory is the position assumed by the democracy in congress during the called session. the threats they then made of what they would do in the event that the executive did not comply with their demands, showed that the spirit of the party had not been chastened to any considerable extent by the late war. the people of this country will not, in my judgment, allow the south to take charge of this country until they show their ability to protect the rights of citizens in their respective states. _question_. then, as you regard the victories, they are largely due to a firm adherence to principle, and the failure of the democratic party is due to their abandonment of principle, and their desire to unite with anybody and everything, at the sacrifice of principle, to attain success? _answer_. yes. the democratic party is a general desire for office without organization. most people are democrats because they hate something, most people are republicans because they love something. _question_. do you think the election has brought about any particular change in the issues that will be involved in the campaign of ? _answer_. i think the only issue is who shall rule the country. _question_. do you think, then, the question of state rights, hard or soft money and other questions that have been prominent in the campaign are practically settled, and so regarded by the people? _answer_. i think the money question is, absolutely. i think the question of state rights is dead, except that it can still be used to defeat the democracy. it is what might be called a convenient political corpse. _question_. now, to leave the political field and go to the religious at one jump--since your last visit here much has been said and written and published to the effect that a great change, or a considerable change at least, had taken place in your religious, or irreligious views. i would like to know if that is so? _answer_. the only change that has occurred in my religious views is the result of finding more and more arguments in favor of my position, and, as a consequence, if there is any difference, i am stronger in my convictions than ever before. _question_. i would like to know something of the history of your religious views? _answer_. i may say right here that the christian idea that any god can make me his friend by killing mine is about a great mistake as could be made. they seem to have the idea that just as soon as god kills all the people that a person loves, he will then begin to love the lord. what drew my attention first to these questions was the doctrine of eternal punishment. this was so abhorrent to my mind that i began to hate the book in which it was taught. then, in reading law, going back to find the origin of laws, i found one had to go but a little way before the legislator and priest united. this led me to a study of a good many of the religions of the world. at first i was greatly astonished to find most of them better than ours. i then studied our own system to the best of my ability, and found that people were palming off upon children and upon one another as the inspired word of god a book that upheld slavery, polygamy and almost every other crime. whether i am right or wrong, i became convinced that the bible is not an inspired book; and then the only question for me to settle was as to whether i should say what i believed or not. this really was not the question in my mind, because, before even thinking of such a question, i expressed my belief, and i simply claim that right and expect to exercise it as long as i live. i may be damned for it in the next world, but it is a great source of pleasure to me in this. _question_. it is reported that you are the son of a presbyterian minister? _answer_. yes, i am the son of a new school presbyterian minister. _question_. about what age were you when you began this investigation which led to your present convictions? _answer_. i cannot remember when i believed the bible doctrine of eternal punishment. i have a dim recollection of hating jehovah when i was exceedingly small. _question_. then your present convictions began to form themselves while you were listening to the teachings of religion as taught by your father? _answer_. yes, they did. _question_. did you discuss the matter with him? _answer_. i did for many years, and before he died he utterly gave up the idea that this life is a period of probation. he utterly gave up the idea of eternal punishment, and before he died he had the happiness of believing that god was almost as good and generous as he was himself. _question_. i suppose this gossip about a change in your religious views arose or was created by the expression used at your brother's funeral, "in the night of death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing"? _answer_. i never willingly will destroy a solitary human hope. i have always said that i did not know whether man was or was not immortal, but years before my brother died, in a lecture entitled "the ghosts," which has since been published, i used the following words: "the idea of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, with its countless waves of hope and fear, beating against the shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. it was born of human affection, and it will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long as love kisses the lips of death. it is the rainbow--hope, shining upon the tears of grief." _question_. the great objection to your teaching urged by your enemies is that you constantly tear down, and never build up? _answer_. i have just published a little book entitled, "some mistakes of moses," in which i have endeavored to give most of the arguments i have urged against the pentateuch in a lecture i delivered under that title. the motto on the title page is, "a destroyer of weeds, thistles and thorns is a benefactor, whether he soweth grain or not." i cannot for my life see why one should be charged with tearing down and not rebuilding simply because he exposes a sham, or detects a lie. i do not feel under any obligation to build something in the place of a detected falsehood. all i think i am under obligation to put in the place of a detected lie is the detection. most religionists talk as if mistakes were valuable things and they did not wish to part with them without a consideration. just how much they regard lies worth a dozen i do not know. if the price is reasonable i am perfectly willing to give it, rather than to see them live and give their lives to the defence of delusions. i am firmly convinced that to be happy here will not in the least detract from our happiness in another world should we be so fortunate as to reach another world; and i cannot see the value of any philosophy that reaches beyond the intelligent happiness of the present. there may be a god who will make us happy in another world. if he does, it will be more than he has accomplished in this. i suppose that he will never have more than infinite power and never have less than infinite wisdom, and why people should expect that he should do better in another world than he has in this is something that i have never been able to explain. a being who has the power to prevent it and yet who allows thousands and millions of his children to starve; who devours them with earthquakes; who allows whole nations to be enslaved, cannot in my judgment be implicitly be depended upon to do justice in another world. _question_. how do the clergy generally treat you? _answer_. well, of course there are the same distinctions among clergymen as among other people. some of them are quite respectable gentlemen, especially those with whom i am not acquainted. i think that since the loss of my brother nothing could exceed the heartlessness of the remarks made by the average clergyman. there have been some noble exceptions, to whom i feel not only thankful but grateful; but a very large majority have taken this occasion to say most unfeeling and brutal things. i do not ask the clergy to forgive me, but i do request that they will so act that i will not have to forgive them. i have always insisted that those who love their enemies should at least tell the truth about their friends, but i suppose, after all, that religion must be supported by the same means as those by which it was founded. of course, there are thousands of good ministers, men who are endeavoring to make the world better, and whose failure is no particular fault of their own. i have always been in doubt as to whether the clergy were a necessary or an unnecessary evil. _question_. i would like to have a positive expression of your views as to a future state? _answer_. somebody asked confucius about another world, and his reply was: "how should i know anything about another world when i know so little of this?" for my part, i know nothing of any other state of existence, either before or after this, and i have never become personally acquainted with anybody that did. there may be another life, and if there is, the best way to prepare for it is by making somebody happy in this. god certainly cannot afford to put a man in hell who has made a little heaven in this world. i propose simply to take my chances with the rest of the folks, and prepare to go where the people i am best acquainted with will probably settle. i cannot afford to leave the great ship and sneak off to shore in some orthodox canoe. i hope there is another life, for i would like to see how things come out in the world when i am dead. there are some people i would like to see again, and hope there are some who would not object to seeing me; but if there is no other life i shall never know it. i do not remember a time when i did not exist; and if, when i die, that is the end, i shall not know it, because the last thing i shall know is that i am alive, and if nothing is left, nothing will be left to know that i am dead; so that so far as i am concerned i am immortal; that is to say, i cannot recollect when i did not exist, and there never will be a time when i shall remember that i do not exist. i would like to have several millions of dollars, and i may say that i have a lively hope that some day i may be rich, but to tell you the truth i have very little evidence of it. our hope of immortality does not come from any religion, but nearly all religions come from that hope. the old testament, instead of telling us that we are immortal, tells us how we lost immortality. you will recollect that if adam and eve could have gotten to the tree of life, they would have eaten of its fruit and would have lived forever; but for the purpose of preventing immortality god turned them out of the garden of eden, and put certain angels with swords or sabres at the gate to keep them from getting back. the old testament proves, if it proves anything--which i do not think it does--that there is no life after this; and the new testament is not very specific on the subject. there were a great many opportunities for the saviour and his apostles to tell us about another world, but they did not improve them to any great extent; and the only evidence, so far as i know, about another life is, first, that we have no evidence; and, secondly, that we are rather sorry that we have not, and wish we had. that is about my position. _question_. according to your observation of men, and your reading in relation to the men and women of the world and of the church, if there is another world divided according to orthodox principles between the orthodox and heterodox, which of the two that are known as heaven and hell would contain, in your judgment, the most good society? _answer_. since hanging has got to be a means of grace, i would prefer hell. i had a thousand times rather associate with the pagan philosophers than with the inquisitors of the middle ages. i certainly should prefer the worst man in greek or roman history to john calvin; and i can imagine no man in the world that i would not rather sit on the same bench with than the puritan fathers and the founders of orthodox churches. i would trade off my harp any minute for a seat in the other country. all the poets will be in perdition, and the greatest thinkers, and, i should think, most of the women whose society would tend to increase the happiness of man; nearly all the painters, nearly all the sculptors, nearly all the writers of plays, nearly all the great actors, most of the best musicians, and nearly all the good fellows--the persons who know stories, who can sing songs, or who will loan a friend a dollar. they will mostly all be in that country, and if i did not live there permanently, i certainly would want it so i could spend my winter months there. but, after all, what i really want to do is to destroy the idea of eternal punishment. that doctrine subverts all ideas of justice. that doctrine fills hell with honest men, and heaven with intellectual and moral paupers. that doctrine allows people to sin on credit. that doctrine allows the basest to be eternally happy and the most honorable to suffer eternal pain. i think of all doctrines it is the most infinitely infamous, and would disgrace the lowest savage; and any man who believes it, and has imagination enough to understand it, has the heart of a serpent and the conscience of a hyena. _question_. your objective point is to destroy the doctrine of hell, is it? _answer_. yes, because the destruction of that doctrine will do away with all cant and all pretence. it will do away with all religious bigotry and persecution. it will allow every man to think and to express his thought. it will do away with bigotry in all its slimy and offensive forms. --_chicago tribune_, november , . politics and gen. grant _question_. some people have made comparisons between the late senators o. p. morton and zach. chandler. what did you think of them, colonel? _answer_. i think morton had the best intellectual grasp of a question of any man i ever saw. there was an infinite difference between the two men. morton's strength lay in proving a thing; chandler's in asserting it. but chandler was a strong man and no hypocrite. _question_. have you any objection to being interviewed as to your ideas of grant, and his position before the people? _answer_. i have no reason for withholding my views on that or any other subject that is under public discussion. my idea is that grant can afford to regard the presidency as a broken toy. it would add nothing to his fame if he were again elected, and would add nothing to the debt of gratitude which the people feel they owe him. i do not think he will be a candidate. i do not think he wants it. there are men who are pushing him on their own account. grant was a great soldier. he won the respect of the civilized world. he commanded the largest army that ever fought for freedom, and to make him president would not add a solitary leaf to the wreath of fame already on his brow; and should he be elected, the only thing he could do would be to keep the old wreath from fading. i do not think his reputation can ever be as great in any direction as in the direction of war. he has made his reputation and has lived his great life. i regard him, confessedly, as the best soldier the anglo-saxon blood has produced. i do not know that it necessarily follows because he is a great soldier he is great in other directions. probably some of the greatest statesmen in the world would have been the worst soldiers. _question_. do you regard him as more popular now than ever before? _answer_. i think that his reputation is certainly greater and higher than when he left the presidency, and mainly because he has represented this country with so much discretion and with such quiet, poised dignity all around the world. he has measured himself with kings, and was able to look over the heads of every one of them. they were not quite as tall as he was, even adding the crown to their original height. i think he represented us abroad with wonderful success. one thing that touched me very much was, that at a reception given him by the workingmen of birmingham, after he had been received by royalty, he had the courage to say that that reception gave him more pleasure than any other. he has been throughout perfectly true to the genius of our institutions, and has not upon any occasion exhibited the slightest toadyism. grant is a man who is not greatly affected by either flattery or abuse. _question_. what do you believe to be his position in regard to the presidency? _answer_. my own judgment is that he does not care. i do not think he has any enemies to punish, and i think that while he was president he certainly rewarded most of his friends. _question_. what are your views as to a third term? _answer_. i have no objection to a third term on principle, but so many men want the presidency that it seems almost cruel to give a third term to anyone. _question_. then, if there is no objection to a third term, what about a fourth? _answer_. i do not know that that could be objected to, either. we have to admit, after all, that the american people, or at least a majority of them, have a right to elect one man as often as they please. personally, i think it should not be done unless in the case of a man who is prominent above the rest of his fellow-citizens, and whose election appears absolutely necessary. but i frankly confess i cannot conceive of any political situation where one man is a necessity. i do not believe in the one-man-on-horseback idea, because i believe in all the people being on horseback. _question_. what will be the effect of the enthusiastic receptions that are being given to general grant? _answer_. i think these ovations show that the people are resolved not to lose the results of the great victories of the war, and that they make known this determination by their attention to general grant. i think that if he goes through the principal cities of this country the old spirit will be revived everywhere, and whether it makes him president or not the result will be to make the election go republican. the revival of the memories of the war will bring the people of the north together as closely as at any time since that great conflict closed, not in the spirit of hatred, or malice or envy, but in generous emulation to preserve that which was fairly won. i do not think there is any hatred about it, but we are beginning to see that we must save the south ourselves, and that that is the only way we can save the nation. _question_. but suppose they give the same receptions in the south? _answer_. so much the better. _question_. is there any split in the solid south? _answer_. some of the very best people in the south are apparently disgusted with following the democracy any longer, and would hail with delight any opportunity they could reasonably take advantage of to leave the organization, if they could do so without making it appear that they were going back on southern interests, and this opportunity will come when the south becomes enlightened, and sees that it has no interests except in common with the whole country. that i think they are beginning to see. _question_. how do you like the administration of president hayes? _answer_. i think its attitude has greatly improved of late. there are certain games of cards--pedro, for instance, where you can not only fail to make something, but be set back. i think that hayes's veto messages very nearly got him back to the commencement of the game--that he is now almost ready to commence counting, and make some points. his position before the country has greatly improved, but he will not develop into a dark horse. my preference is, of course, still for blaine. _question_. where do you think it is necessary the republican candidate should come from to insure success? _answer_. somewhere out of ohio. i think it will go to maine, and for this reason: first of all, blaine is certainly a competent man of affairs, a man who knows what to do at the time; and then he has acted in such a chivalric way ever since the convention at cincinnati, that those who opposed him most bitterly, now have for him nothing but admiration. i think john sherman is a man of decided ability, but i do not believe the american people would make one brother president, while the other is general of the army. it would be giving too much power to one family. _question_. what are your conclusions as to the future of the democratic party? _answer_. i think the democratic party ought to disband. i think they would be a great deal stronger disbanded, because they would get rid of their reputation without decreasing. _question_. but if they will not disband? _answer_. then the next campaign depends undoubtedly upon new york and indiana. i do not see how they can very well help nominating a man from indiana, and by that i mean hendricks. you see the south has one hundred and thirty-eight votes, all supposed to be democratic; with the thirty-five from new york and fifteen from indiana they would have just three to spare. now, i take it, that the fifteen from indiana are just about as essential as the thirty- five from new york. to lack fifteen votes is nearly as bad as being thirty-five short, and so far as drawing salary is concerned it is quite as bad. mr. hendricks ought to know that he holds the key to indiana, and that there cannot be any possibility of carrying this state for democracy without him. he has tried running for the vice-presidency, which is not much of a place anyhow--i would about as soon be vice-mother-in-law--and my judgment is that he knows exactly the value of his geographical position. new york is divided to that degree that it would be unsafe to take a candidate from that state; and besides, new york has become famous for furnishing defeated candidates for the democracy. i think the man must come from indiana. _question_. would the democracy of new york unite on seymour? _answer_. you recollect what lincoln said about the powder that had been shot off once. i do not remember any man who has once made a race for the presidency and been defeated ever being again nominated. _question_. what about bayard and hancock as candidates? _answer_. i do not see how bayard could possibly carry indiana, while his own state is too small and too solidly democratic. my idea of bayard is that he has not been good enough to be popular, and not bad enough to be famous. the american people will never elect a president from a state with a whipping-post. as to general hancock, you may set it down as certain that the south will never lend their aid to elect a man who helped to put down the rebellion. it would be just the same as the effort to elect greeley. it cannot be done. i see, by the way, that i am reported as having said that david davis, as the democratic candidate, could carry illinois. i did say that in , he could have carried it against hayes; but whether he could carry illinois in would depend altogether upon who runs against him. the condition of things has changed greatly in our favor since . --_the journal_, indianapolis, ind., november, . politics, religion and thomas paine. _question_. you have traveled about this state more or less, lately, and have, of course, observed political affairs here. do you think that senator logan will be able to deliver this state to the grant movement according to the understood plan? _answer_. if the state is really for grant, he will, and if it is not, he will not. illinois is as little "owned" as any state in this union. illinois would naturally be for grant, other things being equal, because he is regarded as a citizen of this state, and it is very hard for a state to give up the patronage naturally growing out of the fact that the president comes from that state. _question_. will the instructions given to delegates be final? _answer_. i do not think they will be considered final at all; neither do i think they will be considered of any force. it was decided at the last convention, in cincinnati, that the delegates had a right to vote as they pleased; that each delegate represented the district of the state that sent him. the idea that a state convention can instruct them as against the wishes of their constituents smacks a little too much of state sovereignty. the president should be nominated by the districts of the whole country, and not by massing the votes by a little chicanery at a state convention, and every delegate ought to vote what he really believes to be the sentiment of his constituents, irrespective of what the state convention may order him to do. he is not responsible to the state convention, and it is none of the state convention's business. this does not apply, it may be, to the delegates at large, but to all the others it certainly must apply. it was so decided at the cincinnati convention, and decided on a question arising about this same pennsylvania delegation. _question_. can you guess as to what the platform in going to contain? _answer_. i suppose it will be a substantial copy of the old one. i am satisfied with the old one with one addition. i want a plank to the effect that no man shall be deprived of any civil or political right on account of his religious or irreligious opinions. the republican party having been foremost in freeing the body ought to do just a little something now for the mind. after having wasted rivers of blood and treasure uncounted, and almost uncountable, to free the cage, i propose that something ought to be done for the bird. every decent man in the united states would support that plank. people should have a right to testify in courts, whatever their opinions may be, on any subject. justice should not shut any door leading to truth, and as long as just views neither affect a man's eyesight or his memory, he should be allowed to tell his story. and there are two sides to this question, too. the man is not only deprived of his testimony, but the commonwealth is deprived of it. there should be no religious test in this country for office; and if jehovah cannot support his religion without going into partnership with a state legislature, i think he ought to give it up. _question_. is there anything new about religion since you were last here? _answer_. since i was here i have spoken in a great many cities, and to-morrow i am going to do some missionary work at milwaukee. many who have come to scoff have remained to pray, and i think that my labors are being greatly blessed, and all attacks on me so far have been overruled for good. i happened to come in contact with a revival of religion, and i believe what they call an "outpouring" at detroit, under the leadership of a gentleman by the name of pentecost. he denounced me as god's greatest enemy. i had always supposed that the devil occupied that exalted position, but it seems that i have, in some way, fallen heir to his shoes. mr. pentecost also denounced all business men who would allow any advertisements or lithographs of mine to hang in their places of business, and several of these gentlemen thus appealed to took the advertisements away. the result of all this was that i had the largest house that ever attended a lecture in detroit. feeling that ingratitude is a crime, i publicly returned thanks to the clergy for the pains they had taken to give me an audience. and i may say, in this connection, that if the ministers do god as little good as they do me harm, they had better let both of us alone. i regard them as very good, but exceedingly mistaken men. they do not come much in contact with the world, and get most of their views by talking with the women and children of their congregations. they are not permitted to mingle freely with society. they cannot attend plays nor hear operas. i believe some of them have ventured to minstrel shows and menageries, where they confine themselves strictly to the animal part of the entertainment. but, as a rule, they have very few opportunities of ascertaining what the real public opinion is. they read religious papers, edited by gentlemen who know as little about the world as themselves, and the result of all this is that they are rather behind the times. they are good men, and would like to do right if they only knew it, but they are a little behind the times. there is an old story told of a fellow who had a post-office in a small town in north carolina, and he being the only man in the town who could read, a few people used to gather in the post-office on sunday, and he would read to them a weekly paper that was published in washington. he commenced always at the top of the first column and read right straight through, articles, advertisements, and all, and whenever they got a little tired of reading he would make a mark of red ochre and commence at that place the next sunday. the result was that the papers came a great deal faster than he read them, and it was about when they struck the war of . the moment they got to that, every one of them jumped up and offered to volunteer. all of which shows that they were patriotic people, but a little show, and somewhat behind the times. _question_. how were you pleased with the paine meeting here, and its results? _answer_. i was gratified to see so many people willing at last to do justice to a great and a maligned man. of course i do not claim that paine was perfect. all i claim is that he was a patriot and a political philosopher; that he was a revolutionist and an agitator; that he was infinitely full of suggestive thought, and that he did more than any man to convince the people of american not only that they ought to separate from great britain, but that they ought to found a representative government. he has been despised simply because he did not believe the bible. i wish to do what i can to rescue his name from theological defamation. i think the day has come when thomas paine will be remembered with washington, franklin and jefferson, and that the american people will wonder that their fathers could have been guilty of such base ingratitude. --_chicago times_, february , . reply to chicago critics. _question_. have you read the replies of the clergy to your recent lecture in this city on "what must we do to be saved?" and if so what do you think of them? _answer_. i think they dodge the point. the real point is this: if salvation by faith is the real doctrine of christianity, i asked on sunday before last, and i still ask, why didn't matthew tell it? i still insist that mark should have remembered it, and i shall always believe that luke ought, at least, to have noticed it. i was endeavoring to show that modern christianity has for its basis an interpolation. i think i showed it. the only gospel on the orthodox side is that of john, and that was certainly not written, or did not appear in its present form, until long after the others were written. i know very well that the catholic church claimed during the dark ages, and still claims, that references had been made to the gospels by persons living in the first, second, and third centuries; but i believe such manuscripts were manufactured by the catholic church. for many years in europe there was not one person in twenty thousand who could read and write. during that time the church had in its keeping the literature of our world. they interpolated as they pleased. they created. they destroyed. in other words, they did whatever in their opinion was necessary to substantiate the faith. the gentlemen who saw fit to reply did not answer the question, and i again call upon the clergy to explain to the people why, if salvation depends upon belief on the lord jesus christ, matthew didn't mention it. some one has said that christ didn't make known this doctrine of salvation by belief or faith until after his resurrection. certainly none of the gospels were written until after his resurrection; and if he made that doctrine known after his resurrection, and before his ascension, it should have been in matthew, mark, and luke, as well as in john. the replies of the clergy show that they have not investigated the subject; that they are not well acquainted with the new testament. in other words, they have not read it except with the regulation theological bias. there is one thing i wish to correct here. in an editorial in the _tribune_ it was stated that i had admitted that christ was beyond and above buddha, zoroaster, confucius, and others. i did not say so. another point was made against me, and those who made it seemed to think it was a good one. in my lecture i asked why it was that the disciples of christ wrote in greek, whereas, if fact, they understood only hebrew. it is now claimed that greek was the language of jerusalem at that time; that hebrew had fallen into disuse; that no one understood it except the literati and the highly educated. if i fell into an error upon this point it was because i relied upon the new testament. i find in the twenty-first chapter of the acts an account of paul having been mobbed in the city of jerusalem; that he was protected by a chief captain and some soldiers; that, while upon the stairs of the castle to which he was being taken for protection, he obtained leave from the captain to speak unto the people. in the fortieth verse of that chapter i find the following: "and when he had given him license, paul stood on the stairs and beckoned with the hand unto the people. and when there was made a great silence, he spake unto them in the hebrew tongue, saying," and then follows the speech of paul, wherein he gives an account of his conversion. it seems a little curious to me that paul, for the purpose of quieting a mob, would speak to that mob in an unknown language. if i were mobbed in the city of chicago, and wished to defend myself with an explanation, i certainly would not make that explanation in choctaw, even if i understood that tongue. my present opinion is that i would speak in english; and the reason i would speak in english is because that language is generally understood in this city, and so i conclude from the account in the twenty-first chapter of the acts that hebrew was the language of jerusalem at that time, or paul would not have addressed the mob in that tongue. _question_. did you read mr. courtney's answer? _answer_. i read what mr. courtney read from others, and think some of his quotations very good; and have no doubt that the authors will feel complimented by being quoted. there certainly is no need of my answering dr. courtney; sometime i may answer the french gentlemen from whom he quoted. _question_. but what about there being "belief" in matthew? _answer_. mr. courtney says that certain people were cured of diseases on account of faith. admitting that mumps, measles, and whooping-cough could be cured in that way, there is not even a suggestion that salvation depended upon a like faith. i think he can hardly afford to rely upon the miracles of the new testament to prove his doctrine. there is one instance in which a miracle was performed by christ without his knowledge; and i hardly think that even mr. courtney would insist that any faith could have been great enough for that. the fact is, i believe that all these miracles were ascribed to christ long after his death, and that christ never, at any time or place, pretended to have any supernatural power whatever. neither do i believe that he claimed any supernatural origin. he claimed simply to be a man; no less, no more. i do not believe mr. courtney is satisfied with his own reply. _question_. and now as to prof. swing? _answer_. mr. swing has been out of the orthodox church so long that he seems to have forgotten the reasons for which he left it. i do not believe there is an orthodox minister in the city of chicago who will agree with mr. swing that salvation by faith is no longer preached. prof. swing seems to think it of no importance who wrote the gospel of matthew. in this i agree with him. judging from what he said there is hardly difference enough of opinion between us to justify a reply on his part. he, however, makes one mistake. i did not in the lecture say one word about tearing down churches. i have no objection to people building all the churches they wish. while i admit it is a pretty sight to see children on a morning in june going through the fields to the country church, i still insist that the beauty of that sight does not answer the question how it is that matthew forgot to say anything about salvation through christ. prof. swing is a man of poetic temperament, but this is not a poetic question. _question_. how did the card of dr. thomas strike you? _answer_. i think the reply of dr. thomas is in the best possible spirit. i regard him to-day as the best intellect in the methodist denomination. he seems to have what is generally understood as a christian spirit. he has always treated me with perfect fairness, and i should have said long ago many grateful things, had i not feared i might hurt him with his own people. he seems to be by nature a perfectly fair man; and i know of no man in the united states for whom i have a profounder respect. of course, i don't agree with dr. thomas. i think in many things he is mistaken. but i believe him to be perfectly sincere. there is one trouble about him--he is growing; and this fact will no doubt give great trouble to many of his brethren. certain methodist hazel-brush feel a little uneasy in the shadow of this oak. to see the difference between him and some others, all that is necessary is to read his reply, and then read the remarks made at the methodist ministers' meeting on the monday following. compared with dr. thomas, they are as puddles by the sea. there is the same difference that there is between sewers and rivers, cesspools and springs. _question_. what have you to say to the remarks of the rev. dr. jewett before the methodist ministers' meeting? _answer_. i think dr. jewett is extremely foolish. i did not say that i would commence suit against a minister for libel. i can hardly conceive of a proceeding that would be less liable to produce a dividend. the fact about it is, that the rev. mr. jewett seems to think anything true that he hears against me. mr. jewett is probably ashamed of what he said by this time. he must have known it to be entirely false. it seems to me by this time even the most bigoted should lose their confidence in falsehood. of course there are times when a falsehood well told bridges over quite a difficulty, but in the long run you had better tell the truth, even if you swim the creek. i am astonished that these ministers were willing to exhibit their wounds to the world. i supposed of course i would hit some, but i had no idea of wounding so many. _question_. mr. crafts stated that you were in the habit of swearing in company and before your family? _answer_. i often swear. in other words, i take the name of god in vain; that is to say, i take it without any practical thing resulting from it, and in that sense i think most ministers are guilty of the same thing. i heard an old story of a clergyman who rebuked a neighbor for swearing, to whom the neighbor replied, "you pray and i swear, but as a matter of fact neither of us means anything by it." as to the charge that i am in the habit of using indecent language in my family, no reply is needed. i am willing to leave that question to the people who know us both. mr. crafts says he was told this by a lady. this cannot by any possibility be true, for no lady will tell a falsehood. besides, if this woman of whom he speaks was a lady, how did she happen to stay where obscene language was being used? no lady ever told mr. crafts any such thing. it may be that a lady did tell him that i used profane language. i admit that i have not always spoken of the devil in a respectful way; that i have sometimes referred to his residence when it was not a necessary part of the conversation, and that a divers times i have used a good deal of the terminology of the theologian when the exact words of the scientist might have done as well. but if by swearing is meant the use of god's name in vain, there are very few preachers who do not swear more than i do, if by "in vain" is meant without any practical result. i leave mr. crafts to cultivate the acquaintance of the unknown lady, knowing as i do, that after they have talked this matter over again they will find that both have been mistaken. i sincerely regret that clergymen who really believe that an infinite god is on their side think it necessary to resort to such things to defeat one man. according to their idea, god is against me, and they ought to have confidence in this infinite wisdom and strength to suppose that he could dispose of one man, even if they failed to say a word against me. had you not asked me i should have said nothing to you on these topics. such charges cannot hurt me. i do not believe it possible for such men to injure me. no one believes what they say, and the testimony of such clergymen against an infidel is no longer considered of value. i believe it was goethe who said, "i always know that i am traveling when i hear the dogs bark." _question_. are you going to make a formal reply to their sermons? _answer_. not unless something better is done than has been. of course, i don't know what another sabbath may bring forth. i am waiting. but of one thing i feel perfectly assured; that no man in the united states, or in the world, can account for the fact, if we are to be saved only by faith in christ, that matthew forgot it, that luke said nothing about it, and that mark never mentioned it except in two passages written by _another_ person. until that is answered, as one grave-digger says to the other in "hamlet," i shall say, "ay, tell me that and unyoke." in the meantime i wish to keep on the best terms with all parties concerned. i cannot see why my forgiving spirit fails to gain their sincere praise. --_chicago tribune_, september , . the republican victory. _question_. do you really think, colonel, that the country has just passed through a crisis? _answer_. yes; there was a crisis and a great one. the question was whether a northern or southern idea of the powers and duties of the federal government was to prevail. the great victory of yesterday means that the rebellion was not put down on the field of war alone, but that we have conquered in the realm of thought. the bayonet has been justified by argument. no party can ever succeed in this country that even whispers "state sovereignty." that doctrine has become odious. the sovereignty of the state means a government without power, and citizens without protection. _question_. can you see any further significance in the present republican victory other than that the people do not wish to change the general policy of the present administration? _answer_. yes; the people have concluded that the lips of america shall be free. there never was free speech at the south, and there never will be until the people of that section admit that the nation is superior to the state, and that all citizens have equal rights. i know of hundreds who voted the republican ticket because they regarded the south as hostile to free speech. the people were satisfied with the financial policy of the republicans, and they feared a change. the north wants honest money--gold and silver. the people are in favor of honest votes, and they feared the practices of the democratic party. the tissue ballot and shotgun policy made them hesitate to put power in the hands of the south. besides, the tariff question made thousands and thousands of votes. as long as europe has slave labor, and wherever kings and priests rule, the laborer will be substantially a slave. we must protect ourselves. if the world were free, trade would be free, and the seas would be the free highways of the world. the great objects of the republican party are to preserve all the liberty we have, protect american labor, and to make it the undisputed duty of the government to protect every citizen at home and abroad. _question_. what do you think was the main cause of the republican sweep? _answer_. the wisdom of the republicans and the mistakes of the democrats. the democratic party has for twenty years underrated the intelligence, the patriotism and the honesty of the american people. that party has always looked upon politics as a trade, and success as the last act of a cunning trick. it has had no principles, fixed or otherwise. it has always been willing to abandon everything but its prejudices. it generally commences where it left off and then goes backward. in this campaign english was a mistake, hancock was another. nothing could have been more incongruous than yoking a federal soldier with a peace-at-any-price democrat. neither could praise the other without slandering himself, and the blindest partisan could not like them both. but, after all, i regard the military record of english as fully equal to the views of general hancock on the tariff. the greatest mistake that the democratic party made was to suppose that a campaign could be fought and won by slander. the american people like fair play and they abhor ignorant and absurd vituperation. the continent knew that general garfield was an honest man; that he was in the grandest sense a gentleman; that he was patriotic, profound and learned; that his private life was pure; that his home life was good and kind and true, and all the charges made and howled and screeched and printed and sworn to harmed only those who did the making and the howling, the screeching and the swearing. i never knew a man in whose perfect integrity i had more perfect confidence, and in less than one year even the men who have slandered him will agree with me. _question_. how about that "personal and confidential letter"? (the morey letter.) _answer_. it was as stupid, as devilish, as basely born as godfathered. it is an exploded forgery, and the explosion leaves dead and torn upon the field the author and his witnesses. _question_. is there anything in the charge that the republican party seeks to change our form of government by gradual centralization? _answer_. nothing whatever. we want power enough in the government to protect, not to destroy, the liberties of the people. the history of the world shows that burglars have always opposed an increase of the police. --_new york herald_, november , . ingersoll and beecher.* [* the sensation created by the speech of the rev. henry ward beecher at the academy of music, in brooklyn, when he uttered a brilliant eulogy of col. robert ingersoll and publicly shook hands with him has not yet subsided. a portion of the religious world is thoroughly stirred up at what it considers a gross breach of orthodox propriety. this feeling is especially strong among the class of positivists who believe that "an atheist's laugh's a poor exchange for deity offended." many believe that mr. beecher is at heart in full sympathy and accord with ingersoll's teachings, but has not courage enough to say so at the sacrifice of his pastoral position. the fact that these two men are the very head and front of their respective schools of thought makes the matter an important one. the denouncement of the doctrine of eternal punishment, followed by the scene at the academy, has about it an aroma of suggestiveness that might work much harm without an explanation. since colonel ingersoll's recent attack upon the _personnel_ of the clergy through the "shorter catechism" the pulpit has been remarkably silent regarding the great atheist. "is the keen logic and broad humanity of ingersoll converting the brain and heart of christendom?" was recently asked. did the hand that was stretched out to him on the stage of the academy reach across the chasm which separates orthodoxy from infidelity? desiring to answer the last question if possible, a _herald_ reporter visited mr. beecher and colonel ingersoll to learn their opinion of each other. neither of the gentlemen was aware that the other was being interviewed.] _question_. what is your opinion of mr. beecher? _answer_. i regard him as the greatest man in any pulpit of the world. he treated me with a generosity that nothing can exceed. he rose grandly above the prejudices supposed to belong to his class, and acted as only a man could act without a chain upon his brain and only kindness in his heart. i told him that night that i congratulated the world that it had a minister with an intellectual horizon broad enough and a mental sky studded with stars of genius enough to hold all creeds in scorn that shocked the heart of man. i think that mr. beecher has liberalized the english-speaking people of the world. i do not think he agrees with me. he holds to many things that i most passionately deny. but in common, we believe in the liberty of thought. my principal objections to orthodox religion are two--slavery here and hell hereafter. i do not believe that mr. beecher on these points can disagree with me. the real difference between us is-- he says god, i say nature. the real agreement between us is--we both say--liberty. _question_. what is his forte? _answer_. he is of a wonderfully poetic temperament. in pursuing any course of thought his mind is like a stream flowing through the scenery of fairyland. the stream murmurs and laughs while the banks grow green and the vines blossom. his brain is controlled by his heart. he thinks in pictures. with him logic means mental melody. the discordant is the absurd. for years he has endeavored to hide the dungeon of orthodoxy with the ivy of imagination. now and then he pulls for a moment the leafy curtain aside and is horrified to see the lizards, snakes, basilisks and abnormal monsters of the orthodox age, and then he utters a great cry, the protest of a loving, throbbing heart. he is a great thinker, a marvelous orator, and, in my judgment, greater and grander than any creed of any church. besides all this, he treated me like a king. manhood is his forte, and i expect to live and die his friend. beecher on ingersoll. _question_. what is your opinion of colonel ingersoll? _answer_. i do not think there should be any misconception as to my motive for indorsing mr. ingersoll. i never saw him before that night, when i clasped his hand in the presence of an assemblage of citizens. yet i regard him as one of the greatest men of this age. _question_. is his influence upon the world good or otherwise? _answer_. i am an ordained clergyman and believe in revealed religion. i am, therefore, bound to regard all persons who do not believe in revealed religion as in error. but on the broad platform of human liberty and progress i was bound to give him the right hand of fellowship. i would do it a thousand times over. i do not know colonel ingersoll's religious views precisely, but i have a general knowledge of them. he has the same right to free thought and free speech that i have. i am not that kind of a coward who has to kick a man before he shakes hands with him. if i did so i would have to kick the methodists, roman catholics and all other creeds. i will not pitch into any man's religion as an excuse for giving him my hand. i admire ingersoll because he is not afraid to speak what he honestly thinks, and i am only sorry that he does not think as i do. i never heard so much brilliancy and pith put into a two hour speech as i did on that night. i wish my whole congregation had been there to hear it. i regret that there are not more men like ingersoll interested in the affairs of the nation. i do not wish to be understood as indorsing skepticism in any form. --_new york herald_, november , . political. _question_. is it true, as rumored, that you intend to leave washington and reside in new york? _answer_. no, i expect to remain here for years to come, so far as i can now see. my present intention is certainly to stay here during the coming winter. _question_. is this because you regard washington as the pleasantest and most advantageous city for a residence? _answer_. well, in the first place, i dislike to move. in the next place, the climate is good. in the third place, the political atmosphere has been growing better of late, and when you consider that i avoid one dislike and reap the benefits of two likes, you can see why i remain. _question_. do you think that the moral atmosphere will improve with the political atmosphere? _answer_. i would hate to say that this city is capable of any improvement in the way of morality. we have a great many churches, a great many ministers, and, i believe, some retired chaplains, so i take it that the moral tone of the place could hardly be bettered. one majority in the senate might help it. seriously, however, i think that washington has as high a standard of morality as any city in the union. and it is one of the best towns in which to loan money without collateral in the world. _question_. do you know this from experience? _answer_. this i have been told [was the solemn answer.] _question_. do you think that the political features of the incoming administration will differ from the present? _answer_. of course, i have no right to speak for general garfield. i believe his administration will be republican, at the same time perfectly kind, manly, and generous. he is a man to harbor no resentment. he knows that it is the duty of statesmanship to remove causes of irritation rather then punish the irritated. _question_. do i understand you to imply that there will be a neutral policy, as it were, towards the south? _answer_. no, i think that there will be nothing neutral about it. i think that the next administration will be one-sided--that is, it will be on the right side. i know of no better definition for a compromise than to say it is a proceeding in which hypocrites deceive each other. i do not believe that the incoming administration will be neutral in anything. the american people do not like neutrality. they would rather a man were on the wrong side than on neither. and, in my judgment, there is no paper so utterly unfair, malicious and devilish, as one that claims to be neutral. no politician is as bitter as a neutral politician. neutrality is generally used as a mask to hide unusual bitterness. sometimes it hides what it is--nothing. it always stands for hollowness of head or bitterness of heart, sometimes for both. my idea is--and that is the only reason i have the right to express it--that general garfield believes in the platform adopted by the republican party. he believes in free speech, in honest money, in divorce of church and state, and he believes in the protection of american citizens by the federal government wherever the flag flies. he believes that the federal government is as much bound to protect the citizen at home as abroad. i believe he will do the very best he can to carry these great ideas into execution and make them living realities in the united states. personally, i have no hatred toward the southern people. i have no hatred toward any class. i hate tyranny, no matter whether it is south or north; i hate hypocrisy, and i hate above all things, the spirit of caste. if the southern people could only see that they gained as great a victory in the rebellion as the north did, and some day they will see it, the whole question would be settled. the south has reaped a far greater benefit from being defeated than the north has from being successful, and i believe some day the south will be great enough to appreciate that fact. i have always insisted that to be beaten by the right is to be a victor. the southern people must get over the idea that they are insulted simply because they are out-voted, and they ought by this time to know that the republicans of the north, not only do not wish them harm, but really wish them the utmost success. _question_. but has the republican party all the good and the democratic all the bad? _answer_. no, i do not think that the republican party has all the good, nor do i pretend that the democratic party has all the bad; though i may say that each party comes pretty near it. i admit that there are thousands of really good fellows in the democratic party, and there are some pretty bad people in the republican party. but i honestly believe that within the latter are most of the progressive men of this country. that party has in it the elements of growth. it is full of hope. it anticipates. the democratic party remembers. it is always talking about the past. it is the possessor of a vast amount of political rubbish, and i really believe it has outlived its usefulness. i firmly believe that your editor, mr. hutchings, could start a better organization, if he would only turn his attention to it. just think for a moment of the number you could get rid of by starting a new party. a hundred names will probably suggest themselves to any intelligent democrat, the loss of which would almost insure success. some one has said that a tailor in boston made a fortune by advertising that he did not cut the breeches of webster's statue. a new party by advertising that certain men would not belong to it, would have an advantage in the next race. _question_. what, in your opinion, were the causes which led to the democratic defeat? _answer_. i think the nomination of english was exceedingly unfortunate. indiana, being an october state, the best man in that state should have been nominated either for president or vice- president. personally, i know nothing of mr. english, but i have the right to say that he was exceedingly unpopular. that was mistake number one. mistake number two was putting a plank in the platform insisting upon a tariff for revenue only. that little word "only" was one of the most frightful mistakes ever made by a political party. that little word "only" was a millstone around the neck of the entire campaign. the third mistake was hancock's definition of the tariff. it was exceedingly unfortunate, exceedingly laughable, and came just in the nick of time. the fourth mistake was the speech of wade hampton, i mean the speech that the republican papers claim he made. of course i do not know, personally, whether it was made or not. if made, it was a great mistake. mistake number five was made in alabama, where they refused to allow a greenbacker to express his opinion. that lost the democrats enough greenbackers to turn the scale in maine, and enough in indiana to change that election. mistake number six was in the charges made against general garfield. they were insisted upon, magnified and multiplied until at last the whole thing assumed the proportions of a malicious libel. this was a great mistake, for the reason that a number of democrats in the united states had most heartily and cordially indorsed general garfield as a man of integrity and great ability. such indorsements had been made by the leading democrats of the north and south, among them governor hendricks and many others i might name. jere black had also certified to the integrity and intellectual grandeur of general garfield, and when afterward he certified to the exact contrary, the people believed that it was a persecution. the next mistake, number seven, was the chinese letter. while it lost garfield california, nevada, and probably new jersey, it did him good in new york. this letter was the greatest mistake made, because a crime is greater than a mistake. these, in my judgment, are the principal mistakes made by the democratic party in the campaign. had mcdonald been on the ticket the result might have been different, or had the party united on some man in new york, satisfactory to the factions, it might have succeeded. the truth, however, is that the north to-day is republican, and it may be that had the democratic party made no mistakes whatever the result would have been the same. but that mistakes were made is now perfectly evident to the blindest partisan. if the ticket originally suggested, seymour and mcdonald, had been nominated on an unobjectionable platform, the result might have been different. one of the happiest days in my life was the day on which the cincinnati convention did not nominate seymour and did nominate english. i regard general hancock as a good soldier, but not particularly qualified to act as president. he has neither the intellectual training nor the experience to qualify him for that place. _question_. you have doubtless heard of a new party, colonel. what is your idea in regard to it? _answer_. i have heard two or three speak of a new party to be called the national party, or national union party, but whether there is anything in such a movement i have no means of knowing. any party in opposition to the republican, no matter what it may be called, must win on a new issue, and that new issue will determine the new party. parties cannot be made to order. they must grow. they are the natural offspring of national events. they must embody certain hopes, they must gratify, or promise to gratify, the feelings of a vast number of people. no man can make a party, and if a new party springs into existence it will not be brought forth to gratify the wishes of a few, but the wants of the many. it has seemed to me for years that the democratic party carried too great a load in the shape of record; that its autobiography was nearly killing it all the time, and that if it could die just long enough to assume another form at the resurrection, just long enough to leave a grave stone to mark the end of its history, to get a cemetery back of it, that it might hope for something like success. in other words, that there must be a funeral before there can be victory. most of its leaders are worn out. they have become so accustomed to defeat that they take it as a matter of course; they expect it in the beginning and seem unconsciously to work for it. there must be some new ideas, and this only can happen when the party as such has been gathered to its fathers. i do not think that the advice of senator hill will be followed. he is willing to kill the democratic party in the south if we will kill the republican party in the north. this puts me in mind of what the rooster said to the horse: "let us agree not to step on each other's feet." _question_. your views of the country's future and prospects must naturally be rose colored? _answer_. of course, i look at things through republican eyes and may be prejudiced without knowing it. but it really seems to me that the future is full of great promise. the south, after all, is growing more prosperous. it is producing more and more every year, until in time it will become wealthy. the west is growing almost beyond the imagination of a speculator, and the eastern and middle states are much more than holding their own. we have now fifty millions of people and in a few years will have a hundred. that we are a nation i think is now settled. our growth will be unparalleled. i myself expect to live to see as many ships on the pacific as on the atlantic. in a few years there will probably be ten millions of people living along the rocky and sierra mountains. it will not be long until illinois will find her market west of her. in fifty years this will be the greatest nation on the earth, and the most populous in the civilized world. china is slowly awakening from the lethargy of centuries. it will soon have the wants of europe, and america will supply those wants. this is a nation of inventors and there is more mechanical ingenuity in the united states than on the rest of the globe. in my judgment this country will in a short time add to its customers hundreds of millions of the people of the celestial empire. so you see, to me, the future is exceedingly bright. and besides all this, i must not forget the thing that is always nearest my heart. there is more intellectual liberty in the united states to-day than ever before. the people are beginning to see that every citizen ought to have the right to express himself freely upon every possible subject. in a little while, all the barbarous laws that now disgrace the statute books of the states by discriminating against a man simply because he is honest, will be repealed, and there will be one country where all citizens will have and enjoy not only equal rights, but all rights. nothing gratifies me so much as the growth of intellectual liberty. after all, the true civilization is where every man gives to every other, every right that he claims for himself. --_the post_, washington, d. c., november , . religion in politics. _question_. how do you regard the present political situation? _answer_. my opinion is that the ideas the north fought for upon the field have at last triumphed at the ballot-box. for several years after the rebellion was put down the southern ideas traveled north. we lost west virginia, new jersey, connecticut, new york and a great many congressional districts in other states. we lost both houses of congress and every southern state. the southern ideas reached their climax in . in my judgment the tide has turned, and hereafter the northern idea is going south. the young men are on the republican side. the old democrats are dying. the cradle is beating the coffin. it is a case of life and death, and life is ahead. the heirs outnumber the administrators. _question_. what kind of a president will garfield make? _answer_. my opinion is that he will make as good a president as this nation ever had. he is fully equipped. he is a trained statesman. he has discussed all the great questions that have arisen for the last eighteen years, and with great ability. he is a thorough scholar, a conscientious student, and takes an exceedingly comprehensive survey of all questions. he is genial, generous and candid, and has all the necessary qualities of heart and brain to make a great president. he has no prejudices. prejudice is the child and flatterer of ignorance. he is firm, but not obstinate. the obstinate man wants his own way; the firm man stands by the right. andrew johnson was obstinate--lincoln was firm. _question_. how do you think he will treat the south? _answer_. just the same as the north. he will be the president of the whole country. he will not execute the laws by the compass, but according to the constitution. i do not speak for general garfield, nor by any authority from his friends. no one wishes to injure the south. the republican party feels in honor bound to protect all citizens, white and black. it must do this in order to keep its self-respect. it must throw the shield of the nation over the weakest, the humblest and the blackest citizen. any other course is suicide. no thoughtful southern man can object to this, and a northern democrat knows that it is right. _question_. is there a probability that mr. sherman will be retained in the cabinet? _answer_. i have no knowledge upon that question, and consequently have nothing to say. my opinion about the cabinet is, that general garfield is well enough acquainted with public men to choose a cabinet that will suit him and the country. i have never regarded it as the proper thing to try and force a cabinet upon a president. he has the right to be surrounded by his friends, by men in whose judgment and in whose friendship he has the utmost confidence, and i would no more think of trying to put some man in the cabinet that i would think of signing a petition that a man should marry a certain woman. general garfield will, i believe, select his own constitutional advisers, and he will take the best he knows. _question_. what, in your opinion, is the condition of the democratic party at present? _answer_. it must get a new set of principles, and throw away its prejudices. it must demonstrate its capacity to govern the country by governing the states where it is in power. in the presence of rebellion it gave up the ship. the south must become republican before the north will willingly give it power; that is, the great ideas of nationality are greater than parties, and if our flag is not large enough to protect every citizen, we must add a few more stars and stripes. personally i have no hatreds in this matter. the present is not only the child of the past, but the necessary child. a statesman must deal with things as they are. he must not be like gladstone, who divides his time between foreign wars and amendments to the english book of common prayer. _question_. how do you regard the religious question in politics? _answer_. religion is a personal matter--a matter that each individual soul should be allowed to settle for itself. no man shod in the brogans of impudence should walk into the temple of another man's soul. while every man should be governed by the highest possible considerations of the public weal, no one has the right to ask for legal assistance in the support of his particular sect. if catholics oppose the public schools i would not oppose them because they are catholics, but because i am in favor of the schools. i regard the public school as the intellectual bread of life. personally i have no confidence in any religion that can be demonstrated only to children. i suspect all creeds that rely implicitly on mothers and nurses. that religion is the best that commends itself the strongest to men and women of education and genius. after all, the prejudices of infancy and the ignorance of the aged are a poor foundation for any system of morals or faith. i respect every honest man, and i think more of a liberal catholic than of an illiberal infidel. the religious question should be left out of politics. you might as well decide questions of art and music by a ward caucus as to govern the longings and dreams of the soul by law. i believe in letting the sun shine whether the weeds grow or not. i can never side with protestants if they try to put catholics down by law, and i expect to oppose both of these until religious intolerance is regarded as a crime. _question_. is the religious movement of which you are the chief exponent spreading? _answer_. there are ten times as many freethinkers this year as there were last. civilization is the child of free thought. the new world has drifted away from the rotting wharf of superstition. the politics of this country are being settled by the new ideas of individual liberty; and parties and churches that cannot accept the new truths must perish. i want it perfectly understood that i am not a politician. i believe in liberty and i want to see the time when every man, woman and child will enjoy every human right. the election is over, the passions aroused by the campaign will soon subside, the sober judgment of the people will, in my opinion, indorse the result, and time will indorse the indorsement. --_the evening express_, new york city, november , . miracles and immortality. _question_. you have seen some accounts of the recent sermon of dr. tyng on "miracles," i presume, and if so, what is your opinion of the sermon, and also what is your opinion of miracles? _answer_. from an orthodox standpoint, i think the rev. dr. tyng is right. if miracles were necessary eighteen hundred years ago, before scientific facts enough were known to overthrow hundreds and thousands of passages in the bible, certainly they are necessary now. dr. tyng sees clearly that the old miracles are nearly worn out, and that some new ones are absolutely essential. he takes for granted that, if god would do a miracle to found his gospel, he certainly would do some more to preserve it, and that it is in need of preservation about now is evident. i am amazed that the religious world should laugh at him for believing in miracles. it seems to me just as reasonable that the deaf, dumb, blind and lame, should be cured at lourdes as at palestine. it certainly is no more wonderful that the law of nature should be broken now than that it was broken several thousand years ago. dr. tyng also has this advantage. the witnesses by whom he proves these miracles are alive. an unbeliever can have the opportunity of cross- examination. whereas, the miracles in the new testament are substantiated only by the dead. it is just as reasonable to me that blind people receive their sight in france as that devils were made to vacate human bodies in the holy land. for one i am exceedingly glad that dr. tyng has taken this position. it shows that he is a believer in a personal god, in a god who is attending a little to the affairs of this world, and in a god who did not exhaust his supplies in the apostolic age. it is refreshing to me to find in this scientific age a gentleman who still believes in miracles. my opinion is that all thorough religionists will have to take the ground and admit that a supernatural religion must be supernaturally preserved. i have been asking for a miracle for several years, and have in a very mild, gentle and loving way, taunted the church for not producing a little one. i have had the impudence to ask any number of them to join in a prayer asking anything they desire for the purpose of testing the efficiency of what is known as supplication. they answer me by calling my attention to the miracles recorded in the new testament. i insist, however, on a new miracle, and, personally, i would like to see one now. certainly, the infinite has not lost his power, and certainly the infinite knows that thousands and hundreds of thousands, if the bible is true, are now pouring over the precipice of unbelief into the gulf of hell. one little miracle would save thousands. one little miracle in pittsburg, well authenticated, would do more good than all the preaching ever heard in this sooty town. the rev. dr. tyng clearly sees this, and he has been driven to the conclusion, first, that god can do miracles; second, that he ought to, third, that he has. in this he is perfectly logical. after a man believes the bible, after he believes in the flood and in the story of jonah, certainly he ought not to hesitate at a miracle of to-day. when i say i want a miracle, i mean by that, i want a good one. all the miracles recorded in the new testament could have been simulated. a fellow could have pretended to be dead, or blind, or dumb, or deaf. i want to see a good miracle. i want to see a man with one leg, and then i want to see the other leg grow out. i would like to see a miracle like that performed in north carolina. two men were disputing about the relative merits of the salve they had for sale. one of the men, in order to demonstrate that his salve was better than any other, cut off a dog's tail and applied a little of the salve to the stump, and, in the presence of the spectators, a new tail grew out. but the other man, who also had salve for sale, took up the piece of tail that had been cast away, put a little salve at the end of that, and a new dog grew out, and the last heard of those parties they were quarrelling as to who owned the second dog. something like that is what i call a miracle. _question_. what do you believe about the immortality of the soul? do you believe that the spirit lives as an individual after the body is dead? _answer_. i have said a great many times that it is no more wonderful that we should live again than that we do live. sometimes i have thought it not quite so wonderful for the reason that we have a start. but upon that subject i have not the slightest information. whether man lives again or not i cannot pretend to say. there may be another world and there may not be. if there is another world we ought to make the best of it after arriving there. if there is not another world, or if there is another world, we ought to make the best of this. and since nobody knows, all should be permitted to have their opinions, and my opinion is that nobody knows. if we take the old testament for authority, man is not immortal. the old testament shows man how he lost immortality. according to genesis, god prevented man from putting forth his hand and eating of the tree of life. it is there stated, had he succeeded, man would have lived forever. god drove him from the garden, preventing him eating of this tree, and in consequence man became mortal; so that if we go by the old testament we are compelled to give up immortality. the new testament has but little on the subject. in one place we are told to seek for immortality. if we are already immortal, it is hard to see why we should go on seeking for it. in another place we are told that they who are worthy to obtain that world and the resurrection of the dead, are not given in marriage. from this one would infer there would be some unworthy to be raised from the dead. upon the question of immortality, the old testament throws but little satisfactory light. i do not deny immortality, nor would i endeavor to shake the belief of anybody in another life. what i am endeavoring to do is to put out the fires of hell. if we cannot have heaven without hell, i am in favor of abolishing heaven. i do not want to go to heaven if one soul is doomed to agony. i would rather be annihilated. my opinion of immortality is this: first.--i live, and that of itself is infinitely wonderful. second.--there was a time when i was not, and after i was not, i was. third.--now that i am, i may be again; and it is no more wonderful that i may be again, if i have been, than that i am, having once been nothing. if the churches advocated immortality, if they advocated eternal justice, if they said that man would be rewarded and punished according to deeds; if they admitted that some time in eternity there would be an opportunity given to lift up souls, and that throughout all the ages the angels of progress and virtue would beckon the fallen upward; and that some time, and no matter how far away they might put off the time, all the children of men would be reasonably happy, i never would say a solitary word against the church, but just as long as they preach that the majority of mankind will suffer eternal pain, just so long i shall oppose them; that is to say, as long as i live. _question_. do you believe in a god; and, if so, what kind of a god? _answer_. let me, in the first place, lay a foundation for an answer. first.--man gets all food for thought through the medium of the senses. the effect of nature upon the senses, and through the senses upon the brain, must be natural. all food for thought, then, is natural. as a consequence of this, there can be no supernatural idea in the human brain. whatever idea there is must have been a natural product. if, then, there is no supernatural idea in the human brain, then there cannot be in the human brain an idea of the supernatural. if we can have no idea of the supernatural, and if the god of whom you spoke is admitted to be supernatural, then, of course, i can have no idea of him, and i certainly can have no very fixed belief on any subject about which i have no idea. there may be a god for all i know. there may be thousands of them. but the idea of an infinite being outside and independent of nature is inconceivable. i do not know of any word that would explain my doctrine or my views upon the subject. i suppose pantheism is as near as i could go. i believe in the eternity of matter and in the eternity of intelligence, but i do not believe in any being outside of nature. i do not believe in any personal deity. i do not believe in any aristocracy of the air. i know nothing about origin or destiny. between these two horizons i live, whether i wish to or not, and must be satisfied with what i find between these two horizons. i have never heard any god described that i believe in. i have never heard any religion explained that i accept. to make something out of nothing cannot be more absurd than that an infinite intelligence made this world, and proceeded to fill it with crime and want and agony, and then, not satisfied with the evil he had wrought, made a hell in which to consummate the great mistake. _question_. do you believe that the world, and all that is in it came by chance? _answer_. i do not believe anything comes by chance. i regard the present as the necessary child of a necessary past. i believe matter is eternal; that it has eternally existed and eternally will exist. i believe that in all matter, in some way, there is what we call force; that one of the forms of force is intelligence. i believe that whatever is in the universe has existed from eternity and will forever exist. secondly.--i exclude from my philosophy all ideas of chance. matter changes eternally its form, never its essence. you cannot conceive of anything being created. no one can conceive of anything existing without a cause or with a cause. let me explain; a thing is not a cause until an effect has been produced; so that, after all, cause and effect are twins coming into life at precisely the same instant, born of the womb of an unknown mother. the universe in the only fact, and everything that ever has happened, is happening, or will happen, are but the different aspects of the one eternal fact. --_the dispatch_, pittsburg, pa., december , . the political outlook. _question_. what phases will the southern question assume in the next four years? _answer_. the next congress should promptly unseat every member of congress in whose district there was not a fair and honest election. that is the first hard work to be done. let notice, in this way, be given to the whole country, that fraud cannot succeed. no man should be allowed to hold a seat by force or fraud. just as soon as it is understood that fraud is useless it will be abandoned. in that way the honest voters of the whole country can be protected. an honest vote settles the southern question, and congress has the power to compel an honest vote, or to leave the dishonest districts without representation. i want this policy adopted, not only in the south, but in the north. no man touched or stained with fraud should be allowed to hold his seat. send such men home, and let them stay there until sent back by honest votes. the southern question is a northern question, and the republican party must settle it for all time. we must have honest elections, or the republic must fall. illegal voting must be considered and punished as a crime. taking one hundred and seventy thousand as the basis of representation, the south, through her astounding increase of colored population, gains three electoral votes, while the north and east lose three. garfield was elected by the thirty thousand colored votes cast in new york. _question_. will the negro continue to be the balance of power, and if so, will it inure to his benefit? _answer_. the more political power the colored man has the better he will be treated, and if he ever holds the balance of power he will be treated as well as the balance of our citizens. my idea is that the colored man should stand on an equality with the white before the law; that he should honestly be protected in all his rights; that he should be allowed to vote, and that his vote should be counted. it is a simple question of honesty. the colored people are doing well; they are industrious; they are trying to get an education, and, on the whole, i think they are behaving fully as well as the whites. they are the most forgiving people in the world, and about the only real christians in our country. they have suffered enough, and for one i am on their side. i think more of honest black people than of dishonest whites, to say the least of it. _question_. do you apprehend any trouble from the southern leaders in this closing session of congress, in attempts to force pernicious legislation? _answer_. i do not. the southern leaders know that the doctrine of state sovereignty is dead. they know that they cannot depend upon the northern democrat, and they know that the best interests of the south can only be preserved by admitting that the war settled the questions and ideas fought for and against. they know that this country is a nation, and that no party can possibly succeed that advocates anything contrary to that. my own opinion is that most of the southern leaders are heartily ashamed of the course pursued by their northern friends, and will take the first opportunity to say so. _question_. in what light do you regard the chinaman? _answer_. i am opposed to compulsory immigration, or cooley or slave immigration. if chinamen are sent to this country by corporations or companies under contracts that amount to slavery or anything like it or near it, then i am opposed to it. but i am not prepared to say that i would be opposed to voluntary immigration. i see by the papers that a new treaty has been agreed upon that will probably be ratified and be satisfactory to all parties. we ought to treat china with the utmost fairness. if our treaty is wrong, amend it, but do so according to the recognized usage of nations. after what has been said and done in this country i think there is very little danger of any chinaman voluntarily coming here. by this time china must have an exceedingly exalted opinion of our religion, and of the justice and hospitality born of our most holy faith. _question_. what is your opinion of making ex-presidents senators for life? _answer_. i am opposed to it. i am against any man holding office for life. and i see no more reason for making ex-presidents senators, than for making ex-senators presidents. to me the idea is preposterous. why should ex-presidents be taken care of? in this country labor is not disgraceful, and after a man has been president he has still the right to be useful. i am personally acquainted with several men who will agree, in consideration of being elected to the presidency, not to ask for another office during their natural lives. the people of this country should never allow a great man to suffer. the hand, not of charity, but of justice and generosity, should be forever open to those who have performed great public service. but the ex-presidents of the future may not all be great and good men, and bad ex-presidents will not make good senators. if the nation does anything, let it give a reasonable pension to ex- presidents. no man feels like giving pension, power, or place to general grant simply because he was once president, but because he was a great soldier, and led the armies of the nation to victory. make him a general, and retire him with the highest military title. let him grandly wear the laurels he so nobly won, and should the sky at any time be darkened with a cloud of foreign war, this country will again hand him the sword. such a course honors the nation and the man. _question_. are we not entering upon the era of our greatest prosperity? _answer_. we are just beginning to be prosperous. the northern pacific railroad is to be completed. forty millions of dollars have just been raised by that company, and new states will soon be born in the great northwest. the texas pacific will be pushed to san diego, and in a few years we will ride in a pullman car from chicago to the city of mexico. the gold and silver mines are yielding more and more, and within the last ten years more than forty million acres of land have been changed from wilderness to farms. this country is beginning to grow. we have just fairly entered upon what i believe will be the grandest period of national development and prosperity. with the republican party in power; with good money; with unlimited credit; with the best land in the world; with ninety thousand miles of railway; with mountains of gold and silver; with hundreds of thousands of square miles of coal fields; with iron enough for the whole world; with the best system of common schools; with telegraph wires reaching every city and town, so that no two citizens are an hour apart; with the telephone, that makes everybody in the city live next door, and with the best folks in the world, how can we help prospering until the continent is covered with happy homes? _question_. what do you think of civil service reform? _answer_. i am in favor of it. i want such civil service reform that all the offices will be filled with good and competent republicans. the majority should rule, and the men who are in favor of the views of the majority should hold the offices. i am utterly opposed to the idea that a party should show its liberality at the expense of its principles. men holding office can afford to take their chances with the rest of us. if they are democrats, they should not expect to succeed when their party is defeated. i believe that there are enough good and honest republicans in this country to fill all the offices, and i am opposed to taking any democrats until the republican supply is exhausted. men should not join the republican party to get office. such men are contemptible to the last degree. neither should a republican administration compel a man to leave the party to get a federal appointment. after a great battle has been fought i do not believe that the victorious general should reward the officers of the conquered army. my doctrine is, rewards for friends. --_the commercial_, cincinnati, ohio, december , . mr. beecher, moses and the negro. _question_. mr. beecher is here. have you seen him? _answer_. no, i did not meet mr. beecher. neither did i hear him lecture. the fact is, that long ago i made up my mind that under no circumstances would i attend any lecture or other entertainment given at lincoln hall. first, because the hall has been denied me, and secondly, because i regard it as extremely unsafe. the hall is up several stories from the ground, and in case of the slightest panic, in my judgment, many lives would be lost. had it not been for this, and for the fact that the persons owning it imagined that because they had control, the brick and mortar had some kind of holy and sacred quality, and that this holiness is of such a wonderful character that it would not be proper for a man in that hall to tell his honest thoughts, i would have heard him. _question_. then i assume that you and mr. beecher have made up? _answer_. there is nothing to be made up for so far as i know. mr. beecher has treated me very well, and, i believe, a little too well for his own peace of mind. i have been informed that some members of plymouth church felt exceedingly hurt that their pastor should so far forget himself as to extend the right hand of fellowship to one who differs from him upon what they consider very essential points in theology. you see i have denied with all my might, a great many times, the infamous doctrine of eternal punishment. i have also had the temerity to suggest that i did not believe that a being of infinite justice and mercy was the author of all that i find in the old testament. as, for instance, i have insisted that god never commanded anybody to butcher women or to cut the throats of prattling babes. these orthodox gentlemen have rushed to the rescue of jehovah by insisting that he did all these horrible things. i have also maintained that god never sanctioned or upheld human slavery; that he never would make one child to own and beat another. i have also expressed some doubts as to whether this same god ever established the institution of polygamy. i have insisted that the institution is simply infamous; that it destroys the idea of home; that it turns to ashes the most sacred words in our language, and leaves the world a kind of den in which crawl the serpents of selfishness and lust. i have been informed that after mr. beecher had treated me kindly a few members of his congregation objected, and really felt ashamed that he had so forgotten himself. after that, mr. beecher saw fit to give his ideas of the position i had taken. in this he was not exceedingly kind, nor was his justice very conspicuous. but i cared nothing about that, not the least. as i have said before, whenever mr. beecher says a good thing i give him credit. whenever he does an unfair or unjust thing i charge it to the account of his religion. i have insisted, and i still insist, that mr. beecher is far better than his creed. i do not believe that he believes in the doctrine of eternal punishment. neither do i believe that he believes in the literal truth of the scriptures. and, after all, if the bible is not true, it is hardly worth while to insist upon its inspiration. an inspired lie is not better than an uninspired one. if the bible is true it does not need to be inspired. if it is not true, inspiration does not help it. so that after all it is simply a question of fact. is it true? i believe mr. beecher stated that one of my grievous faults was that i picked out the bad things in the bible. how an infinitely good and wise god came to put bad things in his book mr. beecher does not explain. i have insisted that the bible is not inspired, and, in order to prove that, have pointed out such passages as i deemed unworthy to have been written even by a civilized man or a savage. i certainly would not endeavor to prove that the bible is uninspired by picking out its best passages. i admit that there are many good things in the bible. the fact that there are good things in it does not prove its inspiration, because there are thousands of other books containing good things, and yet no one claims they are inspired. shakespeare's works contain a thousand times more good things than the bible, but no one claims he was an inspired man. it is also true that there are many bad things in shakespeare--many passages which i wish he had never written. but i can excuse shakespeare, because he did not rise absolutely above his time. that is to say, he was a man; that is to say, he was imperfect. if anybody claimed now that shakespeare was actually inspired, that claim would be answered by pointing to certain weak or bad or vulgar passages in his works. but every christian will say that it is a certain kind of blasphemy to impute vulgarity or weakness to god, as they are all obliged to defend the weak, the bad and the vulgar, so long as they insist upon the inspiration of the bible. now, i pursued the same course with the bible that mr. beecher has pursued with me. why did he want to pick out my bad things? is it possible that he is a kind of vulture that sees only the carrion of another? after all, has he not pursued the same method with me that he blames me for pursuing in regard to the bible? of course he must pursue that method. he could not object to me and then point out passages that were not objectionable. if he found fault he had to find faults in order to sustain his ground. that is exactly what i have done with scriptures--nothing more and nothing less. the reason i have thrown away the bible is that in many places it is harsh, cruel, unjust, coarse, vulgar, atrocious, infamous. at the same time, i admit that it contains many passages of an excellent and splendid character --many good things, wise sayings, and many excellent and just laws. but i would like to ask this: suppose there were no passages in the bible except those upholding slavery, polygamy and wars of extermination; would anybody then claim that it was the word of god? i would like to ask if there is a christian in the world who would not be overjoyed to find that every one of these passages was an interpolation? i would also like to ask mr. beecher if he would not be greatly gratified to find that after god had written the bible the devil had got hold of it, and interpolated all these passages about slavery, polygamy, the slaughter of women and babes and the doctrine of eternal punishment? suppose, as a matter of fact, the devil did get hold of it; what part of the bible would mr. beecher pick out as having been written by the devil? and if he picks out these passages could not the devil answer him by saying, "you, mr. beecher, are like a vulture, a kind of buzzard, flying through the tainted air of inspiration, and pouncing down upon the carrion. why do you not fly like a dove, and why do you not have the innocent ignorance of the dove, so that you could light upon a carcass and imagine that you were surrounded by the perfume of violets?" the fact is that good things in a book do not prove that it is inspired, but the presence of bad things does prove that it is not. _question_. what was the real difficulty between you and moses, colonel, a man who has been dead for thousands of years? _answer_. we never had any difficulty. i have always taken pains to say that moses had nothing to do with the pentateuch. those books, in my judgment, were written several centuries after moses had become dust in his unknown sepulchre. no doubt moses was quite a man in his day, if he ever existed at all. some people say that moses is exactly the same as "law-giver;" that is to say, as legislature, that is to say as congress. imagine somebody in the future as regarding the congress of the united states as one person! and then imagine that somebody endeavoring to prove that congress was always consistent. but, whether moses lived or not makes but little difference to me. i presume he filled the place and did the work that he was compelled to do, and although according to the account god had much to say to him with regard to the making of altars, tongs, snuffers and candlesticks, there is much left for nature still to tell. thinking of moses as a man, admitting that he was above his fellows, that he was in his day and generation a leader, and, in a certain narrow sense, a patriot, that he was the founder of the jewish people; that he found them barbarians and endeavored to control them by thunder and lightning, and found it necessary to pretend that he was in partnership with the power governing the universe; that he took advantage of their ignorance and fear, just as politicians do now, and as theologians always will, still, i see no evidence that the man moses was any nearer to god than his descendants, who are still warring against the philistines in every civilized part of the globe. moses was a believer in slavery, in polygamy, in wars of extermination, in religious persecution and intolerance and in almost everything that is now regarded with loathing, contempt and scorn. the jehovah of whom he speaks violated, or commands the violation of at least nine of the ten commandments he gave. there is one thing, however, that can be said of moses that cannot be said of any person who now insists that he was inspired, and that is, he was in advance of his time. _question_. what do you think of the buckner bill for the colonization of the negroes in mexico? _answer_. where does mr. buckner propose to colonize the white people, and what right has he to propose the colonization of six millions of people? should we not have other bills to colonize the germans, the swedes, the irish, and then, may be, another bill to drive the chinese into the sea? where do we get the right to say that the negroes must emigrate? all such schemes will, in my judgment, prove utterly futile. perhaps the history of the world does not give an instance of the emigration of six millions of people. notwithstanding the treatment that ireland has received from england, which may be designated as a crime of three hundred years, the irish still love ireland. all the despotism in the world will never crush out of the irish heart the love of home--the adoration of the old sod. the negroes of the south have certainly suffered enough to drive them into other countries; but after all, they prefer to stay where they were born. they prefer to live where their ancestors were slaves, where fathers and mothers were sold and whipped; and i don't believe it will be possible to induce a majority of them to leave that land. of course, thousands may leave, and in process of time millions may go, but i don't believe emigration will ever equal their natural increase. as the whites of the south become civilized the reason for going will be less and less. i see no reason why the white and black men cannot live together in the same land, under the same flag. the beauty of liberty is you cannot have it unless you give it away, and the more you give away the more you have. i know that my liberty is secure only because others are free. i am perfectly willing to live in a country with such men as frederick douglass and senator bruce. i have always preferred a good, clever black man to a mean white man, and i am of the opinion that i shall continue in that preference. now, if we could only have a colonization bill that would get rid of all the rowdies, all the rascals and hypocrites, i would like to see it carried out, thought some people might insist that it would amount to a repudiation of the national debt and that hardly enough would be left to pay the interest. no, talk as we will, the colored people helped to save this nation. they have been at all times and in all places the friends of our flag; a flag that never really protected them. and for my part, i am willing that they should stand forever beneath that flag, the equal in rights of all other people. politically, if any black men are to be sent away, i want it understood that each one is to be accompanied by a democrat, so that the balance of power, especially in new york, will not be disturbed. _question_. i notice that leading republican newspapers are advising general garfield to cut loose from the machine in politics; what do you regard as the machine? _answer_. all defeated candidates regard the persons who defeated them as constituting a machine, and always imagine that there is some wicked conspiracy at the bottom of the machine. some of the recent reformers regard the people who take part in the early stages of a political campaign--who attend caucuses and primaries, who speak of politics to their neighbors, as members and parts of the machine, and regard only those as good and reliable american citizens who take no part whatever, simply reserving the right to grumble after the work has been done by others. not much can be accomplished in politics without an organization, and the moment an organization is formed, and, you might say, just a little before, leading spirits will be developed. certain men will take the lead, and the weaker men will in a short time, unless they get all the loaves and fishes, denounce the whole thing as a machine, and, to show how thoroughly and honestly they detest the machine in politics, will endeavor to organize a little machine themselves. general garfield has been in politics for many years. he knows the principal men in both parties. he knows the men who have not only done something, but who are capable of doing something, and such men will not, in my opinion, be neglected. i do not believe that general garfield will do any act calculated to divide the republican party. no thoroughly great man carries personal prejudice into the administration of public affairs. of course, thousands of people will be prophesying that this man is to be snubbed and another to be paid; but, in my judgment, after the th of march most people will say that general garfield has used his power wisely and that he has neither sought nor shunned men simply because he wished to pay debts--either of love or hatred. --washington correspondent, _brooklyn eagle_, january , . hades, delaware and freethought. _question_. now that a lull has come in politics, i thought i would come and see what is going on in the religious world? _answer_. well, from what little i learn, there has not been much going on during the last year. there are five hundred and twenty- six congregational churches in massachusetts, and two hundred of these churches have not received a new member for an entire year, and the others have scarcely held their own. in illinois there are four hundred and eighty-three presbyterian churches, and they have now fewer members than they had in , and of the four hundred and eighty-three, one hundred and eighty-three have not received a single new member for twelve months. a report has been made, under the auspices of the pan-presbyterian council, to the effect that there are in the whole world about three millions of presbyterians. this is about one-fifth of one per cent. of the inhabitants of the world. the probability is that of the three million nominal presbyterians, not more than two or three hundred thousand actually believe the doctrine, and of the two or three hundred thousand, not more than five or six hundred have any true conception of what the doctrine is. as the presbyterian church has only been able to induce one-fifth of one per cent. of the people to even call themselves presbyterians, about how long will it take, at this rate, to convert mankind? the fact is, there seems to be a general lull along the entire line, and just at present very little is being done by the orthodox people to keep their fellow-citizens out of hell. _question_. do you really think that the orthodox people now believe in the old doctrine of eternal punishment, and that they really think there is a kind of hell that our ancestors so carefully described? _answer_. i am afraid that the old idea is dying out, and that many christians are slowly giving up the consolations naturally springing from the old belief. another terrible blow to the old infamy is the fact that in the revised new testament the word hades has been substituted. as nobody knows exactly what hades means, it will not be quite so easy to frighten people at revivals by threatening them with something that they don't clearly understand. after this, when the impassioned orator cries out that all the unconverted will be sent to hades, the poor sinners, instead of getting frightened, will begin to ask each other what and where that is. it will take many years of preaching to clothe that word in all the terrors and horrors, pains, and penalties and pangs of hell. hades is a compromise. it is a concession to the philosophy of our day. it is a graceful acknowledgment to the growing spirit of investigation, that hell, after all, is a barbaric mistake. hades is the death of revivals. it cannot be used in song. it won't rhyme with anything with the same force that hell does. it is altogether more shadowy than hot. it is not associated with brimstone and flame. it sounds somewhat indistinct, somewhat lonesome, a little desolate, but not altogether uncomfortable. for revival purposes, hades is simply useless, and few conversions will be made in the old way under the revised testament. _question_. do you really think that the church is losing ground? _answer_. i am not, as you probably know, connected with any orthodox organization, and consequently have to rely upon them for my information. if they can be believed, the church is certainly in an extremely bad condition. i find that the rev. dr. cuyler, only a few days ago, speaking of the religious condition of brooklyn --and brooklyn, you know, has been called the city of churches-- states that the great mass of that christian city was out of christ, and that more professing christians went to the theatre than to the prayer meeting. this, certainly, from their standpoint, is a most terrible declaration. brooklyn, you know, is one of the great religious centres of the world--a city in which nearly all the people are engaged either in delivering or in hearing sermons; a city filled with the editors of religious periodicals; a city of prayer and praise; and yet, while prayer meetings are free, the theatres, with the free list entirely suspended, catch more christians than the churches; and this happens while all the pulpits thunder against the stage, and the stage remains silent as to the pulpit. at the same meeting in which the rev. dr. cuyler made his astounding statements the rev. mr. pentecost was the bearer of the happy news that four out of five persons living in the city of brooklyn were going down to hell with no god and with no hope. if he had read the revised testament he would have said "hades," and the effect of the statement would have been entirely lost. if four-fifths of the people of that great city are destined to eternal pain, certainly we cannot depend upon churches for the salvation of the world. at the meeting of the brooklyn pastors they were in doubt as to whether they should depend upon further meetings, or upon a day of fasting and prayer for the purpose of converting the city. in my judgment, it would be much better to devise ways and means to keep a good many people from fasting in brooklyn. if they had more meat, they could get along with less meeting. if fasting would save a city, there are always plenty of hungry folks even in that christian town. the real trouble with the church of to-day is, that it is behind the intelligence of the people. its doctrines no longer satisfy the brains of the nineteenth century; and if the church proposes to hold its power, it must lose its superstitions. the day of revivals is gone. only the ignorant and unthinking can hereafter be impressed by hearing the orthodox creed. fear has in it no reformatory power, and the more intelligent the world grows the more despicable and contemptible the doctrine of eternal misery will become. the tendency of the age is toward intellectual liberty, toward personal investigation. authority is no longer taken for truth. people are beginning to find that all the great and good are not dead--that some good people are alive, and that the demonstrations of to-day are fully equal to the mistaken theories of the past. _question_. how are you getting along with delaware? _answer_. first rate. you know i have been wondering where comegys came from, and at last i have made the discovery. i was told the other day by a gentleman from delaware that many years ago colonel hazelitt died; that colonel hazelitt was an old revolutionary officer, and that when they were digging his grave they dug up comegys. back of that no one knows anything of his history. the only thing they know about him certainly, is, that he has never changed one of his views since he was found, and that he never will. i am inclined to think, however, that he lives in a community congenial to him. for instance, i saw in a paper the other day that within a radius of thirty miles around georgetown, delaware, there are about two hundred orphan and friendless children. these children, it seems, were indentured to delaware farmers by the managers of orphan asylums and other public institutions in and about philadelphia. it is stated in the paper, that: "many of these farmers are rough task-masters, and if a boy fails to perform the work of an adult, he is almost certain to be cruelly treated, half starved, and in the coldest weather wretchedly clad. if he does the work, his life is not likely to be much happier, for as a rule he will receive more kicks than candy. the result in either case is almost certain to be wrecked constitutions, dwarfed bodies, rounded shoulders, and limbs crippled or rendered useless by frost or rheumatism. the principal diet of these boys is corn pone. a few days ago, constable w. h. johnston went to the house of reuben taylor, and on entering the sitting room his attention was attracted by the moans of its only occupant, a little colored boy, who was lying on the hearth in front of the fireplace. the boy's head was covered with ashes from the fire, and he did not pay the slightest attention to the visitor, until johnston asked what made him cry. then the little fellow sat up and drawing on old rag off his foot said, 'look there.' the sight that met johnston's eye was horrible beyond description. the poor boy's feet were so horribly frozen that the flesh had dropped off the toes until the bones protruded. the flesh on the sides, bottoms, and tops of his feet was swollen until the skin cracked in many places, and the inflamed flesh was sloughing off in great flakes. the frost-bitten flesh extended to his knees, the joints of which were terribly inflamed. the right one had already begun suppurating. this poor little black boy, covered with nothing but a cotton shirt, drilling pants, a pair of nearly worn out brogans and a battered old hat, on the morning of december th, the coldest day of the season, when the mercury was seventeen degrees below zero, in the face of a driving snow storm, was sent half a mile from home to protect his master's unshucked corn from the depredations of marauding cows and crows. he remained standing around in the snow until four o'clock, then he drove the cows home, received a piece of cold corn pone, and was sent out in the snow again to chop stove wood till dark. having no bed, he slept that night in front of the fireplace, with his frozen feet buried in the ashes. dr. c. h. richards found it necessary to cut off the boy's feet as far back as the ankle and the instep." this was but one case in several. personally, i have no doubt that mr. reuben taylor entirely agrees with chief justice comegys on the great question of blasphemy, and probably nothing would so gratify mr. reuben taylor as to see some man in a delaware jail for the crime of having expressed an honest thought. no wonder that in the state of delaware the christ of intellectual liberty has been crucified between the pillory and the whipping-post. of course i know that there are thousands of most excellent people in that state--people who believe in intellectual liberty, and who only need a little help--and i am doing what i can in that direction --to repeal the laws that now disgrace the statute book of that little commonwealth. i have seen many people from that state lately who really wish that colonel hazelitt had never died. _question_. what has the press generally said with regard to the action of judge comegys? do they, so far as you know, justify his charge? _answer_. a great many papers having articles upon the subject have been sent to me. a few of the religious papers seem to think that the judge did the best he knew, and there is one secular paper called the _evening news_, published at chester, pa., that thinks "that the rebuke from so high a source of authority will have a most excellent effect, and will check religious blasphemers from parading their immoral creeds before the people." the editor of this paper should at once emigrate to the state of delaware, where he properly belongs. he is either a native of delaware, or most of his subscribers are citizens of that country; or, it may be that he is a lineal descendant of some hessian, who deserted during the revolutionary war. most of the newspapers in the united states are advocates of mental freedom. probably nothing on earth has been so potent for good as an untrammeled, fearless press. among the papers of importance there is not a solitary exception. no leading journal in the united states can be found upon the side of intellectual slavery. of course, a few rural sheets edited by gentlemen, as mr. greeley would say, "whom god in his inscrutable wisdom had allowed to exist," may be found upon the other side, and may be small enough, weak enough and mean enough to pander to the lowest and basest prejudices of their most ignorant subscribers. these editors disgrace their profession and exert about the same influence upon the heads as upon the pockets of their subscribers --that is to say, they get little and give less. _question_. do you not think after all, the people who are in favor of having you arrested for blasphemy, are acting in accordance with the real spirit of the old and new testaments? _answer_. of course, they act in exact accordance with many of the commands in the old testament, and in accordance with several passages in the new. at the same time, it may be said that they violate passages in both. if the old testament is true, and if it is the inspired word of god, of course, an infidel ought not be allowed to live; and if the new testament is true, an unbeliever should not be permitted to speak. there are many passages, though, in the new testament, that should protect even an infidel. among them is this: "do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you." but that is a passage that has probably had as little effect upon the church as any other in the bible. so far as i am concerned, i am willing to adopt that passage, and i am willing to extend to every other human being every right that i claim for myself. if the churches would act upon this principle, if they would say--every soul, every mind, may think and investigate for itself; and around all, and over all, shall be thrown the sacred shield of liberty, i should be on their side. _question_. how do you stand with the clergymen, and what is their opinion of you and of your views? _answer_. most of them envy me; envy my independence; envy my success; think that i ought to starve; that the people should not hear me; say that i do what i do for money, for popularity; that i am actuated by hatred of all that is good and tender and holy in human nature; think that i wish to tear down the churches, destroy all morality and goodness, and usher in the reign of crime and chaos. they know that shepherds are unnecessary in the absence of wolves, and it is to their interest to convince their sheep that they, the sheep, need protection. this they are willing to give them for half the wool. no doubt, most of these minsters are honest, and are doing what they consider their duty. be this as it may, they feel the power slipping from their hands. they know that the idea is slowly growing that they are not absolutely necessary for the protection of society. they know that the intellectual world cares little for what they say, and that the great tide of human progress flows on careless of their help or hindrance. so long as they insist upon the inspiration of the bible, they are compelled to take the ground that slavery was once a divine institution; they are forced to defend cruelties that would shock the heart of a savage, and besides, they are bound to teach the eternal horror of everlasting punishment. they poison the minds of children; they deform the brain and pollute the imagination by teaching the frightful and infamous dogma of endless misery. even the laws of delaware shock the enlightened public of to-day. in that state they simply fine and imprison a man for expressing his honest thoughts; and yet, if the churches are right, god will damn a man forever for the same offence. the brain and heart of our time cannot be satisfied with the ancient creeds. the bible must be revised again. most of the creeds must be blotted out. humanity must take the place of theology. intellectual liberty must stand in every pulpit. there must be freedom in all the pews, and every human soul must have the right to express its honest thought. --washington correspondent, _brooklyn eagle_, march , . a reply to the rev. mr. lansing.* [* rev. isaac j. lansing of meriden, conn., recently denounced col. robert g. ingersoll from the pulpit of the meriden methodist church, and had the opera house closed against him. this led a _union_ reporter to show colonel ingersoll what mr. lansing had said and to interrogate him with the following result.] _question_. did you favor the sending of obscene matter through the mails as alleged by the rev. mr. lansing? _answer_. of course not, and no honest man ever thought that i did. this charge is too malicious and silly to be answered. mr. lansing knows better. he has made this charge many times and he will make it again. _question_. is it a fact that there are thousands of clergymen in the country whom you would fear to meet in fair debate? _answer_. no; the fact is i would like to meet them all in one. the pulpit is not burdened with genius. there a few great men engaged in preaching, but they are not orthodox. i cannot conceive that a freethinker has anything to fear from the pulpit, except misrepresentation. of course, there are thousands of ministers too small to discuss with--ministers who stand for nothing in the church--and with such clergymen i cannot afford to discuss anything. if the presbyterians, or the congregationalists, or the methodists would select some man, and endorse him as their champion, i would like to meet him in debate. such a man i will pay to discuss with me. i will give him most excellent wages, and pay all the expenses at the discussion besides. there is but one safe course for the ministers--they must assert. they must declare. they must swear to it and stick to it, but they must not try to reason. _question_. you have never seen rev. mr. lansing. to the people of meriden and thereabouts he is well-known. judging from what has been told you of his utterances and actions, what kind of a man would you take him to be? _answer_. i would take him to be a christian. he talks like one, and he acts like one. if christianity is right, lansing is right. if salvation depends upon belief, and if unbelievers are to be eternally damned, then an infidel has no right to speak. he should not be allowed to murder the souls of his fellow-men. lansing does the best he knows how. he thinks that god hates an unbeliever, and he tries to act like god. lansing knows that he must have the right to slander a man whom god is to eternally damn. _question_. mr. lansing speaks of you as a wolf coming with fangs sharpened by three hundred dollars a night to tear the lambs of his flock. what do you say to that? _answer_. all i have to say is, that i often get three times that amount, and sometimes much more. i guess his lambs can take care of themselves. i am not very fond of mutton anyway. such talk mr. lansing ought to be ashamed of. the idea that he is a shepherd --that he is on guard--is simply preposterous. he has few sheep in his congregation that know as little on the wolf question as he does. he ought to know that his sheep support him--his sheep protect him; and without the sheep poor lansing would be devoured by the wolves himself. _question_. shall you sue the opera house management for breach of contract? _answer_. i guess not; but i may pay lansing something for advertising my lecture. i suppose mr. wilcox (who controls the opera house) did what he thought was right. i hear he is a good man. he probably got a little frightened and began to think about the day of judgment. he could not help it, and i cannot help laughing at him. _question_. those in meriden who most strongly oppose you are radical republicans. is it not a fact that you possess the confidence and friendship of some of the most respected leaders of that party? _answer_. i think that all the respectable ones are friends of mine. i am a republican because i believe in the liberty of the body, and i am an infidel because i believe in the liberty of the mind. there is no need of freeing cages. let us free the birds. if mr. lansing knew me, he would be a great friend. he would probably annoy me by the frequency and length of his visits. _question_. during the recent presidential campaign did any clergymen denounce you for your teachings, that you are aware of? _answer_. some did, but they would not if they had been running for office on the republican ticket. _question_. what is most needed in our public men? _answer_. hearts and brains. _question_. would people be any more moral solely because of a disbelief in orthodox teaching and in the bible as an inspired book, in your opinion? _answer_. yes; if a man really believes that god once upheld slavery; that he commanded soldiers to kill women and babes; that he believed in polygamy; that he persecuted for opinion's sake; that he will punish forever, and that he hates an unbeliever, the effect in my judgment will be bad. it always has been bad. this belief built the dungeons of the inquisition. this belief made the puritan murder the quaker, and this belief has raised the devil with mr. lansing. _question_. do you believe there will ever be a millennium, and if so how will it come about? _answer_. it will probably start in meriden, as i have been informed that lansing is going to leave. _question_. is there anything else bearing upon the question at issue or that would make good reading, that i have forgotten, that you would like to say? _answer_. yes. good-bye. --_the sunday union_, new haven, conn., april , . beaconsfield, lent and revivals. _question_. what have you to say about the attack of dr. buckley on you, and your lecture? _answer_. i never heard of dr. buckley until after i had lectured in brooklyn. he seems to think that it was extremely ill bred in me to deliver a lecture on the "liberty of man, woman and child," during lent. lent is just as good as any other part of the year, and no part can be too good to do good. it was not a part of my object to hurt the feelings of the episcopalians and catholics. if they think that there is some subtle relation between hunger and heaven, or that faith depends upon, or is strengthened by famine, or that veal, during lent, is the enemy of virtue, or that beef breeds blasphemy, while fish feeds faith--of course, all this is nothing to me. they have a right to say that vice depends upon victuals, sanctity on soup, religion on rice and chastity on cheese, but they have no right to say that a lecture on liberty is an insult to them because they are hungry. i suppose that lent was instituted in memory of the savior's fast. at one time it was supposed that only a divine being could live forty days without food. this supposition has been overthrown. it has been demonstrated by dr. tanner to be utterly without foundation. what possible good did it do the world for christ to go without food for forty days? why should we follow such an example? as a rule, hungry people are cross, contrary, obstinate, peevish and unpleasant. a good dinner puts a man at peace with all the world--makes him generous, good natured and happy. he feels like kissing his wife and children. the future looks bright. he wants to help the needy. the good in him predominates, and he wonders that any man was ever stingy or cruel. your good cook is a civilizer, and without good food, well prepared, intellectual progress is simply impossible. most of the orthodox creeds were born of bad cooking. bad food produced dyspepsia, and dyspepsia produced calvinism, and calvinism is the cancer of christianity. oatmeal is responsible for the worst features of scotch presbyterianism. half cooked beans account for the religion of the puritans. fried bacon and saleratus biscuit underlie the doctrine of state rights. lent is a mistake, fasting is a blunder, and bad cooking is a crime. _question_. it is stated that you went to brooklyn while beecher and talmage were holding revivals, and that you did so for the purpose of breaking them up. how is this? _answer_. i had not the slightest idea of interfering with the revivals. they amounted to nothing. they were not alive enough to be killed. surely one lecture could not destroy two revivals. still, i think that if all the persons engaged in the revivals had spent the same length of time in cleaning the streets, the good result would have been more apparent. the truth is, that the old way of converting people will have to be abandoned. the americans are getting hard to scare, and a revival without the "scare" is scarcely worth holding. such maniacs as hammond and the "boy preacher" fill asylums and terrify children. after saying what he has about hell, mr. beecher ought to know that he is not the man to conduct a revival. a revival sermon with hell left out--with the brimstone gone--with the worm that never dies, dead, and the devil absent--is the broadest farce. mr. talmage believes in the ancient way. with him hell is a burning reality. he can hear the shrieks and groans. he is of that order of mind that rejoices in these things. if he could only convince others, he would be a great revivalist. he cannot terrify, he astonishes. he is the clown of the horrible--one of jehovah's jesters. i am not responsible for the revival failure in brooklyn. i wish i were. i would have the happiness of knowing that i had been instrumental in preserving the sanity of my fellow-men. _question_. how do you account for these attacks? _answer_. it was not so much what i said that excited the wrath of the reverend gentlemen as the fact that i had a great house. they contrasted their failure with my success. the fact is, the people are getting tired of the old ideas. they are beginning to think for themselves. eternal punishment seems to them like eternal revenge. they see that christ could not atone for the sins of others; that belief ought not to be rewarded and honest doubt punished forever; that good deeds are better than bad creeds, and that liberty is the rightful heritage of every soul. _question_. were you an admirer of lord beaconsfield? _answer_. in some respects. he was on our side during the war, and gave it as his opinion that the union would be preserved. mr. gladstone congratulated jefferson davis on having founded a new nation. i shall never forget beaconsfield for his kindness, nor gladstone for his malice. beaconsfield was an intellectual gymnast, a political athlete, one of the most adroit men in the world. he had the persistence of his race. in spite of the prejudices of eighteen hundred years, he rose to the highest position that can be occupied by a citizen. during his administration england again became a continental power and played her game of european chess. i have never regarded beaconsfield as a man controlled by principle, or by his heart. he was strictly a politician. he always acted as though he thought the clubs were looking at him. he knew all the arts belonging to his trade. he would have succeeded anywhere, if by "succeeding" is meant the attainment of position and power. but after all, such men are splendid failures. they give themselves and others a great deal of trouble--they wear the tinsel crown of temporary success and then fade from public view. they astonish the pit, they gain the applause of the galleries, but when the curtain falls there is nothing left to benefit mankind. beaconsfield held convictions somewhat in contempt. he had the imagination of the east united with the ambition of an englishman. with him, to succeed was to have done right. _question_. what do you think of him as an author? _answer_. most of his characters are like himself--puppets moved by the string of self-interest. the men are adroit, the women mostly heartless. they catch each other with false bait. they have great worldly wisdom. their virtue and vice are mechanical. they have hearts like clocks--filled with wheels and springs. the author winds them up. in his novels disraeli allows us to enter the greenroom of his heart. we see the ropes, the pulleys and the old masks. in all things, in politics and in literature, he was cold, cunning, accurate, able and successful. his books will, in a little while, follow their author to their grave. after all, the good will live longest. --washington correspondent, _brooklyn eagle_, april , . answering the new york ministers.* [* ever since colonel ingersoll began the delivery of his lecture called _the great infidels_, the ministers of the country have made him the subject of special attack. one week ago last sunday the majority of the leading ministers in new york made replies to ingersoll's latest lecture. what he has to say to these replies will be found in a report of an interview with colonel ingersoll. no man is harder to pin down for a long talk than the colonel. he is so beset with visitors and eager office seekers anxious for help, that he can hardly find five minutes unoccupied during an entire day. through the shelter of a private room and the guardianship of a stout colored servant, the colonel was able to escape the crowd of seekers after his personal charity long enough to give some time to answer some of the ministerial arguments advanced against him in new york.] _question_. have you seen the attacks made upon you by certain ministers of new york, published in the _herald_ last sunday? _answer_. yes, i read, or heard read, what was in monday's _herald_. i do not know that you could hardly call them attacks. they are substantially a repetition of what the pulpit has been saying for a great many hundred years, and what the pulpit will say just so long as men are paid for suppressing truth and for defending superstition. one of these gentlemen tells the lambs of his flock that three thousand men and a few women--probably with quite an emphasis on the word "few"--gave one dollar each to hear their maker cursed and their savior ridiculed. probably nothing is so hard for the average preacher to bear as the fact that people are not only willing to hear the other side, but absolutely anxious to pay for it. the dollar that these people paid hurt their feelings vastly more than what was said after they were in. of course, it is a frightful commentary on the average intellect of the pulpit that a minister cannot get so large an audience when he preaches for nothing, as an infidel can draw at a dollar a head. if i depended upon a contribution box, or upon passing a saucer that would come back to the stage enriched with a few five cent pieces, eight or ten dimes, and a lonesome quarter, these gentlemen would, in all probability, imagine infidelity was not to be feared. the churches were all open on that sunday, and all could go who desired. yet they were not full, and the pews were nearly as empty of people as the pulpit of ideas. the truth is, the story is growing old, the ideas somewhat moss-covered, and everything has a wrinkled and withered appearance. this gentleman says that these people went to hear their maker cursed and their savior ridiculed. is it possible that in a city where so many steeples pierce the air, and hundreds of sermons are preached every sunday, there are three thousand men, and a few women, so anxious to hear "their maker cursed and their savior ridiculed" that they are willing to pay a dollar each? the gentleman knew that nobody cursed anybody's maker. he knew that the statement was utterly false and without the slightest foundation. he also knew that nobody had ridiculed the savior of anybody, but, on the contrary, that i had paid a greater tribute to the character of jesus christ than any minister in new york has the capacity to do. certainly it is not cursing the maker of anybody to say that the god described in the old testament is not the real god. certainly it is not cursing god to declare that the real god never sanctioned slavery or polygamy, or commanded wars of extermination, or told a husband to separate from his wife if she differed with him in religion. the people who say these things of god--if there is any god at all--do what little there is in their power, unwittingly of course, to destroy his reputation. but i have done something to rescue the reputation of the deity from the slanders of the pulpit. if there is any god, i expect to find myself credited on the heavenly books for my defence of him. i did say that our civilization is due not to piety, but to infidelity. i did say that every great reformer had been denounced as an infidel in his day and generation. i did say that christ was an infidel, and that he was treated in his day very much as the orthodox preachers treat an honest man now. i did say that he was tried for blasphemy and crucified by bigots. i did say that he hated and despised the church of his time, and that he denounced the most pious people of jerusalem as thieves and vipers. and i suggested that should he come again he might have occasion to repeat the remarks that he then made. at the same time i admitted that there are thousands and thousands of christians who are exceedingly good people. i never did pretend that the fact that a man was a christian even tended to show that he was a bad man. neither have i ever insisted that the fact that a man is an infidel even tends to show what, in other respects, his character is. but i always have said, and i always expect to say, that a christian who does not believe in absolute intellectual liberty is a curse to mankind, and that an infidel who does believe in absolute intellectual liberty is a blessing to this world. we cannot expect all infidels to be good, nor all christians to be bad, and we might make some mistakes even if we selected these people ourselves. it is admitted by the christians that christ made a great mistake when he selected judas. this was a mistake of over eight per cent. chaplain newman takes pains to compare some great christians with some great infidels. he compares washington with julian, and insists, i suppose, that washington was a great christian. certainly he is not very familiar with the history of washington, or he never would claim that he was particularly distinguished in his day for what is generally known as vital piety. that he went through the ordinary forms of christianity nobody disputes. that he listened to sermons without paying any particular attention to them, no one will deny. julian, of course, was somewhat prejudiced against christianity, but that he was one of the greatest men of antiquity no one acquainted with the history of rome can honestly dispute. when he was made emperor he found at the palace hundreds of gentlemen who acted as barbers, hair-combers, and brushers for the emperor. he dismissed them all, remarking that he was able to wash himself. these dismissed office-holders started the story that he was dirty in his habits, and a minister of the nineteenth century was found silly enough to believe the story. another thing that probably got him into disrepute in that day, he had no private chaplains. as a matter of fact, julian was forced to pretend that he was a christian in order to save his life. the christians of that day were of such a loving nature that any man who differed with them was forced to either fall a victim to their ferocity or seek safety in subterfuge. the real crime that julian committed, and the only one that has burned itself into the very heart and conscience of the christian world, is, that he transferred the revenues of the christian churches to heathen priests. whoever stands between a priest and his salary will find that he has committed the unpardonable sin commonly known as the sin against the holy ghost. this gentleman also compares luther with voltaire. if he will read the life of luther by lord brougham, he will find that in his ordinary conversation he was exceedingly low and vulgar, and that no respectable english publisher could be found who would soil paper with the translation. if he will take the pains to read an essay by macaulay, he will find that twenty years after the death of luther there were more catholics than when he was born. and that twenty years after the death of voltaire there were millions less than when he was born. if he will take just a few moments to think, he will find that the last victory of protestantism was in holland; that there has never been one since, and will never be another. if he would really like to think, and enjoy for a few moments the luxury of having an idea, let him ponder for a little while over the instructive fact that languages having their root in the latin have generally been spoken in catholic countries, and that those languages having their root in the ancient german are now mostly spoken by people of protestant proclivities. it may occur to him, after thinking of this a while, that there is something deeper in the question than he has as yet perceived. luther's last victory, as i said before, was in holland; but the victory of voltaire goes on from day to day. protestantism is not holding its own with catholicism, even in the united states. i saw the other day the statistics, i believe, of the city of chicago, showing that, while the city had increased two or three hundred per cent., protestantism had lagged behind at the rate of twelve per cent. i am willing for one, to have the whole question depend upon a comparison of the worth and work of voltaire and luther. it may be, too, that the gentleman forgot to tell us that luther himself gave consent to a person high in office to have two wives, but prudently suggested to him that he had better keep it as still as possible. luther was, also, a believer in a personal devil. he thought that deformed children had been begotten by an evil spirit. on one occasion he told a mother that, in his judgment, she had better drown her child; that he had no doubt that the devil was its father. this same luther made this observation: "universal toleration is universal error, and universal error is universal hell." from this you will see that he was an exceedingly good man, but mistaken upon many questions. so, too, he laughed at the copernican system, and wanted to know if those fool astronomers could undo the work of god. he probably knew as little about science as the reverend gentleman does about history. _question_. does he compare any other infidels with christians? _answer_. oh, yes; he compares lord bacon with diderot. i have never claimed that diderot was a saint. i have simply insisted that he was a great man; that he was grand enough to say that "incredulity is the beginning of philosophy;" that he had sense enough to know that the god described by the catholics and protestants of his day was simply an impossible monster; and that he also had the brain to see that the little selfish heaven occupied by a few monks and nuns and idiots they had fleeced, was hardly worth going to; in other words, that he was a man of common sense, greatly in advance of his time, and that he did what he could to increase the sum of human enjoyment to the end that there might be more happiness in this world. the gentleman compares him with lord bacon, and yet, if he will read the trials of that day--i think in the year --he will find that the christian lord bacon, the pious lord bacon, was charged with receiving pay for his opinions, and, in some instances, pay from both sides; that the christian lord bacon, at first upon his honor as a christian lord, denied the whole business; that afterward the christian lord bacon, upon his honor as a christian lord, admitted the truth of the whole business, and that, therefore, the christian lord bacon was convicted and sentenced to pay a fine of forty thousand pounds, and rendered infamous and incapable of holding any office. now, understand me, i do not think bacon took bribes because he was a christian, because there have been many christian judges perfectly honest; but, if the statement of the reverend gentlemen of new york is true, his being a christian did not prevent his taking bribes. and right here allow me to thank the gentleman with all my heart for having spoken of lord bacon in this connection. i have always admired the genius of bacon, and have always thought of his fall with an aching heart, and would not now have spoken of his crime had not his character been flung in my face by a gentleman who asks his god to kill me for having expressed my honest thought. the same gentleman compares newton with spinoza. in the first place, there is no ground of parallel. newton was a very great man and a very justly celebrated mathematician. as a matter of fact, he is not celebrated for having discovered the law of gravitation. that was known for thousands of years before he was born; and if the reverend gentleman would read a little more he would find that newton's discovery was not that there is such a law as gravitation, but that bodies attract each other "with a force proportional directly to the quantity of matter they contain, and inversely to the squares of their distances." i do not think he made the discoveries on account of his christianity. laplace was certainly in many respects as great a mathematician and astronomer, but he was not a christian. descartes was certainly not much inferior to newton as a mathematician, and thousands insist that he was his superior; yet he was not a christian. euclid, if i remember right, was not a christian, and yet he had quite a turn for mathematics. as a matter of fact, christianity got its idea of algebra from the mohammedans, and, without algebra, astronomical knowledge of to-day would have been impossible. christianity did not even invent figures. we got those from the arabs. the very word "algebra" is arabic. the decimal system, i believe, however, was due to a german, but whether he was a christian or not, i do not know. we find that the chinese calculated eclipses long before christ was born; and, exactness being the rule at that time, there is an account of two astronomers having been beheaded for failing to tell the coming of an eclipse to the minute; yet they were not christians. there is another fact connected with newton, and that is that he wrote a commentary on the book of revelation. the probability is that a sillier commentary was never written. it was so perfectly absurd and laughable that some one--i believe it was voltaire--said that while newton had excited the envy of the intellectual world by his mathematical accomplishments, it had gotten even with him the moment his commentaries were published. spinoza was not a mathematician, particularly. he was a metaphysician, an honest thinker, whose influence is felt, and will be felt so long as these great questions have the slightest interest for the human brain. he also compares chalmers with hume. chalmers gained his notoriety from preaching what are known as the astronomical sermons, and, i suppose, was quite a preacher in his day. but hume was a thinker, and his works will live for ages after mr. chalmers' sermons will have been forgotten. mr. chalmers has never been prominent enough to have been well known by many people. he may have been an exceedingly good man, and derived, during his life, great consolation from a belief in the damnation of infants. mr. newman also compares wesley with thomas paine. when thomas paine was in favor of human liberty, wesley was against it. thomas paine wrote a pamphlet called "common sense," urging the colonies to separate themselves from great britain. wesley wrote a treatise on the other side. he was the enemy of human liberty; and if his advice could have been followed we would have been the colonies of great britain still. we never would have had a president in need of a private chaplain. mr. wesley had not a scientific mind. he preached a sermon once on the cause and cure of earthquakes, taking the ground that earthquakes were caused by sins, and that the only way to stop them was to believe on the lord jesus christ. he also laid down some excellent rules for rearing children, that is, from a methodist standpoint. his rules amounted to about this: _first_. never give them what they want. _second_. never give them what you intend to give them, at the time they want it. _third_. break their wills at the earliest possible moment. mr. wesley made every family an inquisition, every father and mother inquisitors, and all the children helpless victims. one of his homes would give an exceedingly vivid idea of hell. at the same time, mr. wesley was a believer in witches and wizards, and knew all about the devil. at his request god performed many miracles. on several occasions he cured his horse of lameness. on others, dissipated mr. wesley's headaches. now and then he put off rain on account of a camp meeting, and at other times stopped the wind blowing at the special request of mr. wesley. i have no doubt that mr. wesley was honest in all this,--just as honest as he was mistaken. and i also admit that he was the founder of a church that does extremely well in new countries, and that thousands of methodists have been exceedingly good men. but i deny that he ever did anything for human liberty. while mr. wesley was fighting the devil and giving his experience with witches and wizards, thomas paine helped to found a free nation, helped to enrich the air with another flag. wesley was right on one thing, though. he was opposed to slavery, and, i believe, called it the sum of all villainies. i have always been obliged to him for that. i do not think he said it because he was a methodist; but methodism, as he understood it, did not prevent his saying it, and methodism as others understood it, did not prevent men from being slaveholders, did not prevent them from selling babes from mothers, and in the name of god beating the naked back of toil. i think, on the whole, paine did more for the world than mr. wesley. the difference between an average methodist and an average episcopalian is not worth quarreling about. but the difference between a man who believes in despotism and one who believes in liberty is almost infinite. wesley changed episcopalians into methodists; paine turned lickspittles into men. let it be understood, once for all, that i have never claimed that paine was perfect. i was very glad that the reverend gentleman admitted that he was a patriot and the foe of tyrants; that he sympathized with the oppressed, and befriended the helpless; that he favored religious toleration, and that he weakened the power of the catholic church. i am glad that he made these admissions. whenever it can be truthfully said of a man that he loved his country, hated tyranny, sympathized with the oppressed, and befriended the helpless, nothing more is necessary. if god can afford to damn such a man, such a man can afford to be damned. while paine was the foe of tyrants, christians were the tyrants. when he sympathized with the oppressed, the oppressed were the victims of christians. when he befriended the helpless, the helpless were the victims of christians. paine never founded an inquisition; never tortured a human being; never hoped that anybody's tongue would be paralyzed, and was always opposed to private chaplains. it might be well for the reverend gentleman to continue his comparisons, and find eminent christians to put, for instance, along with humboldt, the shakespeare of science; somebody by the side of darwin, as a naturalist; some gentleman in england to stand with tyndall, or huxley; some christian german to stand with haeckel and helmholtz. may be he knows some christian statesman that he would compare with gambetta. i would advise him to continue his parallels. _question_. what have you to say of the rev. dr. fulton? _answer_. the rev. dr. fulton is a great friend of mine. i am extremely sorry to find that he still believes in a personal devil, and i greatly regret that he imagines that this devil has so much power that he can take possession of a human being and deprive god of their services. it is in sorrow and not in anger, that i find that he still believes in this ancient superstition. i also regret that he imagines that i am leading young men to eternal ruin. it occurs to me that if there is an infinite god, he ought not to allow anybody to lead young men to eternal ruin. if anything i have said, or am going to say, has a tendency to lead young men to eternal ruin, i hope that if there is a god with the power to prevent me, that he will use it. dr. fulton admits that in politics i am on the right side. i presume he makes this concession because he is a republican. i am in favor of universal education, of absolute intellectual liberty. i am in favor, also, of equal rights to all. as i have said before we have spent millions and millions of dollars and rivers of blood to free the bodies of men; in other words, we have been freeing the cages. my proposition now is to give a little liberty to the birds. i am not willing to stop where a man can simply reap the fruit of his hand. i wish him, also, to enjoy the liberty of his brain. i am not against any truth in the new testament. i did say that i objected to religion because it made enemies and not friends. the rev. dr. says that is one reason why he likes religion. dr. fulton tells me that the bible is the gift of god to man. he also tells me that the bible is true, and that god is its author. if the bible is true and god is its author, then god was in favor of slavery four thousand years ago. he was also in favor of polygamy and religious intolerance. in other words, four thousand years ago he occupied the exact position the devil is supposed to occupy now. if the bible teaches anything it teaches man to enslave his brother, that is to say, if his brother is a heathen. the god of the bible always hated heathens. dr. fulton also says that the bible is the basis of all law. yet, if the legislature of new york would re-enact next winter the mosaic code, the members might consider themselves lucky if they were not hung upon their return home. probably dr. fulton thinks that had it not been for the ten commandments, nobody would ever have thought that stealing was wrong. i have always had an idea that men objected to stealing because the industrious did not wish to support the idle; and i have a notion that there has always been a law against murder, because a large majority of people have always objected to being murdered. if he will read his old testament with care, he will find that god violated most of his own commandments--all except that "thou shalt worship no other god before me," and, may be, the commandment against work on the sabbath day. with these two exceptions i am satisfied that god himself violated all the rest. he told his chosen people to rob the gentiles; that violated the commandment against stealing. he said himself that he had sent out lying spirits; that certainly was a violation of another commandment. he ordered soldiers to kill men, women and babes; that was a violation of another. he also told them to divide the maidens among the soldiers; that was a substantial violation of another. one of the commandments was that you should not covet your neighbor's property. in that commandment you will find that a man's wife is put on an equality with his ox. yet his chosen people were allowed not only to covet the property of the gentiles, but to take it. if dr. fulton will read a little more, he will find that all the good laws in the decalogue had been in force in egypt a century before moses was born. he will find that like laws and many better ones were in force in india and china, long before moses knew what a bulrush was. if he will think a little while, he will find that one of the ten commandments, the one on the subject of graven images, was bad. the result of that was that palestine never produced a painter, or a sculptor, and that no jew became famous in art until long after the destruction of jerusalem. a commandment that robs a people of painting and statuary is not a good one. the idea of the bible being the basis of law is almost too silly to be seriously refuted. i admit that i did say that shakespeare was the greatest man who ever lived; and dr. fulton says in regard to this statement, "what foolishness!" he then proceeds to insult his audience by telling them that while many of them have copies of shakespeare's works in their houses, they have not read twenty pages of them. this fact may account for their attending his church and being satisfied with that sermon. i do not believe to-day that shakespeare is more influential than the bible, but what influence shakespeare has, is for good. no man can read it without having his intellectual wealth increased. when you read it, it is not necessary to throw away your reason. neither will you be damned if you do not understand it. it is a book that appeals to everything in the human brain. in that book can be found the wisdom of all ages. long after the bible has passed out of existence, the name of shakespeare will lead the intellectual roster of the world. dr. fulton says there is not one work in the bible that teaches that slavery or polygamy is right. he also states that i know it. if language has meaning--if words have sense, or the power to convey thought,--what did god mean when he told the israelites to buy of the heathen round about, and that the heathen should be their bondmen and bondmaids forever? what did god mean when he said, if a man strike his servant so he dies, he should not be punished, because his servant was his money? passages like these can be quoted beyond the space that any paper is willing to give. yet the rev. dr. fulton denies that the old testament upholds slavery. i would like to ask him if the old testament is in favor of religious toleration? if god wrote the old testament and afterward came upon the earth as jesus christ, and taught a new religion, and the jews crucified him, was this not in accordance with his own law, and was he not, after all, the victim of himself? _question_. what about the other ministers? _answer_. well, i see in the _herald_ that some ten have said that they would reply to me. i have selected the two, simply because they came first. i think they are about as poor as any; and you know it is natural to attack those who are the easiest answered. all these ministers are now acting as my agents, and are doing me all the good they can by saying all the bad things about me they can think of. they imagine that their congregations have not grown, and they talk to them as though they were living in the seventeenth instead of the nineteenth century. the truth is, the pews are beyond the pulpit, and the modern sheep are now protecting the shepherds. _question_. have you noticed a great change in public sentiment in the last three or four years? _answer_. yes, i think there are ten times as many infidels to- day as there were ten years ago. i am amazed at the great change that has taken place in public opinion. the churches are not getting along well. there are hundreds and hundreds who have not had a new member in a year. the young men are not satisfied with the old ideas. they find that the church, after all, is opposed to learning; that it is the enemy of progress; that it says to every young man, "go slow. don't allow your knowledge to puff you up. recollect that reason is a dangerous thing. you had better be a little ignorant here for the sake of being an angel hereafter, than quite a smart young man and get damned at last." the church warns them against humboldt and darwin, and tells them how much nobler it is to come from mud than from monkeys; that they were made from mud. every college professor is afraid to tell what he thinks, and every student detects the cowardice. the result is that the young men have lost confidence in the creeds of the day and propose to do a little thinking for themselves. they still have a kind of tender pity for the old folks, and pretend to believe some things they do not, rather than hurt grandmother's feelings. in the presence of the preachers they talk about the weather or other harmless subjects, for fear of bruising the spirit of their pastor. every minister likes to consider himself as a brave shepherd leading the lambs through the green pastures and defending them at night from infidel wolves. all this he does for a certain share of the wool. others regard the church as a kind of social organization, as a good way to get into society. they wish to attend sociables, drink tea, and contribute for the conversion of the heathen. it is always so pleasant to think that there is somebody worse than you are, whose reformation you can help pay for. i find, too, that the young women are getting tired of the old doctrines, and that everywhere, all over this country, the power of the pulpit wanes and weakens. i find in my lectures that the applause is just in proportion to the radicalism of the thought expressed. our war was a great educator, when the whole people of the north rose up grandly in favor of human liberty. for many years the great question of human rights was discussed from every stump. every paper was filled with splendid sentiments. an application of those doctrines--doctrines born in war--will forever do away with the bondage of superstition. when man has been free in body for a little time, he will become free in mind, and the man who says, "i have a equal right with other men to work and reap the reward of my labor," will say, "i have, also, an equal right to think and reap the reward of my thought." in old times there was a great difference between a clergyman and a layman. the clergyman was educated; the peasant was ignorant. the tables have been turned. the thought of the world is with the laymen. they are the intellectual pioneers, the mental leaders, and the ministers are following on behind, predicting failure and disaster, sighing for the good old times when their word ended discussion. there is another good thing, and that is the revision of the bible. hundreds of passages have been found to be interpolations, and future revisers will find hundreds more. the foundation crumbles. that book, called the basis of all law and civilization, has to be civilized itself. we have outgrown it. our laws are better; our institutions grander; our objects and aims nobler and higher. _question_. do many people write to you upon this subject; and what spirit do they manifest? _answer_. yes, i get a great many anonymous letters--some letters in which god is asked to strike me dead, others of an exceedingly insulting character, others almost idiotic, others exceedingly malicious, and others insane, others written in an exceedingly good spirit, winding up with the information that i must certainly be damned. others express wonder that god allowed me to live at all, and that, having made the mistake, he does not instantly correct it by killing me. others prophesy that i will yet be a minister of the gospel; but, as there has never been any softening of the brain in our family, i imagine that the prophecy will never by fulfilled. lately, on opening a letter and seeing that it is upon this subject, and without a signature, i throw it aside without reading. i have so often found them to be so grossly ignorant, insulting and malicious, that as a rule i read them no more. _question_. of the hundreds of people who call upon you nearly every day to ask your help, do any of them ever discriminate against you on account of your infidelity? _answer_. no one who has asked a favor of me objects to my religion, or, rather, to my lack of it. a great many people do come to me for assistance of one kind or another. but i have never yet asked a man or woman whether they were religious or not, to what church they belonged, or any questions upon the subject. i think i have done favors for persons of most denominations. it never occurs to me whether they are christians or infidels. i do not care. of course, i do not expect that christians will treat me the same as though i belonged to their church. i have never expected it. in some instances i have been disappointed. i have some excellent friends who disagree with me entirely upon the subject of religion. my real opinion is that secretly they like me because i am not a christian, and those who do not like me envy the liberty i enjoy. --new york correspondent, _chicago times_, may , . guiteau and his crime.* [* our "royal bob" was found by _the gazette_, in the gloaming of a delicious evening, during the past week, within the open portals of his friendly residence, dedicated by the gracious presence within to a simple and cordial hospitality, to the charms of friendship and the freedom of an abounding comradeship. with intellectual and untrammeled life, a generous, wise and genial host, whoever enters finds a welcome, seasoned with kindly wit and attic humor, a poetic insight and a delicious frankness which renders an evening there a veritable symposium. the wayfarer who passes is charmed, and he who comes frequently, goes always away with delighted memories. what matters it that we differ? such as he and his make our common life the sweeter. an hour or two spent in the attractive parlors of the ingersoll homestead, amid that rare group, lends a newer meaning to the idea of home and a more secure beauty to the fact of family life. during the past exciting three weeks colonel ingersoll has been a busy man. he holds no office. no position could lend him an additional crown and even recognition is no longer necessary. but it has been well that amid the first fierce fury of anger and excitement, and the subsequent more bitter if not as noble outpouring of faction's suspicions and innuendoes, that so manly a man, so sagacious a counsellor, has been enabled to hold so positive a balance. cabinet officers, legal functionaries, detectives, citizens--all have felt the wise, humane instincts, and the capacious brain of this marked man affecting and influencing for this fair equipoise and calmer judgment. conversing freely on the evening of this visit, colonel ingersoll, in the abundance of his pleasure at the white house news, submitted to be interviewed, and with the following result.] _question_. by-the-way, colonel, you knew guiteau slightly, we believe. are you aware that it has been attempted to show that some money loaned or given him by yourself was really what he purchased the pistol with? _answer_. i knew guiteau slightly; i saw him for the first time a few days after the inauguration. he wanted a consulate, and asked me to give him a letter to secretary blaine. i refused, on the ground that i didn't know him. afterwards he wanted me to lend him twenty-five dollars, and i declined. i never loaned him a dollar in the world. if i had, i should not feel that i was guilty of trying to kill the president. on the principle that one would hold the man guilty who had innocently loaned the money with which he bought the pistol, you might convict the tailor who made his clothes. if he had had no clothes he would not have gone to the depot naked, and the crime would not have been committed. it is hard enough for the man who did lend him the money to lose that, without losing his reputation besides. nothing can exceed the utter absurdity of what has been said upon this subject. _question_. how did guiteau impress you and what have you remembered, colonel, of his efforts to reply to your lectures? _answer_. i do not know that guiteau impressed me in any way. he appeared like most other folks in search of a place or employment. i suppose he was in need. he talked about the same as other people, and claimed that i ought to help him because he was from chicago. the second time he came to see me he said that he hoped i had no prejudice against him on account of what he had said about me. i told him that i never knew he had said anything against me. i suppose now that he referred to what he had said in his lectures. he went about the country replying to me. i have seen one or two of his lectures. he used about the same arguments that mr. black uses in his reply to my article in the _north american review_, and denounced me in about the same terms. he is undoubtedly a man who firmly believes in the old testament, and has no doubt concerning the new. i understand that he puts in most of his time now reading the bible and rebuking people who use profane language in his presence. _question_. you most certainly do not see any foundation for the accusations of preachers like sunderland, newman and power, _et al_, that the teaching of a secular liberalism has had anything to do with the shaping of guiteau's character or the actions of his vagabond life or the inciting to his murderous deeds? _answer_. i do not think that the sermon of mr. power was in good taste. it is utterly foolish to charge the "stalwarts" with committing or inciting the crime against the life of the president. ministers, though, as a rule, know but little of public affairs, and they always account for the actions of people they do not like or agree with, by attributing to them the lowest and basest motives. this is the fault of the pulpit--always has been, and probably always will be. the rev. dr. newman of new york, tells us that the crime of guiteau shows three things: first, that ignorant men should not be allowed to vote; second, that foreigners should not be allowed to vote; and third, that there should not be so much religious liberty. it turns out, first, the guiteau is not an ignorant man; second, that he is not a foreigner; and third, that he is a christian. now, because an intelligent american christian tries to murder the president, this person says we ought to do something with ignorant foreigners and infidels. this is about the average pulpit logic. of course, all the ministers hate to admit the guiteau was a christian; that he belonged to the young men's christian association, or at least was generally found in their rooms; that he was a follower of moody and sankey, and probably instrumental in the salvation of a great many souls. i do not blame them for wishing to get rid of this record. what i blame them for is that they are impudent enough to charge the crime of guiteau upon infidelity. infidels and atheists have often killed tyrants. they have often committed crimes to increase the liberty of mankind; but the history of the world will not show an instance where an infidel or an atheist has assassinated any man in the interest of human slavery. of course, i am exceedingly glad that guiteau is not an infidel. i am glad that he believes the bible, glad that he has delivered lectures against what he calls infidelity, and glad that he has been working for years with the missionaries and evangelists of the united states. he is a man of small brain, badly balanced. he believes the bible to be the word of god. he believes in the reality of heaven and hell. he believes in the miraculous. he is surrounded by the supernatural, and when a man throws away his reason, of course no one can tell what he will do. he is liable to become a devotee or an assassin, a saint or a murderer; he may die in a monastery or in a penitentiary. _question_. according to your view, then, the species of fanaticism taught in sectarian christianity, by which guiteau was led to assert that garfield dead would be better off then living--being in paradise --is more responsible than office seeking or political factionalism for his deed? _answer_. guiteau seemed to think that the killing of the president would only open the gates of paradise to him, and that, after all, under such circumstances, murder was hardly a crime. this same kind of reasoning is resorted to in the pulpit to account for death. if guiteau had succeeded in killing the president, hundreds of ministers would have said, "after all, it may be that the president has lost nothing; it may be that our loss is his eternal gain; and although it seems cruel that providence should allow a man like him to be murdered, still, it may have been the very kindest thing that could have been done for him." guiteau reasoned in this way, and probably convinced himself, judging from his own life, that this world was, after all, of very little worth. we are apt to measure others by ourselves. of course, i do not think christianity is responsible for this crime. superstition may have been, in part --probably was. but no man believes in christianity because he thinks it sanctions murder. at the same time, an absolute belief in the bible sometimes produces the worst form of murder. take that of mr. freeman, of poeasset, who stabbed his little daughter to the heart in accordance with what he believed to be the command of god. this poor man imitated abraham; and, for that matter, jehovah himself. there have been in the history of christianity thousands and thousands of such instances, and there will probably be many thousands more that have been and will be produced by throwing away our own reason and taking the word of some one else --often a word that we do not understand. _question_. what is your opinion as to the effect of praying for the recovery of the president, and have you any confidence that prayers are answered? _answer_. my opinion as to the value of prayer is well known. i take it that every one who prays for the president shows at least his sympathy and good will. personally, i have no objection to anybody's praying. those who think their prayers are answered should pray. for all who honestly believe this, and who honestly implore their deity to watch over, protect, and save the life of the president, i have only the kindliest feelings. it may be that a few will pray to be seen of men; but i suppose that most people on a subject like this are honest. personally, i have not the slightest idea of the existence of the supernatural. prayer may affect the person who prays. it may put him in such a frame of mind that he can better bear disappointment than if he had not prayed; but i cannot believe that there is any being who hears and answers prayer. when we remember the earthquakes that have devoured, the pestilences that have covered the earth with corpses, and all the crimes and agonies that have been inflicted upon the good and weak by the bad and strong, it does not seem possible that anything can be accomplished by prayer. i do not wish to hurt the feelings of anyone, but i imagine that i have a right to my own opinion. if the president gets well it will be because the bullet did not strike an absolutely vital part; it will be because he has been well cared for; because he has had about him intelligent and skillful physicians, men who understood their profession. no doubt he has received great support from the universal expression of sympathy and kindness. the knowledge that fifty millions of people are his friends has given him nerve and hope. some of the ministers, i see, think that god was actually present and deflected the ball. another minister tells us that the president would have been assassinated in a church, but that god determined not to allow so frightful a crime to be committed in so sacred an edifice. all this sounds to me like perfect absurdity--simple noise. yet, i presume that those who talk in this way are good people and believe what they say. of course, they can give no reason why god did not deflect the ball when lincoln was assassinated. the truth is, the pulpit first endeavors to find out the facts, and then to make a theory to fit them. whoever believes in a special providence must, of necessity, by illogical and absurd; because it is impossible to make any theological theory that some facts will not contradict. _question_. won't you give us, then, colonel, your analysis of this act, and the motives leading to it? _answer_. i think guiteau wanted an office and was refused. he became importunate. he was, substantially, put out of the white house. he became malicious. he made up his mind to be revenged. this, in my judgment, is the diagnosis of his case. since he has been in jail he has never said one word about having been put out of the white house; he is lawyer enough to know he must not furnish any ground for malice. he is a miserable, malicious and worthless wretch, infinitely egotistical, imagines that he did a great deal toward the election of garfield, and upon being refused the house a serpent of malice coiled in his heart, and he determined to be revenged. that is all! _question_. do you, in any way, see any reason or foundation for the severe and bitter criticisms made against the stalwart leaders in connection with this crime? as you are well known to be a friend of the administration, while not unfriendly to mr. conkling and those acting with him, would you mind giving the public your opinion on this point? _answer_. of course, i do not hold arthur, conkling and platt responsible for guiteau's action. in the first excitement a thousand unreasonable things were said; and when passion has possession of the brain, suspicion is a welcome visitor. i do not think that any friend of the administration really believes conkling, platt and arthur responsible in the slightest degree. conkling wished to prevent the appointment of robertson. the president stood by his friend. one thing brought on another, mr. conkling petulantly resigned, and made the mistake of his life. there was a good deal of feeling, but, of course, no one dreamed that the wretch, guiteau, was lying in wait for the president's life. in the first place, guiteau was on the president's side, and was bitterly opposed to conkling. guiteau did what he did from malice and personal spite. i think the sermon preached last sunday in the campbellite church was unwise, ill advised, and calculated to make enemies instead of friends. mr. conkling has been beaten. he has paid for the mistake he made. if he can stand it, i can; and why should there be any malice on the subject? exceedingly good men have made mistakes, and afterward corrected them. _question_. is it not true, colonel ingersoll, that the lesson of this deed is to point the real and overwhelming need of re-knitting and harmonizing the factions? _answer_. there is hardly enough faction left for "knitting." the party is in harmony now. all that is necessary is to stop talking. the people of this country care very little as to who holds any particular office. they wish to have the government administered in accordance with certain great principles, and they leave the fields, the shops, and the stores once in four years, for the purpose of attending to that business. in the meantime, politicians quarrel about offices. the people go on. they plow fields, they build homes, they open mines, they enrich the world, they cover our country with prosperity, and enjoy the aforesaid quarrels. but when the time comes, these gentlemen are forgotten. principles take the place of politicians, and the people settle these questions for themselves. --_sunday gazette_, washington, d. c., july , . district suffrage. _question_. you have heretofore incidentally expressed yourself on the matter of local suffrage in the district of columbia. have you any objections to giving your present views of the question? _answer_. i am still in favor of suffrage in the district. the real trouble is, that before any substantial relief can be reached, there must be a change in the constitution of the united states. the mere right to elect aldermen and mayors and policemen is of no great importance. it is a mistake to take all political power from the citizens of the district. americans want to help rule the country. the district ought to have at least one representative in congress, and should elect one presidential elector. the people here should have a voice. they should feel that they are a part of this country. they should have the right to sue in all federal courts, precisely as though they were citizens of a state. this city ought to have half a million of inhabitants. thousands would come here every year from every part of the union, were it not for the fact that they do not wish to become political nothings. they think that citizenship is worth something, and they preserve it by staying away from washington. this city is a "flag of truce" where wounded and dead politicians congregate; the mecca of failures, the perdition of claimants, the purgatory of seekers after place, and the heaven only of those who neither want nor do anything. nothing is manufactured, no solid business is done in this city, and there never will be until energetic, thrifty people wish to make it their home, and they will not wish that until the people of the district have something like the rights and political prospects of other citizens. it is hard to see why the right to representation should be taken from citizens living in the capital of the nation. the believers in free government should believe in a free capital. _question_. are there any valid reasons why the constitutional limitations to the elective franchise in the district of columbia should not be removed by an amendment to that instrument? _answer_. i cannot imagine one. if our government is founded upon a correct principle there can be no objection urged against suffrage in the district that cannot, with equal force, be urged against every part of the country. if freedom is dangerous here, it is safe nowhere. if a man cannot be trusted in the district, he is dangerous in the state. we do not trust the place where the man happens to be; we trust the man. the people of this district cannot remain in their present condition without becoming dishonored. the idea of allowing themselves to be governed by commissioners, in whose selection they have no part, is monstrous. the people here beg, implore, request, ask, pray, beseech, intercede, crave, urge, entreat, supplicate, memorialize and most humbly petition, but they neither vote nor demand. they are not allowed to enter the temple of liberty; they stay in the lobby or sit on the steps. _question_. they say paris is france, because her electors or citizens control that municipality. do you foresee any danger of centralization in the full enfranchisement of the citizens of washington? _answer_. there was a time when the intelligence of france was in paris. the country was besotted, ignorant, catholic; paris was alive, educated, infidel, full of new theories, of passion and heroism. for two hundred years paris was an athlete chained to a corpse. the corpse was the rest of france. it is different now, and the whole country is at last filling with light. besides, paris has two millions of people. it is filled with factories. it is not only the intellectual center, but the center of money and business as well. let the _corps legislatif_ meet anywhere, and paris will continue to be in a certain splendid sense--france. nothing like that can ever happen here unless you expect washington to outstrip new york, philadelphia and chicago. if allowing the people of the district of columbia to vote was the only danger to the republic, i should be politically the happiest of men. i think it somewhat dangerous to deprive even one american citizen of the right to govern himself. _question_. would you have government clerks and officials appointed to office here given the franchise in the district? and should this, if given, include the women clerks? _answer_. citizenship should be determined here as in the states. clerks should not be allowed to vote unless their intention is to make the district their home. when i make a government i shall give one vote to each family. the unmarried should not be represented except by parents. let the family be the unit of representation. give each hearthstone a vote. _question_. how do you regard the opposition of the local clergy and of the bourbon democracy to enfranchising the citizens of the district? _answer_. i did not know that the clergy did oppose it. if, as you say, they do oppose it because they fear it will extend the liquor traffic, i think their reason exceedingly stupid. you cannot make men temperate by shutting up a few of the saloons and leaving others wide open. intemperance must be met with other weapons. the church ought not to appeal to force. what would the clergy of washington think should the miracle of cana be repeated in their day? had they been in that country, with their present ideas, what would they have said? after all there is a great deal of philosophy in the following: "better have the whole world voluntarily drunk then sober on compulsion." of course the bourbons object. objecting is the business of a bourbon. he always objects. if he does not understand the question he objects because he does not, and if he does understand he objects because he does. with him the reason for objecting is the fact that he does. _question_. what effect, if any, would the complete franchise to our citizens have upon real estate and business in washington? _answer_. if the people here had representation according to numbers--if the avenues to political preferment were open--if men here could take part in the real government of the country, if they could bring with them all their rights, this would be a great and splendid capital. we ought to have here a university, the best in the world, a library second to none, and here should be gathered the treasures of american art. the federal government has been infinitely economical in the direction of information. i hope the time will come when our government will give as much to educate two men as to kill one. --_the capital_, washington, d. c., december , . funeral of john g. mills and immortality.* [* robert g. ingersoll rarely takes the trouble to answer critics. his recent address over the dead body of his friend john g. mills has called forth a storm of denunciation from nearly every pulpit in the country. the writer called at the colonel's office in new york avenue yesterday and asked him to reply to some of the points made against him. reluctantly he assented.] _question_. have you seen the recent clerical strictures upon your doctrines? _answer_. there are always people kind enough to send me anything they have the slightest reason to think i do not care to read. they seem to be animated by a missionary spirit, and apparently want to be in a position when they see me in hell to exclaim: "you can't blame me. i sent you all the impudent articles i saw, and if you died unconverted it was no fault of mine." _question_. did you notice that a washington clergyman said that the very fact that you were allowed to speak at the funeral was in itself a sacrilege, and that you ought to have been stopped? _answer_. yes, i saw some such story. of course, the clergy regard marriages and funerals as the perquisites of the pulpit, and they resent any interference on the part of the pews. they look at these matters from a business point of view. they made the same cry against civil marriages. they denied that marriage was a contract, and insisted that it was a sacrament, and that it was hardly binding unless a priest had blessed it. they used to bury in consecrated ground, and had marks upon the graves, so that gabriel might know the ones to waken. the clergy wish to make themselves essential. they must christen the babe--this gives them possession of the cradle. they must perform the ceremony of marriage --this gives them possession of the family. they must pronounce the funeral discourse--this gives them possession of the dead. formerly they denied baptism to the children of the unbeliever, marriage to him who denied the dogmas of the church, and burial to honest men. the church wishes to control the world, and wishes to sacrifice this world for the next. of course i am in favor of the utmost liberty upon all these questions. when a presbyterian dies, let a follower of john calvin console the living by setting forth the "five points." when a catholic becomes clay, let a priest perform such ceremonies as his creed demands, and let him picture the delights of purgatory for the gratification of the living. and when one dies who does not believe in any religion, having expressed a wish that somebody say a few words above his remains, i see no reason why such a proceeding should be stopped, and, for my part, i see no sacrilege in it. why should the reputations of the dead, and the feelings of those who live, be placed at the mercy of the ministers? a man dies not having been a christian, and who, according to the christian doctrine, is doomed to eternal fire. how would an honest christian minister console the widow and the fatherless children? how would he dare to tell what he claims to be truth in the presence of the living? the truth is, the christian minister in the presence of death abandons his christianity. he dare not say above the coffin, "the soul that once inhabited this body is now in hell." he would be denounced as a brutal savage. now and then a minister at a funeral has been brave enough and unmannerly enough to express his doctrine in all its hideousness of hate. i was told that in chicago, many years ago, a young man, member of a volunteer fire company, was killed by the falling of a wall, and at the very moment the wall struck him he was uttering a curse. he was a brave and splendid man. an orthodox minister said above his coffin, in the presence of his mother and mourning friends, that he saw no hope for the soul of that young man. the mother, who was also orthodox, refused to have her boy buried with such a sermon--stopped the funeral, took the corpse home, engaged a universalist preacher, and, on the next day having heard this man say that there was no place in the wide universe of god without hope, and that her son would finally stand among the redeemed, this mother laid her son away, put flowers upon his grave, and was satisfied. _question_. what have you to say to the charge that you are preaching the doctrine of despair and hopelessness, when they have the comforting assurances of the christian religion to offer? _answer_. all i have to say is this: if the christian religion is true, as commonly preached--and when i speak of christianity, i speak of the orthodox christianity of the day--if that be true, those whom i have loved the best are now in torment. those to whom i am most deeply indebted are now suffering the vengeance of god. if this religion be true, the future is of no value to me. i care nothing about heaven, unless the ones i love and have loved are there. i know nothing about the angels. i might not like them, and they might not like me. i would rather meet there the ones who have loved me here--the ones who would have died for me, and for whom i would have died; and if we are to be eternally divided --not because we differed in our views of justice, not because we differed about friendship or love or candor, or the nobility of human action, but because we differed in belief about the atonement or baptism or the inspiration of the scriptures--and if some of us are to be in heaven, and some in hell, then, for my part, i prefer eternal sleep. to me the doctrine of annihilation is infinitely more consoling, than the probable separation preached by the orthodox clergy of our time. of course, even if there be a god, i like persons that i know, better than i can like him--we have more in common--i know more about them; and how is it possible for me to love the infinite and unknown better than the ones i know? why not have the courage to say that if there be a god, all i know about him i know by knowing myself and my friends--by knowing others? and, after all, is not a noble man, is not a pure woman, the finest revelation we have of god--if there be one? of what use is it to be false to ourselves? what moral quality is there in theological pretence? why should a man say that he loves god better than he does his wife or his children or his brother or his sister or his warm, true friend? several ministers have objected to what i said about my friend mr. mills, on the ground that it was not calculated to console the living. mr. mills was not a christian. he denied the inspiration of the scriptures. he believed that restitution was the best repentance, and that, after all, sin is a mistake. he was not a believer in total depravity, or in the atonement. he denied these things. he was an unbeliever. now, let me ask, what consolation could a christian minister have given to his family? he could have said to the widow and the orphans, to the brother and sister: "your husband, your father, your brother, is now in hell; dry your tears; weep not for him, but try and save yourselves. he has been damned as a warning to you, care no more for him, why should you weep over the grave of a man whom god thinks fit only to be eternally tormented? why should you love the memory of one whom god hates?" the minister could have said: "he had an opportunity--he did not take it. the life-boat was lowered--he would not get in--he has been drowned, and the waves of god's wrath will sweep over him forever." this is the consolation of christianity and the only honest consolation that christianity can have for the widow and orphans of an unbeliever. suppose, however, that the christian minister has too tender a heart to tell what he believes to be the truth--then he can say to the sorrowing friends: "perhaps the man repented before he died; perhaps he is not in hell, perhaps you may meet him in heaven;" and this "perhaps" is a consolation not growing out of christianity, but out of the politeness of the preacher--out of paganism. _question_. do you not think that the bible has consolation for those who have lost their friends? _answer_. there is about the old testament this strange fact--i find in it no burial service. there is in it, i believe, from the first mistake in genesis to the last curse in malachi, not one word said over the dead as to their place and state. when abraham died, nobody said: "he is still alive--he is in another world." when the prophets passed away, not one word was said as to the heaven to which they had gone. in the old testament, saul inquired of the witch, and samuel rose. samuel did not pretend that he had been living, or that he was alive, but asked: "why hast thou disquieted me?" he did not pretend to have come from another world. and when david speaks of his son, saying that he could not come back to him, but that he, david, could go to his son, that is but saying that he, too, must die. there is not in the old testament one hope of immortality. it is expressly asserted that there is no difference between the man and beast--that as the one dieth so dieth the other. there is one little passage in job which commentators have endeavored to twist into a hope of immortality. here is a book of hundreds and hundreds of pages, and hundreds and hundreds of chapters--a revelation from god--and in it one little passage, which, by a mistranslation, is tortured into saying something about another life. and this is the old testament. i have sometimes thought that the jews, when slaves in egypt, were mostly occupied in building tombs for mummies, and that they became so utterly disgusted with that kind of work, that the moment they founded a nation for themselves they went out of the tomb business. the egyptians were believers in immortality, and spent almost their entire substance upon the dead. the living were impoverished to enrich the dead. the grave absorbed the wealth of egypt. the industry of a nation was buried. certainly the old testament has nothing clearly in favor of immortality. in the new testament we are told about the "kingdom of heaven,"--that it is at hand--and about who shall be worthy, but it is hard to tell what is meant by the kingdom of heaven. the kingdom of heaven was apparently to be in this world, and it was about to commence. the devil was to be chained for a thousand years, the wicked were to be burned up, and christ and his followers were to enjoy the earth. this certainly was the doctrine of paul when he says: "behold, i show you a mystery; we shall not all _sleep_, but we shall all be _changed_. in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump; for the trumpet shall sound, and the _dead_ shall be _raised_ incorruptible, and _we_ shall be _changed_. for this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality." according to this doctrine, those who were alive were to be changed, and those who had died were to be raised from the dead. paul certainly did not refer to any other world beyond this. all these things were to happen here. the new testament is made up of the fragments of many religions. it is utterly inconsistent with itself; and there is not a particle of evidence of the resurrection and ascension of christ--neither in the nature of things could there be. it is a thousand times more probable that people were mistaken than that such things occurred. if christ really rose from the dead, he should have shown himself, not simply to his disciples, but to the very men who crucified him--to herod, to the high priest, to pilate. he should have made a triumphal entry into jerusalem after his resurrection, instead of before. he should have shown himself to the sadducees,--to those who denied the existence of spirit. take from the new testament its doctrine of eternal pain--the idea that we can please god by acts of self-denial that can do no good to others--take away all its miracles, and i have no objection to all the good things in it--no objection to the hope of a future life, if such a hope is expressed--not the slightest. and i would not for the world say anything to take from any mind a hope in which dwells the least comfort, but a doctrine that dooms a large majority of mankind to eternal flames ought not to be called a consolation. what i say is, that the writers of the new testament knew no more about the future state than i do, and no less. the horizon of life has never been pierced. the veil between time and what is called eternity, has never been raised, so far as i know; and i say of the dead what all others must say if they say only what they know. there is no particular consolation in a guess. not knowing what the future has in store for the human race, it is far better to prophesy good than evil. it is better to hope that the night has a dawn, that the sky has a star, than to build a heaven for the few, and a hell for the many. it is better to leave your dead in doubt than in fire--better that they should sleep in shadow than in the lurid flames of perdition. and so i say, and always have said, let us hope for the best. the minister asks: "what right have you to hope? it is sacrilegious in you!" but, whether the clergy like it or not, i shall always express my real opinion, and shall always be glad to say to those who mourn: "there is in death, as i believe, nothing worse than sleep. hope for as much better as you can. under the seven-hued arch let the dead rest." throw away the bible, and you throw away the fear of hell, but the hope of another life remains, because the hope does not depend upon a book--it depends upon the heart--upon human affection. the fear, so far as this generation is concerned, is born of the book, and that part of the book was born of savagery. whatever of hope is in the book is born, as i said before, of human affection, and the higher our civilization the greater the affection. i had rather rest my hope of something beyond the grave upon the human heart, than upon what they call the scriptures, because there i find mingled with the hope of something good the threat of infinite evil. among the thistles, thorns and briers of the bible is one pale and sickly flower of hope. among all its wild beasts and fowls, only one bird flies heavenward. i prefer the hope without the thorns, without the briers, thistles, hyenas, and serpents. _question_. do you not know that it is claimed that immortality was brought to light in the new testament, that that, in fact, was the principal mission of christ? _answer_. i know that christians claim that the doctrine of immortality was first taught in the new testament. they also claim that the highest morality was found there. both these claims are utterly without foundation. thousands of years before christ was born--thousands of years before moses saw the light--the doctrine of immortality was preached by the priests of osiris and isis. funeral discourses were pronounced over the dead, ages before abraham existed. when a man died in egypt, before he was taken across the sacred lake, he had a trial. witnesses appeared, and if he had done anything wrong, for which he had not done restitution, he was not taken across the lake. the living friends, in disgrace, carried the body back, and it was buried outside of what might be called consecrated ground, while the ghost was supposed to wander for a hundred years. often the children of the dead would endeavor to redeem the poor ghost by acts of love and kindness. when he came to the spirit world there was the god anubis, who weighed his heart in the scales of eternal justice, and if the good deed preponderated he entered the gates of paradise; if the evil, he had to go back to the world, and be born in the bodies of animals for the purpose of final purification. at last, the good deeds would outweigh the evil, and, according to the religion of egypt, the latch-string of heaven would never be drawn in until the last wanderer got home. immortality was also taught in india, and, in fact, in all the countries of antiquity. wherever men have loved, wherever they have dreamed, wherever hope has spread its wings, the idea of immortality has existed. but nothing could be worse than the immortality promised in the new testament--admitting that it is so promised--eternal joy side by side with eternal pain. think of living forever, knowing that countless millions are suffering eternal pain! how much better it would be for god to commit suicide and let all life and motion cease! christianity has no consolation except for the christian, and if a christian minister endeavors to console the widow of an unbeliever he must resort, not to his religion, but to his sympathy--to the natural promptings of the heart. he is compelled to say: "after all, may be god is not so bad as we think," or, "may be your husband was better than he appeared; perhaps somehow, in some way, the dear man has squeezed in; he was a good husband, he was a kind father, and even if he is in hell, may be he is in the temperate zone, where they have occasional showers, and where, if the days are hot, the nights are reasonably cool." all i ask of christian ministers is to tell what they believe to be the truth--not to borrow ideas from the pagans--not to preach the mercy born of unregenerate sympathy. let them tell their real doctrines. if they will do that, they will not have much influence. if orthodox christianity is true, a large majority of the man who have made this world fit to live in are now in perdition. a majority of the revolutionary soldiers have been damned. a majority of the man who fought for the integrity of this union--a majority who were starved at libby and andersonville are now in hell. _question_. do you deny the immortality of the soul? _answer_. i have never denied the immortality of the soul. i have simply been honest. i have said: "i do not know." long ago, in my lecture on "the ghosts," i used the following language: "the idea of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, with its countless waves of hope and fear beating against the shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. it was born of human affection, and it will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long as love kisses the lips of death. it is the rainbow hope, shining upon the tears of grief." --_the post_, washington, d. c., april , . star route and politics.* [* col. ingersoll entertains very pronounced ideas concerning president arthur, attorney-general brewster and divers other people, which will be found presented herewith in characteristically piquant style. with his family, the eloquent advocate has a cottage here, and finds brain and body rest and refreshment in the tumbling waves. this noon, in the height of a tremendous thunder storm, i bumped against his burly figure in the roaring crest, and, after the first shock had passed, determined to utilize the providential coincidence. the water was warm, our clothes were in the bathing houses, and comfort was more certain where we were than anywhere else. the colonel is an expert swimmer and as a floater he cannot be beaten. he was floating when we bumped. spouting a pint of salt water from his mouth, he nearly choked with laughter as in answer to my question he said: ] no, i do not believe there will be any more star route trials. there is so much talk about the last one, there will not be time for another. _question_. did you anticipate a verdict? _answer_. i did anticipate a verdict, and one of acquittal. i knew that the defendants were entitled to such a verdict. i knew that the government had signally failed to prove a case. there was nothing but suspicion, from which malice was inferred. the direct proof was utterly unworthy of belief. the direct witness was caught with letters he had forged. this one fact was enough to cover the prosecution with confusion. the fact that rerdell sat with the other defendants and reported to the government from day to day satisfied the jury as to the value of his testimony, and the animus of the department of justice. besides, rerdell had offered to challenge such jurors as the government might select. he handed counsel for defendants a list of four names that he wanted challenged. at that time it was supposed that each defendant would be allowed to challenge four jurors. afterward the court decided that all the defendants must be considered as one party and had the right to challenge four and no more. of the four names on rerdell's list the government challenged three and rerdell tried to challenge the other. this was what is called a coincidence. another thing had great influence with the jury--the evidence of the defendants was upon all material points so candid and so natural, so devoid of all coloring, that the jury could not help believing. if the people knew the evidence they would agree with the jury. when we remember that there were over ten thousand star routes, it is not to be wondered at that some mistakes were made--that in some instances too much was paid and in others too little. _question_. what has been the attitude of president arthur? _answer_. we asked nothing from the president. we wanted no help from him. we expected that he would take no part--that he would simply allow the matter to be settled by the court in the usual way. i think that he made one very serious mistake. he removed officers on false charges without giving them a hearing. he deposed marshal henry because somebody said that he was the friend of the defendants. henry was a good officer and an honest man. the president removed ainger for the same reason. this was a mistake. ainger should have been heard. there is always time to do justice. no day is too short for justice, and eternity is not long enough to commit a wrong. it was thought that the community could be terrorized:-- _first_. the president dismissed henry and ainger. _second_. the attorney-general wrote a letter denouncing the defendants as thieves and robbers. _third_. other letters from bliss and macveagh were published. _fourth_. dixon, the foreman of the first jury, was indicted. _fifth_. members of the first jury voting "guilty" were in various ways rewarded. _sixth_. bargains were made with boone and rerdell. the cases against boone were to be dismissed and rerdell was promised immunity. under these circumstances the second trial commenced. but of all the people in this country the citizens of washington care least for presidents and members of the cabinets. they know what these officers are made of. they know that they are simply folks--that they do not hold office forever--that the jupiters of to-day are often the pygmies of to-morrow. they have seen too many people come in with trumpets and flags and go out with hisses and rags to be overawed by the deities of a day. they have seen lincoln and they are not to be frightened by his successors. arthur took part to the extent of turning out men suspected of being friendly to the defence. arthur was in a difficult place. he was understood to be the friend of dorsey and, of course, had to do something. nothing is more dangerous than a friend in power. he is obliged to show that he is impartial, and it always takes a good deal of injustice to establish a reputation for fairness. _question_. was there any ground to expect aid or any different action on arthur's part? _answer_. all we expected was that arthur would do as the soldier wanted the lord to do at new orleans--"just take neither side." _question_. why did not brewster speak? _answer_. the court would not allow two closings. the attorney- general did not care to speak in the "middle." he wished to close, and as he could not do that without putting mr. merrick out, he concluded to remain silent. the defendants had no objection to his speaking, but they objected to two closing arguments for the government, and the court decided they were right. of course, i understand nothing about the way in which the attorneys for the prosecution arranged their difficulties. that was nothing to me; neither do i care what money they received--all that is for the next congress. it is not for me to speak of those questions. _question_. will there be other trials? _answer_. i think not. it does not seem likely that other attorneys will want to try, and the old ones have. my opinion is that we have had the last of the star route trials. it was claimed that the one tried was the strongest. if this is so the rest had better be dismissed. i think the people are tired of the whole business. it now seems probable that all the time for the next few years will be taken up in telling about the case that was tried. i see that cook is telling about macveagh and james and brewster and bliss; walsh is giving his opinion of kellogg and foster; bliss is saying a few words about cook and gibson; brewster is telling what bliss told him; gibson will have his say about garfield and macveagh, and it now seems probable that we shall get the bottom facts about the other jury--the actions of messrs. hoover, bowen, brewster cameron and others. personally i have no interest in the business. _question_. how does the next campaign look? _answer_. the republicans are making all the mistakes they can, and the only question now is, can the democrats make more? the tariff will be one of the great questions, and may be the only one except success. the democrats are on both sides of the question. they hate to give up the word "only." only for that word they might have succeeded in . if they can let "only" alone, and say they want "a tariff for revenue" they will do better. the fact is the people are not in favor of free trade, neither do they want a tariff high enough to crush a class, but they do want a tariff to raise a revenue and to protect our industries. i am for protection because it diversifies industries and develops brain--allows us to utilize all the muscle and brain we have. a party attacking the manufacturing interests of this country will fail. there are too many millions of dollars invested and too many millions of people interested. the country is becoming alike interested in this question. we are no longer divided, as in slavery times, into manufacturing and agricultural districts or sections. georgia, alabama, tennessee, louisiana and texas have manufacturing interests. and the western states believe in the protection of their industries. the american people have a genius for manufacturing, a genius for invention. we are not the greatest painters or sculptors or scientists, but we are without doubt the greatest inventors. if we were all engaged in one business we would become stupid. agricultural countries produce great wealth, but are never rich. to get rich it is necessary to mix thought with labor. to raise the raw material is a question of strength; to manufacture, to put it in useful and beautiful forms, is a question of mind. there is a vast difference between the value of, say, a milestone and a statue, and yet the labor expended in getting the raw material is about the same. the point, after all, is this: first, we must have revenue; second, shall we get this by direct taxation or shall we tax imports and at the same time protect american labor? the party that advocates reasonable protection will succeed.* [* at this point, with far away peals of thunder, the storm ceased, the sun reappeared and a vault of heavenly blue swung overhead. "let us get out," said colonel ingersoll. suiting the action to the word, the colonel struck out lustily for the beach, on which, hard as a rock and firm as flint, he soon planted his sturdy form. and as he lumbered across the sand to the side door of his comfortable cottage, some three hundred feet from the surf, the necessarily suggested contrast between ingersoll in court and ingersoll in soaked flannels was illustrated with forcible comicality. half an hour later he was found in the cozy library puffing a high flavored havana, and listening to home-made music of delicious quality. ingersoll at home is pleasant to contemplate. his sense of personal freedom is there aptly pictured. loving wife and affectionate daughters form, with happy-faced and genial-hearted father, a model circle into which friends deem it a privilege to enter and a pleasure to remain. continuing the conversation, ] _question_. in view of all this, where do you think the presidential candidate will come from? _answer_. from the west. _question_. why so? _answer_. the south and east must compromise. both can trust the west. the west represents the whole country. there is no provincialism in the west. the west is not old enough to have the prejudice of section; it is too prosperous to have hatred, too great to feel envy. _question_. you do not seem to think that arthur has a chance? _answer_. no vice-president was ever made president by the people. it is natural to resent the accident that gave the vice-president the place. they regard the vice-president as children do a stepmother. he is looked upon as temporary--a device to save the election--a something to stop a gap--a lighter--a political raft. he holds the horse until another rider is found. people do not wish death to suggest nominees for the presidency. i do not believe it will be possible for mr. arthur, no matter how well he acts, to overcome this feeling. the people like a new man. there is some excitement in the campaign, and besides they can have the luxury of believing that the new man is a great man. _question_. do you not think arthur has grown and is a greater man than when he was elected? _answer_. arthur was placed in very trying circumstances, and, i think, behaved with great discretion. but he was vice-president, and that is a vice that people will not pardon. _question_. how do you regard the situation in ohio? _answer_. i hear that the republicans are attacking hoadly, saying that he is an infidel. i know nothing about mr. hoadly's theological sentiments, but he certainly has the right to have and express his own views. if the republicans of ohio have made up their minds to disfranchise the liberals, the sooner they are beaten the better. why should the republican party be so particular about religious belief? was lincoln an orthodox christian? were the founders of the party--the men who gave it heart and brain--conspicuous for piety? were the abolitionists all believers in the inspiration of the bible? is judge hoadly to be attacked because he exercises the liberty that he gives to others? has not the republican party trouble enough with the spirituous to let the spiritual alone? if the religious issue is made, i hope that the party making it will be defeated. i know nothing about the effect of the recent decision of the supreme court of ohio. it is a very curious decision and seems to avoid the constitution with neatness and despatch. the decision seems to rest on the difference between the words tax and license--_i. e._, between allowing a man to sell whiskey for a tax of one hundred dollars or giving him a license to sell whiskey and charging him one hundred dollars. in this, the difference is in the law instead of the money. so far all the prohibitory legislation on the liquor question has been a failure. beer is victorious, and gambrinus now has olympus all to himself. on his side is the "bail"-- _question_. but who will win? _answer_. the present indications are favorable to judge hoadly. it is an off year. the ohio leaders on one side are not in perfect harmony. the germans are afraid, and they generally vote the democratic ticket when in doubt. the effort to enforce the sunday law, to close the gardens, to make one day in the week desolate and doleful, will give the republicans a great deal of hard work. _question_. how about illinois? _answer_. republican always. the supreme court of illinois has just made a good decision. that court decided that a contract made on sunday can be enforced. in other words, that sunday is not holy enough to sanctify fraud. you can rely on a state with a court like that. there is very little rivalry in illinois. i think that general oglesby will be the next governor. he is one of the best men in that state or any other. _question_. what about indiana? _answer_. in that state i think general gresham is the coming man. he was a brave soldier, an able, honest judge, and he will fill with honor any position he may be placed in. he is an excellent lawyer, and has as much will as was ever put in one man. mcdonald is the most available man for the democrats. he is safe and in every respect reliable. he is without doubt the most popular man in his party. _question_. well, colonel, what are you up to? _answer_. nothing. i am surrounded by sand, sea and sky. i listen to music, bathe in the surf and enjoy myself. i am wondering why people take interest in politics; why anybody cares about anything; why everybody is not contented; why people want to climb the greased pole of office and then dodge the brickbats of enemies and rivals; why any man wishes to be president, or a member of congress, or in the cabinet, or do anything except to live with the ones he loves, and enjoy twenty-four hours every day. i wonder why all new york does not come to long beach and hear schreiner's band play the music of wagner, the greatest of all composers. finally, in the language of walt whitman, "i loaf and invite my soul." --_the herald_, new york, july , . the interviewer. _question_. what do you think of newspaper interviewing? _answer_. i believe that james redpath claims to have invented the "interview." this system opens all doors, does away with political pretence, batters down the fortifications of dignity and official importance, pulls masks from solemn faces, compels everybody to show his hand. the interviewer seems to be omnipresent. he is the next man after the accident. if a man should be blown up he would likely fall on an interviewer. he is the universal interrogation point. he asks questions for a living. if the interviewer is fair and honest he is useful, if the other way, he is still interesting. on the whole, i regard the interviewer as an exceedingly important person. but whether he is good or bad, he has come to stay. he will interview us until we die, and then ask the "friends" a few questions just to round the subject off. _question_. what do you think of the tendency of newspapers is at present? _answer_. the papers of the future, i think, will be "news" papers. the editorial is getting shorter and shorter. the paragraphist is taking the place of the heavy man. people rather form their own opinions from the facts. of course good articles will always find readers, but the dreary, doleful, philosophical dissertation has had its day. the magazines will fall heir to such articles; then religious weeklies will take them up, and then they will cease altogether. _question_. do you think the people lead the newspapers, or do the newspapers lead them? _answer_. the papers lead and are led. most papers have for sale what people want to buy. as a rule the people who buy determine the character of the thing sold. the reading public grow more discriminating every year, and, as a result, are less and less "led." violent papers--those that most freely attack private character--are becoming less hurtful, because they are losing their own reputations. evil tends to correct itself. people do not believe all they read, and there is a growing tendency to wait and hear from the other side. _question_. do newspapers to-day exercise as much influence as they did twenty-five years ago? _answer_. more, by the facts published, and less, by editorials. as we become more civilized we are governed less by persons and more by principles--less by faith and more by fact. the best of all leaders is the man who teaches people to lead themselves. _question_. what would you define public opinion to be? _answer_. first, in the widest sense, the opinion of the majority, including all kinds of people. second, in a narrower sense, the opinion of the majority of the intellectual. third, in actual practice, the opinion of those who make the most noise. fourth, public opinion is generally a mistake, which history records and posterity repeats. _question_. what do you regard as the result of your lectures? _answer_. in the last fifteen years i have delivered several hundred lectures. the world is growing more and more liberal every day. the man who is now considered orthodox, a few years ago would have been denounced as an infidel. people are thinking more and believing less. the pulpit is losing influence. in the light of modern discovery the creeds are growing laughable. a theologian is an intellectual mummy, and excites attention only as a curiosity. supernatural religion has outlived its usefulness. the miracles and wonders of the ancients will soon occupy the same tent. jonah and jack the giant killer, joshua and red riding hood, noah and neptune, will all go into the collection of the famous mother hubbard. --_the morning journal_, new york, july , . politics and prohibition. _question_. what do you think of the result in ohio? _answer_. in ohio prohibition did more harm to the republican chances than anything else. the germans hold the republicans responsible. the german people believe in personal liberty. they came to america to get it, and they regard any interference in the manner or quantity of their food and drink as an invasion of personal rights. they claim they are not questions to be regulated by law, and i agree with them. i believe that people will finally learn to use spirits temperately and without abuse, but teetotalism is intemperance in itself, which breeds resistance, and without destroying the rivulet of the appetite only dams it and makes it liable to break out at any moment. you can prevent a man from stealing by tying his hands behind him, but you cannot make him honest. prohibition breeds too many spies and informers, and makes neighbors afraid of each other. it kills hospitality. again, the republican party in ohio is endeavoring to have sunday sanctified by the legislature. the working people want freedom on sunday. they wish to enjoy themselves, and all laws now making to prevent innocent amusement, beget a spirit of resentment among the common people. i feel like resenting all such laws, and unless the republican party reforms in that particular, it ought to be defeated. i regard those two things as the principal causes of the republican party's defeat in ohio. _question_. do you believe that the democratic success was due to the possession of reverse principles? _answer_. i do not think that the democratic party is in favor of liberty of thought and action in these two regards, from principle, but rather from policy. finding the course pursued by the republicans unpopular, they adopted the opposite mode, and their success is a proof of the truth of what i contend. one great trouble in the republican party is bigotry. the pulpit is always trying to take charge. the same thing exists in the democratic party to a less degree. the great trouble here is that its worst element--catholicism --is endeavoring to get control. _question_. what causes operated for the republican success in iowa? _answer_. iowa is a prohibition state and almost any law on earth as against anything to drink, can be carried there. there are no large cities in the state and it is much easier to govern, but even there the prohibition law is bound to be a failure. it will breed deceit and hypocrisy, and in the long run the influence will be bad. _question_. will these two considerations cut any figure in the presidential campaign of ? _answer_. the party, as a party, will have nothing to do with these questions. these matters are local. whether the republicans are successful will depend more upon the country's prosperity. if things should be generally in pretty good shape in , the people will allow the party to remain in power. changes of administration depend a great deal on the feeling of the country. if crops are bad and money is tight, the people blame the administration, whether it is responsible or not. if a ship going down the river strikes a snag, or encounters a storm, a cry goes up against the captain. it may not have been his fault, but he is blamed, all the same, and the passengers at once clamor for another captain. so it is in politics. if nothing interferes between this and , the republican party will continue. otherwise it will be otherwise. but the principle of prosperity as applied to administrative change is strong. if the panic of had occurred in there would have been no occasion for a commission to sit on tilden. if it had struck us in , hancock would have been elected. neither result would have its occasion in the superiority of the democratic party, but in the belief that the republican party was in some vague way blamable for the condition of things, and there should be a change. the republican party is not as strong as it used to be. the old leaders have dropped out and no persons have yet taken their places. blaine has dropped out, and is now writing a book. conkling dropped out and is now practicing law, and so i might go on enumerating leaders who have severed their connection with the party and are no longer identified with it. _question_. what is your opinion regarding the republican nomination for president? _answer_. my belief is that the republicans will have to nominate some man who has not been conspicuous in any faction, and upon whom all can unite. as a consequence he must be a new man. the democrats must do the same. they must nominate a new man. the old ones have been defeated so often that they start handicapped with their own histories, and failure in the past is very poor raw material out of which to manufacture faith for the future. my own judgment is that for the democrats, mcdonald is as strong a man as they can get. he is a man of most excellent sense and would be regarded as a safe man. tilden? he is dead, and he occupies no stronger place in the general heart than a graven image. with no magnetism, he has nothing save his smartness to recommend him. _question_. what are your views, generally expressed, on the tariff? _answer_. there are a great many democrats for protection and a great many for so-called free trade. i think the large majority of american people favor a reasonable tariff for raising our revenue and protecting our manufactures. i do not believe in tariff for revenue only, but for revenue and protection. the democrats would have carried the country had they combined revenue and incidental protection. _question_. are they rectifying the error now? _answer_. i believe they are, already. they will do it next fall. if they do not put it in their platform they will embody it in their speeches. i do not regard the tariff as a local, but a national issue, notwithstanding hancock inclined to the belief that it was the former. --_the times_, chicago, illinois, october , . the republican defeat in ohio. _question_. what is your explanation of the republican disaster last tuesday? _answer_. too much praying and not enough paying, is my explanation of the republican defeat. _first_. i think the attempt to pass the prohibition amendment lost thousands of votes. the people of this country, no matter how much they may deplore the evils of intemperance, are not yet willing to set on foot a system of spying into each other's affairs. they know that prohibition would need thousands of officers--that it would breed informers and spies and peekers and skulkers by the hundred in every county. they know that laws do not of themselves make good people. good people make good laws. americans do not wish to be temperate upon compulsion. the spirit that resents interference in these matters is the same spirit that made and keeps this a free country. all this crusade and prayer-meeting business will not do in politics. we must depend upon the countless influences of civilization, upon science, art, music--upon the softening influences of kindness and argument. as life becomes valuable people will take care of it. temperance upon compulsion destroys something more valuable than itself--liberty. i am for the largest liberty in all things. _second_. the prohibitionists, in my opinion, traded with democrats. the democrats were smart enough to know that prohibition could not carry, and that they could safely trade. the prohibitionists were insane enough to vote for their worst enemies, just for the sake of polling a large vote for prohibition, and were fooled as usual. _thirdly_. certain personal hatreds of certain republican politicians. these were the causes which led to republican defeat in ohio. _question_. will it necessitate the nomination of an ohio republican next year? _answer_. i do not think so. defeat is apt to breed dissension, and on account of that dissension the party will have to take a man from some other state. one politician will say to another, "you did it," and another will reply, "you are the man who ruined the party." i think we have given ohio her share; certainly she has given us ours. _question_. will this reverse seriously affect republican chances next year? _answer_. if the country is prosperous next year, if the crops are good, if prices are fair, if pittsburg is covered with smoke, if the song of the spindle is heard in lowell, if stocks are healthy, the republicans will again succeed. if the reverse as to crops and forges and spindles, then the democrats will win. it is a question of "chich-bugs," and floods and drouths. _question_. who, in your judgment, would be the strongest man the republicans could put up? _answer_. last year i thought general sherman, but he has gone to missouri, and now i am looking around. the first day i find out i will telegraph you. --_the democrat_, dayton, ohio, october , . the civil rights bill. _question_. what do you think of the recent opinion of the supreme court touching the rights of the colored man? _answer_. i think it is all wrong. the intention of the framers of the amendment, by virtue of which the law was passed, was that no distinction should be made in inns, in hotels, cars, or in theatres; in short, in public places, on account of color, race, or previous condition. the object of the men who framed that amendment to the constitution was perfectly clear, perfectly well known, perfectly understood. they intended to secure, by an amendment to the fundamental law, what had been fought for by hundreds of thousands of men. they knew that the institution of slavery had cost rebellion; the also knew that the spirit of caste was only slavery in another form. they intended to kill that spirit. their object was that the law, like the sun, should shine upon all, and that no man keeping a hotel, no corporation running cars, no person managing a theatre should make any distinction on account of race or color. this amendment is above all praise. it was the result of a moral exaltation, such as the world never before had seen. there were years during the war, and after, when the american people were simply sublime; when their generosity was boundless; when they were willing to endure any hardship to make this an absolutely free country. this decision of the supreme court puts the best people of the colored race at the mercy of the meanest portion of the white race. it allows a contemptible white man to trample upon a good colored man. i believe in drawing a line between good and bad, between clean and unclean, but i do not believe in drawing a color line which is as cruel as the lash of slavery. i am willing to be on an equality in all hotels, in all cars, in all theatres, with colored people. i make no distinction of race. those make the distinction who cannot afford not to. if nature has made no distinction between me and some others, i do not ask the aid of the legislature. i am willing to associate with all good, clean persons, irrespective of complexion. this decision virtually gives away one of the great principles for which the war was fought. it carries the doctrine of "state rights" to the democratic extreme, and renders necessary either another amendment or a new court. i agree with justice harlan. he has taken a noble and patriotic stand. kentucky rebukes massachusetts! i am waiting with some impatience--impatient because i anticipate a pleasure--for his dissenting opinion. only a little while ago justice harlan took a very noble stand on the virginia coupon cases, in which was involved the right of a state to repudiate its debts. now he has taken a stand in favor of the civil rights of the colored man; and in both instances i think he is right. this decision may, after all, help the republican party. a decision of the supreme court aroused the indignation of the entire north, and i hope the present decision will have a like effect. the good people of this country will not be satisfied until every man beneath the flag, without the slightest respect to his complexion, stands on a perfect equality before the law with every other. any government that makes a distinction on account of color, is a disgrace to the age in which we live. the idea that a man like frederick douglass can be denied entrance to a car, that the doors of a hotel can be shut in his face; that he may be prevented from entering a theatre; the idea that there shall be some ignominious corner into which such a man can be thrown simply by a decision of the supreme court! this idea is simply absurd. _question_. what remains to be done now, and who is going to do it? _answer_. for a good while people have been saying that the republican party has outlived its usefulness; that there is very little difference now between the parties; that there is hardly enough left to talk about. this decision opens the whole question. this decision says to the republican party, "your mission is not yet ended. this is not a free country. our flag does not protect the rights of a human being." this decision is the tap of a drum. the old veterans will fall into line. this decision gives the issue for the next campaign, and it may be that the supreme court has builded wiser than it knew. this is a greater question than the tariff or free trade. it is a question of freedom, of human rights, of the sacredness of humanity. the real americans, the real believers in liberty, will give three cheers for judge harlan. one word more. the government is bound to protect its citizens, not only when they are away from home, but when they are under the flag. in time of war the government has a right to draft any citizen; to put that citizen in the line of battle, and compel him to fight for the nation. if the government when imperiled has the right to compel a citizen, whether white or black, to defend with his blood the flag, that citizen, when imperiled, has the right to demand protection from the nation. the nation cannot then say, "you must appeal to your state." if the citizen must appeal to the state for redress, then the citizen should defend the state and not the general government, and the doctrine of state rights then becomes complete. --_the national republican_, washington, d. c., october , . justice harlan and the civil rights bill. _question_. what do you think of justice harlan's dissenting opinion in the civil rights case? _answer_. i have just read it and think it admirable in every respect. it is unanswerable. he has given to words their natural meaning. he has recognized the intention of the framers of the recent amendments. there is nothing in this opinion that is strained, insincere, or artificial. it is frank and manly. it is solid masonry, without crack or flaw. he does not resort to legal paint or putty, or to verbal varnish or veneer. he states the position of his brethren of the bench with perfect fairness, and overturns it with perfect ease. he has drawn an instructive parallel between the decisions of the olden time, upholding the power of congress to deal with individuals in the interests of slavery, and the power conferred on congress by the recent amendments. he has shown by the old decisions, that when a duty is enjoined upon congress, ability to perform it is given; that when a certain end is required, all necessary means are granted. he also shows that the fugitive slave acts of and of , rested entirely upon the implied power of congress to enforce a master's rights; and that power was once implied in favor of slavery against human rights, and implied from language shadowy, feeble and uncertain when compared with the language of the recent amendments. he has shown, too, that congress exercised the utmost ingenuity in devising laws to enforce the master's claim. implication was held ample to deprive a human being of his liberty, but to secure freedom, the doctrine of implication is abandoned. as a foundation for wrong, implication was their rock. as a foundation for right, it is now sand. implied power then was sufficient to enslave, while power expressly given is now impotent to protect. _question_. what do you think of the use he has made of the dred scott decision? _answer_. well, i think he has shown conclusively that the present decision, under the present circumstances, is far worse than the dred scott decision was under the then circumstances. the dred scott decision was a libel upon the best men of the revolutionary period. that decision asserted broadly that our forefathers regarded the negroes as having no rights which white men were bound to respect; that the negroes were merely merchandise, and that that opinion was fixed and universal in the civilized portion of the white race, and that no one thought of disputing it. yet franklin contended that slavery might be abolished under the preamble of the constitution. thomas jefferson said that if the slave should rise to cut the throat of his master, god had no attribute that would side against the slave. thomas paine attacked the institution with all the intensity and passion of his nature. john adams regarded the institution with horror. so did every civilized man, south and north. justice harlan shows conclusively that the thirteenth amendment was adopted in the light of the dred scott decision; that it overturned and destroyed, not simply the decision, but the reasoning upon which it was based; that it proceeded upon the ground that the colored people had rights that white men were bound to respect, not only, but that the nation was bound to protect. he takes the ground that the amendment was suggested by the condition of that race, which had been declared by the supreme court of the united states to have no rights which white men were bound to respect; that it was made to protect people whose rights had been invaded, and whose strong arms had assisted in the overthrow of the rebellion; that it was made for the purpose of putting these men upon a legal authority with white citizens. justice harland also shows that while legislation of congress to enforce a master's right was upheld by implication, the rights of the negro do not depend upon that doctrine; that the thirteenth amendment does not rest upon implication, or upon inference; that by its terms it places the power in congress beyond the possibility of a doubt--conferring the power to enforce the amendment by appropriate legislation in express terms; and he also shows that the supreme court has admitted that legislation for that purpose may be direct and primary. had not the power been given in express terms, justice harlan contends that the sweeping declaration that neither slavery nor involuntary servitude shall exist would by implication confer the power. he also shows conclusively that, under the thirteenth amendment, congress has the right by appropriate legislation to protect the colored people against the deprivation of any right on account of their race, and that congress is not necessarily restricted, under the thirteenth amendment, to legislation against slavery as an institution, but that power may be exerted to the extent of protecting the race from discrimination in respect to such rights as belong to freemen, where such discrimination is based on race or color. if justice harlan is wrong the amendments are left without force and congress without power. no purpose can be assigned for their adoption. no object can be guessed that was to be accomplished. they become words, so arranged that they sound like sense, but when examined fall meaninglessly apart. under the decision of the supreme court they are quaker cannon--cloud forts--"property" for political stage scenery--coats of mail made of bronzed paper-- shields of gilded pasteboard--swords of lath. _question_. do you wish to say anything as to the reasoning of justice harlan on the rights of colored people on railways, in inns and theatres? _answer_. yes, i do. that part of the opinion is especially strong. he shows conclusively that a common carrier is in the exercise of a sort of public office and has public duties to perform, and that he cannot exonerate himself from the performance of these duties without the consent of the parties concerned. he also shows that railroads are public highways, and that the railway company is the agent of the state, and that a railway, although built by private capital, is just as public in its nature as though constructed by the state itself. he shows that the railway is devoted to public use, and subject to be controlled by the state for the public benefit, and that for these reasons the colored man has the same rights upon the railway that he has upon the public highway. justice harlan shows that the same law is applicable to inns that is applicable to railways; that an inn-keeper is bound to take all travelers if he can accommodate them; that he is not to select his guests; that he has not right to say to one "you may come in," and to another "you shall not;" that every one who conducts himself in a proper manner has a right to be received. he shows conclusively that an inn-keeper is a sort of public servant; that he is in the exercise of a _quasi_ public employment, that he is given special privileges, and charged with duties of a public character. as to theatres, i think his argument most happy. it is this: theatres are licensed by law. the authority to maintain them comes from the public. the colored race being a part of the public, representing the power granting the license, why should the colored people license a manager to open his doors to the white man and shut them in the face of the black man? why should they be compelled to license that which they are not permitted to enjoy? justice harlan shows that congress has the power to prevent discrimination on account of race or color on railways, at inns, and in places of public amusements, and has this power under the thirteenth amendment. in discussing the fourteenth amendment, justice harlan points out that a prohibition upon a state is not a power in congress or the national government, but is simply a denial of power to the state; that such was the constitution before the fourteenth amendment. he shows, however, that the fourteenth amendment presents the first instance in our history of the investiture of congress with affirmative power by legislation to enforce an express prohibition upon the states. this is an important point. it is stated with great clearness, and defended with great force. he shows that the first clause of the first section of the fourteenth amendment is of a distinctly affirmative character, and that congress would have had the power to legislate directly as to that section simply by implication, but that as to that as well as the express prohibitions upon the states, express power to legislate was given. there is one other point made by justice harlan which transfixes as with a spear the decision of the court. it is this: as soon as the thirteenth and fourteenth amendments were adopted the colored citizen was entitled to the protection of section two, article four, namely: "the citizens of each state shall be entitled to all the privileges and immunities of citizens of the several states." now, suppose a colored citizen of mississippi moves to tennessee. then, under the section last quoted, he would immediately become invested with all the privileges and immunities of a white citizen of tennessee. although denied these privileges and immunities in the state from which he emigrated, in the state to which he immigrates he could not be discriminated against on account of his color under the second section of the fourth article. now, is it possible that he gets additional rights by immigration? is it possible that the general government is under a greater obligation to protect him in a state of which he is not a citizen than in a state of which he is a citizen? must he leave home for protection, and after he has lived long enough in the state to which he immigrates to become a citizen there, must he again move in order to protect his rights? must one adopt the doctrine of peripatetic protection--the doctrine that the constitution is good only _in transitu_, and that when the citizen stops, the constitution goes on and leaves him without protection? justice harlan shows that congress had the right to legislate directly while that power was only implied, but that the moment this power was conferred in express terms, then according to the supreme court, it was lost. there is another splendid definition given by justice harlan--a line drawn as broad as the mississippi. it is the distinction between the rights conferred by a state and rights conferred by the nation. admitting that many rights conferred by a state cannot be enforced directly by congress, justice harlan shows that rights granted by the nation to an individual may be protected by direct legislation. this is a distinction that should not be forgotten, and it is a definition clear and perfect. justice harlan has shown that the supreme court failed to take into consideration the intention of the framers of the amendment; failed to see that the powers of congress were given by express terms and did not rest upon implication; failed to see that the thirteenth amendment was broad enough to cover the civil rights act; failed to see that under the three amendments rights and privileges were conferred by the nation on citizens of the several states, and that these rights are under the perpetual protection of the general government, and that for their enforcement congress has the right to legislate directly; failed to see that all implications are now in favor of liberty instead of slavery; failed to comprehend that we have a new nation with a new foundation, with different objects, ends, and aims, for the attainment of which we use different means and have been clothed with greater powers; failed to see that the republic changed front; failed to appreciate the real reasons for the adoption of the amendments, and failed to understand that the civil rights act was passed in order that a citizen of the united states might appeal from local prejudice to national justice. justice harlan shows that it was the object to accomplish for the black man what had been accomplished for the white man--that is, to protect all their rights as free men and citizens; and that the one underlying purpose of the amendments and of the congressional legislation has been to clothe the black race with all the rights of citizenship, and to compel a recognition of their rights by citizens and states--that the object was to do away with class tyranny, the meanest and basest form of oppression. if justice harlan was wrong in his position, then, it may truthfully be said of the three amendments that: "the law hath bubbles as the water has, and these are of them." the decision of the supreme court denies the protection of the nation to the citizens of the nation. that decision has already borne fruit--the massacre at danville. the protection of the nation having been withdrawn, the colored man was left to the mercy of local prejudices and hatreds. he is without appeal, without redress. the supreme court tells him that he must depend upon his enemies for justice. _question_. you seem to agree with all that justice harlan has said, and to have the greatest admiration for his opinion? _answer_. yes, a man rises from reading this dissenting opinion refreshed, invigorated, and strengthened. it is a mental and moral tonic. it was produced after a clear head had held conference with a good heart. it will furnish a perfectly clear plank, without knot or wind-shake, for the next republican platform. it is written in good plain english, and ornamented with good sound sense. the average man can and will understand its every word. there is no subterfuge in it. each position is taken in the open field. there is no resort to quibbles or technicalities--no hiding. nothing is secreted in the sleeve--no searching for blind paths--no stooping and looking for ancient tracks, grass-grown and dim. each argument travels the highway--"the big road." it is logical. the facts and conclusions agree, and fall naturally into line of battle. it is sincere and candid--unpretentious and unanswerable. it is a grand defence of human rights--a brave and manly plea for universal justice. it leaves the decision of the supreme court without argument, without reason, and without excuse. such an exhibition of independence, courage and ability has won for justice harlan the respect and admiration of "both sides," and places him in the front rank of constitutional lawyers. --_the inter-ocean_, chicago, illinois, november , . politics and theology. _question_. what is your opinion of brewster's administration? _answer_. i hardly think i ought to say much about the administration of mr. brewster. of course many things have been done that i thought, and still think, extremely bad; but whether mr. brewster was responsible for the things done, or not, i do not pretend to say. when he was appointed to his present position, there was great excitement in the country about the star route cases, and mr. brewster was expected to prosecute everybody and everything to the extent of the law; in fact, i believe he was appointed by reason of having made such a promise. at that time there were hundreds of people interested in exaggerating all the facts connected with the star route cases, and when there were no facts to be exaggerated, they made some, and exaggerated them afterward. it may be that the attorney-general was misled, and he really supposed that all he heard was true. my objection to the administration of the department of justice is, that a resort was had to spies and detectives. the battle was not fought in the open field. influences were brought to bear. nearly all departments of the government were enlisted. everything was done to create a public opinion in favor of the prosecution. everything was done that the cases might be decided on prejudice instead of upon facts. everything was done to demoralize, frighten and overawe judges, witnesses and jurors. i do not pretend to say who was responsible, possibly i am not an impartial judge. i was deeply interested at the time, and felt all of these things, rather than reasoned about them. possibly i cannot give a perfectly unbiased opinion. personally, i have no feeling now upon the subject. the department of justice, in spite of its methods, did not succeed. that was enough for me. i think, however, when the country knows the facts, that the people will not approve of what was done. i do not believe in trying cases in the newspapers before they are submitted to jurors. that is a little too early. neither do i believe in trying them in the newspapers after the verdicts have been rendered. that is a little too late. _question_. what are mr. blaine's chances for the presidency? _answer_. my understanding is that mr. blaine is not a candidate for the nomination; that he does not wish his name to be used in that connection. he ought to have been nominated in , and if he were a candidate, he would probably have the largest following; but my understanding is, that he does not, in any event, wish to be a candidate. he is a man perfectly familiar with the politics of this country, knows its history by heart, and is in every respect probably as well qualified to act as its chief magistrate as any man in the nation. he is a man of ideas, of action, and has positive qualities. he would not wait for something to turn up, and things would not have to wait long for him to turn them up. _question_. who do you think will be nominated at chicago? _answer_. of course i have not the slightest idea who will be nominated. i may have an opinion as to who ought to be nominated, and yet i may be greatly mistaken in that opinion. there are hundreds of men in the republican party, any one of whom, if elected, would make a good, substantial president, and there are many thousands of men about whom i know nothing, any one of whom would in all probability make a good president. we do not want any man to govern this country. this country governs itself. we want a president who will honestly and faithfully execute the laws, who will appoint postmasters and do the requisite amount of handshaking on public occasions, and we have thousands of men who can discharge the duties of that position. washington is probably the worst place to find out anything definite upon the subject of presidential booms. i have thought for a long time that one of the most valuable men in the country was general sherman. everybody knows who and what he is. he has one great advantage--he is a frank and outspoken man. he has opinions and he never hesitates about letting them be known. there is considerable talk about judge harlan. his dissenting opinion in the civil rights case has made every colored man his friend, and i think it will take considerable public patronage to prevent a good many delegates from the southern states voting for him. _question_. what are your present views on theology? _answer_. well, i think my views have not undergone any change that i know of. i still insist that observation, reason and experience are the things to be depended upon in this world. i still deny the existence of the supernatural. i still insist that nobody can be good for you, or bad for you; that you cannot be punished for the crimes of others, nor rewarded for their virtues. i still insist that the consequences of good actions are always good, and those of bad actions always bad. i insist that nobody can plant thistles and gather figs; neither can they plant figs and gather thistles. i still deny that a finite being can commit an infinite sin; but i continue to insist that a god who would punish a man forever is an infinite tyrant. my views have undergone no change, except that the evidence of that truth constantly increases, and the dogmas of the church look, if possible, a little absurder every day. theology, you know, is not a science. it stops at the grave; and faith is the end of theology. ministers have not even the advantage of the doctors; the doctors sometimes can tell by a post-mortem examination whether they killed the man or not; but by cutting a man open after he is dead, the wisest theologians cannot tell what has become of his soul, and whether it was injured or helped by a belief in the inspiration of the scriptures. theology depends on assertion for evidence, and on faith for disciples. --_the tribune_, denver, colorado, january , . morality and immortality. _question_. i see that the clergy are still making all kinds of charges against you and your doctrines. _answer_. yes. some of the charges are true and some of them are not. i suppose that they intend to get in the vicinity of veracity, and are probably stating my belief as it is honestly misunderstood by them. i admit that i have said and that i still think that christianity is a blunder. but the question arises, what is christianity? i do not mean, when i say that christianity is a blunder, that the morality taught by christians is a mistake. morality is not distinctively christian, any more than it is mohammedan. morality is human, it belongs to no ism, and does not depend for a foundation upon the supernatural, or upon any book, or upon any creed. morality is itself a foundation. when i say that christianity is a blunder, i mean all those things distinctively christian are blunders. it is a blunder to say that an infinite being lived in palestine, learned the carpenter's trade, raised the dead, cured the blind, and cast out devils, and that this god was finally assassinated by the jews. this is absurd. all these statements are blunders, if not worse. i do not believe that christ ever claimed that he was of supernatural origin, or that he wrought miracles, or that he would rise from the dead. if he did, he was mistaken--honestly mistaken, perhaps, but still mistaken. the morality inculcated by mohammed is good. the immorality inculcated by mohammed is bad. if mohammed was a prophet of god, it does not make the morality he taught any better, neither does it make the immorality any better or any worse. by this time the whole world ought to know that morality does not need to go into partnership with miracles. morality is based upon the experience of mankind. it does not have to learn of inspired writers, or of gods, or of divine persons. it is a lesson that the whole human race has been learning and learning from experience. he who upholds, or believes in, or teaches, the miraculous, commits a blunder. now, what is morality? morality is the best thing to do under the circumstances. anything that tends to the happiness of mankind is moral. anything that tends to unhappiness is immoral. we apply to the moral world rules and regulations as we do in the physical world. the man who does justice, or tries to do so--who is honest and kind and gives to others what he claims for himself, is a moral man. all actions must be judged by their consequences. where the consequences are good, the actions are good. where the consequences are bad, the actions are bad; and all consequences are learned from experience. after we have had a certain amount of experience, we then reason from analogy. we apply our logic and say that a certain course will bring destruction, another course will bring happiness. there is nothing inspired about morality--nothing supernatural. it is simply good, common sense, going hand in hand with kindness. morality is capable of being demonstrated. you do not have to take the word of anybody; you can observe and examine for yourself. larceny is the enemy of industry, and industry is good; therefore larceny is immoral. the family is the unit of good government; anything that tends to destroy the family is immoral. honesty is the mother of confidence; it united, combines and solidifies society. dishonesty is disintegration; it destroys confidence; it brings social chaos; it is therefore immoral. i also admit that i regard the mosaic account of the creation as an absurdity--as a series of blunders. probably moses did the best he could. he had never talked with humboldt or laplace. he knew nothing of geology or astronomy. he had not the slightest suspicion of kepler's three laws. he never saw a copy of newton's principia. taking all these things into consideration, i think moses did the best he could. the religious people say now that "days" did not mean days. of these "six days" they make a kind of telescope, which you can push in or draw out at pleasure. if the geologists find that more time was necessary they will stretch them out. should it turn out that the world is not quite as old as some think, they will push them up. the "six days" can now be made to suit any period of time. nothing can be more childish, frivolous or contradictory. only a few years ago the mosaic account was considered true, and moses was regarded as a scientific authority. geology and astronomy were measured by the mosaic standard. the opposite is now true. the church has changed; and instead of trying to prove that modern astronomy and geology are false, because they do not agree with moses, it is now endeavoring to prove that the account by moses is true, because it agrees with modern astronomy and geology. in other words, the standard has changed; the ancient is measured by the modern, and where the literal statement in the bible does not agree with modern discoveries, they do not change the discoveries, but give new meanings to the old account. we are not now endeavoring to reconcile science with the bible, but to reconcile the bible with science. nothing shows the extent of modern doubt more than the eagerness with which christians search for some new testimony. luther answered copernicus with a passage of scripture, and he answered him to the satisfaction of orthodox ignorance. the truth is that the jews adopted the stories of creation, the garden of eden, forbidden fruit, and the fall of man. they were told by older barbarians than they, and the jews gave them to us. i never said that the bible is all bad. i have always admitted that there are many good and splendid things in the jewish scriptures, and many bad things. what i insist is that we should have the courage and the common sense to accept the good, and throw away the bad. evil is not good because found in good company, and truth is still truth, even when surrounded by falsehood. _question_. i see that you are frequently charged with disrespect toward your parents--with lack of reverence for the opinions of your father? _answer_. i think my father and mother upon several religious questions were mistaken. in fact, i have no doubt that they were; but i never felt under the slightest obligation to defend my father's mistakes. no one can defend what he thinks is a mistake, without being dishonest. that is a poor way to show respect for parents. every protestant clergyman asks men and women who had catholic parents to desert the church in which they were raised. they have no hesitation in saying to these people that their fathers and mothers were mistaken, and that they were deceived by priests and popes. the probability is that we are all mistaken about almost everything; but it is impossible for a man to be respectable enough to make a mistake respectable. there is nothing remarkably holy in a blunder, or praiseworthy in stubbing the toe of the mind against a mistake. is it possible that logic stands paralyzed in the presence of paternal absurdity? suppose a man has a bad father; is he bound by the bad father's opinion, when he is satisfied that the opinion is wrong? how good does a father have to be, in order to put his son under obligation to defend his blunders? suppose the father thinks one way, and the mother the other; what are the children to do? suppose the father changes his opinion; what then? suppose the father thinks one way and the mother the other, and they both die when the boy is young; and the boy is bound out; whose mistakes is he then bound to follow? our missionaries tell the barbarian boy that his parents are mistaken, that they know nothing, and that the wooden god is nothing but a senseless idol. they do not hesitate to tell this boy that his mother believed lies, and hugged, it may be to her dying heart, a miserable delusion. why should a barbarian boy cast reproach upon his parents? i believe it was christ who commanded his disciples to leave father and mother; not only to leave them, but to desert them; and not only to desert father and mother, but to desert wives and children. it is also told of christ that he said that he came to set fathers against children and children against fathers. strange that a follower of his should object to a man differing in opinion from his parents! the truth is, logic knows nothing of consanguinity; facts have no relatives but other facts; and these facts do not depend upon the character of the person who states them, or upon the position of the discoverer. and this leads me to another branch of the same subject. the ministers are continually saying that certain great men--kings, presidents, statesmen, millionaires--have believed in the inspiration of the bible. only the other day, i read a sermon in which carlyle was quoted as having said that "the bible is a noble book." that all may be and yet the book not be inspired. but what is the simple assertion of thomas carlyle worth? if the assertion is based upon a reason, then it is worth simply the value of the reason, and the reason is worth just as much without the assertion, but without the reason the assertion is worthless. thomas carlyle thought, and solemnly put the thought in print, that his father was a greater man than robert burns. his opinion did burns no harm, and his father no good. since reading his "reminiscences," i have no great opinion of his opinion. in some respects he was undoubtedly a great man, in others a small one. no man should give the opinion of another as authority and in place of fact and reason, unless he is willing to take all the opinions of that man. an opinion is worth the warp and woof of fact and logic in it and no more. a man cannot add to the truthfulness of truth. in the ordinary business of life, we give certain weight to the opinion of specialists--to the opinion of doctors, lawyers, scientists, and historians. within the domain of the natural, we take the opinions of our fellow-men; but we do not feel that we are absolutely bound by these opinions. we have the right to re- examine them, and if we find they are wrong we feel at liberty to say so. a doctor is supposed to have studied medicine; to have examined and explored the questions entering into his profession; but we know that doctors are often mistaken. we also know that there are many schools of medicine; that these schools disagree with one another, and that the doctors of each school disagree with one another. we also know that many patients die, and so far as we know, these patients have not come back to tell us whether the doctors killed them or not. the grave generally prevents a demonstration. it is exactly the same with the clergy. they have many schools of theology, all despising each other. probably no two members of the same church exactly agree. they cannot demonstrate their propositions, because between the premise and the logical conclusion or demonstration, stands the tomb. a gravestone marks the end of theology. in some cases, the physician can, by a post- mortem examination, find what killed the patient, but there is no theological post-mortem. it is impossible, by cutting a body open, to find where the soul has gone; or whether baptism, or the lack of it, had the slightest effect upon final destiny. the church, knowing that there are no facts beyond the coffin, relies upon opinions, assertions and theories. for this reason it is always asking alms of distinguished people. some president wishes to be re-elected, and thereupon speaks about the bible as "the corner- stone of american liberty." this sentence is a mouth large enough to swallow any church, and from that time forward the religious people will be citing that remark of the politician to substantiate the inspiration of the scriptures. the man who accepts opinions because they have been entertained by distinguished people, is a mental snob. when we blindly follow authority we are serfs. when our reason is convinced we are freemen. it is rare to find a fully rounded and complete man. a man may be a great doctor and a poor mechanic, a successful politician and a poor metaphysician, a poor painter and a good poet. the rarest thing in the world is a logician--that is to say, a man who knows the value of a fact. it is hard to find mental proportion. theories may be established by names, but facts cannot be demonstrated in that way. very small people are sometimes right, and very great people are sometimes wrong. ministers are sometimes right. in all the philosophies of the world there are undoubtedly contradictions and absurdities. the mind of man is imperfect and perfect results are impossible. a mirror, in order to reflect a perfect picture, a perfect copy, must itself be perfect. the mind is a little piece of intellectual glass the surface of which is not true, not perfect. in consequence of this, every image is more or less distorted. the less we know, the more we imagine that we can know; but the more we know, the smaller seems the sum of knowledge. the less we know, the more we expect, the more we hope for, and the more seems within the range of probability. the less we have, the more we want. there never was a banquet magnificent enough to gratify the imagination of a beggar. the moment people begin to reason about what they call the supernatural, they seem to lose their minds. people seem to have lost their reason in religious matters, very much as the dodo is said to have lost its wings; they have been restricted to a little inspired island, and by disuse their reason has been lost. in the jewish scriptures you will find simply the literature of the jews. you will find there the tears and anguish of captivity, patriotic fervor, national aspiration, proverbs for the conduct of daily life, laws, regulations, customs, legends, philosophy and folly. these books, of course, were not written by one man, but by many authors. they do not agree, having been written in different centuries, under different circumstances. i see that mr. beecher has at last concluded that the old testament does not teach the doctrine of immortality. he admits that from mount sinai came no hope for the dead. it is very curious that we find in the old testament no funeral service. no one stands by the dead and predicts another life. in the old testament there is no promise of another world. i have sometimes thought that while the jews were slaves in egypt, the doctrine of immortality became hateful. they built so many tombs; they carried so many burdens to commemorate the dead; the saw a nation waste its wealth to adorn its graves, and leave the living naked to embalm the dead, that they concluded the doctrine was a curse and never should be taught. _question_. if the jews did not believe in immortality, how do you account for the allusions made to witches and wizards and things of that nature? _answer_. when saul visited the witch of endor, and she, by some magic spell, called up samuel, the prophet said: "why hast thou disquieted me, to call me up?" he did not say: why have you called me from another world? the idea expressed is: i was asleep, why did you disturb that repose which should be eternal? the ancient jews believed in witches and wizards and familiar spirits; but they did not seem to think that these spirits had once been men and women. they spoke to them as belonging to another world, a world to which man would never find his way. at that time it was supposed that jehovah and his angels lived in the sky, but that region was not spoken of as the destined home of man. jacob saw angels going up and down the ladder, but not the spirits of those he had known. there are two cases where it seems that men were good enough to be adopted into the family of heaven. enoch was translated, and elijah was taken up in a chariot of fire. as it is exceedingly cold at the height of a few miles, it is easy to see why the chariot was of fire, and the same fact explains another circumstance--the dropping of the mantle. the jews probably believed in the existence of other beings--that is to say, in angels and gods and evil spirits --and that they lived in other worlds--but there is no passage showing that they believed in what we call the immortality of the soul. _question_. do you believe, or disbelieve, in the immortality of the soul? _answer_. i neither assert nor deny; i simply admit that i do not know. upon that subject i am absolutely without evidence. this is the only world that i was ever in. there may be spirits, but i have never met them, and do not know that i would recognize a spirit. i can form no conception of what is called spiritual life. it may be that i am deficient in imagination, and that ministers have no difficulty in conceiving of angels and disembodied souls. i have not the slightest idea how a soul looks, what shape it is, how it goes from one place to another, whether it walks or flies. i cannot conceive of the immaterial having form; neither can i conceive of anything existing without form, and yet the fact that i cannot conceive of a thing does not prove that the thing does not exist, but it does prove that i know nothing about it, and that being so, i ought to admit my ignorance. i am satisfied of a good many things that i do not know. i am satisfied that there is no place of eternal torment. i am satisfied that that doctrine has done more harm than all the religious ideas, other than that, have done good. i do not want to take any hope from any human heart. i have no objection to people believing in any good thing--no objection to their expecting a crown of infinite joy for every human being. many people imagine that immortality must be an infinite good; but, after all, there is something terrible in the idea of endless life. think of a river that never reaches the sea; of a bird that never folds its wings; of a journey that never ends. most people find great pleasure in thinking about and in believing in another world. there the prisoner expects to be free; the slave to find liberty; the poor man expects wealth; the rich man happiness; the peasant dreams of power, and the king of contentment. they expect to find there what they lack here. i do not wish to destroy these dreams. i am endeavoring to put out the everlasting fires. a good, cool grave is infinitely better than the fiery furnace of jehovah's wrath. eternal sleep is better than eternal pain. for my part i would rather be annihilated than to be an angel, with all the privileges of heaven, and yet have within my breast a heart that could be happy while those who had loved me in this world were in perdition. i most sincerely hope that the future life will fulfill all splendid dreams; but in the religion of the present day there is no joy. nothing is so devoid of comfort, when bending above our dead, as the assertions of theology unsupported by a single fact. the promises are so far away, and the dead are so near. from words spoken eighteen centuries ago, the echoes are so weak, and the sounds of the clods on the coffin are so loud. above the grave what can the honest minister say? if the dead were not a christian, what then? what comfort can the orthodox clergyman give to the widow of an honest unbeliever? if christianity is true, the other world will be worse than this. there the many will be miserable, only the few happy; there the miserable cannot better their condition; the future has no star of hope, and in the east of eternity there can never be a dawn. _question_. if you take away the idea of eternal punishment, how do you propose to restrain men; in what way will you influence conduct for good? _answer_. well, the trouble with religion is that it postpones punishment and reward to another world. wrong is wrong, because it breeds unhappiness. right is right, because it tends to the happiness of man. these facts are the basis of what i call the religion of this world. when a man does wrong, the consequences follow, and between the cause and effect, a redeemer cannot step. forgiveness cannot form a breastwork between act and consequence. there should be a religion of the body--a religion that will prevent deformity, that will refuse to multiply insanity, that will not propagate disease--a religion that is judged by its consequences in this world. orthodox christianity has taught, and still teaches, that in this world the difference between the good and the bad is that the bad enjoy themselves, while the good carry the cross of virtue with bleeding brows bound and pierced with the thorns of honesty and kindness. all this, in my judgment, is immoral. the man who does wrong carries a cross. there is no world, no star, in which the result of wrong is real happiness. there is no world, no star, in which the result of doing right is unhappiness. virtue and vice must be the same everywhere. vice must be vice everywhere, because its consequences are evil; and virtue must be virtue everywhere, because its consequences are good. there can be no such thing as forgiveness. these facts are the only restraining influences possible--the innocent man cannot suffer for the guilty and satisfy the law. _question_. how do you answer the argument, or the fact, that the church is constantly increasing, and that there are now four hundred millions of christians? _answer_. that is what i call the argument of numbers. if that argument is good now, it was always good. if christians were at any time in the minority, then, according to this argument, christianity was wrong. every religion that has succeeded has appealed to the argument of numbers. there was a time when buddhism was in a majority. buddha not only had, but has more followers then christ. success is not a demonstration. mohammed was a success, and a success from the commencement. upon a thousand fields he was victor. of the scattered tribes of the desert, he made a nation, and this nation took the fairest part of europe from the followers of the cross. in the history of the world, the success of mohammed is unparalleled, but this success does not establish that he was the prophet of god. now, it is claimed that there are some four hundred millions of christians. to make that total i am counted as a christian; i am one of the fifty or sixty millions of christians in the united states--excluding indians, not taxed. by this census report, we are all going to heaven--we are all orthodox. at the last great day we can refer with confidence to the ponderous volumes containing the statistics of the united states. as a matter of fact, how many christians are there in the united states--how many believers in the inspiration of the scriptures--how many real followers of christ? i will not pretend to give the number, but i will venture to say that there are not fifty millions. how many in england? where are the four hundred millions found? to make this immense number, they have counted all the heretics, all the catholics, all the jews, spiritualists, universalists and unitarians, all the babes, all the idiotic and insane, all the infidels, all the scientists, all the unbelievers. as a matter of fact, they have no right to count any except the orthodox members of the orthodox churches. there may be more "members" now than formerly, and this increase of members is due to a decrease of religion. thousands of members are only nominal christians, wearing the old uniform simply because they do not wish to be charged with desertion. the church, too, is a kind of social institution, a club with a creed instead of by-laws, and the creed is never defended unless attacked by an outsider. no objection is made to the minister because he is liberal, if he says nothing about it in his pulpit. a man like mr. beecher draws a congregation, not because he is a christian, but because he is a genius; not because he is orthodox, but because he has something to say. he is an intellectual athlete. he is full of pathos and poetry. he has more description than divinity; more charity than creed, and altogether more common sense than theology. for these reasons thousands of people love to hear him. on the other hand, there are many people who have a morbid desire for the abnormal--for intellectual deformities--for thoughts that have two heads. this accounts for the success of some of mr. beecher's rivals. christians claim that success is a test of truth. has any church succeeded as well as the catholic? was the tragedy of the garden of eden a success? who succeeded there? the last best thought is not a success, if you mean that only that is a success which has succeeded, and if you mean by succeeding, that it has won the assent of the majority. besides there is no time fixed for the test. is that true which succeeds to-day, or next year, or in the next century? once the copernican system was not a success. there is no time fixed. the result is that we have to wait. a thing to exist at all has to be, to a certain extent, a success. a thing cannot even die without having been a success. it certainly succeeded enough to have life. presbyterians should remember, while arguing the majority argument, and the success argument, that there are far more catholics than protestants, and that the catholics can give a longer list of distinguished names. my answer to all this, however, is that the history of the world shows that ignorance has always been in the majority. there is one right road; numberless paths that are wrong. truth is one; error is many. when a great truth has been discovered, one man has pitted himself against the world. a few think; the many believe. the few lead; the many follow. the light of the new day, as it looks over the window sill of the east, falls at first on only one forehead. there is another thing. a great many people pass for christians who are not. only a little while ago a couple of ladies were returning from church in a carriage. they had listened to a good orthodox sermon. one said to the other: "i am going to tell you something--i am going to shock you--i do not believe in the bible." and the other replied: "neither do i." --_the news_, detroit, michigan, january , . politics, mormonism and mr. beecher _question_. what will be the main issues in the next presidential campaign? _answer_. i think that the principal issues will be civil rights and protection for american industries. the democratic party is not a unit on the tariff question--neither is the republican; but i think that a majority of the democrats are in favor of free trade and a majority of republicans in favor of a protective tariff. the democratic congressmen will talk just enough about free trade to frighten the manufacturing interests of the country, and probably not quite enough to satisfy the free traders. the result will be that the democrats will talk about reforming the tariff, but will do nothing but talk. i think the tariff ought to be reformed in many particulars; but as long as we need to raise a great revenue my idea is that it ought to be so arranged as to protect to the utmost, without producing monopoly in american manufacturers. i am in favor of protection because it multiplies industries; and i am in favor of a great number of industries because they develop the brain, because they give employment to all and allow us to utilize all the muscle and all the sense we have. if we were all farmers we would grow stupid. if we all worked at one kind of mechanic art we would grow dull. but with a variety of industries, with a constant premium upon ingenuity, with the promise of wealth as the reward of success in any direction, the people become intelligent, and while we are protecting our industries we develop our brains. so i am in favor of the protection of civil rights by the federal government, and that, in my judgment, will be one of the great issues in the next campaign. _question_. i see that you say that one of the great issues in the coming campaign will be civil rights; what do you mean by that? _answer_. well, i mean this. the supreme court has recently decided that a colored man whose rights are trampled upon, in a state, cannot appeal to the federal government for protection. the decision amounts to this: that congress has no right until a state has acted, and has acted contrary to the constitution. now, if a state refuses to do anything upon the subject, what is the citizen to do? my opinion is that the government is bound to protect its citizens, and as a consideration for this protection, the citizen is bound to stand by the government. when the nation calls for troops, the citizen of each state is bound to respond, no matter what his state may think. this doctrine must be maintained, or the united states ceases to be a nation. if a man looks to his state for protection, then he must go with his state. my doctrine is, that there should be patriotism upon the one hand, and protection upon the other. if a state endeavors to secede from the union, a citizen of that state should be in a position to defy the state and appeal to the nation for protection. the doctrine now is, that the general government turns the citizen over to the state for protection, and if the state does not protect him, that is his misfortune; and the consequence of this doctrine will be to build up the old heresy of state sovereignty--a doctrine that was never appealed to except in the interest of thieving or robbery. that doctrine was first appealed to when the constitution was formed, because they were afraid the national government would interfere with the slave trade. it was next appealed to, to uphold the fugitive slave law. it was next appealed to, to give the territories of the united states to slavery. then it was appealed to, to support rebellion, and now out of this doctrine they attempt to build a breastwork, behind which they can trample upon the rights of free colored men. i believe in the sovereignty of the nation. a nation that cannot protect its citizens ought to stop playing nation. in the old times the supreme court found no difficulty in supporting slavery by "inference," by "intendment," but now that liberty has become national, the court is driven to less than a literal interpretation. if the constitution does not support liberty, it is of no use. to maintain liberty is the only legitimate object of human government. i hope the time will come when the judges of the supreme court will be elected, say for a period of ten years. i do not believe in the legal monk system. i believe in judges still maintaining an interest in human affairs. _question_. what do you think of the mormon question? _answer_. i do not believe in the bayonet plan. mormonism must be done away with by the thousand influences of civilization, by education, by the elevation of the people. of course, a gentleman would rather have one noble woman than a hundred females. i hate the system of polygamy. nothing is more infamous. i admit that the old testament upholds it. i admit that the patriarchs were mostly polygamists. i admit that solomon was mistaken on that subject. but notwithstanding the fact that polygamy is upheld by the jewish scriptures, i believe it to be a great wrong. at the same time if you undertake to get the idea out of the mormons by force you will not succeed. i think a good way to do away with that institution would be for all the churches to unite, bear the expense, and send missionaries to utah; let these ministers call the people together and read to them the lives of david, solomon, abraham and other patriarchs. let all the missionaries be called home from foreign fields and teach these people that they should not imitate the only men with whom god ever condescended to hold intercourse. let these frightful examples be held up to these people, and if it is done earnestly, it seems to me that the result would be good. polygamy exists. all laws upon the subject should take that fact into consideration, and punishment should be provided for offences thereafter committed. the children of mormons should be legitimized. in other words, in attempting to settle this question, we should accomplish all the good possible, with the least possible harm. i agree mostly with mr. beecher, and i utterly disagree with the rev. mr. newman. mr. newman wants to kill and slay. he does not rely upon christianity, but upon brute force. he has lost his confidence in example, and appeals to the bayonet. mr. newman had a discussion with one of the mormon elders, and was put to ignominious flight; no wonder that he appeals to force. having failed in argument, he calls for artillery; having been worsted in the appeal to scripture, he asks for the sword. he says, failing to convert, let us kill; and he takes this position in the name of the religion of kindness and forgiveness. strange that a minister now should throw away the bible and yell for a bayonet; that he should desert the scriptures and call for soldiers; that he should lose confidence in the power of the spirit and trust in a sword. i recommend that mormonism be done away with by distributing the old testament throughout utah. _question_. what do you think of the investigation of the department of justice now going on? _answer_. the result, in my judgment, will depend on its thoroughness. if mr. springer succeeds in proving exactly what the department of justice did, the methods pursued, if he finds out what their spies and detectives and agents were instructed to do, then i think the result will be as disastrous to the department as beneficial to the country. the people seem to have forgotten that a little while after the first star route trial three of the agents of the department of justice were indicted for endeavoring to bribe the jury. they forget that mr. bowen, an agent of the department of justice, is a fugitive, because he endeavored to bribe the foreman of the jury. they seem to forget that the department of justice, in order to cover its own tracks, had the foreman of the jury indicted because one of its agents endeavored to bribe him. probably this investigation will nudge the ribs of the public enough to make people remember these things. personally, i have no feelings on the subject. it was enough for me that we succeeded in thwarting its methods, in spite of the detectives, spies, and informers. the department is already beginning to dissolve. brewster cameron has left it, and as a reward has been exiled to arizona. mr. brewster will probably be the next to pack his official valise. a few men endeavored to win popularity by pursuing a few others, and thus far they have been conspicuous failures. macveagh and james are to-day enjoying the oblivion earned by misdirected energy, and mr. brewster will soon keep them company. the history of the world does not furnish an instance of more flagrant abuse of power. there never was a trial as shamelessly conducted by a government. but, as i said before, i have no feeling now except that of pity. _question_. i see that mr. beecher is coming round to your views on theology? _answer_. i would not have the egotism to say that he was coming round to my views, but evidently mr. beecher has been growing. his head has been instructed by his heart; and if a man will allow even the poor plant of pity to grow in his heart he will hold in infinite execration all orthodox religion. the moment he will allow himself to think that eternal consequences depend upon human life; that the few short years we live in the world determine for an eternity the question of infinite joy or infinite pain; the moment he thinks of that he will see that it is an infinite absurdity. for instance, a man is born in arkansas and lives there to be seventeen or eighteen years of age, is it possible that he can be truthfully told at the day of judgment that he had a fair chance? just imagine a man being held eternally responsible for his conduct in delaware! mr. beecher is a man of great genius--full of poetry and pathos. every now and then he is driven back by the orthodox members of his congregation toward the old religion, and for the benefit of those weak disciples he will preach what is called "a doctrinal sermon;" but before he gets through with it, seeing that it is infinitely cruel, he utters a cry of horror, and protests with all the strength of his nature against the cruelty of the creed. i imagine that he has always thought that he was under great obligation to plymouth church, but the truth is that the church depends upon him; that church gets its character from mr. beecher. he has done a vast deal to ameliorate the condition of the average orthodox mind. he excites the envy of the mediocre minister, and he excites the hatred of the really orthodox, but he receives the approbation of good and generous men everywhere. for my part, i have no quarrel with any religion that does not threaten eternal punishment to very good people, and that does not promise eternal reward to very bad people. if orthodox christianity is true, some of the best people i know are going to hell, and some of the meanest i have ever known are either in heaven or on the road. of course, i admit that there are thousands and millions of good christians--honest and noble people, but in my judgment, mr. beecher is the greatest man in the world who now occupies a pulpit. * * * * * speaking of a man's living in delaware, a young man, some time ago, came up to me on the street, in an eastern city and asked for money. "what is your business," i asked. "i am a waiter by profession." "where do you come from?" "delaware." "well, what was the matter --did you drink, or cheat your employer, or were you idle?" "no." "what was the trouble?" "well, the truth is, the state is so small they don't need any waiters; they all reach for what they want." _question_. do you not think there are some dangerous tendencies in liberalism? _answer_. i will first state this proposition: the credit system in morals, as in business, breeds extravagance. the cash system in morals, as well as in business, breeds economy. we will suppose a community in which everybody is bound to sell on credit, and in which every creditor can take the benefit of the bankrupt law every saturday night, and the constable pays the costs. in my judgment that community would be extravagant as long as the merchants lasted. we will take another community in which everybody has to pay cash, and in my judgment that community will be a very economical one. now, then, let us apply this to morals. christianity allows everybody to sin on a credit, and allows a man who has lived, we will say sixty-nine years, what christians are pleased to call a worldly life, an immoral life. they allow him on his death-bed, between the last dose of medicine and the last breath, to be converted, and that man who has done nothing except evil, becomes an angel. here is another man who has lived the same length of time, doing all the good he possibly could do, but not meeting with what they are pleased to call "a change of heart;" he goes to a world of pain. now, my doctrine is that everybody must reap exactly what he sows, other things being equal. if he acts badly he will not be very happy; if he acts well he will not be very sad. i believe in the doctrine of consequences, and that every man must stand the consequences of his own acts. it seems to me that that fact will have a greater restraining influence than the idea that you can, just before you leave this world, shift your burden on to somebody else. i am a believer in the restraining influences of liberty, because responsibility goes hand in hand with freedom. i do not believe that the gallows is the last step between earth and heaven. i do not believe in the conversion and salvation of murderers while their innocent victims are in hell. the church has taught so long that he who acts virtuously carries a cross, and that only sinners enjoy themselves, that it may be that for a little while after men leave the church they may go to extremes until they demonstrate for themselves that the path of vice is the path of thorns, and that only along the wayside of virtue grow the flowers of joy. the church has depicted virtue as a sour, wrinkled termagant; an old woman with nothing but skin and bones, and a temper beyond description; and at the same time vice has been painted in all the voluptuous outlines of a greek statue. the truth is exactly the other way. a thing is right because it pays; a thing is wrong because it does not; and when i use the word "pays," i mean in the highest and noblest sense. --_the daily news_, denver, colorado, january , . free trade and christianity. _question_. who will be the republican nominee for president? _answer_. the correct answer to this question would make so many men unhappy that i have concluded not to give it. _question_. has not the democracy injured itself irretrievably by permitting the free trade element to rule it? _answer_. i do not think that the democratic party weakened itself by electing carlisle, speaker. i think him an excellent man, an exceedingly candid man, and one who will do what he believes ought to be done. i have a very high opinion of mr. carlisle. i do not suppose any party in this country is really for free trade. i find that all writers upon the subject, no matter which side they are on, are on that side with certain exceptions. adam smith was in favor of free trade, with a few exceptions, and those exceptions were in matters where he thought it was for england's interest not to have free trade. the same may be said of all writers. so far as i can see, the free traders have all the arguments and the protectionists all the facts. the free trade theories are splendid, but they will not work; the results are disastrous. we find by actual experiment that it is better to protect home industries. it was once said that protection created nothing but monopoly; the argument was that way, but the facts are not. take, for instance, steel rails; when we bought them of england we paid one hundred and twenty-five dollars a ton. i believe there was a tariff of twenty-eight or twenty-nine dollars a ton, and yet in spite of all the arguments going to show that protection would simply increase prices in america, would simply enrich the capitalists and impoverish the consumer, steel rails are now produced, i believe, right here in colorado for forty-two dollars a ton. after all, it is a question of labor; a question of prices that shall be paid the laboring man; a question of what the laboring man shall eat; whether he shall eat meat or soup made from the bones. very few people take into consideration the value of raw material and the value of labor. take, for instance, your ton of steel rails worth forty-two dollars. the iron in the earth is not worth twenty-five cents. the coal in the earth and the lime in the ledge together are not worth twenty-five cents. now, then, of the forty-two dollars, forty-one and a half is labor. there is not two dollars' worth of raw material in a locomotive worth fifteen thousand dollars. by raw material i mean the material in the earth. there is not in the works of a watch which will sell for fifteen dollars, raw material of the value of one-half cent. all the rest is labor. a ship, a man-of-war that costs one million dollars-- the raw material in the earth is not worth, in my judgment, one thousand dollars. all the rest is labor. if there is any way to protect american labor, i am in favor of it. if the present tariff does not do it, then i am in favor of changing to one that will. if the democratic party takes a stand for free trade or anything like it, they will need protection; they will need protection at the polls; that is to say, they will meet only with defeat and disaster. _question_. what should be done with the surplus revenue? _answer_. my answer to that is, reduce internal revenue taxation until the present surplus is exhausted, and then endeavor so to arrange your tariff that you will not produce more than you need. i think the easiest question to grapple with on this earth is a surplus of money. i do not believe in distributing it among the states. i do not think there could be a better certificate of the prosperity of our country than the fact that we are troubled with a surplus revenue; that we have the machinery for collecting taxes in such perfect order, so ingeniously contrived, that it cannot be stopped; that it goes right on collecting money, whether we want it or not; and the wonderful thing about it is that nobody complains. if nothing else can be done with the surplus revenue, probably we had better pay some of our debts. i would suggest, as a last resort, to pay a few honest claims. _question_. are you getting nearer to or farther away from god, christianity and the bible? _answer_. in the first place, as mr. locke so often remarked, we will define our terms. if by the word "god" is meant a person, a being, who existed before the creation of the universe, and who controls all that is, except himself, i do not believe in such a being; but if by the word god is meant all that is, that is to say, the universe, including every atom and every star, then i am a believer. i suppose the word that would nearest describe me is "pantheist." i cannot believe that a being existed from eternity, and who finally created this universe after having wasted an eternity in idleness; but upon this subject i know just as little as anybody ever did or ever will, and, in my judgment, just as much. my intellectual horizon is somewhat limited, and, to tell you the truth, this is the only world that i was ever in. i am what might be called a representative of a rural district, and, as a matter of fact, i know very little about the district. i believe it was confucius who said: "how should i know anything about another world when i know so little of this?" the greatest intellects of the world have endeavored to find words to express their conception of god, of the first cause, or of the science of being, but they have never succeeded. i find in the old confession of faith, in the old catechism, for instance, this description: that god is a being without body, parts or passions. i think it would trouble anybody to find a better definition of nothing. that describes a vacuum, that is to say, that describes the absence of everything. i find that theology is a subject that only the most ignorant are certain about, and that the more a man thinks, the less he knows. from the bible god, i do not know that i am going farther and farther away. i have been about as far as a man could get for many years. i do not believe in the god of the old testament. now, as to the next branch of your question, christianity. the question arises, what is christianity? i have no objection to the morality taught as a part of christianity, no objection to its charity, its forgiveness, its kindness; no objection to its hope for this world and another, not the slightest, but all these things do not make christianity. mohammed taught certain doctrines that are good, but the good in the teachings of mohammed is not mohammedism. when i speak of christianity i speak of that which is distinctly christian. for instance, the idea that the infinite god was born in palestine, learned the carpenter's trade, disputed with the parsons of his time, excited the wrath of the theological bigots, and was finally crucified; that afterward he was raised from the dead, and that if anybody believes this he will be saved and if he fails to believe it, he will be lost; in other words, that which is distinctly christian in the christian system, is its supernaturalism, its miracles, its absurdity. truth does not need to go into partnership with the supernatural. what christ said is worth the reason it contains. if a man raises the dead and then says twice two are five, that changes no rule in mathematics. if a multiplication table was divinely inspired, that does no good. the question is, is it correct? so i think that in the world of morals, we must prove that a thing is right or wrong by experience, by analogy, not by miracles. there is no fact in physical science that can be supernaturally demonstrated. neither is there any fact in the moral world that could be substantiated by miracles. now, then, keeping in mind that by christianity i mean the supernatural in that system, of course i am just as far away from it as i can get. for the man christ i have respect. he was an infidel in his day, and the ministers of his day cried out blasphemy, as they have been crying ever since, against every person who has suggested a new thought or shown the worthlessness of an old one. now, as to the third part of the question, the bible. people say that the bible is inspired. well, what does inspiration mean? did god write it? no; but the men who did write it were guided by the holy spirit. very well. did they write exactly what the holy spirit wanted them to write? well, religious people say, yes. at the same time they admit that the gentlemen who were collecting, or taking down in shorthand what was said, had to use their own words. now, we all know that the same words do not have the same meaning to all people. it is impossible to convey the same thoughts to all minds by the same language, and it is for that reason that the bible has produced so many sects, not only disagreeing with each other, but disagreeing among themselves. we find, then, that it is utterly impossible for god (admitting that there is one) to convey the same thoughts in human language to all people. no two persons understand the same language alike. a man's understanding depends upon his experience, upon his capacity, upon the particular bent of his mind--in fact, upon the countless influences that have made him what he is. everything in nature tells everyone who sees it a story, but that story depends upon the capacity of the one to whom it is told. the sea says one thing to the ordinary man, and another thing to shakespeare. the stars have not the same language for all people. the consequence is that no book can tell the same story to any two persons. the jewish scriptures are like other books, written by different men in different ages of the world, hundreds of years apart, filled with contradictions. they embody, i presume, fairly enough, the wisdom and ignorance, the reason and prejudice, of the times in which they were written. they are worth the good that is in them, and the question is whether we will take the good and throw the bad away. there are good laws and bad laws. there are wise and foolish sayings. there are gentle and cruel passages, and you can find a text to suit almost any frame of mind; whether you wish to do an act of charity or murder a neighbor's babe, you will find a passage that will exactly fit the case. so that i can say that i am still for the reasonable, for the natural; and am still opposed to the absurd and supernatural. _question_. is there any better or more ennobling belief than christianity; if so, what is it? _answer_. there are many good things, of course, in every religion, or they would not have existed; plenty of good precepts in christianity, but the thing that i object to more than all others is the doctrine of eternal punishment, the idea of hell for many and heaven for the few. take from christianity the doctrine of eternal punishment and i have no particular objection to what is generally preached. if you will take that away, and all the supernatural connected with it, i have no objection; but that doctrine of eternal punishment tends to harden the human heart. it has produced more misery than all the other doctrines in the world. it has shed more blood; it has made more martyrs. it has lighted the fires of persecution and kept the sword of cruelty wet with heroic blood for at least a thousand years. there is no crime that that doctrine has not produced. i think it would be impossible for the imagination to conceive of a worse religion than orthodox christianity--utterly impossible; a doctrine that divides this world, a doctrine that divides families, a doctrine that teaches the son that he can be happy, with his mother in perdition; the husband that he can be happy in heaven while his wife suffers the agonies of hell. this doctrine is infinite injustice, and tends to subvert all ideas of justice in the human heart. i think it would be impossible to conceive of a doctrine better calculated to make wild beasts of men than that; in fact, that doctrine was born of all the wild beast there is in man. it was born of infinite revenge. think of preaching that you must believe that a certain being was the son of god, no matter whether your reason is convinced or not. suppose one should meet, we will say on london bridge, a man clad in rags, and he should stop us and say, "my friend, i wish to talk with you a moment. i am the rightful king of great britain," and you should say to him, "well, my dinner is waiting; i have no time to bother about who the king of england is," and then he should meet another and insist on his stopping while the pulled out some papers to show that he was the rightful king of england, and the other man should say, "i have got business here, my friend; i am selling goods, and i have no time to bother my head about who the king of england is. no doubt you are the king of england, but you don't look like him." and then suppose he stops another man, and makes the same statement to him, and the other man should laugh at him and say, "i don't want to hear anything on this subject; you are crazy; you ought to go to some insane asylum, or put something on your head to keep you cool." and suppose, after all, it should turn out that the man was king of england, and should afterward make his claim good and be crowned in westminster. what would we think of that king if he should hunt up the gentlemen that he met on london bridge, and have their heads cut off because they had no faith that he was the rightful heir? and what would we think of a god now who would damn a man eighteen hundred years after the event, because he did not believe that he was god at the time he was living in jerusalem; not only damn the fellows that he met and who did not believe him, but gentlemen who lived eighteen hundred years afterward, and who certainly could have known nothing of the facts except from hearsay? the best religion, after all, is common sense; a religion for this world, one world at a time, a religion for to-day. we want a religion that will deal in questions in which we are interested. how are we to do away with crime? how are we to do away with pauperism? how are we to do away with want and misery in every civilized country? england is a christian nation, and yet about one in six in the city of london dies in almshouses, asylums, prisons, hospitals and jails. we, i suppose, are a civilized nation, and yet all the penitentiaries are crammed; there is want on every hand, and my opinion is that we had better turn our attention to this world. christianity is charitable; christianity spends a great deal of money; but i am somewhat doubtful as to the good that is accomplished. there ought to be some way to prevent crime; not simply to punish it. there ought to be some way to prevent pauperism, not simply to relieve temporarily a pauper, and if the ministers and good people belonging to the churches would spend their time investigating the affairs of this world and let the new jerusalem take care of itself, i think it would be far better. the church is guilty of one great contradiction. the ministers are always talking about worldly people, and yet, were it not for worldly people, who would pay the salary? how could the church live a minute unless somebody attended to the affairs of this world? the best religion, in my judgment, is common sense going along hand in hand with kindness, and not troubling ourselves about another world until we get there. i am willing for one, to wait and see what kind of a country it will be. _question_. does the question of the inspiration of scriptures affect the beauty and benefits of christianity here and hereafter? _answer_. a belief in the inspiration of the scriptures has done, in my judgment, great harm. the bible has been the breastwork for nearly everything wrong. the defenders of slavery relied on the bible. the bible was the real auction block on which every negro stood when he was sold. i never knew a minister to preach in favor of slavery that did not take his text from the bible. the bible teaches persecution for opinion's sake. the bible--that is the old testament--upholds polygamy, and just to the extent that men, through the bible, have believed that slavery, religious persecution, wars of extermination and polygamy were taught by god, just to that extent the bible has done great harm. the idea of inspiration enslaves the human mind and debauches the human heart. _question_. is not christianity and the belief in god a check upon mankind in general and thus a good thing in itself? _answer_. this, again, brings up the question of what you mean by christianity, but taking it for granted that you mean by christianity the church, then i answer, when the church had almost absolute authority, then the world was the worst. now, as to the other part of the question, "is not a belief in god a check upon mankind in general?" that is owing to what kind of god the man believes in. when mankind believed in the god of the old testament, i think that belief was a bad thing; the tendency was bad. i think that john calvin patterned after jehovah as nearly as his health and strength would permit. man makes god in his own image, and bad men are not apt to have a very good god if they make him. i believe it is far better to have a real belief in goodness, in kindness, in honesty and in mankind than in any supernatural being whatever. i do not suppose it would do any harm for a man to believe in a real good god, a god without revenge, a god that was not very particular in having a man believe a doctrine whether he could understand it or not. i do not believe that a belief of that kind would do any particular harm. there is a vast difference between the god of john calvin and the god of henry ward beecher, and a great difference between the god of cardinal pedro gonzales de mendoza and the god of theodore parker. _question_. well, colonel, is the world growing better or worse? _answer_. i think better in some respects and worse in others; but on the whole, better. i think that while events, like the pendulum of a clock, go backward and forward, man, like the hands, goes forward. i think there is more reason and less religion, more charity and less creed. i think the church is improving. ministers are ashamed to preach the old doctrines with the old fervor. there was a time when the pulpit controlled the pews. it is so no longer. the pews know what they want, and if the minister does not furnish it they discharge him and employ another. he is no longer an autocrat; he must bring to the market what his customers are willing to buy. _question_. what are you going to do to be saved? _answer_. well, i think i am safe, anyway. i suppose i have a right to rely on what matthew says, that if i will forgive others god will forgive me. i suppose if there is another world i shall be treated very much as i treat others. i never expect to find perfect bliss anywhere; maybe i should tire of it if i should. what i have endeavored to do has been to put out the fires of an ignorant and cruel hell; to do what i could to destroy that dogma; to destroy the doctrine that makes the cradle as terrible as the coffin. --_the denver republican_, denver, colorado, january , . the oath question. _question_. i suppose that your attention has been called to the excitement in england over the oath question, and you have probably wondered that so much should have been made of so little? _answer_. yes; i have read a few articles upon the subject, including one by cardinal newman. it is wonderful that so many people imagine that there is something miraculous in the oath. they seem to regard it as a kind of verbal fetich, a charm, an "open sesame" to be pronounced at the door of truth, a spell, a kind of moral thumbscrew, by means of which falsehood itself is compelled to turn informer. the oath has outlived its brother, "the wager of battle." both were born of the idea that god would interfere for the right and for the truth. trial by fire and by water had the same origin. it was once believed that the man in the wrong could not kill the man in the right; but, experience having shown that he usually did, the belief gradually fell into disrepute. so it was once thought that a perjurer could not swallow a piece of sacramental bread; but, the fear that made the swallowing difficult having passed away, the appeal to the corsned was abolished. it was found that a brazen or a desperate man could eat himself out of the greatest difficulty with perfect ease, satisfying the law and his own hunger at the same time. the oath is a relic of barbarous theology, of the belief that a personal god interferes in the affairs of men; that some god protects innocence and guards the right. the experience of the world has sadly demonstrated the folly of that belief. the testimony of a witness ought to be believed, not because it is given under the solemnities of an oath, but because it is reasonable. if unreasonable it ought to be thrown aside. the question ought not to be, "has this been sworn to?" but, "is this true?" the moment evidence is tested by the standard of reason, the oath becomes a useless ceremony. let the man who gives false evidence be punished as the lawmaking power may prescribe. he should be punished because he commits a crime against society, and he should be punished in this world. all honest men will tell the truth if they can; therefore, oaths will have no effect upon them. dishonest men will not tell the truth unless the truth happens to suit their purpose; therefore, oaths will have no effect upon them. we punish them, not for swearing to a lie, but for telling it, and we can make the punishment for telling the falsehood just as severe as we wish. if they are to be punished in another world, the probability is that the punishment there will be for having told the falsehood here. after all, a lie is made no worse by an oath, and the truth is made no better. _question_. you object then to the oath. is your objection based on any religious grounds, or on any prejudice against the ceremony because of its religious origin; or what is your objection? _answer_. i care nothing about the origin of the ceremony. the objection to the oath is this: it furnishes a falsehood with a letter of credit. it supplies the wolf with sheep's clothing and covers the hands of jacob with hair. it blows out the light, and in the darkness leah is taken for rachel. it puts upon each witness a kind of theological gown. this gown hides the moral rags of the depraved wretch as well as the virtues of the honest man. the oath is a mask that falsehood puts on, and for a moment is mistaken for truth. it gives to dishonesty the advantage of solemnity. the tendency of the oath is to put all testimony on an equality. the obscure rascal and the man of sterling character both "swear," and jurors who attribute a miraculous quality to the oath, forget the real difference in the men, and give about the same weight to the evidence of each, because both were "sworn." a scoundrel is delighted with the opportunity of going through a ceremony that gives importance and dignity to his story, that clothes him for the moment with respectability, loans him the appearance of conscience, and gives the ring of true coin to the base metal. to him the oath is a shield. he is in partnership, for a moment, with god, and people who have no confidence in the witness credit the firm. _question_. of course you know the religionists insist that people are more likely to tell the truth when "sworn," and that to take away the oath is to destroy the foundation of testimony? _answer_. if the use of the oath is defended on the ground that religious people need a stimulus to tell the truth, then i am compelled to say that religious people have been so badly educated that they mistake the nature of the crime. they should be taught that to defeat justice by falsehood is the real offence. besides, fear is not the natural foundation of virtue. even with religious people fear cannot always last. ananias and sapphira have been dead so long, and since their time so many people have sworn falsely without affecting their health that the fear of sudden divine vengeance no longer pales the cheek of the perjurer. if the vengeance is not sudden, then, according to the church, the criminal will have plenty of time to repent; so that the oath no longer affects even the fearful. would it not be better for the church to teach that telling the falsehood is the real crime, and that taking the oath neither adds to nor takes from its enormity? would it not be better to teach that he who does wrong must suffer the consequences, whether god forgives him or not? he who tries to injure another may or may not succeed, but he cannot by any possibility fail to injure himself. men should be taught that there is no difference between truth-telling and truth-swearing. nothing is more vicious than the idea that any ceremony or form of words--hand-lifting or book-kissing--can add, even in the slightest degree, to the perpetual obligation every human being is under to speak the truth. the truth, plainly told, naturally commends itself to the intelligent. every fact is a genuine link in the infinite chain, and will agree perfectly with every other fact. a fact asks to be inspected, asks to be understood. it needs no oath, no ceremony, no supernatural aid. it is independent of all the gods. a falsehood goes in partnership with theology, and depends on the partner for success. to show how little influence for good has been attributed to the oath, it is only necessary to say that for centuries, in the christian world, no person was allowed to testify who had the slightest pecuniary interest in the result of a suit. the expectation of a farthing in this world was supposed to outweigh the fear of god's wrath in the next. all the pangs, pains, and penalties of perdition were considered as nothing when compared with pounds, shillings and pence in this world. _question_. you know that in nearly all deliberative bodies--in parliaments and congresses--an oath or an affirmation is required to support what is called the constitution; and that all officers are required to swear or affirm that they will discharge their duties; do these oaths and affirmations, in your judgment, do any good? _answer_. men have sought to make nations and institutions immortal by oaths. subjects have sworn to obey kings, and kings have sworn to protect subjects, and yet the subjects have sometimes beheaded a king; and the king has often plundered the subjects. the oaths enabled them to deceive each other. every absurdity in religion, and all tyrannical institutions, have been patched, buttressed, and reinforced by oaths; and yet the history of the world shows the utter futility of putting in the coffin of an oath the political and religious aspirations of the race. revolutions and reformations care little for "so help me god." oaths have riveted shackles and sanctified abuses. people swear to support a constitution, and they will keep the oath as long as the constitution supports them. in the colonists cared nothing for the fact that they had sworn to support the british crown. all the oaths to defend the constitution of the united states did not prevent the civil war. we have at last learned that states may be kept together for a little time, by force; permanently only by mutual interests. we have found that the delilah of superstition cannot bind with oaths the secular samson. why should a member of parliament or of congress swear to maintain the constitution? if he is a dishonest man, the oath will have no effect; if he is an honest patriot, it will have no effect. in both cases it is equally useless. if a member fails to support the constitution the probability is that his constituents will treat him as he does the constitution. in this country, after all the members of congress have sworn or affirmed to defend the constitution, each political party charges the other with a deliberate endeavor to destroy that "sacred instrument." possibly the political oath was invented to prevent the free and natural development of a nation. kings and nobles and priests wished to retain the property they had filched and clutched, and for that purpose they compelled the real owners to swear that they would support and defend the law under color of which the theft and robbery had been accomplished. so, in the church, creeds have been protected by oaths. priests and laymen solemnly swore that they would, under no circumstances, resort to reason; that they would overcome facts by faith, and strike down demonstrations with the "sword of the spirit." professors of the theological seminary at andover, massachusetts, swear to defend certain dogmas and to attack others. they swear sacredly to keep and guard the ignorance they have. with them, philosophy leads to perjury, and reason is the road to crime. while theological professors are not likely to make an intellectual discovery, still it is unwise, by taking an oath, to render that certain which is only improbable. if all witnesses sworn to tell the truth, did so, if all members of parliament and of congress, in taking the oath, became intelligent, patriotic, and honest, i should be in favor of retaining the ceremony; but we find that men who have taken the same oath advocate opposite ideas, and entertain different opinions, as to the meaning of constitutions and laws. the oath adds nothing to their intelligence; does not even tend to increase their patriotism, and certainly does not make the dishonest honest. _question_. are not persons allowed to testify in the united states whether they believe in future rewards and punishments or not? _answer_. in this country, in most of the states, witnesses are allowed to testify whether they believe in perdition and paradise or not. in some states they are allowed to testify even if they deny the existence of god. we have found that religious belief does not compel people to tell the truth, and than an utter denial of every christian creed does not even tend to make them dishonest. you see, a religious belief does not affect the senses. justice should not shut any door that leads to truth. no one will pretend that, because you do not believe in hell, your sight is impaired, or your hearing dulled, or your memory rendered less retentive. a witness in a court is called upon to tell what he has seen, what he has heard, what he remembers, not what he believes about gods and devils and hells and heavens. a witness substantiates not a faith, but a fact. in order to ascertain whether a witness will tell the truth, you might with equal propriety examine him as to his ideas about music, painting or architecture, as theology. a man may have no ear for music, and yet remember what he hears. he may care nothing about painting, and yet is able to tell what he sees. so he may deny every creed, and yet be able to tell the facts as he remembers them. thomas jefferson was wise enough so to frame the constitution of virginia that no person could be deprived of any civil right on account of his religious or irreligious belief. through the influence of men like paine, franklin and jefferson, it was provided in the federal constitution that officers elected under its authority could swear or affirm. this was the natural result of the separation of church and state. _question_. i see that your presidents and governors issue their proclamations calling on the people to assemble in their churches and offer thanks to god. how does this happen in a government where church and state are not united? _answer_. jefferson, when president, refused to issue what is known as the "thanksgiving proclamation," on the ground that the federal government had no right to interfere in religious matters; that the people owed no religious duties to the government; that the government derived its powers, not from priests or gods, but from the people, and was responsible alone to the source of its power. the truth is, the framers of our constitution intended that the government should be secular in the broadest and best sense; and yet there are thousands and thousands of religious people in this country who are greatly scandalized because there is no recognition of god in the federal constitution; and for several years a great many ministers have been endeavoring to have the constitution amended so as to recognize the existence of god and the divinity of christ. a man by the name of pollock was once superintendent of the mint of philadelphia. he was almost insane about having god in the constitution. failing in that, he got the inscription on our money, "in god we trust." as our silver dollar is now, in fact, worth only eighty-five cents, it is claimed that the inscription means that we trust in god for the other fifteen cents. there is a constant effort on the part of many christians to have their religion in some way recognized by law. proclamations are now issued calling upon the people to give thanks, and directing attention to the fact that, while god has scourged or neglected other nations, he has been remarkably attentive to the wants and wishes of the united states. governors of states issue these documents written in a tone of pious insincerity. the year may or may not have been prosperous, yet the degree of thankfulness called for is always precisely the same. a few years ago the governor of iowa issued an exceedingly rhetorical proclamation, in which the people were requested to thank god for the unparalleled blessings he had showered upon them. a private citizen, fearing that the lord might be misled by official correspondence, issued his proclamation, in which he recounted with great particularity the hardships of the preceding year. he insisted that the weather had been of the poorest quality; that the spring came late, and the frost early; that the people were in debt; that the farms were mortgaged; that the merchants were bankrupt; and that everything was in the worst possible condition. he concluded by sincerely hoping that the lord would pay no attention to the proclamation of the governor, but would, if he had any doubt on the subject, come down and examine the state for himself. these proclamations have always appeared to me absurdly egotistical. why should god treat us any better than he does the rest of his children? why should he send pestilence and famine to china, and health and plenty to us? why give us corn, and egypt cholera? all these proclamations grow out of egotism and selfishness, of ignorance and superstition, and are based upon the idea that god is a capricious monster; that he loves flattery; that he can be coaxed and cajoled. the conclusion of the whole matter with me is this: for truth in courts we must depend upon the trained intelligence of judges, the right of cross-examination, the honesty and common sense of jurors, and upon an enlightened public opinion. as for members of congress, we will trust to the wisdom and patriotism, not only of the members, but of their constituents. in religion we will give to all the luxury of absolute liberty. the alchemist did not succeed in finding any stone the touch of which transmuted baser things to gold; and priests have not invented yet an oath with power to force from falsehood's desperate lips the pearl of truth. --_secular review_, london, england, . wendell phillips, fitz john porter and bismarck. _question_. are you seeking to quit public lecturing on religious questions? _answer_. as long as i live i expect now and then to say my say against the religious bigotry and cruelty of the world. as long as the smallest coal is red in hell i am going to keep on. i never had the slightest idea of retiring. i expect the church to do the retiring. _question_. what do you think of wendell phillips as an orator? _answer_. he was a very great orator--one of the greatest that the world has produced. he rendered immense service in the cause of freedom. he was in the old days the thunderbolt that pierced the shield of the constitution. one of the bravest soldiers that ever fought for human rights was wendell phillips. _question_. what do you think of the action of congress on fitz john porter? _answer_. i think congress did right. i think they should have taken this action long before. there was a question of his guilt, and he should have been given the benefit of a doubt. they say he could have defeated longstreet. there are some people, you know, who would have it that an army could be whipped by a good general with six mules and a blunderbuss. but we do not regard those people. they know no more about it than a lady who talked to me about porter's case. she argued the question of porter's guilt for half an hour. i showed her where she was all wrong. when she found she was beaten she took refuge with "oh, well, anyhow he had no genius." well, if every man is to be shot who has no genius, i want to go into the coffin business. _question_. what, in your judgment, is necessary to be done to insure republican success this fall? _answer_. it is only necessary for the republican party to stand by its principles. we must be in favor of protecting american labor not only, but of protecting american capital, and we must be in favor of civil rights, and must advocate the doctrine that the federal government must protect all citizens. i am in favor of a tariff, not simply to raise a revenue--that i regard as incidental. the democrats regard protection as incidental. the two principles should be, protection to american industry and protection to american citizens. so that, after all, there is but one issue--protection. as a matter of fact, that is all a government is for--to protect. the republican party is stronger to-day than it was four years ago. the republican party stands for the progressive ideas of the american people. it has been said that the administration will control the southern delegates. i do not believe it. this administration has not been friendly to the southern republicans, and my opinion is there will be as much division in the southern as in the northern states. i believe blaine will be a candidate, and i do not believe the prohibitionists will put a ticket in the field, because they have no hope of success. _question_. what do you think generally of the revival of the bloody shirt? do you think the investigations of the republicans of the danville and copiah massacres will benefit them? _answer_. well, i am in favor of the revival of that question just as often as a citizen of the republic is murdered on account of his politics. if the south is sick of that question, let it stop persecuting men because they are republicans. i do not believe, however, in simply investigating the question and then stopping after the guilty ones are found. i believe in indicting them, trying them, and convicting them. if the government can do nothing except investigate, we might as well stop, and admit that we have no government. thousands of people think that it is almost vulgar to take the part of the poor colored people in the south. what part should you take if not that of the weak? the strong do not need you. and i can tell the southern people now, that as long as they persecute for opinion's sake they will never touch the reins of political power in this country. _question_. how do you regard the action of bismarck in returning the lasker resolutions? was it the result of his hatred of the jews? _answer_. bismarck opposed a bill to do away with the disabilities of the jews on the ground that prussia is a christian nation, founded for the purpose of spreading the gospel of jesus christ. i presume that it was his hatred of the jews that caused him to return the resolutions. bismarck should have lived several centuries ago. he belongs to the dark ages. he is a believer in the sword and the bayonet--in brute force. he was loved by germany simply because he humiliated france. germany gave her liberty for revenge. it is only necessary to compare bismarck with gambetta to see what a failure he really is. germany was victorious and took from france the earnings of centuries; and yet germany is to-day the least prosperous nation in europe. france was prostrate, trampled into the earth, robbed, and yet, guided by gambetta, is to-day the most prosperous nation in europe. this shows the difference between brute force and brain. --_the times_, chicago, illinois, february , . general subjects. _question_. do you enjoy lecturing? _answer_. of course i enjoy lecturing. it is a great pleasure to drive the fiend of fear out of the hearts of men women and children. it is a positive joy to put out the fires of hell. _question_. where do you meet with the bitterest opposition? _answer_. i meet with the bitterest opposition where the people are the most ignorant, where there is the least thought, where there are the fewest books. the old theology is becoming laughable. very few ministers have the impudence to preach in the old way. they give new meanings to old words. they subscribe to the same creed, but preach exactly the other way. the clergy are ashamed to admit that they are orthodox, and they ought to be. _question_. do liberal books, such as the works of paine and infidel scientists sell well? _answer_. yes, they are about the only books on serious subjects that do sell well. the works of darwin, buckle, draper, haeckel, tyndall, humboldt and hundreds of others, are read by intelligent people the world over. works of a religious character die on the shelves. the people want facts. they want to know about the world, about all forms of life. they want the mysteries of every day solved. they want honest thoughts about sensible questions. they are tired of the follies of faith and the falsehoods of superstition. they want a heaven here. in a few years the old theological books will be sold to make paper on which to print the discoveries of science. _question_. in what section of the country do you find the most liberality? _answer_. i find great freedom of thought in boston, new york, chicago, san francisco, in fact, all over what we call the north. the west of course is liberal. the truth is that all the intelligent part of the country is liberal. the railroad, the telegraph, the daily paper, electric light, the telephone, and freedom of thought belong together. _question_. is it true that you were once threatened with a criminal prosecution for libel on religion? _answer_. yes, in delaware. chief justice comegys instructed the grand jury to indict me for blasphemy. i have taken by revenge on the state by leaving it in ignorance. delaware is several centuries behind the times. it is as bigoted as it is small. compare kansas city with wilmington and you will see the difference between liberalism and orthodoxy. _question_. this is washington's birthday. what do you think of general washington? _answer_. i suppose that washington was what was called religious. he was not very strict in his conduct. he tried to have church and state united in virginia and was defeated by jefferson. it should make no difference with us whether washington was religious or not. jefferson was by far the greater man. in intellect there was no comparison between washington and franklin. i do not prove the correctness of my ideas by names of dead people. i depend upon reason instead of gravestones. one fact is worth a cemetery full of distinguished corpses. we ask not for the belief of somebody, but for evidence, for facts. the church is a beggar at the door of respectability. the moment a man becomes famous, the church asks him for a certificate that the bible is true. it passes its hat before generals and presidents, and kings while they are alive. it says nothing about thinkers and real philosophers while they live, except to slander them, but the moment they are dead it seeks among their words for a crumb of comfort. _question_. will liberalism ever organize in america? _answer_. i hope not. organization means creed, and creed means petrifaction and tyranny. i believe in individuality. i will not join any society except an anti-society society. _question_. do you consider the religion of bhagavat purana of the east as good as the christian? _answer_. it is far more poetic. it has greater variety and shows vastly more thought. like the hebrew, it is poisoned with superstition, but it has more beauty. nothing can be more barren than the theology of the jews and christians. one lonely god, a heaven filled with thoughtless angels, a hell with unfortunate souls. nothing can be more desolate. the greek mythology is infinitely better. _question_. do you think that the marriage institution is held in less respect by infidels than by christians? _answer_. no; there was never a time when marriage was more believed in than now. never were wives treated better and loved more; never were children happier than now. it is the ambition of the average american to have a good and happy home. the fireside was never more popular than now. _question_. what do you think of beecher? _answer_. he is a great man, but the habit of his mind and the bent of his early education oppose his heart. he is growing and has been growing every day for many years. he has given up the idea of eternal punishment, and that of necessity destroys it all. the christian religion is founded upon hell. when the foundation crumbles the fabric falls. beecher was to have answered my article in the _north american review_, but when it appeared and he saw it, he agreed with so much of it that he concluded that an answer would be useless. --_the times_, kansas city, missouri, february , . reply to kansas city clergy. _question_. will you take any notice of mr. magrath's challenge? _answer_. i do not think it worth while to discuss with mr. magrath. i do not say this in disparagement of his ability, as i do not know the gentleman. he may be one of the greatest of men. i think, however, that mr. magrath might better answer what i have already said. if he succeeds in that, then i will meet him in public discussion. of course he is an eminent theologian or he would not think of discussing these questions with anybody. i have never heard of him, but for all that he may be the most intelligent of men. _question_. how have the recently expressed opinions of our local clergy impressed you? _answer_. i suppose you refer to the preachers who have given their opinion of me. in the first place i am obliged to them for acting as my agents. i think mr. hogan has been imposed upon. tacitus is a poor witness--about like josephus. i say again that we have not a word about christ written by any human being who lived in the time of christ--not a solitary word, and mr. hogan ought to know it. the rev. mr. matthews is mistaken. if the bible proves anything, it proves that the world was made in six days and that adam and eve were built on saturday. the bible gives the age of adam when he died, and then gives the ages of others down to the flood, and then from that time at least to the return from the captivity. if the genealogy of the bible is true it is about six thousand years since adam was made, and the world is only five days older than adam. it is nonsense to say that the days were long periods of time. if that is so, away goes the idea of sunday. the only reason for keeping sunday given in the bible is that god made the world in six days and rested on the seventh. mr. mathews is not candid. he knows that he cannot answer the arguments i have urged against the bible. he knows that the ancient jews were barbarians, and that the old testament is a barbarous book. he knows that it upholds slavery and polygamy, and he probably feels ashamed of what he is compelled to preach. mr. jardine takes a very cheerful view of the subject. he expects the light to dawn on the unbelievers. he speaks as though he were the superior of all infidels. he claims to be a student of the evidences of christianity. there are no evidences, consequently mr. jardine is a student of nothing. it is amazing how dignified some people can get on a small capital. mr. haley has sense enough to tell the ministers not to attempt to answer me. that is good advice. the ministers had better keep still. it is the safer way. if they try to answer what i say, the "sheep" will see how foolish the "shepherds" are. the best way is for them to say, "that has been answered." mr. wells agrees with mr. haley. he, too, thinks that silence is the best weapon. i agree with him. let the clergy keep still; that is the best way. it is better to say nothing than to talk absurdity. i am delighted to think that at last the ministers have concluded that they had better not answer infidels. mr. woods is fearful only for the young. he is afraid that i will hurt the children. he thinks that the mother ought to stoop over the cradle and in the ears of the babe shout, hell! so he thinks in all probability that the same word ought to be repeated at the grave as a consolation to mourners. i am glad that mr. mann thinks that i am doing neither good nor harm. this gives me great hope. if i do no harm, certainly i ought not to be eternally damned. it is very consoling to have an orthodox minister solemnly assert that i am doing no harm. i wish i could say as much for him. the truth is, all these ministers have kept back their real thoughts. they do not tell their doubts--they know that orthodoxy is doomed --they know that the old doctrine excites laughter and scorn. they know that the fires of hell are dying out; that the bible is ceasing to be an authority; and that the pulpit is growing feebler and feebler every day. poor parsons! _question_. would the catholicism of general sherman's family affect his chances for the presidency? _answer_. i do not think the religion of the family should have any weight one way or the other. it would make no difference with me; although i hate catholicism with all my heart, i do not hate catholics. some people might be so prejudiced that they would not vote for a man whose wife belongs to the catholic church; but such people are too narrow to be consulted. general sherman says that he wants no office. in that he shows his good sense. he is a great man and a great soldier. he has won laurels enough for one brow. he has the respect and admiration of the nation, and does not need the presidency to finish his career. he wishes to enjoy the honors he has won and the rest he deserves. _question_. what is your opinion of matthew arnold? _answer_. he is a man of talent, well educated, a little fussy, somewhat sentimental, but he is not a genius. he is not creative. he is a critic--not an originator. he will not compare with emerson. --_the journal_, kansas city, missouri, february , . swearing and affirming. _question_. what is the difference in the parliamentary oath of this country which saves us from such a squabble as they have had in england over the bradlaugh case? _answer_. our constitution provides that a member of congress may swear or affirm. the consequence is that we can have no such controversy as they have had in england. the framers of our constitution wished forever to divorce church and state. they knew that it made no possible difference whether a man swore or affirmed, or whether he swore and affirmed to support the constitution. all the federal officers who went into the rebellion had sworn or affirmed to support the constitution. all that did no good. the entire oath business is a mistake. i think it would be a thousand times better to abolish all oaths in courts of justice. the oath allows a rascal to put on the garments of solemnity, the mask of piety, while he tells a lie. in other words, the oath allows the villain to give falsehood the appearance of truth. i think it would be far better to let each witness tell his story and leave his evidence to the intelligence of the jury and judge. the trouble about an oath is that its tendency is to put all witnesses on an equality; the jury says, "why, he swore to it." now, if the oath were abolished, the jury would judge all testimony according to the witness, and then the evidence of one man of good reputation would outweigh the lies of thousands of nobodies. it was at one time believed that there was something miraculous in the oath, that it was a kind of thumbscrew that would torture the truth out of a rascal, and at one time they believed that if a man swore falsely he might be struck by lightning or paralyzed. but so many people have sworn to lies without having their health impaired that the old superstition has very little weight with the average witness. i think it would be far better to let every man tell his story; let him be cross-examined, let the jury find out as much as they can of his character, of his standing among his neighbors--then weigh his testimony in the scale of reason. the oath is born of superstition, and everything born of superstition is bad. the oath gives the lie currency; it gives it for the moment the ring of true metal, and the ordinary average juror is imposed upon and justice in many instances defeated. nothing can be more absurd than the swearing of a man to support the constitution. let him do what he likes. if he does not support the constitution, the probability is that his constituents will refuse to support him. every man who swears to support the constitution swears to support it as he understands it, and no two understand it exactly alike. now, if the oath brightened a man's intellect or added to his information or increased his patriotism or gave him a little more honesty, it would be a good thing--but it doesn't. and as a consequence it is a very useless and absurd proceeding. nothing amuses me more in a court than to see one calf kissing the tanned skin of another. --_the courier_, buffalo, new york, may , . reply to a buffalo critic. _question_. what have you to say in reply to the letter in to- day's _times_ signed r. h. s.? _answer_. i find that i am accused of "four flagrant wrongs," and while i am not as yet suffering from the qualms of conscience, nor do i feel called upon to confess and be forgiven, yet i have something to say in self-defence. as to the first objection made by your correspondent, namely, that my doctrine deprives people of the hope that after this life is ended they will meet their fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers, long since passed away, in the land beyond the grave, and there enjoy their company forever, i have this to say: if christianity is true we are not quite certain of meeting our relatives and friends where we can enjoy their company forever. if christianity is true most of our friends will be in hell. the ones i love best and whose memory i cherish will certainly be among the lost. the trouble about christianity is that it is infinitely selfish. each man thinks that if he can save his own little, shriveled, microscopic soul, that is enough. no matter what becomes of the rest. christianity has no consolation for a generous man. i do not wish to go to heaven if the ones who have given me joy are to be lost. i would much rather go with them. the only thing that makes life endurable in this world is human love, and yet, according to christianity, that is the very thing we are not to have in the other world. we are to be so taken up with jesus and the angels, that we shall care nothing about our brothers and sisters that have been damned. we shall be so carried away with the music of the harp that we shall not even hear the wail of father or mother. such a religion is a disgrace to human nature. as to the second objection,--that society cannot be held together in peace and good order without hell and a belief in eternal torment, i would ask why an infinitely wise and good god should make people of so poor and mean a character that society cannot be held together without scaring them. is it possible that god has so made the world that the threat of eternal punishment is necessary for the preservation of society? the writer of the letter also says that it is necessary to believe that if a man commits murder here he is destined to be punished in hell for the offence. this is christianity. yet nearly every murderer goes directly from the gallows to god. nearly every murderer takes it upon himself to lecture the assembled multitude who have gathered to see him hanged, and invite them to meet him in heaven. when the rope is about his neck he feels the wings growing. that is the trouble with the christian doctrine. every murderer is told he may repent and go to heaven, and have the happiness of seeing his victim in hell. should heaven at any time become dull, the vein of pleasure can be re-thrilled by the sight of his victim wriggling on the gridiron of god's justice. really, christianity leads men to sin on credit. it sells rascality on time and tells all the devils they can have the benefit of the gospel bankrupt act. the next point in the letter is that i do not preach for the benefit of mankind, but for the money which is the price of blood. of course it makes no difference whether i preach for money or not. that is to say, it makes no difference to the preached. the arguments i advance are either good or bad. if they are bad they can easily be answered by argument. if they are not they cannot be answered by personalities or by ascribing to me selfish motives. it is not a personal matter. it is a matter of logic, of sense-- not a matter of slander, vituperation or hatred. the writer of the letter, r. h. s., may be an exceedingly good person, yet that will add no weight to his or her argument. he or she may be a very bad person, but that would not weaken the logic of the letter, if it had any logic to begin with. it is not for me to say what my motives are in what i do or say; it must be left to the judgment of mankind. i presume i am about as bad as most folks, and as good as some, but my goodness or badness has nothing to do with the question. i may have committed every crime in the world, yet that does not make the story of the flood reasonable, nor does it even tend to show that the three gentlemen in the furnace were not scorched. i may be the best man in the world, yet that does not go to prove that jonah was swallowed by the whale. let me say right here that if there is another world i believe that every soul who finds the way to that shore will have an everlasting opportunity to do right--of reforming. my objection to christianity is that it is infinitely cruel, infinitely selfish, and i might add infinitely absurd. i deprive no one of any hope unless you call the expectation of eternal pain a hope. _question_. have you read the rev. father lambert's "notes on ingersoll," and if so, what have you to say of them or in reply to them? _answer_. i have read a few pages or paragraphs of that pamphlet, and do not feel called upon to say anything. mr. lambert has the same right to publish his ideas that i have, and the readers must judge. people who believe his way will probably think that he has succeeded in answering me. after all, he must leave the public to decide. i have no anxiety about the decision. day by day the people are advancing, and in a little while the sacred superstitions of to-day will be cast aside with the foolish myths and fables of the pagan world. as a matter of fact there can be no argument in favor of the supernatural. suppose you should ask if i had read the work of that gentleman who says that twice two are five. i should answer you that no gentleman can prove that twice two are five; and yet this is exactly as easy as to prove the existence of the supernatural. there are no arguments in favor of the supernatural. there are theories and fears and mistakes and prejudices and guesses, but no arguments--plenty of faith, but no facts; plenty of divine revelation, but no demonstration. the supernatural, in my judgment, is a mistake. i believe in the natural. --_the times_, buffalo, new york, may , . blasphemy.* [* "if robert g. ingersoll indulges in blasphemy to-night in his lecture, as he has in other places and in this city before, he will be arrested before he leaves the city." so spoke rev. irwin h. torrence, general secretary of the pennsylvania bible society, yesterday afternoon to a _press_ reporter. "we have consulted counsel; the law is with us, and ingersoll has but to do what he has done before, to find himself in a cell. here is the act of march , : "'if any person shall willfully, premeditatedly and despitefully blaspheme or speak loosely and profanely of almighty god, christ jesus, the holy spirit, or the scriptures of truth, such person, on conviction thereof, shall be sentenced to pay a fine not exceeding one hundred dollars, and undergo an imprisonment not exceeding three months, or either, at the discretion of the court.'" last evening colonel ingersoll sat in the dining room at guy's hotel, just in from new york city. when told of the plans of mr. torrence and his friends, he laughed and said: ] i did not suppose that anybody was idiotic enough to want me arrested for blasphemy. it seems to me that an infinite being can take care of himself without the aid of any agent of a bible society. perhaps it is wrong for me to be here while the methodist conference is in session. of course no one who differs from the methodist ministers should ever visit philadelphia while they are here. i most humbly hope to be forgiven. _question_. what do you think of the law of ? _answer_. it is exceedingly foolish. surely, there is no need for the legislature of pennsylvania to protect an infinite god, and why should the bible be protected by law? the most ignorant priest can hold darwin up to orthodox scorn. this talk of the rev. mr. torrence shows that my lectures are needed; that religious people do not know what real liberty is. i presume that the law of is an old one re-enacted. it is a survival of ancient ignorance and bigotry, and no one in the legislature thought it worth while to fight it. it is the same as the law against swearing, both are dead letters and amount to nothing. they are not enforced and should not be. public opinion will regulate such matters. if all who take the name of god in vain were imprisoned there would not be room in the jails to hold the ministers. they speak of god in the most flippant and snap-your-fingers way that can be conceived of. they speak to him as though he were an intimate chum, and metaphorically slap him on the back in the most familiar way possible. _question_. have you ever had any similar experiences before? _answer_. oh, yes--threats have been made, but i never was arrested. when mr. torrence gets cool he will see that he has made a mistake. people in philadelphia have been in the habit of calling the citizens of boston bigots--but there is more real freedom of thought and expression in boston than in almost any other city of the world. i think that as i am to suffer in hell forever, mr. torrence ought to be satisfied and let me have a good time here. he can amuse himself through all eternity by seeing me in hell, and that ought to be enough to satisfy, not only an agent, but the whole bible society. i never expected any trouble in this state, and most sincerely hope that mr. torrence will not trouble me and make the city a laughing stock. philadelphia has no time to waste in such foolish things. let the bible take its chances with other books. let everybody feel that he has the right freely to express his opinions, provided he is decent and kind about it. certainly the christians now ought to treat infidels as well as penn did indians. nothing could be more perfectly idiotic than in this day and generation to prosecute any man for giving his conclusions upon any religious subject. mr. torrence would have had huxley and haeckel and tyndall arrested; would have had humboldt and john stuart mill and harriet martineau and george eliot locked up in the city jail. mr. torrence is a fossil from the old red sandstone of a mistake. let him rest. to hear these people talk you would suppose that god is some petty king, some liliputian prince, who was about to be dethroned, and who was nearly wild for recruits. _question_. but what would you do if they should make an attempt to arrest you? _answer_. nothing, except to defend myself in court. --_philadelphia press_, may , . politics and british columbia. _question_. i understand that there was some trouble in connection with your lecture in victoria, b. c. what are the facts? _answer_. the published accounts, as circulated by the associated press, were greatly exaggerated. the affair was simply this: the authorities endeavored to prevent the lecture. they refused the license, on the ground that the theatre was unsafe, although it was on the ground floor, had many exits and entrances, not counting the windows. the theatre was changed to meet the objections of the fire commissioner, and the authorities expressed their satisfaction and issued the license. afterward further objection was raised, and on the night of the lecture, when the building was about two- thirds full, the police appeared and said that the lecture would not be allowed to be delivered, because the house was unsafe. after a good deal of talk, the policeman in authority said that there should be another door, whereupon my friends, in a few minutes, made another door with an ax and a saw, the crowd was admitted and the lecture was delivered. the audience was well-behaved, intelligent and appreciative. beyond some talking in the hall, and the natural indignation of those who had purchased tickets and were refused admittance, there was no disturbance. i understand that those who opposed the lecture are now heartily ashamed of the course pursued. _question_. are you going to take any part in the campaign? _answer_. it is not my intention to make any political speeches. i have made a good many in the past, and, in my judgment, have done my part. i have no other interest in politics than every citizen should have. i want that party to triumph which, in my judgment, represents the best interests of the country. i have no doubt about the issue of the election. i believe that mr. blaine will be the next president. but there are plenty of talkers, and i really think that i have earned a vacation. _question_. what do you think cleveland's chances are in new york? _answer_. at this distance it is hard to say. the recent action of tammany complicates matters somewhat. but my opinion is that blaine will carry the state. i had a letter yesterday from that state, giving the opinion of a gentleman well informed, that blaine would carry new york by no less than fifty thousand majority. _question_. what figure will butler cut in the campaign? _answer_. i hardly think that butler will have many followers on the th of november. his forces will gradually go to one side or the other. it is only when some great principle is at stake that thousands of men are willing to vote with a known minority. _question_. but what about the prohibitionists? _answer_. they have a very large following. they are fighting for something they believe to be of almost infinite consequence, and i can readily understand how a prohibitionist is willing to be in the minority. it may be well enough for me to say here, that my course politically is not determined by my likes or dislikes of individuals. i want to be governed by principles, not persons. if i really thought that in this campaign a real principle was at stake, i should take part. the only great question now is protection, and i am satisfied that it is in no possible danger. _question_. not even in the case of a democratic victory? _answer_. not even in the event of a democratic victory. no state in the union is for free trade. every free trader has an exception. these exceptions combined, control the tariff legislation of this country, and if the democrats were in power to-day, with the control of the house and senate and executive, the exceptions would combine and protect protection. as long as the federal government collects taxes or revenue on imports, just so long these revenues will be arranged to protect home manufactures. _question_. you said that if there were a great principle at stake, you would take part in the campaign. you think, then, that there is no great principle involved? _answer_. if it were a matter of personal liberty, i should take part. if the republican party had stood by the civil rights bill, i should have taken part in the present campaign. _question_. still, i suppose we can count on you as a republican? _answer_. certainly, i am a republican. --_evening post_, san francisco, california, september , . ingersoll catechised. _question_. does christianity advance or retard civilization? _answer_. if by christianity you mean the orthodox church, then i unhesitatingly answer that it does retard civilization, always has retarded it, and always will. i can imagine no man who can be benefitted by being made a catholic or a presbyterian or a baptist or a methodist--or, in other words, by being made an orthodox christian. but by christianity i do not mean morality, kindness, forgiveness, justice. those virtues are not distinctively christian. they are claimed by mohammedans and buddhists, by infidels and atheists--and practiced by some of all classes. christianity consists of the miraculous, the marvelous, and the impossible. the one thing that i most seriously object to in christianity is the doctrine of eternal punishment. that doctrine subverts every idea of justice. it teaches the infinite absurdity that a finite offence can be justly visited by eternal punishment. another serious objection i have is, that christianity endeavors to destroy intellectual liberty. nothing is better calculated to retard civilization than to subvert the idea of justice. nothing is better calculated to retain barbarism than to deny to every human being the right to think. justice and liberty are the two wings that bear man forward. the church, for a thousand years, did all within its power to prevent the expression of honest thought; and when the church had power, there was in this world no civilization. we have advanced just in the proportion that christianity has lost power. those nations in which the church is still powerful are still almost savage--portugal, spain, and many others i might name. probably no country is more completely under the control of the religious idea than russia. the czar is the direct representative of god. he is the head of the church, as well as of the state. in russia every mouth is a bastille and every tongue a convict. this russian pope, this representative of god, has on earth his hell (siberia), and he imitates the orthodox god to the extent of his health and strength. everywhere man advances as the church loses power. in my judgment, ireland can never succeed until it ceases to be catholic; and there can be no successful uprising while the confessional exists. at one time in new england the church had complete power. there was then no religious liberty. and so we might make a tour of the world, and find that superstition always has been, is, and forever will be, inconsistent with human advancement. _question_. do not the evidences of design in the universe prove a creator? _answer_. if there were any evidences of design in the universe, certainly they would tend to prove a designer, but they would not prove a creator. design does not prove creation. a man makes a machine. that does not prove that he made the material out of which the machine is constructed. you find the planets arranged in accordance with what you call a plan. that does not prove that they were created. it may prove that they are governed, but it certainly does not prove that they were created. is it consistent to say that a design cannot exist without a designer, but that a designer can? does not a designer need a design as much as a design needs a designer? does not a creator need a creator as much as the thing we think has been created? in other words, is not this simply a circle of human ignorance? why not say that the universe has existed from eternity, as well as to say that a creator has existed from eternity? and do you not thus avoid at least one absurdity by saying that the universe has existed from eternity, instead of saying that it was created by a creator who existed from eternity? because if your creator existed from eternity, and created the universe, there was a time when he commenced; and back of that, according to shelley, is "an eternity of idleness." some people say that god existed from eternity, and has created eternity. it is impossible to conceive of an act co-equal with eternity. if you say that god has existed forever, and has always acted, then you make the universe eternal, and you make the universe as old as god; and if the universe be as old as god, he certainly did not create it. these questions of origin and destiny--of infinite gods--are beyond the powers of the human mind. they cannot be solved. we might as well try to travel fast enough to get beyond the horizon. it is like a man trying to run away from his girdle. consequently, i believe in turning our attention to things of importance--to questions that may by some possibility be solved. it is of no importance to me whether god exists or not. i exist, and it is important to me to be happy while i exist. therefore i had better turn my attention to finding out the secret of happiness, instead of trying to ascertain the secret of the universe. i say with regard to god, i do not know; and therefore i am accused of being arrogant and egotistic. religious papers say that i do know, because webster told me. they use webster as a witness to prove the divinity of christ. they say that webster was on the god side, and therefore i ought to be. i can hardly afford to take webster's ideas of another world, when his ideas about this were so bad. when bloodhounds were pursuing a woman through the tangled swamps of the south--she hungry for liberty--webster took the side of the bloodhounds. such a man is no authority for me. bacon denied the copernican system of astronomy; he is an unsafe guide. wesley believed in witches; i cannot follow him. no man should quote a name instead of an argument; no man should bring forward a person instead of a principle, unless he is willing to accept all the ideas of that person. _question_. is not a pleasant illusion preferable to a dreary truth--a future life being in question? _answer_. i think it is. i think that a pleasing illusion is better then a terrible truth, so far as its immediate results are concerned. i would rather think the one i love living, than to think her dead. i would rather think that i had a large balance in bank than that my account was overdrawn. i would rather think i was healthy than to know that i had a cancer. but if we have an illusion, let us have it pleasing. the orthodox illusion is the worst that can possibly be conceived. take hell out of that illusion, take eternal pain away from that dream, and say that the whole world is to be happy forever--then you might have an excuse for calling it a pleasant illusion; but it is, in fact, a nightmare --a perpetual horror--a cross, on which the happiness of man has been crucified. _question_. are not religion and morals inseparable? _answer_. religion and morality have nothing in common, and yet there is no religion except the practice of morality. but what you call religion is simply superstition. religion as it is now taught teaches our duties toward god--our obligations to the infinite, and the results of a failure to discharge those obligations. i believe that we are under no obligations to the infinite; that we cannot be. all our obligations are to each other, and to sentient beings. "believe in the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved," has nothing to do with morality. "do unto other as ye would that others should do unto you" has nothing to do with believing in the lord jesus christ. baptism has nothing to do with morality. "pay your honest debts." that has nothing to do with baptism. what is called religion is simple superstition, with which morality has nothing to do. the churches do not prevent people from committing natural offences, but restrain them from committing artificial ones. as for instance, the catholic church can prevent one of its members from eating meat on friday, but not from whipping his wife. the episcopal church can prevent dancing, it may be, in lent, but not slander. the presbyterian can keep a man from working on sunday, but not from practicing deceit on monday. and so i might go through the churches. they lay the greater stress upon the artificial offences. those countries that are the most religious are the most immoral. when the world was under the control of the catholic church, it reached the very pit of immorality, and nations have advanced in morals just in proportion that they have lost christianity. _question_. it is frequently asserted that there is nothing new in your objections against christianity. what is your reply to such assertions? _answer_. of course, the editors of religious papers will say this; christians will say this. in my opinion, an argument is new until it has been answered. an argument is absolutely fresh, and has upon its leaves the dew of morning, until it has been refuted. all men have experienced, it may be, in some degree, what we call love. millions of men have written about it. the subject is of course old. it is only the presentation that can be new. thousands of men have attacked superstition. the subject is old, but the manner in which the facts are handled, the arguments grouped--these may be forever new. millions of men have preached christianity. certainly there is nothing new in the original ideas. nothing can be new except the presentation, the grouping. the ideas may be old, but they may be clothed in new garments of passion; they may be given additional human interest. a man takes a fact, or an old subject, as a sculptor takes a rock; the rock is not new. of this rock he makes a statue; the statue is new. and yet some orthodox man might say there is nothing new about that statue: "i know the man that dug the rock; i know the owner of the quarry." substance is eternal; forms are new. so in the human mind certain ideas, or in the human heart certain passions, are forever old; but genius forever gives them new forms, new meanings; and this is the perpetual originality of genius. _question_. do you consider that churches are injurious to the community? _answer_. in the exact proportion that churches teach falsehood; in the exact proportion that they destroy liberty of thought, the free action of the human mind; in the exact proportion that they teach the doctrine of eternal pain, and convince people of its truth--they are injurious. in the proportion that they teach morality and justice, and practice kindness and charity--in that proportion they are a benefit. every church, therefore, is a mixed problem--part good and part bad. in one direction it leads toward and sheds light; in the other direction its influence is entirely bad. now, i would like to civilize the churches, so that they will be able to do good deeds without building bad creeds. in other words, take out the superstitious and the miraculous, and leave the human and the moral. _question_. why do you not respond to the occasional clergyman who replies to your lectures? _answer_. in the first place, no clergyman has ever replied to my lectures. in the second place, no clergyman ever will reply to my lectures. he does not answer my arguments--he attacks me; and the replies that i have seen are not worth answering. they are far below the dignity of the question under discussion. most of them are ill-mannered, as abusive as illogical, and as malicious as weak. i cannot reply without feeling humiliated. i cannot use their weapons, and my weapons they do not understand. i attack christianity because it is cruel, and they account for all my actions by putting behind them base motives. they make it at once a personal question. they imagine that epithets are good enough arguments with which to answer an infidel. a few years ago they would have imprisoned me. a few years before that they would have burned me. we have advanced. now they only slander; and i congratulate myself on the fact that even that is not believed. ministers do not believe each other about each other. the truth has never yet been ascertained in any trial by a church. the longer the trial lasts, the obscurer is the truth. they will not believe each other, even on oath; and one of the most celebrated ministers of this country has publicly announced that there is no use in answering a lie started by his own church; that if he does answer it--if he does kill it--forty more lies will come to the funeral. in this connection we must remember that the priests of one religion never credit the miracles of another religion. is this because priests instinctively know priests? now, when a christian tells a buddhist some of the miracles of the testament, the buddhist smiles. when a buddhist tells a christian the miracles performed by buddha, the christian laughs. this reminds me of an incident. a man told a most wonderful story. everybody present expressed surprise and astonishment, except one man. he said nothing; he did not even change countenance. one who noticed that the story had no effect on this man, said to him: "you do not seem to be astonished in the least at this marvelous tale." the man replied, "no; i am a liar myself." you see, i am not trying to answer individual ministers. i am attacking the whole body of superstition. i am trying to kill the entire dog, and i do not feel like wasting any time killing fleas on that dog. when the dog dies, the fleas will be out of provisions, and in that way we shall answer them all at once. so, i do not bother myself answering religious newspapers. in the first place, they are not worth answering; and in the second place, to answer would only produce a new crop of falsehoods. you know, the editor of a religious newspaper, as a rule, is one who has failed in the pulpit; and you can imagine the brains necessary to edit a religious weekly from this fact. i have known some good religious editors. by some i mean one. i do not say that there are not others, but i do say i do not know them. i might add, here, that the one i did know is dead. since i have been in this city there have been some "replies" to me. they have been almost idiotic. a catholic priest asked me how i had the impudence to differ with newton. newton, he says, believed in a god; and i ask this catholic priest how he has the impudence to differ with newton. newton was a protestant. this simply shows the absurdity of using men's names for arguments. this same priest proves the existence of god by a pagan orator. is it possible that god's last witness died with cicero? if it is necessary to believe in a god now, the witnesses ought to be on hand now. another man, pretending to answer me, quotes le conte, a geologist; and according to this geologist we are "getting very near to the splendors of the great white throne." where is the great white throne? can any one, by studying geology, find the locality of the great white throne? to what stratum does it belong? in what geologic period was the great white throne formed? what on earth has geology to do with the throne of god? the truth is, there can be no reply to the argument that man should be governed by his reason; that he should depend upon observation and experience; that he should use the faculties he has for his own benefit, and the benefit of his fellow-man. there is no answer. it is not within the power of man to substantiate the supernatural. it is beyond the power of evidence. _question_. why do the theological seminaries find it difficult to get students? _answer_. i was told last spring, at new haven, that the "theologs," as they call the young men there being fitted for the ministry, were not regarded as intellectual by all the other students. the orthodox pulpit has no rewards for genius. it has rewards only for stupidity, for belief--not for investigation, not for thought; and the consequence is that young men of talent avoid the pulpit. i think i heard the other day that of all the students at harvard only nine are preparing for the ministry. the truth is, the ministry is not regarded as an intellectual occupation. the average church now consists of women and children. men go to please their wives, or stay at home and subscribe to please their wives; and the wives are beginning to think, and many of them are staying at home. many of them now prefer the theatre or the opera or the park or the seashore or the forest or the companionship of their husbands and children at home. _question_. how does the religious state of california compare with the rest of the union? _answer_. i find that sensible people everywhere are about the same, and the proportion of freethinkers depends on the proportion of sensible folks. i think that california has her full share of sensible people. i find everywhere the best people and the brightest people--the people with the most heart and the best brain--all tending toward free thought. of course, a man of brain cannot believe the miracles of the old and new testaments. a man of heart cannot believe in the doctrine of eternal pain. we have found that other religions are like ours, with precisely the same basis, the same idiotic miracles, the same christ or saviour. it will hardly do to say that all others like ours are false, and ours the only true one, when others substantially like it are thousands of years older. we have at last found that a religion is simply an effort on the part of man to account for what he sees, what he experiences, what he feels, what he fears, and what he hopes. every savage has his philosophy. that is his religion and his science. the religions of to-day are the sciences of the past; and it may be that the sciences of to-day will be the religions of the future, and that other sciences will be as far beyond them as the science of to-day is beyond the religion of to-day. as a rule, religion is a sanctified mistake, and heresy a slandered fact. in other words, the human mind grows--and as it grows it abandons the old, and the old gets its revenge by maligning the new. --_the san franciscan_, san francisco, october , . blaine's defeat. _question_. colonel, the fact that you took no part in the late campaign, is a subject for general comment, and knowing your former enthusiastic advocacy and support of blaine, the people are somewhat surprised, and would like to know why? _answer_. in the first place, it was generally supposed that blaine needed no help. his friends were perfectly confident. they counted on a very large catholic support. the irish were supposed to be spoiling to vote for blaine and logan. all the protestant ministers were also said to be solid for the ticket. under these circumstances it was hardly prudent for me to say much. i was for blaine in . in i was for garfield, and in i was for gresham or harlan. i believed then and i believe now that either one of these men could have been elected. blaine is an exceedingly able man, but he made some mistakes and some very unfortunate utterances. i took no part in the campaign; first, because there was no very important issue, no great principle at stake, and second, i thought that i had done enough, and, third, because i wanted to do something else. _question_. what, in your opinion, were the causes for blaine's defeat? _answer_. first, because of dissension in the party. second, because party ties have grown weak. third, the prohibition vote. fourth, the delmonico dinner--too many rich men. fifth, the rev. dr. burchard with his rum, romanism and rebellion. sixth, giving too much attention to ohio and not enough to new york. seventh, the unfortunate remark of mr. blaine, that "the state cannot get along without the church." eighth, the weakness of the present administration. ninth, the abandonment by the party of the colored people of the south. tenth, the feeling against monopolies, and not least, a general desire for a change. _question_. what, in your opinion, will be the result of cleveland's election and administration upon the general political and business interests of the country? _answer_. the business interests will take care of themselves. a dollar has the instinct of self-preservation largely developed. the tariff will take care of itself. no state is absolutely for free trade. in each state there is an exception. the exceptions will combine, as they always have. michigan will help pennsylvania take care of iron, if pennsylvania will help michigan take care of salt and lumber. louisiana will help pennsylvania and michigan if they help her take care of sugar. colorado, california and ohio will help the other states if they will help them about wool--and so i might make a tour of the states, ending with vermont and maple sugar. i do not expect that cleveland will do any great harm. the democrats want to stay in power, and that desire will give security for good behavior. _question_. will he listen to or grant any demands made of him by the alleged independent republicans of new york, either in his appointments or policies? _answer_. of this i know nothing. the independents--from what i know of them--will be too modest to claim credit or to ask office. they were actuated by pure principle. they did what they did to purify the party, so that they could stay in it. now that it has been purified they will remain, and hate the democratic party as badly as ever. i hardly think that cleveland would insult their motives by offering loaves and fishes. all they desire is the approval of their own consciences. --_the commonwealth_, topeka, kansas, november , . blaine's defeat. _question_. how do you account for the defeat of mr. blaine? _answer_. how do i account for the defeat of mr. blaine? i will answer: st. john, the independents, burchard, butler and cleveland did it. the truth is that during the war a majority of the people, counting those in the south, were opposed to putting down the rebellion by force. it is also true that when the proclamation of emancipation was issued a majority of the people, counting the whole country, were opposed to it, and it is also true that when the colored people were made citizens a majority of the people, counting the whole country, were opposed to it. now, while, in my judgment, an overwhelming majority of the whole people have honestly acquiesced in the result of the war, and are now perfectly loyal to the union, and have also acquiesced in the abolition of slavery, i doubt very much whether they are really in favor of giving the colored man the right to vote. of course they have not the power now to take that right away, but they feel anything but kindly toward the party that gave the colored man that right. that is the only result of the war that is not fully accepted by the south and by many democrats of the north. another thing, the republican party was divided--divided too by personal hatreds. the party was greatly injured by the decision of the supreme court in which the civil rights bill was held void. now, a great many men who kept with the republican party, did so because they believed that that party would protect the colored man in the south, but as soon as the court decided that all the laws passed were unconstitutional, these men felt free to vote for the other side, feeling that it would make no difference. they reasoned this way: if the republican party cannot defend the colored people, why make a pretence that excites hatred on one side and disarms the other? if the colored people have to depend upon the state for protection, and the federal government cannot interfere, why say any more about it? i think that these men made a mistake and our party made a mistake in accepting without protest a decision that was far worse than the one delivered in the case of dred scott. by accepting this decision the most important issue was abandoned. the republican party must take the old ground that it is the duty of the federal government to protect the citizens, and that it cannot simply leave that duty to the state. it must see to it that the state performs that duty. _question_. have you seen the published report that dorsey claims to have paid you one hundred thousand dollars for your services in the star route cases? _answer_. i have seen the report, but dorsey never said anything like that. _question_. is there no truth in the statement, then? _answer_. well, dorsey never said anything of the kind. _question_. then you do not deny that you received such an enormous fee? _answer_. all i say is that dorsey did not say i did.* --_the commercial_, louisville, kentucky, october , . [* col. ingersoll has been so criticised and maligned for defending mr. dorsey in the star route cases, and so frequently charged with having received an enormous fee, that i think it but simple justice to his memory to say that he received no such fee, and that the ridiculously small sums he did receive were much more than offset by the amount he had to pay as indorser of mr. dorsey's paper. --c. f. farrell.] plagiarism and politics. _question_. what have you to say about the charges published in this morning's _herald_ to the effect that you copied your lecture about "mistakes of moses" from a chapter bearing the same title in a book called hittell's "evidences against christianity"? _answer_. all i have to say is that the charge is utterly false. i will give a thousand dollars reward to any one who will furnish a book published before my lecture, in which that lecture can be found. it is wonderful how malicious the people are who love their enemies. this charge is wholly false, as all others of like nature are. i do not have to copy the writings of others. the christians do not seem to see that they are constantly complimenting me by saying that what i write is so good that i must have stolen it. poor old orthodoxy! _question_. what is your opinion of the incoming administration, and how will it affect the country? _answer_. i feel disposed to give cleveland a chance. if he does the fair thing, then it is the duty of all good citizens to say so. i do not expect to see the whole country go to destruction because the democratic party is in power. neither do i believe that business is going to suffer on that account. the times are hard, and i fear will be much harder, but they would have been substantially the same if blaine had been elected. i wanted the republican party to succeed and fully expected to see mr. blaine president, but i believe in making the best of what has happened. i want no office, i want good government--wise legislation. i believe in protection, but i want the present tariff reformed and i hope the democrats will be wise enough to do so. _question_. how will the democratic victory affect the colored people in the south? _answer_. certainly their condition will not be worse than it has been. the supreme court decided that the civil rights bill was unconstitutional and that the federal government cannot interfere. that was a bad decision and our party made a mistake in not protesting against it. i believe it to be the duty of the federal government to protect all its citizens, at home as well as abroad. my hope is that there will be a division in the democratic party. that party has something now to divide. at last it has a bone, and probably the fighting will commence. i hope that some new issue will take color out of politics, something about which both white and colored may divide. of course nothing would please me better than to see the democratic party become great and grand enough to give the colored people their rights. _question_. why did you not take part in the campaign? _answer_. well, i was afraid of frightening the preachers away. i might have done good by scaring one, but i did not know burchard until it was too late. seriously, i did not think that i was needed. i supposed that blaine had a walkover, that he was certain to carry new york. i had business of my own to attend to and did not want to interfere with the campaign. _question_. what do you think of the policy of nominating blaine in , as has been proposed? _answer_. i think it too early to say what will be done in . parties do not exist for one man. parties have certain ends in view and they choose men as instruments to accomplish these ends. parties belong to principles, not persons. no party can afford to follow anybody. if in mr. blaine should appear to be the best man for the party then he will be nominated, otherwise not. i know nothing about any intention to nominate him again and have no idea whether he has that ambition. the whig party was intensely loyal to henry clay and forgot the needs of the country, and allowed the democrats to succeed with almost unknown men. parties should not belong to persons, but persons should belong to parties. let us not be too previous--let us wait. _question_. what do you think of the course pursued by the rev. drs. ball and burchard? _answer_. in politics the preacher is somewhat dangerous. he has a standard of his own; he has queer ideas of evidence, great reliance on hearsay; he is apt to believe things against candidates, just because he wants to. the preacher thinks that all who differ with him are instigated by the devil--that their intentions are evil, and that when they behave themselves they are simply covering the poison with sugar. it would have been far better for the country if mr. ball had kept still. i do not pretend to say that his intentions were not good. he likely thought it his duty to lift a warning voice, to bawl aloud and to spare not, but i think he made a mistake, and he now probably thinks so himself. mr. burchard was bound to say a smart thing. it sounded well, and he allowed his ears to run away with his judgment. as a matter of fact, there is no connection between rum and romanism. catholic countries do not use as much alcohol as protestant. england has far more drunkards than spain. scotland can discount italy or portugal in good, square drinking. so there is no connection between romanism and rebellion. ten times as many methodists and twenty times as many baptists went into the rebellion as catholics. thousands of catholics fought as bravely as protestants for the preservation of the union. no doubt mr. burchard intended well. he thought he was giving blaine a battle-cry that would send consternation into the hearts of the opposition. my opinion is that in the next campaign the preachers will not be called to the front. of course they have the same right to express their views that other people have, but other people have the right to avoid the responsibility of appearing to agree with them. i think though that it is about time to let up on burchard. he has already unloaded on the lord. _question_. do you think cleveland will put any southern men in his cabinet? _answer_. i do. nothing could be in worse taste than to ignore the section that gave him three-fourths of his vote. the people have put the democratic party in power. they intended to do what they did, and why should the south not be recognized? garland would make a good attorney-general; lamar has the ability to fill any position in the cabinet. i could name several others well qualified, and i suppose that two or three southern men will be in the cabinet. if they are good enough to elect a president they are good enough to be selected by a president. _question_. what do you think of mr. conkling's course? _answer_. mr. conkling certainly had the right to keep still. he was under no obligation to the party. the republican papers have not tried to secure his services. he has been very generally and liberally denounced ever since his quarrel with mr. garfield, and it is only natural to resent what a man feels to be an injustice. i suppose he has done what he honestly thought was, under the circumstances, his duty. i believe him to be a man of stainless integrity, and he certainly has as much independence of character as one man can carry. it is time to put the party whip away. people can be driven from, but not to, the republican party. if we expect to win in we must welcome recruits. --_the plain dealer_, cleveland, ohio, dec. , . religious prejudice. _question_. will a time ever come when political campaigns will be conducted independently of religious prejudice? _answer_. as long as men are prejudiced, they will probably be religious, and certainly as long as they are religious they will be prejudiced, and every religionist who imagines the next world infinitely more important than this, and who imagines that he gets his orders from god instead of from his own reason, or from his fellow-citizens, and who thinks that he should do something for the glory of god instead of for the benefit of his fellow-citizens --just as long as they believe these things, just so long their prejudices will control their votes. every good, ignorant, orthodox christian places his bible above laws and constitutions. every good, sincere and ignorant catholic puts pope above king and president, as well as above the legally expressed will of a majority of his countrymen. every christian believes god to be the source of all authority. i believe that the authority to govern comes from the consent of the governed. man is the source of power, and to protect and increase human happiness should be the object of government. i think that religious prejudices are growing weaker because religious belief is growing weaker. and these prejudices --should men ever become really civilized--will finally fade away. i think that a presbyterian, to-day, has no more prejudice against an atheist than he has against a catholic. a catholic does not dislike an infidel any more than he does a presbyterian, and i believe, to-day, that most of the presbyterians would rather see and atheist president than a pronounced catholic. _question_. is agnosticism gaining ground in the united states? _answer_. of course, there are thousands and thousands of men who have now advanced intellectually to the point of perceiving the limit of human knowledge. in other words, at last they are beginning to know enough to know what can and cannot be known. sensible men know that nobody knows whether an infinite god exists or not. sensible men know that an infinite personality cannot, by human testimony, be established. sensible men are giving up trying to answer the questions of origin and destiny, and are paying more attention to what happens between these questions--that is to say, to this world. infidelity increases as knowledge increases, as fear dies, and as the brain develops. after all, it is a question of intelligence. only cunning performs a miracle, only ignorance believes it. _question_. do you think that evolution and revealed religion are compatible--that is to say, can a man be an evolutionist and a christian? _answer_. evolution and christianity may be compatible, provided you take the ground that christianity is only one of the links in the chain, one of the phases of civilization. but if you mean by christianity what is generally understood, of course that and evolution are absolutely incompatible. christianity pretends to be not only the truth, but, so far as religion is concerned, the whole truth. christianity pretends to give a history of religion and a prophecy of destiny. as a philosophy, it is an absolute failure. as a history, it is false. there is no possible way by which darwin and moses can be harmonized. there is an inexpressible conflict between christianity and science, and both cannot long inhabit the same brain. you cannot harmonize evolution and the atonement. the survival of the fittest does away with original sin. _question_. from your knowledge of the religious tendency in the united states, how long will orthodox religion be popular? _answer_. i do not think that orthodox religion is popular to-day. the ministers dare not preach the creed in all its naked deformity and horror. they are endeavoring with the vines of sentiment to cover up the caves and dens in which crawl the serpents of their creed. very few ministers care now to speak of eternal pain. they leave out the lake of fire and brimstone. they are not fond of putting in the lips of christ the loving words, "depart from me, ye cursed." the miracles are avoided. in short, what is known as orthodoxy is already unpopular. most ministers are endeavoring to harmonize what they are pleased to call science and christianity, and nothing is now so welcome to the average christian as some work tending to show that, after all, joshua was an astronomer. _question_. what section of the united states, east, west, north, or south, is the most advanced in liberal religious ideas? _answer_. that section of the country in which there is the most intelligence is the most liberal. that section of the country where there is the most ignorance is the most prejudiced. the least brain is the most orthodox. there possibly is no more progressive city in the world, no more liberal, than boston. chicago is full of liberal people. so is san francisco. the brain of new york is liberal. every town, every city, is liberal in the precise proportion that it is intelligent. _question_. will the religion of humanity be the religion of the future? _answer_. yes; it is the only religion now. all other is superstition. what they call religion rests upon a supposed relation between man and god. in what they call religion man is asked to do something for god. as god wants nothing, and can by no possibility accept anything, such a religion is simply superstition. humanity is the only possible religion. whoever imagines that he can do anything for god is mistaken. whoever imagines that he can add to his happiness in the next world by being useless in this, is also mistaken. and whoever thinks that any god cares how he cuts his hair or his clothes, or what he eats, or whether he fasts, or rings a bell, or puts holy water on his breast, or counts beads, or shuts his eyes and says words to the clouds, is laboring under a great mistake. _question_. a man in the swaim court martial case was excluded as a witness because he was an atheist. do you think the law in the next decade will permit the affirmative oath? _answer_. if belief affected your eyes, your ears, any of your senses, or your memory, then, of course, no man ought to be a witness who had not the proper belief. but unless it can be shown that atheism interferes with the sight, the hearing, or the memory, why should justice shut the door to truth? in most of the states of this union i could not give testimony. should a man be murdered before my eyes i could not tell a jury who did it. christianity endeavors to make an honest man an outlaw. christianity has such a contemptible opinion of human nature that it does not believe a man can tell the truth unless frightened by a belief in god. no lower opinion of the human race has ever been expressed. _question_. do you think that bigotry would persecute now for religious opinion's sake, if it were not for the law and the press? _answer_. i think that the church would persecute to-day if it had the power, just as it persecuted in the past. we are indebted for nearly all our religious liberty to the hypocrisy of the church. the church does not believe. some in the church do, and if they had the power, they would torture and burn as of yore. give the presbyterian church the power, and it would not allow an infidel to live. give the methodist church the power and the result would be the same. give the catholic church the power--just the same. no church in the united states would be willing that any other church should have the power. the only men who are to be angels in the next world are the ones who cannot be trusted with human liberty in this; and the man who are destined to live forever in hell are the only gentlemen with whom human liberty is safe. why should christians refuse to persecute in this world, when their god is going to in the next? --_mail and express_, new york, january , . cleveland and his cabinet. _question_. what do you think of mr. cleveland's cabinet? _answer_. it is a very good cabinet. some objections have been made to mr. lamar, but i think he is one of the very best. he is a man of ability, of unquestioned integrity, and is well informed on national affairs. ever since he delivered his eulogy on the life and services of sumner, i have had great respect for mr. lamar. he is far beyond most of his constituents, and has done much to destroy the provincial prejudices of mississippi. he will without doubt make an excellent secretary of the interior. the south has no better representative man, and i believe his appointment will, in a little while, be satisfactory to the whole country. bayard stands high in his party, and will certainly do as well as his immediate predecessor. nothing could be better than the change in the department of justice. garland is an able lawyer, has been an influential senator and will, in my judgment, make an excellent attorney-general. the rest of the cabinet i know little about, but from what i hear i believe they are men of ability and that they will discharge their duties well. mr. vilas has a great reputation in wisconsin, and is one of the best and most forcible speakers in the country. _question_. will mr. cleveland, in your opinion, carry out the civil service reform he professes to favor? _answer_. i have no reason to suspect even that he will not. he has promised to execute the law, and the promise is in words that do not admit of two interpretations. of course he is sincere. he knows that this course will save him a world of trouble, and he knows that it makes no difference about the politics of a copyist. all the offices of importance will in all probability be filled by democrats. the president will not put himself in the power of his opponents. if he is to be held responsible for the administration he must be permitted to choose his own assistants. this is too plain to talk about. let us give mr. cleveland a fair show--and let us expect success instead of failure. i admit that many presidents have violated their promises. there seems to be something in the atmosphere of washington that breeds promise and prevents performance. i suppose it is some kind of political malarial microbe. i hope that some political pasteur will, one of these days, discover the real disease so that candidates can be vaccinated during the campaign. until them, presidential promises will be liable to a discount. _question_. is the republican party dead? _answer_. my belief is that the next president will be a republican, and that both houses will be republican in . mr. blaine was defeated by an accident--by the slip of another man's tongue. but it matters little what party is in power if the government is administered upon correct principles, and if the democracy adopt the views of the republicans and carry out republican measures, it may be that they can keep in power--otherwise--otherwise. if the democrats carry out real democratic measures, then their defeat is certain. _question_. do you think that the era of good feeling between the north and the south has set in with the appointment of ex-rebels to the cabinet? _answer_. the war is over. the south failed. the nation succeeded. we should stop talking about south and north. we are one people, and whether we agree or disagree one destiny awaits us. we cannot divide. we must live together. we must trust each other. confidence begets confidence. the whole country was responsible for slavery. slavery was rebellion. slavery is dead--so is rebellion. liberty has united the country and there is more real union, national sentiment to-day, north and south, than ever before. _question_. it is hinted that mr. tilden is really the power behind the throne. do you think so? _answer_. i guess nobody has taken the hint. of course mr. tilden has retired from politics. the probability is that many democrats ask his advice, and some rely on his judgment. he is regarded as a piece of ancient wisdom--a phenomenal persistence of the jeffersonian type--the connecting link with the framers, founders and fathers. the power behind the throne is the power that the present occupant supposes will determine who the next occupant shall be. _question_. with the introduction of the democracy into power, what radical changes will take place in the government, and what will be the result? _answer_. if the president carries out his inaugural promises there will be no radical changes, and if he does not there will be a very radical change at the next presidential election. the inaugural is a very good republican document. there is nothing in it calculated to excite alarm. there is no dangerous policy suggested--no conceited vagaries--nothing but a plain statement of the situation and the duty of the chief magistrate as understood by the president. i think that the inaugural surprised the democrats and the republicans both, and if the president carries out the program he has laid down he will surprise and pacify a large majority of the american people. --_mail and express_, new york, march , . religion, prohibition, and gen. grant. _question_. what do you think of prohibition, and what do you think of its success in this state? _answer_. few people understand the restraining influence of liberty. moderation walks hand in hand with freedom. i do not mean the freedom springing from the sudden rupture of restraint. that kind of freedom usually rushes to extremes. people must be educated to take care of themselves, and this education must commence in infancy. self-restraint is the only kind that can always be depended upon. of course intemperance is a great evil. it causes immense suffering--clothes wives and children in rags, and is accountable for many crimes, particularly those of violence. laws to be of value must be honestly enforced. laws that sleep had better be dead. laws to be enforced must be honestly approved of and believed in by a large majority of the people. unpopular laws make hypocrites, perjurers and official shirkers of duty. and if to the violation of such laws severe penalties attach, they are rarely enforced. laws that create artificial crimes are the hardest to carry into effect. you can never convince a majority of people that it is as bad to import goods without paying the legal duty as to commit larceny. neither can you convince a majority of people that it is a crime or sin, or even a mistake, to drink a glass of wine or beer. thousands and thousands of people in this state honestly believe that prohibition is an interference with their natural rights, and they feel justified in resorting to almost any means to defeat the law. in this way people become somewhat demoralized. it is unfortunate to pass laws that remain unenforced on account of their unpopularity. people who would on most subjects swear to the truth do not hesitate to testify falsely on a prohibition trial. in addition to this, every known device is resorted to, to sell in spite of the law, and when some want to sell and a great many want to buy, considerable business will be done, while there are fewer saloons and less liquor sold in them. the liquor is poorer and the price is higher. the consumer has to pay for the extra risk. more liquor finds its way to homes, more men buy by the bottle and gallon. in old times nearly everybody kept a little rum or whiskey on the sideboard. the great washingtonian temperance movement drove liquor out of the home and increased the taverns and saloons. now we are driving liquor back to the homes. in my opinion there is a vast difference between distilled spirits and the lighter drinks, such as wine and beer. wine is a fireside and whiskey a conflagration. these lighter drinks are not unhealthful and do not, as i believe, create a craving for stronger beverages. you will, i think, find it almost impossible to enforce the present law against wine and beer. i was told yesterday that there are some sixty places in cedar rapids where whiskey is sold. it takes about as much ceremony to get a drink as it does to join the masons, but they seem to like the ceremony. people seem to take delight in outwitting the state when it does not involve the commission of any natural offence, and when about to be caught, may not hesitate to swear falsely to the extent of "don't remember," or "can't say positively," or "can't swear whether it was whiskey or not." one great trouble in iowa is that the politicians, or many of them who openly advocate prohibition, are really opposed to it. they want to keep the german vote, and they do not want to lose native republicans. they feel a "divided duty" to ride both horses. this causes the contrast between their conversation and their speeches. a few years ago i took dinner with a gentleman who had been elected governor of one of our states on the prohibition ticket. we had four kinds of wine during the meal, and a pony of brandy at the end. prohibition will never be a success until it prohibits the prohibitionists. and yet i most sincerely hope and believe that the time will come when drunkenness shall have perished from the earth. let us cultivate the love of home. let husbands and wives and children be companions. let them seek amusements together. if it is a good place for father to go, it is a good place for mother and the children. i believe that a home can be made more attractive than a saloon. let the boys and girls amuse themselves at home--play games, study music, read interesting books, and let the parents be their playfellows. the best temperance lecture, in the fewest words, you will find in victor hugo's great novel "les miserables." the grave digger is asked to take a drink. he refuses and gives this reason: "the hunger of my family is the enemy of my thirst." _question_. many people wonder why you are out of politics. will you give your reasons? _answer_. a few years ago great questions had to be settled. the life of the nation was at stake. later the liberty of millions of slaves depended upon the action of the government. afterward reconstruction and the rights of citizens pressed themselves upon the people for solution. and last, the preservation of national honor and credit. these questions did not enter into the last campaign. they had all been settled, and properly settled, with the one exception of the duty of the nation to protect the colored citizens. the supreme court settled that, at least for a time, and settled it wrong. but the republican party submitted to the civil rights decision, and so, as between the great parties, that question did not arise. this left only two questions--protection and office. but as a matter of fact, all republicans were not for our present system of protection, and all democrats were not against it. on that question each party was and is divided. on the other question--office--both parties were and are in perfect harmony. nothing remains now for the democrats to do except to give a "working" definition of "offensive partisanship." _question_. do you think that the american people are seeking after truth, or do they want to be amused? _answer_. we have all kinds. thousands are earnestly seeking for the truth. they are looking over the old creeds, they are studying the bible for themselves, they have the candor born of courage, they are depending upon themselves instead of on the clergy. they have found out that the clergy do not know; that their sources of information are not reliable; that, like the politicians, many ministers preach one way and talk another. the doctrine of eternal pain has driven millions from the church. people with good hearts cannot get consolation out of that cruel lie. the ministers themselves are getting ashamed to call that doctrine "the tidings of great joy." the american people are a serious people. they want to know the truth. they fell that whatever the truth may be they have the courage to hear it. the american people also have a sense of humor. they like to see old absurdities punctured and solemn stupidity held up to laughter. they are, on the average, the most intelligent people on the earth. they can see the point. their wit is sharp, quick and logical. nothing amuses them more that to see the mask pulled from the face of sham. the average american is generous, intelligent, level-headed, manly, and good- natured. _question_. what, in your judgment, is the source of the greatest trouble among men? _answer_. superstition. that has caused more agony, more tears, persecution and real misery than all other causes combined. the other name for superstition is ignorance. when men learn that all sin is a mistake, that all dishonesty is a blunder, that even intelligent selfishness will protect the rights of others, there will be vastly more happiness in this world. shakespeare says that "there is no darkness but ignorance." sometime man will learn that when he steals from another, he robs himself--that the way to be happy is to make others so, and that it is far better to assist his fellow-man than to fast, say prayers, count beads or build temples to the unknown. some people tell us that selfishness is the only sin, but selfishness grows in the soil of ignorance. after all, education is the great lever, and the only one capable of raising mankind. people ignorant of their own rights are ignorant of the rights of others. every tyrant is the slave of ignorance. _question_. how soon do you think we would have the millennium if every person attended strictly to his own business? _answer_. now, if every person were intelligent enough to know his own business--to know just where his rights ended and the rights of others commenced, and then had the wisdom and honesty to act accordingly, we should have a very happy world. most people like to control the conduct of others. they love to write rules, and pass laws for the benefit of their neighbors, and the neighbors are pretty busy at the same business. people, as a rule, think that they know the business of other people better than they do their own. a man watching others play checkers or chess always thinks he sees better moves than the players make. when all people attend to their own business they will know that a part of their own business is to increase the happiness of others. _question_. what is causing the development of this country? _answer_. education, the free exchange of ideas, inventions by which the forces of nature become our servants, intellectual hospitality, a willingness to hear the other side, the richness of our soil, the extent of our territory, the diversity of climate and production, our system of government, the free discussion of political questions, our social freedom, and above all, the fact that labor is honorable. _question_. what is your opinion of the religious tendency of the people of this country? _answer_. using the word religion in its highest and best sense, the people are becoming more religious. we are far more religious --using the word in its best sense--than when we believed in human slavery, but we are not as orthodox as we were then. we have more principle and less piety. we care more for the right and less for the creed. the old orthodox dogmas are mouldy. you will find moss on their backs. they are only brought out when a new candidate for the ministry is to be examined. only a little while ago in new york a candidate for the presbyterian pulpit was examined and the following is a part of the examination: _question_. "do you believe in eternal punishment, as set forth in the confession of faith?" _answer_. (with some hesitation) "yes, i do." _question_. "have you preached on that subject lately?" _answer_. "no. i prepared a sermon on hell, in which i took the ground that the punishment of the wicked will be endless, and have it with me." _question_. "did you deliver it?" _answer_. "no. i thought that my congregation would not care to hear it. the doctrine is rather unpopular where i have been preaching, and i was afraid i might do harm, so i have not delivered it yet." _question_. "but you believe in eternal damnation, do you not?" _answer_. "o yes, with all my heart." he was admitted, and the admission proves the dishonesty of the examiners and the examined. the new version of the old and new testaments has done much to weaken confidence in the doctrine of inspiration. it has occurred to a good many that if god took the pains to inspire men to write the bible, he ought to have inspired others to translate it correctly. the general tendency today is toward science, toward naturalism, toward what is called infidelity, but is in fact fidelity. men are in a transition state, and the people, on the average, have more real good, sound sense to-day than ever before. the church is losing its power for evil. the old chains are wearing out, and new ones are not being made. the tendency is toward intellectual freedom, and that means the final destruction of the orthodox bastille. _question_. what is your opinion of general grant as he stands before the people to-day? _answer_. i have always regarded general grant as the greatest soldier this continent has produced. he is to-day the most distinguished son of the republic. the people have the greatest confidence in his ability, his patriotism and his integrity. the financial disaster impoverished general grant, but he did not stain the reputation of the grand soldier who led to many victories the greatest army that ever fought for the liberties of man. --_iowa state register_, may , . hell or sheol and other subjects. _question_. colonel, have you read the revised testament? _answer_. yes, but i don't believe the work has been fairly done. the clergy are not going to scrape the butter off their own bread. the clergy are offensive partisans, and those of each denomination will interpret the scriptures their way. no baptist minister would countenance a "revision" that favored sprinkling, and no catholic priest would admit that any version would be correct that destroyed the dogma of the "real presence." so i might go through all the denominations. _question_. why was the word sheol introduced in place of hell, and how do you like the substitute? _answer_. the civilized world has outgrown the vulgar and brutal hell of their fathers and founders of the churches. the clergy are ashamed to preach about sulphurous flames and undying worms. the imagination of the world has been developed, the heart has grown tender, and the old dogma of eternal pain shocks all civilized people. it is becoming disgraceful either to preach or believe in such a beastly lie. the clergy are beginning to think that it is hardly manly to frighten children with a detected falsehood. sheol is a great relief. it is not so hot as the old place. the nights are comfortable, and the society is quite refined. the worms are dead, and the air reasonably free from noxious vapors. it is a much worse word to hold a revival with, but much better for every day use. it will hardly take the place of the old word when people step on tacks, put up stoves, or sit on pins; but for use at church fairs and mite societies it will do about as well. we do not need revision; excision is what we want. the barbarism should be taken out of the bible. passages upholding polygamy, wars of extermination, slavery, and religious persecution should not be attributed to a perfect god. the good that is in the bible will be saved for man, and man will be saved from the evil that is in that book. why should we worship in god what we detest in man? _question_. do you think the use of the word sheol will make any difference to the preachers? _answer_. of course it will make no difference with talmage. he will make sheol just as hot and smoky and uncomfortable as hell, but the congregations will laugh instead of tremble. the old shudder has gone. beecher had demolished hell before sheol was adopted. according to his doctrine of evolution hell has been slowly growing cool. the cindered souls do not even perspire. sheol is nothing to mr. beecher but a new name for an old mistake. as for the effect it will have on heber newton, i cannot tell, neither can he, until he asks his bishop. there are people who believe in witches and madstones and fiat money, and centuries hence it may be that people will exist who will believe as firmly in hell as dr. shedd does now. _question_. what about beecher's sermons on "evolution"? _answer_. beecher's sermons on "evolution" will do good. millions of people believe that mr. beecher knows at least as much as the other preachers, and if he regards the atonement as a dogma with a mistake for a foundation, they may conclude that the whole system is a mistake. but whether mr. beecher is mistaken or not, people know that honesty is a good thing, that gratitude is a virtue, that industry supports the world, and that whatever they believe about religion they are bound by every conceivable obligation to be just and generous. mr. beecher can no more succeed in reconciling science and religion, than he could in convincing the world that triangles and circles are exactly the same. there is the same relation between science and religion that there is between astronomy and astrology, between alchemy and chemistry, between orthodoxy and common sense. _question_. have you read miss cleveland's book? she condemns george eliot's poetry on the ground that it has no faith in it, nothing beyond. do you imagine she would condemn burns or shelley for that reason? _answer_. i have not read miss cleveland's book; but, if the author condemns the poetry of george eliot, she has made a mistake. there is no poem in our language more beautiful than "the lovers," and none loftier or purer than "the choir invisible." there is no poetry in the "beyond." the poetry is here--here in this world, where love is in the heart. the poetry of the beyond is too far away, a little too general. shelley's "skylark" was in our sky, the daisy of burns grew on our ground, and between that lark and that daisy is room for all the real poetry of the earth. --_evening record_, boston, mass., . interviewing, politics and spiritualism. _question_. what is your opinion of the peculiar institution of american journalism known as interviewing? _answer_. if the interviewers are fair, if they know how to ask questions of a public nature, if they remember what is said, or write it at the time, and if the interviewed knows enough to answer questions in a way to amuse or instruct the public, then interviewing is a blessing. but if the representative of the press asks questions, either impudent or unimportant, and the answers are like the questions, then the institution is a failure. when the journalist fails to see the man he wishes to interview, or when the man refuses to be interviewed, and thereupon the aforesaid journalist writes up an interview, doing the talking for both sides, the institution is a success. such interviews are always interesting, and, as a rule, the questions are to the point and the answers perfectly responsive. there is probably a little too much interviewing, and to many persons are asked questions upon subjects about which they know nothing. mr. smith makes some money in stocks or pork, visits london, and remains in that city for several weeks. on his return he is interviewd as to the institutions, laws and customs of the british empire. of course such an interview is exceedingly instructive. lord affanaff lands at the dock in north river, is driven to a hotel in a closed carriage, is interviewed a few minutes after by a representative of the _herald_ as to his view of the great republic based upon what he has seen. such an interview is also instructive. interviews with candidates as to their chances of election is another favorite way of finding out their honest opinion, but people who rely on those interviews generally lose their bets. the most interesting interviews are generally denied. i have been expecting to see an interview with the rev. dr. leonard on the medicinal properties of champagne and toast, or the relation between old ale and modern theology, and as to whether prohibition prohibits the prohibitionists. _question_. have you ever been misrepresented in interviews? _answer_. several times. as a general rule, the clergy have selected these misrepresentations when answering me. i never blamed them, because it is much easier to answer something i did not say. most reporters try to give my real words, but it is difficult to remember. they try to give the substance, and in that way change or destroy the sense. you remember the frenchman who translated shakespeare's great line in macbeth--"out, brief candle!"--into "short candle, go out!." another man, trying to give the last words of webster--"i still live"--said "i aint dead yit." so that when they try to do their best they often make mistakes. now and then interviews appear not one word of which i ever said, and sometimes when i really had an interview, another one has appeared. but generally the reporters treat me well, and most of them succeed in telling about what i said. personally i have no cause for complaint. _question_. what do you think of the administration of president cleveland? _answer_. i know but very little about it. i suppose that he is doing the best he can. he appears to be carrying out in good faith the principles laid down in the platform on which he was elected. he is having a hard road to travel. to satisfy an old democrat and a new mugwump is a difficult job. cleveland appears to be the owner of himself--appears to be a man of great firmness and force of character. the best thing that i have heard about him is that he went fishing on sunday. we have had so much mock morality, dude deportment and hypocritical respectability in public office, that a man with courage enough to enjoy himself on sunday is a refreshing and healthy example. all things considered i do not see but that cleveland is doing well enough. the attitude of the administration toward the colored people is manly and fair so far as i can see. _question_. are you still a republican in political belief? _answer_. i believe that this is a nation. i believe in the equality of all men before the law, irrespective of race, religion or color. i believe that there should be a dollar's worth of silver in a silver dollar. i believe in a free ballot and a fair count. i believe in protecting those industries, and those only, that need protection. i believe in unrestricted coinage of gold and silver. i believe in the rights of the state, the rights of the citizen, and the sovereignty of the nation. i believe in good times, good health, good crops, good prices, good wages, good food, good clothes and in the absolute and unqualified liberty of thought. if such belief makes a republican, than that is what i am. _question_. do you approve of john sherman's policy in the present campaign with reference to the bloody shirt, which reports of his speeches show that he is waving? _answer_. i have not read senator sherman's speech. it seems to me that there is a better feeling between the north and south than ever before--better than at any time since the revolutionary war. i believe in cultivating that feeling, and in doing and saying what we can to contribute to its growth. we have hated long enough and fought enough. the colored people never have been well treated but they are being better treated now than ever before. it takes a long time to do away with prejudices that were based upon religion and rascality--that is to say, inspiration and interest. we must remember that slavery was the crime of the whole country. now, if senator sherman has made a speech calculated to excite the hatreds and prejudices of the north and south, i think that he has made a mistake. i do not say that he has made such a speech, because i have not read it. the war is over--it ended at appomattox. let us hope that the bitterness born of the conflict died out forever at riverside. the people are tired almost to death of the old speeches. they have been worn out and patched, and even the patches are threadbare. the supreme court decided the civil rights bill to be unconstitutional, and the republican party submitted. i regarded the decision as monstrous, but the republican party when in power said nothing and did nothing. i most sincerely hope that the democratic party will protect the colored people at least as well as we did when we were in power. but i am out of politics and intend to keep politics out of me. _question_. we have been having the periodical revival of interest in spiritualism. what do you think of "spiritualism," as it is popularly termed? _answer_. i do not believe in the supernatural. one who does not believe in gods would hardly believe in ghosts. i am not a believer in any of the "wonders" and "miracles" whether ancient or modern. there may be spirits, but i do not believe there are. they may communicate with some people, but thus far they have been successful in avoiding me. of course, i know nothing for certain on the subject. i know a great many excellent people who are thoroughly convinced of the truth of spiritualism. christians laugh at the "miracles" to-day, attested by folks they know, but believe the miracles of long ago, attested by folks that they did not know. this is one of the contradictions in human nature. most people are willing to believe that wonderful things happened long ago and will happen again in the far future; with them the present is the only time in which nature behaves herself with becoming sobriety. in old times nature did all kinds of juggling tricks, and after a long while will do some more, but now she is attending strictly to business, depending upon cause and effect. _question_. who, in your opinion, is the greatest leader of the "opposition" yclept the christian religion? _answer_. i suppose that mr. beecher is the greatest man in the pulpit, but he thinks more of darwin than he does of david and has an idea that the old testament is just a little too old. he has put evolution in the place of the atonement--has thrown away the garden of eden, snake, apples and all, and is endeavoring to save enough of the orthodox wreck to make a raft. i know of no other genius in the pulpit. there are plenty of theological doctors and bishops and all kinds of titled humility in the sacred profession, but men of genius are scarce. all the ministers, except messrs. moody and jones, are busy explaining away the contradiction between inspiration and demonstration. _question_. what books would you recommend for the perusal of a young man of limited time and culture with reference to helping him in the development of intellect and good character? _answer_. the works of darwin, ernst haeckel, draper's "intellectual development of europe," buckle's "history of civilization in england," lecky's "history of european morals," voltaire's "philosophical dictionary," buechner's "force and matter," "the history of the christian religion" by waite; paine's "age of reason," d'holbach's "system of nature," and, above all, shakespeare. do not forget burns, shelley, dickens and hugo. _question_. will you lecture the coming winter? _answer_. yes, about the same as usual. woe is me if i preach not my gospel. _question_. have you been invited to lecture in europe? if so do you intend to accept the "call"? _answer_. yes, often. the probability is that i shall go to england and australia. i have not only had invitations but most excellent offers from both countries. there is, however, plenty to do here. this is the best country in the world and our people are eager to hear the other side. the old kind of preaching is getting superannuated. it lags superfluous in the pulpit. our people are outgrowing the cruelties and absurdities of the ancient jews. the idea of hell has become shocking and vulgar. eternal punishment is eternal injustice. it is infinitely infamous. most ministers are ashamed to preach the doctrine, and the congregations are ashamed to hear it preached. it is the essence of savagery. --_plain dealer_, cincinnati, ohio, september , . my belief. _question_. it is said that in the past four or five years you have changed or modified your views upon the subject of religion; is this so? _answer_. it is not so. the only change, if that can be called a change, is, that i am more perfectly satisfied that i am right-- satisfied that what is called orthodox religion is a simple fabrication of mistaken men; satisfied that there is no such thing as an inspired book and never will be; satisfied that a miracle never was and never will be performed; satisfied that no human being knows whether there is a god or not, whether there is another life or not; satisfied that the scheme of atonement is a mistake, that the innocent cannot, by suffering for the guilty, atone for the guilt; satisfied that the doctrine that salvation depends on belief, is cruel and absurd; satisfied that the doctrine of eternal punishment is infamously false; satisfied that superstition is of no use to the human race; satisfied that humanity is the only true and real religion. no, i have not modified my views. i detect new absurdities every day in the popular belief. every day the whole thing becomes more and more absurd. of course there are hundreds and thousands of most excellent people who believe in orthodox religion; people for whose good qualities i have the greatest respect; people who have good ideas on most other subjects; good citizens, good fathers, husbands, wives and children--good in spite of their religion. i do not attack people. i attack the mistakes of people. orthodoxy is getting weaker every day. _question_. do you believe in the existence of a supreme being? _answer_. i do not believe in any supreme personality or in any supreme being who made the universe and governs nature. i do not say that there is no such being--all i say is that i do not believe that such a being exists. i know nothing on the subject, except that i know that i do not know and that nobody else knows. but if there is such a being, he certainly never wrote the old testament. you will understand my position. i do not say that a supreme being does not exist, but i do say that i do not believe such a being exists. the universe--embracing all that is--all atoms, all stars, each grain of sand and all the constellations, each thought and dream of animal and man, all matter and all force, all doubt and all belief, all virtue and all crime, all joy and all pain, all growth and all decay--is all there is. it does not act because it is moved from without. it acts from within. it is actor and subject, means and end. it is infinite; the infinite could not have been created. it is indestructible and that which cannot be destroyed was not created. i am a pantheist. _question_. don't you think the belief of the agnostic is more satisfactory to the believer than that of the atheist? _answer_. there is no difference. the agnostic is an atheist. the atheist is an agnostic. the agnostic says: "i do not know, but i do not believe there is any god." the atheist says the same. the orthodox christian says he knows there is a god; but we know that he does not know. he simply believes. he cannot know. the atheist cannot know that god does not exist. _question_. haven't you just the faintest glimmer of a hope that in some future state you will meet and be reunited to those who are dear to you in this? _answer_. i have no particular desire to be destroyed. i am willing to go to heaven if there be such a place, and enjoy myself for ever and ever. it would give me infinite satisfaction to know that all mankind are to be happy forever. infidels love their wives and children as well as christians do theirs. i have never said a word against heaven--never said a word against the idea of immortality. on the contrary, i have said all i could truthfully say in favor of the idea that we shall live again. i most sincerely hope that there is another world, better than this, where all the broken ties of love will be united. it is the other place i have been fighting. better that all of us should sleep the sleep of death forever than that some should suffer pain forever. if in order to have a heaven there must be a hell, then i say away with them both. my doctrine puts the bow of hope over every grave; my doctrine takes from every mother's heart the fear of hell. no good man would enjoy himself in heaven with his friends in hell. no good god could enjoy himself in heaven with millions of his poor, helpless mistakes in hell. the orthodox idea of heaven--with god an eternal inquisitor, a few heartless angels and some redeemed orthodox, all enjoying themselves, while the vast multitude will weep in the rayless gloom of god's eternal dungeon--is not calculated to make man good or happy. i am doing what i can to civilize the churches, humanize the preachers and get the fear of hell out of the human heart. in this business i am meeting with great success. --_philadelphia times_, september , . some live topics. _question_. shall you attend the albany freethought convention? _answer_. i have agreed to be present not only, but to address the convention, on sunday, the th of september. i am greatly gratified to know that the interest in the question of intellectual liberty is growing from year to year. everywhere i go it seems to be the topic of conversation. no matter upon what subject people begin to talk, in a little while the discussion takes a religious turn, and people who a few moments before had not the slightest thought of saying a word about the churches, or about the bible, are giving their opinions in full. i hear discussions of this kind in all the public conveyances, at the hotels, on the piazzas at the seaside--and they are not discussions in which i take any part, because i rarely say anything upon these questions except in public, unless i am directly addressed. there is a general feeling that the church has ruled the world long enough. people are beginning to see that no amount of eloquence, or faith, or erudition, or authority, can make the records of barbarism satisfactory to the heart and brain of this century. they have also found that a falsehood in hebrew in no more credible than in plain english. people at last are beginning to be satisfied that cruel laws were never good laws, no matter whether inspired or uninspired. the christian religion, like every other religion depending upon inspired writings, is wrecked upon the facts of nature. so long as inspired writers confined themselves to the supernatural world; so long as they talked about angels and gods and heavens and hells; so long as they described only things that man has never seen, and never will see, they were safe, not from contradiction, but from demonstration. but these writings had to have a foundation, even for their falsehoods, and that foundation was in nature. the foundation had to be something about which somebody knew something, or supposed they knew something. they told something about this world that agreed with the then general opinion. had these inspired writers told the truth about nature-- had they said that the world revolved on its axis, and made a circuit about the sun--they could have gained no credence for their statements about other worlds. they were forced to agree with their contemporaries about this world, and there is where they made the fundamental mistake. having grown in knowledge, the world has discovered that these inspired men knew nothing about this earth; that the inspired books are filled with mistakes--not only mistakes that we can contradict, but mistakes that we can demonstrate to be mistakes. had they told the truth in their day, about this earth, they would not have been believed about other worlds, because their contemporaries would have used their own knowledge about this world to test the knowledge of these inspired men. we pursue the same course; and what we know about this world we use as the standard, and by that standard we have found that the inspired men knew nothing about nature as it is. finding that they were mistaken about this world, we have no confidence in what they have said about another. every religion has had its philosophy about this world, and every one has been mistaken. as education becomes general, as scientific modes are adopted, this will become clearer and clearer, until "ignorant as inspiration" will be a comparison. _question_. have you seen the memorial to the new york legislature, to be presented this winter, asking for the repeal of such laws as practically unite church and state? _answer_. i have seen a memorial asking that church property be taxed like other property; that no more money should be appropriated from the public treasury for the support of institutions managed by and in the interest of sectarian denominations; for the repeal of all laws compelling the observance of sunday as a religious day. such memorials ought to be addressed to the legislatures of all the states. the money of the public should only be used for the benefit of the public. public money should not be used for what a few gentlemen think is for the benefit of the public. personally, i think it would be for the benefit of the public to have infidel or scientific--which is the same thing--lectures delivered in every town, in every state, on every sunday; but knowing that a great many men disagree with me on this point, i do not claim that such lectures ought to be paid for with public money. the methodist church ought not to be sustained by taxation, nor the catholic, nor any other church. to relieve their property from taxation is to appropriate money, to the extent of that tax, for the support of that church. whenever a burden is lifted from one piece of property, it is distributed over the rest of the property of the state, and to release one kind of property is to increase the tax on all other kinds. there was a time when people really supposed the churches were saving souls from the eternal wrath of a god of infinite love. being engaged in such a philanthropic work, and at the time nobody having the courage to deny it--the church being all-powerful--all other property was taxed to support the church; but now the more civilized part of the community, being satisfied that a god of infinite love will not be eternally unjust, feel as though the church should support herself. to exempt the church from taxation is to pay a part of the priest's salary. the catholic now objects to being taxed to support a school in which his religion is not taught. he is not satisfied with the school that says nothing on the subject of religion. he insists that it is an outrage to tax him to support a school where the teacher simply teaches what he knows. and yet this same catholic wants his church exempted from taxation, and the tax of an atheist or of a jew increased, when he teaches in his untaxed church that the atheist and jew will both be eternally damned! is it possible for impudence to go further? i insist that no religion should be taught in any school supported by public money; and by religion i mean superstition. only that should be taught in a school that somebody can learn and that somebody can know. in my judgment, every church should be taxed precisely the same as other property. the church may claim that it is one of the instruments of civilization and therefore should be exempt. if you exempt that which is useful, you exempt every trade and every profession. in my judgment, theatres have done more to civilize mankind than churches; that is to say, theatres have done something to civilize mankind--churches nothing. the effect of all superstition has been to render men barbarous. i do not believe in the civilizing effects of falsehood. there was a time when ministers were supposed to be in the employ of god, and it was thought that god selected them with great care --that their profession had something sacred about it. these ideas are no longer entertained by sensible people. ministers should be paid like other professional men, and those who like their preaching should pay for the preach. they should depend, as actors do, upon their popularity, upon the amount of sense, or nonsense, that they have for sale. they should depend upon the market like other people, and if people do not want to hear sermons badly enough to build churches and pay for them, and pay the taxes on them, and hire the preacher, let the money be diverted to some other use. the pulpit should no longer be a pauper. i do not believe in carrying on any business with the contribution box. all the sectarian institutions ought to support themselves. these should be no methodist or catholic or presbyterian hospitals or orphan asylums. all these should be supported by the state. there is no such thing as catholic charity, or methodist charity. charity belongs to humanity, not to any particular form of faith or religion. you will find as charitable people who never heard of religion, as you can find in the church. the state should provide for those who ought to be provided for. a few methodists beg of everybody they meet--send women with subscription papers, asking money from all classes of people, and nearly everybody gives something from politeness, or to keep from being annoyed; and when the institution is finished, it is pointed at as the result of methodism. probably a majority of the people in this country suppose that there was no charity in the world until the christian religion was founded. great men have repeated this falsehood, until ignorance and thoughtlessness believe it. there were orphan asylums in china, in india, and in egypt thousands of years before christ was born; and there certainly never was a time in the history of the whole world when there was less charity in europe than during the centuries when the church of christ had absolute power. there were hundreds of mohammedan asylums before christianity had built ten in the entire world. all institutions for the care of unfortunate people should be secular--should be supported by the state. the money for the purpose should be raised by taxation, to the end that the burden may be borne by those able to bear it. as it is now, most of the money is paid, not by the rich, but by the generous, and those most able to help their needy fellow citizens are the very ones who do nothing. if the money is raised by taxation, then the burden will fall where it ought to fall, and these institutions will no longer be supported by the generous and emotional, and the rich and stingy will no longer be able to evade the duties of citizenship and of humanity. now, as to the sunday laws, we know that they are only spasmodically enforced. now and then a few people are arrested for selling papers or cigars. some unfortunate barber is grabbed by a policeman because he has been caught shaving a christian, sunday morning. now and then some poor fellow with a hack, trying to make a dollar or two to feed his horses, or to take care of his wife and children, is arrested as though he were a murderer. but in a few days the public are inconvenienced to that degree that the arrests stop and business goes on in its accustomed channels, sunday and all. now and then society becomes so pious, so virtuous, that people are compelled to enter saloons by the back door; others are compelled to drink beer with the front shutters up; but otherwise the stream that goes down the thirsty throats is unbroken. the ministers have done their best to prevent all recreation on the sabbath. they would like to stop all the boats on the hudson, and on the sea-- stop all the excursion trains. they would like to compel every human being that lives in the city of new york to remain within its limits twenty-four hours every sunday. they hate the parks; they hate music; they hate anything that keeps a man away from church. most of the churches are empty during the summer, and now most of the ministers leave themselves, and give over the entire city to the devil and his emissaries. and yet if the ministers had their way, there would be no form of human enjoyment except prayer, signing subscription papers, putting money in contribution boxes, listening to sermons, reading the cheerful histories of the old testament, imagining the joys of heaven and the torments of hell. the church is opposed to the theatre, is the enemy of the opera, looks upon dancing as a crime, hates billiards, despises cards, opposes roller-skating, and even entertains a certain kind of prejudice against croquet. _question_. do you think that the orthodox church gets its ideas of the sabbath from the teachings of christ? _answer_. i do not hold christ responsible for these idiotic ideas concerning the sabbath. he regarded the sabbath as something made for man--which was a very sensible view. the holiest day is the happiest day. the most sacred day is the one in which have been done the most good deeds. there are two reasons given in the bible for keeping the sabbath. one is that god made the world in six days, and rested on the seventh. now that all the ministers admit that he did not make the world in six days, but that he made it in six "periods," this reason is no longer applicable. the other reason is that he brought the jews out of egypt with a "mighty hand." this may be a very good reason still for the observance of the sabbath by the jews, but the real sabbath, that is to say, the day to be commemorated, is our saturday, and why should we commemorate the wrong day? that disposes of the second reason. nothing can be more inconsistent than the theories and practice of the churches about the sabbath. the cars run sundays, and out of the profits hundreds of ministers are supported. the great iron and steel works fill with smoke and fire the sabbath air, and the proprietors divide the profits with the churches. the printers of the city are busy sunday afternoons and evenings, and the presses during the nights, so that the sermons of sunday can reach the heathen on monday. the servants of the rich are denied the privileges of the sanctuary. the coachman sits on the box out-doors, while his employer kneels in church preparing himself for the heavenly chariot. the iceman goes about on the holy day, keeping believers cool, they knowing at the same time that he is making it hot for himself in the world to come. christians cross the atlantic, knowing that the ship will pursue its way on the sabbath. they write letters to their friends knowing that they will be carried in violation of jehovah's law, by wicked men. yet they hate to see a pale-faced sewing girl enjoying a few hours by the sea; a poor mechanic walking in the fields; or a tired mother watching her children playing on the grass. nothing ever was, nothing ever will be, more utterly absurd and disgusting than a puritan sunday. nothing ever did make a home more hateful than the strict observance of the sabbath. it fills the house with hypocrisy and the meanest kind of petty tyranny. the parents look sour and stern, the children sad and sulky. they are compelled to talk upon subjects about which they feel no interest, or to read books that are thought good only because they are so stupid. _question_. what have you to say about the growth of catholicism, the activity of the salvation army, and the success of revivalists like the rev. samuel jones? is christianity really gaining a strong hold on the masses? _answer_. catholicism is growing in this country, and it is the only country on earth in which it is growing. its growth here depends entirely upon immigration, not upon intellectual conquest. catholic emigrants who leave their homes in the old world because they have never had any liberty, and who are catholics for the same reason, add to the number of catholics here, but their children's children will not be catholics. their children will not be very good catholics, and even these immigrants themselves, in a few years, will not grovel quite so low in the presence of a priest. the catholic church is gaining no ground in catholic countries. the salvation army is the result of two things--the general belief in what are known as the fundamentals of christianity, and the heartlessness of the church. the church in england--that is to say, the church of england--having succeeded--that is to say, being supported by general taxation--that is to say, being a successful, well-fed parasite--naturally neglected those who did not in any way contribute to its support. it became aristocratic. splendid churches were built; younger sons with good voices were put in the pulpits; the pulpit became the asylum for aristocratic mediocrity, and in this way the church of england lost interest in the masses and the masses lost interest in the church of england. the neglected poor, who really had some belief in religion, and who had not been absolutely petrified by form and patronage, were ready for the salvation army. they were not at home in the church. they could not pay. they preferred the freedom of the street. they preferred to attend a church where rags were no objection. had the church loved and labored with the poor the salvation army never would have existed. these people are simply giving their idea of christianity, and in their way endeavoring to do what they consider good. i don't suppose the salvation army will accomplish much. to improve mankind you must change conditions. it is not enough to work simply upon the emotional nature. the surroundings must be such as naturally produce virtuous actions. if we are to believe recent reports from london, the church of england, even with the assistance of the salvation army, has accomplished but little. it would be hard to find any country with less morality. you would search long in the jungles of africa to find greater depravity. i account for revivalists like the rev. samuel jones in the same way. there is in every community an ignorant class--what you might call a literal class--who believe in the real blood atonement; who believe in heaven and hell, and harps and gridirons; who have never had their faith weakened by reading commentators or books harmonizing science and religion. they love to hear the good old doctrine; they want hell described; they want it described so that they can hear the moans and shrieks; they want heaven described; they want to see god on a throne, and they want to feel that they are finally to have the pleasure of looking over the battlements of heaven and seeing all their enemies among the damned. the rev. mr. munger has suddenly become a revivalist. according to the papers he is sought for in every direction. his popularity seems to rest upon the fact that he brutally beat a girl twelve years old because she did not say her prayers to suit him. muscular christianity is what the ignorant people want. i regard all these efforts--including those made by mr. moody and mr. hammond--as evidence that christianity, as an intellectual factor, has almost spent its force. it no longer governs the intellectual world. _question_. are not the catholics the least progressive? and are they not, in spite of their professions to the contrary, enemies to republican liberty? _answer_. every church that has a standard higher than human welfare is dangerous. a church that puts a book above the laws and constitution of its country, that puts a book above the welfare of mankind, is dangerous to human liberty. every church that puts itself above the legally expressed will of the people is dangerous. every church that holds itself under greater obligation to a pope than to a people is dangerous to human liberty. every church that puts religion above humanity--above the well-being of man in this world--is dangerous. the catholic church may be more dangerous, not because its doctrines are more dangerous, but because, on the average, its members more sincerely believe its doctrines, and because that church can be hurled as a solid body in any given direction. for these reasons it is more dangerous than other churches; but the doctrines are no more dangerous than those of the protestant churches. the man who would sacrifice the well- being of man to please an imaginary phantom that he calls god, is also dangerous. the only safe standard is the well-being of man in this world. whenever this world is sacrificed for the sake of another, a mistake has been made. the only god that man can know is the aggregate of all beings capable of suffering and of joy within the reach of his influence. to increase the happiness of such beings is to worship the only god that man can know. _question_. what have you to say to the assertion of dr. deems that there were never so many christians as now? _answer_. i suppose that the population of the earth is greater now than at any other time within the historic period. this being so, there may be more christians, so-called, in this world than there were a hundred years ago. of course, the reverend doctor, in making up his aggregate of christians, counts all kinds and sects--unitarians, universalists, and all the other "ans" and "ists" and "ics" and "ites" and "ers." but dr. deems must admit that only a few years ago most of the persons he now calls christians would have been burnt as heretics and infidels. let us compare the average new york christian with the christian of two hundred years ago. it is probably safe to say that there is not now in the city of new york a genuine presbyterian outside of an insane asylum. probably no one could be found who will to-day admit that he believes absolutely in the presbyterian confession of faith. there is probably not an episcopalian who believes in the thirty-nine articles. probably there is not an intelligent minister in the city of new york, outside of the catholic church, who believes that everything in the bible is true. probably no clergyman, of any standing, would be willing to take the ground that everything in the old testament--leaving out the question of inspiration--is actually true. very few ministers now preach the doctrine of eternal punishment. most of them would be ashamed to utter that brutal falsehood. a large majority of gentlemen who attend church take the liberty of disagreeing with the preacher. they would have been very poor christians two hundred years ago. a majority of the ministers take the liberty of disagreeing, in many things, with their presbyteries and synods. they would have been very poor preachers two hundred years ago. dr. deems forgets that most christians are only nominally so. very few believe their creeds. very few even try to live in accordance with what they call christian doctrines. nobody loves his enemies. no christian when smitten on one cheek turns the other. most christians do take a little thought for the morrow. they do not depend entirely upon the providence of god. most christians now have greater confidence in the average life-insurance company than in god--feel easier when dying to know that they have a policy, through which they expect the widow will receive ten thousand dollars, than when thinking of all the scripture promises. even church-members do not trust in god to protect their own property. they insult heaven by putting lightning rods on their temples. they insure the churches against the act of god. the experience of man has shown the wisdom of relying on something that we know something about, instead of upon the shadowy supernatural. the poor wretches to-day in spain, depending upon their priests, die like poisoned flies; die with prayers between their pallid lips; die in their filth and faith. _question_. what have you to say on the mormon question? _answer_. the institution of polygamy is infamous and disgusting beyond expression. it destroys what we call, and all civilized people call, "the family." it pollutes the fireside, and, above all, as burns would say, "petrifies the feeling." it is, however, one of the institutions of jehovah. it is protected by the bible. it has inspiration on its side. sinai, with its barren, granite peaks, is a perpetual witness in its favor. the beloved of god practiced it, and, according to the sacred word, the wisest man had, i believe, about seven hundred wives. this man received his wisdom directly from god. it is hard for the average bible worshiper to attack this institution without casting a certain stain upon his own book. only a few years ago slavery was upheld by the same bible. slavery having been abolished, the passages in the inspired volume upholding it have been mostly forgotten, but polygamy lives, and the polygamists, with great volubility, repeat the passages in their favor. we send our missionaries to utah, with their bibles, to convert the mormons. the mormons show, by these very bibles, that god is on their side. nothing remain now for the missionaries except to get back their bibles and come home. the preachers do not appeal to the bible for the purpose of putting down mormonism. they say: "send the army." if the people of this country could only be honest; if they would only admit that the old testament is but the record of a barbarous people; if the samson of the nineteenth century would not allow its limbs to be bound by the delilah of superstition, it could with one blow destroy this monster. what shall we say of the moral force of christianity, when it utterly fails in the presence of mormonism? what shall we say of a bible that we dare not read to a mormon as an argument against legalized lust, or as an argument against illegal lust? i am opposed to polygamy. i want it exterminated by law; but i hate to see the exterminators insist that god, only a few thousand years ago, was as bad as the mormons are to-day. in my judgment, such a god ought to be exterminated. _question_. what do you think of men like the rev. henry ward beecher and the rev. r. heber newton? do they deserve any credit for the course they have taken? _answer_. mr. beecher is evidently endeavoring to shore up the walls of the falling temple. he sees the cracks; he knows that the building is out of plumb; he feels that the foundation is insecure. lies can take the place of stones only so long as they are thoroughly believed. mr. beecher is trying to do something to harmonize superstition and science. he is reading between the lines. he has discovered that darwin is only a later saint paul, or that saint paul was the original darwin. he is endeavoring to make the new testament a scientific text-book. of course he will fail. but his intentions are good. thousands of people will read the new testament with more freedom than heretofore. they will look for new meanings; and he who looks for new meanings will not be satisfied with the old ones. mr. beecher, instead of strengthening the walls, will make them weaker. there is no harmony between religion and science. when science was a child, religion sought to strangle it in the cradle. now that science has attained its youth, and superstition is in its dotage, the trembling, palsied wreck says to the athlete: "let us be friends." it reminds me of the bargain the cock wished to make with the horse: "let us agree not to step on each other's feet." mr. beecher, having done away with hell, substitutes annihilation. his doctrine at present is that only a fortunate few are immortal, and that the great mass return to dreamless dust. this, of course, is far better than hell, and is a great improvement on the orthodox view. mr. beecher cannot believe that god would make such a mistake as to make men doomed to suffer eternal pain. why, i ask, should god give life to men whom he knows are unworthy of life? why should he annihilate his mistakes? why should he make mistakes that need annihilation? it can hardly be said that mr. beecher's idea is a new one. it was taught, with an addition, thousands of years ago, in india, and the addition almost answers my objection. the old doctrine was that only the soul that bears fruit, only the soul that bursts into blossom, will at the death of the body rejoin the infinite, and that all other souls--souls not having blossomed--will go back into low forms and make the journey up to man once more, and should they then blossom and bear fruit, will be held worthy to join the infinite, but should they again fail, they again go back; and this process is repeated until they do blossom, and in this way all souls at last become perfect. i suggest that mr. beecher make at least this addition to his doctrine. but allow me to say that, in my judgment, mr. beecher is doing great good. he may not convince many people that he is right, but he will certainly convince a great many people that christianity is wrong. _question_. in what estimation do you hold charles watts and samuel putnam, and what do you think of their labors in the cause of freethought? _answer_. mr. watts is an extremely logical man, with a direct and straightforward manner and mind. he has paid great attention to what is called "secularism." he thoroughly understands organization, and he is undoubtedly one of the strongest debaters in the field. he has had great experience. he has demolished more divines than any man of my acquaintance. i have read several of his debates. in discussion he is quick, pertinent, logical, and, above all, good natured. there is not in all he says a touch of malice. he can afford to be generous to his antagonists, because he is always the victor, and is always sure of the victory. last winter wherever i went, i heard the most favorable accounts of mr. watts. all who heard him were delighted. mr. putnam is one of the most thorough believers in intellectual liberty in the world. he believes with all his heart, is full of enthusiasm, ready to make any sacrifice, and to endure any hardship. had he lived a few years ago, he would have been a martyr. he has written some of the most stirring appeals to the liberals of this country that i have ever read. he believes that freethought has a future; that the time is coming when the superstitions of the world will either be forgotten, or remembered--some of them with smiles--most of them with tears. mr. putnam, although endowed with a poetic nature, with poetic insight, clings to the known, builds upon the experience of man, and believes in fancies only when they are used as the wings of a fact. i have never met a man who appeared to be more thoroughly devoted to the great cause of mental freedom. i have read his books with great interest, and find in them many pages filled with philosophy and pathos. i have met him often and i never heard him utter a harsh word about any human being. his good nature is as unfailing as the air. his abilities are of the highest order. it is a positive pleasure to meet him. he is so enthusiastic, so unselfish, so natural, so appreciative of others, so thoughtful for the cause, and so careless of himself, that he compels the admiration of every one who really loves the just and true. --_the truth seeker_, new york, september , . the president and senate. _question_. what have you to say with reference to the respective attitudes of the president and senate? _answer_. i don't think there is any doubt as to the right of the senate to call on the president for information. of course that means for what information he has. when a duty devolves upon two persons, one of them has no right to withhold any facts calculated to throw any light on the question that both are to decide. the president cannot appoint any officer who has to be confirmed by the senate; he can simply nominate. the senate cannot even suggest a name; it can only pass upon the person nominated. if it is called upon for counsel and advice, how can it give advice without knowing the facts and circumstances? the president must have a reason for wishing to make a change. he should give that reason to the senate without waiting to be asked. he has assured the country that he is a civil service reformer; that no man is to be turned out because he is a republican, and no man appointed because he is a democrat. now, the senate has given the president an opportunity to prove that he has acted as he has talked. if the president feels that he is bound to carry out the civil-service law, ought not the senate to feel in the same way? is it not the duty of the senate to see to it that the president does not, with its advice and consent, violate the civil service law? is the consent of the senate a mere matter of form? in these appointments the president is not independent of or above the senate; they are equal, and each has the right to be "honor bright" with the other, at least. as long as this foolish law is unrepealed it must be carried out. neither party is in favor of civil service reform, and never was. the republican party did not carry it out, and did not intend to. the president has the right to nominate. under the law as it is now, when the president wants to appoint a clerk, or when one of his secretaries wants one, four names are sent, and from these four names a choice has to be made. this is clearly an invasion of the rights of the executive. if they have the right to compel the president to choose from four, why not from three, or two? why not name the one, and have done with it? the law is worse than unconstitutional--it is absurd. but in this contest the senate, in my judgment, is right. in my opinion, by the time cleveland goes out most of the offices will be filled with democrats. if the republicans succeed next time, i know, and everybody knows, that they will never rest easy until they get the democrats out. they will shout "offensive partisanship." the truth is, the theory is wrong. every citizen should take an interest in politics. a good man should not agree to keep silent just for the sake of an office. a man owes his best thoughts to his country. if he ought to defend his country in time of war, and under certain circumstances give his life for it, can we say that in time of peace he is under no obligation to discharge what he believes to be a duty, if he happens to hold an office? must he sell his birthright for the sake of being a doorkeeper? the whole doctrine is absurd and never will be carried out. _question_. what do you think as to the presidential race? _answer_. that is a good way off. i think the people can hardly be roused to enthusiasm by the old names. our party must take another step forward. we cannot live on what we have done; we must seek power for the sake, not of power, but for the accomplishment of a purpose. we must reform the tariff. we must settle the question of silver. we must have sense enough to know what the country needs, and courage enough to tell it. by reforming the tariff, i mean protect that and that only that needs protection-- laws for the country and not for the few. we want honest money; we want a dollar's worth of gold in a silver dollar, and a dollar's worth of silver in a gold dollar. we want to make them of equal value. bi-metallism does not mean that eighty cents' worth of silver is worth one hundred in gold. the republican party must get back its conscience and be guided by it in deciding the questions that arise. great questions are pressing for solution. thousands of working people are in want. business is depressed. the future is filled with clouds. what does the republican party propose? must we wait for mobs to inaugurate reform? must we depend on police or statesmen? should we wait and crush by brute force or should we prevent? the toilers demand that eight hours should constitute a day's work. upon this question what does our party say? labor saving machines ought to lighten the burdens of the laborers. it will not do to say "over production" and keep on inventing machines and refuse to shorten the hours. what does our party say? the rich can take care of themselves if the mob will let them alone, and there will be no mob if there is no widespread want. hunger is a communist. the next candidate of the republican party must be big enough and courageous enough to answer these questions. if we find that kind of a candidate we shall succeed--if we do not, we ought not. --_chicago inter-ocean_, february, . atheism and citizenship. _question_. have you noticed the decision of mr. nathaniel jarvis, jr., clerk of the naturalization bureau of the court of common pleas, that an atheist cannot become a citizen? _answer_. yes, but i do not think it necessary for a man to be a theist in order to become or to remain a citizen of this country. the various laws, from up to , provided that the person wishing to be naturalized might make oath or affirmation. the first exception you will find in the revised statutes of the united states passed in - , section , , as follows:--"an alien may be admitted to become a citizen of the united states in the following manner, and not otherwise:--first, he shall declare on oath, before a circuit or district court of the united states, etc." i suppose mr. jarvis felt it to be his duty to comply with this section. in this section there is nothing about affirmation --only the word "oath" is used--and mr. jarvis came to the conclusion that an atheist could not take an oath, and, therefore, could not declare his intention legally to become a citizen of the united states. undoubtedly mr. jarvis felt it his duty to stand by the law and to see to it that nobody should become a citizen of this country who had not a well defined belief in the existence of a being that he could not define and that no man has ever been able to define. in other words, that he should be perfectly convinced that there is a being "without body, parts or passions," who presides over the destinies of this world, and more especially those of new york in and about that part known as city hall park. _question_. was not mr. jarvis right in standing by the law? _answer_. if mr. jarvis is right, neither humboldt nor darwin could have become a citizen of the united states. wagner, the greatest of musicians, not being able to take an oath, would have been left an alien. under this ruling haeckel, spencer and tyndall would be denied citizenship--that is to say, the six greatest men produced by the human race in the nineteenth century, were and are unfit to be citizens of the united states. those who have placed the human race in debt cannot be citizens of the republic. on the other hand, the ignorant wife beater, the criminal, the pauper raised in the workhouse, could take the necessary oath and would be welcomed by new york "with arms outstretched as she would fly." _question_. you have quoted one statute. is there no other applicable to this case? _answer_. i am coming to that. if mr. jarvis will take the pains to read not only the law of naturalization in section , of the revised statutes of the united states, but the very first chapter in the book, "title i.," he will find in the very first section this sentence: "the requirements of any 'oath' shall be deemed complied with by making affirmation in official form." this applies to section , . of course an atheist can affirm, and the statute provides that wherever an oath is required affirmation may be made. _question_. did you read the recent action of judge o'gorman, of the superior court, in refusing naturalization papers to an applicant because he had not read the constitution of the united states? _answer_. i did. the united states constitution is a very important document, a good, sound document, but it is talked about a great deal more than it is read. i'll venture that you may commence at the battery to interview merchants and other business men about the constitution and you will talk with a hundred before you will find one who has ever read it. --_new york herald_, august , . the labor question. _question_. what is your remedy, colonel, for the labor troubles of the day? _answer_. one remedy is this: i should like to see the laboring men succeed. i should like to see them have a majority in congress and with a president of their own. i should like to see this so that they could satisfy themselves how little, after all, can be accomplished by legislation. the moment responsibility should touch their shoulders they would become conservative. they would find that making a living in this world is an individual affair, and that each man must look out for himself. they would soon find that the government cannot take care of the people. the people must support the government. everything cannot be regulated by law. the factors entering into this problem are substantially infinite and beyond the intellectual grasp of any human being. perhaps nothing in the world will convince the laboring man how little can be accomplished by law until there is opportunity of trying. to discuss the question will do good, so i am in favor of its discussion. to give the workingmen a trial will do good, so i am in favor of giving them a trial. _question_. but you have not answered my question: i asked you what could be done, and you have told me what could not be done. now, is there not some better organization of society that will help in this trouble? _answer_. undoubtedly. unless humanity is a failure, society will improve from year to year and from age to age. there will be, as the years go by, less want, less injustice, and the gifts of nature will be more equally divided, but there will never come a time when the weak can do as much as the strong, or when the mentally weak can accomplish as much as the intellectually strong. there will forever be inequality in society; but, in my judgment, the time will come when an honest, industrious person need not want. in my judgment, that will come, not through governmental control, not through governmental slavery, not through what is called socialism, but through liberty and through individuality. i can conceive of no greater slavery than to have everything done by the government. i want free scope given to individual effort. in time some things that governments have done will be removed. the creation of a nobility, the giving of vast rights to corporations, and the bestowment of privileges on the few will be done away with. in other words, governmental interference will cease and man will be left more to himself. the future will not do away with want by charity, which generally creates more want than it alleviates, but by justice and intelligence. shakespeare says, "there is no darkness but ignorance," and it might be added that ignorance is the mother of most suffering. --_the enquirer_, cincinnati, ohio, september , . railroads and politics. _question_. you are intimately acquainted with the great railroad managers and the great railroad systems, and what do you think is the great need of the railways to-day? _answer_. the great need of the railroads to-day is more business, more cars, better equipments, better pay for the men and less gambling in wall street. _question_. is it your experience that public men usually ride on passes? _answer_. yes, whenever they can get them. passes are for the rich. only those are expected to pay who can scarcely afford it. nothing shortens a journey, nothing makes the road as smooth, nothing keeps down the dust and keeps out the smoke like a pass. _question_. don't you think that the pass system is an injustice --that is, that ordinary travelers are taxed for the man who rides on a pass? _answer_. certainly, those who pay, pay for those who do not. this is one of the misfortunes of the obscure. it is so with everything. the big fish live on the little ones. _question_. are not parallel railroads an evil? _answer_. no, unless they are too near together. competition does some good and some harm, but it must exist. all these things must be left to take care of themselves. if the government interferes it is at the expense of the manhood and liberty of the people. _question_. but wouldn't it be better for the people if the railroads were managed by the government as is the post-office? _answer_. no, everything that individual can do should be left to them. if the government takes charge of the people they become weak and helpless. the people should take charge of the government. give the folks a chance. _question_. in the next presidential contest what will be the main issue? _answer_. the maine issue! _question_. would you again refuse to take the stump for mr. blaine if he should be renominated, and if so, why? _answer_. i do not expect to take the stump for anybody. mr. blaine is probably a candidate, and if he is nominated there will be plenty of people on the stump--or fence--or up a tree or somewhere in the woods. _question_. what are the most glaring mistakes of cleveland's administration? _answer_. first, accepting the nomination. second, taking the oath of office. third, not resigning. --_times star_, cincinnati, september , . prohibition. _question_. how much importance do you attach to the present prohibition movement? _answer_. no particular importance. i am opposed to prohibition and always have been, and hope always to be. i do not want the legislature to interfere in these matters. i do not believe that the people can be made temperate by law. men and women are not made great and good by the law. there is no good in the world that cannot be abused. prohibition fills the world with spies and tattlers, and, besides that, where a majority of the people are not in favor of it the law will not be enforced; and where a majority of the people are in favor of it there is not much need of the law. where a majority are against it, juries will violate their oath, and witnesses will get around the truth, and the result is demoralization. take wine and malt liquors out of the world and we shall lose a vast deal of good fellowship; the world would lose more than it would gain. there is a certain sociability about wine that i should hate to have taken from the earth. strong liquors the folks had better let alone. if prohibition succeeds, and wines and malt liquors go, the next thing will be to take tobacco away, and the next thing all other pleasures, until prayer meetings will be the only places of enjoyment. _question_. do you care to say who your choice is for republican nominee for president in ? _answer_. i now promise that i will answer this question either in may or june, . at present my choice is not fixed, and is liable to change at any moment, and i need to leave it free, so that it can change from time to time as the circumstances change. i will, however, tell you privately that i think it will probably be a new man, somebody on whom the republicans can unite. i have made a good many inquiries myself to find out who this man is to be, but in every instance the answer has been determined by the location in which the gentleman lived who gave the answer. let us wait. _question_. do you think the republican party should take a decided stand on the temperance issue? _answer_. i do; and that decided stand should be that temperance is an individual question, something with which the state and nation have nothing to do. temperance is a thing that the law cannot control. you might as well try to control music, painting, sculpture, or metaphysics, as the question of temperance. as life becomes more valuable, people will learn to take better care of it. there is something more to be desired even than temperance, and that is liberty. i do not believe in putting out the sun because weeds grow. i should rather have some weeds than go without wheat and corn. the republican party should represent liberty and individuality; it should keep abreast of the real spirit of the age; the republican party ought to be intelligent enough to know that progress has been marked not by the enactment of new laws, but by the repeal of old ones. --_evening traveler_, boston, october, . henry george and labor. _question_. it is said, colonel ingersoll, that you are for henry george? _answer_. of course; i think it the duty of the republicans to defeat the democracy--a solemn duty--and i believe that they have a chance to elect george; that is to say, an opportunity to take new york from their old enemy. if the republicans stand by george he will succeed. all the democratic factions are going to unite to beat the workingmen. what a picture! now is the time for the republicans to show that all their sympathies are not given to bankers, corporations and millionaires. they were on the side of the slave--they gave liberty to millions. let them take another step and extend their hands to the sons of toil. my heart beats with those who bear the burdens of this poor world. _question_. do you not think that capital is entitled to protection? _answer_. i am in favor of accomplishing all reforms in a legal and orderly way, and i want the laboring people of this country to appeal to the ballot. all classes and all interests must be content to abide the result. i want the laboring people to show that they are intelligent enough to stand by each other. henry george is their natural leader. let them be true to themselves by being true to him. the great questions between capital and labor must be settled peaceably. there is no excuse for violence, and no excuse for contempt and scorn. no country can be prosperous while the workers want and the idlers waste. those who do the most should have the most. there is no civilized country, so far as i know, but i believe there will be, and i want to hasten they day when the map of the world will give the boundaries of that blessed land. _question_. do you agree with george's principles? do you believe in socialism? _answer_. i do not understand that george is a socialist. he is on the side of those that work--so am i. he wants to help those that need help--so do i. the rich can take care of themselves. i shed no tears over the miseries of capital. i think of the men in mines and factories, in huts, hovels and cellars; of the poor sewing women; of the poor, the hungry and the despairing. the world must be made better through intelligence. i do not go with the destroyers, with those that hate the successful, that hate the generous, simply because they are rich. wealth is the surplus produced by labor, and the wealth of the world should keep the world from want. --_new york herald_, october , . labor question and socialism. _question_. what do you think of henry george for mayor? _answer_. several objections have been urged, not to what mr. george has done, but to what mr. george has thought, and he is the only candidate up to this time against whom a charge of this character could be made. among other things, he seems to have entertained an idea to the effect that a few men should not own the entire earth; that a child coming into the world has a right to standing room, and that before he walks, his mother has a right to standing room while she holds him. he insists that if it were possible to bottle the air, and sell it as we do mineral water, it would be hardly fair for the capitalists of the world to embark in such a speculation, especially where millions were allowed to die simply because they were not able to buy breath at "pool prices." mr. george seems to think that the time will come when capital will be intelligent enough and civilized enough to take care of itself. he has a dream that poverty and crime and all the evils that go hand in hand with partial famine, with lack of labor, and all the diseases born of living in huts and cellars, born of poor food and poor clothing and of bad habits, will disappear, and that the world will be really fit to live in. he goes so far as to insist that men ought to have more than twenty-three or twenty-four dollars a month for digging coal, and that they ought not to be compelled to spend that money in the store or saloon of the proprietor of the mine. he has also stated on several occasions that a man ought not to drive a street car for sixteen or eighteen hours a day--that even a street-car driver ought to have the privilege now and then of seeing his wife, or at least one of the children, awake. and he has gone so far as to say that a letter-carrier ought not to work longer in each day for the united states than he would for a civilized individual. to people that imagine that this world is already perfection; that the condition of no one should be bettered except their own, these ideas seem dangerous. a man who has already amassed a million, and who has no fear for the future, and who says: "i will employ the cheapest labor and make men work as long as they can possibly endure the toil," will regard mr. george as an impractical man. it is very probable that all of us will be dead before all the theories of mr. george are put in practice. some of them, however, may at some time benefit mankind; and so far as i am concerned, i am willing to help hasten the day, although it may not come while i live. i do not know that i agree with many of the theories of mr. george. i know that i do not agree with some of them. but there is one thing in which i do agree with him, and that is, in his effort to benefit the human race, in his effort to do away with some of the evils that now afflict mankind. i sympathize with him in his endeavor to shorten the hours of labor, to increase the well- being of laboring men, to give them better houses, better food, and in every way to lighten the burdens that now bear upon their bowed backs. it may be that very little can be done by law, except to see that they are not absolutely abused; to see that the mines in which they work are supplied with air and with means of escape in time of danger; to prevent the deforming of children by forcing upon them the labor of men; to shorten the hours of toil, and to give all laborers certain liens, above all other claims, for their work. it is easy to see that in this direction something may be done by law. _question_. colonel ingersoll, are you a socialist? _answer_. i am an individualist instead of a socialist. i am a believer in individuality and in each individual taking care of himself, and i want the government to do just as little as it can consistently with the safety of the nation, and i want as little law as possible--only as much as will protect life, reputation and property by punishing criminals and by enforcing honest contracts. but if a government gives privileges to a few, the few must not oppress the many. the government has no right to bestow any privilege upon any man or upon any corporation, except for the public good. that which is a special privilege to the few, should be a special benefit to the many. and whenever the privileged few abuse the privilege so that it becomes a curse to the many, the privilege, whatever it is, should be withdrawn. i do not pretend to know enough to suggest a remedy for all the evils of society. i doubt if one human mind could take into consideration the almost infinite number of factors entering into such a problem. and this fact that no one knows, is the excuse for trying. while i may not believe that a certain theory will work, still, if i feel sure it will do no harm, i am willing to see it tried. _question_. do you think that mr. george would make a good mayor? _answer_. i presume he would. he is a thoughtful, prudent man. his reputation for honesty has never, so far as i know, been called in question. it certainly does not take a genius to be mayor of new york. if so, there have been some years when there was hardly a mayor. i take it that a clear-headed, honest man, whose only object is to do his duty, and with courage enough to stand by his conscience, would make a good mayor of new york or of any other city. _question_. are you in sympathy with the workingmen and their objects? _answer_. i am in sympathy with laboring men of all kinds, whether they labor with hand or brain. the knights of labor, i believe, do not allow a lawyer to become a member. i am somewhat wider in my sympathies. no men in the world struggle more heroically; no men in the world have suffered more, or carried a heavier cross, or worn a sharper crown of thorns, than those that have produced what we call the literature of our race. so my sympathies extend all the way from hod-carriers to sculptors; from well-diggers to astronomers. if the objects of the laboring men are to improve their condition without injuring others; to have homes and firesides, and wives and children; plenty to eat, good clothes to wear; to develop their minds, to educate their children--in short, to become prosperous and civilized, i sympathize with them, and hope they will succeed. i have not the slightest sympathy with those that wish to accomplish all these objects through brute force. a nihilist may be forgiven in russia--may even be praised in russia; a socialist may be forgiven in germany; and certainly a home-ruler can be pardoned in ireland, but in the united states there is no place for anarchist, socialist or dynamiter. in this country the political power has been fairly divided. poverty has just as many votes as wealth. no man can be so poor as not to have a ballot; no man is rich enough to have two; and no man can buy another vote, unless somebody is mean enough and contemptible enough to sell; and if he does sell his vote, he never should complain about the laws or their administration. so the foolish and the wise are on an equality, and the political power of this country is divided so that each man is a sovereign. now, the laboring people are largely in the majority in this country. if there are any laws oppressing them, they should have them repealed. i want the laboring people--and by the word "laboring" now, i include only the men that they include by that word--to unite; i want them to show that they have the intelligence to act together, and sense enough to vote for a friend. i want them to convince both the other great parties that they cannot be purchased. this will be an immense step in the right direction. i have sometimes thought that i should like to see the laboring men in power, so that they would realize how little, after all, can be done by law. all that any man should ask, so far as the government is concerned, is a fair chance to compete with his neighbors. personally, i am for the abolition of all special privileges that are not for the general good. my principal hope of the future is the civilization of my race; the development not only of the brain, but of the heart. i believe the time will come when we shall stop raising failures, when we shall know something of the laws governing human beings. i believe the time will come when we shall not produce deformed persons, natural criminals. in other words, i think the world is going to grow better and better. this may not happen to this nation or to what we call our race, but it may happen to some other race, and all that we do in the right direction hastens that day and that race. _question_. do you think that the old parties are about to die? _answer_. it is very hard to say. the country is not old enough for tables of mortality to have been calculated upon parties. i suppose a party, like anything else, has a period of youth, of manhood and decay. the democratic party is not dead. some men grow physically strong as they grow mentally weak. the democratic party lived out of office, and in disgrace, for twenty-five years, and lived to elect a president. if the democratic party could live on disgrace for twenty-five years it now looks as though the republican party, on the memory of its glory and of its wonderful and unparalleled achievements, might manage to creep along for a few years more. --_new york world_, october , . henry george and socialism. _question_. what is your opinion of the result of the election? _answer_. i find many dead on the field whose faces i recognize. i see that morrison has taken a "horizontal" position. free trade seems to have received an exceedingly black eye. carlisle, in my judgment, one of the very best men in congress, has been defeated simply because he is a free trader, and i suppose you can account for hurd's defeat in the same way. the people believe in protection although they generally admit that the tariff ought to be reformed. i believe in protecting "infant industries," but i do not believe in rocking the cradle when the infant is seven feet high and wears number twelve boots. _question_. do you sympathize with the socialists, or do you think that the success of george would promote socialism? _answer_. i have said frequently that if i lived in russia i should in all probability be a nihilist. i can conceive of no government that would not be as good as that of russia, and i would consider _no_ government far preferable to that government. any possible state of anarchy is better than organized crime, because in the chaos of anarchy justice may be done by accident, but in a government organized for the perpetuation of slavery, and for the purpose of crushing out of the human brain every noble thought, justice does not live. in germany i would probably be a socialist--to this extent, that i would want the political power honestly divided among the people. i can conceive of no circumstance in which i could support bismarck. i regard bismarck as a projection of the middle ages, as a shadow that has been thrown across the sunlight of modern civilization, and in that shadow grow all the bloodless crimes. now, in ireland, of course, i believe in home rule. in this country i am an individualist. the political power here is equally divided. poverty and wealth have the same power at the ballot-box. intelligence and ignorance are on an equality here, simply because all men have a certain interest in the government where they live. i hate above all other things the tyranny of a government. i do not want a government to send a policeman along with me to keep me from buying eleven eggs for a dozen. i will take care of myself. i want the people to do everything they can do, and the government to keep its hands off, because if the government attends to all these matters the people lose manhood, and in a little while become serfs, and there will arise some strong mind and some powerful hand that will reduce them to actual slavery. so i am in favor or personal liberty to the largest extent. whenever the government grants privileges to the few, these privileges should be for the benefit of the many, and when they cease to be for the benefit of the many, they should be taken from the few and used by the government itself for the benefit of the whole people. and i want to see in this country the government so administered that justice will be done to all as nearly as human institutions can produce such a result. now, i understand that in any state of society there will be failures. we have failures among the working people. we have had some failures in congress. i will not mention the names, because your space is limited. there have been failures in the pulpit, at the bar; in fact, in every pursuit of life you will presume we shall have failures with us for a great while; at least until the establishment of the religion of the body, when we shall cease to produce failures; and i have faith enough in the human race to believe that that time will come, but i do not expect it during my life. _question_. what do you think of the income tax as a step toward the accomplishment of what you desire? _answer_. there are some objections to an income tax. first, the espionage that it produces on the part of the government. second, the amount of perjury that it annually produces. men hate to have their business inquired into if they are not doing well. they often pay a very large tax to make their creditors think they are prosperous. others by covering up, avoid the tax. but i will say this with regard to taxation: the great desideratum is stability. if we tax only the land, and that were the only tax, in a little while every other thing, and the value of every other thing, would adjust itself in relation to that tax, and perfect justice would be the result. that is to say, if it were stable long enough the burden would finally fall upon the right backs in every department. the trouble with taxation is that it is continually changing--not waiting for the adjustment that will naturally follow provided it is stable. i think the end, so far as land is concerned, could be reached by cumulative taxation--that is to say, a man with a certain amount of land paying a very small per cent., with more land, and increased per cent., and let that per cent. increase rapidly enough so that no man could afford to hold land that he did not have a use for. so i believe in cumulative taxation in regard to any kind of wealth. let a man worth ten million dollars pay a greater per cent. than one worth one hundred thousand, because he is able to pay it. the other day a man was talking to me about having the dead pay the expenses of the government; that whenever a man died worth say five million dollars, one million should go to the government; that if he died worth ten million dollars, three millions should go to the government; if he died worth twenty million dollars, eight million should go to the government, and so on. he said that in this way the expenses of the government could be borne by the dead. i should be in favor of cumulative taxation upon legacies-- the greater the legacy, the greater the per cent. of taxation. but, of course, i am not foolish enough to suppose that i understand these questions. i am giving you a few guesses. my only desire is to guess right. i want to see the people of this world live for this world, and i hope the time will come when a civilized man will understand that he cannot be perfectly happy while anybody else is miserable; that a perfectly civilized man could not enjoy a dinner knowing that others were starving; that he could not enjoy the richest robes if he knew that some of his fellow-men in rags and tatters were shivering in the blast. in other words, i want to carry out the idea there that i have so frequently uttered with regard to the other world; that is, that no gentleman angel could be perfectly happy knowing that somebody else was in hell. _question_. what are the chances for the republican party in ? _answer_. if it will sympathize with the toilers, as it did with the slaves; if it will side with the needy; if it will only take the right side it will elect the next president. the poor should not resort to violence; the rich should appeal to the intelligence of the working people. these questions cannot be settled by envy and scorn. the motto of both parties should be: "come, let us reason together." the republican party was the grandest organization that ever existed. it was brave, intelligent and just. it sincerely loved the right. a certificate of membership was a patent of nobility. if it will only stand by the right again, its victorious banner will float over all the intelligent sons of toil. --_the times_, chicago, illinois, november , . reply to the rev. b. f. morse.* [* at the usual weekly meeting of the baptist ministers at the publication rooms yesterday, the rev. dr. b. f. morse read an essay on "christianity vs. materialism." his contention was that all nature showed that design, not evolution, was its origin. in his concluding remarks dr. morse said that he knew from unquestionable authority, that robert g. ingersoll did not believe what he uttered in his lectures, and that to get out of a financial embarrassment he looked around for a money making scheme that could be put into immediate execution. to lecture against christianity was the most rapid way of giving him the needed cash and, what was quite as acceptable to him, at the same time, notoriety.] this aquatic or web-footed theologian who expects to go to heaven by diving is not worth answering. nothing can be more idiotic than to answer an argument by saying he who makes it does not believe it. belief has nothing to do with the cogency or worth of an argument. there is another thing. this man, or rather this minister, says that i attacked christianity simply to make money. is it possible that, after preachers have had the field for eighteen hundred years, the way to make money is to attack the clergy? is this intended as a slander against me or the ministers? the trouble is that my arguments cannot be answered. all the preachers in the world cannot prove that slavery is better than liberty. they cannot show that all have not an equal right to think. they cannot show that all have not an equal right to express their thoughts. they cannot show that a decent god will punish a decent man for making the best guess he can. this is all there is about it. --_the herald_, new york, december , . ingersoll on mcglynn. the attitude of the roman catholic church in dr. mcglynn's case is consistent with the history and constitution of the catholic church --perfectly consistent with its ends, its objects, and its means-- and just as perfectly inconsistent with intellectual liberty and the real civilization of the human race. when a man becomes a catholic priest, he has been convinced that he ought not to think for himself upon religious questions. he has become convinced that the church is the only teacher--that he has a right to think only to enforce its teachings. from that moment he is a moral machine. the chief engineer resides at rome, and he gives his orders through certain assistant engineers until the one is reached who turns the crank, and the machine has nothing to do one way or the other. this machine is paid for giving up his liberty by having machines under him who have also given up theirs. while somebody else turns his crank, he has the pleasure of turning a crank belonging to somebody below him. of course, the catholic church is supposed to be the only perfect institution on earth. all others are not only imperfect, but unnecessary. all others have been made either by man, or by the devil, or by a partnership, and consequently cannot be depended upon for the civilization of man. the catholic church gets its power directly from god, and is the only institution now in the world founded by god. there was never any other, so far as i know, except polygamy and slavery and a crude kind of monarchy, and they have been, for the most part, abolished. the catholic church must be true to itself. it must claim everything, and get what it can. it alone is infallible. it alone has all the wisdom of this world. it alone has the right to exist. all other interests are secondary. to be a catholic is of the first importance. human liberty is nothing. wealth, position, food, clothing, reputation, happiness--all these are less than worthless compared with what the catholic church promises to the man who will throw all these away. a priest must preach what his bishop tells him. a bishop must preach what his archbishop tells him. the pope must preach what he says god tells him. dr. mcglynn cannot make a compromise with the catholic church. it never compromises when it is in the majority. i do not mean by this that the catholic church is worse than any other. all are alike in this regard. every sect, no matter how insignificant; every church, no matter how powerful, asks precisely the same thing from every member--that is to say, a surrender of intellectual freedom. the catholic church wants the same as the baptist, the presbyterian, and the methodist--it wants the whole earth. it is ambitious to be the one supreme power. it hopes to see the world upon its knees, with all its tongues thrust out for wafers. it has the arrogance of humility and the ferocity of universal forgiveness. in this respect it resembles every other sect. every religion is a system of slavery. of course, the religionists say that they do not believe in persecution; that they do not believe in burning and hanging and whipping or loading with chains a man simply because he is an infidel. they are willing to leave all this with god, knowing that a being of infinite goodness will inflict all these horrors and tortures upon an honest man who differs with the church. in case dr. mcglynn is deprived of his priestly functions, it is hard to say what effect it will have upon his church and the labor party in the country. so long as a man believes that a church has eternal joy in store for him, so long as he believes that a church holds within its hand the keys of heaven and hell, it will be hard to make him trade off the hope of everlasting happiness for a few good clothes and a little good food and higher wages here. he finally thinks that, after all, he had better work for less and go a little hungry, and be an angel forever. i hope, however, that a good many people who have been supporting the catholic church by giving tithes of the wages of weariness will see, and clearly see, that catholicism is not their friend; that the church cannot and will not support them; that, on the contrary, they must support the church. i hope they will see that all the prayers have to be paid for, although not one has ever been answered. i hope they will perceive that the church is on the side of wealth and power, that the mitre is the friend of the crown, that the altar is the sworn brother of the throne. i hope they will finally know that the church cares infinitely more for the money of the millionaire than for the souls of the poor. of course, there are thousands of individual exceptions. i am speaking of the church as an institution, as a corporation--and when i say the church, i include all churches. it is said of corporations in general, that they have no soul, and it may truthfully be said of the church that it has less than any other. it lives on alms. it gives nothing for what it gets. it has no sympathy. beggars never weep over the misfortunes of other beggars. nothing could give me more pleasure than to see the catholic church on the side of human freedom; nothing more pleasure than to see the catholics of the world--those who work and weep and toil-- sensible enough to know that all the money paid for superstition is worse than lost. i wish they could see that the counting of beads, and the saying of prayers and celebrating of masses, and all the kneelings and censer-swingings and fastings and bell-ringing, amount to less than nothing--that all these things tend only to the degradation of mankind. it is hard, i know, to find an antidote for a poison that was mingled with a mother's milk. the laboring masses, so far as the catholics are concerned, are filled with awe and wonder and fear about the church. this fear began to grow while they were being rocked in their cradles, and they still imagine that the church has some mysterious power; that it is in direct communication with some infinite personality that could, if it desired, strike then dead, or damn their souls forever. persons who have no such belief, who care nothing for popes or priests or churches or heavens or hells or devils or gods, have very little idea of the power of fear. the old dogmas filled the brain with strange monsters. the soul of the orthodox christian gropes and wanders and crawls in a kind of dungeon, where the strained eyes see fearful shapes, and the frightened flesh shrinks from the touch of serpents. the good part of christianity--that is to say, kindness, morality --will never go down. the cruel part ought to go down. and by the cruel part i mean the doctrine of eternal punishment--of allowing the good to suffer for the bad--allowing innocence to pay the debt of guilt. so the foolish part of christianity--that is to say, the miraculous--will go down. the absurd part must perish. but there will be no war about it as there was in france. nobody believes enough in the foolish part of christianity now to fight for it. nobody believes with intensity enough in miracles to shoulder a musket. there is probably not a christian in new york willing to fight for any story, no matter if the story is so old that it is covered with moss. no mentally brave and intelligent man believes in miracles, and no intelligent man cares whether there was a miracle or not, for the reason that every intelligent man knows that the miraculous has no possible connection with the moral. "thou shalt not steal," is just as good a commandment if it should turn out that the flood was a drouth. "thou shalt not murder," is a good and just and righteous law, and whether any particular miracle was ever performed or not has nothing to do with the case. there is no possible relation between these things. i am on the side not only of the physically oppressed, but of the mentally oppressed. i hate those who put lashes on the body, and i despise those who put the soul in chains. in other words, i am in favor of liberty. i do not wish that any man should be the slave of his fellow-men, or that the human race should be the slaves of any god, real or imaginary. man has the right to think for himself, to work for himself, to take care of himself, to get bread for himself, to get a home for himself. he has a right to his own opinion about god, and heaven and hell; the right to learn any art or mystery or trade; the right to work for whom he will, for what he will, and when he will. the world belongs to the human race. there is to be no war in this country on religious opinions, except a war of words--a conflict of thoughts, of facts; and in that conflict the hosts of superstition will go down. they may not be defeated to-day, or to-morrow, or next year, or during this century, but they are growing weaker day by day. this priest, mcglynn, has the courage to stand up against the propaganda. what would have been his fate a few years ago? what would have happened to him in spain, in portugal, in italy--in any other country that was catholic--only a few years ago? yet he stands here in new york, he refuses to obey god's vicegerent; he freely gives his mind to an archbishop; he holds the holy inquisition in contempt. he has done a great thing. he is undoubtedly an honest man. he never should have been a catholic. he has no business in that church. he has ideas of his own--theories, and seems to be governed by principles. the catholic church is not his place. if he remains, he must submit, he must kneel in the humility of abjectness; he must receive on the back of his independence the lashes of the church. if he remains, he must ask the forgiveness of slaves for having been a man. if he refuses to submit, the church will not have him. he will be driven to take his choice-- to remain a member, humiliated, shunned, or go out into the great, free world a citizen of the republic, with the rights, responsibilities, and duties of an american citizen. i believe that dr. mcglynn is an honest man, and that he really believes in the land theories of mr. george. i have no confidence in his theories, but i have confidence that he is actuated by the best and noblest motives. _question_. are you to go on the lecture platform again? _answer_. i expect to after a while. i am now waiting for the church to catch up. i got so far ahead that i began almost to sympathize with the clergy. they looked so helpless and talked in such a weak, wandering, and wobbling kind of way that i felt as though i had been cruel. from the papers i see that they are busy trying to find out who the wife of cain was. i see that the rev. dr. robinson, of new york, is now wrestling with that problem. he begins to be in doubt whether adam was the first man, whether eve was the first woman; suspects that there were other races, and that cain did not marry his sister, but somebody else's sister, and that the somebody else was not cain's brother. one can hardly over- estimate the importance of these questions, they have such a direct bearing on the progress of the world. if it should turn out that adam was the first man, or that he was not the first man, something might happen--i am not prepared to say what, but it might. it is a curious kind of a spectacle to see a few hundred people paying a few thousand dollars a year for the purpose of hearing these great problems discussed: "was adam the first man?" "who was cain's wife?" "has anyone seen a map of the land of nod?" "where are the four rivers that ran murmuring through the groves of paradise?" "who was the snake? how did he walk? what language did he speak?" this turns a church into a kind of nursery, makes a cradle of each pew, and gives to each member a rattle with which he can amuse what he calls his mind. the great theologians of andover--the gentlemen who wear the brass collars furnished by the dead founder--have been disputing among themselves as to what is to become of the heathen who fortunately died before meeting any missionary from that institution. one can almost afford to be damned hereafter for the sake of avoiding the dogmas of andover here. nothing more absurd and childish has ever happened--not in the intellectual, but in the theological world. there is no need of the freethinkers saying anything at present. the work is being done by the church members themselves. they are beginning to ask questions of the clergy. they are getting tired of the old ideas--tired of the consolations of eternal pain--tired of hearing about hell--tired of hearing the bible quoted or talked about--tired of the scheme of redemption--tired of the trinity, of the plenary inspiration of the barbarous records of a barbarous people--tired of the patriarchs and prophets--tired of daniel and the goats with three horns, and the image with the clay feet, and the little stone that rolled down the hill--tired of the mud man and the rib woman--tired of the flood of noah, of the astronomy of joshua, the geology of moses--tired of kings and chronicles and lamentations--tired of the lachrymose jeremiah--tired of the monstrous, the malicious, and the miraculous. in short, they are beginning to think. they have bowed their necks to the yoke of ignorance and fear and impudence and superstition, until they are weary. they long to be free. they are tired of the services-- tired of the meaningless prayers--tired of hearing each other say, "hear us, good lord"--tired of the texts, tired of the sermons, tired of the lies about spontaneous combustion as a punishment for blasphemy, tired of the bells, and they long to hear the doxology of superstition. they long to have common sense lift its hands in benediction and dismiss the congregation. --_brooklyn citizen_, april, . trial of the chicago anarchists. _question_. what do you think of the trial of the chicago anarchists and their chances for a new trial? _answer_. i have paid some attention to the evidence and to the rulings of the court, and i have read the opinion of the supreme court of illinois, in which the conviction is affirmed. of course these men were tried during a period of great excitement--tried when the press demanded their conviction--when it was asserted that society was on the edge of destruction unless these men were hanged. under such circumstances, it is not easy to have a fair and impartial trial. a judge should either sit beyond the reach of prejudice, in some calm that storms cannot invade, or he should be a kind of oak that before any blast he would stand erect. it is hard to find such a place as i have suggested and not easy to find such a man. we are all influenced more or less by our surroundings, by the demands and opinions and feelings and prejudices of our fellow- citizens. there is a personality made up of many individuals known as society. this personality has prejudices like an individual. it often becomes enraged, acts without the slightest sense, and repents at its leisure. it is hard to reason with a mob whether organized or disorganized, whether acting in the name of the law or of simple brute force. but in any case, where people refuse to be governed by reason, they become a mob. _question_. do you not think that these men had a fair trial? _answer_. i have no doubt that the court endeavored to be fair-- no doubt that judge gary is a perfectly honest, upright man, but i think his instructions were wrong. he instructed the jury to the effect that where men have talked in a certain way, and where the jury believed that the result of such talk might be the commission of a crime, that such men are responsible for that crime. of course, there is neither law nor sense in an instruction like this. i hold that it must have been the intention of the man making the remark, or publishing the article, or doing the thing--it must have been his intention that the crime should be committed. men differ as to the effect of words, and a man may say a thing with the best intentions the result of which is a crime, and he may say a thing with the worst of intentions and the result may not be a crime. the supreme court of illinois seemed to have admitted that the instructions were wrong, but took the ground that it made no difference with the verdict. this is a dangerous course for the court of last resort to pursue; neither is it very complimentary to the judge who tried the case, that his instructions had no effect upon the jury. under the instructions of the court below, any man who had been arrested with the seven anarchists and of whom it could be proved that he had ever said a word in favor of any change in government, or of other peculiar ideas, no matter whether he knew of the meeting at the haymarket or not, would have been convicted. i am satisfied that the defendant fielden never intended to harm a human being. as a matter of fact, the evidence shows that he was making a speech in favor of peace at the time of the occurrence. the evidence also shows that he was an exceedingly honest, industrious, and a very poor and philanthropic man. _question_. do you uphold the anarchists? _answer_. certainly not. there is no place in this country for the anarchist. the source of power here is the people, and to attack the political power is to attack the people. if the laws are oppressive, it is the fault of the oppressed. if the laws touch the poor and leave them without redress, it is the fault of the poor. they are in a majority. the men who work for their living are the very men who have the power to make every law that is made in the united states. there is no excuse for any resort to violence in this country. the boycotting by trades unions and by labor organizations is all wrong. let them resort to legal methods and to no other. i have not the slightest sympathy with the methods that have been pursued by anarchists, or by socialists, or by any other class that has resorted to force or intimidation. the ballot-box is the place to assemble. the will of the people can be made known in that way, and their will can be executed. at the same time, i think i understand what has produced the anarchist, the socialist, and the agitator. in the old country, a laboring man, poorly clad, without quite enough to eat, with a wife in rags, with a few children asking for bread--this laboring man sees the idle enjoying every luxury of this life; he sees on the breast of "my lady" a bonfire of diamonds; he sees "my lord" riding in his park; he sees thousands of people who from the cradle to the grave do no useful act; add nothing to the intellectual or the physical wealth of the world; he sees labor living in the tenement house, in the hut; idleness and nobility in the mansion and the palace; the poor man a trespasser everywhere except upon the street, where he is told to "move on," and in the dusty highways of the country. that man naturally hates the government--the government of the few, the government that lives on the unpaid labor of the many, the government that takes the child from the parents, and puts him in the army to fight the child of another poor man and woman in some other country. these anarchists, these socialists, these agitators, have been naturally produced. all the things of which i have spoken sow in the breast of poverty the seeds of hatred and revolution. these poor men, hunted by the officers of the law, cornered, captured, imprisoned, excite the sympathy of other poor men, and if some are dragged to the gallows and hanged, or beheaded by the guillotine, they become saints and martyrs, and those who sympathize with them feel that they have the power, and only the power of hatred--the power of riot, of destruction--the power of the torch, of revolution, that is to say, of chaos and anarchy. the injustice of the higher classes makes the lower criminal. then there is another thing. the misery of the poor excites in many noble breasts sympathy, and the men who thus sympathize wish to better the condition of their fellows. at first they depend upon reason, upon calling the attention of the educated and powerful to the miseries of the poor. nothing happens, no result follows. the juggernaut of society moves on, and the wretches are still crushed beneath the great wheels. these men who are really good at first, filled with sympathy, now become indignant--they are malicious, then destructive and criminal. i do not sympathize with these methods, but i do sympathize with the general object that all good and generous people seek to accomplish--namely, to better the condition of the human race. only the other day, in boston, i said that we ought to take into consideration the circumstances under which the anarchists were reared; that we ought to know that every man is necessarily produced; that man is what he is, not by accident, but necessity; that society raises its own criminals--that it plows the soil and cultivates and harvests the crop. and it was telegraphed that i had defended anarchy. nothing was ever further from my mind. there is no place, as i said before, for anarchy in the united states. in russia it is another question; in germany another question. every country that is governed by the one man, or governed by the few, is the victim of anarchy. that _is_ anarchy. that is the worst possible form of socialism. the definition of socialism given by its bitterest enemy is, that idlers wish to live on the labor and on the money of others. is not this definition--a definition given in hatred--a perfect definition of every monarchy and of nearly every government in the world? that is to say: the idle few live on the labor and the money of others. _question_. will the supreme court take cognizance of this case and prevent the execution of the judgment? _answer_. of course it is impossible for me to say. at the same time, judging from the action of justice miller in the case of _the people vs. maxwell_, it seems probable that the supreme court may interfere, but i have not examined the question sufficiently to form an opinion. my feeling about the whole matter is this: that it will not tend to answer the ideas advanced by these men, to hang them. their execution will excite sympathy among thousands and thousands of people who have never examined and knew nothing of the theories advanced by the anarchists, or the socialists, or other agitators. in my judgment, supposing the men to be guilty, it is far better to imprison them. less harm will be done the cause of free government. we are not on the edge of any revolution. no other government is as firmly fixed as ours. no other government has such a broad and splendid foundation. we have nothing to fear. courage and safety can afford to be generous--can afford to act without haste and without the feeling of revenge. so, for my part, i hope that the sentence may be commuted, and that these men, if found guilty at last, may be imprisoned. this course is, in my judgment, the safest to pursue. it may be that i am led to this conclusion, because of my belief that every man does as he must. this belief makes me charitable toward all the world. this belief makes me doubt the wisdom of revenge. this belief, so far as i am concerned, blots from our language the word "punishment." society has a right to protect itself, and it is the duty of society to reform, in so far as it may be possible, any member who has committed what is called a crime. where the criminal cannot be reformed, and the safety of society can be secured by his imprisonment, there is no possible excuse for destroying his life. after these six or seven men have been, in accordance with the forms of law, strangled to death, there will be a few pieces of clay, and about them will gather a few friends, a few admirers--and these pieces will be buried, and over the grave will be erected a monument, and those who were executed as criminals will be regarded by thousands as saints. it is far better for society to have a little mercy. the effect upon the community will be good. if these men are imprisoned, people will examine their teachings without prejudice. if they are executed, seen through the tears of pity, their virtues, their sufferings, their heroism, will be exaggerated; others may emulate their deeds, and the gulf between the rich and the poor will be widened--a gulf that may not close until it has devoured the noblest and the best. --_the mail and express_, new york, november , . the stage and the pulpit. _question_. what do you think of the methodist minister at nashville, tenn., who, from his pulpit, denounced the theatrical profession, without exception, as vicious, and of the congregation which passed resolutions condemning miss emma abbott for rising in church and contradicting him, and of the methodist bishop who likened her to a "painted courtesan," and invoked the aid of the law "for the protection of public worship" against "strolling players"? _answer_. the methodist minister of whom you speak, without doubt uttered his real sentiments. the church has always regarded the stage as a rival, and all its utterances have been as malicious as untrue. it has always felt that the money given to the stage was in some way taken from the pulpit. it is on this principle that the pulpit wishes everything, except the church, shut up on sunday. it knows that it cannot stand free and open competition. all well-educated ministers know that the bible suffers by a comparison with shakespeare. they know that there is nothing within the lids of what they call "the sacred book" that can for one moment stand side by side with "lear" or "hamlet" or "julius caesar" or "antony and cleopatra" or with any other play written by the immortal man. they know what a poor figure the davids and the abrahams and the jeremiahs and the lots, the jonahs, the jobs and the noahs cut when on the stage with the great characters of shakespeare. for these reasons, among others, the pulpit is malicious and hateful when it thinks of the glories of the stage. what minister is there now living who could command the prices commanded by edwin booth or joseph jefferson; and what two clergymen, by making a combination, could contend successfully with robson and crane? how many clergymen would it take to command, at regular prices, the audiences that attend the presentation of wagner's operas? it is very easy to see why the pulpit attacks the stage. nothing could have been in more wretched taste than for the minister to condemn miss emma abbott for rising in church and defending not only herself, but other good women who are doing honest work for an honest living. of course, no minister wishes to be answered; no minister wishes to have anyone in the congregation call for the proof. a few questions would break up all the theology in the world. ministers can succeed only when congregations keep silent. when superstition succeeds, doubt must be dumb. the methodist bishop who attacked miss abbott simply repeated the language of several centuries ago. in the laws of england actors were described as "sturdy vagrants," and this bishop calls them "strolling players." if we only had some strolling preachers like garrick, like edwin forrest, or booth or barrett, or some crusade sisters like mrs. siddons, madam ristori, charlotte cushman, or madam modjeska, how fortunate the church would be! _question_. what is your opinion of the relative merits of the pulpit and the stage, preachers and actors? _answer_. we must remember that the stage presents an ideal life. it is a world controlled by the imagination--a world in which the justice delayed in real life may be done, and in which that may happen which, according to the highest ideal, should happen. it is a world, for the most part, in which evil does not succeed, in which the vicious are foiled, in which the right, the honest, the sincere, and the good prevail. it cultivates the imagination, and in this respect is far better than the pulpit. the mission of the pulpit is to narrow and shrivel the human mind. the pulpit denounces the freedom of thought and of expression; but on the stage the mind is free, and for thousands of years the poor, the oppressed, the enslaved, have been permitted to witness plays wherein the slave was freed, wherein the oppressed became the victor, and where the downtrodden rose supreme. and there is another thing. the stage has always laughed at the spirit of caste. the low-born lass has loved the prince. all human distinctions in this ideal world have for the moment vanished, while honesty and love have triumphed. the stage lightens the cares of life. the pulpit increases the tears and groans of man. there is this difference: the pretence of honesty and the honesty of pretence. _question_. how do you view the episcopalian scheme of building a six-million-dollar untaxed cathedral in this city for the purpose of "uniting the sects," and, when that is accomplished, "unifying the world in the love of christ," and thereby abolishing misery? _answer_. i regard the building of an episcopal cathedral simply as a piece of religious folly. the world will never be converted by christian palaces and temples. every dollar used in its construction will be wasted. it will have no tendency to unite the various sects; on the contrary, it will excite the envy and jealousy of every other sect. it will widen the gulf between the episcopalian and the methodist, between the episcopalian and the presbyterian, and this hatred will continue until the other sects build a cathedral just a little larger, and then the envy and the hatred will be on the other side. religion will never unify the world, and never will give peace to mankind. there has been more war in the last eighteen hundred years than during any similar period within historic times. war will be abolished, if it ever is abolished, not by religion, but by intelligence. it will be abolished when the poor people of germany, of france, of spain, of england, and other countries find that they have no interest in war. when those who pay, and those who do the fighting, find that they are simply destroying their own interests, wars will cease. there ought to be a national court to decide national difficulties. we consider a community civilized when the individuals of that community submit their differences to a legal tribunal; but there being no national court, nations now sustain, as to each other, the relation of savages--that is to say, each one must defend its rights by brute force. the establishment of a national court civilizes nations, and tends to do away with war. christianity caused so much war, so much bloodshed, that christians were forced to interpolate a passage to account for their history, and the interpolated passage is, "i came not to bring peace, but a sword." suppose that all the money wasted in cathedrals in the middle ages had been used for the construction of schoolhouses, academies, and universities, how much better the world would have been! suppose that instead of supporting hundreds of thousands of idle priests, the money had been given to men of science, for the purpose of finding out something of benefit to the human race here in this world. _question_. what is your opinion of "christian charity" and the "fatherhood of god" as an economic polity for abolishing poverty and misery? _answer_. of course, the world is not to be civilized and clothed and fed through charity. ordinary charity creates more want than it alleviates. the greatest possible charity is the greatest possible justice. when proper wages are paid, when every one is as willing to give what a thing is worth as he is now willing to get it for less, the world will be fed and clothed. i believe in helping people to help themselves. i believe that corporations, and successful men, and superior men intellectually, should do all within their power to keep from robbing their fellow- men. the superior man should protect the inferior. the powerful should be the shield of the weak. to-day it is, for the most part, exactly the other way. the failures among men become the food of success. the world is to grow better and better through intelligence, through a development of the brain, through taking advantage of the forces of nature, through science, through chemistry, and through the arts. religion can do nothing except to sow the seeds of discord between men and nations. commerce, manufactures, and the arts tend to peace and the well-being of the world. what is known as religion --that is to say, a system by which this world is wasted in preparation for another--a system in which the duties of men are greater to god than to his fellow-men--a system that denies the liberty of thought and expression--tends only to discord and retrogression. of course, i know that religious people cling to the bible on account of the good that is in it, and in spite of the bad, and i know that freethinkers throw away the bible on account of the bad that is in it, in spite of the good. i hope the time will come when that book will be treated like other books, and will be judged upon its merits, apart from the fiction of inspiration. the church has no right to speak of charity, because it is an object of charity itself. it gives nothing; all it can do is to receive. at best, it is only a respectable beggar. i never care to hear one who receives alms pay a tribute to charity. the one who gives alms should pay this tribute. the amount of money expended upon churches and priests and all the paraphernalia of superstition, is more than enough to drive the wolves from the doors of the world. _question_. have you noticed the progress catholics are making in the northwest, discontinuing public schools, and forcing people to send their children to the parochial schools; also, at pittsburg, pa., a roman catholic priest has been elected principal of a public school, and he has appointed nuns as assistant teachers? _answer_. sectarian schools ought not to be supported by public taxation. it is the very essence of religious tyranny to compel a methodist to support a catholic school, or to compel a catholic to support a baptist academy. nothing should be taught in the public schools that the teachers do not know. nothing should be taught about any religion, and nothing should be taught that can, in any way, be called sectarian. the sciences are not religion. there is no such thing as methodist mathematics, or baptist botany. in other words, no religion has anything to do with facts. the facts are all secular; the sciences are all of this world. if catholics wish to establish their own schools for the purpose of preserving their ignorance, they have the right to do so; so has any other denomination. but in this country the state has no right to teach any form of religion whatever. persons of all religions have the right to advocate and defend any religion in which they believe, or they have the right to denounce all religions. if the catholics establish parochial schools, let them support such schools; and if they do, they will simply lessen or shorten the longevity of that particular superstition. it has often been said that nothing will repeal a bad law as quickly as its enforcement. so, in my judgment, nothing will destroy any church as certainly, and as rapidly, as for the members of that church to live squarely up to the creed. the church is indebted to its hypocrisy to-day for its life. no orthodox church in the united states dare meet for the purpose of revising the creed. they know that the whole thing would fall to pieces. nothing could be more absurd than for a roman catholic priest to teach a public school, assisted by nuns. the catholic church is the enemy of human progress; it teaches every man to throw away his reason, to deny his observation and experience. _question_. your opinions have frequently been quoted with regard to the anarchists--with regard to their trial and execution. have you any objection to stating your real opinion in regard to the matter? _answer_. not in the least. i am perfectly willing that all civilized people should know my opinions on any question in which others than myself can have any interest. i was anxious, in the first place, that the defendants should have a fair and impartial trial. the worst form of anarchy is when a judge violates his conscience and bows to a popular demand. a court should care nothing for public opinion. an honest judge decides the law, not as it ought to be, but as it is, and the state of the public mind throws no light upon the question of what the law then is. i thought that some of the rulings on the trial of the anarchists were contrary to law. i think so still. i have read the opinion of the supreme court of illinois, and while the conclusion reached by that tribunal is the law of that case, i was not satisfied with the reasons given, and do not regard the opinion as good law. there is no place for an anarchist in the united states. there is no excuse for any resort to force; and it is impossible to use language too harsh or too bitter in denouncing the spirit of anarchy in this country. but, no matter how bad a man is, he has the right to be fairly tried; and if he cannot be fairly tried, then there is anarchy on the bench. so i was opposed to the execution of these men. i thought it would have been far better to commute the punishment to imprisonment, and i said so; and i not only said so, but i wrote a letter to governor oglesby, in which i urged the commutation of the death sentence. in my judgment, a great mistake was made. i am on the side of mercy, and if i ever make mistakes, i hope they will all be made on that side. i have not the slightest sympathy with the feeling of revenge. neither have i ever admitted, and i never shall, that every citizen has not the right to give his opinion on all that may be done by any servant of the people, by any judge, or by any court, by any officer--however small or however great. each man in the united states is a sovereign, and a king can freely speak his mind. words were put in my mouth that i never uttered with regard to the anarchists. i never said that they were saints, or that they would be martyrs. what i said was that they would be regarded as saints and martyrs by many people if they were executed, and that has happened which i said would happen. i am, so far as i know, on the side of the right. i wish, above all things, for the preservation of human liberty. this government is the best, and we should not lose confidence in liberty. property is of very little value in comparison with freedom. a civilization that rests on slavery is utterly worthless. i do not believe in sacrificing all there is of value in the human heart, or in the human brain, for the preservation of what is called property, or rather, on account of the fear that what is called "property" may perish. property is in no danger while man is free. it is the freedom of man that gives value to property. it is the happiness of the human race that creates what we call value. if we preserve liberty, the spirit of progress, the conditions of development, property will take care of itself. _question_. the christian press during the past few months has been very solicitous as to your health, and has reported you weak and feeble physically, and not only so, but asserts that there is a growing disposition on your part to lay down your arms, and even to join the church. _answer_. i do not think the christian press has been very solicitous about my _health_. neither do i think that my health will ever add to theirs. the fact is, i am exceedingly well, and my throat is better than it has been for many years. any one who imagines that i am disposed to lay down my arms can read by reply to dr. field in the november number of the _north american review_. i see no particular difference in myself, except this; that my hatred of superstition becomes a little more and more intense; on the other hand, i see more clearly, that all the superstitions were naturally produced, and i am now satisfied that every man does as he must, including priests and editors of religious papers. this gives me hope for the future. we find that certain soil, with a certain amount of moisture and heat, produces good corn, and we find when the soil is poor, or when the ground is too wet, or too dry, that no amount of care can, by any possibility, produce good corn. in other words, we find that the fruit, that is to say, the result, whatever it may be, depends absolutely upon the conditions. this being so, we will in time find out the conditions that produce good, intelligent, honest men. this is the hope for the future. we shall know better than to rely on what is called reformation, or regeneration, or a resolution born of ignorant excitement. we shall rely, then, on the eternal foundation--the fact in nature-- that like causes produce like results, and that good conditions will produce good people. _question_. every now and then some one challenges you to a discussion, and nearly every one who delivers lectures, or speeches, attacking you, or your views, says that you are afraid publicly to debate these questions. why do you not meet these men, and why do you not answer these attacks? _answer_. in the first place, it would be a physical impossibility to reply to all the attacks that have been made--to all the "answers." i receive these attacks, and these answers, and these lectures almost every day. hundreds of them are delivered every year. a great many are put in pamphlet form, and, of course, copies are received by me. some of them i read, at least i look them over, and i have never yet received one worthy of the slightest notice, never one in which the writer showed the slightest appreciation of the questions under discussion. all these pamphlets are about the same, and they could, for the matter, have all been produced by one person. they are impudent, shallow, abusive, illogical, and in most respects, ignorant. so far as the lecturers are concerned, i know of no one who has yet said anything that challenges a reply. i do not think a single paragraph has been produced by any of the gentlemen who have replied to me in public, that is now remembered by reason of its logic or beauty. i do not feel called upon to answer any argument that does not at least appear to be of value. whenever any article appears worthy of an answer, written in a kind and candid spirit, it gives me pleasure to reply. i should like to meet some one who speaks by authority, some one who really understands his creed, but i cannot afford to waste time on little priests or obscure parsons or ignorant laymen. --_the truth seeker_, new york, january , . roscoe conkling. _question_. what is mr. conkling's place in the political history of the united states? _answer_. upon the great questions mr. conkling has been right. during the war he was always strong and clear, unwavering and decided. his position was always known. he was right on reconstruction, on civil rights, on the currency, and, so far as i know, on all important questions. he will be remembered as an honest, fearless man. he was admired for his known integrity. he was never even suspected of being swayed by an improper consideration. he was immeasurably above purchase. his popularity rested upon his absolute integrity. he was not adapted for a leader, because he would yield nothing. he had no compromise in his nature. he went his own road and he would not turn aside for the sake of company. his individuality was too marked and his will too imperious to become a leader in a republic. there is a great deal of individuality in this country, and a leader must not appear to govern and must not demand obedience. in the senate he was a leader. he settled with no one. _question_. what essentially american idea does he stand for? _answer_. it is a favorite saying in this country that the people are sovereigns. mr. conkling felt this to be true, and he exercised what he believed to be his rights. he insisted upon the utmost freedom for himself. he settled with no one but himself. he stands for individuality--for the freedom of the citizen, the independence of the man. no lord, no duke, no king was ever prouder of his title or his place than mr. conkling was of his position and his power. he was thoroughly american in every drop of his blood. _question_. what have you to say about his having died with sealed lips? _answer_. mr. conkling was too proud to show wounds. he did not tell his sorrows to the public. it seemed sufficient to him to know the facts himself. he seemed to have great confidence in time, and he had the patience to wait. of course he could have told many things that would have shed light on many important events, but for my part i think he acted in the noblest way. he was a striking and original figure in our politics. he stood alone. i know of no one like him. he will be remembered as a fearless and incorruptible statesman, a great lawyer, a magnificent speaker, and an honest man. --_the herald_, new york, april , . the church and the stage. _question_. i have come to talk with you a little about the drama. have you any decided opinions on that subject? _answer_. nothing is more natural than imitation. the little child with her doll, telling it stories, putting words in its mouth, attributing to it the feelings of happiness and misery, is the simple tendency toward the drama. little children always have plays, they imitate their parents, they put on the clothes of their elders, they have imaginary parties, carry on conversation with imaginary persons, have little dishes filled with imaginary food, pour tea and coffee out of invisible pots, receive callers, and repeat what they have heard their mothers say. this is simply the natural drama, an exercise of the imagination which always has been and which, probably, always will be, a source of great pleasure. in the early days of the world nothing was more natural than for the people to re-enact the history of their country--to represent the great heroes, the great battles, and the most exciting scenes the history of which has been preserved by legend. i believe this tendency to re-enact, to bring before the eyes the great, the curious, and pathetic events of history, has been universal. all civilized nations have delighted in the theatre, and the greatest minds in many countries have been devoted to the drama, and, without doubt, the greatest man about whom we know anything devoted his life to the production of plays. _question_. i would like to ask you why, in your opinion as a student of history, has the protestant church always been so bitterly opposed to the theatre? _answer_. i believe the early christians expected the destruction of the world. they had no idea of remaining here, in the then condition of things, but for a few days. they expected that christ would come again, that the world would be purified by fire, that all the unbelievers would be burned up and that the earth would become a fit habitation for the followers of the saviour. protestantism became as ascetic as the early christians. it is hard to conceive of anybody believing in the "five points" of john calvin going to any place of amusement. the creed of protestantism made life infinitely sad and made man infinitely responsible. according to this creed every man was liable at any moment to be summoned to eternal pain; the most devout christian was not absolutely sure of salvation. this life was a probationary one. everybody was considered as waiting on the dock of time, sitting on his trunk, expecting the ship that was to bear him to an eternity of good or evil--probably evil. they were in no state of mind to enjoy burlesque or comedy, and, so far as tragedy was concerned, their own lives and their own creeds were tragic beyond anything that could by any possibility happen in this world. a broken heart was nothing to be compared with a damned soul; the afflictions of a few years, with the flames of eternity. this, to say the least of it, accounts, in part, for the hatred that protestantism always bore toward the stage. of course, the churches have always regarded the theatre as a rival and have begrudged the money used to support the stage. you know that macaulay said the puritans objected to bear-baiting, not because they pitied the bears, but because they hated to see the people enjoy themselves. there is in this at least a little truth. orthodox religion has always been and always will be the enemy of happiness. this world is not the place for enjoyment. this is the place to suffer. this is the place to practice self-denial, to wear crowns of thorns; the other world is the place for joy, provided you are fortunate enough to travel the narrow, grass-grown path. of course, wicked people can be happy here. people who care nothing for the good of others, who live selfish and horrible lives, are supposed by christians to enjoy themselves; consequently, they will be punished in another world. but whoever carried the cross of decency, and whoever denied himself to that degree that he neither stole nor forged nor murdered, will be paid for this self-denial in another world. and whoever said that he preferred a prayer-meeting with five or six queer old men and two or three very aged women, with one or two candles, and who solemnly affirmed that he enjoyed that far more than he could a play of shakespeare, was expected with much reason, i think, to be rewarded in another world. _question_. do you think that church people were justified in their opposition to the drama in the days when congreve, wycherley and ben jonson were the popular favorites? _answer_. in that time there was a great deal of vulgarity in many of the plays. many things were said on the stage that the people of this age would not care to hear, and there was not very often enough wit in the saying to redeem it. my principal objection to congreve, wycherley and most of their contemporaries is that the plays were exceedingly poor and had not much in them of real, sterling value. the puritans, however, did not object on account of the vulgarity; that was not the honest objection. no play was ever put upon the english stage more vulgar then the "table talk" of martin luther, and many sermons preached in that day were almost unrivaled for vulgarity. the worst passages in the old testament were quoted with a kind of unction that showed a love for the vulgar. and, in my judgment, the worst plays were as good as the sermons, and the theatre of that time was better adapted to civilize mankind, to soften the human heart, and to make better men and better women, than the pulpit of that day. the actors, in my judgment, were better people than the preachers. they had in them more humanity, more real goodness and more appreciation of beauty, of tenderness, of generosity and of heroism. probably no religion was ever more thoroughly hateful than puritanism. but all religionists who believe in an eternity of pain would naturally be opposed to everything that makes this life better; and, as a matter of fact, orthodox churches have been the enemies of painting, of sculpture, of music and the drama. _question_. what, in your estimation, is the value of the drama as a factor in our social life at the present time? _answer_. i believe that the plays of shakespeare are the most valuable things in the possession of the human race. no man can read and understand shakespeare without being an intellectually developed man. if shakespeare could be as widely circulated as the bible--if all the bible societies would break the plates they now have and print shakespeare, and put shakespeare in all the languages of the world, nothing would so raise the intellectual standard of mankind. think of the different influence on men between reading deuteronomy and "hamlet" and "king lear"; between studying numbers and the "midsummer night's dream"; between pondering over the murderous crimes and assassinations in judges, and studying "the tempest" or "as you like it." man advances as he develops intellectually. the church teaches obedience. the man who reads shakespeare has his intellectual horizon enlarged. he begins to think for himself, and he enjoys living in a new world. the characters of shakespeare become his acquaintances. he admires the heroes, the philosophers; he laughs with the clowns, and he almost adores the beautiful women, the pure, loving, and heroic women born of shakespeare's heart and brain. the stage has amused and instructed the world. it had added to the happiness of mankind. it has kept alive all arts. it is in partnership with all there is of beauty, of poetry, and expression. it goes hand in hand with music, with painting, with sculpture, with oratory, with philosophy, and history. the stage has humor. it abhors stupidity. it despises hypocrisy. it holds up to laughter the peculiarities, the idiosyncrasies, and the little insanities of mankind. it thrusts the spear of ridicule through the shield of pretence. it laughs at the lugubrious and it has ever taught and will, in all probability, forever teach, that man is more than a title, and that human love laughs at all barriers, at all the prejudices of society and caste that tend to keep apart two loving hearts. _question_. what is your opinion of the progress of the drama in educating the artistic sense of the community as compared with the progress of the church as an educator of the moral sentiment? _answer_. of course, the stage is not all good, nor is--and i say this with becoming modesty--the pulpit all bad. there have been bad actors and there have been good preachers. there has been no improvement in plays since shakespeare wrote. there has been great improvement in theatres, and the tendency seems to me be toward higher artistic excellence in the presentation of plays. as we become slowly civilized we will constantly demand more artistic excellence. there will always be a class satisfied with the lowest form of dramatic presentation, with coarse wit, with stupid but apparent jokes, and there will always be a class satisfied with almost anything; but the class demanding the highest, the best, will constantly increase in numbers, and the other classes will, in all probability, correspondingly decrease. the church has ceased to be an educator. in an artistic direction it never did anything except in architecture, and that ceased long ago. the followers of to-day are poor copyists. the church has been compelled to be a friend of, or rather to call in the assistance of, music. as a moral teacher, the church always has been and always will be a failure. the pulpit, to use the language of frederick douglass, has always "echoed the cry of the street." take our own history. the church was the friend of slavery. that institution was defended in nearly every pulpit. the bible was the auction-block on which the slave-mother stood while her child was sold from her arms. the church, for hundreds of years, was the friend and defender of the slave-trade. i know of no crime that has not been defended by the church, in one form or another. the church is not a pioneer; it accepts a new truth, last of all, and only when denial has become useless. the church preaches the doctrine of forgiveness. this doctrine sells crime on credit. the idea that there is a god who rewards and punishes, and who can reward, if he so wishes, the meanest and vilest of the human race, so that he will be eternally happy, and can punish the best of the human race, so that he will be eternally miserable, is subversive of all morality. happiness ought to be the result of good actions. happiness ought to spring from the seed a man sows himself. it ought not to be a reward, it ought to be a consequence, and there ought to be no idea that there is any being who can step between action and consequence. to preach that a man can abuse his wife and children, rob his neighbors, slander his fellow-citizens, and yet, a moment or two before he dies, by repentance become a glorified angel is, in my judgment, immoral. and to preach that a man can be a good man, kind to his wife and children, an honest man, paying his debts, and yet, for the lack of a certain belief, the moment after he is dead, be sent to an eternal prison, is also immoral. so that, according to my opinion, while the church teaches men many good things, it also teaches doctrines subversive of morality. if there were not in the whole world a church, the morality of man, in my judgment, would be the gainer. _question_. what do you think of the treatment of the actor by society in his social relations? _answer_. for a good many years the basis of society has been the dollar. only a few years ago all literary men were ostracized because they had no money; neither did they have a reading public. if any man produced a book he had to find a patron--some titled donkey, some lauded lubber, in whose honor he could print a few well-turned lies on the fly-leaf. if you wish to know the degradation of literature, read the dedication written by lord bacon to james i., in which he puts him beyond all kings, living and dead--beyond caesar and marcus aurelius. in those days the literary man was a servant, a hack. he lived in grub street. he was only one degree above the sturdy vagrant and the escaped convict. why was this? he had no money and he lived in an age when money was the fountain of respectability. let me give you another instance: mozart, whose brain was a fountain of melody, was forced to eat at table with coachmen, with footmen and scullions. he was simply a servant who was commanded to make music for a pudding-headed bishop. the same was true of the great painters, and of almost all other men who rendered the world beautiful by art, and who enriched the languages of mankind. the basis of respectability was the dollar. now that the literary man has an intelligent public he cares nothing for the ignorant patron. the literary man makes money. the world is becoming civilized and the literary man stands high. in england, however, if charles darwin had been invited to dinner, and there had been present some sprig of nobility, some titled vessel holding the germs of hereditary disease, darwin would have been compelled to occupy a place beneath him. but i have hopes even for england. the same is true of the artist. the man who can now paint a picture by which he receives from five thousand to fifty thousand dollars, is necessarily respectable. the actor who may realize from one to two thousand dollars a night, or even more, is welcomed in the stupidest and richest society. so with the singers and with all others who instruct and amuse mankind. many people imagine that he who amuses them must be lower than they. this, however, is hardly possible. i believe in the aristocracy of the brain and heart; in the aristocracy of intelligence and goodness, and not only appreciate but admire the great actor, the great painter, the great sculptor, the marvelous singer. in other words, i admire all people who tend to make this life richer, who give an additional thought to this poor world. _question_. do you think this liberal movement, favoring the better class of plays, inaugurated by the rev. dr. abbott, will tend to soften the sentiment of the orthodox churches against the stage? _answer_. i have not read what dr. abbott has written on this subject. from your statement of his position, i think he entertains quite a sensible view, and, when we take into consideration that he is a minister, a miraculously sensible view. it is not the business of the dramatist, the actor, the painter or the sculptor to teach what the church calls morality. the dramatist and the actor ought to be truthful, ought to be natural--that is to say, truthfully and naturally artistic. he should present pictures of life properly chosen, artistically constructed; an exhibition of emotions truthfully done, artistically done. if vice is presented naturally, no one will fall in love with vice. if the better qualities of the human heart are presented naturally, no one can fail to fall in love with them. but they need not be presented for that purpose. the object of the artist is to present truthfully and artistically. he is not a sunday school teacher. he is not to have the moral effect eternally in his mind. it is enough for him to be truly artistic. because, as i have said, a great many times, the greatest good is done by indirection. for instance, a man lives a good, noble, honest and lofty life. the value of that life would be destroyed if he kept calling attention to it--if he said to all who met him, "look at me!" he would become intolerable. the truly artistic speaks of perfection; that is to say, of harmony, not only of conduct, but of harmony and proportion in everything. the pulpit is always afraid of the passions, and really imagines that it has some influence on men and women, keeping them in the path of virtue. no greater mistake was ever made. eternally talking and harping on that one subject, in my judgment, does harm. forever keeping it in the mind by reading passages from the bible, by talking about the "corruption of the human heart," of the "power of temptation," of the scarcity of virtue, of the plentifulness of vice--all these platitudes tend to produce exactly what they are directed against. _question_. i fear, colonel, that i have surprised you into agreeing with a clergyman. the following are the points made by the rev. dr. abbott in his editorial on the theatre, and it seems to me that you and he think very much alike--on that subject. the points are these: . it is not the function of the drama to teach moral lessons. . a moral lesson neither makes nor mars either a drama or a novel. . the moral quality of a play does not depend upon the result. . the real function of the drama is like that of the novel--not to amuse, not to excite; but to portray life, and so minister to it. and as virtue and vice, goodness and evil, are the great fundamental facts of life, they must, in either serious story or serious play, be portrayed. if they are so portrayed that the vice is alluring and the virtue repugnant, the play or story is immoral; if so portrayed that the vice is repellant and the virtue alluring, they play or story is moral. . the church has no occasion to ask the theatre to preach; though if it does preach we have a right to demand that its ethical doctrines be pure and high. but we have a right to demand that in its pictures of life it so portrays vice as to make it abhorrent, and so portrays virtue as to make it attractive. _answer_. i agree in most of what you have read, though i must confess that to find a minister agreeing with me, or to find myself agreeing with a minister, makes me a little uncertain. all art, in my judgment, is for the sake of expression--equally true of the drama as of painting and sculpture. no poem touches the human heart unless it touches the universal. it must, at some point, move in unison with the great ebb and flow of things. the same is true of the play, of a piece of music or a statue. i think that all real artists, in all departments, touch the universal and when they do the result is good; but the result need not have been a consideration. there is an old story that at first there was a temple erected upon the earth by god himself; that afterward this temple was shivered into countless pieces and distributed over the whole earth, and that all the rubies and diamonds and precious stones since found are parts of that temple. now, if we could conceive of a building, or of anything involving all art, and that it had been scattered abroad, then i would say that whoever find and portrays truthfully a thought, an emotion, a truth, has found and restored one of the jewels. --_dramatic mirror_, new york, april , . protection and free trade. _question_. do you take much interest in politics, colonel ingersoll? _answer_. i take as much interest in politics as a republican ought who expects nothing and who wants nothing for himself. i want to see this country again controlled by the republican party. the present administration has not, in my judgment, the training and the political intelligence to decide upon the great economic and financial questions. there are a great many politicians and but few statesmen. here, where men have to be elected every two or six years, there is hardly time for the officials to study statesmanship--they are busy laying pipes and fixing fences for the next election. each one feels much like a monkey at a fair, on the top of a greased pole, and puts in the most of his time dodging stones and keeping from falling. i want to see the party in power best qualified, best equipped, to administer the government. _question_. what do you think will be the particular issue of the coming campaign? _answer_. that question has already been answered. the great question will be the tariff. mr. cleveland imagines that the surplus can be gotten rid of by a reduction of the tariff. if the reduction is so great as to increase the demand for foreign articles, the probability is that the surplus will be increased. the surplus can surely be done away with by either of two methods; first make the tariff prohibitory; second, have no tariff. but if the tariff is just at that point where the foreign goods could pay it and yet undersell the american so as to stop home manufactures, then the surplus would increase. as a rule we can depend on american competition to keep prices at a reasonable rate. when that fails we have at all times the governing power in our hands--that is to say, we can reduce the tariff. in other words, the tariff is not for the benefit of the manufacturer--the protection is not for the mechanic or the capitalist --it is for the whole country. i do not believe in protecting silk simply to help the town of paterson, but i am for the protection of the manufacture, because, in my judgment, it helps the entire country, and because i know that it has given us a far better article of silk at a far lower price than we obtained before the establishment of those factories. i believe in the protection of every industry that needs it, to the end that we may make use of every kind of brain and find use for all human capacities. in this way we will produce greater and better people. a nation of agriculturalists or a nation of mechanics would become narrow and small, but where everything is done, then the brain is cultivated on every side, from artisan to artist. that is to say, we become thinkers as well as workers; muscle and mind form a partnership. i don't believe that england is particularly interested in the welfare of the united states. it never seemed probable to me that men like godwin smith sat up nights fearing that we in some way might injure ourselves. to use a phrase that will be understood by theologians at least, we ought to "copper" all english advice. the free traders say that there ought to be no obstructions placed by governments between buyers and sellers. if we want to make the trade, of course there should be no obstruction, but if we prefer that americans should trade with americans--that americans should make what americans want--then, so far as trading with foreigners is concerned, there ought to be an obstruction. i am satisfied that the united states could get along if the rest of the world should be submerged, and i want to see this country in such a condition that it can be independent of the rest of mankind. there is more mechanical genius in the united states than in the rest of the world, and this genius has been fostered and developed by protection. the democracy wish to throw all this away--to make useless this skill, this ingenuity, born of generations of application and thought. these deft and marvelous hands that create the countless things of use and beauty to be worth no more than the common hands of ignorant delvers and shovelers. to the extent that thought is mingled with labor, labor becomes honorable and its burden lighter. thousands of millions of dollars have been invested on the faith of this policy--millions and millions of people are this day earning their bread by reason of protection, and they are better housed and better fed and better clothed than any other workmen on the globe. the intelligent people of this country will not be satisfied with president cleveland's platform--with his free trade primer. they believe in good wages for good work, and they know that this is the richest nation in the world. the republic is worth at least sixty billion dollars. this vast sum is the result of labor, and this labor has been protected either directly or indirectly. this vast sum has been made by the farmer, the mechanic, the laborer, the miner, the inventor. protection has given work and wages to the mechanic and a market to the farmer. the interests of all laborers in america--all men who work--are identical. if the farmer pays more for his plow he gets more for his plowing. in old times, when the south manufactured nothing and raised only raw material--for the reason that its labor was enslaved and could not be trusted with education enough to become skillful--it was in favor of free trade; it wanted to sell the raw material to england and buy the manufactured article where it could buy the cheapest. even under those circumstances it was a short-sighted and unpatriotic policy. now everything is changing in the south. they are beginning to see that he who simply raises raw material is destined to be forever poor. for instance, the farmer who sells corn will never get rich; the farmer should sell pork and beef and horses. so a nation, a state, that parts with its raw material, loses nearly all the profits, for the reason that the profit rises with the skill requisite to produce. it requires only brute strength to raise cotton; it requires something more to spin it, to weave it, and the more beautiful the fabric the greater the skill, and consequently the higher the wages and the greater the profit. in other words, the more thought is mingled with labor the more valuable is the result. besides all this, protection is the mother of economy; the cheapest at last, no matter whether the amount paid is less or more. it is far better for us to make glass than to sell sand to other countries; the profit on sand will be exceedingly small. the interests of this country are united; they depend upon each other. you destroy one and the effect upon all the rest may be disastrous. suppose we had free trade to-day, what would become of the manufacturing interests to-morrow? the value of property would fall thousands of millions of dollars in an instant. the fires would die out in thousands and thousands of furnaces, innumerable engines would stop, thousands and thousands would stop digging coal and iron and steel. what would the city that had been built up by the factories be worth? what would be the effect on farms in that neighborhood? what would be the effect on railroads, on freights, on business--what upon the towns through which they passed? stop making iron in pennsylvania, and the state would be bankrupt in an hour. give us free trade, and new jersey, connecticut and many other states would not be worth one dollar an acre. if a man will think of the connection between all industries--of the dependence and inter-dependence of each on all; of the subtle relations between all human pursuits--he will see that to destroy some of the grand interest makes financial ruin and desolation. i am not talking now about a tariff that is too high, because that tariff does not produce a surplus--neither am i asking to have that protected which needs no protection--i am only insisting that all the industries that have been fostered and that need protection should be protected, and that we should turn our attention to the interests of our own country, letting other nations take care of themselves. if every american would use only articles produced by americans--if they would wear only american cloth, only american silk--if we would absolutely stand by each other, the prosperity of this nation would be the marvel of human history. we can live at home, and we have now the ingenuity, the intelligence, the industry to raise from nature everything that a nation needs. _question_. what have you to say about the claim that mr. cleveland does not propose free trade? _answer_. i suppose that he means what he said. his argument was all for free trade, and he endeavored to show to the farmer that he lost altogether more money by protection, because he paid a higher price for manufactured articles and received no more for what he had to sell. this certainly was an argument in favor of free trade. and there is no way to decrease the surplus except to prohibit the importation of foreign articles, which certainly mr. cleveland is not in favor of doing, or to reduce the tariff to a point so low that no matter how much may be imported the surplus will be reduced. if the message means anything it means free trade, and if there is any argument in it it is an argument in favor of absolutely free trade. the party, not willing to say "free trade" uses the word "reform." this is simply a mask and a pretence. the party knows that the president made a mistake. the party, however, is so situated that it cannot get rid of cleveland, and consequently must take him with his mistake--they must take him with his message, and then show that all he intended by "free trade" was "reform." _question_. who do you think ought to be nominated at chicago? _answer_. personally, i am for general gresham. i am saying nothing against the other prominent candidates. they have their friends, and many of them are men of character and capacity, and would make good presidents. but i know of no man who has a better record than gresham, and of no man who, in my judgment, would receive a larger number of votes. i know of no republican who would not support judge gresham. i have never heard one say that he had anything against him or know of any reason why he should not be voted for. he is a man of great natural capacity. he is candid and unselfish. he has for many years been engaged in the examination and decision of important questions, of good principles, and consequently he has a trained mind. he knows how to take hold of a question, to get at a fact, to discover in a multitude of complications the real principle--the heart of the case. he has always been a man of affairs. he is not simply a judge--that is to say, a legal pair of scales--he knows the effect of his decision on the welfare of communities--he is not governed entirely by precedents--he has opinions of his own. in the next place, he is a man of integrity in all the relations of life. he is not a seeker after place, and, so far as i know, he has done nothing for the purpose of inducing any human being to favor his nomination. i have never spoken to him on the subject. in the west he has developed great strength, in fact, his popularity has astonished even his best friends. the great mass of people want a perfectly reliable man--one who will be governed by his best judgment and by a desire to do the fair and honorable thing. it has been stated that the great corporations might not support him with much warmth for the reason that he has failed to decide certain cases in their favor. i believe that he has decided the law as he believed it to be, and that he has never been influenced in the slightest degree, by the character, position, or the wealth of the parties before him. it may be that some of the great financiers, the manipulators, the creators of bonds and stocks, the blowers of financial bubbles, will not support him and will not contribute any money for the payment of election expenses, because they are perfectly satisfied that they could not make any arrangements with him to get the money back, together with interest thereon, but the people of this country are intelligent enough to know what that means, and they will be patriotic enough to see to it that no man needs to bow or bend or cringe to the rich to attain the highest place. the possibility is that mr. blaine could have been nominated had he not withdrawn, but having withdrawn, of course the party is released. others were induced to become candidates, and under these circumstances mr. blaine has hardly the right to change his mind, and certainly other persons ought not to change it for him. _question_. do you think that the friends of gresham would support blaine if he should be nominated? _answer_. undoubtedly they would. if they go into convention they must abide the decision. it would be dishonorable to do that which you would denounce in others. whoever is nominated ought to receive the support of all good republicans. no party can exist that will not be bound by its own decision. when the platform is made, then is the time to approve or reject. the conscience of the individual cannot be bound by the action of party, church or state. but when you ask a convention to nominate your candidate, you really agree to stand by the choice of the convention. principles are of more importance than candidates. as a rule, men who refuse to support the nominee, while pretending to believe in the platform, are giving an excuse for going over to the enemy. it is a pretence to cover desertion. i hope that whoever may be nominated at chicago will receive the cordial support of the entire party, of every man who believes in republican principles, who believes in good wages for good work, and has confidence in the old firms of "mind and muscle," of "head and hand." --_new york press_, may , . labor, and tariff reform. _question_. what, in your opinion, is the condition of labor in this country as compared with that abroad? _answer_. in the first place, it is self-evident that if labor received more in other lands than in this the tide of emigration would be changed. the workingmen would leave our shores. people who believe in free trade are always telling us that the laboring man is paid much better in germany than in the united states, and yet nearly every ship that comes from germany is crammed with germans, who, for some unaccountable reason, prefer to leave a place where they are doing well and come to one where they must do worse. the same thing can be said of denmark and sweden, of england, scotland, ireland and of italy. the truth is, that in all those lands the laboring man can earn just enough to-day to do the work of to-morrow; everything he earns is required to get food enough in his body and rags enough on his back to work from day to day, to toil from week to week. there are only three luxuries within his reach--air, light, and water; probably a fourth might be added --death. in those countries the few own the land, the few have the capital, the few make the laws, and the laboring man is not a power. his opinion in neither asked nor heeded. the employers pay as little as they can. when the world becomes civilized everybody will want to pay what things are worth, but now capital is perfectly willing that labor shall remain at the starvation line. competition on every hand tends to put down wages. the time will come when the whole community will see that justice is economical. if you starve laboring men you increase crime; you multiply, as they do in england, workhouses, hospitals and all kinds of asylums, and these public institutions are for the purpose of taking care of the wrecks that have been produced by greed and stinginess and meanness--that is to say, by the ignorance of capital. _question_. what effect has the protective tariff on the condition of labor in this country? _answer_. to the extent that the tariff keeps out the foreign article it is a direct protection to american labor. everything in this country is on a larger scale than in any other. there is far more generosity among the manufacturers and merchants and millionaires and capitalists of the united states than among those of any other country, although they are bad enough and mean enough here. but the great thing for the laboring man in the united states is that he is regarded as a man. he is a unit of political power. his vote counts just as much as that of the richest and most powerful. the laboring man has to be consulted. the candidate has either to be his friend or to pretend to be his friend, before he can succeed. a man running for the presidency could not say the slightest word against the laboring man, or calculated to put a stain upon industry, without destroying every possible chance of success. generally, every candidate tries to show that he is a laboring man, or that he was a laboring man, or that his father was before him. there is in this country very little of the spirit of caste--the most infamous spirit that ever infested the heartless breast of the brainless head of a human being. _question_. what will be the effect on labor of a departure in american policy in the direction of free trade? _answer_. if free trade could be adopted to-morrow there would be an instant shrinkage of values in this country. probably the immediate loss would equal twenty billion dollars--that is to say, one-third of the value of the country. no one can tell its extent. all thing are so interwoven that to destroy one industry cripples another, and the influence keeps on until it touches the circumference of human interests. i believe that labor is a blessing. it never was and never will be a curse. it is a blessed thing to labor for your wife and children, for your father and mother, and for the ones you love. it is a blessed thing to have an object in life--something to do-- something to call into play your best thoughts, to develop your faculties and to make you a man. how beautiful, how charming, are the dreams of the young mechanic, the artist, the musician, the actor and the student. how perfectly stupid must be the life of a young man with nothing to do, no ambition, no enthusiasm--that is to say, nothing of the divine in him; the young man with an object in life, of whose brain a great thought, a great dream has taken possession, and in whose heart there is a great, throbbing hope. he looks forward to success--to wife, children, home--all the blessings and sacred joys of human life. he thinks of wealth and fame and honor, and of a long, genial, golden, happy autumn. work gives the feeling of independence, of self-respect. a man who does something necessarily puts a value on himself. he feels that he is a part of the world's force. the idler--no matter what he says, no matter how scornfully he may look at the laborer--in his very heart knows exactly what he is; he knows that he is a counterfeit, a poor worthless imitation of a man. but there is a vast difference between work and what i call "toil." what must be the life of a man who can earn only one dollar or two dollars a day? if this man has a wife and a couple of children how can the family live? what must they eat? what must they wear? from the cradle to the coffin they are ignorant of any luxury of life. if the man is sick, if one of the children dies, how can doctors and medicines be paid for? how can the coffin or the grave be purchased? these people live on what might be called "the snow line"--just at that point where trees end and the mosses begin. what are such lives worth? the wages of months would hardly pay for the ordinary dinner of the family of a rich man. the savings of a whole life would not purchase one fashionable dress, or the lace on it. such a man could not save enough during his whole life to pay for the flowers of a fashionable funeral. and yet how often hundreds of thousands of persons, who spend thousands of dollars every year on luxuries, really wonder why the laboring people should complain. they are astonished when a car driver objects to working fourteen hours a day. men give millions of dollars to carry the gospel to the heathen, and leave their own neighbors without bread; and these same people insist on closing libraries and museums of art on sunday, and yet sunday is the only day that these institutions can be visited by the poor. they even want to stop the street cars so that these workers, these men and women, cannot go to the parks or the fields on sunday. they want stages stopped on fashionable avenues so that the rich may not be disturbed in their prayers and devotions. the condition of the workingman, even in america, is bad enough. if free trade will not reduce wages what will? if manufactured articles become cheaper the skilled laborers of america must work cheaper or stop producing the articles. every one knows that most of the value of a manufactured article comes from labor. think of the difference between the value of a pound of cotton and a pound of the finest cotton cloth; between a pound of flax and enough point lace to weigh a pound; between a few ounces of paint, two or three yards of canvas and a great picture; between a block of stone and a statue! labor is the principal factor in price; when the price falls wages must go down. i do not claim that protection is for the benefit of any particular class, but that it is for the benefit not only of that particular class, but of the entire country. in england the common laborer expects to spend his old age in some workhouse. he is cheered through all his days of toil, through all his years of weariness, by the prospect of dying a respectable pauper. the women work as hard as the men. they toil in the iron mills. they make nails, they dig coal, they toil in the fields. in europe they carry the hod, they work like beasts and with beasts, until they lose almost the semblance of human beings--until they look inferior to the animals they drive. on the labor of these deformed mothers, of these bent and wrinkled girls, of little boys with the faces of old age, the heartless nobility live in splendor and extravagant idleness. i am not now speaking of the french people, as france is the most prosperous country in europe. let us protect our mothers, our wives and our children from the deformity of toil, from the depths of poverty. _question_. is not the ballot an assurance to the laboring man that he can get fair treatment from his employer? _answer_. the laboring man in this country has the political power, provided he has the intelligence to know it and the intelligence to use it. in so far as laws can assist labor, the workingman has it in his power to pass such laws; but in most foreign lands the laboring man has really no voice. it is enough for him to work and wait and suffer and emigrate. he can take refuge in the grave or go to america. in the old country, where people have been taught that all blessing come from the king, it is very natural for the poor to believe the other side of that proposition--that is to say, all evils come from the king, from the government. they are rocked in the cradle of this falsehood. so when they come to this country, if they are unfortunate, it is natural for them to blame the government. the discussion of these questions, however, has already done great good. the workingman is becoming more and more intelligent. he is getting a better idea every day of the functions and powers and limitations of government, and if the problem is ever worked out-- and by "problem" i mean the just and due relations that should exist between labor and capital--it will be worked out here in america. _question_. what assurance has the american laborer that he will not be ultimately swamped by foreign immigration? _answer_. most of the immigrants that come to american come because they want a home. nearly every one of them is what you may call "land hungry." in his country, to own a piece of land was to be respectable, almost a nobleman. the owner of a little land was regarded as the founder of a family--what you might call a "village dynasty." when they leave their native shores for america, their dream is to become a land owner--to have fields, to own trees, and to listen to the music of their own brooks. the moment they arrive the mass of them seek the west, where land can be obtained. the great northwest now is being filled with scandinavian farmers, with persons from every part of germany--in fact from all foreign countries--and every year they are adding millions of acres to the plowed fields of the republic. this land hunger, this desire to own a home, to have a field, to have flocks and herds, to sit under your own vine and fig tree, will prevent foreign immigration from interfering to any hurtful degree with the skilled workmen of america. these land owners, these farmers, become consumers of manufactured articles. they keep the wheels and spindles turning and the fires in the forges burning. _question_. what do you think of cleveland's message? _answer_. only the other day i read a speech made by the hon. william d. kelley, of pennsylvania, upon this subject, in which he says in answer to what he calls "the puerile absurdity of president cleveland's assumption" that the duty is always added to the cost, not only of imported commodities, but to the price of like commodities produced in this country, "that the duties imposed by our government on sugar reduced to _ad valorem_ were never so high as now, and the price of sugar was never in this country so low as it is now." he also showed that this tax on sugar has made it possible for us to produce sugar from other plants and he gives the facts in relation to corn sugar. we are now using annually nineteen million bushels of corn for the purpose of making glucose or corn sugar. he shows that in this industry alone there has been a capital invested of eleven million dollars; that seven hundred and thirty-two thousand acres of land are required to furnish the supply, and that this one industry now gives employment to about twenty-two thousand farmers, about five thousand laborers in factories, and that the annual value of this product of corn sugar is over seventeen million dollars. he also shows what we may expect from the cultivation of the beet. i advise every one to read that speech, so that they may have some idea of the capabilities of this country, of the vast wealth asking for development, of the countless avenues opened for ingenuity, energy and intelligence. _question_. does the protective tariff cheapen the prices of commodities to the laboring man? _answer_. in this there are involved two questions. if the tariff is so low that the foreign article is imported, of course this tariff is added to the cost and must be paid by the consumer; but if the protective tariff is so high that the importer cannot pay it, and as a consequence the article is produced in america, then it depends largely upon competition whether the full amount of the tariff will be added to the article. as a rule, competition will settle that question in america, and the article will be sold as cheaply as the producers can afford. for instance: if there is a tariff, we will say of fifty cents on a pair of shoes, and this tariff is so low that the foreign article can afford to pay it, then that tariff, of course, must be paid by the consumer. but suppose the tariff was five dollars on a pair of shoes--that is to say, absolutely prohibitory--does any man in his senses say that five dollars would be added to each pair of american shoes? of course, the statement is the answer. i think it is the duty of the laboring man in this country, first, thoroughly to post himself upon these great questions, to endeavor to understand his own interest as well as the interest of his country, and if he does, i believe he will arrive at the conclusion that it is far better to have the country filled with manufacturers than to be employed simply in the raising of raw material. i think he will come to the conclusion that we had better have skilled labor here, and that it is better to pay for it than not to have it. i think he will find that it is better for america to be substantially independent of the rest of the world. i think he will conclude that nothing is more desirable than the development of american brain, and that nothing better can be raised than great and splendid men and women. i think he will conclude that the cloud coming from the factories, from the great stacks and chimneys, is the cloud on which will be seen, and always seen, the bow of american promise. _question_. what have you to say about tariff reform? _answer_. i have this to say: that the tariff is for the most part the result of compromises--that is, one state wishing to have something protected agrees to protect something else in some other state, so that, as a matter of fact, many things are protected that need no protection, and many things are unprotected that ought to be cared for by the government. i am in favor of a sensible reform of the tariff--that is to say, i do not wish to put it in the power of the few to practice extortion upon the many. congress should always be wide awake, and whenever there is any abuse it should be corrected. at the same time, next to having the tariff just--next in importance is to have it stable. it does us great injury to have every dollar invested in manufactures frightened every time congress meets. capital should feel secure. insecurity calls for a higher interest, wants to make up for the additional risk, whereas, when a dollar feels absolutely certain that it is well invested, that it is not to be disturbed, it is satisfied with a very low rate of interest. the present agitation--the message of president cleveland upon these questions--will cost the country many hundred millions of dollars. _question_. i see that some one has been charging that judge gresham is an infidel? _answer_. i have known judge gresham for many years, and of course have heard him talk upon many subjects, but i do not remember ever discussing with him a religious topic. i only know that he believes in allowing every man to express his opinions, and that he does not hate a man because he differs with him. i believe that he believes in intellectual hospitality, and that he would give all churches equal rights, and would treat them all with the utmost fairness. i regard him as a fair-minded, intelligent and honest man, and that is enough for me. i am satisfied with the way he acts, and care nothing about his particular creed. i like a manly man, whether he agrees with me or not. i believe that president garfield was a minister of the church of the disciples--that made no difference to me. mr. blaine is a member of some church in augusta--i care nothing for that. whether judge gresham belongs to any church, i do not know. i never asked him, but i know he does not agree with me by a large majority. in this country, where a divorce has been granted between church and state, the religious opinions of candidates should be let alone. to make the inquiry is a piece of impertinence--a piece of impudence. i have voted for men of all persuasions and expect to keep right on, and if they are not civilized enough to give me the liberty they ask for themselves, why i shall simply set them an example of decency. _question_. what do you think of the political outlook? _answer_. the people of this country have a great deal of intelligence. tariff and free trade and protection and home manufactures and american industries--all these things will be discussed in every schoolhouse of the country, and in thousands and thousands of political meetings, and when next november comes you will see the democratic party overthrown and swept out of power by a cyclone. all other questions will be lost sight of. even the prohibitionists would rather drink beer in a prosperous country than burst with cold water and hard times. the preservation of what we have will be the great question. this is the richest country and the most prosperous country, and i believe that the people have sense enough to continue the policy that has given them those results. i never want to see the civilization of the old world, or rather the barbarism of the old world, gain a footing on this continent. i am an american. i believe in american ideas--that is to say, in equal rights, and in the education and civilization of all the people. --_new york press_, june , . cleveland and thurman. _question_. what do you think of the democratic nominations? _answer_. in the first place, i hope that this campaign is to be fought on the issues involved, and not on the private characters of the candidates. all that they have done as politicians--all measures that they have favored or opposed--these are the proper subjects of criticism; in all other respects i think it better to let the candidates alone. i care but little about the private character of mr. cleveland or of mr. thurman. the real question is, what do they stand for? what policy do they advocate? what are the reasons for and against the adoption of the policy they propose? i do not regard cleveland as personally popular. he has done nothing, so far as i know, calculated to endear him to the popular heart. he certainly is not a man of enthusiasm. he has said nothing of a striking or forcible character. his messages are exceedingly commonplace. he is not a man of education, of wide reading, of refined tastes, or of general cultivation. he has some firmness and a good deal of obstinacy, and he was exceedingly fortunate in his marriage. four years ago he was distinctly opposed to a second term. he was then satisfied that no man should be elected president more than once. he was then fearful that a president might use his office, his appointing power, to further his own ends instead of for the good of the people. he started, undoubtedly, with that idea in his mind. he was going to carry out the civil service doctrine to the utmost. but when he had been president a few months he was exceedingly unpopular with his party. the democrats who elected him had been out of office for twenty-five years. during all those years they had watched the republicans sitting at the national banquet. their appetites had grown keener and keener, and they expected when the th of march, , came that the republicans would be sent from the table and that they would be allowed to tuck the napkins under their chins. the moment cleveland got at the head of the table he told his hungry followers that there was nothing for them, and he allowed the republicans to go on as usual. in a little while he began to hope for a second term, and gradually the civil service notion faded from his mind. he stuck to it long enough to get the principal mugwump papers committed to him and to his policy; long enough to draw their fire and to put them in a place where they could not honorably retreat without making themselves liable to the charge of having fought only for the loaves and fishes. as a matter of fact, no men were hungrier for office than the gentlemen who had done so much for civil service reform. they were so earnest in the advocacy of that principle that they insisted that only their followers should have place; but the real rank and file, the men who had been democrats through all the disastrous years, and who had prayed and fasted, became utterly disgusted with mr. cleveland's administration and they were not slow to express their feelings. mr. cleveland saw that he was in danger of being left with no supporters, except a few who thought themselves too respectable really to join the democratic party. so for the last two years, and especially the last year, he turned his attention to pacifying the real democrats. he is not the choice of the democratic party. although unanimously nominated, i doubt if he was the unanimous choice of a single delegate. another very great mistake, i think, has been made by mr. cleveland. he seems to have taken the greatest delight in vetoing pension bills, and they seem to be about the only bills he has examined, and he has examined them as a lawyer would examine the declaration, brief or plea of his opponent. he has sought for technicalities, to the end that he might veto these bills. by this course he has lost the soldier vote, and there is no way by which he can regain it. upon this point i regard the president as exceedingly weak. he has shown about the same feeling toward the soldier now that he did during the war. he was not with them then either in mind or body. he is not with them now. his sympathies are on the other side. he has taken occasion to show his contempt for the democratic party again and again. this certainly will not add to his strength. he has treated the old leaders with great arrogance. he has cared nothing for their advice, for their opinions, or for their feelings. the principal vestige of monarchy or despotism in our constitution is the veto power, and this has been more liberally used by mr. cleveland than by any other president. this shows the nature of the man and how narrow he is, and through what a small intellectual aperture he views the world. nothing is farther from true democracy than this perpetual application of the veto power. as a matter of fact, it should be abolished, and the utmost that a president should be allowed to do, would be to return a bill with his objections, and the bill should then become a law upon being passed by both houses by a simple majority. this would give the executive the opportunity of calling attention to the supposed defects, and getting the judgment of congress a second time. i am perfectly satisfied that mr. cleveland is not popular with his party. the noise and confusion of the convention, the cheers and cries, were all produced and manufactured for effect and for the purpose of starting the campaign. now, as to senator thurman. during the war he occupied substantially the same position occupied by mr. cleveland. he was opposed to putting down the rebellion by force, and as i remember it, he rather justified the people of the south for going with their states. ohio was in favor of putting down the rebellion, yet mr. thurman, by some peculiar logic of his own, while he justified southern people for going into rebellion because they followed their states, justified himself for not following his state. his state was for the union. his state was in favor of putting down rebellion. his state was in favor of destroying slavery. certainly, if a man is bound to follow his state, he is equally bound when the state is right. it is hardly reasonable to say that a man is only bound to follow his state when his state is wrong; yet this was really the position of senator thurman. i saw the other day that some gentlemen in this city had given as a reason for thinking that thurman would strengthen the ticket, that he had always been right on the financial question. now, as a matter of fact, he was always wrong. when it was necessary for the government to issue greenbacks, he was a hard money man--he believed in the mint drops--and if that policy had been carried out, the rebellion could not have been suppressed. after the suppression of the rebellion, and when hundreds and hundreds of millions of greenbacks were afloat, and the republican party proposed to redeem them in gold, and to go back--as it always intended to do--to hard money--to a gold and silver basis--then senator thurman, holding aloft the red bandanna, repudiated hard money, opposed resumption, and came out for rag currency as being the best. let him change his ideas--put those first that he had last--and you might say that he was right on the currency question; but when the country needed the greenback he was opposed to it, and when the country was able to redeem the greenback, he was opposed to it. it gives me pleasure to say that i regard senator thurman as a man of ability, and i have no doubt that he was coaxed into his last financial position by the democratic party, by the necessities of ohio, and by the force and direction of the political wind. no matter how much respectability he adds to the ticket, i do not believe that he will give any great strength. in the first place, he is an old man. he has substantially finished his career. young men cannot attach themselves to him, because he has no future. his following is not an army of the young and ambitious--it is rather a funeral procession. yet, notwithstanding this fact, he will furnish most of the enthusiasm for this campaign--and that will be done with his handkerchief. the democratic banner is thurman's red bandanna. i do not believe that it will be possible for the democracy to carry ohio by reason of thurman's nomination, and i think the failure to nominate gray or some good man from that state, will lose indiana. so, while i have nothing to say against senator thurman, nothing against his integrity or his ability, still, under the circumstances, i do not think his nomination a strong one. _question_. do you think that the nominations have been well received throughout the united states? _answer_. not as well as in england. i see that all the tory papers regard the nominations as excellent--especially that of cleveland. every englishman who wants ireland turned into a penitentiary, and every irishman to be treated as a convict, is delighted with the action of the st. louis convention. england knows what she wants. her market is growing small. a few years ago she furnished manufactured articles to a vast portion of the world. millions of her customers have become ingenious enough to manufacture many things that they need, so the next thing england did was to sell them the machinery. now they are beginning to make their own machinery. consequently, english trade is falling off. she must have new customers. nothing would so gratify her as to have sixty millions of americans buy her wares. if she could see our factories still and dead; if she could put out the fires of our furnaces and forges; there would come to her the greatest prosperity she has ever known. she would fatten on our misfortunes --grow rich and powerful and arrogant upon our poverty. we would become her servants. we would raise the raw material with ignorant labor and allow her children to reap all the profit of its manufacture, and in the meantime to become intelligent and cultured while we grew poor and ignorant. the greatest blow that can be inflicted upon england is to keep her manufactured articles out of the united states. sixty millions of americans buy and use more than five hundred millions of asiatics --buy and use more than all of china, all of india and all of africa. one civilized man has a thousand times the wants of a savage or of a semi-barbarian. most of the customers of england want a few yards of calico, some cheap jewelry, a little powder, a few knives and a few gallons of orthodox rum. to-day the united states is the greatest market in the world. the commerce between the states is almost inconceivable in its immensity. in order that you may have some idea of the commerce of this country, it is only necessary to remember one fact. we have railroads enough engaged in this commerce to make six lines around the globe. the addition of a million americans to our population gives us a better market than a monopoly of ten millions of asiatics. england, with her workhouses, with her labor that barely exists, wishes this market, and wishes to destroy the manufactures of america, and she expects irish-americans to assist her in this patriotic business. now, as to the enthusiasm in this country. i fail to see it. the nominations have fallen flat. it has been known for a long time that cleveland was to be nominated. that has all been discounted, and the nomination of judge thurman has been received in a quite matter-of-fact way. it may be that his enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by what might be called the appearance above the horizon of the morning star of this campaign--oregon. what a star to rise over the work of the st. louis convention! what a prophecy for democrats to commence business with! oregon, with the free trade issue, seven thousand to eight thousand republican majority--the largest ever given by that state--oregon speaks for the pacific coast. _question_. what do you think of the democratic platform? _answer_. mr. watterson was kind enough to say that before they took the roof off of the house they were going to give the occupants a chance to get out. by the "house" i suppose he means the great workshop of america. by the "roof" he means protection; and by the "occupants" the mechanics. he is not going to turn them out at once, or take the roof off in an instant, but this is to be done gradually. in other words, they will remove it shingle by shingle or tile by tile, until it becomes so leaky or so unsafe that the occupants-- that is to say, the mechanics, will leave the building. the first thing in the platform is a reaffirmation of the platform of , and an unqualified endorsement of president cleveland's message on the tariff. and if president cleveland's message has any meaning whatever, it means free trade--not instantly, it may be--but that is the object and the end to be attained. all his reasoning, if reasoning it can be called, is in favor of absolute free trade. the issue is fairly made--shall american labor be protected, or must the american laborer take his chances with the labor market of the world? must he stand upon an exact par with the laborers of belgium and england and germany, not only, but with the slaves and serfs of other countries? must he be reduced to the diet of the old country? is he to have meat on holidays and a reasonably good dinner on christmas, and live the rest of the year on crusts, crumbs, scraps, skimmed milk, potatoes, turnips, and a few greens that he can steal from the corners of fences? is he to rely for meat, on poaching, and then is he to be transported to some far colony for the crime of catching a rabbit? are our workingmen to wear wooden shoes? now, understand me, i do not believe that the democrats think that free trade would result in disaster. their minds are so constituted that they really believe that free trade would be a great blessing. i am not calling in question their honesty. i am simply disputing the correctness of their theory. it makes no difference, as a matter of fact, whether they are honest or dishonest. free trade established by honest people would be just as injurious as if established by dishonest people. so there is no necessity of raising the question of intention. consequently, i admit that they are doing the best they know now. this is not admitting much, but it is something, as it tends to take from the discussion all ill feeling. we all know that the tariff protects special interests in particular states. louisiana is not for free trade. it may be for free trade in everything except sugar. it is willing that the rest of the country should pay an additional cent or two a pound on sugar for its benefit, and while receiving the benefit it does not wish to bear its part of the burden. if the other states protect the sugar interests in louisiana, certainly that state ought to be willing to protect the wool interest in ohio, the lead and hemp interest in missouri, the lead and wool interest in colorado, the lumber interest in minnesota, the salt and lumber interest in michigan, the iron interest in pennsylvania, and so i might go on with a list of the states--because each one has something that it wishes to have protected. it sounds a little strange to hear a democratic convention cry out that the party "is in favor of the maintenance of an indissoluble union of free and indestructible states." only a little while ago the democratic party regarded it as the height of tyranny to coerce a free state. can it be said that a state is "free" that is absolutely governed by the nation? is a state free that can make no treaty with any other state or country--that is not permitted to coin money or to declare war? why should such a state be called free? the truth is that the states are not free in that sense. the republican party believes that this is a nation and that the national power is the highest, and that every citizen owes the highest allegiance to the general government and not to his state. in other words, we are not virginians or mississippians or delawareans --we are americans. the great republic is a free nation, and the states are but parts of that nation. the doctrine of state sovereignty was born of the institution of slavery. in the history of our country, whenever anything wrong was to be done, this doctrine of state sovereignty was appealed to. it protected the slave-trade until the year . it passed the fugitive slave law. it made every citizen in the north a catcher of his fellow-man--made it the duty of free people to enslave others. this doctrine of state rights was appealed to for the purpose of polluting the territories with the institution of slavery. to deprive a man of his liberty, to put him back into slavery, state lines were instantly obliterated; but whenever the government wanted to protect one of its citizens from outrage, then the state lines became impassable barriers, and the sword of justice fell in twain across the line of a state. people forget that the national government is the creature of the people. the real sovereign is the people themselves. presidents and congressmen and judges are the creatures of the people. if we had a governing class--if men were presidents or senators by virtue of birth--then we might talk about the danger of centralization; but if the people are sufficiently intelligent to govern themselves, they will never create a government for the destruction of their liberties, and they are just as able to protect their rights in the general government as they are in the states. if you say that the sovereignty of the state protects labor, you might as well say that the sovereignty of the county protects labor in the state and that the sovereignty of the town protects labor in the county. of all subjects in the world the democratic party should avoid speaking of "a critical period of our financial affairs, resulting from over taxation." how did taxation become necessary? who created the vast debt that american labor must pay? who made this taxation of thousands of millions necessary? why were the greenbacks issued? why were the bonds sold? who brought about "a critical period of our financial affairs"? how has the democratic party "averted disaster"? how could there be a disaster with a vast surplus in the treasury? can you find in the graveyard of nations this epitaph: "died of a surplus"? has any nation ever been known to perish because it had too much gold and too much silver, and because its credit was better than that of any other nation on the earth? the democrats seem to think--and it is greatly to their credit--that they have prevented the destruction of the government when the treasury was full--when the vaults were overflowing. what would they have done had the vaults been empty? let them wrestle with the question of poverty; let them then see how the democratic party would succeed. when it is necessary to create credit, to inspire confidence, not only in our own people, but in the nations of the world--which of the parties is best adapted for the task? the democratic party congratulates itself that it has not been ruined by a republican surplus! what good boys we are! we have not been able to throw away our legacy! is it not a little curious that the convention plumed itself on having paid out more for pensions and bounties to the soldiers and sailors of the republic than was ever paid before during an equal period? it goes wild in its pretended enthusiasm for the president who has vetoed more pension bills than all the other presidents put together. the platform informs us that "the democratic party has adopted and consistently pursued and affirmed a prudent foreign policy, preserving peace with all nations." does it point with pride to the mexican fiasco, or does it rely entirely upon the great fishery triumph? what has the administration done--what has it accomplished in the field of diplomacy? when we come to civil service, about how many federal officials were at the st. louis convention? about how many have taken part in the recent nominations? in other words, who has been idle? we have recently been told that the wages of workingmen are just as high in the old country as in this, when you take into consideration the cost of living. we have always been told by all the free trade papers and orators, that the tariff has no bearing whatever upon wages, and yet, the democrats have not succeeded in convincing themselves. i find in their platform this language: "a fair and careful revision of our tax laws, with due allowance for the difference between the wages of american and foreign labor, must promote and encourage every branch of such industries and enterprises by giving them the assurance of an extended market and steady and continuous operations." it would seem from this that the democratic party admits that wages are higher here than in foreign countries. certainly they do not mean to say that they are lower. if they are higher here than in foreign countries, the question arises, why are they higher? if you took off the tariff, the presumption is that they would be as low here as anywhere else, because this very democratic convention says: "a fair and careful revision of our tax laws, with due allowance for the difference between wages." in other words, they would keep tariff enough on to protect our workingmen from the low wages of the foreigner--consequently, we have the admission of the democratic party that in order to keep wages in this country higher than they are in belgium, in italy, in england and in germany, we must protect home labor. then follows the _non sequitur_, which is a democratic earmark. they tell us that by keeping a tariff, "making due allowance for the difference between wages, all the industries and enterprises would be encouraged and promoted by giving them the assurance of an extended market." what does the word "extended" mean? if it means anything, it means a market in other countries. in other words, we will put the tariff so low that the wages of american workingmen will be so low that he can compete with the laborers of other countries; otherwise his market could not be "extended." what does this mean? there is evidently a lack of thought here. the two things cannot be accomplished in that way. if the tariff raises american wages, the american cannot compete in foreign markets with the men who work for half the price. what may be the final result is another question. american industry properly protected, american genius properly fostered, may invent ways and means--such wonderful machinery, such quick, inexpensive processes, that in time american genius may produce at a less rate than any other country, for the reason that the laborers of other countries will not be as intelligent, will not be as independent, will not have the same ambition. fine phrases will not deceive the people of this country. the american mechanic already has a market of sixty millions of people, and, as i said before, the best market in the world. this country is now so rich, so prosperous, that it is the greatest market of the earth, even for luxuries. it is the best market for pictures, for works of art. it is the best market for music and song. it is the best market for dramatic genius, and it is the best market for skilled labor, the best market for common labor, and in this country the poor man to-day has the best chance--he can look forward to becoming the proprietor of a home, of some land, to independence, to respectability, and to an old age without want and without disgrace. the platform, except upon this question of free trade, means very little. there are other features in it which i have not at present time to examine, but shall do so hereafter. i want to take it up point by point and find really what it means, what its scope is, and what the intentions were of the gentlemen who made it. but it may be proper to say here, that in my judgment it is a very weak and flimsy document, as victor hugo would say, "badly cut and badly sewed." of course, i know that the country will exist whatever party may be in power. i know that all our blessings do not come from laws, or from the carrying into effect of certain policies, and probably i could pay no greater compliment to any country than to say that even eight years of democratic rule cannot materially affect her destiny. --_new york press_, june , . the republican platform of . _question_. what do you think of the signs of the times so far as the campaign has progressed? _answer_. the party is now going through a period of misrepresentation. every absurd meaning that can be given to any combination of words will be given to every plank of the platform. in the heat of partisan hatred every plank will look warped and cracked. a great effort is being made to show that the republican party is in favor of intemperance,--that the great object now is to lessen the price of all intoxicants and increase the cost of all the necessaries of life. the papers that are for nothing but reform of everything and everybody except themselves, are doing their utmost to show that the republican party is the enemy of honesty and temperance. the other day, at a republican ratification meeting, i stated among other things, that we could not make great men and great women simply by keeping them out of temptation--that nobody would think of tying the hands of a person behind them and then praise him for not picking pockets; that great people were great enough to withstand temptation, and in that connection i made this statement: "temperance goes hand in hand with liberty"--the idea being that when a chain is taken from the body an additional obligation is perceived by the mind. these good papers--the papers that believe in honest politics--stated that i said: "temperance goes hand in hand with liquor." this was not only in the reports of the meeting, but this passage was made the subject of several editorials. it hardly seems possible that any person really thought that such a statement had been expressed. the republican party does not want free whiskey --it wants free men; and a great many people in the republican party are great enough to know that temperance does go hand in hand with liberty; they are great enough to know that all legislation as to what we shall eat, as to what we shall drink, and as to wherewithal we shall be clothed, partakes of the nature of petty, irritating and annoying tyranny. they also know that the natural result is to fill a country with spies, hypocrites and pretenders, and that when a law is not in accordance with an enlightened public sentiment, it becomes either a dead letter, or, when a few fanatics endeavor to enforce it, a demoralizer of courts, of juries and of people. the attack upon the platform by temperance people is doing no harm, for the reason that long before november comes these people will see the mistake they have made. it seems somewhat curious that the democrats should attack the platform if they really believe that it means free whiskey. the tax was levied during the war. it was a war measure. the government was _in extremis_, and for that reason was obliged to obtain a revenue from every possible article of value. the war is over; the necessity has disappeared; consequently the government should return to the methods of peace. we have too many government officials. let us get rid of collectors and gaugers and inspectors. let us do away with all this machinery, and leave the question to be settled by the state. if the temperance people themselves would take a second thought, they would see that when the government collects eighty or ninety million dollars from a tax on whiskey, the traffic becomes entrenched, it becomes one of the pillars of the state, one of the great sources of revenue. let the states attend to this question, and it will be a matter far easier to deal with. the prohibitionists are undoubtedly honest, and their object is to destroy the traffic, to prevent the manufacture of whiskey. can they do this as long as the government collects ninety million dollars per annum from that one source? if there is anything whatever in this argument, is it not that the traffic pays a bribe of ninety million dollars a year for its life? will not the farmers say to the temperance men: "the distilleries pay the taxes, the distilleries raise the price of corn; is it not better for the general government to look to another direction for its revenues and leave the states to deal as they may see proper with this question?" with me, it makes no difference what is done with the liquor-- whether it is used in the arts or not--it is a question of policy. there is no moral principle involved on our side of the question, to say the least of it. if it is a crime to make and sell intoxicating liquors, the government, by licensing persons to make and sell, becomes a party to the crime. if one man poisons another, no matter how much the poison costs, the crime is the same; and if the person from whom the poison was purchased knew how it was to be used, he is also a murderer. there have been many reformers in this world, and they have seemed to imagine that people will do as they say. they think that you can use people as you do bricks or stones; that you can lay them up in walls and they will remain where they are placed; but the truth is, you cannot do this. the bricks are not satisfied with each other--they go away in the night--in the morning there is no wall. most of these reformers go up what you might call the mount sinai of their own egotism, and there, surrounded by the clouds of their own ignorance, they meditate upon the follies and the frailties of their fellow-men and then come down with ten commandments for their neighbors. all this talk about the republican platform being in favor of intemperance, so far as the democratic party is concerned, is pure, unadulterated hypocrisy--nothing more, nothing less. so far as the prohibitionists are concerned, they may be perfectly honest, but, if they will think a moment, they will see how perfectly illogical they are. no one can help sympathizing with any effort honestly made to do away with the evil of intemperance. i know that many believe that these evils can be done away with by legislation. while i sympathize with the objects that these people wish to attain, i do not believe in the means they suggest. as life becomes valuable, people will become temperate, because they will take care of themselves. temperance is born of the countless influences of civilization. character cannot be forced upon anybody; it is a growth, the seeds of which are within. men cannot be forced into real temperance any more than they can be frightened into real morality. you may frighten a man to that degree that he will not do a certain thing, but you cannot scare him badly enough to prevent his wanting to do that thing. reformation begins on the inside, and the man refrains because he perceives that he ought to refrain, not because his neighbors say that he ought to refrain. no one would think of praising convicts in jail for being regular at their meals, or for not staying out nights; and it seems to me that when the prohibitionists--when the people who are really in favor of temperance--look the ground all over they will see that it is far better to support the republican party than to throw their votes away; and the republicans will see that it is simply a proposition to go back to the original methods of collecting revenue for the government--that it is simply abandoning the measures made necessary by war, and that it is giving to the people the largest liberty consistent with the needs of the government, and that it is only leaving these questions where in time of peace they properly belong --to the states themselves. _question_. do you think that the knights of labor will cut any material figure in this election? _answer_. the knights of labor will probably occupy substantially the same position as other laborers and other mechanics. if they clearly see that the policy advocated by the republican party is to their interest, that it will give them better wages than the policy advocated by the democrats, then they will undoubtedly support our ticket. there is more or less irritation between employers and employed. all men engaged in manufacturing and neither good nor generous. many of them get work for as little as possible, and sell its product for all they can get. it is impossible to adopt a policy that will not by such people be abused. many of them would like to see the working man toil for twelve hours or fourteen or sixteen in each day. many of them wonder why they need sleep or food, and are perfectly astonished when they ask for pay. in some instances, undoubtedly, the working men will vote against their own interests simply to get even with such employers. some laboring men have been so robbed, so tyrannized over, that they would be perfectly willing to feel for the pillars and take a certain delight in a destruction that brought ruin even to themselves. such manufacturers, however, i believe to be in a minority, and the laboring men, under the policy of free trade, would be far more in their power. when wages fall below a certain point, then comes degradation, loss of manhood, serfdom and slavery. if any man has the right to vote for his own interests, certainly the man who labors is that man, and every working man having in his will a part of the sovereignty of this nation, having within him a part of the lawmaking power, should have the intelligence and courage to vote for his own interests; he should vote for good wages; he should vote for a policy that would enable him to lay something by for the winter of his life, that would enable him to earn enough to educate his children, enough to give him a home and a fireside. he need not do this in anger or for revenge, but because it is just, because it is right, and because the working people are in a majority. they ought to control the world, because they have made the world what it is. they have given everything there is of value. labor plows every field, builds every house, fashions everything of use, and when that labor is guided by intelligence the world is prosperous. he who thinks good thoughts is a laborer--one of the greatest. the man who invented the reaper will be harvesting the fields for thousands of years to come. if labor is abused in this country the laborers have it within their power to defend themselves. all my sympathies are with the men who toil. i shed very few tears over bankers and millionaires and corporations--they can take care of themselves. my sympathies are with the man who has nothing to sell but his strength; nothing to sell but his muscle and his intelligence; who has no capital except that which his mother gave him--a capital he must sell every day; my sympathies are with him; and i want him to have a good market; and i want it so that he can sell the work for more than enough to take care of him to-morrow. i believe that no corporation should be allowed to exist except for the benefit of the whole people. the government should always act for the benefit of all, and when the government gives a part of its power to an aggregation of individuals, the accomplishment of some public good should justify the giving of that power; and whenever a corporation becomes subversive of the very end for which it was created, the government should put an end to its life. so i believe that after these matters, these issues have been discussed--when something is understood about the effect of a tariff, the effect of protection, the laboring people of this country will be on the side of the republican party. the republican party is always trying to do something--trying to take a step in advance. persons who care for nothing except themselves--who wish to make no effort except for themselves--are its natural enemies. _question_. what do you think of mr. mills' fourth of july speech on his bill? _answer_. certain allowances should always be made for the fourth of july. what mr. mills says with regard to free trade depends, i imagine, largely on where he happens to be. you remember the old story about the _moniteur_. when napoleon escaped from elba that paper said: "the ogre has escaped." and from that moment the epithets grew a little less objectionable as napoleon advanced, and at last the _moniteur_ cried out: "the emperor has reached paris." i hardly believe that mr. mills would call his bill in texas a war tariff measure. he might commence in new york with that description, but as he went south that language, in my judgment, would change, and when he struck the brazos i think the bill would be described as the nearest possible approach to free trade. mr. mills takes the ground that if raw material comes here free of duty, then we can manufacture that raw material and compete with other countries in the markets of the world--that is to say, under his bill. now, other countries can certainly get the raw material as cheaply as we can, especially those countries in which the raw material is raised; and if wages are less in other countries than in ours, the raw material being the same, the product must cost more with us than with them. consequently we cannot compete with foreign countries simply by getting the raw material at the same price; we must be able to manufacture it as cheaply as they, and we can do that only by cutting down the wages of the american workingmen. because, to have raw material at the same price as other nations, is only a part of the problem. the other part is how cheaply can we manufacture it? and that depends upon wages. if wages are twenty-five cents a day, then we can compete with those nations where wages are twenty-five cents a day; but if our wages are five or six times as high, then the twenty-five cent labor will supply the market. there is no possible way of putting ourselves on an equality with other countries in the markets of the world, except by putting american labor on an equality with the other labor of the world. consequently, we cannot obtain a foreign market without lessening our wages. no proposition can be plainer than this. it cannot be said too often that the real prosperity of a country depends upon the well-being of those who labor. that country is not prosperous where a few are wealthy and have all the luxuries that the imagination can suggest, and where the millions are in want, clothed in rags, and housed in tenements not fit for wild beasts. the value of our property depends on the civilization of our people. if the people are happy and contented, if the workingman receives good wages, then our houses and our farms are valuable. if the people are discontented, if the workingmen are in want, then our property depreciates from day to day, and national bankruptcy will only be a question of time. if mr. mills has given a true statement with regard to the measure proposed by him, what relation does that measure bear to the president's message? what has it to do with the democratic platform? if mr. mills has made no mistake, the president wrote a message substantially in favor of free trade. the democratic party ratified and indorsed that message, and at the same time ratified and indorsed the mills bill. now, the message was for free trade, and the mills bill, according to mr. mills, is for the purpose of sustaining the war tariff. they have either got the wrong child or the wrong parents. _question_. i see that some people are objecting to your taking any part in politics, on account of your religious opinion? _answer_. the democratic party has always been pious. if it is noted for anything it is for its extreme devotion. you have no idea how many democrats wear out the toes of their shoes praying. i suppose that in this country there ought to be an absolute divorce between church and state and without any alimony being allowed to the church; and i have always supposed that the republican party was perfectly willing that anybody should vote its ticket who believed in its principles. the party was not established, as i understand it, in the interest of any particular denomination; it was established to promote and preserve the freedom of the american citizen everywhere. its first object was to prevent the spread of human slavery; its second object was to put down the rebellion and preserve the union; its third object was the utter destruction of human slavery everywhere, and its fourth object is to preserve not only the fruit of all that it has won, but to protect american industry to the end that the republic may not only be free, but prosperous and happy. in this great work all are invited to join, no matter whether catholics or presbyterians or methodists or infidels--believers or unbelievers. the object is to have a majority of the people of the united states in favor of human liberty, in favor of justice and in favor of an intelligent american policy. i am not what is called strictly orthodox, and yet i am liberal enough to vote for a presbyterian, and if a presbyterian is not liberal enough to stand by a republican, no matter what his religious opinions may be, then the presbyterian is not as liberal as the republican party, and he is not as liberal as an unbeliever; in other words, he is not a manly man. i object to no man who is running for office on the ticket of my party on account of his religious convictions. i care nothing about the church of which he is a member. that is his business. that is an individual matter--something with which the state has no right to interfere--something with which no party can rightfully have anything to do. these great questions are left open to discussion. every church must take its chance in the open field of debate. no belief has the right to draw the sword--no dogma the right to resort to force. the moment a church asks for the help of the state, it confesses its weakness, it confesses its inability to answer the arguments against it. i believe in the absolute equality before the law, of all religions and all metaphysical theories; and i would no more control those things by law than i would endeavor to control the arts and the sciences by legislation. man admires the beautiful, and what is beautiful to one may not be to another, and this inequality or this difference cannot be regulated by law. the same is true of what is called religious belief. i am willing to give all others every right that i claim for myself, and if they are not willing to give me the rights they claim for themselves, they are not civilized. no man acknowledges the truth of my opinions because he votes the same ticket that i do, and i certainly do not acknowledge the correctness of the opinions of others because i vote the republican ticket. we are republicans together. upon certain political questions we agree, upon other questions we disagree--and that is all. only religious people, who have made up their minds to vote the democratic ticket, will raise an objection of this kind, and they will raise the objection simply as a pretence, simply for the purpose of muddying the water while they escape. of course there may be some exceptions. there are a great many insane people out of asylums. if the republican party does not stand for absolute intellectual liberty, it had better disband. and why should we take so much pains to free the body, and then enslave the mind? i believe in giving liberty to both. give every man the right to labor, and give him the right to reap the harvest of his toil. give every man the right to think, and to reap the harvest of his brain--that is to say, give him the right to express his thoughts. --_new york press_, july , . james g. blaine and politics. _question_. i see that there has lately been published a long account of the relations between mr. blaine and yourself, and the reason given for your failure to support him for the nomination in and ? _answer_. every little while some donkey writes a long article pretending to tell all that happened between mr. blaine and myself. i have never seen any article on the subject that contained any truth. they are always the invention of the writer or of somebody who told him. the last account is more than usually idiotic. an unpleasant word has never passed between mr. blaine and myself. we have never had any falling out. i never asked mr. blaine's influence for myself. i never asked president hayes or garfield or arthur for any position whatever, and i have never asked mr. cleveland for any appointment under the civil service. with regard to the german mission, about which so much has been said, all that i ever did in regard to that was to call on secretary evarts and inform him that there was no place in the gift of the administration that i would accept. i could not afford to throw away a good many thousand dollars a year for the sake of an office. so i say again that i never asked, or dreamed of asking, any such favor of mr. blaine. the favors have been exactly the other way-- from me, and not from him. so there is not the slightest truth in the charge that there was some difference between our families. i have great respect for mrs. blaine, have always considered her an extremely good and sensible woman; our relations have been of the friendliest character, and such relations have always existed between all the members of both families, so far as i know. nothing could be more absurd that the charge that there was some feeling growing out of our social relations. we do not depend upon others to help us socially; we need no help, and if we did we would not accept it. the whole story about there having been any lack of politeness or kindness is without the slightest foundation. in i did not think that mr. blaine could be elected. i thought the same at the chicago convention this year. i know that he has a great number of ardent admirers and of exceedingly self-denying and unselfish friends. i believe that he has more friends than any other man in the republican party; but he also has very bitter enemies--enemies with influence. taking this into consideration, and believing that the success of the party was more important than the success of any individual, i was in favor of nominating some man who would poll the entire republican vote. this feeling did not grow out of any hostility to any man, but simply out of a desire for republican success. in other words, i endeavored to take an unprejudiced view of the situation. under no circumstances would i underrate the ability and influence of mr. blaine, nor would i endeavor to deprecate the services he has rendered to the republican party and to the country. but by this time it ought to be understood that i belong to no man, that i am the proprietor of myself. there are two kinds of people that i have no use for--leaders and followers. the leader should be principle; the leader should be a great object to be accomplished. the follower should be the man dedicated to the accomplishment of a noble end. he who simply follows persons gains no honor and is incapable of giving honor even to the one he follows. there are certain things to be accomplished and these things are the leaders. we want in this country an american system; we wish to carry into operation, into practical effect, ideas, policies, theories in harmony with our surroundings. this is a great country filled with intelligent, industrious, restless, ambitious people. millions came here because they were dissatisfied with the laws, the institutions, the tyrannies, the absurdities, the poverty, the wretchedness and the infamous spirit of caste found in the old world. millions of these people are thinking for themselves, and only the people who can teach, who can give new facts, who can illuminate, should be regarded as political benefactors. this country is, in my judgment, in all that constitutes true greatness, the nearest civilized of any country. only yesterday the german empire robbed a woman of her child; this was done as a political necessity. nothing is taken into consideration except some move on the political chess-board. the feelings of a mother are utterly disregarded; they are left out of the question; they are not even passed upon. they are naturally ignored, because in these governments only the unnatural is natural. in our political life we have substantially outgrown the duel. there are some small, insignificant people who still think it important to defend a worthless reputation on the field of "honor," but for respectable members of the senate, of the house, of the cabinet, to settle a political argument with pistols would render them utterly contemptible in this country; that is to say, the opinion that governs, that dominates in this country, holds the duel in abhorrence and in contempt. what could be more idiotic, absurd, childish, than the duel between boulanger and floquet? what was settled? it needed no duel to convince the world that floquet is a man of courage. the same may be said of boulanger. he has faced death upon many fields. why, then, resort to the duel? if boulanger's wound proves fatal, that certainly does not tend to prove that floquet told the truth, and if boulanger recovers, it does not tend to prove that he did not tell the truth. nothing is settled. two men controlled by vanity, that individual vanity born of national vanity, try to kill each other; the public ready to reward the victor; the cause of the quarrel utterly ignored; the hands of the public ready to applaud the successful swordsman --and yet france is called a civilized nation. no matter how serious the political situation may be, no matter if everything depends upon one man, that man is at the mercy of anyone in opposition who may see fit to challenge him. the greatest general at the head of their armies may be forced to fight a duel with a nobody. such ideas, such a system, keeps a nation in peril and makes every cause, to a greater or less extent, depend upon the sword or the bullet of a criminal. --_the press_, new york, july , . the mills bill. _question_. what, in your opinion, is the significance of the vote on the mills bill recently passed in the house? in this i find there were one hundred and sixty-two for it, and one hundred and forty-nine against it; of these, two republicans voted for, and five democrats against. _answer_. in the first place, i think it somewhat doubtful whether the bill could have been passed if mr. randall had been well. his sickness had much to do with this vote. had he been present to have taken care of his side, to have kept his forces in hand, he, in my judgment, taking into consideration his wonderful knowledge of parliamentary tactics, would have defeated this bill. it is somewhat hard to get the average democrat, in the absence of his leader, to throw away the prospect of patronage. most members of congress have to pay tolerably strict attention to their political fences. the president, although clinging with great tenacity to the phrase "civil service," has in all probability pulled every string he could reach for the purpose of compelling the democratic members not only to stand in line, but to answer promptly to their names. every democrat who has shown independence has been stepped on just to the extent he could be reached; but many members, had the leader been on the floor--and a leader like randall--would have followed him. there are very few congressional districts in the united states not intensely democratic where the people want nothing protected. there are a few districts where nothing grows except ancient politics, where they cultivate only the memory of what never ought to have been, where the subject of protection has not yet reached. the impudence requisite to pass the mills bill is something phenomenal. think of the representatives from louisiana saying to the ranchmen of the west and to the farmers of ohio that wool must be on the free list, but that for the sake of preserving the sugar interest of louisiana and a little portion of texas, all the rest of the united states must pay tribute. everybody admits that louisiana is not very well adapted by nature for raising sugar, for the reason that the cane has to be planted every year, and every third year the frost puts in an appearance just a little before the sugar. now, while i think personally that the tariff on sugar has stimulated the inventive genius of the country to find other ways of producing that which is universally needed; and while i believe that it will not be long until we shall produce every pound of sugar that we consume, and produce it cheaper than we buy it now, i am satisfied that in time and at no distant day sugar will be made in this country extremely cheap, not only from beets, but from sorghum and corn, and it may be from other products. at the same time this is no excuse for louisiana, neither is it any excuse for south carolina asking for a tariff on rice, and at the same time wishing to leave some other industry in the united states, in which many more millions have been invested, absolutely without protection. understand, i am not opposed to a reasonable tariff on rice, provided it is shown that we can raise rice in this country cheaply and at a profit to such an extent as finally to become substantially independent of the rest of the world. what i object to is the impudence of the gentleman who is raising the rice objecting to the protection of some other industry of far greater importance than his. after all, the whole thing must be a compromise. we must act together for the common good. if we wish to make something at the expense of another state we must allow that state to make something at our expense, or at least we must be able to show that while it is for our benefit it is also for the benefit of the country at large. everybody is entitled to have his own way up to the point that his way interferes with somebody else. states are like individuals--their rights are relative--they are subordinated to the good of the whole country. for many years it has been the american policy to do all that reasonably could be done to foster american industry, to give scope to american ingenuity and a field for american enterprise--in other words, a future for the united states. the southern states were always in favor of something like free trade. they wanted to raise cotton for great britain--raw material for other countries. at that time their labor was slave labor, and they could not hope ever to have skilled labor, because skilled labor cannot be enslaved. the southern people knew at that time that if a man was taught enough of mathematics to understand machinery, to run locomotives, to weave cloth; it he was taught enough of chemistry even to color calico, it would be impossible to keep him a slave. education always was and always will be an abolitionist. the south advocated a system of harmony with slavery, in harmony with ignorance--that is to say, a system of free trade, under which it might raise its raw material. it could not hope to manufacture, because by making its labor intelligent enough to manufacture it would lose it. in the north, men are working for themselves, and as i have often said, they were getting their hands and heads in partnership. every little stream that went singing to the sea was made to turn a thousand wheels; the water became a spinner and a weaver; the water became a blacksmith and ran a trip hammer; the water was doing the work of millions of men. in other words, the free people of the north were doing what free people have always done, going into partnership with the forces of nature. free people want good tools, shapely, well made--tools with which the most work can be done with the least strain. suppose the south had been in favor of protection; suppose that all over the southern country there had been workshops, factories, machines of every kind; suppose that her people had been as ingenious as the people of the north; suppose that her hands had been as deft as those that had been accustomed to skilled labor; then one of two things would have happened; either the south would have been too intelligent to withdraw from the union, or, having withdrawn, it would have had the power to maintain its position. my opinion is that is would have been too intelligent to withdraw. when the south seceded it had no factories. the people of the south had ability, but it was not trained in the direction then necessary. they could not arm and equip their men; they could not make their clothes; they could not provide them with guns, with cannon, with ammunition, and with the countless implements of destruction. they had not the ingenuity; they had not the means; they could not make cars to carry their troops, or locomotives to draw them; they had not in their armies the men to build bridges or to supply the needed transportation. they had nothing but cotton --that is to say, raw material. so that you might say that the rebellion has settled the question as to whether a country is better off and more prosperous, and more powerful, and more ready for war, that is filled with industries, or one that depends simply upon the production of raw material. there is another thing in this connection that should never be forgotten--at least, not until after the election in november, and then if forgotten, should be remembered at every subsequent election --and that is, that the southern confederacy had in its constitution the doctrine of free trade. among other things it was fighting for free trade. as a matter of fact, john c. calhoun was fighting for free trade; the nullification business was in the interest of free trade. the southern people are endeavoring simply to accomplish, with the aid of new york, what they failed to accomplish on the field. the south is as "solid" to-day as in . it is now for free trade, and it purposes to carry the day by the aid of one or two northern states. history is repeating itself. it was the same for many years, up to the election of abraham lincoln. understand me, i do not blame the south for acting in accordance with its convictions, but the north ought not to be misled. the north ought to understand what the issue is. the south has a different idea of government--it is afraid of what it calls "centralization"--it is extremely sensitive about what are called "state rights" or the sovereignty of the state. but the north believes in a union that is united. the north does not expect to have any interest antagonistic to the union. the north has no mental reservation. the north believes in the government and in the federal system, and the north believes that when a state is admitted into the union it becomes a part--an integral part--of the nation; that there was a welding, that the state, so far as sovereignty is concerned, is lost in the union, and that the people of that state become citizens of the whole country. _question_. i see that by the vote two of the five democrats who voted for protection, and one of the two republicans who voted for free trade, were new yorkers. what do you think is the significance of this fact in relation to the question as to whether new york will join the south in the opposition to the industries of the country? _answer_. in the city of new york there are a vast number of men --importers, dealers in foreign articles, representatives of foreign houses, of foreign interests, of foreign ideas. of course most of these people are in favor of free trade. they regard new york as a good market; beyond that they have not the slightest interest in the united states. they are in favor of anything that will give them a large profit, or that will allow them to do the same business with less capital, or that will do them any good without the slightest regard as to what the effect may be on this country as a nation. they come from all countries, and they expect to remain here until their fortunes are made or lost and all their ideas are moulded by their own interests. then, there are a great many natives who are merchants in new york and who deal in foreign goods, and they probably think--some of them--that it would be to their interest to have free trade, and they will probably vote according to the ledger. with them it is a question of bookkeeping. their greed is too great to appreciate the fact that to impoverish customers destroys trade. at the same time, new york, being one of the greatest manufacturing states of the world, will be for protection, and the democrats of new york who voted for protection did so, not only because the believed in it themselves, but because their constituents believe in it, and the republicans who voted the other way must have represented some district where the foreign influence controls. the people of this state will protect their own industries. _question_. what will be the fate of the mills bill in the senate? _answer_. i think that unless the senate has a bill prepared embodying republican ideals, a committee should be appointed, not simply to examine the mills bill, but to get the opinions and the ideas of the most intelligent manufacturers and mechanics in this country. let the questions be thoroughly discussed, and let the information thus obtained be given to the people; let it be published from day to day; let the laboring man have his say, let the manufacturer give his opinion; let the representatives of the principal industries be heard, so that we may vote intelligently, so that the people may know what they are doing. a great many industries have been attacked. let them defend themselves. public property should not be taken for democratic use without due process of law. certainly it is not the business of a republican senate to pull the donkey of the democrats out of the pit; the dug the pit, and we have lost no donkey. i do not think the senate called upon to fix up this mills bill, to rectify its most glaring mistakes, and then for the sake of saving a little, give up a great deal. what we have got is safe until the democrats have the power to pass a bill. we can protect our rights by not passing their bills. in other words, we do not wish to practice any great self-denial simply for the purpose of insuring democratic success. if the bill is sent back to the house, no matter in what form, if it still has the name "mills bill" i think the democrats will vote for it simply to get out of their trouble. they will have the president's message left. but i do hope that the senate will investigate this business. it is hardly fair to ask the senate to take decided and final action upon this bill in the last days of the session. there is no time to consider it unless it is instantly defeated. this would probably be a safe course, and yet, by accident, there may be some good things in this bill that ought to be preserved, and certainly the democratic party ought to regard it as a compliment to keep it long enough to read it. the interests involved are great--there are the commercial and industrial interests of sixty millions of people. these questions touch the prosperity of the republic. every person under the flag has a direct interest in the solution of these questions. the end that is now arrived at, the policy now adopted, may and probably will last for many years. one can hardly overestimate the immensity of the interests at stake. a man dealing with his own affairs should take time to consider; he should give himself the benefit of his best judgment. when acting for others he should do no less. the senators represent, or should represent, not only their own views, but above these things they represent the material interests of their constituents, of their states, and to this trust they must be true, and in order to be true, they must understand the material interests of their states, and in order to be faithful, they must understand how the proposed changes in the tariff will affect these interests. this cannot be done in a moment. in my judgment, the best way is for the senate, through the proper committee, to hear testimony, to hear the views of intelligent men, of interested men, of prejudiced men--that is to say, they should look at the question from all sides. _question_. the senate is almost tied; do you think that any republicans are likely to vote in the interest of the president's policy at this session? _answer_. of course i cannot pretend to answer that question from any special knowledge, or on any information that others are not in possession of. my idea is simply this: that a majority of the senators are opposed to the president's policy. a majority of the senate will, in my judgment, sustain the republican policy; that is to say, they will stand by the american system. a majority of the senate, i think, know that it will be impossible for us to compete in the markets of the world with those nations in which labor is far cheaper than it is in the united states, and that when you make the raw material just the same, you have not overcome the difference in labor, and until this is overcome we cannot successfully compete in the markets of the world with those countries where labor is cheaper. and there are only two ways to overcome this difficulty--either the price of labor must go up in the other countries or must go down in this. i do not believe that a majority of the senate can be induced to vote for a policy that will decrease the wages of american workingmen. there is this curious thing: the president started out blowing the trumpet of free trade. it gave, as the democrats used to say, "no uncertain sound." he blew with all his might. messrs. morrison, carlisle, mills and many others joined the band. when the mills bill was introduced it was heralded as the legitimate offspring of the president's message. when the democratic convention at st. louis met, the declaration was made that the president's message, the mills bill, the democratic platform of and the democratic platform of , were all the same--all segments of one circle; in fact, they were like modern locomotives--"all the parts interchangeable." as soon as the republican convention met, made its platform and named its candidates, it is not free trade, but freer trade; and now mr. mills, in the last speech that he was permitted to make in favor of his bill, endeavored to show that it was a high protective tariff measure. this is what lawyers call "a departure in pleading." that is to say, it is a case that ought to be beaten on demurrer. --_new york press_, july , . society and its criminals* [* col. robert g. ingersoll was greatly interested in securing for chiara cignarale a commutation of the death sentence to imprisonment for life. in view of the fact that the great agnostic has made a close study of capital punishment, a reporter for the _world_ called upon him a day or two ago for an interview touching modern reformatory measures and the punishment of criminals. speaking generally on the subject colonel ingersoll said: ] i suppose that society--that is to say, a state or a nation--has the right of self-defence. it is impossible to maintain society-- that is to say, to protect the rights of individuals in life, in property, in reputation, and in the various pursuits known as trades and professions, without in some way taking care of those who violate these rights. the principal object of all government should be to protect those in the right from those in the wrong. there are a vast number of people who need to be protected who are unable, by reason of the defects in their minds and by the countless circumstances that enter into the question of making a living, to protect themselves. among the barbarians there was, comparatively speaking, but little difference. a living was made by fishing and hunting. these arts were simple and easily learned. the principal difference in barbarians consisted in physical strength and courage. as a consequence, there were comparatively few failures. most men were on an equality. now that we are somewhat civilized, life has become wonderfully complex. there are hundreds of arts, trades, and professions, and in every one of these there is great competition. besides all this, something is needed every moment. civilized man has less credit than the barbarian. there is something by which everything can be paid for, including the smallest services. everybody demands payment, and he who fails to pay is a failure. owing to the competition, owing to the complexity of modern life, owing to the thousand things that must be known in order to succeed in any direction, on either side of the great highway that is called progress, are innumerable wrecks. as a rule, failure in some honest direction, or at least in some useful employment, is the dawn of crime. people who are prosperous, people who by reasonable labor can make a reasonable living, who, having a little leisure can lay in a little for the winter that comes to all, are honest. as a rule, reasonable prosperity is virtuous. i don't say great prosperity, because it is very hard for the average man to withstand extremes. when people fail under this law, or rather this fact, of the survival of the fittest, they endeavor to do by some illegal way that which they failed to do in accordance with law. persons driven from the highway take to the fields, and endeavor to reach their end or object in some shorter way, by some quicker path, regardless of its being right or wrong. i have said this much to show that i regard criminals as unfortunates. most people regard those who violate the law with hatred. they do not take into consideration the circumstances. they do not believe that man is perpetually acted upon. they throw out of consideration the effect of poverty, of necessity, and above all, of opportunity. for these reasons they regard criminals with feelings of revenge. they wish to see them punished. they want them imprisoned or hanged. they do not think the law has been vindicated unless somebody has been outraged. i look at these things from an entirely different point of view. i regard these people who are in the clutches of the law not only as unfortunates, but, for the most part, as victims. you may call them victims of nature, or of nations, or of governments; it makes no difference, they are victims. under the same circumstances the very persons who punish them would be punished. but whether the criminal is a victim or not, the honest man, the industrious man, has the right to defend the product of his labor. he who sows and plows should be allowed to reap, and he who endeavors to take from him his harvest is what we call a criminal; and it is the business of society to protect the honest from the dishonest. without taking into account whether the man is or is not responsible, still society has the right of self-defence. whether that right of self-defence goes to the extent of taking life, depends, i imagine, upon the circumstances in which society finds itself placed. a thousand men on a ship form a society. if a few men should enter into a plot for the destruction of the ship, or for turning it over to pirates, or for poisoning and plundering the most of the passengers--if the passengers found this out certainly they would have the right of self-defence. they might not have the means to confine the conspirators with safety. under such circumstances it might be perfectly proper for them to destroy their lives and to throw their worthless bodies into the sea. but what society has the right to do depends upon the circumstances. now, in my judgment, society has the right to do two things--to protect itself and to do what it can to reform the individual. society has no right to take revenge; no right to torture a convict; no right to do wrong because some individual has done wrong. i am opposed to all corporal punishment in penitentiaries. i am opposed to anything that degrades a criminal or leaves upon him an unnecessary stain, or puts upon him any stain that he did not put upon himself. most people defend capital punishment on the ground that the man ought to be killed because he has killed another. the only real ground for killing him, even if that be good, is not that he has killed, but that he may kill. what he has done simply gives evidence of what he may do, and to prevent what he may do, instead of to revenge what he has done, should be the reason given. now, there is another view. to what extent does it harden the community for the government to take life? don't people reason in this way: that man ought to be killed; the government, under the same circumstances, would kill him, therefore i will kill him? does not the government feed the mob spirit--the lynch spirit? does not the mob follow the example set by the government? the government certainly cannot say that it hangs a man for the purpose of reforming him. its feelings toward that man are only feelings of revenge and hatred. these are the same feelings that animate the lowest and basest mob. let me give you an example. in the city of bloomington, in the state of illinois, a man confined in the jail, in his efforts to escape, shot and, i believe, killed the jailer. he was pursued, recaptured, brought back and hanged by a mob. the man who put the rope around his neck was then under indictment for an assault to kill and was out on bail, and after the poor wretch was hanged another man climbed the tree and, in a kind of derision, put a piece of cigar between the lips of the dead man. the man who did this had also been indicted for a penitentiary offence and was then out on bail. i mention this simply to show the kind of people you find in mobs. now, if the government had a greater and nobler thought; if the government said: "we will reform; we will not destroy; but if the man is beyond reformation we will simply put him where he can do no more harm," then, in my judgment, the effect would be far better. my own opinion is, that the effect of an execution is bad upon the community--degrading and debasing. the effect is to cheapen human life; and, although a man is hanged because he has taken human life, the very fact that his life is taken by the government tends to do away with the idea that human life is sacred. let me give you an illustration. a man in the city of washington went to alexandria, va., for the purpose of seeing a man hanged who had murdered an old man and a woman for the purpose of getting their money. on his return from that execution he came through what is called the smithsonian grounds. this was on the same day, late in the evening. there he met a peddler, whom he proceeded to murder for his money. he was arrested in a few hours, in a little while was tried and convicted, and in a little while was hanged. and another man, present at this second execution, went home on that same day, and, in passing by a butcher-shop near his house, went in, took from the shop a cleaver, went into his house and chopped his wife's head off. this, i say, throws a little light upon the effect of public executions. in the cignarale case, of course the sentence should have been commuted. i think, however, that she ought not to be imprisoned for life. from what i read of the testimony i think she should have been pardoned. it is hard, i suppose, for a man fully to understand and enter into the feelings of a wife who has been trampled upon, abused, bruised, and blackened by the man she loved--by the man who made to her the vows of eternal affection. the woman, as a rule, is so weak, so helpless. of course, it does not all happen in a moment. it comes on as the night comes. she notices that he does not act quite as affectionately as he formerly did. day after day, month after month, she feels that she is entering a twilight. but she hopes that she is mistaken, and that the light will come again. the gloom deepens, and at last she is in midnight--a midnight without a star. and this man, whom she once worshiped, is now her enemy-- one who delights to trample upon every sentiment she has--who delights in humiliating her, and who is guilty of a thousand nameless tyrannies. under these circumstances, it is hardly right to hold that woman accountable for what she does. it has always seemed to me strange that a woman so circumstanced--in such fear that she dare not even tell her trouble--in such fear that she dare not even run away--dare not tell a father or a mother, for fear that she will be killed--i say, that in view of all this, it has always seemed strange to me that so few husbands have been poisoned. the probability is that society raises its own criminals. it plows the land, sows the seed, and harvests the crop. i believe that the shadow of the gibbet will not always fall upon the earth. i believe the time will come when we shall know too much to raise criminals--know too much to crowd those that labor into the dens and dungeons that we call tenements, while the idle live in palaces. the time will come when men will know that real progress means the enfranchisement of the whole human race, and that our interests are so united, so interwoven, that the few cannot be happy while the many suffer; so that the many cannot be happy while the few suffer; so that none can be happy while one suffers. in other words, it will be found that the human race is interested in each individual. when that time comes we will stop producing criminals; we will stop producing failures; we will not leave the next generation to chance; we will not regard the gutter as a proper nursery for posterity. people imagine that if the thieves are sent to the penitentiary, that is the last of the thieves; that if those who kill others are hanged, society is on a safe and enduring basis. but the trouble is here: a man comes to your front door and you drive him away. you have an idea that that man's case is settled. you are mistaken. he goes to the back door. he is again driven away. but the case is not settled. the next thing you know he enters at night. he is a burglar. he is caught; he is convicted; he is sent to the penitentiary, and you imagine that the case is settled. but it is not. you must remember that you have to keep all the agencies alive for the purpose of taking care of these people. you have to build and maintain your penitentiaries, your courts of justice; you have to pay your judges, your district attorneys, your juries, you witnesses, your detectives, your police--all these people must be paid. so that, after all, it is a very expensive way of settling this question. you could have done it far more cheaply had you found this burglar when he was a child; had you taken his father and mother from the tenement house, or had you compelled the owners to keep the tenement clean; or if you had widened the streets, if you had planted a few trees, if you had had plenty of baths, if you had had a school in the neighborhood. if you had taken some interest in this family--some interest in this child--instead of breaking into houses, he might have been a builder of houses. there is, and it cannot be said too often, no reforming influence in punishment; no reforming power in revenge. only the best of men should be in charge of penitentiaries; only the noblest minds and the tenderest hearts should have the care of criminals. criminals should see from the first moment that they enter a penitentiary that it is filled with the air of kindness, full of the light of hope. the object should be to convince every criminal that he has made a mistake; that he has taken the wrong way; that the right way is the easy way, and that the path of crime never did and never can lead to happiness; that that idea is a mistake, and that the government wishes to convince him that he has made a mistake; wishes to open his intellectual eyes; wishes so to educate him, so to elevate him, that he will look back upon what he has done, only with horror. this is reformation. punishment is not. when the convict is taken to sing sing or to auburn, and when a striped suit of clothes is put upon him--that is to say, when he is made to feel the degradation of his position--no step has been taken toward reformation. you have simply filled his heart with hatred. then, when he has been abused for several years, treated like a wild beast, and finally turned out again in the community, he has no thought, in a majority of cases, except to "get even" with those who have persecuted him. he feels that it is a persecution. _question_. do you think that men are naturally criminals and naturally virtuous? _answer_. i think that man does all that he does naturally--that is to say, a certain man does a certain act under certain circumstances, and he does this naturally. for instance, a man sees a five dollar bill, and he knows that he can take it without being seen. five dollars is no temptation to him. under the circumstances it is not natural that he should take it. the same man sees five million dollars, and feels that he can get possession of it without detection. if he takes it, then under the circumstances, that was natural to him. and yet i believe there are men above all price, and that no amount of temptation or glory or fame could mislead them. still, whatever man does, is or was natural to him. another view of the subject is this: i have read that out of fifty criminals who had been executed it was found, i believe, in nearly all the cases, that the shape of the skull was abnormal. whether this is true or not, i don't know; but that some men have a tendency toward what we call crime, i believe. where this has been ascertained, then, it seems to me, such men should be placed where they cannot multiply their kind. women who have a criminal tendency should be placed where they cannot increase their kind. for hardened criminals --that is to say, for the people who make crime a business--it would probably be better to separate the sexes; to send the men to one island, the women to another. let them be kept apart, to the end that people with criminal tendencies may fade from the earth. this is not prompted by revenge. this would not be done for the purpose of punishing these people, but for the protection of society --for the peace and happiness of the future. my own belief is that the system in vogue now in regard to the treatment of criminals in many states produces more crime than it prevents. take, for instance, the southern states. there is hardly a chapter in the history of the world the reading of which could produce greater indignation than the history of the convict system in many of the southern states. these convicts are hired out for the purpose of building railways, or plowing fields, or digging coal, and in some instances the death-rate has been over twelve per cent. a month. the evidence shows that no respect was paid to the sexes--men and women were chained together indiscriminately. the evidence also shows that for the slightest offences they were shot down like beasts. they were pursued by hounds, and their flesh was torn from their bones. so in some of the northern prisons they have what they call the weighing machine--an infamous thing, and he who uses it commits as great a crime as the convict he punishes could have committed. all these things are degrading, debasing, and demoralizing. there is no need of any such punishment in any penitentiary. let the punishment be of such kind that the convict is responsible himself. for instance, if the convict refuses to obey a reasonable rule he can be put into a cell. he can be fed when he obeys the rule. if he goes hungry it is his own fault. it depends upon himself to say when he shall eat. or he may be placed in such a position that if he does not work--if he does not pump--the water will rise and drown him. if the water does rise it is his fault. nobody pours it upon him. he takes his choice. these are suggested as desperate cases, but i can imagine no case where what is called corporal punishment should be inflicted, and the reason i am against it is this: i am opposed to any punishment that cannot be inflicted by a gentleman. i am opposed to any punishment the infliction of which tends to harden and debase the man who inflicts it. i am for no laws that have to be carried out by human curs. take, for instance, the whipping-post. nothing can be more degrading. the man who applies the lash is necessarily a cruel and vulgar man, and the oftener he applies it the more and more debased he will become. the whole thing can be stated in the one sentence: i am opposed to any punishment that cannot be inflicted by a gentleman, and by "gentleman" i mean a self-respecting, honest, generous man. _question_. what do you think of the efficacy or the propriety of punishing criminals by solitary confinement? _answer_. solitary confinement is a species of torture. i am opposed to all torture. i think the criminal should not be punished. he should be reformed, if he is capable of reformation. but, whatever is done, it should not be done as a punishment. society should be too noble, too generous, to harbor a thought of revenge. society should not punish, it should protect itself only. it should endeavor to reform the individual. now, solitary confinement does not, i imagine, tend to the reformation of the individual. neither can the person in that position do good to any human being. the prisoner will be altogether happier when his mind is engaged, when his hands are busy, when he has something to do. this keeps alive what we call cheerfulness. and let me say a word on this point. i don't believe that the state ought to steal the labor of a convict. here is a man who has a family. he is sent to the penitentiary. he works from morning till night. now, in my judgment, he ought to be paid for the labor over and above what it costs to keep him. that money should be sent to his family. that money should be subject, at least, to his direction. if he is a single man, when he comes out of the penitentiary he should be given his earnings, and all his earnings, so that he would not have the feeling that he had been robbed. a statement should be given to him to show what it had cost to keep him and how much his labor had brought and the balance remaining in his favor. with this little balance he could go out into the world with something like independence. this little balance would be a foundation for his honesty--a foundation for a resolution on his part to be a man. but now each one goes out with the feeling that he has not only been punished for the crime which he committed, but that he has been robbed of the results of his labor while there. the idea is simply preposterous that the people sent to the penitentiary should live in idleness. they should have the benefit of their labor, and if you give them the benefit of their labor they will turn out as good work as if they were out of the penitentiary. they will have the same reason to do their best. consequently, poor articles, poorly constructed things, would not come into competition with good articles made by free people outside of the walls. now many mechanics are complaining because work done in the penitentiaries is brought into competition with their work. but the only reason that convict work is cheaper is because the poor wretch who does it is robbed. the only reason that the work is poor is because the man who does it has no interest in its being good. if he had the profit of his own labor he would do the best that was in him, and the consequence would be that the wares manufactured in the prisons would be as good as those manufactured elsewhere. for instance, we will say here are three or four men working together. they are all free men. one commits a crime and he is sent to the penitentiary. is it possible that his companions would object to his being paid for honest work in the penitentiary? and let me say right here, all labor is honest. whoever makes a useful thing, the labor is honest, no matter whether the work is done in a penitentiary or in a palace; in a hovel or the open field. wherever work is done for the good of others, it is honest work. if the laboring men would stop and think, they would know that they support everybody. labor pays all the taxes. labor supports all the penitentiaries. labor pays the warden. labor pays everything, and if the convicts are allowed to live in idleness labor must pay their board. every cent of tax is borne by the back of labor. no matter whether your tariff is put on champagne and diamonds, it has to be paid by the men and women who work--those who plow in the fields, who wash and iron, who stand by the forge, who run the cars and work in the mines, and by those who battle with the waves of the sea. labor pays every bill. there is one little thing to which i wish to call the attention of all who happen to read this interview, and that is this: undoubtedly you think of all criminals with horror and when you hear about them you are, in all probability, filled with virtuous indignation. but, first of all, i want you to think of what you have in fact done. secondly, i want you to think of what you have wanted to do. thirdly, i want you to reflect whether you were prevented from doing what you wanted to do by fear or by lack of opportunity. then perhaps you will have more charity. _question_. what do you think of the new legislation in the state changing the death penalty to death by electricity? _answer_. if death by electricity is less painful than hanging, then the law, so far as that goes, is good. there is not the slightest propriety in inflicting upon the person executed one single unnecessary pang, because that partakes of the nature of revenge--that is to say, of hatred--and, as a consequence, the state shows the same spirit that the criminal was animated by when he took the life of his neighbor. if the death penalty is to be inflicted, let it be done in the most humane way. for my part, i should like to see the criminal removed, if he must be removed, with the same care and with the same mercy that you would perform a surgical operation. why inflict pain? who wants it inflicted? what good can it, by any possibility, do? to inflict unnecessary pain hardens him who inflicts it, hardens each among those who witness it, and tends to demoralize the community. _question_. is it not the fact that punishments have grown less and less severe for many years past? _answer_. in the old times punishment was the only means of reformation. if anybody did wrong, punish him. if people still continued to commit the same offence, increase the punishment; and that went on until in what they call "civilized countries" they hanged people, provided they stole the value of one shilling. but larceny kept right on. there was no diminution. so, for treason, barbarous punishments were inflicted. those guilty of that offence were torn asunder by horses; their entrails were cut out of them while they were yet living and thrown into their faces; their bodies were quartered and their heads were set on pikes above the gates of the city. yet there was a hundred times more treason then than now. every time a man was executed and mutilated and tortured in this way the seeds of other treason were sown. so in the church there was the same idea. no reformation but by punishment. of course in this world the punishment stopped when the poor wretch was dead. it was found that that punishment did not reform, so the church said: "after death it will go right on, getting worse and worse, forever and forever." finally it was found that this did not tend to the reformation of mankind. slowly the fires of hell have been dying out. the climate has been changing from year to year. men have lost confidence in the power of the thumbscrew, the fagot, and the rack here, and they are losing confidence in the flames of perdition hereafter. in other words, it is simply a question of civilization. when men become civilized in matters of thought, they will know that every human being has the right to think for himself, and the right to express his honest thought. then the world of thought will be free. at that time they will be intelligent enough to know that men have different thoughts, that their ways are not alike, because they have lived under different circumstances, and in that time they will also know that men act as they are acted upon. and it is my belief that the time will come when men will no more think of punishing a man because he has committed the crime of larceny than they will think of punishing a man because he has the consumption. in the first case they will endeavor to reform him, and in the second case they will endeavor to cure him. the intelligent people of the world, many of them, are endeavoring to find out the great facts in nature that control the dispositions of men. so other intelligent people are endeavoring to ascertain the facts and conditions that govern what we call health, and what we call disease, and the object of these people is finally to produce a race without disease of flesh and without disease of mind. these people look forward to the time when there need to be neither hospitals nor penitentiaries. --_new york world_, august , . woman's right to divorce. _question_. col. robert g. ingersoll, the great agnostic, has always been an ardent defender of the sanctity of the home and of the marriage relation. apropos of the horrible account of a man's tearing out the eyes of his wife at far rockaway last week, colonel ingersoll was asked what recourse a woman had under such circumstances? _answer_. i read the account, and i don't remember of ever having read anything more perfectly horrible and cruel. it is impossible for me to imagine such a monster, or to account for such an inhuman human being. how a man could deprive a human being of sight, except where some religious question is involved, is beyond my comprehension. we know that for many centuries frightful punishments were inflicted, and inflicted by the pious, by the theologians, by the spiritual minded, and by those who "loved their neighbors as themselves." we read the accounts of how the lids of men's eyes were cut off and then the poor victims tied where the sum would shine upon their lifeless orbs; of others who were buried alive; of others staked out on the sands of the sea, to be drowned by the rising tide; of others put in sacks filled with snakes. yet these things appeared far away, and we flattered ourselves that, to a great degree, the world had outgrown these atrocities; and now, here, near the close of the nineteenth century, we find a man--a husband--cruel enough to put out the eyes of the woman he swore to love, protect and cherish. this man has probably been taught that there is forgiveness for every crime, and now imagines that when he repents there will be more joy in heaven over him than over ninety and nine good and loving husbands who have treated their wives in the best possible manner, and who, instead of tearing out their eyes, have filled their lives with content and covered their faces with kisses. _question_. you told me, last week, in a general way, what society should do with the husband in such a case as that. i would like to ask you to-day, what you think society ought to do with the wife in such a case, or what ought the wife to be permitted to do for herself? _answer_. when we take into consideration the crime of the man who blinded his wife, it is impossible not to think of the right of divorce. many people insist that marriage is an indissoluble tie; that nothing can break it, and that nothing can release either party from the bond. now, take this case at far rockaway. one year ago the husband tore out one of his wife's eyes. had she then good cause for divorce? is it possible that an infinitely wise and good god would insist on this poor, helpless woman remaining with the wild beast, her husband? can anyone imagine that such a course would add to the joy of paradise, or even tend to keep one harp in tune? can the good of society require the woman to remain? she did remain, and the result is that the other eye has been torn from its socket by the hands of the husband. is she entitled to a divorce now? and if she is granted one, is virtue in danger, and shall we lose the high ideal of home life? can anything be more infamous than to endeavor to make a woman, under such circumstances, remain with such a man? it may be said that she should leave him--that they should live separate and apart. that is to say, that this woman should be deprived of a home; that she should not be entitled to the love of man; that she should remain, for the rest of her days, worse than a widow. that is to say, a wife, hiding, keeping out of the way, secreting herself from the hyena to whom she was married. nothing, in my judgment, can exceed the heartlessness of a law or of a creed that would compel this woman to remain the wife of this monster. and it is not only cruel, but it is immoral, low, vulgar. the ground has been taken that woman would lose her dignity if marriages were dissoluble. is it necessary to lose your freedom in order to retain your character, in order to be womanly or manly? must a woman in order to retain her womanhood become a slave, a serf, with a wild beast for a master, or with society for a master, or with a phantom for a master? has not the married woman the right of self-defence? is it not the duty of society to protect her from her husband? if she owes no duty to her husband; if it is impossible for her to feel toward him any thrill of affection, what is there of marriage left? what part of the contract remains in force? she is not to live with him, because she abhors him. she is not to remain in the same house with him, for fear he may kill her. what, then, are their relations? do they sustain any relation except that of hunter and hunted--that is, of tyrant and victim? and is it desirable that this relation should be rendered sacred by a church? is it desirable to have families raised under such circumstances? are we really in need of the children born of such parents? if the woman is not in fault, does society insist that her life should be wrecked? can the virtue of others be preserved only by the destruction of her happiness, and by what might be called her perpetual imprisonment? i hope the clergy who believe in the sacredness of marriage--in the indissolubility of the marriage tie--will give their opinions on this case. i believe that marriage is the most important contract that human beings can make. i always believe that a man will keep his contract; that a woman, in the highest sense, will keep hers, but suppose the man does not. is the woman still bound? is there no mutuality? what is a contract? it is where one party promises to do something in consideration that the other party will do something. that is to say, there is a consideration on both sides, moving from one to the other. a contract without consideration is null and void; and a contract duly entered into, where the consideration of one party is withheld, is voidable, and can be voided by the party who has kept, or who is willing to keep, the contract. a marriage without love is bad enough. but what can we say of a marriage where the parties hate each other? is there any morality in this--any virtue? will any decent person say that a woman, true, good and loving, should be compelled to live with a man she detests, compelled to be the mother of his children? is there a woman in the world who would not shrink from this herself? and is there a woman so heartless and so immoral that she would force another to bear what she would shudderingly avoid? let us bring these questions home. in other words, let us have some sense, some feeling, some heart--and just a little brain. marriages are made by men and women. they are not made by the state, and they are not made by the gods. by this time people should learn that human happiness is the foundation of virtue--the foundation of morality. nothing is moral that does not tend to the well-being of sentient beings. nothing is virtuous the result of which is not a human good. the world has always been living for phantoms, for ghosts, for monsters begotten by ignorance and fear. the world should learn to live for itself. man should, by this time, be convinced that all the reasons for doing right, and all the reasons for doing wrong, are right here in this world--all within the horizon of this life. and besides, we should have imagination to put ourselves in the place of another. let a man suppose himself a helpless wife, beaten by a brute who believes in the indissolubility of marriage. would he want a divorce? i suppose that very few people have any adequate idea of the sufferings of women and children; of the number of wives who tremble when they hear the footsteps of a returning husband; of the number of children who hide when they hear the voice of a father. very few people know the number of blows that fall on the flesh of the helpless every day. few know the nights of terror passed by mothers holding young children at their breasts. compared with this, the hardships of poverty, borne by those who love each other, are nothing. men and women, truly married, bear the sufferings of poverty. they console each other; their affection gives to the heart of each perpetual sunshine. but think of the others! i have said a thousand times that the home is the unit of good government. when we have kind fathers and loving mothers, then we shall have civilized nations, and not until then. civilization commences at the hearthstone. when intelligence rocks the cradle--when the house is filled with philosophy and kindness--you will see a world a peace. justice will sit in the courts, wisdom in the legislative halls, and over all, like the dome of heaven, will be the spirit of liberty! _question_. what is your idea with regard to divorce? _answer_. my idea is this: as i said before, marriage is the most sacred contract--the most important contract--that human beings can make. as a rule, the woman dowers the husband with her youth--with all she has. from this contract the husband should never be released unless the wife has broken a condition; that is to say, has failed to fulfill the contract of marriage. on the other hand, the woman should be allowed a divorce for the asking. this should be granted in public, precisely as the marriage should be in public. every marriage should be known. there should be witnesses, to the end that the character of the contract entered into should be understood; and as all marriage records should be kept, so the divorce should be open, public and known. the property should be divided by a court of equity, under certain regulations of law. if there are children, they should be provided for through the property and the parents. people should understand that men and women are not virtuous by law. they should comprehend the fact that law does not create virtue--that law is not the foundation, the fountain, of love. they should understand that love is in the human heart, and that real love is virtuous. people who love each other will be true to each other. the death of love is the commencement of vice. besides this, there is a public opinion that has great weight. when that public opinion is right, it does a vast amount of good, and when wrong, a great amount of harm. people marry, or should marry, because it increases the happiness of each and all. but where the marriage turns out to have been a mistake, and where the result is misery, and not happiness, the quicker they are divorced the better, not only for themselves, but for the community at large. these arguments are generally answered by some donkey braying about free love, and by "free love" he means a condition of society in which there is no love. the persons who make this cry are, in all probability, incapable of the sentiment, of the feeling, known as love. they judge others by themselves, and they imagine that without law there would be no restraint. what do they say of natural modesty? do they forget that people have a choice? do they not understand something of the human heart, and that true love has always been as pure as the morning star? do they believe that by forcing people to remain together who despise each other they are adding to the purity of the marriage relation? do they not know that all marriage is an outward act, testifying to that which has happened in the heart? still, i always believe that words are wasted on such people. it is useless to talk to anybody about music who is unable to distinguish one tune from another. it is useless to argue with a man who regards his wife as his property, and it is hardly worth while to suggest anything to a gentleman who imagines that society is so constructed that it really requires, for the protection of itself, that the lives of good and noble women should be wrecked, i am a believer in the virtue of women, in the honesty of man. the average woman is virtuous; the average man is honest, and the history of the world shows it. if it were not so, society would be impossible. i don't mean by this that most men are perfect, but what i mean is this: that there is far more good than evil in the average human being, and that the natural tendency of most people is toward the good and toward the right. and i most passionately deny that the good of society demands that any good person should suffer. i do not regard government as a juggernaut, the wheels of which must, of necessity, roll over and crush the virtuous, the self-denying and the good. my doctrine is the exact opposite of what is known as free love. i believe in the marriage of true minds and of true hearts. but i believe that thousands of people are married who do not love each other. that is the misfortune of our century. other things are taken into consideration--position, wealth, title and the thousand things that have nothing to do with real affection. where men and women truly love each other, that love, in my judgment, lasts as long as life. the greatest line that i know of in the poetry of the world is in the th sonnet of shakespeare: "love is not love which alters when it alteration finds." _question_. why do you make such a distinction between the rights of man and the rights of women? _answer_. the woman has, as her capital, her youth, her beauty. we will say that she is married at twenty or twenty-five. in a few years she has lost her beauty. during these years the man, so far as capacity to make money is concerned--to do something--has grown better and better. that is to say, his chances have improved; hers have diminished. she has dowered him with the spring of her life, and as her life advances her chances decrease. consequently, i would give her the advantage, and i would not compel her to remain with him against her will. it seems to me far worse to be a wife upon compulsion than to be a husband upon compulsion. besides this, i have a feeling of infinite tenderness toward mothers. the woman that bears children certainly should not be compelled to live with a man whom she despises. the suffering is enough when the father of the child is to her the one man of all the world. many people who have a mechanical apparatus in their breasts that assists in the circulation of what they call blood, regard these views as sentimental. but when you take sentiment out of the world nothing is left worth living for, and when you get sentiment out of the heart it is nothing more or less than a pump, an old piece of rubber that has acquired the habit of contracting and dilating. but i have this consolation: the people that do not agree with me are those that do not understand me. --_new york world_, . secularism. _question_. colonel, what is your opinion of secularism? do you regard it as a religion? _answer_. i understand that the word secularism embraces everything that is of any real interest or value to the human race. i take it for granted that everybody will admit that well-being is the only good; that is to say, that it is impossible to conceive of anything of real value that does not tend either to preserve or to increase the happiness of some sentient being. secularism, therefore, covers the entire territory. it fills the circumference of human knowledge and of human effort. it is, you may say, the religion of this world; but if there is another world, it is necessarily the religion of that, as well. man finds himself in this world naked and hungry. he needs food, raiment, shelter. he finds himself filled with almost innumerable wants. to gratify these wants is the principal business of life. to gratify them without interfering with other people is the course pursued by all honest men. secularism teaches us to be good here and now. i know nothing better than goodness. secularism teaches us to be just here and now. it is impossible to be juster than just. man can be as just in this world as in any other, and justice must be the same in all worlds. secularism teaches a man to be generous, and generosity is certainly as good here as it can be anywhere else. secularism teaches a man to be charitable, and certainly charity is as beautiful in this world and in this short life as it could be were man immortal. but orthodox people insist that there is something higher than secularism; but, as a matter of fact, the mind of man can conceive of nothing better, nothing higher, nothing more spiritual, than goodness, justice, generosity, charity. neither has the mind of men been capable of finding a nobler incentive to action than human love. secularism has to do with every possible relation. it says to the young man and to the young woman: "don't marry unless you can take care of yourselves and your children." it says to the parents: "live for your children; put forth every effort to the end that your children may know more than you--that they may be better and grander than you." it says: "you have no right to bring children into the world that you are not able to educate and feed and clothe." it says to those who have diseases that can be transmitted to children: "do not marry; do not become parents; do not perpetuate suffering, deformity, agony, imbecility, insanity, poverty, wretchedness." secularism tells all children to do the best they can for their parents--to discharge every duty and every obligation. it defines the relation that should exist between husband and wife; between parent and child; between the citizen and the nation. and not only that, but between nations. secularism is a religion that is to be used everywhere, and at all times--that is to be taught everywhere and practiced at all times. it is not a religion that is so dangerous that it must be kept out of the schools; it is not a religion that is so dangerous that it must be kept out of politics. it belongs in the schools; it belongs at the polls. it is the business of secularism to teach every child; to teach every voter. it is its business to discuss all political problems, and to decide all questions that affect the rights or the happiness of a human being. orthodox religion is a firebrand; it must be kept out of the schools; it must be kept out of politics. all the churches unite in saying that orthodox religion is not for every day use. the catholics object to any protestant religion being taught to children. protestants object to any catholic religion being taught to children. but the secularist wants his religion taught to all; and his religion can produce no feeling, for the reason that it consists of facts--of truths. and all of it is important; important for the child, important for the parent, important for the politician --for the president--for all in power; important to every legislator, to every professional man, to every laborer and every farmer--that is to say, to every human being. the great benefit of secularism is that is appeals to the reason of every man. it asks every man to think for himself. it does not threaten punishment if a man thinks, but it offers a reward, for fear that he will not think. it does not say, "you will be damned in another world if you think." but it says, "you will be damned in this world if you do not think." secularism preserves the manhood and the womanhood of all. it says to each human being: "stand upon your own feet. count one! examine for yourself. investigate, observe, think. express your opinion. stand by your judgment, unless you are convinced you are wrong, and when you are convinced, you can maintain and preserve your manhood or womanhood only by admitting that you were wrong." it is impossible that the whole world should agree on one creed. it may be impossible that any two human beings can agree exactly in religious belief. secularism teaches that each one must take care of himself, that the first duty of man is to himself, to the end that he may be not only useful to himself, but to others. he who fails to take care of himself becomes a burden; the first duty of man is not to be a burden. every secularist can give a reason for his creed. first of all, he believes in work--taking care of himself. he believes in the cultivation of the intellect, to the end that he may take advantage of the forces of nature--to the end that he may be clothed and fed and sheltered. he also believes in giving to every other human being every right that he claims for himself. he does not depend on prayer. he has no confidence in ghosts or phantoms. he knows nothing of another world, and knows just as little of a first cause. but what little he does know, he endeavors to use, and to use for the benefit of himself and others. he knows that he sustains certain relations to other sentient beings, and he endeavors to add to the aggregate of human joy. he is his own church, his own priest, his own clergyman and his own pope. he decides for himself; in other words, he is a free man. he also has a bible, and this bible embraces all the good and true things that have been written, no matter by whom, or in what language, or in what time. he accepts everything that he believes to be true, and rejects all that he thinks is false. he knows that nothing is added to the probability of an event, because there has been an account of it written and printed. all that has been said that is true is part of his bible. every splendid and noble thought, every good word, every kind action-- all these you will find in his bible. and, in addition to these, all that is absolutely known--that has been demonstrated--belongs to the secularist. all the inventions, machines--everything that has been of assistance to the human race--belongs to his religion. the secularist is in possession of everything that man has. he is deprived only of that which man never had. the orthodox world believes in ghosts and phantoms, in dreams and prayers, in miracles and monstrosities; that is to say, in modern theology. but these things do not exist, or if they do exist, it is impossible for a human being to ascertain the fact. secularism has no "castles in spain." it has no glorified fog. it depends upon realities, upon demonstrations; and its end and aim is to make this world better every day--to do away with poverty and crime, and to cover the world with happy and contended homes. let me say, right here, that a few years ago the secular hall at leicester, england, was opened by a speech from george jacob holyoake, entitled, "secularism as a religion." i have never read anything better on the subject of secularism than this address. it is so clear and so manly that i do not see how any human being can read it without becoming convinced, and almost enraptured. let me quote a few lies from this address:-- "the mind of man would die if it were not for thought, and were thought suppressed, god would rule over a world of idiots. "nature feeds thought, day and night, with a million hands. "to think is a duty, because it is a man's duty not to be a fool. "if man does not think himself, he is an intellectual pauper, living upon the truth acquired by others, and making no contribution himself in return. he has no ideas but such as he obtains by 'out- door relief,' and he goes about the world with a charity mind. "the more thinkers there are in the world, the more truth there is in the world. "progress can only walk in the footsteps of conviction. "coercion in thought is not progress, it reduces to ignominious pulp the backbone of the mind. "by religion i mean the simple creed of deed and duty, by which a man seeks his own welfare in his own way, with an honest and fair regard to the welfare and ways of others. "in these thinking and practical days, men demand a religion of daily life, which stands on a business footing." i think nothing could be much better than the following, which shows the exact relation that orthodox religion sustains to the actual wants of human beings: "the churches administer a system of foreign affairs. "secularism dwells in a land of its own. it dwells in a land of certitude. "in the kingdom of thought there is no conquest over man, but over foolishness only." i will not quote more, but hope all who read this will read the address of mr. holyoake, who has, in my judgment, defined secularism with the greatest possible clearness. _question_. what, in your opinion, are the best possible means to spread this gospel or religion of secularism? _answer_. this can only be done by the cultivation of the mind-- only through intelligence--because we are fighting only the monsters of the mind. the phantoms whom we are endeavoring to destroy do not exist; they are all imaginary. they live in that undeveloped or unexplored part of the mind that belongs to barbarism. i have sometimes thought that a certain portion of the mind is cultivated so that it rises above the surrounding faculties and is like some peak that has lifted itself above the clouds, while all the valleys below are dark or dim with mist and cloud. it is in this valley-region, amid these mists, beneath these clouds, that these monsters and phantoms are born. and there they will remain until the mind sheds light--until the brain is developed. one exceedingly important thing is to teach man that his mind has limitations; that there are walls that he cannot scale--that he cannot pierce, that he cannot dig under. when a man finds the limitations of his own mind, he knows that other people's minds have limitations. he, instead of believing what the priest says, he asks the priest questions. in a few moments he finds that the priest has been drawing on his imagination for what is beyond the wall. consequently he finds that the priest knows no more than he, and it is impossible that he should know more than he. an ignorant man has not the slightest suspicion of what a superior man may do. consequently, he is liable to become the victim of the intelligent and cunning. a man wholly unacquainted with chemistry, after having been shown a few wonders, is ready to believe anything. but a chemist who knows something of the limitations of that science--who knows what chemists have done and who knows the nature of things--cannot be imposed upon. when no one can be imposed upon, orthodox religion cannot exist. it is an imposture, and there must be impostors and there must be victims, or the religion cannot be a success. secularism cannot be a success, universally, as long as there is an impostor or a victim. this is the difference: the foundation of orthodox religion is imposture. the foundation of secularism is demonstration. just to the extent that a man knows, he becomes a secularist. _question_. what do you think of the action of the knights of labor in indiana in turning out one of their members because he was an atheist, and because he objected to the reading of the bible at lodge meetings? _answer_. in my judgment, the knights of labor have made a great mistake. they want liberty for themselves--they feel that, to a certain extent, they have been enslaved and robbed. if they want liberty, they should be willing to give liberty to others. certainly one of their members has the same right to his opinion with regard to the existence of a god, that the other members have to theirs. i do not blame this man for doubting the existence of a supreme being, provided he understands the history of liberty. when a man takes into consideration the fact that for many thousands of years labor was unpaid, nearly all of it being done by slaves, and that millions and hundreds of millions of human beings were bought and sold the same as cattle, and that during all that time the religions of the world upheld the practice, and the priests of the countless unknown gods insisted that the institution of slavery was divine-- i do not wonder that he comes to the conclusion that, perhaps, after all, there is no supreme being--at least none who pays any particular attention to the affairs of this world. if one will read the history of the slave-trade, of the cruelties practiced, of the lives sacrificed, of the tortures inflicted, he will at least wonder why "a god of infinite goodness and wisdom" did not interfere just a little; or, at least, why he did not deny that he was in favor of the trade. here, in our own country, millions of men were enslaved, and hundreds and thousands of ministers stood up in their pulpits, with their bibles in front of them, and proceeded to show that slavery was about the only institution that they were absolutely certain was divine. and they proved it by reading passages from this very bible that the knights of labor in indiana are anxious to have read in their meetings. for their benefit, let me call their attention to a few passages, and suggest that, hereafter, they read those passages at every meeting, for the purpose of convincing all the knights that the lord is on the side of those who work for a living:-- "both thy bondsmen and thy bondsmaids which thou shalt have, shall be of the heathen round about you; of them shall ye buy bondsmen and bondmaids. "moreover, of the children of the strangers that do sojourn among you, of them shall ye buy, and of their families which are with you, which they begat in your land; and they shall be your possession. "and ye shall take them as an inheritance, for your children after you to inherit them for a possession. they shall be your bondsmen forever." nothing seems more natural to me than that a man who believes that labor should be free, and that he who works should be free, should come to the conclusion that the passages above quoted are not entirely on his side. i don't see why people should be in favor of free bodies who are not also in favor of free minds. if the mind is to remain in imprisonment, it is hardly worth while to free the body. if the man has the right to labor, he certainly has the right to use his mind, because without mind he can do no labor. as a rule, the more mind he has, the more valuable his labor is, and the freer his mind is the more valuable he is. if the knights of labor expect to accomplish anything in this world, they must do it by thinking. they must have reason on their side, and the only way they can do anything by thinking is to allow each other to think. let all the men who do not believe in the inspiration of the bible, leave the knights of labor and i do not know how many would be left. but i am perfectly certain that those left will accomplish very little, simply from their lack of sense. intelligent clergymen have abandoned the idea of plenary inspiration. the best ministers in the country admit that the bible is full of mistakes, and while many of them are forced to say that slavery is upheld by the old testament they also insist that slavery was and is, and forever will be wrong. what had the knights of labor to do with a question of religion? what business is it of theirs who believes or disbelieves in the religion of the day? nobody can defend the rights of labor without defending the right to think. i hope that in time these knights will become intelligent enough to read in their meetings something of importance; something that applies to this century; something that will throw a little light on questions under discussion at the present time. the idea of men engaged in a kind of revolution reading from leviticus, deuteronomy and haggai, for the purpose of determining the rights of workingmen in the nineteenth century! no wonder such men have been swallowed by the whale of monopoly. and no wonder that, while that are in the belly of this fish, they insist on casting out a man with sense enough to understand the situation! the knights of labor have made a mistake and the sooner they reverse their action the better for all concerned. nothing should be taught in this world that somebody does not know. --_secular thought_, toronto, canada, august , . summer recreation--mr. gladstone. _question_. what is the best philosophy of summer recreation? _answer_. as a matter of fact, no one should be overworked. recreation becomes necessary only when a man has abused himself or has been abused. holidays grew out of slavery. an intelligent man ought not to work so hard to-day that he is compelled to rest to-morrow. each day should have its labor and its rest. but in our civilization, if it can be called civilization, every man is expected to devote himself entirely to business for the most of the year and by that means to get into such a state of body and mind that he requires, for the purpose of recreation, the inconveniences, the poor diet, the horrible beds, the little towels, the warm water, the stale eggs and the tough beef of the average "resort." for the purpose of getting his mental and physical machinery in fine working order, he should live in a room for two or three months that is about eleven by thirteen; that is to say, he should live in a trunk, fight mosquitoes, quarrel with strangers, dispute bills, and generally enjoy himself; and this is supposed to be the philosophy of summer recreation. he can do this, or he can go to some extremely fashionable resort where his time is taken up in making himself and family presentable. seriously, there are few better summer resorts than new york city. if there were no city here it would be the greatest resort for the summer on the continent; with its rivers, its bay, with its wonderful scenery, with the winds from the sea, no better could be found. but we cannot in this age of the world live in accordance with philosophy. no particular theory can be carried out. we must live as we must; we must earn our bread and we must earn it as others do, and, as a rule, we must work when others work. consequently, if we are to take any recreation we must follow the example of others; go when they go and come when they come. in other words, man is a social being, and if one endeavors to carry individuality to an extreme he must suffer the consequences. so i have made up my mind to work as little as i can and to rest as much as i can. _question_. what is your opinion of mr. gladstone as a controversialist? _answer_. undoubtedly mr. gladstone is a man of great talent, of vast and varied information, and undoubtedly he is, politically speaking, at least, one of the greatest men in england--possibly the greatest. as a controversialist, and i suppose by that you mean on religious questions, he is certainly as good as his cause. few men can better defend the indefensible than mr. gladstone. few men can bring forward more probabilities in favor of the impossible, then mr. gladstone. he is, in my judgment, controlled in the realm of religion by sentiment; he was taught long ago certain things as absolute truths and he has never questioned them. he has had all he can do to defend them. it is of but little use to attack sentiment with argument, or to attack argument with sentiment. a question of sentiment can hardly be discussed; it is like a question of taste. a man is enraptured with a landscape by corot; you cannot argue him out of his rapture; the sharper the criticism the greater his admiration, because he feels that it is incumbent upon him to defend the painter who has given him so much real pleasure. some people imagine that what they think ought to exist must exist, and that what they really desire to be true is true. we must remember that mr. gladstone has been what is called a deeply religions man all his life. there was a time when he really believed it to be the duty of the government to see to it that the citizens were religious; when he really believed that no man should hold any office or any position under the government who was not a believer in the established religion; who was not a defender of the parliamentary faith. i do not know whether he has ever changed his opinions upon these subjects or not. there is not the slightest doubt as to his honesty, as to his candor. he says what he believes, and for his belief he gives the reasons that are satisfactory to him. to me it seems impossible that miracles can be defended. i do not see how it is possible to bring forward any evidence that any miracle was ever performed; and unless miracles have been performed, christianity has no basis as a system. mr. hume took the ground that it was impossible to substantiate a miracle, for the reason that it is more probable that the witnesses are mistaken, or are dishonest, than that a fact in nature should be violated. for instance: a man says that a certain time, in a certain locality, the attraction of gravitation was suspended; that there were several moments during which a cannon ball weighed nothing, during which when dropped from the hand, or rather when released from the hand, it refused to fall and remained in the air. it is safe to say that no amount of evidence, no number of witnesses, could convince an intelligent man to-day that such a thing occurred. we believe too thoroughly in the constancy of nature. while men will not believe witnesses who testify to the happening of miracles now, they seem to have perfect confidence in men whom they never saw, who have been dead for two thousand years. of course it is known that mr. gladstone has published a few remarks concerning my religious views and that i have answered him the best i could. i have no opinion to give as to that controversy; neither would it be proper for me to say what i think of the arguments advanced by mr. gladstone in addition to what i have already published. i am willing to leave the controversy where it is, or i am ready to answer any further objections that mr. gladstone may be pleased to urge. in my judgment, the "age of faith" is passing away. we are living in a time of demonstration. [note: from an unfinished interview found among colonel ingersoll's papers.] prohibition. it has been decided in many courts in various states that the traffic in liquor can be regulated--that it is a police question. it has been decided by the courts in iowa that its manufacture and sale can be prohibited, and, not only so, but that a distillery or a brewery may be declared a nuisance and may legally be abated, and these decisions have been upheld by the supreme court of the united states. consequently, it has been settled by the highest tribunal that states have the power either to regulate or to prohibit the sale of intoxicating liquors, and not only so, but that states have the power to destroy breweries and distilleries without making any compensation to owners. so it has always been considered within the power of the state to license the selling of intoxicating liquors. in other words, this question is one that the states can decide for themselves. it is not, and it should not be, in my judgment, a federal question. it is something with which the united states has nothing to do. it belongs to the states; and where a majority of the people are in favor of prohibition and pass laws to that effect, there is nothing in the constitution of the united states that interferes with such action. the remaining question, then, is not a question of power, but a question of policy, and at the threshold of this question is another: can prohibitory laws be enforced? there are to-day in kansas,--a prohibition state--more saloons, that is to say, more places in which liquor is sold, than there are in georgia, a state without prohibition legislation. there are more in nebraska, according to the population, more in iowa, according to the population, than in many of the states in which there is the old license system. you will find that the united states has granted more licenses to wholesale and retail dealers in these prohibition states,--according to the population,--than in many others in which prohibition has not been adopted. these facts tend to show that it is not enough for the legislature to say: "be it enacted." behind every law there must be an intelligent and powerful public opinion. a law, to be enforced, must be the expression of such powerful and intelligent opinion; otherwise it becomes a dead letter; it is avoided; judges continue the cases, juries refuse to convict, and witnesses are not particular about telling the truth. such laws demoralize the community, or, to put it in another way, demoralized communities pass such laws. _question_. what do you think of the prohibitory movement on general principles? _answer_. the trouble is that when a few zealous men, intending to reform the world, endeavor to enforce unpopular laws, they are compelled to resort to detectives, to a system of espionage. for the purpose of preventing the sale of liquors somebody has to watch. eyes and ears must become acquainted with keyholes. every neighbor suspects every other. a man with a bottle or demijohn is followed. those who drink get behind doors, in cellars and garrets. hypocrisy becomes substantially universal. hundreds of people become suddenly afflicted with a variety of diseases, for the cure of which alcohol in some form is supposed to be indispensable. malaria becomes general, and it is perfectly astonishing how long a few pieces of peruvian bark will last, and how often the liquor can be renewed without absorbing the medicinal qualities of the bark. the state becomes a paradise for patent medicine--the medicine being poor whiskey with a scientific name. physicians become popular in proportion as liquor of some kind figures in their prescriptions. then in the towns clubs are formed, the principal object being to establish a saloon, and in many instances the drug store becomes a favorite resort, especially on sundays. there is, however, another side to this question. it is this: nothing in the world is more important than personal liberty. many people are in favor of blotting out the sun to prevent the growth of weeds. this is the mistake of all prohibitory fanaticism. _question_. what is true temperance, colonel ingersoll? _answer_. men have used stimulants for many thousand years, and as much is used to-day in various forms as in any other period of the world's history. they are used with more prudence now than ever before, for the reason that the average man is more intelligent now than ever before. intelligence has much to do with temperance. the barbarian rushes to the extreme, for the reason that but little, comparatively, depends upon his personal conduct or personal habits. now the struggle for life is so sharp, competition is so severe, that few men can succeed who carry a useless burden. the business men of our country are compelled to lead temperate lives, otherwise their credit is gone. men of wealth, men of intelligence, do not wish to employ intemperate physicians. they are not willing to trust their health or their lives with a physician who is under the influence of liquor. the same is true of business men in regard to their legal interests. they insist upon having sober attorneys; they want the counsel of a sober man. so in every department. on the railways it is absolutely essential that the engineer, that the conductor, the train dispatcher and every other employee, in whose hands are the lives of men, should be temperate. the consequence is that under the law of the survival of the fittest, the intemperate are slowly but surely going to the wall; they are slowly but surely being driven out of employments of trust and importance. as we rise in the scale of civilization we continually demand better and better service. we are continually insisting upon better habits, upon a higher standard of integrity, of fidelity. these are the causes, in my judgment, that are working together in the direction of true temperance. _question_. do you believe the people can be made to do without a stimulant? _answer_. the history of the world shows that all men who have advanced one step beyond utter barbarism have used some kind of stimulant. man has sought for it in every direction. every savage loves it. everything has been tried. opium has been used by many hundreds of millions. hasheesh has filled countless brains with chaotic dreams, and everywhere that civilization has gone the blood of the grape has been used. nothing is easier now to obtain than liquor. in one bushel of corn there are at least five gallons-- four can easily be extracted. all starch, all sugars, can be changed almost instantly into alcohol. every grain that grows has in it the intoxicating principle, and, as a matter of fact, nearly all of the corn, wheat, sugar and starch that man eats is changed into alcohol in his stomach. whether man can be compelled to do without a stimulant is a question that i am unable to answer. of one thing i am certain: he has never yet been compelled to do without one. the tendency, i think, of modern times is toward a milder stimulant than distilled liquors. whisky and brandies are too strong; wine and beer occupy the middle ground. wine is a fireside, whisky a conflagration. it seems to me that it would be far better if the prohibitionists would turn their attention toward distilled spirits. if they were willing to compromise, the probability is that they would have public opinion on their side. if they would say: "you may have all the beer and all the wine and cider you wish, and you can drink them when and where you desire, but the sale of distilled spirits shall be prohibited," it is possible that this could be carried out in good faith in many if not in most of the states--possibly in all. we all know the effect of wine, even when taken in excess, is nothing near as disastrous as the effect of distilled spirits. why not take the middle ground? the wine drinkers of the old country are not drunkards. they have been drinking wine for generations. it is drunk by men, women and children. it adds to the sociability of the family. it does not separate the husband from the rest, it keeps them all together, and in that view is rather a benefit than an injury. good wine can be raised as cheaply here as in any part of the world. in nearly every part of our country the grape grows and good wine can be made. if our people had a taste for wine they would lose the taste for stronger drink, and they would be disgusted with the surroundings of the stronger drink. the same may be said in favor of beer. as long as the prohibitionists make no distinction between wine and whisky, between beer and brandy, just so long they will be regarded by most people as fanatics. the prohibitionists cannot expect to make this question a federal one. the united states has no jurisdiction of this subject. congress can pass no laws affecting this question that could have any force except in such parts of our country as are not within the jurisdiction of states. it is a question for the states and not for the federal government. the prohibitionists are simply throwing away their votes. let us suppose that we had a prohibition congress and a prohibition president--what steps could be taken to do away with drinking in the city of new york? what steps could be taken in any state of this union? what could by any possibility be done? a few years ago the prohibitionists demanded above all things that the tax be taken from distilled spirits, claiming at that time that such a tax made the government a partner in vice. now when the republican party proposes under certain circumstances to remove that tax, the prohibitionists denounce the movement as one in favor of intemperance. we have also been told that the tax on whisky should be kept for the reason that it increases the price, and that an increased price tends to make a temperate people; that if the tax is taken off, the price will fall and the whole country start on the downward road to destruction. is it possible that human nature stands on such slippery ground? it is possible that our civilization to-day rests upon the price of alcohol, and that, should the price be reduced, we would all go down together? for one, i cannot entertain such a humiliating and disgraceful view of human nature. i believe that man is destined to grow greater, grander and nobler. i believe that no matter what the cost of alcohol may be, life will grow too valuable to be thrown away. men hold life according to its value. men, as a rule, only throw away their lives when they are not worth keeping. when life becomes worth living it will be carefully preserved and will be hoarded to the last grain of sand that falls through the glass of time. _question_. what is the reason for so much intemperance? _answer_. when many people are failures, when they are distanced in the race, when they fall behind, when they give up, when they lose ambition, when they finally become convinced that they are worthless, precisely as they are in danger of becoming dishonest. in other words, having failed in the race of life on the highway, they endeavor to reach to goal by going across lots, by crawling through the grass. disguise this matter as we may, all people are not successes, all people have not the brain or the muscle or the moral stamina necessary to succeed. some fall in one way, some in another; some in the net of strong drink, some in the web of circumstances and others in a thousand ways, and the world itself cannot grow better unless the unworthy fail. the law is the survival of the fittest, that is to say, the destruction of the unfit. there is no scheme of morals, no scheme of government, no scheme of charity, that can reverse this law. if it could be reversed, then the result would be the survival of the unfittest, the speedy end of which would be the extinction of the human race. temperance men say that it is wise, in so far as possible, to remove temptation from our fellow-men. let us look at this in regard to other matters. how do we do away with larceny? we cannot remove property. we cannot destroy the money of the world to keep people from stealing some of it. in other words, we cannot afford to make the world valueless to prevent larceny. all strength by which temptation is resisted must come from the inside. virtue does not depend upon the obstacles to be overcome; virtue depends upon what is inside of the man. a man is not honest because the safe of the bank is perfectly secure. upon the honest man the condition of the safe has no effect. we will never succeed in raising great and splendid people by keeping them out of temptation. great people withstand temptation. great people have what may be called moral muscle, moral force. they are poised within themselves. they understand their relations to the world. the best possible foundation for honesty is the intellectual perception that dishonesty can, under no circumstances, be a good investment--that larceny is not only wicked, but foolish--not only criminal, but stupid--that crimes are committed only by fools. on every hand there is what is called temptation. every man has the opportunity of doing wrong. every man, in this country, has the opportunity of drinking too much, has the opportunity of acquiring the opium habit, has the opportunity of taking morphine every day--in other words, has the opportunity of destroying himself. how are they to be prevented? most of them are prevented--at least in a reasonable degree--and they are prevented by their intelligence, by their surroundings, by their education, by their objects and aims in life, by the people they love, by the people who love them. no one will deny the evils of intemperance, and it is hardly to be wondered at that people who regard only one side--who think of the impoverished and wretched, of wives and children in want, of desolate homes--become the advocates of absolute prohibition. at the same time, there is a philosophic side, and the question is whether more good cannot be done by moral influence, by example, by education, by the gradual civilization of our fellow-men, than in any other possible way. the greatest things are accomplished by indirection. in this way the idea of force, of slavery, is avoided. the person influenced does not feel that he has been trampled upon, does not regard himself as a victim--he feels rather as a pupil, as one who receives a benefit, whose mind has been enlarged, whose life has been enriched--whereas the direct way of "thou shalt not" produces an antagonism--in other words, produces the natural result of "i will." by removing one temptation you add strength to others. by depriving a man of one stimulant, as a rule, you drive him to another, and the other may be far worse than the one from which he has been driven. we have hundreds of laws making certain things misdemeanors, which are naturally right. thousands of people, honest in most directions, delight in outwitting the government--derive absolute pleasure from getting in a few clothes and gloves and shawls without the payment of duty. thousands of people buy things in europe for which they pay more than they would for the same things in america, and then exercise their ingenuity in slipping them through the custom-house. a law to have real force must spring from the nature of things, and the justice of this law must be generally perceived, otherwise it will be evaded. the temperance people themselves are playing into the hands of the very party that would refuse to count their votes. allow the democrats to remain in power, allow the democrats to be controlled by the south, and a large majority might be in favor of temperance legislation, and yet the votes would remain uncounted. the party of reform has a great interest in honest elections, and honest elections must first be obtained as the foundation of reform. the prohibitionists can take their choice between these parties. would it not be far better for the prohibitionists to say: "we will vote for temperance men; we will stand with the party that is the nearest in favor of what we deem to be the right"? they should also take into consideration that other people are as honest as they; that others disbelieve in prohibition as honestly as they believe in it, and that other people cannot leave their principles to vote for prohibition; and they must remember, that these other people are in the majority. mr. fisk knows that he cannot be elected president--knows that it is impossible for him to carry any state in the union. he also knows that in nearly every state in the union--probably in all--a majority of the people believe in stimulants. why not work with the great and enlightened majority? why rush to the extreme for the purpose not only of making yourself useless but hurtful? no man in the world is more opposed to intemperance than i am. no man in the world feels more keenly the evils and the agony produced by the crime of drunkenness. and yet i would not be willing to sacrifice liberty, individuality, and the glory and greatness of individual freedom, to do away with all the evils of intemperance. in other words, i believe that slavery, oppression and suppression would crowd humanity into a thousand deformities, the result of which would be a thousand times more disastrous to the well-being of man. i do not believe in the slave virtues, in the monotony of tyranny, in the respectability produced by force. i admire the men who have grown in the atmosphere of liberty, who have the pose of independence, the virtues of strength, of heroism, and in whose hearts is the magnanimity, the tenderness, and the courage born of victory. --_new york world_, october , . robert elsmere. why do people read a book like "robert elsmere," and why do they take any interest in it? simply because they are not satisfied with the religion of our day. the civilized world has outgrown the greater part of the christian creed. civilized people have lost their belief in the reforming power of punishment. they find that whips and imprisonment have but little influence for good. the truth has dawned upon their minds that eternal punishment is infinite cruelty--that it can serve no good purpose and that the eternity of hell makes heaven impossible. that there can be in this universe no perfectly happy place while there is a perfectly miserable place--that no infinite being can be good who knowingly and, as one may say, willfully created myriads of human beings, knowing that they would be eternally miserable. in other words, the civilized man is greater, tenderer, nobler, nearer just than the old idea of god. the ideal of a few thousand years ago is far below the real of to-day. no good man now would do what jehovah is said to have done four thousand years ago, and no civilized human being would now do what, according to the christian religion, christ threatens to do at the day of judgment. _question_. has the christian religion changed in theory of late years, colonel ingersoll? _answer_. a few years ago the deists denied the inspiration of the bible on account of its cruelty. at the same time they worshiped what they were pleased to call the god of nature. now we are convinced that nature is as cruel as the bible; so that, if the god of nature did not write the bible, this god at least has caused earthquakes and pestilence and famine, and this god has allowed millions of his children to destroy one another. so that now we have arrived at the question--not as to whether the bible is inspired and not as to whether jehovah is the real god, but whether there is a god or not. the intelligence of christendom to-day does not believe in an inspired art or an inspired literature. if there be an infinite god, inspiration in some particular regard would be a patch--it would be the puttying of a crack, the hiding of a defect --in other words, it would show that the general plan was defective. _question_. do you consider any religion adequate? _answer_. a good man, living in england, drawing a certain salary for reading certain prayers on stated occasions, for making a few remarks on the subject of religion, putting on clothes of a certain cut, wearing a gown with certain frills and flounces starched in an orthodox manner, and then looking about him at the suffering and agony of the world, would not feel satisfied that he was doing anything of value for the human race. in the first place, he would deplore his own weakness, his own poverty, his inability to help his fellow-men. he would long every moment for wealth, that he might feed the hungry and clothe the naked--for knowledge, for miraculous power, that he might heal the sick and the lame and that he might give to the deformed the beauty of proportion. he would begin to wonder how a being of infinite goodness and infinite power could allow his children to die, to suffer, to be deformed by necessity, by poverty, to be tempted beyond resistance; how he could allow the few to live in luxury, and the many in poverty and want, and the more he wondered the more useless and ironical would seem to himself his sermons and his prayers. such a man is driven to the conclusion that religion accomplishes but little--that it creates as much want as it alleviates, and that it burdens the world with parasites. such a man would be forced to think of the millions wasted in superstition. in other words, the inadequacy, the uselessness of religion would be forced upon his mind. he would ask himself the question: "is it possible that this is a divine institution? is this all that man can do with the assistance of god? is this the best?" _question_. that is a perfectly reasonable question, is it not, colonel ingersoll? _answer_. the moment a man reaches the point where he asks himself this question he has ceased to be an orthodox christian. it will not do to say that in some other world justice will be done. if god allows injustice to triumph here, why not there? robert elsmere stands in the dawn of philosophy. there is hardly light enough for him to see clearly; but there is so much light that the stars in the night of superstition are obscured. _question_. you do not deny that a religious belief is a comfort? _answer_. there is one thing that it is impossible for me to comprehend. why should any one, when convinced that christianity is a superstition, have or feel a sense of loss? certainly a man acquainted with england, with london, having at the same time something like a heart, must feel overwhelmed by the failure of what is known as christianity. hundreds of thousands exist there without decent food, dwelling in tenements, clothed with rags, familiar with every form of vulgar vice, where the honest poor eat the crust that the vicious throw away. when this man of intelligence, of heart, visits the courts; when he finds human liberty a thing treated as of no value, and when he hears the judge sentencing girls and boys to the penitentiary--knowing that a stain is being put upon them that all the tears of all the coming years can never wash away--knowing, too, and feeling that this is done without the slightest regret, without the slightest sympathy, as a mere matter of form, and that the judge puts this brand of infamy upon the forehead of the convict just as cheerfully as a mexican brands his cattle; and when this man of intelligence and heart knows that these poor people are simply the victims of society, the unfortunates who stumble and over whose bodies rolls the juggernaut--he knows that there is, or at least appears to be, no power above or below working for righteousness--that from the heavens is stretched no protecting hand. and when a man of intelligence and heart in england visits the workhouse, the last resting place of honest labor; when he thinks that the young man, without any great intelligence, but with a good constitution, starts in the morning of his life for the workhouse, and that it is impossible for the laboring man, one who simply has his muscle, to save anything; that health is not able to lay anything by for the days of disease--when the man of intelligence and heart sees all this, he is compelled to say that the civilization of to-day, the religion of to-day, the charity of to-day--no matter how much of good there may be behind them or in them, are failures. a few years ago people were satisfied when the minister said: "all this will be made even in another world; a crust-eater here will sit at the head of the banquet there, and the king here will beg for the crumbs that fall from the table there." when this was said, the poor man hoped and the king laughed. a few years ago the church said to the slave: "you will be free in another world, and your freedom will be made glorious by the perpetual spectacle of your master in hell." but the people--that is, many of the people--are no longer deceived by what once were considered fine phrases. they have suffered so much that they no longer wish to see others suffer and no longer think of the suffering of others as a source of joy to themselves. the poor see that the eternal starvation of kings and queens in another world will be no compensation for what they have suffered there. the old religions appear vulgar and the ideas of rewards and punishments are only such as would satisfy a cannibal chief or one of his favorites. _question_. do you think the christian religion has made the world better? _answer_. for many centuries there has been preached and taught in an almost infinite number of ways a supernatural religion. during all this time the world has been in the care of the infinite, and yet every imaginable vice has flourished, every imaginable pang has been suffered, and every injustice has been done. during all these years the priests have enslaved the minds, and the kings the bodies, of men. the priests did what they did in the name of god, and the kings appeal to the same source of authority. man suffered as long as he could. revolution, reformation, was simply a re- action, a cry from the poor wretch that was between the upper and the nether millstone. the liberty of man has increased just in the proportion that the authority of the gods has decreased. in other words, the wants of man, instead of the wishes of god, have inaugurated what we call progress, and there is this difference: theology is based upon the narrowest and intensest form of selfishness. of course, the theologian knows, the christian knows, that he can do nothing for god; consequently all that he does must be and is for himself, his object being to win the approbation of this god, to the end that he may become a favorite. on the other side, men touched not only by their own misfortunes, but by the misfortunes of others, are moved not simply by selfishness, but by a splendid sympathy with their fellow-men. _question_. christianity certainly fosters charity? _answer_. nothing is more cruel than orthodox theology, nothing more heartless than a charitable institution. for instance, in england, think for a moment of the manner in which charities are distributed, the way in which the crust is flung at lazarus. if that parable could be now retold, the dogs would bite him. the same is true in this country. the institution has nothing but contempt for the one it relieves. the people in charge regard the pauper as one who has wrecked himself. they feel very much as a man would feel rescuing from the water some hare-brained wretch who had endeavored to swim the rapids of niagara--the moment they reach him they begin to upbraid him for being such a fool. this course makes charity a hypocrite, with every pauper for its enemy. mrs. ward compelled robert elsmere to perceive, in some slight degree, the failure of christianity to do away with vice and suffering, with poverty and crime. we know that the rich care but little for the poor. no matter how religious the rich may be, the sufferings of their fellows have but little effect upon them. we are also beginning to see that what is called charity will never redeem this world. the poor man willing to work, eager to maintain his independence, knows that there is something higher than charity--that is to say, justice. he finds that many years before he was born his country was divided out between certain successful robbers, flatterers, cringers and crawlers, and that in consequence of such division not only he himself, but a large majority of his fellow-men are tenants, renters, occupying the surface of the earth only at the pleasure of others. he finds, too, that these people who have done nothing and who do nothing, have everything, and that those who do everything have but little. he finds that idleness has the money and that the toilers are compelled to bow to the idlers. he finds also that the young men of genius are bribed by social distinctions --unconsciously it may be--but still bribed in a thousand ways. he finds that the church is a kind of waste-basket into which are thrown the younger sons of titled idleness. _question_. do you consider that society in general has been made better by religious influences? _answer_. society is corrupted because the laurels, the titles, are in the keeping and within the gift of the corrupters. christianity is not an enemy of this system--it is in harmony with it. christianity reveals to us a universe presided over by an infinite autocrat--a universe without republicanism, without democracy--a universe where all power comes from one and the same source, and where everyone using authority is accountable, not to the people, but to this supposed source of authority. kings reign by divine right. priests are ordained in a divinely appointed way--they do not get their office from man. man is their servant, not their master. in the story of robert elsmere all there is of christianity is left except the miraculous. theism remains, and the idea of a protecting providence is left, together with a belief in the immeasurable superiority of jesus christ. that is to say, the miracles are discarded for lack of evidence, and only for lack of evidence; not on the ground that they are impossible, not on the ground that they impeach and deny the integrity of cause and effect, not on the ground that they contradict the self-evident proposition that an effect must have an efficient cause, but like the scotch verdict, "not proven." it is an effort to save and keep in repair the dungeons of the inquisition for the sake of the beauty of the vines that have overrun them. many people imagine that falsehoods may become respectable on account of age, that a certain reverence goes with antiquity, and that if a mistake is covered with the moss of sentiment it is altogether more credible than a parvenu fact. they endeavor to introduce the idea of aristocracy into the world of thought, believing, and honestly believing, that a falsehood long believed is far superior to a truth that is generally denied. _question_. if robert elsmere's views were commonly adopted what would be the effect? _answer_. the new religion of elsmere is, after all, only a system of outdoor relief, an effort to get successful piracy to give up a larger per cent. for the relief of its victims. the abolition of the system is not dreamed of. a civilized minority could not by any possibility be happy while a majority of the world were miserable. a civilized majority could not be happy while a minority were miserable. as a matter of fact, a civilized world could not be happy while one man was really miserable. at the foundation of civilization is justice--that is to say, the giving of an equal opportunity to all the children of men. secondly, there can be no civilization in the highest sense until sympathy becomes universal. we must have a new definition for success. we must have new ideals. the man who succeeds in amassing wealth, who gathers money for himself, is not a success. it is an exceedingly low ambition to be rich to excite the envy of others, or for the sake of the vulgar power it gives to triumph over others. such men are failures. so the man who wins fame, position, power, and wins these for the sake of himself, and wields this power not for the elevation of his fellow-men, but simply to control, is a miserable failure. he may dispense thousands of millions in charity, and his charity may be prompted by the meanest part of his nature--using it simply as a bait to catch more fish and to prevent the rising tide of indignation that might overwhelm him. men who steal millions and then give a small percentage to the lord to gain the praise of the clergy and to bring the salvation of their souls within the possibilities of imagination, are all failures. robert elsmere gains our affection and our applause to the extent that he gives up what are known as orthodox views, and his wife catherine retains our respect in the proportion that she lives the doctrine that elsmere preaches. by doing what she believes to be right, she gains our forgiveness for her creed. one is astonished that she can be as good as she is, believing as she does. the utmost stretch of our intellectual charity is to allow the old wine to be put in a new bottle, and yet she regrets the absence of the old bottle--she really believes that the bottle is the important thing--that the wine is but a secondary consideration. she misses the label, and not having perfect confidence in her own taste, she does not feel quite sure that the wine is genuine. _question_. what, on the whole, is your judgment of the book? _answer_. i think the book conservative. it is an effort to save something--a few shreds and patches and ravelings--from the wreck. theism is difficult to maintain. why should we expect an infinite being to do better in another world than he has done and is doing in this? if he allows the innocent to suffer here, why not there? if he allows rascality to succeed in this world, why not in the next? to believe in god and to deny his personality is an exceedingly vague foundation for a consolation. if you insist on his personality and power, then it is impossible to account for what happens. why should an infinite god allow some of his children to enslave others? why should he allow a child of his to burn another child of his, under the impression that such a sacrifice was pleasing to him? unitarianism lacks the motive power. orthodox people who insist that nearly everybody is going to hell, and that it is their duty to do what little they can to save their souls, have what you might call a spur to action. we can imagine a philanthropic man engaged in the business of throwing ropes to persons about to go over the falls of niagara, but we can hardly think of his carrying on the business after being convinced that there are no falls, or that people go over them in perfect safety. in this country the question has come up whether all the heathen are bound to be damned unless they believe in the gospel. many admit that the heathen will be saved if they are good people, and that they will not be damned for not believing something that they never heard. the really orthodox people--that is to say, the missionaries--instantly see that this doctrine destroys their business. they take the ground that there is but one way to be saved--you must believe on the lord jesus christ--and they are willing to admit, and cheerfully to admit, that the heathen for many generations have gone in an unbroken column down to eternal wrath. and they not only admit this, but insist upon it, to the end that subscriptions may not cease. with them salary and salvation are convertible terms. the tone of this book is not of the highest. too much stress is laid upon social advantages--too much respect for fashionable folly and for ancient absurdity. it is hard for me to appreciate the feelings of one who thinks it difficult to give up the consolations of the gospel. what are the consolations of the church of england? it is a religion imposed upon the people by authority. it is the gospel at the mouth of a cannon, at the point of a bayonet, enforced by all authority, from the beadle to the queen. it is a parasite living upon tithes--these tithes being collected by the army and navy. it produces nothing--is simply a beggar--or rather an aggregation of beggars. it teaches nothing of importance. it discovers nothing. it is under obligation not to investigate. it has agreed to remain stationary not only, but to resist all innovation. according to the creed of this church, a very large proportion of the human race is destined to suffer eternal pain. this does not interfere with the quiet, with the serenity and repose of the average clergyman. they put on their gowns, they read the service, they repeat the creed and feel that their duty has been done. how any one can feel that he is giving up something of value when he finds that the episcopal creed is untrue is beyond my imagination. i should think that every good man and woman would overflow with joy, that every heart would burst into countless blossoms the moment the falsity of the episcopal creed was established. christianity is the most heartless of all religions--the most unforgiving, the most revengeful. according to the episcopalian belief, god becomes the eternal prosecutor of his own children. i know of no creed believed by any tribe, not excepting the tribes where cannibalism is practiced, that is more heartless, more inhuman than this. to find that the creed is false is like being roused from a frightful dream, in which hundreds of serpents are coiled about you, in which their eyes, gleaming with hatred, are fixed on you, and finding the world bathed in sunshine and the songs of birds in your ears and those you love about you. --_new york world_, november , . working girls. _question_. what is your opinion of the work undertaken by the _world_ in behalf of the city slave girl? _answer_. i know of nothing better for a great journal to do. the average girl is so helpless, and the greed of the employer is such, that unless some newspaper or some person of great influence comes to her assistance, she is liable not simply to be imposed upon, but to be made a slave. girls, as a rule, are so anxious to please, so willing to work, that they bear almost every hardship without complaint. nothing is more terrible than to see the rich living on the work of the poor. one can hardly imagine the utter heartlessness of a man who stands between the wholesale manufacturer and the wretched women who make their living--or rather retard their death--by the needle. how a human being can consent to live on this profit, stolen from poverty, is beyond my imagination. these men, when known, will be regarded as hyenas and jackals. they are like the wild beasts which follow herds of cattle for the purpose of devouring those that are injured or those that have fallen by the wayside from weakness. _question_. what effect has unlimited immigration on the wages of women? _answer_. if our country were overpopulated, the effect of immigration would be to lessen wages, for the reason that the working people of europe are used to lower wages, and have been in the habit of practicing an economy unknown to us. but this country is not overpopulated. there is plenty of room for several hundred millions more. wages, however, are too low in the united states. the general tendency is to leave the question of labor to what is called the law of supply and demand. my hope is that in time we shall become civilized enough to know that there is a higher law, or rather a higher meaning in the law of supply and demand, than is now perceived. year after year what are called the necessaries of life increase. many things now regarded as necessaries were formerly looked upon as luxuries. so, as man becomes civilized, he increases what may be called the necessities of his life. when perfectly civilized, one of the necessities of his life will be that the lives of others shall be of some value to them. a good man is not happy so long as he knows that other good men and women suffer for raiment and for food, and have no roof but the sky, no home but the highway. consequently what is called the law of supply and demand will then have a much larger meaning. in nature everything lives upon something else. life feeds upon life. something is lying in wait for something else, and even the victim is weaving a web or crouching for some other victim, and the other victim is in the same business--watching for something else. the same is true in the human world--people are living on each other; the cunning obtain the property of the simple; wealth picks the pockets of poverty; success is a highwayman leaping from the hedge. the rich combine, the poor are unorganized, without the means to act in concert, and for that reason become the prey of combinations and trusts. the great questions are: will man ever be sufficiently civilized to be honest? will the time ever come when it can truthfully be said that right is might? the lives of millions of people are not worth living, because of their ignorance and poverty, and the lives of millions of others are not worth living, on account of their wealth and selfishness. the palace without justice, without charity, is as terrible as the hovel without food. _question_. what effect has the woman's suffrage movement had on the breadwinners of the country? _answer_. i think the women who have been engaged in the struggle for equal rights have done good for women in the direction of obtaining equal wages for equal work. there has also been for many years a tendency among women in our country to become independent --a desire to make their own living--to win their own bread. so many husbands are utterly useless, or worse, that many women hardly feel justified in depending entirely on a husband for the future. they feel somewhat safer to know how to do something and earn a little money themselves. if men were what they ought to be, few women would be allowed to labor--that is to say, to toil. it should be the ambition of every healthy and intelligent man to take care of, to support, to make happy, some woman. as long as women bear the burdens of the world, the human race can never attain anything like a splendid civilization. there will be no great generation of men until there has been a great generation of women. for my part, i am glad to hear this question discussed--glad to know that thousands of women take some interest in the fortunes and in the misfortunes of their sisters. the question of wages for women is a thousand times more important than sending missionaries to china or to india. there is plenty for missionaries to do here. and by missionaries i do not mean gentlemen and ladies who distribute tracts or quote scripture to people out of work. if we are to better the condition of men and women we must change their surroundings. the tenement house breeds a moral pestilence. there can be in these houses no home, no fireside, no family, for the reason that there is no privacy, no walls between them and the rest of the world. there is no sacredness, no feeling, "this is ours." _question_. might not the rich do much? _answer_. it would be hard to overestimate the good that might be done by the millionaires if they would turn their attention to sending thousands and thousands into the country or to building them homes miles from the city, where they could have something like privacy, where the family relations could be kept with some sacredness. think of the "homes" in which thousands and thousands of young girls are reared in our large cities. think of what they see and what they hear; of what they come in contact with. how is it possible for the virtues to grow in the damp and darkened basements? can we expect that love and chastity and all that is sweet and gentle will be produced in these surroundings, in cellars and garrets, in poverty and dirt? the surroundings must be changed. _question_. are the fathers and brothers blameless who allow young girls to make coats, cloaks and vests in an atmosphere poisoned by the ignorant and low-bred? _answer_. the same causes now brutalizing girls brutalize their fathers and brothers, and the same causes brutalize the ignorant and low-lived that poison the air in which these girls are made to work. it is hard to pick out one man and say that he is to blame, or one woman and say that the fault is hers. we must go back of all this. in my opinion, society raises its own failures, its own criminals, its own wretches of every sort and kind. great pains are taken to raise these crops. the seeds, it may be, were sown thousands of years ago, but they were sown, and the present is the necessary child of all the past. if the future is to differ from the present, the seeds must now be sown. it is not simply a question of charity, or a question of good nature, or a question of what we call justice--it is a question of intelligence. in the first place, i suppose that it is the duty of every human being to support himself--first, that he may not become a burden upon others, and second, that he may help others. i think all people should be taught never, under any circumstances, if by any possibility they can avoid it, to become a burden. every one should be taught the nobility of labor, the heroism and splendor of honest effort. as long as it is considered disgraceful to labor, or aristocratic not to labor, the world will be filled with idleness and crime, and with every possible moral deformity. _question_. has the public school system anything to do with the army of pupils who, after six years of study, willingly accept the injustice and hardship imposed by capital? _answer_. the great trouble with the public school is that many things are taught that are of no immediate use. i believe in manual training schools. i believe in the kindergarten system. every person ought to be taught how to do something--ought to be taught the use of their hands. they should endeavor to put in palpable form the ideas that they gain. such an education gives them a confidence in themselves, a confidence in the future--gives them a spirit and feeling of independence that they do not now have. men go through college studying for many years, and when graduated have not the slightest conception of how to make a living in any department of human effort. thousands of them are to-day doing manual labor and doing it very poorly, whereas, if they had been taught the use of tools, the use of their hands, they would derive a certain pleasure from their work. it is splendid to do anything well. one can be just as poetic working with iron and wood as working with words and colors. _question_. what ought to be done, or what is to be the end? _answer_. the great thing is for the people to know the facts. there are thousands and millions of splendid and sympathetic people who would willingly help, if they only knew; but they go through the world in such a way that they know but little of it. they go to their place of business; they stay in their offices for a few hours; they go home; they spend the evening there or at a club; they come in contact with the well-to-do, with the successful, with the satisfied, and they know nothing of the thousands and millions on every side. they have not the least idea how the world lives, how it works, how it suffers. they read, of course, now and then, some paragraph in which the misfortune of some wretch is set forth, but the wretch is a kind of steel engraving, an unreal shadow, a something utterly unlike themselves. the real facts should be brought home, the sympathies of men awakened, and awakened to such a degree that they will go and see how these people live, see how they work, see how they suffer. _question_. does exposure do any good? _answer_. i hope that _the world_ will keep on. i hope that it will express every horror that it can, connected with the robbery of poor and helpless girls, and i hope that it will publish the names of all the robbers it can find, and the wretches who oppress the poor and who live upon the misfortunes of women. the crosses of this world are mostly born by wives, by mothers and by daughters. their brows are pierced by thorns. they shed the bitterest tears. they live and suffer and die for others. it is almost enough to make one insane to think of what woman, in the years of savagery and civilization, has suffered. think of the anxiety and agony of motherhood. maternity is the most pathetic fact in the universe. think how helpless girls are. think of the thorns in the paths they walk--of the trials, the temptations, the want, the misfortune, the dangers and anxieties that fill their days and nights. every true man will sympathize with woman, and will do all in his power to lighten her burdens and increase the sunshine of her life. _question_. is there any remedy? _answer_. i have always wondered that the great corporations have made no provisions for their old and worn out employees. it seems to me that not only great railway companies, but great manufacturing corporations, ought to provide for their workmen. many of them are worn out, unable longer to work, and they are thrown aside like old clothes. they find their way to the poorhouses or die in tenements by the roadside. this seems almost infinitely heartless. men of great wealth, engaged in manufacturing, instead of giving five hundred thousand dollars for a library, or a million dollars for a college, ought to put this money aside, invest it in bonds of the government, and the interest ought to be used in taking care of the old, of the helpless, of those who meet with accidents in their work. under our laws, if an employee is caught in a wheel or in a band, and his arm or leg is torn off, he is left to the charity of the community, whereas the profits of the business ought to support him in his old age. if employees had this feeling--that they were not simply working for that day, not simply working while they have health and strength, but laying aside a little sunshine for the winter of age--if they only felt that they, by their labor, were creating a fireside in front of which their age and helplessness could sit, the feeling between employed and employers would be a thousand times better. on the great railways very few people know the number of the injured, of those who lose their hands or feet, of those who contract diseases riding on the tops of freight trains in snow and sleet and storm; and yet, when these men become old and helpless through accident, they are left to shift for themselves. the company is immortal, but the employees become helpless. now, it seems to me that a certain per cent. should be laid aside, so that every brakeman and conductor could feel that he was providing for himself, as well as for his fellow-workmen, so that when the dark days came there would be a little light. the men of wealth, the men who control these great corporations-- these great mills--give millions away in ostentatious charity. they send missionaries to foreign lands. they endow schools and universities and allow the men who earned the surplus to die in want. i believe in no charity that is founded on robbery. i have no admiration for generous highwaymen or extravagant pirates. at the foundation of charity should be justice. let these men whom others have made wealthy give something to their workmen--something to those who created their fortunes. this would be one step in the right direction. do not let it be regarded as charity--let it be regarded as justice. --_new york world_, december , . protection for american actors. _question_. it is reported that you have been retained as counsel for the actors' order of friendship--the edwin forrest lodge of new york, and the shakespeare lodge of philadelphia--for the purpose of securing the necessary legislation to protect american actors-- is that so? _answer_. yes, i have been retained for that purpose, and the object is simply that american actors may be put upon an equal footing with americans engaged in other employments. there is a law now which prevents contractors going abroad and employing mechanics or skilled workmen, and bringing them to this country to take the places of our citizens. no one objects to the english, german and french mechanics coming with their wives and children to this country and making their homes here. our ports are open, and have been since the foundation of this government. wages are somewhat higher in this country than in any other, and the man who really settles here, who becomes, or intends to become an american citizen, will demand american wages. but if a manufacturer goes to europe, he can make a contract there and bring hundreds and thousands of mechanics to this country who will work for less wages than the american, and a law was passed to prevent the american manufacturer, who was protected by a tariff, from burning the laborer's candle at both ends. that is to say, we do not wish to give him the american price, by means of a tariff, and then allow him to go to europe and import his labor at the european price. in the law, actors were excepted, and we now find the managers are bringing entire companies from the old county, making contracts with them there, and getting them at much lower prices than they would have had to pay for american actors. no one objects to a foreign actor coming here for employment, but we do not want an american manager to go there, and employ him to act here. no one objects to the importation of a star. we wish to see and hear the best actors in the world. but the rest of the company--the support--should be engaged in the united states, if the star speaks english. i see that it is contended over in england, that english actors are monopolizing the american stage because they speak english, while the average american actor does not. the real reason is that the english actor works for less money--he is the cheaper article. certainly no one will accuse the average english actor of speaking english. the hemming and hawing, the aristocratic stutter, the dropping of h's and picking them up at the wrong time, have never been popular in the united states, except by way of caricature. nothing is more absurd than to take the ground that the english actors are superior to the american. i know of no english actor who can for a moment be compared with joseph jefferson, or with edwin booth, or with lawrence barrett, or with denman thompson, and i could easily name others. if english actors are so much better than american, how is it that an american star is supported by the english? mary anderson is certainly an american actress, and she is supported by english actors. is it possible that the superior support the inferior? i do not believe that england has her equal as an actress. her hermione is wonderful, and the appeal to apollo sublime. in perdita she "takes the winds of march with beauty." where is an actress on the english stage the superior of julia marlowe in genius, in originality, in naturalness? is there any better mrs. malaprop than mrs. drew, and better sir anthony than john gilbert? no one denies that the english actors and actresses are great. no one will deny that the plays of shakespeare are the greatest that have been produced, and no one wishes in any way to belittle the genius of the english people. in this country the average person speaks fairly good english, and you will find substantially the same english spoken in most of the country; whereas in england there is a different dialect in almost every county, and most of the english people speak the language as if was not their native tongue. i think it will be admitted that the english write a good deal better than they speak, and that their pronunciation is not altogether perfect. these things, however, are not worth speaking of. there is no absolute standard. they speak in the way that is natural to them, and we in the way that is natural to us. this difference furnishes no foundation for a claim of general superiority. the english actors are not brought here on account of their excellence, but on account of their cheapness. it requires no great ability to play the minor parts, or the leading roles in some plays, for that matter. and yet acting is a business, a profession, a means of getting bread. we protect our mechanics and makers of locomotives and of all other articles. why should we not protect, by the same means, the actor? you may say that we can get along without actors. so we can get along without painters, without sculptors and without poets. but a nation that gets along without these people of genius amounts to but little. we can do without music, without players and without composers; but when we take art and poetry and music and the theatre out of the world, it becomes an exceedingly dull place. actors are protected and cared for in proportion that people are civilized. if the people are intelligent, educated, and have imaginations, they enjoy the world of the stage, the creations of poets, and they are thrilled by great music, and, as a consequence, respect the dramatist, the actor and the musician. _question_. it is claimed that an amendment to the law, such as is desired, will interfere with the growth of art? _answer_. no one is endeavoring to keep stars from this country. if they have american support, and the stars really know anything, the american actors will get the benefit. if they bring their support with them, the american actor is not particularly benefitted, and the star, when the season is over, takes his art and his money with him. managers who insist on employing foreign support are not sacrificing anything for art. their object is to make money. they care nothing for the american actor--nothing for the american drama. they look for the receipts. it is the sheerest cant to pretend that they are endeavoring to protect art. on the th of february, , a law was passed making it unlawful "for any person, company, partnership or corporation, in any manner whatsoever, to prepay the transportation, or in any way assist or encourage the importation or emigration of any alien or aliens into the united states, under contract or agreement, parol or special, previous to the importation or emigration of such aliens to perform labor or services of any kind the united states." by this act it was provided that its provisions should not apply to professional actors, artists, lecturers or singers, in regard to persons employed strictly as personal or domestic servants. the object now in view is so to amend the law that its provision shall apply to all actors except stars. _question_. in this connection there has been so much said about the art of acting--what is your idea as to that art? _answer_. above all things in acting, there must be proportion. there are no miracles in art or nature. all that is done--every inflection and gesture--must be in perfect harmony with the circumstances. sensationalism is based on deformity, and bears the same relation to proportion that caricature does to likeness. the stream that flows even with its banks, making the meadows green, delights us ever; the one that overflows surprises for a moment. but we do not want a succession of floods. in acting there must be natural growth, not sudden climax. the atmosphere of the situation, the relation sustained to others, should produce the emotions. nothing should be strained. beneath domes there should be buildings, and buildings should have foundations. there must be growth. there should be the bud, the leaf, the flower, in natural sequence. there must be no leap from naked branches to the perfect fruit. most actors depend on climax--they save themselves for the supreme explosion. the scene opens with a slow match and ends when the spark reaches the dynamite. so, most authors fill the first act with contradictions and the last with explanations. plots and counter-plots, violence and vehemence, perfect saints and perfect villains--that is to say, monsters, impelled by improbable motives, meet upon the stage, where they are pushed and pulled for the sake of the situation, and where everything is so managed that the fire reaches the powder and the explosion is the climax. there is neither time, nor climate, nor soil, in which the emotions and intentions may grow. no land is plowed, no seed is sowed, no rain falls, no light glows--the events are all orphans. no one would enjoy a sudden sunset--we want the clouds of gold that float in the azure sea. no one would enjoy a sudden sunrise--we are in love with the morning star, with the dawn that modestly heralds the day and draws aside, with timid hands, the curtains of the night. in other words, we want sequence, proportion, logic, beauty. there are several actors in this country who are in perfect accord with nature--who appear to make no effort--whose acting seems to give them joy and rest. we do well what we do easily. it is a great mistake to exhaust yourself, instead of the subject. all great actors "fill the stage" because they hold the situation. you see them and nothing else. _question_. speaking of american actors, colonel, i believe you are greatly interested in the playing of miss marlowe, and have given your opinion of her as parthenia; what do you think of her julia and viola? _answer_. a little while ago i saw miss marlowe as julia, in "the hunchback." we must remember the limitations of the play. nothing can excel the simplicity, the joyous content of the first scene. nothing could be more natural than the excitement produced by the idea of leaving what you feel to be simple and yet good, for what you think is magnificent, brilliant and intoxicating. it is only in youth that we are willing to make this exchange. one does not see so clearly in the morning of life when the sun shines in his eyes. in the afternoon, when the sun is behind him, he sees better --he is no longer dazzled. in old age we are not only willing, but anxious, to exchange wealth and fame and glory and magnificence, for simplicity. all the palaces are nothing compared with our little cabin, and all the flowers of the world are naught to the wild rose that climbs and blossoms by the lowly window of content. happiness dwells in the valleys with the shadows. the moment julia is brought in contact with wealth, she longs for the simple--for the true love of one true man. wealth and station are mockeries. these feelings, these emotions, miss marlowe rendered not only with look and voice and gesture, but with every pose of her body; and when assured that her nuptials with the earl could be avoided, the only question in her mind was as to the absolute preservation of her honor--not simply in fact, but in appearance, so that even hatred could not see a speck upon the shining shield of her perfect truth. in this scene she was perfect--everything was forgotten except the desire to be absolutely true. so in the scene with master walter, when he upbraids her for forgetting that she is about to meet her father, when excusing her forgetfulness on the ground that he has been to her a father. nothing could exceed the delicacy and tenderness of this passage. every attitude expressed love, gentleness, and a devotion even unto death. one felt that there could be no love left for the father she expected to meet--master walter had it all. a greater julia was never on the stage--one in whom so much passion mingled with so much purity. miss marlowe never "o'ersteps the modesty of nature." she maintains proportion. the river of her art flows even with the banks. in viola, we must remember the character--a girl just rescued from the sea--disguised as a boy--employed by the duke, whom she instantly loves--sent as his messenger to woo another for him--olivia enamored of the messenger--forced to a duel--mistaken for her brother by the captain, and her brother taken for herself by olivia--and yet, in the midst of these complications and disguises, she remains a pure and perfect girl--these circumstances having no more real effect upon her passionate and subtle self than clouds on stars. when malvolio follows and returns the ring the whole truth flashes upon her. she is in love with orsino--this she knows. olivia, she believes, is in love with her. the edge of the situation, the dawn of this entanglement, excites her mirth. in this scene she becomes charming--an impersonation of spring. her laughter is as natural and musical as the song of a brook. so, in the scene with olivia in which she cries, "make me a willow cabin at your gate!" she is the embodiment of grace, and her voice is as musical as the words, and as rich in tone as they are in thought. in the duel with sir andrew she shows the difference between the delicacy of woman and the cowardice of man. she does the little that she can, not for her own sake, but for the sake of her disguise --she feels that she owes something to her clothes. but i have said enough about this actress to give you an idea of one who is destined to stand first in her profession. we will now come back to the real question. i am in favor of protecting the american actor. i regard the theatre as the civilizer of man. all the arts united upon the stage, and the genius of the race has been lavished on this mimic world. --_new york star_, december , . liberals and liberalism. _question_. what do you think of the prospects of liberalism in this country? _answer_. the prospects of liberalism are precisely the same as the prospects of civilization--that is to say, of progress. as the people become educated, they become liberal. bigotry is the provincialism of the mind. men are bigoted who are not acquainted with the thoughts of others. they have been taught one thing, and have been made to believe that their little mental horizon is the circumference of all knowledge. the bigot lives in an ignorant village, surrounded by ignorant neighbors. this is the honest bigot. the dishonest bigot may know better, but he remains a bigot because his salary depends upon it. a bigot is like a country that has had no commerce with any other. he imagines that in his little head there is everything of value. when a man becomes an intellectual explorer, an intellectual traveler, he begins to widen, to grow liberal. he finds that the ideas of others are as good as and often better than his own. the habits and customs of other people throw light on his own, and by this light he is enabled to discover at least some of his own mistakes. now the world has become acquainted. a few years ago, a man knew something of the doctrines of his own church. now he knows the creeds of others, and not only so, but he has examined to some extent the religions of other nations. he finds in other creeds all the excellencies that are in his own, and most of the mistakes. in this way he learns that all creeds have been produced by men, and that their differences have been accounted for by race, climate, heredity--that is to say, by a difference in circumstances. so we now know that the cause of liberalism is the cause of civilization. unless the race is to be a failure, the cause of liberalism must succeed. consequently, i have the same faith in that cause that i have in the human race. _question_. where are the most liberals, and in what section of the country is the best work for liberalism being done? _answer_. the most liberals are in the most intelligent section of the united states. where people think the most, there you will find the most liberals; where people think the least, you will find the most bigots. bigotry is produced by feeling--liberalism by thinking--that is to say, the one is a prejudice, the other a principle. every geologist, every astronomer, every scientist, is doing a noble work for liberalism. every man who finds a fact, and demonstrates it, is doing work for the cause. all the literature of our time that is worth reading is on the liberal side. all the fiction that really interests the human mind is with us. no one cares to read the old theological works. essays written by professors of theological colleges are regarded, even by christians, with a kind of charitable contempt. when any demonstration of science is attacked by a creed, or a passage of scripture, all the intelligent smile. for these reasons i think that the best work for liberalism is being done where the best work for science is being done--where the best work for man is being accomplished. every legislator that assists in the repeal of theological laws is doing a great work for liberalism. _question_. in your opinion, what relation do liberalism and prohibition bear to each other? _answer_. i do not think they have anything to do with each other. they have nothing in common except this: the prohibitionists, i presume, are endeavoring to do what they can for temperance; so all intelligent liberals are doing what they can for the cause of temperance. the prohibitionist endeavors to accomplish his object by legislation--the liberalist by education, by civilization, by example, by persuasion. the method of the liberalist is good, that of the prohibitionist chimerical and fanatical. _question_. do you think that liberals should undertake a reform in the marriage and divorce laws and relations? _answer_. i think that liberals should do all in their power to induce people to regard marriage and divorce in a sensible light, and without the slightest reference to any theological ideas. they should use their influence to the end that marriage shall be considered as a contract--the highest and holiest that men and women can make. and they should also use their influence to have the laws of divorce based on this fundamental idea,--that marriage is a contract. all should be done that can be done by law to uphold the sacredness of this relation. all should be done that can be done to impress upon the minds of all men and all women their duty to discharge all the obligations of the marriage contract faithfully and cheerfully. i do not believe that it is to the interest of the state or of the nation, that people should be compelled to live together who hate each other, or that a woman should be bound to a man who has been false and who refuses to fulfill the contract of marriage. i do not believe that any man should call upon the police, or upon the creeds, or upon the church, to compel his wife to remain under his roof, or to compel a woman against her will to become the mother of his children. in other words, liberals should endeavor to civilize mankind, and when men and women are civilized, the marriage question, and the divorce question, will be settled. _question_. should liberals vote on liberal issues? _answer_. i think that, other things being anywhere near equal, liberals should vote for men who believe in liberty, men who believe in giving to others the rights they claim for themselves--that is to say, for civilized men, for men of some breadth of mind. liberals should do what they can to do away with all the theological absurdities. _question_. can, or ought, the liberals and spiritualists to unite? _answer_. all people should unite where they have objects in common. they can vote together, and act together, without believing the same on all points. a liberal is not necessarily a spiritualist, and a spiritualist is not necessarily a liberal. if spiritualists wish to liberalize the government, certainly liberals would be glad of their assistance, and if spiritualists take any step in the direction of freedom, the liberals should stand by them to that extent. _question_. which is the more dangerous to american institutions --the national reform association (god-in-the-constitution party) or the roman catholic church? _answer_. the association and the catholic church are dangerous according to their power. the catholic church has far more power than the reform association, and is consequently far more dangerous. the god-in-the-constitution association is weak, fanatical, stupid, and absurd. what god are we to have in the constitution? whose god? if we should agree to-morrow to put god in the constitution, the question would then be: which god? on that question, the religious world would fall out. in that direction there is no danger. but the roman catholic church is the enemy of intellectual liberty. it is the enemy of investigation. it is the enemy of free schools. that church always has been, always will be, the enemy of freedom. it works in the dark. when in a minority it is humility itself--when in power it is the impersonation of arrogance. in weakness it crawls--in power it stands erect, and compels its victims to fall upon their faces. the most dangerous institution in this world, so far as the intellectual liberty of man is concerned, is the roman catholic church. next to that is the protestant church. _question_. what is your opinion of the christian religion and the christian church? _answer_. my opinion upon this subject is certainly well known. the christian church is founded upon miracles--that is to say, upon impossibilities. of course, there is a great deal that is good in the creeds of the churches, and in the sermons delivered by its ministers; but mixed with this good is much that is evil. my principal objection to orthodox religion is the dogma of eternal pain. nothing can be more infamously absurd. all civilized men should denounce it--all women should regard it with a kind of shuddering abhorrence. --_secular thought_, toronto, canada, . pope leo xiii. _question_. do you agree with the views of pope leo xiii. as expressed in _the herald_ of last week? _answer_. i am not personally acquainted with leo xiii., but i have not the slightest idea that he loves americans or their country. i regard him as an enemy of intellectual liberty. he tells us that where the church is free it will increase, and i say to him that where others are free it will not. the catholic church has increased in this country by immigration and in no other way. possibly the pope is willing to use his power for the good of the whole people, protestants and catholics, and to increase their prosperity and happiness, because by this he means that he will use his power to make catholics out of protestants. it is impossible for the catholic church to be in favor of mental freedom. that church represents absolute authority. its members have no right to reason--no right to ask questions--they are called upon simply to believe and to pay their subscriptions. _question_. do you agree with the pope when he says that the result of efforts which have been made to throw aside christianity and live without it can be seen in the present condition of society-- discontent, disorder, hatred and profound unhappiness? _answer_. undoubtedly the people of europe who wish to be free are discontented. undoubtedly these efforts to have something like justice done will bring disorder. those in power will hate those who are endeavoring to drive them from their thrones. if the people now, as formerly, would bear all burdens cheerfully placed upon their shoulders by church and state--that is to say, if they were so enslaved mentally that they would not even have sense enough to complain, then there would be what the pope might call "peace and happiness"--that is to say, the peace of ignorance, and the happiness of those who are expecting pay in another world for their agonies endured in this. of course, the revolutionaries of europe are not satisfied with the catholic religion; neither are they satisfied with the protestant. both of these religions rest upon authority. both discourage reason. both say "let him that hath ears to hear, hear," but neither say let him that hath brains to think, think. christianity has been thoroughly tried, and it is a failure. nearly every church has upheld slavery, not only of the body, but of the mind. when christian missionaries invade what they call a heathen country, they are followed in a little while by merchants and traders, and in a few days afterward by the army. the first real work is to kill the heathen or steal their lands, or else reduce them to something like slavery. i have no confidence in the reformation of this world by churches. churches for the most part exist, not for this world, but for another. they are founded upon the supernatural, and they say: "take no thought for the morrow; put your trust in your heavenly father and he will take care of you." on the other hand, science says: "you must take care of yourself, live for the world in which you happen to be--if there is another, live for that when you get there." _question_. what do you think of the plan to better the condition of the workingmen, by committees headed by bishops of the catholic church, in discussing their duties? _answer_. if the bishops wish to discuss with anybody about duties they had better discuss with the employers, instead of the employed. this discussion had better take place between the clergy and the capitalist. there is no need of discussing this question with the poor wretches who cannot earn more than enough to keep their souls in their bodies. if the catholic church has so much power, and if it represents god on earth, let it turn its attention to softening the hearts of capitalists, and no longer waste its time in preaching patience to the poor slaves who are now bearing the burdens of the world. _question_. do you agree with the pope that: "sound rules of life must be founded on religion"? _answer_. i do not. sound rules of life must be founded on the experience of mankind. in other words, we must live for this world. why should men throw away hundreds and thousands of millions of dollars in building cathedrals and churches, and paying the salaries of bishops and priests, and cardinals and popes, and get no possible return for all this money except a few guesses about another world --those guesses being stated as facts--when every pope and priest and bishop knows that no one knows the slightest thing on the subject. superstition is the greatest burden borne by the industry of the world. the nations of europe to-day all pretend to be christian, yet millions of men are drilled and armed for the purpose of killing other christians. each christian nation is fortified to prevent other christians from devastating their fields. there is already a debt of about twenty-five thousand millions of dollars which has been incurred by christian nations, because each one is afraid of every other, and yet all say: "it is our duty to love our enemies." this world, in my judgment, is to be reformed through intelligence --through development of the mind--not by credulity, but by investigation; not by faith in the supernatural, but by faith in the natural. the church has passed the zenith of her power. the clergy must stand aside. scientists must take their places. _question_. do you agree with the pope in attacking the present governments of europe and the memories of mazzini and saffi? _answer_. i do not. i think mazzini was of more use to italy than all the popes that ever occupied the chair of st. peter--which, by the way, was not his chair. i have a thousand times more regard for mazzini, for garibaldi, for cavour, than i have for any gentleman who pretends to be the representative of god. there is another objection i have to the pope, and that is that he was so scandalized when a monument was reared in rome to the memory of giordano bruno. bruno was murdered about two hundred and sixty years ago by the catholic church, and such has been the development of the human brain and heart that on the very spot where he was murdered a monument rises to his memory. but the vicar of god has remained stationary, and he regards this mark of honor to one of the greatest and noblest of the human race as an act of blasphemy. the poor old man acts as if america had never been discovered--as if the world were still flat--and as if the stars had been made out of little pieces left over from the creation of the world and stuck in the sky simply to beautify the night. but, after all, i do not blame this pope. he is the victim of his surroundings. he was never married. his heart was never softened by wife or children. he was born that way, and, to tell you the truth, he has my sincere sympathy. let him talk about america and stay in italy. --_the herald_, new york, april , . the sacredness of the sabbath. _question_. what do you think of the sacredness of the sabbath? _answer_. i think all days, all times and all seasons are alike sacred. i think the best day in a man's life is the day that he is truly the happiest. every day in which good is done to humanity is a holy day. if i were to make a calendar of sacred days, i would put down the days in which the greatest inventions came to the mind of genius; the days when scattered tribes became nations; the days when good laws were passed; the days when bad ones were repealed; the days when kings were dethroned, and the people given their own; in other words, every day in which good has been done; in which men and women have truly fallen in love, days in which babes were born destined to change the civilization of the world. these are all sacred days; days in which men have fought for the right, suffered for the right, died for the right; all days in which there were heroic actions for good. the day when slavery was abolished in the united states is holier than any sabbath by reason of "divine consecration." of course, i care nothing about the sacredness of the sabbath because it was hallowed in the old testament, or because of that day jehovah is said to have rested from his labors. a space of time cannot be sacred, any more than a vacuum can be sacred, and it is rendered sacred by deeds done in it, and not in and of itself. if we should finally invent some means of traveling by which we could go a thousand miles a day, a man could escape sunday all his life by traveling west. he could start monday, and stay monday all the time. or, if he should some time get near the north pole, he could walk faster than the earth turns and thus beat sunday all the while. _question_. should not the museums and art galleries be thrown open to the workingmen free on sunday? _answer_. undoubtedly. in all civilized countries this is done, and i believe it would be done in new york, only it is said that money has been given on condition that the museums should be kept closed on sundays. i have always heard it said that large sums will be withheld by certain old people who have the prospect of dying in the near future if the museums are open on sunday. this, however, seems to me a very poor and shallow excuse. money should not be received under such conditions. one of the curses of our country has been the giving of gifts to colleges on certain conditions. as, for instance, the money given to andover by the original founder on the condition that a certain creed be taught, and other large amounts have been given on a like condition. now, the result of this is that the theological professor must teach what these donors have indicated, or go out of the institution; or --and this last "or" is generally the trouble--teach what he does not believe, endeavoring to get around it by giving new meaning to old words. i think the cause of intellectual progress has been much delayed by these conditions put in the wills of supposed benefactors, so that after they are dead they can rule people who have the habit of being alive. in my opinion, a corpse is a poor ruler, and after a man is dead he should keep quiet. of course all that he did will live, and should be allowed to have its natural effect. if he was a great inventor or discoverer, or if he uttered great truths, these became the property of the world; but he should not endeavor, after he is dead, to rule the living by conditions attached to his gifts. all the museums and libraries should be opened, not only to workingmen, but to all others. if to see great paintings, great statues, wonderful works of art; if to read the thoughts of the greatest men--if these things tend to the civilization of the race, then they should be put as nearly as possible within the reach of all. the man who works eight or ten or twelve hours a day has not time during the six days of labor to visit libraries or museums. sunday is his day of leisure, his day of recreation, and on that day he should have the privilege, and he himself should deem it a right to visit all the public libraries and museums, parks and gardens. in other words, i think the laboring man should have the same rights on sundays, to say the least of it, that wealthy people have on other days. the man of wealth has leisure. he can attend these places on any day he may desire; but necessity being the master of the poor man, sunday is his one day for such a purpose. for men of wealth to close the museums and libraries on that day, shows that they have either a mistaken idea as to the well-being of their fellow-men, or that they care nothing about the rights of any except the wealthy. personally, i have no sort of patience with the theological snivel and drivel about the sacredness of the sabbath. i do not understand why they do not accept the words of their own christ, namely, that "the sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath." the hypocrites of judea were great sticklers for the sabbath, and the orthodox christians of new york are exactly the same. my own opinion is that a man who has been at work all the week, in the dust and heat, can hardly afford to waste his sunday in hearing an orthodox sermon--a sermon that gives him the cheerful intelligence that his chances for being damned are largely in the majority. i think it is far better for the workingman to go out with his family in the park, into the woods, to some german garden, where he can hear the music of wagner, or even the waltzes of strauss, or to take a boat and go down to the shore of the sea. i think than in summer a few waves of the ocean are far more refreshing then all the orthodox sermons of the world. as a matter of fact, i believe the preachers leave the city in the summer and let the devil do his worst. whether it is believed that the devil has less power in warm weather, i do not know. but i do know that, as the mercury rises, the anxiety about souls decreases, and the hotter new york becomes, the cooler hell seems to be. i want the workingman, no matter what he works at--whether at doctoring people, or trying law suits, or running for office--to have a real good time on sunday. he, of course, must be careful not to interfere with the rights of others. he ought not to play draw-poker on the steps of a church; neither should he stone a chinese funeral, nor go to any excesses; but all the week long he should have it in his mind: next sunday i am going to have a good time. my wife and i and the children are going to have a happy time. i am going out with the girl i like; or my young man is going to take me to the picnic. and this thought, and this hope, of having a good time on sunday--of seeing some great pictures at the metropolitan art gallery--together with a good many bad ones-- will make work easy and lighten the burden on the shoulders of toil. i take a great interest, too, in the working women--particularly in the working woman. i think that every workingman should see to it that every working woman has a good time on sunday. i am no preacher. all i want is that everybody should enjoy himself in a way that he will not and does not interfere with the enjoyment of others. it will not do to say that we cannot trust the people. our government is based upon the idea that the people can be trusted, and those who say that the workingmen cannot be trusted, do not believe in republican or democratic institutions. for one, i am perfectly willing to trust the working people of the country. i do, every day. i trust the engineers on the cars and steamers. i trust the builders of houses. i trust all laboring men every day of my life, and if the laboring people of the country were not trustworthy--if they were malicious or dishonest--life would not be worth living. --_the journal_, new york, june , . the west and south. _question_. do you think the south will ever equal or surpass the west in point of prosperity? _answer_. i do not. the west has better soil and more of the elements of wealth. it is not liable to yellow fever; its rivers have better banks; the people have more thrift, more enterprise, more political hospitality; education is more general; the people are more inventive; better traders, and besides all this, there is no race problem. the southern people are what their surroundings made them, and the influence of slavery has not yet died out. in my judgment the climate of the west is superior to that of the south. the west has good, cold winters, and they make people a little more frugal, prudent and industrious. winters make good homes, cheerful firesides, and, after all, civilization commences at the hearthstone. the south is growing, and will continue to grow, but it will never equal the west. the west is destined to dominate the republic. _question_. do you consider the new ballot-law adapted to the needs of our system of elections? if not, in what particulars does it require amendment? _answer_. personally i like the brave and open way. the secret ballot lacks courage. i want people to know just how i vote. the old _viva voce_ way was manly and looked well. every american should be taught that he votes as a sovereign--an emperor--and he should exercise the right in a kingly way. but if we must have the secret ballot, then let it be secret indeed, and let the crowd stand back while the king votes. _question_. what do you think of the service pension movement? _answer_. i see that there is a great deal of talk here in indiana about this service pension movement. it has always seemed to me that the pension fund has been frittered away. of what use is it to give a man two or three dollars a month? if a man is rich why should he have any pension? i think it would be better to give pensions only to the needy, and then give them enough to support them. if the man was in the army a day or a month, and was uninjured, and can make his own living, or has enough, why should he have a pension? i believe in giving to the wounded and disabled and poor, with a liberal hand, but not to the rich. i know that the nation could not pay the men who fought and suffered. there is not money enough in the world to pay the heroes for what they did and endured --but there is money enough to keep every wounded and diseased soldier from want. there is money enough to fill the lives of those who gave limbs or health for the sake of the republic, with comfort and happiness. i would also like to see the poor soldier taken care of whether he was wounded or not, but i see no propriety in giving to those who do not need. --_the journal_, indianapolis, indiana, june , . the westminster creed and other subjects. _question_. what do you think of the revision of the westminster creed? _answer_. i think that the intelligence and morality of the age demand the revision. the westminster creed is infamous. it makes god an infinite monster, and men the most miserable of beings. that creed has made millions insane. it has furrowed countless cheeks with tears. under its influence the sentiments and sympathies of the heart have withered. this creed was written by the worst of men. the civilized presbyterians do not believe it. the intelligent clergyman will not preach it, and all good men who understand it, hold it in abhorrence. but the fact is that it is just as good as the creed of any orthodox church. all these creeds must be revised. young america will not be consoled by the doctrine of eternal pain. yes, the creeds must be revised or the churches will be closed. _question_. what do you think of the influence of the press on religion? _answer_. if you mean on orthodox religion, then i say the press is helping to destroy it. just to the extent that the press is intelligent and fearless, it is and must be the enemy of superstition. every fact in the universe is the enemy of every falsehood. the press furnishes food for, and excites thought. this tends to the destruction of the miraculous and absurd. i regard the press as the friend of progress and consequently the foe of orthodox religion. the old dogmas do not make the people happy. what is called religion is full of fear and grief. the clergy are always talking about dying, about the grave and eternal pain. they do not add to the sunshine of life. if they could have their way all the birds would stop singing, the flowers would lose their color and perfume, and all the owls would sit on dead trees and hoot, "broad is the road that leads to death." _question_. if you should write your last sentence on religious topics what would be your closing? _answer_. i now in the presence of death affirm and reaffirm the truth of all that i have said against the superstitions of the world. i would say at least that much on the subject with my last breath. _question_. what, in your opinion, will be browning's position in the literature of the future? _answer_. lower than at present. mrs. browning was far greater than her husband. he never wrote anything comparable to "mother and poet." browning lacked form, and that is as great a lack in poetry as it is in sculpture. he was the author of some great lines, some great thoughts, but he was obscure, uneven and was always mixing the poetic with the commonplace. to me he cannot be compared with shelley or keats, or with our own walt whitman. of course poetry cannot be very well discussed. each man knows what he likes, what touches his heart and what words burst into blossom, but he cannot judge for others. after one has read shakespeare, burns and byron, and shelley and keats; after he has read the "sonnets" and the "daisy" and the "prisoner of chillon" and the "skylark" and the "ode to the grecian urn"--the "flight of the duchess" seems a little weak. --_the post-express_, rochester, new york, june , . shakespeare and bacon. _question_. what is your opinion of ignatius donnelly as a literary man irrespective of his baconian theory? _answer_. i know that mr. donnelly enjoys the reputation of being a man of decided ability and that he is regarded by many as a great orator. he is known to me through his baconian theory, and in that of course i have no confidence. it is nearly as ingenious as absurd. he has spent great time, and has devoted much curious learning to the subject, and has at last succeeded in convincing himself that shakespeare claimed that which he did not write, and that bacon wrote that which he did not claim. but to me the theory is without the slightest foundation. _question_. mr. donnelly asks: "can you imagine the author of such grand productions retiring to that mud house in stratford to live without a single copy of the quarto that has made his name famous?" what do you say? _answer_. yes; i can. shakespeare died in , and the quarto was published in , seven years after he was dead. under these circumstances i think shakespeare ought to be excused, even by those who attack him with the greatest bitterness, for not having a copy of the book. there is, however, another side to his. bacon did not die until long after the quarto was published. did he have a copy? did he mention the copy in his will? did he ever mention the quarto in any letter, essay, or in any way? he left a library, was there a copy of the plays in it? has there ever been found a line from any play or sonnet in his handwriting? bacon left his writings, his papers, all in perfect order, but no plays, no sonnets, said nothing about plays--claimed nothing on their behalf. this is the other side. now, there is still another thing. the edition of was published by shakespeare's friends, heminge and condell. they knew him--had been with him for years, and they collected most of his plays and put them in book form. ben jonson wrote a preface, in which he placed shakespeare above all the other poets--declared that he was for all time. the edition of was gotten up by actors, by the friends and associates of shakespeare, vouched for by dramatic writers--by those who knew him. this is enough. _question_. how do you explain the figure: "his soul, like mazeppa, was lashed naked to the wild horse of every fear and love and hate"? mr. donnelly does not understand you. _answer_. it hardly seems necessary to explain a thing as simple and plain as that. men are carried away by some fierce passion-- carried away in spite of themselves as mazeppa was carried by the wild horse to which he was lashed. whether the comparison is good or bad it is at least plain. nothing could tempt me to call mr. donnelly's veracity in question. he says that he does not understand the sentence and i most cheerfully admit that he tells the exact truth. _question_. mr. donnelly says that you said: "where there is genius, education seems almost unnecessary," and he denounces your doctrine as the most abominable doctrine ever taught. what have you to say to that? _answer_. in the first place, i never made the remark. in the next place, it may be well enough to ask what education is. much is taught in colleges that is of no earthly use; much is taught that is hurtful. there are thousands of educated men who never graduated from any college or university. every observant, thoughtful man is educating himself as long as he lives. men are better then books. observation is a great teacher. a man of talent learns slowly. he does not readily see the necessary relation that one fact bears to another. a man of genius, learning one fact, instantly sees hundreds of others. it is not necessary for such a man to attend college. the world is his university. every man he meets is a book--every woman a volume every fact a torch--and so without the aid of the so-called schools he rises to the very top. shakespeare was such a man. _question_. mr. donnelly says that: "the biggest myth ever on earth was shakespeare, and that if francis bacon had said to the people, i, francis bacon, a gentleman of gentlemen, have been taking in secret my share of the coppers and shillings taken at the door of those low playhouses, he would have been ruined. if he had put the plays forth simply as poetry it would have ruined his legal reputation." what do you think of this? _answer_. i hardly think that shakespeare was a myth. he was certainly born, married, lived in london, belonged to a company of actors; went back to stratford, where he had a family, and died. all these things do not as a rule happen to myths. in addition to this, those who knew him believed him to be the author of the plays. bacon's friends never suspected him. i do not think it would have hurt bacon to have admitted that he wrote "lear" and "othello," and that he was getting "coppers and shillings" to which he was justly entitled. certainly not as much as for him to have written this, which if fact, though not in exact form, he did write: "i, francis bacon, a gentleman of gentlemen, have been taking coppers and shillings to which i was not entitled--but which i received as bribes while sitting as a judge." he has been excused for two reasons. first, because his salary was small, and, second, because it was the custom for judges to receive presents. bacon was a lawyer. he was charged with corruption--with having taken bribes, with having sold his decisions. he knew what the custom was and knew how small his salary was. but he did not plead the custom in his defense. he did not mention the smallness of the salary. he confessed that he was guilty--as charged. his confession was deemed too general and he was called upon by the lords to make a specific confession. this he did. he specified the cases in which he had received the money and told how much, and begged for mercy. he did not make his confession, as mr. donnelly is reported to have said, to get his fine remitted. the confession was made before the fine was imposed. neither do i think that the theatre in which the plays of shakespeare were represented could or should be called a "low play house." the fact that "othello," "lear," "hamlet," "julius caesar," and the other great dramas were first played in that playhouse made it the greatest building in the world. the gods themselves should have occupied seats in that theatre, where for the first time the greatest productions of the human mind were put upon the stage. --_the tribune_, minneapolis, minn., may , . growing old gracefully, and presbyterianism. _question_. how have you acquired the art of growing old gracefully? _answer_. it is very hard to live a great while without getting old, and it is hardly worth while to die just to keep young. it is claimed that people with certain incomes live longer than those who have to earn their bread. but the income people have a stupid kind of life, and though they may hang on a good many years, they can hardly be said to do much real living. the best you can say is, not that they lived so many years, but that it took them so many years to die. some people imagine that regular habits prolong life, but that depends somewhat on the habits. only the other day i read an article written by a physician, in which regular habits --good ones, were declared to be quite dangerous. where life is perfectly regular, all the wear and tear comes on the same nerves--every blow falls on the same place. variety, even in a bad direction, is a great relief. but living long has nothing to do with getting old gracefully. good nature is a great enemy of wrinkles, and cheerfulness helps the complexion. if we could only keep from being annoyed at little things, it would add to the luxury of living. great sorrows are few, and after all do not affect us as much as the many irritating, almost nothings that attack from every side. the traveler is bothered more with dust than mountains. it is a great thing to have an object in life-- something to work for and think for. if a man thinks only about himself, his own comfort, his own importance, he will not grow old gracefully. more and more his spirit, small and mean, will leave its impress on his face, and especially in his eyes. you look at him and feel that there is no jewel in the casket; that a shriveled soul is living in a tumble-down house. the body gets its grace from the mind. i suppose that we are all more or less responsible for our looks. perhaps the thinker of great thoughts, the doer of noble deeds, moulds his features in harmony with his life. probably the best medicine, the greatest beautifier in the world, is to make somebody else happy. i have noticed that good mothers have faces as serene as a cloudless day in june, and the older the serener. it is a great thing to know the relative importance of things, and those who do, get the most out of life. those who take an interest in what they see, and keep their minds busy are always young. the other day i met a blacksmith who has given much attention to geology and fossil remains. he told me how happy he was in his excursions. he was nearly seventy years old, and yet he had the enthusiasm of a boy. he said he had some very fine specimens, "but," said he, "nearly every night i dream of finding perfect ones." that man will keep young as long as he lives. as long as a man lives he should study. death alone has the right to dismiss the school. no man can get too much knowledge. in that, he can have all the avarice he wants, but he can get too much property. if the business men would stop when they got enough, they might have a chance to grow old gracefully. but the most of them go on and on, until, like the old stage horse, stiff and lame, they drop dead in the road. the intelligent, the kind, the reasonably contented, the courageous, the self-poised, grow old gracefully. _question_. are not the restraints to free religious thought being worn away, as the world grows older, and will not the recent attacks of the religious press and pulpit upon the unorthodoxy of dr. briggs, rev. r. heber newton and the prospective episcopal bishop of massachusetts, dr. phillips brooks, and others, have a tendency still further to extend this freedom? _answer_. of course the world is growing somewhat wiser--getting more sense day by day. it is amazing to me that any human being or beings ever wrote the presbyterian creed. nothing can be more absurd--more barbaric than that creed. it makes man the sport of an infinite monster, and yet good people, men and women of ability, who have gained eminence in almost every department of human effort, stand by this creed as if it were filled with wisdom and goodness. they really think that a good god damns his poor ignorant children just for his own glory, and that he sends people to perdition, not for any evil in them, but to the praise of his glorious justice. dr. briggs has been wicked enough to doubt this phase of god's goodness, and dr. bridgman was heartless enough to drop a tear in hell. of course they have no idea of what justice really is. the presbyterian general assembly that has just adjourned stood by calvinism. the "five points" are as sharp as ever. the members of that assembly--most of them--find all their happiness in the "creed." they need no other amusement. if they feel blue they read about total depravity--and cheer up. in moments of great sorrow they think of the tale of non-elect infants, and their hearts overflow with a kind of joy. they cannot imagine why people wish to attend the theatre when they can read the "confession of faith," or why they should feel like dancing after they do read it. it is very sad to think of the young men and women who have been eternally ruined by witnessing the plays of shakespeare, and it is also sad to think of the young people, foolish enough to be happy, keeping time to the pulse of music, waltzing to hell in loving pairs--all for the glory of god, and to the praise of his glorious justice. i think, too, of the thousands of men and women who, while listening to the music of wagner, have absolutely forgotten the presbyterian creed, and who for a little while have been as happy as if the creed had never been written. tear down the theatres, burn the opera houses, break all musical instruments, and then let us go to church. i am not at all surprised that the general assembly took up this progressive euchre matter. the word "progressive" is always obnoxious to the ministers. euchre under another name might go. of course, progressive euchre is a kind of gambling. i knew a young man, or rather heard of him, who won at progressive euchre a silver spoon. at first this looks like nothing, almost innocent, and yet that spoon, gotten for nothing, sowed the seed of gambling in that young man's brain. he became infatuated with euchre, then with cards in general, then with draw-poker in particular,--then into wall street. he is now a total wreck, and has the impudence to say that is was all "pre-ordained." think of the thousands and millions that are being demoralized by games of chance, by marbles --when they play for keeps--by billiards and croquet, by fox and geese, authors, halma, tiddledywinks and pigs in clover. in all these miserable games, is the infamous element of chance--the raw material of gambling. probably none of these games could be played exclusively for the glory of god. i agree with the presbyterian general assembly, if the creed is true, why should anyone try to amuse himself? if there is a hell, and all of us are going there, there should never be another smile on the human face. we should spend our days in sighs, our nights in tears. the world should go insane. we find strange combinations--good men with bad creeds, and bad men with good ones--and so the great world stumbles along. --_the blade_, toledo, ohio, june , . creeds. there is a natural desire on the part of every intelligent human being to harmonize his information--to make his theories agree--in other words, to make what he knows, or thinks he knows, in one department, agree and harmonize with what he knows, or thinks he knows, in every other department of human knowledge. the human race has not advanced in line, neither has it advanced in all departments with the same rapidity. it is with the race as it is with an individual. a man may turn his entire attention to some one subject--as, for instance, to geology--and neglect other sciences. he may be a good geologist, but an exceedingly poor astronomer; or he may know nothing of politics or of political economy. so he may be a successful statesman and know nothing of theology. but if a man, successful in one direction, takes up some other question, he is bound to use the knowledge he has on one subject as a kind of standard to measure what he is told on some other subject. if he is a chemist, it will be natural for him, when studying some other question, to use what he knows in chemistry; that is to say, he will expect to find cause and effect everywhere --succession and resemblance. he will say: it must be in all other sciences as in chemistry--there must be no chance. the elements have no caprice. iron is always the same. gold does not change. prussic acid is always poison--it has no freaks. so he will reason as to all facts in nature. he will be a believer in the atomic integrity of all matter, in the persistence of gravitation. being so trained, and so convinced, his tendency will be to weigh what is called new information in the same scales that he has been using. now, for the application of this. progress in religion is the slowest, because man is kept back by sentimentality, by the efforts of parents, by old associations. a thousand unseen tendrils are twining about him that he must necessarily break if he advances. in other departments of knowledge inducements are held out and rewards are promised to the one who does succeed--to the one who really does advance--to the one who discovers new facts. but in religion, instead of rewards being promised, threats are made. the man is told that he must not advance; that if he takes a step forward, it is at the peril of his soul; that if he thinks and investigates, he is in danger of exciting the wrath of god. consequently religion has been of the slowest growth. now, in most departments of knowledge, man has advanced; and coming back to the original statement--a desire to harmonize all that we know--there is a growing desire on the part of intelligent men to have a religion fit to keep company with the other sciences. our creeds were made in times of ignorance. they suited very well a flat world, and a god who lived in the sky just above us and who used the lightning to destroy his enemies. this god was regarded much as a savage regarded the head of his tribe--as one having the right to reward and punish. and this god, being much greater than a chief of the tribe, could give greater rewards and inflict greater punishments. they knew that the ordinary chief, or the ordinary king, punished the slightest offence with death. they also knew that these chiefs and kings tortured their victims as long as the victims could bear the torture. so when they described their god, they gave this god power to keep the tortured victim alive forever --because they knew that the earthly chief, or the earthly king, would prolong the life of the tortured for the sake of increasing the agonies of the victim. in those savage days they regarded punishment as the only means of protecting society. in consequence of this they built heaven and hell on an earthly plan, and they put god--that is to say the chief, that is to say the king--on a throne like an earthly king. of course, these views were all ignorant and barbaric; but in that blessed day their geology and astronomy were on a par with their theology. there was a harmony in all departments of knowledge, or rather of ignorance. since that time there has been a great advance made in the idea of government--the old idea being that the right to govern came from god to the king, and from the king to his people. now intelligent people believe that the source of authority has been changed, and that all just powers of government are derived from the consent of the governed. so there has been a great advance in the philosophy of punishment--in the treatment of criminals. so, too, in all the sciences. the earth is no longer flat; heaven is not immediately above us; the universe has been infinitely enlarged, and we have at last found that our earth is but a grain of sand, a speck on the great shore of the infinite. consequently there is a discrepancy, a discord, a contradiction between our theology and the other sciences. men of intelligence feel this. dr. briggs concluded that a perfectly good and intelligent god could not have created billions of sentient beings, knowing that they were to be eternally miserable. no man could do such a thing, had he the power, without being infinitely malicious. dr. briggs began to have a little hope for the human race--began to think that maybe god is better than the creed describes him. and right here it may be well enough to remark that no one has ever been declared a heretic for thinking god bad. heresy has consisted in thinking god better than the church said he was. the man who said god will damn nearly everybody, was orthodox. the man who said god will save everybody, was denounced as a blaspheming wretch, as one who assailed and maligned the character of god. i can remember when the universalists were denounced as vehemently and maliciously as the atheists are to-day. now, dr. briggs is undoubtedly an intelligent man. he knows that nobody on earth knows who wrote the five books of moses. he knows that they were not written until hundreds of years after moses was dead. he knows that two or more persons were the authors of isaiah. he knows that david did not write to exceed three or four of the psalms. he knows that the book of job is not a jewish book. he knows that the songs of solomon were not written by solomon. he knows that the book of ecclesiastes was written by a freethinker. he also knows that there is not in existence to-day--so far as anybody knows--any of the manuscripts of the old or new testaments. so about the new testament, dr. briggs knows that nobody lives who has ever seen an original manuscript, or who ever saw anybody that did see one, or that claims to have seen one. he knows that nobody knows who wrote matthew or mark or luke or john. he knows that john did not write john, and that that gospel was not written until long after john was dead. he knows that no one knows who wrote the hebrews. he also knows that the book of revelation is an insane production. dr. briggs also knows the way in which these books came to be canonical, and he knows that the way was no more binding than a resolution passed by a political convention. he also knows that many books were left out that had for centuries equal authority with those that were put in. he also knows that many passages-- and the very passages upon which many churches are founded--are interpolations. he knows that the last chapter of mark, beginning with the sixteenth verse to the end, is an interpolation; and he also knows that neither matthew nor mark nor luke ever said one word about the necessity of believing on the lord jesus christ, or of believing anything--not one word about believing the bible or joining the church, or doing any particular thing in the way of ceremony to insure salvation. he knows that according to matthew, god agreed to forgive us when we would forgive others. consequently he knows that there is not one particle of what is called modern theology in matthew, mark, or luke. he knows that the trouble commenced in john, and that john was not written until probably one hundred and fifty years--possibly two hundred years--after christ was dead. so he also knows that the sin against the holy ghost is an interpolation; that "i came not to bring peace but a sword," if not an interpolation, is an absolute contradiction. so, too, he knows that the promise to forgive in heaven what the disciples should forgive on earth, is an interpolation; and that if its not an interpolation, it is without the slightest sense in fact. knowing these things, and knowing, in addition to what i have stated, that there are thirty thousand or forty thousand mistakes in the old testament, that there are a great many contradictions and absurdities, than many of the laws are cruel and infamous, and could have been made only by a barbarous people, dr. briggs has concluded that, after all, the torch that sheds the serenest and divinest light is the human reason, and that we must investigate the bible as we do other books. at least, i suppose he has reached some such conclusion. he may imagine that the pure gold of inspiration still runs through the quartz and porphyry of ignorance and mistake, and that all we have to do is to extract the shining metal by some process that may be called theological smelting; and if so i have no fault to find. dr. briggs has taken a step in advance--that is to say, the tree is growing, and when the tree grows, the bark splits; when the new leaves come the old leaves are rotting on the ground. the presbyterian creed is a very bad creed. it has been the stumbling-block, not only of the head, but of the heart for many generations. i do not know that it is, in fact, worse than any other orthodox creed; but the bad features are stated with an explicitness and emphasized with a candor that render the creed absolutely appalling. it is amazing to me that any man ever wrote it, or that any set of men ever produced it. it is more amazing to me that any human being ever believed in it. it is still more amazing that any human being ever thought it wicked not to believe it. it is more amazing still, than all the others combined, that any human being ever wanted it to be true. this creed is a relic of the middle ages. it has in it the malice, the malicious logic, the total depravity, the utter heartlessness of john calvin, and it gives me great pleasure to say that no presbyterian was ever as bad as his creed. and here let me say, as i have said many times, that i do not hate presbyterians--because among them i count some of my best friends--but i hate presbyterianism. and i cannot illustrate this any better than by saying, i do not hate a man because he has the rheumatism, but i hate the rheumatism because it has a man. the presbyterian church is growing, and is growing because, as i said at first, there is a universal tendency in the mind of man to harmonize all that he knows or thinks he knows. this growth may be delayed. the buds of heresy may be kept back by the north wind of princeton and by the early frost called patton. in spite of these souvenirs of the dark ages, the church must continue to grow. the theologians who regard theology as something higher than a trade, tend toward liberalism. those who regard preaching as a business, and the inculcation of sentiment as a trade, will stand by the lowest possible views. they will cling to the letter and throw away the spirit. they prefer the dead limb to a new bud or to a new leaf. they want no more sap. they delight in the dead tree, in its unbending nature, and they mistake the stiffness of death for the vigor and resistance of life. now, as with dr. briggs, so with dr. bridgman, although it seems to me that he has simply jumped from the frying-pan into the fire; and why he should prefer the episcopal creed to the baptist, is more than i can imagine. the episcopal creed is, in fact, just as bad as the presbyterian. it calmly and with unruffled brow, utters the sentence of eternal punishment on the majority of the human race, and the episcopalian expects to be happy in heaven, with his son or daughter or his mother or wife in hell. dr. bridgman will find himself exactly in the position of the rev. mr. newton, provided he expresses his thought. but i account for the bridgmans and for the newtons by the fact that there is still sympathy in the human heart, and that there is still intelligence in the human brain. for my part, i am glad to see this growth in the orthodox churches, and the quicker they revise their creeds the better. i oppose nothing that is good in any creed--i attack only that which is ignorant, cruel and absurd, and i make the attack in the interest of human liberty, and for the sake of human happiness. _question_. what do you think of the action of the presbyterian general assembly at detroit, and what effect do you think it will have on religious growth? _answer_. that general assembly was controlled by the orthodox within the church, by the strict constructionists and by the calvinists; by gentlemen who not only believe the creed, not only believe that a vast majority of people are going to hell, but are really glad of it; by gentlemen who, when they feel a little blue, read about total depravity to cheer up, and when they think of the mercy of god as exhibited in their salvation, and the justice of god as illustrated by the damnation of others, their hearts burst into a kind of efflorescence of joy. these gentlemen are opposed to all kinds of amusements except reading the bible, the confession of faith, and the creed, and listening to presbyterian sermons and prayers. all these things they regard as the food of cheerfulness. they warn the elect against theatres and operas, dancing and games of chance. well, if their doctrine is true, there ought to be no theatres, except exhibitions of hell; there ought to be no operas, except where the music is a succession of wails for the misfortunes of man. if their doctrine is true, i do not see how any human being could ever smile again--i do not see how a mother could welcome her babe; everything in nature would become hateful; flowers and sunshine would simply tell us of our fate. my doctrine is exactly the opposite of this. let us enjoy ourselves every moment that we can. the love of the dramatic is universal. the stage has not simply amused, but it has elevated mankind. the greatest genius of our world poured the treasures of his soul into the drama. i do not believe that any girl can be corrupted, or that any man can be injured, by becoming acquainted with isabella or miranda or juliet or imogen, or any of the great heroines of shakespeare. so i regard the opera as one of the great civilizers. no one can listen to the symphonies of beethoven, or the music of schubert, without receiving a benefit. and no one can hear the operas of wagner without feeling that he has been ennobled and refined. why is it the presbyterians are so opposed to music in the world, and yet expect to have so much in heaven? is not music just as demoralizing in the sky as on the earth, and does anybody believe that abraham or isaac or jacob, ever played any music comparable to wagner? why should we postpone our joy to another world? thousands of people take great pleasure in dancing, and i say let them dance. dancing is better than weeping and wailing over a theology born of ignorance and superstition. and so with games of chance. there is a certain pleasure in playing games, and the pleasure is of the most innocent character. let all these games be played at home and children will not prefer the saloon to the society of their parents. i believe in cards and billiards, and would believe in progressive euchre, were it more of a game--the great objection to it is its lack of complexity. my idea is to get what little happiness you can out of this life, and to enjoy all sunshine that breaks through the clouds of misfortune. life is poor enough at best. no one should fail to pick up every jewel of joy that can be found in his path. every one should be as happy as he can, provided he is not happy at the expense of another, and no person rightly constituted can be happy at the expense of another. so let us get all we can of good between the cradle and the grave; all that we can of the truly dramatic; all that we can of music; all that we can of art; all that we can of enjoyment; and if, when death comes, that is the end, we have at least made the best of this life; and if there be another life, let us make the best of that. i am doing what little i can to hasten the coming of the day when the human race will enjoy liberty--not simply of body, but liberty of mind. and by liberty of mind i mean freedom from superstition, and added to that, the intelligence to find out the conditions of happiness; and added to that, the wisdom to live in accordance with those conditions. --_the morning advertiser_, new york, june , . the tendency of modern thought. _question_. do you regard the briggs trial as any evidence of the growth of liberalism in the church itself? _answer_. when men get together, and make what they call a creed, the supposition is that they then say as nearly as possible what they mean and what they believe. a written creed, of necessity, remains substantially the same. in a few years this creed ceases to give exactly the new shade of thought. then begin two processes, one of destruction and the other of preservation. in every church, as in every party, and as you may say in every corporation, there are two wings--one progressive, the other conservative. in the church there will be a few, and they will represent the real intelligence of the church, who become dissatisfied with the creed, and who at first satisfy themselves by giving new meanings to old words. on the other hand, the conservative party appeals to emotions, to memories, and to the experiences of their fellow- members, for the purpose of upholding the old dogmas and the old ideas; so that each creed is like a crumbling castle. the conservatives plant ivy and other vines, hoping that their leaves will hide the cracks and erosions of time; but the thoughtful see beyond these leaves and are satisfied that the structure itself is in the process of decay, and that no amount of ivy can restore the crumbling stones. the old presbyterian creed, when it was first formulated, satisfied a certain religious intellect. at that time people were not very merciful. they had no clear conceptions of justice. their lives were for the most part hard; most of them suffered the pains and pangs of poverty; nearly all lived in tyrannical governments and were the sport of nobles and kings. their idea of god was born of their surroundings. god, to them, was an infinite king who delighted in exhibitions of power. at any rate, their minds were so constructed that they conceived of an infinite being who, billions of years before the world was, made up his mind as to whom he would save and whom he would damn. he not only made up his mind as to the number he would save, and the number that should be lost, but he saved and damned without the slightest reference to the character of the individual. they believed then, and some pretend to believe still, that god damns a man not because he is bad, and that he saves a man not because he is good, but simply for the purpose of self-glorification as an exhibition of his eternal justice. it would be impossible to conceive of any creed more horrible than that of the presbyterians. although i admit--and i not only admit but i assert--that the creeds of all orthodox christians are substantially the same, the presbyterian creed says plainly what it means. there is no hesitation, no evasion. the horrible truth, so-called, is stated in the clearest possible language. one would think after reading this creed, that the men who wrote it not only believed it, but were really glad it was true. ideas of justice, of the use of power, of the use of mercy, have greatly changed in the last century. we are beginning dimly to see that each man is the result of an infinite number of conditions, of an infinite number of facts, most of which existed before he was born. we are beginning dimly to see that while reason is a pilot, each soul navigates the mysterious sea filled with tides and unknown currents set in motion by ancestors long since dust. we are beginning to see that defects of mind are transmitted precisely the same as defects of body, and in my judgment the time is coming when we shall not more think of punishing a man for larceny than for having the consumption. we shall know that the thief is a necessary and natural result of conditions, preparing, you may say, the field of the world for the growth of man. we shall no longer depend upon accident and ignorance and providence. we shall depend upon intelligence and science. the presbyterian creed is no longer in harmony with the average sense of man. it shocks the average mind. it seems too monstrous to be true; too horrible to find a lodgment in the mind of the civilized man. the presbyterian minister who thinks, is giving new meanings to the old words. the presbyterian minister who feels, also gives new meanings to the old words. only those who neither think nor feel remain orthodox. for many years the christian world has been engaged in examining the religions of other peoples, and the christian scholars have had but little trouble in demonstrating the origin of mohammedanism and buddhism and all other isms except ours. after having examined other religions in the light of science, it occurred to some of our theologians to examine their own doctrine in the same way, and the result has been exactly the same in both cases. dr. briggs, as i believe, is a man of education. he is undoubtedly familiar with other religions, and has, to some extent at least, made himself familiar with the sacred books of other people. dr. briggs knows that no human being knows who wrote a line of the old testament. he knows as well as he can know anything, for instance, that moses never wrote one word of the books attributed to him. he knows that the book of genesis was made by putting two or three stories together. he also knows that it is not the oldest story, but was borrowed. he knows that in this book of genesis there is not one word adapted to make a human being better, or to shed the slightest light on human conduct. he knows, if he knows anything, that the mosaic code, so-called, was, and is, exceedingly barbarous and not adapted to do justice between man and man, or between nation and nation. he knows that the jewish people pursued a course adapted to destroy themselves; that they refused to make friends with their neighbors; that they had not the slightest idea of the rights of other people; that they really supposed that the earth was theirs, and that their god was the greatest god in the heavens. he also knows that there are many thousands of mistakes in the old testament as translated. he knows that the book of isaiah is made up of several books. he knows the same thing in regard to the new testament. he also knows that there were many other books that were once considered sacred that have been thrown away, and that nobody knows who wrote a solitary line of the new testament. besides all this, dr. briggs knows that the old and new testaments are filled with interpolations, and he knows that the passages of scripture which have been taken as the foundation stones for creeds, were written hundreds of years after the death of christ. he knows well enough that christ never said: "i came not to bring peace, but a sword." he knows that the same being never said: "thou art peter, and on this rock will i build my church." he knows, too, that christ never said: "whosoever believes shall be saved, and whosoever believes not shall be damned." he knows that these were interpolations. he knows that the sin against the holy ghost is another interpolation. he knows, if he knows anything, that the gospel according to john was written long after the rest, and that nearly all of the poison and superstition of orthodoxy is in that book. he knows also, if he knows anything, that st. paul never read one of the four gospels. knowing all these things, dr. briggs has had the honesty to say that there was some trouble about taking the bible as absolutely inspired in word and punctuation. i do not think, however, that he can maintain his own position and still remain a presbyterian or anything like a presbyterian. he takes the ground, i believe, that there are three sources of knowledge: first, the bible; second, the church; third, reason. it seems to me that reason should come first, because if you say the bible is a source of authority, why do you say it? do you say this because your reason is convinced that it is? if so, then reason is the foundation of that belief. if, again, you say the church is a source of authority, why do you say so? it must be because its history convinces your reason that it is. consequently, the foundation of that idea is reason. at the bottom of this pyramid must be reason, and no man is under any obligation to believe that which is unreasonable to him. he may believe things that he cannot prove, but he does not believe them because they are unreasonable. he believes them because he thinks they are not unreasonable, not impossible, not improbable. but, after all, reason is the crucible in which every fact must be placed, and the result fixes the belief of the intelligent man. it seems to me that the whole presbyterian creed must come down together. it is a scheme based upon certain facts, so-called. there is in it the fall of man. there is in it the scheme of the atonement, and there is the idea of hell, eternal punishment, and the idea of heaven, eternal reward; and yet, according to their creed, hell is not a punishment and heaven is not a reward. now, if we do away with the fall of man we do away with the atonement; then we do away with all supernatural religion. then we come back to human reason. personally, i hope that the presbyterian church will be advanced enough and splendid enough to be honest, and if it is honest, all the gentlemen who amount to anything, who assist in the trial of dr. briggs, will in all probability agree with him, and he will be acquitted. but if they throw aside their reason, and remain blindly orthodox, then he will be convicted. to me it is simply miraculous that any man should imagine that the bible is the source of truth. there was a time when all scientific facts were measured by the bible. that time is past, and now the believers in the bible are doing their best to convince us that it is in harmony with science. in other words, i have lived to see a change of standards. when i was a boy, science was measured by the bible. now the bible is measured by science. this is an immense step. so it is impossible for me to conceive what kind of a mind a man has, who finds in the history of the church the fact that it has been a source of truth. how can any one come to the conclusion that the catholic church has been a source of truth, a source of intellectual light? how can anyone believe that the church of john calvin has been a source of truth? if its creed is not true, if its doctrines are mistakes, if its dogmas are monstrous delusions, how can it be said to have been a source of truth? my opinion is that dr. briggs will not be satisfied with the step he has taken. he has turned his face a little toward the light. the farther he walks the harder it will be for him to turn back. the probability is that the orthodox will turn him out, and the process of driving out men of thought and men of genius will go on until the remnant will be as orthodox as they are stupid. _question_. do you think mankind is drifting away from the supernatural? _answer_. my belief is that the supernatural has had its day. the church must either change or abdicate. that is to say, it must keep step with the progress of the world or be trampled under foot. the church as a power has ceased to exist. to-day it is a matter of infinite indifference what the pulpit thinks unless there comes the voice of heresy from the sacred place. every orthodox minister in the united states is listened to just in proportion that he preaches heresy. the real, simon-pure, orthodox clergyman delivers his homilies to empty benches, and to a few ancient people who know nothing of the tides and currents of modern thought. the orthodox pulpit to-day has no thought, and the pews are substantially in the same condition. there was a time when the curse of the church whitened the face of a race, but now its anathema is the food of laughter. _question_. what, in your judgment, is to be the outcome of the present agitation in religious circles? _answer_. my idea is that people more and more are declining the postponement of happiness to another world. the general tendency is to enjoy the present. all religions have taught men that the pleasures of this world are of no account; that they are nothing but husks and rags and chaff and disappointment; that whoever expects to be happy in this world makes a mistake; that there is nothing on the earth worth striving for; that the principal business of mankind should be to get ready to be happy in another world; that the great occupation is to save your soul, and when you get it saved, when you are satisfied that you are one of the elect, then pack up all your worldly things in a very small trunk, take it to the dock of time that runs out into the ocean of eternity, sit down on it, and wait for the ship of death. and of course each church is the only one that sells a through ticket which can be depended on. in all religions, as far as i know, is an admixture of asceticism, and the greater the quantity, the more beautiful the religion has been considered, the tendency of the world to- day is to enjoy life while you have it; it is to get something out of the present moment; and we have found that there are things worth living for even in this world. we have found that a man can enjoy himself with wife and children; that he can be happy in the acquisition of knowledge; that he can be very happy in assisting others; in helping those he loves; that there is some joy in poetry, in science and in the enlargement and development of the mind; that there is some delight in music and in the drama and in the arts. we are finding, poor as the world is, that it beats a promise the fulfillment of which is not to take place until after death. the world is also finding out another thing, and that is that the gentlemen who preach these various religions, and promise these rewards, and threaten the punishments, know nothing whatever of the subject; that they are as blindly ignorant as the people they pretend to teach, and the people are as blindly ignorant as the animals below them. we have finally concluded that no human being has the slightest conception of origin or of destiny, and that this life, not only in its commencement but in its end, is just as mysterious to-day as it was to the first man whose eyes greeted the rising sun. we are no nearer the solution of the problem than those who lived thousands of years before us, and we are just as near it as those who will live millions of years after we are dead. so many people having arrived at the conclusion that nobody knows and that nobody can know, like sensible folks they have made up their minds to enjoy life. i have often said, and i say again, that i feel as if i were on a ship not knowing the port from which it sailed, not knowing the harbor to which it was going, not having a speaking acquaintance with any of the officers, and i have made up my mind to have as good a time with the other passengers as possible under the circumstances. if this ship goes down in mid- sea i have at least made something, and if it reaches a harbor of perpetual delight i have lost nothing, and i have had a happy voyage. and i think millions and millions are agreeing with me. now, understand, i am not finding fault with any of these religions or with any of these ministers. these religions and these ministers are the necessary and natural products of sufficient causes. mankind has traveled from barbarism to what we now call civilization, by many paths, all of which under the circumstances, were absolutely necessary; and while i think the individual does as he must, i think the same of the church, of the corporation, and of the nation, and not only of the nation, but of the whole human race. consequently i have no malice and no prejudices. i have likes and dislikes. i do not blame a gourd for not being a cantaloupe, but i like cantaloupes. so i do not blame the old hard-shell presbyterian for not being a philosopher, but i like philosophers. so to wind it all up with regard to the tendency of modern thought, or as to the outcome of what you call religion, my own belief is that what is known as religion will disappear from the human mind. and by "religion" i mean the supernatural. by "religion" i mean living in this world for another, or living in this world to gratify some supposed being, whom we never saw and about whom we know nothing, and of whose existence we know nothing. in other words, religion consists of the duties we are supposed to owe to the first great cause, and of certain things necessary for us to do here to insure happiness hereafter. these ideas, in my judgment, are destined to perish, and men will become convinced that all their duties are within their reach, and that obligations can exist only between them and other sentient beings. another idea, i think, will force itself upon the mind, which is this: that he who lives the best for this world lives the best for another if there be one. in other words, humanity will take the place of what is called "religion." science will displace superstition, and to do justice will be the ambition of man. my creed is this: happiness is the only good. the place to be happy is here. the time to be happy is now. the way to be happy is to make others so. _question_. what is going to take the place of the pulpit? _answer_. i have for a long time wondered why somebody didn't start a church on a sensible basis. my idea is this: there are, of course, in every community, lawyers, doctors, merchants, and people of all trades and professions who have not the time during the week to pay any particular attention to history, poetry, art, or song. now, it seems to me that it would be a good thing to have a church and for these men to employ a man of ability, of talent, to preach to them sundays, and let this man say to his congregation: "now, i am going to preach to you for the first few sundays--eight or ten or twenty, we will say--on the art, poetry, and intellectual achievements of the greeks." let this man study all the week and tell his congregation sunday what he has ascertained. let him give to his people the history of such men as plato, as socrates, what they did; of aristotle, of his philosophy; of the great greeks, their statesmen, their poets, actors, and sculptors, and let him show the debt that modern civilization owes to these people. let him, too, give their religions, their mythology--a mythology that has sown the seed of beauty in every land. then let him take up rome. let him show what a wonderful and practical people they were; let him give an idea of their statesmen, orators, poets, lawyers--because probably the romans were the greatest lawyers. and so let him go through with nation after nation, biography after biography, and at the same time let there be a sunday school connected with this church where the children shall be taught something of importance. for instance, teach them botany, and when a sunday is fair, clear, and beautiful, let them go into the fields and woods with their teachers, and in a little while they will become acquainted with all kinds of tress and shrubs and flowering plants. they could also be taught entomology, so that every bug would be interesting, for they would see the facts in science-- something of use to them. i believe that such a church and such a sunday school would at the end of a few years be the most intelligent collection of people in the united states. to teach the children all of these things and to teach their parents, too, the outlines of every science, so that every listener would know something of geology, something of astronomy, so that every member could tell the manner in which they find the distance of a star-- how much better that would be than the old talk about abraham, isaac, and jacob, and quotations from haggai and zephaniah, and all this eternal talk about the fall of man and the garden of eden, and the flood, and the atonement, and the wonders of revelation! even if the religious scheme be true, it can be told and understood as well in one day as in a hundred years. the church says, "he that hath ears to hear let him hear." i say: "he that hath brains to think, let him think." so, too, the pulpit is being displaced by what we call places of amusement, which are really places where men go because they find there is something which satisfies in a greater or less degree the hunger of the brain. never before was the theatre as popular as it is now. never before was so much money lavished upon the stage as now. very few men having their choice would go to hear a sermon, especially of the orthodox kind, when they had a chance to see a great actor. the man must be a curious combination who would prefer an orthodox sermon, we will say, to a concert given by theodore thomas. and i may say in passing that i have great respect for theodore thomas, because it was he who first of all opened to the american people the golden gates of music. he made the american people acquainted with the great masters, and especially with wagner, and it is a debt that we shall always owe him. in this day the opera--that is to say, music in every form--is tending to displace the pulpit. the pulpits have to go in partnership with music now. hundreds of people have excused themselves to me for going to church, saying they have splendid music. long ago the catholic church was forced to go into partnership not only with music, but with painting and with architecture. the protestant church for a long time thought it could do without these beggarly elements, and the protestant church was simply a dry-goods box with a small steeple on top of it, its walls as bleak and bare and unpromising as the creed. but even protestants have been forced to hire a choir of ungodly people who happen to have beautiful voices, and they, too, have appealed to the organ. music is taking the place of creed, and there is more real devotional feeling summoned from the temple of the mind by great music than by any sermon ever delivered. music, of all other things, gives wings to thought and allows the soul to rise above all the pains and troubles of this life, and to feel for a moment as if it were absolutely free, above all clouds, destined to enjoy forever. so, too, science is beckoning with countless hands. men of genius are everywhere beckoning men to discoveries, promising them fortunes compared with which aladdin's lamp was weak and poor. all these things take men from the church; take men from the pulpit. in other words, prosperity is the enemy of the pulpit. when men enjoy life, when they are prosperous here, they are in love with the arts, with the sciences, with everything that gives joy, with everything that promises plenty, and they care nothing about the prophecies of evil that fall from the solemn faces of the parsons. they look in other directions. they are not thinking about the end of the world. they hate the lugubrious, and they enjoy the sunshine of to-day. and this, in my judgment, is the highest philosophy: first, do not regret having lost yesterday; second, do not fear that you will lose to-morrow; third, enjoy to- day. astrology was displaced by astronomy. alchemy and the black art gave way to chemistry. science is destined to take the place of superstition. in my judgment, the religion of the future will be reason. --_the tribune_, chicago, illinois, november, . woman suffrage, horse racing, and money. _question_. what are your opinions on the woman's suffrage question? _answer_. i claim no right that i am not willing to give to my wife and daughters, and to the wives and daughters of other men. we shall never have a generation of great men until we have a generation of great women. i do not regard ignorance as the foundation of virtue, or uselessness as one of the requisites of a lady. i am a believer in equal rights. those who are amenable to the laws should have a voice in making the laws. in every department where woman has had an equal opportunity with man, she has shown that she has equal capacity. george sand was a great writer, george eliot one of the greatest, mrs. browning a marvelous poet--and the lyric beauty of her "mother and poet" is greater than anything her husband ever wrote--harriet martineau a wonderful woman, and ouida is probably the greatest living novelist, man or woman. give the women a chance. [the colonel's recent election as a life member of the manhattan athletic club, due strangely enough to a speech of his denouncing certain forms of sport, was referred to, and this led him to express his contempt for prize-fighting, and then he said on the subject of horse-racing: ] the only objection i have to horse racing is its cruelty. the whip and spur should be banished from the track. as long as these are used, the race track will breed a very low and heartless set of men. i hate to see a brute whip and spur a noble animal. the good people object to racing, because of the betting, but bad people, like myself, object to the cruelty. men are not forced to bet. that is their own business, but the poor horse, straining every nerve, does not ask for the lash and iron. abolish torture on the track and let the best horse win. _question_. what do you think of the chilian insult to the united states flag? _answer_. in the first place, i think that our government was wrong in taking the part of balmaceda. in the next place, we made a mistake in seizing the itata. america should always side with the right. we should care nothing for the pretender in power, and balmaceda was a cruel, tyrannical scoundrel. we should be with the people everywhere. i do not blame chili for feeling a little revengeful. we ought to remember that chili is weak, and nations, like individuals, are sensitive in proportion that they are weak. let us trust chili just as we would england. we are too strong to be unjust. _question_. how do you stand on the money question? _answer_. i am with the republican party on the question of money. i am for the use of gold and silver both, but i want a dollar's worth of silver in a silver dollar. i do not believe in light money, or in cheap money, or in poor money. these are all contradictions in terms. congress cannot fix the value of money. the most it can do is to fix its debt paying power. it is beyond the power of any congress to fix the purchasing value of what it may be pleased to call money. nobody knows, so far as i know, why people want gold. i do not know why people want silver. i do not know how gold came to be money; neither do i understand the universal desire, but it exists, and we take things as we find them. gold and silver make up, you may say, the money of the world, and i believe in using the two metals. i do not believe in depreciating any american product; but as value cannot be absolutely fixed by law, so far as the purchasing power is concerned, and as the values of gold and silver vary, neither being stable any more than the value of wheat or corn is stable, i believe that legislation should keep pace within a reasonable distance at least, of the varying values, and that the money should be kept as nearly equal as possible. of course, there is one trouble with money to-day, and that is the use of the word "dollar." it has lost its meaning. so many governments have adulterated their own coin, and as many have changed weights, that the word "dollar" has not to-day an absolute, definite, specific meaning. like individuals, nations have been dishonest. the only time the papal power had the right to coin money--i believe it was under pius ix., when antonelli was his minister--the coin of the papacy was so debased that even orthodox catholics refused to take it, and it had to be called in and minted by the french empire, before even the italians recognized it as money. my own opinion is, that either the dollar must be absolutely defined--it must be the world over so many grains of pure gold, or so many grains of pure silver--or we must have other denominations for our money, as for instance, ounces, or parts of ounces, and the time will come, in my judgment, when there will be a money of the world, the same everywhere; because each coin will contain upon its face the certificate of a government that it contains such a weight--so many grains or so many ounces--of a certain metal. i, for one, want the money of the united states to be as good as that of any other country. i want its gold and silver exactly what they purport to be; and i want the paper issued by the government to be the same as gold. i want its credit so perfectly established that it will be taken in every part of the habitable globe. i am with the republican party on the question of money, also on the question of protection, and all i hope is that the people of this country will have sense enough to defend their own interests. --_the inter-ocean_, chicago, illinois, october , . missionaries. _question_. what is your opinion of foreign missions? _answer_. in the first place, there seems to be a pretty good opening in this country for missionary work. we have a good many indians who are not methodists. i have never known one to be converted. a good many have been killed by christians, but their souls have not been saved. maybe the methodists had better turn their attention to the heathen of our own country. then we have a good many mormons who rely on the truth of the old testament and follow the example of abraham, isaac and jacob. it seems to me that the methodists better convert the mormons before attacking the tribes of central africa. there is plenty of work to be done right here. a few good bishops might be employed for a time in converting dr. briggs and professor swing, to say nothing of other heretical presbyterians. there is no need of going to china to convert the chinese. there are thousands of them here. in china our missionaries will tell the followers of confucius about the love and forgiveness of christians, and when the chinese come here they are robbed, assaulted, and often murdered. would it not be a good thing for the methodists to civilize our own christians to such a degree that they would not murder a man simply because he belongs to another race and worships other gods? so, too, i think it would be a good thing for the methodists to go south and persuade their brethren in that country to treat the colored people with kindness. a few efforts might be made to convert the "white-caps" in ohio, indiana and some other states. my advice to the methodists is to do what little good they can right here and now. it seems cruel to preach to the heathen a gospel that is dying out even here, and fill their poor minds with the absurd dogmas and cruel creeds that intelligent men have outgrown and thrown away. honest commerce will do a thousand times more good than all the missionaries on earth. i do not believe that an intelligent chinaman or an intelligent hindoo has ever been or ever will be converted into a methodist. if methodism is good we need it here, and if it is not good, do not fool the heathen with it. --_the press_, cleveland, ohio, november , . my belief and unbelief.* [* col. robert g. ingersoll was in toledo for a few hours yesterday afternoon on railroad business. whatever mr. ingersoll says is always read with interest, for besides the independence of his averments, his ideas are worded in a way that in itself is attractive. while in the court room talking with some of the officials and others, he was saying that in this world there is rather an unequal distribution of comforts, rewards, and punishments. for himself, he had fared pretty well. he stated that during the thirty years he has been married there have been fifteen to twenty of his relatives under the same roof, but never had there been in his family a death or a night's loss of sleep on account of sickness. "the lord has been pretty good to you," suggested marshall wade. "well, i've been pretty good to him," he answered.] _question_. i have heard people in discussing yourself and your views, express the belief that way down in the depths of your mind you are not altogether a "disbeliever." are they in any sense correct? _answer_. i am an unbeliever, and i am a believer. i do not believe in the miraculous, the supernatural, or the impossible. i do not believe in the "mosaic" account of the creation, or in the flood, or the tower of babel, or that general joshua turned back the sun or stopped the earth. i do not believe in the jonah story, or that god and the devil troubled poor job. neither do i believe in the mt. sinai business, and i have my doubts about the broiled quails furnished in the wilderness. neither do i believe that man is wholly depraved. i have not the least faith in the eden, snake and apple story. neither do i believe that god is an eternal jailer; that he is going to be the warden of an everlasting penitentiary in which the most of men are to be eternally tormented. i do not believe that any man can be justly punished or rewarded on account of his belief. but i do believe in the nobility of human nature. i believe in love and home, and kindness and humanity. i believe in good fellowship and cheerfulness, in making wife and children happy. i believe in good nature, in giving to others all the rights that you claim for yourself. i believe in free thought, in reason, observation and experience. i believe in self-reliance and in expressing your honest thought. i have hope for the whole human race. what will happen to one, will, i hope, happen to all, and that, i hope, will be good. above all, i believe in liberty. --_the blade_, toledo, ohio, january , . must religion go? _question_. what is your idea as to the difference between honest belief, as held by honest religious thinkers, and heterodoxy? _answer_. of course, i believe that there are thousands of men and women who honestly believe not only in the improbable, not only in the absurd, but in the impossible. heterodoxy, so-called, occupies the half-way station between superstition and reason. a heretic is one who is still dominated by religion, but in the east of whose mind there is a dawn. he is one who has seen the morning star; he has not entire confidence in the day, and imagines in some way that even the light he sees was born of the night. in the mind of the heretic, darkness and light are mingled, the ties of intellectual kindred bind him to the night, and yet he has enough of the spirit of adventure to look toward the east. of course, i admit that christians and heretics are both honest; a real christian must be honest and a real heretic must be the same. all men must be honest in what they think; but all men are not honest in what they say. in the invisible world of the mind every man is honest. the judgment never was bribed. speech may be false, but conviction is always honest. so that the difference between honest belief, as shared by honest religious thinkers and heretics, is a difference of intelligence. it is the difference between a ship lashed to the dock, and on making a voyage; it is the difference between twilight and dawn--that is to say, the coming of the sight and the coming of the morning. _question_. are women becoming freed from the bonds of sectarianism? _answer_. women are less calculating than men. as a rule they do not occupy the territory of compromise. they are natural extremists. the woman who is not dominated by superstition is apt to be absolutely free, and when a woman has broken the shackles of superstition, she has no apprehension, no fears. she feels that she is on the open sea, and she cares neither for wind nor wave. an emancipated woman never can be re-enslaved. her heart goes with her opinions, and goes first. _question_. do you consider that the influence of religion is better than the influence of liberalism upon society, that is to say, is society less or more moral, is vice more or less conspicuous? _answer_. whenever a chain is broken an obligation takes its place. there is and there can be no responsibility without liberty. the freer a man is, the more responsible, the more accountable he feels; consequently the more liberty there is, the more morality there is. believers in religion teach us that god will reward men for good actions, but men who are intellectually free, know that the reward of a good action cannot be given by any power, but that it is the natural result of the good action. the free man, guided by intelligence, knows that his reward is in the nature of things, and not in the caprice even of the infinite. he is not a good and faithful servant, he is an intelligent free man. the vicious are ignorant; real morality is the child of intelligence; the free and intelligent man knows that every action must be judged by its consequences; he knows that if he does good he reaps a good harvest; he knows that if he does evil he bears a burden, and he knows that these good and evil consequences are not determined by an infinite master, but that they live in and are produced by the actions themselves. --_evening advertiser_, new york, february , . word painting and college education. _question_. what is the history of the speech delivered here in ? was it extemporaneous? _answer_. it was not born entirely of the occasion. it took me several years to put the thoughts in form--to paint the pictures with words. no man can do his best on the instant. iron to be beaten into perfect form has to be heated several times and turned upon the anvil many more, and hammered long and often. you might as well try to paint a picture with one sweep of the brush, or chisel a statue with one stroke, as to paint many pictures with words, without great thought and care. now and then, while a man is talking, heated with his subject, a great thought, sudden as a flash of lightning, illumines the intellectual sky, and a great sentence clothed in words of purple, falls, or rather rushes, from his lips--but a continuous flight is born, not only of enthusiasm, but of long and careful thought. a perfect picture requires more details, more lights and shadows, than the mind can grasp at once, or on the instant. thoughts are not born of chance. they grow and bud and blossom, and bear the fruit of perfect form. genius is the soil and climate, but the soil must be cultivated, and the harvest is not instantly after the planting. it takes time and labor to raise and harvest a crop from that field called the brain. _question_. do you think young men need a college education to get along? _answer_. probably many useless things are taught in colleges. i think, as a rule, too much time is wasted learning the names of the cards without learning to play a game. i think a young man should be taught something that he can use--something he can sell. after coming from college he should be better equipped to battle with the world--to do something of use. a man may have his brain stuffed with greek and latin without being able to fill his stomach with anything of importance. still, i am in favor of the highest education. i would like to see splendid schools in every state, and then a university, and all scholars passing a certain examination sent to the state university free, and then a united states university, the best in the world, and all graduates of the state universities passing a certain examination sent to the united states university free. we ought to have in this country the best library, the best university, the best school of design in the world; and so i say, more money for the mind. _question_. was the peculiar conduct of the rev. dr. parkhurst, of new york, justifiable, and do you think that it had a tendency to help morality? _answer_. if christ had written a decoy letter to the woman to whom he said: "go and sin no more," and if he had disguised himself and visited her house and had then lodged a complaint against her before the police and testified against her, taking one of his disciples with him, i do not think he would have added to his reputation. --_the news_, indianapolis, indiana, february , . personal magnetism and the sunday question. [colonel ingersoll was a picturesque figure as he sat in his room at the gibson house yesterday, while the balmy may breeze blew through the open windows, fluttered the lace curtains and tossed the great infidel's snowy hair to and fro. the colonel had come in from new york during the morning and the keen white sunlight of a lovely may day filled his heart with gladness. after breakfast, the man who preaches the doctrine of the golden rule and the gospel of humanity and the while chaffs the gentlemen of the clerical profession, was in a fine humor. he was busy with cards and callers, but not too busy to admire the vase full of freshly-picked spring flowers that stood on the mantel, and wrestled with clouds of cigar smoke, to see which fragrance should dominate the atmosphere. to a reporter of _the commercial gazette_, the colonel spoke freely and interestingly upon a variety of subjects, from personal magnetism in politics to mob rule in tennessee. he had been interested in colonel weir's statement about the lack of gas in exposition hall, at the convention, and when asked if he believed there was any truth in the stories that the gas supply had been manipulated so as to prevent the taking of a ballot after he had placed james g. blaine in nomination, he replied: ] all i can say is, that i heard such a story the day after the convention, but i do not know whether or not it is true. i have always believed, that if a vote had been taken that evening, blaine would have been nominated, possibly not as the effect of my speech, but the night gave time for trafficking, and that is always dangerous in a convention. i believed then that blaine ought to have been nominated, and that it would have been a very wise thing for the party to have done. that he was not the candidate was due partly to accident and partly to political traffic, but that is one of the bygones, and i believe there is an old saying to the effect that even the gods have no mastery over the past. _question_. do you think that eloquence is potent in a convention to set aside the practical work of politics and politicians? _answer_. i think that all the eloquence in the world cannot affect a trade if the parties to the contract stand firm, and when people have made a political trade they are not the kind of people to be affected by eloquence. the practical work of the world has very little to do with eloquence. there are a great many thousand stone masons to one sculptor, and houses and walls are not constructed by sculptors, but by masons. the daily wants of the world are supplied by the practical workers, by men of talent, not by men of genius, although in the world of invention, genius has done more, it may be, than the workers themselves. i fancy the machinery now in the world does the work of many hundreds of millions; that there is machinery enough now to do several times the work that could be done by all the men, women and children of the earth. the genius who invented the reaper did more work and will do more work in the harvest field than thousands of millions of men, and the same may be said of the great engines that drive the locomotives and the ships. all these marvelous machines were made by men of genius, but they are not the men who in fact do the work. [this led the colonel to pay a brilliant tribute to the great orators of ancient and modern times, the peer of all of them being cicero. he dissected and defined oratory and eloquence, and explained with picturesque figures, wherein the difference between them lay. as he mentioned the magnetism of public speakers, he was asked as to his opinion of the value of personal magnetism in political life.] it may be difficult to define what personal magnetism is, but i think it may be defined in this way: you don't always feel like asking a man whom you meet on the street what direction you should take to reach a certain point. you often allow three or four to pass, before you meet one who seems to invite the question. so, too, there are men by whose side you may sit for hours in the cars without venturing a remark as to the weather, and there are others to whom you will commence talking the moment you sit down. there are some men who look as if they would grant a favor, men toward whom you are unconsciously drawn, men who have a real human look, men with whom you seem to be acquainted almost before you speak, and that you really like before you know anything about them. it may be that we are all electric batteries; that we have our positive and our negative poles; it may be that we need some influence that certain others impart, and it may be that certain others have that which we do not need and which we do not want, and the moment you think that, you feel annoyed and hesitate, and uncomfortable, and possibly hateful. i suppose there is a physical basis for everything. possibly the best test of real affection between man and woman, or of real friendship between man and woman, is that they can sit side by side, for hours maybe, without speaking, and yet be having a really social time, each feeling that the other knows exactly what they are thinking about. now, the man you meet and whom you would not hesitate a moment to ask a favor of, is what i call a magnetic man. this magnetism, or whatever it may be, assists in making friends, and of course is a great help to any one who deals with the public. men like a magnetic man even without knowing him, perhaps simply having seen him. there are other men, whom the moment you shake hands with them, you feel you want no more; you have had enough. a sudden chill runs up the arm the moment your hand touches theirs, and finally reaches the heart; you feel, if you had held that hand a moment longer, an icicle would have formed in the brain. such people lack personal magnetism. these people now and then thaw out when you get thoroughly acquainted with them, and you find that the ice is all on the outside, and then you come to like them very well, but as a rule first impressions are lasting. magnetism is what you might call the climate of a man. some men, and some women, look like a perfect june day, and there are others who, while the look quite smiling, yet you feel that the sky is becoming overcast, and the signs all point to an early storm. there are people who are autumnal--that is to say, generous. they have had their harvest, and have plenty to spare. others look like the end of an exceedingly hard winter--between the hay and grass, the hay mostly gone and the grass not yet come up. so you will see that i think a great deal of this thing that is called magnetism. as i said, there are good people who are not magnetic, but i do not care to make an arctic expedition for the purpose of discovering the north pole of their character. i would rather stay with those who make me feel comfortable at the first. [from personal magnetism to the lynching saturday morning down at nashville, tennessee, was a far cry, but when colonel ingersoll was asked what he thought of mob law, whether there was any extenuation, any propriety and moral effect resultant from it, he quickly answered: ] i do not believe in mob law at any time, among any people. i believe in justice being meted out in accordance with the forms of law. if a community violates that law, why should not the individual? the example is bad. besides all that, no punishment inflicted by a mob tends to prevent the commission of crime. horrible punishment hardens the community, and that in itself produces more crime. there seems to be a sort of fascination in frightful punishments, but, to say the least of it, all these things demoralize the community. in some countries, you know, they whip people for petty offences. the whipping, however, does no good, and on the other hand it does harm; it hardens those who administer the punishment and those who witness it, and it degrades those who receive it. there will be but little charity in the world, and but little progress until men see clearly that there is no chance in the world of conduct any more than in the physical world. back of every act and dream and thought and desire and virtue and crime is the efficient cause. if you wish to change mankind, you must change the conditions. there should be no such thing as punishment. we should endeavor to reform men, and those who cannot be reformed should be placed where they cannot injure their fellows. the state should never take revenge any more than the community should form itself into a mob and take revenge. this does harm, not good. the time will come when the world will no more think of sending men to the penitentiary for stealing, as a punishment, that it will for sending a man to the penitentiary because he has consumption. when that time comes, the object will be to reform men; to prevent crime instead of punishing it, and the object then will be to make the conditions such that honest people will be the result, but as long as hundreds of thousands of human beings live in tenements, as long as babes are raised in gutters, as long as competition is so sharp that hundreds of thousands must of necessity be failures, just so long as society gets down on its knees before the great and successful thieves, before the millionaire thieves, just so long will it have to fill the jails and prisons with the little thieves. when the "good time" comes, men will not be judged by the money they have accumulated, but by the uses they make of it. so men will be judged, not according to their intelligence, but by what they are endeavoring to accomplish with their intelligence. in other words, the time will come when character will rise above all. there is a great line in shakespeare that i have often quoted, and that cannot be quoted too often: "there is no darkness but ignorance." let the world set itself to work to dissipate this darkness; let us flood the world with intellectual light. this cannot be accomplished by mobs or lynchers. it must be done by the noblest, by the greatest, and by the best. [the conversation shifting around to the sunday question; the opening of the world's fair on sunday, the attacks of the pulpit upon the sunday newspapers, the opening of parks and museums and libraries on sunday, colonel ingersoll waxed eloquent, and in answer to many questions uttered these paragraphs: ] of course, people will think that i have some prejudice against the parsons, but really i think the newspaper press is of far more importance in the world than the pulpit. if i should admit in a kind of burst of generosity, and simply for the sake of making a point, that the pulpit can do some good, how much can it do without the aid of the press? here is a parson preaching to a few ladies and enough men, it may be, to pass the contribution box, and all he says dies within the four walls of that church. how many ministers would it take to reform the world, provided i again admit in a burst of generosity, that there is any reforming power in what they preach, working along that line? the sunday newspaper, i think, is the best of any day in the week. that paper keeps hundreds and thousands at home. you can find in it information about almost everything in the world. one of the great sunday papers will keep a family busy reading almost all day. now, i do not wonder that the ministers are so opposed to the sunday newspaper, and so they are opposed to anything calculated to decrease the attendance at church. why, they want all the parks, all the museums, all the libraries closed on sunday, and they want the world's fair closed on sunday. now, i am in favor of sunday; in fact, i am perfectly willing to have two of them a week, but i want sunday as a day of recreation and pleasure. the fact is we ought not to work hard enough during the week to require a day of rest. every day ought to be so arranged that there would be time for rest from the labor of that day. sunday is a good day to get business out of your mind, to forget the ledger and the docket and the ticker, to forget profits and losses, and enjoy yourself. it is a good day to go to the art museums, to look at pictures and statues and beautiful things, so that you may feel that there is something in this world besides money and mud. it is a good day, is sunday, to go to the libraries and spend a little time with the great and splendid dead, and to go to the cemetery and think of those who are sleeping there, and to give a little thought to the time when you, too, like them, will fall asleep. i think it is a good day for almost anything except going to church. there is no need of that; everybody knows the story, and if a man has worked hard all the week, you can hardly call it recreation if he goes to church sunday and hears that his chances are ninety-nine in a hundred in favor of being eternally damned. so it is i am in favor of having the world's fair open on sunday. it will be a good day to look at the best the world has produced; a good day to leave the saloons and commune for a little while with the mighty spirits that have glorified this world. sunday is a good day to leave the churches, where they teach that man has become totally depraved, and look at the glorious things that have been wrought by these depraved beings. besides all this, it is the day of days for the working man and working woman, for those who have to work all the week. in new york an attempt was made to open the metropolitan museum of art on sunday, and the pious people opposed it. they thought it would interfere with the joy of heaven if people were seen in the park enjoying themselves on sunday, and they also held that nobody would visit the museum if it were opened on sunday; that the "common people" had no love for pictures and statues and cared nothing about art. the doors were opened, and it was demonstrated that the poor people, the toilers and workers, did want to see such things on sunday, and now more people visit the museum on sunday than on all the other days of the week put together. the same is true of the public libraries. there is something to me infinitely pharisaical, hypocritical and farcical in this sunday nonsense. the rich people who favor keeping sunday "holy," have their coachman drive them to church and wait outside until the services end. what do they care about the coachman's soul? while they are at church their cooks are busy at home getting dinner ready. what do they care for the souls of cooks? the whole thing is pretence, and nothing but pretence. it is the instinct of business. it is the competition of the gospel shop with other shops and places of resort. the ministers, of course, are opposed to all shows except their own, for they know that very few will come to see or hear them and the choice must be the church or nothing. i do not believe that one day can be more holy than another unless more joyous than another. the holiest day is the happiest day-- the day on which wives and children and men are happiest. in that sense a day can be holy. our idea of the sabbath is from the puritans, and they imagined that a man has to be miserable in order to excite the love of god. we have outgrown the old new england sabbath--the old scotch horror. the germans have helped us and have set a splendid example. i do not see how a poor workingman can go to church for recreation--i mean an orthodox church. a man who has hell here cannot be benefitted by being assured that he is likely to have hell hereafter. the whole business i hold in perfect abhorrence. they tell us that god will not prosper us unless we observe the sabbath. the jews kept the sabbath and yet jehovah deserted them, and they are a people without a nation. the scotch kept sunday; they are not independent. the french never kept sunday, and yet they are the most prosperous nation in europe. --_commercial gazette_, cincinnati, ohio, may , . authors. _question_. who, in your opinion, is the greatest novelist who has written in the english language? _answer_. the greatest novelist, in my opinion, who has ever written in the english language, was charles dickens. he was the greatest observer since shakespeare. he had the eyes that see, the ears that really hear. i place him above thackeray. dickens wrote for the home, for the great public. thackeray wrote for the clubs. the greatest novel in our language--and it may be in any other--is, according to my ideas, "a tale of two cities." in that, are philosophy, pathos, self-sacrifice, wit, humor, the grotesque and the tragic. i think it is the most artistic novel that i have read. the creations of dickens' brain have become the citizens of the world. _question_. what is your opinion of american writers? _answer_. i think emerson was a fine writer, and he did this world a great deal of good, but i do not class him with the first. some of his poetry is wonderfully good and in it are some of the deepest and most beautiful lines. i think he was a poet rather than a philosopher. his doctrine of compensation would be delightful if it had the facts to support it. of course, hawthorne was a great writer. his style is a little monotonous, but the matter is good. "the marble faun" is by far his best effort. i shall always regret that hawthorne wrote the life of franklin pierce. walt whitman will hold a high place among american writers. his poem on the death of lincoln, entitled "when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd," is the greatest ever written on this continent. he was a natural poet and wrote lines worthy of america. he was the poet of democracy and individuality, and of liberty. he was worthy of the great republic. _question_. what about henry george's books? _answer_. henry george wrote a wonderful book and one that arrested the attention of the world--one of the greatest books of the century. while i do not believe in his destructive theories, i gladly pay a tribute to his sincerity and his genius. _question_. what do you think of bellamy? _answer_. i do not think what is called nationalism of the bellamy kind is making any particular progress in this country. we are believers in individual independence, and will be, i hope, forever. boston was at one time the literary center of the country, but the best writers are not living here now. the best novelists of our country are not far from boston. edgar fawcett lives in new york. howells was born, i believe, in ohio, and julian hawthorne lives in new jersey or in long island. among the poets, james whitcomb riley is a native of indiana, and he has written some of the daintiest and sweetest things in american literature. edgar fawcett is a great poet. his "magic flower" is as beautiful as anything tennyson has ever written. eugene field of chicago, has written some charming things, natural and touching. westward the star of literature takes its course. --_the star_, kansas city, mo., may , . inebriety.* [* published from notes found among colonel ingersoll's papers, evidently written soon after the discovery of the "keeley cure."] _question_. do you consider inebriety a disease, or the result of diseased conditions? _answer_. i believe that by a long and continuous use of stimulants, the system gets in such a condition that it imperatively demands not only the usual, but an increased stimulant. after a time, every nerve becomes hungry, and there is in the body of the man a cry, coming from every nerve, for nourishment. there is a kind of famine, and unless the want is supplied, insanity is the result. this hunger of the nerves drowns the voice of reason--cares nothing for argument--nothing for experience--nothing for the sufferings of others--nothing for anything, except for the food it requires. words are wasted, advice is of no possible use, argument is like reasoning with the dead. the man has lost the control of his will --it has been won over to the side of the nerves. he imagines that if the nerves are once satisfied he can then resume the control of himself. of course, this is a mistake, and the more the nerves are satisfied, the more imperative is their demand. arguments are not of the slightest force. the knowledge--the conviction--that the course pursued is wrong, has no effect. the man is in the grasp of appetite. he is like a ship at the mercy of wind and wave and tide. the fact that the needle of the compass points to the north has no effect--the compass is not a force--it cannot battle with the wind and tide--and so, in spite of the fact that the needle points to the north, the ship is stranded on the rocks. so the fact that the man knows that he should not drink has not the slightest effect upon him. the sophistry of passion outweighs all that reason can urge. in other words, the man is the victim of disease, and until the disease is arrested, his will is not his own. he may wish to reform, but wish is not will. he knows all of the arguments in favor of temperance--he knows all about the distress of wife and child--all about the loss of reputation and character--all about the chasm toward which he is drifting--and yet, not being the master of himself, he goes with the tide. for thousands of years society has sought to do away with inebriety by argument, by example, by law; and yet millions and millions have been carried away and countless thousands have become victims of alcohol. in this contest words have always been worthless, for the reason that no argument can benefit a man who has lost control of himself. _question_. as a lawyer, will you express an opinion as to the moral and legal responsibility of a victim of alcoholism? _answer_. personally, i regard the moral and legal responsibility of all persons as being exactly the same. all persons do as they must. if you wish to change the conduct of an individual you must change his conditions--otherwise his actions will remain the same. we are beginning to find that there is no effect without a cause, and that the conduct of individuals is not an exception to this law. every hope, every fear, every dream, every virtue, every crime, has behind it an efficient cause. men do neither right nor wrong by chance. in the world of fact and in the world of conduct, as well as in the world of imagination, there is no room, no place, for chance. _question_. in the case of an inebriate who has committed a crime, what do you think of the common judicial opinion that such a criminal is as deserving of punishment as a person not inebriated? _answer_. i see no difference. believing as i do that all persons act as they must, it makes not the slightest difference whether the person so acting is what we call inebriated, or sane, or insane --he acts as he must. there should be no such thing as punishment. society should protect itself by such means as intelligence and humanity may suggest, but the idea of punishment is barbarous. no man ever was, no man ever will be, made better by punishment. society should have two objects in view: first, the defence of itself, and second, the reformation of the so-called criminal. the world has gone on fining, imprisoning, torturing and killing the victims of condition and circumstance, and condition and circumstance have gone on producing the same kind of men and women year after year and century after century--and all this is so completely within the control of cause and effect, within the scope and jurisdiction of universal law, that we can prophesy the number of criminals for the next year--the thieves and robbers and murderers --with almost absolute certainty. there are just so many mistakes committed every year--so many crimes --so many heartless and foolish things done--and it does not seem to be--at least by the present methods--possible to increase or decrease the number. we have thousands and thousands of pulpits, and thousands of moralists, and countless talkers and advisers, but all these sermons, and all the advice, and all the talk, seem utterly powerless in the presence of cause and effect. mothers may pray, wives may weep, children may starve, but the great procession moves on. for thousands of years the world endeavored to save itself from disease by ceremonies, by genuflections, by prayers, by an appeal to the charity and mercy of heaven--but the diseases flourished and the graveyards became populous, and all the ceremonies and all the prayers were without the slightest effect. we must at last recognize the fact, that not only life, but conduct, has a physical basis. we must at last recognize the fact that virtue and vice, genius and stupidity, are born of certain conditions. _question_. in which way do you think the reformation or reconstruction of the inebriate is to be effected--by punishment, by moral suasion, by seclusion, or by medical treatment? _answer_. in the first place, punishment simply increases the disease. the victim, without being able to give the reasons, feels that punishment is unjust, and thus feeling, the effect of the punishment cannot be good. you might as well punish a man for having the consumption which he inherited from his parents, or for having a contagious disease which was given to him without his fault, as to punish him for drunkenness. no one wishes to be unhappy--no one wishes to destroy his own well-being. all persons prefer happiness to unhappiness, and success to failure, consequently, you might as well punish a man for being unhappy, and thus increase his unhappiness, as to punish him for drunkenness. in neither case is he responsible for what he suffers. neither can you cure this man by what is called moral suasion. moral suasion, if it amounts to anything, is the force of argument --that is to say, the result of presenting the facts to the victim. now, of all persons in the world, the victim knows the facts. he knows not only the effect upon those who love him, but the effect upon himself. there are no words that can add to his vivid appreciation of the situation. there is no language so eloquent as the sufferings of his wife and children. all these things the drunkard knows, and knows perfectly, and knows as well as any other human being can know. at the same time, he feels that the tide and current of passion are beyond his power. he feels that he cannot row against the stream. there is but one way, and that is, to treat the drunkard as the victim of a disease--treat him precisely as you would a man with a fever, as a man suffering from smallpox, or with some form of indigestion. it is impossible to talk a man out of consumption, or to reason him out of typhoid fever. you may tell him that he ought not to die, that he ought to take into consideration the condition in which he would leave his wife. you may talk to him about his children--the necessity of their being fed and educated --but all this will have nothing to do with the progress of the disease. the man does not wish to die--he wishes to live--and yet, there will come a time in his disease when even that wish to live loses its power to will, and the man drifts away on the tide, careless of life or death. so it is with drink. every nerve asks for a stimulant. every drop of blood cries out for assistance, and in spite of all argument, in spite of all knowledge, in this famine of the nerves, a man loses the power of will. reason abdicates the throne, and hunger takes its place. _question_. will you state your reasons for your belief? _answer_. in the first place, i will give a reason for my unbelief in what is called moral suasion and in legislation. as i said before, for thousands and thousands of years, fathers and mothers and daughters and sisters and brothers have been endeavoring to prevent the ones they love from drink, and yet, in spite of everything, millions have gone on and filled at last a drunkard's grave. so, societies have been formed all over the world. but the consumption of ardent spirits has steadily increased. laws have been passed in nearly all the nations of the world upon the subject, and these laws, so far as i can see, have done but little, if any, good. and the same old question is upon us now: what shall be done with the victims of drink? there have been probably many instances in which men have signed the pledge and have reformed. i do not say that it is not possible to reform many men, in certain stages, by moral suasion. possibly, many men can be reformed in certain stages, by law; but the per cent. is so small that, in spite of that per cent., the average increases. for these reasons, i have lost confidence in legislation and in moral suasion. i do not say what legislation may do by way of prevention, or what moral suasion may do in the same direction, but i do say that after man have become the victims of alcohol, advice and law seem to have lost their force. i believe that science is to become the savior of mankind. in other words, every appetite, every excess, has a physical basis, and if we only knew enough of the human system--of the tides and currents of thought and will and wish--enough of the storms of passion--if we only knew how the brain acts and operates--if we only knew the relation between blood and thought, between thought and act--if we only knew the conditions of conduct, then we could, through science, control the passions of the human race. when i first heard of the cure of inebriety through scientific means, i felt that the morning star had risen in the east--i felt that at last we were finding solid ground. i did not accept--being of a skeptical turn of mind--all that i heard as true. i preferred to hope, and wait. i have waited, until i have seen men, the victims of alcohol, in the very gutter of disgrace and despair, lifted from the mire, rescued from the famine of desire, from the grasp of appetite. i have seen them suddenly become men--masters and monarchs of themselves. miracles, theosophy and spiritualism. _question_. do you believe that there is such a thing as a miracle, or that there has ever been? _answer_. mr. locke was in the habit of saying: "define your terms." so the first question is, what is a miracle? if it is something wonderful, unusual, inexplicable, then there have been many miracles. if you mean simply that which is inexplicable, then the world is filled with miracles; but if you mean by a miracle, something contrary to the facts in nature, then it seems to me that the miracle must be admitted to be an impossibility. it is like twice two are eleven in mathematics. if, again, we take the ground of some of the more advanced clergy, that a miracle is in accordance with the facts in nature, but with facts unknown to man, then we are compelled to say that a miracle is performed by a divine sleight-of-hand; as, for instance, that our senses are deceived; or, that it is perfectly simple to this higher intelligence, while inexplicable to us. if we give this explanation, then man has been imposed upon by a superior intelligence. it is as though one acquainted with the sciences--with the action of electricity--should excite the wonder of savages by sending messages to his partner. the savage would say, "a miracle;" but the one who sent the message would say, "there is no miracle; it is in accordance with facts in nature unknown to you." so that, after all, the word miracle grows in the soil of ignorance. the question arises whether a superior intelligence ought to impose upon the inferior. i believe there was a french saint who had his head cut off by robbers, and this saint, after the robbers went away, got up, took his head under his arm and went on his way until he found friends to set it on right. a thing like this, if it really happened, was a miracle. so it may be said that nothing is much more miraculous than the fact that intelligent men believe in miracles. if we read in the annals of china that several thousand years ago five thousand people were fed on one sandwich, and that several sandwiches were left over after the feast, there are few intelligent men--except, it may be, the editors of religious weeklies--who would credit the statement. but many intelligent people, reading a like story in the hebrew, or in the greek, or in a mistranslation from either of these languages, accept the story without a doubt. so if we should find in the records of the indians that a celebrated medicine-man of their tribe used to induce devils to leave crazy people and take up their abode in wild swine, very few people would believe the story. i believe it is true that the priest of one religion has never had the slightest confidence in the priest of any other religion. my own opinion is, that nature is just as wonderful one time as another; that that which occurs to-day is just as miraculous as anything that ever happened; that nothing is more wonderful than that we live--that we think--that we convey our thoughts by speech, by gestures, by pictures. nothing is more wonderful than the growth of grass--the production of seed--the bud, the blossom and the fruit. in other words, we are surrounded by the inexplicable. all that happens in conformity with what we know, we call natural; and that which is said to have happened, not in conformity with what we know, we say is wonderful; and that which we believe to have happened contrary to what we know, we call the miraculous. i think the truth is, that nothing ever happened except in a natural way; that behind every effect has been an efficient cause, and that this wondrous procession of causes and effects has never been, and never will be, broken. in other words, there is nothing superior to the universe--nothing that can interfere with this procession of causes and effects. i believe in no miracles in the theological sense. my opinion is that the universe is, forever has been, and forever will be, perfectly natural. whenever a religion has been founded among barbarians and ignorant people, the founder has appealed to miracle as a kind of credential --as an evidence that he is in partnership with some higher power. the credulity of savagery made this easy. but at last we have discovered that there is no necessary relation between the miraculous and the moral. whenever a man's reason is developed to that point that he sees the reasonableness of a thing, he needs no miracle to convince him. it is only ignorance or cunning that appeals to the miraculous. there is another thing, and that is this: truth relies upon itself --that is to say, upon the perceived relation between itself and all other truths. if you tell the facts, you need not appeal to a miracle. it is only a mistake or a falsehood, that needs to be propped and buttressed by wonders and miracles. _question_. what is your explanation of the miracles referred to in the old and new testaments? _answer_. in the first place, a miracle cannot be explained. if it is a real miracle, there is no explanation. if it can be explained, then the miracle disappears, and the thing was done in accordance with the facts and forces of nature. in a time when not one it may be in thousands could read or write, when language was rude, and when the signs by which thoughts were conveyed were few and inadequate, it was very easy to make mistakes, and nothing is more natural than for a mistake to grow into a miracle. in an ignorant age, history for the most part depended upon memory. it was handed down from the old in their dotage, to the young without judgment. the old always thought that the early days were wonderful--that the world was wearing out because they were. the past looked at through the haze of memory, became exaggerated, gigantic. their fathers were stronger than they, and their grandfathers far superior to their fathers, and so on until they reached men who had the habit of living about a thousand years. in my judgment, everything in the old testament contrary to the experience of the civilized world, is false. i do not say that those who told the stories knew that they were false, or that those who wrote them suspected that they were not true. thousands and thousands of lies are told by honest stupidity and believed by innocent credulity. then again, cunning takes advantage of ignorance, and so far as i know, though all the history of the world a good many people have endeavored to make a living without work. i am perfectly convinced of the integrity of nature--that the elements are eternally the same--that the chemical affinities and hatreds know no shadow of turning--that just so many atoms of one kind combine with so many atoms of another, and that the relative numbers have never changed and never will change. i am satisfied that the attraction of gravitation is a permanent institution; that the laws of motion have been the same that they forever will be. there is no chance, there is no caprice. behind every effect is a cause, and every effect must in its turn become a cause, and only that is produced which a cause of necessity produces. _question_. what do you think of madame blavatsky and her school of theosophists? do you believe madame blavatsky does or has done the wonderful things related of her? have you seen or known of any theosophical or esoteric marvels? _answer_. i think wonders are about the same in this country that they are in india, and nothing appears more likely to me simply because it is surrounded with the mist of antiquity. in my judgment, madame blavatsky has never done any wonderful things--that is to say, anything not in perfect accordance with the facts of nature. i know nothing of esoteric marvels. in one sense, everything that exists is a marvel, and the probability is that if we knew the history of one grain of sand we would know the history of the universe. i regard the universe as a unit. everything that happens is only a different aspect of that unit. there is no room for the marvelous--there is no space in which it can operate--there is no fulcrum for its lever. the universe is already occupied with the natural. the ground is all taken. it may be that all these people are perfectly honest, and imagine that they have had wonderful experiences. i know but little of the theosophists--but little of the spiritualists. it has always seemed to me that the messages received by spiritualists are remarkably unimportant--that they tell us but little about the other world, and just as little about this--that if all the messages supposed to have come from angelic lips, or spiritual lips, were destroyed, certainly the literature of the world would lose but little. some of these people are exceedingly intelligent, and whenever they say any good thing, i imagine that it was produced in their brain, and that it came from no other world. i have no right to pass upon their honesty. most of them may be sincere. it may be that all the founders of religions have really supposed themselves to be inspired--believed that they held conversations with angels and gods. it seems to be easy for some people to get in such a frame of mind that their thoughts become realities, their dreams substances, and their very hopes palpable. personally, i have no sort of confidence in these messages from the other world. there may be mesmeric forces--there may be an odic force. it may be that some people can tell of what another is thinking. i have seen no such people--at least i am not acquainted with them--and my own opinion is that no such persons exist. _question_. do you believe the spirits of the dead come back to earth? _answer_. i do not. i do not say that the spirits do not come back. i simply say that i know nothing on the subject. i do not believe in such spirits, simply for the reason that i have no evidence upon which to base such a belief. i do not say there are no such spirits, for the reason that my knowledge is limited, and i know of no way of demonstrating the non-existence of spirits. it may be that man lives forever, and it may be that what we call life ends with what we call death. i have had no experience beyond the grave, and very little back of birth. consequently, i cannot say that i have a belief on this subject. i can simply say that i have no knowledge on this subject, and know of no fact in nature that i would use as the corner-stone of a belief. _question_. do you believe in the resurrection of the body? _answer_. my answer to that is about the same as to the other question. i do not believe in the resurrection of the body. it seems to me an exceedingly absurd belief--and yet i do not know. i am told, and i suppose i believe, that the atoms that are in me have been in many other people, and in many other forms of life, and i suppose at death the atoms forming my body go back to the earth and are used in countless forms. these facts, or what i suppose to be facts, render a belief in the resurrection of the body impossible to me. we get atoms to support our body from what we eat. now, if a cannibal should eat a missionary, and certain atoms belonging to the missionary should be used by the cannibal in his body, and the cannibal should then die while the atoms of the missionary formed part of his flesh, to whom would these atoms belong in the morning of the resurrection? then again, science teaches us that there is a kind of balance between animal and vegetable life, and that probably all men and all animals have been trees, and all trees have been animals; so that the probability is that the atoms that are now in us have been, as i said in the first place, in millions of other people. now, if this be so, there cannot be atoms enough in the morning of the resurrection, because, if the atoms are given to the first men, that belonged to the first men when they died, there will certainly be no atoms for the last men. consequently, i am compelled to say that i do not believe in the resurrection of the body.* [* from notes found among colonel ingersoll's papers.] tolstoy and literature. _question_. what is your opinion of count leo tolstoy? _answer_. i have read tolstoy. he is a curious mixture of simplicity and philosophy. he seems to have been carried away by his conception of religion. he is a non-resistant to such a degree that he asserts that he would not, if attacked, use violence to preserve his own life or the life of a child. upon this question he is undoubtedly insane. so he is trying to live the life of a peasant and doing without the comforts of life! this is not progress. civilization should not endeavor to bring about equality by making the rich poor or the comfortable miserable. this will not add to the pleasures of the rich, neither will it feed the hungry, not clothe the naked. the civilized wealthy should endeavor to help the needy, and help them in a sensible way, not through charity, but through industry; through giving them opportunities to take care of themselves. i do not believe in the equality that is to be reached by pulling the successful down, but i do believe in civilization that tends to raise the fallen and assists those in need. should we all follow tolstoy's example and live according to his philosophy the world would go back to barbarism; art would be lost; that which elevates and refines would be destroyed; the voice of music would become silent, and man would be satisfied with a rag, a hut, a crust. we do not want the equality of savages. no, in civilization there must be differences, because there is a constant movement forward. the human race cannot advance in line. there will be pioneers, there will be the great army, and there will be countless stragglers. it is not necessary for the whole army to go back to the stragglers, it is better that the army should march forward toward the pioneers. it may be that the sale of tolstoy's works is on the increase in america, but certainly the principles of tolstoy are gaining no foothold here. we are not a nation of non-resistants. we believe in defending our homes. nothing can exceed the insanity of non- resistance. this doctrine leaves virtue naked and clothes vice in armor; it gives every weapon to the wrong and takes every shield from the right. i believe that goodness has the right of self- defence. as a matter of fact, vice should be left naked and virtue should have all the weapons. the good should not be a flock of sheep at the mercy of every wolf. so, i do not accept tolstoy's theory of equality as a sensible solution of the labor problem. the hope of this world is that men will become civilized to that degree that they cannot be happy while they know that thousands of their fellow-men are miserable. the time will come when the man who dwells in a palace will not be happy if want sits upon the steps at his door. no matter how well he is clothed himself he will not enjoy his robes if he sees others in rags, and the time will come when the intellect of this world will be directed by the heart of this world, and when men of genius and power will do what they can for the benefit of their fellow- men. all this is to come through civilization, through experience. men, after a time, will find the worthlessness of great wealth; they will find it is not splendid to excite envy in others. so, too, they will find that the happiness of the human race is so interdependent and so interwoven, that finally the interest of humanity will be the interest of the individual. i know that at present the lives of many millions are practically without value, but in my judgment, the world is growing a little better every day. on the average, men have more comforts, better clothes, better food, more books and more of the luxuries of life than ever before. _question_. it is said that properly to appreciate rousseau, voltaire, hugo and other french classics, a thorough knowledge of the french language is necessary. what is your opinion? _answer_. no; to say that a knowledge of french is necessary in order to appreciate voltaire or hugo is nonsensical. for a student anxious to study the works of these masters, to set to work to learn the language of the writers would be like my building a flight of stairs to go down to supper. the stairs are already there. some other person built them for me and others who choose to use them. men have spent their lives in the study of the french and english, and have given us voltaire, hugo and all other works of french classics, perfect in sentiment and construction as the originals are. macaulay was a great linguist, but he wrote no better than shakespeare, and burns wrote perfect english, though virtually uneducated. good writing is a matter of genius and heart; reading is application and judgment. i am of the opinion that wilbur's english translation of "les miserables" is better than hugo's original, as a literary masterpiece. what a grand novel it is! what characters, jean valjean and javert! _question_. which in your opinion is the greatest english novel? _answer_. i think the greatest novel ever written in english is "a tale of two cities," by dickens. it is full of philosophy; its incidents are dramatically grouped. sidney carton, the hero, is a marvelous creation and a marvelous character. lucie manette is as delicate as the perfume of wild violets, and cell , north tower, and scenes enacted there, almost touch the region occupied by "lear." there, too, mme. defarge is the impersonation of the french revolution, and the nobleman of the chateau with his fine features changed to stone, and the messenger at tellson's bank gnawing the rust from his nails; all there are the creations of genius, and these children of fiction will live as long as imagination spreads her many-colored wings in the mind of man. _question_. what do you think of pope? _answer_. pope! alexander pope, the word-carpenter, a mechanical poet, or stay--rather a "digital poet;" that fits him best--one of those fellows who counts his fingers to see that his verse is in perfect rhythm. his "essay on man" strikes me as being particularly defective. for instance: "all discord, harmony not understood, all partial evil, universal good," from the first epistle of his "essay on man." anything that is evil cannot by any means be good, and anything partial cannot be universal. we see in libraries ponderous tomes labeled "burke's speeches." no person ever seems to read them, but he is now regarded as being in his day a great speaker, because now no one has pluck enough to read his speeches. why, for thirty years burke was known in parliament as the "dinner bell"--whenever he rose to speak, everybody went to dinner. --_the evening express_, buffalo, new york, october , . woman in politics. _question_. what do you think of the influence of women in politics? _answer_. i think the influence of women is always good in politics, as in everything else. i think it the duty of every woman to ascertain what she can in regard to her country, including its history, laws and customs. woman above all others is a teacher. she, above all others, determines the character of children; that is to say, of men and women. there is not the slightest danger of women becoming too intellectual or knowing too much. neither is there any danger of men knowing too much. at least, i know of no men who are in immediate peril from that source. i am a firm believer in the equal rights of human beings, and no matter what i think as to what woman should or should not do, she has the same right to decide for herself that i have to decide for myself. if women wish to vote, if they wish to take part in political matters, if they wish to run for office, i shall do nothing to interfere with their rights. i most cheerfully admit that my political rights are only equal to theirs. there was a time when physical force or brute strength gave pre- eminence. the savage chief occupied his position by virtue of his muscle, of his courage, on account of the facility with which he wielded a club. as long as nations depend simply upon brute force, the man, in time of war, is, of necessity, of more importance to the nation than woman, and as the dispute is to be settled by strength, by force, those who have the strength and force naturally settle it. as the world becomes civilized, intelligence slowly takes the place of force, conscience restrains muscle, reason enters the arena, and the gladiator retires. a little while ago the literature of the world was produced by men, and men were not only the writers, but the readers. at that time the novels were coarse and vulgar. now the readers of fiction are women, and they demand that which they can read, and the result is that women have become great writers. the women have changed our literature, and the change has been good. in every field where woman has become a competitor of man she has either become, or given evidence that she is to become, his equal. my own opinion is that woman is naturally the equal of man and that in time, that is to say, when she has had the opportunity and the training, she will produce in the world of art as great pictures, as great statues, and in the world of literature as great books, dramas and poems as man has produced or will produce. there is nothing very hard to understand in the politics of a country. the general principles are for the most part simple. it is only in the application that the complexity arises, and woman, i think, by nature, is as well fitted to understand these things as man. in short, i have no prejudice on this subject. at first, women will be more conservative than men; and this is natural. women have, through many generations, acquired the habit of submission, of acquiescence. they have practiced what may be called the slave virtues--obedience, humility--so that some time will be required for them to become accustomed to the new order of things, to the exercise of greater freedom, acting in accordance with perceived obligation, independently of authority. so i say equal rights, equal education, equal advantages. i hope that woman will not continue to be the serf of superstition; that she will not be the support of the church and priest; that she will not stand for the conservation of superstition, but that in the east of her mind the sun of progress will rise. _question_. in your lecture on voltaire you made a remark about the government of ministers, and you stated that if the ministers of the city of new york had to power to make the laws most people would prefer to live in a well regulated penitentiary. what do you mean by this? _answer_. well, as a rule, ministers are quite severe. they have little patience with human failures. they are taught, and they believe and they teach, that man is absolutely master of his own fate. besides, they are believers in the inspiration of the scriptures, and the laws of the old testament are exceedingly severe. nearly every offence was punished by death. every offence was regarded as treason against jehovah. in the pentateuch there is no pity. if a man committed some offence justice was not satisfied with his punishment, but proceeded to destroy his wife and children. jehovah seemed to think that crime was in the blood; that it was not sufficient to kill the criminal, but to prevent future crimes you should kill his wife and babes. the reading of the old testament is calculated to harden the heart, to drive the angel of pity from the breast, and to make man a religious savage. the clergy, as a rule, do not take a broad and liberal view of things. they judge every offence by what they consider would be the result if everybody committed the same offence. they do not understand that even vice creates obstructions for itself, and that there is something in the nature of crime the tendency of which is to defeat crime, and i might add in this place that the same seems to be true of excessive virtue. as a rule, the clergy clamor with great zeal for the execution of cruel laws. let me give an instance in point: in the time of george iii., in england, there were two hundred and twenty-three offences punishable with death. from time to time this cruel code was changed by act of parliament, yet no bishop sitting in the house of lords ever voted in favor of any one of these measures. the bishops always voted for death, for blood, against mercy and against the repeal of capital punishment. during all these years there were some twenty thousand or more of the established clergy, and yet, according to john bright, no voice was ever raised in any english pulpit against the infamous criminal code. another thing: the orthodox clergy teach that man is totally depraved; that his inclination is evil; that his tendency is toward the devil. starting from this as a foundation, of course every clergyman believes every bad thing said of everybody else. so, when some man is charged with a crime, the clergyman taking into consideration the fact that the man is totally depraved, takes it for granted that he must be guilty. i am not saying this for the purpose of exciting prejudice against the clergy. i am simply showing what is the natural result of a certain creed, of a belief in universal depravity, or a belief in the power and influence of a personal devil. if the clergy could have their own way they would endeavor to reform the world by law. they would re-enact the old statutes of the puritans. joy would be a crime. love would be an offence. every man with a smile on his face would be suspected, and a dimple in the cheek would be a demonstration of depravity. in the trial of a cause it is natural for a clergyman to start with the proposition, "the defendant is guilty;" and then he says to himself, "let him prove himself innocent." the man who has not been poisoned with the creed starts out with the proposition, "the defendant is innocent; let the state prove that he is guilty." consequently, i say that if i were defending a man whom i knew to be innocent, i would not have a clergyman on the jury if i could help it. --_new york advertiser_, december , . spiritualism. _question_. have you investigated spiritualism, and what has been your experience? _answer_. a few years ago i paid some attention to what is called spiritualism, and was present when quite mysterious things were supposed to have happened. the most notable seance that i attended was given by slade, at which slate-writing was done. two slates were fastened together, with a pencil between them, and on opening the slates certain writing was found. when the writing was done it was impossible to tell. so, i have been present when it was claimed that certain dead people had again clothed themselves in flesh and were again talking in the old way. in one instance, i think, george washington claimed to be present. on the same evening shakespeare put in an appearance. it was hard to recognize shakespeare from what the spirit said, still i was assured by the medium that there was no mistake as to the identity. _question_. can you offer any explanation of the extraordinary phenomena such as henry j. newton has had produced at his own house under his own supervision? _answer_. in the first place, i don't believe that anything such as you describe has ever happened. i do not believe that a medium ever passed into and out of a triple-locked iron cage. neither do i believe that any spirits were able to throw shoes and wraps out of the cage; neither do i believe that any apparitions ever rose from the floor, or that anything you relate has ever happened. the best explanation i can give of these wonderful occurrences is the following: a little boy and girl were standing in a doorway holding hands. a gentleman passing, stopped for a moment and said to the little girl: "what relation is the little boy to you?" and she replied, "we had the same father and we had the same mother, but i am not his sister and he is not my brother." this at first seemed to be quite a puzzle, but it was exceedingly plain when the answer was known: the little girl lied. _question_. have you had any experience with spirit photography, spirit physicians, or spirit lawyers? _answer_. i was shown at one time several pictures said to be the photographs of living persons surrounded by the photographs of spirits. i examined them very closely, and i found evidence in the photographs themselves that they were spurious. i took it for granted that light is the same everywhere, and that it obeys the angle of incidence in all worlds and at all times. in looking at the spirit photographs i found, for instance, that in the photograph of the living person the shadows fell to the right, and that in the photographs of the ghosts, or spirits, supposed to have been surrounding the living person at the time the picture was taken, the shadows did not fall in the same direction, sometimes in the opposite direction, never at the same angle even when the general direction was the same. this demonstrated that the photographs of the spirits and of the living persons were not taken at the same time. so much for photographs. i have had no experience with spirit physicians. i was once told by a lawyer who came to employ me in a will case, that a certain person had made a will giving a large amount of money for the purpose of spreading the gospel of spiritualism, but that the will had been lost and than an effort was then being made to find it, and they wished me to take certain action pending the search, and wanted my assistance. i said to him: "if spiritualism be true, why not ask the man who made the will what it was and also what has become of it. if you can find that out from the departed, i will gladly take a retainer in the case; otherwise, i must decline." i have had no other experience with the lawyers. _question_. if you were to witness phenomena that seemed inexplicable by natural laws, would you be inclined to favor spiritualism? _answer_. i would not. if i should witness phenomena that i could not explain, i would leave the phenomena unexplained. i would not explain them because i did not understand them, and say they were or are produced by spirits. that is no explanation, and, after admitting that we do not know and that we cannot explain, why should we proceed to explain? i have seen mr. kellar do things for which i cannot account. why should i say that he has the assistance of spirits? all i have a right to say is that i know nothing about how he does them. so i am compelled to say with regard to many spiritualistic feats, that i am ignorant of the ways and means. at the same time, i do not believe that there is anything supernatural in the universe. _question_. what is your opinion of spiritualism and spiritualists? _answer_. i think the spiritualism of the present day is certainly in advance of the spiritualism of several centuries ago. persons who now deny spiritualism and hold it in utter contempt insist that some eighteen or nineteen centuries ago it had possession of the world; that miracles were of daily occurrence; that demons, devils, fiends, took possession of human beings, lived in their bodies, dominated their minds. they believe, too, that devils took possession of the bodies of animals. they also insist that a wish could multiply fish. and, curiously enough, the spiritualists of our time have but little confidence in the phenomena of eighteen hundred years ago; and, curiously enough, those who believe in the spiritualism of eighteen hundred years ago deny the spiritualism of to-day. i think the spiritualists of to-day have far more evidence of their phenomena than those who believe in the wonderful things of eighteen centuries ago. the spiritualists of to-day have living witnesses, which is something. i know a great many spiritualists that are exceedingly good people, and are doing what they can to make the world better. but i think they are mistaken. _question_. do you believe in spirit entities, whether manifestible or not? _answer_. i believe there is such a thing as matter. i believe there is a something called force. the difference between force and matter i do not know. so there is something called consciousness. whether we call consciousness an entity or not makes no difference as to what it really is. there is something that hears, sees and feels, a something that takes cognizance of what happens in what we call the outward world. no matter whether we call this something matter or spirit, it is something that we do not know, to say the least of it, all about. we cannot understand what matter is. it defies us, and defies definitions. so, with what we call spirit, we are in utter ignorance of what it is. we have some little conception of what we mean by it, and of what others mean, but as to what it really is no one knows. it makes no difference whether we call ourselves materialists or spiritualists, we believe in all there is, no matter what you call it. if we call it all matter, then we believe that matter can think and hope and dream. if we call it all spirit, then we believe that spirit has force, that it offers a resistance; in other words, that it is, in one of its aspects, what we call matter. i cannot believe that everything can be accounted for by motion or by what we call force, because there is something that recognizes force. there is something that compares, that thinks, that remembers; there is something that suffers and enjoys; there is something that each one calls himself or herself, that is inexplicable to himself or herself, and it makes no difference whether we call this something mind or soul, effect or entity, it still eludes us, and all the words we have coined for the purpose of expressing our knowledge of this something, after all, express only our desire to know, and our efforts to ascertain. it may be that if we would ask some minister, some one who has studied theology, he would give us a perfect definition. the scientists know nothing about it, and i know of no one who does, unless it be a theologian. --_the globe-democrat_, st. louis, mo., . [illustration] _chatham street theater, new york city, n. y., where robert g. ingersoll was baptized in by his father, the rev. john ingersoll, who temporarily preached at the theatre, his church having been destroyed by fire_. plays and players. _question_. what place does the theatre hold among the arts? _answer_. nearly all the arts unite in the theatre, and it is the result of the best, the highest, the most artistic, that man can do. in the first place, there must be the dramatic poet. dramatic poetry is the subtlest, profoundest, the most intellectual, the most passionate and artistic of all. then the stage must be prepared, and there is work for the architect, the painter and sculptor. then the actors appear, and they must be gifted with imagination, with a high order of intelligence; they must have sympathies quick and deep, natures capable of the greatest emotion, dominated by passion. they must have impressive presence, and all that is manly should meet and unite in the actor; all that is womanly, tender, intense and admirable should be lavishly bestowed on the actress. in addition to all this, actors should have the art of being natural. let me explain what i mean by being natural. when i say that an actor is natural, i mean that he appears to act in accordance with his ideal, in accordance with his nature, and that he is not an imitator or a copyist--that he is not made up of shreds and patches taken from others, but that all he does flows from interior fountains and is consistent with his own nature, all having in a marked degree the highest characteristics of the man. that is what i mean by being natural. the great actor must be acquainted with the heart, must know the motives, ends, objects and desires that control the thoughts and acts of men. he must be familiar with many people, including the lowest and the highest, so that he may give to others, clothed with flesh and blood, the characters born of the poet's brain. the great actor must know the relations that exist between passion and voice, gesture and emphasis, expression and pose. he must speak not only with his voice, but with his body. the great actor must be master of many arts. then comes the musician. the theatre has always been the home of music, and this music must be appropriate; must, or should, express or supplement what happens on the stage; should furnish rest and balm for minds overwrought with tragic deeds. to produce a great play, and put it worthily upon the stage, involves most arts, many sciences and nearly all that is artistic, poetic and dramatic in the mind of man. _question_. should the drama teach lessons and discuss social problems, or should it give simply intellectual pleasure and furnish amusement? _answer_. every great play teaches many lessons and touches nearly all social problems. but the great play does this by indirection. every beautiful thought is a teacher; every noble line speaks to the brain and heart. beauty, proportion, melody suggest moral beauty, proportion in conduct and melody in life. in a great play the relations of the various characters, their objects, the means adopted for their accomplishment, must suggest, and in a certain sense solve or throw light on many social problems, so that the drama teaches lessons, discusses social problems and gives intellectual pleasure. the stage should not be dogmatic; neither should its object be directly to enforce a moral. the great thing for the drama to do, and the great thing it has done, and is doing, is to cultivate the imagination. this is of the utmost importance. the civilization of man depends upon the development, not only of the intellect, but of the imagination. most crimes of violence are committed by people who are destitute of imagination. people without imagination make most of the cruel and infamous creeds. they were the persecutors and destroyers of their fellow-men. by cultivating the imagination, the stage becomes one of the greatest teachers. it produces the climate in which the better feelings grow; it is the home of the ideal. all beautiful things tend to the civilization of man. the great statues plead for proportion in life, the great symphonies suggest the melody of conduct, and the great plays cultivate the heart and brain. _question_. what do you think of the french drama as compared with the english, morally and artistically considered? _answer_. the modern french drama, so far as i am acquainted with it, is a disease. it deals with the abnormal. it is fashioned after balzac. it exhibits moral tumors, mental cancers and all kinds of abnormal fungi,--excrescences. everything is stood on its head; virtue lives in the brothel; the good are the really bad and the worst are, after all, the best. it portrays the exceptional, and mistakes the scum-covered bayou for the great river. the french dramatists seem to think that the ceremony of marriage sows the seed of vice. they are always conveying the idea that the virtuous are uninteresting, rather stupid, without sense and spirit enough to take advantage of their privilege. between the greatest french plays and the greatest english plays of course there is no comparison. if a frenchman had written the plays of shakespeare, desdemona would have been guilty, isabella would have ransomed her brother at the duke's price, juliet would have married the county paris, run away from him, and joined romeo in mantua, and miranda would have listened coquettishly to the words of caliban. the french are exceedingly artistic. they understand stage effects, love the climax, delight in surprises, especially in the improbable; but their dramatists lack sympathy and breadth of treatment. they are provincial. with them france is the world. they know little of other countries. their plays do not touch the universal. _question_. what are your feelings in reference to idealism on the stage? _answer_. the stage ought to be the home of the ideal; in a word, the imagination should have full sway. the great dramatist is a creator; he is the sovereign, and governs his own world. the realist is only a copyist. he does not need genius. all he wants is industry and the trick of imitation. on the stage, the real should be idealized, the ordinary should be transfigured; that is, the deeper meaning of things should be given. as we make music of common air, and statues of stone, so the great dramatist should make life burst into blossom on the stage. a lot of words, facts, odds and ends divided into acts and scenes do not make a play. these things are like old pieces of broken iron that need the heat of the furnace so that they may be moulded into shape. genius is that furnace, and in its heat and glow and flame these pieces, these fragments, become molten and are cast into noble and heroic forms. realism degrades and impoverishes the stage. _question_. what attributes should an actor have to be really great? _answer_. intelligence, imagination, presence; a mobile and impressive face; a body that lends itself to every mood in appropriate pose, one that is oak or willow, at will; self-possession; absolute ease; a voice capable of giving every shade of meaning and feeling, an intuitive knowledge or perception of proportion, and above all, the actor should be so sincere that he loses himself in the character he portrays. such an actor will grow intellectually and morally. the great actor should strive to satisfy himself--to reach his own ideal. _question_. do you enjoy shakespeare more in the library than shakespeare interpreted by actors now on the boards? _answer_. i enjoy shakespeare everywhere. i think it would give me pleasure to hear those wonderful lines spoken even by phonographs. but shakespeare is greatest and best when grandly put upon the stage. there you know the connection, the relation, the circumstances, and these bring out the appropriateness and the perfect meaning of the text. nobody in this country now thinks of hamlet without thinking of booth. for this generation at least, booth is hamlet. it is impossible for me to read the words of sir toby without seeing the face of w. f. owen. brutus is davenport, cassius is lawrence barrett, and lear will be associated always in my mind with edwin forrest. lady macbeth is to me adelaide ristori, the greatest actress i ever saw. if i understood music perfectly, i would much rather hear seidl's orchestra play "tristan," or hear remenyi's matchless rendition of schubert's "ave maria," than to read the notes. most people love the theatre. everything about it from stage to gallery attracts and fascinates. the mysterious realm, behind the scenes, from which emerge kings and clowns, villains and fools, heroes and lovers, and in which they disappear, is still a fairyland. as long as man is man he will enjoy the love and laughter, the tears and rapture of the mimic world. _question_. is it because we lack men of genius or because our life is too material that no truly great american plays have been written? _answer_. no great play has been written since shakespeare; that is, no play has been written equal to his. but there is the same reason for that in all other countries, including england, that there is in this country, and that reason is that shakespeare has had no equal. america has not failed because life in the republic is too material. germany and france, and, in fact, all other nations, have failed in the same way. in the sense in which i am speaking, germany has produced no great play. in the dramatic world shakespeare stands alone. compared with him, even the classic is childish. there is plenty of material for plays. the republic has lived a great play--a great poem--a most marvelous drama. here, on our soil, have happened some of the greatest events in the history of the world. all human passions have been and are in full play here, and here as elsewhere, can be found the tragic, the comic, the beautiful, the poetic, the tears, the smiles, the lamentations and the laughter that are the necessary warp and woof with which to weave the living tapestries that we call plays. we are beginning. we have found that american plays must be american in spirit. we are tired of imitations and adaptations. we want plays worthy of the great republic. some good work has recently been done, giving great hope for the future. of course the realistic comes first; afterward the ideal. but here in america, as in all other lands, love is the eternal passion that will forever hold the stage. around that everything else will move. it is the sun. all other passions are secondary. their orbits are determined by the central force from which they receive their light and meaning. love, however, must be kept pure. the great dramatist is, of necessity, a believer in virtue, in honesty, in courage and in the nobility of human nature. he must know that there are men and women that even a god could not corrupt; such knowledge, such feeling, is the foundation, and the only foundation, that can support the splendid structure, the many pillared stories and the swelling dome of the great drama. --_the new york dramatic mirror_, december , . woman. it takes a hundred men to make an encampment, but one woman can make a home. i not only admire woman as the most beautiful object ever created, but i reverence her as the redeeming glory of humanity, the sanctuary of all the virtues, the pledge of all perfect qualities of heart and head. it is not just or right to lay the sins of men at the feet of women. it is because women are so much better than men that their faults are considered greater. the one thing in this world that is constant, the one peak that rises above all clouds, the one window in which the light forever burns, the one star that darkness cannot quench, is woman's love. it rises to the greatest heights, it sinks to the lowest depths, it forgives the most cruel injuries. it is perennial of life, and grows in every climate. neither coldness nor neglect, harshness nor cruelty, can extinguish it. a woman's love is the perfume of the heart. this is the real love that subdues the earth; the love that has wrought all the miracles of art, that gives us music all the way from the cradle song to the grand closing symphony that bears the soul away on wings of fire. a love that is greater than power, sweeter than life and stronger than death. strikes, expansion and other subjects. _question_. what have you to say in regard to the decision of judge billings in new orleans, that strikes which interfere with interstate commerce, are illegal? _answer_. as a rule, men have a right to quit work at any time unless there is some provision to the contrary in their contracts. they have not the right to prevent other men from taking their places. of course i do not mean by this that strikers may not use persuasion and argument to prevent other men from filling their places. all blacklisting and refusing to work with other men is illegal and punishable. of course men may conspire to quit work, but how is it to be proved? one man can quit, or five hundred men can quit together, and nothing can prevent them. the decisions of judge ricks and judge billings are an acknowledgment, at least, of the principle of public control or regulation of railroads and of commerce generally. the railroads, which run for private profit, are public carriers, and the public has a vested interest in them as such. the same principle applies to the commerce of the country and can be dealt with by the courts in the same way. it is unlikely, however, that judge billings' decision will have any lasting effect upon organized labor. law cannot be enforced against such vast numbers of people, especially when they have the general sympathy. nearly all strikes have been illegal, but the numbers involved have made the courts powerless. _question_. are you in favor of the annexation of canada? _answer_. yes, if canada is. we do not want that country unless that country wants us. i do not believe it to the interests of canada to remain a province. canada should either be an independent nation, or a part of a nation. now canada is only a province--with no career--with nothing to stimulate either patriotism or great effort. yes, i hope that canada will be annexed. by all means annex the sandwich islands, too. i believe in territorial expansion. a prosperous farmer wants the land next him, and a prosperous nation ought to grow. i believe that we ought to hold the key to the pacific and its commerce. we want to be prepared at all points to defend our interests from the greed and power of england. we are going to have a navy, and we want that navy to be of use in protecting our interests the world over. and we want interests to protect. it is a splendid feeling--this feeling of growth. by the annexation of these islands we open new avenues to american adventure, and the tendency is to make our country greater and stronger. the west indian islands ought to be ours, and some day our flag will float there. this country must not stop growing. _question_. is the spirit of patriotism declining in america? _answer_. there has been no decline in the spirit of american patriotism; in fact, it has increased rather then otherwise as the nation has grown older, stronger, more prosperous, more glorious. if there were occasion to demonstrate the truth of this statement it would be quickly demonstrated. let an attack be made upon the american flag, and you will very quickly find out how genuine is the patriotic spirit of americans. i do not think either that there has been a decline in the celebration of the fourth of july. the day is probably not celebrated with as much burning of gunpowder and shooting of fire crackers in the large cities as formerly, but it is celebrated with as much enthusiasm as ever all through the west, and the feeling of rejoicing over the anniversary of the day is as great and strong as ever. the people are tired of celebrating with a great noise and i am glad of it. _question_. what do you think of the congress of religions, to be held in chicago during the world's fair? _answer_. it will do good, if they will honestly compare their creeds so that each one can see just how foolish all the rest are. they ought to compare their sacred books, and their miracles, and their mythologies, and if they do so they will probably see that ignorance is the mother of them all. let them have a congress, by all means, and let them show how priests live on the labor of those they deceive. it will do good. _question_. do you think that cleveland's course as to appointments has strengthened him with the people? _answer_. patronage is a two-edged sword with very little handle. it takes an exceedingly clever president to strengthen himself by its exercise. when a man is running for president the twenty men in every town who expect to be made postmaster are for him heart and soul. only one can get the office, and the nineteen who do not, feel outraged, and the lucky one is mad on account of the delay. so twenty friends are lost with one place. _question_. is the age of chivalry dead? _answer_. the "age of chivalry" never existed except in the imagination. the age of chivalry was the age of cowardice and crime. there is more chivalry to-day than ever. men have a better, a clearer idea of justice, and pay their debts better, and treat their wives and children better than ever before. the higher and better qualities of the soul have more to do with the average life. to-day men have greater admiration and respect for women, greater regard for the social and domestic obligations than their fathers had. _question_. what led you to begin lecturing on your present subject, and what was your first lecture? _answer_. my first lecture was entitled "progress." i began lecturing because i thought the creeds of the orthodox church false and horrible, and because i thought the bible cruel and absurd, and because i like intellectual liberty. --new york, may , . sunday a day of pleasure. _question_. what do you think of the religious spirit that seeks to regulate by legislation the manner in which the people of this country shall spend their sundays? _answer_. the church is not willing to stand alone, not willing to base its influence on reason and on the character of its members. it seeks the aid of the state. the cross is in partnership with the sword. people should spend sundays as they do other days; that is to say, as they please. no one has the right to do anything on monday that interferes with the rights of his neighbors, and everyone has the right to do anything he pleases on sunday that does not interfere with the rights of his neighbors. sunday is a day of rest, not of religion. we are under obligation to do right on all days. nothing can be more absurd than the idea that any particular space of time is sacred. everything in nature goes on the same on sunday as on other days, and if beyond nature there be a god, then god works on sunday as he does on all other days. there is no rest in nature. there is perpetual activity in every possible direction. the old idea that god made the world and then rested, is idiotic. there were two reasons given to the hebrews for keeping the sabbath --one because jehovah rested on that day, the other because the hebrews were brought out of egypt. the first reason, we know, is false, and the second reason is good only for the hebrews. according to the bible, sunday, or rather the sabbath, was not for the world, but for the hebrews, and the hebrews alone. our sunday is pagan and is the day of the sun, as monday is the day of the moon. all our day names are pagan. i am opposed to all sunday legislation. _question_. why should sunday be observed otherwise than as a day of recreation? _answer_. sunday is a day of recreation, or should be; a day for the laboring man to rest, a day to visit museums and libraries, a day to look at pictures, a day to get acquainted with your wife and children, a day for poetry and art, a day on which to read old letters and to meet friends, a day to cultivate the amenities of life, a day for those who live in tenements to feel the soft grass beneath their feet. in short, sunday should be a day of joy. the church endeavors to fill it with gloom and sadness, with stupid sermons and dyspeptic theology. nothing could be more cowardly than the effort to compel the observance of the sabbath by law. we of america have outgrown the childishness of the last century; we laugh at the superstitions of our fathers. we have made up our minds to be as happy as we can be, knowing that the way to be happy is to make others so, that the time to be happy is now, whether that now is sunday or any other day in the week. _question_. under a federal constitution guaranteeing civil and religious liberty, are the so-called "blue laws" constitutional? _answer_. no, they are not. but the probability is that the supreme courts of most of the states would decide the other way. and yet all these laws are clearly contrary to the spirit of the federal constitution and the constitutions of most of the states. i hope to live until all these foolish laws are repealed and until we are in the highest and noblest sense a free people. and by free i mean each having the right to do anything that does not interfere with the rights or with the happiness of another. i want to see the time when we live for this world and when all shall endeavor to increase, by education, by reason, and by persuasion, the sum of human happiness. --_new york times_, july , . the parliament of religions. _question_. the parliament of religions was called with a view to discussing the great religions of the world on the broad platform of tolerance. supposing this to have been accomplished, what effect is it likely to have on the future of creeds? _answer_. it was a good thing to get the representatives of all creeds to meet and tell their beliefs. the tendency, i think, is to do away with prejudice, with provincialism, with egotism. we know that the difference between the great religions, so far as belief is concerned, amounts to but little. their gods have different names, but in other respects they differ but little. they are all cruel and ignorant. _question_. do you think likely that the time is coming when all the religions of the world will be treated with the liberality that is now characterizing the attitude of one sect toward another in christendom? _answer_. yes, because i think that all religions will be found to be of equal authority, and because i believe that the supernatural will be discarded and that man will give up his vain and useless efforts to get back of nature--to answer the questions of whence and whither? as a matter of fact, the various sects do not love one another. the keenest hatred is religious hatred. the most malicious malice is found in the hearts of those who love their enemies. _question_. bishop newman, in replying to a learned buddhist at the parliament of religions, said that buddhism had given to the world no helpful literature, no social system, and no heroic virtues. is this true? _answer_. bishop newman is a very prejudiced man. probably he got his information from the missionaries. buddha was undoubtedly a great teacher. long before christ lived buddha taught the brotherhood of man. he said that intelligence was the only lever capable of raising mankind. his followers, to say the least of them, are as good as the followers of christ. bishop newman is a methodist--a follower of john wesley--and he has the prejudices of the sect to which he belongs. we must remember that all prejudices are honest. _question_. is christian society, or rather society in christian countries, cursed with fewer robbers, assassins, and thieves, proportionately, then countries where "heathen" religions predominate? _answer_. i think not. i do not believe that there are more lynchings, more mob murders in india or turkey or persia than in some christian states of the great republic. neither will you find more train robbers, more forgers, more thieves in heathen lands than in christian countries. here the jails are full, the penitentiaries are crowded, and the hangman is busy. all over christendom, as many assert, crime is on the increase, going hand in hand with poverty. the truth is, that some of the wisest and best men are filled with apprehension for the future, but i believe in the race and have confidence in man. _question_. how can society be so reconstructed that all this horrible suffering, resultant from poverty and its natural associate, crime, may be abolished, or at least reduced to a minimum? _answer_. in the first place we should stop supporting the useless. the burden of superstition should be taken from the shoulders of industry. in the next place men should stop bowing to wealth instead of worth. men should be judged by what they do, by what they are, instead of by the property they have. only those able to raise and educate children should have them. children should be better born--better educated. the process of regeneration will be slow, but it will be sure. the religion of our day is supported by the worst, by the most dangerous people in society. i do not allude to murderers or burglars, or even to the little thieves. i mean those who debauch courts and legislatures and elections-- those who make millions by legal fraud. _question_. what do you think of the theosophists? are they sincere--have they any real basis for their psychological theories? _answer_. the theosophists may be sincere. i do not know. but i am perfectly satisfied that their theories are without any foundation in fact--that their doctrines are as unreal as their "astral bodies," and as absurd as a contradiction in mathematics. we have had vagaries and theories enough. we need the religion of the real, the faith that rests on fact. let us turn our attention to this world--the world in which we live. --_new york herald_, september, . cleveland's hawaiian policy. _question_. colonel, what do you think about mr. cleveland's hawaiian policy? _answer_. i think it exceedingly laughable and a little dishonest --with the further fault that it is wholly unconstitutional. this is not a one-man government, and while liliuokalani may be queen, cleveland is certainly not a king. the worst thing about the whole matter, as it appears to me, is the bad faith that was shown by mr. cleveland--the double-dealing. he sent mr. willis as minister to the provisional government and by that act admitted the existence, and the rightful existence, of the provisional government of the sandwich islands. when mr. willis started he gave him two letters. one was addressed to dole, president of the provisional government, in which he addressed dole as "great and good friend," and at the close, being a devout christian, he asked "god to take care of dole." this was the first letter. the letter of one president to another; of one friend to another. the second letter was addressed to mr. willis, in which mr. willis was told to upset dole at the first opportunity and put the deposed queen back on her throne. this may be diplomacy, but it is no kin to honesty. in my judgment, it is the worst thing connected with the hawaiian affair. what must "the great and good" dole think of our great and good president? what must other nations think when they read the two letters and mentally exclaim, "look upon this and then upon that?" i think mr. cleveland has acted arrogantly, foolishly, and unfairly. i am in favor of obtaining the sandwich islands--of course by fair means. i favor this policy because i want my country to become a power in the pacific. all my life i have wanted this country to own the west indies, the bermudas, the bahamas and barbadoes. they are our islands. they belong to this continent, and for any other nation to take them or claim them was, and is, a piece of impertinence and impudence. so i would like to see the sandwich islands annexed to the united states. they are a good way from san francisco and our western shore, but they are nearer to us than they are to any other nation. i think they would be of great importance. they would tend to increase the asiatic trade, and they certainly would be important in case of war. we should have fortifications on those islands that no naval power could take. some objection has been made on the ground that under our system the people of those islands would have to be represented in congress. i say yes, represented by a delegate until the islands become a real part of the country, and by that time, there would be several hundred thousand americans living there, capable of sending over respectable members of congress. now, i think that mr. cleveland has made a very great mistake. first, i think he was mistaken as to the facts in the sandwich islands; second, as to the constitution of the united states, and thirdly, as to the powers of the president of the united states. _question_. in your experience as a lawyer what was the most unique case in which you were ever engaged? _answer_. the star route trial. every paper in the country, but one, was against the defence, and that one was a little sheet owned by one of the defendants. i received a note from a man living in a little town in ohio criticizing me for defending the accused. in reply i wrote that i supposed he was a sensible man and that he, of course, knew what he was talking about when he said the accused were guilty; that the government needed just such men as he, and that he should come to the trial at once and testify. the man wrote back: "dear colonel: i am a ---- fool." _question_. will the church and the stage ever work together for the betterment of the world, and what is the province of each? _answer_. the church and stage will never work together. the pulpit pretends that fiction is fact. the stage pretends that fiction is fact. the pulpit pretence is dishonest--that of the stage is sincere. the actor is true to art, and honestly pretends to be what he is not. the actor is natural, if he is great, and in this naturalness is his truth and his sincerity. the pulpit is unnatural, and for that reason untrue. the pulpit is for another world, the stage for this. the stage is good because it is natural, because it portrays real and actual life; because "it holds the mirror up to nature." the pulpit is weak because it too often belittles and demeans this life; because it slanders and calumniates the natural and is the enemy of joy. --_the inter-ocean_, chicago, february , . orators and oratory.* [* it was at his own law office in new york city that i had my talk with that very notable american, col. robert g. ingersoll. "bob" ingersoll, americans call him affectionately; in a company of friends it is "the colonel." a more interesting personality it would be hard to find, and those who know even a little of him will tell you that a bigger-hearted man probably does not live. suppose a well-knit frame, grown stouter than it once was, and a fine, strong face, with a vivid gleam in the eyes, a deep, uncommonly musical voice, clear cut, decisive, and a manner entirely delightful, yet tinged with a certain reserve. introduce a smoking cigar, the smoke rising in little curls and billows, then imagine a rugged sort of picturesqueness in dress, and you get, not by any means the man, but, still, some notion of "bob" ingersoll. colonel ingersoll stands at the front of american orators. the natural thing, therefore, was that i should ask him--a master in the art--about oratory. what he said i shall give in his own words precisely as i took them down from his lips, for in the case of such a good commander of the old english tongue that is of some importance. but the wonderful limpidness, the charming pellucidness of ingersoll can only be adequately understood when you also have the finishing touch of his facile voice.] _question_. i should be glad if you would tell me what you think the differences are between english and american oratory? _answer_. there is no difference between the real english and the real american orator. oratory is the same the world over. the man who thinks on his feet, who has the pose of passion, the face that thought illumines, a voice in harmony with the ideals expressed, who has logic like a column and poetry like a vine, who transfigures the common, dresses the ideals of the people in purple and fine linen, who has the art of finding the best and noblest in his hearers, and who in a thousand ways creates the climate in which the best grows and flourishes and bursts into blossom--that man is an orator, no matter of what time, of what country. _question_. if you were to compare individual english and american orators--recent or living orators in particular--what would you say? _answer_. i have never heard any of the great english speakers, and consequently can pass no judgment as to their merits, except such as depends on reading. i think, however, the finest paragraph ever uttered in great britain was by curran in his defence of rowan. i have never read one of mr. gladstone's speeches, only fragments. i think he lacks logic. bright was a great speaker, but he lacked imagination and the creative faculty. disraeli spoke for the clubs, and his speeches were artificial. we have had several fine speakers in america. i think that thomas corwin stands at the top of the natural orators. sergeant s. prentiss, the lawyer, was a very great talker; henry ward beecher was the greatest orator that the pulpit has produced. theodore parker was a great orator. in this country, however, probably daniel webster occupies the highest place in general esteem. _question_. which would you say are the better orators, speaking generally, the american people or the english people? _answer_. i think americans are, on the average, better talkers than the english. i think england has produced the greatest literature of the world; but i do not think england has produced the greatest orators of the world. i know of no english orator equal to webster or corwin or beecher. _question_. would you mind telling me how it was you came to be a public speaker, a lecturer, an orator? _answer_. we call this america of ours free, and yet i found it was very far from free. our writers and our speakers declared that here in america church and state were divorced. i found this to be untrue. i found that the church was supported by the state in many ways, that people who failed to believe certain portions of the creeds were not allowed to testify in courts or to hold office. it occurred to me that some one ought to do something toward making this country intellectually free, and after a while i thought that i might as well endeavor to do this as wait for another. this is the way in which i came to make speeches; it was an action in favor of liberty. i have said things because i wanted to say them, and because i thought they ought to be said. _question_. perhaps you will tell me your methods as a speaker, for i'm sure it would be interesting to know them? _answer_. sometimes, and frequently, i deliver a lecture several times before it is written. i have it taken by a shorthand writer, and afterward written out. at other times i have dictated a lecture, and delivered it from manuscript. the course pursued depends on how i happen to feel at the time. sometimes i read a lecture, and sometimes i deliver lectures without any notes--this, again, depending much on how i happen to feel. so far as methods are concerned, everything should depend on feeling. attitude, gestures, voice, emphasis, should all be in accord with and spring from feeling, from the inside. _question_. is there any possibility of your coming to england, and, i need hardly add, of your coming to speak? _answer_. i have thought of going over to england, and i may do so. there is an england in england for which i have the highest possible admiration, the england of culture, of art, of principle. --_the sketch_, london, eng., march , . catholicism and protestantism. the pope, the a. p. a., agnosticism and the church. _question_. which do you regard as the better, catholicism or protestantism? _answer_. protestantism is better than catholicism because there is less of it. protestantism does not teach that a monk is better than a husband and father, that a nun is holier than a mother. protestants do not believe in the confessional. neither do they pretend that priests can forgive sins. protestantism has fewer ceremonies and less opera bouffe, clothes, caps, tiaras, mitres, crooks and holy toys. catholics have an infallible man--an old italian. protestants have an infallible book, written by hebrews before they were civilized. the infallible man is generally wrong, and the infallible book is filled with mistakes and contradictions. catholics and protestants are both enemies of intellectual freedom --of real education, but both are opposed to education enough to make free men and women. between the catholics and protestants there has been about as much difference as there is between crocodiles and alligators. both have done the worst they could, both are as bad as they can be, and the world is getting tired of both. the world is not going to choose either--both are to be rejected. _question_. are you willing to give your opinion of the pope? _answer_. it may be that the pope thinks he is infallible, but i doubt it. he may think that he is the agent of god, but i guess not. he may know more than other people, but if he does he has kept it to himself. he does not seem satisfied with standing in the place and stead of god in spiritual matters, but desires temporal power. he wishes to be pope and king. he imagines that he has the right to control the belief of all the world; that he is the shepherd of all "sheep" and that the fleeces belong to him. he thinks that in his keeping is the conscience of mankind. so he imagines that his blessing is a great benefit to the faithful and that his prayers can change the course of natural events. he is a strange mixture of the serious and comical. he claims to represent god, and admits that he is almost a prisoner. there is something pathetic in the condition of this pontiff. when i think of him, i think of lear on the heath, old, broken, touched with insanity, and yet, in his own opinion, "every inch a king." the pope is a fragment, a remnant, a shred, a patch of ancient power and glory. he is a survival of the unfittest, a souvenir of theocracy, a relic of the supernatural. of course he will have a few successors, and they will become more and more comical, more and more helpless and impotent as the world grows wise and free. i am not blaming the pope. he was poisoned at the breast of his mother. superstition was mingled with her milk. he was poisoned at school--taught to distrust his reason and to live by faith. and so it may be that his mind was so twisted and tortured out of shape that he now really believes that he is the infallible agent of an infinite god. _question_. are you in favor of the a. p. a.? _answer_. in this country i see no need of secret political societies. i think it better to fight in the open field. i am a believer in religious liberty, in allowing all sects to preach their doctrines and to make as many converts as they can. as long as we have free speech and a free press i think there is no danger of the country being ruled by any church. the catholics are much better than their creed, and the same can be said of nearly all members of orthodox churches. a majority of american catholics think a great deal more of this country than they do of their church. when they are in good health they are on our side. it is only when they are very sick that they turn their eyes toward rome. if they were in the majority, of course, they would destroy all other churches and imprison, torture and kill all infidels. but they will never be in the majority. they increase now only because catholics come in from other countries. in a few years that supply will cease, and then the catholic church will grow weaker every day. the free secular school is the enemy of priestcraft and superstition, and the people of this country will never consent to the destruction of that institution. i want no man persecuted on account of his religion. _question_. if there is no beatitude, or heaven, how do you account for the continual struggle in every natural heart for its own betterment? _answer_. man has many wants, and all his efforts are the children of wants. if he wanted nothing he would do nothing. we civilize the savage by increasing his wants, by cultivating his fancy, his appetites, his desires. he is then willing to work to satisfy these new wants. man always tries to do things in the easiest way. his constant effort is to accomplish more with less work. he invents a machine; then he improves it, his idea being to make it perfect. he wishes to produce the best. so in every department of effort and knowledge he seeks the highest success, and he seeks it because it is for his own good here in this world. so he finds that there is a relation between happiness and conduct, and he tries to find out what he must do to produce the greatest enjoyment. this is the basis of morality, of law and ethics. we are so constituted that we love proportion, color, harmony. this is the artistic man. morality is the harmony and proportion of conduct-- the music of life. man continually seeks to better his condition --not because he is immortal--but because he is capable of grief and pain, because he seeks for happiness. man wishes to respect himself and to gain the respect of others. the brain wants light, the heart wants love. growth is natural. the struggle to overcome temptation, to be good and noble, brave and sincere, to reach, if possible, the perfect, is no evidence of the immortality of the soul or of the existence of other worlds. men live to excel, to become distinguished, to enjoy, and so they strive, each in his own way, to gain the ends desired. _question_. do you believe that the race is growing moral or immoral? _answer_. the world is growing better. there is more real liberty, more thought, more intelligence than ever before. the world was never so charitable or generous as now. we do not put honest debtors in prison, we no longer believe in torture. punishments are less severe. we place a higher value on human life. we are far kinder to animals. to this, however, there is one terrible exception. the vivisectors, those who cut, torture, and mutilate in the name of science, disgrace our age. they excite the horror and indignation of all good people. leave out the actions of those wretches, and animals are better treated than ever before. so there is less beating of wives and whipping of children. the whip in no longer found in the civilized home. intelligent parents now govern by kindness, love and reason. the standard of honor is higher than ever. contracts are more sacred, and men do nearer as they agree. man has more confidence in his fellow-man, and in the goodness of human nature. yes, the world is getting better, nobler and grander every day. we are moving along the highway of progress on our way to the eden of the future. _question_. are the doctrines of agnosticism gaining ground, and what, in your opinion, will be the future of the church? _answer_. the agnostic is intellectually honest. he knows the limitations of his mind. he is convinced that the questions of origin and destiny cannot be answered by man. he knows that he cannot answer these questions, and he is candid enough to say so. the agnostic has good mental manners. he does not call belief or hope or wish, a demonstration. he knows the difference between hope and belief--between belief and knowledge--and he keeps these distinctions in his mind. he does not say that a certain theory is true because he wishes it to be true. he tries to go according to evidence, in harmony with facts, without regard to his own desires or the wish of the public. he has the courage of his convictions and the modesty of his ignorance. the theologian is his opposite. he is certain and sure of the existence of things and beings and worlds of which there is, and can be, no evidence. he relies on assertion, and in all debate attacks the motive of his opponent instead of answering his arguments. all savages know the origin and destiny of man. about other things they know but little. the theologian is much the same. the agnostic has given up the hope of ascertaining the nature of the "first cause"--the hope of ascertaining whether or not there was a "first cause." he admits that he does not know whether or not there is an infinite being. he admits that these questions cannot be answered, and so he refuses to answer. he refuses also to pretend. he knows that the theologian does not know, and he has the courage to say so. he knows that the religious creeds rest on assumption, supposition, assertion--on myth and legend, on ignorance and superstition, and that there is no evidence of their truth. the agnostic bends his energies in the opposite direction. he occupies himself with this world, with things that can be ascertained and understood. he turns his attention to the sciences, to the solution of questions that touch the well-being of man. he wishes to prevent and cure diseases; to lengthen life; to provide homes and raiment and food for man; to supply the wants of the body. he also cultivates the arts. he believes in painting and sculpture, in music and the drama--the needs of the soul. the agnostic believes in developing the brain, in cultivating the affections, the tastes, the conscience, the judgment, to the end that man may be happy in this world. he seeks to find the relation of things, the condition of happiness. he wishes to enslave the forces of nature to the end that they may perform the work of the world. back of all progress are the real thinkers; the finders of facts, those who turn their attention to the world in which we live. the theologian has never been a help, always a hindrance. he has always kept his back to the sunrise. with him all wisdom was in the past. he appealed to the dead. he was and is the enemy of reason, of investigation, of thought and progress. the church has never given "sanctuary" to a persecuted truth. there can be no doubt that the ideas of the agnostic are gaining ground. the scientific spirit has taken possession of the intellectual world. theological methods are unpopular to-day, even in theological schools. the attention of men everywhere is being directed to the affairs of this world, this life. the gods are growing indistinct, and, like the shapes of clouds, they are changing as they fade. the idea of special providence has been substantially abandoned. people are losing, and intelligent people have lost, confidence in prayer. to-day no intelligent person believes in miracles--a violation of the facts in nature. they may believe that there used to be miracles a good while ago, but not now. the "supernatural" is losing its power, its influence, and the church is growing weaker every day. the church is supported by the people, and in order to gain the support of the people it must reflect their ideas, their hopes and fears. as the people advance, the creeds will be changed, either by changing the words or giving new meanings to the old words. the church, in order to live, must agree substantially with those who support it, and consequently it will change to any extent that may be necessary. if the church remains true to the old standards then it will lose the support of progressive people, and if the people generally advance the church will die. but my opinion is that it will slowly change, that the minister will preach what the members want to hear, and that the creed will be controlled by the contribution box. one of these days the preachers may become teachers, and when that happens the church will be of use. _question_. what do you regard as the greatest of all themes in poetry and song? _answer_. love and death. the same is true of the greatest music. in "tristan and isolde" is the greatest music of love and death. in shakespeare the greatest themes are love and death. in all real poetry, in all real music, the dominant, the triumphant tone, is love, and the minor, the sad refrain, the shadow, the background, the mystery, is death. _question_. what would be your advice to an intelligent young man just starting out in life? _answer_. i would say to him: "be true to your ideal. cultivate your heart and brain. follow the light of your reason. get all the happiness out of life that you possibly can. do not care for power, but strive to be useful. first of all, support yourself so that you may not be a burden to others. if you are successful, if you gain a surplus, use it for the good of others. own yourself and live and die a free man. make your home a heaven, love your wife and govern your children by kindness. be good natured, cheerful, forgiving and generous. find out the conditions of happiness, and then be wise enough to live in accordance with them. cultivate intellectual hospitality, express your honest thoughts, love your friends, and be just to your enemies." --_new york herald_, september , . woman and her domain. _question_. what is your opinion of the effect of the multiplicity of women's clubs as regards the intellectual, moral and domestic status of their members? _answer_. i think that women should have clubs and societies, that they should get together and exchange ideas. women, as a rule, are provincial and conservative. they keep alive all the sentimental mistakes and superstitions. now, if they can only get away from these, and get abreast with the tide of the times, and think as well as feel, it will be better for them and their children. you know st. paul tells women that if they want to know anything they must ask their husbands. for many centuries they have followed this orthodox advice, and of course they have not learned a great deal, because their husbands could not answer their questions. husbands, as a rule, do not know a great deal, and it will not do for every wife to depend on the ignorance of her worst half. the women of to-day are the great readers, and no book is a great success unless it pleases the women. as a result of this, all the literature of the world has changed, so that now in all departments the thoughts of women are taken into consideration, and women have thoughts, because they are the intellectual equals of men. there are no statesmen in this country the equals of harriet martineau; probably no novelists the equals of george eliot or george sand, and i think ouida the greatest living novelist. i think her "ariadne" is one of the greatest novels in the english language. there are few novels better than "consuelo," few poems better than "mother and poet." so in all departments women are advancing; some of them have taken the highest honors at medical colleges; others are prominent in the sciences, some are great artists, and there are several very fine sculptors, &c., &c. so you can readily see what my opinion is on that point. i am in favor of giving woman all the domain she conquers, and as the world becomes civilized the domain that she can conquer will steadily increase. _question_. but, colonel, is there no danger of greatly interfering with a woman's duties as wife and mother? _answer_. i do not think that it is dangerous to think, or that thought interferes with love or the duties of wife or mother. i think the contrary is the truth; the greater the brain the greater the power to love, the greater the power to discharge all duties and obligations, so i have no fear for the future. about women voting i don't care; whatever they want to do they have my consent. --_the democrat_, grand rapids, michigan, . professor swing. _question_. since you were last in this city, colonel, a distinguished man has passed away in the person of professor swing. the public will be interested to have your opinion of him. _answer_. i think professor swing did a great amount of good. he helped to civilize the church and to humanize the people. his influence was in the right direction--toward the light. in his youth he was acquainted with toil, poverty, and hardship; his road was filled with thorns, and yet he lived and scattered flowers in the paths of many people. at first his soul was in the dungeon of a savage creed, where the windows were very small and closely grated, and though which struggled only a few rays of light. he longed for more light and for more liberty, and at last his fellow- prisoners drove him forth, and from that time until his death he did what he could to give light and liberty to the souls of men. he was a lover of nature, poetic in his temperament, charitable and merciful. as an orator he may have lacked presence, pose and voice, but he did not lack force of statement or beauty of expression. he was a man of wide learning, of great admiration of the heroic and tender. he did what he could to raise the standard of character, to make his fellow-men just and noble. he lost the provincialism of his youth and became in a very noble sense a citizen of the world. he understood that all the good is not in our race or in our religion--that in every land there are good and noble men, self- denying and lovely women, and that in most respects other religions are as good as ours, and in many respects better. this gave him breadth of intellectual horizon and enlarged his sympathy for the failures of the world. i regard his death as a great loss, and his life as a lesson and inspiration. --_inter-ocean_, chicago, october , . senator sherman and his book.* [* no one is better qualified than robert g. ingersoll to talk about senator sherman's book and the questions it raises in political history. mr. ingersoll was for years a resident of washington and a next-door neighbor to mr. sherman; he was for an even longer period the intimate personal friend of james g. blaine; he knew garfield from almost daily contact, and of the republican national conventions concerning which senator sherman has raised points of controversy mr. ingersoll can say, as the north carolinian said of the confederacy: "part of whom i am which." he placed blaine's name before the convention at cincinnati in . he made the first of the three great nominating speeches in convention history, conkling and garfield making the others in . the figure of the plumed knight which mr. ingersoll created to characterize mr. blaine is part of the latter's memory. at chicago, four years later, when garfield, dazed by the irresistible doubt of the convention, was on the point of refusing that in the acceptance of which he had no voluntary part, ingersoll was the adviser who showed him that duty to sherman required no such action.] _question_. what do you think of senator sherman's book--especially the part about garfield? _answer_. of course, i have only read a few extracts from mr. sherman's reminiscences, but i am perfectly satisfied that the senator is mistaken about garfield's course. the truth is that garfield captured the convention by his course from day to day, and especially by the speech he made for sherman. after that speech, and it was a good one, the best garfield ever made, the convention said, "speak for yourself, john." it was perfectly apparent that if the blaine and sherman forces should try to unite, grant would be nominated. it had to be grant or a new man, and that man was garfield. it all came about without garfield's help, except in the way i have said. garfield even went so far as to declare that under no circumstances could he accept, because he was for sherman, and honestly for him. he told me that he would not allow his name to go before the convention. just before he was nominated i wrote him a note in which i said he was about to be nominated, and that he must not decline. i am perfectly satisfied that he acted with perfect honor, and that he did his best for sherman. _question_. mr. sherman expresses the opinion that if he had had the "moral strength" of the ohio delegation in his support he would have been nominated? _answer_. we all know that while senator sherman had many friends, and that while many thought he would make an excellent president, still there was but little enthusiasm among his followers. sherman had the respect of the party, but hardly the love. _question_. in his book the senator expresses the opinion that he was quite close to the nomination in , when mr. quay was for him. do you think that is so, mr. ingersoll? _answer_. i think mr. sherman had a much better chance in than in , but as a matter of fact, he never came within hailing distance of success at any time. he is not of the nature to sway great bodies of men. he lacks the power to impress himself upon others to such an extent as to make friends of enemies and devotees of friends. mr. sherman has had a remarkable career, and i think that he ought to be satisfied with what he has achieved. _question_. mr. ingersoll, what do you think defeated blaine for the nomination in ? _answer_. on the first day of the convention at cincinnati it was known that blaine was the leading candidate. all of the enthusiasm was for him. it was soon known that conkling, bristow or morton could not be nominated, and that in all probability blaine would succeed. the fact that blaine had been attacked by vertigo, or had suffered from a stroke of apoplexy, gave an argument to those who opposed him, and this was used with great effect. after blaine was put in nomination, and before any vote was taken, the convention adjourned, and during the night a great deal of work was done. the michigan delegation was turned inside out and the blaine forces raided in several states. hayes, the dark horse, suddenly developed speed, and the scattered forces rallied to his support. i have always thought that if a ballot could have been taken on the day blaine was put in nomination he would have succeeded, and yet he might have been defeated for the nomination anyway. blaine had the warmest friends and the bitterest enemies of any man in the party. people either loved or hated him. he had no milk-and-water friends and no milk-and-water enemies. _question_. if blaine had been nominated at cincinnati in would he have made a stronger candidate than hayes did? _answer_. if he had been nominated then, i believe that he would have been triumphantly elected. mr. blaine's worst enemies would not have supported tilden, and thousands of moderate democrats would have given their votes to blaine. _question_. mr. ingersoll, do you think that mr. blaine wanted the nomination in , when he got it? _answer_. in , mr. blaine told me that he did not want the nomination. i said to him: "is that honest?" he replied that he did not want it, that he was tired of the whole business. i said: "if you do not want it; if you have really reached that conclusion, then i think you will get it." he laughed, and again said: "i do not want it." i believe that he spoke exactly as he then felt. _question_. what do you think defeated mr. blaine at the polls in ? _answer_. blaine was a splendid manager for another man, a great natural organizer, and when acting for others made no mistake; but he did not manage his own campaign with ability. he made a succession of mistakes. his suit against the indianapolis editor; his letter about the ownership of certain stocks; his reply to burchard and the preachers, in which he said that history showed the church could get along without the state, but the state could not get along without the church, and this in reply to the "rum, romanism and rebellion" nonsense; and last, but not least, his speech to the millionaires in new york--all of these things weakened him. as a matter of fact many catholics were going to support blaine, but when they saw him fooling with the protestant clergy, and accepting the speech of burchard, they instantly turned against him. if he had never met burchard, i think he would have been elected. his career was something like that of mr. clay; he was the most popular man of his party and yet---- _question_. how do you account for mr. blaine's action in allowing his name to go before the convention at minneapolis in ? _answer_. in , mr. blaine was a sick man, almost worn out; he was not his former self, and he was influenced by others. he seemed to have lost his intuition; he was misled, yet in spite of all defeats, no name will create among republicans greater enthusiasm than that of james g. blaine. millions are still his devoted, unselfish and enthusiastic friends and defenders. --_the globe-democrat_, st. louis, october , . reply to the christian endeavorers. _question_. how were you affected by the announcement that the united prayers of the salvationists and christian endeavorers were to be offered for your conversion? _answer_. the announcement did not affect me to any great extent. i take it for granted that the people praying for me are sincere and that they have a real interest in my welfare. of course, i thank them one and all. at the same time i can hardly account for what they did. certainly they would not ask god to convert me unless they thought the prayer could be answered. and if their god can convert me of course he can convert everybody. then the question arises why he does not do it. why does he let millions go to hell when he can convert them all. why did he not convert them all before the flood and take them all to heaven instead of drowning them and sending them all to hell. of course these questions can be answered by saying that god's ways are not our ways. i am greatly obliged to these people. still, i feel about the same, so that it would be impossible to get up a striking picture of "before and after." it was good-natured on their part to pray for me, and that act alone leads me to believe that there is still hope for them. the trouble with the christian endeavorers is that they don't give my arguments consideration. if they did they would agree with me. it seemed curious that they would advise divine wisdom what to do, or that they would ask infinite mercy to treat me with kindness. if there be a god, of course he knows what ought to be done, and will do it without any hints from ignorant human beings. still, the endeavorers and the salvation people may know more about god than i do. for all i know, this god may need a little urging. he may be powerful but a little slow; intelligent but sometimes a little drowsy, and it may do good now and then to call his attention to the facts. the prayers did not, so far as i know, do me the least injury or the least good. i was glad to see that the christians are getting civilized. a few years ago they would have burned me. now they pray for me. suppose god should answer the prayers and convert me, how would he bring the conversion about? in the first place, he would have to change my brain and give me more credulity--that is, he would be obliged to lessen my reasoning power. then i would believe not only without evidence, but in spite of evidence. all the miracles would appear perfectly natural. it would then seem as easy to raise the dead as to waken the sleeping. in addition to this, god would so change my mind that i would hold all reason in contempt and put entire confidence in faith. i would then regard science as the enemy of human happiness, and ignorance as the soil in which virtues grow. then i would throw away darwin and humboldt, and rely on the sermons of orthodox preachers. in other words, i would become a little child and amuse myself with a religious rattle and a gabriel horn. then i would rely on a man who has been dead for nearly two thousand years to secure me a seat in paradise. after conversion, it is not pretended that i will be any better so far as my actions are concerned; no more charitable, no more honest, no more generous. the great difference will be that i will believe more and think less. after all, the converted people do not seem to be better than the sinners. i never heard of a poor wretch clad in rags, limping into a town and asking for the house of a christian. i think that i had better remain as i am. i had better follow the light of my reason, be true to myself, express my honest thoughts, and do the little i can for the destruction of superstition, the little i can for the development of the brain, for the increase of intellectual hospitality and the happiness of my fellow-beings. one world at a time. --_new york journal_, december , . spiritualism. there are several good things about spiritualism. first, they are not bigoted; second, they do not believe in salvation by faith; third, they don't expect to be happy in another world because christ was good in this; fourth, they do not preach the consolation of hell; fifth, they do not believe in god as an infinite monster; sixth, the spiritualists believe in intellectual hospitality. in these respects they differ from our christian brethren, and in these respects they are far superior to the saints. i think that the spiritualists have done good. they believe in enjoying themselves--in having a little pleasure in this world. they are social, cheerful and good-natured. they are not the slaves of a book. their hands and feet are not tied with passages of scripture. they are not troubling themselves about getting forgiveness and settling their heavenly debts for a cent on the dollar. their belief does not make then mean or miserable. they do not persecute their neighbors. they ask no one to have faith or to believe without evidence. they ask all to investigate, and then to make up their minds from the evidence. hundreds and thousands of well-educated, intelligent people are satisfied with the evidence and firmly believe in the existence of spirits. for all i know, they may be right--but---- _question_. the spiritualists have indirectly claimed, that you were in many respects almost one of them. have you given them reason to believe so? _answer_. i am not a spiritualist, and have never pretended to be. the spiritualists believe in free thought, in freedom of speech, and they are willing to hear the other side--willing to hear me. the best thing about the spiritualists is that they believe in intellectual hospitality. _question_. is spiritualism a religion or a truth? _answer_. i think that spiritualism may properly be called a religion. it deals with two worlds--teaches the duty of man to his fellows--the relation that this life bears to the next. it claims to be founded on facts. it insists that the "dead" converse with the living, and that information is received from those who once lived in this world. of the truth of these claims i have no sufficient evidence. _question_. are all mediums impostors? _answer_. i will not say that all mediums are impostors, because i do not know. i do not believe that these mediums get any information or help from "spirits." i know that for thousands of years people have believed in mediums--in spiritualism. a spirit in the form of a man appeared to samson's mother, and afterward to his father. spirits, or angels, called on abraham. the witch of endor raised the ghost of samuel. an angel appeared with three men in the furnace. the handwriting on the wall was done by a spirit. a spirit appeared to joseph in a dream, to the wise men and to joseph again. so a spirit, an angel or a god, spoke to saul, and the same happened to mary magdalene. the religious literature of the world is filled with such things. take spiritualism from christianity and the whole edifice crumbles. all religions, so far as i know, are based on spiritualism--on communications received from angels, from spirits. i do not say that all the mediums, ancient and modern, were, and are, impostors--but i do think that all the honest ones were, and are, mistaken. i do not believe that man has ever received any communication from angels, spirits or gods. no whisper, as i believe, has ever come from any other world. the lips of the dead are always closed. from the grave there has come no voice. for thousands of years people have been questioning the dead. they have tried to catch the whisper of a vanished voice. many say that they have succeeded. i do not know. _question_. what is the explanation of the startling knowledge displayed by some so-called "mediums" of the history and personal affairs of people who consult them? is there any such thing as mind-reading or thought-transference? _answer_. in a very general way, i suppose that one person may read the thought of another--not definitely, but by the expression of the face, by the attitude of the body, some idea may be obtained as to what a person thinks, what he intends. so thought may be transferred by look or language, but not simply by will. everything that is, is natural. our ignorance is the soil in which mystery grows. i do not believe that thoughts are things that can been seen or touched. each mind lives in a world of its own, a world that no other mind can enter. minds, like ships at sea, give signs and signals to each other, but they do not exchange captains. _question_. is there any such thing as telepathy? what is the explanation of the stories of mental impressions received at long distances? _answer_. there are curious coincidences. people sometimes happen to think of something that is taking place at a great distance. the stories about these happenings are not very well authenticated, and seem never to have been of the least use to anyone. _question_. can these phenomena be considered aside from any connection with, or form of, superstition? _answer_. i think that mistake, emotion, nervousness, hysteria, dreams, love of the wonderful, dishonesty, ignorance, grief and the longing for immortality--the desire to meet the loved and lost, the horror of endless death--account for these phenomena. people often mistake their dreams for realities--often think their thoughts have "happened." they live in a mental mist, a mirage. the boundary between the actual and the imagined becomes faint, wavering and obscure. they mistake clouds for mountains. the real and the unreal mix and mingle until the impossible becomes common, and the natural absurd. _question_. do you believe that any sane man ever had a vision? _answer_. of course, the sane and insane have visions, dreams. i do not believe that any man, sane or insane, was ever visited by an angel or spirit, or ever received any information from the dead. _question_. setting aside from consideration the so-called physical manifestations of the mediums, has spiritualism offered any proof of the immortality of the soul? _answer_. of course spiritualism offers what it calls proof of immortality. that is its principal business. thousands and thousands of good, honest, intelligent people think the proof sufficient. they receive what they believe to be messages from the departed, and now and then the spirits assume their old forms --including garments--and pass through walls and doors as light passes through glass. do these things really happen? if the spirits of the dead do return, then the fact of another life is established. it all depends on the evidence. our senses are easily deceived, and some people have more confidence in their reason than in their senses. _question_. do you not believe that such a man as robert dale owen was sincere? what was the real state of mind of the author of "footfalls on the boundaries of another world"? _answer_. without the slightest doubt, robert dale owen was sincere. he was one of the best of men. his father labored all his life for the good of others. robert owen, the father, had a debate, in cincinnati, with the rev. alexander campbell, the founder of the campbellite church. campbell was no match for owen, and yet the audience was almost unanimously against owen. robert dale owen was an intelligent, thoughtful, honest man. he was deceived by several mediums, but remained a believer. he wanted spiritualism to be true. he hungered and thirsted for another life. he explained everything that was mysterious or curious by assuming the interference of spirits. he was a good man, but a poor investigator. he thought that people were all honest. _question_. what do you understand the spiritualist means when he claims that the soul goes to the "summer land," and there continues to work and evolute to higher planes? _answer_. no one pretends to know where "heaven" is. the celestial realm is the blessed somewhere in the unknown nowhere. so far as i know, the "summer land" has no metes and bounds, and no one pretends to know exactly or inexactly where it is. after all, the "summer land" is a hope--a wish. spiritualists believe that a soul leaving this world passes into another, or into another state, and continues to grow in intelligence and virtue, if it so desires. spiritualists claim to prove that there is another life. christians believe this, but their witnesses have been dead for many centuries. they take the "hearsay" of legend and ancient gossip; but spiritualists claim to have living witnesses; witnesses that can talk, make music; that can take to themselves bodies and shake hands with the people they knew before they passed to the "other shore." _question_. has spiritualism, through its mediums, ever told the world anything useful, or added to the store of the world's knowledge, or relieved its burdens? _answer_. i do not know that any medium has added to the useful knowledge of the world, unless mediums have given evidence of another life. mediums have told us nothing about astronomy, geology or history, have made no discoveries, no inventions, and have enriched no art. the same may be said of every religion. all the orthodox churches believe in spiritualism. every now and then the virgin appears to some peasant, and in the old days the darkness was filled with evil spirits. christ was a spiritualist, and his principal business was the casting out of devils. all of his disciples, all of the church fathers, all of the saints were believers in spiritualism of the lowest and most ignorant type. during the middle ages people changed themselves, with the aid of spirits, into animals. they became wolves, dogs, cats and donkeys. in those day all the witches and wizards were mediums. so animals were sometimes taken possession of by spirits, the same as balaam's donkey and christ's swine. nothing was too absurd for the christians. _question_. has not spiritualism added to the world's stock of hope? and in what way has not spiritualism done good? _answer_. the mother holding in her arms her dead child, believing that the babe has simply passed to another life, does not weep as bitterly as though she thought that death was the eternal end. a belief in spiritualism must be a consolation. you see, the spiritualists do not believe in eternal pain, and consequently a belief in immortality does not fill their hearts with fear. christianity makes eternal life an infinite horror, and casts the glare of hell on almost every grave. the spiritualists appear to be happy in their belief. i have never known a happy orthodox christian. it is natural to shun death, natural to desire eternal life. with all my heart i hope for everlasting life and joy--a life without failures, without crimes and tears. if immortality could be established, the river of life would overflow with happiness. the faces of prisoners, of slaves, of the deserted, of the diseased and starving would be radiant with smiles, and the dull eyes of despair would glow with light. if it could be established. let us hope. --_the journal_, new york, july , . a little of everything. _question_. what is your opinion of the position taken by the united states in the venezuelan dispute? how should the dispute be settled? _answer_. i do not think that we have any interest in the dispute between venezuela and england. it was and is none of our business. the monroe doctrine was not and is not in any way involved. mr. cleveland made a mistake and so did congress. _question_. what should be the attitude of the church toward the stage? _answer_. it should be, what it always has been, against it. if the orthodox churches are right, then the stage is wrong. the stage makes people forget hell; and this puts their souls in peril. there will be forever a conflict between shakespeare and the bible. _question_. what do you think of the new woman? _answer_. i like her. _question_. where rests the responsibility for the armenian atrocities? _answer_. religion is the cause of the hatred and bloodshed. _question_. what do you think of international marriages, as between titled foreigners and american heiresses? _answer_. my opinion is the same as is entertained by the american girl after the marriages. it is a great mistake. _question_. what do you think of england's poet laureate, alfred austin? _answer_. i have only read a few of his lines and they were not poetic. the office of poet laureate should be abolished. men cannot write poems to order as they could deliver cabbages or beer. by poems i do not mean jingles of words. i mean great thoughts clothed in splendor. _question_. what is your estimate of susan b. anthony? _answer_. miss anthony is one of the most remarkable women in the world. she has the enthusiasm of youth and spring, the courage and sincerity of a martyr. she is as reliable as the attraction of gravitation. she is absolutely true to her conviction, intellectually honest, logical, candid and infinitely persistent. no human being has done more for women than miss anthony. she has won the respect and admiration of the best people on the earth. and so i say: good luck and long life to susan b. anthony. _question_. which did more for his country, george washington or abraham lincoln? _answer_. in my judgment, lincoln was the greatest man ever president. i put him above washington and jefferson. he had the genius of goodness; and he was one of the wisest and shrewdest of men. lincoln towers above them all. _question_. what gave rise to the report that you had been converted --did you go to church somewhere? _answer_. i visited the "people's church" in kalamazoo, michigan. this church has no creed. the object is to make people happy in this world. miss bartlett is the pastor. she is a remarkable woman and is devoting her life to good work. i liked her church and said so. this is all. _question_. are there not some human natures so morally weak or diseased that they cannot keep from sin without the aid of some sort of religion? _answer_. i do not believe that the orthodox religion helps anybody to be just, generous or honest. superstition is not the soil in which goodness grows. falsehood is poor medicine. _question_. would you consent to live in any but a christian community? if you would, please name one. _answer_. i would not live in a community where all were orthodox christians. i would rather dwell in central africa. if i could have my choice i would rather live among people who were free, who sought for truth and lived according to reason. sometime there will be such a community. _question_. is the noun "united states" singular or plural, as you use english? _answer_. i use it in the singular. _question_. have you read nordau's "degeneracy"? if so, what do you think of it? _answer_. i think it is substantially insane. _question_. what do you think of bishop doane's advocacy of free rum as a solution of the liquor problem? _answer_. i am a believer in liberty. all the temperance legislation, all the temperance societies, all the agitation, all these things have done no good. _question_. do you agree with mr. carnegie that a college education is of little or no practical value to a man? _answer_. a man must have education. it makes no difference where or how he gets it. to study the dead languages is time wasted so far as success in business is concerned. most of the colleges in this country are poor because controlled by theologians. _question_. what suggestion would you make for the improvement of the newspapers of this country? _answer_. every article in a newspaper should be signed by the writer. and all writers should do their best to tell the exact facts. _question_. what do you think of niagara falls? _answer_. it is a dangerous place. those great rushing waters-- there is nothing attractive to me in them. there is so much noise; so much tumult. it is simply a mighty force of nature--one of those tremendous powers that is to be feared for its danger. what i like in nature is a cultivated field, where men can work in the free open air, where there is quiet and repose--no turmoil, no strife, no tumult, no fearful roar or struggle for mastery. i do not like the crowded, stuffy workshop, where life is slavery and drudgery. give me the calm, cultivated land of waving grain, of flowers, of happiness. _question_. what is worse than death? _answer_. oh, a great many things. to be dishonored. to be worthless. to feel that you are a failure. to be insane. to be constantly afraid of the future. to lose the ones you love. --_the herald_, rochester, new york, february , . is life worth living--christian science and politics. _question_. with all your experiences, the trials, the responsibilities, the disappointments, the heartburnings, colonel, is life worth living? _answer_. well, i can only answer for myself. i like to be alive, to breathe the air, to look at the landscape, the clouds and stars, to repeat old poems, to look at pictures and statues, to hear music, the voices of the ones i love. i like to talk with my wife, my girls, my grandchildren. i like to sleep and to dream. yes, you can say that life, to me, is worth living. _question_. colonel, did you ever kill any game? _answer_. when i was a boy i killed two ducks, and it hurt me as much as anything i ever did. no, i would not kill any living creature. i am sometimes tempted to kill a mosquito on my hand, but i stop and think what a wonderful construction it has, and shoo it away. _question_. what do you think of political parties, colonel? _answer_. in a country where the sovereignty is divided among the people, that is to say, among the men, in order to accomplish anything, many must unite, and i believe in joining the party that is going the nearest your way. i do not believe in being the slave or serf or servant of a party. go with it if it is going your road, and when the road forks, take the one that leads to the place you wish to visit, no matter whether the party goes that way or not. i do not believe in belonging to a party or being the property of any organization. i do not believe in giving a mortgage on yourself or a deed of trust for any purpose whatever. it is better to be free and vote wrong than to be a slave and vote right. i believe in taking the chances. at the same time, as long as a party is going my way, i believe in placing that party above particular persons, and if that party nominates a man that i despise, i will vote for him if he is going my way. i would rather have a bad man belonging to my party in place, than a good man belonging to the other, provided my man believes in my principles, and to that extent i believe in party loyalty. neither do i join in the general hue and cry against bosses. there has always got to be a leader, even in a flock of wild geese. if anything is to be accomplished, no matter what, somebody takes the lead and the others allow him to go on. in that way political bosses are made, and when you hear a man howling against bosses at the top of his lungs, distending his cheeks to the bursting point, you may know that he has ambition to become a boss. i do not belong to the republican party, but i have been going with it, and when it goes wrong i shall quit, unless the other is worse. there is no office, no place, that i want, and as it does not cost anything to be right, i think it better to be that way. _question_. what is your idea of christian science? _answer_. i think it is superstition, pure and unadulterated. i think that soda will cure a sour stomach better than thinking. in my judgment, quinine is a better tonic than meditation. of course cheerfulness is good and depression bad, but if you can absolutely control the body and all its functions by thought, what is the use of buying coal? let the mercury go down and keep yourself hot by thinking. what is the use of wasting money for food? fill your stomach with think. according to these christian science people all that really exists is an illusion, and the only realities are the things that do not exist. they are like the old fellow in india who said that all things were illusions. one day he was speaking to a crowd on his favorite hobby. just as he said "all is illusion" a fellow on an elephant rode toward him. the elephant raised his trunk as though to strike, thereupon the speaker ran away. then the crowd laughed. in a few moments the speaker returned. the people shouted: "if all is illusion, what made you run away?" the speaker replied: "my poor friends, i said all is illusion. i say so still. there was no elephant. i did not run away. you did not laugh, and i am not explaining now. all is illusion." that man must have been a christian scientist. --_the inter-ocean_, chicago, november, . vivisection. _question_. why are you so utterly opposed to vivisection? _answer_. because, as it is generally practiced, it is an unspeakable cruelty. because it hardens the hearts and demoralizes those who inflict useless and terrible pains on the bound and helpless. if these vivisectionists would give chloroform or ether to the animals they dissect; if they would render them insensible to pain, and if, by cutting up these animals, they could learn anything worth knowing, no one would seriously object. the trouble is that these doctors, these students, these professors, these amateurs, do not give anesthetics. they insist that to render the animal insensible does away with the value of the experiment. they care nothing for the pain they inflict. they are so eager to find some fact that will be of benefit to the human race, that they are utterly careless of the agony endured. now, what i say is that no decent man, no gentleman, no civilized person, would vivisect an animal without first having rendered that animal insensible to pain. the doctor, the scientist, who puts his knives, forceps, chisels and saws into the flesh, bones and nerves of an animal without having used an anesthetic, is a savage, a pitiless, heartless monster. when he says he does this for the good of man, because he wishes to do good, he says what is not true. no such man wants to do good; he commits the crime for his own benefit and because he wishes to gratify an insane cruelty or to gain a reputation among like savages. these scientists now insist that they have done some good. they do not tell exactly what they have done. the claim is general in its character--not specific. if they have done good, could they not have done just as much if they had used anesthetics? good is not the child of cruelty. _question_. do you think that the vivisectionists do their work without anesthetics? do they not, as a rule, give something to deaden pain? _answer_. here is what the trouble is. now and then one uses chloroform, but the great majority do not. they claim that it interferes with the value of the experiment, and, as i said before, they object to the expense. why should they care for what the animals suffer? they inflict the most horrible and useless pain, and they try the silliest experiments--experiments of no possible use or advantage. for instance: they flay a dog to see how long he can live without his skin. is this trifling experiment of any importance? suppose the dog can live a week or a month or a year, what then? what must the real character of the scientific wretch be who would try an experiment like this? is such a man seeking the good of his fellow- men? so, these scientists starve animals until they slowly die; watch them from day to day as life recedes from the extremities, and watch them until the final surrender, to see how long the heart will flutter without food; without water. they keep a diary of their sufferings, of their whinings and moanings, of their insanity. and this diary is published and read with joy and eagerness by other scientists in like experiments. of what possible use is it to know how long a dog or horse can live without food? so, they take animals, dogs and horses, cut through the flesh with the knife, remove some of the back bone with the chisel, then divide the spinal marrow, then touch it with red hot wires for the purpose of finding, as they say, the connection of nerves; and the animal, thus vivisected, is left to die. a good man will not voluntarily inflict pain. he will see that his horse has food, if he can procure it, and if he cannot procure the food, he will end the sufferings of the animal in the best and easiest way. so, the good man would rather remain in ignorance as to how pain is transmitted than to cut open the body of a living animal, divide the marrow and torture the nerves with red hot iron. of what use can it be to take a dog, tie him down and cut out one of his kidneys to see if he can live with the other? these horrors are perpetrated only by the cruel and the heartless --so cruel and so heartless that they are utterly unfit to be trusted with a human life. they innoculate animals with a virus of disease; they put poison in their eyes until rottenness destroys the sight; until the poor brutes become insane. they given them a disease that resembles hydrophobia, that is accompanied by the most frightful convulsions and spasms. they put them in ovens to see what degree of heat it is that kills. they also try the effect of cold; they slowly drown them; they poison them with the venom of snakes; they force foreign substances into their blood, and, by inoculation, into their eyes; and then watch and record their agonies; their sufferings. _question_. don't you think that some good has been accomplished, some valuable information obtained, by vivisection? _answer_. i don't think any valuable information has been obtained by the vivisection of animals without chloroform that could not have been obtained with chloroform. and to answer the question broadly as to whether any good has been accomplished by vivisection, i say no. according to the best information that i can obtain, the vivisectors have hindered instead of helped. lawson tait, who stands at the head of his profession in england, the best surgeon in great britain, says that all this cutting and roasting and freezing and torturing of animals has done harm instead of good. he says publicly that the vivisectors have hindered the progress of surgery. he declares that they have not only done no good, but asserts that they have done only harm. the same views according to doctor tait, are entertained by bell, syme and fergusson. many have spoken of darwin as though he were a vivisector. this is not true. all that has been accomplished by these torturers of dumb and helpless animals amounts to nothing. we have obtained from these gentlemen koch's cure for consumption, pasteur's factory of hydrophobia and brown-sequard's elixir of life. these three failures, gigantic, absurd, ludicrous, are the great accomplishment of vivisection. surgery has advanced, not by the heartless tormentors of animals, but by the use of anesthetics--that is to say, chloroform, ether and cocaine. the cruel wretches, the scientific assassins, have accomplished nothing. hundreds of thousands of animals have suffered every pain that nerves can feel, and all for nothing--nothing except to harden the heart and to make criminals of men. they have not given anesthetics to these animals, but they have been guilty of the last step in cruelty. they have given curare, a drug that attacks the centers of motion, that makes it impossible for the animal to move, so that when under its influence, no matter what the pain may be, the animal lies still. this curare not only destroys the power of motion, but increases the sensitiveness of the nerves. to give this drug and then to dissect the living animal is the extreme of cruelty. beyond this, heartlessness cannot go. _question_. do you know that you have been greatly criticized for what you have said on this subject? _answer_. yes; i have read many criticisms; but what of that. it is impossible for the ingenuity of man to say anything in defence of cruelty--of heartlessness. so, it is impossible for the defenders of vivisection to show any good that has been accomplished without the use of anesthetics. the chemist ought to be able to determine what is and what is not poison. there is no need of torturing the animals. so, this giving to animals diseases is of no importance to man--not the slightest; and nothing has been discovered in bacteriology so far that has been of use or that is of benefit. personally, i admit that all have the right to criticise; and my answer to the critics is, that they do not know the facts; or, knowing them, they are interested in preventing a knowledge of these facts coming to the public. vivisection should be controlled by law. no animal should be allowed to be tortured. and to cut up a living animal not under the influence of chloroform or ether, should be a penitentiary offence. a perfect reply to all the critics who insist that great good has been done is to repeat the three names--koch, pasteur and brown- sequard. the foundation of civilization is not cruelty; it is justice, generosity, mercy. --_evening telegram_, new york, september , . divorce. _question_. the _herald_ would like to have you give your ideas on divorce. on last sunday in your lecture you said a few words on the subject, but only a few. do you think the laws governing divorce ought to be changed? _answer_. we obtained our ideas about divorce from the hebrews-- from the new testament and the church. in the old testament woman is not considered of much importance. the wife was the property of the husband. "thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's ox or his wife." in this commandment the wife is put on an equality with other property, so under certain conditions the husband could put away his wife, but the wife could not put away her husband. in the new testament there is little in favor of marriage, and really nothing as to the rights of wives. christ said nothing in favor of marriage, and never married. so far as i know, none of the apostles had families. st. paul was opposed to marriage, and allowed it only as a choice of evils. in those days it was imagined by the christians that the world was about to be purified by fire, and that they would be changed into angels. the early christians were opposed to marriage, and the "fathers" looked upon woman as the source of all evil. they did not believe in divorces. they thought that if people loved each other better than they did god, and got married, they ought to be held to the bargain, no matter what happened. these "fathers" were, for the most part, ignorant and hateful savages, and had no more idea of right and wrong than wild beasts. the church insisted that marriage was a sacrament, and that god, in some mysterious way, joined husband and wife in marriage--that he was one of the parties to the contract, and that only death could end it. of course, this supernatural view of marriage is perfectly absurd. if there be a god, there certainly have been marriages he did not approve, and certain it is that god can have no interest in keeping husbands and wives together who never should have married. some of the preachers insist that god instituted marriage in the garden of eden. we now know that there was no garden of eden, and that woman was not made from the first man's rib. nobody with any real sense believes this now. the institution of marriage was not established by jehovah. neither was it established by christ, not any of his apostles. in considering the question of divorce, the supernatural should be discarded. we should take into consideration only the effect upon human beings. the gods should be allowed to take care of themselves. is it to the interest of a husband and wife to live together after love has perished and when they hate each other? will this add to their happiness? should a woman be compelled to remain the wife of a man who hates and abuses her, and whom she loathes? has society any interest in forcing women to live with men they hate? there is no real marriage without love, and in the marriage state there is no morality without love. a woman who remains the wife of a man whom she despises, or does not love, corrupts her soul. she becomes degraded, polluted, and feels that her flesh has been soiled. under such circumstances a good woman suffers the agonies of moral death. it may be said that the woman can leave her husband; that she is not compelled to live in the same house or to occupy the same room. if she has the right to leave, has she the right to get a new house? should a woman be punished for having married? women do not marry the wrong men on purpose. thousands of mistakes are made--are these mistakes sacred? must they be preserved to please god? what good can it do god to keep people married who hate each other? what good can it do the community to keep such people together? _question_. do you consider marriage a contract or a sacrament? _answer_. marriage is the most important contract that human beings can make. no matter whether it is called a contract or a sacrament, it remains the same. a true marriage is a natural concord or agreement of souls--a harmony in which discord is not even imagined. it is a mingling so perfect that only one seems to exist. all other considerations are lost. the present seems eternal. in this supreme moment there is no shadow, or the shadow is as luminous as light. when two beings thus love, thus united, this is the true marriage of soul and soul. the idea of contract is lost. duty and obligation are instantly changed into desire and joy, and two lives, like uniting streams, flow on as one. this is real marriage. now, if the man turns out to be a wild beast, if he destroys the happiness of the wife, why should she remain his victim? if she wants a divorce, she should have it. the divorce will not hurt god or the community. as a matter of fact, it will save a life. no man not poisoned by superstition will object to the release of an abused wife. in such a case only savages can object to divorce. the man who wants courts and legislatures to force a woman to live with him is a monster. _question_. do you believe that the divorced should be allowed to marry again? _answer_. certainly. has the woman whose rights have been outraged no right to build another home? must this woman, full of kindness, affection and health, be chained until death releases her? is there no future for her? must she be an outcast forever? can she never sit by her own hearth, with the arms of her children about her neck, and by her side a husband who loves and protects her? there are no two sides to this question. all human beings should be allowed to correct their mistakes. if the wife has flagrantly violated the contract of marriage, the husband should be given a divorce. if the wife wants a divorce, if she loathes her husband, if she no longer loves him, then the divorce should be granted. it is immoral for a woman to live as the wife of a man whom she abhors. the home should be pure. children should be well-born. their parents should love one another. marriages are made by men and women, not by society, not by the state, not by the church, not by the gods. nothing is moral, that does not tend to the well-being of sentient beings. the good home is the unit of good government. the hearthstone is the corner-stone of civilization. society is not interested in the preservation of hateful homes. it is not to the interest of society that good women should be enslaved or that they should become mothers by husbands whom they hate. most of the laws about divorce are absurd or cruel, and ought to be repealed. --_the herald_, new york, february, . music, newspapers, lynching and arbitration. _question_. how do you enjoy staying in chicago? _answer_. well, i am about as happy as a man can be when he is away from home. i was at the opera last night. i am always happy when i hear the music of wagner interpreted by such a genius as seidl. i do not believe there is a man in the world who has in his brain and heart more of the real spirit of wagner than anton seidl. he knows how to lead, how to phrase and shade, how to rush and how to linger, and to express every passion and every mood. so i was happy last night to hear him. then i heard edouard de reszke, the best of bass singers, with tones of a great organ, and others soft and liquid, and jean de reszke, a great tenor, who sings the "swan song" as though inspired; and i liked bispham, but hated his part. he is a great singer; so is mme. litvinne. so, i can say that i am enjoying chicago. in fact, i always did. i was here when the town was small, not much more than huts and hogs, lumber and mud; and now it is one of the greatest of cities. it makes me happy just to think of the difference. i was born the year chicago was incorporated. in my time matches were invented. steam navigation became really useful. the telegraph was invented. gas was discovered and applied to practical uses, and electricity was made known in its practical workings to mankind. thus, it is seen the world is progressing; men are becoming civilized. but the process of civilization even now is slow. in one or two thousand years we may hope to see a vast improvement in man's condition. we may expect to have the employer so far civilized that he will not try to make money for money's sake, but in order that he may apply it to good uses, to the amelioration of his fellow-man's condition. we may also expect the see the workingman, the employee, so far civilized that he will know it is impossible and undesirable for him to attempt to fix the wages paid by his employer. we may in a thousand or more years reasonably expect that the employee will be so far civilized and become sufficiently sensible to know that strikes and threats and mob violence can never improve his condition. altruism is nonsense, craziness. _question_. is chicago as liberal, intellectually, as new york? _answer_. i think so. of course you will find thousands of free, thoughtful people in new york--people who think and want others to do the same. so, there are thousands of respectable people who are centuries behind the age. in other words, you will find all kinds. i presume the same is true of chicago. i find many liberal people here, and some not quite so liberal. some of the papers here seem to be edited by real pious men. on last tuesday the _times-herald_ asked pardon of its readers for having given a report of my lecture. that editor must be pious. in the same paper, columns were given to the prospective prize- fight at carson city. all the news about the good corbett and the orthodox fitzsimmons--about the training of the gentlemen who are going to attack each others' jugulars and noses; who are expected to break jaws, blacken eyes, and peel foreheads in a few days, to settle the question of which can bear the most pounding. in this great contest and in all its vulgar details, the readers of the _times-herald_ are believed by the editor of that religious daily to take great interest. the editor did not ask the pardon of his readers for giving so much space to the nose-smashing sport. no! he knew that would fill their souls with delight, and, so knowing, he reached the correct conclusion that such people would not enjoy anything i had said. the editor did a wise thing and catered to a large majority of his readers. i do not think that we have as religious a daily paper in new york as the _times-herald_. so the editor of the _times- herald_ took the ground that men with little learning, in youth, might be agnostic, but as they grew sensible they would become orthodox. when he wrote that he was probably thinking of humboldt and darwin, of huxley and haeckel. may be herbert spencer was in his mind, but i think that he must have been thinking of a few boys in his native village. _question_. what do you think about prize-fighting anyway? _answer_. well, i think that prize-fighting is worse, if possible, than revival meetings. next to fighting to kill, as they did in the old roman days, i think the modern prize-fight is the most disgusting and degrading of exhibitions. all fights, whether cock- fights, bull-fights or pugilistic encounters, are practiced and enjoyed only by savages. no matter what office they hold, what wealth or education they have, they are simply savages. under no possible circumstances would i witness a prize-fight or a bull- fight or a dog-fight. the marquis of queensbury was once at my house, and i found his opinions were the same as mine. everyone thinks that he had something to do with the sport of prize-fighting, but he did not, except to make some rules once for a college boxing contest. he told me that he never saw but one prize-fight in his life, and that it made him sick. _question_. how are you on the arbitration treaty? _answer_. i am for it with all my heart. i have read it, and read it with care, and to me it seems absolutely fair. england and america should set an example to the world. the english-speaking people have reason enough and sense enough, i hope, to settle their differences by argument--by reason. let us get the wild beast out of us. two great nations like england and america appealing to force, arguing with shot and shell! what is education worth? is what we call civilization a sham? yes, i believe in peace, in arbitration, in settling disputes like reasonable, human beings. all that war can do is to determine who is the stronger. it throws no light on any question, addresses no argument. there is a point to a bayonet, but no logic. after the war is over the victory does not tell which nation was right. civilized men take their differences to courts or arbitrators. civilized nations should do the same. there ought to be an international court. let every man do all he can to prevent war--to prevent the waste, the cruelties, the horrors that follow every flag on every field of battle. it is time that man was human--time that the beast was out of his heart. _question_. what do you think of mckinley's inaugural? _answer_. it is good, honest, clear, patriotic and sensible. there is one thing in it that touched me; i agree with him that lynching has to be stopped. you see that now we are citizens of the united states, not simply of the state in which we happen to live. i take the ground that it is the business of the united states to protect its citizens, not only when they are in some other country, but when they are at home. the united states cannot discharge this obligation by allowing the states to do as they please. where citizens are being lynched the government should interfere. if the governor of some barbarian state says that he cannot protect the lives of citizens, then the united states should, if it took the entire army and navy. _question_. what is your opinion of charity organizations? _answer_. i think that the people who support them are good and generous--splendid--but i have a poor opinion of the people in charge. as a rule, i think they are cold, impudent and heartless. there is too much circumlocution, or too many details and too little humanity. the jews are exceedingly charitable. i think that in new york the men who are doing the most for their fellow-men are jews. nathan strauss is trying to feed the hungry, warm the cold, and clothe the naked. for the most part, organized charities are, i think, failures. a real charity has to be in the control of a good man, a real sympathetic, a sensible man, one who helps others to help themselves. let a hungry man go to an organized society and it requires several days to satisfy the officers that the man is hungry. meanwhile he will probably starve to death. _question_. do you believe in free text-books in the public schools? _answer_. i do not care about the text-book question. but i am in favor of the public school. nothing should be taught that somebody does not know. no superstitions--nothing but science. _question_. there has been a good deal said lately about your suicide theology, colonel. do you still believe that suicide is justifiable? _answer_. certainly. when a man is useless to himself and to others he has a right to determine what he will do about living. the only thing to be considered is a man's obligation to his fellow- beings and to himself. i don't take into consideration any supernatural nonsense. if god wants a man to stay here he ought to make it more comfortable for him. _question_. since you expounded your justification of suicide, colonel, i believe you have had some cases of suicide laid at your door? _answer_. oh, yes. every suicide that has happened since that time has been charged to me. i don't know how the people account for the suicides before my time. i have not yet heard of my being charged with the death of cato, but that may yet come to pass. i was reading the other day that the rate of suicide in germany is increasing. i suppose my article has been translated into german. _question_. how about lying, colonel? is it ever right to lie? _answer_. of course, sometimes. in war when a man is captured by the enemy he ought to lie to them to mislead them. what we call strategy is nothing more than lies. for the accomplishment of a good end, for instance, the saving of a woman's reputation, it is many times perfectly right to lie. as a rule, people ought to tell the truth. if it is right to kill a man to save your own life it certainly ought to be right to fool him for the same purpose. i would rather be deceived than killed, wouldn't you? --_the inter-ocean_, chicago, illinois, march, . a visit to shaw's garden. _question_. i was told that you came to st. louis on your wedding trip some thirty years ago and went to shaw's garden? _answer_. yes; we were married on the th of february, . we were here in st. louis, and we did visit shaw's garden, and we thought it perfectly beautiful. afterward we visited the kew gardens in london, but our remembrance of shaw's left kew in the shade. of course, i have been in st. louis many times, my first visit being, i think, in . i have always liked the town. i was acquainted at one time with a great many of your old citizens. most of them have died, and i know but few of the present generation. i used to stop at the old planter's house, and i was there quite often during the war. in those days i saw hackett as falstaff, the best falstaff that ever lived. ben de bar was here then, and the maddern sisters, and now the daughter of one of the sisters, minnie maddern fiske, is one of the greatest actresses in the world. she has made a wonderful hit in new york this season. and so the ebb and flow of life goes on--the old pass and the young arrive. "death and progress!" it may be that death is, after all, a great blessing. maybe it gives zest and flavor to life, ardor and flame to love. at the same time i say, "long life" to all my friends. i want to live--i get great happiness out of life. i enjoy the company of my friends. i enjoy seeing the faces of the ones i love. i enjoy art and music. i love shakespeare and burns; love to hear the music of wagner; love to see a good play. i take pleasure in eating and sleeping. the fact is, i like to breathe. i want to get all the happiness out of life that i can. i want to suck the orange dry, so that when death comes nothing but the peelings will be left, and so i say: "long life!" --_the republic_, st. louis, april , . the venezuelan boundary discussion and the whipping-post. _question_. what is your opinion as to the action of the president on the venezuelan matter? _answer_. in my judgment, the president acted in haste and without thought. it may be said that it would have been well enough for him to have laid the correspondence before congress and asked for an appropriation for a commission to ascertain the facts, to the end that our government might intelligently act. there was no propriety in going further than that. to almost declare war before the facts were known was a blunder--almost a crime. for my part, i do not think the monroe doctrine has anything to do with the case. mr. olney reasons badly, and it is only by a perversion of facts, and an exaggeration of facts, and by calling in question the motives of england that it is possible to conclude that the monroe doctrine has or can have anything to do with the controversy. the president went out of his way to find a cause of quarrel. nobody doubts the courage of the american people, and we for that reason can afford to be sensible and prudent. valor and discretion should go together. nobody doubts the courage of england. america and england are the leading nations, and in their keeping, to a great extent, is the glory of the future. they should be at peace. should a difference arise it should be settled without recourse to war. fighting settles nothing but the relative strength. no light is thrown on the cause of the conflict--on the question or fact that caused the war. _question_. do you think that there is any danger of war? _answer_. if the members of congress really represent the people, then there is danger. but i do not believe the people will really want to fight about a few square miles of malarial territory in venezuela--something in which they have no earthly or heavenly interest. the people do not wish to fight for fight's sake. when they understand the question they will regard the administration as almost insane. the message has already cost us more than the war of or the mexican war, or both. stocks and bonds have decreased in value several hundred millions, and the end is not yet. it may be that it will, on account of the panic, be impossible for the government to maintain the gold standard--the reserve. then gold would command a premium, the government would be unable to redeem the greenbacks, and the result would be financial chaos, and all this the result of mr. cleveland's curiosity about a boundary line between two countries, in neither of which we have any interest, and this curiosity has already cost us more than both countries, including the boundary line, are worth. the president made a great mistake. so did the house and senate, and the poor people have paid a part of the cost. _question_. what is your opinion of the gerry whipping post bill? _answer_. i see that it has passed the senate, and yet i think it is a disgrace to the state. how the senators can go back to torture, to the dark ages, to the custom of savagery, is beyond belief. i hope that the house is nearer civilized, and that the infamous bill will be defeated. if, however, the bill should pass, then i hope governor morton will veto it. nothing is more disgusting, more degrading, than the whipping-post. it degrades the whipped and the whipper. it degrades all who witness the flogging. what kind of a person will do the whipping? men who would apply the lash to the naked backs of criminals would have to be as low as the criminals, and probably a little lower. the shadow of the whipping-post does not fall on any civilized country, and never will. the next thing we know mr. gerry will probably introduce some bill to brand criminals on the forehead or cut off their ears and slit their noses. this is in the same line, and is born of the same hellish spirit. there is no reforming power in torture, in bruising and mangling the flesh. if the bill becomes a law, i hope it will provide that the lash shall be applied by mr. gerry and his successors in office. let these pretended enemies of cruelty enjoy themselves. if the bill passes, i presume mr. gerry could get a supply of knouts from russia, as that country has just abolished the whipping-post. --_the journal_, new york, december , . colonel shepard's stage horses.* [* one of colonel shepard's equine wrecks was picked up on fifth avenue yesterday by the prevention of cruelty society, and was laid up for repairs. the horse was about twenty-eight years old, badly foundered, and its leg was cut and bleeding. it was the leader of three that had been hauling a fifth avenue stage, and, according to the society's agents, was in about as bad a condition as a horse could be and keep on his feet. the other two horses were little better, neither of them being fit to drive. colonel shepard's scrawny nags have long been an eyesore to colonel robert g. ingersoll, who is compelled to see them from his windows at number fifth avenue. he said last night: ] it might not be in good taste for me to say anything about colonel shepard's horses. he might think me prejudiced. but i am satisfied horses cannot live on faith or on the substance of things hoped for. it is far better for the horse, to feed him without praying, than to pray without feeding him. it is better to be kind even to animals, than to quote scripture in small capitals. now, i am not saying anything against colonel shepard. i do not know how he feeds his horses. if he is as good and kind as he is pious, then i have nothing to say. maybe he does not allow the horses to break the sabbath by eating. they are so slow that they make one think of a fast. they put me in mind of the garden of eden--the rib story. when i watch them on the avenue i, too, fall to quoting scripture, and say, "can these dry bones live?" still, i have a delicacy on this subject; i hate to think about it, and i think the horses feel the same way. --_morning advertiser_, new york, january , . a reply to the rev. l. a. banks. _question_. have you read the remarks made about you by the rev. mr. banks, and what do you think of what he said? _answer_. the reverend gentleman pays me a great compliment by comparing me to a circus. everybody enjoys the circus. they love to see the acrobats, the walkers on the tight rope, the beautiful girls on the horses, and they laugh at the wit of the clowns. they are delighted with the jugglers, with the music of the band. they drink the lemonade, eat the colored popcorn and laugh until they nearly roll off their seats. now the circus has a few animals so that christians can have an excuse for going. think of the joy the circus gives to the boys and girls. they look at the show bills, see the men and women flying through the air, bursting through paper hoops, the elephants standing on their heads, and the clowns, in curious clothes, with hands on their knees and open mouths, supposed to be filled with laughter. all the boys and girls for many miles around know the blessed day. they save their money, obey their parents, and when the circus comes they are on hand. they see the procession and then they see the show. they are all happy. no sermon ever pleased them as much, and in comparison even the sunday school is tame and dull. to feel that i have given as much joy as the circus fills me with pleasure. what chance would the rev. dr. banks stand against a circus? the reverend gentleman has done me a great honor, and i tender him my sincere thanks. _question_. dr. banks says that you write only one lecture a year, while preachers write a brand new one every week--that if you did that people would tire of you. what have you to say to that? _answer_. it may be that great artists paint only one picture a year, and it may be that sign painters can do several jobs a day. still, i would not say that the sign painters were superior to the artists. there is quite a difference between a sculptor and a stone-cutter. there are thousands of preachers and thousands and thousands of sermons preached every year. has any orthodox minister in the year given just one paragraph to literature? has any orthodox preacher uttered one great thought, clothed in perfect english that thrilled the hearers like music--one great strophe that became one of the treasures of memory? i will make the question a little clearer. has any orthodox preacher, or any preacher in an orthodox pulpit uttered a paragraph of what may be called sculptured speech since henry ward beecher died? i do not wonder that the sermons are poor. their doctrines have been discussed for centuries. there is little chance for originality; they not only thresh old straw, but the thresh straw that has been threshed a million times--straw in which there has not been a grain of wheat for hundreds of years. no wonder that they have nervous prostration. no wonder that they need vacations, and no wonder that their congregations enjoy the vacations as keenly as the ministers themselves. better deliver a real good address fifty-two times than fifty-two poor ones--just for the sake of variety. _question_. dr. banks says that the tendency at present is not toward agnosticism, but toward christianity. what is your opinion? _answer_. when i was a boy "infidels" were very rare. a man who denied the inspiration of the bible was regarded as a monster. now there are in this country millions who regard the bible as the work of ignorant and superstitious men. a few years ago the bible was the standard. all scientific theories were tested by the bible. now science is the standard and the bible is tested by that. dr. banks did not mention the names of the great scientists who are or were christians, but he probably thought of laplace, humboldt, haeckel, huxley, spencer, tyndall, darwin, helmholtz and draper. when he spoke of christian statesmen he likely thought of jefferson, franklin, washington, paine and lincoln--or he may have thought of pierce, fillmore and buchanan. but, after all, there is no argument in names. a man is not necessarily great because he holds office or wears a crown or talks in a pulpit. facts, reasons, are better than names. but it seems to me that nothing can be plainer than that the church is losing ground--that the people are discarding the creeds and that superstition has passed the zenith of its power. _question_. dr. banks says that christ did not mention the western hemisphere because god does nothing for men that they can do for themselves. what have you to say? _answer_. christ said nothing about the western hemisphere because he did not know that it existed. he did not know the shape of the earth. he was not a scientist--never even hinted at any science-- never told anybody to investigate--to think. his idea was that this life should be spent in preparing for the next. for all the evils of this life, and the next, faith was his remedy. i see from the report in the paper that dr. banks, after making the remarks about me preached a sermon on "herod the villain in the drama of christ." who made herod? dr. banks will answer that god made him. did god know what herod would do? yes. did he know that he would cause the children to be slaughtered in his vain efforts to kill the infant christ? yes. dr. banks will say that god is not responsible for herod because he gave herod freedom. did god know how herod would use his freedom? did he know that he would become the villain in the drama of christ? yes. who, then, is really responsible for the acts of herod? if i could change a stone into a human being, and if i could give this being freedom of will, and if i knew that if i made him he would murder a man, and if with that knowledge i made him, and he did commit a murder, who would be the real murderer? will dr. banks in his fifty-two sermons of next year show that his god is not responsible for the crimes of herod? no doubt dr. banks is a good man, and no doubt he thinks that liberty of thought leads to hell, and honestly believes that all doubt comes from the devil. i do not blame him. he thinks as he must. he is a product of conditions. he ought to be my friend because i am doing the best i can to civilize his congregation. --_the plain dealer_, cleveland, ohio, . cuba--zola and theosophy. _question_. what do you think, colonel, of the cuban question? _answer_. what i know about this question is known by all. i suppose that the president has information that i know nothing about. of course, all my sympathies are with the cubans. they are making a desperate--an heroic struggle for their freedom. for many years they have been robbed and trampled under foot. spain is, and always has been, a terrible master--heartless and infamous. there is no language with which to tell what cuba has suffered. in my judgment, this country should assist the cubans. we ought to acknowledge the independence of that island, and we ought to feed the starving victims of spain. for years we have been helping spain. cleveland did all he could to prevent the cubans from getting arms and men. this was a criminal mistake--a mistake that even spain did not appreciate. all this should instantly be reversed, and we should give aid to cuba. the war that spain is waging shocks every civilized man. spain has always been the same. in holland, in peru, in mexico, she was infinitely cruel, and she is the same to-day. she loves to torture, to imprison, to degrade, to kill. her idea of perfect happiness is to shed blood. spain is a legacy of the dark ages. she belongs to the den, the cave period. she has no business to exist. she is a blot, a stain on the map of the world. of course there are some good spaniards, but they are not in control. i want cuba to be free. i want spain driven from the western world. she has already starved five hundred thousand cubans--poor, helpless non-combatants. among the helpless she is like a hyena--a tiger among lambs. this country ought to stop this gigantic crime. we should do this in the name of humanity--for the sake of the starving, the dying. _question_. do you think we are going to have war with spain? _answer_. i do not think there will be war. unless spain is insane, she will not attack the united states. she is bankrupt. no nation will assist her. a civilized nation would be ashamed to take her hand, to be her friend. she has not the power to put down the rebellion in cuba. how then can she hope to conquer this country? she is full of brag and bluster. of course she will play her hand for all it is worth, so far as talk goes. she will double her fists and make motions. she will assume the attitude of war, but she will never fight. should she commence hostilities, the war would be short. she would lose her navy. the little commerce she has would be driven from the sea. she would drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation and disgrace. i do not believe that spain is insane enough to fire upon our flag. i know that there is nothing too mean, too cruel for her to do, but still she must have sense enough to try and save her own life. no, i think there will be no war, but i believe that cuba will be free. my opinion is that the maine was blown up from the outside--blown up by spanish officers, and i think the report of the board will be to that effect. such a crime ought to redden even the cheeks of spain. as soon as this fact is known, other nations will regard spain with hatred and horror. if the maine was destroyed by spain we will ask for indemnity. the people insist that the account be settled and at once. possibly we may attack spain. there is the only danger of war. we must avenge that crime. the destruction of two hundred and fifty-nine americans must be avenged. free cuba must be their monument. i hope for the sake of human nature that the spanish did not destroy the maine. i hope it was the result of an accident. i hope there is to be no war, but spain must be driven from the new world. _question_. what about zola's trial and conviction? _answer_. it was one of the most infamous trials in the history of the world. zola is a great man, a genius, the best man in france. his trial was a travesty on justice. the judge acted like a bandit. the proceedings were a disgrace to human nature. the jurors must have been ignorant beasts. the french have disgraced themselves. long live zola. _question_. having expressed yourself less upon the subject of theosophy than upon other religious beliefs, and as theosophy denies the existence of a god as worshiped by christianity, what is your idea of the creed? _answer_. insanity. i think it is a mild form of delusion and illusion; vague, misty, obscure, half dream, mixed with other mistakes and fragments of facts--a little philosophy, absurdity-- a few impossibilities--some improbabilities--some accounts of events that never happened--some prophecies that will not come to pass-- a structure without foundation. but the theosophists are good people; kind and honest. theosophy is based on the supernatural and is just as absurd as the orthodox creeds. --_the courier-journal_, louisville, ky., february, . how to become an orator. _question_. what advice would you give to a young man who was ambitious to become a successful public speaker or orator? _answer_. in the first place, i would advise him to have something to say--something worth saying--something that people would be glad to hear. this is the important thing. back of the art of speaking must be the power to think. without thoughts words are empty purses. most people imagine that almost any words uttered in a loud voice and accompanied by appropriate gestures, constitute an oration. i would advise the young man to study his subject, to find what others had thought, to look at it from all sides. then i would tell him to write out his thoughts or to arrange them in his mind, so that he would know exactly what he was going to say. waste no time on the how until you are satisfied with the what. after you know what you are to say, then you can think of how it should be said. then you can think about tone, emphasis, and gesture; but if you really understand what you say, emphasis, tone, and gesture will take care of themselves. all these should come from the inside. they should be in perfect harmony with the feelings. voice and gesture should be governed by the emotions. they should unconsciously be in perfect agreement with the sentiments. the orator should be true to his subject, should avoid any reference to himself. the great column of his argument should be unbroken. he can adorn it with vines and flowers, but they should not be in such profusion as to hide the column. he should give variety of episode by illustrations, but they should be used only for the purpose of adding strength to the argument. the man who wishes to become an orator should study language. he should know the deeper meaning of words. he should understand the vigor and velocity of verbs and the color of adjectives. he should know how to sketch a scene, to paint a picture, to give life and action. he should be a poet and a dramatist, a painter and an actor. he should cultivate his imagination. he should become familiar with the great poetry and fiction, with splendid and heroic deeds. he should be a student of shakespeare. he should read and devour the great plays. from shakespeare he could learn the art of expression, of compression, and all the secrets of the head and heart. the great orator is full of variety--of surprises. like a juggler, he keeps the colored balls in the air. he expresses himself in pictures. his speech is a panorama. by continued change he holds the attention. the interest does not flag. he does not allow himself to be anticipated. a picture is shown but once. so, an orator should avoid the commonplace. there should be no stuffing, no filling. he should put no cotton with his silk, no common metals with his gold. he should remember that "gilded dust is not as good as dusted gold." the great orator is honest, sincere. he does not pretend. his brain and heart go together. every drop of his blood is convinced. nothing is forced. he knows exactly what he wishes to do--knows when he has finished it, and stops. only a great orator knows when and how to close. most speakers go on after they are through. they are satisfied only with a "lame and impotent conclusion." most speakers lack variety. they travel a straight and dusty road. the great orator is full of episode. he convinces and charms by indirection. he leaves the road, visits the fields, wanders in the woods, listens to the murmurs of springs, the songs of birds. he gathers flowers, scales the crags and comes back to the highway refreshed, invigorated. he does not move in a straight line. he wanders and winds like a stream. of course, no one can tell a man what to do to become an orator. the great orator has that wonderful thing called presence. he has that strange something known as magnetism. he must have a flexible, musical voice, capable of expressing the pathetic, the humorous, the heroic. his body must move in unison with his thought. he must be a reasoner, a logician. he must have a keen sense of humor --of the laughable. he must have wit, sharp and quick. he must have sympathy. his smiles should be the neighbors of his tears. he must have imagination. he should give eagles to the air, and painted moths should flutter in the sunlight. while i cannot tell a man what to do to become an orator, i can tell him a few things not to do. there should be no introduction to an oration. the orator should commence with his subject. there should be no prelude, no flourish, no apology, no explanation. he should say nothing about himself. like a sculptor, he stands by his block of stone. every stroke is for a purpose. as he works the form begins to appear. when the statue is finished the workman stops. nothing is more difficult than a perfect close. few poems, few pieces of music, few novels end well. a good story, a great speech, a perfect poem should end just at the proper point. the bud, the blossom, the fruit. no delay. a great speech is a crystallization in its logic, an efflorescence in its poetry. i have not heard many speeches. most of the great speakers in our country were before my time. i heard beecher, and he was an orator. he had imagination, humor and intensity. his brain was as fertile as the valleys of the tropics. he was too broad, too philosophic, too poetic for the pulpit. now and then, he broke the fetters of his creed, escaped from his orthodox prison, and became sublime. theodore parker was an orator. he preached great sermons. his sermons on "old age" and "webster," and his address on "liberty" were filled with great thoughts, marvelously expressed. when he dealt with human events, with realities, with things he knew, he was superb. when he spoke of freedom, of duty, of living to the ideal, of mental integrity, he seemed inspired. webster i never heard. he had great qualities; force, dignity, clearness, grandeur; but, after all, he worshiped the past. he kept his back to the sunrise. there was no dawn in his brain. he was not creative. he had no spirit of prophecy. he lighted no torch. he was not true to his ideal. he talked sometimes as though his head was among the stars, but he stood in the gutter. in the name of religion he tried to break the will of stephen girard--to destroy the greatest charity in all the world; and in the name of the same religion he defended the fugitive slave law. his purpose was the same in both cases. he wanted office. yet he uttered a few very great paragraphs, rich with thought, perfectly expressed. clay i never heard, but he must have had a commanding presence, a chivalric bearing, an heroic voice. he cared little for the past. he was a natural leader, a wonderful talker--forcible, persuasive, convincing. he was not a poet, not a master of metaphor, but he was practical. he kept in view the end to be accomplished. he was the opposite of webster. clay was the morning, webster the evening. clay had large views, a wide horizon. he was ample, vigorous, and a little tyrannical. benton was thoroughly commonplace. he never uttered an inspired word. he was an intense egoist. no subject was great enough to make him forget himself. calhoun was a political calvinist--narrow, logical, dogmatic. he was not an orator. he delivered essays, not orations. i think it was in that kossuth visited this country. he was an orator. there was no man, at that time, under our flag, who could speak english as well as he. in the first speech i read of kossuth's was this line: "russia is the rock against which the sigh for freedom breaks." in this you see the poet, the painter, the orator. s. s. prentiss was an orator, but, with the recklessness of a gamester, he threw his life away. he said profound and beautiful things, but he lacked application. he was uneven, disproportioned, saying ordinary things on great occasions, and now and then, without the slightest provocation, uttering the sublimest and most beautiful thoughts. in my judgment, corwin was the greatest orator of them all. he had more arrows in his quiver. he had genius. he was full of humor, pathos, wit, and logic. he was an actor. his body talked. his meaning was in his eyes and lips. gov. o. p. morton of indiana had the greatest power of statement of any man i ever heard. all the argument was in his statement. the facts were perfectly grouped. the conclusion was a necessity. the best political speech i ever heard was made by gov. richard j. oglesby of illinois. it had every element of greatness--reason, humor, wit, pathos, imagination, and perfect naturalness. that was in the grand years, long ago. lincoln had reason, wonderful humor, and wit, but his presence was not good. his voice was poor, his gestures awkward--but his thoughts were profound. his speech at gettysburg is one of the masterpieces of the world. the word "here" is used four or five times too often. leave the "heres" out, and the speech is perfect. of course, i have heard a great many talkers, but orators are few and far between. they are produced by victorious nations--born in the midst of great events, of marvelous achievements. they utter the thoughts, the aspirations of their age. they clothe the children of the people in the gorgeous robes of giants. the interpret the dreams. with the poets, they prophesy. they fill the future with heroic forms, with lofty deeds. they keep their faces toward the dawn--toward the ever-coming day. --_new york sun_, april, . john russell young and expansion. _question_. you knew john russell young, colonel? _answer_. yes, i knew him well and we were friends for many years. he was a wonderfully intelligent man--knew something about everything, had read most books worth reading. he was one of the truest friends. he had a genius for friendship. he never failed to do a favor when he could, and he never forgot a favor. he had the genius of gratitude. his mind was keen, smooth, clear, and he really loved to think. i had the greatest admiration for his character and i was shocked when i read of his death. i did not know that he had been ill. all my heart goes out to his wife--a lovely woman, now left alone with her boy. after all, life is a fearful thing at best. the brighter the sunshine the deeper the shadow. _question_. are you in favor of expansion? _answer_. yes, i have always wanted more--i love to see the republic grow. i wanted the sandwich islands, wanted porto rico, and i want cuba if the cubans want us. i want the philippines if the filipinos want us--i do not want to conquer and enslave those people. the war on the filipinos is a great mistake--a blunder--almost a crime. if the president had declared his policy, then, if his policy was right, there was no need of war. the president should have told the filipinos just exactly what he wanted. it is a small business, after dewey covered manila bay with glory, to murder a lot of half- armed savages. we had no right to buy, because spain had no right to sell the philippines. we acquired no rights on those islands by whipping spain. _question_. do you think the president should have stated his policy in boston the other day? _answer_. yes, i think it would be better if he would unpack his little budget--i like mckinley, but i liked him just as well before he was president. he is a good man, not because he is president, but because he is a man--you know that real honor must be earned-- people cannot give honor--honor is not alms--it is wages. so, when a man is elected president the best thing he can do is to remain a natural man. yes, i wish mckinley would brush all his advisers to one side and say his say; i believe his say would be right. now, don't change this interview and make me say something mean about mckinley, because i like him. the other day, in chicago, i had an interview and i wrote it out. in that "interview" i said a few things about the position of senator hoar. i tried to show that he was wrong--but i took pains to express by admiration for senator hoar. when the interview was published i was made to say that senator hoar was a mud-head. i never said or thought anything of the kind. don't treat me as that chicago reporter did. _question_. what do you think of atkinson's speech? _answer_. well, some of it is good--but i never want to see the soldiers of the republic whipped. i am always on our side. --_the press_, philadelphia, february , . psychical research and the bible.* [* as an incident in the life of any one favored with the privilege, a visit to the home of col. robert g. ingersoll is certain to be recalled as a most pleasant and profitable experience. although not a sympathizer with the great agnostic's religious views, yet i have long admired his ability, his humor, his intellectual honesty and courage. and it was with gratification that i accepted the good offices of a common friend who recently offered to introduce me to the ingersoll domestic circle in gramercy park. here i found the genial colonel, surrounded by his children, his grandchildren, and his amiable wife, whose smiling greeting dispelled formality and breathed "welcome" in every syllable. the family relationship seemed absolutely ideal--the very walls emitting an atmosphere of art and music, of contentment and companionship, of mutual trust, happiness and generosity. but my chief desire was to elicit colonel ingersoll's personal views on questions related to the new thought and its attitude on matters on which he is known to have very decided opinions. my request for a private chat was cordially granted. during the conversation that ensued--(the substance of which is presented to the readers of _mind_ in the following paragraphs, with the colonel's consent)--i was impressed most deeply, not by the force of his arguments, but by the sincerity of his convictions. among some of his more violent opponents, who presumably lack other opportunities of becoming known, it is the fashion to accuse ingersoll of having really no belief in his own opinions. but, if he convinced me of little else, he certainly, without effort, satisfied my mind that this accusation is a slander. utterly mistaken in his views he may be; but if so, his errors are more honest than many of those he points out in the king james version of the bible. if his pulpit enemies could talk with this man by his own fireside, they would pay less attention to ingersoll himself and more to what he says. they would consider his _meaning_, rather than his motive. as the colonel is the most conspicuous denunciator of intolerance and bigotry in america, he has been inevitably the greatest victim of these obstacles to mental freedom. "to answer ingersoll" is the pet ambition of many a young clergyman--the older ones have either acquired prudence or are broad enough to concede the utility of even agnostics in the economy of evolution. it was with the very subject that we began our talk--the uncharitableness of men, otherwise good, in their treatment of those whose religious views differ from their own.] _question_. what is your conception of true intellectual hospitality? as truth can brook no compromises, has it not the same limitations that surround social and domestic hospitality? _answer_. in the republic of mind we are all equals. each one is sceptered and crowned. each one is the monarch of his own realm. by "intellectual hospitality" i mean the right of every one to think and to express his thought. it makes no difference whether his thought is right or wrong. if you are intellectually hospitable you will admit the right of every human being to see for himself; to hear with his own ears, see with his own eyes, and think with his own brain. you will not try to change his thought by force, by persecution, or by slander. you will not threaten him with punishment--here or hereafter. you will give him your thought, your reasons, your facts; and there you will stop. this is intellectual hospitality. you do not give up what you believe to be the truth; you do not compromise. you simply give him the liberty you claim for yourself. the truth is not affected by your opinion or by his. both may be wrong. for many years the church has claimed to have the "truth," and has also insisted that it is the duty of every man to believe it, whether it is reasonable to him or not. this is bigotry in its basest form. every man should be guided by his reason; should be true to himself; should preserve the veracity of his soul. each human being should judge for himself. the man that believes that all men have this right is intellectually hospitable. _question_. in the sharp distinction between theology and religion that is now recognized by many theologians, and in the liberalizing of the church that has marked the last two decades, are not most of your contentions already granted? is not the "lake of fire and brimstone" an obsolete issue? _answer_. there has been in the last few years a great advance. the orthodox creeds have been growing vulgar and cruel. civilized people are shocked at the dogma of eternal pain, and the belief in hell has mostly faded away. the churches have not changed their creeds. they still pretend to believe as they always have--but they have changed their tone. god is now a father--a friend. he is no longer the monster, the savage, described in the bible. he has become somewhat civilized. he no longer claims the right to damn us because he made us. but in spite of all the errors and contradictions, in spite of the cruelties and absurdities found in the scriptures, the churches still insist that the bible is _inspired_. the educated ministers admit that the pentateuch was not written by moses; that the psalms were not written by david; that isaiah was the work of at least three; that daniel was not written until after the prophecies mentioned in that book had been fulfilled; that ecclesiastes was not written until the second century after christ; that solomon's song was not written by solomon; that the book of esther is of no importance; and that no one knows, or pretends to know, who were the authors of kings, samuel, chronicles, or job. and yet these same gentlemen still cling to the dogma of inspiration! it is no longer claimed that the bible is true--but _inspired_. _question_. yet the sacred volume, no matter who wrote it, is a mine of wealth to the student and the philosopher, is it not? would you have us discard it altogether? _answer_. inspiration must be abandoned, and the bible must take its place among the books of the world. it contains some good passages, a little poetry, some good sense, and some kindness; but its philosophy is frightful. in fact, if the book had never existed i think it would have been far better for mankind. it is not enough to give up the bible; that is only the beginning. the _supernatural_ must be given up. it must be admitted that nature has no master; that there never has been any interference from without; that man has received no help from heaven; and that all the prayers that have ever been uttered have died unanswered in the heedless air. the religion of the supernatural has been a curse. we want the religion of usefulness. _question_. but have you no use whatever for prayer--even in the sense of aspiration--or for faith, in the sense of confidence in the ultimate triumph of the right? _answer_. there is a difference between wishing, hoping, believing, and--knowing. we can wish without evidence or probability, and we can wish for the impossible--for what we believe can never be. we cannot hope unless there is in the mind a possibility that the thing hoped for can happen. we can believe only in accordance with evidence, and we know only that which has been demonstrated. i have no use for prayer; but i do a good deal of wishing and hoping. i hope that some time the right will triumph--that truth will gain the victory; but i have no faith in gaining the assistance of any god, or of any supernatural power. i never pray. _question_. however fully materialism, as a philosophy, may accord with the merely human _reason_, is it not wholly antagonistic to the instinctive faculties of the mind? _answer_. human reason is the final arbiter. any system that does not commend itself to the reason must fall. i do not know exactly what you mean by _materialism_. i do not know what matter is. i am satisfied, however, that without matter there can be no force, no life, no thought, no reason. it seems to me that mind is a form of force, and force cannot exist apart from matter. if it is said that god created the universe, then there must have been a time when he commenced to create. if at that time there was nothing in existence but himself, how could he have exerted any force? force cannot be exerted except in opposition to force. if god was the only existence, force could not have been exerted. _question_. but don't you think, colonel, that the materialistic philosophy, even in the light of your own interpretation, is essentially pessimistic? _answer_. i do not consider it so. i believe that the pessimists and the optimists are both right. this is the worst possible world, and this is the best possible world--because it is as it must be. the present is the child, and the necessary child, of all the past. _question_. what have you to say concerning the operations of the society for psychical research? do not its facts and conclusions prove, if not immortality, at least the continuity of life beyond the grave? are the millions of spiritualists deluded? _answer_. of course i have heard and read a great deal about the doings of the society; so, i have some knowledge as to what is claimed by spiritualists, by theosophists, and by all other believers in what are called "spiritual manifestations." thousands of wonderful tings have been established by what is called "evidence" --the testimony of good men and women. i have seen things done that i could not explain, both by mediums and magicians. i also know that it is easy to deceive the senses, and that the old saying "that seeing is believing" is subject to many exceptions. i am perfectly satisfied that there is, and can be, no force without matter; that everything that is--all phenomena--all actions and thoughts, all exhibitions of force, have a material basis--that nothing exists,--ever did, or ever will exist, apart from matter. so i am satisfied that no matter ever existed, or ever will, apart from force. we think with the same force with which we walk. for every action and for every thought, we draw upon the store of force that we have gained from air and food. we create no force; we borrow it all. as force cannot exist apart from matter, it must be used _with_ matter. it travels only on material roads. it is impossible to convey a thought to another without the assistance of matter. no one can conceive of the use of one of our senses without substance. no one can conceive of a thought in the absence of the senses. with these conclusions in my mind--in my brain--i have not the slightest confidence in "spiritual manifestations," and do not believe that any message has ever been received from the dead. the testimony that i have heard--that i have read--coming even from men of science--has not the slightest weight with me. i do not pretend to see beyond the grave. i do not say that man is, or is not, immortal. all i say is that there is no evidence that we live again, and no demonstration that we do not. it is better ignorantly to hope than dishonestly to affirm. _question_. and what do you think of the modern development of metaphysics--as expressed outside of the emotional and semi- ecclesiastical schools? i refer especially to the power of mind in the curing of disease--as demonstrated by scores of drugless healers. _answer_. i have no doubt that the condition of the mind has some effect upon the health. the blood, the heart, the lungs answer-- respond to--emotion. there is no mind without body, and the body is affected by thought--by passion, by cheerfulness, by depression. still, i have not the slightest confidence in what is called "mind cure." i do not believe that thought, or any set of ideas, can cure a cancer, or prevent the hair from falling out, or remove a tumor, or even freckles. at the same time, i admit that cheerfulness is good and depression bad. but i have no confidence in what you call "drugless healers." if the stomach is sour, soda is better than thinking. if one is in great pain, opium will beat meditation. i am a believer in what you call "drugs," and when i am sick i send for a physician. i have no confidence in the supernatural. magic is not medicine. _question_. one great object of this movement, is to make religion scientific--an aid to intellectual as well as spiritual progress. is it not thus to be encouraged, and destined to succeed--even though it prove the reality and supremacy of the spirit and the secondary importance of the flesh? _answer_. when religion becomes scientific, it ceases to be religion and becomes science. religion is not intellectual--it is emotional. it does not appeal to the reason. the founder of a religion has always said: "let him that hath ears to hear, hear!" no founder has said: "let him that hath brains to think, think!" besides, we need not trouble ourselves about "spirit" and "flesh." we know that we know of no spirit--without flesh. we have no evidence that spirit ever did or ever will exist apart from flesh. such existence is absolutely inconceivable. if we are going to construct what you call a "religion," it must be founded on observed and known facts. theories, to be of value, must be in accord with all the facts that are known; otherwise they are worthless. we need not try to get back of facts or behind the truth. the _why_ will forever elude us. you cannot move your hand quickly enough to grasp your image back of the mirror. --_mind_, new york, march, . this century's glories. the laurel of the nineteenth century is on darwin's brow. this century has been the greatest of all. the inventions, the discoveries, the victories on the fields of thought, the advances in nearly every direction of human effort are without parallel in human history. in only two directions have the achievements of this century been excelled. the marbles of greece have not been equalled. they still occupy the niches dedicated to perfection. they sculptors of our century stand before the miracles of the greeks in impotent wonder. they cannot even copy. they cannot give the breath of life to stone and make the marble feel and think. the plays of shakespeare have never been approached. he reached the summit, filled the horizon. in the direction of the dramatic, the poetic, the human mind, in my judgment, in shakespeare's plays reached its limit. the field was harvested, all the secrets of the heart were told. the buds of all hopes blossomed, all seas were crossed and all the shores were touched. with these two exceptions, the grecian marbles and the shakespeare plays, the nineteenth century has produced more for the benefit of man than all the centuries of the past. in this century, in one direction, i think the mind has reached the limit. i do not believe the music of wagner will ever be excelled. he changed all passions, longing, memories and aspirations into tones, and with subtle harmonies wove tapestries of sound, whereon were pictured the past and future, the history and prophecy of the human heart. of course copernicus, galileo, newton and kepler laid the foundations of astronomy. it may be that the three laws of kepler mark the highest point in that direction that the mind has reached. in the other centuries there is now and then a peak, but through ours there runs a mountain range with alp on alp--the steamship that has conquered all the seas; the railway, with its steeds of steel with breath of flame, covers the land; the cables and telegraphs, along which lightning is the carrier of thought, have made the nations neighbors and brought the world to every home; the making of paper from wood, the printing presses that made it possible to give the history of the human race each day; the reapers, mowers and threshers that superseded the cradles, scythes and flails; the lighting of streets and houses with gas and incandescent lamps, changing night into day; the invention of matches that made fire the companion of man; the process of making steel, invented by bessemer, saving for the world hundreds of millions a year; the discovery of anesthetics, changing pain to happy dreams and making surgery a science; the spectrum analysis, that told us the secrets of the suns; the telephone, that transports speech, uniting lips and ears; the phonograph, that holds in dots and marks the echoes of our words; the marvelous machines that spin and weave, that manufacture the countless things of use, the marvelous machines, whose wheels and levers seem to think; the discoveries in chemistry, the wave theory of light, the indestructibility of matter and force; the discovery of microbes and bacilli, so that now the plague can be stayed without the assistance of priests. the art of photography became known, the sun became an artist, gave us the faces of our friends, copies of the great paintings and statues, pictures of the world's wonders, and enriched the eyes of poverty with the spoil of travel, the wealth of art. the cell theory was advanced, embryology was studied and science entered the secret house of life. the biologists, guided by fossil forms, followed the paths of life from protoplasm up to man. then came darwin with the "origin of species," "natural selection," and the "survival of the fittest." from his brain there came a flood of light. the old theories grew foolish and absurd. the temple of every science was rebuilt. that which had been called philosophy became childish superstition. the prison doors were opened and millions of convicts, of unconscious slaves, roved with joy over the fenceless fields of freedom. darwin and haeckel and huxley and their fellow-workers filled the night of ignorance with the glittering stars of truth. this is darwin's victory. he gained the greatest victory, the grandest triumph. the laurel of the nineteenth century is on his brow. _question_. how does the literature of to-day compare with that of the first half of the century, in your opinion? _answer_. there is now no poet of laughter and tears, of comedy and pathos, the equal of hood. there is none with the subtle delicacy, the aerial footstep, the flame-like motion of shelley; none with the amplitude, sweep and passion, with the strength and beauty, the courage and royal recklessness of byron. the novelists of our day are not the equals of dickens. in my judgment, dickens wrote the greatest of all novels. "the tale of two cities" is the supreme work of fiction. its philosophy is perfect. the characters stand out like living statues. in its pages you find the blood and flame, the ferocity and self-sacrifice of the french revolution. in the bosom of the vengeance is the heart of the horror. in , north tower, sits one whom sorrow drove beyond the verge, rescued from death by insanity, and we see the spirit of dr. manette tremblingly cross the great gulf that lies between the night of dreams and the blessed day, where things are as they seem, as a tress of golden hair, while on his hands and cheeks fall lucie's blessed tears. the story is filled with lights and shadows, with the tragic and grotesque. while the woman knits, while the heads fall, jerry cruncher gnaws his rusty nails and his poor wife "flops" against his business, and prim miss pross, who in the desperation and terror of love held mme. defarge in her arms and who in the flash and crash found that her burden was dead, is drawn by the hand of a master. and what shall i say of sidney carton? of his last walk? of his last ride, holding the poor girl by the hand? is there a more wonderful character in all the realm of fiction? sidney carton, the perfect lover, going to his death for the love of one who loves another. to me the three greatest novels are "the tale of two cities," by dickens, "les miserables," by hugo, and "ariadne," by ouida. "les miserables" is full of faults and perfections. the tragic is sometimes pushed to the grotesque, but from the depths it brings the pearls of truth. a convict becomes holier than the saint, a prostitute purer than the nun. this book fills the gutter with the glory of heaven, while the waters of the sewer reflect the stars. in "ariadne" you find the aroma of all art. it is a classic dream. and there, too, you find the hot blood of full and ample life. ouida is the greatest living writer of fiction. some of her books i do not like. if you wish to know what ouida really is, read "wanda," "the dog of flanders," "the leaf in a storm." in these you will hear the beating of her heart. most of the novelists of our time write good stories. they are ingenious, the characters are well drawn, but they lack life, energy. they do not appear to act for themselves, impelled by inner force. they seem to be pushed and pulled. the same may be said of the poets. tennyson belongs to the latter half of our century. he was undoubtedly a great writer. he had no flame or storm, no tidal wave, nothing volcanic. he never overflowed the banks. he wrote nothing as intense, as noble and pathetic as the "prisoner of chillon;" nothing as purely poetic as "the skylark;" nothing as perfect as the "grecian urn," and yet he was one of the greatest of poets. viewed from all sides he was far greater than shelley, far nobler than keats. in a few poems shelley reached almost the perfect, but many are weak, feeble, fragmentary, almost meaningless. so keats in three poems reached a great height--in "st. agnes' eve," "the grecian urn," and "the nightingale"--but most of his poetry is insipid, without thought, beauty or sincerity. we have had some poets ourselves. emerson wrote many poetic and philosophic lines. he never violated any rule. he kept his passions under control and generally "kept off the grass." but he uttered some great and splendid truths and sowed countless seeds of suggestion. when we remember that he came of a line of new england preachers we are amazed at the breadth, the depth and the freedom of his thought. walt whitman wrote a few great poems, elemental, natural--poems that seem to be a part of nature, ample as the sky, having the rhythm of the tides, the swing of a planet. whitcomb riley has written poems of hearth and home, of love and labor worthy of robert burns. he is the sweetest, strongest singer in our country and i do not know his equal in any land. but when we compare the literature of the first half of this century with that of the last, we are compelled to say that the last, taken as a whole, is best. think of the volumes that science has given to the world. in the first half of this century, sermons, orthodox sermons, were published and read. now reading sermons is one of the lost habits. taken as a whole, the literature of the latter half of our century is better than the first. i like the essays of prof. clifford. they are so clear, so logical that they are poetic. herbert spencer is not simply instructive, he is charming. he is full of true imagination. he is not the slave of imagination. imagination is his servant. huxley wrote like a trained swordsman. his thrusts were never parried. he had superb courage. he never apologized for having an opinion. there was never on his soul the stain of evasion. he was as candid as the truth. haeckel is a great writer because he reveres a fact, and would not for his life deny or misinterpret one. he tells what he knows with the candor of a child and defends his conclusions like a scientist, a philosopher. he stands next to darwin. coming back to fiction and poetry, i have great admiration for edgar fawcett. there is in his poetry thought, beauty and philosophy. he has the courage of his thought. he knows our language, the energy of verbs, the color of adjectives. he is in the highest sense an artist. _question_. what do you think of hall caine's recent efforts to bring about a closer union between the stage and pulpit? _answer_. of course, i am not certain as to the intentions of mr. caine. i saw "the christian," and it did not seem to me that the author was trying to catch the clergy. there is certainly nothing in the play calculated to please the pulpit. there is a clergyman who is pious and heartless. john storm is the only christian, and he is crazy. when glory accepts him at last, you not only feel, but you know she has acted the fool. the lord in the piece is a dog, and the real gentleman is the chap that runs the music hall. how the play can please the pulpit i do not see. storm's whole career is a failure. his followers turn on him like wild beasts. his religion is a divine and diabolical dream. with him murder is one of the means of salvation. mr. caine has struck christianity a stinging blow between the eyes. he has put two preachers on the stage, one a heartless hypocrite and the other a madman. certainly i am not prejudiced in favor of christianity, and yet i enjoyed the play. if mr. caine says he is trying to bring the stage and the pulpit together, then he is a humorist, with the humor of rabelais. _question_. what do recent exhibitions in this city, of scenes from the life of christ, indicate with regard to the tendencies of modern art? _answer_. nothing. some artists love the sombre, the melancholy, the hopeless. they enjoy painting the bowed form, the tear-filled eyes. to them grief is a festival. there are people who find pleasure in funerals. they love to watch the mourners. the falling clods make music. they love the silence, the heavy odors, the sorrowful hymns and the preacher's remarks. the feelings of such people do not indicate the general trend of the human mind. even a poor artist may hope for success if he represents something in which many millions are deeply interested, around which their emotions cling like vines. a man need not be an orator to make a patriotic speech, a speech that flatters his audience. so, an artist need not be great in order to satisfy, if his subject appeals to the prejudice of those who look at his pictures. i have never seen a good painting of christ. all the christs that i have seen lack strength and character. they look weak and despairing. they are all unhealthy. they have the attitude of apology, the sickly smile of non-resistance. i have never seen an heroic, serene and triumphant christ. to tell the truth, i never saw a great religious picture. they lack sincerity. all the angels look almost idiotic. in their eyes is no thought, only the innocence of ignorance. i think that art is leaving the celestial, the angelic, and is getting in love with the natural, the human. troyon put more genius in the representation of cattle than angelo and raphael did in angels. no picture has been painted of heaven that is as beautiful as a landscape by corot. the aim of art is to represent the realities, the highest and noblest, the most beautiful. the greeks did not try to make men like gods, but they made gods like men. so that great artists of our day go to nature. _question_. is it not strange that, with one exception, the most notable operas written since wagner are by italian composers instead of german? _answer_. for many years german musicians insisted that wagner was not a composer. they declared that he produced only a succession of discordant noises. i account for this by the fact that the music of wagner was not german. his countrymen could not understand it. they had to be educated. there was no orchestra in germany that could really play "tristan and isolde." its eloquence, its pathos, its shoreless passion was beyond them. there is no reason to suppose that germany is to produce another wagner. is england expected to give us another shakespeare? --_the sun_, new york, march , . capital punishment and the whipping-post. _question_. what do you think of governor roosevelt's decision in the case of mrs. place? _answer_. i think the refusal of governor roosevelt to commute the sentence of mrs. place is a disgrace to the state. what a spectacle of man killing a woman--taking a poor, pallid, frightened woman, strapping her to a chair and then arranging the apparatus so she can be shocked to death. many call this a christian country. a good many people who believe in hell would naturally feel it their duty to kill a wretched, insane woman. society has a right to protect itself, but this can be done by imprisonment, and it is more humane to put a criminal in a cell than in a grave. capital punishment degrades and hardens a community and it is a work of savagery. it is savagery. capital punishment does not prevent murder, but sets an example--an example by the state--that is followed by its citizens. the state murders its enemies and the citizen murders his. any punishment that degrades the punished, must necessarily degrade the one inflicting the punishment. no punishment should be inflicted by a human being that could not be inflicted by a gentleman. for instance, take the whipping-post. some people are in favor of flogging because they say that some offences are of such a frightful nature that flogging is the only punishment. they forget that the punishment must be inflicted by somebody, and that somebody is a low and contemptible cur. i understand that john g. shortall, president of the humane society of illinois, has had a bill introduced into the legislature of the state for the establishment of the whipping-post. the shadow of that post would disgrace and darken the whole state. nothing could be more infamous, and yet this man is president of the humane society. now, the question arises, what is humane about this society? certainly not its president. undoubtedly he is sincere. certainly no man would take that position unless he was sincere. nobody deliberately pretends to be bad, but the idea of his being president of the humane society is simply preposterous. with his idea about the whipping-post he might join a society of hyenas for the cultivation of ferocity, for certainly nothing short of that would do justice to his bill. i have too much confidence in the legislators of that state, and maybe my confidence rests in the fact that i do not know them, to think that the passage of such a bill is possible. if it were passed i think i would be justified in using the language of the old marylander, who said, "i have lived in maryland fifty years, but i have never counted them, and my hope is, that god won't." _question_. what did you think of the late joseph medill? _answer_. i was not very well acquainted with mr. medill. i had a good many conversations with him, and i was quite familiar with his work. i regard him as the greatest editor of the northwestern states and i am not sure that there was a greater one in the country. he was one of the builders of the republican party. he was on the right side of the great question of liberty. he was a man of strong likes and i may say dislikes. he never surrendered his personality. the atom called joseph medill was never lost in the aggregation known as the republican party. he was true to that party when it was true to him. as a rule he traveled a road of his own and he never seemed to have any doubt about where the road led. i think that he was an exceedingly useful man. i think the only true religion is usefulness. he was a very strong writer, and when touched by friendship for a man, or a cause, he occasionally wrote very great paragraphs, and paragraphs full of force and most admirably expressed. --_the tribune_, chicago, march , . expansion and trusts.* [* this was colonel ingersoll's last interview.] i am an expansionist. the country has the land hunger and expansion is popular. i want all we can honestly get. but i do not want the philippines unless the filipinos want us, and i feel exactly the same about the cubans. we paid twenty millions of dollars to spain for the philippine islands, and we knew that spain had no title to them. the question with me is not one of trade or convenience; it is a question of right or wrong. i think the best patriot is the man who wants his country to do right. the philippines would be a very valuable possession to us, in view of their proximity to china. but, however desirable they may be, that cuts no figure. we must do right. we must act nobly toward the filipinos, whether we get the islands or not. i would like to see peace between us and the filipinos; peace honorable to both; peace based on reason instead of force. if control had been given to dewey, if miles had been sent to manila, i do not believe that a shot would have been fired at the filipinos, and that they would have welcomed the american flag. _question_. although you are not in favor of taking the philippines by force, how do you regard the administration in its conduct of the war? _answer_. they have made many mistakes at washington, and they are still making many. if it has been decided to conquer the filipinos, then conquer them at once. let the struggle not be drawn out and the drops of blood multiplied. the republican party is being weakened by inaction at the capital. if the war is not ended shortly, the party in power will feel the evil effects at the presidential election. _question_. in what light do you regard the philippines as an addition to the territory of the united states? _answer_. probably in the future, and possibly in the near future, the value of the islands to this country could hardly be calculated. the division of china which is bound to come, will open a market of four hundred millions of people. naturally a possession close to the open doors of the east would be of an almost incalculable value to this country. it might perhaps take a long time to teach the chinese that they need our products. but suppose that the chinese came to look upon wheat in the same light that other people look upon wheat and its product, bread? what an immense amount of grain it would take to feed four hundred million hungry chinamen! the same would be the case with the rest of our products. so you will perhaps agree with me in my view of the immense value of the islands if they could but be obtained by honorable means. _question_. if the democratic party makes anti-imperialism the prominent plank in its platform, what effect will it have on the party's chance for success? _answer_. anti-imperialism, as the democratic battle-cry, would greatly weaken a party already very weak. it is the most unpopular issue of the day. the people want expansion. the country is infected with patriotic enthusiasm. the party that tries to resist the tidal wave will be swept away. anybody who looks can see. let a band at any of the summer resorts or at the suburban breathing spots play a patriotic air. the listeners are electrified, and they rise and off go their hats when "the star-spangled banner" is struck up. imperialism cannot be fought with success. _question_. will the democratic party have a strong issue in its anti-trust cry? _answer_. in my opinion, both parties will nail anti-trust planks in their platforms. but this talk is all bosh with both parties. neither one is honest in its cry against trusts. the one making the more noise in this direction may get the votes of some unthinking persons, but every one who is capable of reading and digesting what he reads, knows full well that the leaders of neither party are sincere and honest in their demonstrations against the trusts. why should the democratic party lay claim to any anti-trust glory? is it not a republican administration that is at present investigating the alleged evils of trusts? --_the north american_, philadelphia, june , . sir humphrey gilbert's voyage to newfoundland by edward hayes preparer's note this text is one of the items included in voyages and travels: ancient and modern and was prepared from a edition, published by p f collier & son company, new york. introductory note sir humphrey gilbert, the founder of the first english colony in north america, was born about , the son of a devonshire gentleman, whose widow afterward married the father of sir walter raleigh. he was educated at eton and oxford, served under sir philip sidney's father in ireland, and fought for the netherlands against spain. after his return he composed a pamphlet urging the search for a northwest passage to cathay, which led to frobisher's license for his explorations to that end. in gilbert obtained from queen elizabeth the charter he had long sought, to plant a colony in north america. his first attempt failed, and cost him his whole fortune; but, after further service in ireland, he sailed again in for newfoundland. in the august of that year he took possession of the harbor of st. john and founded his colony, but on the return voyage he went down with his ship in a storm south of the azores. the following narrative is an account of this last voyage of gilbert's, told by edward hayes, commander of "the golden hind," the only one to reach england of the three ships which set out from newfoundland with gilbert. the settlement at st. john was viewed by its promoter as merely the beginning of a scheme for ousting spain from america in favor of england. the plan did not progress as he hoped; but after long delays, and under far other impulses than gilbert ever thought of, much of his dream was realized. sir humphrey gilbert's voyage to newfoundland a report of the voyage and success thereof, attempted in the year of our lord , by sir humphrey gilbert, knight, with other gentlemen assisting him in that action, intended to discover and to plant christian inhabitants in place convenient, upon those large and ample countries extended northward from the cape of florida, lying under very temperate climes, esteemed fertile and rich in minerals, yet not in the actual possession of any christian prince. written by mr. edward hayes, gentleman, and principal actor in the same voyage,[*] who alone continued unto the end, and, by god's special assistance, returned home with his retinue safe and entire. [*] hayes was captain and owner of the _golden hind_, gilbert's rear-admiral. many voyages have been pretended, yet hitherto never any thoroughly accomplished by our nation, of exact discovery into the bowels of those main, ample, and vast countries extended infinitely into the north from thirty degrees, or rather from twenty-five degrees, of septentrional latitude, neither hath a right way been taken of planting a christian habitation and regiment (government) upon the same, as well may appear both by the little we yet do actually possess therein, and by our ignorance of the riches and secrets within those lands, which unto this day we know chiefly by the travel and report of other nations, and most of the french, who albeit they cannot challenge such right and interest unto the said countries as we, neither these many years have had opportunity nor means so great to discover and to plant, being vexed with the calamities of intestine wars, as we have had by the inestimable benefit of our long and happy peace, yet have they both ways performed more, and had long since attained a sure possession and settled government of many provinces in those northerly parts of _america_, if their many attempts into those foreign and remote lands had not been impeached by their garboils at home. the first discovery of these coasts, never heard of before, was well begun by john cabot the father and sebastian his son, an englishman born, who were the first finders out of all that great tract of land stretching from the cape of florida, into those islands which we now call the newfoundland; all which they brought and annexed unto the crown of england. since when, if with like diligence the search of inland countries had been followed, as the discovery upon the coast and outparts thereof was performed by those two men, no doubt her majesty's territories and revenue had been mightily enlarged and advanced by this day; and, which is more, the seed of christian religion had been sowed amongst those pagans, which by this time might have brought forth a most plentiful harvest and copious congregation of christians; which must be the chief intent of such as shall make any attempt that way; or else whatsoever is builded upon other foundation shall never obtain happy success nor continuance. and although we cannot precisely judge (which only belongeth to god) what have been the humours of men stirred up to great attempts of discovering and planting in those remote countries, yet the events do shew that either god's cause hath not been chiefly preferred by them, or else god hath not permitted so abundant grace as the light of his word and knowledge of him to be yet revealed unto those infidels before the appointed time. but most assuredly, the only cause of religion hitherto hath kept back, and will also bring forward at the time assigned by god, an effectual and complete discovery and possession by christians both of those ample countries and the riches within them hitherto concealed; whereof, notwithstanding, god in his wisdom hath permitted to be revealed from time to time a certain obscure and misty knowledge, by little and little to allure the minds of men that way, which else will be dull enough in the zeal of his cause, and thereby to prepare us unto a readiness for the execution of his will, against the due time ordained of calling those pagans unto christianity. in the meanwhile it behoveth every man of great calling, in whom is any instinct of inclination unto this attempt, to examine his own motions, which, if the same proceed of ambition or avarice, he may assure himself it cometh not of god, and therefore cannot have confidence of god's protection and assistance against the violence (else irresistible) both of sea and infinite perils upon the land; whom god yet may use as an instrument to further his cause and glory some way, but not to build upon so bad a foundation. otherwise, if his motives be derived from a virtuous and heroical mind, preferring chiefly the honour of god, compassion of poor infidels captived by the devil, tyrannizing in most wonderful and dreadful manner over their bodies and souls; advancement of his honest and well-disposed countrymen, willing to accompany him in such honourable actions; relief of sundry people within this realm distressed; all these be honourable purposes, imitating the nature of the munificent god, wherewith he is well pleased, who will assist such an actor beyond expectation of many. and the same, who feeleth this inclination in himself, by all likelihood may hope or rather confidently repose in the preordinance of god, that in this last age of the world (or likely never) the time is complete of receiving also these gentiles into his mercy, and that god will raise him an instrument to effect the same; it seeming probable by event of precedent attempts made by the spaniards and french sundry times, that the countries lying north of florida god hath reserved the same to be reduced into christian civility by the english nation. for not long after that christopher columbus had discovered the islands and continent of the west indies for spain, john and sebastian cabot made discovery also of the rest from florida northwards to the behoof of england. and whensoever afterwards the spaniards, very prosperous in all their southern discoveries, did attempt anything into florida and those regions inclining towards the north, they proved most unhappy, and were at length discouraged utterly by the hard and lamentable success of many both religious and valiant in arms, endeavouring to bring those northerly regions also under the spanish jurisdiction, as if god had prescribed limits unto the spanish nation which they might not exceed; as by their own gests recorded may be aptly gathered. the french, as they can pretend less title unto these northern parts than the spaniard, by how much the spaniard made the first discovery of the same continent so far northward as unto florida, and the french did but review that before discovered by the english nation, usurping upon our right, and imposing names upon countries, rivers, bays, capes, or headlands as if they had been the first finders of those coasts; which injury we offered not unto the spaniards, but left off to discover when we approached the spanish limits; even so god hath not hitherto permitted them to establish a possession permanent upon another's right, notwithstanding their manifold attempts, in which the issue hath been no less tragical than that of the spaniards, as by their own reports is extant. then, seeing the english nation only hath right unto these countries of america from the cape of florida northward by the privilege of first discovery, unto which cabot was authorised by regal authority, and set forth by the expense of our late famous king henry the seventh; which right also seemeth strongly defended on our behalf by the powerful hand of almighty god withstanding the enterprises of other nations; it may greatly encourage us upon so just ground, as is our right, and upon so sacred an intent, as to plant religion (our right and intent being meet foundations for the same), to prosecute effectually the full possession of those so ample and pleasant countries appertaining unto the crown of england; the same, as is to be conjectured by infallible arguments of the world's end approaching, being now arrived unto the time of god prescribed of their vocation, if ever their calling unto the knowledge of god may be expected. which also is very probable by the revolution and course of god's word and religion, which from the beginning hath moved from the east towards, and at last unto, the west, where it is like to end, unless the same begin again where it did in the east, which were to expect a like world again. but we are assured of the contrary by the prophecy of christ, whereby we gather that after his word preached throughout the world shall be the end. and as the gospel when it descended westward began in the south, and afterward begun in the south countries of america, no less hope may be gathered that it will also spread into the north. these considerations may help to suppress all dreads rising of hard events in attempts made this way by other nations, as also of the heavy success and issue in the late enterprise made by a worthy gentleman our countryman, sir humfrey gilbert, knight, who was the first of our nations that carried people to erect an habitation and government in those northerly countries of america. about which albeit he had consumed much substance, and lost his life at last, his people also perishing for the most part: yet the mystery thereof we must leave unto god, and judge charitably both of the cause, which was just in all pretence, and of the person, who was very zealous in prosecuting the same, deserving honourable remembrance for his good mind and expense of life in so virtuous an enterprise. whereby nevertheless, lest any man should be dismayed by example of other folks' calamity, and misdeem that god doth resist all attempts intended that way, i thought good, so far as myself was an eye-witness, to deliver the circumstance and manner of our proceedings in that action; in which the gentleman was so unfortunately encumbered with wants, and worse matched with many ill-disposed people, that his rare judgment and regiment premeditated for those affairs was subjected to tolerate abuses, and in sundry extremities to hold on a course more to uphold credit than likely in his own conceit happily to succeed. the issue of such actions, being always miserable, not guided by god, who abhorreth confusion and disorder, hath left this for admonition, being the first attempt by our nation to plant, unto such as shall take the same cause in hand hereafter, not to be discouraged from it; but to make men well advised how they handle his so high and excellent matters, as the carriage is of his word into those very mighty and vast countries. an action doubtless not to be intermeddled with base purposes, as many have made the same but a colour to shadow actions otherwise scarce justifiable; which doth excite god's heavy judgments in the end, to the terrifying of weak minds from the cause, without pondering his just proceedings; and doth also incense foreign princes against our attempts, how just soever, who cannot but deem the sequel very dangerous unto their state (if in those parts we should grow to strength), seeing the very beginnings are entered with spoil. and with this admonition denounced upon zeal towards god's cause, also towards those in whom appeareth disposition honourable unto this action of planting christian people and religion in those remote and barbarous nations of america (unto whom i wish all happiness), i will now proceed to make relations briefly, yet particularly, of our voyage undertaken with sir humfrey gilbert, begun, continued, and ended adversely. when first sir humfrey gilbert undertook the western discovery of america, and had procured from her majesty a very large commission to inhabit and possess at his choice all remote and heathen lands not in the actual possession of any christian prince, the same commission exemplified with many privileges, such as in his discretion he might demand, very many gentlemen of good estimation drew unto him, to associate him in so commendable an enterprise, so that the preparation was expected to grow unto a puissant fleet, able to encounter a king's power by sea. nevertheless, amongst a multitude of voluntary men, their dispositions were diverse, which bred a jar, and made a division in the end, to the confusion of that attempt even before the same was begun. and when the shipping was in a manner prepared, and men ready upon the coast to go aboard, at that time some brake consort, and followed courses degenerating from the voyage before pretended. others failed of their promises contracted, and the greater number were dispersed, leaving the general with few of his assured friends, with whom he adventured to sea; where, having tasted of no less misfortune, he was shortly driven to retire home with the loss of a tall ship and, more to his grief, of a valiant gentleman, miles morgan. having buried, only in a preparation, a great mass of substance, whereby his estate was impaired, his mind yet not dismayed, he continued his former designment, and purposed to revive this enterprise, good occasion serving. upon which determination standing long without means to satisfy his desire, at last he granted certain assignments out of his commission to sundry persons of mean ability, desiring the privilege of his grant, to plant and fortify in the north parts of america about the river of canada; to whom if god gave good success in the north parts (where then no matter of moment was expected), the same, he thought, would greatly advance the hope of the south, and be a furtherance unto his determination that way. and the worst that might happen in that course might be excused, without prejudice unto him, by the former supposition that those north regions were of no regard. but chiefly, a possession taken in any parcel of those heathen countries, by virtue of his grant, did invest him of territories extending every way leagues; which induced sir humfrey gilbert to make those assignments, desiring greatly their expedition, because his commission did expire after six years, if in that space he had not gotten actual possession. time went away without anything done by his assigns; insomuch that at last he must resolve himself to take a voyage in person, for more assurance to keep his patent in force, which then almost was expired or within two years. in furtherance of his determination, amongst others, sir george peckham, knight, shewed himself very zealous to the action, greatly aiding him both by his advice and in the charge. other gentlemen to their ability joined unto him, resolving to adventure their substance and lives in the same cause. who beginning their preparation from that time, both of shipping, munition, victual, men, and things requisite, some of them continued the charge two years complete without intermission. such were the difficulties and cross accidents opposing these proceedings, which took not end in less than two years; many of which circumstances i will omit. the last place of our assembly, before we left the coast of england, was in cawset bay, near unto plymouth, then resolved to put unto the sea with shipping and provision such as we had, before our store yet remaining, but chiefly the time and season of the year, were too far spent. nevertheless, it seemed first very doubtful by what way to shape our course, and to begin our intended discovery, either from the south northward or from the north southward. the first, that is, beginning south, without all controversy was the likeliest, wherein we were assured to have commodity of the current which from the cape of florida setteth northward, and would have furthered greatly our navigation, discovering from the foresaid cape along towards cape breton, and all those lands lying to the north. also, the year being far spent, and arrived to the month of june, we were not to spend time in northerly courses, where we should be surprised with timely winter, but to covet the south, which we had space enough then to have attained, and there might with less detriment have wintered that season, being more mild and short in the south than in the north, where winter is both long and rigorous. these and other like reasons alleged in favour of the southern course first to be taken, to the contrary was inferred that forasmuch as both our victuals and many other needful provisions were diminished and left insufficient for so long a voyage and for the wintering of so many men, we ought to shape a course most likely to minister supply; and that was to take the newfoundland in our way, which was but leagues from our english coast. where being usually at that time of the year, and until the fine of august, a multitude of ships repairing thither for fish, we should be relieved abundantly with many necessaries, which, after the fishing ended, they might well spare and freely impart unto us. not staying long upon that newland coast, we might proceed southward, and follow still the sun, until we arrived at places more temperate to our content. by which reasons we were the rather induced to follow this northerly course, obeying unto necessity, which must be supplied. otherwise, we doubted that sudden approach of winter, bringing with it continual fog and thick mists, tempest and rage of weather, also contrariety of currents descending from the cape of florida unto cape breton and cape race, would fall out to be great and irresistible impediments unto our further proceeding for that year, and compel us to winter in those north and cold regions. wherefore, suppressing all objections to the contrary, we resolved to begin our course northward, and to follow, directly as we might, the trade way unto newfoundland; from whence, after our refreshing and reparation of wants, we intended without delay, by god's permission, to proceed into the south, not omitting any river or bay which in all that large tract of land appeared to our view worthy of search. immediately we agreed upon the manner of our course and orders to be observed in our voyage; which were delivered in writing, unto the captains and masters of every ship a copy, in manner following. every ship had delivered two bullets or scrolls, the one sealed up in wax, the other left open; in both which were included several watchwords. that open, serving upon our own coast or the coast of ireland; the other sealed, was promised on all hands not to be broken up until we should be clear of the irish coast; which from thenceforth did serve until we arrived and met all together in such harbours of the newfoundland as were agreed for our rendezvous. the said watchwords being requisite to know our consorts whensoever by night, either by fortune of weather, our fleet dispersed should come together again; or one should hail another; or if by ill watch and steerage one ship should chance to fall aboard of another in the dark. the reason of the bullet sealed was to keep secret that watchword while we were upon our own coast, lest any of the company stealing from the fleet might bewray the same; which known to an enemy, he might board us by night without mistrust, having our own watchword. orders agreed upon by the captains and masters to be observed by the fleet of sir humfrey gilbert. first, the admiral to carry his flag by day, and his light by night. . item, if the admiral shall shorten his sail by night, then to shew two lights until he be answered again by every ship shewing one light for a short time. . item, if the admiral after his shortening of sail, as aforesaid, shall make more sail again; then he to shew three lights one above another. . item, if the admiral shall happen to hull in the night, then to make a wavering light over his other light, wavering the light upon a pole. . item, if the fleet should happen to be scattered by weather, or other mishap, then so soon as one shall descry another, to hoise both topsails twice, if the weather will serve, and to strike them twice again; but if the weather serve not, then to hoise the maintopsail twice, and forthwith to strike it twice again. . item, if it shall happen a great fog to fall, then presently every ship to bear up with the admiral, if there be wind; but if it be a calm, then every ship to hull, and so to lie at hull till it clear. and if the fog do continue long, then the admiral to shoot off two pieces every evening, and every ship to answer it with one shot; and every man bearing to the ship that is to leeward so near as he may. . item, every master to give charge unto the watch to look out well, for laying aboard one of another in the night, and in fogs. . item, every evening every ship to hail the admiral, and so to fall astern him, sailing through the ocean; and being on the coast, every ship to hail him both morning and evening. . item, if any ship be in danger in any way, by leak or otherwise, then she to shoot off a piece, and presently to bring out one light; whereupon every man to bear towards her, answering her with one light for a short time, and so to put it out again; thereby to give knowledge that they have seen her token. . item, whensoever the admiral shall hang out her ensign in the main shrouds, then every man to come aboard her as a token of counsel. . item, if there happen any storm or contrary wind to the fleet after the discovery, whereby they are separated; then every ship to repair unto their last good port, there to meet again. our course _agreed upon_. the course first to be taken for the discovery is to bear directly to cape race, the most southerly cape of newfoundland; and there to harbour ourselves either in rogneux or fermous, being the first places appointed for our rendezvous, and the next harbours unto the northward of cape race: and therefore every ship separated from the fleet to repair to that place so fast as god shall permit, whether you shall fall to the southward or to the northward of it, and there to stay for the meeting of the whole fleet the space of ten days; and when you shall depart, to leave marks. beginning our course from scilly, the nearest is by west-south-west (if the wind serve) until such time as we have brought ourselves in the latitude of or degrees, because the ocean is subject much to southerly winds in june and july. then to take traverse from to degrees of latitude, if we be enforced by contrary winds; and not to go to the northward of the height of degrees of septentrional latitude by no means, if god shall not enforce the contrary; but to do your endeavour to keep in the height of degrees, so near as you can possibly, because cape race lieth about that height. note. if by contrary winds we be driven back upon the coast of england, then to repair unto scilly for a place of our assembly or meeting. if we be driven back by contrary winds that we cannot pass the coast of ireland, then the place of our assembly to be at bere haven or baltimore haven. if we shall not happen to meet at cape race, then the place of rendezvous to be at cape breton, or the nearest harbour unto the westward of cape breton. if by means of other shipping we may not safely stay there, then to rest at the very next safe port to the westward; every ship leaving their marks behind them for the more certainty of the after comers to know where to find them. the marks that every man ought to leave in such a case, were of the general's private device written by himself, sealed also in close wax, and delivered unto every ship one scroll, which was not to be opened until occasion required, whereby every man was certified what to leave for instruction of after comers; that every of us coming into any harbour or river might know who had been there, or whether any were still there up higher into the river, or departed, and which way. orders thus determined, and promises mutually given to be observed, every man withdrew himself unto his charge; the anchors being already weighed, and our ships under sail, having a soft gale of wind, we began our voyage upon tuesday, the day of june, in the year of our lord , having in our fleet (at our departure from cawset bay) these ships, whose names and burthens, with the names of the captains and masters of them, i have also inserted, as followeth:-- . the _delight_, alias the _george_, of burthen tons, was admiral; in which went the general, and william winter, captain in her and part owner, and richard clarke, master. . the bark _raleigh_, set forth by master walter raleigh, of the burthen of tons, was then vice-admiral; in which went master butler, captain, and robert davis, of bristol, master. . the _golden hind_, of burthen tons, was then rear-admiral; in which went edward hayes, captain and owner, and william cox, of limehouse, master. . the _swallow_, of burthen tons; in her was captain maurice browne. . the _squirrel_, of burthen tons; in which went captain william andrews, and one cade, master. we were in number in all about men; among whom we had of every faculty good choice, as shipwrights, masons, carpenters, smiths, and such like, requisite to such an action; also mineral men and refiners. besides, for solace of our people, and allurement of the savages, we were provided of music in good variety; not omitting the least toys, as morris-dancers, hobby-horse, and may-like conceits to delight the savage people, whom we intended to win by all fair means possible. and to that end we were indifferently furnished of all petty haberdashery wares to barter with those simple people. in this manner we set forward, departing (as hath been said) out of cawset bay the day of june, being tuesday, the weather and wind fair and good all day; but a great storm of thunder and wind fell the same night. thursday following, when we hailed one another in the evening, according to the order before specified, they signified unto us out of the vice-admiral, that both the captain, and very many of the men, were fallen sick. and about midnight the vice-admiral forsook us, notwithstanding we had the wind east, fair and good. but it was after credibly reported that they were infected with a contagious sickness, and arrived greatly distressed at plymouth; the reason i could never understand. sure i am, no cost was spared by their owner, master raleigh, in setting them forth; therefore i leave it unto god. by this time we were in degrees of latitude, not a little grieved with the loss of the most puissant ship in our fleet; after whose departure the _golden hind_ succeeded in the place of vice-admiral, and removed her flag from the mizen into the foretop. from saturday, the of june, until the , which was upon a friday, we never had fair day without fog or rain, and winds bad, much to the west-north-west, whereby we were driven southward unto degrees scarce. about this time of the year the winds are commonly west towards the newfoundland, keeping ordinarily within two points of west to the south or to the north; whereby the course thither falleth out to be long and tedious after june, which in march, april, and may, hath been performed out of england in days and less. we had wind always so scant from the west-north-west, and from west-south-west again, that our traverse was great, running south unto degrees almost, and afterwards north into degrees. also we were encumbered with much fog and mists in manner palpable, in which we could not keep so well together, but were discovered, losing the company of the _swallow_ and the _squirrel_ upon the day of july, whom we met again at several places upon the newfoundland coast the of august, as shall be declared in place convenient. saturday, the july, we might descry, not far from us, as it were mountains of ice driven upon the sea, being then in degrees, which were carried southward to the weather of us; whereby may be conjectured that some current doth set that way from the north. before we came to newfoundland, about leagues on this side, we pass the bank, which are high grounds rising within the sea and under water, yet deep enough and without danger, being commonly not less than and fathom water upon them; the same, as it were some vein of mountains within the sea, do run along and form the newfoundland, beginning northward about or degrees of latitude, and do extend into the south infinitely. the breadth of this bank is somewhere more, and somewhere less; but we found the same about ten leagues over, having sounded both on this side thereof, and the other toward newfoundland, but found no ground with almost fathom of line, both before and after we had passed the bank. the portugals, and french chiefly, have a notable trade of fishing upon this bank, where are sometimes an hundred or more sails of ships, who commonly begin the fishing in april, and have ended by july. that fish is large, always wet, having no land near to dry, and is called cod fish. during the time of fishing, a man shall know without sounding when he is upon the bank, by the incredible multitude of sea-fowl hovering over the same, to prey upon the offals and garbage of fish thrown out by fishermen, and floating upon the sea. upon tuesday, the of june we forsook the coast of england. so again on tuesday, the of july, seven weeks after, we got sight of land, being immediately embayed in the grand bay, or some other great bay; the certainty whereof we could not judge, so great haze and fog did hang upon the coast, as neither we might discern the land well, nor take the sun's height. but by our best computation we were then in the degrees of latitude. forsaking this bay and uncomfortable coast (nothing appearing unto us but hideous rocks and mountains, bare of trees, and void of any green herb) we followed the coast to the south, with weather fair and clear. we had sight of an island named penguin, of a fowl there breeding in abundance almost incredible, which cannot fly, their wings not able to carry their body, being very large (not much less than a goose) and exceeding fat, which the frenchmen use to take without difficulty upon that island, and to barrel them up with salt. but for lingering of time, we had made us there the like provision. trending this coast, we came to the island called baccalaos, being not past two leagues from the main; to the north thereof lieth cape st. francis, five leagues distant from baccalaos, between which goeth in a great bay, by the vulgar sort called the bay of conception. here we met with the _swallow_ again, whom we had lost in the fog, and all her men altered into other apparel; whereof it seemed their store was so amended, that for joy and congratulation of our meeting, they spared not to cast up into the air and overboard their caps and hats in good plenty. the captain, albeit himself was very honest and religious, yet was he not appointed of men to his humour and desert; who for the most part were such as had been by us surprised upon the narrow seas of england, being pirates, and had taken at that instant certain frenchmen laden, one bark with wines, and another with salt. both which we rescued, and took the man-of-war with all her men, which was the same ship now called the _swallow_; following still their kind so oft as, being separated from the general, they found opportunity to rob and spoil. and because god's justice did follow the same company, even to destruction, and to the overthrow also of the captain (though not consenting to their misdemeanour) i will not conceal anything that maketh to the manifestation and approbation of his judgments, for examples of others; persuaded that god more sharply took revenge upon them, and hath tolerated longer as great outrage in others, by how much these went under protection of his cause and religion, which was then pretended. therefore upon further enquiry it was known how this company met with a bark returning home after the fishing with his freight; and because the men in the _swallow_ were very near scanted of victuals, and chiefly of apparel, doubtful withal where or when to find and meet with their admiral, they besought the captain that they might go aboard this _newlander_, only to borrow what might be spared, the rather because the same was bound homeward. leave given, not without charge to deal favourably, they came aboard the fisherman, whom they rifled of tackle, sails, cables, victuals, and the men of their apparel; not sparing by torture, winding cords about their heads, to draw out else what they thought good. this done with expedition, like men skilful in such mischief, as they took their cockboat to go aboard their own ship, it was overwhelmed in the sea, and certain of these men there drowned; the rest were preserved even by those silly souls whom they had before spoiled, who saved and delivered them aboard the _swallow_. what became afterwards of the poor _newlander_, perhaps destitute of sails and furniture sufficient to carry them home, whither they had not less to run than leagues, god alone knoweth; who took vengeance not long after of the rest that escaped at this instant, to reveal the fact, and justify to the world god's judgments indicted upon them, as shall be declared in place convenient. thus after we had met with the _swallow_, we held on our course southward, until we came against the harbour called st. john, about five leagues from the former cape of st. francis, where before the entrance into the harbour, we found also the frigate or _squirrel_ lying at anchor; whom the english merchants, that were and always be admirals by turns interchangeably over the fleets of fishermen within the same harbour, would not permit to enter into the harbour. glad of so happy meeting, both of the _swallow_ and frigate in one day, being saturday, the third of august, we made ready our fights, and prepared to enter the harbour, any resistance to the contrary notwithstanding, there being within of all nations to the number of sails. but first the general despatched a boat to give them knowledge of his coming for no ill intent, having commission from her majesty for his voyage he had in hand; and immediately we followed with a slack gale, and in the very entrance, which is but narrow, not above two butts' length, the admiral fell upon a rock on the larboard side by great oversight, in that the weather was fair, the rock much above water fast by the shore, where neither went any sea-gate. but we found such readiness in the english merchants to help us in that danger, that without delay there were brought a number of boats, which towed off the ship, and cleared her of danger. having taken place convenient in the road, we let fall anchors, the captains and masters repairing aboard our admiral; whither also came immediately the masters and owners of the fishing fleet of englishmen, to understand the general's intent and cause of our arrival there. they were all satisfied when the general had shewed his commission and purpose to take possession of those lands to the behalf of the crown of england, and the advancement of the christian religion in those paganish regions, requiring but their lawful aid for repairing of his fleet, and supply of some necessaries, so far as conveniently might be afforded him, both out of that and other harbours adjoining. in lieu whereof he made offer to gratify them with any favour and privilege, which upon their better advice they should demand, the like being not to be obtained hereafter for greater price. so craving expedition of his demand, minding to proceed further south without long detention in those parts, he dismissed them, after promise given of their best endeavour to satisfy speedily his so reasonable request. the merchants with their masters departed, they caused forthwith to be discharged all the great ordnance of their fleet in token of our welcome. it was further determined that every ship of our fleet should deliver unto the merchants and masters of that harbour a note of all their wants: which done, the ships, as well english as strangers, were taxed at an easy rate to make supply. and besides, commissioners were appointed, part of our own company and part of theirs, to go into other harbours adjoining (for our english merchants command all there) to levy our provision: whereunto the portugals, above other nations, did most willingly and liberally contribute. in so much as we were presented, above our allowance, with wines, marmalades, most fine rusk or biscuit, sweet oils, and sundry delicacies. also we wanted not of fresh salmons, trouts, lobsters, and other fresh fish brought daily unto us. moreover as the manner is in their fishing, every week to choose their admiral anew, or rather they succeed in orderly course, and have weekly their admiral's feast solemnized: even so the general, captains, and masters of our fleet were continually invited and feasted. to grow short in our abundance at home the entertainment had been delightful; but after our wants and tedious passage through the ocean, it seemed more acceptable and of greater contentation, by how much the same was unexpected in that desolate corner of the world; where, at other times of the year, wild beasts and birds have only the fruition of all those countries, which now seemed a place very populous and much frequented. the next morning being sunday, and the fourth of august, the general and his company were brought on land by english merchants, who shewed unto us their accustomed walks unto a place they call the garden. but nothing appeared more than nature itself without art: who confusedly hath brought forth roses abundantly, wild, but odoriferous, and to sense very comfortable. also the like plenty of raspberries, which do grow in every place. monday following, the general had his tent set up; who, being accompanied with his own followers, summoned the merchants and masters, both english and strangers, to be present at his taking possession of those countries. before whom openly was read, and interpreted unto the strangers, his commission: by virtue whereof he took possession in the same harbour of st. john, and leagues every way, invested the queen's majesty with the title and dignity thereof, had delivered unto him, after the custom of england, a rod, and a turf of the same soil, entering possession also for him, his heirs and assigns for ever; and signified unto all men, that from that time forward, they should take the same land as a territory appertaining to the queen of england, and himself authorised under her majesty to possess and enjoy it, and to ordain laws for the government thereof, agreeable, so near as conveniently might be, unto the laws of england, under which all people coming thither hereafter, either to inhabit, or by way of traffic, should be subjected and governed. and especially at the same time for a beginning, he proposed and delivered three laws to be in force immediately. that is to say the first for religion, which in public exercise should be according to the church of england. the second, for maintenance of her majesty's right and possession of those territories, against which if any thing were attempted prejudicial, the party or parties offending should be adjudged and executed as in case of high treason, according to the laws of england. the third, if any person should utter words sounding to the dishonour of her majesty, he should lose his ears, and have his ship and goods confiscate. these contents published, obedience was promised by general voice and consent of the multitude, as well of englishmen as strangers, praying for continuance of this possession and government begun; after this, the assembly was dismissed. and afterwards were erected not far from that place the arms of england engraven in lead, and infixed upon a pillar of wood. yet further and actually to establish this possession taken in the right of her majesty, and to the behoof of sir humfrey gilbert, knight, his heirs and assigns for ever, the general granted in fee-farm divers parcels of land lying by the water-side, both in this harbour of st. john, and elsewhere, which was to the owners a great commodity, being thereby assured, by their proper inheritance, of grounds convenient to dress and to dry their fish; whereof many times before they did fail, being prevented by them that came first into the harbour. for which grounds they did covenant to pay a certain rent and service unto sir humfrey gilbert, his heirs or assigns for ever, and yearly to maintain possession of the same, by themselves or their assigns. now remained only to take in provision granted, according as every ship was taxed, which did fish upon the coast adjoining. in the meanwhile, the general appointed men unto their charge: some to repair and trim the ships, others to attend in gathering together our supply and provisions: others to search the commodities and singularities of the country, to be found by sea or land, and to make relation unto the general what either themselves could know by their own travail and experience, or by good intelligence of englishmen or strangers, who had longest frequented the same coast. also some observed the elevation of the pole, and drew plots of the country exactly graded. and by that i could gather by each man's several relation, i have drawn a brief description of the newfoundland, with the commodities by sea or land already made, and such also as are in possibility and great likelihood to be made. nevertheless the cards and plots that were drawn, with the due gradation of the harbours, bays, and capes, did perish with the admiral: wherefore in the description following, i must omit the particulars of such things. that which we do call the newfoundland, and the frenchmen _baccalaos_, is an island, or rather, after the opinion of some, it consisteth of sundry islands and broken lands, situate in the north regions of america, upon the gulf and entrance of a great river called st. lawrence in canada; into the which, navigation may be made both on the south and north side of this island. the land lieth south and north, containing in length between and miles, accounting from cape race, which is in degrees minutes, unto the grand bay in degrees, of septentrional latitude. the land round about hath very many goodly bays and harbours, safe roads for ships, the like not to be found in any part of the known world. the common opinion that is had of intemperature and extreme cold that should be in this country, as of some part it may be verified, namely the north, where i grant it is more cold than in countries of europe, which are under the same elevation: even so it cannot stand with reason and nature of the clime, that the south parts should be so intemperate as the bruit hath gone. for as the same do lie under the climes of bretagne, anjou, poictou in france, between and degrees, so can they not so much differ from the temperature of those countries: unless upon the out-coast lying open unto the ocean and sharp winds, it must indeed be subject to more cold than further within the land, where the mountains are interposed as walls and bulwarks, to defend and to resist the asperity and rigour of the sea and weather. some hold opinion that the newfoundland might be the more subject to cold, by how much it lieth high and near unto the middle region. i grant that not in newfoundland alone, but in germany, italy and afric, even under the equinoctial line, the mountains are extreme cold, and seldom uncovered of snow, in their culm and highest tops, which cometh to pass by the same reason that they are extended towards the middle region: yet in the countries lying beneath them, it is found quite contrary. even so, all hills having their descents, the valleys also and low grounds must be likewise hot or temperate, as the clime doth give in newfoundland: though i am of opinion that the sun's reflection is much cooled, and cannot be so forcible in newfoundland, nor generally throughout america, as in europe or afric: by how much the sun in his diurnal course from east to west, passeth over, for the most part, dry land and sandy countries, before he arriveth at the west of europe or afric, whereby his motion increaseth heat, with little or no qualification by moist vapours. whereas, on the contrary, he passeth from europe and afric unto american over the ocean, from whence he draweth and carrieth with him abundance of moist vapours, which do qualify and enfeeble greatly the sun's reverberation upon this country chiefly of newfoundland, being so much to the northward. nevertheless, as i said before, the cold cannot be so intolerable under the latitude of , , and , especial within land, that it should be unhabitable, as some do suppose, seeing also there are very many people more to the north by a great deal. and in these south parts there be certain beasts, ounces or leopards, and birds in like manner, which in the summer we have seen, not heard of in countries of extreme and vehement coldness. besides, as in the months of june, july, august and september, the heat is somewhat more than in england at those seasons: so men remaining upon the south parts near unto cape race, until after holland-tide (all-hallow-tide--november ), have not found the cold so extreme, nor much differing from the temperature of england. those which have arrived there after november and december have found the snow exceeding deep, whereat no marvel, considering the ground upon the coast is rough and uneven, and the snow is driven into the places most declining, as the like is to be seen with us. the like depth of snow happily shall not be found within land upon the plainer countries, which also are defended by the mountains, breaking off the violence of winds and weather. but admitting extraordinary cold in those south parts, above that with us here, it cannot be so great as in swedeland, much less in moscovia or russia: yet are the same countries very populous, and the rigour of cold is dispensed with by the commodity of stoves, warm clothing, meats and drinks: all of which need not be wanting in the newfoundland, if we had intent there to inhabit. in the south parts we found no inhabitants, which by all likelihood have abandoned those coasts, the same being so much frequented by christians; but in the north are savages altogether harmless. touching the commodities of this country, serving either for sustentation of inhabitants or for maintenance of traffic, there are and may be made divers; so that it seemeth that nature hath recompensed that only defect and incommodity of some sharp cold, by many benefits; namely, with incredible quantity, and no less variety, of kinds of fish in the sea and fresh waters, as trouts, salmons, and other fish to us unknown; also cod, which alone draweth many nations thither, and is become the most famous fishing of the world; abundance of whales, for which also is a very great trade in the bays of placentia and the grand bay, where is made train oil of the whale; herring, the largest that have been heard of, and exceeding the marstrand herring of norway; but hitherto was never benefit taken of the herring fishing. there are sundry other fish very delicate, namely, the bonito, lobsters, turbot, with others infinite not sought after; oysters having pearl but not orient in colour; i took it, by reason they were not gathered in season. concerning the inland commodities, as well to be drawn from this land, as from the exceeding large countries adjoining, there is nothing which our east and northerly countries of europe do yield, but the like also may be made in them as plentifully, by time and industry; namely, resin, pitch, tar, soap-ashes, deal-board, masts for ships, hides, furs, flax, hemp, corn, cables, cordage, linen cloth, metals, and many more. all which the countries will afford, and the soil is apt to yield. the trees for the most in those south parts are fir-trees, pine, and cypress, all yielding gum and turpentine. cherry trees bearing fruit no bigger than a small pease. also pear-trees, but fruitless. other trees of some sort to us unknown. the soil along the coast is not deep of earth, bringing forth abundantly peasen small, yet good feeding for cattle. roses passing sweet, like unto our musk roses in form; raspises; a berry which we call whorts, good and wholesome to eat. the grass and herb doth fat sheep in very short space, proved by english merchants which have carried sheep thither for fresh victual and had them raised exceeding fat in less than three weeks. peasen which our countrymen have sown in the time of may, have come up fair, and been gathered in the beginning of august, of which our general had a present acceptable for the rareness, being the first fruits coming up by art and industry in that desolate and dishabited land. lakes or pools of fresh water, both on the tops of mountains and in the valleys; in which are said to be muscles not unlike to have pearl, which i had put in trial, if by mischance falling unto me i had not been letted from that and other good experiments i was minded to make. fowl both of water and land in great plenty and diversity. all kind of green fowl; others as big as bustards, yet not the same. a great white fowl called of some a gaunt. upon the land divers sort of hawks, as falcons, and others by report. partridges most plentiful, larger than ours, grey and white of colour, and rough-footed like doves, which our men after one flight did kill with cudgels, they were so fat and unable to fly. birds, some like blackbirds, linnets, canary birds, and other very small. beasts of sundry kinds; red deer, buffles, or a beast as it seemeth by the tract and foot very large, in manner of an ox. bears, ounces or leopards, some greater and some lesser; wolves, foxes, which to the northward a little farther are black, whose fur is esteemed in some countries of europe very rich. otters, beavers, marterns; and in the opinion of most men that saw it, the general had brought unto him a sable alive, which he sent unto his brother, sir john gilbert, knight, of devonshire, but it was never delivered, as after i understood. we could not observe the hundredth part of creatures in those unhabited lands; but these mentioned may induce us to glorify the magnificent god, who hath super-abundantly replenished the earth with creatures serving for the use of man, though man hath not used the fifth part of the same, which the more doth aggravate the fault and foolish sloth in many of our nations, choosing rather to live indirectly, and very miserably to live and die within this realm pestered with inhabitants, then to adventure as becometh men, to obtain an habitation in those remote lands, in which nature very prodigally doth minister unto men's endeavours, and for art to work upon. for besides these already recounted and infinite more, the mountains generally make shew of mineral substance; iron very common, lead, and somewhere copper. i will not aver of richer metals; albeit by the circumstances following, more than hope may be conceived thereof. for amongst other charges given to enquire out the singularities of this country, the general was most curious in the search of metals, commanding the mineral-man and refiner especially to be diligent. the same was a saxon born, honest, and religious, named daniel. who after search brought at first some sort of ore, seeming rather to be iron than other metal. the next time he found ore, which with no small show of contentment he delivered unto the general, using protestation that if silver were the thing which might satisfy the general and his followers, there it was, advising him to seek no further; the peril whereof he undertook upon his life (as dear unto him as the crown of england unto her majesty, that i may use his own words) if it fell not out accordingly. myself at this instant liker to die than to live, by a mischance, could not follow this confident opinion of our refiner to my own satisfaction; but afterward demanding our general's opinion therein, and to have some part of the ore, he replied, _content yourself, i have seen enough; and were it but to satisfy my private humour, i would proceed no further. the promise unto my friends, and necessity to bring also the south countries within compass of my patent near expired, as we have already done these north parts, do only persuade me further. and touching the ore, i have sent it aboard, whereof i would have no speech to be made so long as we remain within harbour; here being both portugals, biscayans, and frenchmen, not far off, from whom must be kept any bruit or muttering of such matter. when we are at sea, proof shall be made; if it be our desire, we may return the sooner hither again._ whose answer i judged reasonable, and contenting me well; wherewith i will conclude this narration and description of the newfoundland, and proceed to the rest of our voyage, which ended tragically. while the better sort of us were seriously occupied in repairing our wants, and contriving of matters for the commodity of our voyage, others of another sort and disposition were plotting of mischief; some casting to steal away our shipping by night, watching opportunity by the general's and captains' lying on the shore; whose conspiracies discovered, they were prevented. others drew together in company, and carried away out of the harbours adjoining a ship laden with fish, setting the poor men on shore. a great many more of our people stole into the woods to hide themselves, attending time and means to return home by such shipping as daily departed from the coast. some were sick of fluxes, and many dead; and in brief, by one means or other our company was diminished, and many by the general licensed to return home. insomuch as after we had reviewed our people, resolved to see an end of our voyage, we grew scant of men to furnish all our shipping; it seemed good thereof unto the general to leave the _swallow_ with such provision as might be spared for transporting home the sick people. the captain of the _delight_ or admiral, returned into england, in whose stead was appointed captain maurice browne, before the captain of the _swallow_; who also brought with him into the _delight_ all his men of the _swallow_, which before have been noted of outrage perpetrated and committed upon fishermen there met at sea. the general made choice to go in his frigate the _squirrel_, whereof the captain also was amongst them that returned into england; the same frigate being most convenient to discover upon the coast, and to search into every harbour or creek, which a great ship could not do. therefore the frigate was prepared with her nettings and fights, and overcharged with bases and such small ordnance, more to give a show, than with judgment to foresee unto the safety of her and the men, which afterward was an occasion also of their overthrow. now having made ready our shipping, that is to say, the _delight_, the _golden hind_, and the _squirrel_, we put aboard our provision, which was wines, bread or rusk, fish wet and dry, sweet oils, besides many other, as marmalades, figs, limons barrelled, and such like. also we had other necessary provision for trimming our ships, nets and lines to fish withal, boats or pinnaces fit for discovery. in brief, we were supplied of our wants commodiously, as if we had been in a country or some city populous and plentiful of all things. we departed from this harbour of st. john's upon tuesday, the of august, which we found by exact observation to be in degrees minutes; and the next day by night we were at cape race, leagues from the same harborough. this cape lieth south-south-west from st. john's; it is a low land, being off from the cape about half a league; within the sea riseth up a rock against the point of the cape, which thereby is easily known. it is in latitude degrees minutes. under this cape we were becalmed a small time, during which we laid out hooks and lines to take cod, and drew in less than two hours fish so large and in such abundance, that many days after we fed upon no other provision. from hence we shaped our course unto the island of sablon, if conveniently it would so fall out, also directly to cape breton. sablon lieth to the seaward of cape breton about leagues, whither we were determined to go upon intelligence we had of a portugal, during our abode in st. john's, who was himself present when the portugals, above thirty years past, did put into the same island both neat and swine to breed, which were since exceedingly multiplied. this seemed unto us very happy tidings, to have in an island lying so near unto the main, which we intended to plant upon, such store of cattle, whereby we might at all times conveniently be relieved of victual, and served of store for breed. in this course we trended along the coast, which from cape race stretcheth into the north-west, making a bay which some called trepassa. then it goeth out again towards the west, and maketh a point, which with cape race lieth in manner east and west. but this point inclineth to the north, to the west of which goeth in the bay of placentia. we sent men on land to take view of the soil along this coast, whereof they made good report, and some of them had will to be planted there. they saw pease growing in great abundance everywhere. the distance between cape race and cape breton is leagues; in which navigation we spent eight days, having many times the wind indifferent good, yet could we never attain sight of any land all that time, seeing we were hindered by the current. at last we fell into such flats and dangers that hardly any of us escaped; where nevertheless we lost our admiral (the _delight_) with all the men and provisions, not knowing certainly the place. yet for inducing men of skill to make conjecture, by our course and way we held from cape race thither, that thereby the flats and dangers may be inserted in sea cards, for warning to others that may follow the same course hereafter, i have set down the best reckonings that were kept by expert men, william cox, master of the _hind_, and john paul, his mate, both of limehouse. . . . our course we held in clearing us of these flats was east-south-east, and south-east, and south, fourteen leagues, with a marvellous scant wind. upon tuesday, the of august, toward the evening, our general caused them in his frigate to sound, who found white sand at fathom, being then in latitude about degrees. wednesday, toward night, the wind came south, and we bare with the land all that night, west-north-west, contrary to the mind of master cox; nevertheless we followed the admiral, deprived of power to prevent a mischief, which by no contradiction could be brought to hold another course, alleging they could not make the ship to work better, nor to lie otherways. the evening was fair and pleasant, yet not without token of storm to ensue, and most part of this wednesday night, like the swan that singeth before her death, they in the admiral, or _delight_, continued in sounding of trumpets, with drums and fifes; also winding the cornets and hautboys, and in the end of their jollity, left with the battle and ringing of doleful knells. towards the evening also we caught in the _golden hind_ a very mighty porpoise with harping iron, having first stricken divers of them, and brought away part of their flesh sticking upon the iron, but could recover only that one. these also, passing through the ocean in herds, did portend storm. i omit to recite frivolous report by them in the frigate, of strange voices the same night, which scared some from the helm. thursday, the of august, the wind rose, and blew vehemently at south and by east, bringing withal rain and thick mist, so that we could not see a cable length before us; and betimes in the morning we were altogether run and folded in amongst flats and sands, amongst which we found shoal and deep in every three or four ships' length, after we began to sound; but first we were upon them unawares, until master cox looking out, discerned, in his judgment, white cliffs, crying _land!_ withal; though we could not afterward descry any land, it being very likely the breaking of the sea white, which seemed to be white cliffs, through the haze and thick weather. immediately tokens were given unto the _delight_, to cast about to seaward, which, being the greater ship, and of burthen tons, was yet foremost upon the breach, keeping so ill watch, that they knew not the danger, before they felt the same, too late to recover it; for presently the admiral struck aground, and has soon after her stern and hinder parts beaten in pieces; whereupon the rest (that is to say, the frigate, in which was the general, and the _golden hind_) cast about east-south-east, bearing to the south, even for our lives, into the wind's eye, because that way carried us to the seaward. making out from this danger, we sounded one while seven fathom, then five fathom, then four fathom and less, again deeper, immediately four fathom then but three fathom, the sea going mightily and high. at last we recovered, god be thanked, in some despair, to sea room enough. in this distress, we had vigilant eye unto the admiral, whom we saw cast away, without power to give the men succour, neither could we espy any of the men that leaped overboard to save themselves, either in the same pinnace, or cock, or upon rafters, and such like means presenting themselves to men in those extremities, for we desired to save the men by every possible means. but all in vain, sith god had determined their ruin; yet all that day, and part of the next, we beat up and down as near unto the wrack as was possible for us, looking out if by good hap we might espy any of them. this was a heavy and grievous event, to lose at one blow our chief ship freighted with great provision, gathered together with much travail, care, long time, and difficulty; but more was the loss of our men, which perished to the number almost of a hundred souls. amongst whom was drowned a learned man, a hungarian (stephen parmenius), born in the city of buda, called thereof budoeus, who, of piety and zeal to good attempts, adventured in this action, minding to record in the latin tongue the gests and things worthy of remembrance, happening in this discovery, to the honour of our nations, the same being adorned with the eloquent style of this orator and rare poet of our time. here also perished our saxon refiner and discoverer of inestimable riches, as it was left amongst some of us in undoubted hope. no less heavy was the loss of the captain, maurice browne, a virtuous, honest, and discreet gentleman, overseen only in liberty given late before to men that ought to have been restrained, who showed himself a man resolved, and never unprepared for death, as by his last act of this tragedy appeared, by report of them that escaped this wrack miraculously, as shall be hereafter declared. for when all hope was past of recovering the ship, and that men began to give over, and to save themselves, the captain was advised before to shift also for his life, by the pinnace at the stern of the ship; but refusing that counsel, he would not give example with the first to leave the ship, but used all means to exhort his people not to despair, nor so to leave off their labour, choosing rather to die than to incur infamy by forsaking his charge, which then might be thought to have perished through his default, showing an ill precedent unto his men, by leaving the ship first himself. with this mind he mounted upon the highest deck, where he attended imminent death, and unavoidable; how long, i leave it to god, who withdraweth not his comfort from his servants at such times. in the mean season, certain, to the number of fourteen persons, leaped into a small pinnace, the bigness of a thames barge, which was made in the newfoundland, cut off the rope wherewith it was towed, and committed themselves to god's mercy, amidst the storm, and rage of sea and winds, destitute of food, not so much as a drop of fresh water. the boat seeming overcharged in foul weather with company, edward headly, a valiant soldier, and well reputed of his company, preferring the greater to the lesser, thought better that some of them perished than all, made this motion, to cast lots, and them to be thrown overboard upon whom the lots fell, thereby to lighten the boat, which otherways seemed impossible to live, and offered himself with the first, content to take his adventure gladly: which nevertheless richard clarke, that was master of the admiral, and one of this number, refused, advising to abide god's pleasure, who was able to save all, as well as a few. the boat was carried before the wind, continuing six days and nights in the ocean, and arrived at last with the men, alive, but weak, upon the newfoundland, saving that the foresaid headly, who had been late sick, and another called of us brazil, of his travel into those countries, died by the way, famished, and less able to hold out than those of better health. . . . thus whom god delivered from drowning, he appointed to be famished; who doth give limits to man's times, and ordaineth the manner and circumstance of dying: whom, again, he will preserve, neither sea nor famine can confound. for those that arrived upon the newfoundland were brought into france by certain frenchmen, then being upon the coast. after this heavy chance, we continued in beating the sea up and down, expecting when the weather would clear up that we might yet bear in with the land, which we judged not far off either the continent or some island. for we many times, and in sundry places found ground at , , fathoms, and less. the ground coming upon our lead, being sometime cozy sand and other while a broad shell, with a little sand about it. our people lost courage daily after this ill success, the weather continuing thick and blustering, with increase of cold, winter drawing on, which took from them all hope of amendment, settling an assurance of worse weather to grow upon us every day. the leeside of us lay full of flats and dangers, inevitable if the wind blew hard at south. some again doubted we were ingulfed in the bay of st. lawrence, the coast full of dangers, and unto us unknown. but above all, provision waxed scant, and hope of supply was gone with the loss of our admiral. those in the frigate were already pinched with spare allowance, and want of clothes chiefly: thereupon they besought the general to return to england before they all perished. and to them of the _golden hind_ they made signs of distress, pointing to their mouths, and to their clothes thin and ragged: then immediately they also of the _golden hind_ grew to be of the same opinion and desire to return home. the former reasons having also moved the general to have compassion of his poor men, in whom he saw no want of good will, but of means fit to perform the action they came for, he resolved upon retire: and calling the captain and master of the _hind_, he yielded them many reasons, enforcing this unexpected return, withal protesting himself greatly satisfied with that he had seen and knew already, reiterating these words: _be content, we have seen enough, and take no care of expense past: i will set you forth royally the next spring, if god send us safe home. therefore i pray you let us no longer strive here, where we fight against the elements._ omitting circumstance, how unwillingly the captain and master of the _hind_ condescended to this motion, his own company can testify; yet comforted with the general's promise of a speedy return at spring, and induced by other apparent reasons, proving an impossibility to accomplish the action at that time, it was concluded on all hands to retire. so upon saturday in the afternoon, the of august, we changed our course, and returned back for england. at which very instant, even in winding about, there passed along between us and towards the land which we now forsook a very lion to our seeming, in shape, hair, and colour, not swimming after the manner of a beast by moving of his feet, but rather sliding upon the water with his whole body excepting the legs, in sight, neither yet diving under, and again rising above the water, as the manner is of whales, dolphins, tunnies, porpoises, and all other fish: but confidently showing himself above water without hiding: notwithstanding, we presented ourselves in open view and gesture to amaze him, as all creatures will be commonly at a sudden gaze and sight of men. thus he passed along turning his head to and fro, yawing and gaping wide, with ugly demonstration of long teeth, and glaring eyes; and to bid us a farewell, coming right against the _hind_, he sent forth a horrible voice, roaring or bellowing as doth a lion, which spectacle we all beheld so far as we were able to discern the same, as men prone to wonder at every strange thing, as this doubtless was, to see a lion in the ocean sea, or fish in shape of a lion. what opinion others had thereof, and chiefly the general himself, i forbear to deliver: but he took it for _bonum omen_, rejoicing that he was in war against such an enemy, if it were the devil. the wind was large for england at our return, but very high, and the sea rough, insomuch as the frigate, wherein the general went, was almost swallowed up. monday in the afternoon we passed in sight of cape race, having made as much way in little more than two days and nights back again, as before we had done in eight days from cape race unto the place where our ship perished. which hindrance thitherward, and speed back again, is to be imputed unto the swift current, as well as to the winds, which we had more large in our return. this monday the general came aboard the _hind_, to have the surgeon of the _hind_ to dress his foot, which he hurt by treading upon a nail: at which time we comforted each other with hope of hard success to be all past, and of the good to come. so agreeing to carry out lights always by night, that we might keep together, he departed into his frigate, being by no means to be entreated to tarry in the _hind_, which had been more for his security. immediately after followed a sharp storm, which we over passed for that time, praised be god. the weather fair, the general came aboard the _hind_ again, to make merry together with the captain, master, and company, which was the last meeting, and continued there from morning until night. during which time there passed sundry discourses touching affairs past and to come, lamenting greatly the loss of his great ship, more of the men, but most of all his books and notes, and what else i know not, for which he was out of measure grieved, the same doubtless being some matter of more importance than his books, which i could not draw from him: yet by circumstance i gathered the same to be the ore which daniel the saxon had brought unto him in the newfoundland. whatsoever it was, the remembrance touched him so deep as, not able to contain himself, he beat his boy in great rage, even at the same time, so long after the miscarrying of the great ship, because upon a fair day, when we were becalmed upon the coast of the newfoundland near unto cape race, he sent his boy aboard the admiral to fetch certain things: amongst which, this being chief, was yet forgotten and left behind. after which time he could never conveniently send again aboard the great ship, much less he doubted her ruin so near at hand. herein my opinion was better confirmed diversely, and by sundry conjectures, which maketh me have the greater hope of this rich mine. for whereas the general had never before good conceit of these north parts of the world, now his mind was wholly fixed upon the newfoundland. and as before he refused not to grant assignments liberally to them that required the same into these north parts, now he became contrarily affected, refusing to make any so large grants, especially of st. john's, which certain english merchants made suit for, offering to employ their money and travail upon the same yet neither by their own suit, nor of others of his own company, whom he seemed willing to pleasure, it could be obtained. also laying down his determination in the spring following for disposing of his voyage then to be re-attempted: he assigned the captain and master of the _golden hind_ unto the south discovery, and reserved unto himself the north, affirming that this voyage had won his heart from the south, and that he was now become a northern man altogether. last, being demanded what means he had, at his arrival in england, to compass the charges of so great preparation as he intended to make the next spring, having determined upon two fleets, one for the south, another for the north; _leave that to me_, he replied, _i will ask a penny of no man. i will bring good tiding unto her majesty, who will be so gracious to lend me , pounds_, willing us therefore to be of good cheer; for _he did thank god_, he said, _with all his heart for that he had seen, the same being enough for us all, and that we needed not to seek any further_. and these last words he would often repeat, with demonstration of great fervency of mind, being himself very confident and settled in belief of inestimable good by this voyage; which the greater number of his followers nevertheless mistrusted altogether, not being made partakers of those secrets, which the general kept unto himself. yet all of them that are living may be witnesses of his words and protestations, which sparingly i have delivered. leaving the issue of this good hope unto god, who knoweth the truth only, and can at his good pleasure bring the same to light, i will hasten to the end of this tragedy, which must be knit up in the person of our general. and as it was god's ordinance upon him, even so the vehement persuasion and entreaty of his friends could nothing avail to divert him of a wilful resolution of going through in his frigate; which was overcharged upon the decks with fights, nettings, and small artillery, too cumbersome for so small a boat that was to pass through the ocean sea at that season of the year, when by course we might expect much storm of foul weather. whereof, indeed, we had enough. but when he was entreated by the captain, master, and other his well-willers of the _hind_ not to venture in the frigate, this was his answer: _i will not forsake my little company going homeward, with whom i have passed so many storms and perils._ and in very truth he was urged to be so over hard by hard reports given of him that he was afraid of the sea; albeit this was rather rashness than advised resolution, to prefer the wind of a vain report to the weight of his own life. seeing he would not bend to reason, he had provision out of the _hind_, such as was wanting aboard his frigate. and so we committed him to god's protection, and set him aboard his pinnace, we being more than leagues onward of our way home. by that time we had brought the islands of azores south of us; yet we then keeping much to the north, until we had got into the height and elevation of england, we met with very foul weather and terrible seas, breaking short and high, pyramid-wise. the reason whereof seemed to proceed either of hilly grounds high and low within the sea, as we see hills and vales upon the land, upon which the seas do mount and fall, or else the cause proceedeth of diversity of winds, shifting often in sundry points, all which having power to move the great ocean, which again is not presently settled, so many seas do encounter together, as there had been diversity of winds. howsoever it cometh to pass, men which all their lifetime had occupied the sea never saw more outrageous seas, we had also upon our mainyard an apparition of a little fire by night, which seamen do call castor and pollux. but we had only one, which they take an evil sign of more tempest; the same is usual in storms. monday, the of september, in the afternoon, the frigate was near cast away, oppressed by waves, yet at that time recovered; and giving forth signs of joy, the general, sitting abaft with a book in his hand, cried out to us in the _hind_, so oft as we did approach within hearing, _we are as near to heaven by sea as by land!_ reiterating the same speech, well beseeming a soldier, resolute in jesus christ, as i can testify he was. the same monday night, about twelve of the clock, or not long after, the frigate being ahead of us in the _golden hind_, suddenly her lights were out, whereof as it were in a moment we lost the sight, and withal our watch cried _the general was cast away_, which was too true. for in that moment the frigate was devoured and swallowed up of the sea. yet still we looked out all that night, and ever after until we arrived upon the coast of england; omitting no small sail at sea, unto which we gave not the tokens between us agreed upon to have perfect knowledge of each other, if we should at any time be separated. in great torment of weather and peril of drowning it pleased god to send safe home the _golden hind_, which arrived in falmouth the of september, being sunday, not without as great danger escaped in a flaw coming from the south-east, with such thick mist that we could not discern land to put in right with the haven. from falmouth we went to dartmouth, and lay there at anchor before the range, while the captain went aland to enquire if there had been any news of the frigate, which, sailing well, might happily have been before us; also to certify sir john gilbert, brother unto the general, of our hard success, whom the captain desired, while his men were yet aboard him, and were witnesses of all occurrences in that voyage, it might please him to take the examination of every person particularly, in discharge of his and their faithful endeavour. sir john gilbert refused so to do, holding himself satisfied with report made by the captain, and not altogether despairing of his brother's safety, offered friendship and courtesy to the captain and his company, requiring to have his bark brought into the harbour; in furtherance whereof a boat was sent to help to tow her in. nevertheless, when the captain returned aboard his ship, he found his men bent to depart every man to his home; and then the wind serving to proceed higher upon the coast, they demanded money to carry them home, some to london, others to harwich, and elsewhere, if the barque should be carried into dartmouth and they discharged so far from home, or else to take benefit of the wind, then serving to draw nearer home, which should be a less charge unto the captain, and great ease unto the men, having else far to go. reason accompanied with necessity persuaded the captain, who sent his lawful excuse and cause of this sudden departure unto sir john gilbert, by the boat of dartmouth, and from thence the _golden hind_ departed and took harbour at weymouth. all the men tired with the tediousness of so unprofitable a voyage to their seeming, in which their long expense of time, much toil and labour, hard diet, and continual hazard of life was unrecompensed; their captain nevertheless by his great charges impaired greatly thereby, yet comforted in the goodness of god, and his undoubted providence following him in all that voyage, as it doth always those at other times whosoever have confidence in him alone. yet have we more near feeling and perseverance of his powerful hand and protection when god doth bring us together with others into one same peril, in which he leaveth them and delivereth us, making us thereby the beholders, but not partakers, of their ruin. even so, amongst very many difficulties, discontentments, mutinies, conspiracies, sicknesses, mortality, spoilings, and wracks by sea, which were afflictions more than in so small a fleet or so short a time may be supposed, albeit true in every particularity, as partly by the former relation may be collected, and some i suppressed with silence for their sakes living, it pleased god to support this company, of which only one man died of a malady inveterate, and long infested, the rest kept together in reasonable contentment and concord, beginning, continuing, and ending the voyage, which none else did accomplish, either not pleased with the action, or impatient of wants, or prevented by death. thus have i delivered the contents of the enterprise and last action of sir humfrey gilbert, knight, faithfully, for so much as i thought meet to be published; wherein may always appear, though he be extinguished, some sparks of his virtues, be remaining firm and resolute in a purpose by all pretence honest and godly, as was this, to discover, possess, and to reduce unto the service of god and christian piety those remote and heathen countries of america not actually possessed by christians, and most rightly appertaining unto the crown of england, unto the which as his zeal deserveth high commendation, even so he may justly be taxed of temerity, and presumption rather, in two respects. first, when yet there was only probability, not a certain and determinate place of habitation selected, neither any demonstration if commodity there _in esse_, to induce his followers; nevertheless, he both was too prodigal of his own patrimony and too careless of other men's expenses to employ both his and their substance upon a ground imagined good. the which falling, very like his associates were promised, and made it their best reckoning, to be salved some other way, which pleased not god to prosper in his first and great preparation. secondly, when by his former preparation he was enfeebled of ability and credit to perform his designments, as it were impatient to abide in expectation better opportunity, and means which god might raise, he thrust himself again into the action, for which he was not fit, presuming the cause pretended on god's behalf would carry him to the desired end. into which having thus made re-entry, he could not yield again to withdraw, though he saw no encouragement to proceed; lest his credit, foiled in his first attempt, in a second should utterly be disgraced. between extremities he made a right adventure, putting all to god and good fortune; and, which was worst, refused not to entertain every person and means whatsoever, to furnish out this expedition, the success whereof hath been declared. but such is the infinite bounty of god, who from every evil deriveth good. for besides that fruit may grow in time of our travelling into those north-west lands, the crosses, turmoils, and afflictions, both in the preparation and execution of this voyage, did correct the intemperate humours which before we noted to be in this gentleman, and made unsavoury and less delightful his other manifold virtues. then as he was refined, and made nearer drawing unto the image of god so it pleased the divine will to resume him unto himself, whither both his and every other high and noble mind have always aspired. the entire project gutenberg works of oliver wendell holmes, sr. by oliver wendell holmes sr. contents: the autocrat of the breakfast-table the professor at the breakfast-table the poet at the breakfast table over the teacups elsie venner the guardian angel a mortal antipathy pages from an old volume of life bread and the newspaper my hunt after "the captain" the inevitable trial cinders from ashes the pulpit and the pew medical essays homeopathy and its kindred delusions the contagiousness of puerperal fever currents and counter-currents in medical science border lines of knowledge in some provinces of medical science scholastic and bedside teaching the medical profession in massachusetts the young practitioner medical libraries some of my early teachers a memoir of john lothrop motley a memoir of ralph waldo emerson our hundred days in europe the autocrat of the breakfast-table the autocrat's autobiography the interruption referred to in the first sentence of the first of these papers was just a quarter of a century in duration. two articles entitled "the autocrat of the breakfast-table" will be found in the "new england magazine," formerly published in boston by j. t. and e. buckingham. the date of the first of these articles is november , and that of the second february . when "the atlantic monthly" was begun, twenty-five years afterwards, and the author was asked to write for it, the recollection of these crude products of his uncombed literary boyhood suggested the thought that it would be a curious experiment to shake the same bough again, and see if the ripe fruit were better or worse than the early windfalls. so began this series of papers, which naturally brings those earlier attempts to my own notice and that of some few friends who were idle enough to read them at the time of their publication. the man is father to the boy that was, and i am my own son, as it seems to me, in those papers of the new england magazine. if i find it hard to pardon the boy's faults, others would find it harder. they will not, therefore, be reprinted here, nor as i hope, anywhere. but a sentence or two from them will perhaps bear reproducing, and with these i trust the gentle reader, if that kind being still breathes, will be contented. --"it is a capital plan to carry a tablet with you, and, when you find yourself felicitous, take notes of your own conversation."-- --"when i feel inclined to read poetry i take down my dictionary. the poetry of words is quite as beautiful as that of sentences. the author may arrange the gems effectively, but their fhape and luftre have been given by the attrition of ages. bring me the fineft fimile from the whole range of imaginative writing, and i will fhow you a fingle word which conveys a more profound, a more accurate, and a more eloquent analogy."-- --"once on a time, a notion was ftarted, that if all the people in the world would fhout at once, it might be heard in the moon. so the projectors agreed it fhould be done in juft ten years. some thousand fhip-loads of chronometers were diftributed to the selectmen and other great folks of all the different nations. for a year beforehand, nothing else was talked about but the awful noise that was to be made on the great occafion. when the time came, everybody had their ears so wide open, to hear the universal ejaculation of boo,--the word agreed upon,--that nobody spoke except a deaf man in one of the fejee islands, and a woman in pekin, so that the world was never so ftill fince the creation."-- there was nothing better than these things and there was not a little that was much worse. a young fellow of two or three and twenty has as good a right to spoil a magazine-full of essays in learning how to write, as an oculist like wenzel had to spoil his hat-full of eyes in learning how to operate for cataract, or an elegant like brummel to point to an armful of failures in the attempt to achieve a perfect tie. this son of mine, whom i have not seen for these twenty-five years, generously counted, was a self-willed youth, always too ready to utter his unchastised fancies. he, like too many american young people, got the spur when he should have had the rein. he therefore helped to fill the market with that unripe fruit which his father says in one of these papers abounds in the marts of his native country. all these by-gone shortcomings he would hope are forgiven, did he not feel sure that very few of his readers know anything about them. in taking the old name for the new papers, he felt bound to say that he had uttered unwise things under that title, and if it shall appear that his unwisdom has not diminished by at least half while his years have doubled, he promises not to repeat the experiment if he should live to double them again and become his own grandfather. oliver wendell holmes. boston. nov. st . chapter i i was just going to say, when i was interrupted, that one of the many ways of classifying minds is under the heads of arithmetical and algebraical intellects. all economical and practical wisdom is an extension or variation of the following arithmetical formula: + = . every philosophical proposition has the more general character of the expression a+b=c. we are mere operatives, empirics, and egotists, until we learn to think in letters instead of figures. they all stared. there is a divinity student lately come among us to whom i commonly address remarks like the above, allowing him to take a certain share in the conversation, so far as assent or pertinent questions are involved. he abused his liberty on this occasion by presuming to say that leibnitz had the same observation.--no, sir, i replied, he has not. but he said a mighty good thing about mathematics, that sounds something like it, and you found it, not in the original, but quoted by dr. thomas reid. i will tell the company what he did say, one of these days. --if i belong to a society of mutual admiration?--i blush to say that i do not at this present moment. i once did, however. it was the first association to which i ever heard the term applied; a body of scientific young men in a great foreign city who admired their teacher, and to some extent each other. many of them deserved it; they have become famous since. it amuses me to hear the talk of one of those beings described by thackeray-- "letters four do form his name"-- about a social development which belongs to the very noblest stage of civilization. all generous companies of artists, authors, philanthropists, men of science, are, or ought to be, societies of mutual admiration. a man of genius, or any kind of superiority, is not debarred from admiring the same quality in another, nor the other from returning his admiration. they may even associate together and continue to think highly of each other. and so of a dozen such men, if any one place is fortunate enough to hold so many. the being referred to above assumes several false premises. first, that men of talent necessarily hate each other. secondly, that intimate knowledge or habitual association destroys our admiration of persons whom we esteemed highly at a distance. thirdly, that a circle of clever fellows, who meet together to dine and have a good time, have signed a constitutional compact to glorify themselves and to put down him and the fraction of the human race not belonging to their number. fourthly, that it is an outrage that he is not asked to join them. here the company laughed a good deal, and the old gentleman who sits opposite said, "that's it! that's it!" i continued, for i was in the talking vein. as to clever people's hating each other, i think a little extra talent does sometimes make people jealous. they become irritated by perpetual attempts and failures, and it hurts their tempers and dispositions. unpretending mediocrity is good, and genius is glorious; but a weak flavor of genius in an essentially common person is detestable. it spoils the grand neutrality of a commonplace character, as the rinsings of an unwashed wineglass spoil a draught of fair water. no wonder the poor fellow we spoke of, who always belongs to this class of slightly flavored mediocrities, is puzzled and vexed by the strange sight of a dozen men of capacity working and playing together in harmony. he and his fellows are always fighting. with them familiarity naturally breeds contempt. if they ever praise each other's bad drawings, or broken-winded novels, or spavined verses, nobody ever supposed it was from admiration; it was simply a contract between themselves and a publisher or dealer. if the mutuals have really nothing among them worth admiring, that alters the question. but if they are men with noble powers and qualities, let me tell you, that, next to youthful love and family affections, there is no human sentiment better than that which unites the societies of mutual admiration. and what would literature or art be without such associations? who can tell what we owe to the mutual admiration society of which shakspeare, and ben jonson, and beaumont and fletcher were members? or to that of which addison and steele formed the centre, and which gave us the spectator? or to that where johnson, and goldsmith, and burke, and reynolds, and beauclerk, and boswell, most admiring among all admirers, met together? was there any great harm in the fact that the irvings and paulding wrote in company? or any unpardonable cabal in the literary union of verplanck and bryant and sands, and as many more as they chose to associate with them? the poor creature does not know what he is talking about, when he abuses this noblest of institutions. let him inspect its mysteries through the knot-hole he has secured, but not use that orifice as a medium for his popgun. such a society is the crown of a literary metropolis; if a town has not material for it, and spirit and good feeling enough to organize it, it is a mere caravansary, fit for a man of genius to lodge in, but not to live in. foolish people hate and dread and envy such an association of men of varied powers and influence, because it is lofty, serene, impregnable, and, by the necessity of the case, exclusive. wise ones are prouder of the title m. s. m. a. than of all their other honors put together. --all generous minds have a horror of what are commonly called "facts." they are the brute beasts of the intellectual domain. who does not know fellows that always have an ill-conditioned fact or two which they lead after them into decent company like so many bull-dogs, ready to let them slip at every ingenious suggestion, or convenient generalization, or pleasant fancy? i allow no "facts" at this table. what! because bread is good and wholesome and necessary and nourishing, shall you thrust a crumb into my windpipe while i am talking? do not these muscles of mine represent a hundred loaves of bread? and is not my thought the abstract of ten thousand of these crumbs of truth with which you would choke off my speech? [the above remark must be conditioned and qualified for the vulgar mind. the reader will of course understand the precise amount of seasoning which must be added to it before he adopts it as one of the axioms of his life. the speaker disclaims all responsibility for its abuse in incompetent hands.] this business of conversation is a very serious matter. there are men that it weakens one to talk with an hour more than a day's fasting would do. mark this that i am going to say, for it is as good as a working professional man's advice, and costs you nothing: it is better to lose a pint of blood from your veins than to have a nerve tapped. nobody measures your nervous force as it runs away, nor bandages your brain and marrow after the operation. there are men of esprit who are excessively exhausting to some people. they are the talkers who have what may be called jerky minds. their thoughts do not run in the natural order of sequence. they say bright things on all possible subjects, but their zigzags rack you to death. after a jolting half-hour with one of these jerky companions, talking with a dull friend affords great relief. it is like taking the cat in your lap after holding a squirrel. what a comfort a dull but kindly person is, to be sure, at times! a ground-glass shade over a gas-lamp does not bring more solace to our dazzled eyes than such a one to our minds. "do not dull people bore you?" said one of the lady-boarders,--the same that sent me her autograph-book last week with a request for a few original stanzas, not remembering that "the pactolian" pays me five dollars a line for every thing i write in its columns. "madam," said i, (she and the century were in their teens together,) "all men are bores, except when we want them. there never was but one man whom i would trust with my latch-key." "who might that favored person be?" "zimmermann." --the men of genius that i fancy most have erectile heads like the cobra-di-capello. you remember what they tell of william pinkney, the great pleader; how in his eloquent paroxysms the veins of his neck would swell and his face flush and his eyes glitter, until he seemed on the verge of apoplexy. the hydraulic arrangements for supplying the brain with blood are only second in importance to its own organization. the bulbous-headed fellows that steam well when they are at work are the men that draw big audiences and give us marrowy books and pictures. it is a good sign to have one's feet grow cold when he is writing. a great writer and speaker once told me that he often wrote with his feet in hot water; but for this, all his blood would have run into his head, as the mercury sometimes withdraws into the ball of a thermometer. --you don't suppose that my remarks made at this table are like so many postage-stamps, do you,--each to be only once uttered? if you do, you are mistaken. he must be a poor creature that does not often repeat himself. imagine the author of the excellent piece of advice, "know thyself," never alluding to that sentiment again during the course of a protracted existence! why, the truths a man carries about with him are his tools; and do you think a carpenter is bound to use the same plane but once to smooth a knotty board with, or to hang up his hammer after it has driven its first nail? i shall never repeat a conversation, but an idea often. i shall use the same types when i like, but not commonly the same stereotypes. a thought is often original, though you have uttered it a hundred times. it has come to you over a new route, by a new and express train of associations. sometimes, but rarely, one may be caught making the same speech twice over, and yet be held blameless. thus, a certain lecturer, after performing in an inland city, where dwells a litteratrice of note, was invited to meet her and others over the social teacup. she pleasantly referred to his many wanderings in his new occupation. "yes," he replied, "i am like the huma, the bird that never lights, being always in the cars, as he is always on the wing."--years elapsed. the lecturer visited the same place once more for the same purpose. another social cup after the lecture, and a second meeting with the distinguished lady. "you are constantly going from place to place," she said.--"yes," he answered, "i am like the huma,"--and finished the sentence as before. what horrors, when it flashed over him that he had made this fine speech, word for word, twice over! yet it was not true, as the lady might perhaps have fairly inferred, that he had embellished his conversation with the huma daily during that whole interval of years. on the contrary, he had never once thought of the odious fowl until the recurrence of precisely the same circumstances brought up precisely the same idea. he ought to have been proud of the accuracy of his mental adjustments. given certain factors, and a sound brain should always evolve the same fixed product with the certainty of babbage's calculating machine. --what a satire, by the way, is that machine on the mere mathematician! a frankenstein-monster, a thing without brains and without heart, too stupid to make a blunder; that turns out results like a corn-sheller, and never grows any wiser or better, though it grind a thousand bushels of them! i have an immense respect for a man of talents plus "the mathematics." but the calculating power alone should seem to be the least human of qualities, and to have the smallest amount of reason in it; since a machine can be made to do the work of three or four calculators, and better than any one of them. sometimes i have been troubled that i had not a deeper intuitive apprehension of the relations of numbers. but the triumph of the ciphering hand-organ has consoled me. i always fancy i can hear the wheels clicking in a calculator's brain. the power of dealing with numbers is a kind of "detached lever" arrangement, which may be put into a mighty poor watch--i suppose it is about as common as the power of moving the ears voluntarily, which is a moderately rare endowment. --little localized powers, and little narrow streaks of specialized knowledge, are things men are very apt to be conceited about. nature is very wise; but for this encouraging principle how many small talents and little accomplishments would be neglected! talk about conceit as much as you like, it is to human character what salt is to the ocean; it keeps it sweet, and renders it endurable. say rather it is like the natural unguent of the sea-fowl's plumage, which enables him to shed the rain that falls on him and the wave in which he dips. when one has had all his conceit taken out of him, when he has lost all his illusions, his feathers will soon soak through, and he will fly no more. "so you admire conceited people, do you?" said the young lady who has come to the city to be finished off for--the duties of life. i am afraid you do not study logic at your school, my dear. it does not follow that i wish to be pickled in brine because i like a salt-water plunge at nahant. i say that conceit is just as natural a thing to human minds as a centre is to a circle. but little-minded people's thoughts move in such small circles that five minutes' conversation gives you an arc long enough to determine their whole curve. an arc in the movement of a large intellect does not sensibly differ from a straight line. even if it have the third vowel as its centre, it does not soon betray it. the highest thought, that is, is the most seemingly impersonal; it does not obviously imply any individual centre. audacious self-esteem, with good ground for it, is always imposing. what resplendent beauty that must have been which could have authorized phryne to "peel" in the way she did! what fine speeches are those two: "non omnis mortar," and "i have taken all knowledge to be my province"! even in common people, conceit has the virtue of making them cheerful; the man who thinks his wife, his baby, his house, his horse, his dog, and himself severally unequalled, is almost sure to be a good-humored person, though liable to be tedious at times. --what are the great faults of conversation? want of ideas, want of words, want of manners, are the principal ones, i suppose you think. i don't doubt it, but i will tell you what i have found spoil more good talks than anything else;--long arguments on special points between people who differ on the fundamental principles upon which these points depend. no men can have satisfactory relations with each other until they have agreed on certain ultimata of belief not to be disturbed in ordinary conversation, and unless they have sense enough to trace the secondary questions depending upon these ultimate beliefs to their source. in short, just as a written constitution is essential to the best social order, so a code of finalities is a necessary condition of profitable talk between two persons. talking is like playing on the harp; there is as much in laying the hand on the strings to stop their vibrations as in twanging them to bring out their music. --do you mean to say the pun-question is not clearly settled in your minds? let me lay down the law upon the subject. life and language are alike sacred. homicide and verbicide--that is, violent treatment of a word with fatal results to its legitimate meaning, which is its life--are alike forbidden. manslaughter, which is the meaning of the one, is the same as man's laughter, which is the end of the other. a pun is prima facie an insult to the person you are talking with. it implies utter indifference to or sublime contempt for his remarks, no matter how serious. i speak of total depravity, and one says all that is written on the subject is deep raving. i have committed my self-respect by talking with such a person. i should like to commit him, but cannot, because he is a nuisance. or i speak of geological convulsions, and he asks me what was the cosine of noah's ark; also, whether the deluge was not a deal huger than any modern inundation. a pun does not commonly justify a blow in return. but if a blow were given for such cause, and death ensued, the jury would be judges both of the facts and of the pun, and might, if the latter were of an aggravated character, return a verdict of justifiable homicide. thus, in a case lately decided before miller, j., doe presented roe a subscription paper, and urged the claims of suffering humanity. roe replied by asking, when charity was like a top? it was in evidence that doe preserved a dignified silence. roe then said, "when it begins to hum." doe then--and not till then--struck roe, and his head happening to hit a bound volume of the monthly rag-bag and stolen miscellany, intense mortification ensued, with a fatal result. the chief laid down his notions of the law to his brother justices, who unanimously replied, "jest so." the chief rejoined, that no man should jest so without being punished for it, and charged for the prisoner, who was acquitted, and the pun ordered to be burned by the sheriff. the bound volume was forfeited as a deodand, but not claimed. people that make puns are like wanton boys that put coppers on the railroad tracks. they amuse themselves and other children, but their little trick may upset a freight train of conversation for the sake of a battered witticism. i will thank you, b. f., to bring down two books, of which i will mark the places on this slip of paper. (while he is gone, i may say that this boy, our land-lady's youngest, is called benjamin franklin, after the celebrated philosopher of that name. a highly merited compliment.) i wished to refer to two eminent authorities. now be so good as to listen. the great moralist says: "to trifle with the vocabulary which is the vehicle of social intercourse is to tamper with the currency of human intelligence. he who would violate the sanctities of his mother tongue would invade the recesses of the paternal till without remorse, and repeat the banquet of saturn without an indigestion." and, once more, listen to the historian. "the puritans hated puns. the bishops were notoriously addicted to them. the lords temporal carried them to the verge of license. majesty itself must have its royal quibble. 'ye be burly, my lord of burleigh,' said queen elizabeth, 'but ye shall make less stir in our realm than my lord of leicester.' the gravest wisdom and the highest breeding lent their sanction to the practice. lord bacon playfully declared himself a descendant of 'og, the king of bashan. sir philip sidney, with his last breath, reproached the soldier who brought him water, for wasting a casque full upon a dying man. a courtier, who saw othello performed at the globe theatre, remarked, that the blackamoor was a brute, and not a man. 'thou hast reason,' replied a great lord, 'according to plato his saying; for this be a two-legged animal with feathers.' the fatal habit became universal. the language was corrupted. the infection spread to the national conscience. political double-dealings naturally grew out of verbal double meanings. the teeth of the new dragon were sown by the cadmus who introduced the alphabet of equivocation. what was levity in the time of the tudors grew to regicide and revolution in the age of the stuarts." who was that boarder that just whispered something about the macaulay-flowers of literature?--there was a dead silence.--i said calmly, i shall henceforth consider any interruption by a pun as a hint to change my boarding-house. do not plead my example. if _i_ have used any such, it has been only as a spartan father would show up a drunken helot. we have done with them. --if a logical mind ever found out anything with its logic?--i should say that its most frequent work was to build a pons asinorum over chasms which shrewd people can bestride without such a structure. you can hire logic, in the shape of a lawyer, to prove anything that you want to prove. you can buy treatises to show that napoleon never lived, and that no battle of bunker-hill was ever fought. the great minds are those with a wide span, which couple truths related to, but far removed from, each other. logicians carry the surveyor's chain over the track of which these are the true explorers. i value a man mainly for his primary relations with truth, as i understand truth,--not for any secondary artifice in handling his ideas. some of the sharpest men in argument are notoriously unsound in judgment. i should not trust the counsel of a smart debater, any more than that of a good chess-player. either may of course advise wisely, but not necessarily because he wrangles or plays well. the old gentleman who sits opposite got his hand up, as a pointer lifts his forefoot, at the expression, "his relations with truth, as i understand truth," and when i had done, sniffed audibly, and said i talked like a transcendentalist. for his part, common sense was good enough for him. precisely so, my dear sir, i replied; common sense, as you understand it. we all have to assume a standard of judgment in our own minds, either of things or persons. a man who is willing to take another's opinion has to exercise his judgment in the choice of whom to follow, which is often as nice a matter as to judge of things for one's self. on the whole, i had rather judge men's minds by comparing their thoughts with my own, than judge of thoughts by knowing who utter them. i must do one or the other. it does not follow, of course, that i may not recognize another man's thoughts as broader and deeper than my own; but that does not necessarily change my opinion, otherwise this would be at the mercy of every superior mind that held a different one. how many of our most cherished beliefs are like those drinking-glasses of the ancient pattern, that serve us well so long as we keep them in our hand, but spill all if we attempt to set them down! i have sometimes compared conversation to the italian game of mora, in which one player lifts his hand with so many fingers extended, and the other gives the number if he can. i show my thought, another his; if they agree, well; if they differ, we find the largest common factor, if we can, but at any rate avoid disputing about remainders and fractions, which is to real talk what tuning an instrument is to playing on it. --what if, instead of talking this morning, i should read you a copy of verses, with critical remarks by the author? any of the company can retire that like. album verses. when eve had led her lord away, and cain had killed his brother, the stars and flowers, the poets say, agreed with one another to cheat the cunning tempter's art, and teach the race its duty, by keeping on its wicked heart their eyes of light and beauty. a million sleepless lids, they say, will be at least a warning; and so the flowers would watch by day, the stars from eve to morning. on hill and prairie, field and lawn, their dewy eyes upturning, the flowers still watch from reddening dawn till western skies are burning. alas! each hour of daylight tells a tale of shame so crushing, that some turn white as sea-bleached shells, and some are always blushing. but when the patient stars look down on all their light discovers, the traitor's smile, the murderer's frown, the lips of lying lovers, they try to shut their saddening eyes, and in the vain endeavour we see them twinkling in the skies, and so they wink forever. what do you think of these verses my friends?--is that piece an impromptu? said my landlady's daughter. (aet. +. tender-eyed blonde. long ringlets. cameo pin. gold pencil-case on a chain. locket. bracelet. album. autograph book. accordeon. reads byron, tupper, and sylvanus cobb, junior, while her mother makes the puddings. says "yes?" when you tell her anything.)--oui et non, ma petite,--yes and no, my child. five of the seven verses were written off-hand; the other two took a week,--that is, were hanging round the desk in a ragged, forlorn, unrhymed condition as long as that. all poets will tell you just such stories. c'est le dernier pas qui coute. don't you know how hard it is for some people to get out of a room after their visit is really over? they want to be off, and you want to have them off, but they don't know how to manage it. one would think they had been built in your parlour or study, and were waiting to be launched. i have contrived a sort of ceremonial inclined plane for such visitors, which being lubricated with certain smooth phrases, i back them down, metaphorically speaking, stern-foremost, into their "native element," the great ocean of out-doors. well, now, there are poems as hard to get rid of as these rural visitors. they come in glibly, use up all the serviceable rhymes, day, ray, beauty, duty, skies, eyes, other, brother, mountain, fountain, and the like; and so they go on until you think it is time for the wind-up, and the wind-up won't come on any terms. so they lie about until you get sick of the sight of them, and end by thrusting some cold scrap of a final couplet upon them, and turning them out of doors. i suspect a good many "impromptus" could tell just such a story as the above.--here turning to our landlady, i used an illustration which pleased the company much at the time, and has since been highly commanded. "madam," i said, "you can pour three gills and three quarters of honey from that pint jug, if it is full, in less than one minute; but, madam, you could not empty that last quarter of a gill, though you were turned into a marble hebe, and held the vessel upside down for a thousand years. one gets tired to death of the old, old rhymes, such as you see in that copy of verses,--which i don't mean to abuse, or to praise either. i always feel as if i were a cobbler, putting new top-leathers to an old pair of boot-soles and bodies, when i am fitting sentiments to these venerable jingles. . . . . youth . . . . . morning . . . . . truth . . . . . warning nine tenths of the "juvenile poems" written spring out of the above musical and suggestive coincidences. "yes?" said our landlady's daughter. i did not address the following remark to her, and i trust, from her limited range of reading, she will never see it; i said it softly to my next neighbour. when a young female wears a flat circular side--curl, gummed on each temple,--when she walks with a male, not arm in arm, but his arm against the back of hers,--and when she says "yes?" with the note of interrogation, you are generally safe in asking her what wages she gets, and who the "feller" was you saw her with. "what were you whispering?" said the daughter of the house, moistening her lips, as she spoke, in a very engaging manner. "i was only laying down a principle of social diagnosis." "yes?" --it is curious to see how the same wants and tastes find the same implements and modes of expression in all times and places. the young ladies of otaheite, as you may see in cook's voyages, had a sort of crinoline arrangement fully equal in radius to the largest spread of our own lady-baskets. when i fling a bay-state shawl over my shoulders, i am only taking a lesson from the climate that the indian had learned before me. a blanket-shawl we call it, and not a plaid; and we wear it like the aborigines, and not like the highlanders. --we are the romans of the modern world,--the great assimilating people. conflicts and conquests are of course necessary accidents with us, as with our prototypes. and so we come to their style of weapon. our army sword is the short, stiff, pointed gladius of the romans; and the american bowie-knife is the same tool, modified to meet the daily wants of civil society. i announce at this table an axiom not to be found in montesquieu or the journals of congress:- the race that shortens its weapons lengthens its boundaries. corollary. it was the polish lance that left poland at last with nothing of her own to bound. "dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear!" what business had sarmatia to be fighting for liberty with a fifteen-foot pole between her and the breasts of her enemies? if she had but clutched the old roman and young american weapon, and come to close quarters, there might have been a chance for her; but it would have spoiled the best passage in "the pleasures of hope." --self-made men?--well, yes. of course everybody likes and respects self-made men. it is a great deal better to be made in that way than not to be made at all. are any of you younger people old enough to remember that irishman's house on the marsh at cambridgeport, which house he built from drain to chimney-top with his own hands? it took him a good many years to build it, and one could see that it was a little out of plumb, and a little wavy in outline, and a little queer and uncertain in general aspect. a regular hand could certainly have built a better house; but it was a very good house for a "self-made" carpenter's house, and people praised it, and said how remarkably well the irishman had succeeded. they never thought of praising the fine blocks of houses a little farther on. your self-made man, whittled into shape with his own jack-knife, deserves more credit, if that is all, than the regular engine-turned article, shaped by the most approved pattern, and french-polished by society and travel. but as to saying that one is every way the equal of the other, that is another matter. the right of strict social discrimination of all things and persons, according to their merits, native or acquired, is one of the most precious republican privileges. i take the liberty to exercise it, when i say, that, other things being equal, in most relations of life i prefer a man of family. what do i mean by a man of family?--o, i'll give you a general idea of what i mean. let us give him a first-rate fit out; it costs us nothing. four or five generations of gentlemen and gentlewomen; among them a member of his majesty's council for the province, a governor or so, one or two doctors of divinity, a member of congress, not later than the time of top-boots with tassels. family portraits. the member of the council, by smibert. the great merchant-uncle, by copley, full length, sitting in his arm-chair, in a velvet cap and flowered robe, with a globe by him, to show the range of his commercial transactions, and letters with large red seals lying round, one directed conspicuously to the honourable etc. etc. great-grandmother, by the same artist; brown satin, lace very fine, hands superlative; grand old lady, stiffish, but imposing. her mother, artist unknown; flat, angular, hanging sleeves; parrot on fist. a pair of stuarts, viz., . a superb full-blown, mediaeval gentleman, with a fiery dash of tory blood in his veins, tempered down with that of a fine old rebel grandmother, and warmed up with the best of old india madeira; his face is one flame of ruddy sunshine; his ruffled shirt rushes out of his bosom with an impetuous generosity, as if it would drag his heart after it; and his smile is good for twenty thousand dollars to the hospital, besides ample bequests to all relatives and dependants. . lady of the same; remarkable cap; high waist, as in time of empire; bust a la josephine; wisps of curls, like celery-tips, at sides of forehead; complexion clear and warm, like rose-cordial. as for the miniatures by malbone, we don't count them in the gallery. books, too, with the names of old college-students in them,--family names;--you will find them at the head of their respective classes in the days when students took rank on the catalogue from their parents' condition. elzevirs, with the latinized appellations of youthful progenitors, and hic liber est meus on the title-page. a set of hogarth's original plates. pope, original edition, volumes, london, . barrow on the lower shelves, in folio. tillotson on the upper, in a little dark platoon of octo-decimos. some family silver; a string of wedding and funeral rings; the arms of the family curiously blazoned; the same in worsted, by a maiden aunt. if the man of family has an old place to keep these things in, furnished with claw-footed chairs and black mahogany tables, and tall bevel-edged mirrors, and stately upright cabinets, his outfit is complete. no, my friends, i go (always, other things being equal) for the man who inherits family traditions and the cumulative humanities of at least four or five generations. above all things, as a child, he should have tumbled about in a library. all men are afraid of books, who have not handled them from infancy. do you suppose our dear didascalos over there ever read poli synopsis, or consulted castelli lexicon, while he was growing up to their stature? not he; but virtue passed through the hem of their parchment and leather garments whenever he touched them, as the precious drugs sweated through the bat's handle in the arabian story. i tell you he is at home wherever he smells the invigorating fragrance of russia leather. no self-made man feels so. one may, it is true, have all the antecedents i have spoken of, and yet be a boor or a shabby fellow. one may have none of them, and yet be fit for councils and courts. then let them change places. our social arrangement has this great beauty, that its strata shift up and down as they change specific gravity, without being clogged by layers of prescription. but i still insist on my democratic liberty of choice, and i go for the man with the gallery of family portraits against the one with the twenty-five-cent daguerreotype, unless i find out that the last is the better of the two. --i should have felt more nervous about the late comet, if i had thought the world was ripe. but it is very green yet, if i am not mistaken; and besides, there is a great deal of coal to use up, which i cannot bring myself to think was made for nothing. if certain things, which seem to me essential to a millennium, had come to pass, i should have been frightened; but they haven't. perhaps you would like to hear my latter-day warnings. when legislators keep the law, when banks dispense with bolts and locks, when berries, whortle--rasp--and straw-- grow bigger downwards through the box,-- when he that selleth house or land shows leak in roof or flaw in right,-- when haberdashers choose the stand whose window hath the broadest light,-- when preachers tell us all they think, and party leaders all they mean,-- when what we pay for, that we drink, from real grape and coffee-bean,-- when lawyers take what they would give, and doctors give what they would take,-- when city fathers eat to live, save when they fast for conscience' sake,-- when one that hath a horse on sale shall bring his merit to the proof, without a lie for every nail that holds the iron on the hoof,-- when in the usual place for rips our gloves are stitched with special care, and guarded well the whalebone tips where first umbrellas need repair,-- when cuba's weeds have quite forgot the power of suction to resist, and claret-bottles harber not such dimples as would hold your fist,-- when publishers no longer steal, and pay for what they stole before,-- when the first locomotive's wheel rolls through the hoosac tunnel's bore;-- till then let cumming a blaze away, and miller's saints blow up the globe; but when you see that blessed day, then order your ascension robe! the company seemed to like the verses, and i promised them to read others occasionally, if they had a mind to hear them. of course they would not expect it every morning. neither must the reader suppose that all these things i have reported were said at any one breakfast-time. i have not taken the trouble to date them, as raspail, pere, used to date every proof he sent to the printer; but they were scattered over several breakfasts; and i have said a good many more things since, which i shall very possibly print some time or other, if i am urged to do it by judicious friends. i finished off with reading some verses of my friend the professor, of whom you may perhaps hear more by and by. the professor read them, he told me, at a farewell meeting, where the youngest of our great historians met a few of his many friends at their invitation. yes, we knew we must lose him,--though friendship may claim to blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame; though fondly, at parting, we call him our own, 'tis the whisper of love when the bugle has blown. as the rider that rests with the spur on his heel,-- as the guardsman that sleeps in his corselet of steel,-- as the archer that stands with his shaft on the string, he stoops from his toil to the garland we bring. what pictures yet slumber unborn in his loom till their warriors shall breathe and their beauties shall bloom, while the tapestry lengthens the life-glowing dyes that caught from our sunsets the stain of their skies! in the alcoves of death, in the charnels of time, where flit the gaunt spectres of passion and crime, there are triumphs untold, there are martyrs unsung, there are heroes yet silent to speak with his tongue! let us hear the proud story which time has bequeathed from lips that are warm with the freedom they breathed! let him summon its tyrants, and tell us their doom, though he sweep the black past like van tromp with his broom! * * * * * the dream flashes by, for the west-winds awake on pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain and lake, to bathe the swift bark, like a sea-girdled shrine, with incense they stole from the rose and the pine. so fill a bright cup with the sunlight that gushed when the dead summer's jewels were trampled and crushed: the true knight of learning,--the world holds him dear,-- love bless him, joy crown him, god speed his career! chapter ii i really believe some people save their bright thoughts, as being too precious for conversation. what do you think an admiring friend said the other day to one that was talking good things, --good enough to print? "why," said he, "you are wasting mechantable literature, a cash article, at the rate, as nearly as i can tell, of fifty dollars an hour." the talker took him to the window and asked him to look out and tell what he saw. "nothing but a very dusty street," he said, "and a man driving a sprinkling-machine through it." "why don't you tell the man he is wasting that water? what would be the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive our thought-sprinklers through them with the valves open, sometimes? "besides, there is another thing about this talking, which you forget. it shapes our thoughts for us;--the waves of conversation roll them as the surf rolls the pebbles on the shore. let me modify the image a little. i rough out my thoughts in talk as an artist models in clay. spoken language is so plastic,--you can pat and coax, and spread and shave, and rub out, and fill up, and stick on so easily when you work that soft material, that there is nothing like it for modelling. out of it come the shapes which you turn into marble or bronze in your immortal books, if you happen to write such. or, to use another illustration, writing or printing is like shooting with a rifle; you may hit your reader's mind, or miss it;--but talking is like playing at a mark with the pipe of an engine; if it is within reach, and you have time enough, you can't help hitting it." the company agreed that this last illustration was of superior excellence, or, in the phrase used by them, "fust-rate." i acknowledged the compliment, but gently rebuked the expression. "fust-rate," "prime," "a prime article," "a superior piece of goods," "a handsome garment," "a gent in a flowered vest,"--all such expressions are final. they blast the lineage of him or her who utters them, for generations up and down. there is one other phrase which will soon come to be decisive of a man's social status, if it is not already: "that tells the whole story." it is an expression which vulgar and conceited people particularly affect, and which well-meaning ones, who know better, catch from them. it is intended to stop all debate, like the previous question in the general court. only it doesn't; simply because "that" does not usually tell the whole, nor one half of the whole story. --it is an odd idea, that almost all our people have had a professional education. to become a doctor a man must study some three years and hear a thousand lectures, more or less. just how much study it takes to make a lawyer i cannot say, but probably not more than this. now most decent people hear one hundred lectures or sermons (discourses) on theology every year,--and this, twenty, thirty, fifty years together. they read a great many religious books besides. the clergy, however, rarely hear any sermons except what they preach themselves. a dull preacher might be conceived, therefore, to lapse into a state of quasi heathenism, simply for want of religious instruction. and on the other hand, an attentive and intelligent hearer, listening to a succession of wise teachers, might become actually better educated in theology than any one of them. we are all theological students, and more of us qualified as doctors of divinity than have received degrees at any of the universities. it is not strange, therefore, that very good people should often find it difficult, if not impossible, to keep their attention fixed upon a sermon treating feebly a subject which they have thought vigorously about for years, and heard able men discuss scores of times. i have often noticed, however, that a hopelessly dull discourse acts inductively, as electricians would say, in developing strong mental currents. i am ashamed to think with what accompaniments and variations and fioriture i have sometimes followed the droning of a heavy speaker,--not willingly,--for my habit is reverential,--but as a necessary result of a slight continuous impression on the senses and the mind, which kept both in action without furnishing the food they required to work upon. if you ever saw a crow with a king-bird after him, you will get an image of a dull speaker and a lively listener. the bird in sable plumage flaps heavily along his straight-forward course, while the other sails round him, over him, under him, leaves him, comes back again, tweaks out a black feather, shoots away once more, never losing sight of him, and finally reaches the crow's perch at the same time the crow does, having cut a perfect labyrinth of loops and knots and spirals while the slow fowl was painfully working from one end of his straight line to the other. [i think these remarks were received rather coolly. a temporary boarder from the country, consisting of a somewhat more than middle-aged female, with a parchment forehead and a dry little "frisette" shingling it, a sallow neck with a necklace of gold beads, a black dress too rusty for recent grief and contours in basso-rilievo, left the table prematurely, and was reported to have been very virulent about what i said. so i went to my good old minister, and repeated the remarks, as nearly as i could remember them, to him. he laughed good-naturedly, and said there was considerable truth in them. he thought he could tell when people's minds were wandering, by their looks. in the earlier years of his ministry he had sometimes noticed this, when he was preaching; --very little of late years. sometimes, when his colleague was preaching, he observed this kind of inattention; but after all, it was not so very unnatural. i will say, by the way, that it is a rule i have long followed, to tell my worst thoughts to my minister, and my best thoughts to the young people i talk with.] --i want to make a literary confession now, which i believe nobody has made before me. you know very well that i write verses sometimes, because i have read some of them at this table. (the company assented,--two or three of them in a resigned sort of way, as i thought, as if they supposed i had an epic in my pocket, and was going to read half a dozen books or so for their benefit.)--i continued. of course i write some lines or passages which are better than others; some which, compared with the others, might be called relatively excellent. it is in the nature of things that i should consider these relatively excellent lines or passages as absolutely good. so much must be pardoned to humanity. now i never wrote a "good" line in my life, but the moment after it was written it seemed a hundred years old. very commonly i had a sudden conviction that i had seen it somewhere. possibly i may have sometimes unconsciously stolen it, but i do not remember that i ever once detected any historical truth in these sudden convictions of the antiquity of my new thought or phrase. i have learned utterly to distrust them, and never allow them to bully me out of a thought or line. this is the philosophy of it. (here the number of the company was diminished by a small secession.) any new formula which suddenly emerges in our consciousness has its roots in long trains of thought; it is virtually old when it first makes its appearance among the recognized growths of our intellect. any crystalline group of musical words has had a long and still period to form in. here is one theory. but there is a larger law which perhaps comprehends these facts. it is this. the rapidity with which ideas grow old in our memories is in a direct ratio to the squares of their importance. their apparent age runs up miraculously, like the value of diamonds, as they increase in magnitude. a great calamity, for instance, is as old as the trilobites an hour after it has happened. it stains backward through all the leaves we have turned over in the book of life, before its blot of tears or of blood is dry on the page we are turning. for this we seem to have lived; it was foreshadowed in dreams that we leaped out of in the cold sweat of terror; in the "dissolving views" of dark day-visions; all omens pointed to it; all paths led to it. after the tossing half-forgetfulness of the first sleep that follows such an event, it comes upon us afresh, as a surprise, at waking; in a few moments it is old again,--old as eternity. [i wish i had not said all this then and there. i might have known better. the pale schoolmistress, in her mourning dress, was looking at me, as i noticed, with a wild sort of expression. all at once the blood dropped out of her cheeks as the mercury drops from a broken barometer-tube, and she melted away from her seat like an image of snow; a slung-shot could not have brought her down better. god forgive me! after this little episode, i continued, to some few that remained balancing teaspoons on the edges of cups, twirling knives, or tilting upon the hind legs of their chairs until their heads reached the wall, where they left gratuitous advertisements of various popular cosmetics.] when a person is suddenly thrust into any strange, new position of trial, he finds the place fits him as if he had been measured for it. he has committed a great crime, for instance, and is sent to the state prison. the traditions, prescriptions, limitations, privileges, all the sharp conditions of his new life, stamp themselves upon his consciousness as the signet on soft wax;--a single pressure is enough. let me strengthen the image a little. did you ever happen to see that most soft-spoken and velvet-handed steam-engine at the mint? the smooth piston slides backward and forward as a lady might slip her delicate finger in and out of a ring. the engine lays one of its fingers calmly, but firmly, upon a bit of metal; it is a coin now, and will remember that touch, and tell a new race about it, when the date upon it is crusted over with twenty centuries. so it is that a great silent-moving misery puts a new stamp on us in an hour or a moment,--as sharp an impression as if it had taken half a lifetime to engrave it. it is awful to be in the hands of the wholesale professional dealers in misfortune; undertakers and jailers magnetize you in a moment, and you pass out of the individual life you were living into the rhythmical movements of their horrible machinery. do the worst thing you can, or suffer the worst that can be thought of, you find yourself in a category of humanity that stretches back as far as cain, and with an expert at your elbow who has studied your case all out beforehand, and is waiting for you with his implements of hemp or mahogany. i believe, if a man were to be burned in any of our cities tomorrow for heresy, there would be found a master of ceremonies that knew just how many fagots were necessary, and the best way of arranging the whole matter. --so we have not won the goodwood cup; au contraire, we were a "bad fifth," if not worse than that; and trying it again, and the third time, has not yet bettered the matter. now i am as patriotic as any of my fellow-citizens,--too patriotic in fact, for i have got into hot water by loving too much of my country; in short, if any man, whose fighting weight is not more than eight stone four pounds, disputes it, i am ready to discuss the point with him. i should have gloried to see the stars and stripes in front at the finish. i love my country, and i love horses. stubbs's old mezzotint of eclipse hangs over my desk, and herring's portrait of plenipotentiary,--whom i saw run at epsom,--over my fireplace. did i not elope from school to see revenge, and prospect, and little john, and peacemaker run over the race-course where now yon suburban village flourishes, in the year eighteen hundred and ever-so-few? though i never owned a horse, have i not been the proprietor of six equine females, of which one was the prettiest little "morgin" that ever stepped? listen, then, to an opinion i have often expressed long before this venture of ours in england. horse-racing is not a republican institution; horse-trotting is. only very rich persons can keep race-horses, and everybody knows they are kept mainly as gambling implements. all that matter about blood and speed we won't discuss; we understand all that; useful, very,--of course,--great obligations to the godolphin "arabian," and the rest. i say racing horses are essentially gambling implements, as much as roulette tables. now i am not preaching at this moment; i may read you one of my sermons some other morning; but i maintain that gambling, on the great scale, is not republican. it belongs to two phases of society,--a cankered over-civilization, such as exists in rich aristocracies, and the reckless life of borderers and adventurers, or the semi-barbarism of a civilization resolved into its primitive elements. real republicanism is stern and severe; its essence is not in forms of government, but in the omnipotence of public opinion which grows out of it. this public opinion cannot prevent gambling with dice or stocks, but it can and does compel it to keep comparatively quiet. but horse-racing is the most public way of gambling, and with all its immense attractions to the sense and the feelings,--to which i plead very susceptible,--the disguise is too thin that covers it, and everybody knows what it means. its supporters are the southern gentry,--fine fellows, no doubt, but not republicans exactly, as we understand the term,--a few northern millionnaires more or less thoroughly millioned, who do not represent the real people, and the mob of sporting men, the best of whom are commonly idlers, and the worst very bad neighbors to have near one in a crowd, or to meet in a dark alley. in england, on the other hand, with its aristocratic institutions, racing is a natural growth enough; the passion for it spreads downwards through all classes, from the queen to the costermonger. london is like a shelled corn-cob on the derby day, and there is not a clerk who could raise the money to hire a saddle with an old hack under it that can sit down on his office-stool the next day without wincing. now just compare the racer with the trotter for a moment. the racer is incidentally useful, but essentially something to bet upon, as much as the thimble-rigger's "little joker." the trotter is essentially and daily useful, and only incidentally a tool for sporting men. what better reason do you want for the fact that the racer is most cultivated and reaches his greatest perfection in england, and that the trotting horses of america beat the world? and why should we have expected that the pick--if it was the pick--of our few and far-between racing stables should beat the pick of england and france? throw over the fallacious time-test, and there was nothing to show for it but a natural kind of patriotic feeling, which we all have, with a thoroughly provincial conceit, which some of us must plead guilty to. we may beat yet. as an american, i hope we shall. as a moralist and occasional sermonizer, i am not so anxious about it. wherever the trotting horse goes, he carries in his train brisk omnibuses, lively bakers' carts, and therefore hot rolls, the jolly butcher's wagon, the cheerful gig, the wholesome afternoon drive with wife and child,--all the forms of moral excellence, except truth, which does not agree with any kind of horse-flesh. the racer brings with him gambling, cursing, swearing, drinking, the eating of oysters, and a distaste for mob-caps and the middle-aged virtues. and by the way, let me beg you not to call a trotting match a race, and not to speak of a "thoroughbred" as a "blooded" horse, unless he has been recently phlebotomized. i consent to your saying "blood horse," if you like. also, if, next year, we send out posterior and posterioress, the winners of the great national four-mile race in . , and they happen to get beaten, pay your bets, and behave like men and gentlemen about it, if you know how. [i felt a great deal better after blowing off the ill-temper condensed in the above paragraph. to brag little,--to show well, --to crow gently, if in luck,--to pay up, to own up, and to shut up, if beaten, are the virtues of a sporting man, and i can't say that i think we have shown them in any great perfection of late.] --apropos of horses. do you know how important good jockeying is to authors? judicious management; letting the public see your animal just enough, and not too much; holding him up hard when the market is too full of him; letting him out at just the right buying intervals; always gently feeling his mouth; never slacking and never jerking the rein;--this is what i mean by jockeying. --when an author has a number of books out a cunning hand will keep them all spinning, as signor blitz does his dinner-plates; fetching each one up, as it begins to "wabble," by an advertisement, a puff, or a quotation. --whenever the extracts from a living writer begin to multiply fast in the papers, without obvious reason, there is a new book or a new edition coming. the extracts are ground-bait. --literary life is fun of curious phenomena. i don't know that there is anything more noticeable than what we may call conventional reputations. there is a tacit understanding in every community of men of letters that they will not disturb the popular fallacy respecting this or that electro-gilded celebrity. there are various reasons for this forbearance: one is old; one is rich; one is good-natured; one is such a favorite with the pit that it would not be safe to hiss him from the manager's box. the venerable augurs of the literary or scientific temple may smile faintly when one of the tribe is mentioned; but the farce is in general kept up as well as the chinese comic scene of entreating and imploring a man to stay with you with the implied compact between you that he shall by no means think of doing it. a poor wretch he must be who would wantonly sit down on one of these bandbox reputations. a prince-rupert's-drop, which is a tear of unannealed glass, lasts indefinitely, if you keep it from meddling hands; but break its tail off, and it explodes and resolves itself into powder. these celebrities i speak of are the prince-rupert's drops of the learned and polite world. see how the papers treat them! what an array of pleasant kaleidoscopic phrases, which can be arranged in ever so many charming patterns, is at their service! how kind the "critical notices"--where small authorship comes to pick up chips of praise, fragrant, sugary, and sappy--always are to them! well, life would be nothing without paper-credit and other fictions; so let them pass current. don't steal their chips; don't puncture their swimming-bladders; don't come down on their pasteboard boxes; don't break the ends of their brittle and unstable reputations, you fellows who all feel sure that your names will be household words a thousand years from now. "a thousand years is a good while," said the old gentleman who sits opposite, thoughtfully. --where have i been for the last three or four days? down at the island, deer-shooting.--how many did i bag? i brought home one buck shot.--the island is where? no matter. it is the most splendid domain that any man looks upon in these latitudes. blue sea around it, and running up into its heart, so that the little boat slumbers like a baby in lap, while the tall ships are stripping naked to fight the hurricane outside, and storm-stay- sails banging and flying in ribbons. trees, in stretches of miles; beeches, oaks, most numerous;--many of them hung with moss, looking like bearded druids; some coiled in the clasp of huge, dark-stemmed grape-vines. open patches where the sun gets in and goes to sleep, and the winds come so finely sifted that they are as soft as swan's down. rocks scattered about,--stonehenge-like monoliths. fresh-water lakes; one of them, mary's lake, crystal-clear, full of flashing pickerel lying under the lily-pads like tigers in the jungle. six pounds of ditto killed one morning for breakfast. ego fecit. the divinity-student looked as if he would like to question my latin. no, sir, i said,--you need not trouble yourself. there is a higher law in grammar, not to be put down by andrews and stoddard. then i went on. such hospitality as that island has seen there has not been the like of in these our new england sovereignties. there is nothing in the shape of kindness and courtesy that can make life beautiful, which has not found its home in that ocean-principality. it has welcomed all who were worthy of welcome, from the pale clergyman who came to breathe the sea-air with its medicinal salt and iodine, to the great statesman who turned his back on the affairs of empire, and smoothed his olympian forehead, and flashed his white teeth in merriment over the long table, where his wit was the keenest and his story the best. [i don't believe any man ever talked like that in this world. i don't believe _i_ talked just so; but the fact is, in reporting one's conversation, one cannot help blair-ing it up more or less, ironing out crumpled paragraphs, starching limp ones, and crimping and plaiting a little sometimes; it is as natural as prinking at the looking-glass.] --how can a man help writing poetry in such a place? everybody does write poetry that goes there. in the state archives, kept in the library of the lord of the isle, are whole volumes of unpublished verse,--some by well-known hands, and others quite as good, by the last people you would think of as versifiers,--men who could pension off all the genuine poets in the country, and buy ten acres of boston common, if it was for sale, with what they had left. of course i had to write my little copy of verses with the rest; here it is, if you will hear me read it. when the sun is in the west, vessels sailing in an easterly direction look bright or dark to one who observes them from the north or south, according to the tack they are sailing upon. watching them from one of the windows of the great mansion, i saw these perpetual changes, and moralized thus:- sun and shadow. as i look from the isle, o'er its billows of green, to the billows of foam-crested blue, yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen, half dreaming, my eyes will pursue: now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray as the chaff in the stroke of the flail; now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way, the sun gleaming bright on her sail. yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,-- of breakers that whiten and roar; how little he cares, if in shadow or sun they see him that gaze from the shore! he looks to the beacon that looms from the reef, to the rock that is under his lee, as he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf, o'er the gulfs of the desolate sea. thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves where life and its ventures are laid, the dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves may see us in sunshine or shade; yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark, we'll trim our broad sail as before, and stand by the rudder that governs the bark, nor ask how we look from the shore! --insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked. good mental machinery ought to break its own wheels and levers, if anything is thrust among them suddenly which tends to stop them or reverse their motion. a weak mind does not accumulate force enough to hurt itself; stupidity often saves a man from going mad. we frequently see persons in insane hospitals, sent there in consequence of what are called religious mental disturbances. i confess that i think better of them than of many who hold the same notions, and keep their wits and appear to enjoy life very well, outside of the asylums. any decent person ought to go mad, if he really holds such or such opinions. it is very much to his discredit in every point of view, if he does not. what is the use of my saying what some of these opinions are? perhaps more than one of you hold such as i should think ought to send you straight over to somerville, if you have any logic in your heads or any human feeling in your hearts. anything that is brutal, cruel, heathenish, that makes life hopeless for the most of mankind and perhaps for entire races,--anything that assumes the necessity of the extermination of instincts which were given to be regulated, --no matter by what name you call it,--no matter whether a fakir, or a monk, or a deacon believes it,--if received, ought to produce insanity in every well-regulated mind. that condition becomes a normal one, under the circumstances. i am very much ashamed of some people for retaining their reason, when they know perfectly well that if they were not the most stupid or the most selfish of human beings, they would become non-compotes at once. [nobody understood this but the theological student and the schoolmistress. they looked intelligently at each other; but whether they were thinking about my paradox or not, i am not clear.--it would be natural enough. stranger things have happened. love and death enter boarding-houses without asking the price of board, or whether there is room for them. alas, these young people are poor and pallid! love should be both rich and rosy, but must be either rich or rosy. talk about military duty! what is that to the warfare of a married maid-of-all-work, with the title of mistress, and an american female constitution, which collapses just in the middle third of life, and comes out vulcanized india-rubber, if it happen to live through the period when health and strength are most wanted?] --have i ever acted in private theatricals? often. i have played the part of the "poor gentleman," before a great many audiences, --more, i trust, than i shall ever face again. i did not wear a stage-costume, nor a wig, nor moustaches of burnt cork; but i was placarded and announced as a public performer, and at the proper hour i came forward with the ballet-dancer's smile upon my countenance, and made my bow and acted my part. i have seen my name stuck up in letters so big that i was ashamed to show myself in the place by daylight. i have gone to a town with a sober literary essay in my pocket, and seen myself everywhere announced as the most desperate of buffos,--one who was obliged to restrain himself in the full exercise of his powers, from prudential considerations. i have been through as many hardships as ulysses, in the pursuit of my histrionic vocation. i have travelled in cars until the conductors all knew me like a brother. i have run off the rails, and stuck all night in snow-drifts, and sat behind females that would have the window open when one could not wink without his eyelids freezing together. perhaps i shall give you some of my experiences one of these days;--i will not now, for i have something else for you. private theatricals, as i have figured in them in country lyceum-halls, are one thing,--and private theatricals, as they may be seen in certain gilded and frescoed saloons of our metropolis, are another. yes, it is pleasant to see real gentlemen and ladies, who do not think it necessary to mouth, and rant, and stride, like most of our stage heroes and heroines, in the characters which show off their graces and talents; most of all to see a fresh, unrouged, unspoiled, high bred young maiden, with a lithe figure, and a pleasant voice, acting in those love-dramas which make us young again to look upon, when real youth and beauty will play them for us. --of course i wrote the prologue i was asked to write. i did not see the play, though. i knew there was a young lady in it, and that somebody was in love with her, and she was in love with him, and somebody (an old tutor, i believe) wanted to interfere, and, very naturally, the young lady was too sharp for him. the play of course ends charmingly; there is a general reconciliation, and all concerned form a line and take each others' hands, as people always do after they have made up their quarrels,--and then the curtain falls,--if it does not stick, as it commonly does at private theatrical exhibitions, in which case a boy is detailed to pull it down, which he does, blushing violently. now, then, for my prologue. i am not going to change my caesuras and cadences for anybody; so if you do not like the heroic, or iambic trimeter brachy-catalectic, you had better not wait to hear it this is it. a prologue? well, of course the ladies know;-- i have my doubts. no matter,--here we go! what is a prologue? let our tutor teach: pro means beforehand; logos stands for speech. 'tis like the harper's prelude on the strings, the prima donna's courtesy ere she sings;-- prologues in metre are to other pros as worsted stockings are to engine-hose. "the world's a stage," as shakspeare said, one day; the stage a world--was what he meant to say. the outside world's a blunder, that is clear; the real world that nature meant is here. here every foundling finds its lost mamma; each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa; misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid, the cheats are taken in the traps they laid; one after one the troubles all are past till the fifth act comes right side up at last, when the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all, join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall. --here suffering virtue ever finds relief, and black-browed ruffians always come to grief, --when the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, and cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, cries, "help, kyind heaven!" and drops upon her knees on the green--baize,--beneath the (canvas) trees,-- see to her side avenging valor fly:- "ha! villain! draw! now, terraitorr, yield or die!" --when the poor hero flounders in despair, some dear lost uncle turns up millionnaire,-- clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy, sobs on his neck, "my boy! my boy!! my boy!!!" ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night. of love that conquers in disaster's spite. ladies, attend! while woful cares and doubt wrong the soft passion in the world without, though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere, one thing is certain: love will triumph here! lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,-- the world's great masters, when you're out of school,-- learn the brief moral of our evening's play: man has his will,--but woman has her way! while man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire, woman's swift instinct threads the electric wire,-- the magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves beats the black giant with his score of slaves. all earthly powers confess your sovereign art but that one rebel,--woman's wilful heart. all foes you master; but a woman's wit lets daylight through you ere you know you're hit. so, just to picture what her art can do, hear an old story made as good as new. rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, alike was famous for his arm and blade. one day a prisoner justice had to kill knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed, rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. his falchion lightened with a sudden gleam, as the pike's armor flashes in the stream. he sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; the victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. "why strikest not? perform thy murderous act," the prisoner said. (his voice was slightly cracked.) "friend i have struck," the artist straight replied; "wait but one moment, and yourself decide." he held his snuff-box,--"now then, if you please!" the prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, off his head tumbled,--bowled along the floor,-- bounced down the steps;--the prisoner said no more! woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye; if death lurks in it, oh, how sweet to die! thou takest hearts as rudolph took the head; we die with love, and never dream we're dead! the prologue went off very well, as i hear. no alterations were suggested by the lady to whom it was sent, so far as i know. sometimes people criticize the poems one sends them, and suggest all sorts of improvements. who was that silly body that wanted burns to alter "scots wha hae," so as to lengthen the last line, thus "edward!" chains and slavery! here is a little poem i sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. i understood that it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. it seems the president of the day was what is called a "teetotaller." i received a note from him in the following words, containing the copy subjoined, with the emendations annexed to it. "dear sir,--your poem gives good satisfaction to the committee. the sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those generally entertained by this community. i have therefore consulted the clergyman of this place, who has made come slight changes, which he thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions of the poem. please to inform me of your charge for said poem. our means are limited, etc., etc., etc. yours with respect," here it is--with the slight alterations! come! fill a fresh bumper,--for why should we go while the [nectar] [logwood] still reddens our cups as they flow? pour out the [rich juices] [decoction] still bright with the sun, till o'er the brimmed crystal the [rubies] [dye-stuff] shall run. the [purple glebed clusters] [half-ripened apples] their life-dews have bled; how sweet is the [breath] [taste] of the [fragrance they shed] [sugar of lead]! for summer's [last roses] [rank poisons] lie hid in the [wines] [wines!!!] that were garnered by [maidens who laughed through the vines.] [stable-boys smoking long-nines.] then a [smile] [scowl], and a [glass] [howl], and a [toast] [scoff], and a [cheer] [sneer], for all [the good wine, and we've some of it here] [strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer] in cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, [long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!] [down, down, with the tyrant that masters us all!] the company said i had been shabbily treated, and advised me to charge the committee double,--which i did. but as i never got my pay, i don't know that it made much difference. i am a very particular person about having all i write printed as i write it. i require to see a proof, a revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth-proof rectified impression of all my productions, especially verse. a misprint kills a sensitive author. an intentional change of his text murders him. no wonder so many poets die young! i have nothing more to report at this time, except two pieces of advice i gave to the young women at table. one relates to a vulgarism of language, which i grieve to say is sometimes heard even from female lips. the other is of more serious purport, and applies to such as contemplate a change of condition,--matrimony, in fact. --the woman who "calculates" is lost. --put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust. chapter iii [the "atlantic" obeys the moon, and its luniversary has come round again. i have gathered up some hasty notes of my remarks made since the last high tides, which i respectfully submit. please to remember this is talk; just as easy and just as formal as i choose to make it.] --i never saw an author in my life--saving, perhaps, one--that did not purr as audibly as a full-grown domestic cat, (felis catus, linn.,) on having his fur smoothed in the right way by a skilful hand. but let me give you a caution. be very careful how you tell an author he is droll. ten to one he will hate you; and if he does, be sure he can do you a mischief, and very probably will. say you cried over his romance or his verses, and he will love you and send you a copy. you can laugh over that as much as you like--in private. --wonder why authors and actors are ashamed of being funny?--why, there are obvious reasons, and deep philosophical ones. the clown knows very well that the women are not in love with him, but with hamlet, the fellow in the black cloak and plumed hat. passion never laughs. the wit knows that his place is at the tail of a procession. if you want the deep underlying reason, i must take more time to tell it. there is a perfect consciousness in every form of wit --using that term in its general sense--that its essence consists in a partial and incomplete view of whatever it touches. it throws a single ray, separated from the rest,--red, yellow, blue, or any intermediate shade,--upon an object; never white light; that is the province of wisdom. we get beautiful effects from wit,--all the prismatic colors,--but never the object as it is in fair daylight. a pun, which is a kind if wit, is a different and much shallower trick in mental optics throwing the shadows of two objects so that one overlies the other. poetry uses the rainbow tints for special effects, but always keeps its essential object in the purest white light of truth.--will you allow me to pursue this subject a little further? [they didn't allow me at that time, for somebody happened to scrape the floor with his chair just then; which accidental sound, as all must have noticed, has the instantaneous effect that the cutting of the yellow hair by iris had upon infelix dido. it broke the charm, and that breakfast was over.] --don't flatter yourselves that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. on the contrary, the nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become. except in cases of necessity, which are rare, leave your friend to learn unpleasant truths from his enemies; they are ready enough to tell them. good-breeding never forgets that amour-propre is universal. when you read the story of the archbishop and gil blas, you may laugh, if you will, at the poor old man's delusion; but don't forget that the youth was the greater fool of the two, and that his master served such a booby rightly in turning him out of doors. --you need not get up a rebellion against what i say, if you find everything in my sayings is not exactly new. you can't possibly mistake a man who means to be honest for a literary pickpocket. i once read an introductory lecture that looked to me too learned for its latitude. on examination, i found all its erudition was taken ready-made from d'israeli. if i had been ill-natured, i should have shown up the little great man, who had once belabored me in his feeble way. but one can generally tell these wholesale thieves easily enough, and they are not worth the trouble of putting them in the pillory. i doubt the entire novelty of my remarks just made on telling unpleasant truths, yet i am not conscious of any larceny. neither make too much of flaws and occasional overstatements. some persons seem to think that absolute truth, in the form of rigidly stated propositions, is all that conversation admits. this is precisely as if a musician should insist on having nothing but perfect chords and simple melodies,--no diminished fifths, no flat sevenths, no flourishes, on any account. now it is fair to say, that, just as music must have all these, so conversation must have its partial truths, its embellished truths, its exaggerated truths. it is in its higher forms an artistic product, and admits the ideal element as much as pictures or statues. one man who is a little too literal can spoil the talk of a whole tableful of men of esprit.--"yes," you say, "but who wants to hear fanciful people's nonsense? put the facts to it, and then see where it is!" --certainly, if a man is too fond of paradox,--if he is flighty and empty,--if, instead of striking those fifths and sevenths, those harmonious discords, often so much better than the twinned octaves, in the music of thought,--if, instead of striking these, he jangles the chords, stick a fact into him like a stiletto. but remember that talking is one of the fine arts,--the noblest, the most important, and the most difficult,--and that its fluent harmonies may be spoiled by the intrusion of a single harsh note. therefore conversation which is suggestive rather than argumentative, which lets out the most of each talker's results of thought, is commonly the pleasantest and the most profitable. it is not easy, at the best, for two persons talking together to make the most of each other's thoughts, there are so many of them. [the company looked as if they wanted an explanation.] when john and thomas, for instance, are talking together, it is natural enough that among the six there should be more or less confusion and misapprehension. [our landlady turned pale;--no doubt she thought there was a screw loose in my intellects,--and that involved the probable loss of a boarder. a severe-looking person, who wears a spanish cloak and a sad cheek, fluted by the passions of the melodrama, whom i understand to be the professional ruffian of the neighboring theatre, alluded, with a certain lifting of the brow, drawing down of the corners of the mouth, and somewhat rasping voce di petto, to falstaff's nine men in buckram. everybody looked up. i believe the old gentleman opposite was afraid i should seize the carving-knife; at any rate, he slid it to one side, as it were carelessly.] i think, i said, i can make it plain to benjamin franklin here, that there are at least six personalities distinctly to be recognized as taking part in that dialogue between john and thomas. three johns. . the real john; known only to his maker. . john's ideal john; never the real one, and often very unlike him. . thomas's ideal john; never the real john, nor john's john, but often very unlike either. three thomas. . the real thomas. . thomas's ideal thomas. . john's ideal thomas. only one of the three johns is taxed; only one can be weighed on a platform-balance; but the other two are just as important in the conversation. let us suppose the real john to be old, dull, and ill-looking. but as the higher powers have not conferred on men the gift of seeing themselves in the true light, john very possibly conceives himself to be youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks from the point of view of this ideal. thomas, again, believes him to be an artful rogue, we will say; therefore he is, so far as thomas's attitude in the conversation is concerned, an artful rogue, though really simple and stupid. the same conditions apply to the three thomases. it follows, that, until a man can be found who knows himself as his maker knows him, or who sees himself as others see him, there must be at least six persons engaged in every dialogue between two. of these, the least important, philosophically speaking, is the one that we have called the real person. no wonder two disputants often get angry, when there are six of them talking and listening all at the same time. [a very unphilosophical application of the above remarks was made by a young fellow, answering to the name of john, who sits near me at table. a certain basket of peaches, a rare vegetable, little known to boarding-houses, was on its way to me via this unlettered johannes. he appropriated the three that remained in the basket, remarking that there was just one apiece for him. i convinced him that his practical inference was hasty and illogical, but in the mean time he had eaten the peaches.] --the opinions of relatives as to a man's powers are very commonly of little value; not merely because they sometimes overrate their own flesh and blood, as some may suppose; on the contrary, they are quite as likely to underrate those whom they have grown into the habit of considering like themselves. the advent of genius is like what florists style the breaking of a seedling tulip into what we may call high-caste colors,--ten thousand dingy flowers, then one with the divine streak; or, if you prefer it, like the coming up in old jacob's garden of that most gentlemanly little fruit, the seckel pear, which i have sometimes seen in shop-windows. it is a surprise,--there is nothing to account for it. all at once we find that twice two make five. nature is fond of what are called "gift-enterprises." this little book of life which she has given into the hands of its joint possessors is commonly one of the old story-books bound over again. only once in a great while there is a stately poem in it, or its leaves are illuminated with the glories of art, or they enfold a draft for untold values signed by the million-fold millionnaire old mother herself. but strangers are commonly the first to find the "gift" that came with the little book. it may be questioned whether anything can be conscious of its own flavor. whether the musk-deer, or the civet-cat, or even a still more eloquently silent animal that might be mentioned, is aware of any personal peculiarity, may well be doubted. no man knows his own voice; many men do not know their own profiles. every one remembers carlyle's famous "characteristics" article; allow for exaggerations, and there is a great deal in his doctrine of the self-unconsciousness of genius. it comes under the great law just stated. this incapacity of knowing its own traits is often found in the family as well as in the individual. so never mind what your cousins, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and the rest, say about that fine poem you have written, but send it (postage-paid) to the editors, if there are any, of the "atlantic,"--which, by the way, is not so called because it is a notion, as some dull wits wish they had said, but are too late. --scientific knowledge, even in the most modest persons, has mingled with it a something which partakes of insolence. absolute, peremptory facts are bullies, and those who keep company with them are apt to get a bullying habit of mind;--not of manners, perhaps; they may be soft and smooth, but the smile they carry has a quiet assertion in it, such as the champion of the heavy weights, commonly the best-natured, but not the most diffident of men, wears upon what he very inelegantly calls his "mug." take the man, for instance, who deals in the mathematical sciences. there is no elasticity in a mathematical fact; if you bring up against it, it never yields a hair's breadth; everything must go to pieces that comes in collision with it. what the mathematician knows being absolute, unconditional, incapable of suffering question, it should tend, in the nature of things, to breed a despotic way of thinking. so of those who deal with the palpable and often unmistakable facts of external nature; only in a less degree. every probability--and most of our common, working beliefs are probabilities--is provided with buffers at both ends, which break the force of opposite opinions clashing against it; but scientific certainty has no spring in it, no courtesy, no possibility of yielding. all this must react on the minds which handle these forms of truth. --oh, you need net tell me that messrs. a. and b. are the most gracious, unassuming people in the world, and yet preeminent in the ranges of science i am referring to. i know that as well as you. but mark this which i am going to say once for all: if i had not force enough to project a principle full in the face of the half dozen most obvious facts which seem to contradict it, i would think only in single file from this day forward. a rash man, once visiting a certain noted institution at south boston, ventured to express the sentiment, that man is a rational being. an old woman who was an attendant in the idiot school contradicted the statement, and appealed to the facts before the speaker to disprove it. the rash man stuck to his hasty generalization, notwithstanding. [--it is my desire to be useful to those with whom i am associated in my daily relations. i not unfrequently practise the divine art of music in company with our landlady's daughter, who, as i mentioned before, is the owner of an accordion. having myself a well-marked barytone voice of more than half an octave in compass, i sometimes add my vocal powers to her execution of "thou, thou reign'st in this bosom." not, however, unless her mother or some other discreet female is present, to prevent misinterpretation or remark. i have also taken a good deal of interest in benjamin franklin, before referred to, sometimes called b. f., or more frequently frank, in imitation of that felicitous abbreviation, combining dignity and convenience, adopted by some of his betters. my acquaintance with the french language is very imperfect, i having never studied it anywhere but in paris, which is awkward, as b. f. devotes himself to it with the peculiar advantage of an alsacian teacher. the boy, i think, is doing well, between us, notwithstanding. the following is an uncorrected french exercise, written by this young gentleman. his mother thinks it very creditable to his abilities; though, being unacquainted with the french language, her judgment cannot be considered final. le rat dies salons a lecture. ce rat ci est un animal fort singulier. il a deux pattes de derriere sur lesquelles il marche, et deux pattes de devant dont il fait usage pour tenir les journaux. cet animal a la peau noire pour le plupart, et porte un cerele blanchatre autour de son cou. on le trouve tous les jours aux dits salons, on il demeure, digere, s'il y a do quoi dans son interieur, respire, tousse, eternue, dort, et renfle quelquefois, ayant toujours le semblant de lire. on ne sait pas s'il a une autre gite que cela. il a l'air d'une bete tres stupide, mais il est d'une sagacite et d'une vitesse extraordinaire quand il s'agit de saisir un journal nouveau. on ne sait pas pourquoi il lit, parcequ'il ne parait pas avoir des idees. il vocalise rarement, mais en revanche, il fait des bruits nasaux divers. il porte un crayon dans une de ses poches pectorales, avec lequel il fait des marques sur les bords des journaux et des livres, semblable aux suivans: !!!--bah! pooh! il ne faut pas cependant les prendre pour des signes d'intelligence. il ne vole pas, ordinairement; il fait rarement meme des echanges de parapluie, et jamais de chapeau, parceque son chapeau a toujours un caractere specifique. on ne sait pas au juste ce dont il se nourrit. feu cuvier etait d'avis que c'etait de l'odeur du cuir des reliures; ce qu'on dit d'etre une nourriture animale fort saine, et peu chere. il vit bien longtems. enfin il meure, en laissant a ses heritiers une carte du salon a lecture on il avait existe pendant sa vie. on pretend qu'il revient toutes les nuits, apres la mort, visiter le salon. on peut le voir, dit on, a minuit, dans sa place habituelle, tenant le journal du soir, et ayant a sa main un crayon de charbon. le lendemain on trouve des caracteres inconnus sur les bords du journal. ce qui prouve que le spiritualisme est vrai, et que messieurs les professeurs de cambridge sont des imbeciles qui ne savent rien du tout, du tout. i think this exercise, which i have not corrected, or allowed to be touched in any way, is not discreditable to b. f. you observe that he is acquiring a knowledge of zoology at the same time that he is learning french. fathers of families in moderate circumstances will find it profitable to their children, and an economical mode of instruction, to set them to revising and amending this boy's exercise. the passage was originally taken from the "histoire naturelle des betes ruminans et rongeurs, bipedes et autres," lately published in paris. this was translated into english and published in london. it was republished at great pedlington, with notes and additions by the american editor. the notes consist of an interrogation-mark on page d, and a reference (p. th) to another book "edited" by the same hand. the additions consist of the editor's name on the title-page and back, with a complete and authentic list of said editor's honorary titles in the first of these localities. our boy translated the translation back into french. this may be compared with the original, to be found on shelf , division x, of the public library of this metropolis.] --some of you boarders ask me from time to time why i don't write a story, or a novel, or something of that kind. instead of answering each one of you separately, i will thank you to step up into the wholesale department for a few moments, where i deal in answers by the piece and by the bale. that every articulately-speaking human being has in him stuff for one novel in three volumes duodecimo has long been with me a cherished belief. it has been maintained, on the other hand, that many persons cannot write more than one novel,--that all after that are likely to be failures.--life is so much more tremendous a thing in its heights and depths than any transcript of it can be, that all records of human experience are as so many bound herbaria to the innumerable glowing, glistening, rustling, breathing, fragrance-laden, poison-sucking, life-giving, death-distilling leaves and flowers of the forest and the prairies. all we can do with books of human experience is to make them alive again with something borrowed from our own lives. we can make a book alive for us just in proportion to its resemblance in essence or in form to our own experience. now an author's first novel is naturally drawn, to a great extent, from his personal experiences; that is, is a literal copy of nature under various slight disguises. but the moment the author gets out of his personality, he must have the creative power, as well as the narrative art and the sentiment, in order to tell a living story; and this is rare. besides, there is great danger that a man's first life-story shall clean him out, so to speak, of his best thoughts. most lives, though their stream is loaded with sand and turbid with alluvial waste, drop a few golden grains of wisdom as they flow along. oftentimes a single cradling gets them all, and after that the poor man's labor is only rewarded by mud and worn pebbles. all which proves that i, as an individual of the human family, could write one novel or story at any rate, if i would. --why don't i, then?--well, there are several reasons against it. in the first place, i should tell all my secrets, and i maintain that verse is the proper medium for such revelations. rhythm and rhyme and the harmonies of musical language, the play of fancy, the fire of imagination, the flashes of passion, so hide the nakedness of a heart laid open, that hardly any confession, transfigured in the luminous halo of poetry, is reproached as self-exposure. a beauty shows herself under the chandeliers, protected by the glitter of her diamonds, with such a broad snowdrift of white arms and shoulders laid bare, that, were she unadorned and in plain calico, she would be unendurable--in the opinion of the ladies. again, i am terribly afraid i should show up all my friends. i should like to know if all story-tellers do not do this? now i am afraid all my friends would not bear showing up very well; for they have an average share of the common weakness of humanity, which i am pretty certain would come out. of all that have told stories among us there is hardly one i can recall who has not drawn too faithfully some living portrait that might better have been spared. once more, i have sometimes thought it possible i might be too dull to write such a story as i should wish to write. and finally, i think it very likely i shall write a story one of these days. don't be surprised at any time, if you see me coming out with "the schoolmistress," or "the old gentleman opposite." [our schoolmistress and our old gentleman that sits opposite had left the table before i said this.] i want my glory for writing the same discounted now, on the spot, if you please. i will write when i get ready. how many people live on the reputation of the reputation they might have made! --i saw you smiled when i spoke about the possibility of my being too dull to write a good story. i don't pretend to know what you meant by it, but i take occasion to make a remark which may hereafter prove of value to some among you.--when one of us who has been led by native vanity or senseless flattery to think himself or herself possessed of talent arrives at the full and final conclusion that he or she is really dull, it is one of the most tranquillizing and blessed convictions that can enter a mortal's mind. all our failures, our shortcomings, our strange disappointments in the effect of our efforts are lifted from our bruised shoulders, and fall, like christian's pack, at the feet of that omnipotence which has seen fit to deny us the pleasant gift of high intelligence,--with which one look may overflow us in some wider sphere of being. --how sweetly and honestly one said to me the other day, "i hate books!" a gentleman,--singularly free from affectations,--not learned, of course, but of perfect breeding, which is often so much better than learning,--by no means dull, in the sense of knowledge of the world and society, but certainly not clever either in the arts or sciences,--his company is pleasing to all who know him. i did not recognize in him inferiority of literary taste half so distinctly as i did simplicity of character and fearless acknowledgment of his inaptitude for scholarship. in fact, i think there are a great many gentlemen and others, who read with a mark to keep their place, that really "hate books," but never had the wit to find it out, or the manliness to own it. [entre nous, i always read with a mark.] we get into a way of thinking as if what we call an "intellectual man" was, as a matter of course, made up of nine-tenths, or thereabouts, of book-learning, and one-tenth himself. but even if he is actually so compounded, he need not read much. society is a strong solution of books. it draws the virtue out of what is best worth reading, as hot water draws the strength of tea-leaves. if _i_ were a prince, i would hire or buy a private literary tea-pot, in which i would steep all the leaves of new books that promised well. the infusion would do for me without the vegetable fibre. you understand me; i would have a person whose sole business should be to read day and night, and talk to me whenever i wanted him to. i know the man i would have: a quick-witted, out-spoken, incisive fellow; knows history, or at any rate has a shelf full of books about it, which he can use handily, and the same of all useful arts and sciences; knows all the common plots of plays and novels, and the stock company of characters that are continually coming on in new costume; can give you a criticism of an octavo in an epithet and a wink, and you can depend on it; cares for nobody except for the virtue there is in what he says; delights in taking off big wigs and professional gowns, and in the disembalming and unbandaging of all literary mummies. yet he is as tender and reverential to all that bears the mark of genius,--that is, of a new influx of truth or beauty,--as a nun over her missal. in short, he is one of those men that know everything except how to make a living. him would i keep on the square next my own royal compartment on life's chessboard. to him i would push up another pawn, in the shape of a comely and wise young woman, whom he would of course take--to wife. for all contingencies i would liberally provide. in a word, i would, in the plebeian, but expressive phrase, "put him through" all the material part of life; see him sheltered, warmed, fed, button-mended, and all that, just to be able to lay on his talk when i liked,--with the privilege of shutting it off at will. a club is the next best thing to this, strung like a harp, with about a dozen ringing intelligences, each answering to some chord of the macrocosm. they do well to dine together once in a while. a dinner-party made up of such elements is the last triumph of civilization over barbarism. nature and art combine to charm the senses; the equatorial zone of the system is soothed by well-studied artifices; the faculties are off duty, and fall into their natural attitudes; you see wisdom in slippers and science in a short jacket. the whole force of conversation depends on how much you can take for granted. vulgar chess-players have to play their game out; nothing short of the brutality of an actual checkmate satisfies their dull apprehensions. but look at two masters of that noble game! white stands well enough, so far as you can see; but red says, mate in six moves;--white looks,--nods;--the game is over. just so in talking with first-rate men; especially when they are good-natured and expansive, as they are apt to be at table. that blessed clairvoyance which sees into things without opening them, --that glorious license, which, having shut the door and driven the reporter from its key-hole, calls upon truth, majestic virgin! to get off from her pedestal and drop her academic poses, and take a festive garland and the vacant place on the medius lectus,--that carnival-shower of questions and replies and comments, large axioms bowled over the mahogany like bomb-shells from professional mortars, and explosive wit dropping its trains of many-colored fire, and the mischief-making rain of bon-bons pelting everybody that shows himself,--the picture of a truly intellectual banquet is one which the old divinities might well have attempted to reproduce in their-- --"oh, oh, oh!" cried the young fellow whom they call john,--"that is from one of your lectures!" i know it, i replied,--i concede it, i confess it, i proclaim it. "the trail of the serpent is over them all!" all lecturers, all professors, all schoolmasters, have ruts and grooves in their minds into which their conversation is perpetually sliding. did you never, in riding through the woods of a still june evening, suddenly feel that you had passed into a warm stratum of air, and in a minute or two strike the chill layer of atmosphere beyond? did you never, in cleaving the green waters of the back bay,--where the provincial blue-noses are in the habit of beating the "metropolitan" boat-clubs,--find yourself in a tepid streak, a narrow, local gulf-stream, a gratuitous warm-bath a little underdone, through which your glistening shoulders soon flashed, to bring you back to the cold realities of full-sea temperature? just so, in talking with any of the characters above referred to, one not unfrequently finds a sudden change in the style of the conversation. the lack-lustre eye rayless as a beacon-street door-plate in august, all at once fills with light; the face flings itself wide open like the church-portals when the bride and bridegroom enter; the little man grows in stature before your eyes, like the small prisoner with hair on end, beloved yet dreaded of early childhood; you were talking with a dwarf and an imbecile, --you have a giant and a trumpet-tongued angel before you!--nothing but a streak out of a fifty-dollar lecture.--as when, at some unlooked-for moment, the mighty fountain-column springs into the air before the astonished passer-by,--silver-footed, diamond- crowned, rainbow-scarfed,--from the bosom of that fair sheet, sacred to the hymns of quiet batrachians at home, and the epigrams of a less amiable and less elevated order of reptilia in other latitudes. --who was that person that was so abused some time since for saying that in the conflict of two races our sympathies naturally go with the higher? no matter who he was. now look at what is going on in india,--a white, superior "caucasian" race, against a dark-skinned, inferior, but still "caucasian" race,--and where are english and american sympathies? we can't stop to settle all the doubtful questions; all we know is, that the brute nature is sure to come out most strongly in the lower race, and it is the general law that the human side of humanity should treat the brutal side as it does the same nature in the inferior animals,--tame it or crush it. the india mail brings stories of women and children outraged and murdered; the royal stronghold is in the hands of the babe-killers. england takes down the map of the world, which she has girdled with empire, and makes a correction thus: [delphi] dele. the civilized world says, amen. --do not think, because i talk to you of many subjects briefly, that i should not find it much lazier work to take each one of them and dilute it down to an essay. borrow some of my old college themes and water my remarks to suit yourselves, as the homeric heroes did with their melas oinos,--that black sweet, syrupy wine (?) which they used to alloy with three parts or more of the flowing stream. [could it have been melasses, as webster and his provincials spell it,--or molossa's, as dear old smattering, chattering, would-be-college-president, cotton mather, has it in the "magnalia"? ponder thereon, ye small antiquaries who make barn-door-fowl flights of learning in "notes and queries!"--ye historical societies, in one of whose venerable triremes i, too, ascend the stream of time, while other hands tug at the oars!--ye amines of parasitical literature, who pick up your grains of native-grown food with a bodkin, having gorged upon less honest fare, until, like the great minds goethe speaks of, you have "made a golgotha" of your pages!--ponder thereon!] --before you go, this morning, i want to read you a copy of verses. you will understand by the title that they are written in an imaginary character. i don't doubt they will fit some family-man well enough. i send it forth as "oak hall" projects a coat, on a priori grounds of conviction that it will suit somebody. there is no loftier illustration of faith than this. it believes that a soul has been clad in flesh; that tender parents have fed and nurtured it; that its mysterious compages or frame-work has survived its myriad exposures and reached the stature of maturity; that the man, now self-determining, has given in his adhesion to the traditions and habits of the race in favor of artificial clothing; that he will, having all the world to choose from, select the very locality where this audacious generalization has been acted upon. it builds a garment cut to the pattern of an idea, and trusts that nature will model a material shape to fit it. there is a prophecy in every seam, and its pockets are full of inspiration. --now hear the verses. the old man dreams. o for one hour of youthful joy! give back my twentieth spring! i'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy than reign a gray-beard king! off with the wrinkled spoils of age! away with learning's crown! tear out life's wisdom-written page, and dash its trophies down! one moment let my life-blood stream from boyhood's fount of flame! give me one giddy, reeling dream of life all love and fame! --my listening angel heard the prayer, and calmly smiling, said, "if i but touch thy silvered hair, thy hasty wish hath sped. "but is there nothing in thy track to bid thee fondly stay, while the swift seasons hurry back to find the wished-for day?" --ah, truest soul of womankind! without thee, what were life? one bliss i cannot leave behind: i'll take--my--precious wife! --the angel took a sapphire pen and wrote in rainbow dew, "the man would be a boy again, and be a husband too!" --"and is there nothing yet unsaid before the change appears? remember, all their gifts have fled with those dissolving years!" why, yes; for memory would recall my fond paternal joys; i could not bear to leave them all; i'll take--my--girl--and--boys! the smiling angel dropped his pen,-- "why this will never do; the man would be a boy again, and be a father too!" and so i laughed,--my laughter woke the household with its noise,-- and wrote my dream, when morning broke, to please the gray-haired boys. chapter iv [i am so well pleased with my boarding-house that i intend to remain there, perhaps for years. of course i shall have a great many conversations to report, and they will necessarily be of different tone and on different subjects. the talks are like the breakfasts,--sometimes dipped toast, and sometimes dry. you must take them as they come. how can i do what all these letters ask me to? no. . want serious and earnest thought. no. . (letter smells of bad cigars) must have more jokes; wants me to tell a "good storey" which he has copied out for me. (i suppose two letters before the word "good" refer to some doctor of divinity who told the story.) no. . (in female hand)--more poetry. no. . wants something that would be of use to a practical man. (prahctical mahn he probably pronounces it.) no. . (gilt-edged, sweet-scented)--"more sentiment,"--"heart's outpourings."-- my dear friends, one and all, i can do nothing but report such remarks as i happen to have made at our breakfast-table. their character will depend on many accidents,--a good deal on the particular persons in the company to whom they were addressed. it so happens that those which follow were mainly intended for the divinity-student and the school-mistress; though others, whom i need not mention, saw to interfere, with more or less propriety, in the conversation. this is one of my privileges as a talker; and of course, if i was not talking for our whole company, i don't expect all the readers of this periodical to be interested in my notes of what was said. still, i think there may be a few that will rather like this vein,--possibly prefer it to a livelier one,--serious young men, and young women generally, in life's roseate parenthesis from--years of age to--inclusive. another privilege of talking is to misquote.--of course it wasn't proserpina that actually cut the yellow hair,--but iris. (as i have since told you) it was the former lady's regular business, but dido had used herself ungenteelly, and madame d'enfer stood firm on the point of etiquette. so the bathycolpian here--juno, in latin --sent down iris instead. but i was mightily pleased to see that one of the gentlemen that do the heavy articles for the celebrated "oceanic miscellany" misquoted campbell's line without any excuse. "waft us home the message" of course it ought to be. will he be duly grateful for the correction?] --the more we study the body and the mind, the more we find both to be governed, not by, but according to laws, such as we observe in the larger universe.--you think you know all about walking,--don't you, now? well, how do you suppose your lower limbs are held to your body? they are sucked up by two cupping vessels, ("cotyloid" --cup-like--cavities,) and held there as long as you live, and longer. at any rate, you think you move them backward and forward at such a rate as your will determines, don't you?--on the contrary, they swing just as any other pendulums swing, at a fixed rate, determined by their length. you can alter this by muscular power, as you can take hold of the pendulum of a clock and make it move faster or slower; but your ordinary gait is timed by the same mechanism as the movements of the solar system. [my friend, the professor, told me all this, referring me to certain german physiologists by the name of weber for proof of the facts, which, however, he said he had often verified. i appropriated it to my own use; what can one do better than this, when one has a friend that tells him anything worth remembering? the professor seems to think that man and the general powers of the universe are in partnership. some one was saying that it had cost nearly half a million to move the leviathan only so far as they had got it already.--why,--said the professor,--they might have hired an earthquake for less money!] just as we find a mathematical rule at the bottom of many of the bodily movements, just so thought may be supposed to have its regular cycles. such or such a thought comes round periodically, in its turn. accidental suggestions, however, so far interfere with the regular cycles, that we may find them practically beyond our power of recognition. take all this for what it is worth, but at any rate you will agree that there are certain particular thoughts that do not come up once a day, nor once a week, but that a year would hardly go round without your having them pass through your mind. here is one which comes up at intervals in this way. some one speaks of it, and there is an instant and eager smile of assent in the listener or listeners. yes, indeed; they have often been struck by it. all at once a conviction flashes through us that we have been in the same precise circumstances as at the present instant, once or many times before. o, dear, yes!--said one of the company,--everybody has had that feeling. the landlady didn't know anything about such notions; it was an idee in folks' heads, she expected. the schoolmistress said, in a hesitating sort of way, that she knew the feeling well, and didn't like to experience it; it made her think she was a ghost, sometimes. the young fellow whom they call john said he knew all about it; he had just lighted a cheroot the other day, when a tremendous conviction all at once came over him that he had done just that same thing ever so many times before. i looked severely at him, and his countenance immediately fell--on the side toward me; i cannot answer for the other, for he can wink and laugh with either half of his face without the other half's knowing it. --i have noticed--i went on to say--the following circumstances connected with these sudden impressions. first, that the condition which seems to be the duplicate of a former one is often very trivial,--one that might have presented itself a hundred times. secondly, that the impression is very evanescent, and that it is rarely, if ever, recalled by any voluntary effort, at least after any time has elapsed. thirdly, that there is a disinclination to record the circumstances, and a sense of incapacity to reproduce the state of mind in words. fourthly, i have often felt that the duplicate condition had not only occurred once before, but that it was familiar and, as it seemed, habitual. lastly, i have had the same convictions in my dreams. how do i account for it?--why, there are several ways that i can mention, and you may take your choice. the first is that which the young lady hinted at;--that these flashes are sudden recollections of a previous existence. i don't believe that; for i remember a poor student i used to know told me he had such a conviction one day when he was blacking his boots, and i can't think he had ever lived in another world where they use day and martin. some think that dr. wigan's doctrine of the brain's being a double organ, its hemispheres working together like the two eyes, accounts for it. one of the hemispheres hangs fire, they suppose, and the small interval between the perceptions of the nimble and the sluggish half seems an indefinitely long period, and therefore the second perception appears to be the copy of another, ever so old. but even allowing the centre of perception to be double, i can see no good reason for supposing this indefinite lengthening of the time, nor any analogy that bears it out. it seems to me most likely that the coincidence of circumstances is very partial, but that we take this partial resemblance for identity, as we occasionally do resemblances of persons. a momentary posture of circumstances is so far like some preceding one that we accept it as exactly the same, just as we accost a stranger occasionally, mistaking him for a friend. the apparent similarity may be owing perhaps, quite as much to the mental state at the time, as to the outward circumstances. --here is another of these curiously recurring remarks. i have said it, and heard it many times, and occasionally met with something like it in books,--somewhere in bulwer's novels, i think, and in one of the works of mr. olmsted, i know. memory, imagination, old sentiments and associations, are more readily reached through the sense of smell than by almost any other channel. of course the particular odors which act upon each person's susceptibilities differ.--o, yes! i will tell you some of mine. the smell of phosphorus is one of them. during a year or two of adolescence i used to be dabbling in chemistry a good deal, and as about that time i had my little aspirations and passions like another, some of these things got mixed up with each other: orange-colored fumes of nitrous acid, and visions as bright and transient; reddening litmus-paper, and blushing cheeks;--eheu! "soles occidere et redire possunt," but there is no reagent that will redden the faded roses of eighteen hundred and--spare them! but, as i was saying, phosphorus fires this train of associations in an instant; its luminous vapors with their penetrating odor throw me into a trance; it comes to me in a double sense "trailing clouds of glory." only the confounded vienna matches, ohne phosphor-geruch, have worn my sensibilities a little. then there is the marigold. when i was of smallest dimensions, and wont to ride impacted between the knees of fond parental pair, we would sometimes cross the bridge to the next village-town and stop opposite a low, brown, "gambrel-roofed" cottage. out of it would come one sally, sister of its swarthy tenant, swarthy herself, shady-lipped, sad-voiced, and, bending over her flower-bed, would gather a "posy," as she called it, for the little boy. sally lies in the churchyard with a slab of blue slate at her head, lichen- crusted, and leaning a little within the last few years. cottage, garden-beds, posies, grenadier-like rows of seedling onions, --stateliest of vegetables,--all are gone, but the breath of a marigold brings them all back to me. perhaps the herb everlasting, the fragrant immortelle of our autumn fields, has the most suggestive odor to me of all those that set me dreaming. i can hardly describe the strange thoughts and emotions that come to me as i inhale the aroma of its pale, dry, rustling flowers. a something it has of sepulchral spicery, as if it had been brought from the core of some great pyramid, where it had lain on the breast of a mummied pharaoh. something, too, of immortality in the sad, faint sweetness lingering so long in its lifeless petals. yet this does not tell why it fills my eyes with tears and carries me in blissful thought to the banks of asphodel that border the river of life. --i should not have talked so much about these personal susceptibilities, if i had not a remark to make about them which i believe is a new one. it is this. there may be a physical reason for the strange connection between the sense of smell and the mind. the olfactory nerve--so my friend, the professor, tells me--is the only one directly connected with the hemispheres of the brain, the parts in which, as we have every reason to believe, the intellectual processes are performed. to speak more truly the olfactory "nerve" is not a nerve at all, he says, but a part of the brain, in intimate connection with its anterior lobes. whether this anatomical arrangement is at the bottom of the facts i have mentioned, i will not decide, but it is curious enough to be worth remembering. contrast the sense of taste, as a source of suggestive impressions, with that of smell. now the professor assures me that you will find the nerve of taste has no immediate connection with the brain proper, but only with the prolongation of the spinal cord. [the old gentleman opposite did not pay much attention, i think, to this hypothesis of mine. but while i was speaking about the sense of smell he nestled about in his seat, and presently succeeded in getting out a large red bandanna handkerchief. then he lurched a little to the other side, and after much tribulation at last extricated an ample round snuff-box. i looked as he opened it and felt for the wonted pugil. moist rappee, and a tonka-bean lying therein. i made the manual sign understood of all mankind that use the precious dust, and presently my brain, too, responded to the long unused stimulus--o boys,--that were,--actual papas and possible grandpapas,--some of you with crowns like billiard-balls, --some in locks of sable silvered, and some of silver sabled,--do you remember, as you doze over this, those after-dinners at the trois freres when the scotch-plaided snuff-box went round, and the dry lundy-foot tickled its way along into our happy sensoria? then it was that the chambertin or the clos vougeot came in, slumbering in its straw cradle. and one among you,--do you remember how he would have a bit of ice always in his burgundy, and sit tinkling it against the sides of the bubble-like glass, saying that he was hearing the cow-bells as he used to hear them, when the deep-breathing kine came home at twilight from the huckleberry pasture, in the old home a thousand leagues towards the sunset?] ah me! what strains and strophes of unwritten verse pulsate through my soul when i open a certain closet in the ancient house where i was born! on its shelves used to lie bundles of sweet-marjoram and pennyroyal and lavender and mint and catnip; there apples were stored until their seeds should grow black, which happy period there were sharp little milk-teeth always ready to anticipate; there peaches lay in the dark, thinking of the sunshine they had lost, until, like the hearts of saints that dream of heaven in their sorrow, they grew fragrant as the breath of angels. the odorous echo of a score of dead summers lingers yet in those dim recesses. --do i remember byron's line about "striking the electric chain"? --to be sure i do. i sometimes think the less the hint that stirs the automatic machinery of association, the more easily this moves us. what can be more trivial than that old story of opening the folio shakspeare that used to lie in some ancient english hall and finding the flakes of christmas pastry between its leaves, shut up in them perhaps a hundred years ago? and, lo! as one looks on these poor relics of a bygone generation, the universe changes in the twinkling of an eye; old george the second is back again, and the elder pitt is coming into power, and general wolfe is a fine, promising young man, and over the channel they are pulling the sieur damiens to pieces with wild horses, and across the atlantic the indians are tomahawking hirams and jonathans and jonases at fort william henry; all the dead people who have been in the dust so long--even to the stout-armed cook that made the pastry--are alive again; the planet unwinds a hundred of its luminous coils, and the precession of the equinoxes is retraced on the dial of heaven! and all this for a bit of pie-crust! --i will thank you for that pie,--said the provoking young fellow whom i have named repeatedly. he looked at it for a moment, and put his hands to his eyes as if moved.--i was thinking,--he said indistinctly-- --how? what is't?--said our landlady. --i was thinking--said he--who was king of england when this old pie was baked,--and it made me feel bad to think how long he must have been dead. [our landlady is a decent body, poor, and a widow, of course; cela va sans dire. she told me her story once; it was as if a grain of corn that had been ground and bolted had tried to individualize itself by a special narrative. there was the wooing and the wedding,--the start in life,--the disappointments,--the children she had buried,--the struggle against fate,--the dismantling of life, first of its small luxuries, and then of its comforts,--the broken spirits,--the altered character of the one on whom she leaned,--and at last the death that came and drew the black curtain between her and all her earthly hopes. i never laughed at my landlady after she had told me her story, but i often cried,--not those pattering tears that run off the eaves upon our neighbors' grounds, the stillicidium of self-conscious sentiment, but those which steal noiselessly through their conduits until they reach the cisterns lying round about the heart; those tears that we weep inwardly with unchanging features;--such i did shed for her often when the imps of the boarding-house inferno tugged at her soul with their red-hot pincers.] young man,--i said,--the pasty you speak lightly of is not old, but courtesy to those who labor to serve us, especially if they are of the weaker sex, is very old, and yet well worth retaining. may i recommend to you the following caution, as a guide, whenever you are dealing with a woman, or an artist, or a poet--if you are handling an editor or politician, it is superfluous advice. i take it from the back of one of those little french toys which contain pasteboard figures moved by a small running stream of fine sand; benjamin franklin will translate it for you: "quoiqu'elle soit tres solidement montee, il faut ne pas brutaliser la machine."--i will thank you for the pie, if you please. [i took more of it than was good for me--as much as degrees, i should think,--and had an indigestion in consequence. while i was suffering from it, i wrote some sadly desponding poems, and a theological essay which took a very melancholy view of creation. when i got better i labelled them all "pie-crust," and laid them by as scarecrows and solemn warnings. i have a number of books on my shelves that i should like to label with some such title; but, as they have great names on their title-pages,--doctors of divinity, some of them,--it wouldn't do.] --my friend, the professor, whom i have mentioned to you once or twice, told me yesterday that somebody had been abusing him in some of the journals of his calling. i told him that i didn't doubt he deserved it; that i hoped he did deserve a little abuse occasionally, and would for a number of years to come; that nobody could do anything to make his neighbors wiser or better without being liable to abuse for it; especially that people hated to have their little mistakes made fun of, and perhaps he had been doing something of the kind.--the professor smiled.--now, said i, hear what i am going to say. it will not take many years to bring you to the period of life when men, at least the majority of writing and talking men, do nothing but praise. men, like peaches and pears, grow sweet a little while before they begin to decay. i don't know what it is,--whether a spontaneous change, mental or bodily, or whether it is thorough experience of the thanklessness of critical honesty,--but it is a fact, that most writers, except sour and unsuccessful ones, get tired of finding fault at about the time when they are beginning to grow old. as a general thing, i would not give a great deal for the fair words of a critic, if he is himself an author, over fifty years of age. at thirty we are all trying to cut our names in big letters upon the walls of this tenement of life; twenty years later we have carved it, or shut up our jack-knives. then we are ready to help others, and care less to hinder any, because nobody's elbows are in our way. so i am glad you have a little life left; you will be saccharine enough in a few years. --some of the softening effects of advancing age have struck me very much in what i have heard or seen here and elsewhere. i just now spoke of the sweetening process that authors undergo. do you know that in the gradual passage from maturity to helplessness the harshest characters sometimes have a period in which they are gentle and placid as young children? i have heard it said, but i cannot be sponsor for its truth, that the famous chieftain, lochiel, was rocked in a cradle like a baby, in his old age. an old man, whose studies had been of the severest scholastic kind, used to love to hear little nursery-stories read over and over to him. one who saw the duke of wellington in his last years describes him as very gentle in his aspect and demeanor. i remember a person of singularly stern and lofty bearing who became remarkably gracious and easy in all his ways in the later period of his life. and that leads me to say that men often remind me of pears in their way of coming to maturity. some are ripe at twenty, like human jargonelles, and must be made the most of, for their day is soon over. some come into their perfect condition late, like the autumn kinds, and they last better than the summer fruit. and some, that, like the winter-nelis, have been hard and uninviting until all the rest have had their season, get their glow and perfume long after the frost and snow have done their worst with the orchards. beware of rash criticisms; the rough and stringent fruit you condemn may be an autumn or a winter pear, and that which you picked up beneath the same bough in august may have been only its worm-eaten windfalls. milton was a saint-germain with a graft of the roseate early-catherine. rich, juicy, lively, fragrant, russet skinned old chaucer was an easter-beurre; the buds of a new summer were swelling when he ripened. --there is no power i envy so much--said the divinity-student--as that of seeing analogies and making comparisons. i don't understand how it is that some minds are continually coupling thoughts or objects that seem not in the least related to each other, until all at once they are put in a certain light, and you wonder that you did not always see that they were as like as a pair of twins. it appears to me a sort of miraculous gift. [he is rather a nice young man, and i think has an appreciation of the higher mental qualities remarkable for one of his years and training. i try his head occasionally as housewives try eggs, --give it an intellectual shake and hold it up to the light, so to speak, to see if it has life in it, actual or potential, or only contains lifeless albumen.] you call it miraculous,--i replied,--tossing the expression with my facial eminence, a little smartly, i fear.--two men are walking by the polyphloesboean ocean, one of them having a small tin cup with which he can scoop up a gill of sea-water when he will, and the other nothing but his hands, which will hardly hold water at all, --and you call the tin cup a miraculous possession! it is the ocean that is the miracle, my infant apostle! nothing is clearer than that all things are in all things, and that just according to the intensity and extension of our mental being we shall see the many in the one and the one in the many. did sir isaac think what he was saying when he made his speech about the ocean,--the child and the pebbles, you know? did he mean to speak slightingly of a pebble? of a spherical solid which stood sentinel over its compartment of space before the stone that became the pyramids had grown solid, and has watched it until now! a body which knows all the currents of force that traverse the globe; which holds by invisible threads to the ring of saturn and the belt of orion! a body from the contemplation of which an archangel could infer the entire inorganic universe as the simplest of corollaries! a throne of the all-pervading deity, who has guided its every atom since the rosary of heaven was strung with beaded stars! so,--to return to our walk by the ocean,--if all that poetry has dreamed, all that insanity has raved, all that maddening narcotics have driven through the brains of men, or smothered passion nursed in the fancies of women,--if the dreams of colleges and convents and boarding-schools,--if every human feeling that sighs, or smiles, or curses, or shrieks, or groans, should bring all their innumerable images, such as come with every hurried heart-beat, --the epic which held them all, though its letters filled the zodiac, would be but a cupful from the infinite ocean of similitudes and analogies that rolls through the universe. [the divinity-student honored himself by the way in which he received this. he did not swallow it at once, neither did he reject it; but he took it as a pickerel takes the bait, and carried it off with him to his hole (in the fourth story) to deal with at his leisure.] --here is another remark made for his especial benefit.--there is a natural tendency in many persons to run their adjectives together in triads, as i have heard them called,--thus: he was honorable, courteous, and brave; she was graceful, pleasing, and virtuous. dr. johnson is famous for this; i think it was bulwer who said you could separate a paper in the "rambler" into three distinct essays. many of our writers show the same tendency,--my friend, the professor, especially. some think it is in humble imitation of johnson,--some that it is for the sake of the stately sound only. i don't think they get to the bottom of it. it is, i suspect, an instinctive and involuntary effort of the mind to present a thought or image with the three dimensions that belong to every solid,--an unconscious handling of an idea as if it had length, breadth, and thickness. it is a great deal easier to say this than to prove it, and a great deal easier to dispute it than to disprove it. but mind this: the more we observe and study, the wider we find the range of the automatic and instinctive principles in body, mind, and morals, and the narrower the limits of the self-determining conscious movement. --i have often seen piano-forte players and singers make such strange motions over their instruments or song-books that i wanted to laugh at them. "where did our friends pick up all these fine ecstatic airs?" i would say to myself. then i would remember my lady in "marriage a la mode," and amuse myself with thinking how affectation was the same thing in hogarth's time and in our own. but one day i bought me a canary-bird and hung him up in a cage at my window. by-and-by he found himself at home, and began to pipe his little tunes; and there he was, sure enough, swimming and waving about, with all the droopings and liftings and languishing side-turnings of the head that i had laughed at. and now i should like to ask, who taught him all this?--and me, through him, that the foolish head was not the one swinging itself from side to side and bowing and nodding over the music, but that other which was passing its shallow and self-satisfied judgment on a creature made of finer clay than the frame which carried that same head upon its shoulders? --do you want an image of the human will, or the self-determining principle, as compared with its prearranged and impassable restrictions? a drop of water, imprisoned in a crystal; you may see such a one in any mineralogical collection. one little fluid particle in the crystalline prism of the solid universe! --weaken moral obligations?--no, not weaken, but define them. when i preach that sermon i spoke of the other day, i shall have to lay down some principles not fully recognized in some of your text-books. i should have to begin with one most formidable preliminary. you saw an article the other day in one of the journals, perhaps, in which some old doctor or other said quietly that patients were very apt to be fools and cowards. but a great many of the clergyman's patients are not only fools and cowards, but also liars. [immense sensation at the table.--sudden retirement of the angular female in oxydated bombazine. movement of adhesion--as they say in the chamber of deputies--on the part of the young fellow they call john. falling of the old-gentleman-opposite's lower jaw --(gravitation is beginning to get the better of him.) our landlady to benjamin franklin, briskly,--go to school right off, there's a good boy! schoolmistress curious,--takes a quick glance at divinity-student. divinity-student slightly flushed draws his shoulders back a little, as if a big falsehood--or truth--had hit him in the forehead. myself calm.] --i should not make such a speech as that, you know, without having pretty substantial indorsers to fall back upon, in case my credit should be disputed. will you run up stairs, benjamin franklin, (for b. f. had not gone right off, of course,) and bring down a small volume from the left upper corner of the right-hand shelves? [look at the precious little black, ribbed backed, clean-typed, vellum-papered mo. "desiderii erasmi colloquia. amstelodami. typis ludovici elzevirii. ." various names written on title-page. most conspicuous this: gul. cookeson e. coll. omn. anim. . oxon. --o william cookeson, of all-souls college, oxford,--then writing as i now write,--now in the dust, where i shall lie,--is this line all that remains to thee of earthly remembrance? thy name is at least once more spoken by living men;--is it a pleasure to thee? thou shalt share with me my little draught of immortality,--its week, its month, its year,--whatever it may be,--and then we will go together into the solemn archives of oblivion's uncatalogued library!] --if you think i have used rather strong language, i shall have to read something to you out of the book of this keen and witty scholar,--the great erasmus,--who "laid the egg of the reformation which luther hatched." oh, you never read his naufragium, or "shipwreck," did you? of course not; for, if you had, i don't think you would have given me credit--or discredit--for entire originality in that speech of mine. that men are cowards in the contemplation of futurity he illustrates by the extraordinary antics of many on board the sinking vessel; that they are fools, by their praying to the sea, and making promises to bits of wood from the true cross, and all manner of similar nonsense; that they are fools, cowards, and liars all at once, by this story: i will put it into rough english for you.--"i couldn't help laughing to hear one fellow bawling out, so that he might be sure to be heard, a promise to saint christopher of paris--the monstrous statue in the great church there--that he would give him a wax taper as big as himself. 'mind what you promise!' said an acquaintance that stood near him, poking him with his elbow; 'you couldn't pay for it, if you sold all your things at auction.' 'hold your tongue, you donkey!' said the fellow,--but softly, so that saint christopher should not hear him,--'do you think i'm in earnest? if i once get my foot on dry ground, catch me giving him so much as a tallow candle!'" now, therefore, remembering that those who have been loudest in their talk about the great subject of which we were speaking have not necessarily been wise, brave, and true men, but, on the contrary, have very often been wanting in one or two or all of the qualities these words imply, i should expect to find a good many doctrines current in the schools which i should be obliged to call foolish, cowardly, and false. --so you would abuse other people's beliefs, sir, and yet not tell us your own creed!--said the divinity-student, coloring up with a spirit for which i liked him all the better. --i have a creed,--i replied;--none better, and none shorter. it is told in two words,--the two first of the paternoster. and when i say these words i mean them. and when i compared the human will to a drop in a crystal, and said i meant to define moral obligations, and not weaken them, this was what i intended to express: that the fluent, self-determining power of human beings is a very strictly limited agency in the universe. the chief planes of its enclosing solid are, of course, organization, education, condition. organization may reduce the power of the will to nothing, as in some idiots; and from this zero the scale mounts upwards by slight gradations. education is only second to nature. imagine all the infants born this year in boston and timbuctoo to change places! condition does less, but "give me neither poverty nor riches" was the prayer of agur, and with good reason. if there is any improvement in modern theology, it is in getting out of the region of pure abstractions and taking these every-day working forces into account. the great theological question now heaving and throbbing in the minds of christian men is this:- no, i wont talk about these things now. my remarks might be repeated, and it would give my friends pain to see with what personal incivilities i should be visited. besides, what business has a mere boarder to be talking about such things at a breakfast- table? let him make puns. to be sure, he was brought up among the christian fathers, and learned his alphabet out of a quarto "concilium tridentinum." he has also heard many thousand theological lectures by men of various denominations; and it is not at all to the credit of these teachers, if he is not fit by this time to express an opinion on theological matters. i know well enough that there are some of you who had a great deal rather see me stand on my head than use it for any purpose of thought. does not my friend, the professor, receive at least two letters a week, requesting him to. . . . ,--on the strength of some youthful antic of his, which, no doubt, authorizes the intelligent constituency of autograph-hunters to address him as a harlequin? --well, i can't be savage with you for wanting to laugh, and i like to make you laugh, well enough, when i can. but then observe this: if the sense of the ridiculous is one side of an impressible nature, it is very well; but if that is all there is in a man, he had better have been an ape at once, and so have stood at the head of his profession. laughter and tears are meant to turn the wheels of the same machinery of sensibility; one is wind-power, and the other water-power; that is all. i have often heard the professor talk about hysterics as being nature's cleverest illustration of the reciprocal convertibility of the two states of which these acts are the manifestations; but you may see it every day in children; and if you want to choke with stifled tears at sight of the transition, as it shows itself in older years, go and see mr. blake play jesse rural. it is a very dangerous thing for a literary man to indulge his love for the ridiculous. people laugh with him just so long as he amuses them; but if he attempts to be serious, they must still have their laugh, and so they laugh at him. there is in addition, however, a deeper reason for this than would at first appear. do you know that you feel a little superior to every man who makes you laugh, whether by making faces or verses? are you aware that you have a pleasant sense of patronizing him, when you condescend so far as to let him turn somersets, literal or literary, for your royal delight? now if a man can only be allowed to stand on a dais, or raised platform, and look down on his neighbor who is exerting his talent for him, oh, it is all right!--first-rate performance!--and all the rest of the fine phrases. but if all at once the performer asks the gentleman to come upon the floor, and, stepping upon the platform, begins to talk down at him,--ah, that wasn't in the programme! i have never forgotten what happened when sydney smith--who, as everybody knows, was an exceedingly sensible man, and a gentleman, every inch of him--ventured to preach a sermon on the duties of royalty. the "quarterly," "so savage and tartarly," came down upon him in the most contemptuous style, as "a joker of jokes," a "diner-out of the first water," in one of his own phrases; sneering at him, insulting him, as nothing but a toady of a court, sneaking behind the anonymous, would ever have been mean enough to do to a man of his position and genius, or to any decent person even.--if i were giving advice to a young fellow of talent, with two or three facets to his mind, i would tell him by all means to keep his wit in the background until after he had made a reputation by his more solid qualities. and so to an actor: hamlet first, and bob logic afterwards, if you like; but don't think, as they say poor liston used to, that people will be ready to allow that you can do anything great with macbeth's dagger after flourishing about with paul pry's umbrella. do you know, too, that the majority of men look upon all who challenge their attention,--for a while, at least,--as beggars, and nuisances? they always try to get off as cheaply as they can; and the cheapest of all things they can give a literary man--pardon the forlorn pleasantry!--is the funny-bone. that is all very well so far as it goes, but satisfies no man, and makes a good many angry, as i told you on a former occasion. --oh, indeed, no!--i am not ashamed to make you laugh, occasionally. i think i could read you something i have in my desk which would probably make you smile. perhaps i will read it one of these days, if you are patient with me when i am sentimental and reflective; not just now. the ludicrous has its place in the universe; it is not a human invention, but one of the divine ideas, illustrated in the practical jokes of kittens and monkeys long before aristophanes or shakspeare. how curious it is that we always consider solemnity and the absence of all gay surprises and encounter of wits as essential to the idea of the future life of those whom we thus deprive of half their faculties and then call blessed! there are not a few who, even in this life, seem to be preparing themselves for that smileless eternity to which they look forward, by banishing all gayety from their hearts and all joyousness from their countenances. i meet one such in the street not unfrequently, a person of intelligence and education, but who gives me (and all that he passes) such a rayless and chilling look of recognition,--something as if he were one of heaven's assessors, come down to "doom" every acquaintance he met,--that i have sometimes begun to sneeze on the spot, and gone home with a violent cold, dating from that instant. i don't doubt he would cut his kitten's tail off, if he caught her playing with it. please tell me, who taught her to play with it? no, no!--give me a chance to talk to you, my fellow-boarders, and you need not be afraid that i shall have any scruples about entertaining you, if i can do it, as well as giving you some of my serious thoughts, and perhaps my sadder fancies. i know nothing in english or any other literature more admirable than that sentiment of sir thomas browne "every man truly lives, so long as he acts his nature, or some way makes good the faculties of himself." i find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving: to reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it,--but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor. there is one very sad thing in old friendships, to every mind that is really moving onward. it is this: that one cannot help using his early friends as the seaman uses the log, to mark his progress. every now and then we throw an old schoolmate over the stern with a string of thought tied to him, and look--i am afraid with a kind of luxurious and sanctimonious compassion--to see the rate at which the string reels off, while he lies there bobbing up and down, poor fellow! and we are dashing along with the white foam and bright sparkle at our bows;--the ruffled bosom of prosperity and progress, with a sprig of diamonds stuck in it! but this is only the sentimental side of the matter; for grow we must, if we outgrow all that we love. don't misunderstand that metaphor of heaving the log, i beg you. it is merely a smart way of saying that we cannot avoid measuring our rate of movement by those with whom we have long been in the habit of comparing ourselves; and when they once become stationary, we can get our reckoning from them with painful accuracy. we see just what we were when they were our peers, and can strike the balance between that and whatever we may feel ourselves to be now. no doubt we may sometimes be mistaken. if we change our last simile to that very old and familiar one of a fleet leaving the harbor and sailing in company for some distant region, we can get what we want out of it. there is one of our companions;--her streamers were torn into rags before she had got into the open sea, then by and by her sails blew out of the ropes one after another, the waves swept her deck, and as night came on we left her a seeming wreck, as we flew under our pyramid of canvas. but lo! at dawn she is still in sight,--it may be in advance of us. some deep ocean-current has been moving her on, strong, but silent,--yes, stronger than these noisy winds that puff our sails until they are swollen as the cheeks of jubilant cherubim. and when at last the black steam-tug with the skeleton arms, which comes out of the mist sooner or later and takes us all in tow, grapples her and goes off panting and groaning with her, it is to that harbor where all wrecks are refitted, and where, alas! we, towering in our pride, may never come. so you will not think i mean to speak lightly of old friendships, because we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present and former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but are not what we are. nothing strikes one more, in the race of life, than to see how many give out in the first half of the course. "commencement day" always reminds me of the start for the "derby," when the beautiful high-bred three-year olds of the season are brought up for trial. that day is the start, and life is the race. here we are at cambridge, and a class is just "graduating." poor harry! he was to have been there too, but he has paid forfeit; step out here into the grass back of the church; ah! there it is:- "hunc lapidem posuerunt socii moerentes." but this is the start, and here they are,--coats bright as silk, and manes as smooth as eau lustrale can make them. some of the best of the colts are pranced round, a few minutes each, to show their paces. what is that old gentleman crying about? and the old lady by him, and the three girls, what are they all covering their eyes for? oh, that is their colt which has just been trotted up on the stage. do they really think those little thin legs can do anything in such a slashing sweepstakes as is coming off in these next forty years? oh, this terrible gift of second-sight that comes to some of us when we begin to look through the silvered rings of the arcus senilis! ten years gone. first turn in the race. a few broken down; two or three bolted. several show in advance of the ruck. cassock, a black colt, seems to be ahead of the rest; those black colts commonly get the start, i have noticed, of the others, in the first quarter. meteor has pulled up. twenty years. second corner turned. cassock has dropped from the front, and judex, an iron-gray, has the lead. but look! how they have thinned out! down flat,--five,--six,--how many? they lie still enough! they will not get up again in this race, be very sure! and the rest of them, what a "tailing off"! anybody can see who is going to win,--perhaps. thirty years. third corner turned. dives, bright sorrel, ridden by the fellow in a yellow jacket, begins to make play fast; is getting to be the favourite with many. but who is that other one that has been lengthening his stride from the first, and now shows close up to the front? don't you remember the quiet brown colt asteroid, with the star in his forehead? that is he; he is one of the sort that lasts; look out for him! the black "colt," as we used to call him, is in the background, taking it easily in a gentle trot. there is one they used to call the filly, on account of a certain feminine air he had; well up, you see; the filly is not to be despised my boy! forty years. more dropping off,--but places much as before. fifty years. race over. all that are on the course are coming in at a walk; no more running. who is ahead? ahead? what! and the winning-post a slab of white or gray stone standing out from that turf where there is no more jockeying or straining for victory! well, the world marks their places in its betting-book; but be sure that these matter very little, if they have run as well as they knew how! --did i not say to you a little while ago that the universe swam in an ocean of similitudes and analogies? i will not quote cowley, or burns, or wordsworth, just now, to show you what thoughts were suggested to them by the simplest natural objects, such as a flower or a leaf; but i will read you a few lines, if you do not object, suggested by looking at a section of one of those chambered shells to which is given the name of pearly nautilus. we need not trouble ourselves about the distinction between this and the paper nautilus, the argonauta of the ancients. the name applied to both shows that each has long been compared to a ship, as you may see more fully in webster's dictionary, or the "encyclopedia," to which he refers. if you will look into roget's bridgewater treatise, you will find a figure of one of these shells, and a section of it. the last will show you the series of enlarging compartments successively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits the shell, which is built in a widening spiral. can you find no lesson in this? the chambered nautilus. this is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, sails the unshadowed main,-- the venturous bark that flings on the sweet summer wind its purpled wings in gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, and coral reefs lie bare, where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; wrecked is the ship of pearl! and every clambered cell, where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, as the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, before thee lies revealed,-- its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! year after year beheld the silent toil that spread his lustrous coil; still, as the spiral grew, he left the past year's dwelling for the new, stole with soft step its shining archway through, built up its idle door, stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, child of the wandering sea, cast from her lap forlorn! from thy dead lips a clearer note is born than ever triton blew from wreathed horn! while on mine ear it rings, through the deep caves of thought i hear a voice that sings:- build thee more stately mansions, o my soul, as the swift seasons roll! leave thy low-vaulted past! let each new temple, nobler than the last, shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, till thou at length art free, leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! chapter v a lyric conception--my friend, the poet, said--hits me like a bullet in the forehead. i have often had the blood drop from my cheeks when it struck, and felt that i turned as white as death. then comes a creeping as of centipedes running down the spine, --then a gasp and a great jump of the heart,--then a sudden flush and a beating in the vessels of the head,--then a long sigh,--and the poem is written. it is an impromptu, i suppose, then, if you write it so suddenly, --i replied. no,--said he,--far from it. i said written, but i did not say copied. every such poem has a soul and a body, and it is the body of it, or the copy, that men read and publishers pay for. the soul of it is born in an instant in the poet's soul. it comes to him a thought, tangled in the meshes of a few sweet words,--words that have loved each other from the cradle of the language, but have never been wedded until now. whether it will ever fully embody itself in a bridal train of a dozen stanzas or not is uncertain; but it exists potentially from the instant that the poet turns pale with it. it is enough to stun and scare anybody, to have a hot thought come crashing into his brain, and ploughing up those parallel ruts where the wagon trains of common ideas were jogging along in their regular sequences of association. no wonder the ancients made the poetical impulse wholly external. [greek text which cannot be reproduced]. goddess,--muse,--divine afflatus, --something outside always. _i_ never wrote any verses worth reading. i can't. i am too stupid. if i ever copied any that were worth reading, i was only a medium. [i was talking all this time to our boarders, you understand, --telling them what this poet told me. the company listened rather attentively, i thought, considering the literary character of the remarks.] the old gentleman opposite all at once asked me if i ever read anything better than pope's "essay on man"? had i ever perused mcfingal? he was fond of poetry when he was a boy,--his mother taught him to say many little pieces,--he remembered one beautiful hymn;--and the old gentleman began, in a clear, loud voice, for his years,-- "the spacious firmament on high, with all the blue ethereal sky, and spangled heavens,"-- he stopped, as if startled by our silence, and a faint flush ran up beneath the thin white hairs that fell upon his cheek. as i looked round, i was reminded of a show i once saw at the museum,--the sleeping beauty, i think they called it. the old man's sudden breaking out in this way turned every face towards him, and each kept his posture as if changed to stone. our celtic bridget, or biddy, is not a foolish fat scullion to burst out crying for a sentiment. she is of the serviceable, red-handed, broad-and-high- shouldered type; one of those imported female servants who are known in public by their amorphous style of person, their stoop forwards, and a headlong and as it were precipitous walk,--the waist plunging downwards into the rocking pelvis at every heavy footfall. bridget, constituted for action, not for emotion, was about to deposit a plate heaped with something upon the table, when i saw the coarse arm stretched by my shoulder arrested,--motionless as the arm of a terra-cotta caryatid; she couldn't set the plate down while the old gentleman was speaking! he was quite silent after this, still wearing the slight flush on his cheek. don't ever think the poetry is dead in an old man because his forehead is wrinkled, or that his manhood has left him when his hand trembles! if they ever were there, they are there still! by and by we got talking again.--does a poet love the verses written through him, do you think, sir?--said the divinity-student. so long as they are warm from his mind, carry any of his animal heat about them, _i_ know he loves them,--i answered. when they have had time to cool, he is more indifferent. a good deal as it is with buckwheat cakes,--said the young fellow whom they call john. the last words, only, reached the ear of the economically organized female in black bombazine .--buckwheat is skerce and high,--she remarked. [must be a poor relation sponging on our landlady,--pays nothing,--so she must stand by the guns and be ready to repel boarders.] i liked the turn the conversation had taken, for i had some things i wanted to say, and so, after waiting a minute, i began again.--i don't think the poems i read you sometimes can be fairly appreciated, given to you as they are in the green state. --you don't know what i mean by the green state? well, then, i will tell you. certain things are good for nothing until they have been kept a long while; and some are good for nothing until they have been long kept and used. of the first, wine is the illustrious and immortal example. of those which must be kept and used i will name three,--meerschaum pipes, violins, and poems. the meerschaum is but a poor affair until it has burned a thousand offerings to the cloud-compelling deities. it comes to us without complexion or flavor,--born of the sea-foam, like aphrodite, but colorless as pallida mors herself. the fire is lighted in its central shrine, and gradually the juices which the broad leaves of the great vegetable had sucked up from an acre and curdled into a drachm are diffused through its thirsting pores. first a discoloration, then a stain, and at last a rich, glowing, umber tint spreading over the whole surface. nature true to her old brown autumnal hue, you see,--as true in the fire of the meerschaum as in the sunshine of october! and then the cumulative wealth of its fragrant reminiscences! he who inhales its vapors takes a thousand whiffs in a single breath; and one cannot touch it without awakening the old joys that hang around it as the smell of flowers clings to the dresses of the daughters of the house of farina! [don't think i use a meerschaum myself, for _i_ do not, though i have owned a calumet since my childhood, which from a naked pict (of the mohawk species) my grandsire won, together with a tomahawk and beaded knife-sheath; paying for the lot with a bullet-mark on his right check. on the maternal side i inherit the loveliest silver-mounted tobacco-stopper you ever saw. it is a little box-wood triton, carved with charming liveliness and truth; i have often compared it to a figure in raphael's "triumph of galatea." it came to me in an ancient shagreen case,--how old it is i do not know,--but it must have been made since sir walter raleigh's time. if you are curious, you shall see it any day. neither will i pretend that i am so unused to the more perishable smoking contrivance that a few whiffs would make me feel as if i lay in a ground-swell on the bay of biscay. i am not unacquainted with that fusiform, spiral-wound bundle of chopped stems and miscellaneous incombustibles, the cigar, so called, of the shops,--which to "draw" asks the suction-power of a nursling infant hercules, and to relish, the leathery palate of an old silenus. i do not advise you, young man, even if my illustration strike your fancy, to consecrate the flower of your life to painting the bowl of a pipe, for, let me assure you, the stain of a reverie-breeding narcotic may strike deeper than you think for. i have seen the green leaf of early promise grow brown before its time under such nicotian regimen, and thought the umbered meerschaum was dearly bought at the cost of a brain enfeebled and a will enslaved.] violins, too,--the sweet old amati!--the divine stradivarius! played on by ancient maestros until the bow-hand lost its power and the flying fingers stiffened. bequeathed to the passionate, young enthusiast, who made it whisper his hidden love, and cry his inarticulate longings, and scream his untold agonies, and wail his monotonous despair. passed from his dying hand to the cold virtuoso, who let it slumber in its case for a generation, till, when his hoard was broken up, it came forth once more and rode the stormy symphonies of royal orchestras, beneath the rushing bow of their lord and leader. into lonely prisons with improvident artists; into convents from which arose, day and night, the holy hymns with which its tones were blended; and back again to orgies in which it learned to howl and laugh as if a legion of devils were shut up in it; then again to the gentle dilettante who calmed it down with easy melodies until it answered him softly as in the days of the old maestros. and so given into our hands, its pores all full of music; stained, like the meerschaum, through and through, with the concentrated hue and sweetness of all the harmonies which have kindled and faded on its strings. now i tell you a poem must be kept and used, like a meerschaum, or a violin. a poem is just as porous as the meerschaum;--the more porous it is, the better. i mean to say that a genuine poem is capable of absorbing an indefinite amount of the essence of our own humanity,--its tenderness, its heroism, its regrets, its aspirations, so as to be gradually stained through with a divine secondary color derived from ourselves. so you see it must take time to bring the sentiment of a poem into harmony with our nature, by staining ourselves through every thought and image our being can penetrate. then again as to the mere music of a new poem; why, who can expect anything more from that than from the music of a violin fresh from the maker's hands? now you know very well that there are no less than fifty-eight different pieces in a violin. these pieces are strangers to each other, and it takes a century, more or less, to make them thoroughly acquainted. at last they learn to vibrate in harmony, and the instrument becomes an organic whole, as if it were a great seed-capsule which had grown from a garden-bed in cremona, or elsewhere. besides, the wood is juicy and full of sap for fifty years or so, but at the end of fifty or a hundred more gets tolerably dry and comparatively resonant. don't you see that all this is just as true of a poem? counting each word as a piece, there are more pieces in an average copy of verses than in a violin. the poet has forced all these words together, and fastened them, and they don't understand it at first. but let the poem be repeated aloud and murmured over in the mind's muffled whisper often enough, and at length the parts become knit together in such absolute solidarity that you could not change a syllable without the whole world's crying out against you for meddling with the harmonious fabric. observe, too, how the drying process takes place in the stuff of a poem just as in that of a violin. here is a tyrolese fiddle that is just coming to its hundredth birthday,--(pedro klauss, tyroli, fecit, ,)--the sap is pretty well out of it. and here is the song of an old poet whom neaera cheated.-- "nox erat, et coelo fulgebat luna sereno inter minora sidera, cum tu magnorum numen laesura deorum in verba jurabas mea." don't you perceive the sonorousness of these old dead latin phrases? now i tell you that, every word fresh from the dictionary brings with it a certain succulence; and though i cannot expect the sheets of the "pactolian," in which, as i told you, i sometimes print my verses, to get so dry as the crisp papyrus that held those words of horatius flaccus, yet you may be sure, that, while the sheets are damp, and while the lines hold their sap, you can't fairly judge of my performances, and that, if made of the true stuff, they will ring better after a while. [there was silence for a brief space, after my somewhat elaborate exposition of these self-evident analogies. presently a person turned towards me--i do not choose to designate the individual--and said that he rather expected my pieces had given pretty good "sahtisfahction."--i had, up to this moment, considered this complimentary phrase as sacred to the use of secretaries of lyceums, and, as it has been usually accompanied by a small pecuniary testimonial, have acquired a certain relish for this moderately tepid and unstimulating expression of enthusiasm. but as a reward for gratuitous services, i confess i thought it a little below that blood-heat standard which a man's breath ought to have, whether silent, or vocal and articulate. i waited for a favorable opportunity, however, before making the remarks which follow.] --there are single expressions, as i have told you already, that fix a man's position for you before you have done shaking hands with him. allow me to expand a little. there are several things, very slight in themselves, yet implying other things not so unimportant. thus, your french servant has devalise your premises and got caught. excusez, says the sergent-de-ville, as he politely relieves him of his upper garments and displays his bust in the full daylight. good shoulders enough,--a little marked,--traces of smallpox, perhaps,--but white. . . . . crac! from the sergent-de- ville's broad palm on the white shoulder! now look! vogue la galere! out comes the big red v--mark of the hot iron;--he had blistered it out pretty nearly,--hadn't he?--the old rascal voleur, branded in the galleys at marseilles! [don't! what if he has got something like this?--nobody supposes i invented such a story.] my man john, who used to drive two of those six equine females which i told you i had owned,--for, look you, my friends, simple though i stand here, i am one that has been driven in his "kerridge,"--not using that term, as liberal shepherds do, for any battered old shabby-genteel go-cart which has more than one wheel, but meaning thereby a four-wheeled vehicle with a pole,--my man john, i say, was a retired soldier. he retired unostentatiously, as many of her majesty's modest servants have done before and since. john told me, that when an officer thinks he recognizes one of these retiring heroes, and would know if he has really been in the service, that he may restore him, if possible, to a grateful country, he comes suddenly upon him, and says, sharply, "strap!" if he has ever worn the shoulder-strap, he has learned the reprimand for its ill adjustment. the old word of command flashes through his muscles, and his hand goes up in an instant to the place where the strap used to be. [i was all the time preparing for my grand coup, you understand; but i saw they were not quite ready for it, and so continued, --always in illustration of the general principle i had laid down.] yes, odd things come out in ways that nobody thinks of. there was a legend, that, when the danish pirates made descents upon the english coast, they caught a few tartars occasionally, in the shape of saxons, who would not let them go,--on the contrary, insisted on their staying, and, to make sure of it, treated them as apollo treated marsyas, or an bartholinus has treated a fellow-creature in his title-page, and, having divested them of the one essential and perfectly fitting garment, indispensable in the mildest climates, nailed the same on the church-door as we do the banns of marriage, in terrorem. [there was a laugh at this among some of the young folks; but as i looked at our landlady, i saw that "the water stood in her eyes," as it did in christiana's when the interpreter asked her about the spider, and i fancied, but wasn't quite sure that the schoolmistress blushed, as mercy did in the same conversation, as you remember.] that sounds like a cock-and-bull-story,--said the young fellow whom they call john. i abstained from making hamlet's remark to horatio, and continued. not long since, the church-wardens were repairing and beautifying an old saxon church in a certain english village, and among other things thought the doors should be attended to. one of them particularly, the front-door, looked very badly, crusted, as it were, and as if it would be all the better for scraping. there happened to be a microscopist in the village who had heard the old pirate story, and he took it into his head to examine the crust on this door. there was no mistake about it; it was a genuine historical document, of the ziska drum-head pattern,--a real cutis humana, stripped from some old scandinavian filibuster, and the legend was true. my friend, the professor, settled an important historical and financial question once by the aid of an exceedingly minute fragment of a similar document. behind the pane of plate-glass which bore his name and title burned a modest lamp, signifying to the passers-by that at all hours of the night the slightest favors (or fevers) were welcome. a youth who had freely partaken of the cup which cheers and likewise inebriates, following a moth-like impulse very natural under the circumstances, dashed his fist at the light and quenched the meek luminary,--breaking through the plate-glass, of course, to reach it. now i don't want to go into minutiae at table, you know, but a naked hand can no more go through a pane of thick glass without leaving some of its cuticle, to say the least, behind it, than a butterfly can go through a sausage-machine without looking the worse for it. the professor gathered up the fragments of glass, and with them certain very minute but entirely satisfactory documents which would have identified and hanged any rogue in christendom who had parted with them.--the historical question, who did it? and the financial question, who paid for it? were both settled before the new lamp was lighted the next evening. you see, my friends, what immense conclusions, touching our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor, may be reached by means of very insignificant premises. this is eminently true of manners and forms of speech; a movement or a phrase often tells you all you want to know about a person. thus, "how's your health?" (commonly pronounced haalth)--instead of, how do you do? or, how are you? or calling your little dark entry a "hall," and your old rickety one-horse wagon a "kerridge." or telling a person who has been trying to please you that he has given you pretty good "sahtisfahction." or saying that you "remember of" such a thing, or that you have been "stoppin"' at deacon somebody's,--and other such expressions. one of my friends had a little marble statuette of cupid in the parlor of his country-house,--bow, arrows, wings, and all complete. a visitor, indigenous to the region, looking pensively at the figure, asked the lady of the house "if that was a statoo of her deceased infant?" what a delicious, though somewhat voluminous biography, social, educational, and aesthetic in that brief question! [please observe with what machiavellian astuteness i smuggled in the particular offence which it was my object to hold up to my fellow-boarders, without too personal an attack on the individual at whose door it lay.] that was an exceedingly dull person who made the remark, ex pede herculem. he might as well have said, "from a peck of apples you may judge of the barrel." ex pede, to be sure! read, instead, ex ungue minimi digiti pedis, herculem, ejusque patrem, matrem, avos et proavos, filios, nepotes et pronepotes! talk to me about your [greek text which cannot be reproduced]! tell me about cuvier's getting up a megatherium from a tooth, or agassiz's drawing a portrait of an undiscovered fish from a single scale! as the "o" revealed giotto,--as the one word "moi" betrayed the stratford atte-bowe-taught anglais,--so all a man's antecedents and possibilities are summed up in a single utterance which gives at once the gauge of his education and his mental organization. possibilities, sir?--said the divinity-student; can't a man who says haow? arrive at distinction? sir,--i replied,--in a republic all things are possible. but the man with a future has almost of necessity sense enough to see that any odious trick of speech or manners must be got rid of. doesn't sydney smith say that a public man in england never gets over a false quantity uttered in early life? our public men are in little danger of this fatal misstep, as few of them are in the habit of introducing latin into their speeches,--for good and sufficient reasons. but they are bound to speak decent english,--unless, indeed, they are rough old campaigners, like general jackson or general taylor; in which case, a few scars on priscian's head are pardoned to old fellows who have quite as many on their own, and a constituency of thirty empires is not at all particular, provided they do not swear in their presidential messages. however, it is not for me to talk. i have made mistakes enough in conversation and print. i never find them out until they are stereotyped, and then i think they rarely escape me. i have no doubt i shall make half a dozen slips before this breakfast is over, and remember them all before another. how one does tremble with rage at his own intense momentary stupidity about things he knows perfectly well, and to think how he lays himself open to the impertinences of the captatores verborum, those useful but humble scavengers of the language, whose business it is to pick up what might offend or injure, and remove it, hugging and feeding on it as they go! i don't want to speak too slightingly of these verbal critics;--how can i, who am so fond of talking about errors and vulgarisms of speech? only there is a difference between those clerical blunders which almost every man commits, knowing better, and that habitual grossness or meanness of speech which is unendurable to educated persons, from anybody that wears silk or broadcloth. [i write down the above remarks this morning, january th, making this record of the date that nobody may think it was written in wrath, on account of any particular grievance suffered from the invasion of any individual scarabaeus grammaticus.] --i wonder if anybody ever finds fault with anything i say at this table when it is repeated? i hope they do, i am sure. i should be very certain that i had said nothing of much significance, if they did not. did you never, in walking in the fields, come across a large flat stone, which had lain, nobody knows how long, just where you found it, with the grass forming a little hedge, as it were, all round it, close to its edges,--and have you not, in obedience to a kind of feeling that told you it had been lying there long enough, insinuated your stick or your foot or your fingers under its edge and turned it over as a housewife turns a cake, when she says to herself, "it's done brown enough by this time"? what an odd revelation, and what an unforeseen and unpleasant surprise to a small community, the very existence of which you had not suspected, until the sudden dismay and scattering among its members produced by your turning the old stone over! blades of grass flattened down, colorless, matted together, as if they had been bleached and ironed; hideous crawling creatures, some of them coleopterous or horny-shelled,--turtle-bugs one wants to call them; some of them softer, but cunningly spread out and compressed like lepine watches; (nature never loses a crack or a crevice, mind you, or a joint in a tavern bedstead, but she always has one of her flat-pattern five timekeepers to slide into it;) black, glossy crickets, with their long filaments sticking out like the whips of four-horse stage-coaches; motionless, slug-like creatures, young larvae, perhaps more horrible in their pulpy stillness than even in the infernal wriggle of maturity! but no sooner is the stone turned and the wholesome light of day let upon this compressed and blinded community of creeping things, than all of them which enjoy the luxury of legs--and some of them have a good many--rush round wildly, butting each other and everything in their way, and end in a general stampede for underground retreats from the region poisoned by sunshine. next year you will find the grass growing tall and green where the stone lay; the ground-bird builds her nest where the beetle had his hole; the dandelion and the buttercup are growing there, and the broad fans of insect-angels open and shut over their golden disks, as the rhythmic waves of blissful consciousness pulsate through their glorified being. --the young fellow whom they call john saw fit to say, in his very familiar way,--at which i do not choose to take offence, but which i sometimes think it necessary to repress,--that i was coming it rather strong on the butterflies. no, i replied; there is meaning in each of those images,--the butterfly as well as the others. the stone is ancient error. the grass is human nature borne down and bleached of all its colour by it. the shapes which are found beneath are the crafty beings that thrive in darkness, and the weaker organisms kept helpless by it. he who turns the stone over is whosoever puts the staff of truth to the old lying incubus, no matter whether he do it with a serious face or a laughing one. the next year stands for the coming time. then shall the nature which had lain blanched and broken rise in its full stature and native hues in the sunshine. then shall god's minstrels build their nests in the hearts of a new-born humanity. then shall beauty--divinity taking outlines and color--light upon the souls of men as the butterfly, image of the beatified spirit rising from the dust, soars from the shell that held a poor grub, which would never have found wings, had not the stone been lifted. you never need think you can turn over any old falsehood without a terrible squirming and scattering of the horrid little population that dwells under it. --every real thought on every real subject knocks the wind out of somebody or other. as soon as his breath comes back, he very probably begins to expend it in hard words. these are the best evidence a man can have that he has said something it was time to say. dr. johnson was disappointed in the effect of one of his pamphlets. "i think i have not been attacked enough for it," he said;--"attack is the reaction; i never think i have hit hard unless it rebounds." --if a fellow attacked my opinions in print would i reply? not i. do you think i don't understand what my friend, the professor, long ago called the hydrostatic paradox of controversy? don't know what that means?--well, i will tell you. you know, that, if you had a bent tube, one arm of which was of the size of a pipe-stem, and the other big enough to hold the ocean, water would stand at the same height in one as in the other. controversy equalizes fools and wise men in the same way,--and the fools know it. --no, but i often read what they say about other people. there are about a dozen phrases which all come tumbling along together, like the tongs, and the shovel, and the poker, and the brush, and the bellows, in one of those domestic avalanches that everybody knows. if you get one, you get the whole lot. what are they?--oh, that depends a good deal on latitude and longitude. epithets follow the isothermal lines pretty accurately. grouping them in two families, one finds himself a clever, genial, witty, wise, brilliant, sparkling, thoughtful, distinguished, celebrated, illustrious scholar and perfect gentleman, and first writer of the age; or a dull, foolish, wicked, pert, shallow, ignorant, insolent, traitorous, black-hearted outcast, and disgrace to civilization. what do i think determines the set of phrases a man gets?--well, i should say a set of influences something like these:--- st. relationships, political, religious, social, domestic. d. oyster, in the form of suppers given to gentlemen connected with criticism. i believe in the school, the college, and the clergy; but my sovereign logic, for regulating public opinion--which means commonly the opinion of half a dozen of the critical gentry--is the following major proposition. oysters au naturel. minor proposition. the same "scalloped." conclusion. that--(here insert entertainer's name) is clever, witty, wise, brilliant,--and the rest. --no, it isn't exactly bribery. one man has oysters, and another epithets. it is an exchange of hospitalities; one gives a "spread" on linen, and the other on paper,--that is all. don't you think you and i should be apt to do just so, if we were in the critical line? i am sure i couldn't resist the softening influences of hospitality. i don't like to dine out, you know,--i dine so well at our own table, [our landlady looked radiant,] and the company is so pleasant [a rustling movement of satisfaction among the boarders]; but if i did partake of a man's salt, with such additions as that article of food requires to make it palatable, i could never abuse him, and if i had to speak of him, i suppose i should hang my set of jingling epithets round him like a string of sleigh-bells. good feeling helps society to make liars of most of us,--not absolute liars, but such careless handlers of truth that its sharp corners get terribly rounded. i love truth as chiefest among the virtues; i trust it runs in my blood; but i would never be a critic, because i know i could not always tell it. i might write a criticism of a book that happened to please me; that is another matter. --listen, benjamin franklin! this is for you, and such others of tender age as you may tell it to. when we are as yet small children, long before the time when those two grown ladies offer us the choice of hercules, there comes up to us a youthful angel, holding in his right hand cubes like dice, and in his left spheres like marbles. the cubes are of stainless ivory, and on each is written in letters of gold--truth. the spheres are veined and streaked and spotted beneath, with a dark crimson flush above, where the light falls on them, and in a certain aspect you can make out upon every one of them the three letters l, i, e. the child to whom they are offered very probably clutches at both. the spheres are the most convenient things in the world; they roll with the least possible impulse just where the child would have them. the cubes will not roll at all; they have a great talent for standing still, and always keep right side up. but very soon the young philosopher finds that things which roll so easily are very apt to roll into the wrong corner, and to get out of his way when he most wants them, while he always knows where to find the others, which stay where they are left. thus he learns --thus we learn--to drop the streaked and speckled globes of falsehood and to hold fast the white angular blocks of truth. but then comes timidity, and after her good-nature, and last of all polite-behavior, all insisting that truth must roll, or nobody can do anything with it; and so the first with her coarse rasp, and the second with her broad file, and the third with her silken sleeve, do so round off and smooth and polish the snow-white cubes of truth, that, when they have got a little dingy by use, it becomes hard to tell them from the rolling spheres of falsehood. the schoolmistress was polite enough to say that she was pleased with this, and that she would read it to her little flock the next day. but she should tell the children, she said, that there were better reasons for truth than could be found in mere experience of its convenience and the inconvenience of lying. yes,--i said,--but education always begins through the senses, and works up to the idea of absolute right and wrong. the first thing the child has to learn about this matter is, that lying is unprofitable,--afterwards, that it is against the peace and dignity of the universe. --do i think that the particular form of lying often seen in newspapers, under the title, "from our foreign correspondent," does any harm?--why, no,--i don't know that it does. i suppose it doesn't really deceive people any more than the "arabian nights" or "gulliver's travels" do. sometimes the writers compile too carelessly, though, and mix up facts out of geographies, and stories out of the penny papers, so as to mislead those who are desirous of information. i cut a piece out of one of the papers, the other day, which contains a number of improbabilities, and, i suspect, misstatements. i will send up and get it for you, if you would like to hear it.--ah, this is it; it is headed "our sumatra correspondence. "this island is now the property of the stamford family,--having been won, it is said, in a raffle, by sir--stamford, during the stock-gambling mania of the south-sea scheme. the history of this gentleman may be found in an interesting series of questions (unfortunately not yet answered) contained in the 'notes and queries.' this island is entirely surrounded by the ocean, which here contains a large amount of saline substance, crystallizing in cubes remarkable for their symmetry, and frequently displays on its surface, during calm weather, the rainbow tints of the celebrated south-sea bubbles. the summers are oppressively hot, and the winters very probably cold; but this fact cannot be ascertained precisely, as, for some peculiar reason, the mercury in these latitudes never shrinks, as in more northern regions, and thus the thermometer is rendered useless in winter. "the principal vegetable productions of the island are the pepper tree and the bread-fruit tree. pepper being very abundantly produced, a benevolent society was organized in london during the last century for supplying the natives with vinegar and oysters, as an addition to that delightful condiment. [note received from dr. d. p.] it is said, however, that, as the oysters were of the kind called natives in england, the natives of sumatra, in obedience to a natural instinct, refused to touch them, and confined themselves entirely to the crew of the vessel in which they were brought over. this information was received from one of the oldest inhabitants, a native himself, and exceedingly fond of missionaries. he is said also to be very skilful in the cuisine peculiar to the island. "during the season of gathering the pepper, the persons employed are subject to various incommodities, the chief of which is violent and long-continued sternutation, or sneezing. such is the vehemence of these attacks, that the unfortunate subjects of them are often driven backwards for great distances at immense speed, on the well-known principle of the aeolipile. not being able to see where they are going, these poor creatures dash themselves to pieces against the rocks or are precipitated over the cliffs and thus many valuable lives are lost annually. as, during the whole pepper-harvest, they feed exclusively on this stimulant, they become exceedingly irritable. the smallest injury is resented with ungovernable rage. a young man suffering from the pepper-fever as it is called, cudgelled another most severely for appropriating a superannuated relative of trifling value, and was only pacified by having a present made him of a pig of that peculiar species of swine called the peccavi by the catholic jews, who, it is well known, abstain from swine's flesh in imitation of the mahometan buddhists. "the bread-tree grows abundantly. its branches are well known to europe and america under the familiar name of maccaroni. the smaller twigs are called vermicelli. they have a decided animal flavor, as may be observed in the soups containing them. maccaroni, being tubular, is the favorite habitat of a very dangerous insect, which is rendered peculiarly ferocious by being boiled. the government of the island, therefore, never allows a stick of it to be exported without being accompanied by a piston with which its cavity may at any time be thoroughly swept out. these are commonly lost or stolen before the maccaroni arrives among us. it therefore always contains many of these insects, which, however, generally die of old age in the shops, so that accidents from this source are comparatively rare. "the fruit of the bread-tree consists principally of hot rolls. the buttered-muffin variety is supposed to be a hybrid with the cocoa-nut palm, the cream found on the milk of the cocoa-nut exuding from the hybrid in the shape of butter, just as the ripe fruit is splitting, so as to fit it for the tea-table, where it is commonly served up with cold"-- --there,--i don't want to read any more of it. you see that many of these statements are highly improbable.--no, i shall not mention the paper.--no, neither of them wrote it, though it reminds me of the style of these popular writers. i think the fellow who wrote it must have been reading some of their stories, and got them mixed up with his history and geography. i don't suppose he lies;--he sells it to the editor, who knows how many squares off "sumatra" is. the editor, who sells it to the public--by the way, the papers have been very civil haven't they?--to the--the what d'ye call it? --"northern magazine,"--isn't it?--got up by some of those come-outers, down east, as an organ for their local peculiarities. --the professor has been to see me. came in, glorious, at about twelve o'clock, last night. said he had been with "the boys." on inquiry, found that "the boys," were certain baldish and grayish old gentlemen that one sees or hears of in various important stations of society. the professor is one of the same set, but he always talks as if he had been out of college about ten years, whereas. . . [each of these dots was a little nod, which the company understood, as the reader will, no doubt.] he calls them sometimes "the boys," and sometimes "the old fellows." call him by the latter title, and see how he likes it.--well, he came in last night glorious, as i was saying. of course i don't mean vinously exalted; he drinks little wine on such occasions, and is well known to all the peters and patricks as the gentleman who always has indefinite quantities of black tea to kill any extra glass of red claret he may have swallowed. but the professor says he always gets tipsy on old memories at these gatherings. he was, i forget how many years old when he went to the meeting; just turned of twenty now,--he said. he made various youthful proposals to me, including a duet under the landlady's daughter's window. he had just learned a trick, he said, of one of "the boys," of getting a splendid bass out of a door-panel by rubbing it with the palm of his hand. offered to sing "the sky is bright," accompanying himself on the front-door, if i would go down and help in the chorus. said there never was such a set of fellows as the old boys of the set he has been with. judges, mayors, congress-men, mr. speakers, leaders in science, clergymen better than famous, and famous too, poets by the half-dozen, singers with voices like angels, financiers, wits, three of the best laughers in the commonwealth, engineers, agriculturists,--all forms of talent and knowledge he pretended were represented in that meeting. then he began to quote byron about santa croce, and maintained that he could "furnish out creation" in all its details from that set of his. he would like to have the whole boodle of them, (i remonstrated against this word, but the professor said it was a diabolish good word, and he would have no other,) with their wives and children, shipwrecked on a remote island, just to see how splendidly they would reorganize society. they could build a city,--they have done it; make constitutions and laws; establish churches and lyceums; teach and practise the healing art; instruct in every department; found observatories; create commerce and manufactures; write songs and hymns, and sing 'em, and make instruments to accompany the songs with; lastly, publish a journal almost as good as the "northern magazine," edited by the come-outers. there was nothing they were not up to, from a christening to a hanging; the last, to be sure, could never be called for, unless some stranger got in among them. --i let the professor talk as long as he liked; it didn't make much difference to me whether it was all truth, or partly made up of pale sherry and similar elements. all at once he jumped up and said,-- don't you want to hear what i just read to the boys? i have had questions of a similar character asked me before, occasionally. a man of iron mould might perhaps say, no! i am not a man of iron mould, and said that i should be delighted. the professor then read--with that slightly sing-song cadence which is observed to be common in poets reading their own verses--the following stanzas; holding them at a focal distance of about two feet and a half, with an occasional movement back or forward for better adjustment, the appearance of which has been likened by some impertinent young folks to that of the act of playing on the trombone. his eyesight was never better; i have his word for it. mare rubrum. flash out a stream of blood-red wine!-- for i would drink to other days; and brighter shall their memory shine, seen flaming through its crimson blaze. the roses die, the summers fade; but every ghost of boyhood's dream by nature's magic power is laid to sleep beneath this blood-red stream. it filled the purple grapes that lay and drank the splendors of the sun where the long summer's cloudless day is mirrored in the broad garonne; it pictures still the bacchant shapes that saw their hoarded sunlight shed,-- the maidens dancing on the grapes,-- their milk-white ankles splashed with red. beneath these waves of crimson lie, in rosy fetters prisoned fast, those flitting shapes that never die, the swift-winged visions of the past. kiss but the crystal's mystic rim, each shadow rends its flowery chain, springs in a bubble from its brim and walks the chambers of the brain. poor beauty! time and fortune's wrong no form nor feature may withstand,-- thy wrecks are scattered all along, like emptied sea-shells on the sand;-- yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, the dust restores each blooming girl, as if the sea-shells moved again their glistening lips of pink and pearl. here lies the home of school-boy life, with creaking stair and wind-swept hall, and, scarred by many a truant knife, our old initials on the wall; here rest--their keen vibrations mute-- the shout of voices known so well, the ringing laugh, the wailing flute, the chiding of the sharp-tongued bell. here, clad in burning robes, are laid life's blossomed joys, untimely shed; and here those cherished forms have strayed we miss awhile, and call them dead. what wizard fills the maddening glass what soil the enchanted clusters grew? that buried passions wake and pass in beaded drops of fiery dew? nay, take the cup of blood-red wine,-- our hearts can boast a warmer grow, filled from a vantage more divine,-- calmed, but not chilled by winter's snow! to-night the palest wave we sip rich as the priceless draught shall be that wet the bride of cana's lip,-- the wedding wine of galilee! chapter vi sin has many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all. --i think, sir,--said the divinity-student,--you must intend that for one of the sayings of the seven wise men of boston you were speaking of the other day. i thank you, my young friend,--was my reply,--but i must say something better than that, before i could pretend to fill out the number. --the schoolmistress wanted to know how many of these sayings there were on record, and what, and by whom said. --why, let us see,--there is that one of benjamin franklin, "the great bostonian," after whom this lad was named. to be sure, he said a great many wise things,--and i don't feel sure he didn't borrow this,--he speaks as if it were old. but then he applied it so neatly!-- "he that has once done you a kindness will be more ready to do you another than he whom you yourself have obliged." then there is that glorious epicurean paradox, uttered by my friend, the historian, in one of his flashing moments:- "give us the luxuries of life, and we will dispense with its necessaries." to these must certainly be added that other saying of one of the wittiest of men:- "good americans, when they die, go to paris."-- the divinity-student looked grave at this, but said nothing. the schoolmistress spoke out, and said she didn't think the wit meant any irreverence. it was only another way of saying, paris is a heavenly place after new york or boston. a jaunty-looking person, who had come in with the young fellow they call john,--evidently a stranger,--said there was one more wise man's saying that he had heard; it was about our place, but he didn't know who said it.--a civil curiosity was manifested by the company to hear the fourth wise saying. i heard him distinctly whispering to the young fellow who brought him to dinner, shall i tell it? to which the answer was, go ahead!--well,--he said,--this was what i heard:- "boston state-house is the hub of the solar system. you couldn't pry that out of a boston man if you had the tire of all creation straightened out for a crowbar." sir,--said i,--i am gratified with your remark. it expresses with pleasing vivacity that which i have sometimes heard uttered with malignant dulness. the satire of the remark is essentially true of boston,--and of all other considerable--and inconsiderable--places with which i have had the privilege of being acquainted. cockneys think london is the only place in the world. frenchmen--you remember the line about paris, the court, the world, etc.---i recollect well, by the way, a sign in that city which ran thus: "hotel l'univers et des etats unis"; and as paris is the universe to a frenchman, of course the united states are outside of it. --"see naples and then die."--it is quite as bad with smaller places. i have been about, lecturing, you know, and have found the following propositions to hold true of all of them. . the axis of the earth sticks out visibly through the centre of each and every town or city. . if more than fifty years have passed since its foundation, it is affectionately styled by the inhabitants the "good old town of" --(whatever its name may happen to be.) . every collection of its inhabitants that comes together to listen to a stranger is invariably declared to be a "remarkably intelligent audience." . the climate of the place is particularly favorable to longevity. . it contains several persons of vast talent little known to the world. (one or two of them, you may perhaps chance to remember, sent short pieces to the "pactolian" some time since, which were "respectfully declined.") boston is just like other places of its size;--only perhaps, considering its excellent fish-market, paid fire-department, superior monthly publications, and correct habit of spelling the english language, it has some right to look down on the mob of cities. i'll tell you, though, if you want to know it, what is the real offence of boston. it drains a large water-shed of its intellect, and will not itself be drained. if it would only send away its first-rate men, instead of its second-rate ones, (no offence to the well-known exceptions, of which we are always proud,) we should be spared such epigrammatic remarks as that which the gentleman has quoted. there can never be a real metropolis in this country, until the biggest centre can drain the lesser ones of their talent and wealth.--i have observed, by the way, that the people who really live in two great cities are by no means so jealous of each other, as are those of smaller cities situated within the intellectual basin, or suction-range, of one large one, of the pretensions of any other. don't you see why? because their promising young author and rising lawyer and large capitalist have been drained off to the neighboring big city,--their prettiest girl has been exported to the same market; all their ambition points there, and all their thin gilding of glory comes from there. i hate little toad-eating cities. --would i be so good as to specify any particular example?--oh,--an example? did you ever see a bear-trap? never? well, shouldn't you like to see me put my foot into one? with sentiments of the highest consideration i must beg leave to be excused. besides, some of the smaller cities are charming. if they have an old church or two, a few stately mansions of former grandees, here and there an old dwelling with the second story projecting, (for the convenience of shooting the indians knocking at the front-door with their tomahawks,)--if they have, scattered about, those mighty square houses built something more than half a century ago, and standing like architectural boulders dropped by the former diluvium of wealth, whose refluent wave has left them as its monument,--if they have gardens with elbowed apple-trees that push their branches over the high board-fence and drop their fruit on the side-walk, --if they have a little grass in the side-streets, enough to betoken quiet without proclaiming decay,--i think i could go to pieces, after my life's work were done, in one of those tranquil places, as sweetly as in any cradle that an old man may be rocked to sleep in. i visit such spots always with infinite delight. my friend, the poet, says, that rapidly growing towns are most unfavorable to the imaginative and reflective faculties. let a man live in one of these old quiet places, he says, and the wine of his soul, which is kept thick and turbid by the rattle of busy streets, settles, and, as you hold it up, you may see the sun through it by day and the stars by night. --do i think that the little villages have the conceit of the great towns?--i don't believe there is much difference. you know how they read pope's line in the smallest town in our state of massachusetts?--well, they read it "all are but parts of one stupendous hull!" --every person's feelings have a front-door and a side-door by which they may be entered. the front-door is on the street. some keep it always open; some keep it latched; some, locked; some, bolted,--with a chain that will let you peep in, but not get in; and some nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. this front-door leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, and this into the inferior apartments. the side-door opens at once into the sacred chambers. there is almost always at least one key to this side-door. this is carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom. fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends, often, but by no means so universally, have duplicates of it. the wedding-ring conveys a right to one; alas, if none is given with it! if nature or accident has put one of these keys into the hands of a person who has the torturing instinct, i can only solemnly pronounce the words that justice utters over its doomed victim, --the lord have mercy on your soul! you will probably go mad within a reasonable time,--or, if you are a man, run off and die with your head on a curb-stone, in melbourne or san francisco,--or, if you are a woman, quarrel and break your heart, or turn into a pale, jointed petrifaction that moves about as if it were alive, or play some real life-tragedy or other. be very careful to whom you trust one of these keys of the side-door. the fact of possessing one renders those even who are dear to you very terrible at times. you can keep the world out from your front-door, or receive visitors only when you are ready for them; but those of your own flesh and blood, or of certain grades of intimacy, can come in at the side-door, if they will, at any hour and in any mood. some of them have a scale of your whole nervous system, and can play all the gamut of your sensibilities in semitones, --touching the naked nerve-pulps as a pianist strikes the keys of his instrument. i am satisfied that there are as great masters of this nerve-playing as vieuxtemps or thalberg in their lines of performance. married life is the school in which the most accomplished artists in this department are found. a delicate woman is the best instrument; she has such a magnificent compass of sensibilities! from the deep inward moan which follows pressure on the great nerves of right, to the sharp cry as the filaments of taste are struck with a crashing sweep, is a range which no other instrument possesses. a few exercises on it daily at home fit a man wonderfully for his habitual labors, and refresh him immensely as he returns from them. no stranger can get a great many notes of torture out of a human soul; it takes one that knows it well,--parent, child, brother, sister, intimate. be very careful to whom you give a side-door key; too many have them already. --you remember the old story of the tender-hearted man, who placed a frozen viper in his bosom, and was stung by it when it became thawed? if we take a cold-blooded creature into our bosom, better that it should sting us and we should die than that its chill should slowly steal into our hearts; warm it we never can! i have seen faces of women that were fair to look upon, yet one could see that the icicles were forming round these women's hearts. i knew what freezing image lay on the white breasts beneath the laces! a very simple intellectual mechanism answers the necessities of friendship, and even of the most intimate relations of life. if a watch tells us the hour and the minute, we can be content to carry it about with us for a life-time, though it has no second-hand and is not a repeater, nor a musical watch,--though it is not enamelled nor jewelled,--in short, though it has little beyond the wheels required for a trustworthy instrument, added to a good face and a pair of useful hands. the more wheels there are in a watch or a brain, the more trouble they are to take care of. the movements of exaltation which belong to genius are egotistic by their very nature. a calm, clear mind, not subject to the spasms and crises which are so often met with in creative or intensely perceptive natures, is the best basis for love or friendship.--observe, i am talking about minds. i won't say, the more intellect, the less capacity for loving; for that would do wrong to the understanding and reason;--but, on the other hand, that the brain often runs away with the heart's best blood, which gives the world a few pages of wisdom or sentiment or poetry, instead of making one other heart happy, i have no question. if one's intimate in love or friendship cannot or does not share all one's intellectual tastes or pursuits, that is a small matter. intellectual companions can be found easily in men and books. after all, if we think of it, most of the world's loves and friendships have been between people that could not read nor spell. but to radiate the heat of the affections into a clod which absorbs all that is poured into it, but never warms beneath the sunshine of smiles or the pressure of hand or lip,--this is the great martyrdom of sensitive beings,--most of all in that perpetual auto da fe where young womanhood is the sacrifice. --you noticed, perhaps, what i just said about the loves and friendships of illiterate persons,--that is, of the human race, with a few exceptions here and there. i like books,--i was born and bred among them, and have the easy feeling, when i get into their presence, that a stable-boy has among horses. i don't think i undervalue them either as companions or as instructors. but i can't help remembering that the world's great men have not commonly been great scholars, nor its great scholars great men. the hebrew patriarchs had small libraries, i think, if any; yet they represent to our imaginations a very complete idea of manhood, and, i think, if we could ask in abraham to dine with us men of letters next saturday, we should feel honored by his company. what i wanted to say about books is this: that there are times in which every active mind feels itself above any and all human books. --i think a man must have a good opinion of himself, sir,--said the divinity-student,--who should feel himself above shakspeare at any time. my young friend,--i replied,--the man who is never conscious of a state of feeling or of intellectual effort entirely beyond expression by any form of words whatsoever is a mere creature of language. i can hardly believe there are any such men. why, think for a moment of the power of music. the nerves that make us alive to it spread out (so the professor tells me) in the most sensitive region of the marrow just where it is widening to run upwards into the hemispheres. it has its seat in the region of sense rather than of thought. yet it produces a continuous and, as it were, logical sequence of emotional and intellectual changes; but how different from trains of thought proper! how entirely beyond the reach of symbols!--think of human passions as compared with all phrases! did you ever hear of a man's growing lean by the reading of "romeo and juliet," or blowing his brains out because desdemona was maligned? there are a good many symbols, even, that are more expressive than words. i remember a young wife who had to part with her husband for a time. she did not write a mournful poem; indeed, she was a silent person, and perhaps hardly said a word about it; but she quietly turned of a deep orange color with jaundice. a great many people in this world have but one form of rhetoric for their profoundest experiences,--namely, to waste away and die. when a man can read, his paroxysm of feeling is passing. when he can read, his thought has slackened its hold.--you talk about reading shakspeare, using him as an expression for the highest intellect, and you wonder that any common person should be so presumptuous as to suppose his thought can rise above the text which lies before him. but think a moment. a child's reading of shakspeare is one thing, and coleridge's or schlegel's reading of him is another. the saturation-point of each mind differs from that of every other. but i think it is as true for the small mind which can only take up a little as for the great one which takes up much, that the suggested trains of thought and feeling ought always to rise above--not the author, but the reader's mental version of the author, whoever he may be. i think most readers of shakspeare sometimes find themselves thrown into exalted mental conditions like those produced by music. then they may drop the book, to pass at once into the region of thought without words. we may happen to be very dull folks, you and i, and probably are, unless there is some particular reason to suppose the contrary. but we get glimpses now and then of a sphere of spiritual possibilities, where we, dull as we are now, may sail in vast circles round the largest compass of earthly intelligences. --i confess there are times when i feel like the friend i mentioned to you some time ago,--i hate the very sight of a book. sometimes it becomes almost a physical necessity to talk out what is in the mind, before putting anything else into it. it is very bad to have thoughts and feelings, which were meant to come out in talk, strike in, as they say of some complaints that ought to show outwardly. i always believed in life rather than in books. i suppose every day of earth, with its hundred thousand deaths and something more of births,--with its loves and hates, its triumphs and defeats, its pangs and blisses, has more of humanity in it than all the books that were ever written, put together. i believe the flowers growing at this moment send up more fragrance to heaven than was ever exhaled from all the essences ever distilled. --don't i read up various matters to talk about at this table or elsewhere?--no, that is the last thing i would do. i will tell you my rule. talk about those subjects you have had long in your mind, and listen to what others say about subjects you have studied but recently. knowledge and timber shouldn't be much used, till they are seasoned. --physiologists and metaphysicians have had their attention turned a good deal of late to the automatic and involuntary actions of the mind. put an idea into your intelligence and leave it there an hour, a day, a year, without ever having occasion to refer to it. when, at last, you return to it, you do not find it as it was when acquired. it has domiciliated itself, so to speak,--become at home,--entered into relations with your other thoughts, and integrated itself with the whole fabric of the mind.--or take a simple and familiar example; dr. carpenter has adduced it. you forget a name, in conversation,--go on talking, without making any effort to recall it,--and presently the mind evolves it by its own involuntary and unconscious action, while you were pursuing another train of thought, and the name rises of itself to your lips. there are some curious observations i should like to make about the mental machinery, but i think we are getting rather didactic. --i should be gratified, if benjamin franklin would let me know something of his progress in the french language. i rather liked that exercise he read us the other day, though i must confess i should hardly dare to translate it, for fear some people in a remote city where i once lived might think i was drawing their portraits. --yes, paris is a famous place for societies. i don't know whether the piece i mentioned from the french author was intended simply as natural history, or whether there was not a little malice in his description. at any rate, when i gave my translation to b. f. to turn back again into french, one reason was that i thought it would sound a little bald in english, and some people might think it was meant to have some local bearing or other,--which the author, of course, didn't mean, inasmuch as he could not be acquainted with anything on this side of the water. [the above remarks were addressed to the school-mistress, to whom i handed the paper after looking it over. the divinity-student came and read over her shoulder,--very curious, apparently, but his eyes wandered, i thought. fancying that her breathing was somewhat hurried and high, or thoracic, as my friend, the professor, calls it, i watched her a little more closely.--it is none of my business.--after all, it is the imponderables that move the world, --heat, electricity, love. habet?] this is the piece that benjamin franklin made into boarding-school french, such as you see here; don't expect too much;--the mistakes give a relish to it, i think. les societes polyphysiophilosophiques. ces societes la sont une institution pour suppleer aux besoins d'esprit et de coeur de ces individus qui ont survecu a leurs emotions a l'egard du beau sexe, et qui n'ont pas la distraction de l'habitude de boire. pour devenir membre d'une de ces societes, on doit avoir le moins de cheveux possible. s'il y en reste plusieurs qui resistent aux depilatoires naturelles et autres, on doit avoir quelques connaissances, n'importe dans quel genre. des le moment qu'on ouvre la porte de la societe, on a un grand interet dans toutes les choses dont on ne sait rien. ainsi, un microscopiste demontre un nouveau flexor du tarse d'un melolontha vulgaris. douze savans improvises, portans des besicles, et qui ne connaissent rien des insectes, si ce n'est les morsures du culex, se precipitent sur l'instrument, et voient--une grande bulle d'air, dont ils s'emerveillent avec effusion. ce qui est un spectacle plein d'instruction--pour ceux qui ne sont pas de ladite societe. tous les membres regardent les chimistes en particulier avec un air d'intelligence parfaite pendant qu'ils prouvent dans un discours d'une demiheure que o n h c etc. font quelque chose qui n'est bonne a rien, mais qui probablement a une odeur tres desagreable, selon l'habitude des produits chimiques. apres cela vient un mathematicien qui vous bourre avec des a+b et vous rapporte enfin un x+y, dont vous n'avex pas besoin et qui ne change nullement vos relations avec la vie. un naturaliste vous parle des formations speciales des animaux excessivement inconnus, dont vous n'avez jamais soupconne l'existence. ainsi il vous decrit les follicules de l'appendix vermiformis d'un dzigguetai. vous ne savez pas ce que c'est qu'un follicule. vous ne savez pas ce que c'est qu'un appendix uermiformis. vous n'avez jamais entendu parler du dzigguetai. ainsi vous gagnez toutes ces connaisances a la fois, qui s'attachent a votre esprit comme l'eau adhere aux plumes d'un canard. on connait toutes les langues ex officio en devenant membre d'une de ces societes. ainsi quand on entend lire un essai sur les dialectes tchutchiens, on comprend tout cela de suite, et s'instruit enormement. il y a deux especes d'individus qu'on trouve toujours a ces societes: (degree) le membre a questions; (degree) le membre a "bylaws." la question est une specialite. celui qui en fait metier ne fait jamais des reponses. la question est une maniere tres commode de dire les choses suivantes: "me voila! je ne suis pas fossil, moi,--je respire encore! j'ai des idees,--voyez mon intelligence! vous ne croyiez pas, vous autres, que je savais quelque chose de cela! ah, nous avons un peu de sagacite, voyez vous! nous ne sommes nullement la bete qu'on pense!"--le faiseur de questions donne peu d'attention aux reponses qu'on fait; ce n'est pas la dans sa specialite. le membre a "bylaws" est le bouchon de toutes les emotions mousseuses et genereuses qui se montrent dans la societe. c'est un empereur manque,--un tyran a la troiseme trituration. c'est un esprit dur, borne, exact, grand dans les petitesses, petit dans les grandeurs, selon le mot du grand jefferson. on ne l'aime pas dans la societe, mais on le respecte et on le craint. il n'y a qu'un mot pour ce membre audessus de "bylaws." ce mot est pour lui ce que l'om est aux hundous. c'est sa religion; il n'y a rien audela. ce mot la c'est la constitution! lesdites societes publient des feuilletons de tems en tems. on les trouve abandonnes a sa porte, nus comme des enfans nouveaunes, faute de membrane cutanee, ou meme papyracee. si on aime la botanique, on y trouve une memoire sur les coquilles; si on fait des etudes zoologiques, on square trouve un grand tas de q' [square root of minus one], ce qui doit etre infiniment plus commode que les encyclopedies. ainsi il est clair comme la metaphysique qu'on doit devenir membre d'une societe telle que nous decrivons. recette pour le depilatoire physiophilosophique chaux vive lb. ss. eau bouillante oj. depilez avec. polissez ensuite. i told the boy that his translation into french was creditable to him; and some of the company wishing to hear what there was in the piece that made me smile, i turned it into english for them, as well as i could, on the spot. the landlady's daughter seemed to be much amused by the idea that a depilatory could take the place of literary and scientific accomplishments; she wanted me to print the piece, so that she might send a copy of it to her cousin in mizzourah; she didn't think he'd have to do anything to the outside of his head to get into any of the societies; he had to wear a wig once, when he played a part in a tabullo. no,--said i,--i shouldn't think of printing that in english. i'll tell you why. as soon as you get a few thousand people together in a town, there is somebody that every sharp thing you say is sure to hit. what if a thing was written in paris or in pekin?--that makes no difference. everybody in those cities, or almost everybody, has his counterpart here, and in all large places.--you never studied averages as i have had occasion to. i'll tell you how i came to know so much about averages. there was one season when i was lecturing, commonly, five evenings in the week, through most of the lecturing period. i soon found, as most speakers do, that it was pleasanter to work one lecture than to keep several in hand. --don't you get sick to death of one lecture?--said the landlady's daughter,--who had a new dress on that day, and was in spirits for conversation. i was going to talk about averages,--i said,--but i have no objection to telling you about lectures, to begin with. a new lecture always has a certain excitement connected with its delivery. one thinks well of it, as of most things fresh from his mind. after a few deliveries of it, one gets tired and then disgusted with its repetition. go on delivering it, and the disgust passes off, until, after one has repeated it a hundred or a hundred and fifty times, he rather enjoys the hundred and first or hundred and fifty-first time, before a new audience. but this is on one condition,--that he never lays the lecture down and lets it cool. if he does, there comes on a loathing for it which is intense, so that the sight of the old battered manuscript is as bad as sea-sickness. a new lecture is just like any other new tool. we use it for a while with pleasure. then it blisters our hands, and we hate to touch it. by-and-by our hands get callous, and then we have no longer any sensitiveness about it. but if we give it up, the calluses disappear; and if we meddle with it again, we miss the novelty and get the blisters.--the story is often quoted of whitefield, that he said a sermon was good for nothing until it had been preached forty times. a lecture doesn't begin to be old until it has passed its hundredth delivery; and some, i think, have doubled, if not quadrupled, that number. these old lectures are a man's best, commonly; they improve by age, also,--like the pipes, fiddles, and poems i told you of the other day. one learns to make the most of their strong points and to carry off their weak ones, --to take out the really good things which don't tell on the audience, and put in cheaper things that do. all this degrades him, of course, but it improves the lecture for general delivery. a thoroughly popular lecture ought to have nothing in it which five hundred people cannot all take in a flash, just as it is uttered. --no, indeed,--i should be very sorry to say anything disrespectful of audiences. i have been kindly treated by a great many, and may occasionally face one hereafter. but i tell you the average intellect of five hundred persons, taken as they come, is not very high. it may be sound and safe, so far as it goes, but it is not very rapid or profound. a lecture ought to be something which all can understand, about something which interests everybody. i think, that, if any experienced lecturer gives you a different account from this, it will probably be one of those eloquent or forcible speakers who hold an audience by the charm of their manner, whatever they talk about,--even when they don't talk very well. but an average, which was what i meant to speak about, is one of the most extraordinary subjects of observation and study. it is awful in its uniformity, in its automatic necessity of action. two communities of ants or bees are exactly alike in all their actions, so far as we can see. two lyceum assemblies, of five hundred each, are so nearly alike, that they are absolutely undistinguishable in many cases by any definite mark, and there is nothing but the place and time by which one can tell the "remarkably intelligent audience" of a town in new york or ohio from one in any new england town of similar size. of course, if any principle of selection has come in, as in those special associations of young men which are common in cities, it deranges the uniformity of the assemblage. but let there be no such interfering circumstances, and one knows pretty well even the look the audience will have, before he goes in. front seats: a few old folk,--shiny-headed,--slant up best ear towards the speaker,--drop off asleep after a while, when the air begins to get a little narcotic with carbonic acid. bright women's faces, young and middle-aged, a little behind these, but toward the front--(pick out the best, and lecture mainly to that.) here and there a countenance, sharp and scholarlike, and a dozen pretty female ones sprinkled about. an indefinite number of pairs of young people,--happy, but not always very attentive. boys, in the background, more or less quiet. dull faces here, there,--in how many places! i don't say dull people, but faces without a ray of sympathy or a movement of expression. they are what kill the lecturer. these negative faces with their vacuous eyes and stony lineaments pump and suck the warm soul out of him;--that is the chief reason why lecturers grow so pale before the season is over. they render latent any amount of vital caloric; they act on our minds as those cold-blooded creatures i was talking about act on our hearts. out of all these inevitable elements the audience is generated,--a great compound vertebrate, as much like fifty others you have seen as any two mammals of the same species are like each other. each audience laughs, and each cries, in just the same places of your lecture; that is, if you make one laugh or cry, you make all. even those little indescribable movements which a lecturer takes cognizance of, just as a driver notices his horse's cocking his ears, are sure to come in exactly the same place of your lecture always. i declare to you, that as the monk said about the picture in the convent,--that he sometimes thought the living tenants were the shadows, and the painted figures the realities,--i have sometimes felt as if i were a wandering spirit, and this great unchanging multivertebrate which i faced night after night was one ever-listening animal, which writhed along after me wherever i fled, and coiled at my feet every evening, turning up to me the same sleepless eyes which i thought i had closed with my last drowsy incantation! --oh, yes! a thousand kindly and courteous acts,--a thousand faces that melted individually out of my recollection as the april snow melts, but only to steal away and find the beds of flowers whose roots are memory, but which blossom in poetry and dreams. i am not ungrateful, nor unconscious of all the good feeling and intelligence everywhere to be met with through the vast parish to which the lecturer ministers. but when i set forth, leading a string of my mind's daughters to market, as the country-folk fetch in their strings of horses--pardon me, that was a coarse fellow who sneered at the sympathy wasted on an unhappy lecturer, as if, because he was decently paid for his services, he had therefore sold his sensibilities.--family men get dreadfully homesick. in the remote and bleak village the heart returns to the red blaze of the logs in one's fireplace at home. "there are his young barbarians all at play,"-- if he owns any youthful savages.--no, the world has a million roosts for a man, but only one nest. --it is a fine thing to be an oracle to which an appeal is always made in all discussions. the men of facts wait their turn in grim silence, with that slight tension about the nostrils which the consciousness of carrying a "settler" in the form of a fact or a revolver gives the individual thus armed. when a person is really full of information, and does not abuse it to crush conversation, his part is to that of the real talkers what the instrumental accompaniment is in a trio or quartette of vocalists. --what do i mean by the real talkers?--why, the people with fresh ideas, of course, and plenty of good warm words to dress them in. facts always yield the place of honor, in conversation, to thoughts about facts; but if a false note is uttered, down comes the finger on the key and the man of facts asserts his true dignity. i have known three of these men of facts, at least, who were always formidable,--and one of them was tyrannical. --yes, a man sometimes makes a grand appearance on a particular occasion; but these men knew something about almost everything, and never made mistakes.--he? veneers in first-rate style. the mahogany scales off now and then in spots, and then you see the cheap light stuff--i found--very fine in conversational information, the other day when we were in company. the talk ran upon mountains. he was wonderfully well acquainted with the leading facts about the andes, the apennines, and the appalachians; he had nothing in particular to say about ararat, ben nevis, and various other mountains that were mentioned. by and by some revolutionary anecdote came up, and he showed singular familiarity with the lives of the adamses, and gave many details relating to major andre. a point of natural history being suggested, he gave an excellent account of the air-bladder of fishes. he was very full upon the subject of agriculture, but retired from the conversation when horticulture was introduced in the discussion. so he seemed well acquainted with the geology of anthracite, but did not pretend to know anything of other kinds of coal. there was something so odd about the extent and limitations of his knowledge, that i suspected all at once what might be the meaning of it, and waited till i got an opportunity.--have you seen the "new american cyclopaedia?" said i.--i have, he replied; i received an early copy.--how far does it go?--he turned red, and answered,--to araguay.--oh, said i to myself,--not quite so far as ararat;--that is the reason he knew nothing about it; but he must have read all the rest straight through, and, if he can remember what is in this volume until he has read all those that are to come, he will know more than i ever thought he would. since i had this experience, i hear that somebody else has related a similar story. i didn't borrow it, for all that.--i made a comparison at table some time since, which has often been quoted and received many compliments. it was that of the mind of a bigot to the pupil of the eye; the more light you pour on it, the more it contracts. the simile is a very obvious, and, i suppose i may now say, a happy one; for it has just been shown me that it occurs in a preface to certain political poems of thomas moore's published long before my remark was repeated. when a person of fair character for literary honesty uses an image, such as another has employed before him, the presumption is, that he has struck upon it independently, or unconsciously recalled it, supposing it his own. it is impossible to tell, in a great many cases, whether a comparison which suddenly suggests itself is a new conception or a recollection. i told you the other day that i never wrote a line of verse that seemed to me comparatively good, but it appeared old at once, and often as if it had been borrowed. but i confess i never suspected the above comparison of being old, except from the fact of its obviousness. it is proper, however, that i proceed by a formal instrument to relinquish all claim to any property in an idea given to the world at about the time when i had just joined the class in which master thomas moore was then a somewhat advanced scholar. i, therefore, in full possession of my native honesty, but knowing the liability of all men to be elected to public office, and for that reason feeling uncertain how soon i may be in danger of losing it, do hereby renounce all claim to being considered the first person who gave utterance to a certain simile or comparison referred to in the accompanying documents, and relating to the pupil of the eye on the one part and the mind of the bigot on the other. i hereby relinquish all glory and profit, and especially all claims to letters from autograph collectors, founded upon my supposed property in the above comparison,--knowing well, that, according to the laws of literature, they who speak first hold the fee of the thing said. i do also agree that all editors of cyclopedias and biographical dictionaries, all publishers of reviews and papers, and all critics writing therein, shall be at liberty to retract or qualify any opinion predicated on the supposition that i was the sole and undisputed author of the above comparison. but, inasmuch as i do affirm that the comparison aforesaid was uttered by me in the firm belief that it was new and wholly my own, and as i have good reason to think that i had never seen or heard it when first expressed by me, and as it is well known that different persons may independently utter the same idea,--as is evinced by that familiar line from donatus,-- "pereant illi qui ante nos nostra dixerunt,"-- now, therefore, i do request by this instrument that all well-disposed persons will abstain from asserting or implying that i am open to any accusation whatsoever touching the said comparison, and, if they have so asserted or implied, that they will have the manliness forthwith to retract the same assertion or insinuation. i think few persons have a greater disgust for plagiarism than myself. if i had even suspected that the idea in question was borrowed, i should have disclaimed originality, or mentioned the coincidence, as i once did in a case where i had happened to hit on an idea of swift's.--but what shall i do about these verses i was going to read you? i am afraid that half mankind would accuse me of stealing their thoughts, if i printed them. i am convinced that several of you, especially if you are getting a little on in life, will recognize some of these sentiments as having passed through your consciousness at some time. i can't help it,--it is too late now. the verses are written, and you must have them. listen, then, and you shall hear what we all think. that age was older once than now, in spite of locks untimely shed, or silvered on the youthful brow; that babes make love and children wed. that sunshine had a heavenly glow, which faded with those "good old days," when winters came with deeper snow, and autumns with a softer haze. that--mother, sister, wife, or child-- the "best of women" each has known. were schoolboys ever half so wild? how young the grandpapas have grown, that but for this our souls were free, and but for that our lives were blest; that in some season yet to be our cares will leave us time to rest. whene'er we groan with ache or pain, some common ailment of the race,-- though doctors think the matter plain,-- that ours is "a peculiar case." that when like babes with fingers burned we count one bitter maxim more, our lesson all the world has learned, and men are wiser than before. that when we sob o'er fancied woes, the angels hovering overhead count every pitying drop that flows and love us for the tears we shed. that when we stand with tearless eye and turn the beggar from our door, they still approve us when we sigh, "ah, had i but one thousand more!" that weakness smoothed the path of sin, in half the slips our youth has known; and whatsoe'er its blame has been, that mercy flowers on faults outgrown. though temples crowd the crumbled brink o'erhanging truth's eternal flow, their tablets bold with what we think, their echoes dumb to what we know; that one unquestioned text we read, all doubt beyond, all fear above, nor crackling pile nor cursing creed can burn or blot it: god is love! chapter vii [this particular record is noteworthy principally for containing a paper by my friend, the professor, with a poem or two annexed or intercalated. i would suggest to young persons that they should pass over it for the present, and read, instead of it, that story about the young man who was in love with the young lady, and in great trouble for something like nine pages, but happily married on the tenth page or thereabouts, which, i take it for granted, will be contained in the periodical where this is found, unless it differ from all other publications of the kind. perhaps, if such young people will lay the number aside, and take it up ten years, or a little more, from the present time, they may find something in it for their advantage. they can't possibly understand it all now.] my friend, the professor, began talking with me one day in a dreary sort of way. i couldn't get at the difficulty for a good while, but at last it turned out that somebody had been calling him an old man.--he didn't mind his students calling him the old man, he said. that was a technical expression, and he thought that he remembered hearing it applied to himself when he was about twenty-five. it may be considered as a familiar and sometimes endearing appellation. an irishwoman calls her husband "the old man," and he returns the caressing expression by speaking of her as "the old woman." but now, said he, just suppose a case like one of these. a young stranger is overheard talking of you as a very nice old gentleman. a friendly and genial critic speaks of your green old age as illustrating the truth of some axiom you had uttered with reference to that period of life. what _i_ call an old man is a person with a smooth, shining crown and a fringe of scattered white hairs, seen in the streets on sunshiny days, stooping as he walks, bearing a cane, moving cautiously and slowly; telling old stories, smiling at present follies, living in a narrow world of dry habits; one that remains waking when others have dropped asleep, and keeps a little night-lamp-flame of life burning year after year, if the lamp is not upset, and there is only a careful hand held round it to prevent the puffs of wind from blowing the flame out. that's what i call an old man. now, said the professor, you don't mean to tell me that i have got to that yet? why, bless you, i am several years short of the time when--[i knew what was coming, and could hardly keep from laughing; twenty years ago he used to quote it as one of those absurd speeches men of genius will make, and now he is going to argue from it]--several years short of the time when balzac says that men are --most--you know--dangerous to--the hearts of--in short, most to be dreaded by duennas that have charge of susceptible females.--what age is that? said i, statistically.--fifty-two years, answered the professor.--balzac ought to know, said i, if it is true that goethe said of him that each of his stories must have been dug out of a woman's heart. but fifty-two is a high figure. stand in the light of the window, professor, said i.---the professor took up the desired position.--you have white hairs, i said.--had 'em any time these twenty years, said the professor. --and the crow's-foot,--pes anserinus, rather.--the professor smiled, as i wanted him to, and the folds radiated like the ridges of a half-opened fan, from the outer corner of the eyes to the temples. --and the calipers said i.--what are the calipers? he asked, curiously.--why, the parenthesis, said i.--parenthesis? said the professor; what's that?--why, look in the glass when you are disposed to laugh, and see if your mouth isn't framed in a couple of crescent lines,--so, my boy ( ).--it's all nonsense, said the professor; just look at my biceps;--and he began pulling off his coat to show me his arm. be careful, said i; you can't bear exposure to the air, at your time of life, as you could once.--i will box with you, said the professor, row with you, walk with you, ride with you, swim with you, or sit at table with you, for fifty dollars a side.--pluck survives stamina, i answered. the professor went off a little out of humor. a few weeks afterwards he came in, looking very good-natured, and brought me a paper, which i have here, and from which i shall read you some portions, if you don't object. he had been thinking the matter over, he said,--had read cicero "de senectute," and made up his mind to meet old age half way. these were some of his reflections that he had written down; so here you have. the professor's paper. there is no doubt when old age begins. the human body is a furnace which keeps in blast three-score years and ten, more or less. it burns about three hundred pounds of carbon a year, (besides other fuel,) when in fair working order, according to a great chemist's estimate. when the fire slackens, life declines; when it goes out, we are dead. it has been shown by some noted french experimenters, that the amount of combustion increases up to about the thirtieth year, remains stationary to about forty-five, and then diminishes. this last is the point where old age starts from. the great fact of physical life is the perpetual commerce with the elements, and the fire is the measure of it. about this time of life, if food is plenty where you live,--for that, you know, regulates matrimony,--you may be expecting to find yourself a grandfather some fine morning; a kind of domestic felicity that gives one a cool shiver of delight to think of, as among the not remotely possible events. i don't mind much those slipshod lines dr. johnson wrote to thrale, telling her about life's declining from thirty-five; the furnace is in full blast for ten years longer, as i have said. the romans came very near the mark; their age of enlistment reached from seventeen to forty-six years. what is the use of fighting against the seasons, or the tides, or the movements of the planetary bodies, or this ebb in the wave of life that flows through us? we are old fellows from the moment the fire begins to go out. let us always behave like gentlemen when we are introduced to new acquaintance. incipit allegoria senectutis. old age, this is mr. professor; mr. professor, this is old age. old age.--mr. professor, i hope to see you well. i have known you for some time, though i think you did not know me. shall we walk down the street together? professor (drawing back a little).--we can talk more quietly, perhaps, in my study. will you tell me how it is you seem to be acquainted with everybody you are introduced to, though he evidently considers you an entire stranger? old age.--i make it a rule never to force myself upon a person's recognition until i have known him at least five years. professor.--do you mean to say that you have known me so long as that? old age. i do. i left my card on you longer ago than that, but i am afraid you never read it; yet i see you have it with you. professor.--where? old age.--there, between your eyebrows,--three straight lines running up and down; all the probate courts know that token,--"old age, his mark." put your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and your middle finger on the inner end of the other eyebrow; now separate the fingers, and you will smooth out my sign-manual; that's the way you used to look before i left my card on you. professor.--what message do people generally send back when you first call on them? old age.--not at home. then i leave a card and go. next year i call; get the same answer; leave another card. so for five or six,--sometimes ten years or more. at last, if they don't let me in, i break in through the front door or the windows. we talked together in this way some time. then old age said again,--come, let us walk down the street together,--and offered me a cane, an eyeglass, a tippet, and a pair of over-shoes.--no, much obliged to you, said i. i don't want those things, and i had a little rather talk with you here, privately, in my study. so i dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked out alone;--got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter. explicit allegoria senectutis. we have settled when old age begins. like all nature's processes, it is gentle and gradual in its approaches, strewed with illusions, and all its little griefs soothed by natural sedatives. but the iron hand is not less irresistible because it wears the velvet glove. the button-wood throws off its bark in large flakes, which one may find lying at its foot, pushed out, and at last pushed off, by that tranquil movement from beneath, which is too slow to be seen, but too powerful to be arrested. one finds them always, but one rarely sees them fall. so it is our youth drops from us, --scales off, sapless and lifeless, and lays bare the tender and immature fresh growth of old age. looked at collectively, the changes of old age appear as a series of personal insults and indignities, terminating at last in death, which sir thomas browne has called "the very disgrace and ignominy of our nature." my lady's cheek can boast no more the cranberry white and pink it wore; and where her shining locks divide, the parting line is all too wide-- no, no,--this will never do. talk about men, if you will, but spare the poor women. we have a brief description of seven stages of life by a remarkably good observer. it is very presumptuous to attempt to add to it, yet i have been struck with the fact that life admits of a natural analysis into no less than fifteen distinct periods. taking the five primary divisions, infancy, childhood, youth, manhood, old age, each of these has its own three periods of immaturity, complete development, and decline. i recognize on old baby at once,--with its "pipe and mug," (a stick of candy and a porringer,)--so does everybody; and an old child shedding its milk-teeth is only a little prototype of the old man shedding his permanent ones. fifty or thereabouts is only the childhood, as it were, of old age; the graybeard youngster must be weaned from his late suppers now. so you will see that you have to make fifteen stages at any rate, and that it would not be hard to make twenty-five; five primary, each with five secondary divisions. the infancy and childhood of commencing old age have the same ingenuous simplicity and delightful unconsciousness about them as the first stage of the earlier periods of life shows. the great delusion of mankind is in supposing that to be individual and exceptional which is universal and according to law. a person is always startled when he hears himself seriously called an old man for the first time. nature gets us out of youth into manhood, as sailors are hurried on board of vessels,--in a state of intoxication. we are hustled into maturity reeling with our passions and imaginations, and we have drifted far away from port before we awake out of our illusions. but to carry us out of maturity into old age, without our knowing where we are going, she drugs us with strong opiates, and so we stagger along with wide open eyes that see nothing until snow enough has fallen on our heads to rouse our comatose brains out of their stupid trances. there is one mark of age that strikes me more than any of the physical ones;--i mean the formation of habits. an old man who shrinks into himself falls into ways that become as positive and as much beyond the reach of outside influences as if they were governed by clock-work. the animal functions, as the physiologists call them, in distinction from the organic, tend, in the process of deterioration to which age and neglect united gradually lead them, to assume the periodical or rhythmical type of movement. every man's heart (this organ belongs, you know, to the organic system) has a regular mode of action; but i know a great many men whose brains, and all their voluntary existence flowing from their brains, have a systole and diastole as regular as that of the heart itself. habit is the approximation of the animal system to the organic. it is a confession of failure in the highest function of being, which involves a perpetual self-determination, in full view of all existing circumstances. but habit, you see, is an action in present circumstances from past motives. it is substituting a vis a tergo for the evolution of living force. when a man, instead of burning up three hundred pounds of carbon a year, has got down to two hundred and fifty, it is plain enough he must economize force somewhere. now habit is a labor-saving invention which enables a man to get along with less fuel,--that is all; for fuel is force, you know, just as much in the page i am writing for you as in the locomotive or the legs that carry it to you. carbon is the same thing, whether you call it wood, or coal, or bread and cheese. a reverend gentleman demurred to this statement,--as if, because combustion is asserted to be the sine qua non of thought, therefore thought is alleged to be a purely chemical process. facts of chemistry are one thing, i told him, and facts of consciousness another. it can be proved to him, by a very simple analysis of some of his spare elements, that every sunday, when he does his duty faithfully, he uses up more phosphorus out of his brain and nerves than on ordinary days. but then he had his choice whether to do his duty, or to neglect it, and save his phosphorus and other combustibles. it follows from all this that the formation of habits ought naturally to be, as it is, the special characteristic of age. as for the muscular powers, they pass their maximum long before the time when the true decline of life begins, if we may judge by the experience of the ring. a man is "stale," i think, in their language, soon after thirty,--often, no doubt, much earlier, as gentlemen of the pugilistic profession are exceedingly apt to keep their vital fire burning with the blower up. --so far without tully. but in the mean time i have been reading the treatise, "de senectute." it is not long, but a leisurely performance. the old gentleman was sixty-three years of age when he addressed it to his friend t. pomponius atticus, eq., a person of distinction, some two or three years older. we read it when we are schoolboys, forget all about it for thirty years, and then take it up again by a natural instinct,--provided always that we read latin as we drink water, without stopping to taste it, as all of us who ever learned it at school or college ought to do. cato is the chief speaker in the dialogue. a good deal of it is what would be called in vulgar phrase "slow." it unpacks and unfolds incidental illustrations which a modern writer would look at the back of, and toss each to its pigeon-hole. i think ancient classics and ancient people are alike in the tendency to this kind of expansion. an old doctor came to me once (this is literal fact) with some contrivance or other for people with broken kneepans. as the patient would be confined for a good while, he might find it dull work to sit with his hands in his lap. reading, the ingenious inventor suggested, would be an agreeable mode of passing the time. he mentioned, in his written account of his contrivance, various works that might amuse the weary hour. i remember only three,--don quixote, tom jones, and watts on the mind. it is not generally understood that cicero's essay was delivered as a lyceum lecture, (concio popularis,) at the temple of mercury. the journals (papyri) of the day ("tempora quotidiana,"--"tribuinus quirinalis,"--"praeco romanus," and the rest) gave abstracts of it, one of which i have translated and modernized, as being a substitute for the analysis i intended to make. iv. kal. mart. . . . . the lecture at the temple of mercury, last evening, was well attended by the elite of our great city. two hundred thousand sestertia were thought to have been represented in the house. the doors were besieged by a mob of shabby fellows, (illotum vulgus,) who were at length quieted after two or three had been somewhat roughly handled (gladio jugulati). the speaker was the well-known mark tully, eq.,--the subject old age. mr. t. has a lean and scraggy person, with a very unpleasant excrescence upon his nasal feature, from which his nickname of chick-pea (cicero) is said by some to be derived. as a lecturer is public property, we may remark, that his outer garment (toga) was of cheap stuff and somewhat worn, and that his general style and appearance of dress and manner (habitus, vestitusque) were somewhat provincial. the lecture consisted of an imaginary dialogue between cato and laelius. we found the first portion rather heavy, and retired a few moments for refreshment (pocula quaedam vini).--all want to reach old age, says cato, and grumble when they get it; therefore they are donkeys.--the lecturer will allow us to say that he is the donkey; we know we shall grumble at old age, but we want to live through youth and manhood, in spite of the troubles we shall groan over.--there was considerable prosing as to what old age can do and can't.--true, but not new. certainly, old folks can't jump,--break the necks of their thigh-bones, (femorum cervices,) if they do; can't crack nuts with their teeth; can't climb a greased pole (malum inunctum scandere non possunt); but they can tell old stories and give you good advice; if they know what you have made up your mind to do when you ask them.--all this is well enough, but won't set the tiber on fire (tiberim accendere nequaquam potest.) there were some clever things enough, (dicta hand inepta,) a few of which are worth reporting.--old people are accused of being forgetful; but they never forget where they have put their money. --nobody is so old he doesn't think he can live a year.--the lecturer quoted an ancient maxim,--grow old early, if you would be old long,--but disputed it.--authority, he thought, was the chief privilege of age.--it is not great to have money, but fine to govern those that have it.--old age begins at forty-six years, according to the common opinion.--it is not every kind of old age or of wine that grows sour with time.--some excellent remarks were made on immortality, but mainly borrowed from and credited to plato.--several pleasing anecdotes were told.--old milo, champion of the heavy weights in his day, looked at his arms and whimpered, "they are dead." not so dead as you, you old fool,--says cato; --you never were good for anything but for your shoulders and flanks.--pisistratus asked solon what made him dare to be so obstinate. old age, said solon. the lecture was on the whole acceptable, and a credit to our culture and civilization.--the reporter goes on to state that there will be no lecture next week, on account of the expected combat between the bear and the barbarian. betting (sponsio) two to one (duo ad unum) on the bear. --after all, the most encouraging things i find in the treatise, "de senectute," are the stories of men who have found new occupations when growing old, or kept up their common pursuits in the extreme period of life. cato learned greek when he was old, and speaks of wishing to learn the fiddle, or some such instrument, (fidibus,) after the example of socrates. solon learned something new, every day, in his old age, as he gloried to proclaim. cyrus pointed out with pride and pleasure the trees he had planted with his own hand. [i remember a pillar on the duke of northumberland's estate at alnwick, with an inscription in similar words, if not the same. that, like other country pleasures, never wears out. none is too rich, none too poor, none too young, none too old to enjoy it.] there is a new england story i have heard more to the point, however, than any of cicero's. a young farmer was urged to set out some apple-trees.--no, said he, they are too long growing, and i don't want to plant for other people. the young farmer's father was spoken to about it, but he, with better reason, alleged that apple-trees were slow and life was fleeting. at last some one mentioned it to the old grandfather of the young farmer. he had nothing else to do,--so he stuck in some trees. he lived long enough to drink barrels of cider made from the apples that grew on those trees. as for myself, after visiting a friend lately,--[do remember all the time that this is the professor's paper.]--i satisfied myself that i had better concede the fact that--my contemporaries are not so young as they have been,--and that,--awkward as it is,--science and history agree in telling me that i can claim the immunities and must own the humiliations of the early stage of senility. ah! but we have all gone down the hill together. the dandies of my time have split their waistbands and taken to high-low shoes. the beauties of my recollections--where are they? they have run the gantlet of the years as well as i. first the years pelted them with red roses till their cheeks were all on fire. by and by they began throwing white roses, and that morning flush passed away. at last one of the years threw a snow-ball, and after that no year let the poor girls pass without throwing snow-balls. and then came rougher missiles,--ice and stones; and from time to time an arrow whistled, and down went one of the poor girls. so there are but few left; and we don't call those few girls, but-- ah, me! here am i groaning just as the old greek sighed ai, ai! and the old roman, eheu! i have no doubt we should die of shame and grief at the indignities offered us by age, if it were not that we see so many others as badly or worse off than ourselves. we always compare ourselves with our contemporaries. [i was interrupted in my reading just here. before i began at the next breakfast, i read them these verses;--i hope you will like them, and get a useful lesson from them.] the last blossom. though young no more, we still would dream of beauty's dear deluding wiles; the leagues of life to graybeards seem shorter than boyhood's lingering miles. who knows a woman's wild caprice? it played with goethe's silvered hair, and many a holy father's "niece" has softly smoothed the papal chair. when sixty bids us sigh in vain to melt the heart of sweet sixteen, we think upon those ladies twain who loved so well the tough old dean. we see the patriarch's wintry face, the maid of egypt's dusky glow, and dream that youth and age embrace, as april violets fill with snow. tranced in her lord's olympian smile his lotus-loving memphian lies,-- the musky daughter of the nile with plaited hair and almond eyes. might we but share one wild caress ere life's autumnal blossoms fall, and earth's brown, clinging lips impress the long cold kiss that waits us all! my bosom heaves, remembering yet the morning of that blissful day when rose, the flower of spring, i met, and gave my raptured soul away. flung from her eyes of purest blue, a lasso, with its leaping chain light as a loop of larkspurs, flew o'er sense and spirit, heart and brain. thou com'st to cheer my waning age, sweet vision, waited for so long! dove that would seek the poet's cage lured by the magic breath of song! she blushes! ah, reluctant maid, love's drapeau rouge the truth has told! o'er girlhood's yielding barricade floats the great leveller's crimson fold! come to my arms!--love heeds not years no frost the bud of passion knows.-- ha! what is this my frenzy hears? a voice behind me uttered,--rose! sweet was her smile,--but not for me; alas, when woman looks too kind, just turn your foolish head and see,-- some youth is walking close behind! as to giving up because the almanac or the family-bible says that it is about time to do it, i have no intention of doing any such thing. i grant you that i burn less carbon than some years ago. i see people of my standing really good for nothing, decrepit, effete, la levre inferieure deja pendante, with what little life they have left mainly concentrated in their epigastrium. but as the disease of old age is epidemic, endemic, and sporadic, and everybody that lives long enough is sure to catch it, i am going to say, for the encouragement of such as need it, how i treat the malady in my own case. first. as i feel, that, when i have anything to do, there is less time for it than when i was younger, i find that i give my attention more thoroughly, and use my time more economically than ever before; so that i can learn anything twice as easily as in my earlier days. i am not, therefore, afraid to attack a new study. i took up a difficult language a very few years ago with good success, and think of mathematics and metaphysics by-and-by. secondly. i have opened my eyes to a good many neglected privileges and pleasures within my reach, and requiring only a little courage to enjoy them. you may well suppose it pleased me to find that old cato was thinking of learning to play the fiddle, when i had deliberately taken it up in my old age, and satisfied myself that i could get much comfort, if not much music, out of it. thirdly. i have found that some of those active exercises, which are commonly thought to belong to young folks only, may be enjoyed at a much later period. a young friend has lately written an admirable article in one of the journals, entitled, "saints and their bodies." approving of his general doctrines, and grateful for his records of personal experience, i cannot refuse to add my own experimental confirmation of his eulogy of one particular form of active exercise and amusement, namely, boating. for the past nine years, i have rowed about, during a good part of the summer, on fresh or salt water. my present fleet on the river charles consists of three row-boats. . a small flat-bottomed skiff of the shape of a flat-iron, kept mainly to lend to boys. . a fancy "dory" for two pairs of sculls, in which i sometimes go out with my young folks. . my own particular water-sulky, a "skeleton" or "shell" race-boat, twenty-two feet long, with huge outriggers, which boat i pull with ten-foot sculls,--alone, of course, as it holds but one, and tips him out, if he doesn't mind what he is about. in this i glide around the back bay, down the stream, up the charles to cambridge and watertown, up the mystic, round the wharves, in the wake of steamboats which leave a swell after them delightful to rock upon; i linger under the bridges,--those "caterpillar bridges," as my brother professor so happily called them; rub against the black sides of old wood-schooners; cool down under the overhanging stern of some tall indiaman; stretch across to the navy-yard, where the sentinel warns me off from the ohio,--just as if i should hurt her by lying in her shadow; then strike out into the harbor, where the water gets clear and the air smells of the ocean,--till all at once i remember, that, if a west wind blows up of a sudden, i shall drift along past the islands, out of sight of the dear old state-house,--plate, tumbler, knife and fork all waiting at home, but no chair drawn up at the table,--all the dear people waiting, waiting, waiting, while the boat is sliding, sliding, sliding into the great desert, where there is no tree and no fountain. as i don't want my wreck to be washed up on one of the beaches in company with devil's-aprons, bladder-weeds, dead horse-shoes, and bleached crab-shells, i turn about and flap my long narrow wings for home. when the tide is running out swiftly, i have a splendid fight to get through the bridges, but always make it a rule to beat,--though i have been jammed up into pretty tight places at times, and was caught once between a vessel swinging round and the pier, until our bones (the boat's, that is) cracked as if we had been in the jaws of behemoth. then back to my moorings at the foot of the common, off with the rowing-dress, dash under the green translucent wave, return to the garb of civilization, walk through my garden, take a look at my elms on the common, and, reaching my habitat, in consideration of my advanced period of life, indulge in the elysian abandonment of a huge recumbent chair. when i have established a pair of well-pronounced feathering- calluses on my thumbs, when i am in training so that i can do my fifteen miles at a stretch without coming to grief in any way, when i can perform my mile in eight minutes or a little less, then i feel as if i had old time's head in chancery, and could give it to him at my leisure. i do not deny the attraction of walking. i have bored this ancient city through and through in my daily travels, until i know it as an old inhabitant of a cheshire knows his cheese. why, it was i who, in the course of these rambles, discovered that remarkable avenue called myrtle street, stretching in one long line from east of the reservoir to a precipitous and rudely paved cliff which looks down on the grim abode of science, and beyond it to the far hills; a promenade so delicious in its repose, so cheerfully varied with glimpses down the northern slope into busy cambridge street with its iron river of the horse-railroad, and wheeled barges gliding back and forward over it,--so delightfully closing at its western extremity in sunny courts and passages where i know peace, and beauty, and virtue, and serene old age must be perpetual tenants, --so alluring to all who desire to take their daily stroll, in the words of dr. watts,-- "alike unknowing and unknown,"-- that nothing but a sense of duty would have prompted me to reveal the secret of its existence. i concede, therefore, that walking is an immeasurably fine invention, of which old age ought constantly to avail itself. saddle-leather is in some respects even preferable to sole-leather. the principal objection to it is of a financial character. but you may be sure that bacon and sydenham did not recommend it for nothing. one's hepar, or, in vulgar language, liver,--a ponderous organ, weighing some three or four pounds,--goes up and down like the dasher of a churn in the midst of the other vital arrangements, at every step of a trotting horse. the brains also are shaken up like coppers in a money-box. riding is good, for those that are born with a silver-mounted bridle in their hand, and can ride as much and as often as they like, without thinking all the time they hear that steady grinding sound as the horse's jaws triturate with calm lateral movement the bank-bills and promises to pay upon which it is notorious that the profligate animal in question feeds day and night. instead, however, of considering these kinds of exercise in this empirical way, i will devote a brief space to an examination of them in a more scientific form. the pleasure of exercise is due first to a purely physical impression, and secondly to a sense of power in action. the first source of pleasure varies of course with our condition and the state of the surrounding circumstances; the second with the amount and kind of power, and the extent and kind of action. in all forms of active exercise there are three powers simultaneously in action,--the will, the muscles, and the intellect. each of these predominates in different kinds of exercise. in walking, the will and muscles are so accustomed to work together and perform their task with so little expenditure of force, that the intellect is left comparatively free. the mental pleasure in walking, as such, is in the sense of power over all our moving machinery. but in riding, i have the additional pleasure of governing another will, and my muscles extend to the tips of the animal's ears and to his four hoofs, instead of stopping at my hands and feet. now in this extension of my volition and my physical frame into another animal, my tyrannical instincts and my desire for heroic strength are at once gratified. when the horse ceases to have a will of his own and his muscles require no special attention on your part, then you may live on horseback as wesley did, and write sermons or take naps, as you like. but you will observe, that, in riding on horseback, you always have a feeling, that, after all, it is not you that do the work, but the animal, and this prevents the satisfaction from being complete. now let us look at the conditions of rowing. i won't suppose you to be disgracing yourself in one of those miserable tubs, tugging in which is to rowing the true boat what riding a cow is to bestriding an arab. you know the esquimaux kayak, (if that is the name of it,) don't you? look at that model of one over my door. sharp, rather?--on the contrary, it is a lubber to the one you and i must have; a dutch fish-wife to psyche, contrasted with what i will tell you about.--our boat, then, is something of the shape of a pickerel, as you look down upon his back, he lying in the sunshine just where the sharp edge of the water cuts in among the lily-pads. it is a kind of a giant pod, as one may say,--tight everywhere, except in a little place in the middle, where you sit. its length is from seven to ten yards, and as it is only from sixteen to thirty inches wide in its widest part, you understand why you want those "outriggers," or projecting iron frames with the rowlocks in which the oars play. my rowlocks are five feet apart; double the greatest width of the boat. here you are, then, afloat with a body a rod and a half long, with arms, or wings, as you may choose to call them, stretching more than twenty feet from tip to tip; every volition of yours extending as perfectly into them as if your spinal cord ran down the centre strip of your boat, and the nerves of your arms tingled as far as the broad blades of your oars,--oars of spruce, balanced, leathered, and ringed under your own special direction. this, in sober earnest, is the nearest approach to flying that man has ever made or perhaps ever will make. as the hawk sails without flapping his pinions, so you drift with the tide when you will, in the most luxurious form of locomotion indulged to an embodied spirit. but if your blood wants rousing, turn round that stake in the river, which you see a mile from here; and when you come in in sixteen minutes, (if you do, for we are old boys, and not champion scullers, you remember,) then say if you begin to feel a little warmed up or not! you can row easily and gently all day, and you can row yourself blind and black in the face in ten minutes, just as you like. it has been long agreed that there is no way in which a man can accomplish so much labor with his muscles as in rowing. it is in the boat, then, that man finds the largest extension of his volitional and muscular existence; and yet he may tax both of them so slightly, in that most delicious of exercises, that he shall mentally write his sermon, or his poem, or recall the remarks he has made in company and put them in form for the public, as well as in his easy-chair. i dare not publicly name the rare joys, the infinite delights, that intoxicate me on some sweet june morning, when the river and bay are smooth as a sheet of beryl-green silk, and i run along ripping it up with my knife-edged shell of a boat, the rent closing after me like those wounds of angels which milton tells of, but the seam still shining for many a long rood behind me. to lie still over the flats, where the waters are shallow, and see the crabs crawling and the sculpins gliding busily and silently beneath the boat,--to rustle in through the long harsh grass that leads up some tranquil creek,--to take shelter from the sunbeams under one of the thousand-footed bridges, and look down its interminable colonnades, crusted with green and oozy growths, studded with minute barnacles, and belted with rings of dark muscles, while overhead streams and thunders that other river whose every wave is a human soul flowing to eternity as the river below flows to the ocean,--lying there moored unseen, in loneliness so profound that the columns of tadmor in the desert could not seem more remote from life,--the cool breeze on one's forehead, the stream whispering against the half-sunken pillars,--why should i tell of these things, that i should live to see my beloved haunts invaded and the waves blackened with boats as with a swarm of water-beetles? what a city of idiots we must be not to have covered this glorious bay with gondolas and wherries, as we have just learned to cover the ice in winter with skaters! i am satisfied that such a set of black-coated, stiff-jointed, soft-muscled, paste-complexioned youth as we can boast in our atlantic cities never before sprang from loins of anglo-saxon lineage. of the females that are the mates of these males i do not here speak. i preached my sermon from the lay-pulpit on this matter a good while ago. of course, if you heard it, you know my belief is that the total climatic influences here are getting up a number of new patterns of humanity, some of which are not an improvement on the old model. clipper-built, sharp in the bows, long in the spars, slender to look at, and fast to go, the ship, which is the great organ of our national life of relation, is but a reproduction of the typical form which the elements impress upon its builder. all this we cannot help; but we can make the best of these influences, such as they are. we have a few good boatmen, --no good horsemen that i hear of,--i cannot speak for cricketing, --but as for any great athletic feat performed by a gentleman in these latitudes, society would drop a man who should run round the common in five minutes. some of our amateur fencers, single-stick players, and boxers, we have no reason to be ashamed of. boxing is rough play, but not too rough for a hearty young fellow. anything is better than this white-blooded degeneration to which we all tend. i dropped into a gentlemen's sparring exhibition only last evening. it did my heart good to see that there were a few young and youngish youths left who could take care of their own heads in case of emergency. it is a fine sight, that of a gentleman resolving himself into the primitive constituents of his humanity. here is a delicate young man now, with an intellectual countenance, a slight figure, a sub-pallid complexion, a most unassuming deportment, a mild adolescent in fact, that any hiram or jonathan from between the ploughtails would of course expect to handle with perfect ease. oh, he is taking off his gold-bowed spectacles! ah, he is divesting himself of his cravat! why, he is stripping off his coat! well, here he is, sure enough, in a tight silk shirt, and with two things that look like batter puddings in the place of his fists. now see that other fellow with another pair of batter puddings,--the big one with the broad shoulders; he will certainly knock the little man's head off, if he strikes him. feinting, dodging, stopping, hitting, countering,--little man's head not off yet. you might as well try to jump upon your own shadow as to hit the little man's intellectual features. he needn't have taken off the gold-bowed spectacles at all. quick, cautious, shifty, nimble, cool, he catches all the fierce lunges or gets out of their reach, till his turn comes, and then, whack goes one of the batter puddings against the big one's ribs, and bang goes the other into the big one's face, and, staggering, shuffling, slipping, tripping, collapsing, sprawling, down goes the big one in a miscellaneous bundle.--if my young friend, whose excellent article i have referred to, could only introduce the manly art of self-defence among the clergy, i am satisfied that we should have better sermons and an infinitely less quarrelsome church-militant. a bout with the gloves would let off the ill-nature, and cure the indigestion, which, united, have embroiled their subject in a bitter controversy. we should then often hear that a point of difference between an infallible and a heretic, instead of being vehemently discussed in a series of newspaper articles, had been settled by a friendly contest in several rounds, at the close of which the parties shook hands and appeared cordially reconciled. but boxing you and i are too old for, i am afraid. i was for a moment tempted, by the contagion of muscular electricity last evening, to try the gloves with the benicia boy, who looked in as a friend to the noble art; but remembering that he had twice my weight and half my age, besides the advantage of his training, i sat still and said nothing. there is one other delicate point i wish to speak of with reference to old age. i refer to the use of dioptric media which correct the diminished refracting power of the humors of the eye,--in other words, spectacles. i don't use them. all i ask is a large, fair type, a strong daylight or gas-light, and one yard of focal distance, and my eyes are as good as ever. but if your eyes fail, i can tell you something encouraging. there is now living in new york state an old gentleman who, perceiving his sight to fail, immediately took to exercising it on the finest print, and in this way fairly bullied nature out of her foolish habit of taking liberties at five-and-forty, or thereabout. and now this old gentleman performs the most extraordinary feats with his pen, showing that his eyes must be a pair of microscopes. i should be afraid to say to you how much he writes in the compass of a half-dime,--whether the psalms or the gospels, or the psalms and the gospels, i won't be positive. but now let rue tell you this. if the time comes when you must lay down the fiddle and the bow, because your fingers are too stiff, and drop the ten-foot sculls, because your arms are too weak, and, after dallying awhile with eye-glasses, come at last to the undisguised reality of spectacles,--if the time comes when that fire of life we spoke of has burned so low that where its flames reverberated there is only the sombre stain of regret, and where its coals glowed, only the white ashes that cover the embers of memory,--don't let your heart grow cold, and you may carry cheerfulness and love with you into the teens of your second century, if you can last so long. as our friend, the poet, once said, in some of those old-fashioned heroics of his which he keeps for his private reading,-- call him not old, whose visionary brain holds o'er the past its undivided reign. for him in vain the envious seasons roll who bears eternal summer in his soul. if yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay, spring with her birds, or children with their play, or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream of art stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart,-- turn to the record where his years are told,-- count his gray hairs,--they cannot make him old! end of the professor's paper. [the above essay was not read at one time, but in several instalments, and accompanied by various comments from different persons at the table. the company were in the main attentive, with the exception of a little somnolence on the part of the old gentleman opposite at times, and a few sly, malicious questions about the "old boys" on the part of that forward young fellow who has figured occasionally, not always to his advantage, in these reports. on sunday mornings, in obedience to a feeling i am not ashamed of, i have always tried to give a more appropriate character to our conversation. i have never read them my sermon yet, and i don't know that i shall, as some of them might take my convictions as a personal indignity to themselves. but having read our company so much of the professor's talk about age and other subjects connected with physical life, i took the next sunday morning to repeat to them the following poem of his, which i have had by me some time. he calls it--i suppose, for his professional friends--the anatomist's hymn, but i shall name it--] the living temple. not in the world of light alone, where god has built his blazing throne, nor yet alone in earth below, with belted seas that come and go, and endless isles of sunlit green, is all thy maker's glory seen: look in upon thy wondrous frame,-- eternal wisdom still the same! the smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves flows murmuring through its hidden caves whose streams of brightening purple rush fired with a new and livelier blush, while all their burden of decay the ebbing current steals away, and red with nature's flame they start from the warm fountains of the heart. no rest that throbbing slave may ask, forever quivering o'er his task, while far and wide a crimson jet leaps forth to fill the woven net which in unnumbered crossing tides the flood of burning life divides, then kindling each decaying part creeps back to find the throbbing heart. but warmed with that uchanging flame behold the outward moving frame, its living marbles jointed strong with glistening band and silvery thong, and linked to reason's guiding reins by myriad rings in trembling chains, each graven with the threaded zone which claims it as the master's own. see how yon beam of seeming white is braided out of seven-hued light, yet in those lucid globes no ray by any chance shall break astray. hark how the rolling surge of sound, arches and spirals circling round, wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear with music it is heaven to hear. then mark the cloven sphere that holds all thought in its mysterious folds, that feels sensation's faintest thrill and flashes forth the sovereign will; think on the stormy world that dwells locked in its dim and clustering cells! the lightning gleams of power it sheds along its hollow glassy threads! o father! grant thy love divine to make these mystic temples thine! when wasting age and wearying strife have sapped the leaning walls of life, when darkness gathers over all, and the last tottering pillars fall, take the poor dust thy mercy warms and mould it into heavenly forms! chapter viii [spring has come. you will find some verses to that effect at the end of these notes. if you are an impatient reader, skip to them at once. in reading aloud, omit, if you please, the sixth and seventh verses. these are parenthetical and digressive, and, unless your audience is of superior intelligence, will confuse them. many people can ride on horseback who find it hard to get on and to get off without assistance. one has to dismount from an idea, and get into the saddle again, at every parenthesis.] --the old gentleman who sits opposite, finding that spring had fairly come, mounted a white hat one day, and walked into the street. it seems to have been a premature or otherwise exceptionable exhibition, not unlike that commemorated by the late mr. bayly. when the old gentleman came home, he looked very red in the face, and complained that he had been "made sport of." by sympathizing questions, i learned from him that a boy had called him "old daddy," and asked him when he had his hat whitewashed. this incident led me to make some observations at table the next morning, which i here repeat for the benefit of the readers of this record. --the hat is the vulnerable point of the artificial integument. i learned this in early boyhood. i was once equipped in a hat of leghorn straw, having a brim of much wider dimensions than were usual at that time, and sent to school in that portion of my native town which lies nearest to this metropolis. on my way i was met by a "port-chuck," as we used to call the young gentlemen of that locality, and the following dialogue ensued. the port-chuck. hullo, you-sir, joo know th' wuz gon-to be a race to-morrah? myself. no. who's gon-to run, 'n' wher's't gon-to be? the port-chuck. squire mico 'n' doctor wiliams, round the brim o' your hat. these two much-respected gentlemen being the oldest inhabitants at that time, and the alleged race-course being out of the question, the port-chuck also winking and thrusting his tongue into his cheek, i perceived that i had been trifled with, and the effect has been to make me sensitive and observant respecting this article of dress ever since. here is an axiom or two relating to it. a hat which has been popped, or exploded by being sat down upon, is never itself again afterwards. it is a favorite illusion of sanguine natures to believe the contrary. shabby gentility has nothing so characteristic as its hat. there is always an unnatural calmness about its nap, and an unwholesome gloss, suggestive of a wet brush. the last effort of decayed fortune is expended in smoothing its dilapidated castor. the hat is the ultimum moriens of "respectability." --the old gentleman took all these remarks and maxims very pleasantly, saying, however, that he had forgotten most of his french except the word for potatoes,--pummies de tare.---ultimum moriens, i told him, is old italian, and signifies last thing to die. with this explanation he was well contented, and looked quite calm when i saw him afterwards in the entry with a black hat on his head and the white one in his hand. --i think myself fortunate in having the poet and the professor for my intimates. we are so much together, that we no doubt think and talk a good deal alike; yet our points of view are in many respects individual and peculiar. you know me well enough by this time. i have not talked with you so long for nothing and therefore i don't think it necessary to draw my own portrait. but let me say a word or two about my friends. the professor considers himself, and i consider him, a very useful and worthy kind of drudge. i think he has a pride in his small technicalities. i know that he has a great idea of fidelity; and though i suspect he laughs a little inwardly at times at the grand airs "science" puts on, as she stands marking time, but not getting on, while the trumpets are blowing and the big drums beating,--yet i am sure he has a liking for his specially, and a respect for its cultivators. but i'll tell you what the professor said to the poet the other day.--my boy, said he, i can work a great deal cheaper than you, because i keep all my goods in the lower story. you have to hoist yours into the upper chambers of the brain, and let them down again to your customers. i take mine in at the level of the ground, and send them off from my doorstep almost without lifting. i tell you, the higher a man has to carry the raw material of thought before he works it up, the more it costs him in blood, nerve, and muscle. coleridge knew all this very well when he advised every literary man to have a profession. --sometimes i like to talk with one of them, and sometimes with the other. after a while i get tired of both. when a fit of intellectual disgust comes over me, i will tell you what i have found admirable as a diversion, in addition to boating and other amusements which i have spoken of,--that is, working at my carpenter's-bench. some mechanical employment is the greatest possible relief, after the purely intellectual faculties begin to tire. when i was quarantined once at marseilles, i got to work immediately at carving a wooden wonder of loose rings on a stick, and got so interested in it, that when we were set loose, i "regained my freedom with a sigh," because my toy was unfinished. there are long seasons when i talk only with the professor, and others when i give myself wholly up to the poet. now that my winter's work is over and spring is with us, i feel naturally drawn to the poet's company. i don't know anybody more alive to life than he is. the passion of poetry seizes on him every spring, he says,--yet oftentimes he complains, that, when he feels most, he can sing least. then a fit of despondency comes over him.--i feel ashamed, sometimes,--said he, the other day,--to think how far my worst songs fall below my best. it sometimes seems to me, as i know it does to others who have told me so, that they ought to be all best,--if not in actual execution, at least in plan and motive. i am grateful--he continued--for all such criticisms. a man is always pleased to have his most serious efforts praised, and the highest aspect of his nature get the most sunshine. yet i am sure, that, in the nature of things, many minds must change their key now and then, on penalty of getting out of tune or losing their voices. you know, i suppose,--he said,--what is meant by complementary colors? you know the effect, too, which the prolonged impression of any one color has on the retina. if you close your eyes after looking steadily at a red object, you see a green image. it is so with many minds,--i will not say with all. after looking at one aspect of external nature, or of any form of beauty or truth, when they turn away, the complementary aspect of the same object stamps itself irresistibly and automatically upon the mind. shall they give expression to this secondary mental state, or not? when i contemplate--said my friend, the poet--the infinite largeness of comprehension belonging to the central intelligence, how remote the creative conception is from all scholastic and ethical formulae, i am led to think that a healthy mind ought to change its mood from time to time, and come down from its noblest condition,--never, of course, to degrade itself by dwelling upon what is itself debasing, but to let its lower faculties have a chance to air and exercise themselves. after the first and second floor have been out in the bright street dressed in all their splendors, shall not our humble friends in the basement have their holiday, and the cotton velvet and the thin-skinned jewelry--simple adornments, but befitting the station of those who wear them--show themselves to the crowd, who think them beautiful, as they ought to, though the people up stairs know that they are cheap and perishable? --i don't know that i may not bring the poet here, some day or other, and let him speak for himself. still i think i can tell you what he says quite as well as he could do it.--oh,--he said to me, one day,--i am but a hand-organ man,--say rather, a hand-organ. life turns the winch, and fancy or accident pulls out the stops. i come under your windows, some fine spring morning, and play you one of my adagio movements, and some of you say,--this is good,--play us so always. but, dear friends, if i did not change the stop sometimes, the machine would wear out in one part and rust in another. how easily this or that tune flows!--you say,--there must be no end of just such melodies in him.--i will open the poor machine for you one moment, and you shall look.--ah! every note marks where a spur of steel has been driven in. it is easy to grind out the song, but to plant these bristling points which make it was the painful task of time. i don't like to say it,--he continued,--but poets commonly have no larger stock of tunes than hand-organs; and when you hear them piping up under your window, you know pretty well what to expect. the more stops, the better. do let them all be pulled out in their turn! so spoke my friend, the poet, and read me one of his stateliest songs, and after it a gay chanson, and then a string of epigrams. all true,--he said,--all flowers of his soul; only one with the corolla spread, and another with its disk half opened, and the third with the heart-leaves covered up and only a petal or two showing its tip through the calyx. the water-lily is the type of the poet's soul,--he told me. --what do you think, sir,--said the divinity-student,--opens the souls of poets most fully? why, there must be the internal force and the external stimulus. neither is enough by itself. a rose will not flower in the dark, and a fern will not flower anywhere. what do i think is the true sunshine that opens the poet's corolla?--i don't like to say. they spoil a good many, i am afraid; or at least they shine on a good many that never come to anything. who are they?--said the schoolmistress. women. their love first inspires the poet, and their praise is his best reward. the schoolmistress reddened a little, but looked pleased.--did i really think so?--i do think so; i never feel safe until i have pleased them; i don't think they are the first to see one's defects, but they are the first to catch the color and fragrance of a true poem. fit the same intellect to a man and it is a bow-string,--to a woman and it is a harp-string. she is vibratile and resonant all over, so she stirs with slighter musical tremblings of the air about her.--ah, me!--said my friend, the poet, to me, the other day,--what color would it not have given to my thoughts, and what thrice-washed whiteness to my words, had i been fed on women's praises! i should have grown like marvell's fawn,-- "lilies without; roses within!" but then,--he added,--we all think, if so and so, we should have been this or that, as you were saying the other day, in those rhymes of yours. --i don't think there are many poets in the sense of creators; but of those sensitive natures which reflect themselves naturally in soft and melodious words, pleading for sympathy with their joys and sorrows, every literature is full. nature carves with her own hands the brain which holds the creative imagination, but she casts the over-sensitive creatures in scores from the same mould. there are two kinds of poets, just as there are two kinds of blondes. [movement of curiosity among our ladies at table.--please to tell us about those blondes, said the schoolmistress.] why, there are blondes who are such simply by deficiency of coloring matter,--negative or washed blondes, arrested by nature on the way to become albinesses. there are others that are shot through with golden light, with tawny or fulvous tinges in various degree, --positive or stained blondes, dipped in yellow sunbeams, and as unlike in their mode of being to the others as an orange is unlike a snowball. the albino-style carries with it a wide pupil and a sensitive retina. the other, or the leonine blonde, has an opaline fire in her clear eye, which the brunette can hardly match with her quick glittering glances. just so we have the great sun-kindled, constructive imaginations, and a far more numerous class of poets who have a certain kind of moonlight-genius given them to compensate for their imperfection of nature. their want of mental coloring-matter makes them sensitive to those impressions which stronger minds neglect or never feel at all. many of them die young, and all of them are tinged with melancholy. there is no more beautiful illustration of the principle of compensation which marks the divine benevolence than the fact that some of the holiest lives and some of the sweetest songs are the growth of the infirmity which unfits its subject for the rougher duties of life. when one reads the life of cowper, or of keats, or of lucretia and margaret davidson,--of so many gentle, sweet natures, born to weakness, and mostly dying before their time,--one cannot help thinking that the human race dies out singing, like the swan in the old story. the french poet, gilbert, who died at the hotel dieu, at the age of twenty-nine,--(killed by a key in his throat, which he had swallowed when delirious in consequence of a fall,)--this poor fellow was a very good example of the poet by excess of sensibility. i found, the other day, that some of my literary friends had never heard of him, though i suppose few educated frenchmen do not know the lines which he wrote, a week before his death, upon a mean bed in the great hospital of paris. "au banquet de la vie, infortune convive, j'apparus un jour, et je meurs; je meurs, et sur ma tombe, ou lentement j'arrive, nul ne viendra verser des pleurs." at life's gay banquet placed, a poor unhappy guest, one day i pass, then disappear; i die, and on the tomb where i at length shall rest no friend shall come to shed a tear. you remember the same thing in other words some where in kirke white's poems. it is the burden of the plaintive songs of all these sweet albino-poets. "i shall die and be forgotten, and the world will go on just as if i had never been;--and yet how i have loved! how i have longed! how i have aspired!" and so singing, their eyes grow brighter and brighter, and their features thinner and thinner, until at last the veil of flesh is threadbare, and, still singing, they drop it and pass onward. --our brains are seventy-year clocks. the angel of life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hand of the angel of the resurrection. tic-tac! tic-tac! go the wheels of thought; our will cannot stop them; they cannot stop themselves, sleep cannot still them; madness only makes them go faster; death alone can break into the case, and, seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escapement we have carried so long beneath our wrinkled foreheads. if we could only get at them, as we lie on our pillows and count the dead beats of thought after thought and image after image jarring through the overtired organ! will nobody block those wheels, uncouple that pinion, cut the string that holds those weights, blow up the infernal machine with gunpowder? what a passion comes over us sometimes for silence and rest!--that this dreadful mechanism, unwinding the endless tapestry of time, embroidered with spectral figures of life and death, could have but one brief holiday! who can wonder that men swing themselves off from beams in hempen lassos?--that they jump off from parapets into the swift and gurgling waters beneath?--that they take counsel of the grim friend who has but to utter his one peremptory monosyllable and the restless machine is shivered as a vase that is dashed upon a marble floor? under that building which we pass every day there are strong dungeons, where neither hook, nor bar, nor bed-cord, nor drinking-vessel from which a sharp fragment may be shattered, shall by any chance be seen. there is nothing for it, when the brain is on fire with the whirling of its wheels, but to spring against the stone wall and silence them with one crash. ah, they remembered that,--the kind city fathers,--and the walls are nicely padded, so that one can take such exercise as he likes without damaging himself on the very plain and serviceable upholstery. if anybody would only contrive some kind of a lever that one could thrust in among the works of this horrid automaton and check them, or alter their rate of going, what would the world give for the discovery? --from half a dime to a dime, according to the style of the place and the quality of the liquor,--said the young fellow whom they call john. you speak trivially, but not unwisely,--i said. unless the will maintain a certain control over these movements, which it cannot stop, but can to some extent regulate, men are very apt to try to get at the machine by some indirect system of leverage or other. they clap on the brakes by means of opium; they change the maddening monotony of the rhythm by means of fermented liquors. it is because the brain is locked up and we cannot touch its movement directly, that we thrust these coarse tools in through any crevice, by which they may reach the interior, and so alter its rate of going for a while, and at last spoil the machine. men who exercise chiefly those faculties of the mind which work independently of the will,--poets and artists, for instance, who follow their imagination in their creative moments, instead of keeping it in hand as your logicians and practical men do with their reasoning faculty,--such men are too apt to call in the mechanical appliances to help them govern their intellects. --he means they get drunk,--said the young fellow already alluded to by name. do you think men of true genius are apt to indulge in the use of inebriating fluids? said the divinity-student. if you think you are strong enough to bear what i am going to say, --i replied,--i will talk to you about this. but mind, now, these are the things that some foolish people call dangerous subjects, --as if these vices which burrow into people's souls, as the guinea-worm burrows into the naked feet of west-indian slaves, would be more mischievous when seen than out of sight. now the true way to deal with those obstinate animals, which are a dozen feet long, some of them, and no bigger than a horse hair, is to get a piece of silk round their heads, and pull them out very cautiously. if you only break them off, they grow worse than ever, and sometimes kill the person who has the misfortune to harbor one of them. whence it is plain that the first thing to do is to find out where the head lies. just so of all the vices, and particularly of this vice of intemperance. what is the head of it, and where does it lie? for you may depend upon it, there is not one of these vices that has not a head of its own,--an intelligence,--a meaning,--a certain virtue, i was going to say,--but that might, perhaps, sound paradoxical. i have heard an immense number of moral physicians lay down the treatment of moral guinea-worms, and the vast majority of them would always insist that the creature had no head at all, but was all body and tail. so i have found a very common result of their method to be that the string slipped, or that a piece only of the creature was broken off, and the worm soon grew again, as bad as ever. the truth is, if the devil could only appear in church by attorney, and make the best statement that the facts would bear him out in doing on behalf of his special virtues, (what we commonly call vices,) the influence of good teachers would be much greater than it is. for the arguments by which the devil prevails are precisely the ones that the devil-queller most rarely answers. the way to argue down a vice is not to tell lies about it,--to say that it has no attractions, when everybody knows that it has,--but rather to let it make out its case just as it certainly will in the moment of temptation, and then meet it with the weapons furnished by the divine armory. ithuriel did not spit the toad on his spear, you remember, but touched him with it, and the blasted angel took the sad glories of his true shape. if he had shown fight then, the fair spirits would have known how to deal with him. that all spasmodic cerebral action is an evil is not perfectly clear. men get fairly intoxicated with music, with poetry, with religious excitement, oftenest with love. ninon de l'enclos said she was so easily excited that her soup intoxicated her, and convalescents have been made tipsy by a beef-steak. there are forms and stages of alcoholic exaltation which, in themselves, and without regard to their consequences, might be considered as positive improvements of the persons affected. when the sluggish intellect is roused, the slow speech quickened, the cold nature warmed, the latent sympathy developed, the flagging spirit kindled,--before the trains of thought become confused or the will perverted, or the muscles relaxed,--just at the moment when the whole human zoophyte flowers out like a full-blown rose, and is ripe for the subscription-paper or the contribution-box,--it would be hard to say that a man was, at that very time, worse, or less to be loved, than when driving a hard bargain with all his meaner wits about him. the difficulty is, that the alcoholic virtues don't wash; but until the water takes their colors out, the tints are very much like those of the true celestial stuff. [here i was interrupted by a question which i am very unwilling to report, but have confidence enough in those friends who examine these records to commit to their candor. a person at table asked me whether i "went in for rum as a steady drink?"--his manner made the question highly offensive, but i restrained myself, and answered thus:-] rum i take to be the name which unwashed moralists apply alike to the product distilled from molasses and the noblest juices of the vineyard. burgundy "in all its sunset glow" is rum. champagne, "the foaming wine of eastern france," in rum. hock, which our friend, the poet, speaks of as "the rhine's breastmilk, gushing cold and bright, pale as the moon, and maddening as her light," is rum. sir, i repudiate the loathsome vulgarism as an insult to the first miracle wrought by the founder of our religion! i address myself to the company.--i believe in temperance, nay, almost in abstinence, as a rule for healthy people. i trust that i practice both. but let me tell you, there are companies of men of genius into which i sometimes go, where the atmosphere of intellect and sentiment is so much more stimulating than alcohol, that, if i thought fit to take wine, it would be to keep me sober. among the gentlemen that i have known, few, if any, were ruined by drinking. my few drunken acquaintances were generally ruined before they became drunkards. the habit of drinking is often a vice, no doubt,--sometimes a misfortune,--as when an almost irresistible hereditary propensity exists to indulge in it,--but oftenest of all a punishment. empty heads,--heads without ideas in wholesome variety and sufficient number to furnish food for the mental clockwork, --ill-regulated heads, where the faculties are not under the control of the will,--these are the ones that hold the brains which their owners are so apt to tamper with, by introducing the appliances we have been talking about. now, when a gentleman's brain is empty or ill-regulated, it is, to a great extent, his own fault; and so it is simple retribution, that, while he lies slothfully sleeping or aimlessly dreaming, the fatal habit settles on him like a vampyre, and sucks his blood, fanning him all the while with its hot wings into deeper slumber or idler dreams! i am not such a hard-souled being as to apply this to the neglected poor, who have had no chance to fill their heads with wholesome ideas, and to be taught the lesson of self-government. i trust the tariff of heaven has an ad valorem scale for them--and all of us. but to come back to poets and artists;--if they really are more prone to the abuse of stimulants,--and i fear that this is true, --the reason of it is only too clear. a man abandons himself to a fine frenzy, and the power which flows through him, as i once explained to you, makes him the medium of a great poem or a great picture. the creative action is not voluntary at all, but automatic; we can only put the mind into the proper attitude, and wait for the wind, that blows where it listeth, to breathe over it. thus the true state of creative genius is allied to reverie, or dreaming. if mind and body were both healthy and had food enough and fair play, i doubt whether any men would be more temperate than the imaginative classes. but body and mind often flag,--perhaps they are ill-made to begin with, underfed with bread or ideas, overworked, or abused in some way. the automatic action, by which genius wrought its wonders, fails. there is only one thing which can rouse the machine; not will,--that cannot reach it; nothing but a ruinous agent, which hurries the wheels awhile and soon eats out the heart of the mechanism. the dreaming faculties are always the dangerous ones, because their mode of action can be imitated by artificial excitement; the reasoning ones are safe, because they imply continued voluntary effort. i think you will find it true, that, before any vice can fasten on a man, body, mind, or moral nature must be debilitated. the mosses and fungi gather on sickly trees, not thriving ones; and the odious parasites which fasten on the human frame choose that which is already enfeebled. mr. walker, the hygeian humorist, declared that he had such a healthy skin it was impossible for any impurity to stick to it, and maintained that it was an absurdity to wash a face which was of necessity always clean. i don't know how much fancy there was in this; but there is no fancy in saying that the lassitude of tired-out operatives, and the languor of imaginative natures in their periods of collapse, and the vacuity of minds untrained to labor and discipline, fit the soul and body for the germination of the seeds of intemperance. whenever the wandering demon of drunkenness finds a ship adrift, --no steady wind in its sails, no thoughtful pilot directing its course,--he steps on board, takes the helm, and steers straight for the maelstrom. --i wonder if you know the terrible smile? [the young fellow whom they call john winked very hard, and made a jocular remark, the sense of which seemed to depend on some double meaning of the word smile. the company was curious to know what i meant.] there are persons--i said--who no sooner come within sight of you than they begin to smile, with an uncertain movement of the mouth, which conveys the idea that they are thinking about themselves, and thinking, too, that you are thinking they are thinking about themselves,--and so look at you with a wretched mixture of self-consciousness, awkwardness, and attempts to carry off both, which are betrayed by the cowardly behaviour of the eye and the tell-tale weakness of the lips that characterize these unfortunate beings. --why do you call them unfortunate, sir?--asked the divinity- student. because it is evident that the consciousness of some imbecility or other is at the bottom of this extraordinary expression. i don't think, however, that these persons are commonly fools. i have known a number, and all of them were intelligent. i think nothing conveys the idea of underbreeding more than this self-betraying smile. yet i think this peculiar habit as well as that of meaningless blushing may be fallen into by very good people who met often, or sit opposite each other at table. a true gentleman's face is infinitely removed from all such paltriness,--calm-eyed, firm-mouthed. i think titian understood the look of a gentleman as well as anybody that ever lived. the portrait of a young man holding a glove in his hand, in the gallery of the louvre, if any of you have seen that collection, will remind you of what i mean. --do i think these people know the peculiar look they have?--i cannot say; i hope not; i am afraid they would never forgive me, if they did. the worst of it is, the trick is catching; when one meets one of these fellows, he feels a tendency to the same manifestation. the professor tells me there is a muscular slip, a dependence of the platysma myoides, which is called the risorius santorini. --say that once more,--exclaimed the young fellow mentioned above. the professor says there is a little fleshy slip called santorini's laughing muscle. i would have it cut out of my face, if i were born with one of those constitutional grins upon it. perhaps i am uncharitable in my judgment of those sour-looking people i told you of the other day, and of these smiling folks. it may be that they are born with these looks, as other people are with more generally recognized deformities. both are bad enough, but i had rather meet three of the scowlers than one of the smilers. --there is another unfortunate way of looking, which is peculiar to that amiable sex we do not like to find fault with. there are some very pretty, but, unhappily, very ill-bred women, who don't understand the law of the road with regard to handsome faces. nature and custom would, no doubt, agree in conceding to all males the right of at least two distinct looks at every comely female countenance, without any infraction of the rules of courtesy or the sentiment of respect. the first look is necessary to define the person of the individual one meets so as to avoid it in passing. any unusual attraction detected in a first glance is a sufficient apology for a second,--not a prolonged and impertinent stare, but an appreciating homage of the eyes, such as a stranger may inoffensively yield to a passing image. it is astonishing how morbidly sensitive some vulgar beauties are to the slightest demonstration of this kind. when a lady walks the streets, she leaves her virtuous-indignation countenance at home; she knows well enough that the street is a picture-gallery, where pretty faces framed in pretty bonnets are meant to be seen, and everybody has a right to see them. --when we observe how the same features and style of person and character descend from generation to generation, we can believe that some inherited weakness may account for these peculiarities. little snapping-turtles snap--so the great naturalist tells us --before they are out of the egg-shell. i am satisfied, that, much higher up in the scale of life, character is distinctly shown at the age of-- or-- months. --my friend, the professor, has been full of eggs lately. [this remark excited a burst of hilarity which i did not allow to interrupt the course of my observations.] he has been reading the great book where he found the fact about the little snapping- turtles mentioned above. some of the things he has told me have suggested several odd analogies enough. there are half a dozen men, or so, who carry in their brains the ovarian eggs of the next generation's or century's civilization. these eggs are not ready to be laid in the form of books as yet; some of them are hardly ready to be put into the form of talk. but as rudimentary ideas or inchoate tendencies, there they are; and these are what must form the future. a man's general notions are not good for much, unless he has a crop of these intellectual ovarian eggs in his own brain, or knows them as they exist in the minds of others. one must be in the habit of talking with such persons to get at these rudimentary germs of thought; for their development is necessarily imperfect, and they are moulded on new patterns, which must be long and closely studied. but these are the men to talk with. no fresh truth ever gets into a book. --a good many fresh lies get in, anyhow,--said one of the company. i proceeded in spite of the interruption.--all uttered thought, my friend, the professor, says, is of the nature of an excretion. its materials have been taken in, and have acted upon the system, and been reacted on by it; it has circulated and done its office in one mind before it is given out for the benefit of others. it may be milk or venom to other minds; but, in either case, it is something which the producer has had the use of and can part with. a man instinctively tries to get rid of his thought in conversation or in print so soon as it is matured; but it is hard to get at it as it lies imbedded, a mere potentiality, the germ of a germ, in his intellect. --where are the brains that are fullest of these ovarian eggs of thought?--i decline mentioning individuals. the producers of thought, who are few, the "jobbers" of thought, who are many, and the retailers of thought, who are numberless, are so mixed up in the popular apprehension, that it would be hopeless to try to separate them before opinion has had time to settle. follow the course of opinion on the great subjects of human interest for a few generations or centuries, get its parallax, map out a small arc of its movement, see where it tends, and then see who is in advance of it or even with it; the world calls him hard names, probably; but if you would find the ova of the future, you must look into the folds of his cerebral convolutions. [the divinity-student looked a little puzzled at this suggestion, as if he did not see exactly where he was to come out, if he computed his arc too nicely. i think it possible it might cut off a few corners of his present belief, as it has cut off martyr- burning and witch-hanging;--but time will show,--time will show, as the old gentleman opposite says.] --oh,--here is that copy of verses i told you about. spring has come. intra muros. the sunbeams, lost for half a year, slant through my pane their morning rays for dry northwesters cold and clear, the east blows in its thin blue haze. and first the snowdrop's bells are seen, then close against the sheltering wall the tulip's horn of dusky green, the peony's dark unfolding ball. the golden-chaliced crocus burns; the long narcissus-blades appear; the cone-beaked hyacinth returns, and lights her blue-flamed chandelier. the willow's whistling lashes, wrung by the wild winds of gusty march, with sallow leaflets lightly strung, are swaying by the tufted larch. the elms have robed their slender spray with full-blown flower and embryo leaf; wide o'er the clasping arch of day soars like a cloud their hoary chief. --[see the proud tulip's flaunting cup, that flames in glory for an hour,-- behold it withering,--then look up,-- how meek the forest-monarch's flower!-- when wake the violets, winter dies; when sprout the elm-buds, spring is near; when lilacs blossom, summer cries, "bud, little roses! spring is here!"] the windows blush with fresh bouquets, cut with the may-dew on their lips; the radish all its bloom displays, pink as aurora's finger-tips. nor less the flood of light that showers on beauty's changed corolla-shades,-- the walks are gay as bridal bowers with rows of many-petalled maids. the scarlet shell-fish click and clash in the blue barrow where they slide; the horseman, proud of streak and splash, creeps homeward from his morning ride. here comes the dealer's awkward string, with neck in rope and tail in knot,-- rough colts, with careless country-swing, in lazy walk or slouching trot. --wild filly from the mountain-side, doomed to the close and chafing thills, lend me thy long, untiring stride to seek with thee thy western hills! i hear the whispering voice of spring, the thrush's trill, the cat-bird's cry, like some poor bird with prisoned wing that sits and sings, but longs to fly. oh for one spot of living green,-- one little spot where leaves can grow,-- to love unblamed, to walk unseen, to dream above, to sleep below! chapter ix [aqui esta encerrada el alma del licenciado pedro garcias. if i should ever make a little book out of these papers, which i hope you are not getting tired of, i suppose i ought to save the above sentence for a motto on the title-page. but i want it now, and must use it. i need not say to you that the words are spanish, nor that they are to be found in the short introduction to "gil blas," nor that they mean, "here lies buried the soul of the licentiate pedro garcias." i warned all young people off the premises when i began my notes referring to old age. i must be equally fair with old people now. they are earnestly requested to leave this paper to young persons from the age of twelve to that of fourscore years and ten, at which latter period of life i am sure that i shall have at least one youthful reader. you know well enough what i mean by youth and age;--something in the soul, which has no more to do with the color of the hair than the vein of gold in a rock has to do with the grass a thousand feet above it. i am growing bolder as i write. i think it requires not only youth, but genius, to read this paper. i don't mean to imply that it required any whatsoever to talk what i have here written down. it did demand a certain amount of memory, and such command of the english tongue as is given by a common school education. so much i do claim. but here i have related, at length, a string of trivialities. you must have the imagination of a poet to transfigure them. these little colored patches are stains upon the windows of a human soul; stand on the outside, they are but dull and meaningless spots of color; seen from within, they are glorified shapes with empurpled wings and sunbright aureoles. my hand trembles when i offer you this. many times i have come bearing flowers such as my garden grew; but now i offer you this poor, brown, homely growth, you may cast it away as worthless. and yet--and yet--it is something better than flowers; it is a seed-capsule. many a gardener will cut you a bouquet of his choicest blossoms for small fee, but he does not love to let the seeds of his rarest varieties go out of his own hands. it is by little things that we know ourselves; a soul would very probably mistake itself for another, when once disembodied, were it not for individual experiences which differ from those of others only in details seemingly trifling. all of us have been thirsty thousands of times, and felt, with pindar, that water was the best of things. i alone, as i think, of all mankind, remember one particular pailful of water, flavored with the white-pine of which the pail was made, and the brown mug out of which one edmund, a red-faced and curly-haired boy, was averred to have bitten a fragment in his haste to drink; it being then high summer, and little full-blooded boys feeling very warm and porous in the low-"studded" school-room where dame prentiss, dead and gone, ruled over young children, many of whom are old ghosts now, and have known abraham for twenty or thirty years of our mortal time. thirst belongs to humanity, everywhere, in all ages; but that white-pine pail, and that brown mug belong to me in particular; and just so of my special relationships with other things and with my rice. one could never remember himself in eternity by the mere fact of having loved or hated any more than by that of having thirsted; love and hate have no more individuality in them than single waves in the ocean;--but the accidents or trivial marks which distinguished those whom we loved or hated make their memory our own forever, and with it that of our own personality also. therefore, my aged friend of five-and-twenty, or thereabouts, pause at the threshold of this particular record, and ask yourself seriously whether you are fit to read such revelations as are to follow. for observe, you have here no splendid array of petals such as poets offer you,--nothing but a dry shell, containing, if you will get out what is in it, a few small seeds of poems. you may laugh at them, if you like. i shall never tell you what i think of you for so doing. but if you can read into the heart of these things, in the light of other memories as slight, yet as dear to your soul, then you are neither more nor less than a poet, and can afford to write no more verses during the rest of your natural life,--which abstinence i take to be one of the surest marks of your meriting the divine name i have just bestowed upon you. may i beg of you who have begun this paper nobly trusting to your own imagination and sensibilities to give it the significance which it does not lay claim to without your kind assistance,--may i beg of you, i say, to pay particular attention to the brackets which enclose certain paragraphs? i want my "asides," you see, to whisper loud to you who read my notes, and sometimes i talk a page or two to you without pretending that i said a word of it to our boarders. you will find a very long "aside" to you almost as soon as you begin to read. and so, dear young friend, fall to at once, taking such things as i have provided for you; and if you turn them, by the aid of your powerful imagination, into a fair banquet, why, then, peace be with you, and a summer by the still waters of some quiet river, or by some yellow beach, where, as my friend the professor, says, you can sit with nature's wrist in your hand and count her ocean-pulses.] i should like to make a few intimate revelations relating especially to my early life, if i thought you would like to hear them. [the schoolmistress turned a little in her chair, and sat with her face directed partly towards me.--half-mourning now;--purple ribbon. that breastpin she wears has gray hair in it; her mother's, no doubt;--i remember our landlady's daughter telling me, soon after the schoolmistress came to board with us, that she had lately "buried a payrent." that's what made her look so pale, --kept the poor dying thing alive with her own blood. ah! long illness is the real vampyrism; think of living a year or two after one is dead, by sucking the life-blood out of a frail young creature at one's bedside! well, souls grow white, as well as cheeks, in these holy duties one that goes in a nurse may come out an angel.--god bless all good women!--to their soft hands and pitying hearts we must all come at last!--the schoolmistress has a better color than when she came.--too late! "it might have been." --amen!--how many thoughts go to a dozen heart-beats, sometimes! there was no long pause after my remark addressed to the company, but in that time i had the train of ideas and feelings i have just given flash through my consciousness sudden and sharp as the crooked red streak that springs out of its black sheath like the creese of a malay in his death-race, and stabs the earth right and left in its blind rage. i don't deny that there was a pang in it,--yes, a stab; but there was a prayer, too,--the "amen" belonged to that.--also, a vision of a four-story brick house, nicely furnished,--i actually saw many specific articles,--curtains, sofas, tables, and others, and could draw the patterns of them at this moment,--a brick house, i say, looking out on the water, with a fair parlor, and books and busts and pots of flowers and bird-cages, all complete; and at the window, looking on the water, two of us.--"male and female created he them."--these two were standing at the window, when a smaller shape that was playing near them looked up at me with such a look that i----poured out a glass of water, drank it all down, and then continued.] i said i should like to tell you some things, such as people commonly never tell, about my early recollections. should you like to hear them? should we like to hear them?--said the schoolmistress;--no, but we should love to. [the voice was a sweet one, naturally, and had something very pleasant in its tone, just then.--the four-story brick house, which had gone out like a transparency when the light behind it is quenched, glimmered again for a moment; parlor, books, busts, flower-pots, bird-cages, all complete,--and the figures as before.] we are waiting with eagerness, sir,--said the divinity-student. [the transparency went out as if a flash of black lightning had struck it.] if you want to hear my confessions, the next thing--i said--is to know whether i can trust you with them. it is only fair to say that there are a great many people in the world that laugh at such things. _i_ think they are fools, but perhaps you don't all agree with me. here are children of tender age talked to as if they were capable of understanding calvin's "institutes," and nobody has honesty or sense enough to tell the plain truth about the little wretches: that they are as superstitious as naked savages, and such miserable spiritual cowards--that is, if they have any imagination--that they will believe anything which is taught them, and a great deal more which they teach themselves. i was born and bred, as i have told you twenty times, among books and those who knew what was in books. i was carefully instructed in things temporal and spiritual. but up to a considerable maturity of childhood i believed raphael and michael angelo to have been superhuman beings. the central doctrine of the prevalent religious faith of christendom was utterly confused and neutralized in my mind for years by one of those too common stories of actual life, which i overheard repeated in a whisper.--why did i not ask? you will say.--you don't remember the rosy pudency of sensitive children. the first instinctive movement of the little creatures is to make a cache, and bury in it beliefs, doubts, dreams, hopes, and terrors. i am uncovering one of these caches. do you think i was necessarily a greater fool and coward than another? i was afraid of ships. why, i could never tell. the masts looked frightfully tall,--but they were not so tall as the steeple of our old yellow meeting-house. at any rate i used to hide my eyes from the sloops and schooners that were wont to lie at the end of the bridge, and i confess that traces of this undefined terror lasted very long.--one other source of alarm had a still more fearful significance. there was a great wooden hand,--a glove-maker's sign, which used to swing and creak in the blast, as it hung from a pillar before a certain shop a mile or two outside of the city. oh, the dreadful hand! always hanging there ready to catch up a little boy, who would come home to supper no more, nor yet to bed, --whose porringer would be laid away empty thenceforth, and his half-worn shoes wait until his small brother grew to fit them. as for all manner of superstitious observances, i used once to think i must have been peculiar in having such a list of them, but i now believe that half the children of the same age go through the same experiences. no roman soothsayer ever had such a catalogue of omens as i found in the sibylline leaves of my childhood. that trick of throwing a stone at a tree and attaching some mighty issue to hitting or missing, which you will find mentioned in one or more biographies, i well remember. stepping on or over certain particular things or spots--dr. johnson's especial weakness i got the habit of at a very early age.--i won't swear that i have not some tendency to these not wise practices even at this present date. [how many of you that read these notes can say the same thing!] with these follies mingled sweet delusions, which i loved so well i would not outgrow them, even when it required a voluntary effort to put a momentary trust in them. here is one which i cannot help telling you. the firing of the great guns at the navy-yard is easily heard at the place where i was born and lived. "there is a ship of war come in," they used to say, when they heard them. of course, i supposed that such vessels came in unexpectedly, after indefinite years of absence,--suddenly as falling stones; and that the great guns roared in their astonishment and delight at the sight of the old war-ship splitting the bay with her cutwater. now, the sloop-of- war the wasp, captain blakely, after gloriously capturing the reindeer and the avon, had disappeared from the face of the ocean, and was supposed to be lost. but there was no proof of it, and, of course, for a time, hopes were entertained that she might be heard from. long after the last real chance had utterly vanished, i pleased myself with the fond illusion that somewhere on the waste of waters she was still floating, and there were years during which i never heard the sound of the great guns booming inland from the navy-yard without saying to myself, "the wasp has come!" and almost thinking i could see her, as she rolled in, crumpling the water before her, weather-beaten, barnacled, with shattered spars and threadbare canvas, welcomed by the shouts and tears of thousands. this was one of those dreams that i nursed and never told. let me make a clean breast of it now, and say, that, so late as to have outgrown childhood, perhaps to have got far on towards manhood, when the roar of the cannon has struck suddenly on my ear, i have started with a thrill of vague expectation and tremulous delight, and the long-unspoken words have articulated themselves in the mind's dumb whisper, the wasp has come! --yes, children believe plenty of queer things. i suppose all of you have had the pocket-book fever when you were little?--what do i mean? why, ripping up old pocket-books in the firm belief that bank-bills to an immense amount were hidden in them.--so, too, you must all remember some splendid unfulfilled promise of somebody or other, which fed you with hopes perhaps for years, and which left a blank in your life which nothing has ever filled up.--o. t. quitted our household carrying with him the passionate regrets of the more youthful members. he was an ingenious youngster; wrote wonderful copies, and carved the two initials given above with great skill on all available surfaces. i thought, by the way, they were all gone; but the other day i found them on a certain door which i will show you some time. how it surprised me to find them so near the ground! i had thought the boy of no trivial dimensions. well, o. t., when he went, made a solemn promise to two of us. i was to have a ship, and the other a martin-house (last syllable pronounced as in the word tin). neither ever came; but, oh, how many and many a time i have stolen to the corner,--the cars pass close by it at this time,--and looked up that long avenue, thinking that he must be coming now, almost sure, as i turned to look northward, that there he would be, trudging toward me, the ship in one hand and the martin-house in the other! [you must not suppose that all i am going to say, as well as all i have said, was told to the whole company. the young fellow whom they call john was in the yard, sitting on a barrel and smoking a cheroot, the fumes of which came in, not ungrateful, through the open window. the divinity-student disappeared in the midst of our talk. the poor relation in black bombazine, who looked and moved as if all her articulations were elbow-joints, had gone off to her chamber, after waiting with a look of soul-subduing decorum at the foot of the stairs until one of the male sort had passed her and ascended into the upper regions. this is a famous point of etiquette in our boarding-house; in fact, between ourselves, they make such an awful fuss about it, that i, for one, had a great deal rather have them simple enough not to think of such matters at all. our landlady's daughter said, the other evening, that she was going to "retire"; whereupon the young fellow called john took up a lamp and insisted on lighting her to the foot of the staircase. nothing would induce her to pass by him, until the schoolmistress, saying in good plain english that it was her bed-time, walked straight by them both, not seeming to trouble herself about either of them. i have been led away from what i meant the portion included in these brackets to inform my readers about. i say, then, most of the boarders had left the table about the time when i began telling some of these secrets of mine,--all of them, in fact, but the old gentleman opposite and the schoolmistress. i understand why a young woman should like to hear these simple but genuine experiences of early life, which are, as i have said, the little brown seeds of what may yet grow to be poems with leaves of azure and gold; but when the old gentleman pushed up his chair nearer to me, and slanted round his best ear, and once, when i was speaking of some trifling, tender reminiscence, drew a long breath, with such a tremor in it that a little more and it would have been a sob, why, then i felt there must be something of nature in them which redeemed their seeming insignificance. tell me, man or woman with whom i am whispering, have you not a small store of recollections, such as these i am uncovering, buried beneath the dead leaves of many summers, perhaps under the unmelting snows of fast-returning winters,--a few such recollections, which, if you should write them all out, would be swept into some careless editor's drawer, and might cost a scanty half-hour's lazy reading to his subscribers,--and yet, if death should cheat you of them, you would not know yourself in eternity?] --i made three acquaintances at a very early period of life, my introduction to whom was never forgotten. the first unequivocal act of wrong that has left its trace in my memory was this: refusing a small favor asked of me,--nothing more than telling what had happened at school one morning. no matter who asked it; but there were circumstances which saddened and awed me. i had no heart to speak;--i faltered some miserable, perhaps petulant excuse, stole away, and the first battle of life was lost. what remorse followed i need not tell. then and there, to the best of my knowledge, i first consciously took sin by the hand and turned my back on duty. time has led me to look upon my offence more leniently; i do not believe it or any other childish wrong is infinite, as some have pretended, but infinitely finite. yet, oh if i had but won that battle! the great destroyer, whose awful shadow it was that had silenced me, came near me,--but never, so as to be distinctly seen and remembered, during my tender years. there flits dimly before me the image of a little girl, whose name even i have forgotten, a schoolmate, whom we missed one day, and were told that she had died. but what death was i never had any very distinct idea, until one day i climbed the low stone wall of the old burial-ground and mingled with a group that were looking into a very deep, long, narrow hole, dug down through the green sod, down through the brown loam, down through the yellow gravel, and there at the bottom was an oblong red box, and a still, sharp, white face of a young man seen through an opening at one end of it. when the lid was closed, and the gravel and stones rattled down pell-mell, and the woman in black, who was crying and wringing her hands, went off with the other mourners, and left him, then i felt that i had seen death, and should never forget him. one other acquaintance i made at an earlier period of life than the habit of romancers authorizes.--love, of course.--she was a famous beauty afterwards.--i am satisfied that many children rehearse their parts in the drama of life before they have shed all their milk-teeth.--i think i won't tell the story of the golden blonde. --i suppose everybody has had his childish fancies; but sometimes they are passionate impulses, which anticipate all the tremulous emotions belonging to a later period. most children remember seeing and adoring an angel before they were a dozen years old. [the old gentleman had left his chair opposite and taken a seat by the schoolmistress and myself, a little way from the table.--it's true, it's true,--said the old gentleman.--he took hold of a steel watch-chain, which carried a large, square gold key at one end and was supposed to have some kind of time-keeper at the other. with some trouble he dragged up an ancient-looking, thick, silver, bull's-eye watch. he looked at it for a moment,--hesitated, --touched the inner corner of his right eye with the pulp of his middle finger,--looked at the face of the watch,--said it was getting into the forenoon,--then opened the watch and handed me the loose outside case without a word.--the watch-paper had been pink once, and had a faint tinge still, as if all its tender life had not yet quite faded out. two little birds, a flower, and, in small school-girl letters, a date,-- . .--no matter.--before i was thirteen years old,--said the old gentleman.--i don't know what was in that young schoolmistress's head, nor why she should have done it; but she took out the watch-paper and put it softly to her lips, as if she were kissing the poor thing that made it so long ago. the old gentleman took the watch-paper carefully from her, replaced it, turned away and walked out, holding the watch in his hand. i saw him pass the window a moment after with that foolish white hat on his head; he couldn't have been thinking what he was about when he put it on. so the schoolmistress and i were left alone. i drew my chair a shade nearer to her, and continued.] and since i am talking of early recollections, i don't know why i shouldn't mention some others that still cling to me,--not that you will attach any very particular meaning to these same images so full of significance to me, but that you will find something parallel to them in your own memory. you remember, perhaps, what i said one day about smells. there were certain sounds also which had a mysterious suggestiveness to me,--not so intense, perhaps, as that connected with the other sense, but yet peculiar, and never to be forgotten. the first was the creaking of the wood-sleds, bringing their loads of oak and walnut from the country, as the slow-swinging oxen trailed them along over the complaining snow, in the cold, brown light of early morning. lying in bed and listening to their dreary music had a pleasure in it akin to the lucretian luxury, or that which byron speaks of as to be enjoyed in looking on at a battle by one "who hath no friend, no brother there." there was another sound, in itself so sweet, and so connected with one of those simple and curious superstitions of childhood of which i have spoken, that i can never cease to cherish a sad sort of love for it.--let me tell the superstitious fancy first. the puritan "sabbath," as everybody knows, began at "sundown" on saturday evening. to such observance of it i was born and bred. as the large, round disk of day declined, a stillness, a solemnity, a somewhat melancholy hush came over us all. it was time for work to cease, and for playthings to be put away. the world of active life passed into the shadow of an eclipse, not to emerge until the sun should sink again beneath the horizon. it was in this stillness of the world without and of the soul within that the pulsating lullaby of the evening crickets used to make itself most distinctly heard,--so that i well remember i used to think that the purring of these little creatures, which mingled with the batrachian hymns from the neighboring swamp, was peculiar to saturday evenings. i don't know that anything could give a clearer idea of the quieting and subduing effect of the old habit of observance of what was considered holy time, than this strange, childish fancy. yes, and there was still another sound which mingled its solemn cadences with the waking and sleeping dreams of my boyhood. it was heard only at times,--a deep, muffled roar, which rose and fell, not loud, but vast,--a whistling boy would have drowned it for his next neighbor, but it must have been heard over the space of a hundred square miles. i used to wonder what this might be. could it be the roar of the thousand wheels and the ten thousand footsteps jarring and trampling along the stones of the neighboring city? that would be continuous; but this, as i have said, rose and fell in regular rhythm. i remember being told, and i suppose this to have been the true solution, that it was the sound of the waves, after a high wind, breaking on the long beaches many miles distant. i should really like to know whether any observing people living ten miles, more or less, inland from long beaches,--in such a town, for instance, as cantabridge, in the eastern part of the territory of the massachusetts,--have ever observed any such sound, and whether it was rightly accounted for as above. mingling with these inarticulate sounds in the low murmur of memory, are the echoes of certain voices i have heard at rare intervals. i grieve to say it, but our people, i think, have not generally agreeable voices. the marrowy organisms, with skins that shed water like the backs of ducks, with smooth surfaces neatly padded beneath, and velvet linings to their singing-pipes, are not so common among us as that other pattern of humanity with angular outlines and plane surfaces, and integuments, hair like the fibrous covering of a cocoa-nut in gloss and suppleness as well as color, and voices at once thin and strenuous,--acidulous enough to produce effervescence with alkalis, and stridulous enough to sing duets with the katydids. i think our conversational soprano, as sometimes overheard in the cars, arising from a group of young persons, who may have taken the train at one of our great industrial centres, for instance,--young persons of the female sex, we will say, who have bustled in full-dressed, engaged in loud strident speech, and who, after free discussion, have fixed on two or more double seats, which having secured, they proceed to eat apples and hand round daguerreotypes,--i say, i think the conversational soprano, heard under these circumstances, would not be among the allurements the old enemy would put in requisition, were he getting up a new temptation of st. anthony. there are sweet voices among us, we all know, and voices not musical, it may be, to those who hear them for the first time, yet sweeter to us than any we shall hear until we listen to some warbling angel in the overture to that eternity of blissful harmonies we hope to enjoy.--but why should i tell lies? if my friends love me, it is because i try to tell the truth. i never heard but two voices in my life that frightened me by their sweetness. --frightened you?--said the schoolmistress.--yes, frightened me. they made me feel as if there might be constituted a creature with such a chord in her voice to some string in another's soul, that, if she but spoke, he would leave all and follow her, though it were into the jaws of erebus. our only chance to keep our wits is, that there are so few natural chords between others' voices and this string in our souls, and that those which at first may have jarred a little by and by come into harmony with it.--but i tell you this is no fiction. you may call the story of ulysses and the sirens a fable, but what will you say to mario and the poor lady who followed him? --whose were those two voices that bewitches me so?--they both belonged to german women. one was a chambermaid, not otherwise fascinating. the key of my room at a certain great hotel was missing, and this teutonic maiden was summoned to give information respecting it. the simple soul was evidently not long from her mother-land, and spoke with sweet uncertainty of dialect. but to hear her wonder and lament and suggest, with soft, liquid inflexions, and low, sad murmurs, in tones as full of serious tenderness for the fate of the lost key as if it had been a child that had strayed from its mother, was so winning, that, had her features and figure been as delicious as her accents,--if she had looked like the marble clytie, for instance,--why, all can say is-- [the schoolmistress opened her eyes so wide, that i stopped short.] i was only going to say that i should have drowned myself. for lake erie was close by, and it is so much better to accept asphyxia, which takes only three minutes by the watch, than a mesalliance, that lasts fifty years to begin with, and then passes along down the line of descent, (breaking out in all manner of boorish manifestations of feature and manner, which, if men were only as short-lived as horses, could be readily traced back through the square-roots and the cube-roots of the family stem on which you have hung the armorial bearings of the de champignons or the de la morues, until one came to beings that ate with knives and said "haow?") that no person of right feeling could have hesitated for a single moment. the second of the ravishing voices i have heard was, as i have said, that of another german woman.--i suppose i shall ruin myself by saying that such a voice could not have come from any americanized human being. --what was there in it?--said the schoolmistress,--and, upon my word, her tones were so very musical, that i almost wished i had said three voices instead of two, and not made the unpatriotic remark above reported.--oh, i said, it had so much woman in it, --muliebrity, as well as femineity;--no self-assertion, such as free suffrage introduces into every word and movement; large, vigorous nature, running back to those huge-limbed germans of tacitus, but subdued by the reverential training and tuned by the kindly culture of fifty generations. sharp business habits, a lean soil, independence, enterprise, and east winds, are not the best things for the larynx. still, you hear noble voices among us,--i have known families famous for them,--but ask the first person you meet a question, and ten to one there is a hard, sharp, metallic, matter-of-business clink in the accents of the answer, that produces the effect of one of those bells which small trades-people connect with their shop-doors, and which spring upon your ear with such vivacity, as you enter, that your first impulse is to retire at once from the precincts. --ah, but i must not forget that dear little child i saw and heard in a french hospital. between two and three years old. fell out of her chair and snapped both thigh-bones. lying in bed, patient, gentle. rough students round her, some in white aprons, looking fearfully business-like; but the child placid, perfectly still. i spoke to her, and the blessed little creature answered me in a voice of such heavenly sweetness, with that reedy thrill in it which you have heard in the thrush's even-song, that i hear it at this moment, while i am writing, so many, many years afterwards. --c'est tout comme un serin, said the french student at my side. these are the voices which struck the key-note of my conceptions as to what the sounds we are to hear in heaven will be, if we shall enter through one of the twelve gates of pearl. there must be other things besides aerolites that wander from their own spheres to ours; and when we speak of celestial sweetness or beauty, we may be nearer the literal truth than we dream. if mankind generally are the shipwrecked survivors of some pre-adamitic cataclysm, set adrift in these little open boats of humanity to make one more trial to reach the shore,--as some grave theologians have maintained,--if, in plain english, men are the ghosts of dead devils who have "died into life," (to borrow an expression from keats,) and walk the earth in a suit of living rags which lasts three or four score summers,--why, there must have been a few good spirits sent to keep them company, and these sweet voices i speak of must belong to them. --i wish you could once hear my sister's voice,--said the schoolmistress. if it is like yours, it must be a pleasant one,--said i. i never thought mine was anything,--said the schoolmistress. how should you know?--said i.--people never hear their own voices, --any more than they see their own faces. there is not even a looking-glass for the voice. of course, there is something audible to us when we speak; but that something is not our own voice as it is known to all our acquaintances. i think, if an image spoke to us in our own tones, we should not know them in the least.--how pleasant it would be, if in another state of being we could have shapes like our former selves for playthings,--we standing outside or inside of them, as we liked, and they being to us just what we used to be to others! --i wonder if there will be nothing like what we call "play," after our earthly toys are broken,--said the schoolmistress. hush,--said i,--what will the divinity-student say? [i thought she was hit, that time;--but the shot must have gone over her, or on one side of her; she did not flinch.] oh,--said the schoolmistress,--he must look out for my sister's heresies; i am afraid he will be too busy with them to take care of mine. do you mean to say,--said i,--that it is your sister whom that student-- [the young fellow commonly known as john, who had been sitting on the barrel, smoking, jumped off just then, kicked over the barrel, gave it a push with his foot that set it rolling, and stuck his saucy-looking face in at the window so as to cut my question off in the middle; and the schoolmistress leaving the room a few minutes afterwards, i did not have a chance to finish it. the young fellow came in and sat down in a chair, putting his heels on the top of another. pooty girl,--said he. a fine young lady,--i replied. keeps a first-rate school, according to accounts,--said he, --teaches all sorts of things,--latin and italian and music. folks rich once,--smashed up. she went right ahead as smart as if she'd been born to work. that's the kind o' girl i go for. i'd marry her, only two or three other girls would drown themselves, if i did. i think the above is the longest speech of this young fellow's which i have put on record. i do not like to change his peculiar expressions, for this is one of those cases in which the style is the man, as m. de buffon says. the fact is, the young fellow is a good-hearted creature enough, only too fond of his jokes,--and if it were not for those heat-lightning winks on one side of his face, i should not mind his fun much.] [some days after this, when the company were together again, i talked a little.] --i don't think i have a genuine hatred for anybody. i am well aware that i differ herein from the sturdy english moralist and the stout american tragedian. i don't deny that i hate the sight of certain people; but the qualities which make me tend to hate the man himself are such as i am so much disposed to pity, that, except under immediate aggravation, i feel kindly enough to the worst of them. it is such a sad thing to be born a sneaking fellow, so much worse than to inherit a hump-back or a couple of club-feet, that i sometimes feel as if we ought to love the crippled souls, if i may use this expression, with a certain tenderness which we need not waste on noble natures. one who is born with such congenital incapacity that nothing can make a gentleman of him is entitled, not to our wrath, but to our profoundest sympathy. but as we cannot help hating the sight of these people, just as we do that of physical deformities, we gradually eliminate them from our society,--we love them, but open the window and let them go. by the time decent people reach middle age they have weeded their circle pretty well of these unfortunates, unless they have a taste for such animals; in which case, no matter what their position may be, there is something, you may be sure, in their natures akin to that of their wretched parasites. --the divinity-student wished to know what i thought of affinities, as well as of antipathies; did i believe in love at first sight? sir,--said i,--all men love all women. that is the prima-facie aspect of the case. the court of nature assumes the law to be, that all men do so; and the individual man is bound to show cause why he does not love any particular woman. a man, says one of my old black-letter law-books, may show divers good reasons, as thus: he hath not seen the person named in the indictment; she is of tender age, or the reverse of that; she hath certain personal disqualifications,--as, for instance, she is a blackamoor, or hath an ill-favored countenance; or, his capacity of loving being limited, his affections are engrossed by a previous comer; and so of other conditions. not the less is it true that he is bound by duty and inclined by nature to love each and every woman. therefore it is that each woman virtually summons every man to show cause why he doth not love her. this is not by written document, or direct speech, for the most part, but by certain signs of silk, gold, and other materials, which say to all men,--look on me and love, as in duty bound. then the man pleadeth his special incapacity, whatsoever that may be,--as, for instance, impecuniosity, or that he hath one or many wives in his household, or that he is of mean figure, or small capacity; of which reasons it may be noted, that the first is, according to late decisions, of chiefest authority.--so far the old law-book. but there is a note from an older authority, saying that every woman doth also love each and every man, except there be some good reason to the contrary; and a very observing friend of mine, a young unmarried clergyman, tells me, that, so far as his experience goes, he has reason to think the ancient author had fact to justify his statement. i'll tell you how it is with the pictures of women we fall in love with at first sight. --we a'n't talking about pictures,--said the landlady's daughter, --we're talking about women. i understood that we were speaking of love at sight,--i remarked, mildly.--now, as all a man knows about a woman whom he looks at is just what a picture as big as a copper, or a "nickel," rather, at the bottom of his eye can teach him, i think i am right in saying we are talking about the pictures of women.--well, now, the reason why a man is not desperately in love with ten thousand women at once is just that which prevents all our portraits being distinctly seen upon that wall. they all are painted there by reflection from our faces, but because all of them are painted on each spot, and each on the same surface, and many other objects at the same time, no one is seen as a picture. but darken a chamber and let a single pencil of rays in through a key-hole, then you have a picture on the wall. we never fall in love with a woman in distinction from women, until we can get an image of her through a pin-hole; and then we can see nothing else, and nobody but ourselves can see the image in our mental camera-obscura. --my friend, the poet, tells me he has to leave town whenever the anniversaries come round. what's the difficulty?--why, they all want him to get up and make speeches, or songs, or toasts; which is just the very thing he doesn't want to do. he is an old story, he says, and hates to show on these occasions. but they tease him, and coax him, and can't do without him, and feel all over his poor weak head until they get their fingers on the fontanelle, (the professor will tell you what this means,--he says the one at the top of the head always remains open in poets,) until, by gentle pressure on that soft pulsating spot, they stupefy him to the point of acquiescence. there are times, though, he says, when it is a pleasure, before going to some agreeable meeting, to rush out into one's garden and clutch up a handful of what grows there,--weeds and violets together,--not cutting them off, but pulling them up by the roots with the brown earth they grow in sticking to them. that's his idea of a post-prandial performance. look here, now. these verses i am going to read you, he tells me, were pulled up by the roots just in that way, the other day.--beautiful entertainment,--names there on the plates that flow from all english-speaking tongues as familiarly as and or the; entertainers known wherever good poetry and fair title-pages are held in esteem; guest a kind-hearted, modest, genial, hopeful poet, who sings to the hearts of his countrymen, the british people, the songs of good cheer which the better days to come, as all honest souls trust and believe, will turn into the prose of common life. my friend, the poet, says you must not read such a string of verses too literally. if he trimmed it nicely below, you wouldn't see the roots, he says, and he likes to keep them, and a little of the soil clinging to them. this is the farewell my friend, the poet, read to his and our friend, the poet:- a good time going! brave singer of the coming time, sweet minstrel of the joyous present, crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme, the holly-leaf of ayrshire's peasant, good-bye! good-bye!--our hearts and hands, our lips in honest saxon phrases, cry, god be with him, till he stands his feet among the english daisies! 'tis here we part;--for other eyes the busy deck, the flattering streamer, the dripping arms that plunge and rise, the waves in foam, the ship in tremor, the kerchiefs waving from the pier, the cloudy pillar gliding o'er him, the deep blue desert, lone and drear, with heaven above and home before him! his home!--the western giant smiles, and twirls the spotty globe to find it;-- this little speck the british isles? 'tis but a freckle,--never mind it!-- he laughs, and all his prairies roll, each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles, and ridges stretched from pole to pole heave till they crack their iron knuckles! but memory blushes at the sneer, and honor turns with frown defiant, and freedom, leaning on her spear, laughs louder than the laughing giant:- "an islet is a world," she said, "when glory with its dust has blended, and britain kept her noble dead till earth and seas and skies are rended!" beneath each swinging forest-bough some arm as stout in death reposes,-- from wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow her valor's life-blood runs in roses; nay, let our brothers of the west write smiling in their florid pages, one-half her soil has walked the rest in poets, heroes, martyrs, sages! hugged in the clinging billow's clasp, from sea-weed fringe to mountain heather, the british oak with rooted grasp her slender handful holds together;-- with cliffs of white and bowers of green, and ocean narrowing to caress her, and hills and threaded streams between,-- our little mother isle, god bless her! in earth's broad temple where we stand, fanned by the eastern gales that brought us, we hold the missal in our hand, bright with the lines our mother taught us; where'er its blazoned page betrays the glistening links of gilded fetters, behold, the half-turned leaf displays her rubric stained in crimson letters! enough! to speed a parting friend 'tis vain alike to speak and listen;-- yet stay,--these feeble accents blend with rays of light from eyes that glisten. good-bye! once more,--and kindly tell in words of peace the young world's story,-- and say, besides,--we love too well our mother's soil, our father's glory! when my friend, the professor, found that my friend, the poet, had been coming out in this full-blown style, he got a little excited, as you may have seen a canary, sometimes, when another strikes up. the professor says he knows he can lecture, and thinks he can write verses. at any rate, he has often tried, and now he was determined to try again. so when some professional friends of his called him up, one day, after a feast of reason and a regular "freshet" of soul which had lasted two or three hours, he read them these verses. he introduced them with a few remarks, he told me, of which the only one he remembered was this: that he had rather write a single line which one among them should think worth remembering than set them all laughing with a string of epigrams. it was all right, i don't doubt; at any rate, that was his fancy then, and perhaps another time he may be obstinately hilarious; however, it may be that he is growing graver, for time is a fact so long as clocks and watches continue to go, and a cat can't be a kitten always, as the old gentleman opposite said the other day. you must listen to this seriously, for i think the professor was very much in earnest when he wrote it. the two armies. as life's unending column pours, two marshalled hosts are seen,-- two armies on the trampled shores that death flows black between. one marches to the drum-beat's roll, the wide-mouthed clarion's bray, and bears upon a crimson scroll, "our glory is to slay." one moves in silence by the stream, with sad, yet watchful eyes, calm as the patient planet's gleam that walks the clouded skies. along its front no sabres shine, no blood-red pennons wave; its banner bears the single line, "our duty is to save." for those no death-bed's lingering shade; at honor's trumpet-call, with knitted brow and lifted blade in glory's arms they fall. for these no clashing falchions bright, no stirring battle-cry; the bloodless stabber calls by night,-- each answers, "here am i!" for those the sculptor's laurelled bust, the builder's marble piles, the anthems pealing o'er their dust through long cathedral aisles. for these the blossom-sprinkled turf that floods the lonely graves, when spring rolls in her sea-green surf in flowery-foaming waves. two paths lead upward from below, and angels wait above, who count each burning life-drop's flow, each falling tear of love. though from the hero's bleeding breast her pulses freedom drew, though the white lilies in her crest sprang from that scarlet dew,-- while valor's haughty champions wait till all their scars are shown, love walks unchallenged through the gate, to sit beside the throne! chapter x [the schoolmistress came down with a rose in her hair,--a fresh june rose. she has been walking early; she has brought back two others,--one on each cheek. i told her so, in some such pretty phrase as i could muster for the occasion. those two blush-roses i just spoke of turned into a couple of damasks. i suppose all this went through my mind, for this was what i went on to say:-] i love the damask rose best of all. the flowers our mothers and sisters used to love and cherish, those which grow beneath our eaves and by our doorstep, are the ones we always love best. if the houyhnhnms should ever catch me, and, finding me particularly vicious and unmanageable, send a man-tamer to rareyfy me, i'll tell you what drugs he would have to take and how he would have to use them. imagine yourself reading a number of the houyhnhnm gazette, giving an account of such an experiment. "man-taming extraordinary. "the soft-hoofed semi-quadruped recently captured was subjected to the art of our distinguished man-tamer in presence of a numerous assembly. the animal was led in by two stout ponies, closely confined by straps to prevent his sudden and dangerous tricks of shoulder-hitting and foot-striking. his countenance expressed the utmost degree of ferocity and cunning. "the operator took a handful of budding lilac-leaves, and crushing them slightly between his hoofs, so as to bring out their peculiar fragrance, fastened them to the end of a long pole and held them towards the creature. its expression changed in an instant,--it drew in their fragrance eagerly, and attempted to seize them with its soft split hoofs. having thus quieted his suspicious subject, the operator proceeded to tie a blue hyacinth to the end of the pole and held it out towards the wild animal. the effect was magical. its eyes filled as if with raindrops, and its lips trembled as it pressed them to the flower. after this it was perfectly quiet, and brought a measure of corn to the man-tamer, without showing the least disposition to strike with the feet or hit from the shoulder." that will do for the houyhnhnm gazette.--do you ever wonder why poets talk so much about flowers? did you ever hear of a poet who did not talk about them? don't you think a poem, which, for the sake of being original, should leave them out, would be like those verses where the letter a or e or some other is omitted? no,--they will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old and always new. why should we be more shy of repeating ourselves than the spring be tired of blossoms or the night of stars? look at nature. she never wearies of saying over her floral pater-noster. in the crevices of cyclopean walls, --in the dust where men lie, dust also,--on the mounds that bury huge cities, the wreck of nineveh and the babel-heap,--still that same sweet prayer and benediction. the amen! of nature is always a flower. are you tired of my trivial personalities,--those splashes and streaks of sentiment, sometimes perhaps of sentimentality, which you may see when i show you my heart's corolla as if it were a tulip? pray, do not give yourself the trouble to fancy me an idiot whose conceit it is to treat himself as an exceptional being. it is because you are just like me that i talk and know that you will listen. we are all splashed and streaked with sentiments,--not with precisely the same tints, or in exactly the same patterns, but by the same hand and from the same palette. i don't believe any of you happen to have just the same passion for the blue hyacinth which i have,--very certainly not for the crushed lilac-leaf-buds; many of you do not know how sweet they are. you love the smell of the sweet-fern and the bayberry-leaves, i don't doubt; but i hardly think that the last bewitches you with young memories as it does me. for the same reason i come back to damask roses, after having raised a good many of the rarer varieties. i like to go to operas and concerts, but there are queer little old homely sounds that are better than music to me. however, i suppose it's foolish to tell such things. --it is pleasant to be foolish at the right time,--said the divinity-student;--saying it, however, in one of the dead languages, which i think are unpopular for summer-reading, and therefore do not bear quotation as such. well, now,--said i,--suppose a good, clean, wholesome-looking countryman's cart stops opposite my door.--do i want any huckleberries?--if i do not, there are those that do. thereupon my soft-voiced handmaid bears out a large tin pan, and then the wholesome countryman, heaping the peck-measure, spreads his broad hands around its lower arc to confine the wild and frisky berries, and so they run nimbly along the narrowing channel until they tumble rustling down in a black cascade and tinkle on the resounding metal beneath.--i won't say that this rushing huckleberry hail-storm has not more music for me than the "anvil chorus." --i wonder how my great trees are coming on this summer. --where are your great trees, sir?--said the divinity-student. oh, all round about new england. i call all trees mine that i have put my wedding-ring on, and i have as many tree-wives as brigham young has human ones. --one set's as green as the other,--exclaimed a boarder, who has never been identified. they're all bloomers,--said the young fellow called john. [i should have rebuked this trifling with language, if our landlady's daughter had not asked me just then what i meant by putting my wedding-ring on a tree.] why, measuring it with my thirty-foot tape, my dear,--said i,--i have worn a tape almost out on the rough barks of our old new england elms and other big trees.--don't you want to hear me talk trees a little now? that is one of my specialities. [so they all agreed that they should like to hear me talk about trees.] i want you to understand, in the first place, that i have a most intense, passionate fondness for trees in general, and have had several romantic attachments to certain trees in particular. now, if you expect me to hold forth in a "scientific" way about my tree-loves,--to talk, for instance, of the ulmus americana, and describe the ciliated edges of its samara, and all that,--you are an anserine individual, and i must refer you to a dull friend who will discourse to you of such matters. what should you think of a lover who should describe the idol of his heart in the language of science, thus: class, mammalia; order, primates; genus, homo; species, europeus; variety, brown; individual, ann eliza; dental formula - - - - i---c---p---m--- - - - - ' and so on? no, my friends, i shall speak of trees as we see them, love them, adore them in the fields, where they are alive, holding their green sun-shades over our heads, talking to us with their hundred thousand whispering tongues, looking down on us with that sweet meekness which belongs to huge, but limited organisms,--which one sees in the brown eyes of oxen, but most in the patient posture, the outstretched arms, and the heavy-drooping robes of these vast beings endowed with life, but not with soul,--which outgrow us and outlive us, but stand helpless,--poor things!--while nature dresses and undresses them, like so many full-sized, but under-witted children. did you ever read old daddy gilpin? slowest of men, even of english men; yet delicious in his slowness, as is the light of a sleepy eye in woman. i always supposed "dr. syntax" was written to make fun of him. i have a whole set of his works, and am very proud of it, with its gray paper, and open type, and long ff, and orange-juice landscapes. the pere gilpin had the kind of science i like in the study of nature,--a little less observation than white of selborne, but a little more poetry.--just think of applying the linnaean system to an elm! who cares how many stamens or pistils that little brown flower, which comes out before the leaf, may have to classify it by? what we want is the meaning, the character, the expression of a tree, as a kind and as an individual. there is a mother-idea in each particular kind of tree, which, if well marked, is probably embodied in the poetry of every language. take the oak, for instance, and we find it always standing as a type of strength and endurance. i wonder if you ever thought of the single mark of supremacy which distinguishes this tree from all our other forest-trees? all the rest of them shirk the work of resisting gravity; the oak alone defies it. it chooses the horizontal direction for its limbs, so that their whole weight may tell,--and then stretches them out fifty or sixty feet, so that the strain may be mighty enough to be worth resisting. you will find, that, in passing from the extreme downward droop of the branches of the weeping-willow to the extreme upward inclination of those of the poplar, they sweep nearly half a circle. at degrees the oak stops short; to slant upward another degree would mark infirmity of purpose; to bend downwards, weakness of organization. the american elm betrays something of both; yet sometimes, as we shall see, puts on a certain resemblance to its sturdier neighbor. it won't do to be exclusive in our taste about trees. there is hardly one of them which has not peculiar beauties in some fitting place for it. i remember a tall poplar of monumental proportions and aspect, a vast pillar of glossy green, placed on the summit of a lofty hill, and a beacon to all the country round. a native of that region saw fit to build his house very near it, and, having a fancy that it might blow down some time or other, and exterminate himself and any incidental relatives who might be "stopping" or "tarrying" with him,--also laboring under the delusion that human life is under all circumstances to be preferred to vegetable existence,--had the great poplar cut down. it is so easy to say, "it is only a poplar!" and so much harder to replace its living cone than to build a granite obelisk! i must tell you about some of my tree-wives. i was at one period of my life much devoted to the young lady-population of rhode island, a small, but delightful state in the neighborhood of pawtucket. the number of inhabitants being not very large, i had leisure, during my visits to the providence plantations, to inspect the face of the country in the intervals of more fascinating studies of physiognomy. i heard some talk of a great elm a short distance from the locality just mentioned. "let us see the great elm,"--i said, and proceeded to find it,--knowing that it was on a certain farm in a place called johnston, if i remember rightly. i shall never forget my ride and my introduction to the great johnston elm. i always tremble for a celebrated tree when i approach it for the first time. provincialism has no scale of excellence in man or vegetable; it never knows a first-rate article of either kind when it has it, and is constantly taking second and third rate ones for nature's best. i have often fancied the tree was afraid of me, and that a sort of shiver came over it as over a betrothed maiden when she first stands before the unknown to whom she has been plighted. before the measuring-tape the proudest tree of them all quails and shrinks into itself. all those stories of four or five men stretching their arms around it and not touching each other's fingers, if one's pacing the shadow at noon and making it so many hundred feet, die upon its leafy lips in the presence of the awful ribbon which has strangled so many false pretensions. as i rode along the pleasant way, watching eagerly for the object of my journey, the rounded tops of the elms rose from time to time at the road-side. wherever one looked taller and fuller than the rest, i asked myself,--"is this it?" but as i drew nearer, they grew smaller,--or it proved, perhaps, that two standing in a line had looked like one, and so deceived me. at last, all at once, when i was not thinking of it,--i declare to you it makes my flesh creep when i think of it now,--all at once i saw a great, green cloud swelling in the horizon, so vast, so symmetrical, of such olympian majesty and imperial supremacy among the lesser forest-growths, that my heart stopped short, then jumped at my ribs as a hunter springs at a five-barred gate, and i felt all through me, without need of uttering the words,--"this is it!" you will find this tree described, with many others, in the excellent report upon the trees and shrubs of massachusetts. the author has given my friend the professor credit for some of his measurements, but measured this tree himself, carefully. it is a grand elm for size of trunk, spread of limbs, and muscular development,--one of the first, perhaps the first, of the first class of new england elms. the largest actual girth i have ever found at five feet from the ground is in the great elm lying a stone's throw or two north of the main road (if my points of compass are right) in springfield. but this has much the appearance of having been formed by the union of two trunks growing side by side. the west-springfield elm and one upon northampton meadows, belong also to the first class of trees. there is a noble old wreck of an elm at hatfield, which used to spread its claws out over a circumference of thirty-five feet or more before they covered the foot of its bole up with earth. this is the american elm most like an oak of any i have ever seen. the sheffield elm is equally remarkable for size and perfection of form. i have seen nothing that comes near it in berkshire county, and few to compare with it anywhere. i am not sure that i remember any other first-class elms in new england, but there may be many. --what makes a first-class elm?--why, size, in the first place, and chiefly. anything over twenty feet of clear girth, five feet above the ground, and with a spread of branches a hundred feet across, may claim that title, according to my scale. all of them, with the questionable exception of the springfield tree above referred to, stop, so far as my experience goes, at about twenty-two or twenty-three feet of girth and a hundred and twenty of spread. elms of the second class, generally ranging from fourteen to eighteen feet, are comparatively common. the queen of them all is that glorious tree near one of the churches in springfield. beautiful and stately she is beyond all praise. the "great tree" on boston common comes in the second rank, as does the one at cohasset, which used to have, and probably has still, a head as round as an apple-tree, and that at newburyport, with scores of others which might be mentioned. these last two have perhaps been over-celebrated. both, however, are pleasing vegetables. the poor old pittsfield elm lives on its past reputation. a wig of false leaves is indispensable to make it presentable. [i don't doubt there may be some monster-elm or other, vegetating green, but inglorious, in some remote new england village, which only wants a sacred singer to make it celebrated. send us your measurements,--(certified by the postmaster, to avoid possible imposition,)--circumference five feet from soil, length of line from bough-end to bough-end, and we will see what can be done for you.] --i wish somebody would get us up the following work:- sylva novanglica. photographs of new england elms and other trees, taken upon the same scale of magnitude. with letter-press descriptions, by a distinguished literary gentleman. boston & co. .. the same camera should be used,--so far as possible,--at a fixed distance. our friend, who has given us so many interesting figures in his "trees of america," must not think this prospectus invades his province; a dozen portraits, with lively descriptions, would be a pretty complement to his large work, which, so far as published, i find excellent. if my plan were carried out, and another series of a dozen english trees photographed on the same scale the comparison would be charming. it has always been a favorite idea of mine to bring the life of the old and the new world face to face, by an accurate comparison of their various types of organization. we should begin with man, of course; institute a large and exact comparison between the development of la pianta umana, as alfieri called it, in different sections of each country, in the different callings, at different ages, estimating height, weigh, force by the dynamometer and the spirometer, and finishing off with a series of typical photographs, giving the principal national physiognomies. mr. hutchinson has given us some excellent english data to begin with. then i would follow this up by contrasting the various parallel forms of life in the two continents. our naturalists have often referred to this incidentally or expressly; but the animus of nature in the two half globes of the planet is so momentous a point of interest to our race, that it should be made a subject of express and elaborate study. go out with me into that walk which we call the mall, and look at the english and american elms. the american elm is tall, graceful, slender-sprayed, and drooping as if from languor. the english elm is compact, robust, holds its branches up, and carries its leaves for weeks longer than our own native tree. is this typical of the creative force on the two sides of the ocean, or not? nothing but a careful comparison through the whole realm of life can answer this question. there is a parallelism without identity in the animal and vegetable life of the two continents, which favors the task of comparison in an extraordinary manner. just as we have two trees alike in many ways, yet not the same, both elms, yet easily distinguishable, just so we have a complete flora and a fauna, which, parting from the same ideal, embody it with various modifications. inventive power is the only quality of which the creative intelligence seems to be economical; just as with our largest human minds, that is the divinest of faculties, and the one that most exhausts the mind which exercises it. as the same patterns have very commonly been followed, we can see which is worked out in the largest spirit, and determine the exact limitations under which the creator places the movement of life in all its manifestations in either locality. we should find ourselves in a very false position, if it should prove that anglo-saxons can't live here, but die out, if not kept up by fresh supplies, as dr. knox and other more or less wise persons have maintained. it may turn out the other way, as i have heard one of our literary celebrities argue,--and though i took the other side, i liked his best,--that the american is the englishman reinforced. --will you walk out and look at those elms with me after breakfast?--i said to the schoolmistress. [i am not going to tell lies about it, and say that she blushed, --as i suppose she ought to have done, at such a tremendous piece of gallantry as that was for our boarding-house. on the contrary, she turned a little pale,--but smiled brightly and said,--yes, with pleasure, but she must walk towards her school.--she went for her bonnet.--the old gentleman opposite followed her with his eyes, and said he wished he was a young fellow. presently she came down, looking very pretty in her half-mourning bonnet, and carrying a school-book in her hand.] my first walk with the schoolmistress. this is the shortest way,--she said, as we came to a corner.--then we won't take it,--said i.--the schoolmistress laughed a little, and said she was ten minutes early, so she could go round. we walked under mr. paddock's row of english elms. the gray squirrels were out looking for their breakfasts, and one of them came toward us in light, soft, intermittent leaps, until he was close to the rail of the burial-ground. he was on a grave with a broad blue-slate-stone at its head, and a shrub growing on it. the stone said this was the grave of a young man who was the son of an honorable gentleman, and who died a hundred years ago and more. --oh, yes, died,--with a small triangular mark in one breast, and another smaller opposite, in his back, where another young man's rapier had slid through his body; and so he lay down out there on the common, and was found cold the next morning, with the night-dews and the death-dews mingled on his forehead. let us have one look at poor benjamin's grave,--said i.--his bones lie where his body was laid so long ago, and where the stone says they lie,--which is more than can be said of most of the tenants of this and several other burial-grounds. [the most accursed act of vandalism ever committed within my knowledge was the uprooting of the ancient gravestones in three at least of our city burialgrounds, and one at least just outside the city, and planting them in rows to suit the taste for symmetry of the perpetrators. many years ago, when this disgraceful process was going on under my eyes, i addressed an indignant remonstrance to a leading journal. i suppose it was deficient in literary elegance, or too warm in its language; for no notice was taken of it, and the hyena-horror was allowed to complete itself in the face of daylight. i have never got over it. the bones of my own ancestors, being entombed, lie beneath their own tablet; but the upright stones have been shuffled about like chessmen, and nothing short of the day of judgment will tell whose dust lies beneath any of those records, meant by affection to mark one small spot as sacred to some cherished memory. shame! shame! shame!--that is all i can say. it was on public thoroughfares, under the eye of authority, that this infamy was enacted. the red indians would have known better; the selectmen of an african kraal-village would have had more respect for their ancestors. i should like to see the gravestones which have been disturbed all removed, and the ground levelled, leaving the flat tombstones; epitaphs were never famous for truth, but the old reproach of "here lies" never had such a wholesale illustration as in these outraged burial-places, where the stone does lie above, and the bones do not lie beneath.] stop before we turn away, and breathe a woman's sigh over poor benjamin's dust. love killed him, i think. twenty years old, and out there fighting another young fellow on the common, in the cool of that old july evening;--yes, there must have been love at the bottom of it. the schoolmistress dropped a rosebud she had in her hand, through the rails, upon the grave of benjamin woodbridge. that was all her comment upon what i told her.--how women love love! said i;--but she did not speak. we came opposite the head of a place or court running eastward from the main street.--look down there,--i said,--my friend the professor lived in that house at the left hand, next the further corner, for years and years. he died out of it, the other day. --died?--said the schoolmistress.--certainly,--said i.--we die out of houses, just as we die out of our bodies. a commercial smash kills a hundred men's houses for them, as a railroad crash kills their mortal frames and drives out the immortal tenants. men sicken of houses until at last they quit them, as the soul leaves its body when it is tired of its infirmities. the body has been called "the house we live in"; the house is quite as much the body we live in. shall i tell you some things the professor said the other day? --do!--said the schoolmistress. a man's body,--said the professor,--is whatever is occupied by his will and his sensibility. the small room down there, where i wrote those papers you remember reading, was much more a portion of my body than a paralytic's senseless and motionless arm or leg is of his. the soul of a man has a series of concentric envelopes round it, like the core of an onion, or the innermost of a nest of boxes. first, he has his natural garment of flesh and blood. then, his artificial integuments, with their true skin of solid stuffs, their cuticle of lighter tissues, and their variously-tinted pigments. thirdly, his domicile, be it a single chamber or a stately mansion. and then, the whole visible world, in which time buttons him up as in a loose outside wrapper. you shall observe,--the professor said,--for, like mr. john hunter and other great men, he brings in that shall with great effect sometimes,--you shall observe that a man's clothing or series of envelopes does after a certain time mould itself upon his individual nature. we know this of our hats, and are always reminded of it when we happen to put them on wrong side foremost. we soon find that the beaver is a hollow cast of the skull, with all its irregular bumps and depressions. just so all that clothes a man, even to the blue sky which caps his head,--a little loosely,--shapes itself to fit each particular being beneath it. farmers, sailors, astronomers, poets, lovers, condemned criminals, all find it different, according to the eyes with which they severally look. but our houses shape themselves palpably on our inner and outer natures. see a householder breaking up and you will be sure of it. there is a shell-fish which builds all manner of smaller shells into the walls of its own. a house is never a home until we have crusted it with the spoils of a hundred lives besides those of our own past. see what these are and you can tell what the occupant is. i had no idea,--said the professor,--until i pulled up my domestic establishment the other day, what an enormous quantity of roots i had been making during the years i was planted there. why, there wasn't a nook or a corner that some fibre had not worked its way into; and when i gave the last wrench, each of them seemed to shriek like a mandrake, as it broke its hold and came away. there is nothing that happens, you know, which must not inevitably, and which does not actually, photograph itself in every conceivable aspect and in all dimensions. the infinite galleries of the past await but one brief process and all their pictures will be called out and fixed forever. we had a curious illustration of the great fact on a very humble scale. when a certain bookcase, long standing in one place, for which it was built, was removed, there was the exact image on the wall of the whole, and of many of its portions. but in the midst of this picture was another,--the precise outline of a map which had hung on the wall before the bookcase was built. we had all forgotten everything about the map until we saw its photograph on the wall. then we remembered it, as some day or other we may remember a sin which has been built over and covered up, when this lower universe is pulled away from before the wall of infinity, where the wrong-doing stands self-recorded. the professor lived in that house a long time,--not twenty years, but pretty near it. when he entered that door, two shadows glided over the threshold; five lingered in the doorway when he passed through it for the last time,--and one of the shadows was claimed by its owner to be longer than his own. what changes he saw in that quiet place! death rained through every roof but his; children came into life, grew to maturity, wedded, faded away, threw themselves away; the whole drama of life was played in that stock-company's theatre of a dozen houses, one of which was his, and no deep sorrow or severe calamity ever entered his dwelling. peace be to those walls, forever,--the professor said,--for the many pleasant years he has passed within them! the professor has a friend, now living at a distance, who has been with him in many of his changes of place, and who follows him in imagination with tender interest wherever he goes.--in that little court, where he lived in gay loneliness so long,-- --in his autumnal sojourn by the connecticut, where it comes loitering down from its mountain fastnesses like a great lord, swallowing up the small proprietary rivulets very quietly as it goes, until it gets proud and swollen and wantons in huge luxurious oxbows about the fair northampton meadows, and at last overflows the oldest inhabitant's memory in profligate freshets at hartford and all along its lower shores,--up in that caravansary on the banks of the stream where ledyard launched his log canoe, and the jovial old colonel used to lead the commencement processions, --where blue ascutney looked down from the far distance, and the hills of beulah, as the professor always called them, rolled up the opposite horizon in soft climbing masses, so suggestive of the pilgrim's heavenward path that he used to look through his old "dollond" to see if the shining ones were not within range of sight,--sweet visions, sweetest in those sunday walks which carried them by the peaceful common, through the solemn village lying in cataleptic stillness under the shadow of the rod of moses, to the terminus of their harmless stroll,--the patulous fage, in the professor's classic dialect,--the spreading beech, in more familiar phrase,--[stop and breathe here a moment, for the sentence is not done yet, and we have another long journey before us,]-- --and again once more up among those other hills that shut in the amber-flowing housatonic,--dark stream, but clear, like the lucid orbs that shine beneath the lids of auburn-haired, sherry-wine-eyed demi-blondes,--in the home overlooking the winding stream and the smooth, flat meadow; looked down upon by wild hills, where the tracks of bears and catamounts may yet sometimes be seen upon the winter snow; facing the twin summits which rise in the far north, the highest waves of the great land-storm in all this billowy region,--suggestive to mad fancies of the breasts of a half-buried titaness, stretched out by a stray thunderbolt, and hastily hidden away beneath the leaves of the forest,--in that home where seven blessed summers were passed, which stand in memory like the seven golden candlesticks in the beatific vision of the holy dreamer,-- --in that modest dwelling we were just looking at, not glorious, yet not unlovely in the youth of its drab and mahogany,--full of great and little boys' playthings from top to bottom,--in all these summer or winter nests he was always at home and always welcome. this long articulated sigh of reminiscences,--this calenture which shows me the maple-shadowed plains of berkshire and the mountain- circled green of grafton beneath the salt waves which come feeling their way along the wall at my feet, restless and soft-touching as blind men's busy fingers,--is for that friend of mine who looks into the waters of the patapsco and sees beneath them the same visions which paint themselves for me in the green depths of the charles. --did i talk all this off to the schoolmistress?--why, no,--of course not. i have been talking with you, the reader, for the last ten minutes. you don't think i should expect any woman to listen to such a sentence as that long one, without giving her a chance to put in a word? --what did i say to the schoolmistress?--permit me one moment. i don't doubt your delicacy and good-breeding; but in this particular case, as i was allowed the privilege of walking alone with a very interesting young woman, you must allow me to remark, in the classic version of a familiar phrase, used by our master benjamin franklin, it is nullum tui negotii. when the schoolmistress and i reached the school-room door, the damask roses i spoke of were so much heightened in color by exercise that i felt sure it would be useful to her to take a stroll like this every morning, and made up my mind i would ask her to let me join her again. extract from my private journal. (to be burned unread.) i am afraid i have been a fool; for i have told as much of myself to this young person as if she were of that ripe and discreet age which invites confidence and expansive utterance. i have been low-spirited and listless, lately,--it is coffee, i think, --(i observe that which is bought ready-ground never affects the head,)--and i notice that i tell my secrets too easily when i am downhearted. there are inscriptions on our hearts, which, like that on dighton rock, are never to be seen except at dead-low tide. there is a woman's footstep on the sand at the side of my deepest ocean-buried inscription! --oh, no, no, no! a thousand times, no!--yet what is this which has been shaping itself in my soul?--is it a thought?--is it a dream? --is it a passion?--then i know what comes next. --the asylum stands on a bright and breezy hill; those glazed corridors are pleasant to walk in, in bad weather. but there are iron bars to all the windows. when it is fair, some of us can stroll outside that very high fence. but i never see much life in those groups i sometimes meet;--and then the careful man watches them so closely! how i remember that sad company i used to pass on fine mornings, when i was a schoolboy!--b., with his arms full of yellow weeds,--ore from the gold mines which he discovered long before we heard of california,--y., born to millions, crazed by too much plum-cake, (the boys said,) dogged, explosive,--made a polyphemus of my weak-eyed schoolmaster, by a vicious flirt with a stick,--(the multi-millonnaires sent him a trifle, it was said, to buy another eye with; but boys are jealous of rich folks, and i don't doubt the good people made him easy for life,)--how i remember them all! i recollect, as all do, the story of the hall of eblis, in "vathek," and how each shape, as it lifted its hand from its breast, showed its heart,--a burning coal. the real hall of eblis stands on yonder summit. go there on the next visiting-day, and ask that figure crouched in the corner, huddled up like those indian mummies and skeletons found buried in the sitting posture, to lift its hand,--look upon its heart, and behold, not fire, but ashes.--no, i must not think of such an ending! dying would be a much more gentlemanly way of meeting the difficulty. make a will and leave her a house or two and some stocks, and other little financial conveniences, to take away her necessity for keeping school.--i wonder what nice young man's feet would be in my french slippers before six months were over! well, what then? if a man really loves a woman, of course he wouldn't marry her for the world, if he were not quite sure that he was the best person she could by any possibility marry. --it is odd enough to read over what i have just been writing.--it is the merest fancy that ever was in the world. i shall never be married. she will; and if she is as pleasant as she has been so far, i will give her a silver tea-set, and go and take tea with her and her husband, sometimes. no coffee, i hope, though,--it depresses me sadly. i feel very miserably;--they must have been grinding it at home.--another morning walk will be good for me, and i don't doubt the schoolmistress will be glad of a little fresh air before school. --the throbbing flushes of the poetical intermittent have been coming over me from time to time of late. did you ever see that electrical experiment which consists in passing a flash through letters of gold-leaf in a darkened room, whereupon some name or legend springs out of the darkness in characters of fire? there are songs all written out in my soul, which i could read, if the flash might pass through them,--but the fire must come down from heaven. ah! but what if the stormy nimbus of youthful passion has blown by, and one asks for lightning from the ragged cirrus of dissolving aspirations, or the silvered cumulus of sluggish satiety? i will call on her whom the dead poets believed in, whom living ones no longer worship,--the immortal maid, who, name her what you will,--goddess, muse, spirit of beauty,--sits by the pillow of every youthful poet, and bends over his pale forehead until her tresses lie upon his cheek and rain their gold into his dreams. musa. o my lost beauty!--hast thou folded quite thy wings of morning light beyond those iron gates where life crowds hurrying to the haggard fates, and age upon his mound of ashes waits to chill our fiery dreams, hot from the heart of youth plunged in his icy streams? leave me not fading in these weeds of care, whose flowers are silvered hair!-- have i not loved thee long, though my young lips have often done thee wrong and vexed thy heaven-tuned ear with careless song? ah, wilt thou yet return, bearing thy rose-hued torch, and bid thine altar burn? come to me!--i will flood thy silent shine with my soul's sacred wine, and heap thy marble floors as the wild spice-trees waste their fragrant stores in leafy islands walled with madrepores and lapped in orient seas, when all their feathery palm toss, plume-like, in the breeze. come to me!--thou shalt feed on honied words, sweeter than song of birds;-- no wailing bulbul's throat, no melting dulcimer's melodious note, when o'er the midnight wave its murmurs float, thy ravished sense might soothe with flow so liquid-soft, with strain so velvet-smooth. thou shalt be decked with jewels, like a queen, sought in those bowers of green where loop the clustered vines and the close-clinging dulcamara twines,-- pure pearls of maydew where the moonlight shines, and summer's fruited gems, and coral pendants shorn from autumn's berried stems. sit by me drifting on the sleepy waves,-- or stretched by grass-grown graves, whose gray, high-shouldered stones, carved with old names life's time-worn roll disowns, lean, lichen-spotted, o'er the crumbled bones still slumbering where they lay while the sad pilgrim watched to scare the wolf away. spread o'er my couch thy visionary wing! still let me dream and sing,-- dream of that winding shore where scarlet cardinals bloom,--for me no more,-- the stream with heaven beneath its liquid floor, and clustering nenuphars sprinkling its mirrored blue like golden-chaliced stars! come while their balms the linden-blossoms shed!-- come while the rose is red,-- while blue-eyed summer smiles on the green ripples round you sunken piles washed by the moon-wave warm from indian isles, and on the sultry air the chestnuts spread their palms like holy men in prayer! oh, for thy burning lips to fire my brain with thrills of wild sweet pain!-- on life's autumnal blast, like shrivelled leaves, youth's, passion-flowers are cast,-- once loving thee, we love thee to the last!-- behold thy new-decked shrine, and hear once more the voice that breathed "forever thine!" chapter xi [the company looked a little flustered one morning when i came in, --so much so, that i inquired of my neighbor, the divinity-student,) what had been going on. it appears that the young fellow whom they call john had taken advantage of my being a little late (i having been rather longer than usual dressing that morning) to circulate several questions involving a quibble or play upon words,--in short, containing that indignity to the human understanding, condemned in the passages from the distinguished moralist of the last century and the illustrious historian of the present, which i cited on a former occasion, and known as a pun. after breakfast, one of the boarders handed me a small roll of paper containing some of the questions and their answers. i subjoin two or three of them, to show what a tendency there is to frivolity and meaningless talk in young persons of a certain sort, when not restrained by the presence of more reflective natures.--it was asked, "why tertian and quartan fevers were like certain short-lived insects." some interesting physiological relation would be naturally suggested. the inquirer blushes to find that the answer is in the paltry equivocation, that they skip a day or two.--"why an englishman must go to the continent to weaken his grog or punch." the answer proves to have no relation whatever to the temperance-movement, as no better reason is given than that island--(or, as it is absurdly written, ile and) water won't mix.--but when i came to the next question and its answer, i felt that patience ceased to be a virtue. "why an onion is like a piano" is a query that a person of sensibility would be slow to propose; but that in an educated community an individual could be found to answer it in these words,--"because it smell odious," quasi, it's melodious,--is not credible, but too true. i can show you the paper. dear reader, i beg your pardon for repeating such things. i know most conversations reported in books are altogether above such trivial details, but folly will come up at every table as surely as purslain and chickweed and sorrel will come up in gardens. this young fellow ought to have talked philosophy, i know perfectly well; but he didn't,--he made jokes.] i am willing,--i said,--to exercise your ingenuity in a rational and contemplative manner.--no, i do not proscribe certain forms of philosophical speculation which involve an approach to the absurd or the ludicrous, such as you may find, for example, in the folio of the reverend father thomas sanchez, in his famous disputations, "de sancto matrimonio." i will therefore turn this levity of yours to profit by reading you a rhymed problem, wrought out by my friend the professor. the deacon's masterpiece: or the wonderful "one-hoss-shay." a logical story. have you heard of the wonderful one-shay, that was built in such a logical way it ran a hundred years to a day, and then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, i'll tell you what happened without delay, scaring the parson into fits, frightening people out of their wits,-- have you ever heard of that, i say? seventeen hundred and fifty-five. georgius secundus was then alive,-- snuffy old drone from the german hive. that was the year when lisbon-town saw the earth open and gulp her down, and braddock's army was done so brown, left without a scalp to its crown. it was on the terrible earthquake-day that the deacon finished the one-hoss-shay. now in building of chaises, i tell you what, there is always somewhere a weakest spot,-- in hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, in panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, in screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still find it somewhere you must and will,-- above or below, or within or without,-- and that's the reason, beyond a doubt, a chaise breasts down, but doesn't wear out. but the deacon swore (as deacons do, with an "i dew vum," or an "i tell yeou,") he would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; it should be so built that it couldn' break daown-- --"fur," said the deacon, "'t's mighty plain thut the weakes' place mus' stan the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz i maintain, is only jest t' make that place uz strong uz the rest." so the deacon inquired of the village folk where he could find the strongest oak, that couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- that was for spokes and floor and sills; he sent for lancewood to make the thills; the crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; the panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, but lasts like iron for things like these; the hubs of logs from the "settler's ellum,"-- last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, never an axe had seen their chips, and the wedges flew from between their lips, their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, steel of the finest, bright and blue; thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide found in the pit when the tanner died. that was the way he "put her through."-- "there!" said the deacon, "naow she'll dew." do! i tell you, i father guess she was a wonder, and nothing less! colts grew horses, beards turned gray, deacon and deaconess dropped away, children and grand-children--where were they? but there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay as fresh as on lisbon-earthquake-day! eighteen hundred;--it came and found the deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- "hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- running as usual; much the same. thirty and forty at last arrive, and then come fifty, and fifty-five. little of all we value here wakes on the morn of its hundredth year without both feeling and looking queer. in fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, so far as i know, but a tree and truth. (this is a moral that runs at large; take it.--you're welcome.--no extra charge.) first of november,--the earthquake-day.-- there are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay. a general flavor of mild decay, but nothing local, as one may say. there couldn't be,--for the deacon's art had made it so like in every part that there wasn't a chance for one to start. for the wheels were just as strong as the thills, and the floor was just as strong as the sills, and the panels just as strong as the floor, and the whippletree neither less nor more, and the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, and spring and axle and hub encore. and yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt in another hour it will be worn out! first of november, 'fifty-five! this morning the parson takes a drive. now, small boys, get out of the way! here comes the wonderful one-horse-shay, drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "huddup!" said the parson.--off went they. the parson was working his sunday's text,-- had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed at what the--moses--was coming next. all at once the horse stood still, close by the meet'n-house on the hill. --first a shiver, and then a thrill, then something decidedly like a spill,-- and the parson was sitting upon a rock, at half-past nine by the meet'n-house clock,-- just the hour of the earthquake shock! --what do you think the parson found, when he got up and stared around? the poor old chaise in a heap or mound, as if it had been to the mill and ground! you see, of course, if you're not a dunce, how it went to pieces all at once,-- all at once, and nothing first,-- just as bubbles do when they burst. end of the wonderful one-hoss-shay. logic is logic. that's all i say. --i think there is one habit,--i said to our company a day or two afterwards--worse than that of punning. it is the gradual substitution of cant or flash terms for words which truly characterize their objects. i have known several very genteel idiots whose whole vocabulary had deliquesced into some half dozen expressions. all things fell into one of two great categories, --fast or slow. man's chief end was to be a brick. when the great calamities of life overtook their friends, these last were spoken of as being a good deal cut up. nine-tenths of human existence were summed up in the single word, bore. these expressions come to be the algebraic symbols of minds which have grown too weak or indolent to discriminate. they are the blank checks of intellectual bankruptcy;--you may fill them up with what idea you like; it makes no difference, for there are no funds in the treasury upon which they are drawn. colleges and good-for-nothing smoking-clubs are the places where these conversational fungi spring up most luxuriantly. don't think i undervalue the proper use and application of a cant word or phrase. it adds piquancy to conversation, as a mushroom does to a sauce. but it is no better than a toadstool, odious to the sense and poisonous to the intellect, when it spawns itself all over the talk of men and youths capable of talking, as it sometimes does. as we hear flash phraseology, it is commonly the dishwater from the washings of english dandyism, school-boy or full-grown, wrung out of a three-volume novel which had sopped it up, or decanted from the pictured urn of mr. verdant green, and diluted to suit the provincial climate. --the young fellow called john spoke up sharply and said, it was "rum" to hear me "pitchin' into fellers" for "goin' it in the slang line," when i used all the flash words myself just when i pleased. --i replied with my usual forbearance.--certainly, to give up the algebraic symbol, because a or b is often a cover for ideal nihility, would be unwise. i have heard a child laboring to express a certain condition, involving a hitherto undescribed sensation (as it supposed,) all of which could have been sufficiently explained by the participle--bored. i have seen a country-clergyman, with a one-story intellect and a one-horse vocabulary, who has consumed his valuable time (and mine) freely, in developing an opinion of a brother-minister's discourse which would have been abundantly characterized by a peach-down-lipped sophomore in the one word--slow. let us discriminate, and be shy of absolute proscription. i am omniverbivorous by nature and training. passing by such words as are poisonous, i can swallow most others, and chew such as i cannot swallow. dandies are not good for much, but they are good for something. they invent or keep in circulation those conversational blank checks or counters just spoken of, which intellectual capitalists may sometimes find it worth their while to borrow of them. they are useful, too, in keeping up the standard of dress, which, but for them, would deteriorate, and become, what some old fools would have it, a matter of convenience, and not of taste and art. yes, i like dandies well enough,--on one condition. --what is that, sir?--said the divinity-student. --that they have pluck. i find that lies at the bottom of all true dandyism. a little boy dressed up very fine, who puts his finger in his mouth and takes to crying, if other boys make fun of him, looks very silly. but if he turns red in the face and knotty in the fists, and makes an example of the biggest of his assailants, throwing off his fine leghorn and his thickly-buttoned jacket, if necessary, to consummate the act of justice, his small toggery takes on the splendors of the crested helmet that frightened astyanax. you remember that the duke said his dandy officers were his best officers. the "sunday blood," the super-superb sartorial equestrian of our annual fast-day, is not imposing or dangerous. but such fellows as brummel and d'orsay and byron are not to be snubbed quite so easily. look out for "la main de fer sous le gant de velours," (which i printed in english the other day without quotation-marks, thinking whether any scarabaeus criticus would add this to his globe and roll in glory with it into the newspapers, --which he didn't do it, in the charming pleonasm of the london language, and therefore i claim the sole merit of exposing the same.) a good many powerful and dangerous people have had a decided dash of dandyism about them. there was alcibiades, the "curled son of clinias," an accomplished young man, but what would be called a "swell" in these days. there was aristoteles, a very distinguished writer, of whom you have heard,--a philosopher, in short, whom it took centuries to learn, centuries to unlearn, and is now going to take a generation or more to learn over again. regular dandy, he was. so was marcus antonius; and though he lost his game, he played for big stakes, and it wasn't his dandyism that spoiled his chance. petrarca was not to be despised as a scholar or a poet, but he was one of the same sort. so was sir humphrey davy; so was lord palmerston, formerly, if i am not forgetful. yes,--a dandy is good for something as such; and dandies such as i was just speaking of have rocked this planet like a cradle,--aye, and left it swinging to this day.--still, if i were you, i wouldn't go to the tailor's, on the strength of these remarks, and run up a long bill which will render pockets a superfluity in your next suit. elegans "nascitur, non fit." a man is born a dandy, as he is born a poet. there are heads that can't wear hats; there are necks that can't fit cravats; there are jaws that can't fill out collars--(willis touched this last point in one of his earlier ambrotypes, if i remember rightly); there are tournures nothing can humanize, and movements nothing can subdue to the gracious suavity or elegant languor or stately serenity which belong to different styles of dandyism. we are forming an aristocracy, as you may observe, in this country,--not a gratia-dei, nor a juredivino one,--but a de-facto upper stratum of being, which floats over the turbid waves of common life like the iridescent film you may have seen spreading over the water about our wharves,--very splendid, though its origin may have been tar, tallow, train-oil, or other such unctuous commodities. i say, then, we are forming an aristocracy; and, transitory as its individual life often is, it maintains itself tolerably, as a whole. of course, money is its corner-stone. but now observe this. money kept for two or three generations transforms a race,--i don't mean merely in manners and hereditary culture, but in blood and bone. money buys air and sunshine, in which children grow up more kindly, of course, than in close, back streets; it buys country-places to give them happy and healthy summers, good nursing, good doctoring, and the best cuts of beef and mutton. when the spring-chickens come to market--i beg your pardon,--that is not what i was going to speak of. as the young females of each successive season come on, the finest specimens among them, other things being equal, are apt to attract those who can afford the expensive luxury of beauty. the physical character of the next generation rises in consequence. it is plain that certain families have in this way acquired an elevated type of face and figure, and that in a small circle of city-connections one may sometimes find models of both sexes which one of the rural counties would find it hard to match from all its townships put together. because there is a good deal of running down, of degeneration and waste of life, among the richer classes, you must not overlook the equally obvious fact i have just spoken of,--which in one or two generations more will be, i think, much more patent than just now. the weak point in our chryso-aristocracy is the same i have alluded to in connection with cheap dandyism. its thorough manhood, its high-caste gallantry, are not so manifest as the plate-glass of its windows and the more or less legitimate heraldry of its coach-panels. it is very curious to observe of how small account military folks are held among our northern people. our young men must gild their spurs, but they need not win them. the equal division of property keeps the younger sons of rich people above the necessity of military service. thus the army loses an element of refinement, and the moneyed upper class forgets what it is to count heroism among its virtues. still i don't believe in any aristocracy without pluck as its backbone. ours may show it when the time comes, if it ever does come. --these united states furnish the greatest market for intellectual green fruit of all the places in the world. i think so, at any rate. the demand for intellectual labor is so enormous and the market so far from nice, that young talent is apt to fare like unripe gooseberries,--get plucked to make a fool of. think of a country which buys eighty thousand copies of the "proverbial philosophy," while the author's admiring countrymen have been buying twelve thousand! how can one let his fruit hang in the sun until it gets fully ripe, while there are eighty thousand such hungry mouths ready to swallow it and proclaim its praises? consequently, there never was such a collection of crude pippins and half-grown windfalls as our native literature displays among its fruits. there are literary green-groceries at every corner, which will buy anything, from a button-pear to a pine-apple. it takes a long apprenticeship to train a whole people to reading and writing. the temptation of money and fame is too great for young people. do i not remember that glorious moment when the late mr.---- we won't say who,--editor of the--we won't say what, offered me the sum of fifty cents per double-columned quarto page for shaking my young boughs over his foolscap apron? was it not an intoxicating vision of gold and glory? i should doubtless have revelled in its wealth and splendor, but for learning that the fifty cents was to be considered a rhetorical embellishment, and by no means a literal expression of past fact or present intention. --beware of making your moral staple consist of the negative virtues. it is good to abstain, and teach others to abstain, from all that is sinful or hurtful. but making a business of it leads to emaciation of character, unless one feeds largely also on the more nutritious diet of active sympathetic benevolence. --i don't believe one word of what you are saying,--spoke up the angular female in black bombazine. i am sorry you disbelieve it, madam,--i said, and added softly to my next neighbor,--but you prove it. the young fellow sitting near me winked; and the divinity-student said, in an undertone,--optime dictum. your talking latin,--said i,--reminds me of an odd trick of one of my old tutors. he read so much of that language, that his english half turned into it. he got caught in town, one hot summer, in pretty close quarters, and wrote, or began to write, a series of city pastorals. eclogues he called them, and meant to have published them by subscription. i remember some of his verses, if you want to hear them.--you, sir, (addressing myself to the divinity-student,) and all such as have been through college, or, what is the same thing, received an honorary degree, will understand them without a dictionary. the old man had a great deal to say about "aestivation," as he called it, in opposition, as one might say, to hibernation. intramural aestivation, or town-life in summer, he would say, is a peculiar form of suspended existence, or semi-asphyxia. one wakes up from it about the beginning of the last week in september. this is what i remember of his poem:- aestivation. an unpublished poem, by my late latin tutor in candent ire the solar splendor flames; the foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; his humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, and dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes. how dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, dorm on the herb with none to supervise, carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, and bibe the flow from longicaudate kine! to me, alas! no verdurous visions come, save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum,-- no concave vast repeats the tender hue that laves my milk-jug with celestial blue! me wretched! let me curr to quercine shades effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! oh, might i vole to some umbrageous clump,-- depart,--be off,--excede,--evade,--erump! --i have lived by the sea-shore and by the mountains.--no, i am not going to say which is best. the one where your place is is the best for you. but this difference there is: you can domesticate mountains, but the sea is ferae naturae. you may have a hut, or know the owner of one, on the mountain-side; you see a light half-way up its ascent in the evening, and you know there is a home, and you might share it. you have noted certain trees, perhaps; you know the particular zone where the hemlocks look so black in october, when the maples and beeches have faded. all its reliefs and intaglios have electrotyped themselves in the medallions that hang round the walls of your memory's chamber.--the sea remembers nothing. it is feline. it licks your feet,--its huge flanks purr very pleasantly for you; but it will crack your bones and eat you, for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam from its jaws as if nothing had happened. the mountains give their lost children berries and water; the sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. the mountains have a grand, stupid, lovable tranquillity; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous intelligence. the mountains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs awful to look upon, but safe to handle. the sea smooths its silver scales until you cannot see their joints,--but their shining is that of a snake's belly, after all.--in deeper suggestiveness i find as great a difference. the mountains dwarf mankind and foreshorten the procession of its long generations. the sea drowns out humanity and time; it has no sympathy with either; for it belongs to eternity, and of that it sings its monotonous song forever and ever. yet i should love to have a little box by the seashore. i should love to gaze out on the wild feline element from a front window of my own, just as i should love to look on a caged panther, and see it, stretch its shining length, and then curl over and lap its smooth sides, and by-and-by begin to lash itself into rage and show its white teeth and spring at its bars, and howl the cry of its mad, but, to me, harmless fury.--and then,--to look at it with that inward eye,--who does not love to shuffle off time and its concerns, at intervals,--to forget who is president and who is governor, what race he belongs to, what language he speaks, which golden-headed nail of the firmament his particular planetary system is hung upon, and listen to the great liquid metronome as it beats its solemn measure, steadily swinging when the solo or duet of human life began, and to swing just as steadily after the human chorus has died out and man is a fossil on its shores? --what should decide one, in choosing a summer residence? --constitution, first of all. how much snow could you melt in an hour, if you were planted in a hogshead of it? comfort is essential to enjoyment. all sensitive people should remember that persons in easy circumstances suffer much more cold in summer--that is, the warm half of the year--than in winter, or the other half. you must cut your climate to your constitution, as much as your clothing to your shape. after this, consult your taste and convenient. but if you would be happy in berkshire, you must carry mountains in your brain; and if you would enjoy nahant, you must have an ocean in your soul. nature plays at dominos with you; you must match her piece, or she will never give it up to you. --the schoolmistress said, in a rather mischievous way, that she was afraid some minds or souls would be a little crowded, if they took in the rocky mountains or the atlantic. have you ever read the little book called "the stars and the earth?"--said i.--have you seen the declaration of independence photographed in a surface that a fly's foot would cover? the forms or conditions of time and space, as kant will tell you, are nothing in themselves,--only our way of looking at things. you are right, i think, however, in recognizing the category of space as being quite as applicable to minds as to the outer world. every man of reflection is vaguely conscious of an imperfectly-defined circle which is drawn about his intellect. he has a perfectly clear sense that the fragments of his intellectual circle include the curves of many other minds of which he is cognizant. he often recognizes these as manifestly concentric with his own, but of less radius. on the other hand, when we find a portion of an are on the outside of our own, we say it intersects ours, but are very slow to confess or to see that it circumscribes it. every now and then a man's mind is stretched by a new idea or sensation, and never shrinks back to its former dimensions. after looking at the alps, i felt that my mind had been stretched beyond the limits of its elasticity, and fitted so loosely on my old ideas of space that i had to spread these to fit it. --if i thought i should ever see the alps!--said the schoolmistress. perhaps you will, some time or other,--i said. it is not very likely,--she answered.--i have had one or two opportunities, but i had rather be anything than governess in a rich family. [proud, too, you little soft-voiced woman! well, i can't say i like you any the worse for it. how long will school-keeping take to kill you? is it possible the poor thing works with her needle, too? i don't like those marks on the side of her forefinger. tableau. chamouni. mont blanc in full view. figures in the foreground; two of them standing apart; one of them a gentleman of--oh,--ah,--yes! the other a lady in a white cashmere, leaning on his shoulder.--the ingenuous reader will understand that this was an internal, private, personal, subjective diorama, seen for one instant on the background of my own consciousness, and abolished into black nonentity by the first question which recalled me to actual life, as suddenly as if one of those iron shop-blinds (which i always pass at dusk with a shiver, expecting to stumble over some poor but honest shop-boy's head, just taken off by its sudden and unexpected descent, and left outside upon the sidewalk) had come down in front of it "by the run."] --should you like to hear what moderate wishes life brings one to at last? i used to be very ambitious,--wasteful, extravagant, and luxurious in all my fancies. read too much in the "arabian nights." must have the lamp,--couldn't do without the ring. exercise every morning on the brazen horse. plump down into castles as full of little milk-white princesses as a nest is of young sparrows. all love me dearly at once.--charming idea of life, but too high-colored for the reality. i have outgrown all this; my tastes have become exceedingly primitive,--almost, perhaps, ascetic. we carry happiness into our condition, but must not hope to find it there. i think you will be willing to hear some lines which embody the subdued and limited desires of my maturity. contentment. "man wants but little here below." little i ask, my wants are few; i only wish a hut of stone, (a very plain brown stone will do,) that i may call my own;-- and close at hand is such a one, in yonder street that fronts the sun. plain food is quite enough for me; three courses are as good as ten;-- if nature can subsist on three, thank heaven for three. amen! i always thought cold victual nice;-- my choice would be vanilla-ice. i care not much for gold or land;-- give me a mortgage here and there,-- some good bank-stock,--some note of hand, or trifling railroad share;-- i only ask that fortune send a little more than i shall spend. honors are silly toys, i know, and titles are but empty names;-- i would, perhaps, be plenipo,-- but only near st. james;-- i'm very sure i should not care to fill our gubernator's chair. jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin to care for such unfruitful things;-- one good-sized diamond in a pin,-- some, not so large, in rings,-- a ruby and a pearl, or so, will do for me;--i laugh at show. my dame should dress in cheap attire; (good, heavy silks are never dear;)-- i own perhaps i might desire some shawls of true cashmere,-- some marrowy crapes of china silk, like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. i would not have the horse i drive so fast that folks must stop and stare an easy gait--two, forty-five-- suits me; i do not care;-- perhaps, for just a single spurt, some seconds less would do no hurt. of pictures, i should like to own titians and raphaels three or four,-- i love so much their style and tone,-- one turner, and no more,-- (a landscape,--foreground golden dirt the sunshine painted with a squirt.) of books but few,--some fifty score for daily use, and bound for wear; the rest upon an upper floor;-- some little luxury there of red morocco's gilded gleam, and vellum rich as country cream. busts, cameos, gems,--such things as these, which others often show for pride, _i_ value for their power to please, and selfish churls deride;-- one stradivarius, i confess, two meerschaums, i would fain possess. wealth's wasteful tricks i will not learn, nor ape the glittering upstart fool;-- shall not carved tables serve my turn, but all must be of buhl? give grasping pomp its double share,-- i ask but one recumbent chair. thus humble let me live and die, nor long for midas' golden touch, if heaven more generous gifts deny, i shall not miss them much,-- too grateful for the blessing lent of simple tastes and mind content! my last walk with the schoolmistress. (a parenthesis.) i can't say just how many walks she and i had taken together before this one. i found the effect of going out every morning was decidedly favorable on her health. two pleasing dimples, the places for which were just marked when she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks when she smiled and nodded good-morning to me from the school-house-steps. i am afraid i did the greater part of the talking. at any rate, if i should try to report all that i said during the first half-dozen walks we took together, i fear that i might receive a gentle hint from my friends the publishers, that a separate volume, at my own risk and expense, would be the proper method of bringing them before the public. --i would have a woman as true as death. at the first real lie which works from the heart outward, she should be tenderly chloroformed into a better world, where she can have an angel for a governess, and feed on strange fruits which will make her all over again, even to her bones and marrow.--whether gifted with the accident of beauty or not, she should have been moulded in the rose-red clay of love, before the breath of life made a moving mortal of her. love-capacity is a congenital endowment; and i think, after a while, one gets to know the warm-hued natures it belongs to from the pretty pipe-clay counterfeits of them.--proud she may be, in the sense of respecting herself; but pride in the sense of contemning others less gifted than herself, deserves the two lowest circles of a vulgar woman's inferno, where the punishments are smallpox and bankruptcy.--she who nips off the end of a brittle courtesy, as one breaks the tip of an icicle, to bestow upon those whom she ought cordially and kindly to recognize, proclaims the fact that she comes not merely of low blood, but of bad blood. consciousness of unquestioned position makes people gracious in proper measure to all; but if a woman puts on airs with her real equals, she has something about herself or her family she is ashamed of, or ought to be. middle, and more than middle-aged people, who know family histories, generally see through it. an official of standing was rude to me once. oh, that is the maternal grandfather,--said a wise old friend to me,--he was a boor.--better too few words, from the woman we love, than too many: while she is silent, nature is working for her; while she talks, she is working for herself.--love is sparingly soluble in the words of men; therefore they speak much of it; but one syllable of woman's speech can dissolve more of it than a man's heart can hold. --whether i said any or all of these things to the schoolmistress, or not,--whether i stole them out of lord bacon,--whether i cribbed them from balzac,--whether i dipped them from the ocean of tupperian wisdom,--or whether i have just found them in my head, laid there by that solemn fowl, experience, (who, according to my observation, cackles oftener than she drops real live eggs,) i cannot say. wise men have said more foolish things,--and foolish men, i don't doubt, have said as wise things. anyhow, the schoolmistress and i had pleasant walks and long talks, all of which i do not feel bound to report. --you are a stranger to me, ma'am.--i don't doubt you would like to know all i said to the schoolmistress.--i sha'n't do it;--i had rather get the publishers to return the money you have invested in this. besides, i have forgotten a good deal of it. i shall tell only what i like of what i remember. --my idea was, in the first place, to search out the picturesque spots which the city affords a sight of, to those who have eyes. i know a good many, and it was a pleasure to look at them in company with my young friend. there were the shrubs and flowers in the franklin-place front-yards or borders; commerce is just putting his granite foot upon them. then there are certain small seraglio- gardens, into which one can get a peep through the crevices of high fences,--one in myrtle street, or backing on it,--here and there one at the north and south ends. then the great elms in essex street. then the stately horse-chestnuts in that vacant lot in chambers street, which hold their outspread hands over your head, (as i said in my poem the other day,) and look as if they were whispering, "may grace, mercy, and peace be with you!"--and the rest of that benediction. nay, there are certain patches of ground, which, having lain neglected for a time, nature, who always has her pockets full of seeds, and holes in all her pockets, has covered with hungry plebeian growths, which fight for life with each other, until some of them get broad-leaved and succulent, and you have a coarse vegetable tapestry which raphael would not have disdained to spread over the foreground of his masterpiece. the professor pretends that he found such a one in charles street, which, in its dare-devil impudence of rough-and-tumble vegetation, beat the pretty-behaved flower-beds of the public garden as ignominiously as a group of young tatterdemalions playing pitch-and-toss beats a row of sunday-school-boys with their teacher at their head. but then the professor has one of his burrows in that region, and puts everything in high colors relating to it. that is his way about everything. i hold any man cheap,--he said,--of whom nothing stronger can be uttered than that all his geese are swans.--how is that, professor?--said i;--i should have set you down for one of that sort.--sir,--said he,--i am proud to say, that nature has so far enriched me, that i cannot own so much as a duck without seeing in it as pretty a swan as ever swam the basin in the garden of the luxembourg. and the professor showed the whites of his eyes devoutly, like one returning thanks after a dinner of many courses. i don't know anything sweeter than this leaking in of nature through all the cracks in the walls and floors of cities. you heap up a million tons of hewn rocks on a square mile or two of earth which was green once. the trees look down from the hill-sides and ask each other, as they stand on tiptoe,--"what are these people about?" and the small herbs at their feet look up and whisper back,--"we will go and see." so the small herbs pack themselves up in the least possible bundles, and wait until the wind steals to them at night and whispers, "come with me." then they go softly with it into the great city,--one to a cleft in the pavement, one to a spout on the roof, one to a seam in the marbles over a rich gentleman's bones, and one to the grave without a stone where nothing but a man is buried,--and there they grow, looking down on the generations of men from mouldy roofs, looking up from between the less-trodden pavements, looking out through iron cemetery- railings. listen to them, when there is only a light breath stirring, and you will hear them saying to each other,--"wait awhile!" the words run along the telegraph of those narrow green lines that border the roads leading from the city, until they reach the slope of the hills, and the trees repeat in low murmurs to each other,--"wait awhile!" by-and-by the flow of life in the streets ebbs, and the old leafy inhabitants--the smaller tribes always in front--saunter in, one by one, very careless seemingly, but very tenacious, until they swarm so that the great stones gape from each other with the crowding of their roots, and the feldspar begins to be picked out of the granite to find them food. at last the trees take up their solemn line of march, and never rest until they have encamped in the market-place. wait long enough and you will find an old doting oak hugging a huge worn block in its yellow underground arms; that was the cornerstone of the state-house. oh, so patient she is, this imperturbable nature! --let us cry!-- but all this has nothing to do with my walks and talks with the schoolmistress. i did not say that i would not tell you something about them. let me alone, and i shall talk to you more than i ought to, probably. we never tell our secrets to people that pump for them. books we talked about, and education. it was her duty to know something of these, and of course she did. perhaps i was somewhat more learned than she, but i found that the difference between her reading and mine was like that of a man's and a woman's dusting a library. the man flaps about with a bunch of feathers; the woman goes to work softly with a cloth. she does not raise half the dust, nor fill her own eyes and mouth with it,--but she goes into all the corners, and attends to the leaves as much as the covers. --books are the negative pictures of thought, and the more sensitive the mind that receives their images, the more nicely the finest lines are reproduced. a woman, (of the right kind,) reading after a man, follows him as ruth followed the reapers of boaz, and her gleanings are often the finest of the wheat. but it was in talking of life that we came most clearly together. i thought i knew something about that,--that i could speak or write about it somewhat to the purpose. to take up this fluid earthly being of ours as a sponge sucks up water,--to be steeped and soaked in its realities as a hide fills its pores lying seven years in a tan-pit,--to have winnowed every wave of it as a mill-wheel works up the stream that runs through the flume upon its float-boards,--to have curled up in the keenest spasms and flattened out in the laxest languors of this breathing- sickness, which keeps certain parcels of matter uneasy for three or four score years,--to have fought all the devils and clasped all the angels of its delirium,--and then, just at the point when the white-hot passions have cooled down to cherry-red, plunge our experience into the ice-cold stream of some human language or other, one might think would end in a rhapsody with something of spring and temper in it. all this i thought my power and province. the schoolmistress had tried life, too. once in a while one meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant which passes before it. as the pale astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs uranus or neptune as in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender hands. this was one of them. fortune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were before her. yet, as i looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, i saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for love,--unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of duty with the natural graces which were meant for the reward of nothing less than the great passion. --i never addressed one word of love to the schoolmistress in the course of these pleasant walks. it seemed to me that we talked of everything but love on that particular morning. there was, perhaps, a little more timidity and hesitancy on my part than i have commonly shown among our people at the boarding-house. in fact, i considered myself the master at the breakfast-table; but, somehow, i could not command myself just then so well as usual. the truth is, i had secured a passage to liverpool in the steamer which was to leave at noon,--with the condition, however, of being released in case circumstances occurred to detain me. the schoolmistress knew nothing about all this, of course, as yet. it was on the common that we were walking. the mall, or boulevard of our common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. one of these runs down from opposite joy street southward across the whole length of the common to boylston street. we called it the long path, and were fond of it. i felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. i think i tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. at last i got out the question,--will you take the long path with me? --certainly,--said the schoolmistress,--with much pleasure.--think, --i said,--before you answer; if you take the long path with me now, i shall interpret it that we are to part no more!--the schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her. one of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,--the one you may still see close by the gingko-tree.--pray, sit down,--i said.--no, no, she answered, softly,--i will walk the long path with you! --the old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly, --"good morning, my dears!" chapter xii [i did not think it probable that i should have a great many more talks with our company, and therefore i was anxious to get as much as i could into every conversation. that is the reason why you will find some odd, miscellaneous facts here, which i wished to tell at least once, as i should not have a chance to tell them habitually at our breakfast-table.--we're very free and easy, you know; we don't read what we don't like. our parish is so large, one can't pretend to preach to all the pews at once. one can't be all the time trying to do the best of one's best if a company works a steam fire-engine, the firemen needn't be straining themselves all day to squirt over the top of the flagstaff. let them wash some of those lower-story windows a little. besides, there is no use in our quarrelling now, as you will find out when you get through this paper.] --travel, according to my experience, does not exactly correspond to the idea one gets of it out of most books of travels. i am thinking of travel as it was when i made the grand tour, especially in italy. memory is a net; one finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook; but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking. i can prove some facts about travelling by a story or two. there are certain principles to be assumed,--such as these:--he who is carried by horses must deal with rogues. --to-day's dinner subtends a larger visual angle than yesterday's revolution. a mote in my eye is bigger to me than the biggest of dr. gould's private planets.--every traveller is a self-taught entomologist.--old jokes are dynamometers of mental tension; an old joke tells better among friends travelling than at home,--which shows that their minds are in a state of diminished, rather than increased vitality. there was a story about "strahps to your pahnts," which was vastly funny to us fellows--on the road from milan to venice.--caelum, non animum,--travellers change their guineas, but not their characters. the bore is the same, eating dates under the cedars of lebanon, as over a plate of baked beans in beacon street.--parties of travellers have a morbid instinct for "establishing raws" upon each other.--a man shall sit down with his friend at the foot of the great pyramid and they will take up the question they had been talking about under "the great elm," and forget all about egypt. when i was crossing the po, we were all fighting about the propriety of one fellow's telling another that his argument was absurd; one maintaining it to be a perfectly admissible logical term, as proved by the phrase "reductio ad absurdum;" the rest badgering him as a conversational bully. mighty little we troubled ourselves for padus, the po, "a river broader and more rapid than the rhone," and the times when hannibal led his grim africans to its banks, and his elephants thrust their trunks into the yellow waters over which that pendulum ferry-boat was swinging back and forward every ten minutes! --here are some of those reminiscences, with morals prefixed, or annexed, or implied. lively emotions very commonly do not strike us full in front, but obliquely from the side; a scene or incident in undress often affects us more than one in full costume. "is this the mighty ocean?--is this all?" says the princess in gebir. the rush that should have flooded my soul in the coliseum did not come. but walking one day in the fields about the city, i stumbled over a fragment of broken masonry, and lo! the world's mistress in her stone girdle--alta maenia romae--rose before me and whitened my cheek with her pale shadow as never before or since. i used very often, when coming home from my morning's work at one of the public institutions of paris, to stop in at the dear old church of st. etienne du mont. the tomb of st. genevieve, surrounded by burning candles and votive tablets, was there; the mural tablet of jacobus benignus winslow was there; there was a noble organ with carved figures; the pulpit was borne on the oaken shoulders of a stooping samson; and there was a marvellous staircase like a coil of lace. these things i mention from memory, but not all of them together impressed me so much as an inscription on a small slab of marble fixed in one of the walls. it told how this church of st. stephen was repaired and beautified in the year **, and how, during the celebration of its reopening, two girls of the parish (filles de la paroisse) fell from the gallery, carrying a part of the balustrade with them, to the pavement, but by a miracle escaped uninjured. two young girls, nameless, but real presences to my imagination, as much as when they came fluttering down on the tiles with a cry that outscreamed the sharpest treble in the te deum. (look at carlyle's article on boswell, and see how he speaks of the poor young woman johnson talked with in the streets one evening.) all the crowd gone but these two "filles de la paroisse,"--gone as utterly as the dresses they wore, as the shoes that were on their feet, as the bread and meat that were in the market on that day. not the great historical events, but the personal incidents that call up single sharp pictures of some human being in its pang or struggle, reach us most nearly. i remember the platform at berne, over the parapet of which theobald weinzapfli's restive horse sprung with him and landed him more than a hundred feet beneath in the lower town, not dead, but sorely broken, and no longer a wild youth, but god's servant from that day forward. i have forgotten the famous bears, and all else.--i remember the percy lion on the bridge over the little river at alnwick,--the leaden lion with his tail stretched out straight like a pump-handle,--and why? because of the story of the village boy who must fain bestride the leaden tail, standing out over the water,--which breaking, he dropped into the stream far below, and was taken out an idiot for the rest of his life. arrow-heads must be brought to a sharp point, and the guillotine- axe must have a slanting edge. something intensely human, narrow, and definate pierces to the seat of our sensibilities more readily than huge occurrences and catastrophes. a nail will pick a lock that defies hatchet and hammer. "the royal george" went down with all her crew, and cowper wrote an exquisitely simple poem about it; but the leaf which holds it is smooth, while that which bears the lines on his mother's portrait is blistered with tears. my telling these recollections sets me thinking of others of the same kind which strike the imagination, especially when one is still young. you remember the monument in devizes market to the woman struck dead with a lie in her mouth. i never saw that, but it is in the books. here is one i never heard mentioned;--if any of the "note and query" tribe can tell the story, i hope they will. where is this monument? i was riding on an english stage-coach when we passed a handsome marble column (as i remember it) of considerable size and pretensions.--what is that?--i said.--that, --answered the coachman,--is the hangman's pillar. then he told me how a man went out one night, many years ago, to steal sheep. he caught one, tied its legs together, passed the rope over his head, and started for home. in climbing a fence, the rope slipped, caught him by the neck, and strangled him. next morning he was found hanging dead on one side of the fence and the sheep on the other; in memory whereof the lord of the manor caused this monument to be erected as a warning to all who love mutton better than virtue. i will send a copy of this record to him or her who shall first set me right about this column and its locality. and telling over these old stories reminds me that i have something which may interest architects and perhaps some other persons. i once ascended the spire of strasburg cathedral, which is the highest, i think, in europe. it is a shaft of stone filigree-work, frightfully open, so that the guide puts his arms behind you to keep you from falling. to climb it is a noonday nightmare, and to think of having climbed it crisps all the fifty-six joints of one's twenty digits. while i was on it, "pinnacled dim in the intense inane," a strong wind was blowing, and i felt sure that the spire was rocking. it swayed back and forward like a stalk of rye or a cat-o'nine-tails (bulrush) with a bobolink on it. i mentioned it to the guide, and he said that the spire did really swing back and forward,--i think he said some feet. keep any line of knowledge ten years and some other line will intersect it. long afterwards i was hunting out a paper of dumeril's in an old journal,--the "magazin encyclopedique" for l'an troisieme, ( ,) when i stumbled upon a brief article on the vibrations of the spire of strasburg cathedral. a man can shake it so that the movement shall be shown in a vessel of water nearly seventy feet below the summit, and higher up the vibration is like that of an earthquake. i have seen one of those wretched wooden spires with which we very shabbily finish some of our stone churches (thinking that the lidless blue eye of heaven cannot tell the counterfeit we try to pass on it,) swinging like a reed, in a wind, but one would hardly think of such a thing's happening in a stone spire. does the bunker-hill monument bend in the blast like a blade of grass? i suppose so. you see, of course, that i am talking in a cheap way;--perhaps we will have some philosophy by and by;--let me work out this thin mechanical vein.--i have something more to say about trees. i have brought down this slice of hemlock to show you. tree blew down in my woods (that were) in . twelve feet and a half round, fair girth;--nine feet, where i got my section, higher up. this is a wedge, going to the centre, of the general shape of a slice of apple-pie in a large and not opulent family. length, about eighteen inches. i have studied the growth of this tree by its rings, and it is curious. three hundred and forty-two rings. started, therefore, about . the thickness of the rings tells the rate at which it grew. for five or six years the rate was slow,--then rapid for twenty years. a little before the year it began to grow very slowly, and so continued for about seventy years. in it took a new start and grew fast until then for the most part slowly until , when it started again and grew pretty well and uniformly until within the last dozen years, when it seems to have got on sluggishly. look here. here are some human lives laid down against the periods of its growth, to which they corresponded. this is shakspeare's. the tree was seven inches in diameter when he was born; ten inches when he died. a little less than ten inches when milton was born; seventeen when he died. then comes a long interval, and this thread marks out johnson's life, during which the tree increased from twenty-two to twenty-nine inches in diameter. here is the span of napoleon's career;--the tree doesn't seem to have minded it. i never saw the man yet who was not startled at looking on this section. i have seen many wooden preachers,--never one like this. how much more striking would be the calendar counted on the rings of one of those awful trees which were standing when christ was on earth, and where that brief mortal life is chronicled with the stolid apathy of vegetable being, which remembers all human history as a thing of yesterday in its own dateless existence! i have something more to say about elms. a relative tells me there is one of great glory in andover, near bradford. i have some recollections of the former place, pleasant and other. [i wonder if the old seminary clock strikes as slowly as it used to. my room-mate thought, when he first came, it was the bell tolling deaths, and people's ages, as they do in the country. he swore --(ministers' sons get so familiar with good words that they are apt to handle them carelessly)--that the children were dying by the dozen, of all ages, from one to twelve, and ran off next day in recess, when it began to strike eleven, but was caught before the clock got through striking.] at the foot of "the hill," down in town, is, or was, a tidy old elm, which was said to have been hooped with iron to protect it from indian tomahawks, (credat hahnemannus,) and to have grown round its hoops and buried them in its wood. of course, this is not the tree my relative means. also, i have a very pretty letter from norwich, in connecticut, telling me of two noble elms which are to be seen in that town. one hundred and twenty-seven feet from bough-end to bough-end! what do you say to that? and gentle ladies beneath it, that love it and celebrate its praises! and that in a town of such supreme, audacious, alpine loveliness as norwich!--only the dear people there must learn to call it norridge, and not be misled by the mere accident of spelling. norwich. porchmouth. cincinnatah. what a sad picture of our civilization! i did not speak to you of the great tree on what used to be the colman farm, in deerfield, simply because i had not seen it for many years, and did not like to trust my recollection. but i had it in memory, and even noted down, as one of the finest trees in symmetry and beauty i had ever seen. i have received a document, signed by two citizens of a neighboring town, certified by the postmaster and a selectman, and these again corroborated, reinforced, and sworn to by a member of that extraordinary college-class to which it is the good fortune of my friend the professor to belong, who, though he has formerly been a member of congress, is, i believe, fully worthy of confidence. the tree "girts" eighteen and a half feet, and spreads over a hundred, and is a real beauty. i hope to meet my friend under its branches yet; if we don't have "youth at the prow," we will have "pleasure at the 'elm." and just now, again, i have got a letter about some grand willows in maine, and another about an elm in wayland, but too late for anything but thanks. [and this leads me to say, that i have received a great many communications, in prose and verse since i began printing these notes. the last came this very morning, in the shape of a neat and brief poem, from new orleans. i could not make any of them public, though sometimes requested to do so. some of them have given me great pleasure, and encouraged me to believe i had friends whose faces i had never seen. if you are pleased with anything a writer says, and doubt whether to tell him of it, do not hesitate; a pleasant word is a cordial to one, who perhaps thinks he is tiring you, and so becomes tired himself. i purr very loud over a good, honest letter that says pretty things to me.] --sometimes very young persons send communications which they want forwarded to editors; and these young persons do not always seem to have right conceptions of these same editors, and of the public, and of themselves. here is a letter i wrote to one of these young folks, but, on the whole, thought it best not to send. it is not fair to single out one for such sharp advice, where there are hundreds that are in need of it. dear sir,--you seem to be somewhat, but not a great deal, wiser than i was at your age. i don't wish to be understood as saying too much, for i think, without committing myself to any opinion on my present state, that i was not a solomon at that stage of development. you long to "leap at a single bound into celebrity." nothing is so common-place as to wish to be remarkable. fame usually comes to those who are thinking about something else,--very rarely to those who say to themselves, "go to, now, let us be a celebrated individual!" the struggle for fame, as such, commonly ends in notoriety;--that ladder is easy to climb, but it leads to the pillory which is crowded with fools who could not hold their tongues and rogues who could not hide their tricks. if you have the consciousness of genius, do something to show it. the world is pretty quick, nowadays, to catch the flavor of true originality; if you write anything remarkable, the magazines and newspapers will find you out, as the school-boys find out where the ripe apples and pears are. produce anything really good, and an intelligent editor will jump at it. don't flatter yourself that any article of yours is rejected because you are unknown to fame. nothing pleases an editor more than to get anything worth having from a new hand. there is always a dearth of really fine articles for a first-rate journal; for, of a hundred pieces received, ninety are at or below the sea-level; some have water enough, but no head; some head enough, but no water; only two or three are from full reservoirs, high up that hill which is so hard to climb. you may have genius. the contrary is of course probable, but it is not demonstrated. if you have, the world wants you more than you want it. it has not only a desire, but a passion, for every spark of genius that shows itself among us; there is not a bull-calf in our national pasture that can bleat a rhyme but it is ten to one, among his friends, and no takers, that he is the real, genuine, no-mistake osiris. qu'est ce qu'il a fait? what has he done? that was napoleon's test. what have you done? turn up the faces of your picture- cards, my boy! you need not make mouths at the public because it has not accepted you at your own fancy-valuation. do the prettiest thing you can and wait your time. for the verses you send me, i will not say they are hopeless, and i dare not affirm that they show promise. i am not an editor, but i know the standard of some editors. you must not expect to "leap with a single bound" into the society of those whom it is not flattery to call your betters. when "the pactolian" has paid you for a copy of verses,--(i can furnish you a list of alliterative signatures, beginning with annie aureole and ending with zoe zenith,)--when "the rag-bag" has stolen your piece, after carefully scratching your name out,--when "the nut-cracker" has thought you worth shelling, and strung the kernel of your cleverest poem, --then, and not till then, you may consider the presumption against you, from the fact of your rhyming tendency, as called in question, and let our friends hear from you, if you think it worth while. you may possibly think me too candid, and even accuse me of incivility; but let me assure you that i am not half so plain-spoken as nature, nor half so rude as time. if you prefer the long jolting of public opinion to the gentle touch of friendship, try it like a man. only remember this,--that, if a bushel of potatoes is shaken in a market-cart without springs to it, the small potatoes always get to the bottom. believe me, etc., etc. i always think of verse-writers, when i am in this vein; for these are by far the most exacting, eager, self-weighing, restless, querulous, unreasonable literary persons one is like to meet with. is a young man in the habit of writing verses? then the presumption is that he is an inferior person. for, look you, there are at least nine chances in ten that he writes poor verses. now the habit of chewing on rhymes without sense and soul to match them is, like that of using any other narcotic, at once a proof of feebleness and a debilitating agent. a young man can get rid of the presumption against him afforded by his writing verses only by convincing us that they are verses worth writing. all this sounds hard and rough, but, observe, it is not addressed to any individual, and of course does not refer to any reader of these pages. i would always treat any given young person passing through the meteoric showers which rain down on the brief period of adolescence with great tenderness. god forgive us if we ever speak harshly to young creatures on the strength of these ugly truths, and so sooner or later, smite some tender-souled poet or poetess on the lips who might have sung the world into sweet trances, had we not silenced the matin-song in its first low breathings! just as my heart yearns over the unloved, just so it sorrows for the ungifted who are doomed to the pangs of an undeceived self-estimate. i have always tried to be gentle with the most hopeless cases. my experience, however, has not been encouraging. --x. y., aet. , a cheaply-got-up youth, with narrow jaws, and broad, bony, cold, red hands, having been laughed at by the girls in his village, and "got the mitten" (pronounced mittin) two or three times, falls to souling and controlling, and youthing and truthing, in the newspapers. sends me some strings of verses, candidates for the orthopedic infirmary, all of them, in which i learn for the millionth time one of the following facts: either that something about a chime is sublime, or that something about time is sublime, or that something about a chime is concerned with time, or that something about a rhyme is sublime or concerned with time or with a chime. wishes my opinion of the same, with advice as to his future course. what shall i do about it? tell him the whole truth, and send him a ticket of admission to the institution for idiots and feeble-minded youth? one doesn't like to be cruel,--and yet one hates to lie. therefore one softens down the ugly central fact of donkeyism, --recommends study of good models,--that writing verse should be an incidental occupation only, not interfering with the hoe, the needle, the lapstone, or the ledger,--and, above all that there should be no hurry in printing what is written. not the least use in all this. the poetaster who has tasted type is done for. he is like the man who has once been a candidate for the presidency. he feeds on the madder of his delusion all his days, and his very bones grow red with the glow of his foolish fancy. one of these young brains is like a bunch of india crackers; once touch fire to it and it is best to keep hands off until it has done popping,--if it ever stops. i have two letters on file; one is a pattern of adulation, the other of impertinence. my reply to the first, containing the best advice i could give, conveyed in courteous language, had brought out the second. there was some sport in this, but dulness is not commonly a game fish, and only sulks after he is struck. you may set it down as a truth which admits of few exceptions, that those who ask your opinion really want your praise, and will be contented with nothing less. there is another kind of application to which editors, or those supposed to have access to them, are liable, and which often proves trying and painful. one is appealed to in behalf of some person in needy circumstances who wishes to make a living by the pen. a manuscript accompanying the letter is offered for publication. it is not commonly brilliant, too often lamentably deficient. if rachel's saying is true, that "fortune is the measure of intelligence," then poverty is evidence of limited capacity which it too frequently proves to be, notwithstanding a noble exception here and there. now an editor is a person under a contract with the public to furnish them with the best things he can afford for his money. charity shown by the publication of an inferior article would be like the generosity of claude duval and the other gentlemen highwaymen, who pitied the poor so much they robbed the rich to have the means of relieving them. though i am not and never was an editor, i know something of the trials to which they are submitted. they have nothing to do but to develope enormous calluses at every point of contact with authorship. their business is not a matter of sympathy, but of intellect. they must reject the unfit productions of those whom they long to befriend, because it would be a profligate charity to accept them. one cannot burn his house down to warm the hands even of the fatherless and the widow. the professor under chloroform. --you haven't heard about my friend the professor's first experiment in the use of anaesthetics, have you? he was mightily pleased with the reception of that poem of his about the chaise. he spoke to me once or twice about another poem of similar character he wanted to read me, which i told him i would listen to and criticize. one day, after dinner, he came in with his face tied up, looking very red in the cheeks and heavy about the eyes.--hy'r'ye?--he said, and made for an arm-chair, in which he placed first his hat and then his person, going smack through the crown of the former as neatly as they do the trick at the circus. the professor jumped at the explosion as if he had sat down on one of those small calthrops our grandfathers used to sow round in the grass when there were indians about,--iron stars, each ray a rusty thorn an inch and a half long,--stick through moccasins into feet,--cripple 'em on the spot, and give 'em lockjaw in a day or two. at the same time he let off one of those big words which lie at the bottom of the best man's vocabulary, but perhaps never turn up in his life,--just as every man's hair may stand on end, but in most men it never does. after he had got calm, he pulled out a sheet or two of manuscript, together with a smaller scrap, on which, as he said, he had just been writing an introduction or prelude to the main performance. a certain suspicion had come into my mind that the professor was not quite right, which was confirmed by the way he talked; but i let him begin. this is the way he read it:- prelude. i'm the fellah that tole one day the tale of the won'erful one-hoss-shay. wan' to hear another? say. --funny, wasn'it? made me laugh,-- i'm too modest, i am, by half,-- made me laugh's though i sh'd split,-- cahn' a fellah like fellah's own wit?-- --fellahs keep sayin',--"well, now that's nice; did it once, but cahn' do it twice."-- don' you b'lieve the'z no more fat; lots in the kitch'n 'z good 'z that. fus'-rate throw, 'n' no mistake,-- han' us the props for another shake;-- know i'll try, 'n' guess i'll win; here sh' goes for hit 'm ag'in! here i thought it necessary to interpose.--professor,--i said,--you are inebriated. the style of what you call your "prelude" shows that it was written under cerebral excitement. your articulation is confused. you have told me three times in succession, in exactly the same words, that i was the only true friend you had in the world that you would unbutton your heart to. you smell distinctly and decidedly of spirits.--i spoke, and paused; tender, but firm. two large tears orbed themselves beneath the professor's lids,--in obedience to the principle of gravitation celebrated in that delicious bit of bladdery bathos, "the very law that moulds a tear," with which the "edinburgh review" attempted to put down master george gordon when that young man was foolishly trying to make himself conspicuous. one of these tears peeped over the edge of the lid until it lost its balance,--slid an inch and waited for reinforcements,--swelled again,--rolled down a little further,--stopped,--moved on,--and at last fell on the back of the professor's hand. he held it up for me to look at, and lifted his eyes, brimful, till they met mine. i couldn't stand it,--i always break down when folks cry in my face,--so i hugged him, and said he was a dear old boy, and asked him kindly what was the matter with him, and what made him smell so dreadfully strong of spirits. upset his alcohol lamp,--he said,--and spilt the alcohol on his legs. that was it.--but what had he been doing to get his head into such a state?--had he really committed an excess? what was the matter?--then it came out that he had been taking chloroform to have a tooth out, which had left him in a very queer state, in which he had written the "prelude" given above, and under the influence of which he evidently was still. i took the manuscript from his hands and read the following continuation of the lines he had begun to read me, while he made up for two or three nights' lost sleep as he best might. parson turell's legacy: or the president's old arm-chair. a mathematical story. facts respecting an old arm-chair. at cambridge. is kept in the college there. seems but little the worse for wear. that's remarkable when i say it was old in president holyoke's day. (one of his boys, perhaps you know, died, at one hundred, years ago.) he took lodging for rain or shine under green bed-clothes in ' . know old cambridge? hope you do.-- born there? don't say so! i was, too. (born in a house with a gambrel-roof,-- standing still, if you must have proof.-- "gambrel?--gambrel?"--let me beg you'll look at a horse's hinder leg,-- first great angle above the hoof,-- that's the gambrel; hence gambrel-roof.) --nicest place that ever was seen,-- colleges red and common green, sidewalks brownish with trees between. sweetest spot beneath the skies when the canker-worms don't rise,-- when the dust, that sometimes flies into your mouth and ears and eyes. in a quiet slumber lies, not in the shape of unbaked pies such as barefoot children prize. a kind of harber it seems to be, facing the flow of a boundless sea. rows of gray old tutors stand ranged like rocks above the sand; rolling beneath them, soft and green, breaks the tide of bright sixteen,-- one wave, two waves, three waves, four, sliding up the sparkling floor; then it ebbs to flow no more, wandering off from shore to shore with its freight of golden ore! --pleasant place for boys to play;-- better keep your girls away; hearts get rolled as pebbles do which countless fingering waves pursue, and every classic beach is strown with heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red stone. but this is neither here nor there;-- i'm talking about an old arm-chair. you've heard, no doubt, of parson turell? over at medford he used to dwell; married one of the mathers' folk; got with his wife a chair of oak,-- funny old chair, with seat like wedge, sharp behind and broad front edge,-- one of the oddest of human things, turned all over with knobs and rings,-- but heavy, and wide, and deep, and grand,-- fit for the worthies of the land,-- chief-justice sewall a cause to try in, or cotton mather to sit--and lie--in. --parson turell bequeathed the same to a certain student,--smith by name; these were the terms, as we are told: "saide smith saide chaire to have and holde; when he doth graduate, then to passe to ye oldest youth in ye senior classe. on payment of"--(naming a certain sum)-- "by him to whom ye chaire shall come; he to ye oldest senior next, and soe forever,"--(thus runs the text,)-- "but one crown lesse then he gave to claime, that being his debte for use of same." smith transferred it to one of the browns, and took his money,--five silver crowns. brown delivered it up to moore, who paid, it is plain, not five, but four. moore made over the chair to lee, who gave him crowns of silver three. lee conveyed it unto drew, and now the payment, of course, was two. drew gave up the chair to dunn,-- all he got, as you see, was one. dunn released the chair to hall, and got by the bargain no crown at all. --and now it passed to a second brown, who took it, and likewise claimed a crown. when brown conveyed it unto ware, having had one crown, to make it fair, he paid him two crowns to take the chair; and ware, being honest, (as all wares be,) he paid one potter, who took it, three. four got robinson; five got dix; johnson primus demanded six; and so the sum kept gathering still till after the battle of bunker's hill --when paper money became so cheap, folks wouldn't count it, but said "a heap," a certain richards, the books declare, (a. m. in ' ? i've looked with care through the triennial,--name not there.) this person, richards, was offered then eight score pounds, but would have ten; nine, i think, was the sum he took,-- not quite certain,--but see the book. --by and by the wars were still, but nothing had altered the parson's will. the old arm-chair was solid yet, but saddled with such a monstrous debt! things grew quite too bad to bear, paying such sums to get rid of the chair! but dead men's fingers hold awful tight, and there was the will in black and white, plain enough for a child to spell. what should be done no man could tell, for the chair was a kind of nightmare curse, and every season but made it worse. as a last resort, to clear the doubt, they got old governor hancock out. the governor came, with his light-horse troop and his mounted truckmen, all cock-a-hoop; halberds glittered and colors flew, french horns whinnied and trumpets blew, the yellow fifes whistled between their teeth and the bumble-bee bass-drums boomed beneath; so he rode with all his band, till the president met him, cap in hand. --the governor "hefted" the crowns, and said,-- "a will is a will, and the parson's dead." the governor hefted the crowns. said he,-- "there is your p'int. and here's my fee. these are the terms you must fulfil,-- on such conditions i break the will!" the governor mentioned what these should be. (just wait a minute and then you'll see.) the president prayed. then all was still, and the governor rose and broke the will! --"about those conditions?" well, now you go and do as i tell you, and then you'll know. once a year, on commencement-day, if you'll only take the pains to stay, you'll see the president in the chair, likewise the governor sitting there. the president rises; both old and young may hear his speech in a foreign tongue, the meaning whereof, as lawyers swear, is this: can i keep this old arm-chair? and then his excellency bows, as much as to say that he allows. the vice-gub. next is called by name; he bows like t'other, which means the same. and all the officers round 'em bow, as much as to say that they allow. and a lot of parchments about the chair are handed to witnesses then and there, and then the lawyers hold it clear that the chair is safe for another year. god bless you, gentlemen! learn to give money to colleges while you live. don't be silly and think you'll try to bother the colleges, when you die, with codicil this, and codicil that, that knowledge may starve while law grows fat; for there never was pitcher that wouldn't spill, and there's always a flaw in a donkey's will! --hospitality is a good deal a matter of latitude, i suspect. the shade of a palm-tree serves an african for a hut; his dwelling is all door and no walls; everybody can come in. to make a morning call on an esquimaux acquaintance, one must creep through a long tunnel; his house is all walls and no door, except such a one as an apple with a worm-hole has. one might, very probably, trace a regular gradation between these two extremes. in cities where the evenings are generally hot, the people have porches at their doors, where they sit, and this is, of course, a provocative to the interchange of civilities. a good deal, which in colder regions is ascribed to mean dispositions, belongs really to mean temperature. once in a while, even in our northern cities, at noon, in a very hot summer's day, one may realize, by a sudden extension in his sphere of consciousness, how closely he is shut up for the most part.--do you not remember something like this? july, between and , p. m., fahrenheit degrees, or thereabout. windows all gaping, like the mouths of panting dogs. long, stinging cry of a locust comes in from a tree, half a mile off; had forgotten there was such a tree. baby's screams from a house several blocks distant;--never knew there were any babies in the neighborhood before. tinman pounding something that clatters dreadfully,--very distinct, but don't remember any tinman's shop near by. horses stamping on pavement to get off flies. when you hear these four sounds, you may set it down as a warm day. then it is that one would like to imitate the mode of life of the native at sierra leone, as somebody has described it: stroll into the market in natural costume,--buy a water-melon for a halfpenny,--split it, and scoop out the middle,--sit down in one half of the empty rind, clap the other on one's head, and feast upon the pulp. --i see some of the london journals have been attacking some of their literary people for lecturing, on the ground of its being a public exhibition of themselves for money. a popular author can print his lecture; if he deliver it, it is a case of quaestum corpore, or making profit of his person. none but "snobs" do that. ergo, etc. to this i reply,--negatur minor. her most gracious majesty, the queen, exhibits herself to the public as a part of the service for which she is paid. we do not consider it low-bred in her to pronounce her own speech, and should prefer it so to hearing it from any other person, or reading it. his grace and his lordship exhibit themselves very often for popularity, and their houses every day for money.--no, if a man shows himself other than he is, if he belittles himself before an audience for hire, then he acts unworthily. but a true word, fresh from the lips of a true man, is worth paying for, at the rate of eight dollars a day, or even of fifty dollars a lecture. the taunt must be an outbreak of jealousy against the renowned authors who have the audacity to be also orators. the sub-lieutenants (of the press) stick a too popular writer and speaker with an epithet in england, instead of with a rapier, as in france.--poh! all england is one great menagerie, and, all at once, the jackal, who admires the gilded cage of the royal beast, must protest against the vulgarity of the talking-bird's and the nightingale's being willing to become a part of the exhibition! the long path. (last of the parentheses.) yes, that was my last walk with the schoolmistress. it happened to be the end of a term; and before the next began, a very nice young woman, who had been her assistant, was announced as her successor, and she was provided for elsewhere. so it was no longer the schoolmistress that i walked with, but--let us not be in unseemly haste. i shall call her the schoolmistress still; some of you love her under that name. when it became known among the boarders that two of their number had joined hands to walk down the long path of life side by side, there was, as you may suppose, no small sensation. i confess i pitied our landlady. it took her all of a suddin,--she said. had not known that we was keepin company, and never mistrusted anything particular. ma'am was right to better herself. didn't look very rugged to take care of a femily, but could get hired haalp, she calc'lated.--the great maternal instinct came crowding up in her soul just then, and her eyes wandered until they settled on her daughter. --no, poor, dear woman,--that could not have been. but i am dropping one of my internal tears for you, with this pleasant smile on my face all the time. the great mystery of god's providence is the permitted crushing out of flowering instincts. life is maintained by the respiration of oxygen and of sentiments. in the long catalogue of scientific cruelties there is hardly anything quite so painful to think of as that experiment of putting an animal under the bell of an air-pump and exhausting the air from it. [i never saw the accursed trick performed. laus deo!] there comes a time when the souls of human beings, women, perhaps, more even than men, begin to faint for the atmosphere of the affections they were made to breathe. then it is that society places its transparent bell-glass over the young woman who is to be the subject of one of its fatal experiments. the element by which only the heart lives is sucked out of her crystalline prison. watch her through its transparent walls;--her bosom is heaving; but it is in a vacuum. death is no riddle, compared to this. i remember a poor girl's story in the "book of martyrs." the "dry-pan and the gradual fire" were the images that frightened her most. how many have withered and wasted under as slow a torment in the walls of that larger inquisition which we call civilization! yes, my surface-thought laughs at you, you foolish, plain, overdressed, mincing, cheaply-organized, self-saturated young person, whoever you may be, now reading this,--little thinking you are what i describe, and in blissful unconsciousness that you are destined to the lingering asphyxia of soul which is the lot of such multitudes worthier than yourself. but it is only my surface- thought which laughs. for that great procession of the unloved, who not only wear the crown of thorns, but must hide it under the locks of brown or gray,--under the snowy cap, under the chilling turban,--hide it even from themselves,--perhaps never know they wear it, though it kills them,--there is no depth of tenderness in my nature that pity has not sounded. somewhere,--somewhere,--love is in store for them,--the universe must not be allowed to fool them so cruelly. what infinite pathos in the small, half-unconscious artifices by which unattractive young persons seek to recommend themselves to the favor of those towards whom our dear sisters, the unloved, like the rest, are impelled by their god-given instincts! read what the singing-women--one to ten thousand of the suffering women--tell us, and think of the griefs that die unspoken! nature is in earnest when she makes a woman; and there are women enough lying in the next churchyard with very commonplace blue slate-stones at their head and feet, for whom it was just as true that "all sounds of life assumed one tone of love," as for letitia landon, of whom elizabeth browning said it; but she could give words to her grief, and they could not.--will you hear a few stanzas of mine? the voiceless. we count the broken lyres that rest where the sweet wailing singers slumber,-- but o'er their silent sister's breast the wild flowers who will stoop to number? a few can touch the magic string, and noisy fame is proud to win them;-- alas for those that never sing, but die with all their music in them! nay, grieve not for the dead alone whose song has told their hearts' sad story,-- weep for the voiceless, who have known the cross without the crown of glory! not where leucadian breezes sweep o'er sappho's memory-haunted billow, but where the glistening night-dews weep on nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. o hearts that break and give no sign save whitening lip and fading tresses, till death pours out his cordial wine slow-dropped from misery's crushing presses,-- if singing breath or echoing chord to every hidden pang were given, what endless melodies were poured, as sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! i hope that our landlady's daughter is not so badly off, after all. that young man from another city who made the remark which you remember about boston state-house and boston folks, has appeared at our table repeatedly of late, and has seemed to me rather attentive to this young lady. only last evening i saw him leaning over her while she was playing the accordion,--indeed, i undertook to join them in a song, and got as far as "come rest in this boo-oo," when, my voice getting tremulous, i turned off, as one steps out of a procession, and left the basso and soprano to finish it. i see no reason why this young woman should not be a very proper match for a man that laughs about boston state-house. he can't be very particular. the young fellow whom i have so often mentioned was a little free in his remarks, but very good-natured.--sorry to have you go,--he said.--school-ma'am made a mistake not to wait for me. haven't taken anything but mournin' fruit at breakfast since i heard of it.--mourning fruit,--said i,--what's that?--huckleberries and blackberries,--said he;--couldn't eat in colors, raspberries, currants, and such, after a solemn thing like this happening.--the conceit seemed to please the young fellow. if you will believe it, when we came down to breakfast the next morning, he had carried it out as follows. you know those odious little "saas-plates" that figure so largely at boarding-houses, and especially at taverns, into which a strenuous attendant female trowels little dabs, sombre of tint and heterogeneous of composition, which it makes you feel homesick to look at, and into which you poke the elastic coppery tea-spoon with the air of a cat dipping her foot into a wash-tub, --(not that i mean to say anything against them, for, when they are of tinted porcelain or starry many-faceted crystal, and hold clean bright berries, or pale virgin honey, or "lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon," and the teaspoon is of white silver, with the tower-stamp, solid, but not brutally heavy,--as people in the green stage of millionism will have them,--i can dally with their amber semi-fluids or glossy spherules without a shiver,)--you know these small, deep dishes, i say. when we came down the next morning, each of these (two only excepted) was covered with a broad leaf. on lifting this, each boarder found a small heap of solemn black huckleberries. but one of those plates held red currants, and was covered with a red rose; the other held white currants, and was covered with a white rose. there was a laugh at this at first, and then a short silence, and i noticed that her lip trembled, and the old gentleman opposite was in trouble to get at his bandanna handkerchief --"what was the use in waiting? we should be too late for switzerland, that season, if we waited much longer."--the hand i held trembled in mine, and the eyes fell meekly, as esther bowed herself before the feet of ahasuerus.--she had been reading that chapter, for she looked up,--if there was a film of moisture over her eyes there was also the faintest shadow of a distant smile skirting her lips, but not enough to accent the dimples,--and said, in her pretty, still way,--"if it please the king, and if i have found favor in his sight, and the thing seem right before the king, and i be pleasing in his eyes"-- i don't remember what king ahasuerus did or said when esther got just to that point of her soft, humble words,--but i know what i did. that quotation from scripture was cut short, anyhow. we came to a compromise on the great question, and the time was settled for the last day of summer. in the mean time, i talked on with our boarders, much as usual, as you may see by what i have reported. i must say, i was pleased with a certain tenderness they all showed toward us, after the first excitement of the news was over. it came out in trivial matters,--but each one, in his or her way, manifested kindness. our landlady, for instance, when we had chickens, sent the liver instead of the gizzard, with the wing, for the schoolmistress. this was not an accident; the two are never mistaken, though some landladies appear as if they did not know the difference. the whole of the company were even more respectfully attentive to my remarks than usual. there was no idle punning, and very little winking on the part of that lively young gentleman who, as the reader may remember, occasionally interposed some playful question or remark, which could hardly be considered relevant,--except when the least allusion was made to matrimony, when he would look at the landlady's daughter, and wink with both sides of his face, until she would ask what he was pokin' his fun at her for, and if he wasn't ashamed of himself. in fact, they all behaved very handsomely, so that i really felt sorry at the thought of leaving my boarding-house. i suppose you think, that, because i lived at a plain widow-woman's plain table, i was of course more or less infirm in point of worldly fortune. you may not be sorry to learn, that, though not what great merchants call very rich, i was comfortable, --comfortable,--so that most of those moderate luxuries i described in my verses on contentment--most of them, i say--were within our reach, if we chose to have them. but i found out that the schoolmistress had a vein of charity about her, which had hitherto been worked on a small silver and copper basis, which made her think less, perhaps, of luxuries than even i did,--modestly as i have expressed my wishes. it is a rather pleasant thing to tell a poor young woman, whom one has contrived to win without showing his rent-roll, that she has found what the world values so highly, in following the lead of her affections. that was an enjoyment i was now ready for. i began abruptly:--do you know that you are a rich young person? i know that i am very rich,--she said.--heaven has given me more than i ever asked; for i had not thought love was ever meant for me. it was a woman's confession, and her voice fell to a whisper as it threaded the last words. i don't mean that,--i said,--you blessed little saint and seraph! --if there's an angel missing in the new jerusalem, inquire for her at this boarding house!--i don't mean that! i mean that i--that is, you--am--are--confound it!--i mean that you'll be what most people call a lady of fortune. and i looked full in her eyes for the effect of the announcement. there wasn't any. she said she was thankful that i had what would save me from drudgery, and that some other time i should tell her about it.--i never made a greater failure in an attempt to produce a sensation. so the last day of summer came. it was our choice to go to the church, but we had a kind of reception at the boarding-house. the presents were all arranged, and among them none gave more pleasure than the modest tributes of our fellow-boarders,--for there was not one, i believe, who did not send something. the landlady would insist on making an elegant bride-cake, with her own hands; to which master benjamin franklin wished to add certain embellishments out of his private funds,--namely, a cupid in a mouse-trap, done in white sugar, and two miniature flags with the stars and stripes, which had a very pleasing effect, i assure you. the landlady's daughter sent a richly bound copy of tupper's poems. on a blank leaf was the following, written in a very delicate and careful hand:- presented to . . . by . . . on the eve ere her union in holy matrimony. may sunshine ever beam o'er her! even the poor relative thought she must do something, and sent a copy of "the whole duty of man," bound in very attractive variegated sheepskin, the edges nicely marbled. from the divinity-student came the loveliest english edition of "keble's christian year." i opened it, when it came, to the fourth sunday in lent, and read that angelic poem, sweeter than anything i can remember since xavier's "my god, i love thee."--i am not a churchman,--i don't believe in planting oaks in flower-pots,--but such a poem as "the rosebud" makes one's heart a proselyte to the culture it grows from. talk about it as much as you like,--one's breeding shows itself nowhere more than in his religion. a man should be a gentleman in his hymns and prayers; the fondness for "scenes," among vulgar saints, contrasts so meanly with that-- "god only and good angels look behind the blissful scene,"- and that other,-- "he could not trust his melting soul but in his maker's sight,"-- that i hope some of them will see this, and read the poem, and profit by it. my laughing and winking young friend undertook to procure and arrange the flowers for the table, and did it with immense zeal. i never saw him look happier than when he came in, his hat saucily on one side, and a cheroot in his mouth, with a huge bunch of tea-roses, which he said were for "madam." one of the last things that came was an old square box, smelling of camphor, tied and sealed. it bore, in faded ink, the marks, "calcutta, ." on opening it, we found a white cashmere shawl with a very brief note from the dear old gentleman opposite, saying that he had kept this some years, thinking he might want it, and many more, not knowing what to do with it,--that he had never seen it unfolded since he was a young supercargo,--and now, if she would spread it on her shoulders, it would make him feel young to look at it. poor bridget, or biddy, our red-armed maid of all work! what must she do but buy a small copper breast-pin and put it under "schoolma'am's" plate that morning, at breakfast? and schoolma'am would wear it,--though i made her cover it, as well as i could, with a tea-rose. it was my last breakfast as a boarder, and i could not leave them in utter silence. good-by,--i said,--my dear friends, one and all of you! i have been long with you, and i find it hard parting. i have to thank you for a thousand courtesies, and above all for the patience and indulgence with which you have listened to me when i have tried to instruct or amuse you. my friend the professor (who, as well as my friend the poet, is unavoidably absent on this interesting occasion) has given me reason to suppose that he would occupy my empty chair about the first of january next. if he comes among you, be kind to him, as you have been to me. may the lord bless you all!--and we shook hands all round the table. half an hour afterwards the breakfast things and the cloth were gone. i looked up and down the length of the bare boards over which i had so often uttered my sentiments and experiences--and --yes, i am a man, like another. all sadness vanished, as, in the midst of these old friends of mine, whom you know, and others a little more up in the world, perhaps, to whom i have not introduced you, i took the schoolmistress before the altar from the hands of the old gentleman who used to sit opposite, and who would insist on giving her away. and now we two are walking the long path in peace together. the "schoolmistress" finds her skill in teaching called for again, without going abroad to seek little scholars. those visions of mine have all come true. i hope you all love me none the less for anything i have told you. farewell! the professor at the breakfast table by oliver wendell holmes, sr. preface to revised edition. the reader of to-day will not forget, i trust, that it is nearly a quarter of a century since these papers were written. statements which were true then are not necessarily true now. thus, the speed of the trotting horse has been so much developed that the record of the year when the fastest time to that date was given must be very considerably altered, as may be seen by referring to a note on page of the "autocrat." no doubt many other statements and opinions might be more or less modified if i were writing today instead of having written before the war, when the world and i were both more than a score of years younger. these papers followed close upon the track of the "autocrat." they had to endure the trial to which all second comers are subjected, which is a formidable ordeal for the least as well as the greatest. paradise regained and the second part of faust are examples which are enough to warn every one who has made a jingle fair hit with his arrow of the danger of missing when he looses "his fellow of the selfsame flight." there is good reason why it should be so. the first juice that runs of itself from the grapes comes from the heart of the fruit, and tastes of the pulp only; when the grapes are squeezed in the press the flow betrays the flavor of the skin. if there is any freshness in the original idea of the work, if there is any individuality in the method or style of a new author, or of an old author on a new track, it will have lost much of its first effect when repeated. still, there have not been wanting readers who have preferred this second series of papers to the first. the new papers were more aggressive than the earlier ones, and for that reason found a heartier welcome in some quarters, and met with a sharper antagonism in others. it amuses me to look back on some of the attacks they called forth. opinions which do not excite the faintest show of temper at this time from those who do not accept them were treated as if they were the utterances of a nihilist incendiary. it required the exercise of some forbearance not to recriminate. how a stray sentence, a popular saying, the maxim of some wise man, a line accidentally fallen upon and remembered, will sometimes help one when he is all ready to be vexed or indignant! one day, in the time when i was young or youngish, i happened to open a small copy of "tom jones," and glance at the title-page. there was one of those little engravings opposite, which bore the familiar name of "t. uwins," as i remember it, and under it the words "mr. partridge bore all this patiently." how many times, when, after rough usage from ill-mannered critics, my own vocabulary of vituperation was simmering in such a lively way that it threatened to boil and lift its lid and so boil over, those words have calmed the small internal effervescence! there is very little in them and very little of them; and so there is not much in a linchpin considered by itself, but it often keeps a wheel from coming off and prevents what might be a catastrophe. the chief trouble in offering such papers as these to the readers of to-day is that their heresies have become so familiar among intelligent people that they have too commonplace an aspect. all the lighthouses and land-marks of belief bear so differently from the way in which they presented themselves when these papers were written that it is hard to recognize that we and our fellow-passengers are still in the same old vessel sailing the same unfathomable sea and bound to the same as yet unseen harbor. but after all, there is not enough theology, good or bad, in these papers to cause them to be inscribed on the protestant index expurgatorius; and if they are medicated with a few questionable dogmas or antidogmas, the public has become used to so much rougher treatments, that what was once an irritant may now act as an anodyne, and the reader may nod over pages which, when they were first written, would have waked him into a paroxysm of protest and denunciation. november, . preface to the new edition this book is one of those which, if it lives for a number of decades, and if it requires any preface at all, wants a new one every ten years. the first preface to a book is apt to be explanatory, perhaps apologetic, in the expectation of attacks from various quarters. if the book is in some points in advance of public opinion, it is natural that the writer should try to smooth the way to the reception of his more or less aggressive ideas. he wishes to convince, not to offend,--to obtain a hearing for his thought, not to stir up angry opposition in those who do not accept it. there is commonly an anxious look about a first preface. the author thinks he shall be misapprehended about this or that matter, that his well-meant expressions will probably be invidiously interpreted by those whom he looks upon as prejudiced critics, and if he deals with living questions that he will be attacked as a destructive by the conservatives and reproached for his timidity by the noisier radicals. the first preface, therefore, is likely to be the weakest part of a work containing the thoughts of an honest writer. after a time the writer has cooled down from his excitement,--has got over his apprehensions, is pleased to find that his book is still read, and that he must write a new preface. he comes smiling to his task. how many things have explained themselves in the ten or twenty or thirty years since he came before his untried public in those almost plaintive paragraphs in which he introduced himself to his readers,--for the preface writer, no matter how fierce a combatant he may prove, comes on to the stage with his shield on his right arm and his sword in his left hand. the professor at the breakfast-table came out in the "atlantic monthly" and introduced itself without any formal preface. a quarter of a century later the preface of , which the reader has just had laid before him, was written. there is no mark of worry, i think, in that. old opponents had come up and shaken hands with the author they had attacked or denounced. newspapers which had warned their subscribers against him were glad to get him as a contributor to their columns. a great change had come over the community with reference to their beliefs. christian believers were united as never before in the feeling that, after all, their common object was to elevate the moral and religious standard of humanity. but within the special compartments of the great christian fold the marks of division have pronounced themselves in the most unmistakable manner. as an example we may take the lines of cleavage which have shown themselves in the two great churches, the congregational and the presbyterian, and the very distinct fissure which is manifest in the transplanted anglican church of this country. recent circumstances have brought out the fact of the great change in the dogmatic communities which has been going on silently but surely. the licensing of a missionary, the transfer of a professor from one department to another, the election of a bishop,--each of these movements furnishes evidence that there is no such thing as an air-tight reservoir of doctrinal finalities. the folding-doors are wide open to every protestant to enter all the privileged precincts and private apartments of the various exclusive religious organizations. we may demand the credentials of every creed and catechise all the catechisms. so we may discuss the gravest questions unblamed over our morning coffee-cups or our evening tea-cups. there is no rest for the protestant until he gives up his legendary anthropology and all its dogmatic dependencies. it is only incidentally, however, that the professor at the breakfast-table handles matters which are the subjects of religious controversy. the reader who is sensitive about having his fixed beliefs dealt with as if they were open to question had better skip the pages which look as if they would disturb his complacency. "faith" is the most precious of possessions, and it dislikes being meddled with. it means, of course, self-trust,--that is, a belief in the value of our, own opinion of a doctrine, of a church, of a religion, of a being, a belief quite independent of any evidence that we can bring to convince a jury of our fellow beings. its roots are thus inextricably entangled with those of self-love and bleed as mandrakes were said to, when pulled up as weeds. some persons may even at this late day take offence at a few opinions expressed in the following pages, but most of these passages will be read without loss of temper by those who disagree with them, and by-and-by they may be found too timid and conservative for intelligent readers, if they are still read by any. beverly farm, mass., june , . o. w. h. the professor at the breakfast-table. what he said, what he heard, and what he saw. i i intended to have signalized my first appearance by a certain large statement, which i flatter myself is the nearest approach to a universal formula, of life yet promulgated at this breakfast-table. it would have had a grand effect. for this purpose i fixed my eyes on a certain divinity-student, with the intention of exchanging a few phrases, and then forcing my court-card, namely, the great end of being.--i will thank you for the sugar,--i said.--man is a dependent creature. it is a small favor to ask,--said the divinity-student,--and passed the sugar to me. --life is a great bundle of little things,--i said. the divinity-student smiled, as if that were the concluding epigram of the sugar question. you smile,--i said.--perhaps life seems to you a little bundle of great things? the divinity-student started a laugh, but suddenly reined it back with a pull, as one throws a horse on his haunches.--life is a great bundle of great things,--he said. (now, then!) the great end of being, after all, is.... hold on!--said my neighbor, a young fellow whose name seems to be john, and nothing else,--for that is what they all call him,--hold on! the sculpin is go'n' to say somethin'. now the sculpin (cottus virginianus) is a little water-beast which pretends to consider itself a fish, and, under that pretext, hangs about the piles upon which west-boston bridge is built, swallowing the bait and hook intended for flounders. on being drawn from the water, it exposes an immense head, a diminutive bony carcass, and a surface so full of spines, ridges, ruffles, and frills, that the naturalists have not been able to count them without quarrelling about the number, and that the colored youth, whose sport they spoil, do not like to touch them, and especially to tread on them, unless they happen to have shoes on, to cover the thick white soles of their broad black feet. when, therefore, i heard the young fellow's exclamation, i looked round the table with curiosity to see what it meant. at the further end of it i saw a head, and a--a small portion of a little deformed body, mounted on a high chair, which brought the occupant up to a fair level enough for him to get at his food. his whole appearance was so grotesque, i felt for a minute as if there was a showman behind him who would pull him down presently and put up judy, or the hangman, or the devil, or some other wooden personage of the famous spectacle. i contrived to lose the first of his sentence, but what i heard began so: --by the frog-pond, when there were frogs in and the folks used to come down from the tents on section and independence days with their pails to get water to make egg-pop with. born in boston; went to school in boston as long as the boys would let me.--the little man groaned, turned, as if to look around, and went on.--ran away from school one day to see phillips hung for killing denegri with a logger-head. that was in flip days, when there were always two three loggerheads in the fire. i'm a boston boy, i tell you,--born at north end, and mean to be buried on copp's hill, with the good old underground people,--the worthylakes, and the rest of 'em. yes,--up on the old hill, where they buried captain daniel malcolm in a stone grave, ten feet deep, to keep him safe from the red-coats, in those old times when the world was frozen up tight and there was n't but one spot open, and that was right over faneuil all,--and black enough it looked, i tell you! there 's where my bones shall lie, sir, and rattle away when the big guns go off at the navy yard opposite! you can't make me ashamed of the old place! full crooked little streets;--i was born and used to run round in one of 'em-- --i should think so,--said that young man whom i hear them call "john,"--softly, not meaning to be heard, nor to be cruel, but thinking in a half-whisper, evidently.--i should think so; and got kinked up, turnin' so many corners.--the little man did not hear what was said, but went on,-- --full of crooked little streets; but i tell you boston has opened, and kept open, more turnpikes that lead straight to free thought and free speech and free deeds than any other city of live men or dead men,--i don't care how broad their streets are, nor how high their steeples! --how high is bosting meet'n'-house?--said a person with black whiskers and imperial, a velvet waistcoat, a guard-chain rather too massive, and a diamond pin so very large that the most trusting nature might confess an inward suggestion,--of course, nothing amounting to a suspicion. for this is a gentleman from a great city, and sits next to the landlady's daughter, who evidently believes in him, and is the object of his especial attention. how high?--said the little man.--as high as the first step of the stairs that lead to the new jerusalem. is n't that high enough? it is,--i said.--the great end of being is to harmonize man with the order of things, and the church has been a good pitch-pipe, and may be so still. but who shall tune the pitch-pipe? quis cus-(on the whole, as this quotation was not entirely new, and, being in a foreign language, might not be familiar to all the boarders, i thought i would not finish it.) --go to the bible!--said a sharp voice from a sharp-faced, sharp-eyed, sharp-elbowed, strenuous-looking woman in a black dress, appearing as if it began as a piece of mourning and perpetuated itself as a bit of economy. you speak well, madam,--i said;--yet there is room for a gloss or commentary on what you say. "he who would bring back the wealth of the indies must carry out the wealth of the indies." what you bring away from the bible depends to some extent on what you carry to it.--benjamin franklin! be so good as to step up to my chamber and bring me down the small uncovered pamphlet of twenty pages which you will find lying under the "cruden's concordance." [the boy took a large bite, which left a very perfect crescent in the slice of bread-and-butter he held, and departed on his errand, with the portable fraction of his breakfast to sustain him on the way.] --here it is. "go to the bible. a dissertation, etc., etc. by j. j. flournoy. athens, georgia, ." mr. flournoy, madam, has obeyed the precept which you have judiciously delivered. you may be interested, madam, to know what are the conclusions at which mr. j. j. flournoy of athens, georgia, has arrived. you shall hear, madam. he has gone to the bible, and he has come back from the bible, bringing a remedy for existing social evils, which, if it is the real specific, as it professes to be, is of great interest to humanity, and to the female part of humanity in particular. it is what he calls trigamy, madam, or the marrying of three wives, so that "good old men" may be solaced at once by the companionship of the wisdom of maturity, and of those less perfected but hardly less engaging qualities which are found at an earlier period of life. he has followed your precept, madam; i hope you accept his conclusions. the female boarder in black attire looked so puzzled, and, in fact, "all abroad," after the delivery of this "counter" of mine, that i left her to recover her wits, and went on with the conversation, which i was beginning to get pretty well in hand. but in the mean time i kept my eye on the female boarder to see what effect i had produced. first, she was a little stunned at having her argument knocked over. secondly, she was a little shocked at the tremendous character of the triple matrimonial suggestion. thirdly.--i don't like to say what i thought. something seemed to have pleased her fancy. whether it was, that, if trigamy should come into fashion, there would be three times as many chances to enjoy the luxury of saying, "no!" is more than i, can tell you. i may as well mention that b. f. came to me after breakfast to borrow the pamphlet for "a lady,"--one of the boarders, he said,--looking as if he had a secret he wished to be relieved of. --i continued.--if a human soul is necessarily to be trained up in the faith of those from whom it inherits its body, why, there is the end of all reason. if, sooner or later, every soul is to look for truth with its own eyes, the first thing is to recognize that no presumption in favor of any particular belief arises from the fact of our inheriting it. otherwise you would not give the mahometan a fair chance to become a convert to a better religion. the second thing would be to depolarize every fixed religious idea in the mind by changing the word which stands for it. --i don't know what you mean by "depolarizing" an idea,--said the divinity-student. i will tell you,--i said.---when a given symbol which represents a thought has lain for a certain length of time in the mind, it undergoes a change like that which rest in a certain position gives to iron. it becomes magnetic in its relations,--it is traversed by strange forces which did not belong to it. the word, and consequently the idea it represents, is polarized. the religious currency of mankind, in thought, in speech, and in print, consists entirely of polarized words. borrow one of these from another language and religion, and you will find it leaves all its magnetism behind it. take that famous word, o'm, of the hindoo mythology. even a priest cannot pronounce it without sin; and a holy pundit would shut his ears and run away from you in horror, if you should say it aloud. what do you care for o'm? if you wanted to get the pundit to look at his religion fairly, you must first depolarize this and all similar words for him. the argument for and against new translations of the bible really turns on this. skepticism is afraid to trust its truths in depolarized words, and so cries out against a new translation. i think, myself, if every idea our book contains could be shelled out of its old symbol and put into a new, clean, unmagnetic word, we should have some chance of reading it as philosophers, or wisdom-lovers, ought to read it,--which we do not and cannot now any more than a hindoo can read the "gayatri" as a fair man and lover of truth should do. when society has once fairly dissolved the new testament, which it never has done yet, it will perhaps crystallize it over again in new forms of language. i did n't know you was a settled minister over this parish,--said the young fellow near me. a sermon by a lay-preacher may be worth listening--i replied, calmly. --it gives the parallax of thought and feeling as they appear to the observers from two very different points of view. if you wish to get the distance of a heavenly body, you know that you must take two observations from remote points of the earth's orbit,--in midsummer and midwinter, for instance. to get the parallax of heavenly truths, you must take an observation from the position of the laity as well as of the clergy. teachers and students of theology get a certain look, certain conventional tones of voice, a clerical gait, a professional neckcloth, and habits of mind as professional as their externals. they are scholarly men and read bacon, and know well enough what the "idols of the tribe" are. of course they have their false gods, as all men that follow one exclusive calling are prone to do.--the clergy have played the part of the flywheel in our modern civilization. they have never suffered it to stop. they have often carried on its movement, when other moving powers failed, by the momentum stored in their vast body. sometimes, too, they have kept it back by their vis inertia, when its wheels were like to grind the bones of some old canonized error into fertilizers for the soil that yields the bread of life. but the mainspring of the world's onward religious movement is not in them, nor in any one body of men, let me tell you. it is the people that makes the clergy, and not the clergy that makes the people. of course, the profession reacts on its source with variable energy.--but there never was a guild of dealers or a company of craftsmen that did not need sharp looking after. our old friend, dr. holyoke, whom we gave the dinner to some time since, must have known many people that saw the great bonfire in harvard college yard. --bonfire?--shrieked the little man.--the bonfire when robert calef's book was burned? the same,--i said,--when robert calef the boston merchant's book was burned in the yard of harvard college, by order of increase mather, president of the college and minister of the gospel. you remember the old witchcraft revival of ' , and how stout master robert calef, trader of boston, had the pluck to tell the ministers and judges what a set of fools and worse than fools they were-- remember it?--said the little man.--i don't think i shall forget it, as long as i can stretch this forefinger to point with, and see what it wears. there was a ring on it. may i look at it?--i said. where it is,--said the little man;--it will never come off, till it falls off from the bone in the darkness and in the dust. he pushed the high chair on which he sat slightly back from the table, and dropped himself, standing, to the floor,--his head being only a little above the level of the table, as he stood. with pain and labor, lifting one foot over the other, as a drummer handles his sticks, he took a few steps from his place,--his motions and the deadbeat of the misshapen boots announcing to my practised eye and ear the malformation which is called in learned language talipes varus, or inverted club-foot. stop! stop!--i said,--let me come to you. the little man hobbled back, and lifted himself by the left arm, with an ease approaching to grace which surprised me, into his high chair. i walked to his side, and he stretched out the forefinger of his right hand, with the ring upon it. the ring had been put on long ago, and could not pass the misshapen joint. it was one of those funeral rings which used to be given to relatives and friends after the decease of persons of any note or importance. beneath a round fit of glass was a death's head. engraved on one side of this, "l. b. aet. ,"--on the other, "ob. " my grandmother's grandmother,--said the little man.--hanged for a witch. it does n't seem a great while ago. i knew my grandmother, and loved her. her mother was daughter to the witch that chief justice sewall hanged and cotton mather delivered over to the devil.--that was salem, though, and not boston. no, not boston. robert calef, the boston merchant, it was that blew them all to-- never mind where he blew them to,--i said; for the little man was getting red in the face, and i did n't know what might come next. this episode broke me up, as the jockeys say, out of my square conversational trot; but i settled down to it again. --a man that knows men, in the street, at their work, human nature in its shirt-sleeves, who makes bargains with deacons, instead of talking over texts with them, a man who has found out that there are plenty of praying rogues and swearing saints in the world,--above all, who has found out, by living into the pith and core of life, that all of the deity which can be folded up between the sheets of any human book is to the deity of the firmament, of the strata, of the hot aortic flood of throbbing human life, of this infinite, instantaneous consciousness in which the soul's being consists,--an incandescent point in the filament connecting the negative pole of a past eternity with the positive pole of an eternity that is to come,--that all of the deity which any human book can hold is to this larger deity of the working battery of the universe only as the films in a book of gold-leaf are to the broad seams and curdled lumps of ore that lie in unsunned mines and virgin placers,--oh!--i was saying that a man who lives out-of-doors, among live people, gets some things into his head he might not find in the index of his "body of divinity." i tell you what,--the idea of the professions' digging a moat round their close corporations, like that japanese one at jeddo, on the bottom of which, if travellers do not lie, you could put park street church and look over the vane from its side, and try to stretch another such spire across it without spanning the chasm,--that idea, i say, is pretty nearly worn out. now when a civilization or a civilized custom falls into senile dementia, there is commonly a judgment ripe for it, and it comes as plagues come, from a breath,--as fires come, from a spark. here, look at medicine. big wigs, gold-headed canes, latin prescriptions, shops full of abominations, recipes a yard long, "curing" patients by drugging as sailors bring a wind by whistling, selling lies at a guinea apiece,--a routine, in short, of giving unfortunate sick people a mess of things either too odious to swallow or too acrid to hold, or, if that were possible, both at once. --you don't know what i mean, indignant and not unintelligent country-practitioner? then you don't know the history of medicine,--and that is not my fault. but don't expose yourself in any outbreak of eloquence; for, by the mortar in which anaxarchus was pounded! i did not bring home schenckius and forestus and hildanus, and all the old folios in calf and vellum i will show you, to be bullied by the proprietor, of a "wood and bache," and a shelf of peppered sheepskin reprints by philadelphia editors. besides, many of the profession and i know a little something of each other, and you don't think i am such a simpleton as to lose their good opinion by saying what the better heads among them would condemn as unfair and untrue? now mark how the great plague came on the generation of drugging doctors, and in what form it fell. a scheming drug-vender, (inventive genius,) an utterly untrustworthy and incompetent observer, (profound searcher of nature,) a shallow dabbler in erudition, (sagacious scholar,) started the monstrous fiction (founded the immortal system) of homoeopathy. i am very fair, you see,---you can help yourself to either of these sets of phrases. all the reason in the world would not have had so rapid and general an effect on the public mind to disabuse it of the idea that a drug is a good thing in itself, instead of being, as it is, a bad thing, as was produced by the trick (system) of this german charlatan (theorist). not that the wiser part of the profession needed him to teach them; but the routinists and their employers, the "general practitioners," who lived by selling pills and mixtures, and their drug-consuming customers, had to recognize that people could get well, unpoisoned. these dumb cattle would not learn it of themselves, and so the murrain of homoeopathy fell on them. --you don't know what plague has fallen on the practitioners of theology? i will tell you, then. it is spiritualism. while some are crying out against it as a delusion of the devil, and some are laughing at it as an hysteric folly, and some are getting angry with it as a mere trick of interested or mischievous persons, spiritualism is quietly undermining the traditional ideas of the future state which have been and are still accepted,--not merely in those who believe in it, but in the general sentiment of the community, to a larger extent than most good people seem to be aware of. it need n't be true, to do this, any more than homoeopathy need, to do its work. the spiritualists have some pretty strong instincts to pry over, which no doubt have been roughly handled by theologians at different times. and the nemesis of the pulpit comes, in a shape it little thought of, beginning with the snap of a toe-joint, and ending with such a crack of old beliefs that the roar of it is heard in all the ministers' studies of christendom? sir, you cannot have people of cultivation, of pure character, sensible enough in common things, large-hearted women, grave judges, shrewd business-men, men of science, professing to be in communication with the spiritual world and keeping up constant intercourse with it, without its gradually reacting on the whole conception of that other life. it is the folly of the world, constantly, which confounds its wisdom. not only out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, but out of the mouths of fools and cheats, we may often get our truest lessons. for the fool's judgment is a dog-vane that turns with a breath, and the cheat watches the clouds and sets his weathercock by them,--so that one shall often see by their pointing which way the winds of heaven are blowing, when the slow-wheeling arrows and feathers of what we call the temples of wisdom are turning to all points of the compass. --amen!--said the young fellow called john--ten minutes by the watch. those that are unanimous will please to signify by holding up their left foot! i looked this young man steadily in the face for about thirty seconds. his countenance was as calm as that of a reposing infant. i think it was simplicity, rather than mischief, with perhaps a youthful playfulness, that led him to this outbreak. i have often noticed that even quiet horses, on a sharp november morning, when their coats are beginning to get the winter roughness, will give little sportive demi-kicks, with slight sudden elevation of the subsequent region of the body, and a sharp short whinny,--by no means intending to put their heels through the dasher, or to address the driver rudely, but feeling, to use a familiar word, frisky. this, i think, is the physiological condition of the young person, john. i noticed, however, what i should call a palpebral spasm, affecting the eyelid and muscles of one side, which, if it were intended for the facial gesture called a wink, might lead me to suspect a disposition to be satirical on his part. --resuming the conversation, i remarked,--i am, ex officio, as a professor, a conservative. for i don't know any fruit that clings to its tree so faithfully, not even a "froze-'n'-thaw" winter-apple, as a professor to the bough of which his chair is made. you can't shake him off, and it is as much as you can do to pull him off. hence, by a chain of induction i need not unwind, he tends to conservatism generally. but then, you know, if you are sailing the atlantic, and all at once find yourself in a current, and the sea covered with weeds, and drop your fahrenheit over the side and find it eight or ten degrees higher than in the ocean generally, there is no use in flying in the face of facts and swearing there is no such thing as a gulf-stream, when you are in it. you can't keep gas in a bladder, and you can't keep knowledge tight in a profession. hydrogen will leak out, and air will leak in, through india-rubber; and special knowledge will leak out, and general knowledge will leak in, though a profession were covered with twenty thicknesses of sheepskin diplomas. by jove, sir, till common sense is well mixed up with medicine, and common manhood with theology, and common honesty with law, we the people, sir, some of us with nut-crackers, and some of us with trip-hammers, and some of us with pile-drivers, and some of us coming with a whish! like air-stones out of a lunar volcano, will crash down on the lumps of nonsense in all of them till we have made powder of them--like aaron's calf. if to be a conservative is to let all the drains of thought choke up and keep all the soul's windows down,--to shut out the sun from the east and the wind from the west,--to let the rats run free in the cellar, and the moths feed their fill in the chambers, and the spiders weave their lace before the mirrors, till the soul's typhus is bred out of our neglect, and we begin to snore in its coma or rave in its delirium,--i, sir, am a bonnet-rouge, a red cap of the barricades, my friends, rather than a conservative. --were you born in boston, sir?--said the little man,--looking eager and excited. i was not,--i replied. it's a pity,--it's a pity,--said the little man;--it 's the place to be born in. but if you can't fix it so as to be born here, you can come and live here. old ben franklin, the father of american science and the american union, was n't ashamed to be born here. jim otis, the father of american independence, bothered about in the cape cod marshes awhile, but he came to boston as soon as he got big enough. joe warren, the first bloody ruffed-shirt of the revolution, was as good as born here. parson charming strolled along this way from newport, and stayed here. pity old sam hopkins hadn't come, too;--we'd have made a man of him,--poor, dear, good old christian heathen! there he lies, as peaceful as a young baby, in the old burying-ground! i've stood on the slab many a time. meant well,--meant well. juggernaut. parson charming put a little oil on one linchpin, and slipped it out so softly, the first thing they knew about it was the wheel of that side was down. t' other fellow's at work now, but he makes more noise about it. when the linchpin comes out on his side, there'll be a jerk, i tell you! some think it will spoil the old cart, and they pretend to say that there are valuable things in it which may get hurt. hope not,--hope not. but this is the great macadamizing place,--always cracking up something. cracking up boston folks,--said the gentleman with the diamond-pin, whom, for convenience' sake, i shall hereafter call the koh-i-noor. the little man turned round mechanically towards him, as maelzel's turk used to turn, carrying his head slowly and horizontally, as if it went by cogwheels.--cracking up all sorts of things,--native and foreign vermin included,--said the little man. this remark was thought by some of us to have a hidden personal application, and to afford a fair opening for a lively rejoinder, if the koh-i-noor had been so disposed. the little man uttered it with the distinct wooden calmness with which the ingenious turk used to exclaim, e-chec! so that it must have been heard. the party supposed to be interested in the remark was, however, carrying a large knife-bladeful of something to his mouth just then, which, no doubt, interfered with the reply he would have made. --my friend who used to board here was accustomed sometimes, in a pleasant way, to call himself the autocrat of the table,--meaning, i suppose, that he had it all his own way among the boarders. i think our small boarder here is like to prove a refractory subject, if i undertake to use the sceptre my friend meant to bequeath me, too magisterially. i won't deny that sometimes, on rare occasions, when i have been in company with gentlemen who preferred listening, i have been guilty of the same kind of usurpation which my friend openly justified. but i maintain, that i, the professor, am a good listener. if a man can tell me a fact which subtends an appreciable angle in the horizon of thought, i am as receptive as the contribution-box in a congregation of colored brethren. if, when i am exposing my intellectual dry-goods, a man will begin a good story, i will have them all in, and my shutters up, before he has got to the fifth "says he," and listen like a three-years' child, as the author of the "old sailor" says. i had rather hear one of those grand elemental laughs from either of our two georges, (fictitious names, sir or madam,) glisten to one of those old playbills of our college days, in which "tom and jerry" ("thomas and jeremiah," as the old greek professor was said to call it) was announced to be brought on the stage with whole force of the faculty, read by our frederick, (no such person, of course,) than say the best things i might by any chance find myself capable of saying. of course, if i come across a real thinker, a suggestive, acute, illuminating, informing talker, i enjoy the luxury of sitting still for a while as much as another. nobody talks much that does n't say unwise things,--things he did not mean to say; as no person plays much without striking a false note sometimes. talk, to me, is only spading up the ground for crops of thought. i can't answer for what will turn up. if i could, it would n't be talking, but "speaking my piece." better, i think, the hearty abandonment of one's self to the suggestions of the moment at the risk of an occasional slip of the tongue, perceived the instant it escapes, but just one syllable too late, than the royal reputation of never saying a foolish thing. --what shall i do with this little man?--there is only one thing to do,--and that is to let him talk when he will. the day of the "autocrat's" monologues is over. --my friend,--said i to the young fellow whom, as i have said, the boarders call "john,"--my friend,--i said, one morning, after breakfast,--can you give me any information respecting the deformed person who sits at the other end of the table? what! the sculpin?--said the young fellow. the diminutive person, with angular curvature of the spine,--i said, --and double talipes varus,--i beg your pardon,--with two club-feet. is that long word what you call it when a fellah walks so?--said the young man, making his fists revolve round an imaginary axis, as you may have seen youth of tender age and limited pugilistic knowledge, when they show how they would punish an adversary, themselves protected by this rotating guard,--the middle knuckle, meantime, thumb-supported, fiercely prominent, death-threatening. it is,--said i.--but would you have the kindness to tell me if you know anything about this deformed person? about the sculpin?--said the young fellow. my good friend,--said i,--i am sure, by your countenance, you would not hurt the feelings of one who has been hardly enough treated by nature to be spared by his fellows. even in speaking of him to others, i could wish that you might not employ a term which implies contempt for what should inspire only pity. a fellah 's no business to be so crooked,--said the young man called john. yes, yes,--i said, thoughtfully,--the strong hate the weak. it's all right. the arrangement has reference to the race, and not to the individual. infirmity must be kicked out, or the stock run down. wholesale moral arrangements are so different from retail!--i understand the instinct, my friend,--it is cosmic,--it is planetary,--it is a conservative principle in creation. the young fellow's face gradually lost its expression as i was speaking, until it became as blank of vivid significance as the countenance of a gingerbread rabbit with two currants in the place of eyes. he had not taken my meaning. presently the intelligence came back with a snap that made him wink, as he answered,--jest so. all right. a . put her through. that's the way to talk. did you speak to me, sir?--here the young man struck up that well-known song which i think they used to sing at masonic festivals, beginning, "aldiborontiphoscophornio, where left you chrononhotonthologos?" i beg your pardon,--i said;--all i meant was, that men, as temporary occupants of a permanent abode called human life, which is improved or injured by occupancy, according to the style of tenant, have a natural dislike to those who, if they live the life of the race as well as of the individual, will leave lasting injurious effects upon the abode spoken of, which is to be occupied by countless future generations. this is the final cause of the underlying brute instinct which we have in common with the herds. --the gingerbread-rabbit expression was coming on so fast, that i thought i must try again.--it's a pity that families are kept up, where there are such hereditary infirmities. still, let us treat this poor man fairly, and not call him names. do you know what his name is? i know what the rest of 'em call him,--said the young fellow.--they call him little boston. there's no harm in that, is there? it is an honorable term,--i replied.--but why little boston, in a place where most are bostonians? because nobody else is quite so boston all over as he is,--said the young fellow. "l. b. ob. ."--little boston let him be, when we talk about him. the ring he wears labels him well enough. there is stuff in the little man, or he would n't stick so manfully by this crooked, crotchety old town. give him a chance.--you will drop the sculpin, won't you?--i said to the young fellow. drop him?--he answered,--i ha'n't took him up yet. no, no,--the term,--i said,--the term. don't call him so any more, if you please. call him little boston, if you like. all right,--said the young fellow.--i would n't be hard on the poor little-- the word he used was objectionable in point of significance and of grammar. it was a frequent termination of certain adjectives among the romans,--as of those designating a person following the sea, or given to rural pursuits. it is classed by custom among the profane words; why, it is hard to say,--but it is largely used in the street by those who speak of their fellows in pity or in wrath. i never heard the young fellow apply the name of the odious pretended fish to the little man from that day forward. --here we are, then, at our boarding--house. first, myself, the professor, a little way from the head of the table, on the right, looking down, where the "autocrat" used to sit. at the further end sits the landlady. at the head of the table, just now, the koh-i-noor, or the gentleman with the diamond. opposite me is a venerable gentleman with a bland countenance, who as yet has spoken little. the divinity student is my neighbor on the right,--and further down, that young fellow of whom i have repeatedly spoken. the landlady's daughter sits near the koh-i-noor, as i said. the poor relation near the landlady. at the right upper corner is a fresh-looking youth of whose name and history i have as yet learned nothing. next the further left-hand corner, near the lower end of the table, sits the deformed person. the chair at his side, occupying that corner, is empty. i need not specially mention the other boarders, with the exception of benjamin franklin, the landlady's son, who sits near his mother. we are a tolerably assorted set,--difference enough and likeness enough; but still it seems to me there is something wanting. the landlady's daughter is the prima donna in the way of feminine attractions. i am not quite satisfied with this young lady. she wears more "jewelry," as certain young ladies call their trinkets, than i care to see on a person in her position. her voice is strident, her laugh too much like a giggle, and she has that foolish way of dancing and bobbing like a quill-float with a "minnum" biting the hook below it, which one sees and weeps over sometimes in persons of more pretensions. i can't help hoping we shall put something into that empty chair yet which will add the missing string to our social harp. i hear talk of a rare miss who is expected. something in the schoolgirl way, i believe. we shall see. --my friend who calls himself the autocrat has given me a caution which i am going to repeat, with my comment upon it, for the benefit of all concerned. professor,--said he, one day,--don't you think your brain will run dry before a year's out, if you don't get the pump to help the cow? let me tell you what happened to me once. i put a little money into a bank, and bought a check-book, so that i might draw it as i wanted, in sums to suit. things went on nicely for a time; scratching with a pen was as easy as rubbing aladdin's lamp; and my blank check-book seemed to be a dictionary of possibilities, in which i could find all the synonymes of happiness, and realize any one of them on the spot. a check came back to me at last with these two words on it,--no funds. my check-book was a volume of waste-paper. now, professor,--said he,--i have drawn something out of your bank, you know; and just so sure as you keep drawing out your soul's currency without making new deposits, the next thing will be, no funds,--and then where will you be, my boy? these little bits of paper mean your gold and your silver and your copper, professor; and you will certainly break up and go to pieces, if you don't hold on to your metallic basis. there is something in that,--said i.--only i rather think life can coin thought somewhat faster than i can count it off in words. what if one shall go round and dry up with soft napkins all the dew that falls of a june evening on the leaves of his garden? shall there be no more dew on those leaves thereafter? marry, yea,--many drops, large and round and full of moonlight as those thou shalt have absterged! here am i, the professor,--a man who has lived long enough to have plucked the flowers of life and come to the berries,--which are not always sad-colored, but sometimes golden-hued as the crocus of april, or rosy-cheeked as the damask of june; a man who staggered against books as a baby, and will totter against them, if he lives to decrepitude; with a brain full of tingling thoughts, such as they are, as a limb which we call "asleep," because it is so particularly awake, is of pricking points; presenting a key-board of nerve-pulps, not as yet tanned or ossified, to finger-touch of all outward agencies; knowing nothing of the filmy threads of this web of life in which we insects buzz awhile, waiting for the gray old spider to come along; contented enough with daily realities, but twirling on his finger the key of a private bedlam of ideals; in knowledge feeding with the fox oftener than with the stork,--loving better the breadth of a fertilizing inundation than the depth of narrow artesian well; finding nothing too small for his contemplation in the markings of the grammatophora subtilissima, and nothing too large in the movement of the solar system towards the star lambda of the constellation hercules;--and the question is, whether there is anything left for me, the professor, to suck out of creation, after my lively friend has had his straw in the bung-hole of the universe! a man's mental reactions with the atmosphere of life must go on, whether he will or no, as between his blood and the air he breathes. as to catching the residuum of the process, or what we call thought,--the gaseous ashes of burned-out thinking,--the excretion of mental respiration,--that will depend on many things, as, on having a favorable intellectual temperature about one, and a fitting receptacle.--i sow more thought-seeds in twenty-four hours' travel over the desert-sand along which my lonely consciousness paces day and night, than i shall throw into soil where it will germinate, in a year. all sorts of bodily and mental perturbations come between us and the due projection of our thought. the pulse-like "fits of easy and difficult transmission" seem to reach even the transparent medium through which our souls are seen. we know our humanity by its often intercepted rays, as we tell a revolving light from a star or meteor by its constantly recurring obscuration. an illustrious scholar once told me, that, in the first lecture he ever delivered, he spoke but half his allotted time, and felt as if he had told all he knew. braham came forward once to sing one of his most famous and familiar songs, and for his life could not recall the first line of it;--he told his mishap to the audience, and they screamed it at him in a chorus of a thousand voices. milton could not write to suit himself, except from the autumnal to the vernal equinox. one in the clothing-business, who, there is reason to suspect, may have inherited, by descent, the great poet's impressible temperament, let a customer slip through his fingers one day without fitting him with a new garment. "ah!" said he to a friend of mine, who was standing by, "if it hadn't been for that confounded headache of mine this morning, i'd have had a coat on that man, in spite of himself, before he left-the store." a passing throb, only,--but it deranged the nice mechanism required to persuade the accidental human being, x, into a given piece of broadcloth, a. we must take care not to confound this frequent difficulty of transmission of our ideas with want of ideas. i suppose that a man's mind does in time form a neutral salt with the elements in the universe for which it has special elective affinities. in fact, i look upon a library as a kind of mental chemist's shop filled with the crystals of all forms and hues which have come from the union of individual thought with local circumstances or universal principles. when a man has worked out his special affinities in this way, there is an end of his genius as a real solvent. no more effervescence and hissing tumult--as he pours his sharp thought on the world's biting alkaline unbeliefs! no more corrosion of the old monumental tablets covered with lies! no more taking up of dull earths, and turning them, first into clear solutions, and then into lustrous prisms! i, the professor, am very much like other men: i shall not find out when i have used up my affinities. what a blessed thing it is, that nature, when she invented, manufactured, and patented her authors, contrived to make critics out of the chips that were left! painful as the task is, they never fail to warn the author, in the most impressive manner, of the probabilities of failure in what he has undertaken. sad as the necessity is to their delicate sensibilities, they never hesitate to advertise him of the decline of his powers, and to press upon him the propriety of retiring before he sinks into imbecility. trusting to their kind offices, i shall endeavor to fulfil-- --bridget enters and begins clearing the table. --the following poem is my (the professor's) only contribution to the great department of ocean-cable literature. as all the poets of this country will be engaged for the next six weeks in writing for the premium offered by the crystal-palace company for the burns centenary, (so called, according to our benjamin franklin, because there will be nary a cent for any of us,) poetry will be very scarce and dear. consumers may, consequently, be glad to take the present article, which, by the aid of a latin tutor--and a professor of chemistry, will be found intelligible to the educated classes. de sauty an electro-chemical eclogue. professor. blue-nose. professor. tell me, o provincial! speak, ceruleo-nasal! lives there one de sauty extant now among you, whispering boanerges, son of silent thunder, holding talk with nations? is there a de sauty, ambulant on tellus, bifid-cleft like mortals, dormient in night-cap, having sight, smell, hearing, food-receiving feature three times daily patent? breathes there such a being, o ceruleo-nasal? or is he a mythus,--ancient word for "humbug," --such as livy told about the wolf that wet-nursed romulus and remus? was he born of woman, this alleged de sauty? or a living product of galvanic action, like the status bred in crosses flint-solution? speak, thou cyano-rhinal! blue-nose. many things thou askest, jackknife-bearing stranger, much-conjecturing mortal, pork-and-treacle-waster! pretermit thy whittling, wheel thine ear-flap toward me, thou shalt hear them answered. when the charge galvanic tingled through the cable, at the polar focus of the wire electric suddenly appeared a white-faced man among us called himself "de sauty." as the small opossum held in pouch maternal grasps the nutrient organ whence the term mammalia, so the unknown stranger held the wire electric, sucking in the current. when the current strengthened, bloomed the pale-faced stranger, took no drink nor victual, yet grew fat and rosy, and from time to time, in sharp articulation, said, "all right! de sauty." from the lonely station passed the utterance, spreading through the pines and hemlocks to the groves of steeples till the land was filled with loud reverberations of "all right! de sauty." when the current slackened, drooped the mystic stranger, faded, faded, faded, as the stream grew weaker, wasted to a shadow, with a hartshorn odor of disintegration. drops of deliquescence glistened on his forehead, whitened round his feet the dust of efflorescence, till one monday morning, when the flow suspended, there was no de sauty. nothing but a cloud of elements organic, c. o. h. n. ferrum, chor. flu. sil. potassa, calc. sod. phosph. mag. sulphur, mang.(?) alumin.(?) cuprum,(?) such as man is made of. born of stream galvanic, with it he had perished! there is no de sauty now there is no current! give us a new cable, then again we'll hear him cry, "all right! de sauty." ii back again!--a turtle--which means a tortoise--is fond of his shell; but if you put a live coal on his back, he crawls out of it. so the boys say. it is a libel on the turtle. he grows to his shell, and his shell is in his body as much as his body is in his shell.--i don't think there is one of our boarders quite so testudineous as i am. nothing but a combination of motives, more peremptory than the coal on the turtle's back, could have got me to leave the shelter of my carapace; and after memorable interviews, and kindest hospitalities, and grand sights, and huge influx of patriotic pride,--for every american owns all america,-- "creation's heir,--the world, the world is" his, if anybody's,--i come back with the feeling which a boned turkey might experience, if, retaining his consciousness, he were allowed to resume his skeleton. welcome, o fighting gladiator, and recumbent cleopatra, and dying warrior, whose classic outlines (reproduced in the calcined mineral of lutetia) crown my loaded shelves! welcome, ye triumphs of pictorial art (repeated by the magic graver) that look down upon me from the walls of my sacred cell! vesalius, as titian drew him, high-fronted, still-eyed, thick-bearded, with signet-ring, as beseems a gentleman, with book and carelessly-held eyeglass, marking him a scholar; thou, too, jan kuyper, commonly called jan praktiseer, old man of a century and seven years besides, father of twenty sons and two daughters, cut in copper by houbraken, bought from a portfolio on one of the paris quais; and ye three trees of rembrandt, black in shadow against the blaze of light; and thou rosy cottager of sir joshua, roses hinted by the peppery burin of bartolozzi; ye, too, of lower grades in nature, yet not unlovely for unrenowned, young bull of paulus potter, and sleeping cat of cornelius visscher; welcome once more to my eyes! the old books look out from the shelves, and i seem to read on their backs something asides their titles,--a kind of solemn greeting. the crimson carpet flushes warm under my feet. the arm-chair hugs me; the swivel-chair spins round with me, as if it were giddy with pleasure; the vast recumbent fauteuil stretches itself out under my weight, as one joyous with food and wine stretches in after-dinner laughter. the boarders were pleased to say that they were glad to get me back. one of them ventured a compliment, namely,--that i talked as if i believed what i said.--this was apparently considered something unusual, by its being mentioned. one who means to talk with entire sincerity,--i said,--always feels himself in danger of two things, namely,--an affectation of bluntness, like that of which cornwall accuses kent in "lear," and actual rudeness. what a man wants to do, in talking with a stranger, is to get and to give as much of the best and most real life that belongs to the two talkers as the time will let him. life is short, and conversation apt to run to mere words. mr. hue i think it is, who tells us some very good stories about the way in which two chinese gentlemen contrive to keep up a long talk without saying a word which has any meaning in it. something like this is occasionally heard on this side of the great wall. the best chinese talkers i know are some pretty women whom i meet from time to time. pleasant, airy, complimentary, the little flakes of flattery glimmering in their talk like the bits of gold-leaf in eau-de-vie de dantzic; their accents flowing on in a soft ripple,--never a wave, and never a calm; words nicely fitted, but never a colored phrase or a highly-flavored epithet; they turn air into syllables so gracefully, that we find meaning for the music they make as we find faces in the coals and fairy palaces in the clouds. there is something very odd, though, about this mechanical talk. you have sometimes been in a train on the railroad when the engine was detached a long way from the station you were approaching? well, you have noticed how quietly and rapidly the cars kept on, just as if the locomotive were drawing them? indeed, you would not have suspected that you were travelling on the strength of a dead fact, if you had not seen the engine running away from you on a side-track. upon my conscience, i believe some of these pretty women detach their minds entirely, sometimes, from their talk,--and, what is more, that we never know the difference. their lips let off the fluty syllables just as their fingers would sprinkle the music-drops from their pianos; unconscious habit turns the phrase of thought into words just as it does that of music into notes.--well, they govern the world for all that, these sweet-lipped women,--because beauty is the index of a larger fact than wisdom. --the bombazine wanted an explanation. madam,--said i,--wisdom is the abstract of the past, but beauty is the promise of the future. --all this, however, is not what i was going to say. here am i, suppose, seated--we will say at a dinner-table--alongside of an intelligent englishman. we look in each other's faces,--we exchange a dozen words. one thing is settled: we mean not to offend each other,--to be perfectly courteous,--more than courteous; for we are the entertainer and the entertained, and cherish particularly amiable feelings, to each other. the claret is good; and if our blood reddens a little with its warm crimson, we are none the less kind for it. i don't think people that talk over their victuals are like to say anything very great, especially if they get their heads muddled with strong drink before they begin jabberin'. the bombazine uttered this with a sugary sourness, as if the words had been steeped in a solution of acetate of lead.--the boys of my time used to call a hit like this a "side-winder." --i must finish this woman.-- madam,--i said,--the great teacher seems to have been fond of talking as he sat at meat. because this was a good while ago, in a far-off place, you forget what the true fact of it was,--that those were real dinners, where people were hungry and thirsty, and where you met a very miscellaneous company. probably there was a great deal of loose talk among the guests; at any rate, there was always wine, we may believe. whatever may be the hygienic advantages or disadvantages of wine,--and i for one, except for certain particular ends, believe in water, and, i blush to say it, in black tea,--there is no doubt about its being the grand specific against dull dinners. a score of people come together in all moods of mind and body. the problem is, in the space of one hour, more or less, to bring them all into the same condition of slightly exalted life. food alone is enough for one person, perhaps,--talk, alone, for another; but the grand equalizer and fraternizer, which works up the radiators to their maximum radiation, and the absorbents to their maximum receptivity, is now just where it was when the conscious water saw its lord and blushed, --when six great vessels containing water, the whole amounting to more than a hogshead-full, were changed into the best of wine. i once wrote a song about wine, in which i spoke so warmly of it, that i was afraid some would think it was written inter pocula; whereas it was composed in the bosom of my family, under the most tranquillizing domestic influences. --the divinity-student turned towards me, looking mischievous.--can you tell me,--he said,--who wrote a song for a temperance celebration once, of which the following is a verse? alas for the loved one, too gentle and fair the joys of the banquet to chasten and share! her eye lost its light that his goblet might shine, and the rose of her cheek was dissolved in his wine! i did,--i answered.--what are you going to do about it?--i will tell you another line i wrote long ago:-- don't be "consistent,"--but be simply true. the longer i live, the more i am satisfied of two things: first, that the truest lives are those that are cut rose-diamond-fashion, with many facets answering to the many-planed aspects of the world about them; secondly, that society is always trying in some way or other to grind us down to a single flat surface. it is hard work to resist this grinding-down action.--now give me a chance. better eternal and universal abstinence than the brutalities of those days that made wives and mothers and daughters and sisters blush for those whom they should have honored, as they came reeling home from their debauches! yet better even excess than lying and hypocrisy; and if wine is upon all our tables, let us praise it for its color and fragrance and social tendency, so far as it deserves, and not hug a bottle in the closet and pretend not to know the use of a wine-glass at a public dinner! i think you will find that people who honestly mean to be true really contradict themselves much more rarely than those who try to be "consistent." but a great many things we say can be made to appear contradictory, simply because they are partial views of a truth, and may often look unlike at first, as a front view of a face and its profile often do. here is a distinguished divine, for whom i have great respect, for i owe him a charming hour at one of our literary anniversaries, and he has often spoken noble words; but he holds up a remark of my friend the "autocrat,"--which i grieve to say he twice misquotes, by omitting the very word which gives it its significance,--the word fluid, intended to typify the mobility of the restricted will,--holds it up, i say, as if it attacked the reality of the self-determining principle, instead of illustrating its limitations by an image. now i will not explain any farther, still less defend, and least of all attack, but simply quote a few lines from one of my friend's poems, printed more than ten years ago, and ask the distinguished gentleman where he has ever asserted more strongly or absolutely the independent will of the "subcreative centre," as my heretical friend has elsewhere called man. --thought, conscience, will, to make them all thy own he rent a pillar from the eternal throne! --made in his image, thou must nobly dare the thorny crown of sovereignty to share. --think not too meanly of thy low estate; thou hast a choice; to choose is to create! if he will look a little closely, he will see that the profile and the full-face views of the will are both true and perfectly consistent! now let us come back, after this long digression, to the conversation with the intelligent englishman. we begin skirmishing with a few light ideas,--testing for thoughts,--as our electro-chemical friend, de sauty, if there were such a person, would test for his current; trying a little litmus-paper for acids, and then a slip of turmeric-paper for alkalies, as chemists do with unknown compounds; flinging the lead, and looking at the shells and sands it brings up to find out whether we are like to keep in shallow water, or shall have to drop the deep-sea line;--in short, seeing what we have to deal with. if the englishman gets his h's pretty well placed, he comes from one of the higher grades of the british social order, and we shall find him a good companion. but, after all, here is a great fact between us. we belong to two different civilizations, and, until we recognize what separates us, we are talking like pyramus and thisbe, without any hole in the wall to talk through. therefore, on the whole, if he were a superior fellow, incapable of mistaking it for personal conceit, i think i would let out the fact of the real american feeling about old-world folks. they are children to us in certain points of view. they are playing with toys we have done with for whole-generations. --------footnote: the more i have observed and reflected, the more limited seems to me the field of action of the human will. every act of choice involves a special relation between the ego and the conditions before it. but no man knows what forces are at work in the determination of his ego. the bias which decides his choice between two or more motives may come from some unsuspected ancestral source, of which he knows nothing at all. he is automatic in virtue of that hidden spring of reflex action, all the time having the feeling that he is self-determining. the story of elsie yenner, written-soon after this book was published, illustrates the direction in which my thought was moving. 'the imaginary subject of the story obeyed her will, but her will obeyed the mysterious antenatal poisoning influence. -------- that silly little drum they are always beating on, and the trumpet and the feather they make so much noise and cut such a figure with, we have not quite outgrown, but play with much less seriously and constantly than they do. then there is a whole museum of wigs, and masks, and lace-coats, and gold-sticks, and grimaces, and phrases, which we laugh at honestly, without affectation, that are still used in the old-world puppet-shows. i don't think we on our part ever understand the englishman's concentrated loyalty and specialized reverence. but then we do think more of a man, as such, (barring some little difficulties about race and complexion which the englishman will touch us on presently,) than any people that ever lived did think of him. our reverence is a great deal wider, if it is less intense. we have caste among us, to some extent; it is true; but there is never a collar on the american wolf-dog such as you often see on the english mastiff, notwithstanding his robust, hearty individuality. this confronting of two civilizations is always a grand sensation to me; it is like cutting through the isthmus and letting the two oceans swim into each other's laps. the trouble is, it is so difficult to let out the whole american nature without its self-assertion seeming to take a personal character. but i never enjoy the englishman so much as when he talks of church and king like manco capac among the peruvians. then you get the real british flavor, which the cosmopolite englishman loses. how much better this thorough interpenetration of ideas than a barren interchange of courtesies, or a bush-fighting argument, in which each man tries to cover as much of himself and expose as much of his opponent as the tangled thicket of the disputed ground will let him! ---my thoughts flow in layers or strata, at least three deep. i follow a slow person's talk, and keep a perfectly clear under-current of my own beneath it. under both runs obscurely a consciousness belonging to a third train of reflections, independent of the two others. i will try to write out a mental movement in three parts. a.---first voice, or mental soprano,--thought follows a woman talking. b.--second voice, or mental barytone,--my running accompaniment. c.--third voice, or mental basso,--low grumble of importunate self-repeating idea. a.--white lace, three skirts, looped with flowers, wreath of apple-blossoms, gold bracelets, diamond pin and ear-rings, the most delicious berthe you ever saw, white satin slippers-- b.--deuse take her! what a fool she is! hear her chatter! (look out of window just here.--two pages and a half of description, if it were all written out, in one tenth of a second.)--go ahead, old lady! (eye catches picture over fireplace.) there's that infernal family nose! came over in the "mayflower" on the first old fool's face. why don't they wear a ring in it? c.--you 'll be late at lecture,--late at lecture,--late,--late-- i observe that a deep layer of thought sometimes makes itself felt through the superincumbent strata, thus:--the usual single or double currents shall flow on, but there shall be an influence blending with them, disturbing them in an obscure way, until all at once i say,--oh, there! i knew there was something troubling me,--and the thought which had been working through comes up to the surface clear, definite, and articulates itself,--a disagreeable duty, perhaps, or an unpleasant recollection. the inner world of thought and the outer world of events are alike in this, that they are both brimful. there is no space between consecutive thoughts, or between the never-ending series of actions. all pack tight, and mould their surfaces against each other, so that in the long run there is a wonderful average uniformity in the forms of both thoughts and actions, just as you find that cylinders crowded all become hexagonal prisms, and spheres pressed together are formed into regular polyhedra. every event that a man would master must be mounted on the run, and no man ever caught the reins of a thought except as it galloped by him. so, to carry out, with another comparison, my remark about the layers of thought, we may consider the mind as it moves among thoughts or events, like a circus-rider whirling round with a great troop of horses. he can mount a fact or an idea, and guide it more or less completely, but he cannot stop it. so, as i said in another way at the beginning, he can stride two or three thoughts at once, but not break their steady walk, trot, or gallop. he can only take his foot from the saddle of one thought and put it on that of another. --what is the saddle of a thought? why, a word, of course.--twenty years after you have dismissed a thought, it suddenly wedges up to you through the press, as if it had been steadily galloping round and round all that time without a rider. the will does not act in the interspaces of thought, for there are no such interspaces, but simply steps from the back of one moving thought upon that of another. --i should like to ask,--said the divinity-student,--since we are getting into metaphysics, how you can admit space, if all things are in contact, and how you can admit time, if it is always now to something? --i thought it best not to hear this question. --i wonder if you know this class of philosophers in books or elsewhere. one of them makes his bow to the public, and exhibits an unfortunate truth bandaged up so that it cannot stir hand or foot,--as helpless, apparently, and unable to take care of itself, as an egyptian mummy. he then proceeds, with the air and method of a master, to take off the bandages. nothing can be neater than the way in which he does it. but as he takes off layer after layer, the truth seems to grow smaller and smaller, and some of its outlines begin to look like something we have seen before. at last, when he has got them all off, and the truth struts out naked, we recognize it as a diminutive and familiar acquaintance whom we have known in the streets all our lives. the fact is, the philosopher has coaxed the truth into his study and put all those bandages on; or course it is not very hard for him to take them off. still, a great many people like to watch the process,--he does it so neatly! dear! dear! i am ashamed to write and talk, sometimes, when i see how those functions of the large-brained, thumb-opposing plantigrade are abused by my fellow-vertebrates,--perhaps by myself. how they spar for wind, instead of hitting from the shoulder! --the young fellow called john arose and placed himself in a neat fighting attitude.--fetch on the fellah that makes them long words!--he said,--and planted a straight hit with the right fist in the concave palm of the left hand with a click like a cup and ball.--you small boy there, hurry up that "webster's unabridged!" the little gentleman with the malformation, before described, shocked the propriety of the breakfast-table by a loud utterance of three words, of which the two last were "webster's unabridged," and the first was an emphatic monosyllable.--beg pardon,--he added,--forgot myself. but let us have an english dictionary, if we are to have any. i don't believe in clipping the coin of the realm, sir! if i put a weathercock on my house, sir, i want it to tell which way the wind blows up aloft,--off from the prairies to the ocean, or off from the ocean to the prairies, or any way it wants to blow! i don't want a weathercock with a winch in an old gentleman's study that he can take hold of and turn, so that the vane shall point west when the great wind overhead is blowing east with all its might, sir! wait till we give you a dictionary; sir! it takes boston to do that thing, sir! --some folks think water can't run down-hill anywhere out of boston, --remarked the koh-i-noor. i don't know what some folks think so well as i know what some fools say,--rejoined the little gentleman.--if importing most dry goods made the best scholars, i dare say you would know where to look for 'em.--mr. webster could n't spell, sir, or would n't spell, sir,--at any rate, he did n't spell; and the end of it was a fight between the owners of some copyrights and the dignity of this noble language which we have inherited from our english fathers. language!--the blood of the soul, sir! into which our thoughts run and out of which they grow! we know what a word is worth here in boston. young sam adams got up on the stage at commencement, out at cambridge there, with his gown on, the governor and council looking on in the name of his majesty, king george the second, and the girls looking down out of the galleries, and taught people how to spell a word that was n't in the colonial dictionaries! r-e, re, s-i-s, sis, t-a-n-c-e, tance, resistance! that was in ' , and it was a good many years before the boston boys began spelling it with their muskets;--but when they did begin, they spelt it so loud that the old bedridden women in the english almshouses heard every syllable! yes, yes, yes,--it was a good while before those other two boston boys got the class so far along that it could spell those two hard words, independence and union! i tell you what, sir, there are a thousand lives, aye, sometimes a million, go to get a new word into a language that is worth speaking. we know what language means too well here in boston to play tricks with it. we never make a new word til we have made a new thing or a new thought, sir! then we shaped the new mould of this continent, we had to make a few. when, by god's permission, we abrogated the primal curse of maternity, we had to make a word or two. the cutwater of this great leviathan clipper, the occidental,--this thirty-wasted wind-and-steam wave-crusher,--must throw a little spray over the human vocabulary as it splits the waters of a new world's destiny! he rose as he spoke, until his stature seemed to swell into the fair human proportions. his feet must have been on the upper round of his high chair; that was the only way i could account for it. puts her through fast-rate,--said the young fellow whom the boarders call john. the venerable and kind-looking old gentleman who sits opposite said he remembered sam adams as governor. an old man in a brown coat. saw him take the chair on boston common. was a boy then, and remembers sitting on the fence in front of the old hancock house. recollects he had a glazed 'lectionbun, and sat eating it and looking down on to the common. lalocks flowered late that year, and he got a great bunch off from the bushes in the hancock front-yard. them 'lection-buns are no go,--said the young man john, so called.--i know the trick. give a fellah a fo'penny bun in the mornin', an' he downs the whole of it. in about an hour it swells up in his stomach as big as a football, and his feedin' 's spilt for that day. that's the way to stop off a young one from eatin' up all the 'lection dinner. salem! salem! not boston,--shouted the little man. but the koh-i-noor laughed a great rasping laugh, and the boy benjamin franklin looked sharp at his mother, as if he remembered the bun-experiment as a part of his past personal history. the little gentleman was holding a fork in his left hand. he stabbed a boulder of home-made bread with it, mechanically, and looked at it as if it ought to shriek. it did not,--but he sat as if watching it. --language is a solemn thing,--i said.--it grows out of life,--out of its agonies and ecstasies, its wants and its weariness. every language is a temple, in which the soul of those who speak it is enshrined. because time softens its outlines and rounds the sharp angles of its cornices, shall a fellow take a pickaxe to help time? let me tell you what comes of meddling with things that can take care of themselves.--a friend of mine had a watch given him, when he was a boy,--a "bull's eye," with a loose silver case that came off like an oyster-shell from its contents; you know them,--the cases that you hang on your thumb, while the core, or the real watch, lies in your hand as naked as a peeled apple. well, he began with taking off the case, and so on from one liberty to another, until he got it fairly open, and there were the works, as good as if they were alive,--crown-wheel, balance-wheel, and all the rest. all right except one thing,--there was a confounded little hair had got tangled round the balance-wheel. so my young solomon got a pair of tweezers, and caught hold of the hair very nicely, and pulled it right out, without touching any of the wheels,--when,--buzzzzzz! and the watch had done up twenty-four hours in double magnetic-telegraph time!--the english language was wound up to run some thousands of years, i trust; but if everybody is to be pulling at everything he thinks is a hair, our grandchildren will have to make the discovery that it is a hair-spring, and the old anglo-norman soul's-timekeeper will run down, as so many other dialects have done before it. i can't stand this meddling any better than you, sir. but we have a great deal to be proud of in the lifelong labors of that old lexicographer, and we must n't be ungrateful. besides, don't let us deceive ourselves,--the war of the dictionaries is only a disguised rivalry of cities, colleges, and especially of publishers. after all, it is likely that the language will shape itself by larger forces than phonography and dictionary-making. you may spade up the ocean as much as you like, and harrow it afterwards, if you can,--but the moon will still lead the tides, and the winds will form their surface. --do you know richardson's dictionary?--i said to my neighbor the divinity-student. haow?--said the divinity-student.--he colored, as he noticed on my face a twitch in one of the muscles which tuck up the corner of the mouth, (zygomaticus major,) and which i could not hold back from making a little movement on its own account. it was too late.--a country-boy, lassoed when he was a half-grown colt. just as good as a city-boy, and in some ways, perhaps, better,--but caught a little too old not to carry some marks of his earlier ways of life. foreigners, who have talked a strange tongue half their lives, return to the language of their childhood in their dying hours. gentlemen in fine linen, and scholars in large libraries, taken by surprise, or in a careless moment, will sometimes let slip a word they knew as boys in homespun and have not spoken since that time,--but it lay there under all their culture. that is one way you may know the country-boys after they have grown rich or celebrated; another is by the odd old family names, particularly those of the hebrew prophets, which the good old people have saddled them with. --boston has enough of england about it to make a good english dictionary,--said that fresh-looking youth whom i have mentioned as sitting at the right upper corner of the table. i turned and looked him full in the face,--for the pure, manly intonations arrested me. the voice was youthful, but full of character.--i suppose some persons have a peculiar susceptibility in the matter of voice.--hear this. not long after the american revolution, a young lady was sitting in her father's chaise in a street of this town of boston. she overheard a little girl talking or singing, and was mightily taken with the tones of her voice. nothing would satisfy her but she must have that little girl come and live in her father's house. so the child came, being then nine years old. until her marriage she remained under the same roof with the young lady. her children became successively inmates of the lady's dwelling; and now, seventy years, or thereabouts, since the young lady heard the child singing, one of that child's children and one of her grandchildren are with her in that home, where she, no longer young, except in heart, passes her peaceful days.--three generations linked together by so light a breath of accident! i liked--the sound of this youth's voice, i said, and his look when i came to observe him a little more closely. his complexion had something better than the bloom and freshness which had first attracted me;--it had that diffused tone which is a sure index of wholesome, lusty life. a fine liberal style of nature seemed to be: hair crisped, moustache springing thick and dark, head firmly planted, lips finished, as is commonly sees them in gentlemen's families, a pupil well contracted, and a mouth that opened frankly with a white flash of teeth that looked as if they could serve him as they say ethan allen's used to serve their owner,--to draw nails with. this is the kind of fellow to walk a frigate's deck and bowl his broadsides into the "gadlant thudnder-bomb," or any forty-port-holed adventurer who would like to exchange a few tons of iron compliments.--i don't know what put this into my head, for it was not till some time afterward i learned the young fellow had been in the naval school at annapolis. something had happened to change his plan of life, and he was now studying engineering and architecture in boston. when the youth made the short remark which drew my attention to him, the little deformed gentleman turned round and took a long look at him. good for the boston boy!--he said. i am not a boston boy,--said the youth, smiling,--i am a marylander. i don't care where you come from,--we'll make a boston man of you,--said the little gentleman. pray, what part of maryland did you come from, and how shall i call you? the poor youth had to speak pretty loud, as he was at the right upper corner of the table, and the little gentleman next the lower left-hand corner. his face flushed a little, but he answered pleasantly, telling who he was, as if the little man's infirmity gave him a right to ask any questions he wanted to. here is the place for you to sit,--said the little gentleman, pointing to the vacant chair next his own, at the corner. you're go'n' to have a young lady next you, if you wait till to-morrow,--said the landlady to him. he did not reply, but i had a fancy that he changed color. it can't be that he has susceptibilities with reference to a contingent young lady! it can't be that he has had experiences which make him sensitive! nature could not be quite so cruel as to set a heart throbbing in that poor little cage of ribs! there is no use in wasting notes of admiration. i must ask the landlady about him. these are some of the facts she furnished.--has not been long with her. brought a sight of furniture,--could n't hardly get some of it upstairs. has n't seemed particularly attentive to the ladies. the bombazine (whom she calls cousin something or other) has tried to enter into conversation with him, but retired with the impression that he was indifferent to ladies' society. paid his bill the other day without saying a word about it. paid it in gold,--had a great heap of twenty-dollar pieces. hires her best room. thinks he is a very nice little man, but lives dreadful lonely up in his chamber. wants the care of some capable nuss. never pitied anybody more in her life--never see a more interestin' person. --my intention was, when i began making these notes, to let them consist principally of conversations between myself and the other boarders. so they will, very probably; but my curiosity is excited about this little boarder of ours, and my reader must not be disappointed, if i sometimes interrupt a discussion to give an account of whatever fact or traits i may discover about him. it so happens that his room is next to mine, and i have the opportunity of observing many of his ways without any active movements of curiosity. that his room contains heavy furniture, that he is a restless little body and is apt to be up late, that he talks to himself, and keeps mainly to himself, is nearly all i have yet found out. one curious circumstance happened lately which i mention without drawing an absolute inference. being at the studio of a sculptor with whom i am acquainted, the other day, i saw a remarkable cast of a left arm. on my asking where the model came from, he said it was taken direct from the arm of a deformed person, who had employed one of the italian moulders to make the cast. it was a curious case, it should seem, of one beautiful limb upon a frame otherwise singularly imperfect--i have repeatedly noticed this little gentleman's use of his left arm. can he have furnished the model i saw at the sculptor's? --so we are to have a new boarder to-morrow. i hope there will be something pretty and pleasing about her. a woman with a creamy voice, and finished in alto rilievo, would be a variety in the boarding-house,--a little more marrow and a little less sinew than our landlady and her daughter and the bombazine-clad female, all of whom are of the turkey-drumstick style of organization. i don't mean that these are our only female companions; but the rest being conversational non-combatants, mostly still, sad feeders, who take in their food as locomotives take in wood and water, and then wither away from the table like blossoms that never came to fruit, i have not yet referred to them as individuals. i wonder what kind of young person we shall see in that empty chair to-morrow! --i read this song to the boarders after breakfast the other morning. it was written for our fellows;--you know who they are, of course. the boys. has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? if there has, take him out, without making a noise! hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite! old time is a liar! we're twenty to-night! we're twenty! we're twenty! who says we are more? he's tipsy,--young jackanapes!--show him the door! --"gray temples at twenty?"--yes! white, if we please; where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! was it snowing i spoke of? excuse the mistake! look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake; we want some new garlands for those we have shed, and these are white roses in place of the red! we've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told. of talking (in public) as if we were old; that boy we call doctor, ( ) and this we call judge ( ) --it's a neat little fiction,--of course it's all fudge. that fellow's the speaker, ( )--the one on the right; mr. mayor, ( ) my young one, how are you to-night? that's our "member of congress,"( ) we say when we chaff; there's the "reverend" ( ) what's his name?--don't make me laugh! that boy with the grave mathematical look( ) made believe he had written a wonderful book, and the royal society thought it was true! so they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too. there's a boy,--we pretend,--with a three-decker-brain that could harness a team with a logical chain: when he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, we called him "the justice,"--but now he's "the squire."( ) and there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,( ) fate tried to conceal him by naming him smith, but he shouted a song for the brave and the free, --just read on his medal,--"my country,--of thee!" you hear that boy laughing?--you think he's all fun, but the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; the children laugh loud as they troop to his call, and the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!( ) yes, we're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen, --and i sometimes have asked,--shall we ever be men? shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay, till the last dear companion drops smiling away? then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! the stars of its winter, the dews of its may! and when we have done with our life-lasting toys, dear father, take care of thy children, the boys! francis thomas. george tyler bigelow. francis boardman crowninshield. g. w. richardson. george thomas davis. james freeman clarke. benjamin peirce. iii [the professor talks with the reader. he tells a young girl's story.] when the elements that went to the making of the first man, father of mankind, had been withdrawn from the world of unconscious matter, the balance of creation was disturbed. the materials that go to the making of one woman were set free by the abstraction from inanimate nature of one man's-worth of masculine constituents. these combined to make our first mother, by a logical necessity involved in the previous creation of our common father. all this, mythically, illustratively, and by no means doctrinally or polemically. the man implies the woman, you will understand. the excellent gentleman whom i had the pleasure of setting right in a trifling matter a few weeks ago believes in the frequent occurrence of miracles at the present day. so do i. i believe, if you could find an uninhabited coral-reef island, in the middle of the pacific ocean, with plenty of cocoa-palms and bread-fruit on it, and put a handsome young fellow, like our marylander, ashore upon it, if you touched there a year afterwards, you would find him walking under the palm-trees arm in arm with a pretty woman. where would she come from? oh, that 's the miracle! --i was just as certain, when i saw that fine, high-colored youth at the upper right-hand corner of our table, that there would appear some fitting feminine counterpart to him, as if i had been a clairvoyant, seeing it all beforehand. --i have a fancy that those marylanders are just about near enough to the sun to ripen well.--how some of us fellows remember joe and harry, baltimoreans, both! joe, with his cheeks like lady-apples, and his eyes like black-heart cherries, and his teeth like the whiteness of the flesh of cocoanuts, and his laugh that set the chandelier-drops rattling overhead, as we sat at our sparkling banquets in those gay times! harry, champion, by acclamation, of the college heavy-weights, broad-shouldered, bull-necked, square-jawed, six feet and trimmings, a little science, lots of pluck, good-natured as a steer in peace, formidable as a red-eyed bison in the crack of hand-to-hand battle! who forgets the great muster-day, and the collision of the classic with the democratic forces? the huge butcher, fifteen stone,--two hundred and ten pounds,--good weight,--steps out like telamonian ajax, defiant. no words from harry, the baltimorean,--one of the quiet sort, who strike first; and do the talking, if there is any, afterwards. no words, but, in the place thereof, a clean, straight, hard hit, which took effect with a spank like the explosion of a percussion-cap, knocking the slayer of beeves down a sand-bank,--followed, alas! by the too impetuous youth, so that both rolled down together, and the conflict terminated in one of those inglorious and inevitable yankee clinches, followed by a general melee, which make our native fistic encounters so different from such admirably-ordered contests as that which i once saw at an english fair, where everything was done decently and in order; and the fight began and ended with such grave propriety, that a sporting parson need hardly have hesitated to open it with a devout petition, and, after it was over, dismiss the ring with a benediction. i can't help telling one more story about this great field-day, though it is the most wanton and irrelevant digression. but all of us have a little speck of fight underneath our peace and good-will to men, just a speck, for revolutions and great emergencies, you know,--so that we should not submit to be trodden quite flat by the first heavy-heeled aggressor that came along. you can tell a portrait from an ideal head, i suppose, and a true story from one spun out of the writer's invention. see whether this sounds true or not. admiral sir isaac coffin sent out two fine blood-horses, barefoot and serab by name, to massachusetts, something before the time i am talking of. with them came a yorkshire groom, a stocky little fellow, in velvet breeches, who made that mysterious hissing noise, traditionary in english stables, when he rubbed down the silken-skinned racers, in great perfection. after the soldiers had come from the muster-field, and some of the companies were on the village-common, there was still some skirmishing between a few individuals who had not had the fight taken out of them. the little yorkshire groom thought he must serve out somebody. so he threw himself into an approved scientific attitude, and, in brief, emphatic language, expressed his urgent anxiety to accommodate any classical young gentleman who chose to consider himself a candidate for his attentions. i don't suppose there were many of the college boys that would have been a match for him in the art which englishmen know so much more of than americans, for the most part. however, one of the sophomores, a very quiet, peaceable fellow, just stepped out of the crowd, and, running straight at the groom, as he stood there, sparring away, struck him with the sole of his foot, a straight blow, as if it had been with his fist, and knocked him heels over head and senseless, so that he had to be carried off from the field. this ugly way of hitting is the great trick of the french gavate, which is not commonly thought able to stand its ground against english pugilistic science. these are old recollections, with not much to recommend them, except, perhaps, a dash of life, which may be worth a little something. the young marylander brought them all up, you may remember. he recalled to my mind those two splendid pieces of vitality i told you of. both have been long dead. how often we see these great red-flaring flambeaux of life blown out, as it were, by a puff of wind,--and the little, single-wicked night-lamp of being, which some white-faced and attenuated invalid shades with trembling fingers, flickering on while they go out one after another, until its glimmer is all that is left to us of the generation to which it belonged! i told you that i was perfectly sure, beforehand, we should find some pleasing girlish or womanly shape to fill the blank at our table and match the dark-haired youth at the upper corner. there she sits, at the very opposite corner, just as far off as accident could put her from this handsome fellow, by whose side she ought, of course, to be sitting. one of the "positive" blondes, as my friend, you may remember, used to call them. tawny-haired, amber-eyed, full-throated, skin as white as a blanched almond. looks dreamy to me, not self-conscious, though a black ribbon round her neck sets it off as a marie-antoinette's diamond-necklace could not do. so in her dress, there is a harmony of tints that looks as if an artist had run his eye over her and given a hint or two like the finishing touch to a picture. i can't help being struck with her, for she is at once rounded and fine in feature, looks calm, as blondes are apt to, and as if she might run wild, if she were trifled with. it is just as i knew it would be,--and anybody can see that our young marylander will be dead in love with her in a week. then if that little man would only turn out immensely rich and have the good-nature to die and leave them all his money, it would be as nice as a three-volume novel. the little gentleman is in a flurry, i suspect, with the excitement of having such a charming neighbor next him. i judge so mainly by his silence and by a certain rapt and serious look on his face, as if he were thinking of something that had happened, or that might happen, or that ought to happen,--or how beautiful her young life looked, or how hardly nature had dealt with him, or something which struck him silent, at any rate. i made several conversational openings for him, but he did not fire up as he often does. i even went so far as to indulge in, a fling at the state house, which, as we all know, is in truth a very imposing structure, covering less ground than st. peter's, but of similar general effect. the little man looked up, but did not reply to my taunt. he said to the young lady, however, that the state house was the parthenon of our acropolis, which seemed to please her, for she smiled, and he reddened a little,--so i thought. i don't think it right to watch persons who are the subjects of special infirmity,--but we all do it. i see that they have crowded the chairs a little at that end of the table, to make room for another newcomer of the lady sort. a well-mounted, middle-aged preparation, wearing her hair without a cap, --pretty wide in the parting, though,--contours vaguely hinted, --features very quiet,--says little as yet, but seems to keep her eye on the young lady, as if having some responsibility for her my record is a blank for some days after this. in the mean time i have contrived to make out the person and the story of our young lady, who, according to appearances, ought to furnish us a heroine for a boarding-house romance before a year is out. it is very curious that she should prove connected with a person many of us have heard of. yet, curious as it is, i have been a hundred times struck with the circumstance that the most remote facts are constantly striking each other; just as vessels starting from ports thousands of miles apart pass close to each other in the naked breadth of the ocean, nay, sometimes even touch, in the dark, with a crack of timbers, a gurgling of water, a cry of startled sleepers,--a cry mysteriously echoed in warning dreams, as the wife of some gloucester fisherman, some coasting skipper, wakes with a shriek, calls the name of her husband, and sinks back to uneasy slumbers upon her lonely pillow,--a widow. oh, these mysterious meetings! leaving all the vague, waste, endless spaces of the washing desert, the ocean-steamer and the fishing-smack sail straight towards each other as if they ran in grooves ploughed for them in the waters from the beginning of creation! not only things and events, but our own thoughts, are so full of these surprises, that, if there were a reader in my parish who did not recognize the familiar occurrence of what i am now going to mention, i should think it a case for the missionaries of the society for the propagation of intelligence among the comfortable classes. there are about as many twins in the births of thought as of children. for the first time in your lives you learn some fact or come across some idea. within an hour, a day, a week, that same fact or idea strikes you from another quarter. it seems as if it had passed into space and bounded back upon you as an echo from the blank wall that shuts in the world of thought. yet no possible connection exists between the two channels by which the thought or the fact arrived. let me give an infinitesimal illustration. one of the boys mentioned, the other evening, in the course of a very pleasant poem he read us, a little trick of the commons-table boarders, which i, nourished at the parental board, had never heard of. young fellows being always hungry--allow me to stop dead-short, in order to utter an aphorism which has been forming itself in one of the blank interior spaces of my intelligence, like a crystal in the cavity of a geode. aphorism by the professor. in order to know whether a human being is young or old, offer it food of different kinds at short intervals. if young, it will eat anything at any hour of the day or night. if old, it observes stated periods, and you might as well attempt to regulate the time of highwater to suit a fishing-party as to change these periods. the crucial experiment is this. offer a bulky and boggy bun to the suspected individual just ten minutes before dinner. if this is eagerly accepted and devoured, the fact of youth is established. if the subject of the question starts back and expresses surprise and incredulity, as if you could not possibly be in earnest, the fact of maturity is no less clear. --excuse me,--i return to my story of the commons-table.--young fellows being always hungry, and tea and dry toast being the meagre fare of the evening meal, it was a trick of some of the boys to impale a slice of meat upon a fork, at dinner-time, and stick the fork holding it beneath the table, so that they could get it at tea-time. the dragons that guarded this table of the hesperides found out the trick at last, and kept a sharp look-out for missing forks;--they knew where to find one, if it was not in its place.--now the odd thing was, that, after waiting so many years to hear of this college trick, i should hear it mentioned a second time within the same twenty-four hours by a college youth of the present generation. strange, but true. and so it has happened to me and to every person, often and often, to be hit in rapid succession by these twinned facts or thoughts, as if they were linked like chain-shot. i was going to leave the simple reader to wonder over this, taking it as an unexplained marvel. i think, however, i will turn over a furrow of subsoil in it.--the explanation is, of course, that in a great many thoughts there must be a few coincidences, and these instantly arrest our attention. now we shall probably never have the least idea of the enormous number of impressions which pass through our consciousness, until in some future life we see the photographic record of our thoughts and the stereoscopic picture of our actions. there go more pieces to make up a conscious life or a living body than you think for. why, some of you were surprised when a friend of mine told you there were fifty-eight separate pieces in a fiddle. how many "swimming glands"--solid, organized, regularly formed, rounded disks taking an active part in all your vital processes, part and parcel, each one of them, of your corporeal being--do you suppose are whirled along, like pebbles in a stream, with the blood which warms your frame and colors your cheeks?--a noted german physiologist spread out a minute drop of blood, under the microscope, in narrow streaks, and counted the globules, and then made a calculation. the counting by the micrometer took him a week.--you have, my full-grown friend, of these little couriers in crimson or scarlet livery, running on your vital errands day and night as long as you live, sixty-five billions, five hundred and seventy thousand millions. errors excepted.--did i hear some gentleman say, "doubted? "--i am the professor. i sit in my chair with a petard under it that will blow me through the skylight of my lecture-room, if i do not know what i am talking about and whom i am quoting. now, my dear friends, who are putting your hands to your foreheads, and saying to yourselves that you feel a little confused, as if you had been waltzing until things began to whirl slightly round you, is it possible that you do not clearly apprehend the exact connection of all that i have been saying, and its bearing on what is now to come? listen, then. the number of these living elements in our bodies illustrates the incalculable multitude of our thoughts; the number of our thoughts accounts for those frequent coincidences spoken of; these coincidences in the world of thought illustrate those which we constantly observe in the world of outward events, of which the presence of the young girl now at our table, and proving to be the daughter of an old acquaintance some of us may remember, is the special example which led me through this labyrinth of reflections, and finally lands me at the commencement of this young girl's story, which, as i said, i have found the time and felt the interest to learn something of, and which i think i can tell without wronging the unconscious subject of my brief delineation. iris. you remember, perhaps, in some papers published awhile ago, an odd poem written by an old latin tutor? he brought up at the verb amo, i love, as all of us do, and by and by nature opened her great living dictionary for him at the word filia, a daughter. the poor man was greatly perplexed in choosing a name for her. lucretia and virginia were the first that he thought of; but then came up those pictured stories of titus livius, which he could never read without crying, though he had read them a hundred times. --lucretia sending for her husband and her father, each to bring one friend with him, and awaiting them in her chamber. to them her wrongs briefly. let them see to the wretch,--she will take care of herself. then the hidden knife flashes out and sinks into her heart. she slides from her seat, and falls dying. "her husband and her father cry aloud."--no, not lucretia. -virginius,--a brown old soldier, father of a nice girl. she engaged to a very promising young man. decemvir appius takes a violent fancy to her,--must have her at any rate. hires a lawyer to present the arguments in favor of the view that she was another man's daughter. there used to be lawyers in rome that would do such things.--all right. there are two sides to everything. audi alteram partem. the legal gentleman has no opinion,--he only states the evidence.--a doubtful case. let the young lady be under the protection of the honorable decemvir until it can be looked up thoroughly.--father thinks it best, on the whole, to give in. will explain the matter, if the young lady and her maid will step this way. that is the explanation,--a stab with a butcher's knife, snatched from a stall, meant for other lambs than this poor bleeding virginia. the old man thought over the story. then he must have one look at the original. so he took down the first volume and read it over. when he came to that part where it tells how the young gentleman she was engaged to and a friend of his took up the poor girl's bloodless shape and carried it through the street, and how all the women followed, wailing, and asking if that was what their daughters were coming to,--if that was what they were to get for being good girls,--he melted down into his accustomed tears of pity and grief, and, through them all, of delight at the charming latin of the narrative. but it was impossible to call his child virginia. he could never look at her without thinking she had a knife sticking in her bosom. dido would be a good name, and a fresh one. she was a queen, and the founder of a great city. her story had been immortalized by the greatest of poets,--for the old latin tutor clove to "virgilius maro," as he called him, as closely as ever dante did in his memorable journey. so he took down his virgil, it was the smooth-leafed, open-lettered quarto of baskerville,--and began reading the loves and mishaps of dido. it would n't do. a lady who had not learned discretion by experience, and came to an evil end. he shook his head, as he sadly repeated, "---misera ante diem, subitoque accensa furore;" but when he came to the lines, "ergo iris croceis per coelum roscida pennis mille trahens varios adverso sole colores," he jumped up with a great exclamation, which the particular recording angel who heard it pretended not to understand, or it might have gone hard with the latin tutor some time or other. "iris shall be her name!"--he said. so her name was iris. --the natural end of a tutor is to perish by starvation. it is only a question of time, just as with the burning of college libraries. these all burn up sooner or later, provided they are not housed in brick or stone and iron. i don't mean that you will see in the registry of deaths that this or that particular tutor died of well-marked, uncomplicated starvation. they may, even, in extreme cases, be carried off by a thin, watery kind of apoplexy, which sounds very well in the returns, but means little to those who know that it is only debility settling on the head. generally, however, they fade and waste away under various pretexts,--calling it dyspepsia, consumption, and so on, to put a decent appearance upon the case and keep up the credit of the family and the institution where they have passed through the successive stages of inanition. in some cases it takes a great many years to kill a tutor by the process in question. you see they do get food and clothes and fuel, in appreciable quantities, such as they are. you will even notice rows of books in their rooms, and a picture or two,--things that look as if they had surplus money; but these superfluities are the water of crystallization to scholars, and you can never get them away till the poor fellows effloresce into dust. do not be deceived. the tutor breakfasts on coffee made of beans, edulcorated with milk watered to the verge of transparency; his mutton is tough and elastic, up to the moment when it becomes tired out and tasteless; his coal is a sullen, sulphurous anthracite, which rusts into ashes, rather than burns, in the shallow grate; his flimsy broadcloth is too thin for winter and too thick for summer. the greedy lungs of fifty hot-blooded boys suck the oxygen from the air he breathes in his recitation-room. in short, he undergoes a process of gentle and gradual starvation. --the mother of little iris was not called electra, like hers of the old story, neither was her grandfather oceanus. her blood-name, which she gave away with her heart to the latin tutor, was a plain old english one, and her water-name was hannah, beautiful as recalling the mother of samuel, and admirable as reading equally well from the initial letter forwards and from the terminal letter backwards. the poor lady, seated with her companion at the chessboard of matrimony, had but just pushed forward her one little white pawn upon an empty square, when the black knight, that cares nothing for castles or kings or queens, swooped down upon her and swept her from the larger board of life. the old latin tutor put a modest blue stone at the head of his late companion, with her name and age and eheu! upon it,--a smaller one at her feet, with initials; and left her by herself, to be rained and snowed on,--which is a hard thing to do for those whom we have cherished tenderly. about the time that the lichens, falling on the stone, like drops of water, had spread into fair, round rosettes, the tutor had starved into a slight cough. then he began to draw the buckle of his black trousers a little tighter, and took in another reef in his never-ample waistcoat. his temples got a little hollow, and the contrasts of color in his cheeks more vivid than of old. after a while his walks fatigued him, and he was tired, and breathed hard after going up a flight or two of stairs. then came on other marks of inward trouble and general waste, which he spoke of to his physician as peculiar, and doubtless owing to accidental causes; to all which the doctor listened with deference, as if it had not been the old story that one in five or six of mankind in temperate climates tells, or has told for him, as if it were something new. as the doctor went out, he said to himself,--"on the rail at last. accommodation train. a good many stops, but will get to the station by and by." so the doctor wrote a recipe with the astrological sign of jupiter before it, (just as your own physician does, inestimable reader, as you will see, if you look at his next prescription,) and departed, saying he would look in occasionally. after this, the latin tutor began the usual course of "getting better," until he got so much better that his face was very sharp, and when he smiled, three crescent lines showed at each side of his lips, and when he spoke; it was in a muffled whisper, and the white of his eye glistened as pearly as the purest porcelain, --so much better, that he hoped--by spring--he--might be able--to--attend------to his class again.--but he was recommended not to expose himself, and so kept his chamber, and occasionally, not having anything to do, his bed. the unmarried sister with whom he lived took care of him; and the child, now old enough to be manageable and even useful in trifling offices, sat in the chamber, or played, about. things could not go on so forever, of course. one morning his face was sunken and his hands were very, very cold. he was "better," he whispered, but sadly and faintly. after a while he grew restless and seemed a little wandering. his mind ran on his classics, and fell back on the latin grammar. "iris!" he said,--"filiola mea!"--the child knew this meant my dear little daughter as well as if it had been english.--"rainbow!" for he would translate her name at times,--"come to me,--veni"--and his lips went on automatically, and murmured, "vel venito!"--the child came and sat by his bedside and took his hand, which she could not warm, but which shot its rays of cold all through her slender frame. but there she sat, looking steadily at him. presently he opened his lips feebly, and whispered, "moribundus." she did not know what that meant, but she saw that there was something new and sad. so she began to cry; but presently remembering an old book that seemed to comfort him at times, got up and brought a bible in the latin version, called the vulgate. "open it," he said,--"i will read, segnius irritant,--don't put the light out,--ah! hoeret lateri,--i am going,--vale, vale, vale, goodbye, good-bye,--the lord take care of my child! domine, audi--vel audito!" his face whitened suddenly, and he lay still, with open eyes and mouth. he had taken his last degree. --little miss iris could not be said to begin life with a very brilliant rainbow over her, in a worldly point of view. a limited wardrobe of man's attire, such as poor tutors wear,--a few good books, principally classics,--a print or two, and a plaster model of the pantheon, with some pieces of furniture which had seen service,--these, and a child's heart full of tearful recollections and strange doubts and questions, alternating with the cheap pleasures which are the anodynes of childish grief; such were the treasures she inherited.--no,--i forgot. with that kindly sentiment which all of us feel for old men's first children,--frost-flowers of the early winter season, the old tutor's students had remembered him at a time when he was laughing and crying with his new parental emotions, and running to the side of the plain crib in which his alter egg, as he used to say, was swinging, to hang over the little heap of stirring clothes, from which looked the minute, red, downy, still, round face, with unfixed eyes and working lips,--in that unearthly gravity which has never yet been broken by a smile, and which gives to the earliest moon-year or two of an infant's life the character of a first old age, to counterpoise that second childhood which there is one chance in a dozen it may reach by and by. the boys had remembered the old man and young father at that tender period of his hard, dry life. there came to him a fair, silver goblet, embossed with classical figures, and bearing on a shield the graver words, ex dono pupillorum. the handle on its side showed what use the boys had meant it for; and a kind letter in it, written with the best of feeling, in the worst of latin, pointed delicately to its destination. out of this silver vessel, after a long, desperate, strangling cry, which marked her first great lesson in the realities of life, the child took the blue milk, such as poor tutors and their children get, tempered with water, and sweetened a little, so as to bring it nearer the standard established by the touching indulgence and partiality of nature,--who had mingled an extra allowance of sugar in the blameless food of the child at its mother's breast, as compared with that of its infant brothers and sisters of the bovine race. but a willow will grow in baked sand wet with rainwater. an air-plant will grow by feeding on the winds. nay, those huge forests that overspread great continents have built themselves up mainly from the air-currents with which they are always battling. the oak is but a foliated atmospheric crystal deposited from the aerial ocean that holds the future vegetable world in solution. the storm that tears its leaves has paid tribute to its strength, and it breasts the tornado clad in the spoils of a hundred hurricanes. poor little iris! what had she in common with the great oak in the shadow of which we are losing sight of her?--she lived and grew like that,--this was all. the blue milk ran into her veins and filled them with thin, pure blood. her skin was fair, with a faint tinge, such as the white rosebud shows before it opens. the doctor who had attended her father was afraid her aunt would hardly be able to "raise" her,--"delicate child,"--hoped she was not consumptive,--thought there was a fair chance she would take after her father. a very forlorn-looking person, dressed in black, with a white neckcloth, sent her a memoir of a child who died at the age of two years and eleven months, after having fully indorsed all the doctrines of the particular persuasion to which he not only belonged himself, but thought it very shameful that everybody else did not belong. what with foreboding looks and dreary death-bed stories, it was a wonder the child made out to live through it. it saddened her early years, of course,--it distressed her tender soul with thoughts which, as they cannot be fully taken in, should be sparingly used as instruments of torture to break down the natural cheerfulness of a healthy child, or, what is infinitely worse, to cheat a dying one out of the kind illusions with which the father of all has strewed its downward path. the child would have died, no doubt, and, if properly managed, might have added another to the long catalogue of wasting children who have been as cruelly played upon by spiritual physiologists, often with the best intentions, as ever the subject of a rare disease by the curious students of science. fortunately for her, however, a wise instinct had guided the late latin tutor in the selection of the partner of his life, and the future mother of his child. the deceased tutoress was a tranquil, smooth woman, easily nourished, as such people are,--a quality which is inestimable in a tutor's wife,--and so it happened that the daughter inherited enough vitality from the mother to live through childhood and infancy and fight her way towards womanhood, in spite of the tendencies she derived from her other parent. --two and two do not always make four, in this matter of hereditary descent of qualities. sometimes they make three, and sometimes five. it seems as if the parental traits at one time showed separate, at another blended,--that occasionally, the force of two natures is represented in the derivative one by a diagonal of greater value than either original line of living movement,--that sometimes there is a loss of vitality hardly to be accounted for, and again a forward impulse of variable intensity in some new and unforeseen direction. so it was with this child. she had glanced off from her parental probabilities at an unexpected angle. instead of taking to classical learning like her father, or sliding quietly into household duties like her mother, she broke out early in efforts that pointed in the direction of art. as soon as she could hold a pencil she began to sketch outlines of objects round her with a certain air and spirit. very extraordinary horses, but their legs looked as if they could move. birds unknown to audubon, yet flying, as it were, with a rush. men with impossible legs, which did yet seem to have a vital connection with their most improbable bodies. by-and-by the doctor, on his beast,--an old man with a face looking as if time had kneaded it like dough with his knuckles, with a rhubarb tint and flavor pervading himself and his sorrel horse and all their appurtenances. a dreadful old man! be sure she did not forget those saddle-bags that held the detestable bottles out of which he used to shake those loathsome powders which, to virgin childish palates that find heaven in strawberries and peaches, are--well, i suppose i had better stop. only she wished she was dead sometimes when she heard him coming. on the next leaf would figure the gentleman with the black coat and white cravat, as he looked when he came and entertained her with stories concerning the death of various little children about her age, to encourage her, as that wicked mr. arouet said about shooting admiral byng. then she would take her pencil, and with a few scratches there would be the outline of a child, in which you might notice how one sudden sweep gave the chubby cheek, and two dots darted at the paper looked like real eyes. by-and-by she went to school, and caricatured the schoolmaster on the leaves of her grammars and geographies, and drew the faces of her companions, and, from time to time, heads and figures from her fancy, with large eyes, far apart, like those of raffaelle's mothers and children, sometimes with wild floating hair, and then with wings and heads thrown back in ecstasy. this was at about twelve years old, as the dates of these drawings show, and, therefore, three or four years before she came among us. soon after this time, the ideal figures began to take the place of portraits and caricatures, and a new feature appeared in her drawing-books in the form of fragments of verse and short poems. it was dull work, of course, for such a young girl to live with an old spinster and go to a village school. her books bore testimony to this; for there was a look of sadness in the faces she drew, and a sense of weariness and longing for some imaginary conditions of blessedness or other, which began to be painful. she might have gone through this flowering of the soul, and, casting her petals, subsided into a sober, human berry, but for the intervention of friendly assistance and counsel. in the town where she lived was a lady of honorable condition, somewhat past middle age, who was possessed of pretty ample means, of cultivated tastes, of excellent principles, of exemplary character, and of more than common accomplishments. the gentleman in black broadcloth and white neckerchief only echoed the common voice about her, when he called her, after enjoying, beneath her hospitable roof, an excellent cup of tea, with certain elegancies and luxuries he was unaccustomed to, "the model of all the virtues." she deserved this title as well as almost any woman. she did really bristle with moral excellences. mention any good thing she had not done; i should like to see you try! there was no handle of weakness to take hold of her by; she was as unseizable, except in her totality, as a billiard-ball; and on the broad, green, terrestrial table, where she had been knocked about, like all of us, by the cue of fortune, she glanced from every human contact, and "caromed" from one relation to another, and rebounded from the stuffed cushion of temptation, with such exact and perfect angular movements, that the enemy's corps of reporters had long given up taking notes of her conduct, as there was no chance for their master. what an admirable person for the patroness and directress of a slightly self-willed child, with the lightning zigzag line of genius running like a glittering vein through the marble whiteness of her virgin nature! one of the lady-patroness's peculiar virtues was calmness. she was resolute and strenuous, but still. you could depend on her for every duty; she was as true as steel. she was kind-hearted and serviceable in all the relations of life. she had more sense, more knowledge, more conversation, as well as more goodness, than all the partners you have waltzed with this winter put together. yet no man was known to have loved her, or even to have offered himself to her in marriage. it was a great wonder. i am very anxious to vindicate my character as a philosopher and an observer of nature by accounting for this apparently extraordinary fact. you may remember certain persons who have the misfortune of presenting to the friends whom they meet a cold, damp hand. there are states of mind in which a contact of this kind has a depressing effect on the vital powers that makes us insensible to all the virtues and graces of the proprietor of one of these life-absorbing organs. when they touch us, virtue passes out of us, and we feel as if our electricity had been drained by a powerful negative battery, carried about by an overgrown human torpedo. "the model of all the virtues" had a pair of searching eyes as clear as wenham ice; but they were slower to melt than that fickle jewelry. her features disordered themselves slightly at times in a surface-smile, but never broke loose from their corners and indulged in the riotous tumult of a laugh,--which, i take it, is the mob-law of the features;--and propriety the magistrate who reads the riot-act. she carried the brimming cup of her inestimable virtues with a cautious, steady hand, and an eye always on them, to see that they did not spill. then she was an admirable judge of character. her mind was a perfect laboratory of tests and reagents; every syllable you put into breath went into her intellectual eudiometer, and all your thoughts were recorded on litmus-paper. i think there has rarely been a more admirable woman. of course, miss iris was immensely and passionately attached to her.--well,--these are two highly oxygenated adverbs, --grateful,--suppose we say,--yes,--grateful, dutiful, obedient to her wishes for the most part,--perhaps not quite up to the concert pitch of such a perfect orchestra of the virtues. we must have a weak spot or two in a character before we can love it much. people that do not laugh or cry, or take more of anything than is good for them, or use anything but dictionary-words, are admirable subjects for biographies. but we don't always care most for those flat-pattern flowers that press best in the herbarium. this immaculate woman,--why could n't she have a fault or two? is n't there any old whisper which will tarnish that wearisome aureole of saintly perfection? does n't she carry a lump of opium in her pocket? is n't her cologne-bottle replenished oftener than its legitimate use would require? it would be such a comfort! not for the world would a young creature like iris have let such words escape her, or such thoughts pass through her mind. whether at the bottom of her soul lies any uneasy consciousness of an oppressive presence, it is hard to say, until we know more about her. iris sits between the little gentleman and the "model of all the virtues," as the black-coated personage called her.--i will watch them all. --here i stop for the present. what the professor said has had to make way this time for what he saw and heard. -and now you may read these lines, which were written for gentle souls who love music, and read in even tones, and, perhaps, with something like a smile upon the reader's lips, at a meeting where these musical friends had gathered. whether they were written with smiles or not, you can guess better after you have read them. the opening of the piano. in the little southern parlor of the house you may have seen with the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, at the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right, stood the london-made piano i am dreaming of to-night. ah me! how i remember the evening when it came! what a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame, when the wondrous boa was opened that had come from over seas, with its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys! then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy, for the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy, till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way, but the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "now, mary, play." for the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm; she had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow calm, in the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills, or caroling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills. so mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please, sat down to the new "clementi," and struck the glittering keys. hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim, as, floating from lip and finger, arose the "vesper hymn." --catharine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosy-red, (wedded since, and a widow,--something like ten years dead,) hearing a gush of music such as none before, steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door. just as the "jubilate" in threaded whisper dies, --"open it! open it, lady!" the little maiden cries, (for she thought 't was a singing creature caged in a box she heard,) "open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!" iv i don't know whether our literary or professional people are more amiable than they are in other places, but certainly quarrelling is out of fashion among them. this could never be, if they were in the habit of secret anonymous puffing of each other. that is the kind of underground machinery which manufactures false reputations and genuine hatreds. on the other hand, i should like to know if we are not at liberty to have a good time together, and say the pleasantest things we can think of to each other, when any of us reaches his thirtieth or fortieth or fiftieth or eightieth birthday. we don't have "scenes," i warrant you, on these occasions. no "surprise" parties! you understand these, of course. in the rural districts, where scenic tragedy and melodrama cannot be had, as in the city, at the expense of a quarter and a white pocket-handkerchief, emotional excitement has to be sought in the dramas of real life. christenings, weddings, and funerals, especially the latter, are the main dependence; but babies, brides, and deceased citizens cannot be had at a day's notice. now, then, for a surprise-party! a bag of flour, a barrel of potatoes, some strings of onions, a basket of apples, a big cake and many little cakes, a jug of lemonade, a purse stuffed with bills of the more modest denominations, may, perhaps, do well enough for the properties in one of these private theatrical exhibitions. the minister of the parish, a tender-hearted, quiet, hard-working man, living on a small salary, with many children, sometimes pinched to feed and clothe them, praying fervently every day to be blest in his "basket and store," but sometimes fearing he asks amiss, to judge by the small returns, has the first role,--not, however, by his own choice, but forced upon him. the minister's wife, a sharp-eyed, unsentimental body, is first lady; the remaining parts by the rest of the family. if they only had a playbill, it would run thus: on tuesday next will be presented the affecting scene called the surprise-party or the overcome family; with the following strong cast of characters. the rev. mr. overcome, by the clergyman of this parish. mrs. overcome, by his estimable lady. masters matthew, mark, luke, and john overcome, misses dorcas, tabitha, rachel, and hannah, overcome, by their interesting children. peggy, by the female help. the poor man is really grateful;--it is a most welcome and unexpected relief. he tries to express his thanks,--his voice falters,--he chokes,--and bursts into tears. that is the great effect of the evening. the sharp-sighted lady cries a little with one eye, and counts the strings of onions, and the rest of the things, with the other. the children stand ready for a spring at the apples. the female help weeps after the noisy fashion of untutored handmaids. now this is all very well as charity, but do let the kind visitors remember they get their money's worth. if you pay a quarter for dry crying, done by a second-rate actor, how much ought you to pay for real hot, wet tears, out of the honest eyes of a gentleman who is not acting, but sobbing in earnest? all i meant to say, when i began, was, that this was not a surprise-party where i read these few lines that follow: we will not speak of years to-night; for what have years to bring, but larger floods of love and light and sweeter songs to sing? we will not drown in wordy praise the kindly thoughts that rise; if friendship owns one tender phrase, he reads it in our eyes. we need not waste our schoolboy art to gild this notch of time; forgive me, if my wayward heart has throbbed in artless rhyme. enough for him the silent grasp that knits us hand in hand, and he the bracelet's radiant clasp that locks our circling band. strength to his hours of manly toil! peace to his starlit dreams! who loves alike the furrowed soil, the music-haunted streams! sweet smiles to keep forever bright the sunshine on his lips, and faith, that sees the ring of light round nature's last eclipse! --one of our boarders has been talking in such strong language that i am almost afraid to report it. however, as he seems to be really honest and is so very sincere in his local prejudices, i don't believe anybody will be very angry with him. it is here, sir! right here!--said the little deformed gentleman,--in this old new city of boston,--this remote provincial corner of a provincial nation, that the battle of the standard is fighting, and was fighting before we were born, and will be fighting when we are dead and gone,--please god! the battle goes on everywhere throughout civilization; but here, here, here is the broad white flag flying which proclaims, first of all, peace and good-will to men, and, next to that, the absolute, unconditional spiritual liberty of each individual immortal soul! the three-hilled city against the seven-hilled city! that is it, sir,--nothing less than that; and if you know what that means, i don't think you'll ask for anything more. i swear to you, sir, i believe that these two centres of civilization are just exactly the two points that close the circuit in the battery of our planetary intelligence! and i believe there are spiritual eyes looking out from uranus and unseen neptune,--ay, sir, from the systems of sirius and arcturus and aldebaran, and as far as that faint stain of sprinkled worlds confluent in the distance that we call the nebula of orion,--looking on, sir, with what organs i know not, to see which are going to melt in that fiery fusion, the accidents and hindrances of humanity or man himself, sir,--the stupendous abortion, the illustrious failure that he is, if the three-hilled city does not ride down and trample out the seven-hilled city! --steam 's up!--said the young man john, so called, in a low tone. --three hundred and sixty-five tons to the square inch. let him blow her off, or he'll bu'st his b'iler. the divinity-student took it calmly, only whispering that he thought there was a little confusion of images between a galvanic battery and a charge of cavalry. but the koh-i-noor--the gentleman, you remember, with a very large diamond in his shirt-front laughed his scornful laugh, and made as if to speak. sail in, metropolis!--said that same young man john, by name. and then, in a lower lane, not meaning to be heard,--now, then, ma'am allen! but he was heard,--and the koh-i-noor's face turned so white with rage, that his blue-black moustache and beard looked fearful, seen against it. he grinned with wrath, and caught at a tumbler, as if he would have thrown it or its contents at the speaker. the young marylander fixed his clear, steady eye upon him, and laid his hand on his arm, carelessly almost, but the jewel found it was held so that he could not move it. it was of no use. the youth was his master in muscle, and in that deadly indian hug in which men wrestle with their eyes;--over in five seconds, but breaks one of their two backs, and is good for threescore years and ten;--one trial enough,--settles the whole matter,--just as when two feathered songsters of the barnyard, game and dunghill, come together,-after a jump or two at each other, and a few sharp kicks, there is the end of it; and it is, apres vous, monsieur, with the beaten party in all the social relations for all the rest of his days. i cannot philosophically account for the koh-i-noor's wrath. for though a cosmetic is sold, bearing the name of the lady to whom reference was made by the young person john, yet, as it is publicly asserted in respectable prints that this cosmetic is not a dye, i see no reason why he should have felt offended by any suggestion that he was indebted to it or its authoress. i have no doubt that there are certain exceptional complexions to which the purple tinge, above alluded to, is natural. nature is fertile in variety. i saw an albiness in london once, for sixpence, (including the inspection of a stuffed boa-constrictor,) who looked as if she had been boiled in milk. a young hottentot of my acquaintance had his hair all in little pellets of the size of marrow-fat peas. one of my own classmates has undergone a singular change of late years,--his hair losing its original tint, and getting a remarkable discolored look; and another has ceased to cultivate any hair at all over the vertex or crown of the head. so i am perfectly willing to believe that the purple-black of the koh-i-noor's moustache and whiskers is constitutional and not pigmentary. but i can't think why he got so angry. the intelligent reader will understand that all this pantomime of the threatened onslaught and its suppression passed so quickly that it was all over by the time the other end of the table found out there was a disturbance; just as a man chopping wood half a mile off may be seen resting on his axe at the instant you hear the last blow he struck. so you will please to observe that the little gentleman was not, interrupted during the time implied by these ex-post-facto remarks of mine, but for some ten or fifteen seconds only. he did not seem to mind the interruption at all, for he started again. the "sir" of his harangue was no doubt addressed to myself more than anybody else, but he often uses it in discourse as if he were talking with some imaginary opponent. --america, sir,--he exclaimed,--is the only place where man is full-grown! he straightened himself up, as he spoke, standing on the top round of his high chair, i suppose, and so presented the larger part of his little figure to the view of the boarders. it was next to impossible to keep from laughing. the commentary was so strange an illustration of the text! i thought it was time to put in a word; for i have lived in foreign parts, and am more or less cosmopolitan. i doubt if we have more practical freedom in america than they have in england,---i said.--an englishman thinks as he likes in religion and politics. mr. martineau speculates as freely as ever dr. channing did, and mr. bright is as independent as mr. seward. sir,--said he,--it is n't what a man thinks or says; but when and where and to whom he thinks and says it. a man with a flint and steel striking sparks over a wet blanket is one thing, and striking them over a tinder-box is another. the free englishman is born under protest; he lives and dies under protest,--a tolerated, but not a welcome fact. is not freethinker a term of reproach in england? the same idea in the soul of an englishman who struggled up to it and still holds it antagonistically, and in the soul of an american to whom it is congenital and spontaneous, and often unrecognized, except as an element blended with all his thoughts, a natural movement, like the drawing of his breath or the beating of his heart, is a very different thing. you may teach a quadruped to walk on his hind legs, but he is always wanting to be on all fours. nothing that can be taught a growing youth is like the atmospheric knowledge he breathes from his infancy upwards. the american baby sucks in freedom with the milk of the breast at which he hangs. --that's a good joke,--said the young fellow john,--considerin' it commonly belongs to a female paddy. i thought--i will not be certain--that the little gentleman winked, as if he had been hit somewhere--as i have no doubt dr. darwin did when the wooden-spoon suggestion upset his theory about why, etc. if he winked, however, he did not dodge. a lively comment!--he said.--but rome, in her great founder, sucked the blood of empire out of the dugs of a brute, sir! the milesian wet-nurse is only a convenient vessel through which the american infant gets the life-blood of this virgin soil, sir, that is making man over again, on the sunset pattern! you don't think what we are doing and going to do here. why, sir, while commentators are bothering themselves with interpretation of prophecies, we have got the new heavens and the new earth over us and under us! was there ever anything in italy, i should like to know, like a boston sunset? --this time there was a laugh, and the little man himself almost smiled. yes,--boston sunsets;--perhaps they're as good in some other places, but i know 'em best here. anyhow, the american skies are different from anything they see in the old world. yes, and the rocks are different, and the soil is different, and everything that comes out of the soil, from grass up to indians, is different. and now that the provisional races are dying out-- --what do you mean by the provisional races, sir?--said the divinity-student, interrupting him. why, the aboriginal bipeds, to be sure,--he answered,--the red-crayon sketch of humanity laid on the canvas before the colors for the real manhood were ready. i hope they will come to something yet,--said the divinity-student. irreclaimable, sir,--irreclaimable!--said the little gentleman.--cheaper to breed white men than domesticate a nation of red ones. when you can get the bitter out of the partridge's thigh, you can make an enlightened commonwealth of indians. a provisional race, sir,--nothing more. exhaled carbonic acid for the use of vegetation, kept down the bears and catamounts, enjoyed themselves in scalping and being scalped, and then passed away or are passing away, according to the programme. well, sir, these races dying out, the white man has to acclimate himself. it takes him a good while; but he will come all right by-and-by, sir,--as sound as a woodchuck,--as sound as a musquash! a new nursery, sir, with lake superior and huron and all the rest of 'em for wash-basins! a new race, and a whole new world for the new-born human soul to work in! and boston is the brain of it, and has been any time these hundred years! that's all i claim for boston,--that it is the thinking centre of the continent, and therefore of the planet. --and the grand emporium of modesty,--said the divinity-student, a little mischievously. oh, don't talk to me of modesty!--answered the little gentleman,--i 'm past that! there is n't a thing that was ever said or done in boston, from pitching the tea overboard to the last ecclesiastical lie it tore into tatters and flung into the dock, that was n't thought very indelicate by some fool or tyrant or bigot, and all the entrails of commercial and spiritual conservatism are twisted into colics as often as this revolutionary brain of ours has a fit of thinking come over it.--no, sir,--show me any other place that is, or was since the megalosaurus has died out, where wealth and social influence are so fairly divided between the stationary and the progressive classes! show me any other place where every other drawing-room is not a chamber of the inquisition, with papas and mammas for inquisitors,--and the cold shoulder, instead of the "dry pan and the gradual fire," the punishment of "heresy"! --we think baltimore is a pretty civilized kind of a village,--said the young marylander, good-naturedly.--but i suppose you can't forgive it for always keeping a little ahead of boston in point of numbers,--tell the truth now. are we not the centre of something? ah, indeed, to be sure you are. you are the gastronomic metropolis of the union. why don't you put a canvas-back-duck on the top of the washington column? why don't you get that lady off from battle monument and plant a terrapin in her place? why will you ask for other glories when you have soft crabs? no, sir,--you live too well to think as hard as we do in boston. logic comes to us with the salt-fish of cape ann; rhetoric is born of the beans of beverly; but you--if you open your mouths to speak, nature stops them with a fat oyster, or offers a slice of the breast of your divine bird, and silences all your aspirations. and what of philadelphia?--said the marylander. oh, philadelphia?--waterworks,--killed by the croton and cochituate; --ben franklin,--borrowed from boston;--david rittenhouse,--made an orrery;--benjamin rush,--made a medical system;--both interesting to antiquarians;--great red-river raft of medical students,--spontaneous generation of professors to match;--more widely known through the moyamensing hose-company, and the wistar parties;-for geological section of social strata, go to the club.--good place to live in,--first-rate market,--tip-top peaches.--what do we know about philadelphia, except that the engine-companies are always shooting each other? and what do you say to new york?--asked the koh-i-noor. a great city, sir,--replied the little gentleman,--a very opulent, splendid city. a point of transit of much that is remarkable, and of permanence for much that is respectable. a great money-centre. san francisco with the mines above-ground,--and some of 'em under the sidewalks. i have seen next to nothing grandiose, out of new york, in all our cities. it makes 'em all look paltry and petty. has many elements of civilization. may stop where venice did, though, for aught we know.--the order of its development is just this:--wealth; architecture; upholstery; painting; sculpture. printing, as a mechanical art,--just as nicholas jepson and the aldi, who were scholars too, made venice renowned for it. journalism, which is the accident of business and crowded populations, in great perfection. venice got as far as titian and paul veronese and tintoretto,--great colorists, mark you, magnificent on the flesh-and-blood side of art,--but look over to florence and see who lie in santa crocea, and ask out of whose loins dante sprung! oh, yes, to be sure, venice built her ducal palace, and her church of st. mark, and her casa d' or, and the rest of her golden houses; and venice had great pictures and good music; and venice had a golden book, in which all the large tax-payers had their names written;--but all that did not make venice the brain of italy. i tell you what, sir,--with all these magnificent appliances of civilization, it is time we began to hear something from the djinnis donee whose names are on the golden book of our sumptuous, splendid, marble-placed venice,--something in the higher walks of literature, --something in the councils of the nation. plenty of art, i grant you, sir; now, then, for vast libraries, and for mighty scholars and thinkers and statesmen,--five for every boston one, as the population is to ours,--ten to one more properly, in virtue of centralizing attraction as the alleged metropolis, and not call our people provincials, and have to come begging to us to write the lives of hendrik hudson and gouverneur morris! --the little gentleman was on his hobby, exalting his own city at the expense of every other place. i have my doubts if he had been in either of the cities he had been talking about. i was just going to say something to sober him down, if i could, when the young marylander spoke up. come, now,--he said,--what's the use of these comparisons? did n't i hear this gentleman saying, the other day, that every american owns all america? if you have really got more brains in boston than other folks, as you seem to think, who hates you for it, except a pack of scribbling fools? if i like broadway better than washington street, what then? i own them both, as much as anybody owns either. i am an american,--and wherever i look up and see the stars and stripes overhead, that is home to me! he spoke, and looked up as if he heard the emblazoned folds crackling over him in the breeze. we all looked up involuntarily, as if we should see the national flag by so doing. the sight of the dingy ceiling and the gas-fixture depending therefrom dispelled the illusion. bravo! bravo!--said the venerable gentleman on the other side of the table.--those are the sentiments of washington's farewell address. nothing better than that since the last chapter in revelations. five-and-forty years ago there used to be washington societies, and little boys used to walk in processions, each little boy having a copy of the address, bound in red, hung round his neck by a ribbon. why don't they now? why don't they now? i saw enough of hating each other in the old federal times; now let's love each other, i say,--let's love each other, and not try to make it out that there is n't any place fit to live in except the one we happen to be born in. it dwarfs the mind, i think,--said i,--to feed it on any localism. the full stature of manhood is shrivelled-- the color burst up into my cheeks. what was i saying,--i, who would not for the world have pained our unfortunate little boarder by an allusion? i will go,--he said,--and made a movement with his left arm to let himself down from his high chair. no,--no,--he does n't mean it,--you must not go,--said a kind voice next him; and a soft, white hand was laid upon his arm. iris, my dear!--exclaimed another voice, as of a female, in accents that might be considered a strong atmospheric solution of duty with very little flavor of grace. she did not move for this address, and there was a tableau that lasted some seconds. for the young girl, in the glory of half-blown womanhood, and the dwarf, the cripple, the misshapen little creature covered with nature's insults, looked straight into each other's eyes. perhaps no handsome young woman had ever looked at him so in his life. certainly the young girl never had looked into eyes that reached into her soul as these did. it was not that they were in themselves supernaturally bright,--but there was the sad fire in them that flames up from the soul of one who looks on the beauty of woman without hope, but, alas! not without emotion. to him it seemed as if those amber gates had been translucent as the brown water of a mountain brook, and through them he had seen dimly into a virgin wilderness, only waiting for the sunrise of a great passion for all its buds to blow and all its bowers to ring with melody. that is my image, of course,--not his. it was not a simile that was in his mind, or is in anybody's at such a moment,--it was a pang of wordless passion, and then a silent, inward moan. a lady's wish,--he said, with a certain gallantry of manner,--makes slaves of us all.--and nature, who is kind to all her children, and never leaves the smallest and saddest of all her human failures without one little comfit of self-love at the bottom of his poor ragged pocket,--nature suggested to him that he had turned his sentence well; and he fell into a reverie, in which the old thoughts that were always hovering dust outside the doors guarded by common sense, and watching for a chance to squeeze in, knowing perfectly well they would be ignominiously kicked out again as soon as common sense saw them, flocked in pell-mell,--misty, fragmentary, vague, half-ashamed of themselves, but still shouldering up against his inner consciousness till it warmed with their contact:--john wilkes's--the ugliest man's in england--saying, that with half-an-hour's start he would cut out the handsomest man in all the land in any woman's good graces; cadenus--old and savage--leading captive stella and vanessa; and then the stray line of a ballad, "and a winning tongue had he,"--as much as to say, it is n't looks, after all, but cunning words, that win our eves over,--just as of old when it was the worst-looking brute of the lot that got our grandmother to listen to his stuff and so did the mischief. ah, dear me! we rehearse the part of hercules with his club, subjugating man and woman in our fancy, the first by the weight of it, and the second by our handling of it,--we rehearse it, i say, by our own hearth-stones, with the cold poker as our club, and the exercise is easy. but when we come to real life, the poker is in the fore, and, ten to one, if we would grasp it, we find it too hot to hold;--lucky for us, if it is not white-hot, and we do not have to leave the skin of our hands sticking to it when we fling it down or drop it with a loud or silent cry! --i am frightened when i find into what a labyrinth of human character and feeling i am winding. i meant to tell my thoughts, and to throw in a few studies of manner and costume as they pictured themselves for me from day to day. chance has thrown together at the table with me a number of persons who are worth studying, and i mean not only to look on them, but, if i can, through them. you can get any man's or woman's secret, whose sphere is circumscribed by your own, if you will only look patiently on them long enough. nature is always applying her reagents to character, if you will take the pains to watch her. our studies of character, to change the image, are very much like the surveyor's triangulation of a geographical province. we get a base-line in organization, always; then we get an angle by sighting some distant object to which the passions or aspirations of the subject of our observation are tending; then another;--and so we construct our first triangle. once fix a man's ideals, and for the most part the rest is easy. a wants to die worth half a million. good. b (female) wants to catch him,--and outlive him. all right. minor details at our leisure. what is it, of all your experiences, of all your thoughts, of all your misdoings, that lies at the very bottom of the great heap of acts of consciousness which make up your past life? what should you most dislike to tell your nearest friend?--be so good as to pause for a brief space, and shut the volume you hold with your finger between the pages.--oh, that is it! what a confessional i have been sitting at, with the inward ear of my soul open, as the multitudinous whisper of my involuntary confidants came back to me like the reduplicated echo of a cry among the craggy bills! at the house of a friend where i once passed the night was one of those stately upright cabinet desks and cases of drawers which were not rare in prosperous families during the last century. it had held the clothes and the books and the papers of generation after generation. the hands that opened its drawers had grown withered, shrivelled, and at last been folded in death. the children that played with the lower handles had got tall enough to open the desk, to reach the upper shelves behind the folding-doors,--grown bent after a while,--and then followed those who had gone before, and left the old cabinet to be ransacked by a new generation. a boy of ten or twelve was looking at it a few years ago, and, being a quick-witted fellow, saw that all the space was not accounted for by the smaller drawers in the part beneath the lid of the desk. prying about with busy eyes and fingers, he at length came upon a spring, on pressing which, a secret drawer flew from its hiding-place. it had never been opened but by the maker. the mahogany shavings and dust were lying in it as when the artisan closed it,--and when i saw it, it was as fresh as if that day finished. is there not one little drawer in your soul, my sweet reader, which no hand but yours has ever opened, and which none that have known you seem to have suspected? what does it hold?--a sin?--i hope not. what a strange thing an old dead sin laid away in a secret drawer of the soul is! must it some time or other be moistened with tears, until it comes to life again and begins to stir in our consciousness,--as the dry wheel-animalcule, looking like a grain of dust, becomes alive, if it is wet with a drop of water? or is it a passion? there are plenty of withered men and women walking about the streets who have the secret drawer in their hearts, which, if it were opened, would show as fresh as it was when they were in the flush of youth and its first trembling emotions. what it held will, perhaps, never be known, until they are dead and gone, and same curious eye lights on an old yellow letter with the fossil footprints of the extinct passion trodden thick all over it. there is not a boarder at our table, i firmly believe, excepting the young girl, who has not a story of the heart to tell, if one could only get the secret drawer open. even this arid female, whose armor of black bombazine looks stronger against the shafts of love than any cuirass of triple brass, has had her sentimental history, if i am not mistaken. i will tell you my reason for suspecting it. like many other old women, she shows a great nervousness and restlessness whenever i venture to express any opinion upon a class of subjects which can hardly be said to belong to any man or set of men as their strictly private property,--not even to the clergy, or the newspapers commonly called "religious." now, although it would be a great luxury to me to obtain my opinions by contract, ready-made, from a professional man, and although i have a constitutional kindly feeling to all sorts of good people which would make me happy to agree with all their beliefs, if that were possible, still i must have an idea, now and then, as to the meaning of life; and though the only condition of peace in this world is to have no ideas, or, at least, not to express them, with reference to such subjects, i can't afford to pay quite so much as that even for peace. i find that there is a very prevalent opinion among the dwellers on the shores of sir isaac newton's ocean of truth, that salt, fish, which have been taken from it a good while ago, split open, cured and dried, are the only proper and allowable food for reasonable people. i maintain, on the other hand, that there are a number of live fish still swimming in it, and that every one of us has a right to see if he cannot catch some of them. sometimes i please myself with the idea that i have landed an actual living fish, small, perhaps, but with rosy gills and silvery scales. then i find the consumers of nothing but the salted and dried article insist that it is poisonous, simply because it is alive, and cry out to people not to touch it. i have not found, however, that people mind them much. the poor boarder in bombazine is my dynamometer. i try every questionable proposition on her. if she winces, i must be prepared for an outcry from the other old women. i frightened her, the other day, by saying that faith, as an intellectual state, was self-reliance, which, if you have a metaphysical turn, you will find is not so much of a paradox as it sounds at first. so she sent me a book to read which was to cure me of that error. it was an old book, and looked as if it had not been opened for a long time. what should drop out of it, one day, but a small heart-shaped paper, containing a lock of that straight, coarse, brown hair which sets off the sharp faces of so many thin-flanked, large-handed bumpkins! i read upon the paper the name "hiram."--love! love! love!--everywhere! everywhere!--under diamonds and housemaids' "jewelry,"--lifting the marrowy camel's-hair, and rustling even the black bombazine!--no, no,--i think she never was pretty, but she was young once, and wore bright ginghams, and, perhaps, gay merinos. we shall find that the poor little crooked man has been in love, or is in love, or will be in love before we have done with him, for aught that i know! romance! was there ever a boarding-house in the world where the seemingly prosaic table had not a living fresco for its background, where you could see, if you had eyes, the smoke and fire of some upheaving sentiment, or the dreary craters of smouldering or burnt-out passions? you look on the black bombazine and high-necked decorum of your neighbor, and no more think of the real life that underlies this despoiled and dismantled womanhood than you think of a stone trilobite as having once been full of the juices and the nervous thrills of throbbing and self-conscious being. there is a wild creature under that long yellow pin which serves as brooch for the bombazine cuirass,--a wild creature, which i venture to say would leap in his cage, if i should stir him, quiet as you think him. a heart which has been domesticated by matrimony and maternity is as tranquil as a tame bullfinch; but a wild heart which has never been fairly broken in flutters fiercely long after you think time has tamed it down,--like that purple finch i had the other day, which could not be approached without such palpitations and frantic flings against the bars of his cage, that i had to send him back and get a little orthodox canary which had learned to be quiet and never mind the wires or his keeper's handling. i will tell you my wicked, but half involuntary experiment on the wild heart under the faded bombazine. was there ever a person in the room with you, marked by any special weakness or peculiarity, with whom you could be two hours and not touch the infirm spot? i confess the most frightful tendency to do just this thing. if a man has a brogue, i am sure to catch myself imitating it. if another is lame, i follow him, or, worse than that, go before him, limping. i could never meet an irish gentleman--if it had been the duke of wellington himself--without stumbling upon the word "paddy,"--which i use rarely in my common talk. i have been worried to know whether this was owing to some innate depravity of disposition on my part, some malignant torturing instinct, which, under different circumstances, might have made a fijian anthropophagus of me, or to some law of thought for which i was not answerable. it is, i am convinced, a kind of physical fact like endosmosis, with which some of you are acquainted. a thin film of politeness separates the unspoken and unspeakable current of thought from the stream of conversation. after a time one begins to soak through and mingle with the other. we were talking about names, one day.--was there ever anything,--i said,--like the yankee for inventing the most uncouth, pretentious, detestable appellations,--inventing or finding them,--since the time of praise-god barebones? i heard a country-boy once talking of another whom he called elpit, as i understood him. elbridge is common enough, but this sounded oddly. it seems the boy was christened lord pitt,--and called for convenience, as above. i have heard a charming little girl, belonging to an intelligent family in the country, called anges invariably; doubtless intended for agnes. names are cheap. how can a man name an innocent new-born child, that never did him any harm, hiram?--the poor relation, or whatever she is, in bombazine, turned toward me, but i was stupid, and went on.--to think of a man going through life saddled with such an abominable name as that!--the poor relation grew very uneasy.--i continued; for i never thought of all this till afterwards.--i knew one young fellow, a good many years ago, by the name of hiram--what's got into you, cousin,--said our landlady,--to look so?--there! you 've upset your teacup! it suddenly occurred to me what i had been doing, and i saw the poor woman had her hand at her throat; she was half-choking with the "hysteric ball,"--a very odd symptom, as you know, which nervous women often complain of. what business had i to be trying experiments on this forlorn old soul? i had a great deal better be watching that young girl. ah, the young girl! i am sure that she can hide nothing from me. her skin is so transparent that one can almost count her heart-beats by the flushes they send into her cheeks. she does not seem to be shy, either. i think she does not know enough of danger to be timid. she seems to me like one of those birds that travellers tell of, found in remote, uninhabited islands, who, having never received any wrong at the hand of man, show no alarm at and hardly any particular consciousness of his presence. the first thing will be to see how she and our little deformed gentleman get along together; for, as i have told you, they sit side by side. the next thing will be to keep an eye on the duenna,--the "model" and so forth, as the white-neck-cloth called her. the intention of that estimable lady is, i understand, to launch her and leave her. i suppose there is no help for it, and i don't doubt this young lady knows how to take care of herself, but i do not like to see young girls turned loose in boarding-houses. look here now! there is that jewel of his race, whom i have called for convenience the koh-i-noor, (you understand it is quite out of the question for me to use the family names of our boarders, unless i want to get into trouble,)--i say, the gentleman with the diamond is looking very often and very intently, it seems to me, down toward the farther corner of the table, where sits our amber-eyed blonde. the landlady's daughter does not look pleased, it seems to me, at this, nor at those other attentions which the gentleman referred to has, as i have learned, pressed upon the newly-arrived young person. the landlady made a communication to me, within a few days after the arrival of miss iris, which i will repeat to the best of my remembrance. he, (the person i have been speaking of,)--she said,--seemed to be kinder hankerin' round after that young woman. it had hurt her daughter's feelin's a good deal, that the gentleman she was a-keepin' company with should be offerin' tickets and tryin' to send presents to them that he'd never know'd till jest a little spell ago,--and he as good as merried, so fur as solemn promises went, to as respectable a young lady, if she did say so, as any there was round, whosomever they might be. tickets! presents!--said i.--what tickets, what presents has he had the impertinence to be offering to that young lady? tickets to the museum,--said the landlady. there is them that's glad enough to go to the museum, when tickets is given 'em; but some of 'em ha'n't had a ticket sence cenderilla was played,--and now he must be offerin' 'em to this ridiculous young paintress, or whatever she is, that's come to make more mischief than her board's worth. but it a'n't her fault,--said the landlady, relenting;--and that aunt of hers, or whatever she is, served him right enough. why, what did she do? do? why, she took it up in the tongs and dropped it out o' winder. dropped? dropped what?--i said. why, the soap,--said the landlady. it appeared that the koh-i-noor, to ingratiate himself, had sent an elegant package of perfumed soap, directed to miss iris, as a delicate expression of a lively sentiment of admiration, and that, after having met with the unfortunate treatment referred to, it was picked up by master benjamin franklin, who appropriated it, rejoicing, and indulged in most unheard-of and inordinate ablutions in consequence, so that his hands were a frequent subject of maternal congratulation, and he smelt like a civet-cat for weeks after his great acquisition. after watching daily for a time, i think i can see clearly into the relation which is growing up between the little gentleman and the young lady. she shows a tenderness to him that i can't help being interested in. if he was her crippled child, instead of being more than old enough to be her father, she could not treat him more kindly. the landlady's daughter said, the other day, she believed that girl was settin' her cap for the little gentleman. some of them young folks is very artful,--said her mother,--and there is them that would merry lazarus, if he'd only picked up crumbs enough. i don't think, though, this is one of that sort; she's kinder childlike,--said the landlady,--and maybe never had any dolls to play with; for they say her folks was poor before ma'am undertook to see to her teachin' and board her and clothe her. i could not help overhearing this conversation. "board her and clothe her!"--speaking of such a young creature! oh, dear!--yes,--she must be fed,--just like bridget, maid-of-all-work at this establishment. somebody must pay for it. somebody has a right to watch her and see how much it takes to "keep" her, and growl at her, if she has too good an appetite. somebody has a right to keep an eye on her and take care that she does not dress too prettily. no mother to see her own youth over again in these fresh features and rising reliefs of half-sculptured womanhood, and, seeing its loveliness, forget her lessons of neutral-tinted propriety, and open the cases that hold her own ornaments to find for her a necklace or a bracelet or a pair of ear-rings,--those golden lamps that light up the deep, shadowy dimples on the cheeks of young beauties,--swinging in a semi-barbaric splendor that carries the wild fancy to abyssinian queens and musky odalisques! i don't believe any woman has utterly given up the great firm of mundus & co., so long as she wears ear-rings. i think iris loves to hear the little gentleman talk. she smiles sometimes at his vehement statements, but never laughs at him. when he speaks to her, she keeps her eye always steadily upon him. this may be only natural good-breeding, so to speak, but it is worth noticing. i have often observed that vulgar persons, and public audiences of inferior collective intelligence, have this in common: the least thing draws off their minds, when you are speaking to them. i love this young creature's rapt attention to her diminutive neighbor while he is speaking. he is evidently pleased with it. for a day or two after she came, he was silent and seemed nervous and excited. now he is fond of getting the talk into his own hands, and is obviously conscious that he has at least one interested listener. once or twice i have seen marks of special attention to personal adornment, a ruffled shirt-bosom, one day, and a diamond pin in it,--not so very large as the koh-i-noor's, but more lustrous. i mentioned the death's-head ring he wears on his right hand. i was attracted by a very handsome red stone, a ruby or carbuncle or something of the sort, to notice his left hand, the other day. it is a handsome hand, and confirms my suspicion that the cast mentioned was taken from his arm. after all, this is just what i should expect. it is not very uncommon to see the upper limbs, or one of them, running away with the whole strength, and, therefore, with the whole beauty, which we should never have noticed, if it had been divided equally between all four extremities. if it is so, of course he is proud of his one strong and beautiful arm; that is human nature. i am afraid he can hardly help betraying his favoritism, as people who have any one showy point are apt to do,--especially dentists with handsome teeth, who always smile back to their last molars. sitting, as he does, next to the young girl, and next but one to the calm lady who has her in charge, he cannot help seeing their relations to each other. that is an admirable woman, sir,--he said to me one day, as we sat alone at the table after breakfast,--an admirable woman, sir,--and i hate her. of course, i begged an explanation. an admirable woman, sir, because she does good things, and even kind things,--takes care of this--this--young lady--we have here, talks like a sensible person, and always looks as if she was doing her duty with all her might. i hate her because her voice sounds as if it never trembled and her eyes look as if she never knew what it was to cry. besides, she looks at me, sir, stares at me, as if she wanted to get an image of me for some gallery in her brain,--and we don't love to be looked at in this way, we that have--i hate her,--i hate her,--her eyes kill me,--it is like being stabbed with icicles to be looked at so,--the sooner she goes home, the better. i don't want a woman to weigh me in a balance; there are men enough for that sort of work. the judicial character is n't captivating in females, sir. a woman fascinates a man quite as often by what she overlooks as by what she sees. love prefers twilight to daylight; and a man doesn't think much of, nor care much for, a woman outside of his household, unless he can couple the idea of love, past, present, or future, with her. i don't believe the devil would give half as much for the services of a sinner as he would for those of one of these folks that are always doing virtuous acts in a way to make them unpleasing.--that young girl wants a tender nature to cherish her and give her a chance to put out her leaves,--sunshine, and not east winds. he was silent,--and sat looking at his handsome left hand with the red stone ring upon it.--is he going to fall in love with iris? here are some lines i read to the boarders the other day:-- the crooked footpath ah, here it is! the sliding rail that marks the old remembered spot, --the gap that struck our schoolboy trail, --the crooked path across the lot. it left the road by school and church, a pencilled shadow, nothing more, that parted from the silver birch and ended at the farmhouse door. no line or compass traced its plan; with frequent bends to left or right, in aimless, wayward curves it ran, but always kept the door in sight. the gabled porch, with woodbine green, --the broken millstone at the sill, --though many a rood might stretch between, the truant child could see them still. no rocks, across the pathway lie, --no fallen trunk is o'er it thrown, --and yet it winds, we know not why, and turns as if for tree or stone. perhaps some lover trod the way with shaking knees and leaping heart, --and so it often runs astray with sinuous sweep or sudden start. or one, perchance, with clouded brain from some unholy banquet reeled, --and since, our devious steps maintain his track across the trodden field. nay, deem not thus,--no earthborn will could ever trace a faultless line; our truest steps are human still, --to walk unswerving were divine! truants from love, we dream of wrath; --oh, rather let us trust the more! through all the wanderings of the path, we still can see our father's door! v the professor finds a fly in his teacup. i have a long theological talk to relate, which must be dull reading to some of my young and vivacious friends. i don't know, however, that any of them have entered into a contract to read all that i write, or that i have promised always to write to please them. what if i should sometimes write to please myself? now you must know that there are a great many things which interest me, to some of which this or that particular class of readers may be totally indifferent. i love nature, and human nature, its thoughts, affections, dreams, aspirations, delusions,--art in all its forms,--virtu in all its eccentricities,--old stories from black-letter volumes and yellow manuscripts, and new projects out of hot brains not yet imbedded in the snows of age. i love the generous impulses of the reformer; but not less does my imagination feed itself upon the old litanies, so often warmed by the human breath upon which they were wafted to heaven that they glow through our frames like our own heart's blood. i hope i love good men and women; i know that they never speak a word to me, even if it be of question or blame, that i do not take pleasantly, if it is expressed with a reasonable amount of human kindness. i have before me at this time a beautiful and affecting letter, which i have hesitated to answer, though the postmark upon it gave its direction, and the name is one which is known to all, in some of its representatives. it contains no reproach, only a delicately-hinted fear. speak gently, as this dear lady has spoken, and there is no heart so insensible that it does not answer to the appeal, no intellect so virile that it does not own a certain deference to the claims of age, of childhood, of sensitive and timid natures, when they plead with it not to look at those sacred things by the broad daylight which they see in mystic shadow. how grateful would it be to make perpetual peace with these pleading saints and their confessors, by the simple act that silences all complainings! sleep, sleep, sleep! says the arch-enchantress of them all,--and pours her dark and potent anodyne, distilled over the fires that consumed her foes,--its large, round drops changing, as we look, into the beads of her convert's rosary! silence! the pride of reason! cries another, whose whole life is spent in reasoning down reason. i hope i love good people, not for their sake, but for my own. and most assuredly, if any deed of wrong or word of bitterness led me into an act of disrespect towards that enlightened and excellent class of men who make it their calling to teach goodness and their duty to practise it, i should feel that i had done myself an injury rather than them. go and talk with any professional man holding any of the medieval creeds, choosing one who wears upon his features the mark of inward and outward health, who looks cheerful, intelligent, and kindly, and see how all your prejudices melt away in his presence! it is impossible to come into intimate relations with a large, sweet nature, such as you may often find in this class, without longing to be at one with it in all its modes of being and believing. but does it not occur to you that one may love truth as he sees it, and his race as he views it, better than even the sympathy and approbation of many good men whom he honors,--better than sleeping to the sound of the miserere or listening to the repetition of an effete confession of faith? the three learned professions have but recently emerged from a state of quasi-barbarism. none of them like too well to be told of it, but it must be sounded in their ears whenever they put on airs. when a man has taken an overdose of laudanum, the doctors tell us to place him between two persons who shall make him walk up and down incessantly; and if he still cannot be kept from going to sleep, they say that a lash or two over his back is of great assistance. so we must keep the doctors awake by telling them that they have not yet shaken off astrology and the doctrine of signatures, as is shown by the form of their prescriptions, and their use of nitrate of silver, which turns epileptics into ethiopians. if that is not enough, they must be given over to the scourgers, who like their task and get good fees for it. a few score years ago, sick people were made to swallow burnt toads and powdered earthworms and the expressed juice of wood-lice. the physician of charles i. and ii. prescribed abominations not to be named. barbarism, as bad as that of congo or ashantee. traces of this barbarism linger even in the greatly improved medical science of our century. so while the solemn farce of over-drugging is going on, the world over, the harlequin pseudo-science jumps on to the stage, whip in hand, with half-a-dozen somersets, and begins laying about him. in , perhaps you remember, the law of wager by battle was unrepealed, and the rascally murderous, and worse than murderous, clown, abraham thornton, put on his gauntlet in open court and defied the appellant to lift the other which he threw down. it was not until the reign of george ii. that the statutes against witchcraft were repealed. as for the english court of chancery, we know that its antiquated abuses form one of the staples of common proverbs and popular literature. so the laws and the lawyers have to be watched perpetually by public opinion as much as the doctors do. i don't think the other profession is an exception. when the reverend mr. cauvin and his associates burned my distinguished scientific brother,--he was burned with green fagots, which made it rather slow and painful,--it appears to me they were in a state of religious barbarism. the dogmas of such people about the father of mankind and his creatures are of no more account in my opinion than those of a council of aztecs. if a man picks your pocket, do you not consider him thereby disqualified to pronounce any authoritative opinion on matters of ethics? if a man hangs my ancient female relatives for sorcery, as they did in this neighborhood a little while ago, or burns my instructor for not believing as he does, i care no more for his religious edicts than i should for those of any other barbarian. of course, a barbarian may hold many true opinions; but when the ideas of the healing art, of the administration of justice, of christian love, could not exclude systematic poisoning, judicial duelling, and murder for opinion's sake, i do not see how we can trust the verdict of that time relating to any subject which involves the primal instincts violated in these abominations and absurdities.--what if we are even now in a state of semi-barbarism? [this physician believes we "are even now in a state of semi-barbarism": invasive procedures for the prolongation of death rather than prolongation of life; "faith",as slimly based as medieval faith in minute differences between control and treated groups; statistical manipulation to prove a prejudice. medicine has a good deal to answer for! d.w.] perhaps some think we ought not to talk at table about such things.--i am not so sure of that. religion and government appear to me the two subjects which of all others should belong to the common talk of people who enjoy the blessings of freedom. think, one moment. the earth is a great factory-wheel, which, at every revolution on its axis, receives fifty thousand raw souls and turns off nearly the same number worked up more or less completely. there must be somewhere a population of two hundred thousand million, perhaps ten or a hundred times as many, earth-born intelligences. life, as we call it, is nothing but the edge of the boundless ocean of existence where it comes on soundings. in this view, i do not see anything so fit to talk about, or half so interesting, as that which relates to the innumerable majority of our fellow-creatures, the dead-living, who are hundreds of thousands to one of the live-living, and with whom we all potentially belong, though we have got tangled for the present in some parcels of fibrine, albumen, and phosphates, that keep us on the minority side of the house. in point of fact, it is one of the many results of spiritualism to make the permanent destiny of the race a matter of common reflection and discourse, and a vehicle for the prevailing disbelief of the middle-age doctrines on the subject. i cannot help thinking, when i remember how many conversations my friend and myself have sported, that it would be very extraordinary, if there were no mention of that class of subjects which involves all that we have and all that we hope, not merely for ourselves, but for the dear people whom we love best,--noble men, pure and lovely women, ingenuous children, about the destiny of nine tenths of whom you know the opinions that would have been taught by those old man-roasting, woman-strangling dogmatists.--however, i fought this matter with one of our boarders the other day, and i am going to report the conversation. the divinity-student came down, one morning, looking rather more serious than usual. he said little at breakfast-time, but lingered after the others, so that i, who am apt to be long at the table, found myself alone with him. when the rest were all gone, he turned his chair round towards mine, and began. i am afraid,--he said,--you express yourself a little too freely on a most important class of subjects. is there not danger in introducing discussions or allusions relating to matters of religion into common discourse? danger to what?--i asked. danger to truth,--he replied, after a slight pause. i didn't know truth was such an invalid,' i said.--how long is it since she could only take the air in a close carriage, with a gentleman in a black coat on the box? let me tell you a story, adapted to young persons, but which won't hurt older ones. --there was a very little boy who had one of those balloons you may have seen, which are filled with light gas, and are held by a string to keep them from running off in aeronautic voyages on their own account. this little boy had a naughty brother, who said to him, one day,--brother, pull down your balloon, so that i can look at it and take hold of it. then the little boy pulled it down. now the naughty brother had a sharp pin in his hand, and he thrust it into the balloon, and all the gas oozed out, so that there was nothing left but a shrivelled skin. one evening, the little boy's father called him to the window to see the moon, which pleased him very much; but presently he said,--father, do not pull the string and bring down the moon, for my naughty brother will prick it, and then it will all shrivel up and we shall not see it any more. then his father laughed, and told him how the moon had been shining a good while, and would shine a good while longer, and that all we could do was to keep our windows clean, never letting the dust get too thick on them, and especially to keep our eyes open, but that we could not pull the moon down with a string, nor prick it with a pin.--mind you this, too, the moon is no man's private property, but is seen from a good many parlor-windows. --truth is tough. it will not break, like a bubble, at a touch; nay, you may kick it about all day, like a football, and it will be round and full at evening. does not mr. bryant say, that truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger? [would that this was so:--error, superstition, mysticism, authoritarianism, pseudo-science all have a tenacity that survives inexplicably. d.w.] i never heard that a mathematician was alarmed for the safety of a demonstrated proposition. i think, generally, that fear of open discussion implies feebleness of inward conviction, and great sensitiveness to the expression of individual opinion is a mark of weakness. --i am not so much afraid for truth,--said the divinity-student,--as for the conceptions of truth in the minds of persons not accustomed to judge wisely the opinions uttered before them. would you, then, banish all allusions to matters of this nature from the society of people who come together habitually? i would be very careful in introducing them,--said the divinity-student. yes, but friends of yours leave pamphlets in people's entries, to be picked up by nervous misses and hysteric housemaids, full of doctrines these people do not approve. some of your friends stop little children in the street, and give them books, which their parents, who have had them baptized into the christian fold and give them what they consider proper religious instruction, do not think fit for them. one would say it was fair enough to talk about matters thus forced upon people's attention. the divinity-student could not deny that this was what might be called opening the subject to the discussion of intelligent people. but,--he said,--the greatest objection is this, that persons who have not made a professional study of theology are not competent to speak on such subjects. suppose a minister were to undertake to express opinions on medical subjects, for instance, would you not think he was going beyond his province? i laughed,--for i remembered john wesley's "sulphur and supplication," and so many other cases where ministers had meddled with medicine,--sometimes well and sometimes ill, but, as a general rule, with a tremendous lurch to quackery, owing to their very loose way of admitting evidence,--that i could not help being amused. i beg your pardon,--i said,--i do not wish to be impolite, but i was thinking of their certificates to patent medicines. let us look at this matter. if a minister had attended lectures on the theory and practice of medicine, delivered by those who had studied it most deeply, for thirty or forty years, at the rate of from fifty to one hundred a year,--if he had been constantly reading and hearing read the most approved text-books on the subject,--if he had seen medicine actually practised according to different methods, daily, for the same length of time,--i should think, that if a person of average understanding, he was entitled to express an opinion on the subject of medicine, or else that his instructors were a set of ignorant and incompetent charlatans. if, before a medical practitioner would allow me to enjoy the full privileges of the healing art, he expected me to affirm my belief in a considerable number of medical doctrines, drugs, and formulae, i should think that he thereby implied my right to discuss the same, and my ability to do so, if i knew how to express myself in english. suppose, for instance, the medical society should refuse to give us an opiate, or to set a broken limb, until we had signed our belief in a certain number of propositions,--of which we will say this is the first: i. all men's teeth are naturally in a state of total decay or caries, and, therefore, no man can bite until every one of them is extracted and a new set is inserted according to the principles of dentistry adopted by this society. i, for one, should want to discuss that before signing my name to it, and i should say this:--why, no, that is n't true. there are a good many bad teeth, we all know, but a great many more good ones. you must n't trust the dentists; they are all the time looking at the people who have bad teeth, and such as are suffering from toothache. the idea that you must pull out every one of every nice young man and young woman's natural teeth! poh, poh! nobody believes that. this tooth must be straightened, that must be filled with gold, and this other perhaps extracted, but it must be a very rare case, if they are all so bad as to require extraction; and if they are, don't blame the poor soul for it! don't tell us, as some old dentists used to, that everybody not only always has every tooth in his head good for nothing, but that he ought to have his head cut off as a punishment for that misfortune! no, i can't sign number one. give us number two. ii. we hold that no man can be well who does not agree with our views of the efficacy of calomel, and who does not take the doses of it prescribed in our tables, as there directed. to which i demur, questioning why it should be so, and get for answer the two following: iii. every man who does not take our prepared calomel, as prescribed by us in our constitution and by-laws, is and must be a mass of disease from head to foot; it being self-evident that he is simultaneously affected with apoplexy, arthritis, ascites, asphyxia, and atrophy; with borborygmus, bronchitis, and bulimia; with cachexia, carcinoma, and cretinismus; and so on through the alphabet, to xerophthahnia and zona, with all possible and incompatible diseases which are necessary to make up a totally morbid state; and he will certainly die, if he does not take freely of our prepared calomel, to be obtained only of one of our authorized agents. iv. no man shall be allowed to take our prepared calomel who does not give in his solemn adhesion to each and all of the above-named and the following propositions (from ten to a hundred) and show his mouth to certain of our apothecaries, who have not studied dentistry, to examine whether all his teeth have been extracted and a new set inserted according to our regulations. of course, the doctors have a right to say we sha'n't have any rhubarb, if we don't sign their articles, and that, if, after signing them, we express doubts (in public), about any of them, they will cut us off from our jalap and squills,--but then to ask a fellow not to discuss the propositions before he signs them is what i should call boiling it down a little too strong! if we understand them, why can't we discuss them? if we can't understand them, because we have n't taken a medical degree, what the father of lies do they ask us to sign them for? just so with the graver profession. every now and then some of its members seem to lose common sense and common humanity. the laymen have to keep setting the divines right constantly. science, for instance,--in other words, knowledge,--is not the enemy of religion; for, if so, then religion would mean ignorance: but it is often the antagonist of school-divinity. everybody knows the story of early astronomy and the school-divines. come down a little later, archbishop usher, a very learned protestant prelate, tells us that the world was created on sunday, the twenty-third of october, four thousand and four years before the birth of christ. deluge, december th, two thousand three hundred and forty-eight years b. c. yes, and the earth stands on an elephant, and the elephant on a tortoise. one statement is as near the truth as the other. again, there is nothing so brutalizing to some natures as moral surgery. i have often wondered that hogarth did not add one more picture to his four stages of cruelty. those wretched fools, reverend divines and others, who were strangling men and women for imaginary crimes a little more than a century ago among us, were set right by a layman, and very angry it made them to have him meddle. the good people of northampton had a very remarkable man for their clergyman,--a man with a brain as nicely adjusted for certain mechanical processes as babbage's calculating machine. the commentary of the laymen on the preaching and practising of jonathan edwards was, that, after twenty-three years of endurance, they turned him out by a vote of twenty to one, and passed a resolve that he should never preach for them again. a man's logical and analytical adjustments are of little consequence, compared to his primary relations with nature and truth: and people have sense enough to find it out in the long ran; they know what "logic" is worth. in that miserable delusion referred to above, the reverend aztecs and fijians argued rightly enough from their premises, no doubt, for many men can do this. but common sense and common humanity were unfortunately left out from their premises, and a layman had to supply them. a hundred more years and many of the barbarisms still lingering among us will, of course, have disappeared like witch-hanging. but people are sensitive now, as they were then. you will see by this extract that the rev. cotton mather did not like intermeddling with his business very well. "let the levites of the lord keep close to their instructions," he says, "and god will smite thro' the loins of those that rise up against them. i will report unto you a thing which many hundreds among us know to be true. the godly minister of a certain town in connecticut, when he had occasion to be absent on a lord's day from his flock, employ'd an honest neighbour of some small talents for a mechanick, to read a sermon out of some good book unto 'em. this honest, whom they ever counted also a pious man, had so much conceit of his talents, that instead of reading a sermon appointed, he to the surprize of the people, fell to preaching one of his own. for his text he took these words, 'despise not prophecyings'; and in his preachment he betook himself to bewail the envy of the clergy in the land, in that they did not wish all the lord's people to be prophets, and call forth private brethren publickly to prophesie. while he was thus in the midst of his exercise, god smote him with horrible madness; he was taken ravingly distracted; the people were forc'd with violent hands to carry him home. i will not mention his name: he was reputed a pious man."--this is one of cotton mather's "remarkable judgments of god, on several sorts of offenders,"--and the next cases referred to are the judgments on the "abominable sacrilege" of not paying the ministers' salaries. this sort of thing does n't do here and now, you see, my young friend! we talk about our free institutions;--they are nothing but a coarse outside machinery to secure the freedom of individual thought. the president of the united states is only the engine driver of our broad-gauge mail-train; and every honest, independent thinker has a seat in the first-class cars behind him. --there is something in what you say,--replied the divinity-student; --and yet it seems to me there are places and times where disputed doctrines of religion should not be introduced. you would not attack a church dogma--say total depravity--in a lyceum-lecture, for instance? certainly not; i should choose another place,--i answered.--but, mind you, at this table i think it is very different. i shall express my ideas on any subject i like. the laws of the lecture-room, to which my friends and myself are always amenable, do not hold here. i shall not often give arguments, but frequently opinions,--i trust with courtesy and propriety, but, at any rate, with such natural forms of expression as it has pleased the almighty to bestow upon me. a man's opinions, look you, are generally of much more value than his arguments. these last are made by his brain, and perhaps he does not believe the proposition they tend to prove,--as is often the case with paid lawyers; but opinions are formed by our whole nature,--brain, heart, instinct, brute life, everything all our experience has shaped for us by contact with the whole circle of our being. --there is one thing more,--said the divinity-student,--that i wished to speak of; i mean that idea of yours, expressed some time since, of depolarizing the text of sacred books in order to judge them fairly. may i ask why you do not try the experiment yourself? certainly,--i replied,--if it gives you any pleasure to ask foolish questions. i think the ocean telegraph-wire ought to be laid and will be laid, but i don't know that you have any right to ask me to go and lay it. but, for that matter, i have heard a good deal of scripture depolarized in and out of the pulpit. i heard the rev. mr. f. once depolarize the story of the prodigal son in park-street church. many years afterwards, i heard him repeat the same or a similar depolarized version in rome, new york. i heard an admirable depolarization of the story of the young man who "had great possessions" from the rev. mr. h. in another pulpit, and felt that i had never half understood it before. all paraphrases are more or less perfect depolarizations. but i tell you this: the faith of our christian community is not robust enough to bear the turning of our most sacred language into its depolarized equivalents. you have only to look back to dr. channing's famous baltimore discourse and remember the shrieks of blasphemy with which it was greeted, to satisfy yourself on this point. time, time only, can gradually wean us from our epeolatry, or word-worship, by spiritualizing our ideas of the thing signified. man is an idolater or symbol-worshipper by nature, which, of course, is no fault of his; but sooner or later all his local and temporary symbols must be ground to powder, like the golden calf,--word-images as well as metal and wooden ones. rough work, iconoclasm,--but the only way to get at truth. it is, indeed, as that quaint and rare old discourse, "a summons for sleepers," hath it, "no doubt a thankless office, and a verie unthriftie occupation; veritas odium parit, truth never goeth without a scratcht face; he that will be busie with voe vobis, let him looke shortly for coram nobas." the very aim and end of our institutions is just this: that we may think what we like and say what we think. --think what we like!--said the divinity-student;--think what we like! what! against all human and divine authority? against all human versions of its own or any other authority. at our own peril always, if we do not like the right,--but not at the risk of being hanged and quartered for political heresy, or broiled on green fagots for ecclesiastical treason! nay, we have got so far, that the very word heresy has fallen into comparative disuse among us. and now, my young friend, let-us shake hands and stop our discussion, which we will not make a quarrel. i trust you know, or will learn, a great many things in your profession which we common scholars do not know; but mark this: when the common people of new england stop talking politics and theology, it will be because they have got an emperor to teach them the one, and a pope to teach them the other! that was the end of my long conference with the divinity-student. the next morning we got talking a little on the same subject, very good-naturedly, as people return to a matter they have talked out. you must look to yourself,--said the divinity-student,--if your democratic notions get into print. you will be fired into from all quarters. if it were only a bullet, with the marksman's name on it!--i said.--i can't stop to pick out the peep-shot of the anonymous scribblers. right, sir! right!--said the little gentleman. the scamps! i know the fellows. they can't give fifty cents to one of the antipodes, but they must have it jingled along through everybody's palms all the way, till it reaches him,--and forty cents of it gets spilt, like the water out of the fire-buckets passed along a "lane" at a fire;--but when it comes to anonymous defamation, putting lies into people's mouths, and then advertising those people through the country as the authors of them,--oh, then it is that they let not their left hand know what their right hand doeth! i don't like ehud's style of doing business, sir. he comes along with a very sanctimonious look, sir, with his "secret errand unto thee," and his "message from god unto thee," and then pulls out his hidden knife with that unsuspected hand of his,---(the little gentleman lifted his clenched left hand with the blood-red jewel on the ring-finger,)--and runs it, blade and haft, into a man's stomach! don't meddle with these fellows, sir. they are read mostly by persons whom you would not reach, if you were to write ever so much. let 'em alone. a man whose opinions are not attacked is beneath contempt. i hope so,--i said.--i got three pamphlets and innumerable squibs flung at my head for attacking one of the pseudo-sciences, in former years. when, by the permission of providence, i held up to the professional public the damnable facts connected with the conveyance of poison from one young mother's chamber to another's,--for doing which humble office i desire to be thankful that i have lived, though nothing else good should ever come of my life,--i had to bear the sneers of those whose position i had assailed, and, as i believe, have at last demolished, so that nothing but the ghosts of dead women stir among the ruins.--what would you do, if the folks without names kept at you, trying to get a san benito on to your shoulders that would fit you?--would you stand still in fly-time, or would you give a kick now and then? let 'em bite!--said the little gentleman,--let 'em bite! it makes 'em hungry to shake 'em off, and they settle down again as thick as ever and twice as savage. do you know what meddling with the folks without names, as you call 'em, is like?--it is like riding at the quintaan. you run full tilt at the board, but the board is on a pivot, with a bag of sand on an arm that balances it. the board gives way as soon as you touch it; and before you have got by, the bag of sand comes round whack on the back of your neck. "ananias," for instance, pitches into your lecture, we will say, in some paper taken by the people in your kitchen. your servants get saucy and negligent. if their newspaper calls you names, they need not be so particular about shutting doors softly or boiling potatoes. so you lose your temper, and come out in an article which you think is going to finish "ananias," proving him a booby who doesn't know enough to understand even a lyceum-lecture, or else a person that tells lies. now you think you 've got him! not so fast. "ananias" keeps still and winks to "shimei," and "shimei" comes out in the paper which they take in your neighbor's kitchen, ten times worse than t'other fellow. if you meddle with "shimei," he steps out, and next week appears "rab-shakeh," an unsavory wretch; and now, at any rate, you find out what good sense there was in hezekiah's "answer him not."--no, no,--keep your temper.--so saying, the little gentleman doubled his left fist and looked at it as if he should like to hit something or somebody a most pernicious punch with it. good!--said i.--now let me give you some axioms i have arrived at, after seeing something of a great many kinds of good folks. --of a hundred people of each of the different leading religious sects, about the same proportion will be safe and pleasant persons to deal and to live with. --there are, at least, three real saints among the women to one among the men, in every denomination. --the spiritual standard of different classes i would reckon thus: . the comfortably rich. . the decently comfortable. . the very rich, who are apt to be irreligious. . the very poor, who are apt to be immoral. --the cut nails of machine-divinity may be driven in, but they won't clinch. --the arguments which the greatest of our schoolmen could not refute were two: the blood in men's veins, and the milk in women's breasts. --humility is the first of the virtues--for other people. --faith always implies the disbelief of a lesser fact in favor of a greater. a little mind often sees the unbelief, without seeing the belief of a large one. the poor relation had been fidgeting about and working her mouth while all this was going on. she broke out in speech at this point. i hate to hear folks talk so. i don't see that you are any better than a heathen. i wish i were half as good as many heathens have been,--i said.--dying for a principle seems to me a higher degree of virtue than scolding for it; and the history of heathen races is full of instances where men have laid down their lives for the love of their kind, of their country, of truth, nay, even for simple manhood's sake, or to show their obedience or fidelity. what would not such beings have done for the souls of men, for the christian commonwealth, for the king of kings, if they had lived in days of larger light? which seems to you nearest heaven, socrates drinking his hemlock, regulus going back to the enemy's camp, or that old new england divine sitting comfortably in his study and chuckling over his conceit of certain poor women, who had been burned to death in his own town, going "roaring out of one fire into another"? i don't believe he said any such thing,--replied the poor relation. it is hard to believe,--said i,--but it is true for all that. in another hundred years it will be as incredible that men talked as we sometimes hear them now. pectus est quod facit theologum. the heart makes the theologian. every race, every civilization, either has a new revelation of its own or a new interpretation of an old one. democratic america, has a different humanity from feudal europe, and so must have a new divinity. see, for one moment, how intelligence reacts on our faiths. the bible was a divining-book to our ancestors, and is so still in the hands of some of the vulgar. the puritans went to the old testament for their laws; the mormons go to it for their patriarchal institution. every generation dissolves something new and precipitates something once held in solution from that great storehouse of temporary and permanent truths. you may observe this: that the conversation of intelligent men of the stricter sects is strangely in advance of the formula that belong to their organizations. so true is this, that i have doubts whether a large proportion of them would not have been rather pleased than offended, if they could have overheard our, talk. for, look you, i think there is hardly a professional teacher who will not in private conversation allow a large part of what we have said, though it may frighten him in print; and i know well what an under-current of secret sympathy gives vitality to those poor words of mine which sometimes get a hearing. i don't mind the exclamation of any old stager who drinks madeira worth from two to six bibles a bottle, and burns, according to his own premises, a dozen souls a year in the cigars with which he muddles his brains. but as for the good and true and intelligent men whom we see all around us, laborious, self-denying, hopeful, helpful,--men who know that the active mind of the century is tending more and more to the two poles, rome and reason, the sovereign church or the free soul, authority or personality, god in us or god in our masters, and that, though a man may by accident stand half-way between these two points, he must look one way or the other,--i don't believe they would take offence at anything i have reported of our late conversation. but supposing any one do take offence at first sight, let him look over these notes again, and see whether he is quite sure he does not agree with most of these things that were said amongst us. if he agrees with most of them, let him be patient with an opinion he does not accept, or an expression or illustration a little too vivacious. i don't know that i shall report any more conversations on these topics; but i do insist on the right to express a civil opinion on this class of subjects without giving offence, just when and where i please,---unless, as in the lecture-room, there is an implied contract to keep clear of doubtful matters. you did n't think a man could sit at a breakfast-table doing nothing but making puns every morning for a year or two, and never give a thought to the two thousand of his fellow-creatures who are passing into another state during every hour that he sits talking and laughing. of course, the one matter that a real human being cares for is what is going to become of them and of him. and the plain truth is, that a good many people are saying one thing about it and believing another. --how do i know that? why, i have known and loved to talk with good people, all the way from rome to geneva in doctrine, as long as i can remember. besides, the real religion of the world comes from women much more than from men,--from mothers most of all, who carry the key of our souls in their bosoms. it is in their hearts that the "sentimental" religion some people are so fond of sneering at has its source. the sentiment of love, the sentiment of maternity, the sentiment of the paramount obligation of the parent to the child as having called it into existence, enhanced just in proportion to the power and knowledge of the one and the weakness and ignorance of the other,--these are the "sentiments" that have kept our soulless systems from driving men off to die in holes like those that riddle the sides of the hill opposite the monastery of st. saba, where the miserable victims of a falsely-interpreted religion starved and withered in their delusion. i have looked on the face of a saintly woman this very day, whose creed many dread and hate, but whose life is lovely and noble beyond all praise. when i remember the bitter words i have heard spoken against her faith, by men who have an inquisition which excommunicates those who ask to leave their communion in peace, and an index expurgatorius on which this article may possibly have the honor of figuring,--and, far worse than these, the reluctant, pharisaical confession, that it might perhaps be possible that one who so believed should be accepted of the creator,--and then recall the sweet peace and love that show through all her looks, the price of untold sacrifices and labors, and again recollect how thousands of women, filled with the same spirit, die, without a murmur, to earthly life, die to their own names even, that they may know nothing but their holy duties,--while men are torturing and denouncing their fellows, and while we can hear day and night the clinking of the hammers that are trying, like the brute forces in the "prometheus," to rivet their adamantine wedges right through the breast of human nature,--i have been ready to believe that we have even now a new revelation, and the name of its messiah is woman! --i should be sorry,--i remarked, a day or two afterwards, to the divinity-student,--if anything i said tended in any way to foster any jealousy between the professions, or to throw disrespect upon that one on whose counsel and sympathies almost all of us lean in our moments of trial. but we are false to our new conditions of life, if we do not resolutely maintain our religious as well as our political freedom, in the face of any and all supposed monopolies. certain men will, of course, say two things, if we do not take their views: first, that we don't know anything about these matters; and, secondly, that we are not so good as they are. they have a polarized phraseology for saying these things, but it comes to precisely that. to which it may be answered, in the first place, that we have good authority for saying that even babes and sucklings know something; and, in the second, that, if there is a mote or so to be removed from our premises, the courts and councils of the last few years have found beams enough in some other quarters to build a church that would hold all the good people in boston and have sticks enough left to make a bonfire for all the heretics. as to that terrible depolarizing process of mine, of which we were talking the other day, i will give you a specimen of one way of managing it, if you like. i don't believe it will hurt you or anybody. besides, i had a great deal rather finish our talk with pleasant images and gentle words than with sharp sayings, which will only afford a text, if anybody repeats them, for endless relays of attacks from messrs. ananias, shimei, and rabshakeh. [i must leave such gentry, if any of them show themselves, in the hands of my clerical friends, many of whom are ready to stand up for the rights of the laity,--and to those blessed souls, the good women, to whom this version of the story of a mother's hidden hopes and tender anxieties is dedicated by their peaceful and loving servant.] a mother's secret. how sweet the sacred legend--if unblamed in my slight verse such holy things are named --of mary's secret hours of hidden joy, silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy! ave, maria! pardon, if i wrong those heavenly words that shame my earthly song! the choral host had closed the angel's strain sung to the midnight watch on bethlehem's plain; and now the shepherds, hastening on their way, sought the still hamlet where the infant lay. they passed the fields that gleaning ruth toiled o'er, they saw afar the ruined threshing-floor where moab's daughter, homeless and forlorn, found boaz slumbering by his heaps of corn; and some remembered how the holy scribe, skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe, traced the warm blood of jesse's royal son to that fair alien, bravely wooed and won. so fared they on to seek the promised sign that marked the anointed heir of david's line. at last, by forms of earthly semblance led, they found the crowded inn, the oxen's shed. no pomp was there, no glory shone around on the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground; one dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed, in that poor cell the lord of life was laid! the wondering shepherds told their breathless tale of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; told how the skies with sudden glory flamed; told how the shining multitude proclaimed "joy, joy to earth! behold the hallowed morn! in david's city christ the lord is born! 'glory to god!' let angels shout on high, 'good-will to men!' the listening earth reply!" they spoke with hurried words and accents wild; calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. no trembling word the mother's joy revealed, one sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed; unmoved she saw the rustic train depart, but kept their words to ponder in her heart. twelve years had passed; the boy was fair and tall, growing in wisdom, finding grace with all. the maids of nazareth, as they trooped to fill their balanced urns beside the mountain-rill, the gathered matrons, as they sat and spun, spoke in soft words of joseph's quiet son. no voice had reached the galilean vale of star-led kings or awe-struck shepherds' tale; in the meek, studious child they only saw the future rabbi, learned in israel's law. so grew the boy; and now the feast was near, when at the holy place the tribes appear. scarce had the home-bred child of nazareth seen beyond the hills that girt the village-green, save when at midnight, o'er the star-lit sands, snatched from the steel of herod's murdering bands, a babe, close-folded to his mother's breast, through edom's wilds he sought the sheltering west. then joseph spake: "thy boy hath largely grown; weave him fine raiment, fitting to be shown; fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest goes he not with us to the holy feast?" and mary culled the flaxen fibres white; till eve she spun; she spun till morning light. the thread was twined; its parting meshes through from hand to hand her restless shuttle flew, till the full web was wound upon the beam, love's curious toil,--a vest without a seam! they reach the holy place, fulfil the days to solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. at last they turn, and far moriah's height melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. all day the dusky caravan has flowed in devious trails along the winding road, (for many a step their homeward path attends, and all the sons of abraham are as friends.) evening has come,--the hour of rest and joy; hush! hush!--that whisper,-"where is mary's boy?" o weary hour! o aching days that passed filled with strange fears, each wilder than the last: the soldier's lance,--the fierce centurion's sword, the crushing wheels that whirl some roman lord, the midnight crypt that suck's the captive's breath, the blistering sun on hinnom's vale of death! thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light, thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night, crouched by some porphyry column's shining plinth, or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth. at last, in desperate mood, they sought once more the temple's porches, searched in vain before; they found him seated with the ancient men, the grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen, their bald heads glistening as they clustered near; their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, lost in half-envious wonder and surprise that lips so fresh should utter words so wise. and mary said,--as one who, tried too long, tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong, "what is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, o my son!" few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone, strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown; then turned with them and left the holy hill, to all their mild commands obedient still. the tale was told to nazareth's sober men, and nazareth's matrons told it oft again; the maids retold it at the fountain's side; the youthful shepherds doubted or denied; it passed around among the listening friends, with all that fancy adds and fiction fends, till newer marvels dimmed the young renown of joseph's son, who talked the rabbis down. but mary, faithful to its lightest word, kept in her heart the sayings she had heard, till the dread morning rent the temple's veil, and shuddering earth confirmed the wondrous tale. youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall; a mother's secret hope outlives them all. vi you don't look so dreadful poor in the face as you did a while back. bloated some, i expect. this was the cheerful and encouraging and elegant remark with which the poor relation greeted the divinity-student one morning. of course every good man considers it a great sacrifice on his part to continue living in this transitory, unsatisfactory, and particularly unpleasant world. this is so much a matter of course, that i was surprised to see the divinity-student change color. he took a look at a small and uncertain-minded glass which hung slanting forward over the chapped sideboard. the image it returned to him had the color of a very young pea somewhat overboiled. the scenery of a long tragic drama flashed through his mind as the lightning-express-train whishes by a station: the gradual dismantling process of disease; friends looking on, sympathetic, but secretly chuckling over their own stomachs of iron and lungs of caoutchouc; nurses attentive, but calculating their crop, and thinking how soon it will be ripe, so that they can go to your neighbor, who is good for a year or so longer; doctors assiduous, but giving themselves a mental shake, as they go out of your door, which throws off your particular grief as a duck sheds a raindrop from his oily feathers; undertakers solemn, but happy; then the great subsoil cultivator, who plants, but never looks for fruit in his garden; then the stone-cutter, who puts your name on the slab which has been waiting for you ever since the birds or beasts made their tracks on the new red sandstone; then the grass and the dandelions and the buttercups,----earth saying to the mortal body, with her sweet symbolism, "you have scarred my bosom, but you are forgiven"; then a glimpse of the soul as a floating consciousness without very definite form or place, but dimly conceived of as an upright column of vapor or mist several times larger than life-size, so far as it could be said to have any size at all, wandering about and living a thin and half-awake life for want of good old-fashioned solid matter to come down upon with foot and fist,--in fact, having neither foot nor fist, nor conveniences for taking the sitting posture. and yet the divinity-student was a good christian, and those heathen images which remind one of the childlike fancies of the dying adrian were only the efforts of his imagination to give shape to the formless and position to the placeless. neither did his thoughts spread themselves out and link themselves as i have displayed them. they came confusedly into his mind like a heap of broken mosaics,--sometimes a part of the picture complete in itself, sometimes connected fragments, and sometimes only single severed stones. they did not diffuse a light of celestial joy over his countenance. on the contrary, the poor relation's remark turned him pale, as i have said; and when the terrible wrinkled and jaundiced looking-glass turned him green in addition, and he saw himself in it, it seemed to him as if it were all settled, and his book of life were to be shut not yet half-read, and go back to the dust of the under-ground archives. he coughed a mild short cough, as if to point the direction in which his downward path was tending. it was an honest little cough enough, so far as appearances went. but coughs are ungrateful things. you find one out in the cold, take it up and nurse it and make everything of it, dress it up warm, give it all sorts of balsams and other food it likes, and carry it round in your bosom as if it were a miniature lapdog. and by-and-by its little bark grows sharp and savage, and--confound the thing!--you find it is a wolf's whelp that you have got there, and he is gnawing in the breast where he has been nestling so long.--the poor relation said that somebody's surrup was good for folks that were gettin' into a bad way.--the landlady had heard of desperate cases cured by cherry-pictorial. whiskey's the fellah,--said the young man john.--make it into punch, cold at dinner-time 'n' hot at bed-time. i'll come up 'n' show you how to mix it. have n't any of you seen the wonderful fat man exhibitin' down in hanover street? master benjamin franklin rushed into the dialogue with a breezy exclamation, that he had seen a great picter outside of the place where the fat man was exhibitin'. tried to get in at half-price, but the man at the door looked at his teeth and said he was more'n ten year old. it is n't two years,--said the young man john, since that fat fellah was exhibitin' here as the livin' skeleton. whiskey--that's what did it,--real burbon's the stuff. hot water, sugar, 'n' jest a little shavin' of lemon-skin in it,--skin, mind you, none o' your juice; take it off thin,--shape of one of them flat curls the factory-girls wear on the sides of their foreheads. but i am a teetotaller,--said the divinity-student in a subdued tone;--not noticing the enormous length of the bow-string the young fellow had just drawn. he took up his hat and went out. i think you have worried that young man more than you meant,--i said.--i don't believe he will jump off one of the bridges, for he has too much principle; but i mean to follow him and see where he goes, for he looks as if his mind were made up to something. i followed him at a reasonable distance. he walked doggedly along, looking neither to the right nor the left, turned into state street, and made for a well-known life-insurance office. luckily, the doctor was there and overhauled him on the spot. there was nothing the matter with him, he said, and he could have his life insured as a sound one. he came out in good spirits, and told me this soon after. this led me to make some remarks the next morning on the manners of well-bred and ill-bred people. i began,--the whole essence of true gentle-breeding (one does not like to say gentility) lies in the wish and the art to be agreeable. good-breeding is surface-christianity. every look, movement, tone, expression, subject of discourse, that may give pain to another is habitually excluded from conversational intercourse. this is the reason why rich people are apt to be so much more agreeable than others. --i thought you were a great champion of equality,--said the discreet and severe lady who had accompanied our young friend, the latin tutor's daughter. i go politically for equality,--i said,--and socially for the quality. who are the "quality,"--said the model, etc., in a community like ours? i confess i find this question a little difficult to answer,--i said. --nothing is better known than the distinction of social ranks which exists in every community, and nothing is harder to define. the great gentlemen and ladies of a place are its real lords and masters and mistresses; they are the quality, whether in a monarchy or a republic; mayors and governors and generals and senators and ex-presidents are nothing to them. how well we know this, and how seldom it finds a distinct expression! now i tell you truly, i believe in man as man, and i disbelieve in all distinctions except such as follow the natural lines of cleavage in a society which has crystallized according to its own true laws. but the essence of equality is to be able to say the truth; and there is nothing more curious than these truths relating to the stratification of society. of all the facts in this world that do not take hold of immortality, there is not one so intensely real, permanent, and engrossing as this of social position,--as you see by the circumstances that the core of all the great social orders the world has seen has been, and is still, for the most part, a privileged class of gentlemen and ladies arranged in a regular scale of precedence among themselves, but superior as a body to all else. nothing but an ideal christian equality, which we have been getting farther away from since the days of the primitive church, can prevent this subdivision of society into classes from taking place everywhere,--in the great centres of our republic as much as in old european monarchies. only there position is more absolutely hereditary,--here it is more completely elective. --where is the election held? and what are the qualifications? and who are the electors?--said the model. nobody ever sees when the vote is taken; there never is a formal vote. the women settle it mostly; and they know wonderfully well what is presentable, and what can't stand the blaze of the chandeliers and the critical eye and ear of people trained to know a staring shade in a ribbon, a false light in a jewel, an ill-bred tone, an angular movement, everything that betrays a coarse fibre and cheap training. as a general thing, you do not get elegance short of two or three removes from the soil, out of which our best blood doubtless comes,--quite as good, no doubt, as if it came from those old prize-fighters with iron pots on their heads, to whom some great people are so fond of tracing their descent through a line of small artisans and petty shopkeepers whose veins have held "base" fluid enough to fill the cloaca maxima! does not money go everywhere?--said the model. almost. and with good reason. for though there are numerous exceptions, rich people are, as i said, commonly altogether the most agreeable companions. the influence of a fine house, graceful furniture, good libraries, well-ordered tables, trim servants, and, above all, a position so secure that one becomes unconscious of it, gives a harmony and refinement to the character and manners which we feel, if we cannot explain their charm. yet we can get at the reason of it by thinking a little. all these appliances are to shield the sensibility from disagreeable contacts, and to soothe it by varied natural and artificial influences. in this way the mind, the taste, the feelings, grow delicate, just as the hands grow white and soft when saved from toil and incased in soft gloves. the whole nature becomes subdued into suavity. i confess i like the quality ladies better than the common kind even of literary ones. they have n't read the last book, perhaps, but they attend better to you when you are talking to them. if they are never learned, they make up for it in tact and elegance. besides, i think, on the whole, there is less self-assertion in diamonds than in dogmas. i don't know where you will find a sweeter portrait of humility than in esther, the poor play-girl of king ahasuerus; yet esther put on her royal apparel when she went before her lord. i have no doubt she was a more gracious and agreeable person than deborah, who judged the people and wrote the story of sisera. the wisest woman you talk with is ignorant of something that you know, but an elegant woman never forgets her elegance. dowdyism is clearly an expression of imperfect vitality. the highest fashion is intensely alive,--not alive necessarily to the truest and best things, but with its blood tingling, as it were, in all its extremities and to the farthest point of its surface, so that the feather in its bonnet is as fresh as the crest of a fighting-cock, and the rosette on its slipper as clean-cut and pimpant (pronounce it english fashion,--it is a good word) as a dahlia. as a general rule, that society where flattery is acted is much more agreeable than that where it is spoken. don't you see why? attention and deference don't require you to make fine speeches expressing your sense of unworthiness (lies) and returning all the compliments paid you. this is one reason. --a woman of sense ought to be above flattering any man,--said the model. [my reflection. oh! oh! no wonder you did n't get married. served you right.] my remark. surely, madam,--if you mean by flattery telling people boldly to their faces that they are this or that, which they are not. but a woman who does not carry about with her wherever she goes a halo of good feeling and desire to make everybody contented,--an atmosphere of grace, mercy, and peace, of at least six feet radius, which wraps every human being upon whom she voluntarily bestows her presence, and so flatters him with the comfortable thought that she is rather glad he is alive than otherwise, isn't worth the trouble of talking to, as a woman; she may do well enough to hold discussions with. --i don't think the model exactly liked this. she said,--a little spitefully, i thought,--that a sensible man might stand a little praise, but would of course soon get sick of it, if he were in the habit of getting much. oh, yes,--i replied,--just as men get sick of tobacco. it is notorious how apt they are to get tired of that vegetable. --that 's so!--said the young fellow john,--i've got tired of my cigars and burnt 'em all up. i am heartily glad to hear it,--said the model,--i wish they were all disposed of in the same way. so do i,--said the young fellow john. can't you get your friends to unite with you in committing those odious instruments of debauchery to the flames in which you have consumed your own? i wish i could,--said the young fellow john. it would be a noble sacrifice,--said the model, and every american woman would be grateful to you. let us burn them all in a heap out in the yard. that a'n't my way,--said the young fellow john;--i burn 'em one 't' time,--little end in my mouth and big end outside. --i watched for the effect of this sudden change of programme, when it should reach the calm stillness of the model's interior apprehension, as a boy watches for the splash of a stone which he has dropped into a well. but before it had fairly reached the water, poor iris, who had followed the conversation with a certain interest until it turned this sharp corner, (for she seems rather to fancy the young fellow john,) laughed out such a clear, loud laugh, that it started us all off, as the locust-cry of some full-throated soprano drags a multitudinous chorus after it. it was plain that some dam or other had broken in the soul of this young girl, and she was squaring up old scores of laughter, out of which she had been cheated, with a grand flood of merriment that swept all before it. so we had a great laugh all round, in which the model--who, if she had as many virtues as there are spokes to a wheel, all compacted with a personality as round and complete as its tire, yet wanted that one little addition of grace, which seems so small, and is as important as the linchpin in trundling over the rough ways of life--had not the tact to join. she seemed to be "stuffy" about it, as the young fellow john said. in fact, i was afraid the joke would have cost us both our new lady-boarders. it had no effect, however, except, perhaps, to hasten the departure of the elder of the two, who could, on the whole, be spared. --i had meant to make this note of our conversation a text for a few axioms on the matter of breeding. but it so happened, that, exactly at this point of my record, a very distinguished philosopher, whom several of our boarders and myself go to hear, and whom no doubt many of my readers follow habitually, treated this matter of manners. up to this point, if i have been so fortunate as to coincide with him in opinion, and so unfortunate as to try to express what he has more felicitously said, nobody is to blame; for what has been given thus far was all written before the lecture was delivered. but what shall i do now? he told us it was childish to lay down rules for deportment,--but he could not help laying down a few. thus,--nothing so vulgar as to be in a hurry. true, but hard of application. people with short legs step quickly, because legs are pendulums, and swing more times in a minute the shorter they are. generally a natural rhythm runs through the whole organization: quick pulse, fast breathing, hasty speech, rapid trains of thought, excitable temper. stillness of person and steadiness of features are signal marks of good-breeding. vulgar persons can't sit still, or, at least, they must work their limbs or features. talking of one's own ails and grievances.--bad enough, but not so bad as insulting the person you talk with by remarking on his ill-looks, or appealing to notice any of his personal peculiarities. apologizing.--a very desperate habit,--one that is rarely cured. apology is only egotism wrong side out. nine times out of ten, the first thing a man's companion knows of his shortcoming is from his apology. it is mighty presumptuous on your part to suppose your small failures of so much consequence that you must make a talk about them. good dressing, quiet ways, low tones of voice, lips that can wait, and eyes that do not wander,--shyness of personalities, except in certain intimate communions,--to be light in hand in conversation, to have ideas, but to be able to make talk, if necessary, without them,--to belong to the company you are in, and not to yourself,--to have nothing in your dress or furniture so fine that you cannot afford to spoil it and get another like it, yet to preserve the harmonies, throughout your person and--dwelling: i should say that this was a fair capital of manners to begin with. under bad manners, as under graver faults, lies very commonly an overestimate of our special individuality, as distinguished from our generic humanity. it is just here that the very highest society asserts its superior breeding. among truly elegant people of the highest ton, you will find more real equality in social intercourse than in a country village. as nuns drop their birth-names and become sister margaret and sister mary, so high-bred people drop their personal distinctions and become brothers and sisters of conversational charity. nor are fashionable people without their heroism. i believe there are men who have shown as much self-devotion in carrying a lone wall-flower down to the supper-table as ever saint or martyr in the act that has canonized his name. there are florence nightingales of the ballroom, whom nothing can hold back from their errands of mercy. they find out the red-handed, gloveless undergraduate of bucolic antecedents, as he squirms in his corner, and distill their soft words upon him like dew upon the green herb. they reach even the poor relation, whose dreary apparition saddens the perfumed atmosphere of the sumptuous drawing-room. i have known one of these angels ask, of her own accord, that a desolate middle-aged man, whom nobody seemed to know, should be presented to her by the hostess. he wore no shirt-collar,--he had on black gloves,--and was flourishing a red bandanna handkerchief! match me this, ye proud children of poverty, who boast of your paltry sacrifices for each other! virtue in humble life! what is that to the glorious self-renunciation of a martyr in pearls and diamonds? as i saw this noble woman bending gracefully before the social mendicant,--the white billows of her beauty heaving under the foam of the traitorous laces that half revealed them,--i should have wept with sympathetic emotion, but that tears, except as a private demonstration, are an ill-disguised expression of self-consciousness and vanity, which is inadmissible in good society. i have sometimes thought, with a pang, of the position in which political chance or contrivance might hereafter place some one of our fellow-citizens. it has happened hitherto, so far as my limited knowledge goes, that the president of the united states has always been what might be called in general terms a gentleman. but what if at some future time the choice of the people should fall upon one on whom that lofty title could not, by any stretch of charity, be bestowed? this may happen,--how soon the future only knows. think of this miserable man of coming political possibilities,--an unpresentable boor sucked into office by one of those eddies in the flow of popular sentiment which carry straws and chips into the public harbor, while the prostrate trunks of the monarchs of the forest hurry down on the senseless stream to the gulf of political oblivion! think of him, i say, and of the concentrated gaze of good society through its thousand eyes, all confluent, as it were, in one great burning-glass of ice that shrivels its wretched object in fiery torture, itself cold as the glacier of an unsunned cavern! no,--there will be angels of good-breeding then as now, to shield the victim of free institutions from himself and from his torturers. i can fancy a lovely woman playfully withdrawing the knife which he would abuse by making it an instrument for the conveyance of food,--or, failing in this kind artifice, sacrificing herself by imitating his use of that implement; how much harder than to plunge it into her bosom, like lucretia! i can see her studying in his provincial dialect until she becomes the champollion of new england or western or southern barbarisms. she has learned that haow means what; that think-in' is the same thing as thinking, or she has found out the meaning of that extraordinary mono syllable, which no single-tongued phonographer can make legible, prevailing on the banks of the hudson and at its embouchure, and elsewhere,--what they say when they think they say first, (fe-eest,--fe as in the french le),--or that cheer means chair,--or that urritation means irritation,--and so of other enormities. nothing surprises her. the highest breeding, you know, comes round to the indian standard,--to take everything coolly,--nil admirari,--if you happen to be learned and like the roman phrase for the same thing. if you like the company of people that stare at you from head to foot to see if there is a hole in your coat, or if you have not grown a little older, or if your eyes are not yellow with jaundice, or if your complexion is not a little faded, and so on, and then convey the fact to you, in the style in which the poor relation addressed the divinity-student,--go with them as much as you like. i hate the sight of the wretches. don't for mercy's sake think i hate them; the distinction is one my friend or i drew long ago. no matter where you find such people; they are clowns. the rich woman who looks and talks in this way is not half so much a lady as her irish servant, whose pretty "saving your presence," when she has to say something which offends her natural sense of good manners, has a hint in it of the breeding of courts, and the blood of old milesian kings, which very likely runs in her veins,--thinned by two hundred years of potato, which, being an underground fruit, tends to drag down the generations that are made of it to the earth from which it came, and, filling their veins with starch, turn them into a kind of human vegetable. i say, if you like such people, go with them. but i am going to make a practical application of the example at the beginning of this particular record, which some young people who are going to choose professional advisers by-and-by may remember and thank me for. if you are making choice of a physician, be sure you get one, if possible, with a cheerful and serene countenance. a physician is not--at least, ought not to be--an executioner; and a sentence of death on his face is as bad as a warrant for execution signed by the governor. as a general rule, no man has a right to tell another by word or look that he is going to die. it may be necessary in some extreme cases; but as a rule, it is the last extreme of impertinence which one human being can offer to another. "you have killed me," said a patient once to a physician who had rashly told him he was incurable. he ought to have lived six months, but he was dead in six' weeks. if we will only let nature and the god of nature alone, persons will commonly learn their condition as early as they ought to know it, and not be cheated out of their natural birthright of hope of recovery, which is intended to accompany sick people as long as life is comfortable, and is graciously replaced by the hope of heaven, or at least of rest, when life has become a burden which the bearer is ready to let fall. underbred people tease their sick and dying friends to death. the chance of a gentleman or lady with a given mortal ailment to live a certain time is as good again as that of the common sort of coarse people. as you go down the social scale, you reach a point at length where the common talk in sick rooms is of churchyards and sepulchres, and a kind of perpetual vivisection is forever carried on, upon the person of the miserable sufferer. and so, in choosing your clergyman, other things being equal, prefer the one of a wholesome and cheerful habit of mind and body. if you can get along with people who carry a certificate in their faces that their goodness is so great as to make them very miserable, your children cannot. and whatever offends one of these little ones cannot be right in the eyes of him who loved them so well. after all, as you are a gentleman or a lady, you will probably select gentlemen for your bodily and spiritual advisers, and then all will be right. this repetition of the above words,--gentleman and lady,--which could not be conveniently avoided, reminds me what strange uses are made of them by those who ought to know what they mean. thus, at a marriage ceremony, once, of two very excellent persons who had been at service, instead of, do you take this man, etc.? and, do you take this woman? how do you think the officiating clergyman put the questions? it was, do you, miss so and so, take this gentleman? and, do you, mr. this or that, take this lady?! what would any english duchess, ay, or the queen of england herself, have thought, if the archbishop of canterbury had called her and her bridegroom anything but plain woman and man at such a time? i don't doubt the poor relation thought it was all very fine, if she happened to be in the church; but if the worthy man who uttered these monstrous words--monstrous in such a connection--had known the ludicrous surprise, the convulsion of inward disgust and contempt, that seized upon many of the persons who were present,--had guessed what a sudden flash of light it threw on the dutch gilding, the pinchbeck, the shabby, perking pretension belonging to certain social layers,--so inherent in their whole mode of being, that the holiest offices of religion cannot exclude its impertinences,--the good man would have given his marriage-fee twice over to recall that superb and full-blown vulgarism. any persons whom it could please could have no better notion of what the words referred to signify than of the meaning of apsides and asymptotes. man! sir! woman! sir! gentility is a fine thing, not to be undervalued, as i have been trying to explain; but humanity comes before that. "when adam delved and eve span, who was then the gentleman?" the beauty of that plainness of speech and manners which comes from the finest training is not to be understood by those whose habitat is below a certain level. just as the exquisite sea-anemones and all the graceful ocean-flowers die out at some fathoms below the surface, the elegances and suavities of life die out one by one as we sink through the social scale. fortunately, the virtues are more tenacious of life, and last pretty well until we get down to the mud of absolute pauperism, where they do not flourish greatly. --i had almost forgotten about our boarders. as the model of all the virtues is about to leave us, i find myself wondering what is the reason we are not all very sorry. surely we all like good persons. she is a good person. therefore we like her.--only we don't. this brief syllogism, and its briefer negative, involving the principle which some english conveyancer borrowed from a french wit and embodied in the lines by which dr. fell is made unamiably immortal, this syllogism, i say, is one that most persons have had occasion to construct and demolish, respecting somebody or other, as i have done for the model. "pious and painefull." why has that excellent old phrase gone out of use? simply because these good painefull or painstaking persons proved to be such nuisances in the long run, that the word "painefull" came, before people thought of it, to mean pain-giving instead of painstaking. --so, the old fellah's off to-morrah,--said the young man john. old fellow?--said i,--whom do you mean? why, the one that came with our little beauty, the old fellah in petticoats. --now that means something,--said i to myself.--these rough young rascals very often hit the nail on the head, if they do strike with their eyes shut. a real woman does a great many things without knowing why she does them; but these pattern machines mix up their intellects with everything they do, just like men. they can't help it, no doubt; but we can't help getting sick of them, either. intellect is to a woman's nature what her watch-spring skirt is to her dress; it ought to underlie her silks and embroideries, but not to show itself too staringly on the outside.---you don't know, perhaps, but i will tell you; the brain is the palest of all the internal organs, and the heart the reddest. whatever comes from the brain carries the hue of the place it came from, and whatever comes from the heart carries the heat and color of its birthplace. the young man john did not hear my soliloquy, of course, but sent up one more bubble from our sinking conversation, in the form of a statement, that she was at liberty to go to a personage who receives no visits, as is commonly supposed, from virtuous people. why, i ask again, (of my reader,) should a person who never did anybody any wrong, but, on the contrary, is an estimable and intelligent, nay, a particularly enlightened and exemplary member of society, fail to inspire interest, love, and devotion? because of the reversed current in the flow of thought and emotion. the red heart sends all its instincts up to the white brain to be analyzed, chilled, blanched, and so become pure reason, which is just exactly what we do not want of woman as woman. the current should run the other-way. the nice, calm, cold thought, which in women shapes itself so rapidly that they hardly know it as thought, should always travel to the lips via the heart. it does so in those women whom all love and admire. it travels the wrong way in the model. that is the reason why the little gentleman said "i hate her, i hate her." that is the reason why the young man john called her the "old fellah," and banished her to the company of the great unpresentable. that is the reason why i, the professor, am picking her to pieces with scalpel and forceps. that is the reason why the young girl whom she has befriended repays her kindness with gratitude and respect, rather than with the devotion and passionate fondness which lie sleeping beneath the calmness of her amber eyes. i can see her, as she sits between this estimable and most correct of personages and the misshapen, crotchety, often violent and explosive little man on the other side of her, leaning and swaying towards him as she speaks, and looking into his sad eyes as if she found some fountain in them at which her soul could quiet its thirst. women like the model are a natural product of a chilly climate and high culture. it is not "the frolic wind that breathes the spring, zephyr with aurora playing," when the two meet "---on beds of violets blue, and fresh-blown roses washed in dew," that claim such women as their offspring. it is rather the east wind, as it blows out of the fogs of newfoundland, and clasps a clear-eyed wintry noon on the chill bridal couch of a new england ice-quarry.--don't throw up your cap now, and hurrah as if this were giving up everything, and turning against the best growth of our latitudes,--the daughters of the soil. the brain-women never interest us like the heart women; white roses please less than red. but our northern seasons have a narrow green streak of spring, as well as a broad white zone of winter,--they have a glowing band of summer and a golden stripe of autumn in their many-colored wardrobe; and women are born to us that wear all these hues of earth and heaven in their souls. our ice-eyed brain-women are really admirable, if we only ask of them just what they can give, and no more. only compare them, talking or writing, with one of those babbling, chattering dolls, of warmer latitudes, who do not know enough even to keep out of print, and who are interesting to us only as specimens of arrest of development for our psychological cabinets. good-bye, model of all the virtues! we can spare you now. a little clear perfection, undiluted with human weakness, goes a great way. go! be useful, be honorable and honored, be just, be charitable, talk pure reason, and help to disenchant the world by the light of an achromatic understanding. goodbye! where is my beranger? i must read a verse or two of "fretillon." fair play for all. but don't claim incompatible qualities for anybody. justice is a very rare virtue in our community. everything that public sentiment cares about is put into a papin's digester, and boiled under high pressure till all is turned into one homogeneous pulp, and the very bones give up their jelly. what are all the strongest epithets of our dictionary to us now? the critics and politicians, and especially the philanthropists, have chewed them, till they are mere wads of syllable-fibre, without a suggestion of their old pungency and power. justice! a good man respects the rights even of brute matter and arbitrary symbols. if he writes the same word twice in succession, by accident, he always erases the one that stands second; has not the first-comer the prior right? this act of abstract justice, which i trust many of my readers, like myself, have often performed, is a curious anti-illustration, by the way, of the absolute wickedness of human dispositions. why doesn't a man always strike out the first of the two words, to gratify his diabolical love of injustice? so, i say, we owe a genuine, substantial tribute of respect to these filtered intellects which have left their womanhood on the strainer. they are so clear that it is a pleasure at times to look at the world of thought through them. but the rose and purple tints of richer natures they cannot give us, and it is not just to them to ask it. fashionable society gets at these rich natures very often in a way one would hardly at first think of. it loves vitality above all things, sometimes disguised by affected languor, always well kept under by the laws of good-breeding,--but still it loves abundant life, opulent and showy organizations,--the spherical rather than the plane trigonometry of female architecture,--plenty of red blood, flashing eyes, tropical voices, and forms that bear the splendors of dress without growing pale beneath their lustre. among these you will find the most delicious women you will ever meet,--women whom dress and flattery and the round of city gayeties cannot spoil,--talking with whom, you forget their diamonds and laces,--and around whom all the nice details of elegance, which the cold-blooded beauty next them is scanning so nicely, blend in one harmonious whole, too perfect to be disturbed by the petulant sparkle of a jewel, or the yellow glare of a bangle, or the gay toss of a feather. there are many things that i, personally, love better than fashion or wealth. not to speak of those highest objects of our love and loyalty, i think i love ease and independence better than the golden slavery of perpetual matinees and soirees, or the pleasures of accumulation. but fashion and wealth are two very solemn realities, which the frivolous class of moralists have talked a great deal of silly stuff about. fashion is only the attempt to realize art in living forms and social intercourse. what business has a man who knows nothing about the beautiful, and cannot pronounce the word view, to talk about fashion to a set of people who, if one of the quality left a card at their doors, would contrive to keep it on the very top of their heap of the names of their two-story acquaintances, till it was as yellow as the codex vaticanus? wealth, too,--what an endless repetition of the same foolish trivialities about it! take the single fact of its alleged uncertain tenure and transitory character. in old times, when men were all the time fighting and robbing each other,--in those tropical countries where the sabeans and the chaldeans stole all a man's cattle and camels, and there were frightful tornadoes and rains of fire from heaven, it was true enough that riches took wings to themselves not unfrequently in a very unexpected way. but, with common prudence in investments, it is not so now. in fact, there is nothing earthly that lasts so well, on the whole, as money. a man's learning dies with him; even his virtues fade out of remembrance, but the dividends on the stocks he bequeaths to his children live and keep his memory green. i do not think there is much courage or originality in giving utterance to truths that everybody knows, but which get overlaid by conventional trumpery. the only distinction which it is necessary to point out to feeble-minded folk is this: that, in asserting the breadth and depth of that significance which gives to fashion and fortune their tremendous power, we do not indorse the extravagances which often disgrace the one, nor the meanness which often degrades the other. a remark which seems to contradict a universally current opinion is not generally to be taken "neat," but watered with the ideas of common-sense and commonplace people. so, if any of my young friends should be tempted to waste their substance on white kids and "all-rounds," or to insist on becoming millionaires at once, by anything i have said, i will give them references to some of the class referred to, well known to the public as providers of literary diluents, who will weaken any truth so that there is not an old woman in the land who cannot take it with perfect impunity. i am afraid some of the blessed saints in diamonds will think i mean to flatter them. i hope not;--if i do, set it down as a weakness. but there is so much foolish talk about wealth and fashion, (which, of course, draw a good many heartless and essentially vulgar people into the glare of their candelabra, but which have a real respectability and meaning, if we will only look at them stereoscopically, with both eyes instead of one,) that i thought it a duty to speak a few words for them. why can't somebody give us a list of things that everybody thinks and nobody says, and another list of things that everybody says and nobody thinks? lest my parish should suppose we have forgotten graver matters in these lesser topics, i beg them to drop these trifles and read the following lesson for the day. the two streams. behold the rocky wall that down its sloping sides pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall, in rushing river-tides! yon stream, whose sources run turned by a pebble's edge, is athabasca, rolling toward the sun through the cleft mountain-ledge. the slender rill had strayed, but for the slanting stone, to evening's ocean, with the tangled braid of foam-flecked oregon. so from the heights of will life's parting stream descends, and, as a moment turns its slender rill, each widening torrent bends, from the same cradle's side, from the same mother's knee, --one to long darkness and the frozen tide, one to the peaceful sea! vii our landlady's daughter is a young lady of some pretensions to gentility. she wears her bonnet well back on her head, which is known by all to be a mark of high breeding. she wears her trains very long, as the great ladies do in europe. to be sure, their dresses are so made only to sweep the tapestried floors of chateaux and palaces; as those odious aristocrats of the other side do not go draggling through the mud in silks and satins, but, forsooth, must ride in coaches when they are in full dress. it is true, that, considering various habits of the american people, also the little accidents which the best-kept sidewalks are liable to, a lady who has swept a mile of them is not exactly in such a condition that one would care to be her neighbor. but then there is no need of being so hard on these slight weaknesses of the poor, dear women as our little deformed gentleman was the other day. --there are no such women as the boston women, sir,--he said. forty-two degrees, north latitude, rome, sir, boston, sir! they had grand women in old rome, sir,--and the women bore such men--children as never the world saw before. and so it was here, sir. i tell you, the revolution the boston boys started had to run in woman's milk before it ran in man's blood, sir! but confound the make-believe women we have turned loose in our streets!--where do they come from? not out of boston parlors, i trust. why, there is n't a beast or a bird that would drag its tail through the dirt in the way these creatures do their dresses. because a queen or a duchess wears long robes on great occasions, a maid-of-all-work or a factory-girl thinks she must make herself a nuisance by trailing through the street, picking up and carrying about with her pah!--that's what i call getting vulgarity into your bones and marrow. making believe be what you are not is the essence of vulgarity. show over dirt is the one attribute of vulgar people. if any man can walk behind one of these women and see what she rakes up as she goes, and not feel squeamish, he has got a tough stomach. i wouldn't let one of 'em into my room without serving 'em as david served saul at the cave in the wilderness,--cut off his skirts, sir! cut off his skirts! i suggested, that i had seen some pretty stylish ladies who offended in the way he condemned. stylish women, i don't doubt,--said the little gentleman.--don't tell me that a true lady ever sacrifices the duty of keeping all about her sweet and clean to the wish of making a vulgar show. i won't believe it of a lady. there are some things that no fashion has any right to touch, and cleanliness is one of those things. if a woman wishes to show that her husband or her father has got money, which she wants and means to spend, but doesn't know how, let her buy a yard or two of silk and pin it to her dress when she goes out to walk, but let her unpin it before she goes into the house;--there may be poor women that will think it worth disinfecting. it is an insult to a respectable laundress to carry such things into a house for her to deal with. i don't like the bloomers any too well,--in fact, i never saw but one, and she--or he, or it--had a mob of boys after her, or whatever you call the creature, as if she had been a----- the little gentleman stopped short,--flushed somewhat, and looked round with that involuntary, suspicious glance which the subjects of any bodily misfortune are very apt to cast round them. his eye wandered over the company, none of whom, excepting myself and one other, had, probably, noticed the movement. they fell at last on iris,--his next neighbor, you remember. --we know in a moment, on looking suddenly at a person, if that person's eyes have been fixed on us. sometimes we are conscious of it before we turn so as to see the person. strange secrets of curiosity, of impertinence, of malice, of love, leak out in this way. there is no need of mrs. felix lorraine's reflection in the mirror, to tell us that she is plotting evil for us behind our backs. we know it, as we know by the ominous stillness of a child that some mischief or other is going-on. a young girl betrays, in a moment, that her eyes have been feeding on the face where you find them fixed, and not merely brushing over it with their pencils of blue or brown light. a certain involuntary adjustment assimilates us, you may also observe, to that upon which we look. roses redden the cheeks of her who stoops to gather them, and buttercups turn little people's chins yellow. when we look at a vast landscape, our chests expand as if we would enlarge to fill it. when we examine a minute object, we naturally contract, not only our foreheads, but all our dimensions. if i see two men wrestling, i wrestle too, with my limbs and features. when a country-fellow comes upon the stage, you will see twenty faces in the boxes putting on the bumpkin expression. there is no need of multiplying instances to reach this generalization; every person and thing we look upon puts its special mark upon us. if this is repeated often enough, we get a permanent resemblance to it, or, at least, a fixed aspect which we took from it. husband and wife come to look alike at last, as has often been noticed. it is a common saying of a jockey, that he is "all horse"; and i have often fancied that milkmen get a stiff, upright carriage, and an angular movement of the arm, that remind one of a pump and the working of its handle. all this came in by accident, just because i happened to mention that the little gentleman found that iris had been looking at him with her soul in her eyes, when his glance rested on her after wandering round the company. what he thought, it is hard to say; but the shadow of suspicion faded off from his face, and he looked calmly into the amber eyes, resting his cheek upon the hand that wore the red jewel. --if it were a possible thing,--women are such strange creatures! is there any trick that love and their own fancies do not play them? just see how they marry! a woman that gets hold of a bit of manhood is like one of those chinese wood-carvers who work on any odd, fantastic root that comes to hand, and, if it is only bulbous above and bifurcated below, will always contrive to make a man--such as he is--out of it. i should like to see any kind of a man, distinguishable from a gorilla, that some good and even pretty woman could not shape a husband out of. --a child,--yes, if you choose to call her so, but such a child! do you know how art brings all ages together? there is no age to the angels and ideal human forms among which the artist lives, and he shares their youth until his hand trembles and his eye grows dim. the youthful painter talks of white-bearded leonardo as if he were a brother, and the veteran forgets that raphael died at an age to which his own is of patriarchal antiquity. but why this lover of the beautiful should be so drawn to one whom nature has wronged so deeply seems hard to explain. pity, i suppose. they say that leads to love. --i thought this matter over until i became excited and curious, and determined to set myself more seriously at work to find out what was going on in these wild hearts and where their passionate lives were drifting. i say wild hearts and passionate lives, because i think i can look through this seeming calmness of youth and this apparent feebleness of organization, and see that nature, whom it is very hard to cheat, is only waiting as the sapper waits in his mine, knowing that all is in readiness and the slow-match burning quietly down to the powder. he will leave it by-and-by, and then it will take care of itself. one need not wait to see the smoke coming through the roof of a house and the flames breaking out of the windows to know that the building is on fire. hark! there is a quiet, steady, unobtrusive, crisp, not loud, but very knowing little creeping crackle that is tolerably intelligible. there is a whiff of something floating about, suggestive of toasting shingles. also a sharp pyroligneous-acid pungency in the air that stings one's eyes. let us get up and see what is going on.--oh,--oh,--oh! do you know what has got hold of you? it is the great red dragon that is born of the little red eggs we call sparks, with his hundred blowing red manes, and his thousand lashing red tails, and his multitudinous red eyes glaring at every crack and key-hole, and his countless red tongues lapping the beams he is going to crunch presently, and his hot breath warping the panels and cracking the glass and making old timber sweat that had forgotten it was ever alive with sap. run for your life! leap! or you will be a cinder in five minutes, that nothing but a coroner would take for the wreck of a human being! if any gentleman will have the kindness to stop this run-away comparison, i shall be much obliged to him. all i intended to say was, that we need not wait for hearts to break out in flames to know that they are full of combustibles and that a spark has got among them. i don't pretend to say or know what it is that brings these two persons together;--and when i say together, i only mean that there is an evident affinity of some kind or other which makes their commonest intercourse strangely significant, as that each seems to understand a look or a word of the other. when the young girl laid her hand on the little gentleman's arm,--which so greatly shocked the model, you may remember,--i saw that she had learned the lion-tamer's secret. she masters him, and yet i can see she has a kind of awe of him, as the man who goes into the cage has of the monster that he makes a baby of. one of two things must happen. the first is love, downright love, on the part of this young girl, for the poor little misshapen man. you may laugh, if you like. but women are apt to love the men who they think have the largest capacity of loving;--and who can love like one that has thirsted all his life long for the smile of youth and beauty, and seen it fly his presence as the wave ebbed from the parched lips of him whose fabled punishment is the perpetual type of human longing and disappointment? what would become of him, if this fresh soul should stoop upon him in her first young passion, as the flamingo drops out of the sky upon some lonely and dark lagoon in the marshes of cagliari, with a flutter of scarlet feathers and a kindling of strange fires in the shadowy waters that hold her burning image? --marry her, of course?--why, no, not of course. i should think the chance less, on the whole, that he would be willing to marry her than she to marry him. there is one other thing that might happen. if the interest he awakes in her gets to be a deep one, and yet has nothing of love in it, she will glance off from him into some great passion or other. all excitements run to love in women of a certain--let us not say age, but youth. an electrical current passing through a coil of wire makes a magnet of a bar of iron lying within it, but not touching it. so a woman is turned into a love-magnet by a tingling current of life running round her. i should like to see one of them balanced on a pivot properly adjusted, and watch if she did not turn so as to point north and south,--as she would, if the love-currents are like those of the earth our mother. pray, do you happen to remember wordsworth's "boy of windermere"? this boy used to put his hands to his mouth, and shout aloud, mimicking the hooting of the owls, who would answer him "with quivering peals, and long halloos and screams, and echoes loud redoubled and redoubled." when they failed to answer him, and he hung listening intently for their voices, he would sometimes catch the faint sound of far distant waterfalls, or the whole scene around him would imprint itself with new force upon his perceptions.--read the sonnet, if you please;--it is wordsworth all over,--trivial in subject, solemn in style, vivid in description, prolix in detail, true metaphysically, but immensely suggestive of "imagination," to use a mild term, when related as an actual fact of a sprightly youngster. all i want of it is to enforce the principle, that, when the door of the soul is once opened to a guest, there is no knowing who will come in next. --our young girl keeps up her early habit of sketching heads and characters. nobody is, i should think, more faithful and exact in the drawing of the academical figures given her as lessons, but there is a perpetual arabesque of fancies that runs round the margin of her drawings, and there is one book which i know she keeps to run riot in, where, if anywhere, a shrewd eye would be most likely to read her thoughts. this book of hers i mean to see, if i can get at it honorably. i have never yet crossed the threshold of the little gentleman's chamber. how he lives, when he once gets within it, i can only guess. his hours are late, as i have said; often, on waking late in the night, i see the light through cracks in his window-shutters on the wall of the house opposite. if the times of witchcraft were not over, i should be afraid to be so close a neighbor to a place from which there come such strange noises. sometimes it is the dragging of something heavy over the floor, that makes me shiver to hear it,--it sounds so like what people that kill other people have to do now and then. occasionally i hear very sweet strains of music,--whether of a wind or stringed instrument, or a human voice, strange as it may seem, i have often tried to find out, but through the partition i could not be quite sure. if i have not heard a woman cry and moan, and then again laugh as though she would die laughing, i have heard sounds so like them that--i am a fool to confess it--i have covered my head with the bedclothes; for i have had a fancy in my dreams, that i could hardly shake off when i woke up, about that so-called witch that was his great-grandmother, or whatever it was,--a sort of fancy that she visited the little gentleman,--a young woman in old-fashioned dress, with a red ring round her white neck,--not a neck-lace, but a dull-stain. of course you don't suppose that i have any foolish superstitions about the matter,--i, the professor, who have seen enough to take all that nonsense out of any man's head! it is not our beliefs that frighten us half so much as our fancies. a man not only believes, but knows he runs a risk, whenever he steps into a railroad car; but it does n't worry him much. on the other hand, carry that man across a pasture a little way from some dreary country-village, and show him an old house where there were strange deaths a good many years ago, and there are rumors of ugly spots on the walls,--the old man hung himself in the garret, that is certain, and ever since the country-people have called it "the haunted house,"--the owners have n't been able to let it since the last tenants left on account of the noises,--so it has fallen into sad decay, and the moss grows on the rotten shingles of the roof, and the clapboards have turned black, and the windows rattle like teeth that chatter with fear, and the walls of the house begin to lean as if its knees were shaking, --take the man who did n't mind the real risk of the cars to that old house, on some dreary november evening, and ask him to sleep there alone,--how do you think he will like it? he doesn't believe one word of ghosts,--but then he knows, that, whether waking or sleeping, his imagination will people the haunted chambers with ghostly images. it is not what we believe, as i said before, that frightens us commonly, but what we conceive. a principle that reaches a good way if i am not mistaken. i say, then, that, if these odd sounds coming from the little gentleman's chamber sometimes make me nervous, so that i cannot get to sleep, it is not because i suppose he is engaged in any unlawful or mysterious way. the only wicked suggestion that ever came into my head was one that was founded on the landlady's story of his having a pile of gold; it was a ridiculous fancy; besides, i suspect the story of sweating gold was only one of the many fables got up to make the jews odious and afford a pretext for plundering them. as for the sound like a woman laughing and crying, i never said it was a woman's voice; for, in the first place, i could only hear indistinctly; and, secondly, he may have an organ, or some queer instrument or other, with what they call the vox humana stop. if he moves his bed round to get away from the window, or for any such reason, there is nothing very frightful in that simple operation. most of our foolish conceits explain themselves in some such simple way. and, yet, for all that, i confess, that, when i woke up the other evening, and heard, first a sweet complaining cry, and then footsteps, and then the dragging sound,--nothing but his bed, i am quite sure,--i felt a stirring in the roots of my hair as the feasters did in keats's terrible poem of "lamia." there is nothing very odd in my feeling nervous when i happen to lie awake and get listening for sounds. just keep your ears open any time after midnight, when you are lying in bed in a lone attic of a dark night. what horrid, strange, suggestive, unaccountable noises you will hear! the stillness of night is a vulgar error. all the dead things seem to be alive. crack! that is the old chest of drawers; you never hear it crack in the daytime. creak! there's a door ajar; you know you shut them all. where can that latch be that rattles so? is anybody trying it softly? or, worse than any body, is----? (cold shiver.) then a sudden gust that jars all the windows;--very strange!--there does not seem to be any wind about that it belongs to. when it stops, you hear the worms boring in the powdery beams overhead. then steps outside,--a stray animal, no doubt. all right,--but a gentle moisture breaks out all over you; and then something like a whistle or a cry,--another gust of wind, perhaps; that accounts for the rustling that just made your heart roll over and tumble about, so that it felt more like a live rat under your ribs than a part of your own body; then a crash of something that has fallen,--blown over, very likely----pater noster, qui es in coelis! for you are damp and cold, and sitting bolt upright, and the bed trembling so that the death-watch is frightened and has stopped ticking! no,--night is an awful time for strange noises and secret doings. who ever dreamed, till one of our sleepless neighbors told us of it, of that walpurgis gathering of birds and beasts of prey,--foxes, and owls, and crows, and eagles, that come from all the country round on moonshiny nights to crunch the clams and muscles, and pick out the eyes of dead fishes that the storm has thrown on chelsea beach? our old mother nature has pleasant and cheery tones enough for us when she comes in her dress of blue and gold over the eastern hill-tops; but when she follows us up-stairs to our beds in her suit of black velvet and diamonds, every creak of her sandals and every whisper of her lips is full of mystery and fear. you understand, then, distinctly, that i do not believe there is anything about this singular little neighbor of mine which is as it should not be. probably a visit to his room would clear up all that has puzzled me, and make me laugh at the notions which began, i suppose, in nightmares, and ended by keeping my imagination at work so as almost to make me uncomfortable at times. but it is not so easy to visit him as some of our other boarders, for various reasons which i will not stop to mention. i think some of them are rather pleased to get "the professor" under their ceilings. the young man john, for instance, asked me to come up one day and try some "old burbon," which he said was a . on asking him what was the number of his room, he answered, that it was forty-'leven, sky-parlor floor, but that i shouldn't find it, if he did n't go ahead to show me the way. i followed him to his habitat, being very willing to see in what kind of warren he burrowed, and thinking i might pick up something about the boarders who had excited my curiosity. mighty close quarters they were where the young man john bestowed himself and his furniture; this last consisting of a bed, a chair, a bureau, a trunk, and numerous pegs with coats and "pants" and "vests,"--as he was in the habit of calling waist-coats and pantaloons or trousers,--hanging up as if the owner had melted out of them. several prints were pinned up unframed,--among them that grand national portrait-piece, "barnum presenting ossian e. dodge to jenny lind," and a picture of a famous trot, in which i admired anew the cabalistic air of that imposing array of expressions, and especially the italicized word, "dan mace names b. h. major slocum," and "hiram woodruff names g. m. lady smith." "best three in five. time: . , . , . ." that set me thinking how very odd this matter of trotting horses is, as an index of the mathematical exactness of the laws of living mechanism. i saw lady suffolk trot a mile in . . flora temple has trotted close down to . ; and ethan allen in . , or less. many horses have trotted their mile under . ; none that i remember in public as low down as . . from five to ten seconds, then, in about a hundred and sixty is the whole range of the maxima of the present race of trotting horses. the same thing is seen in the running of men. many can run a mile in five minutes; but when one comes to the fractions below, they taper down until somewhere about . the maximum is reached. averages of masses have been studied more than averages of maxima and minima. we know from the registrar-general's reports, that a certain number of children--say from one to two dozen--die every year in england from drinking hot water out of spouts of teakettles. we know, that, among suicides, women and men past a certain age almost never use fire-arms. a woman who has made up her mind to die is still afraid of a pistol or a gun. or is it that the explosion would derange her costume? i say, averages of masses we have, but our tables of maxima we owe to the sporting men more than to the philosophers. the lesson their experience teaches is, that nature makes no leaps,--does nothing per saltum. the greatest brain that ever lived, no doubt, was only a small fraction of an idea ahead of the second best. just look at the chess-players. leaving out the phenomenal exceptions, the nice shades that separate the skilful ones show how closely their brains approximate,--almost as closely as chronometers. such a person is a "knight-player,"--he must have that piece given him. another must have two pawns. another, "pawn and two," or one pawn and two moves. then we find one who claims "pawn and move," holding himself, with this fractional advantage, a match for one who would be pretty sure to beat him playing even.--so much are minds alike; and you and i think we are "peculiar,"--that nature broke her jelly-mould after shaping our cerebral convolutions. so i reflected, standing and looking at the picture. --i say, governor,--broke in the young man john,--them bosses ' stay jest as well, if you'll only set down. i've had 'em this year, and they haven't stirred.--he spoke, and handed the chair towards me,--seating himself, at the same time, on the end of the bed. you have lived in this house some time?--i said,--with a note of interrogation at the end of the statement. do i look as if i'd lost much flesh--said he, answering my question by another. no,--said i;--for that matter, i think you do credit to "the bountifully furnished table of the excellent lady who provides so liberally for the company that meets around her hospitable board." [the sentence in quotation-marks was from one of those disinterested editorials in small type, which i suspect to have been furnished by a friend of the landlady's, and paid for as an advertisement. this impartial testimony to the superior qualities of the establishment and its head attracted a number of applicants for admission, and a couple of new boarders made a brief appearance at the table. one of them was of the class of people who grumble if they don't get canvas-backs and woodcocks every day, for three-fifty per week. the other was subject to somnambulism, or walking in the night, when he ought to have been asleep in his bed. in this state he walked into several of the boarders' chambers, his eyes wide open, as is usual with somnambulists, and, from some odd instinct or other, wishing to know what the hour was, got together a number of their watches, for the purpose of comparing them, as it would seem. among them was a repeater, belonging to our young marylander. he happened to wake up while the somnambulist was in his chamber, and, not knowing his infirmity, caught hold of him and gave him a dreadful shaking, after which he tied his hands and feet, and so left him till morning, when he introduced him to a gentleman used to taking care of such cases of somnambulism.] if you, my reader, will please to skip backward, over this parenthesis, you will come to our conversation, which it has interrupted. it a'n't the feed,--said the young man john,--it's the old woman's looks when a fellah lays it in too strong. the feed's well enough. after geese have got tough, 'n' turkeys have got strong, 'n' lamb's got old, 'n' veal's pretty nigh beef, 'n' sparragrass 's growin' tall 'n' slim 'n' scattery about the head, 'n' green peas are gettin' so big 'n' hard they'd be dangerous if you fired 'em out of a revolver, we get hold of all them delicacies of the season. but it's too much like feedin' on live folks and devourin' widdah's substance, to lay yourself out in the eatin' way, when a fellah 's as hungry as the chap that said a turkey was too much for one 'n' not enough for two. i can't help lookin' at the old woman. corned-beef-days she's tolerable calm. roastin'-days she worries some, 'n' keeps a sharp eye on the chap that carves. but when there's anything in the poultry line, it seems to hurt her feelin's so to see the knife goin' into the breast and joints comin' to pieces, that there's no comfort in eatin'. when i cut up an old fowl and help the boarders, i always feel as if i ought to say, won't you have a slice of widdah?--instead of chicken. the young man john fell into a train of reflections which ended in his producing a bologna sausage, a plate of "crackers," as we boston folks call certain biscuits, and the bottle of whiskey described as being a . under the influence of the crackers and sausage, he grew cordial and communicative. it was time, i thought, to sound him as to those of our boarders who had excited my curiosity. what do you think of our young iris?--i began. fust-rate little filly;-he said.--pootiest and nicest little chap i've seen since the schoolma'am left. schoolma'am was a brown-haired one,--eyes coffee-color. this one has got wine-colored eyes,--'n' that 's the reason they turn a fellah's head, i suppose. this is a splendid blonde,--i said,--the other was a brunette. which style do you like best? which do i like best, boiled mutton or roast mutton?--said the young man john. like 'em both,--it a'n't the color of 'em makes the goodness. i 've been kind of lonely since schoolma'am went away. used to like to look at her. i never said anything particular to her, that i remember, but-- i don't know whether it was the cracker and sausage, or that the young fellow's feet were treading on the hot ashes of some longing that had not had time to cool, but his eye glistened as he stopped. i suppose she wouldn't have looked at a fellah like me,--he said,--but i come pretty near tryin'. if she had said, yes, though, i shouldn't have known what to have done with her. can't marry a woman now-a-days till you're so deaf you have to cock your head like a parrot to hear what she says, and so longsighted you can't see what she looks like nearer than arm's-length. here is another chance for you,--i said.--what do you want nicer than such a young lady as iris? it's no use,--he answered.--i look at them girls and feel as the fellah did when he missed catchin' the trout.--'to'od 'a' cost more butter to cook him 'n' he's worth,--says the fellah.--takes a whole piece o' goods to cover a girl up now-a-days. i'd as lief undertake to keep a span of elephants,--and take an ostrich to board, too,--as to marry one of 'em. what's the use? clerks and counter-jumpers ain't anything. sparragrass and green peas a'n't for them,--not while they're young and tender. hossback-ridin' a'n't for them,--except once a year, on fast-day. and marryin' a'n't for them. sometimes a fellah feels lonely, and would like to have a nice young woman, to tell her how lonely he feels. and sometimes a fellah,--here the young man john looked very confidential, and, perhaps, as if a little ashamed of his weakness,--sometimes a fellah would like to have one o' them small young ones to trot on his knee and push about in a little wagon,--a kind of a little johnny, you know;--it's odd enough, but, it seems to me, nobody can afford them little articles, except the folks that are so rich they can buy everything, and the folks that are so poor they don't want anything. it makes nice boys of us young fellahs, no doubt! and it's pleasant to see fine young girls sittin', like shopkeepers behind their goods, waitin', and waitin', and waitin', 'n' no customers,--and the men lingerin' round and lookin' at the goods, like folks that want to be customers, but have n't the money! do you think the deformed gentleman means to make love to iris?--i said. what! little boston ask that girl to marry him! well, now, that's cumin' of it a little too strong. yes, i guess she will marry him and carry him round in a basket, like a lame bantam: look here!--he said, mysteriously;--one of the boarders swears there's a woman comes to see him, and that he has heard her singin' and screechin'. i should like to know what he's about in that den of his. he lays low 'n' keeps dark,--and, i tell you, there's a good many of the boarders would like to get into his chamber, but he don't seem to want 'em. biddy could tell somethin' about what she's seen when she 's been to put his room to rights. she's a paddy 'n' a fool, but she knows enough to keep her tongue still. all i know is, i saw her crossin' herself one day when she came out of that room. she looked pale enough, 'n' i heard her mutterin' somethin' or other about the blessed virgin. if it had n't been for the double doors to that chamber of his, i'd have had a squint inside before this; but, somehow or other, it never seems to happen that they're both open at once. what do you think he employs himself about? said i. the young man john winked. i waited patiently for the thought, of which this wink was the blossom, to come to fruit in words. i don't believe in witches,--said the young man john. nor i. we were both silent for a few minutes. --did you ever see the young girl's drawing-books,--i said, presently. all but one,--he answered;--she keeps a lock on that, and won't show it. ma'am allen, (the young rogue sticks to that name, in speaking of the gentleman with the diamond,) ma'am allen tried to peek into it one day when she left it on the sideboard. "if you please," says she,--'n' took it from him, 'n' gave him a look that made him curl up like a caterpillar on a hot shovel. i only wished he had n't, and had jest given her a little sass, for i've been takin' boxin'-lessons, 'n' i 've got a new way of counterin' i want to try on to somebody. --the end of all this was, that i came away from the young fellow's room, feeling that there were two principal things that i had to live for, for the next six weeks or six months, if it should take so long. these were, to get a sight of the young girl's drawing-book, which i suspected had her heart shut up in it, and to get a look into the little gentleman's room. i don't doubt you think it rather absurd that i should trouble myself about these matters. you tell me, with some show of reason, that all i shall find in the young girl's--book will be some outlines of angels with immense eyes, traceries of flowers, rural sketches, and caricatures, among which i shall probably have the pleasure of seeing my own features figuring. very likely. but i'll tell you what i think i shall find. if this child has idealized the strange little bit of humanity over which she seems to have spread her wings like a brooding dove,--if, in one of those wild vagaries that passionate natures are so liable to, she has fairly sprung upon him with her clasping nature, as the sea-flowers fold about the first stray shell-fish that brushes their outspread tentacles, depend upon it, i shall find the marks of it in this drawing-book of hers,--if i can ever get a look at it,--fairly, of course, for i would not play tricks to satisfy my curiosity. then, if i can get into this little gentleman's room under any fair pretext, i shall, no doubt, satisfy myself in five minutes that he is just like other people, and that there is no particular mystery about him. the night after my visit to the young man john, i made all these and many more reflections. it was about two o'clock in the morning,--bright starlight,--so light that i could make out the time on my alarm-clock,--when i woke up trembling and very moist. it was the heavy dragging sound, as i had often heard it before that waked me. presently a window was softly closed. i had just begun to get over the agitation with which we always awake from nightmare dreams, when i heard the sound which seemed to me as of a woman's voice,--the clearest, purest soprano which one could well conceive of. it was not loud, and i could not distinguish a word, if it was a woman's voice; but there were recurring phrases of sound and snatches of rhythm that reached me, which suggested the idea of complaint, and sometimes, i thought, of passionate grief and despair. it died away at last,--and then i heard the opening of a door, followed by a low, monotonous sound, as of one talking,--and then the closing of a door,--and presently the light on the opposite wall disappeared and all was still for the night. by george! this gets interesting,--i said, as i got out of bed for a change of night-clothes. i had this in my pocket the other day, but thought i would n't read it at our celebration. so i read it to the boarders instead, and print it to finish off this record with. robinson of leyden. he sleeps not here; in hope and prayer his wandering flock had gone before, but he, the shepherd, might not share their sorrows on the wintry shore. before the speedwell's anchor swung, ere yet the mayflower's sail was spread, while round his feet the pilgrims clung, the pastor spake, and thus he said:-- "men, brethren, sisters, children dear! god calls you hence from over sea; ye may not build by haerlem meer, nor yet along the zuyder-zee. "ye go to bear the saving word to tribes unnamed and shores untrod: heed well the lessons ye have heard from those old teachers taught of god. "yet think not unto them was lent all light for all the coming days, and heaven's eternal wisdom spent in making straight the ancient ways. "the living fountain overflows for every flock, for every lamb, nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose with luther's dike or calvin's dam." he spake; with lingering, long embrace, with tears of love and partings fond, they floated down the creeping maas, along the isle of ysselmond. they passed the frowning towers of briel, the "hook of holland's" shelf of sand, and grated soon with lifting keel the sullen shores of fatherland. no home for these!--too well they knew the mitred king behind the throne; the sails were set, the pennons flew, and westward ho! for worlds unknown. --and these were they who gave us birth, the pilgrims of the sunset wave, who won for us this virgin earth, and freedom with the soil they gave. the pastor slumbers by the rhine, --in alien earth the exiles lie, --their nameless graves our holiest shrine, his words our noblest battle-cry! still cry them, and the world shall hear, ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea! ye have not built by haerlem meer, nor on the land-locked zuyder-zee! viii there has been a sort of stillness in the atmosphere of our boarding-house since my last record, as if something or other were going on. there is no particular change that i can think of in the aspect of things; yet i have a feeling as if some game of life were quietly playing and strange forces were at work, underneath this smooth surface of every-day boardinghouse life, which would show themselves some fine morning or other in events, if not in catastrophes. i have been watchful, as i said i should be, but have little to tell as yet. you may laugh at me, and very likely think me foolishly fanciful to trouble myself about what is going on in a middling-class household like ours. do as you like. but here is that terrible fact to begin with,--a beautiful young girl, with the blood and the nerve-fibre that belong to nature's women, turned loose among live men. -terrible fact? very terrible. nothing more so. do you forget the angels who lost heaven for the daughters of men? do you forget helen, and the fair women who made mischief and set nations by the ears before helen was born? if jealousies that gnaw men's hearts out of their bodies,--if pangs that waste men to shadows and drive them into raving madness or moping melancholy,--if assassination and suicide are dreadful possibilities, then there is always something frightful about a lovely young woman.--i love to look at this "rainbow," as her father used sometimes to call her, of ours. handsome creature that she is in forms and colors,--the very picture, as it seems to me, of that "golden blonde" my friend whose book you read last year fell in love with when he was a boy, (as you remember, no doubt,)--handsome as she is, fit for a sea-king's bride, it is not her beauty alone that holds my eyes upon her. let me tell you one of my fancies, and then you will understand the strange sort of fascination she has for me. it is in the hearts of many men and women--let me add children--that there is a great secret waiting for them,--a secret of which they get hints now and then, perhaps oftener in early than in later years. these hints come sometimes in dreams, sometimes in sudden startling flashes,--second wakings, as it were,--a waking out of the waking state, which last is very apt to be a half-sleep. i have many times stopped short and held my breath, and felt the blood leaving my cheeks, in one of these sudden clairvoyant flashes. of course i cannot tell what kind of a secret this is, but i think of it as a disclosure of certain relations of our personal being to time and space, to other intelligences, to the procession of events, and to their first great cause. this secret seems to be broken up, as it were, into fragments, so that we find here a word and there a syllable, and then again only a letter of it; but it never is written out for most of us as a complete sentence, in this life. i do not think it could be; for i am disposed to consider our beliefs about such a possible disclosure rather as a kind of premonition of an enlargement of our faculties in some future state than as an expectation to be fulfilled for most of us in this life. persons, however, have fallen into trances,--as did the reverend william tennent, among many others,--and learned some things which they could not tell in our human words. now among the visible objects which hint to us fragments of this infinite secret for which our souls are waiting, the faces of women are those that carry the most legible hieroglyphics of the great mystery. there are women's faces, some real, some ideal, which contain something in them that becomes a positive element in our creed, so direct and palpable a revelation is it of the infinite purity and love. i remember two faces of women with wings, such as they call angels, of fra angelico,--and i just now came across a print of raphael's santa apollina, with something of the same quality,--which i was sure had their prototypes in the world above ours. no wonder the catholics pay their vows to the queen of heaven! the unpoetical side of protestantism is, that it has no women to be worshipped. but mind you, it is not every beautiful face that hints the great secret to us, nor is it only in beautiful faces that we find traces of it. sometimes it looks out from a sweet sad eye, the only beauty of a plain countenance; sometimes there is so much meaning in the lips of a woman, not otherwise fascinating, that we know they have a message for us, and wait almost with awe to hear their accents. but this young girl has at once the beauty of feature and the unspoken mystery of expression. can she tell me anything? is her life a complement of mine, with the missing element in it which i have been groping after through so many friendships that i have tired of, and through--hush! is the door fast? talking loud is a bad trick in these curious boarding-houses. you must have sometimes noted this fact that i am going to remind you of and to use for a special illustration. riding along over a rocky road, suddenly the slow monotonous grinding of the crushing gravel changes to a deep heavy rumble. there is a great hollow under your feet,--a huge unsunned cavern. deep, deep beneath you in the core of the living rock, it arches its awful vault, and far away it stretches its winding galleries, their roofs dripping into streams where fishes have been swimming and spawning in the dark until their scales are white as milk and their eyes have withered out, obsolete and useless. so it is in life. we jog quietly along, meeting the same faces, grinding over the same thoughts, the gravel of the soul's highway,--now and then jarred against an obstacle we cannot crush, but must ride over or round as we best may, sometimes bringing short up against a disappointment, but still working along with the creaking and rattling and grating and jerking that belong to the journey of life, even in the smoothest-rolling vehicle. suddenly we hear the deep underground reverberation that reveals the unsuspected depth of some abyss of thought or passion beneath us. i wish the girl would go. i don't like to look at her so much, and yet i cannot help it. always that same expression of something that i ought to know,--something that she was made to tell and i to hear,--lying there ready to fall off from her lips, ready to leap out of her eyes and make a saint of me, or a devil or a lunatic, or perhaps a prophet to tell the truth and be hated of men, or a poet whose words shall flash upon the dry stubble-field of worn-out thoughts and burn over an age of lies in an hour of passion. it suddenly occurs to me that i may have put you on the wrong track. the great secret that i refer to has nothing to do with the three words. set your mind at ease about that,--there are reasons i could give you which settle all that matter. i don't wonder, however, that you confounded the great secret with the three words. i love you is all the secret that many, nay, most women have to tell. when that is said, they are like china-crackers on the morning of the fifth of july. and just as that little patriotic implement is made with a slender train which leads to the magazine in its interior, so a sharp eye can almost always see the train leading from a young girl's eye or lip to the "i love you" in her heart. but the three words are not the great secret i mean. no, women's faces are only one of the tablets on which that is written in its partial, fragmentary symbols. it lies deeper than love, though very probably love is a part of it. some, i think,--wordsworth might be one of them,--spell out a portion of it from certain beautiful natural objects, landscapes, flowers, and others. i can mention several poems of his that have shadowy hints which seem to me to come near the region where i think it lies. i have known two persons who pursued it with the passion of the old alchemists,--all wrong evidently, but infatuated, and never giving up the daily search for it until they got tremulous and feeble, and their dreams changed to visions of things that ran and crawled about their floor and ceilings, and so they died. the vulgar called them drunkards. i told you that i would let you know the mystery of the effect this young girl's face produces on me. it is akin to those influences a friend of mine has described, you may remember, as coming from certain voices. i cannot translate it into words,--only into feelings; and these i have attempted to shadow by showing that her face hinted that revelation of something we are close to knowing, which all imaginative persons are looking for either in this world or on the very threshold of the next. you shake your head at the vagueness and fanciful incomprehensibleness of my description of the expression in a young girl's face. you forget what a miserable surface-matter this language is in which we try to reproduce our interior state of being. articulation is a shallow trick. from the light poh! which we toss off from our lips as we fling a nameless scribbler's impertinence into our waste-baskets, to the gravest utterances which comes from our throats in our moments of deepest need, is only a space of some three or four inches. words, which are a set of clickings, hissings, lispings, and so on, mean very little, compared to tones and expression of the features. i give it up; i thought i could shadow forth in some feeble way, by their aid, the effect this young girl's face produces on my imagination; but it is of no use. no doubt your head aches, trying to make something of my description. if there is here and there one that can make anything intelligible out of my talk about the great secret, and who has spelt out a syllable or two of it on some woman's face, dead or living, that is all i can expect. one should see the person with whom he converses about such matters. there are dreamy-eyed people to whom i should say all these things with a certainty of being understood;-- that moment that his face i see, i know the man that must hear me to him my tale i teach. --i am afraid some of them have not got a spare quarter of a dollar for this august number, so that they will never see it. --let us start again, just as if we had not made this ambitious attempt, which may go for nothing, and you can have your money refunded, if you will make the change. this young girl, about whom i have talked so unintelligibly, is the unconscious centre of attraction to the whole solar system of our breakfast-table. the little gentleman leans towards her, and she again seems to be swayed as by some invisible gentle force towards him. that slight inclination of two persons with a strong affinity towards each other, throwing them a little out of plumb when they sit side by side, is a physical fact i have often noticed. then there is a tendency in all the men's eyes to converge on her; and i do firmly believe, that, if all their chairs were examined, they would be found a little obliquely placed, so as to favor the direction in which their occupants love to look. that bland, quiet old gentleman, of whom i have spoken as sitting opposite to me, is no exception to the rule. she brought down some mignonette one morning, which she had grown in her chamber. she gave a sprig to her little neighbor, and one to the landlady, and sent another by the hand of bridget to this old gentleman. --sarvant, ma'am i much obleeged,--he said, and put it gallantly in his button-hole.--after breakfast he must see some of her drawings. very fine performances,--very fine!--truly elegant productions, truly elegant!--had seen miss linwood's needlework in london, in the year (eighteen hundred and little or nothing, i think he said,)--patronized by the nobility and gentry, and her majesty,--elegant, truly elegant productions, very fine performances; these drawings reminded him of them;--wonderful resemblance to nature; an extraordinary art, painting; mr. copley made some very fine pictures that he remembered seeing when he was a boy. used to remember some lines about a portrait written by mr. cowper, beginning, "oh that those lips had language! life has pass'd with me but roughly since i heard thee last." and with this the old gentleman fell to thinking about a dead mother of his that he remembered ever so much younger than he now was, and looking, not as his mother, but as his daughter should look. the dead young mother was looking at the old man, her child, as she used to look at him so many, many years ago. he stood still as if in a waking dream, his eyes fixed on the drawings till their outlines grew indistinct and they ran into each other, and a pale, sweet face shaped itself out of the glimmering light through which he saw them.--what is there quite so profoundly human as an old man's memory of a mother who died in his earlier years? mother she remains till manhood, and by-and-by she grows to be as a sister; and at last, when, wrinkled and bowed and broken, he looks back upon her in her fair youth, he sees in the sweet image he caresses, not his parent, but, as it were, his child. if i had not seen all this in the old gentleman's face, the words with which he broke his silence would have betrayed his train of thought. --if they had only taken pictures then as they do now!--he said.--all gone! all gone! nothing but her face as she leaned on the arms of her great chair; and i would give a hundred pound for the poorest little picture of her, such as you can buy for a shilling of anybody that you don't want to see.--the old gentleman put his hand to his forehead so as to shade his eyes. i saw he was looking at the dim photograph of memory, and turned from him to iris. how many drawing-books have you filled,--i said,--since you began to take lessons?--this was the first,--she answered,--since she was here; and it was not full, but there were many separate sheets of large size she had covered with drawings. i turned over the leaves of the book before us. academic studies, principally of the human figure. heads of sibyls, prophets, and so forth. limbs from statues. hands and feet from nature. what a superb drawing of an arm! i don't remember it among the figures from michel angelo, which seem to have been her patterns mainly. from nature, i think, or after a cast from nature.--oh! --your smaller studies are in this, i suppose,--i said, taking up the drawing-book with a lock on it,--yes,--she said.--i should like to see her style of working on a small scale.--there was nothing in it worth showing,--she said; and presently i saw her try the lock, which proved to be fast. we are all caricatured in it, i haven't the least doubt. i think, though, i could tell by her way of dealing with us what her fancies were about us boarders. some of them act as if they were bewitched with her, but she does not seem to notice it much. her thoughts seem to be on her little neighbor more than on anybody else. the young fellow john appears to stand second in her good graces. i think he has once or twice sent her what the landlady's daughter calls bo-kays of flowers,--somebody has, at any rate.--i saw a book she had, which must have come from the divinity-student. it had a dreary title-page, which she had enlivened with a fancy portrait of the author,--a face from memory, apparently,--one of those faces that small children loathe without knowing why, and which give them that inward disgust for heaven so many of the little wretches betray, when they hear that these are "good men," and that heaven is full of such.--the gentleman with the diamond--the koh-i-noor, so called by us--was not encouraged, i think, by the reception of his packet of perfumed soap. he pulls his purple moustache and looks appreciatingly at iris, who never sees him, as it should seem. the young marylander, who i thought would have been in love with her before this time, sometimes looks from his corner across the long diagonal of the table, as much as to say, i wish you were up here by me, or i were down there by you,--which would, perhaps, be a more natural arrangement than the present one. but nothing comes of all this,--and nothing has come of my sagacious idea of finding out the girl's fancies by looking into her locked drawing-book. not to give up all the questions i was determined to solve, i made an attempt also to work into the little gentleman's chamber. for this purpose, i kept him in conversation, one morning, until he was just ready to go up-stairs, and then, as if to continue the talk, followed him as he toiled back to his room. he rested on the landing and faced round toward me. there was something in his eye which said, stop there! so we finished our conversation on the landing. the next day, i mustered assurance enough to knock at his door, having a pretext ready.--no answer.--knock again. a door, as if of a cabinet, was shut softly and locked, and presently i heard the peculiar dead beat of his thick-soled, misshapen boots. the bolts and the lock of the inner door were unfastened,--with unnecessary noise, i thought,--and he came into the passage. he pulled the inner door after him and opened the outer one at which i stood. he had on a flowered silk dressing-gown, such as "mr. copley" used to paint his old-fashioned merchant-princes in; and a quaint-looking key in his hand. our conversation was short, but long enough to convince me that the little gentleman did not want my company in his chamber, and did not mean to have it. i have been making a great fuss about what is no mystery at all,--a schoolgirl's secrets and a whimsical man's habits. i mean to give up such nonsense and mind my own business.--hark! what the deuse is that odd noise in his chamber? --i think i am a little superstitious. there were two things, when i was a boy, that diabolized my imagination,--i mean, that gave me a distinct apprehension of a formidable bodily shape which prowled round the neighborhood where i was born and bred. the first was a series of marks called the "devil's footsteps." these were patches of sand in the pastures, where no grass grew, where the low-bush blackberry, the "dewberry," as our southern neighbors call it, in prettier and more shakspearian language, did not spread its clinging creepers,--where even the pale, dry, sadly-sweet "everlasting" could not grow, but all was bare and blasted. the second was a mark in one of the public buildings near my home,--the college dormitory named after a colonial governor. i do not think many persons are aware of the existence of this mark,--little having been said about the story in print, as it was considered very desirable, for the sake of the institution, to hush it up. in the northwest corner, and on the level of the third or fourth story, there are signs of a breach in the walls, mended pretty well, but not to be mistaken. a considerable portion of that corner must have been carried away, from within outward. it was an unpleasant affair; and i do not care to repeat the particulars; but some young men had been using sacred things in a profane and unlawful way, when the occurrence, which was variously explained, took place. the story of the appearance in the chamber was, i suppose, invented afterwards; but of the injury to the building there could be no question; and the zig-zag line, where the mortar is a little thicker than before, is still distinctly visible. the queer burnt spots, called the "devil's footsteps," had never attracted attention before this time, though there is no evidence that they had not existed previously, except that of the late miss m., a "goody," so called, or sweeper, who was positive on the subject, but had a strange horror of referring to an affair of which she was thought to know something.--i tell you it was not so pleasant for a little boy of impressible nature to go up to bed in an old gambrel-roofed house, with untenanted, locked upper-chambers, and a most ghostly garret,--with the "devil's footsteps" in the fields behind the house and in front of it the patched dormitory where the unexplained occurrence had taken place which startled those godless youths at their mock devotions, so that one of them was epileptic from that day forward, and another, after a dreadful season of mental conflict, took holy orders and became renowned for his ascetic sanctity. there were other circumstances that kept up the impression produced by these two singular facts i have just mentioned. there was a dark storeroom, on looking through the key-hole of which, i could dimly see a heap of chairs and tables, and other four-footed things, which seemed to me to have rushed in there, frightened, and in their fright to have huddled together and climbed up on each other's backs,--as the people did in that awful crush where so many were killed, at the execution of holloway and haggerty. then the lady's portrait, up-stairs, with the sword-thrusts through it,--marks of the british officers' rapiers,--and the tall mirror in which they used to look at their red coats,--confound them for smashing its mate?--and the deep, cunningly wrought arm-chair in which lord percy used to sit while his hair was dressing;--he was a gentleman, and always had it covered with a large peignoir, to save the silk covering my grandmother embroidered. then the little room downstairs from which went the orders to throw up a bank of earth on the hill yonder, where you may now observe a granite obelisk,--"the study" in my father's time, but in those days the council-chamber of armed men,--sometimes filled with soldiers; come with me, and i will show you the "dents" left by the butts of their muskets all over the floor. with all these suggestive objects round me, aided by the wild stories those awful country-boys that came to live in our service brought with them;--of contracts written in blood and left out over night, not to be found the next morning, (removed by the evil one, who takes his nightly round among our dwellings, and filed away for future use,)--of dreams coming true,--of death-signs,--of apparitions, no wonder that my imagination got excited, and i was liable to superstitious fancies. jeremy bentham's logic, by which he proved that he couldn't possibly see a ghost is all very well-in the day-time. all the reason in the world will never get those impressions of childhood, created by just such circumstances as i have been telling, out of a man's head. that is the only excuse i have to give for the nervous kind of curiosity with which i watch my little neighbor, and the obstinacy with which i lie awake whenever i hear anything going on in his chamber after midnight. but whatever further observations i may have made must be deferred for the present. you will see in what way it happened that my thoughts were turned from spiritual matters to bodily ones, and how i got my fancy full of material images,--faces, heads, figures, muscles, and so forth,--in such a way that i should have no chance in this number to gratify any curiosity you may feel, if i had the means of so doing. indeed, i have come pretty near omitting my periodical record this time. it was all the work of a friend of mine, who would have it that i should sit to him for my portrait. when a soul draws a body in the great lottery of life, where every one is sure of a prize, such as it is, the said soul inspects the said body with the same curious interest with which one who has ventured into a "gift enterprise" examines the "massive silver pencil-case" with the coppery smell and impressible tube, or the "splendid gold ring" with the questionable specific gravity, which it has been his fortune to obtain in addition to his purchase. the soul, having studied the article of which it finds itself proprietor, thinks, after a time, it knows it pretty well. but there is this difference between its view and that of a person looking at us:--we look from within, and see nothing but the mould formed by the elements in which we are incased; other observers look from without, and see us as living statues. to be sure, by the aid of mirrors, we get a few glimpses of our outside aspect; but this occasional impression is always modified by that look of the soul from within outward which none but ourselves can take. a portrait is apt, therefore, to be a surprise to us. the artist looks only from without. he sees us, too, with a hundred aspects on our faces we are never likely to see. no genuine expression can be studied by the subject of it in the looking-glass. more than this; he sees us in a way in which many of our friends or acquaintances never see us. without wearing any mask we are conscious of, we have a special face for each friend. for, in the first place, each puts a special reflection of himself upon us, on the principle of assimilation you found referred to in my last record, if you happened to read that document. and secondly, each of our friends is capable of seeing just so far, and no farther, into our face, and each sees in it the particular thing that he looks for. now the artist, if he is truly an artist, does not take any one of these special views. suppose he should copy you as you appear to the man who wants your name to a subscription-list, you could hardly expect a friend who entertains you to recognize the likeness to the smiling face which sheds its radiance at his board. even within your own family, i am afraid there is a face which the rich uncle knows, that is not so familiar to the poor relation. the artist must take one or the other, or something compounded of the two, or something different from either. what the daguerreotype and photograph do is to give the features and one particular look, the very look which kills all expression, that of self-consciousness. the artist throws you off your guard, watches you in movement and in repose, puts your face through its exercises, observes its transitions, and so gets the whole range of its expression. out of all this he forms an ideal portrait, which is not a copy of your exact look at any one time or to any particular person. such a portrait cannot be to everybody what the ungloved call "as nat'ral as life." every good picture, therefore, must be considered wanting in resemblance by many persons. there is one strange revelation which comes out, as the artist shapes your features from his outline. it is that you resemble so many relatives to whom you yourself never had noticed any particular likeness in your countenance. he is at work at me now, when i catch some of these resemblances, thus: there! that is just the look my father used to have sometimes; i never thought i had a sign of it. the mother's eyebrow and grayish-blue eye, those i knew i had. but there is a something which recalls a smile that faded away from my sister's lips--how many years ago! i thought it so pleasant in her, that i love myself better for having a trace of it. are we not young? are we not fresh and blooming? wait, a bit. the artist takes a mean little brush and draws three fine lines, diverging outwards from the eye over the temple. five years.--the artist draws one tolerably distinct and two faint lines, perpendicularly between the eyebrows. ten years.--the artist breaks up the contours round the mouth, so that they look a little as a hat does that has been sat upon and recovered itself, ready, as one would say, to crumple up again in the same creases, on smiling or other change of feature.--hold on! stop that! give a young fellow a chance! are we not whole years short of that interesting period of life when mr. balzac says that a man, etc., etc., etc.? there now! that is ourself, as we look after finishing an article, getting a three-mile pull with the ten-foot sculls, redressing the wrongs of the toilet, and standing with the light of hope in our eye and the reflection of a red curtain on our cheek. is he not a poet that painted us? "blest be the art that can immortalize!" cowper. --young folks look on a face as a unit; children who go to school with any given little john smith see in his name a distinctive appellation, and in his features as special and definite an expression of his sole individuality as if he were the first created of his race: as soon as we are old enough to get the range of three or four generations well in hand, and to take in large family histories, we never see an individual in a face of any stock we know, but a mosaic copy of a pattern, with fragmentary tints from this and that ancestor. the analysis of a face into its ancestral elements requires that it should be examined in the very earliest infancy, before it has lost that ancient and solemn look it brings with it out of the past eternity; and again in that brief space when life, the mighty sculptor, has done his work, and death, his silent servant, lifts the veil and lets us look at the marble lines he has wrought so faithfully; and lastly, while a painter who can seize all the traits of a countenance is building it up, feature after feature, from the slight outline to the finished portrait. --i am satisfied, that, as we grow older, we learn to look upon our bodies more and more as a temporary possession and less and less as identified with ourselves. in early years, while the child "feels its life in every limb," it lives in the body and for the body to a very great extent. it ought to be so. there have been many very interesting children who have shown a wonderful indifference to the things of earth and an extraordinary development of the spiritual nature. there is a perfect literature of their biographies, all alike in their essentials; the same "disinclination to the usual amusements of childhood "; the same remarkable sensibility; the same docility; the same conscientiousness; in short, an almost uniform character, marked by beautiful traits, which we look at with a painful admiration. it will be found that most of these children are the subjects of some constitutional unfitness for living, the most frequent of which i need not mention. they are like the beautiful, blushing, half-grown fruit that falls before its time because its core is gnawed out. they have their meaning,--they do not-live in vain,--but they are windfalls. i am convinced that many healthy children are injured morally by being forced to read too much about these little meek sufferers and their spiritual exercises. here is a boy that loves to run, swim, kick football, turn somersets, make faces, whittle, fish, tear his clothes, coast, skate, fire crackers, blow squash "tooters," cut his name on fences, read about robinson crusoe and sinbad the sailor, eat the widest-angled slices of pie and untold cakes and candies, crack nuts with his back teeth and bite out the better part of another boy's apple with his front ones, turn up coppers, "stick" knives, call names, throw stones, knock off hats, set mousetraps, chalk doorsteps, "cut behind" anything on wheels or runners, whistle through his teeth, "holler" fire! on slight evidence, run after soldiers, patronize an engine-company, or, in his own words, "blow for tub no. ," or whatever it may be;--isn't that a pretty nice sort of a boy, though he has not got anything the matter with him that takes the taste of this world out? now, when you put into such a hot-blooded, hard-fisted, round-cheeked little rogue's hand a sad-looking volume or pamphlet, with the portrait of a thin, white-faced child, whose life is really as much a training for death as the last month of a condemned criminal's existence, what does he find in common between his own overflowing and exulting sense of vitality and the experiences of the doomed offspring of invalid parents? the time comes when we have learned to understand the music of sorrow, the beauty of resigned suffering, the holy light that plays over the pillow of those who die before their time, in humble hope and trust. but it is not until he has worked his way through the period of honest hearty animal existence, which every robust child should make the most of,--not until he has learned the use of his various faculties, which is his first duty,--that a boy of courage and animal vigor is in a proper state to read these tearful records of premature decay. i have no doubt that disgust is implanted in the minds of many healthy children by early surfeits of pathological piety. i do verily believe that he who took children in his arms and blessed them loved the healthiest and most playful of them just as well as those who were richest in the tuberculous virtues. i know what i am talking about, and there are more parents in this country who will be willing to listen to what i say than there are fools to pick a quarrel with me. in the sensibility and the sanctity which often accompany premature decay i see one of the most beautiful instances of the principle of compensation which marks the divine benevolence. but to get the spiritual hygiene of robust natures out of the exceptional regimen of invalids is just simply what we professors call "bad practice"; and i know by experience that there are worthy people who not only try it on their own children, but actually force it on those of their neighbors. --having been photographed, and stereographed, and chromatographed, or done in colors, it only remained to be phrenologized. a polite note from messrs. bumpus and crane, requesting our attendance at their physiological emporium, was too tempting to be resisted. we repaired to that scientific golgotha. messrs. bumpus and crane are arranged on the plan of the man and the woman in the toy called a "weather-house," both on the same wooden arm suspended on a pivot,--so that when one comes to the door, the other retires backwards, and vice versa. the more particular speciality of one is to lubricate your entrance and exit,--that of the other to polish you off phrenologically in the recesses of the establishment. suppose yourself in a room full of casts and pictures, before a counterful of books with taking titles. i wonder if the picture of the brain is there, "approved" by a noted phrenologist, which was copied from my, the professor's, folio plate, in the work of gall and spurzheim. an extra convolution, no. , destructiveness, according to the list beneath, which was not to be seen in the plate, itself a copy of nature, was very liberally supplied by the artist, to meet the wants of the catalogue of "organs." professor bumpus is seated in front of a row of women, --horn-combers and gold-beaders, or somewhere about that range of life,--looking so credulous, that, if any second-advent miller or joe smith should come along, he could string the whole lot of them on his cheapest lie, as a boy strings a dozen "shiners" on a stripped twig of willow. the professor (meaning ourselves) is in a hurry, as usual; let the horn-combers wait,--he shall be bumped without inspecting the antechamber. tape round the head,-- inches. (come on, old inches, if you think you are the better man!) feels thorax and arm, and nuzzles round among muscles as those horrid old women poke their fingers into the salt-meat on the provision-stalls at the quincy market. vitality, no. or , or something or other. victuality, (organ at epigastrium,) some other number equally significant. mild champooing of head now commences. 'extraordinary revelations! cupidiphilous, ! hymeniphilous, +! paediphilous, ! deipniphilous, ! gelasmiphilous, ! musikiphilous, ! uraniphilous, ! glossiphilous, !! and so on. meant for a linguist.--invaluable information. will invest in grammars and dictionaries immediately.--i have nothing against the grand total of my phrenological endowments. i never set great store by my head, and did not think messrs. bumpus and crane would give me so good a lot of organs as they did, especially considering that i was a dead-head on that occasion. much obliged to them for their politeness. they have been useful in their way by calling attention to important physiological facts. (this concession is due to our immense bump of candor.) a short lecture on phrenology, read to the boarders at our breakfast-table. i shall begin, my friends, with the definition of a pseudo-science. a pseudo-science consists of a nomenclature, with a self-adjusting arrangement, by which all positive evidence, or such as favors its doctrines, is admitted, and all negative evidence, or such as tells against it, is excluded. it is invariably connected with some lucrative practical application. its professors and practitioners are usually shrewd people; they are very serious with the public, but wink and laugh a good deal among themselves. the believing multitude consists of women of both sexes, feeble minded inquirers, poetical optimists, people who always get cheated in buying horses, philanthropists who insist on hurrying up the millennium, and others of this class, with here and there a clergyman, less frequently a lawyer, very rarely a physician, and almost never a horse-jockey or a member of the detective police.--i do not say that phrenology was one of the pseudo-sciences. a pseudo-science does not necessarily consist wholly of lies. it may contain many truths, and even valuable ones. the rottenest bank starts with a little specie. it puts out a thousand promises to pay on the strength of a single dollar, but the dollar is very commonly a good one. the practitioners of the pseudo-sciences know that common minds, after they have been baited with a real fact or two, will jump at the merest rag of a lie, or even at the bare hook. when we have one fact found us, we are very apt to supply the next out of our own imagination. (how many persons can read judges xv. correctly the first time?) the pseudo-sciences take advantage of this.--i did not say that it was so with phrenology. i have rarely met a sensible man who would not allow that there was something in phrenology. a broad, high forehead, it is commonly agreed, promises intellect; one that is "villanous low" and has a huge hind-head back of it, is wont to mark an animal nature. i have as rarely met an unbiassed and sensible man who really believed in the bumps. it is observed, however, that persons with what the phrenologists call "good heads" are more prone than others toward plenary belief in the doctrine. it is so hard to prove a negative, that, if a man should assert that the moon was in truth a green cheese, formed by the coagulable substance of the milky way, and challenge me to prove the contrary, i might be puzzled. but if he offer to sell me a ton of this lunar cheese, i call on him to prove the truth of the gaseous nature of our satellite, before i purchase. it is not necessary to prove the falsity of the phrenological statement. it is only necessary to show that its truth is not proved, and cannot be, by the common course of argument. the walls of the head are double, with a great air-chamber between them, over the smallest and most closely crowded "organs." can you tell how much money there is in a safe, which also has thick double walls, by kneading its knobs with your fingers? so when a man fumbles about my forehead, and talks about the organs of individuality, size, etc., i trust him as much as i should if he felt of the outside of my strong-box and told me that there was a five-dollar or a ten-dollar-bill under this or that particular rivet. perhaps there is; only he does n't know anything about at. but this is a point that i, the professor, understand, my friends, or ought to, certainly, better than you do. the next argument you will all appreciate. i proceed, therefore, to explain the self-adjusting mechanism of phrenology, which is very similar to that of the pseudo-sciences. an example will show it most conveniently. a. is a notorious thief. messrs. bumpus and crane examine him and find a good-sized organ of acquisitiveness. positive fact for phrenology. casts and drawings of a. are multiplied, and the bump does not lose in the act of copying.--i did not say it gained.--what do you look so for? (to the boarders.) presently b. turns up, a bigger thief than a. but b. has no bump at all over acquisitiveness. negative fact; goes against phrenology.--not a bit of it. don't you see how small conscientiousness is? that's the reason b. stole. and then comes c., ten times as much a thief as either a. or b.,--used to steal before he was weaned, and would pick one of his own pockets and put its contents in another, if he could find no other way of committing petty larceny. unfortunately, c. has a hollow, instead of a bump, over acquisitiveness. ah, but just look and see what a bump of alimentiveness! did not c. buy nuts and gingerbread, when a boy, with the money he stole? of course you see why he is a thief, and how his example confirms our noble science. at last comes along a case which is apparently a settler, for there is a little brain with vast and varied powers,--a case like that of byron, for instance. then comes out the grand reserve-reason which covers everything and renders it simply impossible ever to corner a phrenologist. "it is not the size alone, but the quality of an organ, which determines its degree of power." oh! oh! i see.--the argument may be briefly stated thus by the phrenologist: "heads i win, tails you lose." well, that's convenient. it must be confessed that phrenology has a certain resemblance to the pseudo-sciences. i did not say it was a pseudo-science. i have often met persons who have been altogether struck up and amazed at the accuracy with which some wandering professor of phrenology had read their characters written upon their skulls. of course the professor acquires his information solely through his cranial inspections and manipulations.--what are you laughing at? (to the boarders.)--but let us just suppose, for a moment, that a tolerably cunning fellow, who did not know or care anything about phrenology, should open a shop and undertake to read off people's characters at fifty cents or a dollar apiece. let us see how well he could get along without the "organs." i will suppose myself to set up such a shop. i would invest one hundred dollars, more or less, in casts of brains, skulls, charts, and other matters that would make the most show for the money. that would do to begin with. i would then advertise myself as the celebrated professor brainey, or whatever name i might choose, and wait for my first customer. my first customer is a middle-aged man. i look at him,--ask him a question or two, so as to hear him talk. when i have got the hang of him, i ask him to sit down, and proceed to fumble his skull, dictating as follows: scale from to . list of faculties for private notes for my pupil. customer. each to be accompanied with a wink. amativeness, . most men love the conflicting sex, and all men love to be told they do. alimentiveness, . don't you see that he has burst off his lowest waistcoat-button with feeding,--hey acquisitiveness, . of course. a middle-aged yankee. approbativeness +. hat well brushed. hair ditto. mark the effect of that plus sign. self-esteem . his face shows that. benevolence . that'll please him. conscientiousness / that fraction looks first-rate. mirthfulness has laughed twice since he came in. ideality that sounds well. form, size, weight, to . average everything that color, locality, cannot be guessed. eventuality, etc. etc. and so of the other faculties. of course, you know, that isn't the way the phrenologists do. they go only by the bumps.--what do you keep laughing so for? (to the boarders.) i only said that is the way i should practise "phrenology" for a living. end of my lecture. --the reformers have good heads, generally. their faces are commonly serene enough, and they are lambs in private intercourse, even though their voices may be like the wolf's long howl from oonalaska's shore, when heard from the platform. their greatest spiritual danger is from the perpetual flattery of abuse to which they are exposed. these lines are meant to caution them. saint anthony the reformer. his temptation. no fear lest praise should make us proud! we know how cheaply that is won; the idle homage of the crowd is proof of tasks as idly done. a surface-smile may pay the toil that follows still the conquering right, with soft, white hands to dress the spoil that sunbrowned valor clutched in fight. sing the sweet song of other days, serenely placid, safely true, and o'er the present's parching ways thy verse distils like evening dew. but speak in words of living power, --they fall like drops of scalding rain that plashed before the burning shower swept o'er the cities of the plain! then scowling hate turns deadly pale, --then passion's half-coiled adders spring, and, smitten through their leprous mail, strike right and left in hope to sting. if thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath, thy feet on earth, thy heart above, canst walk in peace thy kingly path, unchanged in trust, unchilled in love,-- too kind for bitter words to grieve, too firm for clamor to dismay, when faith forbids thee to believe, and meekness calls to disobey,-- ah, then beware of mortal pride! the smiling pride that calmly scorns those foolish fingers, crimson dyed in laboring on thy crown of thorns! ix one of our boarders--perhaps more than one was concerned in it--sent in some questions to me, the other day, which, trivial as some of them are, i felt bound to answer. .--whether a lady was ever known to write a letter covering only a single page? to this i answered, that there was a case on record where a lady had but half a sheet of paper and no envelope; and being obliged to send through the post-office, she covered only one side of the paper (crosswise, lengthwise, and diagonally). .--what constitutes a man a gentleman? to this i gave several answers, adapted to particular classes of questioners. a. not trying to be a gentleman. b. self-respect underlying courtesy. c. knowledge and observance of the fitness of things in social intercourse. d. f. s. d. (as many suppose.) .--whether face or figure is most attractive in the female sex? answered in the following epigram, by a young man about town: quoth tom, "though fair her features be, it is her figure pleases me." "what may her figure be?" i cried. "one hundred thousand!" he replied. when this was read to the boarders, the young man john said he should like a chance to "step up" to a figger of that kind, if the girl was one of the right sort. the landlady said them that merried for money didn't deserve the blessin' of a good wife. money was a great thing when them that had it made a good use of it. she had seen better days herself, and knew what it was never to want for anything. one of her cousins merried a very rich old gentleman, and she had heerd that he said he lived ten year longer than if he'd staid by himself without anybody to take care of him. there was nothin' like a wife for nussin' sick folks and them that couldn't take care of themselves. the young man john got off a little wink, and pointed slyly with his thumb in the direction of our diminutive friend, for whom he seemed to think this speech was intended. if it was meant for him, he did n't appear to know that it was. indeed, he seems somewhat listless of late, except when the conversation falls upon one of those larger topics that specially interest him, and then he grows excited, speaks loud and fast, sometimes almost savagely,--and, i have noticed once or twice, presses his left hand to his right side, as if there were something that ached, or weighed, or throbbed in that region. while he speaks in this way, the general conversation is interrupted, and we all listen to him. iris looks steadily in his face, and then he will turn as if magnetized and meet the amber eyes with his own melancholy gaze. i do believe that they have some kind of understanding together, that they meet elsewhere than at our table, and that there is a mystery, which is going to break upon us all of a sudden, involving the relations of these two persons. from the very first, they have taken to each other. the one thing they have in common is the heroic will. in him, it shows itself in thinking his way straightforward, in doing battle for "free trade and no right of search" on the high seas of religious controversy, and especially in fighting the battles of his crooked old city. in her, it is standing up for her little friend with the most queenly disregard of the code of boarding-house etiquette. people may say or look what they like,--she will have her way about this sentiment of hers. the poor relation is in a dreadful fidget whenever the little gentleman says anything that interferes with her own infallibility. she seems to think faith must go with her face tied up, as if she had the toothache,--and that if she opens her mouth to the quarter the wind blows from, she will catch her "death o' cold." the landlady herself came to him one day, as i have found out, and tried to persuade him to hold his tongue.--the boarders was gettin' uneasy,--she said,--and some of 'em would go, she mistrusted, if he talked any more about things that belonged to the ministers to settle. she was a poor woman, that had known better days, but all her livin' depended on her boarders, and she was sure there was n't any of 'em she set so much by as she did by him; but there was them that never liked to hear about sech things, except on sundays. the little gentleman looked very smiling at the landlady, who smiled even more cordially in return, and adjusted her cap-ribbon with an unconscious movement,--a reminiscence of the long-past pairing-time, when she had smoothed her locks and softened her voice, and won her mate by these and other bird-like graces.--my dear madam,--he said,--i will remember your interests, and speak only of matters to which i am totally indifferent.--i don't doubt he meant this; but a day or two after, something stirred him up, and i heard his voice uttering itself aloud, thus: -it must be done, sir!--he was saying,--it must be done! our religion has been judaized, it has been romanized, it has been orientalized, it has been anglicized, and the time is at hand when it must be americanized! now, sir, you see what americanizing is in politics;--it means that a man shall have a vote because he is a man,--and shall vote for whom he pleases, without his neighbor's interference. if he chooses to vote for the devil, that is his lookout;--perhaps he thinks the devil is better than the other candidates; and i don't doubt he's often right, sir. just so a man's soul has a vote in the spiritual community; and it doesn't do, sir, or it won't do long, to call him "schismatic" and "heretic" and those other wicked names that the old murderous inquisitors have left us to help along "peace and goodwill to men"! as long as you could catch a man and drop him into an oubliette, or pull him out a few inches longer by machinery, or put a hot iron through his tongue, or make him climb up a ladder and sit on a board at the top of a stake so that he should be slowly broiled by the fire kindled round it, there was some sense in these words; they led to something. but since we have done with those tools, we had better give up those words. i should like to see a yankee advertisement like this!--(the little gentleman laughed fiercely as he uttered the words,--) --patent thumb-screws,--will crush the bone in three turns. --the cast-iron boot, with wedge and mallet, only five dollars! --the celebrated extension-rack, warranted to stretch a man six inches in twenty minutes,--money returned, if it proves unsatisfactory. i should like to see such an advertisement, i say, sir! now, what's the use of using the words that belonged with the thumb-screws, and the blessed virgin with the knives under her petticoats and sleeves and bodice, and the dry pan and gradual fire, if we can't have the things themselves, sir? what's the use of painting the fire round a poor fellow, when you think it won't do to kindle one under him,--as they did at valencia or valladolid, or wherever it was? --what story is that?--i said. why,--he answered,--at the last auto-da-fe, in or ' , or somewhere there,--it's a traveller's story, but a mighty knowing traveller he is,--they had a "heretic" to use up according to the statutes provided for the crime of private opinion. they could n't quite make up their minds to burn him, so they only hung him in a hogshead painted all over with flames! no, sir! when a man calls you names because you go to the ballot-box and vote for your candidate, or because you say this or that is your opinion, he forgets in which half of the world he was born, sir! it won't be long, sir, before we have americanized religion as we have americanized government; and then, sir, every soul god sends into the world will be good in the face of all men for just so much of his "inspiration" as "giveth him understanding"!--none of my words, sir! none of my words! --if iris does not love this little gentleman, what does love look like when one sees it? she follows him with her eyes, she leans over toward him when he speaks, her face changes with the changes of his speech, so that one might think it was with her as with christabel,-- that all her features were resigned to this sole image in her mind. but she never looks at him with such intensity of devotion as when he says anything about the soul and the soul's atmosphere, religion. women are twice as religious as men;--all the world knows that. whether they are any better, in the eyes of absolute justice, might be questioned; for the additional religious element supplied by sex hardly seems to be a matter of praise or blame. but in all common aspects they are so much above us that we get most of our religion from them,--from their teachings, from their example,--above all, from their pure affections. now this poor little iris had been talked to strangely in her childhood. especially she had been told that she hated all good things,--which every sensible parent knows well enough is not true of a great many children, to say the least. i have sometimes questioned whether many libels on human nature had not been a natural consequence of the celibacy of the clergy, which was enforced for so long a period. the child had met this and some other equally encouraging statements as to her spiritual conditions, early in life, and fought the battle of spiritual independence prematurely, as many children do. if all she did was hateful to god, what was the meaning of the approving or else the disapproving conscience, when she had done "right" or "wrong"? no "shoulder-striker" hits out straighter than a child with its logic. why, i can remember lying in my bed in the nursery and settling questions which all that i have heard since and got out of books has never been able to raise again. if a child does not assert itself in this way in good season, it becomes just what its parents or teachers were, and is no better than a plastic image.--how old was i at the time?--i suppose about years old,--that is, counting from archbishop usher's date of the creation, and adding the life of the race, whose accumulated intelligence is a part of my inheritance, to my own. a good deal older than plato, you see, and much more experienced than my lord bacon and most of the world's teachers.--old books, as you well know, are books of the world's youth, and new books are fruits of its age. how many of all these ancient folios round me are like so many old cupels! the gold has passed out of them long ago, but their pores are full of the dross with which it was mingled. and so iris--having thrown off that first lasso which not only fetters, but chokes those whom it can hold, so that they give themselves up trembling and breathless to the great soul-subduer, who has them by the windpipe had settled a brief creed for herself, in which love of the neighbor, whom we have seen, was the first article, and love of the creator, whom we have not seen, grew out of this as its natural development, being necessarily second in order of time to the first unselfish emotions which we feel for the fellow-creatures who surround us in our early years. the child must have some place of worship. what would a young girl be who never mingled her voice with the songs and prayers that rose all around her with every returning day of rest? and iris was free to choose. sometimes one and sometimes another would offer to carry her to this or that place of worship; and when the doors were hospitably opened, she would often go meekly in by herself. it was a curious fact, that two churches as remote from each other in doctrine as could well be divided her affections. the church of saint polycarp had very much the look of a roman catholic chapel. i do not wish to run the risk of giving names to the ecclesiastical furniture which gave it such a romish aspect; but there were pictures, and inscriptions in antiquated characters, and there were reading-stands, and flowers on the altar, and other elegant arrangements. then there were boys to sing alternately in choirs responsive to each other, and there was much bowing, with very loud responding, and a long service and a short sermon, and a bag, such as judas used to hold in the old pictures, was carried round to receive contributions. everything was done not only "decently and in order," but, perhaps one might say, with a certain air of magnifying their office on the part of the dignified clergymen, often two or three in number. the music and the free welcome were grateful to iris, and she forgot her prejudices at the door of the chapel. for this was a church with open doors, with seats for all classes and all colors alike,--a church of zealous worshippers after their faith, of charitable and serviceable men and women, one that took care of its children and never forgot its poor, and whose people were much more occupied in looking out for their own souls than in attacking the faith of their neighbors. in its mode of worship there was a union of two qualities,--the taste and refinement, which the educated require just as much in their churches as elsewhere, and the air of stateliness, almost of pomp, which impresses the common worshipper, and is often not without its effect upon those who think they hold outward forms as of little value. under the half-romish aspect of the church of saint polycarp, the young girl found a devout and loving and singularly cheerful religious spirit. the artistic sense, which betrayed itself in the dramatic proprieties of its ritual, harmonized with her taste. the mingled murmur of the loud responses, in those rhythmic phrases, so simple, yet so fervent, almost as if every tenth heart-beat, instead of its dull tic-tac, articulated itself as "good lord, deliver us! "--the sweet alternation of the two choirs, as their holy song floated from side to side, the keen young voices rising like a flight of singing-birds that passes from one grove to another, carrying its music with it back and forward,--why should she not love these gracious outward signs of those inner harmonies which none could deny made beautiful the lives of many of her fellow-worshippers in the humble, yet not inelegant chapel of saint polycarp? the young marylander, who was born and bred to that mode of worship, had introduced her to the chapel, for which he did the honors for such of our boarders as were not otherwise provided for. i saw them looking over the same prayer-book one sunday, and i could not help thinking that two such young and handsome persons could hardly worship together in safety for a great while. but they seemed to mind nothing but their prayer-book. by-and-by the silken bag was handed round.--i don't believe she will; so awkward, you know;--besides, she only came by invitation. there she is, with her hand in her pocket, though,--and sure enough, her little bit of silver tinkled as it struck the coin beneath. god bless her! she has n't much to give; but her eye glistens when she gives it, and that is all heaven asks.--that was the first time i noticed these young people together, and i am sure they behaved with the most charming propriety,--in fact, there was one of our silent lady-boarders with them, whose eyes would have kept cupid and psyche to their good behavior. a day or two after this i noticed that the young gentleman had left his seat, which you may remember was at the corner diagonal to that of iris, so that they have been as far removed from each other as they could be at the table. his new seat is three or four places farther down the table. of course i made a romance out of this, at once. so stupid not to see it! how could it be otherwise?--did you speak, madam? i beg your pardon. (to my lady-reader.) i never saw anything like the tenderness with which this young girl treats her little deformed neighbor. if he were in the way of going to church, i know she would follow him. but his worship, if any, is not with the throng of men and women and staring children. i, the professor, on the other hand, am a regular church-goer. i should go for various reasons if i did not love it; but i am happy enough to find great pleasure in the midst of devout multitudes, whether i can accept all their creeds or not. one place of worship comes nearer than the rest to my ideal standard, and to this it was that i carried our young girl. the church of the galileans, as it is called, is even humbler in outside pretensions than the church of saint polycarp. like that, it is open to all comers. the stranger who approaches it looks down a quiet street and sees the plainest of chapels,--a kind of wooden tent, that owes whatever grace it has to its pointed windows and the high, sharp roofs--traces, both, of that upward movement of ecclesiastical architecture which soared aloft in cathedral-spires, shooting into the sky as the spike of a flowering aloe from the cluster of broad, sharp-wedged leaves below. this suggestion of medieval symbolism, aided by a minute turret in which a hand-bell might have hung and found just room enough to turn over, was all of outward show the small edifice could boast. within there was very little that pretended to be attractive. a small organ at one side, and a plain pulpit, showed that the building was a church; but it was a church reduced to its simplest expression: yet when the great and wise monarch of the east sat upon his throne, in all the golden blaze of the spoils of ophir and the freights of the navy of tarshish, his glory was not like that of this simple chapel in its sunday garniture. for the lilies of the field, in their season, and the fairest flowers of the year, in due succession, were clustered every sunday morning over the preacher's desk. slight, thin-tissued blossoms of pink and blue and virgin white in early spring, then the full-breasted and deep-hearted roses of summer, then the velvet-robed crimson and yellow flowers of autumn, and in the winter delicate exotics that grew under skies of glass in the false summers of our crystal palaces without knowing that it was the dreadful winter of new england which was rattling the doors and frosting the panes,--in their language the whole year told its history of life and growth and beauty from that simple desk. there was always at least one good sermon,--this floral homily. there was at least one good prayer,--that brief space when all were silent, after the manner of the friends at their devotions. here, too, iris found an atmosphere of peace and love. the same gentle, thoughtful faces, the same cheerful but reverential spirit, the same quiet, the same life of active benevolence. but in all else how different from the church of saint polycarp! no clerical costume, no ceremonial forms, no carefully trained choirs. a liturgy they have, to be sure, which does not scruple to borrow from the time-honored manuals of devotion, but also does not hesitate to change its expressions to its own liking. perhaps the good people seem a little easy with each other;--they are apt to nod familiarly, and have even been known to whisper before the minister came in. but it is a relief to get rid of that old sunday--no,--sabbath face, which suggests the idea that the first day of the week is commemorative of some most mournful event. the truth is, these brethren and sisters meet very much as a family does for its devotions, not putting off their humanity in the least, considering it on the whole quite a delightful matter to come together for prayer and song and good counsel from kind and wise lips. and if they are freer in their demeanor than some very precise congregations, they have not the air of a worldly set of people. clearly they have not come to advertise their tailors and milliners, nor for the sake of exchanging criticisms on the literary character of the sermon they may hear. there is no restlessness and no restraint among these quiet, cheerful worshippers. one thing that keeps them calm and happy during the season so evidently trying to many congregations is, that they join very generally in the singing. in this way they get rid of that accumulated nervous force which escapes in all sorts of fidgety movements, so that a minister trying to keep his congregation still reminds one of a boy with his hand over the nose of a pump which another boy is working,--this spirting impatience of the people is so like the jets that find their way through his fingers, and the grand rush out at the final amen! has such a wonderful likeness to the gush that takes place when the boy pulls his hand away, with immense relief, as it seems, to both the pump and the officiating youngster. how sweet is this blending of all voices and all hearts in one common song of praise! some will sing a little loud, perhaps,--and now and then an impatient chorister will get a syllable or two in advance, or an enchanted singer so lose all thought of time and place in the luxury of a closing cadence that he holds on to the last semi-breve upon his private responsibility; but how much more of the spirit of the old psalmist in the music of these imperfectly trained voices than in the academic niceties of the paid performers who take our musical worship out of our hands! i am of the opinion that the creed of the church of the galileans is not laid down in as many details as that of the church of saint polycarp. yet i suspect, if one of the good people from each of those churches had met over the bed of a suffering fellow-creature, or for the promotion of any charitable object, they would have found they had more in common than all the special beliefs or want of beliefs that separated them would amount to. there are always many who believe that the fruits of a tree afford a better test of its condition than a statement of the composts with which it is dressed, though the last has its meaning and importance, no doubt. between these two churches, then, our young iris divides her affections. but i doubt if she listens to the preacher at either with more devotion than she does to her little neighbor when he talks of these matters. what does he believe? in the first place, there is some deep-rooted disquiet lying at the bottom of his soul, which makes him very bitter against all kinds of usurpation over the right of private judgment. over this seems to lie a certain tenderness for humanity in general, bred out of life-long trial, i should say, but sharply streaked with fiery lines of wrath at various individual acts of wrong, especially if they come in an ecclesiastical shape, and recall to him the days when his mother's great-grandmother was strangled on witch hill, with a text from the old testament for her halter. with all this, he has a boundless belief in the future of this experimental hemisphere, and especially in the destiny of the free thought of its northeastern metropolis. --a man can see further, sir,--he said one day,--from the top of boston state house, and see more that is worth seeing, than from all the pyramids and turrets and steeples in all the places in the world! no smoke, sir; no fog, sir; and a clean sweep from the outer light and the sea beyond it to the new hampshire mountains! yes, sir,--and there are great truths that are higher than mountains and broader than seas, that people are looking for from the tops of these hills of ours;--such as the world never saw, though it might have seen them at jerusalem, if its eyes had been open!--where do they have most crazy people? tell me that, sir! i answered, that i had heard it said there were more in new england than in most countries, perhaps more than in any part of the world. very good, sir,--he answered.--when have there been most people killed and wounded in the course of this century? during the wars of the french empire, no doubt,--i said. that's it! that's it!--said the little gentleman;--where the battle of intelligence is fought, there are most minds bruised and broken! we're battling for a faith here, sir. the divinity-student remarked, that it was rather late in the world's history for men to be looking out for a new faith. i did n't say a new faith,--said the little gentleman;--old or new, it can't help being different here in this american mind of ours from anything that ever was before; the people are new, sir, and that makes the difference. one load of corn goes to the sty, and makes the fat of swine,--another goes to the farm-house, and becomes the muscle that clothes the right arms of heroes. it is n't where a pawn stands on the board that makes the difference, but what the game round it is when it is on this or that square. can any man look round and see what christian countries are now doing, and how they are governed, and what is the general condition of society, without seeing that christianity is the flag under which the world sails, and not the rudder that steers its course? no, sir! there was a great raft built about two thousand years ago,--call it an ark, rather,--the world's great ark! big enough to hold all mankind, and made to be launched right out into the open waves of life,--and here it has been lying, one end on the shore and one end bobbing up and down in the water, men fighting all the time as to who should be captain and who should have the state-rooms, and throwing each other over the side because they could not agree about the points of compass, but the great vessel never getting afloat with its freight of nations and their rulers;--and now, sir, there is and has been for this long time a fleet of "heretic" lighters sailing out of boston bay, and they have been saying, and they say now, and they mean to keep saying, "pump out your bilge-water, shovel over your loads of idle ballast, get out your old rotten cargo, and we will carry it out into deep waters and sink it where it will never be seen again; so shall the ark of the world's hope float on the ocean, instead of sticking in the dock-mud where it is lying!" it's a slow business, this of getting the ark launched. the jordan was n't deep enough, and the tiber was n't deep enough, and the rhone was n't deep enough, and the thames was n't deep enough, and perhaps the charles is n't deep enough; but i don't feel sure of that, sir, and i love to hear the workmen knocking at the old blocks of tradition and making the ways smooth with the oil of the good samaritan. i don't know, sir,--but i do think she stirs a little,--i do believe she slides;--and when i think of what a work that is for the dear old three-breasted mother of american liberty, i would not take all the glory of all the greatest cities in the world for my birthright in the soil of little boston! --some of us could not help smiling at this burst of local patriotism, especially when it finished with the last two words. and iris smiled, too. but it was the radiant smile of pleasure which always lights up her face when her little neighbor gets excited on the great topics of progress in freedom and religion, and especially on the part which, as he pleases himself with believing, his own city is to take in that consummation of human development to which he looks forward. presently she looked into his face with a changed expression,--the anxiety of a mother that sees her child suffering. you are not well,--she said. i am never well,--he answered.--his eyes fell mechanically on the death's-head ring he wore on his right hand. she took his hand as if it had been a baby's, and turned the grim device so that it should be out of sight. one slight, sad, slow movement of the head seemed to say, "the death-symbol is still there!" a very odd personage, to be sure! seems to know what is going on, --reads books, old and new,--has many recent publications sent him, they tell me, but, what is more curious, keeps up with the everyday affairs of the world, too. whether he hears everything that is said with preternatural acuteness, or whether some confidential friend visits him in a quiet way, is more than i can tell. i can make nothing more of the noises i hear in his room than my old conjectures. the movements i mention are less frequent, but i often hear the plaintive cry,--i observe that it is rarely laughing of late;--i never have detected one articulate word, but i never heard such tones from anything but a human voice. there has been, of late, a deference approaching to tenderness, on the part of the boarders generally so far as he is concerned. this is doubtless owing to the air of suffering which seems to have saddened his look of late. either some passion is gnawing at him inwardly, or some hidden disease is at work upon him. --what 's the matter with little boston?--said the young man john to me one day.--there a'n't much of him, anyhow; but 't seems to me he looks peakeder than ever. the old woman says he's in a bad way, 'n' wants a puss to take care of him. them pusses that take care of old rich folks marry 'em sometimes,--'n' they don't commonly live a great while after that. no, sir! i don't see what he wants to die for, after he's taken so much trouble to live in such poor accommodations as that crooked body of his. i should like to know how his soul crawled into it, 'n' how it's goin' to get out. what business has he to die, i should like to know? let ma'am allen (the gentleman with the diamond) die, if he likes, and be (this is a family-magazine); but we a'n't goin' to have him dyin'. not by a great sight. can't do without him anyhow. a'n't it fun to hear him blow off his steam? i believe the young fellow would take it as a personal insult, if the little gentleman should show any symptoms of quitting our table for a better world. --in the mean time, what with going to church in company with our young lady, and taking every chance i could get to talk with her, i have found myself becoming, i will not say intimate, but well acquainted with miss iris. there is a certain frankness and directness about her that perhaps belong to her artist nature. for, you see, the one thing that marks the true artist is a clear perception and a firm, bold hand, in distinction from that imperfect mental vision and uncertain touch which give us the feeble pictures and the lumpy statues of the mere artisans on canvas or in stone. a true artist, therefore, can hardly fail to have a sharp, well-defined mental physiognomy. besides this, many young girls have a strange audacity blended with their instinctive delicacy. even in physical daring many of them are a match for boys; whereas you will find few among mature women, and especially if they are mothers, who do not confess, and not unfrequently proclaim, their timidity. one of these young girls, as many of us hereabouts remember, climbed to the top of a jagged, slippery rock lying out in the waves,--an ugly height to get up, and a worse one to get down, even for a bold young fellow of sixteen. another was in the way of climbing tall trees for crows' nests,--and crows generally know about how far boys can "shin up," and set their household establishments above that high-water mark. still another of these young ladies i saw for the first time in an open boat, tossing on the ocean ground-swell, a mile or two from shore, off a lonely island. she lost all her daring, after she had some girls of her own to look out for. many blondes are very gentle, yielding in character, impressible, unelastic. but the positive blondes, with the golden tint running through them, are often full of character. they come, probably enough, from those deep-bosomed german women that tacitus portrayed in such strong colors. the negative blondes, or those women whose tints have faded out as their line of descent has become impoverished, are of various blood, and in them the soul has often become pale with that blanching of the hair and loss of color in the eyes which makes them approach the character of albinesses. i see in this young girl that union of strength and sensibility which, when directed and impelled by the strong instinct so apt to accompany this combination of active and passive capacity, we call genius. she is not an accomplished artist, certainly, as yet; but there is always an air in every careless figure she draws, as it were of upward aspiration,--the elan of john of bologna's mercury,--a lift to them, as if they had on winged sandals, like the herald of the gods. i hear her singing sometimes; and though she evidently is not trained, yet is there a wild sweetness in her fitful and sometimes fantastic melodies,--such as can come only from the inspiration of the moment,--strangely enough, reminding me of those long passages i have heard from my little neighbor's room, yet of different tone, and by no means to be mistaken for those weird harmonies. i cannot pretend to deny that i am interested in the girl. alone, unprotected, as i have seen so many young girls left in boarding-houses, the centre of all the men's eyes that surround the table, watched with jealous sharpness by every woman, most of all by that poor relation of our landlady, who belongs to the class of women that like to catch others in mischief when they themselves are too mature for indiscretions, (as one sees old rogues turn to thief-catchers,) one of nature's gendarmerie, clad in a complete suit of wrinkles, the cheapest coat-of-mail against the shafts of the great little enemy,--so surrounded, iris spans this commonplace household-life of ours with her arch of beauty, as the rainbow, whose name she borrows, looks down on a dreary pasture with its feeding flocks and herds of indifferent animals. these young girls that live in boarding-houses can do pretty much as they will. the female gendarmes are off guard occasionally. the sitting-room has its solitary moments, when any two boarders who wish to meet may come together accidentally, (accidentally, i said, madam, and i had not the slightest intention of italicizing the word,) and discuss the social or political questions of the day, or any other subject that may prove interesting. many charming conversations take place at the foot of the stairs, or while one of the parties is holding the latch of a door,--in the shadow of porticoes, and especially on those outside balconies which some of our southern neighbors call "stoops," the most charming places in the world when the moon is just right and the roses and honeysuckles are in full blow,--as we used to think in eighteen hundred and never mention it. on such a balcony or "stoop," one evening, i walked with iris. we were on pretty good terms now, and i had coaxed her arm under mine,--my left arm, of course. that leaves one's right arm free to defend the lovely creature, if the rival--odious wretch! attempt, to ravish her from your side. likewise if one's heart should happen to beat a little, its mute language will not be without its meaning, as you will perceive when the arm you hold begins to tremble, a circumstance like to occur, if you happen to be a good-looking young fellow, and you two have the "stoop" to yourselves. we had it to ourselves that evening. the koh-inoor, as we called him, was in a corner with our landlady's daughter. the young fellow john was smoking out in the yard. the gendarme was afraid of the evening air, and kept inside, the young marylander came to the door, looked out and saw us walking together, gave his hat a pull over his forehead and stalked off. i felt a slight spasm, as it were, in the arm i held, and saw the girl's head turn over her shoulder for a second. what a kind creature this is! she has no special interest in this youth, but she does not like to see a young fellow going off because he feels as if he were not wanted. she had her locked drawing-book under her arm.--let me take it,--i said. she gave it to me to carry. this is full of caricatures of all of us, i am sure,--said i. she laughed, and said,--no,--not all of you. i was there, of course? why, no,--she had never taken so much pains with me. then she would let me see the inside of it? she would think of it. just as we parted, she took a little key from her pocket and handed it to me. this unlocks my naughty book,--she said,--you shall see it. i am not afraid of you. i don't know whether the last words exactly pleased me. at any rate, i took the book and hurried with it to my room. i opened it, and saw, in a few glances, that i held the heart of iris in my hand. --i have no verses for you this month, except these few lines suggested by the season. midsummer. here! sweep these foolish leaves away, i will not crush my brains to-day! look! are the southern curtains drawn? fetch me a fan, and so begone! not that,--the palm-tree's rustling leaf brought from a parching coral-reef! its breath is heated;--i would swing the broad gray plumes,--the eagle's wing. i hate these roses' feverish blood! pluck me a half-blown lily-bud, a long-stemmed lily from the lake, cold as a coiling water-snake. rain me sweet odors on the air, and wheel me up my indian chair, and spread some book not overwise flat out before my sleepy eyes. --who knows it not,--this dead recoil of weary fibres stretched with toil, the pulse that flutters faint and low when summer's seething breezes blow? o nature! bare thy loving breast and give thy child one hour of rest, one little hour to lie unseen beneath thy scarf of leafy green! so, curtained by a singing pine, its murmuring voice shall blend with mine, till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay in sweeter music dies away. x iris, her book i pray thee by the soul of her that bore thee, by thine own sister's spirit i implore thee, deal gently with the leaves that lie before thee! for iris had no mother to infold her, nor ever leaned upon a sister's shoulder, telling the twilight thoughts that nature told her. she had not learned the mystery of awaking those chorded keys that soothe a sorrow's aching, giving the dumb heart voice, that else were breaking. yet lived, wrought, suffered. lo, the pictured token! why should her fleeting day-dreams fade unspoken, like daffodils that die with sheaths unbroken? she knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies, walked simply clad, a queen of high romances, and talked strange tongues with angels in her trances. twin-souled she seemed, a twofold nature wearing, sometimes a flashing falcon in her daring, then a poor mateless dove that droops despairing. questioning all things: why her lord had sent her? what were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her? scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor. and then all tears and anguish: queen of heaven, sweet saints, and thou by mortal sorrows riven, save me! oh, save me! shall i die forgiven? and then--ah, god! but nay, it little matters look at the wasted seeds that autumn scatters, the myriad germs that nature shapes and shatters! if she had--well! she longed, and knew not wherefore had the world nothing she might live to care for? no second self to say her evening prayer for? she knew the marble shapes that set men dreaming, yet with her shoulders bare and tresses streaming showed not unlovely to her simple seeming. vain? let it be so! nature was her teacher. what if a lonely and unsistered creature loved her own harmless gift of pleasing feature, saying, unsaddened,--this shall soon be faded, and double-hued the shining tresses braided, and all the sunlight of the morning shaded? --this her poor book is full of saddest follies, of tearful smiles and laughing melancholies, with summer roses twined and wintry hollies. in the strange crossing of uncertain chances, somewhere, beneath some maiden's tear-dimmed glances may fall her little book of dreams and fancies. sweet sister! iris, who shall never name thee, trembling for fear her open heart may shame thee, speaks from this vision-haunted page to claim thee. spare her, i pray thee! if the maid is sleeping, peace with her! she has had her hour of weeping. no more! she leaves her memory in thy keeping. these verses were written in the first leaves of the locked volume. as i turned the pages, i hesitated for a moment. is it quite fair to take advantage of a generous, trusting impulse to read the unsunned depths of a young girl's nature, which i can look through, as the balloon-voyagers tell us they see from their hanging-baskets through the translucent waters which the keenest eye of such as sail over them in ships might strive to pierce in vain? why has the child trusted me with such artless confessions,--self-revelations, which might be whispered by trembling lips, under the veil of twilight, in sacred confessionals, but which i cannot look at in the light of day without a feeling of wronging a sacred confidence? to all this the answer seemed plain enough after a little thought. she did not know how fearfully she had disclosed herself; she was too profoundly innocent. her soul was no more ashamed than the fair shapes that walked in eden without a thought of over-liberal loveliness. having nobody to tell her story to,--having, as she said in her verses, no musical instrument to laugh and cry with her,--nothing, in short, but the language of pen and pencil,--all the veinings of her nature were impressed on these pages as those of a fresh leaf are transferred to the blank sheets which inclose it. it was the same thing which i remember seeing beautifully shown in a child of some four or five years we had one day at our boarding-house. the child was a deaf mute. but its soul had the inner sense that answers to hearing, and the shaping capacity which through natural organs realizes itself in words. only it had to talk with its face alone; and such speaking eyes, such rapid alternations of feeling and shifting expressions of thought as flitted over its face, i have never seen in any other human countenance. i wonder if something of spiritual transparency is not typified in the golden-blonde organization. there are a great many little creatures,--many small fishes, for instance,--which are literally transparent, with the exception of some of the internal organs. the heart can be seen beating as if in a case of clouded crystal. the central nervous column with its sheath runs as a dark stripe through the whole length of the diaphanous muscles of the body. other little creatures are so darkened with pigment that we can see only their surface. conspirators and poisoners are painted with black, beady-eyes and swarthy hue; judas, in leonardo's picture, is the model of them all. however this may be, i should say there never had been a book like this of iris,--so full of the heart's silent language, so transparent that the heart itself could be seen beating through it. i should say there never could have been such a book, but for one recollection, which is not peculiar to myself, but is shared by a certain number of my former townsmen. if you think i over-color this matter of the young girl's book, hear this, which there are others, as i just said, besides myself, will tell you is strictly true. the book of the three maiden sisters. in the town called cantabridge, now a city, water-veined and gas windpiped, in the street running down to the bridge, beyond which dwelt sally, told of in a book of a friend of mine, was of old a house inhabited by three maidens. they left no near kinsfolk, i believe; whether they did or not, i have no ill to speak of them; for they lived and died in all good report and maidenly credit. the house they lived in was of the small, gambrel-roofed cottage pattern, after the shape of esquires' houses, but after the size of the dwellings of handicraftsmen. the lower story was fitted up as a shop. specially was it provided with one of those half-doors now so rarely met with, which are to whole doors as spencers worn by old folk are to coats. they speak of limited commerce united with a social or observing disposition--on the part of the shopkeeper,--allowing, as they do, talk with passers-by, yet keeping off such as have not the excuse of business to cross the threshold. on the door-posts, at either side, above the half-door, hung certain perennial articles of merchandise, of which my memory still has hanging among its faded photographs a kind of netted scarf and some pairs of thick woollen stockings. more articles, but not very many, were stored inside; and there was one drawer, containing children's books, out of which i once was treated to a minute quarto ornamented with handsome cuts. this was the only purchase i ever knew to be made at the shop kept by the three maiden ladies, though it is probable there were others. so long as i remember the shop, the same scarf and, i should say, the same stockings hung on the door-posts.--you think i am exaggerating again, and that shopkeepers would not keep the same article exposed for years. come to me, the professor, and i will take you in five minutes to a shop in this city where i will show you an article hanging now in the very place where more than thirty years ago i myself inquired the price of it of the present head of the establishment. [ this was a glass alembic, which hung up in daniel henchman's apothecary shop, corner of cambridge and chambers streets.] the three maidens were of comely presence, and one of them had had claims to be considered a beauty. when i saw them in the old meeting-house on sundays, as they rustled in through the aisles in silks and satins, not gay, but more than decent, as i remember them, i thought of my lady bountiful in the history of "little king pippin," and of the madam blaize of goldsmith (who, by the way, must have taken the hint of it from a pleasant poem, "monsieur de la palisse," attributed to de la monnoye, in the collection of french songs before me). there was some story of an old romance in which the beauty had played her part. perhaps they all had had lovers; for, as i said, they were shapely and seemly personages, as i remember them; but their lives were out of the flower and in the berry at the time of my first recollections. one after another they all three dropped away, objects of kindly attention to the good people round, leaving little or almost nothing, and nobody to inherit it. not absolutely nothing, of course. there must have been a few old dresses--perhaps some bits of furniture, a bible, and the spectacles the good old souls read it through, and little keepsakes, such as make us cry to look at, when we find them in old drawers;--such relics there must have been. but there was more. there was a manuscript of some hundred pages, closely written, in which the poor things had chronicled for many years the incidents of their daily life. after their death it was passed round somewhat freely, and fell into my hands. how i have cried and laughed and colored over it! there was nothing in it to be ashamed of, perhaps there was nothing in it to laugh at, but such a picture of the mode of being of poor simple good old women i do believe was never drawn before. and there were all the smallest incidents recorded, such as do really make up humble life, but which die out of all mere literary memoirs, as the houses where the egyptians or the athenians lived crumble and leave only their temples standing. i know, for instance, that on a given day of a certain year, a kindly woman, herself a poor widow, now, i trust, not without special mercies in heaven for her good deeds,--for i read her name on a proper tablet in the churchyard a week ago,--sent a fractional pudding from her own table to the maiden sisters, who, i fear, from the warmth and detail of their description, were fasting, or at least on short allowance, about that time. i know who sent them the segment of melon, which in her riotous fancy one of them compared to those huge barges to which we give the ungracious name of mudscows. but why should i illustrate further what it seems almost a breach of confidence to speak of? some kind friend, who could challenge a nearer interest than the curious strangers into whose hands the book might fall, at last claimed it, and i was glad that it should be henceforth sealed to common eyes. i learned from it that every good and, alas! every evil act we do may slumber unforgotten even in some earthly record. i got a new lesson in that humanity which our sharp race finds it so hard to learn. the poor widow, fighting hard to feed and clothe and educate her children, had not forgotten the poorer ancient maidens. i remembered it the other day, as i stood by her place of rest, and i felt sure that it was remembered elsewhere. i know there are prettier words than pudding, but i can't help it,--the pudding went upon the record, i feel sure, with the mite which was cast into the treasury by that other poor widow whose deed the world shall remember forever, and with the coats and garments which the good women cried over, when tabitha, called by interpretation dorcas, lay dead in the upper chamber, with her charitable needlework strewed around her. --such was the book of the maiden sisters. you will believe me more readily now when i tell you that i found the soul of iris in the one that lay open before me. sometimes it was a poem that held it, sometimes a drawing, angel, arabesque, caricature, or a mere hieroglyphic symbol of which i could make nothing. a rag of cloud on one page, as i remember, with a streak of red zigzagging out of it across the paper as naturally as a crack runs through a china bowl. on the next page a dead bird,--some little favorite, i suppose; for it was worked out with a special love, and i saw on the leaf that sign with which once or twice in my life i have had a letter sealed,--a round spot where the paper is slightly corrugated, and, if there is writing there, the letters are somewhat faint and blurred. most of the pages were surrounded with emblematic traceries. it was strange to me at first to see how often she introduced those homelier wild-flowers which we call weeds,--for it seemed there was none of them too humble for her to love, and none too little cared for by nature to be without its beauty for her artist eye and pencil. by the side of the garden-flowers,--of spring's curled darlings, the hyacinths, of rosebuds, dear to sketching maidens, of flower-de-luces and morning-glories, nay, oftener than these, and more tenderly caressed by the colored brush that rendered them,--were those common growths which fling themselves to be crushed under our feet and our wheels, making themselves so cheap in this perpetual martyrdom that we forget each of them is a ray of the divine beauty. yellow japanned buttercups and star-disked dandelions,--just as we see them lying in the grass, like sparks that have leaped from the kindling sun of summer; the profuse daisy-like flower which whitens the fields, to the great disgust of liberal shepherds, yet seems fair to loving eyes, with its button-like mound of gold set round with milk-white rays; the tall-stemmed succory, setting its pale blue flowers aflame, one after another, sparingly, as the lights are kindled in the candelabra of decaying palaces where the heirs of dethroned monarchs are dying out; the red and white clovers, the broad, flat leaves of the plantain,--"the white man's foot," as the indians called it,--the wiry, jointed stems of that iron creeping plant which we call "knot-grass," and which loves its life so dearly that it is next to impossible to murder it with a hoe, as it clings to the cracks of the pavement;--all these plants, and many more, she wove into her fanciful garlands and borders.--on one of the pages were some musical notes. i touched them from curiosity on a piano belonging to one of our boarders. strange! there are passages that i have heard before, plaintive, full of some hidden meaning, as if they were gasping for words to interpret them. she must have heard the strains that have so excited my curiosity, coming from my neighbor's chamber. the illuminated border she had traced round the page that held these notes took the place of the words they seemed to be aching for. above, a long monotonous sweep of waves, leaden-hued, anxious and jaded and sullen, if you can imagine such an expression in water. on one side an alpine needle, as it were, of black basalt, girdled with snow. on the other a threaded waterfall. the red morning-tint that shone in the drops had a strange look,--one would say the cliff was bleeding;--perhaps she did not mean it. below, a stretch of sand, and a solitary bird of prey, with his wings spread over some unseen object.--and on the very next page a procession wound along, after the fashion of that on the title-page of fuller's "holy war," in which i recognized without difficulty every boarder at our table in all the glory of the most resplendent caricature--three only excepted,--the little gentleman, myself, and one other. i confess i did expect to see something that would remind me of the girl's little deformed neighbor, if not portraits of him.--there is a left arm again, though;--no,--that is from the "fighting gladiator," the "jeune heros combattant" of the louvre;--there is the broad ring of the shield. from a cast, doubtless. [the separate casts of the "gladiator's" arm look immense; but in its place the limb looks light, almost slender,--such is the perfection of that miraculous marble. i never felt as if i touched the life of the old greeks until i looked on that statue.]--here is something very odd, to be sure. an eden of all the humped and crooked creatures! what could have been in her head when she worked out such a fantasy? she has contrived to give them all beauty or dignity or melancholy grace. a bactrian camel lying under a palm. a dromedary flashing up the sands,--spray of the dry ocean sailed by the "ship of the desert." a herd of buffaloes, uncouth, shaggy-maned, heavy in the forehand, light in the hind-quarter. [the buffalo is the lion of the ruminants.] and there is a norman horse, with his huge, rough collar, echoing, as it were, the natural form of the other beast. and here are twisted serpents; and stately swans, with answering curves in their bowed necks, as if they had snake's blood under their white feathers; and grave, high-shouldered herons standing on one foot like cripples, and looking at life round them with the cold stare of monumental effigies.--a very odd page indeed! not a creature in it without a curve or a twist, and not one of them a mean figure to look at. you can make your own comment; i am fanciful, you know. i believe she is trying to idealize what we vulgarly call deformity, which she strives to look at in the light of one of nature's eccentric curves, belonging to her system of beauty, as the hyperbola, and parabola belong to the conic sections, though we cannot see them as symmetrical and entire figures, like the circle and ellipse. at any rate, i cannot help referring this paradise of twisted spines to some idea floating in her head connected with her friend whom nature has warped in the moulding.--that is nothing to another transcendental fancy of mine. i believe her soul thinks itself in his little crooked body at times,--if it does not really get freed or half freed from her own. did you ever see a case of catalepsy? you know what i mean,--transient loss of sense, will, and motion; body and limbs taking any position in which they are put, as if they belonged to a lay-figure. she had been talking with him and listening to him one day when the boarders moved from the table nearly all at once. but she sat as before, her cheek resting on her hand, her amber eyes wide open and still. i went to her, she was breathing as usual, and her heart was beating naturally enough,--but she did not answer. i bent her arm; it was as plastic as softened wax, and kept the place i gave it.--this will never do, though, and i sprinkled a few drops of water on her forehead. she started and looked round.--i have been in a dream,--she said;--i feel as if all my strength were in this arm;--give me your hand!--she took my right hand in her left, which looked soft and white enough, but--good heaven! i believe she will crack my bones! all the nervous power in her body must have flashed through those muscles; as when a crazy lady snaps her iron window-bars,--she who could hardly glove herself when in her common health. iris turned pale, and the tears came to her eyes;--she saw she had given pain. then she trembled, and might have fallen but for me;--the poor little soul had been in one of those trances that belong to the spiritual pathology of higher natures, mostly those of women. to come back to this wondrous book of iris. two pages faced each other which i took for symbolical expressions of two states of mind. on the left hand, a bright blue sky washed over the page, specked with a single bird. no trace of earth, but still the winged creature seemed to be soaring upward and upward. facing it, one of those black dungeons such as piranesi alone of all men has pictured. i am sure she must have seen those awful prisons of his, out of which the opium-eater got his nightmare vision, described by another as "cemeteries of departed greatness, where monstrous and forbidden things are crawling and twining their slimy convolutions among mouldering bones, broken sculpture, and mutilated inscriptions." such a black dungeon faced the page that held the blue sky and the single bird; at the bottom of it something was coiled,--what, and whether meant for dead or alive, my eyes could not make out. i told you the young girl's soul was in this book. as i turned over the last leaves i could not help starting. there were all sorts of faces among the arabesques which laughed and scowled in the borders that ran round the pages. they had mostly the outline of childish or womanly or manly beauty, without very distinct individuality. but at last it seemed to me that some of them were taking on a look not wholly unfamiliar to me; there were features that did not seem new.--can it be so? was there ever such innocence in a creature so full of life? she tells her heart's secrets as a three-years-old child betrays itself without need of being questioned! this was no common miss, such as are turned out in scores from the young-lady-factories, with parchments warranting them accomplished and virtuous,--in case anybody should question the fact. i began to understand her;--and what is so charming as to read the secret of a real femme incomprise?--for such there are, though they are not the ones who think themselves uncomprehended women. poets are never young, in one sense. their delicate ear hears the far-off whispers of eternity, which coarser souls must travel towards for scores of years before their dull sense is touched by them. a moment's insight is sometimes worth a life's experience. i have frequently seen children, long exercised by pain and exhaustion, whose features had a strange look of advanced age. too often one meets such in our charitable institutions. their faces are saddened and wrinkled, as if their few summers were threescore years and ten. and so, many youthful poets have written as if their hearts were old before their time; their pensive morning twilight has been as cool and saddening as that of evening in more common lives. the profound melancholy of those lines of shelley, "i could lie down like a tired child and weep away the life of care which i have borne and yet must bear." came from a heart, as he says, "too soon grown old,"--at twenty-six years, as dull people count time, even when they talk of poets. i know enough to be prepared for an exceptional nature,--only this gift of the hand in rendering every thought in form and color, as well as in words, gives a richness to this young girl's alphabet of feeling and imagery that takes me by surprise. and then besides, and most of all, i am puzzled at her sudden and seemingly easy confidence in me. perhaps i owe it to my--well, no matter! how one must love the editor who first calls him the venerable so-and-so! --i locked the book and sighed as i laid it down. the world is always ready to receive talent with open arms. very often it does not know what to do with genius. talent is a docile creature. it bows its head meekly while the world slips the collar over it. it backs into the shafts like a lamb. it draws its load cheerfully, and is patient of the bit and of the whip. but genius is always impatient of its harness; its wild blood makes it hard to train. talent seems, at first, in one sense, higher than genius,--namely, that it is more uniformly and absolutely submitted to the will, and therefore more distinctly human in its character. genius, on the other hand, is much more like those instincts which govern the admirable movements of the lower creatures, and therefore seems to have something of the lower or animal character. a goose flies by a chart which the royal geographical society could not mend. a poet, like the goose, sails without visible landmarks to unexplored regions of truth, which philosophy has yet to lay down on its atlas. the philosopher gets his track by observation; the poet trusts to his inner sense, and makes the straighter and swifter line. and yet, to look at it in another light, is not even the lowest instinct more truly divine than any voluntary human act done by the suggestion of reason? what is a bee's architecture but an unobstructed divine thought?--what is a builder's approximative rule but an obstructed thought of the creator, a mutilated and imperfect copy of some absolute rule divine wisdom has established, transmitted through a human soul as an image through clouded glass? talent is a very common family-trait; genius belongs rather to individuals;--just as you find one giant or one dwarf in a family, but rarely a whole brood of either. talent is often to be envied, and genius very commonly to be pitied. it stands twice the chance of the other of dying in hospital, in jail, in debt, in bad repute. it is a perpetual insult to mediocrity; its every word is a trespass against somebody's vested ideas,--blasphemy against somebody's o'm, or intangible private truth. --what is the use of my weighing out antitheses in this way, like a rhetorical grocer?--you know twenty men of talent, who are making their way in the world; you may, perhaps, know one man of genius, and very likely do not want to know any more. for a divine instinct, such as drives the goose southward and the poet heavenward, is a hard thing to manage, and proves too strong for many whom it possesses. it must have been a terrible thing to have a friend like chatterton or burns. and here is a being who certainly has more than talent, at once poet and artist in tendency, if not yet fairly developed,--a woman, too;--and genius grafted on womanhood is like to overgrow it and break its stem, as you may see a grafted fruit-tree spreading over the stock which cannot keep pace with its evolution. i think now you know something of this young person. she wants nothing but an atmosphere to expand in. now and then one meets with a nature for which our hard, practical new england life is obviously utterly incompetent. it comes up, as a southern seed, dropped by accident in one of our gardens, finds itself trying to grow and blow into flower among the homely roots and the hardy shrubs that surround it. there is no question that certain persons who are born among us find themselves many degrees too far north. tropical by organization, they cannot fight for life with our eastern and northwestern breezes without losing the color and fragrance into which their lives would have blossomed in the latitude of myrtles and oranges. strange effects are produced by suffering any living thing to be developed under conditions such as nature had not intended for it. a french physiologist confined some tadpoles under water in the dark. removed from the natural stimulus of light, they did not develop legs and arms at the proper period of their growth, and so become frogs; they swelled and spread into gigantic tadpoles. i have seen a hundred colossal human tadpoles, overgrown zarvce or embryos; nay, i am afraid we protestants should look on a considerable proportion of the holy father's one hundred and thirty-nine millions as spiritual larvae, sculling about in the dark by the aid of their caudal extremities, instead of standing on their legs, and breathing by gills, instead of taking the free air of heaven into the lungs made to receive it. of course we never try to keep young souls in the tadpole state, for fear they should get a pair or two of legs by-and-by and jump out of the pool where they have been bred and fed! never! never. never? now to go back to our plant. you may know, that, for the earlier stages of development of almost any vegetable, you only want air, water, light, and warmth. but by-and-by, if it is to have special complex principles as a part of its organization, they must be supplied by the soil;--your pears will crack, if the root of the tree gets no iron,--your asparagus-bed wants salt as much as you do. just at the period of adolescence, the mind often suddenly begins to come into flower and to set its fruit. then it is that many young natures, having exhausted the spiritual soil round them of all it contains of the elements they demand, wither away, undeveloped and uncolored, unless they are transplanted. pray for these dear young souls! this is the second natural birth;--for i do not speak of those peculiar religious experiences which form the point of transition in many lives between the consciousness of a general relation to the divine nature and a special personal relation. the litany should count a prayer for them in the list of its supplications; masses should be said for them as for souls in purgatory; all good christians should remember them as they remember those in peril through travel or sickness or in warfare. i would transport this child to rome at once, if i had my will. she should ripen under an italian sun. she should walk under the frescoed vaults of palaces, until her colors deepened to those of venetian beauties, and her forms were perfected into rivalry with the greek marbles, and the east wind was out of her soil. has she not exhausted this lean soil of the elements her growing nature requires? i do not know. the magnolia grows and comes into full flower on cape ann, many degrees out of its proper region. i was riding once along that delicious road between the hills and the sea, when we passed a thicket where there seemed to be a chance of finding it. in five minutes i had fallen on the trees in full blossom, and filled my arms with the sweet, resplendent flowers. i could not believe i was in our cold, northern essex, which, in the dreary season when i pass its slate-colored, unpainted farm-houses, and huge, square, windy, 'squire-built "mansions," looks as brown and unvegetating as an old rug with its patterns all trodden out and the colored fringe worn from all its border. if the magnolia can bloom in northern new england, why should not a poet or a painter come to his full growth here just as well? yes, but if the gorgeous tree-flower is rare, and only as if by a freak of nature springs up in a single spot among the beeches and alders, is there not as much reason to think the perfumed flower of imaginative genius will find it hard to be born and harder to spread its leaves in the clear, cold atmosphere of our ultra-temperate zone of humanity? take the poet. on the one hand, i believe that a person with the poetical faculty finds material everywhere. the grandest objects of sense and thought are common to all climates and civilizations. the sky, the woods, the waters, the storms, life, death love, the hope and vision of eternity,--these are images that write themselves in poetry in every soul which has anything of the divine gift. on the other hand, there is such a thing as a lean, impoverished life, in distinction from a rich and suggestive one. which our common new england life might be considered, i will not decide. but there are some things i think the poet misses in our western eden. i trust it is not unpatriotic to mention them in this point of view as they come before us in so many other aspects. there is no sufficient flavor of humanity in the soil out of which we grow. at cantabridge, near the sea, i have once or twice picked up an indian arrowhead in a fresh furrow. at canoe meadow, in the berkshire mountains, i have found indian arrowheads. so everywhere indian arrowheads. whether a hundred or a thousand years old, who knows? who cares? there is no history to the red race,--there is hardly an individual in it;--a few instincts on legs and holding a tomahawk--there is the indian of all time. the story of one red ant is the story of all red ants. so, the poet, in trying to wing his way back through the life that has kindled, flitted, and faded along our watercourses and on our southern hillsides for unknown generations, finds nothing to breathe or fly in; he meets "a vast vacuity! all unawares, fluttering his pennons vain, plumb down he drops ten thousand fathom deep." but think of the old world,--that part of it which is the seat of ancient civilization! the stakes of the britons' stockades are still standing in the bed of the thames. the ploughman turns up an old saxon's bones, and beneath them is a tessellated pavement of the time of the caesars. in italy, the works of mediaeval art seem to be of yesterday,--rome, under her kings, is but an intruding newcomer, as we contemplate her in the shadow of the cyclopean walls of fiesole or volterra. it makes a man human to live on these old humanized soils. he cannot help marching in step with his kind in the rear of such a procession. they say a dead man's hand cures swellings, if laid on them. there is nothing like the dead cold hand of the past to take down our tumid egotism and lead us into the solemn flow of the life of our race. rousseau came out of one of his sad self-torturing fits, as he cast his eye on the arches of the old roman aqueduct, the pont du gard. i am far from denying that there is an attraction in a thriving railroad village. the new "depot," the smartly-painted pine houses, the spacious brick hotel, the white meeting-house, and the row of youthful and leggy trees before it, are exhilarating. they speak of progress, and the time when there shall be a city, with a his honor the mayor, in the place of their trim but transient architectural growths. pardon me, if i prefer the pyramids. they seem to me crystals formed from a stronger solution of humanity than the steeple of the new meeting-house. i may be wrong, but the tiber has a voice for me, as it whispers to the piers of the pons alius, even more full of meaning than my well-beloved charles eddying round the piles of west boston bridge. then, again, we yankees are a kind of gypsies,--a mechanical and migratory race. a poet wants a home. he can dispense with an apple-parer and a reaping-machine. i feel this more for others than for myself, for the home of my birth and childhood has been as yet exempted from the change which has invaded almost everything around it. --pardon me a short digression. to what small things our memory and our affections attach themselves! i remember, when i was a child, that one of the girls planted some star-of-bethlehem bulbs in the southwest corner of our front-yard. well, i left the paternal roof and wandered in other lands, and learned to think in the words of strange people. but after many years, as i looked on the little front-yard again, it occurred to me that there used to be some star-of-bethlehems in the southwest corner. the grass was tall there, and the blade of the plant is very much like grass, only thicker and glossier. even as tully parted the briers and brambles when he hunted for the sphere-containing cylinder that marked the grave of archimedes, so did i comb the grass with my fingers for my monumental memorial-flower. nature had stored my keepsake tenderly in her bosom; the glossy, faintly streaked blades were there; they are there still, though they never flower, darkened as they are by the shade of the elms and rooted in the matted turf. our hearts are held down to our homes by innumerable fibres, trivial as that i have just recalled; but gulliver was fixed to the soil, you remember, by pinning his head a hair at a time. even a stone with a whitish band crossing it, belonging to the pavement of the back-yard, insisted on becoming one of the talismans of memory. this intussusception of the ideas of inanimate objects, and their faithful storing away among the sentiments, are curiously prefigured in the material structure of the thinking centre itself. in the very core of the brain, in the part where des cartes placed the soul, is a small mineral deposit, consisting, as i have seen it in the microscope, of grape-like masses of crystalline matter. but the plants that come up every year in the same place, like the star-of-bethlehems, of all the lesser objects, give me the liveliest home-feeling. close to our ancient gambrel-roofed house is the dwelling of pleasant old neighbor walrus. i remember the sweet honeysuckle that i saw in flower against the wall of his house a few months ago, as long as i remember the sky and stars. that clump of peonies, butting their purple heads through the soil every spring in just the same circle, and by-and-by unpacking their hard balls of buds in flowers big enough to make a double handful of leaves, has come up in just that place, neighbor walrus tells me, for more years than i have passed on this planet. it is a rare privilege in our nomadic state to find the home of one's childhood and its immediate neighborhood thus unchanged. many born poets, i am afraid, flower poorly in song, or not at all, because they have been too often transplanted. then a good many of our race are very hard and unimaginative;--their voices have nothing caressing; their movements are as of machinery without elasticity or oil. i wish it were fair to print a letter a young girl, about the age of our iris, wrote a short time since. "i am *** *** ***," she says, and tells her whole name outright. ah!--said i, when i read that first frank declaration,--you are one of the right sort!--she was. a winged creature among close-clipped barn door fowl. how tired the poor girl was of the dull life about her,--the old woman's "skeleton hand" at the window opposite, drawing her curtains,--"ma'am shooing away the hens,"--the vacuous country eyes staring at her as only country eyes can stare,--a routine of mechanical duties, and the soul's half-articulated cry for sympathy, without an answer! yes,--pray for her, and for all such! faith often cures their longings; but it is so hard to give a soul to heaven that has not first been trained in the fullest and sweetest human affections! too often they fling their hearts away on unworthy objects. too often they pine in a secret discontent, which spreads its leaden cloud over the morning of their youth. the immeasurable distance between one of these delicate natures and the average youths among whom is like to be her only choice makes one's heart ache. how many women are born too finely organized in sense and soul for the highway they must walk with feet unshod! life is adjusted to the wants of the stronger sex. there are plenty of torrents to be crossed in its journey; but their stepping-stones are measured by the stride of man, and not of woman. women are more subject than men to atrophy of the heart. so says the great medical authority, laennec. incurable cases of this kind used to find their hospitals in convents. we have the disease in new england,--but not the hospitals. i don't like to think of it. i will not believe our young iris is going to die out in this way. providence will find her some great happiness, or affliction, or duty,--and which would be best for her, i cannot tell. one thing is sure: the interest she takes in her little neighbor is getting to be more engrossing than ever. something is the matter with him, and she knows it, and i think worries herself about it. i wonder sometimes how so fragile and distorted a frame has kept the fiery spirit that inhabits it so long its tenant. he accounts for it in his own way. the air of the old world is good for nothing, he said, one day.--used up, sir,--breathed over and over again. you must come to this side, sir, for an atmosphere fit to breathe nowadays. did not worthy mr. higginson say that a breath of new england's air is better than a sup of old england's ale? i ought to have died when i was a boy, sir; but i could n't die in this boston air,--and i think i shall have to go to new york one of these days, when it's time for me to drop this bundle,--or to new orleans, where they have the yellow fever,--or to philadelphia, where they have so many doctors. this was some time ago; but of late he has seemed, as i have before said, to be ailing. an experienced eye, such as i think i may call mine, can tell commonly whether a man is going to die, or not, long before he or his friends are alarmed about him. i don't like it. iris has told me that the scottish gift of second-sight runs in her family, and that she is afraid she has it. those who are so endowed look upon a well man and see a shroud wrapt about him. according to the degree to which it covers him, his death will be near or more remote. it is an awful faculty; but science gives one too much like it. luckily for our friends, most of us who have the scientific second-sight school ourselves not to betray our knowledge by word or look. day by day, as the little gentleman comes to the table, it seems to me that the shadow of some approaching change falls darker and darker over his countenance. nature is struggling with something, and i am afraid she is under in the wrestling-match. you do not care much, perhaps, for my particular conjectures as to the nature of his difficulty. i should say, however, from the sudden flushes to which he is subject, and certain other marks which, as an expert, i know how to interpret, that his heart was in trouble; but then he presses his hand to the right side, as if there were the centre of his uneasiness. when i say difficulty about the heart, i do not mean any of those sentimental maladies of that organ which figure more largely in romances than on the returns which furnish our bills of mortality. i mean some actual change in the organ itself, which may carry him off by slow and painful degrees, or strike him down with one huge pang and only time for a single shriek,--as when the shot broke through the brave captain nolan's breast, at the head of the light brigade at balaklava, and with a loud cry he dropped dead from his saddle. i thought it only fair to say something of what i apprehended to some who were entitled to be warned. the landlady's face fell when i mentioned my fears. poor man!--she said.--and will leave the best room empty! has n't he got any sisters or nieces or anybody to see to his things, if he should be took away? such a sight of cases, full of everything! never thought of his failin' so suddin. a complication of diseases, she expected. liver-complaint one of 'em? after this first involuntary expression of the too natural selfish feelings, (which we must not judge very harshly, unless we happen to be poor widows ourselves, with children to keep filled, covered, and taught,--rents high,--beef eighteen to twenty cents per pound,)--after this first squeak of selfishness, followed by a brief movement of curiosity, so invariable in mature females, as to the nature of the complaint which threatens the life of a friend or any person who may happen to be mentioned as ill,--the worthy soul's better feelings struggled up to the surface, and she grieved for the doomed invalid, until a tear or two came forth and found their way down a channel worn for them since the early days of her widowhood. oh, this dreadful, dreadful business of being the prophet of evil! of all the trials which those who take charge of others' health and lives have to undergo, this is the most painful. it is all so plain to the practised eye!--and there is the poor wife, the doting mother, who has never suspected anything, or at least has clung always to the hope which you are just going to wrench away from her!--i must tell iris that i think her poor friend is in a precarious state. she seems nearer to him than anybody. i did tell her. whatever emotion it produced, she kept a still face, except, perhaps, a little trembling of the lip.--could i be certain that there was any mortal complaint?--why, no, i could not be certain; but it looked alarming to me.--he shall have some of my life,--she said. i suppose this to have been a fancy of hers, or a kind of magnetic power she could give out;--at any rate, i cannot help thinking she wills her strength away from herself, for she has lost vigor and color from that day. i have sometimes thought he gained the force she lost; but this may have been a whim, very probably. one day she came suddenly to me, looking deadly pale. her lips moved, as if she were speaking; but i could not at first hear a word. her hair looked strangely, as if lifting itself, and her eyes were full of wild light. she sunk upon a chair, and i thought was falling into one of her trances. something had frozen her blood with fear; i thought, from what she said, half audibly, that she believed she had seen a shrouded figure. that night, at about eleven o'clock, i was sent for to see the little gentleman, who was taken suddenly ill. bridget, the servant, went before me with a light. the doors were both unfastened, and i found myself ushered, without hindrance, into the dim light of the mysterious apartment i had so longed to enter. i found these stanzas in the young girl's book among many others. i give them as characterizing the tone of her sadder moments. under the violets. her hands are cold; her face is white; no more her pulses come and go; her eyes are shut to life and light; fold the white vesture, snow on snow, and lay her where the violets blow. but not beneath a graven stone, to plead for tears with alien eyes; a slender cross of wood alone shall say, that here a maiden lies in peace beneath the peaceful skies. and gray old trees of hugest limb shall wheel their circling shadows round to make the scorching sunlight dim that drinks the greenness from the ground, and drop their dead leaves on her mound. when o'er their boughs the squirrels run, and through their leaves the robins call, and, ripening in the autumn sun, the acorns and the chestnuts fall, doubt not that she will heed them all. for her the morning choir shall sing its matins from the branches high, and every minstrel voice of spring, that trills beneath the april sky, shall greet her with its earliest cry. when, turning round their dial-track, eastward the lengthening shadows pass, her little mourners, clad in black, the crickets, sliding through the grass, shall pipe for her an evening mass. at last the rootlets of the trees shall find the prison where she lies, and bear the buried dust they seize in leaves and blossoms to the skies. so may the soul that warmed it rise! if any, born of kindlier blood, should ask, what maiden lies below? say only this: a tender bud, that tried to blossom in the snow, lies withered where the violets blow. xi you will know, perhaps, in the course of half an hour's reading, what has been haunting my hours of sleep and waking for months. i cannot tell, of course, whether you are a nervous person or not. if, however, you are such a person,--if it is late at night,--if all the rest of the household have gone off to bed,--if the wind is shaking your windows as if a human hand were rattling the sashes,--if your candle or lamp is low and will soon burn out,--let me advise you to take up some good quiet sleepy volume, or attack the "critical notices" of the last quarterly and leave this to be read by daylight, with cheerful voices round, and people near by who would hear you, if you slid from your chair and came down in a lump on the floor. i do not say that your heart will beat as mine did, i am willing to confess, when i entered the dim chamber. did i not tell you that i was sensitive and imaginative, and that i had lain awake with thinking what were the strange movements and sounds which i heard late at night in my little neighbor's apartment? it had come to that pass that i was truly unable to separate what i had really heard from what i had dreamed in those nightmares to which i have been subject, as before mentioned. so, when i walked into the room, and bridget, turning back, closed the door and left me alone with its tenant, i do believe you could have grated a nutmeg on my skin, such a "goose-flesh" shiver ran over it. it was not fear, but what i call nervousness,--unreasoning, but irresistible; as when, for instance, one looking at the sun going down says, "i will count fifty before it disappears"; and as he goes on and it becomes doubtful whether he will reach the number, he gets strangely flurried, and his imagination pictures life and death and heaven and hell as the issues depending on the completion or non-completion of the fifty he is counting. extreme curiosity will excite some people as much as fear, or what resembles fear, acts on some other less impressible natures. i may find myself in the midst of strange facts in this little conjurer's room. or, again, there may be nothing in this poor invalid's chamber but some old furniture, such as they say came over in the mayflower. all this is just what i mean to, find out while i am looking at the little gentleman, who has suddenly become my patient. the simplest things turn out to be unfathomable mysteries; the most mysterious appearances prove to be the most commonplace objects in disguise. i wonder whether the boys who live in roxbury and dorchester are ever moved to tears or filled with silent awe as they look upon the rocks and fragments of "puddingstone" abounding in those localities. i have my suspicions that those boys "heave a stone" or "fire a brickbat," composed of the conglomerate just mentioned, without any more tearful or philosophical contemplations than boys of less favored regions expend on the same performance. yet a lump of puddingstone is a thing to look at, to think about, to study over, to dream upon, to go crazy with, to beat one's brains out against. look at that pebble in it. from what cliff was it broken? on what beach rolled by the waves of what ocean? how and when imbedded in soft ooze, which itself became stone, and by-and-by was lifted into bald summits and steep cliffs, such as you may see on meetinghouse-hill any day--yes, and mark the scratches on their faces left when the boulder-carrying glaciers planed the surface of the continent with such rough tools that the storms have not worn the marks out of it with all the polishing of ever so many thousand years? or as you pass a roadside ditch or pool in springtime, take from it any bit of stick or straw which has lain undisturbed for a time. some little worm-shaped masses of clear jelly containing specks are fastened to the stick: eggs of a small snail-like shell-fish. one of these specks magnified proves to be a crystalline sphere with an opaque mass in its centre. and while you are looking, the opaque mass begins to stir, and by-and-by slowly to turn upon its axis like a forming planet,--life beginning in the microcosm, as in the great worlds of the firmament, with the revolution that turns the surface in ceaseless round to the source of life and light. a pebble and the spawn of a mollusk! before you have solved their mysteries, this earth where you first saw them may be a vitrified slag, or a vapor diffused through the planetary spaces. mysteries are common enough, at any rate, whatever the boys in roxbury and dorchester think of "brickbats" and the spawn of creatures that live in roadside puddles. but then a great many seeming mysteries are relatively perfectly plain, when we can get at them so as to turn them over. how many ghosts that "thick men's blood with cold" prove to be shirts hung out to dry! how many mermaids have been made out of seals! how many times have horse-mackerels been taken for the sea-serpent! --let me take the whole matter coolly, while i see what is the matter with the patient. that is what i say to myself, as i draw a chair to the bedside. the bed is an old-fashioned, dark mahogany four-poster. it was never that which made the noise of something moving. it is too heavy to be pushed about the room.--the little gentleman was sitting, bolstered up by pillows, with his hands clasped and their united palms resting on the back of the head, one of the three or four positions specially affected by persons whose breathing is difficult from disease of the heart or other causes. sit down, sir,--he said,--sit down! i have come to the hill difficulty, sir, and am fighting my way up.--his speech was laborious and interrupted. don't talk,--i said,--except to answer my questions.--and i proceeded to "prospect" for the marks of some local mischief, which you know is at the bottom of all these attacks, though we do not always find it. i suppose i go to work pretty much like other professional folks of my temperament. thus: wrist, if you please.--i was on his right side, but he presented his left wrist, crossing it over the other.--i begin to count, holding watch in left hand. one, two, three, four,--what a handsome hand! wonder if that splendid stone is a carbuncle.--one, two, three, four, five, six, seven,--can't see much, it is so dark, except one white object.--one, two, three, four,--hang it! eighty or ninety in the minute, i guess.--tongue, if you please.--tongue is put out. forget to look at it, or, rather, to take any particular notice of it;--but what is that white object, with the long arm stretching up as if pointing to the sky, just as vesalius and spigelius and those old fellows used to put their skeletons? i don't think anything of such objects, you know; but what should he have it in his chamber for? as i had found his pulse irregular and intermittent, i took out a stethoscope, which is a pocket-spyglass for looking into people's chests with your ears, and laid it over the place where the heart beats. i missed the usual beat of the organ.--how is this?--i said,--where is your heart gone to?--he took the stethoscope and shifted it across to the right side; there was a displacement of the organ.--i am ill-packed,--he said;--there was no room for my heart in its place as it is with other men.--god help him! it is hard to draw the line between scientific curiosity and the desire for the patient's sake to learn all the details of his condition. i must look at this patient's chest, and thump it and listen to it. for this is a case of ectopia cordis, my boy,--displacement of the heart; and it is n't every day you get a chance to overhaul such an interesting malformation. and so i managed to do my duty and satisfy my curiosity at the same time. the torso was slight and deformed; the right arm attenuated,--the left full, round, and of perfect symmetry. it had run away with the life of the other limbs,--a common trick enough of nature's, as i told you before. if you see a man with legs withered from childhood, keep out of the way of his arms, if you have a quarrel with him. he has the strength of four limbs in two; and if he strikes you, it is an arm-blow plus a kick administered from the shoulder instead of the haunch, where it should have started from. still examining him as a patient, i kept my eyes about me to search all parts of the chamber and went on with the double process, as before.--heart hits as hard as a fist,--bellows-sound over mitral valves (professional terms you need not attend to).--what the deuse is that long case for? got his witch grandmother mummied in it? and three big mahogany presses,--hey?--a diabolical suspicion came over me which i had had once before,--that he might be one of our modern alchemists,--you understand, make gold, you know, or what looks like it, sometimes with the head of a king or queen or of liberty to embellish one side of the piece.--don't i remember hearing him shut a door and lock it once? what do you think was kept under that lock? let's have another look at his hand, to see if there are any calluses. one can tell a man's business, if it is a handicraft, very often by just taking a look at his open hand. ah! four calluses at the end of the fingers of the right hand. none on those of the left. ah, ha! what do those mean? all this seems longer in the telling, of course, than it was in fact. while i was making these observations of the objects around me, i was also forming my opinion as to the kind of case with which i had to deal. there are three wicks, you know, to the lamp of a man's life: brain, blood, and breath. press the brain a little, its light goes out, followed by both the others. stop the heart a minute and out go all three of the wicks. choke the air out of the lungs, and presently the fluid ceases to supply the other centres of flame, and all is soon stagnation, cold, and darkness. the "tripod of life" a french physiologist called these three organs. it is all clear enough which leg of the tripod is going to break down here. i could tell you exactly what the difficulty is;--which would be as intelligible and amusing as a watchmaker's description of a diseased timekeeper to a ploughman. it is enough to say, that i found just what i expected to, and that i think this attack is only the prelude of more serious consequences,--which expression means you very well know what. and now the secrets of this life hanging on a thread must surely come out. if i have made a mystery where there was none, my suspicions will be shamed, as they have often been before. if there is anything strange, my visits will clear it up. i sat an hour or two by the side of the little gentleman's bed, after giving him some henbane to quiet his brain, and some foxglove, which an imaginative french professor has called the "opium of the heart." under their influence he gradually fell into an uneasy, half-waking slumber, the body fighting hard for every breath, and the mind wandering off in strange fancies and old recollections, which escaped from his lips in broken sentences. --the last of 'em,--he said,--the last of 'em all,--thank god! and the grave he lies in will look just as well as if he had been straight. dig it deep, old martin, dig it deep,--and let it be as long as other folks' graves. and mind you get the sods flat, old man,--flat as ever a straight-backed young fellow was laid under. and then, with a good tall slab at the head, and a foot-stone six foot away from it, it'll look just as if there was a man underneath. a man! who said he was a man? no more men of that pattern to bear his name!--used to be a good-looking set enough.--where 's all the manhood and womanhood gone to since his great-grandfather was the strongest man that sailed out of the town of boston, and poor leah there the handsomest woman in essex, if she was a witch? --give me some light,--he said,--more light. i want to see the picture. he had started either from a dream or a wandering reverie. i was not unwilling to have more light in the apartment, and presently had lighted an astral lamp that stood on a table.--he pointed to a portrait hanging against the wall.--look at her,--he said,--look at her! wasn't that a pretty neck to slip a hangman's noose over? the portrait was of a young woman, something more than twenty years old, perhaps. there were few pictures of any merit painted in new england before the time of smibert, and i am at a loss to know what artist could have taken this half-length, which was evidently from life. it was somewhat stiff and flat, but the grace of the figure and the sweetness of the expression reminded me of the angels of the early florentine painters. she must have been of some consideration, for she was dressed in paduasoy and lace with hanging sleeves, and the old carved frame showed how the picture had been prized by its former owners. a proud eye she had, with all her sweetness.--i think it was that which hanged her, as his strong arm hanged minister george burroughs;--but it may have been a little mole on one cheek, which the artist had just hinted as a beauty rather than a deformity. you know, i suppose, that nursling imps addict themselves, after the fashion of young opossums, to these little excrescences. "witch-marks" were good evidence that a young woman was one of the devil's wet-nurses;--i should like to have seen you make fun of them in those days!--then she had a brooch in her bodice, that might have been taken for some devilish amulet or other; and she wore a ring upon one of her fingers, with a red stone in it, that flamed as if the painter had dipped his pencil in fire;--who knows but that it was given her by a midnight suitor fresh from that fierce element, and licensed for a season to leave his couch of flame to tempt the unsanctified hearts of earthly maidens and brand their cheeks with the print of his scorching kisses? she and i,--he said, as he looked steadfastly at the canvas,--she and i are the last of 'em.--she will stay, and i shall go. they never painted me,--except when the boys used to make pictures of me with chalk on the board-fences. they said the doctors would want my skeleton when i was dead.--you are my friend, if you are a doctor,--a'n't you? i just gave him my hand. i had not the heart to speak. i want to lie still,--he said,--after i am put to bed upon the hill yonder. can't you have a great stone laid over me, as they did over the first settlers in the old burying-ground at dorchester, so as to keep the wolves from digging them up? i never slept easy over the sod;--i should like to lie quiet under it. and besides,--he said, in a kind of scared whisper,--i don't want to have my bones stared at, as my body has been. i don't doubt i was a remarkable case; but, for god's sake, oh, for god's sake, don't let 'em make a show of the cage i have been shut up in and looked through the bars of for so many years. i have heard it said that the art of healing makes men hard-hearted and indifferent to human suffering. i am willing to own that there is often a professional hardness in surgeons, just as there is in theologians,--only much less in degree than in these last. it does not commonly improve the sympathies of a man to be in the habit of thrusting knives into his fellow-creatures and burning them with red-hot irons, any more than it improves them to hold the blinding-white cantery of gehenna by its cool handle and score and crisp young souls with it until they are scorched into the belief of--transubstantiation or the immaculate conception. and, to say the plain truth, i think there are a good many coarse people in both callings. a delicate nature will not commonly choose a pursuit which implies the habitual infliction of suffering, so readily as some gentler office. yet, while i am writing this paragraph, there passes by my window, on his daily errand of duty, not seeing me, though i catch a glimpse of his manly features through the oval glass of his chaise, as he drives by, a surgeon of skill and standing, so friendly, so modest, so tenderhearted in all his ways, that, if he had not approved himself at once adroit and firm, one would have said he was of too kindly a mould to be the minister of pain, even if he were saving pain. you may be sure that some men, even among those who have chosen the task of pruning their fellow-creatures, grow more and more thoughtful and truly compassionate in the midst of their cruel experience. they become less nervous, but more sympathetic. they have a truer sensibility for others' pain, the more they study pain and disease in the light of science. i have said this without claiming any special growth in humanity for myself, though i do hope i grow tenderer in my feelings as i grow older. at any rate, this was not a time in which professional habits could keep down certain instincts of older date than these. this poor little man's appeal to my humanity against the supposed rapacity of science, which he feared would have her "specimen," if his ghost should walk restlessly a thousand years, waiting for his bones to be laid in the dust, touched my heart. but i felt bound to speak cheerily. --we won't die yet awhile, if we can help it,--i said,--and i trust we can help it. but don't be afraid; if i live longest, i will see that your resting place is kept sacred till the dandelions and buttercups blow over you. he seemed to have got his wits together by this time, and to have a vague consciousness that he might have been saying more than he meant for anybody's ears.--i have been talking a little wild, sir, eh? he said.--there is a great buzzing in my head with those drops of yours, and i doubt if my tongue has not been a little looser than i would have it, sir. but i don't much want to live, sir; that's the truth of the matter, and it does rather please me to think that fifty years from now nobody will know that the place where i lie does n't hold as stout and straight a man as the best of 'em that stretch out as if they were proud of the room they take. you may get me well, if you can, sir, if you think it worth while to try; but i tell you there has been no time for this many a year when the smell of fresh earth was not sweeter to me than all the flowers that grow out of it. there's no anodyne like your good clean gravel, sir. but if you can keep me about awhile, and it amuses you to try, you may show your skill upon me, if you like. there is a pleasure or two that i love the daylight for, and i think the night is not far off, at best.--i believe i shall sleep now; you may leave me, and come, if you like, in the morning. before i passed out, i took one more glance round the apartment. the beautiful face of the portrait looked at me, as portraits often do, with a frightful kind of intelligence in its eyes. the drapery fluttered on the still outstretched arm of the tall object near the window;--a crack of this was open, no doubt, and some breath of wind stirred the hanging folds. in my excited state, i seemed to see something ominous in that arm pointing to the heavens. i thought of the figures in the dance of death at basle, and that other on the panels of the covered bridge at lucerne, and it seemed to me that the grim mask who mingles with every crowd and glides over every threshold was pointing the sick man to his far home, and would soon stretch out his bony hand and lead him or drag him on the unmeasured journey towards it. the fancy had possession of me, and i shivered again as when i first entered the chamber. the picture and the shrouded shape; i saw only these two objects. they were enough. the house was deadly still, and the night-wind, blowing through an open window, struck me as from a field of ice, at the moment i passed into the creaking corridor. as i turned into the common passage, a white figure, holding a lamp, stood full before me. i thought at first it was one of those images made to stand in niches and hold a light in their hands. but the illusion was momentary, and my eyes speedily recovered from the shock of the bright flame and snowy drapery to see that the figure was a breathing one. it was iris, in one of her statue-trances. she had come down, whether sleeping or waking, i knew not at first, led by an instinct that told her she was wanted,--or, possibly, having overheard and interpreted the sound of our movements,--or, it may be, having learned from the servant that there was trouble which might ask for a woman's hand. i sometimes think women have a sixth sense, which tells them that others, whom they cannot see or hear, are in suffering. how surely we find them at the bedside of the dying! how strongly does nature plead for them, that we should draw our first breath in their arms, as we sigh away our last upon their faithful breasts! with white, bare feet, her hair loosely knotted, clad as the starlight knew her, and the morning when she rose from slumber, save that she had twisted a scarf round her long dress, she stood still as a stone before me, holding in one hand a lighted coil of waxtaper, and in the other a silver goblet. i held my own lamp close to her, as if she had been a figure of marble, and she did not stir. there was no breach of propriety then, to scare the poor relation with and breed scandal out of. she had been "warned in a dream," doubtless suggested by her waking knowledge and the sounds which had reached her exalted sense. there was nothing more natural than that she should have risen and girdled her waist, and lighted her taper, and found the silver goblet with "ex dono pupillorum" on it, from which she had taken her milk and possets through all her childish years, and so gone blindly out to find her place at the bedside,--a sister of charity without the cap and rosary; nay, unknowing whither her feet were leading her, and with wide blank eyes seeing nothing but the vision that beckoned her along.--well, i must wake her from her slumber or trance.--i called her name, but she did not heed my voice. the devil put it into my head that i would kiss one handsome young girl before i died, and now was my chance. she never would know it, and i should carry the remembrance of it with me into the grave, and a rose perhaps grow out of my dust, as a brier did out of lord lovers, in memory of that immortal moment! would it wake her from her trance? and would she see me in the flush of my stolen triumph, and hate and despise me ever after? or should i carry off my trophy undetected, and always from that time say to myself, when i looked upon her in the glory of youth and the splendor of beauty, "my lips have touched those roses and made their sweetness mine forever"? you think my cheek was flushed, perhaps, and my eyes were glittering with this midnight flash of opportunity. on the contrary, i believe i was pale, very pale, and i know that i trembled. ah, it is the pale passions that are the fiercest,--it is the violence of the chill that gives the measure of the fever! the fighting-boy of our school always turned white when he went out to a pitched battle with the bully of some neighboring village; but we knew what his bloodless cheeks meant,--the blood was all in his stout heart,--he was a slight boy, and there was not enough to redden his face and fill his heart both at once. perhaps it is making a good deal of a slight matter, to tell the internal conflicts in the heart of a quiet person something more than juvenile and something less than senile, as to whether he should be guilty of an impropriety, and, if he were, whether he would get caught in his indiscretion. and yet the memory of the kiss that margaret of scotland gave to alain chartier has lasted four hundred years, and put it into the head of many an ill-favored poet, whether victoria, or eugenie, would do as much by him, if she happened to pass him when he was asleep. and have we ever forgotten that the fresh cheek of the young john milton tingled under the lips of some high-born italian beauty, who, i believe, did not think to leave her card by the side of the slumbering youth, but has bequeathed the memory of her pretty deed to all coming time? the sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a cannon, but its echo lasts a deal longer. there is one disadvantage which the man of philosophical habits of mind suffers, as compared with the man of action. while he is taking an enlarged and rational view of the matter before him, he lets his chance slip through his fingers. iris woke up, of her own accord, before i had made up my mind what i was going to do about it. when i remember how charmingly she looked, i don't blame myself at all for being tempted; but if i had been fool enough to yield to the impulse, i should certainly have been ashamed to tell of it. she did not know what to make of it, finding herself there alone, in such guise, and me staring at her. she looked down at her white robe and bare feet, and colored,--then at the goblet she held in her hand, then at the taper; and at last her thoughts seemed to clear up. i know it all,--she said.--he is going to die, and i must go and sit by him. nobody will care for him as i shall, and i have nobody else to care for. i assured her that nothing was needed for him that night but rest, and persuaded her that the excitement of her presence could only do harm. let him sleep, and he would very probably awake better in the morning. there was nothing to be said, for i spoke with authority; and the young girl glided away with noiseless step and sought her own chamber. the tremor passed away from my limbs, and the blood began to burn in my cheeks. the beautiful image which had so bewitched me faded gradually from my imagination, and i returned to the still perplexing mysteries of my little neighbor's chamber. all was still there now. no plaintive sounds, no monotonous murmurs, no shutting of windows and doors at strange hours, as if something or somebody were coming in or going out, or there was something to be hidden in those dark mahogany presses. is there an inner apartment that i have not seen? the way in which the house is built might admit of it. as i thought it over, i at once imagined a bluebeard's chamber. suppose, for instance, that the narrow bookshelves to the right are really only a masked door, such as we remember leading to the private study of one of our most distinguished townsmen, who loved to steal away from his stately library to that little silent cell. if this were lighted from above, a person or persons might pass their days there without attracting attention from the household, and wander where they pleased at night,--to copp's-hill burial-ground, if they liked,--i said to myself, laughing, and pulling the bed-clothes over my head. there is no logic in superstitious-fancies any more than in dreams. a she-ghost wouldn't want an inner chamber to herself. a live woman, with a valuable soprano voice, wouldn't start off at night to sprain her ankles over the old graves of the north-end cemetery. it is all very easy for you, middle-aged reader, sitting over this page in the broad daylight, to call me by all manner of asinine and anserine unchristian names, because i had these fancies running through my head. i don't care much for your abuse. the question is not, what it is reasonable for a man to think about, but what he actually does think about, in the dark, and when he is alone, and his whole body seems but one great nerve of hearing, and he sees the phosphorescent flashes of his own eyeballs as they turn suddenly in the direction of the last strange noise,--what he actually does think about, as he lies and recalls all the wild stories his head is full of, his fancy hinting the most alarming conjectures to account for the simplest facts about him, his common-sense laughing them to scorn the next minute, but his mind still returning to them, under one shape or another, until he gets very nervous and foolish, and remembers how pleasant it used to be to have his mother come and tuck him up and go and sit within call, so that she could hear him at any minute, if he got very much scared and wanted her. old babies that we are! daylight will clear up all that lamp-light has left doubtful. i longed for the morning to come, for i was more curious than ever. so, between my fancies and anticipations, i had but a poor night of it, and came down tired to the breakfast-table. my visit was not to be made until after this morning hour; there was nothing urgent, so the servant was ordered to tell me. it was the first breakfast at which the high chair at the side of iris had been unoccupied.--you might jest as well take away that chair,--said our landlady,--he'll never want it again. he acts like a man that 's struck with death, 'n' i don't believe he 'll ever come out of his chamber till he 's laid out and brought down a corpse.--these good women do put things so plainly! there were two or three words in her short remark that always sober people, and suggest silence or brief moral reflections. --life is dreadful uncerting,--said the poor relation,--and pulled in her social tentacles to concentrate her thoughts on this fact of human history. --if there was anything a fellah could do,--said the young man john, so called,--a fellah 'd like the chance o' helpin' a little cripple like that. he looks as if he couldn't turn over any handier than a turtle that's laid on his back; and i guess there a'n't many people that know how to lift better than i do. ask him if he don't want any watchers. i don't mind settin' up any more 'n a cat-owl. i was up all night twice last month. [my private opinion is, that there was no small amount of punch absorbed on those two occasions, which i think i heard of at the time];--but the offer is a kind one, and it is n't fair to question how he would like sitting up without the punch and the company and the songs and smoking. he means what he says, and it would be a more considerable achievement for him to sit quietly all night by a sick man than for a good many other people. i tell you this odd thing: there are a good many persons, who, through the habit of making other folks uncomfortable, by finding fault with all their cheerful enjoyments, at last get up a kind of hostility to comfort in general, even in their own persons. the correlative to loving our neighbors as ourselves is hating ourselves as we hate our neighbors. look at old misers; first they starve their dependants, and then themselves. so i think it more for a lively young fellow to be ready to play nurse than for one of those useful but forlorn martyrs who have taken a spite against themselves and love to gratify it by fasting and watching. --the time came at last for me to make my visit. i found iris sitting by the little gentleman's pillow. to my disappointment, the room was darkened. he did not like the light, and would have the shutters kept nearly closed. it was good enough for me; what business had i to be indulging my curiosity, when i had nothing to do but to exercise such skill as i possessed for the benefit of my patient? there was not much to be said or done in such a case; but i spoke as encouragingly as i could, as i think we are always bound to do. he did not seem to pay any very anxious attention, but the poor girl listened as if her own life and more than her own life were depending on the words i uttered. she followed me out of the room, when i had got through my visit. how long?--she said. uncertain. any time; to-day,--next week, next month,--i answered.--one of those cases where the issue is not doubtful, but may be sudden or slow. the women of the house were kind, as women always are in trouble. but iris pretended that nobody could spare the time as well as she, and kept her place, hour after hour, until the landlady insisted that she'd be killin' herself, if she begun at that rate, 'n' haf to give up, if she didn't want to be clean beat out in less 'n a week. at the table we were graver than common. the high chair was set back against the wall, and a gap left between that of the young girl and her nearest neighbor's on the right. but the next morning, to our great surprise, that good-looking young marylander had very quietly moved his own chair to the vacant place. i thought he was creeping down that way, but i was not prepared for a leap spanning such a tremendous parenthesis of boarders as this change of position included. there was no denying that the youth and maiden were a handsome pair, as they sat side by side. but whatever the young girl may have thought of her new neighbor she never seemed for a moment to forget the poor little friend who had been taken from her side. there are women, and even girls, with whom it is of no use to talk. one might as well reason with a bee as to the form of his cell, or with an oriole as to the construction of his swinging nest, as try to stir these creatures from their own way of doing their own work. it was not a question with iris, whether she was entitled by any special relation or by the fitness of things to play the part of a nurse. she was a wilful creature that must have her way in this matter. and it so proved that it called for much patience and long endurance to carry through the duties, say rather the kind offices, the painful pleasures, which she had chosen as her share in the household where accident had thrown her. she had that genius of ministration which is the special province of certain women, marked even among their helpful sisters by a soft, low voice, a quiet footfall, a light hand, a cheering smile, and a ready self-surrender to the objects of their care, which such trifles as their own food, sleep, or habits of any kind never presume to interfere with. day after day, and too often through the long watches of the night, she kept her place by the pillow. that girl will kill herself over me, sir,--said the poor little gentleman to me, one day,--she will kill herself, sir, if you don't call in all the resources of your art to get me off as soon as may be. i shall wear her out, sir, with sitting in this close chamber and watching when she ought to be sleeping, if you leave me to the care of nature without dosing me. this was rather strange pleasantry, under the circumstances. but there are certain persons whose existence is so out of parallel with the larger laws in the midst of which it is moving, that life becomes to them as death and death as life.--how am i getting along?--he said, another morning. he lifted his shrivelled hand, with the death's-head ring on it, and looked at it with a sad sort of complacency. by this one movement, which i have seen repeatedly of late, i know that his thoughts have gone before to another condition, and that he is, as it were, looking back on the infirmities of the body as accidents of the past. for, when he was well, one might see him often looking at the handsome hand with the flaming jewel on one of its fingers. the single well-shaped limb was the source of that pleasure which in some form or other nature almost always grants to her least richly endowed children. handsome hair, eyes, complexion, feature, form, hand, foot, pleasant voice, strength, grace, agility, intelligence,--how few there are that have not just enough of one at least of these gifts to show them that the good mother, busy with her millions of children, has not quite forgotten them! but now he was thinking of that other state, where, free from all mortal impediments, the memory of his sorrowful burden should be only as that of the case he has shed to the insect whose "deep-damasked wings" beat off the golden dust of the lily-anthers, as he flutters in the ecstasy of his new life over their full-blown summer glories. no human being can rest for any time in a state of equilibrium, where the desire to live and that to depart just balance each other. if one has a house, which he has lived and always means to live in, he pleases himself with the thought of all the conveniences it offers him, and thinks little of its wants and imperfections. but once having made up his mind to move to a better, every incommodity starts out upon him, until the very ground-plan of it seems to have changed in his mind, and his thoughts and affections, each one of them packing up its little bundle of circumstances, have quitted their several chambers and nooks and migrated to the new home, long before its apartments are ready to receive their coming tenant. it is so with the body. most persons have died before they expire,--died to all earthly longings, so that the last breath is only, as it were, the locking of the door of the already deserted mansion. the fact of the tranquillity with which the great majority of dying persons await this locking of those gates of life through which its airy angels have been going and coming, from the moment of the first cry, is familiar to those who have been often called upon to witness the last period of life. almost always there is a preparation made by nature for unearthing a soul, just as on the smaller scale there is for the removal of a milktooth. the roots which hold human life to earth are absorbed before it is lifted from its place. some of the dying are weary and want rest, the idea of which is almost inseparable in the universal mind from death. some are in pain, and want to be rid of it, even though the anodyne be dropped, as in the legend, from the sword of the death-angel. some are stupid, mercifully narcotized that they may go to sleep without long tossing about. and some are strong in faith and hope, so that, as they draw near the next world, they would fair hurry toward it, as the caravan moves faster over the sands when the foremost travellers send word along the file that water is in sight. though each little party that follows in a foot-track of its own will have it that the water to which others think they are hastening is a mirage, not the less has it been true in all ages and for human beings of every creed which recognized a future, that those who have fallen worn out by their march through the desert have dreamed at least of a river of life, and thought they heard its murmurs as they lay dying. the change from the clinging to the present to the welcoming of the future comes very soon, for the most part, after all hope of life is extinguished, provided this be left in good degree to nature, and not insolently and cruelly forced upon those who are attacked by illness, on the strength of that odious foreknowledge often imparted by science, before the white fruit whose core is ashes, and which we call death, has set beneath the pallid and drooping flower of sickness. there is a singular sagacity very often shown in a patient's estimate of his own vital force. his physician knows the state of his material frame well enough, perhaps,--that this or that organ is more or less impaired or disintegrated; but the patient has a sense that he can hold out so much longer,--sometimes that he must and will live for a while, though by the logic of disease he ought to die without any delay. the little gentleman continued to fail, until it became plain that his remaining days were few. i told the household what to expect. there was a good deal of kind feeling expressed among the boarders, in various modes, according to their characters and style of sympathy. the landlady was urgent that he should try a certain nostrum which had saved somebody's life in jest sech a case. the poor relation wanted me to carry, as from her, a copy of "allein's alarm," etc. i objected to the title, reminding her that it offended people of old, so that more than twice as many of the book were sold when they changed the name to "a sure guide to heaven." the good old gentleman whom i have mentioned before has come to the time of life when many old men cry easily, and forget their tears as children do.--he was a worthy gentleman,--he said,--a very worthy gentleman, but unfortunate,--very unfortunate. sadly deformed about the spine and the feet. had an impression that the late lord byron had some malformation of this kind. had heerd there was something the matter with the ankle-j'ints of that nobleman, but he was a man of talents. this gentleman seemed to be a man of talents. could not always agree with his statements,--thought he was a little over-partial to this city, and had some free opinions; but was sorry to lose him,--and if--there was anything--he--could--. in the midst of these kind expressions, the gentleman with the diamond, the koh-i-noor, as we called him, asked, in a very unpleasant sort of way, how the old boy was likely to cut up,--meaning what money our friend was going to leave behind. the young fellow john spoke up, to the effect that this was a diabolish snobby question, when a man was dying and not dead.--to this the koh-i-noor replied, by asking if the other meant to insult him. whereto the young man john rejoined that he had no particul'r intentions one way or t'other.-the kohi-noor then suggested the young man's stepping out into the yard, that he, the speaker, might "slap his chops."--let 'em alone, said young maryland,--it 'll soon be over, and they won't hurt each other much.--so they went out. the koh-i-noor entertained the very common idea, that, when one quarrels with another, the simple thing to do is to knock the man down, and there is the end of it. now those who have watched such encounters are aware of two things: first, that it is not so easy to knock a man down as it is to talk about it; secondly, that, if you do happen to knock a man down, there is a very good chance that he will be angry, and get up and give you a thrashing. so the koh-i-noor thought he would begin, as soon as they got into the yard, by knocking his man down, and with this intention swung his arm round after the fashion of rustics and those unskilled in the noble art, expecting the young fellow john to drop when his fist, having completed a quarter of a circle, should come in contact with the side of that young man's head. unfortunately for this theory, it happens that a blow struck out straight is as much shorter, and therefore as much quicker than the rustic's swinging blow, as the radius is shorter than the quarter of a circle. the mathematical and mechanical corollary was, that the koh-i-noor felt something hard bring up suddenly against his right eye, which something he could have sworn was a paving-stone, judging by his sensations; and as this threw his person somewhat backwards, and the young man john jerked his own head back a little, the swinging blow had nothing to stop it; and as the jewel staggered between the hit he got and the blow he missed, he tripped and "went to grass," so far as the back-yard of our boardinghouse was provided with that vegetable. it was a signal illustration of that fatal mistake, so frequent in young and ardent natures with inconspicuous calves and negative pectorals, that they can settle most little quarrels on the spot by "knocking the man down." we are in the habit of handling our faces so carefully, that a heavy blow, taking effect on that portion of the surface, produces a most unpleasant surprise, which is accompanied with odd sensations, as of seeing sparks, and a kind of electrical or ozone-like odor, half-sulphurous in character, and which has given rise to a very vulgar and profane threat sometimes heard from the lips of bullies. a person not used to pugilistic gestures does not instantly recover from this surprise. the koh-i-noor exasperated by his failure, and still a little confused by the smart hit he had received, but furious, and confident of victory over a young fellow a good deal lighter than himself, made a desperate rush to bear down all before him and finish the contest at once. that is the way all angry greenhorns and incompetent persons attempt to settle matters. it does n't do, if the other fellow is only cool, moderately quick, and has a very little science. it didn't do this time; for, as the assailant rushed in with his arms flying everywhere, like the vans of a windmill, he ran a prominent feature of his face against a fist which was travelling in the other direction, and immediately after struck the knuckles of the young man's other fist a severe blow with the part of his person known as the epigastrium to one branch of science and the bread-basket to another. this second round closed the battle. the koh-i-noor had got enough, which in such cases is more than as good as a feast. the young fellow asked him if he was satisfied, and held out his hand. but the other sulked, and muttered something about revenge.--jest as ye like,--said the young man john.--clap a slice o' raw beefsteak on to that mouse o' yours 'n' 't'll take down the swellin'. (mouse is a technical term for a bluish, oblong, rounded elevation occasioned by running one's forehead or eyebrow against another's knuckles.) the young fellow was particularly pleased that he had had an opportunity of trying his proficiency in the art of self-defence without the gloves. the koh-i-noor did not favor us with his company for a day or two, being confined to his chamber, it was said, by a slight feverish, attack. he was chop-fallen always after this, and got negligent in his person. the impression must have been a deep one; for it was observed, that, when he came down again, his moustache and whiskers had turned visibly white about the roots. in short, it disgraced him, and rendered still more conspicuous a tendency to drinking, of which he had been for some time suspected. this, and the disgust which a young lady naturally feels at hearing that her lover has been "licked by a fellah not half his size," induced the landlady's daughter to take that decided step which produced a change in the programme of her career i may hereafter allude to. i never thought he would come to good, when i heard him attempting to sneer at an unoffending city so respectable as boston. after a man begins to attack the state-house, when he gets bitter about the frog-pond, you may be sure there is not much left of him. poor edgar poe died in the hospital soon after he got into this way of talking; and so sure as you find an unfortunate fellow reduced to this pass, you had better begin praying for him, and stop lending him money, for he is on his last legs. remember poor edgar! he is dead and gone; but the state-house has its cupola fresh-gilded, and the frog-pond has got a fountain that squirts up a hundred feet into the air and glorifies that humble sheet with a fine display of provincial rainbows. --i cannot fulfil my promise in this number. i expected to gratify your curiosity, if you have become at all interested in these puzzles, doubts, fancies, whims, or whatever you choose to call them, of mine. next month you shall hear all about it. --it was evening, and i was going to the sick-chamber. as i paused at the door before entering, i heard a sweet voice singing. it was not the wild melody i had sometimes heard at midnight:--no, this was the voice of iris, and i could distinguish every word. i had seen the verses in her book; the melody was new to me. let me finish my page with them. hymn of trust. o love divine, that stooped to share our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, on thee we cast each earthborn care, we smile at pain while thou art near! though long the weary way we tread, and sorrow crown each lingering year, no path we shun, no darkness dread, our hearts still whispering, thou art near! when drooping pleasure turns to grief, and trembling faith is changed to fear, the murmuring wind, the quivering leaf shall softly tell us, thou art near! on thee we fling our burdening woe, o love divine, forever dear, content to suffer, while we know, living and dying, thou art near! xii a young fellow, born of good stock, in one of the more thoroughly civilized portions of these united states of america, bred in good principles, inheriting a social position which makes him at his ease everywhere, means sufficient to educate him thoroughly without taking away the stimulus to vigorous exertion, and with a good opening in some honorable path of labor, is the finest sight our private satellite has had the opportunity of inspecting on the planet to which she belongs. in some respects it was better to be a young greek. if we may trust the old marbles, my friend with his arm stretched over my head, above there, (in plaster of paris,) or the discobolus, whom one may see at the principal sculpture gallery of this metropolis,--those greek young men were of supreme beauty. their close curls, their elegantly set heads, column-like necks, straight noses, short, curled lips, firm chins, deep chests, light flanks, large muscles, small joints, were finer than anything we ever see. it may well be questioned whether the human shape will ever present itself again in a race of such perfect symmetry. but the life of the youthful greek was local, not planetary, like that of the young american. he had a string of legends, in place of our gospels. he had no printed books, no newspaper, no steam caravans, no forks, no soap, none of the thousand cheap conveniences which have become matters of necessity to our modern civilization. above all things, if he aspired to know as well as to enjoy, he found knowledge not diffused everywhere about him, so that a day's labor would buy him more wisdom than a year could master, but held in private hands, hoarded in precious manuscripts, to be sought for only as gold is sought in narrow fissures, and in the beds of brawling streams. never, since man came into this atmosphere of oxygen and azote, was there anything like the condition of the young american of the nineteenth century. having in possession or in prospect the best part of half a world, with all its climates and soils to choose from; equipped with wings of fire and smoke than fly with him day and night, so that he counts his journey not in miles, but in degrees, and sees the seasons change as the wild fowl sees them in his annual flights; with huge leviathans always ready to take him on their broad backs and push behind them with their pectoral or caudal fins the waters that seam the continent or separate the hemispheres; heir of all old civilizations, founder of that new one which, if all the prophecies of the human heart are not lies, is to be the noblest, as it is the last; isolated in space from the races that are governed by dynasties whose divine right grows out of human wrong, yet knit into the most absolute solidarity with mankind of all times and places by the one great thought he inherits as his national birthright; free to form and express his opinions on almost every subject, and assured that he will soon acquire the last franchise which men withhold from man,--that of stating the laws of his spiritual being and the beliefs he accepts without hindrance except from clearer views of truth,--he seems to want nothing for a large, wholesome, noble, beneficent life. in fact, the chief danger is that he will think the whole planet is made for him, and forget that there are some possibilities left in the debris of the old-world civilization which deserve a certain respectful consideration at his hands. the combing and clipping of this shaggy wild continent are in some measure done for him by those who have gone before. society has subdivided itself enough to have a place for every form of talent. thus, if a man show the least sign of ability as a sculptor or a painter, for instance, he finds the means of education and a demand for his services. even a man who knows nothing but science will be provided for, if he does not think it necessary to hang about his birthplace all his days,--which is a most unamerican weakness. the apron-strings of an american mother are made of india-rubber. her boy belongs where he is wanted; and that young marylander of ours spoke for all our young men, when he said that his home was wherever the stars and stripes blew over his head. and that leads me to say a few words of this young gentleman, who made that audacious movement lately which i chronicled in my last record,--jumping over the seats of i don't know how many boarders to put himself in the place which the little gentleman's absence had left vacant at the side of iris. when a young man is found habitually at the side of any one given young lady,--when he lingers where she stays, and hastens when she leaves,--when his eyes follow her as she moves and rest upon her when she is still,--when he begins to grow a little timid, he who was so bold, and a little pensive, he who was so gay, whenever accident finds them alone,--when he thinks very often of the given young lady, and names her very seldom,-- what do you say about it, my charming young expert in that sweet science in which, perhaps, a long experience is not the first of qualifications? --but we don't know anything about this young man, except that he is good-looking, and somewhat high-spirited, and strong-limbed, and has a generous style of nature,--all very promising, but by no means proving that he is a proper lover for iris, whose heart we turned inside out when we opened that sealed book of hers. ah, my dear young friend! when your mamma then, if you will believe it, a very slight young lady, with very pretty hair and figure--came and told her mamma that your papa had--had--asked no, no, no! she could n't say it; but her mother--oh the depth of maternal sagacity!--guessed it all without another word!--when your mother, i say, came and told her mother she was engaged, and your grandmother told your grandfather, how much did they know of the intimate nature of the young gentleman to whom she had pledged her existence? i will not be so hard as to ask how much your respected mamma knew at that time of the intimate nature of your respected papa, though, if we should compare a young girl's man-as-she-thinks-him with a forty-summered matron's man-as-she-finds-him, i have my doubts as to whether the second would be a facsimile of the first in most cases. the idea that in this world each young person is to wait until he or she finds that precise counterpart who alone of all creation was meant for him or her, and then fall instantly in love with it, is pretty enough, only it is not nature's way. it is not at all essential that all pairs of human beings should be, as we sometimes say of particular couples, "born for each other." sometimes a man or a woman is made a great deal better and happier in the end for having had to conquer the faults of the one beloved, and make the fitness not found at first, by gradual assimilation. there is a class of good women who have no right to marry perfectly good men, because they have the power of saving those who would go to ruin but for the guiding providence of a good wife. i have known many such cases. it is the most momentous question a woman is ever called upon to decide, whether the faults of the man she loves are beyond remedy and will drag her down, or whether she is competent to be his earthly redeemer and lift him to her own level. a person of genius should marry a person of character. genius does not herd with genius. the musk-deer and the civet-cat are never found in company. they don't care for strange scents,--they like plain animals better than perfumed ones. nay, if you will have the kindness to notice, nature has not gifted my lady musk-deer with the personal peculiarity by which her lord is so widely known. now when genius allies itself with character, the world is very apt to think character has the best of the bargain. a brilliant woman marries a plain, manly fellow, with a simple intellectual mechanism;--we have all seen such cases. the world often stares a good deal and wonders. she should have taken that other, with a far more complex mental machinery. she might have had a watch with the philosophical compensation-balance, with the metaphysical index which can split a second into tenths, with the musical chime which can turn every quarter of an hour into melody. she has chosen a plain one, that keeps good time, and that is all. let her alone! she knows what she is about. genius has an infinitely deeper reverence for character than character can have for genius. to be sure, genius gets the world's praise, because its work is a tangible product, to be bought, or had for nothing. it bribes the common voice to praise it by presents of speeches, poems, statues, pictures, or whatever it can please with. character evolves its best products for home consumption; but, mind you, it takes a deal more to feed a family for thirty years than to make a holiday feast for our neighbors once or twice in our lives. you talk of the fire of genius. many a blessed woman, who dies unsung and unremembered, has given out more of the real vital heat that keeps the life in human souls, without a spark flitting through her humble chimney to tell the world about it, than would set a dozen theories smoking, or a hundred odes simmering, in the brains of so many men of genius. it is in latent caloric, if i may borrow a philosophical expression, that many of the noblest hearts give out the life that warms them. cornelia's lips grow white, and her pulse hardly warms her thin fingers,--but she has melted all the ice out of the hearts of those young gracchi, and her lost heat is in the blood of her youthful heroes. we are always valuing the soul's temperature by the thermometer of public deed or word. yet the great sun himself, when he pours his noonday beams upon some vast hyaline boulder, rent from the eternal ice-quarries, and floating toward the tropics, never warms it a fraction above the thirty-two degrees of fahrenheit that marked the moment when the first drop trickled down its side. how we all like the spirting up of a fountain, seemingly against the law that makes water everywhere slide, roll, leap, tumble headlong, to get as low as the earth will let it! that is genius. but what is this transient upward movement, which gives us the glitter and the rainbow, to that unsleeping, all-present force of gravity, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever, (if the universe be eternal,)--the great outspread hand of god himself, forcing all things down into their places, and keeping them there? such, in smaller proportion, is the force of character to the fitful movements of genius, as they are or have been linked to each other in many a household, where one name was historic, and the other, let me say the nobler, unknown, save by some faint reflected ray, borrowed from its lustrous companion. oftentimes, as i have lain swinging on the water, in the swell of the chelsea ferry-boats, in that long, sharp-pointed, black cradle in which i love to let the great mother rock me, i have seen a tall ship glide by against the tide, as if drawn by some invisible towline, with a hundred strong arms pulling it. her sails hung unfilled, her streamers were drooping, she had neither side-wheel nor stern-wheel; still she moved on, stately, in serene triumph, as if with her own life. but i knew that on the other side of the ship, hidden beneath the great hulk that swam so majestically, there was a little toiling steam-tug, with heart of fire and arms of iron, that was hugging it close and dragging it bravely on; and i knew, that, if the little steam-tug untwined her arms and left the tall ship, it would wallow and roll about, and drift hither and thither, and go off with the refluent tide, no man knows whither. and so i have known more than one genius, high-decked, full-freighted, wide-sailed, gay-pennoned, that, but for the bare toiling arms, and brave, warm, beating heart of the faithful little wife, that nestled close in his shadow, and clung to him, so that no wind or wave could part them, and dragged him on against all the tide of circumstance, would soon have gone down the stream and been heard of no more.--no, i am too much a lover of genius, i sometimes think, and too often get impatient with dull people, so that, in their weak talk, where nothing is taken for granted, i look forward to some future possible state of development, when a gesture passing between a beatified human soul and an archangel shall signify as much as the complete history of a planet, from the time when it curdled to the time when its sun was burned out. and yet, when a strong brain is weighed with a true heart, it seems to me like balancing a bubble against a wedge of gold. --it takes a very true man to be a fitting companion for a woman of genius, but not a very great one. i am not sure that she will not embroider her ideal better on a plain ground than on one with a brilliant pattern already worked in its texture. but as the very essence of genius is truthfulness, contact with realities, (which are always ideas behind shows of form or language,) nothing is so contemptible as falsehood and pretence in its eyes. now it is not easy to find a perfectly true woman, and it is very hard to find a perfectly true man. and a woman of genius, who has the sagacity to choose such a one as her companion, shows more of the divine gift in so doing than in her finest talk or her most brilliant work of letters or of art. i have been a good while coming at a secret, for which i wished to prepare you before telling it. i think there is a kindly feeling growing up between iris and our young marylander. not that i suppose there is any distinct understanding between them, but that the affinity which has drawn him from the remote corner where he sat to the side of the young girl is quietly bringing their two natures together. just now she is all given up to another; but when he no longer calls upon her daily thoughts and cares, i warn you not to be surprised, if this bud of friendship open like the evening primrose, with a sound as of a sudden stolen kiss, and lo! the flower of full-blown love lies unfolded before you. and now the days had come for our little friend, whose whims and weaknesses had interested us, perhaps, as much as his better traits, to make ready for that long journey which is easier to the cripple than to the strong man, and on which none enters so willingly as he who has borne the life-long load of infirmity during his earthly pilgrimage. at this point, under most circumstances, i would close the doors and draw the veil of privacy before the chamber where the birth which we call death, out of life into the unknown world, is working its mystery. but this friend of ours stood alone in the world, and, as the last act of his life was mainly in harmony with the rest of its drama, i do not here feel the force of the objection commonly lying against that death-bed literature which forms the staple of a certain portion of the press. let me explain what i mean, so that my readers may think for themselves a little, before they accuse me of hasty expressions. the roman catholic church has certain formulas for its dying children, to which almost all of them attach the greatest importance. there is hardly a criminal so abandoned that he is not anxious to receive the "consolations of religion" in his last hours. even if he be senseless, but still living, i think that the form is gone through with, just as baptism is administered to the unconscious new-born child. now we do not quarrel with these forms. we look with reverence and affection upon all symbols which give peace and comfort to our fellow-creatures. but the value of the new-born child's passive consent to the ceremony is null, as testimony to the truth of a doctrine. the automatic closing of a dying man's lips on the consecrated wafer proves nothing in favor of the real presence, or any other dogma. and, speaking generally, the evidence of dying men in favor of any belief is to be received with great caution. they commonly tell the truth about their present feelings, no doubt. a dying man's deposition about anything he knows is good evidence. but it is of much less consequence what a man thinks and says when he is changed by pain, weakness, apprehension, than what he thinks when he is truly and wholly himself. most murderers die in a very pious frame of mind, expecting to go to glory at once; yet no man believes he shall meet a larger average of pirates and cut-throats in the streets of the new jerusalem than of honest folks that died in their beds. unfortunately, there has been a very great tendency to make capital of various kinds out of dying men's speeches. the lies that have been put into their mouths for this purpose are endless. the prime minister, whose last breath was spent in scolding his nurse, dies with a magnificent apothegm on his lips, manufactured by a reporter. addison gets up a tableau and utters an admirable sentiment,--or somebody makes the posthumous dying epigram for him. the incoherent babble of green fields is translated into the language of stately sentiment. one would think, all that dying men had to do was to say the prettiest thing they could,--to make their rhetorical point,--and then bow themselves politely out of the world. worse than this is the torturing of dying people to get their evidence in favor of this or that favorite belief. the camp-followers of proselyting sects have come in at the close of every life where they could get in, to strip the languishing soul of its thoughts, and carry them off as spoils. the roman catholic or other priest who insists on the reception of his formula means kindly, we trust, and very commonly succeeds in getting the acquiescence of the subject of his spiritual surgery, but do not let us take the testimony of people who are in the worst condition to form opinions as evidence of the truth or falsehood of that which they accept. a lame man's opinion of dancing is not good for much. a poor fellow who can neither eat nor drink, who is sleepless and full of pains, whose flesh has wasted from him, whose blood is like water, who is gasping for breath, is not in a condition to judge fairly of human life, which in all its main adjustments is intended for men in a normal, healthy condition. it is a remark i have heard from the wise patriarch of the medical profession among us, that the moral condition of patients with disease above the great breathing-muscle, the diaphragm, is much more hopeful than that of patients with disease below it, in the digestive organs. many an honest ignorant man has given us pathology when he thought he was giving us psychology. with this preliminary caution i shall proceed to the story of the little gentleman's leaving us. when the divinity-student found that our fellow-boarder was not likely to remain long with us, he, being a young man of tender conscience and kindly nature, was not a little exercised on his behalf. it was undeniable that on several occasions the little gentleman had expressed himself with a good deal of freedom on a class of subjects which, according to the divinity-student, he had no right to form an opinion upon. he therefore considered his future welfare in jeopardy. the muggletonian sect have a very odd way of dealing with people. if i, the professor, will only give in to the muggletonian doctrine, there shall be no question through all that persuasion that i am competent to judge of that doctrine; nay, i shall be quoted as evidence of its truth, while i live, and cited, after i am dead, as testimony in its behalf. but if i utter any ever so slight anti-muggletonian sentiment, then i become incompetent to form any opinion on the matter. this, you cannot fail to observe, is exactly the way the pseudo-sciences go to work, as explained in my lecture on phrenology. now i hold that he whose testimony would be accepted in behalf of the muggletonian doctrine has a right to be heard against it. whoso offers me any article of belief for my signature implies that i am competent to form an opinion upon it; and if my positive testimony in its favor is of any value, then my negative testimony against it is also of value. i thought my young friend's attitude was a little too much like that of the muggletonians. i also remarked a singular timidity on his part lest somebody should "unsettle" somebody's faith,--as if faith did not require exercise as much as any other living thing, and were not all the better for a shaking up now and then. i don't mean that it would be fair to bother bridget, the wild irish girl, or joice heth, the centenarian, or any other intellectual non-combatant; but all persons who proclaim a belief which passes judgment on their neighbors must be ready to have it "unsettled," that is, questioned, at all times and by anybody,--just as those who set up bars across a thoroughfare must expect to have them taken down by every one who wants to pass, if he is strong enough. besides, to think of trying to water-proof the american mind against the questions that heaven rains down upon it shows a misapprehension of our new conditions. if to question everything be unlawful and dangerous, we had better undeclare our independence at once; for what the declaration means is the right to question everything, even the truth of its own fundamental proposition. the old-world order of things is an arrangement of locks and canals, where everything depends on keeping the gates shut, and so holding the upper waters at their level; but the system under which the young republican american is born trusts the whole unimpeded tide of life to the great elemental influences, as the vast rivers of the continent settle their own level in obedience to the laws that govern the planet and the spheres that surround it. the divinity-student was not quite up to the idea of the commonwealth, as our young friend the marylander, for instance, understood it. he could not get rid of that notion of private property in truth, with the right to fence it in, and put up a sign-board, thus: all trespassers are warned off these grounds! he took the young marylander to task for going to the church of the galileans, where he had several times accompanied iris of late. i am a churchman,--the young man said,--by education and habit. i love my old church for many reasons, but most of all because i think it has educated me out of its own forms into the spirit of its highest teachings. i think i belong to the "broad church," if any of you can tell what that means. i had the rashness to attempt to answer the question myself.--some say the broad church means the collective mass of good people of all denominations. others say that such a definition is nonsense; that a church is an organization, and the scattered good folks are no organization at all. they think that men will eventually come together on the basis of one or two or more common articles of belief, and form a great unity. do they see what this amounts to? it means an equal division of intellect! it is mental agrarianism! a thing that never was and never will be until national and individual idiosyncrasies have ceased to exist. the man of thirty-nine beliefs holds the man of one belief a pauper; he is not going to give up thirty-eight of them for the sake of fraternizing with the other in the temple which bears on its front, "deo erexit voltaire." a church is a garden, i have heard it said, and the illustration was neatly handled. yes, and there is no such thing as a broad garden. it must be fenced in, and whatever is fenced in is narrow. you cannot have arctic and tropical plants growing together in it, except by the forcing system, which is a mighty narrow piece of business. you can't make a village or a parish or a family think alike, yet you suppose that you can make a world pinch its beliefs or pad them to a single pattern! why, the very life of an ecclesiastical organization is a life of induction, a state of perpetually disturbed equilibrium kept up by another charged body in the neighborhood. if the two bodies touch and share their respective charges, down goes the index of the electrometer! do you know that every man has a religious belief peculiar to himself? smith is always a smithite. he takes in exactly smith's-worth of knowledge, smith's-worth of truth, of beauty, of divinity. and brown has from time immemorial been trying to burn him, to excommunicate him, to anonymous-article him, because he did not take in brown's-worth of knowledge, truth, beauty, divinity. he cannot do it, any more than a pint-pot can hold a quart, or a quart-pot be filled by a pint. iron is essentially the same everywhere and always; but the sulphate of iron is never the same as the carbonate of iron. truth is invariable; but the smithate of truth must always differ from the brownate of truth. the wider the intellect, the larger and simpler the expressions in which its knowledge is embodied. the inferior race, the degraded and enslaved people, the small-minded individual, live in the details which to larger minds and more advanced tribes of men reduce themselves to axioms and laws. as races and individual minds must always differ just as sulphates and carbonates do, i cannot see ground for expecting the broad church to be founded on any fusion of intellectual beliefs, which of course implies that those who hold the larger number of doctrines as essential shall come down to those who hold the smaller number. these doctrines are to the negative aristocracy what the quarterings of their coats are to the positive orders of nobility. the broad church, i think, will never be based on anything that requires the use of language. freemasonry gives an idea of such a church, and a brother is known and cared for in a strange land where no word of his can be understood. the apostle of this church may be a deaf mute carrying a cup of cold water to a thirsting fellow-creature. the cup of cold water does not require to be translated for a foreigner to understand it. i am afraid the only broad church possible is one that has its creed in the heart, and not in the head,--that we shall know its members by their fruits, and not by their words. if you say this communion of well-doers is no church, i can only answer, that all organized bodies have their limits of size, and that when we find a man a hundred feet high and thirty feet broad across the shoulders, we will look out for an organization that shall include all christendom. some of us do practically recognize a broad church and a narrow church, however. the narrow church may be seen in the ship's boats of humanity, in the long boat, in the jolly boat, in the captain's gig, lying off the poor old vessel, thanking god that they are safe, and reckoning how soon the hulk containing the mass of their fellow-creatures will go down. the broad church is on board, working hard at the pumps, and very slow to believe that the ship will be swallowed up with so many poor people in it, fastened down under the hatches ever since it floated. --all this, of course, was nothing but my poor notion about these matters. i am simply an "outsider," you know; only it doesn't do very well for a nest of hingham boxes to talk too much about outsiders and insiders! after this talk of ours, i think these two young people went pretty regularly to the church of the galileans. still they could not keep away from the sweet harmonies and rhythmic litanies of saint polycarp on the great church festival-days; so that, between the two, they were so much together, that the boarders began to make remarks, and our landlady said to me, one day, that, though it was noon of her business, them that had eyes couldn't help seein' that there was somethin' goin', on between them two young people; she thought the young man was a very likely young man, though jest what his prospecs was was unbeknown to her; but she thought he must be doing well, and rather guessed he would be able to take care of a femily, if he didn't go to takin' a house; for a gentleman and his wife could board a great deal cheaper than they could keep house;--but then that girl was nothin' but a child, and wouldn't think of bein' married this five year. they was good boarders, both of 'em, paid regular, and was as pooty a couple as she ever laid eyes on. --to come back to what i began to speak of before,--the divinity-student was exercised in his mind about the little gentleman, and, in the kindness of his heart,--for he was a good young man,--and in the strength of his convictions,--for he took it for granted that he and his crowd were right, and other folks and their crowd were wrong,--he determined to bring the little gentleman round to his faith before he died, if he could. so he sent word to the sick man, that he should be pleased to visit him and have some conversation with him; and received for answer that he would be welcome. the divinity-student made him a visit, therefore and had a somewhat remarkable interview with him, which i shall briefly relate, without attempting to justify the positions taken by the little gentleman. he found him weak, but calm. iris sat silent by his pillow. after the usual preliminaries, the divinity-student said; in a kind way, that he was sorry to find him in failing health, that he felt concerned for his soul, and was anxious to assist him in making preparations for the great change awaiting him. i thank you, sir,--said the little gentleman, permit me to ask you, what makes you think i am not ready for it, sir, and that you can do anything to help me, sir? i address you only as a fellow-man,--said the divinity-student,--and therefore a fellow-sinner. i am not a man, sir!--said the little gentleman.--i was born into this world the wreck of a man, and i shall not be judged with a race to which i do not belong. look at this!--he said, and held up his withered arm.--see there!--and he pointed to his misshapen extremities.--lay your hand here!--and he laid his own on the region of his misplaced heart.--i have known nothing of the life of your race. when i first came to my consciousness, i found myself an object of pity, or a sight to show. the first strange child i ever remember hid its face and would not come near me. i was a broken-hearted as well as broken-bodied boy. i grew into the emotions of ripening youth, and all that i could have loved shrank from my presence. i became a man in years, and had nothing in common with manhood but its longings. my life is the dying pang of a worn-out race, and i shall go down alone into the dust, out of this world of men and women, without ever knowing the fellowship of the one or the love of the other. i will not die with a lie rattling in my throat. if another state of being has anything worse in store for me, i have had a long apprenticeship to give me strength that i may bear it. i don't believe it, sir! i have too much faith for that. god has not left me wholly without comfort, even here. i love this old place where i was born;--the heart of the world beats under the three hills of boston, sir! i love this great land, with so many tall men in it, and so many good, noble women.--his eyes turned to the silent figure by his pillow.--i have learned to accept meekly what has been allotted to me, but i cannot honestly say that i think my sin has been greater than my suffering. i bear the ignorance and the evil-doing of whole generations in my single person. i never drew a breath of air nor took a step that was not a punishment for another's fault. i may have had many wrong thoughts, but i cannot have done many wrong deeds,--for my cage has been a narrow one, and i have paced it alone. i have looked through the bars and seen the great world of men busy and happy, but i had no part in their doings. i have known what it was to dream of the great passions; but since my mother kissed me before she died, no woman's lips have pressed my cheek,--nor ever will. --the young girl's eyes glittered with a sudden film, and almost without a thought, but with a warm human instinct that rushed up into her face with her heart's blood, she bent over and kissed him. it was the sacrament that washed out the memory of long years of bitterness, and i should hold it an unworthy thought to defend her. the little gentleman repaid her with the only tear any of us ever saw him shed. the divinity-student rose from his place, and, turning away from the sick man, walked to the other side of the room, where he bowed his head and was still. all the questions he had meant to ask had faded from his memory. the tests he had prepared by which to judge of his fellow-creature's fitness for heaven seemed to have lost their virtue. he could trust the crippled child of sorrow to the infinite parent. the kiss of the fair-haired girl had been like a sign from heaven, that angels watched over him whom he was presuming but a moment before to summon before the tribunal of his private judgment. shall i pray with you?--he said, after a pause. a little before he would have said, shall i pray for you?--the christian religion, as taught by its founder, is full of sentiment. so we must not blame the divinity-student, if he was overcome by those yearnings of human sympathy which predominate so much more in the sermons of the master than in the writings of his successors, and which have made the parable of the prodigal son the consolation of mankind, as it has been the stumbling-block of all exclusive doctrines. pray!--said the little gentleman. the divinity-student prayed, in low, tender tones, iris and the little gentleman that god would look on his servant lying helpless at the feet of his mercy; that he would remember his long years of bondage in the flesh; that he would deal gently with the bruised reed. thou hast visited the sins of the fathers upon this their child. oh, turn away from him the penalties of his own transgressions! thou hast laid upon him, from infancy, the cross which thy stronger children are called upon to take up; and now that he is fainting under it, be thou his stay, and do thou succor him that is tempted! let his manifold infirmities come between him and thy judgment; in wrath remember mercy! if his eyes are not opened to all thy truth, let thy compassion lighten the darkness that rests upon him, even as it came through the word of thy son to blind bartimeus, who sat by the wayside, begging! many more petitions he uttered, but all in the same subdued tone of tenderness. in the presence of helpless suffering, and in the fast-darkening shadow of the destroyer, he forgot all but his christian humanity, and cared more about consoling his fellow-man than making a proselyte of him. this was the last prayer to which the little gentleman ever listened. some change was rapidly coming over him during this last hour of which i have been speaking. the excitement of pleading his cause before his self-elected spiritual adviser,--the emotion which overcame him, when the young girl obeyed the sudden impulse of her feelings and pressed her lips to his cheek,--the thoughts that mastered him while the divinity-student poured out his soul for him in prayer, might well hurry on the inevitable moment. when the divinity-student had uttered his last petition, commending him to the father through his son's intercession, he turned to look upon him before leaving his chamber. his face was changed.--there is a language of the human countenance which we all understand without an interpreter, though the lineaments belong to the rudest savage that ever stammered in an unknown barbaric dialect. by the stillness of the sharpened features, by the blankness of the tearless eyes, by the fixedness of the smileless mouth, by the deadening tints, by the contracted brow, by the dilating nostril, we know that the soul is soon to leave its mortal tenement, and is already closing up its windows and putting out its fires.--such was the aspect of the face upon which the divinity-student looked, after the brief silence which followed his prayer. the change had been rapid, though not that abrupt one which is liable to happen at any moment in these cases.--the sick man looked towards him.--farewell,--he said,--i thank you. leave me alone with her. when the divinity-student had gone, and the little gentleman found himself alone with iris, he lifted his hand to his neck, and took from it, suspended by a slender chain, a quaint, antique-looking key,--the same key i had once seen him holding. he gave this to her, and pointed to a carved cabinet opposite his bed, one of those that had so attracted my curious eyes and set me wondering as to what it might contain. open it,--he said,--and light the lamp.--the young girl walked to the cabinet and unlocked the door. a deep recess appeared, lined with black velvet, against which stood in white relief an ivory crucifix. a silver lamp hung over it. she lighted the lamp and came back to the bedside. the dying man fixed his eyes upon the figure of the dying saviour.--give me your hand, he said; and iris placed her right hand in his left. so they remained, until presently his eyes lost their meaning, though they still remained vacantly fixed upon the white image. yet he held the young girl's hand firmly, as if it were leading him through some deep-shadowed valley and it was all he could cling to. but presently an involuntary muscular contraction stole over him, and his terrible dying grasp held the poor girl as if she were wedged in an engine of torture. she pressed her lips together and sat still. the inexorable hand held her tighter and tighter, until she felt as if her own slender fingers would be crushed in its gripe. it was one of the tortures of the inquisition she was suffering, and she could not stir from her place. then, in her great anguish, she, too, cast her eyes upon that dying figure, and, looking upon its pierced hands and feet and side and lacerated forehead, she felt that she also must suffer uncomplaining. in the moment of her sharpest pain she did not forget the duties of her under office, but dried the dying man's moist forehead with her handkerchief, even while the dews of agony were glistening on her own. how long this lasted she never could tell. time and thirst are two things you and i talk about; but the victims whom holy men and righteous judges used to stretch on their engines knew better what they meant than you or i!--what is that great bucket of water for? said the marchioness de brinvilliers, before she was placed on the rack.--for you to drink,--said the torturer to the little woman.--she could not think that it would take such a flood to quench the fire in her and so keep her alive for her confession. the torturer knew better than she. after a time not to be counted in minutes, as the clock measures, --without any warning,--there came a swift change of his features; his face turned white, as the waters whiten when a sudden breath passes over their still surface; the muscles instantly relaxed, and iris, released at once from her care for the sufferer and from his unconscious grasp, fell senseless, with a feeble cry,--the only utterance of her long agony. perhaps you sometimes wander in through the iron gates of the copp's hill burial-ground. you love to stroll round among the graves that crowd each other in the thickly peopled soil of that breezy summit. you love to lean on the freestone slab which lies over the bones of the mathers,--to read the epitaph of stout william clark, "despiser of sorry persons and little actions,"--to stand by the stone grave of sturdy daniel malcolm and look upon the splintered slab that tells the old rebel's story,--to kneel by the triple stone that says how the three worthylakes, father, mother, and young daughter, died on the same day and lie buried there; a mystery; the subject of a moving ballad, by the late benjamin franklin, as may be seen in his autobiography, which will explain the secret of the triple gravestone; though the old philosopher has made a mistake, unless the stone is wrong. not very far from that you will find a fair mound, of dimensions fit to hold a well-grown man. i will not tell you the inscription upon the stone which stands at its head; for i do not wish you to be sure of the resting-place of one who could not bear to think that he should be known as a cripple among the dead, after being pointed at so long among the living. there is one sign, it is true, by which, if you have been a sagacious reader of these papers, you will at once know it; but i fear you read carelessly, and must study them more diligently before you will detect the hint to which i allude. the little gentleman lies where he longed to lie, among the old names and the old bones of the old boston people. at the foot of his resting-place is the river, alive with the wings and antennae of its colossal water-insects; over opposite are the great war-ships, and the heavy guns, which, when they roar, shake the soil in which he lies; and in the steeple of christ church, hard by, are the sweet chimes which are the boston boy's ranz des vaches, whose echoes follow him all the world over. in pace! i, told you a good while ago that the little gentleman could not do a better thing than to leave all his money, whatever it might be, to the young girl who has since that established such a claim upon him. he did not, however. a considerable bequest to one of our public institutions keeps his name in grateful remembrance. the telescope through which he was fond of watching the heavenly bodies, and the movements of which had been the source of such odd fancies on my part, is now the property of a western college. you smile as you think of my taking it for a fleshless human figure, when i saw its tube pointing to the sky, and thought it was an arm, under the white drapery thrown over it for protection. so do i smile now; i belong to the numerous class who are prophets after the fact, and hold my nightmares very cheap by daylight. i have received many letters of inquiry as to the sound resembling a woman's voice, which occasioned me so many perplexities. some thought there was no question that he had a second apartment, in which he had made an asylum for a deranged female relative. others were of opinion that he was, as i once suggested, a "bluebeard" with patriarchal tendencies, and i have even been censured for introducing so oriental an element into my record of boarding-house experience. come in and see me, the professor, some evening when i have nothing else to do, and ask me to play you tartini's devil's sonata on that extraordinary instrument in my possession, well known to amateurs as one of the masterpieces of joseph guarnerius. the vox humana of the great haerlem organ is very lifelike, and the same stop in the organ of the cambridge chapel might be mistaken in some of its tones for a human voice; but i think you never heard anything come so near the cry of a prima donna as the a string and the e string of this instrument. a single fact will illustrate the resemblance. i was executing some tours de force upon it one evening, when the policeman of our district rang the bell sharply, and asked what was the matter in the house. he had heard a woman's screams,--he was sure of it. i had to make the instrument sing before his eyes before he could be satisfied that he had not heard the cries of a woman. the instrument was bequeathed to me by the little gentleman. whether it had anything to do with the sounds i heard coming from his chamber, you can form your own opinion;--i have no other conjecture to offer. it is not true that a second apartment with a secret entrance was found; and the story of the veiled lady is the invention of one of the reporters. bridget, the housemaid, always insisted that he died a catholic. she had seen the crucifix, and believed that he prayed on his knees before it. the last circumstance is very probably true; indeed, there was a spot worn on the carpet just before this cabinet which might be thus accounted for. why he, whose whole life was a crucifixion, should not love to look on that divine image of blameless suffering, i cannot see; on the contrary, it seems to me the most natural thing in the world that he should. but there are those who want to make private property of everything, and can't make up their minds that people who don't think as they do should claim any interest in that infinite compassion expressed in the central figure of the christendom which includes us all. the divinity-student expressed a hope before the boarders that he should meet him in heaven.--the question is, whether he'll meet you,--said the young fellow john, rather smartly. the divinity-student had n't thought of that. however, he is a worthy young man, and i trust i have shown him in a kindly and respectful light. he will get a parish by-and-by; and, as he is about to marry the sister of an old friend,--the schoolmistress, whom some of us remember,--and as all sorts of expensive accidents happen to young married ministers, he will be under bonds to the amount of his salary, which means starvation, if they are forfeited, to think all his days as he thought when he was settled,--unless the majority of his people change with him or in advance of him. a hard ease, to which nothing could reconcile a man, except that the faithful discharge of daily duties in his personal relations with his parishioners will make him useful enough in his way, though as a thinker he may cease to exist before he has reached middle age. --iris went into mourning for the little gentleman. although, as i have said, he left the bulk of his property, by will, to a public institution, he added a codicil, by which he disposed of various pieces of property as tokens of kind remembrance. it was in this way i became the possessor of the wonderful instrument i have spoken of, which had been purchased for him out of an italian convent. the landlady was comforted with a small legacy. the following extract relates to iris: "in consideration of her manifold acts of kindness, but only in token of grateful remembrance, and by no means as a reward for services which cannot be compensated, a certain messuage, with all the land thereto appertaining, situated in ______ street, at the north end, so called, of boston, aforesaid, the same being the house in which i was born, but now inhabited by several families, and known as 'the rookery.'" iris had also the crucifix, the portrait, and the red-jewelled ring. the funeral or death's-head ring was buried with him. it was a good while, after the little gentleman was gone, before our boarding-house recovered its wonted cheerfulness. there was a flavor in his whims and local prejudices that we liked, even while we smiled at them. it was hard to see the tall chair thrust away among useless lumber, to dismantle his room, to take down the picture of leah, the handsome witch of essex, to move away the massive shelves that held the books he loved, to pack up the tube through which he used to study the silent stars, looking down at him like the eyes of dumb creatures, with a kind of stupid half-consciousness that did not worry him as did the eyes of men and women,--and hardest of all to displace that sacred figure to which his heart had always turned and found refuge, in the feelings it inspired, from all the perplexities of his busy brain. it was hard, but it had to be done. and by-and-by we grew cheerful again, and the breakfast-table wore something of its old look. the koh-i-noor, as we named the gentleman with the diamond, left us, however, soon after that "little mill," as the young fellow john called it, where he came off second best. his departure was no doubt hastened by a note from the landlady's daughter, inclosing a lock of purple hair which she "had valued as a pledge of affection, ere she knew the hollowness of the vows he had breathed," speedily followed by another, inclosing the landlady's bill. the next morning he was missing, as were his limited wardrobe and the trunk that held it. three empty bottles of mrs. allen's celebrated preparation, each of them asserting, on its word of honor as a bottle, that its former contents were "not a dye," were all that was left to us of the koh-i-noor. from this time forward, the landlady's daughter manifested a decided improvement in her style of carrying herself before the boarders. she abolished the odious little flat, gummy side-curl. she left off various articles of "jewelry." she began to help her mother in some of her household duties. she became a regular attendant on the ministrations of a very worthy clergyman, having been attracted to his meetin' by witnessing a marriage ceremony in which he called a man and a woman a "gentleman" and a "lady,"--a stroke of gentility which quite overcame her. she even took a part in what she called a sabbath school, though it was held on sunday, and by no means on saturday, as the name she intended to utter implied. all this, which was very sincere, as i believe, on her part, and attended with a great improvement in her character, ended in her bringing home a young man, with straight, sandy hair, brushed so as to stand up steeply above his forehead, wearing a pair of green spectacles, and dressed in black broadcloth. his personal aspect, and a certain solemnity of countenance, led me to think he must be a clergyman; and as master benjamin franklin blurted out before several of us boarders, one day, that "sis had got a beau," i was pleased at the prospect of her becoming a minister's wife. on inquiry, however, i found that the somewhat solemn look which i had noticed was indeed a professional one, but not clerical. he was a young undertaker, who had just succeeded to a thriving business. things, i believe, are going on well at this time of writing, and i am glad for the landlady's daughter and her mother. sextons and undertakers are the cheerfullest people in the world at home, as comedians and circus-clowns are the most melancholy in their domestic circle. as our old boarding-house is still in existence, i do not feel at liberty to give too minute a statement of the present condition of each and all of its inmates. i am happy to say, however, that they are all alive and well, up to this time. that amiable old gentleman who sat opposite to me is growing older, as old men will, but still smiles benignantly on all the boarders, and has come to be a kind of father to all of them,--so that on his birthday there is always something like a family festival. the poor relation, even, has warmed into a filial feeling towards him, and on his last birthday made him a beautiful present, namely, a very handsomely bound copy of blair's celebrated poem, "the grave." the young man john is still, as he says, "in fustrate fettle." i saw him spar, not long since, at a private exhibition, and do himself great credit in a set-to with henry finnegass, esq., a professional gentleman of celebrity. i am pleased to say that he has been promoted to an upper clerkship, and, in consequence of his rise in office, has taken an apartment somewhat lower down than number "forty-'leven," as he facetiously called his attic. whether there is any truth, or not, in the story of his attachment to, and favorable reception by, the daughter of the head of an extensive wholesale grocer's establishment, i will not venture an opinion; i may say, however, that i have met him repeatedly in company with a very well-nourished and high-colored young lady, who, i understand, is the daughter of the house in question. some of the boarders were of opinion that iris did not return the undisguised attentions of the handsome young marylander. instead of fixing her eyes steadily on him, as she used to look upon the little gentleman, she would turn them away, as if to avoid his own. they often went to church together, it is true; but nobody, of course, supposes there is any relation between religious sympathy and those wretched "sentimental" movements of the human heart upon which it is commonly agreed that nothing better is based than society, civilization, friendship, the relation of husband and wife, and of parent and child, and which many people must think were singularly overrated by the teacher of nazareth, whose whole life, as i said before, was full of sentiment, loving this or that young man, pardoning this or that sinner, weeping over the dead, mourning for the doomed city, blessing, and perhaps kissing, the little children, so that the gospels are still cried over almost as often as the last work of fiction! but one fine june morning there rumbled up to the door of our boarding-house a hack containing a lady inside and a trunk on the outside. it was our friend the lady-patroness of miss iris, the same who had been called by her admiring pastor "the model of all the virtues." once a week she had written a letter, in a rather formal hand, but full of good advice, to her young charge. and now she had come to carry her away, thinking that she had learned all she was likely to learn under her present course of teaching. the model, however, was to stay awhile,--a week, or more,--before they should leave together. iris was obedient, as she was bound to be. she was respectful, grateful, as a child is with a just, but not tender parent. yet something was wrong. she had one of her trances, and became statue-like, as before, only the day after the model's arrival. she was wan and silent, tasted nothing at table, smiled as if by a forced effort, and often looked vaguely away from those who were looking at her, her eyes just glazed with the shining moisture of a tear that must not be allowed to gather and fall. was it grief at parting from the place where her strange friendship had grown up with the little gentleman? yet she seemed to have become reconciled to his loss, and rather to have a deep feeling of gratitude that she had been permitted to care for him in his last weary days. the sunday after the model's arrival, that lady had an attack of headache, and was obliged to shut herself up in a darkened room alone. our two young friends took the opportunity to go together to the church of the galileans. they said but little going,--"collecting their thoughts" for the service, i devoutly hope. my kind good friend the pastor preached that day one of his sermons that make us all feel like brothers and sisters, and his text was that affectionate one from john, "my little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth." when iris and her friend came out of church, they were both pale, and walked a space without speaking. at last the young man said,--you and i are not little children, iris! she looked in his face an instant, as if startled, for there was something strange in the tone of his voice. she smiled faintly, but spoke never a word. in deed and in truth, iris,---- what shall a poor girl say or do, when a strong man falters in his speech before her, and can do nothing better than hold out his hand to finish his broken sentence? the poor girl said nothing, but quietly laid her ungloved hand in his,--the little soft white hand which had ministered so tenderly and suffered so patiently. the blood came back to the young man's cheeks, as he lifted it to his lips, even as they walked there in the street, touched it gently with them, and said, "it is mine!" iris did not contradict him. the seasons pass by so rapidly, that i am startled to think how much has happened since these events i was describing. those two young people would insist on having their own way about their own affairs, notwithstanding the good lady, so justly called the model, insisted that the age of twenty-five years was as early as any discreet young lady should think of incurring the responsibilities, etc., etc. long before iris had reached that age, she was the wife of a young maryland engineer, directing some of the vast constructions of his native state,--where he was growing rich fast enough to be able to decline that famous russian offer which would have made him a kind of nabob in a few years. iris does not write verse often, nowadays, but she sometimes draws. the last sketch of hers i have seen in my southern visits was of two children, a boy and girl, the youngest holding a silver goblet, like the one she held that evening when i--i was so struck with her statue-like beauty. if in the later, summer months you find the grass marked with footsteps around that grave on copp's hill i told you of, and flowers scattered over it, you may be sure that iris is here on her annual visit to the home of her childhood and that excellent lady whose only fault was, that nature had written out her list of virtues an ruled paper, and forgotten to rub out the lines. one thing more i must mention. being on the common, last sunday, i was attracted by the cheerful spectacle of a well-dressed and somewhat youthful papa wheeling a very elegant little carriage containing a stout baby. a buxom young lady watched them from one of the stone seats, with an interest which could be nothing less than maternal. i at once recognized my old friend, the young fellow whom we called john. he was delighted to see me, introduced me to "madam," and would have the lusty infant out of the carriage, and hold him up for me to look at. now, then,--he said to the two-year-old,--show the gentleman how you hit from the shoulder. whereupon the little imp pushed his fat fist straight into my eye, to his father's intense satisfaction. fust-rate little chap,--said the papa.--chip of the old block. regl'r little johnny, you know. i was so much pleased to find the young fellow settled in life, and pushing about one of "them little articles" he had seemed to want so much, that i took my "punishment" at the hands of the infant pugilist with great equanimity.--and how is the old boarding-house?--i asked. a ,--he answered.--painted and papered as good as new. gabs in all the rooms up to the skyparlors. old woman's layin' up money, they say. means to send ben franklin to college. just then the first bell rang for church, and my friend, who, i understand, has become a most exemplary member of society, said he must be off to get ready for meetin', and told the young one to "shake dada," which he did with his closed fist, in a somewhat menacing manner. and so the young man john, as we used to call him, took the pole of the miniature carriage, and pushed the small pugilist before him homewards, followed, in a somewhat leisurely way, by his pleasant-looking lady-companion, and i sent a sigh and a smile after him. that evening, as soon as it was dark, i could not help going round by the old boarding-house. the "gahs" was lighted, but the curtains, or more properly, the painted shades; were not down. and so i stood there and looked in along the table where the boarders sat at the evening meal,--our old breakfast-table, which some of us feel as if we knew so well. there were new faces at it, but also old and familiar ones.--the landlady, in a wonderfully smart cap, looking young, comparatively speaking, and as if half the wrinkles had been ironed out of her forehead.--her daughter, in rather dressy half-mourning, with a vast brooch of jet, got up, apparently, to match the gentleman next her, who was in black costume and sandy hair,--the last rising straight from his forehead, like the marble flame one sometimes sees at the top of a funeral urn.--the poor relation, not in absolute black, but in a stuff with specks of white; as much as to say, that, if there were any more hirams left to sigh for her, there were pin-holes in the night of her despair, through which a ray of hope might find its way to an adorer. --master benjamin franklin, grown taller of late, was in the act of splitting his face open with a wedge of pie, so that his features were seen to disadvantage for the moment.--the good old gentleman was sitting still and thoughtful. all at once he turned his face toward the window where i stood, and, just as if he had seen me, smiled his benignant smile. it was a recollection of some past pleasant moment; but it fell upon me like the blessing of a father. i kissed my hand to them all, unseen as i stood in the outer darkness; and as i turned and went my way, the table and all around it faded into the realm of twilight shadows and of midnight dreams. --------------------- and so my year's record is finished. the professor has talked less than his predecessor, but he has heard and seen more. thanks to all those friends who from time to time have sent their messages of kindly recognition and fellow-feeling! peace to all such as may have been vexed in spirit by any utterance these pages have repeated! they will, doubtless, forget for the moment the difference in the hues of truth we look at through our human prisms, and join in singing (inwardly) this hymn to the source of the light we all need to lead us, and the warmth which alone can make us all brothers. a sun-day hymn. lord of all being! throned afar, thy glory flames from sun and star, centre and soul of every sphere, yet to each loving heart how near! sun of our life, thy quickening ray sheds on our path the glow of day; star of our hope, thy softened light cheers the long watches of the night. our midnight is thy smile withdrawn; our noontide is thy gracious dawn; our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign; all, save the clouds of sin, are thine! lord of all life, below, above, whose light is truth, whose warmth is love, before thy ever-blazing throne we ask no lustre of our own. grant us thy truth to make us free, and kindling hearts that burn for thee, till all thy living altars claim one holy light, one heavenly flame. one holy light, one heavenly flame. the poet at the breakfast table by oliver wendell holmes preface. in this, the third series of breakfast-table conversations, a slight dramatic background shows off a few talkers and writers, aided by certain silent supernumeraries. the machinery is much like that of the two preceding series. some of the characters must seem like old acquaintances to those who have read the former papers. as i read these over for the first time for a number of years, i notice one character; presenting a class of beings who have greatly multiplied during the interval which separates the earlier and later breakfast-table papers,--i mean the scientific specialists. the entomologist, who confines himself rigidly to the study of the coleoptera, is intended to typify this class. the subdivision of labor, which, as we used to be told, required fourteen different workmen to make a single pin, has reached all branches of knowledge. we find new terms in all the professions, implying that special provinces have been marked off, each having its own school of students. in theology we have many curious subdivisions; among the rest eschatology, that is to say, the geography, geology, etc., of the "undiscovered country;" in medicine, if the surgeon who deals with dislocations of the right shoulder declines to meddle with a displacement on the other side, we are not surprised, but ring the bell of the practitioner who devotes himself to injuries of the left shoulder. on the other hand, we have had or have the encyclopaedic intelligences like cuvier, buckle, and more emphatically herbert spencer, who take all knowledge, or large fields of it, to be their province. the author of "thoughts on the universe" has something in common with these, but he appears also to have a good deal about him of what we call the humorist; that is, an individual with a somewhat heterogeneous personality, in which various distinctly human elements are mixed together, so as to form a kind of coherent and sometimes pleasing whole, which is to a symmetrical character as a breccia is to a mosaic. as for the young astronomer, his rhythmical discourse may be taken as expressing the reaction of what some would call "the natural man" against the unnatural beliefs which he found in that lower world to which he descended by day from his midnight home in the firmament. i have endeavored to give fair play to the protest of gentle and reverential conservatism in the letter of the lady, which was not copied from, but suggested by, one which i received long ago from a lady bearing an honored name, and which i read thoughtfully and with profound respect. december, . preface to the new edition. it is now nearly twenty years since this book was published. being the third of the breakfast-table series, it could hardly be expected to attract so much attention as the earlier volumes. still, i had no reason to be disappointed with its reception. it took its place with the others, and was in some points a clearer exposition of my views and feelings than either of the other books, its predecessors. the poems "homesick in heaven" and the longer group of passages coming from the midnight reveries of the young astronomer have thoughts in them not so fully expressed elsewhere in my writings. the first of these two poems is at war with our common modes of thought. in looking forward to rejoining in a future state those whom we have loved on earth,--as most of us hope and many of us believe we shall,--we are apt to forget that the same individuality is remembered by one relative as a babe, by another as an adult in the strength of maturity, and by a third as a wreck with little left except its infirmities and its affections. the main thought of this poem is a painful one to some persons. they have so closely associated life with its accidents that they expect to see their departed friends in the costume of the time in which they best remember them, and feel as if they should meet the spirit of their grandfather with his wig and cane, as they habitually recall him to memory. the process of scientific specialization referred to and illustrated in this record has been going on more actively than ever during these last twenty years. we have only to look over the lists of the faculties and teachers of our universities to see the subdivision of labor carried out as never before. the movement is irresistible; it brings with it exactness, exhaustive knowledge, a narrow but complete self-satisfaction, with such accompanying faults as pedantry, triviality, and the kind of partial blindness which belong to intellectual myopia. the specialist is idealized almost into sublimity in browning's "burial of the grammarian." we never need fear that he will undervalue himself. to be the supreme authority on anything is a satisfaction to self-love next door to the precious delusions of dementia. i have never pictured a character more contented with himself than the "scarabee" of this story. beverly farms, mass., august , . o. w. h. the poet at the breakfast-table. i the idea of a man's "interviewing" himself is rather odd, to be sure. but then that is what we are all of us doing every day. i talk half the time to find out my own thoughts, as a school-boy turns his pockets inside out to see what is in them. one brings to light all sorts of personal property he had forgotten in his inventory. --you don't know what your thoughts are going to be beforehand? said the "member of the haouse," as he calls himself. --why, of course i don't. bless your honest legislative soul, i suppose i have as many bound volumes of notions of one kind and another in my head as you have in your representatives' library up there at the state house. i have to tumble them over and over, and open them in a hundred places, and sometimes cut the leaves here and there, to find what i think about this and that. and a good many people who flatter themselves they are talking wisdom to me, are only helping me to get at the shelf and the book and the page where i shall find my own opinion about the matter in question. --the member's eyes began to look heavy. --it 's a very queer place, that receptacle a man fetches his talk out of. the library comparison does n't exactly hit it. you stow away some idea and don't want it, say for ten years. when it turns up at last it has got so jammed and crushed out of shape by the other ideas packed with it, that it is no more like what it was than a raisin is like a grape on the vine, or a fig from a drum like one hanging on the tree. then, again, some kinds of thoughts breed in the dark of one's mind like the blind fishes in the mammoth cave. we can't see them and they can't see us; but sooner or later the daylight gets in and we find that some cold, fishy little negative has been spawning all over our beliefs, and the brood of blind questions it has given birth to are burrowing round and under and butting their blunt noses against the pillars of faith we thought the whole world might lean on. and then, again, some of our old beliefs are dying out every year, and others feed on them and grow fat, or get poisoned as the case may be. and so, you see, you can't tell what the thoughts are that you have got salted down, as one may say, till you run a streak of talk through them, as the market people run a butterscoop through a firkin. don't talk, thinking you are going to find out your neighbor, for you won't do it, but talk to find out yourself. there is more of you--and less of you, in spots, very likely--than you know. --the member gave a slight but unequivocal start just here. it does seem as if perpetual somnolence was the price of listening to other people's wisdom. this was one of those transient nightmares that one may have in a doze of twenty seconds. he thought a certain imaginary committee of safety of a certain imaginary legislature was proceeding to burn down his haystack, in accordance with an act, entitled an act to make the poor richer by making the rich poorer. and the chairman of the committee was instituting a forcible exchange of hats with him, to his manifest disadvantage, for he had just bought him a new beaver. he told this dream afterwards to one of the boarders. there was nothing very surprising, therefore, in his asking a question not very closely related to what had gone before. --do you think they mean business? --i beg your pardon, but it would be of material assistance to me in answering your question if i knew who "they" might happen to be. --why, those chaps that are setting folks on to burn us all up in our beds. political firebugs we call 'em up our way. want to substitoot the match-box for the ballot-box. scare all our old women half to death. --oh--ah--yes--to be sure. i don't believe they say what the papers put in their mouths any more than that a friend of mine wrote the letter about worcester's and webster's dictionaries, that he had to disown the other day. these newspaper fellows are half asleep when they make up their reports at two or three o'clock in the morning, and fill out the speeches to suit themselves. i do remember some things that sounded pretty bad,--about as bad as nitro-glycerine, for that matter. but i don't believe they ever said 'em, when they spoke their pieces, or if they said 'em i know they did n't mean 'em. something like this, wasn't it? if the majority didn't do something the minority wanted 'em to, then the people were to burn up our cities, and knock us down and jump on our stomachs. that was about the kind of talk, as the papers had it; i don't wonder it scared the old women. --the member was wide awake by this time. --i don't seem to remember of them partickler phrases, he said. --dear me, no; only levelling everything smack, and trampling us under foot, as the reporters made it out. that means fire, i take it, and knocking you down and stamping on you, whichever side of your person happens to be uppermost. sounded like a threat; meant, of course, for a warning. but i don't believe it was in the piece as they spoke it,--could n't have been. then, again, paris wasn't to blame,--as much as to say--so the old women thought--that new york or boston would n't be to blame if it did the same thing. i've heard of political gatherings where they barbecued an ox, but i can't think there 's a party in this country that wants to barbecue a city. but it is n't quite fair to frighten the old women. i don't doubt there are a great many people wiser than i am that would n't be hurt by a hint i am going to give them. it's no matter what you say when you talk to yourself, but when you talk to other people, your business is to use words with reference to the way in which those other people are like to understand them. these pretended inflammatory speeches, so reported as to seem full of combustibles, even if they were as threatening as they have been represented, would do no harm if read or declaimed in a man's study to his books, or by the sea-shore to the waves. but they are not so wholesome moral entertainment for the dangerous classes. boys must not touch off their squibs and crackers too near the powder-magazine. this kind of speech does n't help on the millennium much. --it ain't jest the thing to grease your ex with ile o' vitrul, said the member. --no, the wheel of progress will soon stick fast if you do. you can't keep a dead level long, if you burn everything down flat to make it. why, bless your soul, if all the cities of the world were reduced ashes, you'd have a new set of millionnaires in a couple of years or so, out of the trade in potash. in the mean time, what is the use of setting the man with the silver watch against the man with the gold watch, and the man without any watch against them both? --you can't go agin human natur', said the member --you speak truly. here we are travelling through desert together like the children of israel. some pick up more manna and catch more quails than others and ought to help their hungry neighbors more than they do; that will always be so until we come back to primitive christianity, the road to which does not seem to be via paris, just now; but we don't want the incendiary's pillar of a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night to lead us in the march to civilization, and we don't want a moses who will smite rock, not to bring out water for our thirst, but petroleum to burn us all up with. --it is n't quite fair to run an opposition to the other funny speaker, rev. petroleum v. what 's-his-name,--spoke up an anonymous boarder. --you may have been thinking, perhaps, that it was i,--i, the poet, who was the chief talker in the one-sided dialogue to which you have been listening. if so, you were mistaken. it was the old man in the spectacles with large round glasses and the iron-gray hair. he does a good deal of the talking at our table, and, to tell the truth, i rather like to hear him. he stirs me up, and finds me occupation in various ways, and especially, because he has good solid prejudices, that one can rub against, and so get up and let off a superficial intellectual irritation, just as the cattle rub their backs against a rail (you remember sydney smith's contrivance in his pasture) or their sides against an apple-tree (i don't know why they take to these so particularly, but you will often find the trunk of an apple-tree as brown and smooth as an old saddle at the height of a cow's ribs). i think they begin rubbing in cold blood, and then, you know, l'appetit vient en mangeant, the more they rub the more they want to. that is the way to use your friend's prejudices. this is a sturdy-looking personage of a good deal more than middle age, his face marked with strong manly furrows, records of hard thinking and square stand-up fights with life and all its devils. there is a slight touch of satire in his discourse now and then, and an odd way of answering one that makes it hard to guess how much more or less he means than he seems to say. but he is honest, and always has a twinkle in his eye to put you on your guard when he does not mean to be taken quite literally. i think old ben franklin had just that look. i know his great-grandson (in pace!) had it, and i don't doubt he took it in the straight line of descent, as he did his grand intellect. the member of the haouse evidently comes from one of the lesser inland centres of civilization, where the flora is rich in checkerberries and similar bounties of nature, and the fauna lively with squirrels, wood-chucks, and the like; where the leading sportsmen snare patridges, as they are called, and "hunt" foxes with guns; where rabbits are entrapped in "figgery fours," and trout captured with the unpretentious earth-worm, instead of the gorgeous fly; where they bet prizes for butter and cheese, and rag-carpets executed by ladies more than seventy years of age; where whey wear dress-coats before dinner, and cock their hats on one side when they feel conspicuous and distinshed; where they say--sir to you in their common talk and have other arcadian and bucolic ways which are highly unobjectionable, but are not so much admired in cities, where the people are said to be not half so virtuous. there is with us a boy of modest dimensions, not otherwise especially entitled to the epithet, who ought be six or seven years old, to judge by the gap left by his front milk teeth, these having resigned in favor of their successors, who have not yet presented their credentials. he is rather old for an enfant terrible, and quite too young to have grown into the bashfulness of adolescence; but he has some of the qualities of both these engaging periods of development, the member of the haouse calls him "bub," invariably, such term i take to be an abbreviation of "beelzeb," as "bus" is the short form of "omnibus." many eminently genteel persons, whose manners make them at home anywhere, being evidently unaware of true derivation of this word, are in the habit of addressing all unknown children by one of the two terms, "bub" and "sis," which they consider endears them greatly to the young people, and recommends them to the acquaintance of their honored parents, if these happen to accompany them. the other boarders commonly call our diminutive companion that boy. he is a sort of expletive at the table, serving to stop gaps, taking the same place a washer does that makes a loose screw fit, and contriving to get driven in like a wedge between any two chairs where there is a crevice. i shall not call that boy by the monosyllable referred to, because, though he has many impish traits at present, he may become civilized and humanized by being in good company. besides, it is a term which i understand is considered vulgar by the nobility and gentry of the mother country, and it is not to be found in mr. worcester's dictionary, on which, as is well known, the literary men of this metropolis are by special statute allowed to be sworn in place of the bible. i know one, certainly, who never takes his oath on any other dictionary, any advertising fiction to the contrary, notwithstanding. i wanted to write out my account of some of the other boarders, but a domestic occurrence--a somewhat prolonged visit from the landlady, who is rather too anxious that i should be comfortable broke in upon the continuity of my thoughts, and occasioned--in short, i gave up writing for that day. --i wonder if anything like this ever happened. author writing, jacks?" "to be, or not to be: that is the question whether 't is nobl--" --"william, shall we have pudding to-day, or flapjacks?" --"flapjacks, an' it please thee, anne, or a pudding, for that matter; or what thou wilt, good woman, so thou come not betwixt me and my thought." --exit mistress anne, with strongly accented closing of the door and murmurs to the effect: "ay, marry, 't is well for thee to talk as if thou hadst no stomach to fill. we poor wives must swink for our masters, while they sit in their arm-chairs growing as great in the girth through laziness as that ill-mannered fat man william hath writ of in his books of players' stuff. one had as well meddle with a porkpen, which hath thorns all over him, as try to deal with william when his eyes be rolling in that mad way." william--writing once more--after an exclamation in strong english of the older pattern,-- "whether 't is nobler--nobler--nobler--" to do what? o these women! these women! to have puddings or flapjacks! oh!-- "whether 't is nobler--in the mind--to suffer the slings--and arrows--of--" oh! oh! these women! i will e'en step over to the parson's and have a cup of sack with his reverence for methinks master hamlet hath forgot that which was just now on his lips to speak. so i shall have to put off making my friends acquainted with the other boarders, some of whom seem to me worth studying and describing. i have something else of a graver character for my readers. i am talking, you know, as a poet; i do not say i deserve the name, but i have taken it, and if you consider me at all it must be in that aspect. you will, therefore, be willing to run your eyes over a few pages read, of course by request, to a select party of the boarders. the gambrel-roofed house and its outlook. a panorama, with side-shows. my birthplace, the home of my childhood and earlier and later boyhood, has within a few months passed out of the ownership of my family into the hands of that venerable alma mater who seems to have renewed her youth, and has certainly repainted her dormitories. in truth, when i last revisited that familiar scene and looked upon the flammantia mania of the old halls, "massachusetts" with the dummy clock-dial, "harvard" with the garrulous belfry, little "holden" with the sculptured unpunishable cherub over its portal, and the rest of my early brick-and-mortar acquaintances, i could not help saying to myself that i had lived to see the peaceable establishment of the red republic of letters. many of the things i shall put down i have no doubt told before in a fragmentary way, how many i cannot be quite sure, as i do not very often read my own prose works. but when a man dies a great deal is said of him which has often been said in other forms, and now this dear old house is dead to me in one sense, and i want to gather up my recollections and wind a string of narrative round them, tying them up like a nosegay for the last tribute: the same blossoms in it i have often laid on its threshold while it was still living for me. we americans are all cuckoos,--we make our homes in the nests of other birds. i have read somewhere that the lineal descendants of the man who carted off the body of william rufus, with walter tyrrel's arrow sticking in it, have driven a cart (not absolutely the same one, i suppose) in the new forest, from that day to this. i don't quite understand mr. ruskin's saying (if he said it) that he couldn't get along in a country where there were no castles, but i do think we lose a great deal in living where there are so few permanent homes. you will see how much i parted with which was not reckoned in the price paid for the old homestead. i shall say many things which an uncharitable reader might find fault with as personal. i should not dare to call myself a poet if i did not; for if there is anything that gives one a title to that name, it is that his inner nature is naked and is not ashamed. but there are many such things i shall put in words, not because they are personal, but because they are human, and are born of just such experiences as those who hear or read what i say are like to have had in greater or less measure. i find myself so much like other people that i often wonder at the coincidence. it was only the other day that i sent out a copy of verses about my great-grandmother's picture, and i was surprised to find how many other people had portraits of their great-grandmothers or other progenitors, about which they felt as i did about mine, and for whom i had spoken, thinking i was speaking for myself only. and so i am not afraid to talk very freely with you, my precious reader or listener. you too, beloved, were born somewhere and remember your birthplace or your early home; for you some house is haunted by recollections; to some roof you have bid farewell. your hand is upon mine, then, as i guide my pen. your heart frames the responses to the litany of my remembrance. for myself it is a tribute of affection i am rendering, and i should put it on record for my own satisfaction, were there none to read or to listen. i hope you will not say that i have built a pillared portico of introduction to a humble structure of narrative. for when you look at the old gambrel-roofed house, you will see an unpretending mansion, such as very possibly you were born in yourself, or at any rate such a place of residence as your minister or some of your well-to-do country cousins find good enough, but not at all too grand for them. we have stately old colonial palaces in our ancient village, now a city, and a thriving one,--square-fronted edifices that stand back from the vulgar highway, with folded arms, as it were; social fortresses of the time when the twilight lustre of the throne reached as far as our half-cleared settlement, with a glacis before them in the shape of a long broad gravel-walk, so that in king george's time they looked as formidably to any but the silk-stocking gentry as gibraltar or ehrenbreitstein to a visitor without the password. we forget all this in the kindly welcome they give us to-day; for some of them are still standing and doubly famous, as we all know. but the gambrel-roofed house, though stately enough for college dignitaries and scholarly clergymen, was not one of those old tory, episcopal-church-goer's strongholds. one of its doors opens directly upon the green, always called the common; the other, facing the south, a few steps from it, over a paved foot-walk, on the other side of which is the miniature front yard, bordered with lilacs and syringas. the honest mansion makes no pretensions. accessible, companionable, holding its hand out to all, comfortable, respectable, and even in its way dignified, but not imposing, not a house for his majesty's counsellor, or the right reverend successor of him who had not where to lay his head, for something like a hundred and fifty years it has stood in its lot, and seen the generations of men come and go like the leaves of the forest. i passed some pleasant hours, a few years since, in the registry of deeds and the town records, looking up the history of the old house. how those dear friends of mine, the antiquarians, for whose grave councils i compose my features on the too rare thursdays when i am at liberty to meet them, in whose human herbarium the leaves and blossoms of past generations are so carefully spread out and pressed and laid away, would listen to an expansion of the following brief details into an historical memoir! the estate was the third lot of the eighth "squadron" (whatever that might be), and in the year was allotted in the distribution of undivided lands to "mr. ffox," the reverend jabez fox of woburn, it may be supposed, as it passed from his heirs to the first jonathan hastings; from him to his son, the long remembered college steward; from him in the year to the reverend eliphalet pearson, professor of hebrew and other oriental languages in harvard college, whose large personality swam into my ken when i was looking forward to my teens; from him the progenitors of my unborn self. i wonder if there are any such beings nowadays as the great eliphalet, with his large features and conversational basso profundo, seemed to me. his very name had something elephantine about it, and it seemed to me that the house shook from cellar to garret at his footfall. some have pretended that he had olympian aspirations, and wanted to sit in the seat of jove and bear the academic thunderbolt and the aegis inscribed christo et ecclesiae. it is a common weakness enough to wish to find one's self in an empty saddle; cotton mather was miserable all his days, i am afraid, after that entry in his diary: "this day dr. sewall was chosen president, for his piety." there is no doubt that the men of the older generation look bigger and more formidable to the boys whose eyes are turned up at their venerable countenances than the race which succeeds them, to the same boys grown older. everything is twice as large, measured on a three-year-olds three-foot scale as on a thirty-year-olds six-foot scale; but age magnifies and aggravates persons out of due proportion. old people are a kind of monsters to little folks; mild manifestations of the terrible, it may be, but still, with their white locks and ridged and grooved features, which those horrid little eyes exhaust of their details, like so many microscopes not exactly what human beings ought to be. the middle-aged and young men have left comparatively faint impressions in my memory, but how grandly the procession of the old clergymen who filled our pulpit from time to time, and passed the day under our roof, marches before my closed eyes! at their head the most venerable david osgood, the majestic minister of medford, with massive front and shaggy over-shadowing eyebrows; following in the train, mild-eyed john foster of brighton, with the lambent aurora of a smile about his pleasant mouth, which not even the "sabbath" could subdue to the true levitical aspect; and bulky charles steams of lincoln, author of "the ladies' philosophy of love. a poem. " (how i stared at him! he was the first living person ever pointed out to me as a poet); and thaddeus mason harris of dorchester (the same who, a poor youth, trudging along, staff in hand, being then in a stress of sore need, found all at once that somewhat was adhering to the end of his stick, which somewhat proved to be a gold ring of price, bearing the words, "god speed thee, friend!"), already in decadence as i remember him, with head slanting forward and downward as if looking for a place to rest in after his learned labors; and that other thaddeus, the old man of west cambridge, who outwatched the rest so long after they had gone to sleep in their own churchyards, that it almost seemed as if he meant to sit up until the morning of the resurrection; and bringing up the rear, attenuated but vivacious little jonathan homer of newton, who was, to look upon, a kind of expurgated, reduced and americanized copy of voltaire, but very unlike him in wickedness or wit. the good-humored junior member of our family always loved to make him happy by setting him chirruping about miles coverdale's version, and the bishop's bible, and how he wrote to his friend sir isaac (coffin) about something or other, and how sir isaac wrote back that he was very much pleased with the contents of his letter, and so on about sir isaac, ad libitum,--for the admiral was his old friend, and he was proud of him. the kindly little old gentleman was a collector of bibles, and made himself believe he thought he should publish a learned commentary some day or other; but his friends looked for it only in the greek calends,--say on the st of april, when that should come round, if you would modernize the phrase. i recall also one or two exceptional and infrequent visitors with perfect distinctness: cheerful elijah kellogg, a lively missionary from the region of the quoddy indians, with much hopeful talk about sock bason and his tribe; also poor old poor-house-parson isaac smith, his head going like a china mandarin, as he discussed the possibilities of the escape of that distinguished captive whom he spoke of under the name, if i can reproduce phonetically its vibrating nasalities of "general mmbongaparty,"--a name suggestive to my young imagination of a dangerous, loose-jointed skeleton, threatening us all like the armed figure of death in my little new england primer. i have mentioned only the names of those whose images come up pleasantly before me, and i do not mean to say anything which any descendant might not read smilingly. but there were some of the black-coated gentry whose aspect was not so agreeable to me. it is very curious to me to look back on my early likes and dislikes, and see how as a child i was attracted or repelled by such and such ministers, a good deal, as i found out long afterwards, according to their theological beliefs. on the whole, i think the old-fashioned new england divine softening down into arminianism was about as agreeable as any of them. and here i may remark, that a mellowing rigorist is always a much pleasanter object to contemplate than a tightening liberal, as a cold day warming up to fahrenheit is much more agreeable than a warm one chilling down to the same temperature. the least pleasing change is that kind of mental hemiplegia which now and then attacks the rational side of a man at about the same period of life when one side of the body is liable to be palsied, and in fact is, very probably, the same thing as palsy, in another form. the worst of it is that the subjects of it never seem to suspect that they are intellectual invalids, stammerers and cripples at best, but are all the time hitting out at their old friends with the well arm, and calling them hard names out of their twisted mouths. it was a real delight to have one of those good, hearty, happy, benignant old clergymen pass the sunday, with us, and i can remember some whose advent made the day feel almost like "thanksgiving." but now and then would come along a clerical visitor with a sad face and a wailing voice, which sounded exactly as if somebody must be lying dead up stairs, who took no interest in us children, except a painful one, as being in a bad way with our cheery looks, and did more to unchristianize us with his woebegone ways than all his sermons were like to accomplish in the other direction. i remember one in particular, who twitted me so with my blessings as a christian child, and whined so to me about the naked black children who, like the "little vulgar boy," "had n't got no supper and hadn't got no ma," and hadn't got no catechism, (how i wished for the moment i was a little black boy!) that he did more in that one day to make me a heathen than he had ever done in a month to make a christian out of an infant hottentot. what a debt we owe to our friends of the left centre, the brooklyn and the park street and the summer street ministers; good, wholesome, sound-bodied, one-minded, cheerful-spirited men, who have taken the place of those wailing poitrinaires with the bandanna handkerchiefs round their meagre throats and a funeral service in their forlorn physiognomies! i might have been a minister myself, for aught i know, if this clergyman had not looked and talked so like an undertaker. all this belongs to one of the side-shows, to which i promised those who would take tickets to the main exhibition should have entrance gratis. if i were writing a poem you would expect, as a matter of course, that there would be a digression now and then. to come back to the old house and its former tenant, the professor of hebrew and other oriental languages. fifteen years he lived with his family under its roof. i never found the slightest trace of him until a few years ago, when i cleaned and brightened with pious hands the brass lock of "the study," which had for many years been covered with a thick coat of paint. on that i found scratched; as with a nail or fork, the following inscription: e pe only that and nothing more, but the story told itself. master edward pearson, then about as high as the lock, was disposed to immortalize himself in monumental brass, and had got so far towards it, when a sudden interruption, probably a smart box on the ear, cheated him of his fame, except so far as this poor record may rescue it. dead long ago. i remember him well, a grown man, as a visitor at a later period; and, for some reason, i recall him in the attitude of the colossus of rhodes, standing full before a generous wood-fire, not facing it, but quite the contrary, a perfect picture of the content afforded by a blazing hearth contemplated from that point of view, and, as the heat stole through his person and kindled his emphatic features, seeming to me a pattern of manly beauty. what a statue gallery of posturing friends we all have in our memory! the old professor himself sometimes visited the house after it had changed hands. of course, my recollections are not to be wholly trusted, but i always think i see his likeness in a profile face to be found among the illustrations of rees's cyclopaedia. (see plates, vol. iv., plate , painting, diversities of the human face, fig. .) and now let us return to our chief picture. in the days of my earliest remembrance, a row of tall lombardy poplars mounted guard on the western side of the old mansion. whether, like the cypress, these trees suggest the idea of the funeral torch or the monumental spire, whether their tremulous leaves make wits afraid by sympathy with their nervous thrills, whether the faint balsamic smell of their foliage and their closely swathed limbs have in them vague hints of dead pharaohs stiffened in their cerements, i will guess; but they always seemed to me to give an of sepulchral sadness to the house before which stood sentries. not so with the row of elms which you may see leading up towards the western entrance. i think the patriarch of them all went over in the great gale of ; i know i used to shake the youngest of them with my hands, stout as it is now, with a trunk that would defy the bully of crotona, or the strong man whose liaison with the lady delilah proved so disastrous. the college plain would be nothing without its elms. as the long hair of a woman is a glory to her, are these green tresses that bank themselves against sky in thick clustered masses the ornament and the pride of the classic green. you know the "washington elm," or if you do not, you had better rekindle our patriotism by reading the inscription, which tells you that under its shadow the great leader first drew his sword at the head of an american army. in a line with that you may see two others: the coral fan, as i always called it from its resemblance in form to that beautiful marine growth, and a third a little farther along. i have heard it said that all three were planted at the same time, and that the difference of their growth is due to the slope of the ground,--the washington elm being lower than either of the others. there is a row of elms just in front of the old house on the south. when i was a child the one at the southwest corner was struck by lightning, and one of its limbs and a long ribbon of bark torn away. the tree never fully recovered its symmetry and vigor, and forty years and more afterwards a second thunderbolt crashed upon it and set its heart on fire, like those of the lost souls in the hall of eblis. heaven had twice blasted it, and the axe finished what the lightning had begun. the soil of the university town is divided into patches of sandy and of clayey ground. the common and the college green, near which the old house stands, are on one of the sandy patches. four curses are the local inheritance: droughts, dust, mud, and canker-worms. i cannot but think that all the characters of a region help to modify the children born in it. i am fond of making apologies for human nature, and i think i could find an excuse for myself if i, too, were dry and barren and muddy-witted and "cantankerous,"--disposed to get my back up, like those other natives of the soil. i know this, that the way mother earth treats a boy shapes out a kind of natural theology for him. i fell into manichean ways of thinking from the teaching of my garden experiences. like other boys in the country, i had my patch of ground, to which, in the spring-time, i entrusted the seeds furnished me, with a confident trust in their resurrection and glorification in the better world of summer. but i soon found that my lines had fallen in a place where a vegetable growth had to run the gauntlet of as many foes and dials as a christian pilgrim. flowers would not blow; daffodils perished like criminals in their cone demned caps, without their petals ever seeing daylight; roses were disfigured with monstrous protrusions through their very centres,--something that looked like a second bud pushing through the middle of the corolla; lettuces and cabbages would not head; radishes knotted themselves until they looked like centenerians' fingers; and on every stem, on every leaf, and both sides of it, and at the root of everything that dew, was a professional specialist in the shape of grub, caterpillar, aphis, or other expert, whose business it was to devour that particular part, and help order the whole attempt at vegetation. such experiences must influence a child born to them. a sandy soil, where nothing flourishes but weeds and evil beasts of small dimensions, must breed different qualities in its human offspring from one of those fat and fertile spots which the wit whom i have once before noted described so happily that, if i quoted the passage, its brilliancy would spoil one of my pages, as a diamond breastpin sometimes kills the social effect of the wearer, who might have passed for a gentleman without it. your arid patch of earth should seem to the natural birthplace of the leaner virtues and the abler vices,--of temperance and the domestic proprieties on the one hand, with a tendency to light weights in groceries and provisions, and to clandestine abstraction from the person on the other, as opposed to the free hospitality, the broadly planned burglaries, and the largely conceived homicides of our rich western alluvial regions. yet nature is never wholly unkind. economical as she was in my unparadised eden, hard as it was to make some of my floral houris unveil, still the damask roses sweetened the june breezes, the bladed and plumed flower-de-luces unfolded their close-wrapped cones, and larkspurs and lupins, lady's delights,--plebeian manifestations of the pansy,--self-sowing marigolds, hollyhocks, the forest flowers of two seasons, and the perennial lilacs and syringas,--all whispered to' the winds blowing over them that some caressing presence was around me. beyond the garden was "the field," a vast domain of four acres or thereabout, by the measurement of after years, bordered to the north by a fathomless chasm,--the ditch the base-ball players of the present era jump over; on the east by unexplored territory; on the south by a barren enclosure, where the red sorrel proclaimed liberty and equality under its drapeau rouge, and succeeded in establishing a vegetable commune where all were alike, poor, mean, sour, and uninteresting; and on the west by the common, not then disgraced by jealous enclosures, which make it look like a cattle-market. beyond, as i looked round, were the colleges, the meeting-house, the little square market-house, long vanished; the burial-ground where the dead presidents stretched their weary bones under epitaphs stretched out at as full length as their subjects; the pretty church where the gouty tories used to kneel on their hassocks; the district schoolhouse, and hard by it ma'am hancock's cottage, never so called in those days, but rather "tenfooter"; then houses scattered near and far, open spaces, the shadowy elms, round hilltops in the distance, and over all the great bowl of the sky. mind you, this was the world, as i first knew it; terra veteribus cognita, as mr. arrowsmith would have called it, if he had mapped the universe of my infancy: but i am forgetting the old house again in the landscape. the worst of a modern stylish mansion is, that it has no place for ghosts. i watched one building not long since. it had no proper garret, to begin with, only a sealed interval between the roof and attics, where a spirit could not be accommodated, unless it were flattened out like ravel, brother, after the millstone had fallen on him. there was not a nook or a corner in the whole horse fit to lodge any respectable ghost, for every part was as open to observation as a literary man's character and condition, his figure and estate, his coat and his countenance, are to his (or her) bohemian majesty on a tour of inspection through his (or her) subjects' keyholes. now the old house had wainscots, behind which the mice were always scampering and squeaking and rattling down the plaster, and enacting family scenes and parlor theatricals. it had a cellar where the cold slug clung to the walls, and the misanthropic spider withdrew from the garish day; where the green mould loved to grow, and the long white potato-shoots went feeling along the floor, if haply they might find the daylight; it had great brick pillars, always in a cold sweat with holding up the burden they had been aching under day and night far a century and more; it had sepulchral arches closed by rough doors that hung on hinges rotten with rust, behind which doors, if there was not a heap of bones connected with a mysterious disappearance of long ago, there well might have been, for it was just the place to look for them. it had a garret; very nearly such a one as it seems to me one of us has described in one of his books; but let us look at this one as i can reproduce it from memory. it has a flooring of laths with ridges of mortar squeezed up between them, which if you tread on you will go to--the lord have mercy on you! where will you go to?--the same being crossed by narrow bridges of boards, on which you may put your feet, but with fear and trembling. above you and around you are beams and joists, on some of which you may see, when the light is let in, the marks of the conchoidal clippings of the broadaxe, showing the rude way in which the timber was shaped as it came, full of sap, from the neighboring forest. it is a realm of darkness and thick dust, and shroud-like cobwebs and dead things they wrap in their gray folds. for a garret is like a seashore, where wrecks are thrown up and slowly go to pieces. there is the cradle which the old man you just remember was rocked in; there is the ruin of the bedstead he died on; that ugly slanting contrivance used to be put under his pillow in the days when his breath came hard; there is his old chair with both arms gone, symbol of the desolate time when he had nothing earthly left to lean on; there is the large wooden reel which the blear-eyed old deacon sent the minister's lady, who thanked him graciously, and twirled it smilingly, and in fitting season bowed it out decently to the limbo of troublesome conveniences. and there are old leather portmanteaus, like stranded porpoises, their mouths gaping in gaunt hunger for the food with which they used to be gorged to bulging repletion; and old brass andirons, waiting until time shall revenge them on their paltry substitutes, and they shall have their own again, and bring with them the fore-stick and the back-log of ancient days; and the empty churn, with its idle dasher, which the nancys and phoebes, who have left their comfortable places to the bridgets and norahs, used to handle to good purpose; and the brown, shaky old spinning-wheel, which was running, it may be, in the days when they were hinging the salem witches. under the dark and haunted garret were attic chambers which themselves had histories. on a pane in the northeastern chamber may be read these names: "john tracy," "robert roberts," "thomas prince;" "stultus" another hand had added. when i found these names a few years ago (wrong side up, for the window had been reversed), i looked at once in the triennial to find them, for the epithet showed that they were probably students. i found them all under the years and . does it please their thin ghosts thus to be dragged to the light of day? has "stultus" forgiven the indignity of being thus characterized? the southeast chamber was the library hospital. every scholar should have a book infirmary attached his library. there should find a peaceable refuge the many books, invalids from their birth, which are sent "with the best regards of the author"; the respected, but unpresentable cripples which have lost cover; the odd volumes of honored sets which go mourning all their days for their lost brother; the school-books which have been so often the subjects of assault and battery, that they look as if the police must know them by heart; these and still more the pictured story-books, beginning with mother goose (which a dear old friend of mine has just been amusing his philosophic leisure with turning most ingeniously and happily into the tongues of virgil and homer), will be precious mementos by and by, when children and grandchildren come along. what would i not give for that dear little paper-bound quarto, in large and most legible type, on certain pages of which the tender hand that was the shield of my infancy had crossed out with deep black marks something awful, probably about bears, such as once tare two-and-forty of us little folks for making faces, and the very name of which made us hide our heads under the bedclothes. i made strange acquaintances in that book infirmary up in the southeast attic. the "negro plot" at new york helped to implant a feeling in me which it took mr. garrison a good many years to root out. "thinks i to myself," an old novel, which has been attributed to a famous statesman, introduced me to a world of fiction which was not represented on the shelves of the library proper, unless perhaps by coelebs in search of a wife, or allegories of the bitter tonic class, as the young doctor that sits on the other side of the table would probably call them. i always, from an early age, had a keen eye for a story with a moral sticking out of it, and gave it a wide berth, though in my later years i have myself written a couple of "medicated novels," as one of my dearest and pleasantest old friends wickedly called them, when somebody asked her if she had read the last of my printed performances. i forgave the satire for the charming esprit of the epithet. besides the works i have mentioned, there was an old, old latin alchemy book, with the manuscript annotations of some ancient rosicrucian, in the pages of which i had a vague notion that i might find the mighty secret of the lapis philosophorum, otherwise called chaos, the dragon, the green lion, the quinta essentia, the soap of sages, the vinegar of philosophers, the dew of heavenly grace, the egg, the old man, the sun, the moon, and by all manner of odd aliases, as i am assured by the plethoric little book before me, in parchment covers browned like a meerschaum with the smoke of furnaces and the thumbing of dead gold seekers, and the fingering of bony-handed book-misers, and the long intervals of dusty slumber on the shelves of the bouquiniste; for next year it will be three centuries old, and it had already seen nine generations of men when i caught its eye (alchemiae doctrina) and recognized it at pistol-shot distance as a prize, among the breviaries and heures and trumpery volumes of the old open-air dealer who exposed his treasures under the shadow of st. sulpice. i have never lost my taste for alchemy since i first got hold of the palladium spagyricum of peter john faber, and sought--in vain, it is true--through its pages for a clear, intelligible, and practical statement of how i could turn my lead sinkers and the weights of tall kitchen clock into good yellow gold, specific gravity . , and exchangeable for whatever i then wanted, and for many more things than i was then aware of. one of the greatest pleasures of childhood found in the mysteries which it hides from the skepticism of the elders, and works up into small mythologies of its own. i have seen all this played over again in adult life,--the same delightful bewilderment semi-emotional belief in listening to the gaseous praises of this or that fantastic system, that i found in the pleasing mirages conjured up for me by the ragged old volume i used to pore over in the southeast attic-chamber. the rooms of the second story, the chambers of birth and death, are sacred to silent memories. let us go down to the ground-floor. i should have begun with this, but that the historical reminiscences of the old house have been recently told in a most interesting memoir by a distinguished student of our local history. i retain my doubts about those "dents" on the floor of the right-hand room, "the study" of successive occupants, said to have been made by the butts of the continental militia's firelocks, but this was the cause to which the story told me in childhood laid them. that military consultations were held in that room when the house was general ward's headquarters, that the provincial generals and colonels and other men of war there planned the movement which ended in the fortifying of bunker's hill, that warren slept in the house the night before the battle, that president langdon went forth from the western door and prayed for god's blessing on the men just setting forth on their bloody expedition,--all these things have been told, and perhaps none of them need be doubted. but now for fifty years and more that room has been a meeting-ground for the platoons and companies which range themselves at the scholar's word of command. pleasant it is to think that the retreating host of books is to give place to a still larger army of volumes, which have seen service under the eye of a great commander. for here the noble collection of him so freshly remembered as our silver-tongued orator, our erudite scholar, our honored college president, our accomplished statesman, our courtly ambassador, are to be reverently gathered by the heir of his name, himself not unworthy to be surrounded by that august assembly of the wise of all ages and of various lands and languages. could such a many-chambered edifice have stood a century and a half and not have had its passages of romance to bequeath their lingering legends to the after-time? there are other names on some of the small window-panes, which must have had young flesh-and-blood owners, and there is one of early date which elderly persons have whispered was borne by a fair woman, whose graces made the house beautiful in the eyes of the youth of that time. one especially--you will find the name of fortescue vernon, of the class of , in the triennial catalogue--was a favored visitor to the old mansion; but he went over seas, i think they told me, and died still young, and the name of the maiden which is scratched on the windowpane was never changed. i am telling the story honestly, as i remember it, but i may have colored it unconsciously, and the legendary pane may be broken before this for aught i know. at least, i have named no names except the beautiful one of the supposed hero of the romantic story. it was a great happiness to have been born in an old house haunted by such recollections, with harmless ghosts walking its corridors, with fields of waving grass and trees and singing birds, and that vast territory of four or five acres around it to give a child the sense that he was born to a noble principality. it has been a great pleasure to retain a certain hold upon it for so many years; and since in the natural course of things it must at length pass into other hands, it is a gratification to see the old place making itself tidy for a new tenant, like some venerable dame who is getting ready to entertain a neighbor of condition. not long since a new cap of shingles adorned this ancient mother among the village--now city--mansions. she has dressed herself in brighter colors than she has hitherto worn, so they tell me, within the last few days. she has modernized her aspects in several ways; she has rubbed bright the glasses through which she looks at the common and the colleges; and as the sunsets shine upon her through the flickering leaves or the wiry spray of the elms i remember from my childhood, they will glorify her into the aspect she wore when president holyoke, father of our long since dead centenarian, looked upon her in her youthful comeliness. the quiet corner formed by this and the neighboring residences has changed less than any place i can remember. our kindly, polite, shrewd, and humorous old neighbor, who in former days has served the town as constable and auctioneer, and who bids fair to become the oldest inhabitant of the city, was there when i was born, and is living there to-day. by and by the stony foot of the great university will plant itself on this whole territory, and the private recollections which clung so tenaciously and fondly to the place and its habitations will have died with those who cherished them. shall they ever live again in the memory of those who loved them here below? what is this life without the poor accidents which made it our own, and by which we identify ourselves? ah me! i might like to be a winged chorister, but still it seems to me i should hardly be quite happy if i could not recall at will the old house with the long entry, and the white chamber (where i wrote the first verses that made me known, with a pencil, stans pede in uno, pretty, nearly), and the little parlor, and the study, and the old books in uniforms as varied as those of the ancient and honorable artillery company used to be, if my memory serves me right, and the front yard with the star-of-bethlehems growing, flowerless, among the grass, and the dear faces to be seen no more there or anywhere on this earthly place of farewells. i have told my story. i do not know what special gifts have been granted or denied me; but this i know, that i am like so many others of my fellow-creatures, that when i smile, i feel as if they must; when i cry, i think their eyes fill; and it always seems to me that when i am most truly myself i come nearest to them and am surest of being listened to by the brothers and sisters of the larger family into which i was born so long ago. i have often feared they might be tired of me and what i tell them. but then, perhaps, would come a letter from some quiet body in some out-of-the-way place, which showed me that i had said something which another had often felt but never said, or told the secret of another's heart in unburdening my own. such evidences that one is in the highway of human experience and feeling lighten the footsteps wonderfully. so it is that one is encouraged to go on writing as long as the world has anything that interests him, for he never knows how many of his fellow-beings he may please or profit, and in how many places his name will be spoken as that of a friend. in the mood suggested by my story i have ventured on the poem that follows. most people love this world more than they are willing to confess, and it is hard to conceive ourselves weaned from it so as to feel no emotion at the thought of its most sacred recollections, even after a sojourn of years, as we should count the lapse of earthly time,--in the realm where, sooner or later, all tears shall be wiped away. i hope, therefore, the title of my lines will not frighten those who are little accustomed to think of men and women as human beings in any state but the present. homesick in heaven. the divine voice. go seek thine earth-born sisters,--thus the voice that all obey,--the sad and silent three; these only, while the hosts of heaven rejoice, smile never: ask them what their sorrows be: and when the secret of their griefs they tell, look on them with thy mild, half-human eyes; say what thou wast on earth; thou knowest well; so shall they cease from unavailing sighs. the angel. --why thus, apart,--the swift-winged herald spake, --sit ye with silent lips and unstrung lyres while the trisagion's blending chords awake in shouts of joy from all the heavenly choirs? the first spirit. --chide not thy sisters,--thus the answer came; --children of earth, our half-weaned nature clings to earth's fond memories, and her whispered name untunes our quivering lips, our saddened strings; for there we loved, and where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts, though o'er us shine the jasper-lighted dome:-- the chain may lengthen, but it never parts! sometimes a sunlit sphere comes rolling by, and then we softly whisper,--can it be? and leaning toward the silvery orb, we try to hear the music of its murmuring sea; to catch, perchance, some flashing glimpse of green, or breathe some wild-wood fragrance, wafted through the opening gates of pearl, that fold between the blinding splendors and the changeless blue. the angel. --nay, sister, nay! a single healing leaf plucked from the bough of yon twelve-fruited tree, would soothe such anguish,--deeper stabbing grief has pierced thy throbbing heart-- the first spirit. ---ah, woe is me! i from my clinging babe was rudely torn; his tender lips a loveless bosom pressed can i forget him in my life new born? o that my darling lay upon my breast! the angel. --and thou? the second spirit. i was a fair and youthful bride, the kiss of love still burns upon my cheek, he whom i worshipped, ever at my side, --him through the spirit realm in vain i seek. sweet faces turn their beaming eyes on mine; ah! not in these the wished-for look i read; still for that one dear human smile i pine; thou and none other!--is the lover's creed. the angel. --and whence thy sadness in a world of bliss where never parting comes, nor mourner's tear? art thou, too, dreaming of a mortal's kiss amid the seraphs of the heavenly sphere? the third spirit. --nay, tax not me with passion's wasting fire; when the swift message set my spirit free, blind, helpless, lone, i left my gray-haired sire; my friends were many, he had none save me. i left him, orphaned, in the starless night; alas, for him no cheerful morning's dawn! i wear the ransomed spirit's robe of white, yet still i hear him moaning, she is gone! the angel. --ye know me not, sweet sisters?--all in vain ye seek your lost ones in the shapes they wore; the flower once opened may not bud again, the fruit once fallen finds the stem no more. child, lover, sire,--yea, all things loved below, fair pictures damasked on a vapor's fold, fade like the roseate flush, the golden glow, when the bright curtain of the day is rolled. i was the babe that slumbered on thy breast. --and, sister, mine the lips that called thee bride. --mine were the silvered locks thy hand caressed, that faithful hand, my faltering footstep's guide! each changing form, frail vesture of decay, the soul unclad forgets it once hath worn, stained with the travel of the weary day, and shamed with rents from every wayside thorn. to lie, an infant, in thy fond embrace, to come with love's warm kisses back to thee, to show thine eyes thy gray-haired father's face, not heaven itself could grant; this may not be! then spread your folded wings, and leave to earth the dust once breathing ye have mourned so long, till love, new risen, owns his heavenly birth, and sorrow's discords sweeten into song! ii i am going to take it for granted now and henceforth, in my report of what was said and what was to be seen at our table, that i have secured one good, faithful, loving reader, who never finds fault, who never gets sleepy over my pages, whom no critic can bully out of a liking for me, and to whom i am always safe in addressing myself. my one elect may be man or woman, old or young, gentle or simple, living in the next block or on a slope of nevada, my fellow-countryman or an alien; but one such reader i shall assume to exist and have always in my thought when i am writing. a writer is so like a lover! and a talk with the right listener is so like an arm-in-arm walk in the moonlight with the soft heartbeat just felt through the folds of muslin and broadcloth! but it takes very little to spoil everything for writer, talker, lover. there are a great many cruel things besides poverty that freeze the genial current of the soul, as the poet of the elegy calls it. fire can stand any wind, but is easily blown out, and then come smouldering and smoke, and profitless, slow combustion without the cheerful blaze which sheds light all round it. the one reader's hand may shelter the flame; the one blessed ministering spirit with the vessel of oil may keep it bright in spite of the stream of cold water on the other side doing its best to put it out. i suppose, if any writer, of any distinguishable individuality, could look into the hearts of all his readers, he might very probably find one in his parish of a thousand or a million who honestly preferred him to any other of his kind. i have no doubt we have each one of us, somewhere, our exact facsimile, so like us in all things except the accidents of condition, that we should love each other like a pair of twins, if our natures could once fairly meet. i know i have my counterpart in some state of this union. i feel sure that there is an englishman somewhere precisely like myself. (i hope he does not drop his h's, for it does not seem to me possible that the royal dane could have remained faithful to his love for ophelia, if she had addressed him as 'amlet.) there is also a certain monsieur, to me at this moment unknown, and likewise a herr von something, each of whom is essentially my double. an arab is at this moment eating dates, a mandarin is just sipping his tea, and a south-sea-islander (with undeveloped possibilities) drinking the milk of a cocoa-nut, each one of whom, if he had been born in the gambrel-roofed house, and cultivated my little sand-patch, and grown up in "the study" from the height of walton's polyglot bible to that of the shelf which held the elzevir tacitus and casaubon's polybius, with all the complex influences about him that surrounded me, would have been so nearly what i am that i should have loved him like a brother,--always provided that i did not hate him for his resemblance to me, on the same principle as that which makes bodies in the same electric condition repel each other. for, perhaps after all, my one reader is quite as likely to be not the person most resembling myself, but the one to whom my nature is complementary. just as a particular soil wants some one element to fertilize it, just as the body in some conditions has a kind of famine--for one special food, so the mind has its wants, which do not always call for what is best, but which know themselves and are as peremptory as the salt-sick sailor's call for a lemon or a raw potato, or, if you will, as those capricious "longings," which have a certain meaning, we may suppose, and which at any rate we think it reasonable to satisfy if we can. i was going to say something about our boarders the other day when i got run away with by my local reminiscences. i wish you to understand that we have a rather select company at the table of our boarding-house. our landlady is a most respectable person, who has seen better days, of course,--all landladies have,--but has also, i feel sure, seen a good deal worse ones. for she wears a very handsome silk dress on state occasions, with a breastpin set, as i honestly believe, with genuine pearls, and appears habitually with a very smart cap, from under which her gray curls come out with an unmistakable expression, conveyed in the hieratic language of the feminine priesthood, to the effect that while there is life there is hope. and when i come to reflect on the many circumstances which go to the making of matrimonial happiness, i cannot help thinking that a personage of her present able exterior, thoroughly experienced in all the domestic arts which render life comfortable, might make the later years of some hitherto companionless bachelor very endurable, not to say pleasant. the condition of the landlady's family is, from what i learn, such as to make the connection i have alluded to, i hope with delicacy, desirable for incidental as well as direct reasons, provided a fitting match could be found. i was startled at hearing her address by the familiar name of benjamin the young physician i have referred to, until i found on inquiry, what i might have guessed by the size of his slices of pie and other little marks of favoritism, that he was her son. he has recently come back from europe, where he has topped off his home training with a first-class foreign finish. as the landlady could never have educated him in this way out of the profits of keeping boarders, i was not surprised when i was told that she had received a pretty little property in the form of a bequest from a former boarder, a very kind-hearted, worthy old gentleman who had been long with her and seen how hard she worked for food and clothes for herself and this son of hers, benjamin franklin by his baptismal name. her daughter had also married well, to a member of what we may call the post-medical profession, that, namely, which deals with the mortal frame after the practitioners of the healing art have done with it and taken their leave. so thriving had this son-in-law of hers been in his business, that his wife drove about in her own carriage, drawn by a pair of jet-black horses of most dignified demeanor, whose only fault was a tendency to relapse at once into a walk after every application of a stimulus that quickened their pace to a trot; which application always caused them to look round upon the driver with a surprised and offended air, as if he had been guilty of a grave indecorum. the landlady's daughter had been blessed with a number of children, of great sobriety of outward aspect, but remarkably cheerful in their inward habit of mind, more especially on the occasion of the death of a doll, which was an almost daily occurrence, and gave them immense delight in getting up a funeral, for which they had a complete miniature outfit. how happy they were under their solemn aspect! for the head mourner, a child of remarkable gifts, could actually make the tears run down her cheeks,--as real ones as if she had been a grown person following a rich relative, who had not forgotten his connections, to his last unfurnished lodgings. so this was a most desirable family connection for the right man to step into,--a thriving, thrifty mother-in-law, who knew what was good for the sustenance of the body, and had no doubt taught it to her daughter; a medical artist at hand in case the luxuries of the table should happen to disturb the physiological harmonies; and in the worst event, a sweet consciousness that the last sad offices would be attended to with affectionate zeal, and probably a large discount from the usual charges. it seems as if i could hardly be at this table for a year, if i should stay so long, without seeing some romance or other work itself out under my eyes; and i cannot help thinking that the landlady is to be the heroine of the love-history like to unfold itself. i think i see the little cloud in the horizon, with a silvery lining to it, which may end in a rain of cards tied round with white ribbons. extremes meet, and who so like to be the other party as the elderly gentleman at the other end of the table, as far from her now as the length of the board permits? i may be mistaken, but i think this is to be the romantic episode of the year before me. only it seems so natural it is improbable, for you never find your dropped money just where you look for it, and so it is with these a priori matches. this gentleman is a tight, tidy, wiry little man, with a small, brisk head, close-cropped white hair, a good wholesome complexion, a quiet, rather kindly face, quick in his movements, neat in his dress, but fond of wearing a short jacket over his coat, which gives him the look of a pickled or preserved schoolboy. he has retired, they say, from a thriving business, with a snug property, suspected by some to be rather more than snug, and entitling him to be called a capitalist, except that this word seems to be equivalent to highway robber in the new gospel of saint petroleum. that he is economical in his habits cannot be denied, for he saws and splits his own wood, for exercise, he says,--and makes his own fires, brushes his own shoes, and, it is whispered, darns a hole in a stocking now and then,--all for exercise, i suppose. every summer he goes out of town for a few weeks. on a given day of the month a wagon stops at the door and takes up, not his trunks, for he does not indulge in any such extravagance, but the stout brown linen bags in which he packs the few conveniences he carries with him. i do not think this worthy and economical personage will have much to do or to say, unless he marries the landlady. if he does that, he will play a part of some importance,--but i don't feel sure at all. his talk is little in amount, and generally ends in some compact formula condensing much wisdom in few words, as that a man, should not put all his eggs in one basket; that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it; and one in particular, which he surprised me by saying in pretty good french one day, to the effect that the inheritance of the world belongs to the phlegmatic people, which seems to me to have a good deal of truth in it. the other elderly personage, the old man with iron-gray hair and large round spectacles, sits at my right at table. he is a retired college officer, a man of books and observation, and himself an author. magister artium is one of his titles on the college catalogue, and i like best to speak of him as the master, because he has a certain air of authority which none of us feel inclined to dispute. he has given me a copy of a work of his which seems to me not wanting in suggestiveness, and which i hope i shall be able to make some use of in my records by and by. i said the other day that he had good solid prejudices, which is true, and i like him none the worse for it; but he has also opinions more or less original, valuable, probable, fanciful; fantastic, or whimsical, perhaps, now and then; which he promulgates at table somewhat in the tone of imperial edicts. another thing i like about him is, that he takes a certain intelligent interest in pretty much everything that interests other people. i asked him the other day what he thought most about in his wide range of studies. --sir,--said he,--i take stock in everything that concerns anybody. humani nihil,--you know the rest. but if you ask me what is my specialty, i should say, i applied myself more particularly to the contemplation of the order of things. --a pretty wide subject,--i ventured to suggest. --not wide enough, sir,--not wide enough to satisfy the desire of a mind which wants to get at absolute truth, without reference to the empirical arrangements of our particular planet and its environments. i want to subject the formal conditions of space and time to a new analysis, and project a possible universe outside of the order of things. but i have narrowed myself by studying the actual facts of being. by and by--by and by--perhaps--perhaps. i hope to do some sound thinking in heaven--if i ever get there,--he said seriously, and it seemed to me not irreverently. --i rather like that,--i said. i think your telescopic people are, on the whole, more satisfactory than your microscopic ones. --my left-hand neighbor fidgeted about a little in his chair as i said this. but the young man sitting not far from the landlady, to whom my attention had been attracted by the expression of his eyes, which seemed as if they saw nothing before him, but looked beyond everything, smiled a sort of faint starlight smile, that touched me strangely; for until that moment he had appeared as if his thoughts were far away, and i had been questioning whether he had lost friends lately, or perhaps had never had them, he seemed so remote from our boarding-house life. i will inquire about him, for he interests me, and i thought he seemed interested as i went on talking. --no,--i continued,--i don't want to have the territory of a man's mind fenced in. i don't want to shut out the mystery of the stars and the awful hollow that holds them. we have done with those hypaethral temples, that were open above to the heavens, but we can have attics and skylights to them. minds with skylights,--yes,--stop, let us see if we can't get something out of that. one-story intellects, two--story intellects, three story intellects with skylights. all fact--collectors, who have no aim beyond their facts, are one-story men. two-story men compare, reason, generalize, using the labors of the fact-collectors as well as their own. three-story men idealize, imagine, predict; their best illumination comes from above, through the skylight. there are minds with large ground floors, that can store an infinite amount of knowledge; some librarians, for instance, who know enough of books to help other people, without being able to make much other use of their knowledge, have intellects of this class. your great working lawyer has two spacious stories; his mind is clear, because his mental floors are large, and he has room to arrange his thoughts so that he can get at them,--facts below, principles above, and all in ordered series; poets are often narrow below, incapable of clear statement, and with small power of consecutive reasoning, but full of light, if sometimes rather bare of furniture, in the attics. --the old master smiled. i think he suspects himself of a three-story intellect, and i don't feel sure that he is n't right. --is it dark meat or white meat you will be helped to?--said the landlady, addressing the master. --dark meat for me, always,--he answered. then turning to me, he began one of those monologues of his, such as that which put the member of the haouse asleep the other day. --it 's pretty much the same in men and women and in books and everything, that it is in turkeys and chickens. why, take your poets, now, say browning and tennyson. don't you think you can say which is the dark-meat and which is the white-meat poet? and so of the people you know; can't you pick out the full-flavored, coarse-fibred characters from the delicate, fine-fibred ones? and in the same person, don't you know the same two shades in different parts of the character that you find in the wing and thigh of a partridge? i suppose you poets may like white meat best, very probably; you had rather have a wing than a drumstick, i dare say. --why, yes,--said i,--i suppose some of us do. perhaps it is because a bird flies with his white-fleshed limbs and walks with the dark-fleshed ones. besides, the wing-muscles are nearer the heart than the leg-muscles. i thought that sounded mighty pretty, and paused a moment to pat myself on the back, as is my wont when i say something that i think of superior quality. so i lost my innings; for the master is apt to strike in at the end of a bar, instead of waiting for a rest, if i may borrow a musical phrase. no matter, just at this moment, what he said; but he talked the member of the haouse asleep again. they have a new term nowadays (i am speaking to you, the reader) for people that do a good deal of talking; they call them "conversationists," or "conversationalists "; talkists, i suppose, would do just as well. it is rather dangerous to get the name of being one of these phenomenal manifestations, as one is expected to say something remarkable every time one opens one's mouth in company. it seems hard not to be able to ask for a piece of bread or a tumbler of water, without a sensation running round the table, as if one were an electric eel or a torpedo, and couldn't be touched without giving a shock. a fellow is n't all battery, is he? the idea that a gymnotus can't swallow his worm without a coruscation of animal lightning is hard on that brilliant but sensational being. good talk is not a matter of will at all; it depends--you know we are all half-materialists nowadays--on a certain amount of active congestion of the brain, and that comes when it is ready, and not before. i saw a man get up the other day in a pleasant company, and talk away for about five minutes, evidently by a pure effort of will. his person was good, his voice was pleasant, but anybody could see that it was all mechanical labor; he was sparring for wind, as the hon. john morrissey, m. c., would express himself. presently,-- do you,--beloved, i am afraid you are not old enough,--but do you remember the days of the tin tinder-box, the flint, and steel? click! click! click!--al-h-h! knuckles that time! click! click! click! a spark has taken, and is eating into the black tinder, as a six-year-old eats into a sheet of gingerbread. presently, after hammering away for his five minutes with mere words, the spark of a happy expression took somewhere among the mental combustibles, and then for ten minutes we had a pretty, wandering, scintillating play of eloquent thought, that enlivened, if it did not kindle, all around it. if you want the real philosophy of it, i will give it to you. the chance thought or expression struck the nervous centre of consciousness, as the rowel of a spur stings the flank of a racer. away through all the telegraphic radiations of the nervous cords flashed the intelligence that the brain was kindling, and must be fed with something or other, or it would burn itself to ashes. and all the great hydraulic engines poured in their scarlet blood, and the fire kindled, and the flame rose; for the blood is a stream that, like burning rock-oil, at once kindles, and is itself the fuel. you can't order these organic processes, any more than a milliner can make a rose. she can make something that looks like a rose, more or less, but it takes all the forces of the universe to finish and sweeten that blossom in your button-hole; and you may be sure that when the orator's brain is in a flame, when the poet's heart is in a tumult, it is something mightier than he and his will that is dealing with him! as i have looked from one of the northern windows of the street which commands our noble estuary,--the view through which is a picture on an illimitable canvas and a poem in innumerable cantos,--i have sometimes seen a pleasure-boat drifting along, her sail flapping, and she seeming as if she had neither will nor aim. at her stern a man was laboring to bring her head round with an oar, to little purpose, as it seemed to those who watched him pulling and tugging. but all at once the wind of heaven, which had wandered all the way from florida or from labrador, it may be, struck full upon the sail, and it swelled and rounded itself, like a white bosom that had burst its bodice, and-- --you are right; it is too true! but how i love these pretty phrases! i am afraid i am becoming an epicure in words, which is a bad thing to be, unless it is dominated by something infinitely better than itself. but there is a fascination in the mere sound of articulated breath; of consonants that resist with the firmness of a maid of honor, or half or wholly yield to the wooing lips; of vowels that flow and murmur, each after its kind; the peremptory b and p, the brittle k, the vibrating r, the insinuating s, the feathery f, the velvety v, the bell-voiced m, the tranquil broad a, the penetrating e, the cooing u, the emotional o, and the beautiful combinations of alternate rock and stream, as it were, that they give to the rippling flow of speech,--there is a fascination in the skilful handling of these, which the great poets and even prose-writers have not disdained to acknowledge and use to recommend their thought. what do you say to this line of homer as a piece of poetical full-band music? i know you read the greek characters with perfect ease, but permit me, just for my own satisfaction, to put it into english letters:-- aigle pamphanoosa di' aitheros ouranon ike! as if he should have spoken in our poorer phrase of splendor far shining through ether to heaven ascending. that greek line, which i do not remember having heard mention of as remarkable, has nearly every consonantal and vowel sound in the language. try it by the greek and by the english alphabet; it is a curiosity. tell me that old homer did not roll his sightless eyeballs about with delight, as he thundered out these ringing syllables! it seems hard to think of his going round like a hand-organ man, with such music and such thought as his to earn his bread with. one can't help wishing that mr. pugh could have got at him for a single lecture, at least, of the "star course," or that he could have appeared in the music hall, "for this night only." --i know i have rambled, but i hope you see that this is a delicate way of letting you into the nature of the individual who is, officially, the principal personage at our table. it would hardly do to describe him directly, you know. but you must not think, because the lightning zigzags, it does not know where to strike. i shall try to go through the rest of my description of our boarders with as little of digression as is consistent with my nature. i think we have a somewhat exceptional company. since our landlady has got up in the world, her board has been decidedly a favorite with persons a little above the average in point of intelligence and education. in fact, ever since a boarder of hers, not wholly unknown to the reading public, brought her establishment into notice, it has attracted a considerable number of literary and scientific people, and now and then a politician, like the member of the house of representatives, otherwise called the great and general court of the state of massachusetts. the consequence is, that there is more individuality of character than in a good many similar boardinghouses, where all are business-men, engrossed in the same pursuit of money-making, or all are engaged in politics, and so deeply occupied with the welfare of the community that they can think and talk of little else. at my left hand sits as singular-looking a human being as i remember seeing outside of a regular museum or tent-show. his black coat shines as if it had been polished; and it has been polished on the wearer's back, no doubt, for the arms and other points of maximum attrition are particularly smooth and bright. round shoulders,--stooping over some minute labor, i suppose. very slender limbs, with bends like a grasshopper's; sits a great deal, i presume; looks as if he might straighten them out all of a sudden, and jump instead of walking. wears goggles very commonly; says it rests his eyes, which he strains in looking at very small objects. voice has a dry creak, as if made by some small piece of mechanism that wanted oiling. i don't think he is a botanist, for he does not smell of dried herbs, but carries a camphorated atmosphere about with him, as if to keep the moths from attacking him. i must find out what is his particular interest. one ought to know something about his immediate neighbors at the table. this is what i said to myself, before opening a conversation with him. everybody in our ward of the city was in a great stir about a certain election, and i thought i might as well begin with that as anything. --how do you think the vote is likely to go tomorrow?--i said. --it isn't to-morrow,--he answered,--it 's next month. --next month!--said i.---why, what election do you mean? --i mean the election to the presidency of the entomological society, sir,--he creaked, with an air of surprise, as if nobody could by any possibility have been thinking of any other. great competition, sir, between the dipterists and the lepidopterists as to which shall get in their candidate. several close ballotings already; adjourned for a fortnight. poor concerns, both of 'em. wait till our turn comes. --i suppose you are an entomologist?--i said with a note of interrogation. -not quite so ambitious as that, sir. i should like to put my eyes on the individual entitled to that name! a society may call itself an entomological society, but the man who arrogates such a broad title as that to himself, in the present state of science, is a pretender, sir, a dilettante, an impostor! no man can be truly called an entomologist, sir; the subject is too vast for any single human intelligence to grasp. --may i venture to ask,--i said, a little awed by his statement and manner,--what is your special province of study? i am often spoken of as a coleopterist,--he said,--but i have no right to so comprehensive a name. the genus scarabaeus is what i have chiefly confined myself to, and ought to have studied exclusively. the beetles proper are quite enough for the labor of one man's life. call me a scarabaeist if you will; if i can prove myself worthy of that name, my highest ambition will be more than satisfied. i think, by way of compromise and convenience, i shall call him the scarabee. he has come to look wonderfully like those creatures,--the beetles, i mean,---by being so much among them. his room is hung round with cases of them, each impaled on a pin driven through him, something as they used to bury suicides. these cases take the place for him of pictures and all other ornaments. that boy steals into his room sometimes, and stares at them with great admiration, and has himself undertaken to form a rival cabinet, chiefly consisting of flies, so far, arranged in ranks superintended by an occasional spider. the old master, who is a bachelor, has a kindly feeling for this little monkey, and those of his kind. --i like children,--he said to me one day at table,--i like 'em, and i respect 'em. pretty much all the honest truth-telling there is in the world is done by them. do you know they play the part in the household which the king's jester, who very often had a mighty long head under his cap and bells, used to play for a monarch? there 's no radical club like a nest of little folks in a nursery. did you ever watch a baby's fingers? i have, often enough, though i never knew what it was to own one.---the master paused half a minute or so,--sighed,--perhaps at thinking what he had missed in life,--looked up at me a little vacantly. i saw what was the matter; he had lost the thread of his talk. --baby's fingers,--i intercalated. -yes, yes; did you ever see how they will poke those wonderful little fingers of theirs into every fold and crack and crevice they can get at? that is their first education, feeling their way into the solid facts of the material world. when they begin to talk it is the same thing over again in another shape. if there is a crack or a flaw in your answer to their confounded shoulder-hitting questions, they will poke and poke until they have got it gaping just as the baby's fingers have made a rent out of that atom of a hole in his pinafore that your old eyes never took notice of. then they make such fools of us by copying on a small scale what we do in the grand manner. i wonder if it ever occurs to our dried-up neighbor there to ask himself whether that boy's collection of flies is n't about as significant in the order of things as his own museum of beetles? --i couldn't help thinking that perhaps that boy's questions about the simpler mysteries of life might have a good deal of the same kind of significance as the master's inquiries into the order of things. --on my left, beyond my next neighbor the scarabee, at the end of the table, sits a person of whom we know little, except that he carries about him more palpable reminiscences of tobacco and the allied sources of comfort than a very sensitive organization might find acceptable. the master does not seem to like him much, for some reason or other,--perhaps he has a special aversion to the odor of tobacco. as his forefinger shows a little too distinctly that he uses a pen, i shall compliment him by calling him the man of letters, until i find out more about him. --the young girl who sits on my right, next beyond the master, can hardly be more than nineteen or twenty years old. i wish i could paint her so as to interest others as much as she does me. but she has not a profusion of sunny tresses wreathing a neck of alabaster, and a cheek where the rose and the lily are trying to settle their old quarrel with alternating victory. her hair is brown, her cheek is delicately pallid, her forehead is too ample for a ball-room beauty's. a single faint line between the eyebrows is the record of long--continued anxious efforts to please in the task she has chosen, or rather which has been forced upon her. it is the same line of anxious and conscientious effort which i saw not long since on the forehead of one of the sweetest and truest singers who has visited us; the same which is so striking on the masks of singing women painted upon the facade of our great organ,--that himalayan home of harmony which you are to see and then die, if you don't live where you can see and hear it often. many deaths have happened in a neighboring large city from that well-known complaint, icterus invidiosorum, after returning from a visit to the music hall. the invariable symptom of a fatal attack is the risus sardonicus.--but the young girl. she gets her living by writing stories for a newspaper. every week she furnishes a new story. if her head aches or her heart is heavy, so that she does not come to time with her story, she falls behindhand and has to live on credit. it sounds well enough to say that "she supports herself by her pen," but her lot is a trying one; it repeats the doom of the danaides. the "weekly bucket" has no bottom, and it is her business to help fill it. imagine for one moment what it is to tell a tale that must flow on, flow ever, without pausing; the lover miserable and happy this week, to begin miserable again next week and end as before; the villain scowling, plotting, punished; to scowl, plot, and get punished again in our next; an endless series of woes and busses, into each paragraph of which the forlorn artist has to throw all the liveliness, all the emotion, all the graces of style she is mistress of, for the wages of a maid of all work, and no more recognition or thanks from anybody than the apprentice who sets the types for the paper that prints her ever-ending and ever-beginning stories. and yet she has a pretty talent, sensibility, a natural way of writing, an ear for the music of verse, in which she sometimes indulges to vary the dead monotony of everlasting narrative, and a sufficient amount of invention to make her stories readable. i have found my eyes dimmed over them oftener than once, more with thinking about her, perhaps, than about her heroes and heroines. poor little body! poor little mind! poor little soul! she is one of that great company of delicate, intelligent, emotional young creatures, who are waiting, like that sail i spoke of, for some breath of heaven to fill their white bosoms,--love, the right of every woman; religious emotion, sister of love, with the same passionate eyes, but cold, thin, bloodless hands,--some enthusiasm of humanity or divinity; and find that life offers them, instead, a seat on a wooden bench, a chain to fasten them to it, and a heavy oar to pull day and night. we read the arabian tales and pity the doomed lady who must amuse her lord and master from day to day or have her head cut off; how much better is a mouth without bread to fill it than no mouth at all to fill, because no head? we have all round us a weary-eyed company of scheherezades! this is one of them, and i may call her by that name when it pleases me to do so. the next boarder i have to mention is the one who sits between the young girl and the landlady. in a little chamber into which a small thread of sunshine finds its way for half an hour or so every day during a month or six weeks of the spring or autumn, at all other times obliged to content itself with ungilded daylight, lives this boarder, whom, without wronging any others of our company, i may call, as she is very generally called in the household, the lady. in giving her this name it is not meant that there are no other ladies at our table, or that the handmaids who serve us are not ladies, or to deny the general proposition that everybody who wears the unbifurcated garment is entitled to that appellation. only this lady has a look and manner which there is no mistaking as belonging to a person always accustomed to refined and elegant society. her style is perhaps a little more courtly and gracious than some would like. the language and manner which betray the habitual desire of pleasing, and which add a charm to intercourse in the higher social circles, are liable to be construed by sensitive beings unused to such amenities as an odious condescension when addressed to persons of less consideration than the accused, and as a still more odious--you know the word--when directed to those who are esteemed by the world as considerable person ages. but of all this the accused are fortunately wholly unconscious, for there is nothing so entirely natural and unaffected as the highest breeding. from an aspect of dignified but undisguised economy which showed itself in her dress as well as in her limited quarters, i suspected a story of shipwrecked fortune, and determined to question our landlady. that worthy woman was delighted to tell the history of her most distinguished boarder. she was, as i had supposed, a gentlewoman whom a change of circumstances had brought down from her high estate. --did i know the goldenrod family?--of course i did.---well, the lady, was first cousin to mrs. midas goldenrod. she had been here in her carriage to call upon her,--not very often.---were her rich relations kind and helpful to her?--well, yes; at least they made her presents now and then. three or four years ago they sent her a silver waiter, and every christmas they sent her a boquet,--it must cost as much as five dollars, the landlady thought. --and how did the lady receive these valuable and useful gifts? --every christmas she got out the silver waiter and borrowed a glass tumbler and filled it with water, and put the boquet in it and set it on the waiter. it smelt sweet enough and looked pretty for a day or two, but the landlady thought it wouldn't have hurt 'em if they'd sent a piece of goods for a dress, or at least a pocket-handkercher or two, or something or other that she could 'a' made some kind of use of; but beggars must n't be choosers; not that she was a beggar, for she'd sooner die than do that if she was in want of a meal of victuals. there was a lady i remember, and she had a little boy and she was a widow, and after she'd buried her husband she was dreadful poor, and she was ashamed to let her little boy go out in his old shoes, and copper-toed shoes they was too, because his poor little ten--toes--was a coming out of 'em; and what do you think my husband's rich uncle,--well, there now, it was me and my little benjamin, as he was then, there's no use in hiding of it,--and what do you think my husband's uncle sent me but a plaster of paris image of a young woman, that was,--well, her appearance wasn't respectable, and i had to take and wrap her up in a towel and poke her right into my closet, and there she stayed till she got her head broke and served her right, for she was n't fit to show folks. you need n't say anything about what i told you, but the fact is i was desperate poor before i began to support myself taking boarders, and a lone woman without her--her-- the sentence plunged into the gulf of her great remembered sorrow, and was lost to the records of humanity. --presently she continued in answer to my questions: the lady was not very sociable; kept mostly to herself. the young girl (our scheherezade) used to visit her sometimes, and they seemed to like each other, but the young girl had not many spare hours for visiting. the lady never found fault, but she was very nice in her tastes, and kept everything about her looking as neat and pleasant as she could. ---what did she do?--why, she read, and she drew pictures, and she did needlework patterns, and played on an old harp she had; the gilt was mostly off, but it sounded very sweet, and she sung to it sometimes, those old songs that used to be in fashion twenty or thirty years ago, with words to 'em that folks could understand. did she do anything to help support herself?--the landlady couldn't say she did, but she thought there was rich people enough that ought to buy the flowers and things she worked and painted. all this points to the fact that she was bred to be an ornamental rather than what is called a useful member of society. this is all very well so long as fortune favors those who are chosen to be the ornamental personages; but if the golden tide recedes and leaves them stranded, they are more to be pitied than almost any other class. "i cannot dig, to beg i am ashamed." i think it is unpopular in this country to talk much about gentlemen and gentlewomen. people are touchy about social distinctions, which no doubt are often invidious and quite arbitrary and accidental, but which it is impossible to avoid recognizing as facts of natural history. society stratifies itself everywhere, and the stratum which is generally recognized as the uppermost will be apt to have the advantage in easy grace of manner and in unassuming confidence, and consequently be more agreeable in the superficial relations of life. to compare these advantages with the virtues and utilities would be foolish. much of the noblest work in life is done by ill-dressed, awkward, ungainly persons; but that is no more reason for undervaluing good manners and what we call high-breeding, than the fact that the best part of the sturdy labor of the world is done by men with exceptionable hands is to be urged against the use of brown windsor as a preliminary to appearance in cultivated society. i mean to stand up for this poor lady, whose usefulness in the world is apparently problematical. she seems to me like a picture which has fallen from its gilded frame and lies, face downward, on the dusty floor. the picture never was as needful as a window or a door, but it was pleasant to see it in its place, and it would be pleasant to see it there again, and i, for one, should be thankful to have the lady restored by some turn of fortune to the position from which she has been so cruelly cast down. --i have asked the landlady about the young man sitting near her, the same who attracted my attention the other day while i was talking, as i mentioned. he passes most of his time in a private observatory, it appears; a watcher of the stars. that i suppose gives the peculiar look to his lustrous eyes. the master knows him and was pleased to tell me something about him. you call yourself a poet,--he said,--and we call you so, too, and so you are; i read your verses and like 'em. but that young man lives in a world beyond the imagination of poets, let me tell you. the daily home of his thought is in illimitable space, hovering between the two eternities. in his contemplations the divisions of time run together, as in the thought of his maker. with him also,--i say it not profanely,--one day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as one day. this account of his occupation increased the interest his look had excited in me, and i have observed him more particularly and found out more about him. sometimes, after a long night's watching, he looks so pale and worn, that one would think the cold moonlight had stricken him with some malign effluence such as it is fabled to send upon those who sleep in it. at such times he seems more like one who has come from a planet farther away from the sun than our earth, than like one of us terrestrial creatures. his home is truly in the heavens, and he practises an asceticism in the cause of science almost comparable to that of saint simeon stylites. yet they tell me he might live in luxury if he spent on himself what he spends on science. his knowledge is of that strange, remote character, that it seems sometimes almost superhuman. he knows the ridges and chasms of the moon as a surveyor knows a garden-plot he has measured. he watches the snows that gather around the poles of mars; he is on the lookout for the expected comet at the moment when its faint stain of diffused light first shows itself; he analyzes the ray that comes from the sun's photosphere; he measures the rings of saturn; he counts his asteroids to see that none are missing, as the shepherd counts the sheep in his flock. a strange unearthly being; lonely, dwelling far apart from the thoughts and cares of the planet on which he lives,--an enthusiast who gives his life to knowledge; a student of antiquity, to whom the records of the geologist are modern pages in the great volume of being, and the pyramids a memorandum of yesterday, as the eclipse or occultation that is to take place thousands of years hence is an event of to-morrow in the diary without beginning and without end where he enters the aspect of the passing moment as it is read on the celestial dial. in very marked contrast with this young man is the something more than middle-aged register of deeds, a rusty, sallow, smoke-dried looking personage, who belongs to this earth as exclusively as the other belongs to the firmament. his movements are as mechanical as those of a pendulum,--to the office, where he changes his coat and plunges into messuages and building-lots; then, after changing his coat again, back to our table, and so, day by day, the dust of years gradually gathering around him as it does on the old folios that fill the shelves all round the great cemetery of past transactions of which he is the sexton. of the salesman who sits next him, nothing need be said except that he is good-looking, rosy, well-dressed, and of very polite manners, only a little more brisk than the approved style of carriage permits, as one in the habit of springing with a certain alacrity at the call of a customer. you would like to see, i don't doubt, how we sit at the table, and i will help you by means of a diagram which shows the present arrangement of our seats. ---------------------------------- | o o o o o o | | | | o breakfast-table o | | | | o o o o o o | ---------------------------------- . the poet. . the master of arts. . the young girl (scheherezade). . the lady. . the landlady. . dr. b. franklin. . that boy. . the astronomer. . the member of the haouse. . the register of deeds. . the salesman. . the capitalist. . the man of letters(?). . the scarabee. our young scheherezade varies her prose stories now and then, as i told you, with compositions in verse, one or two of which she has let me look over. here is one of them, which she allowed me to copy. it is from a story of hers, "the sun-worshipper's daughter," which you may find in the periodical before mentioned, to which she is a contributor, if your can lay your hand upon a file of it. i think our scheherezade has never had a lover in human shape, or she would not play so lightly with the firebrands of the great passion. fantasia. kiss mine eyelids, beauteous morn, blushing into life new-born! lend me violets for my hair, and thy russet robe to wear, and thy ring of rosiest hue set in drops of diamond dew! kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray, from my love so far away! let thy splendor streaming down turn its pallid lilies brown, till its darkening shades reveal where his passion pressed its seal! kiss my lips, thou lord of light, kiss my lips a soft good night! westward sinks thy golden car; leave me but the evening star, and my solace that shall be, borrowing all its light from thee! iii the old master was talking about a concert he had been to hear.--i don't like your chopped music anyway. that woman--she had more sense in her little finger than forty medical societies--florence nightingale--says that the music you pour out is good for sick folks, and the music you pound out isn't. not that exactly, but something like it. i have been to hear some music-pounding. it was a young woman, with as many white muslin flounces round her as the planet saturn has rings, that did it. she--gave the music-stool a twirl or two and fluffed down on to it like a whirl of soap-suds in a hand-basin. then she pushed up her cuffs as if she was going to fight for the champion's belt. then she worked her wrists and her hands, to limber 'em, i suppose, and spread out her fingers till they looked as though they would pretty much cover the key-board, from the growling end to the little squeaky one. then those two hands of hers made a jump at the keys as if they were a couple of tigers coming down on a flock of black and white sheep, and the piano gave a great howl as if its tail had been trod on. dead stop,--so still you could hear your hair growing. then another jump, and another howl, as if the piano had two tails and you had trod on both of 'em at once, and, then a grand clatter and scramble and string of jumps, up and down, back and forward, one hand over the other, like a stampede of rats and mice more than like anything i call music. i like to hear a woman sing, and i like to hear a fiddle sing, but these noises they hammer out of their wood and ivory anvils--don't talk to me, i know the difference between a bullfrog and a woodthrush and-- pop! went a small piece of artillery such as is made of a stick of elder and carries a pellet of very moderate consistency. that boy was in his seat and looking demure enough, but there could be no question that he was the artillery-man who had discharged the missile. the aim was not a bad one, for it took the master full in the forehead, and had the effect of checking the flow of his eloquence. how the little monkey had learned to time his interruptions i do not know, but i have observed more than once before this, that the popgun would go off just at the moment when some one of the company was getting too energetic or prolix. the boy isn't old enough to judge for himself when to intervene to change the order of conversation; no, of course he isn't. somebody must give him a hint. somebody.--who is it? i suspect dr. b. franklin. he looks too knowing. there is certainly a trick somewhere. why, a day or two ago i was myself discoursing, with considerable effect, as i thought, on some of the new aspects of humanity, when i was struck full on the cheek by one of these little pellets, and there was such a confounded laugh that i had to wind up and leave off with a preposition instead of a good mouthful of polysyllables. i have watched our young doctor, however, and have been entirely unable to detect any signs of communication between him and this audacious child, who is like to become a power among us, for that popgun is fatal to any talker who is hit by its pellet. i have suspected a foot under the table as the prompter, but i have been unable to detect the slightest movement or look as if he were making one, on the part of dr. benjamin franklin. i cannot help thinking of the flappers in swift's laputa, only they gave one a hint when to speak and another a hint to listen, whereas the popgun says unmistakably, "shut up!" --i should be sorry to lose my confidence in dr. b. franklin, who seems very much devoted to his business, and whom i mean to consult about some small symptoms i have had lately. perhaps it is coming to a new boarding-house. the young people who come into paris from the provinces are very apt--so i have been told by one that knows--to have an attack of typhoid fever a few weeks or months after their arrival. i have not been long enough at this table to get well acclimated; perhaps that is it. boarding-house fever. something like horse-ail, very likely,--horses get it, you know, when they are brought to city stables. a little "off my feed," as hiram woodruff would say. a queer discoloration about my forehead. query, a bump? cannot remember any. might have got it against bedpost or something while asleep. very unpleasant to look so. i wonder how my portrait would look, if anybody should take it now! i hope not quite so badly as one i saw the other day, which i took for the end man of the ethiopian serenaders, or some traveller who had been exploring the sources of the niger, until i read the name at the bottom and found it was a face i knew as well as my own. i must consult somebody, and it is nothing more than fair to give our young doctor a chance. here goes for dr. benjamin franklin. the young doctor has a very small office and a very large sign, with a transparency at night big enough for an oyster-shop. these young doctors are particularly strong, as i understand, on what they call diagnosis,--an excellent branch of the healing art, full of satisfaction to the curious practitioner, who likes to give the right latin name to one's complaint; not quite so satisfactory to the patient, as it is not so very much pleasanter to be bitten by a dog with a collar round his neck telling you that he is called snap or teaser, than by a dog without a collar. sometimes, in fact, one would a little rather not know the exact name of his complaint, as if he does he is pretty sure to look it out in a medical dictionary, and then if he reads, this terrible disease is attended with vast suffering and is inevitably mortal, or any such statement, it is apt to affect him unpleasantly. i confess to a little shakiness when i knocked at dr. benjamin's office door. "come in!" exclaimed dr. b. f. in tones that sounded ominous and sepulchral. and i went in. i don't believe the chambers of the inquisition ever presented a more alarming array of implements for extracting a confession, than our young doctor's office did of instruments to make nature tell what was the matter with a poor body. there were ophthalmoscopes and rhinoscopes and otoscopes and laryngoscopes and stethoscopes; and thermometers and spirometers and dynamometers and sphygmometers and pleximeters; and probes and probangs and all sorts of frightful inquisitive exploring contrivances; and scales to weigh you in, and tests and balances and pumps and electro-magnets and magneto-electric machines; in short, apparatus for doing everything but turn you inside out. dr. benjamin set me down before his one window and began looking at me with such a superhuman air of sagacity, that i felt like one of those open-breasted clocks which make no secret of their inside arrangements, and almost thought he could see through me as one sees through a shrimp or a jelly-fish. first he looked at the place inculpated, which had a sort of greenish-brown color, with his naked eyes, with much corrugation of forehead and fearful concentration of attention; then through a pocket-glass which he carried. then he drew back a space, for a perspective view. then he made me put out my tongue and laid a slip of blue paper on it, which turned red and scared me a little. next he took my wrist; but instead of counting my pulse in the old-fashioned way, he fastened a machine to it that marked all the beats on a sheet of paper,--for all the world like a scale of the heights of mountains, say from mount tom up to chimborazo and then down again, and up again, and so on. in the mean time he asked me all sorts of questions about myself and all my relatives, whether we had been subject to this and that malady, until i felt as if we must some of us have had more or less of them, and could not feel quite sure whether elephantiasis and beriberi and progressive locomotor ataxy did not run in the family. after all this overhauling of myself and my history, he paused and looked puzzled. something was suggested about what he called an "exploratory puncture." this i at once declined, with thanks. suddenly a thought struck him. he looked still more closely at the discoloration i have spoken of. --looks like--i declare it reminds me of--very rare! very curious! it would be strange if my first case--of this kind--should be one of our boarders! what kind of a case do you call it?--i said, with a sort of feeling that he could inflict a severe or a light malady on me, as if he were a judge passing sentence. --the color reminds me,--said dr. b. franklin,--of what i have seen in a case of addison's disease, morbus addisonii. --but my habits are quite regular,--i said; for i remembered that the distinguished essayist was too fond of his brandy and water, and i confess that the thought was not pleasant to me of following dr. johnson's advice, with the slight variation of giving my days and my nights to trying on the favorite maladies of addison. --temperance people are subject to it!--exclaimed dr. benjamin, almost exultingly, i thought. --but i had the impression that the author of the spectator was afflicted with a dropsy, or some such inflated malady, to which persons of sedentary and bibacious habits are liable. [a literary swell,--i thought to myself, but i did not say it. i felt too serious.] --the author of the spectator!--cried out dr. benjamin,--i mean the celebrated dr. addison, inventor, i would say discoverer, of the wonderful new disease called after him. ---and what may this valuable invention or discovery consist in?--i asked, for i was curious to know the nature of the gift which this benefactor of the race had bestowed upon us. --a most interesting affection, and rare, too. allow me to look closely at that discoloration once more for a moment. cutis cenea, bronze skin, they call it sometimes--extraordinary pigmentation--a little more to the light, if you please--ah! now i get the bronze coloring admirably, beautifully! would you have any objection to showing your case to the societies of medical improvement and medical observation? [--my case! o dear!] may i ask if any vital organ is commonly involved in this interesting complaint?--i said, faintly. --well, sir,--the young doctor replied,--there is an organ which is --sometimes--a little touched, i may say; a very curious and ingenious little organ or pair of organs. did you ever hear of the capsulae, suprarenales? --no,--said i,--is it a mortal complaint?--i ought to have known better than to ask such a question, but i was getting nervous and thinking about all sorts of horrid maladies people are liable to, with horrid names to match. --it is n't a complaint,--i mean they are not a complaint,--they are two small organs, as i said, inside of you, and nobody knows what is the use of them. the most curious thing is that when anything is the matter with them you turn of the color of bronze. after all, i didn't mean to say i believed it was morbus addisonii; i only thought of that when i saw the discoloration. so he gave me a recipe, which i took care to put where it could do no hurt to anybody, and i paid him his fee (which he took with the air of a man in the receipt of a great income) and said good-morning. --what in the name of a thousand diablos is the reason these confounded doctors will mention their guesses about "a case," as they call it, and all its conceivable possibilities, out loud before their patients? i don't suppose there is anything in all this nonsense about "addison's disease," but i wish he hadn't spoken of that very interesting ailment, and i should feel a little easier if that discoloration would leave my forehead. i will ask the landlady about it,--these old women often know more than the young doctors just come home with long names for everything they don't know how to cure. but the name of this complaint sets me thinking. bronzed skin! what an odd idea! wonder if it spreads all over one. that would be picturesque and pleasant, now, wouldn't it? to be made a living statue of,--nothing to do but strike an attitude. arm up--so--like the one in the garden. john of bologna's mercury--thus on one foot. needy knife-grinder in the tribune at florence. no, not "needy," come to think of it. marcus aurelius on horseback. query. are horses subject to the morbus addisonii? advertise for a bronzed living horse--lyceum invitations and engagements--bronze versus brass.---what 's the use in being frightened? bet it was a bump. pretty certain i bumped my forehead against something. never heard of a bronzed man before. have seen white men, black men, red men, yellow men, two or three blue men, stained with doctor's stuff; some green ones, from the country; but never a bronzed man. poh, poh! sure it was a bump. ask landlady to look at it. --landlady did look at it. said it was a bump, and no mistake. recommended a piece of brown paper dipped in vinegar. made the house smell as if it were in quarantine for the plague from smyrna, but discoloration soon disappeared,--so i did not become a bronzed man after all,--hope i never shall while i am alive. should n't mind being done in bronze after i was dead. on second thoughts not so clear about it, remembering how some of them look that we have got stuck up in public; think i had rather go down to posterity in an ethiopian minstrel portrait, like our friend's the other day. --you were kind enough to say, i remarked to the master, that you read my poems and liked them. perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what it is you like about them? the master harpooned a breakfast-roll and held it up before me.--will you tell me,--he said,--why you like that breakfast-roll?--i suppose he thought that would stop my mouth in two senses. but he was mistaken. --to be sure i will,--said i.---first, i like its mechanical consistency; brittle externally,--that is for the teeth, which want resistance to be overcome; soft, spongy, well tempered and flavored internally, that is for the organ of taste; wholesome, nutritious,--that is for the internal surfaces and the system generally. --good,--said the master, and laughed a hearty terrestrial laugh. i hope he will carry that faculty of an honest laugh with him wherever he goes,--why shouldn't he? the "order of things," as he calls it, from which hilarity was excluded, would be crippled and one-sided enough. i don't believe the human gamut will be cheated of a single note after men have done breathing this fatal atmospheric mixture and die into the ether of immortality! i did n't say all that; if i had said it, it would have brought a pellet from the popgun, i feel quite certain. the master went on after he had had out his laugh.--there is one thing i am his imperial majesty about, and that is my likes and dislikes. what if i do like your verses,--you can't help yourself. i don't doubt somebody or other hates 'em and hates you and everything you do, or ever did, or ever can do. he is all right; there is nothing you or i like that somebody does n't hate. was there ever anything wholesome that was not poison to somebody? if you hate honey or cheese, or the products of the dairy,--i know a family a good many of whose members can't touch milk, butter, cheese, and the like, why, say so, but don't find fault with the bees and the cows. some are afraid of roses, and i have known those who thought a pond-lily a disagreeable neighbor. that boy will give you the metaphysics of likes and dislikes. look here,--you young philosopher over there,--do you like candy? that boy.---you bet! give me a stick and see if i don't. and can you tell me why you like candy? that boy.--because i do. --there, now, that is the whole matter in a nutshell. why do your teeth like crackling crust, and your organs of taste like spongy crumb, and your digestive contrivances take kindly to bread rather than toadstools-- that boy (thinking he was still being catechised).--because they do. whereupon the landlady said, sh! and the young girl laughed, and the lady smiled; and dr. ben franklin kicked him, moderately, under the table, and the astronomer looked up at the ceiling to see what had happened, and the member of the haouse cried, order! order! and the salesman said, shut up, cash-boy! and the rest of the boarders kept on feeding; except the master, who looked very hard but half approvingly at the small intruder, who had come about as nearly right as most professors would have done. --you poets,--the master said after this excitement had calmed down, --you poets have one thing about you that is odd. you talk about everything as if you knew more about it than the people whose business it is to know all about it. i suppose you do a little of what we teachers used to call "cramming" now and then? --if you like your breakfast you must n't ask the cook too many questions,--i answered. --oh, come now, don't be afraid of letting out your secrets. i have a notion i can tell a poet that gets himself up just as i can tell a make-believe old man on the stage by the line where the gray skullcap joins the smooth forehead of the young fellow of seventy. you'll confess to a rhyming dictionary anyhow, won't you? --i would as lief use that as any other dictionary, but i don't want it. when a word comes up fit to end a line with i can feel all the rhymes in the language that are fit to go with it without naming them. i have tried them all so many times, i know all the polygamous words and all the monogamous ones, and all the unmarrying ones,--the whole lot that have no mates,--as soon as i hear their names called. sometimes i run over a string of rhymes, but generally speaking it is strange what a short list it is of those that are good for anything. that is the pitiful side of all rhymed verse. take two such words as home and world. what can you do with chrome or loam or gnome or tome? you have dome, foam, and roam, and not much more to use in your pome, as some of our fellow-countrymen call it. as for world, you know that in all human probability somebody or something will be hurled into it or out of it; its clouds may be furled or its grass impearled; possibly something may be whirled, or curled, or have swirled, one of leigh hunt's words, which with lush, one of keats's, is an important part of the stock in trade of some dealers in rhyme. --and how much do you versifiers know of all those arts and sciences you refer to as if you were as familiar with them as a cobbler is with his wax and lapstone? --enough not to make too many mistakes. the best way is to ask some expert before one risks himself very far in illustrations from a branch he does not know much about. suppose, for instance, i wanted to use the double star to illustrate anything, say the relation of two human souls to each other, what would i--do? why, i would ask our young friend there to let me look at one of those loving celestial pairs through his telescope, and i don't doubt he'd let me do so, and tell me their names and all i wanted to know about them. --i should be most happy to show any of the double stars or whatever else there might be to see in the heavens to any of our friends at this table,--the young man said, so cordially and kindly that it was a real invitation. --show us the man in the moon,--said that boy.---i should so like to see a double star!--said scheherezade, with a very pretty air of smiling modesty. --will you go, if we make up a party?--i asked the master. --a cold in the head lasts me from three to five days,--answered the master.--i am not so very fond of being out in the dew like nebuchadnezzar: that will do for you young folks. --i suppose i must be one of the young folks, not so young as our scheherezade, nor so old as the capitalist,--young enough at any rate to want to be of the party. so we agreed that on some fair night when the astronomer should tell us that there was to be a fine show in the skies, we would make up a party and go to the observatory. i asked the scarabee whether he would not like to make one of us. --out of the question, sir, out of the question. i am altogether too much occupied with an important scientific investigation to devote any considerable part of an evening to star-gazing. --oh, indeed,--said i,--and may i venture to ask on what particular point you are engaged just at present? -certainly, sir, you may. it is, i suppose, as difficult and important a matter to be investigated as often comes before a student of natural history. i wish to settle the point once for all whether the pediculus mellitae is or is not the larva of meloe. [--now is n't this the drollest world to live in that one could imagine, short of being in a fit of delirium tremens? here is a fellow-creature of mine and yours who is asked to see all the glories of the firmament brought close to him, and he is too busy with a little unmentionable parasite that infests the bristly surface of a bee to spare an hour or two of a single evening for the splendors of the universe! i must get a peep through that microscope of his and see the pediculus which occupies a larger space in his mental vision than the midnight march of the solar systems.---the creature, the human one, i mean, interests me.] --i am very curious,--i said,--about that pediculus melittae,--(just as if i knew a good deal about the little wretch and wanted to know more, whereas i had never heard him spoken of before, to my knowledge,)--could you let me have a sight of him in your microscope? --you ought to have seen the way in which the poor dried-up little scarabee turned towards me. his eyes took on a really human look, and i almost thought those antennae-like arms of his would have stretched themselves out and embraced me. i don't believe any of the boarders had ever shown any interest in--him, except the little monkey of a boy, since he had been in the house. it is not strange; he had not seemed to me much like a human being, until all at once i touched the one point where his vitality had concentrated itself, and he stood revealed a man and a brother. --come in,--said he,--come in, right after breakfast, and you shall see the animal that has convulsed the entomological world with questions as to his nature and origin. --so i went into the scarabee's parlor, lodging-room, study, laboratory, and museum,--a--single apartment applied to these various uses, you understand. --i wish i had time to have you show me all your treasures,--i said, --but i am afraid i shall hardly be able to do more than look at the bee-parasite. but what a superb butterfly you have in that case! --oh, yes, yes, well enough,--came from south america with the beetle there; look at him! these lepidoptera are for children to play with, pretty to look at, so some think. give me the coleoptera, and the kings of the coleoptera are the beetles! lepidoptera and neuroptera for little folks; coleopteras for men, sir! --the particular beetle he showed me in the case with the magnificent butterfly was an odious black wretch that one would say, ugh! at, and kick out of his path, if he did not serve him worse than that. but he looked at it as a coin-collector would look at a pescennius niger, if the coins of that emperor are as scarce as they used to be when i was collecting half-penny tokens and pine-tree shillings and battered bits of roman brass with the head of gallienus or some such old fellow on them. --a beauty!--he exclaimed,--and the only specimen of the kind in this country, to the best of my belief. a unique, sir, and there is a pleasure in exclusive possession. not another beetle like that short of south america, sir. --i was glad to hear that there were no more like it in this neighborhood, the present supply of cockroaches answering every purpose, so far as i am concerned, that such an animal as this would be likely to serve. --here are my bee-parasites,--said the scarabee, showing me a box full of glass slides, each with a specimen ready mounted for the microscope. i was most struck with one little beast flattened out like a turtle, semi-transparent, six-legged, as i remember him, and every leg terminated by a single claw hooked like a lion's and as formidable for the size of the creature as that of the royal beast. --lives on a bumblebee, does he?--i said. that's the way i call it. bumblebee or bumblybee and huckleberry. humblebee and whortleberry for people that say woos-ses-ter and nor-wich. --the scarabee did not smile; he took no interest in trivial matters like this. --lives on a bumblebee. when you come to think of it, he must lead a pleasant kind of life. sails through the air without the trouble of flying. free pass everywhere that the bee goes. no fear of being dislodged; look at those six grappling-hooks. helps himself to such juices of the bee as he likes best; the bee feeds on the choicest vegetable nectars, and he feeds on the bee. lives either in the air or in the perfumed pavilion of the fairest and sweetest flowers. think what tents the hollyhocks and the great lilies spread for him! and wherever he travels a band of music goes with him, for this hum which wanders by us is doubtless to him a vast and inspiring strain of melody.--i thought all this, while the scarabee supposed i was studying the minute characters of the enigmatical specimen. --i know what i consider your pediculus melittae, i said at length. do you think it really the larva of meloe? --oh, i don't know much about that, but i think he is the best cared for, on the whole, of any animal that i know of; and if i wasn't a man i believe i had rather be that little sybarite than anything that feasts at the board of nature. --the question is, whether he is the larva of meloe,--the scarabee said, as if he had not heard a word of what i had just been saying.----if i live a few years longer it shall be settled, sir; and if my epitaph can say honestly that i settled it, i shall be willing to trust my posthumous fame to that achievement. i said good morning to the specialist, and went off feeling not only kindly, but respectfully towards him. he is an enthusiast, at any rate, as "earnest" a man as any philanthropic reformer who, having passed his life in worrying people out of their misdoings into good behavior, comes at last to a state in which he is never contented except when he is making somebody uncomfortable. he does certainly know one thing well, very likely better than anybody in the world. i find myself somewhat singularly placed at our table between a minute philosopher who has concentrated all his faculties on a single subject, and my friend who finds the present universe too restricted for his intelligence. i would not give much to hear what the scarabee says about the old master, for he does not pretend to form a judgment of anything but beetles, but i should like to hear what the master has to say about the scarabee. i waited after breakfast until he had gone, and then asked the master what he could make of our dried-up friend. --well,--he said,--i am hospitable enough in my feelings to him and all his tribe. these specialists are the coral-insects that build up a reef. by and by it will be an island, and for aught we know may grow into a continent. but i don't want to be a coral-insect myself. i had rather be a voyager that visits all the reefs and islands the creatures build, and sails over the seas where they have as yet built up nothing. i am a little afraid that science is breeding us down too fast into coral-insects. a man like newton or leibnitz or haller used to paint a picture of outward or inward nature with a free hand, and stand back and look at it as a whole and feel like an archangel; but nowadays you have a society, and they come together and make a great mosaic, each man bringing his little bit and sticking it in its place, but so taken up with his petty fragment that he never thinks of looking at the picture the little bits make when they are put together. you can't get any talk out of these specialists away from their own subjects, any more than you can get help from a policeman outside of his own beat. --yes,--said i,--but why should n't we always set a man talking about the thing he knows best? --no doubt, no doubt, if you meet him once; but what are you going to do with him if you meet him every day? i travel with a man and we want to make change very often in paying bills. but every time i ask him to change a pistareen, or give me two fo'pencehappennies for a ninepence, or help me to make out two and thrippence (mark the old master's archaisms about the currency), what does the fellow do but put his hand in his pocket and pull out an old roman coin; i have no change, says he, but this assarion of diocletian. mighty deal of good that'll do me! --it isn't quite so handy as a few specimens of the modern currency would be, but you can pump him on numismatics. --to be sure, to be sure. i've pumped a thousand men of all they could teach me, or at least all i could learn from 'em; and if it comes to that, i never saw the man that couldn't teach me something. i can get along with everybody in his place, though i think the place of some of my friends is over there among the feeble-minded pupils, and i don't believe there's one of them, i couldn't go to school to for half an hour and be the wiser for it. but people you talk with every day have got to have feeders for their minds, as much as the stream that turns a millwheel has. it isn't one little rill that's going to keep the float-boards turning round. take a dozen of the brightest men you can find in the brightest city, wherever that may be,--perhaps you and i think we know,--and let 'em come together once a month, and you'll find out in the course of a year or two the ones that have feeders from all the hillsides. your common talkers, that exchange the gossip of the day, have no wheel in particular to turn, and the wash of the rain as it runs down the street is enough for them. --do you mean you can always see the sources from which a man fills his mind,--his feeders, as you call them? -i don't go quite so far as that,--the master said.---i've seen men whose minds were always overflowing, and yet they did n't read much nor go much into the world. sometimes you'll find a bit of a pond-hole in a pasture, and you'll plunge your walking-stick into it and think you are going to touch bottom. but you find you are mistaken. some of these little stagnant pond-holes are a good deal deeper than you think; you may tie a stone to a bed-cord and not get soundings in some of 'em. the country boys will tell you they have no bottom, but that only means that they are mighty deep; and so a good many stagnant, stupid-seeming people are a great deal deeper than the length of your intellectual walking-stick, i can tell you. there are hidden springs that keep the little pond-holes full when the mountain brooks are all dried up. you poets ought to know that. --i can't help thinking you are more tolerant towards the specialists than i thought at first, by the way you seemed to look at our dried-up neighbor and his small pursuits. --i don't like the word tolerant,--the master said.---as long as the lord can tolerate me i think i can stand my fellow-creatures. philosophically, i love 'em all; empirically, i don't think i am very fond of all of 'em. it depends on how you look at a man or a woman. come here, youngster, will you? he said to that boy. the boy was trying to catch a blue-bottle to add to his collection, and was indisposed to give up the chase; but he presently saw that the master had taken out a small coin and laid it on the table, and felt himself drawn in that direction. read that,--said the master. u-n-i-ni united states of america cents. the master turned the coin over. now read that. in god is our t-r-u-s-t--trust. . --is that the same piece of money as the other one? --there ain't any other one,--said the boy, there ain't but one, but it's got two sides to it with different reading. --that 's it, that 's it,--said the master,--two sides to everybody, as there are to that piece of money. i've seen an old woman that wouldn't fetch five cents if you should put her up for sale at public auction; and yet come to read the other side of her, she had a trust in god almighty that was like the bow anchor of a three-decker. it's faith in something and enthusiasm for something that makes a life worth looking at. i don't think your ant-eating specialist, with his sharp nose and pin-head eyes, is the best every-day companion; but any man who knows one thing well is worth listening to for once; and if you are of the large-brained variety of the race, and want to fill out your programme of the order of things in a systematic and exhaustive way, and get all the half-notes and flats and sharps of humanity into your scale, you'd a great deal better shut your front door and open your two side ones when you come across a fellow that has made a real business of doing anything. --that boy stood all this time looking hard at the five-cent piece. --take it,--said the master, with a good-natured smile. --the boy made a snatch at it and was off for the purpose of investing it. --a child naturally snaps at a thing as a dog does at his meat,--said the master.---if you think of it, we've all been quadrupeds. a child that can only crawl has all the instincts of a four-footed beast. it carries things in its mouth just as cats and dogs do. i've seen the little brutes do it over and over again. i suppose a good many children would stay quadrupeds all their lives, if they didn't learn the trick of walking on their hind legs from seeing all the grown people walking in that way. --do you accept mr. darwin's notions about the origin of the race?--said i. the master looked at me with that twinkle in his eye which means that he is going to parry a question. --better stick to blair's chronology; that settles it. adam and eve, created friday, october th, b. c. . you've been in a ship for a good while, and here comes mr. darwin on deck with an armful of sticks and says, "let's build a raft, and trust ourselves to that." if your ship springs a leak, what would you do? he looked me straight in the eyes for about half a minute.---if i heard the pumps going, i'd look and see whether they were gaining on the leak or not. if they were gaining i'd stay where i was.---go and find out what's the matter with that young woman. i had noticed that the young girl--the storywriter, our scheherezade, as i called her--looked as if she had been crying or lying awake half the night. i found on asking her,--for she is an honest little body and is disposed to be confidential with me for some reason or other,--that she had been doing both. --and what was the matter now, i questioned her in a semi-paternal kind of way, as soon as i got a chance for a few quiet words with her. she was engaged to write a serial story, it seems, and had only got as far as the second number, and some critic had been jumping upon it, she said, and grinding his heel into it, till she couldn't bear to look at it. he said she did not write half so well as half a dozen other young women. she did n't write half so well as she used to write herself. she hadn't any characters and she had n't any incidents. then he went to work to show how her story was coming out, trying to anticipate everything she could make of it, so that her readers should have nothing to look forward to, and he should have credit for his sagacity in guessing, which was nothing so very wonderful, she seemed to think. things she had merely hinted and left the reader to infer, he told right out in the bluntest and coarsest way. it had taken all the life out of her, she said. it was just as if at a dinner-party one of the guests should take a spoonful of soup and get up and say to the company, "poor stuff, poor stuff; you won't get anything better; let's go somewhere else where things are fit to eat." what do you read such things for, my dear? said i. the film glistened in her eyes at the strange sound of those two soft words; she had not heard such very often, i am afraid. --i know i am a foolish creature to read them, she answered,--but i can't help it; somebody always sends me everything that will make me wretched to read, and so i sit down and read it, and ache all over for my pains, and lie awake all night. --she smiled faintly as she said this, for she saw the sub-ridiculous side of it, but the film glittered still in her eyes. there are a good many real miseries in life that we cannot help smiling at, but they are the smiles that make wrinkles and not dimples. "somebody always sends her everything that will make her wretched." who can those creatures be who cut out the offensive paragraph and send it anonymously to us, who mail the newspaper which has the article we had much better not have seen, who take care that we shall know everything which can, by any possibility, help to make us discontented with ourselves and a little less light-hearted than we were before we had been fools enough to open their incendiary packages? i don't like to say it to myself, but i cannot help suspecting, in this instance, the doubtful-looking personage who sits on my left, beyond the scarabee. i have some reason to think that he has made advances to the young girl which were not favorably received, to state the case in moderate terms, and it may be that he is taking his revenge in cutting up the poor girl's story. i know this very well, that some personal pique or favoritism is at the bottom of half the praise and dispraise which pretend to be so very ingenuous and discriminating. (of course i have been thinking all this time and telling you what i thought.) --what you want is encouragement, my dear, said i,--i know that as well, as you. i don't think the fellows that write such criticisms as you tell me of want to correct your faults. i don't mean to say that you can learn nothing from them, because they are not all fools by any means, and they will often pick out your weak points with a malignant sagacity, as a pettifogging lawyer will frequently find a real flaw in trying to get at everything he can quibble about. but is there nobody who will praise you generously when you do well,--nobody that will lend you a hand now while you want it,--or must they all wait until you have made yourself a name among strangers, and then all at once find out that you have something in you? oh,--said the girl, and the bright film gathered too fast for her young eyes to hold much longer,--i ought not to be ungrateful! i have found the kindest friend in the world. have you ever heard the lady--the one that i sit next to at the table--say anything about me? i have not really made her acquaintance, i said. she seems to me a little distant in her manners and i have respected her pretty evident liking for keeping mostly to herself. --oh, but when you once do know her! i don't believe i could write stories all the time as i do, if she didn't ask me up to her chamber, and let me read them to her. do you know, i can make her laugh and cry, reading my poor stories? and sometimes, when i feel as if i had written out all there is in me, and want to lie down and go to sleep and never wake up except in a world where there are no weekly papers,--when everything goes wrong, like a car off the track,--she takes hold and sets me on the rails again all right. --how does she go to work to help you? --why, she listens to my stories, to begin with, as if she really liked to hear them. and then you know i am dreadfully troubled now and then with some of my characters, and can't think how to get rid of them. and she'll say, perhaps, don't shoot your villain this time, you've shot three or four already in the last six weeks; let his mare stumble and throw him and break his neck. or she'll give me a hint about some new way for my lover to make a declaration. she must have had a good many offers, it's my belief, for she has told me a dozen different ways for me to use in my stories. and whenever i read a story to her, she always laughs and cries in the right places; and that's such a comfort, for there are some people that think everything pitiable is so funny, and will burst out laughing when poor rip van winkle--you've seen mr. jefferson, haven't you?--is breaking your heart for you if you have one. sometimes she takes a poem i have written and reads it to me so beautifully, that i fall in love with it, and sometimes she sets my verses to music and sings them to me. --you have a laugh together sometimes, do you? --indeed we do. i write for what they call the "comic department" of the paper now and then. if i did not get so tired of story-telling, i suppose i should be gayer than i am; but as it is, we two get a little fun out of my comic pieces. i begin them half-crying sometimes, but after they are done they amuse me. i don't suppose my comic pieces are very laughable; at any rate the man who makes a business of writing me down says the last one i wrote is very melancholy reading, and that if it was only a little better perhaps some bereaved person might pick out a line or two that would do to put on a gravestone. --well, that is hard, i must confess. do let me see those lines which excite such sad emotions. --will you read them very good-naturedly? if you will, i will get the paper that has "aunt tabitha." that is the one the fault-finder said produced such deep depression of feeling. it was written for the "comic department." perhaps it will make you cry, but it was n't meant to. --i will finish my report this time with our scheherezade's poem, hoping that--any critic who deals with it will treat it with the courtesy due to all a young lady's literary efforts. aunt tabitha. whatever i do, and whatever i say, aunt tabitha tells me that isn't the way; when she was a girl (forty summers ago) aunt tabitha tells me they never did so. dear aunt! if i only would take her advice! but i like my own way, and i find it so nice! and besides, i forget half the things i am told; but they all will come back to me--when i am old. if a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, he may chance to look in as i chance to look out; she would never endure an impertinent stare, it is horrid, she says, and i mustn't sit there. a walk in the moonlight has pleasures, i own, but it is n't quite safe to be walking alone; so i take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know, but aunt tabitha tells me they didn't do so. how wicked we are, and how good they were then! they kept at arm's length those detestable men; what an era of virtue she lived in!--but stay were the men all such rogues in aunt tabitha's day? if the men were so wicked, i'll ask my papa how he dared to propose to my darling mamma; was he like the rest of them? goodness! who knows and what shall i say if a wretch should propose? i am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, what a wonder aunt tabitha's aunt must have been! and her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad. that we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad! a martyr will save us, and nothing else can; let me perish--to rescue some wretched young man! though when to the altar a victim i go, aunt tabitha'll tell me she never did so! iv the old master has developed one quality of late for which i am afraid i hardly gave him credit. he has turned out to be an excellent listener. --i love to talk,--he said,--as a goose loves to swim. sometimes i think it is because i am a goose. for i never talked much at any one time in my life without saying something or other i was sorry for. --you too!--said i--now that is very odd, for it is an experience i have habitually. i thought you were rather too much of a philosopher to trouble yourself about such small matters as to whether you had said just what you meant to or not; especially as you know that the person you talk to does not remember a word of what you said the next morning, but is thinking, it is much more likely, of what she said, or how her new dress looked, or some other body's new dress which made--hers look as if it had been patched together from the leaves of last november. that's what she's probably thinking about. --she!--said the master, with a look which it would take at least half a page to explain to the entire satisfaction of thoughtful readers of both sexes. --i paid the respect due to that most significant monosyllable, which, as the old rabbi spoke it, with its targum of tone and expression, was not to be answered flippantly, but soberly, advisedly, and after a pause long enough for it to unfold its meaning in the listener's mind. for there are short single words (all the world remembers rachel's helas!) which are like those japanese toys that look like nothing of any significance as you throw them on the water, but which after a little time open out into various strange and unexpected figures, and then you find that each little shred had a complicated story to tell of itself. -yes,--said i, at the close of this silent interval, during which the monosyllable had been opening out its meanings,--she. when i think of talking, it is of course with a woman. for talking at its best being an inspiration, it wants a corresponding divine quality of receptiveness; and where will you find this but in woman? the master laughed a pleasant little laugh,--not a harsh, sarcastic one, but playful, and tempered by so kind a look that it seemed as if every wrinkled line about his old eyes repeated, "god bless you," as the tracings on the walls of the alhambra repeat a sentence of the koran. i said nothing, but looked the question, what are you laughing at? --why, i laughed because i couldn't help saying to myself that a woman whose mind was taken up with thinking how she looked, and how her pretty neighbor looked, wouldn't have a great deal of thought to spare for all your fine discourse. --come, now,--said i,--a man who contradicts himself in the course of two minutes must have a screw loose in his mental machinery. i never feel afraid that such a thing can happen to me, though it happens often enough when i turn a thought over suddenly, as you did that five-cent piece the other day, that it reads differently on its two sides. what i meant to say is something like this. a woman, notwithstanding she is the best of listeners, knows her business, and it is a woman's business to please. i don't say that it is not her business to vote, but i do say that a woman who does not please is a false note in the harmonies of nature. she may not have youth, or beauty, or even manner; but she must have something in her voice or expression, or both, which it makes you feel better disposed towards your race to look at or listen to. she knows that as well as we do; and her first question after you have been talking your soul into her consciousness is, did i please? a woman never forgets her sex. she would rather talk with a man than an angel, any day. --this frightful speech of mine reached the ear of our scheherezade, who said that it was perfectly shocking and that i deserved to be shown up as the outlaw in one of her bandit stories. hush, my dear,--said the lady,--you will have to bring john milton into your story with our friend there, if you punish everybody who says naughty things like that. send the little boy up to my chamber for paradise lost, if you please. he will find it lying on my table. the little old volume,--he can't mistake it. so the girl called that boy round and gave him the message; i don't know why she should give it, but she did, and the lady helped her out with a word or two. the little volume--its cover protected with soft white leather from a long kid glove, evidently suggesting the brilliant assemblies of the days when friends and fortune smiled-came presently and the lady opened it.---you may read that, if you like, she said,--it may show you that our friend is to be pilloried in good company. the young girl ran her eye along the passage the lady pointed out, blushed, laughed, and slapped the book down as though she would have liked to box the ears of mr. john milton, if he had been a contemporary and fellow-contributor to the "weekly bucket."--i won't touch the thing,--she said.---he was a horrid man to talk so: and he had as many wives as blue-beard. --fair play,--said the master.---bring me the book, my little fractional superfluity,--i mean you, my nursling,--my boy, if that suits your small highness better. the boy brought the book. the old master, not unfamiliar with the great epic opened pretty nearly to the place, and very soon found the passage: he read, aloud with grand scholastic intonation and in a deep voice that silenced the table as if a prophet had just uttered thus saith the lord:-- "so spake our sire, and by his countenance seemed entering on studious thoughts abstruse; which eve perceiving--" went to water her geraniums, to make a short story of it, and left the two "conversationists," to wit, the angel raphael and the gentleman,--there was but one gentleman in society then, you know,--to talk it out. "yet went she not, as not with such discourse delighted, or not capable her ear of what was high; such pleasure she reserved, adam relating, she sole auditress; her husband the relater she preferred before the angel, and of him to ask chose rather; he she knew would intermix grateful digressions, and solve high dispute with conjugal caresses: from his lips not words alone pleased her." everybody laughed, except the capitalist, who was a little hard of hearing, and the scarabee, whose life was too earnest for demonstrations of that kind. he had his eyes fixed on the volume, however, with eager interest. --the p'int 's carried,--said the member of the haouse. will you let me look at that book a single minute?--said the scarabee. i passed it to him, wondering what in the world he wanted of paradise lost. dermestes lardarius,--he said, pointing to a place where the edge of one side of the outer cover had been slightly tasted by some insect.--very fond of leather while they 're in the larva state. --damage the goods as bad as mice,--said the salesman. --eat half the binding off folio ,--said the register of deeds. something did, anyhow, and it was n't mice. found the shelf covered with little hairy cases belonging to something or other that had no business there. skins of the dermestes lardaraus,--said the scarabee,--you can always tell them by those brown hairy coats. that 's the name to give them. --what good does it do to give 'em a name after they 've eat the binding off my folios?--asked the register of deeds. the scarabee had too much respect for science to answer such a question as that; and the book, having served its purposes, was passed back to the lady. i return to the previous question,--said i,--if our friend the member of the house of representatives will allow me to borrow the phrase. womanly women are very kindly critics, except to themselves and now and then to their own sex. the less there is of sex about a woman, the more she is to be dreaded. but take a real woman at her best moment,--well dressed enough to be pleased with herself, not so resplendent as to be a show and a sensation, with those varied outside influences which set vibrating the harmonic notes of her nature stirring in the air about her, and what has social life to compare with one of those vital interchanges of thought and feeling with her that make an hour memorable? what can equal her tact, her delicacy, her subtlety of apprehension, her quickness to feel the changes of temperature as the warm and cool currents of talk blow by turns? at one moment she is microscopically intellectual, critical, scrupulous in judgment as an analyst's balance, and the next as sympathetic as the open rose that sweetens the wind from whatever quarter it finds its way to her bosom. it is in the hospitable soul of a woman that a man forgets he is a stranger, and so becomes natural and truthful, at the same time that he is mesmerized by all those divine differences which make her a mystery and a bewilderment to-- if you fire your popgun at me, you little chimpanzee, i will stick a pin right through the middle of you and put you into one of this gentleman's beetle-cases! i caught the imp that time, but what started him was more than i could guess. it is rather hard that this spoiled child should spoil such a sentence as that was going to be; but the wind shifted all at once, and the talk had to come round on another tack, or at least fall off a point or two from its course. --i'll tell you who i think are the best talkers in all probability, --said i to the master, who, as i mentioned, was developing interesting talent as a listener,--poets who never write verses. and there are a good many more of these than it would seem at first sight. i think you may say every young lover is a poet, to begin with. i don't mean either that all young lovers are good talkers,--they have an eloquence all their own when they are with the beloved object, no doubt, emphasized after the fashion the solemn bard of paradise refers to with such delicious humor in the passage we just heard,--but a little talk goes a good way in most of these cooing matches, and it wouldn't do to report them too literally. what i mean is, that a man with the gift of musical and impassioned phrase (and love often deeds that to a young person for a while), who "wreaks" it, to borrow byron's word, on conversation as the natural outlet of his sensibilities and spiritual activities, is likely to talk better than the poet, who plays on the instrument of verse. a great pianist or violinist is rarely a great singer. to write a poem is to expend the vital force which would have made one brilliant for an hour or two, and to expend it on an instrument with more pipes, reeds, keys, stops, and pedals than the great organ that shakes new england every time it is played in full blast. do you mean that it is hard work to write a poem?--said the old master.---i had an idea that a poem wrote itself, as it were, very often; that it came by influx, without voluntary effort; indeed, you have spoken of it as an inspiration rather than a result of volition. --did you ever see a great ballet-dancer?--i asked him. --i have seen taglioni,--he answered.---she used to take her steps rather prettily. i have seen the woman that danced the capstone on to bunker hill monument, as orpheus moved the rocks by music, the elssler woman,--fanny elssler. she would dance you a rigadoon or cut a pigeon's wing for you very respectably. (confound this old college book-worm,----he has seen everything!) well, did these two ladies dance as if it was hard work to them? --why no, i should say they danced as if they liked it and couldn't help dancing; they looked as if they felt so "corky" it was hard to keep them down. --and yet they had been through such work to get their limbs strong and flexible and obedient, that a cart-horse lives an easy life compared to theirs while they were in training. --the master cut in just here--i had sprung the trap of a reminiscence. --when i was a boy,--he said,--some of the mothers in our small town, who meant that their children should know what was what as well as other people's children, laid their heads together and got a dancing-master to come out from the city and give instruction at a few dollars a quarter to the young folks of condition in the village. some of their husbands were ministers and some were deacons, but the mothers knew what they were about, and they did n't see any reason why ministers' and deacons' wives' children shouldn't have as easy manners as the sons and daughters of belial. so, as i tell you, they got a dancing-master to come out to our place,--a man of good repute, a most respectable man,--madam (to the landlady), you must remember the worthy old citizen, in his advanced age, going about the streets, a most gentlemanly bundle of infirmities,--only he always cocked his hat a little too much on one side, as they do here and there along the connecticut river, and sometimes on our city sidewalks, when they've got a new beaver; they got him, i say, to give us boys and girls lessons in dancing and deportment. he was as gray and as lively as a squirrel, as i remember him, and used to spring up in the air and "cross his feet," as we called it, three times before he came down. well, at the end of each term there was what they called an "exhibition ball," in which the scholars danced cotillons and country-dances; also something called a "gavotte," and i think one or more walked a minuet. but all this is not what--i wanted to say. at this exhibition ball he used to bring out a number of hoops wreathed with roses, of the perennial kind, by the aid of which a number of amazingly complicated and startling evolutions were exhibited; and also his two daughters, who figured largely in these evolutions, and whose wonderful performances to us, who had not seen miss taglioni or miss elssler, were something quite bewildering, in fact, surpassing the natural possibilities of human beings. their extraordinary powers were, however, accounted for by the following explanation, which was accepted in the school as entirely satisfactory. a certain little bone in the ankles of each of these young girls had been broken intentionally, secundum artem, at a very early age, and thus they had been fitted to accomplish these surprising feats which threw the achievements of the children who were left in the condition of the natural man into ignominious shadow. --thank you,--said i,--you have helped out my illustration so as to make it better than i expected. let me begin again. every poem that is worthy of the name, no matter how easily it seems to be written, represents a great amount of vital force expended at some time or other. when you find a beach strewed with the shells and other spoils that belonged once to the deep sea, you know the tide has been there, and that the winds and waves have wrestled over its naked sands. and so, if i find a poem stranded in my soul and have nothing to do but seize it as a wrecker carries off the treasure he finds cast ashore, i know i have paid at some time for that poem with some inward commotion, were it only an excess of enjoyment, which has used up just so much of my vital capital. but besides all the impressions that furnished the stuff of the poem, there has been hard work to get the management of that wonderful instrument i spoke of,---the great organ, language. an artist who works in marble or colors has them all to himself and his tribe, but the man who moulds his thought in verse has to employ the materials vulgarized by everybody's use, and glorify them by his handling. i don't know that you must break any bones in a poet's mechanism before his thought can dance in rhythm, but read your milton and see what training, what patient labor, it took before he could shape our common speech into his majestic harmonies. it is rather singular, but the same kind of thing has happened to me not very rarely before, as i suppose it has to most persons, that just when i happened to be thinking about poets and their conditions, this very morning, i saw a paragraph or two from a foreign paper which is apt to be sharp, if not cynical, relating to the same matter. i can't help it; i want to have my talk about it, and if i say the same things that writer did, somebody else can have the satisfaction of saying i stole them all. [i thought the person whom i have called hypothetically the man of letters changed color a little and betrayed a certain awkward consciousness that some of us were looking at him or thinking of him; but i am a little suspicious about him and may do him wrong.] that poets are treated as privileged persons by their admirers and the educated public can hardly be disputed. that they consider themselves so there is no doubt whatever. on the whole, i do not know so easy a way of shirking all the civic and social and domestic duties, as to settle it in one's mind that one is a poet. i have, therefore, taken great pains to advise other persons laboring under the impression that they were gifted beings, destined to soar in the atmosphere of song above the vulgar realities of earth, not to neglect any homely duty under the influence of that impression. the number of these persons is so great that if they were suffered to indulge their prejudice against every-day duties and labors, it would be a serious loss to the productive industry of the country. my skirts are clear (so far as other people are concerned) of countenancing that form of intellectual opium-eating in which rhyme takes the place of the narcotic. but what are you going to do when you find john keats an apprentice to a surgeon or apothecary? is n't it rather better to get another boy to sweep out the shop and shake out the powders and stir up the mixtures, and leave him undisturbed to write his ode on a grecian urn or to a nightingale? oh yes, the critic i have referred to would say, if he is john keats; but not if he is of a much lower grade, even though he be genuine, what there is of him. but the trouble is, the sensitive persons who belong to the lower grades of the poetical hierarchy do not--know their own poetical limitations, while they do feel a natural unfitness and disinclination for many pursuits which young persons of the average balance of faculties take to pleasantly enough. what is forgotten is this, that every real poet, even of the humblest grade, is an artist. now i venture to say that any painter or sculptor of real genius, though he may do nothing more than paint flowers and fruit, or carve cameos, is considered a privileged person. it is recognized perfectly that to get his best work he must be insured the freedom from disturbances which the creative power absolutely demands, more absolutely perhaps in these slighter artists than in the great masters. his nerves must be steady for him to finish a rose-leaf or the fold of a nymph's drapery in his best manner; and they will be unsteadied if he has to perform the honest drudgery which another can do for him quite as well. and it is just so with the poet, though he were only finishing an epigram; you must no more meddle roughly with him than you would shake a bottle of chambertin and expect the "sunset glow" to redden your glass unclouded. on the other hand, it may be said that poetry is not an article of prime necessity, and potatoes are. there is a disposition in many persons just now to deny the poet his benefit of clergy, and to hold him no better than other people. perhaps he is not, perhaps he is not so good, half the time; but he is a luxury, and if you want him you must pay for him, by not trying to make a drudge of him while he is all his lifetime struggling with the chills and heats of his artistic intermittent fever. there may have been some lesser interruptions during the talk i have reported as if it was a set speech, but this was the drift of what i said and should have said if the other man, in the review i referred to, had not seen fit to meddle with the subject, as some fellow always does, just about the time when i am going to say something about it. the old master listened beautifully, except for cutting in once, as i told you he did. but now he had held in as long as it was in his nature to contain himself, and must have his say or go off in an apoplexy, or explode in some way.--i think you're right about the poets,--he said.--they are to common folks what repeaters are to ordinary watches. they carry music in their inside arrangements, but they want to be handled carefully or you put them out of order. and perhaps you must n't expect them to be quite as good timekeepers as the professional chronometer watches that make a specialty of being exact within a few seconds a month. they think too much of themselves. so does everybody that considers himself as having a right to fall back on what he calls his idiosyncrasy. yet a man has such a right, and it is no easy thing to adjust the private claim to the fair public demand on him. suppose you are subject to tic douloureux, for instance. every now and then a tiger that nobody can see catches one side of your face between his jaws and holds on till he is tired and lets go. some concession must be made to you on that score, as everybody can see. it is fair to give you a seat that is not in the draught, and your friends ought not to find fault with you if you do not care to join a party that is going on a sleigh-ride. now take a poet like cowper. he had a mental neuralgia, a great deal worse in many respects than tic douloureux confined to the face. it was well that he was sheltered and relieved, by the cares of kind friends, especially those good women, from as many of the burdens of life as they could lift off from him. i am fair to the poets,--don't you agree that i am? why, yes,--i said,--you have stated the case fairly enough, a good deal as i should have put it myself. now, then,--the master continued,--i 'll tell you what is necessary to all these artistic idiosyncrasies to bring them into good square human relations outside of the special province where their ways differ from those of other people. i am going to illustrate what i mean by a comparison. i don't know, by the way, but you would be disposed to think and perhaps call me a wine-bibber on the strength of the freedom with which i deal with that fluid for the purposes of illustration. but i make mighty little use of it, except as it furnishes me an image now and then, as it did, for that matter, to the disciples and their master. in my younger days they used to bring up the famous old wines, the white-top, the juno, the eclipse, the essex junior, and the rest, in their old cobwebbed, dusty bottles. the resurrection of one of these old sepulchred dignitaries had something of solemnity about it; it was like the disinterment of a king; the bringing to light of the royal martyr king charles i., for instance, that sir henry halford gave such an interesting account of. and the bottle seemed to inspire a personal respect; it was wrapped in a napkin and borne tenderly and reverently round to the guests, and sometimes a dead silence went before the first gush of its amber flood, and "the boldest held his breath for a time." but nowadays the precious juice of a long-dead vintage is transferred carefully into a cut-glass decanter, and stands side by side with the sherry from a corner grocery, which looks just as bright and apparently thinks just as well of itself. the old historic madeiras, which have warmed the periods of our famous rhetoricians of the past and burned in the impassioned eloquence of our earlier political demigods, have nothing to mark them externally but a bit of thread, it may be, round the neck of the decanter, or a slip of ribbon, pink on one of them and blue on another. go to a london club,--perhaps i might find something nearer home that would serve my turn,--but go to a london club, and there you will see the celebrities all looking alike modern, all decanted off from their historic antecedents and their costume of circumstance into the every-day aspect of the gentleman of common cultivated society. that is sir coeur de lion plantagenet in the mutton-chop whiskers and the plain gray suit; there is the laureate in a frockcoat like your own, and the leader of the house of commons in a necktie you do not envy. that is the kind of thing you want to take the nonsense out of you. if you are not decanted off from yourself every few days or weeks, you will think it sacrilege to brush a cobweb from your cork by and by. o little fool, that has published a little book full of little poems or other sputtering tokens of an uneasy condition, how i love you for the one soft nerve of special sensibility that runs through your exiguous organism, and the one phosphorescent particle in your unilluminated intelligence! but if you don't leave your spun-sugar confectionery business once in a while, and come out among lusty men,--the bristly, pachydermatous fellows that hew out the highways for the material progress of society, and the broad-shouldered, out-of-door men that fight for the great prizes of life,--you will come to think that the spun-sugar business is the chief end of man, and begin to feel and look as if you believed yourself as much above common people as that personage of whom tourgueneff says that "he had the air of his own statue erected by national subscription." --the master paused and fell into a deep thinking fit, as he does sometimes. he had had his own say, it is true, but he had established his character as a listener to my own perfect satisfaction, for i, too, was conscious of having preached with a certain prolixity. --i am always troubled when i think of my very limited mathematical capacities. it seems as if every well-organized mind should be able to handle numbers and quantities through their symbols to an indefinite extent; and yet, i am puzzled by what seems to a clever boy with a turn for calculation as plain as counting his fingers. i don't think any man feels well grounded in knowledge unless he has a good basis of mathematical certainties, and knows how to deal with them and apply them to every branch of knowledge where they can come in to advantage. our young astronomer is known for his mathematical ability, and i asked him what he thought was the difficulty in the minds that are weak in that particular direction, while they may be of remarkable force in other provinces of thought, as is notoriously the case with some men of great distinction in science. the young man smiled and wrote a few letters and symbols on a piece of paper.---can you see through that at once?--he said. i puzzled over it for some minutes and gave it up. --he said, as i returned it to him, you have heard military men say that such a person had an eye for country, have n't you? one man will note all the landmarks, keep the points of compass in his head, observe how the streams run, in short, carry a map in his brain of any region that he has marched or galloped through. another man takes no note of any of these things; always follows somebody else's lead when he can, and gets lost if he is left to himself; a mere owl in daylight. just so some men have an eye for an equation, and would read at sight the one that you puzzled over. it is told of sir isaac newton that he required no demonstration of the propositions in euclid's geometry, but as soon as he had read the enunciation the solution or answer was plain at once. the power may be cultivated, but i think it is to a great degree a natural gift, as is the eye for color, as is the ear for music. --i think i could read equations readily enough,--i said,--if i could only keep my attention fixed on them; and i think i could keep my attention on them if i were imprisoned in a thinking-cell, such as the creative intelligence shapes for its studio when at its divinest work. the young man's lustrous eyes opened very widely as he asked me to explain what i meant. --what is the creator's divinest work?--i asked. --is there anything more divine than the sun; than a sun with its planets revolving about it, warming them, lighting them, and giving conscious life to the beings that move on them? --you agree, then, that conscious life is the grand aim and end of all this vast mechanism. without life that could feel and enjoy, the splendors and creative energy would all be thrown away. you know harvey's saying, omnia animalia ex ovo,--all animals come from an egg. you ought to know it, for the great controversy going on about spontaneous generation has brought it into special prominence lately. well, then, the ovum, the egg, is, to speak in human phrase, the creator's more private and sacred studio, for his magnum opus. now, look at a hen's egg, which is a convenient one to study, because it is large enough and built solidly enough to look at and handle easily. that would be the form i would choose for my thinking-cell. build me an oval with smooth, translucent walls, and put me in the centre of it with newton's "principia" or kant's "kritik," and i think i shall develop "an eye for an equation," as you call it, and a capacity for an abstraction. but do tell me,--said the astronomer, a little incredulously,--what there is in that particular form which is going to help you to be a mathematician or a metaphysician? --it is n't help i want, it is removing hindrances. i don't want to see anything to draw off my attention. i don't want a cornice, or an angle, or anything but a containing curve. i want diffused light and no single luminous centre to fix my eye, and so distract my mind from its one object of contemplation. the metaphysics of attention have hardly been sounded to their depths. the mere fixing the look on any single object for a long time may produce very strange effects. gibbon's well-known story of the monks of mount athos and their contemplative practice is often laughed over, but it has a meaning. they were to shut the door of the cell, recline the beard and chin on the breast, and contemplate the abdominal centre. "at first all will be dark and comfortless; but if you persevere day and night, you will feel an ineffable joy; and no sooner has the soul discovered the place of the heart, than it is involved in a mystic and ethereal light." and mr. braid produces absolute anaesthesia, so that surgical operations can be performed without suffering to the patient, only by making him fix his eyes and his mind on a single object; and newton is said to have said, as you remember, "i keep the subject constantly before me, and wait till the first dawnings open slowly by little and little into a full and clear light." these are different, but certainly very wonderful, instances of what can be done by attention. but now suppose that your mind is in its nature discursive, erratic, subject to electric attractions and repulsions, volage; it may be impossible for you to compel your attention except by taking away all external disturbances. i think the poets have an advantage and a disadvantage as compared with the steadier-going people. life is so vivid to the poet, that he is too eager to seize and exhaust its multitudinous impressions. like sindbad in the valley of precious stones, he wants to fill his pockets with diamonds, but, lo! there is a great ruby like a setting sun in its glory, and a sapphire that, like bryant's blue gentian, seems to have dropped from the cerulean walls of heaven, and a nest of pearls that look as if they might be unhatched angel's eggs, and so he hardly knows what to seize, and tries for too many, and comes out of the enchanted valley with more gems than he can carry, and those that he lets fall by the wayside we call his poems. you may change the image a thousand ways to show you how hard it is to make a mathematician or a logician out of a poet. he carries the tropics with him wherever he goes; he is in the true sense felius naturae, and nature tempts him, as she tempts a child walking through a garden where all the finest fruits are hanging over him and dropping round him, where the luscious clusters of the vine upon (his) mouth do crush their wine, the nectarine and curious peach, into (his) hands themselves do reach; and he takes a bite out of the sunny side of this and the other, and, ever stimulated and never satisfied, is hurried through the garden, and, before he knows it, finds himself at an iron gate which opens outward, and leaves the place he knows and loves-- --for one he will perhaps soon learn to love and know better,--said the master.---but i can help you out with another comparison, not quite so poetical as yours. why did not you think of a railway-station, where the cars stop five minutes for refreshments? is n't that a picture of the poet's hungry and hurried feast at the banquet of life? the traveller flings himself on the bewildering miscellany of delicacies spread before him, the various tempting forms of ambrosia and seducing draughts of nectar, with the same eager hurry and restless ardor that you describe in the poet. dear me! if it wasn't for all aboard! that summons of the deaf conductor which tears one away from his half-finished sponge-cake and coffee, how i, who do not call myself a poet, but only a questioner, should have enjoyed a good long stop--say a couple of thousand years--at this way-station on the great railroad leading to the unknown terminus! --you say you are not a poet,--i said, after a little pause, in which i suppose both of us were thinking where the great railroad would land us after carrying us into the dark tunnel, the farther end of which no man has seen and taken a return train to bring us news about it,--you say you are not a poet, and yet it seems to me you have some of the elements which go to make one. --i don't think you mean to flatter me,--the master answered,--and, what is more, for i am not afraid to be honest with you, i don't think you do flatter me. i have taken the inventory of my faculties as calmly as if i were an appraiser. i have some of the qualities, perhaps i may say many of the qualities, that make a man a poet, and yet i am not one. and in the course of a pretty wide experience of men--and women--(the master sighed, i thought, but perhaps i was mistaken)--i have met a good many poets who were not rhymesters and a good many rhymesters who were not poets. so i am only one of the voiceless, that i remember one of you singers had some verses about. i think there is a little music in me, but it has not found a voice, and it never will. if i should confess the truth, there is no mere earthly immortality that i envy so much as the poet's. if your name is to live at all, it is so much more to have it live in people's hearts than only in their brains! i don't know that one's eyes fill with tears when he thinks of the famous inventor of logarithms, but song of burns's or a hymn of charles wesley's goes straight to your heart, and you can't help loving both of them, the sinner as well as the saint. the works of other men live, but their personality dies out of their labors; the poet, who reproduces himself in his creation, as no other artist does or can, goes down to posterity with all his personality blended with whatever is imperishable in his song. we see nothing of the bees that built the honeycomb and stored it with its sweets, but we can trace the veining in the wings of insects that flitted through the forests which are now coal-beds, kept unchanging in the amber that holds them; and so the passion of sappho, the tenderness of simonides, the purity of holy george herbert, the lofty contemplativeness of james shirley, are before us to-day as if they were living, in a few tears of amber verse. it seems, when one reads, "sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright," or, "the glories of our birth and state," as if it were not a very difficult matter to gain immortality,--such an immortality at least as a perishable language can give. a single lyric is enough, if one can only find in his soul and finish in his intellect one of those jewels fit to sparkle "on the stretched forefinger of all time." a coin, a ring, a string of verses. these last, and hardly anything else does. every century is an overloaded ship that must sink at last with most of its cargo. the small portion of its crew that get on board the new vessel which takes them off don't pretend to save a great many of the bulky articles. but they must not and will not leave behind the hereditary jewels of the race; and if you have found and cut a diamond, were it only a spark with a single polished facet, it will stand a better chance of being saved from the wreck than anything, no matter what, that wants much room for stowage. the pyramids last, it is true, but most of them have forgotten their builders' names. but the ring of thothmes iii., who reigned some fourteen hundred years before our era, before homer sang, before the argonauts sailed, before troy was built, is in the possession of lord ashburnham, and proclaims the name of the monarch who wore it more than three thousand years ago. the gold coins with the head of alexander the great are some of them so fresh one might think they were newer than much of the silver currency we were lately handling. as we have been quoting from the poets this morning, i will follow the precedent, and give some lines from an epistle of pope to addison after the latter had written, but not yet published, his dialogue on medals. some of these lines have been lingering in my memory for a great many years, but i looked at the original the other day and was so pleased with them that i got them by heart. i think you will say they are singularly pointed and elegant. "ambition sighed; she found it vain to trust the faithless column and the crumbling bust; huge moles, whose shadows stretched from shore to shore, their ruins perished, and their place no more! convinced, she now contracts her vast design, and all her triumphs shrink into a coin. a narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, beneath her palm here sad judaea weeps; now scantier limits the proud arch confine, and scarce are seen the prostrate nile or rhine; a small euphrates through the piece is rolled, and little eagles wave their wings in gold." it is the same thing in literature. write half a dozen folios full of other people's ideas (as all folios are pretty sure to be), and you serve as ballast to the lower shelves of a library, about as like to be disturbed as the kentledge in the hold of a ship. write a story, or a dozen stories, and your book will be in demand like an oyster while it is freshly opened, and after tha--. the highways of literature are spread over with the shells of dead novels, each of which has been swallowed at a mouthful by the public, and is done with. but write a volume of poems. no matter if they are all bad but one, if that one is very good. it will carry your name down to posterity like the ring of thothmes, like the coin of alexander. i don't suppose one would care a great deal about it a hundred or a thousand years after he is dead, but i don't feel quite sure. it seems as if, even in heaven, king david might remember "the lord is my shepherd" with a certain twinge of earthly pleasure. but we don't know, we don't know. --what in the world can have become of that boy and his popgun while all this somewhat extended sermonizing was going on? i don't wonder you ask, beloved reader, and i suppose i must tell you how we got on so long without interruption. well, the plain truth is, the youngster was contemplating his gastric centre, like the monks of mount athos, but in a less happy state of mind than those tranquil recluses, in consequence of indulgence in the heterogeneous assortment of luxuries procured with the five-cent piece given him by the kind-hearted old master. but you need not think i am going to tell you every time his popgun goes off, making a selah of him whenever i want to change the subject. occasionally he was ill-timed in his artillery practice and ignominiously rebuked, sometimes he was harmlessly playful and nobody minded him, but every now and then he came in so apropos that i am morally certain he gets a hint from somebody who watches the course of the conversation, and means through him to have a hand in it and stop any of us when we are getting prosy. but in consequence of that boy's indiscretion, we were without a check upon our expansiveness, and ran on in the way you have observed and may be disposed to find fault with. one other thing the master said before we left the table, after our long talk of that day. --i have been tempted sometimes,--said he, to envy the immediate triumphs of the singer. he enjoys all that praise can do for him and at the very moment of exerting his talent. and the singing women! once in a while, in the course of my life, i have found myself in the midst of a tulip-bed of full-dressed, handsome women in all their glory, and when some one among them has shaken her gauzy wings, and sat down before the piano, and then, only giving the keys a soft touch now and then to support her voice, has warbled some sweet, sad melody intertwined with the longings or regrets of some tender-hearted poet, it has seemed to me that so to hush the rustling of the silks and silence the babble of the buds, as they call the chicks of a new season, and light up the flame of romance in cold hearts, in desolate ones, in old burnt-out ones,--like mine, i was going to say, but i won't, for it isn't so, and you may laugh to hear me say it isn't so, if you like,--was perhaps better than to be remembered a few hundred years by a few perfect stanzas, when your gravestone is standing aslant, and your name is covered over with a lichen as big as a militia colonel's cockade, and nobody knows or cares enough about you to scrape it off and set the tipsy old slate-stone upright again. --i said nothing in reply to this, for i was thinking of a sweet singer to whose voice i had listened in its first freshness, and which is now only an echo in my memory. if any reader of the periodical in which these conversations are recorded can remember so far back as the first year of its publication, he will find among the papers contributed by a friend not yet wholly forgotten a few verses, lively enough in their way, headed "the boys." the sweet singer was one of this company of college classmates, the constancy of whose friendship deserves a better tribute than the annual offerings, kindly meant, as they are, which for many years have not been wanting at their social gatherings. the small company counts many noted personages on its list, as is well known to those who are interested in such local matters, but it is not known that every fifth man of the whole number now living is more or less of a poet,--using that word with a generous breadth of significance. but it should seem that the divine gift it implies is more freely dispensed than some others, for while there are (or were, for one has taken his last degree) eight musical quills, there was but one pair of lips which could claim any special consecration to vocal melody. not that one that should undervalue the half-recitative of doubtful barytones, or the brilliant escapades of slightly unmanageable falsettos, or the concentrated efforts of the proprietors of two or three effective notes, who may be observed lying in wait for them, and coming down on them with all their might, and the look on their countenances of "i too am a singer." but the voice that led all, and that all loved to listen to, the voice that was at once full, rich, sweet, penetrating, expressive, whose ample overflow drowned all the imperfections and made up for all the shortcomings of the others, is silent henceforth forevermore for all earthly listeners. and these were the lines that one of "the boys," as they have always called themselves for ever so many years, read at the first meeting after the voice which had never failed them was hushed in the stillness of death. j. a. . one memory trembles on our lips it throbs in every breast; in tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse, the shadow stands confessed. o silent voice, that cheered so long our manhood's marching day, without thy breath of heavenly song, how weary seems the way! vain every pictured phrase to tell our sorrowing hearts' desire; the shattered harp, the broken shell, the silent unstrung lyre; for youth was round us while he sang; it glowed in every tone; with bridal chimes the echoes rang, and made the past our own. o blissful dream! our nursery joys we know must have an end, but love and friendships broken toys may god's good angels mend! the cheering smile, the voice of mirth and laughter's gay surprise that please the children born of earth, why deem that heaven denies? methinks in that refulgent sphere that knows not sun or moon, an earth-born saint might long to hear one verse of "bonny doon"; or walking through the streets of gold in heaven's unclouded light, his lips recall the song of old and hum "the sky is bright." and can we smile when thou art dead? ah, brothers, even so! the rose of summer will be red, in spite of winter's snow. thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom because thy song is still, nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom with grief's untimely chill. the sighing wintry winds complain, the singing bird has flown, --hark! heard i not that ringing strain, that clear celestial tone? how poor these pallid phrases seem, how weak this tinkling line, as warbles through my waking dream that angel voice of thine! thy requiem asks a sweeter lay; it falters on my tongue; for all we vainly strive to say, thou shouldst thyself have sung! v i fear that i have done injustice in my conversation and my report of it to a most worthy and promising young man whom i should be very sorry to injure in any way. dr. benjamin franklin got hold of my account of my visit to him, and complained that i had made too much of the expression he used. he did not mean to say that he thought i was suffering from the rare disease he mentioned, but only that the color reminded him of it. it was true that he had shown me various instruments, among them one for exploring the state of a part by means of a puncture, but he did not propose to make use of it upon my person. in short, i had colored the story so as to make him look ridiculous. --i am afraid i did,--i said,--but was n't i colored myself so as to look ridiculous? i've heard it said that people with the jaundice see everything yellow; perhaps i saw things looking a little queerly, with that black and blue spot i could n't account for threatening to make a colored man and brother of me. but i am sorry if i have done you any wrong. i hope you won't lose any patients by my making a little fun of your meters and scopes and contrivances. they seem so odd to us outside people. then the idea of being bronzed all over was such an alarming suggestion. but i did not mean to damage your business, which i trust is now considerable, and i shall certainly come to you again if i have need of the services of a physician. only don't mention the names of any diseases in english or latin before me next time. i dreamed about cutis oenea half the night after i came to see you. dr. benjamin took my apology very pleasantly. he did not want to be touchy about it, he said, but he had his way to make in the world, and found it a little hard at first, as most young men did. people were afraid to trust them, no matter how much they knew. one of the old doctors asked him to come in and examine a patient's heart for him the other day. he went with him accordingly, and when they stood by the bedside, he offered his stethoscope to the old doctor. the old doctor took it and put the wrong end to his ear and the other to the patient's chest, and kept it there about two minutes, looking all the time as wise as an old owl. then he, dr. benjamin, took it and applied it properly, and made out where the trouble was in no time at all. but what was the use of a young man's pretending to know anything in the presence of an old owl? i saw by their looks, he said, that they all thought i used the, stethoscope wrong end up, and was nothing but a 'prentice hand to the old doctor. --i am much pleased to say that since dr. benjamin has had charge of a dispensary district, and been visiting forty or fifty patients a day, i have reason to think he has grown a great deal more practical than when i made my visit to his office. i think i was probably one of his first patients, and that he naturally made the most of me. but my second trial was much more satisfactory. i got an ugly cut from the carving-knife in an affair with a goose of iron constitution in which i came off second best. i at once adjourned with dr. benjamin to his small office, and put myself in his hands. it was astonishing to see what a little experience of miscellaneous practice had done for him. he did not ask me anymore questions about my hereditary predispositions on the paternal and maternal sides. he did not examine me with the stethoscope or the laryngoscope. he only strapped up my cut, and informed me that it would speedily get well by the "first intention,"--an odd phrase enough, but sounding much less formidable than cutis oenea. i am afraid i have had something of the french prejudice which embodies itself in the maxim "young surgeon, old physician." but a young physician who has been taught by great masters of the profession, in ample hospitals, starts in his profession knowing more than some old doctors have learned in a lifetime. give him a little time to get the use of his wits in emergencies, and to know the little arts that do so much for a patient's comfort,--just as you give a young sailor time to get his sea-legs on and teach his stomach to behave itself,--and he will do well enough. the old master knows ten times more about this matter and about all the professions, as he does about everything else, than i do. my opinion is that he has studied two, if not three, of these professions in a regular course. i don't know that he has ever preached, except as charles lamb said coleridge always did, for when he gets the bit in his teeth he runs away with the conversation, and if he only took a text his talk would be a sermon; but if he has not preached, he has made a study of theology, as many laymen do. i know he has some shelves of medical books in his library, and has ideas on the subject of the healing art. he confesses to having attended law lectures and having had much intercourse with lawyers. so he has something to say on almost any subject that happens to come up. i told him my story about my visit to the young doctor, and asked him what he thought of youthful practitioners in general and of dr. benjamin in particular. i 'll tell you what,--the master said,--i know something about these young fellows that come home with their heads full of "science," as they call it, and stick up their signs to tell people they know how to cure their headaches and stomach-aches. science is a first-rate piece of furniture for a man's upper chamber, if he has common sense on the ground-floor. but if a man has n't got plenty of good common sense, the more science he has the worse for his patient. --i don't know that i see exactly how it is worse for the patient,--i said. --well, i'll tell you, and you'll find it's a mighty simple matter. when a person is sick, there is always something to be done for him, and done at once. if it is only to open or shut a window, if it is only to tell him to keep on doing just what he is doing already, it wants a man to bring his mind right down to the fact of the present case and its immediate needs. now the present case, as the doctor sees it, is just exactly such a collection of paltry individual facts as never was before,--a snarl and tangle of special conditions which it is his business to wind as much thread out of as he can. it is a good deal as when a painter goes to take the portrait of any sitter who happens to send for him. he has seen just such noses and just such eyes and just such mouths, but he never saw exactly such a face before, and his business is with that and no other person's,--with the features of the worthy father of a family before him, and not with the portraits he has seen in galleries or books, or mr. copley's grand pictures of the fine old tories, or the apollos and jupiters of greek sculpture. it is the same thing with the patient. his disease has features of its own; there never was and never will be another case in all respects exactly like it. if a doctor has science without common sense, he treats a fever, but not this man's fever. if he has common sense without science, he treats this man's fever without knowing the general laws that govern all fevers and all vital movements. i 'll tell you what saves these last fellows. they go for weakness whenever they see it, with stimulants and strengtheners, and they go for overaction, heat, and high pulse, and the rest, with cooling and reducing remedies. that is three quarters of medical practice. the other quarter wants science and common sense too. but the men that have science only, begin too far back, and, before they get as far as the case in hand, the patient has very likely gone to visit his deceased relatives. you remember thomas prince's "chronological history of new england," i suppose? he begins, you recollect, with adam, and has to work down five thousand six hundred and twenty-four years before he gets to the pilgrim fathers and the mayflower. it was all very well, only it did n't belong there, but got in the way of something else. so it is with "science" out of place. by far the larger part of the facts of structure and function you find in the books of anatomy and physiology have no immediate application to the daily duties of the practitioner. you must learn systematically, for all that; it is the easiest way and the only way that takes hold of the memory, except mere empirical repetition, like that of the handicraftsman. did you ever see one of those japanese figures with the points for acupuncture marked upon it? --i had to own that my schooling had left out that piece of information. well, i 'll tell you about it. you see they have a way of pushing long, slender needles into you for the cure of rheumatism and other complaints, and it seems there is a choice of spots for the operation, though it is very strange how little mischief it does in a good many places one would think unsafe to meddle with. so they had a doll made, and marked the spots where they had put in needles without doing any harm. they must have had accidents from sticking the needles into the wrong places now and then, but i suppose they did n't say a great deal about those. after a time, say a few centuries of experience, they had their doll all spotted over with safe places for sticking in the needles. that is their way of registering practical knowledge: we, on the other hand, study the structure of the body as a whole, systematically, and have no difficulty at all in remembering the track of the great vessels and nerves, and knowing just what tracks will be safe and what unsafe. it is just the same thing with the geologists. here is a man close by us boring for water through one of our ledges, because somebody else got water somewhere else in that way; and a person who knows geology or ought to know it, because he has given his life to it, tells me he might as well bore there for lager-beer as for water. --i thought we had had enough of this particular matter, and that i should like to hear what the master had to say about the three professions he knew something about, each compared with the others. what is your general estimate of doctors, lawyers, and ministers?--said i. --wait a minute, till i have got through with your first question,--said the master.---one thing at a time. you asked me about the young doctors, and about our young doctor. they come home tres biens chausses, as a frenchman would say, mighty well shod with professional knowledge. but when they begin walking round among their poor patients, they don't commonly start with millionnaires,--they find that their new shoes of scientific acquirements have got to be broken in just like a pair of boots or brogans. i don't know that i have put it quite strong enough. let me try again. you've seen those fellows at the circus that get up on horseback so big that you wonder how they could climb into the saddle. but pretty soon they throw off their outside coat, and the next minute another one, and then the one under that, and so they keep peeling off one garment after another till people begin to look queer and think they are going too far for strict propriety. well, that is the way a fellow with a real practical turn serves a good many of his scientific wrappers, flings 'em off for other people to pick up, and goes right at the work of curing stomach-aches and all the other little mean unscientific complaints that make up the larger part of every doctor's business. i think our dr. benjamin is a worthy young man, and if you are in need of a doctor at any time i hope you will go to him; and if you come off without harm, i will recommend some other friend to try him. --i thought he was going to say he would try him in his own person, but the master is not fond of committing himself. now, i will answer your other question, he said. the lawyers are the cleverest men, the ministers are the most learned, and the doctors are the most sensible. the lawyers are a picked lot, "first scholars" and the like, but their business is as unsympathetic as jack ketch's. there is nothing humanizing in their relations with their fellow-creatures. they go for the side that retains them. they defend the man they know to be a rogue, and not very rarely throw suspicion on the man they know to be innocent. mind you, i am not finding fault with them; every side of a case has a right to the best statement it admits of; but i say it does not tend to make them sympathetic. suppose in a case of fever vs. patient, the doctor should side with either party according to whether the old miser or his expectant heir was his employer. suppose the minister should side with the lord or the devil, according to the salary offered and other incidental advantages, where the soul of a sinner was in question. you can see what a piece of work it would make of their sympathies. but the lawyers are quicker witted than either of the other professions, and abler men generally. they are good-natured, or, if they quarrel, their quarrels are above-board. i don't think they are as accomplished as the ministers, but they have a way of cramming with special knowledge for a case which leaves a certain shallow sediment of intelligence in their memories about a good many things. they are apt to talk law in mixed company, and they have a way of looking round when they make a point, as if they were addressing a jury, that is mighty aggravating, as i once had occasion to see when one of 'em, and a pretty famous one, put me on the witness-stand at a dinner-party once. the ministers come next in point of talent. they are far more curious and widely interested outside of their own calling than either of the other professions. i like to talk with 'em. they are interesting men, full of good feelings, hard workers, always foremost in good deeds, and on the whole the most efficient civilizing class, working downwards from knowledge to ignorance, that is,--not so much upwards, perhaps,--that we have. the trouble is, that so many of 'em work in harness, and it is pretty sure to chafe somewhere. they feed us on canned meats mostly. they cripple our instincts and reason, and give us a crutch of doctrine. i have talked with a great many of 'em of all sorts of belief, and i don't think they are quite so easy in their minds, the greater number of them; nor so clear in their convictions, as one would think to hear 'em lay down the law in the pulpit. they used to lead the intelligence of their parishes; now they do pretty well if they keep up with it, and they are very apt to lag behind it. then they must have a colleague. the old minister thinks he can hold to his old course, sailing right into the wind's eye of human nature, as straight as that famous old skipper john bunyan; the young minister falls off three or four points and catches the breeze that left the old man's sails all shivering. by and by the congregation will get ahead of him, and then it must, have another new skipper. the priest holds his own pretty well; the minister is coming down every generation nearer and nearer to the common level of the useful citizen,--no oracle at all, but a man of more than average moral instincts, who, if he knows anything, knows how little he knows. the ministers are good talkers, only the struggle between nature and grace makes some of 'em a little awkward occasionally. the women do their best to spoil 'em, as they do the poets; you find it very pleasant to be spoiled, no doubt; so do they. now and then one of 'em goes over the dam; no wonder, they're always in the rapids. by this time our three ladies had their faces all turned toward the speaker, like the weathercocks in a northeaster, and i thought it best to switch off the talk on to another rail. how about the doctors?--i said. --theirs is the least learned of the professions, in this country at least. they have not half the general culture of the lawyers, nor a quarter of that of the ministers. i rather think, though, they are more agreeable to the common run of people than the men with black coats or the men with green bags. people can swear before 'em if they want to, and they can't very well before ministers. i don't care whether they want to swear or not, they don't want to be on their good behavior. besides, the minister has a little smack of the sexton about him; he comes when people are in extremis, but they don't send for him every time they make a slight moral slip, tell a lie for instance, or smuggle a silk dress through the customhouse; but they call in the doctor when a child is cutting a tooth or gets a splinter in its finger. so it does n't mean much to send for him, only a pleasant chat about the news of the day; for putting the baby to rights does n't take long. besides, everybody does n't like to talk about the next world; people are modest in their desires, and find this world as good as they deserve; but everybody loves to talk physic. everybody loves to hear of strange cases; people are eager to tell the doctor of the wonderful cures they have heard of; they want to know what is the matter with somebody or other who is said to be suffering from "a complication of diseases," and above all to get a hard name, greek or latin, for some complaint which sounds altogether too commonplace in plain english. if you will only call a headache a cephalgia, it acquires dignity at once, and a patient becomes rather proud of it. so i think doctors are generally welcome in most companies. in old times, when people were more afraid of the devil and of witches than they are now, they liked to have a priest or a minister somewhere near to scare 'em off; but nowadays, if you could find an old woman that would ride round the room on a broomstick, barnum would build an amphitheatre to exhibit her in; and if he could come across a young imp, with hoofs, tail, and budding horns, a lineal descendant of one of those "daemons" which the good people of gloucester fired at, and were fired at by "for the best part of a month together" in the year , the, great showman would have him at any cost for his museum or menagerie. men are cowards, sir, and are driven by fear as the sovereign motive. men are idolaters, and want something to look at and kiss and hug, or throw themselves down before; they always did, they always will; and if you don't make it of wood, you must make it of words, which are just as much used for idols as promissory notes are used for values. the ministers have a hard time of it without bell and book and holy water; they are dismounted men in armor since luther cut their saddle-girths, and you can see they are quietly taking off one piece of iron after another until some of the best of 'em are fighting the devil (not the zoological devil with the big d) with the sword of the spirit, and precious little else in the way of weapons of offence or defence. but we couldn't get on without the spiritual brotherhood, whatever became of our special creeds. there is a genius for religion, just as there is for painting or sculpture. it is half-sister to the genius for music, and has some of the features which remind us of earthly love. but it lifts us all by its mere presence. to see a good man and hear his voice once a week would be reason enough for building churches and pulpits. the master stopped all at once, and after about half a minute laughed his pleasant laugh. what is it?--i asked him. i was thinking of the great coach and team that is carrying us fast enough, i don't know but too fast, somewhere or other. the d. d.'s used to be the leaders, but now they are the wheel-horses. it's pretty hard to tell how much they pull, but we know they can hold back like the---- --when we're going down hill,--i said, as neatly as if i had been a high-church curate trained to snap at the last word of the response, so that you couldn't wedge in the tail of a comma between the end of the congregation's closing syllable and the beginning of the next petition. they do it well, but it always spoils my devotion. to save my life, i can't help watching them, as i watch to see a duck dive at the flash of a gun, and that is not what i go to church for. it is a juggler's trick, and there is no more religion in it than in catching a ball on the fly. i was looking at our scheherezade the other day, and thinking what a pity it was that she had never had fair play in the world. i wish i knew more of her history. there is one way of learning it,--making love to her. i wonder whether she would let me and like it. it is an absurd thing, and i ought not to confess, but i tell you and you only, beloved, my heart gave a perceptible jump when it heard the whisper of that possibility overhead! every day has its ebb and flow, but such a thought as that is like one of those tidal waves they talk about, that rolls in like a great wall and overtops and drowns out all your landmarks, and you, too, if you don't mind what you are about and stand ready to run or climb or swim. not quite so bad as that, though, this time. i take an interest in our scheherezade. i am glad she did n't smile on the pipe and the bohemian-looking fellow that finds the best part of his life in sucking at it. a fine thing, isn't it; for a young woman to marry a man who will hold her "something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse," but not quite so good as his meerschaum? it is n't for me to throw stones, though, who have been a nicotian a good deal more than half my days. cigar-stump out now, and consequently have become very bitter on more persevering sinners. i say i take an interest in our scheherezade, but i rather think it is more paternal than anything else, though my heart did give that jump. it has jumped a good many times without anything very remarkable coming of it. this visit to the observatory is going to bring us all, or most of us, together in a new way, and it wouldn't be very odd if some of us should become better acquainted than we ever have been. there is a chance for the elective affinities. what tremendous forces they are, if two subjects of them come within range! there lies a bit of iron. all the dynamic agencies of the universe are pledged to hold it just in that position, and there it will lie until it becomes a heap of red-brown rust. but see, i hold a magnet to it,--it looks to you like just such a bit of iron as the other,--and lo! it leaves them all,--the tugging of the mighty earth; of the ghostly moon that walks in white, trailing the snaky waves of the ocean after her; of the awful sun, twice as large as a sphere that the whole orbit of the moon would but just girdle,--it leaves the wrestling of all their forces, which are at a dead lock with each other, all fighting for it, and springs straight to the magnet. what a lucky thing it is for well-conducted persons that the maddening elective affinities don't come into play in full force very often! i suppose i am making a good deal more of our prospective visit than it deserves. it must be because i have got it into my head that we are bound to have some kind of sentimental outbreak amongst us, and that this will give a chance for advances on the part of anybody disposed in that direction. a little change of circumstance often hastens on a movement that has been long in preparation. a chemist will show you a flask containing a clear liquid; he will give it a shake or two, and the whole contents of the flask will become solid in an instant. or you may lay a little heap of iron-filings on a sheet of paper with a magnet beneath it, and they will be quiet enough as they are, but give the paper a slight jar and the specks of metal will suddenly find their way to the north or the south pole of the magnet and take a definite shape not unpleasing to contemplate, and curiously illustrating the laws of attraction, antagonism, and average, by which the worlds, conscious and unconscious, are alike governed. so with our little party, with any little party of persons who have got used to each other; leave them undisturbed and they might remain in a state of equilibrium forever; but let anything give them a shake or a jar, and the long-striving but hindered affinities come all at once into play and finish the work of a year in five minutes. we were all a good deal excited by the anticipation of this visit. the capitalist, who for the most part keeps entirely to himself, seemed to take an interest in it and joined the group in the parlor who were making arrangements as to the details of the eventful expedition, which was very soon to take place. the young girl was full of enthusiasm; she is one of those young persons, i think, who are impressible, and of necessity depressible when their nervous systems are overtasked, but elastic, recovering easily from mental worries and fatigues, and only wanting a little change of their conditions to get back their bloom and cheerfulness. i could not help being pleased to see how much of the child was left in her, after all the drudgery she had been through. what is there that youth will not endure and triumph over? here she was; her story for the week was done in good season; she had got rid of her villain by a new and original catastrophe; she had received a sum of money for an extra string of verses,--painfully small, it is true, but it would buy her a certain ribbon she wanted for the great excursion; and now her eyes sparkled so that i forgot how tired and hollow they sometimes looked when she had been sitting up half the night over her endless manuscript. the morning of the day we had looked forward to--promised as good an evening as we could wish. the capitalist, whose courteous and bland demeanor would never have suggested the thought that he was a robber and an enemy of his race, who was to be trampled underfoot by the beneficent regenerators of the social order as preliminary to the universal reign of peace on earth and good-will to men, astonished us all with a proposal to escort the three ladies and procure a carriage for their conveyance. the lady thanked him in a very cordial way, but said she thought nothing of the walk. the landlady looked disappointed at this answer. for her part she was on her legs all day and should be glad enough to ride, if so be he was going to have a carriage at any rate. it would be a sight pleasanter than to trudge afoot, but she would n't have him go to the expense on her account. don't mention it, madam,--r--said the capitalist, in a generous glow of enthusiasm. as for the young girl, she did not often get a chance for a drive, and liked the idea of it for its own sake, as children do, and she insisted that the lady should go in the carriage with her. so it was settled that the capitalist should take the three ladies in a carriage, and the rest of us go on foot. the evening behaved as it was bound to do on so momentous an occasion. the capitalist was dressed with almost suspicious nicety. we pedestrians could not help waiting to see them off, and i thought he handed the ladies into the carriage with the air of a french marquis. i walked with dr. benjamin and that boy, and we had to keep the little imp on the trot a good deal of the way in order not to be too long behind the carriage party. the member of the haouse walked with our two dummies,--i beg their pardon, i mean the register of deeds and the salesman. the man of letters, hypothetically so called, walked by himself, smoking a short pipe which was very far from suggesting the spicy breezes that blow soft from ceylon's isle. i suppose everybody who reads this paper has visited one or more observatories, and of course knows all about them. but as it may hereafter be translated into some foreign tongue and circulated among barbarous, but rapidly improving people, people who have as yet no astronomers among them, it may be well to give a little notion of what kind of place an observatory is. to begin then: a deep and solid stone foundation is laid in the earth, and a massive pier of masonry is built up on it. a heavy block of granite forms the summit of this pier, and on this block rests the equatorial telescope. around this structure a circular tower is built, with two or more floors which come close up to the pier, but do not touch it at any point. it is crowned with a hemispherical dome, which, i may remark, half realizes the idea of my egg-shell studio. this dome is cleft from its base to its summit by a narrow, ribbon-like opening, through which is seen the naked sky. it revolves on cannon-balls, so easily that a single hand can move it, and thus the opening may be turned towards any point of the compass. as the telescope can be raised or depressed so as to be directed to any elevation from the horizon to the zenith, and turned around the entire circle with the dome, it can be pointed to any part of the heavens. but as the star or other celestial object is always apparently moving, in consequence of the real rotatory movement of the earth, the telescope is made to follow it automatically by an ingenious clock-work arrangement. no place, short of the temple of the living god, can be more solemn. the jars of the restless life around it do not disturb the serene intelligence of the half-reasoning apparatus. nothing can stir the massive pier but the shocks that shake the solid earth itself. when an earthquake thrills the planet, the massive turret shudders with the shuddering rocks on which it rests, but it pays no heed to the wildest tempest, and while the heavens are convulsed and shut from the eye of the far-seeing instrument it waits without a tremor for the blue sky to come back. it is the type of the true and steadfast man of the roman poet, whose soul remains unmoved while the firmament cracks and tumbles about him. it is the material image of the christian; his heart resting on the rock of ages, his eye fixed on the brighter world above. i did not say all this while we were looking round among these wonders, quite new to many of us. people don't talk in straight-off sentences like that. they stumble and stop, or get interrupted, change a word, begin again, miss connections of verbs and nouns, and so on, till they blunder out their meaning. but i did let fall a word or two, showing the impression the celestial laboratory produced upon me. i rather think i must own to the "rock of ages" comparison. thereupon the "man of letters," so called, took his pipe from his mouth, and said that he did n't go in "for sentiment and that sort of thing. gush was played out." the member of the haouse, who, as i think, is not wanting in that homely good sense which one often finds in plain people from the huckleberry districts, but who evidently supposes the last speaker to be what he calls "a tahlented mahn," looked a little puzzled. my remark seemed natural and harmless enough to him, i suppose, but i had been distinctly snubbed, and the member of the haouse thought i must defend myself, as is customary in the deliberative body to which he belongs, when one gentleman accuses another gentleman of mental weakness or obliquity. i could not make up my mind to oblige him at that moment by showing fight. i suppose that would have pleased my assailant, as i don't think he has a great deal to lose, and might have made a little capital out of me if he could have got a laugh out of the member or either of the dummies,--i beg their pardon again, i mean the two undemonstrative boarders. but i will tell you, beloved, just what i think about this matter. we poets, you know, are much given to indulging in sentiment, which is a mode of consciousness at a discount just now with the new generation of analysts who are throwing everything into their crucibles. now we must not claim too much for sentiment. it does not go a great way in deciding questions of arithmetic, or algebra, or geometry. two and two will undoubtedly make four, irrespective of the emotions or other idiosyncrasies of the calculator; and the three angles of a triangle insist on being equal to two right angles, in the face of the most impassioned rhetoric or the most inspired verse. but inasmuch as religion and law and the whole social order of civilized society, to say nothing of literature and art, are so founded on and pervaded by sentiment that they would all go to pieces without it, it is a word not to be used too lightly in passing judgment, as if it were an element to be thrown out or treated with small consideration. reason may be the lever, but sentiment gives you the fulcrum and the place to stand on if you want to move the world. even "sentimentality," which is sentiment overdone, is better than that affectation of superiority to human weakness which is only tolerable as one of the stage properties of full-blown dandyism, and is, at best, but half-blown cynicism; which participle and noun you can translate, if you happen to remember the derivation of the last of them, by a single familiar word. there is a great deal of false sentiment in the world, as there is of bad logic and erroneous doctrine; but--it is very much less disagreeable to hear a young poet overdo his emotions, or even deceive himself about them, than to hear a caustic-epithet flinger repeating such words as "sentimentality" and "entusymusy,"--one of the least admirable of lord byron's bequests to our language,--for the purpose of ridiculing him into silence. an overdressed woman is not so pleasing as she might be, but at any rate she is better than the oil of vitriol squirter, whose profession it is to teach young ladies to avoid vanity by spoiling their showy silks and satins. the lady was the first of our party who was invited to look through the equatorial. perhaps this world had proved so hard to her that she was pained to think that other worlds existed, to be homes of suffering and sorrow. perhaps she was thinking it would be a happy change when she should leave this dark planet for one of those brighter spheres. she sighed, at any rate, but thanked the young astronomer for the beautiful sights he had shown her, and gave way to the next comer, who was that boy, now in a state of irrepressible enthusiasm to see the man in the moon. he was greatly disappointed at not making out a colossal human figure moving round among the shining summits and shadowy ravines of the "spotty globe." the landlady came next and wished to see the moon also, in preference to any other object. she was astonished at the revelations of the powerful telescope. was there any live creatures to be seen on the moon? she asked. the young astronomer shook his head, smiling a little at the question.--was there any meet'n'-houses? there was no evidence, he said, that the moon was inhabited. as there did not seem to be either air or water on its surface, the inhabitants would have a rather hard time of it, and if they went to meeting the sermons would be apt to be rather dry. if there were a building on it as big as york minster, as big as the boston coliseum, the great telescopes like lord rosse's would make it out. but it seemed to be a forlorn place; those who had studied it most agreed in considering it a "cold, crude, silent, and desolate" ruin of nature, without the possibility, if life were on it, of articulate speech, of music, even of sound. sometimes a greenish tint was seen upon its surface, which might have been taken for vegetation, but it was thought not improbably to be a reflection from the vast forests of south america. the ancients had a fancy, some of them, that the face of the moon was a mirror in which the seas and shores of the earth were imaged. now we know the geography of the side toward us about as well as that of asia, better than that of africa. the astronomer showed them one of the common small photographs of the moon. he assured them that he had received letters inquiring in all seriousness if these alleged lunar photographs were not really taken from a peeled orange. people had got angry with him for laughing at them for asking such a question. then he gave them an account of the famous moon-hoax which came out, he believed, in . it was full of the most bare-faced absurdities, yet people swallowed it all, and even arago is said to have treated it seriously as a thing that could not well be true, for mr. herschel would have certainly notified him of these marvellous discoveries. the writer of it had not troubled himself to invent probabilities, but had borrowed his scenery from the arabian nights and his lunar inhabitants from peter wilkins. after this lecture the capitalist stepped forward and applied his eye to the lens. i suspect it to have been shut most of the time, for i observe a good many elderly people adjust the organ of vision to any optical instrument in that way. i suppose it is from the instinct of protection to the eye, the same instinct as that which makes the raw militia-man close it when he pulls the, trigger of his musket the first time. he expressed himself highly gratified, however, with what he saw, and retired from the instrument to make room for the young girl. she threw her hair back and took her position at the instrument. saint simeon stylites the younger explained the wonders of the moon to her,--tycho and the grooves radiating from it, kepler and copernicus with their craters and ridges, and all the most brilliant shows of this wonderful little world. i thought he was more diffuse and more enthusiastic in his descriptions than he had been with the older members of the party. i don't doubt the old gentleman who lived so long on the top of his pillar would have kept a pretty sinner (if he could have had an elevator to hoist her up to him) longer than he would have kept her grandmother. these young people are so ignorant, you know. as for our scheherezade, her delight was unbounded, and her curiosity insatiable. if there were any living creatures there, what odd things they must be. they could n't have any lungs, nor any hearts. what a pity! did they ever die? how could they expire if they didn't breathe? burn up? no air to burn in. tumble into some of those horrid pits, perhaps, and break all to bits. she wondered how the young people there liked it, or whether there were any young people there; perhaps nobody was young and nobody was old, but they were like mummies all of them--what an idea --two mummies making love to each other! so she went on in a rattling, giddy kind of way, for she was excited by the strange scene in which she found herself, and quite astonished the young astronomer with her vivacity. all at once she turned to him. will you show me the double star you said i should see? with the greatest pleasure,--he said, and proceeded to wheel the ponderous dome, and then to adjust the instrument, i think to the one in andromeda, or that in cygnus, but i should not know one of them from the other. how beautiful!--she said as she looked at the wonderful object.---one is orange red and one is emerald green. the young man made an explanation in which he said something about complementary colors. goodness!--exclaimed the landlady.---what! complimentary to our party? her wits must have been a good deal confused by the strange sights of the evening. she had seen tickets marked complimentary, she remembered, but she could not for the life of her understand why our party should be particularly favored at a celestial exhibition like this. on the whole, she questioned inwardly whether it might not be some subtle pleasantry, and smiled, experimentally, with a note of interrogation in the smile, but, finding no encouragement, allowed her features to subside gradually as if nothing had happened. i saw all this as plainly as if it had all been printed in great-primer type, instead of working itself out in her features. i like to see other people muddled now and then, because my own occasional dulness is relieved by a good solid background of stupidity in my neighbors. --and the two revolve round each other?--said the young girl. --yes,--he answered,--two suns, a greater and a less, each shining, but with a different light, for the other. --how charming! it must be so much pleasanter than to be alone in such a great empty space! i should think one would hardly care to shine if its light wasted itself in the monstrous solitude of the sky. does not a single star seem very lonely to you up there? --not more lonely than i am myself,--answered the young astronomer. --i don't know what there was in those few words, but i noticed that for a minute or two after they, were uttered i heard the ticking of the clock-work that moved the telescope as clearly as if we had all been holding our breath, and listening for the music of the spheres. the young girl kept her eye closely applied to the eye-piece of the telescope a very long time, it seemed to me. those double stars interested her a good deal, no doubt. when she looked off from the glass i thought both her eyes appeared very much as if they had been a little strained, for they were suffused and glistening. it may be that she pitied the lonely young man. i know nothing in the world tenderer than the pity that a kind-hearted young girl has for a young man who feels lonely. it is true that these dear creatures are all compassion for every form of human woe, and anxious to alleviate all human misfortunes. they will go to sunday-schools through storms their brothers are afraid of, to teach the most unpleasant and intractable classes of little children the age of methuselah and the dimensions of og the king of bashan's bedstead. they will stand behind a table at a fair all day until they are ready to drop, dressed in their prettiest clothes and their sweetest smiles, and lay hands upon you, like--so many lady potiphars,--perfectly correct ones, of course,--to make you buy what you do not want, at prices which you cannot afford; all this as cheerfully as if it were not martyrdom to them as well as to you. such is their love for all good objects, such their eagerness to sympathize with all their suffering fellow-creatures! but there is nothing they pity as they pity a lonely young man. i am sure, i sympathize with her in this instance. to see a pale student burning away, like his own midnight lamp, with only dead men's hands to hold, stretched out to him from the sepulchres of books, and dead men's souls imploring him from their tablets to warm them over again just for a little while in a human consciousness, when all this time there are soft, warm, living hands that would ask nothing better than to bring the blood back into those cold thin fingers, and gently caressing natures that would wind all their tendrils about the unawakened heart which knows so little of itself, is pitiable enough and would be sadder still if we did not have the feeling that sooner or later the pale student will be pretty sure to feel the breath of a young girl against his cheek as she looks over his shoulder; and that he will come all at once to an illuminated page in his book that never writer traced in characters, and never printer set up in type, and never binder enclosed within his covers! but our young man seems farther away from life than any student whose head is bent downwards over his books. his eyes are turned away from all human things. how cold the moonlight is that falls upon his forehead, and how white he looks in it! will not the rays strike through to his brain at last, and send him to a narrower cell than this egg-shell dome which is his workshop and his prison? i cannot say that the young astronomer seemed particularly impressed with a sense of his miserable condition. he said he was lonely, it is true, but he said it in a manly tone, and not as if he were repining at the inevitable condition of his devoting himself to that particular branch of science. of course, he is lonely, the most lonely being that lives in the midst of our breathing world. if he would only stay a little longer with us when we get talking; but he is busy almost always either in observation or with his calculations and studies, and when the nights are fair loses so much sleep that he must make it up by day. he wants contact with human beings. i wish he would change his seat and come round and sit by our scheherezade! the rest of the visit went off well enough, except that the "man of letters," so called, rather snubbed some of the heavenly bodies as not quite up to his standard of brilliancy. i thought myself that the double-star episode was the best part of it. i have an unexpected revelation to make to the reader. not long after our visit to the observatory, the young astronomer put a package into my hands, a manuscript, evidently, which he said he would like to have me glance over. i found something in it which interested me, and told him the next day that i should like to read it with some care. he seemed rather pleased at this, and said that he wished i would criticise it as roughly as i liked, and if i saw anything in it which might be dressed to better advantage to treat it freely, just as if it were my own production. it had often happened to him, he went on to say, to be interrupted in his observations by clouds covering the objects he was examining for a longer or shorter time. in these idle moments he had put down many thoughts, unskilfully he feared, but just as they came into his mind. his blank verse he suspected was often faulty. his thoughts he knew must be crude, many of them. it would please him to have me amuse myself by putting them into shape. he was kind enough to say that i was an artist in words, but he held himself as an unskilled apprentice. i confess i was appalled when i cast my eye upon the title of the manuscript, "cirri and nebulae." --oh! oh!--i said,--that will never do. people don't know what cirri are, at least not one out of fifty readers. "wind-clouds and star-drifts" will do better than that. --anything you like,--he answered,--what difference does it make how you christen a foundling? these are not my legitimate scientific offspring, and you may consider them left on your doorstep. --i will not attempt to say just how much of the diction of these lines belongs to him, and how much to me. he said he would never claim them, after i read them to him in my version. i, on my part, do not wish to be held responsible for some of his more daring thoughts, if i should see fit to reproduce them hereafter. at this time i shall give only the first part of the series of poetical outbreaks for which the young devotee of science must claim his share of the responsibility. i may put some more passages into shape by and by. wind-clouds and star-drifts. i another clouded night; the stars are hid, the orb that waits my search is hid with them. patience! why grudge an hour, a month, a year, to plant my ladder and to gain the round that leads my footsteps to the heaven of fame, where waits the wreath my sleepless midnights won? not the stained laurel such as heroes wear that withers when some stronger conqueror's heel treads down their shrivelling trophies in the dust; but the fair garland whose undying green not time can change, nor wrath of gods or men! with quickened heart-beats i shall hear the tongues that speak my praise; but better far the sense that in the unshaped ages, buried deep in the dark mines of unaccomplished time yet to be stamped with morning's royal die and coined in golden days,--in those dim years i shall be reckoned with the undying dead, my name emblazoned on the fiery arch, unfading till the stars themselves shall fade. then, as they call the roll of shining worlds, sages of race unborn in accents new shall count me with the olympian ones of old, whose glories kindle through the midnight sky here glows the god of battles; this recalls the lord of ocean, and yon far-off sphere the sire of him who gave his ancient name to the dim planet with the wondrous rings; here flames the queen of beauty's silver lamp, and there the moon-girt orb of mighty jove; but this, unseen through all earth's aeons past, a youth who watched beneath the western star sought in the darkness, found, and showed to men; linked with his name thenceforth and evermore! so shall that name be syllabled anew in all the tongues of all the tribes of men: i that have been through immemorial years dust in the dust of my forgotten time shall live in accents shaped of blood-warm breath, yea, rise in mortal semblance, newly born in shining stone, in undecaying bronze, and stand on high, and look serenely down on the new race that calls the earth its own. is this a cloud, that, blown athwart my soul, wears a false seeming of the pearly stain where worlds beyond the world their mingling rays blend in soft white,--a cloud that, born of earth, would cheat the soul that looks for light from heaven? must every coral-insect leave his sign on each poor grain he lent to build the reef, as babel's builders stamped their sunburnt clay, or deem his patient service all in vain? what if another sit beneath the shade of the broad elm i planted by the way, --what if another heed the beacon light i set upon the rock that wrecked my keel, have i not done my task and served my kind? nay, rather act thy part, unnamed, unknown, and let fame blow her trumpet through the world with noisy wind to swell a fool's renown, joined with some truth be stumbled blindly o'er, or coupled with some single shining deed that in the great account of all his days will stand alone upon the bankrupt sheet his pitying angel shows the clerk of heaven. the noblest service comes from nameless hands, and the best servant does his work unseen. who found the seeds of fire and made them shoot, fed by his breath, in buds and flowers of flame? who forged in roaring flames the ponderous stone, and shaped the moulded metal to his need? who gave the dragging car its rolling wheel, and tamed the steed that whirls its circling round? all these have left their work and not their names, why should i murmur at a fate like theirs? this is the heavenly light; the pearly stain was but a wind-cloud drifting oer the stars! vi i find i have so many things in common with the old master of arts, that i do not always know whether a thought was originally his or mine. that is what always happens where two persons of a similar cast of mind talk much together. and both of them often gain by the interchange. many ideas grow better when transplanted into another mind than in the one where they sprang up. that which was a weed in one intelligence becomes a flower in the other. a flower, on the other hand, may dwindle down to a mere weed by the same change. healthy growths may become poisonous by falling upon the wrong mental soil, and what seemed a night-shade in one mind unfold as a morning-glory in the other. --i thank god,--the master said,--that a great many people believe a great deal more than i do. i think, when it comes to serious matters, i like those who believe more than i do better than those who believe less. --why,--said i,--you have got hold of one of my own working axioms. i should like to hear you develop it. the member of the haouse said he should be glad to listen to the debate. the gentleman had the floor. the scarabee rose from his chair and departed;--i thought his joints creaked as he straightened himself. the young girl made a slight movement; it was a purely accidental coincidence, no doubt, but i saw that boy put his hand in his pocket and pull out his popgun, and begin loading it. it cannot be that our scheherezade, who looks so quiet and proper at the table, can make use of that boy and his catapult to control the course of conversation and change it to suit herself! she certainly looks innocent enough; but what does a blush prove, and what does its absence prove, on one of these innocent faces? there is nothing in all this world that can lie and cheat like the face and the tongue of a young girl. just give her a little touch of hysteria,--i don't mean enough of it to make her friends call the doctor in, but a slight hint of it in the nervous system,--and "machiavel the waiting-maid" might take lessons of her. but i cannot think our scheherezade is one of that kind, and i am ashamed of myself for noting such a trifling coincidence as that which excited my suspicion. --i say,--the master continued,--that i had rather be in the company of those who believe more than i do, in spiritual matters at least, than of those who doubt what i accept as a part of my belief. --to tell the truth,--said i,--i find that difficulty sometimes in talking with you. you have not quite so many hesitations as i have in following out your logical conclusions. i suppose you would bring some things out into daylight questioning that i had rather leave in that twilight of half-belief peopled with shadows--if they are only shadows--more sacred to me than many realities. there is nothing i do not question,--said the master;--i not only begin with the precept of descartes, but i hold all my opinions involving any chain of reasoning always open to revision. --i confess that i smiled internally to hear him say that. the old master thinks he is open to conviction on all subjects; but if you meddle with some of his notions and don't get tossed on his horns as if a bull had hold of you, i should call you lucky. --you don't mean you doubt everything?--i said. --what do you think i question everything for, the master replied,--if i never get any answers? you've seen a blind man with a stick, feeling his way along? well, i am a blind man with a stick, and i find the world pretty full of men just as blind as i am, but without any stick. i try the ground to find out whether it is firm or not before i rest my weight on it; but after it has borne my weight, that question at least is answered. it very certainly was strong enough once; the presumption is that it is strong enough now. still the soil may have been undermined, or i may have grown heavier. make as much of that as you will. i say i question everything; but if i find bunker hill monument standing as straight as when i leaned against it a year or ten years ago, i am not very much afraid that bunker hill will cave in if i trust myself again on the soil of it. i glanced off, as one often does in talk. the monument is an awful place to visit,--i said.---the waves of time are like the waves of the ocean; the only thing they beat against without destroying it is a rock; and they destroy that at last. but it takes a good while. there is a stone now standing in very good order that was as old as a monument of louis xiv. and queen anne's day is now when joseph went down into egypt. think of the shaft on bunker hill standing in the sunshine on the morning of january st in the year ! it won't be standing,--the master said.---we are poor bunglers compared to those old egyptians. there are no joints in one of their obelisks. they are our masters in more ways than we know of, and in more ways than some of us are willing to know. that old lawgiver wasn't learned in all the wisdom of the egyptians for nothing. it scared people well a couple of hundred years ago when sir john marsham and dr. john spencer ventured to tell their stories about the sacred ceremonies of the egyptian priesthood. people are beginning to find out now that you can't study any religion by itself to any good purpose. you must have comparative theology as you have comparative anatomy. what would you make of a cat's foolish little good-for-nothing collar-bone, if you did not know how the same bone means a good deal in other creatures,--in yourself, for instance, as you 'll find out if you break it? you can't know too much of your race and its beliefs, if you want to know anything about your maker. i never found but one sect large enough to hold the whole of me. --and may i ask what that was?--i said. --the human sect,--the master answered. that has about room enough for me,--at present, i mean to say. --including cannibals and all?--said i. -oh, as to that, the eating of one's kind is a matter of taste, but the roasting of them has been rather more a specialty of our own particular belief than of any other i am acquainted with. if you broil a saint, i don't see why, if you have a mind, you shouldn't serve him up at your-- pop! went the little piece of artillery. don't tell me it was accident. i know better. you can't suppose for one minute that a boy like that one would time his interruptions so cleverly. now it so happened that at that particular moment dr. b. franklin was not at the table. you may draw your own conclusions. i say nothing, but i think a good deal. --i came back to the bunker hill monument.---i often think--i said--of the dynasty which is to reign in its shadow for some thousands of years, it may be. the "man of letters," so called, asked me, in a tone i did not exactly like, whether i expected to live long enough to see a monarchy take the place of a republic in this country. --no,--said i,--i was thinking of something very different. i was indulging a fancy of mine about the man who is to sit at the foot of the monument for one, or it may be two or three thousand years. as long as the monument stands and there is a city near it, there will always be a man to take the names of visitors and extract some small tribute from their pockets, i suppose. i sometimes get thinking of the long, unbroken succession of these men, until they come to look like one man; continuous in being, unchanging as the stone he watches, looking upon the successive generations of human beings as they come and go, and outliving all the dynasties of the world in all probability. it has come to such a pass that i never speak to the man of the monument without wanting to take my hat off and feeling as if i were looking down a vista of twenty or thirty centuries. the "man of letters," so called, said, in a rather contemptuous way, i thought, that he had n't got so far as that. he was n't quite up to moral reflections on toll-men and ticket-takers. sentiment was n't his tap. he looked round triumphantly for a response: but the capitalist was a little hard of hearing just then; the register of deeds was browsing on his food in the calm bovine abstraction of a quadruped, and paid no attention; the salesman had bolted his breakfast, and whisked himself away with that peculiar alacrity which belongs to the retail dealer's assistant; and the member of the haouse, who had sometimes seemed to be impressed with his "tahlented mahn's" air of superiority to the rest of us, looked as if he thought the speaker was not exactly parliamentary. so he failed to make his point, and reddened a little, and was not in the best humor, i thought, when he left the table. i hope he will not let off any of his irritation on our poor little scheherezade; but the truth is, the first person a man of this sort (if he is what i think him) meets, when he is out of humor, has to be made a victim of, and i only hope our young girl will not have to play jephthah's daughter. and that leads me to say, i cannot help thinking that the kind of criticism to which this young girl has been subjected from some person or other, who is willing to be smart at her expense, is hurtful and not wholesome. the question is a delicate one. so many foolish persons are rushing into print, that it requires a kind of literary police to hold them back and keep them in order. where there are mice there must be cats, and where there are rats we may think it worth our while to keep a terrier, who will give them a shake and let them drop, with all the mischief taken out of them. but the process is a rude and cruel one at best, and it too often breeds a love of destructiveness for its own sake in those who get their living by it. a poor poem or essay does not do much harm after all; nobody reads it who is like to be seriously hurt by it. but a sharp criticism with a drop of witty venom in it stings a young author almost to death, and makes an old one uncomfortable to no purpose. if it were my business to sit in judgment on my neighbors, i would try to be courteous, at least, to those who had done any good service, but, above all, i would handle tenderly those young authors who are coming before the public in the flutter of their first or early appearance, and are in the trembling delirium of stage-fright already. before you write that brilliant notice of some alliterative angelina's book of verses, i wish you would try this experiment. take half a sheet of paper and copy upon it any of angelina's stanzas,--the ones you were going to make fun of, if you will. now go to your window, if it is a still day, open it, and let the half-sheet of paper drop on the outside. how gently it falls through the soft air, always tending downwards, but sliding softly, from side to side, wavering, hesitating, balancing, until it settles as noiselessly as a snow-flake upon the all-receiving bosom of the earth! just such would have been the fate of poor angelina's fluttering effort, if you had left it to itself. it would have slanted downward into oblivion so sweetly and softly that she would have never known when it reached that harmless consummation. our epizoic literature is becoming so extensive that nobody is safe from its ad infinitum progeny. a man writes a book of criticisms. a quarterly review criticises the critic. a monthly magazine takes up the critic's critic. a weekly journal criticises the critic of the critic's critic, and a daily paper favors us with some critical remarks on the performance of the writer in the weekly, who has criticised the critical notice in the monthly of the critical essay in the quarterly on the critical work we started with. and thus we see that as each flea "has smaller fleas that on him prey," even the critic himself cannot escape the common lot of being bitten. whether all this is a blessing or a curse, like that one which made pharaoh and all his household run to their toilet-tables, is a question about which opinions might differ. the physiologists of the time of moses--if there were vivisectors other than priests in those days--would probably have considered that other plague, of the frogs, as a fortunate opportunity for science, as this poor little beast has been the souffre-douleur of experimenters and schoolboys from time immemorial. but there is a form of criticism to which none will object. it is impossible to come before a public so alive with sensibilities as this we live in, with the smallest evidence of a sympathetic disposition, without making friends in a very unexpected way. everywhere there are minds tossing on the unquiet waves of doubt. if you confess to the same perplexities and uncertainties that torture them, they are grateful for your companionship. if you have groped your way out of the wilderness in which you were once wandering with them, they will follow your footsteps, it may be, and bless you as their deliverer. so, all at once, a writer finds he has a parish of devout listeners, scattered, it is true, beyond the reach of any summons but that of a trumpet like the archangel's, to whom his slight discourse may be of more value than the exhortations they hear from the pulpit, if these last do not happen to suit their special needs. young men with more ambition and intelligence than force of character, who have missed their first steps in life and are stumbling irresolute amidst vague aims and changing purposes, hold out their hands, imploring to be led into, or at least pointed towards, some path where they can find a firm foothold. young women born into a chilling atmosphere of circumstance which keeps all the buds of their nature unopened and always striving to get to a ray of sunshine, if one finds its way to their neighborhood, tell their stories, sometimes simply and touchingly, sometimes in a more or less affected and rhetorical way, but still stories of defeated and disappointed instincts which ought to make any moderately impressible person feel very tenderly toward them. in speaking privately to these young persons, many of whom have literary aspirations, one should be very considerate of their human feelings. but addressing them collectively a few plain truths will not give any one of them much pain. indeed, almost every individual among them will feel sure that he or she is an exception to those generalities which apply so well to the rest. if i were a literary pope sending out an encyclical, i would tell these inexperienced persons that nothing is so frequent as to mistake an ordinary human gift for a special and extraordinary endowment. the mechanism of breathing and that of swallowing are very wonderful, and if one had seen and studied them in his own person only, he might well think himself a prodigy. everybody knows these and other bodily faculties are common gifts; but nobody except editors and school-teachers and here and there a literary than knows how common is the capacity of rhyming and prattling in readable prose, especially among young women of a certain degree of education. in my character of pontiff, i should tell these young persons that most of them labored under a delusion. it is very hard to believe it; one feels so full of intelligence and so decidedly superior to one's dull relations and schoolmates; one writes so easily and the lines sound so prettily to one's self; there are such felicities of expression, just like those we hear quoted from the great poets; and besides one has been told by so many friends that all one had to do was to print and be famous! delusion, my poor dear, delusion at least nineteen times out of twenty, yes, ninety-nine times in a hundred. but as private father confessor, i always allow as much as i can for the one chance in the hundred. i try not to take away all hope, unless the case is clearly desperate, and then to direct the activities into some other channel. using kind language, i can talk pretty freely. i have counselled more than one aspirant after literary fame to go back to his tailor's board or his lapstone. i have advised the dilettanti, whose foolish friends praised their verses or their stories, to give up all their deceptive dreams of making a name by their genius, and go to work in the study of a profession which asked only for the diligent use of average; ordinary talents. it is a very grave responsibility which these unknown correspondents throw upon their chosen counsellors. one whom you have never seen, who lives in a community of which you know nothing, sends you specimens more or less painfully voluminous of his writings, which he asks you to read over, think over, and pray over, and send back an answer informing him whether fame and fortune are awaiting him as the possessor of the wonderful gifts his writings manifest, and whether you advise him to leave all,--the shop he sweeps out every morning, the ledger he posts, the mortar in which he pounds, the bench at which he urges the reluctant plane,--and follow his genius whithersoever it may lead him. the next correspondent wants you to mark out a whole course of life for him, and the means of judgment he gives you are about as adequate as the brick which the simpleton of old carried round as an advertisement of the house he had to sell. my advice to all the young men that write to me depends somewhat on the handwriting and spelling. if these are of a certain character, and they have reached a mature age, i recommend some honest manual calling, such as they have very probably been bred to, and which will, at least, give them a chance of becoming president of the united states by and by, if that is any object to them. what would you have done with the young person who called on me a good many years ago, so many that he has probably forgotten his literary effort,--and read as specimens of his literary workmanship lines like those which i will favor you with presently? he was an able-bodied, grown-up young person, whose ingenuousness interested me; and i am sure if i thought he would ever be pained to see his maiden effort in print, i would deny myself the pleasure of submitting it to the reader. the following is an exact transcript of the lines he showed me, and which i took down on the spot: "are you in the vein for cider? are you in the tune for pork? hist! for betty's cleared the larder and turned the pork to soap." do not judge too hastily this sincere effort of a maiden muse. here was a sense of rhythm, and an effort in the direction of rhyme; here was an honest transcript of an occurrence of daily life, told with a certain idealizing expression, recognizing the existence of impulses, mysterious instincts, impelling us even in the selection of our bodily sustenance. but i had to tell him that it wanted dignity of incident and grace of narrative, that there was no atmosphere to it, nothing of the light that never was and so forth. i did not say this in these very words, but i gave him to understand, without being too hard upon him, that he had better not desert his honest toil in pursuit of the poet's bays. this, it must be confessed, was a rather discouraging case. a young person like this may pierce, as the frenchmen say, by and by, but the chances are all the other way. i advise aimless young men to choose some profession without needless delay, and so get into a good strong current of human affairs, and find themselves bound up in interests with a compact body of their fellow-men. i advise young women who write to me for counsel,--perhaps i do not advise them at all, only sympathize a little with them, and listen to what they have to say (eight closely written pages on the average, which i always read from beginning to end, thinking of the widow's cruse and myself in the character of elijah) and--and--come now, i don't believe methuselah would tell you what he said in his letters to young ladies, written when he was in his nine hundred and sixty-ninth year. but, dear me! how much work all this private criticism involves! an editor has only to say "respectfully declined," and there is the end of it. but the confidential adviser is expected to give the reasons of his likes and dislikes in detail, and sometimes to enter into an argument for their support. that is more than any martyr can stand, but what trials he must go through, as it is! great bundles of manuscripts, verse or prose, which the recipient is expected to read, perhaps to recommend to a publisher, at any rate to express a well-digested and agreeably flavored opinion about; which opinion, nine times out of ten, disguise it as we may, has to be a bitter draught; every form of egotism, conceit, false sentiment, hunger for notoriety, and eagerness for display of anserine plumage before the admiring public;--all these come in by mail or express, covered with postage-stamps of so much more cost than the value of the waste words they overlie, that one comes at last to groan and change color at the very sight of a package, and to dread the postman's knock as if it were that of the other visitor whose naked knuckles rap at every door. still there are experiences which go far towards repaying all these inflictions. my last young man's case looked desperate enough; some of his sails had blown from the rigging, some were backing in the wind, and some were flapping and shivering, but i told him which way to head, and to my surprise he promised to do just as i directed, and i do not doubt is under full sail at this moment. what if i should tell my last, my very recent experience with the other sex? i received a paper containing the inner history of a young woman's life, the evolution of her consciousness from its earliest record of itself, written so thoughtfully, so sincerely, with so much firmness and yet so much delicacy, with such truth of detail and such grace in the manner of telling, that i finished the long manuscript almost at a sitting, with a pleasure rarely, almost never experienced in voluminous communications which one has to spell out of handwriting. this was from a correspondent who made my acquaintance by letter when she was little more than a child, some years ago. how easy at that early period to have silenced her by indifference, to have wounded her by a careless epithet, perhaps even to have crushed her as one puts his heel on a weed! a very little encouragement kept her from despondency, and brought back one of those overflows of gratitude which make one more ashamed of himself for being so overpaid than he would be for having committed any of the lesser sins. but what pleased me most in the paper lately received was to see how far the writer had outgrown the need of any encouragement of mine; that she had strengthened out of her tremulous questionings into a self-reliance and self-poise which i had hardly dared to anticipate for her. some of my readers who are also writers have very probably had more numerous experiences of this kind than i can lay claim to; self-revelations from unknown and sometimes nameless friends, who write from strange corners where the winds have wafted some stray words of theirs which have lighted in the minds and reached the hearts of those to whom they were as the angel that stirred the pool of bethesda. perhaps this is the best reward authorship brings; it may not imply much talent or literary excellence, but it means that your way of thinking and feeling is just what some one of your fellow-creatures needed. --i have been putting into shape, according to his request, some further passages from the young astronomer's manuscript, some of which the reader will have a chance to read if he is so disposed. the conflict in the young man's mind between the desire for fame and the sense of its emptiness as compared with nobler aims has set me thinking about the subject from a somewhat humbler point of view. as i am in the habit of telling you, beloved, many of my thoughts, as well as of repeating what was said at our table, you may read what follows as if it were addressed to you in the course of an ordinary conversation, where i claimed rather more than my share, as i am afraid i am a little in the habit of doing. i suppose we all, those of us who write in verse or prose, have the habitual feeling that we should like to be remembered. it is to be awake when all of those who were round us have been long wrapped in slumber. it is a pleasant thought enough that the name by which we have been called shall be familiar on the lips of those who come after us, and the thoughts that wrought themselves out in our intelligence, the emotions that trembled through our frames, shall live themselves over again in the minds and hearts of others. but is there not something of rest, of calm, in the thought of gently and gradually fading away out of human remembrance? what line have we written that was on a level with our conceptions? what page of ours that does not betray some weakness we would fain have left unrecorded? to become a classic and share the life of a language is to be ever open to criticisms, to comparisons, to the caprices of successive generations, to be called into court and stand a trial before a new jury, once or more than once in every century. to be forgotten is to sleep in peace with the undisturbed myriads, no longer subject to the chills and heats, the blasts, the sleet, the dust, which assail in endless succession that shadow of a man which we call his reputation. the line which dying we could wish to blot has been blotted out for us by a hand so tender, so patient, so used to its kindly task, that the page looks as fair as if it had never borne the record of our infirmity or our transgression. and then so few would be wholly content with their legacy of fame. you remember poor monsieur jacques's complaint of the favoritism shown to monsieur berthier,--it is in that exquisite "week in a french country-house." "have you seen his room? have you seen how large it is? twice as large as mine! he has two jugs, a large one and a little one. i have only one small one. and a tea-service and a gilt cupid on the top of his looking-glass." the famous survivor of himself has had his features preserved in a medallion, and the slice of his countenance seems clouded with the thought that it does not belong to a bust; the bust ought to look happy in its niche, but the statue opposite makes it feel as if it had been cheated out of half its personality, and the statue looks uneasy because another stands on a loftier pedestal. but "ignotus" and "miserrimus" are of the great majority in that vast assembly, that house of commons whose members are all peers, where to be forgotten is the standing rule. the dignity of a silent memory is not to be undervalued. fame is after all a kind of rude handling, and a name that is often on vulgar lips seems to borrow something not to be desired, as the paper money that passes from hand to hand gains somewhat which is a loss thereby. o sweet, tranquil refuge of oblivion, so far as earth is concerned, for us poor blundering, stammering, misbehaving creatures who cannot turn over a leaf of our life's diary without feeling thankful that its failure can no longer stare us in the face! not unwelcome shall be the baptism of dust which hides forever the name that was given in the baptism of water! we shall have good company whose names are left unspoken by posterity. "who knows whether the best of men be known, or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot than any that stand remembered in the known account of time? the greater part must be content to be as though they had not been; to be found in the register of god, not in the record of man. twenty-seven names make up the first story before the flood, and the recorded names ever since contain not one living century." i have my moods about such things as the young astronomer has, as we all have. there are times when the thought of becoming utterly nothing to the world we knew so well and loved so much is painful and oppressive; we gasp as if in a vacuum, missing the atmosphere of life we have so long been in the habit of breathing. not the less are there moments when the aching need of repose comes over us and the requiescat in pace, heathen benediction as it is, sounds more sweetly in our ears than all the promises that fame can hold out to us. i wonder whether it ever occurred to you to reflect upon another horror there must be in leaving a name behind you. think what a horrid piece of work the biographers make of a man's private history! just imagine the subject of one of those extraordinary fictions called biographies coming back and reading the life of himself, written very probably by somebody or other who thought he could turn a penny by doing it, and having the pleasure of seeing "his little bark attendant sail, pursue the triumph and partake the gale." the ghost of the person condemned to walk the earth in a biography glides into a public library, and goes to the shelf where his mummied life lies in its paper cerements. i can see the pale shadow glancing through the pages and hear the comments that shape themselves in the bodiless intelligence as if they were made vocal by living lips. "born in july, !" and my honored father killed at the battle of bunker hill! atrocious libeller! to slander one's family at the start after such a fashion! "the death of his parents left him in charge of his aunt nancy, whose tender care took the place of those parental attentions which should have guided and protected his infant years, and consoled him for the severity of another relative." --aunt nancy! it was aunt betsey, you fool! aunt nancy used to--she has been dead these eighty years, so there is no use in mincing matters--she used to keep a bottle and a stick, and when she had been tasting a drop out of the bottle the stick used to come off the shelf and i had to taste that. and here she is made a saint of, and poor aunt betsey, that did everything for me, is slandered by implication as a horrid tyrant. "the subject of this commemorative history was remarkable for a precocious development of intelligence. an old nurse who saw him at the very earliest period of his existence is said to have spoken of him as one of the most promising infants she had seen in her long experience. at school he was equally remarkable, and at a tender age he received a paper adorned with a cut, inscribed reward of merit." --i don't doubt the nurse said that,--there were several promising children born about that time. as for cuts, i got more from the schoolmaster's rattan than in any other shape. didn't one of my teachers split a gunter's scale into three pieces over the palm of my hand? and didn't i grin when i saw the pieces fly? no humbug, now, about my boyhood! "his personal appearance was not singularly prepossessing. inconspicuous in stature and unattractive in features" --you misbegotten son of an ourang and grandson of an ascidian (ghosts keep up with science, you observe), what business have you to be holding up my person to the contempt of my posterity? haven't i been sleeping for this many a year in quiet, and don't the dandelions and buttercups look as yellow over me as over the best-looking neighbor i have in the dormitory? why do you want to people the minds of everybody that reads your good-for-nothing libel which you call a "biography" with your impudent caricatures of a man who was a better-looking fellow than yourself, i 'll bet you ten to one, a man whom his latin tutor called fommosus puer when he was only a freshman? if that's what it means to make a reputation,--to leave your character and your person, and the good name of your sainted relatives, and all you were, and all you had and thought and felt, so far as can be gathered by digging you out of your most private records, to be manipulated and bandied about and cheapened in the literary market as a chicken or a turkey or a goose is handled and bargained over at a provision stall, is n't it better to be content with the honest blue slate-stone and its inscription informing posterity that you were a worthy citizen and a respected father of a family? --i should like to see any man's biography with corrections and emendations by his ghost. we don't know each other's secrets quite so well as we flatter ourselves we do. we don't always know our own secrets as well as we might. you have seen a tree with different grafts upon it, an apple or a pear tree we will say. in the late summer months the fruit on one bough will ripen; i remember just such a tree, and the early ripening fruit was the jargonelle. by and by the fruit of another bough will begin to come into condition; the lovely saint michael, as i remember, grew on the same stock as the jargonelle in the tree i am thinking of; and then, when these have all fallen or been gathered, another, we will say the winter nelis, has its turn, and so out of the same juices have come in succession fruits of the most varied aspects and flavors. it is the same thing with ourselves, but it takes us a long while to find it out. the various inherited instincts ripen in succession. you may be nine tenths paternal at one period of your life, and nine tenths maternal at another. all at once the traits of some immediate ancestor may come to maturity unexpectedly on one of the branches of your character, just as your features at different periods of your life betray different resemblances to your nearer or more remote relatives. but i want you to let me go back to the bunker hill monument and the dynasty of twenty or thirty centuries whose successive representatives are to sit in the gate, like the jewish monarchs, while the people shall come by hundreds and by thousands to visit the memorial shaft until the story of bunker's hill is as old as that of marathon. would not one like to attend twenty consecutive soirees, at each one of which the lion of the party should be the man of the monument, at the beginning of each century, all the way, we will say, from anno domini to ann. dom. ,--or, if you think the style of dating will be changed, say to ann. darwinii (we can keep a. d. you see) ? will the man be of the indian type, as president samuel stanhope smith and others have supposed the transplanted european will become by and by? will he have shortened down to four feet and a little more, like the esquimaux, or will he have been bred up to seven feet by the use of new chemical diets, ozonized and otherwise improved atmospheres, and animal fertilizers? let us summon him in imagination and ask him a few questions. is n't it like splitting a toad out of a rock to think of this man of nineteen or twenty centuries hence coming out from his stony dwelling-place and speaking with us? what are the questions we should ask him? he has but a few minutes to stay. make out your own list; i will set down a few that come up to me as i write. --what is the prevalent religious creed of civilization? --has the planet met with any accident of importance? --how general is the republican form of government? --do men fly yet? --has the universal language come into use? --is there a new fuel since the english coal-mines have given out? --is the euthanasia a recognized branch of medical science? --is the oldest inhabitant still living? --is the daily advertiser still published? --and the evening transcript? --is there much inquiry for the works of a writer of the nineteenth century (old style) by--the name of--of-- my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. i cannot imagine the putting of that question without feeling the tremors which shake a wooer as he falters out the words the answer to which will make him happy or wretched. whose works was i going to question him about, do you ask me? oh, the writings of a friend of mine, much esteemed by his relatives and others. but it's of no consequence, after all; i think he says he does not care much for posthumous reputation. i find something of the same interest in thinking about one of the boarders at our table that i find in my waking dreams concerning the man of the monument. this personage is the register of deeds. he is an unemotional character, living in his business almost as exclusively as the scarabee, but without any of that eagerness and enthusiasm which belong to our scientific specialist. his work is largely, principally, i may say, mechanical. he has developed, however, a certain amount of taste for the antiquities of his department, and once in a while brings out some curious result of his investigations into ancient documents. he too belongs to a dynasty which will last as long as there is such a thing as property in land and dwellings. when that is done away with, and we return to the state of villanage, holding our tenement-houses, all to be of the same pattern, of the state, that is to say, of the tammany ring which is to take the place of the feudal lord,--the office of register of deeds will, i presume, become useless, and the dynasty will be deposed. as we grow older we think more and more of old persons and of old things and places. as to old persons, it seems as if we never know how much they have to tell until we are old ourselves and they have been gone twenty or thirty years. once in a while we come upon some survivor of his or her generation that we have overlooked, and feel as if we had recovered one of the lost books of livy or fished up the golden candlestick from the ooze of the tiber. so it was the other day after my reminiscences of the old gambrel-roofed house and its visitors. they found an echo in the recollections of one of the brightest and liveliest of my suburban friends, whose memory is exact about everything except her own age, which, there can be no doubt, she makes out a score or two of years more than it really is. still she was old enough to touch some lights--and a shadow or two--into the portraits i had drawn, which made me wish that she and not i had been the artist who sketched the pictures. among the lesser regrets that mingle with graver sorrows for the friends of an earlier generation we have lost, are our omissions to ask them so many questions they could have answered easily enough, and would have been pleased to be asked. there! i say to myself sometimes, in an absent mood, i must ask her about that. but she of whom i am now thinking has long been beyond the reach of any earthly questioning, and i sigh to think how easily i could have learned some fact which i should have been happy to have transmitted with pious care to those who are to come after me. how many times i have heard her quote the line about blessings brightening as they take their flight, and how true it proves in many little ways that one never thinks of until it is too late. the register of deeds is not himself advanced in years. but he borrows an air of antiquity from the ancient records which are stored in his sepulchral archives. i love to go to his ossuary of dead transactions, as i would visit the catacombs of rome or paris. it is like wandering up the nile to stray among the shelves of his monumental folios. here stands a series of volumes, extending over a considerable number of years, all of which volumes are in his handwriting. but as you go backward there is a break, and you come upon the writing of another person, who was getting old apparently, for it is beginning to be a little shaky, and then you know that you have gone back as far as the last days of his predecessor. thirty or forty years more carry you to the time when this incumbent began the duties of his office; his hand was steady then; and the next volume beyond it in date betrays the work of a still different writer. all this interests me, but i do not see how it is going to interest my reader. i do not feel very happy about the register of deeds. what can i do with him? of what use is he going to be in my record of what i have seen and heard at the breakfast-table? the fact of his being one of the boarders was not so important that i was obliged to speak of him, and i might just as well have drawn on my imagination and not allowed this dummy to take up the room which another guest might have profitably filled at our breakfast-table. i suppose he will prove a superfluity, but i have got him on my hands, and i mean that he shall be as little in the way as possible. one always comes across people in actual life who have no particular business to be where we find them, and whose right to be at all is somewhat questionable. i am not going to get rid of the register of deeds by putting him out of the way; but i confess i do not see of what service he is going to be to me in my record. i have often found, however, that the disposer of men and things understands much better than we do how to place his pawns and other pieces on the chess-board of life. a fish more or less in the ocean does not seem to amount to much. it is not extravagant to say that any one fish may be considered a supernumerary. but when captain coram's ship sprung a leak and the carpenter could not stop it, and the passengers had made up their minds that it was all over with them, all at once, without any apparent reason, the pumps began gaining on the leak, and the sinking ship to lift herself out of the abyss which was swallowing her up. and what do you think it was that saved the ship, and captain coram, and so in due time gave to london that foundling hospital which he endowed, and under the floor of which he lies buried? why, it was that very supernumerary fish, which we held of so little account, but which had wedged itself into the rent of the yawning planks, and served to keep out the water until the leak was finally stopped. i am very sure it was captain coram, but i almost hope it was somebody else, in order to give some poor fellow who is lying in wait for the periodicals a chance to correct me. that will make him happy for a month, and besides, he will not want to pick a quarrel about anything else if he has that splendid triumph. you remember alcibiades and his dog's tail. here you have the extracts i spoke of from the manuscript placed in my hands for revision and emendation. i can understand these alternations of feeling in a young person who has been long absorbed in a single pursuit, and in whom the human instincts which have been long silent are now beginning to find expression. i know well what he wants; a great deal better, i think, than he knows himself. wind-clouds and star-drifts. ii brief glimpses of the bright celestial spheres, false lights, false shadows, vague, uncertain gleams, pale vaporous mists, wan streaks of lurid flame, the climbing of the upward-sailing cloud, the sinking of the downward-falling star, all these are pictures of the changing moods borne through the midnight stillness of my soul. here am i, bound upon this pillared rock, prey to the vulture of a vast desire that feeds upon my life. i burst my bands and steal a moment's freedom from the beak, the clinging talons and the shadowing plumes; then comes the false enchantress, with her song; "thou wouldst not lay thy forehead in the dust like the base herd that feeds and breeds and dies! lo, the fair garlands that i weave for thee, unchanging as the belt orion wears, bright as the jewels of the seven-starred crown, the spangled stream of berenice's hair!" and so she twines the fetters with the flowers around my yielding limbs, and the fierce bird stoops to his quarry,--then to feed his rage of ravening hunger i must drain my blood and let the dew-drenched, poison-breeding night steal all the freshness from my fading cheek, and leave its shadows round my caverned eyes. all for a line in some unheeded scroll; all for a stone that tells to gaping clowns, "here lies a restless wretch beneath a clod where squats the jealous nightmare men call fame!" i marvel not at him who scorns his kind and thinks not sadly of the time foretold when the old hulk we tread shall be a wreck, a slag, a cinder drifting through the sky without its crew of fools! we live too long and even so are not content to die, but load the mould that covers up our bones with stones that stand like beggars by the road and show death's grievous wound and ask for tears; write our great books to teach men who we are, sing our fine songs that tell in artful phrase the secrets of our lives, and plead and pray for alms of memory with the after time, those few swift seasons while the earth shall wear its leafy summers, ere its core grows cold and the moist life of all that breathes shall die; or as the new-born seer, perchance more wise, would have us deem, before its growing mass, pelted with stardust, atoned with meteor-balls, heats like a hammered anvil, till at last man and his works and all that stirred itself of its own motion, in the fiery glow turns to a flaming vapor, and our orb shines a new sun for earths that shall be born. i am as old as egypt to myself, brother to them that squared the pyramids by the same stars i watch. i read the page where every letter is a glittering world, with them who looked from shinar's clay-built towers, ere yet the wanderer of the midland sea had missed the fallen sister of the seven. i dwell in spaces vague, remote, unknown, save to the silent few, who, leaving earth, quit all communion with their living time. i lose myself in that ethereal void, till i have tired my wings and long to fill my breast with denser air, to stand, to walk with eyes not raised above my fellow-men. sick of my unwalled, solitary realm, i ask to change the myriad lifeless worlds i visit as mine own for one poor patch of this dull spheroid and a little breath to shape in word or deed to serve my kind. was ever giant's dungeon dug so deep, was ever tyrant's fetter forged so strong, was e'er such deadly poison in the draught the false wife mingles for the trusting fool, as he whose willing victim is himself, digs, forges, mingles, for his captive soul? vii i was very sure that the old master was hard at work about something,--he is always very busy with something,--but i mean something particular. whether it was a question of history or of cosmogony, or whether he was handling a test-tube or a blow-pipe; what he was about i did not feel sure; but i took it for granted that it was some crucial question or other he was at work on, some point bearing on the thought of the time. for the master, i have observed, is pretty sagacious in striking for the points where his work will be like to tell. we all know that class of scientific laborers to whom all facts are alike nourishing mental food, and who seem to exercise no choice whatever, provided only they can get hold of these same indiscriminate facts in quantity sufficient. they browse on them, as the animal to which they would not like to be compared browses on his thistles. but the master knows the movement of the age he belongs to; and if he seems to be busy with what looks like a small piece of trivial experimenting, one may feel pretty sure that he knows what he is about, and that his minute operations are looking to a result that will help him towards attaining his great end in life,--an insight, so far as his faculties and opportunities will allow, into that order of things which he believes he can study with some prospect of taking in its significance. i became so anxious to know what particular matter he was busy with, that i had to call upon him to satisfy my curiosity. it was with a little trepidation that i knocked at his door. i felt a good deal as one might have felt on disturbing an alchemist at his work, at the very moment, it might be, when he was about to make projection. --come in!--said the master in his grave, massive tones. i passed through the library with him into a little room evidently devoted to his experiments. --you have come just at the right moment,--he said.--your eyes are better than mine. i have been looking at this flask, and i should like to have you look at it. it was a small matrass, as one of the elder chemists would have called it, containing a fluid, and hermetically sealed. he held it up at the window; perhaps you remember the physician holding a flask to the light in gerard douw's "femme hydropique"; i thought of that fine figure as i looked at him. look!--said he,--is it clear or cloudy? --you need not ask me that,--i answered. it is very plainly turbid. i should think that some sediment had been shaken up in it. what is it, elixir vitae or aurum potabile? --something that means more than alchemy ever did! boiled just three hours, and as clear as a bell until within the last few days; since then has been clouding up. --i began to form a pretty shrewd guess at the meaning of all this, and to think i knew very nearly what was coming next. i was right in my conjecture. the master broke off the sealed end of his little flask, took out a small portion of the fluid on a glass rod, and placed it on a slip of glass in the usual way for a microscopic examination. --one thousand diameters,--he said, as he placed it on the stage of the microscope.---we shall find signs of life, of course.--he bent over the instrument and looked but an instant. --there they are!--he exclaimed,--look in. i looked in and saw some objects: the straight linear bodies were darting backward and forward in every direction. the wavy ones were wriggling about like eels or water-snakes. the round ones were spinning on their axes and rolling in every direction. all of them were in a state of incessant activity, as if perpetually seeking something and never finding it. they are tough, the germs of these little bodies, said the master. ---three hours' boiling has n't killed 'em. now, then, let us see what has been the effect of six hours' boiling. he took up another flask just like the first, containing fluid and hermetically sealed in the same way. --boiled just three hours longer than the other, he said,--six hours in all. this is the experimentum crucis. do you see any cloudiness in it? --not a sign of it; it is as clear as crystal, except that there may be a little sediment at the bottom. --that is nothing. the liquid is clear. we shall find no signs of life.---he put a minute drop of the liquid under the microscope as before. nothing stirred. nothing to be seen but a clear circle of light. we looked at it again and again, but with the same result. --six hours kill 'em all, according to this experiment,--said the master.---good as far as it goes. one more negative result. do you know what would have happened if that liquid had been clouded, and we had found life in the sealed flask? sir, if that liquid had held life in it the vatican would have trembled to hear it, and there would have been anxious questionings and ominous whisperings in the halls of lambeth palace! the accepted cosmogonies on trial, sir! traditions, sanctities, creeds, ecclesiastical establishments, all shaking to know whether my little sixpenny flask of fluid looks muddy or not! i don't know whether to laugh or shudder. the thought of an oecumenical council having its leading feature dislocated by my trifling experiment! the thought, again, of the mighty revolution in human beliefs and affairs that might grow out of the same insignificant little phenomenon. a wine-glassful of clear liquid growing muddy. if we had found a wriggle, or a zigzag, or a shoot from one side to the other, in this last flask, what a scare there would have been, to be sure, in the schools of the prophets! talk about your megatherium and your megalosaurus,--what are these to the bacterium and the vibrio? these are the dreadful monsters of today. if they show themselves where they have no business, the little rascals frighten honest folks worse than ever people were frightened by the dragon of rhodes! the master gets going sometimes, there is no denying it, until his imagination runs away with him. he had been trying, as the reader sees, one of those curious experiments in spontaneous generation, as it is called, which have been so often instituted of late years, and by none more thoroughly than by that eminent american student of nature (professor jeffries wyman) whose process he had imitated with a result like his. we got talking over these matters among us the next morning at the breakfast-table. we must agree they couldn't stand six hours' boiling,--i said. --good for the pope of rome!--exclaimed the master. --the landlady drew back with a certain expression of dismay in her countenance. she hoped he did n't want the pope to make any more converts in this country. she had heard a sermon only last sabbath, and the minister had made it out, she thought, as plain as could be, that the pope was the man of sin and that the church of rome was--well, there was very strong names applied to her in scripture. what was good for the pope was good for your minister, too, my dear madam,--said the master. good for everybody that is afraid of what people call "science." if it should prove that dead things come to life of themselves, it would be awkward, you know, because then somebody will get up and say if one dead thing made itself alive another might, and so perhaps the earth peopled itself without any help. possibly the difficulty wouldn't be so great as many people suppose. we might perhaps find room for a creator after all, as we do now, though we see a little brown seed grow till it sucks up the juices of half an acre of ground, apparently all by its own inherent power. that does not stagger us; i am not sure that it would if mr. crosses or mr. weekes's acarus should show himself all of a sudden, as they said he did, in certain mineral mixtures acted on by electricity. the landlady was off soundings, and looking vacant enough by this time. the master turned to me.---don't think too much of the result of our one experiment. it means something, because it confirms those other experiments of which it was a copy; but we must remember that a hundred negatives don't settle such a question. life does get into the world somehow. you don't suppose adam had the cutaneous unpleasantness politely called psora, do you? --hardly,--i answered.---he must have been a walking hospital if he carried all the maladies about him which have plagued his descendants. --well, then, how did the little beast which is peculiar to that special complaint intrude himself into the order of things? you don't suppose there was a special act of creation for the express purpose of bestowing that little wretch on humanity, do you? i thought, on the whole, i would n't answer that question. --you and i are at work on the same problem, said the young astronomer to the master.---i have looked into a microscope now and then, and i have seen that perpetual dancing about of minute atoms in a fluid, which you call molecular motion. just so, when i look through my telescope i see the star-dust whirling about in the infinite expanse of ether; or if i do not see its motion, i know that it is only on account of its immeasurable distance. matter and motion everywhere; void and rest nowhere. you ask why your restless microscopic atoms may not come together and become self-conscious and self-moving organisms. i ask why my telescopic star-dust may not come together and grow and organize into habitable worlds,--the ripened fruit on the branches of the tree yggdrasil, if i may borrow from our friend the poet's province. it frightens people, though, to hear the suggestion that worlds shape themselves from star-mist. it does not trouble them at all to see the watery spheres that round themselves into being out of the vapors floating over us; they are nothing but raindrops. but if a planet can grow as a rain-drop grows, why then--it was a great comfort to these timid folk when lord rosse's telescope resolved certain nebula into star-clusters. sir john herschel would have told them that this made little difference in accounting for the formation of worlds by aggregation, but at any rate it was a comfort to them. --these people have always been afraid of the astronomers,--said the master.--they were shy, you know, of the copernican system, for a long while; well they might be with an oubliette waiting for them if they ventured to think that the earth moved round the sun. science settled that point finally for them, at length, and then it was all right,--when there was no use in disputing the fact any longer. by and by geology began turning up fossils that told extraordinary stories about the duration of life upon our planet. what subterfuges were not used to get rid of their evidence! think of a man seeing the fossilized skeleton of an animal split out of a quarry, his teeth worn down by mastication, and the remains of food still visible in his interior, and, in order to get rid of a piece of evidence contrary to the traditions he holds to, seriously maintaining that this skeleton never belonged to a living creature, but was created with just these appearances; a make-believe, a sham, a barnum's-mermaid contrivance to amuse its creator and impose upon his intelligent children! and now people talk about geological epochs and hundreds of millions of years in the planet's history as calmly as if they were discussing the age of their deceased great-grandmothers. ten or a dozen years ago people said sh! sh! if you ventured to meddle with any question supposed to involve a doubt of the generally accepted hebrew traditions. to-day such questions are recognized as perfectly fair subjects for general conversation; not in the basement story, perhaps, or among the rank and file of the curbstone congregations, but among intelligent and educated persons. you may preach about them in your pulpit, you may lecture about them, you may talk about them with the first sensible-looking person you happen to meet, you may write magazine articles about them, and the editor need not expect to receive remonstrances from angry subscribers and withdrawals of subscriptions, as he would have been sure to not a great many years ago. why, you may go to a tea-party where the clergyman's wife shows her best cap and his daughters display their shining ringlets, and you will hear the company discussing the darwinian theory of the origin of the human race as if it were as harmless a question as that of the lineage of a spinster's lapdog. you may see a fine lady who is as particular in her genuflections as any buddhist or mahometan saint in his manifestations of reverence, who will talk over the anthropoid ape, the supposed founder of the family to which we belong, and even go back with you to the acephalous mollusk, first cousin to the clams and mussels, whose rudimental spine was the hinted prophecy of humanity; all this time never dreaming, apparently, that what she takes for a matter of curious speculation involves the whole future of human progress and destiny. i can't help thinking that if we had talked as freely as we can and do now in the days of the first boarder at this table,--i mean the one who introduced it to the public,--it would have sounded a good deal more aggressively than it does now.--the old master got rather warm in talking; perhaps the consciousness of having a number of listeners had something to do with it. --this whole business is an open question,--he said,--and there is no use in saying, "hush! don't talk about such things!" people do talk about 'em everywhere; and if they don't talk about 'em they think about 'em, and that is worse,--if there is anything bad about such questions, that is. if for the fall of man, science comes to substitute the rise of man, sir, it means the utter disintegration of all the spiritual pessimisms which have been like a spasm in the heart and a cramp in the intellect of men for so many centuries. and yet who dares to say that it is not a perfectly legitimate and proper question to be discussed, without the slightest regard to the fears or the threats of pope or prelate? sir, i believe,--the master rose from his chair as he spoke, and said in a deep and solemn tone, but without any declamatory vehemence,--sir, i believe that we are at this moment in what will be recognized not many centuries hence as one of the late watches in the night of the dark ages. there is a twilight ray, beyond question. we know something of the universe, a very little, and, strangely enough, we know most of what is farthest from us. we have weighed the planets and analyzed the flames of the--sun and stars. we predict their movements as if they were machines we ourselves had made and regulated. we know a good deal about the earth on which we live. but the study of man has been so completely subjected to our preconceived opinions, that we have got to begin all over again. we have studied anthropology through theology; we have now to begin the study of theology through anthropology. until we have exhausted the human element in every form of belief, and that can only be done by what we may call comparative spiritual anatomy, we cannot begin to deal with the alleged extra-human elements without blundering into all imaginable puerilities. if you think for one moment that there is not a single religion in the world which does not come to us through the medium of a preexisting language; and if you remember that this language embodies absolutely nothing but human conceptions and human passions, you will see at once that every religion presupposes its own elements as already existing in those to whom it is addressed. i once went to a church in london and heard the famous edward irving preach, and heard some of his congregation speak in the strange words characteristic of their miraculous gift of tongues. i had a respect for the logical basis of this singular phenomenon. i have always thought it was natural that any celestial message should demand a language of its own, only to be understood by divine illumination. all human words tend, of course, to stop short in human meaning. and the more i hear the most sacred terms employed, the more i am satisfied that they have entirely and radically different meanings in the minds of those who use them. yet they deal with them as if they were as definite as mathematical quantities or geometrical figures. what would become of arithmetic if the figure meant three for one man and five for another and twenty for a third, and all the other numerals were in the same way variable quantities? mighty intelligent correspondence business men would have with each other! but how is this any worse than the difference of opinion which led a famous clergyman to say to a brother theologian, "oh, i see, my dear sir, your god is my devil." man has been studied proudly, contemptuously, rather, from the point of view supposed to be authoritatively settled. the self-sufficiency of egotistic natures was never more fully shown than in the expositions of the worthlessness and wretchedness of their fellow-creatures given by the dogmatists who have "gone back," as the vulgar phrase is, on their race, their own flesh and blood. did you ever read what mr. bancroft says about calvin in his article on jonathan edwards?--and mighty well said it is too, in my judgment. let me remind you of it, whether you have read it or not. "setting himself up over against the privileged classes, he, with a loftier pride than theirs, revealed the power of a yet higher order of nobility, not of a registered ancestry of fifteen generations, but one absolutely spotless in its escutcheon, preordained in the council chamber of eternity." i think you'll find i have got that sentence right, word for word, and there 's a great deal more in it than many good folks who call themselves after the reformer seem to be aware of. the pope put his foot on the neck of kings, but calvin and his cohort crushed the whole human race under their heels in the name of the lord of hosts. now, you see, the point that people don't understand is the absolute and utter humility of science, in opposition to this doctrinal self-sufficiency. i don't doubt this may sound a little paradoxical at first, but i think you will find it is all right. you remember the courtier and the monarch,--louis the fourteenth, wasn't it?--never mind, give the poor fellows that live by setting you right a chance. "what o'clock is it?" says the king. "just whatever o'clock your majesty pleases," says the courtier. i venture to say the monarch was a great deal more humble than the follower, who pretended that his master was superior to such trifling facts as the revolution of the planet. it was the same thing, you remember, with king canute and the tide on the sea-shore. the king accepted the scientific fact of the tide's rising. the loyal hangers-on, who believed in divine right, were too proud of the company they found themselves in to make any such humiliating admission. but there are people, and plenty of them, to-day, who will dispute facts just as clear to those who have taken the pains to learn what is known about them, as that of the tide's rising. they don't like to admit these facts, because they throw doubt upon some of their cherished opinions. we are getting on towards the last part of this nineteenth century. what we have gained is not so much in positive knowledge, though that is a good deal, as it is in the freedom of discussion of every subject that comes within the range of observation and inference. how long is it since mrs. piozzi wrote,--"let me hope that you will not pursue geology till it leads you into doubts destructive of all comfort in this world and all happiness in the next"? the master paused and i remained silent, for i was thinking things i could not say. --it is well always to have a woman near by when one is talking on this class of subjects. whether there will be three or four women to one man in heaven is a question which i must leave to those who talk as if they knew all about the future condition of the race to answer. but very certainly there is much more of hearty faith, much more of spiritual life, among women than among men, in this world. they need faith to support them more than men do, for they have a great deal less to call them out of themselves, and it comes easier to them, for their habitual state of dependence teaches them to trust in others. when they become voters, if they ever do, it may be feared that the pews will lose what the ward-rooms gain. relax a woman's hold on man, and her knee-joints will soon begin to stiffen. self-assertion brings out many fine qualities, but it does not promote devotional habits. i remember some such thoughts as this were passing through my mind while the master was talking. i noticed that the lady was listening to the conversation with a look of more than usual interest. we men have the talk mostly to ourselves at this table; the master, as you have found out, is fond of monologues, and i myself--well, i suppose i must own to a certain love for the reverberated music of my own accents; at any rate, the master and i do most of the talking. but others help us do the listening. i think i can show that they listen to some purpose. i am going to surprise my reader with a letter which i received very shortly after the conversation took place which i have just reported. it is of course by a special license, such as belongs to the supreme prerogative of an author, that i am enabled to present it to him. he need ask no questions: it is not his affair how i obtained the right to give publicity to a private communication. i have become somewhat more intimately acquainted with the writer of it than in the earlier period of my connection with this establishment, and i think i may say have gained her confidence to a very considerable degree. my dear sir: the conversations i have had with you, limited as they have been, have convinced me that i am quite safe in addressing you with freedom on a subject which interests me, and others more than myself. we at our end of the table have been listening, more or less intelligently, to the discussions going on between two or three of you gentlemen on matters of solemn import to us all. this is nothing very new to me. i have been used, from an early period of my life, to hear the discussion of grave questions, both in politics and religion. i have seen gentlemen at my father's table get as warm over a theological point of dispute as in talking over their political differences. i rather think it has always been very much so, in bad as well as in good company; for you remember how milton's fallen angels amused themselves with disputing on "providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate," and it was the same thing in that club goldsmith writes so pleasantly about. indeed, why should not people very often come, in the course of conversation, to the one subject which lies beneath all else about which our thoughts are occupied? and what more natural than that one should be inquiring about what another has accepted and ceased to have any doubts concerning? it seems to me all right that at the proper time, in the proper place, those who are less easily convinced than their neighbors should have the fullest liberty of calling to account all the opinions which others receive without question. somebody must stand sentry at the outposts of belief, and it is a sentry's business, i believe, to challenge every one who comes near him, friend or foe. i want you to understand fully that i am not one of those poor nervous creatures who are frightened out of their wits when any question is started that implies the disturbance of their old beliefs. i manage to see some of the periodicals, and now and then dip a little way into a new book which deals with these curious questions you were talking about, and others like them. you know they find their way almost everywhere. they do not worry me in the least. when i was a little girl, they used to say that if you put a horsehair into a tub of water it would turn into a snake in the course of a few days. that did not seem to me so very much stranger than it was that an egg should turn into a chicken. what can i say to that? only that it is the lord's doings, and marvellous in my eyes; and if our philosophical friend should find some little live creatures, or what seem to be live creatures, in any of his messes, i should say as much, and no more. you do not think i would shut up my bible and prayer-book because there is one more thing i do not understand in a world where i understand so very little of all the wonders that surround me? it may be very wrong to pay any attention to those speculations about the origin of mankind which seem to conflict with the sacred record. but perhaps there is some way of reconciling them, as there is of making the seven days of creation harmonize with modern geology. at least, these speculations are curious enough in themselves; and i have seen so many good and handsome children come of parents who were anything but virtuous and comely, that i can believe in almost any amount of improvement taking place in a tribe of living beings, if time and opportunity favor it. i have read in books of natural history that dogs came originally from wolves. when i remember my little flora, who, as i used to think, could do everything but talk, it does not seem to me that she was much nearer her savage ancestors than some of the horrid cannibal wretches are to their neighbors the great apes. you see that i am tolerably liberal in my habit of looking at all these questions. we women drift along with the current of the times, listening, in our quiet way, to the discussions going on round us in books and in conversation, and shift the phrases in which we think and talk with something of the same ease as that with which we change our style of dress from year to year. i doubt if you of the other sex know what an effect this habit of accommodating our tastes to changing standards has upon us. nothing is fixed in them, as you know; the very law of fashion is change. i suspect we learn from our dressmakers to shift the costume of our minds, and slip on the new fashions of thinking all the more easily because we have been accustomed to new styles of dressing every season. it frightens me to see how much i have written without having yet said a word of what i began this letter on purpose to say. i have taken so much space in "defining my position," to borrow the politicians' phrase, that i begin to fear you will be out of patience before you come to the part of my letter i care most about your reading. what i want to say is this. when these matters are talked about before persons of different ages and various shades of intelligence, i think one ought to be very careful that his use of language does not injure the sensibilities, perhaps blunt the reverential feelings, of those who are listening to him. you of the sterner sex say that we women have intuitions, but not logic, as our birthright. i shall not commit my sex by conceding this to be true as a whole, but i will accept the first half of it, and i will go so far as to say that we do not always care to follow out a train of thought until it ends in a blind cul de sac, as some of what are called the logical people are fond of doing. now i want to remind you that religion is not a matter of intellectual luxury to those of us who are interested in it, but something very different. it is our life, and more than our life; for that is measured by pulse-beats, but our religious consciousness partakes of the infinite, towards which it is constantly yearning. it is very possible that a hundred or five hundred years from now the forms of religious belief may be so altered that we should hardly know them. but the sense of dependence on divine influence and the need of communion with the unseen and eternal will be then just what they are now. it is not the geologist's hammer, or the astronomer's telescope, or the naturalist's microscope, that is going to take away the need of the human soul for that rock to rest upon which is higher than itself, that star which never sets, that all-pervading presence which gives life to all the least moving atoms of the immeasurable universe. i have no fears for myself, and listen very quietly to all your debates. i go from your philosophical discussions to the reading of jeremy taylor's "rule and exercises of holy dying" without feeling that i have unfitted myself in the least degree for its solemn reflections. and, as i have mentioned his name, i cannot help saying that i do not believe that good man himself would have ever shown the bitterness to those who seem to be at variance with the received doctrines which one may see in some of the newspapers that call themselves "religious." i have kept a few old books from my honored father's library, and among them is another of his which i always thought had more true christianity in its title than there is in a good many whole volumes. i am going to take the book down, or up,--for it is not a little one,--and write out the title, which, i dare say, you remember, and very likely you have the book. "discourse of the liberty of prophesying, showing the unreasonableness of prescribing to other men's faith, and the iniquity of persecuting different opinions." now, my dear sir, i am sure you believe that i want to be liberal and reasonable, and not to act like those weak alarmists who, whenever the silly sheep begin to skip as if something was after them, and huddle together in their fright, are sure there must be a bear or a lion coming to eat them up. but for all that, i want to beg you to handle some of these points, which are so involved in the creed of a good many well-intentioned persons that you cannot separate them from it without picking their whole belief to pieces, with more thought for them than you might think at first they were entitled to. i have no doubt you gentlemen are as wise as serpents, and i want you to be as harmless as doves. the young girl who sits by me has, i know, strong religious instincts. instead of setting her out to ask all sorts of questions, i would rather, if i had my way, encourage her to form a habit of attending to religious duties, and make the most of the simple faith in which she was bred. i think there are a good many questions young persons may safely postpone to a more convenient season; and as this young creature is overworked, i hate to have her excited by the fever of doubt which it cannot be denied is largely prevailing in our time. i know you must have looked on our other young friend, who has devoted himself to the sublimest of the sciences, with as much interest as i do. when i was a little girl i used to write out a line of young's as a copy in my writing-book, "an undevout astronomer is mad"; but i do not now feel quite so sure that the contemplation of all the multitude of remote worlds does not tend to weaken the idea of a personal deity. it is not so much that nebular theory which worries me, when i think about this subject, as a kind of bewilderment when i try to conceive of a consciousness filling all those frightful blanks of space they talk about. i sometimes doubt whether that young man worships anything but the stars. they tell me that many young students of science like him never see the inside of a church. i cannot help wishing they did. it humanizes people, quite apart from any higher influence it exerts upon them. one reason, perhaps, why they do not care to go to places of worship is that they are liable to hear the questions they know something about handled in sermons by those who know very much less about them. and so they lose a great deal. almost every human being, however vague his notions of the power addressed, is capable of being lifted and solemnized by the exercise of public prayer. when i was a young girl we travelled in europe, and i visited ferney with my parents; and i remember we all stopped before a chapel, and i read upon its front, i knew latin enough to understand it, i am pleased to say,--deo erexit voltaire. i never forgot it; and knowing what a sad scoffer he was at most sacred things, i could not but be impressed with the fact that even he was not satisfied with himself, until he had shown his devotion in a public and lasting form. we all want religion sooner or later. i am afraid there are some who have no natural turn for it, as there are persons without an ear for music, to which, if i remember right, i heard one of you comparing what you called religious genius. but sorrow and misery bring even these to know what it means, in a great many instances. may i not say to you, my friend, that i am one who has learned the secret of the inner life by the discipline of trials in the life of outward circumstance? i can remember the time when i thought more about the shade of color in a ribbon, whether it matched my complexion or not, than i did about my spiritual interests in this world or the next. it was needful that i should learn the meaning of that text, "whom the lord loveth he chasteneth." since i have been taught in the school of trial i have felt, as i never could before, how precious an inheritance is the smallest patrimony of faith. when everything seemed gone from me, i found i had still one possession. the bruised reed that i had never leaned on became my staff. the smoking flax which had been a worry to my eyes burst into flame, and i lighted the taper at it which has since guided all my footsteps. and i am but one of the thousands who have had the same experience. they have been through the depths of affliction, and know the needs of the human soul. it will find its god in the unseen,--father, saviour, divine spirit, virgin mother, it must and will breathe its longings and its griefs into the heart of a being capable of understanding all its necessities and sympathizing with all its woes. i am jealous, yes, i own i am jealous of any word, spoken or written, that would tend to impair that birthright of reverence which becomes for so many in after years the basis of a deeper religious sentiment. and yet, as i have said, i cannot and will not shut my eyes to the problems which may seriously affect our modes of conceiving the eternal truths on which, and by which, our souls must live. what a fearful time is this into which we poor sensitive and timid creatures are born! i suppose the life of every century has more or less special resemblance to that of some particular apostle. i cannot help thinking this century has thomas for its model. how do you suppose the other apostles felt when that experimental philosopher explored the wounds of the being who to them was divine with his inquisitive forefinger? in our time that finger has multiplied itself into ten thousand thousand implements of research, challenging all mysteries, weighing the world as in a balance, and sifting through its prisms and spectroscopes the light that comes from the throne of the eternal. pity us, dear lord, pity us! the peace in believing which belonged to other ages is not for us. again thy wounds are opened that we may know whether it is the blood of one like ourselves which flows from them, or whether it is a divinity that is bleeding for his creatures. wilt thou not take the doubt of thy children whom the time commands to try all things in the place of the unquestioning faith of earlier and simpler-hearted generations? we too have need of thee. thy martyrs in other ages were cast into the flames, but no fire could touch their immortal and indestructible faith. we sit in safety and in peace, so far as these poor bodies are concerned; but our cherished beliefs, the hopes, the trust that stayed the hearts of those we loved who have gone before us, are cast into the fiery furnace of an age which is fast turning to dross the certainties and the sanctities once prized as our most precious inheritance. you will understand me, my dear sir, and all my solicitudes and apprehensions. had i never been assailed by the questions that meet all thinking persons in our time, i might not have thought so anxiously about the risk of perplexing others. i know as well as you must that there are many articles of belief clinging to the skirts of our time which are the bequests of the ages of ignorance that god winked at. but for all that i would train a child in the nurture and admonition of the lord, according to the simplest and best creed i could disentangle from those barbarisms, and i would in every way try to keep up in young persons that standard of reverence for all sacred subjects which may, without any violent transition, grow and ripen into the devotion of later years. believe me, very sincerely yours, i have thought a good deal about this letter and the writer of it lately. she seemed at first removed to a distance from all of us, but here i find myself in somewhat near relations with her. what has surprised me more than that, however, is to find that she is becoming so much acquainted with the register of deeds. of all persons in the world, i should least have thought of him as like to be interested in her, and still less, if possible, of her fancying him. i can only say they have been in pretty close conversation several times of late, and, if i dared to think it of so very calm and dignified a personage, i should say that her color was a little heightened after one or more of these interviews. no! that would be too absurd! but i begin to think nothing is absurd in the matter of the relations of the two sexes; and if this high-bred woman fancies the attentions of a piece of human machinery like this elderly individual, it is none of my business. i have been at work on some more of the young astronomer's lines. i find less occasion for meddling with them as he grows more used to versification. i think i could analyze the processes going on in his mind, and the conflict of instincts which he cannot in the nature of things understand. but it is as well to give the reader a chance to find out for himself what is going on in the young man's heart and intellect. wind-clouds and star-drifts. iii the snows that glittered on the disk of mars have melted, and the planet's fiery orb rolls in the crimson summer of its year; but what to me the summer or the snow of worlds that throb with life in forms unknown, if life indeed be theirs; i heed not these. my heart is simply human; all my care for them whose dust is fashioned like mine own; these ache with cold and hunger, live in pain, and shake with fear of worlds more full of woe; there may be others worthier of my love, but such i know not save through these i know. there are two veils of language, hid beneath whose sheltering folds, we dare to be ourselves; and not that other self which nods and smiles and babbles in our name; the one is prayer, lending its licensed freedom to the tongue that tells our sorrows and our sins to heaven; the other, verse, that throws its spangled web around our naked speech and makes it bold. i, whose best prayer is silence; sitting dumb in the great temple where i nightly serve him who is throned in light, have dared to claim the poet's franchise, though i may not hope to wear his garland; hear me while i tell my story in such form as poets use, but breathed in fitful whispers, as the wind sighs and then slumbers, wakes and sighs again. thou vision, floating in the breathless air between me and the fairest of the stars, i tell my lonely thoughts as unto thee. look not for marvels of the scholar's pen in my rude measure; i can only show a slender-margined, unillumined page, and trust its meaning to the flattering eye that reads it in the gracious light of love. ah, wouldst thou clothe thyself in breathing shape and nestle at my side, my voice should lend whate'er my verse may lack of tender rhythm to make thee listen. i have stood entranced when, with her fingers wandering o'er the keys, the white enchantress with the golden hair breathed all her soul through some unvalued rhyme; some flower of song that long had lost its bloom; lo! its dead summer kindled as she sang! the sweet contralto, like the ringdove's coo, thrilled it with brooding, fond, caressing tones, and the pale minstrel's passion lived again, tearful and trembling as a dewy rose the wind has shaken till it fills the air with light and fragrance. such the wondrous charm a song can borrow when the bosom throbs that lends it breath. so from the poet's lips his verse sounds doubly sweet, for none like him feels every cadence of its wave-like flow; he lives the passion over, while he reads, that shook him as he sang his lofty strain, and pours his life through each resounding line, as ocean, when the stormy winds are hushed, still rolls and thunders through his billowy caves. let me retrace the record of the years that made me what i am. a man most wise, but overworn with toil and bent with age, sought me to be his scholar,--me, run wild from books and teachers,--kindled in my soul the love of knowledge; led me to his tower, showed me the wonders of the midnight realm his hollow sceptre ruled, or seemed to rule, taught me the mighty secrets of the spheres, trained me to find the glimmering specks of light beyond the unaided sense, and on my chart to string them one by one, in order due, as on a rosary a saint his beads. i was his only scholar; i became the echo to his thought; whate'er he knew was mine for asking; so from year to year we wrought together, till there came a time when i, the learner, was the master half of the twinned being in the dome-crowned tower. minds roll in paths like planets; they revolve this in a larger, that a narrower ring, but round they come at last to that same phase, that self-same light and shade they showed before. i learned his annual and his monthly tale, his weekly axiom and his daily phrase, i felt them coming in the laden air, and watched them laboring up to vocal breath, even as the first-born at his father's board knows ere he speaks the too familiar jest is on its way, by some mysterious sign forewarned, the click before the striking bell. he shrivelled as i spread my growing leaves, till trust and reverence changed to pitying care; he lived for me in what he once had been, but i for him, a shadow, a defence, the guardian of his fame, his guide, his staff, leaned on so long he fell if left alone. i was his eye, his ear, his cunning hand, love was my spur and longing after fame, but his the goading thorn of sleepless age that sees its shortening span, its lengthening shades, that clutches what it may with eager grasp, and drops at last with empty, outstretched hands. all this he dreamed not. he would sit him down thinking to work his problems as of old, and find the star he thought so plain a blur, the columned figures labyrinthine wilds without my comment, blind and senseless scrawls that vexed him with their riddles; he would strive and struggle for a while, and then his eye would lose its light, and over all his mind the cold gray mist would settle; and erelong the darkness fell, and i was left alone. alone! no climber of an alpine cliff, no arctic venturer on the waveless sea, feels the dread stillness round him as it chills the heart of him who leaves the slumbering earth to watch the silent worlds that crowd the sky. alone! and as the shepherd leaves his flock to feed upon the hillside, he meanwhile finds converse in the warblings of the pipe himself has fashioned for his vacant hour, so have i grown companion to myself, and to the wandering spirits of the air that smile and whisper round us in our dreams. thus have i learned to search if i may know the whence and why of all beneath the stars and all beyond them, and to weigh my life as in a balance, poising good and ill against each other,-asking of the power that flung me forth among the whirling worlds, if i am heir to any inborn right, or only as an atom of the dust that every wind may blow where'er it will. i am not humble; i was shown my place, clad in such robes as nature had at hand; took what she gave, not chose; i know no shame, no fear for being simply what i am. i am not proud, i hold my every breath at nature's mercy. i am as a babe borne in a giant's arms, he knows not where; each several heart-beat, counted like the coin a miser reckons, is a special gift as from an unseen hand; if that withhold its bounty for a moment, i am left a clod upon the earth to which i fall. something i find in me that well might claim the love of beings in a sphere above this doubtful twilight world of right and wrong; something that shows me of the self-same clay that creeps or swims or flies in humblest form. had i been asked, before i left my bed of shapeless dust, what clothing i would wear, i would have said, more angel and less worm; but for their sake who are even such as i, of the same mingled blood, i would not choose to hate that meaner portion of myself which makes me brother to the least of men. i dare not be a coward with my lips who dare to question all things in my soul; some men may find their wisdom on their knees, some prone and grovelling in the dust like slaves; let the meek glow-worm glisten in the dew; i ask to lift my taper to the sky as they who hold their lamps above their heads, trusting the larger currents up aloft, rather than crossing eddies round their breast, threatening with every puff the flickering blaze. my life shall be a challenge, not a truce! this is my homage to the mightier powers, to ask my boldest question, undismayed by muttered threats that some hysteric sense of wrong or insult will convulse the throne where wisdom reigns supreme; and if i err, they all must err who have to feel their way as bats that fly at noon; for what are we but creatures of the night, dragged forth by day, who needs must stumble, and with stammering steps spell out their paths in syllables of pain? thou wilt not hold in scorn the child who dares look up to thee, the father,--dares to ask more than thy wisdom answers. from thy hand the worlds were cast; yet every leaflet claims from that same hand its little shining sphere of star-lit dew; thine image, the great sun, girt with his mantle of tempestuous flame, glares in mid-heaven; but to his noontide blaze the slender violet lifts its lidless eye, and from his splendor steals its fairest hue, its sweetest perfume from his scorching fire. i may just as well stop here as anywhere, for there is more of the manuscript to come, and i can only give it in instalments. the young astronomer had told me i might read any portions of his manuscript i saw fit to certain friends. i tried this last extract on the old master. it's the same story we all have to tell,--said he, when i had done reading.---we are all asking questions nowadays. i should like to hear him read some of his verses himself, and i think some of the other boarders would like to. i wonder if he wouldn't do it, if we asked him! poets read their own compositions in a singsong sort of way; but they do seem to love 'em so, that i always enjoy it. it makes me laugh a little inwardly to see how they dandle their poetical babies, but i don't let them know it. we must get up a select party of the boarders to hear him read. we'll send him a regular invitation. i will put my name at the head of it, and you shall write it. --that was neatly done. how i hate writing such things! but i suppose i must do it. viii the master and i had been thinking for some time of trying to get the young astronomer round to our side of the table. there are many subjects on which both of us like to talk with him, and it would be convenient to have him nearer to us. how to manage it was not quite so clear as it might have been. the scarabee wanted to sit with his back to the light, as it was in his present position. he used his eyes so much in studying minute objects, that he wished to spare them all fatigue, and did not like facing a window. neither of us cared to ask the man of letters, so called, to change his place, and of course we could not think of making such a request of the young girl or the lady. so we were at a stand with reference to this project of ours. but while we were proposing, fate or providence disposed everything for us. the man of letters, so called, was missing one morning, having folded his tent--that is, packed his carpet-bag--with the silence of the arabs, and encamped--that is, taken lodgings--in some locality which he had forgotten to indicate. the landlady bore this sudden bereavement remarkably well. her remarks and reflections; though borrowing the aid of homely imagery and doing occasional violence to the nicer usages of speech, were not without philosophical discrimination. --i like a gentleman that is a gentleman. but there's a difference in what folks call gentlemen as there is in what you put on table. there is cabbages and there is cauliflowers. there is clams and there is oysters. there is mackerel and there is salmon. and there is some that knows the difference and some that doos n't. i had a little account with that boarder that he forgot to settle before he went off, so all of a suddin. i sha'n't say anything about it. i've seen the time when i should have felt bad about losing what he owed me, but it was no great matter; and if he 'll only stay away now he 's gone, i can stand losing it, and not cry my eyes out nor lay awake all night neither. i never had ought to have took him. where he come from and where he's gone to is unbeknown to me. if he'd only smoked good tobacco, i wouldn't have said a word; but it was such dreadful stuff, it 'll take a week to get his chamber sweet enough to show them that asks for rooms. it doos smell like all possest. --left any goods?--asked the salesman. --or dockermunts?--added the member of the haouse. the landlady answered with a faded smile, which implied that there was no hope in that direction. dr. benjamin, with a sudden recurrence of youthful feeling, made a fan with the fingers of his right hand, the second phalanx of the thumb resting on the tip of the nose, and the remaining digits diverging from each other, in the plane of the median line of the face,--i suppose this is the way he would have described the gesture, which is almost a specialty of the parisian gamin. that boy immediately copied it, and added greatly to its effect by extending the fingers of the other hand in a line with those of the first, and vigorously agitating those of the two hands,--a gesture which acts like a puncture on the distended self-esteem of one to whom it is addressed, and cheapens the memory of the absent to a very low figure. i wish the reader to observe that i treasure up with interest all the words uttered by the salesman. it must have been noticed that he very rarely speaks. perhaps he has an inner life, with its own deep emotional, and lofty contemplative elements, but as we see him, he is the boarder reduced to the simplest expression of that term. yet, like most human creatures, he has generic and specific characters not unworthy of being studied. i notice particularly a certain electrical briskness of movement, such as one may see in a squirrel, which clearly belongs to his calling. the dry-goodsman's life behind his counter is a succession of sudden, snappy perceptions and brief series of coordinate spasms; as thus: "purple calico, three quarters wide, six yards." up goes the arm; bang! tumbles out the flat roll and turns half a dozen somersets, as if for the fun of the thing; the six yards of calico hurry over the measuring nails, hunching their backs up, like six cankerworms; out jump the scissors; snip, clip, rip; the stuff is wisped up, brown--papered, tied, labelled, delivered, and the man is himself again, like a child just come out of a convulsion-fit. think of a man's having some hundreds of these semi-epileptic seizures every day, and you need not wonder that he does not say much; these fits take the talk all out of him. but because he, or any other man, does not say much, it does not follow that he may not have, as i have said, an exalted and intense inner life. i have known a number of cases where a man who seemed thoroughly commonplace and unemotional has all at once surprised everybody by telling the story of his hidden life far more pointedly and dramatically than any playwright or novelist or poet could have told it for him. i will not insult your intelligence, beloved, by saying how he has told it. --we had been talking over the subjects touched upon in the lady's letter. --i suppose one man in a dozen--said the master--ought to be born a skeptic. that was the proportion among the apostles, at any rate. --so there was one judas among them,--i remarked. --well,--said the master,--they 've been whitewashing judas of late. but never mind him. i did not say there was not one rogue on the average among a dozen men. i don't see how that would interfere with my proposition. if i say that among a dozen men you ought to find one that weighs over a hundred and fifty pounds, and you tell me that there were twelve men in your club, and one of 'em had red hair, i don't see that you have materially damaged my statement. --i thought it best to let the old master have his easy victory, which was more apparent than real, very evidently, and he went on. --when the lord sends out a batch of human beings, say a hundred--did you ever read my book, the new edition of it, i mean? it is rather awkward to answer such a question in the negative, but i said, with the best grace i could, "no, not the last edition." --well, i must give you a copy of it. my book and i are pretty much the same thing. sometimes i steal from my book in my talk without mentioning it, and then i say to myself, "oh, that won't do; everybody has read my book and knows it by heart." and then the other i says,--you know there are two of us, right and left, like a pair of shoes,--the other i says, "you're a--something or other--fool. they have n't read your confounded old book; besides, if they have, they have forgotten all about it." another time, i say, thinking i will be very honest, "i have said something about that in my book"; and then the other i says, "what a balaam's quadruped you are to tell 'em it's in your book; they don't care whether it is or not, if it's anything worth saying; and if it isn't worth saying, what are you braying for?" that is a rather sensible fellow, that other chap we talk with, but an impudent whelp. i never got such abuse from any blackguard in my life as i have from that no. of me, the one that answers the other's questions and makes the comments, and does what in demotic phrase is called the "sarsing." --i laughed at that. i have just such a fellow always with me, as wise as solomon, if i would only heed him; but as insolent as shimei, cursing, and throwing stones and dirt, and behaving as if he had the traditions of the "ape-like human being" born with him rather than civilized instincts. one does not have to be a king to know what it is to keep a king's jester. --i mentioned my book,--the master said, because i have something in it on the subject we were talking about. i should like to read you a passage here and there out of it, where i have expressed myself a little more freely on some of those matters we handle in conversation. if you don't quarrel with it, i must give you a copy of the book. it's a rather serious thing to get a copy of a book from the writer of it. it has made my adjectives sweat pretty hard, i know, to put together an answer returning thanks and not lying beyond the twilight of veracity, if one may use a figure. let me try a little of my book on you, in divided doses, as my friends the doctors say. -fiat experimentum in corpore vili,--i said, laughing at my own expense. i don't doubt the medicament is quite as good as the patient deserves, and probably a great deal better,--i added, reinforcing my feeble compliment. [when you pay a compliment to an author, don't qualify it in the next sentence so as to take all the goodness out of it. now i am thinking of it, i will give you one or two pieces of advice. be careful to assure yourself that the person you are talking with wrote the article or book you praise. it is not very pleasant to be told, "well, there, now! i always liked your writings, but you never did anything half so good as this last piece," and then to have to tell the blunderer that this last piece is n't yours, but t' other man's. take care that the phrase or sentence you commend is not one that is in quotation-marks. "the best thing in your piece, i think, is a line i do not remember meeting before; it struck me as very true and well expressed: "'an honest man's the noblest work of god.' "but, my dear lady, that line is one which is to be found in a writer of the last century, and not original with me." one ought not to have undeceived her, perhaps, but one is naturally honest, and cannot bear to be credited with what is not his own. the lady blushes, of course, and says she has not read much ancient literature, or some such thing. the pearl upon the ethiop's arm is very pretty in verse, but one does not care to furnish the dark background for other persons' jewelry.] i adjourned from the table in company with the old master to his apartments. he was evidently in easy circumstances, for he had the best accommodations the house afforded. we passed through a reception room to his library, where everything showed that he had ample means for indulging the modest tastes of a scholar. --the first thing, naturally, when one enters a scholar's study or library, is to look at his books. one gets a notion very speedily of his tastes and the range of his pursuits by a glance round his bookshelves. of course, you know there are many fine houses where the library is a part of the upholstery, so to speak. books in handsome binding kept locked under plate-glass in showy dwarf bookcases are as important to stylish establishments as servants in livery; who sit with folded arms, are to stylish equipages. i suppose those wonderful statues with the folded arms do sometimes change their attitude, and i suppose those books with the gilded backs do sometimes get opened, but it is nobody's business whether they do or not, and it is not best to ask too many questions. this sort of thing is common enough, but there is another case that may prove deceptive if you undertake to judge from appearances. once in a while you will come on a house where you will find a family of readers and almost no library. some of the most indefatigable devourers of literature have very few books. they belong to book clubs, they haunt the public libraries, they borrow of friends, and somehow or other get hold of everything they want, scoop out all it holds for them, and have done with it. when i want a book, it is as a tiger wants a sheep. i must have it with one spring, and, if i miss it, go away defeated and hungry. and my experience with public libraries is that the first volume of the book i inquire for is out, unless i happen to want the second, when that is out. --i was pretty well prepared to understand the master's library and his account of it. we seated ourselves in two very comfortable chairs, and i began the conversation. -i see you have a large and rather miscellaneous collection of books. did you get them together by accident or according to some preconceived plan? --both, sir, both,--the master answered. when providence throws a good book in my way, i bow to its decree and purchase it as an act of piety, if it is reasonably or unreasonably cheap. i adopt a certain number of books every year, out of a love for the foundlings and stray children of other people's brains that nobody seems to care for. look here. he took down a greek lexicon finely bound in calf, and spread it open. do you see that hedericus? i had greek dictionaries enough and to spare, but i saw that noble quarto lying in the midst of an ignoble crowd of cheap books, and marked with a price which i felt to be an insult to scholarship, to the memory of homer, sir, and the awful shade of aeschylus. i paid the mean price asked for it, and i wanted to double it, but i suppose it would have been a foolish sacrifice of coin to sentiment: i love that book for its looks and behavior. none of your "half-calf" economies in that volume, sir! and see how it lies open anywhere! there is n't a book in my library that has such a generous way of laying its treasures before you. from alpha to omega, calm, assured rest at any page that your choice or accident may light on. no lifting of a rebellious leaf like an upstart servant that does not know his place and can never be taught manners, but tranquil, well-bred repose. a book may be a perfect gentleman in its aspect and demeanor, and this book would be good company for personages like roger ascham and his pupils the lady elizabeth and the lady jane grey. the master was evidently riding a hobby, and what i wanted to know was the plan on which he had formed his library. so i brought him back to the point by asking him the question in so many words. yes,--he said,--i have a kind of notion of the way in which a library ought to be put together--no, i don't mean that, i mean ought to grow. i don't pretend to say that mine is a model, but it serves my turn well enough, and it represents me pretty accurately. a scholar must shape his own shell, secrete it one might almost say, for secretion is only separation, you know, of certain elements derived from the materials of the world about us. and a scholar's study, with the books lining its walls, is his shell. it is n't a mollusk's shell, either; it 's a caddice-worm's shell. you know about the caddice-worm? --more or less; less rather than more,--was my humble reply. well, sir, the caddice-worm is the larva of a fly, and he makes a case for himself out of all sorts of bits of everything that happen to suit his particular fancy, dead or alive, sticks and stones and small shells with their owners in 'em, living as comfortable as ever. every one of these caddice-worms has his special fancy as to what he will pick up and glue together, with a kind of natural cement he provides himself, to make his case out of. in it he lives, sticking his head and shoulders out once in a while, that is all. don't you see that a student in his library is a caddice-worm in his case? i've told you that i take an interest in pretty much everything, and don't mean to fence out any human interests from the private grounds of my intelligence. then, again, there is a subject, perhaps i may say there is more than one, that i want to exhaust, to know to the very bottom. and besides, of course i must have my literary harem, my pare aux cerfs, where my favorites await my moments of leisure and pleasure,--my scarce and precious editions, my luxurious typographical masterpieces; my delilahs, that take my head in their lap: the pleasant story-tellers and the like; the books i love because they are fair to look upon, prized by collectors, endeared by old associations, secret treasures that nobody else knows anything about; books, in short, that i like for insufficient reasons it may be, but peremptorily, and mean to like and to love and to cherish till death us do part. don't you see i have given you a key to the way my library is made up, so that you can apriorize the plan according to which i have filled my bookcases? i will tell you how it is carried out. in the first place, you see, i have four extensive cyclopaedias. out of these i can get information enough to serve my immediate purpose on almost any subject. these, of course, are supplemented by geographical, biographical, bibliographical, and other dictionaries, including of course lexicons to all the languages i ever meddle with. next to these come the works relating to my one or two specialties, and these collections i make as perfect as i can. every library should try to be complete on something, if it were only on the history of pin-heads. i don't mean that i buy all the trashy compilations on my special subjects, but i try to have all the works of any real importance relating to them, old as well as new. in the following compartment you will find the great authors in all the languages i have mastered, from homer and hesiod downward to the last great english name. this division, you see, you can make almost as extensive or as limited as you choose. you can crowd the great representative writers into a small compass; or you can make a library consisting only of the different editions of horace, if you have space and money enough. then comes the harem, the shelf or the bookcase of delilahs, that you have paid wicked prices for, that you love without pretending to be reasonable about it, and would bag in case of fire before all the rest, just as mr. townley took the clytie to his carriage when the anti-catholic mob threatened his house in . as for the foundlings like my hedericus, they go among their peers; it is a pleasure to take them, from the dusty stall where they were elbowed by plebeian school-books and battered odd volumes, and give them alduses and elzevirs for companions. nothing remains but the infirmary. the most painful subjects are the unfortunates that have lost a cover. bound a hundred years ago, perhaps, and one of the rich old browned covers gone--what a pity! do you know what to do about it? i 'll tell you,--no, i 'll show you. look at this volume. m. t. ciceronis opera,--a dozen of 'em,--one of 'em minus half his cover, a poor one-legged cripple, six months ago,--now see him. --he looked very respectably indeed, both covers dark, ancient, very decently matched; one would hardly notice the fact that they were not twins. -i 'll tell you what i did. you poor devil, said i, you are a disgrace to your family. we must send you to a surgeon and have some kind of a taliacotian operation performed on you. (you remember the operation as described in hudibras, of course.) the first thing was to find a subject of similar age and aspect ready to part with one of his members. so i went to quidlibet's,--you know quidlibet and that hieroglyphic sign of his with the omniscient-looking eye as its most prominent feature,--and laid my case before him. i want you, said i, to look up an old book of mighty little value,--one of your ten-cent vagabonds would be the sort of thing,--but an old beggar, with a cover like this, and lay it by for me. and quidlibet, who is a pleasant body to deal with,--only he has insulted one or two gentlemanly books by selling them to me at very low-bred and shamefully insufficient prices,--quidlibet, i say, laid by three old books for me to help myself from, and did n't take the trouble even to make me pay the thirty cents for 'em. well, said i to myself, let us look at our three books that have undergone the last insult short of the trunkmaker's or the paper-mills, and see what they are. there may be something worth looking at in one or the other of 'em. now do you know it was with a kind of a tremor that i untied the package and looked at these three unfortunates, too humble for the companionable dime to recognize as its equal in value. the same sort of feeling you know if you ever tried the bible-and-key, or the sortes virgiliance. i think you will like to know what the three books were which had been bestowed upon me gratis, that i might tear away one of the covers of the one that best matched my cicero, and give it to the binder to cobble my crippled volume with. the master took the three books from a cupboard and continued. no. i. an odd volume of the adventurer. it has many interesting things enough, but is made precious by containing simon browne's famous dedication to the queen of his answer to tindal's "christianity as old as the creation." simon browne was the man without a soul. an excellent person, a most worthy dissenting minister, but lying under a strange delusion. here is a paragraph from his dedication: "he was once a man; and of some little name; but of no worth, as his present unparalleled case makes but too manifest; for by the immediate hand of an avenging god, his very thinking substance has, for more than seven years, been continually wasting away, till it is wholly perished out of him, if it be not utterly come to nothing. none, no, not the least remembrance of its very ruins, remains, not the shadow of an idea is left, nor any sense that so much as one single one, perfect or imperfect, whole or diminished, ever did appear to a mind within him, or was perceived by it." think of this as the dedication of a book "universally allowed to be the best which that controversy produced," and what a flood of light it pours on the insanities of those self-analyzing diarists whose morbid reveries have been so often mistaken for piety! no. i. had something for me, then, besides the cover, which was all it claimed to have worth offering. no. ii. was "a view of society and manners in italy." vol. iii. by john moore, m. d. (zeluco moore.) you know his pleasant book. in this particular volume what interested me most, perhaps, was the very spirited and intelligent account of the miracle of the liquefaction of the blood of saint januarius, but it gave me an hour's mighty agreeable reading. so much for number two. no. iii. was "an essay on the great effects of even languid and unheeded local motion." by the hon. robert boyle. published in , and, as appears from other sources, "received with great and general applause." i confess i was a little startled to find how near this earlier philosopher had come to the modern doctrines, such as are illustrated in tyndall's "heat considered as a mode of motion." he speaks of "us, who endeavor to resolve the phenomena of nature into matter and local motion." that sounds like the nineteenth century, but what shall we say to this? "as when a bar of iron or silver, having been well hammered, is newly taken off of the anvil; though the eye can discern no motion in it, yet the touch will readily perceive it to be very hot, and if you spit upon it, the brisk agitation of the insensible parts will become visible in that which they will produce in the liquor." he takes a bar of tin, and tries whether by bending it to and fro two or three times he cannot "procure a considerable internal commotion among the parts "; and having by this means broken or cracked it in the middle, finds, as he expected, that the middle parts had considerably heated each other. there are many other curious and interesting observations in the volume which i should like to tell you of, but these will serve my purpose. --which book furnished you the old cover you wanted?--said i. --did he kill the owl?--said the master, laughing. [i suppose you, the reader, know the owl story.]--it was number two that lent me one of his covers. poor wretch! he was one of three, and had lost his two brothers. from him that hath not shall be taken even that which he hath. the scripture had to be fulfilled in his case. but i couldn't help saying to myself, what do you keep writing books for, when the stalls are covered all over with 'em, good books, too, that nobody will give ten cents apiece for, lying there like so many dead beasts of burden, of no account except to strip off their hides? what is the use, i say? i have made a book or two in my time, and i am making another that perhaps will see the light one of these days. but if i had my life to live over again, i think i should go in for silence, and get as near to nirvana as i could. this language is such a paltry tool! the handle of it cuts and the blade doesn't. you muddle yourself by not knowing what you mean by a word, and send out your unanswered riddles and rebuses to clear up other people's difficulties. it always seems to me that talk is a ripple and thought is a ground swell. a string of words, that mean pretty much anything, helps you in a certain sense to get hold of a thought, just as a string of syllables that mean nothing helps you to a word; but it's a poor business, it's a poor business, and the more you study definition the more you find out how poor it is. do you know i sometimes think our little entomological neighbor is doing a sounder business than we people that make books about ourselves and our slippery abstractions? a man can see the spots on a bug and count 'em, and tell what their color is, and put another bug alongside of him and see whether the two are alike or different. and when he uses a word he knows just what he means. there is no mistake as to the meaning and identity of pulex irritans, confound him! --what if we should look in, some day, on the scarabeeist, as he calls himself?--said i.---the fact is the master had got agoing at such a rate that i was willing to give a little turn to the conversation. --oh, very well,--said the master,--i had some more things to say, but i don't doubt they'll keep. and besides, i take an interest in entomology, and have my own opinion on the meloe question. --you don't mean to say you have studied insects as well as solar systems and the order of things generally? --he looked pleased. all philosophers look pleased when people say to them virtually, "ye are gods." the master says he is vain constitutionally, and thanks god that he is. i don't think he has enough vanity to make a fool of himself with it, but the simple truth is he cannot help knowing that he has a wide and lively intelligence, and it pleases him to know it, and to be reminded of it, especially in an oblique and tangential sort of way, so as not to look like downright flattery. yes, yes, i have amused a summer or two with insects, among other things. i described a new tabanus,--horsefly, you know,--which, i think, had escaped notice. i felt as grand when i showed up my new discovery as if i had created the beast. i don't doubt herschel felt as if he had made a planet when he first showed the astronomers georgium sidus, as he called it. and that reminds me of something. i was riding on the outside of a stagecoach from london to windsor in the year--never mind the year, but it must have been in june, i suppose, for i bought some strawberries. england owes me a sixpence with interest from date, for i gave the woman a shilling, and the coach contrived to start or the woman timed it so that i just missed getting my change. what an odd thing memory is, to be sure, to have kept such a triviality, and have lost so much that was invaluable! she is a crazy wench, that mnemosyne; she throws her jewels out of the window and locks up straws and old rags in her strong box. [de profundis! said i to myself, the bottom of the bushel has dropped out! sancta--maria, ora pro nobis!] --but as i was saying, i was riding on the outside of a stage-coach from london to windsor, when all at once a picture familiar to me from my new england village childhood came upon me like a reminiscence rather than a revelation. it was a mighty bewilderment of slanted masts and spars and ladders and ropes, from the midst of which a vast tube, looking as if it might be a piece of ordnance such as the revolted angels battered the walls of heaven with, according to milton, lifted its muzzle defiantly towards the sky. why, you blessed old rattletrap, said i to myself, i know you as well as i know my father's spectacles and snuff-box! and that same crazy witch of a memory, so divinely wise and foolish, travels thirty-five hundred miles or so in a single pulse-beat, makes straight for an old house and an old library and an old corner of it, and whisks out a volume of an old cyclopaedia, and there is the picture of which this is the original. sir william herschel's great telescope! it was just about as big, as it stood there by the roadside, as it was in the picture, not much different any way. why should it be? the pupil of your eye is only a gimlet-hole, not so very much bigger than the eye of a sail-needle, and a camel has to go through it before you can see him. you look into a stereoscope and think you see a miniature of a building or a mountain; you don't, you 're made a fool of by your lying intelligence, as you call it; you see the building and the mountain just as large as with your naked eye looking straight at the real objects. doubt it, do you? perhaps you'd like to doubt it to the music of a couple of gold five-dollar pieces. if you would, say the word, and man and money, as messrs. heenan and morrissey have it, shall be forthcoming; for i will make you look at a real landscape with your right eye, and a stereoscopic view of it with your left eye, both at once, and you can slide one over the other by a little management and see how exactly the picture overlies the true landscape. we won't try it now, because i want to read you something out of my book. --i have noticed that the master very rarely fails to come back to his original proposition, though he, like myself, is fond of zigzagging in order to reach it. men's minds are like the pieces on a chess-board in their way of moving. one mind creeps from the square it is on to the next, straight forward, like the pawns. another sticks close to its own line of thought and follows it as far as it goes, with no heed for others' opinions, as the bishop sweeps the board in the line of his own color. and another class of minds break through everything that lies before them, ride over argument and opposition, and go to the end of the board, like the castle. but there is still another sort of intellect which is very apt to jump over the thought that stands next and come down in the unexpected way of the knight. but that same knight, as the chess manuals will show you, will contrive to get on to every square of the board in a pretty series of moves that looks like a pattern of embroidery, and so these zigzagging minds like the master's, and i suppose my own is something like it, will sooner or later get back to the square next the one they started from. the master took down a volume from one of the shelves. i could not help noticing that it was a shelf near his hand as he sat, and that the volume looked as if he had made frequent use of it. i saw, too, that he handled it in a loving sort of way; the tenderness he would have bestowed on a wife and children had to find a channel somewhere, and what more natural than that he should look fondly on the volume which held the thoughts that had rolled themselves smooth and round in his mind like pebbles on a beach, the dreams which, under cover of the simple artifices such as all writers use, told the little world of readers his secret hopes and aspirations, the fancies which had pleased him and which he could not bear to let die without trying to please others with them? i have a great sympathy with authors, most of all with unsuccessful ones. if one had a dozen lives or so, it would all be very well, but to have only a single ticket in the great lottery, and have that drawn a blank, is a rather sad sort of thing. so i was pleased to see the affectionate kind of pride with which the master handled his book; it was a success, in its way, and he looked on it with a cheerful sense that he had a right to be proud of it. the master opened the volume, and, putting on his large round glasses, began reading, as authors love to read that love their books. --the only good reason for believing in the stability of the moral order of things is to be found in the tolerable steadiness of human averages. out of a hundred human beings fifty-one will be found in the long run on the side of the right, so far as they know it, and against the wrong. they will be organizers rather than disorganizers, helpers and not hinderers in the upward movement of the race. this is the main fact we have to depend on. the right hand of the great organism is a little stronger than the left, that is all. now and then we come across a left-handed man. so now and then we find a tribe or a generation, the subject of what we may call moral left-handedness, but that need not trouble us about our formula. all we have to do is to spread the average over a wider territory or a longer period of time. any race or period that insists on being left-handed must go under if it comes in contact with a right-handed one. if there were, as a general rule, fifty-one rogues in the hundred instead of forty-nine, all other qualities of mind and body being equally distributed between the two sections, the order of things would sooner or later end in universal disorder. it is the question between the leak and the pumps. it does not seem very likely that the creator of all things is taken by surprise at witnessing anything any of his creatures do or think. men have sought out many inventions, but they can have contrived nothing which did not exist as an idea in the omniscient consciousness to which past, present, and future are alike now. we read what travellers tell us about the king of dahomey, or the fejee island people, or the short and simple annals of the celebrities recorded in the newgate calendar, and do not know just what to make of these brothers and sisters of the race; but i do not suppose an intelligence even as high as the angelic beings, to stop short there, would see anything very peculiar or wonderful about them, except as everything is wonderful and unlike everything else. it is very curious to see how science, that is, looking at and arranging the facts of a case with our own eyes and our own intelligence, without minding what somebody else has said, or how some old majority vote went in a pack of intriguing ecclesiastics,--i say it is very curious to see how science is catching up with one superstition after another. there is a recognized branch of science familiar to all those who know anything of the studies relating to life, under the name of teratology. it deals with all sorts of monstrosities which are to be met with in living beings, and more especially in animals. it is found that what used to be called lusus naturae, or freaks of nature, are just as much subject to laws as the naturally developed forms of living creatures. the rustic looks at the siamese twins, and thinks he is contemplating an unheard-of anomaly; but there are plenty of cases like theirs in the books of scholars, and though they are not quite so common as double cherries, the mechanism of their formation is not a whit more mysterious than that of the twinned fruits. such cases do not disturb the average arrangement; we have changs and engs at one pole, and cains and abels at the other. one child is born with six fingers on each hand, and another falls short by one or more fingers of his due allowance; but the glover puts his faith in the great law of averages, and makes his gloves with five fingers apiece, trusting nature for their counterparts. thinking people are not going to be scared out of explaining or at least trying to explain things by the shrieks of persons whose beliefs are disturbed thereby. comets were portents to increase mather, president of harvard college; "preachers of divine wrath, heralds and messengers of evil tidings to the world." it is not so very long since professor winthrop was teaching at the same institution. i can remember two of his boys very well, old boys, it is true, they were, and one of them wore a three-cornered cocked hat; but the father of these boys, whom, as i say, i can remember, had to defend himself against the minister of the old south church for the impiety of trying to account for earthquakes on natural principles. and his ancestor, governor winthrop, would probably have shaken his head over his descendant's dangerous audacity, if one may judge by the solemn way in which he mentions poor mrs. hutchinson's unpleasant experience, which so grievously disappointed her maternal expectations. but people used always to be terribly frightened by those irregular vital products which we now call "interesting specimens" and carefully preserve in jars of alcohol. it took next to nothing to make a panic; a child was born a few centuries ago with six teeth in its head, and about that time the turks began gaining great advantages over the christians. of course there was an intimate connection between the prodigy and the calamity. so said the wise men of that day. --all these out-of-the-way cases are studied connectedly now, and are found to obey very exact rules. with a little management one can even manufacture living monstrosities. malformed salmon and other fish can be supplied in quantity, if anybody happens to want them. now, what all i have said is tending to is exactly this, namely, that just as the celestial movements are regulated by fixed laws, just as bodily monstrosities are produced according to rule, and with as good reason as normal shapes, so obliquities of character are to be accounted for on perfectly natural principles; they are just as capable of classification as the bodily ones, and they all diverge from a certain average or middle term which is the type of its kind. if life had been a little longer i would have written a number of essays for which, as it is, i cannot expect to have time. i have set down the titles of a hundred or more, and i have often been tempted to publish these, for according to my idea, the title of a book very often renders the rest of it unnecessary. "moral teratology," for instance, which is marked no. on my list of "essays potential, not actual," suggests sufficiently well what i should be like to say in the pages it would preface. people hold up their hands at a moral monster as if there was no reason for his existence but his own choice. that was a fine specimen we read of in the papers a few years ago, the frenchman, it may be remembered, who used to waylay and murder young women, and after appropriating their effects, bury their bodies in a private cemetery he kept for that purpose. it is very natural, and i do not say it is not very proper, to hang such eccentric persons as this; but it is not clear whether his vagaries produce any more sensation at headquarters than the meek enterprises of the mildest of city missionaries. for the study of moral teratology will teach you that you do not get such a malformed character as that without a long chain of causes to account for it; and if you only knew those causes, you would know perfectly well what to expect. you may feel pretty sure that our friend of the private cemetery was not the child of pious and intelligent parents; that he was not nurtured by the best of mothers, and educated by the most judicious teachers; and that he did not come of a lineage long known and honored for its intellectual and moral qualities. suppose that one should go to the worst quarter of the city and pick out the worst-looking child of the worst couple he could find, and then train him up successively at the school for infant rogues, the academy for young scamps, and the college for complete criminal education, would it be reasonable to expect a francois xavier or a henry martyn to be the result of such a training? the traditionists, in whose presumptuous hands the science of anthropology has been trusted from time immemorial, have insisted on eliminating cause and effect from the domain of morals. when they have come across a moral monster they have seemed to think that he put himself together, having a free choice of all the constituents which make up manhood, and that consequently no punishment could be too bad for him. i say, hang him and welcome, if that is the best thing for society; hate him, in a certain sense, as you hate a rattlesnake, but, if you pretend to be a philosopher, recognize the fact that what you hate in him is chiefly misfortune, and that if you had been born with his villanous low forehead and poisoned instincts, and bred among creatures of the races maudites whose natural history has to be studied like that of beasts of prey and vermin, you would not have been sitting there in your gold-bowed spectacles and passing judgment on the peccadilloes of your fellow-creatures. i have seen men and women so disinterested and noble, and devoted to the best works, that it appeared to me if any good and faithful servant was entitled to enter into the joys of his lord, such as these might be. but i do not know that i ever met with a human being who seemed to me to have a stronger claim on the pitying consideration and kindness of his maker than a wretched, puny, crippled, stunted child that i saw in newgate, who was pointed out as one of the most notorious and inveterate little thieves in london. i have no doubt that some of those who were looking at this pitiable morbid secretion of the diseased social organism thought they were very virtuous for hating him so heartily. it is natural, and in one sense is all right enough. i want to catch a thief and put the extinguisher on an incendiary as much as my neighbors do; but i have two sides to my consciousness as i have two sides to my heart, one carrying dark, impure blood, and the other the bright stream which has been purified and vivified by the great source of life and death,--the oxygen of the air which gives all things their vital heat, and burns all things at last to ashes. one side of me loves and hates; the other side of me judges, say rather pleads and suspends judgment. i think, if i were left to myself, i should hang a rogue and then write his apology and subscribe to a neat monument, commemorating, not his virtues, but his misfortunes. i should, perhaps, adorn the marble with emblems, as is the custom with regard to the more regular and normally constituted members of society. it would not be proper to put the image of a lamb upon the stone which marked the resting-place of him of the private cemetery. but i would not hesitate to place the effigy of a wolf or a hyena upon the monument. i do not judge these animals, i only kill them or shut them up. i presume they stand just as well with their maker as lambs and kids, and the existence of such beings is a perpetual plea for god almighty's poor, yelling, scalping indians, his weasand-stopping thugs, his despised felons, his murdering miscreants, and all the unfortunates whom we, picked individuals of a picked class of a picked race, scrubbed, combed, and catechized from our cradles upward, undertake to find accommodations for in another state of being where it is to be hoped they will have a better chance than they had in this. the master paused, and took off his great round spectacles. i could not help thinking that he looked benevolent enough to pardon judas iscariot just at that moment, though his features can knot themselves up pretty, formidably on occasion. --you are somewhat of a phrenologist, i judge, by the way you talk of instinctive and inherited tendencies--i said. --they tell me i ought to be,--he answered, parrying my question, as i thought.---i have had a famous chart made out of my cerebral organs, according to which i ought to have been--something more than a poor magister artaum. --i thought a shade of regret deepened the lines on his broad, antique-looking forehead, and i began talking about all the sights i had seen in the way of monstrosities, of which i had a considerable list, as you will see when i tell you my weakness in that direction. this, you understand, beloved, is private and confidential. i pay my quarter of a dollar and go into all the side-shows that follow the caravans and circuses round the country. i have made friends of all the giants and all the dwarfs. i became acquainted with monsieur bihin, le plus bel homme du monde, and one of the biggest, a great many years ago, and have kept up my agreeable relations with him ever since. he is a most interesting giant, with a softness of voice and tenderness of feeling which i find very engaging. i was on friendly terms with mr. charles freeman, a very superior giant of american birth, seven feet four, i think, in height, "double-jointed," of mylodon muscularity, the same who in a british prize-ring tossed the tipton slasher from one side of the rope to the other, and now lies stretched, poor fellow! in a mighty grave in the same soil which holds the sacred ashes of cribb, and the honored dust of burke,--not the one "commonly called the sublime," but that other burke to whom nature had denied the sense of hearing lest he should be spoiled by listening to the praises of the admiring circles which looked on his dear-bought triumphs. nor have i despised those little ones whom that devout worshipper of nature in her exceptional forms, the distinguished barnum, has introduced to the notice of mankind. the general touches his chapeau to me, and the commodore gives me a sailor's greeting. i have had confidential interviews with the double-headed daughter of africa,--so far, at least, as her twofold personality admitted of private confidences. i have listened to the touching experiences of the bearded lady, whose rough cheeks belie her susceptible heart. miss jane campbell has allowed me to question her on the delicate subject of avoirdupois equivalents; and the armless fair one, whose embrace no monarch could hope to win, has wrought me a watch-paper with those despised digits which have been degraded from gloves to boots in our evolution from the condition of quadrumana. i hope you have read my experiences as good-naturedly as the old master listened to them. he seemed to be pleased with my whim, and promised to go with me to see all the side-shows of the next caravan. before i left him he wrote my name in a copy of the new edition of his book, telling me that it would not all be new to me by a great deal, for he often talked what he had printed to make up for having printed a good deal of what he had talked. here is the passage of his poem the young astronomer read to us. wind-clouds and star-drifts. iv from my lone turret as i look around o'er the green meadows to the ring of blue, from slope, from summit, and from half-hid vale the sky is stabbed with dagger-pointed spires, their gilded symbols whirling in the wind, their brazen tongues proclaiming to the world, here truth is sold, the only genuine ware; see that it has our trade-mark! you will buy poison instead of food across the way, the lies of--this or that, each several name the standard's blazon and the battle-cry of some true-gospel faction, and again the token of the beast to all beside. and grouped round each i see a huddling crowd alike in all things save the words they use; in love, in longing, hate and fear the same. whom do we trust and serve? we speak of one and bow to many; athens still would find the shrines of all she worshipped safe within our tall barbarian temples, and the thrones that crowned olympus mighty as of old. the god of music rules the sabbath choir; the lyric muse must leave the sacred nine to help us please the dilettante's ear; plutus limps homeward with us, as we leave the portals of the temple where we knelt and listened while the god of eloquence (hermes of ancient days, but now disguised in sable vestments) with that other god somnus, the son of erebus and nog, fights in unequal contest for our souls; the dreadful sovereign of the under world still shakes his sceptre at us, and we hear the baying of the triple-throated hound; eros-is young as ever, and as fair the lovely goddess born of ocean's foam. these be thy gods, o israel! who is he, the one ye name and tell us that ye serve, whom ye would call me from my lonely tower to worship with the many-headed throng? is it the god that walked in eden's grove in the cool hour to seek our guilty sire? the god who dealt with abraham as the sons of that old patriarch deal with other men? the jealous god of moses, one who feels an image as an insult, and is wroth with him who made it and his child unborn? the god who plagued his people for the sin of their adulterous king, beloved of him, the same who offers to a chosen few the right to praise him in eternal song while a vast shrieking world of endless woe blends its dread chorus with their rapturous hymn? is this the god ye mean, or is it he who heeds the sparrow's fall, whose loving heart is as the pitying father's to his child, whose lesson to his children is, "forgive," whose plea for all, "they know not what they do" i claim the right of knowing whom i serve, else is my service idle; he that asks my homage asks it from a reasoning soul. to crawl is not to worship; we have learned a drill of eyelids, bended neck and knee, hanging our prayers on binges, till we ape the flexures of the many-jointed worm. asia has taught her aliabs and salaams to the world's children,--we have grown to men! we who have rolled the sphere beneath our feet to find a virgin forest, as we lay the beams of our rude temple, first of all must frame its doorway high enough for man to pass unstooping; knowing as we do that he who shaped us last of living forms has long enough been served by creeping things, reptiles that left their foot-prints in the sand of old sea-margins that have turned to stone, and men who learned their ritual; we demand to know him first, then trust him and then love when we have found him worthy of our love, tried by our own poor hearts and not before; he must be truer than the truest friend, he must be tenderer than a woman's love, a father better than the best of sires; kinder than she who bore us, though we sin oftener than did the brother we are told, we-poor ill-tempered mortals-must forgive, though seven times sinning threescore times and ten. this is the new world's gospel: be ye men! try well the legends of the children's time; ye are the chosen people, god has led your steps across the desert of the deep as now across the desert of the shore; mountains are cleft before you as the sea before the wandering tribe of israel's sons; still onward rolls the thunderous caravan, its coming printed on the western sky, a cloud by day, by night a pillared flame; your prophets are a hundred unto one of them of old who cried, "thus saith the lord"; they told of cities that should fall in heaps, but yours of mightier cities that shall rise where yet the lonely fishers spread their nets, where hides the fox and hoots the midnight owl; the tree of knowledge in your garden grows not single, but at every humble door; its branches lend you their immortal food, that fills you with the sense of what ye are, no servants of an altar hewed and carved from senseless stone by craft of human hands, rabbi, or dervish, brahmin, bishop, bonze, but masters of the charm with which they work to keep your hands from that forbidden tree! ye that have tasted that divinest fruit, look on this world of yours with opened eyes! ye are as gods! nay, makers of your gods, each day ye break an image in your shrine and plant a fairer image where it stood where is the moloch of your fathers' creed, whose fires of torment burned for span-long babes? fit object for a tender mother's love! why not? it was a bargain duly made for these same infants through the surety's act intrusted with their all for earth and heaven, by him who chose their guardian, knowing well his fitness for the task,--this, even this, was the true doctrine only yesterday as thoughts are reckoned,--and to-day you hear in words that sound as if from human tongues those monstrous, uncouth horrors of the past that blot the blue of heaven and shame the earth as would the saurians of the age of slime, awaking from their stony sepulchres and wallowing hateful in the eye of day! four of us listened to these lines as the young man read them,--the master and myself and our two ladies. this was the little party we got up to hear him read. i do not think much of it was very new to the master or myself. at any rate, he said to me when we were alone, that is the kind of talk the "natural man," as the theologians call him, is apt to fall into. --i thought it was the apostle paul, and not the theologians, that used the term "natural man", i ventured to suggest. --i should like to know where the apostle paul learned english?--said the master, with the look of one who does not mean to be tripped up if he can help himself.---but at any rate,--he continued,--the "natural man," so called, is worth listening to now and then, for he didn't make his nature, and the devil did n't make it; and if the almighty made it, i never saw or heard of anything he made that wasn't worth attending to. the young man begged the lady to pardon anything that might sound harshly in these crude thoughts of his. he had been taught strange things, he said, from old theologies, when he was a child, and had thought his way out of many of his early superstitions. as for the young girl, our scheherezade, he said to her that she must have got dreadfully tired (at which she colored up and said it was no such thing), and he promised that, to pay for her goodness in listening, he would give her a lesson in astronomy the next fair evening, if she would be his scholar, at which she blushed deeper than before, and said something which certainly was not no. ix there was no sooner a vacancy on our side of the table, than the master proposed a change of seats which would bring the young astronomer into our immediate neighborhood. the scarabee was to move into the place of our late unlamented associate, the man of letters, so called. i was to take his place, the master to take mine, and the young man that which had been occupied by the master. the advantages of this change were obvious. the old master likes an audience, plainly enough; and with myself on one side of him, and the young student of science, whose speculative turn is sufficiently shown in the passages from his poem, on the other side, he may feel quite sure of being listened to. there is only one trouble in the arrangement, and that is that it brings this young man not only close to us, but also next to our scheherezade. i am obliged to confess that he has shown occasional marks of inattention even while the master was discoursing in a way that i found agreeable enough. i am quite sure it is no intentional disrespect to the old master. it seems to me rather that he has become interested in the astronomical lessons he has been giving the young girl. he has studied so much alone, that it is naturally a pleasure to him to impart some of his knowledge. as for his young pupil, she has often thought of being a teacher herself, so that she is of course very glad to acquire any accomplishment that may be useful to her in that capacity. i do not see any reason why some of the boarders should have made such remarks as they have done. one cannot teach astronomy to advantage, without going out of doors, though i confess that when two young people go out by daylight to study the stars, as these young folks have done once or twice, i do not so much wonder at a remark or suggestion from those who have nothing better to do than study their neighbors. i ought to have told the reader before this that i found, as i suspected, that our innocent-looking scheherezade was at the bottom of the popgun business. i watched her very closely, and one day, when the little monkey made us all laugh by stopping the member of the haouse in the middle of a speech he was repeating to us,--it was his great effort of the season on a bill for the protection of horn-pout in little muddy river,--i caught her making the signs that set him going. at a slight tap of her knife against her plate, he got all ready, and presently i saw her cross her knife and fork upon her plate, and as she did so, pop! went the small piece of artillery. the member of the haouse was just saying that this bill hit his constitooents in their most vital--when a pellet hit him in the feature of his countenance most exposed to aggressions and least tolerant of liberties. the member resented this unparliamentary treatment by jumping up from his chair and giving the small aggressor a good shaking, at the same time seizing the implement which had caused his wrath and breaking it into splinters. the boy blubbered, the young girl changed color, and looked as if she would cry, and that was the last of these interruptions. i must own that i have sometimes wished we had the popgun back, for it answered all the purpose of "the previous question" in a deliberative assembly. no doubt the young girl was capricious in setting the little engine at work, but she cut short a good many disquisitions that threatened to be tedious. i find myself often wishing for her and her small fellow-conspirator's intervention, in company where i am supposed to be enjoying myself. when my friend the politician gets too far into the personal details of the quorum pars magna fui, i find myself all at once exclaiming in mental articulation, popgun! when my friend the story-teller begins that protracted narrative which has often emptied me of all my voluntary laughter for the evening, he has got but a very little way when i say to myself, what wouldn't i give for a pellet from that popgun! in short, so useful has that trivial implement proved as a jaw-stopper and a boricide, that i never go to a club or a dinner-party, without wishing the company included our scheherezade and that boy with his popgun. how clearly i see now into the mechanism of the young girl's audacious contrivance for regulating our table-talk! her brain is tired half the time, and she is too nervous to listen patiently to what a quieter person would like well enough, or at least would not be annoyed by. it amused her to invent a scheme for managing the headstrong talkers, and also let off a certain spirit of mischief which in some of these nervous girls shows itself in much more questionable forms. how cunning these half-hysteric young persons are, to be sure! i had to watch a long time before i detected the telegraphic communication between the two conspirators. i have no doubt she had sedulously schooled the little monkey to his business, and found great delight in the task of instruction. but now that our scheherezade has become a scholar instead of a teacher, she seems to be undergoing a remarkable transformation. astronomy is indeed a noble science. it may well kindle the enthusiasm of a youthful nature. i fancy at times that i see something of that starry light which i noticed in the young man's eyes gradually kindling in hers. but can it be astronomy alone that does it? her color comes and goes more readily than when the old master sat next her on the left. it is having this young man at her side, i suppose. of course it is. i watch her with great, i may say tender interest. if he would only fall in love with her, seize upon her wandering affections and fancies as the romans seized the sabine virgins, lift her out of herself and her listless and weary drudgeries, stop the outflow of this young life which is draining itself away in forced literary labor--dear me, dear me--if, if, if-- "if i were god an' ye were martin elginbrod!" i am afraid all this may never be. i fear that he is too much given to lonely study, to self-companionship, to all sorts of questionings, to looking at life as at a solemn show where he is only a spectator. i dare not build up a romance on what i have yet seen. my reader may, but i will answer for nothing. i shall wait and see. the old master and i have at last made that visit to the scarabee which we had so long promised ourselves. when we knocked at his door he came and opened it, instead of saying, come in. he was surprised, i have no doubt, at the sound of our footsteps; for he rarely has a visitor, except the little monkey of a boy, and he may have thought a troop of marauders were coming to rob him of his treasures. collectors feel so rich in the possession of their rarer specimens, that they forget how cheap their precious things seem to common eyes, and are as afraid of being robbed as if they were dealers in diamonds. they have the name of stealing from each other now and then, it is true, but many of their priceless possessions would hardly tempt a beggar. values are artificial: you will not be able to get ten cents of the year for a dime. the scarabee was reassured as soon as he saw our faces, and he welcomed us not ungraciously into his small apartment. it was hard to find a place to sit down, for all the chairs were already occupied by cases and boxes full of his favorites. i began, therefore, looking round the room. bugs of every size and aspect met my eyes wherever they turned. i felt for the moment as i suppose a man may feel in a fit of delirium tremens. presently my attention was drawn towards a very odd-looking insect on the mantelpiece. this animal was incessantly raising its arms as if towards heaven and clasping them together, as though it were wrestling in prayer. do look at this creature,--i said to the master, he seems to be very hard at work at his devotions. mantas religiosa,--said the master,--i know the praying rogue. mighty devout and mighty cruel; crushes everything he can master, or impales it on his spiny shanks and feeds upon it, like a gluttonous wretch as he is. i have seen the mantis religiosa on a larger scale than this, now and then. a sacred insect, sir,--sacred to many tribes of men; to the hottentots, to the turks, yes, sir, and to the frenchmen, who call the rascal prie dieu, and believe him to have special charge of children that have lost their way. doesn't it seem as if there was a vein of satire as well as of fun that ran through the solemn manifestations of creative wisdom? and of deception too--do you see how nearly those dried leaves resemble an insect? they do, indeed,--i answered,--but not so closely as to deceive me. they remind me of an insect, but i could not mistake them for one. --oh, you couldn't mistake those dried leaves for an insect, hey? well, how can you mistake that insect for dried leaves? that is the question; for insect it is,--phyllum siccifolium, the "walking leaf," as some have called it.--the master had a hearty laugh at my expense. the scarabee did not seem to be amused at the master's remarks or at my blunder. science is always perfectly serious to him; and he would no more laugh over anything connected with his study, than a clergyman would laugh at a funeral. they send me all sorts of trumpery,--he said, orthoptera and lepidoptera; as if a coleopterist--a scarabeeist--cared for such things. this business is no boy's play to me. the insect population of the world is not even catalogued yet, and a lifetime given to the scarabees is a small contribution enough to their study. i like your men of general intelligence well enough,--your linnwuses and your buffons and your cuviers; but cuvier had to go to latreille for his insects, and if latreille had been able to consult me,--yes, me, gentlemen!--he would n't have made the blunders he did about some of the coleoptera. the old master, as i think you must have found out by this time,--you, beloved, i mean, who read every word,--has a reasonably good opinion, as perhaps he has a right to have, of his own intelligence and acquirements. the scarabee's exultation and glow as he spoke of the errors of the great entomologist which he himself could have corrected, had the effect on the old master which a lusty crow has upon the feathered champion of the neighboring barnyard. he too knew something about insects. had he not discovered a, new tabanus? had he not made preparations of the very coleoptera the scarabee studied so exclusively,--preparations which the illustrious swammerdam would not have been ashamed of, and dissected a melolontha as exquisitely as strauss durckheim himself ever did it? so the master, recalling these studies of his and certain difficult and disputed points at which he had labored in one of his entomological paroxysms, put a question which there can be little doubt was intended to puzzle the scarabee, and perhaps,--for the best of us is human (i am beginning to love the old master, but he has his little weaknesses, thank heaven, like the rest of us),--i say perhaps, was meant to show that some folks knew as much about some things as some other folks. the little dried-up specialist did not dilate into fighting dimensions as--perhaps, again--the master may have thought he would. he looked a mild surprise, but remained as quiet as one of his own beetles when you touch him and he makes believe he is dead. the blank silence became oppressive. was the scarabee crushed, as so many of his namesakes are crushed, under the heel of this trampling omniscient? at last the scarabee creaked out very slowly, "did i understand you to ask the following question, to wit?" and so forth; for i was quite out of my depth, and only know that he repeated the master's somewhat complex inquiry, word for word. --that was exactly my question,--said the master,--and i hope it is not uncivil to ask one which seems to me to be a puzzler. not uncivil in the least,--said the scarabee, with something as much like a look of triumph as his dry face permitted,--not uncivil at all, but a rather extraordinary question to ask at this date of entomological history. i settled that question some years ago, by a series of dissections, six-and-thirty in number, reported in an essay i can show you and would give you a copy of, but that i am a little restricted in my revenue, and our society has to be economical, so i have but this one. you see, sir,--and he went on with elytra and antennae and tarsi and metatarsi and tracheae and stomata and wing-muscles and leg-muscles and ganglions,--all plain enough, i do not doubt, to those accustomed to handling dor-bugs and squash-bugs and such undesirable objects of affection to all but naturalists. he paused when he got through, not for an answer, for there evidently was none, but to see how the master would take it. the scarabee had had it all his own way. the master was loyal to his own generous nature. he felt as a peaceful citizen might feel who had squared off at a stranger for some supposed wrong, and suddenly discovered that he was undertaking to chastise mr. dick curtis, "the pet of the fancy," or mr. joshua hudson; "the john bull fighter." he felt the absurdity of his discomfiture, for he turned to me good-naturedly, and said, "poor johnny raw! what madness could impel so rum a flat to face so prime a swell?" to tell the truth, i rather think the master enjoyed his own defeat. the scarabee had a right to his victory; a man does not give his life to the study of a single limited subject for nothing, and the moment we come across a first-class expert we begin to take a pride in his superiority. it cannot offend us, who have no right at all to be his match on his own ground. besides, there is a very curious sense of satisfaction in getting a fair chance to sneer at ourselves and scoff at our own pretensions. the first person of our dual consciousness has been smirking and rubbing his hands and felicitating himself on his innumerable superiorities, until we have grown a little tired of him. then, when the other fellow, the critic, the cynic, the shimei, who has been quiet, letting self-love and self-glorification have their perfect work, opens fire upon the first half of our personality and overwhelms it with that wonderful vocabulary of abuse of which he is the unrivalled master, there is no denying that he enjoys it immensely; and as he is ourself for the moment, or at least the chief portion of ourself (the other half-self retiring into a dim corner of semiconsciousness and cowering under the storm of sneers and contumely,--you follow me perfectly, beloved,--the way is as plain as the path of the babe to the maternal fount), as, i say, the abusive fellow is the chief part of us for the time, and he likes to exercise his slanderous vocabulary, we on the whole enjoy a brief season of self-depreciation and self-scolding very heartily. it is quite certain that both of us, the master and myself, conceived on the instant a respect for the scarabee which we had not before felt. he had grappled with one difficulty at any rate and mastered it. he had settled one thing, at least, so it appeared, in such a way that it was not to be brought up again. and now he was determined, if it cost him the effort of all his remaining days, to close another discussion and put forever to rest the anxious doubts about the larva of meloe. --your thirty-six dissections must have cost you a deal of time and labor,--the master said. --what have i to do with time, but to fill it up with labor?--answered the scarabee.---it is my meat and drink to work over my beetles. my holidays are when i get a rare specimen. my rest is to watch the habits of insects, those that i do not pretend to study. here is my muscarium, my home for house-flies; very interesting creatures; here they breed and buzz and feed and enjoy themselves, and die in a good old age of a few months. my favorite insect lives in this other case; she is at home, but in her private-chamber; you shall see her. he tapped on the glass lightly, and a large, gray, hairy spider came forth from the hollow of a funnel-like web. --and this is all the friend you have to love? said the master, with a tenderness in his voice which made the question very significant. --nothing else loves me better than she does, that i know of,--he answered. --to think of it! not even a dog to lick his hand, or a cat to purr and rub her fur against him! oh, these boarding-houses, these boarding-houses! what forlorn people one sees stranded on their desolate shores! decayed gentlewomen with the poor wrecks of what once made their households beautiful, disposed around them in narrow chambers as they best may be, coming down day after day, poor souls! to sit at the board with strangers; their hearts full of sad memories which have no language but a sigh, no record but the lines of sorrow on their features; orphans, creatures with growing tendrils and nothing to cling to; lonely rich men, casting about them what to do with the wealth they never knew how to enjoy, when they shall no longer worry over keeping and increasing it; young men and young women, left to their instincts, unguarded, unwatched, save by malicious eyes, which are sure to be found and to find occupation in these miscellaneous collections of human beings; and now and then a shred of humanity like this little adust specialist, with just the resources needed to keep the "radical moisture" from entirely exhaling from his attenuated organism, and busying himself over a point of science, or compiling a hymn-book, or editing a grammar or a dictionary;--such are the tenants of boarding-houses whom we cannot think of without feeling how sad it is when the wind is not tempered to the shorn lamb; when the solitary, whose hearts are shrivelling, are not set in families! the master was greatly interested in the scarabee's muscarium. --i don't remember,--he said,--that i have heard of such a thing as that before. mighty curious creatures, these same house-flies! talk about miracles! was there ever anything more miraculous, so far as our common observation goes, than the coming and the going of these creatures? why didn't job ask where the flies come from and where they go to? i did not say that you and i don't know, but how many people do know anything about it? where are the cradles of the young flies? where are the cemeteries of the dead ones, or do they die at all except when we kill them? you think all the flies of the year are dead and gone, and there comes a warm day and all at once there is a general resurrection of 'em; they had been taking a nap, that is all. --i suppose you do not trust your spider in the muscarium?--said i, addressing the scarabee. --not exactly,--he answered,--she is a terrible creature. she loves me, i think, but she is a killer and a cannibal among other insects. i wanted to pair her with a male spider, but it wouldn't do. -wouldn't do?--said i,--why not? don't spiders have their mates as well as other folks? -oh yes, sometimes; but the females are apt to be particular, and if they don't like the mate you offer them they fall upon him and kill him and eat him up. you see they are a great deal bigger and stronger than the males, and they are always hungry and not always particularly anxious to have one of the other sex bothering round. --woman's rights!--said i,--there you have it! why don't those talking ladies take a spider as their emblem? let them form arachnoid associations, spinsters and spiders would be a good motto. --the master smiled. i think it was an eleemosynary smile, for my pleasantry seems to me a particularly basso rilievo, as i look upon it in cold blood. but conversation at the best is only a thin sprinkling of occasional felicities set in platitudes and commonplaces. i never heard people talk like the characters in the "school for scandal,"--i should very much like to.---i say the master smiled. but the scarabee did not relax a muscle of his countenance. --there are persons whom the very mildest of faecetiae sets off into such convulsions of laughter, that one is afraid lest they should injure themselves. even when a jest misses fire completely, so that it is no jest at all, but only a jocular intention, they laugh just as heartily. leave out the point of your story, get the word wrong on the duplicity of which the pun that was to excite hilarity depended, and they still honor your abortive attempt with the most lusty and vociferous merriment. there is a very opposite class of persons whom anything in the nature of a joke perplexes, troubles, and even sometimes irritates, seeming to make them think they are trifled with, if not insulted. if you are fortunate enough to set the whole table laughing, one of this class of persons will look inquiringly round, as if something had happened, and, seeing everybody apparently amused but himself, feel as if he was being laughed at, or at any rate as if something had been said which he was not to hear. often, however, it does not go so far as this, and there is nothing more than mere insensibility to the cause of other people's laughter, a sort of joke-blindness, comparable to the well-known color-blindness with which many persons are afflicted as a congenital incapacity. i have never seen the scarabee smile. i have seen him take off his goggles,--he breakfasts in these occasionally,--i suppose when he has been tiring his poor old eyes out over night gazing through his microscope,--i have seen him take his goggles off, i say, and stare about him, when the rest of us were laughing at something which amused us, but his features betrayed nothing more than a certain bewilderment, as if we had been foreigners talking in an unknown tongue. i do not think it was a mere fancy of mine that he bears a kind of resemblance to the tribe of insects he gives his life to studying. his shiny black coat; his rounded back, convex with years of stooping over his minute work; his angular movements, made natural to him by his habitual style of manipulation; the aridity of his organism, with which his voice is in perfect keeping;--all these marks of his special sedentary occupation are so nearly what might be expected, and indeed so much, in accordance with the more general fact that a man's aspect is subdued to the look of what he works in, that i do not feel disposed to accuse myself of exaggeration in my account of the scarabee's appearance. but i think he has learned something else of his coleopterous friends. the beetles never smile. their physiognomy is not adapted to the display of the emotions; the lateral movement of their jaws being effective for alimentary purposes, but very limited in its gamut of expression. it is with these unemotional beings that the scarabee passes his life. he has but one object, and that is perfectly serious, to his mind, in fact, of absorbing interest and importance. in one aspect of the matter he is quite right, for if the creator has taken the trouble to make one of his creatures in just such a way and not otherwise, from the beginning of its existence on our planet in ages of unknown remoteness to the present time, the man who first explains his idea to us is charged with a revelation. it is by no means impossible that there may be angels in the celestial hierarchy to whom it would be new and interesting. i have often thought that spirits of a higher order than man might be willing to learn something from a human mind like that of newton, and i see no reason why an angelic being might not be glad to hear a lecture from mr. huxley, or mr. tyndall, or one of our friends at cambridge. i have been sinuous as the links of forth seen from stirling castle, or as that other river which threads the berkshire valley and runs, a perennial stream, through my memory,--from which i please myself with thinking that i have learned to wind without fretting against the shore, or forgetting cohere i am flowing,--sinuous, i say, but not jerky,--no, not jerky nor hard to follow for a reader of the right sort, in the prime of life and full possession of his or her faculties. --all this last page or so, you readily understand, has been my private talk with you, the reader. the cue of the conversation which i interrupted by this digression is to be found in the words "a good motto;" from which i begin my account of the visit again. --do you receive many visitors,--i mean vertebrates, not articulates? --said the master. i thought this question might perhaps bring il disiato riso, the long-wished-for smile, but the scarabee interpreted it in the simplest zoological sense, and neglected its hint of playfulness with the most absolute unconsciousness, apparently, of anything not entirely serious and literal. --you mean friends, i suppose,--he answered.--i have correspondents, but i have no friends except this spider. i live alone, except when i go to my subsection meetings; i get a box of insects now and then, and send a few beetles to coleopterists in other entomological districts; but science is exacting, and a man that wants to leave his record has not much time for friendship. there is no great chance either for making friends among naturalists. people that are at work on different things do not care a great deal for each other's specialties, and people that work on the same thing are always afraid lest one should get ahead of the other, or steal some of his ideas before he has made them public. there are none too many people you can trust in your laboratory. i thought i had a friend once, but he watched me at work and stole the discovery of a new species from me, and, what is more, had it named after himself. since that time i have liked spiders better than men. they are hungry and savage, but at any rate they spin their own webs out of their own insides. i like very well to talk with gentlemen that play with my branch of entomology; i do not doubt it amused you, and if you want to see anything i can show you, i shall have no scruple in letting you see it. i have never had any complaint to make of amatoors. --upon my honor,--i would hold my right hand up and take my bible-oath, if it was not busy with the pen at this moment,--i do not believe the scarabee had the least idea in the world of the satire on the student of the order of things implied in his invitation to the "amatoor." as for the master, he stood fire perfectly, as he always does; but the idea that he, who had worked a considerable part of several seasons at examining and preparing insects, who believed himself to have given a new tabanus to the catalogue of native diptera, the idea that he was playing with science, and might be trusted anywhere as a harmless amateur, from whom no expert could possibly fear any anticipation of his unpublished discoveries, went beyond anything set down in that book of his which contained so much of the strainings of his wisdom. the poor little scarabee began fidgeting round about this time, and uttering some half-audible words, apologetical, partly, and involving an allusion to refreshments. as he spoke, he opened a small cupboard, and as he did so out bolted an uninvited tenant of the same, long in person, sable in hue, and swift of movement, on seeing which the scarabee simply said, without emotion, blatta, but i, forgetting what was due to good manners, exclaimed cockroach! we could not make up our minds to tax the scarabee's hospitality, already levied upon by the voracious articulate. so we both alleged a state of utter repletion, and did not solve the mystery of the contents of the cupboard,--not too luxurious, it may be conjectured, and yet kindly offered, so that we felt there was a moist filament of the social instinct running like a nerve through that exsiccated and almost anhydrous organism. we left him with professions of esteem and respect which were real. we had gone, not to scoff, but very probably to smile, and i will not say we did not. but the master was more thoughtful than usual. --if i had not solemnly dedicated myself to the study of the order of things,--he said,--i do verily believe i would give what remains to me of life to the investigation of some single point i could utterly eviscerate and leave finally settled for the instruction and, it may be, the admiration of all coming time. the keel ploughs ten thousand leagues of ocean and leaves no trace of its deep-graven furrows. the chisel scars only a few inches on the face of a rock, but the story it has traced is read by a hundred generations. the eagle leaves no track of his path, no memory of the place where he built his nest; but a patient mollusk has bored a little hole in a marble column of the temple of serapis, and the monument of his labor outlasts the altar and the statue of the divinity. --whew!--said i to myself,--that sounds a little like what we college boys used to call a "squirt."--the master guessed my thought and said, smiling, --that is from one of my old lectures. a man's tongue wags along quietly enough, but his pen begins prancing as soon as it touches paper. i know what you are thinking--you're thinking this is a squirt. that word has taken the nonsense out of a good many high-stepping fellows. but it did a good deal of harm too, and it was a vulgar lot that applied it oftenest. i am at last perfectly satisfied that our landlady has no designs on the capitalist, and as well convinced that any fancy of mine that he was like to make love to her was a mistake. the good woman is too much absorbed in her children, and more especially in "the doctor," as she delights to call her son, to be the prey of any foolish desire of changing her condition. she is doing very well as it is, and if the young man succeeds, as i have little question that he will, i think it probable enough that she will retire from her position as the head of a boarding-house. we have all liked the good woman who have lived with her,--i mean we three friends who have put ourselves on record. her talk, i must confess, is a little diffuse and not always absolutely correct, according to the standard of the great worcester; she is subject to lachrymose cataclysms and semiconvulsive upheavals when she reverts in memory to her past trials, and especially when she recalls the virtues of her deceased spouse, who was, i suspect, an adjunct such as one finds not rarely annexed to a capable matron in charge of an establishment like hers; that is to say, an easy-going, harmless, fetch-and-carry, carve-and-help, get-out-of-the-way kind of neuter, who comes up three times (as they say drowning people do) every day, namely, at breakfast, dinner, and tea, and disappears, submerged beneath the waves of life, during the intervals of these events. it is a source of genuine delight to me, who am of a kindly nature enough, according to my own reckoning, to watch the good woman, and see what looks of pride and affection she bestows upon her benjamin, and how, in spite of herself, the maternal feeling betrays its influence in her dispensations of those delicacies which are the exceptional element in our entertainments. i will not say that benjamin's mess, like his scripture namesake's, is five times as large as that of any of the others, for this would imply either an economical distribution to the guests in general or heaping the poor young man's plate in a way that would spoil the appetite of an esquimau, but you may be sure he fares well if anybody does; and i would have you understand that our landlady knows what is what as well as who is who. i begin really to entertain very sanguine expectations of young doctor benjamin franklin. he has lately been treating a patient of whose good-will may prove of great importance to him. the capitalist hurt one of his fingers somehow or other, and requested our young doctor to take a look at it. the young doctor asked nothing better than to take charge of the case, which proved more serious than might have been at first expected, and kept him in attendance more than a week. there was one very odd thing about it. the capitalist seemed to have an idea that he was like to be ruined in the matter of bandages,--small strips of worn linen which any old woman could have spared him from her rag-bag, but which, with that strange perversity which long habits of economy give to a good many elderly people, he seemed to think were as precious as if they had been turned into paper and stamped with promises to pay in thousands, from the national treasury. it was impossible to get this whim out of him, and the young doctor had tact enough to humor him in it. all this did not look very promising for the state of mind in which the patient was like to receive his bill for attendance when that should be presented. doctor benjamin was man enough, however, to come up to the mark, and sent him in such an account as it was becoming to send a man of ample means who had been diligently and skilfully cared for. he looked forward with some uncertainty as to how it would be received. perhaps his patient would try to beat him down, and doctor benjamin made up his mind to have the whole or nothing. perhaps he would pay the whole amount, but with a look, and possibly a word, that would make every dollar of it burn like a blister. doctor benjamin's conjectures were not unnatural, but quite remote from the actual fact. as soon as his patient had got entirely well, the young physician sent in his bill. the capitalist requested him to step into his room with him, and paid the full charge in the handsomest and most gratifying way, thanking him for his skill and attention, and assuring him that he had had great satisfaction in submitting himself to such competent hands, and should certainly apply to him again in case he should have any occasion for a medical adviser. we must not be too sagacious in judging people by the little excrescences of their character. ex pede herculem may often prove safe enough, but ex verruca tullium is liable to mislead a hasty judge of his fellow-men. i have studied the people called misers and thought a good deal about them. in former years i used to keep a little gold by me in order to ascertain for myself exactly the amount of pleasure to be got out of handling it; this being the traditional delight of the old-fashioned miser. it is by no means to be despised. three or four hundred dollars in double-eagles will do very well to experiment on. there is something very agreeable in the yellow gleam, very musical in the metallic clink, very satisfying in the singular weight, and very stimulating in the feeling that all the world over these same yellow disks are the master-keys that let one in wherever he wants to go, the servants that bring him pretty nearly everything he wants, except virtue,--and a good deal of what passes for that. i confess, then, to an honest liking for the splendors and the specific gravity and the manifold potentiality of the royal metal, and i understand, after a certain imperfect fashion, the delight that an old ragged wretch, starving himself in a crazy hovel, takes in stuffing guineas into old stockings and filling earthen pots with sovereigns, and every now and then visiting his hoards and fingering the fat pieces, and thinking ever all that they represent of earthly and angelic and diabolic energy. a miser pouring out his guineas into his palm and bathing his shrivelled and trembling hands in the yellow heaps before him, is not the prosaic being we are in the habit of thinking him. he is a dreamer, almost a poet. you and i read a novel or a poem to help our imaginations to build up palaces, and transport us into the emotional states and the felicitous conditions of the ideal characters pictured in the book we are reading. but think of him and the significance of the symbols he is handling as compared with the empty syllables and words we are using to build our aerial edifices with! in this hand he holds the smile of beauty and in that the dagger of revenge. the contents of that old glove will buy him the willing service of many an adroit sinner, and with what that coarse sack contains he can purchase the prayers of holy men for all succeeding time. in this chest is a castle in spain, a real one, and not only in spain, but anywhere he will choose to have it. if he would know what is the liberality of judgment of any of the straiter sects, he has only to hand over that box of rouleaux to the trustees of one of its educational institutions for the endowment of two or three professorships. if he would dream of being remembered by coming generations, what monument so enduring as a college building that shall bear his name, and even when its solid masonry shall crumble give place to another still charged with the same sacred duty of perpetuating his remembrance. who was sir matthew holworthy, that his name is a household word on the lips of thousands of scholars, and will be centuries hence, as that of walter de merton, dead six hundred years ago, is to-day at oxford? who was mistress holden, that she should be blessed among women by having her name spoken gratefully and the little edifice she caused to be erected preserved as her monument from generation to generation? all these possibilities, the lust of the eye, the lust of the flesh, the pride of life; the tears of grateful orphans by the gallon; the prayers of westminster assembly's catechism divines by the thousand; the masses of priests by the century;--all these things, and more if more there be that the imagination of a lover of gold is likely to range over, the miser hears and sees and feels and hugs and enjoys as he paddles with his lean hands among the sliding, shining, ringing, innocent-looking bits of yellow metal, toying with them as the lion-tamer handles the great carnivorous monster, whose might and whose terrors are child's play to the latent forces and power of harm-doing of the glittering counters played with in the great game between angels and devils. i have seen a good deal of misers, and i think i understand them as well as most persons do. but the capitalist's economy in rags and his liberality to the young doctor are very oddly contrasted with each other. i should not be surprised at any time to hear that he had endowed a scholarship or professorship or built a college dormitory, in spite of his curious parsimony in old linen. i do not know where our young astronomer got the notions that he expresses so freely in the lines that follow. i think the statement is true, however, which i see in one of the most popular cyclopaedias, that "the non-clerical mind in all ages is disposed to look favorably upon the doctrine of the universal restoration to holiness and happiness of all fallen intelligences, whether human or angelic." certainly, most of the poets who have reached the heart of men, since burns dropped the tear for poor "auld nickie-ben" that softened the stony-hearted theology of scotland, have had "non-clerical" minds, and i suppose our young friend is in his humble way an optimist like them. what he says in verse is very much the same thing as what is said in prose in all companies, and thought by a great many who are thankful to anybody that will say it for them,--not a few clerical as wall as "non-clerical" persons among them. wind-clouds and star-drifts. v what am i but the creature thou hast made? what have i save the blessings thou hast lent? what hope i but thy mercy and thy love? who but myself shall cloud my soul with fear? whose hand protect me from myself but thine? i claim the rights of weakness, i, the babe, call on my sire to shield me from the ills that still beset my path, not trying me with snares beyond my wisdom or my strength, he knowing i shall use them to my harm, and find a tenfold misery in the sense that in my childlike folly i have sprung the trap upon myself as vermin use drawn by the cunning bait to certain doom. who wrought the wondrous charm that leads us on to sweet perdition, but the self-same power that set the fearful engine to destroy his wretched offspring (as the rabbis tell), and hid its yawning jaws and treacherous springs in such a show of innocent sweet flowers it lured the sinless angels and they fell? ah! he who prayed the prayer of all mankind summed in those few brief words the mightiest plea for erring souls before the courts of heaven, save us from being tempted,--lest we fall! if we are only as the potter's clay made to be fashioned as the artist wills, and broken into shards if we offend the eye of him who made us, it is well; such love as the insensate lump of clay that spins upon the swift-revolving wheel bears to the hand that shapes its growing form, --such love, no more, will be our hearts' return to the great master-workman for his care, or would be, save that this, our breathing clay, is intertwined with fine innumerous threads that make it conscious in its framer's hand; and this he must remember who has filled these vessels with the deadly draught of life, life, that means death to all it claims. our love must kindle in the ray that streams from heaven, a faint reflection of the light divine; the sun must warm the earth before the rose can show her inmost heart-leaves to the sun. he yields some fraction of the maker's right who gives the quivering nerve its sense of pain; is there not something in the pleading eye of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns the law that bids it suffer? has it not a claim for some remembrance in the book that fills its pages with the idle words spoken of men? or is it only clay, bleeding and aching in the potter's hand, yet all his own to treat it as he will and when he will to cast it at his feet, shattered, dishonored, lost forevermore? my dog loves me, but could he look beyond his earthly master, would his love extend to him who--hush! i will not doubt that he is better than our fears, and will not wrong the least, the meanest of created things! he would not trust me with the smallest orb that circles through the sky; he would not give a meteor to my guidance; would not leave the coloring of a cloudlet to my hand; he locks my beating heart beneath its bars and keeps the key himself; he measures out the draughts of vital breath that warm my blood, winds up the springs of instinct which uncoil, each in its season; ties me to my home, my race, my time, my nation, and my creed so closely that if i but slip my wrist out of the band that cuts it to the bone, men say, "he hath a devil"; he has lent all that i hold in trust, as unto one by reason of his weakness and his years not fit to hold the smallest shred in fee of those most common things he calls his own and yet--my rabbi tells me--he has left the care of that to which a million worlds. filled with unconscious life were less than naught, has left that mighty universe, the soul, to the weak guidance of our baby hands, turned us adrift with our immortal charge, let the foul fiends have access at their will, taking the shape of angels, to our hearts, our hearts already poisoned through and through with the fierce virus of ancestral sin. if what my rabbi tells me is the truth, why did the choir of angels sing for joy? heaven must be compassed in a narrow space, and offer more than room enough for all that pass its portals; but the underworld, the godless realm, the place where demons forge their fiery darts and adamantine chains, must swarm with ghosts that for a little while had worn the garb of flesh, and being heirs of all the dulness of their stolid sires, and all the erring instincts of their tribe, nature's own teaching, rudiments of "sin," fell headlong in the snare that could not fail to trap the wretched creatures shaped of clay and cursed with sense enough to lose their souls! brother, thy heart is troubled at my word; sister, i see the cloud is on thy brow. he will not blame me, he who sends not peace, but sends a sword, and bids us strike amain at error's gilded crest, where in the van of earth's great army, mingling with the best and bravest of its leaders, shouting loud the battle-cries that yesterday have led the host of truth to victory, but to-day are watchwords of the laggard and the slave, he leads his dazzled cohorts. god has made this world a strife of atoms and of spheres; with every breath i sigh myself away and take my tribute from the wandering wind to fan the flame of life's consuming fire; so, while my thought has life, it needs must burn, and burning, set the stubble-fields ablaze, where all the harvest long ago was reaped and safely garnered in the ancient barns, but still the gleaners, groping for their food, go blindly feeling through the close-shorn straw, while the young reapers flash their glittering steel where later suns have ripened nobler grain! we listened to these lines in silence. they were evidently written honestly, and with feeling, and no doubt meant to be reverential. i thought, however, the lady looked rather serious as he finished reading. the young girl's cheeks were flushed, but she was not in the mood for criticism. as we came away the master said to me--the stubble-fields are mighty slow to take fire. these young fellows catch up with the world's ideas one after another,--they have been tamed a long while, but they find them running loose in their minds, and think they are ferae naturae. they remind me of young sportsmen who fire at the first feathers they see, and bring down a barnyard fowl. but the chicken may be worth bagging for all that, he said, good-humoredly. x caveat lector. let the reader look out for himself. the old master, whose words i have so frequently quoted and shall quote more of, is a dogmatist who lays down the law, ex cathedra, from the chair of his own personality. i do not deny that he has the ambition of knowing something about a greater number of subjects than any one man ought to meddle with, except in a very humble and modest way. and that is not his way. there was no doubt something of, humorous bravado in his saying that the actual "order of things" did not offer a field sufficiently ample for his intelligence. but if i found fault with him, which would be easy enough, i should say that he holds and expresses definite opinions about matters that he could afford to leave open questions, or ask the judgment of others about. but i do not want to find fault with him. if he does not settle all the points he speaks of so authoritatively, he sets me thinking about them, and i like a man as a companion who is not afraid of a half-truth. i know he says some things peremptorily that he may inwardly debate with himself. there are two ways of dealing with assertions of this kind. one may attack them on the false side and perhaps gain a conversational victory. but i like better to take them up on the true side and see how much can be made of that aspect of the dogmatic assertion. it is the only comfortable way of dealing with persons like the old master. there have been three famous talkers in great britain, either of whom would illustrate what i say about dogmatists well enough for my purpose. you cannot doubt to what three i refer: samuel the first, samuel the second, and thomas, last of the dynasty. (i mean the living thomas and not thomas b.) i say the last of the dynasty, for the conversational dogmatist on the imperial scale becomes every year more and more an impossibility. if he is in intelligent company he will be almost sure to find some one who knows more about some of the subjects he generalizes upon than any wholesale thinker who handles knowledge by the cargo is like to know. i find myself, at certain intervals, in the society of a number of experts in science, literature, and art, who cover a pretty wide range, taking them all together, of human knowledge. i have not the least doubt that if the great dr. samuel johnson should come in and sit with this company at one of their saturday dinners, he would be listened to, as he always was, with respect and attention. but there are subjects upon which the great talker could speak magisterially in his time and at his club, upon which so wise a man would express himself guardedly at the meeting where i have supposed him a guest. we have a scientific man or two among us, for instance, who would be entitled to smile at the good doctor's estimate of their labors, as i give it here: "of those that spin out life in trifles and die without a memorial, many flatter themselves with high opinion of their own importance and imagine that they are every day adding some improvement to human life."--"some turn the wheel of electricity, some suspend rings to a loadstone, and find that what they did yesterday they can do again to-day. some register the changes of the wind, and die fully convinced that the wind is changeable. "there are men yet more profound, who have heard that two colorless liquors may produce a color by union, and that two cold bodies will grow hot if they are mingled; they mingle them, and produce the effect expected, say it is strange, and mingle them again." i cannot transcribe this extract without an intense inward delight in its wit and a full recognition of its thorough half-truthfulness. yet if while the great moralist is indulging in these vivacities, he can be imagined as receiving a message from mr. boswell or mrs. thrale flashed through the depths of the ocean, we can suppose he might be tempted to indulge in another oracular utterance, something like this:----a wise man recognizes the convenience of a general statement, but he bows to the authority of a particular fact. he who would bound the possibilities of human knowledge by the limitations of present acquirements would take the dimensions of the infant in ordering the habiliments of the adult. it is the province of knowledge to speak and it is the privilege of wisdom to listen. will the professor have the kindness to inform me by what steps of gradual development the ring and the loadstone, which were but yesterday the toys of children and idlers, have become the means of approximating the intelligences of remote continents, and wafting emotions unchilled through the abysses of the no longer unfathomable deep? --this, you understand, beloved, is only a conventional imitation of the doctor's style of talking. he wrote in grand balanced phrases, but his conversation was good, lusty, off-hand familiar talk. he used very often to have it all his own way. if he came back to us we must remember that to treat him fairly we must suppose him on a level with the knowledge of our own time. but that knowledge is more specialized, a great deal, than knowledge was in his day. men cannot talk about things they have seen from the outside with the same magisterial authority the talking dynasty pretended to. the sturdy old moralist felt grand enough, no doubt, when he said, "he that is growing great and happy by electrifying a bottle wonders how the world can be engaged by trifling prattle about war or peace." benjamin franklin was one of these idlers who were electrifying bottles, but he also found time to engage in the trifling prattle about war and peace going on in those times. the talking doctor hits him very hard in "taxation no tyranny": "those who wrote the address (of the american congress in ), though they have shown no great extent or profundity of mind, are yet probably wiser than to believe it: but they have been taught by some master of mischief how to put in motion the engine of political electricity; to attract by the sounds of liberty and property, to repel by those of popery and slavery; and to give the great stroke by the name of boston." the talking dynasty has always been hard upon us americans. king samuel ii. says: "it is, i believe, a fact verified beyond doubt, that some years ago it was impossible to obtain a copy of the newgate calendar, as they had all been bought up by the americans, whether to suppress the blazon of their forefathers or to assist in their genealogical researches i could never learn satisfactorily." as for king thomas, the last of the monological succession, he made such a piece of work with his prophecies and his sarcasms about our little trouble with some of the southern states, that we came rather to pity him for his whims and crotchets than to get angry with him for calling us bores and other unamiable names. i do not think we believe things because considerable people say them, on personal authority, that is, as intelligent listeners very commonly did a century ago. the newspapers have lied that belief out of us. any man who has a pretty gift of talk may hold his company a little while when there is nothing better stirring. every now and then a man who may be dull enough prevailingly has a passion of talk come over him which makes him eloquent and silences the rest. i have a great respect for these divine paroxysms, these half-inspired moments of influx when they seize one whom we had not counted among the luminaries of the social sphere. but the man who can--give us a fresh experience on anything that interests us overrides everybody else. a great peril escaped makes a great story-teller of a common person enough. i remember when a certain vessel was wrecked long ago, that one of the survivors told the story as well as defoe could have told it. never a word from him before; never a word from him since. but when it comes to talking one's common thoughts,--those that come and go as the breath does; those that tread the mental areas and corridors with steady, even foot-fall, an interminable procession of every hue and garb,--there are few, indeed, that can dare to lift the curtain which hangs before the window in the breast and throw open the window, and let us look and listen. we are all loyal enough to our sovereign when he shows himself, but sovereigns are scarce. i never saw the absolute homage of listeners but once, that i remember, to a man's common talk, and that was to the conversation of an old man, illustrious by his lineage and the exalted honors he had won, whose experience had lessons for the wisest, and whose eloquence had made the boldest tremble. all this because i told you to look out for yourselves and not take for absolute truth everything the old master of our table, or anybody else at it sees fit to utter. at the same time i do not think that he, or any of us whose conversation i think worth reporting, says anything for the mere sake of saying it and without thinking that it holds some truth, even if it is not unqualifiedly true. i suppose a certain number of my readers wish very heartily that the young astronomer whose poetical speculations i am recording would stop trying by searching to find out the almighty, and sign the thirty-nine articles, or the westminster confession of faith, at any rate slip his neck into some collar or other, and pull quietly in the harness, whether it galled him or not. i say, rather, let him have his talk out; if nobody else asks the questions he asks, some will be glad to hear them, but if you, the reader, find the same questions in your own mind, you need not be afraid to see how they shape themselves in another's intelligence. do you recognize the fact that we are living in a new time? knowledge--it excites prejudices to call it science--is advancing as irresistibly, as majestically, as remorselessly as the ocean moves in upon the shore. the courtiers of king canute (i am not afraid of the old comparison), represented by the adherents of the traditional beliefs of the period, move his chair back an inch at a time, but not until his feet are pretty damp, not to say wet. the rock on which he sat securely awhile ago is completely under water. and now people are walking up and down the beach and judging for themselves how far inland the chair of king canute is like to be moved while they and their children are looking on, at the rate in which it is edging backward. and it is quite too late to go into hysterics about it. the shore, solid, substantial, a great deal more than eighteen hundred years old, is natural humanity. the beach which the ocean of knowledge--you may call it science if you like--is flowing over, is theological humanity. somewhere between the sermon on the mount and the teachings of saint augustine sin was made a transferable chattel. (i leave the interval wide for others to make narrow.) the doctrine of heritable guilt, with its mechanical consequences, has done for our moral nature what the doctrine of demoniac possession has done in barbarous times and still does among barbarous tribes for disease. out of that black cloud came the lightning which struck the compass of humanity. conscience, which from the dawn of moral being had pointed to the poles of right and wrong only as the great current of will flowed through the soul, was demagnetized, paralyzed, and knew henceforth no fixed meridian, but stayed where the priest or the council placed it. there is nothing to be done but to polarize the needle over again. and for this purpose we must study the lines of direction of all the forces which traverse our human nature. we must study man as we have studied stars and rocks. we need not go, we are told, to our sacred books for astronomy or geology or other scientific knowledge. do not stop there! pull canute's chair back fifty rods at once, and do not wait until he is wet to the knees! say now, bravely, as you will sooner or later have to say, that we need not go to any ancient records for our anthropology. do we not all hold, at least, that the doctrine of man's being a blighted abortion, a miserable disappointment to his creator, and hostile and hateful to him from his birth, may give way to the belief that he is the latest terrestrial manifestation of an ever upward-striving movement of divine power? if there lives a man who does not want to disbelieve the popular notions about the condition and destiny of the bulk of his race, i should like to have him look me in the face and tell me so. i am not writing for the basement story or the nursery, and i do not pretend to be, but i say nothing in these pages which would not be said without fear of offence in any intelligent circle, such as clergymen of the higher castes are in the habit of frequenting. there are teachers in type for our grandmothers and our grandchildren who vaccinate the two childhoods with wholesome doctrine, transmitted harmlessly from one infant to another. but we three men at our table have taken the disease of thinking in the natural way. it is an epidemic in these times, and those who are afraid of it must shut themselves up close or they will catch it. i hope none of us are wanting in reverence. one at least of us is a regular church-goer, and believes a man may be devout and yet very free in the expression of his opinions on the gravest subjects. there may be some good people who think that our young friend who puts his thoughts in verse is going sounding over perilous depths, and are frightened every time he throws the lead. there is nothing to be frightened at. this is a manly world we live in. our reverence is good for nothing if it does not begin with self-respect. occidental manhood springs from that as its basis; oriental manhood finds the greatest satisfaction in self-abasement. there is no use in trying to graft the tropical palm upon the northern pine. the same divine forces underlie the growth of both, but leaf and flower and fruit must follow the law of race, of soil, of climate. whether the questions which assail my young friend have risen in my reader's mind or not, he knows perfectly well that nobody can keep such questions from springing up in every young mind of any force or honesty. as for the excellent little wretches who grow up in what they are taught, with never a scruple or a query, protestant or catholic, jew or mormon, mahometan or buddhist, they signify nothing in the intellectual life of the race. if the world had been wholly peopled with such half-vitalized mental negatives, there never would have been a creed like that of christendom. i entirely agree with the spirit of the verses i have looked over, in this point at least, that a true man's allegiance is given to that which is highest in his own nature. he reverences truth, he loves kindness, he respects justice. the two first qualities he understands well enough. but the last, justice, at least as between the infinite and the finite, has been so utterly dehumanized, disintegrated, decomposed, and diabolized in passing through the minds of the half-civilized banditti who have peopled and unpeopled the world for some scores of generations, that it has become a mere algebraic x, and has no fixed value whatever as a human conception. as for power, we are outgrowing all superstition about that. we have not the slightest respect for it as such, and it is just as well to remember this in all our spiritual adjustments. we fear power when we cannot master it; but just as far as we can master it, we make a slave and a beast of burden of it without hesitation. we cannot change the ebb and flow of the tides, or the course of the seasons, but we come as near it as we can. we dam out the ocean, we make roses bloom in winter and water freeze in summer. we have no more reverence for the sun than we have for a fish-tail gas-burner; we stare into his face with telescopes as at a ballet-dancer with opera-glasses; we pick his rays to pieces with prisms as if they were so many skeins of colored yarn; we tell him we do not want his company and shut him out like a troublesome vagrant. the gods of the old heathen are the servants of to-day. neptune, vulcan, aolus, and the bearer of the thunderbolt himself have stepped down from their pedestals and put on our livery. we cannot always master them, neither can we always master our servant, the horse, but we have put a bridle on the wildest natural agencies. the mob of elemental forces is as noisy and turbulent as ever, but the standing army of civilization keeps it well under, except for an occasional outbreak. when i read the lady's letter printed some time since, i could not help honoring the feeling which prompted her in writing it. but while i respect the innocent incapacity of tender age and the limitations of the comparatively uninstructed classes, it is quite out of the question to act as if matters of common intelligence and universal interest were the private property of a secret society, only to be meddled with by those who know the grip and the password. we must get over the habit of transferring the limitations of the nervous temperament and of hectic constitutions to the great source of all the mighty forces of nature, animate and inanimate. we may confidently trust that we have over us a being thoroughly robust and grandly magnanimous, in distinction from the infinite invalid bred in the studies of sickly monomaniacs, who corresponds to a very common human type, but makes us blush for him when we contrast him with a truly noble man, such as most of us have had the privilege of knowing both in public and in private life. i was not a little pleased to find that the lady, in spite of her letter, sat through the young man's reading of portions of his poem with a good deal of complacency. i think i can guess what is in her mind. she believes, as so many women do, in that great remedy for discontent, and doubts about humanity, and questionings of providence, and all sorts of youthful vagaries,--i mean the love-cure. and she thinks, not without some reason, that these astronomical lessons, and these readings of poetry and daily proximity at the table, and the need of two young hearts that have been long feeling lonely, and youth and nature and "all impulses of soul and sense," as coleridge has it, will bring these two young people into closer relations than they perhaps have yet thought of; and so that sweet lesson of loving the neighbor whom he has seen may lead him into deeper and more trusting communion with the friend and father whom he has not seen. the young girl evidently did not intend that her accomplice should be a loser by the summary act of the member of the haouse: i took occasion to ask that boy what had become of all the popguns. he gave me to understand that popguns were played out, but that he had got a squirt and a whip, and considered himself better off than before. this great world is full of mysteries. i can comprehend the pleasure to be got out of the hydraulic engine; but what can be the fascination of a whip, when one has nothing to flagellate but the calves of his own legs, i could never understand. yet a small riding-whip is the most popular article with the miscellaneous new-englander at all great gatherings,--cattle-shows and fourth-of-july celebrations. if democritus and heraclitus could walk arm in arm through one of these crowds, the first would be in a broad laugh to see the multitude of young persons who were rejoicing in the possession of one of these useless and worthless little commodities; happy himself to see how easily others could purchase happiness. but the second would weep bitter tears to think what a rayless and barren life that must be which could extract enjoyment from the miserable flimsy wand that has such magic attraction for sauntering youths and simpering maidens. what a dynamometer of happiness are these paltry toys, and what a rudimentary vertebrate must be the freckled adolescent whose yearning for the infinite can be stayed even for a single hour by so trifling a boon from the venal hands of the finite! pardon these polysyllabic reflections, beloved, but i never contemplate these dear fellow-creatures of ours without a delicious sense of superiority to them and to all arrested embryos of intelligence, in which i have no doubt you heartily sympathize with me. it is not merely when i look at the vacuous countenances of the mastigophori, the whip-holders, that i enjoy this luxury (though i would not miss that holiday spectacle for a pretty sum of money, and advise you by all means to make sure of it next fourth of july, if you missed it this), but i get the same pleasure from many similar manifestations. i delight in regalia, so called, of the kind not worn by kings, nor obtaining their diamonds from the mines of golconda. i have a passion for those resplendent titles which are not conferred by a sovereign and would not be the open sesame to the courts of royalty, yet which are as opulent in impressive adjectives as any knight of the garter's list of dignities. when i have recognized in the every-day name of his very worthy high eminence of some cabalistic association, the inconspicuous individual whose trifling indebtedness to me for value received remains in a quiescent state and is likely long to continue so, i confess to having experienced a thrill of pleasure. i have smiled to think how grand his magnificent titular appendages sounded in his own ears and what a feeble tintinnabulation they made in mine. the crimson sash, the broad diagonal belt of the mounted marshal of a great procession, so cheap in themselves, yet so entirely satisfactory to the wearer, tickle my heart's root. perhaps i should have enjoyed all these weaknesses of my infantile fellow-creatures without an afterthought, except that on a certain literary anniversary when i tie the narrow blue and pink ribbons in my button-hole and show my decorated bosom to the admiring public, i am conscious of a certain sense of distinction and superiority in virtue of that trifling addition to my personal adornments which reminds me that i too have some embryonic fibres in my tolerably well-matured organism. i hope i have not hurt your feelings, if you happen to be a high and mighty grand functionary in any illustrious fraternity. when i tell you that a bit of ribbon in my button-hole sets my vanity prancing, i think you cannot be grievously offended that i smile at the resonant titles which make you something more than human in your own eyes. i would not for the world be mistaken for one of those literary roughs whose brass knuckles leave their mark on the foreheads of so many inoffensive people. there is a human sub-species characterized by the coarseness of its fibre and the acrid nature of its intellectual secretions. it is to a certain extent penetrative, as all creatures are which are provided with stings. it has an instinct which guides it to the vulnerable parts of the victim on which it fastens. these two qualities give it a certain degree of power which is not to be despised. it might perhaps be less mischievous, but for the fact that the wound where it leaves its poison opens the fountain from which it draws its nourishment. beings of this kind can be useful if they will only find their appropriate sphere, which is not literature, but that circle of rough-and-tumble political life where the fine-fibred men are at a discount, where epithets find their subjects poison-proof, and the sting which would be fatal to a literary debutant only wakes the eloquence of the pachydermatous ward-room politician to a fiercer shriek of declamation. the master got talking the other day about the difference between races and families. i am reminded of what he said by what i have just been saying myself about coarse-fibred and fine-fibred people. --we talk about a yankee, a new-englander,---he said,-as if all of 'em were just the same kind of animal. "there is knowledge and knowledge," said john bunyan. there are yankees and yankees. do you know two native trees called pitch pine and white pine respectively? of course you know 'em. well, there are pitch-pine yankees and white-pine yankees. we don't talk about the inherited differences of men quite as freely, perhaps, as they do in the old world, but republicanism doesn't alter the laws of physiology. we have a native aristocracy, a superior race, just as plainly marked by nature as of a higher and finer grade than the common run of people as the white pine is marked in its form, its stature, its bark, its delicate foliage, as belonging to the nobility of the forest; and the pitch pine, stubbed, rough, coarse-haired, as of the plebeian order. only the strange thing is to see in what a capricious way our natural nobility is distributed. the last born nobleman i have seen, i saw this morning; he was pulling a rope that was fastened to a maine schooner loaded with lumber. i should say he was about twenty years old, as fine a figure of a young man as you would ask to see, and with a regular greek outline of countenance, waving hair, that fell as if a sculptor had massed it to copy, and a complexion as rich as a red sunset. i have a notion that the state of maine breeds the natural nobility in a larger proportion than some other states, but they spring up in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. the young fellow i saw this morning had on an old flannel shirt, a pair of trowsers that meant hard work, and a cheap cloth cap pushed back on his head so as to let the large waves of hair straggle out over his forehead; he was tugging at his rope with the other sailors, but upon my word i don't think i have seen a young english nobleman of all those whom i have looked upon that answered to the notion of "blood" so well as this young fellow did. i suppose if i made such a levelling confession as this in public, people would think i was looking towards being the labor-reform candidate for president. but i should go on and spoil my prospects by saying that i don't think the white-pine yankee is the more generally prevailing growth, but rather the pitch-pine yankee. --the member of the haouse seemed to have been getting a dim idea that all this was not exactly flattering to the huckleberry districts. his features betrayed the growth of this suspicion so clearly that the master replied to his look as if it had been a remark. [i need hardly say that this particular member of the general court was a pitch-pine yankee of the most thoroughly characterized aspect and flavor.] --yes, sir,--the master continued,--sir being anybody that listened, --there is neither flattery nor offence in the views which a physiological observer takes of the forms of life around him. it won't do to draw individual portraits, but the differences of natural groups of human beings are as proper subjects of remark as those of different breeds of horses, and if horses were houyhnhnms i don't think they would quarrel with us because we made a distinction between a "morgan" and a "messenger." the truth is, sir, the lean sandy soil and the droughts and the long winters and the east-winds and the cold storms, and all sorts of unknown local influences that we can't make out quite so plainly as these, have a tendency to roughen the human organization and make it coarse, something as it is with the tree i mentioned. some spots and some strains of blood fight against these influences, but if i should say right out what i think, it would be that the finest human fruit, on the whole; and especially the finest women that we get in new england are raised under glass. --good gracious!--exclaimed the landlady, under glass! --give me cowcumbers raised in the open air, said the capitalist, who was a little hard of hearing. --perhaps,--i remarked,--it might be as well if you would explain this last expression of yours. raising human beings under glass i take to be a metaphorical rather than a literal statement of your meaning. --no, sir!--replied the master, with energy,--i mean just what i say, sir. under glass, and with a south exposure. during the hard season, of course,--for in the heats of summer the tenderest hot-house plants are not afraid of the open air. protection is what the transplanted aryan requires in this new england climate. keep him, and especially keep her, in a wide street of a well-built city eight months of the year; good solid brick walls behind her, good sheets of plate-glass, with the sun shining warm through them, in front of her, and you have put her in the condition of the pine-apple, from the land of which, and not from that of the other kind of pine, her race started on its travels. people don't know what a gain there is to health by living in cities, the best parts of them of course, for we know too well what the worst parts are. in the first place you get rid of the noxious emanations which poison so many country localities with typhoid fever and dysentery, not wholly rid of them, of course, but to a surprising degree. let me tell you a doctor's story. i was visiting a western city a good many years ago; it was in the autumn, the time when all sorts of malarious diseases are about. the doctor i was speaking of took me to see the cemetery just outside the town, i don't know how much he had done to fill it, for he didn't tell me, but i'll tell you what he did say. "look round," said the doctor. "there isn't a house in all the ten-mile circuit of country you can see over, where there isn't one person, at least, shaking with fever and ague. and yet you need n't be afraid of carrying it away with you, for as long as your home is on a paved street you are safe." --i think it likely--the master went on to say--that my friend the doctor put it pretty strongly, but there is no doubt at all that while all the country round was suffering from intermittent fever, the paved part of the city was comparatively exempted. what do you do when you build a house on a damp soil, and there are damp soils pretty much everywhere? why you floor the cellar with cement, don't you? well, the soil of a city is cemented all over, one may say, with certain qualifications of course. a first-rate city house is a regular sanatorium. the only trouble is, that the little good-for-nothings that come of utterly used-up and worn-out stock, and ought to die, can't die, to save their lives. so they grow up to dilute the vigor of the race with skim-milk vitality. they would have died, like good children, in most average country places; but eight months of shelter in a regulated temperature, in a well-sunned house, in a duly moistened air, with good sidewalks to go about on in all weather, and four months of the cream of summer and the fresh milk of jersey cows, make the little sham organizations--the worm-eaten wind-falls, for that 's what they look like--hang on to the boughs of life like "froze-n-thaws"; regular struldbrugs they come to be, a good many of 'em. --the scarabee's ear was caught by that queer word of swift's, and he asked very innocently what kind of bugs he was speaking of, whereupon that boy shouted out, straddlebugs! to his own immense amusement and the great bewilderment of the scarabee, who only saw that there was one of those unintelligible breaks in the conversation which made other people laugh, and drew back his antennae as usual, perplexed, but not amused. i do not believe the master had said all he was going to say on this subject, and of course all these statements of his are more or less one-sided. but that some invalids do much better in cities than in the country is indisputable, and that the frightful dysenteries and fevers which have raged like pestilences in many of our country towns are almost unknown in the better built sections of some of our large cities is getting to be more generally understood since our well-to-do people have annually emigrated in such numbers from the cemented surface of the city to the steaming soil of some of the dangerous rural districts. if one should contrast the healthiest country residences with the worst city ones the result would be all the other way, of course, so that there are two sides to the question, which we must let the doctors pound in their great mortar, infuse and strain, hoping that they will present us with the clear solution when they have got through these processes. one of our chief wants is a complete sanitary map of every state in the union. the balance of our table, as the reader has no doubt observed, has been deranged by the withdrawal of the man of letters, so called, and only the side of the deficiency changed by the removal of the young astronomer into our neighborhood. the fact that there was a vacant chair on the side opposite us had by no means escaped the notice of that boy. he had taken advantage of his opportunity and invited in a schoolmate whom he evidently looked upon as a great personage. this boy or youth was a good deal older than himself and stood to him apparently in the light of a patron and instructor in the ways of life. a very jaunty, knowing young gentleman he was, good-looking, smartly dressed, smooth-checked as yet, curly-haired, with a roguish eye, a sagacious wink, a ready tongue, as i soon found out; and as i learned could catch a ball on the fly with any boy of his age; not quarrelsome, but, if he had to strike, hit from the shoulder; the pride of his father (who was a man of property and a civic dignitary), and answering to the name of johnny. i was a little surprised at the liberty that boy had taken in introducing an extra peptic element at our table, reflecting as i did that a certain number of avoirdupois ounces of nutriment which the visitor would dispose of corresponded to a very appreciable pecuniary amount, so that he was levying a contribution upon our landlady which she might be inclined to complain of. for the caput mortuum (or deadhead, in vulgar phrase) is apt to be furnished with a venter vivus, or, as we may say, a lively appetite. but the landlady welcomed the new-comer very heartily. --why! how--do--you--do johnny?! with the notes of interrogation and of admiration both together, as here represented. johnny signified that he was doing about as well as could be expected under the circumstances, having just had a little difference with a young person whom he spoke of as "pewter-jaw" (i suppose he had worn a dentist's tooth-straightening contrivance during his second dentition), which youth he had finished off, as he said, in good shape, but at the expense of a slight epistaxis, we will translate his vernacular expression. --the three ladies all looked sympathetic, but there did not seem to be any great occasion for it, as the boy had come out all right, and seemed to be in the best of spirits. -and how is your father and your mother? asked the landlady. -oh, the governor and the head centre? a , both of 'em. prime order for shipping,--warranted to stand any climate. the governor says he weighs a hunderd and seventy-five pounds. got a chin-tuft just like ed'in forrest. d'd y' ever see ed'in forrest play metamora? bully, i tell you! my old gentleman means to be mayor or governor or president or something or other before he goes off the handle, you'd better b'lieve. he's smart,--and i've heard folks say i take after him. --somehow or other i felt as if i had seen this boy before, or known something about him. where did he get those expressions "a " and "prime" and so on? they must have come from somebody who has been in the retail dry-goods business, or something of that nature. i have certain vague reminiscences that carry me back to the early times of this boardinghouse.---johnny.---landlady knows his father well. ---boarded with her, no doubt.---there was somebody by the name of john, i remember perfectly well, lived with her. i remember both my friends mentioned him, one of them very often. i wonder if this boy isn't a son of his! i asked the landlady after breakfast whether this was not, as i had suspected, the son of that former boarder. --to be sure he is,--she answered,--and jest such a good-natur'd sort of creatur' as his father was. i always liked john, as we used to call his father. he did love fun, but he was a good soul, and stood by me when i was in trouble, always. he went into business on his own account after a while, and got merried, and settled down into a family man. they tell me he is an amazing smart business man,--grown wealthy, and his wife's father left her money. but i can't help calling him john,--law, we never thought of calling him anything else, and he always laughs and says, "that's right." this is his oldest son, and everybody calls him johnny. that boy of ours goes to the same school with his boy, and thinks there never was anybody like him,--you see there was a boy undertook to impose on our boy, and johnny gave the other boy a good licking, and ever since that he is always wanting to have johnny round with him and bring him here with him,--and when those two boys get together, there never was boys that was so chock full of fun and sometimes mischief, but not very bad mischief, as those two boys be. but i like to have him come once in a while when there is room at the table, as there is now, for it puts me in mind of the old times, when my old boarders was all round me, that i used to think so much of,--not that my boarders that i have now a'nt very nice people, but i did think a dreadful sight of the gentleman that made that first book; it helped me on in the world more than ever he knew of,--for it was as good as one of them brandreth's pills advertisements, and did n't cost me a cent, and that young lady he merried too, she was nothing but a poor young schoolma'am when she come to my house, and now--and she deserved it all too; for she was always just the same, rich or poor, and she is n't a bit prouder now she wears a camel's-hair shawl, than she was when i used to lend her a woollen one to keep her poor dear little shoulders warm when she had to go out and it was storming,--and then there was that old gentleman,--i can't speak about him, for i never knew how good he was till his will was opened, and then it was too late to thank him.... i respected the feeling which caused the interval of silence, and found my own eyes moistened as i remembered how long it was since that friend of ours was sitting in the chair where i now sit, and what a tidal wave of change has swept over the world and more especially over this great land of ours, since he opened his lips and found so many kind listeners. the young astronomer has read us another extract from his manuscript. i ran my eye over it, and so far as i have noticed it is correct enough in its versification. i suppose we are getting gradually over our hemispherical provincialism, which allowed a set of monks to pull their hoods over our eyes and tell us there was no meaning in any religious symbolism but our own. if i am mistaken about this advance i am very glad to print the young man's somewhat outspoken lines to help us in that direction. wind-clouds and star-drifts. vi the time is racked with birth-pangs; every hour brings forth some gasping truth, and truth new-born looks a misshapen and untimely growth, the terror of the household and its shame, a monster coiling in its nurse's lap that some would strangle, some would only starve; but still it breathes, and passed from hand to hand, and suckled at a hundred half-clad breasts, comes slowly to its stature and its form, calms the rough ridges of its dragon-scales, changes to shining locks its snaky hair, and moves transfigured into angel guise, welcomed by all that cursed its hour of birth, and folded in the same encircling arms that cast it like a serpent from their hold! if thou wouldst live in honor, die in peace, have the fine words the marble-workers learn to carve so well, upon thy funeral-stone, and earn a fair obituary, dressed in all the many-colored robes of praise, be deafer than the adder to the cry of that same foundling truth, until it grows to seemly favor, and at length has won the smiles of hard-mouthed men and light-upped dames, then snatch it from its meagre nurse's breast, fold it in silk and give it food from gold; so shalt thou share its glory when at last it drops its mortal vesture, and revealed in all the splendor of its heavenly form, spreads on the startled air its mighty wings! alas! how much that seemed immortal truth that heroes fought for, martyrs died to save, reveals its earth-born lineage, growing old and limping in its march, its wings unplumed, its heavenly semblance faded like a dream! here in this painted casket, just unsealed, lies what was once a breathing shape like thine, once loved as thou art loved; there beamed the eyes that looked on memphis in its hour of pride, that saw the walls of hundred-gated thebes, and all the mirrored glories of the nile. see how they toiled that all-consuming time might leave the frame immortal in its tomb; filled it with fragrant balms and odorous gums that still diffuse their sweetness through the air, and wound and wound with patient fold on fold the flaxen bands thy hand has rudely torn! perchance thou yet canst see the faded stain of the sad mourner's tear. but what is this? the sacred beetle, bound upon the breast of the blind heathen! snatch the curious prize, give it a place among thy treasured spoils fossil and relic,--corals, encrinites, the fly in amber and the fish in stone, the twisted circlet of etruscan gold, medal, intaglio, poniard, poison-ring, --place for the memphian beetle with thine hoard! ah! longer than thy creed has blest the world this toy, thus ravished from thy brother's breast, was to the heart of mizraim as divine, as holy, as the symbol that we lay on the still bosom of our white-robed dead, and raise above their dust that all may know here sleeps an heir of glory. loving friends, with tears of trembling faith and choking sobs, and prayers to those who judge of mortal deeds, wrapped this poor image in the cerement's fold that isis and osiris, friends of man, might know their own and claim the ransomed soul an idol? man was born to worship such! an idol is an image of his thought; sometimes he carves it out of gleaming stone, and sometimes moulds it out of glittering gold, or rounds it in a mighty frescoed dome, or lifts it heavenward in a lofty spire, or shapes it in a cunning frame of words, or pays his priest to make it day by day; for sense must have its god as well as soul; a new-born dian calls for silver shrines, and egypt's holiest symbol is our own, the sign we worship as did they of old when isis and osiris ruled the world. let us be true to our most subtle selves, we long to have our idols like the rest. think! when the men of israel had their god encamped among them, talking with their chief, leading them in the pillar of the cloud and watching o'er them in the shaft of fire, they still must have an image; still they longed for somewhat of substantial, solid form whereon to hang their garlands, and to fix their wandering thoughts, and gain a stronger hold for their uncertain faith, not yet assured if those same meteors of the day and night were not mere exhalations of the soil. are we less earthly than the chosen race? are we more neighbors of the living god than they who gathered manna every morn, reaping where none had sown, and heard the voice of him who met the highest in the mount, and brought them tables, graven with his hand? yet these must have their idol, brought their gold, that star-browed apis might be god again; yea, from their ears the women brake the rings that lent such splendors to the gypsy brown of sunburnt cheeks,--what more could woman do to show her pious zeal? they went astray, but nature led them as it leads us all. we too, who mock at israel's golden calf and scoff at egypt's sacred scarabee, would have our amulets to clasp and kiss, and flood with rapturous tears, and bear with us to be our dear companions in the dust, such magic works an image in our souls! man is an embryo; see at twenty years his bones, the columns that uphold his frame not yet cemented, shaft and capital, mere fragments of the temple incomplete. at twoscore, threescore, is he then full grown? nay, still a child, and as the little maids dress and undress their puppets, so he tries to dress a lifeless creed, as if it lived, and change its raiment when the world cries shame! we smile to see our little ones at play so grave, so thoughtful, with maternal care nursing the wisps of rags they call their babes; does he not smile who sees us with the toys we call by sacred names, and idly feign to be what we have called them? he is still the father of this helpless nursery-brood, whose second childhood joins so close its first, that in the crowding, hurrying years between we scarce have trained our senses to their task before the gathering mist has dimmed our eyes, and with our hollowed palm we help our ear, and trace with trembling hand our wrinkled names, and then begin to tell our stories o'er, and see--not hear-the whispering lips that say, "you know--? your father knew him.--this is he, tottering and leaning on the hireling's arm,--" and so, at length, disrobed of all that clad the simple life we share with weed and worm, go to our cradles, naked as we came. xi i suppose there would have been even more remarks upon the growing intimacy of the young astronomer and his pupil, if the curiosity of the boarders had not in the mean time been so much excited at the apparently close relation which had sprung up between the register of deeds and the lady. it was really hard to tell what to make of it. the register appeared at the table in a new coat. suspicious. the lady was evidently deeply interested in him, if we could judge by the frequency and the length of their interviews. on at least one occasion he has brought a lawyer with him, which naturally suggested the idea that there were some property arrangements to be attended to, in case, as seems probable against all reasons to the contrary, these two estimable persons, so utterly unfitted, as one would say, to each other, contemplated an alliance. it is no pleasure to me to record an arrangement of this kind. i frankly confess i do not know what to make of it. with her tastes and breeding, it is the last thing that i should have thought of,--her uniting herself with this most commonplace and mechanical person, who cannot even offer her the elegances and luxuries to which she might seem entitled on changing her condition. while i was thus interested and puzzled i received an unexpected visit from our landlady. she was evidently excited, and by some event which was of a happy nature, for her countenance was beaming and she seemed impatient to communicate what she had to tell. impatient or not, she must wait a moment, while i say a word about her. our landlady is as good a creature as ever lived. she is a little negligent of grammar at times, and will get a wrong word now and then; she is garrulous, circumstantial, associates facts by their accidental cohesion rather than by their vital affinities, is given to choking and tears on slight occasions, but she has a warm heart, and feels to her boarders as if they were her blood-relations. she began her conversation abruptly.--i expect i'm a going to lose one of my boarders,--she said. --you don't seem very unhappy about it, madam,--i answered.---we all took it easily when the person who sat on our side of the table quitted us in such a hurry, but i do not think there is anybody left that either you or the boarders want to get rid of--unless it is myself,--i added modestly. --you! said the landlady--you! no indeed. when i have a quiet boarder that 's a small eater, i don't want to lose him. you don't make trouble, you don't find fault with your vit--[dr. benjamin had schooled his parent on this point and she altered the word] with your food, and you know when you 've had enough. --i really felt proud of this eulogy, which embraces the most desirable excellences of a human being in the capacity of boarder. the landlady began again.--i'm going to lose--at least, i suppose i shall--one of the best boarders i ever had,--that lady that's been with me so long. --i thought there was something going on between her and the register,--i said. --something! i should think there was! about three months ago he began making her acquaintance. i thought there was something particular. i did n't quite like to watch 'em very close; but i could n't help overbearing some of the things he said to her, for, you see, he used to follow her up into the parlor, they talked pretty low, but i could catch a word now and then. i heard him say something to her one day about "bettering her condition," and she seemed to be thinking very hard about it, and turning of it over in her mind, and i said to myself, she does n't want to take up with him, but she feels dreadful poor, and perhaps he has been saving and has got money in the bank, and she does n't want to throw away a chance of bettering herself without thinking it over. but dear me,--says i to myself,--to think of her walking up the broad aisle into meeting alongside of such a homely, rusty-looking creatur' as that! but there 's no telling what folks will do when poverty has got hold of 'em. --well, so i thought she was waiting to make up her mind, and he was hanging on in hopes she'd come round at last, as women do half the time, for they don't know their own minds and the wind blows both ways at once with 'em as the smoke blows out of the tall chimlies,--east out of this one and west out of that,--so it's no use looking at 'em to know what the weather is. --but yesterday she comes up to me after breakfast, and asks me to go up with her into her little room. now, says i to myself, i shall hear all about it. i saw she looked as if she'd got some of her trouble off her mind, and i guessed that it was settled, and so, says i to myself, i must wish her joy and hope it's all for the best, whatever i think about it. --well, she asked me to set down, and then she begun. she said that she was expecting to have a change in her condition of life, and had asked me up so that i might' have the first news of it. i am sure--says i--i wish you both joy. merriage is a blessed thing when folks is well sorted, and it is an honorable thing, and the first meracle was at the merriage in canaan. it brings a great sight of happiness with it, as i've had a chance of knowing, for my hus-- the landlady showed her usual tendency to "break" from the conversational pace just at this point, but managed to rein in the rebellious diaphragm, and resumed her narrative. --merriage!--says she,--pray who has said anything about merriage?--i beg your pardon, ma'am,--says i,--i thought you had spoke of changing your condition and i--she looked so i stopped right short. -don't say another word, says she, but jest listen to what i am going to tell you. --my friend, says she, that you have seen with me so often lately, was hunting among his old record books, when all at once he come across an old deed that was made by somebody that had my family name. he took it into his head to read it over, and he found there was some kind of a condition that if it was n't kept, the property would all go back to them that was the heirs of the one that gave the deed, and that he found out was me. something or other put it into his head, says she, that the company that owned the property--it was ever so rich a company and owned land all round everywhere--hadn't kept to the conditions. so he went to work, says she, and hunted through his books and he inquired all round, and he found out pretty much all about it, and at last he come to me--it 's my boarder, you know, that says all this--and says he, ma'am, says he, if you have any kind of fancy for being a rich woman you've only got to say so. i didn't know what he meant, and i began to think, says she, he must be crazy. but he explained it all to me, how i'd nothing to do but go to court and i could get a sight of property back. well, so she went on telling me--there was ever so much more that i suppose was all plain enough, but i don't remember it all--only i know my boarder was a good deal worried at first at the thought of taking money that other people thought was theirs, and the register he had to talk to her, and he brought a lawyer and he talked to her, and her friends they talked to her, and the upshot of it all was that the company agreed to settle the business by paying her, well, i don't know just how much, but enough to make her one of the rich folks again. i may as well add here that, as i have since learned, this is one of the most important cases of releasing right of reentry for condition broken which has been settled by arbitration for a considerable period. if i am not mistaken the register of deeds will get something more than a new coat out of this business, for the lady very justly attributes her change of fortunes to his sagacity and his activity in following up the hint he had come across by mere accident. so my supernumerary fellow-boarder, whom i would have dispensed with as a cumberer of the table, has proved a ministering angel to one of the personages whom i most cared for. one would have thought that the most scrupulous person need not have hesitated in asserting an unquestioned legal and equitable claim simply because it had lain a certain number of years in abeyance. but before the lady could make up her mind to accept her good fortune she had been kept awake many nights in doubt and inward debate whether she should avail herself of her rights. if it had been private property, so that another person must be made poor that she should become rich, she would have lived and died in want rather than claim her own. i do not think any of us would like to turn out the possessor of a fine estate enjoyed for two or three generations on the faith of unquestioned ownership by making use of some old forgotten instrument, which accident had thrown in our way. but it was all nonsense to indulge in any sentiment in a case like this, where it was not only a right, but a duty which she owed herself and others in relation with her, to accept what providence, as it appeared, had thrust upon her, and when no suffering would be occasioned to anybody. common sense told her not to refuse it. so did several of her rich friends, who remembered about this time that they had not called upon her for a good while, and among them mrs. midas goldenrod. never had that lady's carriage stood before the door of our boarding-house so long, never had it stopped so often, as since the revelation which had come from the registry of deeds. mrs. midas goldenrod was not a bad woman, but she loved and hated in too exclusive and fastidious a way to allow us to consider her as representing the highest ideal of womanhood. she hated narrow ill-ventilated courts, where there was nothing to see if one looked out of the window but old men in dressing-gowns and old women in caps; she hated little dark rooms with air-tight stoves in them; she hated rusty bombazine gowns and last year's bonnets; she hated gloves that were not as fresh as new-laid eggs, and shoes that had grown bulgy and wrinkled in service; she hated common crockeryware and teaspoons of slight constitution; she hated second appearances on the dinner-table; she hated coarse napkins and table-cloths; she hated to ride in the horsecars; she hated to walk except for short distances, when she was tired of sitting in her carriage. she loved with sincere and undisguised affection a spacious city mansion and a charming country villa, with a seaside cottage for a couple of months or so; she loved a perfectly appointed household, a cook who was up to all kinds of salmis and vol-au-vents, a french maid, and a stylish-looking coachman, and the rest of the people necessary to help one live in a decent manner; she loved pictures that other people said were first-rate, and which had at least cost first-rate prices; she loved books with handsome backs, in showy cases; she loved heavy and richly wought plate; fine linen and plenty of it; dresses from paris frequently, and as many as could be got in without troubling the customhouse; russia sables and venetian point-lace; diamonds, and good big ones; and, speaking generally, she loved dear things in distinction from cheap ones, the real article and not the economical substitute. for the life of me i cannot see anything satanic in all this. tell me, beloved, only between ourselves, if some of these things are not desirable enough in their way, and if you and i could not make up our minds to put up with some of the least objectionable of them without any great inward struggle? even in the matter of ornaments there is something to be said. why should we be told that the new jerusalem is paved with gold, and that its twelve gates are each of them a pearl, and that its foundations are garnished with sapphires and emeralds and all manner of precious stones, if these are not among the most desirable of objects? and is there anything very strange in the fact that many a daughter of earth finds it a sweet foretaste of heaven to wear about her frail earthly tabernacle these glittering reminders of the celestial city? mrs. midas goldenrod was not so entirely peculiar and anomalous in her likes and dislikes; the only trouble was that she mixed up these accidents of life too much with life itself, which is so often serenely or actively noble and happy without reference to them. she valued persons chiefly according to their external conditions, and of course the very moment her relative, the lady of our breakfast-table, began to find herself in a streak of sunshine she came forward with a lighted candle to show her which way her path lay before her. the lady saw all this, how plainly, how painfully! yet she exercised a true charity for the weakness of her relative. sensible people have as much consideration for the frailties of the rich as for those of the poor. there is a good deal of excuse for them. even you and i, philosophers and philanthropists as we may think ourselves, have a dislike for the enforced economies, proper and honorable though they certainly are, of those who are two or three degrees below us in the scale of agreeable living. --these are very worthy persons you have been living with, my dear, --said mrs. midas--[the "my dear" was an expression which had flowered out more luxuriantly than ever before in the new streak of sunshine] --eminently respectable parties, i have no question, but then we shall want you to move as soon as possible to our quarter of the town, where we can see more of you than we have been able to in this queer place. it was not very pleasant to listen to this kind of talk, but the lady remembered her annual bouquet, and her occasional visits from the rich lady, and restrained the inclination to remind her of the humble sphere from which she herself, the rich and patronizing personage, had worked her way up (if it was up) into that world which she seemed to think was the only one where a human being could find life worth having. her cheek flushed a little, however, as she said to mrs. midas that she felt attached to the place where she had been living so long. she doubted, she was pleased to say, whether she should find better company in any circle she was like to move in than she left behind her at our boarding-house. i give the old master the credit of this compliment. if one does not agree with half of what he says, at any rate he always has something to say, and entertains and lets out opinions and whims and notions of one kind and another that one can quarrel with if he is out of humor, or carry away to think about if he happens to be in the receptive mood. but the lady expressed still more strongly the regret she should feel at leaving her young friend, our scheherezade. i cannot wonder at this. the young girl has lost what little playfulness she had in the earlier months of my acquaintance with her. i often read her stories partly from my interest in her, and partly because i find merit enough in them to deserve something, better than the rough handling they got from her coarse-fibred critic, whoever he was. i see evidence that her thoughts are wandering from her task, that she has fits of melancholy, and bursts of tremulous excitement, and that she has as much as she can do to keep herself at all to her stated, inevitable, and sometimes almost despairing literary labor. i have had some acquaintance with vital phenomena of this kind, and know something of the nervous nature of young women and its "magnetic storms," if i may borrow an expression from the physicists, to indicate the perturbations to which they are liable. she is more in need of friendship and counsel now than ever before, it seems to me, and i cannot bear to think that the lady, who has become like a mother to her, is to leave her to her own guidance. it is plain enough what is at the bottom of this disturbance. the astronomical lessons she has been taking have become interesting enough to absorb too much of her thoughts, and she finds them wandering to the stars or elsewhere, when they should be working quietly in the editor's harness. the landlady has her own views on this matter which she communicated to me something as follows: --i don't quite like to tell folks what a lucky place my boarding-house is, for fear i should have all sorts of people crowding in to be my boarders for the sake of their chances. folks come here poor and they go away rich. young women come here without a friend in the world, and the next thing that happens is a gentleman steps up to 'em and says, "if you'll take me for your pardner for life, i'll give you a good home and love you ever so much besides"; and off goes my young lady-boarder into a fine three-story house, as grand as the governor's wife, with everything to make her comfortable, and a husband to care for her into the bargain. that's the way it is with the young ladies that comes to board with me, ever since the gentleman that wrote the first book that advertised my establishment (and never charged me a cent for it neither) merried the schoolma'am. and i think but that's between you and me--that it 's going to be the same thing right over again between that young gentleman and this young girl here--if she doos n't kill herself with writing for them news papers,--it 's too bad they don't pay her more for writing her stories, for i read one of 'em that made me cry so the doctor--my doctor benjamin--said, "ma, what makes your eyes look so?" and wanted to rig a machine up and look at 'em, but i told him what the matter was, and that he needn't fix up his peeking contrivances on my account,--anyhow she's a nice young woman as ever lived, and as industrious with that pen of hers as if she was at work with a sewing-machine,--and there ain't much difference, for that matter, between sewing on shirts and writing on stories,--one way you work with your foot, and the other way you work with your fingers, but i rather guess there's more headache in the stories than there is in the stitches, because you don't have to think quite so hard while your foot's going as you do when your fingers is at work, scratch, scratch, scratch, scribble, scribble, scribble. it occurred to me that this last suggestion of the landlady was worth considering by the soft-handed, broadcloth-clad spouters to the laboring classes,--so called in distinction from the idle people who only contrive the machinery and discover the processes and lay out the work and draw the charts and organize the various movements which keep the world going and make it tolerable. the organ-blower works harder with his muscles, for that matter, than the organ player, and may perhaps be exasperated into thinking himself a downtrodden martyr because he does not receive the same pay for his services. i will not pretend that it needed the landlady's sagacious guess about the young astronomer and his pupil to open my eyes to certain possibilities, if not probabilities, in that direction. our scheherezade kept on writing her stories according to agreement, so many pages for so many dollars, but some of her readers began to complain that they could not always follow her quite so well as in her earlier efforts. it seemed as if she must have fits of absence. in one instance her heroine began as a blonde and finished as a brunette; not in consequence of the use of any cosmetic, but through simple inadvertence. at last it happened in one of her stories that a prominent character who had been killed in an early page, not equivocally, but mortally, definitively killed, done for, and disposed of, reappeared as if nothing had happened towards the close of her narrative. her mind was on something else, and she had got two stories mixed up and sent her manuscript without having looked it over. she told this mishap to the lady, as something she was dreadfully ashamed of and could not possibly account for. it had cost her a sharp note from the publisher, and would be as good as a dinner to some half-starved bohemian of the critical press. the lady listened to all this very thoughtfully, looking at her with great tenderness, and said, "my poor child!" not another word then, but her silence meant a good deal. when a man holds his tongue it does not signify much. but when a woman dispenses with the office of that mighty member, when she sheathes her natural weapon at a trying moment, it means that she trusts to still more formidable enginery; to tears it may be, a solvent more powerful than that with which hannibal softened the alpine rocks, or to the heaving bosom, the sight of which has subdued so many stout natures, or, it may be, to a sympathizing, quieting look which says "peace, be still!" to the winds and waves of the little inland ocean, in a language that means more than speech. while these matters were going on the master and i had many talks on many subjects. he had found me a pretty good listener, for i had learned that the best way of getting at what was worth having from him was to wind him up with a question and let him run down all of himself. it is easy to turn a good talker into an insufferable bore by contradicting him, and putting questions for him to stumble over,--that is, if he is not a bore already, as "good talkers" are apt to be, except now and then. we had been discussing some knotty points one morning when he said all at once: --come into my library with me. i want to read you some new passages from an interleaved copy of my book. you haven't read the printed part yet. i gave you a copy of it, but nobody reads a book that is given to him. of course not. nobody but a fool expects him to. he reads a little in it here and there, perhaps, and he cuts all the leaves if he cares enough about the writer, who will be sure to call on him some day, and if he is left alone in his library for five minutes will have hunted every corner of it until he has found the book he sent,--if it is to be found at all, which does n't always happen, if there's a penal colony anywhere in a garret or closet for typographical offenders and vagrants. --what do you do when you receive a book you don't want, from the author?--said i. --give him a good-natured adjective or two if i can, and thank him, and tell him i am lying under a sense of obligation to him. --that is as good an excuse for lying as almost any,--i said. --yes, but look out for the fellows that send you a copy of their book to trap you into writing a bookseller's advertisement for it. i got caught so once, and never heard the end of it and never shall hear it.---he took down an elegantly bound volume, on opening which appeared a flourishing and eminently flattering dedication to himself.---there,--said he, what could i do less than acknowledge such a compliment in polite terms, and hope and expect the book would prove successful, and so forth and so forth? well, i get a letter every few months from some new locality where the man that made that book is covering the fences with his placards, asking me whether i wrote that letter which he keeps in stereotype and has kept so any time these dozen or fifteen years. animus tuus oculus, as the freshmen used to say. if her majesty, the queen of england, sends you a copy of her "leaves from the journal of our life in the highlands," be sure you mark your letter of thanks for it private! we had got comfortably seated in his library in the mean time, and the master had taken up his book. i noticed that every other page was left blank, and that he had written in a good deal of new matter. --i tell you what,--he said,--there 's so much intelligence about nowadays in books and newspapers and talk that it's mighty hard to write without getting something or other worth listening to into your essay or your volume. the foolishest book is a kind of leaky boat on a sea of wisdom; some of the wisdom will get in anyhow. every now and then i find something in my book that seems so good to me, i can't help thinking it must have leaked in. i suppose other people discover that it came through a leak, full as soon as i do. you must write a book or two to find out how much and how little you know and have to say. then you must read some notices of it by somebody that loves you and one or two by somebody that hates you. you 'll find yourself a very odd piece of property after you 've been through these experiences. they 're trying to the constitution; i'm always glad to hear that a friend is as well as can be expected after he 's had a book. you must n't think there are no better things in these pages of mine than the ones i'm going to read you, but you may come across something here that i forgot to say when we were talking over these matters. he began, reading from the manuscript portion of his book: --we find it hard to get and to keep any private property in thought. other people are all the time saying the same things we are hoarding to say when we get ready. [he looked up from his book just here and said, "don't be afraid, i am not going to quote pereant."] one of our old boarders--the one that called himself "the professor" i think it was--said some pretty audacious things about what he called "pathological piety," as i remember, in one of his papers. and here comes along mr. galton, and shows in detail from religious biographies that "there is a frequent correlation between an unusually devout disposition and a weak constitution." neither of them appeared to know that john bunyan had got at the same fact long before them. he tells us, "the more healthy the lusty man is, the more prone he is unto evil." if the converse is true, no wonder that good people, according to bunyan, are always in trouble and terror, for he says, "a christian man is never long at ease; when one fright is gone, another doth him seize." if invalidism and the nervous timidity which is apt to go with it are elements of spiritual superiority, it follows that pathology and toxicology should form a most important part of a theological education, so that a divine might know how to keep a parish in a state of chronic bad health in order that it might be virtuous. it is a great mistake to think that a man's religion is going to rid him of his natural qualities. "bishop hall" (as you may remember to have seen quoted elsewhere) "prefers nature before grace in the election of a wife, because, saith he, it will be a hard task, where the nature is peevish and froward, for grace to make an entire conquest while life lasteth." "nature" and "grace" have been contrasted with each other in a way not very respectful to the divine omnipotence. kings and queens reign "by the grace of god," but a sweet, docile, pious disposition, such as is born in some children and grows up with them,--that congenital gift which good bishop hall would look for in a wife,--is attributed to "nature." in fact "nature" and "grace," as handled by the scholastics, are nothing more nor less than two hostile divinities in the pantheon of post-classical polytheism. what is the secret of the profound interest which "darwinism" has excited in the minds and hearts of more persons than dare to confess their doubts and hopes? it is because it restores "nature" to its place as a true divine manifestation. it is that it removes the traditional curse from that helpless infant lying in its mother's arms. it is that it lifts from the shoulders of man the responsibility for the fact of death. it is that, if it is true, woman can no longer be taunted with having brought down on herself the pangs which make her sex a martyrdom. if development upward is the general law of the race; if we have grown by natural evolution out of the cave-man, and even less human forms of life, we have everything to hope from the future. that the question can be discussed without offence shows that we are entering on a new era, a revival greater than that of letters, the revival of humanity. the prevalent view of "nature" has been akin to that which long reigned with reference to disease. this used to be considered as a distinct entity apart from the processes of life, of which it is one of the manifestations. it was a kind of demon to be attacked with things of odious taste and smell; to be fumigated out of the system as the evil spirit was driven from the bridal-chamber in the story of tobit. the doctor of earlier days, even as i can remember him, used to exorcise the demon of disease with recipes of odor as potent as that of the angel's diabolifuge,--the smoke from a fish's heart and liver, duly burned,--"the which smell when the evil spirit had smelled he fled into the uttermost parts of egypt." the very moment that disease passes into the category of vital processes, and is recognized as an occurrence absolutely necessary, inevitable, and as one may say, normal under certain given conditions of constitution and circumstance, the medicine-man loses his half-miraculous endowments. the mythical serpent is untwined from the staff of esculapius, which thenceforth becomes a useful walking-stick, and does not pretend to be anything more. sin, like disease, is a vital process. it is a function, and not an entity. it must be studied as a section of anthropology. no preconceived idea must be allowed to interfere with our investigation of the deranged spiritual function, any more than the old ideas of demoniacal possession must be allowed to interfere with our study of epilepsy. spiritual pathology is a proper subject for direct observation and analysis, like any other subject involving a series of living actions. in these living actions everything is progressive. there are sudden changes of character in what is called "conversion" which, at first, hardly seem to come into line with the common laws of evolution. but these changes have been long preparing, and it is just as much in the order of nature that certain characters should burst all at once from the rule of evil propensities, as it is that the evening primrose should explode, as it were, into bloom with audible sound, as you may read in keats's endymion, or observe in your own garden. there is a continual tendency in men to fence in themselves and a few of their neighbors who agree with them in their ideas, as if they were an exception to their race. we must not allow any creed or religion whatsoever to confiscate to its own private use and benefit the virtues which belong to our common humanity. the good samaritan helped his wounded neighbor simply because he was a suffering fellow-creature. do you think your charitable act is more acceptable than the good samaritan's, because you do it in the name of him who made the memory of that kind man immortal? do you mean that you would not give the cup of cold water for the sake simply and solely of the poor, suffering fellow-mortal, as willingly as you now do, professing to give it for the sake of him who is not thirsty or in need of any help of yours? we must ask questions like this, if we are to claim for our common nature what belongs to it. the scientific study of man is the most difficult of all branches of knowledge. it requires, in the first place, an entire new terminology to get rid of that enormous load of prejudices with which every term applied to the malformations, the functional disturbances, and the organic diseases of the moral nature is at present burdened. take that one word sin, for instance: all those who have studied the subject from nature and not from books know perfectly well that a certain fraction of what is so called is nothing more or less than a symptom of hysteria; that another fraction is the index of a limited degree of insanity; that still another is the result of a congenital tendency which removes the act we sit in judgment upon from the sphere of self-determination, if not entirely, at least to such an extent that the subject of the tendency cannot be judged by any normal standard. to study nature without fear is possible, but without reproach, impossible. the man who worships in the temple of knowledge must carry his arms with him as our puritan fathers had to do when they gathered in their first rude meeting-houses. it is a fearful thing to meddle with the ark which holds the mysteries of creation. i remember that when i was a child the tradition was whispered round among us little folks that if we tried to count the stars we should drop down dead. nevertheless, the stars have been counted and the astronomer has survived. this nursery legend is the child's version of those superstitions which would have strangled in their cradles the young sciences now adolescent and able to take care of themselves, and which, no longer daring to attack these, are watching with hostile aspect the rapid growth of the comparatively new science of man. the real difficulty of the student of nature at this time is to reconcile absolute freedom and perfect fearlessness with that respect for the past, that reverence, for the spirit of reverence wherever we find it, that tenderness for the weakest fibres by which the hearts of our fellow-creatures hold to their religious convictions, which will make the transition from old belief to a larger light and liberty an interstitial change and not a violent mutilation. i remember once going into a little church in a small village some miles from a great european capital. the special object of adoration in this humblest of places of worship was a bambino, a holy infant, done in wax, and covered with cheap ornaments such as a little girl would like to beautify her doll with. many a good protestant of the old puritan type would have felt a strong impulse to seize this "idolatrous" figure and dash it to pieces on the stone floor of the little church. but one must have lived awhile among simple-minded pious catholics to know what this poor waxen image and the whole baby-house of bambinos mean for a humble, unlettered, unimaginative peasantry. he will find that the true office of this eidolon is to fix the mind of the worshipper, and that in virtue of the devotional thoughts it has called forth so often for so many years in the mind of that poor old woman who is kneeling before it, it is no longer a wax doll for her, but has undergone a transubstantiation quite as real as that of the eucharist. the moral is that we must not roughly smash other people's idols because we know, or think we know, that they are of cheap human manufacture. --do you think cheap manufactures encourage idleness?--said i. the master stared. well he might, for i had been getting a little drowsy, and wishing to show that i had been awake and attentive, asked a question suggested by some words i had caught, but which showed that i had not been taking the slightest idea from what he was reading me. he stared, shook his head slowly, smiled good-humoredly, took off his great round spectacles, and shut up his book. --sat prates biberunt,--he said. a sick man that gets talking about himself, a woman that gets talking about her baby, and an author that begins reading out of his own book, never know when to stop. you'll think of some of these things you've been getting half asleep over by and by. i don't want you to believe anything i say; i only want you to try to see what makes me believe it. my young friend, the astronomer, has, i suspect, been making some addition to his manuscript. at any rate some of the lines he read us in the afternoon of this same day had never enjoyed the benefit of my revision, and i think they had but just been written. i noticed that his manner was somewhat more excited than usual, and his voice just towards the close a little tremulous. perhaps i may attribute his improvement to the effect of my criticisms, but whatever the reason, i think these lines are very nearly as correct as they would have been if i had looked them over. wind-clouds and star-drifts. vii what if a soul redeemed, a spirit that loved while yet on earth and was beloved in turn, and still remembered every look and tone of that dear earthly sister who was left among the unwise virgins at the gate, itself admitted with the bridegroom's train, what if this spirit redeemed, amid the host of chanting angels, in some transient lull of the eternal anthem, heard the cry of its lost darling, whom in evil hour some wilder pulse of nature led astray and left an outcast in a world of fire, condemned to be the sport of cruel fiends, sleepless, unpitying, masters of the skill to wring the maddest ecstasies of pain from worn-out souls that only ask to die, would it not long to leave the bliss of heaven, bearing a little water in its hand to moisten those poor lips that plead in vain with him we call our father? or is all so changed in such as taste celestial joy they hear unmoved the endless wail of woe, the daughter in the same dear tones that hushed her cradled slumbers; she who once had held a babe upon her bosom from its voice hoarse with its cry of anguish, yet the same? no! not in ages when the dreadful bird stamped his huge footprints, and the fearful beast strode with the flesh about those fossil bones we build to mimic life with pygmy hands, not in those earliest days when men ran wild and gashed each other with their knives of stone, when their low foreheads bulged in ridgy brows and their flat hands were callous in the palm with walking in the fashion of their sires, grope as they might to find a cruel god to work their will on such as human wrath had wrought its worst to torture, and had left with rage unsated, white and stark and cold, could hate have shaped a demon more malign than him the dead men mummied in their creed and taught their trembling children to adore! made in his image! sweet and gracious souls dear to my heart by nature's fondest names, is not your memory still the precious mould that lends its form to him who hears my prayer? thus only i behold him, like to them, long-suffering, gentle, ever slow to wrath, if wrath it be that only wounds to heal, ready to meet the wanderer ere he reach the door he seeks, forgetful of his sin, longing to clasp him in a father's arms, and seal his pardon with a pitying tear! four gospels tell their story to mankind, and none so full of soft, caressing words that bring the maid of bethlehem and her babe before our tear-dimmed eyes, as his who learned in the meek service of his gracious art the tones which like the medicinal balms that calm the sufferer's anguish, soothe our souls. --oh that the loving woman, she who sat so long a listener at her master's feet, had left us mary's gospel,--all she heard too sweet, too subtle for the ear of man! mark how the tender-hearted mothers read the messages of love between the lines of the same page that loads the bitter tongue of him who deals in terror as his trade with threatening words of wrath that scorch like flame! they tell of angels whispering round the bed of the sweet infant smiling in its dream, of lambs enfolded in the shepherd's arms, of him who blessed the children; of the land where crystal rivers feed unfading flowers, of cities golden-paved with streets of pearl, of the white robes the winged creatures wear, the crowns and harps from whose melodious strings one long, sweet anthem flows forevermore! --we too bad human mothers, even as thou, whom we have learned to worship as remote from mortal kindred, wast a cradled babe. the milk of woman filled our branching veins, she lulled us with her tender nursery-song, and folded round us her untiring arms, while the first unremembered twilight year shaped us to conscious being; still we feel her pulses in our own,--too faintly feel; would that the heart of woman warmed our creeds! not from the sad-eyed hermit's lonely cell, not from the conclave where the holy men glare on each other, as with angry eyes they battle for god's glory and their own, till, sick of wordy strife, a show of hands fixes the faith of ages yet unborn, ah, not from these the listening soul can hear the father's voice that speaks itself divine! love must be still our master; till we learn what he can teach us of a woman's heart, we know not his, whose love embraces all. there are certain nervous conditions peculiar to women in which the common effects of poetry and of music upon their sensibilities are strangely exaggerated. it was not perhaps to be wondered at that octavia fainted when virgil in reading from his great poem came to the line beginning tu marcellus eris: it is not hard to believe the story told of one of the two davidson sisters, that the singing of some of moore's plaintive melodies would so impress her as almost to take away the faculties of sense and motion. but there must have been some special cause for the singular nervous state into which this reading threw the young girl, our scheherezade. she was doubtless tired with overwork and troubled with the thought that she was not doing herself justice, and that she was doomed to be the helpless prey of some of those corbies who not only pick out corbies' eyes, but find no other diet so nutritious and agreeable. whatever the cause may have been, her heart heaved tumultuously, her color came and went, and though she managed to avoid a scene by the exercise of all her self-control, i watched her very anxiously, for i was afraid she would have had a hysteric turn, or in one of her pallid moments that she would have fainted and fallen like one dead before us. i was very glad, therefore, when evening came, to find that she was going out for a lesson on the stars. i knew the open air was what she needed, and i thought the walk would do her good, whether she made any new astronomical acquisitions or not. it was now late in the autumn, and the trees were pretty nearly stripped of their leaves.--there was no place so favorable as the common for the study of the heavens. the skies were brilliant with stars, and the air was just keen enough to remind our young friends that the cold season was at hand. they wandered round for a while, and at last found themselves under the great elm, drawn thither, no doubt, by the magnetism it is so well known to exert over the natives of its own soil and those who have often been under the shadow of its outstretched arms. the venerable survivor of its contemporaries that flourished in the days when blackstone rode beneath it on his bull was now a good deal broken by age, yet not without marks of lusty vitality. it had been wrenched and twisted and battered by so many scores of winters that some of its limbs were crippled and many of its joints were shaky, and but for the support of the iron braces that lent their strong sinews to its more infirm members it would have gone to pieces in the first strenuous northeaster or the first sudden and violent gale from the southwest. but there it stood, and there it stands as yet,--though its obituary was long ago written after one of the terrible storms that tore its branches,--leafing out hopefully in april as if it were trying in its dumb language to lisp "our father," and dropping its slender burden of foliage in october as softly as if it were whispering amen! not far from the ancient and monumental tree lay a small sheet of water, once agile with life and vocal with evening melodies, but now stirred only by the swallow as he dips his wing, or by the morning bath of the english sparrows, those high-headed, thick-bodied, full-feeding, hot-tempered little john bulls that keep up such a swashing and swabbing and spattering round all the water basins, one might think from the fuss they make about it that a bird never took a bath here before, and that they were the missionaries of ablution to the unwashed western world. there are those who speak lightly of this small aqueous expanse, the eye of the sacred enclosure, which has looked unwinking on the happy faces of so many natives and the curious features of so many strangers. the music of its twilight minstrels has long ceased, but their memory lingers like an echo in the name it bears. cherish it, inhabitants of the two-hilled city, once three-hilled; ye who have said to the mountain, "remove hence," and turned the sea into dry land! may no contractor fill his pockets by undertaking to fill thee, thou granite girdled lakelet, or drain the civic purse by drawing off thy waters! for art thou not the palladium of our troy? didst thou not, like the divine image which was the safeguard of ilium, fall from the skies, and if the trojan could look with pride upon the heaven-descended form of the goddess of wisdom, cannot he who dwells by thy shining oval look in that mirror and contemplate himself,--the native of boston. there must be some fatality which carries our young men and maidens in the direction of the common when they have anything very particular to exchange their views about. at any rate i remember two of our young friends brought up here a good many years ago, and i understand that there is one path across the enclosure which a young man must not ask a young woman to take with him unless he means business, for an action will hold--for breach of promise, if she consents to accompany him, and he chooses to forget his obligations: our two young people stood at the western edge of the little pool, studying astronomy in the reflected firmament. the pleiades were trembling in the wave before them, and the three great stars of orion,--for these constellations were both glittering in the eastern sky. "there is no place too humble for the glories of heaven to shine in," she said. "and their splendor makes even this little pool beautiful and noble," he answered. "where is the light to come from that is to do as much for our poor human lives?" a simple question enough, but the young girl felt her color change as she answered, "from friendship, i think." --grazing only as-yet,--not striking full, hardly hitting at all,--but there are questions and answers that come so very near, the wind of them alone almost takes the breath away. there was an interval of silence. two young persons can stand looking at water for a long time without feeling the necessity of speaking. especially when the water is alive with stars and the young persons are thoughtful and impressible. the water seems to do half the thinking while one is looking at it; its movements are felt in the brain very much like thought. when i was in full training as a flaneur, i could stand on the pont neuf with the other experts in the great science of passive cerebration and look at the river for half an hour with so little mental articulation that when i moved on it seemed as if my thinking-marrow had been asleep and was just waking up refreshed after its nap. so the reader can easily account for the interval of silence. it is hard to tell how long it would have lasted, but just then a lubberly intrusive boy threw a great stone, which convulsed the firmament, the one at their feet, i mean. the six pleiads disappeared as if in search of their lost sister; the belt of orion was broken asunder, and a hundred worlds dissolved back into chaos. they turned away and strayed off into one of the more open paths, where the view of the sky over them was unobstructed. for some reason or other the astronomical lesson did not get on very fast this evening. presently the young man asked his pupil: --do you know what the constellation directly over our heads is? --is it not cassiopea?--she asked a little hesitatingly. --no, it is andromeda. you ought not to have forgotten her, for i remember showing you a double star, the one in her right foot, through the equatorial telescope. you have not forgotten the double star,--the two that shone for each other and made a little world by themselves? --no, indeed,--she answered, and blushed, and felt ashamed because she had said indeed, as if it had been an emotional recollection. the double-star allusion struck another dead silence. she would have given a week's pay to any invisible attendant that would have cut her stay-lace. at last: do you know the story of andromeda? he said. --perhaps i did once, but suppose i don't remember it. he told her the story of the unfortunate maiden chained to a rock and waiting for a sea-beast that was coming to devour her, and how perseus came and set her free, and won her love with her life. and then he began something about a young man chained to his rock, which was a star-gazer's tower, a prey by turns to ambition, and lonely self-contempt and unwholesome scorn of the life he looked down upon after the serenity of the firmament, and endless questionings that led him nowhere,--and now he had only one more question to ask. he loved her. would she break his chain?--he held both his hands out towards her, the palms together, as if they were fettered at the wrists. she took hold of them very gently; parted them a little; then wider--wider--and found herself all at once folded, unresisting, in her lover's arms. so there was a new double-star in the living firmament. the constellations seemed to kindle with new splendors as the student and the story-teller walked homeward in their light; alioth and algol looked down on them as on the first pair of lovers they shone over, and the autumn air seemed full of harmonies as when the morning stars sang together. xii the old master had asked us, the young astronomer and myself, into his library, to hear him read some passages from his interleaved book. we three had formed a kind of little club without knowing it from the time when the young man began reading those extracts from his poetical reveries which i have reproduced in these pages. perhaps we agreed in too many things,--i suppose if we could have had a good hard-headed, old-fashioned new england divine to meet with us it might have acted as a wholesome corrective. for we had it all our own way; the lady's kindly remonstrance was taken in good part, but did not keep us from talking pretty freely, and as for the young girl, she listened with the tranquillity and fearlessness which a very simple trusting creed naturally gives those who hold it. the fewer outworks to the citadel of belief, the fewer points there are to be threatened and endangered. the reader must not suppose that i even attempt to reproduce everything exactly as it took place in our conversations, or when we met to listen to the master's prose or to the young astronomer's verse. i do not pretend to give all the pauses and interruptions by question or otherwise. i could not always do it if i tried, but i do not want to, for oftentimes it is better to let the speaker or reader go on continuously, although there may have been many breaks in the course of the conversation or reading. when, for instance, i by and by reproduce what the landlady said to us, i shall give it almost without any hint that it was arrested in its flow from time to time by various expressions on the part of the hearers. i can hardly say what the reason of it was, but it is very certain that i had a vague sense of some impending event as we took our seats in the master's library. he seemed particularly anxious that we should be comfortably seated, and shook up the cushions of the arm-chairs himself, and got them into the right places. now go to sleep--he said--or listen,--just which you like best. but i am going to begin by telling you both a secret. liberavi animam meam. that is the meaning of my book and of my literary life, if i may give such a name to that party-colored shred of human existence. i have unburdened myself in this book, and in some other pages, of what i was born to say. many things that i have said in my ripe days have been aching in my soul since i was a mere child. i say aching, because they conflicted with many of my inherited beliefs, or rather traditions. i did not know then that two strains of blood were striving in me for the mastery,--two! twenty, perhaps,--twenty thousand, for aught i know,--but represented to me by two,--paternal and maternal. blind forces in themselves; shaping thoughts as they shaped features and battled for the moulding of constitution and the mingling of temperament. philosophy and poetry came--to me before i knew their names. je fis mes premiers vers, sans savoir les ecrire. not verses so much as the stuff that verses are made of. i don't suppose that the thoughts which came up of themselves in my mind were so mighty different from what come up in the minds of other young folks. and that 's the best reason i could give for telling 'em. i don't believe anything i've written is as good as it seemed to me when i wrote it,--he stopped, for he was afraid he was lying,--not much that i 've written, at any rate,--he said--with a smile at the honesty which made him qualify his statement. but i do know this: i have struck a good many chords, first and last, in the consciousness of other people. i confess to a tender feeling for my little brood of thoughts. when they have been welcomed and praised it has pleased me, and if at any time they have been rudely handled and despitefully entreated it has cost me a little worry. i don't despise reputation, and i should like to be remembered as having said something worth lasting well enough to last. but all that is nothing to the main comfort i feel as a writer. i have got rid of something my mind could not keep to itself and rise as it was meant to into higher regions. i saw the aeronauts the other day emptying from the bags some of the sand that served as ballast. it glistened a moment in the sunlight as a slender shower, and then was lost and seen no more as it scattered itself unnoticed. but the airship rose higher as the sand was poured out, and so it seems to me i have felt myself getting above the mists and clouds whenever i have lightened myself of some portion of the mental ballast i have carried with me. why should i hope or fear when i send out my book? i have had my reward, for i have wrought out my thought, i have said my say, i have freed my soul. i can afford to be forgotten. look here!--he said. i keep oblivion always before me.---he pointed to a singularly perfect and beautiful trilobite which was lying on a pile of manuscripts.---each time i fill a sheet of paper with what i am writing, i lay it beneath this relic of a dead world, and project my thought forward into eternity as far as this extinct crustacean carries it backward. when my heart beats too lustily with vain hopes of being remembered, i press the cold fossil against it and it grows calm. i touch my forehead with it, and its anxious furrows grow smooth. our world, too, with all its breathing life, is but a leaf to be folded with the other strata, and if i am only patient, by and by i shall be just as famous as imperious caesar himself, embedded with me in a conglomerate. he began reading:--"there is no new thing under the sun," said the preacher. he would not say so now, if he should come to life for a little while, and have his photograph taken, and go up in a balloon, and take a trip by railroad and a voyage by steamship, and get a message from general grant by the cable, and see a man's leg cut off without its hurting him. if it did not take his breath away and lay him out as flat as the queen of sheba was knocked over by the splendors of his court, he must have rivalled our indians in the nil admarari line. for all that, it is a strange thing to see what numbers of new things are really old. there are many modern contrivances that are of as early date as the first man, if not thousands of centuries older. everybody knows how all the arrangements of our telescopes and microscopes are anticipated in the eye, and how our best musical instruments are surpassed by the larynx. but there are some very odd things any anatomist can tell, showing how our recent contrivances are anticipated in the human body. in the alimentary canal are certain pointed eminences called villi, and certain ridges called valvuloe conniventes. the makers of heating apparatus have exactly reproduced the first in the "pot" of their furnaces, and the second in many of the radiators to be seen in our public buildings. the object in the body and the heating apparatus is the same; to increase the extent of surface.--we mix hair with plaster (as the egyptians mixed straw with clay to make bricks) so that it shall hold more firmly. but before man had any artificial dwelling the same contrivance of mixing fibrous threads with a cohesive substance had been employed in the jointed fabric of his own spinal column. india-rubber is modern, but the yellow animal substance which is elastic like that, and serves the same purpose in the animal economy which that serves in our mechanical contrivances, is as old as the mammalia. the dome, the round and the gothic arch, the groined roof, the flying buttress, are all familiar to those who have studied the bony frame of man. all forms of the lever and all the principal kinds of hinges are to be met with in our own frames. the valvular arrangements of the blood-vessels are unapproached by any artificial apparatus, and the arrangements for preventing friction are so perfect that two surfaces will play on each other for fourscore years or more and never once trouble their owner by catching or rubbing so as to be felt or heard. but stranger than these repetitions are the coincidences one finds in the manners and speech of antiquity and our own time. in the days when flood ireson was drawn in the cart by the maenads of marblehead, that fishing town had the name of nurturing a young population not over fond of strangers. it used to be said that if an unknown landsman showed himself in the streets, the boys would follow after him, crying, "rock him! rock him! he's got a long-tailed coat on!" now if one opens the odyssey, he will find that the phaeacians, three thousand years ago, were wonderfully like these youthful marbleheaders. the blue-eyed goddess who convoys ulysses, under the disguise of a young maiden of the place, gives him some excellent advice. "hold your tongue," she says, "and don't look at anybody or ask any questions, for these are seafaring people, and don't like to have strangers round or anybody that does not belong here." who would have thought that the saucy question, "does your mother know you're out?" was the very same that horace addressed to the bore who attacked him in the via sacra? interpellandi locus hic erat; est tibi mater? cognati, queis te salvo est opus? and think of the london cockney's prefix of the letter h to innocent words beginning with a vowel having its prototype in the speech of the vulgar roman, as may be seen in the verses of catullus: chommoda dicebat, siquando commoda vellet dicere, et hinsidias arrius insidias. et tum mirifice sperabat se esse locutum, cum quantum poterat, dixerat hinsidias... hoc misso in syriam, requierant omnibus aures... cum subito affertur nuncius horribilis; ionios fluctus, postquam illue arrius isset, jam non ionios esse, sed hionios. --our neighbors of manhattan have an excellent jest about our crooked streets which, if they were a little more familiar with a native author of unquestionable veracity, they would strike out from the letter of "our boston correspondent," where it is a source of perennial hilarity. it is worth while to reprint, for the benefit of whom it may concern, a paragraph from the authentic history of the venerable diedrich knickerbocker: "the sage council, as has been mentioned in a preceding chapter, not being able to determine upon any plan for the building of their city,--the cows, in a laudable fit of patriotism, took it under their peculiar charge, and as they went to and from pasture, established paths through the bushes, on each side of which the good folks built their houses; which is one cause of the rambling and picturesque turns and labyrinths, which distinguish certain streets of new york at this very day." --when i was a little boy there came to stay with us for a while a young lady with a singularly white complexion. now i had often seen the masons slacking lime, and i thought it was the whitest thing i had ever looked upon. so i always called this fair visitor of ours slacked lime. i think she is still living in a neighboring state, and i am sure she has never forgotten the fanciful name i gave her. but within ten or a dozen years i have seen this very same comparison going the round of the papers, and credited to a welsh poet, david ap gwyllym, or something like that, by name. --i turned a pretty sentence enough in one of my lectures about finding poppies springing up amidst the corn; as if it had been foreseen by nature that wherever there should be hunger that asked for food, there would be pain that needed relief,--and many years afterwards. i had the pleasure of finding that mistress piozzi had been beforehand with me in suggesting the same moral reflection. --i should like to carry some of my friends to see a giant bee-hive i have discovered. its hum can be heard half a mile, and the great white swarm counts its tens of thousands. they pretend to call it a planing-mill, but if it is not a bee-hive it is so like one that if a hundred people have not said so before me, it is very singular that they have not. if i wrote verses i would try to bring it in, and i suppose people would start up in a dozen places, and say, "oh, that bee-hive simile is mine,--and besides, did not mr. bayard taylor call the snowflakes 'white bees'?" i think the old master had chosen these trivialities on purpose to amuse the young astronomer and myself, if possible, and so make sure of our keeping awake while he went on reading, as follows: --how the sweet souls of all time strike the same note, the same because it is in unison with the divine voice that sings to them! i read in the zend avesta, "no earthly man with a hundred-fold strength speaks so much evil as mithra with heavenly strength speaks good. no earthly man with a hundred-fold strength does so much evil as mithra with heavenly strength does good." and now leave persia and zoroaster, and come down with me to our own new england and one of our old puritan preachers. it was in the dreadful days of the salem witchcraft delusion that one jonathan singletary, being then in the prison at ipswich, gave his testimony as to certain fearful occurrences,--a great noise, as of many cats climbing, skipping, and jumping, of throwing about of furniture, and of men walking in the chambers, with crackling and shaking as if the house would fall upon him. "i was at present," he says, "something affrighted; yet considering what i had lately heard made out by mr. mitchel at cambridge, that there is more good in god than there is evil in sin, and that although god is the greatest good and sin the greatest evil, yet the first being of evil cannot weave the scales or overpower the first being of good: so considering that the authour of good was of greater power than the authour of evil, god was pleased of his goodness to keep me from being out of measure frighted." i shall always bless the memory of this poor, timid creature for saving that dear remembrance of "matchless mitchel." how many, like him, have thought they were preaching a new gospel, when they were only reaffirming the principles which underlie the magna charta of humanity, and are common to the noblest utterances of all the nobler creeds! but spoken by those solemn lips to those stern, simpleminded hearers, the words i have cited seem to me to have a fragrance like the precious ointment of spikenard with which mary anointed her master's feet. i can see the little bare meeting-house, with the godly deacons, and the grave matrons, and the comely maidens, and the sober manhood of the village, with the small group of college students sitting by themselves under the shadow of the awful presidential presence, all listening to that preaching, which was, as cotton mather says, "as a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice"; and as the holy pastor utters those blessed words, which are not of any one church or age, but of all time, the humble place of worship is filled with their perfume, as the house where mary knelt was filled with the odor of the precious ointment. --the master rose, as he finished reading this sentence, and, walking to the window, adjusted a curtain which he seemed to find a good deal of trouble in getting to hang just as he wanted it. he came back to his arm-chair, and began reading again --if men would only open their eyes to the fact which stares them in the face from history, and is made clear enough by the slightest glance at the condition of mankind, that humanity is of immeasurably greater importance than their own or any other particular belief, they would no more attempt to make private property of the grace of god than to fence in the sunshine for their own special use and enjoyment. we are all tattoed in our cradles with the beliefs of our tribe; the record may seem superficial, but it is indelible. you cannot educate a man wholly out of the superstitious fears which were early implanted in his imagination; no matter how utterly his reason may reject them, he will still feel as the famous woman did about ghosts, je n'y crois pas, mais je les crains,--"i don't believe in them, but i am afraid of them, nevertheless." --as people grow older they come at length to live so much in memory that they often think with a kind of pleasure of losing their dearest blessings. nothing can be so perfect while we possess it as it will seem when remembered. the friend we love best may sometimes weary us by his presence or vex us by his infirmities. how sweet to think of him as he will be to us after we have outlived him ten or a dozen years! then we can recall him in his best moments, bid him stay with us as long as we want his company, and send him away when we wish to be alone again. one might alter shenstone's well-known epitaph to suit such a case:-- hen! quanto minus est cum to vivo versari quam erit (vel esset) tui mortui reminisse! "alas! how much less the delight of thy living presence than will (or would) be that of remembering thee when thou hast left us!" i want to stop here--i the poet--and put in a few reflections of my own, suggested by what i have been giving the reader from the master's book, and in a similar vein. --how few things there are that do not change their whole aspect in the course of a single generation! the landscape around us is wholly different. even the outlines of the hills that surround us are changed by the creeping of the villages with their spires and school-houses up their sides. the sky remains the same, and the ocean. a few old churchyards look very much as they used to, except, of course, in boston, where the gravestones have been rooted up and planted in rows with walks between them, to the utter disgrace and ruin of our most venerated cemeteries. the registry of deeds and the probate office show us the same old folios, where we can read our grandfather's title to his estate (if we had a grandfather and he happened to own anything) and see how many pots and kettles there were in his kitchen by the inventory of his personal property. among living people none remain so long unchanged as the actors. i can see the same othello to-day, if i choose, that when i was a boy i saw smothering mrs. duff-desdemona with the pillow, under the instigations of mr. cooper-iago. a few stone heavier than he was then, no doubt, but the same truculent blackamoor that took by the thr-r-r-oat the circumcised dog in aleppo, and told us about it in the old boston theatre. in the course of a fortnight, if i care to cross the water, i can see mademoiselle dejazet in the same parts i saw her in under louis philippe, and be charmed by the same grace and vivacity which delighted my grandmother (if she was in paris, and went to see her in the part of fanchon toute seule at the theatre des capucines) in the days when the great napoleon was still only first consul. the graveyard and the stage are pretty much the only places where you can expect to find your friends--as you left them, five and twenty or fifty years ago. i have noticed, i may add, that old theatre-goers bring back the past with their stories more vividly than men with any other experiences. there were two old new-yorkers that i used to love to sit talking with about the stage. one was a scholar and a writer of note; a pleasant old gentleman, with the fresh cheek of an octogenarian cupid. the other not less noted in his way, deep in local lore, large-brained, full-blooded, of somewhat perturbing and tumultuous presence. it was good to hear them talk of george frederic cooke, of kean, and the lesser stars of those earlier constellations. better still to breakfast with old samuel rogers, as some of my readers have done more than once, and hear him answer to the question who was the best actor he remembered, "i think, on the whole, garrick." if we did but know how to question these charming old people before it is too late! about ten years, more or less, after the generation in advance of our own has all died off, it occurs to us all at once, "there! i can ask my old friend what he knows of that picture, which must be a copley; of that house and its legends about which there is such a mystery. he (or she) must know all about that." too late! too late! still, now and then one saves a reminiscence that means a good deal by means of a casual question. i asked the first of those two old new-yorkers the following question: "who, on the whole, seemed to you the most considerable person you ever met?" now it must be remembered that this was a man who had lived in a city that calls itself the metropolis, one who had been a member of the state and the national legislature, who had come in contact with men of letters and men of business, with politicians and members of all the professions, during a long and distinguished public career. i paused for his answer with no little curiosity. would it be one of the great ex-presidents whose names were known to, all the world? would it be the silver-tongued orator of kentucky or the "god-like" champion of the constitution, our new-england jupiter capitolinus? who would it be? "take it altogether," he answered, very deliberately, "i should say colonel elisha williams was the most notable personage that i have met with." --colonel elisha williams! and who might he be, forsooth? a gentleman of singular distinction, you may be well assured, even though you are not familiar with his name; but as i am not writing a biographical dictionary, i shall leave it to my reader to find out who and what he was. --one would like to live long enough to witness certain things which will no doubt come to pass by and by. i remember that when one of our good kindhearted old millionnaires was growing very infirm, his limbs failing him, and his trunk getting packed with the infirmities which mean that one is bound on a long journey, he said very simply and sweetly, "i don't care about living a great deal longer, but i should like to live long enough to find out how much old (a many-millioned fellow-citizen) is worth." and without committing myself on the longevity-question, i confess i should like to live long enough to see a few things happen that are like to come, sooner or later. i want to hold the skull of abraham in my hand. they will go through the cave of machpelah at hebron, i feel sure, in the course of a few generations at the furthest, and as dr. robinson knows of nothing which should lead us to question the correctness of the tradition which regards this as the place of sepulture of abraham and the other patriarchs, there is no reason why we may not find his mummied body in perfect preservation, if he was embalmed after the egyptian fashion. i suppose the tomb of david will be explored by a commission in due time, and i should like to see the phrenological developments of that great king and divine singer and warm-blooded man. if, as seems probable, the anthropological section of society manages to get round the curse that protects the bones of shakespeare, i should like to see the dome which rounded itself over his imperial brain. not that i am what is called a phrenologist, but i am curious as to the physical developments of these fellow-mortals of mine, and a little in want of a sensation. i should like to live long enough to see the course of the tiber turned, and the bottom of the river thoroughly dredged. i wonder if they would find the seven-branched golden candlestick brought from jerusalem by titus, and said to have been dropped from the milvian bridge. i have often thought of going fishing for it some year when i wanted a vacation, as some of my friends used to go to ireland to fish for salmon. there was an attempt of that kind, i think, a few years ago. we all know how it looks well enough, from the figure of it on the arch of titus, but i should like to "heft" it in my own hand, and carry it home and shine it up (excuse my colloquialisms), and sit down and look at it, and think and think and think until the temple of solomon built up its walls of hewn stone and its roofs of cedar around me as noiselessly as when it rose, and "there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house while it was in building." all this, you will remember, beloved, is a digression on my own account, and i return to the old master whom i left smiling at his own alteration of shenstone's celebrated inscription. he now begin reading again: --i want it to be understood that i consider that a certain number of persons are at liberty to dislike me peremptorily, without showing cause, and that they give no offence whatever in so doing. if i did not cheerfully acquiesce in this sentiment towards myself on the part of others, i should not feel at liberty to indulge my own aversions. i try to cultivate a christian feeling to all my fellow-creatures, but inasmuch as i must also respect truth and honesty, i confess to myself a certain number of inalienable dislikes and prejudices, some of which may possibly be shared by others. some of these are purely instinctive, for others i can assign a reason. our likes and dislikes play so important a part in the order of things that it is well to see on what they are founded. there are persons i meet occasionally who are too intelligent by half for my liking. they know my thoughts beforehand, and tell me what i was going to say. of course they are masters of all my knowledge, and a good deal besides; have read all the books i have read, and in later editions; have had all the experiences i have been through, and more-too. in my private opinion every mother's son of them will lie at any time rather than confess ignorance. --i have a kind of dread, rather than hatred, of persons with a large excess of vitality; great feeders, great laughers, great story-tellers, who come sweeping over their company with a huge tidal wave of animal spirits and boisterous merriment. i have pretty good spirits myself, and enjoy a little mild pleasantry, but i am oppressed and extinguished by these great lusty, noisy creatures,--and feel as if i were a mute at a funeral when they get into full blast. --i cannot get along much better with those drooping, languid people, whose vitality falls short as much as that of the others is in excess. i have not life enough for two; i wish i had. it is not very enlivening to meet a fellow-creature whose expression and accents say, "you are the hair that breaks the camel's back of my endurance, you are the last drop that makes my cup of woe run over"; persons whose heads drop on one side like those of toothless infants, whose voices recall the tones in which our old snuffling choir used to wail out the verses of: "life is the time to serve the lord." --there is another style which does not captivate me. i recognize an attempt at the grand manner now and then, in persons who are well enough in their way, but of no particular importance, socially or otherwise. some family tradition of wealth or distinction is apt to be at the bottom of it, and it survives all the advantages that used to set it off. i like family pride as well as my neighbors, and respect the high-born fellow-citizen whose progenitors have not worked in their shirt-sleeves for the last two generations full as much as i ought to. but grand pere oblige; a person with a known grandfather is too distinguished to find it necessary to put on airs. the few royal princes i have happened to know were very easy people to get along with, and had not half the social knee-action i have often seen in the collapsed dowagers who lifted their eyebrows at me in my earlier years. --my heart does not warm as it should do towards the persons, not intimates, who are always too glad to see me when we meet by accident, and discover all at once that they have a vast deal to unbosom themselves of to me. --there is one blameless person whom i cannot love and have no excuse for hating. it is the innocent fellow-creature, otherwise inoffensive to me, whom i find i have involuntarily joined on turning a corner. i suppose the mississippi, which was flowing quietly along, minding its own business, hates the missouri for coming into it all at once with its muddy stream. i suppose the missouri in like manner hates the mississippi for diluting with its limpid, but insipid current the rich reminiscences of the varied soils through which its own stream has wandered. i will not compare myself, to the clear or the turbid current, but i will own that my heart sinks when i find all of a sudden i am in for a corner confluence, and i cease loving my neighbor as myself until i can get away from him. --these antipathies are at least weaknesses; they may be sins in the eye of the recording angel. i often reproach myself with my wrong-doings. i should like sometimes to thank heaven for saving me from some kinds of transgression, and even for granting me some qualities that if i dared i should be disposed to call virtues. i should do so, i suppose, if i did not remember the story of the pharisee. that ought not to hinder me. the parable was told to illustrate a single virtue, humility, and the most unwarranted inferences have been drawn from it as to the whole character of the two parties. it seems not at all unlikely, but rather probable, that the pharisee was a fairer dealer, a better husband, and a more charitable person than the publican, whose name has come down to us "linked with one virtue," but who may have been guilty, for aught that appears to the contrary, of "a thousand crimes." remember how we limit the application of other parables. the lord, it will be recollected, commended the unjust steward because he had done wisely. his shrewdness was held up as an example, but after all he was a miserable swindler, and deserved the state-prison as much as many of our financial operators. the parable of the pharisee and the publican is a perpetual warning against spiritual pride. but it must not frighten any one of us out of being thankful that he is not, like this or that neighbor, under bondage to strong drink or opium, that he is not an erie-railroad manager, and that his head rests in virtuous calm on his own pillow. if he prays in the morning to be kept out of temptation as well as for his daily bread, shall he not return thanks at night that he has not fallen into sin as well as that his stomach has been filled? i do not think the poor pharisee has ever had fair play, and i am afraid a good many people sin with the comforting, half-latent intention of smiting their breasts afterwards and repeating the prayer of the publican. (sensation.) this little movement which i have thus indicated seemed to give the master new confidence in his audience. he turned over several pages until he came to a part of the interleaved volume where we could all see he had written in a passage of new matter in red ink as of special interest. --i told you, he said, in latin, and i repeat it in english, that i have freed my soul in these pages,--i have spoken my mind. i have read you a few extracts, most of them of rather slight texture, and some of them, you perhaps thought, whimsical. but i meant, if i thought you were in the right mood for listening to it, to read you some paragraphs which give in small compass the pith, the marrow, of all that my experience has taught me. life is a fatal complaint, and an eminently contagious one. i took it early, as we all do, and have treated it all along with the best palliatives i could get hold of, inasmuch as i could find no radical cure for its evils, and have so far managed to keep pretty comfortable under it. it is a great thing for a man to put the whole meaning of his life into a few paragraphs, if he does it so that others can make anything out of it. if he conveys his wisdom after the fashion of the old alchemists, he may as well let it alone. he must talk in very plain words, and that is what i have done. you want to know what a certain number of scores of years have taught me that i think best worth telling. if i had half a dozen square inches of paper, and one penful of ink, and five minutes to use them in for the instruction of those who come after me, what should i put down in writing? that is the question. perhaps i should be wiser if i refused to attempt any such brief statement of the most valuable lesson that life has taught me. i am by no means sure that i had not better draw my pen through the page that holds the quintessence of my vital experiences, and leave those who wish to know what it is to distil to themselves from my many printed pages. but i have excited your curiosity, and i see that you are impatient to hear what the wisdom, or the folly, it may be, of a life shows for, when it is crowded into a few lines as the fragrance of a gardenful of roses is concentrated in a few drops of perfume. --by this time i confess i was myself a little excited. what was he going to tell us? the young astronomer looked upon him with an eye as clear and steady and brilliant as the evening star, but i could see that he too was a little nervous, wondering what would come next. the old master adjusted his large round spectacles, and began: --it has cost me fifty years to find my place in the order of things. i had explored all the sciences; i had studied the literature of all ages; i had travelled in many lands; i had learned how to follow the working of thought in men and of sentiment and instinct in women. i had examined for myself all the religions that could make out any claim for themselves. i had fasted and prayed with the monks of a lonely convent; i had mingled with the crowds that shouted glory at camp-meetings; i had listened to the threats of calvinists and the promises of universalists; i had been a devout attendant on a jewish synagogue; i was in correspondence with an intelligent buddhist; and i met frequently with the inner circle of rationalists, who believed in the persistence of force, and the identity of alimentary substances with virtue, and were reconstructing the universe on this basis, with absolute exclusion of all supernumeraries. in these pursuits i had passed the larger part of my half-century of existence, as yet with little satisfaction. it was on the morning of my fiftieth birthday that the solution of the great problem i had sought so long came to me as a simple formula, with a few grand but obvious inferences. i will repeat the substance of this final intuition: the one central fact an the order of things which solves all questions is: at this moment we were interrupted by a knock at the master's door. it was most inopportune, for he was on the point of the great disclosure, but common politeness compelled him to answer it, and as the step which we had heard was that of one of the softer-footed sex, he chose to rise from his chair and admit his visitor. this visitor was our landlady. she was dressed with more than usual nicety, and her countenance showed clearly that she came charged with an important communication. --i did n't low there was company with you, said the landlady,--but it's jest as well. i've got something to tell my boarders that i don't want to tell them, and if i must do it, i may as well tell you all at once as one to a time. i 'm agoing to give up keeping boarders at the end of this year,--i mean come the end of december. she took out a white handkerchief, at hand in expectation of what was to happen, and pressed it to her eyes. there was an interval of silence. the master closed his book and laid it on the table. the young astronomer did not look as much surprised as i should have expected. i was completely taken aback,--i had not thought of such a sudden breaking up of our little circle. when the landlady had recovered her composure, she began again: the lady that's been so long with me is going to a house of her own, --one she has bought back again, for it used to belong to her folks. it's a beautiful house, and the sun shines in at the front windows all day long. she's going to be wealthy again, but it doos n't make any difference in her ways. i've had boarders complain when i was doing as well as i knowed how for them, but i never heerd a word from her that wasn't as pleasant as if she'd been talking to the governor's lady. i've knowed what it was to have women-boarders that find fault,--there's some of 'em would quarrel with me and everybody at my table; they would quarrel with the angel gabriel if he lived in the house with 'em, and scold at him and tell him he was always dropping his feathers round, if they could n't find anything else to bring up against him. two other boarders of mine has given me notice that they was expecting to leave come the first of january. i could fill up their places easy enough, for ever since that first book was wrote that called people's attention to my boarding-house, i've had more wanting to come than i wanted to keep. but i'm getting along in life, and i ain't quite so rugged as i used to be. my daughter is well settled and my son is making his own living. i've done a good deal of hard work in my time, and i feel as if i had a right to a little rest. there's nobody knows what a woman that has the charge of a family goes through, but god almighty that made her. i've done my best for them that i loved, and for them that was under my roof. my husband and my children was well cared for when they lived, and he and them little ones that i buried has white marble head-stones and foot-stones, and an iron fence round the lot, and a place left for me betwixt him and the.... some has always been good to me,--some has made it a little of a strain to me to get along. when a woman's back aches with overworking herself to keep her house in shape, and a dozen mouths are opening at her three times a day, like them little young birds that split their heads open so you can a'most see into their empty stomachs, and one wants this and another wants that, and provisions is dear and rent is high, and nobody to look to,--then a sharp word cuts, i tell you, and a hard look goes right to your heart. i've seen a boarder make a face at what i set before him, when i had tried to suit him jest as well as i knew how, and i haven't cared to eat a thing myself all the rest of that day, and i've laid awake without a wink of sleep all night. and then when you come down the next morning all the boarders stare at you and wonder what makes you so low-spirited, and why you don't look as happy and talk as cheerful as one of them rich ladies that has dinner-parties, where they've nothing to do but give a few orders, and somebody comes and cooks their dinner, and somebody else comes and puts flowers on the table, and a lot of men dressed up like ministers come and wait on everybody, as attentive as undertakers at a funeral. and that reminds me to tell you that i'm agoing to live with my daughter. her husband's a very nice man, and when he isn't following a corpse, he's as good company as if he was a member of the city council. my son, he's agoing into business with the old doctor he studied with, and he's agoing to board with me at my daughter's for a while,--i suppose he'll be getting a wife before long. [this with a pointed look at our young friend, the astronomer.] it is n't but a little while longer that we are going to be together, and i want to say to you gentlemen, as i mean to say to the others and as i have said to our two ladies, that i feel more obligated to, you for the way you 've treated me than i know very well how to put into words. boarders sometimes expect too much of the ladies that provides for them. some days the meals are better than other days; it can't help being so. sometimes the provision-market is n't well supplied, sometimes the fire in the cooking-stove does n't burn so well as it does other days; sometimes the cook is n't so lucky as she might be. and there is boarders who is always laying in wait for the days when the meals is not quite so good as they commonly be, to pick a quarrel with the one that is trying to serve them so as that they shall be satisfied. but you've all been good and kind to me. i suppose i'm not quite so spry and quick-sighted as i was a dozen years ago, when my boarder wrote that first book so many have asked me about. but--now i'm going to stop taking boarders. i don't believe you'll think much about what i did n't do,--because i couldn't,--but remember that at any rate i tried honestly to serve you. i hope god will bless all that set at my table, old and young, rich and poor, merried and single, and single that hopes soon to be merried. my husband that's dead and gone always believed that we all get to heaven sooner or later,--and sence i've grown older and buried so many that i've loved i've come to feel that perhaps i should meet all of them that i've known here--or at least as many of 'em as i wanted to--in a better world. and though i don't calculate there is any boarding-houses in heaven, i hope i shall some time or other meet them that has set round my table one year after another, all together, where there is no fault-finding with the food and no occasion for it,--and if i do meet them and you there--or anywhere,--if there is anything i can do for you.... ....poor dear soul! her ideas had got a little mixed, and her heart was overflowing, and the white handkerchief closed the scene with its timely and greatly needed service. --what a pity, i have often thought, that she came in just at that precise moment! for the old master was on the point of telling us, and through one of us the reading world,--i mean that fraction of it which has reached this point of the record,--at any rate, of telling you, beloved, through my pen, his solution of a great problem we all have to deal with. we were some weeks longer together, but he never offered to continue his reading. at length i ventured to give him a hint that our young friend and myself would both of us be greatly gratified if he would begin reading from his unpublished page where he had left off. --no, sir,--he said,--better not, better not. that which means so much to me, the writer, might be a disappointment, or at least a puzzle, to you, the listener. besides, if you'll take my printed book and be at the trouble of thinking over what it says, and put that with what you've heard me say, and then make those comments and reflections which will be suggested to a mind in so many respects like mine as is your own,--excuse my good opinion of myself, (it is a high compliment to me, i replied) you will perhaps find you have the elements of the formula and its consequences which i was about to read you. it's quite as well to crack your own filberts as to borrow the use of other people's teeth. i think we will wait awhile before we pour out the elixir vitae. --to tell the honest truth, i suspect the master has found out that his formula does not hold water quite so perfectly as he was thinking, so long as he kept it to himself, and never thought of imparting it to anybody else. the very minute a thought is threatened with publicity it seems to shrink towards mediocrity, as. i have noticed that a great pumpkin, the wonder of a village, seemed to lose at least a third of its dimensions between the field where it grew and the cattle-show fair-table, where it took its place with other enormous pumpkins from other wondering villages. but however that maybe, i shall always regret that i had not the opportunity of judging for myself how completely the master's formula, which, for him, at least, seemed to have solved the great problem, would have accomplished that desirable end for me. the landlady's announcement of her intention to give up keeping boarders was heard with regret by all who met around her table. the member of the haouse inquired of me whether i could tell him if the lamb tahvern was kept well abaout these times. he knew that members from his place used to stop there, but he hadn't heerd much abaout it of late years. i had to inform him that that fold of rural innocence had long ceased offering its hospitalities to the legislative, flock. he found refuge at last, i have learned, in a great public house in the northern section of the city, where, as he said, the folks all went up stairs in a rat-trap, and the last i heard of him was looking out of his somewhat elevated attic-window in a northwesterly direction in hopes that he might perhaps get a sight of the grand monadnock, a mountain in new hampshire which i have myself seen from the top of bunker hill monument. the member of the haouse seems to have been more in a hurry to find a new resting-place than the other boarders. by the first of january, however, our whole company was scattered, never to meet again around the board where we had been so long together. the lady moved to the house where she had passed many of her prosperous years. it had been occupied by a rich family who had taken it nearly as it stood, and as the pictures had been dusted regularly, and the books had never been handled, she found everything in many respects as she had left it, and in some points improved, for the rich people did not know what else to do, and so they spent money without stint on their house and its adornments, by all of which she could not help profiting. i do not choose to give the street and number of the house where she lives, but a-great many poor people know very well where it is, and as a matter of course the rich ones roll up to her door in their carriages by the dozen every fine monday while anybody is in town. it is whispered that our two young folks are to be married before another season, and that the lady has asked them to come and stay with her for a while. our scheherezade is to write no more stories. it is astonishing to see what a change for the better in her aspect a few weeks of brain-rest and heart's ease have wrought in her. i doubt very much whether she ever returns to literary labor. the work itself was almost heart-breaking, but the effect upon her of the sneers and cynical insolences of the literary rough who came at her in mask and brass knuckles was to give her what i fear will be a lifelong disgust against any writing for the public, especially in any of the periodicals. i am not sorry that she should stop writing, but i am sorry that she should have been silenced in such a rude way. i doubt, too, whether the young astronomer will pass the rest of his life in hunting for comets and planets. i think he has found an attraction that will call him down from the celestial luminaries to a light not less pure and far less remote. and i am inclined to believe that the best answer to many of those questions which have haunted him and found expression in his verse will be reached by a very different channel from that of lonely contemplation, the duties, the cares, the responsible realities of a life drawn out of itself by the power of newly awakened instincts and affections. the double star was prophetic,--i thought it would be. the register of deeds is understood to have been very handsomely treated by the boarder who owes her good fortune to his sagacity and activity. he has engaged apartments at a very genteel boarding-house not far from the one where we have all been living. the salesman found it a simple matter to transfer himself to an establishment over the way; he had very little to move, and required very small accommodations. the capitalist, however, seems to have felt it impossible to move without ridding himself of a part at--least of his encumbrances. the community was startled by the announcement that a citizen who did not wish his name to be known had made a free gift of a large sum of money--it was in tens of thousands--to an institution of long standing and high character in the city of which he was a quiet resident. the source of such a gift could not long be kept secret. it, was our economical, not to say parsimonious capitalist who had done this noble act, and the poor man had to skulk through back streets and keep out of sight, as if he were a show character in a travelling caravan, to avoid the acknowledgments of his liberality, which met him on every hand and put him fairly out of countenance. that boy has gone, in virtue of a special invitation, to make a visit of indefinite length at the house of the father of the older boy, whom we know by the name of johnny. of course he is having a good time, for johnny's father is full of fun, and tells first-rate stories, and if neither of the boys gets his brains kicked out by the pony, or blows himself up with gunpowder, or breaks through the ice and gets drowned, they will have a fine time of it this winter. the scarabee could not bear to remove his collections, and the old master was equally unwilling to disturb his books. it was arranged, therefore, that they should keep their apartments until the new tenant should come into the house, when, if they were satisfied with her management, they would continue as her boarders. the last time i saw the scarabee he was still at work on the meloe question. he expressed himself very pleasantly towards all of us, his fellow-boarders, and spoke of the kindness and consideration with which the landlady had treated him when he had been straitened at times for want of means. especially he seemed to be interested in our young couple who were soon to be united. his tired old eyes glistened as he asked about them,--could it be that their little romance recalled some early vision of his own? however that may be, he got up presently and went to a little box in which, as he said, he kept some choice specimens. he brought to me in his hand something which glittered. it was an exquisite diamond beetle. --if you could get that to her,--he said,--they tell me that ladies sometimes wear them in their hair. if they are out of fashion, she can keep it till after they're married, and then perhaps after a while there may be--you know--you know what i mean--there may be larvae, that 's what i 'm thinking there may be, and they 'll like to look at it. --as he got out the word larvae, a faint sense of the ridiculous seemed to take hold of the scarabee, and for the first and only time during my acquaintance with him a slight attempt at a smile showed itself on his features. it was barely perceptible and gone almost as soon as seen, yet i am pleased to put it on record that on one occasion at least in his life the scarabee smiled. the old master keeps adding notes and reflections and new suggestions to his interleaved volume, but i doubt if he ever gives them to the public. the study he has proposed to himself does not grow easier the longer it is pursued. the whole order of things can hardly be completely unravelled in any single person's lifetime, and i suspect he will have to adjourn the final stage of his investigations to that more luminous realm where the landlady hopes to rejoin the company of boarders who are nevermore to meet around her cheerful and well-ordered table. the curtain has now fallen, and i show myself a moment before it to thank my audience and say farewell. the second comer is commonly less welcome than the first, and the third makes but a rash venture. i hope i have not wholly disappointed those who have been so kind to my predecessors. to you, beloved, who have never failed to cut the leaves which hold my record, who have never nodded over its pages, who have never hesitated in your allegiance, who have greeted me with unfailing smiles and part from me with unfeigned regrets, to you i look my last adieu as i bow myself out of sight, trusting my poor efforts to your always kind remembrance. epilogue to the breakfast-table series autocrat--professor--poet. at a bookstore. anno domini . a crazy bookcase, placed before a low-price dealer's open door; therein arrayed in broken rows a ragged crew of rhyme and prose, the homeless vagrants, waifs and strays whose low estate this line betrays (set forth the lesser birds to lime) your choice among these books, dime! ho! dealer; for its motto's sake this scarecrow from the shelf i take; three starveling volumes bound in one, its covers warping in the sun. methinks it hath a musty smell, i like its flavor none too well, but yorick's brain was far from dull, though hamlet pah!'d, and dropped his skull. why, here comes rain! the sky grows dark, --was that the roll of thunder? hark! the shop affords a safe retreat, a chair extends its welcome seat, the tradesman has a civil look (i've paid, impromptu, for my book), the clouds portend a sudden shower, i'll read my purchase for an hour. .............. what have i rescued from the shelf? a boswell, writing out himself! for though he changes dress and name, the man beneath is still the same, laughing or sad, by fits and starts, one actor in a dozen parts, and whatsoe'er the mask may be, the voice assures us, this is he. i say not this to cry him clown; i find my shakespeare in his clown, his rogues the self-same parent own; nay! satan talks in milton's tone! where'er the ocean inlet strays, the salt sea wave its source betrays, where'er the queen of summer blows, she tells the zephyr, "i'm the rose!" and his is not the playwright's page; his table does not ape the stage; what matter if the figures seen are only shadows on a screen, he finds in them his lurking thought, and on their lips the words he sought, like one who sits before the keys and plays a tune himself to please. and was he noted in his day? read, flattered, honored? who shall say? poor wreck of time the wave has cast to find a peaceful shore at last, once glorying in thy gilded name and freighted deep with hopes of fame, thy leaf is moistened with a tear, the first for many a long, long year! for be it more or less of art that veils the lowliest human heart where passion throbs, where friendship glows, where pity's tender tribute flows, where love has lit its fragrant fire, and sorrow quenched its vain desire, for me the altar is divine, its flame, its ashes,--all are mine! and thou, my brother, as i look and see thee pictured in thy book, thy years on every page confessed in shadows lengthening from the west, thy glance that wanders, as it sought some freshly opening flower of thought, thy hopeful nature, light and free, i start to find myself in thee! come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn in leather jerkin stained and torn, whose talk has filled my idle hour and made me half forget the shower, i'll do at least as much for you, your coat i'll patch, your gilt renew, read you,--perhaps,--some other time. not bad, my bargain! price one dime! not bad, my bargain! price one dime! over the teacups by oliver w. holmes preface. the kind way in which this series of papers has been received has been a pleasure greater than i dared to anticipate. i felt that i was a late comer in the midst of a crowd of ardent and eager candidates for public attention, that i had already had my day, and that if, like the unfortunate frenchman we used read about, i had "come again," i ought not to surprised if i received the welcome of "monsieur tonson." it has not proved so. my old readers have come forward in the pleasantest possible way and assured me that they were glad to see me again. there is no need, therefore, of apologies or explanations. i thought i had something left to say and i have found listeners. in writing these papers i have had occupation and kept myself in relation with my fellow-beings. new sympathies, new sources of encouragement, if not of inspiration, have opened themselves before me and cheated the least promising season of life of much that seemed to render it dreary and depressing. what particularly pleased me has been the freedom of criticisms which i have seen from disadvantageous comparisons of my later with my earlier writings. i should like a little rest from literary work before the requiescat ensures my repose from earthly labors, but i will not be rash enough to promise that i will not even once again greet my old and new readers if the impulse becomes irresistible to renew a companionship which has been to me such a source of happiness. beverly farm, mass., august, . o. w. h. over the teacups. i introduction. this series of papers was begun in march, . a single number was printed, when it was interrupted the course of events, and not resumed until nearly years later, in january, . the plan of the series was not formed in my mind when i wrote the number. in returning to my task i found that my original plan had shaped itself in the underground laboratory of my thought so that some changes had to be made in what i had written. as i proceeded, the slight story which formed a part of my programme eloped itself without any need of much contrivance on my, part. given certain characters in a writer's conception, if they are real to him, as they ought to be they will act in such or such a way, according to the law of their nature. it was pretty safe to assume that intimate relations would spring up between some members of our mixed company; and it was not rash conjecture that some of these intimacies might end in such attachment as would furnish us hints, at least, of a love-story. as to the course of the conversations which would take place, very little could be guessed beforehand. various subjects of interest would be likely to present themselves, without definite order, oftentimes abruptly and, as it would seem, capriciously. conversation in such a mixed company as that of "the teacups" is likely to be suggestive rather than exhaustive. continuous discourse is better adapted to the lecture-room than to the tea-table. there is quite enough of it, i fear too much,--in these pages. but the reader must take the reports of our talks as they were jotted down. a patchwork quilt is not like a piece of gobelin tapestry; but it has its place and its use. some will feel a temptation to compare these conversations with those earlier ones, and remark unamiably upon their difference. this is hardly fair, and is certainly not wise. they are produced under very different conditions, and betray that fact in every line. it is better to take them by themselves; and, if my reader finds anything to please or profit from, i shall be contented, and he, i feel sure, will not be ungrateful. the readers who take up this volume may recollect a series of conversations held many years ago over the breakfast-table, and reported for their more or less profitable entertainment. those were not very early breakfasts at which the talks took place, but at any rate the sun was rising, and the guests had not as yet tired themselves with the labors of the day. the morning cup of coffee has an exhilaration about it which the cheering influence of the afternoon or evening cup of tea cannot be expected to reproduce. the toils of the forenoon, the heats of midday, in the warm season, the slanting light of the descending sun, or the sobered translucency of twilight have subdued the vivacity of the early day. yet under the influence of the benign stimulant many trains of thought which will bear recalling, may suggest themselves to some of our quiet circle and prove not uninteresting to a certain number of readers. how early many of my old breakfast companions went off to bed! i am thinking not merely of those who sat round our table, but of that larger company of friends who listened to our conversations as reported. dear girl with the silken ringlets, dear boy with the down-shadowed cheek, your grandfather, your grandmother, turned over the freshly printed leaves that told the story of those earlier meetings around the plain board where so many things were said and sung, not all of which have quite faded from memory of this overburdened and forgetful time. your father, your mother, found the scattered leaves gathered in a volume, and smiled upon them as not uncompanionable acquaintances. my tea-table makes no promises. there is no programme of exercises to studied beforehand. what if i should content myself with a single report of what was said and done over our teacups? perhaps my young reader would be glad to let me off, for there are talkers enough who have not yet left their breakfast-tables; and nobody can blame the young people for preferring the thoughts and the language of their own generation, with all its future before it, to those of their grandfathers contemporaries. my reader, young or old, will please to observe that i have left myself entire freedom as to the sources of what may be said over the teacups. i have not told how many cups are commonly on the board, but by using the plural i have implied that there is at least one other talker or listener beside myself, and for all that appears there may be a dozen. there will be no regulation length to my reports,--no attempt to make out a certain number of pages. i have no contract to fill so many columns, no pledge to contribute so many numbers. i can stop on this first page if i do not care to say anything more, and let this article stand by itself if so minded. what a sense of freedom it gives not to write by the yard or the column! when one writes for an english review or magazine at so many guineas a sheet, the temptation is very great to make one's contribution cover as many sheets as possible. we all know the metallic taste of articles written under this powerful stimulus. if bacon's essays had been furnished by a modern hand to the "quarterly review" at fifty guineas a sheet, what a great book it would have taken to hold them! the first thing which suggests itself to me, as i contemplate my slight project, is the liability of repeating in the evening what i may have said in the morning in one form or another, and printed in these or other pages. when it suddenly flashes into the consciousness of a writer who had been long before the public, "why, i have said all that once or oftener in my books or essays, and here it is again; the same old thought, the same old image, the same old story!" it irritates him, and is likely to stir up the monosyllables of his unsanctified vocabulary. he sees in imagination a thousand readers, smiling or yawning as they say to themselves, "we have had all that before," and turn to another writer's performance for something not quite so stale and superfluous. this is what the writer says to himself about the reader. the idiot! does the simpleton really think that everybody has read all he has written? does he really believe that everybody remembers all of his, writer's, words he may happen to have read? at one of those famous dinners of the phi beta kappa society; where no reporter was ever admitted, and which nothing ever leaks out about what is said and done, mr. edward everett, in his after-dinner speech, quoted these lines from the aeneid, giving a liberal english version of them, which he applied to the oration just delivered by mr. emerson: tres imbris torti radios, tres nubis aquosae addiderant, rutili tres ignis, et alitis austri. his nephew, the ingenious, inventive, and inexhaustible. edward everett hale, tells the story of this quotation, and of the various uses to which it might plied in after-dinner speeches. how often he ventured to repeat it at the phi beta kappa dinners i am not sure; but as he reproduced it with his lively embellishments and fresh versions and artful circumlocutions, not one person in ten remembered that he had listened to those same words in those same accents only a twelvemonth ago. the poor deluded creatures who take it for granted that all the world remembers what they have said, and laugh at them when they say it over again, may profit by this recollection. but what if one does say the same things,--of course in a little different form each time,--over her? if he has anything to say worth saying, that is just what he ought to do. whether he ought to or not, it is very certain that this is what all who write much or speak much necessarily must and will do. think of the clergyman who preaches fifty or a hundred or more sermons every year for fifty years! think of the stump speaker who shouts before a hundred audiences during the same political campaign, always using the same arguments, illustrations, and catchwords! think of the editor, as carlyle has pictured him, threshing the same straw every morning, until we know what is coming when we see the first line, as we do when we read the large capitals at the head of a thrilling story, which ends in an advertisement of an all-cleansing soap or an all-curing remedy! the latch-key which opens into the inner chambers of my consciousness fits, as i have sufficient reason to believe, the private apartments of a good many other people's thoughts. the longer we live, the more we find we are like other persons. when i meet with any facts in my own mental experience, i feel almost sure that i shall find them repeated or anticipated in the writings or the conversation of others. this feeling gives one a freedom in telling his own personal history he could not have enjoyed without it. my story belongs to you as much as to me. de te fabula narratur. change the personal pronoun,--that is all. it gives many readers a singular pleasure to find a writer telling them something they have long known or felt, but which they have never before found any one to put in words for them. an author does not always know when he is doing the service of the angel who stirred the waters of the pool of bethesda. many a reader is delighted to find his solitary thought has a companion, and is grateful to the benefactor who has strengthened him. this is the advantage of the humble reader over the ambitious and self-worshipping writer. it is not with him pereant illi, but beati sunt illi qui pro nobis nostra dixerunt,-blessed are those who have said our good things for us. what i have been saying of repetitions leads me into a train of reflections like which i think many readers will find something in their own mental history. the area of consciousness is covered by layers of habitual thoughts, as a sea-beach is covered with wave-worn, rounded pebbles, shaped, smoothed, and polished by long attrition against each other. these thoughts remain very much the same from day to day, from week to week; and as we grow older, from month to month, and from year to year. the tides of wakening consciousness roll in upon them daily as we unclose our eyelids, and keep up the gentle movement and murmur of ordinary mental respiration until we close them again in slumber. when we think we are thinking, we are for the most part only listening to sound of attrition between these inert elements of intelligence. they shift their places a little, they change their relations to each other, they roll over and turn up new surfaces. now and then a new fragment is cast in among them, to be worn and rounded and takes its place with the others, but the pebbled floor of consciousness is almost as stationary as the pavement of a city thoroughfare. it so happens that at this particular tine i have something to tell which i am quite sure is not one of rolled pebbles which my reader has seen before in any of my pages, or, as i feel confident, in those of any other writer. if my reader asks why i do not send the statement i am going to make to some one of the special periodicals that deal with such subjects, my answer is, that i like to tell my own stories at my own time, in own chosen columns, where they will be read by a class of readers with whom i like to talk. all men of letters or of science, all writers well known to the public, are constantly tampered with, in these days, by a class of predaceous and hungry fellow-laborers who may be collectively spoken of as the brain-tappers. they want an author's ideas on the subjects which interest them, the inquirers, from the gravest religious and moral questions to the most trivial matters of his habits and his whims and fancies. some of their questions he cannot answer; some he does not choose to answer; some he is not yet ready to answer, and when he is ready he prefers to select his own organ of publication. i do not find fault with all the brain-tappers. some of them are doing excellent service by accumulating facts which could not otherwise be attained. rut one gets tired of the strings of questions sent him, to which he is expected to return an answer, plucked, ripe or unripe, from his private tree of knowledge. the brain-tappers are like the owner of the goose that laid the golden eggs. they would have the embryos and germs of one's thoughts out of the mental oviducts, and cannot wait for their spontaneous evolution and extrusion. the story i have promised is, on the whole, the most remarkable of a series which i may have told in part at some previous date, but which, if i have not told, may be worth recalling at a future time. some few of my readers may remember that in a former paper i suggested the possibility of the existence of an idiotic area in the human mind, corresponding to the blind spot in the human retina. i trust that i shall not be thought to have let my wits go wandering in that region of my own intellectual domain, when i relate a singular coincidence which very lately occurred in my experience, and add a few remarks made by one of our company on the delicate and difficult but fascinating subject which it forces upon our attention. i will first copy the memorandum made at the time: "remarkable coincidence. on monday, april th, being at table from . p. m. to . , with ________and ________ the two ladies of my household, i told them of the case of 'trial by battel' offered by abraham thornton in . i mentioned his throwing down his glove, which was not taken up by the brother of his victim, and so he had to be let off, for the old law was still in force. i mentioned that abraham thornton was said to have come to this country, 'and [i added] he may be living near us, for aught that i know." i rose from the table, and found an english letter waiting for me, left while i sat at dinner. a copy the first portion of this letter: ' alfred place, west (near museum) south kensington, london, s. w. april , . dr. o. w. holmes: dear sir,--in travelling, the other day, i met with a reprint of the very interesting case of thornton for murder, . the prisoner pleaded successfully the old wager of battel. i thought you would like to read the account, and send it with this.... yours faithfully, fred. rathbone.' mr. rathbone is a well-known dealer in old wedgwood and eighteenth-century art. as a friend of my hospitable entertainer, mr. willett, he had shown me many attentions in england, but i was not expecting any communication from him; and when, fresh from my conversation, i found this letter just arrived by mail, and left while i was at table, and on breaking the seal read what i had a few moments before been; telling, i was greatly surprised, and immediately made a note of the occurrence, as given above. i had long been familiar with all the details of this celebrated case, but had not referred to it, so far as i can remember, for months or years. i know of no train of thought which led me to speak of it on that particular day. i had never alluded to it before in that company, nor had i ever spoken of it with mr. rathbone. i told this story over our teacups. among the company at the table is a young english girl. she seemed to be amused by the story. "fancy!" she said,--"how very very odd!" "it was a striking and curious coincidence," said the professor who was with us at the table. "as remarkable as two teaspoons in one saucer," was the comment of a college youth who happened to be one of the company. but the member of our circle whom the reader will hereafter know as number seven, began stirring his tea in a nervous sort of way, and i knew that he was getting ready to say something about the case. an ingenious man he is, with a brain like a tinder-box, its contents catching at any spark that is flying about. i always like to hear what he says when his tinder brain has a spark fall into it. it does not follow that because he is often wrong he may not sometimes be right, for he is no fool. he treated my narrative very seriously. the reader need not be startled at the new terms he introduces. indeed, i am not quite sure that some thinking people will not adopt his view of the matter, which seems to have a degree of plausibility as he states and illustrates it. "the impulse which led you to tell that story passed directly from the letter, which came charged from the cells of the cerebral battery of your correspondent. the distance at which the action took place [the letter was left on a shelf twenty-four feet from the place where i was sitting] shows this charge to have been of notable intensity. "brain action through space without material symbolism, such as speech, expression, etc., is analogous to electrical induction. charge the prime conductor of an electrical machine, and a gold-leaf electrometer, far off from it, will at once be disturbed. electricity, as we all know, can be stored and transported as if it were a measurable fluid. "your incident is a typical example of cerebral induction from a source containing stored cerebricity. i use this word, not to be found in my dictionaries, as expressing the brain-cell power corresponding to electricity. think how long it was before we had attained any real conception of the laws that govern the wonderful agent, which now works in harness with the other trained and subdued forces! it is natural that cerebricity should be the last of the unweighable agencies to be understood. the human eye had seen heaven and earth and all that in them is before it saw itself as our instruments enable us to see it. this fact of yours, which seems so strange to you, belongs to a great series of similar facts familiarly known now to many persons, and before long to be recognized as generally as those relating to the electric telegraph and the slaving `dynamo.' "what! you cannot conceive of a charge of cerebricity fastening itself on a letter-sheet and clinging to it for weeks, while it was shuffling about in mail-bags, rolling over the ocean, and shaken up in railroad cars? and yet the odor of a grain of musk will hang round a note or a dress for a lifetime. do you not remember what professor silliman says, in that pleasant journal of his, about the little ebony cabinet which mary, queen of scots, brought with her from france,--how 'its drawers still exhale the sweetest perfumes'? if they could hold their sweetness for more than two hundred years, why should not a written page retain for a week or a month the equally mysterious effluence poured over it from the thinking marrow, and diffuse its vibrations to another excitable nervous centre?" i have said that although our imaginative friend is given to wild speculations, he is not always necessarily wrong. we know too little about the laws of brain-force to be dogmatic with reference to it. i am, myself, therefore, fully in sympathy with the psychological investigators. when it comes to the various pretended sciences by which men and women make large profits, attempts at investigation are very apt to be used as lucrative advertisements for the charlatans. but a series of investigations of the significance of certain popular beliefs and superstitions, a careful study of the relations of certain facts to each other,--whether that of cause and effect, or merely of coincidence,--is a task not unworthy of sober-minded and well-trained students of nature. such a series of investigations has been recently instituted, and was reported at a late meeting held in the rooms of the boston natural history society. the results were, mostly negative, and in one sense a disappointment. a single case, related by professor royce, attracted a good deal of attention. it was reported in the next morning's newspapers, and will be given at full length, doubtless, in the next number of the psychological journal. the leading facts were, briefly, these: a lady in hamburg, germany, wrote, on the d of june last, that she had what she supposed to be nightmare on the night of the th, five days before. "it seemed," she wrote, "to belong to you; to be a horrid pain in your head, as if it were being forcibly jammed into an iron casque, or some such pleasant instrument of torture." it proved that on that same th of june her sister was undergoing a painful operation at the hands of a dentist. "no single case," adds professor royce, "proves, or even makes probable, the existence of telepathic toothaches; but if there are any more cases of this sort, we want to hear of them, and that all the more because no folk-lore and no supernatural horrors have as yet mingled with the natural and well-known impressions that people associate with the dentist's chair." the case i have given is, i am confident, absolutely free from every source of error. i do not remember that mr. rathbone had communicated with me since he sent me a plentiful supply of mistletoe a year ago last christmas. the account i received from him was cut out of "the sporting times" of march , . my own knowledge of the case came from "kirby's wonderful museum," a work presented to me at least thirty years ago. i had not looked at the account, spoken of it, nor thought of it for a long time, when it came to me by a kind of spontaneous generation, as it seemed, having no connection with any previous train of thought that i was aware of. i consider the evidence of entire independence, apart from possible "telepathic" causation, completely water-proof, airtight, incombustible, and unassailable. i referred, when first reporting this curious case of coincidence, with suggestive circumstances, to two others, one of which i said was the most picturesque and the other the most unlikely, as it would seem, to happen. this is the first of those two cases:-- grenville tudor phillips was a younger brother of george phillips, my college classmate, and of wendell phillips, the great orator. he lived in europe a large part of his life, but at last returned, and, in the year , died at the house of his brother george. i read his death in the paper; but, having seen and heard very little of him during his life, should not have been much impressed by the fact, but for the following occurrence: between the time of grenville phillips's death and his burial, i was looking in upon my brother, then living in the house in which we were both born. some books which had been my father's were stored in shelves in the room i used to occupy when at cambridge. passing my eye over them, an old dark quarto attracted my attention. it must be a bible, i said to myself, perhaps a rare one,--the "breeches" bible or some other interesting specimen. i took it from the shelves, and, as i did so, an old slip of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. on lifting it i read these words: the name is grenville tudor. what was the meaning of this slip of paper coming to light at this time, after reposing undisturbed so long? there was only one way of explaining its presence in my father's old bible;--a copy of the scriptures which i did not remember ever having handled or looked into before. in christening a child the minister is liable to forget the name, just at the moment when he ought to remember it. my father preached occasionally at the brattle street church. i take this for granted, for i remember going with him on one occasion when he did so. nothing was more likely than that he should be asked to officiate at the baptism of the younger son of his wife's first cousin, judge phillips. this slip was handed him to remind him of the name: he brought it home, put it in that old bible, and there it lay quietly for nearly half a century, when, as if it had just heard of mr. phillips's decease, it flew from its hiding-place and startled the eyes of those who had just read his name in the daily column of deaths. it would be hard to find anything more than a mere coincidence here; but it seems curious enough to be worth telling. the second of these two last stories must be told in prosaic detail to show its whole value as a coincidence. one evening while i was living in charles street, i received a call from dr. s., a well-known and highly respected boston physician, a particular friend of the late alexander h. stephens, vice-president of the southern confederacy. it was with reference to a work which mr. stephens was about to publish that dr. s. called upon me. after talking that matter over we got conversing on other subjects, among the rest a family relationship existing between us,--not a very near one, but one which i think i had seen mentioned in genealogical accounts. mary s. (the last name being the same as that of my visitant), it appeared, was the great-great-grandmother of mrs. h. and myself. after cordially recognizing our forgotten relationship, now for the first time called to mind, we parted, my guest leaving me for his own home. we had been sitting in my library on the lower floor. on going up-stairs where mrs. h. was sitting alone, just as i entered the room she pushed a paper across the table towards me, saying that perhaps it might interest me. it was one of a number of old family papers which she had brought from the house of her mother, recently deceased. i opened the paper, which was an old-looking document, and found that it was a copy, perhaps made in this century, of the will of that same mary s. about whom we had been talking down-stairs. if there is such a thing as a purely accidental coincidence this must be considered an instance of it. all one can say about it is that it seems very unlikely that such a coincidence should occur, but it did. i have not tried to keep my own personality out of these stories. but after all, how little difference it makes whether or not a writer appears with a mask on which everybody can take off,--whether he bolts his door or not, when everybody can look in at his windows, and all his entrances are at the mercy of the critic's skeleton key and the jimmy of any ill-disposed assailant! the company have been silent listeners for the most part; but the reader will have a chance to become better acquainted with some cf them by and by. ii to the reader. i know that it is a hazardous experiment to address myself again to a public which in days long past has given me a generous welcome. but my readers have been, and are, a very faithful constituency. i think there are many among them who would rather listen to an old voice they are used to than to a new one of better quality, even if the "childish treble" should betray itself now and then in the tones of the overtired organ. but there must be others,--i am afraid many others,--who will exclaim: "he has had his day, and why can't he be content? we don't want literary revenants, superfluous veterans, writers who have worn out their welcome and still insist on being attended to. give us something fresh, something that belongs to our day and generation. your morning draught was well enough, but we don't care for your evening slip-slop. you are not in relation with us, with our time, our ideas, our aims, our aspirations." alas, alas! my friend,--my young friend, for your hair is not yet whitened,--i am afraid you are too nearly right. no doubt,--no doubt. teacups are not coffee-cups. they do not hold so much. their pallid infusion is but a feeble stimulant compared with the black decoction served at the morning board. and so, perhaps, if wisdom like yours were compatible with years like mine, i should drop my pen and make no further attempts upon your patience. but suppose that a writer who has reached and passed the natural limit of serviceable years feels that he has some things which he would like to say, and which may have an interest for a limited class of readers,--is he not right in trying his powers and calmly taking the risk of failure? does it not seem rather lazy and cowardly, because he cannot "beat his record," or even come up to the level of what he has done in his prime, to shrink from exerting his talent, such as it is, now that he has outlived the period of his greatest vigor? a singer who is no longer equal to the trials of opera on the stage may yet please at a chamber concert or in the drawing-room. there is one gratification an old author can afford a certain class of critics: that, namely, of comparing him as he is with what he was. it is a pleasure to mediocrity to have its superiors brought within range, so to speak; and if the ablest of them will only live long enough, and keep on writing, there is no pop-gun that cannot reach him. but i fear that this is an unamiable reflection, and i am at this time in a very amiable mood. i confess that there is something agreeable to me in renewing my relations with the reading public. were it but a single appearance, it would give me a pleasant glimpse of the time when i was known as a frequent literary visitor. many of my readers--if i can lure any from the pages of younger writers will prove to be the children, or the grandchildren, of those whose acquaintance i made something more than a whole generation ago. i could depend on a kind welcome from my contemporaries,--my coevals. but where are those contemporaries? ay de mi! as carlyle used to exclaim,--ah, dear me! as our old women say,--i look round for them, and see only their vacant places. the old vine cannot unwind its tendrils. the branch falls with the decay of its support, and must cling to the new growths around it, if it would not lie helpless in the dust. this paper is a new tendril, feeling its way, as it best may, to whatever it can wind around. the thought of finding here and there an old friend, and making, it may be, once in a while a new one, is very grateful to me. the chief drawback to the pleasure is the feeling that i am submitting to that inevitable exposure which is the penalty of authorship in every form. a writer must make up his mind to the possible rough treatment of the critics, who swarm like bacteria whenever there is any literary material on which they can feed. i have had as little to complain of as most writers, yet i think it is always with reluctance that one encounters the promiscuous handling which the products of the mind have to put up with, as much as the fruit and provisions in the market-stalls. i had rather be criticised, however, than criticise; that is, express my opinions in the public prints of other writers' work, if they are living, and can suffer, as i should often have to make them. there are enough, thank heaven, without me. we are literary cannibals, and our writers live on each other and each other's productions to a fearful extent. what the mulberry leaf is to the silk-worm, the author's book, treatise, essay, poem, is to the critical larva; that feed upon it. it furnishes them with food and clothing. the process may not be agreeable to the mulberry leaf or to the printed page; but without it the leaf would not have become the silk that covers the empress's shoulders, and but for the critic the author's book might never have reached the scholar's table. scribblers will feed on each other, and if we insist on being scribblers we must consent to be fed on. we must try to endure philosophically what we cannot help, and ought not, i suppose, to wish to help. it is the custom at our table to vary the usual talk, by the reading of short papers, in prose or verse, by one or more of the teacups, as we are in the habit of calling those who make up our company. thirty years ago, one of our present circle--"teacup number two," the professor,--read a paper on old age, at a certain breakfast-table, where he was in the habit of appearing. that paper was published at the time, and has since seen the light in other forms. he did not know so much about old age then as he does now, and would doubtless write somewhat differently if he took the subject up again. but i found that it was the general wish that another of our company should let us hear what he had to say about it. i received a polite note, requesting me to discourse about old age, inasmuch as i was particularly well qualified by my experience to write in an authoritative way concerning it. the fact is that i,--for it is myself who am speaking,--have recently arrived at the age of threescore years and twenty,--fourscore years we may otherwise call it. in the arrangement of our table, i am teacup number one, and i may as well say that i am often spoken of as the dictator. there is nothing invidious in this, as i am the oldest of the company, and no claim is less likely to excite jealousy than that of priority of birth. i received congratulations on reaching my eightieth birthday, not only from our circle of teacups, but from friends, near and distant, in large numbers. i tried to acknowledge these kindly missives with the aid of a most intelligent secretary; but i fear that there were gifts not thanked for, and tokens of good-will not recognized. let any neglected correspondent be assured that it was not intentionally that he or she was slighted. i was grateful for every such mark of esteem; even for the telegram from an unknown friend in a distant land, for which i cheerfully paid the considerable charge which the sender doubtless knew it would give me pleasure to disburse for such an expression of friendly feeling. i will not detain the reader any longer from the essay i have promised. this is the paper read to the teacups. it is in a song of moses that we find the words, made very familiar to us by the episcopal burial service, which place the natural limit on life at threescore years and ten, with an extra ten years for some of a stronger constitution than the average. yet we are told that moses himself lived to be a hundred and twenty years old, and that his eye was not dim nor his natural strength abated. this is hard to accept literally, but we need not doubt that he was very old, and in remarkably good condition for a man of his age. among his followers was a stout old captain, caleb, the son of jephunneh. this ancient warrior speaks of himself in these brave terms: "lo, i am this day fourscore and five years old. as yet, i am as strong this day as i was in the day that moses sent me; as my strength was then, even so is my strength now, for war, both to go out and to come in." it is not likely that anybody believed his brag about his being as good a man for active service at eighty-five as he was at forty, when moses sent him out to spy the land of canaan. but he was, no doubt, lusty and vigorous for his years, and ready to smite the canaanites hip and thigh, and drive them out, and take possession of their land, as he did forthwith, when moses gave him leave. grand old men there were, three thousand years ago! but not all octogenarians were like caleb, the son of jephunneh. listen to poor old barzillai, and hear him piping: "i am this day fourscore years old; and can i discern between good and evil? can thy servant taste what i eat or what i drink? can i hear any more the voice of singing men and singing women? wherefore, then, should thy servant be yet a burden unto my lord the king?" and poor king david was worse off than this, as you all remember, at the early age of seventy. thirty centuries do not seem to have made any very great difference in the extreme limits of life. without pretending to rival the alleged cases of life prolonged beyond the middle of its second century, such as those of henry jenkins and thomas parr, we can make a good showing of centenarians and nonagenarians. i myself remember dr. holyoke, of salem, son of a president of harvard college, who answered a toast proposed in his honor at a dinner given to him on his hundredth birthday. "father cleveland," our venerated city missionary, was born june , , and died june , , within a little more than a fortnight of his hundredth birthday. colonel perkins, of connecticut, died recently after celebrating his centennial anniversary. among nonagenarians, three whose names are well known to bostonians, lord lyndhurst, josiah quincy, and sidney bartlett, were remarkable for retaining their faculties in their extreme age. that patriarch of our american literature, the illustrious historian of his country, is still with us, his birth dating in . ranke, the great german historian, died at the age of ninety-one, and chevreul, the eminent chemist, at that of a hundred and two. some english sporting characters have furnished striking examples of robust longevity. in gilpin's "forest scenery" there is the story of one of these horseback heroes. henry hastings was the name of this old gentleman, who lived in the time of charles the first. it would be hard to find a better portrait of a hunting squire than that which the earl of shaftesbury has the credit of having drawn of this very peculiar personage. his description ends by saying, "he lived to be an hundred, and never lost his eyesight nor used spectacles. he got on horseback without help, and rode to the death of the stag till he was past fourscore." everything depends on habit. old people can do, of course, more or less well, what they have been doing all their lives; but try to teach them any new tricks, and the truth of the old adage will very soon show itself. mr. henry hastings had done nothing but hunt all his days, and his record would seem to have been a good deal like that of philippus zaehdarm in that untranslatable epitaph which may be found in "sartor resartus." judged by its products, it was a very short life of a hundred useless twelve months. it is something to have climbed the white summit, the mont blanc of fourscore. a small number only of mankind ever see their eightieth anniversary. i might go to the statistical tables of the annuity and life insurance offices for extended and exact information, but i prefer to take the facts which have impressed themselves upon me in my own career. the class of at harvard college, of which i am a member, graduated, according to the triennial, fifty-nine in number. it is sixty years, then, since that time; and as they were, on an average, about twenty years old, those who survive must have reached fourscore years. of the fifty-nine graduates ten only are living, or were at the last accounts; one in six, very nearly. in the first ten years after graduation, our third decade, when we were between twenty and thirty years old, we lost three members,--about one in twenty; between the ages of thirty and forty, eight died,--one in seven of those the decade began with; from forty to fifty, only two,--or one in twenty-four; from fifty to sixty, eight,--or one in six; from sixty to seventy, fifteen,--or two out of every five; from seventy to eighty, twelve,--or one in two. the greatly increased mortality which began with our seventh decade went on steadily increasing. at sixty we come "within range of the rifle-pits," to borrow an expression from my friend weir mitchell. our eminent classmate, the late professor benjamin peirce, showed by numerical comparison that the men of superior ability outlasted the average of their fellow-graduates. he himself lived a little beyond his threescore and ten years. james freeman clarke almost reached the age of eighty. the eighth decade brought the fatal year for benjamin robbins curtis, the great lawyer, who was one of the judges of the supreme court of the united states; for the very able chief justice of massachusetts, george tyler bigelow; and for that famous wit and electric centre of social life, george t. davis. at the last annual dinner every effort was made to bring all the survivors of the class together. six of the ten living members were there, six old men in the place of the thirty or forty classmates who surrounded the long, oval table in , when i asked, "has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?"-- boys whose tongues were as the vibrating leaves of the forest; whose talk was like the voice of many waters; whose laugh was as the breaking of mighty waves upon the seashore. among the six at our late dinner was our first scholar, the thorough-bred and accomplished engineer who held the city of lawrence in his brain before it spread itself out along the banks of the merrimac. there, too, was the poet whose national hymn, "my country, 't is of thee," is known to more millions, and dearer to many of them, than all the other songs written since the psalms of david. four of our six were clergymen; the engineer and the present writer completed the list. were we melancholy? did we talk of graveyards and epitaphs? no,--we remembered our dead tenderly, serenely, feeling deeply what we had lost in those who but a little while ago were with us. how could we forget james freeman clarke, that man of noble thought and vigorous action, who pervaded this community with his spirit, and was felt through all its channels as are the light and the strength that radiate through the wires which stretch above us? it was a pride and a happiness to have such classmates as he was to remember. we were not the moping, complaining graybeards that many might suppose we must have been. we had been favored with the blessing of long life. we had seen the drama well into its fifth act. the sun still warmed us, the air was still grateful and life-giving. but there was another underlying source of our cheerful equanimity, which we could not conceal from ourselves if we had wished to do it. nature's kindly anodyne is telling upon us more and more with every year. our old doctors used to give an opiate which they called "the black drop." it was stronger than laudanum, and, in fact, a dangerously powerful narcotic. something like this is that potent drug in nature's pharmacopoeia which she reserves for the time of need,--the later stages of life. she commonly begins administering it at about the time of the "grand climacteric," the ninth septennial period, the sixty-third year. more and more freely she gives it, as the years go on, to her grey-haired children, until, if they last long enough, every faculty is benumbed, and they drop off quietly into sleep under its benign influence. do you say that old age is unfeeling? it has not vital energy enough to supply the waste of the more exhausting emotions. old men's tears, which furnished the mournful title to joshua scottow's lamentations, do not suggest the deepest grief conceivable. a little breath of wind brings down the raindrops which have gathered on the leaves of the tremulous poplars. a very slight suggestion brings the tears from marlborough's eyes, but they are soon over, and he is smiling again as an allusion carries him back to the days of blenheim and malplaquet. envy not the old man the tranquillity of his existence, nor yet blame him if it sometimes looks like apathy. time, the inexorable, does not threaten him with the scythe so often as with the sand-bag. he does not cut, but he stuns and stupefies. one's fellow-mortals can afford to be as considerate and tender with him as time and nature. there was not much boasting among us of our present or our past, as we sat together in the little room at the great hotel. a certain amount of self-deception is quite possible at threescore years and ten, but at three score years and twenty nature has shown most of those who live to that age that she is earnest, and means to dismantle and have done with them in a very little while. as for boasting of our past, the laudator temporis acti makes but a poor figure in our time. old people used to talk of their youth as if there were giants in those days. we knew some tall men when we were young, but we can see a man taller than any one among them at the nearest dime museum. we had handsome women among us, of high local reputation, but nowadays we have professional beauties who challenge the world to criticise them as boldly as phryne ever challenged her athenian admirers. we had fast horses,--did not "old blue" trot a mile in three minutes? true, but there is a three-year-old colt just put on the track who has done it in a little more than two thirds of that time. it seems as if the material world had been made over again since we were boys. it is but a short time since we were counting up the miracles we had lived to witness. the list is familiar enough: the railroad, the ocean steamer, photography, the spectroscope, the telegraph, telephone, phonograph, anesthetics, electric illumination,--with such lesser wonders as the friction match, the sewing machine, and the bicycle. and now, we said, we must have come to the end of these unparalleled developments of the forces of nature. we must rest on our achievements. the nineteenth century is not likely to add to them; we must wait for the twentieth century. many of us, perhaps most of us, felt in that way. we had seen our planet furnished by the art of man with a complete nervous system: a spinal cord beneath the ocean, secondary centres,--ganglions,--in all the chief places where men are gathered together, and ramifications extending throughout civilization. all at once, by the side of this talking and light-giving apparatus, we see another wire stretched over our heads, carrying force to a vast metallic muscular system,--a slender cord conveying the strength of a hundred men, of a score of horses, of a team of elephants. the lightning is tamed and harnessed, the thunderbolt has become a common carrier. no more surprises in this century! a voice whispers, what next? it will not do for us to boast about our young days and what they had to show. it is a great deal better to boast of what they could not show, and, strange as it may seem, there is a certain satisfaction in it. in these days of electric lighting, when you have only to touch a button and your parlor or bedroom is instantly flooded with light, it is a pleasure to revert to the era of the tinder-box, the flint and steel, and the brimstone match. it gives me an almost proud satisfaction to tell how we used, when those implements were not at hand or not employed, to light our whale-oil lamp by blowing a live coal held against the wick, often swelling our cheeks and reddening our faces until we were on the verge of apoplexy. i love to tell of our stage-coach experiences, of our sailing-packet voyages, of the semi-barbarous destitution of all modern comforts and conveniences through which we bravely lived and came out the estimable personages you find us. think of it! all my boyish shooting was done with a flint-lock gun; the percussion lock came to me as one of those new-fangled notions people had just got hold of. we ancients can make a grand display of minus quantities in our reminiscences, and the figures look almost as well as if they had the plus sign before them. i am afraid that old people found life rather a dull business in the time of king david and his rich old subject and friend, barzillai, who, poor man, could not have read a wicked novel, nor enjoyed a symphony concert, if they had had those luxuries in his day. there were no pleasant firesides, for there were no chimneys. there were no daily newspapers for the old man to read, and he could not read them if there were, with his dimmed eyes, nor hear them read, very probably, with his dulled ears. there was no tobacco, a soothing drug, which in its various forms is a great solace to many old men and to some old women, carlyle and his mother used to smoke their pipes together, you remember. old age is infinitely more cheerful, for intelligent people at least, than it was two or three thousand years ago. it is our duty, so far as we can, to keep it so. there will always be enough about it that is solemn, and more than enough, alas! that is saddening. but how much there is in our times to lighten its burdens! if they that look out at the windows be darkened, the optician is happy to supply them with eye-glasses for use before the public, and spectacles for their hours of privacy. if the grinders cease because they are few, they can be made many again by a third dentition, which brings no toothache in its train. by temperance and good habits of life, proper clothing, well-warmed, well-drained, and well-ventilated dwellings, and sufficient, not too much exercise, the old man of our time may keep his muscular strength in very good condition. i doubt if mr. gladstone, who is fast nearing his eightieth birthday, would boast, in the style of caleb, that he was as good a man with his axe as he was when he was forty, but i would back him,--if the match were possible, for a hundred shekels, against that over-confident old israelite, to cut down and chop up a cedar of lebanon. i know a most excellent clergyman, not far from my own time of life, whom i would pit against any old hebrew rabbi or greek philosopher of his years and weight, if they could return to the flesh, to run a quarter of a mile on a good, level track. we must not make too much of such exceptional cases of prolonged activity. i often reproached my dear friend and classmate, tames freeman clarke, that his ceaseless labors made it impossible for his coevals to enjoy the luxury of that repose which their years demanded. a wise old man, the late dr. james walker, president of harvard university, said that the great privilege of old age was the getting rid of responsibilities. these hard-working veterans will not let one get rid of them until he drops in his harness, and so gets rid of them and his life together. how often has many a tired old man envied the superannuated family cat, stretched upon the rug before the fire, letting the genial warmth tranquilly diffuse itself through all her internal arrangements! no more watching for mice in dark, damp cellars, no more awaiting the savage gray rat at the mouth of his den, no more scurrying up trees and lamp-posts to avoid the neighbor's cur who wishes to make her acquaintance! it is very grand to "die in harness," but it is very pleasant to have the tight straps unbuckled and the heavy collar lifted from the neck and shoulders. it is natural enough to cling to life. we are used to atmospheric existence, and can hardly conceive of ourselves except as breathing creatures. we have never tried any other mode of being, or, if we have, we have forgotten all about it, whatever wordsworth's grand ode may tell us we remember. heaven itself must be an experiment to every human soul which shall find itself there. it may take time for an earthborn saint to become acclimated to the celestial ether,--that is, if time can be said to exist for a disembodied spirit. we are all sentenced to capital punishment for the crime of living, and though the condemned cell of our earthly existence is but a narrow and bare dwelling-place, we have adjusted ourselves to it, and made it tolerably comfortable for the little while we are to be confined in it. the prisoner of chillon "regained [his] freedom with a sigh," and a tender-hearted mortal might be pardoned for looking back, like the poor lady who was driven from her dwelling-place by fire and brimstone, at the home he was leaving for the "undiscovered country." on the other hand, a good many persons, not suicidal in their tendencies, get more of life than they want. one of our wealthy citizens said, on hearing that a friend had dropped off from apoplexy, that it made his mouth water to hear of such a case. it was an odd expression, but i have no doubt that the fine old gentleman to whom it was attributed made use of it. he had had enough of his gout and other infirmities. swift's account of the struldbrugs is not very amusing reading for old people, but some may find it a consolation to reflect on the probable miseries they escape in not being doomed to an undying earthly existence. there are strange diversities in the way in which different old persons look upon their prospects. a millionaire whom i well remember confessed that he should like to live long enough to learn how much a certain fellow-citizen, a multimillionaire, was worth. one of the, three nonagenarians before referred to expressed himself as having a great curiosity about the new sphere of existence to which he was looking forward. the feeling must of necessity come to many aged persons that they have outlived their usefulness; that they are no longer wanted, but rather in the way, drags on the wheels rather than helping them forward. but let them remember the often-quoted line of milton, "they also serve who only stand and wait." this is peculiarly true of them. they are helping others without always being aware of it. they are the shields, the breakwaters, of those who come after them. every decade is a defence of the one next behind it. at thirty the youth has sobered into manhood, but the strong men of forty rise in almost unbroken rank between him and the approaches of old age as they show in the men of fifty. at forty he looks with a sense of security at the strong men of fifty, and sees behind them the row of sturdy sexagenarians. when fifty is reached, somehow sixty does not look so old as it once used to, and seventy is still afar off. after sixty the stern sentence of the burial service seems to have a meaning that one did not notice in former years. there begins to be something personal about it. but if one lives to seventy he soon gets used to the text with the threescore years and ten in it, and begins to count himself among those who by reason of strength are destined to reach fourscore, of whom he can see a number still in reasonably good condition. the octogenarian loves to read about people of ninety and over. he peers among the asterisks of the triennial catalogue of the university for the names of graduates who have been seventy years out of college and remain still unstarred. he is curious about the biographies of centenarians. such escapades as those of that terrible old sinner and ancestor of great men, the reverend stephen bachelder, interest him as they never did before. but he cannot deceive himself much longer. see him walking on a level surface, and he steps off almost as well as ever; but watch him coming down a flight of stairs, and the family record could not tell his years more faithfully. he cut you dead, you say? did it occur to you that he could not see you clearly enough to know you from any other son or daughter of adam? he said he was very glad to hear it, did he, when you told him that your beloved grandmother had just deceased? did you happen to remember that though he does not allow that he is deaf, he will not deny that he does not hear quite so well as he used to? no matter about his failings; the longer he holds on to life, the longer he makes life seem to all the living who follow him, and thus he is their constant benefactor. every stage of existence has its special trials and its special consolations. habits are the crutches of old age; by the aid of these we manage to hobble along after the mental joints are stiff and the muscles rheumatic, to speak metaphorically,--that is to say, when every act of self-determination costs an effort and a pang. we become more and more automatic as we grow older, and if we lived long enough we should come to be pieces of creaking machinery like maelzel's chess player,--or what that seemed to be. emerson was sixty-three years old, the year i have referred to as that of the grand climacteric, when he read to his son the poem he called "terminus," beginning: "it is time to be old, to take in sail. the god of bounds, who sets to seas a shore, came to me in his fatal rounds and said, 'no more!'" it was early in life to feel that the productive stage was over, but he had received warning from within, and did not wish to wait for outside advices. there is all the difference in the world in the mental as in the bodily constitution of different individuals. some must "take in sail" sooner, some later. we can get a useful lesson from the american and the english elms on our common. the american elms are quite bare, and have been so for weeks. they know very well that they are going to have storms to wrestle with; they have not forgotten the gales of september and the tempests of the late autumn and early winter. it is a hard fight they are going to have, and they strip their coats off and roll up their shirt-sleeves, and show themselves bare-armed and ready for the contest. the english elms are of a more robust build, and stand defiant, with all their summer clothing about their sturdy frames. they may yet have to learn a lesson of their american cousins, for notwithstanding their compact and solid structure they go to pieces in the great winds just as ours do. we must drop much of our foliage before winter is upon us. we must take in sail and throw over cargo, if that is necessary, to keep us afloat. we have to decide between our duties and our instinctive demand of rest. i can believe that some have welcomed the decay of their active powers because it furnished them with peremptory reasons for sparing themselves during the few years that were left them. age brings other obvious changes besides the loss of active power. the sensibilities are less keen, the intelligence is less lively, as we might expect under the influence of that narcotic which nature administers. but there is another effect of her "black drop" which is not so commonly recognized. old age is like an opium-dream. nothing seems real except what is unreal. i am sure that the pictures painted by the imagination,--the faded frescos on the walls of memory,--come out in clearer and brighter colors than belonged to them many years earlier. nature has her special favors for her children of every age, and this is one which she reserves for our second childhood. no man can reach an advanced age without thinking of that great change to which, in the course of nature, he must be so near. it has been remarked that the sterner beliefs of rigid theologians are apt to soften in their later years. all reflecting persons, even those whose minds have been half palsied by the deadly dogmas which have done all they could to disorganize their thinking powers,--all reflecting persons, i say, must recognize, in looking back over a long life, how largely their creeds, their course of life, their wisdom and unwisdom, their whole characters, were shaped by the conditions which surrounded them. little children they came from the hands of the father of all; little children in their helplessness, their ignorance, they are going back to him. they cannot help feeling that they are to be transferred from the rude embrace of the boisterous elements to arms that will receive them tenderly. poor planetary foundlings, they have known hard treatment at the hands of the brute forces of nature, from the control of which they are soon to be set free. there are some old pessimists, it is true, who believe that they and a few others are on a raft, and that the ship which they have quitted, holding the rest of mankind, is going down with all on board. it is no wonder that there should be such when we remember what have been the teachings of the priesthood through long series of ignorant centuries. every age has to shape the divine image it worships over again,--the present age and our own country are busily engaged in the task at this time. we unmake presidents and make new ones. this is an apprenticeship for a higher task. our doctrinal teachers are unmaking the deity of the westminster catechism and trying to model a new one, with more of modern humanity and less of ancient barbarism in his composition. if jonathan edwards had lived long enough, i have no doubt his creed would have softened into a kindly, humanized belief. some twenty or thirty years ago, i said to longfellow that certain statistical tables i had seen went to show that poets were not a long-lived race. he doubted whether there was anything to prove they were particularly short-lived. soon after this, he handed me a list he had drawn up. i cannot lay my hand upon it at this moment, but i remember that metastasio was the oldest of them all. he died at the age of eighty-four. i have had some tables made out, which i have every reason to believe are correct so far as they go. from these, it appears that twenty english poets lived to the average age of fifty-six years and a little over. the eight american poets on the list averaged seventy-three and a half, nearly, and they are not all dead yet. the list including greek, latin, italian, and german poets, with american and english, gave an average of a little over sixty-two years. our young poets need not be alarmed. they can remember that bryant lived to be eighty-three years old, that longfellow reached seventy-five and halleck seventy-seven, while whittier is living at the age of nearly eighty-two. tennyson is still writing at eighty, and browning reached the age of seventy-seven. shall a man who in his younger days has written poetry, or what passed for it, continue to attempt it in his later years? certainly, if it amuses or interests him, no one would object to his writing in verse as much as he likes. whether he should continue to write for the public is another question. poetry is a good deal a matter of heart-beats, and the circulation is more languid in the later period of life. the joints are less supple; the arteries are more or less "ossified." something like these changes has taken place in the mind. it has lost the flexibility, the plastic docility, which it had in youth and early manhood, when the gristle had but just become hardened into bone. it is the nature of poetry to writhe itself along through the tangled growths of the vocabulary, as a snake winds through the grass, in sinuous, complex, and unexpected curves, which crack every joint that is not supple as india-rubber. i had a poem that i wanted to print just here. but after what i have this moment said, i hesitated, thinking that i might provoke the obvious remark that i exemplified the unfitness of which i had been speaking. i remembered the advice i had given to a poetical aspirant not long since, which i think deserves a paragraph to itself. my friend, i said, i hope you will not write in verse. when you write in prose you say what you mean. when you write in rhyme you say what you must. should i send this poem to the publishers, or not? "some said, 'john, print it;' others said, 'not so.'" i did not ask "some" or "others." perhaps i should have thought it best to keep my poem to myself and the few friends for whom it was written. all at once, my daimon--that other me over whom i button my waistcoat when i button it over my own person--put it into my head to look up the story of madame saqui. she was a famous danseuse, who danced napoleon in and out, and several other dynasties besides. her last appearance was at the age of seventy-six, which is rather late in life for the tight rope, one of her specialties. jules janin mummified her when she died in , at the age of eighty. he spiced her up in his eulogy as if she had been the queen of a modern pharaoh. his foamy and flowery rhetoric put me into such a state of good-nature that i said, i will print my poem, and let the critical gil blas handle it as he did the archbishop's sermon, or would have done, if he had been a writer for the "salamanca weekly." it must be premised that a very beautiful loving cup was presented to me on my recent birthday, by eleven ladies of my acquaintance. this was the most costly and notable of all the many tributes i received, and for which in different forms i expressed my gratitude. to the eleven ladies who presented me with a silver loving cup on the twenty-ninth of august, m dccc lxxxix. "who gave this cup?" the secret thou wouldst steal its brimming flood forbids it to reveal: no mortal's eye shall read it till he first cool the red throat of thirst. if on the golden floor one draught remain, trust me, thy careful search will be in vain; not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know the names enrolled below. deeper than truth lies buried in her well those modest names the graven letters spell hide from the sight; but, wait, and thou shalt see who the good angels be whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift that friendly hands to loving lips shall lift: turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry, their names shall meet thine eye. count thou their number on the beads of heaven, alas! the clustered pleiads are but seven; nay, the nine sister muses are too few, --the graces must add two. "for whom this gift?" for one who all too long clings to his bough among the groves of song; autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded wing to greet a second spring. dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the cup may hold, bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold its last bright drop let thirsty maenads drain, its fragrance will remain. better love's perfume in the empty bowl than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul sweeter than song that ever poet sung, it makes an old heart young! iii after the reading of the paper which was reported in the preceding number of this record, the company fell into talk upon the subject with which it dealt. the mistress. "i could have wished you had said more about the religious attitude of old age as such. surely the thoughts of aged persons must be very much taken up with the question of what is to become of them. i should like to have the dictator explain himself a little more fully on this point." my dear madam, i said, it is a delicate matter to talk about. you remember mr. calhoun's response to the advances of an over-zealous young clergyman who wished to examine him as to his outfit for the long journey. i think the relations between man and his maker grow more intimate, more confidential, if i may say so, with advancing years. the old man is less disposed to argue about special matters of belief, and more ready to sympathize with spiritually minded persons without anxious questioning as to the fold to which they belong. that kindly judgment which he exercises with regard to others he will, naturally enough, apply to himself. the caressing tone in which the emperor hadrian addresses his soul is very much like that of an old person talking with a grandchild or some other pet: "animula, vagula, blandula, hospes comesque corporis." "dear little, flitting, pleasing sprite, the body's comrade and its guest." how like the language of catullus to lesbia's sparrow! more and more the old man finds his pleasures in memory, as the present becomes unreal and dreamlike, and the vista of his earthly future narrows and closes in upon him. at last, if he live long enough, life comes to be little more than a gentle and peaceful delirium of pleasing recollections. to say, as dante says, that there is no greater grief than to remember past happiness in the hour of misery is not giving the whole truth. in the midst of the misery, as many would call it, of extreme old age, there is often a divine consolation in recalling the happy moments and days and years of times long past. so beautiful are the visions of bygone delight that one could hardly wish them to become real, lest they should lose their ineffable charm. i can almost conceive of a dozing and dreamy centenarian saying to one he loves, "go, darling, go! spread your wings and leave me. so shall you enter that world of memory where all is lovely. i shall not hear the sound of your footsteps any more, but you will float before me, an aerial presence. i shall not hear any word from your lips, but i shall have a deeper sense of your nearness to me than speech can give. i shall feel, in my still solitude, as the ancient mariner felt when the seraph band gathered before him: "'no voice did they impart no voice; but oh! the silence sank like music on my heart.'" i said that the lenient way in which the old look at the failings of others naturally leads them to judge themselves more charitably. they find an apology for their short-comings and wrong-doings in another consideration. they know very well that they are not the same persons as the middle-aged individuals, the young men, the boys, the children, that bore their names, and whose lives were continuous with theirs. here is an old man who can remember the first time he was allowed to go shooting. what a remorseless young destroyer he was, to be sure! wherever he saw a feather, wherever a poor little squirrel showed his bushy tail, bang! went the old "king's arm," and the feathers or the fur were set flying like so much chaff. now that same old man,--the mortal that was called by his name and has passed for the same person for some scores of years,--is considered absurdly sentimental by kind-hearted women, because he opens the fly-trap and sets all its captives free,--out-of-doors, of course, but the dear souls all insisting, meanwhile, that the flies will, every one of them, be back again in the house before the day is over. do you suppose that venerable sinner expects to be rigorously called to account for the want of feeling he showed in those early years, when the instinct of destruction, derived from his forest-roaming ancestors, led him to acts which he now looks upon with pain and aversion? "senex" has seen three generations grow up, the son repeating the virtues and the failings of the father, the grandson showing the same characteristics as the father and grandfather. he knows that if such or such a young fellow had lived to the next stage of life he would very probably have caught up with his mother's virtues, which, like a graft of a late fruit on an early apple or pear tree, do not ripen in her children until late in the season. he has seen the successive ripening of one quality after another on the boughs of his own life, and he finds it hard to condemn himself for faults which only needed time to fall off and be succeeded by better fruitage. i cannot help thinking that the recording angel not only drops a tear upon many a human failing, which blots it out forever, but that he hands many an old record-book to the imp that does his bidding, and orders him to throw that into the fire instead of the sinner for whom the little wretch had kindled it. "and pitched him in after it, i hope," said number seven, who is in some points as much of an optimist as any one among us, in spite of the squint in his brain,--or in virtue of it, if you choose to have it so. "i like wordsworth's 'matthew,'" said number five, "as well as any picture of old age i remember." "can you repeat it to us?" asked one of the teacups. "i can recall two verses of it," said number five, and she recited the two following ones. number five has a very sweet voice. the moment she speaks all the faces turn toward her. i don't know what its secret is, but it is a voice that makes friends of everybody. "'the sighs which matthew heaved were sighs of one tired out with fun and madness; the tears which came to matthew's eyes were tears of light, the dew of gladness. "'yet, sometimes, when the secret cup of still and serious thought went round, it seemed as if he drank it up, he felt with spirit so profound:' "this was the way in which wordsworth paid his tribute to a "'soul of god's best earthly mould.'" the sweet voice left a trance-like silence after it, which may have lasted twenty heart-beats. then i said, we all thank you for your charming quotation. how much more wholesome a picture of humanity than such stuff as the author of the "night thoughts" has left us: "heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself that hideous sight, a naked human heart." or the author of "don juan," telling us to look into "man's heart, and view the hell that's there!" i hope i am quoting correctly, but i am more of a scholar in wordsworth than in byron. was parson young's own heart such a hideous spectacle to himself? if it was, he had better have stripped off his surplice. no,--it was nothing but the cant of his calling. in byron it was a mood, and he might have said just the opposite thing the next day, as he did in his two descriptions of the venus de' medici. that picture of old matthew abides in the memory, and makes one think better of his kind. what nobler tasks has the poet than to exalt the idea of manhood, and to make the world we live in more beautiful? we have two or three young people with us who stand a fair chance of furnishing us the element without which life and tea-tables alike are wanting in interest. we are all, of course, watching them, and curious to know whether we are to have a romance or not. here is one of them; others will show themselves presently. i cannot say just how old the tutor is, but i do not detect a gray hair in his head. my sight is not so good as it was, however, and he may have turned the sharp corner of thirty, and even have left it a year or two behind him. more probably he is still in the twenties,--say twenty-eight or twenty-nine. he seems young, at any rate, excitable, enthusiastic, imaginative, but at the same time reserved. i am afraid that he is a poet. when i say "i am afraid," you wonder what i mean by the expression. i may take another opportunity to explain and justify it; i will only say now that i consider the muse the most dangerous of sirens to a young man who has his way to make in the world. now this young man, the tutor, has, i believe, a future before him. he was born for a philosopher,--so i read his horoscope,--but he has a great liking for poetry and can write well in verse. we have had a number of poems offered for our entertainment, which i have commonly been requested to read. there has been some little mystery about their authorship, but it is evident that they are not all from the same hand. poetry is as contagious as measles, and if a single case of it break out in any social circle, or in a school, there are certain to be a number of similar cases, some slight, some serious, and now and then one so malignant that the subject of it should be put on a spare diet of stationery, say from two to three penfuls of ink and a half sheet of notepaper per diem. if any of our poetical contributions are presentable, the reader shall have a chance to see them. it must be understood that our company is not invariably made up of the same persons. the mistress, as we call her, is expected to be always in her place. i make it a rule to be present. the professor is almost as sure to be at the table as i am. we should hardly know what to do without number five. it takes a good deal of tact to handle such a little assembly as ours, which is a republic on a small scale, for all that they give me the title of dictator, and number five is a great help in every social emergency. she sees when a discussion tends to become personal, and heads off the threatening antagonists. she knows when a subject has been knocking about long enough and dexterously shifts the talk to another track. it is true that i am the one most frequently appealed to as the highest tribunal in doubtful cases, but i often care more for number five's opinion than i do for my own. who is this number five, so fascinating, so wise, so full of knowledge, and so ready to learn? she is suspected of being the anonymous author of a book which produced a sensation when published, not very long ago, and which those who read are very apt to read a second time, and to leave on their tables for frequent reference. but we have never asked her. i do not think she wants to be famous. how she comes to be unmarried is a mystery to me; it must be that she has found nobody worth caring enough for. i wish she would furnish us with the romance which, as i said, our tea-table needs to make it interesting. perhaps the new-comer will make love to her,--i should think it possible she might fancy him. and who is the new-comer? he is a counsellor and a politician. has a good war record. is about forty-five years old, i conjecture. is engaged in a great law case just now. said to be very eloquent. has an intellectual head, and the bearing of one who has commanded a regiment or perhaps a brigade. altogether an attractive person, scholarly, refined has some accomplishments not so common as they might be in the class we call gentlemen, with an accent on the word. there is also a young doctor, waiting for his bald spot to come, so that he may get into practice. we have two young ladies at the table,--the english girl referred to in a former number, and an american girl of about her own age. both of them are students in one of those institutions--i am not sure whether they call it an "annex" or not; but at any rate one of those schools where they teach the incomprehensible sort of mathematics and other bewildering branches of knowledge above the common level of high-school education. they seem to be good friends, and form a very pleasing pair when they walk in arm in arm; nearly enough alike to seem to belong together, different enough to form an agreeable contrast. of course we were bound to have a musician at our table, and we have one who sings admirably, and accompanies himself, or one or more of our ladies, very frequently. such is our company when the table is full. but sometimes only half a dozen, or it may be only three or four, are present. at other times we have a visitor or two, either in the place of one of our habitual number, or in addition to it. we have the elements, we think, of a pleasant social gathering,--different sexes, ages, pursuits, and tastes,--all that is required for a "symphony concert" of conversation. one of the curious questions which might well be asked by those who had been with us on different occasions would be, "how many poets are there among you?" nobody can answer this question. it is a point of etiquette with us not to press our inquiries about these anonymous poems too sharply, especially if any of them betray sentiments which would not bear rough handling. i don't doubt that the different personalities at our table will get mixed up in the reader's mind if he is not particularly clear-headed. that happens very often, much oftener than all would be willing to confess, in reading novels and plays. i am afraid we should get a good deal confused even in reading our shakespeare if we did not look back now and then at the dramatis personae. i am sure that i am very apt to confound the characters in a moderately interesting novel; indeed, i suspect that the writer is often no better off than the reader in the dreary middle of the story, when his characters have all made their appearance, and before they have reached near enough to the denoument to have fixed their individuality by the position they have arrived at in the chain of the narrative. my reader might be a little puzzled when he read that number five did or said such or such a thing, and ask, "whom do you mean by that title? i am not quite sure that i remember." just associate her with that line of emerson, "why nature loves the number five," and that will remind you that she is the favorite of our table. you cannot forget who number seven is if i inform you that he specially prides himself on being a seventh son of a seventh son. the fact of such a descent is supposed to carry wonderful endowments with it. number seven passes for a natural healer. he is looked upon as a kind of wizard, and is lucky in living in the nineteenth century instead of the sixteenth or earlier. how much confidence he feels in himself as the possessor of half-supernatural gifts i cannot say. i think his peculiar birthright gives him a certain confidence in his whims and fancies which but for that he would hardly feel. after this explanation, when i speak of number five or number seven, you will know to whom i refer. the company are very frank in their criticisms of each other. "i did not like that expression of yours, planetary foundlings," said the mistress. "it seems to me that it is too like atheism for a good christian like you to use." ah, my dear madam, i answered, i was thinking of the elements and the natural forces to which man was born an almost helpless subject in the rudimentary stages of his existence, and from which he has only partially got free after ages upon ages of warfare with their tyranny. think what hunger forced the caveman to do! think of the surly indifference of the storms that swept the forest and the waters, the earthquake chasms that engulfed him, the inundations that drowned him out of his miserable hiding-places, the pestilences that lay in wait for him, the unequal strife with ferocious animals! i need not sum up all the wretchedness that goes to constitute the "martyrdom of man." when our forefathers came to this wilderness as it then was, and found everywhere the bones of the poor natives who had perished in the great plague (which our doctor there thinks was probably the small-pox), they considered this destructive malady as a special mark of providential favor for them. how about the miserable indians? were they anything but planetary foundlings? no! civilization is a great foundling hospital, and fortunate are all those who get safely into the creche before the frost or the malaria has killed them, the wild beasts or the venomous reptiles worked out their deadly appetites and instincts upon them. the very idea of humanity seems to be that it shall take care of itself and develop its powers in the "struggle for life." whether we approve it or not, if we can judge by the material record, man was born a foundling, and fought his way as he best might to that kind of existence which we call civilized,--one which a considerable part of the inhabitants of our planet have reached. if you do not like the expression planetary foundlings, i have no objection to your considering the race as put out to nurse. and what a nurse nature is! she gives her charge a hole in the rocks to live in, ice for his pillow and snow for his blanket, in one part of the world; the jungle for his bedroom in another, with the tiger for his watch-dog, and the cobra as his playfellow. well, i said, there may be other parts of the universe where there are no tigers and no cobras. it is not quite certain that such realms of creation are better off, on the whole, than this earthly residence of ours, which has fought its way up to the development of such centres of civilization as athens and rome, to such personalities as socrates, as washington. "one of our company has been on an excursion among the celestial bodies of our system, i understand," said the professor. number five colored. "nothing but a dream," she said. "the truth is, i had taken ether in the evening for a touch of neuralgia, and it set my imagination at work in a way quite unusual with me. i had been reading a number of books about an ideal condition of society,--sir thomas mores 'utopia,' lord bacon's 'new atlantis,' and another of more recent date. i went to bed with my brain a good deal excited, and fell into a deep slumber, in which i passed through some experiences so singular that, on awaking, i put them down on paper. i don't know that there is anything very original about the experiences i have recorded, but i thought them worth preserving. perhaps you would not agree with me in that belief." "if number five will give us a chance to form our own judgment about her dream or vision, i think we shall enjoy it," said the mistress. "she knows what will please the teacups in the way of reading as well as i do how many lumps of sugar the professor wants in his tea and how many i want in mine." the company was so urgent that number five sent up-stairs for her paper. number five reads the story of her dream. it cost me a great effort to set down the words of the manuscript from which i am reading. my dreams for the most part fade away so soon after their occurrence that i cannot recall them at all. but in this case my ideas held together with remarkable tenacity. by keeping my mind steadily upon the work, i gradually unfolded the narrative which follows, as the famous italian antiquary opened one of those fragile carbonized manuscripts found in the ruins of herculaneum or pompeii. the first thing i remember about it is that i was floating upward, without any sense of effort on my part. the feeling was that of flying, which i have often had in dreams, as have many other persons. it was the most natural thing in the world,--a semi-materialized volition, if i may use such an expression. at the first moment of my new consciousness,--for i seemed to have just emerged from a deep slumber, i was aware that there was a companion at my side. nothing could be more gracious than the way in which this being accosted me. i will speak of it as she, because there was a delicacy, a sweetness, a divine purity, about its aspect that recalled my ideal of the loveliest womanhood. "i am your companion and your guide," this being made me understand, as she looked at me. some faculty of which i had never before been conscious had awakened in me, and i needed no interpreter to explain the unspoken language of my celestial attendant. "you are not yet outside of space and time," she said, "and i am going with you through some parts of the phenomenal or apparent universe,--what you call the material world. we have plenty of what you call time before us, and we will take our voyage leisurely, looking at such objects of interest as may attract our attention as we pass. the first thing you will naturally wish to look at will be the earth you have just left. this is about the right distance," she said, and we paused in our flight. the great globe we had left was rolling beneath us. no eye of one in the flesh could see it as i saw or seemed to see it. no ear of any mortal being could bear the sounds that came from it as i heard or seemed to hear them. the broad oceans unrolled themselves before me. i could recognize the calm pacific and the stormy atlantic,--the ships that dotted them, the white lines where the waves broke on the shore,--frills on the robes of the continents,--so they looked to my woman's perception; the--vast south american forests; the glittering icebergs about the poles; the snowy mountain ranges, here and there a summit sending up fire and smoke; mighty rivers, dividing provinces within sight of each other, and making neighbors of realms thousands of miles apart; cities; light-houses to insure the safety of sea-going vessels, and war-ships to knock them to pieces and sink them. all this, and infinitely more, showed itself to me during a single revolution of the sphere: twenty-four hours it would have been, if reckoned by earthly measurements of time. i have not spoken of the sounds i heard while the earth was revolving under us. the howl of storms, the roar and clash of waves, the crack and crash of the falling thunderbolt,--these of course made themselves heard as they do to mortal ears. but there were other sounds which enchained my attention more than these voices of nature. as the skilled leader of an orchestra hears every single sound from each member of the mob of stringed and wind instruments, and above all the screech of the straining soprano, so my sharpened perceptions made what would have been for common mortals a confused murmur audible to me as compounded of innumerable easily distinguished sounds. above them all arose one continued, unbroken, agonizing cry. it was the voice of suffering womanhood, a sound that goes up day and night, one long chorus of tortured victims. "let us get out of reach of this," i said; and we left our planet, with its blank, desolate moon staring at it, as if it had turned pale at the sights and sounds it had to witness. presently the gilded dome of the state house, which marked our starting-point, came into view for the second time, and i knew that this side-show was over. i bade farewell to the common with its cogswell fountain, and the garden with its last awe-inspiring monument. "oh, if i could sometimes revisit these beloved scenes!" i exclaimed. "there is nothing to hinder that i know of," said my companion. "memory and imagination as you know them in the flesh are two winged creatures with strings tied to their legs, and anchored to a bodily weight of a hundred and fifty pounds, more or less. when the string is cut you can be where you wish to be,--not merely a part of you, leaving the rest behind, but the whole of you. why shouldn't you want to revisit your old home sometimes?" i was astonished at the human way in which my guide conversed with me. it was always on the basis of my earthly habits, experiences, and limitations. "your solar system," she said, "is a very small part of the universe, but you naturally feel a curiosity about the bodies which constitute it and about their inhabitants. there is your moon: a bare and desolate-looking place it is, and well it may be, for it has no respirable atmosphere, and no occasion for one. the lunites do not breathe; they live without waste and without supply. you look as if you do not understand this. yet your people have, as you well know, what they call incandescent lights everywhere. you would have said there can be no lamp without oil or gas, or other combustible substance, to feed it; and yet you see a filament which sheds a light like that of noon all around it, and does not waste at all. so the lunites live by influx of divine energy, just as the incandescent lamp glows,--glows, and is not consumed; receiving its life, if we may call it so, from the central power, which wears the unpleasant name of 'dynamo.'" the lunites appeared to me as pale phosphorescent figures of ill-defined outline, lost in their own halos, as it were. i could not help thinking of shelley's "maiden with white fire laden." but as the lunites were after all but provincials, as are the tenants of all the satellites, i did not care to contemplate them for any great length of time. i do not remember much about the two planets that came next to our own, except the beautiful rosy atmosphere of one and the huge bulk of the other. presently, we found ourselves within hailing distance of another celestial body, which i recognized at once, by the rings which girdled it, as the planet saturn. a dingy, dull-looking sphere it was in its appearance. "we will tie up here for a while," said my attendant. the easy, familiar way in which she spoke surprised and pleased me. why, said i,--the dictator,--what is there to prevent beings of another order from being as cheerful, as social, as good companions, as the very liveliest of god's creatures whom we have known in the flesh? is it impossible for an archangel to smile? is such a phenomenon as a laugh never heard except in our little sinful corner of the universe? do you suppose, that when the disciples heard from the lips of their master the play of words on the name of peter, there was no smile of appreciation on the bearded faces of those holy men? from any other lips we should have called this pleasantry a-- number five shook her head very slightly, and gave me a look that seemed to say, "don't frighten the other teacups. we don't call things by the names that belong to them when we deal with celestial subjects." we tied up, as my attendant playfully called our resting, so near the planet that i could know--i will not say see and hear, but apprehend--all that was going on in that remote sphere; remote, as we who live in what we have been used to consider the centre of the rational universe regard it. what struck me at once was the deadness of everything i looked upon. dead, uniform color of surface and surrounding atmosphere. dead complexion of all the inhabitants. dead-looking trees, dead-looking grass, no flowers to be seen anywhere. "what is the meaning of all this?" i said to my guide. she smiled good-naturedly, and replied, "it is a forlorn home for anything above a lichen or a toadstool; but that is no wonder, when you know what the air is which they breathe. it is pure nitrogen." the professor spoke up. "that can't be, madam," he said. "the spectroscope shows the atmosphere of saturn to be--no matter, i have forgotten what; but it was not pure nitrogen, at any rate." number five is never disconcerted. "will you tell me," she said, "where you have found any account of the bands and lines in the spectrum of dream-nitrogen? i should be so pleased to become acquainted with them." the professor winced a little, and asked delilah, the handmaiden, to pass a plate of muffins to him. the dream had carried him away, and he thought for the moment that he was listening to a scientific paper. of course, my companion went on to say, the bodily constitution of the saturnians is wholly different from that of air-breathing, that is oxygen-breathing, human beings. they are the dullest, slowest, most torpid of mortal creatures. all this is not to be wondered at when you remember the inert characteristics of nitrogen. there are in some localities natural springs which give out slender streams of oxygen. you will learn by and by what use the saturnians make of this dangerous gas, which, as you recollect, constitutes about one fifth of your own atmosphere. saturn has large lead mines, but no other metal is found on this planet. the inhabitants have nothing else to make tools of, except stones and shells. the mechanical arts have therefore made no great progress among them. chopping down a tree with a leaden axe is necessarily a slow process. so far as the saturnians can be said to have any pride in anything, it is in the absolute level which characterizes their political and social order. they profess to be the only true republicans in the solar system. the fundamental articles of their constitution are these: all saturnians are born equal, live equal, and die equal. all saturnians are born free,--free, that is, to obey the rules laid down for the regulation of their conduct, pursuits, and opinions, free to be married to the person selected for them by the physiological section of the government, and free to die at such proper period of life as may best suit the convenience and general welfare of the community. the one great industrial product of saturn is the bread-root. the saturnians find this wholesome and palatable enough; and it is well they do, as they have no other vegetable. it is what i should call a most uninteresting kind of eatable, but it serves as food and drink, having juice enough, so that they get along without water. they have a tough, dry grass, which, matted together, furnishes them with clothes sufficiently warm for their cold-blooded constitutions, and more than sufficiently ugly. a piece of ground large enough to furnish bread-root for ten persons is allotted to each head of a household, allowance being made for the possible increase of families. this, however, is not a very important consideration, as the saturnians are not a prolific race. the great object of life being the product of the largest possible quantity of bread-roots, and women not being so capable in the fields as the stronger sex, females are considered an undesirable addition to society. the one thing the saturnians dread and abhor is inequality. the whole object of their laws and customs is to maintain the strictest equality in everything,--social relations, property, so far as they can be said to have anything which can be so called, mode of living, dress, and all other matters. it is their boast that nobody ever starved under their government. nobody goes in rags, for the coarse-fibred grass from which they fabricate their clothes is very durable. (i confess i wondered how a woman could live in saturn. they have no looking-glasses. there is no such article as a ribbon known among them. all their clothes are of one pattern. i noticed that there were no pockets in any of their garments, and learned that a pocket would be considered prima facie evidence of theft, as no honest person would have use for such a secret receptacle.) before the revolution which established the great law of absolute and lifelong equality, the inhabitants used to feed at their own private tables. since the regeneration of society all meals are taken in common. the last relic of barbarism was the use of plates,--one or even more to each individual. this "odious relic of an effete civilization," as they called it, has long been superseded by oblong hollow receptacles, one of which is allotted to each twelve persons. a great riot took place when an attempt was made by some fastidious and exclusive egotists to introduce partitions which should partially divide one portion of these receptacles into individual compartments. the saturnians boast that they have no paupers, no thieves, none of those fictitious values called money,--all which things, they hear, are known in that small saturn nearer the sun than the great planet which is their dwelling-place. "i suppose that now they have levelled everything they are quiet and contented. have they any of those uneasy people called reformers?" "indeed they have," said my attendant. "there are the orthobrachians, who declaim against the shameful abuse of the left arm and hand, and insist on restoring their perfect equality with the right. then there are isopodic societies, which insist on bringing back the original equality of the upper and lower limbs. if you can believe it, they actually practise going on all fours,--generally in a private way, a few of them together, but hoping to bring the world round to them in the near future." here i had to stop and laugh. "i should think life might be a little dull in saturn," i said. "it is liable to that accusation," she answered. "do you notice how many people you meet with their mouths stretched wide open?" "yes," i said, "and i do not know what to make of it. i should think every fourth or fifth person had his mouth open in that way." "they are suffering from the endemic disease of their planet, prolonged and inveterate gaping or yawning, which has ended in dislocation of the lower jaw. after a time this becomes fixed, and requires a difficult surgical operation to restore it to its place." it struck me that, in spite of their boast that they have no paupers, no thieves, no money, they were a melancholy-looking set of beings. "what are their amusements?" i asked. "intoxication and suicide are their chief recreations. they have a way of mixing the oxygen which issues in small jets from certain natural springs with their atmospheric nitrogen in the proportion of about twenty per cent, which makes very nearly the same thing as the air of your planet. but to the saturnians the mixture is highly intoxicating, and is therefore a relief to the monotony of their every-day life. this mixture is greatly sought after, but hard to obtain, as the sources of oxygen are few and scanty. it shortens the lives of those who have recourse to it; but if it takes too long, they have other ways of escaping from a life which cuts and dries everything for its miserable subjects, defeats all the natural instincts, confounds all individual characteristics, and makes existence such a colossal bore, as your worldly people say, that self-destruction becomes a luxury." number five stopped here. your imaginary wholesale shakerdom is all very fine, said i. your utopia, your new atlantis, and the rest are pretty to look at. but your philosophers are treating the world of living souls as if they were, each of them, playing a game of solitaire,--all the pegs and all the holes alike. life is a very different sort of game. it is a game of chess, and not of solitaire, nor even of checkers. the men are not all pawns, but you have your knights, bishops, rooks,--yes, your king and queen,--to be provided for. not with these names, of course, but all looking for their proper places, and having their own laws and modes of action. you can play solitaire with the members of your own family for pegs, if you like, and if none of them rebel. you can play checkers with a little community of meek, like-minded people. but when it comes to the handling of a great state, you will find that nature has emptied a box of chessmen before you, and you must play with them so as to give each its proper move, or sweep them off the board, and come back to the homely game such as i used to see played with beans and kernels of corn on squares marked upon the back of the kitchen bellows. it was curious to see how differently number five's narrative was received by the different listeners in our circle. number five herself said she supposed she ought to be ashamed of its absurdities, but she did not know that it was much sillier than dreams often are, and she thought it might amuse the company. she was herself always interested by these ideal pictures of society. but it seemed to her that life must be dull in any of them, and with that idea in her head her dreaming fancy had drawn these pictures. the professor was interested in her conception of the existence of the lunites without waste, and the death in life of the nitrogen-breathing saturnians. dream-chemistry was a new subject to him. perhaps number five would give him some lessons in it. at this she smiled, and said she was afraid she could not teach him anything, but if he would answer a few questions in matter-of-fact chemistry which had puzzled her she would be vastly obliged to him. "you must come to my laboratory," said the professor. "i will come to-morrow," said number five. oh, yes! much laboratory work they will do! play of mutual affinities. amalgamates. no freezing mixtures, i'll warrant! why shouldn't we get a romance out of all this, hey? but number five looks as innocent as a lamb, and as brave as a lion. she does not care a copper for the looks that are going round the teacups. our doctor was curious about those cases of anchylosis, as he called it, of the lower jaw. he thought it a quite possible occurrence. both the young girls thought the dream gave a very hard view of the optimists, who look forward to a reorganization of society which shall rid mankind of the terrible evils of over-crowding and competition. number seven was quite excited about the matter. he had himself drawn up a plan for a new social arrangement. he had shown it to the legal gentleman who has lately joined us. this gentleman thought it well-intended, but that it would take one constable to every three inhabitants to enforce its provisions. i said the dream could do no harm; it was too outrageously improbable to come home to anybody's feelings. dreams were like broken mosaics,--the separated stones might here and there make parts of pictures. if one found a caricature of himself made out of the pieces which had accidentally come together, he would smile at it, knowing that it was an accidental effect with no malice in it. if any of you really believe in a working utopia, why not join the shakers, and convert the world to this mode of life? celibacy alone would cure a great many of the evils you complain of. i thought this suggestion seemed to act rather unfavorably upon the ladies of our circle. the two annexes looked inquiringly at each other. number five looked smilingly at them. she evidently thought it was time to change the subject of conversation, for she turned to me and said, "you promised to read us the poem you read before your old classmates the other evening." i will fulfill my promise, i said. we felt that this might probably be our last meeting as a class. the personal reference is to our greatly beloved and honored classmate, james freeman clarke. after the curfew. the play is over. while the light yet lingers in the darkening hall, i come to say a last good-night before the final exeunt all. we gathered once, a joyous throng: the jovial toasts went gayly round; with jest, and laugh, and shout, and song we made the floors and walls resound. we come with feeble steps and slow, a little band of four or five, left from the wrecks of long ago, still pleased to find ourselves alive. alive! how living, too, are they whose memories it is ours to share! spread the long table's full array, there sits a ghost in every chair! one breathing form no more, alas! amid our slender group we see; with him we still remained "the class," without his presence what are we? the hand we ever loved to clasp, that tireless hand which knew no rest, loosed from affection's clinging grasp, lies nerveless on the peaceful breast. the beaming eye, the cheering voice, that lent to life a generous glow, whose every meaning said "rejoice," we see, we hear, no more below. the air seems darkened by his loss, earth's shadowed features look less fair, and heavier weighs the daily cross his willing shoulders helped as bear. why mourn that we, the favored few whom grasping time so long has spared life's sweet illusions to pursue, the common lot of age have shared? in every pulse of friendship's heart there breeds unfelt a throb of pain, one hour must rend its links apart, though years on years have forged the chain. so ends "the boys,"--a lifelong play. we too must hear the prompter's call to fairer scenes and brighter day farewell! i let the curtain fall. iv if the reader thinks that all these talking teacups came together by mere accident, as people meet at a boarding-house, i may as well tell him at once that he is mistaken. if he thinks i am going to explain how it is that he finds them thus brought together, whether they form a secret association, whether they are the editors of this or that periodical, whether they are connected with some institution, and so on,--i must disappoint him. it is enough that he finds them in each other's company, a very mixed assembly, of different sexes, ages, and pursuits; and if there is a certain mystery surrounds their meetings, he must not be surprised. does he suppose we want to be known and talked about in public as "teacups"? no; so far as we give to the community some records of the talks at our table our thoughts become public property, but the sacred personality of every teacup must be properly respected. if any wonder at the presence of one of our number, whose eccentricities might seem to render him an undesirable associate of the company, he should remember that some people may have relatives whom they feel bound to keep their eye on; besides the cracked teacup brings out the ring of the sound ones as nothing else does. remember also that soundest teacup does not always hold the best tea, or the cracked teacup the worst. this is a hint to the reader, who is not expected to be too curious about the individual teacups constituting our unorganized association. the dictator discourses. i have been reading balzac's peau de chagrin. you have all read the story, i hope, for it is the first of his wonderful romances which fixed the eyes of the reading world upon him, and is a most fascinating if somewhat fantastic tale. a young man becomes the possessor of a certain magic skin, the peculiarity of which is that, while it gratifies every wish formed by its possessor, it shrinks in all its dimensions each time that a wish is gratified. the young man makes every effort to ascertain the cause of its shrinking; invokes the aid of the physicist, the chemist, the student of natural history, but all in vain. he draws a red line around it. that same day he indulges a longing for a certain object. the next morning there is a little interval between the red line and the skin, close to which it was traced. so always, so inevitably. as he lives on, satisfying one desire, one passion, after another, the process of shrinking continues. a mortal disease sets in, which keeps pace with the shrinking skin, and his life and his talisman come to an end together. one would say that such a piece of integument was hardly a desirable possession. and yet, how many of us have at this very moment a peau de chagrin of our own, diminishing with every costly wish indulged, and incapable, like the magical one of the story, of being arrested in its progress. need i say that i refer to those coupon bonds, issued in the days of eight and ten per cent interest, and gradually narrowing as they drop their semiannual slips of paper, which represent wishes to be realized, as the roses let fall their leaves in july, as the icicles melt away in the thaw of january? how beautiful was the coupon bond, arrayed in its golden raiment of promises to pay at certain stated intervals, for a goodly number of coming years! what annual the horticulturist can show will bear comparison with this product of auricultural industry, which has flowered in midsummer and midwinter for twenty successive seasons? and now the last of its blossoms is to be plucked, and the bare stem, stripped of its ever maturing and always welcome appendages, is reduced to the narrowest conditions of reproductive existence. such is the fate of the financial peau de chagrin. pity the poor fractional capitalist, who has just managed to live on the eight per cent of his coupon bonds. the shears of atropos were not more fatal to human life than the long scissors which cut the last coupon to the lean proprietor, whose slice of dry toast it served to flatter with oleomargarine. do you wonder that my thoughts took the poetical form, in the contemplation of these changes and their melancholy consequences? if the entire poem, of several hundred lines, was "declined with thanks" by an unfeeling editor, that is no reason why you should not hear a verse or two of it. the peau de chagrin of state street. how beauteous is the bond in the manifold array of its promises to pay, while the eight per cent it gives and the rate at which one lives correspond! but at last the bough is bare where the coupons one by one through their ripening days have run, and the bond, a beggar now, seeks investment anyhow, anywhere! the mistress commonly contents herself with the general supervision of the company, only now and then taking an active part in the conversation. she started a question the other evening which set some of us thinking. "why is it," she said, "that there is so common and so intense a desire for poetical reputation? it seems to me that, if i were a man, i had rather have done something worth telling of than make verses about what other people had done." "you agree with alexander the great," said the professor. "you would prefer the fame of achilles to that of homer, who told the story of his wrath and its direful consequences. i am afraid that i should hardly agree with you. achilles was little better than a choctaw brave. i won't quote horace's line which characterizes him so admirably, for i will take it for granted that you all know it. he was a gentleman,--so is a first-class indian,--a very noble gentleman in point of courage, lofty bearing, courtesy, but an unsoaped, ill-clad, turbulent, high-tempered young fellow, looked up to by his crowd very much as the champion of the heavy weights is looked up to by his gang of blackguards. alexander himself was not much better,--a foolish, fiery young madcap. how often is he mentioned except as a warning? his best record is that he served to point a moral as 'macedonian's madman.' he made a figure, it is true, in dryden's great ode, but what kind of a figure? he got drunk,--in very bad company, too,--and then turned fire-bug. he had one redeeming point,--he did value his homer, and slept with the iliad under his pillow. a poet like homer seems to me worth a dozen such fellows as achilles and alexander." "homer is all very well far those that can read him," said number seven, "but the fellows that tag verses together nowadays are mostly fools. that's my opinion. i wrote some verses once myself, but i had been sick and was very weak; hadn't strength enough to write in prose, i suppose." this aggressive remark caused a little stir at our tea-table. for you must know, if i have not told you already, there are suspicions that we have more than one "poet" at our table. i have already confessed that i do myself indulge in verse now and then, and have given my readers a specimen of my work in that line. but there is so much difference of character in the verses which are produced at our table, without any signature, that i feel quite sure there are at least two or three other contributors besides myself. there is a tall, old-fashioned silver urn, a sugar-bowl of the period of the empire, in which the poems sent to be read are placed by unseen hands. when the proper moment arrives, i lift the cover of the urn and take out any manuscript it may contain. if conversation is going on and the company are in a talking mood, i replace the manuscript or manuscripts, clap on the cover, and wait until there is a moment's quiet before taking it off again. i might guess the writers sometimes by the handwriting, but there is more trouble taken to disguise the chirography than i choose to take to identify it as that of any particular member of our company. the turn the conversation took, especially the slashing onslaught of number seven on the writers of verse, set me thinking and talking about the matter. number five turned on the stream of my discourse by a question. "you receive a good many volumes of verse, do you not?" she said, with a look which implied that she knew i did. i certainly do, i answered. my table aches with them. my shelves groan with them. think of what a fuss pope made about his trials, when he complained that "all bedlam or parnassus is let out"! what were the numbers of the "mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease" to that great multitude of contributors to our magazines, and authors of little volumes--sometimes, alas! big ones--of verse, which pour out of the press, not weekly, but daily, and at such a rate of increase that it seems as if before long every hour would bring a book, or at least an article which is to grow into a book by and by? i thanked heaven, the other day, that i was not a critic. these attenuated volumes of poetry in fancy bindings open their covers at one like so many little unfledged birds, and one does so long to drop a worm in,--a worm in the shape of a kind word for the poor fledgling! but what a desperate business it is to deal with this army of candidates for immortality! i have often had something to say about them, and i may be saying over the same things; but if i do not remember what i have said, it is not very likely that my reader will; if he does, he will find, i am very sure, that i say it a little differently. what astonishes me is that this enormous mass of commonplace verse, which burdens the postman who brings it, which it is a serious task only to get out of its wrappers and open in two or three places, is on the whole of so good an average quality. the dead level of mediocrity is in these days a table-land, a good deal above the old sea-level of laboring incapacity. sixty years ago verses made a local reputation, which verses, if offered today to any of our first-class magazines, would go straight into the waste-basket. to write "poetry" was an art and mystery in which only a few noted men and a woman or two were experts. when "potter the ventriloquist," the predecessor of the well-remembered signor blitz, went round giving his entertainments, there was something unexplained, uncanny, almost awful, and beyond dispute marvellous, in his performances. those watches that disappeared and came back to their owners, those endless supplies of treasures from empty hats, and especially those crawling eggs that travelled all over the magician's person, sent many a child home thinking that mr. potter must have ghostly assistants, and raised grave doubts in the minds of "professors," that is members of the church, whether they had not compromised their characters by being seen at such an unhallowed exhibition. nowadays, a clever boy who has made a study of parlor magic can do many of those tricks almost as well as the great sorcerer himself. how simple it all seems when we have seen the mechanism of the deception! it is just so with writing in verse. it was not understood that everybody can learn to make poetry, just as they can learn the more difficult tricks of juggling. m. jourdain's discovery that he had been speaking and writing prose all his life is nothing to that of the man who finds out in middle life, or even later, that he might have been writing poetry all his days, if he had only known how perfectly easy and simple it is. not everybody, it is true, has a sufficiently good ear, a sufficient knowledge of rhymes and capacity for handling them, to be what is called a poet. i doubt whether more than nine out of ten, in the average, have that combination of gifts required for the writing of readable verse. this last expression of opinion created a sensation among the teacups. they looked puzzled for a minute. one whispered to the next teacup, "more than nine out of ten! i should think that was a pretty liberal allowance." yes, i continued; perhaps ninety-nine in a hundred would come nearer to the mark. i have sometimes thought i might consider it worth while to set up a school for instruction in the art. "poetry taught in twelve lessons." congenital idiocy is no disqualification. anybody can write "poetry." it is a most unenviable distinction to leave published a thin volume of verse, which nobody wanted, nobody buys, nobody reads, nobody cares for except the author, who cries over its pathos, poor fellow, and revels in its beauties, which he has all to himself. come! who will be my pupils in a course,--poetry taught in twelve lessons? that made a laugh, in which most of the teacups, myself included, joined heartily. through it all i heard the sweet tones of number five's caressing voice; not because it was more penetrating or louder than the others, for it was low and soft, but it was so different from the others, there was so much more life,--the life of sweet womanhood,--dissolved in it. (of course he will fall in love with her. "he? who?" why, the newcomer, the counsellor. did i not see his eyes turn toward her as the silvery notes rippled from her throat? did they not follow her in her movements, as she turned her tread this or that way? --what nonsense for me to be arranging matters between two people strangers to each other before to-day!) "a fellow writes in verse when he has nothing to say, and feels too dull and silly to say it in prose," said number seven. this made us laugh again, good-naturedly. i was pleased with a kind of truth which it seemed to me to wrap up in its rather startling affirmation. i gave a piece of advice the other day which i said i thought deserved a paragraph to itself. it was from a letter i wrote not long ago to an unknown young correspondent, who had a longing for seeing himself in verse but was not hopelessly infatuated with the idea that he was born a "poet." "when you write in prose," i said, "you say what you mean. when you write in verse you say what you must." i was thinking more especially of rhymed verse. rhythm alone is a tether, and not a very long one. but rhymes are iron fetters; it is dragging a chain and ball to march under their incumbrance; it is a clog-dance you are figuring in, when you execute your metrical pas seul. consider under what a disadvantage your thinking powers are laboring when you are handicapped by the inexorable demands of our scanty english rhyming vocabulary! you want to say something about the heavenly bodies, and you have a beautiful line ending with the word stars. were you writing in prose, your imagination, your fancy, your rhetoric, your musical ear for the harmonies of language, would all have full play. but there is your rhyme fastening you by the leg, and you must either reject the line which pleases you, or you must whip your hobbling fancy and all your limping thoughts into the traces which are hitched to one of three or four or half a dozen serviceable words. you cannot make any use of cars, i will suppose; you have no occasion to talk about scars; "the red planet mars" has been used already; dibdin has said enough about the gallant tars; what is there left for you but bars? so you give up your trains of thought, capitulate to necessity, and manage to lug in some kind of allusion, in place or out of place, which will allow you to make use of bars. can there be imagined a more certain process for breaking up all continuity of thought, for taking out all the vigor, all the virility, which belongs to natural prose as the vehicle of strong, graceful, spontaneous thought, than this miserable subjugation of intellect to the-clink of well or ill matched syllables? i think you will smile if i tell you of an idea i have had about teaching the art of writing "poems" to the half-witted children at the idiot asylum. the trick of rhyming cannot be more usefully employed than in furnishing a pleasant amusement to the poor feeble-minded children. i should feel that i was well employed in getting up a primer for the pupils of the asylum, and other young persons who are incapable of serious thought and connected expression. i would start in the simplest way; thus:-- when darkness veils the evening.... i love to close my weary.... the pupil begins by supplying the missing words, which most children who are able to keep out of fire and water can accomplish after a certain number of trials. when the poet that is to be has got so as to perform this task easily, a skeleton verse, in which two or three words of each line are omitted, is given the child to fill up. by and by the more difficult forms of metre are outlined, until at length a feebleminded child can make out a sonnet, completely equipped with its four pairs of rhymes in the first section and its three pairs in the second part. number seven interrupted my discourse somewhat abruptly, as is his wont; for we grant him a license, in virtue of his eccentricity, which we should hardly expect to be claimed by a perfectly sound teacup. "that's the way,--that 's the way!" exclaimed he. "it's just the same thing as my plan for teaching drawing." some curiosity was shown among the teacups to know what the queer creature had got into his mind, and number five asked him, in her irresistible tones, if he wouldn't oblige us by telling us all about it. he looked at her a moment without speaking. i suppose he has often been made fun of,--slighted in conversation, taken as a butt for people who thought themselves witty, made to feel as we may suppose a cracked piece of china-ware feels when it is clinked in the company of sound bits of porcelain. i never saw him when he was carelessly dealt with in conversation,--for it would sometimes happen, even at our table,--without recalling some lines of emerson which always struck me as of wonderful force and almost terrible truthfulness:-- "alas! that one is born in blight, victim of perpetual slight when thou lookest in his face thy heart saith, 'brother, go thy ways none shall ask thee what thou doest, or care a rush for what thou knowest, or listen when thou repliest, or remember where thou liest, or how thy supper is sodden;' and another is born to make the sun forgotten." poor fellow! number seven has to bear a good deal in the way of neglect and ridicule, i do not doubt. happily, he is protected by an amount of belief in himself which shields him from many assailants who would torture a more sensitive nature. but the sweet voice of number five and her sincere way of addressing him seemed to touch his feelings. that was the meaning of his momentary silence, in which i saw that his eyes glistened and a faint flush rose on his cheeks. in a moment, however, as soon as he was on his hobby, he was all right, and explained his new and ingenious system as follows: "a man at a certain distance appears as a dark spot,--nothing more. good. anybody, man, woman, or child, can make a dot, say a period, such as we use in writing. lesson no. . make a dot; that is, draw your man, a mile off, if that is far enough. now make him come a little nearer, a few rods, say. the dot is an oblong figure now. good. let your scholar draw the oblong figure. it is as easy as it is to make a note of admiration. your man comes nearer, and now some hint of a bulbous enlargement at one end, and perhaps of lateral appendages and a bifurcation, begins to show itself. the pupil sets down with his pencil just what he sees,--no more. so by degrees the man who serves as model approaches. a bright pupil will learn to get the outline of a human figure in ten lessons, the model coming five hundred feet nearer each time. a dull one may require fifty, the model beginning a mile off, or more, and coming a hundred feet nearer at each move." the company were amused by all this, but could not help seeing that there was a certain practical possibility about the scheme. our two annexes, as we call then, appeared to be interested in the project, or fancy, or whim, or whatever the older heads might consider it. "i guess i'll try it," said the american annex. "quite so," answered the english annex. why the first girl "guessed" about her own intentions it is hard to say. what "quite so" referred to it would not be easy to determine. but these two expressions would decide the nationality of our two young ladies if we met them on the top of the great pyramid. i was very glad that number seven had interrupted me. in fact, it is a good thing once in a while to break in upon the monotony of a steady talker at a dinner-table, tea-table, or any other place of social converse. the best talker is liable to become the most formidable of bores. it is a peculiarity of the bore that he is the last person to find himself out. many a terebrant i have known who, in that capacity, to borrow a line from coleridge, "was great, nor knew how great he was." a line, by the way, which, as i have remarked, has in it a germ like that famous "he builded better than he knew" of emerson. there was a slight lull in the conversation. the mistress, who keeps an eye on the course of things, and feared that one of those panic silences was impending, in which everybody wants to say something and does not know just what to say, begged me to go on with my remarks about the "manufacture" of "poetry." you use the right term, madam, i said. the manufacture of that article has become an extensive and therefore an important branch of industry. one must be an editor, which i am not, or a literary confidant of a wide circle of correspondents, which i am, to have any idea of the enormous output of verse which is characteristic of our time. there are many curious facts connected with this phenomenon. educated people--yes, and many who are not educated--have discovered that rhymes are not the private property of a few noted writers who, having squatted on that part of the literary domain some twenty or forty or sixty years ago, have, as it were, fenced it in with their touchy, barbed-wire reputations, and have come to regard it and cause it to be regarded as their private property. the discovery having been made that rhyme is not a paddock for this or that race-horse, but a common, where every colt, pony, and donkey can range at will; a vast irruption into that once-privileged inclosure has taken place. the study of the great invasion is interesting. poetry is commonly thought to be the language of emotion. on the contrary, most of what is so called proves the absence of all passionate excitement. it is a cold-blooded, haggard, anxious, worrying hunt after rhymes which can be made serviceable, after images which will be effective, after phrases which are sonorous; all this under limitations which restrict the natural movements of fancy and imagination. there is a secondary excitement in overcoming the difficulties of rhythm and rhyme, no doubt, but this is not the emotional heat excited by the subject of the "poet's" treatment. true poetry, the best of it, is but the ashes of a burnt-out passion. the flame was in the eye and in the cheek, the coals may be still burning in the heart, but when we come to the words it leaves behind it, a little warmth, a cinder or two just glimmering under the dead gray ashes,--that is all we can look for. when it comes to the manufactured article, one is surprised to find how well the metrical artisans have learned to imitate the real thing. they catch all the phrases of the true poet. they imitate his metrical forms as a mimic copies the gait of the person he is representing. now i am not going to abuse "these same metre ballad-mongers," for the obvious reason that, as all the teacups know, i myself belong to the fraternity. i don't think that this reason should hinder my having my say about the ballad-mongering business. for the last thirty years i have been in the habit of receiving a volume of poems or a poem, printed or manuscript--i will not say daily, though i sometimes receive more than one in a day, but at very short intervals. i have been consulted by hundreds of writers of verse as to the merit of their performances, and have often advised the writers to the best of my ability. of late i have found it impossible to attempt to read critically all the literary productions, in verse and in prose, which have heaped themselves on every exposed surface of my library, like snowdrifts along the railroad tracks,--blocking my literary pathway, so that i can hardly find my daily papers. what is the meaning of this rush into rhyming of such a multitude of people, of all ages, from the infant phenomenon to the oldest inhabitant? many of my young correspondents have told me in so many words, "i want to be famous." now it is true that of all the short cuts to fame, in time of peace, there is none shorter than the road paved with rhymes. byron woke up one morning and found himself famous. still more notably did rouget de l'isle fill the air of france, nay, the whole atmosphere of freedom all the world over, with his name wafted on the wings of the marseillaise, the work of a single night. but if by fame the aspirant means having his name brought before and kept before the public, there is a much cheaper way of acquiring that kind of notoriety. have your portrait taken as a "wonderful cure of a desperate disease given up by all the doctors." you will get a fair likeness of yourself and a partial biographical notice, and have the satisfaction, if not of promoting the welfare of the community, at least that of advancing the financial interests of the benefactor whose enterprise has given you your coveted notoriety. if a man wants to be famous, he had much better try the advertising doctor than the terrible editor, whose waste-basket is a maw which is as insatiable as the temporary stomach of jack the giant-killer. "you must not talk so," said number five. "i know you don't mean any wrong to the true poets, but you might be thought to hold them cheap, whereas you value the gift in others,--in yourself too, i rather think. there are a great many women,--and some men,--who write in verse from a natural instinct which leads them to that form of expression. if you could peep into the portfolio of all the cultivated women among your acquaintances, you would be surprised, i believe, to see how many of them trust their thoughts and feelings to verse which they never think of publishing, and much of which never meets any eyes but their own. don't be cruel to the sensitive natures who find a music in the harmonies of rhythm and rhyme which soothes their own souls, if it reaches no farther." i was glad that number five spoke up as she did. her generous instinct came to the rescue of the poor poets just at the right moment. not that i meant to deal roughly with them, but the "poets" i have been forced into relation with have impressed me with certain convictions which are not flattering to the fraternity, and if my judgments are not accompanied by my own qualifications, distinctions, and exceptions, they may seem harsh to many readers. let me draw a picture which many a young man and woman, and some no longer young, will recognize as the story of their own experiences. --he is sitting alone with his own thoughts and memories. what is that book he is holding? something precious, evidently, for it is bound in "tree calf," and there is gilding enough about it for a birthday present. the reader seems to be deeply absorbed in its contents, and at times greatly excited by what he reads; for his face is flushed, his eyes glitter, and--there rolls a large tear down his cheek. listen to him; he is reading aloud in impassioned tones: and have i coined my soul in words for naught? and must i, with the dim, forgotten throng of silent ghosts that left no earthly trace to show they once had breathed this vital air, die out, of mortal memories? his voice is choked by his emotion. "how is it possible," he says to himself, "that any one can read my 'gaspings for immortality' without being impressed by their freshness, their passion, their beauty, their originality?" tears come to his relief freely,--so freely that he has to push the precious volume out of the range of their blistering shower. six years ago "gaspings for immortality" was published, advertised, praised by the professionals whose business it is to boost their publishers' authors. a week and more it was seen on the counters of the booksellers and at the stalls in the railroad stations. then it disappeared from public view. a few copies still kept their place on the shelves of friends,--presentation copies, of course, as there is no evidence that any were disposed of by sale; and now, one might as well ask for the lost books of livy as inquire at a bookstore for "gaspings for immortality." the authors of these poems are all round us, men and women, and no one with a fair amount of human sympathy in his disposition would treat them otherwise than tenderly. perhaps they do not need tender treatment. how do you know that posterity may not resuscitate these seemingly dead poems, and give their author the immortality for which he longed and labored? it is not every poet who is at once appreciated. some will tell you that the best poets never are. who can say that you, dear unappreciated brother or sister, are not one of those whom it is left for after times to discover among the wrecks of the past, and hold up to the admiration of the world? i have not thought it necessary to put in all the interpellations, as the french call them, which broke the course of this somewhat extended series of remarks; but the comments of some of the teacups helped me to shape certain additional observations, and may seem to the reader as of more significance than what i had been saying. number seven saw nothing but the folly and weakness of the "rhyming cranks," as he called them. he thought the fellow that i had described as blubbering over his still-born poems would have been better occupied in earning his living in some honest way or other. he knew one chap that published a volume of verses, and let his wife bring up the wood for the fire by which he was writing. a fellow says, "i am a poet!" and he thinks himself different from common folks. he ought to be excused from military service. he might be killed, and the world would lose the inestimable products of his genius. "i believe some of 'em think," said number seven, "that they ought not to be called upon to pay their taxes and their bills for household expenses, like the rest of us." "if they would only study and take to heart horace's 'ars poetica,'" said the professor, "it would be a great benefit to them and to the world at large. i would not advise you to follow him too literally, of course, for, as you will see, the changes that have taken place since his time would make some of his precepts useless and some dangerous, but the spirit of them is always instructive. this is the way, somewhat modernized and accompanied by my running commentary, in which he counsels a young poet: "'don't try to write poetry, my boy, when you are not in the mood for doing it,--when it goes against the grain. you are a fellow of sense,--you understand all that. "'if you have written anything which you think well of, show it to mr.______ , the well-known critic; to "the governor," as you call him,--your honored father; and to me, your friend.' "to the critic is well enough, if you like to be overhauled and put out of conceit with yourself,--it may do you good; but i wouldn't go to 'the governor' with my verses, if i were you. for either he will think what you have written is something wonderful, almost as good as he could have written himself,--in fact, he always did believe in hereditary genius,--or he will pooh-pooh the whole rhyming nonsense, and tell you that you had a great deal better stick to your business, and leave all the word-jingling to mother goose and her followers. "'show me your verses,' says horace. very good it was in him, and mighty encouraging the first counsel he gives! 'keep your poem to yourself for some eight or ten years; you will have time to look it over, to correct it and make it fit to present to the public.' "'much obliged for your advice,' says the poor poet, thirsting for a draught of fame, and offered a handful of dust. and off he hurries to the printer, to be sure that his poem comes out in the next number of the magazine he writes for." "is not poetry the natural language of lovers?" it was the tutor who asked this question, and i thought he looked in the direction of number five, as if she might answer his question. but number five stirred her tea devotedly; there was a lump of sugar, i suppose, that acted like a piece of marble. so there was a silence while the lump was slowly dissolving, and it was anybody's chance who saw fit to take up the conversation. the voice that broke the silence was not the sweet, winsome one we were listening for, but it instantly arrested the attention of the company. it was the grave, manly voice of one used to speaking, and accustomed to be listened to with deference. this was the first time that the company as a whole had heard it, for the speaker was the new-comer who has been repeatedly alluded to,--the one of whom i spoke as "the counsellor." "i think i can tell you something about that," said the counsellor. "i suppose you will wonder how a man of my profession can know or interest himself about a question so remote from his arid pursuits. and yet there is hardly one man in a thousand who knows from actual experience a fraction of what i have learned of the lovers' vocabulary in my professional experience. i have, i am sorry to say, had to take an important part in a great number of divorce cases. these have brought before me scores and hundreds of letters, in which every shade of the great passion has been represented. what has most struck me in these amatory correspondences has been their remarkable sameness. it seems as if writing love-letters reduced all sorts of people to the same level. i don't remember whether lord bacon has left us anything in that line,--unless, indeed, he wrote romeo and juliet' and the 'sonnets;' but if he has, i don't believe they differ so very much from those of his valet or his groom to their respective lady-loves. it is always, my darling! my darling! the words of endearment are the only ones the lover wants to employ, and he finds the vocabulary too limited for his vast desires. so his letters are apt to be rather tedious except to the personage to whom they are addressed. as to poetry, it is very common to find it in love-letters, especially in those that have no love in them. the letters of bigamists and polygamists are rich in poetical extracts. occasionally, an original spurt in rhyme adds variety to an otherwise monotonous performance. i don't think there is much passion in men's poetry addressed to women. i agree with the dictator that poetry is little more than the ashes of passion; still it may show that the flame has had its sweep where you find it, unless, indeed, it is shoveled in from another man's fireplace." "what do you say to the love poetry of women?" asked the professor. "did ever passion heat words to incandescence as it did those of sappho?" the counsellor turned,--not to number five, as he ought to have done, according to my programme, but to the mistress. "madam," he said, "your sex is adorable in many ways, but in the abandon of a genuine love-letter it is incomparable. i have seen a string of women's love-letters, in which the creature enlaced herself about the object of her worship as that south american parasite which clasps the tree to which it has attached itself, begins with a slender succulent network, feeds on the trunk, spreads its fingers out to hold firmly to one branch after another, thickens, hardens, stretches in every direction, following the boughs,--and at length gets strong enough to hold in its murderous arms, high up in air, the stump and shaft of the once sturdy growth that was its support and subsistence." the counsellor did not say all this quite so formally as i have set it down here, but in a much easier way. in fact, it is impossible to smooth out a conversation from memory without stiffening it; you can't have a dress shirt look quite right without starching the bosom. some of us would have liked to hear more about those letters in the divorce cases, but the counsellor had to leave the table. he promised to show us some pictures he has of the south american parasite. i have seen them, and i can assure you they are very curious. the following verses were found in the urn, or sugar-bowl. cacoethes scribendi. if all the trees in all the woods were men, and each and every blade of grass a pen; if every leaf on every shrub and tree turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes had nothing else to do but act as scribes, and for ten thousand ages, day and night, the human race should write, and write, and write, till all the pens and paper were used up, and the huge inkstand was an empty cup, still would the scribblers clustered round its brim call for more pens, more paper, and more ink. v "dolce, ma non troppo dolce," said the professor to the mistress, who was sweetening his tea. she always sweetens his and mine for us. he has been attending a series of concerts, and borrowed the form of the directions to the orchestra. "sweet, but not too sweet," he said, translating the italian for the benefit of any of the company who might not be linguists or musical experts. "do you go to those musical hullabaloos?" called out number seven. there was something very much like rudeness in this question and the tone in which it was asked. but we are used to the outbursts, and extravagances, and oddities of number seven, and do not take offence at his rough speeches as we should if any other of the company uttered them. "if you mean the concerts that have been going on this season, yes, i do," said the professor, in a bland, good-humored way. "and do you take real pleasure in the din of all those screeching and banging and growling instruments?" "yes," he answered, modestly, "i enjoy the brouhaha, if you choose to consider it such, of all this quarrelsome menagerie of noise-making machines, brought into order and harmony by the presiding genius, the leader, who has made a happy family of these snarling stringed instruments and whining wind instruments, so that although "linguae centum sent, oraque centum, "notwithstanding there are a hundred vibrating tongues and a hundred bellowing mouths, their one grand blended and harmonized uproar sets all my fibres tingling with a not unpleasing tremor." "do you understand it? do you take any idea from it? do you know what it all means?" said number seven. the professor was long-suffering under this series of somewhat peremptory questions. he replied very placidly, "i am afraid i have but a superficial outside acquaintance with the secrets, the unfathomable mysteries, of music. i can no more conceive of the working conditions of the great composer, "'untwisting all the chains that tie the hidden soul of harmony,' "than a child of three years can follow the reasonings of newton's 'principia.' i do not even pretend that i can appreciate the work of a great master as a born and trained musician does. still, i do love a great crash of harmonies, and the oftener i listen to these musical tempests the higher my soul seems to ride upon them, as the wild fowl i see through my window soar more freely and fearlessly the fiercer the storm with which they battle." "that's all very well," said number seven, "but i wish we could get the old-time music back again. you ought to have heard,--no, i won't mention her, dead, poor girl,--dead and singing with the saints in heaven,--but the s_____ girls. if you could have heard them as i did when i was a boy, you would have cried, as we all used to. do you cry at those great musical smashes? how can you cry when you don't know what it is all about? we used to think the words meant something,--we fancied that burns and moore said some things very prettily. i suppose you've outgrown all that." no one can handle number seven in one of his tantrums half so well as number five can do it. she can pick out what threads of sense may be wound off from the tangle of his ideas when they are crowded and confused, as they are apt to be at times. she can soften the occasional expression of half-concealed ridicule with which the poor old fellow's sallies are liable to be welcomed--or unwelcomed. she knows that the edge of a broken teacup may be sharper, very possibly, than that of a philosopher's jackknife. a mind a little off its balance, one which has a slightly squinting brain as its organ; will often prove fertile in suggestions. vulgar, cynical, contemptuous listeners fly at all its weaknesses, and please themselves with making light of its often futile ingenuities, when a wiser audience would gladly accept a hint which perhaps could be developed in some profitable direction, or so interpret an erratic thought that it should prove good sense in disguise. that is the way number five was in the habit of dealing with the explosions of number seven. do you think she did not see the ridiculous element in a silly speech, or the absurdity of an outrageously extravagant assertion? then you never heard her laugh when she could give way to her sense of the ludicrous without wounding the feelings of any other person. but her kind heart never would forget itself, and so number seven had a champion who was always ready to see that his flashes of intelligence, fitful as they were, and liable to be streaked with half-crazy fancies, always found one willing recipient of what light there was in them. number five, i have found, is a true lover of music, and has a right to claim a real knowledge of its higher and deeper mysteries. but she accepted very cordially what our light-headed companion said about the songs he used to listen to. "there is no doubt," she remarked, "that the tears which used to be shed over 'oft in the sully night,' or 'auld robin gray,' or 'a place in thy memory, dearest,' were honest tears, coming from the true sources of emotion. there was no affectation about them; those songs came home to the sensibilities of young people,--of all who had any sensibilities to be acted upon. and on the other hand, there is a great amount of affectation in the apparent enthusiasm of many persons in admiring and applauding music of which they have not the least real appreciation. they do not know whether it is good or bad, the work of a first-rate or a fifth-rate composer; whether there are coherent elements in it, or whether it is nothing more than 'a concourse of sweet sounds' with no organic connections. one must be educated, no doubt, to understand the more complex and difficult kinds of musical composition. go to the great concerts where you know that the music is good, and that you ought to like it whether you do or not. take a music-bath once or twice a week for a few seasons, and you will find that it is to the soul what the water-bath is to the body. i wouldn't trouble myself about the affectations of people who go to this or that series of concerts chiefly because it is fashionable. some of these people whom we think so silly and hold so cheap will perhaps find, sooner or later, that they have a dormant faculty which is at last waking up,--and that they who came because others came, and began by staring at the audience, are listening with a newly found delight. every one of us has a harp under bodice or waistcoat, and if it can only once get properly strung and tuned it will respond to all outside harmonies." the professor has some ideas about music, which i believe he has given to the world in one form or another; but the world is growing old and forgetful, and needs to be reminded now and then of what one has formerly told it. "i have had glimpses," the professor said, "of the conditions into which music is capable of bringing a sensitive nature. glimpses, i say, because i cannot pretend that i am capable of sounding all the depths or reaching all the heights to which music may transport our mortal consciousness. let me remind you of a curious fact with reference to the seat of the musical sense. far down below the great masses of thinking marrow and its secondary agents, just as the brain is about to merge in the spinal cord, the roots of the nerve of hearing spread their white filaments out into the sentient matter, where they report what the external organs of hearing tell them. this sentient matter is in remote connection only with the mental organs, far more remote than the centres of the sense of vision and that of smell. in a word, the musical faculty might be said to have a little brain of its own. it has a special world and a private language all to itself. how can one explain its significance to those whose musical faculties are in a rudimentary state of development, or who have never had them trained? can you describe in intelligible language the smell of a rose as compared with that of a violet? no,--music can be translated only by music. just so far as it suggests worded thought, it falls short of its highest office. pure emotional movements of the spiritual nature,--that is what i ask of music. music will be the universal language,--the volapuk of spiritual being." "angels sit down with their harps and play at each other, i suppose," said number seven. "must have an atmosphere up there if they have harps, or they wouldn't get any music. wonder if angels breathe like mortals? if they do, they must have lungs and air passages, of course. think of an angel with the influenza, and nothing but a cloud for a handkerchief!" --this is a good instance of the way in which number seven's squinting brain works. you will now and then meet just such brains in heads you know very well. their owners are much given to asking unanswerable questions. a physicist may settle it for us whether there is an atmosphere about a planet or not, but it takes a brain with an extra fissure in it to ask these unexpected questions,--questions which the natural philosopher cannot answer, and which the theologian never thinks of asking. the company at our table do not keep always in the same places. the first thing i noticed, the other evening, was that the tutor was sitting between the two annexes, and the counsellor was next to number five. something ought to come of this arrangement. one of those two young ladies must certainly captivate and perhaps capture the tutor. they are just the age to be falling in love and to be fallen in love with. the tutor is good looking, intellectual, suspected of writing poetry, but a little shy, it appears to me. i am glad to see him between the two girls. if there were only one, she might be shy too, and then there would be less chance for a romance such as i am on the lookout for; but these young persons lend courage to each other, and between them, if he does not wake up like cymon at the sight of iphigenia, i shall be disappointed. as for the counsellor and number five, they will soon find each other out. yes, it is all pretty clear in my mind,--except that there is always an x in a problem where sentiments are involved. no, not so clear about the tutor. predestined, i venture my guess, to one or the other, but to which? i will suspend my opinion for the present. i have found out that the counsellor is a childless widower. i am told that the tutor is unmarried, and so far as known not engaged. there is no use in denying it,--a company without the possibility of a love-match between two of its circle is like a champagne bottle with the cork out for some hours as compared to one with its pop yet in reserve. however, if there should be any love-making, it need not break up our conversations. most of it will be carried on away from our tea-table. some of us have been attending certain lectures on egypt and its antiquities. i have never been on the nile. if in any future state there shall be vacations in which we may have liberty to revisit our old home, equipped with a complete brand-new set of mortal senses as our travelling outfit, i think one of the first places i should go to, after my birthplace, the old gambrel-roofed house,--the place where it stood, rather,--would be that mighty, awe-inspiring river. i do not suppose we shall ever know half of what we owe to the wise and wonderful people who confront us with the overpowering monuments of a past which flows out of the unfathomable darkness as the great river streams from sources even as yet but imperfectly explored. i have thought a good deal about egypt, lately, with reference to our historical monuments. how did the great unknown mastery who fixed the two leading forms of their monumental records arrive at those admirable and eternal types, the pyramid and the obelisk? how did they get their model of the pyramid? here is an hour-glass, not inappropriately filled with sand from the great egyptian desert. i turn it, and watch the sand as it accumulates in the lower half of the glass. how symmetrically, how beautifully, how inevitably, the little particles pile up the cone, which is ever building and unbuilding itself, always aiming at the stability which is found only at a certain fixed angle! the egyptian children playing in the sand must have noticed this as they let the grains fall from their hands, and the sloping sides of the miniature pyramid must have been among the familiar sights to the little boys and girls for whom the sand furnished their earliest playthings. nature taught her children through the working of the laws of gravitation how to build so that her forces should act in harmony with art, to preserve the integrity of a structure meant to reach a far-off posterity. the pyramid is only the cone in which nature arranges her heaped and sliding fragments; the cone with flattened surfaces, as it is prefigured in certain well-known crystalline forms. the obelisk is from another of nature's patterns; it is only a gigantic acicular crystal. the egyptians knew what a monument should be, simple, noble, durable. it seems to me that we americans might take a lesson from those early architects. our cemeteries are crowded with monuments which are very far from simple, anything but noble, and stand a small chance of being permanent. the pyramid is rarely seen, perhaps because it takes up so much room; and when built on a small scale seems insignificant as we think of it, dwarfed by the vast structures of antiquity. the obelisk is very common, and when in just proportions and of respectable dimensions is unobjectionable. but the gigantic obelisks like that on bunker hill, and especially the washington monument at the national capital, are open to critical animadversion. let us contrast the last mentioned of these great piles with the obelisk as the egyptian conceived and executed it. the new pharaoh ordered a memorial of some important personage or event. in the first place, a mighty stone was dislodged from its connections, and lifted, unbroken, from the quarry. this was a feat from which our modern stone-workers shrink dismayed. the egyptians appear to have handled these huge monoliths as our artisans handle hearthstones and doorsteps, for the land actually bristled with such giant columns. they were shaped and finished as nicely as if they were breastpins for the titans to wear, and on their polished surfaces were engraved in imperishable characters the records they were erected to preserve. europe and america borrow these noble productions of african art and power, and find them hard enough to handle after they have succeeded in transporting them to rome, or london, or new york. their simplicity, grandeur, imperishability, speaking symbolism, shame all the pretentious and fragile works of human art around them. the obelisk has no joints for the destructive agencies of nature to attack; the pyramid has no masses hanging in unstable equilibrium, and threatening to fall by their own weight in the course of a thousand or two years. america says the father of his country must have a monument worthy of his exalted place in history. what shall it be? a temple such as athens might have been proud to rear upon her acropolis? an obelisk such as thebes might have pointed out with pride to the strangers who found admission through her hundred gates? after long meditation and the rejection of the hybrid monstrosities with which the nation was menaced, an obelisk is at last decided upon. how can it be made grand and dignified enough to be equal to the office assigned it? we dare not attempt to carve a single stone from the living rock,--all our modern appliances fail to make the task as easy to us as it seems to have been to the early egyptians. no artistic skill is required in giving a four-square tapering figure to a stone column. if we cannot shape a solid obelisk of the proper dimensions, we can build one of separate blocks. how can we give it the distinction we demand for it? the nation which can brag that it has "the biggest show on earth" cannot boast a great deal in the way of architecture, but it can do one thing,--it can build an obelisk that shall be taller than any structure now standing which the hand of man has raised. build an obelisk! how different the idea of such a structure from that of the unbroken, unjointed prismatic shaft, one perfect whole, as complete in itself, as fitly shaped and consolidated to defy the elements, as the towering palm or the tapering pine! well, we had the satisfaction for a time of claiming the tallest structure in the world; and now that the new tower of babel which has sprung up in paris has killed that pretention, i think we shall feel and speak more modestly about our stone hyperbole, our materialization of the american love of the superlative. we have the higher civilization among us, and we must try to keep down the forth-putting instincts of the lower. we do not want to see our national monument placarded as "the greatest show on earth,"--perhaps it is well that it is taken down from that bad eminence. i do not think that this speech of mine was very well received. it appeared to jar somewhat on the nerves of the american annex. there was a smile on the lips of the other annex,--the english girl,--which she tried to keep quiet, but it was too plain that she enjoyed my diatribe. it must be remembered that i and the other teacups, in common with the rest of our fellow-citizens, have had our sensibilities greatly worked upon, our patriotism chilled, our local pride outraged, by the monstrosities which have been allowed to deform our beautiful public grounds. we have to be very careful in conducting a visitor, say from his marble-fronted hotel to the city hall.--keep pretty straight along after entering the garden,--you will not care to inspect the little figure of the military gentleman to your right.--yes, the cochituate water is drinkable, but i think i would not turn aside to visit that small fabric which makes believe it is a temple, and is a weak-eyed fountain feebly weeping over its own insignificance. about that other stone misfortune, cruelly reminding us of the "boston massacre," we will not discourse; it is not imposing, and is rarely spoken of. what a mortification to the inhabitants of a city with some hereditary and contemporary claims to cultivation; which has noble edifices, grand libraries, educational institutions of the highest grade, an art-gallery filled with the finest models and rich in paintings and statuary,--a stately city that stretches both arms across the charles to clasp the hands of harvard, her twin-sister, each lending lustre to the other like double stars,--what a pity that she should be so disfigured by crude attempts to adorn her and commemorate her past that her most loving children blush for her artificial deformities amidst the wealth of her natural beauties! one hardly knows which to groan over most sadly,--the tearing down of old monuments, the shelling of the parthenon, the overthrow of the pillared temples of rome, and in a humbler way the destruction of the old hancock house, or the erection of monuments which are to be a perpetual eyesore to ourselves and our descendants. we got talking on the subject of realism, of which so much has been said of late. it seems to me, i said, that the great additions which have been made by realism to the territory of literature consist largely in swampy, malarious, ill-smelling patches of soil which had previously been left to reptiles and vermin. it is perfectly easy to be original by violating the laws of decency and the canons of good taste. the general consent of civilized people was supposed to have banished certain subjects from the conversation of well-bred people and the pages of respectable literature. there is no subject, or hardly any, which may not be treated of at the proper time, in the proper place, by the fitting person, for the right kind of listener or reader. but when the poet or the story-teller invades the province of the man of science, he is on dangerous ground. i need say nothing of the blunders he is pretty sure to make. the imaginative writer is after effects. the scientific man is after truth. science is decent, modest; does not try to startle, but to instruct. the same scenes and objects which outrage every sense of delicacy in the story teller's highly colored paragraphs can be read without giving offence in the chaste language of the physiologist or the physician. there is a very celebrated novel, "madame bovary," the work of m. flaubert, which is noted for having been the subject of prosecution as an immoral work. that it has a serious lesson there is no doubt, if one will drink down to the bottom of the cup. but the honey of sensuous description is spread so deeply over the surface of the goblet that a large proportion of its readers never think of its holding anything else. all the phases of unhallowed passion are described in full detail. that is what the book is bought and read for, by the great majority of its purchasers, as all but simpletons very well know. that is what makes it sell and brought it into the courts of justice. this book is famous for its realism; in fact, it is recognized as one of the earliest and most brilliant examples of that modern style of novel which, beginning where balzac left off, attempted to do for literature what the photograph has done for art. for those who take the trouble to drink out of the cup below the rim of honey, there is a scene where realism is carried to its extreme,--surpassed in horror by no writer, unless it be the one whose name must be looked for at the bottom of the alphabet, as if its natural place were as low down in the dregs of realism as it could find itself. this is the death-bed scene, where madame bovary expires in convulsions. the author must have visited the hospitals for the purpose of watching the terrible agonies he was to depict, tramping from one bed to another until he reached the one where the cries and contortions were the most frightful. such a scene he has reproduced. no hospital physician would have pictured the straggle in such colors. in the same way, that other realist, m. zola, has painted a patient suffering from delirium tremens, the disease known to common speech as "the horrors." in describing this case he does all that language can do to make it more horrible than the reality. he gives us, not realism, but super-realism, if such a term does not contradict itself. in this matter of the literal reproduction of sights and scenes which our natural instinct and our better informed taste and judgment teach us to avoid, art has been far in advance of literature. it is three hundred years since joseph ribera, more commonly known as spagnoletto, was born in the province valencia, in spain. we had the misfortune of seeing a painting of his in a collection belonging to one of the french princes, and exhibited at the art museum. it was that of a man performing upon himself the operation known to the japanese as hararkiri. many persons who looked upon this revolting picture will never get rid of its remembrance, and will regret the day when their eyes fell upon it. i should share the offence of the painter if i ventured to describe it. ribera was fond of depicting just such odious and frightful subjects. "saint lawrence writhing on his gridiron, saint sebastian full of arrows, were equally a source of delight to him. even in subjects which had no such elements of horror he finds the materials for the delectation of his ferocious pencil; he makes up for the defect by rendering with a brutal realism deformity and ugliness." the first great mistake made by the ultra-realists; like flaubert and zola, is, as i have said, their ignoring the line of distinction between imaginative art and science. we can find realism enough in books of anatomy, surgery, and medicine. in studying the human figure, we want to see it clothed with its natural integuments. it is well for the artist to study the ecorche in the dissecting-room, but we do not want the apollo or the venus to leave their skins behind them when they go into the gallery for exhibition. lancisi's figures show us how the great statues look when divested of their natural covering. it is instructive, but useful chiefly as a means to aid in the true artistic reproduction of nature. when the, hospitals are invaded by the novelist, he should learn something from the physician as well as from the patients. science delineates in monochrome. she never uses high tints and strontian lights to astonish lookers-on. such scenes as flaubert and zola describe would be reproduced in their essential characters, but not dressed up in picturesque phrases. that is the first stumbling-block in the way of the reader of such realistic stories as those to which i have referred. there are subjects which must be investigated by scientific men which most educated persons would be glad to know nothing about. when a realistic writer like zola surprises his reader into a kind of knowledge he never thought of wishing for, he sometimes harms him more than he has any idea of doing. he wants to produce a sensation, and he leaves a permanent disgust not to be got rid of. who does not remember odious images that can never be washed out from the consciousness which they have stained? a man's vocabulary is terribly retentive of evil words, and the images they present cling to his memory and will not loose their hold. one who has had the mischance to soil his mind by reading certain poems of swift will never cleanse it to its original whiteness. expressions and thoughts of a certain character stain the fibre of the thinking organ, and in some degree affect the hue of every idea that passes through the discolored tissues. this is the gravest accusation to bring against realism, old or recent, whether in the brutal paintings of spagnoletto or in the unclean revelations of zola. leave the description of the drains and cesspools to the hygienic specialist, the painful facts of disease to the physician, the details of the laundry to the washerwoman. if we are to have realism in its tedious descriptions of unimportant particulars, let it be of particulars which do not excite disgust. such is the description of the vegetables in zola's "ventre de paris," where, if one wishes to see the apotheosis of turnips, beets, and cabbages, he can find them glorified as supremely as if they had been symbols of so many deities; their forms, their colors, their expression, worked upon until they seem as if they were made to be looked at and worshipped rather than to be boiled and eaten. i am pleased to find a french critic of m. flaubert expressing ideas with which many of my own entirely coincide. "the great mistake of the realists," he says, "is that they profess to tell the truth because they tell everything. this puerile hunting after details, this cold and cynical inventory of all the wretched conditions in the midst of which poor humanity vegetates, not only do not help us to understand it better, but, on the contrary, the effect on the spectators is a kind of dazzled confusion mingled with fatigue and disgust. the material truthfulness to which the school of m. flaubert more especially pretends misses its aim in going beyond it. truth is lost in its own excess." i return to my thoughts on the relations of imaginative art in all its forms with science. the subject which in the hands of the scientific student is handled decorously,--reverently, we might almost say,--becomes repulsive, shameful, and debasing in the unscrupulous manipulations of the low-bred man of letters. i confess that i am a little jealous of certain tendencies in our own american literature, which led one of the severest and most outspoken of our satirical fellow-countrymen, no longer living to be called to account for it, to say; in a moment of bitterness, that the mission of america was to vulgarize mankind. i myself have sometimes wondered at the pleasure some old world critics have professed to find in the most lawless freaks of new world literature. i have questioned whether their delight was not like that of the spartans in the drunken antics of their helots. but i suppose i belong to another age, and must not attempt to judge the present by my old-fashioned standards. the company listened very civilly to these remarks, whether they agreed with them or not. i am not sure that i want all the young people to think just as i do in matters of critical judgment. new wine does not go well into old bottles, but if an old cask has held good wine, it may improve a crude juice to stand awhile upon the lees of that which once filled it. i thought the company had had about enough of this disquisition. they listened very decorously, and the professor, who agrees very well with me, as i happen to know, in my views on this business of realism, thanked me for giving them the benefit of my opinion. the silence that followed was broken by number seven's suddenly exclaiming,-- "i should like to boss creation for a week!" this expression was an outbreak suggested by some train of thought which number seven had been following while i was discoursing. i do not think one of the company looked as if he or she were shocked by it as an irreligious or even profane speech. it is a better way always, in dealing with one of those squinting brains, to let it follow out its own thought. it will keep to it for a while; then it will quit the rail, so to speak, and run to any side-track which may present itself. "what is the first thing you would do?" asked number five in a pleasant, easy way. "the first thing? pick out a few thousand of the best specimens of the best races, and drown the rest like so many blind puppies." "why," said she, "that was tried once, and does not seem to have worked very well." "very likely. you mean noah's flood, i suppose. more people nowadays, and a better lot to pick from than noah had." "do tell us whom you would take with you," said number five. "you, if you would go," he answered, and i thought i saw a slight flush on his cheek. "but i didn't say that i should go aboard the new ark myself. i am not sure that i should. no, i am pretty sure that i shouldn't. i don't believe, on the whole, it would pay me to save myself. i ain't of much account. but i could pick out some that were." and just now he was saying that he should like to boss the universe! all this has nothing very wonderful about it. every one of us is subject to alternations of overvaluation and undervaluation of ourselves. do you not remember soliloquies something like this? "was there ever such a senseless, stupid creature as i am? how have i managed to keep so long out of the idiot asylum? undertook to write a poem, and stuck fast at the first verse. had a call from a friend who had just been round the world. did n't ask him one word about what he had seen or heard, but gave him full details of my private history, i having never been off my own hearth-rug for more than an hour or two at a time, while he was circumnavigating and circumrailroading the globe. yes, if anybody can claim the title, i am certainly the prize idiot." i am afraid that we all say such things as this to ourselves at times. do we not use more emphatic words than these in our self-depreciation? i cannot say how it is with others, but my vocabulary of self-reproach and humiliation is so rich in energetic expressions that i should be sorry to have an interviewer present at an outburst of one of its raging geysers, its savage soliloquies. a man is a kind of inverted thermometer, the bulb uppermost, and the column of self-valuation is all the time going up and down. number seven is very much like other people in this respect,--very much like you and me. this train of reflections must not carry me away from number seven. "if i can't get a chance to boss this planet for a week or so," he began again, "i think i could write its history,--yes, the history of the world, in less compass than any one who has tried it so far." "you know sir walter raleigh's 'history of the world,' of course?" said the professor. "more or less,--more or less," said number seven prudently. "but i don't care who has written it before me. i will agree to write the story of two worlds, this and the next, in such a compact way that you can commit them both to memory in less time than you can learn the answer to the first question in the catechism." what he had got into his head we could not guess, but there was no little curiosity to discover the particular bee which was buzzing in his bonnet. he evidently enjoyed our curiosity, and meant to keep us waiting awhile before revealing the great secret. "how many words do you think i shall want?" it is a formula, i suppose, i said, and i will grant you a hundred words. "twenty," said the professor. "that was more than the wise men of greece wanted for their grand utterances." the two annexes whispered together, and the american annex gave their joint result. one thousand was the number they had fixed on. they were used to hearing lectures, and could hardly conceive that any subject could be treated without taking up a good part of an hour. "less than ten," said number five. "if there are to be more than ten, i don't believe that number seven would think the surprise would be up to our expectations." "guess as much as you like," said number seven. "the answer will keep. i don't mean to say what it is until we are ready to leave the table." he took a blank card from his pocket-book, wrote something on it, or appeared, at any rate, to write, and handed it, face down, to the mistress. what was on the card will be found near the end of this paper. i wonder if anybody will be curious enough to look further along to find out what it was before she reads the next paragraph? in the mean time there is a train of thought suggested by number seven and his whims. if you want to know how to account for yourself, study the characters of your relations. all of our brains squint more or less. there is not one in a hundred, certainly, that does not sometimes see things distorted by double refraction, out of plumb or out of focus, or with colors which do not belong to it, or in some way betraying that the two halves of the brain are not acting in harmony with each other. you wonder at the eccentricities of this or that connection of your own. watch yourself, and you will find impulses which, but for the restraints you put upon them, would make you do the same foolish things which you laugh at in that cousin of yours. i once lived in the same house with the near relative of a very distinguished person, whose name is still honored and revered among us. his brain was an active one, like that of his famous relative, but it was full of random ideas, unconnected trains of thought, whims, crotchets, erratic suggestions. knowing him, i could interpret the mental characteristics of the whole family connection in the light of its exaggerated peculiarities as exhibited in my odd fellow-boarder. squinting brains are a great deal more common than we should at first sight believe. here is a great book, a solid octavo of five hundred pages, full of the vagaries of this class of organizations. i hope to refer to this work hereafter, but just now i will only say that, after reading till one is tired the strange fancies of the squarers of the circle, the inventors of perpetual motion, and the rest of the moonstruck dreamers, most persons will confess to themselves that they have had notions as wild, conceptions as extravagant, theories as baseless, as the least rational of those which are here recorded. some day i want to talk about my library. it is such a curious collection of old and new books, such a mosaic of learning and fancies and follies, that a glance over it would interest the company. perhaps i may hereafter give you a talk abut books, but while i am saying a few passing words upon the subject the greatest bibliographical event that ever happened in the book-market of the new world is taking place under our eyes. here is mr. bernard quaritch just come from his well-known habitat, no. piccadilly, with such a collection of rare, beautiful, and somewhat expensive volumes as the western continent never saw before on the shelves of a bibliopole. we bookworms are all of us now and then betrayed into an extravagance. the keen tradesmen who tempt us are like the fishermen who dangle a minnow, a frog, or a worm before the perch or pickerel who may be on the lookout for his breakfast. but mr. quaritch comes among us like that formidable angler of whom it is said, his hook he baited with a dragon's tail, and sat upon a rock and bobbed for whale. the two catalogues which herald his coming are themselves interesting literary documents. one can go out with a few shillings in his pocket, and venture among the books of the first of these catalogues without being ashamed to show himself with no larger furnishing of the means for indulging his tastes,--he will find books enough at comparatively modest prices. but if one feels very rich, so rich that it requires a good deal to frighten him, let him take the other catalogue and see how many books he proposes to add to his library at the prices affixed. here is a latin psalter with the canticles, from the press of fust and schoeffer, the second book issued from their press, the second book printed with a date, that date being . there are only eight copies of this work known to exist; you can have one of them, if so disposed, and if you have change enough in your pocket. twenty-six thousand two hundred and fifty dollars will make you the happy owner of this precious volume. if this is more than you want to pay, you can have the gold gospels of henry viii., on purple vellum, for about half the money. there are pages on pages of titles of works any one of which would be a snug little property if turned into money at its catalogue price. why will not our multimillionaires look over this catalogue of mr. quaritch, and detain some of its treasures on this side of the atlantic for some of our public libraries? we decant the choicest wines of europe into our cellars; we ought to be always decanting the precious treasures of her libraries and galleries into our own, as we have opportunity and means. as to the means, there are so many rich people who hardly know what to do with their money that it is well to suggest to them any new useful end to which their superfluity may contribute. i am not in alliance with mr. quaritch; in fact, i am afraid of him, for if i stayed a single hour in his library, where i never was but once, and then for fifteen minutes only, i should leave it so much poorer than i entered it that i should be reminded of the picture in the titlepage of fuller's 'historie of the holy warre,' "we went out full. we returned empty." --after the teacups were all emptied, the card containing number seven's abridged history of two worlds, this and the next, was handed round. this was all it held: after all had looked at it, it was passed back to me. "let the dictator interpret it," they all said. this is what i announced as my interpretation: two worlds, the higher and the lower, separated by the thinnest of partitions. the lower world is that of questions; the upper world is that of answers. endless doubt and unrest here below; wondering, admiring, adoring certainty above.--am i not right? "you are right," answered number seven solemnly. "that is my revelation." the following poem was found in the sugar-bowl. i read it to the company. there was much whispering and there were many conjectures as to its authorship, but every teacup looked innocent, and we separated each with his or her private conviction. i had mine, but i will not mention it. the rose and the fern. lady, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn, come thou with me to love's enchanted bower: high overhead the trellised roses burn; beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern, a leaf without a flower. what though the rose leaves fall? they still are sweet, and have been lovely in their beauteous prime, while the bare frond seems ever to repeat, "for us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet the joyous flowering time!" heed thou the lesson. life has leaves to tread and flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows; wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed, but while its petals still are burning red gather life's full-blown rose! vi of course the reading of the poem at the end of the last paper has left a deep impression. i strongly suspect that something very much like love-making is going on at our table. a peep under the lid of the sugar-bowl has shown me that there is another poem ready for the company. that receptacle is looked upon with an almost tremulous excitement by more than one of the teacups. the two annexes turn towards the mystic urn as if the lots which were to determine their destiny were shut up in it. number five, quieter, and not betraying more curiosity than belongs to the sex at all ages, glances at the sugarbowl now and then; looking so like a clairvoyant, that sometimes i cannot help thinking she must be one. there is a sly look about that young doctor's eyes, which might imply that he knows something about what the silver vessel holds, or is going to hold. the tutor naturally falls under suspicion, as he is known to have written and published poems. i suppose the professor and myself have hardly been suspected of writing love-poems; but there is no telling,--there is no telling. why may not some one of the lady teacups have played the part of a masculine lover? george sand, george eliot, charles egbert craddock, made pretty good men in print. the authoress of "jane eyre" was taken for a man by many persons. can number five be masquerading in verse? or is one of the two annexes the make believe lover? or did these girls lay their heads together, and send the poem we had at our last sitting to puzzle the company? it is certain that the mistress did not write the poem. it is evident that number seven, who is so severe in his talk about rhymesters, would not, if he could, make such a fool of himself as to set up for a "poet." why should not the counsellor fall in love and write verses? a good many lawyers have been "poets." perhaps the next poem, which may be looked for in its proper place, may help us to form a judgment. we may have several verse-writers among us, and if so there will be a good opportunity for the exercise of judgment in distributing their productions among the legitimate claimants. in the mean time, we must not let the love-making and the song-writing interfere with the more serious matters which these papers are expected to contain. number seven's compendious and comprehensive symbolism proved suggestive, as his whimsical notions often do. it always pleases me to take some hint from anything he says when i can, and carry it out in a direction not unlike that of his own remark. i reminded the company of his enigmatical symbol. you can divide mankind in the same way, i said. two words, each of two letters, will serve to distinguish two classes of human beings who constitute the principal divisions of mankind. can any of you tell what those two words are? "give me five letters," cried number seven, "and i can solve your problem! f-o-o-l-s,--those five letters will give you the first and largest half. for the other fraction"-- oh, but, said i, i restrict you absolutely to two letters. if you are going to take five, you may as well take twenty or a hundred. after a few attempts, the company gave it up. the nearest approach to the correct answer was number five's guess of oh and ah: oh signifying eternal striving after an ideal, which belongs to one kind of nature; and ah the satisfaction of the other kind of nature, which rests at ease in what it has attained. good! i said to number five, but not the answer i am after. the great division between human beings is into the ifs and the ases. "is the last word to be spelt with one or two s's?" asked the young doctor. the company laughed feebly at this question. i answered it soberly. with one s. there are more foolish people among the ifs than there are among the ases. the company looked puzzled, and asked for an explanation. this is the meaning of those two words as i interpret them: if it were,--if it might be,--if it could be,--if it had been. one portion of mankind go through life always regretting, always whining, always imagining. these are the people whose backbones remain cartilaginous all their lives long, as do those of certain other vertebrate animals,--the sturgeons, for instance. a good many poets must be classed with this group of vertebrates. as it is,--this is the way in which the other class of people look at the conditions in which they find themselves. they may be optimists or pessimists, they are very largely optimists,--but, taking things just as they find them, they adjust the facts to their wishes if they can; and if they cannot, then they adjust themselves to the facts. i venture to say that if one should count the ifs and the ases in the conversation of his acquaintances, he would find the more able and important persons among them--statesmen, generals, men of business--among the ases, and the majority of the conspicuous failures among the ifs. i don't know but this would be as good a test as that of gideon,--lapping the water or taking it up in the hand. i have a poetical friend whose conversation is starred as thick with ifs as a boiled ham is with cloves. but another friend of mine, a business man, whom i trust in making my investments, would not let me meddle with a certain stock which i fancied, because, as he said, "there are too many ifs in it. as it looks now, i would n't touch it." i noticed, the other evening, that some private conversation was going on between the counsellor and the two annexes. there was a mischievous look about the little group, and i thought they were hatching some plot among them. i did not hear what the english annex said, but the american girl's voice was sharper, and i overheard what sounded to me like, "it is time to stir up that young doctor." the counsellor looked very knowing, and said that he would find a chance before long. i was rather amused to see how readily he entered into the project of the young people. the fact is, the counsellor is young for his time of life; for he already betrays some signs of the change referred to in that once familiar street song, which my friend, the great american surgeon, inquired for at the music-shops under the title, as he got it from the italian minstrel, "silva tredi mondi goo." i saw, soon after this, that the counsellor was watching his chance to "stir up the young doctor." it does not follow, because our young doctor's bald spot is slower in coming than he could have wished, that he has not had time to form many sound conclusions in the calling to which he has devoted himself vesalius, the father of modern descriptive anatomy, published his great work on that subject before he was thirty. bichat, the great anatomist and physiologist, who died near the beginning of this century, published his treatise, which made a revolution in anatomy and pathology, at about the same age; dying soon after he had reached the age of thirty. so, possibly the counsellor may find that he has "stirred up" a young man who, can take care of his own head, in case of aggressive movements in its direction. "well, doctor," the counsellor began, "how are stocks in the measles market about these times? any corner in bronchitis? any syndicate in the vaccination business?" all this playfully. "i can't say how it is with other people's patients; most of my families are doing very well without my help, at this time." "do tell me, doctor, how many families you own. i have heard it said that some of our fellow-citizens have two distinct families, but you speak as if you had a dozen." "i have, but not so large a number as i should like. i could take care of fifteen or twenty more without: having to work too hard." "why, doctor, you are as bad as a mormon. what do you mean by calling certain families yours?" "don't you speak about my client? don't your clients call you their lawyer? does n't your baker, does n't your butcher, speak of the families he supplies as his families?" to be sure, yes, of course they do; but i had a notion that a man had as many doctors as he had organs to be doctored." "well, there is some truth in that; but did you think the old-fashioned family doctor was extinct, a fossil like the megatherium?" "why, yes, after the recent experience of a friend of mine, i did begin to think that there would soon be no such personage left as that same old-fashioned family doctor. shall i tell you what that experience was?" the young doctor said he should be mightily pleased to hear it. he was going to be one of those old-fogy practitioners himself. "i don't know," the counsellor said, "whether my friend got all the professional terms of his story correctly, nor whether i have got them from him without making any mistakes; but if i do make blunders in some of the queer names, you can correct me. this is my friend's story: "my family doctor," he said, "was a very sensible man, educated at a school where they professed to teach all the specialties, but not confining himself to any one branch of medical practice. surgical practice he did not profess to meddle with, and there were some classes of patients whom he was willing to leave to the female physician. but throughout the range of diseases not requiring exceptionally skilled manual interference, his education had authorized him to consider himself, and he did consider himself, qualified to undertake the treatment of all ordinary cases--it so happened that my young wife was one of those uneasy persons who are never long contented with their habitual comforts and blessings, but always trying to find something a little better, something newer, at any rate. i was getting to be near fifty years old, and it happened to me, as it not rarely does to people at about that time of life, that my hair began to fall out. i spoke of it to my doctor, who smiled, said it was a part of the process of reversed evolution, but might be retarded a little, and gave me a prescription. i did not find any great effect from it, and my wife would have me go to a noted dermatologist. the distinguished specialist examined my denuded scalp with great care. he looked at it through a strong magnifier. he examined the bulb of a fallen hair in a powerful microscope. he deliberated for a while, and then said, "this is a case of alopecia. it may perhaps be partially remedied. i will give you a prescription." which he did, and told me to call again in a fortnight. at the end of three months i had called six times, and each time got a new recipe, and detected no difference in the course of my "alopecia." after i had got through my treatment, i showed my recipes to my family physician; and we found that three of them were the same he had used, familiar, old-fashioned remedies, and the others were taken from a list of new and little-tried prescriptions mentioned in one of the last medical journals, which was lying on the old doctor's table. i might as well have got no better under his charge, and should have got off much cheaper. "the next trouble i had was a little redness of the eyes, for which my doctor gave me a wash; but my wife would have it that i must see an oculist. so i made four visits to an oculist, and at the last visit the redness was nearly gone,--as it ought to have been by that time. the specialist called my complaint conjunctivitis, but that did not make it feel any better nor get well any quicker. if i had had a cataract or any grave disease of the eye, requiring a nice operation on that delicate organ, of course i should have properly sought the aid of an expert, whose eye, hand, and judgment were trained to that special business; but in this case i don't doubt that my family doctor would have done just as well as the expert. however, i had to obey orders, and my wife would have it that i should entrust my precious person only to the most skilful specialist in each department of medical practice. "in the course of the year i experienced a variety of slight indispositions. for these i was auriscoped by an aurist, laryngoscoped by a laryngologist, ausculted by a stethoscopist, and so on, until a complete inventory of my organs was made out, and i found that if i believed all these searching inquirers professed to have detected in my unfortunate person, i could repeat with too literal truth the words of the general confession, "and there is no health in us." i never heard so many hard names in all my life. i proved to be the subject of a long catalogue of diseases, and what maladies i was not manifestly guilty of i was at least suspected of harboring. i was handed along all the way from alopecia, which used to be called baldness, to zoster, which used to be known as shingles. i was the patient of more than a dozen specialists. very pleasant persons, many of them, but what a fuss they made about my trifling incommodities! 'please look at that photograph. see if there is a minute elevation under one eye.' "'on which side?' i asked him, for i could not be sure there was anything different on one side from what i saw on the other. "'under the left eye. i called it a pimple; the specialist called it acne. now look at this photograph. it was taken after my acne had been three months under treatment. it shows a little more distinctly than in the first photograph, does n't it?' "'i think it does,' i answered. 'it does n't seem to me that you gained a great deal by leaving your customary adviser for the specialist.' "'well,' my friend continued, 'following my wife's urgent counsel, i kept on, as i told you, for a whole year with my specialists, going from head to foot, and tapering off with a chiropodist. i got a deal of amusement out of their contrivances and experiments. some of them lighted up my internal surfaces with electrical or other illuminating apparatus. thermometers, dynamometers, exploring-tubes, little mirrors that went half-way down to my stomach, tuning-forks, ophthalmoscopes, percussion-hammers, single and double stethoscopes, speculums, sphygmometers,--such a battery of detective instruments i had never imagined. all useful, i don't doubt; but at the end of the year i began to question whether i should n't have done about as well to stick to my long tried practitioner. when the bills for "professional services" came in, and the new carpet had to be given up, and the old bonnet trimmed over again, and the sealskin sack remained a vision, we both agreed, my wife and i, that we would try to get along without consulting specialists, except in such cases as our family physician considered to be beyond his skill.'" the counsellor's story of his friend's experiences seemed to please the young doctor very much. it "stirred him up," but in an agreeable way; for, as he said, he meant to devote himself to family practice, and not to adopt any limited class of cases as a specialty. i liked his views so well that i should have been ready to adopt them as my own, if they had been challenged. the young doctor discourses. "i am very glad," he said, "that we have a number of practitioners among us who confine themselves to the care of single organs and their functions. i want to be able to consult an oculist who has done nothing but attend to eyes long enough to know all that is known about their diseases and their treatment,--skilful enough to be trusted with the manipulation of that delicate and most precious organ. i want an aurist who knows all about the ear and what can be done for its disorders. the maladies of the larynx are very ticklish things to handle, and nobody should be trusted to go behind the epiglottis who has not the tactus eruditus. and so of certain other particular classes of complaints. a great city must have a limited number of experts, each a final authority, to be appealed to in cases where the family physician finds himself in doubt. there are operations which no surgeon should be willing to undertake unless he has paid a particular, if not an exclusive, attention to the cases demanding such operations. all this i willingly grant. "but it must not be supposed that we can return to the methods of the old egyptians--who, if my memory serves me correctly, had a special physician for every part of the body--without falling into certain errors and incurring certain liabilities. "the specialist is much like other people engaged in lucrative business. he is apt to magnify his calling, to make much of any symptom which will bring a patient within range of his battery of remedies. i found a case in one of our medical journals, a couple of years ago, which illustrates what i mean. dr. ___________ of philadelphia, had a female patient with a crooked nose,--deviated septum, if our young scholars like that better. she was suffering from what the doctor called reflex headache. she had been to an oculist, who found that the trouble was in her eyes. she went from him to a gynecologist, who considered her headache as owing to causes for which his specialty had the remedies. how many more specialists would have appropriated her, if she had gone the rounds of them all, i dare not guess; but you remember the old story of the siege, in which each artisan proposed means of defence which he himself was ready to furnish. then a shoemaker said, 'hang your walls with new boots.' "human nature is the same with medical specialists as it was with ancient cordwainers, and it is too possible that a hungry practitioner may be warped by his interest in fastening on a patient who, as he persuades himself, comes under his medical jurisdiction. the specialist has but one fang with which to seize and bold his prey, but that fang is a fearfully long and sharp canine. being confined to a narrow field of observation and practice, he is apt to give much of his time to curious study, which may be magnifique, but is not exactly la guerre against the patient's malady. he divides and subdivides, and gets many varieties of diseases, in most respects similar. these he equips with new names, and thus we have those terrific nomenclatures which are enough to frighten the medical student, to say nothing of the sufferers staggering under this long catalogue of local infirmities. the 'old-fogy' doctor, who knows the family tendencies of his patient, who 'understands his constitution,' will often treat him better than the famous specialist, who sees him for the first time, and has to guess at many things 'the old doctor' knows from his previous experience with the same patient and the family to which he belongs. "it is a great luxury to practise as a specialist in almost any class of diseases. the special practitioner has his own hours, hardly needs a night-bell, can have his residence out of the town in which he exercises his calling, in short, lives like a gentleman; while the hard-worked general practitioner submits to a servitude more exacting than that of the man who is employed in his stable or in his kitchen. that is the kind of life i have made up my mind to." the teaspoons tinkled all round the table. this was the usual sign of approbation, instead of the clapping of hands. the young doctor paused, and looked round among the teacups. "i beg your pardon," he said, "for taking up so much of your time with medicine. it is a subject that a good many persons, especially ladies, take an interest in and have a curiosity about, but i have no right to turn this tea-table into a lecture platform." "we should like to hear you talk longer about it," said the english annex. "one of us has thought of devoting herself to the practice of medicine. would you lecture to us; if you were a professor in one of the great medical schools?" "lecture to students of your sex? why not, i should like to know? i don't think it is the calling for which the average woman is especially adapted, but my teacher got a part of his medical education from a lady, madame lachapelle; and i don't see why, if one can learn from a woman, he may not teach a woman, if he knows enough." "we all like a little medical talk now and then," said number five, "and we are much obliged to you for your discourse. you are specialist enough to take care of a sprained ankle, i suppose, are you not?" "i hope i should be equal to that emergency," answered the young doctor; "but i trust you are not suffering from any such accident?" "no," said number five, "but there is no telling what may happen. i might slip, and get a sprain or break a sinew, or something, and i should like to know that there is a practitioner at hand to take care of my injury. i think i would risk myself in your bands, although you are not a specialist. would you venture to take charge of the case?" "ah, my dear lady," he answered gallantly, "the risk would be in the other direction. i am afraid it would be safer for your doctor if he were an older man than i am." this is the first clearly, indisputably sentimental outbreak which has happened in conversation at our table. i tremble to think what will come of it; for we have several inflammable elements in our circle, and a spark like this is liable to light on any one or two of them. i was not sorry that this medical episode came in to vary the usual course of talk at our table. i like to have one--of an intelligent company, who knows anything thoroughly, hold the floor for a time, and discourse upon the subject which chiefly engages his daily thoughts and furnishes his habitual occupation. it is a privilege to meet such a person now and then, and let him have his full swing. but because there are "professionals" to whom we are willing to listen as oracles, i do not want to see everybody who is not a "professional" silenced or snubbed, if he ventures into any field of knowledge which he has not made especially his own. i like to read montaigne's remarks about doctors, though he never took a medical degree. i can even enjoy the truth in the sharp satire of voltaire on the medical profession. i frequently prefer the remarks i hear from the pew after the sermon to those i have just been hearing from the pulpit. there are a great many things which i never expect to comprehend, but which i desire very much to apprehend. suppose that our circle of teacups were made up of specialists,--experts in various departments. i should be very willing that each one should have his innings at the proper time, when the company were ready for him. but the time is coming when everybody will know something about every thing. how can one have the illustrated magazines, the "popular science monthly," the psychological journals, the theological periodicals, books on all subjects, forced on his attention, in their own persons, so to speak, or in the reviews which analyze and pass judgment upon them, without getting some ideas which belong to many provinces of human intelligence? the air we breathe is made up of four elements, at least: oxygen, nitrogen, carbonic acid gas, and knowledge. there is something quite delightful to witness in the absorption and devotion of a genuine specialist. there is a certain sublimity in that picture of the dying scholar in browning's "a grammarian's funeral:"-- "so with the throttling hands of death at strife, ground he at grammar; still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife; while he could stammer he settled hoti's business--let it be-- properly based oun gave us the doctrine of the enclitic de, dead from the waist down." a genuine enthusiasm, which will never be satisfied until it has pumped the well dry at the bottom of which truth is lying, always excites our interest, if not our admiration. one of the pleasantest of our american writers, whom we all remember as ik marvel, and greet in his more recent appearance as donald grant mitchell, speaks of the awkwardness which he feels in offering to the public a "panoramic view of british writers in these days of specialists,--when students devote half a lifetime to the analysis of the works of a single author, and to the proper study of a single period." he need not have feared that his connected sketches of "english lands, letters and kings" would be any less welcome because they do not pretend to fill up all the details or cover all the incidents they hint in vivid outline. how many of us ever read or ever will read drayton's "poly-olbion?" twenty thousand long alexandrines are filled with admirable descriptions of scenery, natural productions, and historical events, but how many of us in these days have time to read and inwardly digest twenty thousand alexandrine verses? i fear that the specialist is apt to hold his intelligent reader or hearer too cheap. so far as i have observed in medical specialties, what he knows in addition to the knowledge of the well-taught general practitioner is very largely curious rather than important. having exhausted all that is practical, the specialist is naturally tempted to amuse himself with the natural history of the organ or function he deals with; to feel as a writing-master does when he sets a copy,--not content to shape the letters properly, but he must add flourishes and fancy figures, to let off his spare energy. i am beginning to be frightened. when i began these papers, my idea was a very simple and innocent one. here was a mixed company, of various conditions, as i have already told my readers, who came together regularly, and before they were aware of it formed something like a club or association. as i was the patriarch among them, they gave me the name some of you may need to be reminded of; for as these reports are published at intervals, you may not remember the fact that i am what the teacups have seen fit to call the dictator. now, what did i expect when i began these papers, and what is it that has begun to frighten me? i expected to report grave conversations and light colloquial passages of arms among the members of the circle. i expected to hear, perhaps to read, a paper now and then. i expected to have, from time to time, a poem from some one of the teacups, for i felt sure there must be among them one or more poets,--teacups of the finer and rarer translucent kind of porcelain, to speak metaphorically. out of these conversations and written contributions i thought i might make up a readable series of papers; a not wholly unwelcome string of recollections, anticipations, suggestions, too often perhaps repetitions, that would be to the twilight what my earlier series had been to the morning. i hoped also that i should come into personal relations with my old constituency, if i may call my nearer friends, and those more distant ones who belong to my reading parish, by that name. it is time that i should. i received this blessed morning--i am telling the literal truth--a highly flattering obituary of myself in the shape of an extract from "le national" of the th of february last. this is a bi-weekly newspaper, published in french, in the city of plattsburg, clinton county, new york. i am occasionally reminded by my unknown friends that i must hurry up their autograph, or make haste to copy that poem they wish to have in the author's own handwriting, or it will be too late; but i have never before been huddled out of the world in this way. i take this rather premature obituary as a hint that, unless i come to some arrangement with my well-meaning but insatiable correspondents, it would be as well to leave it in type, for i cannot bear much longer the load they lay upon me. i will explain myself on this point after i have told my readers what has frightened me. i am beginning to think this room where we take our tea is more like a tinder-box than a quiet and safe place for "a party in a parlor." it is true that there are at least two or three incombustibles at our table, but it looks to me as if the company might pair off before the season is over, like the crew of her majesty's ship the mantelpiece,--three or four weddings clear our whole table of all but one or two of the impregnables. the poem we found in the sugar-bowl last week first opened my eyes to the probable state of things. now, the idea of having to tell a love-story,--perhaps two or three love-stories,--when i set out with the intention of repeating instructive, useful, or entertaining discussions, naturally alarms me. it is quite true that many things which look to me suspicious may be simply playful. young people (and we have several such among the teacups) are fond of make-believe courting when they cannot have the real thing,--"flirting," as it used to be practised in the days of arcadian innocence, not the more modern and more questionable recreation which has reached us from the home of the cicisbeo. whatever comes of it, i shall tell what i see, and take the consequences. but i am at this moment going to talk in my own proper person to my own particular public, which, as i find by my correspondence, is a very considerable one, and with which i consider myself in exceptionally pleasant relations. i have read recently that mr. gladstone receives six hundred letters a day. perhaps he does not receive six hundred letters every day, but if he gets anything like half that number daily, what can he do with them? there was a time when he was said to answer all his correspondents. it is understood, i think, that he has given up doing so in these later days. i do not pretend that i receive six hundred or even sixty letters a day, but i do receive a good many, and have told the public of the fact from time to time, under the pressure of their constantly increasing exertions. as it is extremely onerous, and is soon going to be impossible, for me to keep up the wide range of correspondence which has become a large part of my occupation, and tends to absorb all the vital force which is left me, i wish to enter into a final explanation with the well-meaning but merciless taskmasters who have now for many years been levying their daily tax upon me. i have preserved thousands of their letters, and destroyed a very large number, after answering most of them. a few interesting chapters might be made out of the letters i have kept,--not only such as are signed by the names of well-known personages, but many from unknown friends, of whom i had never heard before and have never heard since. a great deal of the best writing the languages of the world have ever known has been committed to leaves that withered out of sight before a second sunlight had fallen upon them. i have had many letters i should have liked to give the public, had their nature admitted of their being offered to the world. what straggles of young ambition, finding no place for its energies, or feeling its incapacity to reach the ideal towards which it was striving! what longings of disappointed, defeated fellow-mortals, trying to find a new home for themselves in the heart of one whom they have amiably idealized! and oh, what hopeless efforts of mediocrities and inferiorities, believing in themselves as superiorities, and stumbling on through limping disappointments to prostrate failure! poverty comes pleading, not for charity, for the most part, but imploring us to find a purchaser for its unmarketable wares. the unreadable author particularly requests us to make a critical examination of his book, and report to him whatever may be our verdict,--as if he wanted anything but our praise, and that very often to be used in his publisher's advertisements. but what does not one have to submit to who has become the martyr--the saint sebastian--of a literary correspondence! i will not dwell on the possible impression produced on a sensitive nature by reading one's own premature obituary, as i have told you has been my recent experience. i will not stop to think whether the urgent request for an autograph by return post, in view of the possible contingencies which might render it the last one was ever to write, is pleasing or not. at threescore and twenty one must expect such hints of what is like to happen before long. i suppose, if some near friend were to watch one who was looking over such a pressing letter, he might possibly see a slight shadow flit over the reader's features, and some such dialogue might follow as that between othello and iago, after "this honest creature" has been giving breath to his suspicions about desdemona: "i see this hath a little dash'd your spirits. not a jot, not a jot. ............. "my lord, i see you're moved." and a little later the reader might, like othello, complain, "i have a pain upon my forehead here." nothing more likely. but, for myself, i have grown callous to all such allusions. the repetition of the scriptural phrase for the natural term of life is so frequent that it wears out one's sensibilities. but how many charming and refreshing letters i have received! how often i have felt their encouragement in moments of doubt and depression, such as the happiest temperaments must sometimes experience! if the time comes when to answer all my kind unknown friends, even by dictation, is impossible, or more than i feel equal to, i wish to refer any of those who may feel disappointed at not receiving an answer to the following general acknowledgments: i. i am always grateful for any attention which shows me that i am kindly remembered.--ii. your pleasant message has been read to me, and has been thankfully listened to.--iii. your book (your essay) (your poem) has reached me safely, and has received all the respectful attention to which it seemed entitled. it would take more than all the time i have at my disposal to read all the printed matter and all the manuscripts which are sent to me, and you would not ask me to attempt the impossible. you will not, therefore, expect me to express a critical opinion of your work.--iv. i am deeply sensible to your expressions of personal attachment to me as the author of certain writings which have brought me very near to you, in virtue of some affinity in our ways of thought and moods of feeling. although i cannot keep up correspondences with many of my readers who seem to be thoroughly congenial with myself, let them be assured that their letters have been read or heard with peculiar gratification, and are preserved as precious treasures. i trust that after this notice no correspondent will be surprised to find his or her letter thus answered by anticipation; and that if one of the above formulae is the only answer he receives, the unknown friend will remember that he or she is one of a great many whose incessant demands have entirely outrun my power of answering them as fully as the applicants might wish and perhaps expect. i could make a very interesting volume of the letters i have received from correspondents unknown to the world of authorship, but writing from an instinctive impulse, which many of them say they have long felt and resisted. one must not allow himself to be flattered into an overestimate of his powers because he gets many letters expressing a peculiar attraction towards his books, and a preference of them to those with which he would not have dared to compare his own. still, if the homo unius libri--the man of one book--choose to select one of our own writing as his favorite volume, it means something,--not much, perhaps; but if one has unlocked the door to the secret entrance of one heart, it is not unlikely that his key may fit the locks of others. what if nature has lent him a master key? he has found the wards and slid back the bolt of one lock; perhaps he may have learned the secret of others. one success is an encouragement to try again. let the writer of a truly loving letter, such as greets one from time to time, remember that, though he never hears a word from it, it may prove one of the best rewards of an anxious and laborious past, and the stimulus of a still aspiring future. among the letters i have recently received, none is more interesting than the following. the story of helen keller, who wrote it, is told in the well-known illustrated magazine called "the wide awake," in the number for july, . for the account of this little girl, now between nine and ten years old, and other letters of her writing, i must refer to the article i have mentioned. it is enough to say that she is deaf and dumb and totally blind. she was seven years old when her teacher, miss sullivan, under the direction of mr. anagnos, at the blind asylum at south boston, began her education. a child fuller of life and happiness it would be hard to find. it seems as if her soul was flooded with light and filled with music that had found entrance to it through avenues closed to other mortals. it is hard to understand how she has learned to deal with abstract ideas, and so far to supplement the blanks left by the senses of sight and hearing that one would hardly think of her as wanting in any human faculty. remember milton's pathetic picture of himself, suffering from only one of poor little helen's deprivations: "not to me returns day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; but cloud instead, and ever-during dark surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair presented with a universal blank of nature's works, to me expunged and rased, and wisdom at one entrance quite shut out." surely for this loving and lovely child does "the celestial light shine inward." anthropologist, metaphysician, most of all theologian, here is a lesson which can teach you much that you will not find in your primers and catechisms. why should i call her "poor little helen"? where can you find a happier child? south boston, mass., march , . dear kind poet,--i have thought of you many times since that bright sunday when i bade you goodbye, and i am going to write you a letter because i love you. i am sorry that you have no little children to play with sometimes, but i think you are very happy with your books, and your many, many friends. on washington's birthday a great many people came here to see the little blind children, and i read for them from your poems, and showed them some beautiful shells which came from a little island near palos. i am reading a very sad story called "little jakey." jakey was the sweetest little fellow you can imagine, but he was poor and blind. i used to think, when i was small and before i could read, that everybody was always happy, and at first it made me very sad to know about pain and great sorrow; but now i know that we could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only joy in the world. i am studying about insects in zoology, and i have learned many things about butterflies. they do not make honey for us, like the bees, but many of them are as beautiful as the flowers they light upon, and they always delight the hearts of little children. they live a gay life, flitting from flower to flower, sipping the drops of honey-dew, without a thought for the morrow. they are just like little boys and girls when they forget books and studies, and run away to the woods and the fields to gather wild-flowers, or wade in the ponds for fragrant lilies, happy in the bright sunshine. if my little sister comes to boston next june, will you let me bring her to see you? she is a lovely baby and i am sure you will love [her]. now i must tell my gentle poet good-bye, for i have a letter to write home before i go to bed. from your loving little friend, helen a. keller. the reading of this letter made many eyes glisten, and a dead silence hushed the whole circle. all at once delilah, our pretty table-maid, forgot her place,--what business had she to be listening to our conversation and reading?--and began sobbing, just as if she had been a lady. she could n't help it, she explained afterwards,--she had a little blind sister at the asylum, who had told her about helen's reading to the children. it was very awkward, this breaking-down of our pretty delilah, for one girl crying will sometimes set off a whole row of others,--it is as hazardous as lighting one cracker in a bunch. the two annexes hurried out their pocket-handkerchiefs, and i almost expected a semi-hysteric cataclysm. at this critical moment number five called delilah to her, looked into her face with those calm eyes of hers, and spoke a few soft words. was number five forgetful, too? did she not remember the difference of their position? i suppose so. but she quieted the poor handmaiden as simply and easily as a nursing mother quiets her unweaned baby. why are we not all in love with number five? perhaps we are. at any rate, i suspect the professor. when we all get quiet, i will touch him up about that visit she promised to make to his laboratory. i got a chance at last to speak privately with him. "did number five go to meet you in your laboratory, as she talked of doing?" "oh, yes, of course she did,--why, she said she would!" "oh, to be sure. do tell me what she wanted in your laboratory." "she wanted me to burn a diamond for her." "burn a diamond! what was that for? because cleopatra swallowed a pearl?" "no, nothing of that kind. it was a small stone, and had a flaw in it. number five said she did n't want a diamond with a flaw in it, and that she did want to see how a diamond would burn." "was that all that happened?" "that was all. she brought the two annexes with her, and i gave my three visitors a lecture on carbon, which they seemed to enjoy very much." i looked steadily in the professor's face during the reading of the following poem. i saw no questionable look upon it,--but he has a remarkable command of his features. number five read it with a certain archness of expression, as if she saw all its meaning, which i think some of the company did not quite take in. they said they must read it slowly and carefully. somehow, "i like you" and "i love you" got a little mixed, as they heard it. it was not number five's fault, for she read it beautifully, as we all agreed, and as i knew she would when i handed it to her. i like you and i love you. i like you met i love you, face to face; the path was narrow, and they could not pass. i like you smiled; i love you cried, alas! and so they halted for a little space. "turn thou and go before," i love you said, "down the green pathway, bright with many a flower deep in the valley, lo! my bridal bower awaits thee." but i like you shook his head. then while they lingered on the span-wide shelf that shaped a pathway round the rocky ledge, i like you bared his icy dagger's edge, and first he slew i love you,--then himself. vii there is no use in burdening my table with those letters of inquiry as to where our meetings are held, and what are the names of the persons designated by numbers, or spoken of under the titles of the professor, the tutor, and so forth. it is enough that you are aware who i am, and that i am known at the tea-table as the dictator. theatrical "asides" are apt to be whispered in a pretty loud voice, and the persons who ought not to have any idea of what is said are expected to be reasonably hard of bearing. if i named all the teacups, some of them might be offended. if any of my readers happen to be able to identify any one teacup by some accidental circumstance,--say, for instance, number five, by the incident of her burning the diamond,--i hope they will keep quiet about it. number five does n't want to be pointed out in the street as the extravagant person who makes use of such expensive fuel, for the story would soon grow to a statement that she always uses diamonds, instead of cheaper forms of carbon, to heat her coffee with. so with other members of the circle. the "cracked teacup," number seven, would not, perhaps, be pleased to recognize himself under that title. i repeat it, therefore, do not try to identify the individual teacups. you will not get them right; or, if you do, you may too probably make trouble. how is it possible that i can keep up my freedom of intercourse with you all if you insist on bellowing my "asides" through a speaking-trumpet? besides, you cannot have failed to see that there are strong symptoms of the springing up of delicate relations between some of our number. i told you how it would be. it did not require a prophet to foresee that the saucy intruder who, as mr. willis wrote, and the dear dead girls used to sing, in our young days, "taketh every form of air, and every shape of earth, and comes unbidden everywhere, like thought's mysterious birth," would pop his little curly head up between one or more pairs of teacups. if you will stop these questions, then, i will go on with my reports of what was said and done at our meetings over the teacups. of all things beautiful in this fair world, there is nothing so enchanting to look upon, to dream about, as the first opening of the flower of young love. how closely the calyx has hidden the glowing leaves in its quiet green mantle! side by side, two buds have been tossing jauntily in the breeze, often brought very near to each other, sometimes touching for a moment, with a secret thrill in their close-folded heart-leaves, it may be, but still the cool green sepals shutting tight over the burning secret within. all at once a morning ray touches one of the two buds, and the point of a blushing petal betrays the imprisoned and swelling blossom. --oh, no, i did not promise a love-story. there may be a little sentiment now and then, but these papers are devoted chiefly to the opinions, prejudices, fancies, whims, of myself, the dictator, and others of the teacups who have talked or written for the general benefit of the company. here are some of the remarks i made the other evening on the subject of intellectual over-feeding and its consequence, mental dyspepsia. there is something positively appalling in the amount of printed matter yearly, monthly, weekly, daily, secreted by that great gland of the civilized organism, the press. i need not dilate upon this point, for it is brought home to every one of you who ever looks into a bookstore or a public library. so large is the variety of literary products continually coming forward, forced upon the attention of the reader by stimulating and suggestive titles, commended to his notice by famous names, recasting old subjects and developing and illustrating new ones, that the mind is liable to be urged into a kind of unnatural hunger, leading to a repletion which is often followed by disgust and disturbed nervous conditions as its natural consequence. it has long been a favorite rule with me, a rule which i have never lost sight of, however imperfectly i have carried it out: try to know enough of a wide range of subjects to profit by the conversation of intelligent persons of different callings and various intellectual gifts and acquisitions. the cynic will paraphrase this into a shorter formula: get a smattering in every sort of knowledge. i must therefore add a second piece of advice: learn to hold as of small account the comments of the cynic. he is often amusing, sometimes really witty, occasionally, without meaning it, instructive; but his talk is to profitable conversation what the stone is to the pulp of the peach, what the cob is to the kernels on an ear of indian corn. once more: do not be bullied out of your common sense by the specialist; two to one, he is a pedant, with all his knowledge and valuable qualities, and will "cavil on the ninth part of a hair," if it will give him a chance to show off his idle erudition. i saw attributed to me, the other day, the saying, "know something about everything, and everything about something." i am afraid it does not belong to me, but i will treat it as i used to treat a stray boat which came through my meadow, floating down the housatonic,--get hold of it and draw it ashore, and hold on to it until the owner turns up. if this precept is used discreetly, it is very serviceable; but it is as well to recognize the fact that you cannot know something about everything in days like these of intellectual activity, of literary and scientific production. we all feel this. it makes us nervous to see the shelves of new books, many of which we feel as if we ought to read, and some among them to study. we must adopt some principle of selection among the books outside of any particular branch which we may have selected for study. i have often been asked what books i would recommend for a course of reading. i have always answered that i had a great deal rather take advice than give it. fortunately, a number of scholars have furnished lists of books to which the inquirer may be directed. but the worst of it is that each student is in need of a little library specially adapted to his wants. here is a young man writing to me from a western college, and wants me to send him a list of the books which i think would be most useful to him. he does not send me his intellectual measurements, and he might as well have sent to a boston tailor for a coat, without any hint of his dimensions in length, breadth, and thickness. but instead of laying down rules for reading, and furnishing lists of the books which should be read in order, i will undertake the much humbler task of giving a little quasi-medical advice to persons, young or old, suffering from book-hunger, book-surfeit, book-nervousness, book-indigestion, book-nausea, and all other maladies which, directly or indirectly, may be traced to books, and to which i could give greek or latin names if i thought it worth while. i have a picture hanging in my library, a lithograph, of which many of my readers may have seen copies. it represents a gray-haired old book-lover at the top of a long flight of steps. he finds himself in clover, so to speak, among rare old editions, books he has longed to look upon and never seen before, rarities, precious old volumes, incunabula, cradle-books, printed while the art was in its infancy,--its glorious infancy, for it was born a giant. the old bookworm is so intoxicated with the sight and handling of the priceless treasures that he cannot bear to put one of the volumes back after he has taken it from the shelf. so there he stands,--one book open in his hands, a volume under each arm, and one or more between his legs,--loaded with as many as he can possibly hold at the same time. now, that is just the way in which the extreme form of book-hunger shows itself in the reader whose appetite has become over-developed. he wants to read so many books that he over-crams himself with the crude materials of knowledge, which become knowledge only when the mental digestion has time to assimilate them. i never can go into that famous "corner bookstore" and look over the new books in the row before me, as i enter the door, without seeing half a dozen which i want to read, or at least to know something about. i cannot empty my purse of its contents, and crowd my bookshelves with all those volumes. the titles of many of them interest me. i look into one or two, perhaps. i have sometimes picked up a line or a sentence, in these momentary glances between the uncut leaves of a new book, which i have never forgotten. as a trivial but bona fide example, one day i opened a book on duelling. i remember only these words: "conservons-la, cette noble institution." i had never before seen duelling called a noble institution, and i wish i had taken the name of the book. book-tasting is not necessarily profitless, but it is very stimulating, and makes one hungry for more than he needs for the nourishment of his thinking-marrow. to feed this insatiable hunger, the abstracts, the reviews, do their best. but these, again, have grown so numerous and so crowded with matter that it is hard to find time to master their contents. we are accustomed, therefore, to look for analyses of these periodicals, and at last we have placed before us a formidable-looking monthly, "the review of reviews." after the analyses comes the newspaper notice; and there is still room for the epigram, which sometimes makes short work with all that has gone before on the same subject. it is just as well to recognize the fact that if one should read day and night, confining himself to his own language, he could not pretend to keep up with the press. he might as well try to race with a locomotive. the first discipline, therefore, is that of despair. if you could stick to your reading day and night for fifty years, what a learned idiot you would become long before the half-century was over! well, then, there is no use in gorging one's self with knowledge, and no need of self-reproach because one is content to remain more or less ignorant of many things which interest his fellow-creatures. we gain a good deal of knowledge through the atmosphere; we learn a great deal by accidental hearsay, provided we have the mordant in our own consciousness which makes the wise remark, the significant fact, the instructive incident, take hold upon it. after the stage of despair comes the period of consolation. we soon find that we are not so much worse off than most of our neighbors as we supposed. the fractional value of the wisest shows a small numerator divided by an infinite denominator of knowledge. i made some explanations to the teacups, the other evening, which they received very intelligently and graciously, as i have no doubt the readers of these reports of mine will receive them. if the reader will turn back to the end of the fourth number of these papers, he will find certain lines entitled, "cacoethes scribendi." they were said to have been taken from the usual receptacle of the verses which are contributed by the teacups, and, though the fact was not mentioned, were of my own composition. i found them in manuscript in my drawer, and as my subject had naturally suggested the train of thought they carried out into extravagance, i printed them. at the same time they sounded very natural, as we say, and i felt as if i had published them somewhere or other before; but i could find no evidence of it, and so i ventured to have them put in type. and here i wish to take breath for a short, separate paragraph. i have often felt, after writing a line which pleased me more than common, that it was not new, and perhaps was not my own. i have very rarely, however, found such a coincidence in ideas or expression as would be enough to justify an accusation of unconscious plagiarism,--conscious plagiarism is not my particular failing. i therefore say my say, set down my thought, print my line, and do not heed the suspicion that i may not be as original as i supposed, in the passage i have been writing. my experience may be worth something to a modest young writer, and so i have interrupted what i was about to say by intercalating this paragraph. in this instance my telltale suspicion had not been at fault. i had printed those same lines, years ago, in "the contributors' club," to which i have rarely sent any of my prose or verse. nobody but the editor has noticed the fact, so far as i know. this is consoling, or mortifying, i hardly know which. i suppose one has a right to plagiarize from himself, but he does not want to present his work as fresh from the workshop when it has been long standing in his neighbor's shop-window. but i have just received a letter from a brother of the late henry howard brownell, the poet of the bay fight and the river fight, in which he quotes a passage from an old book, "a heroine, adventures of cherubina," which might well have suggested my own lines, if i had ever seen it. i have not the slightest recollection of the book or the passage. i think its liveliness and "local color" will make it please the reader, as it pleases me, more than my own more prosaic extravagances: lines to a pretty little maid of mamma's. "if black sea, red sea, white sea, ran one tide of ink to ispahan, if all the geese in lincoln fens produced spontaneous well-made pens, if holland old and holland new one wondrous sheet of paper grew, and could i sing but half the grace of half a freckle in thy face, each syllable i wrote would reach from inverness to bognor's beach, each hair-stroke be a river rhine, each verse an equinoctial line!" "the immediate dismissal of the 'little maid' was the consequence." i may as well say that our delilah was not in the room when the last sentence was read. readers must be either very good-natured or very careless. i have laid myself open to criticism by more than one piece of negligence, which has been passed over without invidious comment by the readers of my papers. how could i, for instance, have written in my original "copy" for the printer about the fisherman baiting his hook with a giant's tail instead of a dragon's? it is the automatic fellow,--me--number-two of our dual personality,--who does these things, who forgets the message me--number--one sends down to him from the cerebral convolutions, and substitutes a wrong word for the right one. i suppose me--number--two will "sass back," and swear that "giant's" was the message which came down from headquarters. he is always doing the wrong thing and excusing himself. who blows out the gas instead of shutting it off? who puts the key in the desk and fastens it tight with the spring lock? do you mean to say that the upper me, the me of the true thinking-marrow, the convolutions of the brain, does not know better? of course he does, and me-number-two is a careless servant, who remembers some old direction, and follows that instead of the one just given. number seven demurred to this, and i am not sure that he is wrong in so doing. he maintains that the automatic fellow always does just what he is told to do. number five is disposed to agree with him. we will talk over the question. but come, now, why should not a giant have a tail as well as a dragon? linnaeus admitted the homo caudatus into his anthropological catalogue. the human embryo has a very well marked caudal appendage; that is, the vertebral column appears prolonged, just as it is in a young quadruped. during the late session of the medical congress at washington, my friend dr. priestley, a distinguished london physician, of the highest character and standing, showed me the photograph of a small boy, some three or four years old, who had a very respectable little tail, which would have passed muster on a pig, and would have made a frog or a toad ashamed of himself. i have never heard what became of the little boy, nor have i looked in the books or journals to find out if there are similar cases on record, but i have no doubt that there are others. and if boys may have this additional ornament to their vertebral columns, why not men? and if men, why not giants? so i may not have made a very bad blunder, after all, and my reader has learned something about the homo caudatus as spoken of by linnxus, and as shown me in photograph by dr. priestley. this child is a candidate for the vacant place of missing link. in accounting for the blunders, and even gross blunders, which, sooner or later, one who writes much is pretty sure to commit, i must not forget the part played by the blind spot or idiotic area in the brain, which i have already described. the most knowing persons we meet with are sometimes at fault. nova onania possumus omnes is not a new nor profound axiom, but it is well to remember it as a counterpoise to that other truly american saying of the late mr. samuel patch, "some things can be done as well as others." yes, some things, but not all things. we all know men and women who hate to admit their ignorance of anything. like talkative in "pilgrim's progress," they are ready to converse of "things heavenly or things earthly; things moral or things evangelical; things sacred or things profane; things past or things to come; things foreign or things at home; things more essential or things circumstantial." talkative is apt to be a shallow fellow, and to say foolish things about matters he only half understands, and yet he has his place in society. the specialists would grow to be intolerable, were they not counterpoised to some degree by the people of general intelligence. the man who knows too much about one particular subject is liable to become a terrible social infliction. some of the worst bores (to use plain language) we ever meet with are recognized as experts of high grade in their respective departments. beware of making so much as a pinhole in the dam that holds back their knowledge. they ride their hobbies without bit or bridle. a poet on pegasus, reciting his own verses, is hardly more to be dreaded than a mounted specialist. one of the best offices which women perform for men is that of tasting books for them. they may or may not be profound students,--some of them are; but we do not expect to meet women like mrs. somerville, or caroline herschel, or maria mitchell at every dinner-table or afternoon tea. but give your elect lady a pile of books to look over for you, and she will tell you what they have for her and for you in less time than you would have wasted in stupefying yourself over a single volume. one of the encouraging signs of the times is the condensed and abbreviated form in which knowledge is presented to the general reader. the short biographies of historic personages, of which within the past few years many have been published, have been a great relief to the large class of readers who want to know something, but not too much, about them. what refuge is there for the victim who is oppressed with the feeling that there are a thousand new books he ought to read, while life is only long enough for him to attempt to read a hundred? many readers remember what old rogers, the poet, said: "when i hear a new book talked about or have it pressed upon me, i read an old one." happy the man who finds his rest in the pages of some favorite classic! i know no reader more to be envied than that friend of mine who for many years has given his days and nights to the loving study of horace. after a certain period in life, it is always with an effort that we admit a new author into the inner circle of our intimates. the parisian omnibuses, as i remember them half a century ago,--they may still keep to the same habit, for aught that i know,--used to put up the sign "complet" as soon as they were full. our public conveyances are never full until the natural atmospheric pressure of sixteen pounds to the square inch is doubled, in the close packing of the human sardines that fill the all-accommodating vehicles. a new-comer, however well mannered and well dressed, is not very welcome under these circumstances. in the same way, our tables are full of books half-read and books we feel that we must read. and here come in two thick volumes, with uncut leaves, in small type, with many pages, and many lines to a page,--a book that must be read and ought to be read at once. what a relief to hand it over to the lovely keeper of your literary conscience, who will tell you all that you will most care to know about it, and leave you free to plunge into your beloved volume, in which you are ever finding new beauties, and from which you rise refreshed, as if you had just come from the cool waters of hippocrene! the stream of modern literature represented by the books and periodicals on the crowded counters is a turbulent and clamorous torrent, dashing along among the rocks of criticism, over the pebbles of the world's daily events; trying to make itself seen and heard amidst the hoarse cries of the politicians and the rumbling wheels of traffic. the classic is a still lakelet, a mountain tarn, fed by springs that never fail, its surface never ruffled by storms,--always the same, always smiling a welcome to its visitor. such is horace to my friend. to his eye "lydia, dic per omnes" is as familiar as "pater noster qui es in caelis" to that of a pious catholic. "integer vitae," which he has put into manly english, his horace opens to as watt's hymn-book opens to "from all that dwell below the skies." the more he reads, the more he studies his author, the richer are the treasures he finds. and what horace is to him, homer, or virgil, or dante is to many a quiet reader, sick to death of the unending train of bookmakers. i have some curious books in my library, a few of which i should like to say something about to the teacups, when they have no more immediately pressing subjects before them. a library of a few thousand volumes ought always to have some books in it which the owner almost never opens, yet with whose backs he is so well acquainted that he feels as if he knew something of their contents. they are like those persons whom we meet in our daily walks, with whose faces and figures, whose summer and winter garments, whose walking-sticks and umbrellas even, we feel acquainted, and yet whose names, whose business, whose residences, we know nothing about. some of these books are so formidable in their dimensions, so rusty and crabbed in their aspect, that it takes a considerable amount of courage to attack them. i will ask delilah to bring down from my library a very thick, stout volume, bound in parchment, and standing on the lower shelf, next the fireplace. the pretty handmaid knows my books almost as if she were my librarian, and i don't doubt she would have found it if i had given only the name on the back. delilah returned presently, with the heavy quarto in her arms. it was a pleasing sight,--the old book in the embrace of the fresh young damsel. i felt, on looking at them, as i did when i followed the slip of a girl who conducted us in the temple, that ancient building in the heart of london. the long-enduring monuments of the dead do so mock the fleeting presence of the living! is n't this book enough to scare any of you? i said, as delilah dumped it down upon the table. the teacups jumped from their saucers as it thumped on the board. danielis georgii morhofii polyhistor, literarius, philosophicus et poeticus. lubecae mdccxxxiii. perhaps i should not have ventured to ask you to look at this old volume, if it had not been for the fact that dr. johnson mentions morohof as the author to whom he was specially indebted.--more, i think, than to any other. it is a grand old encyclopaedic summary of all the author knew about pretty nearly everything, full of curious interest, but so strangely mediaeval, so utterly antiquated in most departments of knowledge, that it is hard to believe the volume came from the press at a time when persons whom i well remember were living. is it possible that the books which have been for me what morhof was for dr. johnson can look like that to the student of the year ? morhof was a believer in magic and the transmutation of metals. there was always something fascinating to me in the old books of alchemy. i have felt that the poetry of science lost its wings when the last powder of projection had been cast into the crucible, and the fire of the last transmutation furnace went out. perhaps i am wrong in implying that alchemy is an extinct folly. it existed in new england's early days, as we learn from the winthrop papers, and i see no reason why gold-making should not have its votaries as well as other popular delusions. among the essays of morhof is one on the "paradoxes of the senses." that title brought to mind the recollection of another work i have been meaning to say something about, at some time when you were in the listening mood. the book i refer to is "a budget of paradoxes," by augustus de morgan. de morgan is well remembered as a very distinguished mathematician, whose works have kept his name in high honor to the present time. the book i am speaking of was published by his widow, and is largely made up of letters received by him and his comments upon them. few persons ever read it through. few intelligent readers ever took it up and laid it down without taking a long draught of its singular and interesting contents. the letters are mostly from that class of persons whom we call "cranks," in our familiar language. at this point number seven interrupted me by calling out, "give us some of those cranks' letters. a crank is a man who does his own thinking. i had a relation who was called a crank. i believe i have been spoken of as one myself. that is what you have to expect if you invent anything that puts an old machine out of fashion, or solve a problem that has puzzled all the world up to your time. there never was a religion founded but its messiah was called a crank. there never was an idea started that woke up men out of their stupid indifference but its originator was spoken of as a crank. do you want to know why that name is given to the men who do most for the world's progress? i will tell you. it is because cranks make all the wheels in all the machinery of the world go round. what would a steam-engine be without a crank? i suppose the first fool that looked on the first crank that was ever made asked what that crooked, queer-looking thing was good for. when the wheels got moving he found out. tell us something about that book which has so much to say concerning cranks." hereupon i requested delilah to carry back morhof, and replace him in the wide gap he had left in the bookshelf. she was then to find and bring down the volume i had been speaking of. delilah took the wisdom of the seventeenth century in her arms, and departed on her errand. the book she brought down was given me some years ago by a gentleman who had sagaciously foreseen that it was just one of those works which i might hesitate about buying, but should be well pleased to own. he guessed well; the book has been a great source of instruction and entertainment to me. i wonder that so much time and cost should have been expended upon a work which might have borne a title like the encomium moriae of erasmus; and yet it is such a wonderful museum of the productions of the squinting brains belonging to the class of persons commonly known as cranks that we could hardly spare one of its five hundred octavo pages. those of us who are in the habit of receiving letters from all sorts of would-be-literary people--letters of inquiry, many of them with reference to matters we are supposed to understand--can readily see how it was that mr. de morgan, never too busy to be good-natured with the people who pestered--or amused-him with their queer fancies, received such a number of letters from persons who thought they had made great discoveries, from those who felt that they and their inventions and contrivances had been overlooked, and who sought in his large charity of disposition and great receptiveness a balm for their wounded feelings and a ray of hope for their darkened prospects. the book before us is made up from papers published in "the athenaeum," with additions by the author. soon after opening it we come to names with which we are familiar, the first of these, that of cornelius agrippa, being connected with the occult and mystic doctrines dealt with by many of de morgan's correspondents. but the name most likely to arrest us is that of giordano bruno, the same philosopher, heretic, and martyr whose statue has recently been erected in rome, to the great horror of the pope and his prelates in the old world and in the new. de morgan's pithy account of him will interest the company: "giordano bruno was all paradox. he was, as has been said, a vorticist before descartes, an optimist before leibnitz, a copernican before galileo. it would be easy to collect a hundred strange opinions of his. he was born about , and was roasted alive at rome, february , , for the maintenance and defence of the holy church, and the rights and liberties of the same." number seven could not contain himself when the reading had reached this point. he rose from his chair, and tinkled his spoon against the side of his teacup. it may have been a fancy, but i thought it returned a sound which mr. richard briggs would have recognized as implying an organic defect. but number seven did not seem to notice it, or, if he did, to mind it. "why did n't we all have a chance to help erect that statue?" he cried. "a murdered heretic at the beginning of the seventeenth century, a hero of knowledge in the nineteenth,--i drink to the memory of the roasted crank, giordano bruno!" number seven lifted his teacup to his lips, and most of us followed his example. after this outburst of emotion and eloquence had subsided, and the teaspoons lay quietly in their saucers, i went on with my extract from the book i had in hand. i think, i said, that the passage which follows will be new and instructive to most of the company. de morgan's interpretation of the cabalistic sentence, made up as you will find it, is about as ingenious a piece of fanciful exposition as you will be likely to meet with anywhere in any book, new or old. i am the more willing to mention it as it suggests a puzzle which some of the company may like to work upon. observe the character and position of the two distinguished philosophers who did not think their time thrown away in laboring at this seemingly puerile task. "there is a kind of cabbala alphabetica which the investigators of the numerals in words would do well to take up; it is the formation of sentences which contain all the letters of the alphabet, and each only once. no one has done it with v and j treated as consonants; but you and i can do it. dr. whewell and i amused ourselves some years ago with attempts. he could not make sense, though he joined words he gave me phiz, styx, wrong, buck, flame, quiz. "i gave him the following, which he agreed was 'admirable sense,'--i certainly think the words would never have come together except in this way: i quartz pyx who fling muck beds. i long thought that no human being could say this under any circumstances. at last i happened to be reading a religious writer,--as he thought himself,--who threw aspersions on his opponents thick and threefold. heyday came into my head; this fellow flings muck beds; he must be a quartz pyx. and then i remembered that a pyx is a sacred vessel, and quartz is a hard stone, as hard as the heart of a religious foe-curser. so that the line is the motto of the ferocious sectarian who turns his religious vessels into mud-holders, for the benefit of those who will not see what he sees." "there are several other sentences given, in which all the letters (except v and j as consonants) are employed, of which the following is the best: get nymph; quiz sad brow; fix luck,--which in more sober english would be, marry; be cheerful; watch your business. there is more edification, more religion, in this than in all the interpretations put together." there is something very pleasant in the thought of these two sages playing at jackstraws with the letters of the alphabet. the task which de morgan and dr. whewell, "the omniscient," set themselves would not be unworthy of our own ingenious scholars, and it might be worth while for some one of our popular periodicals to offer a prize for the best sentence using up the whole alphabet, under the same conditions as those submitted to by our two philosophers. this whole book of de morgan's seems to me full of instruction. there is too much of it, no doubt; yet one can put up with the redundancy for the sake of the multiplicity of shades of credulity and self-deception it displays in broad daylight. i suspect many of us are conscious of a second personality in our complex nature, which has many traits resembling those found in the writers of the letters addressed to mr. de horgan. i have not ventured very often nor very deeply into the field of metaphysics, but if i were disposed to make any claim in that direction, it would be the recognition of the squinting brain, the introduction of the term "cerebricity" corresponding to electricity, the idiotic area in the brain or thinking-marrow, and my studies of the second member in the partnership of i-my-self & co. i add the co. with especial reference to a very interesting article in a late scribner, by my friend mr. william james. in this article the reader will find a full exposition of the doctrine of plural personality illustrated by striking cases. i have long ago noticed and referred to the fact of the stratification of the currents of thought in three layers, one over the other. i have recognized that where there are two individuals talking together there are really six personalities engaged in the conversation. but the distinct, separable, independent individualities, taking up conscious life one after the other, are brought out by mr. james and the authorities to which he refers as i have not elsewhere seen them developed. whether we shall ever find the exact position of the idiotic centre or area in the brain (if such a spot exists) is uncertain. we know exactly where the blind spot of the eye is situated, and can demonstrate it anatomically and physiologically. but we have only analogy to lead us to infer the possible or even probable existence of an insensible spot in the thinking-centre. if there is a focal point where consciousness is at its highest development, it would not be strange if near by there should prove to be an anaesthetic district or limited space where no report from the senses was intelligently interpreted. but all this is mere hypothesis. notwithstanding the fact that i am nominally the head personage of the circle of teacups, i do not pretend or wish to deny that we all look to number five as our chief adviser in all the literary questions that come before us. she reads more and better than any of us. she is always ready to welcome the first sign of genius, or of talent which approaches genius. she makes short work with all the pretenders whose only excuse for appealing to the public is that they "want to be famous." she is one of the very few persons to whom i am willing to read any one of my own productions while it is yet in manuscript, unpublished. i know she is disposed to make more of it than it deserves; but, on the other hand, there are degrees in her scale of judgment, and i can distinguish very easily what delights her from what pleases only, or is, except for her kindly feeling to the writer, indifferent, or open to severe comment. what is curious is that she seems to have no literary aspirations, no desire to be known as a writer. yet number five has more esprit, more sparkle, more sense in her talk, than many a famous authoress from whom we should expect brilliant conversation. there are mysteries about number five. i am not going to describe her personally. whether she belongs naturally among the bright young people, or in the company of the maturer persons, who have had a good deal of experience of the world, and have reached the wisdom of the riper decades without losing the graces of the earlier ones, it would be hard to say. the men and women, young and old, who throng about her forget their own ages. "there is no such thing as time in her presence," said the professor, the other day, in speaking of her. whether the professor is in love with her or not is more than i can say, but i am sure that he goes to her for literary sympathy and counsel, just as i do. the reader may remember what number five said about the possibility of her getting a sprained ankle, and her asking the young doctor whether he felt equal to taking charge of her if she did. i would not for the world insinuate that he wishes she would slip and twist her foot a little,--just a little, you know, but so that it would have to be laid on a pillow in a chair, and inspected, and bandaged, and delicately manipulated. there was a banana-skin which she might naturally have trodden on, in her way to the tea-table. nobody can suppose that it was there except by the most innocent of accidents. there are people who will suspect everybody. the idea of the doctor's putting that banana-skin there! people love to talk in that silly way about doctors. number five had promised to read us a narrative which she thought would interest some of the company. who wrote it she did not tell us, but i inferred from various circumstances that she had known the writer. she read the story most effectively in her rich, musical voice. i noticed that when it came to the sounds of the striking clock, the ringing of the notes was so like that which reaches us from some far-off cathedral tower that we wanted to bow our heads, as if we had just heard a summons to the angelus. this was the short story that number five read to the teacups:-- i have somewhere read this anecdote. louis the fourteenth was looking out, one day, from, a window of his palace of saint-germain. it was a beautiful landscape which spread out before him, and the monarch, exulting in health, strength, and the splendors of his exalted position, felt his bosom swell with emotions of pride and happiness: presently he noticed the towers of a church in the distance, above the treetops. "what building is that?" he asked. "may it please your majesty, that is the church of st. denis, where your royal ancestors have been buried for many generations." the answer did not "please his royal majesty." there, then, was the place where he too was to lie and moulder in the dust. he turned, sick at heart, from the window, and was uneasy until he had built him another palace, from which he could never be appalled by that fatal prospect. something like the experience of louis the fourteenth was that of the owner of the terrible clock. i give the story as transcribed from the original manuscript:-- the clock was bequeathed to me by an old friend who had recently died. his mind had been a good deal disordered in the later period of his life. this clock, i am told; seemed to have a strange fascination for him. his eyes were fastened on it during the last hours of his life. he died just at midnight. the clock struck twelve, the nurse told me, as he drew his last breath, and then, without any known cause, stopped, with both hands upon the hour. it is a complex and costly piece of mechanism. the escapement is in front, so that every tooth is seen as it frees itself. it shows the phases of the moon, the month of the year, the day of the month, and the day of the week, as well as the hour and minute of the day. i had not owned it a week before i began to perceive the same kind of fascination as that which its former owner had experienced. this gradually grew upon me, and presently led to trains of thought which became at first unwelcome, then worrying, and at last unendurable. i began by taking offence at the moon. i did not like to see that "something large and smooth and round," so like the skull which little peterkin picked up on the field of blenheim. "how many times," i kept saying to myself, "is that wicked old moon coming up to stare at me?" i could not stand it. i stopped a part of the machinery, and the moon went into permanent eclipse. by and by the sounds of the infernal machine began to trouble and pursue me. they talked to me; more and more their language became that of articulately speaking men. they twitted me with the rapid flight of time. they hurried me, as if i had not a moment to lose. quick! quick! quick! as each tooth released itself from the escapement. and as i looked and listened there could not be any mistake about it. i heard quick! quick! quick! as plainly, at least, as i ever heard a word from the phonograph. i stood watching the dial one day,--it was near one o'clock,--and a strange attraction held me fastened to the spot. presently something appeared to trip or stumble inside of the infernal mechanism. i waited for the sound i knew was to follow. how nervous i got! it seemed to me that it would never strike. at last the minute-hand reached the highest point of the dial. then there was a little stir among the works, as there is in a congregation as it rises to receive the benediction. it was no form of blessing which rung out those deep, almost sepulchral tones. but the word they uttered could not be mistaken. i can hear its prolonged, solemn vibrations as if i were standing before the clock at this moment. gone! yes, i said to myself, gone,--its record made up to be opened in eternity. i stood still, staring vaguely at the dial as in a trance. and as the next hour creeps stealthily up, it starts all at once, and cries aloud, gone!--gone! the sun sinks lower, the hour-hand creeps downward with it, until i hear the thrice-repeated monosyllable, gone!--gone!--gone! soon through the darkening hours, until at the dead of night the long roll is called, and with the last gone! the latest of the long procession that filled the day follows its ghostly companions into the stillness and darkness of the past. i silenced the striking part of the works. still, the escapement kept repeating, quick! quick! quick! still the long minute-hand, like the dart in the grasp of death, as we see it in roubiliac's monument to mrs. nightingale, among the tombs of westminster abbey, stretched itself out, ready to transfix each hour as it passed, and make it my last. i sat by the clock to watch the leap from one day of the week to the next. then would come, in natural order, the long stride from one month to the following one. i could endure it no longer. "take that clock away!" i said. they took it away. they took me away, too,--they thought i needed country air. the sounds and motions still pursued me in imagination. i was very nervous when i came here. the walks are pleasant, but the walls seem to me unnecessarily high. the boarders are numerous; a little miscellaneous, i think. but we have the queen, and the president of the united states, and several other distinguished persons, if we may trust what they tell about themselves. after we had listened to number five's story, i was requested to read a couple of verses written by me when the guest of my friends, whose name is hinted by the title prefixed to my lines. la maison d'or. bar harbor. from this fair home behold on either side the restful mountains or the restless sea: so the warm sheltering walls of life divide time and its tides from still eternity. look on the waves: their stormy voices teach that not on earth may toil and struggle cease. look on the mountains: better far than speech their silent promise of eternal peace. viii. i had intended to devote this particular report to an account of my replies to certain questions which have been addressed to me,--questions which i have a right to suppose interest the public, and which, therefore, i was justified in bringing before the teacups, and presenting to the readers of these articles. some may care for one of these questions, and some for another. a good many young people think nothing about life as it presents itself in the far horizon, bounded by the snowy ridges of threescore and the dim peaks beyond that remote barrier. again, there are numbers of persons who know nothing at all about the jews; while, on the other hand, there are those who can, or think they can, detect the israelitish blood in many of their acquaintances who believe themselves of the purest japhetic origin, and are full of prejudices about the semitic race. i do not mean to be cheated out of my intentions. i propose to answer my questioners on the two points just referred to, but i find myself so much interested in the personal affairs of the teacups that i must deal with them before attacking those less exciting subjects. there is no use, let me say here, in addressing to me letters marked "personal," "private," "confidential," and so forth, asking me how i came to know what happened in certain conversations of which i shall give a partial account. if there is a very sensitive phonograph lying about here and there in unsuspected corners, that might account for some part of my revelations. if delilah, whose hearing is of almost supernatural delicacy, reports to me what she overhears, it might explain a part of the mystery. i do not want to accuse delilah, but a young person who assures me she can hear my watch ticking in my pocket, when i am in the next room, might undoubtedly tell many secrets, if so disposed. number five is pretty nearly omniscient, and she and i are on the best terms with each other. these are all the hints i shall give you at present. the teacups of whom the least has been heard at our table are the tutor and the musician. the tutor is a modest young man, kept down a little, i think, by the presence of older persons, like the professor and myself. i have met him several times, of late, walking with different lady teacups: once with the american annex; twice with the english annex; once with the two annexes together; once with number five. i have mentioned the fact that the tutor is a poet as among his claims to our attention. i must add that i do not think any the worse of him for expressing his emotions and experiences in verse. for though rhyming is often a bad sign in a young man, especially if he is already out of his teens, there are those to whom it is as natural, one might almost say as necessary, as it is to a young bird to fly. one does not care to see barnyard fowls tumbling about in trying to use their wings. they have a pair of good, stout drumsticks, and had better keep to them, for the most part. but that feeling does not apply to young eagles, or even to young swallows and sparrows. the tutor is by no means one of those ignorant, silly, conceited phrase-tinklers, who live on the music of their own jingling syllables and the flattery of their foolish friends. i think number five must appreciate him. he is sincere, warmhearted,--his poetry shows that,--not in haste to be famous, and he looks to me as if he only wanted love to steady him. with one of those two young girls he ought certainly to be captivated, if he is not already. twice walking with the english annex, i met him, and they were so deeply absorbed in conversation they hardly noticed me. he has been talking over the matter with number five, who is just the kind of person for a confidante. "i know i feel very lonely," he was saying, "and i only wish i felt sure that i could make another person happy. my life would be transfigured if i could find such a one, whom i could love well enough to give my life to her,--for her, if that were needful, and who felt an affinity for me, if any one could." "and why not your english maiden?" said number five. "what makes you think i care more for her than for her american friend?" said the tutor. "why, have n't i met you walking with her, and did n't you both seem greatly interested in the subject you were discussing? i thought, of course, it was something more or less sentimental that you were talking about." "i was explaining that 'enclitic de' in browning's grammarian's funeral. i don't think there was anything very sentimental about that. she is an inquisitive creature, that english girl. she is very fond of asking me questions,--in fact, both of them are. there is one curious difference between them: the english girl settles down into her answers and is quiet; the american girl is never satisfied with yesterday's conclusions; she is always reopening old questions in the light of some new fact or some novel idea. i suppose that people bred from childhood to lean their backs against the wall of the creed and the church catechism find it hard to sit up straight on the republican stool, which obliges them to stiffen their own backs. which of these two girls would be the safest choice for a young man? i should really like to hear what answer you would make if i consulted you seriously, with a view to my own choice,--on the supposition that there was a fair chance that either of them might be won." "the one you are in love with," answered number five. "but what if it were a case of 'how happy could i be with either'? which offers the best chance of happiness,--a marriage between two persons of the same country, or a marriage where one of the parties is of foreign birth? everything else being equal, which is best for an american to marry, an american or an english girl? we need not confine the question to those two young persons, but put it more generally." "there are reasons on both sides," answered number five. "i have often talked this matter over with the dictator. this is the way he speaks about it. english blood is apt to tell well on the stock upon which it is engrafted. over and over again he has noticed finely grown specimens of human beings, and on inquiry has found that one or both of the parents or grandparents were of british origin. the chances are that the descendants of the imported stock will be of a richer organization, more florid, more muscular, with mellower voices, than the native whose blood has been unmingled with that of new emigrants since the earlier colonial times.--so talks the dictator.--i myself think the american will find his english wife concentrates herself more readily and more exclusively on her husband,--for the obvious reason that she is obliged to live mainly in him. i remember hearing an old friend of my early days say, 'a woman does not bear transplanting.' it does not do to trust these old sayings, and yet they almost always have some foundation in the experience of mankind, which has repeated them from generation to generation. happy is the married woman of foreign birth who can say to her husband, as andromache said to hector, after enumerating all the dear relatives she had lost, "'yet while my hector still survives, i see my father, mother, brethren, all in thee!' "how many a sorrowing wife, exiled from her native country, dreams of the mother she shall see no more! how many a widow, in a strange land, wishes that her poor, worn-out body could be laid among her kinsfolk, in the little churchyard where she used to gather daisies in her childhood! it takes a great deal of love to keep down the 'climbing sorrow' that swells up in a woman's throat when such memories seize upon her, in her moments of desolation. but if a foreign-born woman does willingly give up all for a man, and never looks backward, like lot's wife, she is a prize that it is worth running a risk to gain,--that is, if she has the making of a good woman in her; and a few years will go far towards naturalizing her." the tutor listened to number five with much apparent interest. "and now," he said, "what do you think of her companion?" "a charming girl for a man of a quiet, easy temperament. the great trouble is with her voice. it is pitched a full note too high. it is aggressive, disturbing, and would wear out a nervous man without his ever knowing what was the matter with him. a good many crazy northern people would recover their reason if they could live for a year or two among the blacks of the southern states. but the penetrating, perturbing quality of the voices of many of our northern women has a great deal to answer for in the way of determining love and friendship. you remember that dear friend of ours who left us not long since? if there were more voices like hers, the world would be a different place to live in. i do not believe any man or woman ever came within the range of those sweet, tranquil tones without being hushed, captivated, entranced i might almost say, by their calming, soothing influence. can you not imagine the tones in which those words, 'peace, be still,' were spoken? such was the effect of the voice to which but a few weeks ago we were listening. it is hard to believe that it has died out of human consciousness. can such a voice be spared from that world of happiness to which we fondly look forward, where we love to dream, if we do not believe with assured conviction, that whatever is loveliest in this our mortal condition shall be with us again as an undying possession? your english friend has a very agreeable voice, round, mellow, cheery, and her articulation is charming. other things being equal, i think you, who are, perhaps, oversensitive, would live from two to three years longer with her than with the other. i suppose a man who lived within hearing of a murmuring brook would find his life shortened if a sawmill were set up within earshot of his dwelling." "and so you advise me to make love to the english girl, do you?" asked the tutor. number five laughed. it was not a loud laugh, she never laughed noisily; it was not a very hearty laugh; the idea did not seem to amuse her much. "no," she said, "i won't take the responsibility. perhaps this is a case in which the true reading of gay's line would be-- "how happy could i be with neither. "there are several young women in the world besides our two annexes." i question whether the tutor had asked those questions very seriously, and i doubt if number five thought he was very much in earnest. one of the teacups reminded me that i had promised to say something of my answers to certain questions. so i began at once: i have given the name of brain-tappers to the literary operatives who address persons whose names are well known to the public, asking their opinions or their experiences on subjects which are at the time of general interest. they expect a literary man or a scientific expert to furnish them materials for symposia and similar articles, to be used by them for their own special purposes. sometimes they expect to pay for the information furnished them; at other times, the honor of being included in a list of noted personages who have received similar requests is thought sufficient compensation. the object with which the brain-tapper puts his questions may be a purely benevolent and entirely disinterested one. such was the object of some of those questions which i have received and answered. there are other cases, in which the brain-tapper is acting much as those persons do who stop a physician in the street to talk with him about their livers or stomachs, or other internal arrangements, instead of going to his office and consulting him, expecting to pay for his advice. others are more like those busy women who, having the generous intention of making a handsome present to their pastor, at as little expense as may be, send to all their neighbors and acquaintances for scraps of various materials, out of which the imposing "bedspread" or counterpane is to be elaborated. that is all very well so long as old pieces of stuff are all they call for, but it is a different matter to ask for clippings out of new and uncut rolls of cloth. so it is one thing to ask an author for liberty to use extracts from his published writings, and it is a very different thing to expect him to write expressly for the editor's or compiler's piece of literary patchwork. i have received many questions within the last year or two, some of which i am willing to answer, but prefer to answer at my own time, in my own way, through my customary channel of communication with the public. i hope i shall not be misunderstood as implying any reproach against the inquirers who, in order to get at facts which ought to be known, apply to all whom they can reach for information. their inquisitiveness is not always agreeable or welcome, but we ought to be glad that there are mousing fact-hunters to worry us with queries to which, for the sake of the public, we are bound to give our attention. let me begin with my brain-tappers. and first, as the papers have given publicity to the fact that i, the dictator of this tea-table, have reached the age of threescore years and twenty, i am requested to give information as to how i managed to do it, and to explain just how they can go and do likewise. i think i can lay down a few rules that will help them to the desired result. there is no certainty in these biological problems, but there are reasonable probabilities upon which it is safe to act. the first thing to be done is, some years before birth, to advertise for a couple of parents both belonging to long-lived families. especially let the mother come of a race in which octogenarians and nonagenarians are very common phenomena. there are practical difficulties in following out this suggestion, but possibly the forethought of your progenitors, or that concurrence of circumstances which we call accident, may have arranged this for you. do not think that a robust organization is any warrant of long life, nor that a frail and slight bodily constitution necessarily means scanty length of days. many a strong-limbed young man and many a blooming young woman have i seen failing and dropping away in or before middle life, and many a delicate and slightly constituted person outliving the athletes and the beauties of their generation. whether the excessive development of the muscular system is compatible with the best condition of general health is, i think, more than doubtful. the muscles are great sponges that suck up and make use of large quantities of blood, and the other organs must be liable to suffer for want of their share. one of the seven wise men of greece boiled his wisdom down into two words,--nothing too much. it is a rule which will apply to food, exercise, labor, sleep, and, in short, to every part of life. this is not so very difficult a matter if one begins in good season and forms regular habits. but what if i should lay down the rule, be cheerful; take all the troubles and trials of life with perfect equanimity and a smiling countenance? admirable directions! your friend, the curly-haired blonde, with florid complexion, round cheeks, the best possible digestion and respiration, the stomach of an ostrich and the lungs of a pearl-diver, finds it perfectly easy to carry them into practice. you, of leaden complexion, with black and lank hair, lean, hollow-eyed, dyspeptic, nervous, find it not so easy to be always hilarious and happy. the truth is that the persons of that buoyant disposition which comes always heralded by a smile, as a yacht driven by a favoring breeze carries a wreath of sparkling foam before her, are born with their happiness ready made. they cannot help being cheerful any more than their saturnine fellow-mortal can help seeing everything through the cloud he carries with him. i give you the precept, then, be cheerful, for just what it is worth, as i would recommend to you to be six feet, or at least five feet ten, in stature. you cannot settle that matter for yourself, but you can stand up straight, and give your five feet five its--full value. you can help along a little by wearing high-heeled shoes. so you can do something to encourage yourself in serenity of aspect and demeanor, keeping your infirmities and troubles in the background instead of making them the staple of your conversation. this piece of advice, if followed, may be worth from three to five years of the fourscore which you hope to attain. if, on the other hand, instead of going about cheerily in society, making the best of everything and as far as possible forgetting your troubles, you can make up your mind to economize all your stores of vital energy, to hoard your life as a miser hoards his money, you will stand a fair chance of living until you are tired of life,--fortunate if everybody is not tired of you. one of my prescriptions for longevity may startle you somewhat. it is this: become the subject of a mortal disease. let half a dozen doctors thump you, and knead you, and test you in every possible way, and render their verdict that you have an internal complaint; they don't know exactly what it is, but it will certainly kill you by and by. then bid farewell to the world and shut yourself up for an invalid. if you are threescore years old when you begin this mode of life, you may very probably last twenty years, and there you are,--an octogenarian. in the mean time, your friends outside have been dropping off, one after another, until you find yourself almost alone, nursing your mortal complaint as if it were your baby, hugging it and kept alive by it,--if to exist is to live. who has not seen cases like this,--a man or a woman shutting himself or herself up, visited by a doctor or a succession of doctors (i remember that once, in my earlier experience, i was the twenty-seventh physician who had been consulted), always taking medicine, until everybody was reminded of that impatient speech of a relative of one of these invalid vampires who live on the blood of tired-out attendants, "i do wish she would get well--or something"? persons who are shut up in that way, confined to their chambers, sometimes to their beds, have a very small amount of vital expenditure, and wear out very little of their living substance. they are like lamps with half their wicks picked down, and will continue to burn when other lamps have used up all their oil. an insurance office might make money by taking no risks except on lives of persons suffering from mortal disease. it is on this principle of economizing the powers of life that a very eminent american physician,--dr. weir mitchell, a man of genius,--has founded his treatment of certain cases of nervous exhaustion. what have i got to say about temperance, the use of animal food, and so forth? these are questions asked me. nature has proved a wise teacher, as i think, in my own case. the older i grow, the less use i make of alcoholic stimulants. in fact, i hardly meddle with them at all, except a glass or two of champagne occasionally. i find that by far the best borne of all drinks containing alcohol. i do not suppose my experience can be the foundation of a universal rule. dr. holyoke, who lived to be a hundred, used habitually, in moderate quantities, a mixture of cider, water, and rum. i think, as one grows older, less food, especially less animal food, is required. but old people have a right to be epicures, if they can afford it. the pleasures of the palate are among the last gratifications of the senses allowed them. we begin life as little cannibals,--feeding on the flesh and blood of our mothers. we range through all the vegetable and animal products, of nature, and i suppose, if the second childhood could return to the food of the first, it might prove a wholesome diet. what do i say to smoking? i cannot grudge an old man his pipe, but i think tobacco often does a good deal of harm to the health,--to the eyes especially, to the nervous system generally, producing headache, palpitation, and trembling. i myself gave it up many years ago. philosophically speaking, i think self-narcotization and self-alcoholization are rather ignoble substitutes for undisturbed self-consciousness and unfettered self-control. here is another of those brain-tapping letters, of similar character, which i have no objection to answering at my own time and in the place which best suits me. as the questions must be supposed to be asked with a purely scientific and philanthropic purpose, it can make little difference when and where they are answered. for myself, i prefer our own tea-table to the symposia to which i am often invited. i do not quarrel with those who invite their friends to a banquet to which many strangers are expected to contribute. it is a very easy and pleasant way of giving an entertainment at little cost and with no responsibility. somebody has been writing to me about "oatmeal and literature," and somebody else wants to know whether i have found character influenced by diet; also whether, in my opinion, oatmeal is preferable to pie as an american national food. in answer to these questions, i should say that i have my beliefs and prejudices; but if i were pressed hard for my proofs of their correctness, i should make but a poor show in the witness-box. most assuredly i do believe that body and mind are much influenced by the kind of food habitually depended upon. i am persuaded that a too exclusively porcine diet gives a bristly character to the beard and hair, which is borrowed from the animal whose tissues these stiff-bearded compatriots of ours have too largely assimilated. i can never stray among the village people of our windy capes without now and then coming upon a human being who looks as if he had been split, salted, and dried, like the salt-fish which has built up his arid organism. if the body is modified by the food which nourishes it, the mind and character very certainly will be modified by it also. we know enough of their close connection with each other to be sure of that, without any statistical observations to prove it. do you really want to know "whether oatmeal is preferable to pie as an american national food"? i suppose the best answer i can give to your question is to tell you what is my own practice. oatmeal in the morning, as an architect lays a bed of concrete to form a base for his superstructure. pie when i can get it; that is, of the genuine sort, for i am not patriotic enough to think very highly of the article named after the father of his country, who was first in war, first in peace,--not first in pies, according to my standard. there is a very odd prejudice against pie as an article of diet. it is common to hear every form of bodily degeneracy and infirmity attributed to this particular favorite food. i see no reason or sense in it. mr. emerson believed in pie, and was almost indignant when a fellow-traveller refused the slice he offered him. "why, mr.________," said be, "what is pie made for!" if every green mountain boy has not eaten a thousand times his weight in apple, pumpkin, squash, and mince pie, call me a dumpling. and colonel ethan allen was one of them,--ethan allen, who, as they used to say, could wrench off the head of a wrought nail with his teeth. if you mean to keep as well as possible, the less you think about your health the better. you know enough not to eat or drink what you have found does not agree with you. you ought to know enough not to expose yourself needlessly to draughts. if you take a "constitutional," walk with the wind when you can, and take a closed car against it if you can get one. walking against the wind is one of the most dangerous kinds of exposure, if you are sensitive to cold. but except a few simple rules such as i have just given, let your health take care of itself so long as it behaves decently. if you want to be sure not to reach threescore and twenty, get a little box of homoeopathic pellets and a little book of homeopathic prescriptions. i had a poor friend who fell into that way, and became at last a regular hahnemaniac. he left a box of his little jokers, which at last came into my hands. the poor fellow had cultivated symptoms as other people cultivate roses or chrysanthemums. what a luxury of choice his imagination presented to him! when one watches for symptoms, every organ in the body is ready to put in its claim. by and by a real illness attacked him, and the box of little pellets was shut up, to minister to his fancied evils no longer. let me tell you one thing. i think if patients and physicians were in the habit of recognizing the fact i am going to mention, both would be gainers. the law i refer to must be familiar to all observing physicians, and to all intelligent persons who have observed their own bodily and mental conditions. this is the curve of health. it is a mistake to suppose that the normal state of health is represented by a straight horizontal line. independently of the well-known causes which raise or depress the standard of vitality, there seems to be,--i think i may venture to say there is,--a rhythmic undulation in the flow of the vital force. the "dynamo" which furnishes the working powers of consciousness and action has its annual, its monthly, its diurnal waves, even its momentary ripples, in the current it furnishes. there are greater and lesser curves in the movement of every day's life,--a series of ascending and descending movements, a periodicity depending on the very nature of the force at work in the living organism. thus we have our good seasons and our bad seasons, our good days and our bad days, life climbing and descending in long or short undulations, which i have called the curve of health. from this fact spring a great proportion of the errors of medical practice. on it are based the delusions of the various shadowy systems which impose themselves on the ignorant and half-learned public as branches or "schools" of science. a remedy taken at the time of the ascent in the curve of health is found successful. the same remedy taken while the curve is in its downward movement proves a failure. so long as this biological law exists, so long the charlatan will keep his hold on the ignorant public. so long as it exists, the wisest practitioner will be liable to deceive himself about the effect of what he calls and loves to think are his remedies. long-continued and sagacious observation will to some extent undeceive him; but were it not for the happy illusion that his useless or even deleterious drugs were doing good service, many a practitioner would give up his calling for one in which he could be more certain that he was really being useful to the subjects of his professional dealings. for myself, i should prefer a physician of a sanguine temperament, who had a firm belief in himself and his methods. i do not wonder at all that the public support a whole community of pretenders who show the portraits of the patients they have "cured." the best physicians will tell you that, though many patients get well under their treatment, they rarely cure anybody. if you are told also that the best physician has many more patients die on his hands than the worst of his fellow-practitioners, you may add these two statements to your bundle of paradoxes, and if they puzzle you i will explain them at some future time. [i take this opportunity of correcting a statement now going the rounds of the medical and probably other periodicals. in "the journal of the american medical association," dated april , , published at chicago, i am reported, in quotation marks, as saying, "give me opium, wine, and milk, and i will cure all diseases to which flesh is heir." in the first place, i never said i will cure, or can cure, or would or could cure, or had cured any disease. my venerated instructor, dr. james jackson, taught me never to use that expression. curo means, i take care of, he used to say, and in that sense, if you mean nothing more, it is properly employed. so, in the amphitheatre of the ecole de medecine, i used to read the words of ambroise pare, "je le pansay, dieu le guarist." (i dressed his wound, and god cured him.) next, i am not in the habit of talking about "the diseases to which flesh is heir." the expression has become rather too familiar for repetition, and belongs to the rhetoric of other latitudes. and, lastly, i have said some plain things, perhaps some sharp ones, about the abuse of drugs and the limited number of vitally important remedies, but i am not so ignorantly presumptuous as to make the foolish statement falsely attributed to me.] i paused a minute or two, and as no one spoke out; i put a question to the counsellor. are you quite sure that you wish to live to be threescore and twenty years old? "most certainly i do. don't they say that theophrastus lived to his hundred and seventh year, and did n't he complain of the shortness of life? at eighty a man has had just about time to get warmly settled in his nest. do you suppose he doesn't enjoy the quiet of that resting-place? no more haggard responsibility to keep him awake nights,--unless he prefers to retain his hold on offices and duties from which he can be excused if he chooses. no more goading ambitions,--he knows he has done his best. no more jealousies, if he were weak enough to feel such ignoble stirrings in his more active season. an octogenarian with a good record, and free from annoying or distressing infirmities, ought to be the happiest of men. everybody treats him with deference. everybody wants to help him. he is the ward of the generations that have grown up since he was in the vigor of maturity. yes, let me live to be fourscore years, and then i will tell you whether i should like a few more years or not." you carry the feelings of middle age, i said, in imagination, over into the period of senility, and then reason and dream about it as if its whole mode of being were like that of the earlier period of life. but how many things there are in old age which you must live into if you would expect to have any "realizing sense" of their significance! in the first place, you have no coevals, or next to none. at fifty, your vessel is stanch, and you are on deck with the rest, in all weathers. at sixty, the vessel still floats, and you are in the cabin. at seventy, you, with a few fellow-passengers, are on a raft. at eighty, you are on a spars to which, possibly, one, or two, or three friends of about your own age are still clinging. after that, you must expect soon to find yourself alone, if you are still floating, with only a life-preserver to keep your old white-bearded chin above the water. kindness? yes, pitying kindness, which is a bitter sweet in which the amiable ingredient can hardly be said to predominate. how pleasant do you think it is to have an arm offered to you when you are walking on a level surface, where there is no chance to trip? how agreeable do you suppose it is to have your well-meaning friends shout and screech at you, as if you were deaf as an adder, instead of only being, as you insist, somewhat hard of hearing? i was a little over twenty years old when i wrote the lines which some of you may have met with, for they have been often reprinted: the mossy marbles rest on the lips that he has prest in their bloom, and the names he loved to hear have been carved for many a year on the tomb. the world was a garden to me then; it is a churchyard now. "i thought you were one of those who looked upon old age cheerfully, and welcomed it as a season of peace and contented enjoyment." i am one of those who so regard it. those are not bitter or scalding tears that fall from my eyes upon "the mossy marbles." the young who left my side early in my life's journey are still with me in the unchanged freshness and beauty of youth. those who have long kept company with me live on after their seeming departure, were it only by the mere force of habit; their images are all around me, as if every surface had been a sensitive film that photographed them; their voices echo about me, as if they had been recorded on those unforgetting cylinders which bring back to us the tones and accents that have imprinted them, as the hardened sands show us the tracks of extinct animals. the melancholy of old age has a divine tenderness in it, which only the sad experiences of life can lend a human soul. but there is a lower level,--that of tranquil contentment and easy acquiescence in the conditions in which we find ourselves; a lower level, in which old age trudges patiently when it is not using its wings. i say its wings, for no period of life is so imaginative as that which looks to younger people the most prosaic. the atmosphere of memory is one in which imagination flies more easily and feels itself more at home than in the thinner ether of youthful anticipation. i have told you some of the drawbacks of age; i would not have you forget its privileges. when it comes down from its aerial excursions, it has much left to enjoy on the humble plane of being. and so you think you would like to become an octogenarian? "i should," said the counsellor, now a man in the high noon of bodily and mental vigor. "four more--yes, five more--decades would not be too much, i think. and how much i should live to see in that time! i am glad you have laid down some rules by which a man may reasonably expect to leap the eight barred gate. i won't promise to obey them all, though." among the questions addressed to me, as to a large number of other persons, are the following. i take them from "the american hebrew" of april , . i cannot pretend to answer them all, but i can say something about one or two of them. "i. can you, of your own personal experience, find any justification whatever for the entertainment of prejudice towards individuals solely because they are jews? "ii. is this prejudice not due largely to the religious instruction that is given by the church acid sunday-school? for instance, the teachings that the jews crucified jesus; that they rejected him, and can only secure salvation by belief in him, and similar matters that are calculated to excite in the impressionable mind of the child an aversion, if not a loathing, for members of 'the despised race.' "iii. have you observed in the social or business life of the jew, so far as your personal experience has gone, any different standard of conduct than prevails among christians of the same social status? "iv. can you suggest what should be done to dispel the existing prejudice?" as to the first question, i have had very slight acquaintance with the children of israel. i shared more or less the prevailing prejudices against the persecuted race. i used to read in my hymn-book,--i hope i quote correctly,-- "see what a living stone the builders did refuse! yet god has built his church thereon, in spite of envious jews." i grew up inheriting the traditional idea that they were a race lying under a curse for their obstinacy in refusing the gospel. like other children of new england birth, i walked in the narrow path of puritan exclusiveness. the great historical church of christendom was presented to me as bunyan depicted it: one of the two giants sitting at the door of their caves, with the bones, of pilgrims scattered about them, and grinning at the travellers whom they could no longer devour. in the nurseries of old-fashioned orthodoxy there was one religion in the world,--one religion, and a multitude of detestable, literally damnable impositions, believed in by uncounted millions, who were doomed to perdition for so believing. the jews were the believers in one of these false religions. it had been true once, but was now a pernicious and abominable lie. the principal use of the jews seemed to be to lend money, and to fulfil the predictions of the old prophets of their race. no doubt the individual sons of abraham whom we found in our ill-favored and ill-flavored streets were apt to be unpleasing specimens of the race. it was against the most adverse influences of legislation, of religious feeling, of social repugnance, that the great names of jewish origin made themselves illustrious; that the philosophers, the musicians, the financiers, the statesmen, of the last centuries forced the world to recognize and accept them. benjamin, the son of isaac, a son of israel, as his family name makes obvious, has shown how largely jewish blood has been represented in the great men and women of modern days. there are two virtues which christians have found it very hard to exemplify in practice. these are modesty and civility. the founder of the christian religion appeared among a people accustomed to look for a messiah, a special ambassador from heaven, with an authoritative message. they were intimately acquainted with every expression having reference to this divine messenger. they had a religion of their own, about which christianity agrees with judaism in asserting that it was of divine origin. it is a serious fact, to which we do not give all the attention it deserves, that this divinely instructed people were not satisfied with the evidence that the young rabbi who came to overthrow their ancient church and found a new one was a supernatural being. "we think he was a great doctor," said a jewish companion with whom i was conversing. he meant a great teacher, i presume, though healing the sick was one of his special offices. instead of remembering that they were entitled to form their own judgment of the new teacher, as they had judged of hillel and other great instructors, christians, as they called themselves, have insulted, calumniated, oppressed, abased, outraged, "the chosen race" during the long succession of centuries since the jewish contemporaries of the founder of christianity made up their minds that he did not meet the conditions required by the subject of the predictions of their scriptures. the course of the argument against them is very briefly and effectively stated by mr. emerson: "this was jehovah come down out of heaven. i will kill you if you say he was a man." it seems as if there should be certain laws of etiquette regulating the relation of different religions to each other. it is not civil for a follower of mahomet to call his neighbor of another creed a "christian dog." still more, there should be something like politeness in the bearing of christian sects toward each other, and of believers in the new dispensation toward those who still adhere to the old. we are in the habit of allowing a certain arrogant assumption to our roman catholic brethren. we have got used to their pretensions. they may call us "heretics," if they like. they may speak of us as "infidels," if they choose, especially if they say it in latin. so long as there is no inquisition, so long as there is no auto da fe, we do not mind the hard words much; and we have as good phrases to give them back: the man of sin and the scarlet woman will serve for examples. but it is better to be civil to each other all round. i doubt if a convert to the religion of mahomet was ever made by calling a man a christian dog. i doubt if a hebrew ever became a good christian if the baptismal rite was performed by spitting on his jewish gabardine. i have often thought of the advance in comity and true charity shown in the title of my late honored friend james freeman clarke's book, "the ten great religions." if the creeds of mankind try to understand each other before attempting mutual extermination, they will be sure to find a meaning in beliefs which are different from their own. the old calvinistic spirit was almost savagely exclusive. while the author of the "ten great religions" was growing up in boston under the benignant, large-minded teachings of the rev. james freeman, the famous dr. john m. mason, at new york, was fiercely attacking the noble humanity of "the universal prayer." "in preaching," says his biographer, "he once quoted pope's lines as to god's being adored alike 'by saint, by savage, and by sage,' and pronounced it (in his deepest guttural) 'the most damnable lie.'" what could the hebrew expect when a christian preacher could use such language about a petition breathing the very soul of humanity? happily, the true human spirit is encroaching on that arrogant and narrow-minded form of selfishness which called itself christianity. the golden rule should govern us in dealing with those whom we call unbelievers, with heathen, and with all who do not accept our religious views. the jews are with us as a perpetual lesson to teach us modesty and civility. the religion we profess is not self-evident. it did not convince the people to whom it was sent. we have no claim to take it for granted that we are all right, and they are all wrong. and, therefore, in the midst of all the triumphs of christianity, it is well that the stately synagogue should lift its walls by the side of the aspiring cathedral, a perpetual reminder that there are many mansions in the father's earthly house as well as in the heavenly one; that civilized humanity, longer in time and broader in space than any historical form of belief, is mightier than any one institution or organization it includes. many years ago i argued with myself the proposition which my hebrew correspondent has suggested. recognizing the fact that i was born to a birthright of national and social prejudices against "the chosen people,"--chosen as the object of contumely and abuse by the rest of the world,--i pictured my own inherited feelings of aversion in all their intensity, and the strain of thought under the influence of which those prejudices gave way to a more human, a more truly christian feeling of brotherhood. i must ask your indulgence while i quote a few verses from a poem of my own, printed long ago under the title "at the pantomime." i was crowded between two children of israel, and gave free inward expression to my feelings. all at once i happened to look more closely at one of my neighbors, and saw that the youth was the very ideal of the son of mary. a fresh young cheek whose olive hue the mantling blood shows faintly through; locks dark as midnight, that divide and shade the neck on either side; soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam clear as a starlit mountain stream; so looked that other child of shem, the maiden's boy of bethlehem! --and thou couldst scorn the peerless blood that flows unmingled from the flood, thy scutcheon spotted with the stains of norman thieves and pirate danes! the new world's foundling, in thy pride scowl on the hebrew at thy side, and lo! the very semblance there the lord of glory deigned to wear! i see that radiant image rise, the flowing hair, the pitying eyes, the faintly crimsoned cheek that shows the blush of sharon's opening rose, thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet whose brethren soil thy christian seat, thy lips would press his garment's hem that curl in wrathful scorn for them! a sudden mist, a watery screen, dropped like a veil before the scene; the shadow floated from my soul, and to my lips a whisper stole: --thy prophets caught the spirit's flame, from thee the son of mary came, with thee the father deigned to dwell, peace be upon thee, israel! it is not to be expected that intimate relations will be established between jewish and christian communities until both become so far rationalized and humanized that their differences are comparatively unimportant. but already there is an evident approximation in the extreme left of what is called liberal christianity and the representatives of modern judaism. the life of a man like the late sir moses montefiore reads a lesson from the old testament which might well have been inspired by the noblest teachings of the christian gospels. delilah, and how she got her name. est-elle bien gentille, cette petite? i said one day to number five, as our pretty delilah put her arm between us with a bunch of those tender early radishes that so recall the rosy-fingered morning of homer. the little hand which held the radishes would not have shamed aurora. that hand has never known drudgery, i feel sure. when i spoke those french words our little delilah gave a slight, seemingly involuntary start, and her cheeks grew of as bright a red as her radishes. ah, said i to myself; does that young girl understand french? it may be worth while to be careful what one says before her. there is a mystery about this girl. she seems to know her place perfectly,--except, perhaps, when she burst out crying, the other day, which was against all the rules of table-maiden's etiquette,--and yet she looks as if she had been born to be waited on, and not to perform that humble service for others. we know that once in a while girls with education and well connected take it into their heads to go into service for a few weeks or months. sometimes it is from economic motives,--to procure means for their education, or to help members of their families who need assistance. at any rate, they undertake the lighter menial duties of some household where they are not known, and, having stooped--if stooping it is to be considered--to lowly offices, no born and bred servants are more faithful to all their obligations. you must not suppose she was christened delilah. any of our ministers would hesitate to give such a heathen name to a christian child. the way she came to get it was this: the professor was going to give a lecture before an occasional audience, one evening. when he took his seat with the other teacups, the american annex whispered to the other annex, "his hair wants cutting,--it looks like fury." "quite so," said the english annex. "i wish you would tell him so,--i do, awfully." "i'll fix it," said the american girl. so, after the teacups were emptied and the company had left the table, she went up to the professor. "you read this lecture, don't you, professor?" she said. "i do," he answered. "i should think that lock of hair which falls down over your forehead would trouble you," she said. "it does sometimes," replied the professor. "let our little maid trim it for you. you're equal to that, aren't you?" turning to the handmaiden. "i always used to cut my father's hair," she answered. she brought a pair of glittering shears, and before she would let the professor go she had trimmed his hair and beard as they had not been dealt with for many a day. everybody said the professor looked ten years younger. after that our little handmaiden was always called delilah, among the talking teacups. the mistress keeps a watchful eye on this young girl. i should not be surprised to find that she was carrying out some ideal, some fancy or whim,--possibly nothing more, but springing from some generous, youthful impulse. perhaps she is working for that little sister at the blind asylum. where did she learn french? she did certainly blush, and betrayed every sign of understanding the words spoken about her in that language. sometimes she sings while at her work, and we have all been struck with the pure, musical character of her voice. it is just such a voice as ought to come from that round white throat. we made a discovery about it the other evening. the mistress keeps a piano in her room, and we have sometimes had music in the evening. one of the teacups, to whom i have slightly referred, is an accomplished pianist, and the two annexes sing very sweetly together,--the american girl having a clear soprano voice, the english girl a mellow contralto. they had sung several tunes, when the mistress rang for avis,--for that is our delilah's real name. she whispered to the young girl, who blushed and trembled. "don't be frightened," said the mistress encouragingly. "i have heard you singing 'too young for love,' and i will get our pianist to play it. the young ladies both know it, and you must join in." the two voices, with the accompaniment, had hardly finished the first line when a pure, ringing, almost childlike voice joined the vocal duet. the sound of her own voice seemed to make her forget her fears, and she warbled as naturally and freely as any young bird of a may morning. number five came in while she was singing, and when she got through caught her in her arms and kissed her, as if she were her sister, and not delilah, our table-maid. number five is apt to forget herself and those social differences to which some of us attach so much importance. this is the song in which the little maid took part: too young for love. too young for love? ah, say not so! tell reddening rose-buds not to blow! wait not for spring to pass away, --love's summer months begin with may! too young for love? ah, say not so! too young? too young? ah, no! no! no! too young for love? ah, say not so, while daisies bloom and tulips glow! june soon will come with lengthened day to practise all love learned in may. too young for love? ah, say not so! too young? too young? ah, no! no! no! ix i often wish that our number seven could have known and corresponded with the author of "the budget of paradoxes." i think mr. de morgan would have found some of his vagaries and fancies not undeserving of a place in his wonderful collection of eccentricities, absurdities, ingenuities,--mental freaks of all sorts. but i think he would have now and then recognized a sound idea, a just comparison, a suggestive hint, a practical notion, which redeemed a page of extravagances and crotchety whims. i confess that i am often pleased with fancies of his, and should be willing to adopt them as my own. i think he has, in the midst of his erratic and tangled conceptions, some perfectly clear and consistent trains of thought. so when number seven spoke of sending us a paper, i welcomed the suggestion. i asked him whether he had any objection to my looking it over before he read it. my proposal rather pleased him, i thought, for, as was observed on a former occasion, he has in connection with a belief in himself another side,--a curious self-distrust. i have no question that he has an obscure sense of some mental deficiency. thus you may expect from him first a dogma, and presently a doubt. if you fight his dogma, he will do battle for it stoutly; if you let him alone, he will very probably explain its extravagances, if it has any, and tame it into reasonable limits. sometimes he is in one mood, sometimes in another. the first portion of what we listened to shows him at his best; in the latter part i am afraid you will think he gets a little wild. i proceed to lay before you the paper which number seven read to the teacups. there was something very pleasing in the deference which was shown him. we all feel that there is a crack in the teacup, and are disposed to handle it carefully. i have left out a few things which he said, feeling that they might give offence to some of the company. there were sentences so involved and obscure that i was sure they would not be understood, if indeed he understood them himself. but there are other passages so entirely sane, and as it seems to me so just, that if any reader attributes them to me i shall not think myself wronged by the supposition. you must remember that number seven has had a fair education, that he has been a wide reader in many directions, and that he belongs to a family of remarkable intellectual gifts. so it was not surprising that he said some things which pleased the company, as in fact they did. the reader will not be startled to see a certain abruptness in the transition from one subject to another,--it is a characteristic of the squinting brain wherever you find it. another curious mark rarely wanting in the subjects of mental strabismus is an irregular and often sprawling and deformed handwriting. many and many a time i have said, after glancing at the back of a letter, "this comes from an insane asylum, or from an eccentric who might well be a candidate for such an institution." number seven's manuscript, which showed marks of my corrections here and there, furnished good examples of the chirography of persons with ill-mated cerebral hemispheres. but the earlier portions of the manuscript are of perfectly normal appearance. conticuere omnes, as virgil says. we were all silent as number seven began the reading of his paper. number seven reads. i am the seventh son of a seventh son, as i suppose you all know. it is commonly believed that some extraordinary gifts belong to the fortunate individuals born under these exceptional conditions. however this may be, a peculiar virtue was supposed to dwell in me from my earliest years. my touch was believed to have the influence formerly attributed to that of the kings and queens of england. you may remember that the great dr. samuel johnson, when a child, was carried to be touched by her majesty queen anne for the "king's evil," as scrofula used to be called. our honored friend the dictator will tell you that the brother of one of his andover schoolmates was taken to one of these gifted persons, who touched him, and hung a small bright silver coin, either a "fourpence ha'penny" or a "ninepence," about his neck, which, strange to say, after being worn a certain time, became tarnished, and finally black,--a proof of the poisonous matters which had become eliminated from the system and gathered upon the coin. i remember that at one time i used to carry fourpence ha'pennies with holes bored through them, which i furnished to children or to their mothers, under pledges of secrecy,--receiving a piece of silver of larger dimensions in exchange. i never felt quite sure about any extraordinary endowment being a part of my inheritance in virtue of my special conditions of birth. a phrenologist, who examined my head when i was a boy, said the two sides were unlike. my hatter's measurement told me the same thing; but in looking over more than a bushel of the small cardboard hat-patterns which give the exact shape of the head, i have found this is not uncommon. the phrenologist made all sorts of predictions of what i should be and do, which proved about as near the truth as those recorded in miss edith thomas's charming little poem, "augury," which some of us were reading the other day. i have never been through college, but i had a relative who was famous as a teacher of rhetoric in one of our universities, and especially for taking the nonsense out of sophomorical young fellows who could not say anything without rigging it up in showy and sounding phrases. i think i learned from him to express myself in good old-fashioned english, and without making as much fuss about it as our fourth of july orators and political haranguers were in the habit of making. i read a good many stories during my boyhood, one of which left a lasting impression upon me, and which i have always commended to young people. it is too late, generally, to try to teach old people, yet one may profit by it at any period of life before the sight has become too dim to be of any use. the story i refer to is in "evenings at home," and is called "eyes and no eyes." i ought to have it by me, but it is constantly happening that the best old things get overlaid by the newest trash; and though i have never seen anything of the kind half so good, my table and shelves are cracking with the weight of involuntary accessions to my library. this is the story as i remember it: two children walk out, and are questioned when they come home. one has found nothing to observe, nothing to admire, nothing to describe, nothing to ask questions about. the other has found everywhere objects of curiosity and interest. i advise you, if you are a child anywhere under forty-five, and do not yet wear glasses, to send at once for "evenings at home" and read that story. for myself, i am always grateful to the writer of it for calling my attention to common things. how many people have been waked to a quicker consciousness of life by wordsworth's simple lines about the daffodils, and what he says of the thoughts suggested to him by "the meanest flower that blows"! i was driving with a friend, the other day, through a somewhat dreary stretch of country, where there seemed to be very little to attract notice or deserve remark. still, the old spirit infused by "eyes and no eyes" was upon me, and i looked for something to fasten my thought upon, and treat as an artist treats a study for a picture. the first object to which my eyes were drawn was an old-fashioned well-sweep. it did not take much imaginative sensibility to be stirred by the sight of this most useful, most ancient, most picturesque, of domestic conveniences. i know something of the shadoof of egypt,--the same arrangement by which the sacred waters of the nile have been lifted, from the days of the pharaohs to those of the khedives. that long forefinger pointing to heaven was a symbol which spoke to the puritan exile as it spoke of old to the enslaved israelite. was there ever any such water as that which we used to draw from the deep, cold well, in "the old oaken bucket"? what memories gather about the well in all ages! what love-matches have been made at its margin, from the times of jacob and, rachel downward! what fairy legends hover over it, what fearful mysteries has it hidden! the beautiful well-sweep! it is too rarely that we see it, and as it dies out and gives place to the odiously convenient pump, with the last patent on its cast-iron uninterestingness, does it not seem as if the farmyard aspect had lost half its attraction? so long as the dairy farm exists, doubtless there must be every facility for getting water in abundance; but the loss of the well-sweep cannot be made up to us even if our milk were diluted to twice its present attenuation. the well-sweep had served its turn, and my companion and i relapsed into silence. after a while we passed another farmyard, with nothing which seemed deserving of remark except the wreck of an old wagon. "look," i said, "if you want to see one of the greatest of all the triumphs of human ingenuity, one of the most beautiful, as it is one of the most useful, of all the mechanisms which the intelligence of successive ages has called into being." "i see nothing," my companion answered, "but an old broken-down wagon. why they leave such a piece of lumbering trash about their place, where people can see it as they pass, is more than i can account for." "and yet," said i, "there is one of the most extraordinary products of human genius and skill,--an object which combines the useful and the beautiful to an extent which hardly any simple form of mechanism can pretend to rival. do you notice how, while everything else has gone to smash, that wheel remains sound and fit for service? look at it merely for its beauty. "see the perfect circles, the outer and the inner. a circle is in itself a consummate wonder of geometrical symmetry. it is the line in which the omnipotent energy delights to move. there is no fault in it to be amended. the first drawn circle and the last both embody the same complete fulfillment of a perfect design. then look at the rays which pass from the inner to the outer circle. how beautifully they bring the greater and lesser circles into connection with each other! the flowers know that secret,--the marguerite in the meadow displays it as clearly as the great sun in heaven. how beautiful is this flower of wood and iron, which we were ready to pass by without wasting a look upon it! but its beauty is only the beginning of its wonderful claim upon us for our admiration. look at that field of flowering grass, the triticum vulgare,--see how its waves follow the breeze in satiny alternations of light and shadow. you admire it for its lovely aspect; but when you remember that this flowering grass is wheat, the finest food of the highest human races, it gains a dignity, a glory, that its beauty alone could not give it. "now look at that exquisite structure lying neglected and disgraced, but essentially unchanged in its perfection, before you. that slight and delicate-looking fabric has stood such a trial as hardly any slender contrivance, excepting always the valves of the heart, was ever subjected to. it has rattled for years over the cobble-stones of a rough city pavement. it has climbed over all the accidental obstructions it met in the highway, and dropped into all the holes and deep ruts that made the heavy farmer sitting over it use his sunday vocabulary in a week-day form of speech. at one time or another, almost every part of that old wagon has given way. it has had two new pairs of shafts. twice the axle has broken off close to the hub, or nave. the seat broke when zekle and huldy were having what they called 'a ride' together. the front was kicked in by a vicious mare. the springs gave way and the floor bumped on the axle. every portion of the wagon became a prey of its special accident, except that most fragile looking of all its parts, the wheel. who can help admiring the exact distribution of the power of resistance at the least possible expenditure of material which is manifested in this wondrous triumph of human genius and skill? the spokes are planted in the solid hub as strongly as the jaw-teeth of a lion in their deep-sunken sockets. each spoke has its own territory in the circumference, for which it is responsible. according to the load the vehicle is expected to carry, they are few or many, stout or slender, but they share their joint labor with absolute justice,--not one does more, not one does less, than its just proportion. the outer end of the spokes is received into the deep mortise of the wooden fellies, and the structure appears to be complete. but how long would it take to turn that circle into a polygon, unless some mighty counteracting force should prevent it? see the iron tire brought hot from the furnace and laid around the smoking circumference. once in place, the workman cools the hot iron; and as it shrinks with a force that seems like a hand-grasp of the omnipotent, it clasps the fitted fragments of the structure, and compresses them into a single inseparable whole. "was it not worth our while to stop a moment before passing that old broken wagon, and see whether we could not find as much in it as swift found in his 'meditations on a broomstick'? i have been laughed at for making so much of such a common thing as a wheel. idiots! solomon's court fool would have scoffed at the thought of the young galilean who dared compare the lilies of the field to his august master. nil admirari is very well for a north american indian and his degenerate successor, who has grown too grand to admire anything but himself, and takes a cynical pride in his stolid indifference to everything worth reverencing or honoring." after calling my companion's attention to the wheel, and discoursing upon it until i thought he was getting sleepy, we jogged along until we came to a running stream. it was crossed by a stone bridge of a single arch. there are very few stone arches over the streams in new england country towns, and i always delighted in this one. it was built in the last century, amidst the doubting predictions of staring rustics, and stands to-day as strong as ever, and seemingly good for centuries to come. "see there!" said i,--"there is another of my 'eyes and no eyes' subjects to meditate upon. next to the wheel, the arch is the noblest of those elementary mechanical composites, corresponding to the proximate principles of chemistry. the beauty of the arch consists first in its curve, commonly a part of the circle, of the perfection of which i have spoken. but the mind derives another distinct pleasure from the admirable manner in which the several parts, each different from all the others, contribute to a single harmonious effect. it is a typical example of the piu nel uno. an arch cut out or a single stone would not be so beautiful as one of which each individual stone was shaped for its exact position. its completion by the locking of the keystone is a delight to witness and to contemplate. and how the arch endures, when its lateral thrust is met by solid masses of resistance! in one of the great temples of baalbec a keystone has slipped, but how rare is that occurrence! one will hardly find another such example among all the ruins of antiquity. yes, i never get tired of arches. they are noble when shaped of solid marble blocks, each carefully beveled for its position. they are beautiful when constructed with the large thin tiles the romans were so fond of using. i noticed some arches built in this way in the wall of one of the grand houses just going up on the bank of the river. they were over the capstones of the windows,--to take off the pressure from them, no doubt, for now and then a capstone will crack under the weight of the superincumbent mass. how close they fit, and how striking the effect of their long radiations!" the company listened very well up to this point. when he began the strain of thoughts which follows, a curious look went round the teacups. what a strange underground life is that which is led by the organisms we call trees! these great fluttering masses of leaves, stems, boughs, trunks, are not the real trees. they live underground, and what we see are nothing more nor less than their tails. the mistress dropped her teaspoon. number five looked at the doctor, whose face was very still and sober. the two annexes giggled, or came very near it. yes, a tree is an underground creature, with its tail in the air. all its intelligence is in its roots. all the senses it has are in its roots. think what sagacity it shows in its search after food and drink! somehow or other, the rootlets, which are its tentacles, find out that there is a brook at a moderate distance from the trunk of the tree, and they make for it with all their might. they find every crack in the rocks where there are a few grains of the nourishing substance they care for, and insinuate themselves into its deepest recesses. when spring and summer come, they let their tails grow, and delight in whisking them about in the wind, or letting them be whisked about by it; for these tails are poor passive things, with very little will of their own, and bend in whatever direction the wind chooses to make them. the leaves make a deal of noise whispering. i have sometimes thought i could understand them, as they talk with each other, and that they seemed to think they made the wind as they wagged forward and back. remember what i say. the next time you see a tree waving in the wind, recollect that it is the tail of a great underground, many-armed, polypus-like creature, which is as proud of its caudal appendage, especially in summer-time, as a peacock of his gorgeous expanse of plumage. do you think there is anything so very odd about this idea? once get it well into your heads, and you will find it renders the landscape wonderfully interesting. there are as many kinds of tree-tails as there are of tails to dogs and other quadrupeds. study them as daddy gilpin studied them in his "forest scenery," but don't forget that they are only the appendage of the underground vegetable polypus, the true organism to which they belong. he paused at this point, and we all drew long breaths, wondering what was coming next. there was no denying it, the "cracked teacup" was clinking a little false,--so it seemed to the company. yet, after all, the fancy was not delirious,--the mind could follow it well enough; let him go on. what do you say to this? you have heard all sorts of things said in prose and verse about niagara. ask our young doctor there what it reminds him of. is n't it a giant putting his tongue out? how can you fail to see the resemblance? the continent is a great giant, and the northern half holds the head and shoulders. you can count the pulse of the giant wherever the tide runs up a creek; but if you want to look at the giant's tongue, you must go to niagara. if there were such a thing as a cosmic physician, i believe he could tell the state of the country's health, and the prospects of the mortality for the coming season, by careful inspection of the great tongue, which niagara is putting out for him, and has been showing to mankind ever since the first flint-shapers chipped their arrow-heads. you don't think the idea adds to the sublimity and associations of the cataract? i am sorry for that, but i can't help the suggestion. it is just as manifestly a tongue put out for inspection as if it had nature's own label to that effect hung over it. i don't know whether you can see these things as clearly as i do. there are some people that never see anything, if it is as plain as a hole in a grindstone, until it is pointed out to them; and some that can't see it then, and won't believe there is any hole till they've poked their finger through it. i've got a great many things to thank god for, but perhaps most of all that i can find something to admire, to wonder at, to set my fancy going, and to wind up my enthusiasm pretty much everywhere. look here! there are crowds of people whirled through our streets on these new-fashioned cars, with their witch-broomsticks overhead,--if they don't come from salem, they ought to,--and not more than one in a dozen of these fish-eyed bipeds thinks or cares a nickel's worth about the miracle which is wrought for their convenience. they know that without hands or feet, without horses, without steam, so far as they can see, they are transported from place to place, and that there is nothing to account for it except the witch-broomstick and the iron or copper cobweb which they see stretched above them. what do they know or care about this last revelation of the omnipresent spirit of the material universe? we ought to go down on our knees when one of these mighty caravans, car after car, spins by us, under the mystic impulse which seems to know not whether its train is loaded or empty. we are used to force in the muscles of horses, in the expansive potency of steam, but here we have force stripped stark naked,--nothing but a filament to cover its nudity,--and yet showing its might in efforts that would task the working-beam of a ponderous steam-engine. i am thankful that in an age of cynicism i have not lost my reverence. perhaps you would wonder to see how some very common sights impress me. i always take off my hat if i stop to speak to a stone-cutter at his work. "why?" do you ask me? because i know that his is the only labor that is likely to endure. a score of centuries has not effaced the marks of the greek's or the roman's chisel on his block of marble. and now, before this new manifestation of that form of cosmic vitality which we call electricity, i feel like taking the posture of the peasants listening to the angelus. how near the mystic effluence of mechanical energy brings us to the divine source of all power and motion! in the old mythology, the right hand of jove held and sent forth the lightning. so, in the record of the hebrew prophets, did the right hand of jehovah cast forth and direct it. was nahum thinking of our far-off time when he wrote, "the chariots shall rage in the streets, they shall justle one against another in the broad ways: they shall seem like torches, they shall run like the lightnings"? number seven had finished reading his paper. two bright spots in his cheeks showed that he had felt a good deal in writing it, and the flush returned as he listened to his own thoughts. poor old fellow! the "cracked teacup" of our younger wits,--not yet come to their full human sensibilities,--the "crank" of vulgar tongues, the eccentric, the seventh son of a seventh son, too often made the butt of thoughtless pleasantry, was, after all, a fellow-creature, with flesh and blood like the rest of us. the wild freaks of his fancy did not hurt us, nor did they prevent him from seeing many things justly, and perhaps sometimes more vividly and acutely than if he were as sound as the dullest of us. the teaspoons tinkled loudly all round the table, as he finished reading. the mistress caught her breath. i was afraid she was going to sob, but she took it out in vigorous stirring of her tea. will you believe that i saw number five, with a sweet, approving smile on her face all the time, brush her cheek with her hand-kerchief? there must have been a tear stealing from beneath its eyelid. i hope number seven saw it. he is one of the two men at our table who most need the tender looks and tones of a woman. the professor and i are hors de combat; the counsellor is busy with his cases and his ambitions; the doctor is probably in love with a microscope, and flirting with pathological specimens; but number seven and the tutor are, i fear, both suffering from that worst of all famines, heart-hunger. do you remember that number seven said he never wrote a line of "poetry" in his life, except once when he was suffering from temporary weakness of body and mind? that is because he is a poet. if he had not been one, he would very certainly have taken to tinkling rhymes. what should you think of the probable musical genius of a young man who was particularly fond of jingling a set of sleigh-bells? should you expect him to turn out a mozart or a beethoven? now, i think i recognize the poetical instinct in number seven, however imperfect may be its expression, and however he may be run away with at times by fantastic notions that come into his head. if fate had allotted him a helpful companion in the shape of a loving and intelligent wife, he might have been half cured of his eccentricities, and we should not have had to say, in speaking of him, "poor fellow!" but since this cannot be, i am pleased that he should have been so kindly treated on the occasion of the reading of his paper. if he saw number five's tear, he will certainly fall in love with her. no matter if he does number five is a kind of circe who does not turn the victims of her enchantment into swine, but into lambs. i want to see number seven one of her little flock. i say "little." i suspect it is larger than most of us know. anyhow, she can spare him sympathy and kindness and encouragement enough to keep him contented with himself and with her, and never miss the pulses of her loving life she lends him. it seems to be the errand of some women to give many people as much happiness as they have any right to in this world. if they concentrated their affection on one, they would give him more than any mortal could claim as his share. i saw number five watering her flowers, the other day. the watering-pot had one of those perforated heads, through which the water runs in many small streams. every plant got its share: the proudest lily bent beneath the gentle shower; the lowliest daisy held its little face up for baptism. all were refreshed, none was flooded. presently she took the perforated head, or "rose," from the neck of the watering-pot, and the full stream poured out in a round, solid column. it was almost too much for the poor geranium on which it fell, and it looked at one minute as if the roots would be laid bare, and perhaps the whole plant be washed out of the soil in which it was planted. what if number five should take off the "rose" that sprinkles her affections on so many, and pour them all on one? can that ever be? if it can, life is worth living for him on whom her love may be lavished. one of my neighbors, a thorough american, is much concerned about the growth of what he calls the "hard-handed aristocracy." he tells the following story:-- "i was putting up a fence about my yard, and employed a man of whom i knew something,--that he was industrious, temperate, and that he had a wife and children to support,--a worthy man, a native new englander. i engaged him, i say, to dig some post-holes. my employee bought a new spade and scoop on purpose, and came to my place at the appointed time, and began digging. while he was at work, two men came over from a drinking-saloon, to which my residence is nearer than i could desire. one of them i had known as mike fagan, the other as hans schleimer. they looked at hiram, my new hampshire man, in a contemptuous and threatening way for a minute or so, when fagan addressed him: "'and how much does the man pay yez by the hour?' "'the gentleman does n't pay me by the hour,' said hiram. "'how mosh does he bay you by der veeks?' said hans. "'i don' know as that's any of your business,' answered hiram. "'faith, we'll make it our business,' said mike fagan. 'we're knoights of labor, we'd have yez to know, and ye can't make yer bargains jist as ye loikes. we manes to know how mony hours ye worrks, and how much ye gets for it.' "'knights of labor!' said i. 'why, that is a kind of title of nobility, is n't it? i thought the laws of our country did n't allow titles of that kind. but if you have a right to be called knights, i suppose i ought to address you as such. sir michael, i congratulate you on the dignity you have attained. i hope lady fagan is getting on well with my shirts. sir hans, i pay my respects to your title. i trust that lady schleixner has got through that little difficulty between her ladyship and yourself in which the police court thought it necessary to intervene.' "the two men looked at me. i weigh about a hundred and eighty pounds, and am well put together. hiram was noted in his village as a 'rahstler.' but my face is rather pallid and peaked, and hiram had something of the greenhorn look. the two men, who had been drinking, hardly knew what ground to take. they rather liked the sound of sir michael and, sir hans. they did not know very well what to make of their wives as 'ladies.' they looked doubtful whether to take what had been said as a casus belli or not, but they wanted a pretext of some kind or other. presently one of them saw a label on the scoop, or longhandled, spoon-like shovel, with which hiram had been working. "'arrah, be jabers!' exclaimed mike fagan, 'but has n't he been a-tradin' wid brown, the hardware fellah, that we boycotted! grab it, hans, and we'll carry it off and show it to the brotherhood.' "the men made a move toward the implement. "'you let that are scoop-shovel alone,' said hiram. "i stepped to his side. the knights were combative, as their noble predecessors with the same title always were, and it was necessary to come to a voie de fait. my straight blow from the shoulder did for sir michael. hiram treated sir hans to what is technically known as a cross-buttock. "'naow, dutchman,' said hiram, 'if you don't want to be planted in that are post-hole, y'd better take y'rself out o' this here piece of private property. "dangerous passin," as the sign-posts say, abaout these times.' "sir michael went down half stunned by my expressive gesture; sir hans did not know whether his hip was out of joint or he had got a bad sprain; but they were both out of condition for further hostilities. perhaps it was hardly fair to take advantage of their misfortunes to inflict a discourse upon them, but they had brought it on themselves, and we each of us gave them a piece of our mind. "'i tell you what it is,' said hiram, 'i'm a free and independent american citizen, and i an't a-gon' to hev no man tyrannize over me, if he doos call himself by one o' them noblemen's titles. ef i can't work jes' as i choose, fur folks that wants me to work fur 'em and that i want to work fur, i might jes' as well go to sibery and done with it. my gran'f'ther fit in bunker hill battle. i guess if our folks in them days did n't care no great abaout lord percy and sir william haowe, we an't a-gon' to be scart by sir michael fagan and sir hans what 's-his-name, nor no other fellahs that undertakes to be noblemen, and tells us common folks what we shall dew an' what we sha'n't. no, sir!' "i took the opportunity to explain to sir michael and sir hans what it was our fathers fought for, and what is the meaning of liberty. if these noblemen did not like the country, they could go elsewhere. if they did n't like the laws, they had the ballot-box, and could choose new legislators. but as long as the laws existed they must obey them. i could not admit that, because they called themselves by the titles the old world nobility thought so much of, they had a right to interfere in the agreements i entered into with my neighbor. i told sir michael that if he would go home and help lady fagan to saw and split the wood for her fire, he would be better employed than in meddling with my domestic arrangements. i advised sir hans to ask lady schleimer for her bottle of spirits to use as an embrocation for his lame hip. and so my two visitors with the aristocratic titles staggered off, and left us plain, untitled citizens, hiram and myself, to set our posts, and consider the question whether we lived in a free country or under the authority of a self-constituted order of quasi-nobility." it is a very curious fact that, with all our boasted "free and equal" superiority over the communities of the old world, our people have the most enormous appetite for old world titles of distinction. sir michael and sir hans belong to one of the most extended of the aristocratic orders. but we have also "knights and ladies of honor," and, what is still grander, "royal conclave of knights and ladies," "royal arcanum," and "royal society of good fellows," "supreme council," "imperial court," "grand protector," and "grand dictator," and so on. nothing less than "grand" and "supreme" is good enough for the dignitaries of our associations of citizens. where does all this ambition for names without realities come from? because a knight of the garter wears a golden star, why does the worthy cordwainer, who mends the shoes of his fellow-citizens, want to wear a tin star, and take a name that had a meaning as used by the representatives of ancient families, or the men who had made themselves illustrious by their achievements? it appears to be a peculiarly american weakness. the french republicans of the earlier period thought the term citizen was good enough for anybody. at a later period, "roi citoyen"--the citizen king was a common title given to louis philippe. but nothing is too grand for the american, in the way of titles. the proudest of them all signify absolutely nothing. they do not stand for ability, for public service, for social importance, for large possessions; but, on the contrary, are oftenest found in connection with personalities to which they are supremely inapplicable. we can hardly afford to quarrel with a national habit which, if lightly handled, may involve us in serious domestic difficulties. the "right worshipful" functionary whose equipage stops at my back gate, and whose services are indispensable to the health and comfort of my household, is a dignitary whom i must not offend. i must speak with proper deference to the lady who is scrubbing my floors, when i remember that her husband, who saws my wood, carries a string of high-sounding titles which would satisfy a spanish nobleman. after all, every people must have its own forms of ostentation, pretence, and vulgarity. the ancient romans had theirs, the english and the french have theirs as well,--why should not we americans have ours? educated and refined persons must recognize frequent internal conflicts between the "homo sum" of terence and the "odi profanum vulgus" of horace. the nobler sentiment should be that of every true american, and it is in that direction that our best civilization is constantly tending. we were waited on by a new girl, the other evening. our pretty maiden had left us for a visit to some relative,--so the mistress said. i do sincerely hope she will soon come back, for we all like to see her flitting round the table. i don't know what to make of it. i had it all laid out in my mind. with such a company there must be a love-story. perhaps there will be, but there may be new combinations of the elements which are to make it up, and here is a bud among the full-blown flowers to which i must devote a little space. delilah. i must call her by the name we gave her after she had trimmed the samson locks of our professor. delilah is a puzzle to most of us. a pretty creature, dangerously pretty to be in a station not guarded by all the protective arrangements which surround the maidens of a higher social order. it takes a strong cage to keep in a tiger or a grizzly bear, but what iron bars, what barbed wires, can keep out the smooth and subtle enemy that finds out the cage where beauty is imprisoned? our young doctor is evidently attracted by the charming maiden who serves him and us so modestly and so gracefully. fortunately, the mistress never loses sight of her. if she were her own daughter, she could not be more watchful of all her movements. and yet i do not believe that delilah needs all this overlooking. if i am not mistaken, she knows how to take care of herself, and could be trusted anywhere, in any company, without a duenna. she has a history,--i feel sure of it. she has been trained and taught as young persons of higher position in life are brought up, and does not belong in the humble station in which we find her. but inasmuch as the mistress says nothing about her antecedents, we do not like to be too inquisitive. the two annexes are, it is plain, very curious about her. i cannot wonder. they are both good-looking girls, but delilah is prettier than either of them. my sight is not so good as it was, but i can see the way in which the eyes of the young people follow each other about plainly enough to set me thinking as to what is going on in the thinking marrow behind them. the young doctor's follow delilah as she glides round the table,--they look into hers whenever they get a chance; but the girl's never betray any consciousness of it, so far as i can see. there is no mistaking the interest with which the two, annexes watch all this. why shouldn't they, i should like to know? the doctor is a bright young fellow, and wants nothing but a bald spot and a wife to find himself in a comfortable family practice. one of the annexes, as i have said, has had thoughts of becoming a doctress. i don't think the doctor would want his wife to practise medicine, for reasons which i will not stop to mention. such a partnership sometimes works wonderfully well, as in one well-known instance where husband and wife are both eminent in the profession; but our young doctor has said to me that he had rather see his wife,--if he ever should have one,--at the piano than at the dissecting-table. of course the annexes know nothing about this, and they may think, as he professed himself willing to lecture on medicine to women, he might like to take one of his pupils as a helpmeet. if it were not for our delilah's humble position, i don't see why she would not be a good match for any young man. but then it is so hard to take a young woman from so very lowly a condition as that of a "waitress" that it would require a deal of courage to venture on such a step. if we could only find out that she is a princess in disguise, so to speak,--that is, a young person of presentable connections as well as pleasing looks and manners; that she has had an education of some kind, as we suspected when she blushed on hearing herself spoken of as a "gentille petite," why, then everything would be all right, the young doctor would have plain sailing,--that is, if he is in love with her, and if she fancies him,--and i should find my love-story,--the one i expected, but not between the parties i had thought would be mating with each other. dear little delilah! lily of the valley, growing in the shade now,--perhaps better there until her petals drop; and yet if she is all i often fancy she is, how her youthful presence would illuminate and sweeten a household! there is not one of us who does not feel interested in her,--not one of us who would not be delighted at some cinderella transformation which would show her in the setting nature meant for her favorite. the fancy of number seven about the witches' broomsticks suggested to one of us the following poem: the broomstick train; or, the return of the witches. lookout! look out, boys! clear the track! the witches are here! they've all come back! they hanged them high,--no use! no use! what cares a witch for a hangman's noose? they buried them deep, but they would n't lie, still, for cats and witches are hard to kill; they swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die, books said they did, but they lie! they lie! --a couple of hundred years, or so, they had knocked about in the world below, when an essex deacon dropped in to call, and a homesick feeling seized them all; for he came from a place they knew full well, and many a tale he had to tell. they long to visit the haunts of men, to see the old dwellings they knew again, and ride on their broomsticks all around their wide domain of unhallowed ground. in essex county there's many a roof well known to him of the cloven hoof; the small square windows are full in view which the midnight hags went sailing through, on their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, seen like shadows against the sky; crossing the track of owls and bats, hugging before them their coal-black cats. well did they know, those gray old wives, the sights we see in our daily drives shimmer of lake and shine of sea, brown's bare hill with its lonely tree, (it wasn't then as we see it now, with one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) dusky nooks in the essex woods, dark, dim, dante-like solitudes, where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake glide through his forests of fern and brake; ipswich river; its old stone bridge; far off andover's indian ridge, and many a scene where history tells some shadow of bygone terror dwells, of "norman's woe" with its tale of dread, of the screeching woman of marblehead, (the fearful story that turns men pale don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.) who would not, will not, if he can, bathe in the breezes of fair cape ann, rest in the bowers her bays enfold, loved by the sachems and squaws of old? home where the white magnolias bloom, sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, hugged by the woods and kissed by the seal where is the eden like to thee? for that "couple of hundred years, or so," there had been no peace in the world below; the witches still grumbling, "it is n't fair; come, give us a taste of the upper air! we've had enough of your sulphur springs, and the evil odor that round them clings; we long for a drink that is cool and nice, great buckets of water with wenham ice; we've served you well up-stairs, you know; you're a good old-fellow--come, let us go!" i don't feel sure of his being good, but he happened to be in a pleasant mood, as fiends with their skins full sometimes are, (he'd been drinking with "roughs" at a boston bar.) so what does he do but up and shout to a graybeard turnkey, "let 'em out!" to mind his orders was all he knew; the gates swung open, and out they flew. "where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried. "here are your broomsticks," an imp replied. "they've been in--the place you know--so long they smell of brimstone uncommon strong; but they've gained by being left alone, just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown." --and where is my cat? "a vixen squalled. yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled, and began to call them all by name: as fast as they called the cats, they came there was bob-tailed tommy and long-tailed tim, and wall-eyed jacky and green-eyed jim, and splay-foot benny and slim-legged beau, and skinny and squally, and jerry and joe, and many another that came at call, it would take too long to count them all. all black,--one could hardly tell which was which, but every cat knew his own old witch; and she knew hers as hers knew her, ah, did n't they curl their tails and purr! no sooner the withered hags were free than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; i could n't tell all they did in rhymes, but the essex people had dreadful times. the swampscott fishermen still relate how a strange sea-monster stole thair bait; how their nets were tangled in loops and knots, and they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots. poor danvers grieved for her blasted crops, and wilmington mourned over mildewed hops. a blight played havoc with beverly beans, it was all the work of those hateful queans! a dreadful panic began at "pride's," where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, and there rose strange rumors and vague alarms 'mid the peaceful dwellers at beverly farms. now when the boss of the beldams found that without his leave they were ramping round, he called,--they could hear him twenty miles, from chelsea beach to the misery isles; the deafest old granny knew his tone without the trick of the telephone. "come here, you witches! come here!" says he, --"at your games of old, without asking me i'll give you a little job to do that will keep you stirring, you godless crew!" they came, of course, at their master's call, the witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; he led the hags to a railway train the horses were trying to drag in vain. "now, then," says he, "you've had your fun, and here are the cars you've got to run. "the driver may just unhitch his team, we don't want horses, we don't want steam; you may keep your old black cats to hug, but the loaded train you've got to lug." since then on many a car you'll see a broomstick plain as plain can be; on every stick there's a witch astride, the string you see to her leg is tied. she will do a mischief if she can, but the string is held by a careful man, and whenever the evil-minded witch would cut come caper, he gives a twitch. as for the hag, you can't see her, but hark! you can hear her black cat's purr, and now and then, as a car goes by, you may catch a gleam from her wicked eye. often you've looked on a rushing train, but just what moved it was not so plain. it couldn't be those wires above, for they could neither pull nor shove; where was the motor that made it go you couldn't guess, but now you know. remember my rhymes when you ride again on the rattling rail by the broomstick train! x in my last report of our talks over the teacups i had something to say of the fondness of our people for titles. where did the anti-republican, anti-democratic passion for swelling names come from, and how long has it been naturalized among us? a striking instance of it occurred at about the end of the last century. it was at that time there appeared among us one of the most original and singular personages to whom america has given birth. many of our company,--many of my readers,--all well acquainted with his name, and not wholly ignorant of his history. they will not object to my giving some particulars relating to him, which, if not new to them, will be new to others into whose hands these pages may fall. timothy dexter, the first claimant of a title of nobility among the people of the united states of america, was born in the town of malden, near boston. he served an apprenticeship as a leather-dresser, saved some money, got some more with his wife, began trading and speculating, and became at last rich, for those days. his most famous business enterprise was that of sending an invoice of warming-pans to the west indies. a few tons of ice would have seemed to promise a better return; but in point of fact, he tells us, the warming-pans were found useful in the manufacture of sugar, and brought him in a handsome profit. his ambition rose with his fortune. he purchased a large and stately house in newburyport, and proceeded to embellish and furnish it according to the dictates of his taste and fancy. in the grounds about his house, he caused to be erected between forty and fifty wooden statues of great men and allegorical figures, together with four lions and one lamb. among these images were two statues of dexter himself, one of which held a label with a characteristic inscription. his house was ornamented with minarets, adorned with golden balls, and surmounted by a large gilt eagle. he equipped it with costly furniture, with paintings, and a library. he went so far as to procure the services of a poet laureate, whose business it seems to have been to sing his praises. surrounded with splendors like these, the plain title of "mr." dexter would have been infinitely too mean and common. he therefore boldly took the step of self-ennobling, and gave himself forth--as he said, obeying "the voice of the people at large"--as "lord timothy dexter," by which appellation he has ever since been known to the american public. if to be the pioneer in the introduction of old world titles into republican america can confer a claim to be remembered by posterity, lord timothy dexter has a right to historic immortality. if the true american spirit shows itself most clearly in boundless self-assertion, timothy dexter is the great original american egotist. if to throw off the shackles of old world pedantry, and defy the paltry rules and examples of grammarians and rhetoricians, is the special province and the chartered privilege of the american writer, timothy dexter is the founder of a new school, which tramples under foot the conventionalities that hampered and subjugated the faculties of the poets, the dramatists, the historians, essayists, story-tellers, orators, of the worn-out races which have preceded the great american people. the material traces of the first american nobleman's existence have nearly disappeared. the house is still standing, but the statues, the minarets, the arches, and the memory of the great lord timothy dexter live chiefly in tradition, and in the work which he bequeathed to posterity, and of which i shall say a few words. it is unquestionably a thoroughly original production, and i fear that some readers may think i am trifling with them when i am quoting it literally. i am going to make a strong claim for lord timothy as against other candidates for a certain elevated position. thomas jefferson is commonly recognized as the first to proclaim before the world the political independence of america. it is not so generally agreed upon as to who was the first to announce the literary emancipation of our country. one of mr. emerson's biographers has claimed that his phi beta kappa oration was our declaration of literary independence. but mr. emerson did not cut himself loose from all the traditions of old world scholarship. he spelled his words correctly, he constructed his sentences grammatically. he adhered to the slavish rules of propriety, and observed the reticences which a traditional delicacy has considered inviolable in decent society, european and oriental alike. when he wrote poetry, he commonly selected subjects which seemed adapted to poetical treatment,--apparently thinking that all things were not equally calculated to inspire the true poet's genius. once, indeed, he ventured to refer to "the meal in the firkin, the milk in the pan," but he chiefly restricted himself to subjects such as a fastidious conventionalism would approve as having a certain fitness for poetical treatment. he was not always so careful as he might have been in the rhythm and rhyme of his verse, but in the main he recognized the old established laws which have been accepted as regulating both. in short, with all his originality, he worked in old world harness, and cannot be considered as the creator of a truly american, self-governed, self-centred, absolutely independent style of thinking and writing, knowing no law but its own sovereign will and pleasure. a stronger claim might be urged for mr. whitman. he takes into his hospitable vocabulary words which no english dictionary recognizes as belonging to the language,--words which will be looked for in vain outside of his own pages. he accepts as poetical subjects all things alike, common and unclean, without discrimination, miscellaneous as the contents of the great sheet which peter saw let down from heaven. he carries the principle of republicanism through the whole world of created objects. he will "thread a thread through [his] poems," he tells us, "that no one thing in the universe is inferior to another thing." no man has ever asserted the surpassing dignity and importance of the american citizen so boldly and freely as mr. whitman. he calls himself "teacher of the unquenchable creed, namely, egotism." he begins one of his chants, "i celebrate myself," but he takes us all in as partners in his self-glorification. he believes in america as the new eden. "a world primal again,--vistas of glory incessant and branching, a new race dominating previous ones and grander far, new politics--new literature and religions--new inventions and arts." of the new literature be himself has furnished specimens which certainly have all the originality he can claim for them. so far as egotism is concerned, he was clearly anticipated by the titled personage to whom i have referred, who says of himself, "i am the first in the east, the first in the west, and the greatest philosopher in the western world." but while mr. whitman divests himself of a part of his baptismal name, the distinguished new englander thus announces his proud position: "ime the first lord in the younited states of a mercary now of newburyport. it is the voice of the peopel and i cant help it." this extract is from his famous little book called "a pickle for the knowing ones." as an inventor of a new american style he goes far beyond mr. whitman, who, to be sure, cares little for the dictionary, and makes his own rules of rhythm, so far as there is any rhythm in his sentences. but lord timothy spells to suit himself, and in place of employing punctuation as it is commonly used, prints a separate page of periods, colons, semicolons, commas, notes of interrogation and of admiration, with which the reader is requested to "peper and soolt" the book as he pleases. i am afraid that mr. emerson and mr. whitman must yield the claim of declaring american literary independence to lord timothy dexter, who not only taught his countrymen that they need not go to the heralds' college to authenticate their titles of nobility, but also that they were at perfect liberty to spell just as they liked, and to write without troubling themselves about stops of any kind. in writing what i suppose he intended for poetry, he did not even take the pains to break up his lines into lengths to make them look like verse, as may be seen by the following specimen: wonder of wonders! how great the soul is! do not you all wonder and admire to see and behold and hear? can you all believe half the truth, and admire to hear the wonders how great the soul is--only behold--past finding out! only see how large the soul is! that if a man is drowned in the sea what a great bubble comes up out of the top of the water... the bubble is the soul. i confess that i am not in sympathy with some of the movements that accompany the manifestations of american social and literary independence. i do not like the assumption of titles of lords and knights by plain citizens of a country which prides itself on recognizing simple manhood and womanhood as sufficiently entitled to respect without these unnecessary additions. i do not like any better the familiar, and as it seems to me rude, way of speaking of our fellow-citizens who are entitled to the common courtesies of civilized society. i never thought it dignified or even proper for a president of the united states to call himself, or to be called by others, "frank" pierce. in the first place i had to look in a biographical dictionary to find out whether his baptismal name was franklin, or francis, or simply frank, for i think children are sometimes christened with this abbreviated name. but it is too much in the style of cowper's unpleasant acquaintance: "the man who hails you tom or jack, and proves by thumping on your back how he esteems your merit." i should not like to hear our past chief magistrates spoken of as jack adams or jim madison, and it would have been only as a political partisan that i should have reconciled myself to "tom" jefferson. so, in spite of "ben" jonson, "tom" moore, and "jack" sheppard, i prefer to speak of a fellow-citizen already venerable by his years, entitled to respect by useful services to his country, and recognized by many as the prophet of a new poetical dispensation, with the customary title of adults rather than by the free and easy school-boy abbreviation with which he introduced himself many years ago to the public. as for his rhapsodies, number seven, our "cracked teacup," says they sound to him like "fugues played on a big organ which has been struck by lightning." so far as concerns literary independence, if we understand by that term the getting rid of our subjection to british criticism, such as it was in the days when the question was asked, "who reads an american book?" we may consider it pretty well established. if it means dispensing with punctuation, coining words at will, self-revelation unrestrained by a sense of what is decorous, declamations in which everything is glorified without being idealized, "poetry" in which the reader must make the rhythms which the poet has not made for him, then i think we had better continue literary colonists. i shrink from a lawless independence to which all the virile energy and trampling audacity of mr. whitman fail to reconcile me. but there is room for everybody and everything in our huge hemisphere. young america is like a three-year-old colt with his saddle and bridle just taken off. the first thing he wants to do is to roll. he is a droll object, sprawling in the grass with his four hoofs in the air; but he likes it, and it won't harm us. so let him roll,--let him roll. of all the teacups around our table, number five is the one who is the object of the greatest interest. everybody wants to be her friend, and she has room enough in her hospitable nature to find a place for every one who is worthy of the privilege. the difficulty is that it is so hard to be her friend without becoming her lover. i have said before that she turns the subjects of her circe-like enchantment, not into swine, but into lambs. the professor and i move round among her lambs, the docile and amiable flock that come and go at her bidding, that follow her footsteps, and are content to live in the sunshine of her smile and within reach of the music of her voice. i like to get her away from their amiable bleatings; i love to talk with her about life, of which she has seen a great deal, for she knows what it is to be an idol in society and the centre of her social circle. it might be a question whether women or men most admire and love her. with her own sex she is always helpful, sympathizing, tender, charitable, sharing their griefs as well as taking part in their pleasures. with men it has seemed to make little difference whether they were young or old: all have found her the same sweet, generous, unaffected companion; fresh enough in feeling for the youngest, deep enough in the wisdom of the heart for the oldest. she does not pretend to be youthful, nor does she trouble herself that she has seen the roses of more junes than many of--the younger women who gather round her. she has not had to say, comme je regrette mon bras si dodu, for her arm has never lost its roundness, and her face is one of those that cannot be cheated of their charm even if they live long enough to look upon the grown up grandchildren of their coevals. it is a wonder how number five can find the time to be so much to so many friends of both sexes, in spite of the fact that she is one of the most insatiable of readers. she not only reads, but she remembers; she not only remembers, but she records, for her own use and pleasure, and for the delight and profit of those who are privileged to look over her note-books. number five, as i think i have said before, has not the ambition to figure as an authoress. that she could write most agreeably is certain. i have seen letters of hers to friends which prove that clearly enough. whether she would find prose or verse the most natural mode of expression i cannot say, but i know she is passionately fond of poetry, and i should not be surprised if, laid away among the pressed pansies and roses of past summers, there were poems, songs, perhaps, of her own, which she sings to herself with her fingers touching the piano; for to that she tells her secrets in tones sweet as the ring-dove's call to her mate. i am afraid it may be suggested that i am drawing number five's portrait too nearly after some model who is unconsciously sitting for it; but have n't i told you that you must not look for flesh and blood personalities behind or beneath my teacups? i am not going to make these so lifelike that you will be saying, this is mr. or miss, or mrs. so-and-so. my readers must remember that there are very many pretty, sweet, amiable girls and women sitting at their pianos, and finding chords to the music of their heart-strings. if i have pictured number five as one of her lambs might do it, i have succeeded in what i wanted to accomplish. why don't i describe her person? if i do, some gossip or other will be sure to say, "oh, he means her, of course," and find a name to match the pronoun. it is strange to see how we are all coming to depend upon the friendly aid of number five in our various perplexities. the counsellor asked her opinion in one of those cases where a divorce was too probable, but a reconciliation was possible. it takes a woman to sound a woman's heart, and she found there was still love enough under the ruffled waters to warrant the hope of peace and tranquillity. the young doctor went to her for counsel in the case of a hysteric girl possessed with the idea that she was a born poetess, and covering whole pages of foolscap with senseless outbursts, which she wrote in paroxysms of wild excitement, and read with a rapture of self-admiration which there was nothing in her verses to justify or account for. how sweetly number five dealt with that poor deluded sister in her talk with the doctor! "yes," she said to him, "nothing can be fuller of vanity, self-worship, and self-deception. but we must be very gentle with her. i knew a young girl tormented with aspirations, and possessed by a belief that she was meant for a higher place than that which fate had assigned her, who needed wholesome advice, just as this poor young thing does. she did not ask for it, and it was not offered. alas, alas! 'no man cared for her soul,'--no man nor woman either. she was in her early teens, and the thought of her earthly future, as it stretched out before her, was more than she could bear, and she sought the presence of her maker to ask the meaning of her abortive existence.--we will talk it over. i will help you take care of this child." the doctor was thankful to have her assistance in a case with which he would have found it difficult to deal if he had been left to, his unaided judgment, and between them the young girl was safely piloted through the perilous straits in which she came near shipwreck. i know that it is commonly said of her that every male friend of hers must become her lover unless he is already lassoed by another. il fait passer par l'a. the young doctor is, i think, safe, for i am convinced that he is bewitched with delilah. since she has left us, he has seemed rather dejected; i feel sure that he misses her. we all do, but he more seriously than the rest of us. i have said that i cannot tell whether the counsellor is to be counted as one of number five's lambs or not, but he evidently admires her, and if he is not fascinated, looks as if he were very near that condition. it was a more delicate matter about which the tutor talked with her. something which she had pleasantly said to him about the two annexes led him to ask her, more or less seriously, it may be remembered, about the fitness of either of them to be the wife of a young man in his position. she talked so sensibly, as it seemed to him, about it that he continued the conversation, and, shy as he was, became quite easy and confidential in her company. the tutor is not only a poet, but is a great reader of the poetry of many languages. it so happened that number five was puzzled, one day, in reading a sonnet of petrarch, and had recourse to the tutor to explain the difficult passage. she found him so thoroughly instructed, so clear, so much interested, so ready to impart knowledge, and so happy in his way of doing it, that she asked him if he would not allow her the privilege of reading an italian author under his guidance, now and then. the tutor found number five an apt scholar, and something more than that; for while, as a linguist, he was, of course, her master, her intelligent comments brought out the beauties of an author in a way to make the text seem like a different version. they did not always confine themselves to the book they were reading. number five showed some curiosity about the tutor's relations with the two annexes. she suggested whether it would not be well to ask one or both of them in to take part in their readings. the tutor blushed and hesitated. "perhaps you would like to ask one of them," said number five. "which one shall it be?" "it makes no difference to me which," he answered, "but i do not see that we need either." number five did not press the matter further. so the young tutor and number five read together pretty regularly, and came to depend upon their meeting over a book as one of their stated seasons of enjoyment. he is so many years younger than she is that i do not suppose he will have to pass par la, as most of her male friends have done. i tell her sometimes that she reminds me of my alma mater, always young, always fresh in her attractions, with her scholars all round her, many of them graduates, or to graduate sooner or later. what do i mean by graduates? why, that they have made love to her, and would be entitled to her diploma, if she gave a parchment to each one of them who had had the courage to face the inevitable. about the counsellor i am, as i have said, in doubt. who wrote that "i like you and i love you," which we found in the sugar-bowl the other day? was it a graduate who had felt the "icy dagger," or only a candidate for graduation who was afraid of it? so completely does she subjugate those who come under her influence that i believe she looks upon it as a matter of course that the fateful question will certainly come, often after a brief acquaintance. she confessed as much to me, who am in her confidence, and not a candidate for graduation from her academy. her graduates--her lambs i called them--are commonly faithful to her, and though now and then one may have gone off and sulked in solitude, most of them feel kindly to her, and to those who have shared the common fate of her suitors. i do really believe that some of them would be glad to see her captured by any one, if such there can be, who is worthy of her. she is the best of friends, they say, but can she love anybody, as so many other women do, or seem to? why shouldn't our musician, who is evidently fond of her company, and sings and plays duets with her, steal her heart as piozzi stole that of the pretty and bright mrs. thrale, as so many music-teachers have run away with their pupils' hearts? at present she seems to be getting along very placidly and contentedly with her young friend the tutor. there is something quite charming in their relations with each other. he knows many things she does not, for he is reckoned one of the most learned in his literary specialty of all the young men of his time; and it can be a question of only a few years when some first-class professorship will be offered him. she, on the other hand, has so much more experience, so much more practical wisdom, than he has that he consults her on many every-day questions, as he did, or made believe do, about that of making love to one of the two annexes. i had thought, when we first sat round the tea-table, that she was good for the bit of romance i wanted; but since she has undertaken to be a kind of half-maternal friend to the young tutor, i am afraid i shall have to give her up as the heroine of a romantic episode. it would be a pity if there were nothing to commend these papers to those who take up this periodical but essays, more or less significant, on subjects more or less interesting to the jaded and impatient readers of the numberless stories and entertaining articles which crowd the magazines of this prolific period. a whole year of a tea-table as large as ours without a single love passage in it would be discreditable to the company. we must find one, or make one, before the tea-things are taken away and the table is no longer spread. the dictator turns preacher. we have so many light and playful talks over the teacups that some readers may be surprised to find us taking up the most serious and solemn subject which can occupy a human intelligence. the sudden appearance among our new england protestants of the doctrine of purgatory as a possibility, or even probability, has startled the descendants of the puritans. it has naturally led to a reconsideration of the doctrine of eternal punishment. it is on that subject that number five and i have talked together. i love to listen to her, for she talks from the promptings of a true woman's heart. i love to talk to her, for i learn my own thoughts better in that way than in any other "l'appetit vient en mangeant," the french saying has it. "l'esprit vient en causant;" that is, if one can find the right persons to talk with. the subject which has specially interested number five and myself, of late, was suggested to me in the following way. some two years ago i received a letter from a clergyman who bears by inheritance one of the most distinguished names which has done honor to the american "orthodox" pulpit. this letter requested of me "a contribution to a proposed work which was to present in their own language the views of 'many men of many minds' on the subject of future punishment. it was in my mind to let the public hear not only from professional theologians, but from other professions, as from jurists on the alleged but disputed value of the hangman's whip overhanging the witness-box, and from physicians on the working of beliefs about the future life in the minds of the dangerously sick. and i could not help thinking what a good thing it would be to draw out the present writer upon his favorite borderland between the spiritual and the material." the communication came to me, as the writer reminds me in a recent letter, at a "painfully inopportune time," and though it was courteously answered, was not made the subject of a special reply. this request confers upon me a certain right to express my opinion on this weighty subject without fear and without reproach even from those who might be ready to take offence at one of the laity for meddling with pulpit questions. it shows also that this is not a dead issue in our community, as some of the younger generation seem to think. there are some, there may be many, who would like to hear what impressions one has received on the subject referred to, after a long life in which he has heard and read a great deal about the matter. there is a certain gravity in the position of one who is, in the order of nature very near the undiscovered country. a man who has passed his eighth decade feels as if he were already in the antechamber of the apartments which he may be called to occupy in the house of many mansions. his convictions regarding the future of our race are likely to be serious, and his expressions not lightly uttered. the question my correspondent suggests is a tremendous one. no other interest compares for one moment with that belonging to it. it is not only ourselves that it concerns, but all whom we love or ever have loved, all our human brotherhood, as well as our whole idea of the being who made us and the relation in which he stands to his creatures. in attempting to answer my correspondent's question, i shall no doubt repeat many things i have said before in different forms, on different occasions. this is no more than every clergyman does habitually, and it would be hard if i could not have the same license which the professional preacher enjoys so fully. number five and i have occasionally talked on religious questions, and discovered many points of agreement in our views. both of us grew up under the old "orthodox" or calvinistic system of belief. both of us accepted it in our early years as a part of our education. our experience is a common one. william cullen bryant says of himself, "the calvinistic system of divinity i adopted of course, as i heard nothing else taught from the pulpit, and supposed it to be the accepted belief of the religious world." but it was not the "five points" which remained in the young poet's memory and shaped his higher life. it was the influence of his mother that left its permanent impression after the questions and answers of the assembly's catechism had faded out, or remained in memory only as fossil survivors of an extinct or fast-disappearing theological formation. the important point for him, as for so many other children of puritan descent, was not his father's creed, but his mother's character, precepts, and example. "she was a person," he says, "of excellent practical sense, of a quick and sensitive moral judgment, and had no patience with any form of deceit or duplicity. her prompt condemnation of injustice, even in those instances in which it is tolerated by the world, made a strong impression upon me in early life; and if, in the discussion of public questions, i have in my riper age endeavored to keep in view the great rule of right without much regard to persons, it has been owing in a great degree to the force of her example, which taught me never to countenance a wrong because others did." i have quoted this passage because it was an experience not wholly unlike my own, and in certain respects like that of number five. to grow up in a narrow creed and to grow out of it is a tremendous trial of one's nature. there is always a bond of fellowship between those who have been through such an ordeal. the experiences we have had in common naturally lead us to talk over the theological questions which at this time are constantly presenting themselves to the public, not only in the books and papers expressly devoted to that class of subjects, but in many of the newspapers and popular periodicals, from the weeklies to the quarterlies. the pulpit used to lay down the law to the pews; at the present time, it is of more consequence what the pews think than what the minister does, for the obvious reason that the pews can change their minister, and often do, whereas the minister cannot change the pews, or can do so only to a very limited extent. the preacher's garment is cut according to the pattern of that of the hearers, for the most part. thirty years ago, when i was writing on theological subjects, i came in for a very pretty share of abuse, such as it was the fashion of that day, at least in certain quarters, to bestow upon those who were outside of the high-walled enclosures in which many persons; not naturally unamiable or exclusive, found themselves imprisoned. since that time what changes have taken place! who will believe that a well-behaved and reputable citizen could have been denounced as a "moral parricide," because he attacked some of the doctrines in which he was supposed to have been brought up? a single thought should have prevented the masked theologian who abused his incognito from using such libellous language. much, and in many families most, of the religious teaching of children is committed to the mother. the experience of william cullen bryant, which i have related in his own words, is that of many new england children. now, the sternest dogmas that ever came from a soul cramped or palsied by an obsolete creed become wonderfully softened in passing between the lips of a mother. the cruel doctrine at which all but case-hardened "professionals" shudder cones out, as she teaches and illustrates it, as unlike its original as the milk which a peasant mother gives her babe is unlike the coarse food which furnishes her nourishment. the virus of a cursing creed is rendered comparatively harmless by the time it reaches the young sinner in the nursery. its effects fall as far short of what might have been expected from its virulence as the pearly vaccine vesicle falls short of the terrors of the confluent small-pox. controversialists should therefore be careful (for their own sakes, for they hurt nobody so much as themselves) how they use such terms as "parricide" as characterizing those who do not agree in all points with the fathers whom or whose memory they honor and venerate. they might with as much propriety call them matricides, if they did not agree with the milder teachings of their mothers. i can imagine jonathan edwards in the nursery with his three-year-old child upon his knee. the child looks up to his face and says to him,--"papa, nurse tells me that you say god hates me worse than he hates one of those horrid ugly snakes that crawl all round. does god hate me so?" "alas! my child, it is but too true. so long as you are out of christ you are as a viper, and worse than a viper, in his sight." by and by, mrs. edwards, one of the loveliest of women and sweetest of mothers, comes into the nursery. the child is crying. "what is the matter, my darling?" "papa has been telling me that god hates me worse than a snake." poor, gentle, poetical, sensitive, spiritual, almost celestial mrs. jonathan edwards! on the one hand the terrible sentence conceived, written down, given to the press, by the child's father; on the other side the trusting child looking up at her, and all the mother pleading in her heart against the frightful dogma of her revered husband. do you suppose she left that poison to rankle in the tender soul of her darling? would it have been moral parricide for a son of the great divine to have repudiated the doctrine which degraded his blameless infancy to the condition and below the condition of the reptile? was it parricide in the second or third degree when his descendant struck out that venomous sentence from the page in which it stood as a monument to what depth christian heathenism could sink under the teaching of the great master of logic and spiritual inhumanity? it is too late to be angry about the abuse a well--meaning writer received thirty years ago. the whole atmosphere has changed since then. it is mere childishness to expect men to believe as their fathers did; that is, if they have any minds of their own. the world is a whole generation older and wiser than when the father was of his son's age. so far as i have observed persons nearing the end of life, the roman catholics understand the business of dying better than protestants. they have an expert by them, armed with spiritual specifics, in which they both, patient and priestly ministrant, place implicit trust. confession, the eucharist, extreme unction,--these all inspire a confidence which without this symbolism is too apt to be wanting in over-sensitive natures. they have been peopled in earlier years with ghastly spectres of avenging fiends, moving in a sleepless world of devouring flames and smothering exhalations; where nothing lives but the sinner, the fiends, and the reptiles who help to make life an unending torture. it is no wonder that these images sometimes return to the enfeebled intelligence. to exorcise them, the old church of christendom has her mystic formulae, of which no rationalistic prescription can take the place. if cowper had been a good roman catholic, instead of having his conscience handled by a protestant like john newton, he would not have died despairing, looking upon himself as a castaway. i have seen a good many roman catholics on their dying beds, and it always appeared to me that they accepted the inevitable with a composure which showed that their belief, whether or not the best to live by, was a better one to die by than most of the harder creeds which have replaced it. in the more intelligent circles of american society one may question anything and everything, if he will only do it civilly. we may talk about eschatology, the science of last things,--or, if you will, the natural history of the undiscovered country, without offence before anybody except young children and very old women of both sexes. in our new england the great andover discussion and the heretical missionary question have benumbed all sensibility on this subject as entirely, as completely, as the new local anaesthetic, cocaine, deadens the sensibility of the part to which it is applied, so that the eye may have its mote or beam plucked out without feeling it,--as the novels of zola and maupassant have hardened the delicate nerve-centres of the women who have fed their imaginations on the food they have furnished. the generally professed belief of the protestant world as embodied in their published creeds is that the great mass of mankind are destined to an eternity of suffering. that this eternity is to be one of bodily pain--of "torment "--is the literal teaching of scripture, which has been literally interpreted by the theologians, the poets, and the artists of many long ages which followed the acceptance of the recorded legends of the church as infallible. the doctrine has always been recognized, as it is now, as a very terrible one. it has found a support in the story of the fall of man, and the view taken of the relation of man to his maker since that event. the hatred of god to mankind in virtue of their "first disobedience" and inherited depravity is at the bottom of it. the extent to which that idea was carried is well shown in the expressions i have borrowed from jonathan edwards. according to his teaching,--and he was a reasoner who knew what he was talking about, what was involved in the premises of the faith he accepted,--man inherits the curse of god as his principal birthright. what shall we say to the doctrine of the fall of man as the ground of inflicting endless misery on the human race? a man to be punished for what he could not help! he was expected to be called to account for adam's sin. it is singular to notice that the reasoning of the wolf with the lamb should be transferred to the dealings of the creator with his creatures. "you stirred the brook up and made my drinking-place muddy." "but, please your wolfship, i couldn't do that, for i stirred the water far down the stream,--below your drinking-place." "well, anyhow, your father troubled it a year or two ago, and that is the same thing." so the wolf falls upon the lamb and makes a meal of him. that is wolf logic,--and theological reasoning. how shall we characterize the doctrine of endless torture as the destiny of most of those who have lived, and are living, on this planet? i prefer to let another writer speak of it. mr. john morley uses the following words: "the horrors of what is perhaps the most frightful idea that has ever corroded human character,--the idea of eternal punishment." sismondi, the great historian, heard a sermon on eternal punishment, and vowed never again to enter another church holding the same creed. romanism he considered a religion of mercy and peace by the side of what the english call the reformation.--i mention these protests because i happen to find them among my notes, but it would be easy to accumulate examples of the same kind. when cowper, at about the end of the last century, said satirically of the minister he was attacking, "he never mentioned hell to ears polite," he was giving unconscious evidence that the sense of the barbarism of the idea was finding its way into the pulpit. when burns, in the midst of the sulphurous orthodoxy of scotland, dared to say, "the fear o' hell 's a hangman's whip to haud the wretch in order," he was only appealing to the common sense and common humanity of his fellow-countrymen. all the reasoning in the world, all the proof-texts in old manuscripts, cannot reconcile this supposition of a world of sleepless and endless torment with the declaration that "god is love." where did this "frightful idea" come from? we are surprised, as we grow older, to find that the legendary hell of the church is nothing more nor less than the tartarus of the old heathen world. it has every mark of coming from the cruel heart of a barbarous despot. some malignant and vindictive sheik, some brutal mezentius, must have sat for many pictures of the divinity. it was not enough to kill his captive enemy, after torturing him as much as ingenuity could contrive to do it. he escaped at last by death, but his conqueror could not give him up so easily, and so his vengeance followed him into the unseen and unknown world. how the doctrine got in among, the legends of the church we are no more bound to show than we are to account for the intercalation of the "three witnesses" text, or the false insertion, or false omission, whichever it may be, of the last twelve verses of the gospel of st mark. we do not hang our grandmothers now, as our ancestors did theirs, on the strength of the positive command, "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." the simple truth is that civilization has outgrown witchcraft, and is outgrowing the christian tartarus. the pulpit no longer troubles itself about witches and their evil doings. all the legends in the world could not arrest the decay of that superstition and all the edicts that grew out of it. all the stories that can be found in old manuscripts will never prevent the going out of the fires of the legendary inferno. it is not much talked about nowadays to ears polite or impolite. humanity is shocked and repelled by it. the heart of woman is in unconquerable rebellion against it. the more humane sects tear it from their "bodies of divinity" as if it were the flaming shirt of nessus. a few doctrines with which it was bound up have dropped or are dropping away from it: the primal curse; consequential damages to give infinite extension to every transgression of the law of god; inverting the natural order of relative obligations; stretching the smallest of finite offenses to the proportions of the infinite; making the babe in arms the responsible being, and not the parent who gave it birth and determined its conditions of existence. after a doctrine like "the hangman's whip" has served its purpose,--if it ever had any useful purpose,--after a doctrine like that of witchcraft has hanged old women enough, civilization contrives to get rid of it. when we say that civilization crowds out the old superstitious legends, we recognize two chief causes. the first is the naked individual protest; the voice of the inspiration which giveth man understanding. this shows itself conspicuously in the modern poets. burns in scotland, bryant, longfellow, whittier, in america, preached a new gospel to the successors of men like thomas boston and jonathan edwards. in due season, the growth of knowledge, chiefly under the form of that part of knowledge called science, so changes the views of the universe that many of its long-unchallenged legends become no more than nursery tales. the text-books of astronomy and geology work their way in between the questions and answers of the time-honored catechisms. the doctrine of evolution, so far as it is accepted, changes the whole relations of man to the creative power. it substitutes infinite hope in the place of infinite despair for the vast majority of mankind. instead of a shipwreck, from which a few cabin passengers and others are to be saved in the long-boat, it gives mankind a vessel built to endure the tempests, and at last to reach a port where at the worst the passengers can find rest, and where they may hope for a home better than any which they ever had in their old country. it is all very well to say that men and women had their choice whether they would reach the safe harbor or not. "go to it grandam, child; give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will give it a plum, a cherry and a fig." we know what the child will take. so which course we shall take depends very much on the way the choice is presented to us, and on what the chooser is by nature. what he is by nature is not determined by himself, but by his parentage. "they know not what they do." in one sense this is true of every human being. the agent does not know, never can know, what makes him that which he is. what we most want to ask of our maker is an unfolding of the divine purpose in putting human beings into conditions in which such numbers of them would be sure to go wrong. we want an advocate of helpless humanity whose task it shall be, in the words of milton, "to justify the ways of god to man." we have heard milton's argument, but for the realization of his vision of the time "when hell itself shall pass away, and leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day," our suffering race must wait in patience. the greater part of the discourse the reader has had before him was delivered over the teacups one sunday afternoon. the mistress looked rather grave, as if doubtful whether she ought not to signify her disapprobation of what seemed to her dangerous doctrine. however, as she knew that i was a good church-goer and was on the best terms with her minister, she said nothing to show that she had taken the alarm. number five listened approvingly. we had talked the question over well, and were perfectly agreed on the main point. how could it be otherwise? do you suppose that any intellectual, spiritual woman, with a heart under her bodice, can for a moment seriously believe that the greater number of the high-minded men, the noble and lovely women, the ingenuous and affectionate children, whom she knows and honors or loves, are to be handed over to the experts in a great torture-chamber, in company with the vilest creatures that have once worn human shape? "if there is such a world as used to be talked about from the pulpit, you may depend upon it," she said to me once, "there will soon be organized a humane society in heaven, and a mission established among 'the spirits in prison.'" number five is a regular church-goer, as i am. i do not believe either of us would darken the doors of a church if we were likely to hear any of the "old-fashioned" sermons, such as i used to listen to in former years from a noted clergyman, whose specialty was the doctrine of eternal punishment. but you may go to the churches of almost any of our protestant denominations, and hear sermons by which you can profit, because the ministers are generally good men, whose moral and spiritual natures are above the average, and who know that the harsh preaching of two or three generations ago would offend and alienate a large part of their audience. so neither number five nor i are hypocrites in attending church or "going to meeting." i am afraid it does not make a great deal of difference to either of us what may be the established creed of the worshipping assembly. that is a matter of great interest, perhaps of great importance, to them, but of much less, comparatively, to us. companionship in worship, and sitting quiet for an hour while a trained speaker, presumably somewhat better than we are, stirs up our spiritual nature,--these are reasons enough to number five, as to me, for regular attendance on divine worship. number seven is of a different way of thinking and feeling. he insists upon it that the churches keep in their confessions of faith statements which they do not believe, and that it is notorious that they are afraid to meddle with them. the anglo-american church has dropped the athanasian creed from its service; the english mother church is afraid to. there are plenty of universalists, number seven says, in the episcopalian and other protestant churches, but they do not avow their belief in any frank and candid fashion. the churches know very well, he maintains, that the fear of everlasting punishment more than any or all other motives is the source of their power and the support of their organizations. not only are the fears of mankind the whip to scourge and the bridle to restrain them, but they are the basis of an almost incalculable material interest. "talk about giving up the doctrine of endless punishment by fire!" exclaimed number seven; "there is more capital embarked in the subterranean fire-chambers than in all the iron-furnaces on the face of the earth. to think what an army of clerical beggars would be turned loose on the world, if once those raging flames were allowed to go out or to calm down! who can wonder that the old conservatives draw back startled and almost frightened at the thought that there may be a possible escape for some victims whom the devil was thought to have secured? how many more generations will pass before milton's alarming prophecy will find itself realized in the belief of civilized mankind?" remember that number seven is called a "crank" by many persons, and take his remarks for just what they are worth, and no more. out of the preceding conversation must have originated the following poem, which was found in the common receptacle of these versified contributions: tartarus. while in my simple gospel creed that "god is love" so plain i read, shall dreams of heathen birth affright my pathway through the coming night? ah, lord of life, though spectres pale fill with their threats the shadowy vale, with thee my faltering steps to aid, how can i dare to be afraid? shall mouldering page or fading scroll outface the charter of the soul? shall priesthood's palsied arm protect the wrong our human hearts reject, and smite the lips whose shuddering cry proclaims a cruel creed a lie? the wizard's rope we disallow was justice once,--is murder now! is there a world of blank despair, and dwells the omnipresent there? does he behold with smile serene the shows of that unending scene, where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies, and, ever dying, never dies? say, does he hear the sufferer's groan, and is that child of wrath his own? o mortal, wavering in thy trust, lift thy pale forehead from the dust the mists that cloud thy darkened eyes fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies! when the blind heralds of despair would bid thee doubt a father's care, look up from earth, and read above on heaven's blue tablet, god is love! xi the tea is sweetened. we have been going on very pleasantly of late, each of us pretty well occupied with his or her special business. the counsellor has been pleading in a great case, and several of the teacups were in the court-room. i thought, but i will not be certain, that some of his arguments were addressed to number five rather than to the jury,--the more eloquent passages especially. our young doctor seems to me to be gradually getting known in the neighborhood and beyond it. a member of one of the more influential families, whose regular physician has gone to europe, has sent for him to come and see her, and as the patient is a nervous lady, who has nothing in particular the matter with her, he is probably in for a good many visits and a long bill by and by. he has even had a call at a distance of some miles from home,--at least he has had to hire a conveyance frequently of late, for he has not yet set up his own horse and chaise. we do not like to ask him about who his patient may be, but he or she is probably a person of some consequence, as he is absent several hours on these out-of-town visits. he may get a good practice before his bald spot makes its appearance, for i have looked for it many times without as yet seeing a sign of it. i am sure he must feel encouraged, for he has been very bright and cheerful of late; and if he sometimes looks at our new handmaid as if he wished she were delilah, i do not think he is breaking his heart about her absence. perhaps he finds consolation in the company of the two annexes, or one of them,--but which, i cannot make out. he is in consultations occasionally with number five, too, but whether professionally or not i have no means of knowing. i cannot for the life of me see what number five wants of a doctor for herself, so perhaps it is another difficult case in which her womanly sagacity is called upon to help him. in the mean time she and the tutor continue their readings. in fact, it seems as if these readings were growing more frequent, and lasted longer than they did at first. there is a little arbor in the grounds connected with our place of meeting, and sometimes they have gone there for their readings. some of the teacups have listened outside once in a while, for the tutor reads well, and his clear voice must be heard in the more emphatic passages, whether one is expressly listening or not. but besides the reading there is now and then some talking, and persons talking in an arbor do not always remember that latticework, no matter how closely the vines cover it, is not impenetrable to the sound of the human voice. there was a listener one day,--it was not one of the teacups, i am happy to say,--who heard and reported some fragments of a conversation which reached his ear. nothing but the profound intimacy which exists between myself and the individual reader whose eyes are on this page would induce me to reveal what i was told of this conversation. the first words seem to have been in reply to some question. "why, my dear friend, how can you think of such a thing? do you know--i am--old enough to be your--[i think she must have been on the point of saying mother, but that was more than any woman could be expected to say]--old enough to be your aunt?" "to be sure you are," answered the tutor, "and what of it? i have two aunts, both younger than i am. your years may be more than mine, but your life is fuller of youthful vitality than mine is. i never feel so young as when i have been with you. i don't believe in settling affinities by the almanac. you know what i have told you more than once; you have n't 'bared the ice-cold dagger's edge' upon me yet; may i not cherish the".... what a pity that the listener did not hear the rest of the sentence and the reply to it, if there was one! the readings went on the same as before, but i thought that number five was rather more silent and more pensive than she had been. i was much pleased when the american annex came to me one day and told me that she and the english annex were meditating an expedition, in which they wanted the other teacups to join. about a dozen miles from us is an educational institution of the higher grade, where a large number of young ladies are trained in literature, art, and science, very much as their brothers are trained in the colleges. our two young ladies have already been through courses of this kind in different schools, and are now busy with those more advanced studies which are ventured upon by only a limited number of "graduates." they have heard a good deal about this institution, but have never visited it. every year, as the successive classes finish their course, there is a grand reunion of the former students, with an "exhibition," as it is called, in which the graduates of the year have an opportunity of showing their proficiency in the various branches taught. on that occasion prizes are awarded for excellence in different departments. it would be hard to find a more interesting ceremony. these girls, now recognized as young ladies, are going forth as missionaries of civilization among our busy people. they are many of them to be teachers, and those who have seen what opportunities they have to learn will understand their fitness for that exalted office. many are to be the wives and mothers of the generation next coming upon the stage. young and beautiful, "youth is always beautiful," said old samuel rogers,--their countenances radiant with developed intelligence, their complexions, their figures, their movements, all showing that they have had plenty of outdoor as well as indoor exercise, and have lived well in all respects, one would like to read on the wall of the hall where they are assembled,-- siste, viator! si uxorem requiris, circumspice! this proposed expedition was a great event in our comparatively quiet circle. the mistress, who was interested in the school, undertook to be the matron of the party. the young doctor, who knew the roads better than any of us, was to be our pilot. he arranged it so that he should have the two annexes under his more immediate charge. we were all on the lookout to see which of the two was to be the favored one, for it was pretty well settled among the teacups that a wife he must have, whether the bald spot came or not; he was getting into business, and he could not achieve a complete success as a bachelor. number five and the tutor seemed to come together as a matter of course. i confess that i could not help regretting that our pretty delilah was not to be one of the party. she always looked so young, so fresh,--she would have enjoyed the excursion so much, that if she had been still with us i would have told the mistress that she must put on her best dress; and if she had n't one nice enough, i would give her one myself. i thought, too, that our young doctor would have liked to have her with us; but he appeared to be getting along very well with the annexes, one of whom it seems likely that he will annex to himself and his fortunes, if she fancies him, which is not improbable. the organizing of this expedition was naturally a cause of great excitement among the teacups. the party had to be arranged in such a way as to suit all concerned, which was a delicate matter. it was finally managed in this way: the mistress was to go with a bodyguard, consisting of myself, the professor, and number seven, who was good company, with all his oddities. the young doctor was to take the two annexes in a wagon, and the tutor was to drive number five in a good old-fashioned chaise drawn by a well-conducted family horse. as for the musician, he had gone over early, by special invitation, to take a part in certain musical exercises which were to have a place in the exhibition. this arrangement appeared to be in every respect satisfactory. the doctor was in high spirits, apparently delighted, and devoting himself with great gallantry to his two fair companions. the only question which intruded itself was, whether he might not have preferred the company of one to that of two. but both looked very attractive in their best dresses: the english annex, the rosier and heartier of the two; the american girl, more delicate in features, more mobile and excitable, but suggesting the thought that she would tire out before the other. which of these did he most favor? it was hard to say. he seemed to look most at the english girl, and yet he talked more with the american girl. in short, he behaved particularly well, and neither of the young ladies could complain that she was not attended to. as to the tutor and number five, their going together caused no special comment. their intimacy was accepted as an established fact, and nothing but the difference in their ages prevented the conclusion that it was love, and not mere friendship, which brought them together. there was, no doubt, a strong feeling among many people that number five's affections were a kind of gibraltar or ehrenbreitstein, say rather a high table-land in the region of perpetual, unmelting snow. it was hard for these people to believe that any man of mortal mould could find a foothold in that impregnable fortress,--could climb to that height and find the flower of love among its glaciers. the tutor and number five were both quiet, thoughtful: he, evidently captivated; she, what was the meaning of her manner to him? say that she seemed fond of him, as she might be were he her nephew,--one for whom she had a special liking. if she had a warmer feeling than this, she could hardly know how to manage it; for she was so used to having love made to her without returning it that she would naturally be awkward in dealing with the new experience. the doctor drove a lively five-year-old horse, and took the lead. the tutor followed with a quiet, steady-going nag; if he had driven the five-year-old, i would not have answered for the necks of the pair in the chaise, for he was too much taken up with the subject they were talking of, to be very careful about his driving. the mistress and her escort brought up the rear,--i holding the reins, the professor at my side, and number seven sitting with the mistress. we arrived at the institution a little later than we had expected to, and the students were flocking into the hall, where the commencement exercises were to take place, and the medal-scholars were to receive the tokens of their excellence in the various departments. from our seats we could see the greater part of the assembly,--not quite all, however of the pupils. a pleasing sight it was to look upon, this array of young ladies dressed in white, with their class badges, and with the ribbon of the shade of blue affected by the scholars of the institution. if solomon in all his glory was not to be compared to a lily, a whole bed of lilies could not be compared to this garden-bed of youthful womanhood. the performances were very much the same as most of us have seen at the academies and collegiate schools. some of the graduating class read their "compositions," one of which was a poem,--an echo of the prevailing american echoes, of course, but prettily worded and intelligently read. then there was a song sung by a choir of the pupils, led by their instructor, who was assisted by the musician whom we count among the teacups.--there was something in one of the voices that reminded me of one i had heard before. where could it have been? i am sure i cannot remember. there are some good voices in our village choir, but none so pure and bird-like as this. a sudden thought came into my head, but i kept it to myself. i heard a tremulous catching of the breath, something like a sob, close by me. it was the mistress,--she was crying. what was she crying for? it was impressive, certainly, to listen to these young voices, many of them blending for the last time,--for the scholars were soon to be scattered all over the country, and some of them beyond its boundaries,--but why the mistress was so carried away, i did not know. she must be more impressible than most of us; yet i thought number five also looked as if she were having a struggle with herself to keep down some rebellious signs of emotion. the exercises went on very pleasingly until they came to the awarding of the gold medal of the year and the valedictory, which was to be delivered by the young lady to whom it was to be presented. the name was called; it was one not unfamiliar to our ears, and the bearer of it--the delilah of our tea-table, avis as she was known in the school and elsewhere--rose in her place and came forward, so that for the first time on that day, we looked upon her. it was a sensation for the teacups. our modest, quiet waiting-girl was the best scholar of her year. we had talked french before her, and we learned that she was the best french scholar the teacher had ever had in the school. we had never thought of her except as a pleasing and well-trained handmaiden, and here she was an accomplished young lady. avis went through her part very naturally and gracefully, and when it was finished, and she stood before us with the medal glittering on her breast, we did not know whether to smile or to cry,--some of us did one, and some the other.--we all had an opportunity to see her and congratulate her before we left the institution. the mystery of her six weeks' serving at our table was easily solved. she had been studying too hard and too long, and required some change of scene and occupation. she had a fancy for trying to see if she could support herself as so many young women are obliged to, and found a place with us, the mistress only knowing her secret. "she is to be our young doctor's wife!" the mistress whispered to me, and did some more crying, not for grief, certainly. whether our young doctor's long visits to a neighboring town had anything to do with the fact that avis was at that institution, whether she was the patient he visited or not, may be left in doubt. at all events, he had always driven off in the direction which would carry him to the place where she was at school. i have attended a large number of celebrations, commencements, banquets, soirees, and so forth, and done my best to help on a good many of them. in fact, i have become rather too well known in connection with "occasions," and it has cost me no little trouble. i believe there is no kind of occurrence for which i have not been requested to contribute something in prose or verse. it is sometimes very hard to say no to the requests. if one is in the right mood when he or she writes an occasional poem, it seems as if nothing could have been easier. "why, that piece run off jest like ile. i don't bullieve," the unlettered applicant says to himself, "i don't bullieve it took him ten minutes to write them verses." the good people have no suspicion of how much a single line, a single expression, may cost its author. the wits used to say that ropers,--the poet once before referred to, old samuel ropers, author of the pleasures of memory and giver of famous breakfasts,--was accustomed to have straw laid before the house whenever he had just given birth to a couplet. it is not quite so bad as that with most of us who are called upon to furnish a poem, a song, a hymn, an ode for some grand meeting, but it is safe to say that many a trifling performance has had more good honest work put into it than the minister's sermon of that week had cost him. if a vessel glides off the ways smoothly and easily at her launching, it does not mean that no great pains have been taken to secure the result. because a poem is an "occasional" one, it does not follow that it has not taken as much time and skill as if it had been written without immediate, accidental, temporary motive. pindar's great odes were occasional poems, just as much as our commencement and phi beta kappa poems are, and yet they have come down among the most precious bequests of antiquity to modern times. the mystery of the young doctor's long visits to the neighboring town was satisfactorily explained by what we saw and heard of his relations with our charming "delilah,"--for delilah we could hardly help calling her. our little handmaid, the cinderella of the teacups, now the princess, or, what was better, the pride of the school to which she had belonged, fit for any position to which she might be called, was to be the wife of our young doctor. it would not have been the right thing to proclaim the fact while she was a pupil, but now that she had finished her course of instruction there was no need of making a secret of the engagement. so we have got our romance, our love-story out of our teacups, as i hoped and expected that we should, but not exactly in the quarter where it might have been looked for. what did our two annexes say to this unexpected turn of events? they were good-hearted girls as ever lived, but they were human, like the rest of us, and women, like some of the rest of us. they behaved perfectly. they congratulated the doctor, and hoped he would bring the young lady to the tea-table where she had played her part so becomingly. it is safe to say that each of the annexes world have liked to be asked the lover's last question by the very nice young man who had been a pleasant companion at the table and elsewhere to each of them. that same question is the highest compliment a man can pay a woman, and a woman does not mind having a dozen or more such compliments to string on the rosary of her remembrances. whether either of them was glad, on the whole, that he had not offered himself to the other in preference to herself would be a mean, shabby question, and i think altogether too well of you who are reading this paper to suppose that you would entertain the idea of asking it. it was a very pleasant occasion when the doctor brought avis over to sit with us at the table where she used to stand and wait upon us. we wondered how we could for a moment have questioned that she was one to be waited upon, and not made for the humble office which nevertheless she performed so cheerfully and so well. commencements and other celebrations, american and english. the social habits of our people have undergone an immense change within the past half century, largely in consequence of the vast development of the means of intercourse between different neighborhoods. commencements, college gatherings of all kinds, church assemblages, school anniversaries, town centennials,--all possible occasions for getting crowds together are made the most of. "'t is sixty years since,"--and a good many years over,--the time to which my memory extends. the great days of the year were, election,--general election on wednesday, and artillery election on the monday following, at which time lilacs were in bloom and 'lection buns were in order; fourth of july, when strawberries were just going out; and commencement, a grand time of feasting, fiddling, dancing, jollity, not to mention drunkenness and fighting, on the classic green of cambridge. this was the season of melons and peaches. that is the way our boyhood chronicles events. it was odd that the literary festival should be turned into a donnybrook fair, but so it was when i was a boy, and the tents and the shows and the crowds on the common were to the promiscuous many the essential parts of the great occasion. they had been so for generations, and it was only gradually that the cambridge saturnalia were replaced by the decencies and solemnities of the present sober anniversary. nowadays our celebrations smack of the sunday-school more than of the dancing-hall. the aroma of the punch-bowl has given way to the milder flavor of lemonade and the cooling virtues of ice-cream. a strawberry festival is about as far as the dissipation of our social gatherings ventures. there was much that was objectionable in those swearing, drinking, fighting times, but they had a certain excitement for us boys of the years when the century was in its teens, which comes back to us not without its fascinations. the days of total abstinence are a great improvement over those of unlicensed license, but there was a picturesque element about the rowdyism of our old commencement days, which had a charm for the eye of boyhood. my dear old friend,--book-friend, i mean,--whom i always called daddy gilpin (as i find fitzgerald called wordsworth, daddy wordsworth),--my old friend gilpin, i say, considered the donkey more picturesque in a landscape than the horse. so a village fete as depicted by teniers is more picturesque than a teetotal picnic or a sabbath-school strawberry festival. let us be thankful that the vicious picturesque is only a remembrance, and the virtuous commonplace a reality of to-day. what put all this into my head is something which the english annex has been showing me. most of my readers are somewhat acquainted with our own church and village celebrations. they know how they are organized; the women always being the chief motors, and the machinery very much the same in one case as in another. perhaps they would like to hear how such things are managed in england; and that is just what they may learn from the pamphlet which was shown me by the english annex, and of which i will give them a brief account. some of us remember the rev. mr. haweis, his lectures and his violin, which interested and amused us here in boston a few years ago. now mr. haweis, assisted by his intelligent and spirited wife, has charge of the parish of st. james, westmoreland street, marylebone, london. on entering upon the twenty-fifth year of his incumbency in marylebone, and the twenty-eighth of his ministry in the diocese of london, it was thought a good idea to have an "evening conversazione and fete." we can imagine just how such a meeting would be organized in one of our towns. ministers, deacons, perhaps a member of congress, possibly a senator, and even, conceivably, his excellency the governor, and a long list of ladies lend their names to give lustre to the occasion. it is all very pleasant, unpretending, unceremonious, cheerful, well ordered, commendable, but not imposing. now look at our marylebone parish celebration, and hold your breath while the procession of great names passes before you. you learn at the outset that it is held under royal patronage, and read the names of two royal highnesses, one highness, a prince, and a princess. then comes a list before which if you do not turn pale, you must certainly be in the habit of rouging: three earls, seven lords, three bishops, two generals (one of them lord wolseley), one admiral, four baronets, nine knights, a crowd of right honorable and honorable ladies (many of them peeresses), and a mob of other personages, among whom i find mr. howells, bret harte, and myself. perhaps we are disposed to smile at seeing so much made of titles; but after what we have learned of lord timothy dexter and the high-sounding names appropriated by many of our own compatriots, who have no more claim to them than we plain misters and misseses, we may feel to them something as our late friend mr. appleton felt to the real green turtle soup set before him, when he said that it was almost as good as mock. the entertainment on this occasion was of the most varied character. the programme makes the following announcement: friday, july, -. at p. m. the doors will open. mr. haweis will receive his friends. the royal handbell ringers will ring. the fish-pond will be fished. the stalls will be visited. the phonograph will utter. refreshments will be called for, and they will come,--tea, coffee, and cooling drinks. spirits will not be called for, from the vasty deep or anywhere else,--nor would they come if they were. at . mrs. haweis will join the assembly. i am particularly delighted with this last feature in the preliminary announcement. it is a proof of the high regard in which the estimable and gifted lady who shares her husband's labors is held by the people of their congregation, and the friends who share in their feelings. it is such a master stroke of policy, too, to keep back the principal attraction until the guests must have grown eager for her appearance: i can well imagine how great a saving it must have been to the good lady's nerves, which were probably pretty well tried already by the fatigues and responsibilities of the busy evening. i have a right to say this, for i myself had the honor of attending a meeting at mr. haweis's house, where i was a principal guest, as i suppose, from the fact of the great number of persons who were presented to me. the minister must be very popular, for the meeting was a regular jam,--not quite so tremendous as that greater one, where but for the aid of mr. smalley, who kept open a breathing-space round us, my companion and myself thought we should have been asphyxiated. the company was interested, as some of my readers maybe, to know what were the attractions offered to the visitors besides that of meeting the courteous entertainers and their distinguished guests. i cannot give these at length, for each part of the show is introduced in the programme with apt quotations and pleasantries, which enlivened the catalogue. there were eleven stalls, "conducted on the cooperative principle of division of profits and interest; they retain the profits, and you take a good deal of interest, we hope, in their success." stall no. . edisoniana, or the phonograph. alluded to by the roman poet as vox, et praeterea nihil. stall no. . money-changing. stall no. . programmes and general enquiries. stall no. . roses. a rose by any other name, etc. get one. you can't expect to smell one without buying it, but you may buy one without smelling it. stall no. . lasenby liberty stall. (i cannot explain this. probably articles from liberty's famous establishment.) stall no. . historical costumes and ceramics. stall no. . the fish-pond. stall no. . varieties. stall no. . bookstall. (books) "highly recommended for insomnia; friends we never speak to, and always cut if we want to know them well." stall no. . icelandic. stall no. . call office. "mrs. magnusson, who is devoted to the north pole and all its works, will thaw your sympathies, enlighten your minds," etc., etc. all you buy may be left at the stalls, ticketed. a duplicate ticket will be handed to you on leaving. present your duplicate at the call office. at . , first concert. at . , an address of welcome by rev. h. r. haweis. at p. m., bird-warbling interlude by miss mabel stephenson, u. s. a. at . , second concert. notice! three great pictures. lord tennyson. g. f. watts, r. a. john stuart mill g. f. watts, r. a. joseph garibaldi sig. rondi. notice! a famous violin. a world-famed stradivarius violin, for which mr. hill, of bond street, gave l , etc., etc. refreshments. tickets for tea, coffee, sandwiches, iced drinks, or ices, sixpence each, etc., etc. i hope my american reader is pleased and interested by this glimpse of the way in which they do these things in london. there is something very pleasant about all this, but what specially strikes me is a curious flavor of city provincialism. there are little centres in the heart of great cities, just as there are small fresh-water ponds in great islands with the salt sea roaring all round them, and bays and creeks penetrating them as briny as the ocean itself. irving has given a charming picture of such a quasi-provincial centre in one of his papers in the sketch-book,--the one with the title "little britain." london is a nation of itself, and contains provinces, districts, foreign communities, villages, parishes,--innumerable lesser centres, with their own distinguishing characteristics, habits, pursuit, languages, social laws, as much isolated from each other as if "mountains interposed" made the separation between them. one of these lesser centres is that over which my friend mr. haweis presides as spiritual director. chelsea has been made famous as the home of many authors and artists,--above all, as the residence of carlyle during the greater part of his life. its population, like that of most respectable suburbs, must belong mainly to the kind of citizens which resembles in many ways the better class,--as we sometimes dare to call it,--of one of our thriving new england towns. how many john gilpins there must be in this population,--citizens of "famous london town," but living with the simplicity of the inhabitants of our inland villages! in the mighty metropolis where the wealth of the world displays itself they practise their snug economies, enjoy their simple pleasures, and look upon ice-cream as a luxury, just as if they were living on the banks of the connecticut or the housatonic, in regions where the summer locusts of the great cities have not yet settled on the verdure of the native inhabitants. it is delightful to realize the fact that while the west end of london is flaunting its splendors and the east end in struggling with its miseries, these great middle-class communities are living as comfortable, unpretending lives as if they were in one of our thriving townships in the huckleberry-districts. human beings are wonderfully alike when they are placed in similar conditions. we were sitting together in a very quiet way over our teacups. the young doctor, who was in the best of spirits, had been laughing and chatting with the two annexes. the tutor, who always sits next to number five of late, had been conversing with her in rather low tones. the rest of us had been soberly sipping our tea, and when the doctor and the annexes stopped talking there was one of those dead silences which are sometimes so hard to break in upon, and so awkward while they last. all at once number seven exploded in a loud laugh, which startled everybody at the table. what is it that sets you laughing so? said i. "i was thinking," number seven replied, "of what you said the other day of poetry being only the ashes of emotion. i believe that some people are disposed to dispute the proposition. i have been putting your doctrine to the test. in doing it i made some rhymes,--the first and only ones i ever made. i will suppose a case of very exciting emotion, and see whether it would probably take the form of poetry or prose. you are suddenly informed that your house is on fire, and have to scramble out of it, without stopping to tie your neck-cloth neatly or to put a flower in your buttonhole. do you think a poet turning out in his night-dress, and looking on while the flames were swallowing his home and all its contents, would express himself in this style? "my house is on fire! bring me my lyre! like the flames that rise heavenward my song shall aspire! "he would n't do any such thing, and you know he wouldn't. he would yell fire! fire! with all his might. not much rhyming for him just yet! wait until the fire is put out, and he has had time to look at the charred timbers and the ashes of his home, and in the course of a week he may possibly spin a few rhymes about it. or suppose he was making an offer of his hand and heart, do you think he would declaim a versified proposal to his amanda, or perhaps write an impromptu on the back of his hat while he knelt before her? "my beloved, to you i will always be true. oh, pray make me happy, my love, do! do! do! "what would amanda think of a suitor who courted her with a rhyming dictionary in his pocket to help him make love?" you are right, said i,--there's nothing in the world like rhymes to cool off a man's passion. you look at a blacksmith working on a bit of iron or steel. bright enough it looked while it was on the hearth, in the midst of the sea-coal, the great bellows blowing away, and the rod or the horse-shoe as red or as white as the burning coals. how it fizzes as it goes into the trough of water, and how suddenly all the glow is gone! it looks black and cold enough now. just so with your passionate incandescence. it is all well while it burns and scintillates in your emotional centres, without articulate and connected expression; but the minute you plunge it into the rhyme-trough it cools down, and becomes as dead and dull as the cold horse-shoe. it is true that if you lay it cold on the anvil and hammer away on it for a while it warms up somewhat. just so with the rhyming fellow,--he pounds away on his verses and they warm up a little. but don't let him think that this afterglow of composition is the same thing as the original passion. that found expression in a few oh, oh's, eheu's, helas, helas's, and when the passion had burned itself out you got the rhymed verses, which, as i have said, are its ashes. i thanked number seven for his poetical illustration of my thesis. there is great good to be got out of a squinting brain, if one only knows how to profit by it. we see only one side of the moon, you know, but a fellow with a squinting brain seems now and then to get a peep at the other side. i speak metaphorically. he takes new and startling views of things we have always looked at in one particular aspect. there is a rule invariably to be observed with one of this class of intelligences: never contradict a man with a squinting brain. i say a man, because i do not think that squinting brains are nearly so common in women as they are in men. the "eccentrics" are, i think, for the most part of the male sex. that leads me to say that persons with a strong instinctive tendency to contradiction are apt to become unprofitable companions. our thoughts are plants that never flourish in inhospitable soils or chilling atmospheres. they are all started under glass, so to speak; that is, sheltered and fostered in our own warm and sunny consciousness. they must expect some rough treatment when we lift the sash from the frame and let the outside elements in upon them. they can bear the rain and the breezes, and be all the better for them; but perpetual contradiction is a pelting hailstorm, which spoils their growth and tends to kill them out altogether. now stop and consider a moment. are not almost all brains a little wanting in bilateral symmetry? do you not find in persons whom you love, whom you esteem, and even admire, some marks of obliquity in mental vision? are there not some subjects in looking at which it seems to you impossible that they should ever see straight? are there not moods in which it seems to you that they are disposed to see all things out of plumb and in false relations with each other? if you answer these questions in the affirmative, then you will be glad of a hint as to the method of dealing with your friends who have a touch of cerebral strabismus, or are liable to occasional paroxysms of perversity. let them have their head. get them talking on subjects that interest them. as a rule, nothing is more likely to serve this purpose than letting them talk about themselves; if authors, about their writings; if artists, about their pictures or statues; and generally on whatever they have most pride in and think most of their own relations with. perhaps you will not at first sight agree with me in thinking that slight mental obliquity is as common as i suppose. an analogy may have some influence on your belief in this matter. will you take the trouble to ask your tailor how many persons have their two shoulders of the same height? i think he will tell you that the majority of his customers show a distinct difference of height on the two sides. will you ask a portrait-painter how many of those who sit to hint have both sides of their faces exactly alike? i believe he will tell you that one side is always a little better than the other. what will your hatter say about the two sides of the head? do you see equally well with both eyes, and hear equally well with both ears? few persons past middle age will pretend that they do. why should the two halves of a brain not show a natural difference, leading to confusion of thought, and very possibly to that instinct of contradiction of which i was speaking? a great deal of time is lost in profitless conversation, and a good deal of ill temper frequently caused, by not considering these organic and practically insuperable conditions. in dealing with them, acquiescence is the best of palliations and silence the sovereign specific. i have been the reporter, as you have seen, of my own conversation and that of the other teacups. i have told some of the circumstances of their personal history, and interested, as i hope, here and there a reader in the fate of different members of our company. here are our pretty delilah and our doctor provided for. we may take it for granted that it will not be very long that the young couple will have to wait; for, as i have told you all, the doctor is certainly getting into business, and bids fair to have a thriving practice before he saddles his nose with an eyeglass and begins to think of a pair of spectacles. so that part of our little domestic drama is over, and we can only wish the pair that is to be all manner of blessings consistent with a reasonable amount of health in the community on whose ailings must depend their prosperity. all our thoughts are now concentrated on the relation existing between number five and the tutor. that there is some profound instinctive impulse which is drawing them closer together no one who watches them can for a moment doubt. there are two principles of attraction which bring different natures together: that in which the two natures closely resemble each other, and that in which one is complementary of the other. in the first case, they coalesce, as do two drops of water or of mercury, and become intimately blended as soon as they touch; in the other, they rush together as an acid and an alkali unite, predestined from eternity to find all they most needed in each other. what is the condition of things in the growing intimacy of number five and the tutor? he is many years her junior, as we know. both of them look that fact squarely in the face. the presumption is against the union of two persons under these circumstances. presumptions are strong obstacles against any result we wish to attain, but half our work in life is to overcome them. a great many results look in the distance like six-foot walls, and when we get nearer prove to be only five-foot hurdles, to be leaped over or knocked down. twenty years from now she may be a vigorous and active old woman, and he a middle-aged, half-worn-out invalid, like so many overworked scholars. everything depends on the number of drops of the elixir vitae which nature mingled in the nourishment she administered to the embryo before it tasted its mother's milk. think of cleopatra, the bewitching old mischief-maker; think of ninon de l'enclos, whose own son fell desperately in love with her, not knowing the relation in which she stood to him; think of dr. johnson's friend, mrs. thrale, afterward mrs. piozzi, who at the age of eighty was full enough of life to be making love ardently and persistently to conway, the handsome young actor. i can readily believe that number five will outlive the tutor, even if he is fortunate enough rather in winning his way into the fortress through gates that open to him of their own accord. if he fails in his siege, i do really believe he will die early; not of a broken heart, exactly, but of a heart starved, with the food it was craving close to it, but unattainable. i have, therefore, a deep interest in knowing how number five and the tutor are getting along together. is there any danger of one or the other growing tired of the intimacy, and becoming willing to get rid of it, like a garment which has shrunk and grown too tight? is it likely that some other attraction may come into disturb the existing relation? the problem is to my mind not only interesting, but exceptionally curious. you remember the story of cymon and iphigenia as dryden tells it. the poor youth has the capacity of loving, but it lies hidden in his undeveloped nature. all at once he comes upon the sleeping beauty, and is awakened by her charms to a hitherto unfelt consciousness. with the advent of the new passion all his dormant faculties start into life, and the seeming simpleton becomes the bright and intelligent lover. the case of number five is as different from that of cymon as it could well be. all her faculties are wide awake, but one emotional side of her nature has never been called into active exercise. why has she never been in love with any one of her suitors? because she liked too many of them. do you happen to remember a poem printed among these papers, entitled "i like you and i love you" no one of the poems which have been placed in the urn,--that is, in the silver sugar-bowl,--has had any name attached to it; but you could guess pretty nearly who was the author of some of them, certainly of the one just, referred to. number five was attracted to the tutor from the first time he spoke to her. she dreamed about him that night, and nothing idealizes and renders fascinating one in whom we have already an interest like dreaming of him or of her. many a calm suitor has been made passionate by a dream; many a passionate lover has been made wild and half beside himself by a dream; and now and then an infatuated but hapless lover, waking from a dream of bliss to a cold reality of wretchedness, has helped himself to eternity before he was summoned to the table. since number five had dreamed about the tutor, he had been more in her waking thoughts than she was willing to acknowledge. these thoughts were vague, it is true,--emotions, perhaps, rather than worded trains of ideas; but she was conscious of a pleasing excitement as his name or his image floated across her consciousness; she sometimes sighed as she looked over the last passage they had read from the same book, and sometimes when they were together they were silent too long,--too long! what were they thinking of? and so it was all as plain sailing for number five and the young tutor as it had been for delilah and the young doctor, was it? do you think so? then you do not understand number five. many a woman has as many atmospheric rings about her as the planet saturn. three are easily to be recognized. first, there is the wide ring of attraction which draws into itself all that once cross its outer border. these revolve about her without ever coming any nearer. next is the inner ring of attraction. those who come within its irresistible influence are drawn so close that it seems as if they must become one with her sooner or later. but within this ring is another,--an atmospheric girdle, one of repulsion, which love, no matter how enterprising, no matter how prevailing or how insinuating, has never passed, and, if we judge of what is to be by what has been, never will. perhaps nature loved number five so well that she grudged her to any mortal man, and gave her this inner girdle of repulsion to guard her from all who would know her too nearly and love her too well. sometimes two vessels at sea keep each other company for a long distance, it may be daring a whole voyage. very pleasant it is to each to have a companion to exchange signals with from time to time; to came near enough, when the winds are light, to hold converse in ordinary tones from deck to deck; to know that, in case of need, there's help at hand. it is good for them to be near each other, but not good to be too near. woe is to them if they touch! the wreck of one or both is likely to be the consequence. and so two well-equipped and heavily freighted natures may be the best of companions to each other, and yet must never attempt to come into closer union. is this the condition of affairs between number five and the tutor? i hope not, for i want them to be joined together in that dearest of intimacies, which, if founded in true affinity, is the nearest approach to happiness to be looked for in our mortal, experience. we mast wait. the teacups will meet once more before the circle is broken, and we may, perhaps, find the solution of the question we have raised. in the mean time, our young doctor is playing truant oftener than ever. he has brought avis,--if we must call her so, and not delilah,--several times to take tea with us. it means something, in these days, to graduate from one of our first-class academies or collegiate schools. i shall never forget my first visit to one of these institutions. how much its pupils know, i said, which i was never taught, and have never learned! i was fairly frightened to see what a teaching apparatus was provided for them. i should think the first thing to be done with most of the husbands, they are likely to get would be to put them through a course of instruction. the young wives must find their lords wofully ignorant, in a large proportion of cases. when the wife has educated the husband to such a point that she can invite him to work out a problem in the higher mathematics or to perform a difficult chemical analysis with her as his collaborator, as less instructed dames ask their husbands to play a game of checkers or backgammon, they can have delightful and instructive evenings together. i hope our young doctor will take kindly to his wife's (that is to be) teachings. when the following verses were taken out of the urn, the mistress asked me to hand the manuscript to the young doctor to read. i noticed that he did not keep his eyes very closely fixed on the paper. it seemed as if he could have recited the lines without referring to the manuscript at all. at the turn of the road. the glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume, the purple-hued asters still linger in bloom; the birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red, the maples like torches aflame overhead. but what if the joy of the summer is past, and winter's wild herald is blowing his blast? for me dull november is sweeter than may, for my love is its sunshine,--she meets me to-day! will she come? will the ring-dove return to her nest? will the needle swing back from the east or the west? at the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate; a friend may prove laggard,--love never comes late. do i see her afar in the distance? not yet. too early! too early! she could not forget! when i cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed, she will flash full in sight at the turn of the road. i pass the low wall where the ivy entwines; i tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines; i haste by the boulder that lies in the field, where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed. will she come by the hillside or round through the wood? will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood? the minute draws near,--but her watch may go wrong; my heart will be asking, what keeps her so long? why doubt for a moment? more shame if i do! why question? why tremble? are angels more true? she would come to the lover who calls her his own though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone! --i crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed. i looked: lo! my love stood before me at last. her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed, as we met, face to face, at the turn of the road! xii there was a great tinkling of teaspoons the other evening, when i took my seat at the table, where all the teacups were gathered before my entrance. the whole company arose, and the mistress, speaking for them, expressed the usual sentiment appropriate to such occasions. "many happy returns" is the customary formula. no matter if the object of this kind wish is a centenarian, it is quite safe to assume that he is ready and very willing to accept as many more years as the disposing powers may see fit to allow him. the meaning of it all was that this was my birthday. my friends, near and distant, had seen fit to remember it, and to let me know in various pleasant ways that they had not forgotten it. the tables were adorned with flowers. gifts of pretty and pleasing objects were displayed on a side table. a great green wreath, which must have cost the parent oak a large fraction of its foliage, was an object of special admiration. baskets of flowers which had half unpeopled greenhouses, large bouquets of roses, fragrant bunches of pinks, and many beautiful blossoms i am not botanist enough to name had been coming in upon me all day long. many of these offerings were brought by the givers in person; many came with notes as fragrant with good wishes as the flowers they accompanied with their natural perfumes. how old was i, the dictator, once known by another equally audacious title,--i, the recipient of all these favors and honors? i had cleared the eight-barred gate, which few come in sight of, and fewer, far fewer, go over, a year before. i was a trespasser on the domain belonging to another generation. the children of my coevals were fast getting gray and bald, and their children beginning to look upon the world as belonging to them, and not to their sires and grandsires. after that leap over the tall barrier, it looks like a kind of impropriety to keep on as if one were still of a reasonable age. sometimes it seems to me almost of the nature of a misdemeanor to be wandering about in the preserve which the fleshless gamekeeper guards so jealously. but, on the other hand, i remember that men of science have maintained that the natural life of man is nearer fivescore than threescore years and ten. i always think of a familiar experience which i bring from the french cafes, well known to me in my early manhood. one of the illustrated papers of my parisian days tells it pleasantly enough. a guest of the establishment is sitting at his little table. he has just had his coffee, and the waiter is serving him with his petit verre. most of my readers know very well what a petit verre is, but there may be here and there a virtuous abstainer from alcoholic fluids, living among the bayberries and the sweet ferns, who is not aware that the words, as commonly used, signify a small glass--a very small glass--of spirit, commonly brandy, taken as a chasse-cafe, or coffee-chaser. this drinking of brandy, "neat," i may remark by the way, is not quite so bad as it looks. whiskey or rum taken unmixed from a tumbler is a knock-down blow to temperance, but the little thimbleful of brandy, or chartreuse, or maraschino, is only, as it were, tweaking the nose of teetotalism. well,--to go back behind our brackets,--the guest is calling to the waiter, "garcon! et le bain de pieds!" waiter! and the foot-bath!--the little glass stands in a small tin saucer or shallow dish, and the custom is to more than fill the glass, so that some extra brandy rung over into this tin saucer or cup-plate, to the manifest gain of the consumer. life is a petit verre of a very peculiar kind of spirit. at seventy years it used to be said that the little glass was full. we should be more apt to put it at eighty in our day, while gladstone and tennyson and our own whittier are breathing, moving, thinking, writing, speaking, in the green preserve belonging to their children and grandchildren, and bancroft is keeping watch of the gamekeeper in the distance. but, returning resolutely to the petit verre, i am willing to concede that all after fourscore is the bain de pieds,--the slopping over, so to speak, of the full measure of life. i remember that one who was very near and dear to me, and who lived to a great age, so that the ten-barred gate of the century did not look very far off, would sometimes apologize in a very sweet, natural way for lingering so long to be a care and perhaps a burden to her children, themselves getting well into years. it is not hard to understand the feeling, never less called for than it was in the case of that beloved nonagenarian. i have known few persons, young or old, more sincerely and justly regretted than the gentle lady whose memory comes up before me as i write. oh, if we could all go out of flower as gracefully, as pleasingly, as we come into blossom! i always think of the morning-glory as the loveliest example of a graceful yielding to the inevitable. it is beautiful before its twisted corolla opens; it is comely as it folds its petals inward, when its brief hours of perfection are over. women find it easier than men to grow old in a becoming way. a very old lady who has kept something, it may be a great deal, of her youthful feelings, who is daintily cared for, who is grateful for the attentions bestowed upon her, and enters into the spirit of the young lives that surround her, is as precious to those who love her as a gem in an antique setting, the fashion of which has long gone by, but which leaves the jewel the color and brightness which are its inalienable qualities. with old men it is too often different. they do not belong so much indoors as women do. they have no pretty little manual occupations. the old lady knits or stitches so long as her eyes and fingers will let her. the old man smokes his pipe, but does not know what to do with his fingers, unless he plays upon some instrument, or has a mechanical turn which finds business for them. but the old writer, i said to the teacups, as i say to you, my readers, labors under one special difficulty, which i am thinking of and exemplifying at this moment. he is constantly tending to reflect upon and discourse about his own particular stage of life. he feels that he must apologize for his intrusion upon the time and thoughts of a generation which he naturally supposes must be tired of him, if they ever had any considerable regard for him. now, if the world of readers hates anything it sees in print, it is apology. if what one has to say is worth saying, he need not beg pardon fur saying it. if it is not worth saying i will not finish the sentence. but it is so hard to resist the temptation, notwithstanding that the terrible line beginning "superfluous lags the veteran" is always repeating itself in his dull ear! what kind of audience or reading parish is a man who secured his constituency in middle life, or before that period, to expect when he has reached the age of threescore and twenty? his coevals have dropped away by scores and tens, and he sees only a few units scattered about here and there, like the few beads above the water after a ship has gone to pieces. does he write and publish for those of his own time of life? he need not print a large edition. does he hope to secure a hearing from those who have come into the reading world since his coevals? they have found fresher fields and greener pastures. their interests are in the out-door, active world. some of them are circumnavigating the planet while he is hitching his rocking chair about his hearth-rug. some are gazing upon the pyramids while he is staring at his andirons. some are settling the tariff and fixing the laws of suffrage and taxation while he is dozing over the weather bulletin, and going to sleep over the obituaries in his morning or evening paper. nature is wiser than we give her credit for being; never wiser than in her dealings with the old. she has no idea of mortifying them by sudden and wholly unexpected failure of the chief servants of consciousness. the sight, for instance, begins to lose something of its perfection long before its deficiency calls the owner's special attention to it. very probably, the first hint we have of the change is that a friend makes the pleasing remark that we are "playing the trombone," as he calls it; that is, moving a book we are holding backward and forward, to get the right focal distance. or it may be we find fault with the lamp or the gas-burner for not giving so much light as it used to. at last, somewhere between forty and fifty, we begin to dangle a jaunty pair of eye-glasses, half plaything and half necessity. in due time a pair of sober, business-like spectacles bestrides the nose. old age leaps upon it as his saddle, and rides triumphant, unchallenged, until the darkness comes which no glasses can penetrate. nature is pitiless in carrying out the universal sentence, but very pitiful in her mode of dealing with the condemned on his way to the final scene. the man who is to be hanged always has a good breakfast provided for him. do not think that the old look upon themselves as the helpless, hopeless, forlorn creatures which they seem to young people. do these young folks suppose that all vanity dies out of the natures of old men and old women? a dentist of olden time told me that a good-looking young man once said to him, "keep that incisor presentable, if you can, till i am fifty, and then i sha'n't care how i look." i venture to say that that gentleman was as particular about his personal appearance and as proud of his good looks at fifty, and many years after fifty, as he was in the twenties, when he made that speech to the dentist. my dear friends around the teacups, and at that wider board where i am now entertaining, or trying to entertain, my company, is it not as plain to you as it is to me that i had better leave such tasks as that which i am just finishing to those who live in a more interesting period of life than one which, in the order of nature, is next door to decrepitude? ought i not to regret having undertaken to report the doings and sayings of the members of the circle which you have known as the teacups? dear, faithful reader, whose patient eyes have followed my reports through these long months, you and i are about parting company. perhaps you are one of those who have known me under another name, in those far-off days separated from these by the red sea of the great national conflict. when you first heard the tinkle of the teaspoons, as the table was being made ready for its guests, you trembled for me, in the kindness of your hearts. i do not wonder that you did,--i trembled for myself. but i remembered the story of sir cloudesley shovel, who was seen all of a tremor just as he was going into action. "how is this?" said a brother officer to him. "surely you are not afraid?" "no," he answered, "but my flesh trembles at the thought of the dangers into which my intrepid spirit will carry me." i knew the risk of undertaking to carry through a series of connected papers. and yet i thought it was better to run that risk, more manly, more sensible, than to give way to the fears which made my flesh tremble as did sir cloudesley shovel's. for myself the labor has been a distraction, and one which came at a time when it was needed. sometimes, as in one of those poems recently published,--the reader will easily guess which,--the youthful spirit has come over me with such a rush that it made me feel just as i did when i wrote the history of the "one-hoss shay" thirty years ago. to repeat one of my comparisons, it was as if an early fruit had ripened on a graft upon an old, steady-going tree, to the astonishment of all its later-maturing products. i should hardly dare to say so much as this if i had not heard a similar opinion expressed by others. once committed to my undertaking, there was no turning back. it is true that i had said i might stop at any moment, but after one or two numbers it seemed as if there were an informal pledge to carry the series on, as in former cases, until i had completed my dozen instalments. writers and speakers have their idiosyncrasies, their habits, their tricks, if you had rather call them so, as to their ways of writing and speaking. there is a very old and familiar story, accompanied by a feeble jest, which most of my readers may probably enough have met with in joe miller or elsewhere. it is that of a lawyer who could never make an argument without having a piece of thread to work upon with his fingers while he was pleading. some one stole it from him one day, and he could not get on at all with his speech,--he had lost the thread of his discourse, as the story had it. now this is what i myself once saw. it was at a meeting where certain grave matters were debated in an assembly of professional men. a speaker, whom i never heard before or since, got up and made a long and forcible argument. i do not think he was a lawyer, but he spoke as if he had been trained to talk to juries. he held a long string in one hand, which he drew through the other band incessantly, as he spoke, just as a shoe maker performs the motion of waxing his thread. he appeared to be dependent on this motion. the physiological significance of the fact i suppose to be that the flow of what we call the nervous current from the thinking centre to the organs of speech was rendered freer and easier by the establishment of a simultaneous collateral nervous current to the set of muscles concerned in the action i have described. i do not use a string to help me write or speak, but i must have its equivalent. i must have my paper and pen or pencil before me to set my thoughts flowing in such form that they can be written continuously. there have been lawyers who could think out their whole argument in connected order without a single note. there are authors,--and i think there are many,--who can compose and finish off a poem or a story without writing a word of it until, when the proper time comes, they copy what they carry in their heads. i have been told that sir edwin arnold thought out his beautiful "light of asia" in this way. i find the great charm of writing consists in its surprises. when one is in the receptive attitude of mind, the thoughts which are sprung upon him, the images which flash through his--consciousness, are a delight and an excitement. i am impatient of every hindrance in setting down my thoughts,--of a pen that will not write, of ink that will not flow, of paper that will not receive the ink. and here let me pay the tribute which i owe to one of the humblest but most serviceable of my assistants, especially in poetical composition. nothing seems more prosaic than the stylographic pen. it deprives the handwriting of its beauty, and to some extent of its individual character. the brutal communism of the letters it forms covers the page it fills with the most uniformly uninteresting characters. but, abuse it as much as you choose, there is nothing like it for the poet, for the imaginative writer. many a fine flow of thought has been checked, perhaps arrested, by the ill behavior of a goose-quill. many an idea has escaped while the author was dipping his pen in the inkstand. but with the stylographic pen, in the hands of one who knows how to care for it and how to use it, unbroken rhythms and harmonious cadences are the natural products of the unimpeded flow of the fluid which is the vehicle of the author's thoughts and fancies. so much for my debt of gratitude to the humble stylographic pen. it does not furnish the proper medium for the correspondence of intimates, who wish to see as much of their friends' personality as their handwriting can hold,--still less for the impassioned interchange of sentiments between lovers; but in writing for the press its use is open to no objection. its movement over the paper is like the flight of a swallow, while the quill pen and the steel pen and the gold pen are all taking short, laborious journeys, and stopping to drink every few minutes. a chief pleasure which the author of novels and stories experiences is that of becoming acquainted with the characters be draws. it is perfectly true that his characters must, in the nature of things, have more or less of himself in their composition. if i should seek an exemplification of this in the person of any of my teacups, i should find it most readily in the one whom i have called number seven, the one with the squinting brain. i think that not only i, the writer, but many of my readers, recognize in our own mental constitution an occasional obliquity of perception, not always detected at the time, but plain enough when looked back upon. what extravagant fancies you and i have seriously entertained at one time or another! what superstitious notions have got into our heads and taken possession of its empty chambers,--or, in the language of science, seized on the groups of nerve-cells in some of the idle cerebral convolutions! the writer, i say, becomes acquainted with his characters as he goes on. they are at first mere embryos, outlines of distinct personalities. by and by, if they have any organic cohesion, they begin to assert themselves. they can say and do such and such things; such and such other things they cannot and must not say or do. the story-writer's and play-writer's danger is that they will get their characters mixed, and make a say what b ought to have said. the stronger his imaginative faculty, the less liable will the writer be to this fault; but not even shakespeare's power of throwing himself into his characters prevents many of his different personages from talking philosophy in the same strain and in a style common to them all. you will often observe that authors fall in love with the imaginary persons they describe, and that they bestow affectionate epithets upon them which it may happen the reader does not consider in any way called for. this is a pleasure to which they have a right. every author of a story is surrounded by a little family of ideal children, as dear to him, it may be, as are flesh-and-blood children to their parents. you may forget all about the circle of teacups to which i have introduced you,--on the supposition that you have followed me with some degree of interest; but do you suppose that number five does not continue as a presence with me, and that my pretty delilah has left me forever because she is going to be married? no, my dear friend, our circle will break apart, and its different members will soon be to you as if they had never been. but do you think that i can forget them? do you suppose that i shall cease to follow the love (or the loves; which do you think is the true word, the singular or the plural?) of number five and the young tutor who is so constantly found in her company? do you suppose that i do not continue my relations with the "cracked teacup,"--the poor old fellow with whom i have so much in common, whose counterpart, perhaps, you may find in your own complex personality? i take from the top shelf of the hospital department of my library--the section devoted to literary cripples, imbeciles, failures, foolish rhymesters, and silly eccentrics--one of the least conspicuous and most hopelessly feeble of the weak-minded population of that intellectual almshouse. i open it and look through its pages. it is a story. i have looked into it once before,--on its first reception as a gift from the author. i try to recall some of the names i see there: they mean nothing to me, but i venture to say the author cherishes them all, and cries over them as he did when he was writing their history. i put the book back among its dusty companions, and, sitting down in my reflective rocking-chair, think how others must forget, and how i shall remember, the company that gathered about this table. shall i ever meet any one of them again, in these pages or in any other? will the cracked teacup hold together, or will he go to pieces, and find himself in that retreat where the owner of the terrible clock which drove him crazy is walking under the shelter of the high walls? has the young doctor's crown yet received the seal which is nature's warrant of wisdom and proof of professional competency? and number five and her young friend the tutor,--have they kept on in their dangerous intimacy? did they get through the tutto tremante passage, reading from the same old large edition of dante which the tutor recommended as the best, and in reading from which their heads were necessarily brought perilously near to each other? it would be very pleasant if i could, consistently with the present state of affairs, bring these two young people together. i say two young people, for the one who counts most years seems to me to be really the younger of the pair. that number five foresaw from the first that any tenderer feeling than that of friendship would intrude itself between them i do not believe. as for the tutor, he soon found where he was drifting. it was his first experience in matters concerning the heart, and absorbed his whole nature as a thing of course. did he tell her he loved her? perhaps he did, fifty times; perhaps he never had the courage to say so outright. but sometimes they looked each other straight in the eyes, and strange messages seemed to pass from one consciousness to the other. will the tutor ask number five to be his wife; and if he does, will she yield to the dictates of nature, and lower the flag of that fortress so long thought impregnable? will he go on writing such poems to her as "the rose and the fern" or "i like you and i love you," and be content with the pursuit of that which he never can attain? that is all very well, on the "grecian urn" of keats,--beautiful, but not love such as mortals demand. still, that may be all, for aught that we have yet seen. "fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; bold lover, never, never, canst thou kiss, though winning near the goal,--yet do not grieve; she cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, forever wilt thou love, and she be fair! ......................... "more happy love! more happy, happy love! forever warm, and still to be enjoyed, forever panting and forever young!" and so, good-bye, young people, whom we part with here. shadows you have been and are to my readers; very real you have been and are to me,--as real as the memories of many friends whom i shall see no more. as i am not in the habit of indulging in late suppers, the reader need not think that i shall spread another board and invite him to listen to the conversations which take place around it. if, from time to time, he finds a slight refection awaiting him on the sideboard, i hope he may welcome it as pleasantly as he has accepted what i have offered him from the board now just being cleared. .......................... it is a good rule for the actor who manages the popular street drama of punch not to let the audience or spectators see his legs. it is very hard for the writer of papers like these, which are now coming to their conclusion, to keep his personality from showing itself too conspicuously through the thin disguises of his various characters. as the show is now over, as the curtain has fallen, i appear before it in my proper person, to address a few words to the friends who have assisted, as the french say, by their presence, and as we use the word, by the kind way in which they have received my attempts at their entertainment. this series of papers is the fourth of its kind which i have offered to my readers. i may be allowed to look back upon the succession of serial articles which was commenced more than thirty years ago, in . "the autocrat of the breakfast-table" was the first of the series. it was begun without the least idea what was to be its course and its outcome. its characters shaped themselves gradually as the manuscript grew under my hand. i jotted down on the sheet of blotting paper before me the thoughts and fancies which came into my head. a very odd-looking object was this page of memoranda. many of the hints were worked up into formal shape, many were rejected. sometimes i recorded a story, a jest, or a pun for consideration, and made use of it or let it alone as my second thought decided. i remember a curious coincidence, which, if i have ever told in print,--i am not sure whether i have or not,--i will tell over again. i mention it, not for the pun, which i rejected as not very edifying and perhaps not new, though i did not recollect having seen it. mulier, latin for woman; why apply that name to one of the gentle but occasionally obstinate sex? the answer was that a woman is (sometimes) more mulish than a mule. please observe that i did not like the poor pun very well, and thought it rather rude and inelegant. so i left it on the blotter, where it was standing when one of the next numbers of "punch" came out and contained that very same pun, which must have been hit upon by some english contributor at just about the same time i fell upon it on this side of the atlantic. this fact may be added to the chapter of coincidences which belongs to the first number of this series of papers. the "autocrat" had the attraction of novelty, which of course was wanting in the succeeding papers of similar character. the criticisms upon the successive numbers as they came out were various, but generally encouraging. some were more than encouraging; very high-colored in their phrases of commendation. when the papers were brought together in a volume their success was beyond my expectations. up to the present time the "autocrat" has maintained its position. an immortality of a whole generation is more than most writers are entitled to expect. i venture to think, from the letters i receive from the children and grandchildren of my first set of readers, that for some little time longer, at least, it will continue to be read, and even to be a favorite with some of its readers. non omnis moriar is a pleasant thought to one who has loved his poor little planet, and will, i trust, retain kindly recollections of it through whatever wilderness of worlds he may be called to wander in his future pilgrimages. i say "poor little planet." ever since i had a ten cent look at the transit of venus, a few years ago, through the telescope in the mall, the earth has been wholly different to me from what it used to be. i knew from books what a speck it is in the universe, but nothing ever brought the fact home like the sight of the sister planet sailing across the sun's disk, about large enough for a buckshot, not large enough for a full-sized bullet. yes, i love the little globule where i have spent more than fourscore years, and i like to think that some of my thoughts and some of my emotions may live themselves over again when i am sleeping. i cannot thank all the kind readers of the "autocrat" who are constantly sending me their acknowledgments. if they see this printed page, let them be assured that a writer is always rendered happier by being told that he has made a fellow-being wiser or better, or even contributed to his harmless entertainment. this a correspondent may take for granted, even if his letter of grateful recognition receives no reply. it becomes more and more difficult for me to keep up with my correspondents, and i must soon give it up as impossible. "the professor at the breakfast table" followed immediately on the heels of the "autocrat." the professor was the alter ego of the first personage. in the earlier series he had played a secondary part, and in this second series no great effort was made to create a character wholly unlike the first. the professor was more outspoken, however, on religious subjects, and brought down a good deal of hard language on himself and the author to whom he owed his existence. i suppose he may have used some irritating expressions, unconsciously, but not unconscientiously, i am sure. there is nothing harder to forgive than the sting of an epigram. some of the old doctors, i fear, never pardoned me for saying that if a ship, loaded with an assorted cargo of the drugs which used to be considered the natural food of sick people, went to the bottom of the sea, it would be "all the better for mankind and all the worse for the fishes." if i had not put that snapper on the end of my whip-lash, i might have got off without the ill temper which my antithesis provoked. thirty years set that all right, and the same thirty years have so changed the theological atmosphere that such abusive words as "heretic" and "infidel," applied to persons who differ from the old standards of faith, are chiefly interesting as a test of breeding, being seldom used by any people above the social half-caste line. i am speaking of protestants; how it may be among roman catholics i do not know, but i suspect that with them also it is a good deal a matter of breeding. there were not wanting some who liked the professor better than the autocrat. i confess that i prefer my champagne in its first burst of gaseous enthusiasm; but if my guest likes it better after it has stood awhile, i am pleased to accommodate him. the first of my series came from my mind almost with an explosion, like the champagne cork; it startled me a little to see what i had written, and to hear what people said about it. after that first explosion the flow was more sober, and i looked upon the product of my wine-press more coolly. continuations almost always sag a little. i will not say that of my own second effort, but if others said it, i should not be disposed to wonder at or to dispute them. "the poet at the breakfast table" came some years later. this series of papers was not so much a continuation as a resurrection. it was a doubly hazardous attempt, made without any extravagant expectations, and was received as well as i had any right to anticipate. it differed from the other two series in containing a poem of considerable length, published in successive portions. this poem holds a good deal of self-communing, and gave me the opportunity of expressing some thoughts and feelings not to be found elsewhere in my writings. i had occasion to read the whole volume, not long since, in preparation for a new edition, and was rather more pleased with it than i had expected to be. an old author is constantly rediscovering himself in the more or less fossilized productions of his earlier years. it is a long time since i have read the "autocrat," but i take it up now and then and read in it for a few minutes, not always without some degree of edification. these three series of papers, "autocrat," "professor," "poet," are all studies of life from somewhat different points of view. they are largely made up of sober reflections, and appeared to me to require some lively human interest to save them from wearisome didactic dulness. what could be more natural than that love should find its way among the young people who helped to make up the circle gathered around the table? nothing is older than the story of young love. nothing is newer than that same old story. a bit of gilding here and there has a wonderful effect in enlivening a landscape or an apartment. napoleon consoled the parisians in their year of defeat by gilding the dome of the invalides. boston has glorified her state house and herself at the expense of a few sheets of gold leaf laid on the dome, which shines like a sun in the eyes of her citizens, and like a star in those of the approaching traveller. i think the gilding of a love-story helped all three of these earlier papers. the same need i felt in the series of papers just closed. the slight incident of delilah's appearance and disappearance served my purpose to some extent. but what should i do with number five? the reader must follow out her career for himself. for myself, i think that she and the tutor have both utterly forgotten the difference of their years in the fascination of intimate intercourse. i do not believe that a nature so large, so rich in affection, as number five's is going to fall defeated of its best inheritance of life, like a vine which finds no support for its tendrils to twine around, and so creeps along the ground from which nature meant that love should lift it. i feel as if i ought to follow these two personages of my sermonizing story until they come together or separate, to fade, to wither,--perhaps to die, at last, of something like what the doctors call heart-failure, but which might more truly be called heart-starvation. when i say die, i do not mean necessarily the death that goes into the obituary column. it may come to that, in one or both; but i think that, if they are never united, number five will outlive the tutor, who will fall into melancholy ways, and pine and waste, while she lives along, feeling all the time that she has cheated herself of happiness. i hope that is not going to be their fortune, or misfortune. vieille fille fait jeune mariee. what a youthful bride number five would be, if she could only make up her mind to matrimony! in the mean time she must be left with her lambs all around her. may heaven temper the winds to them, for they have been shorn very close, every one of them, of their golden fleece of aspirations and anticipations. i must avail myself of this opportunity to say a few words to my distant friends who take interest enough in my writings, early or recent, to wish to enter into communication with me by letter, or to keep up a communication already begun. i have given notice in print that the letters, books, and manuscripts which i receive by mail are so numerous that if i undertook to read and answer them all i should have little time for anything else. i have for some years depended on the assistance of a secretary, but our joint efforts have proved unable, of late, to keep down the accumulations which come in with every mail. so many of the letters i receive are of a pleasant character that it is hard to let them go unacknowledged. the extreme friendliness which pervades many of them gives them a value which i rate very highly. when large numbers of strangers insist on claiming one as a friend, on the strength of what he has written, it tends to make him think of himself somewhat indulgently. it is the most natural thing in the world to want to give expression to the feeling the loving messages from far-off unknown friends must excite. many a day has had its best working hours broken into, spoiled for all literary work, by the labor of answering correspondents whose good opinion it is gratifying to have called forth, but who were unconsciously laying a new burden on shoulders already aching. i know too well that what i say will not reach the eyes of many who might possibly take a hint from it. still i must keep repeating it before breaking off suddenly and leaving whole piles of letters unanswered. i have been very heavily handicapped for many years. it is partly my own fault. from what my correspondents tell me, i must infer that i have established a dangerous reputation for willingness to answer all sorts of letters. they come with such insinuating humility,--they cannot bear to intrude upon my time, they know that i have a great many calls upon it,--and incontinently proceed to lay their additional weight on the load which is breaking my back. the hypocrisy of kind-hearted people is one of the most painful exhibitions of human weakness. it has occurred to me that it might be profitable to reproduce some of my unwritten answers to correspondents. if those which were actually written and sent were to be printed in parallel columns with those mentally formed but not written out responses and comments, the reader would get some idea of the internal conflicts an honest and not unamiable person has to go through, when he finds himself driven to the wall by a correspondence which is draining his vocabulary to find expressions that sound as agreeably, and signify as little, as the phrases used by a diplomatist in closing an official communication. no. . want my autograph, do you? and don't know how to spell my name. an a for an e in my middle name. leave out the l in my last name. do you know how people hate to have their names misspelled? what do you suppose are the sentiments entertained by the thompsons with a p towards those who address them in writing as thomson? no. . think the lines you mention are by far the best i ever wrote, hey? well, i didn't write those lines. what is more, i think they are as detestable a string of rhymes as i could wish my worst enemy had written. a very pleasant frame of mind i am in for writing a letter, after reading yours! no. . i am glad to hear that my namesake, whom i never saw and never expect to see, has cut another tooth; but why write four pages on the strength of that domestic occurrence? no. . you wish to correct an error in my broomstick poem, do you? you give me to understand that wilmington is not in essex county, but in middlesex. very well; but are they separated by running water? because if they are not, what could hinder a witch from crossing the line that separates wilmington from andover, i should like to know? i never meant to imply that the witches made no excursions beyond the district which was more especially their seat of operations. as i come towards the end of this task which i had set myself, i wish, of course, that i could have performed it more to my own satisfaction and that of my readers. this is a feeling which almost every one must have at the conclusion of any work he has undertaken. a common and very simple reason for this disappointment is that most of us overrate our capacity. we expect more of ourselves than we have any right to, in virtue of our endowments. the figurative descriptions of the last grand assize must no more be taken literally than the golden crowns, which we do not expect or want to wear on our heads, or the golden harps, which we do not want or expect to hold in our hands. is it not too true that many religious sectaries think of the last tribunal complacently, as the scene in which they are to have the satisfaction of saying to the believers of a creed different from their own, "i told you so"? are not others oppressed with the thought of the great returns which will be expected of them as the product of their great gifts, the very limited amount of which they do not suspect, and will be very glad to learn, even at the expense of their self-love, when they are called to their account? if the ways of the supreme being are ever really to be "justified to men," to use milton's expression, every human being may expect an exhaustive explanation of himself. no man is capable of being his own counsel, and i cannot help hoping that the ablest of the, archangels will be retained for the defence of the worst of sinners. he himself is unconscious of the agencies which made him what he is. self-determining he may be, if you will, but who determines the self which is the proximate source of the determination? why was the a self like his good uncle in bodily aspect and mental and moral qualities, and the b self like the bad uncle in look and character? has not a man a right to ask this question in the here or in the hereafter,--in this world or in any world in which he may find himself? if the all-wise wishes to satisfy his reasonable and reasoning creatures, it will not be by a display of elemental convulsions, but by the still small voice, which treats with him as a dependent entitled to know the meaning of his existence, and if there was anything wrong in his adjustment to the moral and spiritual conditions of the world around him to have full allowance made for it. no melodramatic display of warring elements, such as the white-robed second adventist imagines, can meet the need of the human heart. the thunders and lightnings of sinai terrified and impressed the more timid souls of the idolatrous and rebellious caravan which the great leader was conducting, but a far nobler manifestation of divinity was that when "the lord spake unto moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend." i find the burden and restrictions of rhyme more and more troublesome as i grow older. there are times when it seems natural enough to employ that form of expression, but it is only occasionally; and the use of it as the vehicle of the commonplace is so prevalent that one is not much tempted to select it as the medium for his thoughts and emotions. the art of rhyming has almost become a part of a high-school education, and its practice is far from being an evidence of intellectual distinction. mediocrity is as much forbidden to the poet in our days as it was in those of horace, and the immense majority of the verses written are stamped with hopeless mediocrity. when one of the ancient poets found he was trying to grind out verses which came unwillingly, he said he was writing-- invita minerva. vex not the muse with idle prayers, --she will not hear thy call; she steals upon thee unawares, or seeks thee not at all. soft as the moonbeams when they sought endymion's fragrant bower, she parts the whispering leaves of thought to show her full-blown flower. for thee her wooing hour has passed, the singing birds have flown, and winter comes with icy blast to chill thy buds unblown. yet, though the woods no longer thrill as once their arches rung, sweet echoes hover round thee still of songs thy summer sung. live in thy past; await no more the rush of heaven-sent wings; earth still has music left in store while memory sighs and sings. i hope my special minerva may not always be unwilling, but she must not be called upon as she has been in times past. now that the teacups have left the table, an occasional evening call is all that my readers must look for. thanking them for their kind companionship, and hoping that i may yet meet them in the now and then in the future, i bid them goodbye for the immediate present, then in the future, i bid them goodbye for the immediate present. elsie venner by oliver wendell holmes preface. this tale was published in successive parts in the "atlantic monthly," under the name of "the professor's story," the first number having appeared in the third week of december, . the critic who is curious in coincidences must refer to the magazine for the date of publication of the chapter he is examining. in calling this narrative a "romance," the author wishes to make sure of being indulged in the common privileges of the poetic license. through all the disguise of fiction a grave scientific doctrine may be detected lying beneath some of the delineations of character. he has used this doctrine as a part of the machinery of his story without pledging his absolute belief in it to the extent to which it is asserted or implied. it was adopted as a convenient medium of truth rather than as an accepted scientific conclusion. the reader must judge for himself what is the value of various stories cited from old authors. he must decide how much of what has been told he can accept either as having actually happened, or as possible and more or less probable. the author must be permitted, however, to say here, in his personal character, and as responsible to the students of the human mind and body, that since this story has been in progress he has received the most startling confirmation of the possibility of the existence of a character like that which he had drawn as a purely imaginary conception in elsie venner. boston, january, . a second preface. this is the story which a dear old lady, my very good friend, spoke of as "a medicated novel," and quite properly refused to read. i was always pleased with her discriminating criticism. it is a medicated novel, and if she wished to read for mere amusement and helpful recreation there was no need of troubling herself with a story written with a different end in view. this story has called forth so many curious inquiries that it seems worth while to answer the more important questions which have occurred to its readers. in the first place, it is not based on any well-ascertained physiological fact. there are old fables about patients who have barked like dogs or crowed like cocks, after being bitten or wounded by those animals. there is nothing impossible in the idea that romulus and remus may have imbibed wolfish traits of character from the wet nurse the legend assigned them, but the legend is not sound history, and the supposition is nothing more than a speculative fancy. still, there is a limbo of curious evidence bearing on the subject of pre-natal influences sufficient to form the starting-point of an imaginative composition. the real aim, of the story was to test the doctrine of "original sin" and human responsibility for the disordered volition coming under that technical denomination. was elsie venner, poisoned by the venom of a crotalus before she was born, morally responsible for the "volitional" aberrations, which translated into acts become what is known as sin, and, it may be, what is punished as crime? if, on presentation of the evidence, she becomes by the verdict of the human conscience a proper object of divine pity and not of divine wrath, as a subject of moral poisoning, wherein lies the difference between her position at the bar of judgment, human or divine, and that of the unfortunate victim who received a moral poison from a remote ancestor before he drew his first breath? it might be supposed that the character of elsie veneer was suggested by some of the fabulous personages of classical or mediaeval story. i remember that a french critic spoke of her as cette pauvre melusine. i ought to have been ashamed, perhaps, but i had, not the slightest idea who melusina was until i hunted up the story, and found that she was a fairy, who for some offence was changed every saturday to a serpent from her waist downward. i was of course familiar with keats's lamia, another imaginary being, the subject of magical transformation into a serpent. my story was well advanced before hawthorne's wonderful "marble faun," which might be thought to have furnished me with the hint of a mixed nature,--human, with an alien element,--was published or known to me. so that my poor heroine found her origin, not in fable or romance, but in a physiological conception fertilized by a theological dogma. i had the dissatisfaction of enjoying from a quiet corner a well-meant effort to dramatize "elsie veneer." unfortunately, a physiological romance, as i knew beforehand, is hardly adapted for the melodramatic efforts of stage representation. i can therefore say, with perfect truth, that i was not disappointed. it is to the mind, and not to the senses, that such a story must appeal, and all attempts to render the character and events objective on the stage, or to make them real by artistic illustrations, are almost of necessity failures. the story has won the attention and enjoyed the favor of a limited class of readers, and if it still continues to interest others of the same tastes and habits of thought i can ask nothing more of it. january , . preface to the new edition. i have nothing of importance to add to the two preceding prefaces. the continued call for this story, which was not written for popularity, but with a very serious purpose, has somewhat surprised and, i need not add, gratified me. i can only restate the motive idea of the tale in a little different language. believing, as i do, that our prevailing theologies are founded upon an utterly false view of the relation of man to his creator, i attempted to illustrate the doctrine of inherited moral responsibility for other people's misbehavior. i tried to make out a case for my poor elsie, whom the most hardened theologian would find it hard to blame for her inherited ophidian tastes and tendencies. how, then, is he to blame mankind for inheriting "sinfulness" from their first parents? may not the serpent have bitten eve before the birth of cain, her first-born? that would have made an excuse for cain's children, as elsie's ante-natal misfortune made an excuse for her. but what difference does it make in the child's responsibility whether his inherited tendencies come from a snake-bite or some other source which he knew nothing about and could not have prevented from acting? all this is plain enough, and the only use of the story is to bring the dogma of inherited guilt and its consequences into a clearer point of view. but, after all, the tale must have proved readable as a story to account for the large number of editions which it has reached. some readers have been curious about the locality the writer was thought to have in view. no particular place was intended. some of the characters may have been thought to have been drawn from life; but the personages mentioned are mostly composites, like mr. galton's compound photographic likenesses, and are not calculated to provoke scandal or suits for libel. o. w. h. beverly farms, mass., august , . elsie venner. chapter i. the brahmin caste of new england. there is nothing in new england corresponding at all to the feudal aristocracies of the old world. whether it be owing to the stock from which we were derived, or to the practical working of our institutions, or to the abrogation of the technical "law of honor," which draws a sharp line between the personally responsible class of "gentlemen" and the unnamed multitude of those who are not expected to risk their lives for an abstraction,--whatever be the cause, we have no such aristocracy here as that which grew up out of the military systems of the middle ages. what we mean by "aristocracy" is merely the richer part of the community, that live in the tallest houses, drive real carriages, (not "kerridges,") kidglove their hands, and french-bonnet their ladies' heads, give parties where the persons who call them by the above title are not invited, and have a provokingly easy way of dressing, walking, talking, and nodding to people, as if they felt entirely at home, and would not be embarrassed in the least, if they met the governor, or even the president of the united states, face to face. some of these great folks are really well-bred, some of them are only purse-proud and assuming,--but they form a class, and are named as above in the common speech. it is in the nature of large fortunes to diminish rapidly, when subdivided and distributed. a million is the unit of wealth, now and here in america. it splits into four handsome properties; each of these into four good inheritances; these, again, into scanty competences for four ancient maidens,--with whom it is best the family should die out, unless it can begin again as its great-grandfather did. now a million is a kind of golden cheese, which represents in a compendious form the summer's growth of a fat meadow of craft or commerce; and as this kind of meadow rarely bears more than one crop, it is pretty certain that sons and grandsons will not get another golden cheese out of it, whether they milk the same cows or turn in new ones. in other words, the millionocracy, considered in a large way, is not at all an affair of persons and families, but a perpetual fact of money with a variable human element, which a philosopher might leave out of consideration without falling into serious error. of course, this trivial and, fugitive fact of personal wealth does not create a permanent class, unless some special means are taken to arrest the process of disintegration in the third generation. this is so rarely done, at least successfully, that one need not live a very long life to see most of the rich families he knew in childhood more or less reduced, and the millions shifted into the hands of the country-boys who were sweeping stores and carrying parcels when the now decayed gentry were driving their chariots, eating their venison over silver chafing-dishes, drinking madeira chilled in embossed coolers, wearing their hair in powder, and casing their legs in long boots with silken tassels. there is, however, in new england, an aristocracy, if you choose to call it so, which has a far greater character of permanence. it has grown to be a caste,--not in any odious sense;--but, by the repetition of the same influences, generation after generation, it has acquired a distinct organization and physiognomy, which not to recognize is mere stupidity, and not to be willing to describe would show a distrust of the good-nature and intelligence of our readers, who like to have us see all we can and tell all we see. if you will look carefully at any class of students in one of our colleges, you will have no difficulty in selecting specimens of two different aspects of youthful manhood. of course i shall choose extreme cases to illustrate the contrast between them. in the first, the figure is perhaps robust, but often otherwise,--inelegant, partly from careless attitudes, partly from ill-dressing,--the face is uncouth in feature, or at least common,--the mouth coarse and unformed,--the eye unsympathetic, even if bright,--the movements of the face are clumsy, like those of the limbs,--the voice is unmusical,--and the enunciation as if the words were coarse castings, instead of fine carvings. the youth of the other aspect is commonly slender, his face is smooth, and apt to be pallid,--his features are regular and of a certain delicacy,--his eye is bright and quick,--his lips play over the thought he utters as a pianist's fingers dance over their music, and his whole air, though it may be timid, and even awkward, has nothing clownish. if you are a teacher, you know what to expect from each of these young men. with equal willingness, the first will be slow at learning; the second will take to his books as a pointer or a setter to his field-work. the first youth is the common country-boy, whose race has been bred to bodily labor. nature has adapted the family organization to the kind of life it has lived. the hands and feet by constant use have got more than their share of development,--the organs of thought and expression less than their share. the finer instincts are latent and must be developed. a youth of this kind is raw material in its first stage of elaboration. you must not expect too much of any such. many of them have force of will and character, and become distinguished in practical life; but very few of them ever become great scholars. a scholar is, in a large proportion of cases, the son of scholars or scholarly persons. that is exactly what the other young man is. he comes of the brahmin caste of new england. this is the harmless, inoffensive, untitled aristocracy referred to, and which many readers will at once acknowledge. there are races of scholars among us, in which aptitude for learning, and all these marks of it i have spoken of, are congenital and hereditary. their names are always on some college catalogue or other. they break out every generation or two in some learned labor which calls them up after they seem to have died out. at last some newer name takes their place, it maybe,--but you inquire a little and you find it is the blood of the edwardses or the chauncys or the ellerys or some of the old historic scholars, disguised under the altered name of a female descendant. there probably is not an experienced instructor anywhere in our northern states who will not recognize at once the truth of this general distinction. but the reader who has never been a teacher will very probably object, that some of our most illustrious public men have come direct from the homespun-clad class of the people,--and he may, perhaps, even find a noted scholar or two whose parents were masters of the english alphabet, but of no other. it is not fair to pit a few chosen families against the great multitude of those who are continually working their way up into the intellectual classes. the results which are habitually reached by hereditary training are occasionally brought about without it. there are natural filters as well as artificial ones; and though the great rivers are commonly more or less turbid, if you will look long enough, you may find a spring that sparkles as no water does which drips through your apparatus of sands and sponges. so there are families which refine themselves into intellectual aptitude without having had much opportunity for intellectual acquirements. a series of felicitous crosses develops an improved strain of blood, and reaches its maximum perfection at last in the large uncombed youth who goes to college and startles the hereditary class-leaders by striding past them all. that is nature's republicanism; thank god for it, but do not let it make you illogical. the race of the hereditary scholar has exchanged a certain portion of its animal vigor for its new instincts, and it is hard to lead men without a good deal of animal vigor. the scholar who comes by nature's special grace from an unworn stock of broad-chested sires and deep-bosomed mothers must always overmatch an equal intelligence with a compromised and lowered vitality. a man's breathing and digestive apparatus (one is tempted to add muscular) are just as important to him on the floor of the senate as his thinking organs. you broke down in your great speech, did you? yes, your grandfather had an attack of dyspepsia in ' , after working too hard on his famous election sermon. all this does not touch the main fact: our scholars come chiefly from a privileged order, just as our best fruits come from well-known grafts, though now and then a seedling apple, like the northern spy, or a seedling pear, like the seckel, springs from a nameless ancestry and grows to be the pride of all the gardens in the land. let me introduce you to a young man who belongs to the brahmin caste of new england. chapter ii. the student and his certificate. bernard c. langdon, a young man attending medical lectures at the school connected with one of our principal colleges, remained after the lecture one day and wished to speak with the professor. he was a student of mark,--first favorite of his year, as they say of the derby colts. there are in every class half a dozen bright faces to which the teacher naturally, directs his discourse, and by the intermediation of whose attention he seems to hold that of the mass of listeners. among these some one is pretty sure to take the lead, by virtue of a personal magnetism, or some peculiarity of expression, which places the face in quick sympathetic relations with the lecturer. this was a young man with such a face; and i found,--for you have guessed that i was the "professor" above-mentioned,--that, when there was anything difficult to be explained, or when i was bringing out some favorite illustration of a nice point, (as, for instance; when i compared the cell-growth, by which nature builds up a plant or an animal, to the glassblower's similar mode of beginning,--always with a hollow sphere, or vesicle, whatever he is going to make,) i naturally looked in his face and gauged my success by its expression. it was a handsome face,--a little too pale, perhaps, and would have borne something more of fulness without becoming heavy. i put the organization to which it belongs in section b of class of my anglo-american anthropology (unpublished). the jaw in this section is but slightly narrowed,--just enough to make the width of the forehead tell more decidedly. the moustache often grows vigorously, but the whiskers are thin. the skin is like that of jacob, rather than like esau's. one string of the animal nature has been taken away, but this gives only a greater predominance to the intellectual chords. to see just how the vital energy has been toned down, you must contrast one of this section with a specimen of section a of the same class,--say, for instance, one of the old-fashioned, full-whiskered, red-faced, roaring, big commodores of the last generation, whom you remember, at least by their portraits, in ruffled shirts, looking as hearty as butchers and as plucky as bull-terriers, with their hair combed straight up from their foreheads, which were not commonly very high or broad. the special form of physical life i have been describing gives you a right to expect more delicate perceptions and a more reflective, nature than you commonly find in shaggy-throated men, clad in heavy suits of muscles. the student lingered in the lecture-room, looking all the time as if he wanted to say something in private, and waiting for two or three others, who were still hanging about, to be gone. something is wrong!--i said to myself, when i noticed his expression.--well, mr. langdon,--i said to him, when we were alone,--can i do anything for you to-day? you can, sir,--he said.--i am going to leave the class, for the present, and keep school. why, that 's a pity, and you so near graduating! you'd better stay and finish this course and take your degree in the spring, rather than break up your whole plan of study. i can't help myself, sir,--the young man answered.--there 's trouble at home, and they cannot keep me here as they have done. so i must look out for myself for a while. it's what i've done before, and am ready to do again. i came to ask you for a certificate of my fitness to teach a common school, or a high school, if you think i am up to that. are you willing to give it to me? willing? yes, to be sure,--but i don't want you to go. stay; we'll make it easy for you. there's a fund will do something for you, perhaps. then you can take both the annual prizes, if you like,--and claim them in money, if you want that more than medals. i have thought it all over,--he answered,--and have pretty much made up my mind to go. a perfectly gentlemanly young man, of courteous address and mild utterance, but means at least as much as he says. there are some people whose rhetoric consists of a slight habitual under-statement. i often tell mrs. professor that one of her "i think it's sos" is worth the bible-oath of all the rest of the household that they "know it's so." when you find a person a little better than his word, a little more liberal than his promise, a little more than borne out in his statement by his facts, a little larger in deed than in speech, you recognize a kind of eloquence in that person's utterance not laid down in blair or campbell. this was a proud fellow, self-trusting, sensitive, with family-recollections that made him unwilling to accept the kind of aid which many students would have thankfully welcomed. i knew him too well to urge him, after the few words which implied that he was determined to go. besides, i have great confidence in young men who believe in themselves, and are accustomed to rely on their own resources from an early period. when a resolute young fellow steps up to the great bully, the world, and takes him boldly by the beard, he is often surprised to find it come off in his hand, and that it was only tied on to scare away timid adventurers. i have seen young men more than once, who came to a great city without a single friend, support themselves and pay for their education, lay up money in a few years, grow rich enough to travel, and establish themselves in life, without ever asking a dollar of any person which they had not earned. but these are exceptional cases. there are horse-tamers, born so,--as we all know; there are woman-tamers, who bewitch the sex as the pied piper bedeviled the children of hamelin; and there are world-tamers, who can make any community, even a yankee one, get down and let them jump on its back as easily as mr. rarey saddled cruiser. whether langdon was of this sort or not i could not say positively; but he had spirit, and, as i have said, a family-pride which would not let him be dependent. the new england brahmin caste often gets blended with connections of political influence or commercial distinction. it is a charming thing for the scholar, when his fortune carries him in this way into some of the "old families" who have fine old houses, and city-lots that have risen in the market, and names written in all the stock-books of all the dividend-paying companies. his narrow study expands into a stately library, his books are counted by thousands instead of hundreds, and his favorites are dressed in gilded calf in place of plebeian sheepskin or its pauper substitutes of cloth and paper. the reverend jedediah langdon, grandfather of our young gentleman, had made an advantageous alliance of this kind. miss dorothea wentworth had read one of his sermons which had been printed "by request," and became deeply interested in the young author, whom she had never seen. out of this circumstance grew a correspondence, an interview, a declaration, a matrimonial alliance, and a family of half a dozen children. wentworth langdon, esquire, was the oldest of these, and lived in the old family-mansion. unfortunately, that principle of the diminution of estates by division, to which i have referred, rendered it somewhat difficult to maintain the establishment upon the fractional income which the proprietor received from his share of the property. wentworth langdon, esq., represented a certain intermediate condition of life not at all infrequent in our old families. he was the connecting link between the generation which lived in ease, and even a kind of state, upon its own resources, and the new brood, which must live mainly by its wits or industry, and make itself rich, or shabbily subside into that lower stratum known to social geologists by a deposit of kidderminster carpets and the peculiar aspect of the fossils constituting the family furniture and wardrobe. this slack-water period of a race, which comes before the rapid ebb of its prosperity, is familiar to all who live in cities. there are no more quiet, inoffensive people than these children of rich families, just above the necessity of active employment, yet not in a condition to place their own children advantageously, if they happen to have families. many of them are content to live unmarried. some mend their broken fortunes by prudent alliances, and some leave a numerous progeny to pass into the obscurity from which their ancestors emerged; so that you may see on handcarts and cobblers' stalls names which, a few generations back, were upon parchments with broad seals, and tombstones with armorial bearings. in a large city, this class of citizens is familiar to us in the streets. they are very courteous in their salutations; they have time enough to bow and take their hats off,--which, of course, no businessman can afford to do. their beavers are smoothly brushed, and their boots well polished; all their appointments are tidy; they look the respectable walking gentleman to perfection. they are prone to habits,--they frequent reading-rooms,--insurance-offices,--they walk the same streets at the same hours,--so that one becomes familiar with their faces and persons, as a part of the street-furniture. there is one curious circumstance, that all city-people must have noticed, which is often illustrated in our experience of the slack-water gentry. we shall know a certain person by his looks, familiarly, for years, but never have learned his name. about this person we shall have accumulated no little circumstantial knowledge;--thus, his face, figure, gait, his mode of dressing, of saluting, perhaps even of speaking, may be familiar to us; yet who he is we know not. in another department of our consciousness, there is a very familiar name, which we have never found the person to match. we have heard it so often, that it has idealized itself, and become one of that multitude of permanent shapes which walk the chambers of the brain in velvet slippers in the company of falstaff and hamlet and general washington and mr. pickwick. sometimes the person dies, but the name lives on indefinitely. but now and then it happens, perhaps after years of this independent existence of the name and its shadowy image in the brain, on the one part, and the person and all its real attributes, as we see them daily, on the other, that some accident reveals their relation, and we find the name we have carried so long in our memory belongs to the person we have known so long as a fellow-citizen. now the slack--water gentry are among the persons most likely to be the subjects of this curious divorce of title and reality,--for the reason, that, playing no important part in the community, there is nothing to tie the floating name to the actual individual, as is the case with the men who belong in any way to the public, while yet their names have a certain historical currency, and we cannot help meeting them, either in their haunts, or going to and from them. to this class belonged wentworth langdon, esq. he had been "dead-headed" into the world some fifty years ago, and had sat with his hands in his pockets staring at the show ever since. i shall not tell you, for reasons before hinted, the whole name of the place in which he lived. i will only point you in the right direction, by saying that there are three towns lying in a line with each other, as you go "down east," each of them with a port in its name, and each of them having a peculiar interest which gives it individuality, in addition to the oriental character they have in common. i need not tell you that these towns are newburyport, portsmouth, and portland. the oriental character they have in common consists in their large, square, palatial mansions, with sunny gardens round them. the two first have seen better days. they are in perfect harmony with the condition of weakened, but not impoverished, gentility. each of them is a "paradise of demi-fortunes." each of them is of that intermediate size between a village and a city which any place has outgrown when the presence of a well-dressed stranger walking up and down the main street ceases to be a matter of public curiosity and private speculation, as frequently happens, during the busier months of the year, in considerable commercial centres like salem. they both have grand old recollections to fall back upon,--times when they looked forward to commercial greatness, and when the portly gentlemen in cocked hats, who built their now decaying wharves and sent out their ships all over the world, dreamed that their fast-growing port was to be the tyre or the carthage of the rich british colony. great houses, like that once lived in by lord timothy dexter, in newburyport, remain as evidence of the fortunes amassed in these places of old. other mansions--like the rockingham house in portsmouth (look at the white horse's tail before you mount the broad staircase)--show that there was not only wealth, but style and state, in these quiet old towns during the last century. it is not with any thought of pity or depreciation that we speak of them as in a certain sense decayed towns; they did not fulfil their early promise of expansion, but they remain incomparably the most interesting places of their size in any of the three northernmost new england states. they have even now prosperity enough to keep them in good condition, and offer the most attractive residences for quiet families, which, if they had been english, would have lived in a palazzo at genoa or pisa, or some other continental newburyport or portsmouth. as for the last of the three ports, or portland, it is getting too prosperous to be as attractive as its less northerly neighbors. meant for a fine old town, to ripen like a cheshire cheese within its walls of ancient rind, burrowed by crooked alleys and mottled with venerable mould, it seems likely to sacrifice its mellow future to a vulgar material prosperity. still it remains invested with many of its old charms, as yet, and will forfeit its place among this admirable trio only when it gets a hotel with unequivocal marks of having been built and organized in the present century. --it was one of the old square palaces of the north, in which bernard langdon, the son of wentworth, was born. if he had had the luck to be an only child, he might have lived as his father had done, letting his meagre competence smoulder on almost without consuming, like the fuel in an air-tight stove. but after master bernard came miss dorothea elizabeth wentworth langdon, and then master william pepperell langdon, and others, equally well named,--a string of them, looking, when they stood in a row in prayer-time, as if they would fit a set of pandean pipes, of from three feet upward in dimensions. the door of the air-tight stove has to be opened, under such circumstances, you may well suppose! so it happened that our young man had been obliged, from an early period, to do something to support himself, and found himself stopped short in his studies by the inability of the good people at home to furnish him the present means of support as a student. you will understand now why the young man wanted me to give him a certificate of his fitness to teach, and why i did not choose to urge him to accept the aid which a meek country-boy from a family without ante-revolutionary recollections would have thankfully received. go he must,--that was plain enough. he would not be content otherwise. he was not, however, to give up his studies; and as it is customary to allow half-time to students engaged in school-keeping,--that is, to count a year, so employed, if the student also keep on with his professional studies, as equal to six months of the three years he is expected to be under an instructor before applying for his degree,--he would not necessarily lose more than a few months of time. he had a small library of professional books, which he could take with him. so he left my teaching and that of my estimable colleagues, carrying with him my certificate, that mr. bernard c. langdon was a young gentleman of excellent moral character, of high intelligence and good education, and that his services would be of great value in any school, academy, or other institution, where young persons of-either sex were to be instructed. i confess, that expression, "either sex," ran a little thick, as i may say, from my pen. for, although the young man bore a very fair character, and there was no special cause for doubting his discretion, i considered him altogether too good-looking, in the first place, to be let loose in a roomful of young girls. i didn't want him to fall in love just then--and if half a dozen girls fell in love with him, as they most assuredly would, if brought into too near relations with him, why, there was no telling what gratitude and natural sensibility might bring about. certificates are, for the most part, like ostrich-eggs; the giver never knows what is hatched out of them. but once in a thousand times they act as curses are said to,--come home to roost. give them often enough, until it gets to be a mechanical business, and, some day or other, you will get caught warranting somebody's ice not to melt in any climate, or somebody's razors to be safe in the hands of the youngest children. i had an uneasy feeling, after giving this certificate. it might be all right enough; but if it happened to end badly, i should always reproach myself. there was a chance, certainly, that it would lead him or others into danger or wretchedness. any one who looked at this young man could not fail to see that he was capable of fascinating and being fascinated. those large, dark eyes of his would sink into the white soul of a young girl as the black cloth sunk into the snow in franklin's famous experiment. or, on the other hand, if the rays of a passionate nature should ever be concentrated on them, they would be absorbed into the very depths of his nature, and then his blood would turn to flame and burn his life out of him, until his cheeks grew as white as the ashes that cover a burning coal. i wish i had not said either sex in my certificate. an academy for young gentlemen, now; that sounds cool and unimaginative. a boys' school, that would be a very good place for him;--some of them are pretty rough, but there is nerve enough in that old wentworth strain of blood; he can give any country fellow, of the common stock, twenty pounds, and hit him out of time in ten minutes. but to send such a young fellow as that out a girl's-nesting! to give this falcon a free pass into all the dove-cotes! i was a fool,--that's all. i brooded over the mischief which might come out of these two words until it seemed to me that they were charged with destiny. i could hardly sleep for thinking what a train i might have been laying, which might take a spark any day, and blow up nobody knows whose peace or prospects. what i dreaded most was one of those miserable matrimonial misalliances where a young fellow who does not know himself as yet flings his magnificent future into the checked apron-lap of some fresh-faced, half-bred country-girl, no more fit to be mated with him than her father's horse to go in double harness with flora temple. to think of the eagle's wings, being clipped so that he shall never lift himself over the farm-yard fence! such things happen, and always must,--because, as one of us said awhile ago, a man always loves, a woman, and a woman a man, unless some good reason exists to the contrary. you think yourself a very fastidious young man, my friend; but there are probably at least five-thousand young women in these united states, any one of whom you would certainly marry, if you were thrown much into her company, and nobody more attractive were near, and she had no objection. and you, my dear young lady, justly pride yourself on your discerning delicacy; but if i should say that there are twenty thousand young men, any one of whom, if he offered his hand and heart under favorable circumstances, you would "first endure, then pity, then embrace," i should be much more imprudent than i mean to be, and you would, no doubt, throw down a story in which i hope to interest you. i had settled it in my mind that this young fellow had a career marked out for him. he should begin in the natural way, by taking care of poor patients in one of the public charities, and work his way up to a better kind of practice,--better, that is, in the vulgar, worldly sense. the great and good boerhaave used to say, as i remember very well, that the poor were his best patients; for god was their paymaster. but everybody is not as patient as boerhaave, nor as deserving; so that the rich, though not, perhaps, the best patients, are good enough for common practitioners. i suppose boerhaave put up with them when he could not get poor ones, as he left his daughter two millions of florins when he died. now if this young man once got into the wide streets, he would sweep them clear of his rivals of the same standing; and as i was getting indifferent to business, and old dr. kilham was growing careless, and had once or twice prescribed morphine when he meant quinine, there would soon be an opening into the doctor's paradise,--the streets with only one side to them. then i would have him strike a bold stroke,--set up a nice little coach, and be driven round like a first-class london doctor, instead of coasting about in a shabby one-horse concern and casting anchor opposite his patients' doors like a cape ann fishing-smack. by the time he was thirty, he would have knocked the social pawns out of his way, and be ready to challenge a wife from the row of great pieces in the background. i would not have a man marry above his level, so as to become the appendage of a powerful family-connection; but i would not have him marry until he knew his level,--that is, again, looking at the matter in a purely worldly point of view, and not taking the sentiments at all into consideration. but remember, that a young man, using large endowments wisely and fortunately, may put himself on a level with the highest in the land in ten brilliant years of spirited, unflagging labor. and to stand at the very top of your calling in a great city is something in itself,--that is, if you like money, and influence, and a seat on the platform at public lectures, and gratuitous tickets to all sorts of places where you don't want to go, and, what is a good deal better than any of these things, a sense of power, limited, it may be, but absolute in its range, so that all the caesars and napoleons would have to stand aside, if they came between you and the exercise of your special vocation. that is what i thought this young fellow might have come to; and now i have let him go off into the country with my certificate, that he is fit to teach in a school for either sex! ten to one he will run like a moth into a candle, right into one of those girls'-nests, and get tangled up in some sentimental folly or other, and there will be the end of him. oh, yes! country doctor,--half a dollar a visit,--drive, drive, drive all day,--get up at night and harness your own horse,--drive again ten miles in a snow-storm, shake powders out of two phials, (pulv. glycyrrhiz., pulv. gum. acac. as partes equates,)--drive back again, if you don't happen to get stuck in a drift, no home, no peace, no continuous meals, no unbroken sleep, no sunday, no holiday, no social intercourse, but one eternal jog, jog, jog, in a sulky, until you feel like the mummy of an indian who had been buried in the sitting posture, and was dug up a hundred years afterwards! why did n't i warn him about love and all that nonsense? why didn't i tell him he had nothing to do with it, yet awhile? why did n't i hold up to him those awful examples i could have cited, where poor young fellows who could just keep themselves afloat have hung a matrimonial millstone round their necks, taking it for a life-preserver? all this of two words in a certificate! chapter iii. mr. bernard tries his hand. whether the student advertised for a school, or whether he fell in with the advertisement of a school-committee, is not certain. at any rate, it was not long before he found himself the head of a large district, or, as it was called by the inhabitants, "deestric" school, in the flourishing inland village of pequawkett, or, as it is commonly spelt, pigwacket centre. the natives of this place would be surprised, if they should hear that any of the readers of a work published in boston were unacquainted with so remarkable a locality. as, however, some copies of it may be read at a distance from this distinguished metropolis, it may be well to give a few particulars respecting the place, taken from the universal gazetteer. "pigwacket, sometimes spelt pequawkett. a post-village and township in _________ co., state of _________,situated in a fine agricultural region, thriving villages, pigwacket centre and smithville, churches, several school houses, and many handsome private residences. mink river runs through the town, navigable for small boats after heavy rains. muddy pond at n. e. section, well stocked with horn pouts, eels, and shiners. products, beef, pork, butter, cheese. manufactures, shoe-pegs, clothes-pins, and tin-ware. pop. ." the reader may think there is nothing very remarkable implied in this description. if, however he had read the town-history, by the rev. jabez grubb, he would have learned, that, like the celebrated little pedlington, it was distinguished by many very remarkable advantages. thus: "the situation of pigwacket is eminently beautiful, looking down the lovely valley of mink river, a tributary of the musquash. the air is salubrious, and many of the inhabitants have attained great age, several having passed the allotted period of 'three-score years and ten' before succumbing to any of the various 'ills that flesh is heir to.' widow comfort leevins died in aet. lxxxvii. years. venus, an african, died in , supposed to be c. years old. the people are distinguished for intelligence, as has been frequently remarked by eminent lyceum-lecturers, who have invariably spoken in the highest terms of a pigwacket audience. there is a public library, containing nearly a hundred volumes, free to all subscribers. the preached word is well attended, there is a flourishing temperance society, and the schools are excellent. it is a residence admirably adapted to refined families who relish the beauties of nature and the charms of society. the honorable john smith, formerly a member of the state senate, was a native of this town." that is the way they all talk. after all, it is probably pretty much like other inland new england towns in point of "salubrity,"--that is, gives people their choice of dysentery or fever every autumn, with a season-ticket for consumption, good all the year round. and so of the other pretences. "pigwacket audience," forsooth! was there ever an audience anywhere, though there wasn't a pair of eyes in it brighter than pickled oysters, that did n't think it was "distinguished for intelligence"?--"the preached word"! that means the rev. jabez grubb's sermons. "temperance society"! "excellent schools"! ah, that is just what we were talking about. the truth was, that district no. , pigwacket centre, had had a good deal of trouble of late with its schoolmasters. the committee had done their best, but there were a number of well-grown and pretty rough young fellows who had got the upper-hand of the masters, and meant to keep it. two dynasties had fallen before the uprising of this fierce democracy. this was a thing that used to be not very uncommon; but in so "intelligent" a community as that of pigwacket centre, in an era of public libraries and lyceum-lectures, it was portentous and alarming. the rebellion began under the ferule of master weeks, a slender youth from a country college, underfed, thin-blooded, sloping-shouldered, knock-kneed, straight-haired, weak-bearded, pale-eyed, wide-pupilled, half-colored; a common type enough in in-door races, not rich enough to pick and choose in their alliances. nature kills off a good many of this sort in the first teething-time, a few in later childhood, a good many again in early adolescence; but every now and then one runs the gauntlet of her various diseases, or rather forms of one disease, and grows up, as master weeks had done. it was a very foolish thing for him to try to inflict personal punishment on such a lusty young fellow as abner briggs, junior, one of the "hardest customers" in the way of a rough-and-tumble fight that there were anywhere round. no doubt he had been insolent, but it would have been better to overlook it. it pains me to report the events which took place when the master made his rash attempt to maintain his authority. abner briggs, junior, was a great, hulking fellow, who had been bred to butchering, but urged by his parents to attend school, in order to learn the elegant accomplishments of reading and writing, in which he was sadly deficient. he was in the habit of talking and laughing pretty loud in school-hours, of throwing wads of paper reduced to a pulp by a natural and easy process, of occasional insolence and general negligence. one of the soft, but unpleasant missiles just alluded to flew by the master's head one morning, and flattened itself against the wall, where it adhered in the form of a convex mass in alto rilievo. the master looked round and saw the young butcher's arm in an attitude which pointed to it unequivocally as the source from which the projectile had taken its flight. master weeks turned pale. he must "lick" abner briggs, junior, or abdicate. so he determined to lick abner briggs, junior. "come here, sir!" he said; "you have insulted me and outraged the decency of the schoolroom often enough! hold out your hand!" the young fellow grinned and held it out. the master struck at it with his black ruler, with a will in the blow and a snapping of the eyes, as much as to say that he meant to make him smart this time. the young fellow pulled his hand back as the ruler came down, and the master hit himself a vicious blow with it on the right knee. there are things no man can stand. the master caught the refractory youth by the collar and began shaking him, or rather shaking himself against him. "le' go o' that are coat, naow," said the fellow, "or i 'll make ye! 't 'll take tew on yet' handle me, i tell ye, 'n' then ye caant dew it!"--and the young pupil returned the master's attention by catching hold of his collar. when it comes to that, the best man, not exactly in the moral sense, but rather in the material, and more especially the muscular point of view, is very apt to have the best of it, irrespectively of the merits of the case. so it happened now. the unfortunate schoolmaster found himself taking the measure of the sanded floor, amidst the general uproar of the school. from that moment his ferule was broken, and the school-committee very soon had a vacancy to fill. master pigeon, the successor of master weeks, was of better stature, but loosely put together, and slender-limbed. a dreadfully nervous kind of man he was, walked on tiptoe, started at sudden noises, was distressed when he heard a whisper, had a quick, suspicious look, and was always saying, "hush?" and putting his hands to his ears. the boys were not long in finding out this nervous weakness, of course. in less than a week a regular system of torments was inaugurated, full of the most diabolical malice and ingenuity. the exercises of the conspirators varied from day to day, but consisted mainly of foot-scraping, solos on the slate-pencil, (making it screech on the slate,) falling of heavy books, attacks of coughing, banging of desk-lids, boot-creaking, with sounds as of drawing a cork from time to time, followed by suppressed chuckles. master pigeon grew worse and worse under these inflictions. the rascally boys always had an excuse for any one trick they were caught at. "could n' help coughin', sir." "slipped out o' m' han', sir." "did n' go to, sir." "did n' dew't o' purpose, sir." and so on,--always the best of reasons for the most outrageous of behavior. the master weighed himself at the grocer's on a platform balance, some ten days after he began keeping the school. at the end of a week he weighed himself again. he had lost two pounds. at the end of another week he had lost five. he made a little calculation, based on these data, from which he learned that in a certain number of months, going on at this rate, he should come to weigh precisely nothing at all; and as this was a sum in subtraction he did not care to work out in practice, master pigeon took to himself wings and left the school-committee in possession of a letter of resignation and a vacant place to fill once more. this was the school to which mr. bernard langdon found himself appointed as master. he accepted the place conditionally, with the understanding that he should leave it at the end of a month, if he were tired of it. the advent of master langdon to pigwacket centre created a much more lively sensation than had attended that of either of his predecessors. looks go a good way all the world over, and though there were several good-looking people in the place, and major bush was what the natives of the town called a "hahnsome mahn," that is, big, fat, and red, yet the sight of a really elegant young fellow, with the natural air which grows up with carefully-bred young persons, was a novelty. the brahmin blood which came from his grandfather as well as from his mother, a direct descendant of the old flynt family, well known by the famous tutor, henry flynt, (see cat. harv. anno ,) had been enlivened and enriched by that of the wentworths, which had had a good deal of ripe old madeira and other generous elements mingled with it, so that it ran to gout sometimes in the old folks and to high spirit, warm complexion, and curly hair in some of the younger ones. the soft curling hair mr. bernard had inherited,--something, perhaps, of the high spirit; but that we shall have a chance of finding out by and by. but the long sermons and the frugal board of his brahmin ancestry, with his own habits of study, had told upon his color, which was subdued to something more of delicacy than one would care to see in a young fellow with rough work before him. this, however, made him look more interesting, or, as the young ladies at major bush's said, "interestin'." when mr. bernard showed himself at meeting, on the first sunday after his arrival, it may be supposed that a good many eyes were turned upon the young schoolmaster. there was something heroic in his coming forward so readily to take a place which called for a strong hand, and a prompt, steady will to guide it. in fact, his position was that of a military chieftain on the eve of a battle. everybody knew everything in pigwacket centre; and it was an understood thing that the young rebels meant to put down the new master, if they could. it was natural that the two prettiest girls in the village, called in the local dialect, as nearly as our limited alphabet will represent it, alminy cutterr, and arvilly braowne, should feel and express an interest in the good-looking stranger, and that, when their flattering comments were repeated in the hearing of their indigenous admirers, among whom were some of the older "boys" of the school, it should not add to the amiable dispositions of the turbulent youth. monday came, and the new schoolmaster was in his chair at the upper end of the schoolhouse, on the raised platform. the rustics looked at his handsome face, thoughtful, peaceful, pleasant, cheerful, but sharply cut round the lips and proudly lighted about the eyes. the ringleader of the mischief-makers, the young butcher who has before figured in this narrative, looked at him stealthily, whenever he got a chance to study him unobserved; for the truth was, he felt uncomfortable, whenever he found the large, dark eyes fixed on his own little, sharp, deep-set, gray ones. but he managed to study him pretty well,--first his face, then his neck and shoulders, the set of his arms, the narrowing at the loins, the make of his legs, and the way he moved. in short, he examined him as he would have examined a steer, to see what he could do and how he would cut up. if he could only have gone to him and felt of his muscles, he would have been entirely satisfied. he was not a very wise youth, but he did know well enough, that, though big arms and legs are very good things, there is something besides size that goes to make a man; and he had heard stories of a fighting-man, called "the spider," from his attenuated proportions, who was yet a terrible hitter in the ring, and had whipped many a big-limbed fellow, in and out of the roped arena. nothing could be smoother than the way in which everything went on for the first day or two. the new master was so kind and courteous, he seemed to take everything in such a natural, easy way, that there was no chance to pick a quarrel with him. he in the mean time thought it best to watch the boys and young men for a day or two with as little show of authority as possible. it was easy enough to see that he would have occasion for it before long. the schoolhouse was a grim, old, red, one-story building, perched on a bare rock at the top of a hill,--partly because this was a conspicuous site for the temple of learning, and partly because land is cheap where there is no chance even for rye or buckwheat, and the very sheep find nothing to nibble. about the little porch were carved initials and dates, at various heights, from the stature of nine to that of eighteen. inside were old unpainted desks,--unpainted, but browned with the umber of human contact,--and hacked by innumerable jack-knives. it was long since the walls had been whitewashed, as might be conjectured by the various traces left upon them, wherever idle hands or sleepy heads could reach them. a curious appearance was noticeable on various higher parts of the wall: namely, a wart-like eruption, as one would be tempted to call it, being in reality a crop of the soft missiles before mentioned, which, adhering in considerable numbers, and hardening after the usual fashion of papier-mache, formed at last permanent ornaments of the edifice. the young master's quick eye soon noticed that a particular part of the wall was most favored with these ornamental appendages. their position pointed sufficiently clearly to the part of the room they came from. in fact, there was a nest of young mutineers just there, which must be broken up by a coup d'etat. this was easily effected by redistributing the seats and arranging the scholars according to classes, so that a mischievous fellow, charged full of the rebellious imponderable, should find himself between two non-conductors, in the shape of small boys of studious habits. it was managed quietly enough, in such a plausible sort of way that its motive was not thought of. but its effects were soon felt; and then began a system of correspondence by signs, and the throwing of little scrawls done up in pellets, and announced by preliminary a'h'ms! to call the attention of the distant youth addressed. some of these were incendiary documents, devoting the schoolmaster to the lower divinities, as "a stuck-up dandy," as "a purse-proud aristocrat," as "a sight too big for his, etc.," and holding him up in a variety of equally forcible phrases to the indignation of the youthful community of school district no. , pigwacket centre. presently the draughtsman of the school set a caricature in circulation, labelled, to prevent mistakes, with the schoolmaster's name. an immense bell-crowned hat, and a long, pointed, swallow-tailed coat showed that the artist had in his mind the conventional dandy, as shown in prints of thirty or forty years ago, rather than any actual human aspect of the time. but it was passed round among the boys and made its laugh, helping of course to undermine the master's authority, as "punch" or the "charivari" takes the dignity out of an obnoxious minister. one morning, on going to the schoolroom, master langdon found an enlarged copy of this sketch, with its label, pinned on the door. he took it down, smiled a little, put it into his pocket, and entered the schoolroom. an insidious silence prevailed, which looked as if some plot were brewing. the boys were ripe for mischief, but afraid. they had really no fault to find with the master, except that he was dressed like a gentleman, which a certain class of fellows always consider a personal insult to themselves. but the older ones were evidently plotting, and more than once the warning a'h'm! was heard, and a dirty little scrap of paper rolled into a wad shot from one seat to another. one of these happened to strike the stove-funnel, and lodged on the master's desk. he was cool enough not to seem to notice it. he secured it, however, and found an opportunity to look at it, without being observed by the boys. it required no immediate notice. he who should have enjoyed the privilege of looking upon mr. bernard langdon the next morning, when his toilet was about half finished, would have had a very pleasant gratuitous exhibition. first he buckled the strap of his trousers pretty tightly. then he took up a pair of heavy dumb-bells, and swung them for a few minutes; then two great "indian clubs," with which he enacted all sorts of impossible-looking feats. his limbs were not very large, nor his shoulders remarkably broad; but if you knew as much of the muscles as all persons who look at statues and pictures with a critical eye ought to have learned,--if you knew the trapezius, lying diamond-shaped over the back and shoulders like a monk's cowl,--or the deltoid, which caps the shoulder like an epaulette,--or the triceps, which furnishes the calf of the upper arm,--or the hard-knotted biceps,--any of the great sculptural landmarks, in fact,--you would have said there was a pretty show of them, beneath the white satiny skin of mr. bernard langdon. and if you had seen him, when he had laid down the indian clubs, catch hold of a leather strap that hung from the beam of the old-fashioned ceiling,--and lift and lower himself over and over again by his left hand alone, you might have thought it a very simple and easy thing to do, until you tried to do it yourself. mr. bernard looked at himself with the eye of an expert. "pretty well!" he said;--"not so much fallen off as i expected." then he set up his bolster in a very knowing sort of way, and delivered two or three blows straight as rulers and swift as winks. "that will do," he said. then, as if determined to make a certainty of his condition, he took a dynamometer from one of the drawers in his old veneered bureau. first he squeezed it with his two hands. then he placed it on the floor and lifted, steadily, strongly. the springs creaked and cracked; the index swept with a great stride far up into the high figures of the scale; it was a good lift. he was satisfied. he sat down on the edge of his bed and looked at his cleanly-shaped arms. "if i strike one of those boobies, i am afraid i shall spoil him," he said. yet this young man, when weighed with his class at the college, could barely turn one hundred and forty-two pounds in the scale,--not a heavy weight, surely; but some of the middle weights, as the present english champion, for instance, seem to be of a far finer quality of muscle than the bulkier fellows. the master took his breakfast with a good appetite that morning, but was perhaps rather more quiet than usual. after breakfast he went up-stairs and put, on a light loose frock, instead of that which he commonly wore, which was a close-fitting and rather stylish one. on his way to school he met alminy cutterr, who happened to be walking in the other direction. "good-morning, miss cutter," he said; for she and another young lady had been introduced to him, on a former occasion, in the usual phrase of polite society in presenting ladies to gentlemen,--"mr. langdon, let me make y' acquainted with miss cutterr;--let me make y' acquainted with miss braowne." so he said, "good-morning"; to which she replied, "good-mornin', mr. langdon. haow's your haalth?" the answer to this question ought naturally to have been the end of the talk; but alminy cutterr lingered and looked as if she had something more on her mind. a young fellow does not require a great experience to read a simple country-girl's face as if it were a sign-board. alminy was a good soul, with red cheeks and bright eyes, kind-hearted as she could be, and it was out of the question for her to hide her thoughts or feelings like a fine lady. her bright eyes were moist and her red cheeks paler than their wont, as she said, with her lips quivering, "oh, mr. langdon, them boys 'll be the death of ye, if ye don't take caar!" "why, what's the matter, my dear?" said mr. bernard.--don't think there was anything very odd in that "my dear," at the second interview with a village belle;--some of these woman-tamers call a girl "my dear," after five minutes' acquaintance, and it sounds all right as they say it. but you had better not try it at a venture. it sounded all right to alminy, as mr. bernard said it.--"i 'll tell ye what's the mahtterr," she said, in a frightened voice. "ahbner 's go'n' to car' his dog, 'n' he'll set him on ye'z sure 'z y' 'r' alive. 't's the same cretur that haaf eat up eben squires's little jo, a year come nex' faast day." now this last statement was undoubtedly overcolored; as little jo squires was running about the village,--with an ugly scar on his arm, it is true, where the beast had caught him with his teeth, on the occasion of the child's taking liberties with him, as he had been accustomed to do with a good-tempered newfoundland dog, who seemed to like being pulled and hauled round by children. after this the creature was commonly muzzled, and, as he was fed on raw meat chiefly, was always ready for a fight, which he was occasionally indulged in, when anything stout enough to match him could be found in any of the neighboring villages. tiger, or, more briefly, tige, the property of abner briggs, junior, belonged to a species not distinctly named in scientific books, but well known to our country-folks under the name "yallah dog." they do not use this expression as they would say black dog or white dog, but with almost as definite a meaning as when they speak of a terrier or a spaniel. a "yallah dog" is a large canine brute, of a dingy old-flannel color, of no particular breed except his own, who hangs round a tavern or a butcher's shop, or trots alongside of a team, looking as if he were disgusted with the world, and the world with him. our inland population, while they tolerate him, speak of him with contempt. old ______, of meredith bridge, used to twit the sun for not shining on cloudy days, swearing, that, if he hung up his "yallah dog," he would make a better show of daylight. a country fellow, abusing a horse of his neighbor's, vowed, that, "if he had such a hoss, he'd swap him for a `yallah dog,'--and then shoot the dog." tige was an ill-conditioned brute by nature, and art had not improved him by cropping his ears and tail and investing him with a spiked collar. he bore on his person, also, various not ornamental scars, marks of old battles; for tige had fight in him, as was said before, and as might be guessed by a certain bluntness about the muzzle, with a projection of the lower jaw, which looked as if there might be a bull-dog stripe among the numerous bar-sinisters of his lineage. it was hardly fair, however, to leave alminy cutterr waiting while this piece of natural history was telling.--as she spoke of little jo, who had been "haaf eat up" by tige, she could not contain her sympathies, and began to cry. "why, my dear little soul," said mr. bernard, "what are you worried about? i used to play with a bear when i was a boy; and the bear used to hug me, and i used to kiss him,--so!" it was too bad of mr. bernard, only the second time he had seen alminy; but her kind feelings had touched him, and that seemed the most natural way of expressing his gratitude. ahniny looked round to see if anybody was near; she saw nobody, so of course it would do no good to "holler." she saw nobody; but a stout young fellow, leading a yellow dog, muzzled, saw her through a crack in a picket fence, not a great way off the road. many a year he had been "hangin' 'raoun'" alminy, and never did he see any encouraging look, or hear any "behave, naow!" or "come, naow, a'n't ye 'shamed?" or other forbidding phrase of acquiescence, such as village belles under stand as well as ever did the nymph who fled to the willows in the eclogue we all remember. no wonder he was furious, when he saw the school master, who had never seen the girl until within a week, touching with his lips those rosy cheeks which he had never dared to approach. but that was all; it was a sudden impulse; and the master turned away from the young girl, laughing, and telling her not to fret herself about him,--he would take care of himself. so master langdon walked on toward his school-house, not displeased, perhaps, with his little adventure, nor immensely elated by it; for he was one of the natural class of the sex-subduers, and had had many a smile without asking, which had been denied to the feeble youth who try to win favor by pleading their passion in rhyme, and even to the more formidable approaches of young officers in volunteer companies, considered by many to be quite irresistible to the fair who have once beheld them from their windows in the epaulettes and plumes and sashes of the "pigwacket invincibles," or the "hackmatack rangers." master langdon took his seat and began the exercises of his school. the smaller boys recited their lessons well enough, but some of the larger ones were negligent and surly. he noticed one or two of them looking toward the door, as if expecting somebody or something in that direction. at half past nine o'clock, abner briggs, junior, who had not yet shown himself, made his appearance. he was followed by his "yallah dog," without his muzzle, who squatted down very grimly near the door, and gave a wolfish look round the room, as if he were considering which was the plumpest boy to begin with. the young butcher, meanwhile, went to his seat, looking somewhat flushed, except round the lips, which were hardly as red as common, and set pretty sharply. "put out that dog, abner briggs!"--the master spoke as the captain speaks to the helmsman, when there are rocks foaming at the lips, right under his lee. abner briggs answered as the helmsman answers, when he knows he has a mutinous crew round him that mean to run the ship on the reef, and is one of the mutineers himself. "put him aout y'rself, 'f ye a'n't afeard on him!" the master stepped into the aisle: the great cur showed his teeth,--and the devilish instincts of his old wolf-ancestry looked out of his eyes, and flashed from his sharp tusks, and yawned in his wide mouth and deep red gullet. the movements of animals are so much quicker than those of human beings commonly are, that they avoid blows as easily as one of us steps out of the way of an ox-cart. it must be a very stupid dog that lets himself be run over by a fast driver in his gig; he can jump out of the wheel's way after the tire has already touched him. so, while one is lifting a stick to strike or drawing back his foot to kick, the beast makes his spring, and the blow or the kick comes too late. it was not so this time. the master was a fencer, and something of a boxer; he had played at singlestick, and was used to watching an adversary's eye and coming down on him without any of those premonitory symptoms by which unpractised persons show long beforehand what mischief they meditate. "out with you!" he said, fiercely,--and explained what he meant by a sudden flash of his foot that clashed the yellow dog's white teeth together like the springing of a bear-trap. the cur knew he had found his master at the first word and glance, as low animals on four legs, or a smaller number, always do; and the blow took him so by surprise, that it curled him up in an instant, and he went bundling out of the open schoolhouse-door with a most pitiable yelp, and his stump of a tail shut down as close as his owner ever shut the short, stubbed blade of his jack-knife. it was time for the other cur to find who his master. "follow your dog, abner briggs!" said master langdon. the stout butcher-youth looked round, but the rebels were all cowed and sat still. "i'll go when i'm ready," he said,--"'n' i guess i won't go afore i'm ready." "you're ready now," said master langdon, turning up his cuffs so that the little boys noticed the yellow gleam of a pair of gold sleeve-buttons, once worn by colonel percy wentworth, famous in the old french war. abner briggs, junior, did not apparently think he was ready, at any rate; for he rose up in his place, and stood with clenched fists, defiant, as the master strode towards him. the master knew the fellow was really frightened, for all his looks, and that he must have no time to rally. so he caught him suddenly by the collar, and, with one great pull, had him out over his desk and on the open floor. he gave him a sharp fling backwards and stood looking at him. the rough-and-tumble fighters all clinch, as everybody knows; and abner briggs, junior, was one of that kind. he remembered how he had floored master weeks, and he had just "spunk" enough left in him to try to repeat his former successful experiment an the new master. he sprang at him, open-handed, to clutch him. so the master had to strike,--once, but very hard, and just in the place to tell. no doubt, the authority that doth hedge a schoolmaster added to the effect of the blow; but the blow was itself a neat one, and did not require to be repeated. "now go home," said the master, "and don't let me see you or your dog here again." and he turned his cuffs down over the gold sleeve-buttons. this finished the great pigwacket centre school rebellion. what could be done with a master who was so pleasant as long as the boys behaved decently, and such a terrible fellow when he got "riled," as they called it? in a week's time everything was reduced to order, and the school-committee were delighted. the master, however, had received a proposition so much more agreeable and advantageous, that he informed the committee he should leave at the end of his month, having in his eye a sensible and energetic young college-graduate who would be willing and fully competent to take his place. so, at the expiration of the appointed time, bernard langdon, late master of the school district no. , pigwacket centre, took his departure from that place for another locality, whither we shall follow him, carrying with him the regrets of the committee, of most of the scholars, and of several young ladies; also two locks of hair, sent unbeknown to payrents, one dark and one warmish auburn, inscribed with the respective initials of alminy cutterr and arvilly braowne. chapter iv the moth flies into the candle. the invitation which mr. bernard langdon had accepted came from the board of trustees of the "apollinean female institute," a school for the education of young ladies, situated in the flourishing town of rockland. this was an establishment on a considerable scale, in which a hundred scholars or thereabouts were taught the ordinary english branches, several of the modern languages, something of latin, if desired, with a little natural philosophy, metaphysics, and rhetoric, to finish off with in the last year, and music at any time when they would pay for it. at the close of their career in the institute, they were submitted to a grand public examination, and received diplomas tied in blue ribbons, which proclaimed them with a great flourish of capitals to be graduates of the apollinean female institute. rockland was a town of no inconsiderable pretensions. it was ennobled by lying at the foot of a mountain,--called by the working-folks of the place "the maounting,"--which sufficiently showed that it was the principal high land of the district in which it was situated. it lay to the south of this, and basked in the sunshine as italy stretches herself before the alps. to pass from the town of tamarack on the north of the mountain to rockland on the south was like crossing from coire to chiavenna. there is nothing gives glory and grandeur and romance and mystery to a place like the impending presence of a high mountain. our beautiful northampton with its fair meadows and noble stream is lovely enough, but owes its surpassing attraction to those twin summits which brood over it like living presences, looking down into its streets as if they were its tutelary divinities, dressing and undressing their green shrines, robing themselves in jubilant sunshine or in sorrowing clouds, and doing penance in the snowy shroud of winter, as if they had living hearts under their rocky ribs and changed their mood like the children of the soil at their feet, who grow up under their almost parental smiles and frowns. happy is the child whose first dreams of heaven are blended with the evening glories of mount holyoke, when the sun is firing its treetops, and gilding the white walls that mark its one human dwelling! if the other and the wilder of the two summits has a scowl of terror in its overhanging brows, yet is it a pleasing fear to look upon its savage solitudes through the barred nursery-windows in the heart of the sweet, companionable village.--and how the mountains love their children! the sea is of a facile virtue, and will run to kiss the first comer in any port he visits; but the chaste mountains sit apart, and show their faces only in the midst of their own families. the mountain which kept watch to the north of rockland lay waste and almost inviolate through much of its domain. the catamount still glared from the branches of its old hemlocks on the lesser beasts that strayed beneath him. it was not long since a wolf had wandered down, famished in the winter's dearth, and left a few bones and some tufts of wool of what had been a lamb in the morning. nay, there were broad-footed tracks in the snow only two years previously, which could not be mistaken;--the black bear alone could have set that plantigrade seal, and little children must come home early from school and play, for he is an indiscriminate feeder when he is hungry, and a little child would not come amiss when other game was wanting. but these occasional visitors may have been mere wanderers, which, straying along in the woods by day, and perhaps stalking through the streets of still villages by night, had worked their way along down from the ragged mountain-spurs of higher latitudes. the one feature of the mountain that shed the brownest horror on its woods was the existence of the terrible region known as rattlesnake ledge, and still tenanted by those damnable reptiles, which distil a fiercer venom under our cold northern sky than the cobra himself in the land of tropical spices and poisons. from the earliest settlement of the place, this fact had been, next to the indians, the reigning nightmare of the inhabitants. it was easy enough, after a time, to drive away the savages; for "a screeching indian divell," as our fathers called him, could not crawl into the crack of a rock to escape from his pursuers. but the venomous population of rattlesnake ledge had a gibraltar for their fortress that might have defied the siege-train dragged to the walls of sebastopol. in its deep embrasures and its impregnable easemates they reared their families, they met in love or wrath, they twined together in family knots, they hissed defiance in hostile clans, they fed, slept, hibernated, and in due time died in peace. many a foray had the towns-people made, and many a stuffed skin was shown as a trophy,--nay, there were families where the children's first toy was made from the warning appendage that once vibrated to the wrath of one of these "cruel serpents." sometimes one of them, coaxed out by a warm sun, would writhe himself down the hillside into the roads, up the walks that led to houses,--worse than this, into the long grass, where the barefooted mowers would soon pass with their swinging scythes,--more rarely into houses, and on one memorable occasion, early in the last century, into the meeting-house, where he took a position on the pulpit-stairs,--as is narrated in the "account of some remarkable providences," etc., where it is suggested that a strong tendency of the rev. didymus bean, the minister at that time, towards the arminian heresy may have had something to do with it, and that the serpent supposed to have been killed on the pulpit-stairs was a false show of the daemon's contrivance, he having come in to listen to a discourse which was a sweet savour in his nostrils, and, of course, not being capable of being killed himself. others said, however, that, though there was good reason to think it was a damon, yet he did come with intent to bite the heel of that faithful servant,--etc. one gilson is said to have died of the bite of a rattlesnake in this town early in the present century. after this there was a great snake-hunt, in which very many of these venomous beasts were killed,--one in particular, said to have been as big round as a stout man's arm, and to have had no less than forty joints to his rattle,--indicating, according to some, that he had lived forty years, but, if we might put any faith in the indian tradition, that he had killed forty human beings,--an idle fancy, clearly. this hunt, however, had no permanent effect in keeping down the serpent population. viviparous, creatures are a kind of specie-paying lot, but oviparous ones only give their notes, as it were, for a future brood,--an egg being, so to speak, a promise to pay a young one by and by, if nothing happen. now the domestic habits of the rattlesnake are not studied very closely, for obvious reasons; but it is, no doubt, to all intents and purposes oviparous. consequently it has large families, and is not easy to kill out. in the year -, a melancholy proof was afforded to the inhabitants of rockland, that the brood which infested the mountain was not extirpated. a very interesting young married woman, detained at home at the time by the state of her health, was bitten in the entry of her own house by a rattlesnake which had found its way down from the mountain. owing to the almost instant employment of powerful remedies, the bite did not prove immediately fatal; but she died within a few months of the time when she was bitten. all this seemed to throw a lurid kind of shadow over the mountain. yet, as many years passed without any accident, people grew comparatively careless, and it might rather be said to add a fearful kind of interest to the romantic hillside, that the banded reptiles, which had been the terror of the red men for nobody knows how many thousand years, were there still, with the same poison-bags and spring-teeth at the white men's service, if they meddled with them. the other natural features of rockland were such as many of our pleasant country-towns can boast of. a brook came tumbling down the mountain-side and skirted the most thickly settled portion of the village. in the parts of its course where it ran through the woods, the water looked almost as brown as coffee flowing from its urn,--to say like smoky quartz would perhaps give a better idea,--but in the open plain it sparkled over the pebbles white as a queen's diamonds. there were huckleberry-pastures on the lower flanks of the mountain, with plenty of the sweet-scented bayberry mingled with the other bushes. in other fields grew great store of high-bush blackberries. along the roadside were bayberry-bushes, hung all over with bright red coral pendants in autumn and far into the winter. then there were swamps set thick with dingy alders, where the three-leaved arum and the skunk's-cabbage grew broad and succulent, shelving down into black boggy pools here and there at the edge of which the green frog, stupidest of his tribe, sat waiting to be victimized by boy or snapping-turtle long after the shy and agile leopard-frog had taken the six-foot spring that plumped him into the middle of the pool. and on the neighboring banks the maiden-hair spread its flat disk of embroidered fronds on the wire-like stem that glistened polished and brown as the darkest tortoise-shell, and pale violets, cheated by the cold skies of their hues and perfume, sunned themselves like white-cheeked invalids. over these rose the old forest-trees,--the maple, scarred with the wounds which had drained away its sweet life-blood,--the beech, its smooth gray bark mottled so as to look like the body of one of those great snakes of old that used to frighten armies, always the mark of lovers' knives, as in the days of musidora and her swain,--the yellow birch, rough as the breast of silenus in old marbles,--the wild cherry, its little bitter fruit lying unheeded at its foot,--and, soaring over all, the huge, coarse-barked, splintery-limbed, dark-mantled hemlock, in the depth of whose aerial solitudes the crow brooded on her nest unscared, and the gray squirrel lived unharmed till his incisors grew to look like ram's-horns. rockland would have been but half a town without its pond; guinnepeg pond was the name of it, but the young ladies of the apollinean institute were very anxious that it should be called crystalline lake. it was here that the young folks used to sail in summer and skate in winter; here, too, those queer, old, rum-scented good-for-nothing, lazy, story-telling, half-vagabonds, who sawed a little wood or dug a few potatoes now and then under the pretence of working for their living, used to go and fish through the ice for pickerel every winter. and here those three young people were drowned, a few summers ago, by the upsetting of a sail-boat in a sudden flaw of wind. there is not one of these smiling ponds which has not devoured more youths and maidens than any of those monsters the ancients used to tell such lies about. but it was a pretty pond, and never looked more innocent--so the native "bard" of rockland said in his elegy--than on the morning when they found sarah jane and ellen maria floating among the lily-pads. the apollinean institute, or institoot, as it was more commonly called, was, in the language of its prospectus, a "first-class educational establishment." it employed a considerable corps of instructors to rough out and finish the hundred young lady scholars it sheltered beneath its roof. first, mr. and mrs. peckham, the principal and the matron of the school. silas peckham was a thorough yankee, born on a windy part of the coast, and reared chiefly on salt-fish. everybody knows the type of yankee produced by this climate and diet: thin, as if he had been split and dried; with an ashen kind of complexion, like the tint of the food he is made of; and about as sharp, tough, juiceless, and biting to deal with as the other is to the taste. silas peckham kept a young ladies' school exactly as he would have kept a hundred head of cattle,--for the simple, unadorned purpose of making just as much money in just as few years as could be safely done. mr. peckham gave very little personal attention to the department of instruction, but was always busy with contracts for flour and potatoes, beef and pork, and other nutritive staples, the amount of which required for such an establishment was enough to frighten a quartermaster. mrs. peckham was from the west, raised on indian corn and pork, which give a fuller outline and a more humid temperament, but may perhaps be thought to render people a little coarse-fibred. her specialty was to look after the feathering, cackling, roosting, rising, and general behavior of these hundred chicks. an honest, ignorant woman, she could not have passed an examination in the youngest class. so this distinguished institution was under the charge of a commissary and a housekeeper, and its real business was making money by taking young girls in as boarders. connected with this, however, was the incidental fact, which the public took for the principal one, namely, the business of instruction. mr. peckham knew well enough that it was just as well to have good instructors as bad ones, so far as cost was concerned, and a great deal better for the reputation of his feeding-establishment. he tried to get the best he could without paying too much, and, having got them, to screw all the work out of them that could possibly be extracted. there was a master for the english branches, with a young lady assistant. there was another young lady who taught french, of the ahvaung and baundahng style, which does not exactly smack of the asphalt of the boulevards. there was also a german teacher of music, who sometimes helped in french of the ahfaung and bauntaung style,--so that, between the two, the young ladies could hardly have been mistaken for parisians, by a committee of the french academy. the german teacher also taught a latin class after his fashion,--benna, a ben, gahboot, ahead, and so forth. the master for the english branches had lately left the school for private reasons, which need not be here mentioned,--but he had gone, at any rate, and it was his place which had been offered to mr. bernard langdon. the offer came just in season,--as, for various causes, he was willing to leave the place where he had begun his new experience. it was on a fine morning that mr. bernard, ushered in by mr. peckham, made his appearance in the great schoolroom of the apollinean institute. a general rustle ran all round the seats when the handsome young man was introduced. the principal carried him to the desk of the young lady english assistant, miss darley by name, and introduced him to her. there was not a great deal of study done that day. the young lady assistant had to point out to the new master the whole routine in which the classes were engaged when their late teacher left, and which had gone on as well as it could since. then master langdon had a great many questions to ask, some relating to his new duties, and some, perhaps, implying a degree of curiosity not very unnatural under the circumstances. the truth is, the general effect of the schoolroom, with its scores of young girls, all their eyes naturally centring on him with fixed or furtive glances, was enough to bewilder and confuse a young man like master langdon, though he was not destitute of self-possession, as we have already seen. you cannot get together a hundred girls, taking them as they come, from the comfortable and affluent classes, probably anywhere, certainly not in new england, without seeing a good deal of beauty. in fact, we very commonly mean by beauty the way young girls look when there is nothing to hinder their looking as nature meant them to. and the great schoolroom of the apollinean institute did really make so pretty a show on the morning when master langdon entered it, that he might be pardoned for asking miss darley more questions about his scholars than about their lessons. there were girls of all ages: little creatures, some pallid and delicate-looking, the offspring of invalid parents,--much given to books, not much to mischief, commonly spoken of as particularly good children, and contrasted with another sort, girls of more vigorous organization, who were disposed to laughing and play, and required a strong hand to manage them; then young growing misses of every shade of saxon complexion, and here and there one of more southern hue: blondes, some of them so translucent-looking that it seemed as if you could see the souls in their bodies, like bubbles in glass, if souls were objects of sight; brunettes, some with rose-red colors, and some with that swarthy hue which often carries with it a heavily-shaded lip, and which, with pure outlines and outspoken reliefs, gives us some of our handsomest women,--the women whom ornaments of plain gold adorn more than any other parures; and again, but only here and there, one with dark hair and gray or blue eyes, a celtic type, perhaps, but found in our native stock occasionally; rarest of all, a light-haired girl with dark eyes, hazel, brown, or of the color of that mountain-brook spoken of in this chapter, where it ran through shadowy woodlands. with these were to be seen at intervals some of maturer years, full-blown flowers among the opening buds, with that conscious look upon their faces which so many women wear during the period when they never meet a single man without having his monosyllable ready for him,--tied as they are, poor things! on the rock of expectation, each of them an andromeda waiting for her perseus. "who is that girl in ringlets,--the fourth in the third row on the right?" said master langdon. "charlotte ann wood," said miss darley; "writes very pretty poems." "oh!--and the pink one, three seats from her? looks bright; anything in her?" "emma dean,--day-scholar,--squire dean's daughter,--nice girl,--second medal last year." the master asked these two questions in a careless kind of way, and did not seem to pay any too much attention to the answers. "and who and what is that," he said,--"sitting a little apart there,--that strange, wild-looking girl?" this time he put the real question he wanted answered;--the other two were asked at random, as masks for the third. the lady-teacher's face changed;--one would have said she was frightened or troubled. she looked at the girl doubtfully, as if she might hear the master's question and its answer. but the girl did not look up;--she was winding a gold chain about her wrist, and then uncoiling it, as if in a kind of reverie. miss darley drew close to the master and placed her hand so as to hide her lips. "don't look at her as if we were talking about her," she whispered softly; "that is elsie venner." chapter v. an old-fashioned descriptive chapter. it was a comfort to get to a place with something like society, with residences which had pretensions to elegance, with people of some breeding, with a newspaper, and "stores" to advertise in it, and with two or three churches to keep each other alive by wholesome agitation. rockland was such a place. some of the natural features of the town have been described already. the mountain, of course, was what gave it its character, and redeemed it from wearing the commonplace expression which belongs to ordinary country-villages. beautiful, wild, invested with the mystery which belongs to untrodden spaces, and with enough of terror to give it dignity, it had yet closer relations with the town over which it brooded than the passing stranger knew of. thus, it made a local climate by cutting off the northern winds and holding the sun's heat like a garden-wall. peachtrees, which, on the northern side of the mountain, hardly ever came to fruit, ripened abundant crops in rockland. but there was still another relation between the mountain and the town at its foot, which strangers were not likely to hear alluded to, and which was oftener thought of than spoken of by its inhabitants. those high-impending forests,--"hangers," as white of selborne would have called them,--sloping far upward and backward into the distance, had always an air of menace blended with their wild beauty. it seemed as if some heaven-scaling titan had thrown his shaggy robe over the bare, precipitous flanks of the rocky summit, and it might at any moment slide like a garment flung carelessly on the nearest chance-support, and, so sliding, crush the village out of being, as the rossberg when it tumbled over on the valley of goldau. persons have been known to remove from the place, after a short residence in it, because they were haunted day and night by the thought of this awful green wall, piled up into the air over their heads. they would lie awake of nights, thinking they heard the muffed snapping of roots, as if a thousand acres of the mountain-side were tugging to break away, like the snow from a house-roof, and a hundred thousand trees were clinging with all their fibres to hold back the soil just ready to peel away and crash down with all its rocks and forest-growths. and yet, by one of those strange contradictions we are constantly finding in human nature, there were natives of the town who would come back thirty or forty years after leaving it, just to nestle under this same threatening mountainside, as old men sun themselves against southward-facing walls. the old dreams and legends of danger added to the attraction. if the mountain should ever slide, they had a kind of feeling as if they ought to be there. it was a fascination like that which the rattlesnake is said to exert. this comparison naturally suggests the recollection of that other source of danger which was an element in the every-day life of the rockland people. the folks in some of the neighboring towns had a joke against them, that a rocklander could n't hear a beanpod rattle without saying, "the lord have mercy on us!" it is very true, that many a nervous old lady has had a terrible start, caused by some mischievous young rogue's giving a sudden shake to one of these noisy vegetable products in her immediate vicinity. yet, strangely enough, many persons missed the excitement of the possibility of a fatal bite in other regions, where there were nothing but black and green and striped snakes, mean ophidians, having the spite of the nobler serpent without his venom,--poor crawling creatures, whom nature would not trust with a poison-bag. many natives of rockland did unquestionably experience a certain gratification in this infinitesimal sense of danger. it was noted that the old people retained their hearing longer than in other places. some said it was the softened climate, but others believed it was owing to the habit of keeping their ears open whenever they were walking through the grass or in the woods. at any rate, a slight sense of danger is often an agreeable stimulus. people sip their creme de noyau with a peculiar tremulous pleasure, because there is a bare possibility that it may contain prussic acid enough to knock them over; in which case they will lie as dead as if a thunder-cloud had emptied itself into the earth through their brain and marrow. but rockland had other features which helped to give it a special character. first of all, there was one grand street which was its chief glory. elm street it was called, naturally enough, for its elms made a long, pointed-arched gallery of it through most of its extent. no natural gothic arch compares, for a moment, with that formed by two american elms, where their lofty jets of foliage shoot across each other's ascending curves, to intermingle their showery flakes of green. when one looks through a long double row of these, as in that lovely avenue which the poets of yale remember so well, "oh, could the vista of my life but now as bright appear as when i first through temple street looked down thine espalier!" he beholds a temple not built with hands, fairer than any minster, with all its clustered stems and flowering capitals, that ever grew in stone. nobody knows new england who is not on terms of intimacy with one of its elms. the elm comes nearer to having a soul than any other vegetable creature among us. it loves man as man loves it. it is modest and patient. it has a small flake of a seed which blows in everywhere and makes arrangements for coming up by and by. so, in spring, one finds a crop of baby-elms among his carrots and parsnips, very weak and small compared to those succulent vegetables. the baby-elms die, most of them, slain, unrecognized or unheeded, by hand or hoe, as meekly as herod's innocents. one of them gets overlooked, perhaps, until it has established a kind of right to stay. three generations of carrot and parsnip consumers have passed away, yourself among them, and now let your great-grandson look for the baby-elm. twenty-two feet of clean girth, three hundred and sixty feet in the line that bounds its leafy circle, it covers the boy with such a canopy as neither glossy-leafed oak nor insect-haunted linden ever lifted into the summer skies. elm street was the pride of rockland, but not only on account of its gothic-arched vista. in this street were most of the great houses, or "mansion-houses," as it was usual to call them. along this street, also, the more nicely kept and neatly painted dwellings were chiefly congregated. it was the correct thing for a rockland dignitary to have a house in elm street. a new england "mansion-house" is naturally square, with dormer windows projecting from the roof, which has a balustrade with turned posts round it. it shows a good breadth of front-yard before its door, as its owner shows a respectable expanse of a clean shirt-front. it has a lateral margin beyond its stables and offices, as its master wears his white wrist bands showing beyond his coat-cuffs. it may not have what can properly be called grounds, but it must have elbow-room, at any rate. without it, it is like a man who is always tight-buttoned for want of any linen to show. the mansion-house which has had to "button itself up tight in fences, for want of green or gravel margin," will be advertising for boarders presently. the old english pattern of the new england mansion-house, only on a somewhat grander scale, is sir thomas abney's place, where dear, good dr. watts said prayers for the family, and wrote those blessed hymns of his that sing us into consciousness in our cradles, and come back to us in sweet, single verses, between the moments of wandering and of stupor, when we lie dying, and sound over us when we can no longer hear them, bringing grateful tears to the hot, aching eyes beneath the thick, black veils, and carrying the holy calm with them which filled the good man's heart, as he prayed and sung under the shelter of the old english mansion-house. next to the mansion-houses, came the two-story trim, white-painted, "genteel" houses, which, being more gossipy and less nicely bred, crowded close up to the street, instead of standing back from it with arms akimbo, like the mansion-houses. their little front-yards were very commonly full of lilac and syringa and other bushes, which were allowed to smother the lower story almost to the exclusion of light and airy so that, what with small windows and small windowpanes, and the darkness made by these choking growths of shrubbery, the front parlors of some of these houses were the most tomb-like, melancholy places that could be found anywhere among the abodes of the living. their garnishing was apt to assist this impression. large-patterned carpets, which always look discontented in little rooms, haircloth furniture, black and shiny as beetles' wing cases, and centre-tables, with a sullen oil-lamp of the kind called astral by our imaginative ancestors, in the centre,--these things were inevitable. in set piles round the lamp was ranged the current literature of the day, in the form of temperance documents, unbound numbers of one of the unknown public's magazines with worn-out steel engravings and high-colored fashion-plates, the poems of a distinguished british author whom it is unnecessary to mention, a volume of sermons, or a novel or two, or both, according to the tastes of the family, and the good book, which is always itself in the cheapest and commonest company. the father of the family with his hand in the breast of his coat, the mother of the same in a wide-bordered cap, sometimes a print of the last supper, by no means morghen's, or the father of his country, or the old general, or the defender of the constitution, or an unknown clergyman with an open book before him,--these were the usual ornaments of the walls, the first two a matter of rigor, the others according to politics and other tendencies. this intermediate class of houses, wherever one finds them in new england towns, are very apt to be cheerless and unsatisfactory. they have neither the luxury of the mansion-house nor the comfort of the farm-house. they are rarely kept at an agreeable temperature. the mansion-house has large fireplaces and generous chimneys, and is open to the sunshine. the farm-house makes no pretensions, but it has a good warm kitchen, at any rate, and one can be comfortable there with the rest of the family, without fear and without reproach. these lesser country-houses of genteel aspirations are much given to patent subterfuges of one kind and another to get heat without combustion. the chilly parlor and the slippery hair-cloth seat take the life out of the warmest welcome. if one would make these places wholesome, happy, and cheerful, the first precept would be,--the dearest fuel, plenty of it, and let half the heat go up the chimney. if you can't afford this, don't try to live in a "genteel" fashion, but stick to the ways of the honest farm-house. there were a good many comfortable farm-houses scattered about rockland. the best of them were something of the following pattern, which is too often superseded of late by a more pretentious, but infinitely less pleasing kind of rustic architecture. a little back from the road, seated directly on the green sod, rose a plain wooden building, two stories in front, with a long roof sloping backwards to within a few feet of the ground. this, like the "mansion-house," is copied from an old english pattern. cottages of this model may be seen in lancashire, for instance, always with the same honest, homely look, as if their roofs acknowledged their relationship to the soil out of which they sprung. the walls were unpainted, but turned by the slow action of sun and air and rain to a quiet dove or slate color. an old broken millstone at the door,--a well-sweep pointing like a finger to the heavens, which the shining round of water beneath looked up at like a dark unsleeping eye,--a single large elm a little at one side,--a barn twice as big as the house,--a cattle-yard, with "the white horns tossing above the wall,"-- some fields, in pasture or in crops, with low stone walls round them,--a row of beehives,--a garden-patch, with roots, and currant-bushes, and many-hued hollyhocks, and swollen-stemmed, globe-headed, seedling onions, and marigolds and flower-de-luces, and lady's-delights, and peonies, crowding in together, with southernwood in the borders, and woodbine and hops and morning-glories climbing as they got a chance,--these were the features by which the rockland-born children remembered the farm-house, when they had grown to be men. such are the recollections that come over poor sailor-boys crawling out on reeling yards to reef topsails as their vessels stagger round the stormy cape; and such are the flitting images that make the eyes of old country-born merchants look dim and dreamy, as they sit in their city palaces, warm with the after-dinner flush of the red wave out of which memory arises, as aphrodite arose from the green waves of the ocean. two meeting-houses stood on two eminences, facing each other, and looking like a couple of fighting-cocks with their necks straight up in the air,--as if they would flap their roofs, the next thing, and crow out of their upstretched steeples, and peck at each other's glass eyes with their sharp-pointed weathercocks. the first was a good pattern of the real old-fashioned new england meeting-house. it was a large barn with windows, fronted by a square tower crowned with a kind of wooden bell inverted and raised on legs, out of which rose a slender spire with the sharp-billed weathercock at its summit. inside, tall, square pews with flapping seats, and a gallery running round three sides of the building. on the fourth side the pulpit, with a huge, dusty sounding-board hanging over it. here preached the reverend pierrepont honeywood, d. d., successor, after a number of generations, to the office and the parsonage of the reverend didymus bean, before mentioned, but not suspected of any of his alleged heresies. he held to the old faith of the puritans, and occasionally delivered a discourse which was considered by the hard-headed theologians of his parish to have settled the whole matter fully and finally, so that now there was a good logical basis laid down for the millennium, which might begin at once upon the platform of his demonstrations. yet the reverend dr. honeywood was fonder of preaching plain, practical sermons about the duties of life, and showing his christianity in abundant good works among his people. it was noticed by some few of his flock, not without comment, that the great majority of his texts came from the gospels, and this more and more as he became interested in various benevolent enterprises which brought him into relations with-ministers and kindhearted laymen of other denominations. he was in fact a man of a very warm, open, and exceedingly human disposition, and, although bred by a clerical father, whose motto was "sit anima mea cum puritanis," he exercised his human faculties in the harness of his ancient faith with such freedom that the straps of it got so loose they did not interfere greatly with the circulation of the warm blood through his system. once in a while he seemed to think it necessary to come out with a grand doctrinal sermon, and them he would lapse away for a while into preaching on men's duties to each other and to society, and hit hard, perhaps, at some of the actual vices of the time and place, and insist with such tenderness and eloquence on the great depth and breadth of true christian love and charity, that his oldest deacon shook his head, and wished he had shown as much interest when he was preaching, three sabbaths back, on predestination, or in his discourse against the sabellians. but he was sound in the faith; no doubt of that. did he not preside at the council held in the town of tamarack, on the other side of the mountain, which expelled its clergyman for maintaining heretical doctrines? as presiding officer, he did not vote, of course, but there was no doubt that he was all right; he had some of the edwards blood in him, and that couldn't very well let him go wrong. the meeting-house on the other and opposite summit was of a more modern style, considered by many a great improvement on the old new england model, so that it is not uncommon for a country parish to pull down its old meeting-house, which has been preached in for a hundred years or so, and put up one of these more elegant edifices. the new building was in what may be called the florid shingle-gothic manner. its pinnacles and crockets and other ornaments were, like the body of the building, all of pine wood,--an admirable material, as it is very soft and easily worked, and can be painted of any color desired. inside, the walls were stuccoed in imitation of stone,--first a dark brown square, then two light brown squares, then another dark brown square, and so on, to represent the accidental differences of shade always noticeable in the real stones of which walls are built. to be sure, the architect could not help getting his party-colored squares in almost as regular rhythmical order as those of a chess-board; but nobody can avoid doing things in a systematic and serial way; indeed, people who wish to plant trees in natural chimps know very well that they cannot keep from making regular lines and symmetrical figures, unless by some trick or other, as that one of throwing a peck of potatoes up into the air and sticking in a tree wherever a potato happens to fall. the pews of this meeting-house were the usual oblong ones, where people sit close together, with a ledge before them to support their hymn-books, liable only to occasional contact with the back of the next pew's heads or bonnets, and a place running under the seat of that pew where hats could be deposited,--always at the risk of the owner, in case of injury by boots or crickets. in this meeting-house preached the reverend chauncy fairweather, a divine of the "liberal" school, as it is commonly called, bred at that famous college which used to be thought, twenty or thirty years ago, to have the monopoly of training young men in the milder forms of heresy. his ministrations were attended with decency, but not followed with enthusiasm. "the beauty of virtue" got to be an old story at last. "the moral dignity of human nature" ceased to excite a thrill of satisfaction, after some hundred repetitions. it grew to be a dull business, this preaching against stealing and intemperance, while he knew very well that the thieves were prowling round orchards and empty houses, instead of being there to hear the sermon, and that the drunkards, being rarely church-goers, get little good by the statistics and eloquent appeals of the preacher. every now and then, however, the reverend mr. fairweather let off a polemic discourse against his neighbor opposite, which waked his people up a little; but it was a languid congregation, at best,--very apt to stay away from meeting in the afternoon, and not at all given to extra evening services. the minister, unlike his rival of the other side of the way, was a down-hearted and timid kind of man. he went on preaching as he had been taught to preach, but he had misgivings at times. there was a little roman catholic church at the foot of the hill where his own was placed, which he always had to pass on sundays. he could never look on the thronging multitudes that crowded its pews and aisles or knelt bare-headed on its steps, without a longing to get in among them and go down on his knees and enjoy that luxury of devotional contact which makes a worshipping throng as different from the same numbers praying apart as a bed of coals is from a trail of scattered cinders. "oh, if i could but huddle in with those poor laborers and working-women!" he would say to himself. "if i could but breathe that atmosphere, stifling though it be, yet made holy by ancient litanies, and cloudy with the smoke of hallowed incense, for one hour, instead of droning over these moral precepts to my half-sleeping congregation!" the intellectual isolation of his sect preyed upon him; for, of all terrible things to natures like his, the most terrible is to belong to a minority. no person that looked at his thin and sallow cheek, his sunken and sad eye, his tremulous lip, his contracted forehead, or who heard his querulous, though not unmusical voice, could fail to see that his life was an uneasy one, that he was engaged in some inward conflict. his dark, melancholic aspect contrasted with his seemingly cheerful creed, and was all the more striking, as the worthy dr. honeywood, professing a belief which made him a passenger on board a shipwrecked planet, was yet a most good-humored and companionable gentleman, whose laugh on week-days did one as much good to listen to as the best sermon he ever delivered on a sunday. a mile or two from the centre of rockland was a pretty little episcopal church, with a roof like a wedge of cheese, a square tower, a stained window, and a trained rector, who read the service with such ventral depth of utterance and rrreduplication of the rrresonant letter, that his own mother would not have known him for her son, if the good woman had not ironed his surplice and put it on with her own hands. there were two public-houses in the place: one dignified with the name of the mountain house, somewhat frequented by city people in the summer months, large-fronted, three-storied, balconied, boasting a distinct ladies'-drawing-room, and spreading a table d'hote of some pretensions; the other, "pollard's tahvern," in the common speech,--a two-story building, with a bar-room, once famous, where there was a great smell of hay and boots and pipes and all other bucolic-flavored elements,--where games of checkers were played on the back of the bellows with red and white kernels of corn, or with beans and coffee, where a man slept in a box-settle at night, to wake up early passengers,--where teamsters came in, with wooden-handled whips and coarse frocks, reinforcing the bucolic flavor of the atmosphere, and middle-aged male gossips, sometimes including the squire of the neighboring law-office, gathered to exchange a question or two about the news, and then fall into that solemn state of suspended animation which the temperance bar-rooms of modern days produce in human beings, as the grotta del cane does in dogs in the well-known experiments related by travellers. this bar-room used to be famous for drinking and storytelling, and sometimes fighting, in old times. that was when there were rows of decanters on the shelf behind the bar, and a hissing vessel of hot water ready, to make punch, and three or four loggerheads (long irons clubbed at the end) were always lying in the fire in the cold season, waiting to be plunged into sputtering and foaming mugs of flip,--a goodly compound; speaking according to the flesh, made with beer and sugar, and a certain suspicion of strong waters, over which a little nutmeg being grated, and in it the hot iron being then allowed to sizzle, there results a peculiar singed aroma, which the wise regard as a warning to remove themselves at once out of the reach of temptation. but the bar of pollard's tahvern no longer presented its old attractions, and the loggerheads had long disappeared from the fire. in place of the decanters, were boxes containing "lozengers," as they were commonly called, sticks of candy in jars, cigars in tumblers, a few lemons, grown hard-skinned and marvellously shrunken by long exposure, but still feebly suggestive of possible lemonade,--the whole ornamented by festoons of yellow and blue cut flypaper. on the front shelf of the bar stood a large german-silver pitcher of water, and scattered about were ill-conditioned lamps, with wicks that always wanted picking, which burned red and smoked a good deal, and were apt to go out without any obvious cause, leaving strong reminiscences of the whale-fishery in the circumambient air. the common schoolhouses of rockland were dwarfed by the grandeur of the apollinean institute. the master passed one of them, in a walk he was taking, soon after his arrival at rockland. he looked in at the rows of desks, and recalled his late experiences. he could not help laughing, as he thought how neatly he had knocked the young butcher off his pins. "a little science is a dangerous thing, 'as well as a little 'learning,'" he said to himself; "only it's dangerous to the fellow you' try it on." and he cut him a good stick, and began climbing the side of the mountain to get a look at that famous rattlesnake ledge. chapter vi. the sunbeam and the shadow. the virtue of the world is not mainly in its leaders. in the midst of the multitude which follows there is often something better than in the one that goes before. old generals wanted to take toulon, but one of their young colonels showed them how. the junior counsel has been known not unfrequently to make a better argument than his senior fellow,--if, indeed, he did not make both their arguments. good ministers will tell you they have parishioners who beat them in the practice of the virtues. a great establishment, got up on commercial principles, like the apollinean institute, might yet be well carried on, if it happened to get good teachers. and when master langdon came to see its management, he recognized that there must be fidelity and intelligence somewhere among the instructors. it was only necessary to look for a moment at the fair, open forehead, the still, tranquil eye of gentle, habitual authority, the sweet gravity that lay upon the lips, to hear the clear answers to the pupils' questions, to notice how every request had the force without the form of a command, and the young man could not doubt that the good genius of the school stood before him in the person of helen barley. it was the old story. a poor country-clergyman dies, and leaves a widow and a daughter. in old england the daughter would have eaten the bitter bread of a governess in some rich family. in new england she must keep a school. so, rising from one sphere to another, she at length finds herself the prima donna in the department of instruction in mr. silas peckham's educational establishment. what a miserable thing it is to be poor. she was dependent, frail, sensitive, conscientious. she was in the power of a hard, grasping, thin-blooded, tough-fibred, trading educator, who neither knew nor cared for a tender woman's sensibilities, but who paid her and meant to have his money's worth out of her brains, and as much more than his money's worth as he could get. she was consequently, in plain english, overworked, and an overworked woman is always a sad sight,--sadder a great deal than an overworked man, because she is so much more fertile in capacities of suffering than a man. she has so many varieties of headache,--sometimes as if jael were driving the nail that killed sisera into her temples,--sometimes letting her work with half her brain while the other half throbs as if it would go to pieces,--sometimes tightening round the brows as if her cap-band were a ring of iron,--and then her neuralgias, and her backaches, and her fits of depression, in which she thinks she is nothing and less than nothing, and those paroxysms which men speak slightingly of as hysterical,--convulsions, that is all, only not commonly fatal ones,--so many trials which belong to her fine and mobile structure,--that she is always entitled to pity, when she is placed in conditions which develop her nervous tendencies. the poor young lady's work had, of course, been doubled since the departure of master langdon's predecessor. nobody knows what the weariness of instruction is, as soon as the teacher's faculties begin to be overtasked, but those who have tried it. the relays of fresh pupils, each new set with its exhausting powers in full action, coming one after another, take out all the reserved forces and faculties of resistance from the subject of their draining process. the day's work was over, and it was late in the evening, when she sat down, tired and faint, with a great bundle of girls' themes or compositions to read over before she could rest her weary head on the pillow of her narrow trundle-bed, and forget for a while the treadmill stair of labor she was daily climbing. how she dreaded this most forlorn of all a teacher's tasks! she was conscientious in her duties, and would insist on reading every sentence,--there was no saying where she might find faults of grammar or bad spelling. there might have been twenty or thirty of these themes in the bundle before her. of course she knew pretty well the leading sentiments they could contain: that beauty was subject to the accidents of time; that wealth was inconstant, and existence uncertain; that virtue was its own reward; that youth exhaled, like the dewdrop from the flower, ere the sun had reached its meridian; that life was o'ershadowed with trials; that the lessons of virtue instilled by our beloved teachers were to be our guides through all our future career. the imagery employed consisted principally of roses, lilies, birds, clouds, and brooks, with the celebrated comparison of wayward genius to meteor. who does not know the small, slanted, italian hand of these girls'-compositions, their stringing together of the good old traditional copy-book phrases; their occasional gushes of sentiment, their profound estimates of the world, sounding to the old folks that read them as the experience of a bantam pullet's last-hatched young one with the chips of its shell on its head would sound to a mother cary's chicken, who knew the great ocean with all its typhoons and tornadoes? yet every now and then one is liable to be surprised with strange clairvoyant flashes, that can hardly be explained, except by the mysterious inspiration which every now and then seizes a young girl and exalts her intelligence, just as hysteria in other instances exalts the sensibility,--a little something of that which made joan of arc, and the burney girl who prophesied "evelina," and the davidson sisters. in the midst of these commonplace exercises which miss darley read over so carefully were two or three that had something of individual flavor about them, and here and there there was an image or an epithet which showed the footprint of a passionate nature, as a fallen scarlet feather marks the path the wild flamingo has trodden. the young lady-teacher read them with a certain indifference of manner, as one reads proofs--noting defects of detail, but not commonly arrested by the matters treated of. even miss charlotte ann wood's poem, beginning-- "how sweet at evening's balmy hour," did not excite her. she marked the inevitable false rhyme of cockney and yankee beginners, morn and dawn, and tossed the verses on the pile of papers she had finished. she was looking over some of the last of them in a rather listless way,--for the poor thing was getting sleepy in spite of herself,--when she came to one which seemed to rouse her attention, and lifted her drooping lids. she looked at it a moment before she would touch it. then she took hold of it by one corner and slid it off from the rest. one would have said she was afraid of it, or had some undefined antipathy which made it hateful to her. such odd fancies are common enough in young persons in her nervous state. many of these young people will jump up twenty times a day and run to dabble the tips of their fingers in water, after touching the most inoffensive objects. this composition was written in a singular, sharp-pointed, long, slender hand, on a kind of wavy, ribbed paper. there was something strangely suggestive about the look of it, but exactly of what, miss barley either could not or did not try to think. the subject of the paper was the mountain,--the composition being a sort of descriptive rhapsody. it showed a startling familiarity with some of the savage scenery of the region. one would have said that the writer must have threaded its wildest solitudes by the light of the moon and stars as well as by day. as the teacher read on, her color changed, and a kind of tremulous agitation came over her. there were hints in this strange paper she did not know what to make of. there was something in its descriptions and imagery that recalled,--miss darley could not say what,--but it made her frightfully nervous. still she could not help reading, till she came to one passage which so agitated her, that the tired and over-wearied girl's self-control left her entirely. she sobbed once or twice, then laughed convulsively; and flung herself on the bed, where she worked out a set hysteric spasm as she best might, without anybody to rub her hands and see that she did not hurt herself. by and by she got quiet, rose and went to her bookcase, took down a volume of coleridge, and read a short time, and so to bed, to sleep and wake from time to time with a sudden start out of uneasy dreams. perhaps it is of no great consequence what it was in the composition which set her off into this nervous paroxysm. she was in such a state that almost any slight agitation would have brought on the attack, and it was the accident of her transient excitability, very probably, which made a trifling cause the seeming occasion of so much disturbance. the theme was signed, in the same peculiar, sharp, slender hand, e. venner, and was, of course, written by that wild-looking girl who had excited the master's curiosity and prompted his question, as before mentioned. the next morning the lady-teacher looked pale and wearied, naturally enough, but she was in her place at the usual hour, and master langdon in his own. the girls had not yet entered the school room. "you have been ill, i am afraid," said mr. bernard. "i was not well yesterday," she, answered. "i had a worry and a kind of fright. it is so dreadful to have the charge of all these young souls and bodies. every young girl ought to walk locked close, arm in arm, between two guardian angels. sometimes i faint almost with the thought of all that i ought to do, and of my own weakness and wants.--tell me, are there not natures born so out of parallel with the lines of natural law that nothing short of a miracle can bring them right?" mr. bernard had speculated somewhat, as all thoughtful persons of his profession are forced to do, on the innate organic tendencies with which individuals, families, and races are born. he replied, therefore, with a smile, as one to whom the question suggested a very familiar class of facts. "why, of course. each of us is only the footing-up of a double column of figures that goes back to the first pair. every unit tells,--and some of them are plus, and some minus. if the columns don't add up right, it is commonly because we can't make out all the figures. i don't mean to say that something may not be added by nature to make up for losses and keep the race to its average, but we are mainly nothing but the answer to a long sum in addition and subtraction. no doubt there are people born with impulses at every possible angle to the parallels of nature, as you call them. if they happen to cut these at right angles, of course they are beyond the reach of common influences. slight obliquities are what we have most to do with in education. penitentiaries and insane asylums take care of most of the right-angle cases.--i am afraid i have put it too much like a professor, and i am only a student, you know. pray, what set you to asking me this? any strange cases among the scholars?" the meek teacher's blue eyes met the luminous glance that came with the question. she, too, was of gentle blood,--not meaning by that that she was of any noted lineage, but that she came of a cultivated stock, never rich, but long trained to intellectual callings. a thousand decencies, amenities, reticences, graces, which no one thinks of until he misses them, are the traditional right of those who spring from such families. and when two persons of this exceptional breeding meet in the midst of the common multitude, they seek each other's company at once by the natural law of elective affinity. it is wonderful how men and women know their peers. if two stranger queens, sole survivors of two shipwrecked vessels, were cast, half-naked, on a rock together, each would at once address the other as "our royal sister." helen darley looked into the dark eyes of bernard langdon glittering with the light which flashed from them with his question. not as those foolish, innocent country-girls of the small village did she look into them, to be fascinated and bewildered, but to sound them with a calm, steadfast purpose. "a gentleman," she said to herself, as she read his expression and his features with a woman's rapid, but exhausting glance. "a lady," he said to himself, as he met her questioning look,--so brief, so quiet, yet so assured, as of one whom necessity had taught to read faces quickly without offence, as children read the faces of parents, as wives read the faces of hard-souled husbands. all this was but a few seconds' work, and yet the main point was settled. if there had been any vulgar curiosity or coarseness of any kind lurking in his expression, she would have detected it. if she had not lifted her eyes to his face so softly and kept them there so calmly and withdrawn them so quietly, he would not have said to himself, "she is a lady," for that word meant a good deal to the descendant of the courtly wentworths and the scholarly langdons. "there are strange people everywhere, mr. langdon," she said, "and i don't think our schoolroom is an exception. i am glad you believe in the force of transmitted tendencies. it would break my heart, if i did not think that there are faults beyond the reach of everything but god's special grace. i should die, if i thought that my negligence or incapacity was alone responsible for the errors and sins of those i have charge of. yet there are mysteries i do not know how to account for." she looked all round the schoolroom, and then said, in a whisper, "mr. langdon, we had a girl that stole, in the school, not long ago. worse than that, we had a girl who tried to set us on fire. children of good people, both of them. and we have a girl now that frightens me so"-- the door opened, and three misses came in to take their seats: three types, as it happened, of certain classes, into which it would not have been difficult to distribute the greater number of the girls in the school.--hannah martin. fourteen years and three months old. short-necked, thick-waisted, round-cheeked, smooth, vacant forehead, large, dull eyes. looks good-natured, with little other expression. three buns in her bag, and a large apple. has a habit of attacking her provisions in school-hours.--rosa milburn. sixteen. brunette, with a rare-ripe flush in her cheeks. color comes and goes easily. eyes wandering, apt to be downcast. moody at times. said to be passionate, if irritated. finished in high relief. carries shoulders well back and walks well, as if proud of her woman's life, with a slight rocking movement, being one of the wide-flanged pattern, but seems restless,--a hard girl to look after. has a romance in her pocket, which she means to read in school-time.--charlotte ann wood. fifteen. the poetess before mentioned. long, light ringlets, pallid complexion, blue eyes. delicate child, half unfolded. gentle, but languid and despondent. does not go much with the other girls, but reads a good deal, especially poetry, underscoring favorite passages. writes a great many verses, very fast, not very correctly; full of the usual human sentiments, expressed in the accustomed phrases. under-vitalized. sensibilities not covered with their normal integuments. a negative condition, often confounded with genius, and sometimes running into it. young people who fall out of line through weakness of the active faculties are often confounded with those who step out of it through strength of the intellectual ones. the girls kept coming in, one after another, or in pairs or groups, until the schoolroom was nearly full. then there was a little pause, and a light step was heard in the passage. the lady-teacher's eyes turned to the door, and the master's followed them in the same direction. a girl of about seventeen entered. she was tall and slender, but rounded, with a peculiar undulation of movement, such as one sometimes sees in perfectly untutored country-girls, whom nature, the queen of graces, has taken in hand, but more commonly in connection with the very highest breeding of the most thoroughly trained society. she was a splendid scowling beauty, black-browed, with a flash of white teeth which was always like a surprise when her lips parted. she wore a checkered dress, of a curious pattern, and a camel's-hair scarf twisted a little fantastically about her. she went to her seat, which she had moved a short distance apart from the rest, and, sitting down, began playing listlessly with her gold chain, as was a common habit with her, coiling it and uncoiling it about her slender wrist, and braiding it in with her long, delicate fingers. presently she looked up. black, piercing eyes, not large,--a low forehead, as low as that of clytie in the townley bust,--black hair, twisted in heavy braids,--a face that one could not help looking at for its beauty, yet that one wanted to look away from for something in its expression, and could not for those diamond eyes. they were fixed on the lady-teacher now. the latter turned her own away, and let them wander over the other scholars. but they could not help coming back again for a single glance at the wild beauty. the diamond eyes were on her still. she turned the leaves of several of her books, as if in search of some passage, and, when she thought she had waited long enough to be safe, once more stole a quick look at the dark girl. the diamond eyes were still upon her. she put her kerchief to her forehead, which had grown slightly moist; she sighed once, almost shivered, for she felt cold; then, following some ill-defined impulse, which she could not resist, she left her place and went to the young girl's desk. "what do you want of me, elsie venner?" it was a strange question to put, for the girl had not signified that she wished the teacher to come to her. "nothing," she said. "i thought i could make you come." the girl spoke in a low tone, a kind of half-whisper. she did not lisp, yet her articulation of one or two consonants was not absolutely perfect. "where did you get that flower, elsie?" said miss darley. it was a rare alpine flower, which was found only in one spot among the rocks of the mountain. "where it grew," said elsie veneer. "take it." the teacher could not refuse her. the girl's finger tips touched hers as she took it. how cold they were for a girl of such an organization! the teacher went back to her seat. she made an excuse for quitting the schoolroom soon afterwards. the first thing she did was to fling the flower into her fireplace and rake the ashes over it. the second was to wash the tips of her fingers, as if she had been another lady macbeth. a poor, over-tasked, nervous creature,--we must not think too much of her fancies. after school was done, she finished the talk with the master which had been so suddenly interrupted. there were things spoken of which may prove interesting by and by, but there are other matters we must first attend to. chapter vii. the event of the season. "mr. and mrs. colonel sprowle's compliments to mr. langdon and requests the pleasure of his company at a social entertainment on wednesday evening next. "elm st. monday." on paper of a pinkish color and musky smell, with a large "s" at the top, and an embossed border. envelop adherent, not sealed. addressed langdon esq. present. brought by h. frederic sprowle, youngest son of the colonel,--the h. of course standing for the paternal hezekiah, put in to please the father, and reduced to its initial to please the mother, she having a marked preference for frederic. boy directed to wait for an answer. "mr. langdon has the pleasure of accepting mr. and mrs. colonel sprowle's polite invitation for wednesday evening." on plain paper, sealed with an initial. in walking along the main street, mr. bernard had noticed a large house of some pretensions to architectural display, namely, unnecessarily projecting eaves, giving it a mushroomy aspect, wooden mouldings at various available points, and a grandiose arched portico. it looked a little swaggering by the side of one or two of the mansion-houses that were not far from it, was painted too bright for mr. bernard's taste, had rather too fanciful a fence before it, and had some fruit-trees planted in the front-yard, which to this fastidious young gentleman implied a defective sense of the fitness of things, not promising in people who lived in so large a house, with a mushroom roof and a triumphal arch for its entrance. this place was known as "colonel sprowle's villa," (genteel friends,)--as "the elegant residence of our distinguished fellow-citizen, colonel sprowle," (rockland weekly universe,)--as "the neew haouse," (old settlers,)--as "spraowle's folly," (disaffected and possibly envious neighbors,)--and in common discourse, as "the colonel's." hezekiah sprowle, esquire, colonel sprowle of the commonwealth's militia, was a retired "merchant." an india merchant he might, perhaps, have been properly called; for he used to deal in west india goods, such as coffee, sugar, and molasses, not to speak of rum,--also in tea, salt fish, butter and cheese, oil and candles, dried fruit, agricultural "p'doose" generally, industrial products, such as boots and shoes, and various kinds of iron and wooden ware, and at one end of the establishment in calicoes and other stuffs,--to say nothing of miscellaneous objects of the most varied nature, from sticks of candy, which tempted in the smaller youth with coppers in their fists, up to ornamental articles of apparel, pocket-books, breast-pins, gilt-edged bibles, stationery, in short, everything which was like to prove seductive to the rural population. the colonel had made money in trade, and also by matrimony. he had married sarah, daughter and heiress of the late tekel jordan, esq., an old miser, who gave the town-clock, which carries his name to posterity in large gilt letters as a generous benefactor of his native place. in due time the colonel reaped the reward of well-placed affections. when his wife's inheritance fell in, he thought he had money enough to give up trade, and therefore sold out his "store," called in some dialects of the english language shop, and his business. life became pretty hard work to him, of course, as soon as he had nothing particular to do. country people with money enough not to have to work are in much more danger than city people in the same condition. they get a specific look and character, which are the same in all the villages where one studies them. they very commonly fall into a routine, the basis of which is going to some lounging-place or other, a bar-room, a reading-room, or something of the kind. they grow slovenly in dress, and wear the same hat forever. they have a feeble curiosity for news perhaps, which they take daily as a man takes his bitters, and then fall silent and think they are thinking. but the mind goes out under this regimen, like a fire without a draught; and it is not very strange, if the instinct of mental self-preservation drives them to brandy-and-water, which makes the hoarse whisper of memory musical for a few brief moments, and puts a weak leer of promise on the features of the hollow-eyed future. the colonel was kept pretty well in hand as yet by his wife, and though it had happened to him once or twice to come home rather late at night with a curious tendency to say the same thing twice and even three times over, it had always been in very cold weather,--and everybody knows that no one is safe to drink a couple of glasses of wine in a warm room and go suddenly out into the cold air. miss matilda sprowle, sole daughter of the house, had reached the age at which young ladies are supposed in technical language to have come out, and thereafter are considered to be in company. "there's one piece o' goods," said the colonel to his wife, "that we ha'n't disposed of, nor got a customer for yet. that 's matildy. i don't mean to set her up at vaandoo. i guess she can have her pick of a dozen." "she 's never seen anybody yet," said mrs. sprowle, who had had a certain project for some time, but had kept quiet about it. "let's have a party, and give her a chance to show herself and see some of the young folks." the colonel was not very clear-headed, and he thought, naturally enough, that the party was his own suggestion, because his remark led to the first starting of the idea. he entered into the plan, therefore, with a feeling of pride as well as pleasure, and the great project was resolved upon in a family council without a dissentient voice. this was the party, then, to which mr. bernard was going. the town had been full of it for a week. "everybody was asked." so everybody said that was invited. but how in respect of those who were not asked? if it had been one of the old mansion-houses that was giving a party, the boundary between the favored and the slighted families would have been known pretty well beforehand, and there would have been no great amount of grumbling. but the colonel, for all his title, had a forest of poor relations and a brushwood swamp of shabby friends, for he had scrambled up to fortune, and now the time was come when he must define his new social position. this is always an awkward business in town or country. an exclusive alliance between two powers is often the same thing as a declaration of war against a third. rockland was soon split into a triumphant minority, invited to mrs. sprowle's party, and a great majority, uninvited, of which the fraction just on the border line between recognized "gentility" and the level of the ungloved masses was in an active state of excitement and indignation. "who is she, i should like to know?" said mrs. saymore, the tailor's wife. "there was plenty of folks in rockland as good as ever sally jordan was, if she had managed to pick up a merchant. other folks could have married merchants, if their families was n't as wealthy as them old skinflints that willed her their money," etc., etc. mrs. saymore expressed the feeling of many beside herself. she had, however, a special right to be proud of the name she bore. her husband was own cousin to the saymores of freestone avenue (who write the name seymour, and claim to be of the duke of somerset's family, showing a clear descent from the protector to edward seymour, ( ,)--then a jump that would break a herald's neck to one seth saymore,( ,)--from whom to the head of the present family the line is clear again). mrs. saymore, the tailor's wife, was not invited, because her husband mended clothes. if he had confined himself strictly to making them, it would have put a different face upon the matter. the landlord of the mountain house and his lady were invited to mrs. sprowle's party. not so the landlord of pollard's tahvern and his lady. whereupon the latter vowed that they would have a party at their house too, and made arrangements for a dance of twenty or thirty couples, to be followed by an entertainment. tickets to this "social ball" were soon circulated, and, being accessible to all at a moderate price, admission to the "elegant supper" included, this second festival promised to be as merry, if not as select, as the great party. wednesday came. such doings had never been heard of in rockland as went on that day at the "villa." the carpet had been taken up in the long room, so that the young folks might have a dance. miss matilda's piano had been moved in, and two fiddlers and a clarionet-player engaged to make music. all kinds of lamps had been put in requisition, and even colored wax-candles figured on the mantel-pieces. the costumes of the family had been tried on the day before: the colonel's black suit fitted exceedingly well; his lady's velvet dress displayed her contours to advantage; miss matilda's flowered silk was considered superb; the eldest son of the family, mr. t. jordan sprowle, called affectionately and elegantly "geordie," voted himself "stunnin'"; and even the small youth who had borne mr. bernard's invitation was effective in a new jacket and trousers, buttony in front, and baggy in the reverse aspect, as is wont to be the case with the home-made garments of inland youngsters. great preparations had been made for the refection which was to be part of the entertainment. there was much clinking of borrowed spoons, which were to be carefully counted, and much clicking of borrowed china, which was to be tenderly handled, for nobody in the country keeps those vast closets full of such things which one may see in rich city-houses. not a great deal could be done in the way of flowers, for there were no greenhouses, and few plants were out as yet; but there were paper ornaments for the candlesticks, and colored mats for the lamps, and all the tassels of the curtains and bells were taken out of those brown linen bags, in which, for reasons hitherto undiscovered, they are habitually concealed in some households. in the remoter apartments every imaginable operation was going on at once,--roasting, boiling, baking, beating, rolling, pounding in mortars, frying, freezing; for there was to be ice-cream to-night of domestic manufacture;--and in the midst of all these labors, mrs. sprowle and miss matilda were moving about, directing and helping as they best might, all day long. when the evening came, it might be feared they would not be in just the state of mind and body to entertain company. --one would like to give a party now and then, if one could be a billionnaire.--"antoine, i am going to have twenty people to dine to-day." "biens, madame." not a word or thought more about it, but get home in season to dress, and come down to your own table, one of your own guests.--"giuseppe, we are to have a party a week from to-night,--five hundred invitations--there is the list." the day comes. "madam, do you remember you have your party tonight?" "why, so i have! everything right? supper and all?" "all as it should be, madam." "send up victorine." "victorine, full toilet for this evening,--pink, diamonds, and emeralds. coiffeur at seven. allez."--billionism, or even millionism, must be a blessed kind of state, with health and clear conscience and youth and good looks,--but most blessed is this, that it takes off all the mean cares which give people the three wrinkles between the eyebrows, and leaves them free to have a good time and make others have a good time, all the way along from the charity that tips up unexpected loads of wood before widows' houses, and leaves foundling turkeys upon poor men's door-steps, and sets lean clergymen crying at the sight of anonymous fifty-dollar bills, to the taste which orders a perfect banquet in such sweet accord with every sense that everybody's nature flowers out full--blown in its golden--glowing, fragrant atmosphere. --a great party given by the smaller gentry of the interior is a kind of solemnity, so to speak. it involves so much labor and anxiety,--its spasmodic splendors are so violently contrasted with the homeliness of every-day family-life,--it is such a formidable matter to break in the raw subordinates to the manege of the cloak-room and the table,--there is such a terrible uncertainty in the results of unfamiliar culinary operations,--so many feuds are involved in drawing that fatal line which divides the invited from the uninvited fraction of the local universe,--that, if the notes requested the pleasure of the guests' company on "this solemn occasion," they would pretty nearly express the true state of things. the colonel himself had been pressed into the service. he had pounded something in the great mortar. he had agitated a quantity of sweetened and thickened milk in what was called a cream-freezer. at eleven o'clock, a. m., he retired for a space. on returning, his color was noted to be somewhat heightened, and he showed a disposition to be jocular with the female help,--which tendency, displaying itself in livelier demonstrations than were approved at head-quarters, led to his being detailed to out-of-door duties, such as raking gravel, arranging places for horses to be hitched to, and assisting in the construction of an arch of wintergreen at the porch of the mansion. a whiff from mr. geordie's cigar refreshed the toiling females from time to time; for the windows had to be opened occasionally, while all these operations were going on, and the youth amused himself with inspecting the interior, encouraging the operatives now and then in the phrases commonly employed by genteel young men,--for he had perused an odd volume of "verdant green," and was acquainted with a sophomore from one of the fresh-water colleges. "go it on the feed!" exclaimed this spirited young man. "nothin' like a good spread. grub enough and good liquor, that's the ticket. guv'nor'll do the heavy polite, and let me alone for polishin' off the young charmers." and mr. geordie looked expressively at a handmaid who was rolling gingerbread, as if he were rehearsing for "don giovanni." evening came at last, and the ladies were forced to leave the scene of their labors to array themselves for the coming festivities. the tables had been set in a back room, the meats were ready, the pickles were displayed, the cake was baked, the blanc-mange had stiffened, and the ice-cream had frozen. at half past seven o'clock, the colonel, in costume, came into the front parlor, and proceeded to light the lamps. some were good-humored enough and took the hint of a lighted match at once. others were as vicious as they could be,--would not light on any terms, any more than if they were filled with water, or lighted and smoked one side of the chimney, or spattered a few sparks and sulked themselves out, or kept up a faint show of burning, so that their ground glasses looked as feebly phosphorescent as so many invalid fireflies. with much coaxing and screwing and pricking, a tolerable illumination was at last achieved. at eight there was a grand rustling of silks, and mrs. and miss sprowle descended from their respective bowers or boudoirs. of course they were pretty well tired by this time, and very glad to sit down,--having the prospect before them of being obliged to stand for hours. the colonel walked about the parlor, inspecting his regiment of lamps. by and by mr. geordie entered. "mph! mph!" he sniffed, as he came in. "you smell of lamp-smoke here." that always galls people,--to have a new-comer accuse them of smoke or close air, which they have got used to and do not perceive. the colonel raged at the thought of his lamps' smoking, and tongued a few anathemas inside of his shut teeth, but turned down two or three wicks that burned higher than the rest. master h. frederic next made his appearance, with questionable marks upon his fingers and countenance. had been tampering with something brown and sticky. his elder brother grew playful, and caught him by the baggy reverse of his more essential garment. "hush!" said mrs. sprowle,--"there 's the bell!" everybody took position at once, and began to look very smiling and altogether at ease.--false alarm. only a parcel of spoons,--"loaned," as the inland folks say when they mean lent, by a neighbor. "better late than never!" said the colonel, "let me heft them spoons." mrs. sprowle came down into her chair again as if all her bones had been bewitched out of her. "i'm pretty nigh beat out a'ready," said she, "before any of the folks has come." they sat silent awhile, waiting for the first arrival. how nervous they got! and how their senses were sharpened! "hark!" said miss matilda,--"what 's that rumblin'?" it was a cart going over a bridge more than a mile off, which at any other time they would not have heard. after this there was a lull, and poor mrs. sprowle's head nodded once or twice. presently a crackling and grinding of gravel;--how much that means, when we are waiting for those whom we long or dread to see! then a change in the tone of the gravel-crackling. "yes, they have turned in at our gate. they're comin'! mother! mother!" everybody in position, smiling and at ease. bell rings. enter the first set of visitors. the event of the season has begun. "law! it's nothin' but the cranes' folks! i do believe mahala 's come in that old green de-laine she wore at the surprise party!" miss matilda had peeped through a crack of the door and made this observation and the remark founded thereon. continuing her attitude of attention, she overheard mrs. crane and her two daughters conversing in the attiring-room, up one flight. "how fine everything is in the great house!" said mrs. crane,--"jest look at the picters!" "matildy sprowle's drawin's," said ada azuba, the eldest daughter. "i should think so," said mahala crane, her younger sister,--a wide-awake girl, who had n't been to school for nothing, and performed a little on the lead pencil herself. "i should like to know whether that's a hay-cock or a mountain!" miss matilda winced; for this must refer to her favorite monochrome, executed by laying on heavy shadows and stumping them down into mellow harmony,--the style of drawing which is taught in six lessons, and the kind of specimen which is executed in something less than one hour. parents and other very near relatives are sometimes gratified with these productions, and cause them to be framed and hung up, as in the present instance. "i guess we won't go down jest yet," said mrs. crane, "as folks don't seem to have come." so she began a systematic inspection of the dressing-room and its conveniences. "mahogany four-poster;--come from the jordans', i cal'la,te. marseilles quilt. ruffles all round the piller. chintz curtings,--jest put up,--o' purpose for the party, i'll lay ye a dollar.--what a nice washbowl!" (taps it with a white knuckle belonging to a red finger.) "stone chaney.--here's a bran'-new brush and comb,--and here's a scent-bottle. come here, girls, and fix yourselves in the glass, and scent your pocket-handkerchers." and mrs. crane bedewed her own kerchief with some of the eau de cologne of native manufacture,--said on its label to be much superior to the german article. it was a relief to mrs. and the miss cranes when the bell rang and the next guests were admitted. deacon and mrs. soper,--deacon soper of the rev. mr. fairweather's church, and his lady. mrs. deacon soper was directed, of course, to the ladies' dressing-room, and her husband to the other apartment, where gentlemen were to leave their outside coats and hats. then came mr. and mrs. briggs, and then the three miss spinneys, then silas peckham, head of the apollinean institute, and mrs. peckham, and more after them, until at last the ladies' dressing-room got so full that one might have thought it was a trap none of them could get out of. in truth, they all felt a little awkwardly. nobody wanted to be first to venture down-stairs. at last mr. silas peckham thought it was time to make a move for the parlor, and for this purpose presented himself at the door of the ladies' dressing-room. "lorindy, my dear!" he exclaimed to mrs. peckham,--"i think there can be no impropriety in our joining the family down-stairs." mrs. peckham laid her large, flaccid arm in the sharp angle made by the black sleeve which held the bony limb her husband offered, and the two took the stair and struck out for the parlor. the ice was broken, and the dressing-room began to empty itself into the spacious, lighted apartments below. mr. silas peckham slid into the room with mrs. peckham alongside, like a shad convoying a jelly-fish. "good-evenin', mrs. sprowle! i hope i see you well this evenin'. how 's your haalth, colonel sprowle?" "very well, much obleeged to you. hope you and your good lady are well. much pleased to see you. hope you'll enjoy yourselves. we've laid out to have everything in good shape,--spared no trouble nor ex"-- "pence,"--said silas peckham. mrs. colonel sprowle, who, you remember, was a jordan, had nipped the colonel's statement in the middle of the word mr. peckham finished, with a look that jerked him like one of those sharp twitches women keep giving a horse when they get a chance to drive one. mr. and mrs. crane, miss ada azuba, and miss mahala crane made their entrance. there had been a discussion about the necessity and propriety of inviting this family, the head of which kept a small shop for hats and boots and shoes. the colonel's casting vote had carried it in the affirmative.--how terribly the poor old green de-laine did cut up in the blaze of so many lamps and candles. --deluded little wretch, male or female, in town or country, going to your first great party, how little you know the nature of the ceremony in which you are to bear the part of victim! what! are not these garlands and gauzy mists and many-colored streamers which adorn you, is not this music which welcomes you, this radiance that glows about you, meant solely for your enjoyment, young miss of seventeen or eighteen summers, now for the first time swimming unto the frothy, chatoyant, sparkling, undulating sea of laces and silks and satins, and white-armed, flower-crowned maidens struggling in their waves beneath the lustres that make the false summer of the drawing-room? stop at the threshold! this is a hall of judgment you are entering; the court is in session; and if you move five steps forward, you will be at its bar. there was a tribunal once in france, as you may remember, called the chambre ardente, the burning chamber. it was hung all round with lamps, and hence its name. the burning chamber for the trial of young maidens is the blazing ball-room. what have they full-dressed you, or rather half-dressed you for, do you think? to make you look pretty, of course! why have they hung a chandelier above you, flickering all over with flames, so that it searches you like the noonday sun, and your deepest dimple cannot hold a shadow? to give brilliancy to the gay scene, no doubt!--no, my clear! society is inspecting you, and it finds undisguised surfaces and strong lights a convenience in the process. the dance answers the purpose of the revolving pedestal upon which the "white captive" turns, to show us the soft, kneaded marble, which looks as if it had never been hard, in all its manifold aspects of living loveliness. no mercy for you, my love! justice, strict justice, you shall certainly have,--neither more nor less. for, look you, there are dozens, scores, hundreds, with whom you must be weighed in the balance; and you have got to learn that the "struggle for life" mr. charles darwin talks about reaches to vertebrates clad in crinoline, as well as to mollusks in shells, or articulates in jointed scales, or anything that fights for breathing-room and food and love in any coat of fur or feather! happy they who can flash defiance from bright eyes and snowy shoulders back into the pendants of the insolent lustres! --miss mahala crane did not have these reflections; and no young girl ever did, or ever will, thank heaven! her keen eyes sparkled under her plainly parted hair and the green de-laine moulded itself in those unmistakable lines of natural symmetry in which nature indulges a small shopkeeper's daughter occasionally as well as a wholesale dealer's young ladies. she would have liked a new dress as much as any other girl, but she meant to go and have a good time at any rate. the guests were now arriving in the drawing-room pretty fast, and the colonel's hand began to burn a good deal with the sharp squeezes which many of the visitors gave it. conversation, which had begun like a summer-shower, in scattering drops, was fast becoming continuous, and occasionally rising into gusty swells, with now and then a broad-chested laugh from some captain or major or other military personage,--for it may be noted that all large and loud men in the unpaved districts bear military titles. deacon soper came up presently, and entered into conversation with colonel sprowle. "i hope to see our pastor present this evenin'," said the deacon. "i don't feel quite sure," the colonel answered. "his dyspepsy has been bad on him lately. he wrote to say, that, providence permittin', it would be agreeable to him to take a part in the exercises of the evenin'; but i mistrusted he did n't mean to come. to tell the truth, deacon soper, i rather guess he don't like the idee of dancin', and some of the other little arrangements." "well," said the deacon, "i know there's some condemns dancin'. i've heerd a good deal of talk about it among the folks round. some have it that it never brings a blessin' on a house to have dancin' in it. judge tileston died, you remember, within a month after he had his great ball, twelve year ago, and some thought it was in the natur' of a judgment. i don't believe in any of them notions. if a man happened to be struck dead the night after he'd been givin' a ball," (the colonel loosened his black stock a little, and winked and swallowed two or three times,) "i should n't call it a judgment,--i should call it a coincidence. but i 'm a little afraid our pastor won't come. somethin' or other's the matter with mr. fairweather. i should sooner expect to see the old doctor come over out of the orthodox parsonage-house." "i've asked him," said the colonel. "well?" said deacon soper. "he said he should like to come, but he did n't know what his people would say. for his part, he loved to see young folks havin' their sports together, and very often felt as if he should like to be one of 'em himself. 'but,' says i, 'doctor, i don't say there won't be a little dancin'.' 'don't!' says he, 'for i want letty to go,' (she's his granddaughter that's been stayin' with him,) 'and letty 's mighty fond of dancin'. you know,' says the doctor, 'it is n't my business to settle whether other people's children should dance or not.' and the doctor looked as if he should like to rigadoon and sashy across as well as the young one he was talkin' about. he 's got blood in him, the old doctor has. i wish our little man and him would swop pulpits." deacon soper started and looked up into the colonel's face, as if to see whether he was in earnest. mr. silas peckham and his lady joined the group. "is this to be a temperance celebration, mrs. sprowle?" asked mr. silas peckham. mrs. sprowle replied, "that there would be lemonade and srub for those that preferred such drinks, but that the colonel had given folks to understand that he did n't mean to set in judgment on the marriage in canaan, and that those that didn't like srub and such things would find somethin' that would suit them better." deacon soper's countenance assumed a certain air of restrained cheerfulness. the conversation rose into one of its gusty paroxysms just then. master h. frederic got behind a door and began performing the experiment of stopping and unstopping his ears in rapid alternation, greatly rejoicing in the singular effect of mixed conversation chopped very small, like the contents of a mince-pie, or meat-pie, as it is more forcibly called in the deep-rutted villages lying along the unsalted streams. all at once it grew silent just round the door, where it had been loudest,--and the silence spread itself like a stain, till it hushed everything but a few corner-duets. a dark, sad-looking, middle-aged gentleman entered the parlor, with a young lady on his arm,--his daughter, as it seemed, for she was not wholly unlike him in feature, and of the same dark complexion. "dudley venner," exclaimed a dozen people, in startled, but half-suppressed tones. "what can have brought dudley out to-night?" said jefferson buck, a young fellow, who had been interrupted in one of the corner-duets which he was executing in concert with miss susy pettingill. "how do i know, jeff?" was miss susy's answer. then, after a pause,--"elsie made him come, i guess. go ask dr. kittredge; he knows all about 'em both, they say." dr. kittredge, the leading physician of rockland, was a shrewd old man, who looked pretty keenly into his patients through his spectacles, and pretty widely at men, women, and things in general over them. sixty-three years old,--just the year of the grand climacteric. a bald crown, as every doctor should have. a consulting practitioner's mouth; that is, movable round the corners while the case is under examination, but both corners well drawn down and kept so when the final opinion is made up. in fact, the doctor was often sent for to act as "caounsel," all over the county, and beyond it. he kept three or four horses, sometimes riding in the saddle, commonly driving in a sulky, pretty fast, and looking straight before him, so that people got out of the way of bowing to him as he passed on the road. there was some talk about his not being so long-sighted as other folks, but his old patients laughed and looked knowing when this was spoken of. the doctor knew a good many things besides how to drop tinctures and shake out powders. thus, he knew a horse, and, what is harder to understand, a horse-dealer, and was a match for him. he knew what a nervous woman is, and how to manage her. he could tell at a glance when she is in that condition of unstable equilibrium in which a rough word is like a blow to her, and the touch of unmagnetized fingers reverses all her nervous currents. it is not everybody that enters into the soul of mozart's or beethoven's harmonies; and there are vital symphonies in b flat, and other low, sad keys, which a doctor may know as little of as a hurdy-gurdy player of the essence of those divine musical mysteries. the doctor knew the difference between what men say and what they mean as well as most people. when he was listening to common talk, he was in the habit of looking over his spectacles; if he lifted his head so as to look through them at the person talking, he was busier with that person's thoughts than with his words. jefferson buck was not bold enough to confront the doctor with miss susy's question, for he did not look as if he were in the mood to answer queries put by curious young people. his eyes were fixed steadily on the dark girl, every movement of whom he seemed to follow. she was, indeed, an apparition of wild beauty, so unlike the girls about her that it seemed nothing more than natural, that, when she moved, the groups should part to let her pass through them, and that she should carry the centre of all looks and thoughts with her. she was dressed to please her own fancy, evidently, with small regard to the modes declared correct by the rockland milliners and mantua-makers. her heavy black hair lay in a braided coil, with a long gold pin shat through it like a javelin. round her neck was a golden torque, a round, cord-like chain, such as the gaols used to wear; the "dying gladiator" has it. her dress was a grayish watered silk; her collar was pinned with a flashing diamond brooch, the stones looking as fresh as morning dew-drops, but the silver setting of the past generation; her arms were bare, round, but slender rather than large, in keeping with her lithe round figure. on her wrists she wore bracelets: one was a circlet of enamelled scales; the other looked as if it might have been cleopatra's asp, with its body turned to gold and its, eyes to emeralds. her father--for dudley venner was her father--looked like a man of culture and breeding, but melancholy and with a distracted air, as one whose life had met some fatal cross or blight. he saluted hardly anybody except his entertainers and the doctor. one would have said, to look at him, that he was not at the party by choice; and it was natural enough to think, with susy pettingill, that it must have been a freak of the dark girl's which brought him there, for he had the air of a shy and sad-hearted recluse. it was hard to say what could have brought elsie venner to the party. hardly anybody seemed to know her, and she seemed not at all disposed to make acquaintances. here and there was one of the older girls from the institute, but she appeared to have nothing in common with them. even in the schoolroom, it may be remembered, she sat apart by her own choice, and now in the midst of the crowd she made a circle of isolation round herself. drawing her arm out of her father's, she stood against the wall, and looked, with a strange, cold glitter in her eyes, at the crowd which moved and babbled before her. the old doctor came up to her by and by. "well, elsie, i am quite surprised to find you here. do tell me how you happened to do such a good-natured thing as to let us see you at such a great party." "it's been dull at the mansion-house," she said, "and i wanted to get out of it. it's too lonely there,--there's nobody to hate since dick's gone." the doctor laughed good-naturedly, as if this were an amusing bit of pleasantry,--but he lifted his head and dropped his eyes a little, so as to see her through his spectacles. she narrowed her lids slightly, as one often sees a sleepy cat narrow hers,--somewhat as you may remember our famous margaret used to, if you remember her at all,--so that her eyes looked very small, but bright as the diamonds on her breast. the old doctor felt very oddly as she looked at him; be did not like the feeling, so he dropped his head and lifted his eyes and looked at her over his spectacles again. "and how have you all been at the mansion house?" said the doctor. "oh, well enough. but dick's gone, and there's nobody left but dudley and i and the people. i'm tired of it. what kills anybody quickest, doctor?" then, in a whisper, "i ran away again the other day, you know." "where did you go?" the doctor spoke in a low, serious tone. "oh, to the old place. here, i brought this for you." the doctor started as she handed him a flower of the atragene americana, for he knew that there was only one spot where it grew, and that not one where any rash foot, least of all a thin-shod woman's foot, should venture. "how long were you gone?" said the doctor. "only one night. you should have heard the horns blowing and the guns firing. dudley was frightened out of his wits. old sophy told him she'd had a dream, and that i should be found in dead-man's hollow, with a great rock lying on me. they hunted all over it, but they did n't find me,--i was farther up." doctor kittredge looked cloudy and worried while she was speaking, but forced a pleasant professional smile, as he said cheerily, and as if wishing to change the subject, "have a good dance this evening, elsie. the fiddlers are tuning up. where 's the young master? has he come yet? or is he going to be late, with the other great folks?" the girl turned away without answering, and looked toward the door. the "great folks," meaning the mansion-house gentry, were just beginning to come; dudley venner and his daughter had been the first of them. judge thornton, white-headed, fresh-faced, as good at sixty as he was at forty, with a youngish second wife, and one noble daughter, arabella, who, they said, knew as much law as her father, a stately, portia like girl, fit for a premier's wife, not like to find her match even in the great cities she sometimes visited; the trecothicks, the family of a merchant, (in the larger sense,) who, having made himself rich enough by the time he had reached middle life, threw down his ledger as sylla did his dagger, and retired to make a little paradise around him in one of the stateliest residences of the town, a family inheritance; the vaughans, an old rockland race, descended from its first settlers, toryish in tendency in revolutionary times, and barely escaping confiscation or worse; the dunhams, a new family, dating its gentility only as far back as the honorable washington dunham, m. c., but turning out a clever boy or two that went to college; and some showy girls with white necks and fat arms who had picked up professional husbands: these were the principal mansion-house people. all of them had made it a point to come; and as each of them entered, it seemed to colonel and mrs. sprowle that the lamps burned up with a more cheerful light, and that the fiddles which sounded from the uncarpeted room were all half a tone higher and half a beat quicker. mr. bernard came in later than any of them; he had been busy with his new duties. he looked well and that is saying a good deal; for nothing but a gentleman is endurable in full dress. hair that masses well, a head set on with an air, a neckerchief tied cleverly by an easy, practised hand, close-fitting gloves, feet well shaped and well covered,--these advantages can make us forgive the odious sable broadcloth suit, which appears to have been adopted by society on the same principle that condemned all the venetian gondolas to perpetual and uniform blackness. mr. bernard, introduced by mr. geordie, made his bow to the colonel and his lady and to miss matilda, from whom he got a particularly gracious curtsy, and then began looking about him for acquaintances. he found two or three faces he knew,--many more strangers. there was silas peckham,--there was no mistaking him; there was the inelastic amplitude of mrs. peckham; few of the apollinean girls, of course, they not being recognized members of society,--but there is one with the flame in her cheeks and the fire in her eyes, the girl of vigorous tints and emphatic outlines, whom we saw entering the schoolroom the other day. old judge thornton has his eyes on her, and the colonel steals a look every now and then at the red brooch which lifts itself so superbly into the light, as if he thought it a wonderfully becoming ornament. mr. bernard himself was not displeased with the general effect of the rich-blooded schoolgirl, as she stood under the bright lamps, fanning herself in the warm, languid air, fixed in a kind of passionate surprise at the new life which seemed to be flowering out in her consciousness. perhaps he looked at her somewhat steadily, as some others had done; at any rate, she seemed to feel that she was looked at, as people often do, and, turning her eyes suddenly on him, caught his own on her face, gave him a half-bashful smile, and threw in a blush involuntarily which made it more charming. "what can i do better," he said to himself, "than have a dance with rosa milburn?" so he carried his handsome pupil into the next room and took his place with her in a cotillon. whether the breath of the goddess of love could intoxicate like the cup of circe,--whether a woman is ever phosphorescent with the luminous vapor of life that she exhales,--these and other questions which relate to occult influences exercised by certain women we will not now discuss. it is enough that mr. bernard was sensible of a strange fascination, not wholly new to him, nor unprecedented in the history of human experience, but always a revelation when it comes over us for the first or the hundredth time, so pale is the most recent memory by the side of the passing moment with the flush of any new-born passion on its cheek. remember that nature makes every man love all women, and trusts the trivial matter of special choice to the commonest accident. if mr. bernard had had nothing to distract his attention, he might have thought too much about his handsome partner, and then gone home and dreamed about her, which is always dangerous, and waked up thinking of her still, and then begun to be deeply interested in her studies, and so on, through the whole syllogism which ends in nature's supreme quod erat demonstrandum. what was there to distract him or disturb him? he did not know,--but there was something. this sumptuous creature, this eve just within the gate of an untried paradise, untutored in the ways of the world, but on tiptoe to reach the fruit of the tree of knowledge,--alive to the moist vitality of that warm atmosphere palpitating with voices and music, as the flower of some dioecious plant which has grown in a lone corner and suddenly unfolding its corolla on some hot-breathing june evening, feels that the air is perfumed with strange odors and loaded with golden dust wafted from those other blossoms with which its double life is shared,--this almost over-womanized woman might well have bewitched him, but that he had a vague sense of a counter-charm. it was, perhaps, only the same consciousness that some one was looking at him which he himself had just given occasion to in his partner. presently, in one of the turns of the dance, he felt his eyes drawn to a figure he had not distinctly recognized, though he had dimly felt its presence, and saw that elsie venner was looking at him as if she saw nothing else but him. he was not a nervous person, like the poor lady-teacher, yet the glitter of the diamond eyes affected him strangely. it seemed to disenchant the air, so full a moment before of strange attractions. he became silent, and dreamy, as it were. the round-limbed beauty at his side crushed her gauzy draperies against him, as they trod the figure of the dance together, but it was no more to him than if an old nurse had laid her hand on his sleeve. the young girl chafed at his seeming neglect, and her imperious blood mounted into her cheeks; but he appeared unconscious of it. "there is one of our young ladies i must speak to," he said,--and was just leaving his partner's side. "four hands all round?" shouted the first violin,--and mr. bernard found himself seized and whirled in a circle out of which he could not escape, and then forced to "cross over," and then to "dozy do," as the maestro had it,--and when, on getting back to his place, he looked for elsie venner, she was gone. the dancing went on briskly. some of the old folks looked on, others conversed in groups and pairs, and so the evening wore along, until a little after ten o'clock. about this time there was noticed an increased bustle in the passages, with a considerable opening and shutting of doors. presently it began to be whispered about that they were going to have supper. many, who had never been to any large party before, held their breath for a moment at this announcement. it was rather with a tremulous interest than with open hilarity that the rumor was generally received. one point the colonel had entirely forgotten to settle. it was a point involving not merely propriety, but perhaps principle also, or at least the good report of the house,--and he had never thought to arrange it. he took judge thornton aside and whispered the important question to him,--in his distress of mind, mistaking pockets and taking out his bandanna instead of his white handkerchief to wipe his forehead. "judge," he said, "do you think, that, before we commence refreshing ourselves at the tables, it would be the proper thing to--crave a--to request deacon soper or some other elderly person--to ask a blessing?" the judge looked as grave as if he were about giving the opinion of the court in the great india-rubber case. "on the whole," he answered, after a pause, "i should think it might, perhaps, be dispensed with on this occasion. young folks are noisy, and it is awkward to have talking and laughing going on while blessing is being asked. unless a clergyman is present and makes a point of it, i think it will hardly be expected." the colonel was infinitely relieved. "judge, will you take mrs. sprowle in to supper?" and the colonel returned the compliment by offering his arm to mrs. judge thornton. the door of the supper-room was now open, and the company, following the lead of the host and hostess, began to stream into it, until it was pretty well filled. there was an awful kind of pause. many were beginning to drop their heads and shut their eyes, in anticipation of the usual petition before a meal; some expected the music to strike up,--others, that an oration would now be delivered by the colonel. "make yourselves at home, ladies and gentlemen," said the colonel; "good things were made to eat, and you're welcome to all you see before you." so saying he attacked a huge turkey which stood at the head of the table; and his example being followed first by the bold, then by the doubtful, and lastly by the timid, the clatter soon made the circuit of the tables. some were shocked, however, as the colonel had feared they would be, at the want of the customary invocation. widow leech, a kind of relation, who had to be invited, and who came with her old, back-country-looking string of gold beads round her neck, seemed to feel very serious about it. "if she'd ha' known that folks would begrutch cravin' a blessin' over sech a heap o' provisions, she'd rather ha' staid t' home. it was a bad sign, when folks was n't grateful for the baounties of providence." the elder miss spinney, to whom she made this remark, assented to it, at the same time ogling a piece of frosted cake, which she presently appropriated with great refinement of manner,--taking it between her thumb and forefinger, keeping the others well spread and the little finger in extreme divergence, with a graceful undulation of the neck, and a queer little sound in her throat, as of an m that wanted to get out and perished in the attempt. the tables now presented an animated spectacle. young fellows of the more dashing sort, with high stand-up collars and voluminous bows to their neckerchiefs, distinguished themselves by cutting up fowls and offering portions thereof to the buxom girls these knowing ones had commonly selected. "a bit of the wing, roxy, or of the--under limb?" the first laugh broke out at this, but it was premature, a sporadic laugh, as dr. kittredge would have said, which did not become epidemic. people were very solemn as yet, many of them being new to such splendid scenes, and crushed, as it were, in the presence of so much crockery and so many silver spoons, and such a variety of unusual viands and beverages. when the laugh rose around roxy and her saucy beau, several looked in that direction with an anxious expression, as if something had happened, a lady fainted, for instance, or a couple of lively fellows come to high words. "young folks will be young folks," said deacon soper. "no harm done. least said soonest mended." "have some of these shell-oysters?" said the colonel to mrs. trecothick. a delicate emphasis on the word shell implied that the colonel knew what was what. to the new england inland native, beyond the reach of the east winds, the oyster unconditioned, the oyster absolute, without a qualifying adjective, is the pickled oyster. mrs. trecothick, who knew very well that an oyster long out of his shell (as is apt to be the case with the rural bivalve) gets homesick and loses his sprightliness, replied, with the pleasantest smile in the world, that the chicken she had been helped to was too delicate to be given up even for the greater rarity. but the word "shell-oysters" had been overheard; and there was a perceptible crowding movement towards their newly discovered habitat, a large soup-tureen. silas peckham had meantime fallen upon another locality of these recent mollusks. he said nothing, but helped himself freely, and made a sign to mrs. peckham. "lorindy," he whispered, "shell-oysters" and ladled them out to her largely, without betraying any emotion, just as if they had been the natural inland or pickled article. after the more solid portion of the banquet had been duly honored, the cakes and sweet preparations of various kinds began to get their share of attention. there were great cakes and little cakes, cakes with raisins in them, cakes with currants, and cakes without either; there were brown cakes and yellow cakes, frosted cakes, glazed cakes, hearts and rounds, and jumbles, which playful youth slip over the forefinger before spoiling their annular outline. there were mounds of blo'monje, of the arrowroot variety,--that being undistinguishable from such as is made with russia isinglass. there were jellies, which had been shaking, all the time the young folks were dancing in the next room, as if they were balancing to partners. there were built-up fabrics, called charlottes, caky externally, pulpy within; there were also marangs, and likewise custards,--some of the indolent-fluid sort, others firm, in which every stroke of the teaspoon left a smooth, conchoidal surface like the fracture of chalcedony, with here and there a little eye like what one sees in cheeses. nor was that most wonderful object of domestic art called trifle wanting, with its charming confusion of cream and cake and almonds and jam and jelly and wine and cinnamon and froth; nor yet the marvellous floating-island,--name suggestive of all that is romantic in the imaginations of youthful palates. "it must have cost you a sight of work, to say nothin' of money, to get all this beautiful confectionery made for the party," said mrs. crane to mrs. sprowle. "well, it cost some consid'able labor, no doubt," said mrs. sprowle. "matilda and our girls and i made 'most all the cake with our own hands, and we all feel some tired; but if folks get what suits 'em, we don't begrudge the time nor the work. but i do feel thirsty," said the poor lady, "and i think a glass of srub would do my throat good; it's dreadful dry. mr. peckham, would you be so polite as to pass me a glass of srub?" silas peckham bowed with great alacrity, and took from the table a small glass cup, containing a fluid reddish in hue and subacid in taste. this was srub, a beverage in local repute, of questionable nature, but suspected of owing its tint and sharpness to some kind of syrup derived from the maroon-colored fruit of the sumac. there were similar small cups on the table filled with lemonade, and here and there a decanter of madeira wine, of the marsala kind, which some prefer to, and many more cannot distinguish from, that which comes from the atlantic island. "take a glass of wine, judge," said, the colonel; "here is an article that i rather think 'll suit you." the judge knew something of wines, and could tell all the famous old madeiras from each other, "eclipse," "juno," the almost fabulously scarce and precious "white-top," and the rest. he struck the nativity of the mediterranean madeira before it had fairly moistened his lip. "a sound wine, colonel, and i should think of a genuine vintage. your very good health." "deacon soper," said the colonel, "here is some madary judge thornton recommends. let me fill you a glass of it." the deacon's eyes glistened. he was one of those consistent christians who stick firmly by the first miracle and paul's advice to timothy. "a little good wine won't hurt anybody," said the deacon. "plenty, --plenty,--plenty. there!" he had not withdrawn his glass, while the colonel was pouring, for fear it should spill, and now it was running over. --it is very odd how all a man's philosophy and theology are at the mercy of a few drops of a fluid which the chemists say consists of nothing but c , o , h . the deacon's theology fell off several points towards latitudinarianism in the course of the next ten minutes. he had a deep inward sense that everything was as it should be, human nature included. the little accidents of humanity, known collectively to moralists as sin, looked very venial to his growing sense of universal brotherhood and benevolence. "it will all come right," the deacon said to himself,--"i feel a joyful conviction that everything is for the best. i am favored with a blessed peace of mind, and a very precious season of good feelin' toward my fellow-creturs." a lusty young fellow happened to make a quick step backward just at that instant, and put his heel, with his weight on top of it, upon the deacon's toes. "aigh! what the d' d' didos are y' abaout with them great huffs o' yourn?" said the deacon, with an expression upon his features not exactly that of peace and good-will to men. the lusty young fellow apologized; but the deacon's face did not come right, and his theology backed round several points in the direction of total depravity. some of the dashing young men in stand-up collars and extensive neckties, encouraged by mr. geordie, made quite free with the "ma,dary," and even induced some of the more stylish girls--not of the mansion-house set, but of the tip-top two-story families--to taste a little. most of these young ladies made faces at it, and declared it was "perfectly horrid," with that aspect of veracity peculiar to their age and sex. about this time a movement was made on the part of some of the mansion-house people to leave the supper-table. miss jane trecothick had quietly hinted to her mother that she had had enough of it. miss arabella thornton had whispered to her father that he had better adjourn this court to the next room. there were signs of migration,--a loosening of people in their places,--a looking about for arms to hitch on to. "stop!" said the colonel. "there's something coming yet.--ice-cream!" the great folks saw that the play was not over yet, and that it was only polite to stay and see it out. the word "ice-cream" was no sooner whispered than it passed from one to another all down the tables. the effect was what might have been anticipated. many of the guests had never seen this celebrated product of human skill, and to all the two-story population of rockland it was the last expression of the art of pleasing and astonishing the human palate. its appearance had been deferred for several reasons: first, because everybody would have attacked it, if it had come in with the other luxuries; secondly, because undue apprehensions were entertained (owing to want of experience) of its tendency to deliquesce and resolve itself with alarming rapidity into puddles of creamy fluid; and, thirdly, because the surprise would make a grand climax to finish off the banquet. there is something so audacious in the conception of ice-cream, that it is not strange that a population undebauched by the luxury of great cities looks upon it with a kind of awe and speaks of it with a certain emotion. this defiance of the seasons, forcing nature to do her work of congelation in the face of her sultriest noon, might well inspire a timid mind with fear lest human art were revolting against the higher powers, and raise the same scruples which resisted the use of ether and chloroform in certain contingencies. whatever may be the cause, it is well known that the announcement at any private rural entertainment that there is to be ice-cream produces an immediate and profound impression. it may be remarked, as aiding this impression, that exaggerated ideas are entertained as to the dangerous effects this congealed food may produce on persons not in the most robust health. there was silence as the pyramids of ice were placed on the table, everybody looking on in admiration. the colonel took a knife and assailed the one at the head of the table. when he tried to cut off a slice, it didn't seem to understand it, however, and only tipped, as if it wanted to upset. the colonel attacked it on the other side, and it tipped just as badly the other way. it was awkward for the colonel. "permit me," said the judge,--and he took the knife and struck a sharp slanting stroke which sliced off a piece just of the right size, and offered it to mrs. sprowle. this act of dexterity was much admired by the company. the tables were all alive again. "lorindy, here's a plate of ice-cream," said silas peckham. "come, mahaly," said a fresh-looking young-fellow with a saucerful in each hand, "here's your ice-cream;--let's go in the corner and have a celebration, us two." and the old green de-lame, with the young curves under it to make it sit well, moved off as pleased apparently as if it had been silk velvet with thousand-dollar laces over it. "oh, now, miss green! do you think it's safe to put that cold stuff into your stomick?" said the widow leech to a young married lady, who, finding the air rather warm, thought a little ice would cool her down very nicely. "it's jest like eatin' snowballs. you don't look very rugged; and i should be dreadful afeard, if i was you." "carrie," said old dr. kittredge, who had overheard this,--"how well you're looking this evening! but you must be tired and heated;--sit down here, and let me give you a good slice of ice-cream. how you young folks do grow up, to be sure! i don't feel quite certain whether it's you or your older sister, but i know it 's somebody i call carrie, and that i 've known ever since." a sound something between a howl and an oath startled the company and broke off the doctor's sentence. everybody's eyes turned in the direction from which it came. a group instantly gathered round the person who had uttered it, who was no other than deacon soper. "he's chokin'! he's chokin'!" was the first exclamation,--"slap him on the back!" several heavy fists beat such a tattoo on his spine that the deacon felt as if at least one of his vertebrae would come up. "he's black in the face," said widow leech, "he 's swallered somethin' the wrong way. where's the doctor?--let the doctor get to him, can't ye?" "if you will move, my good lady, perhaps i can," said doctor kittredge, in a calm tone of voice. "he's not choking, my friends," the doctor added immediately, when he got sight of him. "it 's apoplexy,--i told you so,--don't you see how red he is in the face?" said old mrs. peake, a famous woman for "nussin" sick folks, --determined to be a little ahead of the doctor. "it's not apoplexy," said dr. kittredge. "what is it, doctor? what is it? will he die? is he dead?--here's his poor wife, the widow soper that is to be, if she a'n't a'ready" "do be quiet, my good woman," said dr. kittredge.--"nothing serious, i think, mrs. soper. deacon!" the sudden attack of deacon soper had begun with the extraordinary sound mentioned above. his features had immediately assumed an expression of intense pain, his eyes staring wildly, and, clapping his hands to his face, he had rocked his head backward and forward in speechless agony. at the doctor's sharp appeal the deacon lifted his head. "it's all right," said the doctor, as soon as he saw his face. "the deacon had a smart attack of neuralgic pain. that 's all. very severe, but not at all dangerous." the doctor kept his countenance, but his diaphragm was shaking the change in iris waistcoat-pockets with subterranean laughter. he had looked through his spectacles and seen at once what had happened. the deacon, not being in the habit of taking his nourishment in the congealed state, had treated the ice-cream as a pudding of a rare species, and, to make sure of doing himself justice in its distribution, had taken a large mouthful of it without the least precaution. the consequence was a sensation as if a dentist were killing the nerves of twenty-five teeth at once with hot irons, or cold ones, which would hurt rather worse. the deacon swallowed something with a spasmodic effort, and recovered pretty soon and received the congratulations of his friends. there were different versions of the expressions he had used at the onset of his complaint,--some of the reported exclamations involving a breach of propriety, to say the least,--but it was agreed that a man in an attack of neuralgy wasn't to be judged of by the rules that applied to other folks. the company soon after this retired from the supper-room. the mansion-house gentry took their leave, and the two-story people soon followed. mr. bernard had stayed an hour or two, and left soon after he found that elsie venner and her father had disappeared. as he passed by the dormitory of the institute, he saw a light glimmering from one of its upper rooms, where the lady-teacher was still waking. his heart ached, when he remembered, that, through all these hours of gayety, or what was meant for it, the patient girl had been at work in her little chamber; and he looked up at the silent stars, as if to see that they were watching over her. the planet mars was burning like a red coal; the northern constellation was slanting downward about its central point of flame; and while he looked, a falling star slid from the zenith and was lost. he reached his chamber and was soon dreaming over the event of the season. chapter viii. the morning after. colonel sprowle's family arose late the next morning. the fatigues and excitements of the evening and the preparation for it were followed by a natural collapse, of which somnolence was a leading symptom. the sun shone into the window at a pretty well opened angle when the colonel first found himself sufficiently awake to address his yet slumbering spouse. "sally!" said the colonel, in a voice that was a little husky,--for he had finished off the evening with an extra glass or two of "madary," and had a somewhat rusty and headachy sense of renewed existence, on greeting the rather advanced dawn,--"sally!" "take care o' them custard-cups! there they go!" poor mrs. sprowle was fighting the party over in her dream; and as the visionary custard-cups crashed down through one lobe of her brain into another, she gave a start as if an inch of lightning from a quart leyden jar had jumped into one of her knuckles with its sudden and lively poonk! "sally!" said the colonel,--"wake up, wake up. what 'r' y' dreamin' abaout?" mrs. sprowle raised herself, by a sort of spasm, sur son seant, as they say in france,--up on end, as we have it in new england. she looked first to the left, then to the right, then straight before her, apparently without seeing anything, and at last slowly settled down, with her two eyes, blank of any particular meaning, directed upon the colonel. "what time is 't?" she said. "ten o'clock. what y' been dreamin' abaout? y' giv a jump like a hopper-grass. wake up, wake up! th' party 's over, and y' been asleep all the mornin'. the party's over, i tell ye! wake up!" "over!" said mrs. sprowle, who began to define her position at last,--"over! i should think 't was time 't was over! it's lasted a hundud year. i've been workin' for that party longer 'n methuselah's lifetime, sence i been asleep. the pies would n' bake, and the blo'monje would n' set, and the ice-cream would n' freeze, and all the folks kep' comin' 'n' comin' 'n' comin',--everybody i ever knew in all my life,--some of 'em 's been dead this twenty year 'n' more,--'n' nothin' for 'em to eat nor drink. the fire would n' burn to cook anything, all we could do. we blowed with the belluses, 'n' we stuffed in paper 'n' pitch-pine kindlin's, but nothin' could make that fire burn; 'n' all the time the folks kep' comin', as if they'd never stop,--'n' nothin' for 'em but empty dishes, 'n' all the borrowed chaney slippin' round on the waiters 'n' chippin' 'n' crackin',--i would n' go through what i been through t'-night for all th' money in th' bank,--i do believe it's harder t' have a party than t'"-- mrs. sprowle stated the case strongly. the colonel said he did n't know how that might be. she was a better judge than he was. it was bother enough, anyhow, and he was glad that it was over. after this, the worthy pair commenced preparations for rejoining the waking world, and in due time proceeded downstairs. everybody was late that morning, and nothing had got put to rights. the house looked as if a small army had been quartered in it over night. the tables were of course in huge disorder, after the protracted assault they had undergone. there had been a great battle evidently, and it had gone against the provisions. some points had been stormed, and all their defences annihilated, but here and there were centres of resistance which had held out against all attacks,--large rounds of beef, and solid loaves of cake, against which the inexperienced had wasted their energies in the enthusiasm of youth or uninformed maturity, while the longer-headed guests were making discoveries of "shell-oysters" and "patridges" and similar delicacies. the breakfast was naturally of a somewhat fragmentary character. a chicken that had lost his legs in the service of the preceding campaign was once more put on duty. a great ham stuck with cloves, as saint sebastian was with arrows, was again offered for martyrdom. it would have been a pleasant sight for a medical man of a speculative turn to have seen the prospect before the colonel's family of the next week's breakfasts, dinners, and suppers. the trail that one of these great rural parties leaves after it is one of its most formidable considerations. every door-handle in the house is suggestive of sweetmeats for the next week, at least. the most unnatural articles of diet displace the frugal but nutritious food of unconvulsed periods of existence. if there is a walking infant about the house, it will certainly have a more or less fatal fit from overmuch of some indigestible delicacy. before the week is out, everybody will be tired to death of sugary forms of nourishment and long to see the last of the remnants of the festival. the family had not yet arrived at this condition. on the contrary, the first inspection of the tables suggested the prospect of days of unstinted luxury; and the younger portion of the household, especially, were in a state of great excitement as the account of stock was taken with reference to future internal investments. some curious facts came to light during these researches. "where's all the oranges gone to?" said mrs. sprowle. "i expected there'd be ever so many of 'em left. i did n't see many of the folks eatin' oranges. where's the skins of 'em? there ought to be six dozen orange-skins round on the plates, and there a'n't one dozen. and all the small cakes, too, and all the sugar things that was stuck on the big cakes. has anybody counted the spoons? some of 'em got swallered, perhaps. i hope they was plated ones, if they did!" the failure of the morning's orange-crop and the deficit in other expected residual delicacies were not very difficult to account for. in many of the two-story rockland families, and in those favored households of the neighboring villages whose members had been invited to the great party, there was a very general excitement among the younger people on the morning after the great event. "did y' bring home somethin' from the party? what is it? what is it? is it frut-cake? is it nuts and oranges and apples? give me some! give me some!" such a concert of treble voices uttering accents like these had not been heard since the great temperance festival with the celebrated "colation" in the open air under the trees of the parnassian grove,--as the place was christened by the young ladies of the institute. the cry of the children was not in vain. from the pockets of demure fathers, from the bags of sharp-eyed spinsters, from the folded handkerchiefs of light-fingered sisters, from the tall hats of sly-winking brothers, there was a resurrection of the missing oranges and cakes and sugar-things in many a rejoicing family-circle, enough to astonish the most hardened "caterer" that ever contracted to feed a thousand people under canvas. the tender recollections of those dear little ones whom extreme youth or other pressing considerations detain from scenes of festivity--a trait of affection by no means uncommon among our thoughtful people--dignifies those social meetings where it is manifested, and sheds a ray of sunshine on our common nature. it is "an oasis in the desert,"--to use the striking expression of the last year's "valedictorian" of the apollinean institute. in the midst of so much that is purely selfish, it is delightful to meet such disinterested care for others. when a large family of children are expecting a parent's return from an entertainment, it will often require great exertions on his part to freight himself so as to meet their reasonable expectations. a few rules are worth remembering by all who attend anniversary dinners in faneuil hall or elsewhere. thus: lobsters' claws are always acceptable to children of all ages. oranges and apples are to be taken one at a time, until the coat-pockets begin to become inconveniently heavy. cakes are injured by sitting upon them; it is, therefore, well to carry a stout tin box of a size to hold as many pieces as there are children in the domestic circle. a very pleasant amusement, at the close of one of these banquets, is grabbing for the flowers with which the table is embellished. these will please the ladies at home very greatly, and, if the children are at the same time abundantly supplied with fruits, nuts, cakes, and any little ornamental articles of confectionery which are of a nature to be unostentatiously removed, the kind-hearted parent will make a whole household happy, without any additional expense beyond the outlay for his ticket. there were fragmentary delicacies enough left, of one kind and another, at any rate, to make all the colonel's family uncomfortable for the next week. it bid fair to take as long to get rid of the remains of the great party as it had taken to make ready for it. in the mean time mr. bernard had been dreaming, as young men dream, of gliding shapes with bright eyes and burning cheeks, strangely blended with red planets and hissing meteors, and, shining over all, the white, un-wandering star of the north, girt with its tethered constellations. after breakfast he walked into the parlor, where he found miss darley. she was alone, and, holding a school-book in her hand, was at work with one of the morning's lessons. she hardly noticed him as he entered, being very busy with her book,--and he paused a moment before speaking, and looked at her with a kind of reverence. it would not have been strictly true to call her beautiful. for years,--since her earliest womanhood,--those slender hands had taken the bread which repaid the toil of heart and brain from the coarse palms which offered it in the world's rude market. it was not for herself alone that she had bartered away the life of her youth, that she had breathed the hot air of schoolrooms, that she had forced her intelligence to posture before her will, as the exigencies of her place required,--waking to mental labor,--sleeping to dream of problems,--rolling up the stone of education for an endless twelvemonth's term, to find it at the bottom of the hill again when another year called her to its renewed duties, schooling her temper in unending inward and outward conflicts, until neither dulness nor obstinacy nor ingratitude nor insolence could reach her serene self-possession. not for herself alone. poorly as her prodigal labors were repaid in proportion to the waste of life they cost, her value was too well established to leave her without what, under other circumstances, would have been a more than sufficient compensation. but there were others who looked to her in their need, and so the modest fountain which might have been filled to its brim was continually drained through silent-flowing, hidden sluices. out of such a life, inherited from a race which had lived in conditions not unlike her own, beauty, in the common sense of the term, could hardly find leisure to develop and shape itself. for it must be remembered, that symmetry and elegance of features and figure, like perfectly formed crystals in the mineral world, are reached only by insuring a certain necessary repose to individuals and to generations. human beauty is an agricultural product in the country, growing up in men and women as in corn and cattle, where the soil is good. it is a luxury almost monopolized by the rich in cities, bred under glass like their forced pine-apples and peaches. both in city and country, the evolution of the physical harmonies which make music to our eyes requires a combination of favorable circumstances, of which alternations of unburdened tranquillity with intervals of varied excitement of mind and body are among the most important. where sufficient excitement is wanting, as often happens in the country, the features, however rich in red and white, get heavy, and the movements sluggish; where excitement is furnished in excess, as is frequently the case in cities, the contours and colors are impoverished, and the nerves begin to make their existence known to the consciousness, as the face very soon informs us. helen darley could not, in the nature of things, have possessed the kind of beauty which pleases the common taste. her eye was calm, sad-looking, her features very still, except when her pleasant smile changed them for a moment, all her outlines were delicate, her voice was very gentle, but somewhat subdued by years of thoughtful labor, and on her smooth forehead one little hinted line whispered already that care was beginning to mark the trace which time sooner or later would make a furrow. she could not be a beauty; if she had been, it would have been much harder for many persons to be interested in her. for, although in the abstract we all love beauty, and although, if we were sent naked souls into some ultramundane warehouse of soulless bodies and told to select one to our liking, we should each choose a handsome one, and never think of the consequences,--it is quite certain that beauty carries an atmosphere of repulsion as well as of attraction with it, alike in both sexes. we may be well assured that there are many persons who no more think of specializing their love of the other sex upon one endowed with signal beauty, than they think of wanting great diamonds or thousand-dollar horses. no man or woman can appropriate beauty without paying for it,--in endowments, in fortune, in position, in self-surrender, or other valuable stock; and there are a great many who are too poor, too ordinary, too humble, too busy, too proud, to pay any of these prices for it. so the unbeautiful get many more lovers than the beauties; only, as there are more of them, their lovers are spread thinner and do not make so much show. the young master stood looking at helen darley with a kind of tender admiration. she was such a picture of the martyr by the slow social combustive process, that it almost seemed to him he could see a pale lambent nimbus round her head. "i did not see you at the great party last evening," he said, presently. she looked up and answered, "no. i have not much taste for such large companies. besides, i do not feel as if my time belonged to me after it has been paid for. there is always something to do, some lesson or exercise,--and it so happened, i was very busy last night with the new problems in geometry. i hope you had a good time." "very. two or three of our girls were there. rosa milburn. what a beauty she is! i wonder what she feeds on! wine and musk and chloroform and coals of fire, i believe; i didn't think there was such color and flavor in a woman outside the tropics." miss darley smiled rather faintly; the imagery was not just to her taste: femineity often finds it very hard to accept the fact of muliebrity. "was"--? she stopped short; but her question had asked itself. "elsie there? she was, for an hour or so. she looked frightfully handsome. i meant to have spoken to her, but she slipped away before i knew it." "i thought she meant to go to the party," said miss darley. "did she look at you?" "she did. why?" "and you did not speak to her?" "no. i should have spoken to her, but she was gone when i looked for her. a strange creature! is n't there an odd sort of fascination about her? you have not explained all the mystery about the girl. what does she come to this school for? she seems to do pretty much as she likes about studying." miss darley answered in very low tones. "it was a fancy of hers to come, and they let her have her way. i don't know what there is about her, except that she seems to take my life out of me when she looks at me. i don't like to ask other people about our girls. she says very little to anybody, and studies, or makes believe to study, almost what she likes. i don't know what she is," (miss darley laid her hand, trembling, on the young master's sleeve,) "but i can tell when she is in the room without seeing or hearing her. oh, mr. langdon, i am weak and nervous, and no doubt foolish,--but--if there were women now, as in the days of our saviour, possessed of devils, i should think there was something not human looking out of elsie venner's eyes!" the poor girl's breast rose and fell tumultuously as she spoke, and her voice labored, as if some obstruction were rising in her throat. a scene might possibly have come of it, but the door opened. mr. silas peckham. miss darley got away as soon as she well could. "why did not miss darley go to the party last evening?" said mr. bernard. "well, the fact is," answered mr. silas peckham, "miss darley, she's pooty much took up with the school. she's an industris young. woman,--yis, she is industris,--but perhaps she a'n't quite so spry a worker as some. maybe, considerin' she's paid for her time, she is n't fur out o' the way in occoopyin' herself evenin's,--that--is, if so be she a'n't smart enough to finish up all her work in the daytime. edoocation is the great business of the institoot. amoosements are objec's of a secondary natur', accordin' to my v'oo." [the unspellable pronunciation of this word is the touchstone of new england brahminism.] mr. bernard drew a deep breath, his thin nostrils dilating, as if the air did not rush in fast enough to cool his blood, while silas peckham was speaking. the head of the apollinean institute delivered himself of these judicious sentiments in that peculiar acid, penetrating tone, thickened with a nasal twang, which not rarely becomes hereditary after three or four generations raised upon east winds, salt fish, and large, white-bellied, pickled cucumbers. he spoke deliberately, as if weighing his words well, so that, during his few remarks, mr. bernard had time for a mental accompaniment with variations, accented by certain bodily changes, which escaped mr. peckham's observation. first there was a feeling of disgust and shame at hearing helen darley spoken of like a dumb working animal. that sent the blood up into his cheeks. then the slur upon her probable want of force--her incapacity, who made the character of the school and left this man to pocket its profits--sent a thrill of the old wentworth fire through him, so that his muscles hardened, his hands closed, and he took the measure of mr. silas peckham, to see if his head would strike the wall in case he went over backwards all of a sudden. this would not do, of course, and so the thrill passed off and the muscles softened again. then came that state of tenderness in the heart, overlying wrath in the stomach, in which the eyes grow moist like a woman's, and there is also a great boiling-up of objectionable terms out of the deep-water vocabulary, so that prudence and propriety and all the other pious p's have to jump upon the lid of speech to keep them from boiling over into fierce articulation. all this was internal, chiefly, and of course not recognized by mr. silas peckham. the idea, that any full-grown, sensible man should have any other notion than that of getting the most work for the least money out of his assistants, had never suggested itself to him. mr. bernard had gone through this paroxysm, and cooled down, in the period while mr. peckham was uttering these words in his thin, shallow whine, twanging up into the frontal sinuses. what was the use of losing his temper and throwing away his place, and so, among the consequences which would necessarily follow, leaving the poor lady-teacher without a friend to stand by her ready to lay his hand on the grand-inquisitor before the windlass of his rack had taken one turn too many? "no doubt, mr. peckham," he said, in a grave, calm voice, "there is a great deal of work to be done in the school; but perhaps we can distribute the duties a little more evenly after a time. i shall look over the girls' themes myself, after this week. perhaps there will be some other parts of her labor that i can take on myself. we can arrange a new programme of studies and recitations." "we can do that," said mr. silas peckham. "but i don't propose mater'lly alterin' miss darley's dooties. i don't think she works to hurt herself. some of the trustees have proposed interdoosin' new branches of study, and i expect you will be pooty much occoopied with the dooties that belong to your place. on the sahbath you will be able to attend divine service three times, which is expected of our teachers. i shall continoo myself to give sahbath scriptur' readin's to the young ladies. that is a solemn dooty i can't make up my mind to commit to other people. my teachers enjoy the lord's day as a day of rest. in it they do no manner of work, except in cases of necessity or mercy, such as fillin' out diplomas, or when we git crowded jest at the end of a term, or when there is an extry number of p'oopils, or other providential call to dispense with the ordinance." mr. bernard had a fine glow in his cheeks by this time,--doubtless kindled by the thought of the kind consideration mr. peckham showed for his subordinates in allowing them the between meeting-time on sundays except for some special reason. but the morning was wearing away; so he went to the schoolroom, taking leave very properly of his respected principal, who soon took his hat and departed. mr. peckham visited certain "stores" or shops, where he made inquiries after various articles in the provision-line, and effected a purchase or two. two or three barrels of potatoes, which had sprouted in a promising way, he secured at a bargain. a side of feminine beef was also obtained at a low figure. he was entirely satisfied with a couple of barrels of flour, which, being invoiced "slightly damaged," were to be had at a reasonable price. after this, silas peckham felt in good spirits. he had done a pretty stroke of business. it came into his head whether he might not follow it up with a still more brilliant speculation. so he turned his steps in the direction of colonel sprowle's. it was now eleven o'clock, and the battle-field of last evening was as we left it. mr. peckham's visit was unexpected, perhaps not very well timed, but the colonel received him civilly. "beautifully lighted,--these rooms last night!" said mr. peckham. "winter-strained?" the colonel nodded. "how much do you pay for your winter-strained?" the colonel told him the price. "very hahnsome supper,--very hahnsome. nothin' ever seen like it in rockland. must have been a great heap of things leftover." the compliment was not ungrateful, and the colonel acknowledged it by smiling and saying, "i should think the' was a trifle? come and look." when silas peckham saw how many delicacies had survived the evening's conflict, his commercial spirit rose at once to the point of a proposal. "colonel sprowle," said he, "there's 'meat and cakes and pies and pickles enough on that table to spread a hahnsome colation. if you'd like to trade reasonable, i think perhaps i should be willin' to take 'em off your hands. there's been a talk about our havin' a celebration in the parnassian grove, and i think i could work in what your folks don't want and make myself whole by chargin' a small sum for tickets. broken meats, of course, a'n't of the same valoo as fresh provisions; so i think you might be willin' to trade reasonable." mr. peckham paused and rested on his proposal. it would not, perhaps, have been very extraordinary, if colonel sprowle had entertained the proposition. there is no telling beforehand how such things will strike people. it didn't happen to strike the colonel favorably. he had a little red-blooded manhood in him. "sell you them things to make a colation out of?" the colonel replied. "walk up to that table, mr. peckham, and help yourself! fill your pockets; mr. peckham! fetch a basket, and our hired folks shall fill it full for ye! send a cart, if y' like, 'n' carry off them leavin's to make a celebration for your pupils with! only let me tell ye this:--as sure 's my name's hezekiah spraowle, you 'll be known through the taown 'n' through the caounty, from that day forrard, as the principal of the broken-victuals institoot!" even provincial human-nature sometimes has a touch of sublimity about it. mr. silas peckham had gone a little deeper than he meant, and come upon the "hard pan," as the well-diggers call it, of the colonel's character, before he thought of it. a militia-colonel standing on his sentiments is not to be despised. that was shown pretty well in new england two or three generations ago. there were a good many plain officers that talked about their "rigiment" and their "caounty" who knew very well how to say "make ready!" "take aim!" "fire!"--in the face of a line of grenadiers with bullets in their guns and bayonets on them. and though a rustic uniform is not always unexceptionable in its cut and trimmings, yet there was many an ill-made coat in those old times that was good enough to be shown to the enemy's front rank too often to be left on the field with a round hole in its left lapel that matched another going right through the brave heart of the plain country captain or major or colonel who was buried in it under the crimson turf. mr. silas peckham said little or nothing. his sensibilities were not acute, but he perceived that he had made a miscalculation. he hoped that there was no offence,--thought it might have been mutooally agreeable, conclooded he would give up the idee of a colation, and backed himself out as if unwilling to expose the less guarded aspect of his person to the risk of accelerating impulses. the colonel shut the door,--cast his eye on the toe of his right boot, as if it had had a strong temptation,--looked at his watch, then round the room, and, going to a cupboard, swallowed a glass of deep-red brandy and water to compose his feelings. chapter ix. the doctor orders the best sulky. (with a digression on "hired help.") "abel! slip cassia into the new sulky, and fetch her round." abel was dr. kittredge's hired man. he was born in new hampshire, a queer sort of state, with fat streaks of soil and population where they breed giants in mind and body, and lean streaks which export imperfectly nourished young men with promising but neglected appetites, who may be found in great numbers in all the large towns, or could be until of late years, when they have been half driven out of their favorite basement-stories by foreigners, and half coaxed away from them by california. new hampshire is in more than one sense the switzerland of new england. the "granite state" being naturally enough deficient in pudding-stone, its children are apt to wander southward in search of that deposit,--in the unpetrified condition. abel stebbins was a good specimen of that extraordinary hybrid or mule between democracy and chrysocracy, a native-born new-england serving-man. the old world has nothing at all like him. he is at once an emperor and a subordinate. in one hand he holds one five-millionth part (be the same more or less) of the power that sways the destinies of the great republic. his other hand is in your boot, which he is about to polish. it is impossible to turn a fellow citizen whose vote may make his master--say, rather, employer--governor or president, or who may be one or both himself, into a flunky. that article must be imported ready-made from other centres of civilization. when a new englander has lost his self-respect as a citizen and as a man, he is demoralized, and cannot be trusted with the money to pay for a dinner. it may be supposed, therefore, that this fractional emperor, this continent-shaper, finds his position awkward when he goes into service, and that his employer is apt to find it still more embarrassing. it is always under protest that the hired man does his duty. every act of service is subject to the drawback, "i am as good as you are." this is so common, at least, as almost to be the rule, and partly accounts for the rapid disappearance of the indigenous "domestic" from the basements above mentioned. paleontologists will by and by be examining the floors of our kitchens for tracks of the extinct native species of serving-man. the female of the same race is fast dying out; indeed, the time is not far distant when all the varieties of young woman will have vanished from new england, as the dodo has perished in the mauritius. the young lady is all that we shall have left, and the mop and duster of the last ahnira or loizy will be stared at by generations of bridgets and noras as that famous head and foot of the lost bird are stared at in the ashmolean museum. abel stebbins, the doctor's man, took the true american view of his difficult position. he sold his time to the doctor, and, having sold it, he took care to fulfil his half of the bargain. the doctor, on his part, treated him, not like a gentleman, because one does not order a gentleman to bring up his horse or run his errands, but he treated him like a man. every order was given in courteous terms. his reasonable privileges were respected as much as if they had been guaranteed under hand and seal. the doctor lent him books from his own library, and gave him all friendly counsel, as if he were a son or a younger brother. abel had revolutionary blood in his veins, and though he saw fit to "hire out," he could never stand the word "servant," or consider himself the inferior one of the two high contracting parties. when he came to live with the doctor, he made up his mind he would dismiss the old gentleman, if he did not behave according to his notions of propriety. but he soon found that the doctor was one of the right sort, and so determined to keep him. the doctor soon found, on his side, that he had a trustworthy, intelligent fellow, who would be invaluable to him, if he only let him have his own way of doing what was to be done. the doctor's hired man had not the manners of a french valet. he was grave and taciturn for the most part, he never bowed and rarely smiled, but was always at work in the daytime, and always reading in the evening. he was hostler, and did all the housework that a man could properly do, would go to the door or "tend table," bought the provisions for the family,--in short, did almost everything for them but get their clothing. there was no office in a perfectly appointed household, from that of steward down to that of stable-boy, which he did not cheerfully assume. his round of work not consuming all his energies, he must needs cultivate the doctor's garden, which he kept in one perpetual bloom, from the blowing of the first crocus to the fading of the last dahlia. this garden was abel's poem. its half-dozen beds were so many cantos. nature crowded them for him with imagery such as no laureate could copy in the cold mosaic of language. the rhythm of alternating dawn and sunset, the strophe and antistrophe still perceptible through all the sudden shifts of our dithyrambic seasons and echoed in corresponding floral harmonies, made melody in the soul of abel, the plain serving-man. it softened his whole otherwise rigid aspect. he worshipped god according to the strict way of his fathers; but a florist's puritanism is always colored by the petals of his flowers,--and nature never shows him a black corolla. he may or may not figure again in this narrative; but as there must be some who confound the new england hired man, native-born, with the servant of foreign birth, and as there is the difference of two continents and two civilizations between them, it did not seem fair to let abel bring round the doctor's mare and sulky without touching his features in half-shadow into our background. the doctor's mare, cassia, was so called by her master from her cinnamon color, cassia being one of the professional names for that spice or drug. she was of the shade we call sorrel, or, as an englishman would perhaps say, chestnut,--a genuine "morgan" mare, with a low forehand, as is common in this breed, but with strong quarters and flat hocks, well ribbed up, with a good eye and a pair of lively ears,--a first-rate doctor's beast, would stand until her harness dropped off her back at the door of a tedious case, and trot over hill and dale thirty miles in three hours, if there was a child in the next county with a bean in its windpipe and the doctor gave her a hint of the fact. cassia was not large, but she had a good deal of action, and was the doctor's show-horse. there were two other animals in his stable: quassia or quashy, the black horse, and caustic, the old bay, with whom he jogged round the village. "a long ride to-day?" said abel, as he brought up the equipage. "just out of the village,--that 's all.--there 's a kink in her mane,--pull it out, will you?" "goin' to visit some of the great folks," abel said to himself. "wonder who it is."--then to the doctor,--"anybody get sick at sprowles's? they say deacon soper had a fit, after eatin' some o' their frozen victuals." the doctor smiled. he guessed the deacon would do well enough. he was only going to ride over to the dudley mansion-house. chapter x. the doctor calls on elsie venner. if that primitive physician, chiron, m. d., appears as a centaur, as we look at him through the lapse of thirty centuries, the modern country-doctor, if he could be seen about thirty miles off, could not be distinguished from a wheel-animalcule. he inhabits a wheel-carriage. he thinks of stationary dwellings as long tom coffin did of land in general; a house may be well enough for incidental purposes, but for a "stiddy" residence give him a "kerridge." if he is classified in the linnaean scale, he must be set down thus: genus homo; species rotifer infusorius, the wheel-animal of infusions. the dudley mansion was not a mile from the doctor's; but it never occurred to him to think of walking to see any of his patients' families, if he had any professional object in his visit. whenever the narrow sulky turned in at a gate, the rustic who was digging potatoes, or hoeing corn, or swishing through the grass with his scythe, in wave-like crescents, or stepping short behind a loaded wheelbarrow, or trudging lazily by the side of the swinging, loose-throated, short-legged oxen, rocking along the road as if they had just been landed after a three-months' voyage, the toiling native, whatever he was doing, stopped and looked up at the house the doctor was visiting. "somebody sick over there t' haynes's. guess th' old man's ailin' ag'in. winder's half-way open in the chamber,--should n' wonder 'f he was dead and laid aout. docterin' a'n't no use, when y' see th' winders open like that. wahl, money a'n't much to speak of to th' old man naow! he don' want but tew cents,--'n' old widah peake, she knows what he wants them for!" or again,-- "measles raound pooty thick. briggs's folks buried two children with 'em lass' week. th' of doctor, he'd h' ker'd 'em threugh. struck in 'n' p'dooced mo't'f'cation,--so they say." this is only meant as a sample of the kind of way they used to think or talk, when the narrow sulky turned in at the gate of some house where there was a visit to be made. oh, that narrow sulky! what hopes, what fears, what comfort, what anguish, what despair, in the roll of its coming or its parting wheels! in the spring, when the old people get the coughs which give them a few shakes and their lives drop in pieces like the ashes of a burned thread which have kept the threadlike shape until they were stirred,--in the hot summer noons, when the strong man comes in from the fields, like the son of the shunamite, crying, "my head, my head,"--in the dying autumn days, when youth and maiden lie fever-stricken in many a household, still-faced, dull-eyed, dark-flushed, dry-lipped, low-muttering in their daylight dreams, their fingers moving singly like those of slumbering harpers,--in the dead winter, when the white plague of the north has caged its wasted victims, shuddering as they think of the frozen soil which must be quarried like rock to receive them, if their perpetual convalescence should happen to be interfered with by any untoward accident,--at every season, the narrow sulky rolled round freighted with unmeasured burdens of joy and woe. the doctor drove along the southern foot of the mountain. the "dudley mansion" was near the eastern edge of this declivity, where it rose steepest, with baldest cliffs and densest patches of overhanging wood. it seemed almost too steep to climb, but a practised eye could see from a distance the zigzag lines of the sheep-paths which scaled it like miniature alpine roads. a few hundred feet up the mountain's side was a dark deep dell, unwooded, save for a few spindling, crazy-looking hackmatacks or native larches, with pallid green tufts sticking out fantastically all over them. it shelved so deeply, that, while the hemlock-tassels were swinging on the trees around its border, all would be still at its springy bottom, save that perhaps a single fern would wave slowly backward and forward like a sabre with a twist as of a feathered oar,--and this when not a breath could be felt, and every other stem and blade were motionless. there was an old story of one having perished here in the winter of ' , and his body having been found in the spring,--whence its common name of "dead-man's hollow." higher up there were huge cliffs with chasms, and, it was thought, concealed caves, where in old times they said that tories lay hid,--some hinted not without occasional aid and comfort from the dudleys then living in the mansion-house. still higher and farther west lay the accursed ledge,--shunned by all, unless it were now and then a daring youth, or a wandering naturalist who ventured to its edge in the hope of securing some infantile crotalus durissus, who had not yet cut his poison teeth. long, long ago, in old colonial times, the honorable thomas dudley, esquire, a man of note and name and great resources, allied by descent to the family of "tom dudley," as the early governor is sometimes irreverently called by our most venerable, but still youthful antiquary,--and to the other public dudleys, of course,--of all of whom he made small account, as being himself an english gentleman, with little taste for the splendors of provincial office, early in the last century, thomas dudley had built this mansion. for several generations it had been dwelt in by descendants of the same name, but soon after the revolution it passed by marriage into the hands of the venners, by whom it had ever since been held and tenanted. as the doctor turned an angle in the road, all at once the stately old house rose before him. it was a skilfully managed effect, as it well might be, for it was no vulgar english architect who had planned the mansion and arranged its position and approach. the old house rose before the doctor, crowning a terraced garden, flanked at the left by an avenue of tall elms. the flower-beds were edged with box, which diffused around it that dreamy balsamic odor, full of ante-natal reminiscences of a lost paradise, dimly fragrant as might be the bdellium of ancient havilah, the land compassed by the river pison that went out of eden. the garden was somewhat neglected, but not in disgrace,--and in the time of tulips and hyacinths, of roses, of "snowballs," of honeysuckles, of lilacs, of syringas, it was rich with blossoms. from the front-windows of the mansion the eye reached a far blue mountain-summit,--no rounded heap, such as often shuts in a village-landscape, but a sharp peak, clean-angled as ascutney from the dartmouth green. a wide gap through miles of woods had opened this distant view, and showed more, perhaps, than all the labors of the architect and the landscape-gardener the large style of the early dudleys. the great stone-chimney of the mansion-house was the centre from which all the artificial features of the scene appeared to flow. the roofs, the gables, the dormer-windows, the porches, the clustered offices in the rear, all seemed to crowd about the great chimney. to this central pillar the paths all converged. the single poplar behind the house,--nature is jealous of proud chimneys, and always loves to put a poplar near one, so that it may fling a leaf or two down its black throat every autumn,--the one tall poplar behind the house seemed to nod and whisper to the grave square column, the elms to sway their branches towards it. and when the blue smoke rose from its summit, it seemed to be wafted away to join the azure haze which hung around the peak in the far distance, so that both should bathe in a common atmosphere. behind the house were clumps of lilacs with a century's growth upon them, and looking more like trees than like shrubs. shaded by a group of these was the ancient well, of huge circuit, and with a low arch opening out of its wall about ten feet below the surface,--whether the door of a crypt for the concealment of treasure, or of a subterranean passage, or merely of a vault for keeping provisions cool in hot weather, opinions differed. on looking at the house, it was plain that it was built with old-world notions of strength and durability, and, so far as might be, with old-world materials. the hinges of the doors stretched out like arms, instead of like hands, as we make them. the bolts were massive enough for a donjon-keep. the small window-panes were actually inclosed in the wood of the sashes instead of being stuck to them with putty, as in our modern windows. the broad staircase was of easy ascent, and was guarded by quaintly turned and twisted balusters. the ceilings of the two rooms of state were moulded with medallion-portraits and rustic figures, such as may have been seen by many readers in the famous old philipse house,--washington's head-quarters,--in the town of yorkers. the fire-places, worthy of the wide-throated central chimney, were bordered by pictured tiles, some of them with scripture stories, some with watteau-like figures,--tall damsels in slim waists and with spread enough of skirt for a modern ballroom, with bowing, reclining, or musical swains of what everybody calls the "conventional" sort,--that is, the swain adapted to genteel society rather than to a literal sheep-compelling existence. the house was furnished, soon after it was completed, with many heavy articles made in london from a rare wood just then come into fashion, not so rare now, and commonly known as mahogany. time had turned it very dark, and the stately bedsteads and tall cabinets and claw-footed chairs and tables were in keeping with the sober dignity of the ancient mansion. the old "hangings" were yet preserved in the chambers, faded, but still showing their rich patterns,--properly entitled to their name, for they were literally hung upon flat wooden frames like trellis-work, which again were secured to the naked partitions. there were portraits of different date on the walls of the various apartments, old painted coats-of-arms, bevel-edged mirrors, and in one sleeping-room a glass case of wax-work flowers and spangly symbols, with a legend signifying that e. m. (supposed to be elizabeth mascarene) wished not to be "forgot" "when i am dead and lay'd in dust and all my bones are"-- poor e. m.! poor everybody that sighs for earthly remembrance in a planet with a core of fire and a crust of fossils! such was the dudley mansion-house,--for it kept its ancient name in spite of the change in the line of descent. its spacious apartments looked dreary and desolate; for here dudley venner and his daughter dwelt by themselves, with such servants only as their quiet mode of life required. he almost lived in his library, the western room on the ground-floor. its window looked upon a small plat of green, in the midst of which was a single grave marked by a plain marble slab. except this room, and the chamber where he slept, and the servants' wing, the rest of the house was all elsie's. she was always a restless, wandering child from her early years, and would have her little bed moved from one chamber to another,--flitting round as the fancy took her. sometimes she would drag a mat and a pillow into one of the great empty rooms, and, wrapping herself in a shawl, coil up and go to sleep in a corner. nothing frightened her; the "haunted" chamber, with the torn hangings that flapped like wings when there was air stirring, was one of her favorite retreats. she had been a very hard creature to manage. her father could influence, but not govern her. old sophy, born of a slave mother in the house, could do more with her than anybody, knowing her by long instinctive study. the other servants were afraid of her. her father had sent for governesses, but none of them ever stayed long. she made them nervous; one of them had a strange fit of sickness; not one of them ever came back to the house to see her. a young spanish woman who taught her dancing succeeded best with her, for she had a passion for that exercise, and had mastered some of the most difficult dances. long before this period, she had manifested some most extraordinary singularities of taste or instinct. the extreme sensitiveness of her father on this point prevented any allusion to them; but there were stories floating round, some of them even getting into the papers,--without her name, of course,--which were of a kind to excite intense curiosity, if not more anxious feelings. this thing was certain, that at the age of twelve she was missed one night, and was found sleeping in the open air under a tree, like a wild creature. very often she would wander off by day, always without a companion, bringing home with her a nest, a flower, or even a more questionable trophy of her ramble, such as showed that there was no place where she was afraid to venture. once in a while she had stayed out over night, in which case the alarm was spread, and men went in search of her, but never successfully,--so--that some said she hid herself in trees, and others that she had found one of the old tory caves. some, of course, said she was a crazy girl, and ought to be sent to an asylum. but old dr. kittredge had shaken his head, and told them to bear with her, and let her have her way as much as they could, but watch her, as far as possible, without making her suspicious of them. he visited her now and then, under the pretext of seeing her father on business, or of only making a friendly call. the doctor fastened his horse outside the gate, and walked up the garden-alley. he stopped suddenly with a start. a strange sound had jarred upon his ear. it was a sharp prolonged rattle, continuous, but rising and falling as if in rhythmical cadence. he moved softly towards the open window from which the sound seemed to proceed. elsie was alone in the room, dancing one of those wild moorish fandangos, such as a matador hot from the plaza de toros of seville or madrid might love to lie and gaze at. she was a figure to look upon in silence. the dancing frenzy must have seized upon her while she was dressing; for she was in her bodice, bare-armed, her hair floating unbound far below the waist of her barred or banded skirt. she had caught up her castanets, and rattled them as she danced with a kind of passionate fierceness, her lithe body undulating with flexuous grace, her diamond eyes glittering, her round arms wreathing and unwinding, alive and vibrant to the tips of the slender fingers. some passion seemed to exhaust itself in this dancing paroxysm; for all at once she reeled from the middle of the floor, and flung herself, as it were in a careless coil, upon a great tiger's-skin which was spread out in one corner of the apartment. the old doctor stood motionless, looking at her as she lay panting on the tawny, black-lined robe of the dead monster which stretched out beneath her, its rude flattened outline recalling the terror of the jungle as he crouched for his fatal spring. in a few moments her head drooped upon her arm, and her glittering eyes closed,--she was sleeping. he stood looking at her still, steadily, thoughtfully, tenderly. presently he lifted his hand to his forehead, as if recalling some fading remembrance of other years. "poor catalina!" this was all he said. he shook his head,--implying that his visit would be in vain to-day,--returned to his sulky, and rode away, as if in a dream. chapter xi. cousin richard's visit. the doctor was roused from his revery by the clatter of approaching hoofs. he looked forward and saw a young fellow galloping rapidly towards him. a common new-england rider with his toes turned out, his elbows jerking and the daylight showing under him at every step, bestriding a cantering beast of the plebeian breed, thick at every point where he should be thin, and thin at every point where he should be thick, is not one of those noble objects that bewitch the world. the best horsemen outside of the cities are the unshod countryboys, who ride "bareback," with only a halter round the horse's neck, digging their brown heels into his ribs, and slanting over backwards, but sticking on like leeches, and taking the hardest trot as if they loved it.--this was a different sight on which the doctor was looking. the streaming mane and tail of the unshorn, savage-looking, black horse, the dashing grace with which the young fellow in the shadowy sombrero, and armed with the huge spurs, sat in his high-peaked saddle, could belong only to the mustang of the pampas and his master. this bold rider was a young man whose sudden apparition in the quiet inland town had reminded some of the good people of a bright, curly-haired boy they had known some eight or ten years before as little dick venner. this boy had passed several of his early years at the dudley mansion, the playmate of elsie, being her cousin, two or three years older than herself, the son of captain richard venner, a south american trader, who, as he changed his residence often, was glad to leave the boy in his brother's charge. the captain's wife, this boy's mother, was a lady of buenos ayres, of spanish descent, and had died while the child was in his cradle. these two motherless children were as strange a pair as one roof could well cover. both handsome, wild, impetuous, unmanageable, they played and fought together like two young leopards, beautiful, but dangerous, their lawless instincts showing through all their graceful movements. the boy was little else than a young gaucho when he first came to rockland; for he had learned to ride almost as soon as to walk, and could jump on his pony and trip up a runaway pig with the bolas or noose him with his miniature lasso at an age when some city-children would hardly be trusted out of sight of a nursery-maid. it makes men imperious to sit a horse; no man governs his fellows so well as from this living throne. and so, from marcus aurelius in roman bronze, down to the "man on horseback" in general cushing's prophetic speech, the saddle has always been the true seat of empire. the absolute tyranny of the human will over a noble and powerful beast develops the instinct of personal prevalence and dominion; so that horse-subduer and hero were almost synonymous in simpler times, and are closely related still. an ancestry of wild riders naturally enough bequeaths also those other tendencies which we see in the tartars, the cossacks, and our own indian centaurs, and as well, perhaps, in the old-fashioned fox-hunting squire as in any of these. sharp alternations of violent action and self-indulgent repose; a hard run, and a long revel after it; this is what over-much horse tends to animalize a man into. such antecedents may have helped to make little dick venner a self-willed, capricious boy, and a rough playmate for elsie. elsie was the wilder of the two. old sophy, who used to watch them with those quick, animal-looking eyes of hers,--she was said to be the granddaughter of a cannibal chief, and inherited the keen senses belonging to all creatures which are hunted as game, old sophy, who watched them in their play and their quarrels, always seemed to be more afraid for the boy than the girl. "masse dick! masse dick! don' you be too rough wi' dat gal! she scratch you las' week, 'n' some day she bite you; 'n' if she bite you, masse dick!" old sophy nodded her head ominously, as if she could say a great deal more; while, in grateful acknowledgment of her caution, master dick put his two little fingers in the angles of his mouth, and his forefingers on his lower eyelids, drawing upon these features until his expression reminded her of something she vaguely recollected in her infancy,--the face of a favorite deity executed in wood by an african artist for her grandfather, brought over by her mother, and burned when she became a christian. these two wild children had much in common. they loved to ramble together, to build huts, to climb trees for nests, to ride the colts, to dance, to race, and to play at boys' rude games as if both were boys. but wherever two natures have a great deal in common, the conditions of a first-rate quarrel are furnished ready-made. relations are very apt to hate each other just because they are too much alike. it is so frightful to be in an atmosphere of family idiosyncrasies; to see all the hereditary uncomeliness or infirmity of body, all the defects of speech, all the failings of temper, intensified by concentration, so that every fault of our own finds itself multiplied by reflections, like our images in a saloon lined with mirrors! nature knows what she is about. the centrifugal principle which grows out of the antipathy of like to like is only the repetition in character of the arrangement we see expressed materially in certain seed-capsules, which burst and throw the seed to all points of the compass. a house is a large pod with a human germ or two in each of its cells or chambers; it opens by dehiscence of the front-door by and by, and projects one of its germs to kansas, another to san francisco, another to chicago, and so on; and this that smith may not be smithed to death and brown may not be browned into a mad-house, but mix in with the world again and struggle back to average humanity. elsie's father, whose fault was to indulge her in everything, found that it would never do to let these children grow up together. they would either love each other as they got older, and pair like wild creatures, or take some fierce antipathy, which might end nobody could tell where. it was not safe to try. the boy must be sent away. a sharper quarrel than common decided this point. master dick forgot old sophy's caution, and vexed the girl into a paroxysm of wrath, in which she sprang at him and bit his arm. perhaps they made too much of it; for they sent for the old doctor, who came at once when he heard what had happened. he had a good deal to say about the danger there was from the teeth of animals or human beings when enraged; and as he emphasized his remarks by the application of a pencil of lunar caustic to each of the marks left by the sharp white teeth, they were like to be remembered by at least one of his hearers. so master dick went off on his travels, which led him into strange places and stranger company. elsie was half pleased and half sorry to have him go; the children had a kind of mingled liking and hate for each other, just such as is very common among relations. whether the girl had most satisfaction in the plays they shared, or in teasing him, or taking her small revenge upon him for teasing her, it would have been hard to say. at any rate, she was lonely without him. she had more fondness for the old black woman than anybody; but sophy could not follow her far beyond her own old rocking-chair. as for her father, she had made him afraid of her, not for his sake, but for her own. sometimes she would seem to be fond of him, and the parent's heart would yearn within him as she twined her supple arms about him; and then some look she gave him, some half-articulated expression, would turn his cheek pale and almost make him shiver, and he would say kindly, "now go, elsie, dear," and smile upon her as she went, and close and lock the door softly after her. then his forehead would knot and furrow itself, and the drops of anguish stand thick upon it. he would go to the western window of his study and look at the solitary mound with the marble slab for its head-stone. after his grief had had its way, he would kneel down and pray for his child as one who has no hope save in that special grace which can bring the most rebellious spirit into sweet subjection. all this might seem like weakness in a parent having the charge of one sole daughter of his house and heart; but he had tried authority and tenderness by turns so long without any good effect, that he had become sore perplexed, and, surrounding her with cautious watchfulness as he best might, left her in the main to her own guidance and the merciful influences which heaven might send down to direct her footsteps. meantime the boy grew up to youth and early manhood through a strange succession of adventures. he had been at school at buenos ayres,--had quarrelled with his mother's relatives,--had run off to the pampas, and lived with the gauchos;--had made friends with the indians, and ridden with them, it was rumored, in some of their savage forays,--had returned and made up his quarrel,--had got money by inheritance or otherwise,--had troubled the peace of certain magistrates,--had found it convenient to leave the city of wholesome breezes for a time, and had galloped off on a fast horse of his, (so it was said,) with some officers riding after him, who took good care (but this was only the popular story) not to catch him. a few days after this he was taking his ice on the alameda of mendoza, and a week or two later sailed from valparaiso for new york, carrying with him the horse with which he had scampered over the plains, a trunk or two with his newly purchased outfit of, clothing and other conveniences, and a belt heavy with gold and with a few brazilian diamonds sewed in it, enough in value to serve him for a long journey. dick venner had seen life enough to wear out the earlier sensibilities of adolescence. he was tired of worshipping or tyrannizing over the bistred or umbered beauties of mingled blood among whom he had been living. even that piquant exhibition which the rio de mendoza presents to the amateur of breathing sculpture failed to interest him. he was thinking of a far-off village on the other side of the equator, and of the wild girl with whom he used to play and quarrel, a creature of a different race from these degenerate mongrels. "a game little devil she was, sure enough!"--and as dick spoke, he bared his wrist to look for the marks she had left on it: two small white scars, where the two small sharp upper teeth had struck when she flashed at him with her eyes sparkling as bright as those glittering stones sewed up in the belt he wore. "that's a filly worth noosing!" said dick to himself, as he looked in admiration at the sign of her spirit and passion. "i wonder if she will bite at eighteen as she did at eight! she shall have a chance to try, at any rate!" such was the self-sacrificing disposition with which richard venner, esq., a passenger by the condor from valparaiso, set foot upon his native shore, and turned his face in the direction of rockland, the mountain, and the mansion-house. he had heard something, from time to time, of his new-england relatives, and knew that they were living together as he left them. and so he heralded himself to "my dear uncle" by a letter signed "your loving nephew, richard venner," in which letter he told a very frank story of travel and mercantile adventure, expressed much gratitude for the excellent counsel and example which had helped to form his character and preserve him in the midst of temptation, inquired affectionately after his uncle's health, was much interested to know whether his lively cousin who used to be his playmate had grown up as handsome as she promised to be, and announced his intention of paying his respects to them both at rockland. not long after this came the trunks marked r. v. which he had sent before him, forerunners of his advent: he was not going to wait for a reply or an invitation. what a sound that is,--the banging down of the preliminary trunk, without its claimant to give it the life which is borrowed by all personal appendages, so long as the owner's hand or eye is on them! if it announce the coming of one loved and longed for, how we delight to look at it, to sit down on it, to caress it in our fancies, as a lone exile walking out on a windy pier yearns towards the merchantman lying alongside, with the colors of his own native land at her peak, and the name of the port he sailed from long ago upon her stern! but if it tell the near approach of the undesired, inevitable guest, what sound short of the muffled noises made by the undertakers as they turn the corners in the dim-lighted house, with low shuffle of feet and whispered cautions, carries such a sense of knocking-kneed collapse with it as the thumping down in the front entry of the heavy portmanteau, rammed with the changes of uncounted coming weeks? whether the r. v. portmanteaus brought one or the other of these emotions to the tenants of the dudley mansion, it might not be easy to settle. elsie professed to be pleased with the thought of having an adventurous young stranger, with stories to tell, an inmate of their quiet, not to say dull, family. under almost any other circumstances, her father would have been unwilling to take a young fellow of whom he knew so little under his roof; but this was his nephew, and anything that seemed like to amuse or please elsie was agreeable to him. he had grown almost desperate, and felt as if any change in the current of her life and feelings might save her from some strange paroxysm of dangerous mental exaltation or sullen perversion of disposition, from which some fearful calamity might come to herself or others. dick had been several weeks at the dudley mansion. a few days before, he had made a sudden dash for the nearest large city,--and when the doctor met him, he was just returning from his visit. it had been a curious meeting between the two young persons, who had parted so young and after such strange relations with each other. when dick first presented himself at the mansion, not one in the house would have known him for the boy who had left them all so suddenly years ago. he was so dark, partly from his descent, partly from long habits of exposure, that elsie looked almost fair beside him. he had something of the family beauty which belonged to his cousin, but his eye had a fierce passion in it, very unlike the cold glitter of elsie's. like many people of strong and imperious temper, he was soft-voiced and very gentle in his address, when he had no special reason for being otherwise. he soon found reasons enough to be as amiable as he could force himself to be with his uncle and his cousin. elsie was to his fancy. she had a strange attraction for him, quite unlike anything he had ever known in other women. there was something, too, in early associations: when those who parted as children meet as man and woman, there is always a renewal of that early experience which followed the taste of the forbidden fruit,--a natural blush of consciousness, not without its charm. nothing could be more becoming than the behavior of "richard venner, esquire, the guest of dudley venner, esquire, at his noble mansion," as he was announced in the court column of the "rockland weekly universe." he was pleased to find himself treated with kindness and attention as a relative. he made himself very agreeable by abundant details concerning the religious, political, social, commercial, and educational progress of the south american cities and states. he was himself much interested in everything that was going on about the dudley mansion, walked all over it, noticed its valuable wood-lots with special approbation, was delighted with the grand old house and its furniture, and would not be easy until he had seen all the family silver and heard its history. in return, he had much to tell of his father, now dead,--the only one of the venners, beside themselves, in whose fate his uncle was interested. with elsie, he was subdued and almost tender in his manner; with the few visitors whom they saw, shy and silent,--perhaps a little watchful, if any young man happened to be among them. young fellows placed on their good behavior are apt to get restless and nervous, all ready to fly off into some mischief or other. dick venner had his half-tamed horse with him to work off his suppressed life with. when the savage passion of his young blood came over him, he would fetch out the mustang, screaming and kicking as these amiable beasts are wont to do, strap the spanish saddle tight to his back, vault into it, and, after getting away from the village, strike the long spurs into his sides and whirl away in a wild gallop, until the black horse was flecked with white foam, and the cruel steel points were red with his blood. when horse and rider were alike fired, he would fling the bridle on his neck and saunter homeward, always contriving to get to the stable in a quiet way, and coming into the house as calm as a bishop after a sober trot on his steady-going cob. after a few weeks of this kind of life, he began to want some more fierce excitement. he had tried making downright love to elsie, with no great success as yet, in his own opinion. the girl was capricious in her treatment of him, sometimes scowling and repellent, sometimes familiar, very often, as she used to be of old, teasing and malicious. all this, perhaps, made her more interesting to a young man who was tired of easy conquests. there was a strange fascination in her eyes, too, which at times was quite irresistible, so that he would feel himself drawn to her by a power which seemed to take away his will for the moment. it may have been nothing but the common charm of bright eyes; but he had never before experienced the same kind of attraction. perhaps she was not so very different from what she had been as a child, after all. at any rate, so it seemed to dick venner, who, as was said before, had tried making love to her. they were sitting alone in the study one day; elsie had round her neck that somewhat peculiar ornament, the golden torque, which she had worn to the great party. youth is adventurous and very curious about necklaces, brooches, chains, and other such adornments, so long as they are worn by young persons of the female sex. dick was seized with a great passion for examining this curious chain, and, after some preliminary questions, was rash enough to lean towards her and put out his hand toward the neck that lay in the golden coil. she threw her head back, her eyes narrowing and her forehead drawing down so that dick thought her head actually flattened itself. he started involuntarily; for she looked so like the little girl who had struck him with those sharp flashing teeth, that the whole scene came back, and he felt the stroke again as if it had just been given, and the two white scars began to sting as they did after the old doctor had burned them with that stick of gray caustic, which looked so like a slate pencil, and felt so much like the end of a red-hot poker. it took something more than a gallop to set him right after this. the next day he mentioned having received a letter from a mercantile agent with whom he had dealings. what his business was is, perhaps, none of our business. at any rate, it required him to go at once to the city where his correspondent resided. independently of this "business" which called him, there may have been other motives, such as have been hinted at. people who have been living for a long time in dreary country-places, without any emotion beyond such as are occasioned by a trivial pleasure or annoyance, often get crazy at last for a vital paroxysm of some kind or other. in this state they rush to the great cities for a plunge into their turbid life-baths, with a frantic thirst for every exciting pleasure, which makes them the willing and easy victims of all those who sell the devil's wares on commission. the less intelligent and instructed class of unfortunates, who venture with their ignorance and their instincts into what is sometimes called the "life" of great cities, are put through a rapid course of instruction which entitles them very commonly to a diploma from the police court. but they only illustrate the working of the same tendency in mankind at large which has been occasionally noticed in the sons of ministers and other eminently worthy people, by many ascribed to that intense congenital hatred for goodness which distinguishes human nature from that of the brute, but perhaps as readily accounted for by considering it as the yawning and stretching of a young soul cramped too long in one moral posture. richard veneer was a young man of remarkable experience for his years. he ran less risk, therefore, in exposing himself to the temptations and dangers of a great city than many older men, who, seeking the livelier scenes of excitement to be found in large towns as a relaxation after the monotonous routine of family life, are too often taken advantage of and made the victims of their sentiments or their generous confidence in their fellow-creatures. such was not his destiny. there was something about him which looked as if he would not take bullying kindly. he had also the advantage of being acquainted with most of those ingenious devices by which the proverbial inconstancy of fortune is steadied to something more nearly approaching fixed laws, and the dangerous risks which have so often led young men to ruin and suicide are practically reduced to somewhat less than nothing. so that mr. richard veneer worked off his nervous energies without any troublesome adventure, and was ready to return to rockland in less than a week, without having lightened the money-belt he wore round his body, or tarnished the long glittering knife he carried in his boot. dick had sent his trunk to the nearest town through which the railroad leading to the city passed. he rode off on his black horse and left him at the place where he took the cars. on arriving at the city station, he took a coach and drove to one of the great hotels. thither drove also a sagacious-looking, middle-aged man, who entered his name as "w. thompson" in the book at the office immediately after that of "r. venner." mr. "thompson" kept a carelessly observant eye upon mr. venner during his stay at the hotel, and followed him to the cars when he left, looking over his shoulder when he bought his ticket at the station, and seeing him fairly off without obtruding himself in any offensive way upon his attention. mr. thompson, known in other quarters as detective policeman terry, got very little by his trouble. richard venner did not turn out to be the wife-poisoner, the defaulting cashier, the river-pirate, or the great counterfeiter. he paid his hotel-bill as a gentleman should always do, if he has the money and can spare it. the detective had probably overrated his own sagacity when he ventured to suspect mr. venner. he reported to his chief that there was a knowing-looking fellow he had been round after, but he rather guessed he was nothing more than "one o' them southern sportsmen." the poor fellows at the stable where dick had left his horse had had trouble enough with him. one of the ostlers was limping about with a lame leg, and another had lost a mouthful of his coat, which came very near carrying a piece of his shoulder with it. when mr. venner came back for his beast, he was as wild as if he had just been lassoed, screaming, kicking, rolling over to get rid of his saddle, and when his rider was at last mounted, jumping about in a way to dislodge any common horseman. to all this dick replied by sticking his long spurs deeper and deeper into his flanks, until the creature found he was mastered, and dashed off as if all the thistles of the pampas were pricking him. "one more gallop, juan?" this was in the last mile of the road before he came to the town which brought him in sight of the mansion-house. it was in this last gallop that the fiery mustang and his rider flashed by the old doctor. cassia pointed her sharp ears and shied to let them pass. the doctor turned and looked through the little round glass in the back of his sulky. "dick turpin, there, will find more than his match!" said the doctor. chapter xii. the apollinean institute. (with extracts from the "report of the committee.") the readers of this narrative will hardly expect any elaborate details of the educational management of the apollinean institute. they cannot be supposed to take the same interest in its affairs as was shown by the annual committees who reported upon its condition and prospects. as these committees were, however, an important part of the mechanism of the establishment, some general account of their organization and a few extracts from the report of the one last appointed may not be out of place. whether mr. silas peckham had some contrivance for packing his committees, whether they happened always to be made up of optimists by nature, whether they were cajoled into good-humor by polite attentions, or whether they were always really delighted with the wonderful acquirements of the pupils and the admirable order of the school, it is certain that their annual reports were couched in language which might warm the heart of the most cold-blooded and calculating father that ever had a family of daughters to educate. in fact, these annual reports were considered by mr. peckham as his most effective advertisements. the first thing, therefore, was to see that the committee was made up of persons known to the public. some worn-out politician, in that leisurely and amiable transition-state which comes between official extinction and the paralysis which will finish him as soon as his brain gets a little softer, made an admirable chairman for mr. peckham, when he had the luck to pick up such an article. old reputations, like old fashions, are more prized in the grassy than in the stony districts. an effete celebrity, who would never be heard of again in the great places until the funeral sermon waked up his memory for one parting spasm, finds himself in full flavor of renown a little farther back from the changing winds of the sea-coast. if such a public character was not to be had, so that there was no chance of heading the report with the name of the honorable mr. somebody, the next best thing was to get the reverend dr. somebody to take that conspicuous position. then would follow two or three local worthies with esquire after their names. if any stray literary personage from one of the great cities happened to be within reach, he was pounced upon by mr. silas peckham. it was a hard case for the poor man, who had travelled a hundred miles or two to the outside suburbs after peace and unwatered milk, to be pumped for a speech in this unexpected way. it was harder still, if he had been induced to venture a few tremulous remarks, to be obliged to write them out for the "rockland weekly universe," with the chance of seeing them used as an advertising certificate as long as he lived, if he lived as long as the late dr. waterhouse did after giving his certificate in favor of whitwell's celebrated cephalic snuff. the report of the last committee had been signed by the honorable, ___________late __________ of ____________, as chairman. (it is with reluctance that the name and titles are left in blank; but our public characters are so familiarly known to the whole community that this reserve becomes necessary.) the other members of the committee were the reverend mr. butters, of a neighboring town, who was to make the prayer before the exercises of the exhibition, and two or three notabilities of rockland, with geoponic eyes, and glabrous, bumpless foreheads. a few extracts from the report are subjoined: "the committee have great pleasure in recording their unanimous opinion, that the institution was never in so flourishing a condition.... "the health of the pupils is excellent; the admirable quality of food supplied shows itself in their appearance; their blooming aspect excited the admiration of the committee, and bears testimony to the assiduity of the excellent matron. "......moral and religious condition most encouraging, which they cannot but attribute to the personal efforts and instruction of the faithful principal, who considers religious instruction a solemn duty which he cannot commit to other people. "......great progress in their studies, under the intelligent superintendence of the accomplished principal, assisted by mr. badger, [mr. langdon's predecessor,] miss darley, the lady who superintends the english branches, miss crabs, her assistant and teacher of modern languages, and mr. schneider, teacher of french, german, latin, and music.... "education is the great business of the institute. amusements are objects of a secondary nature; but these are by no means neglected.... "......english compositions of great originality and beauty, creditable alike to the head and heart of their accomplished authors.... several poems of a very high order of merit, which would do honor to the literature of any age or country.... life-like drawings, showing great proficiency.... many converse fluently in various modern languages.... perform the most difficult airs with the skill of professional musicians.... "......advantages unsurpassed, if equalled by those of any institution in the country, and reflecting the highest honor on the distinguished head of the establishment, silas peckham, esquire, and his admirable lady, the matron, with their worthy assistants...." the perusal of this report did mr. bernard more good than a week's vacation would have done: it gave him such a laugh as he had not had for a month. the way in which silas peckham had made his committee say what he wanted them to--for he recognized a number of expressions in the report as coming directly from the lips of his principal, and could not help thinking how cleverly he had forced his phrases, as jugglers do the particular card they wish their dupe to take--struck him as particularly neat and pleasing. he had passed through the sympathetic and emotional stages in his new experience, and had arrived at the philosophical and practical state, which takes things coolly, and goes to work to set them right. he had breadth enough of view to see that there was nothing so very exceptional in this educational trader's dealings with his subordinates, but he had also manly feeling enough to attack the particular individual instance of wrong before him. there are plenty of dealer's in morals, as in ordinary traffic, who confine themselves to wholesale business. they leave the small necessity of their next-door neighbor to the retailers, who are poorer in statistics and general facts, but richer in the every-day charities. mr. bernard felt, at first, as one does who sees a gray rat steal out of a drain and begin gnawing at the bark of some tree loaded with fruit or blossoms, which he will soon girdle, if he is let alone. the first impulse is to murder him with the nearest ragged stone. then one remembers that he is a rodent, acting after the law of his kind, and cools down and is contented to drive him off and guard the tree against his teeth for the future. as soon as this is done, one can watch his attempts at mischief with a certain amusement. this was the kind of process mr. bernard had gone through. first, the indignant surprise of a generous nature, when it comes unexpectedly into relations with a mean one. then the impulse of extermination,--a divine instinct, intended to keep down vermin of all classes to their working averages in the economy of nature. then a return of cheerful tolerance,--a feeling, that, if the deity could bear with rats and sharpers, he could; with a confident trust, that, in the long run, terriers and honest men would have the upperhand, and a grateful consciousness that he had been sent just at the right time to come between a patient victim and the master who held her in peonage. having once made up his mind what to do, mr. bernard was as good-natured and hopeful as ever. he had the great advantage, from his professional training, of knowing how to recognize and deal with the nervous disturbances to which overtasked women are so liable. he saw well enough that helen darley would certainly kill herself or lose her wits, if he could not lighten her labors and lift off a large part of her weight of cares. the worst of it was, that she was one of those women who naturally overwork themselves, like those horses who will go at the top of their pace until they drop. such women are dreadfully unmanageable. it is as hard reasoning with them as it would have been reasoning with io, when she was flying over land and sea, driven by the sting of the never-sleeping gadfly. this was a delicate, interesting game that he played. under one innocent pretext or another, he invaded this or that special province she had made her own. he would collect the themes and have them all read and marked, answer all the puzzling questions in mathematics, make the other teachers come to him for directions, and in this way gradually took upon himself not only all the general superintendence that belonged to his office, but stole away so many of the special duties which might fairly have belonged to his assistant, that, before she knew it, she was looking better and feeling more cheerful than for many and many a month before. when the nervous energy is depressed by any bodily cause, or exhausted by overworking, there follow effects which have often been misinterpreted by moralists, and especially by theologians. the conscience itself becomes neuralgic, sometimes actually inflamed, so that the least touch is agony. of all liars and false accusers, a sick conscience is the most inventive and indefatigable. the devoted daughter, wife, mother, whose life has been given to unselfish labors, who has filled a place which it seems to others only an angel would make good, reproaches herself with incompetence and neglect of duty. the humble christian, who has been a model to others, calls himself a worm of the dust on one page of his diary, and arraigns himself on the next for coming short of the perfection of an archangel. conscience itself requires a conscience, or nothing can be more unscrupulous. it told saul that he did well in persecuting the christians. it has goaded countless multitudes of various creeds to endless forms of self-torture. the cities of india are full of cripples it has made. the hill-sides of syria are riddled with holes, where miserable hermits, whose lives it had palsied, lived and died like the vermin they harbored. our libraries are crammed with books written by spiritual hypochondriacs, who inspected all their moral secretions a dozen times a day. they are full of interest, but they should be transferred from the shelf of the theologian to that of the medical man who makes a study of insanity. this was the state into which too much work and too much responsibility were bringing helen darley, when the new master came and lifted so much of the burden that was crushing her as must be removed before she could have a chance to recover her natural elasticity and buoyancy. many of the noblest women, suffering like her, but less fortunate in being relieved at the right moment, die worried out of life by the perpetual teasing of this inflamed, neuralgic conscience. so subtile is the line which separates the true and almost angelic sensibility of a healthy, but exalted nature, from the soreness of a soul which is sympathizing with a morbid state of the body that it is no wonder they are often confounded. and thus many good women are suffered to perish by that form of spontaneous combustion in which the victim goes on toiling day and night with the hidden fire consuming her, until all at once her cheek whitens, and, as we look upon her, she drops away, a heap of ashes. the more they overwork themselves, the more exacting becomes the sense of duty,--as the draught of the locomotive's furnace blows stronger and makes the fire burn more fiercely, the faster it spins along the track. it is not very likely, as was said at the beginning of this chapter, that we shall trouble ourselves a great deal about the internal affairs of the apollinean institute. these schools are, in the nature of things, not so very unlike each other as to require a minute description for each particular one among them. they have all very much the same general features, pleasing and displeasing. all feeding-establishments have something odious about them,--from the wretched country-houses where paupers are farmed out to the lowest bidder, up to the commons-tables at colleges and even the fashionable boarding-house. a person's appetite should be at war with no other purse than his own. young people, especially, who have a bone-factory at work in them, and have to feed the living looms of innumerable growing tissues, should be provided for, if possible, by those who love them like their own flesh and blood. elsewhere their appetites will be sure to make them enemies, or, what are almost as bad, friends whose interests are at variance with the claims of their exacting necessities and demands. besides, all commercial transactions in regard to the most sacred interests of life are hateful even to those who profit by them. the clergyman, the physician, the teacher, must be paid; but each of them, if his duty be performed in the true spirit, can hardly help a shiver of disgust when money is counted out to him for administering the consolations of religion, for saving some precious life, for sowing the seeds of christian civilization in young ingenuous souls. and yet all these schools, with their provincial french and their mechanical accomplishments, with their cheap parade of diplomas and commencements and other public honors, have an ever fresh interest to all who see the task they are performing in our new social order. these girls are not being educated for governesses, or to be exported, with other manufactured articles, to colonies where there happens to be a surplus of males. most of them will be wives, and every american-born husband is a possible president of these united states. any one of these girls may be a four-years' queen. there is no sphere of human activity so exalted that she may not be called upon to fill it. but there is another consideration of far higher interest. the education of our community to all that is beautiful is flowing in mainly through its women, and that to a considerable extent by the aid of these large establishments, the least perfect of which do something to stimulate the higher tastes and partially instruct them. sometimes there is, perhaps, reason to fear that girls will be too highly educated for their own happiness, if they are lifted by their culture out of the range of the practical and every-day working youth by whom they are surrounded. but this is a risk we must take. our young men come into active life so early, that, if our girls were not educated to something beyond mere practical duties, our material prosperity would outstrip our culture; as it often does in large places where money is made too rapidly. this is the meaning, therefore, of that somewhat ambitious programme common to most of these large institutions, at which we sometimes smile, perhaps unwisely or uncharitably. we shall take it for granted that the routine of instruction went on at the apollinean institute much as it does in other schools of the same class. people, young or old, are wonderfully different, if we contrast extremes in pairs. they approach much nearer, if we take them in groups of twenty. take two separate hundreds as they come, without choosing, and you get the gamut of human character in both so completely that you can strike many chords in each which shall be in perfect unison with corresponding ones in the other. if we go a step farther, and compare the population of two villages of the same race and region, there is such a regularly graduated distribution and parallelism of character, that it seems as if nature must turn out human beings in sets like chessmen. it must be confessed that the position in which mr. bernard now found himself had a pleasing danger about it which might well justify all the fears entertained on his account by more experienced friends, when they learned that he was engaged in a young ladies' seminary. the school never went on more smoothly than during the first period of his administration, after he had arranged its duties, and taken his share, and even more than his share, upon himself. but human nature does not wait for the diploma of the apollinean institute to claim the exercise of it, instincts and faculties. these young girls saw but little of the youth of the neighborhood. the mansion-house young men were off at college or in the cities, or making love to each other's sisters, or at any rate unavailable for some reason or other. there were a few "clerks,"--that is, young men who attended shops, commonly called "stores,"--who were fond of walking by the institute, when they were off duty, for the sake of exchanging a word or a glance with any one of the young ladies they might happen to know, if any such were stirring abroad: crude young men, mostly, with a great many "sirs" and "ma'ams" in their speech, and with that style of address sometimes acquired in the retail business, as if the salesman were recommending himself to a customer, "first-rate family article, ma'am; warranted to wear a lifetime; just one yard and three quarters in this pattern, ma'am; sha'n't i have the pleasure?" and so forth. if there had been ever so many of them, and if they had been ever so fascinating, the quarantine of the institute was too rigorous to allow any romantic infection to be introduced from without. anybody might see what would happen, with a good-looking, well-dressed, well-bred young man, who had the authority of a master, it is true, but the manners of a friend and equal, moving about among these young girls day after day, his eyes meeting theirs, his breath mingling with theirs, his voice growing familiar to them, never in any harsh tones, often soothing, encouraging, always sympathetic, with its male depth and breadth of sound among the chorus of trebles, as if it were a river in which a hundred of these little piping streamlets-might lose themselves; anybody might see what would happen. young girls wrote home to their parents that they enjoyed themselves much, this term, at the institute, and thought they were making rapid progress in their studies. there was a great enthusiasm for the young master's reading-classes in english poetry. some of the poor little things began to adorn themselves with an extra ribbon, or a bit of such jewelry as they had before kept for great occasions. dear souls! they only half knew what they were doing it for. does the bird know why its feathers grow more brilliant and its voice becomes musical in the pairing season? and so, in the midst of this quiet inland town, where a mere accident had placed mr. bernard langdon, there was a concentration of explosive materials which might at any time change its arcadian and academic repose into a scene of dangerous commotion. what said helen darley, when she saw with her woman's glance that more than one girl, when she should be looking at her book, was looking over it toward the master's desk? was her own heart warmed by any livelier feeling than gratitude, as its life began to flow with fuller pulses, and the morning sky again looked bright and the flowers recovered their lost fragrance? was there any strange, mysterious affinity between the master and the dark girl who sat by herself? could she call him at will by looking at him? could it be that--? it made her shiver to think of it.--and who was that strange horseman who passed mr. bernard at dusk the other evening, looking so like mephistopheles galloping hard to be in season at the witches' sabbath-gathering? that must be the cousin of elsie's who wants to marry her, they say. a dangerous-looking fellow for a rival, if one took a fancy to the dark girl! and who is she, and what?--by what demon is she haunted, by what taint is she blighted, by what curse is she followed, by what destiny is she marked, that her strange beauty has such a terror in it, and that hardly one shall dare to love her, and her eye glitters always, but warms for none? some of these questions are ours. some were helen darley's. some of them mingled with the dreams of bernard langdon, as he slept the night after meeting the strange horseman. in the morning he happened to be a little late in entering the schoolroom. there was something between the leaves of the virgil which lay upon his desk. he opened it and saw a freshly gathered mountain-flower. he looked at elsie, instinctively, involuntarily. she had another such flower on her breast. a young girl's graceful compliment,--that is all,--no doubt,--no doubt. it was odd that the flower should have happened to be laid between the leaves of the fourth book of the "aeneid," and at this line, "incipit effari, mediaque in voce resistit." a remembrance of an ancient superstition flashed through the master's mind, and he determined to try the sortes virgilianae. he shut the volume, and opened it again at a venture.--the story of laocoon! he read with a strange feeling of unwilling fascination, from "horresco referees" to "bis medium amplexi," and flung the book from him, as if its leaves had been steeped in the subtle poisons that princes die of. chapter xiii. curiosity. people will talk. 'ciascun lo dice' is a tune that is played oftener than the national air of this country or any other. "that 's what they say. means to marry her, if she is his cousin. got money himself,--that 's the story,--but wants to come and live in the old place, and get the dudley property by and by." "mother's folks was wealthy."--"twenty-three to twenty-five year old."--"he a'n't more 'n twenty, or twenty-one at the outside."--"looks as if he knew too much to be only twenty year old."--"guess he's been through the mill,--don't look so green, anyhow, hey? did y' ever mind that cut over his left eyebrow?" so they gossiped in rockland. the young fellows could make nothing of dick venner. he was shy and proud with the few who made advances to him. the young ladies called him handsome and romantic, but he looked at them like a many-tailed pacha who was in the habit of, ordering his wives by the dozen. "what do you think of the young man over there at the veneers'?" said miss arabella thornton to her father. "handsome," said the judge, "but dangerous-looking. his face is indictable at common law. do you know, my dear, i think there is a blank at the sheriff's office, with a place for his name in it?" the judge paused and looked grave, as if he had just listened to the verdict of the jury and was going to pronounce sentence. "have you heard anything against him?" said the judge's daughter. "nothing. but i don't like these mixed bloods and half-told stories. besides, i have seen a good many desperate fellows at the bar, and i have a fancy they all have a look belonging to them. the worst one i ever sentenced looked a good deal like this fellow. a wicked mouth. all our other features are made for us; but a man makes his own mouth." "who was the person you sentenced?" "he was a young fellow that undertook to garrote a man who had won his money at cards. the same slender shape, the same cunning, fierce look, smoothed over with a plausible air. depend upon it, there is an expression in all the sort of people who live by their wits when they can, and by worse weapons when their wits fail them, that we old law-doctors know just as well as the medical counsellors know the marks of disease in a man's face. dr. kittredge looks at a man and says he is going to die; i look at another man and say he is going to be hanged, if nothing happens. i don't say so of this one, but i don't like his looks. i wonder dudley veneer takes to him so kindly." "it's all for elsie's sake," said miss thornton. "i feel quite sure of that. he never does anything that is not meant for her in some way. i suppose it amuses her to have her cousin about the house. she rides a good deal since he has been here. have you seen them galloping about together? he looks like my idea of a spanish bandit on that wild horse of his." "possibly he has been one,--or is one," said the judge,--smiling as men smile whose lips have often been freighted with the life and death of their fellow-creatures. "i met them riding the other day. perhaps dudley is right, if it pleases her to have a companion. what will happen, though, if he makes love to her? will elsie be easily taken with such a fellow? you young folks are supposed to know more about these matters than we middle-aged people." "nobody can tell. elsie is not like anybody else. the girls who have seen most of her think she hates men, all but 'dudley,' as she calls her father. some of them doubt whether she loves him. they doubt whether she can love anything human, except perhaps the old black woman who has taken care of her since she was a baby. the village people have the strangest stories about her; you know what they call her?" she whispered three words in her father's ear. the judge changed color as she spoke, sighed deeply, and was silent as if lost in thought for a moment. "i remember her mother," he said, "so well! a sweeter creature never lived. elsie has something of her in her look, but those are not her mother's eyes. they were dark, but soft, as in all i ever saw of her race. her father's are dark too, but mild, and even tender, i should say. i don't know what there is about elsie's,--but do you know, my dear, i find myself curiously influenced by them? i have had to face a good many sharp eyes and hard ones,--murderers' eyes and pirates',--men who had to be watched in the bar, where they stood on trial, for fear they should spring on the prosecuting officers like tigers,--but i never saw such eyes as elsie's; and yet they have a kind of drawing virtue or power about them,--i don't know what else to call it: have you never observed this?" his daughter smiled in her turn. "never observed it? why, of course, nobody could be with elsie venner and not observe it. there are a good many other strange things about her: did you ever notice how she dresses?" "why, handsomely enough, i should think," the judge answered. "i suppose she dresses as she likes, and sends to the city for what she wants. what do you mean in particular? we men notice effects in dress, but not much in detail." "you never noticed the colors and patterns of her dresses? you never remarked anything curious about her ornaments? well! i don't believe you men know, half the time, whether a lady wears a nine-penny collar or a thread-lace cape worth a thousand dollars. i don't believe you know a silk dress from a bombazine one. i don't believe you can tell whether a woman is in black or in colors, unless you happen to know she is a widow. elsie venner has a strange taste in dress, let me tell you. she sends for the oddest patterns of stuffs, and picks out the most curious things at the jeweller's, whenever she goes to town with her father. they say the old doctor tells him to let her have her way about such matters. afraid of her mind, if she is contradicted, i suppose. you've heard about her going to school at that place,--the 'institoot,' as those people call it? they say she's bright enough in her way,--has studied at home, you know, with her father a good deal, knows some modern languages and latin, i believe: at any rate, she would have it so,--she must go to the 'institoot.' they have a very good female teacher there, i hear; and the new master, that young mr. langdon, looks and talks like a well-educated young man. i wonder what they 'll make of elsie, between them!" so they talked at the judge's, in the calm, judicial-looking mansion-house, in the grave, still library, with the troops of wan-hued law-books staring blindly out of their titles at them as they talked, like the ghosts of dead attorneys fixed motionless and speechless, each with a thin, golden film over his unwinking eyes. in the mean time, everything went on quietly enough after cousin richard's return. a man of sense,--that is, a man who knows perfectly well that a cool head is worth a dozen warm hearts in carrying the fortress of a woman's affections, (not yours, "astarte," nor yours, "viola,")--who knows that men are rejected by women every day because they, the men, love them, and are accepted every day because they do not, and therefore can study the arts of pleasing,--a man of sense, when he finds he has established his second parallel too soon, retires quietly to his first, and begins working on his covered ways again. the whole art of love may be read in any encyclopaedia under the title fortification, where the terms just used are explained. after the little adventure of the necklace, dick retreated at once to his first parallel. elsie loved riding,--and would go off with him on a gallop now and then. he was a master of all those strange indian horseback-feats which shame the tricks of the circus-riders, and used to astonish and almost amuse her sometimes by disappearing from his saddle, like a phantom horseman lying flat against the side of the bounding creature that bore him, as if he were a hunting leopard with his claws in the horse's flank and flattening himself out against his heaving ribs. elsie knew a little spanish too, which she had learned from the young person who had taught her dancing, and dick enlarged her vocabulary with a few soft phrases, and would sing her a song sometimes, touching the air upon an ancient-looking guitar they had found with the ghostly things in the garret,--a quaint old instrument, marked e. m. on the back, and supposed to have belonged to a certain elizabeth mascarene, before mentioned in connection with a work of art,--a fair, dowerless lady, who smiled and sung and faded away, unwedded, a hundred years ago, as dowerless ladies, not a few, are smiling and singing and fading now,--god grant each of them his love,--and one human heart as its interpreter! as for school, elsie went or stayed away as she liked. sometimes, when they thought she was at her desk in the great schoolroom, she would be on the mountain,--alone always. dick wanted to go with her, but she would never let him. once, when she had followed the zigzag path a little way up, she looked back and caught a glimpse of him following her. she turned and passed him without a word, but giving him a look which seemed to make the scars on his wrist tingle, went to her room, where she locked herself up, and did not come out again till evening, old sophy having brought her food, and set it down, not speaking, but looking into her eyes inquiringly, like a dumb beast trying to feel out his master's will in his face. the evening was clear and the moon shining. as dick sat at his chamber-window, looking at the mountain-side, he saw a gray-dressed figure flit between the trees and steal along the narrow path which led upward. elsie's pillow was unpressed that night, but she had not been missed by the household,--for dick knew enough to keep his own counsel. the next morning she avoided him and went off early to school. it was the same morning that the young master found the flower between the leaves of his virgil. the girl got over her angry fit, and was pleasant enough with her cousin for a few days after this; but she shunned rather than sought him. she had taken a new interest in her books, and especially in certain poetical readings which the master conducted with the elder scholars. this gave master langdon a good chance to study her ways when her eye was on her book, to notice the inflections of her voice, to watch for any expression of her sentiments; for, to tell the truth, he had a kind of fear that the girl had taken a fancy to him, and, though she interested him, he did not wish to study her heart from the inside. the more he saw her, the more the sadness of her beauty wrought upon him. she looked as if she might hate, but could not love. she hardly smiled at anything, spoke rarely, but seemed to feel that her natural power of expression lay all in her bright eyes, the force of which so many had felt, but none perhaps had tried to explain to themselves. a person accustomed to watch the faces of those who were ailing in body or mind, and to search in every line and tint for some underlying source of disorder, could hardly help analyzing the impression such a face produced upon him. the light of those beautiful eyes was like the lustre of ice; in all her features there was nothing of that human warmth which shows that sympathy has reached the soul beneath the mask of flesh it wears. the look was that of remoteness, of utter isolation. there was in its stony apathy, it seemed to him, the pathos which we find in the blind who show no film or speck over the organs of sight; for nature had meant her to be lovely, and left out nothing but love. and yet the master could not help feeling that some instinct was working in this girl which was in some way leading her to seek his presence. she did not lift her glittering eyes upon him as at first. it seemed strange that she did not, for they were surely her natural weapons of conquest. her color did not come and go like that of young girls under excitement. she had a clear brunette complexion, a little sun-touched, it may be,--for the master noticed once, when her necklace was slightly displaced, that a faint ring or band of a little lighter shade than the rest of the surface encircled her neck. what was the slight peculiarity of her enunciation, when she read? not a lisp, certainly, but the least possible imperfection in articulating some of the lingual sounds,--just enough to be noticed at first, and quite forgotten after being a few times heard. not a word about the flower on either side. it was not uncommon for the schoolgirls to leave a rose or pink or wild flower on the teacher's desk. finding it in the virgil was nothing, after all; it was a little delicate flower, which looked as if it were made to press, and it was probably shut in by accident at the particular place where he found it. he took it into his head to examine it in a botanical point of view. he found it was not common,--that it grew only in certain localities,--and that one of these was among the rocks of the eastern spur of the mountain. it happened to come into his head how the swiss youth climb the sides of the alps to find the flower called the edelweiss for the maidens whom they wish to please. it is a pretty fancy, that of scaling some dangerous height before the dawn, so as to gather the flower in its freshness, that the favored maiden may wear it to church on sunday morning, a proof at once of her lover's devotion and his courage. mr. bernard determined to explore the region where this flower was said to grow, that he might see where the wild girl sought the blossoms of which nature was so jealous. it was on a warm, fair saturday afternoon that he undertook his land-voyage of discovery. he had more curiosity, it may be, than he would have owned; for he had heard of the girl's wandering habits, and the guesses about her sylvan haunts, and was thinking what the chances were that he should meet her in some strange place, or come upon traces of her which would tell secrets she would not care to have known. the woods are all alive to one who walks through them with his mind in an excited state, and his eyes and ears wide open. the trees are always talking, not merely whispering with their leaves, (for every tree talks to itself in that way, even when it stands alone in the middle of a pasture,) but grating their boughs against each other, as old horn-handed farmers press their dry, rustling palms together, dropping a nut or a leaf or a twig, clicking to the tap of a woodpecker, or rustling as a squirrel flashes along a branch. it was now the season of singing-birds, and the woods were haunted with mysterious, tender music. the voices of the birds which love the deeper shades of the forest are sadder than those of the open fields: these are the nuns who have taken the veil, the hermits that have hidden themselves away from the world and tell their griefs to the infinite listening silences of the wilderness,--for the one deep inner silence that nature breaks with her fitful superficial sounds becomes multiplied as the image of a star in ruffled waters. strange! the woods at first convey the impression of profound repose, and yet, if you watch their ways with open ear, you find the life which is in them is restless and nervous as that of a woman: the little twigs are crossing and twining and separating like slender fingers that cannot be still; the stray leaf is to be flattened into its place like a truant curl; the limbs sway and twist, impatient of their constrained attitude; and the rounded masses of foliage swell upward and subside from time to time with long soft sighs, and, it may be, the falling of a few rain-drops which had lain hidden among the deeper shadows. i pray you, notice, in the sweet summer days which will soon see you among the mountains, this inward tranquillity that belongs to the heart of the woodland, with this nervousness, for i do not know what else to call it, of outer movement. one would say, that nature, like untrained persons, could not sit still without nestling about or doing something with her limbs or features, and that high breeding was only to be looked for in trim gardens, where the soul of the trees is ill at ease perhaps, but their manners are unexceptionable, and a rustling branch or leaf falling out of season is an indecorum. the real forest is hardly still except in the indian summer; then there is death in the house, and they are waiting for the sharp shrunken months to come with white raiment for the summer's burial. there were many hemlocks in this neighborhood, the grandest and most solemn of all the forest-trees in the mountain regions. up to a certain period of growth they are eminently beautiful, their boughs disposed in the most graceful pagoda-like series of close terraces, thick and dark with green crystalline leaflets. in spring the tender shoots come out of a paler green, finger-like, as if they were pointing to the violets at their feet. but when the trees have grown old, and their rough boles measure a yard and more through their diameter, they are no longer beautiful, but they have a sad solemnity all their own, too full of meaning to require the heart's comment to be framed in words. below, all their earthward-looking branches are sapless and shattered, splintered by the weight of many winters' snows; above, they are still green and full of life, but their summits overtop all the deciduous trees around them, and in their companionship with heaven they are alone. on these the lightning loves to fall. one such mr. bernard saw,--or rather, what had been one such; for the bolt had torn the tree like an explosion from within, and the ground was strewed all around the broken stump with flakes of rough bark and strips and chips of shivered wood, into which the old tree had been rent by the bursting rocket from the thunder-cloud. --the master had struck up the mountain obliquely from the western side of the dudley mansion-house. in this way he ascended until he reached a point many hundred feet above the level of the plain, and commanding all the country beneath and around. almost at his feet he saw the mansion-house, the chimney standing out of the middle of the roof, or rather, like a black square hole in it,--the trees almost directly over their stems, the fences as lines, the whole nearly as an architect would draw a ground-plan of the house and the inclosures round it. it frightened him to see how the huge masses of rock and old forest-growths hung over the home below. as he descended a little and drew near the ledge of evil name, he was struck with the appearance of a long narrow fissure that ran parallel with it and above it for many rods, not seemingly of very old standing,--for there were many fibres of roots which had evidently been snapped asunder when the rent took place, and some of which were still succulent in both separated portions. mr. bernard had made up his mind, when he set forth, not to come back before he had examined the dreaded ledge. he had half persuaded himself that it was scientific curiosity. he wished to examine the rocks, to see what flowers grew there, and perhaps to pick up an adventure in the zoological line; for he had on a pair of high, stout boots, and he carried a stick in his hand, which was forked at one extremity, so as to be very convenient to hold down a crotalus with, if he should happen to encounter one. he knew the aspect of the ledge from a distance; for its bald and leprous-looking declivities stood out in their nakedness from the wooded sides of the mountain, when this was viewed from certain points of the village. but the nearer aspect of the blasted region had something frightful in it. the cliffs were water-worn, as if they had been gnawed for thousands of years by hungry waves. in some places they overhung their base so as to look like leaning towers which might topple over at any minute. in other parts they were scooped into niches or caverns. here and there they were cracked in deep fissures, some of them of such width that one might enter them, if he cared to run the risk of meeting the regular tenants, who might treat him as an intruder. parts of the ledge were cloven perpendicularly, with nothing but cracks or slightly projecting edges in which or on which a foot could find hold. high up on one of these precipitous walls of rock he saw some tufts of flowers, and knew them at once for the same that he had found between the leaves of his virgil. not there, surely! no woman would have clung against that steep, rough parapet to gather an idle blossom. and yet the master looked round everywhere, and even up the side of that rock, to see if there were no signs of a woman's footstep. he peered about curiously, as if his eye might fall on some of those fragments of dress which women leave after them, whenever they run against each other or against anything else,--in crowded ballrooms, in the brushwood after picnics, on the fences after rambles, scattered round over every place which has witnessed an act of violence, where rude hands have been laid upon them. nothing--stop, though, one moment. that stone is smooth and polished, as if it had been somewhat worn by the pressure of human feet. there is one twig broken among the stems of that clump of shrubs. he put his foot upon the stone and took hold of the close-clinging shrub. in this way he turned a sharp angle of the rock and found himself on a natural platform, which lay in front of one of the wider fissures,--whether the mouth of a cavern or not he could not yet tell. a flat stone made an easy seat, upon which he sat down, as he was very glad to do, and looked mechanically about him. a small fragment splintered from the rock was at his feet. he took it and threw it down the declivity a little below where he sat. he looked about for a stem or a straw of some kind to bite upon,--a country-instinct,--relic, no doubt, of the old vegetable-feeding habits of eden. is that a stem or a straw? he picked it up. it was a hair-pin. to say that mr. langdon had a strange sort of thrill shoot through him at the sight of this harmless little implement would be a statement not at variance with the fact of the case. that smooth stone had been often trodden, and by what foot he could not doubt. he rose up from his seat to look round for other signs of a woman's visits. what if there is a cavern here, where she has a retreat, fitted up, perhaps, as anchorites fitted their cells,--nay, it may be, carpeted and mirrored, and with one of those tiger-skins for a couch, such as they, say the girl loves to lie on? let us look, at any rate. mr. bernard walked to the mouth of the cavern or fissure and looked into it. his look was met by the glitter of two diamond eyes, small, sharp, cold, shining out of the darkness, but gliding with a smooth, steady motion towards the light, and himself. he stood fixed, struck dumb, staring back into them with dilating pupils and sudden numbness of fear that cannot move, as in the terror of dreams. the two sparks of light came forward until they grew to circles of flame, and all at once lifted themselves up as if in angry surprise. then for the first time thrilled in mr. bernard's ears the dreadful sound that nothing which breathes, be it man or brute, can hear unmoved,--the long, loud, stinging whirr, as the huge, thick bodied reptile shook his many-jointed rattle and adjusted his loops for the fatal stroke. his eyes were drawn as with magnets toward the circles of flame. his ears rung as in the overture to the swooning dream of chloroform. nature was before man with her anaesthetics: the cat's first shake stupefies the mouse; the lion's first shake deadens the man's fear and feeling; and the crotalus paralyzes before he strikes. he waited as in a trance,--waited as one that longs to have the blow fall, and all over, as the man who shall be in two pieces in a second waits for the axe to drop. but while he looked straight into the flaming eyes, it seemed to him that they were losing their light and terror, that they were growing tame and dull; the charm was dissolving, the numbness was passing away, he could move once more. he heard a light breathing close to his ear, and, half turning, saw the face of elsie venner, looking motionless into the reptile's eyes, which had shrunk and faded under the stronger enchantment of her own. chapter xiv. family secrets. it was commonly understood in the town of rockland that dudley venner had had a great deal of trouble with that daughter of his, so handsome, yet so peculiar, about whom there were so many strange stories. there was no end to the tales which were told of her extraordinary doings. yet her name was never coupled with that of any youth or man, until this cousin had provoked remark by his visit; and even then it was oftener in the shape of wondering conjectures whether he would dare to make love to her, than in any pretended knowledge of their relations to each other, that the public tongue exercised its village-prerogative of tattle. the more common version of the trouble at the mansion-house was this: elsie was not exactly in her right mind. her temper was singular, her tastes were anomalous, her habits were lawless, her antipathies were many and intense, and she was liable to explosions of ungovernable anger. some said that was not the worst of it. at nearly fifteen years old, when she was growing fast, and in an irritable state of mind and body, she had had a governess placed over her for whom she had conceived an aversion. it was whispered among a few who knew more of the family secrets than others, that, worried and exasperated by the presence and jealous oversight of this person, elsie had attempted to get finally rid of her by unlawful means, such as young girls have been known to employ in their straits, and to which the sex at all ages has a certain instinctive tendency, in preference to more palpable instruments for the righting of its wrongs. at any rate, this governess had been taken suddenly ill, and the doctor had been sent for at midnight. old sophy had taken her master into a room apart, and said a few words to him which turned him as white as a sheet. as soon as he recovered himself, he sent sophy out, called in the old doctor, and gave him some few hints, on which he acted at once, and had the satisfaction of seeing his patient out of danger before he left in the morning. it is proper to say, that, during the following days, the most thorough search was made in every nook and cranny of those parts of the house which elsie chiefly haunted, but nothing was found which might be accused of having been the intentional cause of the probably accidental sudden illness of the governess. from this time forward her father was never easy. should he keep her apart, or shut her up, for fear of risk to others, and so lose every chance of restoring her mind to its healthy tone by kindly influences and intercourse with wholesome natures? there was no proof, only presumption, as to the agency of elsie in the matter referred to. but the doubt was worse, perhaps, than certainty would have been,--for then he would have known what to do. he took the old doctor as his adviser. the shrewd old man listened to the father's story, his explanations of possibilities, of probabilities, of dangers, of hopes. when he had got through, the doctor looked him in the face steadily, as if he were saying, is that all? the father's eyes fell. this was not all. there was something at the bottom of his soul which he could not bear to speak of,--nay, which, as often as it reared itself through the dark waves of unworded consciousness into the breathing air of thought, he trod down as the ruined angels tread down a lost soul, trying to come up out of the seething sea of torture. only this one daughter! no! god never would have ordained such a thing. there was nothing ever heard of like it; it could not be; she was ill,--she would outgrow all these singularities; he had had an aunt who was peculiar; he had heard that hysteric girls showed the strangest forms of moral obliquity for a time, but came right at last. she would change all at once, when her health got more firmly settled in the course of her growth. are there not rough buds that open into sweet flowers? are there not fruits, which, while unripe, are not to be tasted or endured, which mature into the richest taste and fragrance? in god's good time she would come to her true nature; her eyes would lose that frightful, cold glitter; her lips would not feel so cold when she pressed them against his cheek; and that faint birth-mark, her mother swooned when she first saw, would fade wholly out,--it was less marked, surely, now than it used to be! so dudley venner felt, and would have thought, if he had let his thoughts breathe the air of his soul. but the doctor read through words and thoughts and all into the father's consciousness. there are states of mind which may be shared by two persons in presence of each other, which remain not only unworded, but unthoughted, if such a word may be coined for our special need. such a mutually interpenetrative consciousness there was between the father and the old physician. by a common impulse, both of them rose in a mechanical way and went to the western window, where each started, as he saw the other's look directed towards the white stone which stood in the midst of the small plot of green turf. the doctor had, for a moment, forgotten himself but he looked up at the clouds, which were angry, and said, as if speaking of the weather, "it is dark now, but we hope it will clear up by and by. there are a great many more clouds than rains, and more rains than strokes of lightning, and more strokes of lightning than there are people killed. we must let this girl of ours have her way, as far as it is safe. send away this woman she hates, quietly. get her a foreigner for a governess, if you can,--one that can dance and sing and will teach her. in the house old sophy will watch her best. out of it you must trust her, i am afraid,--for she will not be followed round, and she is in less danger than you think. if she wanders at night, find her, if you can; the woods are not absolutely safe. if she will be friendly with any young people, have them to see her,--young men especially. she will not love any one easily, perhaps not at all; yet love would be more like to bring her right than anything else. if any young person seems in danger of falling in love with her, send him to me for counsel." dry, hard advice, but given from a kind hewn, with a moist eye, and in tones which tried to be cheerful and were full of sympathy. this advice was the key to the more than indulgent treatment which, as we have seen, the girl had received from her father and all about her. the old doctor often came in, in the kindest, most natural sort of way, got into pleasant relations with elsie by always treating her in the same easy manner as at the great party, encouraging all her harmless fancies, and rarely reminding her that he was a professional adviser, except when she came out of her own accord, as in the talk they had at the party, telling him of some wild trick she had been playing. "let her go to the girls' school, by all means," said the doctor, when she had begun to talk about it. "possibly she may take to some of the girls or of the teachers. anything to interest her. friendship, love, religion, whatever will set her nature at work. we must have headway on, or there will be no piloting her. action first of all, and then we will see what to do with it." so, when cousin richard came along, the doctor, though he did not like his looks any too well, told her father to encourage his staying for a time. if she liked him, it was good; if she only tolerated him, it was better than nothing. "you know something about that nephew of yours, during these last years, i suppose?" the doctor said. "looks as if he had seen life. has a scar that was made by a sword-cut, and a white spot on the side of his neck that looks like a bullet-mark. i think he has been what folks call a 'hard customer.'" dudley venner owned that he had heard little or nothing of him of late years. he had invited himself, and of course it would not be decent not to receive him as a relative. he thought elsie rather liked having him about the house for a while. she was very capricious,--acted as if she fancied him one day and disliked him the next. he did not know,--but sometimes thought that this nephew of his might take a serious liking to elsie. what should he do about it, if it turned out so? the doctor lifted his eyebrows a little. he thought there was no fear. elsie was naturally what they call a man-hater, and there was very little danger of any sudden passion springing up between two such young persons. let him stay awhile; it gives her something to think about. so he stayed awhile, as we have seen. the more mr. richard became acquainted with the family,--that is, with the two persons of whom it consisted,--the more favorably the idea of a permanent residence in the mansion-house seemed to impress him. the estate was large,--hundreds of acres, with woodlands and meadows of great value. the father and daughter had been living quietly, and there could not be a doubt that the property which came through the dudleys must have largely increased of late years. it was evident enough that they had an abundant income, from the way in which elsie's caprices were indulged. she had horses and carriages to suit herself; she sent to the great city for everything she wanted in the way of dress. even her diamonds--and the young man knew something about these gems--must be of considerable value; and yet she wore them carelessly, as it pleased her fancy. she had precious old laces, too, almost worth their weight in diamonds; laces which had been snatched from altars in ancient spanish cathedrals during the wars, and which it would not be safe to leave a duchess alone with for ten minutes. the old house was fat with the deposits of rich generations which had gone before. the famous "golden" fire-set was a purchase of one of the family who had been in france during the revolution, and must have come from a princely palace, if not from one of the royal residences. as for silver, the iron closet which had been made in the dining-room wall was running over with it: tea-kettles, coffee-pots, heavy-lidded tankards, chafing-dishes, punch-bowls, all that all the dudleys had ever used, from the caudle-cup which used to be handed round the young mother's chamber, and the porringer from which children scooped their bread-and-milk with spoons as solid as ingots, to that ominous vessel, on the upper shelf, far back in the dark, with a spout like a slender italic s, out of which the sick and dying, all along the last century, and since, had taken the last drops that passed their lips. without being much of a scholar, dick could see well enough, too, that the books in the library had been ordered from the great london houses, whose imprint they bore, by persons who knew what was best and meant to have it. a man does not require much learning to feel pretty sure, when he takes one of those solid, smooth, velvet-leaved quartos, say a baskerville addison, for instance, bound in red morocco, with a margin of gold as rich as the embroidery of a prince's collar, as vandyck drew it,--he need not know much to feel pretty sure that a score or two of shelves full of such books mean that it took a long purse, as well as a literary taste, to bring them together. to all these attractions the mind of this thoughtful young gentleman may be said to have been fully open. he did not disguise from himself, however, that there were a number of drawbacks in the way of his becoming established as the heir of the dudley mansion-house and fortune. in the first place, cousin elsie was, unquestionably, very piquant, very handsome, game as a hawk, and hard to please, which made her worth trying for. but then there was something about cousin elsie,--(the small, white scars began stinging, as he said this to himself, and he pushed his sleeve up to look at them)--there was something about cousin elsie he couldn't make out. what was the matter with her eyes, that they sucked your life out of you in that strange way? what did she always wear a necklace for? had she some such love-token on her neck as the old don's revolver had left on his? how safe would anybody feel to live with her? besides, her father would last forever, if he was left to himself. and he may take it into his head to marry again. that would be pleasant! so talked cousin richard to himself, in the calm of the night and in the tranquillity of his own soul. there was much to be said on both sides. it was a balance to be struck after the two columns were added up. he struck the balance, and came to the conclusion that he would fall in love with elsie venner. the intelligent reader will not confound this matured and serious intention of falling in love with the young lady with that mere impulse of the moment before mentioned as an instance of making love. on the contrary, the moment mr. richard had made up his mind that he should fall in love with elsie, he began to be more reserved with her, and to try to make friends in other quarters. sensible men, you know, care very little what a girl's present fancy is. the question is: who manages her, and how can you get at that person or those persons? her foolish little sentiments are all very well in their way; but business is business, and we can't stop for such trifles. the old political wire-pullers never go near the man they want to gain, if they can help it; they find out who his intimates and managers are, and work through them. always handle any positively electrical body, whether it is charged with passion or power, with some non-conductor between you and it, not with your naked hands. --the above were some of the young gentleman's working axioms; and he proceeded to act in accordance with them. he began by paying his court more assiduously to his uncle. it was not very hard to ingratiate himself in that quarter; for his manners were insinuating, and his precocious experience of life made him entertaining. the old neglected billiard--room was soon put in order, and dick, who was a magnificent player, had a series of games with his uncle, in which, singularly enough, he was beaten, though his antagonist had been out of play for years. he evinced a profound interest in the family history, insisted on having the details of its early alliances, and professed a great pride in it, which he had inherited from his father, who, though he had allied himself with the daughter of an alien race, had yet chosen one with the real azure blood in her veins, as proud as if she had castile and aragon for her dower and the cid for her grand-papa. he also asked a great deal of advice, such as inexperienced young persons are in need of, and listened to it with due reverence. it is not very strange that uncle dudley took a kinder view of his nephew than the judge, who thought he could read a questionable history in his face,--or the old doctor, who knew men's temperaments and organizations pretty well, and had his prejudices about races, and could tell an old sword-cut and a ballet-mark in two seconds from a scar got by falling against the fender, or a mark left by king's evil. he could not be expected to share our own prejudices; for he had heard nothing of the wild youth's adventures, or his scamper over the pampas at short notice. so, then, "richard venner, esquire, guest of dudley venner, esquire, at his elegant mansion," prolonged his visit until his presence became something like a matter of habit, and the neighbors began to think that the fine old house would be illuminated before long for a grand marriage. he had done pretty well with the father: the next thing was to gain over the nurse. old sophy was as cunning as a red fox or a gray woodchuck. she had nothing in the world to do but to watch elsie; she had nothing to care for but this girl and her father. she had never liked dick too well; for he used to make faces at her and tease her when he was a boy, and now he was a man there was something about him--she could not tell what--that made her suspicious of him. it was no small matter to get her over to his side. the jet-black africans know that gold never looks so well as on the foil of their dark skins. dick found in his trunk a string of gold beads, such as are manufactured in some of our cities, which he had brought from the gold region of chili,--so he said,--for the express purpose of giving them to old sophy. these africans, too, have a perfect passion for gay-colored clothing; being condemned by nature, as it were, to a perpetual mourning-suit, they love to enliven it with all sorts of variegated stuffs of sprightly patterns, aflame with red and yellow. the considerate young man had remembered this, too, and brought home for sophy some handkerchiefs of rainbow hues, which had been strangely overlooked till now, at the bottom of one of his trunks. old sophy took his gifts, but kept her black eyes open and watched every movement of the young people all the more closely. it was through her that the father had always known most of the actions and tendencies of his daughter. in the mean time the strange adventure on the mountain had brought the young master into new relations with elsie. she had led him out of, danger; perhaps saved him from death by the strange power she exerted. he was grateful, and yet shuddered at the recollection of the whole scene. in his dreams he was pursued by the glare of cold glittering eyes, whether they were in the head of a woman or of a reptile he could not always tell, the images had so run together. but he could not help seeing that the eyes of the young girl had been often, very often, turned upon him when he had been looking away, and fell as his own glance met them. helen darley told him very plainly that this girl was thinking about him more than about her book. dick venner found she was getting more constant in her attendance at school. he learned, on inquiry, that there was a new master, a handsome young man. the handsome young man would not have liked the look that, came over dick's face when he heard this fact mentioned. in short, everything was getting tangled up together, and there would be no chance of disentangling the threads in this chapter. chapter xv. physiological. if master bernard felt a natural gratitude to his young pupil for saving him from an imminent peril, he was in a state of infinite perplexity to know why he should have needed such aid. he, an active, muscular, courageous, adventurous young fellow, with--a stick in his hand, ready to hold down the old serpent himself, if he had come in his way, to stand still, staring into those two eyes, until they came up close to him, and the strange, terrible sound seemed to freeze him stiff where he stood,--what was the meaning of it? again, what was the influence this girl had seemingly exerted, under which the venomous creature had collapsed in such a sudden way? whether he had been awake or dreaming he did not feel quite sure. he knew he had gone up the mountain, at any rate; he knew he had come down the mountain with the girl walking just before him;--there was no forgetting her figure, as she walked on in silence, her braided locks falling a little, for want of the lost hairpin, perhaps, and looking like a wreathing coil of--shame on such fancies!--to wrong that supreme crowning gift of abounding nature, a rush of shining black hair, which, shaken loose, would cloud her all round, like godiva, from brow to instep! he was sure he had sat down before the fissure or cave. he was sure that he was led softly away from the place, and that it was elsie who had led him. there was the hair-pin to show that so far it was not a dream. but between these recollections came a strange confusion; and the more the master thought, the more he was perplexed to know whether she had waked him, sleeping, as he sat on the stone, from some frightful dream, such as may come in a very brief slumber, or whether she had bewitched him into a trance with those strange eyes of hers, or whether it was all true, and he must solve its problem as he best might. there was another recollection connected with this mountain adventure. as they approached the mansion-house, they met a young man, whom mr. bernard remembered having seen once at least before, and whom he had heard of as a cousin of the young girl. as cousin richard venner, the person in question, passed them, he took the measure, so to speak, of mr. bernard, with a look so piercing, so exhausting, so practised, so profoundly suspicious, that the young master felt in an instant that he had an enemy in this handsome youth,--an enemy, too, who was like to be subtle and dangerous. mr. bernard had made up his mind, that, come what might, enemy or no enemy, live or die, he would solve the mystery of elsie venner, sooner or later. he was not a man to be frightened out of his resolution by a scowl, or a stiletto, or any unknown means of mischief, of which a whole armory was hinted at in that passing look dick venner had given him. indeed, like most adventurous young persons, he found a kind of charm in feeling that there might be some dangers in the way of his investigations. some rumors which had reached him about the supposed suitor of elsie venner, who was thought to be a desperate kind of fellow, and whom some believed to be an unscrupulous adventurer, added a curious, romantic kind of interest to the course of physiological and psychological inquiries he was about instituting. the afternoon on the mountain was still upper-most in his mind. of course he knew the common stories--about fascination. he had once been himself an eyewitness of the charming of a small bird by one of our common harmless serpents. whether a human being could be reached by this subtile agency, he had been skeptical, notwithstanding the mysterious relation generally felt to exist between man and this creature, "cursed above all cattle and above every beast of the field,"--a relation which some interpret as the fruit of the curse, and others hold to be so instinctive that this animal has been for that reason adopted as the natural symbol of evil. there was another solution, however, supplied him by his professional reading. the curious work of mr. braid of manchester had made him familiar with the phenomena of a state allied to that produced by animal magnetism, and called by that writer by the name of hypnotism. he found, by referring to his note-book, the statement was, that, by fixing the eyes on a bright object so placed as to produce a strain upon the eyes and eyelids, and to maintain a steady fixed stare, there comes on in a few seconds a very singular condition, characterized by muscular rigidity and inability to move, with a strange exaltation of most of the senses, and generally a closure of the eyelids,--this condition being followed by torpor. now this statement of mr. braid's, well known to the scientific world, and the truth of which had been confirmed by mr. bernard in certain experiments he had instituted, as it has been by many other experimenters, went far to explain the strange impressions, of which, waking or dreaming, he had certainly been the subject. his nervous system had been in a high state of exaltation at the time. he remembered how the little noises that made rings of sound in the silence of the woods, like pebbles dropped in still waters, had reached his inner consciousness. he remembered that singular sensation in the roots of the hair, when he came on the traces of the girl's presence, reminding him of a line in a certain poem which he had read lately with a new and peculiar interest. he even recalled a curious evidence of exalted sensibility and irritability, in the twitching of the minute muscles of the internal ear at every unexpected sound, producing an odd little snap in the middle of the head, which proved to him that he was getting very nervous. the next thing was to find out whether it were possible that the venomous creature's eyes should have served the purpose of mr. braid's "bright object" held very close to the person experimented on, or whether they had any special power which could be made the subject of exact observation. for this purpose mr. bernard considered it necessary to get a live crotalus or two into his possession, if this were possible. on inquiry, he found that there was a certain family living far up the mountainside, not a mile from the ledge, the members of which were said to have taken these creatures occasionally, and not to be in any danger, or at least in any fear, of being injured by them. he applied to these people, and offered a reward sufficient to set them at work to capture some of these animals, if such a thing were possible. a few days after this, a dark, gypsy-looking woman presented herself at his door. she held up her apron as if it contained something precious in the bag she made with it. "y' wanted some rattlers," said the woman. "here they be." she opened her apron and showed a coil of rattlesnakes lying very peaceably in its fold. they lifted their heads up, as if they wanted to see what was going on, but showed no sign of anger. "are you crazy?" said mr. bernard. "you're dead in an hour, if one of those creatures strikes you!" he drew back a little, as he spoke; it might be simple disgust; it might be fear; it might be what we call antipathy, which is different from either, and which will sometimes show itself in paleness, and even faintness, produced by objects perfectly harmless and not in themselves offensive to any sense. "lord bless you," said the woman, "rattlers never touches our folks. i'd jest 'z lieves handle them creaturs as so many striped snakes." so saying, she put their heads down with her hand, and packed them together in her apron as if they had been bits of cart-rope. mr. bernard had never heard of the power, or, at least, the belief in the possession of a power by certain persons, which enables them to handle these frightful reptiles with perfect impunity. the fact, however, is well known to others, and more especially to a very distinguished professor in one of the leading institutions of the great city of the land, whose experiences in the neighborhood of graylock, as he will doubtless inform the curious, were very much like those of the young master. mr. bernard had a wired cage ready for his formidable captives, and studied their habits and expression with a strange sort of interest. what did the creator mean to signify, when he made such shapes of horror, and, as if he had doubly cursed this envenomed wretch, had set a mark upon him and sent him forth the cain of the brotherhood of serpents? it was a very curious fact that the first train of thoughts mr. bernard's small menagerie suggested to him was the grave, though somewhat worn, subject of the origin of evil. there is now to be seen in a tall glass jar, in the museum of comparative anatomy at cantabridge in the territory of the massachusetts, a huge crotalus, of a species which grows to more frightful dimensions than our own, under the hotter skies of south america. look at it, ye who would know what is the tolerance, the freedom from prejudice, which can suffer such an incarnation of all that is devilish to lie unharmed in the cradle of nature! learn, too, that there are many things in this world which we are warned to shun, and are even suffered to slay, if need be, but which we must not hate, unless we would hate what god loves and cares for. whatever fascination the creature might exercise in his native haunts, mr. bernard found himself not in the least nervous or affected in any way while looking at his caged reptiles. when their cage was shaken, they would lift their heads and spring their rattles; but the sound was by no means so formidable to listen to as when it reverberated among the chasms of the echoing rocks. the expression of the creatures was watchful, still, grave, passionless, fate-like, suggesting a cold malignity which seemed to be waiting for its opportunity. their awful, deep-cut mouths were sternly closed over the long hollow fangs which rested their roots against the swollen poison-gland, where the venom had been hoarding up ever since the last stroke had emptied it. they never winked, for ophidians have no movable eyelids, but kept up that awful fixed stare which made the two unwinking gladiators the survivors of twenty pairs matched by one of the roman emperors, as pliny tells us, in his "natural history." their eyes did not flash, but shone with a cold still light. they were of a pale-golden or straw color, horrible to look into, with their stony calmness, their pitiless indifference, hardly enlivened by the almost imperceptible vertical slit of the pupil, through which death seemed to be looking out like the archer behind the long narrow loop-hole in a blank turret-wall. on the whole, the caged reptiles, horrid as they were, hardly matched his recollections of what he had seen or dreamed he save at the cavern. these looked dangerous enough, but yet quiet. a treacherous stillness, however,--as the unfortunate new york physician found, when he put his foot out to wake up the torpid creature, and instantly the fang flashed through his boot, carrying the poison into his blood, and death with it. mr. bernard kept these strange creatures, and watched all their habits with a natural curiosity. in any collection of animals the venomous beasts are looked at with the greatest interest, just as the greatest villains are most run after by the unknown public. nobody troubles himself for a common striped snake or a petty thief, but a cobra or a wife-killer is a centre of attraction to all eyes. these captives did very little to earn their living, but, on the other hand, their living was not expensive, their diet being nothing but air, au naturel. months and months these creatures will live and seem to thrive well enough, as any showman who has then in his menagerie will testify, though they never touch anything to eat or drink. in the mean time mr. bernard had become very curious about a class of subjects not treated of in any detail in those text-books accessible in most country-towns, to the exclusion of the more special treatises, and especially of the rare and ancient works found on the shelves of the larger city-libraries. he was on a visit to old dr. kittredge one day, having been asked by him to call in for a few moments as soon as convenient. the doctor smiled good-humoredly when he asked him if he had an extensive collection of medical works. "why, no," said the old doctor, "i haven't got a great many printed books; and what i have i don't read quite as often as i might, i'm afraid. i read and studied in the time of it, when i was in the midst of the young men who were all at work with their books; but it's a mighty hard matter, when you go off alone into the country, to keep up with all that's going on in the societies and the colleges. i'll tell you, though, mr. langdon, when a man that's once started right lives among sick folks for five-and-thirty years, as i've done, if he has n't got a library of five-and-thirty volumes bound up in his head at the end of that time, he'd better stop driving round and sell his horse and sulky. i know the bigger part of the families within a dozen miles' ride. i know the families that have a way of living through everything, and i know the other set that have the trick of dying without any kind of reason for it. i know the years when the fevers and dysenteries are in earnest, and when they're only making believe. i know the folks that think they're dying as soon as they're sick, and the folks that never find out they 're sick till they're dead. i don't want to undervalue your science, mr. langdon. there are things i never learned, because they came in after my day, and i am very glad to send my patients to those that do know them, when i am at fault; but i know these people about here, fathers and mothers, and children and grandchildren, so as all the science in the world can't know them, without it takes time about it, and sees them grow up and grow old, and how the wear and tear of life comes to them. you can't tell a horse by driving him once, mr. langdon, nor a patient by talking half an hour with him." "do you know much about the veneer family?" said mr. bernard, in a natural way enough, the doctor's talk having suggested the question. the doctor lifted his head with his accustomed movement, so as to command the young man through his spectacles. "i know all the families of this place and its neighborhood," he answered. "we have the young lady studying with us at the institute," said mr. bernard. "i know it," the doctor answered. "is she a good scholar?" all this time the doctor's eyes were fixed steadily on mr. bernard, looking through the glasses. "she is a good scholar enough, but i don't know what to make of her. sometimes i think she is a little out of her head. her father, i believe, is sensible enough;--what sort of a woman was her mother, doctor?--i suppose, of course, you remember all about her?" "yes, i knew her mother. she was a very lovely young woman."--the doctor put his hand to his forehead and drew a long breath.--"what is there you notice out of the way about elsie venner?" "a good many things," the master answered. "she shuns all the other girls. she is getting a strange influence over my fellow-teacher, a young lady,--you know miss helen darley, perhaps? i am afraid this girl will kill her. i never saw or heard of anything like it, in prose at least;--do you remember much of coleridge's poems, doctor?" the good old doctor had to plead a negative. "well, no matter. elsie would have been burned for a witch in old times. i have seen the girl look at miss darley when she had not the least idea of it, and all at once i would see her grow pale and moist, and sigh, and move round uneasily, and turn towards elsie, and perhaps get up and go to her, or else have slight spasmodic movements that looked like hysterics;--do you believe in the evil eye, doctor?" "mr. langdon," the doctor said, solemnly, "there are strange things about elsie veneer,--very strange things. this was what i wanted to speak to you about. let me advise you all to be very patient with the girl, but also very careful. her love is not to be desired, and "--he spoke in a lower tone--"her hate is to be dreaded. do you think she has any special fancy for anybody else in the school besides miss darley?" mr. bernard could not stand the old doctor's spectacled eyes without betraying a little of the feeling natural to a young man to whom a home question involving a possible sentiment is put suddenly. "i have suspected," he said,--"i have had a kind of feeling--that she--well, come, doctor,--i don't know that there 's any use in disguising the matter,--i have thought elsie veneer had rather a fancy for somebody else,--i mean myself." there was something so becoming in the blush with which the young man made this confession, and so manly, too, in the tone with which he spoke, so remote from any shallow vanity, such as young men who are incapable of love are apt to feel, when some loose tendril of a woman's fancy which a chance wind has blown against them twines about them for the want of anything better, that the old doctor looked at him admiringly, and could not help thinking that it was no wonder any young girl should be pleased with him. "you are a man of nerve, mr. langdon?" said the doctor. "i thought so till very lately," he replied. "i am not easily frightened, but i don't know but i might be bewitched or magnetized, or whatever it is when one is tied up and cannot move. i think i can find nerve enough, however, if there is any special use you want to put it to." "let me ask you one more question, mr. langdon. do you find yourself disposed to take a special interest in elsie,--to fall in love with her, in a word? pardon me, for i do not ask from curiosity, but a much more serious motive." "elsie interests me," said the young man, "interests me strangely. she has a wild flavor in her character which is wholly different from that of any human creature i ever saw. she has marks of genius, poetic or dramatic,--i hardly know which. she read a passage from keats's 'lamia' the other day, in the schoolroom, in such a way that i declare to you i thought some of the girls would faint or go into fits. miss darley got up and left the room, trembling all over. then, i pity her, she is so lonely. the girls are afraid of her, and she seems to have either a dislike or a fear of them. they have all sorts of painful stories about her. they give her a name which no human creature ought to bear. they say she hides a mark on her neck by always wearing a necklace. she is very graceful, you know, and they will have it that she can twist herself into all sorts of shapes, or tie herself in a knot, if she wants to. there is not one of them that will look her in the eyes. i pity the poor girl; but, doctor, i do not love her. i would risk my life for her, if it would do her any good, but it would be in cold blood. if her hand touches mine, it is not a thrill of passion i feel running through me, but a very different emotion. oh, doctor! there must be something in that creature's blood which has killed the humanity in her. god only knows the cause that has blighted such a soul in so beautiful a body! no, doctor, i do not love the girl." "mr. langdon," said the doctor, "you are young, and i am old. let me talk to you with an old man's privilege, as an adviser. you have come to this country-town without suspicion, and you are moving in the midst of perils. there are things which i must not tell you now; but i may warn you. keep your eyes open and your heart shut. if, through pitying that girl, you ever come to love her, you are lost. if you deal carelessly with her, beware! this is not all. there are other eyes on you beside elsie venner's. do you go armed?" "i do!" said mr. bernard,--and he "put his hands up" in the shape of fists, in such a way as to show that he was master of the natural weapons at any rate. the doctor could not help smiling. but his face fell in an instant. "you may want something more than those tools to work with. come with me into my sanctum." the doctor led mr. bernard into a small room opening out of the study. it was a place such as anybody but a medical man would shiver to enter. there was the usual tall box with its bleached, rattling tenant; there were jars in rows where "interesting cases" outlived the grief of widows and heirs in alcoholic immortality,--for your "preparation-jar" is the true "monumentum aere perennius;" there were various semi-possibilities of minute dimensions and unpromising developments; there were shining instruments of evil aspect, and grim plates on the walls, and on one shelf by itself, accursed and apart, coiled in a long cylinder of spirit, a huge crotalus, rough-scaled, flatheaded, variegated with dull bands, one of which partially encircled the neck like a collar,--an awful wretch to look upon, with murder written all over him in horrid hieroglyphics. mr. bernard's look was riveted on this creature,--not fascinated certainly, for its eyes looked like white beads, being clouded by the action of the spirits in which it had been long kept,--but fixed by some indefinite sense of the renewal of a previous impression;--everybody knows the feeling, with its suggestion of some past state of existence. there was a scrap of paper on the jar, with something written on it. he was reaching up to read it when the doctor touched him lightly. "look here, mr. langdon!" he said, with a certain vivacity of manner, as if wishing to call away his attention,--"this is my armory." the doctor threw open the door of a small cabinet, where were disposed in artistic patterns various weapons of offence and defence,--for he was a virtuoso in his way, and by the side of the implements of the art of healing had pleased himself with displaying a collection of those other instruments, the use of which renders the first necessary. "see which of these weapons you would like best to carry about you," said the doctor. mr. bernard laughed, and looked at the doctor as if he half doubted whether he was in earnest. "this looks dangerous enough," he said,--"for the man who carries it, at least." he took down one of the prohibited spanish daggers or knives which a traveller may, occasionally get hold of and smuggle out of the country. the blade was broad, trowel-like, but the point drawn out several inches, so as to look like a skewer. "this must be a jealous bull-fighter's weapon," he said, and put it back in its place. then he took down an ancient-looking broad-bladed dagger, with a complex aspect about it, as if it had some kind of mechanism connected with it. "take care!" said the doctor; "there is a trick to that dagger." he took it and touched a spring. the dagger split suddenly into three blades, as when one separates the forefinger and the ring-finger from the middle one. the outside blades were sharp on their outer edge. the stab was to be made with the dagger shut, then the spring touched and the split blades withdrawn. mr. bernard replaced it, saying, that it would have served for sidearm to old suwarrow, who told his men to work their bayonets back and forward when they pinned a turk, but to wriggle them about in the wound when they stabbed a frenchman. "here," said the doctor, "this is the thing you want." he took down a much more modern and familiar implement,--a small, beautifully finished revolver. "i want you to carry this," he said; "and more than that, i want you to practise with it often, as for amusement, but so that it maybe seen and understood that you are apt to have a pistol about you. pistol-shooting is pleasant sport enough, and there is no reason why you should not practise it like other young fellows. and now," the doctor said, "i have one other, weapon to give you." he took a small piece of parchment and shook a white powder into it from one of his medicine-jars. the jar was marked with the name of a mineral salt, of a nature to have been serviceable in case of sudden illness in the time of the borgias. the doctor folded the parchment carefully, and marked the latin name of the powder upon it. "here," he said, handing it to mr. bernard, "you see what it is, and you know what service it can render. keep these two protectors about your person day and night; they will not harm you, and you may want one or the other or both before you think of it." mr. bernard thought it was very odd, and not very old-gentlemanlike, to be fitting him out for treason, stratagem, and spoils, in this way. there was no harm, however, in carrying a doctor's powder in his pocket, or in amusing himself with shooting at a mark, as he had often done before. if the old gentleman had these fancies, it was as well to humor him. so he thanked old doctor kittredge, and shook his hand warmly as he left him. "the fellow's hand did not tremble, nor his color change," the doctor said, as he watched him walking away. "he is one of the right sort." chapter xvi epistolary. mr. langdon to the professor. my dear professor, you were kind enough to promise me that you would assist me in any professional or scientific investigations in which i might become engaged. i have of late become deeply interested in a class of subjects which present peculiar difficulty, and i must exercise the privilege of questioning you on some points upon which i desire information i cannot otherwise obtain. i would not trouble you, if i could find any person or books competent to enlighten me on some of these singular matters which have so excited me. the leading doctor here is a shrewd, sensible man, but not versed in the curiosities of medical literature. i proceed, with your leave, to ask a considerable number of questions,--hoping to get answers to some of them, at least. is there any evidence that human beings can be infected or wrought upon by poisons, or otherwise, so that they shall manifest any of the peculiarities belonging to beings of a lower nature? can such peculiarities--be transmitted by inheritance? is there anything to countenance the stories, long and widely current, about the "evil eye"? or is it a mere fancy that such a power belongs to any human being? have you any personal experience as to the power of fascination said to be exercised by certain animals? what can you make of those circumstantial statements we have seen in the papers, of children forming mysterious friendships with ophidians of different species, sharing their food with them, and seeming to be under some subtile influence exercised by those creatures? have you read, critically, coleridge's poem of "christabel," and keats's "lamia"?--if so, can you understand them, or find any physiological foundation for the story of either? there is another set of questions of a different nature i should like to ask, but it is hardly fair to put so many on a single sheet. there is one, however, you must answer. do you think there may be predispositions, inherited or ingrafted, but at any rate constitutional, which shall take out certain apparently voluntary determinations from the control of the will, and leave them as free from moral responsibility as the instincts of the lower animals? do you not think there may be a crime which is not a sin? pardon me, my dear sir, for troubling you with such a list of notes of interrogation. there are some very strange things going on here in this place, country-town as it is. country-life is apt to be dull; but when it once gets going, it beats the city hollow, because it gives its whole mind to what it is about. these rural sinners make terrible work with the middle of the decalogue, when they get started. however, i hope i shall live through my year's school-keeping without catastrophes, though there are queer doings about me which puzzle me and might scare some people. if anything should happen, you will be one of the first to hear of it, no doubt. but i trust not to help out the editors of the "rockland weekly universe" with an obituary of the late lamented, who signed himself in life-- your friend and pupil, bernard c. langdon. the professor to mr. langdon. my dear mr. langdon, i do not wonder that you find no answer from your country friends to the curious questions you put. they belong to that middle region between science and poetry which sensible men, as they are called, are very shy of meddling with. some people think that truth and gold are always to be washed for; but the wiser sort are of opinion, that, unless there are so many grains to the peck of sand or nonsense respectively, it does not pay to wash for either, so long as one can find anything else to do. i don't doubt there is some truth in the phenomena of animal magnetism, for instance; but when you ask me to cradle for it, i tell you that the hysteric girls cheat so, and the professionals are such a set of pickpockets, that i can do something better than hunt for the grains of truth among their tricks and lies. do you remember what i used to say in my lectures?--or were you asleep just then, or cutting your initials on the rail? (you see i can ask questions, my young friend.) leverage is everything,--was what i used to say;--don't begin to pry till you have got the long arm on your side. to please you, and satisfy your doubts as far as possible, i have looked into the old books,--into schenckius and turner and kenelm. digby and the rest, where i have found plenty of curious stories which you must take for what they are worth. your first question i can answer in the affirmative upon pretty good authority. mizaldus tells, in his "memorabilia," the well-known story of the girl fed on poisons, who was sent by the king of the indies to alexander the great. "when aristotle saw her eyes sparkling and snapping like those of serpents, he said, 'look out for yourself, alexander! this is a dangerous companion for you!'"--and sure enough, the young lady proved to be a very unsafe person to her friends. cardanus gets a story from avicenna, of a certain man bit by a serpent, who recovered of his bite, the snake dying therefrom. this man afterwards had a daughter whom venomous serpents could not harm, though she had a fatal power over them. i suppose you may remember the statements of old authors about zycanthropy, the disease in which men took on the nature and aspect of wolves. actius and paulus, both men of authority, describe it. altomaris gives a horrid case; and fincelius mentions one occurring as late as , the subject of which was captured, still insisting that he was a wolf, only that the hair of his hide was turned in! versipelles, it may be remembered, was the latin name for these "were-wolves." as for the cases where rabid persons have barked and bit like dogs, there are plenty of such on record. more singular, or at least more rare, is the account given by andreas baccius, of a man who was struck in the hand by a cock, with his beak, and who died on the third day thereafter, looking for all the world like a fighting-cock, to the great horror of the spectators. as to impressions transmitted at a very early period of existence, every one knows the story of king james's fear of a naked sword, and the way it is accounted for. sir kenelm digby says,--"i remember when he dubbed me knight, in the ceremony of putting the point of a naked sword upon my shoulder, he could not endure to look upon it, but turned his face another way, insomuch, that, in lieu of touching my shoulder, he had almost thrust the point into my eyes, had not the duke of buckingham guided his hand aright." it is he, too, who tells the story of the mulberry mark upon the neck of a certain lady of high condition, which "every year, to mulberry season, did swell, grow big, and itch." and gaffarel mentions the case of a girl born with the figure of a fish on one of her limbs, of which the wonder was, that, when the girl did eat fish, this mark put her to sensible pain. but there is no end to cases of this kind, and i could give some of recent date, if necessary, lending a certain plausibility at least to the doctrine of transmitted impressions. i never saw a distinct case of evil eye, though i have seen eyes so bad that they might produce strange effects on very sensitive natures. but the belief in it under various names, fascination, jettcztura, etc., is so permanent and universal, from egypt to italy, and from the days of solomon to those of ferdinand of naples, that there must be some peculiarity, to say the least, on which the opinion is based. there is very strong evidence that some such power is exercised by certain of the lower animals. thus, it is stated on good authority that "almost every animal becomes panic-struck at the sight of the rattlesnake, and seems at once deprived of the power of motion, or the exercise of its usual instinct of self-preservation." other serpents seem to share this power of fascination, as the cobra and the buccephalus capensis. some think that it is nothing but fright; others attribute it to the "strange powers that lie within the magic circle of the eye,"-- as churchill said, speaking of garrick. you ask me about those mysterious and frightful intimacies between children and serpents, of which so many instances have been recorded. i am sure i cannot tell what to make of them. i have seen several such accounts in recent papers, but here is one published in the seventeenth century, which is as striking as any of the more modern ones: "mr. herbert tones of monmouth, when he was a little boy, was used to eat his milk in a garden in the morning, and was no sooner there, but a large snake always came, and eat out of the dish with him, and did so for a considerable time, till one morning, he striking the snake on the head, it hissed at him. upon which he told his mother that the baby (for so he call'd it) cry'd hiss at him. his mother had it kill'd, which occasioned him a great fit of sickness, and 'twas thought would have dy'd, but did recover." there was likewise one "william writtle, condemned at maidston assizes for a double murder, told a minister that was with him after he was condemned, that his mother told him, that when he was a child, there crept always to him a snake, wherever she laid him. sometimes she would convey him up stairs, and leave him never so little, she should be sure to find a snake in the cradle with him, but never perceived it did him any harm." one of the most striking alleged facts connected with the mysterious relation existing between the serpent and-the human species is the influence which the poison of the crotulus, taken internally, seemed to produce over the moral faculties, in the experiments instituted by dr. hering at surinam. there is something frightful in the disposition of certain ophidians, as the whipsnake, which darts at the eyes of cattle without any apparent provocation or other motive. it is natural enough that the evil principle should have been represented in the form of a serpent, but it is strange to think of introducing it into a human being like cow-pox by vaccination. you know all about the psylli, or ancient serpent tamers, i suppose. savary gives an account of the modern serpent-tamers in his "letters on egypt." these modern jugglers are in the habit of making the venomous naja counterfeit death, lying out straight and stiff, changing it into a rod, as the ancient magicians did with their serpents, (probably the same animal,) in the time of moses. i am afraid i cannot throw much light on "christabel" or "lamia" by any criticism i can offer. geraldine, in the former, seems to be simply a malignant witch-woman with the evil eye, but with no absolute ophidian relationship. lamia is a serpent transformed by magic into a woman. the idea of both is mythological, and not in any sense physiological. some women unquestionably suggest the image of serpents; men rarely or never. i have been struck, like many others, with the ophidian head and eye of the famous rachel. your question about inherited predispositions, as limiting the sphere of the will, and, consequently, of moral accountability, opens a very wide range of speculation. i can give you only a brief abstract of my own opinions on this delicate and difficult subject. crime and sin, being the preserves of two great organized interests, have been guarded against all reforming poachers with as great jealousy as the royal forests. it is so easy to hang a troublesome fellow! it is so much simpler to consign a soul to perdition, or say masses, for money, to save it, than to take the blame on ourselves for letting it grow up in neglect and run to ruin for want of humanizing influences! they hung poor, crazy bellingham for shooting mr. perceval. the ordinary of newgate preached to women who were to swing at tyburn for a petty theft as if they were worse than other people,--just as though he would not have been a pickpocket or shoplifter, himself, if he had been born in a den of thieves and bred up to steal or starve! the english law never began to get hold of the idea that a crime was not necessarily a sin, till hadfield, who thought he was the saviour of mankind, was tried for shooting at george the third;--lucky for him that he did not hit his majesty! it is very singular that we recognize all the bodily defects that unfit a man for military service, and all the intellectual ones that limit his range of thought, but always talk at him as if all his moral powers were perfect. i suppose we must punish evil-doers as we extirpate vermin; but i don't know that we have any more right to judge them than we have to judge rats and mice, which are just as good as cats and weasels, though we think it necessary to treat them as criminals. the limitations of human responsibility have never been properly studied, unless it be by the phrenologists. you know from my lectures that i consider phrenology, as taught, a pseudo-science, and not a branch of positive knowledge; but, for all that, we owe it an immense debt. it has melted the world's conscience in its crucible, and cast it in a new mould, with features less like those of moloch and more like those of humanity. if it has failed to demonstrate its system of special correspondences, it has proved that there are fixed relations between organization and mind and character. it has brought out that great doctrine of moral insanity, which has done more to make men charitable and soften legal and theological barbarism than any one doctrine that i can think of since the message of peace and good-will to men. automatic action in the moral world; the reflex movement which seems to be self-determination, and has been hanged and howled at as such (metaphorically) for nobody knows how many centuries: until somebody shall study this as marshall hall has studied reflex nervous action in the bodily system, i would not give much for men's judgments of each others' characters. shut up the robber and the defaulter, we must. but what if your oldest boy had been stolen from his cradle and bred in a north-street cellar? what if you are drinking a little too much wine and smoking a little too much tobacco, and your son takes after you, and so your poor grandson's brain being a little injured in physical texture, he loses the fine moral sense on which you pride yourself, and doesn't see the difference between signing another man's name to a draft and his own? i suppose the study of automatic action in the moral world (you see what i mean through the apparent contradiction of terms) may be a dangerous one in the view of many people. it is liable to abuse, no doubt. people are always glad to, get hold of anything which limits their responsibility. but remember that our moral estimates come down to us from ancestors who hanged children for stealing forty shillings' worth, and sent their souls to perdition for the sin of being born,--who punished the unfortunate families of suicides, and in their eagerness for justice executed one innocent person every three years, on the average, as sir james mackintosh tells us. i do not know in what shape the practical question may present itself to you; but i will tell you my rule in life, and i think you will find it a good one. treat bad men exactly as if they were insane. they are in-sane, out of health, morally. reason, which is food to sound minds, is not tolerated, still less assimilated, unless administered with the greatest caution; perhaps, not at all. avoid collision with them, so far as you honorably can; keep your temper, if you can,--for one angry man is as good as another; restrain them from violence, promptly, completely, and with the least possible injury, just as in the case of maniacs,--and when you have got rid of them, or got them tied hand and foot so that they can do no mischief, sit down and contemplate them charitably, remembering that nine tenths of their' perversity comes from outside influences, drunken ancestors, abuse in childhood, bad company, from which you have happily been preserved, and for some of which you, as a member of society, may be fractionally responsible. i think also that there are special influences which work in the brood lake ferments, and i have a suspicion that some of those curious old stories i cited may have more recent parallels. have you ever met with any cases which admitted of a solution like that which i have mentioned? yours very truly, _____________ _____________ bernard langdon to philip staples. my dear philip,-- i have been for some months established in this place, turning the main crank of the machinery for the manufactory of accomplishments superintended by, or rather worked to the profit of, a certain mr. silas peckham. he is a poor wretch, with a little thin fishy blood in his body, lean and flat, long-armed and large-handed, thick-jointed and thin-muscled,--you know those unwholesome, weak-eyed, half-fed creatures, that look not fit to be round among live folks, and yet not quite dead enough to bury. if you ever hear of my being in court to answer to a charge of assault and battery, you may guess that i have been giving him a thrashing to settle off old scores; for he is a tyrant, and has come pretty near killing his principal lady-assistant with overworking her and keeping her out of all decent privileges. helen darley is this lady's name,--twenty two or three years old, i should think,--a very sweet, pale woman,--daughter of the usual country-clergyman,--thrown on her own resources from an early age, and the rest: a common story, but an uncommon person,--very. all conscience and sensibility, i should say,--a cruel worker,--no kind of regard for herself, seems as fragile and supple as a young willow-shoot, but try her and you find she has the spring in her of a steel cross-bow. i am glad i happened to come to this place, if it were only for her sake. i have saved that girl's life; i am as sure of it as if i had pulled her out of the fire or water. of course i'm in love with her, you say,--we always love those whom we have benefited; "saved her life,--her love was the reward of his devotion," etc., etc., as in a regular set novel. in love, philip? well, about that,--i love helen darley--very much: there is hardly anybody i love so well. what a noble creature she is! one of those that just go right on, do their own work and everybody else's, killing themselves inch by inch without ever thinking about it,--singing and dancing at their toil when they begin, worn and saddened after a while, but pressing steadily on, tottering by and by, and catching at the rail by the way-side to help them lift one foot before the other, and at last falling, face down, arms stretched forward. philip, my boy, do you know i am the sort of man that locks his door sometimes and cries his heart out of his eyes,--that can sob like a woman and not be ashamed of it? i come of fighting-blood on one side, you know; i think i could be savage on occasion. but i am tender,--more and more tender as i come into my fulness of manhood. i don't like to strike a man, (laugh, if you like,--i know i hit hard when i do strike,)--but what i can't stand is the sight of these poor, patient, toiling women, who never find out in this life how good they are, and never know what it is to be told they are angels while they still wear the pleasing incumbrances of humanity. i don't know what to make of these cases. to think that a woman is never to be a woman again, whatever she may come to as an unsexed angel,--and that she should die unloved! why does not somebody come and carry off this noble woman, waiting here all ready to make a man happy? philip, do you know the pathos there is in the eyes of unsought women, oppressed with the burden of an inner life unshared? i can see into them now as i could not in those 'earlier days. i sometimes think their pupils dilate on purpose to let my consciousness glide through them; indeed, i dread them, i come so close to the nerve of the soul itself in these momentary intimacies. you used to tell me i was a turk,--that my heart was full of pigeon-holes, with accommodations inside for a whole flock of doves. i don't know but i am still as youngish as ever in my ways,--brigham-youngish, i mean; at any rate, t. always want to give a little love to all the poor things that cannot have a whole man to themselves. if they would only be contented with a little! here now are two girls in this school where i am teaching. one of them, rosa m., is not more than sixteen years old, i think they say; but nature has forced her into a tropical luxuriance of beauty, as if it were july with her, instead of may. i suppose it is all natural enough that this girl should like a young man's attention, even if he were a grave schoolmaster; but the eloquence of this young thing's look is unmistakable,--and yet she does not know the language it is talking,--they none of them do; and there is where a good many poor creatures of our good-for-nothing sex are mistaken. there is no danger of my being rash, but i think this girl will cost somebody his life yet. she is one of those women men make a quarrel about and fight to the death for,--the old feral instinct, you know. pray, don't think i am lost in conceit, but there is another girl here who i begin to think looks with a certain kindness on me. her name is elsie v., and she is the only daughter and heiress of an old family in this place. she is a portentous and almost fearful creature. if i should tell you all i know and half of what i fancy about her, you would tell me to get my life insured at once. yet she is the most painfully interesting being,--so handsome! so lonely!--for she has no friends among the girls, and sits apart from them,--with black hair like the flow of a mountain-brook after a thaw, with a low-browed, scowling beauty of face, and such eyes as were never seen before, i really believe, in any human creature. philip, i don't know what to say about this elsie. there is something about her i have not fathomed. i have conjectures which i could not utter to any living soul. i dare not even hint the possibilities which have suggested themselves to me. this i will say, that i do take the most intense interest in this young person, an interest much more like pity than love in its common sense. if what i guess at is true, of all the tragedies of existence i ever knew this is the saddest, and yet so full of meaning! do not ask me any questions,--i have said more than i meant to already; but i am involved in strange doubts and perplexities,--in dangers too, very possibly,--and it is a relief just to speak ever so guardedly of them to an early and faithful friend. yours ever, bernard. p. s. i remember you had a copy of fortunius licetus' "de monstris" among your old books. can't you lend it to me for a while? i am curious, and it will amuse me. chapter xvii. old sophy calls on the reverend doctor. the two meeting-houses which faced each other like a pair of fighting-cocks had not flapped their wings or crowed at each other for a considerable time. the reverend mr. fairweather had been dyspeptic and low-spirited of late, and was too languid for controversy. the reverend doctor honeywood had been very busy with his benevolent associations, and had discoursed chiefly on practical matters, to the neglect of special doctrinal subjects. his senior deacon ventured to say to him that some of his people required to be reminded of the great fundamental doctrine of the worthlessness of all human efforts and motives. some of them were altogether too much pleased with the success of the temperance society and the association for the relief of the poor. there was a pestilent heresy about, concerning the satisfaction to be derived from a good conscience, as if, anybody ever did anything which was not to be hated, loathed, despised, and condemned. the old minister listened gravely, with an inward smile, and told his deacon that he would attend to his suggestion. after the deacon had gone, he tumbled over his manuscripts, until at length he came upon his first-rate old sermon on "human nature." he had read a great deal of hard theology, and had at last reached that curious state which is so common in good ministers,--that, namely, in which they contrive to switch off their logical faculties on the narrow sidetrack of their technical dogmas, while the great freight-train of their substantial human qualities keeps in the main highway of common-sense, in which kindly souls are always found by all who approach them by their human side. the doctor read his sermon with a pleasant, paternal interest: it was well argued from his premises. here and there he dashed his pen through a harsh expression. now and then he added an explanation or qualified abroad statement. but his mind was on the logical side-track, and he followed the chain of reasoning without fairly perceiving where it would lead him, if he carried it into real life. he was just touching up the final proposition, when his granddaughter, letty, once before referred to, came into the room with her smiling face and lively movement. miss letty or letitia forrester was a city-bred girl of some fifteen or sixteen years old, who was passing the summer with her grandfather for the sake of country air and quiet. it was a sensible arrangement; for, having the promise of figuring as a belle by and by, and being a little given to dancing, and having a voice which drew a pretty dense circle around the piano when she sat down to play and sing, it was hard to keep her from being carried into society before her time, by the mere force of mutual attraction. fortunately, she had some quiet as well as some social tastes, and was willing enough to pass two or three of the summer months in the country, where she was much better bestowed than she would have been at one of those watering-places where so many half-formed girls get prematurely hardened in the vice of self-consciousness. miss letty was altogether too wholesome, hearty, and high-strung a young girl to be a model, according to the flat-chested and cachectic pattern which is the classical type of certain excellent young females, often the subjects of biographical memoirs. but the old minister was proud of his granddaughter for all that. she was so full of life, so graceful, so generous, so vivacious, so ready always to do all she could for him and for everybody, so perfectly frank in her avowed delight in the pleasures which this miserable world offered her in the shape of natural beauty, of poetry, of music, of companionship, of books, of cheerful cooperation in the tasks of those about her, that the reverend doctor could not find it in his heart to condemn her because she was deficient in those particular graces and that signal other-worldliness he had sometimes noticed in feeble young persons suffering from various chronic diseases which impaired their vivacity and removed them from the range of temptation. when letty, therefore, came bounding into the old minister's study, he glanced up from his manuscript, and, as his eye fell upon her, it flashed across him that there was nothing so very monstrous and unnatural about the specimen of congenital perversion he was looking at, with his features opening into their pleasantest sunshine. technically, according to the fifth proposition of the sermon on human nature, very bad, no doubt. practically, according to the fact before him, a very pretty piece of the creator's handiwork, body and soul. was it not a conceivable thing that the divine grace might show itself in different forms in a fresh young girl like letitia, and in that poor thing he had visited yesterday, half-grown, half-colored, in bed for the last year with hip-disease? was it to be supposed that this healthy young girl, with life throbbing all over her, could, without a miracle, be good according to the invalid pattern and formula? and yet there were mysteries in human nature which pointed to some tremendous perversion of its tendencies,--to some profound, radical vice of moral constitution, native or transmitted, as you will have it, but positive, at any rate, as the leprosy, breaking out in the blood of races, guard them ever so carefully. did he not know the case of a young lady in rockland, daughter of one of the first families in the place, a very beautiful and noble creature to look at, for whose bringing up nothing had been spared,--a girl who had had governesses to teach her at the house, who had been indulged almost too kindly,--a girl whose father had given himself, up to her, he being himself a pure and high-souled man?--and yet this girl was accused in whispers of having been on the very verge of committing a fatal crime; she was an object of fear to all who knew the dark hints which had been let fall about her, and there were some that believed--why, what was this but an instance of the total obliquity and degeneration of the moral principle? and to what could it be owing, but to an innate organic tendency? "busy, grandpapa?" said letty, and without waiting for an answer kissed his cheek with a pair of lips made on purpose for that little function,--fine, but richly turned out, the corners tucked in with a finish of pretty dimples, the rose-bud lips of girlhood's june. the old gentleman looked at his granddaughter. nature swelled up from his heart in a wave that sent a glow to his cheek and a sparkle to his eye. but it is very hard to be interrupted just as we are winding up a string of propositions with the grand conclusion which is the statement in brief of all that has gone before: our own starting-point, into which we have been trying to back our reader or listener as one backs a, horse into the shafts. "video meliora, proboque,--i see the better, and approve it; deteriora sequor, i follow after the worse; 't is that natural dislike to what is good, pure, holy, and true, that inrooted selfishness, totally insensible to the claims of"-- here the worthy man was interrupted by miss letty. "do come, if you can, grandpapa," said the young girl; "here is a poor old black woman wants to see you so much!" the good minister was as kind-hearted as if he had never groped in the dust and ashes of those cruel old abstractions which have killed out so much of the world's life and happiness. "with the heart man believeth unto righteousness;" a man's love is the measure of his fitness for good or bad company here or elsewhere. men are tattooed with their special beliefs like so many south-sea islanders; but a real human heart, with divine love in it, beats with the same glow under all, the patterns of all earth's thousand tribes! the doctor sighed, and folded the sermon, and laid the quarto cruden on it. he rose from his desk, and, looking once more at the young girl's face, forgot his logical conclusions, and said to himself that she was a little angel,--which was in violent contradiction to the leading doctrine of his sermon on human nature. and so he followed her out of the study into the wide entry of the old-fashioned country-house. an old black woman sat on the plain oaken settle which humble visitors waiting to see the minister were wont to occupy. she was old, but how old it would be very hard to guess. she might be seventy. she might be ninety. one could not swear she was not a hundred. black women remain at a stationary age (to the eyes of white people, at least) for thirty years. they do not appear to change during this period any more than so many trenton trilobites. bent up, wrinkled, yellow-eyed, with long upper-lip, projecting jaws, retreating chin, still meek features, long arms, large flat hands with uncolored palms and slightly webbed fingers, it was impossible not to see in this old creature a hint of the gradations by which life climbs up through the lower natures to the highest human developments. we cannot tell such old women's ages because we do not understand the physiognomy of a race so unlike our own. no doubt they see a great deal in each other's faces that we cannot,--changes of color and expression as real as our own, blushes and sudden betrayals of feeling,--just as these two canaries know what their single notes and short sentences and full song with this or that variation mean, though it is a mystery to us unplumed mortals. this particular old black woman was a striking specimen of her class. old as she looked, her eye was bright and knowing. she wore a red-and-yellow turban, which set off her complexion well, and hoops of gold in her ears, and beads of gold about her neck, and an old funeral ring upon her finger. she had that touching stillness about her which belongs to animals that wait to be spoken to and then look up with a kind of sad humility. "why, sophy!" said the good minister, "is this you?" she looked up with the still expression on her face. "it's ol' sophy," she said. "why," said the doctor, "i did not believe you could walk so far as this to save the union. bring sophy a glass of wine, letty. wine's good for old folks like sophy and me, after walking a good way, or preaching a good while." the young girl stepped into the back-parlor, where she found the great pewter flagon in which the wine that was left after each communion-service was brought to the minister's house. with much toil she managed to tip it so as to get a couple of glasses filled. the minister tasted his, and made old sophy finish hers. "i wan' to see you 'n' talk wi' you all alone," she said presently. the minister got up and led the way towards his study. "to be sure," he said; he had only waited for her to rest a moment before he asked her into the library. the young girl took her gently by the arm, and helped her feeble steps along the passage. when they reached the study, she smoothed the cushion of a rocking-chair, and made the old woman sit down in it. then she tripped lightly away, and left her alone with the minister. old sophy was a member of the reverend doctor honeywood's church. she had been put through the necessary confessions in a tolerably satisfactory manner. to be sure, as her grandfather had been a cannibal chief, according to the common story, and, at any rate, a terrible wild savage, and as her mother retained to the last some of the prejudices of her early education, there was a heathen flavor in her christianity which had often scandalized the elder of the minister's two deacons. but, the good minister had smoothed matters over: had explained that allowances were to be made for those who had been long sitting without the gate of zion,--that, no doubt, a part of the curse which descended to the children of ham consisted in "having the understanding darkened," as well as the skin,--and so had brought his suspicious senior deacon to tolerate old sophy as one of the communion of fellow-sinners. --poor things! how little we know the simple notions with which these rudiments of souls are nourished by the divine goodness! did not mrs. professor come home this very blessed morning with a story of one of her old black women? "and how do you feel to-day, mrs. robinson?" "oh, my dear, i have this singing in my head all the time." (what doctors call tinnitus aurium.) "she 's got a cold in the head," said old mrs. rider. "oh, no, my dear! whatever i'm thinking about, it's all this singing, this music. when i'm thinking of the dear redeemer, it all turns into this singing and music. when the clark came to see me, i asked him if he couldn't cure me, and he said, no,--it was the holy spirit in me, singing to me; and all the time i hear this beautiful music, and it's the holy spirit a-singing to me." the good man waited for sophy to speak; but she did not open her lips as yet. "i hope you are not troubled in mind or body," he said to her at length, finding she did not speak. the poor old woman took out a white handkerchief, and lifted it--to her black face. she could not say a word for her tears and sobs. the minister would have consoled her; he was used to tears, and could in most cases withstand their contagion manfully; but something choked his voice suddenly, and when he called upon it, he got no answer, but a tremulous movement of the muscles, which was worse than silence. at last she spoke. "oh, no, no, no! it's my poor girl, my darling, my beauty, my baby, that 's grown up to be a woman; she will come to a bad end; she will do something that will make them kill her or shut her up all her life. or, doctor, doctor, save her, pray for her! it a'n't her fault. it a'n't her fault. if they knew all that i know, they would n' blame that poor child. i must tell you, doctor: if i should die, perhaps nobody else would tell you. massa veneer can't talk about it. doctor kittredge won't talk about it. nobody but old sophy to tell you, doctor; and old sophy can't die without telling you." the kind minister soothed the poor old soul with those gentle, quieting tones which had carried peace and comfort to so many chambers of sickness and sorrow, to so many hearts overburdened by the trials laid upon them. old sophy became quiet in a few minutes, and proceeded to tell her story. she told it in the low half-whisper which is the natural voice of lips oppressed wish grief and fears; with quick glances around the apartment from time to time, as if she dreaded lest the dim portraits on the walls and the dark folios on the shelves might overhear her words. it was not one of those conversations which a third person can report minutely, unless by that miracle of clairvoyance known to the readers of stories made out of authors' brains. yet its main character can be imparted in a much briefer space than the old black woman took to give all its details. she went far back to the time when dudley venner was born,--she being then a middle-aged woman. the heir and hope of a family which had been narrowing down as if doomed to extinction, he had been surrounded with every care and trained by the best education he could have in new england. he had left college, and was studying the profession which gentlemen of leisure most affect, when he fell in love with a young girl left in the world almost alone, as he was. the old woman told the story of his young love and his joyous bridal with a tenderness which had something more, even, than her family sympathies to account for it. had she not hanging over her bed a paper-cutting of a profile,--jet black, but not blacker than the face it represented--of one who would have been her own husband in the small years of this century, if the vessel in which he went to sea, like jamie in the ballad, had not sailed away and never come back to land? had she not her bits of furniture stowed away which had been got ready for her own wedding,--two rocking-chairs, one worn with long use, one kept for him so long that it had grown a superstition with her never to sit in it,--and might he not come back yet, after all? had she not her chest of linen ready for her humble house-keeping with store of serviceable huckaback and piles of neatly folded kerchiefs, wherefrom this one that showed so white against her black face was taken, for that she knew her eyes would betray her in "the presence"? all the first part of the story the old woman told tenderly, and yet dwelling upon every incident with a loving pleasure. how happy this young couple had been, what plans and projects of improvement they had formed, how they lived in each other, always together, so young and fresh and beautiful as she remembered them in that one early summer when they walked arm in arm through the wilderness of roses that ran riot in the garden,--she told of this as loath to leave it and come to the woe that lay beneath. she told the whole story;-shall i repeat it? not now. if, in the course of relating the incidents i have undertaken to report, it tells itself, perhaps this will be better than to run the risk of producing a painful impression on some of those susceptible readers whom it would be ill-advised to disturb or excite, when they rather require to be amused and soothed. in our pictures of life, we must show the flowering-out of terrible growths which have their roots deep, deep underground. just how far we shall lay bare the unseemly roots themselves is a matter of discretion and taste, and which none of us are infallible. the old woman told the whole story of elsie, of her birth, of her peculiarities of person and disposition, of the passionate fears and hopes with which her father had watched the course of her development. she recounted all her strange ways, from the hour when she first tried to crawl across the carpet, and her father's look as she worked her way towards him. with the memory of juliet's nurse she told the story of her teething, and how, the woman to whose breast she had clung dying suddenly about that time, they had to struggle hard with the child before she would learn the accomplishment of feeding with a spoon. and so of her fierce plays and fiercer disputes with that boy who had been her companion, and the whole scene of the quarrel when she struck him with those sharp white teeth, frightening her, old sophy, almost to death; for, as she said, the boy would have died, if it hadn't been for the old doctor's galloping over as fast as he could gallop and burning the places right out of his arm. then came the story of that other incident, sufficiently alluded to already, which had produced such an ecstasy of fright and left such a nightmare of apprehension in the household. and so the old woman came down to this present time. that boy she never loved nor trusted was grown to a dark, dangerous-looking man, and he was under their roof. he wanted to marry our poor elsie, and elsie hated him, and sometimes she would look at him over her shoulder just as she used to look at that woman she hated; and she, old sophy, couldn't sleep for thinking she should hear a scream from the white chamber some night and find him in spasms such as that woman came so near dying with. and then there was something about elsie she did not know what to make of: she would sit and hang her head sometimes, and look as if she were dreaming; and she brought home books they said a young gentleman up at the great school lent her; and once she heard her whisper in her sleep, and she talked as young girls do to themselves when they're thinking about somebody they have a liking for and think nobody knows it. she finished her long story at last. the minister had listened to it in perfect silence. he sat still even when she had done speaking,--still, and lost in thought. it was a very awkward matter for him to have a hand in. old sophy was his parishioner, but the veneers had a pew in the reverend mr. fairweather's meeting-house. it would seem that he, mr. fairweather, was the natural adviser of the parties most interested. had he sense and spirit enough to deal with such people? was there enough capital of humanity in his somewhat limited nature to furnish sympathy and unshrinking service for his friends in an emergency? or was he too busy with his own attacks of spiritual neuralgia, and too much occupied with taking account of stock of his own thin-blooded offences, to forget himself and his personal interests on the small scale and the large, and run a risk of his life, if need were, at any rate give himself up without reserve to the dangerous task of guiding and counselling these distressed and imperilled fellow-creatures? the good minister thought the best thing to do would be to call and talk over some of these matters with brother fairweather,--for so he would call him at times, especially if his senior deacon were not within earshot. having settled this point, he comforted sophy with a few words of counsel and a promise of coming to see her very soon. he then called his man to put the old white horse into the chaise and drive sophy back to the mansion-house. when the doctor sat down to his sermon again, it looked very differently from the way it had looked at the moment he left it. when he came to think of it, he did not feel quite so sure practically about that matter of the utter natural selfishness of everybody. there was letty, now, seemed to take a very unselfish interest in that old black woman, and indeed in poor people generally; perhaps it would not be too much to say that she was always thinking of other people. he thought he had seen other young persons naturally unselfish, thoughtful for others; it seemed to be a family trait in some he had known. but most of all he was exercised about this poor girl whose story sophy had been telling. if what the old woman believed was true,--and it had too much semblance of probability,--what became of his theory of ingrained moral obliquity applied to such a case? if by the visitation of god a person receives any injury which impairs the intellect or the moral perceptions, is it not monstrous to judge such a person by our common working standards of right and wrong? certainly, everybody will answer, in cases where there is a palpable organic change brought about, as when a blow on the head produces insanity. fools! how long will it be before we shall learn that for every wound which betrays itself to the sight by a scar, there are a thousand unseen mutilations that cripple, each of them, some one or more of our highest faculties? if what sophy told and believed was the real truth, what prayers could be agonizing enough, what tenderness could be deep enough, for this poor, lost, blighted, hapless, blameless child of misfortune, struck by such a doom as perhaps no living creature in all the sisterhood of humanity shared with her? the minister thought these matters over until his mind was bewildered with doubts and tossed to and fro on that stormy deep of thought heaving forever beneath the conflict of windy dogmas. he laid by his old sermon. he put back a pile of old commentators with their eyes and mouths and hearts full of the dust of the schools. then he opened the book of genesis at the eighteenth chapter and read that remarkable argument of abraham's with his maker in which he boldly appeals to first principles. he took as his text, "shall not the judge of all the earth do right?" and began to write his sermon, afterwards so famous, "on the obligations of an infinite creator to a finite creature." it astonished the good people, who had been accustomed so long to repeat mechanically their oriental hyperboles of self-abasement, to hear their worthy minister maintaining that the dignified attitude of the old patriarch, insisting on what was reasonable and fair with reference to his fellow-creatures, was really much more respectful to his maker, and a great deal manlier and more to his credit, than if he had yielded the whole matter, and pretended that men had not rights as well as duties. the same logic which had carried him to certain conclusions with reference to human nature, this same irresistible logic carried him straight on from his text until he arrived at those other results, which not only astonished his people, as was said, but surprised himself. he went so far in defence of the rights of man, that he put his foot into several heresies, for which men had been burned so often, it was time, if ever it could be, to acknowledge the demonstration of the argumentum ad ignem. he did not believe in the responsibility of idiots. he did not believe a new-born infant was morally answerable for other people's acts. he thought a man with a crooked spine would never be called to account for not walking erect. he thought if the crook was in his brain, instead of his back, he could not fairly be blamed for any consequence of this natural defect, whatever lawyers or divines might call it. he argued, that, if a person inherited a perfect mind, body, and disposition, and had perfect teaching from infancy, that person could do nothing more than keep the moral law perfectly. but supposing that the creator allows a person to be born with an hereditary or ingrafted organic tendency, and then puts this person into the hands of teachers incompetent or positively bad, is not what is called sin or transgression of the law necessarily involved in the premises? is not a creator bound to guard his children against the ruin which inherited ignorance might entail on them? would it be fair for a parent to put into a child's hands the title-deeds to all its future possessions, and a bunch of matches? and are not men children, nay, babes, in the eye of omniscience?--the minister grew bold in his questions. had not he as good right to ask questions as abraham? this was the dangerous vein of speculation in which the reverend doctor honeywood found himself involved, as a consequence of the suggestions forced upon him by old sophy's communication. the truth was, the good man had got so humanized by mixing up with other people in various benevolent schemes, that, the very moment he could escape from his old scholastic abstractions, he took the side of humanity instinctively, just as the father of the faithful did,--all honor be to the noble old patriarch for insisting on the worth of an honest man, and making the best terms he could for a very ill-conditioned metropolis, which might possibly, however, have contained ten righteous people, for whose sake it should be spared! the consequence of all this was, that he was in a singular and seemingly self-contradictory state of mind when he took his hat and cane and went forth to call on his heretical brother. the old minister took it for granted that the reverend mr. fairweather knew the private history of his parishioner's family. he did not reflect that there are griefs men never put into words,--that there are fears which must not be spoken,--intimate matters of consciousness which must be carried, as bullets which have been driven deep into the living tissues are sometimes carried, for a whole lifetime,--encysted griefs, if we may borrow the chirurgeon's term, never to be reached, never to be seen, never to be thrown out, but to go into the dust with the frame that bore them about with it, during long years of anguish, known only to the sufferer and his maker. dudley venner had talked with his minister about this child of his. but he had talked cautiously, feeling his way for sympathy, looking out for those indications of tact and judgment which would warrant him in some partial communication, at least, of the origin of his doubts and fears, and never finding them. there was something about the reverend mr. fairweather which repressed all attempts at confidential intercourse. what this something was, dudley venner could hardly say; but he felt it distinctly, and it sealed his lips. he never got beyond certain generalities connected with education and religious instruction. the minister could not help discovering, however, that there were difficulties connected with this girl's management, and he heard enough outside of the family to convince him that she had manifested tendencies, from an early age, at variance with the theoretical opinions he was in the habit of preaching, and in a dim way of holding for truth, as to the natural dispositions of the human being. about this terrible fact of congenital obliquity his new beliefs began to cluster as a centre, and to take form as a crystal around its nucleus. still, he might perhaps have struggled against them, had it not been for the little roman catholic chapel he passed every sunday, on his way to the meeting-house. such a crowd of worshippers, swarming into the pews like bees, filling all the aisles, running over at the door like berries heaped too full in the measure,--some kneeling on the steps, some standing on the sidewalk, hats off, heads down, lips moving, some looking on devoutly from the other side of the street! oh, could he have followed his own bridget, maid of all work, into the heart of that steaming throng, and bowed his head while the priests intoned their latin prayers! could he have snuffed up the cloud of frankincense, and felt that he was in the great ark which holds the better half of the christian world, while all around it are wretched creatures, some struggling against the waves in leaky boats, and some on ill-connected rafts, and some with their heads just above water, thinking to ride out the flood which is to sweep the earth clean of sinners, upon their own private, individual life-preservers! such was the present state of mind of the reverend chauncy fairweather, when his clerical brother called upon him to talk over the questions to which old sophy had called his attention. chapter viii. the reverend doctor calls on brother fairweather. for the last few months, while all these various matters were going on in rockland, the reverend chauncy fairweather had been busy with the records of ancient councils and the writings of the early fathers. the more he read, the more discontented he became with the platform upon which he and his people were standing. they and he were clearly in a minority, and his deep inward longing to be with the majority was growing into an engrossing passion. he yearned especially towards the good old unquestioning, authoritative mother church, with her articles of faith which took away the necessity for private judgment, with her traditional forms and ceremonies, and her whole apparatus of stimulants and anodynes. about this time he procured a breviary and kept it in his desk under the loose papers. he sent to a catholic bookstore and obtained a small crucifix suspended from a string of beads. he ordered his new coat to be cut very narrow in the collar and to be made single-breasted. he began an informal series of religious conversations with miss o'brien, the young person of irish extraction already referred to as bridget, maid of all work. these not proving very satisfactory, he managed to fall in with father mcshane, the catholic priest of the rockland church. father mcshane encouraged his nibble very scientifically. it would be such a fine thing to bring over one of those protestant heretics, and a "liberal" one too!--not that there was any real difference between them, but it sounded better, to say that one of these rationalizing free-and-equal religionists had been made a convert than any of those half-way protestants who were the slaves of catechisms instead of councils, and of commentators instead of popes. the subtle priest played his disciple with his finest tackle. it was hardly necessary: when anything or anybody wishes to be caught, a bare hook and a coarse line are all that is needed. if a man has a genuine, sincere, hearty wish to get rid of his liberty, if he is really bent upon becoming a slave, nothing can stop him. and the temptation is to some natures a very great one. liberty is often a heavy burden on a man. it involves that necessity for perpetual choice which is the kind of labor men have always dreaded. in common life we shirk it by forming habits, which take the place of self-determination. in politics party-organization saves us the pains of much thinking before deciding how to cast our vote. in religious matters there are great multitudes watching us perpetually, each propagandist ready with his bundle of finalities, which having accepted we may be at peace. the more absolute the submission demanded, the stronger the temptation becomes to those who have been long tossed among doubts and conflicts. so it is that in all the quiet bays which indent the shores of the great ocean of thought, at every sinking wharf, we see moored the hulks and the razees of enslaved or half-enslaved intelligences. they rock peacefully as children in their cradles on the subdued swell which comes feebly in over the bar at the harbor's mouth, slowly crusting with barnacles, pulling at their iron cables as if they really wanted to be free; but better contented to remain bound as they are. for these no more the round unwalled horizon of the open sea, the joyous breeze aloft, the furrow, the foam, the sparkle, that track the rushing keel! they have escaped the dangers of the wave, and lie still henceforth, evermore. happiest of souls, if lethargy is bliss, and palsy the chief beatitude! america owes its political freedom to religious protestantism. but political freedom is reacting on religious prescription with still mightier force. we wonder, therefore, when we find a soul which was born to a full sense of individual liberty, an unchallenged right of self-determination on every new alleged truth offered to its intelligence, voluntarily surrendering any portion of its liberty to a spiritual dictatorship which always proves to rest, in the last analysis, on a majority vote, nothing more nor less, commonly an old one, passed in those barbarous times when men cursed and murdered each other for differences of opinion, and of course were not in a condition to settle the beliefs of a comparatively civilized community. in our disgust, we are liable to be intolerant. we forget that weakness is not in itself a sin. we forget that even cowardice may call for our most lenient judgment, if it spring from innate infirmity, who of us does not look with great tenderness on the young chieftain in the "fair maid of perth," when he confesses his want of courage? all of us love companionship and sympathy; some of us may love them too much. all of us are more or less imaginative in our theology. some of us may find the aid of material symbols a comfort, if not a necessity. the boldest thinker may have his moments of languor and discouragement, when he feels as if he could willingly exchange faiths with the old beldame crossing herself at the cathedral-door,--nay, that, if he could drop all coherent thought, and lie in the flowery meadow with the brown-eyed solemnly unthinking cattle, looking up to the sky, and all their simple consciousness staining itself blue, then down to the grass, and life turning to a mere greenness, blended with confused scents of herbs,--no individual mind-movement such as men are teased with, but the great calm cattle-sense of all time and all places that know the milky smell of herds,--if he could be like these, he would be content to be driven home by the cow-boy, and share the grassy banquet of the king of ancient babylon. let us be very generous, then, in our judgment of those who leave the front ranks of thought for the company of the meek non-combatants who follow with the baggage and provisions. age, illness, too much wear and tear, a half-formed paralysis, may bring any of us to this pass. but while we can think and maintain the rights of our own individuality against every human combination, let us not forget to caution all who are disposed to waver that there is a cowardice which is criminal, and a longing for rest which it is baseness to indulge. god help him, over whose dead soul in his living body must be uttered the sad supplication, requiescat in pace! a knock at the reverend mr. fairweather's study door called his eyes from the book on which they were intent. he looked up, as if expecting a welcome guest. the reverend pierrepont honeywood, d. d., entered the study of the reverend chauncy fairweather. he was not the expected guest. mr. fairweather slipped the book he was reading into a half-open drawer, and pushed in the drawer. he slid something which rattled under a paper lying on the table. he rose with a slight change of color, and welcomed, a little awkwardly, his unusual visitor. "good-evening, brother fairweather!" said the reverend doctor, in a very cordial, good-humored way. "i hope i am not spoiling one of those eloquent sermons i never have a chance to hear." "not at all, not at all," the younger clergyman answered, in a languid tone, with a kind of habitual half-querulousness which belonged to it,--the vocal expression which we meet with now and then, and which says as plainly as so many words could say it, "i am a suffering individual. i am persistently undervalued, wronged, and imposed upon by mankind and the powers of the universe generally. but i endure all. i endure you. speak. i listen. it is a burden to me, but i even approve. i sacrifice myself. behold this movement of my lips! it is a smile." the reverend doctor knew this forlorn way of mr. fairweather's, and was not troubled by it. he proceeded to relate the circumstances of his visit from the old black woman, and the fear she was in about the young girl, who being a parishioner of mr. fairweather's, he had thought it best to come over and speak to him about old sophy's fears and fancies. in telling the old woman's story, he alluded only vaguely to those peculiar circumstances to which she had attributed so much importance, taking it for granted that the other minister must be familiar with the whole series of incidents she had related. the old minister was mistaken, as we have before seen. mr. fairweather had been settled in the place only about ten years, and, if he had heard a strange hint now and then about elsie, had never considered it as anything more than idle and ignorant, if not malicious, village-gossip. all that he fully understood was that this had been a perverse and unmanageable child, and that the extraordinary care which had been bestowed on her had been so far thrown away that she was a dangerous, self-willed girl, whom all feared and almost all shunned, as if she carried with her some malignant influence. he replied, therefore, after hearing the story, that elsie had always given trouble. there seemed to be a kind of natural obliquity about her. perfectly unaccountable. a very dark case. never amenable to good influences. had sent her good books from the sunday-school library. remembered that she tore out the frontispiece of one of them, and kept it, and flung the book out of the window. it was a picture of eve's temptation; and he recollected her saying that eve was a good woman,--and she'd have done just so, if she'd been there. a very sad child, very sad; bad from infancy. he had talked himself bold, and said all at once, "doctor, do you know i am almost ready to accept your doctrine of the congenital sinfulness of human nature? i am afraid that is the only thing which goes to the bottom of the difficulty." the old minister's face did not open so approvingly as mr. fairweather had expected. "why, yes,--well,--many find comfort in it,--i believe;--there is much to be said,--there are many bad people,--and bad children,--i can't be so sure about bad babies,--though they cry very malignantly at times,--especially if they have the stomach-ache. but i really don't know how to condemn this poor elsie; she may have impulses that act in her like instincts in the lower animals, and so not come under the bearing of our ordinary rules of judgment." "but this depraved tendency, doctor,--this unaccountable perverseness. my dear sir, i am afraid your school is in the right about human nature. oh, those words of the psalmist, 'shapen in iniquity,' and the rest! what are we to do with them,--we who teach that the soul of a child is an unstained white tablet?" "king david was very subject to fits of humility, and much given to self-reproaches," said the doctor, in a rather dry way. "we owe you and your friends a good deal for calling attention to the natural graces, which, after all, may, perhaps, be considered as another form of manifestation of the divine influence. some of our writers have pressed rather too hard on the tendencies of the human soul toward evil as such. it maybe questioned whether these views have not interfered with the sound training of certain young persons, sons of clergymen and others. i am nearer of your mind about the possibility of educating children so that they shall become good christians without any violent transition. that is what i should hope for from bringing them up 'in the nurture and admonition of the lord.'" the younger minister looked puzzled, but presently answered, "possibly we may have called attention to some neglected truths; but, after all, i fear we must go to the old school, if we want to get at the root of the matter. i know there is an outward amiability about many young persons, some young girls especially, that seems like genuine goodness; but i have been disposed of late to lean toward your view, that these human affections, as we see them in our children,--ours, i say, though i have not the fearful responsibility of training any of my own,--are only a kind of disguised and sinful selfishness." the old minister groaned in spirit. his heart had been softened by the sweet influences of children and grandchildren. he thought of a half-sized grave in the burial-ground, and the fine, brave, noble-hearted boy he laid in it thirty years before,--the sweet, cheerful child who had made his home all sunshine until the day when he was brought into it, his long curls dripping, his fresh lips purpled in death,--foolish dear little blessed creature to throw himself into the deep water to save the drowning boy, who clung about him and carried him under! disguised selfishness! and his granddaughter too, whose disguised selfishness was the light of his household! "don't call it my view!" he said. "abstractly, perhaps, all natures may be considered vitiated; but practically, as i see it in life, the divine grace keeps pace with the perverted instincts from infancy in many natures. besides, this perversion itself may often be disease, bad habits transmitted, like drunkenness, or some hereditary misfortune, as with this elsie we were talking about." the younger minister was completely mystified. at every step he made towards the doctor's recognized theological position, the doctor took just one step towards his. they would cross each other soon at this rate, and might as well exchange pulpits,--as colonel sprowle once wished they would, it may be remembered. the doctor, though a much clearer-headed man, was almost equally puzzled. he turned the conversation again upon elsie, and endeavored to make her minister feel the importance of bringing every friendly influence to bear upon her at this critical period of her life. his sympathies did not seem so lively as the doctor could have wished. perhaps he had vastly more important objects of solicitude in his own spiritual interests. a knock at the door interrupted them. the reverend mr. fairweather rose and went towards it. as he passed the table, his coat caught something, which came rattling to the floor. it was a crucifix with a string of beads attached. as he opened the door, the milesian features of father mcshane presented themselves, and from their centre proceeded the clerical benediction in irish-sounding latin, pax vobiscum! the reverend doctor honeywood rose and left the priest and his disciple together. chapter xix. the spider on his thread. there was nobody, then, to counsel poor elsie, except her father, who had learned to let her have her own way so as not to disturb such relations as they had together, and the old black woman, who had a real, though limited influence over the girl. perhaps she did not need counsel. to look upon her, one might well suppose that she was competent to defend herself against any enemy she was like to have. that glittering, piercing eye was not to be softened by a few smooth words spoken in low tones, charged with the common sentiments which win their way to maidens' hearts. that round, lithe, sinuous figure was as full of dangerous life as ever lay under the slender flanks and clean-shaped limbs of a panther. there were particular times when elsie was in such a mood that it must have been a bold person who would have intruded upon her with reproof or counsel. "this is one of her days," old sophy would say quietly to her father, and he would, as far as possible, leave her to herself. these days were more frequent, as old sophy's keen, concentrated watchfulness had taught her, at certain periods of the year. it was in the heats of summer that they were most common and most strongly characterized. in winter, on the other hand, she was less excitable, and even at times heavy and as if chilled and dulled in her sensibilities. it was a strange, paroxysmal kind of life that belonged to her. it seemed to come and go with the sunlight. all winter long she would be comparatively quiet, easy to manage, listless, slow in her motions; her eye would lose something of its strange lustre; and the old nurse would feel so little anxiety, that her whole expression and aspect would show the change, and people would say to her, "why, sophy, how young you're looking!" as the spring came on, elsie would leave the fireside, have her tiger-skin spread in the empty southern chamber next the wall, and lie there basking for whole hours in the sunshine. as the season warmed, the light would kindle afresh in her eyes, and the old woman's sleep would grow restless again,--for she knew, that, so long as the glitter was fierce in the girl's eyes, there was no trusting her impulses or movements. at last, when the veins of the summer were hot and swollen, and the juices of all the poison-plants and the blood of all the creatures that feed upon them had grown thick and strong,--about the time when the second mowing was in hand, and the brown, wet-faced men were following up the scythes as they chased the falling waves of grass, (falling as the waves fall on sickle-curved beaches; the foam-flowers dropping as the grass-flowers drop,--with sharp semivowel consonantal sounds,--frsh,--for that is the way the sea talks, and leaves all pure vowel-sounds for the winds to breathe over it, and all mutes to the unyielding earth,)--about this time of over-ripe midsummer, the life of elsie seemed fullest of its malign and restless instincts. this was the period of the year when the rockland people were most cautious of wandering in the leafier coverts which skirted the base of the mountain, and the farmers liked to wear thick, long boots, whenever they went into the bushes. but elsie was never so much given to roaming over the mountain as at this season; and as she had grown more absolute and uncontrollable, she was as like to take the night as the day for her rambles. at this season, too, all her peculiar tastes in dress and ornament came out in a more striking way than at other times. she was never so superb as then, and never so threatening in her scowling beauty. the barred skirts she always fancied showed sharply beneath her diaphanous muslins; the diamonds often glittered on her breast as if for her own pleasure rather than to dazzle others; the asp-like bracelet hardly left her arm. she was never seen without some necklace,--either the golden cord she wore at the great party, or a chain of mosaics, or simply a ring of golden scales. some said that elsie always slept in a necklace, and that when she died she was to be buried in one. it was a fancy of hers,--but many thought there was a reason for it. nobody watched elsie with a more searching eye than her cousin, dick venner. he had kept more out of her way of late, it is true, but there was not a movement she made which he did not carefully observe just so far as he could without exciting her suspicion. it was plain enough to him that the road to fortune was before him, and that the first thing was to marry elsie. what course he should take with her, or with others interested, after marrying her, need not be decided in a hurry. he had now done all he could expect to do at present in the way of conciliating the other members of the household. the girl's father tolerated him, if he did not even like him. whether he suspected his project or not dick did not feel sure; but it was something to have got a foothold in the house, and to have overcome any prepossession against him which his uncle might have entertained. to be a good listener and a bad billiard-player was not a very great sacrifice to effect this object. then old sophy could hardly help feeling well-disposed towards him, after the gifts he had bestowed on her and the court he had paid her. these were the only persons on the place of much importance to gain over. the people employed about the house and farm-lands had little to do with elsie, except to obey her without questioning her commands. mr. richard began to think of reopening his second parallel. but he had lost something of the coolness with which he had begun his system of operations. the more he had reflected upon the matter, the more he had convinced himself that this was his one great chance in life. if he suffered this girl to escape him, such an opportunity could hardly, in the nature of things, present itself a second time. only one life between elsie and her fortune,--and lives are so uncertain! the girl might not suit him as a wife. possibly. time enough to find out after he had got her. in short, he must have the property, and elsie venner, as she was to go with it,--and then, if he found it convenient and agreeable to, lead a virtuous life, he would settle down and raise children and vegetables; but if he found it inconvenient and disagreeable, so much the worse for those who made it so. like many other persons, he was not principled against virtue, provided virtue were a better investment than its opposite; but he knew that there might be contingencies in which the property would be better without its incumbrances, and he contemplated this conceivable problem in the light of all its possible solutions. one thing mr. richard could not conceal from himself: elsie had some new cause of indifference, at least, if not of aversion to him. with the acuteness which persons who make a sole business of their own interest gain by practice, so that fortune-hunters are often shrewd where real lovers are terribly simple, he fixed at once on the young man up at the school where the girl had been going of late, as probably at the bottom of it. "cousin elsie in love!" so he communed with himself upon his lonely pillow. "in love with a yankee schoolmaster! what else can it be? let him look out for himself! he'll stand but a bad chance between us. what makes you think she's in love with him? met her walking with him. don't like her looks and ways;--she's thinking about something, anyhow. where does she get those books she is reading so often? not out of our library, that 's certain. if i could have ten minutes' peep into her chamber now, i would find out where she got them, and what mischief she was up to." at that instant, as if some tributary demon had heard his wish, a shape which could be none but elsie's flitted through a gleam of moonlight into the shadow of the trees. she was setting out on one of her midnight rambles. dick felt his heart stir in its place, and presently his cheeks flushed with the old longing for an adventure. it was not much to invade a young girl's deserted chamber, but it would amuse a wakeful hour, and tell him some little matters he wanted to know. the chamber he slept in was over the room which elsie chiefly occupied at this season. there was no great risk of his being seen or heard, if he ventured down-stairs to her apartment. mr. richard venner, in the pursuit of his interesting project, arose and lighted a lamp. he wrapped himself in a dressing-gown and thrust his feet into a pair of cloth slippers. he stole carefully down the stair, and arrived safely at the door of elsie's room. the young lady had taken the natural precaution to leave it fastened, carrying the key with her, no doubt,--unless; indeed, she had got out by the window, which was not far from the ground. dick could get in at this window easily enough, but he did not like the idea of leaving his footprints in the flower-bed just under it. he returned to his own chamber, and held a council of war with himself. he put his head out of his own window and looked at that beneath. it was open. he then went to one of his trunks, which he unlocked, and began carefully removing its contents. what these were we need not stop to mention,--only remarking that there were dresses of various patterns, which might afford an agreeable series of changes, and in certain contingencies prove eminently useful. after removing a few of these, he thrust his hand to the very bottom of the remaining pile and drew out a coiled strip of leather many yards in length, ending in a noose,--a tough, well-seasoned lasso, looking as if it had seen service and was none the worse for it. he uncoiled a few yards of this and fastened it to the knob of a door. then he threw the loose end out of the window so that it should hang by the open casement of elsie's room. by this he let himself down opposite her window, and with a slight effort swung himself inside the room. he lighted a match, found a candle, and, having lighted that, looked curiously about him, as clodius might have done when he smuggled himself in among the vestals. elsie's room was almost as peculiar as her dress and ornaments. it was a kind of museum of objects, such as the woods are full of to those who have eyes to see them, but many of them such as only few could hope to reach, even if they knew where to look for them. crows' nests, which are never found but in the tall trees, commonly enough in the forks of ancient hemlocks, eggs of rare birds, which must have taken a quick eye and a hard climb to find and get hold of, mosses and ferns of unusual aspect, and quaint monstrosities of vegetable growth, such as nature delights in, showed that elsie had her tastes and fancies like any naturalist or poet. nature, when left to her own freaks in the forest, is grotesque and fanciful to the verge of license, and beyond it. the foliage of trees does not always require clipping to make it look like an image of life. from those windows at canoe meadow, among the mountains, we could see all summer long a lion rampant, a shanghai chicken, and general jackson on horseback, done by nature in green leaves, each with a single tree. but to nature's tricks with boughs and roots and smaller vegetable growths there is no end. her fancy is infinite, and her humor not always refined. there is a perpetual reminiscence of animal life in her rude caricatures, which sometimes actually reach the point of imitating the complete human figure, as in that extraordinary specimen which nobody will believe to be genuine, except the men of science, and of which the discreet reader may have a glimpse by application in the proper quarter. elsie had gathered so many of these sculpture-like monstrosities, that one might have thought she had robbed old sophy's grandfather of his fetishes. they helped to give her room a kind of enchanted look, as if a witch had her home in it. over the fireplace was a long, staff-like branch, strangled in the spiral coils of one of those vines which strain the smaller trees in their clinging embraces, sinking into the bark until the parasite becomes almost identified with its support. with these sylvan curiosities were blended objects of art, some of them not less singular, but others showing a love for the beautiful in form and color, such as a girl of fine organization and nice culture might naturally be expected to feel and to indulge, in adorning her apartment. all these objects, pictures, bronzes, vases, and the rest, did not detain mr. richard veneer very long, whatever may have been his sensibilities to art. he was more curious about books and papers. a copy of keats lay on the table. he opened it and read the name of bernard c. langdon on the blank leaf. an envelope was on the table with elsie's name written in a similar hand; but the envelope was empty, and he could not find the note it contained. her desk was locked, and it would not be safe to tamper with it. he had seen enough; the girl received books and notes from this fellow up at the school, this usher, this yankee quill-driver;--he was aspiring to become the lord of the dudley domain, then, was he? elsie had been reasonably careful. she had locked up her papers, whatever they might be. there was little else that promised to reward his curiosity, but he cast his eye on everything. there was a clasp-bible among her books. dick wondered if she ever unclasped it. there was a book of hymns; it had her name in it, and looked as if it might have been often read;--what the diablo had elsie to do with hymns? mr. richard venner was in an observing and analytical state of mind, it will be noticed, or he might perhaps have been touched with the innocent betrayals of the poor girl's chamber. had she, after all, some human tenderness in her heart? that was not the way he put the question,--but whether she would take seriously to this schoolmaster, and if she did, what would be the neatest and surest and quickest way of putting a stop to all that nonsense. all this, however, he could think over more safely in his own quarters. so he stole softly to the window, and, catching the end of the leathern thong, regained his own chamber and drew in the lasso. it needs only a little jealousy to set a man on who is doubtful in love or wooing, or to make him take hold of his courting in earnest. as soon as dick had satisfied himself that the young schoolmaster was his rival in elsie's good graces, his whole thoughts concentrated themselves more than ever on accomplishing his great design of securing her for himself. there was no time to be lost. he must come into closer relations with her, so as to withdraw her thoughts from this fellow, and to find out more exactly what was the state of her affections, if she had any. so he began to court her company again, to propose riding with her, to sing to her, to join her whenever she was strolling about the grounds, to make himself agreeable, according to the ordinary understanding of that phrase, in every way which seemed to promise a chance for succeeding in that amiable effort. the girl treated him more capriciously than ever. she would be sullen and silent, or she would draw back fiercely at some harmless word or gesture, or she would look at him with her eyes narrowed in such a strange way and with such a wicked light in them that dick swore to himself they were too much for him, and would leave her for the moment. yet she tolerated him, almost as a matter of necessity, and sometimes seemed to take a kind of pleasure in trying her power upon him. this he soon found out, and humored her in the fancy that she could exercise a kind of fascination over him, though there were times in which he actually felt an influence he could not understand, an effect of some peculiar expression about her, perhaps, but still centring in those diamond eyes of hers which it made one feel so curiously to look into. whether elsie saw into his object or not was more than he could tell. his idea was, after having conciliated the good-will of all about her as far as possible, to make himself first a habit and then a necessity with the girl,--not to spring any trap of a declaration upon her until tolerance had grown into such a degree of inclination as her nature was like to admit. he had succeeded in the first part of his plan. he was at liberty to prolong his visit at his own pleasure. this was not strange; these three persons, dudley venner, his daughter, and his nephew, represented all that remained of an old and honorable family. had elsie been like other girls, her father might have been less willing to entertain a young fellow like dick as an inmate; but he had long outgrown all the slighter apprehensions which he might have had in common with all parents, and followed rather than led the imperious instincts of his daughter. it was not a question of sentiment, but of life and death, or more than that,--some dark ending, perhaps, which would close the history of his race with disaster and evil report upon the lips of all coming generations. as to the thought of his nephew's making love to his daughter, it had almost passed from his mind. he had been so long in the habit of looking at elsie as outside of all common influences and exceptional in the law of her nature, that it was difficult for him to think of her as a girl to be fallen in love with. many persons are surprised, when others court their female relatives; they know them as good young or old women enough,--aunts, sisters, nieces, daughters, whatever they may be,--but never think of anybody's falling in love with them, any more than of their being struck by lightning. but in this case there were special reasons, in addition to the common family delusion,--reasons which seemed to make it impossible that she should attract a suitor. who would dare to marry elsie? no, let her have the pleasure, if it was one, at any rate the wholesome excitement, of companionship; it might save her from lapsing into melancholy or a worse form of madness. dudley venner had a kind of superstition, too, that, if elsie could only outlive three septenaries, twenty-one years, so that, according to the prevalent idea, her whole frame would have been thrice made over, counting from her birth, she would revert to the natural standard of health of mind and feelings from which she had been so long perverted. the thought of any other motive than love being sufficient to induce richard to become her suitor had not occurred to him. he had married early, at that happy period when interested motives are least apt to influence the choice; and his single idea of marriage was, that it was the union of persons naturally drawn towards each other by some mutual attraction. very simple, perhaps; but he had lived lonely for many years since his wife's death, and judged the hearts of others, most of all of his brother's son, by his own. he had often thought whether, in case of elsie's dying or being necessarily doomed to seclusion, he might not adopt this nephew and make him his heir; but it had not occurred to him that richard might wish to become his son-in-law for the sake of his property. it is very easy to criticise other people's modes of dealing with their children. outside observers see results; parents see processes. they notice the trivial movements and accents which betray the blood of this or that ancestor; they can detect the irrepressible movement of hereditary impulse in looks and acts which mean nothing to the common observer. to be a parent is almost to be a fatalist. this boy sits with legs crossed, just as his uncle used to whom he never saw; his grandfathers both died before he was born, but he has the movement of the eyebrows which we remember in one of them, and the gusty temper of three different generations, can tell pretty nearly the range of possibilities and the limitations of a child, actual or potential, of a given stock,--errors excepted always, because children of the same stock are not bred just alike, because the traits of some less known ancestor are liable to break out at any time, and because each human being has, after all, a small fraction of individuality about him which gives him a flavor, so that he is distinguishable from others by his friends or in a court of justice, and which occasionally makes a genius or a saint or a criminal of him. it is well that young persons cannot read these fatal oracles of nature. blind impulse is her highest wisdom, after all. we make our great jump, and then she takes the bandage off our eyes. that is the way the broad sea-level of average is maintained, and the physiological democracy is enabled to fight against the principle of selection which would disinherit all the weaker children. the magnificent constituency of mediocrities of which the world is made up,--the people without biographies, whose lives have made a clear solution in the fluid menstruum of time, instead of being precipitated in the opaque sediment of history-- but this is a narrative, and not a disquisition. chapter xx. from without and from within. there were not wanting people who accused dudley venner of weakness and bad judgment in his treatment of his daughter. some were of opinion that the great mistake was in not "breaking her will" when she was a little child. there was nothing the matter with her, they said, but that she had been spoiled by indulgence. if they had had the charge of her, they'd have brought her down. she'd got the upperhand of her father now; but if he'd only taken hold of her in season! there are people who think that everything may be done, if the doer, be he educator or physician, be only called "in season." no doubt,--but in season would often be a hundred or two years before the child was born; and people never send so early as that. the father of elsie veneer knew his duties and his difficulties too well to trouble himself about anything others might think or say. so soon as he found that he could not govern his child, he gave his life up to following her and protecting her as far as he could. it was a stern and terrible trial for a man of acute sensibility, and not without force of intellect and will, and the manly ambition for himself and his family-name which belonged to his endowments and his position. passive endurance is the hardest trial to persons of such a nature. what made it still more a long martyrdom was the necessity for bearing his cross in utter loneliness. he could not tell his griefs. he could not talk of them even with those who knew their secret spring. his minister had the unsympathetic nature which is common in the meaner sort of devotees,--persons who mistake spiritual selfishness for sanctity, and grab at the infinite prize of the great future and elsewhere with the egotism they excommunicate in its hardly more odious forms of avarice and self-indulgence. how could he speak with the old physician and the old black woman about a sorrow and a terror which but to name was to strike dumb the lips of consolation? in the dawn of his manhood he had found that second consciousness for which young men and young women go about looking into each other's faces, with their sweet, artless aim playing in every feature, and making them beautiful to each other, as to all of us. he had found his other self early, before he had grown weary in the search and wasted his freshness in vain longings: the lot of many, perhaps we may say of most, who infringe the patent of our social order by intruding themselves into a life already upon half allowance of the necessary luxuries of existence. the life he had led for a brief space was not only beautiful in outward circumstance, as old sophy had described it to the reverend doctor. it was that delicious process of the tuning of two souls to each other, string by string, not without little half-pleasing discords now and then when some chord in one or the other proves to be overstrained or over-lax, but always approaching nearer and nearer to harmony, until they become at last as two instruments with a single voice. something more than a year of this blissful doubled consciousness had passed over him when he found himself once more alone,--alone, save for the little diamond-eyed child lying in the old black woman's arms, with the coral necklace round--her throat and the rattle in her hand. he would not die by his own act. it was not the way in his family. there may have been other, perhaps better reasons, but this was enough; he did not come of suicidal stock. he must live for this child's sake, at any rate; and yet,--oh, yet, who could tell with what thoughts he looked upon her? sometimes her little features would look placid, and something like a smile would steal over them; then all his tender feelings would rush up, into his eyes, and he would put his arms out to take her from the old woman,--but all at once her eyes would narrow and she would throw her head back, and a shudder would seize him as he stooped over his child,--he could not look upon her,--he could not touch his lips to her cheek; nay, there would sometimes come into his soul such frightful suggestions that he would hurry from the room lest the hinted thought should become a momentary madness and he should lift his hand against the hapless infant which owed him life. in those miserable days he used to wander all over the mountain in his restless endeavor to seek some relief for inward suffering in outward action. he had no thought of throwing himself from the summit of any of the broken cliffs, but he clambered over them recklessly, as having no particular care for his life. sometimes he would go into the accursed district where the venomous reptiles were always to be dreaded, and court their worst haunts, and kill all he could come near with a kind of blind fury which was strange in a person of his gentle nature. one overhanging cliff was a favorite haunt of his. it frowned upon his home beneath in a very menacing way; he noticed slight seams and fissures that looked ominous;--what would happen, if it broke off some time or other and came crashing down on the fields and roofs below? he thought of such a possible catastrophe with a singular indifference, in fact with a feeling almost like pleasure. it would be such a swift and thorough solution of this great problem of life he was working out in ever-recurring daily anguish! the remote possibility of such a catastrophe had frightened some timid dwellers beneath the mountain to other places of residence; here the danger was most imminent, and yet he loved to dwell upon the chances of its occurrence. danger is often the best counterirritant in cases of mental suffering; he found a solace in careless exposure of his life, and learned to endure the trials of each day better by dwelling in imagination on the possibility that it might be the last for him and the home that was his. time, the great consoler, helped these influences, and he gradually fell into more easy and less dangerous habits of life. he ceased from his more perilous rambles. he thought less of the danger from the great overhanging rocks and forests; they had hung there for centuries; it was not very likely they would crash or slide in his time. he became accustomed to all elsie's strange looks and ways. old sophy dressed her with ruffles round her neck, and hunted up the red coral branch with silver bells which the little toothless dudleys had bitten upon for a hundred years. by an infinite effort, her father forced himself to become the companion of this child, for whom he had such a mingled feeling, but whose presence was always a trial to him, and often a terror. at a cost which no human being could estimate, he had done his duty, and in some degree reaped his reward. elsie grew up with a kind of filial feeling for him, such as her nature was capable of. she never would obey him; that was not to be looked for. commands, threats, punishments, were out of the question with her; the mere physical effects of crossing her will betrayed themselves in such changes of expression and manner that it would have been senseless to attempt to govern her in any such way. leaving her mainly to herself, she could be to some extent indirectly influenced,--not otherwise. she called her father "dudley," as if he had been her brother. she ordered everybody and would be ordered by none. who could know all these things, except the few people of the household? what wonder, therefore, that ignorant and shallow persons laid the blame on her father of those peculiarities which were freely talked about,--of those darker tendencies which were hinted of in whispers? to all this talk, so far as it reached him, he was supremely indifferent, not only with the indifference which all gentlemen feel to the gossip of their inferiors, but with a charitable calmness which did not wonder or blame. he knew that his position was not simply a difficult, but an impossible one, and schooled himself to bear his destiny as well as he might, and report himself only at headquarters. he had grown gentle under this discipline. his hair was just beginning to be touched with silver, and his expression was that of habitual sadness and anxiety. he had no counsellor, as we have seen, to turn to, who did not know either too much or too little. he had no heart to rest upon and into which he might unburden himself of the secrets and the sorrows that were aching in his own breast. yet he had not allowed himself to run to waste in the long time since he was left alone to his trials and fears. he had resisted the seductions which always beset solitary men with restless brains overwrought by depressing agencies. he disguised no misery to himself with the lying delusion of wine. he sought no sleep from narcotics, though he lay with throbbing, wide-open eyes through all the weary hours of the night. it was understood between dudley veneer and old doctor kittredge that elsie was a subject of occasional medical observation, on account of certain mental peculiarities which might end in a permanent affection of her reason. beyond this nothing was said, whatever may have been in the mind of either. but dudley veneer had studied elsie's case in the light of all the books he could find which might do anything towards explaining it. as in all cases where men meddle with medical science for a special purpose, having no previous acquaintance with it, his imagination found what it wanted in the books he read, and adjusted it to the facts before him. so it was he came to cherish those two fancies before alluded to that the ominous birthmark she had carried from infancy might fade and become obliterated, and that the age of complete maturity might be signalized by an entire change in her physical and mental state. he held these vague hopes as all of us nurse our only half-believed illusions. not for the world would he have questioned his sagacious old medical friend as to the probability or possibility of their being true. we are very shy of asking questions of those who know enough to destroy with one word the hopes we live on. in this life of comparative seclusion to which the father had doomed himself for the sake of his child, he had found time for large and varied reading. the learned judge thornton confessed himself surprised at the extent of dudley veneer's information. doctor kittredge found that he was in advance of him in the knowledge of recent physiological discoveries. he had taken pains to become acquainted with agricultural chemistry; and the neighboring farmers owed him some useful hints about the management of their land. he renewed his old acquaintance with the classic authors. he loved to warm his pulses with homer and calm them down with horace. he received all manner of new books and periodicals, and gradually gained an interest in the events of the passing time. yet he remained almost a hermit, not absolutely refusing to see his neighbors, nor even churlish towards them, but on the other hand not cultivating any intimate relations with them. he had retired from the world a young man, little more than a youth, indeed, with sentiments and aspirations all of them suddenly extinguished. the first had bequeathed him a single huge sorrow, the second a single trying duty. in due time the anguish had lost something of its poignancy, the light of earlier and happier memories had begun to struggle with and to soften its thick darkness, and even that duty which he had confronted with such an effort had become an endurable habit. at a period of life when many have been living on the capital of their acquired knowledge and their youthful stock of sensibilities until their intellects are really shallower and their hearts emptier than they were at twenty, dudley veneer was stronger in thought and tenderer in soul than in the first freshness of his youth, when he counted but half his present years. he had entered that period which marks the decline of men who have ceased growing in knowledge and strength: from forty to fifty a man must move upward, or the natural falling off in the vigor of life will carry him rapidly downward. at this time his inward: nature was richer and deeper than in any earlier period of his life. if he could only be summoned to action, he was capable of noble service. if his sympathies could only find an outlet, he was never so capable of love as now; for his natural affections had been gathering in the course of all these years, and the traces of that ineffaceable calamity of his life were softened and partially hidden by new growths of thought and feeling, as the wreck left by a mountainslide is covered over by the gentle intrusion of the soft-stemmed herbs which will prepare it for the stronger vegetation that will bring it once more into harmony with the peaceful slopes around it. perhaps dudley veneer had not gained so much in worldly wisdom as if he had been more in society and less in his study. the indulgence with which he treated his nephew was, no doubt, imprudent. a man more in the habit of dealing with men would have been more guarded with a person with dick's questionable story and unquestionable physiognomy. but he was singularly unsuspicious, and his natural kindness was an additional motive to the wish for introducing some variety into the routine of elsie's life. if dudley veneer did not know just what he wanted at this period of his life, there were a great many people in the town of rockland who thought they did know. he had been a widower long enough, "--nigh twenty year, wa'n't it? he'd been aout to spraowles's party,--there wa'n't anything to hender him why he shouldn't stir raound l'k other folks. what was the reason he did n't go abaout to taown-meetin's 'n' sahbath-meetin's, 'n' lyceums, 'n' school 'xaminations, 'n' s'prise-parties, 'n' funerals,--and other entertainments where the still-faced two-story folks were in the habit of looking round to see if any of the mansion-house gentry were present?--fac' was, he was livin' too lonesome daown there at the mansion-haouse. why shouldn't he make up to the jedge's daughter? she was genteel enough for him, and--let's see, haow old was she? seven-'n'itwenty,--no, six-'n'-twenty,--born the same year we buried our little anny marl". there was no possible objection to this arrangement, if the parties interested had seen fit to make it or even to think of it. but "portia," as some of the mansion-house people called her, did not happen to awaken the elective affinities of the lonely widower. he met her once in a while, and said to himself that she was a good specimen of the grand style of woman; and then the image came back to him of a woman not quite so large, not quite so imperial in her port, not quite so incisive in her speech, not quite so judicial in her opinions, but with two or three more joints in her frame, and two or three soft inflections in her voice, which for some absurd reason or other drew him to her side and so bewitched him that he told her half his secrets and looked into her eyes all that he could not tell, in less time than it would have takes him to discuss the champion paper of the last quarterly with the admirable "portia." heu, quanto minus! how much more was that lost image to him than all it left on earth! the study of love is very much like that of meteorology. we know that just about so much rain will fall in a season; but on what particular day it will shower is more than we can tell. we know that just about so much love will be made every year in a given population; but who will rain his young affections upon the heart of whom is not known except to the astrologers and fortune-tellers. and why rain falls as it does and why love is made just as it is are equally puzzling questions. the woman a man loves is always his own daughter, far more his daughter than the female children born to him by the common law of life. it is not the outside woman, who takes his name, that he loves: before her image has reached the centre of his consciousness, it has passed through fifty many-layered nerve-strainers, been churned over by ten thousand pulse-beats, and reacted upon by millions of lateral impulses which bandy it about through the mental spaces as a reflection is sent back and forward in a saloon lined with mirrors. with this altered image of the woman before him, his preexisting ideal becomes blended. the object of his love is in part the offspring of her legal parents, but more of her lover's brain. the difference between the real and the ideal objects of love must not exceed a fixed maximum. the heart's vision cannot unite them stereoscopically into a single image, if the divergence passes certain limits. a formidable analogy, much in the nature of a proof, with very serious consequences, which moralists and match-makers would do well to remember! double vision with the eyes of the heart is a dangerous physiological state, and may lead to missteps and serious falls. whether dudley veneer would ever find a breathing image near enough to his ideal one, to fill the desolate chamber of his heart, or not, was very doubtful. some gracious and gentle woman, whose influence would steal upon him as the first low words of prayer after that interval of silent mental supplication known to one of our simpler forms of public worship, gliding into his consciousness without hurting its old griefs, herself knowing the chastening of sorrow, and subdued into sweet acquiescence with the divine will,--some such woman as this, if heaven should send him such, might call him back to the world of happiness, from which he seemed forever exiled. he could never again be the young lover who walked through the garden-alleys all red with roses in the old dead and buried june of long ago. he could never forget the bride of his youth, whose image, growing phantomlike with the lapse of years, hovered over him like a dream while waking and like a reality in dreams. but if it might be in god's good providence that this desolate life should come under the influence of human affections once more, what an ecstasy of renewed existence was in store for him! his life had not all been buried under that narrow ridge of turf with the white stone at its head. it seemed so for a while; but it was not and could not and ought not to be so. his first passion had been a true and pure one; there was no spot or stain upon it. with all his grief there blended no cruel recollection of any word or look he would have wished to forget. all those little differences, such as young married people with any individual flavor in their characters must have, if they are tolerably mated, had only added to the music of existence, as the lesser discords admitted into some perfect symphony, fitly resolved, add richness and strength to the whole harmonious movement. it was a deep wound that fate had inflicted on him; nay, it seemed like a mortal one; but the weapon was clean, and its edge was smooth. such wounds must heal with time in healthy natures, whatever a false sentiment may say, by the wise and beneficent law of our being. the recollection of a deep and true affection is rather a divine nourishment for a life to grow strong upon than a poison to destroy it. dudley venner's habitual sadness could not be laid wholly to his early bereavement. it was partly the result of the long struggle between natural affection and duty, on one side, and the involuntary tendencies these had to overcome, on the other,--between hope and fear, so long in conflict that despair itself would have been like an anodyne, and he would have slept upon some final catastrophe with the heavy sleep of a bankrupt after his failure is proclaimed. alas! some new affection might perhaps rekindle the fires of youth in his heart; but what power could calm that haggard terror of the parent which rose with every morning's sun and watched with every evening star,--what power save alone that of him who comes bearing the inverted torch, and leaving after him only the ashes printed with his footsteps? chapter xxi. the widow rowens gives a tea-party. there was a good deal of interest felt, as has been said, in the lonely condition of dudley venner in that fine mansion-house of his, and with that strange daughter, who would never be married, as many people thought, in spite of all the stories. the feelings expressed by the good folks who dated from the time when they "buried aour little anny mari'," and others of that homespun stripe, were founded in reason, after all. and so it was natural enough that they should be shared by various ladies, who, having conjugated the verb to live as far as the preterpluperfect tense, were ready to change one of its vowels and begin with it in the present indicative. unfortunately, there was very little chance of showing sympathy in its active form for a gentleman who kept himself so much out of the way as the master of the dudley mansion. various attempts had been made, from time to time, of late years, to get him out of his study, which had, for the most part, proved failures. it was a surprise, therefore, when he was seen at the great party at the colonel's. but it was an encouragement to try him again, and the consequence had been that he had received a number of notes inviting him to various smaller entertainments, which, as neither he nor elsie had any fancy for them, he had politely declined. such was the state of things when he received an invitation to take tea sociably, with a few friends, at hyacinth cottage, the residence of the widow rowens, relict of the late beeri rowens, esquire, better known as major rowens. major rowens was at the time of his decease a promising officer in the militia, in the direct line of promotion, as his waistband was getting tighter every year; and, as all the world knows, the militia-officer who splits off most buttons and fills the largest sword-belt stands the best chance of rising, or, perhaps we might say, spreading, to be general. major rowens united in his person certain other traits which help a man to eminence in the branch of public service referred to. he ran to high colors, to wide whiskers, to open pores; he had the saddle-leather skin common in englishmen, rarer in americans,--never found in the brahmin caste, oftener in the military and the commodores: observing people know what is meant; blow the seed-arrows from the white-kid-looking button which holds them on a dandelion-stalk, and the pricked-pincushion surface shows you what to look for. he had the loud gruff voice which implies the right to command. he had the thick hand, stubbed fingers, with bristled pads between their joints, square, broad thumb-nails, and sturdy limbs, which mark a constitution made to use in rough out-door work. he had the never-failing predilection for showy switch-tailed horses that step high, and sidle about, and act as if they were going to do something fearful the next minute, in the face of awed and admiring multitudes gathered at mighty musters or imposing cattle-shows. he had no objection, either, to holding the reins in a wagon behind another kind of horse,--a slouching, listless beast, with a strong slant to his shoulder; and a notable depth to his quarter and an emphatic angle at the hock, who commonly walked or lounged along in a lazy trot of five or six miles an hour; but, if a lively colt happened to come rattling up alongside, or a brandy-faced old horse-jockey took the road to show off a fast nag, and threw his dust into the major's face, would pick his legs up all at once, and straighten his body out, and swing off into a three-minute gait, in a way that "old blue" himself need not have been ashamed of. for some reason which must be left to the next generation of professors to find out, the men who are knowing in horse-flesh have an eye also for, let a long dash separate the brute creation from the angelic being now to be named,--for lovely woman. of this fact there can be no possible doubt; and therefore you shall notice, that, if a fast horse trots before two, one of the twain is apt to be a pretty bit of muliebrity, with shapes to her, and eyes flying about in all directions. major rowens, at that time lieutenant of the rockland fusileers, had driven and "traded" horses not a few before he turned his acquired skill as a judge of physical advantages in another direction. he knew a neat, snug hoof, a delicate pastern, a broad haunch, a deep chest, a close ribbed-up barrel, as well as any other man in the town. he was not to be taken in by your thick-jointed, heavy-headed cattle, without any go to them, that suit a country-parson, nor yet by the "gaanted-up," long-legged animals, with all their constitutions bred out of them, such as rich greenhorns buy and cover up with their plated trappings. whether his equine experience was of any use to him in the selection of the mate with whom he was to go in double harness so long as they both should live, we need not stop to question. at any rate, nobody could find fault with the points of miss marilla van deusen, to whom he offered the privilege of becoming mrs. rowens. the van must have been crossed out of her blood, for she was an out-and-out brunette, with hair and eyes black enough for a mohawk's daughter. a fine style of woman, with very striking tints and outlines,--an excellent match for the lieutenant, except for one thing. she was marked by nature for a widow. she was evidently got up for mourning, and never looked so well as in deep black, with jet ornaments. the man who should dare to marry her would doom himself; for how could she become the widow she was bound to be, unless he could retire and give her a chance? the lieutenant lived, however, as we have seen, to become captain and then major, with prospects of further advancement. but mrs. rowens often said she should never look well in colors. at last her destiny fulfilled itself, and the justice of nature was vindicated. major rowens got overheated galloping about the field on the day of the great muster, and had a rush of blood to the head, according to the common report,--at any rate, something which stopped him short in his career of expansion and promotion, and established mrs. rowens in her normal condition of widowhood. the widow rowens was now in the full bloom of ornamental sorrow. a very shallow crape bonnet, frilled and froth-like, allowed the parted raven hair to show its glossy smoothness. a jet pin heaved upon her bosom with every sigh of memory, or emotion of unknown origin. jet bracelets shone with every movement of her slender hands, cased in close-fitting black gloves. her sable dress was ridged with manifold flounces, from beneath which a small foot showed itself from time to time, clad in the same hue of mourning. everything about her was dark, except the whites of her eyes and the enamel of her teeth. the effect was complete. gray's elegy was not a more perfect composition. much as the widow was pleased with the costume belonging to her condition, she did not disguise from herself that under certain circumstances she might be willing to change her name again. thus, for instance, if a gentleman not too far gone in maturity, of dignified exterior, with an ample fortune, and of unexceptionable character, should happen to set his heart upon her, and the only way to make him happy was to give up her weeds and go into those unbecoming colors again for his sake,--why, she felt that it was in her nature to make the sacrifice. by a singular coincidence it happened that a gentleman was now living in rockland who united in himself all these advantages. who he was, the sagacious reader may very probably have divined. just to see how it looked, one day, having bolted her door, and drawn the curtains close, and glanced under the sofa, and listened at the keyhole to be sure there was nobody in the entry,--just to see how it looked, she had taken out an envelope and written on the back of it mrs. manilla veneer. it made her head swim and her knees tremble. what if she should faint, or die, or have a stroke of palsy, and they should break into the room and find that name written! how she caught it up and tore it into little shreds, and then could not be easy until she had burned the small heap of pieces-- but these are things which every honorable reader will consider imparted in strict confidence. the widow rowens, though not of the mansion house set, was among the most genteel of the two-story circle, and was in the habit of visiting some of the great people. in one of these visits she met a dashing young fellow with an olive complexion at the house of a professional gentleman who had married one of the white necks and pairs of fat arms from a distinguished family before referred to. the professional gentleman himself was out, but the lady introduced the olive-complexioned young man as mr. richard venner. the widow was particularly pleased with this accidental meeting. had heard mr. venner's name frequently mentioned. hoped his uncle was well, and his charming cousin,--was she as original as ever? had often admired that charming creature he rode: we had had some fine horses. had never got over her taste for riding, but could find nobody that liked a good long gallop since--well--she could n't help wishing she was alongside of him, the other day, when she saw him dashing by, just at twilight. the widow paused; lifted a flimsy handkerchief with a very deep black border so as to play the jet bracelet; pushed the tip of her slender foot beyond the lowest of her black flounces; looked up; looked down; looked at mr. richard, the very picture of artless simplicity,--as represented in well-played genteel comedy. "a good bit of stuff," dick said to himself, "and something of it left yet; caramba!" the major had not studied points for nothing, and the widow was one of the right sort. the young man had been a little restless of late, and was willing to vary his routine by picking up an acquaintance here and there. so he took the widow's hint. he should like to have a scamper of half a dozen miles with her some fine morning. the widow was infinitely obliged; was not sure that she could find any horse in the village to suit her; but it was so kind in him! would he not call at hyacinth cottage, and let her thank him again there? thus began an acquaintance which the widow made the most of, and on the strength of which she determined to give a tea-party and invite a number of persons of whom we know something already. she took a half-sheet of note-paper and made out her list as carefully as a country "merchant's clerk" adds up two and threepence (new-england nomenclature) and twelve and a half cents, figure by figure, and fraction by fraction, before he can be sure they will make half a dollar, without cheating somebody. after much consideration the list reduced itself to the following names: mr. richard venner and mrs. blanche creamer, the lady at whose house she had met him,--mansion-house breed,--but will come,--soft on dick; dudley venner,--take care of him herself; elsie,--dick will see to her,--won't it fidget the creamer woman to see him round her? the old doctor,--he 's always handy; and there's that young master there, up at the school,--know him well enough to ask him,--oh, yes, he'll come. one, two, three, four, five, six,--seven; not room enough, without the leaf in the table; one place empty, if the leaf's in. let's see,--helen darley, --she 'll do well enough to fill it up,--why, yes, just the thing, --light brown hair, blue eyes,--won't my pattern show off well against her? put her down,--she 's worth her tea and toast ten times over, --nobody knows what a "thunder-and-lightning woman," as poor major used to have it, is, till she gets alongside of one of those old-maidish girls, with hair the color of brown sugar, and eyes like the blue of a teacup. the widow smiled with a feeling of triumph at having overcome her difficulties and arranged her party,--arose and stood before her glass, three-quarters front, one-quarter profile, so as to show the whites of the eyes and the down of the upper lip. "splendid!" said the widow--and to tell the truth, she was not far out of the way, and with helen darley as a foil anybody would know she must be foudroyant and pyramidal,--if these french adjectives may be naturalized for this one particular exigency. so the widow sent out her notes. the black grief which had filled her heart and had overflowed in surges of crape around her person had left a deposit half an inch wide at the margin of her note-paper. her seal was a small youth with an inverted torch, the same on which mrs. blanche creamer made her spiteful remark, that she expected to see that boy of the widow's standing on his head yet; meaning, as dick supposed, that she would get the torch right-side up as soon as she had a chance. that was after dick had made the widow's acquaintance, and mrs. creamer had got it into her foolish head that she would marry that young fellow, if she could catch him. how could he ever come to fancy such a quadroon-looking thing as that, she should like to know? it is easy enough to ask seven people to a party; but whether they will come or not is an open question, as it was in the case of the spirits of the vasty deep. if the note issues from a three-story mansion-house, and goes to two-story acquaintances, they will all be in an excellent state of health, and have much pleasure in accepting this very polite invitation. if the note is from the lady of a two-story family to three-story ones, the former highly respectable person will very probably find that an endemic complaint is prevalent, not represented in the weekly bills of mortality, which occasions numerous regrets in the bosoms of eminently desirable parties that they cannot have the pleasure of and-so-forthing. in this case there was room for doubt,--mainly as to whether elsie would take a fancy to come or not. if she should come, her father would certainly be with her. dick had promised, and thought he could bring elsie. of course the young schoolmaster will come, and that poor tired-out looking helen, if only to get out of sight of those horrid peckham wretches. they don't get such invitations every day. the others she felt sure of,--all but the old doctor,--he might have some horrid patient or other to visit; tell him elsie venner's going to be there,--he always likes to have an eye on her, they say,--oh, he'd come fast enough, without any more coaxing. she wanted the doctor, particularly. it was odd, but she was afraid of elsie. she felt as if she should be safe enough, if the old doctor were there to see to the girl; and then she should have leisure to devote herself more freely to the young lady's father, for whom all her sympathies were in a state of lively excitement. it was a long time since the widow had seen so many persons round her table as she had now invited. better have the plates set and see how they will fill it up with the leaf in.--a little too scattering with only eight plates set: if she could find two more people, now, that would bring the chairs a little closer,--snug, you know,--which makes the company sociable. the widow thought over her acquaintances. why how stupid! there was her good minister, the same who had married her, and might--might--bury her for aught she anew, and his granddaughter staying with him,--nice little girl, pretty, and not old enough to be dangerous;--for the widow had no notion of making a tea-party and asking people to it that would be like to stand between her and any little project she might happen to have on anybody's heart,--not she! it was all right now; blanche was married and so forth; letty was a child; elsie was his daughter; helen darley was a nice, worthy drudge,--poor thing!--faded, faded,--colors wouldn't wash, just what she wanted to show off against. now, if the dudley mansion-house people would only come,--that was the great point. "here's a note for us, elsie," said her father, as they sat round the breakfast-table. "mrs. rowens wants us all to come to tea." it was one of "elsie's days," as old sophy called them. the light in her eyes was still, but very bright. she looked up so full of perverse and wilful impulses, that dick knew he could make her go with him and her father. he had his own motives for bringing her to this determination,--and his own way of setting about it. "i don't want to go," he said. "what do you say, uncle?" "to tell the truth, richard, i don't mach fancy the major's widow. i don't like to see her weeds flowering out quite so strong. i suppose you don't care about going, elsie?" elsie looked up in her father's face with an expression which he knew but too well. she was just in the state which the plain sort of people call "contrary," when they have to deal with it in animals. she would insist on going to that tea-party; he knew it just as well before she spoke as after she had spoken. if dick had said he wanted to go and her father had seconded his wishes, she would have insisted on staying at home. it was no great matter, her father said to himself, after all; very likely it would amuse her; the widow was a lively woman enough,--perhaps a little comme il ne faut pas socially, compared with the thorntons and some other families; but what did he care for these petty village distinctions? elsie spoke. "i mean to go. you must go with me, dudley. you may do as you like, dick." that settled the dudley-mansion business, of course. they all three accepted, as fortunately did all the others who had been invited. hyacinth cottage was a pretty place enough, a little too much choked round with bushes, and too much overrun with climbing-roses, which, in the season of slugs and rose-bugs, were apt to show so brown about the leaves and so coleopterous about the flowers, that it might be questioned whether their buds and blossoms made up for these unpleasant animal combinations,--especially as the smell of whale-oil soap was very commonly in the ascendant over that of the roses. it had its patch of grass called "the lawn," and its glazed closet known as "the conservatory," according to that system of harmless fictions characteristic of the rural imagination and shown in the names applied to many familiar objects. the interior of the cottage was more tasteful and ambitious than that of the ordinary two-story dwellings. in place of the prevailing hair-cloth covered furniture, the visitor had the satisfaction of seating himself upon a chair covered with some of the widow's embroidery, or a sofa luxurious with soft caressing plush. the sporting tastes of the late major showed in various prints on the wall: herring's "plenipotentiary," the "red bullock" of the ' derby; "cadland" and "the colonel;" "crucifix;" "west-australian," fastest of modern racers; and among native celebrities, ugly, game old "boston," with his straight neck and ragged hips; and gray "lady suffolk," queen, in her day, not of the turf but of the track, "extending" herself till she measured a rod, more or less, skimming along within a yard of the ground, her legs opening and shutting under her with a snap, like the four blades of a compound jack-knife. these pictures were much more refreshing than those dreary fancy death-bed scenes, common in two-story country-houses, in which washington and other distinguished personages are represented as obligingly devoting their last moments to taking a prominent part in a tableau, in which weeping relatives, attached servants, professional assistants, and celebrated personages who might by a stretch of imagination be supposed present, are grouped in the most approved style of arrangement about the chief actor's pillow. a single glazed bookcase held the family library, which was hidden from vulgar eyes by green silk curtains behind the glass. it would have been instructive to get a look at it, as it always is to peep into one's neighbor's book-shelves. from other sources and opportunities a partial idea of it has been obtained. the widow had inherited some books from her mother, who was something of a reader: young's "night-thoughts;" "the preceptor;" "the task, a poem," by william cowper; hervey's "meditations;" "alonzo and melissa;" "buccaneers of america;" "the triumphs of temper;" "la belle assemblee;" thomson's "seasons;" and a few others. the major had brought in "tom jones" and "peregrine pickle;" various works by mr. pierce egan; "boxiana," "the racing calendar;" and a "book of lively songs and jests." the widow had added the poems of lord byron and t. moore; "eugene aram;" "the tower of london," by harrison ainsworth; some of scott's novels; "the pickwick papers;" a volume of plays, by w. shakespeare; "proverbial philosophy;" "pilgrim's progress;" "the whole duty of man" (a present when she was married); with two celebrated religious works, one by william law and the other by philip doddridge, which were sent her after her husband's death, and which she had tried to read, but found that they did not agree with her. of course the bookcase held a few school manuals and compendiums, and one of mr. webster's dictionaries. but the gilt-edged bible always lay on the centre-table, next to the magazine with the fashion-plates and the scrap-book with pictures from old annuals and illustrated papers. the reader need not apprehend the recital, at full length, of such formidable preparations for the widow's tea-party as were required in the case of colonel sprowle's social entertainment. a tea-party, even in the country, is a comparatively simple and economical piece of business. as soon as the widow found that all her company were coming, she set to work, with the aid of her "smart" maid-servant and a daughter of her own, who was beginning to stretch and spread at a fearful rate, but whom she treated as a small child, to make the necessary preparations. the silver had to be rubbed; also the grand plated urn,--her mother's before hers,--style of the empire,--looking as if it might have been made to hold the major's ashes. then came the making and baking of cake and gingerbread, the smell whereof reached even as far as the sidewalk in front of the cottage, so that small boys returning from school snuffed it in the breeze, and discoursed with each other on its suggestions; so that the widow leech, who happened to pass, remembered she had n't called on marilly raowens for a consid'ble spell, and turned in at the gate and rang three times with long intervals,--but all in vain, the inside widow having "spotted" the outside one through the blinds, and whispered to her aides-de-camp to let the old thing ring away till she pulled the bell out by the roots, but not to stir to open the door. widow rowens was what they called a real smart, capable woman, not very great on books, perhaps, but knew what was what and who was who as well as another,--knew how to make the little cottage look pretty, how to set out a tea-table, and, what a good many women never can find out, knew her own style and "got herself up tip-top," as our young friend master geordie, colonel sprowle's heir-apparent, remarked to his friend from one of the fresh-water colleges. flowers were abundant now, and she had dressed her rooms tastefully with them. the centre-table had two or three gilt-edged books lying carelessly about on it, and some prints and a stereoscope with stereographs to match, chiefly groups of picnics, weddings, etc., in which the same somewhat fatigued looking ladies of fashion and brides received the attentions of the same unpleasant-looking young men, easily identified under their different disguises, consisting of fashionable raiment such as gentlemen are supposed to wear habitually. with these, however, were some pretty english scenes,--pretty except for the old fellow with the hanging under-lip who infests every one of that interesting series; and a statue or two, especially that famous one commonly called the lahcoon, so as to rhyme with moon and spoon, and representing an old man with his two sons in the embraces of two monstrous serpents. there is no denying that it was a very dashing achievement of the widow's to bring together so considerable a number of desirable guests. she felt proud of her feat; but as to the triumph of getting dudley venner to come out for a visit to hyacinth cottage, she was surprised and almost frightened at her own success. so much might depend on the impressions of that evening! the next thing was to be sure that everybody should be in the right place at the tea-table, and this the widow thought she could manage by a few words to the older guests and a little shuffling about and shifting when they got to the table. to settle everything the widow made out a diagram, which the reader should have a chance of inspecting in an authentic copy, if these pages were allowed under any circumstances to be the vehicle of illustrations. if, however, he or she really wishes to see the way the pieces stood as they were placed at the beginning of the game, (the widow's gambit,) he or she had better at once take a sheet of paper, draw an oval, and arrange the characters according to the following schedule. at the head of the table, the hostess, widow marilla rowens. opposite her, at the other end, rev. dr. honeywood. at the right of the hostess, dudley veneer, next him helen darley, next her dr. kittredge, next him mrs. blanche creamer, then the reverend doctor. at the left of the hostess, bernard langdon, next him letty forrester, next letty mr. richard veneer, next him elsie, and so to the reverend doctor again. the company came together a little before the early hour at which it was customary to take tea in rockland. the widow knew everybody, of course: who was there in rockland she did not know? but some of them had to be introduced: mr. richard veneer to mr. bernard, mr. bernard to miss letty, dudley veneer to miss helen darley, and so on. the two young men looked each other straight in the eyes, both full of youthful life, but one of frank and fearless aspect, the other with a dangerous feline beauty alien to the new england half of his blood. the guests talked, turned over the prints, looked at the flowers, opened the "proverbial philosophy" with gilt edges, and the volume of plays by w. shakespeare, examined the horse-pictures on the walls, and so passed away the time until tea was announced, when they paired off for the room where it was in readiness. the widow had managed it well; everything was just as she wanted it. dudley veneer was between herself and the poor tired-looking schoolmistress with her faded colors. blanche creamer, a lax, tumble-to-pieces, greuze-ish looking blonde, whom the widow hated because the men took to her, was purgatoried between the two old doctors, and could see all the looks that passed between dick venner and his cousin. the young schoolmaster could talk to miss letty: it was his business to know how to talk to schoolgirls. dick would amuse himself with his cousin elsie. the old doctors only wanted to be well fed and they would do well enough. it would be very pleasant to describe the tea-table; but in reality, it did not pretend to offer a plethoric banquet to the guests. the widow had not visited the mansion-houses for nothing, and she had learned there that an overloaded tea-table may do well enough for farm-hands when they come in at evening from their work and sit down unwashed in their shirtsleeves, but that for decently bred people such an insult to the memory of a dinner not yet half-assimilated is wholly inadmissible. everything was delicate, and almost everything of fair complexion: white bread and biscuits, frosted and sponge cake, cream, honey, straw-colored butter; only a shadow here and there, where the fire had crisped and browned the surfaces of a stack of dry toast, or where a preserve had brought away some of the red sunshine of the last year's summer. the widow shall have the credit of her well-ordered tea-table, also of her bountiful cream-pitchers; for it is well known that city-people find cream a very scarce luxury in a good many country-houses of more pretensions than hyacinth cottage. there are no better maims for ladies who give tea-parties than these: cream is thicker than water. large heart never loved little cream pot. there is a common feeling in genteel families that the third meal of the day is not so essential a part of the daily bread as to require any especial acknowledgment to the providence which bestows it. very devout people, who would never sit down to a breakfast or a dinner without the grace before meat which honors the giver of it, feel as if they thanked heaven enough for their tea and toast by partaking of them cheerfully without audible petition or ascription. but the widow was not exactly mansion-house-bred, and so thought it necessary to give the reverend doctor a peculiar look which he understood at once as inviting his professional services. he, therefore, uttered a few simple words of gratitude, very quietly,--much to the satisfaction of some of the guests, who had expected one of those elaborate effusions, with rolling up of the eyes and rhetorical accents, so frequent with eloquent divines when they address their maker in genteel company. everybody began talking with the person sitting next at hand. mr. bernard naturally enough turned his attention first to the widow; but somehow or other the right side of the widow seemed to be more wide awake than the left side, next him, and he resigned her to the courtesies of mr. dudley venner, directing himself, not very unwillingly, to the young girl next him on the other side. miss letty forrester, the granddaughter of the reverend doctor, was city-bred, as anybody might see, and city-dressed, as any woman would know at sight; a man might only feel the general effect of clear, well-matched colors, of harmonious proportions, of the cut which makes everything cling like a bather's sleeve where a natural outline is to be kept, and ruffle itself up like the hackle of a pitted fighting-cock where art has a right to luxuriate in silken exuberance. how this citybred and city-dressed girl came to be in rockland mr. bernard did not know, but he knew at any rate that she was his next neighbor and entitled to his courtesies. she was handsome, too, when he came to look, very handsome when he came to look again,--endowed with that city beauty which is like the beauty of wall-fruit, something finer in certain respects than can be reared off the pavement. the miserable routinists who keep repeating invidiously cowper's "god made the country and man made the town," as if the town were a place to kill out the race in, do not know what they are talking about. where could they raise such saint-michael pears, such saint-germains, such brown-beurres, as we had until within a few years growing within the walls of our old city-gardens? is the dark and damp cavern where a ragged beggar hides himself better than a town-mansion which fronts the sunshine and backs on its own cool shadow, with gas and water and all appliances to suit all needs? god made the cavern and man made the house! what then? there is no doubt that the pavement keeps a deal of mischief from coming up out of the earth, and, with a dash off of it in summer, just to cool the soles of the feet when it gets too hot, is the best place for many constitutions, as some few practical people have already discovered. and just so these beauties that grow and ripen against the city-walls, these young fellows with cheeks like peaches and young girls with cheeks like nectarines, show that the most perfect forms of artificial life can do as much for the human product as garden-culture for strawberries and blackberries. if mr. bernard had philosophized or prosed in this way, with so pretty, nay, so lovely a neighbor as miss letty forrester waiting for him to speak to her, he would have to be dropped from this narrative as a person unworthy of his good-fortune, and not deserving the kind reader's further notice. on the contrary, he no sooner set his eyes fairly on her than he said to himself that she was charming, and that he wished she were one of his scholars at the institute. so he began talking with her in an easy way; for he knew something of young girls by this time, and, of course, could adapt himself to a young lady who looked as if she might be not more than fifteen or sixteen years old, and therefore could hardly be a match in intellectual resources for the seventeen and eighteen year-old first-class scholars of the apollinean institute. but city-wall-fruit ripens early, and he soon found that this girl's training had so sharpened her wits and stored her memory, that he need not be at the trouble to stoop painfully in order to come down to her level. the beauty of good-breeding is that it adjusts itself to all relations without effort, true to itself always however the manners of those around it may change. self-respect and respect for others,--the sensitive consciousness poises itself in these as the compass in the ship's binnacle balances itself and maintains its true level within the two concentric rings which suspend it on their pivots. this thorough-bred school-girl quite enchanted mr. bernard. he could not understand where she got her style, her way of dress, her enunciation, her easy manners. the minister was a most worthy gentleman, but this was not the rockland native-born manner; some new element had come in between the good, plain, worthy man and this young girl, fit to be a crown prince's partner where there were a thousand to choose from. he looked across to helen darley, for he knew she would understand the glance of admiration with which he called her attention to the young beauty at his side; and helen knew what a young girl could be, as compared with what too many a one is, as well as anybody. this poor, dear helen of ours! how admirable the contrast between her and the widow on the other side of dudley venner! but, what was very odd, that gentleman apparently thought the contrast was to the advantage of this poor, dear helen. at any rate, instead of devoting himself solely to the widow, he happened to be just at that moment talking in a very interested and, apparently, not uninteresting way to his right-hand neighbor, who, on her part, never looked more charmingly,--as mr. bernard could not help saying to himself,--but, to be sure, he had just been looking at the young girl next him, so that his eyes were brimful of beauty, and may have spilled some of it on the first comer: for you know m. becquerel has been showing us lately how everything is phosphorescent; that it soaks itself with light in an instant's exposure, so that it is wet with liquid sunbeams, or, if you will, tremulous with luminous vibrations, when first plunged into the negative bath of darkness, and betrays itself by the light which escapes from its surface. whatever were the reason, this poor, dear helen never looked so sweetly. her plainly parted brown hair, her meek, blue eyes, her cheek just a little tinged with color, the almost sad simplicity of her dress, and that look he knew so well,--so full of cheerful patience, so sincere, that he had trusted her from the first moment as the believers of the larger half of christendom trust the blessed virgin,--mr. bernard took this all in at a glance, and felt as pleased as if it had been his own sister dorothea elizabeth that he was looking at. as for dudley veneer, mr. bernard could not help being struck by the animated expression of his countenance. it certainly showed great kindness, on his part, to pay so much attention to this quiet girl, when he had the thunder-and-lightning widow on the other side of him. mrs. marilla rowens did not know what to make of it. she had made her tea-party expressly for mr. dudley veneer. she had placed him just as she wanted, between herself and a meek, delicate woman who dressed in gray, wore a plain breastpin with hair in it, who taught a pack of girls up there at the school, and looked as if she were born for a teacher,--the very best foil that she could have chosen; and here was this man, polite enough to herself, to be sure, but turning round to that very undistinguished young person as if he rather preferred her conversation of the two! the truth was that dudley veneer and helen darley met as two travellers might meet in the desert, wearied, both of them, with their long journey, one having food, but no water, the other water, but no food. each saw that the other had been in long conflict with some trial; for their voices were low and tender, as patiently borne sorrow and humbly uttered prayers make every human voice. through these tones, more than by what they said, they came into natural sympathetic relations with each other. nothing could be more unstudied. as for dudley venner, no beauty in all the world could have so soothed and magnetized him as the very repose and subdued gentleness which the widow had thought would make the best possible background for her own more salient and effective attractions. no doubt, helen, on her side, was almost too readily pleased with the confidence this new acquaintance she was making seemed to show her from the very first. she knew so few men of any condition! mr. silas peckham: he was her employer, and she ought to think of him as well as she could; but every time she thought of him it was with a shiver of disgust. mr. bernard langdon: a noble young man, a true friend, like a brother to her,--god bless him, and send him some young heart as fresh as his own! but this gentleman produced a new impression upon her, quite different from any to which she was accustomed. his rich, low tones had the strangest significance to her; she felt sure he must have lived through long experiences, sorrowful like her own. elsie's father! she looked into his dark eyes, as she listened to him, to see if they had any glimmer of that peculiar light, diamond-bright, but cold and still, which she knew so well in elsie's. anything but that! never was there more tenderness, it seemed to her, than in the whole look and expression of elsie's father. she must have been a great trial to him; yet his face was that of one who had been saddened, not soured, by his discipline. knowing what elsie must be to him, how hard she must make any parent's life, helen could not but be struck with the interest mr. dudley venner showed in her as his daughter's instructress. he was too kind to her; again and again she meekly turned from him, so as to leave him free to talk to the showy lady at his other side, who was looking all the while "like the night of cloudless realms and starry skies;" but still mr. dudley venner, after a few courteous words, came back to the blue eyes and brown hair; still he kept his look fixed upon her, and his tones grew sweeter and lower as he became more interested in talk, until this poor, dear helen, what with surprise, and the bashfulness natural to one who had seen little of the gay world, and the stirring of deep, confused sympathies with this suffering father, whose heart seemed so full of kindness, felt her cheeks glowing with unwonted flame, and betrayed the pleasing trouble of her situation by looking so sweetly as to arrest mr. bernard's eye for a moment, when he looked away from the young beauty sitting next him. elsie meantime had been silent, with that singular, still, watchful look which those who knew her well had learned to fear. her head just a little inclined on one side, perfectly motionless for whole minutes, her eyes seeming to, grow small and bright, as always when she was under her evil influence, she was looking obliquely at the young girl on the other side of her cousin dick and next to bernard langdon. as for dick himself, she seemed to be paying very little attention to him. sometimes her eyes would wander off to mr. bernard, and their expression, as old dr. kittredge, who watched her for a while pretty keenly, noticed, would change perceptibly. one would have said that she looked with a kind of dull hatred at the girl, but with a half-relenting reproachful anger at mr. bernard. miss letty forrester, at whom elsie had been looking from time to time in this fixed way, was conscious meanwhile of some unusual influence. first it was a feeling of constraint,--then, as it were, a diminished power over the muscles, as if an invisible elastic cobweb were spinning round her,--then a tendency to turn away from mr. bernard, who was making himself very agreeable, and look straight into those eyes which would not leave her, and which seemed to be drawing her towards them, while at the same time they chilled the blood in all her veins. mr. bernard saw this influence coming over her. all at once he noticed that she sighed, and that some little points of moisture began to glisten on her forehead. but she did not grow pale perceptibly; she had no involuntary or hysteric movements; she still listened to him and smiled naturally enough. perhaps she was only nervous at being stared at. at any rate, she was coming under some unpleasant influence or other, and mr. bernard had seen enough of the strange impression elsie sometimes produced to wish this young girl to be relieved from it, whatever it was. he turned toward elsie and looked at her in such a way as to draw her eyes upon him. then he looked steadily and calmly into them. it was a great effort, for some perfectly inexplicable reason. at one instant he thought he could not sit where he was; he must go and speak to elsie. then he wanted to take his eyes away from hers; there was something intolerable in the light that came from them. but he was determined to look her down, and he believed he could do it, for he had seen her countenance change more than once when he had caught her gaze steadily fixed on him. all this took not minutes, but seconds. presently she changed color slightly,--lifted her head, which was inclined a little to one side,--shut and opened her eyes two or three times, as if they had been pained or wearied,--and turned away baffled, and shamed, as it would seem, and shorn for the time of her singular and formidable or at least evil-natured power of swaying the impulses of those around her. it takes too long to describe these scenes where a good deal of life is concentrated into a few silent seconds. mr. richard veneer had sat quietly through it all, although this short pantomime had taken place literally before his face. he saw what was going on well enough, and understood it all perfectly well. of course the schoolmaster had been trying to make elsie jealous, and had succeeded. the little schoolgirl was a decoy-duck,--that was all. estates like the dudley property were not to be had every day, and no doubt the yankee usher was willing to take some pains to make sure of elsie. does n't elsie look savage? dick involuntarily moved his chair a little away from her, and thought he felt a pricking in the small white scars on his wrist. a dare-devil fellow, but somehow or other this girl had taken strange hold of his imagination, and he often swore to himself, that, when he married her, he would carry a loaded revolver with him to his bridal chamber. mrs. blanche creamer raged inwardly at first to find herself between the two old gentlemen of the party. it very soon gave her great comfort, however, to see that marilla, rowens had just missed it in her calculations, and she chuckled immensely to find dudley veneer devoting himself chiefly to helen darley. if the rowens woman should hook dudley, she felt as if she should gnaw all her nails off for spite. to think of seeing her barouching about rockland behind a pair of long-tailed bays and a coachman with a band on his hat, while she, blanche creamer, was driving herself about in a one-horse "carriage"! recovering her spirits by degrees, she began playing her surfaces off at the two old doctors, just by way of practice. first she heaved up a glaring white shoulder, the right one, so that the reverend doctor should be stunned by it, if such a thing might be. the reverend doctor was human, as the apostle was not ashamed to confess himself. half-devoutly and half-mischievously he repeated inwardly, "resist the devil and he will flee from you." as the reverend doctor did not show any lively susceptibility, she thought she would try the left shoulder on old dr. kittredge. that worthy and experienced student of science was not at all displeased with the manoeuvre, and lifted his head so as to command the exhibition through his glasses. "blanche is good for half a dozen years or so, if she is careful," the doctor said to himself, "and then she must take to her prayer-book." after this spasmodic failure of mrs. blanche creamer's to stir up the old doctors, she returned again to the pleasing task of watching the widow in her evident discomfiture. but dark as the widow looked in her half-concealed pet, she was but as a pale shadow, compared to elsie in her silent concentration of shame and anger. "well, there is one good thing," said mrs. blanche creamer; "dick doesn't get much out of that cousin of his this evening! does n't he look handsome, though?" so mrs. blanche, being now a good deal taken up with her observations of those friends of hers and ours, began to be rather careless of her two old doctors, who naturally enough fell into conversation with each other across the white surfaces of that lady, perhaps not very politely, but, under the, circumstances, almost as a matter of necessity. when a minister and a doctor get talking together, they always have a great deal to say; and so it happened that the company left the table just as the two doctors were beginning to get at each other's ideas about various interesting matters. if we follow them into the other parlor, we can, perhaps, pick up something of their conversation. chapter xxii. why doctors differ. the company rearranged itself with some changes after leaving the tea-table. dudley veneer was very polite to the widow; but that lady having been called off for a few moments for some domestic arrangement, he slid back to the side of helen darley, his daughter's faithful teacher. elsie had got away by herself, and was taken up in studying the stereoscopic laocoon. dick, being thus set free, had been seized upon by mrs. blanche creamer, who had diffused herself over three-quarters of a sofa and beckoned him to the remaining fourth. mr. bernard and miss letty were having a snug fete-'a-fete in the recess of a bay-window. the two doctors had taken two arm-chairs and sat squared off against each other. their conversation is perhaps as well worth reporting as that of the rest of the company, and, as it was carried on in a louder tone, was of course more easy to gather and put on record. it was a curious sight enough to see those two representatives of two great professions brought face to face to talk over the subjects they had been looking at all their lives from such different points of view. both were old; old enough to have been moulded by their habits of thought and life; old enough to have all their beliefs "fretted in," as vintners say,--thoroughly worked up with their characters. each of them looked his calling. the reverend doctor had lived a good deal among books in his study; the doctor, as we will call the medical gentleman, had been riding about the country for between thirty and forty years. his face looked tough and weather-worn; while the reverend doctor's, hearty as it appeared, was of finer texture. the doctor's was the graver of the two; there was something of grimness about it, partly owing to the northeasters he had faced for so many years, partly to long companionship with that stern personage who never deals in sentiment or pleasantry. his speech was apt to be brief and peremptory; it was a way he had got by ordering patients; but he could discourse somewhat, on occasion, as the reader may find out. the reverend doctor had an open, smiling expression, a cheery voice, a hearty laugh, and a cordial way with him which some thought too lively for his cloth, but which children, who are good judges of such matters, delighted in, so that he was the favorite of all the little rogues about town. but he had the clerical art of sobering down in a moment, when asked to say grace while somebody was in the middle of some particularly funny story; and though his voice was so cheery in common talk, in the pulpit, like almost all preachers, he had a wholly different and peculiar way of speaking, supposed to be more acceptable to the creator than the natural manner. in point of fact, most of our anti-papal and anti-prelatical clergymen do really intone their prayers, without suspecting in the least that they have fallen into such a romish practice. this is the way the conversation between the doctor of divinity and the doctor of medicine was going on at the point where these notes take it up. "obi tres medici, duo athei, you know, doctor. your profession has always had the credit of being lax in doctrine,--though pretty stringent in practice, ha! ha!" "some priest said that," the doctor answered, dryly. "they always talked latin when they had a bigger lie than common to get rid of." "good!" said the reverend doctor; "i'm afraid they would lie a little sometimes. but isn't there some truth in it, doctor? don't you think your profession is apt to see 'nature' in the place of the god of nature,--to lose sight of the great first cause in their daily study of secondary causes?" "i've thought about that," the doctor answered, "and i've talked about it and read about it, and i've come to the conclusion that nobody believes in god and trusts in god quite so much as the doctors; only it is n't just the sort of deity that some of your profession have wanted them to take up with. there was a student of mine wrote a dissertation on the natural theology of health and disease, and took that old lying proverb for his motto. he knew a good deal more about books than ever i did, and had studied in other countries. i'll tell you what he said about it. he said the old heathen doctor, galen, praised god for his handiwork in the human body, just as if he had been a christian, or the psalmist himself. he said they had this sentence set up in large letters in the great lecture-room in paris where he attended: i dressed his wound and god healed him. that was an old surgeon's saying. and he gave a long list of doctors who were not only christians, but famous ones. i grant you, though, ministers and doctors are very apt to see differently in spiritual matters." "that's it," said the reverend doctor; "you are apt to see 'nature' where we see god, and appeal to 'science' where we are contented with revelation." "we don't separate god and nature, perhaps, as you do," the doctor answered. "when we say that god is omnipresent and omnipotent and omniscient, we are a little more apt to mean it than your folks are. we think, when a wound heals, that god's presence and power and knowledge are there, healing it, just as that old surgeon did. we think a good many theologians, working among their books, don't see the facts of the world they live in. when we tell 'em of these facts, they are apt to call us materialists and atheists and infidels, and all that. we can't help seeing the facts, and we don't think it's wicked to mention 'em." "do tell me," the reverend doctor said, "some of these facts we are in the habit of overlooking, and which your profession thinks it can see and understand." "that's very easy," the doctor replied. "for instance: you don't understand or don't allow for idiosyncrasies as we learn to. we know that food and physic act differently with different people; but you think the same kind of truth is going to suit, or ought to suit, all minds. we don't fight with a patient because he can't take magnesia or opium; but you are all the time quarrelling over your beliefs, as if belief did not depend very much on race and constitution, to say nothing of early training." "do you mean to say that every man is not absolutely free to choose his beliefs?" "the men you write about in your studies are, but not the men we see in the real world. there is some apparently congenital defect in the indians, for instance, that keeps them from choosing civilization and christianity. so with the gypsies, very likely. everybody knows that catholicism or protestantism is a good deal a matter of race. constitution has more to do with belief than people think for. i went to a universalist church, when i was in the city one day, to hear a famous man whom all the world knows, and i never saw such pews-full of broad shoulders and florid faces, and substantial, wholesome-looking persons, male and female, in all my life. why, it was astonishing. either their creed made them healthy, or they chose it because they were healthy. your folks have never got the hang of human nature." "i am afraid this would be considered a degrading and dangerous view of human beliefs and responsibility for them," the reverend doctor replied. "prove to a man that his will is governed by something outside of himself, and you have lost all hold on his moral and religious nature. there is nothing bad men want to believe so much as that they are governed by necessity. now that which is at once degrading and dangerous cannot be true." "no doubt," the doctor replied, "all large views of mankind limit our estimate of the absolute freedom of the will. but i don't think it degrades or endangers us, for this reason, that, while it makes us charitable to the rest of mankind, our own sense of freedom, whatever it is, is never affected by argument. conscience won't be reasoned with. we feel that we can practically do this of that, and if we choose the wrong, we know we are responsible; but observation teaches us that this or that other race or individual has not the same practical freedom of choice. i don't see how we can avoid this conclusion in the instance of the american indians. the science of ethnology has upset a good many theoretical notions about human nature." "science!" said the reverend doctor, "science! that was a word the apostle paul did not seem to think much of, if we may judge by the epistle to timothy: 'oppositions of science falsely so called.' i own that i am jealous of that word and the pretensions that go with it. science has seemed to me to be very often only the handmaid of skepticism." "doctor!" the physician said, emphatically, "science is knowledge. nothing that is not known properly belongs to science. whenever knowledge obliges us to doubt, we are always safe in doubting. astronomers foretell eclipses, say how long comets are to stay with us, point out where a new planet is to be found. we see they know what they assert, and the poor old roman catholic church has at last to knock under. so geology proves a certain succession of events, and the best christian in the world must make the earth's history square with it. besides, i don't think you remember what great revelations of himself the creator has made in the minds of the men who have built up science. you seem to me to hold his human masterpieces very cheap. don't you think the 'inspiration of the almighty' gave newton and cuvier 'understanding'?" the reverend doctor was not arguing for victory. in fact, what he wanted was to call out the opinions of the old physician by a show of opposition, being already predisposed to agree with many of them. he was rather trying the common arguments, as one tries tricks of fence merely to learn the way of parrying. but just here he saw a tempting opening, and could not resist giving a home-thrust. "yes; but you surely would not consider it inspiration of the same kind as that of the writers of the old testament?" that cornered the doctor, and he paused a moment before he replied. then he raised his head, so as to command the reverend doctor's face through his spectacles, and said, "i did not say that. you are clear, i suppose, that the omniscient spoke through solomon, but that shakespeare wrote without his help?" the reverend doctor looked very grave. it was a bold, blunt way of putting the question. he turned it aside with the remark, that shakespeare seemed to him at times to come as near inspiration as any human being not included among the sacred writers. "doctor," the physician began, as from a sudden suggestion, "you won't quarrel with me, if i tell you some of my real thoughts, will you?" "say on, my dear sir, say on," the minister answered, with his most genial smile; "your real thoughts are just what i want to get at. a man's real thoughts are a great rarity. if i don't agree with you, i shall like to hear you." the doctor began; and in order to give his thoughts more connectedly, we will omit the conversational breaks, the questions and comments of the clergyman, and all accidental interruptions. "when the old ecclesiastics said that where there were three doctors there were two atheists, they lied, of course. they called everybody who differed from them atheists, until they found out that not believing in god was n't nearly so ugly a crime as not believing in some particular dogma; then they called them heretics, until so many good people had been burned under that name that it began to smell too strong of roasting flesh,--and after that infidels, which properly means people without faith, of whom there are not a great many in any place or time. but then, of course, there was some reason why doctors shouldn't think about religion exactly as ministers did, or they never would have made that proverb. it 's very likely that something of the same kind is true now; whether it is so or not, i am going to tell you the reasons why it would not be strange, if doctors should take rather different views from clergymen about some matters of belief. i don't, of course, mean all doctors nor all clergymen. some doctors go as far as any old new england divine, and some clergymen agree very well with the doctors that think least according to rule. "to begin with their ideas of the creator himself. they always see him trying to help his creatures out of their troubles. a man no sooner gets a cut, than the great physician, whose agency we often call nature, goes to work, first to stop the blood, and then to heal the wound, and then to make the scar as small as possible. if a man's pain exceeds a certain amount, he faints, and so gets relief. if it lasts too long, habit comes in to make it tolerable. if it is altogether too bad, he dies. that is the best thing to be done under the circumstances. so you see, the doctor is constantly in presence of a benevolent agency working against a settled order of things, of which pain and disease are the accidents, so to speak. well, no doubt they find it harder than clergymen to believe that there can be any world or state from which this benevolent agency is wholly excluded. this may be very wrong; but it is not unnatural. "they can hardly conceive of a permanent state of being in which cuts would never try to heal, nor habit render suffering endurable. this is one effect of their training. "then, again, their attention is very much called to human limitations. ministers work out the machinery of responsibility in an abstract kind of way; they have a sort of algebra of human nature, in which friction and strength (or weakness) of material are left out. you see, a doctor is in the way of studying children from the moment of birth upwards. for the first year or so he sees that they are just as much pupils of their maker as the young of any other animals. well, their maker trains them to pure selfishness. why? in order that they may be sure to take care of themselves. so you see, when a child comes to be, we will say a year and a day old, and makes his first choice between right and wrong, he is at a disadvantage; for he, has that vis a tergo, as we doctors call it, that force from behind, of a whole year's life of selfishness, for which he is no more to blame than a calf is to blame for having lived in the same way, purely to gratify his natural appetites. then we see that baby grow up to a child, and, if he is fat and stout and red and lively, we expect to find him troublesome and noisy, and, perhaps, sometimes disobedient more or less; that's the way each new generation breaks its egg-shell; but if he is very weak and thin, and is one of the kind that may be expected to die early, he will very likely sit in the house all day and read good books about other little sharp-faced children just like himself, who died early, having always been perfectly indifferent to all the out-door amusements of the wicked little red-cheeked children. "some of the little folks we watch grow up to be young women, and occasionally one of them gets nervous, what we call hysterical, and then that girl will begin to play all sorts of pranks,--to lie and cheat, perhaps, in the most unaccountable way, so that she might seem to a minister a good example of total depravity. we don't see her in that light. we give her iron and valerian, and get her on horseback, if we can, and so expect to make her will come all right again. by and by we are called in to see an old baby, threescore years and ten or more old. we find this old baby has never got rid of that first year's teaching which led him to fill his stomach with all he could pump into it, and his hands with everything he could grab. people call him a miser. we are sorry for him; but we can't help remembering his first year's training, and the natural effect of money on the great majority of those that have it. so while the ministers say he 'shall hardly enter into the kingdom of heaven,' we like to remind them that 'with god all things are possible.' "once more, we see all kinds of monomania and insanity. we learn from them to recognize all sorts of queer tendencies in minds supposed to be sane, so that we have nothing but compassion for a large class of persons condemned as sinners by theologians, but considered by us as invalids. we have constant reasons for noticing the transmission of qualities from parents to offspring, and we find it hard to hold a child accountable in any moral point of view for inherited bad temper or tendency to drunkenness,--as hard as we should to blame him for inheriting gout or asthma. i suppose we are more lenient with human nature than theologians generally are. we know that the spirits of men and their views of the present and the future go up and down with the barometer, and that a permanent depression of one inch in the mercurial column would affect the whole theology of christendom. "ministers talk about the human will as if it stood on a high look-out, with plenty of light, and elbowroom reaching to the horizon. doctors are constantly noticing how it is tied up and darkened by inferior organization, by disease, and all sorts of crowding interferences, until they get to look upon hottentots and indians--and a good many of their own race as a kind of self-conscious blood-clocks with very limited power of self-determination. that's the tendency, i say, of a doctor's experience. but the people to whom they address their statements of the results of their observation belong to the thinking class of the highest races, and they are conscious of a great deal of liberty of will. so in the face of the fact that civilization with all it offers has proved a dead failure with the aboriginal races of this country,--on the whole, i say, a dead failure,--they talk as if they knew from their own will all about that of a digger indian! we are more apt to go by observation of the facts in the case. we are constantly seeing weakness where you see depravity. i don't say we're right; i only tell what you must often find to be the fact, right or wrong, in talking with doctors. you see, too, our notions of bodily and moral disease, or sin, are apt to go together. we used to be as hard on sickness as you were on sin. we know better now. we don't look at sickness as we used to, and try to poison it with everything that is offensive, burnt toads and earth-worms and viper-broth, and worse things than these. we know that disease has something back of it which the body isn't to blame for, at least in most cases, and which very often it is trying to get rid of. just so with sin. i will agree to take a hundred new-born babes of a certain stock and return seventy-five of them in a dozen years true and honest, if not 'pious' children. and i will take another hundred, of a different stock, and put them in the hands of certain ann-street or five-points teachers, and seventy-five of them will be thieves and liars at the end of the same dozen years. i have heard of an old character, colonel jaques, i believe it was, a famous cattle-breeder, who used to say he could breed to pretty much any pattern he wanted to. well, we doctors see so much of families, how the tricks of the blood keep breaking out, just as much in character as they do in looks, that we can't help feeling as if a great many people hadn't a fair chance to be what is called 'good,' and that there isn't a text in the bible better worth keeping always in mind than that one, 'judge not, that ye be not judged.' "as for our getting any quarter at the hands of theologians, we don't expect it, and have no right to. you don't give each other any quarter. i have had two religious books sent me by friends within a week or two. one is mr. brownson's; he is as fair and square as euclid; a real honest, strong thinker, and one that knows what he is talking about,--for he has tried all sorts of religions, pretty much. he tells us that the roman catholic church is the one 'through which alone we can hope for heaven.' the other is by a worthy episcopal rector, who appears to write as if he were in earnest, and he calls the papacy the 'devil's masterpiece,' and talks about the 'satanic scheme' of that very church 'through which alone,' as mr. brownson tells us, 'we can hope for heaven' "what's the use in our caring about hard words after this,--'atheists,' heretics, infidels, and the like? they're, after all, only the cinders picked up out of those heaps of ashes round the stumps of the old stakes where they used to burn men, women, and children for not thinking just like other folks. they 'll 'crock' your fingers, but they can't burn us. "doctors are the best-natured people in the world, except when they get fighting with each other. and they have some advantages over you. you inherit your notions from a set of priests that had no wives and no children, or none to speak of, and so let their humanity die out of them. it did n't seem much to them to condemn a few thousand millions of people to purgatory or worse for a mistake of judgment. they didn't know what it was to have a child look up in their faces and say 'father!' it will take you a hundred or two more years to get decently humanized, after so many centuries of de-humanizing celibacy. "besides, though our libraries are, perhaps, not commonly quite so big as yours, god opens one book to physicians that a good many of you don't know much about,--the book of life. that is none of your dusty folios with black letters between pasteboard and leather, but it is printed in bright red type, and the binding of it is warm and tender to every touch. they reverence that book as one of the almighty's infallible revelations. they will insist on reading you lessons out of it, whether you call them names or not. these will always be lessons of charity. no doubt, nothing can be more provoking to listen to. but do beg your folks to remember that the smithfield fires are all out, and that the cinders are very dirty and not in the least dangerous. they'd a great deal better be civil, and not be throwing old proverbs in the doctors' faces, when they say that the man of the old monkish notions is one thing and the man they watch from his cradle to his coffin is something very different." it has cost a good deal of trouble to work the doctor's talk up into this formal shape. some of his sentences have been rounded off for him, and the whole brought into a more rhetorical form than it could have pretended to, if taken as it fell from his lips. but the exact course of his remarks has been followed, and as far as possible his expressions have been retained. though given in the form of a discourse, it must be remembered that this was a conversation, much more fragmentary and colloquial than it seems as just read. the reverend doctor was very far from taking offence at the old physician's freedom of speech. he knew him to be honest, kind, charitable, self-denying, wherever any sorrow was to be alleviated, always reverential, with a cheerful trust in the great father of all mankind. to be sure, his senior deacon, old deacon shearer,--who seemed to have got his scripture-teachings out of the "vinegar bible," (the one where vineyard is misprinted vinegar; which a good many people seem to have adopted as the true reading,)--his senior deacon had called dr. kittredge an "infidel." but the reverend doctor could not help feeling, that, unless the text, "by their fruits ye shall know them," were an interpolation, the doctor was the better christian of the two. whatever his senior deacon might think about it, he said to himself that he shouldn't be surprised if he met the doctor in heaven yet, inquiring anxiously after old deacon shearer. he was on the point of expressing himself very frankly to the doctor, with that benevolent smile on his face which had sometimes come near giving offence to the readers of the "vinegar" edition, but he saw that the physician's attention had been arrested by elsie. he looked in the same direction himself, and could not help being struck by her attitude and expression. there was something singularly graceful in the curves of her neck and the rest of her figure, but she was so perfectly still that it seemed as if she were hardly breathing. her eyes were fixed on the young girl with whom mr. bernard was talking. he had often noticed their brilliancy, but now it seemed to him that they appeared dull, and the look on her features was as of some passion which had missed its stroke. mr. bernard's companion seemed unconscious that she was the object of this attention, and was listening to the young master as if he had succeeded in making himself very agreeable. of course dick veneer had not mistaken the game that was going on. the schoolmaster meant to make elsie jealous,--and he had done it. that 's it: get her savage first, and then come wheedling round her,--a sure trick, if he isn't headed off somehow. but dick saw well enough that he had better let elsie alone just now, and thought the best way of killing the evening would be to amuse himself in a little lively talk with mrs. blanche creamer, and incidentally to show elsie that he could make himself acceptable to other women, if not to herself. the doctor presently went up to elsie, determined to engage her in conversation and get her out of her thoughts, which he saw, by her look, were dangerous. her father had been on the point of leaving helen darley to go to her, but felt easy enough when he saw the old doctor at her side, and so went on talking. the reverend doctor, being now left alone, engaged the widow rowens, who put the best face on her vexation she could, but was devoting herself to all the underground deities for having been such a fool as to ask that pale-faced thing from the institute to fill up her party. there is no space left to report the rest of the conversation. if there was anything of any significance in it, it will turn up by and by, no doubt. at ten o'clock the reverend doctor called miss letty, who had no idea it was so late; mr. bernard gave his arm to helen; mr. richard saw to mrs. blanche creamer; the doctor gave elsie a cautioning look, and went off alone, thoughtful; dudley venner and his daughter got into their carriage and were whirled away. the widow's gambit was played, and she had not won the game. chapter xxiii. the wild huntsman. the young master had not forgotten the old doctor's cautions. without attributing any great importance to the warning he had given him, mr. bernard had so far complied with his advice that he was becoming a pretty good shot with the pistol. it was an amusement as good as many others to practise, and he had taken a fancy to it after the first few days. the popping of a pistol at odd hours in the backyard of the institute was a phenomenon more than sufficiently remarkable to be talked about in rockland. the viscous intelligence of a country-village is not easily stirred by the winds which ripple the fluent thought of great cities, but it holds every straw and entangles every insect that lights upon it. it soon became rumored in the town that the young master was a wonderful shot with the pistol. some said he could hit a fo'pence-ha'penny at three rod; some, that he had shot a swallow, flying, with a single ball; some, that he snuffed a candle five times out of six at ten paces, and that he could hit any button in a man's coat he wanted to. in other words, as in all such cases, all the common feats were ascribed to him, as the current jokes of the day are laid at the door of any noted wit, however innocent he may be of them. in the natural course of things, mr. richard venner, who had by this time made some acquaintances, as we have seen, among that class of the population least likely to allow a live cinder of gossip to go out for want of air, had heard incidentally that the master up there at the institute was all the time practising with a pistol, that they say he can snuff a candle at ten rods, (that was mrs. blanche creamer's version,) and that he could hit anybody he wanted to right in the eye, as far as he could see the white of it. dick did not like the sound of all this any too well. without believing more than half of it, there was enough to make the yankee schoolmaster too unsafe to be trifled with. however, shooting at a mark was pleasant work enough; he had no particular objection to it himself. only he did not care so much for those little popgun affairs that a man carries in his pocket, and with which you could n't shoot a fellow,--a robber, say,--without getting the muzzle under his nose. pistols for boys; long-range rifles for men. there was such a gun lying in a closet with the fowling-pieces. he would go out into the fields and see what he could do as a marksman. the nature of the mark which dick chose for experimenting upon was singular. he had found some panes of glass which had been removed from an old sash, and he placed these successively before his target, arranging them at different angles. he found that a bullet would go through the glass without glancing or having its force materially abated. it was an interesting fact in physics, and might prove of some practical significance hereafter. nobody knows what may turn up to render these out-of-the-way facts useful. all this was done in a quiet way in one of the bare spots high up the side of the mountain. he was very thoughtful in taking the precaution to get so far away; rifle-bullets are apt to glance and come whizzing about people's ears, if they are fired in the neighborhood of houses. dick satisfied himself that he could be tolerably sure of hitting a pane of glass at a distance of thirty rods, more or less, and that, if there happened to be anything behind it, the glass would not materially alter the force or direction of the bullet. about this time it occurred to him also that there was an old accomplishment of his which he would be in danger of losing for want of practice, if he did not take some opportunity to try his hand and regain its cunning, if it had begun to be diminished by disuse. for his first trial, he chose an evening when the moon was shining, and after the hour when the rockland people were like to be stirring abroad. he was so far established now that he could do much as he pleased without exciting remark. the prairie horse he rode, the mustang of the pampas, wild as he was, had been trained to take part in at least one exercise. this was the accomplishment in which mr. richard now proposed to try himself. for this purpose he sought the implement of which, as it may be remembered, he had once made an incidental use,--the lasso, or long strip of hide with a slip-noose at the end of it. he had been accustomed to playing with such a thong from his boyhood, and had become expert in its use in capturing wild cattle in the course of his adventures. unfortunately, there were no wild bulls likely to be met with in the neighborhood, to become the subjects of his skill. a stray cow in the road, an ox or a horse in a pasture, must serve his turn,--dull beasts, but moving marks to aim at, at any rate. never, since he had galloped in the chase over the pampas, had dick venner felt such a sense of life and power as when he struck the long spurs into his wild horse's flanks, and dashed along the road with the lasso lying like a coiled snake at the saddle-bow. in skilful hands, the silent, bloodless noose, flying like an arrow, but not like that leaving a wound behind it,--sudden as a pistol-shot, but without the telltale explosion,--is one of the most fearful and mysterious weapons that arm the hand of man. the old romans knew how formidable, even in contest with a gladiator equipped with sword, helmet, and shield, was the almost naked retiarius, with his net in one hand and his three-pronged javelin in the other. once get a net over a man's head, or a cord round his neck, or, what is more frequently done nowadays, bonnet him by knocking his hat down over his eyes, and he is at the mercy of his opponent. our soldiers who served against the mexicans found this out too well. many a poor fellow has been lassoed by the fierce riders from the plains, and fallen an easy victim to the captor who had snared him in the fatal noose. but, imposing as the sight of the wild huntsmen of the pampas might have been, dick could not help laughing at the mock sublimity of his situation, as he tried his first experiment on an unhappy milky mother who had strayed from her herd and was wandering disconsolately along the road, laying the dust, as slue went, with thready streams from her swollen, swinging udders. "here goes the don at the windmill!" said dick, and tilted full speed at her, whirling the lasso round his head as he rode. the creature swerved to one side of the way, as the wild horse and his rider came rushing down upon her, and presently turned and ran, as only cows and it would n't be safe to say it--can run. just before he passed,--at twenty or thirty feet from her,--the lasso shot from his hand, uncoiling as it flew, and in an instant its loop was round her horns. "well cast!" said dick, as he galloped up to her side and dexterously disengaged the lasso. "now for a horse on the run!" he had the good luck to find one, presently, grazing in a pasture at the road-side. taking down the rails of the fence at one point, he drove the horse into the road and gave chase. it was a lively young animal enough, and was easily roused to a pretty fast pace. as his gallop grew more and more rapid, dick gave the reins to the mustang, until the two horses stretched themselves out in their longest strides. if the first feat looked like play, the one he was now to attempt had a good deal the appearance of real work. he touched the mustang with the spur, and in a few fierce leaps found himself nearly abreast of the frightened animal he was chasing. once more he whirled the lasso round and round over his head, and then shot it forth, as the rattlesnake shoots his head from the loops against which it rests. the noose was round the horse's neck, and in another instant was tightened so as almost to stop his breath. the prairie horse knew the trick of the cord, and leaned away from the captive, so as to keep the thong tensely stretched between his neck and the peak of the saddle to which it was fastened. struggling was of no use with a halter round his windpipe, and he very soon began to tremble and stagger,--blind, no doubt, and with a roaring in his ears as of a thousand battle-trumpets,--at any rate, subdued and helpless. that was enough. dick loosened his lasso, wound it up again, laid it like a pet snake in a coil at his saddle-bow, turned his horse, and rode slowly along towards the mansion-house. the place had never looked more stately and beautiful to him than as he now saw it in the moonlight. the undulations of the land,--the grand mountain screen which sheltered the mansion from the northern blasts, rising with all its hanging forests and parapets of naked rock high towards the heavens,--the ancient mansion, with its square chimneys, and bodyguard of old trees, and cincture of low walls with marble-pillared gateways,--the fields, with their various coverings,--the beds of flowers,--the plots of turf, one with a gray column in its centre bearing a sundial on which the rays of the moon were idly shining, another with a white stone and a narrow ridge of turf,--over all these objects, harmonized with all their infinite details into one fair whole by the moonlight, the prospective heir, as he deemed himself, looked with admiring eyes. but while he looked, the thought rose up in his mind like waters from a poisoned fountain, that there was a deep plot laid to cheat him of the inheritance which by a double claim he meant to call his own. every day this ice-cold beauty, this dangerous, handsome cousin of his, went up to that place,--that usher's girl-trap. everyday,--regularly now,--it used to be different. did she go only to get out of his, her cousin's, reach? was she not rather becoming more and more involved in the toils of this plotting yankee? if mr. bernard had shown himself at that moment a few rods in advance, the chances are that in less than one minute he would have found himself with a noose round his neck, at the heels of a mounted horseman. providence spared him for the present. mr. richard rode his horse quietly round to the stable, put him up, and proceeded towards the house. he got to his bed without disturbing the family, but could not sleep. the idea had fully taken possession of his mind that a deep intrigue was going on which would end by bringing elsie and the schoolmaster into relations fatal to all his own hopes. with that ingenuity which always accompanies jealousy, he tortured every circumstance of the last few weeks so as to make it square with this belief. from this vein of thought he naturally passed to a consideration of every possible method by which the issue he feared might be avoided. mr. richard talked very plain language with himself in all these inward colloquies. supposing it came to the worst, what could be done then? first, an accident might happen to the schoolmaster which should put a complete and final check upon his projects and contrivances. the particular accident which might interrupt his career must, evidently, be determined by circumstances; but it must be of a nature to explain itself without the necessity of any particular person's becoming involved in the matter. it would be unpleasant to go into particulars; but everybody knows well enough that men sometimes get in the way of a stray bullet, and that young persons occasionally do violence to themselves in various modes,--by firearms, suspension, and other means,--in consequence of disappointment in love, perhaps, oftener than from other motives. there was still another kind of accident which might serve his purpose. if anything should happen to elsie, it would be the most natural thing in the world that his uncle should adopt him, his nephew and only near relation, as his heir. unless, indeed, uncle dudley should take it into his head to marry again. in that case, where would he, dick, be? this was the most detestable complication which he could conceive of. and yet he had noticed--he could not help noticing--that his uncle had been very attentive to, and, as it seemed, very much pleased with, that young woman from the school. what did that mean? was it possible that he was going to take a fancy to her? it made him wild to think of all the several contingencies which might defraud him of that good-fortune which seemed but just now within his grasp. he glared in the darkness at imaginary faces: sometimes at that of the handsome, treacherous schoolmaster; sometimes at that of the meek-looking, but no doubt, scheming, lady-teacher; sometimes at that of the dark girl whom he was ready to make his wife; sometimes at that of his much respected uncle, who, of course, could not be allowed to peril the fortunes of his relatives by forming a new connection. it was a frightful perplexity in which he found himself, because there was no one single life an accident to which would be sufficient to insure the fitting and natural course of descent to the great dudley property. if it had been a simple question of helping forward a casualty to any one person, there was nothing in dick's habits of thought and living to make that a serious difficulty. he had been so much with lawless people, that a life between his wish and his object seemed only as an obstacle to be removed, provided the object were worth the risk and trouble. but if there were two or three lives in the way, manifestly that altered the case. his southern blood was getting impatient. there was enough of the new-englander about him to make him calculate his chances before he struck; but his plans were liable to be defeated at any moment by a passionate impulse such as the dark-hued races of southern europe and their descendants are liable to. he lay in his bed, sometimes arranging plans to meet the various difficulties already mentioned, sometimes getting into a paroxysm of blind rage in the perplexity of considering what object he should select as the one most clearly in his way. on the whole, there could be no doubt where the most threatening of all his embarrassments lay. it was in the probable growing relation between elsie and the schoolmaster. if it should prove, as it seemed likely, that there was springing up a serious attachment tending to a union between them, he knew what he should do, if he was not quite so sure how he should do it. there was one thing at least which might favor his projects, and which, at any rate, would serve to amuse him. he could, by a little quiet observation, find out what were the schoolmaster's habits of life: whether he had any routine which could be calculated upon; and under what circumstances a strictly private interview of a few minutes with him might be reckoned on, in case it should be desirable. he could also very probably learn some facts about elsie. whether the young man was in the habit of attending her on her way home from school; whether she stayed about the schoolroom after the other girls had gone; and any incidental matters of interest which might present themselves. he was getting more and more restless for want of some excitement. a mad gallop, a visit to mrs. blanche creamer, who had taken such a fancy to him, or a chat with the widow rowens, who was very lively in her talk, for all her sombre colors, and reminded him a good deal of same of his earlier friends, the senoritas,--all these were distractions, to be sure, but not enough to keep his fiery spirit from fretting itself in longings for more dangerous excitements. the thought of getting a knowledge of all mr. bernard's ways, so that he would be in his power at any moment, was a happy one. for some days after this he followed elsie at a long distance behind, to watch her until she got to the schoolhouse. one day he saw mr. bernard join her: a mere accident, very probably, for it was only once this happened. she came on her homeward way alone,--quite apart from the groups of girls who strolled out of the schoolhouse yard in company. sometimes she was behind them all,--which was suggestive. could she have stayed to meet the schoolmaster? if he could have smuggled himself into the school, he would have liked to watch her there, and see if there was not some understanding between her and the master which betrayed itself by look or word. but this was beyond the limits of his audacity, and he had to content himself with such cautious observations as could be made at a distance. with the aid of a pocket-glass he could make out persons without the risk of being observed himself. mr. silos peckham's corps of instructors was not expected to be off duty or to stand at ease for any considerable length of time. sometimes mr. bernard, who had more freedom than the rest, would go out for a ramble in the daytime, but more frequently it would be in the evening, after the hour of "retiring," as bedtime was elegantly termed by the young ladies of the apollinean institute. he would then not unfrequently walk out alone in the common roads, or climb up the sides of the mountain, which seemed to be one of his favorite resorts. here, of course, it was impossible to follow him with the eye at a distance. dick had a hideous, gnawing suspicion that somewhere in these deep shades the schoolmaster might meet elsie, whose evening wanderings he knew so well. but of this he was not able to assure himself. secrecy was necessary to his present plans, and he could not compromise himself by over-eager curiosity. one thing he learned with certainty. the master returned, after his walk one evening, and entered the building where his room was situated. presently a light betrayed the window of his apartment. from a wooded bank, some thirty or forty rods from this building, dick venner could see the interior of the chamber, and watch the master as he sat at his desk, the light falling strongly upon his face, intent upon the book or manuscript before him. dick contemplated him very long in this attitude. the sense of watching his every motion, himself meanwhile utterly unseen, was delicious. how little the master was thinking what eyes were on him! well,--there were two things quite certain. one was, that, if he chose, he could meet the schoolmaster alone, either in the road or in a more solitary place, if he preferred to watch his chance for an evening or two. the other was, that he commanded his position, as he sat at his desk in the evening, in such a way that there would be very little difficulty,--so far as that went; of course, however, silence is always preferable to noise, and there is a great difference in the marks left by different casualties. very likely nothing would come of all this espionage; but, at any rate, the first thing to be done with a man you want to have in your power is to learn his habits. since the tea-party at the widow rowens's, elsie had been more fitful and moody than ever. dick understood all this well enough, you know. it was the working of her jealousy against that young schoolgirl to whom the master had devoted himself for the sake of piquing the heiress of the dudley mansion. was it possible, in any way, to exasperate her irritable nature against him, and in this way to render her more accessible to his own advances? it was difficult to influence her at all. she endured his company without seeming to enjoy it. she watched him with that strange look of hers, sometimes as if she were on her guard against him, sometimes as if she would like to strike at him as in that fit of childish passion. she ordered him about with a haughty indifference which reminded him of his own way with the dark-eyed women whom he had known so well of old. all this added a secret pleasure to the other motives he had for worrying her with jealous suspicions. he knew she brooded silently on any grief that poisoned her comfort,--that she fed on it, as it were, until it ran with every drop of blood in her veins,--and that, except in some paroxysm of rage, of which he himself was not likely the second time to be the object, or in some deadly vengeance wrought secretly, against which he would keep a sharp lookout, so far as he was concerned, she had no outlet for her dangerous, smouldering passions. beware of the woman who cannot find free utterance for all her stormy inner life either in words or song! so long as a woman can talk, there is nothing she cannot bear. if she cannot have a companion to listen to her woes, and has no musical utterance, vocal or instrumental,--then, if she is of the real woman sort, and has a few heartfuls of wild blood in her, and you have done her a wrong,--double-bolt the door which she may enter on noiseless slipper at midnight,--look twice before you taste of any cup whose draught the shadow of her hand may have darkened! but let her talk, and, above all, cry, or, if she is one of the coarser-grained tribe, give her the run of all the red-hot expletives in the language, and let her blister her lips with them until she is tired, she will sleep like a lamb after it, and you may take a cup of coffee from her without stirring it up to look for its sediment. so, if she can sing, or play on any musical instrument, all her wickedness will run off through her throat or the tips of her fingers. how many tragedies find their peaceful catastrophe in fierce roulades and strenuous bravuras! how many murders are executed in double-quick time upon the keys which stab the air with their dagger-strokes of sound! what would our civilization be without the piano? are not erard and broadwood and chickering the true humanizers of our time? therefore do i love to hear the all-pervading tum tum jarring the walls of little parlors in houses with double door-plates on their portals, looking out on streets and courts which to know is to be unknown, and where to exist is not to live, according to any true definition of living. therefore complain i not of modern degeneracy, when, even from the open window of the small unlovely farmhouse, tenanted by the hard-handed man of bovine flavors and the flat-patterned woman of broken-down countenance, issue the same familiar sounds. for who knows that almira, but for these keys, which throb away her wild impulses in harmless discords would not have been floating, dead, in the brown stream which slides through the meadows by her father's door,--or living, with that other current which runs beneath the gas-lights over the slimy pavement, choking with wretched weeds that were once in spotless flower? poor elsie! she never sang nor played. she never shaped her inner life in words: such utterance was as much denied to her nature as common articulate speech to the deaf mute. her only language must be in action. watch her well by day and by night, old sophy! watch her well! or the long line of her honored name may close in shame, and the stately mansion of the dudleys remain a hissing and a reproach till its roof is buried in its cellar! chapter xxiv. on his tracks. "able!" said the old doctor, one morning, "after you've harnessed caustic, come into the study a few minutes, will you?" abel nodded. he was a man of few words, and he knew that the "will you" did not require an answer, being the true new-england way of rounding the corners of an employer's order,--a tribute to the personal independence of an american citizen. the hired man came into the study in the course of a few minutes. his face was perfectly still, and he waited to be spoken to; but the doctor's eye detected a certain meaning in his expression, which looked as if he had something to communicate. "well?" said the doctor. "he's up to mischief o' some kind, i guess," said abel. "i jest happened daown by the mansion-haouse last night, 'n' he come aout o' the gate on that queer-lookin' creator' o' his. i watched him, 'n' he rid, very slow, all raoun' by the institoot, 'n' acted as ef he was spyin' abaout. he looks to me like a man that's calc'latin' to do some kind of ill-turn to somebody. i should n't like to have him raoun' me, 'f there wa'n't a pitchfork or an eel-spear or some sech weep'n within reach. he may be all right; but i don't like his looks, 'n' i don't see what he's lurkin' raoun' the institoot for, after folks is abed." "have you watched him pretty close for the last few days?" said the doctor. "w'll, yes,--i've had my eye on him consid'ble o' the time. i haf to be pooty shy abaout it, or he'll find aout th't i'm on his tracks. i don' want him to get a spite ag'inst me, 'f i c'n help it; he looks to me like one o' them kind that kerries what they call slung-shot, 'n' hits ye on the side o' th' head with 'em so suddin y' never know what hurts ye." "why," said the doctor, sharply,--"have you ever seen him with any such weapon about him?" "w'll, no,--i caan't say that i hev," abel answered. "on'y he looks kin' o' dangerous. maybe he's all jest 'z he ought to be,--i caan't say that he a'n't,--but he's aout late nights, 'n' lurkin' raonn' jest 'z ef he was spyin' somebody, 'n' somehaow i caan't help mistrustin' them portagee-lookin' fellahs. i caan't keep the run o' this chap all the time; but i've a notion that old black woman daown 't the mansion-haouse knows 'z much abaout him 'z anybody." the doctor paused a moment, after hearing this report from his private detective, and then got into his chaise, and turned caustic's head in the direction of the dudley mansion. he had been suspicious of dick from the first. he did not like his mixed blood, nor his looks, nor his ways. he had formed a conjecture about his projects early. he had made a shrewd guess as to the probable jealousy dick would feel of the schoolmaster, had found out something of his movements, and had cautioned mr. bernard,--as we have seen. he felt an interest in the young man,--a student of his own profession, an intelligent and ingenuously unsuspecting young fellow, who had been thrown by accident into the companionship or the neighborhood of two persons, one of whom he knew to be dangerous, and the other he believed instinctively might be capable of crime. the doctor rode down to the dudley mansion solely for the sake of seeing old sophy. he was lucky enough to find her alone in her kitchen. he began taking with her as a physician; he wanted to know how her rheumatism had been. the shrewd old woman saw through all that with her little beady black eyes. it was something quite different he had come for, and old sophy answered very briefly for her aches and ails. "old folks' bones a'n't like young folks'," she said. "it's the lord's doin's, 'n' 't a'n't much matter. i sha'n' be long roan' this kitchen. it's the young missis, doctor,--it 's our elsie,--it 's the baby, as we use' t' call her,--don' you remember, doctor? seventeen year ago, 'n' her poor mother cryin' for her,--'where is she? where is she? let me see her! '--'n' how i run up-stairs,--i could run then,--'n' got the coral necklace 'n' put it round her little neck, 'n' then showed her to her mother,--'n' how her mother looked at her, 'n' looked, 'n' then put out her poor thin fingers 'n' lifted the necklace,--'n' fell right back on her piller, as white as though she was laid out to bury?" the doctor answered her by silence and a look of grave assent. he had never chosen to let old sophy dwell upon these matters, for obvious reasons. the girl must not grow up haunted by perpetual fears and prophecies, if it were possible to prevent it. "well, how has elsie seemed of late?" he said, after this brief pause. the old woman shook her head. then she looked up at the doctor so steadily and searchingly that the diamond eyes of elsie herself could hardly have pierced more deeply. the doctor raised his head, by his habitual movement, and met the old woman's look with his own calm and scrutinizing gaze, sharpened by the glasses through which he now saw her. sophy spoke presently in an awed tone, as if telling a vision. "we shall be havin' trouble before long. the' 's somethin' comin' from the lord. i've had dreams, doctor. it's many a year i've been a-dreamin', but now they're comin' over 'n' over the same thing. three times i've dreamed one thing, doctor,--one thing!" "and what was that?" the doctor said, with that shade of curiosity in his tone which a metaphysician would probably say is an index of a certain tendency to belief in the superstition to which the question refers. "i ca'n' jestly tell y' what it was, doctor," the old woman answered, as if bewildered and trying to clear up her recollections; "but it was somethin' fearful, with a great noise 'n' a great cryin' o' people,--like the las' day, doctor! the lord have mercy on my poor chil', 'n' take care of her, if anything happens! but i's feared she'll never live to see the las' day, 'f 't don' come pooty quick." poor sophy, only the third generation from cannibalism, was, not unnaturally, somewhat confused in her theological notions. some of the second-advent preachers had been about, and circulated their predictions among the kitchen--population of rockland. this was the way in which it happened that she mingled her fears in such a strange manner with their doctrines. the doctor answered solemnly, that of the day and hour we knew not, but it became us to be always ready.--"is there anything going on in the household different from common?" old sophy's wrinkled face looked as full of life and intelligence, when she turned it full upon the doctor, as if she had slipped off her infirmities and years like an outer garment. all those fine instincts of observation which came straight to her from her savage grandfather looked out of her little eyes. she had a kind of faith that the doctor was a mighty conjurer, who, if he would, could bewitch any of them. she had relieved her feelings by her long talk with the minister, but the doctor was the immediate adviser of the family, and had watched them through all their troubles. perhaps he could tell them what to do. she had but one real object of affection in the world,--this child that she had tended from infancy to womanhood. troubles were gathering thick round her; how soon they would break upon her, and blight or destroy her, no one could tell; but there was nothing in all the catalogue of terrors which might not come upon the household at any moment. her own wits had sharpened themselves in keeping watch by day and night, and her face had forgotten its age in the excitement which gave life to its features. "doctor," old sophy said, "there's strange things goin' on here by night and by day. i don' like that man,--that dick,--i never liked him. he giv' me some o' these things i' got on; i take 'em 'cos i know it make him mad, if i no take 'em; i wear 'em, so that he need n' feel as if i did n' like him; but, doctor, i hate him,--jes' as much as a member of the church has the lord's leave to hate anybody." her eyes sparkled with the old savage light, as if her ill-will to mr. richard veneer might perhaps go a little farther than the christian limit she had assigned. but remember that her grandfather was in the habit of inviting his friends to dine with him upon the last enemy he had bagged, and that her grandmother's teeth were filed down to points, so that they were as sharp as a shark's. "what is that you have seen about mr. richard veneer that gives you such a spite against him, sophy?" asked the doctor. "what i' seen 'bout dick veneer?" she replied, fiercely. "i'll tell y' what i' seen. dick wan's to marry our elsie,--that 's what he wan's; 'n' he don' love her, doctor,--he hates her, doctor, as bad as i hate him! he wan's to marry our elsie, in' live here in the big house, 'n' have nothin' to do but jes' lay still 'n' watch massa venner 'n' see how long 't ill take him to die, 'n' 'f he don' die fas' 'puff, help him some way t' die fasser!--come close up t' me, doctor! i wan' t' tell you somethin' i tol' th' minister t' other day. th' minister, he come down 'n' prayed 'n' talked good,--he's a good man, that doctor honeywood, 'n' i tol' him all 'bout our elsie, but he did n' tell nobody what to do to stop all what i' been dreamin' about happenin'. come close up to me, doctor!" the doctor drew his chair close up to that of the old woman. "doctor, nobody mus'n' never marry our elsie 's longs she lives! nobody mus' n' never live with elsie but ol sophy; 'n' ol sophy won't never die 's long 's elsie 's alive to be took care of. but i's feared, doctor, i's greatly feared elsie wan' to marry somebody. the' 's a young gen'l'm'n up at that school where she go,--so some of 'em tells me, 'n' she loves t' see him 'n' talk wi' him, 'n' she talks about him when she 's asleep sometimes. she mus 'n' never marry nobody, doctor! if she do, he die, certain!" "if she has a fancy for the young man up at the school there," the doctor said, "i shouldn't think there would be much danger from dick." "doctor, nobody know nothin' 'bout elsie but of sophy. she no like any other creator' th't ever drawed the bref o' life. if she ca'n' marry one man 'cos she love him, she marry another man 'cos she hate him." "marry a man because she hates him, sophy? no woman ever did such a thing as that, or ever will do it." "who tol' you elsie was a woman, doctor?" said old sophy, with a flash of strange intelligence in her eyes. the doctor's face showed that he was startled. the old woman could not know much about elsie that he did not know; but what strange superstition had got into her head, he was puzzled to guess. he had better follow sophy's lead and find out what she meant. "i should call elsie a woman, and a very handsome one," he said. "you don't mean that she has any mark about her, except--you know--under the necklace?" the old woman resented the thought of any deformity about her darling. "i did n' say she had nothin'--but jes' that--you know. my beauty have anything ugly? she's the beautifullest-shaped lady that ever had a shinin' silk gown drawed over her shoulders. on'y she a'n't like no other woman in none of her ways. she don't cry 'n' laugh like other women. an' she ha'n' got the same kind o' feelin's as other women.--do you know that young gen'l'm'n up at the school, doctor?" "yes, sophy, i've met him sometimes. he's a very nice sort of young man, handsome, too, and i don't much wonder elsie takes to him. tell me, sophy, what do you think would happen, if he should chance to fall in love with elsie, and she with him, and he should marry her?" "put your ear close to my lips, doctor, dear!" she whispered a little to the doctor, then added aloud, "he die,--that's all." "but surely, sophy, you a'n't afraid to have dick marry her, if she would have him for any reason, are you? he can take care of himself, if anybody can." "doctor!" sophy answered, "nobody can take care of hisself that live wi' elsie! nobody never in all this worl' mus' live wi' elsie but of sophy, i tell you. you don' think i care for dick? what do i care, if dick venner die? he wan's to marry our elsie so 's to live in the big house 'n' get all the money 'n' all the silver things 'n' all the chists full o' linen 'n' beautiful clothes. that's what dick wan's. an' he hates elsie 'cos she don' like him. but if he marry elsie, she 'll make him die some wrong way or other, 'n' they'll take her 'n' hang her, or he'll get mad with her 'n' choke her.--oh, i know his chokin' tricks!--he don' leave his keys roun' for nothin'" "what's that you say, sophy? tell me what you mean by all that." so poor sophy had to explain certain facts not in all respects to her credit. she had taken the opportunity of his absence to look about his chamber, and, having found a key in one of his drawers, had applied it to a trunk, and, finding that it opened the trunk, had made a kind of inspection for contraband articles, and, seeing the end of a leather thong, had followed it up until she saw that it finished with a noose, which, from certain appearances, she inferred to have seen service of at least doubtful nature. an unauthorized search; but old sophy considered that a game of life and death was going on in the household, and that she was bound to look out for her darling. the doctor paused a moment to think over this odd piece of information. without sharing sophy's belief as to the kind of use this mischievous-looking piece of property had been put to, it was certainly very odd that dick should have such a thing at the bottom of his trunk. the doctor remembered reading or hearing something about the lasso and the lariat and the bolas, and had an indistinct idea that they had been sometimes used as weapons of warfare or private revenge; but they were essentially a huntsman's implements, after all, and it was not very strange that this young man had brought one of them with him. not strange, perhaps, but worth noting. "do you really think dick means mischief to anybody, that he has such dangerous-looking things?" the doctor said, presently. "i tell you, doctor. dick means to have elsie. if he ca'n' get her, he never let nobody else have her! oh, dick 's a dark man, doctor! i know him! i 'member him when he was little boy,--he always cunin'. i think he mean mischief to somebody. he come home late nights,--come in softly,--oh, i hear him! i lay awake, 'n' got sharp ears,--i hear the cats walkin' over the roofs,--'n' i hear dick veneer, when he comes up in his stockin'-feet as still as a cat. i think he mean' mischief to somebody. i no like his looks these las' days.--is that a very pooty gen'l'm'n up at the schoolhouse, doctor?" "i told you he was good-looking. what if he is?" "i should like to see him, doctor,--i should like to see the pooty gen'l'm'n that my poor elsie loves. she mus 'n' never marry nobody, --but, oh, doctor, i should like to see him, 'n' jes' think a little how it would ha' been, if the lord had n' been so hard on elsie." she wept and wrung her hands. the kind doctor was touched, and left her a moment to her thoughts. "and how does mr. dudley veneer take all this?" he said, by way of changing the subject a little. "oh, massa veneer, he good man, but he don' know nothin' 'bout elsie, as of sophy do. i keep close by her; i help her when she go to bed, 'n' set by her sometime when she--'sleep; i come to her in th' mornin' 'n' help her put on her things."--then, in a whisper;--"doctor, elsie lets of sophy take off that necklace for her. what you think she do, 'f anybody else tech it?" "i don't know, i'm sure, sophy,--strike the person, perhaps." "oh, yes, strike 'em! but not with her han's, doctor!"--the old woman's significant pantomime must be guessed at. "but you haven't told me, sophy, what mr. dudley veneer thinks of his nephew, nor whether he has any notion that dick wants to marry elsie." "i tell you. massa venner, he good man, but he no see nothin' 'bout what goes on here in the house. he sort o' broken-hearted, you know,--sort o' giv up,--don' know what to do wi' elsie, 'xcep' say 'yes, yes.' dick always look smilin' 'n' behave well before him. one time i thought massa veneer b'lieve dick was goin' to take to elsie; but now he don' seem to take much notice,--he kin' o' stupid-' like 'bout sech things. it's trouble, doctor; 'cos massa veneer bright man naterally,--'n' he's got a great heap o' books. i don' think massa veneer never been jes' heself sence elsie 's born. he done all he know how,--but, doctor, that wa'n' a great deal. you men-folks don' know nothin' 'bout these young gals; 'n' 'f you knowed all the young gals that ever lived, y' would n' know nothin' 'bout our elsie." "no,--but, sophy, what i want to know is, whether you think mr. veneer has any kind of suspicion about his nephew,--whether he has any notion that he's a dangerous sort of fellow,--or whether he feels safe to have him about, or has even taken a sort of fancy to him." "lar' bless you, doctor, massa veneer no more idee 'f any mischief 'bout dick than he has 'bout you or me. y' see, he very fond o' the cap'n,--that dick's father,--'n' he live so long alone here, 'long wi' us, that he kin' o' like to see mos' anybody 't 's got any o' th' of family-blood in 'em. he ha'n't got no more suspicions 'n a baby,--y' never see sech a man 'n y'r life. i kin' o' think he don' care for nothin' in this world 'xcep' jes' t' do what elsie wan's him to. the fus' year after young madam die he do nothin' but jes' set at the window 'n' look out at her grave, 'n' then come up 'n' look at the baby's neck 'n' say, 'it's fadin', sophy, a'n't it? 'n' then go down in the study 'n' walk 'n' walk, 'n' them kneel down 'n' pray. doctor, there was two places in the old carpet that was all threadbare, where his knees had worn 'em. an' sometimes, you remember 'bout all that,--he'd go off up into the mountain, 'n' be gone all day, 'n' kill all the ugly things he could find up there.--oh, doctor, i don' like to think o' them days!--an' by 'n' by he grew kin' o' still, 'n' begun to read a little, 'n' 't las' he got 's quiet's a lamb, 'n' that's the way he is now. i think he's got religion, doctor; but he a'n't so bright about what's goin' on, 'n' i don' believe he never suspec' nothin' till somethin' happens; for the' 's somethin' goin' to happen, doctor, if the las' day does n' come to stop it; 'n' you mus' tell us what to do, 'n' save my poor elsie, my baby that the lord has n' took care of like all his other childer." the doctor assured the old woman that he was thinking a great deal about them all, and that there were other eyes on dick besides her own. let her watch him closely about the house, and he would keep a look-out elsewhere. if there was anything new, she must let him know at once. send up one of the menservants, and he would come down at a moment's warning. there was really nothing definite against this young man; but the doctor was sure that he was meditating some evil design or other. he rode straight up to the institute. there he saw mr. bernard, and had a brief conversation with him, principally on matters relating to his personal interests. that evening, for some unknown reason, mr. bernard changed the place of his desk and drew down the shades of his windows. late that night mr. richard venner drew the charge of a rifle, and put the gun back among the fowling-pieces, swearing that a leather halter was worth a dozen of it. chapter xxv. the perilous hour. up to this time dick venner had not decided on the particular mode and the precise period of relieving himself from the unwarrantable interference which threatened to defeat his plans. the luxury of feeling that he had his man in his power was its own reward. one who watches in the dark, outside, while his enemy, in utter unconsciousness, is illuminating his apartment and himself so that every movement of his head and every button on his coat can be seen and counted, experiences a peculiar kind of pleasure, if he holds a loaded rifle in his hand, which he naturally hates to bring to its climax by testing his skill as a marksman upon the object of his attention. besides, dick had two sides in his nature, almost as distinct as we sometimes observe in those persons who are the subjects of the condition known as double consciousness. on his new england side he was cunning and calculating, always cautious, measuring his distance before he risked his stroke, as nicely as if he were throwing his lasso. but he was liable to intercurrent fits of jealousy and rage, such as the light-hued races are hardly capable of conceiving, blinding paroxysms of passion, which for the time overmastered him, and which, if they found no ready outlet, transformed themselves into the more dangerous forces that worked through the instrumentality of his cool craftiness. he had failed as yet in getting any positive evidence that there was any relation between elsie and the schoolmaster other than such as might exist unsuspected and unblamed between a teacher and his pupil. a book, or a note, even, did not prove the existence of any sentiment. at one time he would be devoured by suspicions, at another he would try to laugh himself out of them. and in the mean while he followed elsie's tastes as closely as he could, determined to make some impression upon her,--to become a habit, a convenience, a necessity,--whatever might aid him in the attainment of the one end which was now the aim of his life. it was to humor one of her tastes already known to the reader, that he said to her one morning,--"come, elsie, take your castanets, and let us have a dance." he had struck the right vein in the girl's fancy, for she was in the mood for this exercise, and very willingly led the way into one of the more empty apartments. what there was in this particular kind of dance which excited her it might not be easy to guess; but those who looked in with the old doctor, on a former occasion, and saw her, will remember that she was strangely carried away by it, and became almost fearful in the vehemence of her passion. the sound of the castanets seemed to make her alive all over. dick knew well enough what the exhibition would be, and was almost afraid of her at these moments; for it was like the dancing mania of eastern devotees, more than the ordinary light amusement of joyous youth,--a convulsion of the body and the mind, rather than a series of voluntary modulated motions. elsie rattled out the triple measure of a saraband. her eyes began to glitter more brilliantly, and her shape to undulate in freer curves. presently she noticed that dick's look was fixed upon her necklace. his face betrayed his curiosity; he was intent on solving the question, why she always wore something about her neck. the chain of mosaics she had on at that moment displaced itself at every step, and he was peering with malignant, searching eagerness to see if an unsunned ring of fairer hue than the rest of the surface, or any less easily explained peculiarity, were hidden by her ornaments. she stopped suddenly, caught the chain of mosaics and settled it hastily in its place, flung down her castanets, drew herself back, and stood looking at him, with her head a little on one side, and her eyes narrowing in the way he had known so long and well. "what is the matter, cousin elsie? what do you stop for?" he said. elsie did not answer, but kept her eyes on him, full of malicious light. the jealousy which lay covered up under his surface-thoughts took this opportunity to break out. "you would n't act so, if you were dancing with mr. langdon,--would you, elsie?" he asked. it was with some effort that he looked steadily at her to see the effect of his question. elsie colored,--not much, but still perceptibly. dick could not remember that he had ever seen her show this mark of emotion before, in all his experience of her fitful changes of mood. it had a singular depth of significance, therefore, for him; he knew how hardly her color came. blushing means nothing, in some persons; in others, it betrays a profound inward agitation,--a perturbation of the feelings far more trying than the passions which with many easily moved persons break forth in tears. all who have observed much are aware that some men, who have seen a good deal of life in its less chastened aspects and are anything but modest, will blush often and easily, while there are delicate and sensitive women who can faint, or go into fits, if necessary, but are very rarely seen to betray their feelings in their cheeks, even when their expression shows that their inmost soul is blushing scarlet. presently she answered, abruptly and scornfully, "mr. langdon is a gentleman, and would not vex me as you do." "a gentleman!" dick answered, with the most insulting accent,--"a gentleman! come, elsie, you 've got the dudley blood in your veins, and it does n't do for you to call this poor, sneaking schoolmaster a gentleman!" he stopped short. elsie's bosom was heaving, the faint flush on her cheek was becoming a vivid glow. whether it were shame or wrath, he saw that he had reached some deep-lying centre of emotion. there was no longer any doubt in his mind. with another girl these signs of confusion might mean little or nothing; with her they were decisive and final. elsie venner loved bernard langdon. the sudden conviction, absolute, overwhelming, which rushed upon him, had well-nigh led to an explosion of wrath, and perhaps some terrible scene which might have fulfilled some of old sophy's predictions. this, however, would never do. dick's face whitened with his thoughts, but he kept still until he could speak calmly. "i've nothing against the young fellow," he said; "only i don't think there's anything quite good enough to keep the company of people that have the dudley blood in them. you a'n't as proud as i am. i can't quite make up my mind to call a schoolmaster a gentleman, though this one may be well enough. i 've nothing against him, at any rate." elsie made no answer, but glided out of the room and slid away to her own apartment. she bolted the door and drew her curtains close. then she threw herself on the floor, and fell into a dull, slow ache of passion, without tears, without words, almost without thoughts. so she remained, perhaps, for a half-hour, at the end of which time it seemed that her passion had become a sullen purpose. she arose, and, looking cautiously round, went to the hearth, which was ornamented with curious old dutch tiles, with pictures of scripture subjects. one of these represented the lifting of the brazen serpent. she took a hair-pin from one of her braids, and, insinuating its points under the edge of the tile, raised it from its place. a small leaden box lay under the tile, which she opened, and, taking from it a little white powder, which she folded in a scrap of paper, replaced the box and the tile over it. whether dick had by any means got a knowledge of this proceeding, or whether he only suspected some unmentionable design on her part, there is no sufficient means of determining. at any rate, when they met, an hour or two after these occurrences, he could not help noticing how easily she seemed to have got over her excitement. she was very pleasant with him,--too pleasant, dick thought. it was not elsie's way to come out of a fit of anger so easily as that. she had contrived some way of letting off her spite; that was certain. dick was pretty cunning, as old sophy had said, and, whether or not he had any means of knowing elsie's private intentions, watched her closely, and was on his guard against accidents. for the first time, he took certain precautions with reference to his diet, such as were quite alien to his common habits. on coming to the dinner-table, that day, he complained of headache, took but little food, and refused the cup of coffee which elsie offered him, saying that it did not agree with him when he had these attacks. here was a new complication. obviously enough, he could not live in this way, suspecting everything but plain bread and water, and hardly feeling safe in meddling with them. not only had this school-keeping wretch come between him and the scheme by which he was to secure his future fortune, but his image had so infected his cousin's mind that she was ready to try on him some of those tricks which, as he had heard hinted in the village, she had once before put in practice upon a person who had become odious to her. something must be done, and at once, to meet the double necessities of this case. every day, while the young girl was in these relations with the young man, was only making matters worse. they could exchange words and looks, they could arrange private interviews, they would be stooping together over the same book, her hair touching his cheek, her breath mingling with his, all the magnetic attractions drawing them together with strange, invisible effluences. as her passion for the schoolmaster increased, her dislike to him, her cousin, would grow with it, and all his dangers would be multiplied. it was a fearful point he had, reached. he was tempted at one moment to give up all his plans and to disappear suddenly from the place, leaving with the schoolmaster, who had come between him and his object, an anonymous token of his personal sentiments which would be remembered a good while in the history of the town of rockland. this was but a momentary thought; the great dudley property could not be given up in that way. something must happen at once to break up all this order of things. he could think of but one providential event adequate to the emergency,--an event foreshadowed by various recent circumstances, but hitherto floating in his mind only as a possibility. its occurrence would at once change the course of elsie's feelings, providing her with something to think of besides mischief, and remove the accursed obstacle which was thwarting all his own projects. every possible motive, then,--his interest, his jealousy, his longing for revenge, and now his fears for his own safety,--urged him to regard the happening of a certain casualty as a matter of simple necessity. this was the self-destruction of mr. bernard langdon. such an event, though it might be surprising to many people, would not be incredible, nor without many parallel cases. he was poor, a miserable fag, under the control of that mean wretch up there at the school, who looked as if he had sour buttermilk in his veins instead of blood. he was in love with a girl above his station, rich, and of old family, but strange in all her ways, and it was conceivable that he should become suddenly jealous of her. or she might have frightened him with some display of her peculiarities which had filled him with a sudden repugnance in the place of love. any of these things were credible, and would make a probable story enough,--so thought dick over to himself with the new-england half of his mind. unfortunately, men will not always take themselves out of the way when, so far as their neighbors are concerned, it would be altogether the most appropriate and graceful and acceptable service they could render. there was at this particular moment no special reason for believing that the schoolmaster meditated any violence to his own person. on the contrary, there was good evidence that he was taking some care of himself. he was looking well and in good spirits, and in the habit of amusing himself and exercising, as if to keep up his standard of health, especially of taking certain evening-walks, before referred to, at an hour when most of the rockland people had "retired," or, in vulgar language, "gone to bed." dick veneer settled it, however, in his own mind, that mr. bernard langdon must lay violent hands upon himself. he even went so far as to determine the precise hour, and the method in which the "rash act," as it would undoubtedly be called in the next issue of "the rockland weekly universe," should be committed. time,--this evening. method, asphyxia, by suspension. it was, unquestionably, taking a great liberty with a man to decide that he should become felo de se without his own consent. such, however, was the decision of mr. richard veneer with regard to mr. bernard langdon. if everything went right, then, there would be a coroner's inquest to-morrow upon what remained of that gentleman, found suspended to the branch of a tree somewhere within a mile of the apollinean institute. the "weekly universe" would have a startling paragraph announcing a "sad event!!!" which had "thrown the town into an intense state of excitement. mr. barnard langden, a well-known teacher at the appolinian institute, was found, etc., etc. the vital spark was extinct. the motive to the rash act can only be conjectured, but is supposed to be disappointed affection. the name of an accomplished young lady of the highest respectability and great beauty is mentioned in connection with this melancholy occurrence." dick venner was at the tea-table that evening, as usual.--no, he would take green tea, if she pleased,--the same that her father drank. it would suit his headache better.--nothing,--he was much obliged to her. he would help himself,--which he did in a little different way from common, naturally enough, on account of his headache. he noticed that elsie seemed a little nervous while she was rinsing some of the teacups before their removal. "there's something going on in that witch's head," he said to himself. "i know her,--she 'd be savage now, if she had n't got some trick in hand. let 's see how she looks to-morrow!" dick announced that he should go to bed early that evening, on account of this confounded headache which had been troubling him so much. in fact, he went up early, and locked his door after him, with as much noise as he could make. he then changed some part of his dress, so that it should be dark throughout, slipped off his boots, drew the lasso out from the bottom of the contents of his trunk, and, carrying that and his boots in his hand, opened his door softly, locked it after him, and stole down the back-stairs, so as to get out of the house unnoticed. he went straight to the stable and saddled the mustang. he took a rope from the stable with him, mounted his horse, and set forth in the direction of the institute. mr. bernard, as we have seen, had not been very profoundly impressed by the old doctor's cautions,--enough, however, to follow out some of his hints which were not troublesome to attend to. he laughed at the idea of carrying a loaded pistol about with him; but still it seemed only fair, as the old doctor thought so much of the matter, to humor him about it. as for not going about when and where he liked, for fear he might have some lurking enemy, that was a thing not to be listened to nor thought of. there was nothing to be ashamed of or troubled about in any of his relations with the school-girls. elsie, no doubt, showed a kind of attraction towards him, as did perhaps some others; but he had been perfectly discreet, and no father or brother or lover had any just cause of quarrel with him. to be sure, that dark young man at the dudley mansion-house looked as if he were his enemy, when he had met him; but certainly there was nothing in their relations to each other, or in his own to elsie, that would be like to stir such malice in his mind as would lead him to play any of his wild southern tricks at his, mr. bernard's, expense. yet he had a vague feeling that this young man was dangerous, and he had been given to understand that one of the risks he ran was from that quarter. on this particular evening, he had a strange, unusual sense of some impending peril. his recent interview with the doctor, certain remarks which had been dropped in his hearing, but above all an unaccountable impression upon his spirits, all combined to fill his mind with a foreboding conviction that he was very near some overshadowing danger. it was as the chill of the ice-mountain toward which the ship is steering under full sail. he felt a strong impulse to see helen darley and talk with her. she was in the common parlor, and, fortunately, alone. "helen," he said,--for they were almost like brother and sister now,--"i have been thinking what you would do, if i should have to leave the school at short notice, or be taken away suddenly by any accident." "do?" she said, her cheek growing paler than its natural delicate hue,--"why, i do not know how i could possibly consent to live here, if you left us. since you came, my life has been almost easy; before, it was getting intolerable. you must not talk about going, my dear friend; you have spoiled me for my place. who is there here that i can have any true society with, but you? you would not leave us for another school, would you?" "no, no, my dear helen," mr. bernard said, "if it depends on myself, i shall stay out my full time, and enjoy your company and friendship. but everything is uncertain in this world. i have been thinking that i might be wanted elsewhere, and called when i did not think of it;--it was a fancy, perhaps,--but i can't keep it out of my mind this evening. if any of my fancies should come true, helen, there are two or three messages i want to leave with you. i have marked a book or two with a cross in pencil on the fly-leaf;--these are for you. there is a little hymn-book i should like to have you give to elsie from me;--it may be a kind of comfort to the poor girl." helen's eyes glistened as she interrupted him,-- "what do you mean? you must not talk so, mr. langdon. why, you never looked better in your life. tell me now, you are not in earnest, are you, but only trying a little sentiment on me?" mr. bernard smiled, but rather sadly. "about half in earnest," he said. "i have had some fancies in my head,--superstitions, i suppose,--at any rate, it does no harm to tell you what i should like to have done, if anything should happen,--very likely nothing ever will. send the rest of the books home, if you please, and write a letter to my mother. and, helen, you will find one small volume in my desk enveloped and directed, you will see to whom;--give this with your own hands; it is a keepsake." the tears gathered in her eyes; she could not speak at first. presently, "why, bernard, my dear friend, my brother, it cannot be that you are in danger? tell me what it is, and, if i can share it with you, or counsel you in any way, it will only be paying back the great debt i owe you. no, no,--it can't be true,--you are tired and worried, and your spirits have got depressed. i know what that is;--i was sure, one winter, that i should die before spring; but i lived to see the dandelions and buttercups go to seed. come, tell me it was nothing but your imagination." she felt a tear upon her cheek, but would not turn her face away from him; it was the tear of a sister. "i am really in earnest, helen," he said. "i don't know that there is the least reason in the world for these fancies. if they all go off and nothing comes of them, you may laugh at me, if you like. but if there should be any occasion, remember my requests. you don't believe in presentiments, do you?" "oh, don't ask-me, i beg you," helen answered. "i have had a good many frights for every one real misfortune i have suffered. sometimes i have thought i was warned beforehand of coming trouble, just as many people are of changes in the weather, by some unaccountable feeling,--but not often, and i don't like to talk about such things. i wouldn't think about these fancies of yours. i don't believe you have exercised enough;--don't you think it's confinement in the school has made you nervous?" "perhaps it has; but it happens that i have thought more of exercise lately, and have taken regular evening walks, besides playing my old gymnastic tricks every day." they talked on many subjects, but through all he said helen perceived a pervading tone of sadness, and an expression as of a dreamy foreboding of unknown evil. they parted at the usual hour, and went to their several rooms. the sadness of mr. bernard had sunk into the heart of helen, and she mingled many tears with her prayers that evening, earnestly entreating that he might be comforted in his days of trial and protected in his hour of danger. mr. bernard stayed in his room a short time before setting out for his evening walk. his eye fell upon the bible his mother had given him when he left home, and he opened it in the new testament at a venture. it happened that the first words he read were these,--"lest, coming suddenly, he find you sleeping." in the state of mind in which he was at the moment, the text startled him. it was like a supernatural warning. he was not going to expose himself to any particular danger this evening; a walk in a quiet village was as free from risk as helen darley or his own mother could ask; yet he had an unaccountable feeling of apprehension, without any definite object. at this moment he remembered the old doctor's counsel, which he had sometimes neglected, and, blushing at the feeling which led him to do it, he took the pistol his suspicious old friend had forced upon him, which he had put away loaded, and, thrusting it into his pocket, set out upon his walk. the moon was shining at intervals, for the night was partially clouded. there seemed to be nobody stirring, though his attention was unusually awake, and he could hear the whirr of the bats overhead, and the pulsating croak of the frogs in the distant pools and marshes. presently he detected the sound of hoofs at some distance, and, looking forward, saw a horseman coming in his direction. the moon was under a cloud at the moment, and he could only observe that the horse and his rider looked like a single dark object, and that they were moving along at an easy pace. mr. bernard was really ashamed of himself, when he found his hand on the butt of his pistol. when the horseman was within a hundred and fifty yards of him, the moon shone out suddenly and revealed each of them to the other. the rider paused for a moment, as if carefully surveying the pedestrian, then suddenly put his horse to the full gallop, and dashed towards him, rising at the same instant in his stirrups and swinging something round his head, what, mr. bernard could not make out. it was a strange manoeuvre,--so strange and threatening in aspect that the young man forgot his nervousness in an instant, cocked his pistol, and waited to see what mischief all this meant. he did not wait long. as the rider came rushing towards him, he made a rapid motion and something leaped five-and-twenty feet through the air, in mr. bernard's direction. in an instant he felt a ring, as of a rope or thong, settle upon his shoulders. there was no time to think, he would be lost in another second. he raised his pistol and fired,--not at the rider, but at the horse. his aim was true; the mustang gave one bound and fell lifeless, shot through the head. the lasso was fastened to his saddle, and his last bound threw mr. bernard violently to the earth, where he lay motionless, as if stunned. in the mean time, dick venner, who had been dashed down with his horse, was trying to extricate himself,--one of his legs being held fast under the animal, the long spur on his boot having caught in the saddle-cloth. he found, however, that he could do nothing with his right arm, his shoulder having been in some way injured in his fall. but his southern blood was up, and, as he saw mr. bernard move as if he were coming to his senses, he struggled violently to free himself. "i 'll have the dog, yet," he said,--"only let me get at him with the knife!" he had just succeeded in extricating his imprisoned leg, and was ready to spring to his feet, when he was caught firmly by the throat, and looking up, saw a clumsy barbed weapon, commonly known as a hay fork, within an inch of his breast. "hold on there! what 'n thunder 'r' y' abaout, y' darned portagee?" said a voice, with a decided nasal tone in it, but sharp and resolute. dick looked from the weapon to the person who held it, and saw a sturdy, plain man standing over him, with his teeth clinched, and his aspect that of one all ready for mischief. "lay still, naow!" said abel stebbins, the doctor's man; "'f y' don't, i'll stick ye, 'z sure 'z y' 'r' alive! i been arfter ye f'r a week, 'n' i got y' naow! i knowed i'd ketch ye at some darned trick or 'nother 'fore i'd done 'ith ye!" dick lay perfectly still, feeling that he was crippled and helpless, thinking all the time with the yankee half of his mind what to do about it. he saw mr. bernard lift his head and look around him. he would get his senses again in a few minutes, very probably, and then he, mr. richard venner, would be done for. "let me up! let me up!" he cried, in a low, hurried voice,--"i 'll give you a hundred dollars in gold to let me go. the man a'n't hurt,--don't you see him stirring? he'll come to himself in two minutes. let me up! i'll give you a hundred and fifty dollars in gold, now, here on the spot,--and the watch out of my pocket; take it yourself, with your own hands!" "i'll see y' darned fust! ketch me lett'n' go!" was abel's emphatic answer. "yeou lay still, 'n' wait t'll that man comes tew." he kept the hay-fork ready for action at the slightest sign of resistance. mr. bernard, in the mean time, had been getting, first his senses, and then some few of his scattered wits, a little together. "what is it?"--he said. "who'shurt? what's happened?" "come along here 'z quick 'z y' ken," abel answered, "'n' haalp me fix this fellah. y' been hurt, y'rself, 'n' the' 's murder come pooty nigh happenin'." mr. bernard heard the answer, but presently stared about and asked again, "who's hurt? what's happened?" "y' 'r' hurt, y'rself, i tell ye," said abel; "'n' the' 's been a murder, pooty nigh." mr. bernard felt something about his neck, and, putting his hands up, found the loop of the lasso, which he loosened, but did not think to slip over his head, in the confusion of his perceptions and thoughts. it was a wonder that it had not choked him, but he had fallen forward so as to slacken it. by this time he was getting some notion of what he was about, and presently began looking round for his pistol, which had fallen. he found it lying near him, cocked it mechanically, and walked, somewhat unsteadily, towards the two men, who were keeping their position as still as if they were performing in a tableau. "quick, naow!" said abel, who had heard the click of cocking the pistol, and saw that he held it in his hand, as he came towards him. "gi' me that pistil, and yeou fetch that 'ere rope layin' there. i 'll have this here fella,h fixed 'n less 'n two minutes." mr. bernard did as abel said,--stupidly and mechanically, for he was but half right as yet. abel pointed the pistol at dick's head. "naow hold up y'r hands, yeou fellah," he said, "'n' keep 'em up, while this man puts the rope mound y'r wrists." dick felt himself helpless, and, rather than have his disabled arm roughly dealt with, held up his hands. mr. bernard did as abel said; he was in a purely passive state, and obeyed orders like a child. abel then secured the rope in a most thorough and satisfactory complication of twists and knots. "naow get up, will ye?" he said; and the unfortunate dick rose to his feet. "who's hurt? what's happened?" asked poor mr. bernard again, his memory having been completely jarred out of him for the time. "come, look here naow, yeou, don' stan' askin' questions over 'n' over;--'t beats all! ha'n't i tol' y' a dozen times?" as abel spoke, he turned and looked at mr. bernard. "hullo! what 'n thunder's that 'ere raoun' y'r neck? ketched ye 'ith a slippernoose, hey? wal, if that a'n't the craowner! hol' on a minute, cap'n, 'n' i'll show ye what that 'ere halter's good for." abel slipped the noose over mr. bernard's head, and put it round the neck of the miserable dick veneer, who made no sign of resistance,--whether on account of the pain he was in, or from mere helplessness, or because he was waiting for some unguarded moment to escape,--since resistance seemed of no use. "i 'm go'n' to kerry y' home," said abel; "'t' th' ol doctor, he's got a gre't cur'osity t' see ye. jes' step along naow,--off that way, will ye?--'n' i ill hol' on t' th' bridle, f' fear y' sh'd run away." he took hold of the leather thong, but found that it was fastened at the other end to the saddle. this was too much for abel. "wal, naow, yeou be a pooty chap to hev raound! a fellah's neck in a slippernoose at one eend of a halter, 'n' a hors on th' full spring at t' other eend!" he looked at him from' head to foot as a naturalist inspects a new specimen. his clothes had suffered in his fall, especially on the leg which had been caught under the horse. "hullo! look o' there, naow! what's that 'ere stickin' aout o' y'r boot?" it was nothing but the handle of an ugly knife, which abel instantly relieved him of. the party now took up the line of march for old doctor kittredge's house, abel carrying the pistol and knife, and mr. bernard walking in silence, still half-stunned, holding the hay-fork, which abel had thrust into his hand. it was all a dream to him as yet. he remembered the horseman riding at him, and his firing the pistol; but whether he was alive, and these walls around him belonged to the village of rockland, or whether he had passed the dark river, and was in a suburb of the new jerusalem, he could not as yet have told. they were in the street where the doctor's house was situated. "i guess i'll fire off one o' these here berrils," said abel. he fired. presently there was a noise of opening windows, and the nocturnal head-dresses of rockland flowered out of them like so many developments of the nightblooming cereus. white cotton caps and red bandanna handkerchiefs were the prevailing forms of efflorescence. the main point was that the village was waked up. the old doctor always waked easily, from long habit, and was the first among those who looked out to see what had happened. "why, abel!" he called out, "what have you got there? and what 's all this noise about?" "we've ketched the portagee!" abel answered, as laconically as the hero of lake erie, in his famous dispatch. "go in there, you fellah!" the prisoner was marched into the house, and the doctor, who had bewitched his clothes upon him in a way that would have been miraculous in anybody but a physician, was down in presentable form as soon as if it had been a child in a fit that he was sent for. "richard veneer!" the doctor exclaimed. "what is the meaning of all this? mr. langdon, has anything happened to you?" mr. bernard put his hand to his head. "my mind is confused," he said. "i've had a fall.--oh, yes!--wait a minute and it will all come back to me." "sit down, sit down," the doctor said. "abel will tell me about it. slight concussion of the brain. can't remember very well for an hour or two,--will come right by to-morrow." "been stunded," abel said. "he can't tell nothin'." abel then proceeded to give a napoleonic bulletin of the recent combat of cavalry and infantry and its results,--none slain, one captured. the doctor looked at the prisoner through his spectacles. "what 's the matter with your shoulder, venner?" dick answered sullenly, that he didn't know, fell on it when his horse came down. the doctor examined it as carefully as he could through his clothes. "out of joint. untie his hands, abel" by this time a small alarm had spread among the neighbors, and there was a circle around dick, who glared about on the assembled honest people like a hawk with a broken wing. when the doctor said, "untie his hands," the circle widened perceptibly. "isn't it a leetle rash to give him the use of his hands? i see there's females and children standin' near." this was the remark of our old friend, deacon soper, who retired from the front row, as he spoke, behind a respectable-looking, but somewhat hastily dressed person of the defenceless sex, the female help of a neighboring household, accompanied by a boy, whose unsmoothed shock of hair looked like a last year's crow's-nest. but abel untied his hands, in spite of the deacon's considerate remonstrance. "now," said the doctor, "the first thing is to put the joint back." "stop," said deacon soper,--"stop a minute. don't you think it will be safer--for the women-folks--jest to wait till mornin', afore you put that j'int into the socket?" colonel sprowle, who had been called by a special messenger, spoke up at this moment. "let the women-folks and the deacons go home, if they're scared, and put the fellah's j'int in as quick as you like. i 'll resk him, j'int in or out." "i want one of you to go straight down to dudley venner's with a message," the doctor said. "i will have the young man's shoulder in quick enough." "don't send that message!" said dick, in a hoarse voice;--"do what you like with my arm, but don't send that message! let me go,--i can walk, and i'll be off from this place. there's nobody hurt but myself. damn the shoulder!--let me go! you shall never hear of me again!" mr. bernard came forward. "my friends," he said, "i am not injured,--seriously, at least. nobody need complain against this man, if i don't. the doctor will treat him like a human being, at any rate; and then, if he will go, let him. there are too many witnesses against him here for him to want to stay." the doctor, in the mean time, without saying a word to all this, had got a towel round the shoulder and chest and another round the arm, and had the bone replaced in a very few minutes. "abel, put cassia into the new chaise," he said, quietly. "my friends and neighbors, leave this young man to me." "colonel sprowle, you're a justice of the peace," said deacon soper, "and you know what the law says in cases like this. it a'n't so clear that it won't have to come afore the grand jury, whether we will or no." "i guess we'll set that j'int to-morrow mornin'," said colonel sprowle,--which made a laugh at the deacon's expense, and virtually settled the question. "now trust this young man in my care," said the old doctor, "and go home and finish your naps. i knew him when he was a boy and i'll answer for it, he won't trouble you any more. the dudley blood makes folks proud, i can tell you, whatever else they are." the good people so respected and believed in the doctor that they left the prisoner with him. presently, cassia, the fast morgan mare, came up to the front-door, with the wheels of the new, light chaise flashing behind her in the moonlight. the doctor drove dick forty miles at a stretch that night, out of the limits of the state. "do you want money?" he said, before he left him. dick told him the secret of his golden belt. "where shall i send your trunk after you from your uncle's?" dick gave him a direction to a seaport town to which he himself was going, to take passage for a port in south america. "good-bye, richard," said the doctor. "try to learn something from to-night's lesson." the southern impulses in dick's wild blood overcame him, and he kissed the old doctor on both cheeks, crying as only the children of the sun can cry, after the first hours in the dewy morning of life. so dick venner disappears from this story. an hour after dawn, cassia pointed her fine ears homeward, and struck into her square, honest trot, as if she had not been doing anything more than her duty during her four hours' stretch of the last night. abel was not in the habit of questioning the doctor's decisions. "it's all right," he said to mr. bernard. "the fellah 's squire venner's relation, anyhaow. don't you want to wait here, jest a little while, till i come back? the's a consid'able nice saddle 'n' bridle on a dead boss that's layin' daown there in the road 'n' i guess the' a'n't no use in lettin' on 'em spite,--so i'll jest step aout 'n' fetch 'em along. i kind o' calc'late 't won't pay to take the cretur's shoes 'n' hide off to-night,--'n' the' won't be much iron on that hose's huffs an haour after daylight, i'll bate ye a quarter." "i'll walk along with you," said mr. bernard; "i feel as if i could get along well enough now." so they set off together. there was a little crowd round the dead mustang already, principally consisting of neighbors who had adjourned from the doctor's house to see the scene of the late adventure. in addition to these, however, the assembly was honored by the presence of mr. principal silas peckham, who had been called from his slumbers by a message that master langdon was shot through the head by a highway-robber, but had learned a true version of the story by this time. his voice was at that moment heard above the rest,--sharp, but thin, like bad cider-vinegar. "i take charge of that property, i say. master langdon 's actin' under my orders, and i claim that hoss and all that's on him. hiram! jest slip off that saddle and bridle, and carry 'em up to the institoot, and bring down a pair of pinchers and a file,--and--stop--fetch a pair of shears, too; there's hosshair enough in that mane and tail to stuff a bolster with." "you let that hoss alone!" spoke up colonel sprowle. "when a fellah goes out huntin' and shoots a squirrel, do you think he's go'n' to let another fellah pick him up and kerry him off? not if he's got a double-berril gun, and t'other berril ha'n't been fired off yet! i should like to see the mahn that'll take off that seddle 'n' bridle, excep' the one th't hez a fair right to the whole concern!" hiram was from one of the lean streaks in new hampshire, and, not being overfed in mr. silas peckham's kitchen, was somewhat wanting in stamina, as well as in stomach, for so doubtful an enterprise, as undertaking to carry out his employer's orders in the face of the colonel's defiance. just then mr. bernard and abel came up together. "here they be," said the colonel. "stan' beck, gentlemen!" mr. bernard, who was pale and still a little confused, but gradually becoming more like himself, stood and looked in silence for a moment. all his thoughts seemed to be clearing themselves in this interval. he took in the whole series of incidents: his own frightful risk; the strange, instinctive, nay, providential impulse, which had led him so suddenly to do the one only thing which could possibly have saved him; the sudden appearance of the doctor's man, but for which he might yet have been lost; and the discomfiture and capture of his dangerous enemy. it was all past now, and a feeling of pity rose in mr. bernard's heart. "he loved that horse, no doubt," he said,--"and no wonder. a beautiful, wild--looking creature! take off those things that are on him, abel, and have them carried to mr. dudley veneer's. if he does not want them, you may keep them yourself, for all that i have to say. one thing more. i hope nobody will lift his hand against this noble creature to mutilate him in any way. after you have taken off the saddle and bridle, abel, bury him just as he is. under that old beech-tree will be a good place. you'll see to it,--won't you, abel?" abel nodded assent, and mr. bernard returned to the institute, threw himself in his clothes on the bed, and slept like one who is heavy with wine. following mr. bernard's wishes, abel at once took off the high-peaked saddle and the richly ornamented bridle from the mustang. then, with the aid of two or three others, he removed him to the place indicated. spades and shovels were soon procured, and before the moon had set, the wild horse of the pampas was at rest under the turf at the wayside, in the far village among the hills of new england. chapter xxvi. the news reaches the dudley mansion. early the next morning abel stebbins made his appearance at dudley veneer's, and requested to see the maan o' the haouse abaout somethin' o' consequence. mr. veneer sent word that the messenger should wait below, and presently appeared in the study, where abel was making himself at home, as is the wont of the republican citizen, when he hides the purple of empire beneath the apron of domestic service. "good mornin', squire!" said abel, as mr. venner entered. "my name's stebbins, 'n' i'm stoppin' f'r a spell 'ith of doctor kittredge." "well, stebbins," said mr. dudley veneer, "have you brought any special message from the doctor?" "y' ha'n't heerd nothin' abaout it, squire, d' ye mean t' say?" said abel,--beginning to suspect that he was the first to bring the news of last evening's events. "about what?" asked mr. veneer, with some interest. "dew tell, naow! waal, that beats all! why, that 'ere portagee relation o' yourn 'z been tryin' t' ketch a fellah 'n a slippernoose, 'n' got ketched himself,--that's all. y' ha'n't heerd noth'n' abaout it?" "sit down," said mr. dudley veneer, calmly, "and tell me all you have to say." so abel sat down and gave him an account of the events of the last evening. it was a strange and terrible surprise to dudley veneer to find that his nephew, who had been an inmate of his house and the companion of his daughter, was to all intents and purposes guilty of the gravest of crimes. but the first shock was no sooner over than he began to think what effect the news would have on elsie. he imagined that there was a kind of friendly feeling between them, and he feared some crisis would be provoked in his daughter's mental condition by the discovery. he would wait, however, until she came from her chamber, before disturbing her with the evil tidings. abel did not forget his message with reference to the equipments of the dead mustang. "the' was some things on the hoss, squire, that the man he ketched said he did n' care no gre't abaout; but perhaps you'd like to have 'em fetched to the mansion-haouse. ef y' did n' care abaout 'em, though, i should n' min' keepin' on 'em; they might come handy some time or 'nother; they say, holt on t' anything for ten year 'n' there 'll be some kin' o' use for 't." "keep everything," said dudley veneer. "i don't want to see anything belonging to that young man." so abel nodded to mr. veneer, and left the study to find some of the men about the stable to tell and talk over with them the events of the last evening. he presently came upon elbridge, chief of the equine department, and driver of the family-coach. "good mornin', abe," said elbridge. "what's fetched y' daown here so all-fired airly?" "you're a darned pooty lot daown here, you be!" abel answered. "better keep your portagees t' home nex' time, ketchin' folks 'ith slippernooses raoun' their necks, 'n' kerryin' knives 'n their boots!" "what 'r' you jawin' abaout?" elbridge said, looking up to see if he was in earnest, and what he meant. "jawin' abaout? you'll find aout'z soon 'z y' go into that 'ere stable o' yourn! y' won't curry that 'ere long-tailed black hoss no more; 'n' y' won't set y'r eyes on the fellah that rid him, ag'in, in a hurry!" elbridge walked straight to the stable, without saying a word, found the door unlocked, and went in. "th' critter's gone, sure enough!" he said. "glad on 't! the darndest, kickin'est, bitin'est beast th't ever i see, 'r ever wan' t' see ag'in! good reddance! don' wan' no snappin'-turkles in my stable! whar's the man gone th't brought the critter?" "whar he's gone? guess y' better go 'n ask my ol man; he kerried him off lass' night; 'n' when he comes back, mebbe he 'll tell ye whar he's gone tew!" by this time elbridge had found out that abel was in earnest, and had something to tell. he looked at the litter in the mustang's stall, then at the crib. "ha'n't eat b't haalf his feed. ha'n't been daown on his straw. must ha' been took aout somewhere abaout ten 'r 'levee o'clock. i know that 'ere critter's ways. the fellah's had him aout nights afore; b't i never thought nothin' o' no mischief. he 's a kin' o' haalf injin. what is 't the chap's been a-doin' on? tell 's all abaout it." abel sat down on a meal-chest, picked up a straw and put it into his mouth. elbridge sat down at the other end, pulled out his jack-knife, opened the penknife-blade, and began sticking it into the lid of the meal-chest. the doctor's man had a story to tell, and he meant to get all the enjoyment out of it. so he told it with every luxury of circumstance. mr. veneer's man heard it all with open mouth. no listener in the gardens of stamboul could have found more rapture in a tale heard amidst the perfume of roses and the voices of birds and tinkling of fountains than elbridge in following abel's narrative, as they sat there in the aromatic ammoniacal atmosphere of the stable, the grinding of the horses' jaws keeping evenly on through it all, with now and then the interruption of a stamping hoof, and at intervals a ringing crow from the barn-yard. elbridge stopped a minute to think, after abel had finished. "who's took care o' them things that was on the hoss?" he said, gravely. "waal, langden, he seemed to kin 'o' think i'd ought to have 'em,--'n' the squire; he did n' seem to have no 'bjection; 'n' so,--waal, i calc'late i sh'll jes' holt on to 'em myself; they a'n't good f 'r much, but they're cur'ous t' keep t' look at." mr. veneer's man did not appear much gratified by this arrangement, especially as he had a shrewd suspicion that some of the ornaments of the bridle were of precious metal, having made occasional examinations of them with the edge of a file. but he did not see exactly what to do about it, except to get them from abel in the way of bargain. "waal, no,--they a'n't good for much 'xcep' to look at. 'f y' ever rid on that seddle once, y' would n' try it ag'in, very spry,--not 'f y' c'd haalp y'rsaalf. "i tried it,--darned 'f i sot daown f'r th' nex' week,--eat all my victuals stan'in'. i sh'd like t' hev them things wal enough to heng up 'n the stable; 'f y' want t' trade some day, fetch 'em along daown." abel rather expected that elbridge would have laid claim to the saddle and bridle on the strength of some promise or other presumptive title, and thought himself lucky to get off with only offering to think abaout tradin'. when elbridge returned to the house, he found the family in a state of great excitement. mr. venner had told old sophy, and she had informed the other servants. everybody knew what had happened, excepting elsie. her father had charged them all to say nothing about it to her; he would tell her, when she came down. he heard her step at last,--alight, gliding step,--so light that her coming was often unheard, except by those who perceived the faint rustle that went with it. she was paler than common this morning, as she came into her father's study. after a few words of salutation, he said quietly, "elsie, my dear, your cousin richard has left us." she grew still paler, as she asked, "is he dead?" dudley venner started to see the expression with which elsie put this question. "he is living,--but dead to us from this day forward," said her father. he proceeded to tell her, in a general way, the story he had just heard from abel. there could be no doubting it;--he remembered him as the doctor's man; and as abel had seen all with his own eyes, as dick's chamber, when unlocked with a spare key, was found empty, and his bed had not been slept in, he accepted the whole account as true. when he told of dick's attempt on the young schoolmaster, ("you know mr. langdon very well, elsie,--a perfectly inoffensive young man, as i understand,") elsie turned her face away and slid along by the wall to the window which looked out oh the little grass-plot with the white stone standing in it. her father could not see her face, but he knew by her movements that her dangerous mood was on her. when she heard the sequel of the story, the discomfiture and capture of dick, she turned round for an instant, with a look of contempt and of something like triumph upon her face. her father saw that her cousin had become odious to her: he knew well, by every change of her countenance, by her movements, by every varying curve of her graceful figure, the transitions front passion to repose, from fierce excitement to the dull languor which often succeeded her threatening paroxysms. she remained looking out at the window. a group of white fan-tailed pigeons had lighted on the green plot before it and clustered about one of their companions who lay on his back, fluttering in a strange way, with outspread wings and twitching feet. elsie uttered a faint cry; these were her special favorites and often fed from her hand. she threw open the long window, sprang out, caught up the white fantail, and held it to her bosom. the bird stretched himself out, and then lay still, with open eyes, lifeless. she looked at him a moment, and, sliding in through the open window and through the study, sought her own apartment, where she locked herself in, and began to sob and moan like those that weep. but the gracious solace of tears seemed to be denied her, and her grief, like her anger, was a dull ache, longing, like that, to finish itself with a fierce paroxysm, but wanting its natural outlet. this seemingly trifling incident of the death of her favorite appeared to change all the current of her thought. whether it were the sight of the dying bird, or the thought that her own agency might have beep concerned in it, or some deeper grief, which took this occasion to declare itself,--some dark remorse or hopeless longing,--whatever it might be, there was an unwonted tumult in her soul. to whom should she go in her vague misery? only to him who knows all his creatures' sorrows, and listens to the faintest human cry. she knelt, as she had been taught to kneel from her childhood, and tried to pray. but her thoughts refused to flow in the language of supplication. she could not plead for herself as other women plead in their hours of anguish. she rose like one who should stoop to drink, and find dust in the place of water. partly from restlessness, partly from an attraction she hardly avowed to herself, she followed her usual habit and strolled listlessly along to the school. of course everybody at the institute was full of the terrible adventure of the preceding evening. mr. bernard felt poorly enough; but he had made it a point to show himself the next morning, as if nothing had happened. helen darley knew nothing of it all until she hard risen, when the gossipy matron of the establishment made her acquainted with all its details, embellished with such additional ornamental appendages as it had caught up in transmission from lip to lip. she did not love to betray her sensibilities, but she was pale and tremulous and very nearly tearful when mr. bernard entered the sitting-room, showing on his features traces of the violent shock he had received and the heavy slumber from which he had risen with throbbing brows. what the poor girl's impulse was, on seeing him, we need not inquire too curiously. if he had been her own brother, she would have kissed him and cried on his neck; but something held her back. there is no galvanism in kiss-your-brother; it is copper against copper: but alien bloods develop strange currents, when they flow close to each other, with only the films that cover lip and cheek between them. mr. bernard, as some of us may remember, violated the proprieties and laid himself open to reproach by his enterprise with a bouncing village-girl, to whose rosy cheek an honest smack was not probably an absolute novelty. he made it all up by his discretion and good behavior now. he saw by helen's moist eye and trembling lip that her woman's heart was off its guard, and he knew, by the infallible instinct of sex, that he should be forgiven, if he thanked her for her sisterly sympathies in the most natural way,--expressive, and at the same time economical of breath and utterance. he would not give a false look to their friendship by any such demonstration. helen was a little older than himself, but the aureole of young womanhood had not yet begun to fade from around her. she was surrounded by that enchanted atmosphere into which the girl walks with dreamy eyes, and out of which the woman passes with a story written on her forehead. some people think very little of these refinements; they have not studied magnetism and the law of the square of the distance. so mr. bernard thanked helen for her interest without the aid of the twenty-seventh letter of the alphabet,--the love labial,--the limping consonant which it takes two to speak plain. indeed, he scarcely let her say a word, at first; for he saw that it was hard for her to conceal her emotion. no wonder; he had come within a hair's-breadth of losing his life, and he had been a very kind friend and a very dear companion to her. there were some curious spiritual experiences connected with his last evening's adventure which were working very strongly in his mind. it was borne in upon him irresistibly that he had been dead since he had seen helen,--as dead as the son of the widow of nain before the bier was touched and he sat up and began to speak. there was an interval between two conscious moments which appeared to him like a temporary annihilation, and the thoughts it suggested were worrying him with strange perplexities. he remembered seeing the dark figure on horseback rise in the saddle and something leap from its hand. he remembered the thrill he felt as the coil settled on his shoulders, and the sudden impulse which led him to fire as he did. with the report of the pistol all became blank, until he found himself in a strange, bewildered state, groping about for the weapon, which he had a vague consciousness of having dropped. but, according to abel's account, there must have been an interval of some minutes between these recollections, and he could not help asking, where was the mind, the soul, the thinking principle, all this time? a man is stunned by a blow with a stick on the head. he becomes unconscious. another man gets a harder blow on the head from a bigger stick, and it kills him. does he become unconscious, too? if so, when does he come to his consciousness? the man who has had a slight or moderate blow comes to himself when the immediate shock passes off and the organs begin to work again, or when a bit of the skull is pried up, if that happens to be broken. suppose the blow is hard enough to spoil the brain and stop the play of the organs, what happens them? a british captain was struck by a cannon-ball on the head, just as he was giving an order, at the battle of the nile. fifteen months afterwards he was trephined at greenwich hospital, having been insensible all that time. immediately after the operation his consciousness returned, and he at once began carrying out the order he was giving when the shot struck him. suppose he had never been trephined, when would his consciousness have returned? when his breath ceased and his heart stopped beating? when mr. bernard said to helen, "i have been dead since i saw you," it startled her not a little; for his expression was that of perfect good faith, and she feared that his mind was disordered. when he explained, not as has been done just now, at length, but in a hurried, imperfect way, the meaning of his strange assertion, and the fearful sadduceeisms which it had suggested to his mind, she looked troubled at first, and then thoughtful. she did not feel able to answer all the difficulties he raised, but she met them with that faith which is the strength as well as the weakness of women,--which makes them weak in the hands of man, but strong in the presence of the unseen. "it is a strange experience," she said; "but i once had something like it. i fainted, and lost some five or ten minutes out of my life, as much as if i had been dead. but when i came to myself, i was the same person every way, in my recollections and character. so i suppose that loss of consciousness is not death. and if i was born out of unconsciousness into infancy with many family-traits of mind and body, i can believe, from my own reason, even without help from revelation, that i shall be born again out of the unconsciousness of death with my individual traits of mind and body. if death is, as it should seem to be, a loss of consciousness, that does not shake my faith; for i have been put into a body once already to fit me for living here, and i hope to be in some way fitted after this life to enjoy a better one. but it is all trust in god and in his word. these are enough for me; i hope they are for you." helen was a minister's daughter, and familiar from her childhood with this class of questions, especially with all the doubts and perplexities which are sure to assail every thinking child bred in any inorganic or not thoroughly vitalized faith,--as is too often the case with the children of professional theologians. the kind of discipline they are subjected to is like that of the flat-head indian pappooses. at five or ten or fifteen years old they put their hands up to their foreheads and ask, what are they strapping down my brains in this way for? so they tear off the sacred bandages of the great flat-head tribe, and there follows a mighty rush of blood to the long-compressed region. this accounts, in the most lucid manner, for those sudden freaks with which certain children of this class astonish their worthy parents at the period of life when they are growing fast, and, the frontal pressure beginning to be felt as something intolerable, they tear off the holy compresses. the hour for school came, and they went to the great hall for study. it would not have occurred to mr. silas peckham to ask his assistant whether he felt well enough to attend to his duties; and mr. bernard chose to be at his post. a little headache and confusion were all that remained of his symptoms. later, in the course of the forenoon, elsie venner came and took her place. the girls all stared at her--naturally enough; for it was hardly to have been expected that she would show herself, after such an event in the household to which she belonged. her expression was somewhat peculiar, and, of course, was attributed to the shock her feelings had undergone on hearing of the crime attempted by her cousin and daily companion. when she was looking on her book, or on any indifferent object, her countenance betrayed some inward disturbance, which knitted her dark brows, and seemed to throw a deeper shadow over her features. but, from time to time, she would lift her eyes toward mr. bernard, and let them rest upon him, without a thought, seemingly, that she herself was the subject of observation or remark. then they seemed to lose their cold glitter, and soften into a strange, dreamy tenderness. the deep instincts of womanhood were striving to grope their way to the surface of her being through all the alien influences which overlaid them. she could be secret and cunning in working out any of her dangerous impulses, but she did not know how to mask the unwonted feeling which fixed her eyes and her thoughts upon the only person who had ever reached the spring of her hidden sympathies. the girls all looked at elsie, whenever they could steal a glance unperceived, and many of them were struck with this singular expression her features wore. they had long whispered it around among each other that she had a liking for the master; but there were too many of them of whom something like this could be said, to make it very remarkable. now, however, when so many little hearts were fluttering at the thought of the peril through which the handsome young master had so recently passed, they were more alive than ever to the supposed relation between him and the dark school-girl. some had supposed there was a mutual attachment between them; there was a story that they were secretly betrothed, in accordance with the rumor which had been current in the village. at any rate, some conflict was going on in that still, remote, clouded soul, and all the girls who looked upon her face were impressed and awed as they had never been before by the shadows that passed over it. one of these girls was more strongly arrested by elsie's look than the others. this was a delicate, pallid creature, with a high forehead, and wide-open pupils, which looked as if they could take in all the shapes that flit in what, to common eyes, is darkness,--a girl said to be clairvoyant under certain influences. in the recess, as it was called, or interval of suspended studies in the middle of the forenoon, this girl carried her autograph-book,--for she had one of those indispensable appendages of the boarding-school miss of every degree,--and asked elsie to write her name in it. she had an irresistible feeling, that, sooner or later, and perhaps very soon, there would attach an unusual interest to this autograph. elsie took the pen and wrote, in her sharp italian hand, elsie venner, infelix. it was a remembrance, doubtless, of the forlorn queen of the "aeneid"; but its coming to her thought in this way confirmed the sensitive school-girl in her fears for elsie, and she let fall a tear upon the page before she closed it. of course, the keen and practised observation of helen darley could not fail to notice the change of elsie's manner and expression. she had long seen that she was attracted to the young master, and had thought, as the old doctor did, that any impression which acted upon her affections might be the means of awakening a new life in her singularly isolated nature. now, however, the concentration of the poor girl's thoughts upon the one object which had had power to reach her deeper sensibilities was so painfully revealed in her features, that helen began to fear once more, lest mr. bernard, in escaping the treacherous violence of an assassin, had been left to the equally dangerous consequences of a violent, engrossing passion in the breast of a young creature whose love it would be ruin to admit and might be deadly to reject. she knew her own heart too well to fear that any jealousy might mingle with her new apprehensions. it was understood between bernard and helen that they were too good friends to tamper with the silences and edging proximities of lovemaking. she knew, too, the simply human, not masculine, interest which mr. bernard took in elsie; he had been frank with helen, and more than satisfied her that with all the pity and sympathy which overflowed his soul, when he thought of the stricken girl, there mingled not one drop of such love as a youth may feel for a maiden. it may help the reader to gain some understanding of the anomalous nature of elsie veneer, if we look with helen into mr. bernard's opinions and feelings with reference to her, as they had shaped themselves in his consciousness at the period of which we are speaking. at first he had been impressed by her wild beauty, and the contrast of all her looks and ways with those of the girls around her. presently a sense of some ill-defined personal element, which half-attracted and half-repelled those who looked upon her, and especially those on whom she looked, began to make itself obvious to him, as he soon found it was painfully sensible to his more susceptible companion, the lady-teacher. it was not merely in the cold light of her diamond eyes, but in all her movements, in her graceful postures as she sat, in her costume, and, he sometimes thought, even in her speech, that this obscure and exceptional character betrayed itself. when helen had said, that, if they were living in times when human beings were subject to possession, she should have thought there was something not human about elsie, it struck an unsuspected vein of thought in his own mind, which he hated to put in words, but which was continually trying to articulate itself among the dumb thoughts which lie under the perpetual stream of mental whispers. mr. bernard's professional training had made him slow to accept marvellous stories and many forms of superstition. yet, as a man of science, he well knew that just on the verge of the demonstrable facts of physics and physiology there is a nebulous border-land which what is called "common sense" perhaps does wisely not to enter, but which uncommon sense, or the fine apprehension of privileged intelligences, may cautiously explore, and in so doing find itself behind the scenes which make up for the gazing world the show which is called nature. it was with something of this finer perception, perhaps with some degree of imaginative exaltation, that he set himself to solving the problem of elsie's influence to attract and repel those around her. his letter already submitted to the reader hints in what direction his thoughts were disposed to turn. here was a magnificent organization, superb in vigorous womanhood, with a beauty such as never comes but after generations of culture; yet through all this rich nature there ran some alien current of influence, sinuous and dark, as when a clouded streak seams the white marble of a perfect statue. it would be needless to repeat the particular suggestions which had come into his mind, as they must probably have come into that of the reader who has noted the singularities of elsie's tastes and personal traits. the images which certain poets had dreamed of seemed to have become a reality before his own eyes. then came that unexplained adventure of the mountain,--almost like a dream in recollection, yet assuredly real in some of its main incidents,--with all that it revealed or hinted. this girl did not fear to visit the dreaded region, where danger lurked in every nook and beneath every tuft of leaves. did the tenants of the fatal ledge recognize some mysterious affinity which made them tributary to the cold glitter of her diamond eyes? was she from her birth one of those frightful children, such as he had read about, and the professor had told him of, who form unnatural friendships with cold, writhing ophidians? there was no need of so unwelcome a thought as this; she had drawn him away from the dark opening in the rock at the moment when he seemed to be threatened by one of its malignant denizens; that was all he could be sure of; the counter-fascination might have been a dream, a fancy, a coincidence. all wonderful things soon grow doubtful in our own minds, as do even common events, if great interests prove suddenly to attach to their truth or falsehood. --i, who am telling of these occurrences, saw a friend in the great city, on the morning of a most memorable disaster, hours after the time when the train which carried its victims to their doom had left. i talked with him, and was for some minutes, at least, in his company. when i reached home, i found that the story had gone before that he was among the lost, and i alone could contradict it to his weeping friends and relatives. i did contradict it; but, alas! i began soon to doubt myself, penetrated by the contagion of their solicitude; my recollection began to question itself; the order of events became dislocated; and when i heard that he had reached home in safety, the relief was almost as great to me as to those who had expected to see their own brother's face no more. mr. bernard was disposed, then, not to accept the thought of any odious personal relationship of the kind which had suggested itself to him when he wrote the letter referred to. that the girl had something of the feral nature, her wild, lawless rambles in forbidden and blasted regions of the mountain at all hours, her familiarity with the lonely haunts where any other human foot was so rarely seen, proved clearly enough. but the more he thought of all her strange instincts and modes of being, the more he became convinced that whatever alien impulse swayed her will and modulated or diverted or displaced her affections came from some impression that reached far back into the past, before the days when the faithful old sophy had rocked her in the cradle. he believed that she had brought her ruling tendency, whatever it was, into the world with her. when the school was over and the girls had all gone, helen lingered in the schoolroom to speak with mr. bernard. "did you remark elsie's ways this forenoon?" she said. "no, not particularly; i have not noticed anything as sharply as i commonly do; my head has been a little queer, and i have been thinking over what we were talking about, and how near i came to solving the great problem which every day makes clear to such multitudes of people. what about elsie?" "bernard, her liking for you is growing into a passion. i have studied girls for a long while, and i know the difference between their passing fancies and their real emotions. i told you, you remember, that rosa would have to leave us; we barely missed a scene, i think, if not a whole tragedy, by her going at the right moment. but elsie is infinitely more dangerous to herself and others. women's love is fierce enough, if it once gets the mastery of them, always; but this poor girl does not know what to do with a passion." mr. bernard had never told helen the story of the flower in his virgil, or that other adventure--which he would have felt awkwardly to refer to; but it had been perfectly understood between them that elsie showed in her own singular way a well-marked partiality for the young master. "why don't they take her away from the school, if she is in such a strange, excitable state?" said mr. bernard. "i believe they are afraid of her," helen answered. "it is just one of those cases that are ten thousand thousand times worse than insanity. i don't think from what i hear, that her father has ever given up hoping that she will outgrow her peculiarities. oh, these peculiar children for whom parents go on hoping every morning and despairing every night! if i could tell you half that mothers have told me, you would feel that the worst of all diseases of the moral sense and the will are those which all the bedlams turn away from their doors as not being cases of insanity!" "do you think her father has treated her judiciously?" said mr. bernard. "i think," said helen, with a little hesitation, which mr. bernard did not happen to notice,--"i think he has been very kind and indulgent, and i do not know that he could have treated her otherwise with a better chance of success." "he must of course be fond of her," mr. bernard said; "there is nothing else in the world for him to love." helen dropped a book she held in her hand, and, stooping to pick it up, the blood rushed into her cheeks. "it is getting late," she said; "you must not stay any longer in this close schoolroom. pray, go and get a little fresh air before dinner-time." chapter xxvii. a soul in distress. the events told in the last two chapters had taken place toward the close of the week. on saturday evening the reverend chauncy fairweather received a note which was left at his door by an unknown person who departed without saying a word. its words were these: "one who is in distress of mind requests the prayers of this congregation that god would be pleased to look in mercy upon the soul that he has afflicted." there was nothing to show from whom the note came, or the sex or age or special source of spiritual discomfort or anxiety of the writer. the handwriting was delicate and might well be a woman's. the clergyman was not aware of any particular affliction among his parishioners which was likely to be made the subject of a request of this kind. surely neither of the venners would advertise the attempted crime of their relative in this way. but who else was there? the more he thought about it, the more it puzzled him, and as he did not like to pray in the dark, without knowing for whom he was praying, he could think of nothing better than to step into old doctor kittredge's and see what he had to say about it. the old doctor was sitting alone in his study when the reverend mr. fairweather was ushered in. he received his visitor very pleasantly, expecting, as a matter of course, that he would begin with some new grievance, dyspeptic, neuralgic, bronchitic, or other. the minister, however, began with questioning the old doctor about the sequel of the other night's adventure; for he was already getting a little jesuitical, and kept back the object of his visit until it should come up as if accidentally in the course of conversation. "it was a pretty bold thing to go off alone with that reprobate, as you did," said the minister. "i don't know what there was bold about it," the doctor answered. "all he wanted was to get away. he was not quite a reprobate, you see; he didn't like the thought of disgracing his family or facing his uncle. i think he was ashamed to see his cousin, too, after what he had done." "did he talk with you on the way?" "not much. for half an hour or so he did n't speak a word. then he asked where i was driving him. i told him, and he seemed to be surprised into a sort of grateful feeling. bad enough, no doubt, but might be worse. has some humanity left in him yet. let him go. god can judge him,--i can't." "you are too charitable, doctor," the minister said. "i condemn him just as if he had carried out his project, which, they say, was to make it appear as if the schoolmaster had committed suicide. that's what people think the rope found by him was for. he has saved his neck,--but his soul is a lost one, i am afraid, beyond question." "i can't judge men's souls," the doctor said. "i can judge their acts, and hold them responsible for those,--but i don't know much about their souls. if you or i had found our soul in a half-breed body; and been turned loose to run among the indians, we might have been playing just such tricks as this fellow has been trying. what if you or i had inherited all the tendencies that were born with his cousin elsie?" "oh, that reminds me,"--the minister said, in a sudden way,--"i have received a note, which i am requested to read from the pulpit tomorrow. i wish you would just have the kindness to look at it and see where you think it came from." the doctor examined it carefully. it was a woman's or girl's note, he thought. might come from one of the school-girls who was anxious about her spiritual condition. handwriting was disguised; looked a little like elsie veneer's, but not characteristic enough to make it certain. it would be a new thing, if she had asked public prayers for herself, and a very favorable indication of a change in her singular moral nature. it was just possible elsie might have sent that note. nobody could foretell her actions. it would be well to see the girl and find out whether any unusual impression had been produced on her mind by the recent occurrence or by any other cause. the reverend mr. fairweather folded the note and put it into his pocket. "i have been a good deal exercised in mind lately, myself," he said. the old doctor looked at him through his spectacles, and said, in his usual professional tone, "put out your tongue." the minister obeyed him in that feeble way common with persons of weak character,--for people differ as much in their mode of performing this trifling act as gideon's soldiers in their way of drinking at the brook. the doctor took his hand and placed a finger mechanically on his wrist. "it is more spiritual, i think, than bodily," said the reverend mr. fairweather. "is your appetite as good as usual?" the doctor asked. "pretty good," the minister answered; "but my sleep, my sleep, doctor,--i am greatly troubled at night with lying awake and thinking of my future, i am not at ease in mind." he looked round at all the doors, to be sure they were shut, and moved his chair up close to the doctor's. "you do not know the mental trials i have been going through for the last few months." "i think i do," the old doctor said. "you want to get out of the new church into the old one, don't you?" the minister blushed deeply; he thought he had been going on in a very quiet way, and that nobody suspected his secret. as the old doctor was his counsellor in sickness, and almost everybody's confidant in trouble, he had intended to impart cautiously to him some hints of the change of sentiments through which he had been passing. he was too late with his information, it appeared, and there was nothing to be done but to throw himself on the doctor's good sense and kindness, which everybody knew, and get what hints he could from him as to the practical course he should pursue. he began, after an awkward pause, "you would not have me stay in a communion which i feel to be alien to the true church, would you?" "have you stay, my friend?" said the doctor, with a pleasant, friendly look,--"have you stay? not a month, nor a week, nor a day, if i could help it. you have got into the wrong pulpit, and i have known it from the first. the sooner you go where you belong, the better. and i'm very glad you don't mean to stop half-way. don't you know you've always come to me when you've been dyspeptic or sick anyhow, and wanted to put yourself wholly into my hands, so that i might order you like a child just what to do and what to take? that 's exactly what you want in religion. i don't blame you for it. you never liked to take the responsibility of your own body; i don't see why you should want to have the charge of your own soul. but i'm glad you're going to the old mother of all. you wouldn't have been contented short of that." the reverend mr. fairweather breathed with more freedom. the doctor saw into his soul through those awful spectacles of his,--into it and beyond it, as one sees through a thin fog. but it was with a real human kindness, after all. he felt like a child before a strong man; but the strong man looked on him with a father's indulgence. many and many a time, when he had come desponding and bemoaning himself on account of some contemptible bodily infirmity, the old doctor had looked at him through his spectacles, listened patiently while he told his ailments, and then, in his large parental way, given him a few words of wholesome advice, and cheered him up so that he went off with a light heart, thinking that the heaven he was so much afraid of was not so very near, after all. it was the same thing now. he felt, as feeble natures always do in the presence of strong ones, overmastered, circumscribed, shut in, humbled; but yet it seemed as if the old doctor did not despise him any more for what he considered weakness of mind than he used to despise him when he complained of his nerves or his digestion. men who see into their neighbors are very apt to be contemptuous; but men who see through them find something lying behind every human soul which it is not for them to sit in judgment on, or to attempt to sneer out of the order of god's manifold universe. little as the doctor had said out of which comfort could be extracted, his genial manner had something grateful in it. a film of gratitude came over the poor man's cloudy, uncertain eye, and a look of tremulous relief and satisfaction played about his weak mouth. he was gravitating to the majority, where he hoped to find "rest"; but he was dreadfully sensitive to the opinions of the minority he was on the point of leaving. the old doctor saw plainly enough what was going on in his mind. "i sha'n't quarrel with you," he said,--"you know that very well; but you mustn't quarrel with me, if i talk honestly with you; it isn't everybody that will take the trouble. you flatter yourself that you will make a good many enemies by leaving your old communion. not so many as you think. this is the way the common sort of people will talk:--'you have got your ticket to the feast of life, as much as any other man that ever lived. protestantism says,--"help yourself; here's a clean plate, and a knife and fork of your own, and plenty of fresh dishes to choose from." the old mother says,--"give me your ticket, my dear, and i'll feed you with my gold spoon off these beautiful old wooden trenchers. such nice bits as those good old gentlemen have left for you!" there is no quarrelling with a man who prefers broken victuals. that's what the rougher sort will say; and then, where one scolds, ten will laugh. but, mind you, i don't either scold or laugh. i don't feel sure that you could very well have helped doing what you will soon do. you know you were never easy without some medicine to take when you felt ill in body. i'm afraid i've given you trashy stuff sometimes, just to keep you quiet. now, let me tell you, there is just the same difference in spiritual patients that there is in bodily ones. one set believes in wholesome ways of living, and another must have a great list of specifics for all the soul's complaints. you belong with the last, and got accidentally shuffled in with the others." the minister smiled faintly, but did not reply. of course, he considered that way of talking as the result of the doctor's professional training. it would not have been worth while to take offence at his plain speech, if he had been so disposed; for he might wish to consult him the next day as to "what he should take" for his dyspepsia or his neuralgia. he left the doctor with a hollow feeling at the bottom of his soul, as if a good piece of his manhood had been scooped out of him. his hollow aching did not explain itself in words, but it grumbled and worried down among the unshaped thoughts which lie beneath them. he knew that he had been trying to reason himself out of his birthright of reason. he knew that the inspiration which gave him understanding was losing its throne in his intelligence, and the almighty majority-vote was proclaiming itself in its stead. he knew that the great primal truths, which each successive revelation only confirmed, were fast becoming hidden beneath the mechanical forms of thought, which, as with all new converts, engrossed so large a share of his attention. the "peace," the "rest," which he had purchased were dearly bought to one who had been trained to the arms of thought, and whose noble privilege it might have been to live in perpetual warfare for the advancing truth which the next generation will claim as the legacy of the present. the reverend mr. fairweather was getting careless about his sermons. he must wait the fitting moment to declare himself; and in the mean time he was preaching to heretics. it did not matter much what he preached, under such circumstances. he pulled out two old yellow sermons from a heap of such, and began looking over that for the forenoon. naturally enough, he fell asleep over it, and, sleeping, he began to dream. he dreamed that he was under the high arches of an old cathedral, amidst a throng of worshippers. the light streamed in through vast windows, dark with the purple robes of royal saints, or blazing with yellow glories around the heads of earthly martyrs and heavenly messengers. the billows of the great organ roared among the clustered columns, as the sea breaks amidst the basaltic pillars which crowd the stormy cavern of the hebrides. the voice of the alternate choirs of singing boys swung back and forward, as the silver censer swung in the hands of the white-robed children. the sweet cloud of incense rose in soft, fleecy mists, full of penetrating suggestions of the east and its perfumed altars. the knees of twenty generations had worn the pavement; their feet had hollowed the steps; their shoulders had smoothed the columns. dead bishops and abbots lay under the marble of the floor in their crumbled vestments; dead warriors, in rusted armor, were stretched beneath their sculptured effigies. and all at once all the buried multitudes who had ever worshipped there came thronging in through the aisles. they choked every space, they swarmed into all the chapels, they hung in clusters over the parapets of the galleries, they clung to the images in every niche, and still the vast throng kept flowing and flowing in, until the living were lost in the rush of the returning dead who had reclaimed their own. then, as his dream became more fantastic, the huge cathedral itself seemed to change into the wreck of some mighty antediluvian vertebrate; its flying-buttresses arched round like ribs, its piers shaped themselves into limbs, and the sound of the organ-blast changed to the wind whistling through its thousand-jointed skeleton. and presently the sound lulled, and softened and softened, until it was as the murmur of a distant swarm of bees. a procession of monks wound along through an old street, chanting, as they walked. in his dream he glided in among them and bore his part in the burden of their song. he entered with the long train under a low arch, and presently he was kneeling in a narrow cell before an image of the blessed maiden holding the divine child in her arms, and his lips seemed to whisper, sancta maria, ora pro nobis! he turned to the crucifix, and, prostrating himself before the spare, agonizing shape of the holy sufferer, fell into a long passion of tears and broken prayers. he rose and flung himself, worn-out, upon his hard pallet, and, seeming to slumber, dreamed again within his dream. once more in the vast cathedral, with throngs of the living choking its aisles, amidst jubilant peals from the cavernous depths of the great organ, and choral melodies ringing from the fluty throats of the singing boys. a day of great rejoicings,--for a prelate was to be consecrated, and the bones of the mighty skeleton-minster were shaking with anthems, as if there were life of its own within its buttressed ribs. he looked down at his feet; the folds of the sacred robe were flowing about them: he put his hand to his head; it was crowned with the holy mitre. a long sigh, as of perfect content in the consummation of all his earthly hopes, breathed through the dreamer's lips, and shaped itself, as it escaped, into the blissful murmur, ego sum episcopus! one grinning gargoyle looked in from beneath the roof through an opening in a stained window. it was the face of a mocking fiend, such as the old builders loved to place under the eaves to spout the rain through their open mouths. it looked at him, as he sat in his mitred chair, with its hideous grin growing broader and broader, until it laughed out aloud, such a hard, stony, mocking laugh, that he awoke out of his second dream through his first into his common consciousness, and shivered, as he turned to the two yellow sermons which he was to pick over and weed of the little thought they might contain, for the next day's service. the reverend chauncy fairweather was too much taken up with his own bodily and spiritual condition to be deeply mindful of others. he carried the note requesting the prayers of the congregation in his pocket all day; and the soul in distress, which a single tender petition might have soothed, and perhaps have saved from despair or fatal error, found no voice in the temple to plead for it before the throne of mercy! chapter xxviii. the secret is whispered. the reverend chauncy fairweather's congregation was not large, but select. the lines of social cleavage run through religious creeds as if they were of a piece with position and fortune. it is expected of persons of a certain breeding, in some parts of new england, that they shall be either episcopalians or unitarians. the mansion-house gentry of rockland were pretty fairly divided between the little chapel, with the stained window and the trained rector, and the meeting-house where the reverend mr. fairweather officiated. it was in the latter that dudley venner worshipped, when he attended service anywhere,--which depended very much on the caprice of elsie. he saw plainly enough that a generous and liberally cultivated nature might find a refuge and congenial souls in either of these two persuasions, but he objected to some points of the formal creed of the older church, and especially to the mechanism which renders it hard to get free from its outworn and offensive formulae,--remembering how archbishop tillotson wished in vain that it could be "well rid of" the athanasian creed. this, and the fact that the meeting-house was nearer than the chapel, determined him, when the new rector, who was not quite up to his mark in education, was appointed, to take a pew in the "liberal" worshippers' edifice. elsie was very uncertain in her feeling about going to church. in summer, she loved rather to stroll over the mountain, on sundays. there was even a story, that she had one of the caves before mentioned fitted up as an oratory, and that she had her own wild way of worshipping the god whom she sought in the dark chasms of the dreaded cliffs. mere fables, doubtless; but they showed the common belief, that elsie, with all her strange and dangerous elements of character, had yet strong religious feeling mingled with them. the hymn-book which dick had found, in his midnight invasion of her chamber, opened to favorite hymns, especially some of the methodist and quietist character. many had noticed, that certain tunes, as sung by the choir, seemed to impress her deeply; and some said, that at such times her whole expression would change, and her stormy look would soften so as to remind them of her poor, sweet mother. on the sunday morning after the talk recorded in the last chapter, elsie made herself ready to go to meeting. she was dressed much as usual, excepting that she wore a thick veil, turned aside, but ready to conceal her features. it was natural enough that she should not wish to be looked in the face by curious persons who would be staring to see what effect the occurrence of the past week had had on her spirits. her father attended her willingly; and they took their seats in the pew, somewhat to the surprise of many, who had hardly expected to see them, after so humiliating a family development as the attempted crime of their kinsman had just been furnishing for the astonishment of the public. the reverend mr. fairweather was now in his coldest mood. he had passed through the period of feverish excitement which marks a change of religious opinion. at first, when he had began to doubt his own theological positions, he had defended them against himself with more ingenuity and interest, perhaps, than he could have done against another; because men rarely take the trouble to understand anybody's difficulties in a question but their own. after this, as he began to draw off from different points of his old belief, the cautious disentangling of himself from one mesh after another gave sharpness to his intellect, and the tremulous eagerness with which he seized upon the doctrine which, piece by piece, under various pretexts and with various disguises, he was appropriating, gave interest and something like passion to his words. but when he had gradually accustomed his people to his new phraseology, and was really adjusting his sermons and his service to disguise his thoughts, he lost at once all his intellectual acuteness and all his spiritual fervor. elsie sat quietly through the first part of the service, which was conducted in the cold, mechanical way to be expected. her face was hidden by her veil; but her father knew her state of feeling, as well by her movements and attitudes as by the expression of her features. the hymn had been sung, the short prayer offered, the bible read, and the long prayer was about to begin. this was the time at which the "notes" of any who were in affliction from loss of friends, the sick who were doubtful of recovery, those who had cause to be grateful for preservation of life or other signal blessing, were wont to be read. just then it was that dudley veneer noticed that his daughter was trembling,--a thing so rare, so unaccountable, indeed, under the circumstances, that he watched her closely, and began to fear that some nervous paroxysm, or other malady, might have just begun to show itself in this way upon her. the minister had in his pocket two notes. one, in the handwriting of deacon soper, was from a member of this congregation, returning thanks for his preservation through a season of great peril, supposed to be the exposure which he had shared with others, when standing in the circle around dick veneer. the other was the anonymous one, in a female hand, which he had received the evening before. he forgot them both. his thoughts were altogether too much taken up with more important matters. he prayed through all the frozen petitions of his expurgated form of supplication, and not a single heart was soothed or lifted, or reminded that its sorrows were struggling their way up to heaven, borne on the breath from a human soul that was warm with love. the people sat down as if relieved when the dreary prayer was finished. elsie alone remained standing until her father touched her. then she sat down, lifted her veil, and looked at him with a blank, sad look, as if she had suffered some pain or wrong, but could not give any name or expression to her vague trouble. she did not tremble any longer, but remained ominously still, as if she had been frozen where she sat. --can a man love his own soul too well? who, on the whole, constitute the nobler class of human beings? those who have lived mainly to make sure of their own personal welfare in another and future condition of existence, or they who have worked with all their might for their race, for their country, for the advancement of the kingdom of god, and left all personal arrangements concerning themselves to the sole charge of him who made them and is responsible to himself for their safe-keeping? is an anchorite who has worn the stone floor of his cell into basins with his knees bent in prayer, more acceptable than the soldier who gives his life for the maintenance of any sacred right or truth, without thinking what will specially become of him in a world where there are two or three million colonists a month, from this one planet, to be cared for? these are grave questions, which must suggest themselves to those who know that there are many profoundly selfish persons who are sincerely devout and perpetually occupied with their own future, while there are others who are perfectly ready to sacrifice themselves for any worthy object in this world, but are really too little occupied with their exclusive personality to think so much as many do about what is to become of them in another. the reverend chauncy fairweather did not, most certainly, belong to this latter class. there are several kinds of believers, whose history we find among the early converts to christianity. there was the magistrate, whose social position was such that he preferred a private interview in the evening with the teacher to following him--with the street-crowd. he had seen extraordinary facts which had satisfied him that the young galilean had a divine commission. but still he cross-questioned the teacher himself. he was not ready to accept statements without explanation. that was the right kind of man. see how he stood up for the legal rights of his master, when the people were for laying hands on him! and again, there was the government official, intrusted with public money, which, in those days, implied that he was supposed to be honest. a single look of that heavenly countenance, and two words of gentle command, were enough for him. neither of these men, the early disciple, nor the evangelist, seems to have been thinking primarily about his own personal safety. but now look at the poor, miserable turnkey, whose occupation shows what he was like to be, and who had just been thrusting two respectable strangers, taken from the hands of a mob, covered with stripes and stripped of clothing, into the inner prison, and making their feet fast in the stocks. his thought, in the moment of terror, is for himself: first, suicide; then, what he shall do,--not to save his household,--not to fulfil his duty to his office,--not to repair the outrage he has been committing,--but to secure his own personal safety. truly, character shows itself as much in a man's way of becoming a christian as in any other! --elsie sat, statue-like, through the sermon. it would not be fair to the reader to give an abstract of that. when a man who has been bred to free thought and free speech suddenly finds himself stepping about, like a dancer amidst his eggs, among the old addled majority-votes which he must not tread upon, he is a spectacle for men and angels. submission to intellectual precedent and authority does very well for those who have been bred to it; we know that the underground courses of their minds are laid in the roman cement of tradition, and that stately and splendid structures may be reared on such a foundation. but to see one laying a platform over heretical quicksands, thirty or forty or fifty years deep, and then beginning to build upon it, is a sorry sight. a new convert from the reformed to the ancient faith may be very strong in the arms, but he will always have weak legs and shaky knees. he may use his hands well, and hit hard with his fists, but he will never stand on his legs in the way the man does who inherits his belief. the services were over at last, and dudley venner and his daughter walked home together in silence. he always respected her moods, and saw clearly enough that some inward trouble was weighing upon her. there was nothing to be said in such cases, for elsie could never talk of her griefs. an hour, or a day, or a week of brooding, with perhaps a sudden flash of violence: this was the way in which the impressions which make other women weep, and tell their griefs by word or letter, showed their effects in her mind and acts. she wandered off up into the remoter parts of the mountain, that day, after their return. no one saw just where she went,--indeed, no one knew its forest-recesses and rocky fastnesses as she did. she was gone until late at night; and when old sophy, who had watched for her, bound up her long hair for her sleep, it was damp with the cold dews. the old black woman looked at her without speaking, but questioning her with every feature as to the sorrow that was weighing on her. suddenly she turned to old sophy. "you want to know what there is troubling me;" she said. "nobody loves me. i cannot love anybody. what is love, sophy?" "it's what poor ol' sophy's got for her elsie," the old woman answered. "tell me, darlin',--don' you love somebody?--don' you love? you know,--oh, tell me, darlin', don' you love to see the gen'l'man that keeps up at the school where you go? they say he's the pootiest gen'l'man that was ever in the town here. don' be 'fraid of poor ol' sophy, darlin',--she loved a man once,--see here! oh, i've showed you this often enough!" she took from her pocket a half of one of the old spanish silver coins, such as were current in the earlier part of this century. the other half of it had been lying in the deep sea-sand for more than fifty years. elsie looked her in the face, but did not answer in words. what strange intelligence was that which passed between them through the diamond eyes and the little beady black ones?--what subtile intercommunication, penetrating so much deeper than articulate speech? this was the nearest approach to sympathetic relations that elsie ever had: a kind of dumb intercourse of feeling, such as one sees in the eyes of brute mothers looking on their young. but, subtile as it was, it was narrow and individual; whereas an emotion which can shape itself in language opens the gate for itself into the great community of human affections; for every word we speak is the medal of a dead thought or feeling, struck in the die of some human experience, worn smooth by innumerable contacts, and always transferred warm from one to another. by words we share the common consciousness of the race, which has shaped itself in these symbols. by music we reach those special states of consciousness which, being without form, cannot be shaped with the mosaics of the vocabulary. the language of the eyes runs deeper into the personal nature, but it is purely individual, and perishes in the expression. if we consider them all as growing out of the consciousness as their root, language is the leaf, music is the flower; but when the eyes meet and search each other, it is the uncovering of the blanched stem through which the whole life runs, but which has never taken color or form from the sunlight. for three days elsie did not return to the school. much of the time she was among the woods and rocks. the season was now beginning to wane, and the forest to put on its autumnal glory. the dreamy haze was beginning to soften the landscape, and the mast delicious days of the year were lending their attraction to the scenery of the mountain. it was not very singular that elsie should be lingering in her old haunts, from which the change of season must soon drive her. but old sophy saw clearly enough that some internal conflict was going on, and knew very well that it must have its own way and work itself out as it best could. as much as looks could tell elsie had told her. she had said in words, to be sure, that she could not love. something warped and thwarted the emotion which would have been love in another, no doubt; but that such an emotion was striving with her against all malign influences which interfered with it the old woman had a perfect certainty in her own mind. everybody who has observed the working of emotions in persons of various temperaments knows well enough that they have periods of incubation, which differ with the individual, and with the particular cause and degree of excitement, yet evidently go through a strictly self-limited series of evolutions, at the end of which, their result--an act of violence, a paroxysm of tears, a gradual subsidence into repose, or whatever it may be--declares itself, like the last stage of an attack of fever and ague. no one can observe children without noticing that there is a personal equation, to use the astronomer's language, in their tempers, so that one sulks an hour over an offence which makes another a fury for five minutes, and leaves him or her an angel when it is over. at the end of three days, elsie braided her long, glossy, black hair, and shot a golden arrow through it. she dressed herself with more than usual care, and came down in the morning superb in her stormy beauty. the brooding paroxysm was over, or at least her passion had changed its phase. her father saw it with great relief; he had always many fears for her in her hours and days of gloom, but, for reasons before assigned, had felt that she must be trusted to herself, without appealing to actual restraint, or any other supervision than such as old sophy could exercise without offence. she went off at the accustomed hour to the school. all the girls had their eyes on her. none so keen as these young misses to know an inward movement by an outward sign of adornment: if they have not as many signals as the ships that sail the great seas, there is not an end of ribbon or a turn of a ringlet which is not a hieroglyphic with a hidden meaning to these little cruisers over the ocean of sentiment. the girls all looked at elsie with a new thought; for she was more sumptuously arrayed than perhaps ever before at the school; and they said to themselves that she had come meaning to draw the young master's eyes upon her. that was it; what else could it be? the beautiful cold girl with the diamond eyes meant to dazzle the handsome young gentleman. he would be afraid to love her; it couldn't be true, that which some people had said in the village; she was n't the kind of young lady to make mr. langdon happy. those dark people are never safe: so one of the young blondes said to herself. elsie was not literary enough for such a scholar: so thought miss charlotte ann wood, the young poetess. she couldn't have a good temper, with those scowling eyebrows: this was the opinion of several broad-faced, smiling girls, who thought, each in her own snug little mental sanctum, that, if, etc., etc., she could make him so happy! elsie had none of the still, wicked light in her eyes, that morning. she looked gentle, but dreamy; played with her books; did not trouble herself with any of the exercises,--which in itself was not very remarkable, as she was always allowed, under some pretext or other, to have her own way. the school-hours were over at length. the girls went out, but she lingered to the last. she then came up to mr. bernard, with a book in her hand, as if to ask a question. "will you walk towards my home with me today?" she said, in a very low voice, little more than a whisper. mr. bernard was startled by the request, put in such a way. he had a presentiment of some painful scene or other. but there was nothing to be done but to assure her that it would give him great pleasure. so they walked along together on their way toward the dudley mansion. "i have no friend," elsie said, all at once. "nothing loves me but one old woman. i cannot love anybody. they tell me there is something in my eyes that draws people to me and makes them faint: look into them, will you?" she turned her face toward him. it was very pale, and the diamond eyes were glittering with a film, such as beneath other lids would have rounded into a tear. "beautiful eyes, elsie," he said,--"sometimes very piercing,--but soft now, and looking as if there were something beneath them that friendship might draw out. i am your friend, elsie. tell me what i can do to render your life happier." "love me!" said elsie venner. what shall a man do, when a woman makes such a demand, involving such an avowal? it was the tenderest, cruellest, humblest moment of mr. bernard's life. he turned pale, he trembled almost, as if he had been a woman listening to her lover's declaration. "elsie," he said, presently, "i so long to be of some use to you, to have your confidence and sympathy, that i must not let you say or do anything to put us in false relations. i do love you, elsie, as a suffering sister with sorrows of her own,--as one whom i would save at the risk of my happiness and life,--as one who needs a true friend more than--any of all the young girls i have known. more than this you would not ask me to say. you have been through excitement and trouble lately, and it has made you feel such a need more than ever. give me your hand, dear elsie, and trust me that i will be as true a friend to you as if we were children of the same mother." elsie gave him her hand mechanically. it seemed to him that a cold aura shot from it along his arm and chilled the blood running through his heart. he pressed it gently, looked at her with a face full of grave kindness and sad interest, then softly relinquished it. it was all over with poor elsie. they walked almost in silence the rest of the way. mr. bernard left her at the gate of the mansion-house, and returned with sad forebodings. elsie went at once to her own room, and did not come from it at the usual hours. at last old sophy began to be alarmed about her, went to her apartment, and, finding the door unlocked, entered cautiously. she found elsie lying on her bed, her brows strongly contracted, her eyes dull, her whole look that of great suffering. her first thought was that she had been doing herself a harm by some deadly means or other. but elsie, saw her fear, and reassured her. "no," she said, "there is nothing wrong, such as you are thinking of; i am not dying. you may send for the doctor; perhaps he can take the pain from my head. that is all i want him to do. there is no use in the pain, that i know of; if he can stop it, let him." so they sent for the old doctor. it was not long before the solid trot of caustic, the old bay horse, and the crashing of the gravel under the wheels, gave notice that the physician was driving up the avenue. the old doctor was a model for visiting practitioners. he always came into the sick-room with a quiet, cheerful look, as if he had a consciousness that he was bringing some sure relief with him. the way a patient snatches his first look at his doctor's face, to see whether he is doomed, whether he is reprieved, whether he is unconditionally pardoned, has really something terrible about it. it is only to be met by an imperturbable mask of serenity, proof against anything and everything in a patient's aspect. the physician whose face reflects his patient's condition like a mirror may do well enough to examine people for a life-insurance office, but does not belong to the sickroom. the old doctor did not keep people waiting in dread suspense, while he stayed talking about the case,--the patient all the time thinking that he and the friends are discussing some alarming symptom or formidable operation which he himself is by-and-by--to hear of. he was in elsie's room almost before she knew he was in the house. he came to her bedside in such a natural, quiet way, that it seemed as if he were only a friend who had dropped in for a moment to say a pleasant word. yet he was very uneasy about elsie until he had seen her; he never knew what might happen to her or those about her, and came prepared for the worst. "sick, my child?" he said, in a very soft, low voice. elsie nodded, without speaking. the doctor took her hand,--whether with professional views, or only in a friendly way, it would have been hard to tell. so he sat a few minutes, looking at her all the time with a kind of fatherly interest, but with it all noting how she lay, how she breathed, her color, her expression, all that teaches the practised eye so much without a single question being asked. he saw she was in suffering, and said presently, "you have pain somewhere; where is it?" she put her hand to her head. as she was not disposed to talk, he watched her for a while, questioned old sophy shrewdly a few minutes, and so made up his mind as to the probable cause of disturbance and the proper remedies to be used. some very silly people thought the old doctor did not believe in medicine, because he gave less than certain poor half-taught creatures in the smaller neighboring towns, who took advantage of people's sickness to disgust and disturb them with all manner of ill-smelling and ill-behaving drugs. in truth, he hated to give anything noxious or loathsome to those who were uncomfortable enough already, unless he was very sure it would do good,--in which case, he never played with drugs, but gave good, honest, efficient doses. sometimes he lost a family of the more boorish sort, because they did not think they got their money's worth out of him, unless they had something more than a taste of everything he carried in his saddlebags. he ordered some remedies which he thought would relieve elsie, and left her, saying he would call the next day, hoping to find her better. but the next day came, and the next, and still elsie was on her bed, feverish, restless, wakeful, silent. at night she tossed about and wandered, and it became at length apparent that there was a settled attack, something like what they called, formerly, a "nervous fever." on the fourth day she was more restless than common. one of the women of the house came in to help to take care of her; but she showed an aversion to her presence. "send me helen darley," she said, at last. the old doctor told them, that, if possible, they must indulge this fancy of hers. the caprices of sick people were never to be despised, least of all of such persons as elsie, when rendered irritable and exacting by pain and weakness. so a message was sent to mr. silas peckham at the apollinean institute, to know if he could not spare miss helen darley for a few days, if required, to give her attention to a young lady who attended his school and who was now lying ill,--no other person than the daughter of dudley venner. a mean man never agrees to anything without deliberately turning it over, so that he may see its dirty side, and, if he can, sweating the coin he pays for it. if an archangel should offer to save his soul for sixpence, he would try to find a sixpence with a hole in it. a gentleman says yes to a great many things without stopping to think: a shabby fellow is known by his caution in answering questions, for fear of, compromising his pocket or himself. mr. silas peckham looked very grave at the request. the dooties of miss darley at the institoot were important, very important. he paid her large sums of money for her time,--more than she could expect to get in any other institootion for the edoocation of female youth. a deduction from her selary would be necessary, in case she should retire from the sphere of her dooties for a season. he should be put to extry expense, and have to perform additional labors himself. he would consider of the matter. if any arrangement could be made, he would send word to squire venner's folks. "miss darley," said silas peckham, "the' 's a message from squire venner's that his daughter wants you down at the mansion-house to see her. she's got a fever, so they inform me. if it's any kind of ketchin' fever, of course you won't think of goin' near the mansion-house. if doctor kittredge says it's safe, perfec'ly safe, i can't object to your goin', on sech conditions as seem to be fair to all' concerned. you will give up your pay for the whole time you are absent,--portions of days to be caounted as whole days. you will be charged with board the same as if you eat your victuals with the household. the victuals are of no use after they're cooked but to be eat, and your bein' away is no savin' to our folks. i shall charge you a reasonable compensation for the demage to the school by the absence of a teacher. if miss crabs undertakes any dooties belongin' to your department of instruction, she will look to you for sech pecooniary considerations as you may agree upon between you. on these conditions i am willin' to give my consent to your temporary absence from the post of dooty. i will step down to doctor kittredge's myself, and make inquiries as to the natur' of the complaint." mr. peckham took up a rusty and very narrow-brimmed hat, which he cocked upon one side of his head, with an air peculiar to the rural gentry. it was the hour when the doctor expected to be in his office, unless he had some special call which kept him from home. he found the reverend chauncy fairweather just taking leave of the doctor. his hand was on the pit of his stomach, and his countenance was expressive of inward uneasiness. "shake it before using," said the doctor; "and the sooner you make up your mind to speak right out, the better it will be for your digestion." "oh, mr. peckham! walk in, mr. peckham! nobody sick up at the school, i hope?" "the haalth of the school is fust-rate," replied mr. peckham. "the sitooation is uncommonly favorable to saloobrity." (these last words were from the annual report of the past year.) "providence has spared our female youth in a remarkable measure. i've come with reference to another consideration. dr. kittredge, is there any ketchin' complaint goin' about in the village?" "well, yes," said the doctor, "i should say there was something of that sort. measles. mumps. and sin,--that's always catching." the old doctor's eye twinkled; once in a while he had his little touch of humor. silas peckham slanted his eye up suspiciously at the doctor, as if he was getting some kind of advantage over him. that is the way people of his constitution are apt to take a bit of pleasantry. "i don't mean sech things, doctor; i mean fevers. is there any ketchin' fevers--bilious, or nervous, or typus, or whatever you call 'em--now goin' round this village? that's what i want to ascertain, if there's no impropriety." the old doctor looked at silas through his spectacles. "hard and sour as a green cider-apple," he thought to himself. "no,"; he said,--"i don't know any such cases." "what's the matter with elsie venner?" asked silas, sharply, as if he expected to have him this time. "a mild feverish attack, i should call it in anybody else; but she has a peculiar constitution, and i never feel so safe about her as i should about most people." "anything ketchin' about it?" silas asked, cunningly. "no, indeed!" said the doctor,--"catching? no,--what put that into your head, mr. peckham?" "well, doctor," the conscientious principal answered, "i naterally feel a graat responsibility, a very graaat responsibility, for the noomerous and lovely young ladies committed to my charge. it has been a question, whether one of my assistants should go, accordin' to request, to stop with miss venner for a season. nothin' restrains my givin' my full and free consent to her goin' but the fear lest contagious maladies should be introdooced among those lovely female youth. i shall abide by your opinion,--i understan' you to say distinc'ly, her complaint is not ketchin'?--and urge upon miss darley to fulfil her dooties to a sufferin' fellow-creature at any cost to myself and my establishment. we shall miss her very much; but it is a good cause, and she shall go,--and i shall trust that providence will enable us to spare her without permanent demage to the interests of the institootion." saying this, the excellent principal departed, with his rusty narrow-brimmed hat leaning over, as if it had a six-knot breeze abeam, and its gunwale (so to speak) was dipping into his coat-collar. he announced the result of his inquiries to helen, who had received a brief note in the mean time from a poor relation of elsie's mother, then at the mansion-house, informing her of the critical situation of elsie and of her urgent desire that helen should be with her. she could not hesitate. she blushed as she thought of the comments that might be made; but what were such considerations in a matter of life and death? she could not stop to make terms with silas peckham. she must go. he might fleece her, if he would; she would not complain,--not even to bernard, who, she knew, would bring the principal to terms, if she gave the least hint of his intended extortions. so helen made up her bundle of clothes to be sent after her, took a book or two with her to help her pass the time, and departed for the dudley mansion. it was with a great inward effort that she undertook the sisterly task which was thus forced upon her. she had a kind of terror of elsie; and the thought of having charge of her, of being alone with her, of coming under the full influence of those diamond eyes,--if, indeed, their light were not dimmed by suffering and weariness,--was one she shrank from. but what could she do? it might be a turning-point in the life of the poor girl; and she must overcome all her fears, all her repugnance, and go to her rescue. "is helen come?" said elsie, when she heard, with her fine sense quickened by the irritability of sickness, a light footfall on the stair, with a cadence unlike that of any inmate of the house. "it's a strange woman's step," said old sophy, who, with her exclusive love for elsie, was naturally disposed to jealousy of a new-comer. "let ol' sophy set at 'th' foot o' th' bed, if th' young missis sets by th' piller,--won' y', darlin'? the' 's nobody that's white can love y' as th' of black woman does;--don' sen' her away, now, there 's a dear soul!" elsie motioned her to sit in the place she had pointed to, and helen at that moment entered the room. dudley venner followed her. "she is your patient," he said, "except while the doctor is here. she has been longing to have you with her, and we shall expect you to make her well in a few days." so helen darley found herself established in the most unexpected manner as an inmate of the dudley mansion. she sat with elsie most of the time, by day and by night, soothing her, and trying to enter into her confidence and affections, if it should prove that this strange creature was really capable of truly sympathetic emotions. what was this unexplained something which came between her soul and that of every other human being with whom she was in relations? helen perceived, or rather felt, that she had, folded up in the depths of her being, a true womanly nature. through the cloud that darkened her aspect, now and then a ray would steal forth, which, like the smile of stern and solemn people, was all the more impressive from its contrast with the expression she wore habitually. it might well be that pain and fatigue had changed her aspect; but, at any rate, helen looked into her eyes without that nervous agitation which their cold glitter had produced on her when they were full of their natural light. she felt sure that her mother must have been a lovely, gentle woman. there were gleams of a beautiful nature shining through some ill-defined medium which disturbed and made them flicker and waver, as distant images do when seen through the rippling upward currents of heated air. she loved, in her own way, the old black woman, and seemed to keep up a kind of silent communication with her, as if they did not require the use of speech. she appeared to be tranquillized by the presence of helen, and loved to have her seated at the bedside. yet something, whatever it was, prevented her from opening her heart to her kind companion; and even now there were times when she would lie looking at her, with such a still, watchful, almost dangerous expression, that helen would sigh, and change her place, as persons do whose breath some cunning orator had been sucking out of them with his spongy eloquence, so that, when he stops, they must get some air and stir about, or they feel as if they should be half smothered and palsied. it was too much to keep guessing what was the meaning of all this. helen determined to ask old sophy some questions which might probably throw light upon her doubts. she took the opportunity one evening when elsie was lying asleep and they were both sitting at some distance from her bed. "tell me, sophy," she said, "was elsie always as shy as she seems to be now, in talking with those to whom she is friendly?" "alway jes' so, miss darlin', ever sense she was little chil'. when she was five, six year old, she lisp some,--call me thophy; that make her kin' o' 'shamed, perhaps: after she grow up, she never lisp, but she kin' o' got the way o' not talkin' much. fac' is, she don' like talkin' as common gals do, 'xcep' jes' once in a while wi' some partic'lar folks,--'n' then not much." "how old is elsie?" "eighteen year this las' september." "how long ago did her mother die?" helen asked, with a little trembling in her voice. "eighteen year ago this october," said old sophy. helen was silent for a moment. then she whispered, almost inaudibly,--for her voice appeared to fail her, "what did her mother die of, sophy?" the old woman's small eyes dilated until a ring of white showed round their beady centres. she caught helen by the hand and clung to it, as if in fear. she looked round at elsie, who lay sleeping, as of she might be listening. then she drew helen towards her and led her softly out of the room. "'sh!--'sh!" she said, as soon as they were outside the door. "don' never speak in this house 'bout what elsie's mother died of!" she said. "nobody never says nothin' 'bout it. oh, god has made ugly things wi' death in their mouths, miss darlin', an' he knows what they're for; but my poor elsie!--to have her blood changed in her before--it was in july mistress got her death, but she liv' till three week after my poor elsie was born." she could speak no more. she had said enough. helen remembered the stories she had heard on coming to the village, and among them one referred to in an early chapter of this narrative. all the unaccountable looks and tastes and ways of elsie came back to her in the light of an ante-natal impression which had mingled an alien element in her nature. she knew the secret of the fascination which looked out of her cold, glittering eyes. she knew the significance of the strange repulsion which she felt in her own intimate consciousness underlying the inexplicable attraction which drew her towards the young girl in spite of this repugnance. she began to look with new feelings on the contradictions in her moral nature,--the longing for sympathy, as shown by her wishing for helen's company, and the impossibility of passing beyond the cold circle of isolation within which she had her being. the fearful truth of that instinctive feeling of hers, that there was something not human looking out of elsie's eyes, came upon her with a sudden flash of penetrating conviction. there were two warring principles in that superb organization and proud soul. one made her a woman, with all a woman's powers and longings. the other chilled all the currents of outlet for her emotions. it made her tearless and mute, when another woman would have wept and pleaded. and it infused into her soul something--it was cruel now to call it malice--which was still and watchful and dangerous, which waited its opportunity, and then shot like an arrow from its bow out of the coil of brooding premeditation. even those who had never seen the white scars on dick venner's wrist, or heard the half-told story of her supposed attempt to do a graver mischief, knew well enough by looking at her that she was one of the creatures not to be tampered with,--silent in anger and swift in vengeance. helen could not return to the bedside at once after this communication. it was with altered eyes that she must look on the poor girl, the victim of such an unheard-of fatality. all was explained to her now. but it opened such depths of solemn thought in her awakened consciousness, that it seemed as if the whole mystery of human life were coming up again before her for trial and judgment. "oh," she thought, "if, while the will lies sealed in its fountain, it may be poisoned at its very source, so that it shall flow dark and deadly through its whole course, who are we that we should judge our fellow-creatures by ourselves?" then came the terrible question, how far the elements themselves are capable of perverting the moral nature: if valor, and justice, and truth, the strength of man and the virtue of woman, may not be poisoned out of a race by the food of the australian in his forest, by the foul air and darkness of the christians cooped up in the "tenement-houses" close by those who live in the palaces of the great cities? she walked out into the garden, lost in thought upon these dark and deep matters. presently she heard a step behind her, and elsie's father came up and joined her. since his introduction to helen at the distinguished tea-party given by the widow rowens, and before her coming to sit with elsie, mr. dudley venner had in the most accidental way in the world met her on several occasions: once after church, when she happened to be caught in a slight shower and he insisted on holding his umbrella over her on her way home;--once at a small party at one of the mansion-houses, where the quick-eyed lady of the house had a wonderful knack of bringing people together who liked to see each other;--perhaps at other times and places; but of this there is no certain evidence. they naturally spoke of elsie, her illness, and the aspect it had taken. but helen noticed in all that dudley venner said about his daughter a morbid sensitiveness, as it seemed to her, an aversion to saying much about her physical condition or her peculiarities,--a wish to feel and speak as a parent should, and yet a shrinking, as if there were something about elsie which he could not bear to dwell upon. she thought she saw through all this, and she could interpret it all charitably. there were circumstances about his daughter which recalled the great sorrow of his life; it was not strange that this perpetual reminder should in some degree have modified his feelings as a father. but what a life he must have been leading for so many years, with this perpetual source of distress which he could not name! helen knew well enough, now, the meaning of the sadness which had left such traces in his features and tones, and it made her feel very kindly and compassionate towards him. so they walked over the crackling leaves in the garden, between the lines of box breathing its fragrance of eternity;--for this is one of the odors which carry us out of time into the abysses of the unbeginning past; if we ever lived on another ball of stone than this, it must be that there was box growing on it. so they walked, finding their way softly to each other's sorrows and sympathies, each matching some counterpart to the other's experience of life, and startled to see how the different, yet parallel, lessons they had been taught by suffering had led them step by step to the same serene acquiescence in the orderings of that supreme wisdom which they both devoutly recognized. old sophy was at the window and saw them walking up and down the garden-alleys. she watched them as her grandfather the savage watched the figures that moved among the trees when a hostile tribe was lurking about his mountain. "there'll be a weddin' in the ol house," she said, "before there's roses on them bushes ag'in. but it won' be my poor elsie's weddin', 'n' ol' sophy won' be there." when helen prayed in the silence of her soul that evening, it was not that elsie's life might be spared. she dared not ask that as a favor of heaven. what could life be to her but a perpetual anguish, and to those about her but an ever-present terror? might she but be so influenced by divine grace, that what in her was most truly human, most purely woman-like, should overcome the dark, cold, unmentionable instinct which had pervaded her being like a subtile poison that was all she could ask, and the rest she left to a higher wisdom and tenderer love than her own. chapter xxix. the white ash. when helen returned to elsie's bedside, it was with a new and still deeper feeling of sympathy, such as the story told by old sophy might well awaken. she understood, as never before, the singular fascination and as singular repulsion which she had long felt in elsie's presence. it had not been without a great effort that she had forced herself to become the almost constant attendant of the sick girl; and now she was learning, but not for the first time, the blessed truth which so many good women have found out for themselves, that the hardest duty bravely performed soon becomes a habit, and tends in due time to transform itself into a pleasure. the old doctor was beginning to look graver, in spite of himself. the fever, if such it was, went gently forward, wasting the young girl's powers of resistance from day to day; yet she showed no disposition to take nourishment, and seemed literally to be living on air. it was remarkable that with all this her look was almost natural, and her features were hardly sharpened so as to suggest that her life was burning away. he did not like this, nor various other unobtrusive signs of danger which his practised eye detected. a very small matter might turn the balance which held life and death poised against each other. he surrounded her with precautions, that nature might have every opportunity of cunningly shifting the weights from the scale of death to the scale of life, as she will often do if not rudely disturbed or interfered with. little tokens of good-will and kind remembrance were constantly coming to her from the girls in the school and the good people in the village. some of the mansion-house people obtained rare flowers which they sent her, and her table was covered with fruits which tempted her in vain. several of the school-girls wished to make her a basket of their own handiwork, and, filling it with autumnal flowers, to send it as a joint offering. mr. bernard found out their project accidentally, and, wishing to have his share in it, brought home from one of his long walks some boughs full of variously tinted leaves, such as were still clinging to the stricken trees. with these he brought also some of the already fallen leaflets of the white ash, remarkable for their rich olive-purple color, forming a beautiful contrast with some of the lighter-hued leaves. it so happened that this particular tree, the white ash, did not grow upon the mountain, and the leaflets were more welcome for their comparative rarity. so the girls made their basket, and the floor of it they covered with the rich olive-purple leaflets. such late flowers as they could lay their hands upon served to fill it, and with many kindly messages they sent it to miss elsie venner at the dudley mansion-house. elsie was sitting up in her bed when it came, languid, but tranquil, and helen was by her, as usual, holding her hand, which was strangely cold, helen thought, for one who was said to have some kind of fever. the school-girls' basket was brought in with its messages of love and hopes for speedy recovery. old sophy was delighted to see that it pleased elsie, and laid it on the bed before her. elsie began looking at the flowers, and taking them from the basket, that she might see the leaves. all at once she appeared to be agitated; she looked at the basket, then around, as if there were some fearful presence about her which she was searching for with her eager glances. she took out the flowers, one by one, her breathing growing hurried, her eyes staring, her hands trembling,--till, as she came near the bottom of the basket, she flung out all the rest with a hasty movement, looked upon the olive-purple leaflets as if paralyzed for a moment, shrunk up, as it were, into herself in a curdling terror, dashed the basket from her, and fell back senseless, with a faint cry which chilled the blood of the startled listeners at her bedside. "take it away!--take it away!--quick!" said old sophy, as she hastened to her mistress's pillow. "it 's the leaves of the tree that was always death to her,--take it away! she can't live wi' it in the room!" the poor old woman began chafing elsie's hands, and helen to try to rouse her with hartshorn, while a third frightened attendant gathered up the flowers and the basket and carried them out of the apartment, she came to herself after a time, but exhausted and then wandering. in her delirium she talked constantly as if she were in a cave, with such exactness of circumstance that helen could not doubt at all that she had some such retreat among the rocks of the mountain, probably fitted up in her own fantastic way, where she sometimes hid herself from all human eyes, and of the entrance to which she alone possessed the secret. all this passed away, and left her, of course, weaker than before. but this was not the only influence the unexplained paroxysm had left behind it. from this time forward there was a change in her whole expression and her manner. the shadows ceased flitting over her features, and the old woman, who watched her from day to day and from hour to hour as a mother watches her child, saw the likeness she bore to her mother coming forth more and more, as the cold glitter died out of the diamond eyes, and the stormy scowl disappeared from the dark brows and low forehead. with all the kindness and indulgence her father had bestowed upon her, elsie had never felt that he loved her. the reader knows well enough what fatal recollections and associations had frozen up the springs of natural affection in his breast. there was nothing in the world he would not do for elsie. he had sacrificed his whole life to her. his very seeming carelessness about restraining her was all calculated; he knew that restraint would produce nothing but utter alienation. just so far as she allowed him, he shared her studies, her few pleasures, her thoughts; but she was essentially solitary and uncommunicative. no person, as was said long ago, could judge him, because his task was not merely difficult, but simply impracticable to human powers. a nature like elsie's had necessarily to be studied by itself, and to be followed in its laws where it could not be led. every day, at different hours, during the whole of his daughter's illness, dudley venner had sat by her, doing all he could to soothe and please her. always the same thin film of some emotional non-conductor between them; always that kind of habitual regard and family-interest, mingled with the deepest pity on one side and a sort of respect on the other, which never warmed into outward evidences of affection. it was after this occasion, when she had been so profoundly agitated by a seemingly insignificant cause, that her father and old sophy were sitting, one at one side of her bed and one at the other. she had fallen into a light slumber. as they were looking at her, the same thought came into both their minds at the same moment. old sophy spoke for both, as she said, in a low voice, "it 's her mother's look,--it 's her mother's own face right over again,--she never look' so before, the lord's hand is on her! his will be done!" when elsie woke and lifted her languid eyes upon her father's face, she saw in it a tenderness, a depth of affection, such as she remembered at rare moments of her childhood, when she had won him to her by some unusual gleam of sunshine in her fitful temper. "elsie, dear," he said, "we were thinking how much your expression was sometimes like that of your sweet mother. if you could but have seen her, so as to remember her!" the tender look and tone, the yearning of the daughter's heart for the mother she had never seen, save only with the unfixed, undistinguishing eyes of earliest infancy, perhaps the under-thought that she might soon rejoin her in another state of being,--all came upon her with a sudden overflow of feeling which broke through all the barriers between her heart and her eyes, and elsie wept. it seemed to her father as if the malign influence--evil spirit it might almost be called--which had pervaded her being, had at last been driven forth or exorcised, and that these tears were at once the sign and the pledge of her redeemed nature. but now she was to be soothed, and not excited. after her tears she slept again, and the look her face wore was peaceful as never before. old sophy met the doctor at the door and told him all the circumstances connected with the extraordinary attack from which elsie had suffered. it was the purple leaves, she said. she remembered that dick once brought home a branch of a tree with some of the same leaves on it, and elsie screamed and almost fainted then. she, sophy, had asked her, after she had got quiet, what it was in the leaves that made her feel so bad. elsie could n't tell her,--did n't like to speak about it,--shuddered whenever sophy mentioned it. this did not sound so strangely to the old doctor as it does to some who listen to his narrative. he had known some curious examples of antipathies, and remembered reading of others still more singular. he had known those who could not bear the presence of a cat, and recollected the story, often told, of a person's hiding one in a chest when one of these sensitive individuals came into the room, so as not to disturb him; but he presently began to sweat and turn pale, and cried out that there must be a cat hid somewhere. he knew people who were poisoned by strawberries, by honey, by different meats, many who could not endure cheese,--some who could not bear the smell of roses. if he had known all the stories in the old books, he would have found that some have swooned and become as dead men at the smell of a rose,--that a stout soldier has been known to turn and run at the sight or smell of rue,--that cassia and even olive-oil have produced deadly faintings in certain. individuals,--in short, that almost everything has seemed to be a poison to somebody. "bring me that basket, sophy," said the old doctor, "if you can find it." sophy brought it to him,--for he had not yet entered elsie's apartment. "these purple leaves are from the white ash," he said. "you don't know the notion that people commonly have about that tree, sophy?" "i know they say the ugly things never go where the white ash grows," sophy answered. "oh, doctor dear, what i'm thinkin' of a'n't true, is it?" the doctor smiled sadly, but did not answer. he went directly to elsie's room. nobody would have known by his manner that he saw any special change in his patient. he spoke with her as usual, made some slight alteration in his prescriptions, and left the room with a kind, cheerful look. he met her father on the stairs. "is it as i thought?" said dudley veneer. "there is everything to fear," the doctor said, "and not much, i am afraid, to hope. does not her face recall to you one that you remember, as never before?" "yes," her father answered,--"oh, yes! what is the meaning of this change which has come over her features, and her voice, her temper, her whole being? tell me, oh, tell me, what is it? can it be that the curse is passing away, and my daughter is to be restored to me,--such as her mother would have had her,--such as her mother was?" "walk out with me into the garden," the doctor said, "and i will tell you all i know and all i think about this great mystery of elsie's life." they walked out together, and the doctor began: "she has lived a double being, as it were,--the consequence of the blight which fell upon her in the dim period before consciousness. you can see what she might have been but for this. you know that for these eighteen years her whole existence has taken its character from that influence which we need not name. but you will remember that few of the lower forms of life last as human beings do; and thus it might have been hoped and trusted with some show of reason, as i have always suspected you hoped and trusted, perhaps more confidently than myself, that the lower nature which had become engrafted on the higher would die out and leave the real woman's life she inherited to outlive this accidental principle which had so poisoned her childhood and youth. i believe it is so dying out; but i am afraid,--yes, i must say it, i fear it has involved the centres of life in its own decay. there is hardly any pulse at elsie's wrist; no stimulants seem to rouse her; and it looks as if life were slowly retreating inwards, so that by-and-by she will sleep as those who lie down in the cold and never wake." strange as it may seem, her father heard all this not without deep sorrow, and such marks of it as his thoughtful and tranquil nature, long schooled by suffering, claimed or permitted, but with a resignation itself the measure of his past trials. dear as his daughter might become to him, all he dared to ask of heaven was that she might be restored to that truer self which lay beneath her false and adventitious being. if he could once see that the icy lustre in her eyes had become a soft, calm light,--that her soul was at peace with all about her and with him; above,--this crumb from the children's table was enough for him, as it was for the syro-phoenician woman who asked that the dark spirit might go out from her daughter. there was little change the next day, until all at once she said in a clear voice that she should like to see her master at the school, mr. langdon. he came accordingly, and took the place of helen at her bedside. it seemed as if elsie had forgotten the last scene with him. might it be that pride had come in, and she had sent for him only to show how superior she had grown to the weakness which had betrayed her into that extraordinary request, so contrary to the instincts and usages of her sex? or was it that the singular change which had come over her had involved her passionate fancy for him and swept it away with her other habits of thought and feeling? or could it be that she felt that all earthly interests were becoming of little account to her, and wished to place herself right with one to whom she had displayed a wayward movement of her unbalanced imagination? she welcomed mr. bernard as quietly as she had received helen darley. he colored at the recollection of that last scene, when he came into her presence; but she smiled with perfect tranquillity. she did not speak to him of any apprehension; but he saw that she looked upon herself as doomed. so friendly, yet so calm did she seem through all their interview, that mr. bernard could only look back upon her manifestation of feeling towards him on their walk from the school as a vagary of a mind laboring under some unnatural excitement, and wholly at variance with the true character of elsie venner as he saw her before him in her subdued, yet singular beauty. he looked with almost scientific closeness of observation into the diamond eyes; but that peculiar light which he knew so well was not there. she was the same in one sense as on that first day when he had seen her coiling and uncoiling her golden chain; yet how different in every aspect which revealed her state of mind and emotion! something of tenderness there was, perhaps, in her tone towards him; she would not have sent for him, had she not felt more than an ordinary interest in him. but through the whole of his visit she never lost her gracious self-possession. the dudley race might well be proud of the last of its daughters, as she lay dying, but unconquered by the feeling of the present or the fear of the future. as for mr. bernard, he found it very hard to look upon her, and listen to her unmoved. there was nothing that reminded him of the stormy--browed, almost savage girl he remembered in her fierce loveliness,--nothing of all her singularities of air and of costume. nothing? yes, one thing. weak and suffering as she was, she had never parted with one particular ornament, such as a sick person would naturally, as it might be supposed, get rid of at once. the golden cord which she wore round her neck at the great party was still there. a bracelet was lying by her pillow; she had unclasped it from her wrist. before mr. bernard left her, she said, "i shall never see you again. some time or other, perhaps, you will mention my name to one whom you love. give her this from your scholar and friend elsie." he took the bracelet, raised her hand to his lips, then turned his face away; in that moment he was the weaker of the two. "good-bye," she said; "thank you for coming." his voice died away in his throat, as he tried to answer her. she followed him with her eyes as he passed from her sight through the door, and when it closed after him sobbed tremulously once or twice, but stilled herself, and met helen, as she entered, with a composed countenance. "i have had a very pleasant visit from mr. langdon," elsie said. "sit by me, helen, awhile without speaking; i should like to sleep, if i can,--and to dream." chapter xxx. the golden cord is loosed. the reverend chauncy fairweather, hearing that his parishioner's daughter, elsie, was very ill, could do nothing less than come to the mansion-house and tender such consolations as he was master of. it was rather remarkable that the old doctor did not exactly approve of his visit. he thought that company of every sort might be injurious in her weak state. he was of opinion that mr. fairweather, though greatly interested in religious matters, was not the most sympathetic person that could be found; in fact, the old doctor thought he was too much taken up with his own interests for eternity to give himself quite 'so heartily to the need of other people as some persons got up on a rather more generous scale (our good neighbor dr. honeywood, for instance) could do. however, all these things had better be arranged to suit her wants; if she would like to talk with a clergyman, she had a great deal better see one as often as she liked, and run the risk of the excitement, than have a hidden wish for such a visit and perhaps find herself too weak to see him by-and-by. the old doctor knew by sad experience that dreadful mistake against which all medical practitioners should be warned. his experience may well be a guide for others. do not overlook the desire for spiritual advice and consolation which patients sometimes feel, and, with the frightful mauvaise honte peculiar to protestantism, alone among all human beliefs, are ashamed to tell. as a part of medical treatment, it is the physician's business to detect the hidden longing for the food of the soul, as much as for any form of bodily nourishment. especially in the higher walks of society, where this unutterably miserable false shame of protestantism acts in proportion to the general acuteness of the cultivated sensibilities, let no unwillingness to suggest the sick person's real need suffer him to languish between his want and his morbid sensitiveness. what an infinite advantage the mussulmans and the catholics have over many of our more exclusively spiritual sects in the way they keep their religion always by them and never blush for it! and besides this spiritual longing, we should never forget that "on some fond breast the parting soul relies," and the minister of religion, in addition to the sympathetic nature which we have a right to demand in him, has trained himself to the art of entering into the feelings of others. the reader must pardon this digression, which introduces the visit of the reverend chauncy fairweather to elsie veneer. it was mentioned to her that he would like to call and see how she was, and she consented,--not with much apparent interest, for she had reasons of her own for not feeling any very deep conviction of his sympathy for persons in sorrow. but he came, and worked the conversation round to religion, and confused her with his hybrid notions, half made up of what he had been believing and teaching all his life, and half of the new doctrines which he had veneered upon the surface of his old belief. he got so far as to make a prayer with her,--a cool, well-guarded prayer, which compromised his faith as little as possible, and which, if devotion were a game played against providence, might have been considered a cautious and sagacious move. when he had gone, elsie called old sophy to her. "sophy," she said, "don't let them send that cold hearted man to me any more. if your old minister comes--to see you, i should like to hear him talk. he looks as if he cared for everybody, and would care for me. and, sophy, if i should die one of these days, i should like to have that old minister come and say whatever is to be said over me. it would comfort dudley more, i know, than to have that hard man here, when you're in trouble, for some of you will be sorry when i'm gone,--won't you, sophy?" the poor old black woman could not stand this question. the cold minister had frozen elsie until she felt as if nobody cared for her or would regret her,--and her question had betrayed this momentary feeling. "don' talk so! don' talk so, darlin'!" she cried, passionately. "when you go, ol' sophy'll go; 'n' where you go, ol' sophy'll go: 'n' we'll both go t' th' place where th' lord takes care of all his children, whether their faces are white or black. oh, darlin', darlin'! if th' lord should let me die firs', you shall fin' all ready for you when you come after me. on'y don' go 'n' leave poor ol' sophy all 'lone in th' world!" helen came in at this moment and quieted the old woman with a look. such scenes were just what were most dangerous, in the state in which elsie was lying: but that is one of the ways in which an affectionate friend sometimes unconsciously wears out the life which a hired nurse, thinking of nothing but her regular duties and her wages, would have spared from all emotional fatigue. the change which had come over elsie's disposition was itself the cause of new excitements. how was it possible that her father could keep away from her, now that she was coming back to the nature and the very look of her mother, the bride of his youth? how was it possible to refuse her, when she said to old sophy, that she should like to have her minister come in and sit by her, even though his presence might perhaps prove a new source of excitement? but the reverend doctor did come and sit by her, and spoke such soothing words to her, words of such peace and consolation, that from that hour she was tranquil as never before. all true hearts are alike in the hour of need; the catholic has a reserved fund of faith for his fellow-creature's trying moment, and the calvinist reveals those springs of human brotherhood and charity in his soul which are only covered over by the iron tables inscribed with the harder dogmas of his creed. it was enough that the reverend doctor knew all elsie's history. he could not judge her by any formula, like those which have been moulded by past ages out of their ignorance. he did not talk with her as if she were an outside sinner worse than himself. he found a bruised and languishing soul, and bound up its wounds. a blessed office,--one which is confined to no sect or creed, but which good men in all times, under various names and with varying ministries, to suit the need of each age, of each race, of each individual soul, have come forward to discharge for their suffering fellow-creatures. after this there was little change in elsie, except that her heart beat more feebly every day,--so that the old doctor himself, with all his experience, could see nothing to account for the gradual failing of the powers of life, and yet could find no remedy which seemed to arrest its progress in the smallest degree. "be very careful," he said, "that she is not allowed to make any muscular exertion. any such effort, when a person is so enfeebled, may stop the heart in a moment; and if it stops, it will never move again." helen enforced this rule with the greatest care. elsie was hardly allowed to move her hand or to speak above a whisper. it seemed to be mainly the question now, whether this trembling flame of life would be blown out by some light breath of air, or whether it could be so nursed and sheltered by the hollow of these watchful hands that it would have a chance to kindle to its natural brightness. --her father came in to sit with her in the evening. he had never talked so freely with her as during the hour he had passed at her bedside, telling her little circumstances of her mother's life, living over with her all that was pleasant in the past, and trying to encourage her with some cheerful gleams of hope for the future. a faint smile played over her face, but she did not answer his encouraging suggestions. the hour came for him to leave her with those who watched by her. "good-night, my dear child," he said, and stooping down, kissed her cheek. elsie rose by a sudden effort, threw her arms round his neck, kissed him, and said, "good-night, my dear father!" the suddenness of her movement had taken him by surprise, or he would have checked so dangerous an effort. it was too late now. her arms slid away from him like lifeless weights,--her head fell back upon her pillow,--along sigh breathed through her lips. "she is faint," said helen, doubtfully; "bring me the hartshorn, sophy." the old woman had started from her place, and was now leaning over her, looking in her face, and listening for the sound of her breathing. "she 's dead! elsie 's dead! my darlin 's dead!" she cried aloud, filling the room with her utterance of anguish. dudley venner drew her away and silenced her with a voice of authority, while helen and an assistant plied their restoratives. it was all in vain. the solemn tidings passed from the chamber of death through the family. the daughter, the hope of that old and honored house, was dead in the freshness of her youth, and the home of its solitary representative was hereafter doubly desolate. a messenger rode hastily out of the avenue. a little after this the people of the village and the outlying farm-houses were startled by the sound of a bell. one,--two,--three,--four, they stopped in every house, as far as the wavering vibrations reached, and listened-- five,--six,--seven,-- it was not the little child which had been lying so long at the point of death; that could not be more than three or four years old-- eight,--nine,--ten,--and so on to fifteen, sixteen,--seventeen, --eighteen-- the pulsations seemed to keep on,--but it was the brain, and not the bell, that was throbbing now. "elsie 's dead!" was the exclamation at a hundred firesides. "eighteen year old," said old widow peake, rising from her chair. "eighteen year ago i laid two gold eagles on her mother's eyes,--he wouldn't have anything but gold touch her eyelids,--and now elsie's to be straightened,--the lord have mercy on her poor sinful soul!" dudley venner prayed that night that he might be forgiven, if he had failed in any act of duty or kindness to this unfortunate child of his, now freed from all the woes born with her and so long poisoning her soul. he thanked god for the brief interval of peace which had been granted her, for the sweet communion they had enjoyed in these last days, and for the hope of meeting her with that other lost friend in a better world. helen mingled a few broken thanks and petitions with her tears: thanks that she had been permitted to share the last days and hours of this poor sister in sorrow; petitions that the grief of bereavement might be lightened to the lonely parent and the faithful old servant. old sophy said almost nothing, but sat day and night by her dead darling. but sometimes her anguish would find an outlet in strange sounds, something between a cry and a musical note,--such as noise had ever heard her utter before. these were old remembrances surging up from her childish days, coming through her mother from the cannibal chief, her grandfather,--death-wails, such as they sing in the mountains of western africa, when they see the fires on distant hill-sides and know that their own wives and children are undergoing the fate of captives. the time came when elsie was to be laid by her mother in the small square marked by the white stone. it was not unwillingly that the reverend chauncy fairweather had relinquished the duty of conducting the service to the reverend doctor honeywood, in accordance with elsie's request. he could not, by any reasoning, reconcile his present way of thinking with a hope for the future of his unfortunate parishioner. any good old roman catholic priest, born and bred to his faith and his business, would have found a loophole into some kind of heaven for her, by virtue of his doctrine of "invincible ignorance," or other special proviso; but a recent convert cannot enter into the working conditions of his new creed. beliefs must be lived in for a good while, before they accommodate themselves to the soul's wants, and wear loose enough to be comfortable. the reverend doctor had no such scruples. like thousands of those who are classed nominally with the despairing believers, he had never prayed over a departed brother or sister without feeling and expressing a guarded hope that there was mercy in store for the poor sinner, whom parents, wives, children, brothers and sisters could not bear to give up to utter ruin without a word,--and would not, as he knew full well, in virtue of that human love and sympathy which nothing can ever extinguish. and in this poor elsie's history he could read nothing which the tears of the recording angel might not wash away. as the good physician of the place knew the diseases that assailed the bodies of men and women, so he had learned the mysteries of the sickness of the soul. so many wished to look upon elsie's face once more, that her father would not deny them; nay, he was pleased that those who remembered her living should see her in the still beauty of death. helen and those with her arrayed her for this farewell-view. all was ready for the sad or curious eyes which were to look upon her. there 'was no painful change to be concealed by any artifice. even her round neck was left uncovered, that she might be more like one who slept. only the golden cord was left in its place: some searching eye might detect a trace of that birthmark which it was whispered she had always worn a necklace to conceal. at the last moment, when all the preparations were completed, old sophy stooped over her, and, with trembling hand, loosed the golden cord. she looked intently; for some little space: there was no shade nor blemish where the ring of gold had encircled her throat. she took it gently away and laid it in the casket which held her ornaments. "the lord be praised!" the old woman cried, aloud. "he has taken away the mark that was on her; she's fit to meet his holy angels now!" so elsie lay for hours in the great room, in a kind of state, with flowers all about her,--her black hair braided as in life,--her brows smooth, as if they had never known the scowl of passion,--and on her lips the faint smile with which she had uttered her last "good--night." the young girls from the school looked at her, one after another, and passed on, sobbing, carrying in their hearts the picture that would be with them all their days. the great people of the place were all there with their silent sympathy. the lesser kind of gentry, and many of the plainer folk of the village, half-pleased to find themselves passing beneath the stately portico of the ancient mansion-house, crowded in, until the ample rooms were overflowing. all the friends whose acquaintance we have made were there, and many from remoter villages and towns. there was a deep silence at last. the hour had come for the parting words to be spoken over the dead. the good old minister's voice rose out of the stillness, subdued and tremulous at first, but growing firmer and clearer as he went on, until it reached the ears of the visitors who were in the far, desolate chambers, looking at the pictured hangings and the old dusty portraits. he did not tell her story in his prayer. he only spoke of our dear departed sister as one of many whom providence in its wisdom has seen fit to bring under bondage from their cradles. it was not for us to judge them by any standard of our own. he who made the heart alone knew the infirmities it inherited or acquired. for all that our dear sister had presented that was interesting and attractive in her character we were to be grateful; for whatever was dark or inexplicable we must trust that the deep shadow which rested on the twilight dawn of her being might render a reason before the bar of omniscience; for the grace which had lightened her last days we should pour out our hearts in thankful acknowledgment. from the life and the death of this our dear sister we should learn a lesson of patience with our fellow-creatures in their inborn peculiarities, of charity in judging what seem to us wilful faults of character, of hope and trust, that, by sickness or affliction, or such inevitable discipline as life must always bring with it, if by no gentler means, the soul which had been left by nature to wander into the path of error and of suffering might be reclaimed and restored to its true aim, and so led on by divine grace to its eternal welfare. he closed his prayer by commending each member of the afflicted family to the divine blessing. then all at once rose the clear sound of the girls' voices, in the sweet, sad melody of a funeral hymn,--one of those which elsie had marked, as if prophetically, among her own favorites. and so they laid her in the earth, and showered down flowers upon her, and filled her grave, and covered it with green sods. by the side of it was another oblong ridge, with a white stone standing at its head. mr. bernard looked upon it, as he came close to the place where elsie was laid, and read the inscription, catalina wife to dudley venner died october th aged xx years a gentle rain fell on the turf after it was laid. this was the beginning of a long and dreary autumnal storm, a deferred "equinoctial," as many considered it. the mountain streams were all swollen and turbulent, and the steep declivities were furrowed in every direction by new channels. it made the house seem doubly desolate to hear the wind howling and the rain beating upon the roofs. the poor relation who was staying at the house would insist on helen's remaining a few days: old sophy was in such a condition, that it kept her in continual anxiety, and there were many cares which helen could take off from her. the old black woman's life was buried in her darling's grave. she did nothing but moan and lament for her. at night she was restless, and would get up and wander to elsie's apartment and look for her and call her by name. at other times she would lie awake and listen to the wind and the rain,--sometimes with such a wild look upon her face, and with such sudden starts and exclamations, that it seemed as if she heard spirit-voices and were answering the whispers of unseen visitants. with all this were mingled hints of her old superstition,--forebodings of something fearful about to happen,--perhaps the great final catastrophe of all things, according to the prediction current in the kitchens of rockland. "hark!" old sophy would say,--"don' you hear th' crackin' 'n' th' snappin' up in th' mountain, 'n' th' rollin' o' th' big stones? the' 's somethin' stirrin' among th' rocks; i hear th' soun' of it in th' night, when th' wind has stopped blowin'. oh, stay by me a little while, miss darlin'! stay by me! for it's th' las' day, maybe, that's close on us, 'n' i feel as if i could n' meet th' lord all alone!" it was curious,--but helen did certainly recognize sounds, during the lull of the storm, which were not of falling rain or running streams,--short snapping sounds, as of tense cords breaking,--long uneven sounds, as of masses rolling down steep declivities. but the morning came as usual; and as the others said nothing of these singular noises, helen did not think it necessary to speak of them. all day long she and the humble relative of elsie's mother, who had appeared as poor relations are wont to in the great prises of life, were busy in arranging the disordered house, and looking over the various objects which elsie's singular tastes had brought together, to dispose of them as her father might direct. they all met together at the usual hour for tea. one of the servants came in, looking very blank, and said to the poor relation, "the well is gone dry; we have nothing but rainwater." dudley venner's countenance changed; he sprang to, his feet and went to--assure himself of the fact, and, if he could, of the reason of it. for a well to dry up during such a rain-storm was extraordinary,--it was ominous. he came back, looking very anxious. "did any of you notice any remarkable sounds last night," he said,--"or this morning? hark! do you hear anything now?" they listened in perfect silence for a few moments. then there came a short cracking sound, and two or three snaps, as of parting cords. dudley venner called all his household together. "we are in danger here, as i think, to-night," he said,--"not very great danger, perhaps, but it is a risk i do not wish you to run. these heavy rains have loosed some of the rocks above, and they may come down and endanger the house. harness the horses, elbridge, and take all the family away. miss darley will go to the institute; the others will pass the night at the mountain house. i shall stay here, myself: it is not at all likely that anything will come of these warnings; but if there should, i choose to be there and take my chance." it needs little, generally, to frighten servants, and they were all ready enough to go. the poor relation was one of the timid sort, and was terribly uneasy to be got out of the house. this left no alternative, of course, for helen, but to go also. they all urged upon dudley veneer to go with them: if there was danger, why should he remain to risk it, when he sent away the others? old sophy said nothing until the time came for her to go with the second of elbridge's carriage-loads. "come, sophy," said dudley veneer, "get your things and go. they will take good care of you at the mountain house; and when we have made sure that there is no real danger, you shall come back at once." "no, masse!" sophy answered. "i've seen elsie into th' ground, 'n' i a'n't goin' away to come back 'n' fin' masse veneer buried under th' rocks. my darlin' 's gone; 'n' now, if masse goes, 'n' th' of place goes, it's time for ol' sophy to go, too. no, masse veneer, we'll both stay in th' of mansion 'n' wait for th' lord!" nothing could change the old woman's determination; and her master, who only feared, but did not really expect the long-deferred catastrophe, was obliged to consent to her staying. the sudden drying of the well at such a time was the most alarming sign; for he remembered that the same thing had been observed just before great mountain-slides. this long rain, too, was just the kind of cause which was likely to loosen the strata of rock piled up in the ledges; if the dreaded event should ever come to pass, it would be at such a time. he paced his chamber uneasily until long past midnight. if the morning came without accident, he meant to have a careful examination made of all the rents and fissures above, of their direction and extent, and especially whether, in case of a mountain-slide, the huge masses would be like to reach so far to the east and so low down the declivity as the mansion. at two o'clock in the morning he was dozing in his chair. old sophy had lain down on her bed, and was muttering in troubled dreams. all at once a loud crash seemed to rend the very heavens above them: a crack as of the thunder that follows close upon the bolt,--a rending and crashing as of a forest snapped through all its stems, torn, twisted, splintered, dragged with all its ragged boughs into one chaotic ruin. the ground trembled under them as in an earthquake; the old mansion shuddered so that all its windows chattered in their casements; the great chimney shook off its heavy cap-stones, which came down on the roof with resounding concussions; and the echoes of the mountain roared and bellowed in long reduplication, as if its whole foundations were rent, and this were the terrible voice of its dissolution. dudley venner rose from his chair, folded his arms, and awaited his fate. there was no knowing where to look for safety; and he remembered too well the story of the family that was lost by rushing out of the house, and so hurrying into the very jaws of death. he had stood thus but for a moment, when he heard the voice of old sophy in a wild cry of terror: "it's th' las' day! it's th' las' day! the lord is comin' to take us all!" "sophy!" he called; but she did not hear him or heed him, and rushed out of the house. the worst danger was over. if they were to be destroyed, it would necessarily be in a few seconds from the first thrill of the terrible convulsion. he waited in awful suspense, but calm. not more than one or two minutes could have passed before the frightful tumult and all its sounding echoes had ceased. he called old sophy; but she did not answer. he went to the western window and looked forth into the darkness. he could not distinguish the outlines of the landscape, but the white stone was clearly visible, and by its side the new-made mound. nay, what was that which obscured its outline, in shape like a human figure? he flung open the window and sprang through. it was all that there was left of poor old sophy, stretched out lifeless, upon her darling's grave. he had scarcely composed her limbs and drawn the sheet over her, when the neighbors began to arrive from all directions. each was expecting to hear of houses overwhelmed and families destroyed; but each came with the story that his own household was safe. it was not until the morning dawned that the true nature and extent of the sudden movement was ascertained. a great seam had opened above the long cliff, and the terrible rattlesnake ledge, with all its envenomed reptiles, its dark fissures and black caverns, was buried forever beneath a mighty incumbent mass of ruin. chapter xxxi. mr. silas peckham renders his account. the morning rose clear and bright. the long storm was over, and the calm autumnal sunshine was now to return, with all its infinite repose and sweetness. with the earliest dawn exploring parties were out in every direction along the southern slope of the mountain, tracing the ravages of the great slide and the track it had followed. it proved to be not so much a slide as the breaking off and falling of a vast line of cliff, including the dreaded ledge. it had folded over like the leaves of a half-opened book when they close, crushing the trees below, piling its ruins in a glacis at the foot of what had been the overhanging wall of the cliff, and filling up that deep cavity above the mansion-house which bore the ill-omened name of dead man's hollow. this it was which had saved the dudley mansion. the falling masses, or huge fragments breaking off from them, would have swept the house and all around it to destruction but for this deep shelving dell, into which the stream of ruin was happily directed. it was, indeed, one of nature's conservative revolutions; for the fallen masses made a kind oz shelf, which interposed a level break between the inclined planes above and below it, so that the nightmare-fancies of the dwellers in the dudley mansion, and in many other residences under the shadow of the mountain, need not keep them lying awake hereafter to listen for the snapping of roots and the splitting of the rocks above them. twenty-four hours after the falling of the cliff, it seemed as if it had happened ages ago. the new fact had fitted itself in with all the old predictions, forebodings, fears, and acquired the solidarity belonging to all events which have slipped out of the fingers of time and dissolved in the antecedent eternity. old sophy was lying dead in the dudley mansion. if there were tears shed for her, they could not be bitter ones; for she had lived out her full measure of days, and gone--who could help fondly believing it?--to rejoin her beloved mistress. they made a place for her at the foot of the two mounds. it was thus she would have chosen to sleep, and not to have wronged her humble devotion in life by asking to lie at the side of those whom she had served so long and faithfully. there were very few present at the simple ceremony. helen darley was one of these few. the old black woman had been her companion in all the kind offices of which she had been the ministering angel to elsie. after it was all over, helen was leaving with the rest, when dudley veneer begged her to stay a little, and he would send her back: it was a long walk; besides, he wished to say some things to her, which he had not had the opportunity of speaking. of course helen could not refuse him; there must be many thoughts coming into his mind which he would wish to share with her who had known his daughter so long and been with filer in her last days. she returned into the great parlor with the wrought cornices and the medallion-portraits on the ceiling. "i am now alone in the world," dudley veneer said. helen must have known that before he spoke. but the tone in which he said it had so much meaning, that she could not find a word to answer him with. they sat in silence, which the old tall clock counted out in long seconds; but it was silence which meant more than any words they had ever spoken. "alone in the world. helen, the freshness of my life is gone, and there is little left of the few graces which in my younger days might have fitted me to win the love of women. listen to me,--kindly, if you can; forgive me, at least. half my life has been passed in constant fear and anguish, without any near friend to share my trials. my task is done now; my fears have ceased to prey upon me; the sharpness of early sorrows has yielded something of its edge to time. you have bound me to you by gratitude in the tender care you have taken of my poor child. more than this. i must tell you all now, out of the depth of this trouble through which i am passing. i have loved you from the moment we first met; and if my life has anything left worth accepting, it is yours. will you take the offered gift?" helen looked in his face, surprised, bewildered. "this is not for me,--not for me," she said. "i am but a poor faded flower, not worth the gathering, of such a one as you. no, no,--i have been bred to humble toil all my days, and i could not be to you what you ought to ask. i am accustomed to a kind of loneliness and self-dependence. i have seen nothing, almost, of the world, such as you were born to move in. leave me to my obscure place and duties; i shall at least have peace;--and you--you will surely find in due time some one better fitted by nature and training to make you happy." "no, miss darley!" dudley venner said, almost sternly. "you must not speak to a man, who has lived through my experiences, of looking about for a new choice after his heart has once chosen. say that you can never love me; say that i have lived too long to share your young life; say that sorrow has left nothing in me for love to find his pleasure in; but do not mock me with the hope of a new affection for some unknown object. the first look of yours brought me to your side. the first tone of your voice sunk into my heart. from this moment my life must wither out or bloom anew. my home is desolate. come under my roof and make it bright once more,--share my life with me,--or i shall give the halls of the old mansion to the bats and the owls, and wander forth alone without a hope or a friend!" to find herself with a man's future at the disposal of a single word of hers!--a man like this, too, with a fascination for her against which she had tried to shut her heart, feeling that he lived in another sphere than hers, working as she was for her bread a poor operative in the factory of a hard master and jealous overseer, the salaried drudge of mr. silas peckham! why, she had thought he was grateful to her as a friend of his daughter; she had even pleased herself with the feeling that he liked her, in her humble place, as a woman of some cultivation and many sympathetic points of relation with himself; but that he loved her,--that this deep, fine nature, in a man so far removed from her in outward circumstance, should have found its counterpart in one whom life had treated so coldly as herself,--that dudley venner should stake his happiness on a breath of hers,--poor helen darley's,--it was all a surprise, a confusion, a kind of fear not wholly fearful. ah, me! women know what it is, that mist over the eyes, that trembling in the limbs, that faltering of the voice, that sweet, shame-faced, unspoken confession of weakness which does not wish to be strong, that sudden overflow in the soul where thoughts loose their hold on each other and swim single and helpless in the flood of emotion,--women know what it is! no doubt she was a little frightened and a good deal bewildered, and that her sympathies were warmly excited for a friend to whom she had been brought so near, and whose loneliness she saw and pitied. she lost that calm self-possession she had hoped to maintain. "if i thought that i could make you happy,--if i should speak from my heart, and not my reason,--i am but a weak woman,--yet if i can be to you--what can i say?" what more could this poor, dear helen say? "elbridge, harness the horses and take miss darley back to the school." what conversation had taken place since helen's rhetorical failure is not recorded in the minutes from which this narrative is constructed. but when the man who had been summoned had gone to get the carriage ready, helen resumed something she had been speaking of. "not for the world. everything must go on just as it has gone on, for the present. there are proprieties to be consulted. i cannot be hard with you, that out of your very affliction has sprung this--this well--you must name it for me,--but the world will never listen to explanations. i am to be helen darley, lady assistant in mr. silas peckham's school, as long as i see fit to hold my office. and i mean to attend to my scholars just as before; so that i shall have very little time for visiting or seeing company. i believe, though, you are one of the trustees and a member of the examining committee; so that, if you should happen to visit the school, i shall try to be civil to you." every lady sees, of course, that helen was quite right; but perhaps here and there one will think that dudley venner was all wrong,--that he was too hasty,--that he should have been too full of his recent grief for such a confession as he has just made, and the passion from which it sprung. perhaps they do not understand the sudden recoil of a strong nature long compressed. perhaps they have not studied the mystery of allotropism in the emotions of the human heart. go to the nearest chemist and ask him to show you some of the dark-red phosphorus which will not burn without fierce heating, but at deg. fahrenheit, changes back again to the inflammable substance we know so well. grief seems more like ashes than like fire; but as grief has been love once, so it may become love again. this is emotional allotropism. helen rode back to the institute and inquired for mr. peckham. she had not seen him during the brief interval between her departure from the mansion-house and her return to old sophy's funeral. there were various questions about the school she wished to ask. "oh, how's your haalth, miss darley?" silas began. "we've missed you consid'able. glad to see you back at the post of dooty. hope the squire treated you hahnsomely,--liberal pecooniary compensation,--hey? a'n't much of a loser, i guess, by acceptin' his propositions?" helen blushed at this last question, as if silas had meant something by it beyond asking what money she had received; but his own double-meaning expression and her blush were too nice points for him to have taken cognizance of. he was engaged in a mental calculation as to the amount of the deduction he should make under the head of "demage to the institootion,"--this depending somewhat on that of the "pecooniary compensation" she might have received for her services as the friend of elsie venner. so helen slid back at once into her routine, the same faithful, patient creature she had always been. but what was this new light which seemed to have kindled in her eyes? what was this look of peace, which nothing could disturb, which smiled serenely through all the little meannesses with which the daily life of the educational factory surrounded her, which not only made her seem resigned, but overflowed all her features with a thoughtful, subdued happiness? mr. bernard did not know,--perhaps he did not guess. the inmates of the dudley mansion were not scandalized by any mysterious visits of a veiled or unveiled lady. the vibrating tongues of the "female youth" of the institute were not set in motion by the standing of an equipage at the gate, waiting for their lady-teacher. the servants at the mansion did not convey numerous letters with superscriptions in a bold, manly hand, sealed with the arms of a well-known house, and directed to miss helen darley; nor, on the other hand, did hiram, the man from the lean streak in new hampshire, carry sweet-smelling, rose-hued, many-layered, criss-crossed, fine-stitch-lettered packages of note-paper directed to dudley venner, esq., and all too scanty to hold that incredible expansion of the famous three words which a woman was born to say,--that perpetual miracle which astonishes all the go-betweens who wear their shoes out in carrying a woman's infinite variations on the theme-- "i love you." but the reader must remember that there are walks in country-towns where people are liable to meet by accident, and that the hollow of an old tree has served the purpose of a post-office sometimes; so that he has her choice (to divide the pronouns impartially) of various hypotheses to account for the new glory of happiness which seemed to have irradiated our poor helen's features, as if her dreary life were awakening in the dawn of a blessed future. with all the alleviations which have been hinted at, mr. dudley venner thought that the days and the weeks had never moved so slowly as through the last period of the autumn that was passing. elsie had been a perpetual source of anxiety to him, but still she had been a companion. he could not mourn for her; for he felt that she was safer with her mother, in that world where there are no more sorrows and dangers, than she could have been with him. but as he sat at his window and looked at the three mounds, the loneliness of the great house made it seem more like the sepulchre than these narrow dwellings where his beloved and her daughter lay close to each other, side by side,--catalina, the bride of his youth, and elsie, the child whom he had nurtured, with poor old sophy, who had followed them like a black shadow, at their feet, under the same soft turf, sprinkled with the brown autumnal leaves. it was not good for him to be thus alone. how should he ever live through the long months of november and december? the months of november and december did, in some way or other, get rid of themselves at last, bringing with them the usual events of village-life and a few unusual ones. some of the geologists had been up to look at the great slide, of which they gave those prolix accounts which everybody remembers who read the scientific journals of the time. the engineers reported that there was little probability of any further convulsion along the line of rocks which overhung the more thickly settled part of the town. the naturalists drew up a paper on the "probable extinction of the crotalus durissus in the township of rockland." the engagement of the widow rowens to a little millionville merchant was announced,--"sudding 'n' onexpected," widow leech said,--"waalthy, or she wouldn't ha' looked at him,--fifty year old, if he is a day, 'n' hu'n't got a white hair in his head." the reverend chauncy fairweather had publicly announced that he was going to join the roman catholic communion,--not so much to the surprise or consternation of the religious world as he had supposed. several old ladies forthwith proclaimed their intention of following him; but, as one or two of them were deaf, and another had been threatened with an attack of that mild, but obstinate complaint, dementia senilis, many thought it was not so much the force of his arguments as a kind of tendency to jump as the bellwether jumps, well known in flocks not included in the christian fold. his bereaved congregation immediately began pulling candidates on and off, like new boots, on trial. some pinched in tender places; some were too loose; some were too square-toed; some were too coarse, and did n't please; some were too thin, and would n't last;--in short, they could n't possibly find a fit. at last, people began to drop in to hear old doctor honeywood. they were quite surprised to find what a human old gentleman he was, and went back and told the others, that, instead of being a case of confluent sectarianism, as they supposed, the good old minister had been so well vaccinated with charitable virus that he was now a true, open-souled christian of the mildest type. the end of all which was, that the liberal people went over to the old minister almost in a body, just at the time that deacon shearer and the "vinegar-bible" party split off, and that not long afterwards they sold their own meeting-house to the malecontents, so that deacon soper used often to remind colonel sprowle of his wish that "our little man and him [the reverend doctor] would swop pulpits," and tell him it had "pooty nigh come trew."--but this is anticipating the course of events, which were much longer in coming about; for we have but just got through that terrible long month, as mr. dudley venner found it, of december. on the first of january, mr. silas peckham was in the habit of settling his quarterly accounts, and making such new arrangements as his convenience or interest dictated. new year was a holiday at the institute. no doubt this accounted for helen's being dressed so charmingly,--always, to be sure in, her own simple way, but yet with such a true lady's air, that she looked fit to be the mistress of any mansion in the land. she was in the parlor alone, a little before noon, when mr. peckham came in. "i'm ready to settle my accaount with you now, miss darley," said silas. "as you please, mr. peckham," helen answered, very graciously. "before payin' you your selary," the principal continued, "i wish to come to an understandin' as to the futur'. i consider that i've been payin' high, very high, for the work you do. women's wages can't be expected to do more than feed and clothe 'em, as a gineral thing, with a little savin', in case of sickness, and to bury 'em, if they break daown, as all of 'em are liable to do at any time. if i a'n't misinformed, you not only support yourself out of my establishment, but likewise relatives of yours, who i don't know that i'm called upon to feed and clothe. there is a young woman, not burdened with destitute relatives, has signified that she would be glad to take your dooties for less pecooniary compensation, by a consid'able amaount, than you now receive. i shall be willin', however, to retain your services at sech redooced rate as we shall fix upon,--provided sech redooced rate be as low or lower than the same services can be obtained elsewhere." "as you please, mr. peckham," helen answered, with a smile so sweet that the principal (who of course had trumped up this opposition-teacher for the occasion) said to himself she would stand being cut down a quarter, perhaps a half, of her salary. "here is your accaount, miss darley, and the balance doo you," said silas peckham, handing her a paper and a small roll of infectious-flavored bills wrapping six poisonous coppers of the old coinage. she took the paper and began looking at it. she could not quite make up her mind to touch the feverish bills with the cankering coppers in them, and left them airing themselves on the table. the document she held ran as follows: silas peckham, esq., principal of the apollinean institute, in account with helen darley, assist. teacher. dr. cr. to salary for quarter by deduction for absence ending jan st @ $ per week days ...........$ . quarter ................ $ . "board, lodging, etc for days @ cts per day.. . "damage to institution by absence of teacher from duties, say ............. . "stationary furnished ..... . "postage-stamp ............ . "balance due helen darley. . ------ -------- $ . $ . rockland, jan. st, . now helen had her own private reasons for wishing to receive the small sum which was due her at this time without any unfair deduction,--reasons which we need not inquire into too particularly, as we may be very sure that they were right and womanly. so, when she looked over this account of mr. silas peckham's, and saw that he had contrived to pare down her salary to something less than half its stipulated amount, the look which her countenance wore was as near to that of righteous indignation as her gentle features and soft blue eyes would admit of its being. "why, mr. peckham," she said, "do you mean this? if i am of so much value to you that you must take off twenty-five dollars for ten days' absence, how is it that my salary is to be cut down to less than seventy-five dollars a quarter, if i remain here?" "i gave you fair notice," said silas. "i have a minute of it i took down immed'ately after the intervoo." he lugged out his large pocket-book with the strap going all round it, and took from it a slip of paper which confirmed his statement. "besides," he added, slyly, "i presoom you have received a liberal pecooniary compensation from squire venner for nussin' his daughter." helen was looking over the bill while he was speaking. "board and lodging for ten days, mr. peckham,--whose board and lodging, pray?" the door opened before silas peckham could answer, and mr. bernard walked into the parlor. helen was holding the bill in her hand, looking as any woman ought to look who has been at once wronged and insulted. "the last turn of the thumbscrew!" said mr. bernard to himself. "what is it, helen? you look troubled." she handed him the account. he looked at the footing of it. then he looked at the items. then he looked at silas peckham. at this moment silas was sublime. he was so transcendently unconscious of the emotions going on in mr. bernard's mind at the moment, that he had only a single thought. "the accaount's correc'ly cast, i presoom;--if the' 's any mistake of figgers or addin' 'em up, it'll be made all right. everything's accordin' to agreement. the minute written immed'ately after the intervoo is here in my possession." mr. bernard looked at helen. just what would have happened to silas peckham, as he stood then and there, but for the interposition of a merciful providence, nobody knows or ever will know; for at that moment steps were heard upon the stairs, and hiram threw open the parlor-door for mr. dudley venner to enter. he saluted them all gracefully with the good-wishes of the season, and each of them returned his compliment,--helen blushing fearfully, of course, but not particularly noticed in her embarrassment by more than one. silas peckham reckoned with perfect confidence on his trustees, who had always said what he told them to, and done what he wanted. it was a good chance now to show off his power, and, by letting his instructors know the unstable tenure of their offices, make it easier to settle his accounts and arrange his salaries. there was nothing very strange in mr. venner's calling; he was one of the trustees, and this was new year's day. but he had called just at the lucky moment for mr. peckham's object. "i have thought some of makin' changes in the department of instruction," he began. "several accomplished teachers have applied to me, who would be glad of sitooations. i understand that there never have been so many fust-rate teachers, male and female, out of employment as doorin' the present season. if i can make sahtisfahctory arrangements with my present corpse of teachers, i shall be glad to do so; otherwise i shell, with the permission of the trustees, make sech noo arrangements as circumstahnces compel." "you may make arrangements for a new assistant in my department, mr. peckham," said mr. bernard, "at once,--this day,--this hour. i am not safe to be trusted with your person five minutes out of this lady's presence,--of whom i beg pardon for this strong language. mr. venner, i must beg you, as one of the trustees of this institution, to look at the manner in which its principal has attempted to swindle this faithful teacher whose toils and sacrifices and self-devotion to the school have made it all that it is, in spite of this miserable trader's incompetence. will you look at the paper i hold?" dudley venner took the account and read it through, without changing a feature. then he turned to silas peckham. "you may make arrangements for a new assistant in the branches this lady has taught. miss helen darley is to be my wife. i had hoped to have announced this news in a less abrupt and ungraceful manner. but i came to tell you with my own lips what you would have learned before evening from my friends in the village." mr. bernard went to helen, who stood silent, with downcast eyes, and took her hand warmly, hoping she might find all the happiness she deserved. then he turned to dudley venner, and said, "she is a queen, but has never found it out. the world has nothing nobler than this dear woman, whom you have discovered in the disguise of a teacher. god bless her and you!" dudley venner returned his friendly grasp, without answering a word in articulate speech. silas remained dumb and aghast for a brief space. coming to himself a little, he thought there might have been some mistake about the items,--would like to have miss barley's bill returned,--would make it all right,--had no idee that squire venner had a special int'rest in miss barley,--was sorry he had given offence,--if he might take that bill and look it over-- "no. mr. peckham," said mr. dudley venner, "there will be a full meeting of the board next week, and the bill, and such evidence with reference to the management of the institution and the treatment of its instructors as mr. langdon sees fit to bring forward will be laid before them." miss helen darley became that very day the guest of miss arabella thornton, the judge's daughter. mr. bernard made his appearance a week or two later at the lectures, where the professor first introduced him to the reader. he stayed after the class had left the room. "ah, mr. langdon! how do you do? very glad to see you back again. how have you been since our correspondence on fascination and other curious scientific questions?" it was the professor who spoke,--whom the reader will recognize as myself, the teller of this story. "i have been well," mr. bernard answered, with a serious look which invited a further question. "i hope you have had none of those painful or dangerous experiences you seemed to be thinking of when you wrote; at any rate, you have escaped having your obituary written." "i have seen some things worth remembering. shall i call on you this evening and tell you about them?" "i shall be most happy to see you." this was the way in which i, the professor, became acquainted with some of the leading events of this story. they interested me sufficiently to lead me to avail myself of all those other extraordinary methods of obtaining information well known to writers of narrative. mr. langdon seemed to me to have gained in seriousness and strength of character by his late experiences. he threw his whole energies into his studies with an effect which distanced all his previous efforts. remembering my former hint, he employed his spare hours in writing for the annual prizes, both of which he took by a unanimous vote of the judges. those who heard him read his thesis at the medical commencement will not soon forget the impression made by his fine personal appearance and manners, nor the universal interest excited in the audience, as he read, with his beautiful enunciation, that striking paper entitled "unresolved nebulae in vital science." it was a general remark of the faculty,--and old doctor kittredge, who had come down on purpose to hear mr. langdon, heartily agreed to it,--that there had never been a diploma filled up, since the institution which conferred upon him the degree of doctor medicdnce was founded, which carried with it more of promise to the profession than that which bore the name of bernardus caryl langdon chapter xxxii. conclusion. mr. bernard langdon had no sooner taken his degree, than, in accordance with the advice of one of his teachers whom he frequently consulted, he took an office in the heart of the city where he had studied. he had thought of beginning in a suburb or some remoter district of the city proper. "no," said his teacher,--to wit, myself,--"don't do any such thing. you are made for the best kind of practice; don't hamper yourself with an outside constituency, such as belongs to a practitioner of the second class. when a fellow like you chooses his beat, he must look ahead a little. take care of all the poor that apply to you, but leave the half-pay classes to a different style of doctor,--the people who spend one half their time in taking care of their patients, and the other half in squeezing out their money. go for the swell-fronts and south-exposure houses; the folks inside are just as good as other people, and the pleasantest, on the whole, to take care of. they must have somebody, and they like a gentleman best. don't throw yourself away. you have a good presence and pleasing manners. you wear white linen by inherited instinct. you can pronounce the word view. you have all the elements of success; go and take it. be polite and generous, but don't undervalue yourself. you will be useful, at any rate; you may just as well be happy, while you are about it. the highest social class furnishes incomparably the best patients, taking them by and large. besides, when they won't get well and bore you to death, you can send 'em off to travel. mind me now, and take the tops of your sparrowgrass. somebody must have 'em,--why shouldn't you? if you don't take your chance, you'll get the butt-ends as a matter of course." mr. bernard talked like a young man full of noble sentiments. he wanted to be useful to his fellow-beings. their social differences were nothing to him. he would never court the rich,--he would go where he was called. he would rather save the life of a poor mother of a family than that of half a dozen old gouty millionnaires whose heirs had been yawning and stretching these ten years to get rid of them. "generous emotions!" i exclaimed. "cherish 'em; cling to 'em till you are fifty, till you are seventy, till you are ninety! but do as i tell you,--strike for the best circle of practice, and you 'll be sure to get it!" mr. langdon did as i told him,--took a genteel office, furnished it neatly, dressed with a certain elegance, soon made a pleasant circle of acquaintances, and began to work his way into the right kind of business. i missed him, however, for some days, not long after he had opened his office. on his return, he told me he had been up at rockland, by special invitation, to attend the wedding of mr. dudley venner and miss helen darley. he gave me a full account of the ceremony, which i regret that i cannot relate in full. "helen looked like an angel,"--that, i am sure, was one of his expressions. as for her dress, i should like to give the details, but am afraid of committing blunders, as men always do, when they undertake to describe such matters. white dress, anyhow,--that i am sure of,--with orange-flowers, and the most wonderful lace veil that was ever seen or heard of. the reverend doctor honeywood performed the ceremony, of course. the good people seemed to have forgotten they ever had had any other minister, except deacon shearer and his set of malcontents, who were doing a dull business in the meeting-house lately occupied by the reverend mr. fairweather. "who was at the wedding?" "everybody, pretty much. they wanted to keep it quiet, but it was of no use. married at church. front pews, old dr. kittredge and all the mansionhouse people and distinguished strangers,--colonel sprowle and family, including matilda's young gentleman, a graduate of one of the fresh-water colleges,--mrs. pickins (late widow rowens) and husband,--deacon soper and numerous parishioners. a little nearer the door, abel, the doctor's man, and elbridge, who drove them to church in the family-coach. father fairweather, as they all call him now, came in late with father mcshane." "and silas peckham?" "oh, silas had left the school and rockland. cut up altogether too badly in the examination instituted by the trustees. had removed over to tamarack, and thought of renting a large house and 'farming' the town-poor." some time after this, as i was walking with a young friend along by the swell-fronts and south-exposures, whom should i see but mr. bernard langdon, looking remarkably happy, and keeping step by the side of a very handsome and singularly well-dressed young lady? he bowed and lifted his hat as we passed. "who is that pretty girl my young doctor has got there?" i said to my companion. "who is that?" he answered. "you don't know? why, that is neither more nor less than miss letitia forrester, daughter of--of--why, the great banking firm, you know, bilyuns brothers & forrester. got acquainted with her in the country, they say. there 's a story that they're engaged, or like to be, if the firm consents." "oh" i said. i did not like the look of it in the least. too young,--too young. has not taken any position yet. no right to ask for the hand of bilyuns brothers & co.'s daughter. besides, it will spoil him for practice, if he marries a rich girl before he has formed habits of work. i looked in at his office the other day. a box of white kids was lying open on the table. a three-cornered note, directed in a very delicate lady's-hand, was distinguishable among a heap of papers. i was just going to call him to account for his proceedings, when he pushed the three-cornered note aside and took up a letter with a great corporation-seal upon it. he had received the offer of a professor's chair in an ancient and distinguished institution. "pretty well for three-and-twenty, my boy," i said. "i suppose you'll think you must be married one of these days, if you accept this office." mr. langdon blushed.--there had been stories about him, he knew. his name had been mentioned in connection with that of a very charming young lady. the current reports were not true. he had met this young lady, and been much pleased with her, in the country, at the house of her grandfather, the reverend doctor honeywood,--you remember miss letitia forrester, whom i have mentioned repeatedly? on coming to town, he found his country-acquaintance in a social position which seemed to discourage his continued intimacy. he had discovered, however; that he was a not unwelcome visitor, and had kept up friendly relations with her. but there was no truth in the current reports,--none at all.' some months had passed, after this visit, when i happened one evening to stroll into a box in one of the principal theatres of the city. a small party sat on the seats before me: a middle-aged gentleman and his lady, in front, and directly behind them my young doctor and the same very handsome young lady i had seen him walking with on the sidewalk before the swell-fronts and south-exposures. as professor langdon seemed to be very much taken up with his companion, and both of them looked as if they were enjoying themselves, i determined not to make my presence known to my young friend, and to withdraw quietly after feasting my eyes with the sight of them for a few minutes. "it looks as if something might come of it," i said to myself. at that moment the young lady lifted her arm accidentally in such a way that the light fell upon the clasp of a chain which encircled her wrist. my eyes filled with tears as i read upon the clasp, in sharp-cut italic letters, e. y. they were tears at once of sad remembrance and of joyous anticipation; for the ornament on which i looked was the double pledge of a dead sorrow and a living affection. it was the golden bracelet,--the parting-gift of elsie venner. the golden bracelet,--the parting-gift of elsie venner. the guardian angel by oliver wendell holmes to my readers. "a new preface" is, i find, promised with my story. if there are any among my readers who loved aesop's fables chiefly on account of the moral appended, they will perhaps be pleased to turn backward and learn what i have to say here. this tale forms a natural sequence to a former one, which some may remember, entitled "elsie venner." like that,--it is intended for two classes of readers, of which the smaller one includes the readers of the "morals" in aesop and of this preface. the first of the two stories based itself upon an experiment which some thought cruel, even on paper. it imagined an alien element introduced into the blood of a human being before that being saw the light. it showed a human nature developing itself in conflict with the ophidian characteristics and instincts impressed upon it during the pre-natal period. whether anything like this ever happened, or was possible, mattered little: it enabled me, at any rate, to suggest the limitations of human responsibility in a simple and effective way. the story which follows comes more nearly within the range of common experience. the successive development of inherited bodily aspects and habitudes is well known to all who have lived long enough to see families grow up under their own eyes. the same thing happens, but less obviously to common observation, in the mental and moral nature. there is something frightful in the way in which not only characteristic qualities, but particular manifestations of them, are repeated from generation to generation. jonathan edwards the younger tells the story of a brutal wretch in new haven who was abusing his father, when the old man cried out, "don't drag me any further, for i did n't drag my father beyond this tree." [the original version of this often-repeated story may be found in aristotle's ethics, book th, chapter th.] i have attempted to show the successive evolution of some inherited qualities in the character of myrtle hazard, not so obtrusively as to disturb the narrative, but plainly enough to be kept in sight by the small class of preface-readers. if i called these two stories studies of the reflex function in its higher sphere, i should frighten away all but the professors and the learned ladies. if i should proclaim that they were protests against the scholastic tendency to shift the total responsibility of all human action from the infinite to the finite, i might alarm the jealousy of the cabinet-keepers of our doctrinal museums. by saying nothing about it, the large majority of those whom my book reaches, not being preface-readers, will never suspect anything to harm them beyond the simple facts of the narrative. should any professional alarmist choose to confound the doctrine of limited responsibility with that which denies the existence of any self-determining power, he may be presumed to belong to the class of intellectual half-breeds, of which we have many representatives in our new country, wearing the garb of civilization, and even the gown of scholarship. if we cannot follow the automatic machinery of nature into the mental and moral world, where it plays its part as much as in the bodily functions, without being accused of laying "all that we are evil in to a divine thrusting on," we had better return at once to our old demonology, and reinstate the leader of the lower house in his time-honored prerogatives. as fiction sometimes seems stranger than truth, a few words may be needed here to make some of my characters and statements appear probable. the long-pending question involving a property which had become in the mean time of immense value finds its parallel in the great de haro land-case, decided in the supreme court while this story was in progress (may th, ). the experiment of breaking the child's will by imprisonment and fasting is borrowed from a famous incident, happening long before the case lately before one of the courts of a neighboring commonwealth, where a little girl was beaten to death because she would not say her prayers. the mental state involving utter confusion of different generations in a person yet capable of forming a correct judgment on other matters, is almost a direct transcript from nature. i should not have ventured to repeat the questions of the daughters of the millionaires to myrtle hazard about her family conditions, and their comments, had not a lady of fortune and position mentioned to me a similar circumstance in the school history of one of her own children. perhaps i should have hesitated in reproducing myrtle hazard's "vision," but for a singular experience of his own related to me by the late mr. forceythe willson. gifted hopkins (under various alliasis) has been a frequent correspondent of mine. i have also received a good many communications, signed with various names, which must have been from near female relatives of that young gentleman. i once sent a kind of encyclical letter to the whole family connection; but as the delusion under which they labor is still common, and often leads to the wasting of time, the contempt of honest study or humble labor, and the misapplication of intelligence not so far below mediocrity as to be incapable of affording a respectable return when employed in the proper direction, i thought this picture from life might also be of service. when i say that no genuine young poet will apply it to himself, i think i have so far removed the sting that few or none will complain of being wounded. it is lamentable to be forced to add that the reverend joseph bellamy stoker is only a softened copy of too many originals to whom, as a regular attendant upon divine worship from my childhood to the present time, i have respectfully listened, while they dealt with me and mine and the bulk of their fellow-creatures after the manner of their sect. if, in the interval between his first showing himself in my story and its publication in a separate volume, anything had occurred to make me question the justice or expediency of drawing and exhibiting such a portrait, i should have reconsidered it, with the view of retouching its sharper features. but its essential truthfulness has been illustrated every month or two, since my story has been in the course of publication, by a fresh example from real life, stamped in darker colors than any with which i should have thought of staining my pages. there are a great many good clergymen to one bad one, but a writer finds it hard to keep to the true proportion of good and bad persons in telling a story. the three or four good ministers i have introduced in this narrative must stand for many whom i have known and loved, and some of whom i count to-day among my most valued friends. i hope the best and wisest of them will like this story and approve it. if they cannot all do this, i know they will recognize it as having been written with a right and honest purpose. boston, . preface to the new edition. it is a quarter of a century since the foregoing preface was written, and that is long enough to allow a story to be forgotten by the public, and very possibly by the writer of it also. i will not pretend that i have forgotten all about "the guardian angel," but it is long since i have read it, and many of its characters and incidents are far from being distinct in my memory. there are, however, a few points which hold their place among my recollections. the revolt of myrtle hazard from the tyranny of that dogmatic dynasty now breaking up in all directions has found new illustrations since this tale was written. i need only refer to two instances of many. the first is from real life. mr. robert c. adams's work, "travels in faith from tradition to reason," is the outcome of the teachings of one of the most intransigeant of our new england calvinists, the late reverend nehemiah adams. for an example in fiction,--fiction which bears all the marks of being copied from real life,--i will refer to "the story of an african farm." the boy's honest, but terrible outburst, "i hate god," was, i doubt not, more acceptable in the view of his maker than the lying praise of many a hypocrite who, having enthroned a demon as lord of the universe, thinks to conciliate his favor by using the phrases which the slaves of eastern despots are in the habit of addressing to their masters. i have had many private letters showing the same revolt of reasoning natures against doctrines which shock the more highly civilized part of mankind in this nineteenth century and are leading to those dissensions which have long shown as cracks, and are fast becoming lines of cleavage in some of the largest communions of protestantism. the principle of heredity has been largely studied since this story was written. this tale, like "elsie venner," depends for its deeper significance on the ante-natal history of its subject. but the story was meant to be readable for those who did not care for its underlying philosophy. if it fails to interest the reader who ventures upon it, it may find a place on an unfrequented bookshelf in common with other "medicated novels." perhaps i have been too hard with gifted hopkins and the tribe of rhymesters to which he belongs. i ought not to forget that i too introduced myself to the reading world in a thin volume of verses; many of which had better not have been written, and would not be reprinted now, but for the fact that they have established a right to a place among my poems in virtue of long occupancy. besides, although the writing of verses is often a mark of mental weakness, i cannot forget that joseph story and george bancroft each published his little book, of rhymes, and that john quincy adams has left many poems on record, the writing of which did not interfere with the vast and important labors of his illustrious career. beverly farms, mass., august , . o. w. h. the guardian angel chapter i. an advertisement. on saturday, the th day of june, , the "state banner and delphian oracle," published weekly at oxbow village, one of the principal centres in a thriving river-town of new england, contained an advertisement which involved the story of a young life, and stained the emotions of a small community. such faces of dismay, such shaking of heads, such gatherings at corners, such halts of complaining, rheumatic wagons, and dried-up, chirruping chaises, for colloquy of their still-faced tenants, had not been known since the rainy november friday, when old malachi withers was found hanging in his garret up there at the lonely house behind the poplars. the number of the "banner and oracle" which contained this advertisement was a fair specimen enough of the kind of newspaper to which it belonged. some extracts from a stray copy of the issue of the date referred to will show the reader what kind of entertainment the paper was accustomed to furnish its patrons, and also serve some incidental purposes of the writer in bringing into notice a few personages who are to figure in this narrative. the copy in question was addressed to one of its regular subscribers,--"b. gridley, esq." the sarcastic annotations at various points, enclosed in brackets and italicised that they may be distinguished from any other comments, were taken from the pencilled remarks of that gentleman, intended for the improvement of a member of the family in which he resided, and are by no means to be attributed to the harmless pen which reproduces them. byles gridley, a. m., as he would have been styled by persons acquainted with scholarly dignities, was a bachelor, who had been a schoolmaster, a college tutor, and afterwards for many years professor,--a man of learning, of habits, of whims and crotchets, such as are hardly to be found, except in old, unmarried students,--the double flowers of college culture, their stamina all turned to petals, their stock in the life of the race all funded in the individual. being a man of letters, byles gridley naturally rather undervalued the literary acquirements of the good people of the rural district where he resided, and, having known much of college and something of city life, was apt to smile at the importance they attached to their little local concerns. he was, of course, quite as much an object of rough satire to the natural observers and humorists, who are never wanting in a new england village,--perhaps not in any village where a score or two of families are brought together,--enough of them, at any rate, to furnish the ordinary characters of a real-life stock company. the old master of arts was a permanent boarder in the house of a very worthy woman, relict of the late ammi hopkins, by courtesy esquire, whose handsome monument--in a finished and carefully colored lithograph, representing a finely shaped urn under a very nicely groomed willow--hung in her small, well-darkened, and, as it were, monumental parlor. her household consisted of herself, her son, nineteen years of age, of whom more hereafter, and of two small children, twins, left upon her doorstep when little more than mere marsupial possibilities, taken in for the night, kept for a week, and always thereafter cherished by the good soul as her own; also of miss susan posey, aged eighteen, at school at the "academy" in another part of the same town, a distant relative, boarding with her. what the old scholar took the village paper for it would be hard to guess, unless for a reason like that which carried him very regularly to hear the preaching of the rev. joseph bellamy stoker, colleague of the old minister of the village parish; namely, because he did not believe a word of his favorite doctrines, and liked to go there so as to growl to himself through the sermon, and go home scolding all the way about it. the leading article of the "banner and oracle" for june th must have been of superior excellence, for, as mr. gridley remarked, several of the "metropolitan" journals of the date of june th and thereabout had evidently conversed with the writer and borrowed some of his ideas before he gave them to the public. the foreign news by the europa at halifax, th, was spread out in the amplest dimensions the type of the office could supply. more battles! the allies victorious! the king and general cialdini beat the austrians at palestro! austrians drowned in a canal! anti-french feeling in germany! allgermine zeiturg talks of conquest of allsatia and loraine and the occupation of paris! [vicious digs with a pencil through the above proper names.] race for the derby won by sir joseph hawley's musjid! [that's what england cares for! hooray for the darby! italy be deedeed!] visit of prince alfred to the holy land. letter from our, own correspondent. [oh! oh! a west minkville?] cotton advanced. breadstuffs declining.--deacon rumrill's barn burned down on saturday night. a pig missing; supposed to have "fallen a prey to the devouring element." [got roasted.] a yellow mineral had been discovered on the doolittle farm, which, by the report of those who had seen it, bore a strong resemblance to california gold ore. much excitement in the neighborhood in consequence [idiots! iron pyrites!] a hen at four corners had just laid an egg measuring by inches. fetch on your biddies! [editorial wit!] a man had shot an eagle measuring six feet and a half from tip to tip of his wings.--crops suffering for want of rain [always just so. "dry times, father noah!"] the editors had received a liberal portion of cake from the happy couple whose matrimonial union was recorded in the column dedicated to hymen. also a superior article of [article of! bah!] steel pen from the enterprising merchant [shopkeeper] whose advertisement was to be found on the third page of this paper.--an interesting surprise party [cheap theatricals] had transpired [bah!] on thursday evening last at the house of the rev. mr. stoker. the parishioners had donated [donated! give is a good word enough for the lord's prayer. donate our daily bread!] a bag of meal, a bushel of beans, a keg of pickles, and a quintal of salt-fish. the worthy pastor was much affected, etc., etc. [of course. call'em. sensation parties and done with it!] the rev. dr. pemberton and the venerable dr. hurlbut honored the occasion with their presence.--we learn that the rev. ambrose eveleth, rector of st. bartholomew's chapel, has returned from his journey, and will officiate to-morrow. then came strings of advertisements, with a luxuriant vegetation of capitals and notes of admiration. more of those prime goods! full assortments of every article in our line! [except the one thing you want!] auction sale. old furniture, feather-beds, bed-spreads [spreads! ugh!], setts [setts!] crockery-ware, odd vols., ullage bbls. of this and that, with other household goods, etc., etc., etc.,--the etceteras meaning all sorts of insane movables, such as come out of their bedlam-holes when an antiquated domestic establishment disintegrates itself at a country "vandoo."--several announcements of "feed," whatever that may be,--not restaurant dinners, anyhow,--also of "shorts,"--terms mysterious to city ears as jute and cudbear and gunnybags to such as drive oxen in the remote interior districts.--then the marriage column above alluded to, by the fortunate recipients of the cake. right opposite, as if for matrimonial ground-bait, a notice that whereas my wife, lucretia babb, has left my bed and board, i will not be responsible, etc., etc., from this date.--jacob penhallow (of the late firm wibird and penhallow) had taken mr. william murray bradshaw into partnership, and the business of the office would be carried on as usual under the title penhallow and bradshaw, attorneys at law. then came the standing professional card of dr. lemuel hurlbut and dr. fordyce hurlbut, the medical patriarch of the town and his son. following this, hideous quack advertisements, some of them with the certificates of honorables, esquires, and clergymen.--then a cow, strayed or stolen from the subscriber.--then the advertisement referred to in our first paragraph: myrtle hazard has been missing from her home in this place since thursday morning, june th. she is fifteen years old, tall and womanly for her age, has dark hair and eyes, fresh complexion, regular features, pleasant smile and voice, but shy with strangers. her common dress was a black and white gingham check, straw hat, trimmed with green ribbon. it is feared she may have come to harm in some way, or be wandering at large in a state of temporary mental alienation. any information relating to the missing child will be gratefully received and properly rewarded by her afflicted aunt, miss silence withers, residing at the withers homestead, otherwise known as "the poplars," in this village. chapter ii. great excitement the publication of the advertisement in the paper brought the village fever of the last two days to its height. myrtle hazard's disappearance had been pretty well talked round through the immediate neighborhood, but now that forty-eight hours of search and inquiry had not found her, and the alarm was so great that the young girl's friends were willing to advertise her in a public journal, it was clear that the gravest apprehensions were felt and justified. the paper carried the tidings to many who had not heard it. some of the farmers who had been busy all the week with their fields came into the village in their wagons on saturday, and there first learned the news, and saw the paper, and the placards which were posted up, and listened, open-mouthed, to the whole story. saturday was therefore a day of much agitation in oxbow village, and some stir in the neighboring settlements. of course there was a great variety of comment, its character depending very much on the sense, knowledge, and disposition of the citizens, gossips, and young people who talked over the painful and mysterious occurrence. the withers homestead was naturally the chief centre of interest. nurse byloe, an ancient and voluminous woman, who had known the girl when she was a little bright-eyed child, handed over "the baby" she was holding to another attendant, and got on her things to go straight up to the poplars. she had been holding "the baby" these forty years and more, but somehow it never got to be more than a month or six weeks old. she reached the poplars after much toil and travail. mistress fagan, irish, house-servant, opened the door, at which nurse byloe knocked softly, as she was in the habit of doing at the doors of those who sent for her. "have you heerd anything yet, kitty fagan?" asked nurse byloe. "niver a blissed word," said she. "miss withers is upstairs with miss bathsheby, a cryin' and a lamentin'. miss badlam's in the parlor. the men has been draggin' the pond. they have n't found not one thing, but only jest two, and that was the old coffeepot and the gray cat,--it's them nigger boys hanged her with a string they tied round her neck and then drownded her." [p. fagan, jr., aet. , had a snarl of similar string in his pocket.] mistress fagan opened the door of the best parlor. a woman was sitting there alone, rocking back and forward, and fanning herself with the blackest of black fans. "nuss byloe, is that you? well, to be sure, i'm glad to see you, though we 're all in trouble. set right down, nuss, do. oh, it's dreadful times!" a handkerchief which was in readiness for any emotional overflow was here called on for its function. nurse byloe let herself drop into a flaccid squab chair with one of those soft cushions, filled with slippery feathers, which feel so fearfully like a very young infant, or a nest of little kittens, as they flatten under the subsiding person. the woman in the rocking-chair was miss cynthia badlam, second-cousin of miss silence withers, with whom she had been living as a companion at intervals for some years. she appeared to be thirty-five years old, more or less, and looked not badly for that stage of youth, though of course she might have been handsomer at twenty, as is often the case with women. she wore a not unbecoming cap; frequent headaches had thinned her locks somewhat of late years. features a little too sharp, a keen, gray eye, a quick and restless glance, which rather avoided being met, gave the impression that she was a wide-awake, cautious, suspicious, and, very possibly, crafty person. "i could n't help comin'," said nurse byloe, "we do so love our babies,--how can we help it, miss badlam?" the spinster colored up at the nurse's odd way of using the possessive pronoun, and dropped her eyes, as was natural on hearing such a speech. "i never tended children as you have, nuss," she said. "but i 've known myrtle hazard ever since she was three years old, and to think she should have come to such an end,--'the heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked,'"--and she wept. "why, cynthy badlam, what do y' mean?" said nurse byloe. "y' don't think anything dreadful has come o' that child's wild nater, do ye?" "child!" said cynthia badlam,--"child enough to wear this very gown i have got on and not find it too big for her neither." [it would have pinched myrtle here and there pretty shrewdly.] the two women looked each other in the eyes with subtle interchange of intelligence, such as belongs to their sex in virtue of its specialty. talk without words is half their conversation, just as it is all the conversation of the lower animals. only the dull senses of men are dead to it as to the music of the spheres. their minds travelled along, as if they had been yoked together, through whole fields of suggestive speculation, until the dumb growths of thought ripened in both their souls into articulate speech, consentingly, as the movement comes after the long stillness of a quaker meeting. their lips opened at the same moment. "you don't mean"--began nurse byloe, but stopped as she heard miss badlam also speaking. "they need n't drag the pond," she said. "they need n't go beating the woods as if they were hunting a patridge,--though for that matter myrtle hazard was always more like a patridge than she was like a pullet. nothing ever took hold of that girl,--not catechising, nor advising, nor punishing. it's that dreadful will of hers never was broke. i've always been afraid that she would turn out a child of wrath. did y' ever watch her at meetin' playing with posies and looking round all the time of the long prayer? that's what i've seen her do many and many a time. i'm afraid--oh dear! miss byloe, i'm afraid to say--what i'm afraid of. men are so wicked, and young girls are full of deceit and so ready to listen to all sorts of artful creturs that take advantage of their ignorance and tender years." she wept once more, this time with sobs that seemed irrepressible. "dear suz!" said the nurse, "i won't believe no sech thing as wickedness about myrtle hazard. you mean she's gone an' run off with some good-for-nothin' man or other? if that ain't what y' mean, what do y' mean? it can't be so, miss badlam: she's one o' my babies. at any rate, i handled her when she fust come to this village,--and none o' my babies never did sech a thing. fifteen year old, and be bringin' a whole family into disgrace! if she was thirty year old, or five-an'-thirty or more, and never'd had a chance to be married, and if one o' them artful creturs you was talkin' of got hold of her, then, to be sure,--why, dear me!--law! i never thought, miss badlam!--but then of course you could have had your pickin' and choosin' in the time of it; and i don't mean to say it's too late now if you felt called that way, for you're better lookin' now than some that's younger, and there's no accountin' for tastes." a sort of hysteric twitching that went through the frame of cynthia badlam dimly suggested to the old nurse that she was not making her slightly indiscreet personality much better by her explanations. she stopped short, and surveyed the not uncomely person of the maiden lady sitting before her with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, and one hand clenching the arm of the reeking-chair, as if some spasm had clamped it there. the nurse looked at her with a certain growing interest she had never felt before. it was the first time for some years that she had had such a chance, partly because miss cynthia had often been away for long periods,--partly because she herself had been busy professionally. there was no occasion for her services, of course, in the family at the poplars; and she was always following round from place to place after that everlasting migratory six-weeks or less old baby. there was not a more knowing pair of eyes, in their way, in a circle of fifty miles, than those kindly tranquil orbs that nurse byloe fixed on cynthia badlam. the silver threads in the side fold of hair, the delicate lines at the corner of the eye, the slight drawing down at the angle of the mouth,--almost imperceptible, but the nurse dwelt upon it,--a certain moulding of the features as of an artist's clay model worked by delicate touches with the fingers, showing that time or pain or grief had had a hand in shaping them, the contours, the adjustment of every fold of the dress, the attitude, the very way of breathing, were all passed through the searching inspection of the ancient expert, trained to know all the changes wrought by time and circumstance. it took not so long as it takes to describe it, but it was an analysis of imponderables, equal to any of bunsen's with the spectroscope. miss badlam removed her handkerchief and looked in a furtive, questioning way, in her turn, upon the nurse. "it's dreadful close here,--i'm 'most smothered," nurse byloe said; and, putting her hand to her throat, unclasped the catch of the necklace of gold beads she had worn since she was a baby,--a bead having been added from time to time as she thickened. it lay in a deep groove of her large neck, and had not troubled her in breathing before, since the day when her husband was run over by an ox-team. at this moment miss silence withers entered, followed by bathsheba stoker, daughter of rev. joseph bellamy stoker. she was the friend of myrtle, and had come to comfort miss silence, and consult with her as to what further search they should institute. the two, myrtle's aunt and her friend, were as unlike as they could well be. silence withers was something more than forty years old, a shadowy, pinched, sallow, dispirited, bloodless woman, with the habitual look of the people in the funeral carriage which follows next to the hearse, and the tone in speaking that may be noticed in a household where one of its members is lying white and still in a cool, darkened chamber overhead. bathsheba stoker was not called handsome; but she had her mother's youthful smile, which was so fresh and full of sweetness that she seemed like a beauty while she was speaking or listening; and she could never be plain so long as any expression gave life to her features. in perfect repose, her face, a little prematurely touched by sad experiences,--for she was but seventeen years old,--had the character and decision stamped in its outlines which any young man who wanted a companion to warn, to comfort, and command him, might have depended on as warranting the courage, the sympathy, and the sense demanded for such a responsibility. she had been trying her powers of consolation on miss silence. it was a sudden freak of myrtle's. she had gone off on some foolish but innocent excursion. besides, she was a girl that would take care of herself; for she was afraid of nothing, and nimbler than any boy of her age, and almost as strong as any. as for thinking any bad thoughts about her, that was a shame; she cared for none of the young fellows that were round her. cyprian eveleth was the one she thought most of; but cyprian was as true as his sister olive, and who else was there? to all this miss silence answered only by sighing and moaning, for two whole days she had been kept in constant fear and worry, afraid every minute of some tragical message, perplexed by the conflicting advice of all manner of officious friends, sleepless of course through the two nights, and now utterly broken down and collapsed. bathsheba had said all she could in the way of consolation, and hastened back to her mother's bedside, which she hardly left, except for the briefest of visits. "it's a great trial, miss withers, that's laid on you," said nurse byloe. "if i only knew that she was dead, and had died in the lord," miss silence answered,--"if i only knew that but if she is living in sin, or dead in wrong--doing, what is to become of me?--oh, what is to become of me when 'he maketh inquisition far blood'?" "cousin silence," said miss cynthia, "it is n't your fault, if that young girl has taken to evil ways. if going to meeting three times every sabbath day, and knowing the catechism by heart, and reading of good books, and the best of daily advice, and all needful discipline, could have corrected her sinful nature, she would never have run away from a home where she enjoyed all these privileges. it's that indian blood, cousin silence. it's a great mercy you and i have n't got any of it in our veins! what can you expect of children that come from heathens and savages? you can't lay it to yourself, cousin silence, if myrtle hazard goes wrong"-- "the lord will lay it to me,--the lord will lay it to me," she moaned. "did n't he say to cain, 'where is abel, thy brother?'" nurse byloe was getting very red in the face. she had had about enough of this talk between the two women. "i hope the lard 'll take care of myrtle hazard fust, if she's in trouble, 'n' wants help," she said; "'n' then look out for them that comes next. y' 're too suspicious, miss badlam; y' 're too easy to believe stories. myrtle hazard was as pretty a child and as good a child as ever i see, if you did n't rile her; 'n' d' d y' ever see one o' them hearty lively children, that had n't a sperrit of its own? for my part, i'd rather handle one of 'em than a dozen o' them little waxy, weak-eyed, slim-necked creturs that always do what they tell 'em to, and die afore they're a dozen year old; and never was the time when i've seen myrtle hazard, sence she was my baby, but what it's always been, 'good mornin', miss byloe,' and 'how do you do, miss byloe? i'm so glad to see you.' the handsomest young woman, too, as all the old folks will agree in tellin' you, s'ence the time o' judith pride that was,--the pride of the county they used to call her, for her beauty. her great-grandma, y' know, miss cynthy, married old king david withers. what i want to know is, whether anything has been heerd, and jest what's been done about findin' the poor thing. how d' ye know she has n't fell into the river? have they fired cannon? they say that busts the gall of drownded folks, and makes the corpse rise. have they looked in the woods everywhere? don't believe no wrong of nobody, not till y' must,--least of all of them that come o' the same folks, partly, and has lived with yo all their days. i tell y', myrtle hazard's jest as innocent of all what y' 've been thinkin' about,--bless the poor child; she's got a soul that's as clean and sweet-well, as a pond-lily when it fust opens of a mornin', without a speck on it no more than on the fust pond-lily god almighty ever made!" that gave a turn to the two women's thoughts, and their handkerchiefs went up to their faces. nurse byloe turned her eyes quickly on cynthia badlam, and repeated her close inspection of every outline and every light and shadow in her figure. she did not announce any opinion as to the age or good looks or general aspect or special points of miss cynthia; but she made a sound which the books write humph! but which real folks make with closed lips, thus: m'!--a sort of half-suppressed labio-palato-nasal utterance, implying that there is a good deal which might be said, and all the vocal organs want to have a chance at it, if there is to be any talking. friends and neighbors were coming in and out; and the next person that came was the old minister, of whom, and of his colleague, the rev. joseph bellamy stoker, some account may here be introduced. the rev. eliphalet pemberton father pemberton as brother ministers called him, priest pemberton as he was commonly styled by the country people--would have seemed very old, if the medical patriarch of the village had not been so much older. a man over ninety is a great comfort to all his elderly neighbors: he is a picket-guard at the extreme outpost; and the young folks of sixty and seventy feel that the enemy must get by him before he can come near their camp. dr. hurlbut, at ninety-two, made priest pemberton seem comparatively little advanced; but the college catalogue showed that he must be seventy-five years old, if, as we may suppose, he was twenty at the time of his graduation. he was a man of noble presence always, and now, in the grandeur of his flowing silver hair and with the gray shaggy brows overhanging his serene and solemn eyes, with the slow gravity of motion and the measured dignity of speech which gave him the air of an old pontiff, he was an imposing personage to look upon, and could be awful, if the occasion demanded it. his creed was of the sternest: he was looked up to as a bulwark against all the laxities which threatened new england theology. but it was a creed rather of the study and of the pulpit than of every-day application among his neighbors. he dealt too much in the lofty abstractions which had always such fascinations for the higher class of new england divines, to busy himself as much as he might have done with the spiritual condition of individuals. he had also a good deal in him of what he used to call the old man, which, as he confessed, he had never succeeded in putting off,--meaning thereby certain qualities belonging to humanity, as much as the natural gifts of the dumb creatures belong to them, and tending to make a man beloved by his weak and erring fellow-mortals. in the olden time he would have lived and died king of his parish, monarch, by divine right, as the noblest, grandest, wisest of all that made up the little nation within hearing of his meeting-house bell. but young calvinism has less reverence and more love of novelty than its forefathers. it wants change, and it loves young blood. polyandry is getting to be the normal condition of the church; and about the time a man is becoming a little overripe for the livelier human sentiments, he may be pretty sure the women are looking round to find him a colleague. in this way it was that the rev. joseph bellamy stoker became the colleague of the rev. eliphalet pemberton. if one could have dived deep below all the christian graces--the charity, the sweetness of disposition, the humility--of father pemberton, he would have found a small remnant of the "old man," as the good clergyman would have called it, which was never in harmony with the rev. mr. stoker. the younger divine felt his importance, and made his venerable colleague feel that he felt it. father pemberton had a fair chance at rainy sundays and hot summer-afternoon services; but the junior pushed him aside without ceremony whenever he thought there was like to be a good show in the pews. as for those courtesies which the old need, to soften the sense of declining faculties and failing attractions, the younger pastor bestowed them in public, but was negligent of them, to say the least, when not on exhibition. good old father pemberton could not love this man, but he would not hate him, and he never complained to him or of him. it would have been of no use if he had: the women of the parish had taken up the rev. mr. stoker; and when the women run after a minister or a doctor, what do the men signify? why the women ran after him, some thought it was not hard to guess. he was not ill-looking, according to the village standard, parted his hair smoothly, tied his white cravat carefully, was fluent, plausible, had a gift in prayer, was considered eloquent, was fond of listening to their spiritual experiences, and had a sickly wife. this is what byles gridley said; but he was apt to be caustic at times. father pemberton visited his people but rarely. like jonathan edwards, like david osgood, he felt his call to be to study-work, and was impatient of the egotisms and spiritual megrims, in listening to which, especially from the younger females of his flock, his colleague had won the hearts of so many of his parishioners. his presence had a wonderful effect in restoring the despondent miss silence to her equanimity; for not all the hard divinity he had preached for half a century had spoiled his kindly nature; and not the gentle melanchthon himself, ready to welcome death as a refuge from the rage and bitterness of theologians, was more in contrast with the disputants with whom he mingled, than the old minister, in the hour of trial, with the stern dogmatist in his study, forging thunderbolts to smite down sinners. it was well that there were no tithing-men about on that next day, sunday; for it shone no sabbath day for the young men within half a dozen miles of the village. they were out on bear hill the whole day, beating up the bushes as if for game, scaring old crows out of their ragged nests, and in one dark glen startling a fierce-eyed, growling, bobtailed catamount, who sat spitting and looking all ready to spring at them, on the tall tree where he clung with his claws unsheathed, until a young fellow came up with a gun and shot him dead. they went through and through the swamp at musquash hollow; but found nothing better than a wicked old snapping-turtle, evil to behold, with his snaky head and alligator tail, but worse to meddle with, if his horny jaws were near enough to spring their man-trap on the curious experimenter. at wood-end there were some indians, ill-conditioned savages in a dirty tent, making baskets, the miracle of which was that they were so clean. they had seen a young lady answering the description, about a week ago. she had bought a basket. asked them if they had a canoe they wanted to sell.--eyes like hers (pointing to a squaw with a man's hat on). at pocasset the young men explored all the thick woods,--some who ought to have known better taking their guns, which made a talk, as one might well suppose it would. hunting on a sabbath day! they did n't mean to shoot myrtle hazard, did they? it was keenly asked. a good many said it was all nonsense, and a mere excuse to get away from meeting and have a sort of frolic on pretence that it was a work of necessity and mercy, one or both. while they were scattering themselves about in this way, some in earnest, some rejoicing in the unwonted license, lifting off for a little while that enormous sabbath-day pressure which weighs like forty atmospheres on every true-born puritan, two young men had been since friday in search of the lost girl, each following a clue of his own, and determined to find her if she was among the living. cyprian eveleth made for the village of mapleton, where his sister olive was staying, trusting that, with her aid, he might get a clue to the mystery of myrtle's disappearance. william murray bradshaw struck for a railroad train going to the great seaport, at a station where it stops for wood and water. in the mean time, a third young man, gifted hopkins by name, son of the good woman already mentioned, sat down, with tears in his eyes, and wrote those touching stanzas, "the lost myrtle," which were printed in the next "banner and oracle," and much admired by many who read them. chapter iii. antecedents. the withers homestead was the oldest mansion in town. it was built on the east bank of the river, a little above the curve which gave the name to oxbow village. it stood on an elevation, its west gable close to the river's edge, an old orchard and a small pond at the foot of the slope behind it, woods at the east, open to the south, with a great row of lombardy poplars standing guard in front of the house. the hon. selah withers, esq., a descendant of one of the first colonists, built it for his own residence, in the early part of the last century. deeply impressed with his importance in the order of things, he had chosen to place it a little removed from the cluster of smaller dwellings about the oxbow; and with some vague fancy in his mind of the castles that overlook the rhine and the danube, he had selected this eminence on which to place his substantial gambrel roofed dwelling-house. long afterwards a bay-window, almost a little room of itself, had been thrown out of the second story on the west side, so that it looked directly down on the river running beneath it. the chamber, thus half suspended in the air, had been for years the special apartment of myrtle hazard; and as the boys paddling about on the river would often catch glimpses, through the window, of the little girl dressed in the scarlet jacket she fancied in those days, one of them, cyprian eveleth had given it a name which became current among the young people, and indeed furnished to gifted hopkins the subject of one of his earliest poems, to wit, "the fire-hang-bird's nest." if we would know anything about the persons now living at the withers homestead, or the poplars, as it was more commonly called of late years, we must take a brief inventory of some of their vital antecedents. it is by no means certain that our individual personality is the single inhabitant of these our corporeal frames. nay, there is recorded an experience of one of the living persons mentioned in this narrative,--to be given in full in its proper place, which, so far as it is received in evidence, tends to show that some, at least, who have long been dead, may enjoy a kind of secondary and imperfect, yet self-conscious life, in these bodily tenements which we are in the habit of considering exclusively our own. there are many circumstances, familiar to common observers, which favor this belief to a certain extent. thus, at one moment we detect the look, at another the tone of voice, at another some characteristic movement of this or that ancestor, in our relations or others. there are times when our friends do not act like themselves, but apparently in obedience to some other law than that of their own proper nature. we all do things both awake and asleep which surprise us. perhaps we have cotenants in this house we live in. no less than eight distinct personalities are said to have coexisted in a single female mentioned by an ancient physician of unimpeachable authority. in this light we may perhaps see the meaning of a sentence, from a work which will be repeatedly referred to in this narrative, viz.: "this body in which we journey across the isthmus between the two oceans is not a private carriage, but an omnibus." the ancestry of the withers family had counted a martyr to their faith before they were known as puritans. the record was obscure in some points; but the portrait, marked "ann holyoake, burned by ye bloudy papists, ano .." (figures illegible), was still hanging against the panel over the fireplace in the west parlor at the poplars. the following words were yet legible on the canvas: "thou hast made a covenant o lord with mee and my children forever." the story had come down, that ann holyoake spoke these words in a prayer she offered up at the stake, after the fagots were kindled. there had always been a secret feeling in the family, that none of her descendants could finally fall from grace, in virtue of this solemn "covenant." there had been also a legend in the family, that the martyred woman's spirit exercised a kind of supervision over her descendants; that she either manifested herself to them, or in some way impressed them, from time to time; as in the case of the first pilgrim before he cast his lot with the emigrants,--of one mrs. winslow, a descendant in the third generation, when the indians were about to attack the settlement where she lived,--and of another, just before he was killed at quebec. there was a remarkable resemblance between the features of ann holyoake, as shown in the portrait, and the miniature likeness of myrtle's mother. myrtle adopted the nearly obsolete superstition more readily on this account, and loved to cherish the fancy that the guardian spirit which had watched over her ancestors was often near her, and would be with her in her time of need. the wife of selah withers was accused of sorcery in the evil days of that delusion. a careless expression in one of her letters, that "ye parson was as lyke to bee in league with ye divell as anie of em," had got abroad, and given great offence to godly people. there was no doubt that some odd "manifestations," as they would be called nowadays, had taken place in the household when she was a girl, and that she presented many of the conditions belonging to what are at the present day called mediums. major gideon withers, her son, was of the very common type of hearty, loud, portly men, who like to show themselves at militia trainings, and to hear themselves shout orders at musters, or declaim patriotic sentiments at town-meetings and in the general court. he loved to wear a crimson sash and a military cap with a large red feather, in which the village folk used to say he looked as "hahnsome as a piny,"--meaning a favorite flower of his, which is better spelt peony, and to which it was not unnatural that his admirers should compare him. if he had married a wife like himself, there might probably enough have sprung from the alliance a family of moon-faced children, who would have dropped into their places like posts into their holes, asking no questions of life, contented, like so many other honest folks, with the part of supernumeraries in the drama of being, their wardrobe of flesh and bones being furnished them gratis, and nothing to do but to walk across the stage wearing it. but major gideon withers, for some reason or other, married a slender, sensitive, nervous, romantic woman, which accounted for the fact that his son david, "king david," as he was called in his time, had a very different set of tastes from his father, showing a turn for literature and sentiment in his youth, reading young's "night thoughts," and thomson's "seasons," and sometimes in those early days writing verses himself to celia or to chloe, which sounded just as fine to him as effie and minnie sound to young people now, as musidora, as saccharissa, as lesbia, as helena, as adah and zillah, have all sounded to young people in their time,--ashes of roses as they are to us now, and as our endearing scotch diminutives will be to others by and by. king david withers, who got his royal prefix partly because he was rich, and partly because he wrote hymns occasionally, when he grew too old to write love-poems, married the famous beauty before mentioned, miss judith pride, and the race came up again in vigor. their son, jeremy, took for his first wife a delicate, melancholic girl, who matured into a sad-eyed woman, and bore him two children, malachi and silence. when she died, he mourned for her bitterly almost a year, and then put on a ruffled shirt and went across the river to tell his grief to miss virginia wild, there residing. this lady was said to have a few drops of genuine aboriginal blood in her veins; and it is certain that her cheek had a little of the russet tinge which a seckel pear shows on its warmest cheek when it blushes.--love shuts itself up in sympathy like a knife-blade in its handle, and opens as easily. all the rest followed in due order according to nature's kindly programme. captain charles hazard, of the ship orient pearl, fell desperately in love with the daughter of this second wife, married her, and carried her to india, where their first and only child was born, and received the name of myrtle, as fitting her cradle in the tropics. so her earliest impressions,--it would not be exact to call them recollections,--besides the smiles of her father and mother, were of dusky faces, of loose white raiment, of waving fans, of breezes perfumed with the sweet exhalations of sandal-wood, of gorgeous flowers and glowing fruit, of shady verandas, of gliding palanquins, and all the languid luxury of the south. the pestilence which has its natural home in india, but has journeyed so far from its birth place in these later years, took her father and mother away, suddenly, in the very freshness of their early maturity. a relation of myrtle's father, wife of another captain, was returning to america on a visit, and the child was sent back, under her care, while still a mere infant, to her relatives at the old homestead. during the long voyage, the strange mystery of the ocean was wrought into her consciousness so deeply, that it seemed to have become a part of her being. the waves rocked her, as if the sea had been her mother; and, looking over the vessel's side from the arms that held her with tender care, she used to watch the play of the waters, until the rhythm of their movement became a part of her, almost as much as her own pulse and breath. the instincts and qualities belonging to the ancestral traits which predominated in the conflict of mingled lives lay in this child in embryo, waiting to come to maturity. it was as when several grafts, bearing fruit that ripens at different times, are growing upon the same stock. her earlier impulses may have been derived directly from her father and mother, but all the ancestors who have been mentioned, and more or less obscurely many others, came uppermost in their time, before the absolute and total result of their several forces had found its equilibrium in the character by which she was to be known as an individual. these inherited impulses were therefore many, conflicting, some of them dangerous. the world, the flesh, and the devil held mortgages on her life before its deed was put in her hands; but sweet and gracious influences were also born with her; and the battle of life was to be fought between them, god helping her in her need, and her own free choice siding with one or the other. the formal statement of this succession of ripening characteristics need not be repeated, but the fact must be borne in mind. this was the child who was delivered into the hands of miss silence withers, her mother's half--sister, keeping house with her brother malachi, a bachelor, already called old malachi, though hardly entitled by his years to such a venerable prefix. both these persons had inherited the predominant traits of their sad-eyed mother. malachi, the chief heir of the family property, was rich, but felt very poor. he owned this fine old estate of some hundreds of acres. he had moneys in the bank, shares in various companies, wood-lots in the town; and a large tract of western land, the subject of a lawsuit which seemed as if it would never be settled, and kept him always uneasy. some said he hoarded gold somewhere about the old house, but nobody knew this for a certainty. in spite of his abundant means, he talked much of poverty, and kept the household on the narrowest footing of economy. one irishwoman, with a little aid from her husband now and then, did all their work; and the only company they saw was miss cynthia badlam, who, as a relative, claimed a home with them whenever she was so disposed. the "little indian," as malachi called her, was an awkward accession to the family. silence withers knew no more about children and their ways and wants than if she had been a female ostrich. thus it was that she found it necessary to send for a woman well known in the place as the first friend whose acquaintance many of the little people of the town had made in this vale of tears. thirty years of practice had taught nurse byloe the art of handling the young of her species with the soft firmness which one may notice in cats with their kittens,--more grandly in a tawny lioness mouthing her cubs. myrtle did not know she was held; she only felt she was lifted, and borne up, as a cherub may feel upon a white-woolly cloud, and smiled accordingly at the nurse, as if quite at home in her arms. "as fine a child as ever breathed the breath of life. but where did them black eyes come from? born in injy,--that 's it, ain't it? no, it's her poor mother's eyes to be sure. does n't it seem as if there was a kind of injin look to 'em? she'll be a lively one to manage, if i know anything about childun. see her clinchin' them little fists!" this was when miss silence came near her and brought her rather severe countenance close to the child for inspection of its features. the ungracious aspect of the woman and the defiant attitude of the child prefigured in one brief instant the history of many long coming years. it was not a great while before the two parties in that wearing conflict of alien lives, which is often called education, began to measure their strength against each other. the child was bright, observing, of restless activity, inquisitively curious, very hard to frighten, and with a will which seemed made for mastery, not submission. the stern spinster to whose care this vigorous life was committed was disposed to discharge her duty to the girl faithfully and conscientiously; but there were two points in her character and belief which had a most important bearing on the manner in which she carried out her laudable intentions. first, she was one of that class of human beings whose one single engrossing thought is their own welfare,--in the next world, it is true, but still their own personal welfare. the roman church recognizes this class, and provides every form of specific to meet their spiritual condition. but in so far as protestantism has thrown out works as a means of insuring future safety, these unfortunates are as badly off as nervous patients who have no drops, pills, potions, no doctors' rules, to follow. only tell a poor creature what to do, and he or she will do it, and be made easy, were it a pilgrimage of a thousand miles, with shoes full of split peas instead of boiled ones; but if once assured that doing does no good, the drooping little-faiths are left at leisure to worry about their souls, as the other class of weaklings worry about their bodies. the effect on character does not seem to be very different in the two classes. metaphysicians may discuss the nature of selfishness at their leisure; if to have all her thoughts centring on the one point of her own well-being by and by was selfishness, then silence withers was supremely selfish; and if we are offended with that form of egotism, it is no more than ten of the twelve apostles were, as the reader may see by turning to the gospel of st. matthew, the twentieth chapter and the twenty-fourth verse. the next practical difficulty was, that she attempted to carry out a theory which, whatever might be its success in other cases, did not work kindly in the case of myrtle hazard, but, on the contrary, developed a mighty spirit of antagonism in her nature, which threatened to end in utter lawlessness. miss silence started from the approved doctrine, that all children are radically and utterly wrong in all their motives, feelings, thoughts, and deeds, so long as they remain subject to their natural instincts. it was by the eradication, and not the education, of these instincts, that the character of the human being she was moulding was to be determined. the first great preliminary process, so soon as the child manifested any evidence of intelligent and persistent self-determination, was to break her will. there is no doubt that this was a legitimate conclusion from the teaching of priest pemberton, but it required a colder and harder nature than his own to carry out many of his dogmas to their practical application. he wrought in the pure mathematics, so to speak, of theology, and left the working rules to the good sense and good feeling of his people. miss silence had been waiting for her opportunity to apply the great doctrine, and it came at last in a very trivial way. "myrtle does n't want brown bread. myrtle won't have brown bread. myrtle will have white bread." "myrtle is a wicked child. she will have what aunt silence says she shall have. she won't have anything but brown bread." thereupon the bright red lip protruded, the hot blood mounted to her face, the child untied her little "tire," got down from the table, took up her one forlorn, featureless doll, and went to bed without her supper. the next morning the worthy woman thought that hunger and reflection would have subdued the rebellious spirit. so there stood yesterday's untouched supper waiting for her breakfast. she would not taste it, and it became necessary to enforce that extreme penalty of the law which had been threatened, but never yet put in execution. miss silence, in obedience to what she felt to be a painful duty, without any passion, but filled with high, inexorable purpose, carried the child up to the garret, and, fastening her so that she could not wander about and hurt herself, left her to her repentant thoughts, awaiting the moment when a plaintive entreaty for liberty and food should announce that the evil nature had yielded and the obdurate will was broken. the garret was an awful place. all the skeleton-like ribs of the roof showed in the dim light, naked overhead, and the only floor to be trusted consisted of the few boards which bridged the lath and plaster. a great, mysterious brick tower climbed up through it,--it was the chimney, but it looked like a horrible cell to put criminals into. the whole place was festooned with cobwebs,--not light films, such as the housewife's broom sweeps away before they have become a permanent residence, but vast gray draperies, loaded with dust, sprinkled with yellow powder from the beams where the worms were gnawing day and night, the home of old, hairy spiders who had, lived there since they were eggs and would leave it for unborn spiders who would grow old and huge like themselves in it, long after the human tenants had left the mansion for a narrower home. here this little criminal was imprisoned, six, twelve,--tell it not to mothers,--eighteen dreadful hours, hungry until she was ready to gnaw her hands, a prey to all childish imaginations; and here at her stern guardian's last visit she sat, pallid, chilled, almost fainting, but sullen and unsubdued. the irishwoman, poor stupid kitty fagan, who had no theory of human nature, saw her over the lean shoulders of the spinster, and, forgetting all differences of condition and questions of authority, rushed to her with a cry of maternal tenderness, and, with a tempest of passionate tears and kisses, bore her off to her own humble realm, where the little victorious martyr was fed from the best stores of the house, until there was as much danger from repletion as there had been from famine. how the experiment might have ended but for this empirical and most unphilosophical interference, there is no saying; but it settled the point that the rebellious nature was not to be subjugated in a brief conflict. the untamed disposition manifested itself in greater enormities as she grew older. at the age of four years she was detected in making a cat's-cradle at meeting, during sermon-time, and, on being reprimanded for so doing, laughed out loud, so as to be heard by father pemberton, who thereupon bent his threatening, shaggy brows upon the child, and, to his shame be it spoken, had such a sudden uprising of weak, foolish, grandfatherly feelings, that a mist came over his eyes, and he left out his "ninthly" altogether, thereby spoiling the logical sequence of propositions which had kept his large forehead knotty for a week. at eight years old she fell in love with the high-colored picture of major gideon withers in the crimson sash and the red feather of his exalted military office. it was then for the first time that her aunt silence remarked a shade of resemblance between the child and the portrait. she had always, up to this time, been dressed in sad colors, as was fitting, doubtless, for a forlorn orphan; but happening one day to see a small negro girl peacocking round in a flaming scarlet petticoat, she struck for bright colors in her own apparel, and carried her point at last. it was as if a ground-sparrow had changed her gray feathers for the burning plumage of some tropical wanderer; and it was natural enough that cyprian eveleth should have called her the fire-hang-bird, and her little chamber the fire-hang-bird's nest,--using the country boy's synonyme for the baltimore oriole. at ten years old she had one of those great experiences which give new meaning to the life of a child. her uncle malachi had seemed to have a strong liking for her at one time, but of late years his delusions had gained upon him, and under their influence he seemed to regard her as an encumbrance and an extravagance. he was growing more and more solitary in his habits, more and more negligent of his appearance. he was up late at night, wandering about the house from the cellar to the garret, so that, his light being seen flitting from window to window, the story got about that the old house was haunted. one dreary, rainy friday in november, myrtle was left alone in the house. her uncle had been gone since the day before. the two women were both away at the village. at such times the child took a strange delight in exploring all the hiding-places of the old mansion. she had the mysterious dwelling-place of so many of the dead and the living all to herself. what a fearful kind of pleasure in its silence and loneliness! the old clock that marmaduke storr made in london more than a hundred years ago was clicking the steady pulse-beats of its second century. the featured moon on its dial had lifted one eye, as if to watch the child, as it had watched so many generations of children, while the swinging pendulum ticked them along into youth, maturity, gray hairs, deathbeds,--ticking through the prayer at the funeral, ticking without grief through all the still or noisy woe of mourning,--ticking without joy when the smiles and gayety of comforted heirs had come back again. she looked at herself in the tall, bevelled mirror in the best chamber. she pulled aside the curtains of the stately bedstead whereon the heads of the house had slept until they died and were stretched out upon it, and the sheet shaped itself to them in vague, awful breadth of outline, like a block of monumental marble the sculptor leaves just hinted by the chisel. she groped her way up to the dim garret, the scene of her memorable punishment. a rusty hook projected from one of the joists a little higher than a man's head. something was hanging from it,--an old garment, was it? she went bravely up and touched--a cold hand. she did what most children of that age would do,--uttered a cry and ran downstairs with all her might. she rushed out of the door and called to the man patrick, who was doing some work about the place. what could be done was done, but it was too late. uncle malachi had made away with himself. that was plain on the face of thing. in due time the coroner's verdict settled it. it was not so strange as it seemed; but it made a great talk in the village and all the country round about. everybody knew he had money enough, and yet he had hanged himself for fear of starving to death. for all that, he was found to have left a will, dated some years before, leaving his property to his sister silence, with the exception of a certain moderate legacy to be paid in money to myrtle hazard when she should arrive at the age of twenty years. the household seemed more chilly than ever after this tragical event. its depressing influence followed the child to school, where she learned the common branches of knowledge. it followed her to the sabbath-day catechisings, where she repeated the answers about the federal headship of adam, and her consequent personal responsibilities, and other technicalities which are hardly milk for babes, perhaps as well as other children, but without any very profound remorse for what she could not help, so far as she understood the matter, any more than her sex or stature, and with no very clear comprehension of the phrases which the new england followers of the westminster divines made a part of the elementary instruction of young people. at twelve years old she had grown tall and womanly enough to attract the eyes of the youth and older boys, several of whom made advances towards her acquaintance. but the dreary discipline of the household had sunk into her soul, and she had been shaping an internal life for herself, which it was hard for friendship to penetrate. bathsheba stoker was chained to the bedside of an invalid mother. olive eveleth, a kind, true-hearted girl, belonged to another religious communion; and this tended to render their meetings less frequent, though olive was still her nearest friend. cyprian was himself a little shy, and rather held to myrtle through his sister than by any true intimacy directly with herself. of the other young men of the village gifted hopkins was perhaps the most fervent of her admirers, as he had repeatedly shown by effusions in verse, of which, under the thinnest of disguises, she was the object. william murray bradshaw, ten years older than herself, a young man of striking aspect and claims to exceptional ability, had kept his eye on her of late; but it was generally supposed that he would find a wife in the city, where he was in the habit of going to visit a fashionable relative, mrs. clymer ketchum, of carat place. she, at any rate, understood very well that he meant, to use his own phrase, "to go in for a corner lot,"--understanding thereby a young lady with possessions and without encumbrances. if the old man had only given his money to myrtle, william murray bradshaw would have made sure of her; but she was not likely ever to get much of it. miss silence withers, it was understood, would probably leave her money as the rev. mr. stoker, her spiritual director, should indicate, and it seemed likely that most of it would go to a rising educational institution where certain given doctrines were to be taught through all time, whether disproved or not, and whether those who taught them believed them or not, provided only they would say they believed them. nobody had promised to say masses for her soul if she made this disposition of her property, or pledged the word of the church that she should have plenary absolution. but she felt that she would be making friends in influential quarters by thus laying up her treasure, and that she would be safe if she had the good-will of the ministers of her sect. myrtle hazard had nearly reached the age of fourteen, and, though not like to inherit much of the family property, was fast growing into a large dower of hereditary beauty. always handsome, her features shaped themselves in a finer symmetry, her color grew richer, her figure promised a perfect womanly development, and her movements had the grace which high-breeding gives the daughter of a queen, and which nature now and then teaches the humblest of village maidens. she could not long escape the notice of the lovers and flatterers of beauty, and the time of danger was drawing near. at this period of her life she made two discoveries which changed the whole course of her thoughts, and opened for her a new world of ideas and possibilities. ever since the dreadful event of november, , the garret had been a fearful place to think of, and still more to visit. the stories that the house was haunted gained in frequency of repetition and detail of circumstance. but myrtle was bold and inquisitive, and explored its recesses at such times as she could creep among them undisturbed. hid away close under the eaves she found an old trunk covered with dust and cobwebs. the mice had gnawed through its leather hinges, and, as it had been hastily stuffed full, the cover had risen, and two or three volumes had fallen to the floor. this trunk held the papers and books which her great-grandmother, the famous beauty, had left behind her, records of the romantic days when she was the belle of the county,--storybooks, memoirs, novels, and poems, and not a few love-letters,--a strange collection, which, as so often happens with such deposits in old families, nobody had cared to meddle with, and nobody had been willing to destroy, until at last they had passed out of mind, and waited for a new generation to bring them into light again. the other discovery was of a small hoard of coin. under one of the boards which formed the imperfect flooring of the garret was hidden an old leather mitten. instead of a hand, it had a fat fist of silver dollars, and a thumb of gold half-eagles. thus knowledge and power found their way to the simple and secluded maiden. the books were hers to read as much as any other's; the gold and silver were only a part of that small provision which would be hers by and by, and if she borrowed it, it was borrowing of herself. the tree of the knowledge of good and evil had shaken its fruit into her lap, and, without any serpent to tempt her, she took thereof and did eat. chapter iv. byles gridley, a. m. the old master of arts was as notable a man in his outside presentment as one will find among five hundred college alumni as they file in procession. his strong, squared features, his formidable scowl, his solid-looking head, his iron-gray hair, his positive and as it were categorical stride, his slow, precise way of putting a statement, the strange union of trampling radicalism in some directions and high-stepping conservatism in others, which made it impossible to calculate on his unexpressed opinions, his testy ways and his generous impulses, his hard judgments and kindly actions, were characteristics that gave him a very decided individuality. he had all the aspects of a man of books. his study, which was the best room in mrs. hopkins's house, was filled with a miscellaneous-looking collection of volumes, which his curious literary taste had got together from the shelves of all the libraries that had been broken up during his long life as a scholar. classics, theology, especially of the controversial sort, statistics, politics, law, medicine, science, occult and overt, general literature,--almost every branch of knowledge was represented. his learning was very various, and of course mixed up, useful and useless, new and ancient, dogmatic and rational,--like his library, in short; for a library gathered like his is a looking-glass in which the owner's mind is reflected. the common people about the village did not know what to make of such a phenomenon. he did not preach, marry, christen, or bury, like the ministers, nor jog around with medicines for sick folks, nor carry cases into court for quarrelsome neighbors. what was he good for? not a great deal, some of the wiseacres thought,--had "all sorts of sense but common sense,"--"smart mahn, but not prahctical." there were others who read him more shrewdly. he knowed more, they said, than all the ministers put together, and if he'd stan' for ripresentative they 'd like to vote for him,--they hed n't hed a smart mahn in the gineral court sence squire wibird was thar. they may have overdone the matter in comparing his knowledge with that of all the ministers together, for priest pemberton was a real scholar in his special line of study,--as all d. d.'s are supposed to be, or they would not have been honored with that distinguished title. but mr. byles gridley not only had more learning than the deep-sea line of the bucolic intelligence could fathom; he had more wisdom also than they gave him credit for, even those among them who thought most of his abilities. in his capacity of schoolmaster he had sharpened his wits against those of the lively city boys he had in charge, and made such a reputation as "master" gridley, that he kept that title even after he had become a college tutor and professor. as a tutor he had to deal with many of these same boys, and others like them, in the still more vivacious period of their early college life. he got rid of his police duties when he became a professor, but he still studied the pupils as carefully as he used once to watch them, and learned to read character with a skill which might have fitted him for governing men instead of adolescents. but he loved quiet and he dreaded mingling with the brawlers of the market-place, whose stock in trade is a voice and a vocabulary. so it was that he had passed his life in the patient mechanical labor of instruction, leaving too many of his instincts and faculties in abeyance. the alluvium of all this experience bore a nearer resemblance to worldly wisdom than might have been conjectured; much nearer, indeed, than it does in many old instructors, whose eyes get fish-like as their blood grows cold, and who are not fit to be trusted with anything more practical than a gerund or a cosine. master gridley not only knew a good deal of human nature, but he knew how to keep his knowledge to himself upon occasion. he understood singularly well the ways and tendencies of young people. he was shrewd in the detection of trickery, and very confident in those who had once passed the ordeal of his well-schooled observing powers. he had no particular tendency to meddle with the personal relations of those about him; but if they were forced upon him in any way, he was like to see into them at least as quickly as any of his neighbors who thought themselves most endowed with practical skill. in leaving the duties of his office he considered himself, as he said a little despondently, like an old horse unharnessed and turned out to pasture. he felt that he had separated himself from human interests, and was henceforth to live in his books with the dead, until he should be numbered with them himself. he had chosen this quiet village as a place where he might pass his days undisturbed, and find a peaceful resting-place in its churchyard, where the gravel was dry, and the sun lay warm, and the glowing woods of autumn would spread their many-colored counterpane over the bed where he would be taking his rest. it sometimes came over him painfully that he was never more to be of any importance to his fellow-creatures. there was nobody living to whom he was connected by any very near ties. he felt kindly enough to the good woman in whose house he lived; he sometimes gave a few words of counsel to her son; he was not unamiable with the few people he met; he bowed with great consideration to the rev. dr. pemberton; and he studied with no small interest the physiognomy of the rev. joseph bellamy stoker, to whose sermons he listened, with a black scowl now and then, and a nostril dilating with ominous intensity of meaning. but he said sadly to himself, that his life had been a failure,--that he had nothing to show for it, and his one talent was ready in its napkin to give back to his lord. he owed something of this sadness, perhaps, to a cause which many would hold of small significance. though he had mourned for no lost love, at least so far as was known, though he had never suffered the pang of parting with a child, though he seemed isolated from those joys and griefs which come with the ties of family, he too had his private urn filled with the ashes of extinguished hopes. he was the father of a dead book. why "thoughts on the universe, by byles gridley, a. m.," had not met with an eager welcome and a permanent demand from the discriminating public, it would take us too long to inquire in detail. indeed; he himself was never able to account satisfactorily for the state of things which his bookseller's account made evident to him. he had read and re-read his work; and the more familiar he became with it, the less was he able to understand the singular want of popular appreciation of what he could not help recognizing as its excellences. he had a special copy of his work, printed on large paper and sumptuously bound. he loved to read in this, as people read over the letters of friends who have long been dead; and it might have awakened a feeling of something far removed from the ludicrous, if his comments on his own production could have been heard. "that's a thought, now, for you!--see mr. thomas babington macaulay's essay printed six years after thus book." "a felicitous image! and so everybody would have said if only mr. thomas carlyle had hit upon it." "if this is not genuine pathos, where will you find it, i should like to know? and nobody to open the book where it stands written but one poor old man--in this generation, at least--in this generation!" it may be doubted whether he would ever have loved his book with such jealous fondness if it had gone through a dozen editions, and everybody was quoting it to his face. but now it lived only for him; and to him it was wife and child, parent, friend, all in one, as hector was all in all to his spouse. he never tired of it, and in his more sanguine moods he looked forward to the time when the world would acknowledge its merits, and his genius would find full recognition. perhaps he was right: more than one book which seemed dead and was dead for contemporary readers has had a resurrection when the rivals who triumphed over it lived only in the tombstone memory of antiquaries. comfort for some of us, dear fellow-writer. it followed from the way in which he lived that he must have some means of support upon which he could depend. he was economical, if not over frugal in some of his habits; but he bought books, and took newspapers and reviews, and had money when money was needed; the fact being, though it was not generally known, that a distant relative had not long before died, leaving him a very comfortable property. his money matters had led him to have occasional dealings with the late legal firm of wibird and penhallow, which had naturally passed into the hands of the new partnership, penhallow and bradshaw. he had entire confidence in the senior partner, but not so much in the young man who had been recently associated in the business. mr. william murray bradshaw, commonly called by his last two names, was the son of a lawyer of some note for his acuteness, who marked out his calling for him in having him named after the great lord mansfield. murray bradshaw was about twenty-five years old, by common consent good-looking, with a finely formed head, a searching eye, and a sharp-cut mouth, which smiled at his bidding without the slightest reference to the real condition of his feeling at the moment. this was a great convenience; for it gave him an appearance of good-nature at the small expense of a slight muscular movement which was as easy as winking, and deceived everybody but those who had studied him long and carefully enough to find that this play of his features was what a watch maker would call a detached movement. he had been a good scholar in college, not so much by hard study as by skilful veneering, and had taken great pains to stand well with the faculty, at least one of whom, byles gridley, a. m., had watched him with no little interest as a man with a promising future, provided he were not so astute as to outwit and overreach himself in his excess of contrivance. his classmates could not help liking him; as to loving him, none of them would have thought of that. he was so shrewd, so keen, so full of practical sense, and so good-humored as long as things went on to his liking, that few could resist his fascination. he had a way of talking with people about what they were interested in, as if it were the one matter in the world nearest to his heart. but he was commonly trying to find out something, or to produce some impression, as a juggler is working at his miracle while he keeps people's attention by his voluble discourse and make-believe movements. in his lightest talk he was almost always edging towards a practical object, and it was an interesting and instructive amusement to watch for the moment at which he would ship the belt of his colloquial machinery on to the tight pulley. it was done so easily and naturally that there was hardly a sign of it. master gridley could usually detect the shifting action, but the young man's features and voice never betrayed him. he was a favorite with the other sex, who love poetry and romance, as he well knew, for which reason he often used the phrases of both, and in such a way as to answer his purpose with most of those whom he wished to please. he had one great advantage in the sweepstakes of life: he was not handicapped with any burdensome ideals. he took everything at its marked value. he accepted the standard of the street as a final fact for to-day, like the broker's list of prices. his whole plan of life was laid out. he knew that law was the best introduction to political life, and he meant to use it for this end. he chose to begin his career in the country, so as to feel his way more surely and gradually to its ultimate aim; but he had no intention of burning his shining talents in a grazing district, however tall its grass might grow. his business was not with these stiff-jointed, slow-witted graziers, but with the supple, dangerous, far-seeing men who sit scheming by the gas-light in the great cities, after all the lamps and candles are out from the merrimac to the housatonic. every strong and every weak point of those who might probably be his rivals were laid down on his charts, as winds and currents and rocks are marked on those of a navigator. all the young girls in the country, and not a few in the city, with which, as mentioned, he had frequent relations, were on his list of possible availabilities in the matrimonial line of speculation, provided always that their position and prospects were such as would make them proper matches for so considerable a person as the future hon. william murray bradshaw. master gridley had made a careful study of his old pupil since they had resided in the same village. the old professor could not help admiring him, notwithstanding certain suspicious elements in his character; for after muddy village talk, a clear stream of intelligent conversation was a great luxury to the hard-headed scholar. the more he saw of him, the more he learned to watch his movements, and to be on his guard in talking with him. the old man could be crafty, with all his simplicity, and he had found out that under his good-natured manner there often lurked some design more or less worth noting, and which might involve other interests deserving protection. for some reason or other the old master of arts had of late experienced a certain degree of relenting with regard to himself, probably brought about by the expressions of gratitude from worthy mrs. hopkins for acts of kindness to which he himself attached no great value. he had been kind to her son gifted; he had been fatherly with susan posey, her relative and boarder; and he had shown himself singularly and unexpectedly amiable with the little twins who had been adopted by the good woman into her household. in fact, ever since these little creatures had begun to toddle about and explode their first consonants, he had looked through his great round spectacles upon them with a decided interest; and from that time it seemed as if some of the human and social sentiments which had never leafed or flowered in him, for want of their natural sunshine, had begun growing up from roots which had never lost their life. his liking for the twins may have been an illustration of that singular law which old dr. hurlbut used to lay down, namely, that at a certain period of life, say from fifty to sixty and upward, the grand-paternal instinct awakens in bachelors, the rhythms of nature reaching them in spite of her defeated intentions; so that when men marry late they love their autumn child with a twofold affection,--father's and grandfather's both in one. however this may be, there is no doubt that mr. byles gridley was beginning to take a part in his neighbors' welfare and misfortunes, such as could hardly have been expected of a man so long lost in his books and his scholastic duties. and among others, myrtle hazard had come in for a share of his interest. he had met her now and then in her walks to and from school and meeting, and had been taken with her beauty and her apparent unconsciousness of it, which he attributed to the forlorn kind of household in which she had grown up. he had got so far as to talk with her now and then, and found himself puzzled, as well he might be, in talking with a girl who had been growing into her early maturity in antagonism with every influence that surrounded her. "love will reach her by and by," he said, "in spite of the dragons up at the den yonder. "'centum fronte oculos, centum cervice gerebat argus, et hos unus saepe fefellit amor.'" but there was something about myrtle,--he hardly knew whether to call it dignity, or pride, or reserve, or the mere habit of holding back brought about by the system of repression under which she had been educated,--which kept even the old master of arts at his distance. yet he was strongly drawn to her, and had a sort of presentiment that he might be able to help her some day, and that very probably she would want his help; for she was alone in the world, except for the dragons, and sure to be assailed by foes from without and from within. he noticed that her name was apt to come up in his conversations with murray bradshaw; and, as he himself never introduced it, of course the young man must have forced it, as conjurers force a card, and with some special object. this set him thinking hard; and, as a result of it, he determined the next time mr. bradshaw brought her name up to set him talking. so he talked, not suspecting how carefully the old man listened. "it was a demonish hard case," he said, "that old malachi had left his money as he did. myrtle hazard was going to be the handsomest girl about, when she came to her beauty, and she was coming to it mighty fast. if they could only break that will, but it was no use trying. the doctors said he was of sound mind for at least two years after making it. if silence withers got the land claim, there'd be a pile, sure enough. myrtle hazard ought to have it. if the girl had only inherited that property--whew? she'd have been a match for any fellow. that old silence withers would do just as her minister told her,--even chance whether she gives it to the parson-factory, or marries bellamy stoker, and gives it to him after his wife's dead. he'd take it if he had to take her with it. earn his money, hey, master gridley?" "why, you don't seem to think very well of the rev. joseph bellamy stoker?" said mr. gridley, smiling. "think well of him? too fond of using the devil's pitchfork for my fancy! forks over pretty much all the world but himself and his lot into--the bad place, you know; and toasts his own cheese with it with very much the same kind of comfort that other folks seem to take in that business. besides, he has a weakness for pretty saints--and sinners. that's an odd name he has. more belle amie than joseph about him, i rather guess!" the old professor smiled again. "so you don't think he believes all the mediaeval doctrines he is in the habit of preaching, mr. bradshaw?" "no, sir; i think he belongs to the class i have seen described somewhere. 'there are those who hold the opinion that truth is only safe when diluted,--about one fifth to four fifths lies,--as the oxygen of the air is with its nitrogen. else it would burn us all up.'" byles gridley colored and started a little. this was one of his own sayings in "thoughts on the universe." but the young man quoted it without seeming to suspect its authorship. "where did you pick up that saying, mr. bradshaw?" "i don't remember. some paper, i rather think. it's one of those good things that get about without anybody's knowing who says 'em. sounds like coleridge." "that's what i call a compliment worth having," said byles gridley to himself, when he got home. "let me look at that passage." he took down "thoughts on the universe," and got so much interested, reading on page after page, that he did not hear the little tea-bell, and susan posey volunteered to run up to his study and call him down to tea. chapter v the twins. miss suzan posey knocked timidly at his door and informed him that tea was waiting. he rather liked susan posey. she was a pretty creature, slight, blonde, a little too light, a village beauty of the second or third grade, effective at picnics and by moonlight,--the kind of girl that very young men are apt to remember as their first love. she had a taste for poetry, and an admiration of poets; but, what was better, she was modest and simple, and a perfect sister and mother and grandmother to the two little forlorn twins who had been stranded on the widow hopkins's doorstep. these little twins, a boy and girl, were now between two and three years old. a few words will make us acquainted with them. nothing had ever been known of their origin. the sharp eyes of all the spinsters had been through every household in the village and neighborhood, and not a suspicion fixed itself on any one. it was a dark night when they were left; and it was probable that they had been brought from another town, as the sound of wheels had been heard close to the door where they were found, had stopped for a moment, then been heard again, and lost in the distance. how the good woman of the house took them in and kept them has been briefly mentioned. at first nobody thought they would live a day, such little absurd attempts at humanity did they seem. but the young doctor came and the old doctor came, and the infants were laid in cotton-wool, and the room heated up to keep them warm, and baby-teaspoonfuls of milk given them, and after being kept alive in this way, like the young of opossums and kangaroos, they came to a conclusion about which they did not seem to have made up their thinking-pulps for some weeks, namely, to go on trying to cross the sea of life by tugging at the four-and-twenty oars which must be pulled day and night until the unknown shore is reached, and the oars lie at rest under the folded hands. as it was not very likely that the parents who left their offspring round on doorsteps were of saintly life, they were not presented for baptism like the children of church-members. still, they must have names to be known by, and mrs. hopkins was much exercised in the matter. like many new england parents, she had a decided taste for names that were significant and sonorous. that which she had chosen for her oldest child, the young poet, was either a remarkable prophecy, or it had brought with it the endowments it promised. she had lost, or, in her own more pictorial language, she had buried, a daughter to whom she had given the names, at once of cheerful omen and melodious effect, wealthy amadora. as for them poor little creturs, she said, she believed they was rained down out o' the skies, jest as they say toads and tadpoles come. she meant to be a mother to 'em for all that, and give 'em jest as good names as if they was the governor's children, or the minister's. if mr. gridley would be so good as to find her some kind of a real handsome chris'n name for 'em, she'd provide 'em with the other one. hopkinses they shall be bred and taught, and hopkinses they shall be called. ef their father and mother was ashamed to own 'em, she was n't. couldn't mr. gridley pick out some pooty sounding names from some of them great books of his. it's jest as well to have 'em pooty as long as they don't cost any more than if they was tom and sally. a grim smile passed over the rugged features of byles gridley. "nothing is easier than that, mrs. hopkins," he said. "i will give you two very pretty names that i think will please you and other folks. they're new names, too. if they shouldn't like to keep them, they can change them before they're christened, if they ever are. isosceles will be just the name for the boy, and i'm sure you won't find a prettier name for the girl in a hurry than helminthia." mrs. hopkins was delighted with the dignity and novelty of these two names, which were forthwith adopted. as they were rather long for common use in the family, they were shortened into the easier forms of sossy and minthy, under which designation the babes began very soon to thrive mightily, turning bread and milk into the substance of little sinners at a great rate, and growing as if they were put out at compound interest. this short episode shows us the family conditions surrounding byles gridley, who, as we were saying, had just been called down to tea by miss susan posey. "i am coming, my dear," he said,--which expression quite touched miss susan, who did not know that it was a kind of transferred caress from the delicious page he was reading. it was not the living child that was kissed, but the dead one lying under the snow, if we may make a trivial use of a very sweet and tender thought we all remember. not long after this, happening to call in at the lawyer's office, his eye was caught by the corner of a book lying covered up by a pile of papers. somehow or other it seemed to look very natural to him. could that be a copy of "thoughts on the universe"? he watched his opportunity, and got a hurried sight of the volume. his own treatise, sure enough! leaves uncut. opened of itself to the one hundred and twentieth page. the axiom murray bradshaw had quoted--he did not remember from what,--"sounded like coleridge"--was staring him in the face from that very page. when he remembered how he had pleased himself with that compliment the other day, he blushed like a school-girl; and then, thinking out the whole trick,--to hunt up his forgotten book, pick out a phrase or two from it, and play on his weakness with it, to win his good opinion,--for what purpose he did not know, but doubtless to use him in some way,--he grinned with a contempt about equally divided between himself and the young schemer. "ah ha!" he muttered scornfully. "sounds like coleridge, hey? niccolo macchiavelli bradshaw!" from this day forward he looked on all the young lawyer's doings with even more suspicion than before. yet he would not forego his company and conversation; for he was very agreeable and amusing to study; and this trick he had played him was, after all, only a diplomatist's way of flattering his brother plenipotentiary. who could say? some time or other he might cajole england or france or russia into a treaty with just such a trick. shallower men than he had gone out as ministers of the great republic. at any rate, the fellow was worth watching. chapter vi. the use of spectacles. the old master of arts had a great reputation in the house where he lived for knowing everything that was going on. he rather enjoyed it; and sometimes amused himself with surprising his simple-hearted landlady and her boarders with the unaccountable results of his sagacity. one thing was quite beyond her comprehension. she was perfectly sure that mr. gridley could see out of the back of his head, just as other people see with their natural organs. time and again he had told her what she was doing when his back was turned to her, just as if he had been sitting squarely in front of her. some laughed at this foolish notion; but others, who knew more of the nebulous sciences, told her it was like's not jes' so. folks had read letters laid ag'in' the pits o' their stomachs, 'n' why should n't they see out o' the backs o' their heads? now there was a certain fact at the bottom of this belief of mrs. hopkins; and as it world be a very small thing to make a mystery of so simple a matter, the reader shall have the whole benefit of knowing all there is in it,--not quite yet, however, of knowing all that came of it. it was not the mirror trick, of course, which mrs. felix lorraine and other dangerous historical personages have so long made use of. it was nothing but this: mr. byles gridley wore a pair of formidable spectacles with large round glasses. he had often noticed the reflection of objects behind him when they caught their images at certain angles, and had got the habit of very often looking at the reflecting surface of one or the other of the glasses, when he seemed to be looking through them. it put a singular power into his possession, which might possibly hereafter lead to something more significant than the mystification of the widow hopkins. a short time before myrtle hazard's disappearance, mr. byles gridley had occasion to call again at the office of penhallow and bradshaw on some small matter of business of his own. there were papers to look over, and he put on his great round-glassed spectacles. he and mr. penhallow sat down at the table, and mr. bradshaw was at a desk behind them. after sitting for a while, mr. penhallow seemed to remember something he had meant to attend to, for he said all at once: "excuse me, mr. gridley. mr. bradshaw, if you are not busy, i wish you would look over this bundle of papers. they look like old receipted bills and memoranda of no particular use; but they came from the garret of the withers place, and might possibly have something that would be of value. look them over, will you, and see whether there is anything there worth saving." the young man took the papers, and mr. penhallow sat down again at the table with mr. byles gridley. this last-named gentleman felt just then a strong impulse to observe the operations of murray bradshaw. he could not have given any very good reason for it, any more than any of us can for half of what we do. "i should like to examine that conveyance we were speaking of once more," said he. "please to look at this one in the mean time, will you, mr. penhallow?" master gridley held the document up before him. he did not seem to find it quite legible, and adjusted his spectacles carefully, until they were just as he wanted them. when he had got them to suit himself, sitting there with his back to murray bradshaw, he could see him and all his movements, the desk at which he was standing, and the books in the shelves before him,--all this time appearing as if he were intent upon his own reading. the young man began in a rather indifferent way to look over the papers. he loosened the band round them, and took them up one by one, gave a careless glance at them, and laid them together to tie up again when he had gone through them. master gridley saw all this process, thinking what a fool he was all the time to be watching such a simple proceeding. presently he noticed a more sudden movement: the young man had found something which arrested his attention, and turned his head to see if he was observed. the senior partner and his client were both apparently deep in their own affairs. in his hand mr. bradshaw held a paper folded like the others, the back of which he read, holding it in such a way that master gridley saw very distinctly three large spots of ink upon it, and noticed their position. murray bradshaw took another hurried glance at the two gentlemen, and then quickly opened the paper. he ran it over with a flash of his eye, folded it again, and laid it by itself. with another quick turn of his head, as if to see whether he were observed or like to be, he reached his hand out and took a volume down from the shelves. in this volume he shut the document, whatever it was, which he had just taken out of the bundle, and placed the book in a very silent and as it were stealthy way back in its place. he then gave a look at each of the other papers, and said to his partner: "old bills, old leases, and insurance policies that have run out. malachi seems to have kept every scrap of paper that had a signature to it." "that 's the way with the old misers, always," said mr. penhallow. byles gridley had got through reading the document he held,--or pretending to read it. he took off his spectacles. "we all grow timid and cautious as we get old, mr. penhallow." then turning round to the young man, he slowly repeated the lines, "'multa senem circumveniunt incommoda, vel quod quaerit et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti; vel quod res omnes timide, gelideque ministrat' "you remember the passage, mr. bradshaw?" while he was reciting these words from horace, which he spoke slowly as if he relished every syllable, he kept his eyes on the young man steadily, but with out betraying any suspicion. his old habits as a teacher made that easy. murray bradshaw's face was calm as usual, but there was a flush on his cheek, and master gridley saw the slight but unequivocal signs of excitement. "something is going on inside there," the old man said to himself. he waited patiently, on the pretext of business, until mr. bradshaw got up and left the office. as soon as he and the senior partner were alone, master gridley took a lazy look at some of the books in his library. there stood in the book-shelves a copy of the corpus juris civilis,--the fine elzevir edition of . it was bound in parchment, and thus readily distinguishable at a glance from all the books round it. now mr. penhallow was not much of a latin scholar, and knew and cared very little about the civil law. he had fallen in with this book at an auction, and bought it to place in his shelves with the other "properties" of the office, because it would look respectable. anything shut up in one of those two octavos might stay there a lifetime without mr. penhallow's disturbing it; that master gridley knew, and of course the young man knew it too. we often move to the objects of supreme curiosity or desire, not in the lines of castle or bishop on the chess-board, but with the knight's zigzag, at first in the wrong direction, making believe to ourselves we are not after the thing coveted. put a lump of sugar in a canary-bird's cage, and the small creature will illustrate the instinct for the benefit of inquirers or sceptics. byles gridley went to the other side of the room and took a volume of reports from the shelves. he put it back and took a copy of "fearne on contingent remainders," and looked at that for a moment in an idling way, as if from a sense of having nothing to do. then he drew the back of his forefinger along the books on the shelf, as if nothing interested him in them, and strolled to the shelf in front of the desk at which murray bradshaw had stood. he took down the second volume of the corpus juris civilis, turned the leaves over mechanically, as if in search of some title, and replaced it. he looked round for a moment. mr. penhallow was writing hard at his table, not thinking of him, it was plain enough. he laid his hand on the first volume of the corpus juris civilis. there was a document shut up in it. his hand was on the book, whether taking it out or putting it back was not evident, when the door opened and mr. william murray bradshaw entered. "ah, mr. gridley," he said, "you are not studying the civil law, are you?" he strode towards him as he spoke, his face white, his eyes fixed fiercely on him. "it always interests me, mr. bradshaw," he answered, "and this is a fine edition of it. one may find a great many valuable things in the corpus juris civilis." he looked impenetrable, and whether or not he had seen more than mr. bradshaw wished him to see, that gentleman could not tell. but there stood the two books in their place, and when, after master gridley had gone, he looked in the first volume, there was the document he had shut up in it. chapter vii. myrtle's letter--the young men's pursuit. "you know all about it, olive?" cyprian eveleth said to his sister, after a brief word of greeting. "know of what, cyprian?" "why, sister, don't you know that myrtle hazard is missing,--gone!--gone nobody knows where, and that we are looking in all directions to find her?" olive turned very pale and was silent for a moment. at the end of that moment the story seemed almost old to her. it was a natural ending of the prison-life which had been round myrtle since her earliest years. when she got large and strong enough, she broke out of jail,--that was all. the nursery-bar is always climbed sooner or later, whether it is a wooden or an iron one. olive felt as if she had dimly foreseen just such a finishing to the tragedy of the poor girl's home bringing-up. why could not she have done something to prevent it? well,--what shall we do now, and as it is?--that is the question. "has she left no letter,--no explanation of her leaving in this way?" "not a word, so far as anybody in the village knows." "come over to the post-office with me; perhaps we may find a letter. i think we shall." olive's sagacity and knowledge of her friend's character had not misled her. she found a letter from myrtle to herself, which she opened and read as here follows: my dearest olive:--think no evil of me for what i have done. the fire-hang-bird's nest, as cyprian called it, is empty, and the poor bird is flown. i can live as i have lived no longer. this place is chilling all the life out of me, and i must find another home. it is far, far away, and you will not hear from me again until i am there. then i will write to you. you know where i was born,--under a hot sun and in the midst of strange, lovely scenes that i seem still to remember. i must visit them again: my heart always yearns for them. and i must cross the sea to get there,--the beautiful great sea that i have always longed for and that my river has been whispering about to me ever so many years. my life is pinched and starved here. i feel as old as aunt silence, and i am only fifteen,--a child she has called me within a few days. if this is to be a child, what is it to be a woman? i love you dearly,--and your brother is almost to me as if he were mine. i love our sweet, patient bathsheba,--yes, and the old man that has spoken so kindly with me, good master gridley; i hate to give you pain,--to leave you all,--but my way of life is killing me, and i am too young to die. i cannot take the comfort with you, my dear friends, that i would; for it seems as if i carried a lump of ice in my heart, and all the warmth i find in you cannot thaw it out. i have had a strange warning to leave this place, olive. do you remember how the angel of the lord appeared to joseph and told him to flee into egypt? i have had a dream like that, olive. there is an old belief in our family that the spirit of one who died many generations ago watches over some of her descendants. they say it led our first ancestor to come over here when it was a wilderness. i believe it has appeared to others of the family in times of trouble. i have had a strange dream at any rate, and the one i saw, or thought i saw, told me to leave this place. perhaps i should have stayed if it had not been for that, but it seemed like an angel's warning. nobody will know how i have gone, or which way i have taken. on monday, you may show this letter to my friends, not before. i do not think they will be in danger of breaking their hearts for me at our house. aunt silence cares for nothing but her own soul, and the other woman hates me, i always thought. kitty fagan will cry hard. tell her perhaps i shall come back by and by. there is a little box in my room, with some keepsakes marked,--one is for poor kitty. you can give them to the right ones. yours is with them. good-by, dearest. keep my secret, as i told you, till monday. and if you never see me again, remember how much i loved you. never think hardly of me, for you have grown up in a happy home, and do not know how much misery can be crowded into fifteen years of a young girl's life. god be with you! myrtle hazard. olive could not restrain her tears, as she handed the letter to cyprian. "her secret is as safe with you as with me," she said. "but this is madness, cyprian, and we must keep her from doing herself a wrong. "what she means to do, is to get to boston, in some way or other, and sail for india. it is strange that they have not tracked her. there is no time to be lost. she shall not go out into the world in this way, child that she is. no; she shall come back, and make her home with us, if she cannot be happy with these people. ours is a happy and a cheerful home, and she shall be to me as a younger sister, and your sister too, cyprian. but you must see her; you must leave this very hour; and you may find her. go to your cousin edward, in boston, at once; tell him your errand, and get him to help you find our poor dear sister. then give her the note i will write, and say i know your heart, cyprian, and i can trust that to tell you what to say." in a very short time cyprian eveleth was on his way to boston. but another, keener even in pursuit than he, was there before him. ever since the day when master gridley had made that over-curious observation of the young lawyer's proceedings at the office, murray bradshaw had shown a far livelier interest than before in the conditions and feelings of myrtle hazard. he had called frequently at the poplars to talk over business matters, which seemed of late to require a deal of talking. he had been very deferential to miss silence, and had wound himself into the confidence of miss badlam. he found it harder to establish any very near relations with myrtle, who had never seemed to care much for any young man but cyprian eveleth, and to care for him quite as much as olive's brother as for any personal reason. but he carefully studied myrtle's tastes and ways of thinking and of life, so that, by and by, when she should look upon herself as a young woman, and not as a girl, he would have a great advantage in making her more intimate acquaintance. thus, she corresponded with a friend of her mother's in india. she talked at times as if it were her ideal home, and showed many tastes which might well be vestiges of early oriental impressions. she made herself a rude hammock,--such as are often used in hot climates,--and swung it between two elms. here she would lie in the hot summer days, and fan herself with the sandal-wood fan her friend in india had sent her,--the perfume of which, the women said, seemed to throw her into day-dreams, which were almost like trances. these circumstances gave a general direction to his ideas, which were presently fixed more exactly by two circumstances which he learned for himself and kept to himself; for he had no idea of making a hue and cry, and yet he did not mean that myrtle hazard should get away if he could help it. the first fact was this. he found among the copies of the city newspaper they took at the poplars a recent number from which a square had been cut out. he procured another copy of this paper of the same date, and found that the piece cut out was an advertisement to the effect that the a ship swordfish, captain hawkins, was to sail from boston for calcutta, on the th of june. the second fact was the following. on the window-sill of her little hanging chamber, which the women allowed him to inspect, he found some threads of long, black, glossy hair caught by a splinter in the wood. they were myrtle's of course. a simpleton might have constructed a tragedy out of this trivial circumstance,--how she had cast herself from the window into the waters beneath it,--how she had been thrust out after a struggle, of which this shred from her tresses was the dreadful witness,--and so on. murray bradshaw did not stop to guess and wonder. he said nothing about it, but wound the shining threads on his finger, and, as soon as he got home, examined them with a magnifier. they had been cut off smoothly, as with a pair of scissors. this was part of a mass of hair, then, which had been shorn and thrown from the window. nobody would do that but she herself. what would she do it for? to disguise her sex, of course. the other inferences were plain enough. the wily young man put all these facts and hints together, and concluded that he would let the rustics drag the ponds and the river, and scour the woods and swamps, while he himself went to the seaport town from which she would without doubt sail if she had formed the project he thought on the whole most probable. thus it was that we found him hurrying to the nearest station to catch the train to boston, while they were all looking for traces of the missing girl nearer home. in the cars he made the most suggestive inquiries he could frame, to stir up the gentlemanly conductor's memory. had any young fellow been on the train within a day or two, who had attracted his notice? smooth, handsome face, black eyes, short black hair, new clothes, not fitting very well, looked away when he paid his fare, had a soft voice like a woman's,--had he seen anybody answering to some such description as this? the gentlemanly conductor had not noticed,--was always taking up and setting down way-passengers,--might have had such a young man aboard,--there was two or three students one day in the car singing college songs,--he did n't care how folks looked if they had their tickets ready,--and minded their own business,--and, so saying, he poked a young man upon whose shoulder a ringleted head was reclining with that delightful abandon which the railroad train seems to provoke in lovely woman,--"fare!" it is a fine thing to be set down in a great, overcrowded hotel, where they do not know you, looking dusty, and for the moment shabby, with nothing but a carpet-bag in your hand, feeling tired, and anything but clean, and hungry, and worried, and every way miserable and mean, and to undergo the appraising process of the gentleman in the office, who, while he shoves the book round to you for your name, is making a hasty calculation as to how high up he can venture to doom you. but murray bradshaw's plain dress and carpet-bag were more than made up for by the air and tone which imply the habit of being attended to. the clerk saw that in a glance, and, as he looked at the name and address in the book, spoke sharply in the explosive dialect of his tribe,-- "jun! ta'tha'genlm'n'scarpetbag'n'showhimupt'thirtyone!" when cyprian eveleth reached the same hotel late at night, he appeared in his best clothes and with a new valise; but his amiable countenance and gentle voice and modest manner sent him up two stories higher, where he found himself in a room not much better than a garret, feeling lonely enough, for he did not know he had an acquaintance in the same house. the two young men were in and out so irregularly that it was not very strange that they did not happen to meet each other. the young lawyer was far more likely to find myrtle if she were in the city than the other, even with the help of his cousin edward. he was not only older, but sharper, better acquainted with the city and its ways, and, whatever might be the strength of cyprian's motives, his own were of such intensity that he thought of nothing else by day, and dreamed of nothing else by night. he went to work, therefore, in the most systematic manner. he first visited the ship swordfish, lying at her wharf, saw her captain, and satisfied himself that as yet nobody at all corresponding to the description of myrtle hazard had been seen by any person on board. he visited all the wharves, inquiring on every vessel where it seemed possible she might have been looking about. hotels, thoroughfares, every place where he might hear of her or meet her, were all searched. he took some of the police into his confidence, and had half a dozen pairs of eyes besides his own opened pretty widely, to discover the lost girl. on sunday, the th, he got the first hint which encouraged him to think he was on the trail of his fugitive. he had gone down again to the wharf where the swordfish, advertised to sail the next day, was lying. the captain was not on board, but one of the mates was there, and he addressed his questions to him, not with any great hope of hearing anything important, but determined to lose no chance, however small. he was startled with a piece of information which gave him such an exquisite pang of delight that he could hardly keep the usual quiet of his demeanor. a youth corresponding to his description of myrtle hazard in her probable disguise had been that morning on board the swordfish, making many inquires as to the hour at which she was to sail, and who were to be the passengers, and remained some time on board, going all over the vessel, examining her cabin accommodations, and saying he should return to-morrow before she sailed,--doubtless intending to take passage in her, as there was plenty of room on board. there could be little question, from the description, who this young person was. it was a rather delicate--looking, dark--haired youth, smooth-faced, somewhat shy and bashful in his ways, and evidently excited and nervous. he had apparently been to look about him, and would come back at the last moment, just as the vessel was ready to sail, and in an hour or two be beyond the reach of inquiry. murray bradshaw returned to his hotel, and, going to his chamber, summoned all his faculties in state council to determine what course he should follow, now that he had the object of his search certainly within reaching distance. there was no danger now of her eluding him; but the grave question arose, what was he to do when he stood face to face with her. she must not go,--that was fixed. if she once got off in that ship, she might be safe enough; but what would become of certain projects in which he was interested,--that was the question. but again, she was no child, to be turned away from her adventure by cajolery, or by any such threats as common truants would find sufficient to scare them back to their duty. he could tell the facts of her disguise and the manner of her leaving home to the captain of the vessel, and induce him to send her ashore as a stray girl, to be returned to her relatives. but this would only make her furious with him; and he must not alienate her from himself, at any rate. he might plead with her in the name of duty, for the sake of her friends, for the good name of the family. she had thought all these things over before she ran away. what if he should address her as a lover, throw himself at her feet, implore her to pity him and give up her rash scheme, and, if things came to the very worst, offer to follow her wherever she went, if she would accept him in the only relation that would render it possible. fifteen years old,--he nearly ten years older,--but such things had happened before, and this was no time to stand on trifles. he worked out the hypothesis of the matrimonial offer as he would have reasoned out the probabilities in a law case he was undertaking. . he would rather risk that than lose all hold upon her. the girl was handsome enough for his ambitious future, wherever it might carry him. she came of an honorable family, and had the great advantage of being free from a tribe of disagreeable relatives, which is such a drawback on many otherwise eligible parties. to these considerations were to be joined other circumstances which we need not here mention, of a nature to add greatly to their force, and which would go far of themselves to determine his action. . how was it likely she would look on such an extraordinary proposition? at first, no doubt, as lady anne looked upon the advances of richard. she would be startled, perhaps shocked. what then? she could not help feeling flattered at such an offer from him,--him, william murray bradshaw, the rising young man of his county, at her feet, his eyes melting with the love he would throw into them, his tones subdued to their most sympathetic quality, and all those phrases on his lips which every day beguile women older and more discreet than this romantic, long-imprisoned girl, whose rash and adventurous enterprise was an assertion of her womanhood and her right to dispose of herself as she chose. he had not lived to be twenty-five years old without knowing his power with women. he believed in himself so thoroughly, that his very confidence was a strong promise of success. . in case all his entreaties, arguments, and offers made no impression, should he make use of that supreme resource, not to be employed save in extreme need, but which was of a nature, in his opinion, to shake a resolution stronger than this young girl was like to oppose to it? that would be like christian's coming to his weapon called all-prayer, he said to himself, with a smile that his early readings of bunyan should have furnished him an image for so different an occasion. the question was one he could not settle till the time came,--he must leave it to the instinct of the moment. the next morning found him early waking after a night of feverish dreams. he dressed himself with more than usual care, and walked down to the wharf where the swordfish was moored. the ship had left the wharf, and was lying out in the stream: a small boat had just reached her, and a slender youth, as he appeared at that distance, climbed, not over-adroitly, up the vessel's side. murray bradshaw called to a boatman near by and ordered the man to row him over as fast as he could to the vessel lying in the stream. he had no sooner reached the deck of the swordfish than he asked for the young person who had just been put on board. "he is in the cabin, sir, just gone down with the captain," was the reply. his heart beat, in spite of his cool temperament, as he went down the steps leading to the cabin. the young person was talking earnestly with the captain, and, on his turning round, mr. william murray bradshaw had the pleasure of recognizing his young friend, mr. cyprian eveleth. chapter viii. down the river. look at the flower of a morning-glory the evening before the dawn which is to see it unfold. the delicate petals are twisted into a spiral, which at the appointed hour, when the sunlight touches the hidden springs of its life, will uncoil itself and let the day into the chamber of its virgin heart. but the spiral must unwind by its own law, and the hand that shall try to hasten the process will only spoil the blossom which would have expanded in symmetrical beauty under the rosy fingers of morning. we may take a hint from nature's handling of the flower in dealing with young souls, and especially with the souls of young girls, which, from their organization and conditions, require more careful treatment than those of their tougher-fibred brothers. many parents reproach themselves for not having enforced their own convictions on their children in the face of every inborn antagonism they encountered. let them not be too severe in their self-condemnation. a want of judgment in this matter has sent many a young person to bedlam, whose nature would have opened kindly enough if it had only been trusted to the sweet influences of morning sunshine. in such cases it may be that the state we call insanity is not always an unalloyed evil. it may take the place of something worse, the wretchedness of a mind not yet dethroned, but subject to the perpetual interferences of another mind governed by laws alien and hostile to its own. insanity may perhaps be the only palliative left to nature in this extremity. but before she comes to that, she has many expedients. the mind does not know what diet it can feed on until it has been brought to the starvation point. its experience is like that of those who have been long drifting about on rafts or in long-boats. there is nothing out of which it will not contrive to get some sustenance. a person of note, long held captive for a political offence, is said to have owed the preservation of his reason to a pin, out of which he contrived to get exercise and excitement by throwing it down carelessly on the dark floor of his dungeon, and then hunting for it in a series of systematic explorations until he had found it. perhaps the most natural thing myrtle hazard could have done would have been to go crazy, and be sent to the nearest asylum, if providence, which in its wisdom makes use of the most unexpected agencies, had not made a special provision for her mental welfare. she was in that arid household as the prophet in the land where there was no dew nor rain for these long years. but as he had the brook cherith, and the bread and flesh in the morning and the bread and flesh in the evening which the ravens brought him, so she had the river and her secret store of books. the river was light and life and music and companionship to her. she learned to row herself about upon it, to swim boldly in it, for it had sheltered nooks but a little way above the poplars. but there was more than that in it,--it was infinitely sympathetic. a river is strangely like a human soul. it has its dark and bright days, its troubles from within, and its disturbances from without. it often runs over ragged rocks with a smooth surface, and is vexed with ripples as it slides over sands that are level as a floor. it betrays its various moods by aspects which are the commonplaces of poetry, as smiles and dimples and wrinkles and frowns. its face is full of winking eyes, when the scattering rain-drops first fall upon it, and it scowls back at the storm-cloud, as with knitted brows, when the winds are let loose. it talks, too, in its own simple dialect, murmuring, as it were, with busy lips all the way to the ocean, as children seeking the mother's breast and impatient of delay. prisoners who know what a flower or an insect has been to them in their solitary cell, invalids who have employed their vacant minds in studying the patterns of paper-hangings on the walls of their sick-chambers, can tell what the river was to the lonely, imaginative creature who used to sit looking into its depths, hour after hour, from the airy height of the fire-hang-bird's nest. of late a thought had mingled with her fancies which had given to the river the aspect of something more than a friend and a companion. it appeared all at once as a deliverer. did not its waters lead, after long wanderings, to the great highway of the world, and open to her the gates of those cities from which she could take her departure unchallenged towards the lands of the morning or of the sunset? often, after a freshet, she had seen a child's miniature boat floating down on its side past her window, and traced it in imagination back to some crystal brook flowing by the door of a cottage far up a blue mountain in the distance. so she now began to follow down the stream the airy shallop that held her bright fancies. these dreams of hers were colored by the rainbows of an enchanted fountain,--the books of adventure, the romances, the stories which fortune had placed in her hands,--the same over which the heart of the pride of the county had throbbed in the last century, and on the pages of some of which the traces of her tears might still be seen. the literature which was furnished for myrtle's improvement was chiefly of a religious character, and, however interesting and valuable to those to whom it was adapted, had not been chosen with any wise regard to its fitness for her special conditions. of what use was it to offer books like the "saint's rest" to a child whose idea of happiness was in perpetual activity? she read "pilgrim's progress," it is true, with great delight. she liked the idea of travelling with a pack on one's back, the odd shows at the house of the interpreter, the fighting, the adventures, the pleasing young ladies at the palace the name of which was beautiful, and their very interesting museum of curiosities. as for the allegorical meaning, it went through her consciousness like a peck of wheat through a bushel measure with the bottom out, without touching. but the very first book she got hold of out of the hidden treasury threw the "pilgrim's progress" quite into the shade. it was the story of a youth who ran away and lived on an island,--one crusoe,--a homely narrative, but evidently true, though full of remarkable adventures. there too was the history, coming much nearer home, of deborah sampson, the young woman who served as a soldier in the revolutionary war, with a portrait of her in man's attire, looking intrepid rather than lovely. a virtuous young female she was, and married well, as she deserved to, and raised a family with as good a name as wife and mother as the best of them. but perhaps not one of these books and stories took such hold of her imagination as the tale of rasselas, which most young persons find less entertaining than the "vicar of wakefield," with which it is nowadays so commonly bound up. it was the prince's discontent in the happy valley, the iron gate opening to the sound of music, and closing forever on those it admitted, the rocky boundaries of the imprisoning valley, the visions of the world beyond, the projects of escape, and the long toil which ended in their accomplishment, which haunted her sleeping and waking. she too was a prisoner, but it was not in the happy valley. of the romances and the love-letters we must take it for granted that she selected wisely, and read discreetly; at least we know nothing to the contrary. there were mysterious reminiscences and hints of her past coming over her constantly. it was in the course of the long, weary spring before her disappearance, that a dangerous chord was struck which added to her growing restlessness. in an old closet were some seashells and coral-fans, and dried star-fishes and sea, horses, and a natural mummy of a rough-skinned dogfish. she had not thought of them for years, but now she felt impelled to look after them. the dim sea odors which still clung to them penetrated to the very inmost haunts of memory, and called up that longing for the ocean breeze which those who have once breathed and salted their blood with it never get over, and which makes the sweetest inland airs seem to them at last tame and tasteless. she held a tigershell to her ear, and listened to that low, sleepy murmur, whether in the sense or in the soul we hardly know, like that which had so often been her lullaby,--a memory of the sea, as landor and wordsworth have sung. "you are getting to look like your father," aunt silence said one day; "i never saw it before. i always thought you took after old major gideon withers. well, i hope you won't come to an early grave like poor charles,--or at any rate, that you may be prepared." it did not seem very likely that the girl was going out of the world at present, but she looked miss silence in the face very seriously, and said, "why not an early grave, aunt, if this world is such a bad place as you say it is?" "i'm afraid you are not fit for a better." she wondered if silence withers and cynthia badlam were just ripe for heaven. for some months miss cynthia badlam, who, as was said, had been an habitual visitor at the poplars, had lived there as a permanent resident. between her and silence withers, myrtle hazard found no rest for her soul. each of them was for untwisting the morning-glory without waiting for the sunshine to do it. each had her own wrenches and pincers to use for that purpose. all this promised little for the nurture and admonition of the young girl, who, if her will could not be broken by imprisonment and starvation at three years old, was not likely to be over-tractable to any but gentle and reasonable treatment at fifteen. aunt silence's engine was responsibility,--her own responsibility, and the dreadful consequences which would follow to her, silence, if myrtle should in any way go wrong. ever since her failure in that moral coup d'etat by which the sinful dynasty of the natural self-determining power was to be dethroned, her attempts in the way of education had been a series of feeble efforts followed by plaintive wails over their utter want of success. the face she turned upon the young girl in her solemn expostulations looked as if it were inscribed with the epitaphs of hope and virtue. her utterances were pitched in such a forlorn tone, that the little bird in his cage, who always began twittering at the sound of myrtle's voice, would stop in his song, and cock his head with a look of inquiry full of pathos, as if he wanted to know what was the matter, and whether he could do anything to help. the specialty of cynthia badlam was to point out all the dangerous and unpardonable trangressions into which young people generally, and this young person in particular, were likely to run, to hold up examples of those who had fallen into evil ways and come to an evil end, to present the most exalted standard of ascetic virtue to the lively girl's apprehension, leading her naturally to the conclusion that a bright example of excellence stood before her in the irreproachable relative who addressed her. especially with regard to the allurements which the world offers to the young and inexperienced female, miss cynthia badlam was severe and eloquent. sometimes poor myrtle would stare, not seeing the meaning of her wise caution, sometimes look at miss cynthia with a feeling that there was something about her that was false and forced, that she had nothing in common with young people, that she had no pity for them, only hatred of their sins, whatever these might be,--a hatred which seemed to extend to those sources of frequent temptation, youth and beauty, as if they were in themselves objectionable. both the lone women at the poplars were gifted with a thin vein of music. they gave it expression in psalmody, of course, in which myrtle, who was a natural singer, was expected to bear her part. this would have been pleasantry if the airs most frequently selected had been cheerful or soothing, and if the favorite hymns had been of a sort to inspire a love for what was lovely in this life, and to give some faint foretaste of the harmonies of a better world to come. but there is a fondness for minor keys and wailing cadences common to the monotonous chants of cannibals and savages generally, to such war-songs as the wild, implacable "marseillaise," and to the favorite tunes of low--spirited christian pessimists. that mournful "china," which one of our most agreeable story-tellers has justly singled out as the cry of despair itself, was often sung at the poplars, sending such a sense of utter misery through the house, that poor kitty fagan would cross herself, and wring her hands, and think of funerals, and wonder who was going to die,--for she fancied she heard the banshee's warning in those most dismal ululations. on the first saturday of june, a fortnight before her disappearance, myrtle strolled off by the river shore, along its lonely banks, and came dome with her hands full of leaves and blossoms. silence withers looked at them as if they were a kind of melancholy manifestation of frivolity on the part of the wicked old earth. not that she did not inhale their faint fragrance with a certain pleasure, and feel their beauty as none whose souls are not wholly shriveled and hardened can help doing, but the world was, in her estimate, a vale of tears, and it was only by a momentary forgetfulness that she could be moved to smile at anything. miss cynthia, a sharper-edged woman, had formed the habit of crushing everything for its moral, until it lost its sweetness and grew almost odious, as flower-de-luces do when handled roughly. "there's a worm in that leaf, myrtle. he has rolled it all round him, and hidden himself from sight; but there is a horrid worm in it, for all it is so young and fresh. there is a worm in every young soul, myrtle." "but there is not a worm in every leaf, miss cynthia. look," she said," all these are open, and you can see all over and under them, and there is nothing there. are there never any worms in the leaves after they get old and yellow, miss cynthia?" that was a pretty fair hit for a simple creature of fifteen, but perhaps she was not so absolutely simple as one might have thought. it was on the evening of this same day that they were sitting together. the sweet season was opening, and it seemed as if the whispering of the leaves, the voices of the birds, the softness of the air, the young life stirring in everything, called on all creatures to join the universal chorus of praise that was going up around them. "what shall we sing this evening?" said miss silence. "give me one of the books, if you please, cousin silence," said miss cynthia. "it is saturday evening. holy time has begun. let us prepare our minds for the solemnities of the sabbath." she took the book, one well known to the schools and churches of this nineteenth century. "book second. hymn . long metre. i guess 'putney' will be as good a tune as any to sing it to." the trio began,-- "with holy fear, and humble song," and got through the first verse together pretty well. then came the second verse: "far in the deep where darkness dwells, the land of horror and despair, justice has built a dismal hell, and laid her stores of vengeance there." myrtle's voice trembled a little in singing this verse, and she hardly kept up her part with proper spirit. "sing out, myrtle," said miss cynthia, and she struck up the third verse: "eternal plagues and heavy chains, tormenting racks and fiery coals, and darts t' inflict immortal pains, dyed in the blood of damned souls." this last verse was a duet, and not a trio. myrtle closed her lips while it was singing, and when it was done threw down the book with a look of anger and disgust. the hunted soul was at bay. "i won't sing such words," she said, "and i won't stay here to hear them sung. the boys in the streets say just such words as that, and i am not going to sing them. you can't scare me into being good with your cruel hymn-book!" she could not swear: she was not a boy. she would not cry: she felt proud, obdurate, scornful, outraged. all these images, borrowed from the holy inquisition, were meant to frighten her--and had simply irritated her. the blow of a weapon that glances off, stinging, but not penetrating, only enrages. it was a moment of fearful danger to her character, to her life itself. without heeding the cries of the two women, she sprang up-stairs to her hanging chamber. she threw open the window and looked down into the stream. for one moment her head swam with the sudden, overwhelming, almost maddening thought that came over her,--the impulse to fling herself headlong into those running waters and dare the worst these dreadful women had threatened her with. something she often thought afterwards it was an invisible hand held her back during that brief moment, and the paroxysm--just such a paroxysm as throws many a young girl into the thames or the seine--passed away. she remained looking, in a misty dream, into the water far below. its murmur recalled the whisper of the ocean waves. and through the depths it seemed as if she saw into that strange, half--remembered world of palm-trees and white robes and dusky faces, and amidst them, looking upon her with ineffable love and tenderness, until all else faded from her sight, the face of a fair woman,--was it hers, so long, long dead, or that dear young mother's who was to her less a recollection than a dream? could it have been this vision that soothed her, so that she unclasped her hands and lifted her bowed head as if she had heard a voice whispering to her from that unknown world where she felt there was a spirit watching over her? at any rate, her face was never more serene than when she went to meeting with the two maiden ladies on the following day, sunday, and heard the rev. mr. stoker preach a sermon from luke vii. , which made both the women shed tears, but especially so excited miss cynthia that she was in a kind of half-hysteric condition all the rest of the day. after that myrtle was quieter and more docile than ever before. could it be, miss silence thought, that the rev. mr. stoker's sermon had touched her hard heart? however that was, she did not once wear the stormy look with which she had often met the complaining remonstrances miss silence constantly directed against all the spontaneous movements of the youthful and naturally vivacious subject of her discipline. june is an uncertain month, as everybody knows, and there were frosts in many parts of new england in the june of . but there were also beautiful days and nights, and the sun was warm enough to be fast ripening the strawberries,--also certain plans which had been in flower some little time. some preparations had been going on in a quiet way, so that at the right moment a decisive movement could be made. myrtle knew how to use her needle, and always had a dexterous way of shaping any article of dress or ornament,--a natural gift not very rare, but sometimes very needful, as it was now. on the morning of the th of june she was wandering by the shores of the river, some distance above the poplars, when a boat came drifting along by her, evidently broken loose from its fastenings farther up the stream. it was common for such waifs to show themselves after heavy rains had swollen the river. they might have run the gauntlet of nobody could tell how many farms, and perhaps passed by half a dozen towns and villages in the night, so that, if of common, cheap make, they were retained without scruple, by any who might find them, until the owner called for them, if he cared to take the trouble. myrtle took a knife from her pocket, cut down a long, slender sapling, and coaxed the boat to the side of the bank. a pair of old oars lay in the bottom of the boat; she took one of these and paddled it into a little cove, where it could lie hid among the thick alders. then she went home and busied herself about various little matters more interesting to her than to us. she was never more amiable and gracious than on this day. but she looked often at the clock, as they remembered afterwards, and studied over a copy of the farmer's almanac which was lying in the kitchen, with a somewhat singular interest. the days were nearly at their longest, the weather was mild, the night promised to be clear and bright. the household was, to all appearance, asleep at the usual early hour. when all seemed quiet, myrtle lighted her lamp, stood before her mirror, and untied the string that bound her long and beautiful dark hair, which fell in its abundance over her shoulders and below her girdle. she lifted its heavy masses with one hand, and severed it with a strong pair of scissors, with remorseless exaction of every wandering curl, until she stood so changed by the loss of that outward glory of her womanhood, that she felt as if she had lost herself and found a brother she had never seen before. "good-by, myrtle!" she said, and, opening her window very gently, she flung the shining tresses upon the running water, and watched them for a few moments as they floated down the stream. then she dressed herself in the character of her imaginary brother, took up the carpet-bag in which she had placed what she chose to carry with her, stole softly down-stairs, and let herself out of a window on the lower floor, shutting it very carefully so as to be sure that nobody should be disturbed. she glided along, looking all about her, fearing she might be seen by some curious wanderer, and reached the cove where the boat she had concealed was lying. she got into it, and, taking the rude oars, pulled herself into the middle of the swollen stream. her heart beat so that it seemed to her as if she could hear it between the strokes of the oar. the lights were not all out in the village, and she trembled lest she should see the figure of some watcher looking from the windows in sight of which she would have to pass, and that a glimpse of this boat stealing along at so late an hour might give the clue to the secret of her disappearance, with which the whole region was to be busied in the course of the next day. presently she came abreast of the poplars. the house lay so still, so peaceful,--it would wake to such dismay! the boat slid along beneath her own overhanging chamber. "no song to-morrow from the fire-hang-bird's nest!" she said. so she floated by the slumbering village, the flow of the river carrying her steadily on, and the careful strokes of the oars adding swiftness to her flight. at last she came to the "broad meadows," and knew that she was alone, and felt confident that she had got away unseen. there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to point out which way she had gone. her boat came from nobody knew where, her disguise had been got together at different times in such a manner as to lead to no suspicion, and not a human being ever had the slightest hint that she had planned and meant to carry out the enterprise which she had now so fortunately begun. not till the last straggling house had been long past, not till the meadows were stretched out behind her as well as before her, spreading far off into the distance on each side, did she give way to the sense of wild exultation which was coming fast over her. but then, at last, she drew a long, long breath, and, standing up in the boat, looked all around her. the stars were shining over her head and deep down beneath her. the cool wind came fresh upon her cheek over the long grassy reaches. no living thing moved in all the wide level circle which lay about her. she had passed the red sea, and was alone in the desert. she threw down her oars, lifted her hands like a priestess, and her strong, sweet voice burst into song,--the song of the jewish maiden when she went out before the chorus of, women and sang that grand solo, which we all remember in its ancient words, and in their modern paraphrase, "sound the loud timbrel o'er egypt's dark sea! jehovah hath triumphed, his people are free!" the poor child's repertory was limited to songs of the religious sort mainly, but there was a choice among these. her aunt's favorites, beside "china," already mentioned, were "bangor," which the worthy old new england clergyman so admired that he actually had the down-east city called after it, and "windsor," and "funeral hymn." but myrtle was in no mood for these. she let off her ecstasy in "balerma," and "arlington," and "silver street," and at last in that most riotous of devotional hymns, which sounds as if it had been composed by a saint who had a cellar under his chapel,--"jordan." so she let her wild spirits run loose; and then a tenderer feeling stole over her, and she sang herself into a more tranquil mood with the gentle music of "dundee." and again she pulled quietly and steadily at her oars, until she reached the wooded region through which the river winds after leaving the "broad meadows." the tumult in her blood was calmed, yet every sense and faculty was awake to the manifold delicious, mysterious impressions of that wonderful june night, the stars were shining between the tall trees, as if all the jewels of heaven had been set in one belt of midnight sky. the voices of the wind, as they sighed through the pines, seemed like the breath of a sleeping child, and then, as they lisped from the soft, tender leaves of beeches and maples, like the half-articulate whisper of the mother hushing all the intrusive sounds that might awaken it. then came the pulsating monotone of the frogs from a far-off pool, the harsh cry of an owl from an old tree that overhung it, the splash of a mink or musquash, and nearer by, the light step of a woodchuck, as he cantered off in his quiet way to his hole in the nearest bank. the laurels were just coming into bloom,--the yellow lilies, earlier than their fairer sisters, pushing their golden cups through the water, not content, like those, to float on the surface of the stream that fed them, emblems of showy wealth, and, like that, drawing all manner of insects to feed upon them. the miniature forests of ferns came down to the edge of the stream, their tall, bending plumes swaying in the night breeze. sweet odors from oozing pines, from dewy flowers, from spicy leaves, stole out of the tangled thickets, and made the whole scene more dream-like with their faint, mingled suggestions. by and by the banks of the river grew lower and marshy, and in place of the larger forest-trees which had covered them stood slender tamaracks, sickly, mossy, looking as if they had been moon-struck and were out of their wits, their tufts of leaves staring off every way from their spindling branches. the winds came cool and damp out of the hiding-places among their dark recesses. the country people about here called this region the "witches' hollow," and had many stories about the strange things that happened there. the indians used to hold their "powwows," or magical incantations, upon a broad mound which rose out of the common level, and where some old hemlocks and beeches formed a dark grove, which served them as a temple for their demon-worship. there were many legends of more recent date connected with this spot, some of them hard to account for, and no superstitious or highly imaginative person would have cared to pass through it alone in the dead of the night, as this young girl was doing. she knew nothing of all these fables and fancies. her own singular experiences in this enchanted region were certainly not suggested by anything she had heard, and may be considered psychologically curious by those who would not think of attributing any mystical meaning to them. we are at liberty to report many things without attempting to explain them, or committing ourselves to anything beyond the fact that so they were told us. the reader will find myrtle's "vision," as written out at a later period from her recollections, at the end of this chapter. the night was passing, and she meant to be as far away as possible from the village she had left, before morning. but the boat, like all craft on country rivers, was leaky, and she had to work until tired, bailing it out, before she was ready for another long effort. the old tin measure, which was all she had to bail with, leaked as badly as the boat, and her task was a tedious one. at last she got it in good trim, and sat down to her oars with the determination to pull steadily as long as her strength would hold out. hour after hour she kept at her work, sweeping round the long bends where the river was hollowing out one bank and building new shore on the opposite one, so as gradually to shift its channel; by clipper-shaped islands, sharp at the bows looking up stream, sharp too at the stern, looking down,--their shape solving the navigator's problem of least resistance, as a certain young artist had pointed out; by slumbering villages; by outlying farm-houses; between cornfields where the young plants were springing up in little thready fountains; in the midst of stumps where the forest had just been felled; through patches, where the fire of the last great autumnal drought had turned all the green beauty of the woods into brown desolation; and again amidst broad expanses of open meadow stretching as far as the eye could reach in the uncertain light. a faint yellow tinge was beginning to stain the eastern horizon. her boat was floating quietly along, for she had at last taken in her oars, and she was now almost tired out with toil and excitement. she rested her head upon her hands, and felt her eyelids closing in spite of herself. and now there stole upon her ear a low, gentle, distant murmur, so soft that it seemed almost to mingle with the sound of her own breathing, but so steady, so uniform, that it soothed her to sleep, as if it were the old cradle-song the ocean used to sing to her, or the lullaby of her fair young mother. so she glided along, slowly, slowly, down the course of the winding river, and the flushing dawn kindled around her as she slumbered, and the low, gentle murmur grew louder and louder, but still she slept, dreaming of the murmuring ocean. appendix to chapter viii. myrtle hazard's statement. "a vision seen by me, myrtle hazard, aged fifteen, on the night of june , . written out at the request of a friend from my recollections. "the place where i saw these sights is called, as i have been told since, witches' hollow. i had never been there before, and did not know that it was called so, or anything about it. "the first strange thing that i noticed was on coming near a kind of hill or mound that rose out of the low meadows. i saw a burning cross lying on the slope of that mound. it burned with a pale greenish light, and did not waste, though i watched it for a long time, as the boat i was in moved slowly with the current and i had stopped rowing. "i know that my eyes were open, and i was awake while i was looking at this cross. i think my eyes were open when i saw these other appearances, but i felt just as if i were dreaming while awake. "i heard a faint rustling sound, and on looking up i saw many figures moving around me, and i seemed to see myself among them as if i were outside of myself. "the figures did not walk, but slid or glided with an even movement, as if without any effort. they made many gestures, and seemed to speak, but i cannot tell whether i heard what they said, or knew its meaning in some other way. "i knew the faces of some of these figures. they were the same i have seen in portraits, as long as i can remember, at the old house where i was brought up, called the poplars. i saw my father and my mother as they look in the two small pictures; also my grandmother, and her father and mother and grandfather, and one other person, who lived a great while ago. all of these have been long dead, and the longer they had been dead the less like substance they looked and the more like shadows, so that the oldest was like one's breath of a frosty morning, but shaped like the living figure. "there was no motion of their breasts, and their lips seemed to be moving as if they were saying, breath! breath! breath! i thought they wanted to breathe the air of this world again in my shape, which i seemed to see as it were empty of myself and of these other selves, like a sponge that has water pressed out of it. "presently it seemed to me that i returned to myself, and then those others became part of me by being taken up, one by one, and so lost in my own life. "my father and mother came up, hand in hand, looking more real than any of the rest. their figures vanished, and they seemed to have become a part of me; for i felt all at once the longing to live over the life they had led, on the sea and in strange countries. "another figure was just like the one we called the major, who was a very strong, hearty-looking man, and who is said to have drank hard sometimes, though there is nothing about it on his tombstone, which i used to read in the graveyard. it seemed to me that there was something about his life that i did not want to make a part of mine, but that there was some right he had in me through my being of his blood, and so his health and his strength went all through me, and i was always to have what was left of his life in that shadow-like shape, forming a portion of mine. "so in the same way with the shape answering to the portrait of that famous beauty who was the wife of my great-grandfather, and used to be called the pride of the county. "and so too with another figure which had the face of that portrait marked on the back, ruth bradford, who married one of my ancestors, and was before the court, as i have heard, in the time of the witchcraft trials. "there was with the rest a dark, wild-looking woman, with a head-dress of feathers. she kept as it were in shadow, but i saw something of my own features in her face. "it was on my mind very strongly that the shape of that woman of our blood who was burned long ago by the papists came very close to me, and was in some way made one with mine, and that i feel her presence with me since, as if she lived again in me; but not always,--only at times,--and then i feel borne up as if i could do anything in the world. i had a feeling as if she were my guardian and protector. "it seems to me that these, and more, whom i have not mentioned, do really live over some part of their past lives in my life. i do not understand it all, and perhaps it can be accounted for in some way i have not thought of. i write it down as nearly as i can give it from memory, by request, and if it is printed at this time had rather have all the real names withheld. "myrtle hazard." note by the friend. "this statement must be accounted for in some way, or pass into the category of the supernatural. probably it was one of those intuitions, with objective projection, which sometimes come to imaginative young persons, especially girls, in certain exalted nervous conditions. the study of the portraits, with the knowledge of some parts of the history of the persons they represented, and the consciousness of instincts inherited in all probability from these same ancestors, formed the basis of myrtle's 'vision.' the lives of our progenitors are, as we know, reproduced in different proportions in ourselves. whether they as individuals have any consciousness of it, is another matter. it is possible that they do get a second as it were fractional life in us. it might seem that many of those whose blood flows in our veins struggle for the mastery, and by and by one or more get the predominance, so that we grow to be like father, or mother, or remoter ancestor, or two or more are blended in us, not to the exclusion, however, it must be understood, of a special personality of our own, about which these others are grouped. independently of any possible scientific value, this 'vision' serves to illustrate the above-mentioned fact of common experience, which is not sufficiently weighed by most moralists. "how much it may be granted to certain young persons to see, not in virtue of their intellectual gifts, but through those direct channels which worldly wisdom may possibly close to the luminous influx, each reader must determine for himself by his own standards of faith and evidence. "one statement of the narrative admits of a simple natural explanation, which does not allow the lovers of the marvellous to class it with the quasi-miraculous appearance seen by colonel gardiner, and given in full by dr. doddridge in his life of that remarkable christian soldier. decaying wood is often phosphorescent, as many readers must have seen for themselves. the country people are familiar with the sight of it in wild timber-land, and have given it the name of 'fox-fire.' two trunks of trees in this state, lying across each other, will account for the fact observed, and vindicate the truth of the young girl's story without requiring us to suppose any exceptional occurrence outside of natural laws." chapter ix. mr. clement lindsay receives a letter, and begins his answer. it was already morning when a young man living in the town of alderbank, after lying awake for an hour thinking the unutterable thoughts that nineteen years of life bring to the sleeping and waking dreams of young people, rose from his bed, and, half dressing himself, sat down at his desk, from which he took a letter, which he opened and read. it was written in a delicate, though hardly formed female hand, and crossed like a checker-board, as is usual with these redundant manuscripts. the letter was as follows: oxbow village, june , . my dearest clement,--you was so good to write me such a sweet little bit of a letter,--only, dear, you never seem to be in quite so good spirits as you used to be. i wish your susie was with you to cheer you up; but no, she must be patient, and you must be patient too, for you are so ambitious! i have heard you say so many times that nobody could be a great artist without passing years and years at work, and growing pale and lean with thinking so hard. you won't grow pale and lean, i hope; for i do so love to see that pretty color in your cheeks you have always had ever since i have known you; and besides, i do not believe you will have to work so very hard to do something great,--you have so much genius, and people of genius do such beautiful things with so little trouble. you remember those beautiful lines out of our newspaper i sent you? well, mr. hopkins told me he wrote those lines in one evening without stopping! i wish you could see mr. hopkins,--he is a very talented person. i cut out this little piece about him from the paper on purpose to show you,--for genius loves genius,--and you would like to hear him read his own poetry,--he reads it beautifully. please send this piece from the paper back, as i want to put it in my scrapbook, under his autograph:-- "our young townsman, mr. gifted hopkins, has proved himself worthy of the name he bears. his poetical effusions are equally creditable to his head and his heart, displaying the highest order of genius and powers of imagination and fancy hardly second to any writer of the age. he is destined to make a great sensation in the world of letters." mrs. hopkins is the same good soul she always was. she is very proud of her son, as is natural, and keeps a copy of everything he writes. i believe she cries over them every time she reads them. you don't know how i take to little sossy and minthy, those two twins i have written to you about before. poor little creatures,--what a cruel thing it was in their father and mother not to take care of them! what do you think? old bachelor gridley lets them come up into his room, and builds forts and castles for them with his big books! "the world's coming to an end," mrs. hopkins said the first time he did so. he looks so savage with that scowl of his, and talks so gruff when he is scolding at things in general, that nobody would have believed he would have let such little things come anywhere near him. but he seems to be growing kind to all of us and everybody. i saw him talking to the fire-hang-bird the other day. you know who the fire-hang-bird is, don't you? myrtle hazard her name is. i wish you could see her. i don't know as i do, though. you would want to make a statue of her, or a painting, i know. she is so handsome that all the young men stand round to see her come out of meeting. some say that lawyer bradshaw is after her; but my! he is ten years older than she is. she is nothing but a girl, though she looks as if she was eighteen. she lives up at a place called the poplars, with an old woman that is her aunt or something, and nobody seems to be much acquainted with her except olive eveleth, who is the minister's daughter at saint bartholomew's church. she never has beauxs round her, as some young girls do--they say that she is not happy with her aunt and another woman that stays with her, and that is the reason she keeps so much to herself. the minister came to see me the other day,--mr. stoker his name is. i was all alone, and it frightened me, for he looks, oh, so solemn on sundays! but he called me "my dear," and did n't say anything horrid, you know, about my being such a dreadful, dreadful sinner, as i have heard of his saying to some people,--but he looked very kindly at me, and took my hand, and laid his hand on my shoulder like a brother, and hoped i would come and see him in his study. i suppose i must go, but i don't want to. i don't seem to like him exactly. i hope you love me as well as ever you did. i can't help feeling sometimes as if you was growing away from me,--you know what i mean,--getting to be too great a person for such a small person as i am. i know i can't always understand you when you talk about art, and that you know a great deal too much for such a simple girl as i am. oh, if i thought i could never make you happy!... there, now! i am almost ashamed to send this paper so spotted. gifted hopkins wrote some beautiful verses one day on "a maiden weeping." he compared the tears falling from her eyes to the drops of dew which one often sees upon the flowers in the morning. is n't it a pretty thought? i wish i loved art as well as i do poetry; but i am afraid i have not so much taste as some girls have. you remember how i liked that picture in the illustrated magazine, and you said it was horrid. i have been afraid since to like almost anything, for fear you should tell me some time or other it was horrid. don't you think i shall ever learn to know what is nice from what is n't? oh, dear clement, i wish you would do one thing to please me. don't say no, for you can do everything you try to,--i am sure you can. i want you to write me some poetry,--just three or four little verses to suzie. oh, i should feel so proud to have some lines written all on purpose for me. mr. hopkins wrote some the other day, and printed them in the paper, "to m---e." i believe he meant them for myrtle,--the first and last letter of her name, you see, "m" and "e." your letter was a dear one, only so short! i wish you would tell me all about what you are doing at alderbank. have you made that model of innocence that is to have my forehead, and hair parted like mine! make it pretty, do, that is a darling. now don't make a face at my letter. it is n't a very good one, i know; but your poor little susie does the best she can, and she loves you so much! now do be nice and write me one little bit of a mite of a poem,--it will make me just as happy! i am very well, and as happy as i can be when you are away. your affectionate susie. (directed to mr. clement lindsay, alderbank.) the envelope of this letter was unbroken, as was before said, when the young man took it from his desk. he did not tear it with the hot impatience of some lovers, but cut it open neatly, slowly, one would say sadly. he read it with an air of singular effort, and yet with a certain tenderness. when he had finished it, the drops were thick on his forehead; he groaned and put his hands to his face, which was burning red. this was what the impulse of boyhood, years ago, had brought him to! he was a stately youth, of noble bearing, of high purpose, of fastidious taste; and, if his broad forehead, his clear, large blue eyes, his commanding features, his lips, firm, yet plastic to every change of thought and feeling, were not an empty mask, might not improbably claim that promethean quality of which the girl's letter had spoken,--the strange, divine, dread gift of genius. this poor, simple, innocent, trusting creature, so utterly incapable of coming into any true relation with his aspiring mind, his large and strong emotions,--this mere child, all simplicity and goodness, but trivial and shallow as the little babbling brooklet that ran by his window to the river, to lose its insignificant being in the swift torrent he heard rushing over the rocks,--this pretty idol for a weak and kindly and easily satisfied worshipper, was to be enthroned as the queen of his affections, to be adopted as the companion of his labors! the boy, led by the commonest instinct, the mere attraction of biped to its female, which accident had favored, had thrown away the dearest possession of manhood,--liberty,--and this bauble was to be his lifelong reward! and yet not a bauble either, for a pleasing person and a gentle and sweet nature, which had once made her seem to him the very paragon of loveliness, were still hers. alas! her simple words were true,--he had grown away from her. her only fault was that she had not grown with him, and surely he could not reproach her with that. "no," he said to himself, "i will never leave her so long as her heart clings to me. i have been rash, but she shall not pay the forfeit. and if i may think of myself, my life need not be wretched because she cannot share all my being with me. the common human qualities are more than all exceptional gifts. she has a woman's heart; and what talent of mine is to be named by the love a true woman can offer in exchange for these divided and cold affections? if it had pleased god to mate me with one more equal in other ways, who could share my thoughts, who could kindle my inspiration, who had wings to rise into the air with me as well as feet to creep by my side upon the earth,--what cannot such a woman do for a man! "what! cast away the flower i took in the bud because it does not show as i hoped it would when it opened? i will stand by my word; i will be all as a man that i promised as a boy. thank god, she is true and pure and sweet. my nest will be a peaceful one; but i must take wing alone,--alone." he drew one long sigh, and the cloud passed from his countenance. he must answer that letter now, at once. there were reasons, he thought, which made it important. and so, with the cheerfulness which it was kind and becoming to show, so far as possible, and yet with a little excitement on one particular point, which was the cause of his writing so promptly, he began his answer. alderbank, thursday morning, june , . my dear susie,--i have just been reading your pleasant letter; and if i do not send you the poem you ask for so eloquently, i will give you a little bit of advice, which will do just as well,--won't it, my dear? i was interested in your account of various things going on at oxbow village. i am very glad you find young mr. hopkins so agreeable a friend. his poetry is better than some which i see printed in the village papers, and seems generally unexceptionable in its subjects and tone. i do not believe he is a dangerous companion, though the habit of writing verse does not always improve the character. i think i have seen it make more than one of my acquaintances idle, conceited, sentimental, and frivolous,--perhaps it found them so already. don't make too much of his talent, and particularly don't let him think that because he can write verses he has nothing else to do in this world. that is for his benefit, dear, and you must skilfully apply it. now about yourself. my dear susie, there was something in your letter that did not please me. you speak of a visit from the rev. mr. stoker, and of his kind, brotherly treatment, his cordiality of behavior, and his asking you to visit him in his study. i am very glad to hear you say that you "don't seem to like him." he is very familiar, it seems to me, for so new an acquaintance. what business had he to be laying his hand on your shoulder? i should like to see him try these free-and-easy ways in my presence! he would not have taken that liberty, my dear! no, he was alone with you, and thought it safe to be disrespectfully familiar. i want you to maintain your dignity always with such persons, and i beg you not to go to the study of this clergyman, unless some older friend goes with you on every occasion, and sits through the visit. i must speak plainly to you, my dear, as i have a right to. if the minister has anything of importance to say, let it come through the lips of some mature person. it may lose something of the fervor with which it would have been delivered at first hand, but the great rules of christian life are not so dependent on the particular individual who speaks them, that you must go to this or that young man to find out what they are. if to any man, i should prefer the old gentleman whom you have mentioned in your letters, father pemberton. you understand me, my dear girl, and the subject is not grateful. you know how truly i am interested in all that relates to you,--that i regard you with an affection which-- help! help! help! a cry as of a young person's voice was heard faintly, coming from the direction of the river. something in the tone of it struck to his heart, and he sprang as if he had been stabbed. he flung open his chamber window and leaped from it to the ground. he ran straight to the bank of the river by the side of which the village of alderbank was built, a little farther down the stream than the house in which he was living. everybody that travels in that region knows the beautiful falls which break the course of the river just above the village; narrow and swift, and surrounded by rocks of such picturesque forms that they are sought and admired by tourists. the stream was now swollen, and rushed in a deep and rapid current over the ledges, through the rocky straits, plunging at last in tumult and foam, with loud, continuous roar, into the depths below the cliff from which it tumbled. a short distance above the fall there projected from the water a rock which had, by parsimonious saving during a long course of years, hoarded a little soil, out of which a small tuft of bushes struggled to support a decent vegetable existence. the high waters had nearly submerged it, but a few slender twigs were seen above their surface. a skiff was lying close to this rock, between it and the brink of the fall, which was but a few rods farther down. in the skiff was a youth of fourteen or fifteen years, holding by the slender twigs, the boat dragging at them all the time, and threatening to tear them away and go over the fall. it was not likely that the boy would come to shore alive if it did. there were stories, it is true, that the indians used to shoot the fall in their canoes with safety; but everybody knew that at least three persons had been lost by going over it since the town was settled; and more than one dead body had been found floating far down the river, with bruises and fractured bones, as if it had taken the same fatal plunge. there was no time to lose. clement ran a little way up the river-bank, flung off his shoes, and sprang from the bank as far as he could leap into the water. the current swept him toward the fall, but he worked nearer and nearer the middle of the stream. he was making for the rock, thinking he could plant his feet upon it and at the worst hold the boat until he could summon other help by shouting. he had barely got his feet upon the rock, when the twigs by which the boy was holding gave way. he seized the boat, but it dragged him from his uncertain footing, and with a desperate effort he clambered over its side and found himself its second doomed passenger. there was but an instant for thought. "sit still," he said, "and, just as we go over, put your arms round me under mine, and don't let go for your life!" he caught up the single oar, and with a few sharp paddle-strokes brought the skiff into the blackest centre of the current, where it was deepest, and would plunge them into the deepest pool. "hold your breath! god save us! now!" they rose, as if with one will, and stood for an instant, the arms of the younger closely embracing the other as he had directed. a sliding away from beneath them of the floor on which they stood, as the drop fails under the feet of a felon. a great rush of air, and a mighty, awful, stunning roar,--an involuntary gasp, a choking flood of water that came bellowing after them, and hammered them down into the black depths so far that the young man, though used to diving and swimming long distances underwater, had well-nigh yielded to the fearful need of air, and sucked in his death in so doing. the boat came up to the surface, broken in twain, splintered, a load of firewood for those who raked the river lower down. it had turned crosswise, and struck the rocks. a cap rose to the surface, such a one as boys wear,--the same that boy had on. and then--after how many seconds by the watch cannot be known, but after a time long enough, as the young man remembered it, to live his whole life over in memory--clement lindsay felt the blessed air against his face, and, taking a great breath, came to his full consciousness. the arms of the boy were still locked around him as in the embrace of death. a few strokes brought him to the shore, dragging his senseless burden with him. he unclasped the arms that held him so closely encircled, and laid the slender form of the youth he had almost died to save gently upon the grass. it was as if dead. he loosed the ribbon that was round the neck, he tore open the checked shirt-- the story of myrtle hazard's sex was told; but she was deaf to his cry of surprise, and no blush came to her cold cheek. not too late, perhaps, to save her,--not too late to try to save her, at least! he placed his lips to hers, and filled her breast with the air from his own panting chest. again and again he renewed these efforts, hoping, doubting, despairing,--once more hoping, and at last, when he had almost ceased to hope, she gasped, she breathed, she moaned, and rolled her eyes wildly round her, she was born again into this mortal life. he caught her up in his arms, bore her to the house, laid her on a sofa, and, having spent his strength in this last effort, reeled and fell, and lay as one over whom have just been whispered the words, "he is gone." chapter x. mr. clement lindsay finishes his letter--what came of it. the first thing clement lindsay did, when he was fairly himself again, was to finish his letter to susan posey. he took it up where it left off, "with an affection which----" and drew a long dash, as above. it was with great effort he wrote the lines which follow, for he had got an ugly blow on the forehead, and his eyes were "in mourning," as the gentlemen of the ring say, with unbecoming levity. "an adventure! just as i was writing these last words, i heard the cry of a young person, as it sounded, for help. i ran to the river and jumped in, and had the pleasure of saving a life. i got some bruises which have laid me up for a day or two; but i am getting over them very well now, and you need not worry about me at all. i will write again soon; so pray do not fret yourself, for i have had no hurt that will trouble me for any time." of course, poor susan posey burst out crying, and cried as if her heart would break. oh dear! oh dear! what should she do! he was almost killed, she knew he was, or he had broken some of his bones. oh dear! oh dear! she would go and see him, there!--she must and would. he would die, she knew he would,--and so on. it was a singular testimony to the evident presence of a human element in mr. bytes gridley that the poor girl, on her extreme trouble, should think of him as a counsellor. but the wonderful relenting kind of look on his grave features as he watched the little twins tumbling about his great books, and certain marks of real sympathy he had sometimes shown for her in her lesser woes, encouraged her, and she went straight to his study, letter in hand. she gave a timid knock at the door of that awful sanctuary. "come in, susan posey," was its answer, in a pleasant tone. the old master knew her light step and the maidenly touch of her small hand on the panel. what a sight! 'there were sossy and minthy intrenched in a sebastopol which must have cost a good half-hour's engineering, and the terrible bytes gridley besieging the fortress with hostile manifestations of the most singular character. he was actually discharging a large sugar-plum at the postern gate, which having been left unclosed, the missile would certainly have reached one of the garrison, when he paused as the door opened, and the great round spectacles and four wide, staring infants' eyes were levelled at miss susan posey. she almost forgot her errand, grave as it was, in astonishment at this manifestation. the old man had emptied his shelves of half their folios to build up the fort, in the midst of which he had seated the two delighted and uproarious babes. there was his cave's "historia literaria," and sir walter raleigh's "history of the world," and a whole array of christian fathers, and plato, and aristotle, and stanley's book of philosophers, with effigies, and the junta galen, and the hippocrates of foesius, and walton's polyglot, supported by father sanchez on one side and fox's "acts and monuments" on the other,--an odd collection, as folios from lower shelves are apt to be. the besieger discharged his sugar-plum, which was so well aimed that it fell directly into the lap of minthy, who acted with it as if the garrison had been on short rations for some time. he saw at once, on looking up, that there was trouble. "what now, susan posey, my dear?" "o mr. gridley, i am in such trouble! what shall i do? what shall i do?" she turned back the name and the bottom of the letter in such a way that mr. gridley could read nothing but the few lines relating their adventure. "so mr. clement lindsay has been saving a life, has he, and got some hard knocks doing it, hey, susan posey? well, well, clement lindsay is a brave fellow, and there is no need of hiding his name, my child. let me take the letter again a moment, susan posey. what is the date of it? june th. yes,--yes,--yes!" he read the paragraph over again, and the signature too, if he wanted to; for poor susan had found that her secret was hardly opaque to those round spectacles and the eyes behind them, and, with a not unbecoming blush, opened the fold of the letter before she handed it back. "no, no, susan posey. he will come all right. his writing is steady, and if he had broken any bones he would have mentioned it. it's a thing his wife will be proud of, if he is ever married, susan posey," (blushes,) "and his children too," (more blushes running up to her back hair,) "and there 's nothing to be worried about. but i'll tell you what, my dear, i've got a little business that calls me down the river tomorrow, and i shouldn't mind stopping an hour at alderbank and seeing how our young friend clement lindsay is; and then, if he was going to have a long time of it, why we could manage it somehow that any friend who had any special interest in him could visit him, just to while away the tiresomeness of being sick. that's it, exactly. i'll stop at alderbank, susan posey. just clear up these two children for me, will you, my dear? isosceles, come now,--that 's a good child. helminthia, carry these sugar-plums down--stairs for me, and take good care of them, mind!" it was a case of gross bribery and corruption, for the fortress was immediately, evacuated on the receipt of a large paper of red and white comfits, and the garrison marched down--stairs much like conquerors, under the lead of the young lady, who was greatly eased in mind by the kind words and the promise of mr. byles gridley. but he, in the mean time, was busy with thoughts she did not suspect. "a young person," he said to himself,--"why a young person? why not say a boy, if it was a boy? what if this should be our handsome truant?--'june th, thursday morning!'--about time to get to alderbank by the river, i should think. none of the boats missing? what then? she may have made a raft, or picked up some stray skiff. who knows? and then got shipwrecked, very likely. there are rapids and falls farther along the river. it will do no harm to go down there and look about, at any rate." on saturday morning, therefore, mr. byles gridley set forth to procure a conveyance to make a visit, as he said, dawn the river, and perhaps be gone a day or two. he went to a stable in the village, and asked if they could let him have a horse. the man looked at him with that air of native superiority which the companionship of the generous steed confers on all his associates, down to the lightest weight among the jockeys. "wal, i hain't got nothin' in the shape of a h'oss, mr. gridley. i've got a mare i s'pose i could let y' have." "oh, very well," said the old master, with a twinkle in his eye as sly as the other's wink,--he had parried a few jokes in his time,--"they charge half-price for mares always, i believe." that was a new view of the subject. it rather took the wind out of the stable-keeper, and set a most ammoniacal fellow, who stood playing with a currycomb, grinning at his expense. but he rallied presently. "wal, i b'lieve they do for some mares, when they let 'em to some folks; but this here ain't one o' them mares, and you ain't one o' them folks. all my cattle's out but this critter, 'n' i don't jestly want to have nobody drive her that ain't pretty car'ful,--she's faast, i tell ye,--don't want no whip.--how fur d' d y' want t' go?" mr. gridley was quite serious now, and let the man know that he wanted the mare and a light covered wagon, at once, to be gone for one or two days, and would waive the question of sex in the matter of payment. alderbank was about twenty miles down the river by the road. on arriving there, he inquired for the house where a mr. lindsay lived. there was only one lindsay family in town,--he must mean dr. william lindsay. his house was up there a little way above the village, lying a few rods back from the river. he found the house without difficulty, and knocked at the door. a motherly-looking woman opened it immediately, and held her hand up as if to ask him to speak and move softly. "does mr. clement lindsay live here?" "he is staying here for the present. he is a nephew of ours. he is in his bed from an injury." "nothing very serious, i hope?" "a bruise on his head,--not very bad, but the doctor was afraid of erysipelas. seems to be doing well enough now." "is there a young person here, a stranger?" "there is such a young person here. do you come with any authority to make inquiries?" "i do. a young friend of mine is missing, and i thought it possible i might learn something here about it. can i see this young person?" the matron came nearer to byles gridley, and said: "this person is a young woman disguised as a boy. she was rescued by my nephew at the risk of his life, and she has been delirious ever since she has recovered her consciousness. she was almost too far gone to be resuscitated, but clement put his mouth to hers and kept her breathing until her own breath returned and she gradually came to." "is she violent in her delirium?" "not now. no; she is quiet enough, but wandering,--wants to know where she is, and whose the strange faces are,--mine and my husband's,--that 's dr. lindsay,--and one of my daughters, who has watched with her." "if that is so, i think i had better see her. if she is the person i suspect her to be, she will know me; and a familiar face may bring back her recollections and put a stop to her wanderings. if she does not know me, i will not stay talking with her. i think she will, if she is the one i am seeking after. there is no harm in trying." mrs. lindsay took a good long look at the old man. there was no mistaking his grave, honest, sturdy, wrinkled, scholarly face. his voice was assured and sincere in its tones. his decent black coat was just what a scholar's should be,--old, not untidy, a little shiny at the elbows with much leaning on his study-table, but neatly bound at the cuffs, where worthy mrs. hopkins had detected signs of fatigue and come to the rescue. his very hat looked honest as it lay on the table. it had moulded itself to a broad, noble head, that held nothing but what was true and fair, with a few harmless crotchets just to fill in with, and it seemed to know it. the good woman gave him her confidence at once. "is the person you are seeking a niece or other relative of yours?" (why did not she ask if the girl was his daughter? what is that look of paternity and of maternity which observing and experienced mothers and old nurses know so well in men and in women?) "no, she is not a relative. but i am acting for those who are." "wait a moment and i will go and see that the room is all right." she returned presently. "follow me softly, if you please. she is asleep,--so beautiful,--so innocent!" byles gridley, master of arts, retired professor, more than sixty years old, childless, loveless, stranded in a lonely study strewed with wrecks of the world's thought, his work in life finished, his one literary venture gone down with all it held, with nobody to care for him but accidental acquaintances, moved gently to the side of the bed and looked upon the pallid, still features of myrtle hazard. he strove hard against a strange feeling that was taking hold of him, that was making his face act rebelliously, and troubling his eyes with sudden films. he made a brief stand against this invasion. "a weakness,--a weakness!" he said to himself. "what does all this mean? never such a thing for these twenty years! poor child! poor child!--excuse me, madam," he said, after a little interval, but for what offence he did not mention. a great deal might be forgiven, even to a man as old as byles gridley, looking upon such a face,--so lovely, yet so marked with the traces of recent suffering, and even now showing by its changes that she was struggling in some fearful dream. her forehead contracted, she started with a slight convulsive movement, and then her lips parted, and the cry escaped from them,--how heart-breaking when there is none to answer it,--"mother!" gone back again through all the weary, chilling years of her girlhood to that hardly remembered morning of her life when the cry she uttered was answered by the light of loving eyes, the kiss of clinging lips, the embrace of caressing arms! "it is better to wake her," mrs. lindsay said; "she is having a troubled dream. wake up, my child, here is a friend waiting to see you." she laid her hand very gently on myrtle's forehead. myrtle opened her eyes, but they were vacant as yet. "are we dead?" she said. "where am i? this is n't heaven--there are no angels--oh, no, no, no! don't send me to the other place--fifteen years,--only fifteen years old--no father, no mother--nobody loved me. was it wicked in me to live?" her whole theological training was condensed in that last brief question. the, old man took her hand and looked her in the face, with a wonderful tenderness in his squared features. "wicked to live, my dear? no indeed! here! look at me, my child; don't you know your old friend byles gridley?" she was awake now. the sight of a familiar countenance brought back a natural train of thought. but her recollection passed over everything that had happened since thursday morning. "where is the boat i was in?" she said. "i have just been in the water, and i was dreaming that i was drowned. oh! mr. gridley, is that you? did you pull me out of the water?" "no, my dear, but you are out of it, and safe and sound: that is the main point. how do you feel now you are awake?" she yawned, and stretched her arms and looked round, but did not answer at first. this was all natural, and a sign that she was coming right. she looked down at her dress. it was not inappropriate to her sex, being a loose gown that belonged to one of the girls in the house. "i feel pretty well," she answered, "but a little confused. my boat will be gone, if you don't run and stop it now. how did you get me into dry clothes so quick?" master byles gridley found himself suddenly possessed by a large and luminous idea of the state of things, and made up his mind in a moment as to what he must do. there was no time to be lost. every day, every hour, of myrtle's absence was not only a source of anxiety and a cause of useless searching but it gave room for inventive fancies to imagine evil. it was better to run some risk of injury to health, than to have her absence prolonged another day. "has this adventure been told about in the village, mrs. lindsay?" "no, we thought it best to wait until she could tell her own story, expecting her return to consciousness every hour, and thinking there might be some reason for her disguise which it would be kinder to keep quiet about." "you know nothing about her, then?" "not a word. it was a great question whether to tell the story and make inquiries; but she was safe, and could hardly bear disturbance, and, my dear sir, it seemed too probable that there was some sad story behind this escape in disguise, and that the poor child might need shelter and retirement. we meant to do as well as we could for her." "all right, mrs. lindsay. you do not know who she is, then?" "no, sir, and perhaps it is as well that i should not know. then i shall not have to answer any questions about it." "very good, madam,--just as it should be. and your family, are they as discreet as yourself?" "not one word of the whole story has been or will be told by any one of us. that was agreed upon among us." "now then, madam. my name, as you heard me say, is byles gridley. your husband will know it, perhaps; at any rate i will wait until he comes back. this child is of good family and of good name. i know her well, and mean, with your kind help, to save her from the consequences which her foolish adventure might have brought upon her. before the bells ring for meeting to-morrow morning this girl must be in her bed at her home, at oxbow village, and we must keep her story to ourselves as far as may be. it will all blow over, if we do. the gossips will only know that she was upset in the river and cared for by some good people,--good people and sensible people too, mrs. lindsay. and now i want to see the young man that rescued my friend here,--clement lindsay, i have heard his name before." clement was not a beauty for the moment, but master gridley saw well enough that he was a young man of the right kind. he knew them at sight, fellows with lime enough in their bones and iron enough in their blood to begin with,--shapely, large-nerved, firm-fibred and fine-fibred, with well-spread bases to their heads for the ground-floor of the faculties, and well-vaulted arches for the upper range of apprehensions and combinations. "plenty of basements," he used to say, "without attics and skylights. plenty of skylights without rooms enough and space enough below." but here was "a three-story brain," he said to himself as he looked at it, and this was the youth who was to find his complement in our pretty little susan posey! his judgment may seem to have been hasty, but he took the measure of young men of twenty at sight from long and sagacious observation, as nurse byloe knew the "heft" of a baby the moment she fixed her old eyes on it. clement was well acquainted with byles gridley, though he had never seen him, for susan's letters had had a good deal to say about him of late. it was agreed between them that the story should be kept as quiet as possible, and that the young girl should not know the name of her deliverer,--it might save awkward complications. it was not likely that she would be disposed to talk of her adventure, which had ended so disastrously, and thus the whole story would soon die out. the effect of the violent shock she had experienced was to change the whole nature of myrtle for the time. her mind was unsettled: she could hardly recall anything except the plunge over the fall. she was perfectly docile and plastic,--was ready to go anywhere mr. gridley wanted her to go, without any sign of reluctance. and so it was agreed that he should carry her back in his covered wagon that very night. all possible arrangements were made to render her journey comfortable. the fast mare had to trot very gently, and the old master would stop and adjust the pillows from time to time, and administer the restoratives which the physician had got ready, all as naturally and easily as if he had been bred a nurse, vastly to his own surprise, and with not a little gain to his self-appreciation. he was a serviceable kind of body on occasion, after all, was he not, hey, mr. byles gridley? he said to himself. at half past four o'clock on sunday morning the shepherd brought the stray lamb into the paved yard at the poplars, and roused the slumbering household to receive back the wanderer. it was the irishwoman, kitty fagan, huddled together in such amorphous guise, that she looked as if she had been fitted in a tempest of petticoats and a whirlwind of old shawls, who presented herself at the door. but there was a very warm heart somewhere in that queer-looking bundle of clothes, and it was not one of those that can throb or break in silence. when she saw the long covered wagon, and the grave face of the old master, she thought it was all over with the poor girl she loved, and that this was the undertaker's wagon bringing back only what had once been myrtle hazard. she screamed aloud,--so wildly that myrtle lifted her head from the pillow against which she had rested it, and started forward. the irishwoman looked at her for a moment to assure herself that it was the girl she loved, and not her ghost. then it all came over her,--she had been stolen by thieves, who had carried her off by night, and been rescued by the brave old man who had brought her back. what crying and kisses and prayers and blessings were poured forth, in a confusion of which her bodily costume was a fitting type, those who know the vocabulary and the enthusiasm of her eloquent race may imagine better than we could describe it. the welcome of the two other women was far less demonstrative. there were awful questions to be answered before the kind of reception she was to have could be settled. what they were, it is needless to suggest; but while miss silence was weeping, first with joy that her "responsibility" was removed, then with a fair share of pity and kindness, and other lukewarm emotions,--while miss badlam waited for an explanation before giving way to her feelings,--mr. gridley put the essential facts before them in a few words. she had gone down the river some miles in her boat, which was upset by a rush of the current, and she had come very near being drowned. she was got out, however, by a person living near by, and cared for by some kind women in a house near the river, where he had been fortunate enough to discover her.--who cut her hair off? perhaps those good people,--she had been out of her head. she was alive and unharmed, at any rate, wanting only a few days' rest. they might be very thankful to get her back, and leave her to tell the rest of her story when she had got her strength and memory, for she was not quite herself yet, and might not be for some days. and so there she was at last laid in her own bed, listening again to the ripple of the waters beneath her, miss silence sitting on one side looking as sympathetic as her insufficient nature allowed her to look; the irishwoman uncertain between delight at myrtle's return and sorrow for her condition; and miss cynthia badlam occupying herself about house-matters, not unwilling to avoid the necessity of displaying her conflicting emotions. before he left the house, mr. gridley repeated the statement is the most precise manner,--some miles down the river--upset and nearly drowned--rescued almost dead--brought to and cared for by kind women in the house where he, byles gridley, found her. these were the facts, and nothing more than this was to be told at present. they had better be made known at once, and the shortest and best way would be to have it announced by the minister at meeting that forenoon. with their permission, he would himself write the note for mr. stoker to read, and tell the other ministers that they might announce it to their people. the bells rang for meeting, but the little household at the poplars did not add to the congregation that day. in the mean time kitty fagan had gone down with mr. byles gridley's note, to carry it to the rev. mr. stoker. but, on her way, she stopped at the house of one mrs. finnegan, a particular friend of hers; and the great event of the morning furnishing matter for large discourse, and various social allurements adding to the fascination of having a story to tell, kitty fagan forgot her note until meeting had begun and the minister had read the text of his sermon. "bless my soul! and sure i 've forgot ahl about the letter!" she cried all at once, and away she tramped for the meeting-house. the sexton took the note, which was folded, and said he would hand it up to the pulpit after the sermon,--it would not do to interrupt the preacher. the rev. mr. stoker had, as was said, a somewhat remarkable gift in prayer,--an endowment by no means confined to profoundly spiritual persons,--in fact, not rarely owing much of its force to a strong animal nature underlying the higher attributes. the sweet singer of israel would never have written such petitions and such hymns if his manhood had been less complete; the flavor of remembered frailties could not help giving a character to his most devout exercises, or they would not have come quite home to our common humanity. but there is no gift more dangerous to the humility and sincerity of a minister. while his spirit ought to be on its knees before the throne of grace, it is too apt to be on tiptoe, following with admiring look the flight of its own rhetoric. the essentially intellectual character of an extemporaneous composition spoken to the creator with the consciousness that many of his creatures are listening to criticise or to admire, is the great argument for set forms of prayer. the congregation on this particular sunday was made up chiefly of women and old men. the young men were hunting after myrtle hazard. mr. byles gridley was in his place, wondering why the minister did not read his notice before the prayer. this prayer, was never reported, as is the questionable custom with regard to some of these performances, but it was wrought up with a good deal of rasping force and broad pathos. when he came to pray for "our youthful sister, missing from her pious home, perhaps nevermore to return to her afflicted relatives," and the women and old men began crying, byles gridley was on the very point of getting up and cutting short the whole matter by stating the simple fact that she had got back, all right, and suggesting that he had better pray for some of the older and tougher sinners before him. but on the whole it would be more decorous to wait, and perhaps he was willing to hear what the object of his favorite antipathy had to say about it. so he waited through the prayer. he waited through the hymn, "life is the time"--he waited to hear the sermon. the minister gave out his text from the book of esther, second chapter, seventh verse: "for she had neither father nor mother, and the maid was fair and beautiful." it was to be expected that the reverend gentleman, who loved to produce a sensation, would avail himself of the excitable state of his audience to sweep the key-board of their emotions, while, as we may, say, all the stops were drawn out. his sermon was from notes; for, though absolutely extemporaneous composition may be acceptable to one's maker, it is not considered quite the thing in speaking to one's fellow-mortals. he discoursed for a time on the loss of parents, and on the dangers to which the unfortunate orphan is exposed. then he spoke of the peculiar risks of the tender female child, left without its natural guardians. warming with his subject, he dilated with wonderful unction on the temptations springing from personal attractions. he pictured the "fair and beautiful" women of holy writ, lingering over their names with lover-like devotion. he brought esther before his audience, bathed and perfumed for the royal presence of ahasuerus. he showed them the sweet young ruth, lying down in her innocence at the feet of the lord of the manor. he dwelt with special luxury on the charms which seduced the royal psalmist,--the soldier's wife for whom he broke the commands of the decalogue, and the maiden for whose attentions, in his cooler years, he violated the dictates of prudence and propriety. all this time byles gridley had his stern eyes on him. and while he kindled into passionate eloquence on these inspiring themes, poor bathsheba, whom her mother had sent to church that she might get a little respite from her home duties, felt her blood growing cold in her veins, as the pallid image of the invalid wife, lying on her bed of suffering, rose in the midst of the glowing pictures which borrowed such warmth from her husband's imagination. the sermon, with its hinted application to the event of the past week, was over at last. the shoulders of the nervous women were twitching with sobs. the old men were crying in their vacant way. but all the while the face of byles gridley, firm as a rock in the midst of this lachrymal inundation, was kept steadily on the preacher, who had often felt the look that came through the two round glasses searching into the very marrow of his bones. as the sermon was finished, the sexton marched up through the broad aisle and handed the note over the door of the pulpit to the clergyman, who was wiping his face after the exertion of delivering his discourse. mr. stoker looked at it, started, changed color,--his vision of "the dangers of beauty, a sermon printed by request," had vanished,--and passed the note to father pemberton, who sat by him in the pulpit. with much pains he deciphered its contents, for his eyes were dim with years, and, having read it, bowed his head upon his hands in silent thanksgiving. then he rose in the beauty of his tranquil and noble old age, so touched with the message he had to proclaim to his people, that the three deep furrows on his forehead, which some said he owed to the three dogmas of original sin, predestination, and endless torment, seemed smoothed for the moment, and his face was as that of an angel while he spoke. "sisters and brethren,--rejoice with us, for we have found our lamb which had strayed from the fold. this our daughter was dead and is alive again; she was lost and is found. myrtle hazard, rescued from great peril of the waters, and cared for by good samaritans, is now in her home. thou, o lord, who didst let the water-flood overflow her, didst not let the deep swallow her up, nor the pit shut its mouth upon her. let us return our thanks to the god of abraham, the god of isaac, the god of jacob, who is our god and father, and who hath wrought this great deliverance." after his prayer, which it tried him sorely to utter in unbroken tones, he gave out the hymn, "lord, thou hast heard thy servant cry, and rescued from the grave;" but it was hardly begun when the leading female voice trembled and stopped,--and another,--and then a third,--and father pemberton, seeing that they were all overcome, arose and stretched out his arms, and breathed over them his holy benediction. the village was soon alive with the news. the sexton forgot the solemnity of the sabbath, and the bell acted as if it was crazy, tumbling heels over head at such a rate, and with such a clamor, that a good many thought there was a fire, and, rushing out from every quarter, instantly caught the great news with which the air was ablaze. a few of the young men who had come back went even further in their demonstrations. they got a small cannon in readiness, and without waiting for the going down of the sun, began firing rapidly, upon which the rev. mr. stoker sallied forth to put a stop to this violation of the sabbath. but in the mean time it was heard on all the hills, far and near. some said they were firing in the hope of raising the corpse; but many who heard the bells ringing their crazy peals guessed what had happened. before night the parties were all in, one detachment bearing the body of the bob-tailed catamount swung over a pole, like the mighty cluster of grapes from eshcol, and another conveying with wise precaution that monstrous snapping-turtle which those of our friends who wish to see will find among the specimens marked chelydra, serpentine in the great collection at cantabridge. chapter xi. vexed with a devil. it was necessary at once to summon a physician to advise as to the treatment of myrtle, who had received a shock, bodily and mental, not lightly to be got rid of, and very probably to be followed by serious and varied disturbances. her very tranquillity was suspicious, for there must be something of exhaustion in it, and the reaction must come sooner or later. old dr. lemuel hurlbut, at the age of ninety-two, very deaf, very nearly blind, very feeble, liable to odd lapses of memory, was yet a wise counsellor in doubtful and difficult cases, and on rare occasions was still called upon to exercise his ancient skill. here was a case in which a few words from him might soothe the patient and give confidence to all who were interested in her. miss silence withers went herself to see him. "miss withers, father, wants to talk with you about her niece, miss hazard," said dr. fordyce hurlbut. "miss withers, miss withers?--oh, silence withers,--lives up at the poplars. how's the deacon, miss withers?" [ob. .] "my grandfather is not living, dr. hurlbut," she screamed into his ear. "dead, is he? well, it isn't long since he was with us; and they come and go,--they come and go. i remember his father, major gideon withers. he had a great red feather on training-days,--that was what made me remember him. who did you say was sick and wanted to see me, fordyce?" "myrtle hazard, father,--she has had a narrow escape from drowning, and it has left her in a rather nervous state. they would like to have you go up to the poplars and take a look at her. you remember myrtle hazard? she is the great-granddaughter of your old friend the deacon." he had to wait a minute before his thoughts would come to order; with a little time, the proper answer would be evolved by the slow automatic movement of the rusted mental machinery. after the silent moment: "myrtle hazard, myrtle hazard,--yes, yes, to be sure! the old withers stock,--good constitutions,--a little apt to be nervous, one or two of 'em. i've given 'em a good deal of valerian and assafoetida,--not quite so much since the new blood came in. there is n't the change in folks people think,--same thing over and over again. i've seen six fingers on a child that had a six-fingered great-uncle, and i've seen that child's grandchild born with six fingers. does this girl like to have her own way pretty well, like the rest of the family?" "a little too well, i suspect, father. you will remember all about her when you come to see her and talk with her. she would like to talk with you, and her aunt wants to see you too; they think there's nobody like the 'old doctor'." he was not too old to be pleased with this preference, and said he was willing to go when they were ready. with no small labor of preparation he was at last got to the house, and crept with his son's aid up to the little room over the water, where his patient was still lying. there was a little too much color in myrtle's cheeks and a glistening lustre in her eyes that told of unnatural excitement. it gave a strange brilliancy to her beauty, and might have deceived an unpractised observer. the old man looked at her long and curiously, his imperfect sight excusing the closeness of his scrutiny. he laid his trembling hand upon her forehead, and then felt her pulse with his shriveled fingers. he asked her various questions about herself, which she answered with a tone not quite so calm as natural, but willingly and intelligently. they thought she seemed to the old doctor to be doing very well, for he spoke cheerfully to her, and treated her in such a way that neither she nor any of those around her could be alarmed. the younger physician was disposed to think she was only suffering from temporary excitement, and that it would soon pass off. they left the room to talk it over. "it does not amount to much, i suppose, father," said dr. fordyce hurlbut. "you made the pulse about ninety,--a little hard,--did n't you; as i did? rest, and low diet for a day or two, and all will be right, won't it?" was it the feeling of sympathy, or was it the pride of superior sagacity, that changed the look of the old man's wrinkled features? "not so fast,--not so fast, fordyce," he said. "i've seen that look on another face of the same blood,--it 's a great many years ago, and she was dead before you were born, my boy,--but i've seen that look, and it meant trouble then, and i'm afraid it means trouble now. i see some danger of a brain fever. and if she doesn't have that, then look out for some hysteric fits that will make mischief. take that handkerchief off of her head, and cut her hair close, and keep her temples cool, and put some drawing plasters to the soles of her feet, and give her some of my pilulae compositae, and follow them with some doses of sal polychrest. i've been through it all before--in that same house. live folks are only dead folks warmed over. i can see 'em all in that girl's face, handsome judith, to begin with. and that queer woman, the deacon's mother,--there 's where she gets that hystericky look. yes, and the black-eyed woman with the indian blood in her,--look out for that,--look out for that. and--and--my son, do you remember major gideon withers?" [ob. .] "why no, father, i can't say that i remember the major; but i know the picture very well. does she remind you of him?" he paused again, until the thoughts came slowly straggling, up to the point where the question left him. he shook his head solemnly, and turned his dim eyes on his son's face. four generations--four generations; man and wife,--yes, five generations, for old selah withers took me in his arms when i was a child, and called me 'little gal,' for i was in girl's clothes,--five generations before this hazard child i 've looked on with these old eyes. and it seems to me that i can see something of almost every one of 'em in this child's face, it's the forehead of this one, and it's the eyes of that one, and it's that other's mouth, and the look that i remember in another, and when she speaks, why, i've heard that same voice before--yes, yes as long ago as when i was first married; for i remember rachel used to think i praised handsome judith's voice more than it deserved,--and her face too, for that matter. you remember rachel, my first wife,--don't you, fordyce?" "no, father, i don't remember her, but i know her portrait." (as he was the son of the old doctor's second wife, he could hardly be expected to remember her predecessor.) the old doctor's sagacity was not in fault about the somewhat threatening aspect of myrtle's condition. his directions were followed implicitly; for with the exception of the fact of sluggishness rather than loss of memory, and of that confusion of dates which in slighter degrees is often felt as early as middle-life, and increases in most persons from year to year, his mind was still penetrating, and his advice almost as trustworthy, as in his best days. it was very fortunate that the old doctor ordered myrtle's hair to be cut, and miss silence took the scissors and trimmed it at once. so, whenever she got well and was seen about, there would be no mystery about the loss of her locks,--the doctor had been afraid of brain fever, and ordered them to cut her hair. many things are uncertain in this world, and among them the effect of a large proportion of the remedies prescribed by physicians. whether it was by the use of the means ordered by the old doctor, or by the efforts of nature, or by both together, at any rate the first danger was averted, and the immediate risk from brain fever soon passed over. but the impression upon her mind and body had been too profound to be dissipated by a few days' rest. the hysteric stage which the wise old man had apprehended began to manifest itself by its usual signs, if anything can be called usual in a condition the natural order of which is disorder and anomaly. and now the reader, if such there be, who believes in the absolute independence and self-determination of the will, and the consequent total responsibility of every human being for every irregular nervous action and ill-governed muscular contraction, may as well lay down this narrative, or he may lose all faith in poor myrtle hazard, and all patience with the writer who tells her story. the mental excitement so long sustained, followed by a violent shock to the system, coming just at the period of rapid development, gave rise to that morbid condition, accompanied with a series of mental and moral perversions, which in ignorant ages and communities is attributed to the influence of evil spirits, but for the better-instructed is the malady which they call hysteria. few households have ripened a growth of womanhood without witnessing some of its manifestations, and its phenomena are largely traded in by scientific pretenders and religious fanatics. into this cloud, with all its risks and all its humiliations, myrtle hazard is about to enter. will she pass through it unharmed, or wander from her path, and fall over one of those fearful precipices which lie before her? after the ancient physician had settled the general plan of treatment, its details and practical application were left to the care of his son. dr. fordyce hurlbut was a widower, not yet forty years old, a man of a fine masculine aspect and a vigorous nature. he was a favorite with his female patients,--perhaps many of them would have said because he was good-looking and pleasant in his manners, but some thought in virtue of a special magnetic power to which certain temperaments were impressible, though there was no explaining it. but he himself never claimed any such personal gift, and never attempted any of the exploits which some thought were in his power if he chose to exercise his faculty in that direction. this girl was, as it were, a child to him, for he had seen her grow up from infancy, and had often held her on his knee in her early years. the first thing he did was to get her a nurse, for he saw that neither of the two women about her exercised a quieting influence upon her nerves. so he got her old friend, nurse byloe, to come and take care of her. the old nurse looked calm enough at one or two of his first visits, but the next morning her face showed that something had been going wrong. "well, what has been the trouble, nurse?" the doctor said, as soon as he could get her out of the room. "she's been attackted, doctor, sence you been here, dreadful. it's them high stirricks, doctor, 'n' i never see 'em higher, nor more of 'em. laughin' as ef she would bust. cryin' as ef she'd lost all her friends, 'n' was a follerin' their corpse to their graves. and spassums,--sech spassums! and ketchin' at her throat, 'n' sayin' there was a great ball a risin' into it from her stommick. one time she had a kind o' lockjaw like. and one time she stretched herself out 'n' laid jest as stiff as ef she was dead. and she says now that her head feels as ef a nail had been driv' into it,--into the left temple, she says, and that's what makes her look so distressed now." the doctor came once more to her bedside. he saw that her forehead was contracted, and that she was evidently suffering from severe pain somewhere. "where is your uneasiness, myrtle?" he asked. she moved her hand very slowly, and pressed it on her left temple. he laid his hand upon the same spot, kept it there a moment, and then removed it. she took it gently with her own, and placed it on her temple again. as he sat watching her, he saw that her features were growing easier, and in a short time her deep, even breathing showed that she was asleep. "it beats all," the old nurse said. "why, she's been a complainin' ever sence daylight, and she hain't slep' not a wink afore, sence twelve o'clock las' night! it's j es' like them magnetizers,--i never heerd you was one o' them kind, dr. hurlbut." "i can't say how it is, nurse,--i have heard people say my hand was magnetic, but i never thought of its quieting her so quickly. no sleep since twelve o'clock last night, you say?" "not a wink, 'n' actin' as ef she was possessed a good deal o' the time. you read your bible, doctor, don't you? you're pious? do you remember about that woman in scriptur' out of whom the lord cast seven devils? well, i should ha' thought there was seventy devils in that gal last night, from the way she carr'd on. and now she lays there jest as peaceful as a new-born babe,--that is, accordin' to the sayin' about 'em; for as to peaceful new-born babes, i never see one that come t' anything, that did n't screech as ef the haouse was afire 'n' it wanted to call all the fire-ingines within ten mild." the doctor smiled, but he became thoughtful in a moment. did he possess a hitherto unexercised personal power, which put the key of this young girl's nervous system into his hands? the remarkable tranquillizing effect of the contact of his hand with her forehead looked like an immediate physical action. it might have been a mere coincidence, however. he would not form an opinion until his next visit. at that next visit it did seem as if some of nurse byloe's seventy devils had possession of the girl. all the strange spasmodic movements, the chokings, the odd sounds, the wild talk, the laughing and crying, were in full blast. all the remedies which had been ordered seemed to have been of no avail. the doctor could hardly refuse trying his quasi magnetic influence, and placed the tips of his fingers on her forehead. the result was the same that had followed the similar proceeding the day before,--the storm was soon calmed, and after a little time she fell into a quiet sleep, as in the first instance. here was an awkward affair for the physician, to be sure! he held this power in his hands, which no remedy and no other person seemed to possess. how long would he be chained to her; and she to him, and what would be the consequence of the mysterious relation which must necessarily spring up between a man like him, in the plenitude of vital force, of strongly attractive personality, and a young girl organized for victory over the calmest blood and the steadiest resistance? every day after this made matters worse. there was something almost partaking of the miraculous in the influence he was acquiring over her. his "peace, be still!" was obeyed by the stormy elements of this young soul, as if it had been a supernatural command. how could he resist the dictate of humanity which called him to make his visits more frequent, that her intervals of rest might be more numerous? how could he refuse to sit at her bedside for a while in the evening, that she might be quieted, instead of beginning the night sleepless and agitated? the doctor was a man of refined feeling as well as of principle, and he had besides a sacred memory in the deepest heart of his affections. it was the common belief in the village that he would never marry again, but that his first and only love was buried in the grave of the wife of his youth. it did not easily occur to him to suspect himself of any weakness with regard to this patient of his, little more than a child in years. it did not at once suggest itself to him that she, in her strange, excited condition, might fasten her wandering thoughts upon him, too far removed by his age, as it seemed, to strike the fancy of a young girl under almost any conceivable conditions. thus it was that many of those beautiful summer evenings found him sitting by his patient, the river rippling and singing beneath them, the moon shining over them, sweet odors from the thickets on the banks of the stream stealing in on the soft air that came through the open window, and every time they were thus together, the subtile influence which bound them to each other bringing them more and more into inexplicable harmonies and almost spiritual identity. but all this did not hinder the development of new and strange conditions in myrtle hazard. her will was losing its power. "i cannot help it"--the hysteric motto--was her constant reply. it is not pleasant to confess the truth, but she was rapidly undergoing a singular change of her moral nature. she had been a truthful child. if she had kept her secret about what she had found in the garret, she thought she was exercising her rights, and she had never been obliged to tell any lies about it. but now she seemed to have lost the healthy instincts for veracity and honesty. she feigned all sorts of odd symptoms, and showed a wonderful degree of cunning in giving an appearance of truth to them. it became next to impossible to tell what was real and what was simulated. at one time she could not be touched ever so lightly without shrinking and crying out. at another time she would squint, and again she would be half paralyzed for a time. she would pretend to fast for days, living on food she had concealed and took secretly in the night. the nurse was getting worn out. kitty fagan would have had the priest come to the house and sprinkle it with holy water. the two women were beginning to get nervous themselves. the rev. mr. stoker said in confidence to miss silence, that there was reason to fear she might have been given over for a time to the buffetings of satan, and that perhaps his (mr. stoker's) personal attentions might be useful in that case. and so it appeared that the "young doctor" was the only being left with whom she had any complete relations and absolute sympathy. she had become so passive in his hands that it seemed as if her only healthy life was, as it were, transmitted through him, and that she depended on the transfer of his nervous power, as the plant upon the light for its essential living processes. the two young men who had met in so unexpected a manner on board the ship swordfish had been reasonably discreet in relating their adventures. myrtle hazard may or may not have had the plan they attributed to her; however that was, they had looked rather foolish when they met, and had not thought it worth while to be very communicative about the matter when they returned. it had at least given them a chance to become a little better acquainted with each other, and it was an opportunity which the elder and more artful of the two meant to turn to advantage. of all myrtle's few friends only one was in the habit of seeing her often during this period, namely, olive eveleth, a girl so quiet and sensible that she, if anybody, could be trusted with her. but myrtle's whole character seemed to have changed, and olive soon found that she was in some mystic way absorbed into another nature. except when the physician's will was exerted upon her, she was drifting without any self-directing power, and then any one of those manifold impulses which would in some former ages have been counted as separate manifestations on the part of distinct demoniacal beings might take possession of her. olive did little, therefore, but visit myrtle from time to time to learn if any change had occurred in her condition. all this she reported to cyprian, and all this was got out of him by mr. william murray bradshaw. that gentleman was far from being pleased with the look of things as they were represented. what if the doctor, who was after all in the prime of life and younger-looking than some who were born half a dozen years after him, should get a hold on this young woman,--girl now, if you will, but in a very few years certain to come within possible, nay, not very improbable, matrimonial range of him? that would be pleasant, wouldn't it? it had happened sometimes, as he knew, that these magnetizing tricks had led to infatuation on the part of the subjects of the wonderful influence. so he concluded to be ill and consult the younger dr. hurlbut, and incidentally find out how the land lay. the next question was, what to be ill with. some not ungentlemanly malady, not hereditary, not incurable, not requiring any obvious change in habits of life. dyspepsia would answer the purpose well enough: so mr. murray bradshaw picked up a medical book and read ten minutes or more for that complaint. at the end of this time he was an accomplished dyspeptic; for lawyers half learn a thing quicker than the members of any other profession. he presented himself with a somewhat forlorn countenance to dr. fordyce hurlbut, as suffering from some of the less formidable symptoms of that affection. he got into a very interesting conversation with him, especially about some nervous feelings which had accompanied his attack of indigestion. thence to nervous complaints in general. thence to the case of the young lady at the poplars whom he was attending. the doctor talked with a certain reserve, as became his professional relations with his patient; but it was plain enough that, if this kind of intercourse went on much longer, it would be liable to end in some emotional explosion or other, and there was no saying how it would at last turn out. murray bradshaw was afraid to meddle directly. he knew something more about the history of myrtle's adventure than any of his neighbors, and, among other things, that it had given mr. byles gridley a peculiar interest in her, of which he could take advantage. he therefore artfully hinted his fears to the old man, and left his hint to work itself out. however suspicious master gridley was of him and his motives, he thought it worth while to call up at the poplars and inquire for himself of the nurse what was this new relation growing up between the physician and his young patient. she imparted her opinion to him in a private conversation with great freedom. "sech doin's! sech doin's! the gal's jest as much bewitched as ever any gal was sence them that was possessed in scriptur'. and every day it 's wus and wus. ef that doctor don't stop comin', she won't breathe without his helpin' her to before long. and, mr. gridley, i don't like to say so,--but i can't help thinkin' he's gettin' a little bewitched too. i don't believe he means to take no kind of advantage of her; but, mr. gridley, you've seen them millers fly round and round a candle, and you know how it ginerally comes out. men is men and gals is gals. i would n't trust no man, not ef he was much under a hundred year old,--and as for a gal--!" "mulieri ne mortuae quidem credendum est," said mr. gridley. "you wouldn't trust a woman even if she was dead, hey, nurse?" "not till she was buried, 'n' the grass growin' a foot high over her," said nurse byloe, "unless i'd know'd her sence she was a baby. i've know'd this one sence she was two or three year old; but this gal ain't myrtle hazard no longer,--she's bewitched into somethin' different. i'll tell ye what, mr. gridley; you get old dr. hurlbut to come and see her once a day for a week, and get the young doctor to stay away. i'll resk it. she 'll have some dreadful tantrums at fust, but she'll come to it in two or three, days." master byles gridley groaned in spirit. he had come to this village to end his days in peace, and here he was just going to make a martyr of himself for the sake of a young person to whom he was under no obligation, except that he had saved her from the consequences of her own foolish act, at the expense of a great overturn of all his domestic habits. there was no help for it. the nurse was right, and he must perform the disagreeable duty of letting the doctor know that he was getting into a track which might very probably lead to mischief, and that he must back out as fast as he could. at p. m. gifted hopkins presented the following note at the doctor's door: "mr. byles gridley would be much obliged to dr. fordyce hurlbut if he would call at his study this evening." "odd, is n't it, father, the old man's asking me to come and see him? those old stub-twist constitutions never want patching." "old man! old man! who's that you call old,--not byles gridley, hey? old! old! sixty year, more or less! how old was floyer when he died, fordyce? ninety-odd, was n't it? had the asthma though, or he'd have lived to be as old as dr. holyoke,--a hundred year and over. that's old. but men live to be a good deal more than that sometimes. what does byles gridley want of you, did you say?" "i'm sure i can't tell, father; i'll go and find out." so he went over to mrs. hopkins's in the evening, and was shown up into the study. master gridley treated the doctor to a cup of such tea as bachelors sometimes keep hid away in mysterious caddies. he presently began asking certain questions about the grand climacteric, which eventful period of life he was fast approaching. then he discoursed of medicine, ancient and modern, tasking the doctor's knowledge not a little, and evincing a good deal of acquaintance with old doctrines and authors. he had a few curious old medical books in his library, which he said he should like to show dr. hurlbut. "there, now! what do you say to this copy of joannes de ketam, venice, ? look at these woodcuts,--the first anatomical pictures ever printed, doctor, unless these others of jacobus berengarius are older! see this scene of the plague-patient, the doctor smelling at his pouncet-box, the old nurse standing square at the bedside, the young nurse with the bowl, holding back and turning her head away, and the old burial-hag behind her, shoving her forward, a very curious book, doctor, and has the first phrenological picture in it ever made. take a look, too, at my vesalius,--not the leyden edition, doctor, but the one with the grand old original figures,--so good that they laid them to titian. and look here, doctor, i could n't help getting this great folio albinus, ,--and the nineteenth century can't touch it, doctor,--can't touch it for completeness and magnificence, so all the learned professors tell me! brave old fellows, doctor, and put their lives into their books as you gentlemen don't pretend to do nowadays. and good old fellows, doctor,--high-minded, scrupulous, conscientious, punctilious,--remembered their duties to man and to woman, and felt all the responsibilities of their confidential relation to families. did you ever read the oldest of medical documents,--the oath of hippocrates?" the doctor thought he had read it, but did not remember much about it. "it 's worth reading, doctor,--it's worth remembering; and, old as it is, it is just as good to-day as it was when it was laid down as a rule of conduct four hundred years before the sermon on the mount was delivered. let me read it to you, dr. hurlbut." there was something in master gridley's look that made the doctor feel a little nervous; he did not know just what was coming. master gridley took out his great hippocrates, the edition of foesius, and opened to the place. he turned so as to face the doctor, and read the famous oath aloud, englishing it as he went along. when he came to these words which follow, he pronounced them very slowly and with special emphasis. "my life shall be pure and holy." "into whatever house i enter, i will go for the good of the patient: "i will abstain from inflicting any voluntary injury, and from leading away any, whether man or woman, bond or free." the doctor changed color as he listened, and the moisture broke out on his forehead. master gridley saw it, and followed up his advantage. "dr. fordyce hurlbut, are you not in danger of violating the sanctities of your honorable calling, and leading astray a young person committed to your sacred keeping?" while saying these words, master gridley looked full upon him, with a face so charged with grave meaning, so impressed with the gravity of his warning accents, that the doctor felt as if he were before some dread tribunal, and remained silent. he was a member of the rev. mr. stoker's church, and the words he had just listened to were those of a sinful old heathen who had never heard a sermon in his life; but they stung him, for all that, as the parable of the prophet stung the royal transgressor. he spoke at length, for the plain honest words had touched the right spring of consciousness at the right moment; not too early, for he now saw whither he was tending,--not too late, for he was not yet in the inner spirals of the passion which whirls men and women to their doom in ever-narrowing coils, that will not unwind at the command of god or man. he spoke as one who is humbled by self-accusation, yet in a manly way, as became his honorable and truthful character. "master gridley," he said, "i stand convicted before you. i know too well what you are thinking of. it is true, i cannot continue my attendance on myrtle--on miss hazard, for you mean her--without peril to both of us. she is not herself. god forbid that i should cease to be myself! i have been thinking of a summer tour, and i will at once set out upon it, and leave this patient in my father's hands. i think he will find strength to visit her under the circumstances." the doctor went off the next morning without saying a word to myrtle hazard, and his father made the customary visit in his place. that night the spirit tare her, as may well be supposed, and so the second night. but there was no help for it: her doctor was gone, and the old physician, with great effort, came instead, sat by her, spoke kindly to her, left wise directions to her attendants, and above all assured them that, if they would have a little patience, they would see all this storm blow over. on the third night after his visit, the spirit rent her sore, and came out of her, or, in the phrase of to-day, she had a fierce paroxysm, after which the violence of the conflict ceased, and she might be called convalescent so far as that was concerned. but all this series of nervous disturbances left her in a very impressible and excitable condition. this was just the state to invite the spiritual manipulations of one of those theological practitioners who consider that the treatment of all morbid states of mind short of raving madness belongs to them and not to the doctors. this same condition was equally favorable for the operations of any professional experimenter who would use the flame of religious excitement to light the torch of an earthly passion. so many fingers that begin on the black keys stray to the white ones before the tune is played out! if myrtle hazard was in charge of any angelic guardian, the time was at hand when she would need all celestial influences; for the rev. joseph bellamy stoker was about to take a deep interest in her spiritual welfare.' chapter xii. skirmishing. "so the rev. joseph bellamy stoker has called upon you, susan posey, has he? and wants you to come and talk religion with him in his study, susan posey, does he? religion is a good thing, my dear, the best thing in the world, and never better than when we are young, and no young people need it more than young girls. there are temptations to all, and to them as often as to any, susan posey. and temptations come to them in places where they don't look for them, and from persons they never thought of as tempters. so i am very glad to have your thoughts called to the subject of religion. 'remember thy creator in the days of thy youth.' "but susan posey, my dear, i think you hard better not break in upon the pious meditations of the rev. joseph bellamy stoker in his private study. a monk's cell and a minister's library are hardly the places for young ladies. they distract the attention of these good men from their devotions and their sermons. if you think you must go, you had better take mrs. hopkins with you. she likes religious conversation, and it will do her good too, and save a great deal of time for the minister, conversing with two at once. she is of discreet age, and will tell you when it is time to come away,--you might stay too long, you know. i've known young persons stay a good deal too long at these interviews,--a great deal too long, susan posey!" such was the fatherly counsel of master byles gridley. susan was not very quick of apprehension, but she could not help seeing the justice of master gridley's remark, that for a young person to go and break in on the hours that a minister requires for his studies, without being accompanied by a mature friend who would remind her when it was time to go, would be taking an unfair advantage of his kindness in asking her to call upon him. she promised, therefore, that she would never go without having mrs. hopkins as her companion, and with this assurance her old friend rested satisfied. it is altogether likely that he had some deeper reason for his advice than those with which he satisfied the simple nature of susan posey. of that it will be easier to judge after a glance at the conditions and character of the minister and his household. the rev. mr. stoker had, in addition to the personal advantages already alluded to, some other qualities which might prove attractive to many women. he had, in particular, that art of sliding into easy intimacy with them which implies some knowledge of the female nature, and, above all, confidence in one's powers. there was little doubt, the gossips maintained, that many of the younger women of his parish would have been willing, in certain contingencies, to lift for him that other end of his yoke under which poor mrs. stoker was fainting, unequal to the burden. that lady must have been some years older than her husband,--how many we need not inquire too curiously,--but in vitality she had long passed the prime in which he was still flourishing. she had borne him five children, and cried her eyes hollow over the graves of three of them. household cares had dragged upon her; the routine of village life wearied her; the parishioners expected too much of her as the minister's wife; she had wanted more fresh air and more cheerful companionship; and her thoughts had fed too much on death and sin,--good bitter tonics to increase the appetite for virtue, but not good as food and drink for the spirit. but there was another grief which lay hidden far beneath these obvious depressing influences. she felt that she was no longer to her husband what she had been to him, and felt it with something of self-reproach,--which was a wrong to herself, for she had been a true and tender wife. deeper than all the rest was still another feeling, which had hardly risen into the region of inwardly articulated thought, but lay unshaped beneath all the syllabled trains of sleeping or waking consciousness. the minister was often consulted by his parishioners upon spiritual matters, and was in the habit of receiving in his study visitors who came with such intent. sometimes it was old weak-eyed deacon rumrill, in great iron-bowed spectacles, with hanging nether lip and tremulous voice, who had got his brain onto a muddle about the beast with two horns, or the woman that fled into the wilderness, or other points not settled to his mind in scott's commentary. the minister was always very busy at such times, and made short work of his deacon's doubts. or it might be that an ancient woman, a mother or a grandmother in israel, came with her questions and her perplexities to her pastor; and it was pretty certain that just at that moment he was very deep in his next sermon, or had a pressing visit to make. but it would also happen occasionally that one of the tenderer ewe-lambs of the flock needed comfort from the presence of the shepherd. poor mrs. stoker noticed, or thought she noticed, that the good man had more leisure for the youthful and blooming sister than for the more discreet and venerable matron or spinster. the sitting was apt to be longer; and the worthy pastor would often linger awhile about the door, to speed the parting guest, perhaps, but a little too much after the fashion of young people who are not displeased with each other, and who often find it as hard to cross a threshold single as a witch finds it to get over a running stream. more than once, the pallid, faded wife had made an errand to the study, and, after a keen look at the bright young cheeks, flushed with the excitement of intimate spiritual communion, had gone back to her chamber with her hand pressed against her heart, and the bitterness of death in her soul. the end of all these bodily and mental trials was, that the minister's wife had fallen into a state of habitual invalidism, such as only women, who feel all the nerves which in men are as insensible as telegraph-wires, can experience. the doctor did not know what to make of her case,--whether she would live or die,--whether she would languish for years, or, all at once, roused by some strong impression, or in obedience to some unexplained movement of the vital forces, take up her bed and walk. for her bed had become her home, where she lived as if it belonged to her organism. there she lay, a not unpleasing invalid to contemplate, always looking resigned, patient, serene, except when the one deeper grief was stirred, always arrayed with simple neatness, and surrounded with little tokens that showed the constant presence with her of tasteful and thoughtful affection. she did not know, nobody could know, how steadily, how silently all this artificial life was draining the veins and blanching the cheek of her daughter bathsheba, one of the everyday, air-breathing angels without nimbus or aureole who belong to every story which lets us into a few households, as much as the stars and the flowers belong to everybody's verses. bathsheba's devotion to her mother brought its own reward, but it was not in the shape of outward commendation. some of the more censorious members of her father's congregation were severe in their remarks upon her absorption in the supreme object of her care. it seems that this had prevented her from attending to other duties which they considered more imperative. they did n't see why she shouldn't keep a sabbath-school as well as the rest, and as to her not comin' to meetin' three times on sabbath day like other folks, they couldn't account for it, except because she calculated that she could get along without the means of grace, bein' a minister's daughter. some went so far as to doubt if she had ever experienced religion, for all she was a professor. there was a good many indulged a false hope. to this, others objected her life of utter self-denial and entire surrender to her duties towards her mother as some evidence of christian character. but old deacon rumrill put down that heresy by showing conclusively from scott's commentary on romans xi. - , that this was altogether against her chance of being called, and that the better her disposition to perform good works, the more unlikely she was to be the subject of saving grace. some of these severe critics were good people enough themselves, but they loved active work and stirring companionship, and would have found their real cross if they had been called to sit at an invalid's bedside. as for the rev. mr. stoker, his duties did not allow him to give so much time to his suffering wife as his feelings would undoubtedly have prompted. he therefore relinquished the care of her (with great reluctance we may naturally suppose) to bathsheba, who had inherited not only her mother's youthful smile, but that self-forgetfulness which, born with some of god's creatures, is, if not "grace," at least a manifestation of native depravity which might well be mistaken for it. the intimacy of mother and daughter was complete, except on a single point. there was one subject on which no word ever passed between them. the excuse of duties to others was by a tacit understanding a mantle to cover all short-comings in the way of attention from the husband and father, and no word ever passed between them implying a suspicion of the loyalty of his affections. bathsheba came at last so to fill with her tenderness the space left empty in the neglected heart, that her mother only spoke her habitual feeling when she said, "i should think you were in love with me, my darling, if you were not my daughter." this was a dangerous state of things for the minister. strange suggestions and unsafe speculations began to mingle with his dreams and reveries. the thought once admitted that another's life is becoming superfluous and a burden, feeds like a ravenous vulture on the soul. woe to the man or woman whose days are passed in watching the hour-glass through which the sands run too slowly for longings that are like a skulking procession of bloodless murders! without affirming such horrors of the rev. mr. stoker, it would not be libellous to say that his fancy was tampering with future possibilities, as it constantly happens with those who are getting themselves into training for some act of folly, or some crime, it may be, which will in its own time evolve itself as an idea in the consciousness, and by and by ripen into fact. it must not be taken for granted that he was actually on the road to some fearful deed, or that he was an utterly lost soul. he was ready to yield to temptation if it came in his way; he would even court it, but he did not shape out any plan very definitely in his mind, as a more desperate sinner would have done. he liked the pleasurable excitement of emotional relations with his pretty lambs, and enjoyed it under the name of religious communion. there is a border land where one can stand on the territory of legitimate instincts and affections, and yet be so near, the pleasant garden of the adversary, that his dangerous fruits and flowers are within easy reach. once tasted, the next step is like to be the scaling of the wall. the rev. mr. stoker was very fond of this border land. his imagination was wandering over it too often when his pen was travelling almost of itself along the weary parallels of the page before him. all at once a blinding flash would come over him the lines of his sermon would run together, the fresh manuscript would shrivel like a dead leaf, and the rows of hard-hearted theology on the shelves before him, and the broken-backed concordance, and the holy book itself, would fade away as he gave himself up to the enchantment of his delirious dream. the reader will probably consider it a discreet arrangement that pretty susan posey should seek her pastor in grave company. mrs. hopkins willingly consented to the arrangement which had been proposed, and agreed to go with the young lady on her visit to the rev. mr. stoker's study. they were both arrayed in their field-day splendors on this occasion. susan was lovely in her light curls and blue ribbons, and the becoming dress which could not help betraying the modestly emphasized crescendos and gently graded diminuendos of her figure. she was as round as if she had been turned in a lathe, and as delicately finished as if she had been modelled for a flora. she had naturally an airy toss of the head and a springy movement of the joints, such as some girls study in the glass (and make dreadful work of it), so that she danced all over without knowing it, like a little lively bobolink on a bulrush. in short, she looked fit to spoil a homily for saint anthony himself. mrs. hopkins was not less perfect in her somewhat different style. she might be called impressive and imposing in her grand-costume, which she wore for this visit. it was a black silk dress, with a crape shawl, a firmly defensive bonnet, and an alpaca umbrella with a stern-looking and decided knob presiding as its handle. the dried-leaf rustle of her silk dress was suggestive of the ripe autumn of life, bringing with it those golden fruits of wisdom and experience which the grave teachers of mankind so justly prefer to the idle blossoms of adolescence. it is needless to say that the visit was conducted with the most perfect propriety in all respects. mrs. hopkins was disposed to take upon herself a large share of the conversation. the minister, on the other hand, would have devoted himself more particularly to miss susan, but, with a very natural make-believe obtuseness, the good woman drew his fire so constantly that few of his remarks, and hardly any of his insinuating looks, reached the tender object at which they were aimed. it is probable that his features or tones betrayed some impatience at having thus been foiled of his purpose, for mrs. hopkins thought he looked all the time as if he wanted to get rid of her. the three parted, therefore, not in the best humor all round. mrs. hopkins declared she'd see the minister in jericho before she'd fix herself up as if she was goin' to a weddin' to go and see him again. why, he did n't make any more of her than if she'd been a tabby-cat. she believed some of these ministers thought women's souls dried up like peas in a pod by the time they was forty year old; anyhow, they did n't seem to care any great about 'em, except while they was green and tender. it was all miss se-usan, miss se-usan, miss se-usan, my dear! but as for her, she might jest as well have gone with her apron on, for any notice he took of her. she did n't care, she was n't goin' to be left out when there was talkin' goin' on, anyhow. susan posey, on her part, said she did n't like him a bit. he looked so sweet at her, and held his head on one side,--law! just as if he had been a young beau! and,--don't tell,--but he whispered that he wished the next time i came i wouldn't bring that hopkins woman! it would not be fair to repeat what the minister said to himself; but we may own as much as this, that, if worthy mrs. hopkins had heard it, she would have treated him to a string of adjectives which would have greatly enlarged his conceptions of the female vocabulary. chapter xiii. battle. in tracing the history of a human soul through its commonplace nervous perturbations, still more through its spiritual humiliations, there is danger that we shall feel a certain contempt for the subject of such weakness. it is easy to laugh at the erring impulses of a young girl; but you who remember when_______ _________, only fifteen years old, untouched by passion, unsullied in name, was found in the shallow brook where she had sternly and surely sought her death,--(too true! too true!--ejus animae jesu miserere!--but a generation has passed since then,)--will not smile so scornfully. myrtle hazard no longer required the physician's visits, but her mind was very far from being poised in the just balance of its faculties. she was of a good natural constitution and a fine temperament; but she had been overwrought by all that she had passed through, and, though happening to have been born in another land, she was of american descent. now, it has long been noticed that there is something in the influences, climatic or other, here prevailing, which predisposes to morbid religious excitement. the graver reader will not object to seeing the exact statement of a competent witness belonging to a by-gone century, confirmed as it is by all that we see about us. "there is no experienced minister of the gospel who hath not in the cases of tempted souls often had this experience, that the ill cases of their distempered bodies are the frequent occasion and original of their temptations." "the vitiated humours in many persons, yield the steams whereinto satan does insinuate himself, till he has gained a sort of possession in them, or at least an opportunity to shoot into the mind as many fiery darts as may cause a sad life unto them; yea, 't is well if self-murder be not the sad end into which these hurried. people are thus precipitated. new england, a country where splenetic maladies are prevailing and pernicious, perhaps above any other, hath afforded numberless instances, of even pious people, who have contracted these melancholy indispositions which have unhinged them from all service or comfort; yea, not a few persons have been hurried thereby to lay violent hands upon themselves at the last. these are among the unsearchable judgments of god!" such are the words of the rev. cotton mather. the minister had hardly recovered from his vexatious defeat in the skirmish where the widow hopkins was his principal opponent, when he received a note from miss silence withers, which promised another and more important field of conflict. it contained a request that he would visit myrtle hazard, who seemed to be in a very excitable and impressible condition, and who might perhaps be easily brought under those influences which she had resisted from her early years, through inborn perversity of character. when the rev. mr. stoker received this note, he turned very pale,--which was a bad sign. then he drew a long breath or two, and presently a flush tingled up to his cheek, where it remained a fixed burning glow. this may have been from the deep interest he felt in myrtle's spiritual welfare; but he had often been sent for by aged sinners in more immediate peril, apparently, without any such disturbance of the circulation. to know whether a minister, young or still in flower; is in safe or dangerous paths, there are two psychometers, a comparison between which will give as infallible a return as the dry and wet bulbs of the ingenious "hygrodeik." the first is the black broadcloth forming the knees of his pantaloons; the second, the patch of carpet before his mirror. if the first is unworn and the second is frayed and threadbare, pray for him. if the first is worn and shiny, while the second keeps its pattern and texture, get him to pray for you. the rev. mr. stoker should have gone down on his knees then and there, and sought fervently for the grace which he was like to need in the dangerous path just opening before him. he did not do this; but he stood up before his looking-glass and parted his hair as carefully as if he had been separating the saints of his congregation from the sinners, to send the list to the statistical columns of a religious newspaper. he selected a professional neckcloth, as spotlessly pure as if it had been washed in innocency, and adjusted it in a tie which was like the white rose of sharon. myrtle hazard was, he thought, on the whole, the handsomest girl he had ever seen; susan posey was to her as a buttercup from the meadow is to a tiger-lily. he, knew the nature of the nervous disturbances through which she had been passing, and that she must be in a singularly impressible condition. he felt sure that he could establish intimate spiritual relations with her by drawing out her repressed sympathies, by feeding the fires of her religious imagination, by exercising all those lesser arts of fascination which are so familiar to the don giovannis, and not always unknown to the san giovannis. as for the hard doctrines which he used to produce sensations with in the pulpit, it would have been a great pity to worry so lovely a girl, in such a nervous state, with them. he remembered a savory text about being made all things to all men, which would bear application particularly well to the case of this young woman. he knew how to weaken his divinity, on occasion, as well as an old housewife to weaken her tea, lest it should keep people awake. the rev. mr. stoker was a man of emotions. he loved to feel his heart beat; he loved all the forms of non-alcoholic drunkenness, which are so much better than the vinous, because they taste themselves so keenly, whereas the other (according to the statement of experts who are familiar with its curious phenomena) has a certain sense of unreality connected with it. he delighted in the reflex stimulus of the excitement he produced in others by working on their feelings. a powerful preacher is open to the same sense of enjoyment--an awful, tremulous, goose-flesh sort of state, but still enjoyment--that a great tragedian feels when he curdles the blood of his audience. mr. stoker was noted for the vividness of his descriptions of the future which was in store for the great bulk of his fellow-townsmen and fellow-worlds-men. he had three sermons on this subject, known to all the country round as the sweating sermon, the fainting sermon, and the convulsion-fit sermon, from the various effects said to have been produced by them when delivered before large audiences. it might be supposed that his reputation as a terrorist would have interfered with his attempts to ingratiate himself with his young favorites. but the tragedian who is fearful as richard or as iago finds that no hindrance to his success in the part of romeo. indeed, women rather take to terrible people; prize-fighters, pirates, highwaymen, rebel generals, grand turks, and bluebeards generally have a fascination for the sex; your virgin has a natural instinct to saddle your lion. the fact, therefore, that the young girl had sat under his tremendous pulpitings, through the sweating sermon, the fainting sermon, and the convulsion-fit sermon, did not secure her against the influence of his milder approaches. myrtle was naturally surprised at receiving a visit from him; but she was in just that unbalanced state in which almost any impression is welcome. he showed so much interest, first in her health, then in her thoughts and feelings, always following her lead in the conversation, that before he left her she felt as if she had made a great discovery; namely, that this man, so formidable behind the guns of his wooden bastion, was a most tenderhearted and sympathizing person when he came out of it unarmed. how delightful he was as he sat talking in the twilight in low and tender tones, with respectful pauses of listening, in which he looked as if he too had just made a discovery,--of an angel, to wit, to whom he could not help unbosoming his tenderest emotions, as to a being from another sphere! it was a new experience to myrtle. she was all ready for the spiritual manipulations of an expert. the excitability which had been showing itself in spasms and strange paroxysms had been transferred to those nervous centres, whatever they may be, cerebral or ganglionic, which are concerned in the emotional movements of the religious nature. it was taking her at an unfair disadvantage, no doubt. in the old communion, some priest might have wrought upon her while in this condition, and we might have had at this very moment among us another saint theresa or jacqueline pascal. she found but a dangerous substitute in the spiritual companionship of a saint like the rev. joseph bellamy stoker. people think the confessional is unknown in our protestant churches. it is a great mistake. the principal change is, that there is no screen between the penitent and the father confessor. the minister knew his rights, and very soon asserted them. he gave aunt silence to understand that he could talk more at ease if he and his young disciple were left alone together. cynthia badlam did not like this arrangement. she was afraid to speak about it; but she glared at them aslant, with the look of a biting horse when his eyes follow one sideways until they are all white but one little vicious spark of pupil. it was not very long before the rev. mr. stoker had established pretty intimate relations with the household at the poplars. he had reason to think, he assured miss silence, that myrtle was in a state of mind which promised a complete transformation of her character. he used the phrases of his sect, of course, in talking with the elderly lady; but the language which he employed with the young girl was free from those mechanical expressions which would have been like to offend or disgust her. as to his rougher formulae, he knew better than to apply them to a creature of her fine texture. if he had been disposed to do so, her simple questions and answers to his inquiries would have made it difficult. but it was in her bright and beautiful eyes, in her handsome features, and her winning voice, that he found his chief obstacle. how could he look upon her face in its loveliness, and talk to her as if she must be under the wrath and curse of god for the mere fact of her existence? it seemed more natural and it certainly was more entertaining, to question her in such a way as to find out what kind of theology had grown up in her mind as the result of her training in the complex scheme of his doctrinal school. and as he knew that the merest child, so soon as it begins to think at all, works out for itself something like a theory of human nature, he pretty soon began sounding myrtle's thoughts on this matter. what was her own idea; he would be pleased to know, about her natural condition as one born of a sinful race, and her inherited liabilities on that account? myrtle smiled like a little heathen, as she was, according to the standard of her earlier teachings. that kind of talk used to worry her when she was a child, sometimes. yes, she remembered its coming back to her in a dream she had, when--when--(she did not finish her sentence.) did he think she hated every kind of goodness and loved every kind of evil? did he think she was hateful to the being who made her? the minister looked straight into the bright, brave, tender eyes, and answered, "nothing in heaven or on earth could help loving you, myrtle!" pretty well for a beginning! myrtle saw nothing but pious fervor in this florid sentiment. but as she was honest and clear-sighted, she could not accept a statement which seemed so plainly in contradiction with his common teachings, without bringing his flattering assertion to the test of another question. did he suppose, she asked, that any persons could be christians, who could not tell the day or the year of their change from children of darkness to children of light. the shrewd clergyman, whose creed could be lax enough on occasion, had provided himself with authorities of all kinds to meet these awkward questions in casuistical divinity. he had hunted up recipes for spiritual neuralgia, spasms, indigestion, psora, hypochondriasis, just as doctors do for their bodily counterparts. to be sure they could. why, what did the great richard baxter say in his book on infant baptism? that at a meeting of many eminent christians, some of them very famous ministers, when it was desired that every one should give an account of the time and manner of his conversion, there was but one of them all could do it. and as for himself, mr. baxter said, he could not remember the day or the year when he began to be sincere, as he called it. why, did n't president wheelock say to a young man who consulted him, that some persons might be true christians without suspecting it? all this was so very different from the uncompromising way in which religious doctrines used to be presented to the young girl from the pulpit, that it naturally opened her heart and warmed her affections. remember, if she needs excuse, that the defeated instincts of a strong nature were rushing in upon her, clamorous for their rights, and that she was not yet mature enough to understand and manage them. the paths of love and religion are at the fork of a road which every maiden travels. if some young hand does not open the turnpike gate of the first, she is pretty sure to try the other, which has no toll-bar. it is also very commonly noticed that these two paths, after diverging awhile, run into each other. true love leads many wandering souls into the better way. nor is it rare to see those who started in company for the gates of pearl seated together on the banks that border the avenue to that other portal, gathering the roses for which it is so famous. it was with the most curious interest that the minister listened to the various heresies into which her reflections had led her. somehow or other they did not sound so dangerous coming from her lips as when they were uttered by the coarser people of the less rigorous denominations, or preached in the sermons of heretical clergymen. he found it impossible to think of her in connection with those denunciations of sinners for which his discourses had been noted. some of the sharp old church-members began to complain that his exhortations were losing their pungency. the truth was, he was preaching for myrtle hazard. he was getting bewitched and driven beside himself by the intoxication of his relations with her. all this time she was utterly unconscious of any charm that she was exercising, or of being herself subject to any personal fascination. she loved to read the books of ecstatic contemplation which he furnished her. she loved to sing the languishing hymns which he selected for her. she loved to listen to his devotional rhapsodies, hardly knowing sometimes whether she were in the body, or out of the body, while he lifted her upon the wings of his passion-kindled rhetoric. the time came when she had learned to listen for his step, when her eyes glistened at meeting him, when the words he uttered were treasured as from something more than a common mortal, and the book he had touched was like a saintly relic. it never suggested itself to her for an instant that this was anything more than such a friendship as mercy might have cultivated with great-heart. she gave her confidence simply because she was very young and innocent. the green tendrils of the growing vine must wind round something. the seasons had been changing their scenery while the events we have told were occurring, and the loveliest days of autumn were now shining. to those who know the "indian summer" of our northern states, it is needless to describe the influence it exerts on the senses and the soul. the stillness of the landscape in that beautiful time is as if the planet were sleeping, like a top, before it begins to rock with the storms of autumn. all natures seem to find themselves more truly in its light; love grows more tender, religion more spiritual, memory sees farther back into the past, grief revisits its mossy marbles, the poet harvests the ripe thoughts which he will tie in sheaves of verses by his winter fireside. the minister had got into the way of taking frequent walks with myrtle, whose health had seemed to require the open air, and who was fast regaining her natural look. under the canopy of the scarlet, orange, and crimson leaved maples, of the purple and violet clad oaks, of the birches in their robes of sunshine, and the beeches in their clinging drapery of sober brown, they walked together while he discoursed of the joys of heaven, the sweet communion of kindred souls, the ineffable bliss of a world where love would be immortal and beauty should never know decay. and while she listened, the strange light of the leaves irradiated the youthful figure of myrtle, as when the stained window let in its colors on madeline, the rose-bloom and the amethyst and the glory. "yes! we shall be angels together," exclaimed the rev. mr. stoker. "our souls were made for immortal union. i know it; i feel it in every throb of my heart. even in this world you are as an angel to me, lifting me into the heaven where i shall meet you again, or it will not be heaven. oh, if on earth our communion could have been such as it must be hereafter! o myrtle, myrtle!" he stretched out his hands as if to clasp hers between them in the rapture of his devotion. was it the light reflected from the glossy leaves of the poison sumach which overhung the path that made his cheek look so pale? was he going to kneel to her? myrtle turned her dark eyes on him with a simple wonder that saw an excess of saintly ardor in these demonstrations, and drew back from it. "i think of heaven always as the place where i shall meet my mother," she said calmly. these words recalled the man to himself for a moment and he was silent. presently he seated himself on a stone. his lips were tremulous as he said, in a low tone, "sit down by me, myrtle." "no," she answered, with something which chilled him in her voice, "we will not stay here any longer; it is time to go home." "full time!" muttered cynthia badlam, whose watchful eyes had been upon them, peering through a screen of yellow leaves, that turned her face pace as if with deadly passion. chapter xiv. flank movement. miss cynthia badlam was in the habit of occasionally visiting the widow hopkins. some said but then people will talk, especially in the country, where they have not much else to do, except in haying-time. she had always known the widow, long before mr. gridley came there to board, or any other special event happened in her family. no matter what people said. miss badlam called to see mrs. hopkins, then, and the two had a long talk together, of which only a portion is on record. here are such fragments as have been preserved. "what would i do about it? why, i'd put a stop to such carry'n's on, mighty quick, if i had to tie the girl to the bedpost, and have a bulldog that world take the seat out of any pair of black pantaloons that come within forty rod of her,--that's what i'd do about it! he undertook to be mighty sweet with our susan one while, but ever sence he's been talkin' religion with myrtle hazard he's let us alone. do as i did when he asked our susan to come to his study,--stick close to your girl and you 'll put a stop to all this business. he won't make love to two at once, unless they 're both pretty young, i 'll warrant. follow her round, miss cynthy, and keep your eyes on her." "i have watched her like a cat, mrs. hopkins, but i can't follow her everywhere,--she won't stand what susan posey 'll stand. there's no use our talking to her,--we 've done with that at our house. you never know what that indian blood of hers will make her do. she's too high-strung for us to bit and bridle. i don't want to see her name in the paper again, alongside of that" (she did not finish the sentence.) "i'd rather have her fished dead out of the river, or find her where she found her uncle malachi!" "you don't think, miss cynthy, that the man means to inveigle the girl with the notion of marryin' her by and by, after poor mrs. stoker's dead and gone?" "the lord in heaven forbid!" exclaimed miss cynthia, throwing up her hands. "a child of fifteen years old, if she is a woman to look at!" "it's too bad,--it's too bad to think of, miss cynthy; and there's that poor woman dyin' by inches, and miss bathsheby settin' with her day and night, she has n't got a bit of her father in her, it's all her mother,--and that man, instead of bein' with her to comfort her as any man ought to be with his wife, in sickness and in health, that's what he promised. i 'm sure when my poor husband was sick.... to think of that man goin' about to talk religion to all the prettiest girls he can find in the parish, and his wife at home like to leave him so soon,--it's a shame,--so it is, come now! miss cynthy, there's one of the best men and one of the learnedest men that ever lived that's a real friend of myrtle hazard, and a better friend to her than she knows of,--for ever sence he brought her home, he feels jest like a father to her,--and that man is mr. gridley, that lives in this house. it's him i 'll speak to about the minister's carry'in's on. he knows about his talking sweet to our susan, and he'll put things to rights! he's a master hand when he does once take hold of anything, i tell you that! jest get him to shet up them books of his, and take hold of anybody's troubles, and you'll see how he 'll straighten 'em out." there was a pattering of little feet on the stairs, and the two small twins, "sossy" and "minthy," in the home dialect, came hand in hand into the room, miss susan leaving them at the threshold, not wishing to interrupt the two ladies, and being much interested also in listening to mr. gifted hopkins, who was reading some of his last poems to her, with great delight to both of them. the good woman rose to take them from susan, and guide their uncertain steps. "my babies, i call 'em, miss cynthy. ain't they nice children? come to go to bed, little dears? only a few minutes, miss cynthy." she took them into the bedroom on the same floor, where they slept, and, leaving the door open, began undressing them. cynthia turned her rocking-chair round so as to face the open door. she looked on while the little creatures were being undressed; she heard the few words they lisped as their infant prayer, she saw them laid in their beds, and heard their pretty good-night. a lone woman to whom all the sweet cares of maternity have been denied cannot look upon a sight like this without feeling the void in her own heart where a mother's affection should have nestled. cynthia sat perfectly still, without rocking, and watched kind mrs. hopkins at her quasi parental task. a tear stole down her rigid face as she saw the rounded limbs of the children bared in their white beauty, and their little heads laid on the pillow. they were sleeping quietly when mrs. hopkins left the room for a moment on some errand of her own. cynthia rose softly from her chair, stole swiftly to the bedside, and printed a long, burning kiss on each of their foreheads. when mrs. hopkins came back, she found the maiden lady sitting in her place just as she left her, but rocking in her chair and sobbing as one in sudden pangs of grief. "it is a great trouble, miss cynthy," she said,--"a great trouble to have such a child as myrtle to think of and to care for. if she was like our susan posey, now!--but we must do the best we can; and if mr. gridley once sets himself to it, you may depend upon it he 'll make it all come right. i wouldn't take on about it if i was you. you let me speak to our mr. gridley. we all have our troubles. it is n't everybody that can ride to heaven in a c-spring shay, as my poor husband used to say; and life 's a road that 's got a good many thank-you-ma'ams to go bumpin' over, says he." miss badlam acquiesced in the philosophical reflections of the late mr. ammi hopkins, and left it to his widow to carry out her own suggestion in reference to consulting master gridley. the good woman took the first opportunity she had to introduce the matter, a little diffusely, as is often the way of widows who keep boarders. "there's something going on i don't like, mr. gridley. they tell me that minister stoker is following round after myrtle hazard, talking religion at her jest about the same way he'd have liked to with our susan, i calculate. if he wants to talk religion to me or silence withers,--well, no, i don't feel sure about silence,--she ain't as young as she used to be, but then ag'in she ain't so fur gone as some, and she's got money,--but if he wants to talk religion with me, he may come and welcome. but as for myrtle hazard, she's been sick, and it's left her a little flighty by what they say, and to have a minister round her all the time ravin' about the next world as if he had a latch-key to the front door of it, is no way to make her come to herself again. i 've seen more than one young girl sent off to the asylum by that sort of work, when, if i'd only had 'em, i'd have made 'em sweep the stairs, and mix the puddin's, and tend the babies, and milk the cow, and keep 'em too busy all day to be thinkin' about themselves, and have 'em dress up nice evenin's and see some young folks and have a good time, and go to meetin' sundays, and then have done with the minister, unless it was old father pemberton. he knows forty times as much about heaven as that stoker man does, or ever 's like to,--why don't they run after him, i should like to know? ministers are men, come now; and i don't want to say anything against women, mr. gridley, but women are women, that's the fact of it, and half of 'em are hystericky when they're young; and i've heard old dr. hurlbut say many a time that he had to lay in an extra stock of valerian and assafaetida whenever there was a young minister round,--for there's plenty of religious ravin', says he, that's nothin' but hysterics." [mr. fronde thinks that was the trouble with bloody queen mary, but the old physician did not get the idea from him.] "well, and what do you propose to do about the rev. joseph bellamy stoker and his young proselyte, miss myrtle hazard?" said mr. gridley, when mrs. hopkins at last gave him a chance to speak. "mr. gridley,"--mrs. hopkins looked full upon him as she spoke,--"people used to say that you was a good man and a great man and one of the learnedest men alive, but that you didn't know much nor care for much except books. i know you used to live pretty much to yourself when you first came to board in this house. but you've been very good to my son; ...and if gifted lives till you ...till you are in ...your grave, ...he will write a poem--i know he will--that will tell your goodness to babes unborn." [here master gridley groaned, and repeated to himself silently, "scindentur vestes gemmae frangentur et aurum, carmina quam tribuent fama perennis erit." all this inwardly, and without interrupting the worthy woman's talk.] "and if ever gifted makes a book,--don't say anything about it, mr. gridley, for goodness' sake, for he wouldn't have anybody know it, only i can't help thinking that some time or other he will print a book,--and if he does, i know whose name he'll put at the head of it,--'dedicated to b. g., with the gratitude and respect--' there, now, i had n't any business to say a word about it, and it's only jest in case he does, you know. i'm sure you deserve it all. you've helped him with the best of advice. and you've been kind to me when i was in trouble. and you've been like a grandfather" [master gridley winced,--why could n't the woman have said father?--that grand struck his ear like a spade going into the gravel] "to those babes, poor little souls! left on my door-step like a couple of breakfast rolls,--only you know it's the baker left then. i believe in you, mr. gridley, as i believe in my maker and in father pemberton,--but, poor man, he's old, and you won't be old these twenty years yet." [master gridley shook his head as if to say that was n't so, but felt comforted and refreshed.] "you've got to help myrtle hazard again. you brought her home when she come so nigh drowning. you got the old doctor to go and see her when she come so nigh being bewitched with the magnetism and nonsense, whatever they call it, and the young doctor was so nigh bein' crazy, too. i know, for nurse byloe told me all about it. and now myrtle's gettin' run away with by that pesky minister stoker. cynthy badlam was here yesterday crying and sobbing as if her heart would break about it. for my part, i did n't think cynthy cared so much for the girl as all that, but i saw her takin' on dreadfully with my own eyes. that man's like a hen-hawk among the chickens, first he picks up one, and then he picks up another. i should like to know if nobody but young folks has souls to be saved, and specially young women!" "tell me all you know about myrtle hazard and joseph bellamy stoker," said master gridley. thereupon that good lady related all that miss badlam had imparted to her, of which the reader knows the worst, being the interview of which the keen spinster had been a witness, having followed them for the express purpose of knowing, in her own phrase, what the minister was up to. it is not to be supposed that myrtle had forgotten the discreet kindness of master gridley in bringing her back and making the best of her adventure. he, on his part, had acquired a kind of right to consider himself her adviser, and had begun to take a pleasure in the thought that he, the worn-out and useless old pedant, as he had been in the way of considering himself, might perhaps do something even more important than his previous achievement to save this young girl from the dangers that surrounded her. he loved his classics and his old books; he took an interest, too, in the newspapers and periodicals that brought the fermenting thought and the electric life of the great world into his lonely study; but these things just about him were getting strong hold on him, and most of all the fortunes of this beautiful young woman. how strange! for a whole generation he had lived in no nearer relation to his fellow-creatures than that of a half-fossilized teacher; and all at once he found himself face to face with the very most intense form of life, the counsellor of threatened innocence, the champion of imperilled loveliness. what business was it of his? growled the lower nature, of which he had said in "thoughts on the universe,"--"every man leads or is led by something that goes on four legs." then he remembered the grand line of the african freedman, that makes all human interests everybody's business, and had a sudden sense of dilatation and evolution, as it were, in all his dimensions, as if he were a head taller, and a foot bigger round the chest, and took in an extra gallon of air at every breath, then--you who have written a book that holds your heart-leaves between its pages will understand the movement--he took down "thoughts on the universe" for a refreshing draught from his own wellspring. he opened as chance ordered it, and his eyes fell on the following passage: "the true american formula was well phrased by the late samuel patch, the western empedocles, 'some things can be done as well as others.' a homely utterance, but it has virtue to overthrow all dynasties and hierarchies. these were all built up on the old-world dogma that some things can not be done as well as others." "there, now!" he said, talking to himself in his usual way, "is n't that good? it always seems to me that i find something to the point when i open that book. 'some things can be done as well as others,' can they? suppose i should try what i can do by visiting miss myrtle hazard? i think i may say i am old and incombustible enough to be trusted. she does not seem to be a safe neighbor to very inflammable bodies?" myrtle was sitting in the room long known as the study, or the library, when master byles gridley called at the poplars to see her. miss cynthia, who received him, led him to this apartment and left him alone with myrtle. she welcomed him very cordially, but colored as she did so,--his visit was a surprise. she was at work on a piece of embroidery. her first instinctive movement was to thrust it out of sight with the thought of concealment; but she checked this, and before the blush of detection had reached her cheek, the blush of ingenuous shame for her weakness had caught and passed it, and was in full possession. she sat with her worsted pattern held bravely in sight, and her cheek as bright as its liveliest crimson. "miss cynthia has let me in upon you," he said, "or i should not have ventured to disturb you in this way. a work of art, is it, miss myrtle hazard?" "only a pair of slippers, mr. gridley,--for my pastor." "oh! oh! that is well. a good old man. i have a great regard for the rev. eliphalet pemberton. i wish all ministers were as good and simple and pure-hearted as the rev. eliphalet pemberton. and i wish all the young people thought as much about their elders as you do, miss myrtle hazard. we that are old love little acts of kindness. you gave me more pleasure than you knew of, my dear, when you worked that handsome cushion for me. the old minister will be greatly pleased,--poor old man!" "but, mr. gridley, i must not let you think these are for father pemberton. they are for--mr. stoker." "the rev. joseph bellamy stoker! he is not an old man, the rev. joseph bellamy stoker. he may perhaps be a widower before a great while.--does he know that you are working those slippers for him?" "dear me! no, mr. gridley. i meant them for a surprise to him. he has been so kind to me, and understands me so much better than i thought anybody did. he is so different from what i thought; he makes religion so perfectly simple, it seems as if everybody would agree with him, if they could only hear him talk." "greatly interested in the souls of his people, is n't he?" "too much, almost, i am afraid. he says he has been too hard in his sermons sometimes, but it was for fear he should not impress his hearers enough." "don't you think he worries himself about the souls of young women rather more than for those of old ones, myrtle?" there was something in the tone of this question that helped its slightly sarcastic expression. myrtle's jealousy for her minister's sincerity was roused. "how can you ask that, mr. gridley? i am sure i wish you or anybody could have heard him talk as i have. there is no age in souls, he says; and i am sure that it would do anybody good to hear him, old or young." "no age in souls,--no age in souls. souls of forty as young as souls of fifteen; that 's it." master gridley did not say this loud. but he did speak as follows: "i am glad to hear what you say of the rev. joseph bellamy stoker's love of being useful to people of all ages. you have had comfort in his companionship, and there are others who might be very glad to profit by it. i know a very excellent person who has had trials, and is greatly interested in religious conversation. do you think he would be willing to let this friend of mine share in the privileges of spiritual intercourse which you enjoy?" there was but one answer possible. of course he would. "i hope it is so, my dear young lady. but listen to me one moment. i love you, my dear child, do you know, as if i were your own--grandfather." (there was moral heroism in that word.) "i love you as if you were of my own blood; and so long as you trust me, and suffer me, i mean to keep watch against all dangers that threaten you in mind, body, or estate. you may wonder at me, you may sometimes doubt me; but until you say you distrust me, when any trouble comes near you, you will find me there. now, my dear child, you ought to know that the rev. joseph bellamy stoker has the reputation of being too fond of prosecuting religious inquiries with young and handsome women." myrtle's eyes fell,--a new suspicion seemed to have suggested itself. "he wanted to get up a spiritual intimacy with our susan posey,--a very pretty girl, as you know." myrtle tossed her head almost imperceptibly, and bit her lip. "i suppose there are a dozen young people that have been talked about with him. he preaches cruel sermons in his pulpit, cruel as death, and cold-blooded enough to freeze any mother's blood if nature did not tell her he lied, and then smooths it all over with the first good-looking young woman he can get to listen to him." myrtle had dropped the slipper she was working on. "tell me, my dear, would you be willing to give up meeting this man alone, and gratify my friend, and avoid all occasion of reproach?" "of course i would," said myrtle, her eyes flashing, for her doubts, her shame, her pride, were all excited. "who is your friend, mr. gridley?" "an excellent woman,--mrs. hopkins. you know her, gifted hopkins's mother, with whom i am residing. shall the minister be given to understand that you will see him hereafter in her company?" myrtle came pretty near a turn of her old nervous perturbations. "as you say," she answered. "is there nobody that i can trust, or is everybody hunting me like a bird?" she hid her face in her hands. "you can trust me, my dear," said byles gridley. "take your needle, my child, and work at your pattern,--it will come out a rose by and by. life is like that, myrtle, one stitch at a time, taken patiently, and the pattern will come out all right like the embroidery. you can trust me. good-by, my dear." "let her finish the slippers," the old man said to himself as he trudged home, "and make 'em big enough for father pemberton. he shall have his feet in 'em yet, or my name is n't byles gridley!" chapter xv. arrival of reinforcements. myrtle hazard waited until the steps of master byles gridley had ceased to be heard, as he walked in his emphatic way through the long entry of the old mansion. then she went to her little chamber and sat down in a sort of revery. she could not doubt his sincerity, and there was something in her own consciousness which responded to the suspicions he had expressed with regard to the questionable impulses of the rev. joseph bellamy stoker. it is not in the words that others say to us, but in those other words which these make us say to ourselves, that we find our gravest lessons and our sharpest rebukes. the hint another gives us finds whole trains of thought which have been getting themselves ready to be shaped in inwardly articulated words, and only awaited the touch of a burning syllable, as the mottoes of a pyrotechnist only wait for a spark to become letters of fire. the artist who takes your photograph must carry you with him into his "developing" room, and he will give you a more exact illustration of the truth just mentioned. there is nothing to be seen on the glass just taken from the camera. but there is a potential, though invisible, picture hid in the creamy film which covers it. watch him as he pours a wash over it, and you will see that miracle wrought which is at once a surprise and a charm,--the sudden appearance of your own features where a moment before was a blank without a vestige of intelligence or beauty. in some such way the grave warnings of master byles gridley had called up a fully shaped, but hitherto unworded, train of thought in the consciousness of myrtle hazard. it was not merely their significance, it was mainly because they were spoken at the fitting time. if they had been uttered a few weeks earlier, when myrtle was taking the first stitch on the embroidered slippers, they would have been as useless as the artist's developing solution on a plate which had never been exposed in the camera. but she had been of late in training for her lesson in ways that neither she nor anybody else dreamed of. the reader who has shrugged his (or her) shoulders over the last illustration will perhaps hear this one which follows more cheerfully. the physician in the arabian nights made his patient play at ball with a bat, the hollow handle of which contained drugs of marvellous efficacy. whether it was the drugs that made the sick man get well, or the exercise, is not of so much consequence as the fact that he did at any rate get well. these walks which myrtle had taken with her reverend counsellor had given her a new taste for the open air, which was what she needed just now more than confessions of faith or spiritual paroxysms. and so it happened that, while he had been stimulating all those imaginative and emotional elements of her nature which responded to the keys he loved to play upon, the restoring influences of the sweet autumnal air, the mellow sunshine, the soothing aspects of the woods and fields and sky, had been quietly doing their work. the color was fast returning to her cheek, and the discords of her feelings and her thoughts gradually resolving themselves into the harmonious and cheerful rhythms of bodily and mental health. it needed but the timely word from the fitting lips to change the whole programme of her daily mode of being. the word had been spoken. she saw its truth; but how hard it is to tear away a cherished illusion, to cast out an unworthy intimate! how hard for any!--but for a girl so young, and who had as yet found so little to love and trust, how cruelly hard! she sat, still and stony, like an egyptian statue. her eyes were fixed on a vacant chair opposite the one on which she was sitting. it was a very singular and fantastic old chair, said to have been brought over by the first emigrant of her race. the legs and arms were curiously turned in spirals, the suggestions of which were half pleasing and half repulsive. instead of the claw-feet common in furniture of a later date, each of its legs rested on a misshapen reptile, which it seemed to flatten by its weight, as if it were squeezing the breath out of the ugly creature. over this chair hung the portrait of her beautiful ancestress, her neck and arms, the specialty of her beauty, bare, except for a bracelet on the left wrist, and her shapely figure set off by the ample folds of a rich crimson brocade. over myrtle's bed hung that other portrait, which was to her almost as the pictures of the mater dolorosa to trustful souls of the roman faith. she had longed for these pictures while she was in her strange hysteric condition, and they had been hung up in her chamber. the night was far gone, as she knew by the declining of the constellations which she bad seen shining brightly almost overhead in the early evening, when she awoke, and found herself still sitting in the very attitude in which she was sitting hours before. her lamp had burned out, and the starlight but dimly illuminated her chamber. she started to find herself sitting there, chilled and stiffened by long remaining in one posture; and as her consciousness returned, a great fear seized her, and she sprang for a match. it broke with the quick movement she made to kindle it, and she snatched another as if a fiend were after her. it flashed and went out. oh the terror, the terror! the darkness seemed alive with fearful presences. the lurid glare of her own eyeballs flashed backwards into her brain. she tried one more match; it kindled as it should, and she lighted another lamp. her first impulse was to assure herself that nothing was changed in the familiar objects around her. she held the lamp up to the picture of judith pride. the beauty looked at her, it seemed as if with a kind of lofty recognition in her eyes; but there she was, as always. she turned the light upon the pale face of the martyr-portrait. it looked troubled and faded, as it seemed to myrtle, but still it was the same face she remembered from her childhood. then she threw the light on the old chair, and, shuddering, caught up a shawl and flung it over the spiral-wound arms and legs, and the flattened reptiles on which it stood. in those dead hours of the night which had passed over her sitting there, still and stony, as it should seem, she had had strange visitors. two women had been with her, as real as any that breathed the breath of life,--so it appeared to her,--yet both had long been what is called, in our poor language, dead. one came in all the glory of her ripened beauty, bare-necked, bare-armed, full dressed by nature in that splendid animal equipment which in its day had captivated the eyes of all the lusty lovers of complete muliebrity. the other,--how delicate, how translucent, how aerial she seemed! yet real and true to the lineaments of her whom the young girl looked upon as her hereditary protector. the beautiful woman turned, and, with a face full of loathing and scorn, pointed to one of the reptiles beneath the feet of the chair. and while myrtle's eyes followed hers, the flattened and half-crushed creature seemed to swell and spread like his relative in the old fable, like the black dog in faust, until he became of tenfold size, and at last of colossal proportions. and, fearful to relate, the batrachian features humanized themselves as the monster grew, and, shaping themselves more and more into a remembered similitude, myrtle saw in them a hideous likeness of--no! no! it was too horrible, was that the face which had been so close to hers but yesterday? were those the lips, the breath from which had stirred her growing curls as he leaned over her while they read together some passionate stanza from a hymn that was as much like a love-song as it dared to be in godly company? a shadow of disgust--the natural repugnance of loveliness for deformity-ran all through her, and she shrieked, as she thought, and threw herself at the feet of that other figure. she felt herself lifted from the floor, and then a cold thin hand seemed to take hers. the warm life went out of her, and she was to herself as a dimly conscious shadow that glided with passive acquiescence wherever it was led. presently she found herself in a half-lighted apartment, where there were books on the shelves around, and a desk with loose manuscripts lying on it, and a little mirror with a worn bit of carpet before it. and while she looked, a great serpent writhed in through the half-open door, and made the circuit of the room, laying one huge ring all round it, and then, going round again, laid another ring over the first, and so on until he was wound all round the room like the spiral of a mighty cable, leaving a hollow in the centre; and then the serpent seemed to arch his neck in the air, and bring his head close down to myrtle's face; and the features were not those of a serpent, but of a man, and it hissed out the words she had read that very day in a little note which said, "come to my study to-morrow, and we will read hymns together." again she was back in her little chamber, she did not know how, and the two women were looking into her eyes with strange meaning in their own. something in them seemed to plead with her to yield to their influence, and her choice wavered which of them to follow, for each would have led her her own way,--whither she knew not. it was the strife of her "vision," only in another form,--the contest of two lives her blood inherited for the mastery of her soul. the might of beauty conquered. myrtle resigned herself to the guidance of the lovely phantom, which seemed so much fuller of the unextinguished fire of life, and so like herself as she would grow to be when noon should have ripened her into maturity. doors opened softly before them; they climbed stairs, and threaded corridors, and penetrated crypts, strange yet familiar to her eyes, which seemed to her as if they could see, as it were, in darkness. then came a confused sense of eager search for something that she knew was hidden, whether in the cleft of a rock, or under the boards of a floor, or in some hiding-place among the skeleton rafters, or in a forgotten drawer, or in a heap of rubbish, she could not tell; but somewhere there was something which she was to find, and which, once found, was to be her talisman. she was in the midst of this eager search when she awoke. the impression was left so strongly on her mind that with all her fears she could not resist the desire to make an effort to find what meaning there was in this frightfully real dream. her courage came back as her senses assured her that all around her was natural, as when she left it. she determined to follow the lead of the strange hint her nightmare had given her. in one of the upper chambers of the old mansion there stood a tall, upright desk of the ancient pattern, with folding doors above and large drawers below. "that desk is yours, myrtle," her uncle malachi had once said to her; "and there is a trick or two about it that it will pay you to study." many a time myrtle had puzzled herself about the mystery of the old desk. all the little drawers, of which there were a considerable number, she had pulled out, and every crevice, as she thought, she had carefully examined. she determined to make one more trial. it was the dead of the night, and this was a fearful old place to be wandering about; but she was possessed with an urgent feeling which would not let her wait until daylight. she stole like a ghost from her chamber. she glided along the narrow entries as she had seemed to move in her dream. she opened the folding doors of the great upright desk. she had always before examined it by daylight, and though she had so often pulled all the little drawers out, she had never thoroughly explored the recesses which received them. but in her new-born passion of search, she held her light so as to illuminate all these deeper spaces. at once she thought she saw the marks of pressure with a finger. she pressed her own finger on this place, and, as it yielded with a slight click, a small mahogany pilaster sprang forward, revealing its well-kept secret that it was the mask of a tall, deep, very narrow drawer. there was something heavy in it, and, as myrtle turned it over, a golden bracelet fell into her hand. she recognized it at once as that which had been long ago the ornament of the fair woman whose portrait hung in her chamber. she clasped it upon her wrist, and from that moment she felt as if she were the captive of the lovely phantom who had been with her in her dream. "the old man walked last night, god save us!" said kitty fagan to biddy finnegan, the day after myrtle's nightmare and her curious discovery. chapter xvi. victory. it seems probable enough that myrtle's whole spiritual adventure was an unconscious dramatization of a few simple facts which her imagination tangled together into a kind of vital coherence. the philosopher who goes to the bottom of things will remark that all the elements of her fantastic melodrama had been furnished her while waking. master byles gridley's penetrating and stinging caution was the text, and the grotesque carvings and the portraits furnished the "properties" with which her own mind had wrought up this scenic show. the philosopher who goes to the bottom of things might not find it so easy to account for the change which came over myrtle hazard from the hour when she clasped the bracelet of judith pride upon her wrist. she felt a sudden loathing of the man whom she had idealized as a saint. a young girl's caprice? possibly. a return of the natural instincts of girlhood with returning health? perhaps so. an impression produced by her dream? an effect of an influx from another sphere of being? the working of master byles gridley's emphatic warning? the magic of her new talisman? we may safely leave these questions for the present. as we have to tell, not what myrtle hazard ought to have done, and why she should have done it, but what she did do, our task is a simpler one than it would be to lay bare all the springs of her action. until this period, she had hardly thought of herself as a born beauty. the flatteries she had received from time to time were like the chips and splinters under the green wood, when the chill women pretended to make a fire in the best parlor at the poplars, which had a way of burning themselves out, hardly warming, much less kindling, the fore-stick and the back-log. myrtle had a tinge of what some call superstition, and she began to look upon her strange acquisition as a kind of amulet. its suggestions betrayed themselves in one of her first movements. nothing could be soberer than the cut of the dresses which the propriety of the severe household had established as the rule of her costume. but the girl was no sooner out of bed than a passion came over her to see herself in that less jealous arrangement of drapery which the beauty of the last century had insisted on as presenting her most fittingly to the artist. she rolled up the sleeves of her dress, she turned down its prim collar and neck, and glanced from her glass to the portrait, from the portrait back to the glass. myrtle was not blind nor dull, though young, and in many things untaught. she did not say in so many words, "i too am a beauty," but she could mot help seeing that she had many of the attractions of feature and form which had made the original of the picture before her famous. the same stately carriage of the head, the same full-rounded neck, the same more than hinted outlines of figure, the same finely shaped arms and hands, and something very like the same features startled her by their identity in the permanent image of the canvas and the fleeting one of the mirror. the world was hers then,--for she had not read romances and love-letters without finding that beauty governs it in all times and places. who was this middle-aged minister that had been hanging round her and talking to her about heaven, when there was not a single joy of earth that she had as yet tasted? a man that had been saying all his fine things to miss susan posey, too, had he, before he had bestowed his attentions on her? and to a dozen other girls, too, nobody knows who! the revulsion was a very sadden one. such changes of feeling are apt to be sudden in young people whose nerves have been tampered with, and myrtle was not of a temperament or an age to act with much deliberation where a pique came in to the aid of a resolve. master gridley guessed sagaciously what would be the effect of his revelation, when he told her of the particular attentions the minister had paid to pretty susan posey and various other young women. the rev. mr. stoker had parted his hair wonderfully that morning, and made himself as captivating as his professional costume allowed. he had drawn down the shades of his windows so as to let in that subdued light which is merciful to crow's-feet and similar embellishments, and wheeled up his sofa so that two could sit at the table and read from the same book. at eleven o'clock he was pacing the room with a certain feverish impatience, casting a glance now and then at the mirror as he passed it. at last the bell rang, and he himself went to answer it, his heart throbbing with expectation of meeting his lovely visitor. myrtle hazard appeared by an envoy extraordinary, the bearer of sealed despatches. mistress kitty fagan was the young lady's substitute, and she delivered into the hand of the astonished clergyman the following missive: to the rev. mr. stoker. reverend sir,--i shall not come to your study this day. i do not feel that i have any more need of religious counsel at this time, and i am told by a friend that there are others who will be glad to hear you talk on this subject. i hear that mrs. hopkins is interested in religious subjects, and would have been glad to see you in my company. as i cannot go with her, perhaps miss susan posey will take my place. i thank you for all the good things you have said to me, and that you have given me so much of your company. i hope we shall sing hymns together in heaven some time, if we are good enough, but i want to wait for that awhile, for i do not feel quite ready. i am not going to see you any more alone, reverend sir. i think this is best, and i have good advice. i want to see more of young people of my own age, and i have a friend, mr. gridley, who i think is older than you are, that takes an interest in me; and as you have many others that you must be interested in, he can take the place of a father better than you can do. i return to you the hymn-book, i read one of those you marked, and do not care to read any more. respectfully yours, myrtle hazard. the rev. mr. stoker uttered a cry of rage as he finished this awkwardly written, but tolerably intelligible letter. what could he do about it? it would hardly do to stab myrtle hazard, and shoot byles gridley, and strangle mrs. hopkins, every one of which homicides he felt at the moment that he could have committed. and here he was in a frantic paroxysm, and the next day was sunday, and his morning's discourse was unwritten. his savage mediaeval theology came to his relief, and he clutched out of a heap of yellow manuscripts his well-worn "convulsion-fit" sermon. he preached it the next day as if it did his heart good, but myrtle hazard did not hear it, for she had gone to st. bartholomew's with olive eveleth. chapter xvii. saint and sinner it happened a little after this time that the minister's invalid wife improved--somewhat unexpectedly in health, and, as bathsheba was beginning to suffer from imprisonment in her sick-chamber, the physician advised very strongly that she should vary the monotony of her life by going out of the house daily for fresh air and cheerful companionship. she was therefore frequently at the house of olive eveleth; and as myrtle wanted to see young people, and had her own way now as never before, the three girls often met at the parsonage. thus they became more and more intimate, and grew more and more into each other's affections. these girls presented three types of spiritual character which are to be found in all our towns and villages. olive had been carefully trained, and at the proper age confirmed. bathsheba had been prayed for, and in due time startled and converted. myrtle was a simple daughter of eve, with many impulses like those of the other two girls, and some that required more watching. she was not so safe, perhaps, as either of the other girls, for this world or the next; but she was on some accounts more interesting, as being a more genuine representative of that inexperienced and too easily deluded, yet always cherished, mother of our race, whom we must after all accept as embodying the creative idea of woman, and who might have been alive and happy now (though at a great age) but for a single fatal error. the rev. ambrose eveleth, rector of saint bartholomew's, olive's father, was one of a class numerous in the anglican church, a cultivated man, with pure tastes, with simple habits, a good reader, a neat writer, a safe thinker, with a snug and well-fenced mental pasturage, which his sermons kept cropped moderately close without any exhausting demand upon the soil. olive had grown insensibly into her religious maturity, as into her bodily and intellectual developments, which one might suppose was the natural order of things in a well-regulated christian--household, where the children are brought up in the nurture and admonition of the lord. bathsheba had been worried over and perplexed and depressed with vague apprehensions about her condition, conveyed in mysterious phrases and graveyard expressions of countenance, until about the age of fourteen years, when she had one of those emotional paroxysms very commonly considered in some protestant sects as essential to the formation of religious character. it began with a shivering sense of enormous guilt, inherited and practised from her earliest infancy. just as every breath she ever drew had been malignantly poisoning the air with carbonic acid, so her every thought and feeling had been tainting the universe with sin. this spiritual chill or rigor had in due order been followed by the fever-flush of hope, and that in its turn had ushered in the last stage, the free opening of all the spiritual pores in the peaceful relaxation of self-surrender. good christians are made by many very different processes. bathsheba had taken her religion after the fashion of her sect; but it was genuine, in spite of the cavils of the formalists, who could not understand that the spirit which kept her at her mother's bedside was the same as that which poured the tears of mary of magdala on the feet of her lord, and led her forth at early dawn with the other mary to visit his sepulchre. myrtle was a child of nature, and of course, according to the out-worn formulae which still shame the distorted religion of humanity, hateful to the father in heaven who made her. she had grown up in antagonism with all that surrounded her. she had been talked to about her corrupt nature and her sinful heart, until the words had become an offence and an insult. bathsheba knew her father's fondness for young company too well to suppose that his intercourse with myrtle had gone beyond the sentimental and poetical stage, and was not displeased when she found that there was some breach between them. myrtle herself did not profess to have passed through the technical stages of the customary spiritual paroxysm. still, the gentle daughter of the terrible preacher loved her and judged her kindly. she was modest enough to think that perhaps the natural state of some girls might be at least as good as her own after the spiritual change of which she had been the subject. a manifest heresy, but not new, nor unamiable, nor inexplicable. the excellent bishop joseph hall, a painful preacher and solid divine of puritan tendencies, declares that he prefers good-nature before grace in the election of a wife; because, saith he, "it will be a hard task, where the nature is peevish and froward, for grace to make an entire conquest whilst life lasteth." an opinion apparently entertained by many modern ecclesiastics, and one which may be considered very encouraging to those young ladies of the politer circles who have a fancy for marrying bishops and other fashionable clergymen. not of course that "grace" is so rare a gift among the young ladies of the upper social sphere; but they are in the habit of using the word with a somewhat different meaning from that which the good bishop attached to it. chapter xviii. village poet. it was impossible for myrtle to be frequently at olive's without often meeting olive's brother, and her reappearance with the bloom on her cheek was a signal which her other admirers were not likely to overlook as a hint to recommence their flattering demonstrations; and so it was that she found herself all at once the centre of attraction to three young men with whom we have made some acquaintance, namely, cyprian eveleth, gifted hopkins, and murray bradshaw. when the three girls were together at the house of olive, it gave cyprian a chance to see something of myrtle in the most natural way. indeed, they all became used to meeting him in a brotherly sort of relation; only, as he was not the brother of two of them, it gave him the inside track, as the sporting men say, with reference to any rivals for the good-will of either of these. of course neither bathsheba nor myrtle thought of him in any other light than as olive's brother, and would have been surprised with the manifestation on his part of any other feeling, if it existed. so he became very nearly as intimate with them as olive was, and hardly thought of his intimacy as anything more than friendship, until one day myrtle sang some hymns so sweetly that cyprian dreamed about her that night; and what young person does not know that the woman or the man once idealized and glorified in the exalted state of the imagination belonging to sleep becomes dangerous to the sensibilities in the waking hours that follow? yet something drew cyprian to the gentler and more subdued nature of bathsheba, so that he often thought, like a gayer personage than himself, whose divided affections are famous in song, that he could have been blessed to share her faithful heart, if myrtle had not bewitched him with her unconscious and innocent sorceries. as for poor, modest bathsheba, she thought nothing of herself, but was almost as much fascinated by myrtle as if she had been one of the sex she was born to make in love with her. the first rival cyprian was to encounter in his admiration of myrtle hazard was mr. gifted hopkins. this young gentleman had the enormous advantage of that all-subduing accomplishment, the poetical endowment. no woman, it is pretty generally understood, can resist the youth or man who addresses her in verse. the thought that she is the object of a poet's love is one which fills a woman's ambition more completely than all that wealth or office or social eminence can offer. do the young millionnaires and the members of the general court get letters from unknown ladies, every day, asking for their autographs and photographs? well, then! mr. gifted hopkins, being a poet, felt that it was so, to the very depth of his soul. could he not confer that immortality so dear to the human heart? not quite yet, perhaps,--though the "banner and oracle" gave him already "an elevated niche in the temple of fame," to quote its own words,--but in that glorious summer of his genius, of which these spring blossoms were the promise. it was a most formidable battery, then, which cyprian's first rival opened upon the fortress of myrtle's affections. his second rival, mr. william murray bradshaw, had made a half-playful bet with his fair relative, mrs. clymer ketchum, that he would bag a girl within twelve months of date who should unite three desirable qualities, specified in the bet, in a higher degree than any one of the five who were on the matrimonial programme which she had laid out for him,--and myrtle was the girl with whom he meant to win the bet. when a young fellow like him, cool and clever, makes up his mind to bring down his bird, it is no joke, but a very serious and a tolerably certain piece of business. not being made a fool of by any boyish nonsense,--passion and all that,--he has a great advantage. many a woman rejects a man because he is in love with her, and accepts another because he is not. the first is thinking too much of himself and his emotions,--the other makes a study of her and her friends, and learns what ropes to pull. but then it must be remembered that murray bradshaw had a poet for his rival, to say nothing of the brother of a bosom friend. the qualities of a young poet are so exceptional, and such interesting objects of study, that a narrative like this can well afford to linger awhile in the delineation of this most envied of all the forms of genius. and by contrasting the powers and limitations of two such young persons as gifted hopkins and cyprian eveleth, we may better appreciate the nature of that divine inspiration which gives to poetry the superiority it claims over every other form of human expression. gifted hopkins had shown an ear for rhythm, and for the simpler forms of music, from his earliest childhood. he began beating with his heels the accents of the psalm tunes sung at meeting at a very tender age,--a habit, indeed, of which he had afterwards to correct himself, as, though it shows a sensibility to rhythmical impulses like that which is beautifully illustrated when a circle join hands and emphasize by vigorous downward movements the leading syllables in the tune of auld lang syne, yet it is apt to be too expressive when a large number of boots join in the performance. he showed a remarkable talent for playing on one of the less complex musical instruments, too limited in compass to satisfy exacting ears, but affording excellent discipline to those who wish to write in the simpler metrical forms,--the same which summons the hero from his repose and stirs his blood in battle. by the time he was twelve years old he was struck with the pleasing resemblance of certain vocal sounds which, without being the same, yet had a curious relation which made them agree marvellously well in couples; as eyes with skies; as heart with art, also with part and smart; and so of numerous others, twenty or thirty pairs, perhaps, which number he considerably increased as he grew older, until he may have had fifty or more such pairs at his command. the union of so extensive a catalogue of words which matched each other, and of an ear so nice that it could tell if there were nine or eleven syllables in an heroic line, instead of the legitimate ten, constituted a rare combination of talents in the opinion of those upon whose judgment he relied. he was naturally led to try his powers in the expression of some just thought or natural sentiment in the shape of verse, that wonderful medium of imparting thought and feeling to his fellow-creatures which a bountiful providence had made his rare and inestimable endowment. it was at about this period of his life, that is to say, when he was of the age of thirteen, or we may perhaps say fourteen years, for we do not wish to overstate his precocity, that he experienced a sensation so entirely novel, that, to the best of his belief, it was such as no other young person had ever known, at least in anything like the same degree. this extraordinary emotion was brought on by the sight of myrtle hazard, with whom he had never before had any near relations, as they had been at different schools, and myrtle was too reserved to be very generally known among the young people of his age. then it was that he broke forth in his virgin effort, "lines to m----e," which were published in the village paper, and were claimed by all possible girls but the right one; namely, by two mary annes, one minnie, one mehitable, and one marthie, as she saw fit to spell the name borrowed from her who was troubled about many things. the success of these lines, which were in that form of verse known to the hymn-books as "common metre," was such as to convince the youth that, whatever occupation he might be compelled to follow for a time to obtain a livelihood or to assist his worthy parent, his true destiny was the glorious career of a poet. it was a most pleasing circumstance, that his mother, while she fully recognized the propriety of his being diligent in the prosaic line of business to which circumstances had called him, was yet as much convinced as he himself that he was destined to achieve literary fame. she had read watts and select hymns all through, she said, and she did n't see but what gifted could make the verses come out jest as slick, and the sound of the rhymes jest as pooty, as izik watts or the selectmen, whoever they was,--she was sure they couldn't be the selectmen of this town, wherever they belonged. it is pleasant to say that the young man, though favored by nature with this rarest of talents, did not forget the humbler duties that heaven, which dresses few singing-birds in the golden plumes of fortune, had laid upon him. after having received a moderate amount of instruction at one of the less ambitious educational institutions of the town, supplemented, it is true, by the judicious and gratuitous hints of master gridley, the young poet, in obedience to a feeling which did him the highest credit, relinquished, at least for the time, the groves of academus, and offered his youth at the shrine of plutus, that is, left off studying and took to business. he became what they call a "clerk" in what they call a "store" up in the huckleberry districts, and kept such accounts as were required by the business of the establishment. his principal occupation was, however, to attend to the details of commerce as it was transacted over the counter. this industry enabled him, to his great praise be it spoken, to assist his excellent parent, to clothe himself in a becoming manner, so that he made a really handsome figure on sundays and was always of presentable aspect, likewise to purchase a book now and then, and to subscribe for that leading periodical which furnishes the best models to the youth of the country in the various modes of composition. though master gridley was very kind to the young man, he was rather disposed to check the exuberance of his poetical aspirations. the truth was, that the old classical scholar did not care a great deal for modern english poetry. give him an ode of horace, or a scrap from the greek anthology, and he would recite it with great inflation of spirits; but he did not think very much of "your keatses, and your tennysons, and the whole hasheesh crazy lot," as he called the dreamily sensuous idealists who belong to the same century that brought in ether and chloroform. he rather shook his head at gifted hopkins for indulging so largely in metrical composition. "better stick to your ciphering, my young friend," he said to him, one day. "figures of speech are all very well, in their way; but if you undertake to deal much in them, you'll figure down your prospects into a mighty small sum. there's some danger that it will take all the sense out of you, if you keep writing verses at this rate. you young scribblers think any kind of nonsense will do for the public, if it only has a string of rhymes tacked to it. cut off the bobs of your kite, gifted hopkins, and see if it does n't pitch, and stagger, and come down head-foremost. don't write any stuff with rhyming tails to it that won't make a decent show for itself after you've chopped all the rhyming tails off. that's my advice, gifted hopkins. is there any book you would like to have out of my library? have you ever read spenser's faery queen?" he had tried, the young man answered, on the recommendation of cyprian eveleth, but had found it rather hard reading. master gridley lifted his eyebrows very slightly, remembering that some had called spenser the poet's poet. "what a pity," he said to himself, "that this gifted hopkins has n't got the brains of that william murray bradshaw! what's the reason, i wonder, that all the little earthen pots blow their covers off and froth over in rhymes at such a great rate, while the big iron pots keep their lids on, and do all their simmering inside?" that is the way these old pedants will talk, after all their youth and all their poetry, if they ever had any, are gone. the smiles of woman, in the mean time, encouraged the young poet to smite the lyre. fame beckoned him upward from her templed steep. the rhymes which rose before him unbidden were as the rounds of jacob's ladder, on which he would climb to a heaven of-glory. master gridley threw cold water on the young man's too sanguine anticipations of success. "all up with the boy, if he's going to take to rhyming when he ought to be doing up papers of brown sugar and weighing out pounds of tea. poor-house,--that 's what it'll end in. poets, to be sure! sausage-makers! empty skins of old phrases,--stuff 'em with odds and ends of old thoughts that never were good for anything,--cut 'em up in lengths and sell'em to fools! "and if they ain't big fools enough to buy 'em, give'em away; and if you can't do that, pay folks to take'em. bah! what a fine style of genius common-sense is! there's a passage in the book that would fit half these addle-headed rhymesters. what is that saying of mine about i squinting brains?" he took down "thoughts on the universe," and read:-- "of squinting brains. "where there is one man who squints with his eyes, there are a dozen who squint with their brains. it is an infirmity in one of the eyes, making the two unequal in power, that makes men squint. just so it is an inequality in the two halves of the brain that makes some men idiots and others rascals. i knows a fellow whose right half is a genius, but his other hemisphere belongs to a fool; and i had a friend perfectly honest on one side, but who was sent to jail because the other had an inveterate tendency in the direction of picking pockets and appropriating aes alienum." all this, talking and reading to himself in his usual fashion. the poetical faculty which was so freely developed in gifted hopkins had never manifested itself in cyprian eveleth, whose look and voice might, to a stranger, have seemed more likely to imply an imaginative nature. cyprian was dark, slender, sensitive, contemplative, a lover of lonely walks,--one who listened for the whispers of nature and watched her shadows, and was alive to the symbolisms she writes over everything. but cyprian had never shown the talent or the inclination for writing in verse. he was on the pleasantest terms with the young poet, and being somewhat older, and having had the advantage of academic and college culture, often gave him useful hints as to the cultivation of his powers, such as genius frequently requires at the hands of humbler intelligences. cyprian was incapable of jealousy; and although the name of gifted hopkins was getting to be known beyond the immediate neighborhood, and his autograph had been requested by more than one young lady living in another county, he never thought of envying the young poet's spreading popularity. that the poet himself was flattered by these marks of public favor may be inferred from the growing confidence with which he expressed himself in his conversations with cyprian, more especially in one which was held at the "store" where he officiated as "clerk." "i become more and more assured, cyprian," he said, leaning over the counter, "that i was born to be a poet. i feel it in my marrow. i must succeed. i must win the laurel of fame. i must taste the sweets of"-- "molasses," said a bareheaded girl of ten who entered at that moment, bearing in her hand a cracked pitcher, "ma wants three gills of molasses." gifted hopkins dropped his subject and took up a tin measure. he served the little maid with a benignity quite charming to witness, made an entry on a slate of . , and resumed the conversation. "yes, i am sure of it, cyprian. the very last piece i wrote was copied in two papers. it was 'contemplations in autumn,' and--don't think i am too vain--one young lady has told me that it reminded her of pollok. you never wrote in verse, did you, cyprian?" "i never wrote at all, gifted, except school and college exercises, and a letter now and then. do you find it an easy and pleasant exercise to make rhymes?" pleasant! poetry is to me a delight and a passion. i never know what i am going to write when i sit down. and presently the rhymes begin pounding in my brain,--it seems as if there were a hundred couples of them, paired like so many dancers,--and then these rhymes seem to take possession of me, like a surprise party, and bring in all sorts of beautiful thoughts, and i write and write, and the verses run measuring themselves out like"-- "ribbins,--any narrer blue ribbins, mr. hopkins? five eighths of a yard, if you please, mr. hopkins. how's your folks?" then, in a lower tone, "those last verses of yours in the bannernoracle were sweet pooty." gifted hopkins meted out the five eighths of blue ribbon by the aid of certain brass nails on the counter. he gave good measure, not prodigal, for he was loyal to his employer, but putting a very moderate strain on the ribbon, and letting the thumb-nail slide with a contempt of infinitesimals which betokened a large soul in its genial mood. the young lady departed, after casting upon him one of those bewitching glances which the young poet--let us rather say the poet, without making odious distinctions--is in the confirmed habit of receiving from dear woman. mr. gifted hopkins resumed: "i do not know where this talent, as my friends call it, of mine, comes from. my father used to carry a chain for a surveyor sometimes, and there is a ten-foot pole in the house he used to measure land with. i don't see why that should make me a poet. my mother was always fond of dr. watts's hymns; but so are other young men's mothers, and yet they don't show poetical genius. but wherever i got it, it comes as easy to me to write in verse as to write in prose, almost. don't you ever feel a longing to send your thoughts forth in verse, cyprian?" "i wish i had a greater facility of expression very often," cyprian answered; "but when i have my best thoughts i do not find that i have words that seem fitting to clothe them. i have imagined a great many poems, gifted, but i never wrote a rhyming verse, or verse of any kind. did you ever hear olive play 'songs without words'? if you have ever heard her, you will know what i mean by unrhymed and unversed poetry." "i am sure i don't know what you mean, cyprian, by poetry without rhyme or verse, any more than i should if you talked about pictures that were painted on nothing, or statues that were made out of nothing. how can you tell that anything is poetry, i should like to know, if there is neither a regular line with just so many syllables, nor a rhyme? of course you can't. i never have any thoughts too beautiful to put in verse: nothing can be too beautiful for it." cyprian left the conversation at this point. it was getting more suggestive than interpenetrating, and he thought he might talk the matter over better with olive. just then a little boy came in, and bargained with gifted for a jews-harp, which, having obtained, he placed against his teeth, and began playing upon it with a pleasure almost equal to that of the young poet reciting his own verses. "a little too much like my friend gifted hopkins's poetry," cyprian said, as he left the "store." "all in one note, pretty much. not a great many tunes, 'hi betty martin,' 'yankee doodle,' and one or two more like them. but many people seem to like them, and i don't doubt it is as exciting to gifted to write them as it is to a great genius to express itself in a poem." cyprian was, perhaps, too exacting. he loved too well the sweet intricacies of spenser, the majestic and subtly interwoven harmonies of milton. these made him impatient of the simpler strains of gifted hopkins. though he himself never wrote verses, he had some qualities which his friend the poet may have undervalued in comparison with the talent of modelling the symmetries of verse and adjusting the correspondences of rhyme. he had kept in a singular degree all the sensibilities of childhood, its simplicity, its reverence. it seemed as if nothing of all that he met in his daily life was common or unclean to him, for there was no mordant in his nature for what was coarse or vile, and all else he could not help idealizing into its own conception of itself, so to speak. he loved the leaf after its kind as well as the flower, and the root as well as the leaf, and did not exhaust his capacity of affection or admiration on the blossom or bud upon which his friend the poet lavished the wealth of his verse. thus nature took him into her confidence. she loves the men of science well, and tells them all her family secrets,--who is the father of this or that member of the group, who is brother, sister, cousin, and so on, through all the circle of relationship. but there are others to whom she tells her dreams; not what species or genus her lily belongs to, but what vague thought it has when it dresses in white, or what memory of its birthplace that is which we call its fragrance. cyprian was one of these. yet he was not a complete nature. he required another and a wholly different one to be the complement of his own. olive came as near it as a sister could, but--we must borrow an old image--moonlight is no more than a cold and vacant glimmer on the sun-dial, which only answers to the great flaming orb of day. if cyprian could but find some true, sweet-tempered, well-balanced woman, richer in feeling than in those special imaginative gifts which made the outward world at times unreal to him in the intense reality of his own inner life, how he could enrich and adorn her existence,--how she could direct and chasten and elevate the character of all his thoughts and actions! "bathsheba," said olive, "it seems to me that cyprian is getting more and more fascinated with myrtle hazard. he has never got over the fancy he took to her when he first saw her in her red jacket, and called her the fire-hang-bird. wouldn't they suit each other by and by, after myrtle has come to herself and grown into a beautiful and noble woman, as i feel sure she will in due time?" "myrtle is very lovely," bathsheba answered, "but is n't she a little too--flighty--for one like your brother? cyprian isn't more like other young men than myrtle is like other young girls. i have thought sometimes--i wondered whether out-of-the-way people and common ones do not get along best together. does n't cyprian want some more every-day kind of girl to keep him straight? myrtle is beautiful, beautiful,--fascinates everybody. has mr. bradshaw been following after her lately? he is taken with her too. didn't you ever think she would have to give in to murray bradshaw at last? he looks to me like a man that would hold on desperately as a lover." if myrtle hazard, instead of being a half-finished school-girl, hardly sixteen years old, had been a young woman of eighteen or nineteen, it would have been plain sailing enough for murray bradshaw. but he knew what a distance their ages seemed just now to put between them,--a distance which would grow practically less and less with every year, and he did not wish to risk anything so long as there was no danger of interference. he rather encouraged gifted hopkins to write poetry to myrtle. "go in, gifted," he said, "there's no telling what may come of it," and gifted did go in at a great rate. murray bradshaw did not write poetry himself, but he read poetry with a good deal of effect, and he would sometimes take a hint from one of gifted hopkins's last productions to recite a passionate lyric of byron or moore, into which he would artfully throw so much meaning that myrtle was almost as much puzzled, in her simplicity, to know what it meant, as she had been by the religious fervors of the rev. mr. stoker. he spoke well of cyprian eveleth. a good young man,--limited, but exemplary. would succeed well as rector of a small parish. that required little talent, but a good deal of the humbler sort of virtue. as for himself, he confessed to ambition,--yes, a great deal of ambition. a failing, he supposed, but not the worst of failings. he felt the instinct to handle the larger interests of society. the village would perhaps lose sight of him for a time; but he meant to emerge sooner or later in the higher spheres of government or diplomacy. myrtle must keep his secret. nobody else knew it. he could not help making a confidant of her,--a thing he had never done before with any other person as to his plans in life. perhaps she might watch his career with more interest from her acquaintance with him. he loved to think that there was one woman at least who would be pleased to hear of his success if he succeeded, as with life and health he would,--who would share his disappointment if fate should not favor him.--so he wound and wreathed himself into her thoughts. it was not very long before myrtle began to accept the idea that she was the one person in the world whose peculiar duty it was to sympathize with the aspiring young man whose humble beginnings she had the honor of witnessing. and it is not very far from being the solitary confidant, and the single source of inspiration, to the growth of a livelier interest, where a young man and a young woman are in question. myrtle was at this time her own mistress as never before. the three young men had access to her as she walked to and from meeting and in her frequent rambles, besides the opportunities cyprian had of meeting her in his sister's company, and the convenient visits which, in connection with the great lawsuit, murray bradshaw could make, without question, at the poplars. it was not long before cyprian perceived that he could never pass a certain boundary of intimacy with myrtle. very pleasant and sisterly always she was with him; but she never looked as if she might mean more than she said, and cherished a little spark of sensibility which might be fanned into the flame of love. cyprian felt this so certainly that he was on the point of telling his grief to bathsheba, who looked to him as if she would sympathize as heartily with him as his own sister, and whose sympathy would have a certain flavor in it,--something which one cannot find in the heart of the dearest sister that ever lived. but bathsheba was herself sensitive, and changed color when cyprian ventured a hint or two in the direction of his thought, so that he never got so fax as to unburden his heart to her about myrtle, whom she admired so sincerely that she could not have helped feeling a great interest in his passion towards her. as for gifted hopkins, the roses that were beginning to bloom fresher and fresher every day in myrtle's cheeks unfolded themselves more and more freely, to speak metaphorically, in his song. every week she would receive a delicately tinted note with lines to "myrtle awaking," or to "myrtle retiring," (one string of verses a little too musidora-ish, and which soon found itself in the condition of a cinder, perhaps reduced to that state by spontaneous combustion,) or to "the flower of the tropics," or to the "nymph of the river-side," or other poetical alias, such as bards affect in their sieges of the female heart. gifted hopkins was of a sanguine temperament. as he read and re-read his verses it certainly seemed to him that they must reach the heart of the angelic being to whom they were addressed. that she was slow in confessing the impression they made upon her, was a favorable sign; so many girls called his poems "sweet pooty," that those charming words, though soothing, no longer stirred him deeply. myrtle's silence showed that the impression his verses had made was deep. time would develop her sentiments; they were both young; his position was humble as yet; but when he had become famous through the land-oh blissful thought!--the bard of oxbow village would bear a name that any woman would be proud to assume, and the m. h. which her delicate hands had wrought on the kerchiefs she wore would yet perhaps be read, not myrtle hazard, but myrtle hopkins. chapter xix. susan's young man. there seems no reasonable doubt that myrtle hazard might have made a safe thing of it with gifted hopkins, (if so inclined,) provided that she had only been secured against interference. but the constant habit of reading his verses to susan posey was not without its risk to so excitable a nature as that of the young poet. poets were always capable of divided affections, and cowley's "chronicle" is a confession that would fit the whole tribe of them. it is true that gifted had no right to regard susan's heart as open to the wiles of any new-comer. he knew that she considered herself, and was considered by another, as pledged and plighted. yet she was such a devoted listener, her sympathies were so easily roused, her blue eyes glistened so tenderly at the least poetical hint, such as "never, oh never," "my aching heart," "go, let me weep,"--any of those touching phrases out of the long catalogue which readily suggests itself, that her influence was getting to be such that myrtle (if really anxious to secure him) might look upon it with apprehension, and the owner of susan's heart (if of a jealous disposition) might have thought it worth while to make a visit to oxbow village to see after his property. it may seem not impossible that some friend had suggested as much as this to the young lady's lover. the caution would have been unnecessary, or at least premature. susan was loyal as ever to her absent friend. gifted hopkins had never yet presumed upon the familiar relations existing between them to attempt to shake her allegiance. it is quite as likely, after all, that the young gentleman about to make his appearance in oxbow village visited the place of his own accord, without a hint from anybody. but the fact concerns us more than the reason of it, just now. "who do you think is coming, mr. gridley? who do you think is coming?" said susan posey, her face covered with a carnation such as the first season may see in a city belle, but not the second. "well, susan posey, i suppose i must guess, though i am rather slow at that business. perhaps the governor. no, i don't think it can be the governor, for you would n't look so happy if it was only his excellency. it must be the president, susan posey,--president james buchanan. have n't i guessed right, now, tell me, my dear?" "o mr. gridley, you are too bad,--what do i care for governors and presidents? i know somebody that's worth fifty million thousand presidents,--and he 's coming,--my clement is coming," said susan, who had by this time learned to consider the awful byles gridley as her next friend and faithful counsellor. susan could not stay long in the house after she got her note informing her that her friend was soon to be with her. everybody told everything to olive eveleth, and susan must run over to the parsonage to tell her that there was a young gentleman coming to oxbow village; upon which olive asked who it was, exactly as if she did not know; whereupon susan dropped her eyes and said, "clement,--i mean mr. lindsay." that was a fair piece of news now, and olive had her bonnet on five minutes after susan was gone, and was on her way to bathsheba's,--it was too bad that the poor girl who lived so out of the world shouldn't know anything of what was going on in it. bathsheba had been in all the morning, and the doctor had said she must take the air every day; so bathsheba had on her bonnet a little after olive had gone, and walked straight up to the poplars to tell myrtle hazard that a certain young gentleman, clement lindsay, was coming to oxbow village. it was perhaps fortunate that there was no special significance to myrtle in the name of clement lindsay. since the adventure which had brought these two young persons together, and, after coming so near a disaster, had ended in a mere humiliation and disappointment, and but for master gridley's discreet kindness might have led to foolish scandal, myrtle had never referred to it in any way. nobody really knew what her plans had been except olive and cyprian, who had observed a very kind silence about the whole matter. the common version of the story was harmless, and near enough to the truth,--down the river,--boat upset,--pulled out,--taken care of by some women in a house farther down,--sick, brain fever,--pretty near it, anyhow,--old dr. hurlbut called in,--had her hair cut,--hystericky, etc., etc. myrtle was contented with this statement, and asked no questions, and it was a perfectly understood thing that nobody alluded to the subject in her presence. it followed from all this that the name of clement lindsay had no peculiar meaning for her. nor was she like to recognize him as the youth in whose company she had gone through her mortal peril, for all her recollections were confused and dreamlike from the moment when she awoke and found herself in the foaming rapids just above the fall, until that when her senses returned, and she saw master byles gridley standing over her with that look of tenderness in his square features which had lingered in her recollection, and made her feel towards him as if she were his daughter. now this had its advantage; for as clement was susan's young man, and had been so for two or three years, it would have been a great pity to have any such curious relations established between him and myrtle hazard as a consciousness on both sides of what had happened would naturally suggest. "who is this clement lindsay, bathsheba?" myrtle asked. why, myrtle, don't you remember about susan posey's is-to-be,--the young man that has been well, i don't know, but i suppose engaged to her ever since they were children almost?" "yes, yes, i remember now. oh dear! i have forgotten so many things, i should think i had been dead and was coming back to life again. do you know anything about him, bathsheba? did n't somebody say he was very handsome? i wonder if he is really in love with susan posey. such a simple thing? i want to see him. i have seen so few young men." as myrtle said these words, she lifted the sleeve a little on her left arm, by a half-instinctive and half-voluntary movement. the glimmering gold of judith pride's bracelet flashed out the yellow gleam which has been the reddening of so many hands and the blackening of so, many souls since that innocent sin-breeder was first picked up in the land of havilah. there came a sudden light into her eye, such as bathsheba had never seen there before. it looked to her as if myrtle were saying unconsciously to herself that she had the power of beauty, and would like to try its influence on the handsome young man whom she was soon to meet, even at the risk of unseating poor little susan in his affections. this pained the gentle and humble-minded girl, who, without having tasted the world's pleasures, had meekly consecrated herself to the lowly duties which lay nearest to her. for bathsheba's phrasing of life was in the monosyllables of a rigid faith. her conceptions of the human soul were all simplicity and purity, but elementary. she could not conceive the vast license the creative energy allows itself in mingling the instincts which, after long conflict, may come into harmonious adjustment. the flash which myrtle's eye had caught from the gleam of the golden bracelet filled bathsheba with a sudden fear that she was like to be led away by the vanities of that world lying in wickedness of which the minister's daughter had heard so much and seen so little. not that bathsheba made any fine moral speeches, to herself. she only felt a slight shock, such as a word or a look from one we love too often gives us,--such as a child's trivial gesture or movement makes a parent feel,--that impalpable something which in the slightest possible inflection of a syllable or gradation of a tone will sometimes leave a sting behind it, even in a trusting heart. this was all. but it was true that what she saw meant a great deal. it meant the dawning in myrtle hazard of one of her as yet unlived secondary lives. bathsheba's virgin perceptions had caught a faint early ray of its glimmering twilight. she answered, after a very slight pause, which this explanation has made seem so long, that she had never seen the young gentleman, and that she did not know about susan's sentiments. only, as they had kept so long to each other, she supposed there must be love between them. myrtle fell into a revery, with certain tableaux glowing along its perspectives which poor little susan posey would have shivered to look upon, if they could have been transferred from the purple clouds of myrtle's imagination to the pale silvery mists of susan's pretty fancies. she sat in her day-dream long after bathsheba had left her, her eyes fixed, not on the faded portrait of her beatified ancestress, but on that other canvas where the dead beauty seemed to live in all the splendors of her full-blown womanhood. the young man whose name had set her thoughts roving was handsome, as the glance at him already given might have foreshadowed. but his features had a graver impress than his age seemed to account for, and the sober tone of his letter to susan implied that something had given him a maturity beyond his years. the story was not an uncommon one. at sixteen he had dreamed-and told his dream. at eighteen he had awoke, and found, as he believed, that a young heart had grown to his so that its life was dependent on his own. whether it would have perished if its filaments had been gently disentangled from the object to which they had attached themselves, experienced judges of such matters may perhaps question. to justify clement in his estimate of the danger of such an experiment, we must remember that to young people in their teens a first passion is a portentous and unprecedented phenomenon. the young man may have been mistaken in thinking that susan would die if he left her, and may have done more than his duty in sacrificing himself; but if so, it was the mistake of a generous youth, who estimated the depth of another's feelings by his own. he measured the depth of his own rather by what he felt they might be, than by that of any abysses they had yet sounded. clement was called a "genius" by those who knew him, and was consequently in danger of being spoiled early. the risk is great enough anywhere, but greatest in a new country, where there is an almost universal want of fixed standards of excellence. he was by nature an artist; a shaper with the pencil or the chisel, a planner, a contriver capable of turning his hand to almost any work of eye and hand. it would not have been strange if he thought he could do everything, having gifts which were capable of various application,--and being an american citizen. but though he was a good draughtsman, and had made some reliefs and modelled some figures, he called himself only an architect. he had given himself up to his art, not merely from a love of it and talent for it, but with a kind of heroic devotion, because he thought his country wanted a race of builders to clothe the new forms of religious, social, and national life afresh from the forest, the quarry, and the mine. some thought he would succeed, others that he would be a brilliant failure. "grand notions,--grand notions," the master with whom he studied said. "large ground plan of life,--splendid elevation. a little wild in some of his fancies, perhaps, but he's only a boy, and he's the kind of boy that sometimes grows to be a pretty big man. wait and see,--wait and see. he works days, and we can let him dream nights. there's a good deal of him, anyhow." his fellow-students were puzzled. those who thought of their calling as a trade, and looked forward to the time when they should be embodying the ideals of municipal authorities in brick and stone, or making contracts with wealthy citizens, doubted whether clement would have a sharp eye enough for business. "too many whims, you know. all sorts of queer ideas in his head,--as if a boy like him were going to make things all over again!". no doubt there was something of youthful extravagance in his plans and expectations. but it was the untamed enthusiasm which is the source of all great thoughts and deeds,--a beautiful delirium which age commonly tames down, and for which the cold shower-bath the world furnishes gratis proves a pretty certain cure. creation is always preceded by chaos. the youthful architect's mind was confused by the multitude of suggestions which were crowding in upon it, and which he had not yet had time or developed mature strength sufficient to reduce to order. the young american of any freshness of intellect is stimulated to dangerous excess by the conditions of life into which he is born. there is a double proportion of oxygen in the new world air. the chemists have not found it out yet, but human brains and breathing-organs have long since made the discovery. clement knew that his hasty entanglement had limited his possibilities of happiness in one direction, and he felt that there was a certain grandeur in the recompense of working out his defeated instincts through the ambitious medium of his noble art. had not pharaohs chosen it to proclaim their longings for immortality, caesars their passion for pomp and luxury, and priests to symbolize their conceptions of the heavenly mansions? his dreams were on a grand scale; such, after all, are the best possessions of youth. had he but been free, or mated with a nature akin to his own, he would have felt himself as truly the heir of creation as any young man that lived. but his lot was cast, and his youth had all the serious aspect to himself of thoughtful manhood. in the region of his art alone he hoped always to find freedom and a companionship which his home life could never give him. clement meant to have visited his beloved before he left alderbank, but was called unexpectedly back to the city. happily susan was not exacting; she looked up to him with too great a feeling of distance between them to dare to question his actions. perhaps she found a partial consolation in the company of mr. gifted hopkins, who tried his new poems on her, which was the next best thing to addressing them to her. "would that you were with us at this delightful season," she wrote in the autumn; "but no, your susan must not repine. yet, in the beautiful words of our native poet, "oh would, oh would that thou wast here, for absence makes thee doubly dear; ah! what is life while thou 'rt away? 't is night without the orb of day!'" the poet referred to, it need hardly be said, was our young and promising friend g. h., as he sometimes modestly signed himself. the letter, it is unnecessary to state, was voluminous,--for a woman can tell her love, or other matter of interest, over and over again in as many forms as another poet, not g. h., found for his grief in ringing the musical changes of "in memoriam." the answers to susan's letters were kind, but not very long. they convinced her that it was a simple impossibility that clement could come to oxbow village, on account of the great pressure of the work he had to keep him in the city, and the plans he must finish at any rate. but at last the work was partially got rid of, and clement was coming; yes, it was so nice, and, oh dear! should n't she be real happy to see him? to susan he appeared as a kind of divinity, almost too grand for human nature's daily food. yet, if the simple-hearted girl could have told herself the whole truth in plain words, she would have confessed to certain doubts which from time to time, and oftener of late, cast a shadow on her seemingly bright future. with all the pleasure that the thought of meeting clement gave her, she felt a little tremor, a certain degree of awe, in contemplating his visit. if she could have clothed her self-humiliation in the gold and purple of the "portuguese sonnets," it would have been another matter; but the trouble with the most common sources of disquiet is that they have no wardrobe of flaming phraseology to air themselves in; the inward burning goes on without the relief and gratifying display of the crater. "a friend of mine is coming to the village," she said to mr. gifted hopkins. "i want you to see him. he is a genius,--as some other young men are." (this was obviously personal, and the youthful poet blushed with ingenuous delight.) "i have known him for ever so many years. he and i are very good friends." the poet knew that this meant an exclusive relation between them; and though the fact was no surprise to him, his countenance fell a little. the truth was, that his admiration was divided between myrtle, who seemed to him divine and adorable, but distant, and susan, who listened to his frequent poems, whom he was in the habit of seeing in artless domestic costumes, and whose attractions had been gaining upon him of late in the enforced absence of his divinity. he retired pensive from this interview, and, flinging himself at his desk, attempted wreaking his thoughts upon expression, to borrow the language of one of his brother bards, in a passionate lyric which he began thus-- "another's! "another's! oh the pang, the smart! fate owes to love a deathless grudge, --the barbed fang has rent a heart which--which "judge--judge,--no, not judge. budge, drudge, fudge--what a disgusting language english is! nothing fit to couple with such a word as grudge! and the gush of an impassioned moment arrested in full flow, stopped short, corked up, for want of a paltry rhyme! judge,--budge,--drudge,--nudge, oh!--smudge,--misery!--fudge. in vain,--futile,--no use,--all up for to-night!" while the poet, headed off in this way by the poverty of his native tongue, sought inspiration by retiring into the world of dreams,--went to bed, in short, his more fortunate rival was just entering the village, where he was to make his brief residence at the house of deacon rumrill, who, having been a loser by the devouring element, was glad to receive a stray boarder when any such were looking about for quarters. for some reason or other he was restless that evening, and took out a volume he had brought with him to beguile the earlier hours of the night. it was too late when he arrived to disturb the quiet of mrs. hopkins's household, and whatever may have been clement's impatience, he held it in check, and sat tranquilly until midnight over the pages of the book with which he had prudently provided himself. "hope you slept well last night," said the old deacon, when mr. clement came down to breakfast the next morning. "very well, thank you,--that is, after i got to bed. but i sat up pretty late reading my favorite scott. i am apt to forget how the hours pass when i have one of his books in my hand." the worthy deacon looked at mr. clement with a sudden accession of interest. "you couldn't find better reading, young man. scott is my favorite author. a great man. i have got his likeness in a gilt-frame hanging up in the other room. i have read him all through three times." the young man's countenance brightened. he had not expected to find so much taste for elegant literature in an old village deacon. "what are your favorites among his writings, deacon? i suppose you have your particular likings, as the rest of us have." the deacon was flattered by the question. "well," he answered, "i can hardly tell you. i like pretty much everything scott ever wrote. sometimes i think it is one thing, and sometimes another. great on paul's epistles,--don't you think so?" the honest fact was, that clement remembered very little about "paul's letters to his kinsfolk,"--a book of sir walter's less famous than many of his others; but he signified his polite assent to the deacon's statement, rather wondering at his choice of a favorite, and smiling at his queer way of talking about the letters as epistles. "i am afraid scott is not so much read now-a-days as he once was, and as he ought to be," said mr. clement: "such character, such nature and so much grace." "that's it,--that's it, young man," the deacon broke in,--"natur' and grace,--natur' and grace. nobody ever knew better what those two words meant than scott did, and i'm very glad to see--you've chosen such good wholesome reading. you can't set up too late, young man, to read scott. if i had twenty children, they should all begin reading scott as soon as they were old enough to spell sin,--and that's the first word my little ones learned, next to 'pa' and i 'ma.' nothing like beginning the lessons of life in good season." "what a grim old satirist!" clement said to himself. "i wonder if the old man reads other novelists.--do tell me, deacon, if you have read thackeray's last story? " "thackeray's story? published by the american tract society?" "not exactly," clement answered, smiling, and quite delighted to find such an unexpected vein of grave pleasantry about the demure-looking church-dignitary; for the deacon asked his question without moving a muscle, and took no cognizance whatever of the young man's tone and smile. first-class humorists are, as is well known, remarkable for the immovable solemnity of their features. clement promised himself not a little amusement from the curiously sedate drollery of the venerable deacon, who, it was plain from his conversation, had cultivated a literary taste which would make him a more agreeable companion than the common ecclesiastics of his grade in country villages. after breakfast, mr. clement walked forth in the direction of mrs. hopkins's house, thinking as he went of the pleasant surprise his visit would bring to his longing and doubtless pensive susan; for though she knew he was coming, she did not know that he was at that moment in oxbow village. as he drew near the house, the first thing he saw was susan posey, almost running against her just as he turned a corner. she looked wonderfully lively and rosy, for the weather was getting keen and the frosts had begun to bite. a young gentleman was walking at her side, and reading to her from a paper he held in his hand. both looked deeply interested,--so much so that clement felt half ashamed of himself for intruding upon them so abruptly. but lovers are lovers, and clement could not help joining them. the first thing, of course, was the utterance of two simultaneous exclamations, "why, clement!" "why, susan!" what might have come next in the programme, but for the presence of a third party, is matter of conjecture; but what did come next was a mighty awkward look on the part of susan posey, and the following short speech: "mr. lindsay, let me introduce mr. hopkins, my friend, the poet i 've written to you about. he was just reading two of his poems to me. some other time, gifted--mr. hopkins." "oh no, mr. hopkins,--pray go on," said clement. "i 'm very fond of poetry." the poet did not require much urging, and began at once reciting over again the stanzas which were afterwards so much admired in the "banner and oracle,"--the first verse being, as the readers of that paper will remember, "she moves in splendor, like the ray that flashes from unclouded skies, and all the charms of night and day are mingled in her hair and eyes." clement, who must have been in an agony of impatience to be alone with his beloved, commanded his feelings admirably. he signified his approbation of the poem by saying that the lines were smooth and the rhymes absolutely without blemish. the stanzas reminded him forcibly of one of the greatest poets of the century. gifted flushed hot with pleasure. he had tasted the blood of his own rhymes; and when a poet gets as far as that, it is like wringing the bag of exhilarating gas from the lips of a fellow sucking at it, to drag his piece away from him. "perhaps you will like these lines still better," he said; "the style is more modern:-- "'o daughter of the spiced south, her bubbly grapes have spilled the wine that staineth with its hue divine the red flower of thy perfect mouth.'" and so on, through a series of stanzas like these, with the pulp of two rhymes between the upper and lower crust of two others. clement was cornered. it was necessary to say something for the poet's sake,--perhaps for susan's; for she was in a certain sense responsible for the poems of a youth of genius, of whom she had spoken so often and so enthusiastically. "very good, mr. hopkins, and a form of verse little used, i should think, until of late years. you modelled this piece on the style of a famous living english poet, did you not?" "indeed i did not, mr. lindsay,--i never imitate. originality is, if i may be allowed to say so much for myself, my peculiar forte. why, the critics allow as much as that. see here, mr. lindsay." mr. gifted hopkins pulled out his pocket-book, and, taking therefrom a cutting from a newspaper,--which dropped helplessly open of itself, as if tired of the process, being very tender in the joints or creases, by reason of having been often folded and unfolded read aloud as follows: "the bard of oxbow pillage--our valued correspondent who writes over the signature of g. h.--is, in our opinion, more remarkable for his originality than for any other of his numerous gifts." clement was apparently silenced by this, and the poet a little elated with a sense of triumph. susan could not help sharing his feeling of satisfaction, and without meaning it in the least, nay, without knowing it, for she was as simple and pure as new milk, edged a little bit--the merest infinitesimal atom--nearer to gifted hopkins, who was on one side of her, while clement walked on the other. women love the conquering party,--it is the way of their sex. and poets, as we have seen, are well-nigh irresistible when they exert their dangerous power of fascination upon the female heart. but clement was above jealousy; and, if he perceived anything of this movement, took no notice of it. he saw a good deal of his pretty susan that day. she was tender in her expressions and manners as usual, but there was a little something in her looks and language from time to time that clement did not know exactly what to make of. she colored once or twice when the young poet's name was mentioned. she was not so full of her little plans for the future as she had sometimes been, "everything was so uncertain," she said. clement asked himself whether she felt quite as sure that her attachment would last as she once did. but there were no reproaches, not even any explanations, which are about as bad between lovers. there was nothing but an undefined feeling on his side that she did not cling quite so closely to him, perhaps, as he had once thought, and that, if he had happened to have been drowned that day when he went down with the beautiful young woman, it was just conceivable that susan, who would have cried dreadfully, no doubt, would in time have listened to consolation from some other young man,--possibly from the young poet whose verses he had been admiring. easy-crying widows take new husbands soonest; there is nothing like wet weather for transplanting, as master gridley used to say. susan had a fluent natural gift for tears, as clement well knew, after the exercise of which she used to brighten up like the rose which had been washed, just washed in a shower, mentioned by cowper. as for the poet, he learned more of his own sentiments during this visit of clement's than he had ever before known. he wandered about with a dreadfully disconsolate look upon his countenance. he showed a falling-off in his appetite at tea-time, which surprised and disturbed his mother, for she had filled the house with fragrant suggestions of good things coming, in honor of mr. lindsay, who was to be her guest at tea. and chiefly the genteel form of doughnut called in the native dialect cymbal (qu. symbol? b. g.) which graced the board with its plastic forms, suggestive of the most pleasing objects,--the spiral ringlets pendent from the brow of beauty; the magic circlet, which is the pledge of plighted affection,--the indissoluble knot, which typifies the union of hearts, which organs were also largely represented; this exceptional delicacy would at any other time have claimed his special notice. but his mother remarked that he paid little attention to these, and his, "no, i thank you," when it came to the preserved "damsels," as some call them, carried a pang with it to the maternal bosom. the most touching evidence of his unhappiness--whether intentional or the result of accident was not evident was a broken heart, which he left upon his plate, the meaning of which was as plain as anything in the language of flowers. his thoughts were gloomy during that day, running a good deal on the more picturesque and impressive methods of bidding a voluntary farewell to a world which had allured him with visions of beauty only to snatch them from his impassioned gaze. his mother saw something of this, and got from him a few disjointed words, which led her to lock up the clothes-line and hide her late husband's razors,--an affectionate, yet perhaps unnecessary precaution, for self-elimination contemplated from this point of view by those who have the natural outlet of verse to relieve them is rarely followed by a casualty. it may rather be considered as implying a more than average chance for longevity; as those who meditate an--imposing finish naturally save themselves for it, and are therefore careful of their health until the time comes, and this is apt to be indefinitely postponed so long as there is a poem to write or a proof to be corrected. chapter xx. the second meeting. miss eveleth requests the pleasure of mr. lindsay's company to meet a few friends on the evening of the feast of st. ambrose, december th, wednesday. the parsonage, december th. it was the luckiest thing in the world. they always made a little festival of that evening at the rev. ambrose eveleth's, in honor of his canonized namesake, and because they liked to have a good time. it came this year just at the right moment, for here was a distinguished stranger visiting in the place. oxbow village seemed to be running over with its one extra young man,--as may be seen sometimes in larger villages, and even in cities of moderate dimensions. mr. william murray bradshaw had called on clement the day after his arrival. he had already met the deacon in the street, and asked some questions about his transient boarder. a very interesting young man, the deacon said, much given to the reading of pious books. up late at night after he came, reading scott's commentary. appeared to be as fond of serious works as other young folks were of their novels and romances and other immoral publications. he, the deacon, thought of having a few religious friends to meet the young gentleman, if he felt so disposed; and should like to have him, mr. bradshaw, come in and take a part in the exercises.--mr. bradshaw was unfortunately engaged. he thought the young gentleman could hardly find time for such a meeting during his brief visit. mr. bradshaw expected naturally to see a youth of imperfect constitution, and cachectic or dyspeptic tendencies, who was in training to furnish one of those biographies beginning with the statement that, from his infancy, the subject of it showed no inclination for boyish amusements, and so on, until he dies out, for the simple reason that there was not enough of him to live. very interesting, no doubt, master byles gridley would have said, but had no more to do with good, hearty, sound life than the history of those very little people to be seen in museums preserved in jars of alcohol, like brandy peaches. when mr. clement lindsay presented himself, mr. bradshaw was a good deal surprised to see a young fellow of such a mould. he pleased himself with the idea that he knew a man of mark at sight, and he set down clement in that category at his first glance. the young man met his penetrating and questioning look with a frank, ingenuous, open aspect, before which he felt himself disarmed, as it were, and thrown upon other means of analysis. he would try him a little in talk. "i hope you like these people you are with. what sort of a man do you find my old friend the deacon?" clement laughed. "a very queer old character. loves his joke as well, and is as sly in making it, as if he had studied joe miller instead of the catechism." mr. bradshaw looked at the young man to know what he meant. mr. lindsay talked in a very easy way for a serious young person. he was puzzled. he did not see to the bottom of this description of the deacon. with a lawyer's instinct, he kept his doubts to himself and tried his witness with a new question. "did you talk about books at all with the old man?" "to be sure i did. would you believe it,--that aged saint is a great novel-reader. so he tells me. what is more, he brings up his children to that sort of reading, from the time when they first begin to spell. if anybody else had told me such a story about an old country deacon, i wouldn't have believed it; but he said so himself, to me, at breakfast this morning." mr. bradshaw felt as if either he or mr. lindsay must certainly be in the first stage of mild insanity, and he did not think that he himself could be out of his wits. he must try one more question. he had become so mystified that he forgot himself, and began putting his interrogation in legal form. "will you state, if you please--i beg your pardon--may i ask who is your own favorite author?" "i think just now i like to read scott better than almost anybody." "do you mean the rev. thomas scott, author of the commentary?" clement stared at mr. bradshaw, and wondered whether he was trying to make a fool of him. the young lawyer hardly looked as if he could be a fool himself. "i mean sir walter scott," he said, dryly. "oh!" said mr. bradshaw. he saw that there had been a slight misunderstanding between the young man and his worthy host, but it was none of his business, and there were other subjects of interest to talk about. "you know one of our charming young ladies very well, i believe, mr. lindsay. i think you are an old acquaintance of miss posey, whom we all consider so pretty." poor clement! the question pierced to the very marrow of his soul, but it was put with the utmost suavity and courtesy, and honeyed with a compliment to the young lady, too, so that there was no avoiding a direct and pleasant answer to it. "yes," he said, "i have known the young lady you speak of for a long time, and very well,--in fact, as you must have heard, we are something more than friends. my visit here is principally on her account." "you must give the rest of us a chance to see something of you during your visit, mr. lindsay. i hope you are invited to miss eveleth's to-morrow evening?" "yes, i got a note this morning. tell me, mr. bradshaw, who is there that i shall meet if i go? i have no doubt there are girls here in the village i should like to see, and perhaps some young fellows that i should like to talk with. you know all that's prettiest and pleasantest, of course." "oh, we're a little place, mr. lindsay. a few nice people, the rest comme va, you know. high-bush blackberries and low-bush black-berries,--you understand,--just so everywhere,--high-bush here and there, low-bush plenty. you must see the two parsons' daughters,--saint ambrose's and saint joseph's,--and another girl i want particularly to introduce you to. you shall form your own opinion of her. i call her handsome and stylish, but you have got spoiled, you know. our young poet, too, one we raised in this place, mr. lindsay, and a superior article of poet, as we think,--that is, some of us, for the rest of us are jealous of him, because the girls are all dying for him and want his autograph. and cyp,--yes, you must talk to cyp,--he has ideas. but don't forget to get hold of old byles master gridley i mean--before you go. big head. brains enough for a cabinet minister, and fit out a college faculty with what was left over. be sure you see old byles. set him talking about his book, 'thoughts on the universe.' did n't sell much, but has got knowing things in it. i'll show you a copy, and then you can tell him you know it, and he will take to you. come in and get your dinner with me to-morrow. we will dine late, as the city folks do, and after that we will go over to the rector's. i should like to show you some of our village people." mr. bradshaw liked the thought of showing the young man to some of his friends there. as clement was already "done for," or "bowled out," as the young lawyer would have expressed the fact of his being pledged in the matrimonial direction, there was nothing to be apprehended on the score of rivalry. and although clement was particularly good-looking, and would have been called a distinguishable youth anywhere, mr. bradshaw considered himself far more than his match, in all probability, in social accomplishments. he expected, therefore, a certain amount of reflex credit for bringing such a fine young fellow in his company, and a second instalment of reputation from outshining him in conversation. this was rather nice calculating, but murray bradshaw always calculated. with most men life is like backgammon, half skill, and half luck, but with him it was like chess. he never pushed a pawn without reckoning the cost, and when his mind was least busy it was sure to be half a dozen moves ahead of the game as it was standing. mr. bradshaw gave clement a pretty dinner enough for such a place as oxbow village. he offered him some good wine, and would have made him talk so as to show his lining, to use one of his own expressions, but clement had apparently been through that trifling experience, and could not be coaxed into saying more than he meant to say. murray bradshaw was very curious to find out how it was that he had become the victim of such a rudimentary miss as susan posey. could she be an heiress in disguise? why no, of course not; had not he made all proper inquiries about that when susan came to town? a small inheritance from an aunt or uncle, or some such relative, enough to make her a desirable party in the eyes of certain villagers perhaps, but nothing to allure a man like this, whose face and figure as marketable possessions were worth say a hundred thousand in the girl's own right, as mr. bradshaw put it roughly, with another hundred thousand if his talent is what some say, and if his connection is a desirable one, a fancy price,--anything he would fetch. of course not. must have got caught when he was a child. why the diavolo didn't he break it off, then? there was no fault to find with the modest entertainment at the parsonage. a splendid banquet in a great house is an admirable thing, provided always its getting up did not cost the entertainer an inward conflict, nor its recollection a twinge of economical regret, nor its bills a cramp of anxiety. a simple evening party in the smallest village is just as admirable in its degree, when the parlor is cheerfully lighted, and the board prettily spread, and the guests are made to feel comfortable without being reminded that anybody is making a painful effort. we know several of the young people who were there, and need not trouble ourselves for the others. myrtle hazard had promised to come. she had her own way of late as never before; in fact, the women were afraid of her. miss silence felt that she could not be responsible for her any longer. she had hopes for a time that myrtle would go through the customary spiritual paroxysm under the influence of the rev. mr. stoker's assiduous exhortations; but since she had broken off with him, miss silence had looked upon her as little better than a backslider. and now that the girl was beginning to show the tendencies which seemed to come straight down to her from the belle of the last century, (whose rich physical developments seemed to the under-vitalized spinster as in themselves a kind of offence against propriety,) the forlorn woman folded her thin hands and looked on hopelessly, hardly venturing a remonstrance for fear of some new explosion. as for cynthia, she was comparatively easy since she had, through mr. byles gridley, upset the minister's questionable arrangement of religious intimacy. she had, in fact, in a quiet way, given mr. bradshaw to understand that he would probably meet myrtle at the parsonage if he dropped in at their small gathering. clement walked over to mrs. hopkins's after his dinner with the young lawyer, and asked if susan was ready to go with him. at the sound of his voice, gifted hopkins smote his forehead, and called himself, in subdued tones, a miserable being. his imagination wavered uncertain for a while between pictures of various modes of ridding himself of existence, and fearful deeds involving the life of others. he had no fell purpose of actually doing either, but there was a gloomy pleasure in contemplating them as possibilities, and in mentally sketching the "lines written in despair" which would be found in what was but an hour before the pocket of the youthful bard, g. h., victim of a hopeless passion. all this emotion was in the nature of a surprise to the young man. he had fully believed himself desperately in love with myrtle hazard; and it was not until clement came into the family circle with the right of eminent domain over the realm of susan's affections, that this unfortunate discovered that susan's pretty ways and morning dress and love of poetry and liking for his company had been too much for him, and that he was henceforth to be wretched during the remainder of his natural life, except so far as he could unburden himself in song. mr. william murray bradshaw had asked the privilege of waiting upon myrtle to the little party at the eveleths. myrtle was not insensible to the attractions of the young lawyer, though she had never thought of herself except as a child in her relations with any of these older persons. but she was not the same girl that she had been but a few months before. she had achieved her independence by her audacious and most dangerous enterprise. she had gone through strange nervous trials and spiritual experiences which had matured her more rapidly than years of common life would have done. she had got back her health, bringing with it a riper wealth of womanhood. she had found her destiny in the consciousness that she inherited the beauty belonging to her blood, and which, after sleeping for a generation or two as if to rest from the glare of the pageant that follows beauty through its long career of triumph, had come to the light again in her life, and was to repeat the legends of the olden time in her own history. myrtle's wardrobe had very little of ornament, such as the modistes of the town would have thought essential to render a young girl like her presentable. there were a few heirlooms of old date, however, which she had kept as curiosities until now, and which she looked over until she found some lace and other convertible material, with which she enlivened her costume a little for the evening. as she clasped the antique bracelet around her wrist, she felt as if it were an amulet that gave her the power of charming which had been so long obsolete in her lineage. at the bottom of her heart she cherished a secret longing to try her fascinations on the young lawyer. who could blame her? it was not an inwardly expressed intention,--it was the simple instinctive movement to subjugate the strongest of the other sex who had come in her way, which, as already said, is as natural to a woman as it is to a man to be captivated by the loveliest of those to whom he dares to aspire. before william murray bradshaw and myrtle hazard had reached the parsonage, the girl's cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes were flashing with a new excitement. the young man had not made love to her directly, but he had interested her in herself by a delicate and tender flattery of manner, and so set her fancies working that she was taken with him as never before, and wishing that the parsonage had been a mile farther from the poplars. it was impossible for a young girl like myrtle to conceal the pleasure she received from listening to her seductive admirer, who was trying all his trained skill upon his artless companion. murray bradshaw felt sure that the game was in his hands if he played it with only common prudence. there was no need of hurrying this child,--it might startle her to make downright love abruptly; and now that he had an ally in her own household, and was to have access to her with a freedom he had never before enjoyed, there was a refined pleasure in playing his fish,--this gamest of golden-scaled creatures,--which had risen to his fly, and which he wished to hook, but not to land, until he was sure it would be worth his while. they entered the little parlor at the parsonage looking so beaming, that olive and bathsheba exchanged glances which implied so much that it would take a full page to tell it with all the potentialities involved. "how magnificent myrtle is this evening, bathsheba!" said cyprian eveleth, pensively. "what a handsome pair they are, cyprian!" said bathsheba cheerfully. cyprian sighed. "she always fascinates me whenever i look upon her. is n't she the very picture of what a poet's love should be,--a poem herself,--a glorious lyric,--all light and music! see what a smile the creature has! and her voice! when did you ever hear such tones? and when was it ever so full of life before." bathsheba sighed. "i do not know any poets but gifted hopkins. does not myrtle look more in her place by the side of murray bradshaw than she would with gifted hitched on her arm?" just then the poet made his appearance. he looked depressed, as if it had cost him an effort to come. he was, however, charged with a message which he must deliver to the hostess of the evening. "they 're coming presently," he said. "that young man and susan. wants you to introduce him, mr. bradshaw." the bell rang presently, and murray bradshaw slipped out into the entry to meet the two lovers. "how are you, my fortunate friend?" he said, as he met them at the door. "of course you're well and happy as mortal man can be in this vale of tears. charming, ravishing, quite delicious, that way of dressing your hair, miss posey! nice girls here this evening, mr. lindsay. looked lovely when i came out of the parlor. can't say how they will show after this young lady puts in an appearance." in reply to which florid speeches susan blushed, not knowing what else to do, and clement smiled as naturally as if he had been sitting for his photograph. he felt, in a vague way, that he and susan were being patronized, which is not a pleasant feeling to persons with a certain pride of character. there was no expression of contempt about mr. bradshaw's manner or language at which he could take offence. only he had the air of a man who praises his neighbor without stint, with a calm consciousness that he himself is out of reach of comparison in the possessions or qualities which he is admiring in the other. clement was right in his obscure perception of mr. bradshaw's feeling while he was making his phrases. that gentleman was, in another moment, to have the tingling delight of showing the grand creature he had just begun to tame. he was going to extinguish the pallid light of susan's prettiness in the brightness of myrtle's beauty. he would bring this young man, neutralized and rendered entirely harmless by his irrevocable pledge to a slight girl, face to face with a masterpiece of young womanhood, and say to him, not in words, but as plainly as speech could have told him, "behold my captive!" it was a proud moment for murray bradshaw. he had seen, or thought that he had seen, the assured evidence of a speedy triumph over all the obstacles of myrtle's youth and his own present seeming slight excess of maturity. unless he were very greatly mistaken, he could now walk the course; the plate was his, no matter what might be the entries. and this youth, this handsome, spirited-looking, noble-aired young fellow, whose artist-eye could not miss a line of myrtle's proud and almost defiant beauty, was to be the witness of his power, and to look in admiration upon his prize! he introduced him to the others, reserving her for the last. she was at that moment talking with the worthy rector, and turned when mr. bradshaw spoke to her. "miss hazard, will you allow me to present to you my friend, mr. clement lindsay?" they looked full upon each other, and spoke the common words of salutation. it was a strange meeting; but we who profess to tell the truth must tell strange things, or we shall be liars. in poor little susan's letter there was some allusion to a bust of innocence which the young artist had begun, but of which he had said nothing in his answer to her. he had roughed out a block of marble for that impersonation; sculpture was a delight to him, though secondary to his main pursuit. after his memorable adventure, the image of the girl he had rescued so haunted him that the pale ideal which was to work itself out in the bust faded away in its perpetual presence, and--alas, poor susan! in obedience to the impulse that he could not control, he left innocence sleeping in the marble, and began modelling a figure of proud and noble and imperious beauty, to which he gave the name of liberty. the original which had inspired his conception was before him. these were the lips to which his own had clung when he brought her back from the land of shadows. the hyacinthine curl of her lengthening locks had added something to her beauty; but it was the same face which had haunted him. this was the form he had borne seemingly lifeless in his arms, and the bosom which heaved so visibly before him was that which his eyes they were the calm eyes of a sculptor, but of a sculptor hardly twenty years old. yes,--her bosom was heaving. she had an unexplained feeling of suffocation, and drew great breaths,--she could not have said why,--but she could not help it; and presently she became giddy, and had a great noise in her ears, and rolled her eyes about, and was on the point of going into an hysteric spasm. they called dr. hurlbut, who was making himself agreeable to olive just then, to come and see what was the matter with myrtle. "a little nervous turn,--that is all," he said. "open the window. loose the ribbon round her neck. rub her hands. sprinkle some water on her forehead. "a few drops of cologne. room too warm for her,--that 's all, i think." myrtle came to herself after a time without anything like a regular paroxysm. but she was excitable, and whatever the cause of the disturbance may have been, it seemed prudent that she should go home early; and the excellent rector insisted on caring for her, much to the discontent of mr. william murray bradshaw. "demonish odd," said this gentleman, "was n't it, mr. lindsay, that miss hazard should go off in that way. did you ever see her before?" "i--i--have seen that young lady before," clement answered. "where did you meet her?" mr. bradshaw asked, with eager interest. "i met her in the valley of the shadow of death," clement answered, very solemnly.--"i leave this place to-morrow morning. have you any commands for the city?" "knows how to shut a fellow up pretty well for a young one, doesn't he?" mr. bradshaw thought to himself. "thank you, no," he answered, recovering himself. "rather a melancholy place to make acquaintance in, i should think, that valley you spoke of. i should like to know about it." mr. clement had the power of looking steadily into another person's eyes in a way that was by no means encouraging to curiosity or favorable to the process of cross-examination. mr. bradshaw was not disposed to press his question in the face of the calm, repressive look the young man gave him. "if he was n't bagged, i shouldn't like the shape of things any too well," he said to himself. the conversation between mr. clement lindsay and miss susan posey, as they walked home together, was not very brilliant. "i am going to-morrow morning," he said, "and i must bid you good-by tonight." perhaps it is as well to leave two lovers to themselves, under these circumstances. before he went he spoke to his worthy host, whose moderate demands he had to satisfy, and with whom he wished to exchange a few words. "and by the way, deacon, i have no use for this book, and as it is in a good type, perhaps you would like it. your favorite, scott, and one of his greatest works. i have another edition of it at home, and don't care for this volume." "thank you, thank you, mr. lindsay, much obleeged. i shall read that copy for your sake, the best of books next to the bible itself." after mr. lindsay had gone, the deacon looked at the back of the book. "scott's works, vol. ix." he opened it at hazard, and happened to fall on a well-known page, from which he began reading aloud, slowly, "when izrul, of the lord beloved, out of the land of bondage came." the whole hymn pleased the grave deacon. he had never seen this work of the author of the commentary. no matter; anything that such a good man wrote must be good reading, and he would save it up for sunday. the consequence of this was, that, when the rev. mr. stoker stopped in on his way to meeting on the "sabbath," he turned white with horror at the spectacle of the senior deacon of his church sitting, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, absorbed in the pages of "ivanhoe," which he found enormously interesting; but, so far as he had yet read, not occupied with religious matters so much as he had expected. myrtle had no explanation to give of her nervous attack. mr. bradshaw called the day after the party, but did not see her. he met her walking, and thought she seemed a little more distant than common. that would never do. he called again at the poplars a few days afterwards, and was met in the entry by miss cynthia, with whom he had a long conversation on matters involving myrtle's interests and their own. chapter xxi. madness? mr. clement lindsay returned to the city and his usual labors in a state of strange mental agitation. he had received an impression for which he was unprepared. he had seen for the second time a young girl whom, for the peace of his own mind, and for the happiness of others, he should never again have looked upon until time had taught their young hearts the lesson which all hearts must learn, sooner or later. what shall the unfortunate person do who has met with one of those disappointments, or been betrayed into one of those positions, which do violence to all the tenderest feelings, blighting the happiness of youth, and the prospects of after years? if the person is a young man, he has various resources. he can take to the philosophic meerschaum, and nicotine himself at brief intervals into a kind of buzzing and blurry insensibility, until he begins to "color" at last like the bowl of his own pipe, and even his mind gets the tobacco flavor. or he can have recourse to the more suggestive stimulants, which will dress his future up for him in shining possibilities that glitter like masonic regalia, until the morning light and the waking headache reveal his illusion. some kind of spiritual anaesthetic he must have, if he holds his grief fast tied to his heartstrings. but as grief must be fed with thought, or starve to death, it is the best plan to keep the mind so busy in other ways that it has no time to attend to the wants of that ravening passion. to sit down and passively endure it, is apt to end in putting all the mental machinery into disorder. clement lindsay had thought that his battle of life was already fought, and that he had conquered. he believed that he had subdued himself completely, and that he was ready, without betraying a shadow of disappointment, to take the insufficient nature which destiny had assigned him in his companion, and share with it all of his own larger being it was capable, not of comprehending, but of apprehending. he had deceived himself. the battle was not fought and won. there had been a struggle, and what seemed to be a victory, but the enemy--intrenched in the very citadel of life--had rallied, and would make another desperate attempt to retrieve his defeat. the haste with which the young man had quitted the village was only a proof that he felt his danger. he believed that, if he came into the presence of myrtle hazard for the third time, he should be no longer master of his feelings. some explanation must take place between them, and how was it possible that it should be without emotion? and in what do all emotions shared by a young man with such a young girl as this tend to find their last expression? clement determined to stun his sensibilities by work. he would give himself no leisure to indulge in idle dreams of what might have been. his plans were never so carefully finished, and his studies were never so continuous as now. but the passion still wrought within him, and, if he drove it from his waking thoughts, haunted his sleep until he could endure it no longer, and must give it some manifestation. he had covered up the bust of liberty so closely, that not an outline betrayed itself through the heavy folds of drapery in which it was wrapped. his thoughts recurred to his unfinished marble, as offering the one mode in which he could find a silent outlet to the feelings and thoughts which it was torture to keep imprisoned in his soul. the cold stone would tell them, but without passion; and having got the image which possessed him out of himself into a lifeless form, it seemed as if he might be delivered from a presence which, lovely as it was, stood between him and all that made him seem honorable and worthy to himself. he uncovered the bust which he had but half shaped, and struck the first flake from the glittering marble. the toil, once begun, fascinated him strangely, and after the day's work was done, and at every interval he could snatch from his duties, he wrought at his secret task. "clement is graver than ever," the young men said at the office. "what's the matter, do you suppose? turned off by the girl they say he means to marry by and by? how pale he looks too! must have something worrying him: he used to look as fresh as a clove pink." the master with whom he studied saw that he was losing color, and looking very much worn; and determined to find out, if he could, whether he was not overworking himself. he soon discovered that his light was seen burning late into the night, that he was neglecting his natural rest, and always busy with some unknown task, not called for in his routine of duty or legitimate study. "something is wearing on you, clement," he said. "you are killing yourself with undertaking too much. will you let me know what keeps you so busy when you ought to be asleep, or taking your ease and comfort in some way or other?" nobody but himself had ever seen his marble or its model. he had now almost finished it, laboring at it with such sleepless devotion, and he was willing to let his master have a sight of his first effort of the kind,--for he was not a sculptor, it must be remembered, though he had modelled in clay, not without some success, from time to time. "come with me," he said. the master climbed the stairs with him up to his modest chamber. a closely shrouded bust stood on its pedestal in the light of the solitary window. "that is my ideal personage," clement said. "wait one moment, and you shall see how far i have caught the character of our uncrowned queen." the master expected, very naturally, to see the conventional young woman with classical wreath or feather headdress, whom we have placed upon our smallest coin, so that our children may all grow up loving liberty. as clement withdrew the drapery that covered his work, the master stared at it in amazement. he looked at it long and earnestly, and at length turned his eyes, a little moistened by some feeling which thus betrayed itself, upon his scholar. "this is no ideal, clement. it is the portrait of a very young but very beautiful woman. no common feeling could have guided your hand in shaping such a portrait from memory. this must be that friend of yours of whom i have often heard as an amiable young person. pardon me, for you know that nobody cares more for you than i do,--i hope that you are happy in all your relations with this young friend of yours. how could one be otherwise?" it was hard to bear, very hard. he forced a smile. "you are partly right," he said. "there is a resemblance, i trust, to a living person, for i had one in my mind." "did n't you tell me once, clement, that you were attempting a bust of innocence? i do not see any block in your room but this. is that done?" "done with!" clement answered; and, as he said it, the thought stung through him that this was the very stone which was to have worn the pleasant blandness of pretty susan's guileless countenance. how the new features had effaced the recollection of the others! in a few days more clement had finished his bust. his hours were again vacant to his thick-coming fancies. while he had been busy with his marble, his hands had required his attention, and he must think closely of every detail upon which he was at work. but at length his task was done, and he could contemplate what he had made of it. it was a triumph for one so little exercised in sculpture. the master had told him so, and his own eye could not deceive him. he might never succeed in any repetition of his effort, but this once he most certainly had succeeded. he could not disguise from himself the source of this extraordinary good fortune in so doubtful and difficult an attempt. nor could he resist the desire of contemplating the portrait bust, which--it was foolish to talk about ideals--was not liberty, but myrtle hazard. it was too nearly like the story of the ancient sculptor; his own work was an over-match for its artist. clement had made a mistake in supposing that by giving his dream a material form he should drive it from the possession of his mind. the image in which he had fixed his recollection of its original served only to keep her living presence before him. he thought of her as she clasped her arms around him, and they were swallowed up in the rushing waters, coming so near to passing into the unknown world together. he thought of her as he stretched her lifeless form upon the bank, and looked for one brief moment on her unsunned loveliness,--"a sight to dream of, not to tell." he thought of her as his last fleeting glimpse had shown her, beautiful, not with the blossomy prettiness that passes away with the spring sunshine, but with a rich vitality of which noble outlines and winning expression were only the natural accidents. and that singular impression which the sight of him had produced upon her,--how strange! how could she but have listened to him,--to him, who was, as it were, a second creator to her, for he had bought her back from the gates of the unseen realm,--if he had recalled to her the dread moments they had passed in each other's arms, with death, not love, in all their thoughts. and if then he had told her how her image had remained with him, how it had colored all his visions, and mingled with all his conceptions, would not those dark eyes have melted as they were turned upon him? nay, how could he keep the thought away, that she would not have been insensible to his passion, if he could have suffered its flame to kindle in his heart? did it not seem as if death had spared them for love, and that love should lead them together through life's long journey to the gates of death? never! never! never! their fates were fixed. for him, poor insect as he was, a solitary flight by day, and a return at evening to his wingless mate! for her--he thought he saw her doom. could he give her up to the cold embraces of that passionless egotist, who, as he perceived plainly enough, was casting his shining net all around her? clement read murray bradshaw correctly. he could not perhaps have spread his character out in set words, as we must do for him, for it takes a long apprenticeship to learn to describe analytically what we know as soon as we see it; but he felt in his inner consciousness all that we must tell for him. fascinating, agreeable, artful, knowing, capable of winning a woman infinitely above himself, incapable of understanding her,--oh, if he could but touch him with the angel's spear, and bid him take his true shape before her whom he was gradually enveloping in the silken meshes of his subtle web! he would make a place for her in the world,--oh yes, doubtless. he would be proud of her in company, would dress her handsomely, and show her off in the best lights. but from the very hour that he felt his power over her firmly established, he would begin to remodel her after his own worldly pattern. he would dismantle her of her womanly ideals, and give her in their place his table of market-values. he would teach her to submit her sensibilities to her selfish interest, and her tastes to the fashion of the moment, no matter which world or half-world it came from. "as the husband is, the wife is,"--he would subdue her to what he worked in. all this clement saw, as in apocalyptic vision, stored up for the wife of murray bradshaw, if he read him rightly, as he felt sure he did, from the few times he had seen him. he would be rich by and by, very probably. he looked like one of those young men who are sharp, and hard enough to come to fortune. then she would have to take her place in the great social exhibition where the gilded cages are daily opened that the animals may be seen, feeding on the sight of stereotyped toilets and the sound of impoverished tattle. o misery of semi-provincial fashionable life, where wealth is at its wit's end to avoid being tired of an existence which has all the labor of keeping up appearances, without the piquant profligacy which saves it at least from being utterly vapid! how many fashionable women at the end of a long season would be ready to welcome heaven itself as a relief from the desperate monotony of dressing, dawdling, and driving! this could not go on so forever. clement had placed a red curtain so as to throw a rose-bloom on his marble, and give it an aspect which his fancy turned to the semblance of life. he would sit and look at the features his own hand had so faithfully wrought, until it seemed as if the lips moved, sometimes as if they were smiling, sometimes as if they were ready to speak to him. his companions began to whisper strange things of him in the studio,--that his eye was getting an unnatural light,--that he talked as if to imaginary listeners,--in short, that there was a look as if something were going wrong with his brain, which it might be feared would spoil his fine intelligence. it was the undecided battle, and the enemy, as in his noblest moments he had considered the growing passion, was getting the better of him. he was sitting one afternoon before the fatal bust which had smiled and whispered away his peace, when the post-man brought him a letter. it was from the simple girl to whom he had given his promise. we know how she used to prattle in her harmless way about her innocent feelings, and the trifling matters that were going on in her little village world. but now she wrote in sadness. something, she did not too clearly explain what, had grieved her, and she gave free expression to her feelings. "i have no one that loves me but you," she said; "and if you leave me i must droop and die. are you true to me, dearest clement,--true as when we promised each other that we would love while life lasted? or have you forgotten one who will never cease to remember that she was once your own susan?" clement dropped the letter from his hand, and sat a long hour looking at the exquisitely wrought features of her who had come between him and honor and his plighted word. at length he arose, and, lifting the bust tenderly from its pedestal, laid it upon the cloth with which it had been covered. he wrapped it closely, fold upon fold, as the mother whom man condemns and god pities wraps the child she loves before she lifts her hand against its life. then he took a heavy hammer and shattered his lovely idol into shapeless fragments. the strife was over. chapter xxii. a change of programme. mr. william murray bradshaw was in pretty intimate relations with miss cynthia badlam. it was well understood between them that it might be of very great advantage to both of them if he should in due time become the accepted lover of myrtle hazard. so long as he could be reasonably secure against interference, he did not wish to hurry her in making her decision. two things he did wish to be sure of, if possible, before asking her the great question;--first, that she would answer it in the affirmative; and secondly, that certain contingencies, the turning of which was not as yet absolutely capable of being predicted, should happen as he expected. cynthia had the power of furthering his wishes in many direct and indirect ways, and he felt sure of her cooperation. she had some reason to fear his enmity if she displeased him, and he had taken good care to make her understand that her interests would be greatly promoted by the success of the plan which he had formed, and which was confided to her alone. he kept the most careful eye on every possible source of disturbance to this quietly maturing plan. he had no objection to have gifted hopkins about myrtle as much as she would endure to have him. the youthful bard entertained her very innocently with his bursts of poetry, but she was in no danger from a young person so intimately associated with the yard-stick, the blunt scissors, and the brown-paper parcel. there was cyprian too, about whom he did not feel any very particular solicitude. myrtle had evidently found out that she was handsome and stylish and all that, and it was not very likely she would take up with such a bashful, humble, country youth as this. he could expect nothing beyond a possible rectorate in the remote distance, with one of those little pony chapels to preach in, which, if it were set up on a stout pole, would pass for a good-sized martin-house. cyprian might do to practise on, but there was no danger of her looking at him in a serious way. as for that youth, clement lindsay, if he had not taken himself off as he did, murray bradshaw confessed to himself that he should have felt uneasy. he was too good-looking, and too clever a young fellow to have knocking about among fragile susceptibilities. but on reflection he saw there could be no danger. "all up with him,--poor diavolo! can't understand it--such a little sixpenny miss--pretty enough boiled parsnip blonde, if one likes that sort of thing--pleases some of the old boys, apparently. look out, mr. l. remember susanna and the elders. good! "safe enough if something new doesn't turn up. youngish. sixteen's a little early. seventeen will do. marry a girl while she's in the gristle, and you can shape her bones for her. splendid creature without her trimmings. wants training. must learn to dance, and sing something besides psalm-tunes." mr. bradshaw began humming the hymn, "when i can read my title clear," adding some variations of his own. "that 's the solo for my prima donna!" in the mean time myrtle seemed to be showing some new developments. one would have said that the instincts of the coquette, or at least of the city belle, were coming uppermost in her nature. her little nervous attack passed away, and she gained strength and beauty every day. she was becoming conscious of her gifts of fascination, and seemed to please herself with the homage of her rustic admirers. why was it that no one of them had the look and bearing of that young man she had seen but a moment the other evening? to think that he should have taken up with such a weakling as susan posey! she sighed, and not so much thought as felt how kind it would have been in heaven to have made her such a man. but the image of the delicate blonde stood between her and all serious thought of clement lindsay. she saw the wedding in the distance, and very foolishly thought to herself that she could not and would not go to it. but clement lindsay was gone, and she must content herself with such worshippers as the village afforded. murray bradshaw was surprised and confounded at the easy way in which she received his compliments, and played with his advances, after the fashion of the trained ball-room belles, who know how to be almost caressing in manner, and yet are really as far off from the deluded victim of their suavities as the topmost statue of the milan cathedral from the peasant that kneels on its floor. he admired her all the more for this, and yet he saw that she would be a harder prize to win than he had once thought. if he made up his mind that he would have her, he must go armed with all implements, from the red hackle to the harpoon. the change which surprised murray bradshaw could not fail to be noticed by all those about her. miss silence had long ago come to pantomime, rolling up of eyes, clasping of hands, making of sad mouths, and the rest,--but left her to her own way, as already the property of that great firm of world & co. which drives such sharp bargains for young souls with the better angels. cynthia studied her for her own purposes, but had never gained her confidence. the irish servant saw that some change had come over her, and thought of the great ladies she had sometimes looked upon in the old country. they all had a kind of superstitious feeling about myrtle's bracelet, of which she had told them the story, but which kitty half believed was put in the drawer by the fairies, who brought her ribbons and partridge feathers, and other slight adornments with which she contrived to set off her simple costume, so as to produce those effects which an eye for color and cunning fingers can bring out of almost nothing. gifted hopkins was now in a sad, vacillating condition, between the two great attractions to which he was exposed. myrtle looked so immensely handsome ere sunday when he saw her going to church, not to meeting, for she world not go, except when she knew father pemberton was going to be the preacher, that the young poet was on the point of going down on his knees to her, and telling her that his heart was hers and hers alone. but he suddenly remembered that he had on his best trousers, and the idea of carrying the marks of his devotion in the shape of two dusty impressions on his most valued article of apparel turned the scale against the demonstration. it happened the next morning, that susan posey wore the most becoming ribbon she had displayed for a long time, and gifted was so taken with her pretty looks that he might very probably have made the same speech to her that he had been on the point of making to myrtle the day before, but that he remembered her plighted affections, and thought what he should have to say for himself when clement lindsay, in a frenzy of rage and jealousy, stood before him, probably armed with as many deadly instruments as a lawyer mentions by name in an indictment for murder. cyprian eveleth looked very differently on the new manifestations myrtle was making of her tastes and inclinations. he had always felt dazzled, as well as attracted, by her; but now there was something in her expression and manner which made him feel still more strongly that they were intended for different spheres of life. he could not but own that she was born for a brilliant destiny,--that no ball-room would throw a light from its chandeliers too strong for her,--that no circle would be too brilliant for her to illuminate by her presence. love does not thrive without hope, and cyprian was beginning to see that it was idle in him to think of folding these wide wings of myrtle's so that they would be shut up in any cage he could ever offer her. he began to doubt whether, after all, he might not find a meeker and humbler nature better adapted to his own. and so it happened that one evening after the three girls, olive, myrtle, and bathsheba, had been together at the parsonage, and cyprian, availing himself of a brother's privilege, had joined them, he found he had been talking most of the evening with the gentle girl whose voice had grown so soft and sweet, during her long ministry in the sick-chamber, that it seemed to him more like music than speech. it would not be fair to say that myrtle was piqued to see that cyprian was devoting himself to bathsheba. her ambition was already reaching beyond her little village circle, and she had an inward sense that cyprian found a form of sympathy in the minister's simple-minded daughter which he could not ask from a young woman of her own aspirations. such was the state of affairs when master byles gridley was one morning surprised by an early call from myrtle. he had a volume of walton's polyglot open before him, and was reading job in the original, when she entered. "why, bless me, is that my young friend miss myrtle hazard?" he exclaimed. "i might call you keren-happuch, which is hebrew for child of beauty, and not be very far out of the way, job's youngest daughter, my dear. and what brings my young friend out in such good season this morning? nothing going wrong up at our ancient mansion, the poplars, i trust?" "i want to talk with you, dear master gridley," she answered. she looked as if she did not know just how to begin. "anything that interests you, myrtle, interests me. i think you have some project in that young head of yours, my child. let us have it, in all its dimensions, length, breadth, and thickness. i think i can guess, myrtle, that we have a little plan of some kind or other. we don't visit papa job quite so early as this without some special cause,--do we, miss keren-happuch?" "i want to go to the city--to school," myrtle said, with the directness which belonged to her nature. "that is precisely what i want you to do myself, miss myrtle hazard. i don't like to lose you from the village, but i think we must spare you for a while." "you're the best and dearest man that ever lived. what could have made you think of such a thing for me, mr. gridley?" "because you are ignorant, my child,--partly i want to see you fitted to take a look at the world without feeling like a little country miss. has your aunt silence promised to bear your expenses while you are in the city? it will cost a good deal of money." "i have not said a word to her about it. i am sure i don't know what she would say. but i have some money, mr. gridley." she showed him a purse with gold, telling him how she came by it. "there is some silver besides. will it be enough?" "no, no, my child, we must not meddle with that. your aunt will let me put it in the bank for you, i think, where it will be safe. but that shall not make any difference. i have got a little money lying idle, which you may just as well have the use of as not. you can pay it back perhaps some time or other; if you did not, it would not make much difference. i am pretty much alone in the world, and except a book now and then--aut liberos aut libros, as our valiant heretic has it,--you ought to know a little latin, myrtle, but never mind--i have not much occasion for money. you shall go to the best school that any of our cities can offer, myrtle, and you shall stay there until we agree that you are fitted to come back to us an ornament to oxbow village, and to larger places than this if you are called there. we have had some talk about it, your aunt silence and i, and it is all settled. your aunt does not feel very rich just now, or perhaps she would do more for you. she has many pious and poor friends, and it keeps her funds low. never mind, my child, we will have it all arranged for you, and you shall begin the year in madam delacoste's institution for young ladies. too many rich girls and fashionable ones there, i fear, but you must see some of all kinds, and there are very good instructors in the school,--i know one,--he was a college boy with me,--and you will find pleasant and good companions there, so he tells me; only don't be in a hurry to choose your friends, for the least desirable young persons are very apt to cluster about a new-comer." myrtle was bewildered with the suddenness of the prospect thus held out to her. it is a wonder that she did not bestow an embrace upon the worthy old master. perhaps she had too much tact. it is a pretty way enough of telling one that he belongs to a past generation, but it does tell him that not over-pleasing fact. like the title of emeritus professor, it is a tribute to be accepted, hardly to be longed for. when the curtain rises again, it will show miss hazard in a new character, and surrounded by a new world. chapter xxiii. myrtle hazard at the city school. mr. bradshaw was obliged to leave town for a week or two on business connected with the great land-claim. on his return, feeling in pretty good spirits, as the prospects looked favorable, he went to make a call at the poplars. he asked first for miss hazard. "bliss your soul, mr. bridshaw," answered mistress kitty fagan, "she's been gahn nigh a wake. it's to the city, to the big school, they've sint her." this announcement seemed to make a deep impression on murray bradshaw, for his feelings found utterance in one of the most energetic forms of language to which ears polite or impolite are accustomed. he next asked for miss silence, who soon presented herself. mr. bradshaw asked, in a rather excited way, "is it possible, miss withers, that your niece has quitted you to go to a city school?" miss silence answered, with her chief--mourner expression, and her death-chamber tone: "yes, she has left us for a season. i trust it may not be her destruction. i had hoped in former years that she would become a missionary, but i have given up all expectation of that now. two whole years, from the age of four to that of six, i had prevailed upon her to give up sugar,--the money so saved to go to a graduate of our institution--who was afterwards----he labored among the cannibal-islanders. i thought she seemed to take pleasure in this small act of self-denial, but i have since suspected that kitty gave her secret lumps. it was by mr. gridley's advice that she went, and by his pecuniary assistance. what could i do? she was bent on going, and i was afraid she would have fits, or do something dreadful, if i did not let her have her way. i am afraid she will come back to us spoiled. she has seemed so fond of dress lately, and once she spoke of learning--yes, mr. bradshaw, of learning to--dance! i wept when i heard of it. yes, i wept." that was such a tremendous thing to think of, and especially to speak of in mr. bradshaw's presence, for the most pathetic image in the world to many women is that of themselves in tears,--that it brought a return of the same overflow, which served as a substitute for conversation until miss badlam entered the apartment. miss cynthia followed the same general course of remark. they could not help myrtle's going if they tried. she had always maintained that, if they had only once broke her will when she was little, they would have kept the upper hand of her; but her will never was broke. they came pretty near it once, but the child would n't give in. miss cynthia went to the door with mr. bradshaw, and the conversation immediately became short and informal. "demonish pretty business! all up for a year or more,--hey?" don't blame me,--i couldn't stop her." "give me her address,--i 'll write to her. any young men teach in the school?" "can't tell you. she'll write to olive and bathsheba, and i'll find out all about it." murray bradshaw went home and wrote a long letter to mrs. clymer ketchum, of carat place, containing many interesting remarks and inquiries, some of the latter relating to madam delacoste's institution for the education of young ladies. while this was going on at oxbow village, myrtle was establishing herself at the rather fashionable school to which mr. gridley had recommended her. mrs. or madam delacoste's boarding-school had a name which on the whole it deserved pretty well. she had some very good instructors for girls who wished to get up useful knowledge in case they might marry professors or ministers. they had a chance to learn music, dancing, drawing, and the way of behaving in company. there was a chance, too, to pick up available acquaintances, for many rich people sent their daughters to the school, and it was something to have been bred in their company. there was the usual division of the scholars into a first and second set, according to the social position, mainly depending upon the fortune, of the families to which they belonged. the wholesale dealer's daughter very naturally considered herself as belonging to a different order from the retail dealer's daughter. the keeper of a great hotel and the editor of a widely circulated newspaper were considered as ranking with the wholesale dealers, and their daughters belonged also to the untitled nobility which has the dollar for its armorial bearing. the second set had most of the good scholars, and some of the prettiest girls; but nobody knew anything about their families, who lived off the great streets and avenues, or vegetated in country towns. myrtle hazard's advent made something like a sensation. they did not know exactly what to make of her. hazard? hazard? no great firm of that name. no leading hotel kept by any hazard, was there? no newspaper of note edited by anybody called hazard, was there? came from where? oxbow village. oh, rural district. yes.--still they could not help owning that she was handsome, a concession which of course had to be made with reservations. "don't you think she's vuiry good-lookin'?" said a boston girl to a new york girl. "i think she's real pooty." "i dew, indeed. i didn't think she was haaf so handsome the feeest time i saw her," answered the new york girl. "what a pity she had n't been bawn in bawston!" "yes, and moved very young to ne yock!" "and married a sarsaparilla man, and lived in fiff avenoo, and moved in the fust society." "better dew that than be strong-mainded, and dew your own cook'n, and live in your own kitch'n." "don't forgit to send your card when you are mrs. old dr. jacob!" "indeed i shaan't. what's the name of the alley, and which bell?" the new york girl took out a memorandum-book as if to put it down. "had n't you better let me write it for you, dear?" said the boston girl. "it is as well to have it legible, you know." "take it," said the new york girl. "there 's tew york shill'ns in it when i hand it to you." "your whole quarter's allowance, i bullieve,--ain't it?" said the boston girl. "elegant manners, correct deportment, and propriety of language will be strictly attended to in this institution. the most correct standards of pronunciation will be inculcated by precept and example. it will be the special aim of the teachers to educate their pupils out of all provincialisms, so that they may be recognized as well-bred english scholars wherever the language is spoken in its purity."--extract from the prospectus of madam delacoste's boarding-school. myrtle hazard was a puzzle to all the girls. striking, they all agreed, but then the criticisms began. many of the girls chattered a little broken french, and one of them, miss euphrosyne de lacy, had been half educated in paris, so that she had all the phrases which are to social operators what his cutting instruments are to the surgeon. her face she allowed was handsome; but her style, according to this oracle, was a little bourgeoise, and her air not exactly comme il faut. more specifically, she was guilty of contours fortement prononces,--corsage de paysanne,--quelque chose de sauvage, etc., etc. this girl prided herself on her figure. miss bella pool, (la belle poule as the demi-parisian girl had christened her,) the beauty of the school, did not think so much of myrtle's face, but considered her figure as better than the de lacy girl's. the two sets, first and second, fought over her as the greeks and trojans over a dead hero, or the yale college societies over a live freshman. she was nobody by her connections, it is true, so far as they could find out, but then, on the other hand, she had the walk of a queen, and she looked as if a few stylish dresses and a season or two would make her a belle of the first water. she had that air of indifference to their little looks and whispered comments which is surest to disarm all the critics of a small tattling community. on the other hand, she came to this school to learn, and not to play; and the modest and more plainly dressed girls, whose fathers did not sell by the cargo, or keep victualling establishments for some hundreds of people, considered her as rather in sympathy with them than with the daughters of the rough-and-tumble millionnaires who were grappling and rolling over each other in the golden dust of the great city markets. she did not mean to belong exclusively to either of their sets. she came with that sense of manifold deficiencies, and eager ambition to supply them, which carries any learner upward, as if on wings, over the heads of the mechanical plodders and the indifferent routinists. she learned, therefore, in a way to surprise the experienced instructors. her somewhat rude sketching soon began to show something of the artist's touch. her voice, which had only been taught to warble the simplest melodies, after a little training began to show its force and sweetness and flexibility in the airs that enchant drawing-room audiences. she caught with great readiness the manner of the easiest girls, unconsciously, for she inherited old social instincts which became nature with the briefest exercise. not much license of dress was allowed in the educational establishment of madam delacoste, but every girl had an opportunity to show her taste within the conventional limits prescribed. and myrtle soon began to challenge remark by a certain air she contrived to give her dresses, and the skill with which she blended their colors. "tell you what, girls," said miss berengaria topping, female representative of the great dynasty that ruled over the world-famous planet hotel, "she's got style, lots of it. i call her perfectly splendid, when she's got up in her swell clothes. that oriole's wing she wears in her bonnet makes her look gorgeous, she'll be a stunning pocahontas for the next tableau." miss rose bugbee, whose family opulence grew out of the only merchantable article a hebrew is never known to seek profit from, thought she could be made presentable in the first circles if taken in hand in good season. so it came about that, before many weeks had passed over her as a scholar in the great educational establishment, she might be considered as on the whole the most popular girl in the whole bevy of them. the studious ones admired her for her facility of learning, and her extraordinary appetite for every form of instruction, and the showy girls, who were only enduring school as the purgatory that opened into the celestial world of society, recognized in her a very handsome young person, who would be like to make a sensation sooner or later. there were, however, it must be confessed, a few who considered themselves the thickest of the cream of the school-girls, who submitted her to a more trying ordeal than any she had yet passed. "how many horses does your papa keep?" asked miss florence smythe. "we keep nine, and a pony for edgar." myrtle had to explain that she had no papa, and that they did not keep any horses. thereupon miss florence smythe lost her desire to form an acquaintance, and wrote home to her mother (who was an ex-bonnet-maker) that the school was getting common, she was afraid,--they were letting in persons one knew nothing about. miss clare browne had a similar curiosity about the amount of plate used in the household from which myrtle came. her father had just bought a complete silver service. myrtle had to own that they used a good deal of china at her own home,--old china, which had been a hundred years in the family, some of it. "a hundred years old!" exclaimed miss clare browne. "what queer-looking stuff it must be! why, everything in our house is just as new and bright! papaa had all our pictures painted on purpose for us. have you got any handsome pictures in your house?" "we have a good many portraits of members of the family," she said, "some of them older than the china." "how very very odd! what do the dear old things look like?" "one was a great beauty in her time." "how jolly!" "another was a young woman who was put to death for her religion,--burned to ashes at the stake in queen mary's time." "how very very wicked! it was n't nice a bit, was it? ain't you telling me stories? was that a hundred years ago?--but you 've got some new pictures and things, have n't you? who furnished your parlors?" "my great-grandfather, or his father, i believe." "stuff and nonsense. i don't believe it. what color are your carriage-horses?" "our woman, kitty fagan, told somebody once we didn't keep any horse but a cow." "not keep any horses! do for pity's sake let me look at your feet." myrtle put out as neat a little foot as a shoemaker ever fitted with a pair of number two. what she would have been tempted to do with it, if she had been a boy, we will not stop to guess. after all, the questions amused her quite as much as the answers instructed miss clara browne. of that young lady's ancestral claims to distinction there is no need of discoursing. her "papaa" commonly said sir in talking with a gentleman, and her "mammaa" would once in a while forget, and go down the area steps instead of entering at the proper door; but they lived behind a brown stone front, which veneers everybody's antecedents with a facing of respectability. miss clara browne wrote home to her mother in the same terms as miss florence smythe,--that the school was getting dreadful common, and they were letting in very queer folks. still another trial awaited myrtle, and one which not one girl in a thousand would have been so unprepared to meet. she knew absolutely nothing of certain things with which the vast majority of young persons were quite familiar. there were literary young ladies, who had read everything of dickens and thackeray, and something at least of sir walter, and occasionally, perhaps, a french novel, which they had better have let alone. one of the talking young ladies of this set began upon myrtle one day. "oh, is n't 'pickwick' nice?" she asked. "i don't know," myrtle replied; "i never tasted any." the girl stared at her as if she were a crazy creature. "tasted any! why, i mean the 'pickwick papers,' dickens's story. don't you think they're nice." poor myrtle had to confess that she had never read them, and did n't know anything about them. "what! did you never read any novels?" said the young lady. "oh, to be sure i have," said myrtle, blushing as she thought of the great trunk and its contents. "i have read 'caleb williams,' and 'evelina,' and 'tristram shandy'" (naughty girl!), "and the 'castle of otranto,' and the 'mysteries of udolpho,' and the 'vicar of wakefield,' and 'don quixote'--" the young lady burst out laughing. "stop! stop! for mercy's sake," she cried. "you must be somebody that's been dead and buried and come back to life again. why you're rip van winkle in a petticoat! you ought to powder your hair and wear patches." "we've got the oddest girl here," this young lady wrote home. "she has n't read any book that is n't a thousand years old. one of the girls says she wears a trilobite for a breastpin; some horrid old stone, i believe that is, that was a bug ever so long ago. her name, she says, is myrtle hazard, but i call her rip van myrtle." notwithstanding the quiet life which these young girls were compelled to lead, they did once in a while have their gatherings, at which a few young gentlemen were admitted. one of these took place about a month after myrtle had joined the school. the girls were all in their best, and by and by they were to have a tableau. myrtle came out in all her force. she dressed herself as nearly as she dared like the handsome woman of the past generation whom she resembled. the very spirit of the dead beauty seemed to animate every feature and every movement of the young girl whose position in the school was assured from that moment. she had a good solid foundation to build upon in the jealousy of two or three of the leading girls of the style of pretensions illustrated by some of their talk which has been given. there is no possible success without some opposition as a fulcrum: force is always aggressive, and crowds something or other, if it does not hit or trample on it. the cruelest cut of all was the remark attributed to mr. livingston jerkins, who was what the opposition girls just referred to called the great "swell" among the privileged young gentlemen who were present at the gathering. "rip van myrtle, you call that handsome girl, do you, miss clara? by jove, she's the stylishest of the whole lot, to say nothing of being a first-class beauty. of course you know i except one, miss clara. if a girl can go to sleep and wake up after twenty years looking like that, i know a good many who had better begin their nap without waiting. if i were florence smythe, i'd try it, and begin now,--eh, clara?" miss browne felt the praise of myrtle to be slightly alleviated by the depreciation of miss smythe, who had long been a rival of her own. a little later in the evening miss smythe enjoyed almost precisely the same sensation, produced in a very economical way by mr. livingston jenkins's repeating pretty nearly the same sentiments to her, only with a change in the arrangement of the proper names. the two young ladies were left feeling comparatively comfortable with regard to each other, each intending to repeat mr. livingston jenkins's remark about her friend to such of her other friends as enjoyed clever sayings, but not at all comfortable with reference to myrtle hazard, who was evidently considered by the leading "swell" of their circle as the most noticeable personage of the assembly. the individual exception in each case did very well as a matter of politeness, but they knew well enough what he meant. it seemed to myrtle hazard, that evening, that she felt the bracelet on her wrist glow with a strange, unaccustomed warmth. it was as if it had just been unclasped from the arm of a yohng woman full of red blood and tingling all over with swift nerve-currents. life had never looked to her as it did that evening. it was the swan's first breasting the water,--bred on the desert sand, with vague dreams of lake and river, and strange longings as the mirage came and dissolved, and at length afloat upon the sparkling wave. she felt as if she had for the first time found her destiny. it was to please, and so to command, to rule with gentle sway in virtue of the royal gift of beauty,--to enchant with the commonest exercise of speech, through the rare quality of a voice which could not help being always gracious and winning, of a manner which came to her as an inheritance of which she had just found the title. she read in the eyes of all that she was more than any other the centre of admiration. blame her who may, the world was a very splendid vision as it opened before her eyes in its long vista of pleasures and of triumphs. how different the light of these bright saloons from the glimmer of the dim chamber at the poplars! silence withers was at that very moment looking at the portraits of anne holyoake and of judith pride. "the old picture seems to me to be fading faster than ever," she was thinking. but when she held her lamp before the other, it seemed to her that the picture never was so fresh before, and that the proud smile upon its lips was more full of conscious triumph than she remembered it. a reflex, doubtless, of her own thoughts, for she believed that the martyr was weeping even in heaven over her lost descendant, and that the beauty, changed to the nature of the malignant spiritual company with which she had long consorted in the under-world, was pleasing herself with the thought that myrtle was in due time to bring her news from the satanic province overhead, where she herself had so long indulged in the profligacy of embonpoint and loveliness. the evening at the school-party was to terminate with some tableaux. the girl who had suggested that myrtle would look "stunning" or "gorgeous" or "jolly," or whatever the expression was, as pocahontas, was not far out of the way, and it was so evident to the managing heads that she would make a fine appearance in that character, that the "rescue of captain john smith" was specially got up to show her off. myrtle had sufficient reason to believe that there was a hint of indian blood in her veins. it was one of those family legends which some of the members are a little proud of, and others are willing to leave uninvestigated. but with myrtle it was a fixed belief that she felt perfectly distinct currents of her ancestral blood at intervals, and she had sometimes thought there were instincts and vague recollections which must have come from the old warriors and hunters and their dusky brides. the indians who visited the neighborhood recognized something of their own race in her dark eyes, as the reader may remember they told the persons who were searching after her. it had almost frightened her sometimes to find how like a wild creature she felt when alone in the woods. her senses had much of that delicacy for which the red people are noted, and she often thought she could follow the trail of an enemy, if she wished to track one through the forest, as unerringly as if she were a pequot or a mohegan. it was a strange feeling that came over myrtle, as they dressed her for the part she was to take. had she never worn that painted robe before? was it the first time that these strings of wampum had ever rattled upon her neck and arms? and could it be that the plume of eagle's feathers with which they crowned her dark, fast-lengthening locks had never shadowed her forehead until now? she felt herself carried back into the dim ages when the wilderness was yet untrodden save by the feet of its native lords. think of her wild fancy as we may, she felt as if that dusky woman of her midnight vision on the river were breathing for one hour through her lips. if this belief had lasted, it is plain enough where it would have carried her. but it came into her imagination and vivifying consciousness with the putting on of her unwonted costume, and might well leave her when she put it off. it is not for us, who tell only what happened, to solve these mysteries of the seeming admission of unhoused souls into the fleshly tenements belonging to air-breathing personalities. a very little more, and from that evening forward the question would have been treated in full in all the works on medical jurisprudence published throughout the limits of christendom. the story must be told or we should not be honest with the reader. tableau . captain john smith (miss euphrosyne de lacy) was to be represented prostrate and bound, ready for execution; powhatan (miss florence smythe) sitting upon a log; savages with clubs (misses clara browne, a. van boodle, e. van boodle, heister, booster, etc., etc.) standing around; pocahontas holding the knife in her hand, ready to cut the cords with which captain john smith is bound.--curtain. tableau . captain john smith released and kneeling before pocahontas, whose hand is extended in the act of raising him and presenting him to her father. savages in various attitudes of surprise. clubs fallen from their hands. strontian flame to be kindled.--curtain. this was a portion of the programme for the evening, as arranged behind the scenes. the first part went off with wonderful eclat, and at its close there were loud cries for pocahontas. she appeared for a moment. bouquets were flung to her; and a wreath, which one of the young ladies had expected for herself in another part, was tossed upon the stage, and laid at her feet. the curtain fell. "put the wreath on her for the next tableau," some of them whispered, just as the curtain was going to rise, and one of the girls hastened to place it upon her head. the disappointed young lady could not endure it, and, in a spasm of jealous passion, sprang at myrtle, snatched it from her head, and trampled it under her feet at the very instant the curtain was rising. with a cry which some said had the blood-chilling tone of an indian's battle-shriek, myrtle caught the knife up, and raised her arm against the girl who had thus rudely assailed her. the girl sank to the ground, covering her eyes in her terror. myrtle, with her arm still lifted, and the blade glistening in her hand, stood over her, rigid as if she had been suddenly changed to stone. many of those looking on thought all this was a part of the show, and were thrilled with the wonderful acting. before those immediately around her had had time to recover from the palsy of their fright myrtle had flung the knife away from her, and was kneeling, her head bowed and her hands crossed upon her breast. the audience went into a rapture of applause as the curtain came suddenly down; but myrtle had forgotten all but the dread peril she had just passed, and was thanking god that his angel--her own protecting spirit, as it seemed to her had stayed the arm which a passion such as her nature had never known, such as she believed was alien to her truest self, had lifted with deadliest purpose. she alone knew how extreme the danger had been. "she meant to scare her,--that 's all," they said. but myrtle tore the eagle's feathers from her hair, and stripped off her colored beads, and threw off her painted robe. the metempsychosis was far too real for her to let her wear the semblance of the savage from whom, as she believed, had come the lawless impulse at the thought of which her soul recoiled in horror. "pocahontas has got a horrid headache," the managing young ladies gave it out, "and can't come to time for the last tableau." so this all passed over, not only without loss of credit to myrtle, but with no small addition to her local fame,--for it must have been acting; "and was n't it stunning to see her with that knife, looking as if she was going to stab bells, or to scalp her, or something?" as master gridley had predicted, and as is the case commonly with new-comers at colleges and schools, myrtle had come first in contact with those who were least agreeable to meet. the low-bred youth who amuse themselves with scurvy tricks on freshmen, and the vulgar girls who try to show off their gentility to those whom they think less important than themselves, are exceptions in every institution; but they make themselves odiously prominent before the quiet and modest young people have had time to gain the new scholar's confidence. myrtle found friends in due time, some of them daughters of rich people, some poor girls, who came with the same sincerity of purpose as herself. but not one was her match in the facility of acquiring knowledge. not one promised to make such a mark in society, if she found an opening into its loftier circles. she was by no means ignorant of her natural gifts, and she cultivated them with the ambition which would not let her rest. during her stay at the great school, she made but one visit to oxbow village. she did not try to startle the good people with her accomplishments, but they were surprised at the change which had taken place in her. her dress was hardly more showy, for she was but a school-girl, but it fitted her more gracefully. she had gained a softness of expression, and an ease in conversation, which produced their effect on all with whom she came in contact. her aunt's voice lost something of its plaintiveness in talking with her. miss cynthia listened with involuntary interest to her stories of school and school-mates. master byles gridley accepted her as the great success of his life, and determined to make her his chief heiress, if there was any occasion for so doing. cyprian told bathsheba that myrtle must come to be a great lady. gifted hopkins confessed to susan posey that he was afraid of her, since she had been to the great city school. she knew too much and looked too much like a queen, for a village boy to talk with. mr. william murray bradshaw tried all his fascinations upon her, but she parried compliments so well, and put off all his nearer advances so dexterously, that he could not advance beyond the region of florid courtesy, and never got a chance, if so disposed, to risk a question which he would not ask rashly, believing that, if myrtle once said no, there would be little chance of her ever saying yes. chapter xxiv. mustering of forces. not long after the tableau performance had made myrtle hazard's name famous in the school and among the friends of the scholars, she received the very flattering attention of a call from mrs. clymer ketchum, of carat place. this was in consequence of a suggestion from mr. livingston jenkins, a particular friend of the family. "they've got a demonish splendid school-girl over there," he said to that lady, "made the stunningest looking pocahontas at the show there the other day. demonish plucky looking filly as ever you saw. had a row with another girl,--gave the war-whoop, and went at her with a knife. festive,--hey? say she only meant to scare her,--looked as if she meant to stick her, anyhow. splendid style. why can't you go over to the shop and make 'em trot her out?" the lady promised mr. livingston jenkins that she certainly would, just as soon as she could find a moment's leisure,--which, as she had nothing in the world to do, was not likely to be very soon. myrtle in the mean time was busy with her studies, little dreaming what an extraordinary honor was awaiting her. that rare accident in the lives of people who have nothing to do, a leisure morning, did at last occur. an elegant carriage, with a coachman in a wonderful cape, seated on a box lofty as a throne, and wearing a hat-band as brilliant as a coronet, stopped at the portal of madam delacoste's establishment. a card was sent in bearing the open sesame of mrs. clymer ketchum, the great lady of carat place. miss myrtle hazard was summoned as a matter of course, and the fashionable woman and the young girl sat half an hour together in lively conversation. myrtle was fascinated by her visitor, who had that flattering manner which, to those not experienced in the world's ways, seems to imply unfathomable depths of disinterested devotion. then it was so delightful to look upon a perfectly appointed woman,--one who was as artistically composed as a poem or an opera,--in whose costume a kind of various rhythm undulated in one fluent harmony, from the spray that nodded on her bonnet to the rosette that blossomed on her sandal. as for the lady, she was captivated with myrtle. there is nothing that your fashionable woman, who has ground and polished her own spark of life into as many and as glittering social facets as it will bear, has a greater passion for than a large rough diamond, which knows nothing of the sea of light it imprisons, and which it will be her pride to have cut into a brilliant under her own eye, and to show the world for its admiration and her own reflected glory. mrs. clymer ketchum had taken the entire inventory of myrtle's natural endowments before the interview was over. she had no marriageable children, and she was thinking what a killing bait myrtle would be at one of her stylish parties. she soon got another letter from mr. william murray bradshaw, which explained the interest he had taken in madam delacoste's school,--all which she knew pretty nearly beforehand, for she had found out a good part of myrtle's history in the half-hour they had spent in company. "i had a particular reason for my inquiries about the school," he wrote. "there is a young girl there i take an interest in. she is handsome and interesting; and--though it is a shame to mention such a thing has possibilities in the way of fortune not to be undervalued. why can't you make her acquaintance and be civil to her? a country girl, but fine old stock, and will make a figure some time or other, i tell you. myrtle hazard,--that's her name. a mere schoolgirl. don't be malicious and badger me about her, but be polite to her. some of these country girls have got 'blue blood' in them, let me tell you, and show it plain enough." ("in huckleberry season!") said mrs. ciymer ketchum, in a parenthesis,--and went on reading. "don't think i'm one of your love-in-a-cottage sort, to have my head turned by a village beauty. i've got a career before me, mrs. k., and i know it. but this is one of my pets, and i want you to keep an eye on her. perhaps when she leaves school you wouldn't mind asking her to come and stay with you a little while. possibly i may come and see how she is getting on if you do,--won't that tempt you, mrs. c. k.?" mrs. clymer ketchum wrote back to her relative how she had already made the young lady's acquaintance. "livingston jerkins (you remember him) picked her out of the whole lot of girls as the 'prettiest filly in the stable.' that's his horrid way of talking. but your young milkmaid is really charming, and will come into form like a derby three-year-old. there, now, i've caught that odious creature's horse-talk, myself. you're dead in love with this girl, murray, you know you are. "after all, i don't know but you're right. you would make a good country lawyer enough, i don't doubt. i used to think you had your ambitions, but never mind. if you choose to risk yourself on 'possibilities,' it is not my affair, and she's a beauty, there's no mistake about that. "there are some desirable partis at the school with your dulcinea. there 's rose bugbee. that last name is a good one to be married from. rose is a nice girl,--there are only two of them. the estate will cut up like one of the animals it was made out of, you know,--the sandwich-quadruped. then there 's berengaria. old topping owns the planet hotel among other things,--so big, they say, there's always a bell ringing from somebody's room day and night the year round. only child--unit and six ciphers carries diamonds loose in her pocket--that's the story --good-looking--lively--a little slangy called livingston jerkins 'living jingo' to his face one day. i want you to see my lot before you do anything serious. you owe something to the family, mr. william murray bradshaw! but you must suit yourself, after all: if you are contented with a humble position in life, it is nobody's business that i know of. only i know what life is, murray b. getting married is jumping overboard, any way you look at it, and if you must save some woman from drowning an old maid, try to find one with a cork jacket, or she 'll carry you down with her." murray bradshaw was calculating enough, but he shook his head over this letter. it was too demonish cold-blooded for him, he said to himself. (men cannot pardon women for saying aloud what they do not hesitate to think in silence themselves.) never mind,--he must have mrs. clymer ketchum's house and influence for his own purposes. myrtle hazard must become her guest, and then if circumstances were favorable, he was certain obtaining her aid in his project. the opportunity to invite myrtle to the great mansion presented itself unexpectedly. early in the spring of there were some cases of sickness in madam delacoste's establishment, which led to closing the school for a while. mrs. clymer ketchum took advantage of the dispersion of the scholars to ask myrtle to come and spend some weeks with her. there were reasons why this was more agreeable to the young girl than returning to oxbow village, and she very gladly accepted the invitation. it was very remarkable that a man living as master byles gridley had lived for so long a time should all at once display such liberality as he showed to a young woman who had no claim upon him, except that he had rescued her from the consequences of her own imprudence and warned her against impending dangers. perhaps he cared more for her than if the obligation had been the other way,--students of human nature say it is commonly so. at any rate, either he had ampler resources than it was commonly supposed, or he was imprudently giving way to his generous impulses, or he thought he was making advances which would in due time be returned to him. whatever the reason was, he furnished her with means, not only for her necessary expenses, but sufficient to afford her many of the elegances which she would be like to want in the fashionable society with which she was for a short time to mingle. mrs. clymer ketchum was so well pleased with the young lady she was entertaining, that she thought it worth while to give a party while myrtle was staying with her. she had her jealousies and rivalries, as women of the world will, sometimes, and these may have had their share in leading her to take the trouble a large party involved. she was tired of the airs of mrs. pinnikle, who was of the great apex family, and her terribly accomplished daughter rhadamartha, and wanted to crush the young lady, and jaundice her mother, with a girl twice as brilliant and ten times handsomer. she was very willing, also, to take the nonsense out of the capsheaf girls, who thought themselves the most stylish personages of their city world, and would bite their lips well to see themselves distanced by a country miss. in the mean time circumstances were promising to bring into myrtle's neighborhood several of her old friends and admirers. mrs. clymer ketchum had written to murray bradshaw that she had asked his pretty milkmaid to come and stay awhile with her, but he had been away on business, and only arrived in the city a day or two before the party. but other young fellows had found out the attractions of the girl who was "hanging out at the clymer ketchum concern," and callers were plenty, reducing tete-a-tetes in a corresponding ratio. he did get one opportunity, however, and used it well. they had so many things to talk about in common, that she could not help finding him good company. she might well be pleased, for he was an adept in the curious art of being agreeable, as other people are in chess or billiards, and had made a special study of her tastes, as a physician studies a patient's constitution. what he wanted was to get her thoroughly interested in himself, and to maintain her in a receptive condition until such time as he should be ready for a final move. any day might furnish the decisive motive; in the mean time he wished only to hold her as against all others. it was well for her, perhaps, that others had flattered her into a certain consciousness of her own value. she felt her veins full of the same rich blood as that which had flushed the cheeks of handsome judith in the long summer of her triumph. whether it was vanity, or pride, or only the instinctive sense of inherited force and attraction, it was the best of defences. the golden bracelet on her wrist seemed to have brought as much protection with it as if it had been a shield over her heart. but far away in oxbow village other events were in preparation. the "fugitive pieces" of mr. gifted hopkins had now reached a number so considerable, that, if collected and printed in large type, with plenty of what the unpleasant printers call "fat,"--meaning thereby blank spaces,--upon a good, substantial, not to say thick paper, they might perhaps make a volume which would have substance enough to bear the title, printed lengthwise along the back, "hopkins's poems." such a volume that author had in contemplation. it was to be the literary event of the year . he could not mature such a project, one which he had been for some time contemplating, without consulting mr. byles gridley, who, though he had not unfrequently repressed the young poet's too ardent ambition, had yet always been kind and helpful. mr. gridley was seated in his large arm-chair, indulging himself in the perusal of a page or two of his own work before repeatedly referred to. his eye was glistening, for it had dust rested on the following passage: "there is infinite pathos in unsuccessful authorship. the book that perishes unread is the deaf mute of literature. the great asylum of oblivion is full of such, making inaudible signs to each other in leaky garrets and unattainable dusty upper shelves." he shut the book, for the page grew a little dim as he finished this elegiac sentence, and sighed to think how much more keenly he felt its truth than when it was written,--than on that memorable morning when he saw the advertisement in all the papers, "this day published, 'thoughts on the universe.' by byles gridley, a. m." at that moment he heard a knock at his door. he closed his eyelids forcibly for ten seconds, opened them, and said cheerfully, "come in!" gifted hopkins entered. he had a collection of manuscripts in his hands which it seemed to him would fill a vast number of pages. he did not know that manuscript is to type what fresh dandelions are to the dish of greens that comes to table, of which last nurse byloe, who considered them very wholesome spring grazing for her patients, used to say that they "biled down dreadful." "i have brought the autographs of my poems, master gridley, to consult you about making arrangements for publication. they have been so well received by the public and the leading critics of this part of the state, that i think of having them printed in a volume. i am going to the city for that purpose. my mother has given her consent. i wish to ask you several business questions. shall i part with the copyright for a downright sum of money, which i understand some prefer doing, or publish on shares, or take a percentage on the sales? these, i believe, are the different ways taken by authors." mr. gridley was altogether too considerate to reply with the words which would most naturally have come to his lips. he waited as if he were gravely pondering the important questions just put to him, all the while looking at gifted with a tenderness which no one who had not buried one of his soul's children could have felt for a young author trying to get clothing for his new-born intellectual offspring. "i think," he said presently, "you had better talk with an intelligent and liberal publisher, and be guided by his advice. i can put you in correspondence with such a person, and you had better trust him than me a great deal. why don't you send your manuscript by mail?" "what, mr. gridley? trust my poems, some of which are unpublished, to the post-office? no, sir, i could never make up my mind to such a risk. i mean to go to the city myself, and read them to some of the leading publishers. i don't want to pledge myself to any one of them. i should like to set them bidding against each other for the copyright, if i sell it at all." mr. gridley gazed upon the innocent youth with a sweet wonder in his eyes that made him look like an angel, a little damaged in the features by time, but full of celestial feelings. "it will cost you something to make this trip, gifted. have you the means to pay for your journey and your stay at a city hotel?" gifted blushed. "my mother has laid by a small sum for me," he said. "she knows some of my poems by heart, and she wants to see them all in print." master gridley closed his eyes very firmly again, as if thinking, and opened them as soon as the foolish film had left them. he had read many a page of "thoughts on the universe" to his own old mother, long, long years ago, and she had often listened with tears of modest pride that heaven had favored her with a son so full of genius. "i 'll tell you what, gifted," he said. "i have been thinking for a good while that i would make a visit to the city, and if you have made up your mind to try what you can do with the publishers, i will take you with me as a companion. it will be a saving to you and your good mother, for i shall bear the expenses of the expedition." gifted hopkins came very near going down on his knees. he was so overcome with gratitude that it seemed as if his very coattails wagged with his emotion. "take it quietly," said master gridley. "don't make a fool of yourself. tell your mother to have some clean shirts and things ready for you, and we will be off day after to-morrow morning." gifted hastened to impart the joyful news to his mother, and to break the fact to susan posey that he was about to leave them for a while, and rush into the deliriums and dangers of the great city. susan smiled. gifted hardly knew whether to be pleased with her sympathy, or vexed that she did not take his leaving more to heart. the smile held out bravely for about a quarter of a minute. then there came on a little twitching at the corners of the mouth. then. the blue eyes began to shine with a kind of veiled glimmer. then the blood came up into her cheeks with a great rush, as if the heart had sent up a herald with a red flag from the citadel to know what was going on at the outworks. the message that went back was of discomfiture and capitulation. poor susan was overcome, and gave herself up to weeping and sobbing. the sight was too much for the young poet. in a wild burst of passion he seized her hand, and pressed it to his lips, exclaiming, "would that you could be mine forever!" and susan forgot all that she ought to have remembered, and, looking half reproachfully but half tenderly through her tears, said, in tones of infinite sweetness, "o gifted!" chapter xxv. the poet and the publisher. it was settled that master byles gridley and mr. gifted hopkins should leave early in the morning of the day appointed, to take the nearest train to the city. mrs. hopkins labored hard to get them ready, so that they might make a genteel appearance among the great people whom they would meet in society. she brushed up mr. gridley's best black suit, and bound the cuffs of his dress-coat, which were getting a little worried. she held his honest-looking hat to the fire, and smoothed it while it was warm, until one would have thought it had just been ironed by the hatter himself. she had his boots and shoes brought into a more brilliant condition than they had ever known: if gifted helped, it was to his credit as much as if he had shown his gratitude by polishing off a copy of verses in praise of his benefactor. when she had got mr. gridley's encumbrances in readiness for the journey, she devoted herself to fitting out her son gifted. first, she had down from the garret a capacious trunk, of solid wood, but covered with leather, and adorned with brass-headed nails, by the cunning disposition of which, also, the paternal initials stood out on the rounded lid, in the most conspicuous manner. it was his father's trunk, and the first thing that went into it, as the widow lifted the cover, and the smothering shut-up smell struck an old chord of associations, was a single tear-drop. how well she remembered the time when she first unpacked it for her young husband, and the white shirt bosoms showed their snowy plaits! o dear, dear! but women decant their affection, sweet and sound, out of the old bottles into the new ones,--off from the lees of the past generation, clear and bright, into the clean vessels just made ready to receive it. gifted hopkins was his mother's idol, and no wonder. she had not only the common attachment of a parent for him, as her offspring, but she felt that her race was to be rendered illustrious by his genius, and thought proudly of the time when some future biographer would mention her own humble name, to be held in lasting remembrance as that of the mother of hopkins. so she took great pains to equip this brilliant but inexperienced young man with everything he could by any possibility need during his absence. the great trunk filled itself until it bulged with its contents like a boa-constrictor who has swallowed his blanket. best clothes and common clothes, thick clothes and thin clothes, flannels and linens, socks and collars, with handkerchiefs enough to keep the pickpockets busy for a week, with a paper of gingerbread and some lozenges for gastralgia, and "hot drops," and ruled paper to write letters on, and a little bible, and a phial with hiera picra, and another with paregoric, and another with "camphire" for sprains and bruises, --gifted went forth equipped for every climate from the tropic to the pole, and armed against every malady from ague to zoster. he carried also the paternal watch, a solid silver bull's-eye, and a large pocketbook, tied round with a long tape, and, by way of precaution, pinned into his breast-pocket. he talked about having a pistol, in case he were attacked by any of the ruffians who are so numerous in the city, but mr. gridley told him, no! he would certainly shoot himself, and he shouldn't think of letting him take a pistol. they went forth, mentor and telemachus, at the appointed time, to dare the perils of the railroad and the snares of the city. mrs. hopkins was firm up to near the last moment, when a little quiver in her voice set her eyes off, and her face broke up all at once, so that she had to hide it behind her handkerchief. susan posey showed the truthfulness of her character in her words to gifted at parting. "farewell," she said, "and think of me sometimes while absent. my heart is another's, but my friendship, gifted--my friendship--" both were deeply affected. he took her hand and would have raised it to his lips; but she did not forget herself, and gently withdrew it, exclaiming, "o gifted!" this time with a tone of tender reproach which made him feel like a profligate. he tore himself away, and when at a safe distance flung her a kiss, which she rewarded with a tearful smile. master byles gridley must have had some good dividends from some of his property of late. there is no other way of accounting for the handsome style in which he did things on their arrival in the city. he went to a tailor's and ordered a new suit to be sent home as soon as possible, for he knew his wardrobe was a little rusty. he looked gifted over from head to foot, and suggested such improvements as would recommend him to the fastidious eyes of the selecter sort of people, and put him in his own tailor's hands, at the same time saying that all bills were to be sent to him, b. gridley, esq., parlor no. , at the planet hotel. thus it came to pass that in three days from their arrival they were both in an eminently presentable condition. in the mean time the prudent mr. gridley had been keeping the young man busy, and amusing himself by showing him such of the sights of the city and its suburbs as he thought would combine instruction with entertainment. when they were both properly equipped and ready for the best company, mr. gridley said to the young poet, who had found it very hard to contain his impatience, that they would now call together on the publisher to whom he wished to introduce him, and they set out accordingly. "my name is gridley," he said with modest gravity, as he entered the publisher's private room. "i have a note of introduction here from one of your authors, as i think he called himself, a very popular writer for whom you publish." the publisher rose and came forward in the most cordial and respectful manner. "mr. gridley? professor byles gridley,--author of 'thoughts on the universe'?" the brave-hearted old man colored as if he had been a young girl. his dead book rose before him like an apparition. he groped in modest confusion for an answer. "a child i buried long ago, my dear sir," he said. "its title-page was its tombstone. i have brought this young friend with me,--this is mr. gifted hopkins of oxbow village,--who wishes to converse with you about--" "i have come, sir--" the young poet began, interrupting him. "let me look at your manuscript, if you please, mr. popkins," said the publisher, interrupting in his turn. "hopkins, if you please, sir," gifted suggested mildly, proceeding to extract the manuscript, which had got wedged into his pocket, and seemed to be holding on with all its might. he was wondering all the time over the extraordinary clairvoyance of the publisher, who had looked through so many thick folds, broadcloth, lining, brown paper, and seen his poems lying hidden in his breast-pocket. the idea that a young person coming on such an errand should have to explain his intentions would have seemed very odd to the publisher. he knew the look which belongs to this class of enthusiasts just as a horse-dealer knows the look of a green purchaser with the equine fever raging in his veins. if a young author had come to him with a scrap of manuscript hidden in his boots, like major andre's papers, the publisher would have taken one glance at him and said, "out with it!" while he was battling for the refractory scroll with his pocket, which turned half wrong side out, and acted as things always do when people are nervous and in a hurry, the publisher directed his conversation again to master byles gridley. "a remarkable book, that of yours, mr. gridley, would have a great run if it were well handled. came out twenty years too soon,--that was the trouble. one of our leading scholars was speaking of it to me the other day. 'we must have a new edition,' he said; people are just ripe for that book.' did you ever think of that? change the form of it a little, and give it a new title, and it will be a popular book. five thousand or more, very likely." mr. gridley felt as if he had been rapidly struck on the forehead with a dozen distinct blows from a hammer not quite big enough to stun him. he sat still without saying a word. he had forgotten for the moment all about poor gifted hopkins, who had got out his manuscript at last, and was calming the disturbed corners of it. coming to himself a little, he took a large and beautiful silk handkerchief, one of his new purchases, from his pocket, and applied it to his face, for the weather seemed to have grown very warm all at once. then he remembered the errand on which he had come, and thought of this youth, who had got to receive his first hard lesson in life, and whom he had brought to this kind man that it should be gently administered. "you surprise me," he said,--"you surprise me. dead and buried. dead and buried. i had sometimes thought that--at some future period, after i was gone, it might--but i hardly know what to say about your suggestions. but here is my young friend, mr. hopkins, who would like to talk with you, and i will leave him in your hands. i am at the planet hotel, if you should care to call upon me. good morning. mr. hopkins will explain everything to you more at his ease, without me, i am confident." master gridley could not quite make up his mind to stay through the interview between the young poet and the publisher. the flush of hope was bright in gifted's eye and cheek, and the good man knew that young hearts are apt to be over-sanguine, and that one who enters a shower-bath often feels very differently from the same person when he has pulled the string. "i have brought you my poems in the original autographs, sir," said mr. gifted hopkins. he laid the manuscript on the table, caressing the leaves still with one hand, as loath to let it go. "what disposition had you thought of making of them?" the publisher asked, in a pleasant tone. he was as kind a man as lived, though he worked the chief engine in a chamber of torture. "i wish to read you a few specimens of the poems," he said, "with reference to their proposed publication in a volume." "by all means," said the kind publisher, who determined to be very patient with the protege of the hitherto little-known, but remarkable writer, professor gridley. at the same time he extended his foot in an accidental sort of way, and pressed it on the right hand knob of three which were arranged in a line beneath the table. a little bell in a distant apartment--the little bell marked c--gave one slight note; loud enough to start a small boy up, who looked at the clock, and knew that he was to go and call the publisher in just twenty-five minutes. "a, five minutes; b, ten minutes; c, twenty-five minutes ";--that was the youngster's working formula. mr. hopkins was treated to the full allowance of time, as being introduced by professor gridley. the young man laid open the manuscript so that the title-page, written out very handsomely in his own hand, should win the eye of the publisher. blossoms of the soul. a wreath of verse; original. by gifted hopkins. "a youth to fortune and to fame unknown."--gray. "shall i read you some of the rhymed pieces first, or some of the blank-verse poems, sir?" gifted asked. "read what you think is best,--a specimen of your first-class style of composition." "i will read you the very last poem i have written," he said, and he began: "the triumph of song. "i met that gold-haired maiden, all too dear; and i to her: lo! thou art very fair, fairer than all the ladies in the world that fan the sweetened air with scented fans, and i am scorched with exceeding love, yea, crisped till my bones are dry as straw. look not away with that high-arched brow, but turn its whiteness that i may behold, and lift thy great eyes till they blaze on mine, and lay thy finger on thy perfect mouth, and let thy lucent ears of careen pearl drink in the murmured music of my soul, as the lush grass drinks in the globed dew; for i have many scrolls of sweetest rhyme i will unroll and make thee glad to hear. "then she: o shaper of the marvellous phrase that openeth woman's heart as both a key, i dare not hear thee--lest the bolt should slide that locks another's heart within my own. go, leave me,--and she let her eyelids fall, and the great tears rolled from her large blue eyes. "then i: if thou not hear me, i shall die, yea, in my desperate mood may lift my hand and do myself a hurt no leach can mend; for poets ever were of dark resolve, and swift stern deed "that maiden heard no more, but spike: alas! my heart is very weak, and but for--stay! and if some dreadful morn, after great search and shouting thorough the wold, we found thee missing,--strangled,--drowned i' the mere, then should i go distraught and be clean mad! "o poet, read! read all thy wondrous scrolls. yea, read the verse that maketh glad to hear! then i began and read two sweet, brief hours, and she forgot all love save only mine!" "is all this from real life?" asked the publisher. "it--no, sir--not exactly from real life--that is, the leading female person is not wholly fictitious--and the incident is one which might have happened. shall i read you the poems referred to in the one you have just heard, sir?" "allow me, one moment. two hours' reading, i think, you said. i fear i shall hardly be able to spare quite time to hear them all. let me ask what you intend doing with these productions, mr.---rr poplins." "hopkins, if you please, sir, not poplins," said gifted, plaintively. he expressed his willingness to dispose of the copyright, to publish on shares, or perhaps to receive a certain percentage on the profits. "suppose we take a glass of wine together, mr.--hopkins, before we talk business," the publisher said, opening a little cupboard and taking therefrom a decanter and two glasses. he saw the young man was looking nervous. he waited a few minutes, until the wine had comforted his epigastrium, and diffused its gentle glow through his unspoiled and consequently susceptible organisation. "come with me," he said. gifted followed him into a dingy apartment in the attic, where one sat at a great table heaped and piled with manuscripts. by him was a huge basket, ha'f full of manuscripts also. as they entered he dropped another manuscript into the basket and looked up. "tell me," said gifted, "what are these papers, and who is he that looks upon them and drops them into the basket?" "these are the manuscript poems that we receive, and the one sitting at the table is commonly spoken of among us as 'the butcher'. the poems he drops into the basket are those rejected as of no account" "but does he not read the poems before he rejects them?" "he tastes them. do you eat a cheese before you buy it?" "and what becomes of all those that he drops into the basket?" "if they are not claimed by their author in proper season, they go to the devil." "what!" said gifted, with his eyes stretched very round. "to the paper factory, where they have a horrid machine they call the devil, that tears everything to bits,--as the critics treat our authors, sometimes, sometimes, mr. hopkins." gifted devoted a moment to silent reflection. after this instructive sight they returned together to the publisher's private room. the wine had now warmed the youthful poet's praecordia, so that he began to feel a renewed confidence in his genius and his fortunes. "i should like to know what that critic of yours would say to my manuscript," he said boldly. "you can try it if you want to," the publisher replied, with an ominous dryness of manner which the sanguine youth did not perceive, or, perceiving, did not heed. "how can we manage to get an impartial judgment?" "oh, i'll arrange that. he always goes to his luncheon about this time. raw meat and vitriol punch,--that 's what the authors say. wait till we hear him go, and then i will lay your manuscript so that he will come to it among the first after he gets back. you shall see with your own eyes what treatment it gets. i hope it may please him, but you shall see." they went back to the publisher's private room and talked awhile. then the little office-boy came up with some vague message about a gentleman--business--wants to see you, sir, etc., according to the established programme; all in a vacant, mechanical sort of way, as if he were a talking-machine just running down. the publisher told the boy that he was engaged, and the gentleman must wait. very soon they heard the butcher's heavy footstep as he went out to get his raw meat and vitriol punch. "now, then," said the publisher, and led forth the confiding literary lamb once more, to enter the fatal door of the critical shambles. "hand me your manuscript, if you please, mr. hopkins. i will lay it so that it shall be the third of these that are coming to hand. our friend here is a pretty good judge of verse, and knows a merchantable article about as quick as any man in his line of business. if he forms a favorable opinion of your poems, we will talk over your propositions." gifted was conscious of a very slight tremor as he saw his precious manuscript deposited on the table, under two others, and over a pile of similar productions. still he could not help feeling that the critic would be struck by his title. the quotation from gray must touch his feelings. the very first piece in the collection could not fail to arrest him. he looked a little excited, but he was in good spirits. "we will be looking about here when our friend comes back," the publisher said. " he is a very methodical person, and will sit down and go right to work just as if we were not here. we can watch him, and if he should express any particular interest in your poems, i will, if you say so, carry you up to him and reveal the fact that you are the author of the works that please him." they waited patiently until the butcher returned, apparently refreshed by his ferocious refection, and sat down at his table. he looked comforted, and not in ill humor. the publisher and the poet talked in low tones, as if on business of their own, and watched him as he returned to his labor. the butcher took the first manuscript that came to hand, read a stanza here and there, turned over the leaves, turned back and tried again,--shook his head--held it for an instant over the basket, as if doubtful,--and let it softly drop. he took up the second manuscript, opened it in several places, seemed rather pleased with what he read, and laid it aside for further examination. he took up the third. "blossoms of the soul," etc. he glared at it in a dreadfully ogreish way. both the lockers-on held their breath. gifted hopkins felt as if half a glass more of that warm sherry would not hurt him. there was a sinking at the pit of his stomach, as if he was in a swing, as high as he could go, close up to the swallows' nests and spiders' webs. the butcher opened the manuscript at random, read ten seconds, and gave a short low grunt. he opened again, read ten seconds, and gave another grunt, this time a little longer and louder. he opened once more, read five seconds, and, with something that sounded like the snort of a dangerous animal, cast it impatiently into the basket, and took up the manuscript that came next in order. gifted hopkins stood as if paralyzed for a moment. "safe, perfectly safe," the publisher said to him in a whisper. "i'll get it for you presently. come in and take another glass of wine," he said, leading him back to his own office. "no, i thank you," he said faintly, "i can bear it. but this is dreadful, sir. is this the way that genius is welcomed to the world of letters?" the publisher explained to him, in the kindest manner, that there was an enormous over-production of verse, and that it took a great part of one man's time simply to overhaul the cart-loads of it that were trying to get themselves into print with the imprimatur of his famous house. "you are young, mr. hopkins. i advise you not to try to force your article of poetry on the market. the b----, our friend, there, that is, knows a thing that will sell as soon as he sees it. you are in independent circumstances, perhaps? if so, you can print--at your own expense--whatever you choose. may i take the liberty to ask your--profession?" gifted explained that he was "clerk" in a "store," where they sold dry goods and west india goods, and goods promiscuous. "oh, well, then," the publisher said, "you will understand me. do you know a good article of brown sagas when you see it?" gifted hopkins rather thought he did. he knew at sight whether it was a fair, salable article or not. "just so. now our friend, there, knows verses that are salable and unsalable as well as you do brown sugar.--keep quiet now, and i will go and get your manuscript for you. "there, mr. hopkins, take your poems,--they will give you a reputation in your village, i don't doubt, which, is pleasant, but it will cost you a good deal of money to print them in a volume. you are very young: you can afford to wait. your genius is not ripe yet, i am confident, mr. hopkins. these verses are very well for a beginning, but a man of promise like you, mr. hopkins, must n't throw away his chance by premature publication! i should like to make you a present of a few of the books we publish. by and by, perhaps, we can work you into our series of poets; but the best pears ripen slowly, and so with genius.--where shall i send the volumes?" gifted answered, to parlor no. , planet hotel, where he soon presented himself to master gridley, who could guess pretty well what was coming. but he let him tell his story. "shall i try the other publishers?" said the disconsolate youth. "i would n't, my young friend, i would n't. you have seen the best one of them--all. he is right about it, quite right: you are young, and had better wait. look here, gifted, here is something to please you. we are going to visit the gay world together. see what has been left here this forenoon." he showed him two elegant notes of invitation requesting the pleasure of professor byles gridley's and of mr. gifted hopkins's company on thursday evening, as the guests of mrs. clymer ketchum, of carat place. chapter xxvi. mrs. clymer ketchum's party. myrtle hazard had flowered out as beyond question the handsomest girl of the season, there were hints from different quarters that she might possibly be an heiress. vague stories were about of some contingency which might possibly throw a fortune into her lap. the young men about town talked of her at the clubs in their free-and-easy way, but all agreed that she was the girl of the new crop,--"best filly this grass," as livingston jenkins put it. the general understanding seemed to be that the young lawyer who had followed her to the city was going to capture her. she seemed to favor him certainly as much as anybody. but myrtle saw many young men now, and it was not so easy as it would once have been to make out who was an especial favorite. there had been times when murray bradshaw would have offered his heart and hand to myrtle at once, if he had felt sure that she would accept him. but he preferred playing the safe game now, and only wanted to feel sure of her. he had done his best to be agreeable, and could hardly doubt that he had made an impression. he dressed well when in the city,--even elegantly,--he had many of the lesser social accomplishments, was a good dancer, and compared favorably in all such matters with the more dashing young fellows in society. he was a better talker than most of them, and he knew more about the girl he was dealing with than they could know. "you have only got to say the word, murray," mrs. clymer ketchum said to her relative, "and you can have her. but don't be rash. i believe you can get berengaria if you try; and there 's something better there than possibilities." murray bradshaw laughed, and told mrs. clymer ketchum not to worry about him; he knew what he was doing. it so happened that myrtle met master byles gridley walking with mr. gifted hopkins the day before the party. she longed to have a talk with her old friend, and was glad to have a chance of pleasing her poetical admirer. she therefore begged her hostess to invite them both to her party to please her, which she promised to do at once. thus the two elegant notes were accounted for. mrs. clymer ketchum, though her acquaintances were chiefly in the world of fortune and of fashion, had yet a certain weakness for what she called clever people. she therefore always variegated her parties with a streak of young artists and writers, and a literary lady or two; and, if she could lay hands on a first-class celebrity, was as happy as an amazon who had captured a centaur. "there's a demonish clever young fellow by the name of lindsay," mr. livingston jenkins said to her a little before the day of the party. "better ask him. they say he 's the rising talent in his line, architecture mainly, but has done some remarkable things in the way of sculpture. there's some story about a bust he made that was quite wonderful. i'll find his address for you." so mr. clement lindsay got his invitation, and thus mrs. clymer ketchum's party promised to bring together a number of persons with whom we are acquainted, and who were acquainted with each other. mrs. clymer ketchum knew how to give a party. let her only have carte blanche for flowers, music, and champagne, she used to tell her lord, and she would see to the rest,--lighting the rooms, tables, and toilet. he needn't be afraid: all he had to do was to keep out of the way. subdivision of labor is one of the triumphs of modern civilization. labor was beautifully subdivided in this lady's household. it was old ketchum's business to make money, and he understood it. it was mrs. k.'s business to spend money, and she knew how to do it. the rooms blazed with light like a conflagration; the flowers burned like lamps of many-colored flame; the music throbbed into the hearts of the promenaders and tingled through all the muscles of the dancers. mrs. clymer ketchum was in her glory. her point d'alenyon must have spoiled ever so many french girls' eyes. her bosom heaved beneath a kind of breastplate glittering with a heavy dew of diamonds. she glistened and sparkled with every movement, so that the admirer forgot to question too closely whether the eyes matched the brilliants, or the cheeks glowed like the roses. not far from the great lady stood myrtle hazard. she was dressed as the fashion of the day demanded, but she had added certain audacious touches of her own, reminiscences of the time when the dead beauty had flourished, and which first provoked the question and then the admiration of the young people who had a natural eye for effect. over the long white glove on her left arm was clasped a rich bracelet, of so quaint an antique pattern that nobody had seen anything like it, and as some one whispered that it was "the last thing out," it was greatly admired by the fashion-plate multitude, as well as by the few who had a taste of their own. if the soul of judith pride, long divorced from its once beautifully moulded dust, ever lived in dim consciousness through any of those who inherited her blood, it was then and there that she breathed through the lips of myrtle hazard. the young girl almost trembled with the ecstasy of this new mode of being, soliciting every sense with light, with perfume, with melody,--all that could make her feel the wonderful complex music of a fresh life when all its chords first vibrate together in harmony. miss rhadamantha pinnikle, whose mother was an apex (of whose race it was said that they always made an obeisance when the family name was mentioned, and had all their portraits painted with halos round their heads), found herself extinguished in this new radiance. miss victoria capsheaf stuck to the wall as if she had been a fresco on it. the fifty-year-old dynasties were dismayed and dismounted. myrtle fossilized them as suddenly as if she had been a gorgon instead of a beauty. the guests in whom we may have some interest were in the mean time making ready for the party, which was expected to be a brilliant one; for carat place was well known for the handsome style of its entertainments. clement lindsay was a little surprised by his invitation. he had, however, been made a lion of several times of late, and was very willing to amuse himself once in a while with a peep into the great world. it was but an empty show to him at best, for his lot was cast, and he expected to lead a quiet domestic life after his student days were over. master byles gridley had known what society was in his earlier time, and understood very well that all a gentleman of his age had to do was to dress himself in his usual plain way, only taking a little more care in his arrangements than was needed in the latitude of oxbow village. but gifted must be looked after, that he should not provoke the unamiable comments of the city youth by any defect or extravagance of costume. the young gentleman had bought a light sky-blue neckerchief, and a very large breast-pin containing a gem which he was assured by the vender was a genuine stone. he considered that both these would be eminently effective articles of dress, and mr. gridley had some trouble to convince him that a white tie and plain shirt-buttons would be more fitted to the occasion. on the morning of the day of the great party mr. william murray bradshaw received a brief telegram, which seemed to cause him great emotion, as he changed color, uttered a forcible exclamation, and began walking up and down his room in a very nervous kind of way. it was a foreshadowing of a certain event now pretty sure to happen. whatever bearing this telegram may have had upon his plans, he made up his mind that he would contrive an opportunity somehow that very evening to propose himself as a suitor to myrtle hazard. he could not say that he felt as absolutely certain of getting the right answer as he had felt at some previous periods. myrtle knew her price, he said to himself, a great deal better than when she was a simple country girl. the flatteries with which she had been surrounded, and the effect of all the new appliances of beauty, which had set her off so that she could not help seeing her own attractions, rendered her harder to please and to satisfy. a little experience in society teaches a young girl the arts and the phrases which all the lotharios have in common. murray bradshaw was ready to land his fish now, but he was not quite sure that she was yet hooked, and he had a feeling that by this time she knew every fly in his book. however, as he had made up his mind not to wait another day, he addressed himself to the trial before him with a determination to succeed, if any means at his command would insure success. he arrayed himself with faultless elegance: nothing must be neglected on such an occasion. he went forth firm and grave as a general going into a battle where all is to be lost or won. he entered the blazing saloon with the unfailing smile upon his lips, to which he set them as he set his watch to a particular hour and minute. the rooms were pretty well filled when he arrived and made his bow before the blazing, rustling, glistening, waving, blushing appearance under which palpitated, with the pleasing excitement of the magic scene over which its owner presided, the heart of mrs. clymer ketchum. he turned to myrtle hazard, and if he had ever doubted which way his inclinations led him, he could doubt no longer. how much dress and how much light can a woman bear? that is the way to measure her beauty. a plain girl in a simple dress, if she has only a pleasant voice, may seem almost a beauty in the rosy twilight. the nearer she comes to being handsome, the more ornament she will bear, and the more she may defy the sunshine or the chandelier. murray bradshaw was fairly dazzled with the brilliant effect of myrtle in full dress. he did not know before what handsome arms she had,--judith pride's famous arms--which the high-colored young men in top-boots used to swear were the handsomest pair in new england--right over again. he did not know before with what defiant effect she would light up, standing as she did directly under a huge lustre, in full flower of flame, like a burning azalea. he was not a man who intended to let his sentiments carry him away from the serious interests of his future, yet, as he looked upon myrtle hazard, his heart gave one throb which made him feel in every pulse that this way a woman who in her own right, simply as a woman, could challenge the homage of the proudest young man of her time. he hardly knew till this moment how much of passion mingled with other and calmer motives of admiration. he could say i love you as truly as such a man could ever speak these words, meaning that he admired her, that he was attracted to her, that he should be proud of her as his wife, that he should value himself always as the proprietor of so rare a person, that no appendage to his existence would take so high a place in his thoughts. this implied also, what is of great consequence to a young woman's happiness in the married state, that she would be treated with uniform politeness, with satisfactory evidences of affection, and with a degree of confidence quite equal to what a reasonable woman should expect from a very superior man, her husband. if myrtle could have looked through the window in the breast against which only authors are privileged to flatten their features, it is for the reader to judge how far the programme would have satisfied her. less than this, a great deal less, does appear to satisfy many young women; and it may be that the interior just drawn, fairly judged, belongs to a model lover and husband. whether it does or not, myrtle did not see this picture. there was a beautifully embroidered shirt-bosom in front of that window through which we have just looked, that intercepted all sight of what was going on within. she only saw a man, young, handsome, courtly, with a winning tongue, with an ambitious spirit, whose every look and tone implied his admiration of herself, and who was associated with her past life in such a way that they alone appeared like old friends in the midst of that cold alien throng. it seemed as if he could not have chosen a more auspicious hour than this; for she never looked so captivating, and her presence must inspire his lips with the eloquence of love. and she--was not this delirious atmosphere of light and music just the influence to which he would wish to subject her before trying the last experiment of all which can stir the soul of a woman? he knew the mechanism of that impressionable state which served coleridge so excellently well,-- "all impulses of soul and sense had thrilled my guileless genevieve the music, and the doleful tale, the rich and balmy eve,"-- though he hardly expected such startling results as happened in that case,--which might be taken as an awful warning not to sing moving ballads to young ladies of susceptible feelings, unless one is prepared for very serious consequences. without expecting that myrtle would rush into his arms, he did think that she could not help listening to him in the intervals of the delicious music, in some recess where the roses and jasmines and heliotropes made the air heavy with sweetness, and the crimson curtains drooped in heavy folds that half hid their forms from the curious eyes all round them. her heart would swell like genevieve's as he told her in simple phrase that she was his life, his love, his all,--for in some two or three words like these he meant to put his appeal, and not in fine poetical phrases: that would do for gifted hopkins and rhyming tom-tits of that feather. full of his purpose, involving the plans of his whole life, implying, as he saw clearly, a brilliant future or a disastrous disappointment, with a great unexploded mine of consequences under his feet, and the spark ready to fall into it, he walked about the gilded saloon with a smile upon his lips so perfectly natural and pleasant, that one would have said he was as vacant of any aim, except a sort of superficial good-matured disposition to be amused, as the blankest-eyed simpleton who had tied himself up in a white cravat and come to bore and be bored. yet under this pleasant smile his mind was so busy with its thoughts that he had forgotten all about the guests from oxbow village who, as myrtle had told him, were to come this evening. his eye was all at once caught by a familiar figure, and he recognized master byles gridley, accompanied by mr. gifted hopkins, at the door of the saloon. he stepped forward at once to meet, and to present them. mr. gridley in evening costume made an eminently dignified and respectable appearance. there was an unusual lock of benignity upon his firmly moulded features, and an air of ease which rather surprised mr. bradshaw, who did not know all the social experiences which had formed a part of the old master's history. the greeting between them was courteous, but somewhat formal, as mr. bradshaw was acting as one of the masters of ceremony. he nodded to gifted in an easy way, and led them both into the immediate presence. "this is my friend professor gridley, mrs. ketchum, whom i have the honor of introducing to you,--a very distinguished scholar, as i have no doubt you are well aware. and this is my friend mr. gifted hopkins, a young poet of distinction, whose fame will reach you by and by, if it has not come to your ears already." the two gentlemen went through the usual forms, the poet a little crushed by the presence, but doing his best. while the lady was making polite speeches to them, myrtle hazard came forward. she was greatly delighted to meet her old friend, and even looked upon the young poet with a degree of pleasure she would hardly have expected to receive from his company. they both brought with them so many reminiscences of familiar scenes and events, that it was like going back for the moment to oxbow village. but myrtle did not belong to herself that evening, and had no opportunity to enter into conversation just then with either of them. there was to be dancing by and by, and the younger people were getting impatient that it should begin. at last the music sounded the well-known summons, and the floors began to ring to the tread of the dancers. as usual on such occasions there were a large number of noncombatants, who stood as spectators around those who were engaged in the campaign of the evening. mr. byles gridley looked on gravely, thinking of the minuets and the gavots of his younger days. mr. gifted hopkins, who had never acquired the desirable accomplishment of dancing, gazed with dazzled and admiring eyes at the wonderful evolutions of the graceful performers. the music stirred him a good deal; he had also been introduced to one or two young persons as mr. hopkins, the poet, and he began to feel a kind of excitement, such as was often the prelude of a lyric burst from his pen. others might have wealth and beauty, he thought to himself, but what were these to the gift of genius? in fifty years the wealth of these people would have passed into other hands. in fifty years all these beauties would be dead, or wrinkled and double-wrinkled great-grandmothers. and when they were all gone and forgotten, the name of hopkins would be still fresh in the world's memory. inspiring thought! a smile of triumph rose to his lips; he felt that the village boy who could look forward to fame as his inheritance was richer than all the millionnaires, and that the words he should set in verse would have an enduring lustre to which the whiteness of pearls was cloudy, and the sparkle of diamonds dull. he raised his eyes, which had been cast down in reflection, to look upon these less favored children of fortune, to whom she had given nothing but perishable inheritances. two or three pairs of eyes, he observed, were fastened upon him. his mouth perhaps betrayed a little self-consciousness, but he tried to show his features in an aspect of dignified self-possession. there seemed to be remarks and questionings going on, which he supposed to be something like the following:-- which is it? which is it?--why, that one, there,--that young fellow,--don't you see?--what young fellow are you two looking at? who is he? what is he?--why, that is hopkins, the poet.--hopkins, the poet! let me see him! let me see him! hopkins? what! gifted hopkins? etc., etc. gifted hopkins did not hear these words except in fancy, but he did unquestionably find a considerable number of eyes concentrated upon him, which he very naturally interpreted as an evidence that he had already begun to enjoy a foretaste of the fame of which he should hereafter have his full allowance. some seemed to be glancing furtively, some appeared as if they wished to speak, and all the time the number of those looking at him seemed to be increasing. a vision came through his fancy of himself as standing on a platform, and having persons who wished to look upon him and shake hands with him presented, as he had heard was the way with great people when going about the country. but this was only a suggestion, and by no means a serious thought, for that would have implied infatuation. gifted hopkins was quite right in believing that he attracted many eyes. at last those of myrtle hazard were called to him, and she perceived that an accident was making him unenviably conspicuous. the bow of his rather large white neck-tie had slid round and got beneath his left ear. a not very good-natured or well-bred young fellow had pointed out the subject of this slight misfortune to one or two others of not much better taste or breeding, and thus the unusual attention the youthful poet was receiving explained itself. myrtle no sooner saw the little accident of which her rural friend was the victim than she left her place in the dance with a simple courage which did her credit. "i want to speak to you a minute," she said. "come into this alcove." and the courageous young lady not only told gifted what had happened to him, but found a pin somehow, as women always do on a pinch, and had him in presentable condition again almost before the bewildered young man knew what was the matter. on reflection it occurred to him, as it has to other provincial young persons going to great cities, that he might perhaps have been hasty in thinking himself an object of general curiosity as yet. there had hardly been time for his name to have become very widely known. still, the feeling had been pleasant for the moment, and had given him an idea of what the rapture would be, when, wherever he went, the monster digit (to hint a classical phrase) of the collective admiring public would be lifted to point him out, and the whisper would pass from one to another, "that's him! that's hopkins!" mr. murray bradshaw had been watching the opportunity for carrying out his intentions, with his pleasant smile covering up all that was passing in his mind, and master byles gridley, looking equally unconcerned, had been watching him. the young man's time came at last. some were at the supper-table, some were promenading, some were talking, when he managed to get myrtle a little apart from the rest, and led her towards one of the recesses in the apartment, where two chairs were invitingly placed. her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were sparkling,--the influences to which he had trusted had not been thrown away upon her. he had no idea of letting his purpose be seen until he was fully ready. it required all his self-mastery to avoid betraying himself by look or tone, but he was so natural that myrtle was thrown wholly off her guard. he meant to make her pleased with herself at the outset, and that not by point-blank flattery, of which she had had more than enough of late, but rather by suggestion and inference, so that she should find herself feeling happy without knowing how. it would be easy to glide from that to the impression she had produced upon him, and get the two feelings more or less mingled in her mind. and so the simple confession he meant to make would at length evolve itself logically, and hold by a natural connection to the first agreeable train of thought which he had called up. not the way, certainly, that most young men would arrange their great trial scene; but murray bradshaw was a lawyer in love as much as in business, and considered himself as pleading a cause before a jury of myrtle hazard's conflicting motives. what would any lawyer do in a jury case but begin by giving the twelve honest men and true to understand, in the first place, that their intelligence and virtue were conceded by all, and that he himself had perfect confidence in them, and leave them to shape their verdict in accordance with these propositions and his own side of the case? myrtle had, perhaps, never so seriously inclined her ear to the honeyed accents of the young pleader. he flattered her with so much tact, that she thought she heard an unconscious echo through his lips of an admiration which he only shared with all around him. but in him he made it seem discriminating, deliberate, not blind, but very real. this it evidently was which had led him to trust her with his ambitions and his plans,--they might be delusions, but he could never keep them from her, and she was the one woman in the world to whom he thought he could safely give his confidence. the dread moment was close at hand. myrtle was listening with an instinctive premonition of what was coming,--ten thousand mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers, and so on, had passed through it all in preceding generations until time reached backwards to the sturdy savage who asked no questions of any kind, but knocked down the primeval great-grandmother of all, and carried her off to his hole in the rock, or into the tree where he had made his nest. why should not the coming question announce itself by stirring in the pulses and thrilling in the nerves of the descendant of all these grandmothers? she was leaning imperceptibly towards him, drawn by the mere blind elemental force, as the plummet was attracted to the side of schehallion. her lips were parted, and she breathed a little faster than so healthy a girl ought to breathe in a state of repose. the steady nerves of william murray bradshaw felt unwonted thrills and tremors tingling through them, as he came nearer and nearer the few simple words with which he was to make myrtle hazard the mistress of his destiny. his tones were becoming lower and more serious; there were slight breaks once or twice in the conversation; myrtle had cast down her eyes. "there is but one word more to add," he murmured softly, as he bent towards her-- a grave voice interrupted him. "excuse me, mr. bradshaw," said master bytes gridley, "i wish to present a young gentleman to my friend here. i promised to show him the most charming young person i have the honor to be acquainted with, and i must redeem my pledge. miss hazard, i have the pleasure of introducing to your acquaintance my distinguished young friend, mr. clement lindsay." once mere, for the third time, these two young persons stood face to face. myrtle was no longer liable to those nervous seizures which any sudden impression was liable to produce when she was in her half-hysteric state of mind and body. she turned to the new-comer, who found himself unexpectedly submitted to a test which he would never have risked of his own will. he must go through it, cruel as it was, with the easy self-command which belongs to a gentleman in the most trying social exigencies. he addressed her, therefore, in the usual terms of courtesy, and then turned and greeted mr. bradshaw, whom he had never met since their coming together at oxbow village. myrtle was conscious, the instant she looked upon clement lindsay, of the existence of some peculiar relation between them; but what, she could not tell. whatever it was, it broke the charm which had been weaving between her and murray bradshaw. he was not foolish enough to make a scene. what fault could he find with clement lindsay, who had only done as any gentleman would do with a lady to whom he had just been introduced, addressed a few polite words to her? after saying those words, clement had turned very courteously to him, and they had spoken with each other. but murray bradshaw could not help seeing that myrtle had transferred her attention, at least for the moment, from him to the new-comer. he folded his arms and waited,--but he waited in vain. the hidden attraction which drew clement to the young girl with whom he had passed into the valley of the shadow of death overmastered all other feelings, and he gave himself up to the fascination of her presence. the inward rage of murray bradshaw at being interrupted just at the moment when he was, as he thought, about to cry checkmate and finish the first great game he had ever played may well be imagined. but it could not be helped. myrtle had exercised the customary privilege of young ladies at parties, and had turned from talking with one to talking with another,--that was all. fortunately, for him the young man who had been introduced at such a most critical moment was not one from whom he need apprehend any serious interference. he felt grateful beyond measure to pretty susan posey, who, as he had good reason for believing, retained her hold upon her early lover, and was looking forward with bashful interest to the time when she should become mrs. lindsay. it was better to put up quietly with his disappointment; and, if he could get no favorable opportunity that evening to resume his conversation at the interesting point where he left it off, he would call the next day and bring matters to a conclusion. he called accordingly the next morning, but was disappointed in not seeing myrtle. she had hardly slept that night, and was suffering from a bad headache, which last reason was her excuse for not seeing company. he called again, the following day, and learned that miss hazard had just left the city, and gone on a visit to oxbow village: chapter xxvii. mine and countermine. what the nature of the telegram was which had produced such an effect on the feelings and plans of mr. william murray bradshaw nobody especially interested knew but himself. we may conjecture that it announced some fact, which had leaked out a little prematurely, relating to the issue of the great land-case in which the firm was interested. however that might be, mr. bradshaw no sooner heard that myrtle had suddenly left the city for oxbow village,--for what reason he puzzled himself to guess,--than he determined to follow her at once, and take up the conversation he had begun at the party where it left off. and as the young poet had received his quietus for the present at the publisher's, and as master gridley had nothing specially to detain him, they too returned at about the same time, and so our old acquaintances were once more together within the familiar precincts where we have been accustomed to see them. master gridley did not like playing the part of a spy, but it must be remembered that he was an old college officer, and had something of the detective's sagacity, and a certain cunning derived from the habit of keeping an eye on mischievous students. if any underhand contrivance was at work, involving the welfare of any one in whom he was interested, he was a dangerous person for the plotters, for he had plenty of time to attend to them, and would be apt to take a kind of pleasure in matching his wits against another crafty person's,--such a one, for instance, as mr. macchiavelli bradshaw. perhaps he caught some words of that gentleman's conversation at the party; at any rate, he could not fail to observe his manner. when he found that the young man had followed myrtle back to the village, he suspected something more than a coincidence. when he learned that he was assiduously visiting the poplars, and that he was in close communication with miss cynthia badlam, he felt sure that he was pressing the siege of myrtle's heart. but that there was some difficulty in the way was equally clear to him, for he ascertained, through channels which the attentive reader will soon have means of conjecturing, that myrtle had seen him but once in the week following his return, and that in the presence of her dragons. she had various excuses when he called,--headaches, perhaps, among the rest, as these are staple articles on such occasions. but master gridley knew his man too well to think that slight obstacles would prevent his going forward to effect his purpose. "i think he will get her; if he holds on," the old man said to himself, "and he won't let go in a hurry, if there were any real love about it--but surely he is incapable of such a human weakness as the tender passion. what does all this sudden concentration upon the girl mean? he knows something about her that we don't know,--that must be it. what did he hide that paper for, a year ago and more? could that have anything to do with his pursuit of myrtle hazard today?" master gridley paused as he asked this question of himself, for a luminous idea had struck him. consulting daily with cynthia badlam, was he? could there be a conspiracy between these two persons to conceal some important fact, or to keep something back until it would be for their common interest to have it made known? now mistress kitty fagan was devoted, heart and soul, to myrtle hazard, and ever since she had received the young girl from mr. gridley's hands, when he brought her back safe and sound after her memorable adventure, had considered him as myrtle's best friend and natural protector. these simple creatures, whose thoughts are not taken up, like those of educated people, with the care of a great museum of dead phrases, are very quick to see the live facts which are going on about them. mr. gridley had met her, more or less accidentally, several times of late, and inquired very particularly about myrtle, and how she got along at the house since her return, and whether she was getting over her headaches, and how they treated her in the family. "bliss your heart, mr. gridley," kitty said to him on one of these occasions, "it's ahltogither changed intirely. sure miss myrtle does jist iverythin' she likes, an' miss withers niver middles with her at ahl, excip' jist to roll up her eyes an' look as if she was the hid-moorner at a funeril whiniver miss myrtle says she wants to do this or that, or to go here or there. it's miss badlam that's ahlwiz after her, an' a-watchin' her,--she thinks she's cunnin'er than a cat, but there 's other folks that's got eyes an' ears as good as hers. it's that mr. bridshaw that's a puttin' his head together with miss badlam for somethin' or other, an' i don't believe there's no good in it, for what does the fox an' the cat be a whisperin' about, as if they was thaves an' incind'ries, if there ain't no mischief hatchin'?" "why, kitty," he said, "what mischief do you think is going on, and who is to be harmed?" "o mr. gridley," she answered, "if there ain't somebody to be chated somehow, then i don't know an honest man and woman from two rogues. an' have n't i heard miss myrtle's name whispered as if there was somethin' goin' on agin' her, an' they was afraid the tahk would go out through the doors, an' up through the chimbley? i don't want to tell no tales, mr. gridley, nor to hurt no honest body, for i'm a poor woman, mr. gridley, but i comes of dacent folks, an' i vallies my repitation an' character as much as if i was dressed in silks and satins instead of this mane old gown, savin' your presence, which is the best i 've got, an' niver a dollar to buy another. but if i iver i hears a word, mr. gridley, that manes any kind of a mischief to miss myrtle,--the lard bliss her soul an' keep ahl the divils away from her!--i'll be runnin' straight down here to tell ye ahl about it,--be right sure o' that, mr. gridley." "nothing must happen to myrtle," he said, "that we can help. if you see anything more that looks wrong, you had better come down here at once and let me know, as you say you will. at once, you understand. and, kitty, i am a little particular about the dress of people who come to see me, so that if you would just take the trouble to get you a tidy pattern of gingham or calico, or whatever you like of that sort for a gown, you would please me; and perhaps this little trifle will be a convenience to you when you come to pay for it." kitty thanked him with all the national accompaniments, and trotted off to the store, where mr. gifted hopkins displayed the native amiability of his temper by fumbling down everything in the shape of ginghams and calicoes they had on the shelves, without a murmur at the taste of his customer, who found it hard to get a pattern sufficiently emphatic for her taste. she succeeded at last, and laid down a five-dollar bill as if she were as used to the pleasing figure on its face as to the sight of her own five digits. master byles gridley had struck a spade deeper than he knew into his first countermine, for kitty had none of those delicate scruples about the means of obtaining information which might have embarrassed a diplomatist of higher degree. chapter xxviii. mr. bradshaw calls on miss badlam "is miss hazard in, kitty?" "indade she's in, mr. bridshaw, but she won't see nobody." "what's the meaning of that, kitty? here is the third time within three days you've told me i could n't see her. she saw mr. gridley yesterday, i know; why won't she see me to-day?" "y' must ask miss myrtle what the rason is, it's none o' my business, mr. bridshaw. that's the order she give me." "is miss badlam in?" indade she's in, mr. bridshaw, an' i 'll go cahl her." "bedad," said kitty fagan to herself, "the cat an' the fox is goin' to have another o' thim big tahks togither, an' sure the old hole for the stove-pipe has niver been stopped up yet." mr. bradshaw and miss cynthia went into the parlor together, and mistress kitty retired to her kitchen. there was a deep closet belonging to this apartment, separated by a partition from the parlor. there was a round hole high up in this partition through which a stove-pipe had once passed. mistress kitty placed a stool just under this opening, upon which, as on a, pedestal, she posed herself with great precaution in the attitude of the goddess of other people's secrets, that is to say, with her head a little on one side, so as to bring her liveliest ear close to the opening. the conversation which took place in the hearing of the invisible third party began in a singularly free-and-easy manner on mr. bradshaw's part. "what the d---is the reason i can't see myrtle, cynthia?" "that's more than i can tell you, mr. bradshaw. i can watch her goings on, but i can't account for her tantrums." "you say she has had some of her old nervous whims,--has the doctor been to see her?" "no indeed. she has kept to herself a good deal, but i don't think there's anything in particular the matter with her. she looks well enough, only she seems a little queer,--as girls do that have taken a fancy into their heads that they're in love, you know,--absent-minded,--does n't seem to be interested in things as you would expect after being away so long." mr. bradshaw looked as if this did not please him particularly. if he was the object of her thoughts she would not avoid him, surely. "have you kept your eye on her steadily?" "i don't believe there is an hour we can't account for,--kitty and i between us." "are you sure you can depend on kitty?" ["depind on kitty, is it? oh, an' to be sure ye can depind on kitty to kape watch at the stove-pipe hole, an' to tell all y'r plottin's an' contrivin's to them that'll get the cheese out o' y'r mousetrap for ye before ye catch any poor cratur in it." this was the inaudible comment of the unseen third party.] "of course i can depend on her as far as i trust her. all she knows is that she must look out for the girl to see that she does not run away or do herself a mischief. the biddies don't know much, but they know enough to keep a watch on the--" "chickens." mr. bradshaw playfully finished the sentence for miss cynthia. ["an' on the foxes, an' the cats, an' the wazels, an' the hen-hahks, an' ahl the other bastes," added the invisible witness, in unheard soliloquy.] "i ain't sure whether she's quite as stupid as she looks," said the suspicious young lawyer. "there's a little cunning twinkle in her eye sometimes that makes me think she might be up to a trick on occasion. does she ever listen about to hear what people are saying?" "don't trouble yourself about kitty fagan,' for pity's sake, mr. bradshaw. the biddies are all alike, and they're all as stupid as owls, except when you tell 'em just what to do, and how to do it. a pack of priest-ridden fools!" the hot celtic blood in kitty fagan's heart gave a leap. the stout muscles gave an involuntary jerk. the substantial frame felt the thrill all through, and the rickety stool on which she was standing creaked sharply under its burden. murray bradshaw started. he got up and opened softly all the doors leading from the room, one after another, and looked out. "i thought i heard a noise as if somebody was moving, cynthia. it's just as well to keep our own matters to ourselves." "if you wait till this old house keeps still, mr. bradshaw, you might as well wait till the river has run by. it's as full of rats and mice as an old cheese is of mites. there's a hundred old rats in this house, and that's what you hear." ["an' one old cat; that's what i hear." third party.] "i told you, cynthia, i must be off on this business to-morrow. i want to know that everything is safe before i go. and, besides, i have got something to say to you that's important, very important, mind you." he got up once more and opened every door softly and looked out. he fixed his eye suspiciously on a large sofa at the other side of the room, and went, looking half ashamed of his extreme precaution, and peeped under it, to see if there was any one hidden thereto listen. then he came back and drew his chair close up to the table at which miss badlam had seated herself. the conversation which followed was in a low tone, and a portion of it must be given in another place in the words of the third party. the beginning of it we are able to supply in this connection. "look here, cynthia; you know what i am going for. it's all right, i feel sure, for i have had private means of finding out. it's a sure thing; but i must go once more to see that the other fellows don't try any trick on us. you understand what is for my advantage is for yours, and, if i go wrong, you go overboard with me. now i must leave the--you know--behind me. i can't leave it in the house or the office: they might burn up. i won't have it about me when i am travelling. draw your chair a little more this way. now listen." ["indade i will," said the third party to herself. the reader will find out in due time whether she listened to any purpose or not.] in the mean time myrtle, who for some reason was rather nervous and restless, had found a pair of half-finished slippers which she had left behind her. the color came into her cheeks when she remembered the state of mind she was in when she was working on them for the rev. mr. stoker. she recollected master gridley's mistake about their destination, and determined to follow the hint he had given. it would please him better if she sent them to good father pemberton, she felt sure, than if he should get them himself. so she enlarged them somewhat, (for the old man did not pinch his feet, as the younger clergyman was in the habit of doing, and was, besides, of portly dimensions, as the old orthodox three-deckers were apt to be,) and worked e. p. very handsomely into the pattern, and sent them to him with her love and respect, to his great delight; for old ministers do not have quite so many tokens of affection from fair hands as younger ones. what made myrtle nervous and restless? why had she quitted the city so abruptly, and fled to her old home, leaving all the gayeties behind her which had so attracted and dazzled her? she had not betrayed herself at the third meeting with the young man who stood in such an extraordinary relation to her,--who had actually given her life from his own breath,--as when she met him for the second time. whether his introduction to her at the party, just at the instant when murray bradshaw was about to make a declaration, saved her from being in another moment the promised bride of that young gentleman, or not, we will not be so rash as to say. it looked, certainly, as if he was in a fair way to carry his point; but perhaps she would have hesitated, or shrunk back, when the great question came to stare her in the face. she was excited, at any rate, by the conversation, so that, when clement was presented to her, her thoughts could not at once be all called away from her other admirer, and she was saved from all danger of that sudden disturbance which had followed their second meeting. whatever impression he made upon her developed itself gradually,--still, she felt strangely drawn towards him. it was not simply in his good looks, in his good manners, in his conversation, that she found this attraction, but there was a singular fascination which she felt might be dangerous to her peace, without explaining it to herself in words. she could hardly be in love with this young artist; she knew that his affections were plighted to another, a fact which keeps most young women from indulging unruly fancies; yet her mind was possessed by his image to such an extent that it left little room for that of mr. william murray bradshaw. myrtle hazard had been just ready to enter on a career of worldly vanity and ambition. it is hard to blame her, for we know how she came by the tendency. she had every quality, too, which fitted her to shine in the gay world; and the general law is, that those who have the power have the instinct to use it. we do not suppose that the bracelet on her arm was an amulet, but it was a symbol. it reminded her of her descent; it kept alive the desire to live over the joys and excitements of a bygone generation. if she had accepted murray bradshaw, she would have pledged herself to a worldly life. if she had refused him, it would perhaps have given her a taste of power that might have turned her into a coquette. this new impression saved her for the time. she had come back to her nest in the village like a frightened bird; her heart was throbbing, her nerves were thrilling, her dreams were agitated; she wanted to be quiet, and could not listen to the flatteries or entreaties of her old lover. it was a strong will and a subtle intellect that had arrayed their force and skill against the ill-defended citadel of myrtle's heart. murray bradshaw was perfectly determined, and not to be kept back by any trivial hindrances, such as her present unwillingness to accept him, or even her repugnance to him, if a freak of the moment had carried her so far. it was a settled thing: myrtle hazard must become mrs. bradshaw; and nobody could deny that, if he gave her his name, they had a chance, at least, for a brilliant future. chapter xxix. mistress kitty fagan calls on master byles gridley. "i 'd like to go down to the store this mornin', miss withers, plase. sure i've niver a shoe to my fut, only jist these two that i've got on, an' one other pair, and thim is so full of holes that whin i 'm standin' in 'em i'm outside of 'em intirely." "you can go, kitty," miss silence answered, funereally. thereupon kitty fagan proceeded to array herself in her most tidy apparel, including a pair of shoes not exactly answering to her description, and set out straight for the house of the widow hopkins. arrived at that respectable mansion, she inquired for mr. gridley, and was informed that he was at home. had a message for him,--could she see him in his study? she could if she would wait a little while. mr. gridley was busy just at this minute. sit down, kitty, and warm yourself at the cooking-stove. mistress kitty accepted mrs. hopkins's hospitable offer, and presently began orienting herself, and getting ready to make herself agreeable. the kindhearted mrs. hopkins had gathered about her several other pensioners besides the twins. these two little people, it may be here mentioned, were just taking a morning airing in charge of susan posey, who strolled along in company with gifted hopkins on his way to the store. mistress kitty soon began the conversational blandishments so natural to her good-humored race. "it's a little blarney that'll jist suit th' old lady," she said to herself, as she made her first conciliatory advance. "an' sure an' it's a beautiful kitten you've got there, mrs. hopkins. an' it's a splendid mouser she is, i'll be bound. does n't she look as if she'd clans the house out o'them little bastes, bad luck to em." mrs. hopkins looked benignantly upon the more than middle-aged tabby, slumbering as if she had never known an enemy, and turned smiling to mistress kitty. "why, bless your heart, kitty, our old puss would n't know a mouse by sight, if you showed her one. if i was a mouse, i'd as lieves have a nest in one of that old cat's ears as anywhere else. you couldn't find a safer place for one." "indade, an' to be sure she's too big an' too handsome a pussy to be after wastin' her time on them little bastes. it's that little tarrier dog of yours, mrs. hopkins, that will be after worryin' the mice an' the rats, an' the thaves too, i 'll warrant. is n't he a fust-rate-lookin' watch-dog, an' a rig'ler rat-hound?" mrs. hopkins looked at the little short-legged and short-winded animal of miscellaneous extraction with an expression of contempt and affection, mingled about half and half. "worry 'em! if they wanted to sleep, i rather guess he would worry 'em! if barkin' would do their job for 'em, nary a mouse nor rat would board free gratis in my house as they do now. noisy little good-for-nothing tike,--ain't you, fret?" mistress kitty was put back a little by two such signal failures. there was another chance, however, to make her point, which she presently availed herself of,--feeling pretty sure this time that she should effect a lodgement. mrs. hopkins's parrot had been observing kitty, first with one eye and then with the other, evidently preparing to make a remark, but awkward with a stranger. "that 's a beautiful part y 've got there," kitty said, buoyant with the certainty that she was on safe ground this time; "and tahks like a book, i 'll be bound. poll! poll! poor poll!" she put forth her hand to caress the intelligent and affable bird, which, instead of responding as expected, "squawked," as our phonetic language has it, and, opening a beak imitated from a tooth-drawing instrument of the good old days, made a shrewd nip at kitty's forefinger. she drew it back with a jerk. "an' is that the way your part tahks, mrs. hopkins?" "talks, bless you, kitty! why, that parrot hasn't said a word this ten year. he used to say poor poll! when we first had him, but he found it was easier to squawk, and that's all he ever does nowadays,--except bite once in a while." "well, an' to be sure," kitty answered, radiant as she rose from her defeats, "if you'll kape a cat that does n't know a mouse when she sees it, an' a dog that only barks for his livin', and a part that only squawks an' bites an' niver spakes a word, ye must be the best-hearted woman that's alive, an' bliss ye, if ye was only a good catholic, the holy father 'd make a saint of ye in less than no time!" so mistress kitty fagan got in her bit of celtic flattery, in spite of her three successive discomfitures. "you may come up now, kitty," said mr. gridley over the stairs. he had just finished and sealed a letter. "well, kitty, how are things going on up at the poplars? and how does our young lady seem to be of late?" "whisht! whisht! your honor." mr. bradshaw's lessons had not been thrown away on his attentive listener. she opened every door in the room, "by your lave," as she said. she looked all over the walls to see if there was any old stovepipe hole or other avenue to eye or ear. then she went, in her excess of caution, to the window. she saw nothing noteworthy except mr. gifted hopkins and the charge he convoyed, large and small, in the distance. the whole living fleet was stationary for the moment, he leaning on the fence with his cheek on his hand, in one of the attitudes of the late lord byron; she, very near him, listening, apparently, in the pose of mignon aspirant au ciel, as rendered by carlo dolce scheffer. kitty came back, apparently satisfied, and stood close to mr. gridley, who told her to sit down, which she did, first making a catch at her apron to dust the chair with, and then remembering that she had left that part of her costume at home.--automatic movements, curious. mistress kitty began telling in an undertone of the meeting between mr. bradshaw and miss badlam, and of the arrangements she made for herself as the reporter of the occasion. she then repeated to him, in her own way, that part of the conversation which has been already laid before the reader. there is no need of going over the whole of this again in kitty's version, but we may fit what followed into the joints of what has been already told. "he cahled her cynthy, d' ye see, mr. gridley, an' tahked to her jist as asy as if they was two rogues, and she knowed it as well as he did. an' so, says he, i'm goin' away, says he, an' i'm goin' to be gahn siveral days, or perhaps longer, says he, an' you'd better kape it, says he." "keep what, kitty? what was it he wanted her to keep?" said mr. gridley, who no longer doubted that he was on the trail of a plot, and meant to follow it. he was getting impatient with the "says he's" with which kitty double-leaded her discourse. "an' to be sure ain't i tellin' you, mr. gridley, jist as fast as my breath will let me? an' so, says he, you'd better kape it, says he, mixed up with your other paupers, says he," (mr. gridley started,) "an' thin we can find it in the garret, says he, whinever we want it, says he. an' if it all goes right out there, says he, it won't be lahng before we shall want to find it, says he. and i can dipind on you, says he, for we're both in the same boat, says he, an' you knows what i knows, says he, an' i knows what you knows, says be. and thin he taks a stack o' paupers out of his pocket, an' he pulls out one of 'em, an' he says to her, says he, that's the pauper, says he, an' if you die, says be, niver lose sight of that day or night, says he, for it's life an' dith to both of us, says he. an' thin he asks her if she has n't got one o' them paupers--what is 't they cahls 'em?--divilops, or some sich kind of a name--that they wraps up their letters in; an' she says no, she has n't got none that's big enough to hold it. so he says, give me a shate o' pauper, says he. an' thin he takes the pauper that she give him, an' he folds it up like one o' them--divilops, if that's the name of 'em; and thin he pulls a stick o' salin'-wax out of his pocket, an' a stamp, an' he takes the pauper an' puts it into th' other pauper, along with the rest of the paupers, an' thin he folds th' other pauper over the paupers, and thin he lights a candle, an' he milts the salin'-wax, and he sales up the pauper that was outside th' other paupers, an' he writes on the back of the pauper, an' thin he hands it to miss badlam." "did you see the paper that he showed her before he fastened it up with the others, kitty?" "i did see it, indade, mr. gridley, and it's the truth i'm tellin' ye." "did you happen to notice anything about it, kitty?" "i did, indade, mr. gridley. it was a longish kind of a pauper, and there was some blotches of ink on the back of it,--an' they looked like a face without any mouth, for, says i, there's two spots for the eyes, says i, and there's a spot for the nose, says i, and there's niver a spot for the mouth, says i." this was the substance of what master byles gridley got out of kitty fagan. it was enough, yes, it was too much. there was some deep-laid plot between murray bradshaw and cynthia badlam, involving the interests of some of the persons connected with the late malachi withers; for that the paper described by kitty was the same that he had seen the young man conceal in the corpus juris civilis, it was impossible to doubt. if it had been a single spot an the back of it, or two, he might have doubted. but three large spots "blotches" she had called them, disposed thus *.* --would not have happened to be on two different papers, in all human probability. after grave consultation of all his mental faculties in committee of the whole, he arrived at the following conclusion,--that miss cynthia badlam was the depositary of a secret involving interests which he felt it his business to defend, and of a document which was fraudulently withheld and meant to be used for some unfair purpose. and most assuredly, master gridley said to himself, he held a master-key, which, just so certainly as he could make up his mind to use it, would open any secret in the keeping of miss cynthia badlam. he proceeded, therefore, without delay, to get ready for a visit to that lady at the poplars. he meant to go thoroughly armed, for he was a very provident old gentleman. his weapons were not exactly of the kind which a housebreaker would provide himself with, but of a somewhat peculiar nature. weapon number one was a slip of paper with a date and a few words written upon it. "i think this will fetch the document," he said to himself, "if it comes to the worst. not if i can help it,--not if i can help it. but if i cannot get at the heart of this thing otherwise, why, i must come to this. poor woman!--poor woman!" weapon number two was a small phial containing spirits of hartshorn, sal volatile, very strong, that would stab through the nostrils, like a stiletto, deep into the gray kernels that lie in the core of the brain. excellent in cases of sudden syncope or fainting, such as sometimes require the opening of windows, the dashing on of cold water, the cutting of stays, perhaps, with a scene of more or less tumultuous perturbation and afflux of clamorous womanhood. so armed, byles gridley, a. m., champion of unprotected innocence, grasped his ivory-handled cane and sallied forth on his way to the poplars. chapter xxx. master byles gridley calls on miss cynthia badlam. miss cynthia badlam was seated in a small parlor which she was accustomed to consider her own during her long residences at the poplars. the entry stove warmed it but imperfectly, and she looked pinched and cold, for the evenings were still pretty sharp, and the old house let in the chill blasts, as old houses are in the habit of doing. she was sitting at her table, with a little trunk open before her. she had taken some papers from it, which she was looking over, when a knock at her door announced a visitor, and master byles gridley entered the parlor. as he came into the room, she gathered the papers together and replaced them in the trunk, which she locked, throwing an unfinished piece of needle-work over it, putting the key in her pocket, and gathering herself up for company. something of all this master gridley saw through his round spectacles, but seemed not to see, and took his seat like a visitor making a call of politeness. a visitor at such an hour, of the male sex, without special provocation, without social pretext, was an event in the life of the desolate spinster. could it be--no, it could not--and yet--and yet! miss cynthia threw back the rather common-looking but comfortable shawl which covered her shoulders, and showed her quite presentable figure, arrayed with a still lingering thought of that remote contingency which might yet offer itself at some unexpected moment; she adjusted the carefully plaited cap, which was not yet of the lasciate ogni speranza pattern, and as she obeyed these instincts of her sex, she smiled a welcome to the respectable, learned, and independent bachelor. mr. gridley had a frosty but kindly age before him, with a score or so of years to run, which it was after all not strange to fancy might be rendered more cheerful by the companionship of a well-conserved and amiably disposed woman, if any such should happen to fall in his way. that smile came very near disconcerting the plot of master byles gridley. he had come on an inquisitor's errand, his heart secure, as he thought, against all blandishments, his will steeled to break down all resistance. he had come armed with an instrument of torture worse than the thumb-screw, worse than the pulleys which attempt the miracle of adding a cubit to the stature, worse than the brazier of live coals brought close to the naked soles of the feet,--an instrument which, instead of trifling with the nerves, would clutch all the nerve-centres and the heart itself in its gripe, and hold them until it got its answer, if the white lips had life enough left to shape one. and here was this unfortunate maiden lady smiling at him, setting her limited attractions in their best light, pleading with him in that natural language which makes any contumacious bachelor feel as guilty as cain before any single woman. if mr. gridley had been alone, he would have taken a good sniff at his own bottle of sal volatile; for his kind heart sunk within him as he thought of the errand upon which he had come. it would not do to leave the subject of his vivisection under any illusion as to the nature of his designs. "good evening, miss badlam," he said, "i have come to visit you on a matter of business." what was the internal panorama which had unrolled itself at the instant of his entrance, and which rolled up as suddenly at the sound of his serious voice and the look of his grave features? it cannot be reproduced, though pages were given to it; for some of the pictures were near, and some were distant; some were clearly seen, and some were only hinted; some were not recognized in the intellect at all, and yet they were implied, as it were, behind the others. many times we have all found ourselves glad or sorry, and yet we could not tell what thought it was that reflected the sunbeam or cast the shadow. took into cynthia's suddenly exalted consciousness and see the picture, actual and potential, unroll itself in all its details of the natural, the ridiculous, the selfish, the pitiful, the human. glimpses, hints, echoes, suggestions, involving tender sentiments hitherto unknown, we may suppose, to that unclaimed sister's breast,--pleasant excitement of receiving congratulations from suddenly cordial friends; the fussy delights of buying furniture and shopping for new dresses,--(it seemed as if she could hear herself saying, "heavy silks,--best goods, if you please,")--with delectable thumping down of flat-sided pieces of calico, cambric, "rep," and other stiffs, and rhythmic evolution of measured yards, followed by sharp snip of scissors, and that cry of rending tissues dearer to woman's ear than any earthly sound until she hears the voice of her own first-born,(much of this potentially, remember,)--thoughts of a comfortable settlement, an imposing social condition, a cheerful household, and by and by an indian summer of serene widowhood,--all these, and infinite other involved possibilities had mapped themselves in one long swift flash before cynthia's inward eye, and all vanished as the old man spoke those few words. the look on his face, and the tone of his cold speech, had instantly swept them all away, like a tea-set sliding in a single crash from a slippery tray. what could be the "business" on which he had come to her with that solemn face?--she asked herself, as she returned his greeting and offered him a chair. she was conscious of a slight tremor as she put this question to her own intelligence. "are we like to be alone and undisturbed?" mr. gridley asked. it was a strange question,--men do act strangely sometimes. she hardly knew. whether to turn red or white. "yes, there is nobody like to come in at present," she answered. she did not know what to make of it. what was coming next,--a declaration, or an accusation of murder? "my business," mr. gridley said, very gravely, "relates to this. i wish to inspect papers which i have reason to believe exist, and which have reference to the affairs of the late malachi withers. can you help me to get sight of any of these papers not to be found at the registry of deeds or the probate office?" "excuse me, mr. gridley, but may i ask you what particular concern you have with the affairs of my relative, cousin malachi withers, that's been dead and buried these half-dozen years?" "perhaps it would take some time to answer that question fully, miss badlam. some of these affairs do concern those i am interested in, if not myself directly." "may i ask who the person or persons may be on whose account you wish to look at papers belonging to my late relative, malachi withers?" "you can ask me almost anything, miss badlam, but i should really be very much obliged if you would answer my question first. can you help me to get a sight of any papers relating to the estate of malachi withers, not to be found at the registry of deeds or the probate office,--any of which you may happen to have any private and particular knowledge?" "i beg your pardon, mr. gridley; but i don't understand why you come to me with such questions. lawyer penhallow is the proper person, i should think, to go to. he and his partner that was--mr. wibird, you know--settled the estate, and he has got the papers, i suppose, if there are any, that ain't to be found in the offices you mention." mr. gridley moved his chair a little, so as to bring miss badlam's face a little more squarely in view. "does mr. william murray bradshaw know anything about any papers, such as i am referring to, that may have been sent to the office?" the lady felt a little moisture stealing through all her pores, and at the same time a certain dryness of the vocal organs, so that her answer came in a slightly altered tone which neither of them could help noticing. "you had better ask mr. william murray bradshaw yourself about that," she answered. she felt the hook now, and her spines were rising, partly with apprehension, partly with irritation. "has that young gentleman ever delivered into your hands any papers relating to the affairs of the late malachi withers, for your safe keeping?" "what do you mean by asking me these questions, mr. gridley? i don't choose to be catechised about murray bradshaw's business. go to him, if you please, if you want to find out about it." "excuse my persistence, miss badlam, but i must prevail upon you to answer my question. has mr. william murray bradshaw ever delivered into your hands any papers relating to the affairs of the late malachi withers, for your safe keeping?" "do you suppose i am going to answer such questions as you are putting me because you repeat them over, mr. gridley? indeed i cha'n't. ask him, if you please, whatever you wish to know about his doings." she drew herself up and looked savagely at him. she had talked herself into her courage. there was a color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eye; she looked dangerous as a cobra. "miss cynthia badlam," master gridley said, very deliberately, "i am afraid we do not entirely understand each other. you must answer my question precisely, categorically, point-blank, and on the instant. will you do this at once, or will you compel me to show you the absolute necessity of your doing it, at the expense of pain to both of us? six words from me will make you answer all my questions." "you can't say six words, nor sixty, mr. gridley, that will make me answer one question i do not choose to. i defy you!" "i will not say one, miss cynthia badlam. there are some things one does not like to speak in words. but i will show you a scrap of paper, containing just six words and a date; not one word more nor one less. you shall read them. then i will burn the paper in the flame of your lamp. as soon after that as you feel ready, i will ask the same question again." master gridley took out from his pocket-book a scrap of paper, and handed it to cynthia badlam. her hand shook as she received it, for she was frightened as well as enraged, and she saw that mr. gridley was in earnest and knew what he was doing. she read the six words, he looking at her steadily all the time, and watching her as if he had just given her a drop of prussic acid. no cry. no sound from her lips. she stared as if half stunned for one moment, then turned her head and glared at mr. gridley as if she would have murdered him if she dared. in another instant her face whitened, the scrap of paper fluttered to the floor, and she would have followed it but for the support of both mr. gridley's arms. he disengaged one of them presently, and felt in his pocket for the sal volatile. it served him excellently well, and stung her back again to her senses very quickly. all her defiant aspect had gone. "look!" he said, as he lighted the scrap of paper in the flame. "you understand me, and you see that i must be answered the next time i ask my question." she opened her lips as if to speak. it was as when a bell is rung in a vacuum,--no words came from them,--only a faint gasping sound, an effort at speech. she was caught tight in the heart-screw. "don't hurry yourself, miss cynthia," he said, with a certain relenting tenderness of manner. "here, take another sniff of the smelling-salts. be calm, be quiet,--i am well disposed towards you,--i don't like to give you trouble. there, now, i must have the answer to that question; but take your time, take your time." "give me some water,--some water!" she said, in a strange hoarse whisper. there was a pitcher of water and a tumbler on an old marble sideboard near by. he filled the tumbler, and cynthia emptied it as if she had just been taken from the rack, and could have swallowed a bucketful. "what do you want to know?" she asked. "i wish to know all that you can tell me about a certain paper, or certain papers, which i have reason to believe mr. william murray bradshaw committed to your keeping." "there is only one paper of any consequence. do you want to make him kill me? or do you want to make me kill myself?" "neither, miss cynthia, neither. i wish to see that paper, but not for any bad purpose. don't you think, on the whole, you have pretty good reason to trust me? i am a very quiet man, miss cynthia. don't be afraid of me; only do what i ask,--it will be a great deal better for you in the end." she thrust her trembling hand into her pocket, and took out the key of the little trunk. she drew the trunk towards her, put the key in the lock, and opened it. it seemed like pressing a knife into her own bosom and turning the blade. that little trunk held all the records of her life the forlorn spinster most cherished;--a few letters that came nearer to love-letters than any others she had ever received; an album, with flowers of the summers of and fading between its leaves; two papers containing locks of hair, half of a broken ring, and other insignificant mementos which had their meaning, doubtless, to her,--such a collection as is often priceless to one human heart, and passed by as worthless in the auctioneer's inventory. she took the papers out mechanically, and laid them on the table. among them was an oblong packet, sealed with what appeared to be the office seal of messrs. penhallow and bradshaw. "will you allow me to take that envelope containing papers, miss badlam?" mr. gridley asked, with a suavity and courtesy in his tone and manner that showed how he felt for her sex and her helpless position. she seemed to obey his will as if she had none of her own left. she passed the envelope to him, and stared at him vacantly while he examined it. he read on the back of the package: "withers estate--old papers--of no importance apparently. examine hereafter." "may i ask when, where, and of whom you obtained these papers, miss badlam?" "have pity on me, mr. gridley,--have pity on me. i am a lost woman if you do not. spare me! for god's sake, spare me! there will no wrong come of all this, if you will but wait a little while. the paper will come to light when it is wanted, and all will be right. but do not make me answer any more questions, and let me keep this paper. o mr. gridley! i am in the power of a dreadful man--" "you mean mr. william murray bradshaw?" "i mean him." "has there not been some understanding between you that he should become the approved suitor of miss myrtle hazard?" cynthia wrung her hands and rocked herself backward and forward in her misery, but answered not a word. what could she answer, if she had plotted with this "dreadful man" against a young and innocent girl, to deliver her over into his hands, at the risk of all her earthly hopes and happiness? master gridley waited long and patiently for any answer she might have the force to make. as she made none, he took upon himself to settle the whole matter without further torture of his helpless victim. "this package must go into the hands of the parties who had the settlement of the estate of the late malachi withers. mr. penhallow is the survivor of the two gentlemen to whom that business was intrusted. how long is mr. william murray bradshaw like to be away?" "perhaps a few days,--perhaps weeks,--and then he will come back and kill me,--or--or--worse! don't take that paper, mr. gridley,--he isn't like you! you would n't--but he would--he would send me to everlasting misery to gain his own end, or to save himself. and yet he is n't every way bad, and if he did marry myrtle she'd think there never was such a man,--for he can talk her heart out of her, and the wicked in him lies very deep and won't ever come out, perhaps, if the world goes right with him." the last part of this sentence showed how cynthia talked with her own conscience; all her mental and moral machinery lay open before the calm eyes of master byles gridley. his thoughts wandered a moment from the business before him; he had just got a new study of human nature, which in spite of himself would be shaping itself into an axiom for an imagined new edition of "thoughts on the universe," something like this, "the greatest saint may be a sinner that never got down to "hard pan." it was not the time to be framing axioms. "poh! poh!" he said to himself; "what are you about making phrases, when you have got a piece of work like this in hand?" then to cynthia, with great gentleness and kindness of manner: "have no fear about any consequences to yourself. mr. penhallow must see that paper--i mean those papers. you shall not be a loser nor a sufferer if you do your duty now in these premises." master gridley, treating her, as far as circumstances permitted, like a gentleman, had shown no intention of taking the papers either stealthily or violently. it must be with her consent. he had laid the package down upon the table, waiting for her to give him leave to take it. but just as he spoke these last words, cynthia, whose eye had been glancing furtively at it while he was thinking out his axiom, and taking her bearings to it pretty carefully, stretched her hand out, and, seizing the package, thrust it into the sanctuary of her bosom. "mr. penhallow must see those papers, miss cynthia badlam," mr. gridley repeated calmly. "if he says they or any of them can be returned to your keeping, well and good. but see them he must, for they have his office seal and belong in his custody, and, as you see by the writing on the back, they have not been examined. now there may be something among them which is of immediate importance to the relatives of the late deceased malachi withers, and therefore they must be forthwith submitted to the inspection of the surviving partner of the firm of wibird and penhallow. this i propose to do, with your consent, this evening. it is now twenty-five minutes past eight by the true time, as my watch has it. at half past eight exactly i shall have the honor of bidding you good evening, miss cynthia badlam, whether you give me those papers or not. i shall go to the office of jacob penhallow, esquire, and there make one of two communications to him; to wit, these papers and the facts connected therewith, or another statement, the nature of which you may perhaps conjecture." there is no need of our speculating as to what mr. byles gridley, an honorable and humane man, would have done, or what would have been the nature of that communication which he offered as an alternative to the perplexed woman. he had not at any rate miscalculated the strength of his appeal, which cynthia interpreted as he expected. she bore the heart-screw about two minutes. then she took the package from her bosom, and gave it with averted face to master byles gridley, who, on receiving it, made her a formal but not unkindly bow, and bade her good evening. "one would think it had been lying out in the dew," he said, as he left the house and walked towards mr. penhallow's residence. chapter xxxi. master byles gridley consults with jacob penhallow, esquire lawyer penhallow was seated in his study, his day's work over, his feet in slippers, after the comfortable but inelegant fashion which sir walter scott reprobates, amusing himself with a volume of old reports. he was a knowing man enough, a keen country lawyer but honest, and therefore less ready to suspect the honesty of others. he had a great belief in his young partner's ability, and, though he knew him to be astute, did not think him capable of roguery. it was at his request that mr. bradshaw had undertaken his journey, which, as he believed,--and as mr. bradshaw had still stronger evidence of a strictly confidential nature which led him to feel sure,--would end in the final settlement of the great land claim in favor of their client. the case had been dragging along from year to year, like an english chancery suit; and while courts and lawyers and witnesses had been sleeping, the property had been steadily growing. a railroad had passed close to one margin of the township, some mines had been opened in the county, in which a village calling itself a city had grown big enough to have a newspaper and fourth of july orations. it was plain that the successful issue of the long process would make the heirs of the late malachi withers possessors of an ample fortune, and it was also plain that the firm of penhallow and bradshaw were like to receive, in such case, the largest fee that had gladdened the professional existence of its members. mr. penhallow had his book open before him, but his thoughts were wandering from the page. he was thinking of his absent partner, and the probable results of his expedition. what would be the consequence if all this property came into the possession of silence withers? could she have any liberal intentions with reference to myrtle hazard, the young girl who had grown up with her, or was the common impression true, that she was bent on endowing an institution, and thus securing for herself a favorable consideration in the higher courts, where her beneficiaries would be, it might be supposed, influential advocates? he could not help thinking that mr. bradshaw believed that myrtle hazard would eventually come to apart at least of this inheritance. for the story was, that he was paying his court to the young lady whenever he got an opportunity, and that he was cultivating an intimacy with miss cynthia badlam. "bradshaw would n'tmake a move in that direction," mr. penhallow said to himself, "until he felt pretty sure that it was going to be a paying business. if he was only a young minister now, there'd be no difficulty about it. let any man, young or old, in a clerical white cravat, step up to myrtle hazard, and ask her to be miserable in his company through this wretched life, and aunt silence would very likely give them her blessing, and add something to it that the man in the white cravat would think worth even more than that was. but i don't know what she'll say to bradshaw. perhaps he 'd better have a hint to go to meeting a little more regularly. however, i suppose he knows what he's about." he was thinking all this over when a visitor was announced, and mr. byles gridley entered the study. "good evening, mr. penhallow," mr. gridley said, wiping his forehead. "quite warm, is n't it, this evening?" "warm!" said mr. penhallow, "i should think it would freeze pretty thick to-night. i should have asked you to come up to the fire and warm yourself. but take off your coat, mr. gridley,--very glad to see you. you don't come to the house half as often as you come to the office. sit down, sit down." mr. gridley took off his outside coat and sat down. "he does look warm, does n't he?" mr. penhallow thought. "wonder what has heated up the old gentleman so. find out quick enough, for he always goes straight to business." "mr. penhallow," mr. gridley began at once, "i have come on a very grave matter, in which you are interested as well as myself, and i wish to lay the whole of it before you as explicitly as i can, so that we may settle this night before i go what is to be done. i am afraid the good standing of your partner, mr. william murray bradshaw, is concerned in the matter. would it be a surprise to you, if he had carried his acuteness in some particular case like the one i am to mention beyond the prescribed limits?" the question was put so diplomatically that there was no chance for an indignant denial of the possibility of mr. bradshaw's being involved in any discreditable transaction. "it is possible," he answered, "that bradshaw's keen wits may have betrayed him into sharper practice than i should altogether approve in any business we carried on together. he is a very knowing young man, but i can't think he is foolish enough, to say nothing of his honesty, to make any false step of the kind you seem to hint. i think he might on occasion go pretty near the line, but i don't believe he would cross it." "permit me a few questions, mr. penhallow. you settled the estate of the late malachi withers, did you not?" "mr. wibird and myself settled it together." "have you received any papers from any of the family since the settlement of the estate?" "let me see. yes; a roll of old plans of the withers place, and so forth,--not of much use, but labelled and kept. an old trunk with letters and account-books, some of them in dutch,--mere curiosities. a year ago or more, i remember that silence sent me over some papers she had found in an odd corner,--the old man hid things like a magpie. i looked over most of them,--trumpery not worth keeping,--old leases and so forth." "do you recollect giving some of them to mr. bradshaw to look over?" "now i come to think of it, i believe i did; but he reported to me, if i remember right, that they amounted to nothing." "if any of those papers were of importance, should you think your junior partner ought to keep them from your knowledge?" "i need not answer that question, mr. gridley. will you be so good as to come at once to the facts on which you found your suspicions, and which lead you to put these questions to me?" thereupon mr. gridley proceeded to state succinctly the singular behavior of murray bradshaw in taking one paper from a number handed to him by mr. penhallow, and concealing it in a volume. he related how he was just on the point of taking out the volume which contained the paper, when mr. bradshaw entered and disconcerted him. he had, however, noticed three spots on the paper by which he should know it anywhere. he then repeated the substance of kitty fagan's story, accenting the fact that she too noticed three remarkable spots on the paper which mr. bradshaw had pointed out to miss badlam as the one so important to both of them. here he rested the case for the moment. mr. penhallow looked thoughtful. there was something questionable in the aspect of this business. it did obviously suggest the idea of an underhand arrangement with miss cynthia, possibly involving some very grave consequences. it would have been most desirable, he said, to have ascertained what these papers, or rather this particular paper, to which so much importance was attached, amounted to. without that knowledge there was nothing, after all, which it might not be possible to explain. he might have laid aside the spotted paper to examine for some object of mere curiosity. it was certainly odd that the one the fagan woman had seen should present three spots so like those on the other paper, but people did sometimes throw treys at backgammon, and that which not rarely happened with two dice of six faces might happen if they had sixty or six hundred faces. on the whole, he did not see that there was any ground, so far, for anything more than a vague suspicion. he thought it not unlikely that mr. bradshaw was a little smitten with the young lady up at the poplars, and that he had made some diplomatic overtures to the duenna, after the approved method of suitors. she was young for bradshaw,--very young,--but he knew his own affairs. if he chose to make love to a child, it was natural enough that he should begin by courting her nurse. master byles gridley lost himself for half a minute in a most discreditable inward discussion as to whether laura penhallow was probably one or two years older than mr. bradshaw. that was his way, he could not help it. he could not think of anything without these mental parentheses. but he came back to business at the end of his half-minute. "i can lay the package before you at this moment, mr. penhallow. i have induced that woman in whose charge it was left to intrust it to my keeping, with the express intention of showing it to you. but it is protected by a seal, as i have told you, which i should on no account presume to meddle with." mr. gridley took out the package of papers. "how damp it is!" mr. penhallow said; "must have been lying in some very moist neighborhood." "very," mr. gridley answered, with a peculiar expression which said, "never mind about that." "did the party give you possession of these documents without making any effort to retain them?" the lawyer asked. "not precisely. it cost some effort to induce miss badlam to let them go out of her hands. i hope you think i was justified in making the effort i did, not without a considerable strain upon my feelings, as well as her own, to get hold of the papers?" "that will depend something on what the papers prove to be, mr. gridley. a man takes a certain responsibility in doing just what you have done. if, for instance, it should prove that this envelope contained matters relating solely to private transactions between mr. bradshaw and miss badlam, concerning no one but themselves,--and if the words on the back of the envelope and the seal had been put there merely as a protection for a package containing private papers of a delicate but perfectly legitimate character--" the lawyer paused, as careful experts do, after bending the bow of an hypothesis, before letting the arrow go. mr. gridley felt very warm indeed, uncomfortably so, and applied his handkerchief to his face. could n't be anything in such a violent supposition as that, and yet such a crafty fellow as that bradshaw,--what trick was he not up to? absurd! cynthia was not acting,--rachel would n't be equal to such a performance!--"why then, mr. gridley," the lawyer continued, "i don't see but what my partner would have you at an advantage, and, if disposed to make you uncomfortable, could do so pretty effectively. but this, you understand, is only a supposed case, and not a very likely one. i don't think it would have been prudent in you to meddle with that seal. but it is a very different matter with regard to myself. it makes no difference, so far as i am concerned, where this package came from, or how it was obtained. it is just as absolutely within my control as any piece of property i call my own. i should not hesitate, if i saw fit, to break this seal at once, and proceed to the examination of any papers contained within the envelope. if i found any paper of the slightest importance relating to the estate, i should act as if it had never been out of my possession. "suppose, however, i chose to know what was in the package, and, having ascertained, act my judgment about returning it to the party from whom you obtained it. in such case i might see fit to restore or cause it to be restored, to the party, without any marks of violence having been used being apparent. if everything is not right, probably no questions would be asked by the party having charge of the package. if there is no underhand work going on, and the papers are what they profess to be, nobody is compromised but yourself, so far as i can see, and you are compromised at any rate, mr. gridley, at least in the good graces of the party from whom you obtained the documents. tell that party that i took the package without opening it, and shall return it, very likely, without breaking the seal. will consider of the matter, say a couple of days. then you shall hear from me, and she shall hear from you. so. so. yes, that's it. a nice business. a thing to sleep on. you had better leave the whole matter of dealing with the package to me. if i see fit to send it back with the seal unbroken, that is my affair. but keep perfectly quiet, if you please, mr. gridley, about the whole matter. mr. bradshaw is off, as you know, and the business on which he is gone is important,--very important. he can be depended on for that; he has acted all along as if he had a personal interest in the success of our firm beyond his legal relation to it." mr. penhallow's light burned very late in the office that night, and the following one. he looked troubled and absent-minded, and when miss laura ventured to ask him how long mr. bradshaw was like to be gone, he answered her in such a way that the girl who waited at table concluded that he did n't mean to have miss laury keep company with mr. bradshaw, or he'd never have spoke so dreadful hash to her when she asked about him. chapter xxxii. susan posey's trial. a day or two after myrtle hazard returned to the village, master byles gridley, accompanied by gifted hopkins, followed her, as has been already mentioned, to the same scene of the principal events of this narrative. the young man had been persuaded that it would be doing injustice to his talents to crowd their fruit prematurely upon the market. he carried his manuscript back with him, having relinquished the idea of publishing for the present. master byles gridley, on the other hand, had in his pocket a very flattering proposal, from the same publisher to whom he had introduced the young poet, for a new and revised edition of his work, "thoughts on the universe," which was to be remodelled in some respects, and to have a new title not quite so formidable to the average reader. it would be hardly fair to susan posey to describe with what delight and innocent enthusiasm she welcomed back gifted hopkins. she had been so lonely since he was away? she had read such of his poems as she possessed--duplicates of his printed ones, or autographs which he had kindly written out for her--over and over again, not without the sweet tribute of feminine sensibility, which is the most precious of all testimonials to a poet's power over the heart. true, her love belonged to another,--but then she was so used to gifted! she did so love to hear him read his poems,--and clement had never written that "little bit of a poem to susie," which she had asked him for so long ago! she received him therefore with open arms,--not literally, of course, which would have been a breach of duty and propriety, but in a figurative sense, which it is hoped no reader will interpret to her discredit. the young poet was in need of consolation. it is true that he had seen many remarkable sights during his visit to the city; that he had got "smarted up," as his mother called it, a good deal; that he had been to mrs. clymer ketchum's party, where he had looked upon life in all its splendors; and that he brought back many interesting experiences, which would serve to enliven his conversation for a long time. but he had failed in the great enterprise he had undertaken. he was forced to confess to his revered parent, and his esteemed friend susan posey, that his genius, which was freely acknowledged, was not thought to be quite ripe as yet. he told the young lady some particulars of his visit to the publisher, how he had listened with great interest to one of his poems, "the triumph of song,"--how he had treated him with marked and flattering attention; but that he advised him not to risk anything prematurely, giving him the hope that by and by he would be admitted into that series of illustrious authors which it was the publisher's privilege to present to the reading public. in short, he was advised not to print. that was the net total of the matter, and it was a pang to the susceptible heart of the poet. he had hoped to have come home enriched by the sale of his copyright, and with the prospect of seeing his name before long on the back of a handsome volume. gifted's mother did all in her power to console him in his disappointment. there was plenty of jealous people always that wanted to keep young folks from rising in the world. never mind, she did n't believe but what gifted could make jest as good verses as any of them that they kept such a talk about. she had a fear that he might pine away in consequence of the mental excitement he had gone through, and solicited his appetite with her choicest appliances,--of which he partook in a measure which showed that there was no immediate cause of alarm. but susan posey was more than a consoler,--she was an angel to him in this time of his disappointment. "read me all the poems over again," she said,--"it is almost the only pleasure i have left, to hear you read your beautiful verses." clement lindsay had not written to susan quite so often of late as at some former periods of the history of their love. perhaps it was that which had made her look paler than usual for some little time. something was evidently preying on her. her only delight seemed to be in listening to gifted as he read, sometimes with fine declamatory emphasis, sometimes in low, tremulous tones, the various poems enshrined in his manuscript. at other times she was sad, and more than once mrs. hopkins had seen a tear steal down her innocent cheek, when there seemed to be no special cause for grief. she ventured to speak of it to master byles gridley. "our susan's in trouble, mr. gridley, for some reason or other that's unbeknown to me, and i can't help wishing you could jest have a few words with her. you're a kind of a grandfather, you know, to all the young folks, and they'd tell you pretty much everything about themselves. i calc'late she is n't at ease in her mind about somethin' or other, and i kind o' think, mr. gridley, you could coax it out of her." "was there ever anything like it?" said master byles gridley to himself. "i shall have all the young folks in oxbow village to take care of at this rate. susan posey in trouble, too! well, well, well, it's easier to get a birch-bark canoe off the shallows than a big ship off the rocks. susan posey's trouble will be come at easily enough; but myrtle hazard floats in deeper water. we must make susan posey tell her own story, or let her tell it, for it will all come out of itself." "i am going to dust the books in the open shelves this morning. i wonder if miss susan posey would n't like to help for half an hour or so," master gridley remarked at the breakfast-table. the amiable girl's very pleasant countenance lighted up at the thought of obliging the old man who had been so kind to her and so liberal to her friend, the poet. she would be delighted to help him; she would dust them all for him, if he wanted her to. no, master gridley said, he always wanted to have a hand in it; and, besides, such a little body as she was could not lift those great folios out of the lower shelves without overstraining herself; she might handle the musketry and the light artillery, but he must deal with the heavy guns himself. "as low down as the octavos, susan posey, you shall govern; below that, the salic law." susan did not low much about the salic law; but she knew he meant that he would dust the big books and she would attend to the little ones. a very young and a very pretty girl is sometimes quite charming in a costume which thinks of nothing less than of being attractive. susan appeared after breakfast in the study, her head bound with a kerchief of bright pattern, a little jacket she had outgrown buttoned, in spite of opposition, close about her up to the throat, round which a white handkerchief was loosely tied, and a pair of old gauntlets protecting her hands, so that she suggested something between a gypsy, a jaunty soubrette, and the fille du regiment. master gridley took out a great volume from the lower shelf,--a folio in massive oaken covers with clasps like prison hinges, bearing the stately colophon, white on a ground of vermilion, of nicholas jenson and his associates. he opened the volume,--paused over its blue, and scarlet initial letter,--he turned page after page, admiring its brilliant characters, its broad, white marginal rivers, and the narrower white creek that separated the black-typed twin-columns, he turned back to the beginning and read the commendatory paragraph, "nam ipsorum omnia fidgent tum correctione dignissima, tum cura imprimendo splendida ac miranda," and began reading, "incipit proemium super apparatum decretalium...." when it suddenly occurred to him that this was not exactly doing what he had undertaken to do, and he began whisking an ancient bandanna about the ears of the venerable volume. all this time miss susan posey was catching the little books by the small of their backs, pulling them out, opening them, and clapping them together, 'p-'p-'p! 'p-'p-'p! and carefully caressing all their edges with a regular professional dusting-cloth, so persuasively that they yielded up every particle that a year had drifted upon them, and came forth refreshed and rejuvenated. this process went on for a while, until susan had worked down among the octavos and master gridley had worked up among the quartos. he had got hold of calmet's dictionary, and was caught by the article solomon, so that he forgot his occupation again. all at once it struck him that everything was very silent,--the 'p-'p-'p! of clapping the books had ceased, and the light rustle of susan's dress was no longer heard. he looked up and saw her standing perfectly still, with a book in one hand and her duster in the other. she was lost in thought, and by the shadow on her face and the glistening of her blue eyes he knew it was her hidden sorrow that had just come back to her. master gridley shut up his book, leaving solomon to his fate, like the worthy benedictine he was reading, without discussing the question whether he was saved or not. "susan posey, child, what is your trouble?" poor susan was in the state of unstable equilibrium which the least touch upsets, and fell to crying. it took her some time to get down the waves of emotion so that speech would live upon them. at last it ventured out,--showing at intervals, like the boat rising on the billow, sinking into the hollow, and climbing again into notice. "o mr. grid-ley--i can't--i can't--tell you or--any-body--what 's the mat-mat-matter. my heart will br-br-break." "no, no, no, child," said mr. gridley, sympathetically stirred a little himself by the sight of susan in tears and sobbing and catching her breath, "that mustn't be, susan posey. come off the steps, susan posey, and stop dusting the books,--i can finish them,--and tell me all abort your troubles. i will try 'to help you out of them, and i have begun to think i know how to help young people pretty well. i have had some experience at it." but susan cried and sobbed all the more uncontrollably and convulsively. master gridley thought he had better lead her at once to what he felt pretty sure was the source of her grief, and that, when she had had her cry out, she would probably make the hole in the ice he had broken big enough in a very few minutes. "i think something has gone wrong between you and your friend, the young gentleman with whom you are in intimate relations, my child, and i think you had better talk freely with me, for i can perhaps give you a little counsel that will be of service." susan cried herself quiet at last. "there's nobody in the world like you, mr. gridley," she said, "and i've been wanting to tell you something ever so long. my friend--mr. clem--clement lindsay does n't care for me as he used to,--i know he does n't. he hasn't written to me for--i don't know but it's a month. and o mr. gridley! he's such a great man, and i am such a simple person,--i can't help thinking--he would be happier with somebody else than poor little susan posey!" this last touch of self-pity overcame her, as it is so apt to do those who indulge in that delightful misery, and she broke up badly, as a horse-fancier would say, so that it was some little time before she recovered her conversational road-gait. "o mr. gridley," she began again, at length, "if i only dared to tell him what i think,--that perhaps it would be happier for us both--if we could forget each other! ought i not to tell him so? don't you think he would find another to make him happy? wouldn't he forgive me for telling him he was free? were we not too young to know each other's hearts when we promised each other that we would love as long as we lived? sha'n't i write him a letter this very day and tell him all? do you think it would be wrong in me to do it? o mr. gridley, it makes me almost crazy to think about it. clement must be free! i cannot, cannot hold him to a promise he does n't want to keep." there were so many questions in this eloquent rhapsody of susan's that they neutralized each other, as one might say, and master gridley had time for reflection. his thoughts went on something in this way: "pretty clear case! guess mr. clement can make up his mind to it. put it well, did n't she? not a word about our little gifted! that's the trouble. poets! how they do bewitch these schoolgirls! and having a chance every day, too, how could you expect her to stand it?" then aloud: "susan posey, you are a good, honest little girl as ever was. i think you and clement were too hasty in coming together for life before you knew what life meant. i think if you write clement a letter, telling him that you cannot help fearing that you two are not perfectly adapted to each other, on account of certain differences for which neither of you is responsible, and that you propose that each should release the other from the pledge given so long ago,--in that case, i say, i believe he will think no worse of you for so doing, and may perhaps agree that it is best for both of you to seek your happiness elsewhere than in each other." the book-dusting came to as abrupt a close as the reading of lancelot. susan went straight to her room, dried her tears so as to write in a fair hand, but had to stop every few lines and take a turn at the "dust-layers," as mrs. clymer ketchum's friend used to call the fountains of sensibility. it would seem like betraying susan's confidence to reveal the contents of this letter, but the reader may be assured that it was simple and sincere and very sweetly written, without the slightest allusion to any other young man, whether of the poetical or cheaper human varieties. it was not long before susan received a reply from clement lindsay. it was as kind and generous and noble as she could have asked. it was affectionate, as a very amiable brother's letter might be, and candidly appreciative of the reasons susan had assigned for her proposal. he gave her back her freedom, not that he should cease to feel an interest in her, always. he accepted his own release, not that he would ever think she could be indifferent to his future fortunes. and within a very brief period of time after sending his answer to susan posey, whether he wished to see her in person, or whether he had some other motive, he had packed his trunk, and made his excuses for an absence of uncertain length at the studio, and was on his way to oxbow village. chapter xxxiii. just as you expected. the spring of had now arrived,--that eventful spring which was to lift the curtain and show the first scene of the first act in the mighty drama which fixed the eyes of mankind during four bloody years. the little schemes of little people were going on in all our cities and villages without thought of the fearful convulsion which was soon coming to shatter the hopes and cloud the prospects of millions. our little oxbow village, which held itself by no means the least of human centres, was the scene of its own commotions, as intense and exciting to those concerned as if the destiny of the nation had been involved in them. mr. clement lindsay appeared suddenly in that important locality, and repaired to his accustomed quarters at the house of deacon rumrill. that worthy person received him with a certain gravity of manner, caused by his recollections of the involuntary transgression into which mr. lindsay had led him by his present of "ivanhoe."--he was, on the whole, glad to see him, for his finances were not yet wholly recovered from the injury inflicted on them by the devouring element. but he could not forget that his boarder had betrayed him into a breach of the fourth commandment, and that the strict eyes of his clergyman had detected him in the very commission of the offence. he had no sooner seen mr. clement comfortably installed, therefore, than he presented himself at the door of his chamber with the book, enveloped in strong paper and very securely tied round with a stout string. "here is your vollum, mr. lindsay," the deacon said. "i understand it is not the work of that great and good mahn who i thought wrote it. i did not see anything immoral in it as fur as i read, but it belongs to what i consider a very dangerous class of publications. these novels and romances are awfully destructive to our youth. i should recommend you, as a young man of principle, to burn the vollum. at least i hope you will not leave it about anywhere unless it is carefully tied up. i have written upon the paper round it to warn off all the young persons of my household from meddling with it." true enough, mr. clement saw in strong black letters on the back of the paper wrapping his unfortunate "ivanhoe,"-- "dangerous reading for christian youth. "touch not the unclean thing." "i thought you said you had scott's picture hung up in your parlor, deacon rumrill," he said, a little amused with the worthy man's fear and precautions. "it is the great scott's likeness that i have in my parlor," he said; "i will show it to you if you will come with me." mr. clement followed the deacon into that sacred apartment. "that is the portrait of the great scott," he said, pointing to an engraving of a heavy-looking person whose phrenological developments were a somewhat striking contrast to those of the distinguished sir walter. "i will take good care that none of your young people see this volume," mr. clement said; "i trust you read it yourself, however, and found something to please you in it. i am sure you are safe from being harmed by any such book. did n't you have to finish it, deacon, after you had once begun?" "well, i--i--perused a consid'able portion of the work," the deacon answered, in a way that led mr. clement to think he had not stopped much short of finis. "anything new in the city?" "nothing except what you've all had,--confederate states establishing an army and all that,--not very new either. what has been going on here lately, deacon?"-- "well, mr. lindsay, not a great deal. my new barn is pretty nigh done. i've got as fine a litter of pigs as ever you see. i don't know whether you're a judge of pigs or no. the hazard gal's come back, spilt, pooty much, i guess. been to one o' them fashionable schools,--i 've heerd that she 's learnt to dance. i've heerd say that that hopkins boy's round the posey gal, come to think, she's the one you went with some when you was here,--i 'm gettin' kind o' forgetful. old doctor hurlbut's pretty low,--ninety-four year old,--born in ' ,--folks ain't ginerally very spry after they're ninety, but he held out wonderful." "how's mr. bradshaw?" "well, the young squire, he's off travellin' somewhere in the west, or to washin'ton, or somewhere else,--i don't jestly know where. they say that he's follerin' up the courts in the business about old malachi's estate. i don' know much about it." the news got round oxbow village very speedily that mr. clement lindsay, generally considered the accepted lover of miss susan posey, had arrived in that place. now it had come to be the common talk of the village that young gifted hopkins and susan posey were getting to be mighty thick with each other, and the prevailing idea was that clement's visit had reference to that state of affairs. some said that susan had given her young man the mitten, meaning thereby that she had signified that his services as a suitor were dispensed with. others thought there was only a wavering in her affection for her lover, and that he feared for her constancy, and had come to vindicate his rights. some of the young fellows, who were doubtless envious of gifted's popularity with the fair sex, attempted in the most unjustifiable manner to play upon his susceptible nature. one of them informed him that he had seen that lindsay fellah raound taown with the darndest big stick y' ever did see. looked kind o' savage and wild like. another one told him that perhaps he'd better keep a little shady; that are chap that had got the mittin was praowlin' abaout--with a pistil,--one o' them darringers,--abaout as long as your thumb, an' fire a bullet as big as a p'tatah-ball,--'a fellah carries one in his breeches-pocket, an' shoots y' right threugh his own pahnts, withaout ever takin' on it aout of his pocket. the stable-keeper, who, it may be remembered, once exchanged a few playful words with mr. gridley, got a hint from some of these unfeeling young men, and offered the resources of his stable to the youth supposed to be in peril. "i 've got a faast colt, mr. hopkins, that 'll put twenty mild betwixt you an' this here village, as quick as any four huffs 'll dew it in this here caounty, if you should want to get away suddin. i've heern tell there was some lookin' raound here that wouldn't be wholesome to meet,--jest say the word, mr. hopkins, an' i 'll have ye on that are colt's back in less than no time, an' start ye off full jump. there's a good many that's kind o' worried for fear something might happen to ye, mr. hopkins,--y' see fellahs don't like to have other chaps cuttin' on 'em aout with their gals." gifted hopkins had become excessively nervous by this time. it is true that everything in his intimacy with susan posey, so far, might come under the general head of friendship; but he was conscious that something more was in both their thoughts. susan had given him mysterious hints that her relations with clement had undergone a change, but had never had quite courage enough, perhaps had too much delicacy, to reveal the whole truth. gifted was walking home, deeply immersed in thoughts excited by the hints which hail been thus wantonly thrown out to inflame his imagination, when all at once, on lifting his eyes, he saw clement lindsay coming straight towards him. gifted was unarmed, except with a pair of blunt scissors, which he carried habitually in his pocket. what should he do? should he fly? but he was never a good runner, being apt to find himself scant o' breath, like hamlet, after violent exercise. his demeanor on the occasion did credit to his sense of his own virtuous conduct and his self-possession. he put his hand out, while yet at a considerable distance, and marched up towards clement, smiling with all the native amiability which belonged to him. to his infinite relief, clement put out his hand to grasp the one offered him, and greeted the young poet in the most frank and cordial manner. "and how is miss susan posey, mr. hopkins?" asked clement, in the most cheerful tone. "it is a long while since i have seen her, and you must tell her that i hope i shall not leave the village without finding time to call upon her. she and i are good friends always, mr. hopkins, though perhaps i shall not be quite so often at your mother's as i was during my last visit to oxbow village." gifted felt somewhat as the subject of one of those old-fashioned forms of argument, formerly much employed to convince men of error in matters of religion, must have felt when the official who superintended the stretching-machine said, "slack up!" he told mr. clement all about susan, and was on the point of saying that if he, mr. clement, did not claim any engrossing interest in her, he, gifted, was ready to offer her the devotion of a poet's heart. mr. clement, however, had so many other questions to ask him about everybody in the village, more particularly concerning certain young persons in whom he seemed to be specially interested, that there was no chance to work in his own revelations of sentiment. clement lindsay had come to oxbow village with a single purpose. he could now venture to trust himself in the presence of myrtle hazard. he was free, and he knew nothing to show that she had lost the liberty of disposing of her heart. but after an experience such as he had gone through, he was naturally distrustful of himself, and inclined to be cautious and reserved in yielding to a new passion. should he tell her the true relations in which they stood to each other,--that she owed her life to him, and that he had very nearly sacrificed his own in saving hers? why not? he had a claim on her gratitude for what he had done in her behalf, and out of this gratitude there might naturally spring a warmer feeling. no, he could not try to win her affections by showing that he had paid for them beforehand. she seemed to be utterly unconscious of the fact that it was he who had been with her in the abyss of waters. if the thought came to her of itself, and she ever asked him, it would be time enough to tell her the story. if not, the moment might arrive when he could reveal to her the truth that he was her deliverer, without accusing himself of bribing her woman's heart to reward him for his services. he would wait for that moment. it was the most natural thing in the world that mr. lindsay, a young gentleman from the city, should call to see miss hazard, a young lady whom he had met recently at a party. to that pleasing duty he addressed himself the evening after his arrival. "the young gentleman's goin' a courtin', i calc'late," was the remark of the deacon's wife when she saw what a comely figure mr. clement showed at the tea-table. "a very hahnsome young mahn," the deacon replied, "and looks as if he might know consid'able. an architect, you know,--a sort of a builder. wonder if he has n't got any good plans for a hahnsome pigsty. i suppose he 'd charge somethin' for one, but it couldn't be much, an' he could take it out in board." "better ask him," his wife--said; "he looks mighty pleasant; there's nothin' lost by askin', an' a good deal got sometimes, grandma used to say." the deacon followed her advice. mr. clement was perfectly good-natured about it, asked the deacon the number of snouts in his menagerie, got an idea of the accommodations required, and sketched the plaza of a neat, and appropriate edifice for the porcellarium, as master gridley afterwards pleasantly christened it, which was carried out by the carpenter, and stands to this day a monument of his obliging disposition, and a proof that there is nothing so humble that taste cannot be shown in it. "what'll be your charge for the plan of the pigsty, mr. lindsay?" the deacon inquired with an air of interest,--he might have become involved more deeply than he had intended. "how much should you call about right for the picter an' figgerin'?" "oh, you're quite welcome to my sketch of a plan, deacon. i've seen much showier buildings tenanted by animals not very different from those your edifice is meant for." mr. clement found the three ladies sitting together in the chill, dim parlor at the poplars. they had one of the city papers spread out on the table, and myrtle was reading aloud the last news from charleston harbor. she rose as mr. clement entered, and stepped forward to meet him. it was a strange impression this young man produced upon her,--not through the common channels of the intelligence, not exactly that "magnetic" influence of which she had had experience at a former time. it did not over come her as at the moment of their second meeting. but it was something she must struggle against, and she had force and pride and training enough now to maintain her usual tranquillity, in spite of a certain inward commotion which seemed to reach her breathing and her pulse by some strange, inexplicable mechanism. myrtle, it must be remembered, was no longer the simple country girl who had run away at fifteen, but a young lady of seventeen, who had learned all that more than a year's diligence at a great school could teach her, who had been much with girls of taste and of culture, and was familiar with the style and manners of those who came from what considered itself the supreme order in the social hierarchy. her natural love for picturesque adornment was qualified by a knowledge of the prevailing modes not usual in so small a place as oxbow village. all this had not failed to produce its impression on those about her. persons who, like miss silence withers, believe, not in education, inasmuch as there is no healthy nature to be educated, but in transformation, worry about their charges up to a certain period of their lives. then, if the transformation does not come, they seem to think their cares and duties are at an end, and, considering their theories of human destiny, usually accept the situation with wonderful complacency. this was the stage which miss silence withers had reached with reference to myrtle. it made her infinitely more agreeable, or less disagreeable, as the reader may choose one or the other statement, than when she was always fretting about her "responsibility." she even began to take an interest in some of myrtle's worldly experiences, and something like a smile would now and then disarrange the chief-mourner stillness of her features, as myrtle would tell some lively story she had brought away from the gay society she had frequented. cynthia badlam kept her keen eyes on her like a hawk. murray bradshaw was away, and here was this handsome and agreeable youth coming in to poach on the preserve of which she considered herself the gamekeeper. what did it mean? she had heard the story about susan's being off with her old love and on with a new one. ah ha! this is the game, is it? clement lindsay passed not so much a pleasant evening, as one of strange, perplexed, and mingled delight and inward conflict. he had found his marble once more turned to flesh and blood, and breathing before him. this was the woman he was born for; her form was fit to model his proudest ideal from, her eyes melted him when they rested for an instant on his face,--her voice reached the hidden sensibilities of his inmost nature; those which never betray their existence until the outward chord to which they vibrate in response sends its message to stir them. but was she not already pledged to that other,--that cold-blooded, contriving, venal, cynical, selfish, polished, fascinating man of the world, whose artful strategy would pass with nine women out of ten for the most romantic devotion? if he had known the impression he made, he would have felt less anxiety with reference to this particular possibility. miss silence expressed herself gratified with his appearance, and thought he looked like a good young man,--he reminded her of a young friend of hers who--[it was the same who had gone to one of the cannibal islands as a missionary,--and stayed there.] myrtle was very quiet. she had nothing to say about clement, except that she had met him at a party in the city, and found him agreeable. miss cynthia wrote a letter to murray bradshaw that very evening, telling him that he had better come back to oxbow village as quickly as he could, unless he wished to find his place occupied by an intruder. in the mean time, the country was watching the garrison in charleston harbor. all at once the first gun of the four years' cannonade hurled its ball against the walls of fort sumter. there was no hamlet in the land which the reverberations of that cannon-roar did not reach. there was no valley so darkened by overshadowing hills that it did not see the american flag hauled down on the th of april. there was no loyal heart in the north that did not answer to the call of the country to its defenders which went forth two days later. the great tide of feeling reached the locality where the lesser events of our narrative were occurring. a meeting of the citizens was instantly called. the venerable father pemberton opened it with a prayer that filled every soul with courage and high resolve. the young farmers and mechanics of that whole region joined the companies to which they belonged, or organized in squads and marched at once, or got ready to march, to the scene of conflict. the contagion of warlike patriotism reached the most peacefully inclined young persons. "my country calls me," gifted hopkins said to susan posey, "and i am preparing to obey her summons. if i can pass the medical examination, which it is possible i may, though i fear my constitution may be thought too weak, and if no obstacle impedes me, i think of marching in the ranks of the oxbow invincibles. if i go, susan, and i fall, will you not remember me . . . as one who . . . cherished the tenderest . . . sentiments . . . towards you . . . and who had looked forward to the time when . . . when . ." his eyes told the rest. he loved! susan forgot all the rules of reserve to which she had been trained. what were cold conventionalities at such a moment? "never! never!" she said, throwing her arms about his neck and mingling her tears with his, which were flowing freely. "your country does not need your sword .... but it does need . . . your pen. your poems will inspire . . . our soldiers. . . . the oxbow invincibles will march to victory, singing your songs . . . . if you go . . . and if you.. . fall . . . o gifted! . . . i . . . i . . . . yes, i shall die too!" his love was returned. he was blest! "susan," he said, "my own susan, i yield to your wishes at every sacrifice. henceforth they will be my law. yes, i will stay and encourage my brave countrymen to go forward to the bloody field. my voice shall urge them on to the battle-ground. i will give my dearest breath to stimulate their ardor. "o susan! my own, own susan!" while these interesting events had been going on beneath the modest roof of the widow hopkins, affairs had been rapidly hastening to a similar conclusion under the statelier shadow of the poplars. clement lindsay was so well received at his first visit that he ventured to repeat it several times, with so short intervals that it implied something more than a common interest in one of the members of the household. there was no room for doubt who this could be, and myrtle hazard could not help seeing that she was the object of his undisguised admiration. the belief was now general in the village that gifted hopkins and susan posey were either engaged or on the point of being so; and it was equally understood that, whatever might be the explanation, she and her former lover had parted company in an amicable manner. love works very strange transformations in young women. sometimes it leads them to try every mode of adding to their attractions,--their whole thought is how to be most lovely in the eyes they would fill so as to keep out all other images. poor darlings! we smile at their little vanities, as if they were very trivial things compared with the last congressman's speech or the great election sermon; but nature knows well what she is about. the maiden's ribbon or ruffle means a great deal more for her than the judge's wig or the priest's surplice. it was not in this way that the gentle emotion awaking in the breast of myrtle hazard betrayed itself. as the thought dawned in her consciousness that she was loved, a change came over her such as the spirit that protected her, according to the harmless fancy she had inherited, might have wept for joy to behold, if tears could flow from angelic eyes. she forgot herself and her ambitions,--the thought of shining in the great world died out in the presence of new visions of a future in which she was not to be her own,--of feelings in the depth of which the shallow vanities which had drawn her young eyes to them for a while seemed less than nothing. myrtle had not hitherto said to herself that clement was her lover, yet her whole nature was expanding and deepening in the light of that friendship which any other eye could have known at a glance for the great passion. cynthia badlam wrote a pressing letter to murray bradshaw. "there is no time to be lost; she is bewitched, and will be gone beyond hope if this business is not put a stop to." love moves in an accelerating ratio; and there comes a time when the progress of the passion escapes from all human formulae, and brings two young hearts, which had been gradually drawing nearer and nearer together, into complete union, with a suddenness that puts an infinity between the moment when all is told and that which went just before. they were sitting together by themselves in the dimly lighted parlor. they had told each other many experiences of their past lives, very freely, as two intimate friends of different sex might do. clement had happened to allude to susan, speaking very kindly and tenderly of her. he hoped this youth to whom she was attached would make her life happy. "you know how simple-hearted and good she is; her image will always be a pleasant one in my memory,--second to but one other." myrtle ought, according to the common rules of conversation, to have asked, what other? but she did not. she may have looked as if she wanted to ask,--she may have blushed or turned pale, perhaps she could not trust her voice; but whatever the reason was, she sat still, with downcast eyes. clement waited a reasonable time, but, finding it was of no use, began again. "your image is the one other,--the only one, let me say, for all else fades in its presence,--your image fills all my thought. will you trust your life and happiness with one who can offer you so little beside his love? you know my whole heart is yours." whether myrtle said anything in reply or not, whether she acted like coleridge's genevieve,--that is, "fled to him and wept," or suffered her feelings to betray themselves in some less startling confession, we will leave untold. her answer, spoken or silent, could not have been a cruel one, for in another moment clement was pressing his lips to hers, after the manner of accepted lovers. "our lips have met to-day for the second time," he said, presently. she looked at him in wonder. what did he mean? the second time! how assuredly he spoke! she looked him calmly in the face, and awaited his explanation. "i have a singular story to tell you. on the morning of the th of june, now nearly two years ago, i was sitting in my room at alderbank, some twenty miles down the river, when i heard a cry for help coming from the river. i ran down to the bank, and there i saw a boy in an old boat--" when it came to the "boy" in the old boat, myrtle's cheeks flamed so that she could not bear it, and she covered her face with both her hands. but clement told his story calmly through to the end, sliding gently over its later incidents, for myrtle's heart was throbbing violently, and her breath a little catching and sighing, as when she had first lived with the new life his breath had given her. "why did you ask me for myself, when you could have claimed me?" she said. "i wanted a free gift, myrtle," clement answered, "and i have it." they sat in silence, lost in the sense of that new life which had suddenly risen on their souls. the door-bell rang sharply. kitty fagan answered its summons, and presently entered the parlor and announced that mr. bradshaw was in the library, and wished to see the ladies. chapter xxxiv. murray bradshaw plays his last card. "how can i see that man this evening, mr. lindsay?" "may i not be clement, dearest? i would not see him at all, myrtle. i don't believe you will find much pleasure in listening to his fine speeches." "i cannot endure it.--kitty, tell him i am engaged, and cannot see him this evening. no, no! don't say engaged, say very much occupied." kitty departed, communing with herself in this wise:--"ockipied, is it? an' that's what ye cahl it when ye 're kapin' company with one young gintleman an' don't want another young gintleman to come in an' help the two of ye? ye won't get y'r pigs to market to-day, mr. bridshaw, no, nor to-morrow, nayther, mr. bridshaw. it's mrs. lindsay that miss myrtle is goin' to be,--an' a big cake there'll be at the weddin' frosted all over,--won't ye be plased with a slice o' that, mr. bridshaw?" with these reflections in her mind, mistress kitty delivered her message, not without a gleam of malicious intelligence in her look that stung mr. bradshaw sharply. he had noticed a hat in the entry, and a little stick by it which he remembered well as one he had seen carried by clement lindsay. but he was used to concealing his emotions, and he greeted the two older ladies who presently came into the library so pleasantly, that no one who had not studied his face long and carefully would have suspected the bitterness of heart that lay hidden far down beneath his deceptive smile. he told miss silence, with much apparent interest, the story of his journey. he gave her an account of the progress of the case in which the estate of which she inherited the principal portion was interested. he did not tell her that a final decision which would settle the right to the great claim might be expected at any moment, and he did not tell her that there was very little doubt that it would be in favor of the heirs of malachi withers. he was very sorry he could not see miss hazard that evening,--hoped he should be more fortunate to-morrow forenoon, when he intended to call again,--had a message for her from one of her former school friends, which he was anxious to give her. he exchanged certain looks and hints with miss cynthia, which led her to withdraw and bring down the papers he had entrusted to her. at the close of his visit, she followed him into the entry with a lamp, as was her common custom. "what's the meaning of all this, cynthia? is that fellow making love to myrtle?" "i'm afraid so, mr. bradshaw. he's been here several times, and they seem to be getting intimate. i couldn't do anything to stop it." "give me the papers,--quick!" cynthia pulled the package from her pocket. murray bradshaw looked sharply at it. a little crumpled,--crowded into her pocket. seal unbroken. all safe. "i shall come again to-morrow forenoon. another day and it will be all up. the decision of the court will be known. it won't be my fault if one visit is not enough.--you don't suppose myrtle is in love with this fellow?" "she acts as--if she might be. you know he's broke with susan posey, and there's nothing to hinder. if you ask my opinion, i think it's your last chance: she is n't a girl to half do things, and if she has taken to this man it will be hard to make her change her mind. but she's young, and she has had a liking for you, and if you manage it well there's no telling." two notes passed between myrtle hazard and master byles gridley that evening. mistress kitty fagan, who had kept her ears pretty wide open, carried them. murray bradshaw went home in a very desperate state of feeling. he had laid his plans, as he thought, with perfect skill, and the certainty of their securing their end. these papers were to have been taken from the envelope, and found in the garret just at the right moment, either by cynthia herself or one of the other members of the family, who was to be led on, as it were accidentally, to the discovery. the right moment must be close at hand. he was to offer his hand--and heart, of course--to myrtle, and it was to be accepted. as soon as the decision of the land case was made known, or not long afterwards, there was to be a search in the garret for papers, and these were to be discovered in a certain dusty recess, where, of course, they would have been placed by miss cynthia. and now the one condition which gave any value to these arrangements seemed like to fail. this obscure youth--this poor fool, who had been on the point of marrying a simpleton to whom he had made a boyish promise--was coming between him and the object of his long pursuit,--the woman who had every attraction to draw him to herself. it had been a matter of pride with murray bradshaw that he never lost his temper so as to interfere with the precise course of action which his cool judgment approved; but now he was almost beside himself with passion. his labors, as he believed, had secured the favorable issue of the great case so long pending. he had followed myrtle through her whole career, if not as her avowed lover, at least as one whose friendship promised to flower in love in due season. the moment had come when the scene and the characters in this village drama were to undergo a change as sudden and as brilliant as is seen in those fairy spectacles where the dark background changes to a golden palace and the sober dresses are replaced by robes of regal splendor. the change was fast approaching; but he, the enchanter, as he had thought himself, found his wand broken, and his power given to another. he could not sleep during that night. he paced his room, a prey to jealousy and envy and rage, which his calm temperament had kept him from feeling in their intensity up to this miserable hour. he thought of all that a maddened nature can imagine to deaden its own intolerable anguish. of revenge. if myrtle rejected his suit, should he take her life on the spot, that she might never be another's,--that neither man nor woman should ever triumph over him,--the proud ambitious man, defeated, humbled, scorned? no! that was a meanness of egotism which only the most vulgar souls could be capable of. should he challenge her lover? it was not the way of the people and time, and ended in absurd complications, if anybody was foolish enough to try it. shoot him? the idea floated through his mind, for he thought of everything; but he was a lawyer, and not a fool, and had no idea of figuring in court as a criminal. besides, he was not a murderer,--cunning was his natural weapon, not violence. he had a certain admiration of desperate crime in others, as showing nerve and force, but he did not feel it to be his own style of doing business. during the night he made every arrangement for leaving the village the next day, in case he failed to make any impression on myrtle hazard and found that his chance was gone. he wrote a letter to his partner, telling him that he had left to join one of the regiments forming in the city. he adjusted all his business matters so that his partner should find as little trouble as possible. a little before dawn he threw himself on the bed, but he could not sleep; and he rose at sunrise, and finished his preparations for his departure to the city. the morning dragged along slowly. he could not go to the office, not wishing to meet his partner again. after breakfast he dressed himself with great care, for he meant to show himself in the best possible aspect. just before he left the house to go to the poplars, he took the sealed package from his trunk, broke open the envelope, took from it a single paper,--it had some spots on it which distinguished it from all the rest,--put it separately in his pocket, and then the envelope containing the other papers. the calm smile he wore on his features as he set forth cost him a greater effort than he had ever made before to put it on. he was moulding his face to the look with which he meant to present himself; and the muscles had been sternly fixed so long that it was a task to bring them to their habitual expression in company,--that of ingenuous good-nature. he was shown into the parlor at the poplars; and kitty told myrtle that he had called and inquired for her and was waiting down stairs. "tell him i will be down presently," she said. "and, kitty, now mind just what i tell you. leave your kitchen door open, so that you can hear anything fall in the parlor. if you hear a book fall,--it will be a heavy one, and will make some noise,--run straight up here to my little chamber, and hang this red scarf out of the window. the left-hand side-sash, mind, so that anybody can see it from the road. if mr. gridley calls, show him into the parlor, no matter who is there." kitty fagan looked amazingly intelligent, and promised that she would do exactly as she was told. myrtle followed her down stairs almost immediately, and went into the parlor, where mr. bradshaw was waiting. never in his calmest moments had he worn a more insinuating smile on his features than that with which he now greeted myrtle. so gentle, so gracious, so full of trust, such a completely natural expression of a kind, genial character did it seem, that to any but an expert it would have appeared impossible that such an effect could be produced by the skilful balancing of half a dozen pairs of little muscles that manage the lips and the corners of the mouth. the tones of his voice were subdued into accord with the look of his features; his whole manner was fascinating, as far as any conscious effort could make it so. it was just one of those artificially pleasing effects that so often pass with such as have little experience of life for the genuine expression of character and feeling. but myrtle had learned the look that shapes itself on the features of one who loves with a love that seeketh not its own, and she knew the difference between acting and reality. she met his insinuating approach with a courtesy so carefully ordered that it was of itself a sentence without appeal. artful persons often interpret sincere ones by their own standard. murray bradshaw thought little of this somewhat formal address,--a few minutes would break this thin film to pieces. he was not only a suitor with a prize to gain, he was a colloquial artist about to employ all the resources of his specialty. he introduced the conversation in the most natural and easy way, by giving her the message from a former school-mate to which he had referred, coloring it so delicately, as he delivered it, that it became an innocent-looking flattery. myrtle found herself in a rose-colored atmosphere, not from murray bradshaw's admiration, as it seemed, but only reflected by his mind from another source. that was one of his arts, always, if possible, to associate himself incidentally, as it appeared, and unavoidably, with an agreeable impression. so myrtle was betrayed into smiling and being pleased before he had said a word about himself or his affairs. then he told her of the adventures and labors of his late expedition; of certain evidence which at the very last moment he had unearthed, and which was very probably the turning-point in the case. he could not help feeling that she must eventually reap some benefit from the good fortune with which his efforts had been attended. the thought that it might yet be so had been a great source of encouragement to him,--it would always be a great happiness to him to remember that he had done anything to make her happy. myrtle was very glad that he had been so far successful,--she did not know that it made much difference to her, but she was obliged to him for the desire of serving her that he had expressed. "my services are always yours, miss hazard. there is no sacrifice i would not willingly make for your benefit. i have never had but one feeling toward you. you cannot be ignorant of what that feeling is." "i know, mr. bradshaw, it has been one of kindness. i have to thank you for many friendly attentions, for which i hope i have never been ungrateful." "kindness is not all that i feel towards you, miss hazard. if that were all, my lips would not tremble as they do now in telling you my feelings.--i love you." he sprang the great confession on myrtle a little sooner than he had meant. it was so hard to go on making phrases! myrtle changed color a little, for she was startled. the seemingly involuntary movement she made brought her arm against a large dictionary, which lay very near the edge of the table on which it was resting. the book fell with a loud noise to the floor. there it lay. the young man awaited her answer; he did not think of polite forms at such a moment. "it cannot be, mr. bradshaw,--it must not be. i have known you long, and i am not ignorant of all your brilliant qualities, but you must not speak to me of love. your regard,--your friendly interest, tell me that i shall always have these, but do not distress me with offering more than these." "i do not ask you to give me your love in return; i only ask you not to bid me despair. let me believe that the time may come' when you will listen to me,--no matter how distant. you are young,--you have a tender heart,--you would not doom one who only lives for you to wretchedness,--so long that we have known each other. it cannot be that any other has come between us--" myrtle blushed so deeply that there was no need of his finishing his question. "do you mean, myrtle hazard, that you have cast me aside for another?--for this stranger--this artist--who was with you yesterday when i came, bringing with me the story of all i had done for you, yes, for you,--and was ignominiously refused the privilege of seeing you?" rage and jealousy had got the better of him this time. he rose as he spoke, and looked upon her with such passion kindling in his eyes that he seemed ready for any desperate act. "i have thanked you for any services you may have rendered me, mr. bradshaw," myrtle answered, very calmly, "and i hope you will add one more to them by sparing me this rude questioning. i wished to treat you as a friend; i hope you will not render that impossible." he had recovered himself for one more last effort. "i was impatient overlook it, i beg you. i was thinking of all the happiness i have labored to secure for you, and of the ruin to us both it would be if you scornfully rejected the love i offer you,--if you refuse to leave me any hope for the future,--if you insist on throwing yourself away on this man, so lately pledged to another. i hold the key of all your earthly fortunes in my hand. my love for you inspired me in all that i have done, and, now that i come to lay the result of my labors at your feet, you turn from me, and offer my reward to a stranger. i do not ask you to say this day that you will be mine,--i would not force your inclinations,--but i do ask you that you will hold yourself free of all others, and listen to me as one who may yet be more than a friend. say so much as this, myrtle, and you shall have such a future as you never dreamed of. fortune, position, all that this world can give, shall be yours." "never! never! if you could offer me the whole world, or take away from me all that the world can give, it would make no difference to me. i cannot tell what power you hold over me, whether of life and death, or of wealth and poverty; but after talking to me of love, i should not have thought you would have wronged me by suggesting any meaner motive. it is only because we have been on friendly terms so long that i have listened to you as i have done. you have said more than enough, and i beg you will allow me to put an end to this interview." she rose to leave the room. but murray bradshaw had gone too far to control himself,--he listened only to the rage which blinded him. "not yet!" he said. "stay one moment, and you shall know what your pride and self-will have cost you!" myrtle stood, arrested, whether by fear, or curiosity, or the passive subjection of her muscles to his imperious will, it would be hard to say. murray bradshaw took out the spotted paper from his breast-pocket, and held it up before her. "look here!" he exclaimed. "this would have made you rich,--it would have crowned you a queen in society,--it would have given you all, and more than all, that you ever dreamed of luxury, of splendor, of enjoyment; and i, who won it for you, would have taught you how to make life yield every bliss it had in store to your wishes. you reject my offer unconditionally?" myrtle expressed her negative only by a slight contemptuous movement. murray bradshaw walked deliberately to the fireplace, and laid the spotted paper upon the burning coals. it writhed and curled, blackened, flamed, and in a moment was a cinder dropping into ashes. he folded his arms, and stood looking at the wreck of myrtle's future, the work of his cruel hand. strangely enough, myrtle herself was fascinated, as it were, by the apparent solemnity of this mysterious sacrifice. she had kept her eyes steadily on him all the time, and was still gazing at the altar on which her happiness had been in some way offered up, when the door was opened by kitty fagan, and master byles gridley was ushered into the parlor. "too late, old man! "murray bradshaw exclaimed, in a hoarse and savage voice, as he passed out of the room, and strode through the entry and down the avenue. it was the last time the old gate of the poplars was to open or close for him. the same day he left the village; and the next time his name was mentioned it was as an officer in one of the regiments just raised and about marching to the seat of war. chapter xxxv. the spotted paper. what master gridley may have said to myrtle hazard that served to calm her after this exciting scene cannot now be recalled. that murray bradshaw thought he was inflicting a deadly injury on her was plain enough. that master gridley did succeed in convincing her that no great harm had probably been done her is equally certain. like all bachelors who have lived a lonely life, master byles gridley had his habits, which nothing short of some terrestrial convulsion--or perhaps, in his case, some instinct that drove him forth to help somebody in trouble--could possibly derange. after his breakfast, he always sat and read awhile,--the paper, if a new one came to hand, or some pleasant old author,--if a little neglected by the world of readers, he felt more at ease with him, and loved him all the better. but on the morning after his interview with myrtle hazard, he had received a letter which made him forget newspapers, old authors, almost everything, for the moment. it was from the publisher with whom he had had a conversation, it may be remembered, when he visited the city, and was to this effect: that our firm propose to print and stereotype the work originally published under the title of "thoughts on the universe"; said work to be remodelled according to the plan suggested by the author, with the corrections, alterations, omissions, and additions proposed by him; said work to be published under the following title, to wit: ________ _________: said work to be printed in mo, on paper of good quality, from new types, etc., etc., and for every copy thereof printed the author to receive, etc., etc. master gridley sat as in a trance, reading this letter over and over, to know if it could be really so. so it really was. his book had disappeared from the market long ago, as the elm seeds that carpet the ground and never germinate disappear. at last it had got a certain value as a curiosity for book-hunters. some one of them, keener-eyed than the rest, had seen that there was a meaning and virtue in this unsuccessful book, for which there was a new audience educated since it had tried to breathe before its time. out of this had grown at last the publisher's proposal. it was too much: his heart swelled with joy, and his eyes filled with tears. how could he resist the temptation? he took down his own particular copy of the book, which was yet to do him honor as its parent, and began reading. as his eye fell on one paragraph after another, he nodded approval of this sentiment or opinion, he shook his head as if questioning whether this other were not to be modified or left out, he condemned a third as being no longer true for him as when it was written, and he sanctioned a fourth with his hearty approval. the reader may like a few specimens from this early edition, now a rarity. he shall have them, with master gridley's verbal comments. the book, as its name implied, contained "thoughts" rather than consecutive trains of reasoning or continuous disquisitions. what he read and remarked upon were a few of the more pointed statements which stood out in the chapters he was turning over. the worth of the book must not be judged by these almost random specimens. "the best thought, like the most perfect digestion, is done unconsciously.--develop that.--ideas at compound interest in the mind.--be aye sticking in an idea,--while you're sleeping it'll be growing. seed of a thought to-day,--flower to-morrow--next week--ten years from now, etc.--article by and by for the.... "can the infinite be supposed to shift the responsibility of the ultimate destiny of any created thing to the finite? our theologians pretend that it can. i doubt.--heretical. stet. "protestantism means none of your business. but it is afraid of its own logic.--stet. no logical resting-place short of none of your business. "the supreme self-indulgence is to surrender the will to a spiritual director.--protestantism gave up a great luxury.--did it though? "asiatic modes of thought and speech do not express the 'relations in which the american feels him self to stand to his superiors in this or any other sphere of being. republicanism must have its own religious phraseology, which is not that borrowed from oriental despotisms. "idols and dogmas in place of character; pills and theories in place of wholesome living. see the histories of theology and medicine passim.--hits 'em. "'of such is the kingdom of heaven.' do you mean to say jean chauvin, that 'heaven lies about us in our infancy'? "why do you complain of your organization? your soul was in a hurry, and made a rush for a body. there are patient spirits that have waited from eternity, and never found parents fit to be born of.--how do you know anything about all that? dele. "what sweet, smooth voices the negroes have! a hundred generations fed on bananas.--compare them with our apple-eating white folks!--it won't do. bananas came from the west indies. "to tell a man's temperament by his handwriting. see if the dots of his i's run ahead or not, and if they do, how far.--i have tried that--on myself. "marrying into some families is the next thing to being canonized.--not so true now as twenty or thirty years ago. as many bladders, but more pins. "fish and dandies only keep on ice.--who will take? explain in note how all warmth approaching blood heat spoils fops and flounders. "flying is a lost art among men and reptiles. bats fly, and men ought to. try a light turbine. rise a mile straight, fall half a mile slanting,--rise half a mile straight, fall half a mile slanting, and so on. or slant up and slant down.--poh! you ain't such a fool as to think that is new,--are you? "put in my telegraph project. central station. cables with insulated wires running to it from different quarters of the city. these form the centripetal system. from central station, wires to all the livery stables, messenger stands, provision shops, etc., etc. these form the centrifugal system. any house may have a wire in the nearest cable at small cost. "do you want to be remembered after the continents have gone under, and come up again, and dried, and bred new races? have your name stamped on all your plates and cups and saucers. nothing of you or yours will last like those. i never sit down at my table without looking at the china service, and saying, 'here are my monuments. that butter-dish is my urn. this soup-plate is my memorial tablet.' no need of a skeleton at my banquets! i feed from my tombstone and read my epitaph at the bottom of every teacup.--good." he fell into a revery as he finished reading this last sentence. he thought of the dim and dread future,--all the changes that it would bring to him, to all the living, to the face of the globe, to the order of earthly things. he saw men of a new race, alien to all that had ever lived, excavating with strange, vast engines the old ocean-bed now become habitable land. and as the great scoops turned out the earth they had fetched up from the unexplored depths, a relic of a former simple civilization revealed the fact that here a tribe of human beings had lived and perished.--only the coffee-cup he had in his hand half an hour ago.--where would he be then? and mrs. hopkins, and gifted, and susan, and everybody? and president buchanan? and the boston state-house? and broadway?--o lord, lord, lord! and the sun perceptibly smaller, according to the astronomers, and the earth cooled down a number of degrees, and inconceivable arts practised by men of a type yet undreamed of, and all the fighting creeds merged in one great universal-- a knock at his door interrupted his revery. miss susan posey informed him that a gentleman was waiting below who wished to see him. "show him up to my study, susan posey, if you please," said master gridley. mr. penhallow presented himself at mr. gridley's door with a countenance expressive of a very high state of excitement. "you have heard the news, mr. gridley, i suppose?" "what news, mr. penhallow?" "first, that my partner has left very unexpectedly to enlist in a regiment just forming. second, that the great land case is decided in favor of the heirs of the late malachi withers." "your partner must have known about it yesterday?" "he did, even before i knew it. he thought himself possessed of a very important document, as you know, of which he has made, or means to make, some use. you are aware of the artifice i employed to prevent any possible evil consequences from any action of his. i have the genuine document, of course. i wish you to go over with me to the poplars, and i should be glad to have good old father pemberton go with us; for it is a serious matter, and will be a great surprise to more than one of the family." they walked together to the old house, where the old clergyman had lived for more than half a century. he was used to being neglected by the people who ran after his younger colleague; and the attention paid him in asking him to be present on an important occasion, as he understood this to be, pleased him greatly. he smoothed his long white locks, and called a grand-daughter to help make him look fitly for such an occasion, and, being at last got into his grandest sunday aspect, took his faithful staff, and set out with the two gentlemen for the poplars. on the way, mr. penhallow explained to him the occasion of their visit, and the general character of the facts he had to announce. he wished the venerable minister to prepare miss silence withers for a revelation which would materially change her future prospects. he thought it might be well, also, if he would say a few words to myrtle hazard, for whom a new life, with new and untried temptations, was about to open. his business was, as a lawyer, to make known to these parties the facts just come to his own knowledge affecting their interests. he had asked mr. gridley to go with him, as having intimate relations with one of the parties referred to, and as having been the principal agent in securing to that party the advantages which were to accrue to her from the new turn of events. "you are a second parent to her, mr. gridley," he said. "your vigilance, your shrewdness, and your-spectacles have saved her. i hope she knows the full extent of her obligations to you, and that she will always look to you for counsel in all her needs. she will want a wise friend, for she is to begin the world anew." what had happened, when she saw the three grave gentlemen at the door early in the forenoon, mistress kitty fagan could not guess. something relating to miss myrtle, no doubt: she wasn't goin' to be married right off to mr. clement,--was she,--and no church, nor cake, nor anything? the gentlemen were shown into the parlor. "ask miss withers to go into the library, kitty," said master gridley. "dr. pemberton wishes to speak with her." the good old man was prepared for a scene with miss silence. he announced to her, in a kind and delicate way, that she must make up her mind to the disappointment of certain expectations which she had long entertained, and which, as her lawyer, mr. penhallow, had come to inform her and others, were to be finally relinquished from this hour. to his great surprise, miss silence received this communication almost cheerfully. it seemed more like a relief to her than anything else. her one dread in this world was her "responsibility "; and the thought that she might have to account for ten talents hereafter, instead of one, had often of late been a positive distress to her. there was also in her mind a secret disgust at the thought of the hungry creatures who would swarm round her if she should ever be in a position to bestow patronage. this had grown upon her as the habits of lonely life gave her more and more of that fastidious dislike to males in general, as such, which is not rare in maidens who have seen the roses of more summers than politeness cares to mention. father pemberton then asked if he could see miss myrtle hazard a few moments in the library before they went into the parlor, where they were to meet mr. penhallow and mr. gridley, for the purpose of receiving the lawyer's communication. what change was this which myrtle had undergone since love had touched her heart, and her visions of worldly enjoyment had faded before the thought of sharing and ennobling the life of one who was worthy of her best affections,--of living for another, and of finding her own noblest self in that divine office of woman? she had laid aside the bracelet which she had so long worn as a kind of charm as well as an ornament. one would have said her features had lost something of that look of imperious beauty which had added to her resemblance to the dead woman whose glowing portrait hung upon her wall. and if it could be that, after so many generations, the blood of her who had died for her faith could show in her descendants veins, and the soul of that elect lady of her race look out from her far-removed offspring's dark eyes, such a transfusion of the martyr's life and spiritual being might well seem to manifest itself in myrtle hazard. the large-hearted old man forgot his scholastic theory of human nature as he looked upon her face. he thought he saw in her the dawning of that grace which some are born with; which some, like myrtle, only reach through many trials and dangers; which some seem to show for a while and then lose; which too many never reach while they wear the robes of earth, but which speaks of the kingdom of heaven already begun in the heart of a child of earth. he told her simply the story of the occurrences which had brought them together in the old house, with the message the lawyer was to deliver to its inmates. he wished to prepare her for what might have been too sudden a surprise. but myrtle was not wholly unprepared for some such revelation. there was little danger that any such announcement would throw her mind from its balance after the inward conflict through which she had been passing. for her lover had left her almost as soon as he had told her the story of his passion, and the relation in which he stood to her. he, too, had gone to answer his country's call to her children, not driven away by crime and shame and despair, but quitting all--his new-born happiness, the art in which he was an enthusiast, his prospects of success and honor--to obey the higher command of duty. war was to him, as to so many of the noble youth who went forth, only organized barbarism, hateful but for the sacred cause which alone redeemed it from the curse that blasted the first murderer. god only knew the sacrifice such young men as he made. how brief myrtle's dream had been! she almost doubted, at some moments, whether she would not awake from it, as from her other visions, and find it all unreal. there was no need of fearing any undue excitement of her mind after the alternations of feeling she had just experienced. nothing seemed of much moment to her which could come from without,--her real world was within, and the light of its day and the breath of its life came from her love, made holy by the self-forgetfulness on both sides which was born with it. only one member of the household was in danger of finding the excitement more than she could bear. miss cynthia knew that all murray bradshaw's plans, in which he had taken care that she should have a personal interest, had utterly failed. what he had done with the means of revenge in his power,--if, indeed, they were still in his power,--she did not know. she only knew that there had been a terrible scene, and that he had gone, leaving it uncertain whether he would ever return. it was with fear and trembling that she heard the summons which went forth, that the whole family should meet in the parlor to listen to a statement from mr. penhallow. they all gathered as requested, and sat round the room, with the exception of mistress kitty fagan, who knew her place too well to be sittin' down with the likes o' them, and stood with attentive ears in the doorway. mr. penhallow then read from a printed paper the decision of the supreme court in the land case so long pending, where the estate of the late malachi withers was the claimant, against certain parties pretending to hold under an ancient grant. the decision was in favor of the estate. "this gives a great property to the heirs," mr. penhallow remarked, "and the question as to who these heirs are has to be opened. for the will under which silence withers, sister of the deceased, has inherited is dated some years previous to the decease, and it was not very strange that a will of later date should be discovered. such a will has been discovered. it is the instrument i have here." myrtle hazard opened her eyes very widely, for the paper mr. penlallow held looked exactly like that which murray bradshaw had burned, and, what was curious, had some spots on it just like some she had noticed on that. "this will," mr. penhallow said, "signed by witnesses dead or absent from this place, makes a disposition of the testator's property in some respects similar to that of the previous one, but with a single change, which proves to be of very great importance." mr. penhallow proceeded to read the will. the important change in the disposition of the property was this: in case the land claim was decided in favor of the estate, then, in addition to the small provision made for myrtle hazard, the property so coming to the estate should all go to her. there was no question about the genuineness and the legal sufficiency of this instrument. its date was not very long after the preceding one, at a period when, as was well known, he had almost given up the hope of gaining his case, and when the property was of little value compared to that which it had at present. a long silence followed this reading. then, to the surprise of all, miss silence withers rose, and went to myrtle hazard, and wished her joy with every appearance of sincerity. she was relieved of a great responsibility. myrtle was young and could bear it better. she hoped that her young relative would live long to enjoy the blessings providence had bestowed upon her, and to use them for the good of the community, and especially the promotion of the education of deserving youth. if some fitting person could be found to advise myrtle, whose affairs would require much care, it would be a great relief to her. they all went up to myrtle and congratulated her on her change of fortune. even cynthia badlam got out a phrase or two which passed muster in the midst of the general excitement. as for kitty fagan, she could not say a word, but caught myrtle's hand and kissed it as if it belonged to her own saint; and then, suddenly applying her apron to her eyes, retreated from a scene which was too much for her, in a state of complete mental beatitude and total bodily discomfiture. then silence asked the old minister to make a prayer, and he stretched his hands up to heaven, and called down all the blessings of providence upon all the household, and especially upon this young handmaiden, who was to be tried with prosperity, and would need all aid from above to keep her from its dangers. then mr. penhallow asked myrtle if she had any choice as to the friend who should have charge of her affairs. myrtle turned to master byles gridley, and said, "you have been my friend and protector so far, will you continue to be so hereafter?" master gridley tried very hard to begin a few words of thanks to her for her preference, but finding his voice a little uncertain, contented himself with pressing her hand and saying, "most willingly, my dear daughter!" chapter xxxvi conclusion. the same day the great news of myrtle hazard's accession to fortune came out, the secret was told that she had promised herself in marriage to mr. clement lindsay. but her friends hardly knew how to congratulate her on this last event. her lover was gone, to risk his life, not improbably to lose it, or to come home a wreck, crippled by wounds, or worn out with disease. some of them wondered to see her so cheerful in such a moment of trial. they could not know how the manly strength of clement's determination had nerved her for womanly endurance. they had not learned that a great cause makes great souls, or reveals them to themselves,--a lesson taught by so many noble examples in the times that followed. myrtle's only desire seemed to be to labor in some way to help the soldiers and their families. she appeared to have forgotten everything for this duty; she had no time for regrets, if she were disposed to indulge them, and she hardly asked a question as to the extent of the fortune which had fallen to her. the next number of the "banner and oracle" contained two announcements which she read with some interest when her attention was called to them. they were as follows: "a fair and accomplished daughter of this village comes, by the late decision of the supreme court, into possession of a property estimated at a million of dollars or more. it consists of a large tract of land purchased many years ago by the late malachi withers, now become of immense value by the growth of a city in its neighborhood, the opening of mines, etc., etc. it is rumored that the lovely and highly educated heiress has formed a connection looking towards matrimony with a certain distinguished artist." "our distinguished young townsman, william murray bradshaw, esq., has been among the first to respond to the call of the country for champions to defend her from traitors. we understand that he has obtained a captaincy in the __th regiment, about to march to the threatened seat of war. may victory perch on his banners!" the two lovers, parted by their own self-sacrificing choice in the very hour that promised to bring them so much happiness, labored for the common cause during all the terrible years of warfare, one in the camp and the field, the other in the not less needful work which the good women carried on at home, or wherever their services were needed. clement--now captain lindsay--returned at the end of his first campaign charged with a special office. some months later, after one of the great battles, he was sent home wounded. he wore the leaf on his shoulder which entitled him to be called major lindsay. he recovered from his wound only too rapidly, for myrtle had visited him daily in the military hospital where he had resided for treatment; and it was bitter parting. the telegraph wires were thrilling almost hourly with messages of death, and the long pine boxes came by almost every train,--no need of asking what they held. once more he came, detailed on special duty, and this time with the eagle on his shoulder,--he was colonel lindsay. the lovers could not part again of their own free will. some adventurous women had followed their husbands to the camp, and myrtle looked as if she could play the part of the maid of saragossa on occasion. so clement asked her if she would return with him as his wife; and myrtle answered, with as much willingness to submit as a maiden might fairly show under such circumstances, that she would do his bidding. thereupon, with the shortest possible legal notice, father pemberton was sent for, and the ceremony was performed in the presence of a few witnesses in the large parlor at the poplars, which was adorned with flowers, and hung round with all the portraits of the dead members of the family, summoned as witnesses to the celebration. one witness looked on with unmoved features, yet myrtle thought there was a more heavenly smile on her faded lips than she had ever seen before beaming from the canvas,--it was ann holyoake, the martyr to her faith, the guardian spirit of myrtle's visions, who seemed to breathe a holier benediction than any words--even those of the good old father pemberton himself--could convey. they went back together to the camp. from that period until the end of the war, myrtle passed her time between the life of the tent and that of the hospital. in the offices of mercy which she performed for the sick and the wounded and the dying, the dross of her nature seemed to be burned away. the conflict of mingled lives in her blood had ceased. no lawless impulses usurped the place of that serene resolve which had grown strong by every exercise of its high prerogative. if she had been called now to die for any worthy cause, her race would have been ennobled by a second martyr, true to the blood of her who died under the cruel queen. many sad sights she saw in the great hospital where she passed some months at intervals,--one never to be forgotten. an officer was brought into the ward where she was in attendance. "shot through the lungs,--pretty nearly gone." she went softly to his bedside. he was breathing with great difficulty; his face was almost convulsed with the effort, but she recognized him in a moment; it was murray bradshaw,--captain bradshaw, as she knew by the bars on his coat flung upon the bed where he had just been laid. she addressed him by name, tenderly as if he had been a dear brother; she saw on his face that hers were to be the last kind words he would ever hear. he turned his glazing eyes upon her. "who are you?" he said in a feeble voice. "an old friend," she answered; "you knew me as myrtle hazard." he started. "you by my bedside! you caring for me!--for me, that burned the title to your fortune to ashes before your eyes! you can't forgive that,--i won't believe it! don't you hate me, dying as i am?" myrtle was used to maintaining a perfect calmness of voice and countenance, and she held her feelings firmly down. "i have nothing to forgive you, mr. bradshaw. you may have meant to do me wrong, but providence raised up a protector for me. the paper you burned was not the original,--it was a copy substituted for it--" "and did the old man outwit me after all?" he cried out, rising suddenly in bed, and clasping his hands behind his head to give him a few more gasps of breath. "i knew he was cunning, but i thought i was his match. it must have been byles gridley,--nobody else. and so the old man beat me after all, and saved you from ruin! thank god that it came out so! thank god! i can die now. give me your hand, myrtle." she took his hand, and held it until it gently loosed its hold, and he ceased to breathe. myrtle's creed was a simple one, with more of trust and love in it than of systematized articles of belief. she cherished the fond hope that these last words of one who had erred so miserably were a token of some blessed change which the influences of the better world might carry onward until he should have outgrown the sins and the weaknesses of his earthly career. soon after this she rejoined her husband in the camp. from time to time they received stray copies of the "banner and oracle," which, to myrtle especially, were full of interest, even to the last advertisement. a few paragraphs may be reproduced here which relate to persons who have figured in this narrative. "temple of hymen. "married, on the th instant, fordyce hurlbut, m. d., to olive, only daughter of the rev. ambrose eveleth. the editor of this paper returns his acknowledgments for a bountiful slice of the wedding-cake. may their shadows never be less!" not many weeks after this appeared the following: "died in this place, on the th instant, the venerable lemuel hurlbut, m. d., at the great age of xcvi years. "'with the ancient is wisdom, and in length of days understanding.'" myrtle recalled his kind care of her in her illness, and paid the tribute of a sigh to his memory,--there was nothing in a death like his to call for any aching regret. the usual routine of small occurrences was duly recorded in the village paper for some weeks longer, when she was startled and shocked by receiving a number containing the following paragraph: calamitous accident "it is known to our readers that the steeple of the old meeting-house was struck by lightning about a month ago. the frame of the building was a good deal jarred by the shock, but no danger was apprehended from the injury it had received. on sunday last the congregation came together as usual. the rev. mr. stoker was alone m the pulpit, the rev. doctor pemberton having been detained by slight indisposition. the sermon was from the text, "the wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid." (isaiah xi. .) the pastor described the millennium as--the reign of love and peace, in eloquent and impressive language. he was in the midst of the prayer which follows the sermon, and had jest put up a petition that the spirit of affection and faith and trust might grow up and prevail among the flock of which he was the shepherd, more especially those dear lambs whom he gathered with his arm, and carried in his bosom, when the old sounding-board, which had hung safely for nearly a century,--loosened, no doubt by the bolt which had fallen on the church,--broke from its fastenings, and fell with a loud crash upon the pulpit, crushing the rev. mr. stoker under its ruins. the scene that followed beggars description. cries and shrieks resounded through the horse. two or three young women fainted entirely away. mr. penhallow, deacon rumrill, gifted hopkins, esq., and others, came forward immediately, and after much effort succeeded in removing the wreck of the sounding-board, and extricating their unfortunate pastor. he was not fatally injured, it is hoped; but, sad to relate, he received such a violent blow upon the spine of the back, that palsy of the lower extremities is like to ensue. he is at present lying entirely helpless. every attention is paid to him by his affectionately devoted family." myrtle had hardly got over the pain which the reading of this unfortunate occurrence gave her, when her eyes were gladdened by the following pleasing piece of intelligence, contained in a subsequent number of the village paper: imposing ceremony. "the reverend doctor pemberton performed the impressive rite of baptism upon the first-born child of our distinguished townsman, gifted hopkins, esq., the bard of oxbow village, and mrs. susan p. hopkins, his amiable and respected lady. the babe conducted himself with singular propriety on this occasion. he received the christian name of byron tennyson browning. may be prove worthy of his name and his parentage!" the end of the war came at last, and found colonel lindsay among its unharmed survivors. he returned with myrtle to her native village, and they established themselves, at the request of miss silence withers, in the old family mansion. miss cynthia, to whom myrtle made a generous allowance, had gone to live in a town not many miles distant, where she had a kind of home on sufferance, as well as at the poplars. this was a convenience just then, because nurse byloe was invited to stay with them for a month or two; and one nurse and two single women under the same roof keep each other in a stew all the time, as the old dame somewhat sharply remarked. master byles gridley had been appointed myrtle's legal protector, and, with the assistance of mr. penhallow, had brought the property she inherited into a more manageable and productive form; so that, when clement began his fine studio behind the old mansion, he felt that at least he could pursue his art, or arts, if he chose to give himself to sculpture, without that dreadful hag, necessity, standing by him to pinch the features of all his ideals, and give them something of her own likeness. silence withers was more cheerful now that she had got rid of her responsibility. she embellished her spare person a little more than in former years. these young people looked so happy! love was not so unendurable, perhaps, after all. no woman need despair,--especially if she has a house over her, and a snug little property. a worthy man, a former missionary, of the best principles, but of a slightly jocose and good-humored habit, thought that he could piece his widowed years with the not insignificant, fraction of life left to miss silence, to their mutual advantage. he came to the village, therefore, where father pemberton was very glad to have him supply the pulpit in the place of his unfortunate disabled colleague. the courtship soon began, and was brisk enough; for the good man knew there was no time to lose at his period of life,--or hers either, for that matter. it was a rather odd specimen of love-making; for he was constantly trying to subdue his features to a gravity which they were not used to, and she was as constantly endeavoring to be as lively as possible, with the innocent desire of pleasing her light-hearted suitor. "vieille fille fait jeune mariee." silence was ten years younger as a bride than she had seemed as a lone woman. one would have said she had got out of the coach next to the hearse, and got into one some half a dozen behind it,--where there is often good and reasonably cheerful conversation going on about the virtues of the deceased, the probable amount of his property, or the little slips he may have committed, and where occasionally a subdued pleasantry at his expense sets the four waistcoats shaking that were lifting with sighs a half-hour ago in the house of mourning. but miss silence, that was, thought that two families, with all the possible complications which time might bring, would be better in separate establishments. she therefore proposed selling the poplars to myrtle and her husband, and removing to a house in the village, which would be large enough for them, at least for the present. so the young folks bought the old house, and paid a mighty good price for it; and enlarged it, and beautified and glorified it, and one fine morning went together down to the widow hopkins's, whose residence seemed in danger of being a little crowded,--for gifted lived there with his susan,--and what had happened might happen again,--and gave master byles gridley a formal and most persuasively worded invitation to come up and make his home with them at the poplars. now master gridley has been betrayed into palpable and undisguised weakness at least once in the presence of this assembly, who are looking upon him almost for the last time before they part from him, and see his face no more. let us not inquire too curiously, then, how he received this kind proposition. it is enough, that, when he found that a new study had been built on purpose for him, and a sleeping-room attached to it so that he could live there without disturbing anybody if he chose, he consented to remove there for a while, and that he was there established amidst great rejoicing. cynthia badlam had fallen of late into poor health. she found at last that she was going; and as she had a little property of her own,--as almost all poor relations have, only there is not enough of it,--she was much exercised in her mind as to the final arrangements to be made respecting its disposition. the rev. dr. pemberton was one day surprised by a message, that she wished to have an interview with him. he rode over to the town in which she was residing, and there had a long conversation with her upon this matter. when this was settled, her mind seemed too be more at ease. she died with a comfortable assurance that she was going to a better world, and with a bitter conviction that it would be hard to find one that would offer her a worse lot than being a poor relation in this. her little property was left to rev. eliphalet pemberton and jacob penhallow, esq., to be by them employed for such charitable purposes as they should elect, educational or other. father pemberton preached an admirable funeral sermon, in which he praised her virtues, known to this people among whom she had long lived, and especially that crowning act by which she devoted all she had to purposes of charity-and benevolence. the old clergyman seemed to have renewed his youth since the misfortune of his colleague had incapacitated him from labor. he generally preached in the forenoon now, and to the great acceptance of the people,--for the truth was that the honest minister who had married miss silence was not young enough or good-looking enough to be an object of personal attentions like the rev. joseph bellamy stoker, and the old minister appeared to great advantage contrasted with him in the pulpit. poor mr. stoker was now helpless, faithfully and tenderly waited upon by his own wife, who had regained her health and strength,--in no small measure, perhaps, from the great need of sympathy and active aid which her unfortunate husband now experienced. it was an astonishment to herself when she found that she who had so long been served was able to serve another. some who knew his errors thought his accident was a judgment; but others believed that it was only a mercy in disguise,--it snatched him roughly from his sin, but it opened his heart to gratitude towards her whom his neglect could not alienate, and through gratitude to repentance and better thoughts. bathsheba had long ago promised herself to cyprian eveleth; and, as he was about to become the rector of a parish in the next town, the marriage was soon to take place. how beautifully serene master byles gridley's face was growing! clement loved to study its grand lines, which had so much strength and fine humanity blended in them. he was so fascinated by their noble expression that he sometimes seemed to forget himself, and looked at him more like an artist taking his portrait than like an admiring friend. he maintained that master gridley had a bigger bump of benevolence and as large a one of cautiousness as the two people most famous for the size of these organs on the phrenological chart he showed him, and proved it, or nearly proved it, by careful measurements of his head. master gridley laughed, and read him a passage on the pseudo-sciences out of his book. the disposal of miss cynthia's bequest was much discussed in the village. some wished the trustees would use it to lay the foundations of a public library. others thought it should be applied for the relief of the families of soldiers who had fallen in the war. still another set would take it to build a monument to the memory of those heroes. the trustees listened with the greatest candor to all these gratuitous hints. it was, however, suggested, in a well-written anonymous article which appeared in the village paper, that it was desirable to follow the general lead of the testator's apparent preference. the trustees were at liberty to do as they saw fit; but, other things being equal, same educational object should be selected. if there were any orphan children in the place, it would seem to be very proper to devote the moderate sum bequeathed to educating them. the trustees recognized the justice of this suggestion. why not apply it to the instruction and maintenance of those two pretty and promising children, virtually orphans, whom the charitable mrs. hopkins had cared for so long without any recompense, and at a cost which would soon become beyond her means? the good people of the neighborhood accepted this as the best solution of the difficulty. it was agreed upon at length by the trustees, that the cynthia badlam fund for educational purposes should be applied for the benefit of the two foundlings, known as isosceles and helminthia hopkins. master bytes gridley was greatly exercised about the two "preposterous names," as he called them, which in a moment of eccentric impulse he had given to these children of nature. he ventured to hint as much to mrs. hopkins. the good dame was vastly surprised. she thought they was about as pooty names as anybody had had given 'em in the village. and they was so handy, spoke short, sossy and minthy,--she never should know how to call 'em anything else. "but my dear mrs. hopkins," master gridley urged, "if you knew the meaning they have to the ears of scholars, you would see that i did very wrong to apply such absurd names to my little fellow-creatures, and that i am bound to rectify my error. more than that, my dear madam, i mean to consult you as to the new names; and if we can fix upon proper and pleasing ones, it is my intention to leave a pretty legacy in my will to these interesting children." "mr. gridley," said mrs. hopkins, "you're the best man i ever see, or ever shall see, . . . except my poor dear ammi . . . . i 'll do jest as you say about that, or about anything else in all this livin' world." "well, then, mrs. hopkins, what shall be the boy's name?" "byles gridley hopkins!" she answered instantly. "good lord!" said mr. gridley, "think a minute, my dear madam. i will not say one word,--only think a minute, and mention some name that will not suggest quite so many winks and whispers." she did think something less than a minute, and then said aloud, "abraham lincoln hopkins." "fifteen thousand children have been so christened during the past year, on a moderate computation." "do think of some name yourself, mr. gridley; i shall like anything that you like. to think of those dear babes having a fund--if that's the right name--on purpose for 'em, and a promise of a legacy, i hope they won't get that till they're a hundred year old!" "what if we change isosceles to theodore, mrs. hopkins? that means the gift of god, and the child has been a gift from heaven, rather than a burden." mrs. hopkins seized her apron, and held it to her eyes. she was weeping. "theodore!" she said, "theodore! my little brother's name, that i buried when i was only eleven year old. drownded. the dearest little child that ever you see. i have got his little mug with theodore on it now. kep' o' purpose. our little sossy shall have it. theodore p. hopkins,--sha'n't it be, mr. gridley?" "well, if you say so; but why that p., mrs. hopkins? theodore parker, is it?" "doesn't p. stand for pemberton, and isn't father pemberton the best man in the world--next to you, mr. gridley?" "well, well, mrs. hopkins, let it be so, if you are suited, i am. now about helminthia; there can't be any doubt about what we ought to call her,--surely the friend of orphans should be remembered in naming one of the objects of her charity." "cynthia badlam fund hopkins," said the good woman triumphantly,--"is that what you mean?" "suppose we leave out one of the names,--four are too many. i think the general opinion will be that hehninthia should unite the names of her two benefactresses,--cynthia badlam hopkins." "why, law! mr. gridley, is n't that nice?--minthy and cynthy,--there ain't but one letter of difference! poor cynthy would be pleased if she could know that one of our babes was to be called after her. she was dreadful fond of children." on one of the sweetest sundays that ever made oxbow village lovely, the rev. dr. eliphalet pembertan was summoned to officiate at three most interesting ceremonies,--a wedding and two christenings, one of the latter a double one. the first was celebrated at the house of the rev. mr. stoker, between the rev. cyprian eveleth and bathsheba, daughter of the first-named clergyman. he could not be present on account of his great infirmity, but the door of his chamber was left open that he might hear the marriage service performed. the old, white-haired minister, assisted, as the papers said, by the bridegroom's father, conducted the ceremony according to the episcopal form. when he came to those solemn words in which the husband promises fidelity to the wife so long as they both shall live, the nurse, who was watching, near the poor father, saw him bury his face in his pillow, and heard him murmur the words, "god be merciful to me a sinner!" the christenings were both to take place at the same service, in the old meeting-house. colonel clement lindsay and myrtle his wife came in, and stout nurse byloe bore their sturdy infant in her arms. a slip of paper was handed to the reverend doctor on which these words were written:--"the name is charles hazard." the solemn and touching rite was then performed; and nurse byloe disappeared with the child, its forehead glistening with the dew of its consecration. then, hand in hand, like the babes in the wood, marched up the broad aisle--marshalled by mrs. hopkins in front, and mrs. gifted hopkins bringing up the rear--the two children hitherto known as isosceles and helminthia. they had been well schooled, and, as the mysterious and to them incomprehensible ceremony was enacted, maintained the most stoical aspect of tranquillity. in mrs. hopkins's words, "they looked like picters, and behaved like angels." that evening, sunday evening as it was, there was a quiet meeting of some few friends at the poplars. it was such a great occasion that the sabbatical rules, never strict about sunday evening,--which was, strictly speaking, secular time,--were relaxed. father pemberton was there, and master byles gridley, of course, and the rev. ambrose eveleth, with his son and his daughter-in-law, bathsheba, and her mother, now in comfortable health, aunt silence and her husband, doctor hurlbut and his wife (olive eveleth that was), jacob penhallow, esq., mrs. hopkins, her son and his wife (susan posey that was), the senior deacon of the old church (the admirer of the great scott), the editor-in-chief of the "banner and oracle," and in the background nurse byloe and the privileged servant, mistress kitty fagan, with a few others whose names we need not mention. the evening was made pleasant with sacred music, and the fatigues of two long services repaired by such simple refections as would not turn the holy day into a day of labor. a large paper copy of the new edition of byles gridley's remarkable work was lying on the table. he never looked so happy,--could anything fill his cup fuller? in the course of the evening clement spoke of the many trials through which they had passed in common with vast numbers of their countrymen, and some of those peculiar dangers which myrtle had had to encounter in the course of a life more eventful, and attended with more risks, perhaps, than most of them imagined. but myrtle, he said, had always been specially cared for. he wished them to look upon the semblance of that protecting spirit who had been faithful to her in her gravest hours of trial and danger. if they would follow him into one of the lesser apartments up stairs they would have an opportunity to do so. myrtle wondered a little, but followed with the rest. they all ascended to the little projecting chamber, through the window of which her scarlet jacket caught the eyes of the boys paddling about on the river in those early days when cyprian eveleth gave it the name of the fire-hang-bird's nest. the light fell softly but clearly on the dim and faded canvas from which looked the saintly features of the martyred woman, whose continued presence with her descendants was the old family legend. but underneath it myrtle was surprised to see a small table with some closely covered object upon it. it was a mysterious arrangement, made without any knowledge on her part. "now, then, kitty!" mr. lindsay said. kitty fagan, who had evidently been taught her part, stepped forward, and removed the cloth which concealed the unknown object. it was a lifelike marble bust of master byles gridley. "and this is what you have been working at so long,--is it, clement?" myrtle said. "which is the image of your protector, myrtle?", he answered, smiling. myrtle hazard lindsay walked up to the bust and kissed its marble forehead, saying, "this is the face of my guardian angel." forehead, saying, "this is the face of my guardian angel." a mortal antipathy by oliver wendell holmes preface. "a mortal antipathy" was a truly hazardous experiment. a very wise and very distinguished physician who is as much at home in literature as he is in science and the practice of medicine, wrote to me in referring to this story: "i should have been afraid of my subject." he did not explain himself, but i can easily understand that he felt the improbability of the, physiological or pathological occurrence on which the story is founded to be so great that the narrative could hardly be rendered plausible. i felt the difficulty for myself as well as for my readers, and it was only by recalling for our consideration a series of extraordinary but well-authenticated facts of somewhat similar character that i could hope to gain any serious attention to so strange a narrative. i need not recur to these wonderful stories. there is, however, one, not to be found on record elsewhere, to which i would especially call the reader's attention. it is that of the middle-aged man, who assured me that he could never pass a tall hall clock without an indefinable terror. while an infant in arms the heavy weight of one of these tall clocks had fallen with aloud crash and produced an impression on his nervous system which he had never got over. the lasting effect of a shock received by the sense of sight or that of hearing is conceivable enough. but there is another sense, the nerves of which are in close relation with the higher organs of consciousness. the strength of the associations connected with the function of the first pair of nerves, the olfactory, is familiar to most persons in their own experience and as related by others. now we know that every human being, as well as every other living organism, carries its own distinguishing atmosphere. if a man's friend does not know it, his dog does, and can track him anywhere by it. this personal peculiarity varies with the age and conditions of the individual. it may be agreeable or otherwise, a source of attraction or repulsion, but its influence is not less real, though far less obvious and less dominant, than in the lower animals. it was an atmospheric impression of this nature which associated itself with a terrible shock experienced by the infant which became the subject of this story. the impression could not be outgrown, but it might possibly be broken up by some sudden change in the nervous system effected by a cause as potent as the one which had produced the disordered condition. this is the best key that i can furnish to a story which must have puzzled some, repelled others, and failed to interest many who did not suspect the true cause of the mysterious antipathy. beverly farms, mass., august, . o. w. h. a mortal antipathy. first opening of the new portfolio. introduction. "and why the new portfolio, i would ask?" pray, do you remember, when there was an accession to the nursery in which you have a special interest, whether the new-comer was commonly spoken of as a baby? was it not, on the contrary, invariably, under all conditions, in all companies, by the whole household, spoken of as the baby? and was the small receptacle provided for it commonly spoken of as a cradle; or was it not always called the cradle, as if there were no other in existence? now this new portfolio is the cradle in which i am to rock my new-born thoughts, and from which i am to lift them carefully and show them to callers, namely, to the whole family of readers belonging to my list of intimates, and such other friends as may drop in by accident. and so it shall have the definite article, and not be lost in the mob of its fellows as a portfolio. there are a few personal and incidental matters of which i wish to say something before reaching the contents of the portfolio, whatever these may be. i have had other portfolios before this,--two, more especially, and the first thing i beg leave to introduce relates to these. do not throw this volume down, or turn to another page, when i tell you that the earliest of them, that of which i now am about to speak, was opened more than fifty years ago. this is a very dangerous confession, for fifty years make everything hopelessly old-fashioned, without giving it the charm of real antiquity. if i could say a hundred years, now, my readers would accept all i had to tell them with a curious interest; but fifty years ago,--there are too many talkative old people who know all about that time, and at best half a century is a half-baked bit of ware. a coin-fancier would say that your fifty-year-old facts have just enough of antiquity to spot them with rust, and not enough to give them--the delicate and durable patina which is time's exquisite enamel. when the first portfolio was opened the coin of the realm bore for its legend,--or might have borne if the more devout hero-worshippers could have had their way,--andreas jackson, populi gratia, imp. caesar. aug. div., max., etc., etc. i never happened to see any gold or silver with that legend, but the truth is i was not very familiarly acquainted with the precious metals at that period of my career, and, there might have been a good deal of such coin in circulation without my handling it, or knowing much about it. permit me to indulge in a few reminiscences of that far-off time. in those days the athenaeum picture gallery was a principal centre of attraction to young boston people and their visitors. many of us got our first ideas of art, to say nothing of our first lessons in the comparatively innocent flirtations of our city's primitive period, in that agreeable resort of amateurs and artists. how the pictures on those walls in pearl street do keep their places in the mind's gallery! trumbull's sortie of gibraltar, with red enough in it for one of our sunset after-glows; and neagle's full-length portrait of the blacksmith in his shirt-sleeves; and copley's long-waistcoated gentlemen and satin-clad ladies,--they looked like gentlemen and ladies, too; and stuart's florid merchants and high-waisted matrons; and allston's lovely italian scenery and dreamy, unimpassioned women, not forgetting florimel in full flight on her interminable rocking-horse,--you may still see her at the art museum; and the rival landscapes of doughty and fisher, much talked of and largely praised in those days; and the murillo,--not from marshal soup's collection; and the portrait of annibale caracci by himself, which cost the athenaeum a hundred dollars; and cole's allegorical pictures, and his immense and dreary canvas, in which the prostrate shepherds and the angel in joseph's coat of many colors look as if they must have been thrown in for nothing; and west's brawny lear tearing his clothes to pieces. but why go on with the catalogue, when most of these pictures can be seen either at the athenaeum building in beacon street or at the art gallery, and admired or criticised perhaps more justly, certainly not more generously, than in those earlier years when we looked at them through the japanned fish-horns? if one happened to pass through atkinson street on his way to the athenaeum, he would notice a large, square, painted, brick house, in which lived a leading representative of old-fashioned coleopterous calvinism, and from which emerged one of the liveliest of literary butterflies. the father was editor of the "boston recorder," a very respectable, but very far from amusing paper, most largely patronized by that class of the community which spoke habitually of the first day of the week as "the sahbuth." the son was the editor of several different periodicals in succession, none of them over severe or serious, and of many pleasant books, filled with lively descriptions of society, which he studied on the outside with a quick eye for form and color, and with a certain amount of sentiment, not very deep, but real, though somewhat frothed over by his worldly experiences. nathaniel parker willis was in full bloom when i opened my first portfolio. he had made himself known by his religious poetry, published in his father's paper, i think, and signed "roy." he had started the "american magazine," afterwards merged in the "new york mirror." he had then left off writing scripture pieces, and taken to lighter forms of verse. he had just written "i'm twenty-two, i'm twenty-two, they idly give me joy, as if i should be glad to know that i was less a boy." he was young, therefore, and already famous. he came very near being very handsome. he was tall; his hair, of light brown color, waved in luxuriant abundance; his cheek was as rosy as if it had been painted to show behind the footlights; he dressed with artistic elegance. he was something between a remembrance of count d'orsay and an anticipation of oscar wilde. there used to be in the gallery of the luxembourg a picture of hippolytus and phxdra, in which the beautiful young man, who had kindled a passion in the heart of his wicked step-mother, always reminded me of willis, in spite of the shortcomings of the living face as compared with the ideal. the painted youth is still blooming on the canvas, but the fresh-cheecked, jaunty young author of the year has long faded out of human sight. i took the leaves which lie before me at this moment, as i write, from his coffin, as it lay just outside the door of saint paul's church, on a sad, overclouded winter's day, in the year . at that earlier time, willis was by far the most prominent young american author. cooper, irving, bryant, dana, halleck, drake, had all done their best work. longfellow was not yet conspicuous. lowell was a school-boy. emerson was unheard of. whittier was beginning to make his way against the writers with better educational advantages whom he was destined to outdo and to outlive. not one of the great histories, which have done honor to our literature, had appeared. our school-books depended, so far as american authors were concerned, on extracts from the orations and speeches of webster and everett; on bryant's thanatopsis, his lines to a waterfowl, and the death of the flowers, halleck's marco bozzaris, red jacket, and burns; on drake's american flag, and percival's coral grove, and his genius sleeping and genius waking,--and not getting very wide awake, either. these could be depended upon. a few other copies of verses might be found, but dwight's "columbia, columbia," and pierpont's airs of palestine, were already effaced, as many of the favorites of our own day and generation must soon be, by the great wave which the near future will pour over the sands in which they still are legible. about this time, in the year , came out a small volume entitled "truth, a gift for scribblers," which made some talk for a while, and is now chiefly valuable as a kind of literary tombstone on which may be read the names of many whose renown has been buried with their bones. the "london athenaeum" spoke of it as having been described as a "tomahawk sort of satire." as the author had been a trapper in missouri, he was familiarly acquainted with that weapon and the warfare of its owners. born in boston, in , the son of an army officer, educated at west point, he came back to his native city about the year . he wrote an article on bryant's poems for the "north american review," and another on the famous indian chief, black hawk. in this last-mentioned article he tells this story as the great warrior told it himself. it was an incident of a fight with the osages. "standing by my father's side, i saw him kill his antagonist and tear the scalp from his head. fired with valor and ambition, i rushed furiously upon another, smote him to the earth with my tomahawk, ran my lance through his body, took off his scalp, and returned in triumph to my father. he said nothing, but looked pleased." this little red story describes very well spelling's style of literary warfare. his handling of his most conspicuous victim, willis, was very much like black hawk's way of dealing with the osage. he tomahawked him in heroics, ran him through in prose, and scalped him in barbarous epigrams. bryant and halleck were abundantly praised; hardly any one else escaped. if the reader wishes to see the bubbles of reputation that were floating, some of them gay with prismatic colors, half a century ago, he will find in the pages of "truth" a long catalogue of celebrities he never heard of. i recognize only three names, of all which are mentioned in the little book, as belonging to persons still living; but as i have not read the obituaries of all the others, some of them may be still flourishing in spite of mr. spelling's exterminating onslaught. time dealt as hardly with poor spelling, who was not without talent and instruction, as he had dealt with our authors. i think he found shelter at last under a roof which held numerous inmates, some of whom had seen better and many of whom had known worse days than those which they were passing within its friendly and not exclusive precincts. such, at least, was the story i heard after he disappeared from general observation. that was the day of souvenirs, tokens, forget-me-nots, bijous, and all that class of showy annuals. short stories, slender poems, steel engravings, on a level with the common fashion-plates of advertising establishments, gilt edges, resplendent binding,--to manifestations of this sort our lighter literature had very largely run for some years. the "scarlet letter" was an unhinted possibility. the "voices of the night" had not stirred the brooding silence; the concord seer was still in the lonely desert; most of the contributors to those yearly volumes, which took up such pretentious positions on the centre table, have shrunk into entire oblivion, or, at best, hold their place in literature by a scrap or two in some omnivorous collection. what dreadful work spelling made among those slight reputations, floating in swollen tenuity on the surface of the stream, and mirroring each other in reciprocal reflections! violent, abusive as he was, unjust to any against whom he happened to have a prejudice, his castigation of the small litterateurs of that day was not harmful, but rather of use. his attack on willis very probably did him good; he needed a little discipline, and though he got it too unsparingly, some cautions came with it which were worth the stripes he had to smart under. one noble writer spelling treated with rudeness, probably from some accidental pique, or equally insignificant reason. i myself, one of the three survivors before referred to, escaped with a love-pat, as the youngest son of the muse. longfellow gets a brief nod of acknowledgment. bailey, an american writer, "who made long since a happy snatch at fame," which must have been snatched away from him by envious time, for i cannot identify him; thatcher, who died early, leaving one poem, the last request, not wholly unremembered; miss hannah f. gould, a very bright and agreeable writer of light verse,--all these are commended to the keeping of that venerable public carrier, who finds his scythe and hour-glass such a load that he generally drops the burdens committed to his charge, after making a show of paying every possible attention to them so long as he is kept in sight. it was a good time to open a portfolio. but my old one had boyhood written on every page. a single passionate outcry when the old warship i had read about in the broadsides that were a part of our kitchen literature, and in the "naval monument," was threatened with demolition; a few verses suggested by the sight of old major melville in his cocked hat and breeches, were the best scraps that came out of that first portfolio, which was soon closed that it should not interfere with the duties of a profession authorized to claim all the time and thought which would have been otherwise expended in filling it. during a quarter of a century the first portfolio remained closed for the greater part of the time. only now and then it would be taken up and opened, and something drawn from it for a special occasion, more particularly for the annual reunions of a certain class of which i was a member. in the year , towards its close, the "atlantic monthly," which i had the honor of naming, was started by the enterprising firm of phillips & sampson, under the editorship of mr. james russell lowell. he thought that i might bring something out of my old portfolio which would be not unacceptable in the new magazine. i looked at the poor old receptacle, which, partly from use and partly from neglect, had lost its freshness, and seemed hardly presentable to the new company expected to welcome the new-comer in the literary world of boston, the least provincial of american centres of learning and letters. the gilded covering where the emblems of hope and aspiration had looked so bright had faded; not wholly, perhaps, but how was the gold become dim!---how was the most fine gold changed! long devotion to other pursuits had left little time for literature, and the waifs and strays gathered from the old portfolio had done little more than keep alive the memory that such a source of supply was still in existence. i looked at the old portfolio, and said to myself, "too late! too late. this tarnished gold will never brighten, these battered covers will stand no more wear and tear; close them, and leave them to the spider and the book-worm." in the mean time the nebula of the first quarter of the century had condensed into the constellation of the middle of the same period. when, a little while after the establishment of the new magazine, the "saturday club" gathered about the long table at "parker's," such a representation of all that was best in american literature had never been collected within so small a compass. most of the americans whom educated foreigners cared to see-leaving out of consideration official dignitaries, whose temporary importance makes them objects of curiosity--were seated at that board. but the club did not yet exist, and the "atlantic monthly" was an experiment. there had already been several monthly periodicals, more or less successful and permanent, among which "putnam's magazine" was conspicuous, owing its success largely to the contributions of that very accomplished and delightful writer, mr. george william curtis. that magazine, after a somewhat prolonged and very honorable existence, had gone where all periodicals go when they die, into the archives of the deaf, dumb, and blind recording angel whose name is oblivion. it had so well deserved to live that its death was a surprise and a source of regret. could another monthly take its place and keep it when that, with all its attractions and excellences, had died out, and left a blank in our periodical literature which it would be very hard to fill as well as that had filled it? this was the experiment which the enterprising publishers ventured upon, and i, who felt myself outside of the charmed circle drawn around the scholars and poets of cambridge and concord, having given myself to other studies and duties, wondered somewhat when mr. lowell insisted upon my becoming a contributor. and so, yielding to a pressure which i could not understand, and yet found myself unable to resist, i promised to take a part in the new venture, as an occasional writer in the columns of the new magazine. that was the way in which the second portfolio found its way to my table, and was there opened in the autumn of the year . i was already at least 'nel mezzo del cammin di mia, vita,' when i risked myself, with many misgivings, in little-tried paths of what looked at first like a wilderness, a selva oscura, where, if i did not meet the lion or the wolf, i should be sure to find the critic, the most dangerous of the carnivores, waiting to welcome me after his own fashion. the second portfolio is closed and laid away. perhaps it was hardly worth while to provide and open a new one; but here it lies before me, and i hope i may find something between its covers which will justify me in coming once more before my old friends. but before i open it i want to claim a little further indulgence. there is a subject of profound interest to almost every writer, i might say to almost every human being. no matter what his culture or ignorance, no matter what his pursuit, no matter what his character, the subject i refer to is one of which he rarely ceases to think, and, if opportunity is offered, to talk. on this he is eloquent, if on nothing else. the slow of speech becomes fluent; the torpid listener becomes electric with vivacity, and alive all over with interest. the sagacious reader knows well what is coming after this prelude. he is accustomed to the phrases with which the plausible visitor, who has a subscription book in his pocket, prepares his victim for the depressing disclosure of his real errand. he is not unacquainted with the conversational amenities of the cordial and interesting stranger, who, having had the misfortune of leaving his carpet-bag in the cars, or of having his pocket picked at the station, finds himself without the means of reaching that distant home where affluence waits for him with its luxurious welcome, but to whom for the moment the loan of some five and twenty dollars would be a convenience and a favor for which his heart would ache with gratitude during the brief interval between the loan and its repayment. i wish to say a few words in my own person relating to some passages in my own history, and more especially to some of the recent experiences through which i have been passing. what can justify one in addressing himself to the general public as if it were his private correspondent? there are at least three sufficient reasons: first, if he has a story to tell that everybody wants to hear,--if he has been shipwrecked, or has been in a battle, or has witnessed any interesting event, and can tell anything new about it; secondly, if he can put in fitting words any common experiences not already well told, so that readers will say, "why, yes! i have had that sensation, thought, emotion, a hundred times, but i never heard it spoken of before, and i never saw any mention of it in print;" and thirdly, anything one likes, provided he can so tell it as to make it interesting. i have no story to tell in this introduction which can of itself claim any general attention. my first pages relate the effect of a certain literary experience upon myself,--a series of partial metempsychoses of which i have been the subject. next follows a brief tribute to the memory of a very dear and renowned friend from whom i have recently been parted. the rest of the introduction will be consecrated to the memory of my birthplace. i have just finished a memoir, which will appear soon after this page is written, and will have been the subject of criticism long before it is in the reader's hands. the experience of thinking another man's thoughts continuously for a long time; of living one's self into another man's life for a month, or a year, or more, is a very curious one. no matter how much superior to the biographer his subject may be, the man who writes the life feels himself, in a certain sense, on the level of the person whose life he is writing. one cannot fight over the battles of marengo or austerlitz with napoleon without feeling as if he himself had a fractional claim to the victory, so real seems the transfer of his personality into that of the conqueror while he reads. still more must this identification of "subject" and "object" take place when one is writing of a person whose studies or occupations are not unlike his own. here are some of my metempsychoses: ten years ago i wrote what i called a memorial outline of a remarkable student of nature. he was a born observer, and such are far from common. he was also a man of great enthusiasm and unwearying industry. his quick eye detected what others passed by without notice: the indian relic, where another would see only pebbles and fragments; the rare mollusk, or reptile, which his companion would poke with his cane, never suspecting that there was a prize at the end of it. getting his single facts together with marvellous sagacity and long-breathed patience, he arranged them, classified them, described them, studied them in their relations, and before those around him were aware of it the collector was an accomplished naturalist. when--he died his collections remained, and they still remain, as his record in the hieratic language of science. in writing this memoir the spirit of his quiet pursuits, the even temper they bred in him, gained possession of my own mind, so that i seemed to look at nature through his gold-bowed spectacles, and to move about his beautifully ordered museum as if i had myself prepared and arranged its specimens. i felt wise with his wisdom, fair-minded with his calm impartiality; it seemed as if for the time his placid, observant, inquiring, keen-sighted nature "slid into my soul," and if i had looked at myself in the glass i should almost have expected to see the image of the hersey professor whose life and character i was sketching. a few years hater i lived over the life of another friend in writing a memoir of which he was the subject. i saw him, the beautiful, bright-eyed boy, with dark, waving hair; the youthful scholar, first at harvard, then at gottingen and berlin, the friend and companion of bismarck; the young author, making a dash for renown as a novelist, and showing the elements which made his failures the promise of success in a larger field of literary labor; the delving historian, burying his fresh young manhood in the dusty alcoves of silent libraries, to come forth in the face of europe and america as one of the leading historians of the time; the diplomatist, accomplished, of captivating presence and manners, an ardent american, and in the time of trial an impassioned and eloquent advocate of the cause of freedom; reaching at last the summit of his ambition as minister at the court of saint james. all this i seemed to share with him as i tracked his career from his birthplace in dorchester, and the house in walnut street where he passed his boyhood, to the palaces of vienna and london. and then the cruel blow which struck him from the place he adorned; the great sorrow that darkened his later years; the invasion of illness, a threat that warned of danger, and after a period of invalidism, during a part of which i shared his most intimate daily life, the sudden, hardly unwelcome, final summons. did not my own consciousness migrate, or seem, at least, to transfer itself into this brilliant life history, as i traced its glowing record? i, too, seemed to feel the delight of carrying with me, as if they were my own, the charms of a presence which made its own welcome everywhere. i shared his heroic toils, i partook of his literary and social triumphs, i was honored by the marks of distinction which gathered about him, i was wronged by the indignity from which he suffered, mourned with him in his sorrow, and thus, after i had been living for months with his memory, i felt as if i should carry a part of his being with me so long as my self-consciousness might remain imprisoned in the ponderable elements. the years passed away, and the influences derived from the companionships i have spoken of had blended intimately with my own current of being. then there came to me a new experience in my relations with an eminent member of the medical profession, whom i met habitually for a long period, and to whose memory i consecrated a few pages as a prelude to a work of his own, written under very peculiar circumstances. he was the subject of a slow, torturing, malignant, and almost necessarily fatal disease. knowing well that the mind would feed upon itself if it were not supplied with food from without, he determined to write a treatise on a subject which had greatly interested him, and which would oblige him to bestow much of his time and thought upon it, if indeed he could hold out to finish the work. during the period while he was engaged in writing it, his wife, who had seemed in perfect health, died suddenly of pneumonia. physical suffering, mental distress, the prospect of death at a near, if uncertain, time always before him, it was hard to conceive a more terrible strain than that which he had to endure. when, in the hour of his greatest need, his faithful companion, the wife of many years of happy union, whose hand had smoothed his pillow, whose voice had consoled and cheered him, was torn from him after a few days of illness, i felt that my, friend's trial was such that the cry of the man of many afflictions and temptations might well have escaped from his lips: "i was at ease, but he hath broken me asunder; he hath also taken me by my neck and shaken me to pieces, and set me up for his mark. his archers compass me round about, he cleaveth my reins asunder, and doth not spare; he poureth out my gall upon the ground." i had dreaded meeting him for the first time after this crushing blow. what a lesson he gave me of patience under sufferings which the fearful description of the eastern poet does not picture too vividly! we have been taught to admire the calm philosophy of haller, watching his faltering pulse as he lay dying; we have heard the words of pious resignation said to have been uttered with his last breath by addison: but here was a trial, not of hours, or days, or weeks, but of months, even years, of cruel pain, and in the midst of its thick darkness the light of love, which had burned steadily at his bedside, was suddenly extinguished. there were times in which the thought would force itself upon my consciousness, how long is the universe to look upon this dreadful experiment of a malarious planet, with its unmeasurable freight of suffering, its poisonous atmosphere, so sweet to breathe, so sure to kill in a few scores of years at farthest, and its heart-breaking woes which make even that brief space of time an eternity? there can be but one answer that will meet this terrible question, which must arise in every thinking nature that would fain "justify the ways of god to men." so must it be until that "one far-off divine event to which the whole creation moves" has become a reality, and the anthem in which there is no discordant note shall be joined by a voice from every life made "perfect through sufferings." such was the lesson into which i lived in those sad yet placid years of companionship with my suffering and sorrowing friend, in retracing which i seemed to find another existence mingled with my own. and now for many months i have been living in daily relations of intimacy with one who seems nearer to me since he has left us than while he was here in living form and feature. i did not know how difficult a task i had undertaken in venturing upon a memoir of a man whom all, or almost all, agree upon as one of the great lights of the new world, and whom very many regard as an unpredicted messiah. never before was i so forcibly reminded of carlyle's description of the work of a newspaper editor,--that threshing of straw already thrice beaten by the flails of other laborers in the same field. what could be said that had not been said of "transcendentalism" and of him who was regarded as its prophet; of the poet whom some admired without understanding, a few understood, or thought they did, without admiring, and many both understood and admired,--among these there being not a small number who went far beyond admiration, and lost themselves in devout worship? while one exalted him as "the greatest man that ever lived," another, a friend, famous in the world of letters, wrote expressly to caution me against the danger of overrating a writer whom he is content to recognize as an american montaigne, and nothing more. after finishing this memoir, which has but just left my hands, i would gladly have let my brain rest for a while. the wide range of thought which belonged to the subject of the memoir, the occasional mysticism and the frequent tendency toward it, the sweep of imagination and the sparkle of wit which kept his reader's mind on the stretch, the union of prevailing good sense with exceptional extravagances, the modest audacity of a nature that showed itself in its naked truthfulness and was not ashamed, the feeling that i was in the company of a sibylline intelligence which was discounting the promises of the remote future long before they were due,--all this made the task a grave one. but when i found myself amidst the vortices of uncounted, various, bewildering judgments, catholic and protestant, orthodox and liberal, scholarly from under the tree of knowledge and instinctive from over the potato-hill; the passionate enthusiasm of young adorers and the cool, if not cynical, estimate of hardened critics, all intersecting each other as they whirled, each around its own centre, i felt that it was indeed very difficult to keep the faculties clear and the judgment unbiassed. it is a great privilege to have lived so long in the society of such a man. "he nothing common" said, "or mean." he was always the same pure and high-souled companion. after being with him virtue seemed as natural to man as its opposite did according to the old theologies. but how to let one's self down from the high level of such a character to one's own poor standard? i trust that the influence of this long intellectual and spiritual companionship never absolutely leaves one who has lived in it. it may come to him in the form of self-reproach that he falls so far short of the superior being who has been so long the object of his contemplation. but it also carries him at times into the other's personality, so that he finds himself thinking thoughts that are not his own, using phrases which he has unconsciously borrowed, writing, it may be, as nearly like his long-studied original as julio romano's painting was like raphael's; and all this with the unquestioning conviction that he is talking from his own consciousness in his own natural way. so far as tones and expressions and habits which belonged to the idiosyncrasy of the original are borrowed by the student of his life, it is a misfortune for the borrower. but to share the inmost consciousness of a noble thinker, to scan one's self in the white light of a pure and radiant soul,--this is indeed the highest form of teaching and discipline. i have written these few memoirs, and i am grateful for all that they have taught me. but let me write no more. there are but two biographers who can tell the story of a man's or a woman's life. one is the person himself or herself; the other is the recording angel. the autobiographer cannot be trusted to tell the whole truth, though he may tell nothing but the truth, and the recording angel never lets his book go out of his own hands. as for myself, i would say to my friends, in the oriental phrase, "live forever!" yes, live forever, and i, at least, shall not have to wrong your memories by my imperfect record and unsatisfying commentary. in connection with these biographies, or memoirs, more properly, in which i have written of my departed friends, i hope my readers will indulge me in another personal reminiscence. i have just lost my dear and honored contemporary of the last century. a hundred years ago this day, december , , died the admirable and ever to be remembered dr. samuel johnson. the year was made ponderous and illustrious in english biography by his birth. my own humble advent to the world of protoplasm was in the year of the present century. summer was just ending when those four letters, "son b." were written under the date of my birth, august th. autumn had just begun when my great pre-contemporary entered this un-christian universe and was made a member of the christian church on the same day, for he was born and baptized on the th of september. thus there was established a close bond of relationship between the great english scholar and writer and myself. year by year, and almost month by month, my life has kept pace in this century with his life in the last century. i had only to open my boswell at any time, and i knew just what johnson at my age, twenty or fifty or seventy, was thinking and doing; what were his feelings about life; what changes the years had wrought in his body, his mind, his feelings, his companionships, his reputation. it was for me a kind of unison between two instruments, both playing that old familiar air, "life,"--one a bassoon, if you will, and the other an oaten pipe, if you care to find an image for it, but still keeping pace with each other until the players both grew old and gray. at last the thinner thread of sound is heard by itself, and its deep accompaniment rolls out its thunder no more. i feel lonely now that my great companion and friend of so many years has left me. i felt more intimately acquainted with him than i do with many of my living friends. i can hardly remember when i did not know him. i can see him in his bushy wig, exactly like that of the reverend dr. samuel cooper (who died in december, ) as copley painted him,--he hangs there on my wall, over the revolving bookcase. his ample coat, too, i see, with its broad flaps and many buttons and generous cuffs, and beneath it the long, still more copiously buttoned waistcoat, arching in front of the fine crescentic, almost semi-lunar falstaffian prominence, involving no less than a dozen of the above-mentioned buttons, and the strong legs with their sturdy calves, fitting columns of support to the massive body and solid, capacious brain enthroned over it. i can hear him with his heavy tread as he comes in to the club, and a gap is widened to make room for his portly figure. "a fine day," says sir joshua. "sir," he answers, "it seems propitious, but the atmosphere is humid and the skies are nebulous," at which the great painter smiles, shifts his trumpet, and takes a pinch of snuff. dear old massive, deep-voiced dogmatist and hypochondriac of the eighteenth century, how one would like to sit at some ghastly club, between you and the bony, "mighty-mouthed," harsh-toned termagant and dyspeptic of the nineteenth! the growl of the english mastiff and the snarl of the scotch terrier would make a duet which would enliven the shores of lethe. i wish i could find our "spiritualist's" paper in the portfolio, in which the two are brought together, but i hardly know what i shall find when it is opened. yes, my life is a little less precious to me since i have lost that dear old friend; and when the funeral train moves to westminster abbey next saturday, for i feel as if this were , and not ,--i seem to find myself following the hearse, one of the silent mourners. among the events which have rendered the past year memorable to me has been the demolition of that venerable and interesting old dwelling-house, precious for its intimate association with the earliest stages of the war of the revolution, and sacred to me as my birthplace and the home of my boyhood. the "old gambrel-roofed house" exists no longer. i remember saying something, in one of a series of papers published long ago, about the experience of dying out of a house,--of leaving it forever, as the soul dies out of the body. we may die out of many houses, but the house itself can die but once; and so real is the life of a house to one who has dwelt in it, more especially the life of the house which held him in dreamy infancy, in restless boyhood, in passionate youth,--so real, i say, is its life, that it seems as if something like a soul of it must outlast its perishing frame. the slaughter of the old gambrel-roofed house was, i am ready to admit, a case of justifiable domicide. not the less was it to be deplored by all who love the memories of the past. with its destruction are obliterated some of the footprints of the heroes and martyrs who took the first steps in the long and bloody march which led us through the wilderness to the promised land of independent nationality. personally, i have a right to mourn for it as a part of my life gone from me. my private grief for its loss would be a matter for my solitary digestion, were it not that the experience through which i have just passed is one so familiar to my fellow-countrymen that, in telling my own reflections and feelings, i am repeating those of great numbers of men and women who have had the misfortune to outlive their birthplace. it is a great blessing to be born surrounded by a natural horizon. the old gambrel-roofed house could not boast an unbroken ring of natural objects encircling it. northerly it looked upon its own outbuildings and some unpretending two-story houses which had been its neighbors for a century and more. to the south of it the square brick dormitories and the bellfried hall of the university helped to shut out the distant view. but the west windows gave a broad outlook across the common, beyond which the historical "washington elm" and two companions in line with it, spread their leaves in summer and their networks in winter. and far away rose the hills that bounded the view, with the glimmer here and there of the white walls or the illuminated casements of some embowered, half-hidden villa. eastwardly also, the prospect was, in my earlier remembrance, widely open, and i have frequently seen the sunlit sails gliding along as if through the level fields, for no water was visible. so there were broad expanses on two sides at least, for my imagination to wander over. i cannot help thinking that we carry our childhood's horizon with us all our days. among these western wooded hills my day-dreams built their fairy palaces, and even now, as i look at them from my library window, across the estuary of the charles, i find myself in the familiar home of my early visions. the "clouds of glory" which we trail with us in after life need not be traced to a pre-natal state. there is enough to account for them in that unconsciously remembered period of existence before we have learned the hard limitations of real life. those earliest months in which we lived in sensations without words, and ideas not fettered in sentences, have all the freshness of proofs of an engraving "before the letter." i am very thankful that the first part of my life was not passed shut in between high walls and treading the unimpressible and unsympathetic pavement. our university town was very much like the real country, in those days of which i am thinking. there were plenty of huckleberries and blueberries within half a mile of the house. blackberries ripened in the fields, acorns and shagbarks dropped from the trees, squirrels ran among the branches, and not rarely the hen-hawk might be seen circling over the barnyard. still another rural element was not wanting, in the form of that far-diffused, infragrant effluvium, which, diluted by a good half mile of pure atmosphere, is no longer odious, nay is positively agreeable, to many who have long known it, though its source and centre has an unenviable reputation. i need not name the animal whose parthian warfare terrifies and puts to flight the mightiest hunter that ever roused the tiger from his jungle or faced the lion of the desert. strange as it may seem, an aerial hint of his personality in the far distance always awakens in my mind pleasant remembrances and tender reflections. a whole neighborhood rises up before me: the barn, with its haymow, where the hens laid their eggs to hatch, and we boys hid our apples to ripen, both occasionally illustrating the sic vos non vobis; the shed, where the annual tragedy of the pig was acted with a realism that made salvini's othello seem but a pale counterfeit; the rickety old outhouse, with the "corn-chamber" which the mice knew so well; the paved yard, with its open gutter,--these and how much else come up at the hint of my far-off friend, who is my very near enemy. nothing is more familiar than the power of smell in reviving old memories. there was that quite different fragrance of the wood-house, the smell of fresh sawdust. it comes back to me now, and with it the hiss of the saw; the tumble of the divorced logs which god put together and man has just put asunder; the coming down of the axe and the hah! that helped it,--the straight-grained stick opening at the first appeal of the implement as if it were a pleasure, and the stick with a knot in the middle of it that mocked the blows and the hahs! until the beetle and wedge made it listen to reason,--there are just such straight-grained and just such knotty men and women. all this passes through my mind while biddy, whose parlor-name is angela, contents herself with exclaiming "egh!*******!" how different distances were in those young days of which i am thinking! from the old house to the old yellow meeting-house, where the head of the family preached and the limbs of the family listened, was not much more than two or three times the width of commonwealth avenue. but of a hot summer's afternoon, after having already heard one sermon, which could not in the nature of things have the charm of novelty of presentation to the members of the home circle, and the theology of which was not too clear to tender apprehensions; with three hymns more or less lugubrious, rendered by a village-choir, got into voice by many preliminary snuffles and other expiratory efforts, and accompanied by the snort of a huge bassviol which wallowed through the tune like a hippopotamus, with other exercises of the customary character,--after all this in the forenoon, the afternoon walk to the meeting-house in the hot sun counted for as much, in my childish dead-reckoning, as from old israel porter's in cambridge to the exchange coffeehouse in boston did in after years. it takes a good while to measure the radius of the circle that is about us, for the moon seems at first as near as the watchface. who knows but that, after a certain number of ages, the planet we live on may seem to us no bigger than our neighbor venus appeared when she passed before the sun a few months ago, looking as if we could take her between our thumb and finger, like a bullet or a marble? and time, too; how long was it from the serious sunrise to the joyous "sun-down" of an old-fashioned, puritanical, judaical first day of the week, which a pious fraud christened "the sabbath"? was it a fortnight, as we now reckon duration, or only a week? curious entities, or non-entities, space and tithe? when you see a metaphysician trying to wash his hands of them and get rid of these accidents, so as to lay his dry, clean palm on the absolute, does it not remind you of the hopeless task of changing the color of the blackamoor by a similar proceeding? for space is the fluid in which he is washing, and time is the soap which he is using up in the process, and he cannot get free from them until he can wash himself in a mental vacuum. in my reference to the old house in a former paper, published years ago, i said, "by and by the stony foot of the great university will plant itself on this whole territory, and the private recollections which clung so tenaciously to the place and its habitations will have died with those who cherished them." what strides the great university has taken since those words were written! during all my early years our old harvard alma mater sat still and lifeless as the colossi in the egyptian desert. then all at once, like the statue in don giovanni, she moved from her pedestal. the fall of that "stony foot" has effected a miracle like the harp that orpheus played, like the teeth which cadmus sowed. the plain where the moose and the bear were wandering while shakespeare was writing hamlet, where a few plain dormitories and other needed buildings were scattered about in my school-boy days, groans under the weight of the massive edifices which have sprung up all around them, crowned by the tower of that noble structure which stands in full view before me as i lift my eyes from the portfolio on the back of which i am now writing. for i must be permitted to remind you that i have not yet opened it. i have told you that i have just finished a long memoir, and that it has cost me no little labor to overcome some of its difficulties,--if i have overcome them, which others must decide. and i feel exactly as honest dobbin feels when his harness is slipped off after a long journey with a good deal of up-hill work. he wants to rest a little, then to feed a little; then, if you will turn him loose in the pasture, he wants to roll. i have left my starry and ethereal companionship,--not for a long time, i hope, for it has lifted me above my common self, but for a while. and now i want, so to speak, to roll in the grass and among the dandelions with the other pachyderms. so i have kept to the outside of the portfolio as yet, and am disporting myself in reminiscences, and fancies, and vagaries, and parentheses. how well i understand the feeling which led the pisans to load their vessels with earth from the holy land, and fill the area of the campo santo with that sacred soil! the old house stood upon about as perverse a little patch of the planet as ever harbored a half-starved earth-worm. it was as sandy as sahara and as thirsty as tantalus. the rustic aid-de-camps of the household used to aver that all fertilizing matters "leached" through it. i tried to disprove their assertion by gorging it with the best of terrestrial nourishment, until i became convinced that i was feeding the tea-plants of china, and then i gave over the attempt. and yet i did love, and do love, that arid patch of ground. i wonder if a single flower could not be made to grow in a pot of earth from that campo santo of my childhood! one noble product of nature did not refuse to flourish there,--the tall, stately, beautiful, soft-haired, many-jointed, generous maize or indian corn, which thrives on sand and defies the blaze of our shrivelling summer. what child but loves to wander in its forest-like depths, amidst the rustling leaves and with the lofty tassels tossing their heads high above him! there are two aspects of the cornfield which always impress my imagination: the first when it has reached its full growth, and its ordered ranks look like an army on the march with its plumed and bannered battalions; the second when, after the battle of the harvest, the girdled stacks stand on the field of slaughter like so many ragged niobes,--say rather like the crazy widows and daughters of the dead soldiery. once more let us come back to the old house. it was far along in its second century when the edict went forth that it must stand no longer. the natural death of a house is very much like that of one of its human tenants. the roof is the first part to show the distinct signs of age. slates and tiles loosen and at last slide off, and leave bald the boards that supported them; shingles darken and decay, and soon the garret or the attic lets in the rain and the snow; by and by the beams sag, the floors warp, the walls crack, the paper peels away, the ceilings scale off and fall, the windows are crusted with clinging dust, the doors drop from their rusted hinges, the winds come in without knocking and howl their cruel death-songs through the empty rooms and passages, and at last there comes a crash, a great cloud of dust rises, and the home that had been the shelter of generation after generation finds its grave in its own cellar. only the chimney remains as its monument. slowly, little by little, the patient solvents that find nothing too hard for their chemistry pick out the mortar from between the bricks; at last a mighty wind roars around it and rushes against it, and the monumental relic crashes down among the wrecks it has long survived. so dies a human habitation left to natural decay, all that was seen above the surface of the soil sinking gradually below it, till naught remains the saddening tale to tell save home's last wrecks, the cellar and the well. but if this sight is saddening, what is it to see a human dwelling fall by the hand of violence! the ripping off of the shelter that has kept out a thousand storms, the tearing off of the once ornamental woodwork, the wrench of the inexorable crowbar, the murderous blows of the axe, the progressive ruin, which ends by rending all the joints asunder and flinging the tenoned and mortised timbers into heaps that will be sawed and split to warm some new habitation as firewood,--what a brutal act of destruction it seems! why should i go over the old house again, having already described it more than ten years ago? alas! how many remember anything they read but once, and so long ago as that? how many would find it out if one should say over in the same words that which he said in the last decade? but there is really no need of telling the story a second time, for it can be found by those who are curious enough to look it up in a volume of which it occupies the opening chapter. in order, however, to save any inquisitive reader that trouble, let me remind him that the old house was general ward's headquarters at the breaking out of the revolution; that the plan for fortifying bunker's hill was laid, as commonly believed, in the southeast lower room, the floor of which was covered with dents, made, it was alleged, by the butts of the soldiers' muskets. in that house, too, general warren probably passed the night before the bunker hill battle, and over its threshold must the stately figure of washington have often cast its shadow. but the house in which one drew his first breath, and where he one day came into the consciousness that he was a personality, an ego, a little universe with a sky over him all his own, with a persistent identity, with the terrible responsibility of a separate, independent, inalienable existence,--that house does not ask for any historical associations to make it the centre of the earth for him. if there is any person in the world to be envied, it is the one who is born to an ancient estate, with a long line of family traditions and the means in his hands of shaping his mansion and his domain to his own taste, without losing sight of all the characteristic features which surrounded his earliest years. the american is, for the most part, a nomad, who pulls down his house as the tartar pulls up his tent-poles. if i had an ideal life to plan for him it would be something like this: his grandfather should be a wise, scholarly, large-brained, large-hearted country minister, from whom he should inherit the temperament that predisposes to cheerfulness and enjoyment, with the finer instincts which direct life to noble aims and make it rich with the gratification of pure and elevated tastes and the carrying out of plans for the good of his neighbors and his fellow-creatures. he should, if possible, have been born, at any rate have passed some of his early years, or a large part of them, under the roof of the good old minister. his father should be, we will say, a business man in one of our great cities,--a generous manipulator of millions, some of which have adhered to his private fortunes, in spite of his liberal use of his means. his heir, our ideally placed american, shall take possession of the old house, the home of his earliest memories, and preserve it sacredly, not exactly like the santa casa, but, as nearly as may be, just as he remembers it. he can add as many acres as he will to the narrow house-lot. he can build a grand mansion for himself, if he chooses, in the not distant neighborhood. but the old house, and all immediately round it, shall be as he recollects it when he had to stretch his little arm up to reach the door-handles. then, having well provided for his own household, himself included, let him become the providence of the village or the town where he finds himself during at least a portion of every year. its schools, its library, its poor,--and perhaps the new clergyman who has succeeded his grandfather's successor may be one of them,--all its interests, he shall make his own. and from this centre his beneficence shall radiate so far that all who hear of his wealth shall also hear of him as a friend to his race. is not this a pleasing programme? wealth is a steep hill, which the father climbs slowly and the son often tumbles down precipitately; but there is a table-land on a level with it, which may be found by those who do not lose their head in looking down from its sharply cloven summit.---our dangerously rich men can make themselves hated, held as enemies of the race, or beloved and recognized as its benefactors. the clouds of discontent are threatening, but if the gold-pointed lightning-rods are rightly distributed the destructive element may be drawn off silently and harmlessly. for it cannot be repeated too often that the safety of great wealth with us lies in obedience to the new version of the old world axiom, richess oblige. the new portfolio: first opening. a mortal antipathy. i getting ready. it is impossible to begin a story which must of necessity tax the powers of belief of readers unacquainted with the class of facts to which its central point of interest belongs without some words in the nature of preparation. readers of charles lamb remember that sarah battle insisted on a clean-swept hearth before sitting down to her favorite game of whist. the narrator wishes to sweep the hearth, as it were, in these opening pages, before sitting down to tell his story. he does not intend to frighten the reader away by prolix explanation, but he does mean to warn him against hasty judgments when facts are related which are not within the range of every-day experience. did he ever see the siamese twins, or any pair like them? probably not, yet he feels sure that chang and eng really existed; and if he has taken the trouble to inquire, he has satisfied himself that similar cases have been recorded by credible witnesses, though at long intervals and in countries far apart from each other. this is the first sweep of the brush, to clear the hearth of the skepticism and incredulity which must be got out of the way before we can begin to tell and to listen in peace with ourselves and each other. one more stroke of the brush is needed before the stage will be ready for the chief characters and the leading circumstances to which the reader's attention is invited. if the principal personages made their entrance at once, the reader would have to create for himself the whole scenery of their surrounding conditions. in point of fact, no matter how a story is begun, many of its readers have already shaped its chief actors out of any hint the author may have dropped, and provided from their own resources a locality and a set of outward conditions to environ these imagined personalities. these are all to be brushed away, and the actual surroundings of the subject of the narrative represented as they were, at the risk of detaining the reader a little while from the events most likely to interest him. the choicest egg that ever was laid was not so big as the nest that held it. if a story were so interesting that a maiden would rather hear it than listen to the praise of her own beauty, or a poet would rather read it than recite his own verses, still it would have to be wrapped in some tissue of circumstance, or it would lose half its effectiveness. it may not be easy to find the exact locality referred to in this narrative by looking into the first gazetteer that is at hand. recent experiences have shown that it is unsafe to be too exact in designating places and the people who live in them. there are, it may be added, so many advertisements disguised under the form of stories and other literary productions that one naturally desires to avoid the suspicion of being employed by the enterprising proprietors of this or that celebrated resort to use his gifts for their especial benefit. there are no doubt many persons who remember the old sign and the old tavern and its four chief personages presently to be mentioned. it is to be hoped that they will not furnish the public with a key to this narrative, and perhaps bring trouble to the writer of it, as has happened to other authors. if the real names are a little altered, it need not interfere with the important facts relating to those who bear them. it might not be safe to tell a damaging story about john or james smythe; but if the slight change is made of spelling the name smith, the smythes would never think of bringing an action, as if the allusion related to any of them. the same gulf of family distinction separates the thompsons with a p from the thomsons without that letter. there are few pleasanter places in the northern states for a summer residence than that known from the first period of its settlement by the name of arrowhead village. the indians had found it out, as the relics they left behind them abundantly testified. the commonest of these were those chipped stones which are the medals of barbarism, and from which the place took its name,--the heads of arrows, of various sizes, material, and patterns: some small enough for killing fish and little birds, some large enough for such game as the moose and the bear, to say nothing of the hostile indian and the white settler; some of flint, now and then one of white quartz, and others of variously colored jasper. the indians must have lived here for many generations, and it must have been a kind of factory village of the stone age,--which lasted up to near the present time, if we may judge from the fact that many of these relics are met with close to the surface of the ground. no wonder they found this a pleasant residence, for it is to-day one of the most attractive of all summer resorts; so inviting, indeed, that those who know it do not like to say too much about it, lest the swarms of tourists should make it unendurable to those who love it for itself, and not as a centre of fashionable display and extramural cockneyism. there is the lake, in the first place,--cedar lake,--about five miles long, and from half a mile to a mile and a half wide, stretching from north to south. near the northern extremity are the buildings of stoughton university, a flourishing young college with an ambitious name, but well equipped and promising, the grounds of which reach the water. at the southern end of the lake are the edifices of the corinna institute, a favorite school for young ladies, where large numbers of the daughters of america are fitted, so far as education can do it, for all stations in life, from camping out with a husband at the mines in nevada to acting the part of chief lady of the land in the white house at washington. midway between the two extremities, on the eastern shore of the lake, is a valley between two hills, which come down to the very edge of the lake, leaving only room enough for a road between their base and the water. this valley, half a mile in width, has been long settled, and here for a century or more has stood the old anchor tavern. a famous place it was so long as its sign swung at the side of the road: famous for its landlord, portly, paternal, whose welcome to a guest that looked worthy of the attention was like that of a parent to a returning prodigal, and whose parting words were almost as good as a marriage benediction; famous for its landlady, ample in person, motherly, seeing to the whole household with her own eyes, mistress of all culinary secrets that northern kitchens are most proud of; famous also for its ancient servant, as city people would call her,--help, as she was called in the tavern and would have called herself,--the unchanging, seemingly immortal miranda, who cared for the guests as if she were their nursing mother, and pressed the specially favorite delicacies on their attention as a connoisseur calls the wandering eyes of an amateur to the beauties of a picture. who that has ever been at the old anchor tavern forgets miranda's "a little of this fricassee?-it is ver-y nice;" or "some of these cakes? you will find them ver-y good." nor would it be just to memory to forget that other notable and noted member of the household,--the unsleeping, unresting, omnipresent pushee, ready for everybody and everything, everywhere within the limits of the establishment at all hours of the day and night. he fed, nobody could say accurately when or where. there were rumors of a "bunk," in which he lay down with his clothes on, but he seemed to be always wide awake, and at the service of as many guest, at once as if there had been half a dozen of him. so much for old reminiscences. the landlord of the anchor tavern had taken down his sign. he had had the house thoroughly renovated and furnished it anew, and kept it open in summer for a few boarders. it happened more than once that the summer boarders were so much pleased with the place that they stayed on through the autumn, and some of them through the winter. the attractions of the village were really remarkable. boating in summer, and skating in winter; ice-boats, too, which the wild ducks could hardly keep up with; fishing, for which the lake was renowned; varied and beautiful walks through the valley and up the hillsides; houses sheltered from the north and northeasterly winds, and refreshed in the hot summer days by the breeze which came over the water,--all this made the frame for a pleasing picture of rest and happiness. but there was a great deal more than this. there was a fine library in the little village, presented and richly endowed by a wealthy native of the place. there was a small permanent population of a superior character to that of an everyday country town; there was a pretty little episcopal church, with a good-hearted rector, broad enough for the bishop of the diocese to be a little afraid of, and hospitable to all outsiders, of whom, in the summer season, there were always some who wanted a place of worship to keep their religion from dying out during the heathen months, while the shepherds of the flocks to which they belonged were away from their empty folds. what most helped to keep the place alive all through the year was the frequent coming together of the members of a certain literary association. some time before the tavern took down its sign the landlord had built a hall, where many a ball had been held, to which the young folks of all the country round had resorted. it was still sometimes used for similar occasions, but it was especially notable as being the place of meeting of the famous pansophian society. this association, the name of which might be invidiously interpreted as signifying that its members knew everything, had no such pretensions, but, as its constitution said very plainly and modestly, held itself open to accept knowledge on any and all subjects from such as had knowledge to impart. its president was the rector of the little chapel, a man who, in spite of the thirty-nine articles, could stand fire from the widest-mouthed heretical blunderbuss without flinching or losing his temper. the hall of the old anchor tavern was a convenient place of meeting for the students and instructors of the university and the institute. sometimes in boat-loads, sometimes in carriage-loads, sometimes in processions of skaters, they came to the meetings in pansophian hall, as it was now commonly called. these meetings had grown to be occasions of great interest. it was customary to have papers written by members of the society, for the most part, but now and then by friends of the members, sometimes by the students of the college or the institute, and in rarer instances by anonymous personages, whose papers, having been looked over and discussed by the committee appointed for that purpose, were thought worth listening to. the variety of topics considered was very great. the young ladies of the village and the institute had their favorite subjects, the young gentlemen a different set of topics, and the occasional outside contributors their own; so that one who happened to be admitted to a meeting never knew whether he was going to hear an account of recent arctic discoveries, or an essay on the freedom of the will, or a psychological experience, or a story, or even a poem. of late there had been a tendency to discuss the questions relating to the true status and the legitimate social functions of woman. the most conflicting views were held on the subject. many of the young ladies and some of the university students were strong in defence of all the "woman's rights" doctrines. some of these young people were extreme in their views. they had read about semiramis and boadicea and queen elizabeth, until they were ready, if they could get the chance, to vote for a woman as president of the united states or as general of the united states army. they were even disposed to assert the physical equality of woman to man, on the strength of the rather questionable history of the amazons, and especially of the story, believed to be authentic, of the female body-guard of the king of dahomey,--females frightful enough to need no other weapon than their looks to scare off an army of cossacks. miss lurida vincent, gold medallist of her year at the corinna institute, was the leader of these advocates of virile womanhood. it was rather singular that she should have elected to be the apostle of this extreme doctrine, for she was herself far better equipped with brain than muscles. in fact, she was a large-headed, large-eyed, long-eyelashed, slender-necked, slightly developed young woman; looking almost like a child at an age when many of the girls had reached their full stature and proportions. in her studies she was so far in advance of her different classes that there was always a wide gap between her and the second scholar. so fatal to all rivalry had she proved herself that she passed under the school name of the terror. she learned so easily that she undervalued her own extraordinary gifts, and felt the deepest admiration for those of her friends endowed with faculties of an entirely different and almost opposite nature. after sitting at her desk until her head was hot and her feet were like ice, she would go and look at the blooming young girls exercising in the gymnasium of the school, and feel as if she would give all her knowledge, all her mathematics and strange tongues and history, all those accomplishments that made her the encyclopaedia of every class she belonged to, if she could go through the series of difficult and graceful exercises in which she saw her schoolmates delighting. one among them, especially, was the object of her admiration, as she was of all who knew her exceptional powers in the line for which nature had specially organized her. all the physical perfections which miss lurida had missed had been united in miss euthymia tower, whose school name was the wonder. though of full womanly stature, there were several taller girls of her age. while all her contours and all her movements betrayed a fine muscular development, there was no lack of proportion, and her finely shaped hands and feet showed that her organization was one of those carefully finished masterpieces of nature which sculptors are always in search of, and find it hard to detect among the imperfect products of the living laboratory. this girl of eighteen was more famous than she cared to be for her performances in the gymnasium. she commonly contented herself with the same exercises that her companions were accustomed to. only her dumb-bells, with which she exercised easily and gracefully, were too heavy for most of the girls to do more with than lift them from the floor. she was fond of daring feats on the trapeze, and had to be checked in her indulgence in them. the professor of gymnastics at the university came over to the institute now and then, and it was a source of great excitement to watch some of the athletic exercises in which the young lady showed her remarkable muscular strength and skill in managing herself in the accomplishment of feats which looked impossible at first sight. how often the terror had thought to herself that she would gladly give up all her knowledge of greek and the differential and integral calculus if she could only perform the least of those feats which were mere play to the wonder! miss euthymia was not behind the rest in her attainments in classical or mathematical knowledge, and she was one of the very best students in the out-door branches,--botany, mineralogy, sketching from nature,--to be found among the scholars of the institute. there was an eight-oared boat rowed by a crew of the young ladies, of which miss euthymia was the captain and pulled the bow oar. poor little lurida could not pull an oar, but on great occasions, when there were many boats out, she was wanted as coxswain, being a mere feather-weight, and quick-witted enough to serve well in the important office where brains are more needed than muscle. there was also an eight-oared boat belonging to the university, and rowed by a picked crew of stalwart young fellows. the bow oar and captain of the university crew was a powerful young man, who, like the captain of the girls' boat, was a noted gymnast. he had had one or two quiet trials with miss euthymia, in which, according to the ultras of the woman's rights party, he had not vindicated the superiority of his sex in the way which might have been expected. indeed, it was claimed that he let a cannon-ball drop when he ought to have caught it, and it was not disputed that he had been ingloriously knocked over by a sand-bag projected by the strong arms of the young maiden. this was of course a story that was widely told and laughingly listened to, and the captain of the university crew had become a little sensitive on the subject. when there was a talk, therefore, about a race between the champion boats of the two institutions there was immense excitement in both of them, as well as among the members of the pansophian society and all the good people of the village. there were many objections to be overcome. some thought it unladylike for the young maidens to take part in a competition which must attract many lookers-on, and which it seemed to them very hoidenish to venture upon. some said it was a shame to let a crew of girls try their strength against an equal number of powerful young men. these objections were offset by the advocates of the race by the following arguments. they maintained that it was no more hoidenish to row a boat than it was to take a part in the calisthenic exercises, and that the girls had nothing to do with the young men's boat, except to keep as much ahead of it as possible. as to strength, the woman's righters believed that, weight for weight, their crew was as strong as the other, and of course due allowance would be made for the difference of weight and all other accidental hindrances. it was time to test the boasted superiority of masculine muscle. here was a chance. if the girls beat, the whole country would know it, and after that female suffrage would be only a question of time. such was the conclusion, from rather insufficient premises, it must be confessed; but if nature does nothing per saltum,--by jumps,--as the old adage has it, youth is very apt to take long leaps from a fact to a possible sequel or consequence. so it had come about that a contest between the two boat-crews was looked forward to with an interest almost equal to that with which the combat between the horatii and curiatii was regarded. the terms had been at last arranged between the two crews, after cautious protocols and many diplomatic discussions. it was so novel in its character that it naturally took a good deal of time to adjust it in such a way as to be fair to both parties. the course must not be too long for the lighter and weaker crew, for the staying power of the young persons who made it up could not be safely reckoned upon. a certain advantage must be allowed them at the start, and this was a delicate matter to settle. the weather was another important consideration. june would be early enough, in all probability, and if the lake should be tolerably smooth the grand affair might come off some time in that month. any roughness of the water would be unfavorable to the weaker crew. the rowing-course was on the eastern side of the lake, the starting-point being opposite the anchor tavern; from that three quarters of a mile to the south, where the turning-stake was fixed, so that the whole course of one mile and a half would bring the boats back to their starting-point. the race was to be between the algonquin, eight-oared boat with outriggers, rowed by young men, students of stoughton university, and the atalanta, also eight-oared and outrigger boat, by young ladies from the corinna institute. their boat was three inches wider than the other, for various sufficient reasons, one of which was to make it a little less likely to go over and throw its crew into the water, which was a sound precaution, though all the girls could swim, and one at least, the bow oar, was a famous swimmer, who had pulled a drowning man out of the water after a hard struggle to keep him from carrying her down with him. though the coming trial had not been advertised in the papers, so as to draw together a rabble of betting men and ill-conditioned lookers-on, there was a considerable gathering, made up chiefly of the villagers and the students of the two institutions. among them were a few who were disposed to add to their interest in the trial by small wagers. the bets were rather in favor of the "quins," as the university boat was commonly called, except where the natural sympathy of the young ladies or the gallantry of some of the young men led them to risk their gloves or cigars, or whatever it might be, on the atalantas. the elements of judgment were these: average weight of the algonquins one hundred and sixty-five pounds; average weight of the atalantas, one hundred and forty-eight pounds; skill in practice about equal; advantage of the narrow boat equal to three lengths; whole distance allowed the atalantas eight lengths,--a long stretch to be made up in a mile and a half. and so both crews began practising for the grand trial. ii the boat-race. the th of june was a delicious summer day, rather warm, but still and bright. the water was smooth, and the crews were in the best possible condition. all was expectation, and for some time nothing but expectation. no boat-race or regatta ever began at the time appointed for the start. somebody breaks an oar, or somebody fails to appear in season, or something is the matter with a seat or an outrigger; or if there is no such excuse, the crew of one or both or all the boats to take part in the race must paddle about to get themselves ready for work, to the infinite weariness of all the spectators, who naturally ask why all this getting ready is not attended to beforehand. the algonquins wore plain gray flannel suits and white caps. the young ladies were all in dark blue dresses, touched up with a red ribbon here and there, and wore light straw hats. the little coxswain of the atalanta was the last to step on board. as she took her place she carefully deposited at her feet a white handkerchief wrapped about something or other, perhaps a sponge, in case the boat should take in water. at last the algonquin shot out from the little nook where she lay, --long, narrow, shining, swift as a pickerel when he darts from the reedy shore. it was a beautiful sight to see the eight young fellows in their close-fitting suits, their brown muscular arms bare, bending their backs for the stroke and recovering, as if they were parts of a single machine. "the gals can't stan' it agin them fellers," said the old blacksmith from the village. "you wait till the gals get a-goin'," said the carpenter, who had often worked in the gymnasium of the corinna institute, and knew something of their muscular accomplishments. "y' ought to see 'em climb ropes, and swing dumb-bells, and pull in them rowin'-machines. ask jake there whether they can't row a mild in double-quick time,--he knows all abaout it." jake was by profession a fisherman, and a freshwater fisherman in a country village is inspector-general of all that goes on out-of-doors, being a lazy, wandering sort of fellow, whose study of the habits and habitats of fishes gives him a kind of shrewdness of observation, just as dealing in horses is an education of certain faculties, and breeds a race of men peculiarly cunning, suspicious, wary, and wide awake, with a rhetoric of appreciation and depreciation all its own. jake made his usual preliminary signal, and delivered himself to the following effect: "wahl, i don' know jest what to say. i've seed 'em both often enough when they was practisin', an' i tell ye the' wa'n't no slouch abaout neither on 'em. but them bats is all-fired long, 'n' eight on 'em stretched in a straight line eendways makes a consid'able piece aout 'f a mile 'n' a haaf. i'd bate on them gals if it wa'n't that them fellers is naterally longer winded, as the gals 'll find aout by the time they git raound the stake 'n' over agin the big ellum. i'll go ye a quarter on the pahnts agin the petticoats." the fresh-water fisherman had expressed the prevailing belief that the young ladies were overmatched. still there were not wanting those who thought the advantage allowed the "lantas," as they called the corinna boatcrew, was too great, and that it would be impossible for the "quins" to make it up and go by them. the algonquins rowed up and down a few times before the spectators. they appeared in perfect training, neither too fat nor too fine, mettlesome as colts, steady as draught-horses, deep-breathed as oxen, disciplined to work together as symmetrically as a single sculler pulls his pair of oars. the fisherman offered to make his quarter fifty cents. no takers. five minutes passed, and all eyes were strained to the south, looking for the atalanta. a clump of trees hid the edge of the lake along which the corinna's boat was stealing towards the starting-point. presently the long shell swept into view, with its blooming rowers, who, with their ample dresses, seemed to fill it almost as full as raphael fills his skiff on the edge of the lake of galilee. but how steadily the atalanta came on!---no rocking, no splashing, no apparent strain; the bow oar turning to look ahead every now and then, and watching her course, which seemed to be straight as an arrow, the beat of the strokes as true and regular as the pulse of the healthiest rower among them all. and if the sight of the other boat and its crew was beautiful, how lovely was the look of this! eight young girls,--young ladies, for those who prefer that more dignified and less attractive expression,--all in the flush of youth, all in vigorous health; every muscle taught its duty; each rower alert, not to be a tenth of a second out of time, or let her oar dally with the water so as to lose an ounce of its propelling virtue; every eye kindling with the hope of victory. each of the boats was cheered as it came in sight, but the cheers for the atalanta were naturally the loudest, as the gallantry of one sex and the clear, high voices of the other gave it life and vigor. "take your places!" shouted the umpire, five minutes before the half hour. the two boats felt their way slowly and cautiously to their positions, which had been determined by careful measurement. after a little backing and filling they got into line, at the proper distance from each other, and sat motionless, their bodies bent forward, their arms outstretched, their oars in the water, waiting for the word. "go!" shouted the umpire. away sprang the atalanta, and far behind her leaped the algonquin, her oars bending like so many long indian bows as their blades flashed through the water. "a stern chase is a long chase," especially when one craft is a great distance behind the other. it looked as if it would be impossible for the rear boat to overcome the odds against it. of course the algonquin kept gaining, but could it possibly gain enough? that was the question. as the boats got farther and farther away, it became more and more difficult to determine what change there was in the interval between them. but when they came to rounding the stake it was easier to guess at the amount of space which had been gained. it was clear that something like half the distance, four lengths, as nearly as could be estimated, had been made up in rowing the first three quarters of a mile. could the algonquins do a little better than this in the second half of the race-course, they would be sure of winning. the boats had turned the stake, and were coming in rapidly. every minute the university boat was getting nearer the other. "go it, quins!" shouted the students. "pull away, lantas!" screamed the girls, who were crowding down to the edge of the water. nearer,--nearer,--the rear boat is pressing the other more and more closely,--a few more strokes, and they will be even, for there is but one length between them, and thirty rods will carry them to the line. it looks desperate for the atalantas. the bow oar of the algonquin turns his head. he sees the little coxswain leaning forward at every stroke, as if her trivial weight were of such mighty consequence,--but a few ounces might turn the scale of victory. as he turned he got a glimpse of the stroke oar of the atalanta. what a flash of loveliness it was! her face was like the reddest of june roses, with the heat and the strain and the passion of expected triumph. the upper button of her close-fitting flannel suit had strangled her as her bosom heaved with exertion, and it had given way before the fierce clutch she made at it. the bow oar was a staunch and steady rower, but he was human. the blade of his oar lingered in the water; a little more and he would have caught a crab, and perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment. the boat, which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness of a derby three-year-old, felt the slight check, and all her men bent more vigorously to their oars. the atalantas saw the movement, and made a spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if they could. it was of no use. the strong arms of the young men were too much for the young maidens; only a few lengths remained to be rowed, and they would certainly pass the atalanta before she could reach the line. the little coxswain saw that it was all up with the girls' crew if she could not save them by some strategic device. "dolus an virtus quis in hoste requirat?" she whispered to herself,--for the terror remembered her virgil as she did everything else she ever studied. as she stooped, she lifted the handkerchief at her feet, and took from it a flaming bouquet. "look!" she cried, and flung it just forward of the track of the algonquin. the captain of the university boat turned his head, and there was the lovely vision which had a moment before bewitched him. the owner of all that loveliness must, he thought, have flung the bouquet. it was a challenge: how could he be such a coward as to decline accepting it. he was sure he could win the race now, and he would sweep past the line in triumph with the great bunch of flowers at the stem of his boat, proud as van tromp in the british channel with the broom at his mast-head. he turned the boat's head a little by backing water. he came up with the floating flowers, and near enough to reach them. he stooped and snatched them up, with the loss perhaps of a second in all,--no more. he felt sure of his victory. how can one tell the story of the finish in cold-blooded preterites? are we not there ourselves? are not our muscles straining with those of these sixteen young creatures, full of hot, fresh blood, their nerves all tingling like so many tight-strained harp-strings, all their life concentrating itself in this passionate moment of supreme effort? no! we are seeing, not telling about what somebody else once saw! --the bow of the algonquin passes the stern of the atalanta! --the bow of the algonquin is on a level with the middle of the atalanta! --three more lengths' rowing and the college crew will pass the girls! --"hurrah for the quins!" the algonquin ranges up alongside of the atalanta! "through with her!" shouts the captain of the algonquin. "now, girls!" shrieks the captain of the atalanta. they near the line, every rower straining desperately, almost madly. --crack goes the oar of the atalanta's captain, and up flash its splintered fragments, as the stem of her boat springs past the line, eighteen inches at least ahead of the algonquin. hooraw for the lantas! hooraw for the girls! hooraw for the institoot! shout a hundred voices. "hurrah for woman's rights and female suffrage!" pipes the small voice of the terror, and there is loud laughing and cheering all round. she had not studied her classical dictionary and her mythology for nothing. "i have paid off one old score," she said. "set down my damask roses against the golden apples of hippomenes!" it was that one second lost in snatching up the bouquet which gave the race to the atalantas. iii the white canoe. while the two boats were racing, other boats with lookers-on in them were rowing or sailing in the neighborhood of the race-course. the scene on the water was a gay one, for the young people in the boats were, many of them, acquainted with each other. there was a good deal of lively talk until the race became too exciting. then many fell silent, until, as the boats neared the line, and still more as they crossed it, the shouts burst forth which showed how a cramp of attention finds its natural relief in a fit of convulsive exclamation. but far away, on the other side of the lake, a birchbark canoe was to be seen, in which sat a young man, who paddled it skillfully and swiftly. it was evident enough that he was watching the race intently, but the spectators could see little more than that. one of them, however, who sat upon the stand, had a powerful spy-glass, and could distinguish his motions very minutely and exactly. it was seen by this curious observer that the young man had an opera-glass with him, which he used a good deal at intervals. the spectator thought he kept it directed to the girls' boat, chiefly, if not exclusively. he thought also that the opera-glass was more particularly pointed towards the bow of the boat, and came to the natural conclusion that the bow oar, miss euthymia tower, captain of the atalantas, "the wonder" of the corinna institute, was the attraction which determined the direction of the instrument. "who is that in the canoe over there?" asked the owner of the spy-glass. "that's just what we should like to know," answered the old landlord's wife. "he and his man boarded with us when they first came, but we could never find out anything about him only just his name and his ways of living. his name is kirkwood, maurice kirkwood, esq., it used to come on his letters. as for his ways of living, he was the solitariest human being that i ever came across. his man carried his meals up to him. he used to stay in his room pretty much all day, but at night he would be off, walking, or riding on horseback, or paddling about in the lake, sometimes till nigh morning. there's something very strange about that mr. kirkwood. but there don't seem to be any harm in him. only nobody can guess what his business is. they got up a story about him at one time. what do you think? they said he was a counterfeiter! and so they went one night to his room, when he was out, and that man of his was away too, and they carried keys, and opened pretty much everything; and they found--well, they found just nothing at all except writings and letters,--letters from places in america and in england, and some with italian postmarks: that was all. since that time the sheriff and his folks have let him alone and minded their own business. he was a gentleman,--anybody ought to have known that; and anybody that knew about his nice ways of living and behaving, and knew the kind of wear he had for his underclothing, might have known it. i could have told those officers that they had better not bother him. i know the ways of real gentlemen and real ladies, and i know those fellows in store clothes that look a little too fine,--outside. wait till washing-day comes!" the good lady had her own standards for testing humanity, and they were not wholly unworthy of consideration; they were quite as much to be relied on as the judgments of the travelling phrenologist, who sent his accomplice on before him to study out the principal personages in the village, and in the light of these revelations interpreted the bumps, with very little regard to gall and spurzheim, or any other authorities. even with the small amount of information obtained by the search among his papers and effects, the gossips of the village had constructed several distinct histories for the mysterious stranger. he was an agent of a great publishing house; a leading contributor to several important periodicals; the author of that anonymously published novel which had made so much talk; the poet of a large clothing establishment; a spy of the italian, some said the russian, some said the british, government; a proscribed refugee from some country where he had been plotting; a school-master without a school, a minister without a pulpit, an actor without an engagement; in short, there was no end to the perfectly senseless stories that were told about him, from that which made him out an escaped convict to the whispered suggestion that he was the eccentric heir to a great english title and estate. the one unquestionable fact was that of his extraordinary seclusion. nobody in the village, no student in the university, knew his history. no young lady in the corinna institute had ever had a word from him. sometimes, as the boats of the university or the institute were returning at dusk, their rowers would see the canoe stealing into the shadows as they drew near it. sometimes on a moonlight night, when a party of the young ladies were out upon the lake, they would see the white canoe gliding ghost-like in the distance. and it had happened more than once that when a boat's crew had been out with singers among them, while they were in the midst of a song, the white canoe would suddenly appear and rest upon the water,--not very near them, but within hearing distance,--and so remain until the singing was over, when it would steal away and be lost sight of in some inlet or behind some jutting rock. naturally enough, there was intense curiosity about this young man. the landlady had told her story, which explained nothing. there was nobody to be questioned about him except his servant, an italian, whose name was paolo, but who to the village was known as mr. paul. mr. paul would have seemed the easiest person in the world to worm a secret out of. he was good-natured, child-like as a heathen chinee, talked freely with everybody in such english as he had at command, knew all the little people of the village, and was followed round by them partly from his personal attraction for them, and partly because he was apt to have a stick of candy or a handful of peanuts or other desirable luxury in his pocket for any of his little friends he met with. he had that wholesome, happy look, so uncommon in our arid countrymen,--a look hardly to be found except where figs and oranges ripen in the open air. a kindly climate to grow up in, a religion which takes your money and gives you a stamped ticket good at saint peter's box office, a roomy chest and a good pair of lungs in it, an honest digestive apparatus, a lively temperament, a cheerful acceptance of the place in life assigned to one by nature and circumstance,--these are conditions under which life may be quite comfortable to endure, and certainly is very pleasant to contemplate. all these conditions were united in paolo. he was the easiest; pleasantest creature to talk with that one could ask for a companion. his southern vivacity, his amusing english, his simplicity and openness, made him friends everywhere. it seemed as if it would be a very simple matter to get the history of his master out of this guileless and unsophisticated being. he had been tried by all the village experts. the rector had put a number of well-studied careless questions, which failed of their purpose. the old librarian of the town library had taken note of all the books he carried to his master, and asked about his studies and pursuits. paolo found it hard to understand his english, apparently, and answered in the most irrelevant way. the leading gossip of the village tried her skill in pumping him for information. it was all in vain. his master's way of life was peculiar,--in fact, eccentric. he had hired rooms in an old-fashioned three-story house. he had two rooms in the second and third stories of this old wooden building: his study in the second, his sleeping-room in the one above it. paolo lived in the basement, where he had all the conveniences for cooking, and played the part of chef for his master and himself. this was only a part of his duty, for he was a man-of-all-work, purveyor, steward, chambermaid,--as universal in his services for one man as pushee at the anchor tavern used to be for everybody. it so happened that paolo took a severe cold one winter's day, and had such threatening symptoms that he asked the baker, when he called, to send the village physician to see him. in the course of his visit the doctor naturally inquired about the health of paolo's master. "signor kirkwood well,--molto bene," said paolo. "why does he keep out of sight as he does?" asked the doctor. "he always so," replied paolo. "una antipatia." whether paolo was off his guard with the doctor, whether he revealed it to him as to a father confessor, or whether he thought it time that the reason of his master's seclusion should be known, the doctor did not feel sure. at any rate, paolo was not disposed to make any further revelations. una antipatia,--an antipathy,--that was all the doctor learned. he thought the matter over, and the more he reflected the more he was puzzled. what could an antipathy be that made a young man a recluse! was it a dread of blue sky and open air, of the smell of flowers, or some electrical impression to which he was unnaturally sensitive? dr. butts carried these questions home with him. his wife was a sensible, discreet woman, whom he could trust with many professional secrets. he told her of paolo's revelation, and talked it over with her in the light of his experience and her own; for she had known some curious cases of constitutional likes and aversions. mrs. butts buried the information in the grave of her memory, where it lay for nearly a week. at the end of that time it emerged in a confidential whisper to her favorite sister-in-law, a perfectly safe person. twenty-four hours later the story was all over the village that maurice kirkwood was the subject of a strange, mysterious, unheard-of antipathy to something, nobody knew what; and the whole neighborhood naturally resolved itself into an unorganized committee of investigation. iv what is a country village without its mysterious personage? few are now living who can remember the advent of the handsome young man who was the mystery of our great university town "sixty years since,"--long enough ago for a romance to grow out of a narrative, as waverley may remind us. the writer of this narrative remembers him well, and is not sure that he has not told the strange story in some form or other to the last generation, or to the one before the last. no matter: if he has told it they have forgotten it,--that is, if they have ever read it; and whether they have or have not, the story is singular enough to justify running the risk of repetition. this young man, with a curious name of scandinavian origin, appeared unheralded in the town, as it was then, of cantabridge. he wanted employment, and soon found it in the shape of manual labor, which he undertook and performed cheerfully. but his whole appearance showed plainly enough that he was bred to occupations of a very different nature, if, in deed, he had been accustomed to any kind of toil for his living. his aspect was that of one of gentle birth. his hands were not those of a laborer, and his features were delicate and refined, as well as of remarkable beauty. who he was, where he came from, why he had come to cantabridge, was never clearly explained. he was alone, without friends, except among the acquaintances he had made in his new residence. if he had any correspondents, they were not known to the neighborhood where he was living. but if he had neither friends nor correspondents, there was some reason for believing that he had enemies. strange circumstances occurred which connected themselves with him in an ominous and unaccountable way. a threatening letter was slipped under the door of a house where he was visiting. he had a sudden attack of illness, which was thought to look very much like the effect of poison. at one time he disappeared, and was found wandering, bewildered, in a town many miles from that where he was residing. when questioned how he came there; he told a coherent story that he had been got, under some pretext, or in some not incredible way, into a boat, from which, at a certain landing-place, he had escaped and fled for his life, which he believed was in danger from his kidnappers. whoever his enemies may have been,--if they really existed,--he did not fall a victim to their plots, so far as known to or remembered by this witness. various interpretations were put upon his story. conjectures were as abundant as they were in the case of kaspar hauser. that he was of good family seemed probable; that he was of distinguished birth, not impossible; that he was the dangerous rival of a candidate for a greatly coveted position in one of the northern states of europe was a favorite speculation of some of the more romantic young persons. there was no dramatic ending to this story,--at least none is remembered by the present writer. "he left a name," like the royal swede, of whose lineage he may have been for aught that the village people knew, but not a name at which anybody "grew pale;" for he had swindled no one, and broken no woman's heart with false vows. possibly some withered cheeks may flush faintly as they recall the handsome young man who came before the cantabridge maidens fully equipped for a hero of romance when the century was in its first quarter. the writer has been reminded of the handsome swede by the incidents attending the advent of the unknown and interesting stranger who had made his appearance at arrowhead village. it was a very insufficient and unsatisfactory reason to assign for the young man's solitary habits that he was the subject of an antipathy. for what do we understand by that word? when a young lady screams at the sight of a spider, we accept her explanation that she has a natural antipathy to the creature. when a person expresses a repugnance to some wholesome article of food, agreeable to most people, we are satisfied if he gives the same reason. and so of various odors, which are pleasing to some persons and repulsive to others. we do not pretend to go behind the fact. it is an individual, and it may be a family, peculiarity. even between different personalities there is an instinctive elective dislike as well as an elective affinity. we are not bound to give a reason why dr. fell is odious to us any more than the prisoner who peremptorily challenges a juryman is bound to say why he does it; it is enough that he "does not like his looks." there was nothing strange, then, that maurice kirkwood should have his special antipathy; a great many other people have odd likes and dislikes. but it was a very curious thing that this antipathy should be alleged as the reason for his singular mode of life. all sorts of explanations were suggested, not one of them in the least satisfactory, but serving to keep the curiosity of inquirers active until they were superseded by a new theory. one story was that maurice had a great fear of dogs. it grew at last to a connected narrative, in which a fright in childhood from a rabid mongrel was said to have given him such a sensitiveness to the near presence of dogs that he was liable to convulsions if one came close to him. this hypothesis had some plausibility. no other creature would be so likely to trouble a person who had an antipathy to it. dogs are very apt to make the acquaintance of strangers, in a free and easy way. they are met with everywhere,--in one's daily walk, at the thresholds of the doors one enters, in the gentleman's library, on the rug of my lady's sitting-room and on the cushion of her carriage. it is true that there are few persons who have an instinctive repugnance to this "friend of man." but what if this so-called antipathy were only a fear, a terror, which borrowed the less unmanly name? it was a fair question, if, indeed, the curiosity of the public had a right to ask any questions at all about a harmless individual who gave no offence, and seemed entitled to the right of choosing his way of living to suit himself, without being submitted to espionage. there was no positive evidence bearing on the point as yet. but one of the village people had a large newfoundland dog, of a very sociable disposition, with which he determined to test the question. he watched for the time when maurice should leave his house for the woods or the lake, and started with his dog to meet him. the animal walked up to the stranger in a very sociable fashion, and began making his acquaintance, after the usual manner of well-bred dogs; that is, with the courtesies and blandishments by which the canine chesterfield is distinguished from the ill-conditioned cur. maurice patted him in a friendly way, and spoke to him as one who was used to the fellowship of such companions. that idle question and foolish story were disposed of, therefore, and some other solution must be found, if possible. a much more common antipathy is that which is entertained with regard to cats. this has never been explained. it is not mere aversion to the look of the creature, or to any sensible quality known to the common observer. the cat is pleasing in aspect, graceful in movement, nice in personal habits, and of amiable disposition. no cause of offence is obvious, and yet there are many persons who cannot abide the presence of the most innocent little kitten. they can tell, in some mysterious way, that there is a cat in the room when they can neither see nor hear the creature. whether it is an electrical or quasi-magnetic phenomenon, or whatever it may be, of the fact of this strange influence there are too many well-authenticated instances to allow its being questioned. but suppose maurice kirkwood to be the subject of this antipathy in its extremest degree, it would in no manner account for the isolation to which he had condemned himself. he might shun the firesides of the old women whose tabbies were purring by their footstools, but these worthy dames do not make up the whole population. these two antipathies having been disposed of, a new suggestion was started, and was talked over with a curious sort of half belief, very much as ghost stories are told in a circle of moderately instructed and inquiring persons. this was that maurice was endowed with the unenviable gift of the evil eye. he was in frequent communication with italy, as his letters showed, and had recently been residing in that country, as was learned from paolo. now everybody knows that the evil eye is not rarely met with in italy. everybody who has ever read mr. story's "roba di roma" knows what a terrible power it is which the owner of the evil eye exercises. it can blight and destroy whatever it falls upon. no person's life or limb is safe if the jettatura, the withering glance of the deadly organ, falls upon him. it must be observed that this malign effect may follow a look from the holiest personages, that is, if we may assume that a monk is such as a matter of course. certainly we have a right to take it for granted that the late pope, pius ninth, was an eminently holy man, and yet he had the name of dispensing the mystic and dreaded jettatura as well as his blessing. if maurice kirkwood carried that destructive influence, so that his clear blue eyes were more to be feared than the fascinations of the deadliest serpent, it could easily be understood why he kept his look away from all around him whom he feared he might harm. no sensible person in arrowhead village really believed in the evil eye, but it served the purpose of a temporary hypothesis, as do many suppositions which we take as a nucleus for our observations without putting any real confidence in them. it was just suited to the romantic notions of the more flighty persons in the village, who had meddled more or less with spiritualism, and were ready for any new fancy, if it were only wild enough. the riddle of the young stranger's peculiarity did not seem likely to find any very speedy solution. every new suggestion furnished talk for the gossips of the village and the babble of the many tongues in the two educational institutions. naturally, the discussion was liveliest among the young ladies. here is an extract from a letter of one of these young ladies, who, having received at her birth the ever-pleasing name of mary, saw fit to have herself called mollie in the catalogue and in her letters. the old postmaster of the town to which her letter was directed took it up to stamp, and read on the envelope the direction to "miss lulu pinrow." he brought the stamp down with a vicious emphasis, coming very near blotting out the nursery name, instead of cancelling the postage-stamp. "lulu!" he exclaimed. "i should like to know if that great strapping girl isn't out of her cradle yet! i suppose miss louisa will think that belongs to her, but i saw her christened and i heard the name the minister gave her, and it was n't 'lulu,' or any such baby nonsense." and so saying, he gave it a fling to the box marked p, as if it burned his fingers. why a grown-up young woman allowed herself to be cheapened in the way so many of them do by the use of names which become them as well as the frock of a ten-year-old schoolgirl would become a graduate of the corinna institute, the old postmaster could not guess. he was a queer old man. the letter thus scornfully treated runs over with a young girl's written loquacity: "oh, lulu, there is such a sensation as you never saw or heard of 'in all your born days,' as mamma used to say. he has been at the village for some time, but lately we have had--oh, the weirdest stories about him! 'the mysterious stranger is the name some give him, but we girls call him the sachem, because he paddles about in an indian canoe. if i should tell you all the things that are said about him i should use up all my paper ten times over. he has never made a visit to the institute, and none of the girls have ever spoken to him, but the people at the village say he is very, very handsome. we are dying to get a look at him, of course--though there is a horrid story about him--that he has the evil eye did you ever hear about the evil eye? if a person who is born with it looks at you, you die, or something happens--awful--is n't it? "the rector says he never goes to church, but then you know a good many of the people that pass the summer at the village never do--they think their religion must have vacations--that's what i've heard they say--vacations, just like other hard work--it ought not to be hard work, i'm sure, but i suppose they feel so about it. should you feel afraid to have him look at you? some of the girls say they would n't have him for the whole world, but i shouldn't mind it--especially if i had on my eyeglasses. do you suppose if there is anything in the evil eye it would go through glass? i don't believe it. do you think blue eye-glasses would be better than common ones? don't laugh at me--they tell such weird stories! the terror--lurida vincent, you know-makes fun of all they say about it, but then she 'knows everything and doesn't believe anything,' the girls say--well, i should be awfully scared, i know, if anybody that had the evil eye should look at me--but--oh, i don't know--but if it was a young man--and if he was very--very good-looking--i think--perhaps i would run the risk--but don't tell anybody i said any such horrid thing--and burn this letter right up--there 's a dear good girl." it is to be hoped that no reader will doubt the genuineness of this letter. there are not quite so many "awfuls" and "awfullys" as one expects to find in young ladies' letters, but there are two "weirds," which may be considered a fair allowance. how it happened that "jolly" did not show itself can hardly be accounted for; no doubt it turns up two or three times at least in the postscript. here is an extract from another letter. this was from one of the students of stoughton university to a friend whose name as it was written on the envelope was mr. frank mayfield. the old postmaster who found fault with miss "lulu's" designation would probably have quarrelled with this address, if it had come under his eye. "frank" is a very pretty, pleasant-sounding name, and it is not strange that many persons use it in common conversation all their days when speaking of a friend. were they really christened by that name, any of these numerous franks? perhaps they were, and if so there is nothing to be said. but if not, was the baptismal name francis or franklin? the mind is apt to fasten in a very perverse and unpleasant way upon this question, which too often there is no possible way of settling. one might hope, if he outlived the bearer of the appellation, to get at the fact; but since even gravestones have learned to use the names belonging to childhood and infancy in their solemn record, the generation which docks its christian names in such an un-christian way will bequeath whole churchyards full of riddles to posterity. how it will puzzle and distress the historians and antiquarians of a coming generation to settle what was the real name of dan and bert and billy, which last is legible on a white marble slab, raised in memory of a grown person, in a certain burial-ground in a town in essex county, massachusetts! but in the mean time we are forgetting the letter directed to mr. frank mayfield. "dear frank,--hooray! hurrah! rah! "i have made the acquaintance of 'the mysterious stranger'! it happened by a queer sort of accident, which came pretty near relieving you of the duty of replying to this letter. i was out in my little boat, which carries a sail too big for her, as i know and ought to have remembered. one of those fitful flaws of wind to which the lake is so liable struck the sail suddenly, and over went my boat. my feet got tangled in the sheet somehow, and i could not get free. i had hard work to keep my head above water, and i struggled desperately to escape from my toils; for if the boat were to go down i should be dragged down with her. i thought of a good many things in the course of some four or five minutes, i can tell you, and i got a lesson about time better than anything kant and all the rest of them have to say of it. after i had been there about an ordinary lifetime, i saw a white canoe making toward me, and i knew that our shy young gentleman was coming to help me, and that we should become acquainted without an introduction. so it was, sure enough. he saw what the trouble was, managed to disentangle my feet without drowning me in the process or upsetting his little flimsy craft, and, as i was somewhat tired with my struggle, took me in tow and carried me to the landing where he kept his canoe. i can't say that there is anything odd about his manners or his way of talk. i judge him to be a native of one of our northern states,--perhaps a new englander. he has lived abroad during some parts of his life. he is not an artist, as it was at one time thought he might be. he is a good-looking fellow, well developed, manly in appearance, with nothing to excite special remark unless it be a certain look of anxiety or apprehension which comes over him from time to time. you remember our old friend squire b., whose companion was killed by lightning when he was standing close to him. you know the look he had whenever anything like a thundercloud came up in the sky. well, i should say there was a look like that came over this maurice kirkwood's face every now and then. i noticed that he looked round once or twice as if to see whether some object or other was in sight. there was a little rustling in the grass as if of footsteps, and this look came over his features. a rabbit ran by us, and i watched to see if he showed any sign of that antipathy we have heard so much of, but he seemed to be pleased watching the creature. "if you ask me what my opinion is about this maurice kirkwood, i think he is eccentric in his habit of life, but not what they call a 'crank' exactly. he talked well enough about such matters as we spoke of,--the lake, the scenery in general, the climate. i asked him to come over and take a look at the college. he did n't promise, but i should not be surprised if i should get him over there some day. i asked him why he did n't go to the pansophian meetings. he did n't give any reason, but he shook his head in a very peculiar way, as much as to say that it was impossible. "on the whole, i think it is nothing more than the same feeling of dread of human society, or dislike for it, which under the name of religion used to drive men into caves and deserts. what a pity that protestantism does not make special provision for all the freaks of individual character! if we had a little more faith and a few more caverns, or convenient places for making them, we should have hermits in these holes as thick as woodchucks or prairie dogs. i should like to know if you never had the feeling, "'oh, that the desert were my dwelling-place!' "i know what your answer will be, of course. you will say, 'certainly, "'with one fair spirit for my minister;'" "but i mean alone,--all alone. don't you ever feel as if you should like to have been a pillar-saint in the days when faith was as strong as lye (spelt with a y), instead of being as weak as dish-water? (jerry is looking over my shoulder, and says this pun is too bad to send, and a disgrace to the university--but never mind.) i often feel as if i should like to roost on a pillar a hundred feet high,--yes, and have it soaped from top to bottom. wouldn't it be fun to look down at the bores and the duns? let us get up a pillar-roosters' association. (jerry--still looking over says there is an absurd contradiction in the idea.) "what a matter-of-fact idiot jerry is! "how do you like looking over, mr. inspector general?" the reader will not get much information out of this lively young fellow's letter, but he may get a little. it is something to know that the mysterious resident of arrowhead village did not look nor talk like a crazy person; that he was of agreeable aspect and address, helpful when occasion offered, and had nothing about him, so far as yet appeared, to prevent his being an acceptable member of society. of course the people in the village could never be contented without learning everything there was to be learned about their visitor. all the city papers were examined for advertisements. if a cashier had absconded, if a broker had disappeared, if a railroad president was missing, some of the old stories would wake up and get a fresh currency, until some new circumstance gave rise to a new hypothesis. unconscious of all these inquiries and fictions, maurice kirkwood lived on in his inoffensive and unexplained solitude, and seemed likely to remain an unsolved enigma. the "sachem" of the boating girls became the "sphinx" of the village ramblers, and it was agreed on all hands that egypt did not hold any hieroglyphics harder to make out than the meaning of this young man's odd way of living. v the enigma studied. it was a curious, if it was not a suspicious, circumstance that a young man, seemingly in good health, of comely aspect, looking as if made for companionship, should keep himself apart from all the world around him in a place where there was a general feeling of good neighborhood and a pleasant social atmosphere. the public library was a central point which brought people together. the pansophian society did a great deal to make them acquainted with each other for many of the meetings were open to outside visitors, and the subjects discussed in the meetings furnished the material for conversation in their intervals. a card of invitation had been sent by the secretary to maurice, in answer to which paolo carried back a polite note of regret. the paper had a narrow rim of black, implying apparently some loss of relative or friend, but not any very recent and crushing bereavement. this refusal to come to the meetings of the society was only what was expected. it was proper to ask him, but his declining the invitation showed that he did not wish for attentions or courtesies. there was nothing further to be done to bring him out of his shell, and seemingly nothing more to be learned about him at present. in this state of things it was natural that all which had been previously gathered by the few who had seen or known anything of him should be worked over again. when there is no new ore to be dug, the old refuse heaps are looked over for what may still be found in them. the landlord of the anchor tavern, now the head of the boarding-house, talked about maurice, as everybody in the village did at one time or another. he had not much to say, but he added a fact or two. the young gentleman was good pay,--so they all said. sometimes he paid in gold; sometimes in fresh bills, just out of the bank. he trusted his man, mr. paul, with the money to pay his bills. he knew something about horses; he showed that by the way he handled that colt,--the one that threw the hostler and broke his collar-bone. "mr. paul come down to the stable. 'let me see that cult you all 'fraid of,' says he. 'my master, he ride any hoss,' says paul. 'you saddle him,' says be; and so they did, and paul, he led that colt--the kickinest and ugliest young beast you ever see in your life--up to the place where his master, as he calls him, and he lives. what does that kirkwood do but clap on a couple of long spurs and jump on to that colt's back, and off the beast goes, tail up, heels flying, standing up on end, trying all sorts of capers, and at last going it full run for a couple of miles, till he'd got about enough of it. that colt went off as ferce as a wild-cat, and come back as quiet as a cosset lamb. a man that pays his bills reg'lar, in good money, and knows how to handle a hoss is three quarters of a gentleman, if he is n't a whole one,--and most likely he is a whole one." so spake the patriarch of the anchor tavern. his wife had already given her favorable opinion of her former guest. she now added something to her description as a sequel to her husband's remarks. "i call him," she said, "about as likely a young gentleman as ever i clapped my eyes on. he is rather slighter than i like to see a young man of his age; if he was my sun, i should like to see him a little more fleshy. i don't believe he weighs more than a hundred and thirty or forty pounds. did y' ever look at those eyes of his, m'randy? just as blue as succory flowers. i do like those light-complected young fellows, with their fresh cheeks and their curly hair; somehow, curly hair doos set off anybody's face. he is n't any foreigner, for all that he talks italian with that mr. paul that's his help. he looks just like our kind of folks, the college kind, that's brought up among books, and is handling 'em, and reading of 'em, and making of 'em, as like as not, all their lives. all that you say about his riding the mad colt is just what i should think he was up to, for he's as spry as a squirrel; you ought to see him go over that fence, as i did once. i don't believe there's any harm in that young gentleman,--i don't care what people say. i suppose he likes this place just as other people like it, and cares more for walking in the woods and paddling about in the water than he doos for company; and if he doos, whose business is it, i should like to know?" the third of the speakers was miranda, who had her own way of judging people. "i never see him but two or three times," miranda said. "i should like to have waited on him, and got a chance to look stiddy at him when he was eatin' his vittles. that 's the time to watch folks, when their jaws get a-goin' and their eyes are on what's afore 'em. do you remember that chap the sheriff come and took away when we kep' tahvern? eleven year ago it was, come nex' thanksgivin' time. a mighty grand gentleman from the city he set up for. i watched him, and i watched him. says i, i don't believe you're no gentleman, says i. he eat with his knife, and that ain't the way city folks eats. every time i handed him anything i looked closeter and closeter. them whiskers never grooved on them cheeks, says i to myself. them 's paper collars, says i. that dimun in your shirt-front hain't got no life to it, says i. i don't believe it's nothiri' more 'n a bit o' winderglass. so says i to pushee, 'you jes' step out and get the sheriff to come in and take a look at that chap.' i knowed he was after a fellah. he come right in, an' he goes up to the chap. 'why, bill,' says he, 'i'm mighty glad to see yer. we've had the hole in the wall you got out of mended, and i want your company to come and look at the old place,' says he, and he pulls out a couple of handcuffs and has 'em on his wrists in less than no time, an' off they goes together! i know one thing about that young gentleman, anyhow,--there ain't no better judge of what's good eatin' than he is. i cooked him some maccaroni myself one day, and he sends word to me by that mr. paul, 'tell miss miranda,' says he, i that the pope o' rome don't have no better cooked maccaroni than what she sent up to me yesterday,' says he. i don' know much about the pope o' rome except that he's a roman catholic, and i don' know who cooks for him, whether it's a man or a woman; but when it comes to a dish o' maccaroni, i ain't afeard of their shefs, as they call 'em,--them he-cooks that can't serve up a cold potater without callin' it by some name nobody can say after 'em. but this gentleman knows good cookin', and that's as good a sign of a gentleman as i want to tell 'em by." vi still at fault. the house in which maurice kirkwood had taken up his abode was not a very inviting one. it was old, and had been left in a somewhat dilapidated and disorderly condition by the tenants who had lived in the part which maurice now occupied. they had piled their packing-boxes in the cellar, with broken chairs, broken china, and other household wrecks. a cracked mirror lay on an old straw mattress, the contents of which were airing themselves through wide rips and rents. a lame clothes-horse was saddled with an old rug fringed with a ragged border, out of which all the colors had been completely trodden. no woman would have gone into a house in such a condition. but the young man did not trouble himself much about such matters, and was satisfied when the rooms which were to be occupied by himself and his servant were made decent and tolerably comfortable. during the fine season all this was not of much consequence, and if maurice made up his mind to stay through the winter he would have his choice among many more eligible places. the summer vacation of the corinna institute had now arrived, and the young ladies had scattered to their homes. among the graduates of the year were miss euthymia tower and miss lurida vincent, who had now returned to their homes in arrowhead village. they were both glad to rest after the long final examinations and the exercises of the closing day, in which each of them had borne a conspicuous part. it was a pleasant life they led in the village, which was lively enough at this season. walking, riding, driving, boating, visits to the library, meetings of the pansophian society, hops, and picnics made the time pass very cheerfully, and soon showed their restoring influences. the terror's large eyes did not wear the dull, glazed look by which they had too often betrayed the after effects of over-excitement of the strong and active brain behind them. the wonder gained a fresher bloom, and looked full enough of life to radiate vitality into a statue of ice. they had a boat of their own, in which they passed many delightful hours on the lake, rowing, drifting, reading, telling of what had been, dreaming of what might be. the library was one of the chief centres of the fixed population, and visited often by strangers. the old librarian was a peculiar character, as these officials are apt to be. they have a curious kind of knowledge, sometimes immense in its way. they know the backs of books, their title-pages, their popularity or want of it, the class of readers who call for particular works, the value of different editions, and a good deal besides. their minds catch up hints from all manner of works on all kinds of subjects. they will give a visitor a fact and a reference which they are surprised to find they remember and which the visitor might have hunted for a year. every good librarian, every private book-owner, who has grown into his library, finds he has a bunch of nerves going to every bookcase, a branch to every shelf, and a twig to every book. these nerves get very sensitive in old librarians, sometimes, and they do not like to have a volume meddled with any more than they would like to have their naked eyes handled. they come to feel at last that the books of a great collection are a part, not merely of their own property, though they are only the agents for their distribution, but that they are, as it were, outlying portions of their own organization. the old librarian was getting a miserly feeling about his books, as he called them. fortunately, he had a young lady for his assistant, who was never so happy as when she could find the work any visitor wanted and put it in his hands,--or her hands, for there were more readers among the wives and--daughters, and especially among the aunts, than there were among their male relatives. the old librarian knew the books, but the books seemed to know the young assistant; so it looked, at least, to the impatient young people who wanted their services. maurice had a good many volumes of his own,--a great many, according to paolo's account; but paolo's ideas were limited, and a few well-filled shelves seemed a very large collection to him. his master frequently sent him to the public library for books, which somewhat enlarged his notions; still, the signor was a very learned man, he was certain, and some of his white books (bound in vellum and richly gilt) were more splendid, according to paolo, than anything in the library. there was no little curiosity to know what were the books that maurice was in the habit of taking out, and the librarian's record was carefully searched by some of the more inquisitive investigators. the list proved to be a long and varied one. it would imply a considerable knowledge of modern languages and of the classics; a liking for mathematics and physics, especially all that related to electricity and magnetism; a fancy for the occult sciences, if there is any propriety in coupling these words; and a whim for odd and obsolete literature, like the parthenologia of fortunius licetus, the quaint treatise 'de sternutatione,' books about alchemy, and witchcraft, apparitions, and modern works relating to spiritualism. with these were the titles of novels and now and then of books of poems; but it may be taken for granted that his own shelves held the works he was most frequently in the habit of reading or consulting. not much was to be made out of this beyond the fact of wide scholarship,--more or less deep it might be, but at any rate implying no small mental activity; for he appeared to read very rapidly, at any rate exchanged the books he had taken out for new ones very frequently. to judge by his reading, he was a man of letters. but so wide-reading a man of letters must have an object, a literary purpose in all probability. why should not he be writing a novel? not a novel of society, assuredly, for a hermit is not the person to report the talk and manners of a world which he has nothing to do with. novelists and lawyers understand the art of "cramming" better than any other persons in the world. why should not this young man be working up the picturesque in this romantic region to serve as a background for some story with magic, perhaps, and mysticism, and hints borrowed from science, and all sorts of out-of-the-way knowledge which his odd and miscellaneous selection of books furnished him? that might be, or possibly he was only reading for amusement. who could say? the funds of the public library of arrowhead village allowed the managers to purchase many books out of the common range of reading. the two learned people of the village were the rector and the doctor. these two worthies kept up the old controversy between the professions, which grows out of the fact that one studies nature from below upwards, and the other from above downwards. the rector maintained that physicians contracted a squint which turns their eyes inwardly, while the muscles which roll their eyes upward become palsied. the doctor retorted that theological students developed a third eyelid,--the nictitating membrane, which is so well known in birds, and which serves to shut out, not all light, but all the light they do not want. their little skirmishes did not prevent their being very good friends, who had a common interest in many things and many persons. both were on the committee which had the care of the library and attended to the purchase of books. each was scholar enough to know the wants of scholars, and disposed to trust the judgment of the other as to what books should be purchased. consequently, the clergyman secured the addition to the library of a good many old theological works which the physician would have called brimstone divinity, and held to be just the thing to kindle fires with,--good books still for those who know how to use them, oftentimes as awful examples of the extreme of disorganization the whole moral system may undergo when a barbarous belief has strangled the natural human instincts. the physician, in the mean time, acquired for the collection some of those medical works where one may find recorded various rare and almost incredible cases, which may not have their like for a whole century, and then repeat themselves, so as to give a new lease of credibility to stories which had come to be looked upon as fables. both the clergyman and the physician took a very natural interest in the young man who had come to reside in their neighborhood for the present, perhaps for a long period. the rector would have been glad to see him at church. he would have liked more especially to have had him hear his sermon on the duties of young men to society. the doctor, meanwhile, was meditating on the duties of society to young men, and wishing that he could gain the young man's confidence, so as to help him out of any false habit of mind or any delusion to which he might be subject, if he had the power of being useful to him. dr. butts was the leading medical practitioner, not only of arrowhead village, but of all the surrounding region. he was an excellent specimen of the country doctor, self-reliant, self-sacrificing, working a great deal harder for his living than most of those who call themselves the laboring classes,--as if none but those whose hands were hardened by the use of farming or mechanical implements had any work to do. he had that sagacity without which learning is a mere incumbrance, and he had also a fair share of that learning without which sagacity is like a traveller with a good horse, but who cannot read the directions on the guideboards. he was not a man to be taken in by names. he well knew that oftentimes very innocent-sounding words mean very grave disorders; that all, degrees of disease and disorder are frequently confounded under the same term; that "run down" may stand for a fatigue of mind or body from which a week or a month of rest will completely restore the over-worked patient, or an advanced stage of a mortal illness; that "seedy" may signify the morning's state of feeling, after an evening's over-indulgence, which calls for a glass of soda-water and a cup of coffee, or a dangerous malady which will pack off the subject of it, at the shortest notice, to the south of france. he knew too well that what is spoken lightly of as a "nervous disturbance" may imply that the whole machinery of life is in a deranged condition, and that every individual organ would groan aloud if it had any other language than the terrible inarticulate one of pain by which to communicate with the consciousness. when, therefore, dr. butts heard the word antipatia he did not smile, and say to himself that this was an idle whim, a foolish fancy, which the young man had got into his head. neither was he satisfied to set down everything to the account of insanity, plausible as that supposition might seem. he was prepared to believe in some exceptional, perhaps anomalous, form of exaggerated sensibility, relating to what class of objects he could not at present conjecture, but which was as vital to the subject of it as the insulating arrangement to a piece of electrical machinery. with this feeling he began to look into the history of antipathies as recorded in all the books and journals on which he could lay his hands. ------------------------------ the holder of the portfolio asks leave to close it for a brief interval. he wishes to say a few words to his readers, before offering them some verses which have no connection with the narrative now in progress. if one could have before him a set of photographs taken annually, representing the same person as he or she appeared for thirty or forty or fifty years, it would be interesting to watch the gradual changes of aspect from the age of twenty, or even of thirty or forty, to that of threescore and ten. the face might be an uninteresting one; still, as sharing the inevitable changes wrought by time, it would be worth looking at as it passed through the curve of life,--the vital parabola, which betrays itself in the symbolic changes of the features. an inscription is the same thing, whether we read it on slate-stone, or granite, or marble. to watch the lights and shades, the reliefs and hollows, of a countenance through a lifetime, or a large part of it, by the aid of a continuous series of photographs would not only be curious; it would teach us much more about the laws of physiognomy than we could get from casual and unconnected observations. the same kind of interest, without any assumption of merit to be found in them, i would claim for a series of annual poems, beginning in middle life and continued to what many of my correspondents are pleased to remind me--as if i required to have the fact brought to my knowledge--is no longer youth. here is the latest of a series of annual poems read during the last thirty-four years. there seems to have been one interruption, but there may have been other poems not recorded or remembered. this, the latest poem of the series, was listened to by the scanty remnant of what was a large and brilliant circle of classmates and friends when the first of the long series was read before them, then in the flush of ardent manhood:-- the old song. the minstrel of the classic lay of love and wine who sings still found the fingers run astray that touched the rebel strings. of cadmus he would fair have sung, of atreus and his line; but all the jocund echoes rung with songs of love and wine. ah, brothers! i would fair have caught some fresher fancy's gleam; my truant accents find, unsought, the old familiar theme. love, love! but not the sportive child with shaft and twanging bow, whose random arrows drove us wild some threescore years ago; not eros, with his joyous laugh, the urchin blind and bare, but love, with spectacles and staff, and scanty, silvered hair. our heads with frosted locks are white, our roofs are thatched with snow, but red, in chilling winter's spite, our hearts and hearthstones glow. our old acquaintance, time, drops in, and while the running sands their golden thread unheeded spin, he warms his frozen hands. stay, winged hours, too swift, too sweet, and waft this message o'er to all we miss, from all we meet on life's fast-crumbling shore: say that to old affection true we hug the narrowing chain that binds our hearts,--alas, how few the links that yet remain! the fatal touch awaits them all that turns the rocks to dust; from year to year they break and fall, they break, but never rust. say if one note of happier strain this worn-out harp afford, --one throb that trembles, not in vain, their memory lent its chord. say that when fancy closed her wings and passion quenched his fire, love, love, still echoed from the strings as from anacreon's lyre! january , . vii a record of antipathies in thinking the whole matter over, dr. butts felt convinced that, with care and patience and watching his opportunity, he should get at the secret, which so far bad yielded nothing but a single word. it might be asked why he was so anxious to learn what, from all appearances, the young stranger was unwilling to explain. he may have been to some extent infected by the general curiosity of the persons around him, in which good mrs. butts shared, and which she had helped to intensify by revealing the word dropped by paolo. but this was not really his chief motive. he could not look upon this young man, living a life of unwholesome solitude, without a natural desire to do all that his science and his knowledge of human nature could help him to do towards bringing him into healthy relations with the world about him. still, he would not intrude upon him in any way. he would only make certain general investigations, which might prove serviceable in case circumstances should give him the right to counsel the young man as to his course of life. the first thing to be done was to study systematically the whole subject of antipathies. then, if any further occasion offered itself, he would be ready to take advantage of it. the resources of the public library of the place and his own private collection were put in requisition to furnish him the singular and widely scattered facts of which he was in search. it is not every reader who will care to follow dr. butts in his study of the natural history of antipathies. the stories told about them are, however, very curious; and if some of them may be questioned, there is no doubt that many of the strangest are true, and consequently take away from the improbability of others which we are disposed to doubt. but in the first place, what do we mean by an antipathy? it is an aversion to some object, which may vary in degree from mere dislike to mortal horror. what the cause of this aversion is we cannot say. it acts sometimes through the senses, sometimes through the imagination, sometimes through an unknown channel. the relations which exist between the human being and all that surrounds him vary in consequence of some adjustment peculiar to each individual. the brute fact is expressed in the phrase "one man's meat is another man's poison." in studying the history of antipathies the doctor began with those referable to the sense of taste, which are among the most common. in any collection of a hundred persons there will be found those who cannot make use of certain articles of food generally acceptable. this may be from the disgust they occasion or the effects they have been found to produce. every one knows individuals who cannot venture on honey, or cheese, or veal, with impunity. carlyle, for example, complains of having veal set before him,--a meat he could not endure. there is a whole family connection in new england, and that a very famous one, to many of whose members, in different generations, all the products of the dairy are the subjects of a congenital antipathy. montaigne says there are persons who dread the smell of apples more than they would dread being exposed to a fire of musketry. the readers of the charming story "a week in a french country-house" will remember poor monsieur jacque's piteous cry in the night: "ursula, art thou asleep? oh, ursula, thou sleepest, but i cannot close my eyes. dearest ursula, there is such a dreadful smell! oh, ursula, it is such a smell! i do so wish thou couldst smell it! good-night, my angel!----dearest! i have found them! they are apples!" the smell of roses, of peonies, of lilies, has been known to cause faintness. the sight of various objects has had singular effects on some persons. a boar's head was a favorite dish at the table of great people in marshal d'albret's time; yet he used to faint at the sight of one. it is not uncommon to meet with persons who faint at the sight of blood. one of the most inveterately pugnacious of dr. butts's college-mates confessed that he had this infirmity. stranger and far more awkward than this is the case mentioned in an ancient collection, where the subject of the antipathy fainted at the sight of any object of a red color. there are sounds, also, which have strange effects on some individuals. among the obnoxious noises are the crumpling of silk stuffs, the sound of sweeping, the croaking of frogs. the effects in different cases have been spasms, a sense of strangling, profuse sweating,--all showing a profound disturbance of the nervous system. all these effects were produced by impressions on the organs of sense, seemingly by direct agency on certain nerve centres. but there is another series of cases in which the imagination plays a larger part in the phenomena. two notable examples are afforded in the lives of two very distinguished personages. peter the great was frightened, when an infant, by falling from a bridge into the water. long afterward, when he had reached manhood, this hardy and resolute man was so affected by the sound of wheels rattling over a bridge that he had to discipline himself by listening to the sound, in spite of his dread of it, in order to overcome his antipathy. the story told by abbe boileau of pascal is very similar to that related of peter. as he was driving in his coach and four over the bridge at neuilly, his horses took fright and ran away, and the leaders broke from their harness and sprang into the river, leaving the wheel-horses and the carriage on the bridge. ever after this fright it is said that pascal had the terrifying sense that he was just on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall over. what strange early impression was it which led a certain lady always to shriek aloud if she ventured to enter a church, as it is recorded? the old and simple way of accounting for it would be the scriptural one, that it was an unclean spirit who dwelt in her, and who, when she entered the holy place and brought her spiritual tenant into the presence of the sacred symbols, "cried with a loud voice, and came out of" her. a very singular case, the doctor himself had recorded, and which the reader may accept as authentic, is the following: at the head of the doctor's front stairs stood, and still stands, a tall clock, of early date and stately presence. a middle-aged visitor, noticing it as he entered the front door, remarked that he should feel a great unwillingness to pass that clock. he could not go near one of those tall timepieces without a profound agitation, which he dreaded to undergo. this very singular idiosyncrasy he attributed to a fright when he was an infant in the arms of his nurse. she was standing near one of those tall clocks, when the cord which supported one of its heavy leaden weights broke, and the weight came crashing down to the bottom of the case. some effect must have been produced upon the pulpy nerve centres from which they never recovered. why should not this happen, when we know that a sudden mental shock may be the cause of insanity? the doctor remembered the verse of "the ancient mariner:" "i moved my lips; the pilot shrieked and fell down in a fit; the holy hermit raised his eyes and prayed where he did sit. i took the oars; the pilot's boy, who now doth crazy go, laughed loud and long, and all the while his eyes went to and fro." this is only poetry, it is true, but the poet borrowed the description from nature, and the records of our asylums could furnish many cases where insanity was caused by a sudden fright. more than this, hardly a year passes that we do not read of some person, a child commonly, killed outright by terror,--scared to death, literally. sad cases they often are, in which, nothing but a surprise being intended, the shock has instantly arrested the movements on which life depends. if a mere instantaneous impression can produce effects like these, such an impression might of course be followed by consequences less fatal or formidable, but yet serious in their nature. if here and there a person is killed, as if by lightning, by a sudden startling sight or sound, there must be more numerous cases in which a terrible shock is produced by similar apparently insignificant causes,--a shock which falls short of overthrowing the reason and does not destroy life, yet leaves a lasting effect upon the subject of it. this point, then, was settled in the mind of dr. butts, namely, that, as a violent emotion caused by a sudden shock can kill or craze a human being, there is no perversion of the faculties, no prejudice, no change of taste or temper, no eccentricity, no antipathy, which such a cause may not rationally account for. he would not be surprised, he said to himself, to find that some early alarm, like that which was experienced by peter the great or that which happened to pascal, had broken some spring in this young man's nature, or so changed its mode of action as to account for the exceptional remoteness of his way of life. but how could any conceivable antipathy be so comprehensive as to keep a young man aloof from all the world, and make a hermit of him? he did not hate the human race; that was clear enough. he treated paolo with great kindness, and the italian was evidently much attached to him. he had talked naturally and pleasantly with the young man he had helped out of his dangerous situation when his boat was upset. dr. butts heard that he had once made a short visit to this young man, at his rooms in the university. it was not misanthropy, therefore, which kept him solitary. what could be broad enough to cover the facts of the case? nothing that the doctor could think of, unless it were some color, the sight of which acted on him as it did on the individual before mentioned, who could not look at anything red without fainting. suppose this were a case of the same antipathy. how very careful it would make the subject of it as to where he went and with whom he consorted! time and patience would be pretty sure to bring out new developments, and physicians, of all men in the world, know how to wait as well as how to labor. such were some of the crude facts as dr. butts found them in books or gathered them from his own experience. he soon discovered that the story had got about the village that maurice kirkwood was the victim of an "antipathy," whatever that word might mean in the vocabulary of the people of the place. if he suspected the channel through which it had reached the little community, and, spreading from that centre, the country round, he did not see fit to make out of his suspicions a domestic casus belli. paolo might have mentioned it to others as well as to himself. maurice might have told some friend, who had divulged it. but to accuse mrs. butts, good mrs. butts, of petit treason in telling one of her husband's professional secrets was too serious a matter to be thought of. he would be a little more careful, he promised himself, the next time, at any rate; for he had to concede, in spite of every wish to be charitable in his judgment, that it was among the possibilities that the worthy lady had forgotten the rule that a doctor's patients must put their tongues out, and a doctor's wife must keep her tongue in. viii the pansophian society. the secretary of this association was getting somewhat tired of the office, and the office was getting somewhat tired of him. it occurred to the members of the society that a little fresh blood infused into it might stir up the general vitality of the organization. the woman suffragists saw no reason why the place of secretary need as a matter of course be filled by a person of the male sex. they agitated, they made domiciliary visits, they wrote notes to influential citizens, and finally announced as their candidate the young lady who had won and worn the school name of "the terror," who was elected. she was just the person for the place: wide awake, with all her wits about her, full of every kind of knowledge, and, above all, strong on points of order and details of management, so that she could prompt the presiding officer, to do which is often the most essential duty of a secretary. the president, the worthy rector, was good at plain sailing in the track of the common moralities and proprieties, but was liable to get muddled if anything came up requiring swift decision and off-hand speech. the terror had schooled herself in the debating societies of the institute, and would set up the president, when he was floored by an awkward question, as easily as if he were a ninepin which had been bowled over. it has been already mentioned that the pansophian society received communications from time to time from writers outside of its own organization. of late these had been becoming more frequent. many of them were sent in anonymously, and as there were numerous visitors to the village, and two institutions not far removed from it, both full of ambitious and intelligent young persons, it was often impossible to trace the papers to their authors. the new secretary was alive with curiosity, and as sagacious a little body as one might find if in want of a detective. she could make a pretty shrewd guess whether a paper was written by a young or old person, by one of her own sex or the other, by an experienced hand or a novice. among the anonymous papers she received was one which exercised her curiosity to an extraordinary degree. she felt a strong suspicion that "the sachem," as the boat-crews used to call him, "the recluse," "the night-hawk," "the sphinx," as others named him, must be the author of it. it appeared to her the production of a young person of a reflective, poetical turn of mind. it was not a woman's way of writing; at least, so thought the secretary. the writer had travelled much; had resided in italy, among other places. but so had many of the summer visitors and residents of arrowhead village. the handwriting was not decisive; it had some points of resemblance with the pencilled orders for books which maurice sent to the library, but there were certain differences, intentional or accidental, which weakened this evidence. there was an undertone in the essay which was in keeping with the mode of life of the solitary stranger. it might be disappointment, melancholy, or only the dreamy sadness of a young person who sees the future he is to climb, not as a smooth ascent, but as overhanging him like a cliff, ready to crush him, with all his hopes and prospects. this interpretation may have been too imaginative, but here is the paper, and the reader can form his own opinion: my three companions. "i have been from my youth upwards a wanderer. i do not mean constantly flitting from one place to another, for my residence has often been fixed for considerable periods. from time to time i have put down in a notebook the impressions made upon me by the scenes through which i have passed. i have long hesitated whether to let any of my notes appear before the public. my fear has been that they were too subjective, to use the metaphysician's term,--that i have seen myself reflected in nature, and not the true aspects of nature as she was meant to be understood. one who should visit the harz mountains would see--might see, rather his own colossal image shape itself on the morning mist. but if in every mist that rises from the meadows, in every cloud that hangs upon the mountain, he always finds his own reflection, we cannot accept him as an interpreter of the landscape. "there must be many persons present at the meetings of the society to which this paper is offered who have had experiences like that of its author. they have visited the same localities, they have had many of the same thoughts and feelings. many, i have no doubt. not all,--no, not all. others have sought the companionship of nature; i have been driven to it. much of my life has been passed in that communion. these pages record some of the intimacies i have formed with her under some of her various manifestations. "i have lived on the shore of the great ocean, where its waves broke wildest and its voice rose loudest. "i have passed whole seasons on the banks of mighty and famous rivers. "i have dwelt on the margin of a tranquil lake, and floated through many a long, long summer day on its clear waters. "i have learned the 'various language' of nature, of which poetry has spoken,--at least, i have learned some words and phrases of it. i will translate some of these as i best may into common speech. "the ocean says to the dweller on its shores:-- "you are neither welcome nor unwelcome. i do not trouble myself with the living tribes that come down to my waters. i have my own people, of an older race than yours, that grow to mightier dimensions than your mastodons and elephants; more numerous than all the swarms that fill the air or move over the thin crust of the earth. who are you that build your palaces on my margin? i see your white faces as i saw the dark faces of the tribes that came before you, as i shall look upon the unknown family of mankind that will come after you. and what is your whole human family but a parenthesis in a single page of my history? the raindrops stereotyped themselves on my beaches before a living creature left his footprints there. this horseshoe-crab i fling at your feet is of older lineage than your adam,--perhaps, indeed, you count your adam as one of his descendants. what feeling have i for you? not scorn, not hatred,--not love,--not loathing. no!---indifference,--blank indifference to you and your affairs that is my feeling, say rather absence of feeling, as regards you.---oh yes, i will lap your feet, i will cool you in the hot summer days, i will bear you up in my strong arms, i will rock you on my rolling undulations, like a babe in his cradle. am i not gentle? am i not kind? am i not harmless? but hark! the wind is rising, and the wind and i are rough playmates! what do you say to my voice now? do you see my foaming lips? do you feel the rocks tremble as my huge billows crash against them? is not my anger terrible as i dash your argosy, your thunder-bearing frigate, into fragments, as you would crack an eggshell?--no, not anger; deaf, blind, unheeding indifference,--that is all. out of me all things arose; sooner or later, into me all things subside. all changes around me; i change not. i look not at you, vain man, and your frail transitory concerns, save in momentary glimpses: i look on the white face of my dead mistress, whom i follow as the bridegroom follows the bier of her who has changed her nuptial raiment for the shroud. "ye whose thoughts are of eternity, come dwell at my side. continents and islands grow old, and waste and disappear. the hardest rock crumbles; vegetable and animal kingdoms come into being, wax great, decline, and perish, to give way to others, even as human dynasties and nations and races come and go. look on me! "time writes no wrinkle" on my forehead. listen to me! all tongues are spoken on my shores, but i have only one language: the winds taught me their vowels the crags and the sands schooled me in my rough or smooth consonants. few words are mine but i have whispered them and sung them and shouted them to men of all tribes from the time when the first wild wanderer strayed into my awful presence. have you a grief that gnaws at your heart-strings? come with it to my shore, as of old the priest of far-darting apollo carried his rage and anguish to the margin of the loud-roaring sea. there, if anywhere you will forget your private and short-lived woe, for my voice speaks to the infinite and the eternal in your consciousness. "to him who loves the pages of human history, who listens to the voices of the world about him, who frequents the market and the thoroughfare, who lives in the study of time and its accidents rather than in the deeper emotions, in abstract speculation and spiritual contemplation, the river addresses itself as his natural companion. "come live with me. i am active, cheerful, communicative, a natural talker and story-teller. i am not noisy, like the ocean, except occasionally when i am rudely interrupted, or when i stumble and get a fall. when i am silent you can still have pleasure in watching my changing features. my idlest babble, when i am toying with the trifles that fall in my way, if not very full of meaning, is at least musical. i am not a dangerous friend, like the ocean; no highway is absolutely safe, but my nature is harmless, and the storms that strew the beaches with wrecks cast no ruins upon my flowery borders. abide with me, and you shall not die of thirst, like the forlorn wretches left to the mercies of the pitiless salt waves. trust yourself to me, and i will carry you far on your journey, if we are travelling to the same point of the compass. if i sometimes run riot and overflow your meadows, i leave fertility behind me when i withdraw to my natural channel. walk by my side toward the place of my destination. i will keep pace with you, and you shall feel my presence with you as that of a self-conscious being like yourself. you will find it hard to be miserable in my company; i drain you of ill-conditioned thoughts as i carry away the refuse of your dwelling and its grounds." but to him whom the ocean chills and crushes with its sullen indifference, and the river disturbs with its never-pausing and never-ending story, the silent lake shall be a refuge and a place of rest for his soul. "'vex not yourself with thoughts too vast for your limited faculties,' it says; 'yield not yourself to the babble of the running stream. leave the ocean, which cares nothing for you or any living thing that walks the solid earth; leave the river, too busy with its own errand, too talkative about its own affairs, and find peace with me, whose smile will cheer you, whose whisper will soothe you. come to me when the morning sun blazes across my bosom like a golden baldric; come to me in the still midnight, when i hold the inverted firmament like a cup brimming with jewels, nor spill one star of all the constellations that float in my ebon goblet. do you know the charm of melancholy? where will you find a sympathy like mine in your hours of sadness? does the ocean share your grief? does the river listen to your sighs? the salt wave, that called to you from under last month's full moon, to-day is dashing on the rocks of labrador; the stream, that ran by you pure and sparkling, has swallowed the poisonous refuse of a great city, and is creeping to its grave in the wide cemetery that buries all things in its tomb of liquid crystal. it is true that my waters exhale and are renewed from one season to another; but are your features the same, absolutely the same, from year to year? we both change, but we know each other through all changes. am i not mirrored in those eyes of yours? and does not nature plant me as an eye to behold her beauties while she is dressed in the glories of leaf and flower, and draw the icy lid over my shining surface when she stands naked and ashamed in the poverty of winter?' "i have had strange experiences and sad thoughts in the course of a life not very long, but with a record which much longer lives could not match in incident. oftentimes the temptation has come over me with dangerous urgency to try a change of existence, if such change is a part of human destiny,--to seek rest, if that is what we gain by laying down the burden of life. i have asked who would be the friend to whom i should appeal for the last service i should have need of. ocean was there, all ready, asking no questions, answering none. what strange voyages, downward through its glaucous depths, upwards to its boiling and frothing surface, wafted by tides, driven by tempests, disparted by rude agencies; one remnant whitening on the sands of a northern beach, one perhaps built into the circle of a coral reef in the pacific, one settling to the floor of the vast laboratory where continents are built, to emerge in far-off ages! what strange companions for my pall-bearers! unwieldy sea-monsters, the stories of which are counted fables by the spectacled collectors who think their catalogues have exhausted nature; naked-eyed creatures, staring, glaring, nightmare-like spectres of the ghastly-green abysses; pulpy islands, with life in gelatinous immensity,--what a company of hungry heirs at every ocean funeral! no! no! ocean claims great multitudes, but does not invite the solitary who would fain be rid of himself. "shall i seek a deeper slumber at the bottom of the lake i love than i have ever found when drifting idly over its surface? no, again. i do not want the sweet, clear waters to know me in the disgrace of nature, when life, the faithful body-servant, has ceased caring for me. that must not be. the mirror which has pictured me so often shall never know me as an unwelcome object. "if i must ask the all-subduing element to be my last friend, and lead me out of my prison, it shall be the busy, whispering, not unfriendly, pleasantly companionable river. "but ocean and river and lake have certain relations to the periods of human life which they who are choosing their places of abode should consider. let the child play upon the seashore. the wide horizon gives his imagination room to grow in, untrammelled. that background of mystery, without which life is a poor mechanical arrangement, is shaped and colored, so far as it can have outline, or any hue but shadow, on a vast canvas, the contemplation of which enlarges and enriches the sphere of consciousness. the mighty ocean is not too huge to symbolize the aspirations and ambitions of the yet untried soul of the adolescent. "the time will come when his indefinite mental horizon has found a solid limit, which shuts his prospect in narrower bounds than he would have thought could content him in the years of undefined possibilities. then he will find the river a more natural intimate than the ocean. it is individual, which the ocean, with all its gulfs and inlets and multitudinous shores, hardly seems to be. it does not love you very dearly, and will not miss you much when you disappear from its margin; but it means well to you, bids you good-morning with its coming waves, and good-evening with those which are leaving. it will lead your thoughts pleasantly away, upwards to its source, downwards to the stream to which it is tributary, or the wide waters in which it is to lose itself. a river, by choice, to live by in middle age. "in hours of melancholy reflection, in those last years of life which have little left but tender memories, the still companionship of the lake, embosomed in woods, sheltered, fed by sweet mountain brooks and hidden springs, commends itself to the wearied and saddened spirit. i am not thinking of those great inland seas, which have many of the features and much of the danger that belong to the ocean, but of those 'ponds,' as our countrymen used to call them until they were rechristened by summer visitors; beautiful sheets of water from a hundred to a few thousand acres in extent, scattered like raindrops over the map of our northern sovereignties. the loneliness of contemplative old age finds its natural home in the near neighborhood of one of these tranquil basins." nature does not always plant her poets where they belong, but if we look carefully their affinities betray themselves. the youth will carry his byron to the rock which overlooks the ocean the poet loved so well. the man of maturer years will remember that the sonorous couplets of pope which ring in his ears were written on the banks of the thames. the old man, as he nods over the solemn verse of wordsworth, will recognize the affinity between the singer and the calm sheet that lay before him as he wrote,--the stainless and sleepy windermere. "the dwellers by cedar lake may find it an amusement to compare their own feelings with those of one who has lived by the atlantic and the mediterranean, by the nile and the tiber, by lake leman and by one of the fairest sheets of water that our own north america embosoms in its forests." miss lurida vincent, secretary of the pansophian society, read this paper, and pondered long upon it. she was thinking very seriously of studying medicine, and had been for some time in frequent communication with dr. butts, under whose direction she had begun reading certain treatises, which added to such knowledge of the laws of life in health and in disease as she had brought with her from the corinna institute. naturally enough, she carried the anonymous paper to the doctor, to get his opinion about it, and compare it with her own. they both agreed that it was probably, they would not say certainly, the work of the solitary visitor. there was room for doubt, for there were visitors who might well have travelled to all the places mentioned, and resided long enough on the shores of the waters the writer spoke of to have had all the experiences mentioned in the paper. the terror remembered a young lady, a former schoolmate, who belonged to one of those nomadic families common in this generation, the heads of which, especially the female heads, can never be easy where they are, but keep going between america and europe, like so many pith-balls in the electrical experiment, alternately attracted and repelled, never in contented equilibrium. every few years they pull their families up by the roots, and by the time they have begun to take hold a little with their radicles in the spots to which they have been successively transplanted up they come again, so that they never get a tap-root anywhere. the terror suspected the daughter of one of these families of sending certain anonymous articles of not dissimilar character to the one she had just received. but she knew the style of composition common among the young girls, and she could hardly believe that it was one of them who had sent this paper. could a brother of this young lady have written it? possibly; she knew nothing more than that the young lady had a brother, then a student at the university. all the chances were that mr. maurice kirkwood was the author. so thought lurida, and so thought dr. butts. whatever faults there were in this essay, it interested them both. there was nothing which gave the least reason to suspect insanity on the part of the writer, whoever he or she might be. there were references to suicide, it is true, but they were of a purely speculative nature, and did not look to any practical purpose in that direction. besides, if the stranger were the author of the paper, he certainly would not choose a sheet of water like cedar lake to perform the last offices for him, in case he seriously meditated taking unceremonious leave of life and its accidents. he could find a river easily enough, to say nothing of other methods of effecting his purpose; but he had committed himself as to the impropriety of selecting a lake, so they need not be anxious about the white canoe and its occupant, as they watched it skimming the surface of the deep waters. the holder of the portfolio would never have ventured to come before the public if he had not counted among his resources certain papers belonging to the records of the pansophian society, which he can make free use of, either for the illustration of the narrative, or for a diversion during those intervals in which the flow of events is languid, or even ceases for the time to manifest any progress. the reader can hardly have failed to notice that the old anchor tavern had become the focal point where a good deal of mental activity converged. there were the village people, including a number of cultivated families; there were the visitors, among them many accomplished and widely travelled persons; there was the university, with its learned teachers and aspiring young men; there was the corinna institute, with its eager, ambitious, hungry-souled young women, crowding on, class after class coming forward on the broad stream of liberal culture, and rounding the point which, once passed, the boundless possibilities of womanhood opened before them. all this furnished material enough and to spare for the records and the archives of the society. the new secretary infused fresh life into the meetings. it may be remembered that the girls had said of her, when she was the terror, that "she knew everything and didn't believe anything." that was just the kind of person for a secretary of such an association. properly interpreted, the saying meant that she knew a great deal, and wanted to know a great deal more, and was consequently always on the lookout for information; that she believed nothing without sufficient proof that it was true, and therefore was perpetually asking for evidence where, others took assertions on trust. it was astonishing to see what one little creature like the terror could accomplish in the course of a single season. she found out what each member could do and wanted to do. she wrote to the outside visitors whom she suspected of capacity, and urged them to speak at the meetings, or send written papers to be read. as an official, with the printed title at the head of her notes, pansophian society, she was a privileged personage. she begged the young persons who had travelled to tell something of their experiences. she had contemplated getting up a discussion on the woman's rights question, but being a wary little body, and knowing that the debate would become a dispute and divide the members into two hostile camps, she deferred this project indefinitely. it would be time enough after she had her team well in hand, she said to herself,--had felt their mouths and tried their paces. this expression, as she used it in her thoughts, seems rather foreign to her habits, but there was room in her large brain for a wide range of illustrations and an ample vocabulary. she could not do much with her own muscles, but she had known the passionate delight of being whirled furiously over the road behind four scampering horses, in a rocking stage-coach, and thought of herself in the secretary's chair as not unlike the driver on his box. a few weeks of rest had allowed her nervous energy to store itself up, and the same powers which had distanced competition in the classes of her school had of necessity to expend themselves in vigorous action in her new office. her appeals had their effect. a number of papers were very soon sent in; some with names, some anonymously. she looked these papers over, and marked those which she thought would be worth reading and listening to at the meetings. one of them has just been presented to the reader. as to the authorship of the following one there were many conjectures. a well-known writer, who had spent some weeks at arrowhead village, was generally suspected of being its author. some, however, questioned whether it was not the work of a new hand, who wrote, not from experience, but from his or her ideas of the condition to which a story-teller, a novelist, must in all probability be sooner or later reduced. the reader must judge for himself whether this first paper is the work of an old hand or a novice. some experiences of a novelist. "i have written a frightful number of stories, forty or more, i think. let me see. for twelve years two novels a year regularly: that makes twenty-four. in three different years i have written three stories annually: that makes thirty-three. in five years one a year,--thirty-eight. that is all, is n't it? yes. thirty-eight, not forty. i wish i could make them all into one composite story, as mr. galton does his faces. "hero--heroine--mamma--papa--uncle--sister, and so on. love --obstacles--misery--tears--despair--glimmer of hope--unexpected solution of difficulties--happy finale. "landscape for background according to season. plants of each month got up from botanical calendars. "i should like much to see the composite novel. why not apply mr. galton's process, and get thirty-eight stories all in one? all the yankees would resolve into one yankee, all the p----west britons into one patrick, etc., what a saving of time it would be! "i got along pretty well with my first few stories. i had some characters around me which, a little disguised, answered well enough. there was the minister of the parish, and there was an old schoolmaster either of them served very satisfactorily for grandfathers and old uncles. all i had to do was to shift some of their leading peculiarities, keeping the rest. the old minister wore knee-breeches. i clapped them on to the schoolmaster. the schoolmaster carried a tall gold-headed cane. i put this in the minister's hands. so with other things,--i shifted them round, and got a set of characters who, taken together, reproduced the chief persons of the village where i lived, but did not copy any individual exactly. thus it went on for a while; but by and by my stock company began to be rather too familiarly known, in spite of their change of costume, and at last some altogether too sagacious person published what he called a 'key' to several of my earlier stories, in which i found the names of a number of neighbors attached to aliases of my own invention. all the 'types,' as he called them, represented by these personages of my story had come to be recognized, each as standing for one and the same individual of my acquaintance. it had been of no use to change the costume. even changing the sex did no good. i had a famous old gossip in one of my tales,--a much-babbling widow sertingly. 'sho!' they all said, that 's old deacon spinner, the same he told about in that other story of his,--only the deacon's got on a petticoat and a mob-cap,--but it's the same old sixpence.' so i said to myself, i must have some new characters. i had no trouble with young characters; they are all pretty much alike,--dark-haired or light-haired, with the outfits belonging to their complexion, respectively. i had an old great-aunt, who was a tip-top eccentric. i had never seen anything just like her in books. so i said, i will have you, old lady, in one of my stories; and, sure enough, i fitted her out with a first-rate odd-sounding name, which i got from the directory, and sent her forth to the world, disguised, as i supposed, beyond the possibility of recognition. the book sold well, and the eccentric personage was voted a novelty. a few weeks after it was published a lawyer called upon me, as the agent of the person in the directory, whose family name i had used, as he maintained, to his and all his relatives' great damage, wrong, loss, grief, shame, and irreparable injury, for which the sum of blank thousand dollars would be a modest compensation. the story made the book sell, but not enough to pay blank thousand dollars. in the mean time a cousin of mine had sniffed out the resemblance between the character in my book and our great-aunt. we were rivals in her good graces. 'cousin pansie' spoke to her of my book and the trouble it was bringing on me,--she was so sorry about it! she liked my story,--only those personalities, you know. 'what personalities?' says old granny-aunt. 'why, auntie, dear, they do say that he has brought in everybody we know,--did n't anybody tell you about--well,--i suppose you ought to know it,--did n't anybody tell you you were made fun of in that novel?' somebody--no matter who--happened to hear all this, and told me. she said granny-aunt's withered old face had two red spots come to it, as if she had been painting her cheeks from a pink saucer. no, she said, not a pink saucer, but as if they were two coals of fire. she sent out and got the book, and made her (the somebody that i was speaking of) read it to her. when she had heard as much as she could stand,--for 'cousin pansie' explained passages to her,--explained, you know,--she sent for her lawyer, and that same somebody had to be a witness to a new will she had drawn up. it was not to my advantage. 'cousin pansie' got the corner lot where the grocery is, and pretty much everything else. the old woman left me a legacy. what do you think it was? an old set of my own books, that looked as if it had been bought out of a bankrupt circulating library. "after that i grew more careful. i studied my disguises much more diligently. but after all, what could i do? here i was, writing stories for my living and my reputation. i made a pretty sum enough, and worked hard enough to earn it. no tale, no money. then every story that went from my workshop had to come up to the standard of my reputation, and there was a set of critics,--there is a set of critics now and everywhere,--that watch as narrowly for the decline of a man's reputation as ever a village half drowned out by an inundation watched for the falling of the waters. the fame i had won, such as it was, seemed to attend me,--not going before me in the shape of a woman with a trumpet, but rather following me like one of actaeon's hounds, his throat open, ready to pull me down and tear me. what a fierce enemy is that which bays behind us in the voice of our proudest bygone achievement! "but, as i said above, what could i do? i must write novels, and i must have characters. 'then why not invent them?' asks some novice. oh, yes! invent them! you can invent a human being that in certain aspects of humanity will answer every purpose for which your invention was intended. a basket of straw, an old coat and pair of breeches, a hat which has been soaked, sat upon, stuffed a broken window, and had a brood of chickens raised in it,--these elements, duly adjusted to each other, will represent humanity so truthfully that the crows will avoid the cornfield when your scarecrow displays his personality. do you think you can make your heroes and heroines,--nay, even your scrappy supernumeraries,--out of refuse material, as you made your scarecrow? you can't do it. you must study living people and reproduce them. and whom do you know so well as your friends? you will show up your friends, then, one after another. when your friends give out, who is left for you? why, nobody but your own family, of course. when you have used up your family, there is nothing left for you but to write your autobiography. "after my experience with my grand-aunt, i be came more cautious, very naturally. i kept traits of character, but i mixed ages as well as sexes. in this way i continued to use up a large amount of material, which looked as if it were as dangerous as dynamite to meddle with. who would have expected to meet my maternal uncle in the guise of a schoolboy? yet i managed to decant his characteristics as nicely as the old gentleman would have decanted a bottle of juno madeira through that long siphon which he always used when the most sacred vintages were summoned from their crypts to render an account of themselves on his hospitable board. it was a nice business, i confess, but i did it, and i drink cheerfully to that good uncle's memory in a glass of wine from his own cellar, which, with many other more important tokens of his good will, i call my own since his lamented demise. "i succeeded so well with my uncle that i thought i would try a course of cousins. i had enough of them to furnish out a whole gallery of portraits. there was cousin 'creeshy,' as we called her; lucretia, more correctly. she was a cripple. her left lower limb had had something happen to it, and she walked with a crutch. her patience under her trial was very pathetic and picturesque, so to speak,--i mean adapted to the tender parts of a story; nothing could work up better in a melting paragraph. but i could not, of course, describe her particular infirmity; that would point her out at once. i thought of shifting the lameness to the right lower limb, but even that would be seen through. so i gave the young woman that stood for her in my story a lame elbow, and put her arm in a sling, and made her such a model of uncomplaining endurance that my grandmother cried over her as if her poor old heart would break. she cried very easily, my grandmother; in fact, she had such a gift for tears that i availed myself of it, and if you remember old judy, in my novel "honi soit" (honey sweet, the booksellers called it),--old judy, the black-nurse,--that was my grandmother. she had various other peculiarities, which i brought out one by one, and saddled on to different characters. you see she was a perfect mine of singularities and idiosyncrasies. after i had used her up pretty well, i came dawn upon my poor relations. they were perfectly fair game; what better use could i put them to? i studied them up very carefully, and as there were a good many of them i helped myself freely. they lasted me, with occasional intermissions, i should say, three or four years. i had to be very careful with my poor relations,--they were as touchy as they could be; and as i felt bound to send a copy of my novel, whatever it might be, to each one of them,--there were as many as a dozen,--i took care to mix their characteristic features, so that, though each might suspect i meant the other, no one should think i meant him or her. i got through all my relations at last except my father and mother. i had treated my brothers and sisters pretty fairly, all except elisha and joanna. the truth is they both had lots of odd ways,--family traits, i suppose, but were just different enough from each other to figure separately in two different stories. these two novels made me some little trouble; for elisha said he felt sure that i meant joanna in one of them, and quarrelled with me about it; and joanna vowed and declared that elnathan, in the other, stood for brother 'lisha, and that it was a real mean thing to make fun of folks' own flesh and blood, and treated me to one of her cries. she was n't handsome when she cried, poor, dear joanna; in fact, that was one of the personal traits i had made use of in the story that elisha found fault with. "so as there was nobody left but my father and mother, you see for yourself i had no choice. there was one great advantage in dealing with them,--i knew them so thoroughly. one naturally feels a certain delicacy it handling from a purely artistic point of view persons who have been so near to him. one's mother, for instance: suppose some of her little ways were so peculiar that the accurate delineation of them would furnish amusement to great numbers of readers; it would not be without hesitation that a writer of delicate sensibility would draw her portrait, with all its whimsicalities, so plainly that it should be generally recognized. one's father is commonly of tougher fibre than one's mother, and one would not feel the same scruples, perhaps, in using him professionally as material in a novel; still, while you are employing him as bait,--you see i am honest and plain-spoken, for your characters are baits to catch readers with,--i would follow kind izaak walton's humane counsel about the frog you are fastening to your fish-hook: fix him artistically, as he directs, but in so doing i use him as though you loved him.' "i have at length shown up, in one form and another, all my townsmen who have anything effective in their bodily or mental make-up, all my friends, all my relatives; that is, all my blood relatives. it has occurred to me that i might open a new field in the family connection of my father-in-law and mother-in-law. we have been thinking of paying them a visit, and i shall have an admirable opportunity of studying them and their relatives and visitors. i have long wanted a good chance for getting acquainted with the social sphere several grades below that to which i am accustomed, and i have no doubt that i shall find matter for half a dozen new stories among those connections of mine. besides, they live in a western city, and one doesn't mind much how he cuts up the people of places he does n't himself live in. i suppose there is not really so much difference in people's feelings, whether they live in bangor or omaha, but one's nerves can't be expected to stretch across the continent. it is all a matter of greater or less distance. i read this morning that a chinese fleet was sunk, but i did n't think half so much about it as i did about losing my sleeve button, confound it! people have accused me of want of feeling; they misunderstand the artist-nature, --that is all. i obey that implicitly; i am sorry if people don't like my descriptions, but i have done my best. i have pulled to pieces all the persons i am acquainted with, and put them together again in my characters. the quills i write with come from live geese, i would have you know. i expect to get some first-rate pluckings from those people i was speaking of, and i mean to begin my thirty-ninth novel as soon as i have got through my visit." ix the society and its new secretary. there is no use in trying to hurry the natural course of events, in a narrative like this. june passed away, and july, and august had come, and as yet the enigma which had completely puzzled arrowhead village and its visitors remained unsolved. the white canoe still wandered over the lake, alone, ghostly, always avoiding the near approach of the boats which seemed to be coming in its direction. now and then a circumstance would happen which helped to keep inquiry alive. good horsemanship was not so common among the young men of the place and its neighborhood that maurice's accomplishment in that way could be overlooked. if there was a wicked horse or a wild colt whose owner was afraid of him, he would be commended to maurice's attention. paolo would lead him to his master with all due precaution,--for he had no idea of risking his neck on the back of any ill-conditioned beast,--and maurice would fasten on his long spurs, spring into the saddle, and very speedily teach the creature good behavior. there soon got about a story that he was what the fresh-water fisherman called "one o' them whisperers." it is a common legend enough, coming from the old world, but known in american horse-talking circles, that some persons will whisper certain words in a horse's ear which will tame him if he is as wild and furious as ever cruiser was. all this added to the mystery which surrounded the young man. a single improbable or absurd story amounts to very little, but when half a dozen such stories are told about the same individual or the same event, they begin to produce the effect of credible evidence. if the year had been and the place had been salem village, maurice kirkwood would have run the risk of being treated like the reverend george burroughs. miss lurida vincent's curiosity had been intensely excited with reference to the young man of whom so many stories were told. she had pretty nearly convinced herself that he was the author of the paper on ocean, lake, and river, which had been read at one of the meetings of the pansophian society. she was very desirous of meeting him, if it were possible. it seemed as if she might, as secretary of the society, request the cooperation of any of the visitors, without impropriety. so, after much deliberation, she wrote a careful note, of which the following is an exact copy. her hand was bold, almost masculine, a curious contrast to that of euthymia, which was delicately feminine. pansophian society. arrowhead village, august , -. maurice kirkwood, esq. dear sir,--you have received, i trust, a card of invitation to the meetings of our society, but i think we have not yet had the pleasure of seeing you at any of them. we have supposed that we might be indebted to you for a paper read at the last meeting, and listened to with much interest. as it was anonymous, we do not wish to be inquisitive respecting its authorship; but we desire to say that any papers kindly sent us by the temporary residents of our village will be welcome, and if adapted to the wants of our association will be read at one of its meetings or printed in its records, or perhaps both read and printed. may we not hope for your presence at the meeting, which is to take place next wednesday evening? respectfully yours, lurida vincent, secretary of the pansophian society. to this note the secretary received the following reply: miss lurida vincent, arrowhead village, august , -. secretary of the pansophian society: dear miss vincent,--i have received the ticket you refer to, and desire to express my acknowledgments for the polite attention. i regret that i have not been and i fear shall not be able to attend the meetings of the society; but if any subject occurs to me on which i feel an inclination to write, it will give me pleasure to send a paper, to be disposed of as the society may see fit. very respectfully yours, maurice kirkwood. "he says nothing about the authorship of the paper that was read the other evening," the secretary said to herself. "no matter,--he wrote it,--there is no mistaking his handwriting. we know something about him, now, at any rate. but why doesn't he come to our meetings? what has his antipathy to do with his staying away? i must find out what his secret is, and i will. i don't believe it's harder than it was to solve that prize problem which puzzled so many teachers, or than beating crakowitz, the great chess-player." to this enigma, then, the terror determined to bend all the faculties which had excited the admiration and sometimes the amazement of those who knew her in her school-days. it was a very delicate piece of business; for though lurida was an intrepid woman's rights advocate, and believed she was entitled to do almost everything that men dared to, she knew very well there were certain limits which a young woman like herself must not pass. in the mean time maurice had received a visit from the young student at the university,--the same whom he had rescued from his dangerous predicament in the lake. with him had called one of the teachers,--an instructor in modern languages, a native of italy. maurice and the instructor exchanged a few words in italian. the young man spoke it with the ease which implied long familiarity with its use. after they left, the instructor asked many curious questions about him,--who he was, how long he had been in the village, whether anything was known of his history,--all these inquiries with an eagerness which implied some special and peculiar reason for the interest they evinced. "i feel satisfied," the instructor said, "that i have met that young man in my own country. it was a number of years ago, and of course he has altered in appearance a good deal; but there is a look about him of--what shall i call it?---apprehension,--as if he were fearing the approach of something or somebody. i think it is the way a man would look that was haunted; you know what i mean,--followed by a spirit or ghost. he does not suggest the idea of a murderer,--very far from it; but if he did, i should think he was every minute in fear of seeing the murdered man's spirit." the student was curious, in his turn, to know all the instructor could recall. he had seen him in rome, he thought, at the fountain of trevi, where so many strangers go before leaving the city. the youth was in the company of a man who looked like a priest. he could not mistake the peculiar expression of his countenance, but that was all he now remembered about his appearance. his attention had been called to this young man by seeing that some of the bystanders were pointing at him, and noticing that they were whispering with each other as if with reference to him. he should say that the youth was at that time fifteen or sixteen years old, and the time was about ten years ago. after all, this evidence was of little or no value. suppose the youth were maurice; what then? we know that he had been in italy, and had been there a good while,--or at least we infer so much from his familiarity with the language, and are confirmed in the belief by his having an italian servant, whom he probably brought from italy when he returned. if he wrote the paper which was read the other evening, that settles it, for the writer says he had lived by the tiber. we must put this scrap of evidence furnished by the professor with the other scraps; it may turn out of some consequence, sooner or later. it is like a piece of a dissected map; it means almost nothing by itself, but when we find the pieces it joins with we may discover a very important meaning in it. in a small, concentrated community like that which centred in and immediately around arrowhead village, every day must have its local gossip as well as its general news. the newspaper tells the small community what is going on in the great world, and the busy tongues of male and female, especially the latter, fill in with the occurrences and comments of the ever-stirring microcosm. the fact that the italian teacher had, or thought he had, seen maurice ten years before was circulated and made the most of,--turned over and over like a cake, until it was thoroughly done on both sides and all through. it was a very small cake, but better than nothing. miss vincent heard this story, as others did, and talked about it with her friend, miss tower. here was one more fact to help along. the two young ladies who had recently graduated at the corinna institute remained, as they had always been, intimate friends. they were the natural complements of each other. euthymia represented a complete, symmetrical womanhood. her outward presence was only an index of a large, wholesome, affluent life. she could not help being courageous, with such a firm organization. she could not help being generous, cheerful, active. she had been told often enough that she was fair to look upon. she knew that she was called the wonder by the schoolmates who were dazzled by her singular accomplishments, but she did not overvalue them. she rather tended to depreciate her own gifts, in comparison with those of her friend, miss lurida vincent. the two agreed all the better for differing as they did. the octave makes a perfect chord, when shorter intervals jar more or less on the ear. each admired the other with a heartiness which if they had been less unlike, would have been impossible. it was a pleasant thing to observe their dependence on each other. the terror of the schoolroom was the oracle in her relations with her friend. all the freedom of movement which the wonder showed in her bodily exercises the terror manifested in the world of thought. she would fling open a book, and decide in a swift glance whether it had any message for her. her teachers had compared her way of reading to the taking of an instantaneous photograph. when she took up the first book on physiology which dr. butts handed her, it seemed to him that if she only opened at any place, and gave one look, her mind drank its meaning up, as a moist sponge absorbs water. "what can i do with such a creature as this?" he said to himself. "there is only one way to deal with her, treat her as one treats a silkworm: give it its mulberry leaf, and it will spin its own cocoon. give her the books, and she will spin her own web of knowledge." "do you really think of studying medicine?" said dr. butts to her. "i have n't made up my mind about that," she answered, "but i want to know a little more about this terrible machinery of life and death we are all tangled in. i know something about it, but not enough. i find some very strange beliefs among the women i meet with, and i want to be able to silence them when they attempt to proselyte me to their whims and fancies. besides, i want to know everything." "they tell me you do, already," said dr. butts. "i am the most ignorant little wretch that draws the breath of life!" exclaimed the terror. the doctor smiled. he knew what it meant. she had reached that stage of education in which the vast domain of the unknown opens its illimitable expanse before the eyes of the student. we never know the extent of darkness until it is partially illuminated. "you did not leave the institute with the reputation of being the most ignorant young lady that ever graduated there," said the doctor. "they tell me you got the highest marks of any pupil on their record since the school was founded." "what a grand thing it was to be the biggest fish in our small aquarium, to be sure!" answered the terror. "he was six inches long, the monster,--a little too big for bait to catch a pickerel with! what did you hand me that schoolbook for? did you think i did n't know anything about the human body?" "you said you were such an ignorant creature i thought i would try you with an easy book, by way of introduction." the terror was not confused by her apparent self-contradiction. "i meant what i said, and i mean what i say. when i talk about my ignorance, i don't measure myself with schoolgirls, doctor. i don't measure myself with my teachers, either. you must talk to me as if i were a man, a grown man, if you mean to teach me anything. where is your hat, doctor? let me try it on." the doctor handed her his wide-awake. the terror's hair was not naturally abundant, like euthymia's, and she kept it cut rather short. her head used to get very hot when she studied hard. she tried to put the hat on. "do you see that?" she said. "i could n't wear it--it would squeeze my eyes out of my head. the books told me that women's brains were smaller than men's: perhaps they are,--most of them,--i never measured a great many. but when they try to settle what women are good for, by phrenology, i like to have them put their tape round my head. i don't believe in their nonsense, for all that. you might as well tell me that if one horse weighs more than another horse he is worth more,--a cart-horse that weighs twelve or fourteen hundred pounds better than eclipse, that may have weighed a thousand. give me a list of the best books you can think of, and turn me loose in your library. i can find what i want, if you have it; and what i don't find there i will get at the public library. i shall want to ask you a question now and then." the doctor looked at her with a kind of admiration, but thoughtfully, as if he feared she was thinking of a task too formidable for her slight constitutional resource. she returned, instinctively, to the apparent contradiction in her statements about herself. "i am not a fool, if i am ignorant. yes, doctor, i sail on a wide sea of ignorance, but i have taken soundings of some of its shallows and some of its depths. your profession deals with the facts of life that interest me most just now, and i want to know something of it. perhaps i may find it a calling such as would suit me." "do you seriously think of becoming a practitioner of medicine?" said the doctor. "certainly, i seriously think of it as a possibility, but i want to know something more about it first. perhaps i sha'n't believe in medicine enough to practise it. perhaps i sha'n't like it well enough. no matter about that. i wish to study some of your best books on some of the subjects that most interest me. i know about bones and muscles and all that, and about digestion and respiration and such things. i want to study up the nervous system, and learn all about it. i am of the nervous temperament myself, and perhaps that is the reason. i want to read about insanity and all that relates to it." a curious expression flitted across the doctor's features as the terror said this. "nervous system. insanity. she has headaches, i know,--all those large-headed, hard-thinking girls do, as a matter of course; but what has set her off about insanity and the nervous system? i wonder if any of her more remote relatives are subject to mental disorder. bright people very often have crazy relations. perhaps some of her friends are in that way. i wonder whether"--the doctor did not speak any of these thoughts, and in fact hardly shaped his "whether," for the terror interrupted his train of reflection, or rather struck into it in a way which startled him. "where is the first volume of this medical cyclopaedia?" she asked, looking at its empty place on the shelf. "on my table," the doctor answered. "i have been consulting it." lurida flung it open, in her eager way, and turned the pages rapidly until she came to the one she wanted. the doctor cast his eye on the beading of the page, and saw the large letters a n t. "i thought so," he said to himself. "we shall know everything there is in the books about antipathies now, if we never did before. she has a special object in studying the nervous system, just as i suspected. i think she does not care to mention it at this time; but if she finds out anything of interest she will tell me, if she does anybody. perhaps she does not mean to tell anybody. it is a rather delicate business,--a young girl studying the natural history of a young man. not quite so safe as botany or palaeontology!" lurida, lately the terror, now miss vincent, had her own plans, and chose to keep them to herself, for the present, at least. her hands were full enough, it might seem, without undertaking the solution of the great arrowhead village enigma. but she was in the most perfect training, so far as her intelligence was concerned; and the summer rest had restored her bodily vigor, so that her brain was like an overcharged battery which will find conductors somewhere to carry off its crowded energy. at this time arrowhead village was enjoying the most successful season it had ever known. the pansophian society flourished to an extraordinary degree under the fostering care of the new secretary. the rector was a good figure-head as president, but the secretary was the life of the society. communications came in abundantly: some from the village and its neighborhood, some from the university and the institute, some from distant and unknown sources. the new secretary was very busy with the work of examining these papers. after a forenoon so employed, the carpet of her room looked like a barn floor after a husking-match. a glance at the manuscripts strewed about, or lying in heaps, would have frightened any young writer away from the thought of authorship as a business. if the candidate for that fearful calling had seen the process of selection and elimination, he would have felt still more desperately. a paper of twenty pages would come in, with an underscored request to please read through, carefully. that request alone is commonly sufficient to condemn any paper, and prevent its having any chance of a hearing; but the secretary was not hardened enough yet for that kind of martial law in dealing with manuscripts. the looker-on might have seen her take up the paper, cast one flashing glance at its title, read the first sentence and the last, dip at a venture into two or three pages, and decide as swiftly as the lightning calculator would add up a column of figures what was to be its destination. if rejected, it went into the heap on the left; if approved, it was laid apart, to be submitted to the committee for their judgment. the foolish writers who insist on one's reading through their manuscript poems and stories ought to know how fatal the request is to their prospects. it provokes the reader, to begin with. the reading of manuscript is frightful work, at the best; the reading of worthless manuscript--and most of that which one is requested to read through is worthless--would add to the terrors of tartarus, if any infernal deity were ingenious enough to suggest it as a punishment. if a paper was rejected by the secretary, it did not come before the committee, but was returned to the author, if he sent for it, which he commonly did. its natural course was to try for admission into some one of the popular magazines: into "the sifter," the most fastidious of them all; if that declined it, into "the second best;" and if that returned it, into "the omnivorous." if it was refused admittance at the doors of all the magazines, it might at length find shelter in the corner of a newspaper, where a good deal of very readable verse is to be met with nowadays, some of which has been, no doubt, presented to the pansophian society, but was not considered up to its standard. x a new arrival. there was a recent accession to the transient population of the village which gave rise to some speculation. the new-comer was a young fellow, rather careless in his exterior, but apparently as much at home as if he owned arrowhead village and everything in it. he commonly had a cigar in his mouth, carried a pocket pistol, of the non-explosive sort, and a stick with a bulldog's bead for its knob; wore a soft bat, a coarse check suit, a little baggy, and gaiterboots which had been half-soled,--a bohemian-looking personage, altogether. this individual began making explorations in every direction. he was very curious about the place and all the people in it. he was especially interested in the pansophian society, concerning which he made all sorts of inquiries. this led him to form a summer acquaintance with the secretary, who was pleased to give him whatever information he asked for; being proud of the society, as she had a right to be, and knowing more about it than anybody else. the visitor could not have been long in the village without hearing something of maurice kirkwood, and the stories, true and false, connected with his name. he questioned everybody who could tell him anything about maurice, and set down the answers in a little note-book he always had with him. all this naturally excited the curiosity of the village about this new visitor. among the rest, miss vincent, not wanting in an attribute thought to belong more especially to her sex, became somewhat interested to know more exactly who this inquiring, note-taking personage, who seemed to be everywhere and to know everybody, might himself be. meeting him at the public library at a fortunate moment, when there was nobody but the old librarian, who was hard of hearing, to interfere with their conversation, the little secretary had a chance to try to find out something about him. "this is a very remarkable library for a small village to possess," he remarked to miss lurida. "it is, indeed," she said. "have you found it well furnished with the books you most want?" "oh, yes,--books enough. i don't care so much for the books as i do for the newspapers. i like a review well enough,--it tells you all there is in a book; but a good abstract of the review in a newspaper saves a fellow the trouble of reading it." "you find the papers you want, here, i hope," said the young lady. "oh, i get along pretty well. it's my off-time, and i don't do much reading or writing. who is the city correspondent of this place?" "i don't think we have any one who writes regularly. now and then, there is a letter, with the gossip of the place in it, or an account of some of the doings at our society. the city papers are always glad to get the reports of our meetings, and to know what is going on in the village." "i suppose you write about the society to the papers, as you are the secretary." this was a point-blank shot. she meant to question the young man about his business, and here she was on the witness-stand. she ducked her head, and let the question go over her. "oh, there are plenty of members who are willing enough to write, --especially to give an account of their own papers. i think they like to have me put in the applause, when they get any. i do that sometimes." (how much more, she did not say.) "i have seen some very well written articles, which, from what they tell me of the secretary, i should have thought she might have written herself." he looked her straight in the eyes. "i have transmitted some good papers," she said, without winking, or swallowing, or changing color, precious little color she had to change; her brain wanted all the blood it could borrow or steal, and more too. "you spoke of newspapers," she said, without any change of tone or manner: "do you not frequently write for them yourself?" "i should think i did," answered the young man. "i am a regular correspondent of 'the people's perennial and household inquisitor.'" "the regular correspondent from where?" "where! oh, anywhere,--the place does not make much difference. i have been writing chiefly from naples and st. petersburg, and now and then from constantinople." "how long since your return to this country, may i ask?" "my return? i have never been out of this country. i travel with a gazetteer and some guide-books. it is the cheapest way, and you can get the facts much better from them than by trusting your own observation. i have made the tour of europe by the help of them and the newspapers. but of late i have taken to interviewing. i find that a very pleasant specialty. it is about as good sport as trout-tickling, and much the same kind of business. i should like to send the society an account of one of my interviews. don't you think they would like to hear it?" "i have no doubt they would. send it to me, and i will look it over; and if the committee approve it, we will have it at the next meeting. you know everything has to be examined and voted on by the committee," said the cautious secretary. "very well,--i will risk it. after it is read, if it is read, please send it back to me, as i want to sell it to 'the sifter,' or 'the second best,' or some of the paying magazines." this is the paper, which was read at the next meeting of the pansophian society. "i was ordered by the editor of the newspaper to which i am attached, 'the people's perennial and household inquisitor,' to make a visit to a certain well-known writer, and obtain all the particulars i could concerning him and all that related to him. i have interviewed a good many politicians, who i thought rather liked the process; but i had never tried any of these literary people, and i was not quite sure how this one would feel about it. i said as much to the chief, but he pooh-poohed my scruples. 'it is n't our business whether they like it or not,' said he; 'the public wants it, and what the public wants it's bound to have, and we are bound to furnish it. don't be afraid of your man; he 's used to it,--he's been pumped often enough to take it easy, and what you've got to do is to pump him dry. you need n't be modest,--ask him what you like; he is n't bound to answer, you know.' "as he lived in a rather nice quarter of the town, i smarted myself up a little, put on a fresh collar and cuffs, and got a five-cent shine on my best high-lows. i said to myself, as i was walking towards the house where he lived, that i would keep very shady for a while and pass for a visitor from a distance; one of those 'admiring strangers' who call in to pay their respects, to get an autograph, and go home and say that they have met the distinguished so and so, which gives them a certain distinction in the village circle to which they belong. "my man, the celebrated writer, received me in what was evidently his reception-room. i observed that he managed to get the light full on my face, while his own was in the shade. i had meant to have his face in the light, but he knew the localities, and had arranged things so as to give him that advantage. it was like two frigates manoeuvring,--each trying to get to windward of the other. i never take out my note-book until i and my man have got engaged in artless and earnest conversation,--always about himself and his works, of course, if he is an author. "i began by saying that he must receive a good many callers. those who had read his books were naturally curious to see the writer of them. "he assented, emphatically, to this statement. he had, he said, a great many callers. "i remarked that there was a quality in his books which made his readers feel as if they knew him personally, and caused them to cherish a certain attachment to him. "he smiled, as if pleased. he was himself disposed to think so, he said. in fact, a great many persons, strangers writing to him, had told him so. "my dear sir, i said, there is nothing wonderful in the fact you mention. you reach a responsive chord in many human breasts. 'one touch of nature makes the whole world kin.' "everybody feels as if he, and especially she (his eyes sparkled), were your blood relation. do they not name their children after you very frequently? "he blushed perceptibly. 'sometimes,' he answered. 'i hope they will all turn out well.' "i am afraid i am taking up too much of your time, i said. "no, not at all,' he replied. 'come up into my library; it is warmer and pleasanter there.' "i felt confident that i had him by the right handle then; for an author's library, which is commonly his working-room, is, like a lady's boudoir, a sacred apartment. "so we went upstairs, and again he got me with the daylight on my face, when i wanted it on has. "you have a fine library, i remarked. there were books all round the room, and one of those whirligig square book-cases. i saw in front a bible and a concordance, shakespeare and mrs. cowden clarke's book, and other classical works and books of grave aspect. i contrived to give it a turn, and on the side next the wall i got a glimpse of barnum's rhyming dictionary, and several dictionaries of quotations and cheap compends of knowledge. always twirl one of those revolving book-cases when you visit a scholar's library. that is the way to find out what books he does n't want you to see, which of course are the ones you particularly wish to see. "some may call all this impertinent and inquisitive. what do you suppose is an interviewer's business? did you ever see an oyster opened? yes? well, an interviewer's business is the same thing. his man is his oyster, which he, not with sword, but with pencil and note-book, must open. mark how the oysterman's thin blade insinuates itself,--how gently at first, how strenuously when once fairly between the shells! "and here, i said, you write your books,--those books which have carried your name to all parts of the world, and will convey it down to posterity! is this the desk at which you write? and is this the pen you write with? "'it is the desk and the very pen,' he replied. "he was pleased with my questions and my way of putting them. i took up the pen as reverentially as if it had been made of the feather which the angel i used to read about in young's "night thoughts" ought to have dropped, and did n't. "would you kindly write your autograph in my note-book, with that pen? i asked him. yes, he would, with great pleasure. "so i got out my note-book. "it was a spick and span new one, bought on purpose for this interview. i admire your bookcases, said i. can you tell me just how high they are? "'they are about eight feet, with the cornice.' "i should like to have some like those, if i ever get rich enough, said i. eight feet,--eight feet, with the cornice. i must put that down. "so i got out my pencil. "i sat there with my pencil and note-book in my hand, all ready, but not using them as yet. "i have heard it said, i observed, that you began writing poems at a very early age. is it taking too great a liberty to ask how early you began to write in verse? "he was getting interested, as people are apt to be when they are themselves the subjects of conversation. "'very early,--i hardly know how early. i can say truly, as louise colet said, "'je fis mes premiers vers sans savoir les ecrire.'" "i am not a very good french scholar, said i; perhaps you will be kind enough to translate that line for me. "'certainly. with pleasure. i made my first verses without knowing how to write them.' "how interesting! but i never heard of louise colet. who was she? "my man was pleased to gi-ve me a piece of literary information. "'louise the lioness! never heard of her? you have heard of alphonse karr?' "why,--yes,--more or less. to tell the truth, i am not very well up in french literature. what had he to do with your lioness? "'a good deal. he satirized her, and she waited at his door with a case-knife in her hand, intending to stick him with it. by and by he came down, smoking a cigarette, and was met by this woman flourishing her case-knife. he took it from her, after getting a cut in his dressing-gown, put it in his pocket, and went on with his cigarette. he keeps it with an inscription: "donne a alphonse karr par madame louise colet.... dans le dos. "lively little female!' "i could n't help thinking that i should n't have cared to interview the lively little female. he was evidently tickled with the interest i appeared to take in the story he told me. that made him feel amiably disposed toward me. "i began with very general questions, but by degrees i got at everything about his family history and the small events of his boyhood. some of the points touched upon were delicate, but i put a good bold face on my most audacious questions, and so i wormed out a great deal that was new concerning my subject. he had been written about considerably, and the public wouldn't have been satisfied without some new facts; and these i meant to have, and i got. no matter about many of them now, but here are some questions and answers that may be thought worth reading or listening to: "how do you enjoy being what they call 'a celebrity,' or a celebrated man? "'so far as one's vanity is concerned it is well enough. but self-love is a cup without any bottom, and you might pour the great lakes all through it, and never fill it up. it breeds an appetite for more of the same kind. it tends to make the celebrity a mere lump of egotism. it generates a craving for high-seasoned personalities which is in danger of becoming slavery, like that following the abuse of alcohol, or opium, or tobacco. think of a man's having every day, by every post, letters that tell him he is this and that and the other, with epithets and endearments, one tenth part of which would have made him blush red hot before he began to be what you call a celebrity!' "are there not some special inconveniences connected with what is called celebrity? "'i should think so! suppose you were obliged every day of your life to stand and shake hands, as the president of the united states has to after his inauguration: how do you think your hand would feel after a few months' practice of that exercise? suppose you had given you thirty-five millions of money a year, in hundred-dollar coupons, on condition that you cut them all off yourself in the usual manner: how do you think you should like the look of a pair of scissors at the end of a year, in which you had worked ten hours a day every day but sunday, cutting off a hundred coupons an hour, and found you had not finished your task, after all? you have addressed me as what you are pleased to call "a literary celebrity." i won't dispute with you as to whether or not i deserve that title. i will take it for granted i am what you call me, and give you some few hints on my experience. "'you know there was formed a while ago an association of authors for self-protection. it meant well, and it was hoped that something would come of it in the way of relieving that oppressed class, but i am sorry to say that it has not effected its purpose.' "i suspected he had a hand in drawing up the constitution and laws of that association. yes, i said, an admirable association it was, and as much needed as the one for the prevention of cruelty to animals. i am sorry to hear that it has not proved effectual in putting a stop to the abuse of a deserving class of men. it ought to have done it; it was well conceived, and its public manifesto was a masterpiece. (i saw by his expression that he was its author.) "'i see i can trust you,' he said. 'i will unbosom myself freely of some of the grievances attaching to the position of the individual to whom you have applied the term "literary celebrity." "'he is supposed to be a millionaire, in virtue of the immense sales of his books, all the money from which, it is taken for granted, goes into his pocket. consequently, all subscription papers are handed to him for his signature, and every needy stranger who has heard his name comes to him for assistance. "'he is expected to subscribe for all periodicals, and is goaded by receiving blank formulae, which, with their promises to pay, he is expected to fill up. "'he receives two or three books daily, with requests to read and give his opinion about each of them, which opinion, if it has a word which can be used as an advertisement, he will find quoted in all the newspapers. "'he receives thick masses of manuscript, prose and verse, which he is called upon to examine and pronounce on their merits; these manuscripts having almost invariably been rejected by the editors to whom they have been sent, and having as a rule no literary value whatever. "'he is expected to sign petitions, to contribute to journals, to write for fairs, to attend celebrations, to make after-dinner speeches, to send money for objects he does not believe in to places he never heard of. "'he is called on to keep up correspondences with unknown admirers, who begin by saying they have no claim upon his time, and then appropriate it by writing page after page, if of the male sex; and sheet after sheet, if of the other. "'if a poet, it is taken for granted that he can sit down at any moment and spin off any number of verses on any subject which may be suggested to him; such as congratulations to the writer's great-grandmother on her reaching her hundredth year, an elegy on an infant aged six weeks, an ode for the fourth of july in a western township not to be found in lippincott's last edition, perhaps a valentine for some bucolic lover who believes that wooing in rhyme is the way to win the object of his affections.' "is n't it so? i asked the celebrity. "'i would bet on the prose lover. she will show the verses to him, and they will both have a good laugh over them.' "i have only reported a small part of the conversation i had with the literary celebrity. he was so much taken up with his pleasing self-contemplation, while i made him air his opinions and feelings and spread his characteristics as his laundress spreads and airs his linen on the clothes-line, that i don't believe it ever occurred to him that he had been in the hands of an interviewer until he found himself exposed to the wind and sunshine in full dimensions in the columns of the people's perennial and household inquisitor.'" after the reading of this paper, much curiosity was shown as to who the person spoken of as the "literary celebrity" might be. among the various suppositions the startling idea was suggested that he was neither more nor less than the unexplained personage known in the village as maurice kirkwood. why should that be his real name? why should not he be the celebrity, who had taken this name and fled to this retreat to escape from the persecutions of kind friends, who were pricking him and stabbing him nigh to death with their daggers of sugar candy? the secretary of the pansophian society determined to question the interviewer the next time she met him at the library, which happened soon after the meeting when his paper was read. "i do not know," she said, in the course of a conversation in which she had spoken warmly of his contribution to the literary entertainment of the society, "that you mentioned the name of the literary celebrity whom you interviewed so successfully." "i did not mention him, miss vincent," he answered, "nor do i think it worth while to name him. he might not care to have the whole story told of how he was handled so as to make him communicative. besides, if i did, it would bring him a new batch of sympathetic letters, regretting that he was bothered by those horrid correspondents, full of indignation at the bores who presumed to intrude upon him with their pages of trash, all the writers of which would expect answers to their letters of condolence." the secretary asked the interviewer if he knew the young gentleman who called himself maurice kirkwood. "what," he answered, "the man that paddles a birch canoe, and rides all the wild horses of the neighborhood? no, i don't know him, but i have met him once or twice, out walking. a mighty shy fellow, they tell me. do you know anything particular about him?" "not much. none of us do, but we should like to. the story is that he has a queer antipathy to something or to somebody, nobody knows what or whom." "to newspaper correspondents, perhaps," said the interviewer. "what made you ask me about him? you did n't think he was my 'literary celebrity,' did you?" "i did not know. i thought he might be. why don't you interview this mysterious personage? he would make a good sensation for your paper, i should think." "why, what is there to be interviewed in him? is there any story of crime, or anything else to spice a column or so, or even a few paragraphs, with? if there is, i am willing to handle him professionally." "i told you he has what they call an antipathy. i don't know how much wiser you are for that piece of information." "an antipathy! why, so have i an antipathy. i hate a spider, and as for a naked caterpillar,--i believe i should go into a fit if i had to touch one. i know i turn pale at the sight of some of those great green caterpillars that come down from the elm-trees in august and early autumn." "afraid of them?" asked the young lady. "afraid? what should i be afraid of? they can't bite or sting. i can't give any reason. all i know is that when i come across one of these creatures in my path i jump to one side, and cry out,--sometimes using very improper words. the fact is, they make me crazy for the moment." "i understand what you mean," said miss vincent. "i used to have the same feeling about spiders, but i was ashamed of it, and kept a little menagerie of spiders until i had got over the feeling; that is, pretty much got over it, for i don't love the creatures very dearly, though i don't scream when i see one." "what did you tell me, miss vincent, was this fellow's particular antipathy?" that is just the question. i told you that we don't know and we can't guess what it is. the people here are tired out with trying to discover some good reason for the young man's keeping out of the way of everybody, as he does. they say he is odd or crazy, and they don't seem to be able to tell which. it would make the old ladies of the village sleep a great deal sounder,--yes, and some of the young ladies, too,--if they could find out what this mr. kirkwood has got into his head, that he never comes near any of the people here." "i think i can find out," said the interviewer, whose professional ambition was beginning to be excited. "i never came across anybody yet that i could n't get something out of. i am going to stay here a week or two, and before i go i will find out the secret, if there is any, of this mr. maurice kirkwood." we must leave the interviewer to his contrivances until they present us with some kind of result, either in the shape of success or failure. xi the interviewer attacks the sphinx. when miss euthymia tower sent her oar off in flashing splinters, as she pulled her last stroke in the boat-race, she did not know what a strain she was putting upon it. she did know that she was doing her best, but how great the force of her best was she was not aware until she saw its effects. unconsciousness belonged to her robust nature, in all its manifestations. she did not pride herself on her knowledge, nor reproach herself for her ignorance. in every way she formed a striking contrast to her friend, miss vincent. every word they spoke betrayed the difference between them: the sharp tones of lurida's head-voice, penetrative, aggressive, sometimes irritating, revealed the corresponding traits of mental and moral character; the quiet, conversational contralto of euthymia was the index of a nature restful and sympathetic. the friendships of young girls prefigure the closer relations which will one day come in and dissolve their earlier intimacies. the dependence of two young friends may be mutual, but one will always lean more heavily than the other; the masculine and feminine elements will be as sure to assert themselves as if the friends were of different sexes. on all common occasions euthymia looked up to her friend as her superior. she fully appreciated all her varied gifts and knowledge, and deferred to her opinion in every-day matters, not exactly as an oracle, but as wiser than herself or any of her other companions. it was a different thing, however, when the graver questions of life came up. lurida was full of suggestions, plans, projects, which were too liable to run into whims before she knew where they were tending. she would lay out her ideas before euthymia so fluently and eloquently that she could not help believing them herself, and feeling as if her friend must accept them with an enthusiasm like her own. then euthymia would take them up with her sweet, deliberate accents, and bring her calmer judgment to bear on them. lurida was in an excited condition, in the midst of all her new interests and occupations. she was constantly on the lookout for papers to be read at the meetings of her society,--for she made it her own in great measure, by her zeal and enthusiasm,--and in the mean time she was reading in various books which dr. butts selected for her, all bearing on the profession to which, at least as a possibility, she was looking forward. privately and in a very still way, she was occupying herself with the problem of the young stranger, the subject of some delusion, or disease, or obliquity of unknown nature, to which the vague name of antipathy had been attached. euthymia kept an eye upon her, partly in the fear that over-excitement would produce some mental injury, and partly from anxiety lest she should compromise her womanly dignity in her desire to get at the truth of a very puzzling question. "how do you like the books i see you reading?" said euthymia to lurida, one day, as they met at the library. "better than all the novels i ever read," she answered. "i have been reading about the nervous system, and it seems to me i have come nearer the springs of life than ever before in all my studies. i feel just as if i were a telegraph operator. i was sure that i had a battery in my head, for i know my brain works like one; but i did not know how many centres of energy there are, and how they are played upon by all sorts of influences, external and internal. do you know, i believe i could solve the riddle of the 'arrowhead village sphinx,' as the paper called him, if he would only stay here long enough?" "what paper has had anything about it, lurida? i have not seen or heard of its being mentioned in any of the papers." "you know that rather queer-looking young man who has been about here for some time,--the same one who gave the account of his interview with a celebrated author? well, he has handed me a copy of a paper in which he writes, 'the people's perennial and household inquisitor.' he talks about this village in a very free and easy way. he says there is a sphinx here, who has mystified us all." "and you have been chatting with that fellow! don't you know that he'll have you and all of us in his paper? don't you know that nothing is safe where one of those fellows gets in with his note-book and pencil? oh, lurida, lurida, do be careful!" what with this mysterious young man and this very questionable newspaper-paragraph writer, you will be talked about, if you don't mind, before you know it. you had better let the riddle of the sphinx alone. if you must deal with such dangerous people, the safest way is to set one of them to find out the other.--i wonder if we can't get this new man to interview the visitor you have so much curiosity about. that might be managed easily enough without your having anything to do with it. let me alone, and i will arrange it. but mind, now, you must not meddle; if you do, you will spoil everything, and get your name in the 'household inquisitor' in a way you won't like." "don't be frightened about me, euthymia. i don't mean to give him a chance to work me into his paper, if i can help it. but if you can get him to try his skill upon this interesting personage and his antipathy, so much the better. i am very curious about it, and therefore about him. i want to know what has produced this strange state of feeling in a young man who ought to have all the common instincts of a social being. i believe there are unexplained facts in the region of sympathies and antipathies which will repay study with a deeper insight into the mysteries of life than we have dreamed of hitherto. i often wonder whether there are not heart-waves and soul-waves as well as 'brain-waves,' which some have already recognized." euthymia wondered, as well she might, to hear this young woman talking the language of science like an adept. the truth is, lurida was one of those persons who never are young, and who, by way of compensation, will never be old. they are found in both sexes. two well-known graduates of one of our great universities are living examples of this precocious but enduring intellectual development. if the readers of this narrative cannot pick them out, they need not expect the writer of it to help them. if they guess rightly who they are, they will recognize the fact that just such exceptional individuals as the young woman we are dealing with are met with from time to time in families where intelligence has been cumulative for two or three generations. euthymia was very willing that the questioning and questionable visitor should learn all that was known in the village about the nebulous individual whose misty environment all the eyes in the village were trying to penetrate, but that he should learn it from some other informant than lurida. the next morning, as the interviewer took his seat on a bench outside his door, to smoke his after-breakfast cigar, a bright-looking and handsome youth, whose features recalled those of euthymia so strikingly that one might feel pretty sure he was her brother, took a seat by his side. presently the two were engaged in conversation. the interviewer asked all sorts of questions about everybody in the village. when he came to inquire about maurice, the youth showed a remarkable interest regarding him. the greatest curiosity, he said, existed with reference to this personage. everybody was trying to find out what his story was,--for a story, and a strange one, he must surely have,--and nobody had succeeded. the interviewer began to be unusually attentive. the young man told him the various antipathy stories, about the evil-eye hypothesis, about his horse-taming exploits, his rescuing the student whose boat was overturned, and every occurrence he could recall which would help out the effect of his narrative. the interviewer was becoming excited. "can't find out anything about him, you said, did n-'t you? how do you know there's anything to find? do you want to know what i think he is? i'll tell you. i think he is an actor,--a fellow from one of the city theatres. those fellows go off in their summer vacation, and like to puzzle the country folks. they are the very same chaps, like as not, the visitors have seen in plays at the city theatres; but of course they don't know 'em in plain clothes. kings and emperors look pretty shabby off the stage sometimes, i can tell you." the young man followed the interviewer's lead. "i shouldn't wonder if you were right," he said. "i remember seeing a young fellow in romeo that looked a good deal like this one. but i never met the sphinx, as they call him, face to face. he is as shy as a woodchuck. i believe there are people here that would give a hundred dollars to find out who he is, and where he came from, and what he is here for, and why he does n't act like other folks. i wonder why some of those newspaper men don't come up here and get hold of this story. it would be just the thing for a sensational writer." to all this the interviewer listened with true professional interest. always on the lookout for something to make up a paragraph or a column about; driven oftentimes to the stalest of repetitions,--to the biggest pumpkin story, the tall cornstalk, the fat ox, the live frog from the human stomach story, the third set of teeth and reading without spectacles at ninety story, and the rest of the marvellous commonplaces which are kept in type with e o y or e m (every other year or every six months) at the foot; always in want of a fresh incident, a new story, an undescribed character, an unexplained mystery, it is no wonder that the interviewer fastened eagerly upon this most tempting subject for an inventive and emotional correspondent. he had seen paolo several times, and knew that he was maurice's confidential servant, but had never spoken to him. so he said to himself that he must make paolo's acquaintance, to begin with. in the summer season many kinds of small traffic were always carried on in arrowhead village. among the rest, the sellers of fruits--oranges, bananas, and others, according to the seasons--did an active business. the interviewer watched one of these fruit-sellers, and saw that his hand-cart stopped opposite the house where, as he knew, maurice kirkwood was living. presently paolo came out of the door, and began examining the contents of the hand-cart. the interviewer saw his opportunity. here was an introduction to the man, and the man must introduce him to the master. he knew very well how to ingratiate himself with the man,--there was no difficulty about that. he had learned his name, and that he was an italian whom maurice had brought to this country with him. "good morning, mr. paul," he said. "how do you like the look of these oranges?" "they pretty fair," said paolo: "no so good as them las' week; no sweet as them was." "why, how do you know without tasting them?" said the interviewer. "i know by his look,--i know by his smell,--he no good yaller,--he no smell ripe,--i know orange ever since my head no bigger than he is," and paolo laughed at his own comparison. the interviewer laughed louder than paolo. "good!" said he,--"first-rate! of course you know all about 'em. why can't you pick me out a couple of what you think are the best of 'em? i shall be greatly obliged to you. i have a sick friend, and i want to get two nice sweet ones for him." paolo was pleased. his skill and judgment were recognized. he felt grateful to the stranger, who had given him, an opportunity of conferring a favor. he selected two, after careful examination and grave deliberation. the interviewer had sense and tact enough not to offer him an orange, and so shift the balance of obligation. "how is mr. kirkwood, to-day?" he asked. "signor? he very well. he always well. why you ask? anybody tell you he sick?" "no, nobody said he was sick. i have n't seen him going about for a day or two, and i thought he might have something the matter with him. is he in the house now?" "no: he off riding. he take long, long rides, sometime gone all day. sometime he go on lake, paddle, paddle in the morning, very, very early,--in night when the moon shine; sometime stay in house, and read, and study, and write,--he great scholar, misser kirkwood." "a good many books, has n't he?" "he got whole shelfs full of books. great books, little books, old books, new books, all sorts of books. he great scholar, i tell you." "has n't he some curiosities,--old figures, old jewelry, old coins, or things of that sort?" paolo looked at the young man cautiously, almost suspiciously. "he don't keep no jewels nor no money in his chamber. he got some old things,--old jugs, old brass figgers, old money, such as they used to have in old times: she don't pass now." paolo's genders were apt to be somewhat indiscriminately distributed. a lucky thought struck the interviewer. "i wonder if he would examine some old coins of mine?" said he, in a modestly tentative manner. "i think he like to see anything curious. when he come home i ask him. who will i tell him wants to ask him about old coin?" "tell him a gentleman visiting arrowhead village would like to call and show him some old pieces of money, said to be roman ones." the interviewer had just remembered that he had two or three old battered bits of copper which he had picked up at a tollman's, where they had been passed off for cents. he had bought them as curiosities. one had the name of gallienus upon it, tolerably distinct,--a common little roman penny; but it would serve his purpose of asking a question, as would two or three others with less legible legends. paolo told him that if he came the next morning he would stand a fair chance of seeing mr. kirkwood. at any rate, he would speak to his master. the interviewer presented himself the next morning, after finishing his breakfast and his cigar, feeling reasonably sure of finding mr. kirkwood at home, as he proved to be. he had told paolo to show the stranger up to his library,--or study, as he modestly called it. it was a pleasant room enough, with a lookout on the lake in one direction, and the wooded hill in another. the tenant had fitted it up in scholarly fashion. the books paolo spoke of were conspicuous, many of them, by their white vellum binding and tasteful gilding, showing that probably they had been bound in rome, or some other italian city. with these were older volumes in their dark original leather, and recent ones in cloth or paper. as the interviewer ran his eye over them, he found that he could make very little out of what their backs taught him. some of the paper-covered books, some of the cloth-covered ones, had names which he knew; but those on the backs of many of the others were strange to his eyes. the classics of greek and latin and italian literature were there; and he saw enough to feel convinced that he had better not attempt to display his erudition in the company of this young scholar. the first thing the interviewer had to do was to account for his visiting a person who had not asked to make his acquaintance, and who was living as a recluse. he took out his battered coppers, and showed them to maurice. "i understood that you were very skilful in antiquities, and had a good many yourself. so i took the liberty of calling upon you, hoping that you could tell me something about some ancient coins i have had for a good while." so saying, he pointed to the copper with the name of gallienus. "is this very rare and valuable? i have heard that great prices have been paid for some of these ancient coins,--ever so many guineas, sometimes. i suppose this is as much as a thousand years old." "more than a thousand years old," said maurice. "and worth a great deal of money?" asked the interviewer. "no, not a great deal of money," answered maurice. "how much, should you say?" said the interviewer. maurice smiled. "a little more than the value of its weight in copper,--i am afraid not much more. there are a good many of these coins of gallienus knocking about. the peddlers and the shopkeepers take such pieces occasionally, and sell them, sometimes for five or ten cents, to young collectors. no, it is not very precious in money value, but as a relic any piece of money that was passed from hand to hand a thousand or fifteen hundred years ago is interesting. the value of such relics is a good deal a matter of imagination." "and what do you say to these others?" asked the interviewer. poor old worn-out things they were, with a letter or two only, and some faint trace of a figure on one or two of them. "very interesting, always, if they carry your imagination back to the times when you may suppose they were current. perhaps horace tossed one of them to a beggar. perhaps one of these was the coin that was brought when one said to those about him, 'bring me a penny, that i may see it.' but the market price is a different matter. that depends on the beauty and preservation, and above all the rarity, of the specimen. here is a coin, now,"--he opened a small cabinet, and took one from it. "here is a syracusan decadrachm with the head of persephone, which is at once rare, well preserved, and beautiful. i am afraid to tell what i paid for it." the interviewer was not an expert in numismatics. he cared very little more for an old coin than he did for an old button, but he had thought his purchase at the tollman's might prove a good speculation. no matter about the battered old pieces: he had found out, at any rate, that maurice must have money and could be extravagant, or what he himself considered so; also that he was familiar with ancient coins. that would do for a beginning. "may i ask where you picked up the coin you are showing me?" he said "that is a question which provokes a negative answer. one does not 'pick up' first-class coins or paintings, very often, in these times. i bought this of a great dealer in rome." "lived in rome once?" said the interviewer. "for some years. perhaps you have been there yourself?" the interviewer said he had never been there yet, but he hoped he should go there, one of these years, "suppose you studied art and antiquities while you were there?" he continued. "everybody who goes to rome must learn something of art and antiquities. before you go there i advise you to review roman history and the classic authors. you had better make a study of ancient and modern art, and not have everything to learn while you are going about among ruins, and churches, and galleries. you know your horace and virgil well, i take it for granted?" the interviewer hesitated. the names sounded as if he had heard them. "not so well as i mean to before going to rome," he answered. "may i ask how long you lived in rome?" "long enough to know something of what is to be seen in it. no one should go there without careful preparation beforehand. you are familiar with vasari, of course?" the interviewer felt a slight moisture on his forehead. he took out his handkerchief. "it is a warm day," he said. "i have not had time to read all--the works i mean to. i have had too much writing to do, myself, to find all the time for reading and study i could have wished." "in what literary occupation have you been engaged, if you will pardon my inquiry? said maurice. "i am connected with the press. i understood that you were a man of letters, and i hoped i might have the privilege of hearing from your own lips some account of your literary experiences." "perhaps that might be interesting, but i think i shall reserve it for my autobiography. you said you were connected with the press. do i understand that you are an author?" by this time the interviewer had come to the conclusion that it was a very warm day. he did not seem to be getting hold of his pitcher by the right handle, somehow. but he could not help answering maurice's very simple question. "if writing for a newspaper gives one a right to be called an author, i may call myself one. i write for the "people's perennial and household inquisitor." "are you the literary critic of that well-known journal, or do you manage the political column?" "i am a correspondent from different places and on various matters of interest." "places you have been to, and people you have known?" "well, yes,-generally, that is. sometimes i have to compile my articles." "did you write the letter from rome, published a few weeks ago?" the interviewer was in what he would call a tight place. however, he had found that his man was too much for him, and saw that the best thing he could do was to submit to be interviewed himself. he thought that he should be able to pick up something or other which he could work into his report of his visit. "well, i--prepared that article for our columns. you know one does not have to see everything he describes. you found it accurate, i hope, in its descriptions?" "yes, murray is generally accurate. sometimes he makes mistakes, but i can't say how far you have copied them. you got the ponte molle--the old milvian bridge--a good deal too far down the stream, if i remember. i happened to notice that, but i did not read the article carefully. may i ask whether you propose to do me the honor of reporting this visit and the conversation we have had, for the columns of the newspaper with which you are connected?" the interviewer thought he saw an opening. "if you have no objections," he said, "i should like very much to ask a few questions." he was recovering his professional audacity. "you can ask as many questions as you consider proper and discreet, --after you have answered one or two of mine: who commissioned you to submit me to examination?" "the curiosity of the public wishes to be gratified, and i am the humble agent of its investigations." "what has the public to do with my private affairs?" "i suppose it is a question of majority and minority. that settles everything in this country. you are a minority of one opposed to a large number of curious people that form a majority against you. that is the way i've heard the chief put it." maurice could not help smiling at the quiet assumption of the american citizen. the interviewer smiled, too, and thought he had his man, sure, at last. maurice calmly answered, "there is nothing left for minorities, then, but the right of rebellion. i don't care about being made the subject of an article for your paper. i am here for my pleasure, minding my own business, and content with that occupation. i rebel against your system of forced publicity. whenever i am ready i shall tell the public all it has any right to know about me. in the mean time i shall request to be spared reading my biography while i am living. i wish you a good-morning." the interviewer had not taken out his note-book and pencil. in his next communication from arrowhead village he contented himself with a brief mention of the distinguished and accomplished gentleman now visiting the place, whose library and cabinet of coins he had had the privilege of examining, and whose courtesy was equalled only by the modesty that shunned the public notoriety which the organs of popular intelligence would otherwise confer upon him. the interviewer had attempted the riddle of the sphinx, and had failed to get the first hint of its solution. the many tongues of the village and its visitors could not remain idle. the whole subject of antipathies had been talked over, and the various cases recorded had become more or less familiar to the conversational circles which met every evening in the different centres of social life. the prevalent hypothesis for the moment was that maurice had a congenital aversion to some color, the effects of which upon him were so painful or disagreeable that he habitually avoided exposure to it. it was known, and it has already been mentioned, that such cases were on record. there had been a great deal of discussion, of late, with reference to a fact long known to a few individuals, but only recently made a matter of careful scientific observation and brought to the notice of the public. this was the now well-known phenomenon of color-blindness. it did not seem very strange that if one person in every score or two could not tell red from green there might be other curious individual peculiarities relating to color. a case has already been referred to where the subject of observation fainted at the sight of any red object. what if this were the trouble with maurice kirkwood? it will be seen at once how such a congenital antipathy would tend to isolate the person who was its unfortunate victim. it was an hypothesis not difficult to test, but it was a rather delicate business to be experimenting on an inoffensive stranger. miss vincent was thinking it over, but said nothing, even to euthymia, of any projects she might entertain. xii miss vincent as a medical student. the young lady whom we have known as the terror, as lurida, as miss vincent, secretary of the pansophian society, had been reading various works selected for her by dr. butts,--works chiefly relating to the nervous system and its different affections. she thought it was about time to talk over the general subject of the medical profession with her new teacher,--if such a self-directing person as lurida could be said to recognize anybody as teacher. she began at the beginning. "what is the first book you would put in a student's hands, doctor?" she said to him one day. they were in his study, and lurida had just brought back a thick volume on insanity, one of bucknill and puke's, which she had devoured as if it had been a pamphlet. "not that book, certainly," he said. "i am afraid it will put all sorts of notions into your head. who or what set you to reading that, i should like to know?" "i found it on one of your shelves, and as i thought i might perhaps be crazy some time or other, i felt as if i should like to know what kind of a condition insanity is. i don't believe they were ever very bright, those insane people, most of them. i hope i am not stupid enough ever to lose my wits." "there is no telling, my dear, what may happen if you overwork that busy brain of yours. but did n't it make you nervous, reading about so many people possessed with such strange notions?" "nervous? not a bit. i could n't help thinking, though, how many people i had known that had a little touch of craziness about them. take that poor woman that says she is her majesty's person,--not her majesty, but her majesty's person,--a very important distinction, according to her: how she does remind me of more than one girl i have known! she would let her skirts down so as to make a kind of train, and pile things on her head like a sort of crown, fold her arms and throw her head back, and feel as grand as a queen. i have seen more than one girl act very much in that way. are not most of us a little crazy, doctor,--just a little? i think so. it seems to me i never saw but one girl who was free from every hint of craziness." "and who was that, pray?" "why, euthymia,--nobody else, of course. she never loses her head,--i don't believe she would in an earthquake. whenever we were at work with our microscopes at the institute i always told her that her mind was the only achromatic one i ever looked into,--i did n't say looked through.---but i did n't come to talk about that. i read in one of your books that when sydenham was asked by a student what books he should read, the great physician said, 'read "don quixote."' i want you to explain that to me; and then i want you to tell me what is the first book, according to your idea, that a student ought to read." "what do you say to my taking your question as the subject of a paper to be read before the society? i think there may be other young ladies at the meeting, besides yourself, who are thinking of pursuing the study of medicine. at any rate, there are a good many who are interested in the subject; in fact, most people listen readily to anything doctors tell them about their calling." "i wish you would, doctor. i want euthymia to hear it, and i don't doubt there will be others who will be glad to hear everything you have to say about it. but oh, doctor, if you could only persuade eutbymia to become a physician! what a doctor she would make! so strong, so calm, so full of wisdom! i believe she could take the wheel of a steamboat in a storm, or the hose of a fire-engine in a conflagration, and handle it as well as the captain of the boat or of the fire-company." "have you ever talked with her about studying medicine?" "indeed i have. oh, if she would only begin with me! what good times we would have studying together!" "i don't doubt it. medicine is a very pleasant study. but how do you think practice would be? how would you like being called up to ride ten miles in a midnight snow-storm, just when one of your raging headaches was racking you?" "oh, but we could go into partnership, and euthymia is n't afraid of storms or anything else. if she would only study medicine with me!" "well, what does she say to it?" "she does n't like the thought of it. she does n't believe in women doctors. she thinks that now and then a woman may be fitted for it by nature, but she does n't think there are many who are. she gives me a good many reasons against their practising medicine, you know what most of them are, doctor,--and ends by saying that the same woman who would be a poor sort of doctor would make a first-rate nurse; and that, she thinks, is a woman's business, if her instinct carries her to the hospital or sick-chamber. i can't argue her ideas out of her." "neither can i argue you out of your feeling about the matter; but i am disposed to agree with your friend, that you will often spoil a good nurse to make a poor doctor. doctors and side-saddles don't seem to me to go together. riding habits would be awkward things for practitioners. but come, we won't have a controversy just now. i am for giving women every chance for a good education, and if they think medicine is one of their proper callings let them try it. i think they will find that they had better at least limit themselves to certain specialties, and always have an expert of the other sex to fall back upon. the trouble is that they are so impressible and imaginative that they are at the mercy of all sorts of fancy systems. you have only to see what kinds of instruction they very commonly flock to in order to guess whether they would be likely to prove sensible practitioners. charlatanism always hobbles on two crutches, the tattle of women, and the certificates of clergymen, and i am afraid that half the women doctors will be too much under both those influences." lurida believed in dr. butts, who, to use the common language of the village, had "carried her through" a fever, brought on by over-excitement and exhausting study. she took no offence at his reference to nursery gossip, which she had learned to hold cheap. nobody so despises the weaknesses of women as the champion of woman's rights. she accepted the doctor's concession of a fair field and open trial of the fitness of her sex for medical practice, and did not trouble herself about his suggested limitations. as to the imaginative tendencies of women, she knew too well the truth of the doctor's remark relating to them to wish to contradict it. "be sure you let me have your paper in season for the next meeting, doctor," she said; and in due season it came, and was of course approved for reading. xiii dr. butts reads a paper. "next to the interest we take in all that relates to our immortal souls is that which we feel for our mortal bodies. i am afraid my very first statement may be open to criticism. the care of the body is the first thought with a great many,--in fact, with the larger part of the world. they send for the physician first, and not until he gives them up do they commonly call in the clergyman. even the minister himself is not so very different from other people. we must not blame him if he is not always impatient to exchange a world of multiplied interests and ever-changing sources of excitement for that which tradition has delivered to us as one eminently deficient in the stimulus of variety. besides, these bodily frames, even when worn and disfigured by long years of service, hang about our consciousness like old garments. they are used to us, and we are used to them. and all the accidents of our lives,--the house we dwell in, the living people round us, the landscape we look over, all, up to the sky that covers us like a bell glass,--all these are but looser outside garments which we have worn until they seem a part of us, and we do not like the thought of changing them for a new suit which we have never yet tried on. how well i remember that dear ancient lady, who lived well into the last decade of her century, as she repeated the verse which, if i had but one to choose, i would select from that string of pearls, gray's 'elegy'! "'for who to dumb forgetfulness a prey this pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?' "plotinus was ashamed of his body, we are told. better so, it may be, than to live solely for it, as so many do. but it may be well doubted if there is any disciple of plotinus in this society. on the contrary, there are many who think a great deal of their bodies, many who have come here to regain the health they have lost in the wear and tear of city life, and very few who have not at some time or other of their lives had occasion to call in the services of a physician. "there is, therefore, no impropriety in my offering to the members some remarks upon the peculiar difficulties which beset the medical practitioner in the discharge of his laborious and important duties. "a young friend of mine, who has taken an interest in medical studies, happened to meet with a very familiar story about one of the greatest and most celebrated of all english physicians, thomas sydenham. the story is that, when a student asked him what books he should read, the great doctor told him to read 'don quixote.' "this piece of advice has been used to throw contempt upon the study of books, and furnishes a convenient shield for ignorant pretenders. but sydenham left many writings in which he has recorded his medical experience, and he surely would not have published them if he had not thought they would be better reading for the medical student than the story of cervantes. his own works are esteemed to this day, and he certainly could not have supposed that they contained all the wisdom of all the past. no remedy is good, it was said of old, unless applied at the right time in the right way. so we may say of all anecdotes, like this which i have told you about sydenham and the young man. it is very likely that he carried him to the bedside of some patients, and talked to him about the cases he showed him, instead of putting a latin volume in his hand. i would as soon begin in that way as any other, with a student who had already mastered the preliminary branches,--who knew enough about the structure and functions of the body in health. "but if you ask me what reading i would commend to the medical student of a philosophical habit of mind, you may be surprised to hear me say it would be certain passages in 'rasselas.' they are the ones where the astronomer gives an account to imlac of his management of the elements, the control of which, as he had persuaded himself, had been committed to him. let me read you a few sentences from this story, which is commonly bound up with the 'vicar of wakefield,' like a woollen lining to a silken mantle, but is full of stately wisdom in processions of paragraphs which sound as if they ought to have a grammatical drum-major to march before their tramping platoons. "the astronomer has taken imlac into his confidence, and reveals to him the secret of his wonderful powers:-- "'hear, imlac, what thou wilt not without difficulty credit. i have possessed for five years the regulation of the weather and the distribution of the seasons the sun has listened to my dictates, and passed from tropic to tropic by my direction; the clouds, at my call, have poured their waters, and the nile has overflowed at my command; i have restrained the rage of the dog-star, and mitigated the fervors of the crab. the winds alone, of all the elemental powers, have hitherto eluded my authority, and multitudes have perished by equinoctial tempests, which i found myself unable to prohibit or restrain.' "the reader naturally wishes to know how the astronomer, a sincere, devoted, and most benevolent man, for forty years a student of the heavens, came to the strange belief that he possessed these miraculous powers. this is his account: "'one day, as i was looking on the fields withering with heat, i felt in my mind a sudden wish that i could send rain on the southern mountains, and raise the nile to an inundation. in the hurry of my imagination i commanded rain to fall, and by comparing the time of my command with that of the inundation i found that the clouds had listened to my lips.' "'might not some other cause,' said i, 'produce this concurrence? the nile does not always rise on the same day.' "'do not believe,' said he, with impatience, i that such objections could escape me: i reasoned long against my own conviction, and labored against truth with the utmost obstinacy. i sometimes suspected myself of madness, and should not have dared to impart this secret but to a man like you, capable of distinguishing the wonderful from the impossible and the incredible from the false.' "the good old astronomer gives his parting directions to imlac, whom he has adopted as his successor in the government of the elements and the seasons, in these impressive words: "do not, in the administration of the year, indulge thy pride by innovation; do not please thyself with thinking that thou canst make thyself renowned to all future ages by disordering the seasons. the memory of mischief is no desirable fame. much less will it become thee to let kindness or interest prevail. never rob other countries of rain to pour it on thine own. for us the nile is sufficient.' "do you wonder, my friends, why i have chosen these passages, in which the delusions of an insane astronomer are related with all the pomp of the johnsonian vocabulary, as the first lesson for the young person about to enter on the study of the science and art of healing? listen to me while i show you the parallel of the story of the astronomer in the history of medicine. "this history is luminous with intelligence, radiant with benevolence, but all its wisdom and all its virtue have had to struggle with the ever-rising mists of delusion. the agencies which waste and destroy the race of mankind are vast and resistless as the elemental forces of nature; nay, they are themselves elemental forces. they may be to some extent avoided, to some extent diverted from their aim, to some extent resisted. so may the changes of the seasons, from cold that freezes to heats that strike with sudden death, be guarded against. so may the tides be in some small measure restrained in their inroads. so may the storms be breasted by walls they cannot shake from their foundations. but the seasons and the tides and the tempests work their will on the great scale upon whatever stands in their way; they feed or starve the tillers of the soil; they spare or drown the dwellers by the shore; they waft the seaman to his harbor or bury him in the angry billows. "the art of the physician can do much to remove its subjects from deadly and dangerous influences, and something to control or arrest the effects of these influences. but look at the records of the life-insurance offices, and see how uniform is the action of nature's destroying agencies. look at the annual reports of the deaths in any of our great cities, and see how their regularity approaches the uniformity of the tides, and their variations keep pace with those of the seasons. the inundations of the nile are not more certainly to be predicted than the vast wave of infantile disease which flows in upon all our great cities with the growing heats of july,--than the fevers and dysenteries which visit our rural districts in the months of the falling leaf. "the physician watches these changes as the astronomer watched the rise of the great river. he longs to rescue individuals, to protect communities from the inroads of these destroying agencies. he uses all the means which experience has approved, tries every rational method which ingenuity can suggest. some fortunate recovery leads him to believe he has hit upon a preventive or a cure for a malady which had resisted all known remedies. his rescued patient sounds his praises, and a wide circle of his patient's friends joins in a chorus of eulogies. self-love applauds him for his sagacity. self-interest congratulates him on his having found the road to fortune; the sense of having proved a benefactor of his race smooths the pillow on which he lays his head to dream of the brilliant future opening before him. if a single coincidence may lead a person of sanguine disposition to believe that he has mastered a disease which had baffled all who were before his time, and on which his contemporaries looked in hopeless impotence, what must be the effect of a series of such coincidences even on a mind of calmer temper! such series of coincidences will happen, and they may well deceive the very elect. think of dr. rush,--you know what a famous man he was, the very head and front of american medical science in his day, --and remember how he spoke about yellow fever, which he thought he had mastered! "thus the physician is entangled in the meshes of a wide conspiracy, in which he and his patient and their friends, and-nature herself, are involved. what wonder that the history of medicine should be to so great an extent a record of self-delusion! "if this seems a dangerous concession to the enemies of the true science and art of healing, i will remind you that it is all implied in the first aphorism of hippocrates, the father of medicine. do not draw a wrong inference from the frank statement of the difficulties which beset the medical practitioner. think rather, if truth is so hard of attainment, how precious are the results which the consent of the wisest and most experienced among the healers of men agrees in accepting. think what folly it is to cast them aside in favor of palpable impositions stolen from the records of forgotten charlatanism, or of fantastic speculations spun from the squinting brains of theorists as wild as the egyptian astronomer. "begin your medical studies, then, by reading the fortieth and the following four chapters of 'rasselas.' your first lesson will teach you modesty and caution in the pursuit of the most deceptive of all practical branches of knowledge. faith will come later, when you learn how much medical science and art have actually achieved for the relief of mankind, and how great are the promises it holds out of still larger triumphs over the enemies of human health and happiness." after the reading of this paper there was a lively discussion, which we have no room to report here, and the society adjourned. xiv miss vincent's startling discovery. the sober-minded, sensible, well-instructed dr. butts was not a little exercised in mind by the demands made upon his knowledge by his young friend, and for the time being his pupil, miss lurida vincent. "i don't wonder they called her the terror," he said to himself. "she is enough to frighten anybody. she has taken down old books from my shelves that i had almost forgotten the backs of, and as to the medical journals, i believe the girl could index them from memory. she is in pursuit of some special point of knowledge, i feel sure, and i cannot doubt what direction she is working in, but her wonderful way of dealing with books amazes me." what marvels those "first scholars" in the classes of our great universities and colleges are, to be sure! they are not, as a rule, the most distinguished of their class in the long struggle of life. the chances are that "the field" will beat "the favorite" over the long race-course. others will develop a longer stride and more staying power. but what fine gifts those "first scholars" have received from nature! how dull we writers, famous or obscure, are in the acquisition of knowledge as compared with them! to lead their classmates they must have quick apprehension, fine memories, thorough control of their mental faculties, strong will, power of concentration, facility of expression,--a wonderful equipment of mental faculties. i always want to take my hat off to the first scholar of his year. dr. butts felt somewhat in the same way as he contemplated the terror. she surprised him so often with her knowledge that he was ready to receive her without astonishment when she burst in upon him one allay with a cry of triumph, "eureka! eureka!" "and what have you found, my dear?" said the doctor. lurida was flushed and panting with the excitement of her new discovery. "i do believe that i have found the secret of our strange visitor's dread of all human intercourse!" the seasoned practitioner was not easily thrown off his balance. "wait a minute and get your breath," said the doctor. "are you not a little overstating his peculiarity? it is not quite so bad as that. he keeps a man to serve him, he was civil with the people at the old tavern, he was affable enough, i understand, with the young fellow he pulled out of the water, or rescued somehow,--i don't believe be avoids the whole human race. he does not look as if he hated them, so far as i have remarked his expression. i passed a few words with him when his man was ailing, and found him polite enough. no, i don't believe it is much more than an extreme case of shyness, connected, perhaps, with some congenital or other personal repugnance to which has been given the name of an antipathy." lurida could hardly keep still while the doctor was speaking. when he finished, she began the account of her discovery: "i do certainly believe i have found an account of his case in an italian medical journal of about fourteen years ago. i met with a reference which led me to look over a file of the giornale degli ospitali lying among the old pamphlets in the medical section of the library. i have made a translation of it, which you must read and then tell me if you do not agree with me in my conclusion." "tell me what your conclusion is, and i will read your paper and see for myself whether i think the evidence justifies the conviction you seem to have reached." lurida's large eyes showed their whole rounds like the two halves of a map of the world, as she said, "i believe that maurice kirkwood is suffering from the effects of the bite of a tarantula!" the doctor drew a long breath. he remembered in a vague sort of way the stories which used to be told of the terrible apulian spider, but he had consigned them to the limbo of medical fable where so many fictions have clothed themselves with a local habitation and a name. he looked into the round eyes and wide pupils a little anxiously, as if he feared that she was in a state of undue excitement, but, true to his professional training, he waited for another symptom, if indeed her mind was in any measure off its balance. "i know what you are thinking," lurida said, "but it is not so. 'i am not mad, most noble festus.' you shall see the evidence and judge for yourself. read the whole case,--you can read my hand almost as if it were print, and tell me if you do not agree with me that this young man is in all probability the same person as the boy described in the italian journal, "one thing you might say is against the supposition. the young patient is spoken of as signorino m . . . ch. . . . but you must remember that ch is pronounced hard in italian, like k, which letter is wanting in the italian alphabet; and it is natural enough that the initial of the second name should have got changed in the record to its italian equivalent." before inviting the reader to follow the details of this extraordinary case as found in a medical journal, the narrator wishes to be indulged in a few words of explanation, in order that he may not have to apologize for allowing the introduction of a subject which may be thought to belong to the professional student rather than to the readers of this record. there is a great deal in medical books which it is very unbecoming to bring before the general public,--a great deal to repel, to disgust, to alarm, to excite unwholesome curiosity. it is not the men whose duties have made them familiar with this class of subjects who are most likely to offend by scenes and descriptions which belong to the physician's private library, and not to the shelves devoted to polite literature. goldsmith and even smollett, both having studied and practised medicine, could not by any possibility have outraged all the natural feelings of delicacy and decency as swift and zola have outraged them. but without handling doubtful subjects, there are many curious medical experiences which have interest for every one as extreme illustrations of ordinary conditions with which all are acquainted. no one can study the now familiar history of clairvoyance profitably who has not learned something of the vagaries of hysteria. no one can read understandingly the life of cowper and that of carlyle without having some idea of the influence of hypochondriasis and of dyspepsia upon the disposition and intellect of the subjects of these maladies. i need not apologize, therefore, for giving publicity to that part of this narrative which deals with one of the most singular maladies to be found in the records of bodily and mental infirmities. the following is the account of the case as translated by miss vincent. for obvious reasons the whole name was not given in the original paper, and for similar reasons the date of the event and the birthplace of the patient are not precisely indicated here. [giornale degli ospitali, luglio , -.] remarkable case of tarantism. "the great interest attaching to the very singular and exceptional instance of this rare affection induces us to give a full account of the extraordinary example of its occurrence in a patient who was the subject of a recent medical consultation in this city. "signorino m . . . ch . . . is the only son of a gentleman travelling in italy at this time. he is eleven years of age, of sanguine-nervous temperament, light hair, blue eyes, intelligent countenance, well grown, but rather slight in form, to all appearance in good health, but subject to certain peculiar and anomalous nervous symptoms, of which his father gives this history. "nine years ago, the father informs us, he was travelling in italy with his wife, this child, and a nurse. they were passing a few days in a country village near the city of bari, capital of the province of the same name in the division (compartamento) of apulia. the child was in perfect health and had never been affected by any serious illness. on the th of july he was playing out in the field near the house where the family was staying when he was heard to scream suddenly and violently. the nurse rushing to him found him in great pain, saying that something had bitten him in one of his feet. a laborer, one tommaso, ran up at the moment and perceived in the grass, near where the boy was standing, an enormous spider, which he at once recognized as a tarantula. he managed to catch the creature in a large leaf, from which he was afterwards transferred to a wide-mouthed bottle, where he lived without any food for a month or more. the creature was covered with short hairs, and had a pair of nipper-like jaws, with which he could inflict an ugly wound. his body measured about an inch in length, and from the extremity of one of the longest limbs to the other was between two and three inches. such was the account given by the physician to whom the peasant carried the great spider. "the boy who had been bitten continued screaming violently while his stocking was being removed and the foot examined. the place of the bite was easily found and the two marks of the claw-like jaws already showed the effects of the poison, a small livid circle extending around them, with some puffy swelling. the distinguished dr. amadei was immediately sent for, and applied cups over the wounds in the hope of drawing forth the poison. in vain all his skill and efforts! soon, ataxic (irregular) nervous symptoms declared themselves, and it became plain that the system had been infected by the poison. "the symptoms were very much like those of malignant fever, such as distress about the region of the heart, difficulty of breathing, collapse of all the vital powers, threatening immediate death. from these first symptoms the child rallied, but his entire organism had been profoundly affected by the venom circulating through it. his constitution has never thrown off the malady resulting from this toxic (poisonous) agent. the phenomena which have been observed in this young patient correspond so nearly with those enumerated in the elaborate essay of the celebrated baglivi that one might think they had been transcribed from his pages. "he is very fond of solitude,--of wandering about in churchyards and other lonely places. he was once found hiding in an empty tomb, which had been left open. his aversion to certain colors is remarkable. generally speaking, he prefers bright tints to darker ones, but his likes and dislikes are capricious, and with regard to some colors his antipathy amounts to positive horror. some shades have such an effect upon him that he cannot remain in the room with them, and if he meets any one whose dress has any of that particular color he will turn away or retreat so as to avoid passing that person. among these, purple and dark green are the least endurable. he cannot explain the sensations which these obnoxious colors produce except by saying that it is like the deadly feeling from a blow on the epigastrium (pit of the stomach). "about the same season of the year at which the tarantular poisoning took place he is liable to certain nervous seizures, not exactly like fainting or epilepsy, but reminding the physician of those affections. all the other symptoms are aggravated at this time. "in other respects than those mentioned the boy is in good health. he is fond of riding, and has a pony on which he takes a great deal of exercise, which seems to do him more good than any other remedy. "the influence of music, to which so much has been attributed by popular belief and even by the distinguished professor to whom we shall again refer, has not as yet furnished any satisfactory results. if the graver symptoms recur while the patient is under our observation, we propose to make use of an agency discredited by modern skepticism, but deserving of a fair trial as an exceptional remedy for an exceptional disease. "the following extracts from the work of the celebrated italian physician of the last century are given by the writer of the paper in the giornale in the original latin, with a translation into italian, subjoined. here are the extracts, or rather here is a selection from them, with a translation of them into english. "after mentioning the singular aversion to certain colors shown by the subject of tarantism, baglivi writes as follows: "'et si astantes incedant vestibus eo colore difusis, qui tarantatis ingrates est, necesse est ut ab illorum aspectu recedant; nam ad intuitum molesti coloris angore cordis, et symptomatum recrudescantia stating corripiuntur.' (g. baglivi, op. omnia, page . lugduni, .) "that is, 'if the persons about the patient wear dresses of the color which is offensive to him, he must get away from the sight of them, for on seeing the obnoxious color he is at once seized with distress in the region of the heart, and a renewal of his symptoms.' "as to the recurrence of the malady, baglivi says: "'dam calor solis ardentius exurere incip at, quod contingit circa initia julii et augusti, tarantati lente venientem recrudescentiam veneni percipiunt.' (ibid., page .) "which i render, 'when the heat of the sun begins to burn more fiercely, which happens about the beginning of july and august, the subjects of tarantism perceive the gradually approaching recrudescence (returning symptoms) of the poisoning. among the remedies most valued by this illustrious physician is that mentioned in the following sentence: "'laudo magnopere equitationes in aere rusticano factas singulis diebus, hord potissimum matutina, quibus equitationibus morbos chronicos pene incurabiles protanus eliminavi.' "or in translation, 'i commend especially riding on horseback in country air, every day, by preference in the morning hours, by the aid of which horseback riding i have driven off chronic diseases which were almost incurable.'" miss vincent read this paper aloud to dr. butts, and handed it to him to examine and consider. he listened with a grave countenance and devout attention. as she finished reading her account, she exclaimed in the passionate tones of the deepest conviction, "there, doctor! have n't i found the true story of this strange visitor? have n't i solved the riddle of the sphinx? who can this man be but the boy of that story? look at the date of the journal when he was eleven years old, it would make him twenty-five now, and that is just about the age the people here think he must be of. what could account so entirely for his ways and actions as that strange poisoning which produces the state they call tarantism? i am just as sure it must be that as i am that i am alive. oh, doctor, doctor, i must be right,--this signprino m . . . ch . . . was the boy maurice kirkwood, and the story accounts for everything,--his solitary habits, his dread of people,--it must be because they wear the colors he can't bear. his morning rides on horseback, his coming here just as the season was approaching which would aggravate all his symptoms, does n't all this prove that i must be right in my conjecture,--no, my conviction?" the doctor knew too much to interrupt the young enthusiast, and so he let her run on until she ran down. he was more used to the rules of evidence than she was, and could not accept her positive conclusion so readily as she would have liked to have him. he knew that beginners are very apt to make what they think are discoveries. but he had been an angler and knew the meaning of a yielding rod and an easy-running reel. he said quietly, "you are a most sagacious young lady, and a very pretty prima facie case it is that you make out. i can see no proof that mr. kirkwood is not the same person as the m . . . ch . . . of the medical journal,--that is, if i accept your explanation of the difference in the initials of these two names. even if there were a difference, that would not disprove their identity, for the initials of patients whose cases are reported by their physicians are often altered for the purpose of concealment. i do not know, however, that mr. kirkwood has shown any special aversion to any particular color. it might be interesting to inquire whether it is so, but it is a delicate matter. i don't exactly see whose business it is to investigate mr. maurice kirkwood's idiosyncrasies and constitutional history. if he should have occasion to send for me at any time, he might tell me all about himself, in confidence, you know. these old accounts from baglivi are curious and interesting, but i am cautious about receiving any stories a hundred years old, if they involve an improbability, as his stories about the cure of the tarantula bite by music certainly do. i am disposed to wait for future developments, bearing in mind, of course, the very singular case you have unearthed. it wouldn't be very strange if our young gentleman had to send for me before the season is over. he is out a good deal before the dew is off the grass, which is rather risky in this neighborhood as autumn comes on. i am somewhat curious, i confess, about the young man, but i do not meddle where i am not asked for or wanted, and i have found that eggs hatch just as well if you let them alone in the nest as if you take them out and shake them every day. this is a wonderfully interesting supposition of yours, and may prove to be strictly in accordance with the facts. but i do not think we have all the facts in this young man's case. if it were proved that he had an aversion to any color, it would greatly strengthen your case. his 'antipatia,' as his man called it, must be one which covers a wide ground, to account for his self-isolation,--and the color hypothesis seems as plausible as any. but, my dear miss vincent, i think you had better leave your singular and striking hypothesis in my keeping for a while, rather than let it get abroad in a community like this, where so many tongues are in active exercise. i will carefully study this paper, if you will leave it with me, and we will talk the whole matter over. it is a fair subject for speculation, only we must keep quiet about it." this long speech gave lurida's perfervid brain time to cool off a little. she left the paper with the doctor, telling him she would come for it the next day, and went off to tell the result of this visit to her bosom friend, miss euthymia tower. xv dr. butts calls on euthymia. the doctor was troubled in thinking over his interview with the young lady. she was fully possessed with the idea that she had discovered the secret which had defied the most sagacious heads of the village. it was of no use to oppose her while her mind was in an excited state. but he felt it his duty to guard her against any possible results of indiscretion into which her eagerness and her theory of the equality, almost the identity, of the sexes might betray her. too much of the woman in a daughter of our race leads her to forget danger. too little of the woman prompts her to defy it. fortunately for this last class of women, they are not quite so likely to be perilously seductive as their more emphatically feminine sisters. dr. butts had known lurida and her friend from the days of their infancy. he had watched the development of lurida's intelligence from its precocious nursery-life to the full vigor of its trained faculties. he had looked with admiration on the childish beauty of euthymia, and had seen her grow up to womanhood, every year making her more attractive. he knew that if anything was to be done with his self-willed young scholar and friend, it would be more easily effected through the medium of euthymia than by direct advice to the young lady herself. so the thoughtful doctor made up his mind to have a good talk with euthymia, and put her on her guard, if lurida showed any tendency to forget the conventionalities in her eager pursuit of knowledge. for the doctor's horse and chaise to stop at the door of miss euthymia tower's parental home was an event strange enough to set all the tongues in the village going. this was one of those families where illness was hardly looked for among the possibilities of life. there were other families where a call from the doctor was hardly more thought of than a call from the baker. but here he was a stranger, at least on his professional rounds, and when he asked for miss euthymia the servant, who knew his face well, stared as if he had held in his hand a warrant for her apprehension. euthymia did not keep the doctor waiting very long while she made ready to meet him. one look at her glass to make sure that a lock had not run astray, or a ribbon got out of place, and her toilet for a morning call was finished. perhaps if mr. maurice kirkwood had been announced, she might have taken a second look, but with the good middle-aged, married doctor one was enough for a young lady who had the gift of making all the dresses she wore look well, and had no occasion to treat her chamber like the laboratory where an actress compounds herself. euthymia welcomed the doctor very heartily. she could not help suspecting his errand, and she was very glad to have a chance to talk over her friend's schemes and fancies with him. the doctor began without any roundabout prelude. "i want to confer with you about our friend lurida. does she tell you all her plans and projects?" "why, as to that, doctor, i can hardly say, positively, but i do not believe she keeps back anything of importance from me. i know what she has been busy with lately, and the queer idea she has got into her head. what do you think of the tarantula business? she has shown you the paper, she has written, i suppose." "indeed she has. it is a very curious case she has got hold of, and i do not wonder at all that she should have felt convinced that she had come at the true solution of the village riddle. it may be that this young man is the same person as the boy mentioned in the italian medical journal. but it is very far from clear that he is so. you know all her reasons, of course, as you have read the story. the times seem to agree well enough. it is easy to conceive that ch might be substituted for k in the report. the singular solitary habits of this young man entirely coincide with the story. if we could only find out whether he has any of those feelings with reference to certain colors, we might guess with more chance of guessing right than we have at present. but i don't see exactly how we are going to submit him to examination on this point. if he were only a chemical compound, we could analyze him. if he were only a bird or a quadruped, we could find out his likes and dislikes. but being, as he is, a young man, with ways of his own, and a will of his own, which he may not choose to have interfered with, the problem becomes more complicated. i hear that a newspaper correspondent has visited him so as to make a report to his paper,--do you know what he found out?" "certainly i do, very well. my brother has heard his own story, which was this: he found out he had got hold of the wrong person to interview. the young gentleman, he says, interviewed him, so that he did not learn much about the sphinx. but the newspaper man told willy about the sphinx's library and a cabinet of coins he had; and said he should make an article out of him, anyhow. i wish the man would take himself off. i am afraid lurida's love of knowledge will get her into trouble!" "which of the men do you wish would take himself off?" "i was thinking of the newspaper man." she blushed a little as she said, "i can't help feeling a strange sort of interest about the other, mr. kirkwood. do you know that i met him this morning, and had a good look at him, full in the face?" "well, to be sure! that was an interesting experience. and how did you like his looks?" "i thought his face a very remarkable one. but he looked very pale as he passed me, and i noticed that he put his hand to his left side as if he had a twinge of pain, or something of that sort,--spasm or neuralgia,--i don't know what. i wondered whether he had what you call angina pectoris. it was the same kind of look and movement, i remember, as you trust, too, in my uncle who died with that complaint." the doctor was silent for a moment. then he asked, "were you dressed as you are now?" "yes, i was, except that i had a thin mantle over my shoulders. i was out early, and i have always remembered your caution." "what color was your mantle?" "it was black. i have been over all this with lucinda. a black mantle on a white dress. a straw hat with an old faded ribbon. there can't be much in those colors to trouble him, i should think, for his man wears a black coat and white linen,--more or less white, as you must have noticed, and he must have seen ribbons of all colors often enough. but lurida believes it was the ribbon, or something in the combination of colors. her head is full of tarantulas and tarantism. i fear that she will never be easy until the question is settled by actual trial. and will you believe it? the girl is determined in some way to test her supposition!" "believe it, euthymia? i can believe almost anything of lurida. she is the most irrepressible creature i ever knew. you know as well as i do what a complete possession any ruling idea takes of her whole nature. i have had some fears lest her zeal might run away with her discretion. it is a great deal easier to get into a false position than to get out of it." "i know it well enough. i want you to tell me what you think about the whole business. i don't like the look of it at all, and yet i can do nothing with the girl except let her follow her fancy, until i can show her plainly that she will get herself into trouble in some way or other. but she is ingenious,--full of all sorts of devices, innocent enough in themselves, but liable to be misconstrued. you remember how she won us the boat-race?" "to be sure i do. it was rather sharp practice, but she felt she was paying off an old score. the classical story of atalanta, told, like that of eve, as illustrating the weakness of woman, provoked her to make trial of the powers of resistance in the other sex. but it was audacious. i hope her audacity will not go too far. you must watch her. keep an eye on her correspondence." the doctor had great confidence in the good sense of lurida's friend. he felt sure that she would not let lurida commit herself by writing foolish letters to the subject of her speculations, or similar indiscreet performances. the boldness of young girls, who think no evil, in opening correspondence with idealized personages is something quite astonishing to those who have had an opportunity of knowing the facts. lurida had passed the most dangerous age, but her theory of the equality of the sexes made her indifferent to the by-laws of social usage. she required watching, and her two guardians were ready to check her, in case of need. xvi miss vincent writes a letter. euthymia noticed that her friend had been very much preoccupied for two or three days. she found her more than once busy at her desk, with a manuscript before her, which she turned over and placed inside the desk, as euthymia entered. this desire of concealment was not what either of the friends expected to see in the other. it showed that some project was under way, which, at least in its present stage, the machiavellian young lady did not wish to disclose. it had cost her a good deal of thought and care, apparently, for her waste-basket was full of scraps of paper, which looked as if they were the remains of a manuscript like that at which she was at work. "copying and recopying, probably," thought euthymia, but she was willing to wait to learn what lurida was busy about, though she had a suspicion that it was something in which she might feel called upon to interest herself. "do you know what i think?" said euthymia to the doctor, meeting him as he left his door. "i believe lurida is writing to this man, and i don't like the thought of her doing such a thing. of course she is not like other girls in many respects, but other people will judge her by the common rules of life." "i am glad that you spoke of it," answered the doctor; "she would write to him just as quickly as to any woman of his age. besides, under the cover of her office, she has got into the way of writing to anybody. i think she has already written to mr. kirkwood, asking him to contribute a paper for the society. she can find a pretext easily enough if she has made up her mind to write. in fact, i doubt if she would trouble herself for any pretext at all if she decided to write. watch her well. don't let any letter go without seeing it, if you can help it." young women are much given to writing letters to persons whom they only know indirectly, for the most part through their books, and especially to romancers and poets. nothing can be more innocent and simple-hearted than most of these letters. they are the spontaneous outflow of young hearts easily excited to gratitude for the pleasure which some story or poem has given them, and recognizing their own thoughts, their own feelings, in those expressed by the author, as if on purpose for them to read. undoubtedly they give great relief to solitary young persons, who must have some ideal reflection of themselves, and know not where to look since protestantism has taken away the crucifix and the madonna. the recipient of these letters sometimes wonders, after reading through one of them, how it is that his young correspondent has managed to fill so much space with her simple message of admiration or of sympathy. lurida did not belong to this particular class of correspondents, but she could not resist the law of her sex, whose thoughts naturally surround themselves with superabundant drapery of language, as their persons float in a wide superfluity of woven tissues. was she indeed writing to this unknown gentleman? euthymia questioned her point-blank. "are you going to open a correspondence with mr. maurice kirkwood, lurida? you seem to be so busy writing, i can think of nothing else. or are you going to write a novel, or a paper for the society,--do tell me what you are so much taken up with." "i will tell you, euthymia, if you will promise not to find fault with me for carrying out my plan as i have made up my mind to do. you may read this letter before i seal it, and if you find anything in it you don't like you can suggest any change that you think will improve it. i hope you will see that it explains itself. i don't believe that you will find anything to frighten you in it." this is the letter, as submitted to miss tower by her friend. the bold handwriting made it look like a man's letter, and gave it consequently a less dangerous expression than that which belongs to the tinted and often fragrant sheet with its delicate thready characters, which slant across the page like an april shower with a south wind chasing it. arrowhead village, august--, --. my dear sir,--you will doubtless be surprised at the sight of a letter like this from one whom you only know as the secretary of the pansophian society. there is a very common feeling that it is unbecoming in one of my sex to address one of your own with whom she is unacquainted, unless she has some special claim upon his attention. i am by no means disposed to concede to the vulgar prejudice on this point. if one human being has anything to communicate to another,--anything which deserves being communicated,--i see no occasion for bringing in the question of sex. i do not think the homo sum of terence can be claimed for the male sex as its private property on general any more than on grammatical grounds, i have sometimes thought of devoting myself to the noble art of healing. if i did so, it would be with the fixed purpose of giving my whole powers to the service of humanity. and if i should carry out that idea, should i refuse my care and skill to a suffering fellow-mortal because that mortal happened to be a brother, and not a sister? my whole nature protests against such one-sided humanity! no! i am blind to all distinctions when my eyes are opened to any form of suffering, to any spectacle of want. you may ask me why i address you, whom i know little or nothing of, and to whom such an advance may seem presumptuous and intrusive. it is because i was deeply impressed by the paper which i attributed to you,--that on ocean, river, and lake, which was read at one of our meetings. i say that i was deeply impressed, but i do not mean this as a compliment to that paper. i am not bandying compliments now, but thinking of better things than praises or phrases. i was interested in the paper, partly because i recognized some of the feelings expressed in it as my own,--partly because there was an undertone of sadness in all the voices of nature as you echoed them which made me sad to hear, and which i could not help longing to cheer and enliven. i said to myself, i should like to hold communion with the writer of that paper. i have had my lonely hours and days, as he has had. i have had some of his experiences in my intercourse with nature. and oh! if i could draw him into those better human relations which await us all, if we come with the right dispositions, i should blush if i stopped to inquire whether i violated any conventional rule or not. you will understand me, i feel sure. you believe, do you not? in the insignificance of the barrier which divides the sisterhood from the brotherhood of mankind. you believe, do you not? that they should be educated side by side, that they should share the same pursuits, due regard being had to the fitness of the particular individual for hard or light work, as it must always be, whether we are dealing with the "stronger" or the "weaker" sex. i mark these words because, notwithstanding their common use, they involve so much that is not true. stronger! yes, to lift a barrel of flour, or a barrel of cider,--though there have been women who could do that, and though when john wesley was mobbed in staffordshire a woman knocked down three or four men, one after another, until she was at last overpowered and nearly murdered. talk about the weaker sex! go and see miss euthymia tower at the gymnasium! but no matter about which sex has the strongest muscles. which has most to suffer, and which has most endurance and vitality? we go through many ordeals which you are spared, but we outlast you in mind and body. i have been led away into one of my accustomed trains of thought, but not so far away from it as you might at first suppose. my brother! are you not ready to recognize in me a friend, an equal, a sister, who can speak to you as if she had been reared under the same roof? and is not the sky that covers us one roof, which makes us all one family? you are lonely, you must be longing for some human fellowship. take me into your confidence. what is there that you can tell me to which i cannot respond with sympathy? what saddest note in your spiritual dirges which will not find its chord in mine? i long to know what influence has cast its shadow over your existence. i myself have known what it is to carry a brain that never rests in a body that is always tired. i have defied its infirmities, and forced it to do my bidding. you have no such hindrance, if we may judge by your aspect and habits. you deal with horses like a homeric hero. no wild indian could handle his bark canoe more dexterously or more vigorously than we have seen you handling yours. there must be some reason for your seclusion which curiosity has not reached, and into which it is not the province of curiosity to inquire. but in the irresistible desire which i have to bring you into kindly relations with those around you, i must run the risk of giving offence that i may know in what direction to look for those restorative influences which the sympathy of a friend and sister can offer to a brother in need of some kindly impulse to change the course of a life which is not, which cannot be, in accordance with his true nature. i have thought that there may be something in the conditions with which you are here surrounded which is repugnant to your feelings,--something which can be avoided only by keeping yourself apart from the people whose acquaintance you would naturally have formed. there can hardly be anything in the place itself, or you would not have voluntarily sought it as a residence, even for a single season there might be individuals here whom you would not care to meet, there must be such, but you cannot have a personal aversion to everybody. i have heard of cases in which certain sights and sounds, which have no particular significance for most persons, produced feelings of distress or aversion that made, them unbearable to the subjects of the constitutional dislike. it has occurred to me that possibly you might have some such natural aversion to the sounds of the street, or such as are heard in most houses, especially where a piano is kept, as it is in fact in almost all of those in the village. or it might be, i imagined, that some color in the dresses of women or the furniture of our rooms affected you unpleasantly. i know that instances of such antipathy have been recorded, and they would account for the seclusion of those who are subject to it. if there is any removable condition which interferes with your free entrance into and enjoyment of the social life around you, tell me, i beg of you, tell me what it is, and it shall be eliminated. think it not strange, o my brother, that i thus venture to introduce myself into the hidden chambers of your life. i will never suffer myself to be frightened from the carrying out of any thought which promises to be of use to a fellow-mortal by a fear lest it should be considered "unfeminine." i can bear to be considered unfeminine, but i cannot endure to think of myself as inhuman. can i help you, my brother'? believe me your most sincere well-wisher, lurida vincent. euthymia had carried off this letter and read it by herself. as she finished it, her feelings found expression in an old phrase of her grandmother's, which came up of itself, as such survivals of early days are apt to do, on great occasions. "well, i never!" then she loosened some button or string that was too tight, and went to the window for a breath of outdoor air. then she began at the beginning and read the whole letter all over again. what should she do about it? she could not let this young girl send a letter like that to a stranger of whose character little was known except by inference,--to a young man, who would consider it a most extraordinary advance on the part of the sender. she would have liked to tear it into a thousand pieces, but she had no right to treat it in that way. lurida meant to send it the next morning, and in the mean time euthymia had the night to think over what she should do about it. there is nothing like the pillow for an oracle. there is no voice like that which breaks the silence--of the stagnant hours of the night with its sudden suggestions and luminous counsels. when euthymia awoke in the morning, her course of action was as clear before her as if it bad been dictated by her guardian angel. she went straight over to the home of lurida, who was just dressed for breakfast. she was naturally a little surprised at this early visit. she was struck with the excited look of euthymia, being herself quite calm, and contemplating her project with entire complacency. euthymia began, in tones that expressed deep anxiety. "i have read your letter, my dear, and admired its spirit and force. it is a fine letter, and does you great credit as an expression of the truest human feeling. but it must not be sent to mr. kirkwood. if you were sixty years old, perhaps if you were fifty, it might be admissible to send it. but if you were forty, i should question its propriety; if you were thirty, i should veto it, and you are but a little more than twenty. how do you know that this stranger will not show your letter to anybody or everybody? how do you know that he will not send it to one of the gossiping journals like the 'household inquisitor'? but supposing he keeps it to himself, which is more than you have a right to expect, what opinion is he likely to form of a young lady who invades his privacy with such freedom? ten to one he will think curiosity is at the bottom of it,--and,--come, don't be angry at me for suggesting it,--may there not be a little of that same motive mingled with the others? no, don't interrupt me quite yet; you do want to know whether your hypothesis is correct. you are full of the best and kindest feelings in the world, but your desire for knowledge is the ferment under them just now, perhaps more than you know." lurida's pale cheeks flushed and whitened more than once while her friend was speaking. she loved her too sincerely and respected her intelligence too much to take offence at her advice, but she could not give up her humane and sisterly intentions merely from the fear of some awkward consequences to herself. she had persuaded herself that she was playing the part of a protestant sister of charity, and that the fact of her not wearing the costume of these ministering angels made no difference in her relations to those who needed her aid. "i cannot see your objections in the light in which they appear to you," she said gravely. "it seems to me that i give up everything when i hesitate to help a fellow-creature because i am a woman. i am not afraid to send this letter and take all the consequences." "will you go with me to the doctor's, and let him read it in our presence? and will you agree to abide by his opinion, if it coincides with mine?" lurida winced a little at this proposal. "i don't quite like," she said, "showing this letter to--to" she hesitated, but it had to come out--"to a man, that is, to another man than the one for whom it was intended." the neuter gender business had got a pretty damaging side-hit. "well, never mind about letting him read the letter. will you go over to his house with me at noon, when he comes back after his morning visits, and have a talk over the whole matter with him? you know i have sometimes had to say must to you, lurida, and now i say you must go to the doctor's with me and carry that letter." there was no resisting the potent monosyllable as the sweet but firm voice delivered it. at noon the two maidens rang at the doctor's door. the servant said he had been at the house after his morning visits, but found a hasty summons to mr. kirkwood, who had been taken suddenly ill and wished to see him at once. was the illness dangerous? the servant-maid did n't know, but thought it was pretty bad, for mr. paul came in as white as a sheet, and talked all sorts of languages which she couldn't understand, and took on as if he thought mr. kirkwood was going to die right off. and so the hazardous question about sending the letter was disposed of, at least for the present. xvii dr. butts's patient. the physician found maurice just regaining his heat after a chill of a somewhat severe character. he knew too well what this meant, and the probable series of symptoms of which it was the prelude. his patient was not the only one in the neighborhood who was attacked in this way. the autumnal fevers to which our country towns are subject, in the place of those "agues," or intermittents, so largely prevalent in the south and west, were already beginning, and maurice, who had exposed himself in the early and late hours of the dangerous season, must be expected to go through the regular stages of this always serious and not rarely fatal disease. paolo, his faithful servant, would fain have taken the sole charge of his master during his illness. but the doctor insisted that he must have a nurse to help him in his task, which was likely to be long and exhausting. at the mention of the word "nurse" paolo turned white, and exclaimed in an agitated and thoroughly frightened way, "no! no nuss! no woman! she kill him! i stay by him day and night, but don' let no woman come near him,--if you do, he die!" the doctor explained that he intended to send a man who was used to taking care of sick people, and with no little effort at last succeeded in convincing paolo that, as he could not be awake day and night for a fortnight or three weeks, it was absolutely necessary to call in some assistance from without. and so mr. maurice kirkwood was to play the leading part in that drama of nature's composing called a typhoid fever, with its regular bedchamber scenery, its properties of phials and pill-boxes, its little company of stock actors, its gradual evolution of a very simple plot, its familiar incidents, its emotional alternations, and its denouement, sometimes tragic, oftener happy. it is needless to say that the sympathies of all the good people of the village, residents and strangers, were actively awakened for the young man about whom they knew so little and conjectured so much. tokens of their kindness came to him daily: flowers from the woods and from the gardens; choice fruit grown in the open air or under glass, for there were some fine houses surrounded by well-kept grounds, and greenhouses and graperies were not unknown in the small but favored settlement. on all these luxuries maurice looked with dull and languid eyes. a faint smile of gratitude sometimes struggled through the stillness of his features, or a murmured word of thanks found its way through his parched lips, and he would relapse into the partial stupor or the fitful sleep in which, with intervals of slight wandering, the slow hours dragged along the sluggish days one after another. with no violent symptoms, but with steady persistency, the disease moved on in its accustomed course. it was at no time immediately threatening, but the experienced physician knew its uncertainties only too well. he had known fever patients suddenly seized with violent internal inflammation, and carried off with frightful rapidity. he remembered the case of a convalescent, a young woman who had been attacked while in apparently vigorous general health, who, on being lifted too suddenly to a sitting position, while still confined to her bed, fainted, and in a few moments ceased to breathe. it may well be supposed that he took every possible precaution to avert the accidents which tend to throw from its track a disease the regular course of which is arranged by nature as carefully as the route of a railroad from one city to another. the most natural interpretation which the common observer would put upon the manifestations of one of these autumnal maladies would be that some noxious combustible element had found its way into the system which must be burned to ashes before the heat which pervades the whole body can subside. sometimes the fire may smoulder and seem as if it were going out, or were quite extinguished, and again it will find some new material to seize upon, and flame up as fiercely as ever. its coming on most frequently at the season when the brush fires which are consuming the dead branches, and withered leaves, and all the refuse of vegetation are sending up their smoke is suggestive. sometimes it seems as if the body, relieved of its effete materials, renewed its youth after one of these quiet, expurgating, internal fractional cremations. lean, pallid students have found themselves plump and blooming, and it has happened that one whose hair was straight as gnat of an indian has been startled to behold himself in his mirror with a fringe of hyacinthine curls about his rejuvenated countenance. there was nothing of what medical men call malignity in the case of maurice kirkwood. the most alarming symptom was a profound prostration, which at last reached such a point that he lay utterly helpless, as unable to move without aid as the feeblest of paralytics. in this state he lay for many days, not suffering pain, but with the sense of great weariness, and the feeling that he should never rise from his bed again. for the most part his intellect was unclouded when his attention was aroused. he spoke only in whispers, a few words at a time. the doctor felt sure, by the expression which passed over his features from time to time, that something was worrying and oppressing him; something which he wished to communicate, and had not the force, or the tenacity of purpose, to make perfectly clear. his eyes often wandered to a certain desk, and once he had found strength to lift his emaciated arm and point to it. the doctor went towards it as if to fetch it to him, but he slowly shook his head. he had not the power to say at that time what he wished. the next day he felt a little less prostrated; and succeeded in explaining to the doctor what he wanted. his words, so far as the physician could make them out, were these which follow. dr. butts looked upon them as possibly expressing wishes which would be his last, and noted them down carefully immediately after leaving his chamber. "i commit the secret of my life to your charge. my whole story is told in a paper locked in that desk. the key is--put your hand under my pillow. if i die, let the story be known. it will show that i was--human--and save my memory from reproach." he was silent for a little time. a single tear stole down his hollow cheek. the doctor turned his head away, for his own eyes were full. but he said to himself, "it is a good sign; i begin to feel strong hopes that he will recover." maurice spoke once more. "doctor, i put full trust in you. you are wise and kind. do what you will with this paper, but open it at once and read. i want you to know the story of my life before it is finished--if the end is at hand. take it with you and read it before you sleep." he was exhausted and presently his eyes closed, but the doctor saw a tranquil look on his features which added encouragement to his hopes. xviii maurice kirkwood's story of his life. i am an american by birth, but a large part of my life has been passed in foreign lands. my father was a man of education, possessed of an ample fortune; my mother was considered, a very accomplished and amiable woman. i was their first and only child. she died while i was yet an infant. if i remember her at all it is as a vision, more like a glimpse of a pre-natal existence than as a part of my earthly life. at the death of my mother i was left in the charge of the old nurse who had enjoyed her perfect confidence. she was devoted to me, and i became absolutely dependent on her, who had for me all the love and all the care of a mother. i was naturally the object of the attentions and caresses of the family relatives. i have been told that i was a pleasant, smiling infant, with nothing to indicate any peculiar nervous susceptibility; not afraid of strangers, but on the contrary ready to make their acquaintance. my father was devoted to me and did all in his power to promote my health and comfort. i was still a babe, often carried in arms, when the event happened which changed my whole future and destined me to a strange and lonely existence. i cannot relate it even now without a sense of terror. i must force myself to recall the circumstances as told me and vaguely remembered, for i am not willing that my doomed and wholly exceptional life should pass away unrecorded, unexplained, unvindicated. my nature is, i feel sure, a kind and social one, but i have lived apart, as if my heart were filled with hatred of my fellow-creatures. if there are any readers who look without pity, without sympathy, upon those who shun the fellowship of their fellow men and women, who show by their downcast or averted eyes that they dread companionship and long for solitude, i pray them, if this paper ever reaches them, to stop at this point. follow me no further, for you will not believe my story, nor enter into the feelings which i am about to reveal. but if there are any to whom all that is human is of interest, who have felt in their own consciousness some stirrings of invincible attraction to one individual and equally invincible repugnance to another, who know by their own experience that elective affinities have as their necessary counterpart, and, as it were, their polar opposites, currents not less strong of elective repulsions, let them read with unquestioning faith the story of a blighted life i am about to relate, much of it, of course, received from the lips of others. my cousin laura, a girl of seventeen, lately returned from europe, was considered eminently beautiful. it was in my second summer that she visited my father's house, where he was living with his servants and my old nurse, my mother having but recently left him a widower. laura was full of vivacity, impulsive, quick in her movements, thoughtless occasionally, as it is not strange that a young girl of her age should be. it was a beautiful summer day when she saw me for the first time. my nurse had me in her arms, walking back and forward on a balcony with a low railing, upon which opened the windows of the second story of my father's house. while the nurse was thus carrying me, laura came suddenly upon the balcony. she no sooner saw me than with all the delighted eagerness of her youthful nature she rushed toward me, and, catching me from the nurse's arms, began tossing me after the fashion of young girls who have been so lately playing with dolls that they feel as if babies were very much of the same nature. the abrupt seizure frightened me; i sprang from her arms in my terror, and fell over the railing of the balcony. i should probably enough have been killed on the spot but for the fact that a low thorn-bush grew just beneath the balcony, into which i fell and thus had the violence of the shock broken. but the thorns tore my tender flesh, and i bear to this day marks of the deep wounds they inflicted. that dreadful experience is burned deep into my memory. the sudden apparition of the girl; the sense of being torn away from the protecting arms around me; the frantic effort to escape; the shriek that accompanied my fall through what must have seemed unmeasurable space; the cruel lacerations of the piercing and rending thorns,--all these fearful impressions blended in one paralyzing terror. when i was taken up i was thought to be dead. i was perfectly white, and the physician who first saw me said that no pulse was perceptible. but after a time consciousness returned; the wounds, though painful, were none of them dangerous, and the most alarming effects of the accident passed away. my old nurse cared for me tenderly day and night, and my father, who had been almost distracted in the first hours which followed the injury, hoped and believed that no permanent evil results would be found to result from it. my cousin laura was of course deeply distressed to feel that her thoughtlessness had been the cause of so grave an accident. as soon as i had somewhat recovered she came to see me, very penitent, very anxious to make me forget the alarm she had caused me, with all its consequences. i was in the nursery sitting up in my bed, bandaged, but not in any pain, as it seemed, for i was quiet and to all appearance in a perfectly natural state of feeling. as laura came near me i shrieked and instantly changed color. i put my hand upon my heart as if i had been stabbed, and fell over, unconscious. it was very much the same state as that in which i was found immediately after my fall. the cause of this violent and appalling seizure was but too obvious. the approach of the young girl and the dread that she was about to lay her hand upon me had called up the same train of effects which the moment of terror and pain had already occasioned. the old nurse saw this in a moment. "go! go!" she cried to laura, "go, or the child will die!" her command did not have to be repeated. after laura had gone i lay senseless, white and cold as marble, for some time. the doctor soon came, and by the use of smart rubbing and stimulants the color came back slowly to my cheeks and the arrested circulation was again set in motion. it was hard to believe that this was anything more than a temporary effect of the accident. there could be little doubt, it was thought by the doctor and by my father, that after a few days i should recover from this morbid sensibility and receive my cousin as other infants receive pleasant-looking young persons. the old nurse shook her head. "the girl will be the death of the child," she said, "if she touches him or comes near him. his heart stopped beating just as when the girl snatched him out of my arms, and he fell over the balcony railing." once more the experiment was tried, cautiously, almost insidiously. the same alarming consequences followed. it was too evident that a chain of nervous disturbances had been set up in my system which repeated itself whenever the original impression gave the first impulse. i never saw my cousin laura after this last trial. its result had so distressed her that she never ventured again to show herself to me. if the effect of the nervous shock had stopped there, it would have been a misfortune for my cousin and myself, but hardly a calamity. the world is wide, and a cousin or two more or less can hardly be considered an essential of existence. i often heard laura's name mentioned, but never by any one who was acquainted with all the circumstances, for it was noticed that i changed color and caught at my breast as if i wanted to grasp my heart in my hand whenever that fatal name was mentioned. alas! this was not all. while i was suffering from the effects of my fall among the thorns i was attended by my old nurse, assisted by another old woman, by a physician, and my father, who would take his share in caring for me. it was thought best to keep--me perfectly quiet, and strangers and friends were alike excluded from my nursery, with one exception, that my old grandmother came in now and then. with her it seems that i was somewhat timid and shy, following her with rather anxious eyes, as if not quite certain whether or not she was dangerous. but one day, when i was far advanced towards recovery, my father brought in a young lady, a relative of his, who had expressed a great desire to see me. she was, as i have been told, a very handsome girl, of about the same age as my cousin laura, but bearing no personal resemblance to her in form, features, or complexion. she had no sooner entered the room than the same sudden changes which had followed my cousin's visit began to show themselves, and before she had reached my bedside i was in a state of deadly collapse, as on the occasions already mentioned. some time passed before any recurrence of these terrifying seizures. a little girl of five or six years old was allowed to come into the nursery one day and bring me some flowers. i took them from her hand, but turned away and shut my eyes. there was no seizure, but there was a certain dread and aversion, nothing more than a feeling which it might be hoped that time would overcome. those around me were gradually finding out the circumstances which brought on the deadly attack to which i was subject. the daughter of one of our near neighbors was considered the prettiest girl of the village where we were passing the summer. she was very anxious to see me, and as i was now nearly well it was determined that she should be permitted to pay me a short visit. i had always delighted in seeing her and being caressed by her. i was sleeping when she entered the nursery and came and took a seat at my side in perfect silence. presently i became restless, and a moment later i opened my eyes and saw her stooping over me. my hand went to my left breast,--the color faded from my cheeks,--i was again the cold marble image so like death that it had well-nigh been mistaken for it. could it be possible that the fright which had chilled my blood had left me with an unconquerable fear of woman at the period when she is most attractive not only to adolescents, but to children of tender age, who feel the fascination of her flowing locks, her bright eyes, her blooming cheeks, and that mysterious magnetism of sex which draws all life into its warm and potently vitalized atmosphere? so it did indeed seem. the dangerous experiment could not be repeated indefinitely. it was not intentionally tried again, but accident brought about more than one renewal of it during the following years, until it became fully recognized that i was the unhappy subject of a mortal dread of woman,--not absolutely of the human female, for i had no fear of my old nurse or of my grandmother, or of any old wrinkled face, and i had become accustomed to the occasional meeting of a little girl or two, whom i nevertheless regarded with a certain ill-defined feeling that there was danger in their presence. i was sent to a boys' school very early, and during the first ten or twelve years of my life i had rarely any occasion to be reminded of my strange idiosyncrasy. as i grew out of boyhood into youth, a change came over the feelings which had so long held complete possession of me. this was what my father and his advisers had always anticipated, and was the ground of their confident hope in my return to natural conditions before i should have grown to mature manhood. how shall i describe the conflicts of those dreamy, bewildering, dreadful years? visions of loveliness haunted me sleeping and waking. sometimes a graceful girlish figure would so draw my eyes towards it that i lost sight of all else, and was ready to forget all my fears and find myself at her side, like other youths by the side of young maidens,--happy in their cheerful companionship, while i,--i, under the curse of one blighting moment, looked on, hopeless. sometimes the glimpse of a fair face or the tone of a sweet voice stirred within me all the instincts that make the morning of life beautiful to adolescence. i reasoned with myself: why should i not have outgrown that idle apprehension which had been the nightmare of my earlier years? why should not the rising tide of life have drowned out the feeble growths that infested the shallows of childhood? how many children there are who tremble at being left alone in the dark, but who, a few years later, will smile at their foolish terrors and brave all the ghosts of a haunted chamber! why should i any longer be the slave of a foolish fancy that has grown into a half insane habit of mind? i was familiarly acquainted with all the stories of the strange antipathies and invincible repugnances to which others, some of them famous men, had been subject. i said to myself, why should not i overcome this dread of woman as peter the great fought down his dread of wheels rolling over a bridge? was i, alone of all mankind, to be doomed to perpetual exclusion from the society which, as it seemed to me, was all that rendered existence worth the trouble and fatigue of slavery to the vulgar need of supplying the waste of the system and working at the task of respiration like the daughters of danaus,--toiling day and night as the worn-out sailor labors at the pump of his sinking vessel? why did i not brave the risk of meeting squarely, and without regard to any possible danger, some one of those fair maidens whose far-off smile, whose graceful movements, at once attracted and agitated me? i can only answer this question to the satisfaction of any really inquiring reader by giving him the true interpretation of the singular phenomenon of which i was the subject. for this i shall have to refer to a paper of which i have made a copy, and which will be found included with this manuscript. it is enough to say here, without entering into the explanation of the fact, which will be found simple enough as seen by the light of modern physiological science, that the "nervous disturbance" which the presence of a woman in the flower of her age produced in my system was a sense of impending death, sudden, overwhelming, unconquerable, appalling. it was a reversed action of the nervous centres,--the opposite of that which flushes the young lover's cheek and hurries his bounding pulses as he comes into the presence of the object of his passion. no one who has ever felt the sensation can have failed to recognize it as an imperative summons, which commands instant and terrified submission. it was at this period of my life that my father determined to try the effect of travel and residence in different localities upon my bodily and mental condition. i say bodily as well as mental, for i was too slender for my height and subject to some nervous symptoms which were a cause of anxiety. that the mind was largely concerned in these there was no doubt, but the mutual interactions of mind and body are often too complex to admit of satisfactory analysis. each is in part cause and each also in part effect. we passed some years in italy, chiefly in rome, where i was placed in a school conducted by priests, and where of course i met only those of my own sex. there i had the opportunity of seeing the influences under which certain young catholics, destined for the priesthood, are led to separate themselves from all communion with the sex associated in their minds with the most subtle dangers to which the human soul can be exposed. i became in some degree reconciled to the thought of exclusion from the society of women by seeing around me so many who were self-devoted to celibacy. the thought sometimes occurred to me whether i should not find the best and the only natural solution of the problem of existence, as submitted to myself, in taking upon me the vows which settle the whole question and raise an impassable barrier between the devotee and the object of his dangerous attraction. how often i talked this whole matter over with the young priest who was at once my special instructor and my favorite companion! but accustomed as i had become to the forms of the roman church, and impressed as i was with the purity and excellence of many of its young members with whom i was acquainted, my early training rendered it impossible for me to accept the credentials which it offered me as authoritative. my friend and instructor had to set me down as a case of "invincible ignorance." this was the loop-hole through which he crept out of the prison-house of his creed, and was enabled to look upon me without the feeling of absolute despair with which his sterner brethren would, i fear, have regarded me. i have said that accident exposed me at times to the influence which i had such reasons for dreading. here is one example of such an occurrence, which i relate as simply as possible, vividly as it is impressed upon my memory. a young friend whose acquaintance i had made in rome asked me one day to come to his rooms and look at a cabinet of gems and medals which he had collected. i had been but a short time in his library when a vague sense of uneasiness came over me. my heart became restless,--i could feel it stirring irregularly, as if it were some frightened creature caged in my breast. there was nothing that i could see to account for it. a door was partly open, but not so that i could see into the next room. the feeling grew upon me of some influence which was paralyzing my circulation. i begged my friend to open a window. as he did so, the door swung in the draught, and i saw a blooming young woman,--it was my friend's sister, who had been sitting with a book in her hand, and who rose at the opening of the door. something had warned me of the presence of a woman, that occult and potent aura of individuality, call it personal magnetism, spiritual effluence, or reduce it to a simpler expression if you will; whatever it was, it had warned me of the nearness of the dread attraction which allured at a distance and revealed itself with all the terrors of the lorelei if approached too recklessly. a sign from her brother caused her to withdraw at once, but not before i had felt the impression which betrayed itself in my change of color, anxiety about the region of the heart, and sudden failure as if about to fall in a deadly fainting-fit. does all this seem strange and incredible to the reader of my manuscript? nothing in the history of life is so strange or exceptional as it seems to those who have not made a long study of its mysteries. i have never known just such a case as my own, and yet there must have been such, and if the whole history of mankind were unfolded i cannot doubt that there have been many like it. let my reader suspend his judgment until he has read the paper i have referred to, which was drawn up by a committee of the royal academy of the biological sciences. in this paper the mechanism of the series of nervous derangements to which i have been subject since the fatal shock experienced in my infancy is explained in language not hard to understand. it will be seen that such a change of polarity in the nervous centres is only a permanent form and an extreme degree of an emotional disturbance, which as a temporary and comparatively unimportant personal accident is far from being uncommon,--is so frequent, in fact, that every one must have known instances of it, and not a few must have had more or less serious experiences of it in their own private history. it must not be supposed that my imagination dealt with me as i am now dealing with the reader. i was full of strange fancies and wild superstitions. one of my catholic friends gave me a silver medal which had been blessed by the pope, and which i was to wear next my body. i was told that this would turn black after a time, in virtue of a power which it possessed of drawing out original sin, or certain portions of it, together with the evil and morbid tendencies which had been engrafted on the corrupt nature. i wore the medal faithfully, as directed, and watched it carefully. it became tarnished and after a time darkened, but it wrought no change in my unnatural condition. there was an old gypsy who had the reputation of knowing more of futurity than she had any right to know. the story was that she had foretold the assassination of count rossi and the death of cavour. however that may have been, i was persuaded to let her try her black art upon my future. i shall never forget the strange, wild look of the wrinkled hag as she took my hand and studied its lines and fixed her wicked old eyes on my young countenance. after this examination she shook her head and muttered some words, which as nearly as i could get them would be in english like these: fair lady cast a spell on thee, fair lady's hand shall set thee free. strange as it may seem, these words of a withered old creature, whose palm had to be crossed with silver to bring forth her oracular response, have always clung to my memory as if they were destined to fulfilment. the extraordinary nature of the affliction to which i was subject disposed me to believe the incredible with reference to all that relates to it. i have never ceased to have the feeling that, sooner or later, i should find myself freed from the blight laid upon me in my infancy. it seems as if it would naturally come through the influence of some young and fair woman, to whom that merciful errand should be assigned by the providence that governs our destiny. with strange hopes, with trembling fears, with mingled belief and doubt, wherever i have found myself i have sought with longing yet half-averted eyes for the "elect lady," as i have learned to call her, who was to lift the curse from my ruined life. three times i have been led to the hope, if not the belief, that i had found the object of my superstitious belief.--singularly enough it was always on the water that the phantom of my hope appeared before my bewildered vision. once it was an english girl who was a fellow passenger with me in one of my ocean voyages. i need not say that she was beautiful, for she was my dream realized. i heard her singing, i saw her walking the deck on some of the fair days when sea-sickness was forgotten. the passengers were a social company enough, but i had kept myself apart, as was my wont. at last the attraction became too strong to resist any longer. "i will venture into the charmed circle if it kills me," i said to my father. i did venture, and it did not kill me, or i should not be telling this story. but there was a repetition of the old experiences. i need not relate the series of alarming consequences of my venture. the english girl was very lovely, and i have no doubt has made some one supremely happy before this, but she was not the "elect lady" of the prophecy and of my dreams. a second time i thought myself for a moment in the presence of the destined deliverer who was to restore me to my natural place among my fellow men and women. it was on the tiber that i met the young maiden who drew me once more into that inner circle which surrounded young womanhood with deadly peril for me, if i dared to pass its limits. i was floating with the stream in the little boat in which i passed many long hours of reverie when i saw another small boat with a boy and a young girl in it. the boy had been rowing, and one of his oars had slipped from his grasp. he did not know how to paddle with a single oar, and was hopelessly rowing round and round, his oar all the time floating farther away from him. i could not refuse my assistance. i picked up the oar and brought my skiff alongside of the boat. when i handed the oar to the boy the young girl lifted her veil and thanked me in the exquisite music of the language which 'sounds as if it should be writ on satin.' she was a type of italian beauty,--a nocturne in flesh and blood, if i may borrow a term certain artists are fond of; but it was her voice which captivated me and for a moment made me believe that i was no longer shut off from all relations with the social life of my race. an hour later i was found lying insensible on the floor of my boat, white, cold, almost pulseless. it cost much patient labor to bring me back to consciousness. had not such extreme efforts been made, it seems probable that i should never have waked from a slumber which was hardly distinguishable from that of death. why should i provoke a catastrophe which appears inevitable if i invite it by exposing myself to its too well ascertained cause? the habit of these deadly seizures has become a second nature. the strongest and the ablest men have found it impossible to resist the impression produced by the most insignificant object, by the most harmless sight or sound to which they had a congenital or acquired antipathy. what prospect have i of ever being rid of this long and deep-seated infirmity? i may well ask myself these questions, but my answer is that i will never give up the hope that time will yet bring its remedy. it may be that the wild prediction which so haunts me shall find itself fulfilled. i have had of late strange premonitions, to which if i were superstitious i could not help giving heed. but i have seen too much of the faith that deals in miracles to accept the supernatural in any shape,--assuredly when it comes from an old witch-like creature who takes pay for her revelations of the future. be it so: though i am not superstitious, i have a right to be imaginative, and my imagination will hold to those words of the old zingara with an irresistible feeling that, sooner or later, they will prove true. can it be possible that her prediction is not far from its realization? i have had both waking and sleeping visions within these last months and weeks which have taken possession of me and filled my life with new thoughts, new hopes, new resolves. sometimes on the bosom of the lake by which i am dreaming away this season of bloom and fragrance, sometimes in the fields or woods in a distant glimpse, once in a nearer glance, which left me pale and tremulous, yet was followed by a swift reaction, so that my cheeks flushed and my pulse bounded, i have seen her who--how do i dare to tell it so that my own eyes can read it?---i cannot help believing is to be my deliverer, my saviour. i have been warned in the most solemn and impressive language by the experts most deeply read in the laws of life and the history of its disturbing and destroying influences, that it would be at the imminent risk of my existence if i should expose myself to the repetition of my former experiences. i was reminded that unexplained sudden deaths were of constant, of daily occurrence; that any emotion is liable to arrest the movements of life: terror, joy, good news or bad news,--anything that reaches the deeper nervous centres. i had already died once, as sir charles napier said of himself; yes, more than once, died and been resuscitated. the next time, i might very probably fail to get my return ticket after my visit to hades. it was a rather grim stroke of humor, but i understood its meaning full well, and felt the force of its menace. after all, what had i to live for if the great primal instinct which strives to make whole the half life of lonely manhood is defeated, suppressed, crushed out of existence? why not as well die in the attempt to break up a wretched servitude to a perverted nervous movement as in any other way? i am alone in the world,--alone save for my faithful servant, through whom i seem to hold to the human race as it were by a single filament. my father, who was my instructor, my companion, my dearest and best friend through all my later youth and my earlier manhood, died three years ago and left me my own master, with the means of living as might best please my fancy. this season shall decide my fate. one more experiment, and i shall find myself restored to my place among my fellow-beings, or, as i devoutly hope, in a sphere where all our mortal infirmities are past and forgotten. i have told the story of a blighted life without reserve, so that there shall not remain any mystery or any dark suspicion connected with my memory if i should be taken away unexpectedly. it has cost me an effort to do it, but now that my life is on record i feel more reconciled to my lot, with all its possibilities, and among these possibilities is a gleam of a better future. i have been told by my advisers, some of them wise, deeply instructed, and kind-hearted men, that such a life-destiny should be related by the subject of it for the instruction of others, and especially for the light it throws on certain peculiarities of human character often wrongly interpreted as due to moral perversion, when they are in reality the results of misdirected or reversed actions in some of the closely connected nervous centres. for myself i can truly say that i have very little morbid sensibility left with reference to the destiny which has been allotted to me. i have passed through different stages of feeling with reference to it, as i have developed from infancy to manhood. at first it was mere blind instinct about which i had no thought, living like other infants the life of impressions without language to connect them in series. in my boyhood i began to be deeply conscious of the infirmity which separated me from those around me. in youth began that conflict of emotions and impulses with the antagonistic influence of which i have already spoken, a conflict which has never ceased, but to which i have necessarily become to a certain degree accustomed; and against the dangers of which i have learned to guard myself habitually. that is the meaning of my isolation. you, young man,--if at any time your eyes shall look upon my melancholy record,--you at least will understand me. does not your heart throb, in the presence of budding or blooming womanhood, sometimes as if it "were ready to crack" with its own excess of strain? what if instead of throbbing it should falter, flutter, and stop as if never to beat again? you, young woman, who with ready belief and tender sympathy will look upon these pages, if they are ever spread before you, know what it is when your breast heaves with uncontrollable emotion and the grip of the bodice seems unendurable as the embrace of the iron virgin of the inquisition. think what it would be if the grasp were tightened so that no breath of air could enter your panting chest! does your heart beat in the same way, young man, when your honored friend, a venerable matron of seventy years, greets you with her kindly smile as it does in the presence of youthful loveliness? when a pretty child brings you her doll and looks into your eyes with artless grace and trustful simplicity, does your pulse quicken, do you tremble, does life palpitate through your whole being, as when the maiden of seventeen meets your enamored sight in the glow of her rosebud beauty? wonder not, then, if the period of mystic attraction for you should be that of agitation, terror, danger, to one in whom the natural current of the instincts has had its course changed as that of a stream is changed by a convulsion of nature, so that the impression which is new life to you is death to him. i am now twenty-five years old. i have reached the time of life which i have dreamed, nay even ventured to hope, might be the limit of the sentence which was pronounced upon me in my infancy. i can assign no good reason for this anticipation. but in writing this paper i feel as if i were preparing to begin a renewed existence. there is nothing for me to be ashamed of in the story i have told. there is no man living who would not have yielded to the sense of instantly impending death which seized upon me under the conditions i have mentioned. martyrs have gone singing to their flaming shrouds, but never a man could hold his breath long enough to kill himself; he must have rope or water, or some mechanical help, or nature will make him draw in a breath of air, and would make him do so though he knew the salvation of the human race would be forfeited by that one gasp. this paper may never reach the eye of any one afflicted in the same way that i have been. it probably never will; but for all that, there are many shy natures which will recognize tendencies in themselves in the direction of my unhappy susceptibility. others, to whom such weakness seems inconceivable, will find their scepticism shaken, if not removed, by the calm, judicial statement of the report drawn up for the royal academy. it will make little difference to me whether my story is accepted unhesitatingly or looked upon as largely a product of the imagination. i am but a bird of passage that lights on the boughs of different nationalities. i belong to no flock; my home may be among the palms of syria, the olives of italy, the oaks of england, the elms that shadow the hudson or the connecticut; i build no nest; to-day i am here, to-morrow on the wing. if i quit my native land before the trees have dropped their leaves i shall place this manuscript in the safe hands of one whom i feel sure that i can trust; to do with it as he shall see fit. if it is only curious and has no bearing on human welfare, he may think it well to let it remain unread until i shall have passed away. if in his judgment it throws any light on one of the deeper mysteries of our nature,--the repulsions which play such a formidable part in social life, and which must be recognized as the correlatives of the affinities that distribute the individuals governed by them in the face of impediments which seem to be impossibilities,--then it may be freely given to the world. but if i am here when the leaves are all fallen, the programme of my life will have changed, and this story of the dead past will be illuminated by the light of a living present which will irradiate all its saddening features. who would not pray that my last gleam of light and hope may be that of dawn and not of departing day? the reader who finds it hard to accept the reality of a story so far from the common range of experience is once more requested to suspend his judgment until he has read the paper which will next be offered for his consideration. xix. the report of the biological committee. perhaps it is too much to expect a reader who wishes to be entertained, excited, amused, and does not want to work his passage through pages which he cannot understand without some effort of his own, to read the paper which follows and dr. butts's reflections upon it. if he has no curiosity in the direction of these chapters, he can afford to leave them to such as relish a slight flavor of science. but if he does so leave them he will very probably remain sceptical as to the truth of the story to which they are meant to furnish him with a key. of course the case of maurice kirkwood is a remarkable and exceptional one, and it is hardly probable that any reader's experience will furnish him with its parallel. but let him look back over all his acquaintances, if he has reached middle life, and see if he cannot recall more than one who, for some reason or other, shunned the society of young women, as if they had a deadly fear of their company. if he remembers any such, he can understand the simple statements and natural reflections which are laid before him. one of the most singular facts connected with the history of maurice kirkwood was the philosophical equanimity with which he submitted to the fate which had fallen upon him. he did not choose to be pumped by the interviewer, who would show him up in the sensational columns of his prying newspaper. he lived chiefly by himself, as the easiest mode of avoiding those meetings to which he would be exposed in almost every society into which he might venture. but he had learned to look upon himself very much as he would upon an intimate not himself,--upon a different personality. a young man will naturally enough be ashamed of his shyness. it is something which others believe, and perhaps he himself thinks, he might overcome. but in the case of maurice kirkwood there was no room for doubt as to the reality and gravity of the long enduring effects of his first convulsive terror. he had accepted the fact as he would have accepted the calamity of losing his sight or his hearing. when he was questioned by the experts to whom his case was submitted, he told them all that he knew about it almost without a sign of emotion. nature was so peremptory with him,--saying in language that had no double meaning: "if you violate the condition on which you hold my gift of existence i slay you on the spot,"--that he became as decisive in his obedience as she was in her command, and accepted his fate without repining. yet it must not be thought for a moment,--it cannot be supposed,--that he was insensible because he looked upon himself with the coolness of an enforced philosophy. he bore his burden manfully, hard as it was to live under it, for he lived, as we have seen, in hope. the thought of throwing it off with his life, as too grievous to be borne, was familiar to his lonely hours, but he rejected it as unworthy of his manhood. how he had speculated and dreamed about it is plain enough from the paper the reader may remember on ocean, river, and lake. with these preliminary hints the paper promised is submitted to such as may find any interest in them. account of a case of gynophobia. with remarks. being the substance of a report to the royal academy of the biological sciences by a committee of that institution. "the singular nature of the case we are about to narrate and comment upon will, we feel confident, arrest the attention of those who have learned the great fact that nature often throws the strongest light upon her laws by the apparent exceptions and anomalies which from time to time are observed. we have done with the lusus naturae of earlier generations. we pay little attention to the stories of 'miracles,' except so far as we receive them ready-made at the hands of the churches which still hold to them. not the less do we meet with strange and surprising facts, which a century or two ago would have been handled by the clergy and the courts, but today are calmly recorded and judged by the best light our knowledge of the laws of life can throw upon them. it must be owned that there are stories which we can hardly dispute, so clear and full is the evidence in their support, which do, notwithstanding, tax our faith and sometimes leave us sceptical in spite of all the testimony which supports them. "in this category many will be disposed to place the case we commend to the candid attention of the academy. if one were told that a young man, a gentleman by birth and training, well formed, in apparently perfect health, of agreeable physiognomy and manners, could not endure the presence of the most attractive young woman, but was seized with deadly terror and sudden collapse of all the powers of life, if he came into her immediate presence; if it were added that this same young man did not shrink from the presence of an old withered crone; that he had a certain timid liking for little maidens who had not yet outgrown the company of their dolls, the listener would be apt to smile, if he did not laugh, at the absurdity of the fable. surely, he would say, this must be the fiction of some fanciful brain, the whim of some romancer, the trick of some playwright. it would make a capital farce, this idea, carried out. a young man slighting the lovely heroine of the little comedy and making love to her grandmother! this would, of course, be overstating the truth of the story, but to such a misinterpretation the plain facts lend themselves too easily. we will relate the leading circumstances of the case, as they were told us with perfect simplicity and frankness by the subject of an affection which, if classified, would come under the general head of antipathy, but to which, if we give it a name, we shall have to apply the term gynophobia, or fear of woman." here follows the account furnished to the writer of the paper, which is in all essentials identical with that already laid before the reader. "such is the case offered to our consideration. assuming its truthfulness in all its particulars, it remains to see in the first place whether or not it is as entirely exceptional and anomalous as it seems at first sight, or whether it is only the last term of a series of cases which in their less formidable aspect are well known to us in literature, in the records of science, and even in our common experience. "to most of those among us the explanations we are now about to give are entirely superfluous. but there are some whose chief studies have been in different directions, and who will not complain if certain facts are mentioned which to the expert will seem rudimentary, and which hardly require recapitulation to those who are familiarly acquainted with the common text-books. "the heart is the centre of every living movement in the higher animals, and in man, furnishing in varying amount, or withholding to a greater or less extent, the needful supplies to all parts of the system. if its action is diminished to a certain degree, faintness is the immediate consequence; if it is arrested, loss of consciousness; if its action is not soon restored, death, of which fainting plants the white flag, remains in possession of the system. "how closely the heart is under the influence of the emotions we need not go to science to learn, for all human experience and all literature are overflowing with evidence that shows the extent of this relation. scripture is full of it; the heart in hebrew poetry represents the entire life, we might almost say. not less forcible is the language of shakespeare, as for instance, in 'measure for measure:' "'why does my blood thus muster to my heart, making it both unable for itself and dispossessing all my other parts of necessary fitness?' "more especially is the heart associated in every literature with the passion of love. a famous old story is that of galen, who was called to the case of a young lady long ailing, and wasting away from some cause the physicians who had already seen her were unable to make out. the shrewd old practitioner suspected that love was at the bottom of the young lady's malady. many relatives and friends of both sexes, all of them ready with their sympathy, came to see her. the physician sat by her bedside during one of these visits, and in an easy, natural way took her hand and placed a finger on her pulse. it beat quietly enough until a certain comely young gentleman entered the apartment, when it suddenly rose infrequency, and at the same moment her hurried breathing, her changing color, pale and flushed by turns, betrayed the profound agitation his presence excited. this was enough for the sagacious greek; love was the disease, the cure of which by its like may be claimed as an anticipation of homoeopathy. in the frontispiece to the fine old 'junta' edition of the works of galen, you may find among the wood-cuts a representation of the interesting scene, with the title amantas dignotio,--the diagnosis, or recognition, of the lover. "love has many languages, but the heart talks through all of them. the pallid or burning cheek tells of the failing or leaping fountain which gives it color. the lovers at the 'brookside' could hear each other's hearts beating. when genevieve, in coleridge's poem, forgot herself, and was beforehand with her suitor in her sudden embrace, "'t was partly love and partly fear, and partly 't was a bashful art, that i might rather feel than see the swelling of her heart' "always the heart, whether its hurried action is seen, or heard, or felt. but it is not always in this way that the 'deceitful' organ treats the lover. "'faint heart never won fair lady.' "this saying was not meant, perhaps, to be taken literally, but it has its literal truth. many a lover has found his heart sink within him,--lose all its force, and leave him weak as a child in his emotion at the sight of the object of his affections. when porphyro looked upon madeline at her prayers in the chapel, it was too much for him: "'she seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, save wings, for heaven:--porphyro grew faint, she knelt, so pure a thing, so free from earthly taint.' "and in balzac's novel, 'cesar birotteau,' the hero of the story 'fainted away for-joy at the moment when, under a linden-tree, at sceaux, constance-barbe-josephine accepted him as her future husband.' "one who faints is dead if he does not i come to,' and nothing is more likely than that too susceptible lovers have actually gone off in this way. everything depends on how the heart behaves itself in these and similar trying moments. the mechanism of its actions becomes an interesting subject, therefore, to lovers of both sexes, and to all who are capable of intense emotions. "the heart is a great reservoir, which distributes food, drink, air, and heat to every part of the system, in exchange for its waste material. it knocks at the gate of every organ seventy or eighty times in a minute, calling upon it to receive its supplies and unload its refuse. between it and the brain there is the closest relation. the emotions, which act upon it as we have seen, govern it by a mechanism only of late years thoroughly understood. this mechanism can be made plain enough to the reader who is not afraid to believe that he can understand it. "the brain, as all know, is the seat of ideas, emotions, volition. it is the great central telegraphic station with which many lesser centres are in close relation, from which they receive, and to which they transmit, their messages. the heart has its own little brains, so to speak,--small collections of nervous substance which govern its rhythmical motions under ordinary conditions. but these lesser nervous centres are to a large extent dominated by influences transmitted from certain groups of nerve-cells in the brain and its immediate dependencies. "there are two among the special groups of nerve-cells which produce directly opposite effects. one of these has the power of accelerating the action of the heart, while the other has the power of retarding or arresting this action. one acts as the spur, the other as the bridle. according as one or the other predominates, the action of the heart will be stimulated or restrained. among the great modern discoveries in physiology is that of the existence of a distinct centre of inhibition, as the restraining influence over the heart is called. "the centre of inhibition plays a terrible part in the history of cowardice and of unsuccessful love. no man can be brave without blood to sustain his courage, any more than he can think, as the german materialist says, not absurdly, without phosphorus. the fainting lover must recover his circulation, or his lady will lend him her smelling-salts and take a gallant with blood in his cheeks. porphyro got over his faintness before he ran away with madeline, and cesar birotteau was an accepted lover when he swooned with happiness: but many an officer has been cashiered, and many a suitor has been rejected, because the centre of inhibition has got the upper hand of the centre of stimulation. "in the well-known cases of deadly antipathy which have been recorded, the most frequent cause has been the disturbed and depressing influence of the centre of inhibition. fainting at the sight of blood is one of the commonest examples of this influence. a single impression, in a very early period of atmospheric existence,--perhaps, indirectly, before that period, as was said to have happened in the case of james the first of england,--may establish a communication between this centre and the heart which will remain open ever afterwards. how does a footpath across a field establish itself? its curves are arbitrary, and what we call accidental, but one after another follows it as if he were guided by a chart on which it was laid down. so it is with this dangerous transit between the centre of inhibition and the great organ of life. if once the path is opened by the track of some profound impression, that same impression, if repeated, or a similar one, is likely to find the old footmarks and follow them. habit only makes the path easier to traverse, and thus the unreasoning terror of a child, of an infant, may perpetuate itself in a timidity which shames the manhood of its subject. "the case before us is an exceptional and most remarkable example of the effect of inhibition on the heart. "we will not say that we believe it to be unique in the history of the human race; on the contrary, we do not doubt that there have been similar cases, and that in some rare instances sudden death has been the consequence of seizures like that of the subject of this report. the case most like it is that of colone townsend, which is too well known to require any lengthened description in this paper. it is enough to recall the main facts. he could by a voluntary effort suspend the action of his heart for a considerable period, during which he lay like one dead, pulseless, and without motion. after a time the circulation returned, and he does not seem to have been the worse for his dangerous, or seemingly dangerous, experiment. but in his case it was by an act of the will that the heart's action was suspended. in the case before us it is an involuntary impulse transmitted from the brain to the inhibiting centre, which arrests the cardiac movements. "what is like to be the further history of the case? "the subject of this anomalous affliction is now more than twenty years old. the chain of nervous actions has become firmly established. it might have been hoped that the changes of adolescence would have effected a transformation of the perverted instinct. on the contrary, the whole force of this instinct throws itself on the centre of inhibition, instead of quickening the heart-beats, and sending the rush of youthful blood with fresh life through the entire system to the throbbing finger-tips. "is it probable that time and circumstances will alter a habit of nervous interactions so long established? we are disposed to think that there is a chance of its being broken up. and we are not afraid to say that we suspect the old gypsy woman, whose prophecy took such hold of the patient's imagination, has hit upon the way in which the 'spell,' as she called it, is to be dissolved. she must, in all probability, have had a hint of the 'antipatia' to which the youth before her was a victim, and its cause, and if so, her guess as to the probable mode in which the young man would obtain relief from his unfortunate condition was the one which would naturally suggest itself. "if once the nervous impression which falls on the centre of inhibition can be made to change its course, so as to follow its natural channel, it will probably keep to that channel ever afterwards. and this will, it is most likely, be effected by some sudden, unexpected impression. if he were drowning, and a young woman should rescue him, it is by no means impossible that the change in the nervous current we have referred to might be brought about as rapidly, as easily, as the reversal of the poles in a magnet, which is effected in an instant. but he cannot be expected to throw himself into the water just at the right moment when the 'fair lady' of the gitana's prophecy is passing on the shore. accident may effect the cure which art seems incompetent to perform. it would not be strange if in some future seizure he should never come back to consciousness. but it is quite conceivable, on the other hand, that a happier event may occur, that in a single moment the nervous polarity may be reversed, the whole course of his life changed, and his past terrible experiences be to him like a scarce-remembered dream. "this is one, of those cases in which it is very hard to determine the wisest course to be pursued. the question is not unlike that which arises in certain cases of dislocation of the bones of the neck. shall the unfortunate sufferer go all his days with his face turned far round to the right or the left, or shall an attempt be made to replace the dislocated bones? an attempt which may succeed, or may cause instant death. the patient must be consulted as to whether he will take the chance. the practitioner may be unwilling to risk it, if the patient consents. each case must be judged on its own special grounds. we cannot think that this young man is doomed to perpetual separation from the society of womanhood during the period of its bloom and attraction. but to provoke another seizure after his past experiences would be too much like committing suicide. we fear that we must trust to the chapter of accidents. the strange malady--for such it is--has become a second nature, and may require as energetic a shock to displace it as it did to bring it into existence. time alone can solve this question, on which depends the well-being and, it may be, the existence of a young man every way fitted to be happy, and to give happiness, if restored to his true nature." xx. dr. butts reflects. dr. butts sat up late at night reading these papers and reflecting upon them. he was profoundly impressed and tenderly affected by the entire frankness, the absence of all attempt at concealment, which maurice showed in placing these papers at his disposal. he believed that his patient would recover from this illness for which he had been taking care of him. he thought deeply and earnestly of what he could do for him after he should have regained his health and strength. there were references, in maurice's own account of himself, which the doctor called to mind with great interest after reading his brief autobiography. some one person--some young woman, it must be--had produced a singular impression upon him since those earlier perilous experiences through which he had passed. the doctor could not help thinking of that meeting with euthymia of which she had spoken to him. maurice, as she said, turned pale,--he clapped his hand to his breast. he might have done so if he had met her chambermaid, or any straggling damsel of the village. but euthymia was not a young woman to be looked upon with indifference. she held herself like a queen, and walked like one, not a stage queen, but one born and bred to self-reliance, and command of herself as well as others. one could not pass her without being struck with her noble bearing and spirited features. if she had known how maurice trembled as he looked upon her, in that conflict of attraction and uncontrollable dread,--if she had known it! but what, even then, could she have done? nothing but get away from him as fast as she could. as it was, it was a long time before his agitation subsided, and his heart beat with its common force and frequency. dr. butts was not a male gossip nor a matchmaking go-between. but he could not help thinking what a pity it was that these two young persons could not come together as other young people do in the pairing season, and find out whether they cared for and were fitted for each other. he did not pretend to settle this question in his own mind, but the thought was a natural one. and here was a gulf between them as deep and wide as that between lazarus and dives. would it ever be bridged over? this thought took possession of the doctor's mind, and he imagined all sorts of ways of effecting some experimental approximation between maurice and euthymia. from this delicate subject he glanced off to certain general considerations suggested by the extraordinary history he had been reading. he began by speculating as to the possibility of the personal presence of an individual making itself perceived by some channel other than any of the five senses. the study of the natural sciences teaches those who are devoted to them that the most insignificant facts may lead the way to the discovery of the most important, all-pervading laws of the universe. from the kick of a frog's hind leg to the amazing triumphs which began with that seemingly trivial incident is a long, a very long stride if madam galvani had not been in delicate health, which was the occasion of her having some frog-broth prepared for her, the world of to-day might not be in possession of the electric telegraph and the light which blazes like the sun at high noon. a common-looking occurrence, one seemingly unimportant, which had hitherto passed unnoticed with the ordinary course of things, was the means of introducing us to a new and vast realm of closely related phenomena. it was like a key that we might have picked up, looking so simple that it could hardly fit any lock but one of like simplicity, but which should all at once throw back the bolts of the one lock which had defied the most ingenious of our complex implements and open our way into a hitherto unexplored territory. it certainly was not through the eye alone that maurice felt the paralyzing influence. he could contemplate euthymia from a distance, as he did on the day of the boat-race, without any nervous disturbance. a certain proximity was necessary for the influence to be felt, as in the case of magnetism and electricity. an atmosphere of danger surrounded every woman he approached during the period when her sex exercises its most powerful attractions. how far did that atmosphere extend, and through what channel did it act? the key to the phenomena of this case, he believed, was to be found in a fact as humble as that which gave birth to the science of galvanism and its practical applications. the circumstances connected with the very common antipathy to cats were as remarkable in many points of view as the similar circumstances in the case of maurice kirkwood. the subjects of that antipathy could not tell what it was which disturbed their nervous system. all they knew was that a sense of uneasiness, restlessness, oppression, came over them in the presence of one of these animals. he remembered the fact already mentioned, that persons sensitive to this impression can tell by their feelings if a cat is concealed in the apartment in which they may happen to be. it may be through some emanation. it may be through the medium of some electrical disturbance. what if the nerve-thrills passing through the whole system of the animal propagate themselves to a certain distance without any more regard to intervening solids than is shown by magnetism? a sieve lets sand pass through it; a filter arrests sand, but lets fluids pass, glass holds fluids, but lets light through; wood shuts out light, but magnetic attraction goes through it as sand went through the sieve. no good reasons can be given why the presence of a cat should not betray itself to certain organizations, at a distance, through the walls of a box in which the animal is shut up. we need not disbelieve the stories which allege such an occurrence as a fact and a not very infrequent one. if the presence of a cat can produce its effects under these circumstances, why should not that of a human being under similar conditions, acting on certain constitutions, exercise its specific influence? the doctor recalled a story told him by one of his friends, a story which the friend himself heard from the lips of the distinguished actor, the late mr. fechter. the actor maintained that rachel had no genius as an actress. it was all samson's training and study, according to him, which explained the secret of her wonderful effectiveness on the stage. but magnetism, he said,--magnetism, she was full of. he declared that he was made aware of her presence on the stage, when he could not see her or know of her presence otherwise, by this magnetic emanation. the doctor took the story for what it was worth. there might very probably be exaggeration, perhaps high imaginative coloring about it, but it was not a whit more unlikely than the cat-stories, accepted as authentic. he continued this train of thought into further developments. into this series of reflections we will try to follow him. what is the meaning of the halo with which artists have surrounded the heads of their pictured saints, of the aureoles which wraps them like a luminous cloud? is it not a recognition of the fact that these holy personages diffuse their personality in the form of a visible emanation, which reminds us of milton's definition of light: "bright effluence of bright essence increate"? the common use of the term influence would seem to imply the existence of its correlative, effluence. there is no good reason that i can see, the doctor said to himself, why among the forces which work upon the nervous centres there should not be one which acts at various distances from its source. it may not be visible like the "glory" of the painters, it may not be appreciable by any one of the five senses, and yet it may be felt by the person reached by it as much as if it were a palpable presence,--more powerfully, perhaps, from the mystery which belongs to its mode of action. why should not maurice have been rendered restless and anxious by the unseen nearness of a young woman who was in the next room to him, just as the persons who have the dread of cats are made conscious of their presence through some unknown channel? is it anything strange that the larger and more powerful organism should diffuse a consciousness of its presence to some distance as well as the slighter and feebler one? is it strange that this mysterious influence or effluence should belong especially or exclusively to the period of complete womanhood in distinction from that of immaturity or decadence? on the contrary, it seems to be in accordance with all the analogies of nature,--analogies too often cruel in the sentence they pass upon the human female. among the many curious thoughts which came up in the doctor's mind was this, which made him smile as if it were a jest, but which he felt very strongly had its serious side, and was involved with the happiness or suffering of multitudes of youthful persons who die without telling their secret: how many young men have a mortal fear of woman, as woman, which they never overcome, and in consequence of which the attraction which draws man towards her, as strong in them as in others,--oftentimes, in virtue of their peculiarly sensitive organizations, more potent in them than in others of like age and conditions,--in consequence of which fear, this attraction is completely neutralized, and all the possibilities of doubled and indefinitely extended life depending upon it are left unrealized! think what numbers of young men in catholic countries devote themselves to lives of celibacy. think how many young men lose all their confidence in the presence of the young woman to whom they are most attracted, and at last steal away from a companionship which it is rapture to dream of and torture to endure, so does the presence of the beloved object paralyze all the powers of expression. sorcerers have in all time and countries played on the hopes and terrors of lovers. once let loose a strong impulse on the centre of inhibition, and the warrior who had faced bayonets and batteries becomes a coward whom the well-dressed hero of the ball-room and leader of the german will put to ignominious flight in five minutes of easy, audacious familiarity with his lady-love. yes, the doctor went on with his reflections, i do not know that i have seen the term gynophobia before i opened this manuscript, but i have seen the malady many times. only one word has stood between many a pair of young people and their lifelong happiness, and that word has got as far as the lips, but the lips trembled and would not, could not, shape that little word. all young women are not like coleridge's genevieve, who knew how to help her lover out of his difficulty, and said yes before he had asked for an answer. so the wave which was to have wafted them on to the shore of elysium has just failed of landing them, and back they have been drawn into the desolate ocean to meet no more on earth. love is the master-key, he went on thinking, love is the master-key that opens the gates of happiness, of hatred, of jealousy, and, most easily of all, the gate of fear. how terrible is the one fact of beauty!--not only the historic wonder of beauty, that "burnt the topless towers of ilium" for the smile of helen, and fired the palaces of babylon by the hand of thais, but the beauty which springs up in all times and places, and carries a torch and wears a serpent for a wreath as truly as any of the eumenides. paint beauty with her foot upon a skull and a dragon coiled around her. the doctor smiled at his own imposing classical allusions and pictorial imagery. drifting along from thought to thought, he reflected on the probable consequences of the general knowledge of maurice kirkwood's story, if it came before the public. what a piece of work it would make among the lively youths of the village, to be sure! what scoffing, what ridicule, what embellishments, what fables, would follow in the trail of the story! if the interviewer got hold of it, how "the people's perennial and household inquisitor" would blaze with capitals in its next issue! the young fellows' of the place would be disposed to make fun of the whole matter. the young girls-the doctor hardly dared to think what would happen when the story got about among them. "the sachem" of the solitary canoe, the bold horseman, the handsome hermit,--handsome so far as the glimpses they had got of him went,--must needs be an object of tender interest among them, now that he was ailing, suffering, in danger of his life, away from friends,--poor fellow! little tokens of their regard had reached his sick-chamber; bunches of flowers with dainty little notes, some of them pinkish, some three-cornered, some of them with brief messages, others "criss-crossed," were growing more frequent as it was understood that the patient was likely to be convalescent before many days had passed. if it should come to be understood that there was a deadly obstacle to their coming into any personal relations with him, the doctor had his doubts whether there were not those who would subject him to the risk; for there were coquettes in the village,--strangers, visitors, let us hope,--who would sacrifice anything or anybody to their vanity and love of conquest. xxi an intimate conversation. the illness from which maurice had suffered left him in a state of profound prostration. the doctor, who remembered the extreme danger of any overexertion in such cases, hardly allowed him to lift his head from the pillow. but his mind was gradually recovering its balance, and he was able to hold some conversation with those about him. his faithful paolo had grown so thin in waiting upon him and watching with him that the village children had to take a second look at his face when they passed him to make sure that it was indeed their old friend and no other. but as his master advanced towards convalescence and the doctor assured him that he was going in all probability to get well, paolo's face began to recover something of its old look and expression, and once more his pockets filled themselves with comfits for his little circle of worshipping three and four year old followers. "how is mr. kirkwood?" was the question with which he was always greeted. in the worst periods of the fever be rarely left his master. when he did, and the question was put to him, he would shake his head sadly, sometimes without a word, sometimes with tears and sobs and faltering words,--more like a brokenhearted child than a stalwart man as he was, such a man as soldiers are made of in the great continental armies. "he very bad,--he no eat nothing,--he--no say nothing,--he never be no better," and all his southern nature betrayed itself in a passionate burst of lamentation. but now that he began to feel easy about his master, his ready optimism declared itself no less transparently. "he better every day now. he get well in few weeks, sure. you see him on hoss in little while." the kind-hearted creature's life was bound up in that of his "master," as he loved to call him, in sovereign disregard of the comments of the natives, who held themselves too high for any such recognition of another as their better. they could not understand how he, so much their superior in bodily presence, in air and manner, could speak of the man who employed him in any other way than as "kirkwood," without even demeaning himself so far as to prefix a "mr." to it. but "my master" maurice remained for paolo in spite of the fact that all men are born free and equal. and never was a servant more devoted to a master than was paolo to maurice during the days of doubt and danger. since his improvement maurice insisted upon his leaving his chamber and getting out of the house, so as to breathe the fresh air of which he was in so much need. it worried him to see his servant returning after too short an absence. the attendant who had helped him in the care of the patient was within call, and paolo was almost driven out of the house by the urgency of his master's command that he should take plenty of exercise in the open air. notwithstanding the fact of maurice's improved condition, although the force of the disease had spent itself, the state of weakness to which he had been reduced was a cause of some anxiety, and required great precautions to be taken. he lay in bed, wasted, enfeebled to such a degree that he had to be cared for very much as a child is tended. gradually his voice was coming back to him, so that he could hold some conversation, as was before mentioned, with those about him. the doctor waited for the right moment to make mention of the manuscript which maurice had submitted to him. up to this time, although it had been alluded to and the doctor had told him of the intense interest with which he had read it, he had never ventured to make it the subject of any long talk, such as would be liable to fatigue his patient. but now he thought the time had come. "i have been thinking," the doctor said, "of the singular seizures to which you are liable, and as it is my business not merely to think about such cases, but to do what i can to help any who may be capable of receiving aid from my art, i wish to have some additional facts about your history. and in the first place, will you allow me to ask what led you to this particular place? it is so much less known to the public at large than many other resorts that we naturally ask, what brings this or that new visitor among us? we have no ill-tasting, natural spring of bad water to be analyzed by the state chemist and proclaimed as a specific. we have no great gambling-houses, no racecourse (except that fox boats on the lake); we have no coaching-club, no great balls, few lions of any kind, so we ask, what brings this or that stranger here? and i think i may venture to ask you whether any, special motive brought you among us, or whether it was accident that determined your coming to this place." "certainly, doctor," maurice answered, "i will tell you with great pleasure. last year i passed on the border of a great river. the year before i lived in a lonely cottage at the side of the ocean. i wanted this year to be by a lake. you heard the paper read at the meeting of your society, or at least you heard of it,--for such matters are always talked over in a village like this. you can judge by that paper, or could, if it were before you, of the frame of mind in which i came here. i was tired of the sullen indifference of the ocean and the babbling egotism of the river, always hurrying along on its own private business. i wanted the dreamy stillness of a large, tranquil sheet of water that had nothing in particular to do, and would leave me to myself and my thoughts. i had read somewhere about the place, and the old anchor tavern, with its paternal landlord and motherly landlady and old-fashioned household, and that, though it was no longer open as a tavern, i could find a resting-place there early in the season, at least for a few days, while i looked about me for a quiet place in which i might pass my summer. i have found this a pleasant residence. by being up early and out late i have kept myself mainly in the solitude which has become my enforced habit of life. the season has gone by too swiftly for me since my dream has become a vision." the doctor was sitting with his hand round maurice's wrist, three fingers on his pulse. as he spoke these last words he noticed that the pulse fluttered a little,--beat irregularly a few times; intermitted; became feeble and thready; while his cheek grew whiter than the pallid bloodlessness of his long illness had left it. "no more talk, now," he said. "you are too tired to be using your voice. i will hear all the rest another time." the doctor had interrupted maurice at an interesting point. what did he mean by saying that his dream had become a vision? this is what the doctor was naturally curious, and professionally anxious, to know. but his hand was still on his patient's pulse, which told him unmistakably that the heart had taken the alarm and was losing its energy under the depressing nervous influence. presently, however, it recovered its natural force and rhythm, and a faint flush came back to the pale cheek. the doctor remembered the story of galen, and the young maiden whose complaint had puzzled the physicians. the next day his patient was well enough to enter once more into conversation. "you said something about a dream of yours which had become a vision," said the doctor, with his fingers on his patient's wrist, as before. he felt the artery leap, under his pressure, falter a little, stop, then begin again, growing fuller in its beat. the heart had felt the pull of the bridle, but the spur had roused it to swift reaction. "you know the story of my past life, doctor," maurice answered; "and, i will tell you what is the vision which has taken the place of my dreams. you remember the boat-race? i watched it from a distance, but i held a powerful opera-glass in my hand, which brought the whole crew of the young ladies' boat so close to me that i could see the features, the figures, the movements, of every one of the rowers. i saw the little coxswain fling her bouquet in the track of the other boat,--you remember how the race was lost and won,--but i saw one face among those young girls which drew me away from all the rest. it was that of the young lady who pulled the bow oar, the captain of the boat's crew. i have since learned her name, you know it well,--i need not name her. since that day i have had many distant glimpses of her; and once i met her so squarely that the deadly sensation came over me, and i felt that in another moment i should fall senseless at her feet. but she passed on her way and i on mine, and the spasm which had clutched my heart gradually left it, and i was as well as before. you know that young lady, doctor?" "i do; and she is a very noble creature. you are not the first young man who has been fascinated, almost at a glance, by miss euthymia tower. and she is well worth knowing more intimately." the doctor gave him a full account of the young lady, of her early days, her character, her accomplishments. to all this he listened devoutly, and when the doctor left him he said to himself, "i will see her and speak with her, if it costs me my life." xxii euthymia. "the wonder" of the corinna institute had never willingly made a show of her gymnastic accomplishments. her feats, which were so much admired, were only her natural exercise. gradually the dumb-bells others used became too light for her, the ropes she climbed too short, the clubs she exercised with seemed as if they were made of cork instead of being heavy wood, and all the tests and meters of strength and agility had been strained beyond the standards which the records of the school had marked as their historic maxima. it was not her fault that she broke a dynamometer one day; she apologized for it, but the teacher said he wished he could have a dozen broken every year in the same way. the consciousness of her bodily strength had made her very careful in her movements. the pressure of her hand was never too hard for the tenderest little maiden whose palm was against her own. so far from priding herself on her special gifts, she was disposed to be ashamed of them. there were times and places in which she could give full play to her muscles without fear or reproach. she had her special costume for the boat and for the woods. she would climb the rugged old hemlocks now and then for the sake of a wide outlook, or to peep into the large nest where a hawk, or it may be an eagle, was raising her little brood of air-pirates. there were those who spoke of her wanderings in lonely places as an unsafe exposure. one sometimes met doubtful characters about the neighborhood, and stories were--told of occurrences which might well frighten a young girl, and make her cautious of trusting herself alone in the wild solitudes which surrounded the little village.. those who knew euthymia thought her quite equal to taking care of herself. her very look was enough to ensure the respect of any vagabond who might cross her path, and if matters came to the worst she would prove as dangerous as a panther. but it was a pity to associate this class of thoughts with a noble specimen of true womanhood. health, beauty, strength, were fine qualities, and in all these she was rich. she enjoyed all her natural gifts, and thought little about them. unwillingly, but over-persuaded by some of her friends, she had allowed her arm and hand to be modelled. the artists who saw the cast wondered if it would be possible to get the bust of the maiden from whom it was taken. nobody would have dared to suggest such an idea to her except lurida. for lurida sex was a trifling accident, to be disregarded not only in the interests of humanity, but for the sake of art. "it is a shame," she said to euthymia, "that you will not let your exquisitely moulded form be perpetuated in marble. you have no right to withhold such a model from the contemplation of your fellow-creatures. think how rare it is to see a woman who truly represents the divine idea! you belong to your race, and not to yourself,--at least, your beauty is a gift not to be considered as a piece of private property. look at the so-called venus of milo. do you suppose the noble woman who was the original of that divinely chaste statue felt any scruple about allowing the sculptor to reproduce her pure, unblemished perfections?" euthymia was always patient with her imaginative friend. she listened to her eloquent discourse, but she could not help blushing, used as she was to lurida's audacities. "the terror's" brain had run away with a large share of the blood which ought to have gone to the nourishment of her general system. she could not help admiring, almost worshipping, a companion whose being was rich in the womanly developments with which nature had so economically endowed herself. an impoverished organization carries with it certain neutral qualities which make its subject appear, in the presence of complete manhood and womanhood, like a deaf-mute among speaking persons. the deep blush which crimsoned euthymia's cheek at lurida's suggestion was in a strange contrast to her own undisturbed expression. there was a range of sensibilities of which lurida knew far less than she did of those many and difficult studies which had absorbed her vital forces. she was startled to see what an effect her proposal had produced, for euthymia was not only blushing, but there was a flame in her eyes which she had hardly ever seen before. "is this only your own suggestion?" euthymia said, "or has some one been putting the idea into your head?" the truth was that she had happened to meet the interviewer at the library, one day, and she was offended by the long, searching stare with which that individual had honored her. it occurred to her that he, or some such visitor to the place, might have spoken of her to lurida, or to some other person who had repeated what was said to lurida, as a good subject for the art of the sculptor, and she felt all her maiden sensibilities offended by the proposition. lurida could not understand her excitement, but she was startled by it. natures which are complementary of each other are liable to these accidental collisions of feeling. they get along very well together, none the worse for their differences, until all at once the tender spot of one or the other is carelessly handled in utter unconsciousness on the part of the aggressor, and the exclamation, the outcry, or the explosion explains the situation altogether too emphatically. such scenes did not frequently occur between the two friends, and this little flurry was soon over; but it served to warn lurida that miss euthymia tower was not of that class of self-conscious beauties who would be ready to dispute the empire of the venus of milo on her own ground, in defences as scanty and insufficient as those of the marble divinity. euthymia had had admirers enough, at a distance, while at school, and in the long vacations, near enough to find out that she was anything but easy to make love to. she fairly frightened more than one rash youth who was disposed to be too sentimental in her company. they overdid flattery, which she was used to and tolerated, but which cheapened the admirer in her estimation, and now and then betrayed her into an expression which made him aware of the fact, and was a discouragement to aggressive amiability. the real difficulty was that not one of her adorers had ever greatly interested her. it could not be that nature had made her insensible. it must have been because the man who was made for her had never yet shown himself. she was not easy to please, that was certain; and she was one of those young women who will not accept as a lover one who but half pleases them. she could not pick up the first stick that fell in her way and take it to shape her ideal out of. many of the good people of the village doubted whether euthymia would ever be married. "there 's nothing good enough for her in this village," said the old landlord of what had been the anchor tavern. "she must wait till a prince comes along," the old landlady said in reply. "she'd make as pretty a queen as any of them that's born to it. wouldn't she be splendid with a gold crown on her head, and di'monds a glitterin' all over her! d' you remember how handsome she looked in the tableau, when the fair was held for the dorcas society? she had on an old dress of her grandma's,--they don't make anything half so handsome nowadays,--and she was just as pretty as a pictur'. but what's the use of good looks if they scare away folks? the young fellows think that such a handsome girl as that would cost ten times as much to keep as a plain one. she must be dressed up like an empress,--so they seem to think. it ain't so with euthymy: she'd look like a great lady dressed anyhow, and she has n't got any more notions than the homeliest girl that ever stood before a glass to look at herself." in the humbler walks of arrowhead village society, similar opinions were entertained of miss euthymia. the fresh-water fisherman represented pretty well the average estimate of the class to which he belonged. "i tell ye," said he to another gentleman of leisure, whose chief occupation was to watch the coming and going of the visitors to arrowhead village,--"i tell ye that girl ain't a gon to put up with any o' them slab-sided fellahs that you see hangin' raound to look at her every sunday when she comes aout o' meetin'. it's one o' them big gents from boston or new york that'll step up an' kerry her off." in the mean time nothing could be further from the thoughts of euthymia than the prospect of an ambitious worldly alliance. the ideals of young women cost them many and great disappointments, but they save them very often from those lifelong companionships which accident is constantly trying to force upon them, in spite of their obvious unfitness. the higher the ideal, the less likely is the commonplace neighbor who has the great advantage of easy access, or the boarding-house acquaintance who can profit by those vacant hours when the least interesting of visitors is better than absolute loneliness,--the less likely are these undesirable personages to be endured, pitied, and, if not embraced, accepted, for want of something better. euthymia found so much pleasure in the intellectual companionship of lurida, and felt her own prudence and reserve so necessary to that independent young lady, that she had been contented, so far, with friendship, and thought of love only in an abstract sort of way. beneath her abstractions there was a capacity of loving which might have been inferred from the expression of her features, the light that shone in her eyes, the tones of her voice, all of which were full of the language which belongs to susceptible natures. how many women never say to themselves that they were born to love, until all at once the discovery opens upon them, as the sense that he was born a painter is said to have dawned suddenly upon correggio! like all the rest of the village and its visitors, she could not help thinking a good deal about the young man lying ill amongst strangers. she was not one of those who had sent him the three-cornered notes or even a bunch of flowers. she knew that he was receiving abounding tokens of kindness and sympathy from different quarters, and a certain inward feeling restrained her from joining in these demonstrations. if he had been suffering from some deadly and contagious malady she would have risked her life to help him, without a thought that there was any wonderful heroism in such self-devotion. her friend lurida might have been capable of the same sacrifice, but it would be after reasoning with herself as to the obligations which her sense of human rights and duties laid upon her, and fortifying her courage with the memory of noble deeds recorded of women in ancient and modern history. with euthymia the primary human instincts took precedence of all reasoning or reflection about them. all her sympathies were excited by the thought of this forlorn stranger in his solitude, but she felt the impossibility of giving any complete expression to them. she thought of mungo park in the african desert, and she envied the poor negress who not only pitied him, but had the blessed opportunity of helping and consoling him. how near were these two human creatures, each needing the other! how near in bodily presence, how far apart in their lives, with a barrier seemingly impassable between them! xxiii the meeting of maurice and euthymia. these autumnal fevers, which carry off a large number of our young people every year, are treacherous and deceptive diseases. not only are they liable, as has been mentioned, to various accidental complications which may prove suddenly fatal, but too often, after convalescence seems to be established, relapses occur which are more serious than the disease had appeared to be in its previous course. one morning dr. butts found maurice worse instead of better, as he had hoped and expected to find him. weak as he was, there was every reason to fear the issue of this return of his threatening symptoms. there was not much to do besides keeping up the little strength which still remained. it was all needed. does the reader of these pages ever think of the work a sick man as much as a well one has to perform while he is lying on his back and taking what we call his "rest"? more than a thousand times an hour, between a hundred and fifty and two hundred thousand times a week, he has to lift the bars of the cage in which his breathing organs are confined, to save himself from asphyxia. rest! there is no rest until the last long sigh tells those who look upon the dying that the ceaseless daily task, to rest from which is death, is at last finished. we are all galley-slaves, pulling at the levers of respiration,--which, rising and falling like so many oars, drive us across an unfathomable ocean from one unknown shore to another. no! never was a galley-slave so chained as we are to these four and twenty oars, at which we must tug day and night all our life long. the doctor could not find any accidental cause to account for this relapse. it presently occurred to him that there might be some local source of infection which had brought on the complaint, and was still keeping up the symptoms which were the ground of alarm. he determined to remove maurice to his own house, where he could be sure of pure air, and where he himself could give more constant attention to his patient during this critical period of his disease. it was a risk to take, but he could be carried on a litter by careful men, and remain wholly passive during the removal. maurice signified his assent, as he could hardly help doing,--for the doctor's suggestion took pretty nearly the form of a command. he thought it a matter of life and death, and was gently urgent for his patient's immediate change of residence. the doctor insisted on having maurice's books and other movable articles carried to his own house, so that he should be surrounded by familiar sights, and not worry himself about what might happen to objects which he valued, if they were left behind him. all these dispositions were quickly and quietly made, and everything was ready for the transfer of the patient to the house of the hospitable physician. paolo was at the doctor's, superintending the arrangement of maurice's effects and making all ready for his master. the nurse in attendance, a trustworthy man enough in the main, finding his patient in a tranquil sleep, left his bedside for a little fresh air. while he was at the door he heard a shouting which excited his curiosity, and he followed the sound until he found himself at the border of the lake. it was nothing very wonderful which had caused the shouting. a newfoundland dog had been showing off his accomplishments, and some of the idlers were betting as to the time it would take him to bring back to his master the various floating objects which had been thrown as far from the shore as possible. he watched the dog a few minutes, when his attention was drawn to a light wherry, pulled by one young lady and steered by another. it was making for the shore, which it would soon reach. the attendant remembered all at once, that he had left his charge, and just before the boat came to land he turned and hurried back to the patient. exactly how long he had been absent he could not have said,--perhaps a quarter of an hour, perhaps longer; the time appeared short to him, wearied with long sitting and watching. it had seemed, when he stole away from maurice's bedside, that he was not in the least needed. the patient was lying perfectly quiet, and to all appearance wanted nothing more than letting alone. it was such a comfort to look at something besides the worn features of a sick man, to hear something besides his labored breathing and faint, half-whispered words, that the temptation to indulge in these luxuries for a few minutes had proved irresistible. unfortunately, maurice's slumbers did not remain tranquil during the absence of the nurse. he very soon fell into a dream, which began quietly enough, but in the course of the sudden transitions which dreams are in the habit of undergoing became successively anxious, distressing, terrifying. his earlier and later experiences came up before him, fragmentary, incoherent, chaotic even, but vivid as reality. he was at the bottom of a coal-mine in one of those long, narrow galleries, or rather worm-holes, in which human beings pass a large part of their lives, like so many larvae boring their way into the beams and rafters of some old building. how close the air was in the stifling passage through which he was crawling! the scene changed, and he was climbing a slippery sheet of ice with desperate effort, his foot on the floor of a shallow niche, his hold an icicle ready to snap in an instant, an abyss below him waiting for his foot to slip or the icicle to break. how thin the air seemed, how desperately hard to breathe! he was thinking of mont blanc, it may be, and the fearfully rarefied atmosphere which he remembered well as one of the great trials in his mountain ascents. no, it was not mont blanc,--it was not any one of the frozen alpine summits; it was hecla that he was climbing. the smoke of the burning mountain was wrapping itself around him; he was choking with its dense fumes; he heard the flames roaring around him, he felt the hot lava beneath his feet, he uttered a faint cry, and awoke. the room was full of smoke. he was gasping for breath, strangling in the smothering oven which his chamber had become. the house was on fire! he tried to call for help, but his voice failed him, and died away in a whisper. he made a desperate effort, and rose so as to sit up in the bed for an instant, but the effort was too much for him, and he sank back upon his pillow, helpless. he felt that his hour had come, for he could not live in this dreadful atmosphere, and he was left alone. he could hear the crackle of fire as the flame crept along from one partition to another. it was a cruel fate to be left to perish in that way,--the fate that many a martyr had had to face,--to be first strangled and then burned. death had not the terror for him that it has for most young persons. he was accustomed to thinking of it calmly, sometimes wistfully, even to such a degree that the thought of self-destruction had come upon him as a temptation. but here was death in an unexpected and appalling shape. he did not know before how much he cared to live. all his old recollections came before him as it were in one long, vivid flash. the closed vista of memory opened to its far horizon-line, and past and present were pictured in a single instant of clear vision. the dread moment which had blighted his life returned in all its terror. he felt the convulsive spring in the form of a faint, impotent spasm,--the rush of air,--the thorns of the stinging and lacerating cradle into which he was precipitated. one after another those paralyzing seizures which had been like deadening blows on the naked heart seemed to repeat themselves, as real as at the moment of their occurrence. the pictures passed in succession with such rapidity that they appeared almost as if simultaneous. the vision of the "inward eye" was so intensified in this moment of peril that an instant was like an hour of common existence. those who have been very near drowning know well what this description means. the development of a photograph may not explain it, but it illustrates the curious and familiar fact of the revived recollections of the drowning man's experience. the sensitive plate has taken one look at a scene, and remembers it all, every little circumstance is there,--the hoof in air, the wing in flight, the leaf as it falls, the wave as it breaks. all there, but invisible; potentially present, but impalpable, inappreciable, as if not existing at all. a wash is poured over it, and the whole scene comes out in all its perfection of detail. in those supreme moments when death stares a man suddenly in the face the rush of unwonted emotion floods the undeveloped pictures of vanished years, stored away in the memory, the vast panorama of a lifetime, and in one swift instant the past comes out as vividly as if it were again the present. so it was at this moment with the sick man, as he lay helpless and felt that he was left to die. for he saw no hope of relief: the smoke was drifting in clouds into the room; the flames were very near; if he was not reached and rescued immediately it was all over with him. his past life had flashed before him. then all at once rose the thought of his future,--of all its possibilities, of the vague hopes which he had cherished of late that his mysterious doom would be lifted from him. there was something, then, to be lived for, something! there was a new life, it might be, in store for him, and such a new life! he thought of all he was losing. oh, could he but have lived to know the meaning of love! and the passionate desire of life came over him,--not the dread of death, but the longing for what the future might yet have of happiness for him. all this took place in the course of a very few moments. dreams and visions have little to do with measured time, and ten minutes, possibly fifteen or twenty, were all that had passed since the beginning of those nightmare terrors which were evidently suggested by the suffocating air he was breathing. what had happened? in the confusion of moving books and other articles to the doctor's house, doors and windows had been forgotten. among the rest a window opening into the cellar, where some old furniture had been left by a former occupant, had been left unclosed. one of the lazy natives, who had lounged by the house smoking a bad cigar, had thrown the burning stump in at this open window. he had no particular intention of doing mischief, but he had that indifference to consequences which is the next step above the inclination to crime. the burning stump happened to fall among the straw of an old mattress which had been ripped open. the smoker went his way without looking behind him, and it so chanced that no other person passed the house for some time. presently the straw was in a blaze, and from this the fire extended to the furniture, to the stairway leading up from the cellar, and was working its way along the entry under the stairs leading up to the apartment where maurice was lying. the blaze was fierce and swift, as it could not help being with such a mass of combustibles,--loose straw from the mattress, dry old furniture, and old warped floors which had been parching and shrinking for a score or two of years. the whole house was, in the common language of the newspaper reports, "a perfect tinder-box," and would probably be a heap of ashes in half an hour. and there was this unfortunate deserted sick man lying between life and death, beyond all help unless some unexpected assistance should come to his rescue. as the attendant drew near the house where maurice was lying, he was horror-struck to see dense volumes of smoke pouring out of the lower windows. it was beginning to make its way through the upper windows, also, and presently a tongue of fire shot out and streamed upward along the side of the house. the man shrieked fire! fire! with all his might, and rushed to the door of the building to make his way to maurice's room and save him. he penetrated but a short distance when, blinded and choking with the smoke, he rushed headlong down the stairs with a cry of despair that roused every man, woman, and child within reach of a human voice. out they came from their houses in every quarter of the village. the shout of fire! fire! was the chief aid lent by many of the young and old. some caught up pails and buckets: the more thoughtful ones filling them; the hastier snatching them up empty, trusting to find water nearer the burning building. is the sick man moved? this was the awful question first asked,--for in the little village all knew that maurice was about being transferred to the doctor's house. the attendant, white as death, pointed to the chamber where he had left him, and gasped out, "he is there!" a ladder! a ladder! was the general cry, and men and boys rushed off in search of one. but a single minute was an age now, and there was no ladder to be had without a delay of many minutes. the sick man was going to be swallowed up in the flames before it could possibly arrive. some were going for a blanket or a coverlet, in the hope that the young man might have strength enough to leap from the window and be safely caught in it. the attendant shook his head, and said faintly, "he cannot move from his bed." one of the visitors at the village,--a millionaire, it was said,--a kind-hearted man, spoke in hoarse, broken tones: "a thousand dollars to the man that will bring him from his chamber!" the fresh-water fisherman muttered, "i should like to save the man and to see the money, but it ain't a thaousan' dollars, nor ten thaousan' dollars, that'll pay a fellah for burnin' to death,--or even chokin' to death, anyhaow." the carpenter, who knew the framework of every house in the village, recent or old, shook his head. "the stairs have been shored up," he said, "and when the fists that holds 'em up goes, down they'll come. it ain't safe for no man to go over them stairs. hurry along your ladder,--that's your only chance." all was wild confusion around the burning house. the ladder they had gone for was missing from its case,--a neighbor had carried it off for the workmen who were shingling his roof. it would never get there in time. there was a fire-engine, but it was nearly half a mile from the lakeside settlement. some were throwing on water in an aimless, useless way; one was sending a thin stream through a garden syringe: it seemed like doing something, at least. but all hope of saving maurice was fast giving way, so rapid was the progress of the flames, so thick the cloud of smoke that filled the house and poured from the windows. nothing was heard but confused cries, shrieks of women, all sorts of orders to do this and that, no one knowing what was to be done. the ladder! the ladder! five minutes more and it will be too late! in the mean time the alarm of fire had reached paolo, and he had stopped his work of arranging maurice's books in the same way as that in which they had stood in his apartment, and followed in the direction of the sound, little thinking that his master was lying helpless in the burning house. "some chimney afire," he said to himself; but he would go and take a look, at any rate. before paolo had reached the scene of destruction and impending death, two young women, in boating dresses of decidedly bloomerish aspect, had suddenly joined the throng. "the wonder" and "the terror" of their school-days--miss euthymia rower and miss lurida vincent had just come from the shore, where they had left their wherry. a few hurried words told them the fearful story. maurice kirkwood was lying in the chamber to which every eye was turned, unable to move, doomed to a dreadful death. all that could be hoped was that he would perish by suffocation rather than by the flames, which would soon be upon him. the man who had attended him had just tried to reach his chamber, but had reeled back out of the door, almost strangled by the smoke. a thousand dollars had been offered to any one who would rescue the sick man, but no one had dared to make the attempt; for the stairs might fall at any moment, if the smoke did not blind and smother the man who passed them before they fell. the two young women looked each other in the face for one swift moment. "how can he be reached?" asked lurida. "is there nobody that will venture his life to save a brother like that?" "i will venture mine," said euthymia. "no! no!" shrieked lurida,--"not you! not you! it is a man's work, not yours! you shall not go!" poor lurida had forgotten all her theories in this supreme moment. but euthymia was not to be held back. taking a handkerchief from her neck, she dipped it in a pail of water and bound it about her head. then she took several deep breaths of air, and filled her lungs as full as they would hold. she knew she must not take a single breath in the choking atmosphere if she could possibly help it, and euthymia was noted for her power of staying under water so long that more than once those who saw her dive thought she would never come up again. so rapid were her movements that they paralyzed the bystanders, who would forcibly have prevented her from carrying out her purpose. her imperious determination was not to be resisted. and so euthymia, a willing martyr, if martyr she was to be, and not saviour, passed within the veil that hid the sufferer. lurida turned deadly pale, and sank fainting to the ground. she was the first, but not the only one, of her sex that fainted as euthymia disappeared in the smoke of the burning building. even the rector grew very white in the face,--so white that one of his vestry-men begged him to sit down at once, and sprinkled a few drops of water on his forehead, to his great disgust and manifest advantage. the old landlady was crying and moaning, and her husband was wiping his eyes and shaking his head sadly. "she will nevar come out alive," he said solemnly. "nor dead, neither," added the carpenter. "ther' won't be nothing left of neither of 'em but ashes." and the carpenter hid his face in his hands. the fresh-water fisherman had pulled out a rag which he called a "hangkercher,"--it had served to carry bait that morning,--and was making use of its best corner to dry the tears which were running down his cheeks. the whole village was proud of euthymia, and with these more quiet signs of grief were mingled loud lamentations, coming alike from old and young. all this was not so much like a succession of events as it was like a tableau. the lookers-on were stunned with its suddenness, and before they had time to recover their bewildered senses all was lost, or seemed lost. they felt that they should never look again on either of those young faces. the rector, not unfeeling by nature, but inveterately professional by habit, had already recovered enough to be thinking of a text for the funeral sermon. the first that occurred to him was this,--vaguely, of course, in the background of consciousness: "then shadrach, meshach, and abed-nego came forth of the midst of the fire." the village undertaker was of naturally sober aspect and reflective disposition. he had always been opposed to cremation, and here was a funeral pile blazing before his eyes. he, too, had his human sympathies, but in the distance his imagination pictured the final ceremony, and how he himself should figure in a spectacle where the usual centre piece of attraction would be wanting,--perhaps his own services uncalled for. blame him not, you whose garden-patch is not watered with the tears of mourners. the string of self-interest answers with its chord to every sound; it vibrates with the funeral-bell, it finds itself trembling to the wail of the de profundis. not always,--not always; let us not be cynical in our judgments, but common human nature, we may safely say, is subject to those secondary vibrations under the most solemn and soul-subduing influences. it seems as if we were doing great wrong to the scene we are contemplating in delaying it by the description of little circumstances and individual thoughts and feelings. but linger as we may, we cannot compress into a chapter--we could not crowd into a volume--all that passed through the minds and stirred the emotions of the awe-struck company which was gathered about the scene of danger and of terror. we are dealing with an impossibility: consciousness is a surface; narrative is a line. maurice had given himself up for lost. his breathing was becoming every moment more difficult, and he felt that his strength could hold out but a few minutes longer. "robert!" he called in faint accents. but the attendant was not there to answer. "paolo! paolo!" but the faithful servant, who would have given his life for his master, had not yet reached the place where the crowd was gathered. "oh, for a breath of air! oh, for an arm to lift me from this bed! too late! too late!" he gasped, with what might have seemed his dying expiration. "not too late!" the soft voice reached his obscured consciousness as if it had come down to him from heaven. in a single instant he found himself rolled in a blanket and in the arms of--a woman! out of the stifling chamber,--over the burning stairs,--close by the tongues of fire that were lapping up all they could reach,--out into the open air, he was borne swiftly and safely,--carried as easily as if he had been a babe, in the strong arms of "the wonder" of the gymnasium, the captain of the atalanta, who had little dreamed of the use she was to make of her natural gifts and her school-girl accomplishments. such a cry as arose from the crowd of on-lookers! it was a sound that none of them had ever heard before or could expect ever to hear again, unless he should be one of the last boat-load rescued from a sinking vessel. then, those who had resisted the overflow of their emotion, who had stood in white despair as they thought of these two young lives soon to be wrapped in their burning shroud,--those stern men--the old sea-captain, the hard-faced, moneymaking, cast-iron tradesmen of the city counting-room--sobbed like hysteric women; it was like a convulsion that overcame natures unused to those deeper emotions which many who are capable of experiencing die without ever knowing. this was the scene upon which the doctor and paolo suddenly appeared at the same moment. as the fresh breeze passed over the face of the rescued patient, his eyes opened wide, and his consciousness returned in almost supernatural lucidity. euthymia had sat down upon a bank, and was still supporting him. his head was resting on her bosom. through his awakening senses stole the murmurs of the living cradle which rocked him with the wavelike movements of respiration, the soft susurrus of the air that entered with every breath, the double beat of the heart which throbbed close to his ear. and every sense, and every instinct, and every reviving pulse told him in language like a revelation from another world that a woman's arms were around him, and that it was life, and not death, which her embrace had brought him. she would have disengaged him from her protecting hold, but the doctor made her a peremptory sign, which he followed by a sharp command:-- "do not move him a hair's breadth," he said. "wait until the litter comes. any sudden movement might be dangerous. has anybody a brandy flask about him?" one or two members of the local temperance society looked rather awkward, but did not come forward. the fresh-water fisherman was the first who spoke. "i han't got no brandy," he said, "but there's a drop or two of old medford rum in this here that you're welcome to, if it'll be of any help. i alliz kerry a little on 't in case o' gettin' wet 'n' chilled." so saying he held forth a flat bottle with the word sarsaparilla stamped on the green glass, but which contained half a pint or more of the specific on which he relied in those very frequent exposures which happen to persons of his calling. the doctor motioned back paolo, who would have rushed at once to the aid of maurice, and who was not wanted at that moment. so poor paolo, in an agony of fear for his master, was kept as quiet as possible, and had to content himself with asking all sorts of questions and repeating all the prayers he could think of to our lady and to his holy namesake the apostle. the doctor wiped the mouth of the fisherman's bottle very carefully. "take a few drops of this cordial," he said, as he held it to his patient's lips. "hold him just so, euthymia, without stirring. i will watch him, and say when he is ready to be moved. the litter is near by, waiting." dr. butts watched maurice's pulse and color. the "old medford" knew its business. it had knocked over its tens of thousands; it had its redeeming virtue, and helped to set up a poor fellow now and then. it did this for maurice very effectively. when he seemed somewhat restored, the doctor had the litter brought to his side, and euthymia softly resigned her helpless burden, which paolo and the attendant robert lifted with the aid of the doctor, who walked by the patient as he was borne to the home where mrs. butts had made all ready for his reception. as for poor lurida, who had thought herself equal to the sanguinary duties of the surgeon, she was left lying on the grass with an old woman over her, working hard with fan and smelling-salts to bring her back from her long fainting fit. xxiv the inevitable. why should not human nature be the same in arrowhead village as elsewhere? it could not seem strange to the good people of that place and their visitors that these two young persons, brought together under circumstances that stirred up the deepest emotions of which the human soul is capable, should become attached to each other. but the bond between them was stronger than any knew, except the good doctor, who had learned the great secret of maurice's life. for the first time since his infancy he had fully felt the charm which the immediate presence of youthful womanhood carries with it. he could hardly believe the fact when he found himself no longer the subject of the terrifying seizures of which he had had many and threatening experiences. it was the doctor's business to save his patient's life, if he could possibly do it. maurice had been reduced to the most perilous state of debility by the relapse which had interrupted his convalescence. only by what seemed almost a miracle had he survived the exposure to suffocation and the mental anguish through which he had passed. it was perfectly clear to dr. butts that if maurice could see the young woman to whom he owed his life, and, as the doctor felt assured, the revolution in his nervous system which would be the beginning of a new existence, it would be of far more value as a restorative agency than any or all of the drugs in the pharmacopoeia. he told this to euthymia, and explained the matter to her parents and friends. she must go with him on some of his visits. her mother should go with her, or her sister; but this was a case of life and death, and no maidenly scruples must keep her from doing her duty. the first of her visits to the sick, perhaps dying, man presented a scene not unlike the picture before spoken of on the title-page of the old edition of galen. the doctor was perhaps the most agitated of the little group. he went before the others, took his seat by the bedside, and held the patient's wrist with his finger on the pulse. as euthymia entered it gave a single bound, fluttered for an instant as if with a faint memory of its old habit, then throbbed full and strong, comparatively, as if under the spur of some powerful stimulus. euthymia's task was a delicate one, but she knew how to disguise its difficulty. "here is a flower i have brought you, mr. kirkwood," she said, and handed him a white chrysanthemum. he took it from her hand, and before she knew it he took her hand into his own, and held it with a gentle constraint. what could she do? here was the young man whose life she had saved, at least for the moment, and who was yet in danger from the disease which had almost worn out his powers of resistance. "sit down by mr. kirkwood's side," said the doctor. "he wants to thank you, if he has strength to do it, for saving him from the death which seemed inevitable." not many words could maurice command. he was weak enough for womanly tears, but their fountains no longer flowed; it was with him as with the dying, whose eyes may light up, but rarely shed a tear. the river which has found a new channel widens and deepens--it; it lets the old water-course fill up, and never returns to its forsaken bed. the tyrannous habit was broken. the prophecy of the gitana had verified itself, and the ill a fair woman had wrought a fairer woman bad conquered and abolished. the history of maurice kirkwood loses its exceptional character from the time of his restoration to his natural conditions. his convalescence was very slow and gradual, but no further accident interrupted its even progress. the season was over, the summer visitors had left arrowhead village; the chrysanthemums were going out of flower, the frosts had come, and maurice was still beneath the roof of the kind physician. the relation between him and his preserver was so entirely apart from all common acquaintances and friendships that no ordinary rules could apply to it. euthymia visited him often during the period of his extreme prostration. "you must come every day," the doctor said. "he gains with every visit you make him; he pines if you miss him for a single day." so she came and sat by him, the doctor or good mrs. butts keeping her company in his presence. he grew stronger,--began to sit up in bed; and at last euthymia found him dressed as in health, and beginning to walk about the room. she was startled. she had thought of herself as a kind of nurse, but the young gentleman could hardly be said to need a nurse any longer. she had scruples about making any further visits. she asked lurida what she thought about it. "think about it?" said lurida. "why should n't you go to see a brother as well as a sister, i should like to know? if you are afraid to go to see maurice kirkwood, i am not afraid, at any rate. if you would rather have me go than go yourself, i will do it, and let people talk just as much as they want to. shall i go instead of you?" euthymia was not quite sure that this would be the best thing for the patient. the doctor had told her he thought there were special reasons for her own course in coming daily to see him. "i am afraid," she said, "you are too bright to be safe for him in his weak state. your mind is such a stimulating one, you know. a dull sort of person like myself is better for him just now. i will continue visiting him as long as the doctor says it is important that i should; but you must defend me, lurida,--i know you can explain it all so that people will not blame me." euthymia knew full well what the effect of lurida's penetrating head-voice would be in a convalescent's chamber. she knew how that active mind of hers would set the young man's thoughts at work, when what he wanted was rest of every faculty. were not these good and sufficient reasons for her decision? what others could there be? so euthymia kept on with her visits, until she blushed to see that she was continuing her charitable office for one who was beginning to look too well to be called an invalid. it was a dangerous condition of affairs, and the busy tongues of the village gossips were free in their comments. free, but kindly, for the story of the rescue had melted every heart; and what could be more natural than that these two young people whom god had brought together in the dread moment of peril should find it hard to tear themselves asunder after the hour of danger was past? when gratitude is a bankrupt, love only can pay his debts; and if maurice gave his heart to euthymia, would not she receive it as payment in full? the change which had taken place in the vital currents of maurice kirkwood's system was as simple and solid a fact as the change in a magnetic needle when the boreal becomes the austral pole, and the austral the boreal. it was well, perhaps, that this change took place while he was enfeebled by the wasting effects of long illness. for all the long-defeated, disturbed, perverted instincts had found their natural channel from the centre of consciousness to the organ which throbs in response to every profound emotion. as his health gradually returned, euthymia could not help perceiving a flush in his cheek, a glitter in his eyes, a something in the tone of his voice, which altogether were a warning to the young maiden that the highway of friendly intercourse was fast narrowing to a lane, at the head of which her woman's eye could read plainly enough, "dangerous passing." "you look so much better to-day, mr. kirkwood," she said, "that i think i had better not play sister of charity any longer. the next time we meet i hope you will be strong enough to call on me." she was frightened to see how pale he turned,--he was weaker than she thought. there was a silence so profound and so long that mrs. butts looked up from the stocking she was knitting. they had forgotten the good woman's presence. presently maurice spoke,--very faintly, but mrs. butts dropped a stitch at the first word, and her knitting fell into her lap as she listened to what followed. "no! you must not leave me. you must never leave me. you saved my life. but you have done more than that,--more than you know or can ever know. to you i owe it that i am living; with you i live henceforth, if i am to live at all. all i am, all i hope,--will you take this poor offering from one who owes you everything, whose lips never touched those of woman or breathed a word of love before you?" what could euthymia reply to this question, uttered with all the depth of a passion which had never before found expression. not one syllable of answer did listening mrs. butts overhear. but she told her husband afterwards that there was nothing in the tableaux they had had in september to compare with what she then saw. it was indeed a pleasing picture which those two young heads presented as euthymia gave her inarticulate but infinitely expressive answer to the question of maurice kirkwood. the good-hearted woman thought it time to leave the young people. down went the stocking with the needles in it; out of her lap tumbled the ball of worsted, rolling along the floor with its yarn trailing after it, like some village matron who goes about circulating from hearth to hearth, leaving all along her track the story of the new engagement or of the arrival of the last "little stranger." not many suns had set before it was told all through arrowhead village that maurice kirkwood was the accepted lover of euthymia tower. postscript: after-glimpses. miss lurida vincent to mrs. euthymia kirkwood. arrowhead village, may . my dearest euthymia,--who would have thought, when you broke your oar as the atalanta flashed by the algonquin, last june, that before the roses came again you would find yourself the wife of a fine scholar and grand gentleman, and the head of a household such as that of which you are the mistress? you must not forget your old arrowhead village friends. what am i saying?---you forget them! no, dearest, i know your heart too well for that! you are not one of those who lay aside their old friendships as they do last years bonnet when they get a new one. you have told me all about yourself and your happiness, and now you want me to tell you about myself and what is going on in our little place. and first about myself. i have given up the idea of becoming a doctor. i have studied mathematics so much that i have grown fond of certainties, of demonstrations, and medicine deals chiefly in probabilities. the practice of the art is so mixed up with the deepest human interests that it is hard to pursue it with that even poise of the intellect which is demanded by science. i want knowledge pure and simple,--i do not fancy having it mixed. neither do i like the thought of passing my life in going from one scene of suffering to another; i am not saintly enough for such a daily martyrdom, nor callous enough to make it an easy occupation. i fainted at the first operation i saw, and i have never wanted to see another. i don't say that i wouldn't marry a physician, if the right one asked me, but the young doctor is not forthcoming at present. yes, i think i might make a pretty good doctor's wife. i could teach him a good deal about headaches and backaches and all sorts of nervous revolutions, as the doctor says the french women call their tantrums. i don't know but i should be willing to let him try his new medicines on me. if he were a homeopath, i know i should; for if a billionth of a grain of sugar won't begin to sweeten my tea or coffee, i don't feel afraid that a billionth of a grain of anything would poison me,--no, not if it were snake-venom; and if it were not disgusting, i would swallow a handful of his lachesis globules, to please my husband. but if i ever become a doctor's wife, my husband will not be one of that kind of practitioners, you may be sure of that, nor an "eclectic," nor a "faith-cure man." on the whole, i don't think i want to be married at all. i don't like the male animal very well (except such noble specimens as your husband). they are all tyrants,--almost all,--so far as our sex is concerned, and i often think we could get on better without them. however, the creatures are useful in the society. they send us papers, some of them well worth reading. you have told me so often that you would like to know how the society is getting on, and to read some of the papers sent to it if they happened to be interesting, that i have laid aside one or two manuscripts expressly for your perusal. you will get them by and by. i am delighted to know that you keep paolo with you. arrowhead village misses him dreadfully, i can tell you. that is the reason people become so attached to these servants with southern sunlight in their natures? i suppose life is not long enough to cool their blood down to our northern standard. then they are so child-like, whereas the native of these latitudes is never young after he is ten or twelve years old. mother says,--you know mother's old-fashioned notions, and how shrewd and sensible she is in spite of them,--mother says that when she was a girl families used to import young men and young women from the country towns, who called themselves "helps," not servants,--no, that was scriptural; "but they did n't know everything down in judee," and it is not good american language. she says that these people would live in the same household until they were married, and the women often remain in the same service until they died or were old and worn out, and then, what with the money they had saved and the care and assistance they got from their former employers, would pass a decent and comfortable old age, and be buried in the family lot. mother has made up her mind to the change, but grandmother is bitter about it. she says there never was a country yet where the population was made up of "ladies" and "gentlemen," and she does n't believe there can be; nor that putting a spread eagle on a copper makes a gold dollar of it. she is a pessimist after her own fashion. she thinks all sentiment is dying out of our people. no loyalty for the sovereign, the king-post of the political edifice, she says; no deep attachment between employer and employed; no reverence of the humbler members of a household for its heads; and to make sure of continued corruption and misery, what she calls "universal suffrage" emptying all the sewers into the great aqueduct we all must drink from. "universal suffrage!" i suppose we women don't belong to the universe! wait until we get a chance at the ballot-box, i tell grandma, and see if we don't wash out the sewers before they reach the aqueduct! but my pen has run away with men i was thinking of paolo, and what a pleasant thing it is to have one of those child-like, warm-hearted, attachable, cheerful, contented, humble, faithful, companionable, but never presuming grownup children of the south waiting on one, as if everything he could do for one was a pleasure, and carrying a look of content in his face which makes every one who meets him happier for a glimpse of his features. it does seem a shame that the charming relation of master and servant, intelligent authority and cheerful obedience, mutual interest in each other's welfare, thankful recognition of all the advantages which belong to domestic service in the better class of families, should be almost wholly confined to aliens and their immediate descendants. why should hannah think herself so much better than bridget? when they meet at the polls together, as they will before long, they will begin to feel more of an equality than is recognized at present. the native female turns her nose up at the idea of "living out;" does she think herself so much superior to the women of other nationalities? our women will have to come to it,--so grandmother says,--in another generation or two, and in a hundred years, according to her prophecy, there will be a new set of old "miss pollys" and "miss betseys" who have lived half a century in the same families, respectful and respected, cherished, cared for in time of need (citizens as well as servants, holding a ballot as well as a broom, i tell her), and bringing back to us the lowly, underfoot virtues of contentment and humility, which we do so need to carpet the barren and hungry thoroughfare of our unstratified existence. there, i have got a-going, and am forgetting all the news i have to tell you. there is an engagement you will want to know all about. it came to pass through our famous boat-race, which you and i remember, and shall never forget as long as we live. it seems that the young fellow who pulled the bow oar of that men's college boat which we had the pleasure of beating got some glimpses of georgina, our handsome stroke oar. i believe he took it into his head that it was she who threw the bouquet that won the race for us. he was, as you know, greatly mistaken, and ought to have made love to me, only he did n't. well, it seems he came posting down to the institute just before the vacation was over, and there got a sight of georgina. i wonder whether she told him she didn't fling the bouquet! anyhow, the acquaintance began in that way, and now it seems that this young fellow, good-looking and a bright scholar, but with a good many months more to pass in college, is her captive. it was too bad. just think of my bouquet's going to another girl's credit! no matter, the old atalanta story was paid off, at any rate. you want to know all about dear dr. butts. they say he has just been offered a professorship in one of the great medical colleges. i asked him about it, and he did not say that he had or had not. "but," said be, "suppose that i had been offered such a place; do you think i ought to accept it and leave arrowhead village? let us talk it over," said he, "just as if i had had such an offer." i told him he ought to stay. there are plenty of men that can get into a professor's chair, i said, and talk like solomons to a class of wondering pupils: but once get a really good doctor in a place, a man who knows all about everybody, whether they have this or that tendency, whether when they are sick they have a way of dying or a way of getting well, what medicines agree with them and what drugs they cannot take, whether they are of the sort that think nothing is the matter with them until they are dead as smoked herring, or of the sort that send for the minister if they get a stomach-ache from eating too many cucumbers,--who knows all about all the people within half a dozen miles (all the sensible ones, that is, who employ a regular practitioner),--such a man as that, i say, is not to be replaced like a missing piece out of a springfield musket or a waltham watch. don't go! said i. stay here and save our precious lives, if you can, or at least put us through in the proper way, so that we needn't be ashamed of ourselves for dying, if we must die. well, dr. butts is not going to leave us. i hope you will have no unwelcome occasion for his services,--you are never ill, you know,--but, anyhow, he is going to be here, and no matter what happens he will be on hand. the village news is not of a very exciting character. item . a new house is put up over the ashes of the one in which your husband lived while he was here. it was planned by one of the autochthonous inhabitants with the most ingenious combination of inconveniences that the natural man could educe from his original perversity of intellect. to get at any one room you must pass through every other. it is blind, or nearly so, on the only side which has a good prospect, and commands a fine view of the barn and pigsty through numerous windows. item . we have a small fire-engine near the new house which can be worked by a man or two, and would be equal to the emergency of putting out a bunch of fire-crackers. item . we have a new ladder, in a bog, close to the new fire-engine, so if the new house catches fire, like its predecessor, and there should happen to, be a sick man on an upper floor, he can be got out without running the risk of going up and down a burning staircase. what a blessed thing it was that there was no fire-engine near by and no ladder at hand on the day of the great rescue! if there had been, what a change in your programme of life! you remember that "cup of tea spilt on mrs. masham's apron," which we used to read of in one of everett's orations, and all its wide-reaching consequences in the affairs of europe. i hunted up that cup of tea as diligently as ever a boston matron sought for the last leaves in her old caddy after the tea-chests had been flung overboard at griffin's wharf,--but no matter about that, now. that is the way things come about in this world. i must write a lecture on lucky mishaps, or, more elegantly, fortunate calamities. it will be just the converse of that odd essay of swift's we read together, the awkward and stupid things done with the best intentions. perhaps i shall deliver the lecture in your city: you will come and hear it, and bring him, won't you, dearest? always, your loving lurida. miss lurida vincent to mrs. euthymia kirkwood. it seems forever since you left us, dearest euthymia! and are you, and is your husband, and paolo,--good paolo,--are you all as well and happy as you have been and as you ought to be? i suppose our small village seems a very quiet sort of place to pass the winter in, now that you have become accustomed to the noise and gayety of a great city. for all that, it is a pretty busy place this winter, i can tell you. we have sleighing parties,--i never go to them, myself, because i can't keep warm, and my mind freezes up when my blood cools down below or deg. fahrenheit. i had a great deal rather sit by a good fire and read about arctic discoveries. but i like very well to hear the bells' jingling and to see the young people trying to have a good time as hard as they do at a picnic. it may be that they do, but to me a picnic is purgatory and a sleigh-ride that other place, where, as my favorite milton says, "frost performs the effect of fire." i believe i have quoted him correctly; i ought to, for i could repeat half his poems from memory once, if i cannot now. you must have plenty of excitement in your city life. i suppose you recognized yourself in one of the society columns of the "household inquisitor:" "mrs. e. k., very beautiful, in an elegant," etc., etc, "with pearls," etc., etc.,--as if you were not the ornament of all that you wear, no matter what it is! i am so glad that you have married a scholar! why should not maurice--you both tell me to call him so--take the diplomatic office which has been offered him? it seems to me that he would find himself in exactly the right place. he can talk in two or three languages, has good manners, and a wife who--well, what shall i say of mrs. kirkwood but that "she would be good company for a queen," as our old friend the quondam landlady of the anchor tavern used to say? i should so like to see you presented at court! it seems to me that i should be willing to hold your train for the sake of seeing you in your court feathers and things. as for myself, i have been thinking of late that i would become either a professional lecturer or head mistress of a great school or college for girls. i have tried the first business a little. last month i delivered a lecture on quaternions. i got three for my audience; two came over from the institute, and one from that men's college which they try to make out to be a university, and where no female is admitted unless she belongs among the quadrupeds. i enjoyed lecturing, but the subject is a difficult one, and i don't think any one of them had any very clear notion of what i was talking about, except rhodora,--and i know she did n't. to tell the truth, i was lecturing to instruct myself. i mean to try something easier next time. i have thought of the basque language and literature. what do you say to that? the society goes on famously. we have had a paper presented and read lately which has greatly amused some of us and provoked a few of the weaker sort. the writer is that crabbed old professor of belles-lettres at that men's college over there. he is dreadfully hard on the poor "poets," as they call themselves. it seems that a great many young persons, and more especially a great many young girls, of whom the institute has furnished a considerable proportion, have taken to sending him their rhymed productions to be criticised,--expecting to be praised, no doubt, every one of them. i must give you one of the sauciest extracts from his paper in his own words: "it takes half my time to read the 'poems' sent me by young people of both sexes. they would be more shy of doing it if they knew that i recognize a tendency to rhyming as a common form of mental weakness, and the publication of a thin volume of verse as prima facie evidence of ambitious mediocrity, if not inferiority. of course there are exceptions to this rule of judgment, but i maintain that the presumption is always against the rhymester as compared with the less pretentious persons about him or her, busy with some useful calling,--too busy to be tagging rhymed commonplaces together. just now there seems to be an epidemic of rhyming as bad as the dancing mania, or the sweating sickness. after reading a certain amount of manuscript verse one is disposed to anathematize the inventor of homophonous syllabification. [this phrase made a great laugh when it was read.] this, that is rhyming, must have been found out very early, "'where are you, adam?' "'here am i, madam;' "but it can never have been habitually practised until after the fall. the intrusion of tintinnabulating terminations into the conversational intercourse of men and angels would have spoiled paradise itself. milton would not have them even in paradise lost, you remember. for my own part, i wish certain rhymes could be declared contraband of written or printed language. nothing should be allowed to be hurled at the world or whirled with it, or furled upon it or curled over it; all eyes should be kept away from the skies, in spite of os homini sublime dedit; youth should be coupled with all the virtues except truth; earth should never be reminded of her birth; death should never be allowed to stop a mortal's breath, nor the bell to sound his knell, nor flowers from blossoming bowers to wave over his grave or show their bloom upon his tomb. we have rhyming dictionaries,--let us have one from which all rhymes are rigorously excluded. the sight of a poor creature grubbing for rhymes to fill up his sonnet, or to cram one of those voracious, rhyme-swallowing rigmaroles which some of our drudging poetical operatives have been exhausting themselves of late to satiate with jingles, makes my head ache and my stomach rebel. work, work of some kind, is the business of men and women, not the making of jingles! no,--no,--no! i want to see the young people in our schools and academies and colleges, and the graduates of these institutions, lifted up out of the little dismal swamp of self-contemplating and self-indulging and self-commiserating emotionalism which is surfeiting the land with those literary sandwiches,--thin slices of tinkling sentimentality between two covers looking like hard-baked gilt gingerbread. but what faces these young folks make up at my good advice! they get tipsy on their rhymes. nothing intoxicates one like his--or her--own verses, and they hold on to their metre-ballad-mongering as the fellows that inhale nitrous oxide hold on to the gas-bag." we laughed over this essay of the old professor; though it hit us pretty hard. the best part of the joke is that the old man himself published a thin volume of poems when he was young, which there is good reason to think he is not very proud of, as they say he buys up all the copies he can find in the shops. no matter what they say, i can't help agreeing with him about this great flood of "poetry," as it calls itself, and looking at the rhyming mania much as he does. how i do love real poetry! that is the reason hate rhymes which have not a particle of it in them. the foolish scribblers that deal in them are like bad workmen in a carpenter's shop. they not only turn out bad jobs of work, but they spoil the tools for better workmen. there is hardly a pair of rhymes in the english language that is not so dulled and hacked and gapped by these 'prentice hands that a master of the craft hates to touch them, and yet he cannot very well do without them. i have not been besieged as the old professor has been with such multitudes of would-be-poetical aspirants that he could not even read their manuscripts, but i have had a good many letters containing verses, and i have warned the writers of the delusion under which they were laboring. you may like to know that i have just been translating some extracts from the greek anthology. i send you a few specimens of my work, with a dedication to the shade of sappho. i hope you will find something of the greek rhythm in my versions, and that i have caught a spark of inspiration from the impassioned lesbian. i have found great delight in this work, at any rate, and am never so happy as when i read from my manuscript or repeat from memory the lines into which i have transferred the thought of the men and women of two thousand years ago, or given rhythmical expression to my own rapturous feelings with regard to them. i must read you my dedication to the shade of sappho. i cannot help thinking that you will like it better than either of my last two, the song of the roses, or the wail of the weeds. how i do miss you, dearest! i want you: i want you to listen to what i have written; i want you to hear all about my plans for the future; i want to look at you, and think how grand it must be to feel one's self to be such a noble and beautiful-creature; i want to wander in the woods with you, to float on the lake, to share your life and talk over every day's doings with you. alas! i feel that we have parted as two friends part at a port of embarkation: they embrace, they kiss each other's cheeks, they cover their faces and weep, they try to speak good-by to each other, they watch from the pier and from the deck; the two forms grow less and less, fainter and fainter in the distance, two white handkerchiefs flutter once and again, and yet once more, and the last visible link of the chain which binds them has parted. dear, dear, dearest euthymia, my eyes are running over with tears when i think that we may never, never meet again. don't you want some more items of village news? we are threatened with an influx of stylish people: "buttons" to answer the door-bell, in place of the chamber-maid; "butler," in place of the "hired man;" footman in top-boots and breeches, cockade on hat, arms folded a la napoleon; tandems, "drags," dogcarts, and go-carts of all sorts. it is rather amusing to look at their ambitious displays, but it takes away the good old country flavor of the place. i don't believe you mean to try to astonish us when you come back to spend your summers here. i suppose you must have a large house, and i am sure you will have a beautiful one. i suppose you will have some fine horses, and who would n't be glad to? but i do not believe you will try to make your old arrowhead village friends stare their eyes out of their heads with a display meant to outshine everybody else that comes here. you can have a yacht on the lake, if you like, but i hope you will pull a pair of oars in our old boat once in a while, with me to steer you. i know you will be just the same dear-euthymia you always were and always must be. how happy you must make such a man as maurice kirkwood! and how happy you ought to be with him!--a man who knows what is in books, and who has seen for himself, what is in men. if he has not seen so much of women, where could he study all that is best in womanhood as he can in his own wife? only one thing that dear euthymia lacks. she is not quite pronounced enough in her views as to the rights and the wrongs of the sex. when i visit you, as you say i shall, i mean to indoctrinate maurice with sound views on that subject. i have written an essay for the society, which i hope will go a good way towards answering all the objections to female suffrage. i mean to read it to your husband, if you will let me, as i know you will, and perhaps you would like to hear it,--only you know my thoughts on the subject pretty well already. with all sorts of kind messages to your dear husband, and love to your precious self, i am ever your lurida. dr. butts to mrs. euthymia kirkwood. my dear euthymia,--my pen refuses to call you by any other name. sweet-souled you are, and your latinized greek name is--the one which truly designates you. i cannot tell you how we have followed you, with what interest and delight through your travels, as you have told their story in your letters to your mother. she has let us have the privilege of reading them, and we have been with you in steamer, yacht, felucca, gondola, nile-boat; in all sorts of places, from crowded capitals to "deserts where no men abide,"--everywhere keeping company with you in your natural and pleasant descriptions of your experiences. and now that you have returned to your home in the great city i must write you a few lines of welcome, if nothing more. you will find arrowhead village a good deal changed since you left it. we are discovered by some of those over-rich people who make the little place upon which they swarm a kind of rural city. when this happens the consequences are striking,--some of them desirable and some far otherwise. the effect of well-built, well-furnished, well-kept houses and of handsome grounds always maintained in good order about them shows itself in a large circuit around the fashionable centre. houses get on a new coat of paint, fences are kept in better order, little plots of flowers show themselves where only ragged weeds had rioted, the inhabitants present themselves in more comely attire and drive in handsomer vehicles with more carefully groomed horses. on the other hand, there is a natural jealousy on the part of the natives of the region suddenly become fashionable. they have seen the land they sold at farm prices by the acre coming to be valued by the foot, like the corner lots in a city. their simple and humble modes of life look almost poverty-stricken in the glare of wealth and luxury which so outshines their plain way of living. it is true that many of them have found them selves richer than in former days, when the neighborhood lived on its own resources. they know how to avail themselves of their altered position, and soon learn to charge city prices for country products; but nothing can make people feel rich who see themselves surrounded by men whose yearly income is many times their own whole capital. i think it would be better if our rich men scattered themselves more than they do,--buying large country estates, building houses and stables which will make it easy to entertain their friends, and depending for society on chosen guests rather than on the mob of millionaires who come together for social rivalry. but i do not fret myself about it. society will stratify itself according to the laws of social gravitation. it will take a generation or two more, perhaps, to arrange the strata by precipitation and settlement, but we can always depend on one principle to govern the arrangement of the layers. people interested in the same things will naturally come together. the youthful heirs of fortunes who keep splendid yachts have little to talk about with the oarsman who pulls about on the lake or the river. what does young dives, who drives his four-in-hand and keeps a stable full of horses, care about lazarus, who feels rich in the possession of a horse-railroad ticket? you know how we live at our house, plainly, but with a certain degree of cultivated propriety. we make no pretensions to what is called "style." we are still in that social stratum where the article called "a napkin-ring" is recognized as admissible at the dinner-table. that fact sufficiently defines our modest pretensions. the napkin-ring is the boundary mark between certain classes. but one evening mrs. butts and i went out to a party given by the lady of a worthy family, where the napkin itself was a newly introduced luxury. the conversation of the hostess and her guests turned upon details of the kitchen and the laundry; upon the best mode of raising bread, whether with "emptins" (emptyings, yeast) or baking powder; about "bluing" and starching and crimping, and similar matters. poor mrs. butts! she knew nothing more about such things than her hostess did about shakespeare and the musical glasses. what was the use of trying to enforce social intercourse under such conditions? incompatibility of temper has been considered ground for a divorce; incompatibility of interests is a sufficient warrant for social separation. the multimillionaires have so much that is common among themselves, and so little that they share with us of moderate means, that they will naturally form a specialized class, and in virtue of their palaces, their picture-galleries, their equipages, their yachts, their large hospitality, constitute a kind of exclusive aristocracy. religion, which ought to be the great leveller, cannot reduce these elements to the same grade. you may read in the parable, "friend, how camest thou in hither not having a wedding garment?" the modern version would be, "how came you at mrs. billion's ball not having a dress on your back which came from paris?" the little church has got a new stained window, a saint who reminds me of hamlet's uncle,--a thing "of shreds and patches," but rather pretty to look at, with an inscription under it which is supposed to be the name of the person in whose honor the window was placed in the church. smith was a worthy man and a faithful churchwarden, and i hope posterity will be able to spell out his name on his monumental window; but that old english lettering would puzzle mephistopheles himself, if he found himself before this memorial tribute, on the inside,--you know he goes to church sometimes, if you remember your faust. the rector has come out, in a quiet way, as an evolutionist. he has always been rather "broad" in his views, but cautious in their expression. you can tell the three branches of the mother-island church by the way they carry their heads. the low-church clergy look down, as if they felt themselves to be worms of the dust; the high-church priest drops his head on one side, after the pattern of the mediaeval saints; the broad-church preacher looks forward and round about him, as if he felt himself the heir of creation. our rector carries his head in the broad-church aspect, which i suppose is the least open to the charge of affectation,--in fact, is the natural and manly way of carrying it. the society has justified its name of pansophian of late as never before. lurida has stirred up our little community and its neighbors, so that we get essays on all sorts of subjects, poems and stories in large numbers. i know all about it, for she often consults me as to the merits of a particular contribution. what is to be the fate of lurida? i often think, with no little interest and some degree of anxiety, about her future. her body is so frail and her mind so excessively and constantly active that i am afraid one or the other will give way. i do not suppose she thinks seriously of ever being married. she grows more and more zealous in behalf of her own sex, and sterner in her judgment of the other. she declares that she never would marry any man who was not an advocate of female suffrage, and as these gentlemen are not very common hereabouts the chance is against her capturing any one of the hostile sex. what do you think? i happened, just as i was writing the last sentence, to look out of my window, and whom should i see but lurida, with a young man in tow, listening very eagerly to her conversation, according to all appearance! i think he must be a friend of the rector, as i have seen a young man like this one in his company. who knows? affectionately yours, etc. dr. butts to mrs. butts. my beloved wife,--this letter will tell you more news than you would have thought could have been got together in this little village during the short time you have been staying away from it. lurida vincent is engaged! he is a clergyman with a mathematical turn. the story is that he put a difficult problem into one of the mathematical journals, and that lurida presented such a neat solution that the young man fell in love with her on the strength of it. i don't think the story is literally true, nor do i believe that other report that he offered himself to her in the form of an equation chalked on the blackboard; but that it was an intellectual rather than a sentimental courtship i do not doubt. lurida has given up the idea of becoming a professional lecturer,--so she tells me,--thinking that her future husband's parish will find her work enough to do. a certain amount of daily domestic drudgery and unexciting intercourse with simple-minded people will be the best thing in the world for that brain of hers, always simmering with some new project in its least fervid condition. all our summer visitors have arrived. euthymia mrs. maurice kirkwood and her husband and little maurice are here in their beautiful house looking out on the lake. they gave a grand party the other evening. you ought to have been there, but i suppose you could not very well have left your sister in the middle of your visit: all the grand folks were there, of course. lurida and her young man--gabriel is what she calls him--were naturally the objects of special attention. paolo acted as major-domo, and looked as if he ought to be a major-general. nothing could be pleasanter than the way in which mr. and mrs. kirkwood received their plain country neighbors; that is, just as they did the others of more pretensions, as if they were really glad to see them, as i am sure they were. the old landlord and his wife had two arm-chairs to themselves, and i saw miranda with the servants of the household looking in at the dancers and out at the little groups in the garden, and evidently enjoying it as much as her old employers. it was a most charming and successful party. we had two sensations in the course of the evening. one was pleasant and somewhat exciting, the other was thrilling and of strange and startling interest. you remember how emaciated poor maurice kirkwood was left after his fever, in that first season when he was among us. he was out in a boat one day, when a ring slipped off his thin finger and sunk in a place where the water was rather shallow. "jake"--you know jake,--everybody knows jake--was rowing him. he promised to come to the spot and fish up the ring if he could possibly find it. he was seen poking about with fish-hooks at the end of a pole, but nothing was ever heard from him about the ring. it was an antique intaglio stone in an etruscan setting,--a wild goose flying over the campagna. mr. kirkwood valued it highly, and regretted its loss very much. while we were in the garden, who should appear at the gate but jake, with a great basket, inquiring for mr. kirkwood. "come," said maurice to me, "let us see what our old friend the fisherman has brought us. what have you got there, jake?" "what i 've got? wall, i 'll tell y' what i've got: i 've got the biggest pickerel that's been ketched in this pond for these ten year. an' i 've got somethin' else besides the pickerel. when i come to cut him open, what do you think i faound in his insides but this here ring o' yourn,"--and he showed the one maurice had lost so long before. there it was, as good as new, after having tried jonah's style of housekeeping for all that time. there are those who discredit jake's story about finding the ring in the fish; anyhow, there was the ring and there was the pickerel. i need not say that jake went off well paid for his pickerel and the precious contents of its stomach. now comes the chief event of the evening. i went early by special invitation. maurice took me into his library, and we sat down together. "i have something of great importance," he said, "to say to you. i learned within a few days that my cousin laura is staying with a friend in the next town to this. you know, doctor, that we have never met since the last, almost fatal, experience of my early years. i have determined to defy the strength of that deadly chain of associations connected with her presence, and i have begged her to come this evening with the friends with whom she is staying. several letters passed between us, for it was hard to persuade her that there was no longer any risk in my meeting her. her imagination was almost as deeply impressed as mine had been at those alarming interviews, and i had to explain to her fully that i had become quite indifferent to the disturbing impressions of former years. so, as the result of our correspondence, laura is coming this evening, and i wish you to be present at our meeting. there is another reason why i wish you to be here. my little boy is not far from the--age at which i received my terrifying, almost disorganizing shock. i mean to have little maurice brought into the presence of laura, who is said to be still a very handsome woman, and see if he betrays any hint of that peculiar sensitiveness which showed itself in my threatening seizure. it seemed to me not impossible that he might inherit some tendency of that nature, and i wanted you to be at hand if any sign of danger should declare itself. for myself i have no fear. some radical change has taken place in my nervous system. i have been born again, as it were, in my susceptibilities, and am in certain respects a new man. but i must know how it is with my little maurice." imagine with what interest i looked forward to this experiment; for experiment it was, and not without its sources of anxiety, as it seemed to me. the evening wore along; friends and neighbors came in, but no laura as yet. at last i heard the sound of wheels, and a carriage stopped at the door. two ladies and a gentleman got out, and soon entered the drawing room. "my cousin laura!" whispered maurice to me, and went forward to meet her. a very handsome woman, who might well have been in the thirties,--one of those women so thoroughly constituted that they cannot help being handsome at every period of life. i watched them both as they approached each other. both looked pale at first, but maurice soon recovered his usual color, and laura's natural, rich bloom came back by degrees. their emotion at meeting was not to be wondered at, but there was no trace in it of the paralyzing influence on the great centres of life which had once acted upon its fated victim like the fabled head which turned the looker-on into a stone. "is the boy still awake?" said maurice to paolo, who, as they used to say of pushee at the old anchor tavern, was everywhere at once on that gay and busy evening. "what! mahser maurice asleep an' all this racket going on? i hear him crowing like young cockerel when he fus' smell daylight." "tell the nurse to bring him down quietly to the little room that leads out of the library." the child was brought down in his night-clothes, wide awake, wondering apparently at the noise he heard, which he seemed to think was for his special amusement. "see if he will go to that lady," said his father. both of us held our breath as laura stretched her arms towards little maurice. the child looked for an instant searchingly, but fearlessly, at her glowing cheeks, her bright eyes, her welcoming smile, and met her embrace as she clasped him to her bosom as if he had known her all his days. the mortal antipathy had died out of the soul and the blood of maurice kirkwood at that supreme moment when he found himself snatched from the grasp of death and cradled in the arms of euthymia. -------------------------- in closing the new portfolio i remember that it began with a prefix which the reader may by this time have forgotten, namely, the first opening. it was perhaps presumptuous to thus imply the probability of a second opening. i am reminded from time to time by the correspondents who ask a certain small favor of me that, as i can only expect to be with my surviving contemporaries a very little while longer, they would be much obliged if i would hurry up my answer before it is too late. they are right, these delicious unknown friends of mine, in reminding me of a fact which i cannot gainsay and might suffer to pass from my recollection. i thank them for recalling my attention to a truth which i shall be wiser, if not more hilarious, for remembering. no, i had no right to say the first opening. how do i know that i shall have a chance to open it again? how do i know that anybody will want it to be opened a second time? how do i know that i shall feel like opening it? it is safest neither to promise to open the new portfolio once more, nor yet to pledge myself to keep it closed hereafter. there are many papers potentially existent in it, some of which might interest a reader here and there. the records of the pansophian society contain a considerable number of essays, poems, stories, and hints capable of being expanded into presentable dimensions. in the mean time i will say with prospero, addressing my old readers, and my new ones, if such i have, "if you be pleased, retire into my cell and there repose: a turn or two i'll walk, to still my beating mind." when it has got quiet i may take up the new portfolio again, and consider whether it is worth while to open it consider whether it is worth while to open it. pages from an old volume of life a collection of essays by oliver wendell holmes contents: bread and the newspaper my hunt after "the captain" the inevitable trial cinders from ashes the pulpit and the pew bread and the newspaper. (september, .) this is the new version of the panem et circenses of the roman populace. it is our ultimatum, as that was theirs. they must have something to eat, and the circus-shows to look at. we must have something to eat, and the papers to read. everything else we can give up. if we are rich, we can lay down our carriages, stay away from newport or saratoga, and adjourn the trip to europe sine die. if we live in a small way, there are at least new dresses and bonnets and every-day luxuries which we can dispense with. if the young zouave of the family looks smart in his new uniform, its respectable head is content, though he himself grow seedy as a caraway-umbel late in the season. he will cheerfully calm the perturbed nap of his old beaver by patient brushing in place of buying a new one, if only the lieutenant's jaunty cap is what it should be. we all take a pride in sharing the epidemic economy of the time. only bread and the newspaper we must have, whatever else we do without. how this war is simplifying our mode of being! we live on our emotions, as the sick man is said in the common speech to be nourished by his fever. our ordinary mental food has become distasteful, and what would have been intellectual luxuries at other times, are now absolutely repulsive. all this change in our manner of existence implies that we have experienced some very profound impression, which will sooner or later betray itself in permanent effects on the minds and bodies of many among us. we cannot forget corvisart's observation of the frequency with which diseases of the heart were noticed as the consequence of the terrible emotions produced by the scenes of the great french revolution. laennec tells the story of a convent, of which he was the medical director, where all the nuns were subjected to the severest penances and schooled in the most painful doctrines. they all became consumptive soon after their entrance, so that, in the course of his ten years' attendance, all the inmates died out two or three times, and were replaced by new ones. he does not hesitate to attribute the disease from which they suffered to those depressing moral influences to which they were subjected. so far we have noticed little more than disturbances of the nervous system as a consequence of the war excitement in non-combatants. take the first trifling example which comes to our recollection. a sad disaster to the federal army was told the other day in the presence of two gentlemen and a lady. both the gentlemen complained of a sudden feeling at the epigastrium, or, less learnedly, the pit of the stomach, changed color, and confessed to a slight tremor about the knees. the lady had a "grande revolution," as french patients say,--went home, and kept her bed for the rest of the day. perhaps the reader may smile at the mention of such trivial indispositions, but in more sensitive natures death itself follows in some cases from no more serious cause. an old, gentleman fell senseless in fatal apoplexy, on hearing of napoleon's return from elba. one of our early friends, who recently died of the same complaint, was thought to have had his attack mainly in consequence of the excitements of the time. we all know what the war fever is in our young men,--what a devouring passion it becomes in those whom it assails. patriotism is the fire of it, no doubt, but this is fed with fuel of all sorts. the love of adventure, the contagion of example, the fear of losing the chance of participating in the great events of the time, the desire of personal distinction, all help to produce those singular transformations which we often witness, turning the most peaceful of our youth into the most ardent of our soldiers. but something of the same fever in a different form reaches a good many non-combatants, who have no thought of losing a drop of precious blood belonging to themselves or their families. some of the symptoms we shall mention are almost universal; they are as plain in the people we meet everywhere as the marks of an influenza, when that is prevailing. the first is a nervous restlessness of a very peculiar character. men cannot think, or write, or attend to their ordinary business. they stroll up and down the streets, or saunter out upon the public places. we confessed to an illustrious author that we laid down the volume of his work which we were reading when the war broke out. it was as interesting as a romance, but the romance of the past grew pale before the red light of the terrible present. meeting the same author not long afterwards, he confessed that he had laid down his pen at the same time that we had closed his book. he could not write about the sixteenth century any more than we could read about it, while the nineteenth was in the very agony and bloody sweat of its great sacrifice. another most eminent scholar told us in all simplicity that he had fallen into such a state that he would read the same telegraphic dispatches over and over again in different papers, as if they were new, until he felt as if he were an idiot. who did not do just the same thing, and does not often do it still, now that the first flush of the fever is over? another person always goes through the side streets on his way for the noon extra,--he is so afraid somebody will meet him and tell the news he wishes to read, first on the bulletin-board, and then in the great capitals and leaded type of the newspaper. when any startling piece of war-news comes, it keeps repeating itself in our minds in spite of all we can do. the same trains of thought go tramping round in circle through the brain, like the supernumeraries that make up the grand army of a stage-show. now, if a thought goes round through the brain a thousand times in a day, it will have worn as deep a track as one which has passed through it once a week for twenty years. this accounts for the ages we seem to have lived since the twelfth of april last, and, to state it more generally, for that ex post facto operation of a great calamity, or any very powerful impression, which we once illustrated by the image of a stain spreading backwards from the leaf of life open before as through all those which we have already turned. blessed are those who can sleep quietly in times like these! yet, not wholly blessed, either; for what is more painful than the awaking from peaceful unconsciousness to a sense that there is something wrong, we cannot at first think what,--and then groping our way about through the twilight of our thoughts until we come full upon the misery, which, like some evil bird, seemed to have flown away, but which sits waiting for us on its perch by our pillow in the gray of the morning? the converse of this is perhaps still more painful. many have the feeling in their waking hours that the trouble they are aching with is, after all, only a dream,--if they will rub their eyes briskly enough and shake themselves, they will awake out of it, and find all their supposed grief is unreal. this attempt to cajole ourselves out of an ugly fact always reminds us of those unhappy flies who have been indulging in the dangerous sweets of the paper prepared for their especial use. watch one of them. he does not feel quite well,--at least, he suspects himself of indisposition. nothing serious,--let us just rub our fore-feet together, as the enormous creature who provides for us rubs his hands, and all will be right. he rubs them with that peculiar twisting movement of his, and pauses for the effect. no! all is not quite right yet. ah! it is our head that is not set on just as it ought to be. let us settle that where it should be, and then we shall certainly be in good trim again. so he pulls his head about as an old lady adjusts her cap, and passes his fore-paw over it like a kitten washing herself. poor fellow! it is not a fancy, but a fact, that he has to deal with. if he could read the letters at the head of the sheet, he would see they were fly-paper.--so with us, when, in our waking misery, we try to think we dream! perhaps very young persons may not understand this; as we grow older, our waking and dreaming life run more and more into each other. another symptom of our excited condition is seen in the breaking up of old habits. the newspaper is as imperious as a russian ukase; it will be had, and it will be read. to this all else must give place. if we must go out at unusual hours to get it, we shall go, in spite of after-dinner nap or evening somnolence. if it finds us in company, it will not stand on ceremony, but cuts short the compliment and the story by the divine right of its telegraphic dispatches. war is a very old story, but it is a new one to this generation of americans. our own nearest relation in the ascending line remembers the revolution well. how should she forget it? did she not lose her doll, which was left behind, when she was carried out of boston, about that time growing uncomfortable by reason of cannon-balls dropping in from the neighboring heights at all hours,--in token of which see the tower of brattle street church at this very day? war in her memory means ' . as for the brush of , "we did not think much about that"; and everybody knows that the mexican business did not concern us much, except in its political relations. no! war is a new thing to all of us who are not in the last quarter of their century. we are learning many strange matters from our fresh experience. and besides, there are new conditions of existence which make war as it is with us very different from war as it has been. the first and obvious difference consists in the fact that the whole nation is now penetrated by the ramifications of a network of iron nerves which flash sensation and volition backward and forward to and from towns and provinces as if they were organs and limbs of a single living body. the second is the vast system of iron muscles which, as it were, move the limbs of the mighty organism one upon another. what was the railroad-force which put the sixth regiment in baltimore on the th of april but a contraction and extension of the arm of massachusetts with a clenched fist full of bayonets at the end of it? this perpetual intercommunication, joined to the power of instantaneous action, keeps us always alive with excitement. it is not a breathless courier who comes back with the report from an army we have lost sight of for a month, nor a single bulletin which tells us all we are to know for a week of some great engagement, but almost hourly paragraphs, laden with truth or falsehood as the case may be, making us restless always for the last fact or rumor they are telling. and so of the movements of our armies. to-night the stout lumbermen of maine are encamped under their own fragrant pines. in a score or two of hours they are among the tobacco-fields and the slave-pens of virginia. the war passion burned like scattered coals of fire in the households of revolutionary times; now it rushes all through the land like a flame over the prairie. and this instant diffusion of every fact and feeling produces another singular effect in the equalizing and steadying of public opinion. we may not be able to see a month ahead of us; but as to what has passed a week afterwards it is as thoroughly talked out and judged as it would have been in a whole season before our national nervous system was organized. "as the wild tempest wakes the slumbering sea, thou only teachest all that man can be!" we indulged in the above apostrophe to war in a phi beta kappa poem of long ago, which we liked better before we read mr. cutler's beautiful prolonged lyric delivered at the recent anniversary of that society. oftentimes, in paroxysms of peace and good-will towards all mankind, we have felt twinges of conscience about the passage,--especially when one of our orators showed us that a ship of war costs as much to build and keep as a college, and that every port-hole we could stop would give us a new professor. now we begin to think that there was some meaning in our poor couplet. war has taught us, as nothing else could, what we can be and are. it has exalted our manhood and our womanhood, and driven us all back upon our substantial human qualities, for a long time more or less kept out of sight by the spirit of commerce, the love of art, science, or literature, or other qualities not belonging to all of us as men and women. it is at this very moment doing more to melt away the petty social distinctions which keep generous souls apart from each other, than the preaching of the beloved disciple himself would do. we are finding out that not only "patriotism is eloquence," but that heroism is gentility. all ranks are wonderfully equalized under the fire of a masked battery. the plain artisan or the rough fireman, who faces the lead and iron like a man, is the truest representative we can show of the heroes of crecy and agincourt. and if one of our fine gentlemen puts off his straw-colored kids and stands by the other, shoulder to shoulder, or leads him on to the attack, he is as honorable in our eyes and in theirs as if he were ill-dressed and his hands were soiled with labor. even our poor "brahmins,"--whom a critic in ground-glass spectacles (the same who grasps his statistics by the blade and strikes at his supposed antagonist with the handle) oddly confounds with the, "bloated aristocracy;" whereas they are very commonly pallid, undervitalized, shy, sensitive creatures, whose only birthright is an aptitude for learning,--even these poor new england brahmins of ours, subvirates of an organizable base as they often are, count as full men, if their courage is big enough for the uniform which hangs so loosely about their slender figures. a young man was drowned not very long ago in the river running under our windows. a few days afterwards a field piece was dragged to the water's edge, and fired many times over the river. we asked a bystander, who looked like a fisherman, what that was for. it was to "break the gall," he said, and so bring the drowned person to the surface. a strange physiological fancy and a very odd non sequitur; but that is not our present point. a good many extraordinary objects do really come to the surface when the great guns of war shake the waters, as when they roared over charleston harbor. treason came up, hideous, fit only to be huddled into its dishonorable grave. but the wrecks of precious virtues, which had been covered with the waves of prosperity, came up also. and all sorts of unexpected and unheard-of things, which had lain unseen during our national life of fourscore years, came up and are coming up daily, shaken from their bed by the concussions of the artillery bellowing around us. it is a shame to own it, but there were persons otherwise respectable not unwilling to say that they believed the old valor of revolutionary times had died out from among us. they talked about our own northern people as the english in the last centuries used to talk about the french,--goldsmith's old soldier, it may be remembered, called one englishman good for five of them. as napoleon spoke of the english, again, as a nation of shopkeepers, so these persons affected to consider the multitude of their countrymen as unwarlike artisans,--forgetting that paul revere taught himself the value of liberty in working upon gold, and nathaniel greene fitted himself to shape armies in the labor of forging iron. these persons have learned better now. the bravery of our free working-people was overlaid, but not smothered; sunken, but not drowned. the hands which had been busy conquering the elements had only to change their weapons and their adversaries, and they were as ready to conquer the masses of living force opposed to them as they had been to build towns, to dam rivers, to hunt whales, to harvest ice, to hammer brute matter into every shape civilization can ask for. another great fact came to the surface, and is coming up every day in new shapes,--that we are one people. it is easy to say that a man is a man in maine or minnesota, but not so easy to feel it, all through our bones and marrow. the camp is deprovincializing us very fast. brave winthrop, marching with the city elegants, seems to have been a little startled to find how wonderfully human were the hard-handed men of the eighth massachusetts. it takes all the nonsense out of everybody, or ought to do it, to see how fairly the real manhood of a country is distributed over its surface. and then, just as we are beginning to think our own soil has a monopoly of heroes as well as of cotton, up turns a regiment of gallant irishmen, like the sixty-ninth, to show us that continental provincialism is as bad as that of coos county, new hampshire, or of broadway, new york. here, too, side by side in the same great camp, are half a dozen chaplains, representing half a dozen modes of religious belief. when the masked battery opens, does the "baptist" lieutenant believe in his heart that god takes better care of him than of his "congregationalist" colonel? does any man really suppose, that, of a score of noble young fellows who have just laid down their lives for their country, the homoousians are received to the mansions of bliss, and the homoousians translated from the battle-field to the abodes of everlasting woe? war not only teaches what man can be, but it teaches also what he must not be. he must not be a bigot and a fool in the presence of that day of judgment proclaimed by the trumpet which calls to battle, and where a man should have but two thoughts: to do his duty, and trust his maker. let our brave dead come back from the fields where they have fallen for law and liberty, and if you will follow them to their graves, you will find out what the broad church means; the narrow church is sparing of its exclusive formulae over the coffins wrapped in the flag which the fallen heroes had defended! very little comparatively do we hear at such times of the dogmas on which men differ; very much of the faith and trust in which all sincere christians can agree. it is a noble lesson, and nothing less noisy than the voice of cannon can teach it so that it shall be heard over all the angry cries of theological disputants. now, too, we have a chance to test the sagacity of our friends, and to get at their principles of judgment. perhaps most, of us, will agree that our faith in domestic prophets has been diminished by the experience of the last six months. we had the notable predictions attributed to the secretary of state, which so unpleasantly refused to fulfil themselves. we were infested at one time with a set of ominous-looking seers, who shook their heads and muttered obscurely about some mighty preparations that were making to substitute the rule of the minority for that of the majority. organizations were darkly hinted at; some thought our armories would be seized; and there are not wanting ancient women in the neighboring university town who consider that the country was saved by the intrepid band of students who stood guard, night after night, over the g. r. cannon and the pile of balls in the cambridge arsenal. as a general rule, it is safe to say that the best prophecies are those which the sages remember after the event prophesied of has come to pass, and remind us that they have made long ago. those who, are rash enough to predict publicly beforehand commonly give us what they hope, or what they fear, or some conclusion from an abstraction of their own, or some guess founded on private information not half so good as what everybody gets who reads the papers,--never by any possibility a word that we can depend on, simply because there are cobwebs of contingency between every to-day and to-morrow that no field-glass can penetrate when fifty of them lie woven one over another. prophesy as much as you like, but always hedge. say that you think the rebels are weaker than is commonly supposed, but, on the other hand, that they may prove to be even stronger than is anticipated. say what you like,--only don't be too peremptory and dogmatic; we know that wiser men than you have been notoriously deceived in their predictions in this very matter. ibis et redibis nunquam in bello peribis. let that be your model; and remember, on peril of your reputation as a prophet, not to put a stop before or after the nunquam. there are two or three facts connected with time, besides that already referred to, which strike us very forcibly in their relation to the great events passing around us. we spoke of the long period seeming to have elapsed since this war began. the buds were then swelling which held the leaves that are still green. it seems as old as time himself. we cannot fail to observe how the mind brings together the scenes of to-day and those of the old revolution. we shut up eighty years into each other like the joints of a pocket-telescope. when the young men from middlesex dropped in baltimore the other day, it seemed to bring lexington and the other nineteenth of april close to us. war has always been the mint in which the world's history has been coined, and now every day or week or month has a new medal for us. it was warren that the first impression bore in the last great coinage; if it is ellsworth now, the new face hardly seems fresher than the old. all battle-fields are alike in their main features. the young fellows who fell in our earlier struggle seemed like old men to us until within these few months; now we remember they were like these fiery youth we are cheering as they go to the fight; it seems as if the grass of our bloody hillside was crimsoned but yesterday, and the cannon-ball imbedded in the church-tower would feel warm, if we laid our hand upon it. nay, in this our quickened life we feel that all the battles from earliest time to our own day, where right and wrong have grappled, are but one great battle, varied with brief pauses or hasty bivouacs upon the field of conflict. the issues seem to vary, but it is always a right against a claim, and, however the struggle of the hour may go, a movement onward of the campaign, which uses defeat as well as victory to serve its mighty ends. the very implements of our warfare change less than we think. our bullets and cannonballs have lengthened into bolts like those which whistled out of old arbalests. our soldiers fight with weapons, such as are pictured on the walls of theban tombs, wearing a newly invented head-gear as old as the days of the pyramids. whatever miseries this war brings upon us, it is making us wiser, and, we trust, better. wiser, for we are learning our weakness, our narrowness, our selfishness, our ignorance, in lessons of sorrow and shame. better, because all that is noble in men and women is demanded by the time, and our people are rising to the standard the time calls for. for this is the question the hour is putting to each of us: are you ready, if need be, to sacrifice all that you have and hope for in this world, that the generations to follow you may inherit a whole country whose natural condition shall be peace, and not a broken province which must live under the perpetual threat, if not in the constant presence, of war and all that war brings with it? if we are all ready for this sacrifice, battles may be lost, but the campaign and its grand object must be won. heaven is very kind in its way of putting questions to mortals. we are not abruptly asked to give up all that we most care for, in view of the momentous issues before us. perhaps we shall never be asked to give up all, but we have already been called upon to part with much that is dear to us, and should be ready to yield the rest as it is called for. the time may come when even the cheap public print shall be a burden our means cannot support, and we can only listen in the square that was once the marketplace to the voices of those who proclaim defeat or victory. then there will be only our daily food left. when we have nothing to read and nothing to eat, it will be a favorable moment to offer a compromise. at present we have all that nature absolutely demands,--we can live on bread and the newspaper. my hunt after "the captain." in the dead of the night which closed upon the bloody field of antietam, my household was startled from its slumbers by the loud summons of a telegraphic messenger. the air had been heavy all day with rumors of battle, and thousands and tens of thousands had walked the streets with throbbing hearts, in dread anticipation of the tidings any hour might bring. we rose hastily, and presently the messenger was admitted. i took the envelope from his hand, opened it, and read: hagerstown th to__________ h ______ capt h______ wounded shot through the neck thought not mortal at keedysville william g. leduc through the neck,--no bullet left in wound. windpipe, food-pipe, carotid, jugular, half a dozen smaller, but still formidable vessels, a great braid of nerves, each as big as a lamp-wick, spinal cord,--ought to kill at once, if at all. thought not mortal, or not thought mortal,--which was it? the first; that is better than the second would be.--"keedysville, a post-office, washington co., maryland." leduc? leduc? don't remember that name. the boy is waiting for his money. a dollar and thirteen cents. has nobody got thirteen cents? don't keep that boy waiting,--how do we know what messages he has got to carry? the boy had another message to carry. it was to the father of lieutenant-colonel wilder dwight, informing him that his son was grievously wounded in the same battle, and was lying at boonsborough, a town a few miles this side of keedysville. this i learned the next morning from the civil and attentive officials at the central telegraph office. calling upon this gentleman, i found that he meant to leave in the quarter past two o'clock train, taking with him dr. george h. gay, an accomplished and energetic surgeon, equal to any difficult question or pressing emergency. i agreed to accompany them, and we met in the cars. i felt myself peculiarly fortunate in having companions whose society would be a pleasure, whose feelings would harmonize with my own, and whose assistance i might, in case of need, be glad to claim. it is of the journey which we began together, and which i finished apart, that i mean to give my "atlantic" readers an account. they must let me tell my story in my own way, speaking of many little matters that interested or amused me, and which a certain leisurely class of elderly persons, who sit at their firesides and never travel, will, i hope, follow with a kind of interest. for, besides the main object of my excursion, i could not help being excited by the incidental sights and occurrences of a trip which to a commercial traveller or a newspaper-reporter would seem quite commonplace and undeserving of record. there are periods in which all places and people seem to be in a conspiracy to impress us with their individuality, in which every ordinary locality seems to assume a special significance and to claim a particular notice, in which every person we meet is either an old acquaintance or a character; days in which the strangest coincidences are continually happening, so that they get to be the rule, and not the exception. some might naturally think that anxiety and the weariness of a prolonged search after a near relative would have prevented my taking any interest in or paying any regard to the little matters around me. perhaps it had just the contrary effect, and acted like a diffused stimulus upon the attention. when all the faculties are wide-awake in pursuit of a single object, or fixed in the spasm of an absorbing emotion, they are oftentimes clairvoyant in a marvellous degree in respect to many collateral things, as wordsworth has so forcibly illustrated in his sonnet on the boy of windermere, and as hawthorne has developed with such metaphysical accuracy in that chapter of his wondrous story where hester walks forth to meet her punishment. be that as it may,--though i set out with a full and heavy heart, though many times my blood chilled with what were perhaps needless and unwise fears, though i broke through all my habits without thinking about them, which is almost as hard in certain circumstances as for one of our young fellows to leave his sweetheart and go into a peninsular campaign, though i did not always know when i was hungry nor discover that i was thirsting, though i had a worrying ache and inward tremor underlying all the outward play of the senses and the mind, yet it is the simple truth that i did look out of the car-windows with an eye for all that passed, that i did take cognizance of strange sights and singular people, that i did act much as persons act from the ordinary promptings of curiosity, and from time to time even laugh very much as others do who are attacked with a convulsive sense of the ridiculous, the epilepsy of the diaphragm. by a mutual compact, we talked little in the cars. a communicative friend is the greatest nuisance to have at one's side during a railroad journey, especially if his conversation is stimulating and in itself agreeable. "a fast train and a 'slow' neighbor," is my motto. many times, when i have got upon the cars, expecting to be magnetized into an hour or two of blissful reverie, my thoughts shaken up by the vibrations into all sorts of new and pleasing patterns, arranging themselves in curves and nodal points, like the grains of sand in chladni's famous experiment,--fresh ideas coming up to the surface, as the kernels do when a measure of corn is jolted in a farmer's wagon,--all this without volition, the mechanical impulse alone keeping the thoughts in motion, as the mere act of carrying certain watches in the pocket keeps them wound up,--many times, i say, just as my brain was beginning to creep and hum with this delicious locomotive intoxication, some dear detestable friend, cordial, intelligent, social, radiant, has come up and sat down by me and opened a conversation which has broken my day-dream, unharnessed the flying horses that were whirling along my fancies and hitched on the old weary omnibus-team of every-day associations, fatigued my hearing and attention, exhausted my voice, and milked the breasts of my thought dry during the hour when they should have been filling themselves full of fresh juices. my friends spared me this trial. so, then, i sat by the window and enjoyed the slight tipsiness produced by short, limited, rapid oscillations, which i take to be the exhilarating stage of that condition which reaches hopeless inebriety in what we know as sea-sickness. where the horizon opened widely, it pleased me to watch the curious effect of the rapid movement of near objects contrasted with the slow motion of distant ones. looking from a right-hand window, for instance, the fences close by glide swiftly backward, or to the right, while the distant hills not only do not appear to move backward, but look by contrast with the fences near at hand as if they were moving forward, or to the left; and thus the whole landscape becomes a mighty wheel revolving about an imaginary axis somewhere in the middle-distance. my companions proposed to stay at one of the best-known and longest-established of the new-york caravansaries, and i accompanied them. we were particularly well lodged, and not uncivilly treated. the traveller who supposes that he is to repeat the melancholy experience of shenstone, and have to sigh over the reflection that he has found "his warmest welcome at an inn," has something to learn at the offices of the great city hotels. the unheralded guest who is honored by mere indifference may think himself blessed with singular good-fortune. if the despot of the patent-annunciator is only mildly contemptuous in his manner, let the victim look upon it as a personal favor. the coldest welcome that a threadbare curate ever got at the door of a bishop's palace, the most icy reception that a country cousin ever received at the city mansion of a mushroom millionaire, is agreeably tepid, compared to that which the rhadamanthus who dooms you to the more or less elevated circle of his inverted inferno vouchsafes, as you step up to enter your name on his dog's-eared register. i have less hesitation in unburdening myself of this uncomfortable statement, as on this particular trip i met with more than one exception to the rule. officials become brutalized, i suppose, as a matter of course. one cannot expect an office clerk to embrace tenderly every stranger who comes in with a carpet-bag, or a telegraph operator to burst into tears over every unpleasant message he receives for transmission. still, humanity is not always totally extinguished in these persons. i discovered a youth in a telegraph office of the continental hotel, in philadelphia, who was as pleasant in conversation, and as graciously responsive to inoffensive questions, as if i had been his childless opulent uncle and my will not made. on the road again the next morning, over the ferry, into the cars with sliding panels and fixed windows, so that in summer the whole side of the car maybe made transparent. new jersey is, to the apprehension of a traveller, a double-headed suburb rather than a state. its dull red dust looks like the dried and powdered mud of a battle-field. peach-trees are common, and champagne-orchards. canal-boats, drawn by mules, swim by, feeling their way along like blind men led by dogs. i had a mighty passion come over me to be the captain of one,--to glide back and forward upon a sea never roughened by storms,--to float where i could not sink,--to navigate where there is no shipwreck,--to lie languidly on the deck and govern the huge craft by a word or the movement of a finger: there was something of railroad intoxication in the fancy: but who has not often envied a cobbler in his stall? the boys cry the "n'-york heddle," instead of "herald"; i remember that years ago in philadelphia; we must be getting near the farther end of the dumb-bell suburb. a bridge has been swept away by a rise of the waters, so we must approach philadelphia by the river. her physiognomy is not distinguished; nez camus, as a frenchman would say; no illustrious steeple, no imposing tower; the water-edge of the town looking bedraggled, like the flounce of a vulgar rich woman's dress that trails on the sidewalk. the new ironsides lies at one of the wharves, elephantine in bulk and color, her sides narrowing as they rise, like the walls of a hock-glass. i went straight to the house in walnut street where the captain would be heard of, if anywhere in this region. his lieutenant-colonel was there, gravely wounded; his college-friend and comrade in arms, a son of the house, was there, injured in a similar way; another soldier, brother of the last, was there, prostrate with fever. a fourth bed was waiting ready for the captain, but not one word had been heard of him, though inquiries had been made in the towns from and through which the father had brought his two sons and the lieutenant-colonel. and so my search is, like a "ledger" story, to be continued. i rejoined my companions in time to take the noon-train for baltimore. our company was gaining in number as it moved onwards. we had found upon the train from new york a lovely, lonely lady, the wife of one of our most spirited massachusetts officers, the brave colonel of the __th regiment, going to seek her wounded husband at middletown, a place lying directly in our track. she was the light of our party while we were together on our pilgrimage, a fair, gracious woman, gentle, but courageous, ---"ful plesant and amiable of port, ---estatelich of manere, and to ben holden digne of reverence." on the road from philadelphia, i found in the same car with our party dr. william hunt of philadelphia, who had most kindly and faithfully attended the captain, then the lieutenant, after a wound received at ball's bluff, which came very near being mortal. he was going upon an errand of mercy to the wounded, and found he had in his memorandum-book the name of our lady's husband, the colonel, who had been commended to his particular attention. not long after leaving philadelphia, we passed a solitary sentry keeping guard over a short railroad bridge. it was the first evidence that we were approaching the perilous borders, the marches where the north and the south mingle their angry hosts, where the extremes of our so-called civilization meet in conflict, and the fierce slave-driver of the lower mississippi stares into the stern eyes of the forest-feller from the banks of the aroostook. all the way along, the bridges were guarded more or less strongly. in a vast country like ours, communications play a far more complex part than in europe, where the whole territory available for strategic purposes is so comparatively limited. belgium, for instance, has long been the bowling-alley where kings roll cannon-balls at each other's armies; but here we are playing the game of live ninepins without any alley. we were obliged to stay in baltimore over night, as we were too late for the train to frederick. at the eutaw house, where we found both comfort and courtesy, we met a number of friends, who beguiled the evening hours for us in the most agreeable manner. we devoted some time to procuring surgical and other articles, such as might be useful to our friends, or to others, if our friends should not need them. in the morning, i found myself seated at the breakfast-table next to general wool. it did not surprise me to find the general very far from expansive. with fort mchenry on his shoulders and baltimore in his breeches-pocket, and the weight of a military department loading down his social safety-valves, i thought it a great deal for an officer in his trying position to select so very obliging and affable an aid as the gentleman who relieved him of the burden of attending to strangers. we left the eutaw house, to take the cars for frederick. as we stood waiting on the platform, a telegraphic message was handed in silence to my companion. sad news: the lifeless body of the son he was hastening to see was even now on its way to him in baltimore. it was no time for empty words of consolation: i knew what he had lost, and that now was not the time to intrude upon a grief borne as men bear it, felt as women feel it. colonel wilder dwight was first made known to me as the friend of a beloved relative of my own, who was with him during a severe illness in switzerland; and for whom while living, and for whose memory when dead, he retained the warmest affection. since that the story of his noble deeds of daring, of his capture and escape, and a brief visit home before he was able to rejoin his regiment, had made his name familiar to many among us, myself among the number. his memory has been honored by those who had the largest opportunity of knowing his rare promise, as a man of talents and energy of nature. his abounding vitality must have produced its impression on all who met him; there was a still fire about him which any one could see would blaze up to melt all difficulties and recast obstacles into implements in the mould of an heroic will. these elements of his character many had the chance of knowing; but i shall always associate him with the memory of that pure and noble friendship which made me feel that i knew him before i looked upon his face, and added a personal tenderness to the sense of loss which i share with the whole community. here, then, i parted, sorrowfully, from the companions with whom i set out on my journey. in one of the cars, at the same station, we met general shriver of frederick, a most loyal unionist, whose name is synonymous with a hearty welcome to all whom he can aid by his counsel and his hospitality. he took great pains to give us all the information we needed, and expressed the hope, which was afterwards fulfilled, to the great gratification of some of us, that we should meet again when he should return to his home. there was nothing worthy of special note in the trip to frederick, except our passing a squad of rebel prisoners, whom i missed seeing, as they flashed by, but who were said to be a most forlorn-looking crowd of scarecrows. arrived at the monocacy river, about three miles this side of frederick, we came to a halt, for the railroad bridge had been blown up by the rebels, and its iron pillars and arches were lying in the bed of the river. the unfortunate wretch who fired the train was killed by the explosion, and lay buried hard by, his hands sticking out of the shallow grave into which he had been huddled. this was the story they told us, but whether true or not i must leave to the correspondents of "notes and queries" to settle. there was a great confusion of carriages and wagons at the stopping-place of the train, so that it was a long time before i could get anything that would carry us. at last i was lucky enough to light on a sturdy wagon, drawn by a pair of serviceable bays, and driven by james grayden, with whom i was destined to have a somewhat continued acquaintance. we took up a little girl who had been in baltimore during the late rebel inroad. it made me think of the time when my own mother, at that time six years old, was hurried off from boston, then occupied by the british soldiers, to newburyport, and heard the people saying that "the redcoats were coming, killing and murdering everybody as they went along." frederick looked cheerful for a place that had so recently been in an enemy's hands. here and there a house or shop was shut up, but the national colors were waving in all directions, and the general aspect was peaceful and contented. i saw no bullet-marks or other sign of the fighting which had gone on in the streets. the colonel's lady was taken in charge by a daughter of that hospitable family to which we had been commended by its head, and i proceeded to inquire for wounded officers at the various temporary hospitals. at the united states hotel, where many were lying, i heard mention of an officer in an upper chamber, and, going there, found lieutenant abbott, of the twentieth massachusetts volunteers, lying ill with what looked like typhoid fever. while there, who should come in but the almost ubiquitous lieutenant wilkins, of the same twentieth, whom i had met repeatedly before on errands of kindness or duty, and who was just from the battle-ground. he was going to boston in charge of the body of the lamented dr. revere, the assistant surgeon of the regiment, killed on the field. from his lips i learned something of the mishaps of the regiment. my captain's wound he spoke of as less grave than at first thought; but he mentioned incidentally having heard a story recently that he was killed,--a fiction, doubtless,--a mistake,--a palpable absurdity,--not to be remembered or made any account of. oh no! but what dull ache is this in that obscurely sensitive region, somewhere below the heart, where the nervous centre called the semilunar ganglion lies unconscious of itself until a great grief or a mastering anxiety reaches it through all the non-conductors which isolate it from ordinary impressions? i talked awhile with lieutenant abbott, who lay prostrate, feeble, but soldier-like and uncomplaining, carefully waited upon by a most excellent lady, a captain's wife, new england born, loyal as the liberty on a golden ten-dollar piece, and of lofty bearing enough to have sat for that goddess's portrait. she had stayed in frederick through the rebel inroad, and kept the star-spangled banner where it would be safe, to unroll it as the last rebel hoofs clattered off from the pavement of the town. near by lieutenant abbott was an unhappy gentleman, occupying a small chamber, and filling it with his troubles. when he gets well and plump, i know he will forgive me if i confess that i could not help smiling in the midst of my sympathy for him. he had been a well-favored man, he said, sweeping his hand in a semicircle, which implied that his acute-angled countenance had once filled the goodly curve he described. he was now a perfect don quixote to look upon. weakness had made him querulous, as it does all of us, and he piped his grievances to me in a thin voice, with that finish of detail which chronic invalidism alone can command. he was starving,--he could not get what he wanted to eat. he was in need of stimulants, and he held up a pitiful two-ounce phial containing three thimblefuls--of brandy,--his whole stock of that encouraging article. him i consoled to the best of my ability, and afterwards, in some slight measure, supplied his wants. feed this poor gentleman up, as these good people soon will, and i should not know him, nor he himself. we are all egotists in sickness and debility. an animal has been defined as "a stomach ministered to by organs;" and the greatest man comes very near this simple formula after a month or two of fever and starvation. james grayden and his team pleased me well enough, and so i made a bargain with him to take us, the lady and myself, on our further journey as far as middletown. as we were about starting from the front of the united states hotel, two gentlemen presented themselves and expressed a wish to be allowed to share our conveyance. i looked at them and convinced myself that they were neither rebels in disguise, nor deserters, nor camp-followers, nor miscreants, but plain, honest men on a proper errand. the first of them i will pass over briefly. he was a young man of mild and modest demeanor, chaplain to a pennsylvania regiment, which he was going to rejoin. he belonged to the moravian church, of which i had the misfortune to know little more than what i had learned from southey's "life of wesley." and from the exquisite hymns we have borrowed from its rhapsodists. the other stranger was a new englander of respectable appearance, with a grave, hard, honest, hay-bearded face, who had come to serve the sick and wounded on the battle-field and in its immediate neighborhood. there is no reason why i should not mention his name, but i shall content myself with calling him the philanthropist. so we set forth, the sturdy wagon, the serviceable bays, with james grayden their driver, the gentle lady, whose serene patience bore up through all delays and discomforts, the chaplain, the philanthropist, and myself, the teller of this story. and now, as we emerged from frederick, we struck at once upon the trail from the great battle-field. the road was filled with straggling and wounded soldiers. all who could travel on foot,--multitudes with slight wounds of the upper limbs, the head, or face,--were told to take up their beds,--alight burden or none at all,--and walk. just as the battle-field sucks everything into its red vortex for the conflict, so does it drive everything off in long, diverging rays after the fierce centripetal forces have met and neutralized each other. for more than a week there had been sharp fighting all along this road. through the streets of frederick, through crampton's gap, over south mountain, sweeping at last the hills and the woods that skirt the windings of the antietam, the long battle had travelled, like one of those tornadoes which tear their path through our fields and villages. the slain of higher condition, "embalmed" and iron-cased, were sliding off on the railways to their far homes; the dead of the rank and file were being gathered up and committed hastily to the earth; the gravely wounded were cared for hard by the scene of conflict, or pushed a little way along to the neighboring villages; while those who could walk were meeting us, as i have said, at every step in the road. it was a pitiable sight, truly pitiable, yet so vast, so far beyond the possibility of relief, that many single sorrows of small dimensions have wrought upon my feelings more than the sight of this great caravan of maimed pilgrims. the companionship of so many seemed to make a joint-stock of their suffering; it was next to impossible to individualize it, and so bring it home, as one can do with a single broken limb or aching wound. then they were all of the male sex, and in the freshness or the prime of their strength. though they tramped so wearily along, yet there was rest and kind nursing in store for them. these wounds they bore would be the medals they would show their children and grandchildren by and by. who would not rather wear his decorations beneath his uniform than on it? yet among them were figures which arrested our attention and sympathy. delicate boys, with more spirit than strength, flushed with fever or pale with exhaustion or haggard with suffering, dragged their weary limbs along as if each step would exhaust their slender store of strength. at the roadside sat or lay others, quite spent with their journey. here and there was a house at which the wayfarers would stop, in the hope, i fear often vain, of getting refreshment; and in one place was a clear, cool spring, where the little bands of the long procession halted for a few moments, as the trains that traverse the desert rest by its fountains. my companions had brought a few peaches along with them, which the philanthropist bestowed upon the tired and thirsty soldiers with a satisfaction which we all shared. i had with me a small flask of strong waters, to be used as a medicine in case of inward grief. from this, also, he dispensed relief, without hesitation, to a poor fellow who looked as if he needed it. i rather admired the simplicity with which he applied my limited means of solace to the first-comer who wanted it more than i; a genuine benevolent impulse does not stand on ceremony, and had i perished of colic for want of a stimulus that night, i should not have reproached my friend the philanthropist, any more than i grudged my other ardent friend the two dollars and more which it cost me to send the charitable message he left in my hands. it was a lovely country through which we were riding. the hillsides rolled away into the distance, slanting up fair and broad to the sun, as one sees them in the open parts of the berkshire valley, at lanesborough, for instance, or in the many-hued mountain chalice at the bottom of which the shaker houses of lebanon have shaped themselves like a sediment of cubical crystals. the wheat was all garnered, and the land ploughed for a new crop. there was indian corn standing, but i saw no pumpkins warming their yellow carapaces in the sunshine like so many turtles; only in a single instance did i notice some wretched little miniature specimens in form and hue not unlike those colossal oranges of our cornfields. the rail fences were somewhat disturbed, and the cinders of extinguished fires showed the use to which they had been applied. the houses along the road were not for the most part neatly kept; the garden fences were poorly built of laths or long slats, and very rarely of trim aspect. the men of this region seemed to ride in the saddle very generally, rather than drive. they looked sober and stern, less curious and lively than yankees, and i fancied that a type of features familiar to us in the countenance of the late john tyler, our accidental president, was frequently met with. the women were still more distinguishable from our new england pattern. soft, sallow, succulent, delicately finished about the mouth and firmly shaped about the chin, dark-eyed, full-throated, they looked as if they had been grown in a land of olives. there was a little toss in their movement, full of muliebrity. i fancied there was something more of the duck and less of the chicken about them, as compared with the daughters of our leaner soil; but these are mere impressions caught from stray glances, and if there is any offence in them, my fair readers may consider them all retracted. at intervals, a dead horse lay by the roadside, or in the fields, unburied, not grateful to gods or men. i saw no bird of prey, no ill-omened fowl, on my way to the carnival of death, or at the place where it had been held. the vulture of story, the crow of talavera, the "twa corbies" of the ghastly ballad, are all from nature, doubtless; but no black wing was spread over these animal ruins, and no call to the banquet pierced through the heavy-laden and sickening air. full in the middle of the road, caring little for whom or what they met, came long strings of army wagons, returning empty from the front after supplies. james grayden stated it as his conviction that they had a little rather run into a fellow than not. i liked the looks of these equipages and their drivers; they meant business. drawn by mules mostly, six, i think, to a wagon, powdered well with dust, wagon, beast, and driver, they came jogging along the road, turning neither to right nor left,--some driven by bearded, solemn white men, some by careless, saucy-looking negroes, of a blackness like that of anthracite or obsidian. there seemed to be nothing about them, dead or alive, that was not serviceable. sometimes a mule would give out on the road; then he was left where he lay, until by and by he would think better of it, and get up, when the first public wagon that came along would hitch him on, and restore him to the sphere of duty. it was evening when we got to middletown. the gentle lady who had graced our homely conveyance with her company here left us. she found her husband, the gallant colonel, in very comfortable quarters, well cared for, very weak from the effects of the fearful operation he had been compelled to undergo, but showing calm courage to endure as he had shown manly energy to act. it was a meeting full of heroism and tenderness, of which i heard more than there is need to tell. health to the brave soldier, and peace to the household over which so fair a spirit presides! dr. thompson, the very active and intelligent surgical director of the hospitals of the place, took me in charge. he carried me to the house of a worthy and benevolent clergyman of the german reformed church, where i was to take tea and pass the night. what became of the moravian chaplain i did not know; but my friend the philanthropist had evidently made up his mind to adhere to my fortunes. he followed me, therefore, to the house of the "dominie." as a newspaper correspondent calls my kind host, and partook of the fare there furnished me. he withdrew with me to the apartment assigned for my slumbers, and slept sweetly on the same pillow where i waked and tossed. nay, i do affirm that he did, unconsciously, i believe, encroach on that moiety of the couch which i had flattered myself was to be my own through the watches of the night, and that i was in serious doubt at one time whether i should not be gradually, but irresistibly, expelled from the bed which i had supposed destined for my sole possession. as ruth clave unto naomi, so my friend the philanthropist clave unto me. "whither thou goest, i will go; and where thou lodgest, i will lodge." a really kind, good man, full of zeal, determined to help somebody, and absorbed in his one thought, he doubted nobody's willingness to serve him, going, as he was, on a purely benevolent errand. when he reads this, as i hope he will, let him be assured of my esteem and respect; and if he gained any accommodation from being in my company, let me tell him that i learned a lesson from his active benevolence. i could, however, have wished to hear him laugh once before we parted, perhaps forever. he did not, to the best of my recollection, even smile during the whole period that we were in company. i am afraid that a lightsome disposition and a relish for humor are not so common in those whose benevolence takes an active turn as in people of sentiment, who are always ready with their tears and abounding in passionate expressions of sympathy. working philanthropy is a practical specialty, requiring not a mere impulse, but a talent, with its peculiar sagacity for finding its objects, a tact for selecting its agencies, an organizing and art ranging faculty, a steady set of nerves, and a constitution such as sallust describes in catiline, patient of cold, of hunger, and of watching. philanthropists are commonly grave, occasionally grim, and not very rarely morose. their expansive social force is imprisoned as a working power, to show itself only through its legitimate pistons and cranks. the tighter the boiler, the less it whistles and sings at its work. when dr. waterhouse, in , travelled with howard, on his tour among the dutch prisons and hospitals, he found his temper and manners very different from what would have been expected. my benevolent companion having already made a preliminary exploration of the hospitals of the place, before sharing my bed with him, as above mentioned, i joined him in a second tour through them. the authorities of middletown are evidently leagued with the surgeons of that place, for such a break-neck succession of pitfalls and chasms i have never seen in the streets of a civilized town. it was getting late in the evening when we began our rounds. the principal collections of the wounded were in the churches. boards were laid over the tops of the pews, on these some straw was spread, and on this the wounded lay, with little or no covering other than such scanty clothes as they had on. there were wounds of all degrees of severity, but i heard no groans or murmurs. most of the sufferers were hurt in the limbs, some had undergone amputation, and all had, i presume, received such attention as was required. still, it was but a rough and dreary kind of comfort that the extemporized hospitals suggested. i could not help thinking the patients must be cold; but they were used to camp life, and did not complain. the men who watched were not of the soft-handed variety of the race. one of them was smoking his pipe as he went from bed to bed. i saw one poor fellow who had been shot through the breast; his breathing was labored, and he was tossing, anxious and restless. the men were debating about the opiate he was to take, and i was thankful that i happened there at the right moment to see that he was well narcotized for the night. was it possible that my captain could be lying on the straw in one of these places? certainly possible, but not probable; but as the lantern was held over each bed, it was with a kind of thrill that i looked upon the features it illuminated. many times as i went from hospital to hospital in my wanderings, i started as some faint resemblance,-the shade of a young man's hair, the outline of his half-turned face,--recalled the presence i was in search of. the face would turn towards me, and the momentary illusion would pass away, but still the fancy clung to me. there was no figure huddled up on its rude couch, none stretched at the roadside, none toiling languidly along the dusty pike, none passing in car or in ambulance, that i did not scrutinize, as if it might be that for which i was making my pilgrimage to the battlefield. "there are two wounded secesh," said my companion. i walked to the bedside of the first, who was an officer, a lieutenant, if i remember right, from north carolina. he was of good family, son of a judge in one of the higher courts of his state, educated, pleasant, gentle, intelligent. one moment's intercourse with such an enemy, lying helpless and wounded among strangers, takes away all personal bitterness towards those with whom we or our children have been but a few hours before in deadly strife. the basest lie which the murderous contrivers of this rebellion have told is that which tries to make out a difference of race in the men of the north and south. it would be worth a year of battles to abolish this delusion, though the great sponge of war that wiped it out were moistened with the best blood of the land. my rebel was of slight, scholastic habit, and spoke as one accustomed to tread carefully among the parts of speech. it made my heart ache to see him, a man finished in the humanities and christian culture, whom the sin of his forefathers and the crime of his rulers had set in barbarous conflict against others of like training with his own,--a man who, but for the curse which our generation is called on to expiate, would have taken his part in the beneficent task of shaping the intelligence and lifting the moral standard of a peaceful and united people. on sunday morning, the twenty-first, having engaged james grayden and his team, i set out with the chaplain and the philanthropist for keedysville. our track lay through the south mountain gap, and led us first to the town of boonsborough, where, it will be remembered, colonel dwight had been brought after the battle. we saw the positions occupied in the battle of south mountain, and many traces of the conflict. in one situation a group of young trees was marked with shot, hardly one having escaped. as we walked by the side of the wagon, the philanthropist left us for a while and climbed a hill, where, along the line of a fence, he found traces of the most desperate fighting. a ride of some three hours brought us to boonsborough, where i roused the unfortunate army surgeon who had charge of the hospitals, and who was trying to get a little sleep after his fatigues and watchings. he bore this cross very creditably, and helped me to explore all places where my soldier might be lying among the crowds of wounded. after the useless search, i resumed my journey, fortified with a note of introduction to dr. letterman; also with a bale of oakum which i was to carry to that gentleman, this substance being employed as a substitute for lint. we were obliged also to procure a pass to keedysville from the provost marshal of boonsborough. as we came near the place, we learned that general mcclellan's head quarters had been removed from this village some miles farther to the front. on entering the small settlement of keedysville, a familiar face and figure blocked the way, like one of bunyan's giants. the tall form and benevolent countenance, set off by long, flowing hair, belonged to the excellent mayor frank b. fay of chelsea, who, like my philanthropist, only still more promptly, had come to succor the wounded of the great battle. it was wonderful to see how his single personality pervaded this torpid little village; he seemed to be the centre of all its activities. all my questions he answered clearly and decisively, as one who knew everything that was going on in the place. but the one question i had come five hundred miles to ask,--where is captain h.?--he could not answer. there were some thousands of wounded in the place, he told me, scattered about everywhere. it would be a long job to hunt up my captain; the only way would be to go to every house and ask for him. just then a medical officer came up. "do you know anything of captain h. of the massachusetts twentieth?" "oh yes; he is staying in that house. i saw him there, doing very well." a chorus of hallelujahs arose in my soul, but i kept them to myself. now, then, for our twice-wounded volunteer, our young centurion whose double-barred shoulder-straps we have never yet looked upon. let us observe the proprieties, however; no swelling upward of the mother,--no hysterica passio, we do not like scenes. a calm salutation,--then swallow and hold hard. that is about the programme. a cottage of squared logs, filled in with plaster, and whitewashed. a little yard before it, with a gate swinging. the door of the cottage ajar,--no one visible as yet. i push open the door and enter. an old woman, margaret kitzmuller her name proves to be, is the first person i see. "captain h. here?" "oh no, sir,--left yesterday morning for hagerstown,--in a milk-cart." the kitzmuller is a beady-eyed, cheery-looking ancient woman, answers questions with a rising inflection, and gives a good account of the captain, who got into the vehicle without assistance, and was in excellent spirits. of course he had struck for hagerstown as the terminus of the cumberland valley railroad, and was on his way to philadelphia, via chambersburg and harrisburg, if he were not already in the hospitable home of walnut street, where his friends were expecting him. i might follow on his track or return upon my own; the distance was the same to philadelphia through harrisburg as through baltimore. but it was very difficult, mr. fay told me, to procure any kind of conveyance to hagerstown; and, on the other hand, i had james grayden and his wagon to carry me back to frederick. it was not likely that i should overtake the object of my pursuit with nearly thirty-six hours start, even if i could procure a conveyance that day. in the mean time james was getting impatient to be on his return, according to the direction of his employers. so i decided to go back with him. but there was the great battle-field only about three miles from keedysville, and it was impossible to go without seeing that. james grayden's directions were peremptory, but it was a case for the higher law. i must make a good offer for an extra couple of hours, such as would satisfy the owners of the wagon, and enforce it by a personal motive. i did this handsomely, and succeeded without difficulty. to add brilliancy to my enterprise, i invited the chaplain and the philanthropist to take a free passage with me. we followed the road through the village for a space, then turned off to the right, and wandered somewhat vaguely, for want of precise directions, over the hills. inquiring as we went, we forded a wide creek in which soldiers were washing their clothes, the name of which we did not then know, but which must have been the antietam. at one point we met a party, women among them, bringing off various trophies they had picked up on the battlefield. still wandering along, we were at last pointed to a hill in the distance, a part of the summit of which was covered with indian corn. there, we were told, some of the fiercest fighting of the day had been done. the fences were taken down so as to make a passage across the fields, and the tracks worn within the last few days looked like old roads. we passed a fresh grave under a tree near the road. a board was nailed to the tree, bearing the name, as well as i could make it out, of gardiner, of a new hampshire regiment. on coming near the brow of the hill, we met a party carrying picks and spades. "how many?" "only one." the dead were nearly all buried, then, in this region of the field of strife. we stopped the wagon, and, getting out, began to look around us. hard by was a large pile of muskets, scores, if not hundreds, which had been picked up, and were guarded for the government. a long ridge of fresh gravel rose before us. a board stuck up in front of it bore this inscription, the first part of which was, i believe, not correct: "the rebel general anderson and rebels are buried in this hole." other smaller ridges were marked with the number of dead lying under them. the whole ground was strewed with fragments of clothing, haversacks, canteens, cap-boxes, bullets, cartridge-boxes, cartridges, scraps of paper, portions of bread and meat. i saw two soldiers' caps that looked as though their owners had been shot through the head. in several places i noticed dark red patches where a pool of blood had curdled and caked, as some poor fellow poured his life out on the sod. i then wandered about in the cornfield. it surprised me to notice, that, though there was every mark of hard fighting having taken place here, the indian corn was not generally trodden down. one of our cornfields is a kind of forest, and even when fighting, men avoid the tall stalks as if they were trees. at the edge of this cornfield lay a gray horse, said to have belonged to a rebel colonel, who was killed near the same place. not far off were two dead artillery horses in their harness. another had been attended to by a burying-party, who had thrown some earth over him but his last bed-clothes were too short, and his legs stuck out stark and stiff from beneath the gravel coverlet. it was a great pity that we had no intelligent guide to explain to us the position of that portion of the two armies which fought over this ground. there was a shallow trench before we came to the cornfield, too narrow for a road, as i should think, too elevated for a water-course, and which seemed to have been used as a rifle-pit. at any rate, there had been hard fighting in and about it. this and the cornfield may serve to identify the part of the ground we visited, if any who fought there should ever look over this paper. the opposing tides of battle must have blended their waves at this point, for portions of gray uniform were mingled with the "garments rolled in blood" torn from our own dead and wounded soldiers. i picked up a rebel canteen, and one of our own,--but there was something repulsive about the trodden and stained relics of the stale battle-field. it was like the table of some hideous orgy left uncleared, and one turned away disgusted from its broken fragments and muddy heeltaps. a bullet or two, a button, a brass plate from a soldier's belt, served well enough for mementos of my visit, with a letter which i picked up, directed to richmond, virginia, its seal unbroken. "n. c. cleveland county. e. wright to j. wright." on the other side, "a few lines from w. l. vaughn." who has just been writing for the wife to her husband, and continues on his own account. the postscript, "tell john that nancy's folks are all well and has a verry good little crop of corn a growing." i wonder, if, by one of those strange chances of which i have seen so many, this number or leaf of the "atlantic" will not sooner or later find its way to cleveland county, north carolina, and e. wright, widow of james wright, and nancy's folks, get from these sentences the last glimpse of husband and friend as he threw up his arms and fell in the bloody cornfield of antietam? i will keep this stained letter for them until peace comes back, if it comes in my time, and my pleasant north carolina rebel of the middletown hospital will, perhaps look these poor people up, and tell them where to send for it. on the battle-field i parted with my two companions, the chaplain and the philanthropist. they were going to the front, the one to find his regiment, the other to look for those who needed his assistance. we exchanged cards and farewells, i mounted the wagon, the horses' heads were turned homewards, my two companions went their way, and i saw them no more. on my way back, i fell into talk with james grayden. born in england, lancashire; in this country since he was four years old. had nothing to care for but an old mother; didn't know what he should do if he lost her. though so long in this country, he had all the simplicity and childlike lightheartedness which belong to the old world's people. he laughed at the smallest pleasantry, and showed his great white english teeth; he took a joke without retorting by an impertinence; he had a very limited curiosity about all that was going on; he had small store of information; he lived chiefly in his horses, it seemed to me. his quiet animal nature acted as a pleasing anodyne to my recurring fits of anxiety, and i liked his frequent "'deed i don't know, sir." better than i have sometimes relished the large discourse of professors and other very wise men. i have not much to say of the road which we were travelling for the second time. reaching middletown, my first call was on the wounded colonel and his lady. she gave me a most touching account of all the suffering he had gone through with his shattered limb before he succeeded in finding a shelter; showing the terrible want of proper means of transportation of the wounded after the battle. it occurred to me, while at this house, that i was more or less famished, and for the first time in my life i begged for a meal, which the kind family with whom the colonel was staying most graciously furnished me. after tea, there came in a stout army surgeon, a highlander by birth, educated in edinburgh, with whom i had pleasant, not unstimulating talk. he had been brought very close to that immane and nefandous burke-and-hare business which made the blood of civilization run cold in the year , and told me, in a very calm way, with an occasional pinch from the mull, to refresh his memory, some of the details of those frightful murders, never rivalled in horror until the wretch dumollard, who kept a private cemetery for his victims, was dragged into the light of day. he had a good deal to say, too, about the royal college of surgeons in edinburgh, and the famous preparations, mercurial and the rest, which i remember well having seen there,--the "sudabit multum." and others,--also of our new york professor carnochan's handiwork, a specimen of which i once admired at the new york college. but the doctor was not in a happy frame of mind, and seemed willing to forget the present in the past: things went wrong, somehow, and the time was out of joint with him. dr. thompson, kind, cheerful, companionable, offered me half his own wide bed, in the house of dr. baer, for my second night in middletown. here i lay awake again another night. close to the house stood an ambulance in which was a wounded rebel officer, attended by one of their own surgeons. he was calling out in a loud voice, all night long, as it seemed to me, "doctor! doctor! driver! water!" in loud, complaining tones, i have no doubt of real suffering, but in strange contrast with the silent patience which was the almost universal rule. the courteous dr. thompson will let me tell here an odd coincidence, trivial, but having its interest as one of a series. the doctor and myself lay in the bed, and a lieutenant, a friend of his, slept on the sofa, at night, i placed my match-box, a scotch one, of the macpherson-plaid pattern, which i bought years ago, on the bureau, just where i could put my hand upon it. i was the last of the three to rise in the morning, and on looking for my pretty match-box, i found it was gone. this was rather awkward,--not on account of the loss, but of the unavoidable fact that one of my fellow-lodgers must have taken it. i must try to find out what it meant. "by the way, doctor, have you seen anything of a little plaid-pattern match-box?" the doctor put his hand to his pocket, and, to his own huge surprise and my great gratification, pulled out two match-boxes exactly alike, both printed with the macpherson plaid. one was his, the other mine, which he had seen lying round, and naturally took for his own, thrusting it into his pocket, where it found its twin-brother from the same workshop. in memory of which event, we exchanged boxes, like two homeric heroes. this curious coincidence illustrates well enough some supposed cases of plagiarism of which i will mention one where my name figured. when a little poem called "the two streams" was first printed, a writer in the new york "evening post" virtually accused the author of it of borrowing the thought from a baccalaureate sermon of president hopkins of williamstown, and printed a quotation from that discourse, which, as i thought, a thief or catch-poll might well consider as establishing a fair presumption that it was so borrowed. i was at the same time wholly unconscious of ever having met with the discourse or the sentence which the verses were most like, nor do i believe i ever had seen or heard either. some time after this, happening to meet my eloquent cousin, wendell phillips, i mentioned the fact to him, and he told me that he had once used the special image said to be borrowed, in a discourse delivered at williamstown. on relating this to my friend mr. buchanan read, he informed me that he too, had used the image,--perhaps referring to his poem called "the twins." he thought tennyson had used it also. the parting of the streams on the alps is poetically elaborated in a passage attributed to "m. loisne," printed in the "boston evening transcript" for october , . captain, afterwards sir francis head, speaks of the showers parting on the cordilleras, one portion going to the atlantic, one to the pacific. i found the image running loose in my mind, without a halter. it suggested itself as an illustration of the will, and i worked the poem out by the aid of mitchell's school atlas.--the spores of a great many ideas are floating about in the atmosphere. we no more know where all the growths of our mind came from, than where the lichens which eat the names off from the gravestones borrowed the germs that gave them birth. the two match-boxes were just alike, but neither was a plagiarism. in the morning i took to the same wagon once more, but, instead of james grayden, i was to have for my driver a young man who spelt his name "phillip ottenheimer" and whose features at once showed him to be an israelite. i found him agreeable enough, and disposed to talk. so i asked him many questions about his religion, and got some answers that sound strangely in christian ears. he was from wittenberg, and had been educated in strict jewish fashion. from his childhood he had read hebrew, but was not much of a scholar otherwise. a young person of his race lost caste utterly by marrying a christian. the founder of our religion was considered by the israelites to have been "a right smart man and a great doctor." but the horror with which the reading of the new testament by any young person of their faith would be regarded was as great, i judged by his language, as that of one of our straitest sectaries would be, if he found his son or daughter perusing the "age of reason." in approaching frederick, the singular beauty of its clustered spires struck me very much, so that i was not surprised to find "fair-view" laid down about this point on a railroad map. i wish some wandering photographer would take a picture of the place, a stereoscopic one, if possible, to show how gracefully, how charmingly, its group of steeples nestles among the maryland hills. the town had a poetical look from a distance, as if seers and dreamers might dwell there. the first sign i read, on entering its long street, might perhaps be considered as confirming my remote impression. it bore these words: "miss ogle, past, present, and future." on arriving, i visited lieutenant abbott, and the attenuated unhappy gentleman, his neighbor, sharing between them as my parting gift what i had left of the balsam known to the pharmacopoeia as spiritus vini gallici. i took advantage of general shriver's always open door to write a letter home, but had not time to partake of his offered hospitality. the railroad bridge over the monocacy had been rebuilt since i passed through frederick, and we trundled along over the track toward baltimore. it was a disappointment, on reaching the eutaw house, where i had ordered all communications to be addressed, to find no telegraphic message from philadelphia or boston, stating that captain h. had arrived at the former place, "wound doing well in good spirits expects to leave soon for boston." after all, it was no great matter; the captain was, no doubt, snugly lodged before this in the house called beautiful, at * * * * walnut street, where that "grave and beautiful damsel named discretion" had already welcomed him, smiling, though "the water stood in her eyes," and had "called out prudence, piety, and charity, who, after a little more discourse with him, had him into the family." the friends i had met at the eutaw house had all gone but one, the lady of an officer from boston, who was most amiable and agreeable, and whose benevolence, as i afterwards learned, soon reached the invalids i had left suffering at frederick. general wool still walked the corridors, inexpansive, with fort mchenry on his shoulders, and baltimore in his breeches-pocket, and his courteous aid again pressed upon me his kind offices. about the doors of the hotel the news-boys cried the papers in plaintive, wailing tones, as different from the sharp accents of their boston counterparts as a sigh from the southwest is from a northeastern breeze. to understand what they said was, of course, impossible to any but an educated ear, and if i made out "starr" and "clipp'rr," it was because i knew beforehand what must be the burden of their advertising coranach. i set out for philadelphia on the morrow, tuesday the twenty-third, there beyond question to meet my captain, once more united to his brave wounded companions under that roof which covers a household of as noble hearts as ever throbbed with human sympathies. back river, bush river, gunpowder creek,--lives there the man with soul so dead that his memory has cerements to wrap up these senseless names in the same envelopes with their meaningless localities? but the susquehanna,--the broad, the beautiful, the historical, the poetical susquehanna,--the river of wyoming and of gertrude, dividing the shores where "aye those sunny mountains half-way down would echo flageolet from some romantic town,"-- did not my heart renew its allegiance to the poet who has made it lovely to the imagination as well as to the eye, and so identified his fame with the noble stream that it "rolls mingling with his fame forever?" the prosaic traveller perhaps remembers it better from the fact that a great sea-monster, in the shape of a steamboat, takes him, sitting in the car, on its back, and swims across with him like arion's dolphin,--also that mercenary men on board offer him canvas-backs in the season, and ducks of lower degree at other periods. at philadelphia again at last! drive fast, o colored man and brother, to the house called beautiful, where my captain lies sore wounded, waiting for the sound of the chariot wheels which bring to his bedside the face and the voice nearer than any save one to his heart in this his hour of pain and weakness! up a long street with white shutters and white steps to all the houses. off at right angles into another long street with white shutters and white steps to all the houses. off again at another right angle into still another long street with white shutters and white steps to all the houses. the natives of this city pretend to know one street from another by some individual differences of aspect; but the best way for a stranger to distinguish the streets he has been in from others is to make a cross or other mark on the white shutters. this corner-house is the one. ring softly,--for the lieutenant-colonel lies there with a dreadfully wounded arm, and two sons of the family, one wounded like the colonel, one fighting with death in the fog of a typhoid fever, will start with fresh pangs at the least sound you can make. i entered the house, but no cheerful smile met me. the sufferers were each of them thought to be in a critical condition. the fourth bed, waiting its tenant day after day, was still empty. not a word from my captain. then, foolish, fond body that i was, my heart sank within me. had he been taken ill on the road, perhaps been attacked with those formidable symptoms which sometimes come on suddenly after wounds that seemed to be doing well enough, and was his life ebbing away in some lonely cottage, nay, in some cold barn or shed, or at the wayside, unknown, uncared for? somewhere between philadelphia and hagerstown, if not at the latter town, he must be, at any rate. i must sweep the hundred and eighty miles between these places as one would sweep a chamber where a precious pearl had been dropped. i must have a companion in my search, partly to help me look about, and partly because i was getting nervous and felt lonely. charley said he would go with me,--charley, my captain's beloved friend, gentle, but full of spirit and liveliness, cultivated, social, affectionate, a good talker, a most agreeable letter-writer, observing, with large relish of life, and keen sense of humor. he was not well enough to go, some of the timid ones said; but he answered by packing his carpet-bag, and in an hour or two we were on the pennsylvania central railroad in full blast for harrisburg. i should have been a forlorn creature but for the presence of my companion. in his delightful company i half forgot my anxieties, which, exaggerated as they may seem now, were not unnatural after what i had seen of the confusion and distress that had followed the great battle, nay, which seem almost justified by the recent statement that "high officers" were buried after that battle whose names were never ascertained. i noticed little matters, as usual. the road was filled in between the rails with cracked stones, such as are used for macadamizing streets. they keep the dust down, i suppose, for i could not think of any other use for them. by and by the glorious valley which stretches along through chester and lancaster counties opened upon us. much as i had heard of the fertile regions of pennsylvania, the vast scale and the uniform luxuriance of this region astonished me. the grazing pastures were so green, the fields were under such perfect culture, the cattle looked so sleek, the houses were so comfortable, the barns so ample, the fences so well kept, that i did not wonder, when i was told that this region was called the england of pennsylvania. the people whom we saw were, like the cattle, well nourished; the young women looked round and wholesome. "grass makes girls." i said to my companion, and left him to work out my orphic saying, thinking to myself, that as guano makes grass, it was a legitimate conclusion that ichaboe must be a nursery of female loveliness. as the train stopped at the different stations, i inquired at each if they had any wounded officers. none as yet; the red rays of the battle-field had not streamed off so far as this. evening found us in the cars; they lighted candles in spring-candle-sticks; odd enough i thought it in the land of oil-wells and unmeasured floods of kerosene. some fellows turned up the back of a seat so as to make it horizontal, and began gambling, or pretending to gamble; it looked as if they were trying to pluck a young countryman; but appearances are deceptive, and no deeper stake than "drinks for the crowd" seemed at last to be involved. but remembering that murder has tried of late years to establish itself as an institution in the cars, i was less tolerant of the doings of these "sportsmen" who tried to turn our public conveyance into a travelling frascati. they acted as if they were used to it, and nobody seemed to pay much attention to their manoeuvres. we arrived at harrisburg in the course of the evening, and attempted to find our way to the jones house, to which we had been commended. by some mistake, intentional on the part of somebody, as it may have been, or purely accidental, we went to the herr house instead. i entered my name in the book, with that of my companion. a plain, middle-aged man stepped up, read it to himself in low tones, and coupled to it a literary title by which i have been sometimes known. he proved to be a graduate of brown university, and had heard a certain phi beta kappa poem delivered there a good many years ago. i remembered it, too; professor goddard, whose sudden and singular death left such lasting regret, was the orator. i recollect that while i was speaking a drum went by the church, and how i was disgusted to see all the heads near the windows thrust out of them, as if the building were on fire. cedat armis toga. the clerk in the office, a mild, pensive, unassuming young man, was very polite in his manners, and did all he could to make us comfortable. he was of a literary turn, and knew one of his guests in his character of author. at tea, a mild old gentleman, with white hair and beard, sat next us. he, too, had come hunting after his son, a lieutenant in a pennsylvania regiment. of these, father and son, more presently. after tea we went to look up dr. wilson, chief medical officer of the hospitals in the place, who was staying at the brady house. a magnificent old toddy-mixer, bardolphian in hue, and stern of aspect, as all grog-dispensers must be, accustomed as they are to dive through the features of men to the bottom of their souls and pockets to see whether they are solvent to the amount of sixpence, answered my question by a wave of one hand, the other being engaged in carrying a dram to his lips. his superb indifference gratified my artistic feeling more than it wounded my personal sensibilities. anything really superior in its line claims my homage, and this man was the ideal bartender, above all vulgar passions, untouched by commonplace sympathies, himself a lover of the liquid happiness he dispenses, and filled with a fine scorn of all those lesser felicities conferred by love or fame or wealth or any of the roundabout agencies for which his fiery elixir is the cheap, all-powerful substitute. dr. wilson was in bed, though it was early in the evening, not having slept for i don't know how many nights. "take my card up to him, if you please." "this way, sir." a man who has not slept for a fortnight or so is not expected to be as affable, when attacked in his bed, as a french princess of old time at her morning receptions. dr. wilson turned toward me, as i entered, without effusion, but without rudeness. his thick, dark moustache was chopped off square at the lower edge of the upper lip, which implied a decisive, if not a peremptory, style of character. i am dr. so-and-so of hubtown, looking after my wounded son. (i gave my name and said boston, of course, in reality.) dr. wilson leaned on his elbow and looked up in my face, his features growing cordial. then he put out his hand, and good-humoredly excused his reception of me. the day before, as he told me, he had dismissed from the service a medical man hailing from ******, pennsylvania, bearing my last name, preceded by the same two initials; and he supposed, when my card came up, it was this individual who was disturbing his slumbers. the coincidence was so unlikely a priori, unless some forlorn parent without antecedents had named, a child after me, that i could not help cross-questioning the doctor, who assured me deliberately that the fact was just as he had said, even to the somewhat unusual initials. dr. wilson very kindly furnished me all the information in his power, gave me directions for telegraphing to chambersburg, and showed every disposition to serve me. on returning to the herr house, we found the mild, white-haired old gentleman in a very happy state. he had just discovered his son, in a comfortable condition, at the united states hotel. he thought that he could probably give us some information which would prove interesting. to the united states hotel we repaired, then, in company with our kind-hearted old friend, who evidently wanted to see me as happy as himself. he went up-stairs to his son's chamber, and presently came down to conduct us there. lieutenant p________, of the pennsylvania __th, was a very fresh, bright-looking young man, lying in bed from the effects of a recent injury received in action. a grape-shot, after passing through a post and a board, had struck him in the hip, bruising, but not penetrating or breaking. he had good news for me. that very afternoon, a party of wounded officers had passed through harrisburg, going east. he had conversed in the bar-room of this hotel with one of them, who was wounded about the shoulder (it might be the lower part of the neck), and had his arm in a sling. he belonged to the twentieth massachusetts; the lieutenant saw that he was a captain, by the two bars on his shoulder-strap. his name was my family-name; he was tall and youthful, like my captain. at four o'clock he left in the train for philadelphia. closely questioned, the lieutenant's evidence was as round, complete, and lucid as a japanese sphere of rock-crystal. te deum laudamus! the lord's name be praised! the dead pain in the semilunar ganglion (which i must remind my reader is a kind of stupid, unreasoning brain, beneath the pit of the stomach, common to man and beast, which aches in the supreme moments of life, as when the dam loses her young ones, or the wild horse is lassoed) stopped short. there was a feeling as if i had slipped off a tight boot, or cut a strangling garter,--only it was all over my system. what more could i ask to assure me of the captain's safety? as soon as the telegraph office opens tomorrow morning we will send a message to our friends in philadelphia, and get a reply, doubtless, which will settle the whole matter. the hopeful morrow dawned at last, and the message was sent accordingly. in due time, the following reply was received: "phil sept i think the report you have heard that w [the captain] has gone east must be an error we have not seen or heard of him here m l h" de profundis clamavi! he could not have passed through philadelphia without visiting the house called beautiful, where he had been so tenderly cared for after his wound at ball's bluff, and where those whom he loved were lying in grave peril of life or limb. yet he did pass through harrisburg, going east, going to philadelphia, on his way home. ah, this is it! he must have taken the late night-train from philadelphia for new york, in his impatience to reach home. there is such a train, not down in the guide-book, but we were assured of the fact at the harrisburg depot. by and by came the reply from dr. wilson's telegraphic message: nothing had been heard of the captain at chambersburg. still later, another message came from our philadelphia friend, saying that he was seen on friday last at the house of mrs. k________, a well-known union lady in hagerstown. now this could not be true, for he did not leave keedysville until saturday; but the name of the lady furnished a clew by which we could probably track him. a telegram was at once sent to mrs. k_______, asking information. it was transmitted immediately, but when the answer would be received was uncertain, as the government almost monopolized the line. i was, on the whole, so well satisfied that the captain had gone east, that, unless something were heard to the contrary, i proposed following him in the late train leaving a little after midnight for philadelphia. this same morning we visited several of the temporary hospitals, churches and school-houses, where the wounded were lying. in one of these, after looking round as usual, i asked aloud, "any massachusetts men here?" two bright faces lifted themselves from their pillows and welcomed me by name. the one nearest me was private john b. noyes of company b, massachusetts thirteenth, son of my old college class-tutor, now the reverend and learned professor of hebrew, etc., in harvard university. his neighbor was corporal armstrong of the same company. both were slightly wounded, doing well. i learned then and since from mr. noyes that they and their comrades were completely overwhelmed by the attentions of the good people of harrisburg,--that the ladies brought them fruits and flowers, and smiles, better than either,--and that the little boys of the place were almost fighting for the privilege of doing their errands. i am afraid there will be a good many hearts pierced in this war that will have no bulletmark to show. there were some heavy hours to get rid of, and we thought a visit to camp curtin might lighten some of them. a rickety wagon carried us to the camp, in company with a young woman from troy, who had a basket of good things with her for a sick brother. "poor boy! he will be sure to die," she said. the rustic sentries uncrossed their muskets and let us in. the camp was on a fair plain, girdled with hills, spacious, well kept apparently, but did not present any peculiar attraction for us. the visit would have been a dull one, had we not happened to get sight of a singular-looking set of human beings in the distance. they were clad in stuff of different hues, gray and brown being the leading shades, but both subdued by a neutral tint, such as is wont to harmonize the variegated apparel of travel-stained vagabonds. they looked slouchy, listless, torpid,--an ill-conditioned crew, at first sight, made up of such fellows as an old woman would drive away from her hen-roost with a broomstick. yet these were estrays from the fiery army which has given our generals so much trouble,--"secesh prisoners," as a bystander told us. a talk with them might be profitable and entertaining. but they were tabooed to the common visitor, and it was necessary to get inside of the line which separated us from them. a solid, square captain was standing near by, to whom we were referred. look a man calmly through the very centre of his pupils and ask him for anything with a tone implying entire conviction that he will grant it, and he will very commonly consent to the thing asked, were it to commit hari-kari. the captain acceded to my postulate, and accepted my friend as a corollary. as one string of my own ancestors was of batavian origin, i may be permitted to say that my new friend was of the dutch type, like the amsterdam galiots, broad in the beam, capacious in the hold, and calculated to carry a heavy cargo rather than to make fast time. he must have been in politics at some time or other, for he made orations to all the "secesh," in which he explained to them that the united states considered and treated them like children, and enforced upon them the ridiculous impossibility of the rebels attempting to do anything against such a power as that of the national government. much as his discourse edified them and enlightened me, it interfered somewhat with my little plans of entering into frank and friendly talk with some of these poor fellows, for whom i could not help feeling a kind of human sympathy, though i am as venomous a hater of the rebellion as one is like to find under the stars and stripes. it is fair to take a man prisoner. it is fair to make speeches to a man. but to take a man prisoner and then make speeches to him while in durance is not fair. i began a few pleasant conversations, which would have come to something but for the reason assigned. one old fellow had a long beard, a drooping eyelid, and a black clay pipe in his mouth. he was a scotchman from ayr, dour enough, and little disposed to be communicative, though i tried him with the "twa briggs," and, like all scotchmen, he was a reader of "burrns." he professed to feel no interest in the cause for which he was fighting, and was in the army, i judged, only from compulsion. there was a wild-haired, unsoaped boy, with pretty, foolish features enough, who looked as if he might be about seventeen, as he said he was. i give my questions and his answers literally. "what state do you come from?" "georgy." "what part of georgia?" "midway." --[how odd that is! my father was settled for seven years as pastor over the church at midway, georgia, and this youth is very probably a grandson or great grandson of one of his parishioners.] "where did you go to church when you were at home?" "never went inside 'f a church b't once in m' life." "what did you do before you became a soldier?" "nothin'." "what do you mean to do when you get back?" "nothin'." who could have any other feeling than pity for this poor human weed, this dwarfed and etiolated soul, doomed by neglect to an existence but one degree above that of the idiot? with the group was a lieutenant, buttoned close in his gray coat,--one button gone, perhaps to make a breastpin for some fair traitorous bosom. a short, stocky man, undistinguishable from one of the "subject race" by any obvious meanderings of the sangre azul on his exposed surfaces. he did not say much, possibly because he was convinced by the statements and arguments of the dutch captain. he had on strong, iron-heeled shoes, of english make, which he said cost him seventeen dollars in richmond. i put the question, in a quiet, friendly way, to several of the prisoners, what they were fighting for. one answered, "for our homes." two or three others said they did not know, and manifested great indifference to the whole matter, at which another of their number, a sturdy fellow, took offence, and muttered opinions strongly derogatory to those who would not stand up for the cause they had been fighting for. a feeble; attenuated old man, who wore the rebel uniform, if such it could be called, stood by without showing any sign of intelligence. it was cutting very close to the bone to carve such a shred of humanity from the body politic to make a soldier of. we were just leaving, when a face attracted me, and i stopped the party. "that is the true southern type," i said to my companion. a young fellow, a little over twenty, rather tall, slight, with a perfectly smooth, boyish cheek, delicate, somewhat high features, and a fine, almost feminine mouth, stood at the opening of his tent, and as we turned towards him fidgeted a little nervously with one hand at the loose canvas, while he seemed at the same time not unwilling to talk. he was from mississippi, he said, had been at georgetown college, and was so far imbued with letters that even the name of the literary humility before him was not new to his ears. of course i found it easy to come into magnetic relation with him, and to ask him without incivility what he was fighting for. "because i like the excitement of it," he answered. i know those fighters with women's mouths and boys' cheeks. one such from the circle of my own friends, sixteen years old, slipped away from his nursery, and dashed in under, an assumed name among the red-legged zouaves, in whose company he got an ornamental bullet-mark in one of the earliest conflicts of the war. "did you ever see a genuine yankee?" said my philadelphia friend to the young mississippian. "i have shot at a good many of them," he replied, modestly, his woman's mouth stirring a little, with a pleasant, dangerous smile. the dutch captain here put his foot into the conversation, as his ancestors used to put theirs into the scale, when they were buying furs of the indians by weight,--so much for the weight of a hand, so much for the weight of a foot. it deranged the balance of our intercourse; there was no use in throwing a fly where a paving-stone had just splashed into the water, and i nodded a good-by to the boy-fighter, thinking how much pleasanter it was for my friend the captain to address him with unanswerable arguments and crushing statements in his own tent than it would be to meet him upon some remote picket station and offer his fair proportions to the quick eye of a youngster who would draw a bead on him before he had time to say dunder and blixum. we drove back to the town. no message. after dinner still no message. dr. cuyler, chief army hospital inspector, is in town, they say. let us hunt him up,--perhaps he can help us. we found him at the jones house. a gentleman of large proportions, but of lively temperament, his frame knit in the north, i think, but ripened in georgia, incisive, prompt but good-humored, wearing his broad-brimmed, steeple-crowned felt hat with the least possible tilt on one side,--a sure sign of exuberant vitality in a mature and dignified person like him, business-like in his ways, and not to be interrupted while occupied with another, but giving himself up heartily to the claimant who held him for the time. he was so genial, so cordial, so encouraging, that it seemed as if the clouds, which had been thick all the morning, broke away as we came into his presence, and the sunshine of his large nature filled the air all around us. he took the matter in hand at once, as if it were his own private affair. in ten minutes he had a second telegraphic message on its way to mrs. k at hagerstown, sent through the government channel from the state capitol,--one so direct and urgent that i should be sure of an answer to it, whatever became of the one i had sent in the morning. while this was going on, we hired a dilapidated barouche, driven by an odd young native, neither boy nor man, "as a codling when 't is almost an apple," who said wery for very, simple and sincere, who smiled faintly at our pleasantries, always with a certain reserve of suspicion, and a gleam of the shrewdness that all men get who live in the atmosphere of horses. he drove us round by the capitol grounds, white with tents, which were disgraced in my eyes by unsoldierly scrawls in huge letters, thus: the seven bloomsbury brothers, devil's hole, and similar inscriptions. then to the beacon street of harrisburg, which looks upon the susquehanna instead of the common, and shows a long front of handsome houses with fair gardens. the river is pretty nearly a mile across here, but very shallow now. the codling told us that a rebel spy had been caught trying its fords a little while ago, and was now at camp curtin with a heavy ball chained to his leg,--a popular story, but a lie, dr. wilson said. a little farther along we came to the barkless stump of the tree to which mr. harris, the cecrops of the city named after him, was tied by the indians for some unpleasant operation of scalping or roasting, when he was rescued by friendly savages, who paddled across the stream to save him. our youngling pointed out a very respectable-looking stone house as having been "built by the indians" about those times. guides have queer notions occasionally. i was at niagara just when dr. rae arrived there with his companions and dogs and things from his arctic search after the lost navigator. "who are those?" i said to my conductor. "them?" he answered. "them's the men that's been out west, out to michig'n, aft' sir ben franklin." of the other sights of harrisburg the brant house or hotel, or whatever it is called, seems most worth notice. its facade is imposing, with a row of stately columns, high above which a broad sign impends, like a crag over the brow of a lofty precipice. the lower floor only appeared to be open to the public. its tessellated pavement and ample courts suggested the idea of a temple where great multitudes might kneel uncrowded at their devotions; but from appearances about the place where the altar should be, i judged, that, if one asked the officiating priest for the cup which cheers and likewise inebriates, his prayer would not be unanswered. the edifice recalled to me a similar phenomenon i had once looked upon,--the famous caffe pedrocchi at padua. it was the same thing in italy and america: a rich man builds himself a mausoleum, and calls it a place of entertainment. the fragrance of innumerable libations and the smoke of incense-breathing cigars and pipes shall ascend day and night through the arches of his funereal monument. what are the poor dips which flare and flicker on the crowns of spikes that stand at the corners of st. genevieve's filigree-cased sarcophagus to this perpetual offering of sacrifice? ten o'clock in the evening was approaching. the telegraph office would presently close, and as yet there were no tidings from hagerstown. let us step over and see for ourselves. a message! a message! "captain h. still here leaves seven to-morrow for harrisburg penna is doing well mrs hk--." a note from dr. cuyler to the same effect came soon afterwards to the hotel. we shall sleep well to-night; but let us sit awhile with nubiferous, or, if we may coin a word, nepheligenous accompaniment, such as shall gently narcotize the over-wearied brain and fold its convolutions for slumber like the leaves of a lily at nightfall. for now the over-tense nerves are all unstraining themselves, and a buzz, like that which comes over one who stops after being long jolted upon an uneasy pavement, makes the whole frame alive with a luxurious languid sense of all its inmost fibres. our cheerfulness ran over, and the mild, pensive clerk was so magnetized by it that he came and sat down with us. he presently confided to me, with infinite naivete and ingenuousness, that, judging from my personal appearance, he should not have thought me the writer that he in his generosity reckoned me to be. his conception, so far as i could reach it, involved a huge, uplifted forehead, embossed with protuberant organs of the intellectual faculties, such as all writers are supposed to possess in abounding measure. while i fell short of his ideal in this respect, he was pleased to say that he found me by no means the remote and inaccessible personage he had imagined, and that i had nothing of the dandy about me, which last compliment i had a modest consciousness of most abundantly deserving. sweet slumbers brought us to the morning of thursday. the train from hagerstown was due at . a. m: we took another ride behind the codling, who showed us the sights of yesterday over again. being in a gracious mood of mind, i enlarged on the varying aspects of the town-pumps and other striking objects which we had once inspected, as seen by the different lights of evening and morning. after this, we visited the school-house hospital. a fine young fellow, whose arm had been shattered, was just falling into the spasms of lock-jaw. the beads of sweat stood large and round on his flushed and contracted features. he was under the effect of opiates,--why not (if his case was desperate, as it seemed to be considered) stop his sufferings with chloroform? it was suggested that it might shorten life. "what then?" i said. "are a dozen additional spasms worth living for?" the time approached for the train to arrive from hagerstown, and we went to the station. i was struck, while waiting there, with what seemed to me a great want of care for the safety of the people standing round. just after my companion and myself had stepped off the track, i noticed a car coming quietly along at a walk, as one may say, without engine, without visible conductor, without any person heralding its approach, so silently, so insidiously, that i could not help thinking how very near it came to flattening out me and my match-box worse than the ravel pantomimist and his snuff-box were flattened out in the play. the train was late,--fifteen minutes, half an hour late, and i began to get nervous, lest something had happened. while i was looking for it, out started a freight-train, as if on purpose to meet the cars i was expecting, for a grand smash-up. i shivered at the thought, and asked an employee of the road, with whom i had formed an acquaintance a few minutes old, why there should not be a collision of the expected train with this which was just going out. he smiled an official smile, and answered that they arranged to prevent that, or words to that effect. twenty-four hours had not passed from that moment when a collision did occur, just out of the city, where i feared it, by which at least eleven persons were killed, and from forty to sixty more were maimed and crippled! to-day there was the delay spoken of, but nothing worse. the expected train came in so quietly that i was almost startled to see it on the track. let us walk calmly through the cars, and look around us. in the first car, on the fourth seat to the right, i saw my captain; there saw i him, even my first-born, whom i had sought through many cities. "how are you, boy?" "how are you, dad?" such are the proprieties of life, as they are observed among us anglo-saxons of the nineteenth century, decently disguising those natural impulses that made joseph, the prime minister of egypt, weep aloud so that the egyptians and the house of pharaoh heard, nay, which had once overcome his shaggy old uncle esau so entirely that he fell on his brother's neck and cried like a baby in the presence of all the women. but the hidden cisterns of the soul may be filling fast with sweet tears, while the windows through which it looks are undimmed by a drop or a film of moisture. these are times in which we cannot live solely for selfish joys or griefs. i had not let fall the hand i held, when a sad, calm voice addressed me by name. i fear that at the moment i was too much absorbed in my own feelings; for certainly at any other time. i should have yielded myself without stint to the sympathy which this meeting might well call forth. "you remember my son, cortland saunders, whom i brought to see you once in boston?" "i do remember him well." "he was killed on monday, at shepherdstown. i am carrying his body back with me on this train. he was my only child. if you could come to my house,--i can hardly call it my home now,--it would be a pleasure to me." this young man, belonging in philadelphia, was the author of a "new system of latin paradigms," a work showing extraordinary scholarship and capacity. it was this book which first made me acquainted with him, and i kept him in my memory, for there was genius in the youth. some time afterwards he came to me with a modest request to be introduced to president felton, and one or two others, who would aid him in a course of independent study he was proposing to himself. i was most happy to smooth the way for him, and he came repeatedly after this to see me and express his satisfaction in the opportunities for study he enjoyed at cambridge. he was a dark, still, slender person, always with a trance-like remoteness, a mystic dreaminess of manner, such as i never saw in any other youth. whether he heard with difficulty, or whether his mind reacted slowly on an alien thought, i could not say; but his answer would often be behind time, and then a vague, sweet smile, or a few words spoken under his breath, as if he had been trained in sick men's chambers. for such a young man, seemingly destined for the inner life of contemplation, to be a soldier seemed almost unnatural. yet he spoke to me of his intention to offer himself to his country, and his blood must now be reckoned among the precious sacrifices which will make her soil sacred forever. had he lived, i doubt not that he would have redeemed the rare promise of his earlier years. he has done better, for he has died that unborn generations may attain the hopes held out to our nation and to mankind. so, then, i had been within ten miles of the place where my wounded soldier was lying, and then calmly turned my back upon him to come once more round by a journey of three or four hundred miles to the same region i had left! no mysterious attraction warned me that the heart warm with the same blood as mine was throbbing so near my own. i thought of that lovely, tender passage where gabriel glides unconsciously by evangeline upon the great river. ah, me! if that railroad crash had been a few hours earlier, we two should never have met again, after coming so close to each other! the source of my repeated disappointments was soon made clear enough. the captain had gone to hagerstown, intending to take the cars at once for philadelphia, as his three friends actually did, and as i took it for granted he certainly would. but as he walked languidly along, some ladies saw him across the street, and seeing, were moved with pity, and pitying, spoke such soft words that he was tempted to accept their invitation and rest awhile beneath their hospitable roof. the mansion was old, as the dwellings of gentlefolks should be; the ladies were some of them young, and all were full of kindness; there were gentle cares, and unasked luxuries, and pleasant talk, and music-sprinklings from the piano, with a sweet voice to keep them company,--and all this after the swamps of the chickahominy, the mud and flies of harrison's landing, the dragging marches, the desperate battles, the fretting wound, the jolting ambulance, the log-house, and the rickety milk--cart! thanks, uncounted thanks to the angelic ladies whose charming attentions detained him from saturday to thursday, to his great advantage and my infinite bewilderment! as for his wound, how could it do otherwise than well under such hands? the bullet had gone smoothly through, dodging everything but a few nervous branches, which would come right in time and leave him as well as ever. at ten that evening we were in philadelphia, the captain at the house of the friends so often referred to, and i the guest of charley, my kind companion. the quaker element gives an irresistible attraction to these benignant philadelphia households. many things reminded me that i was no longer in the land of the pilgrims. on the table were kool slaa and schmeer kase, but the good grandmother who dispensed with such quiet, simple grace these and more familiar delicacies was literally ignorant of baked beans, and asked if it was the lima bean which was employed in that marvellous dish of animalized leguminous farina! charley was pleased with my comparing the face of the small ethiop known to his household as "tines" to a huckleberry with features. he also approved my parallel between a certain german blonde young maiden whom we passed in the street and the "morris white" peach. but he was so good-humored at times, that, if one scratched a lucifer, he accepted it as an illumination. a day in philadelphia left a very agreeable impression of the outside of that great city, which has endeared itself so much of late to all the country by its most noble and generous care of our soldiers. measured by its sovereign hotel, the continental, it would stand at the head of our economic civilization. it provides for the comforts and conveniences, and many of the elegances of life, more satisfactorily than any american city, perhaps than any other city anywhere. many of its characteristics are accounted for to some extent by its geographical position. it is the great neutral centre of the continent, where the fiery enthusiasms of the south and the keen fanaticisms of the north meet at their outer limits, and result in a compound which neither turns litmus red nor turmeric brown. it lives largely on its traditions, of which, leaving out franklin and independence hall, the most imposing must be considered its famous water-works. in my younger days i visited fairmount, and it was with a pious reverence that i renewed my pilgrimage to that perennial fountain. its watery ventricles were throbbing with the same systole and diastole as when, the blood of twenty years bounding in my own heart, i looked upon their giant mechanism. but in the place of "pratt's garden" was an open park, and the old house where robert morris held his court in a former generation was changing to a public restaurant. a suspension bridge cobwebbed itself across the schuylkill where that audacious arch used to leap the river at a single bound,--an arch of greater span, as they loved to tell us, than was ever before constructed. the upper ferry bridge was to the schuylkill what the colossus was to the harbor of rhodes. it had an air of dash about it which went far towards redeeming the dead level of respectable average which flattens the physiognomy of the rectangular city. philadelphia will never be herself again until another robert mills and another lewis wernwag have shaped her a new palladium. she must leap the schuylkill again, or old men will sadly shake their heads, like the jews at the sight of the second temple, remembering the glories of that which it replaced. there are times when ethiopian minstrelsy can amuse, if it does not charm, a weary soul, and such a vacant hour there was on this same friday evening. the "opera-house" was spacious and admirably ventilated. as i was listening to the merriment of the sooty buffoons, i happened to cast my eyes up to the ceiling, and through an open semicircular window a bright solitary star looked me calmly in the eyes. it was a strange intrusion of the vast eternities beckoning from the infinite spaces. i called the attention of one of my neighbors to it, but "bones" was irresistibly droll, and arcturus, or aldebaran, or whatever the blazing luminary may have been, with all his revolving worlds, sailed uncared-for down the firmament. on saturday morning we took up our line of march for new york. mr. felton, president of the philadelphia, wilmington and baltimore railroad, had already called upon me, with a benevolent and sagacious look on his face which implied that he knew how to do me a service and meant to do it. sure enough, when we got to the depot, we found a couch spread for the captain, and both of us were passed on to new york with no visits, but those of civility, from the conductor. the best thing i saw on the route was a rustic fence, near elizabethtown, i think, but i am not quite sure. there was more genius in it than in any structure of the kind i have ever seen,--each length being of a special pattern, ramified, reticulated, contorted, as the limbs of the trees had grown. i trust some friend will photograph or stereograph this fence for me, to go with the view of the spires of frederick, already referred to, as mementos of my journey. i had come to feeling that i knew most of the respectably dressed people whom i met in the cars, and had been in contact with them at some time or other. three or four ladies and gentlemen were near us, forming a group by themselves. presently one addressed me by name, and, on inquiry, i found him to be the gentleman who was with me in the pulpit as orator on the occasion of another phi beta kappa poem, one delivered at new haven. the party were very courteous and friendly, and contributed in various ways to our comfort. it sometimes seems to me as if there were only about a thousand people in the world, who keep going round and round behind the scenes and then before them, like the "army" in a beggarly stage-show. suppose that i should really wish; some time or other, to get away from this everlasting circle of revolving supernumeraries, where should i buy a ticket the like of which was not in some of their pockets, or find a seat to which some one of them was not a neighbor. a little less than a year before, after the ball's bluff accident, the captain, then the lieutenant, and myself had reposed for a night on our homeward journey at the fifth avenue hotel, where we were lodged on the ground-floor, and fared sumptuously. we were not so peculiarly fortunate this time, the house being really very full. farther from the flowers and nearer to the stars,--to reach the neighborhood of which last the per ardua of three or four flights of stairs was formidable for any mortal, wounded or well. the "vertical railway" settled that for us, however. it is a giant corkscrew forever pulling a mammoth cork, which, by some divine judgment, is no sooner drawn than it is replaced in its position. this ascending and descending stopper is hollow, carpeted, with cushioned seats, and is watched over by two condemned souls, called conductors, one of whom is said to be named igion, and the other sisyphus. i love new york, because, as in paris, everybody that lives in it feels that it is his property,--at least, as much as it is anybody's. my broadway, in particular, i love almost as i used to love my boulevards. i went, therefore, with peculiar interest, on the day that we rested at our grand hotel, to visit some new pleasure-grounds the citizens had been arranging for us, and which i had not yet seen. the central park is an expanse of wild country, well crumpled so as to form ridges which will give views and hollows that will hold water. the hips and elbows and other bones of nature stick out here and there in the shape of rocks which give character to the scenery, and an unchangeable, unpurchasable look to a landscape that without them would have been in danger of being fattened by art and money out of all its native features. the roads were fine, the sheets of water beautiful, the bridges handsome, the swans elegant in their deportment, the grass green and as short as a fast horse's winter coat. i could not learn whether it was kept so by clipping or singeing. i was delighted with my new property,--but it cost me four dollars to get there, so far was it beyond the pillars of hercules of the fashionable quarter. what it will be by and by depends on circumstances; but at present it is as much central to new york as brookline is central to boston. the question is not between mr. olmsted's admirably arranged, but remote pleasure-ground and our common, with its batrachian pool, but between his excentric park and our finest suburban scenery, between its artificial reservoirs and the broad natural sheet of jamaica pond. i say this not invidiously, but in justice to the beauties which surround our own metropolis. to compare the situations of any dwellings in either of the great cities with those which look upon the common, the public garden, the waters of the back bay, would be to take an unfair advantage of fifth avenue and walnut street. st. botolph's daughter dresses in plainer clothes than her more stately sisters, but she wears an emerald on her right hand and a diamond on her left that cybele herself need not be ashamed of. on monday morning, the twenty-ninth of september, we took the cars for home. vacant lots, with irish and pigs; vegetable-gardens; straggling houses; the high bridge; villages, not enchanting; then stamford: then norwalk. here, on the sixth of may, , i passed close on the heels of the great disaster. but that my lids were heavy on that morning, my readers would probably have had no further trouble with me. two of my friends saw the car in which they rode break in the middle and leave them hanging over the abyss. from norwalk to boston, that day's journey of two hundred miles was a long funeral procession. bridgeport, waiting for iranistan to rise from its ashes with all its phoenix-egg domes,--bubbles of wealth that broke, ready to be blown again; iridescent as ever, which is pleasant, for the world likes cheerful mr. barnum's success; new haven, girt with flat marshes that look like monstrous billiard-tables, with hay-cocks lying about for balls,--romantic with west rock and its legends,--cursed with a detestable depot, whose niggardly arrangements crowd the track so murderously close to the wall that the peine forte et dare must be the frequent penalty of an innocent walk on its platform,--with its neat carriages, metropolitan hotels, precious old college-dormitories, its vistas of elms and its dishevelled weeping-willows; hartford, substantial, well-bridged, many--steepled city,--every conical spire an extinguisher of some nineteenth-century heresy; so onward, by and across the broad, shallow connecticut,--dull red road and dark river woven in like warp and woof by the shuttle of the darting engine; then springfield, the wide-meadowed, well-feeding, horse-loving, hot-summered, giant-treed town,--city among villages, village among cities; worcester, with its daedalian labyrinth of crossing railroad-bars, where the snorting minotaurs, breathing fire and smoke and hot vapors, are stabled in their dens; framingham, fair cup-bearer, leaf-cinctured hebe of the deep-bosomed queen sitting by the seaside on the throne of the six nations. and now i begin to know the road, not by towns, but by single dwellings; not by miles, but by rods. the poles of the great magnet that draws in all the iron tracks through the grooves of all the mountains must be near at hand, for here are crossings, and sudden stops, and screams of alarmed engines heard all around. the tall granite obelisk comes into view far away on the left, its bevelled cap-stone sharp against the sky; the lofty chimneys of charlestown and east cambridge flaunt their smoky banners up in the thin air; and now one fair bosom of the three-pilled city, with its dome-crowned summit, reveals itself, as when many-breasted ephesian artemis appeared with half-open chlamys before her worshippers. fling open the window-blinds of the chamber that looks out on the waters and towards the western sun! let the joyous light shine in upon the pictures that hang upon its walls and the shelves thick-set with the names of poets and philosophers and sacred teachers, in whose pages our boys learn that life is noble only when it is held cheap by the side of honor and of duty. lay him in his own bed, and let him sleep off his aches and weariness. so comes down another night over this household, unbroken by any messenger of evil tidings,--a night of peaceful rest and grateful thoughts; for this our son and brother was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found. the inevitable trial [an oration delivered before the city authorities of boston, on the th of july, .] it is our first impulse, upon this returning day of our nation's birth, to recall whatever is happiest and noblest in our past history, and to join our voices in celebrating the statesmen and the heroes, the men of thought and the men of action, to whom that history owes its existence. in other years this pleasing office may have been all that was required of the holiday speaker. but to-day, when the very life of the nation is threatened, when clouds are thick about us, and men's hearts are throbbing with passion, or failing with fear, it is the living question of the hour, and not the dead story of the past, which forces itself into all minds, and will find unrebuked debate in all assemblies. in periods of disturbance like the present, many persons who sincerely love their country and mean to do their duty to her disappoint the hopes and expectations of those who are actively working in her cause. they seem to have lost whatever moral force they may have once possessed, and to go drifting about from one profitless discontent to another, at a time when every citizen is called upon for cheerful, ready service. it is because their minds are bewildered, and they are no longer truly themselves. show them the path of duty, inspire them with hope for the future, lead them upwards from the turbid stream of events to the bright, translucent springs of eternal principles, strengthen their trust in humanity and their faith in god, and you may yet restore them to their manhood and their country. at all times, and especially on this anniversary of glorious recollections and kindly enthusiasms, we should try to judge the weak and wavering souls of our brothers fairly and generously. the conditions in which our vast community of peace-loving citizens find themselves are new and unprovided for. our quiet burghers and farmers are in the position of river-boats blown from their moorings out upon a vast ocean, where such a typhoon is raging as no mariner who sails its waters ever before looked upon. if their beliefs change with the veering of the blast, if their trust in their fellow-men, and in the course of divine providence, seems well-nigh shipwrecked, we must remember that they were taken unawares, and without the preparation which could fit them to struggle with these tempestuous elements. in times like these the faith is the man; and they to whom it is given in larger measure owe a special duty to those who for want of it are faint at heart, uncertain in speech, feeble in effort, and purposeless in aim. assuming without argument a few simple propositions,--that self-government is the natural condition of an adult society, as distinguished from the immature state, in which the temporary arrangements of monarchy and oligarchy are tolerated as conveniences; that the end of all social compacts is, or ought to be, to give every child born into the world the fairest chance to make the most and the best of itself that laws can give it; that liberty, the one of the two claimants who swears that her babe shall not be split in halves and divided between them, is the true mother of this blessed union; that the contest in which we are engaged is one of principles overlaid by circumstances; that the longer we fight, and the more we study the movements of events and ideas, the more clearly we find the moral nature of the cause at issue emerging in the field and in the study; that all honest persons with average natural sensibility, with respectable understanding, educated in the school of northern teaching, will have eventually to range themselves in the armed or unarmed host which fights or pleads for freedom, as against every form of tyranny; if not in the front rank now, then in the rear rank by and by;--assuming these propositions, as many, perhaps most of us, are ready to do, and believing that the more they are debated before the public the more they will gain converts, we owe it to the timid and the doubting to keep the great questions of the time in unceasing and untiring agitation. they must be discussed, in all ways consistent with the public welfare, by different classes of thinkers; by priests and laymen; by statesmen and simple voters; by moralists and lawyers; by men of science and uneducated hand-laborers; by men of facts and figures, and by men of theories and aspirations; in the abstract and in the concrete; discussed and rediscussed every month, every week, every day, and almost every hour, as the telegraph tells us of some new upheaval or subsidence of the rocky base of our political order. such discussions may not be necessary to strengthen the convictions of the great body of loyal citizens. they may do nothing toward changing the views of those, if such there be, as some profess to believe, who follow politics as a trade. they may have no hold upon that class of persons who are defective in moral sensibility, just as other persons are wanting in an ear for music. but for the honest, vacillating minds, the tender consciences supported by the tremulous knees of an infirm intelligence, the timid compromisers who are always trying to curve the straight lines and round the sharp angles of eternal law, the continual debate of these living questions is the one offered means of grace and hope of earthly redemption. and thus a true, unhesitating patriot may be willing to listen with patience to arguments which he does not need, to appeals which have no special significance for him, in the hope that some less clear in mind or less courageous in temper may profit by them. as we look at the condition in which we find ourselves on this fourth day of july, , at the beginning of the eighty-eighth year of american independence, we may well ask ourselves what right we have to indulge in public rejoicings. if the war in which we are engaged is an accidental one, which might have been avoided but for our fault; if it is for any ambitious or unworthy purpose on our part; if it is hopeless, and we are madly persisting in it; if it is our duty and in our power to make a safe and honorable peace, and we refuse to do it; if our free institutions are in danger of becoming subverted, and giving place to an irresponsible tyranny; if we are moving in the narrow circles which are to ingulf us in national ruin,--then we had better sing a dirge, and leave this idle assemblage, and hush the noisy cannon which are reverberating through the air, and tear down the scaffolds which are soon to blaze with fiery symbols; for it is mourning and not joy that should cover the land; there should be silence, and not the echo of noisy gladness, in our streets; and the emblems with which we tell our nation's story and prefigure its future should be traced, not in fire, but in ashes. if, on the other hand, this war is no accident, but an inevitable result of long incubating causes; inevitable as the cataclysms that swept away the monstrous births of primeval nature; if it is for no mean, unworthy end, but for national life, for liberty everywhere, for humanity, for the kingdom of god on earth; if it is not hopeless, but only growing to such dimensions that the world shall remember the final triumph of right throughout all time; if there is no safe and honorable peace for us but a peace proclaimed from the capital of every revolted province in the name of the sacred, inviolable union; if the fear of tyranny is a phantasm, conjured up by the imagination of the weak, acted on by the craft of the cunning; if so far from circling inward to the gulf of our perdition, the movement of past years is reversed, and every revolution carries us farther and farther from the centre of the vortex, until, by god's blessing, we shall soon find ourselves freed from the outermost coil of the accursed spiral; if all these things are true; if we may hope to make them seem true, or even probable, to the doubting soul, in an hour's discourse, then we may join without madness in the day's exultant festivities; the bells may ring, the cannon may roar, the incense of our harmless saltpetre fill the air, and the children who are to inherit the fruit of these toiling, agonizing years, go about unblamed, making day and night vocal with their jubilant patriotism. the struggle in which we are engaged was inevitable; it might have come a little sooner, or a little later, but it must have come. the disease of the nation was organic, and not functional, and the rough chirurgery of war was its only remedy. in opposition to this view, there are many languid thinkers who lapse into a forlorn belief that if this or that man had never lived, or if this or that other man had not ceased to live, the country might have gone on in peace and prosperity, until its felicity merged in the glories of the millennium. if mr. calhoun had never proclaimed his heresies; if mr. garrison had never published his paper; if mr. phillips, the cassandra in masculine shape of our long prosperous ilium, had never uttered his melodious prophecies; if the silver tones of mr. clay had still sounded in the senate-chamber to smooth the billows of contention; if the olympian brow of daniel webster had been lifted from the dust to fix its awful frown on the darkening scowl of rebellion,--we might have been spared this dread season of convulsion. all this is but simple martha's faith, without the reason she could have given: "if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died." they little know the tidal movements of national thought and feeling, who believe that they depend for existence on a few swimmers who ride their waves. it is not leviathan that leads the ocean from continent to continent, but the ocean which bears his mighty bulk as it wafts its own bubbles. if this is true of all the narrower manifestations of human progress, how much more must it be true of those broad movements in the intellectual and spiritual domain which interest all mankind? but in the more limited ranges referred to, no fact is more familiar than that there is a simultaneous impulse acting on many individual minds at once, so that genius comes in clusters, and shines rarely as a single star. you may trace a common motive and force in the pyramid-builders of the earliest recorded antiquity, in the evolution of greek architecture, and in the sudden springing up of those wondrous cathedrals of the twelfth and following centuries, growing out of the soil with stem and bud and blossom, like flowers of stone whose seeds might well have been the flaming aerolites cast over the battlements of heaven. you may see the same law showing itself in the brief periods of glory which make the names of pericles and augustus illustrious with reflected splendors; in the painters, the sculptors, the scholars of "leo's golden days"; in the authors of the elizabethan time; in the poets of the first part of this century following that dreary period, suffering alike from the silence of cowper and the song of hayley. you may accept the fact as natural, that zwingli and luther, without knowing each other, preached the same reformed gospel; that newton, and hooke, and halley, and wren arrived independently of each other at the great law of the diminution of gravity with the square of the distance; that leverrier and adams felt their hands meeting, as it were, as they stretched them into the outer darkness beyond the orbit of uranus, in search of the dim, unseen planet; that fulton and bell, that wheatstone and morse, that daguerre and niepce, were moving almost simultaneously in parallel paths to the same end. you see why patrick henry, in richmond, and samuel adams, in boston, were startling the crown officials with the same accents of liberty, and why the mecklenburg resolutions had the very ring of the protest of the province of massachusetts. this law of simultaneous intellectual movement, recognized by all thinkers, expatiated upon by lord macaulay and by mr. herbert spencer among recent writers, is eminently applicable to that change of thought and feeling which necessarily led to the present conflict. the antagonism of the two sections of the union was not the work of this or that enthusiast or fanatic. it was the consequence of a movement in mass of two different forms of civilization in different directions, and the men to whom it was attributed were only those who represented it most completely, or who talked longest and loudest about it. long before the accents of those famous statesmen referred to ever resounded in the halls of the capitol, long before the "liberator" opened its batteries, the controversy now working itself out by trial of battle was foreseen and predicted. washington warned his countrymen of the danger of sectional divisions, well knowing the line of cleavage that ran through the seemingly solid fabric. jefferson foreshadowed the judgment to fall upon the land for its sins against a just god. andrew jackson announced a quarter of a century beforehand that the next pretext of revolution would be slavery. de tocqueville recognized with that penetrating insight which analyzed our institutions and conditions so keenly, that the union was to be endangered by slavery, not through its interests, but through the change of character it was bringing about in the people of the two sections, the same fatal change which george mason, more than half a century before, had declared to be the most pernicious effect of the system, adding the solemn warning, now fearfully justifying itself in the sight of his descendants, that "by an inevitable chain of causes and effects, providence punishes national sins by national calamities." the virginian romancer pictured the far-off scenes of the conflict which he saw approaching as the prophets of israel painted the coming woes of jerusalem, and the strong iconoclast of boston announced the very year when the curtain should rise on the yet unopened drama. the wise men of the past, and the shrewd men of our own time, who warned us of the calamities in store for our nation, never doubted what was the cause which was to produce first alienation and finally rupture. the descendants of the men "daily exercised in tyranny," the "petty tyrants" as their own leading statesmen called them long ago, came at length to love the institution which their fathers had condemned while they tolerated. it is the fearful realization of that vision of the poet where the lost angels snuff up with eager nostrils the sulphurous emanations of the bottomless abyss,--so have their natures become changed by long breathing the atmosphere of the realm of darkness. at last, in the fulness of time, the fruits of sin ripened in a sudden harvest of crime. violence stalked into the senate-chamber, theft and perjury wound their way into the cabinet, and, finally, openly organized conspiracy, with force and arms, made burglarious entrance into a chief stronghold of the union. that the principle which underlay these acts of fraud and violence should be irrevocably recorded with every needed sanction, it pleased god to select a chief ruler of the false government to be its messiah to the listening world. as with pharaoh, the lord hardened his heart, while he opened his mouth, as of old he opened that of the unwise animal ridden by cursing balaam. then spake mr. "vice-president" stephens those memorable words which fixed forever the theory of the new social order. he first lifted a degraded barbarism to the dignity of a philosophic system. he first proclaimed the gospel of eternal tyranny as the new revelation which providence had reserved for the western palestine. hear, o heavens! and give ear, o earth! the corner-stone of the new-born dispensation is the recognized inequality of races; not that the strong may protect the weak, as men protect women and children, but that the strong may claim the authority of nature and of god to buy, to sell, to scourge, to hunt, to cheat out of the reward of his labor, to keep in perpetual ignorance, to blast with hereditary curses throughout all time, the bronzed foundling of the new world, upon whose darkness has dawned the star of the occidental bethlehem! after two years of war have consolidated the opinion of the slave states, we read in the "richmond examiner": "the establishment of the confederacy is verily a distinct reaction against the whole course of the mistaken civilization of the age. for 'liberty, equality, fraternity,' we have deliberately substituted slavery, subordination, and government." a simple diagram, within the reach of all, shows how idle it is to look for any other cause than slavery as having any material agency in dividing the country. match the two broken pieces of the union, and you will find the fissure that separates them zigzagging itself half across the continent like an isothermal line, shooting its splintery projections, and opening its reentering angles, not merely according to the limitations of particular states, but as a county or other limited section of ground belongs to freedom or to slavery. add to this the official statement made in , that "there is not one regiment or battalion, or even company of men, which was organized in or derived from the free states or territories, anywhere, against the union"; throw in gratuitously mr. stephens's explicit declaration in the speech referred to, and we will consider the evidence closed for the present on this count of the indictment. in the face of these predictions, these declarations, this line of fracture, this precise statement, testimony from so many sources, extending through several generations, as to the necessary effect of slavery, a priori, and its actual influence as shown by the facts, few will suppose that anything we could have done would have stayed its course or prevented it from working out its legitimate effects on the white subjects of its corrupting dominion. northern acquiescence or even sympathy may have sometimes helped to make it sit more easily on the consciences of its supporters. many profess to think that northern fanaticism, as they call it, acted like a mordant in fixing the black dye of slavery in regions which would but for that have washed themselves free of its stain in tears of penitence. it is a delusion and a snare to trust in any such false and flimsy reasons where there is enough and more than enough in the institution itself to account for its growth. slavery gratifies at once the love of power, the love of money, and the love of ease; it finds a victim for anger who cannot smite back his oppressor; and it offers to all, without measure, the seductive privileges which the mormon gospel reserves for the true believers on earth, and the bible of mahomet only dares promise to the saints in heaven. still it is common, common even to vulgarism, to hear the remark that the same gallows-tree ought to bear as its fruit the arch-traitor and the leading champion of aggressive liberty. the mob of jerusalem was not satisfied with its two crucified thieves; it must have a cross also for the reforming galilean, who interfered so rudely with its conservative traditions! it is asserted that the fault was quite as much on our side as on the other; that our agitators and abolishers kindled the flame for which the combustibles were all ready on the other side of the border. if these men could have been silenced, our brothers had not died. who are the persons that use this argument? they are the very ones who are at the present moment most zealous in maintaining the right of free discussion. at a time when every power the nation can summon is needed to ward off the blows aimed at its life, and turn their force upon its foes,--when a false traitor at home may lose us a battle by a word, and a lying newspaper may demoralize an army by its daily or weekly stillicidium of poison, they insist with loud acclaim upon the liberty of speech and of the press; liberty, nay license, to deal with government, with leaders, with every measure, however urgent, in any terms they choose, to traduce the officer before his own soldiers, and assail the only men who have any claim at all to rule over the country, as the very ones who are least worthy to be obeyed. if these opposition members of society are to have their way now, they cannot find fault with those persons who spoke their minds freely in the past on that great question which, as we have agreed, underlies all our present dissensions. it is easy to understand the bitterness which is often shown towards reformers. they are never general favorites. they are apt to interfere with vested rights and time-hallowed interests. they often wear an unlovely, forbidding aspect. their office corresponds to that of nature's sanitary commission for the removal of material nuisances. it is not the butterfly, but the beetle, which she employs for this duty. it is not the bird of paradise and the nightingale, but the fowl of dark plumage and unmelodious voice, to which is entrusted the sacred duty of eliminating the substances that infect the air. and the force of obvious analogy teaches us not to expect all the qualities which please the general taste in those whose instincts lead them to attack the moral nuisances which poison the atmosphere of society. but whether they please us in all their aspects or not, is not the question. like them or not, they must and will perform their office, and we cannot stop them. they may be unwise, violent, abusive, extravagant, impracticable, but they are alive, at any rate, and it is their business to remove abuses as soon as they are dead, and often to help them to die. to quarrel with them because they are beetles, and not butterflies, is natural, but far from profitable. they grow none the less vigorously for being trodden upon, like those tough weeds that love to nestle between the stones of court-yard pavements. if you strike at one of their heads with the bludgeon of the law, or of violence, it flies open like the seedcapsule of a snap-weed, and fills the whole region with seminal thoughts which will spring up in a crop just like the original martyr. they chased one of these enthusiasts, who attacked slavery, from st. louis, and shot him at alton in ; and on the d of june just passed, the governor of missouri, chairman of the committee on emancipation, introduced to the convention an ordinance for the final extinction of slavery! they hunted another through the streets of a great northern city in ; and within a few weeks a regiment of colored soldiers, many of them bearing the marks of the slave-driver's whip on their backs, marched out before a vast multitude tremulous with newly-stirred sympathies, through the streets of the same city, to fight our battles in the name of god and liberty! the same persons who abuse the reformers, and lay all our troubles at their door, are apt to be severe also on what they contemptuously emphasize as "sentiments" considered as motives of action. it is charitable to believe that they do not seriously contemplate or truly understand the meaning of the words they use, but rather play with them, as certain so-called "learned" quadrupeds play with the printed characters set before them. in all questions involving duty, we act from sentiments. religion springs from them, the family order rests upon them, and in every community each act involving a relation between any two of its members implies the recognition or the denial of a sentiment. it is true that men often forget them or act against their bidding in the keen competition of business and politics. but god has not left the hard intellect of man to work out its devices without the constant presence of beings with gentler and purer instincts. the breast of woman is the ever-rocking cradle of the pure and holy sentiments which will sooner or later steal their way into the mind of her sterner companion; which will by and by emerge in the thoughts of the world's teachers, and at last thunder forth in the edicts of its law-givers and masters. woman herself borrows half her tenderness from the sweet influences of maternity; and childhood, that weeps at the story of suffering, that shudders at the picture of wrong, brings down its inspiration "from god, who is our home." to quarrel, then, with the class of minds that instinctively attack abuses, is not only profitless but senseless; to sneer at the sentiments which are the springs of all just and virtuous actions, is merely a display of unthinking levity, or of want of the natural sensibilities. with the hereditary character of the southern people moving in one direction, and the awakened conscience of the north stirring in the other, the open conflict of opinion was inevitable, and equally inevitable its appearance in the field of national politics. for what is meant by self-government is, that a man shall make his convictions of what is right and expedient regulate the community so far as his fractional share of the government extends. if one has come to the conclusion, be it right or wrong, that any particular institution or statute is a violation of the sovereign law of god, it is to be expected that he will choose to be represented by those who share his belief, and who will in their wider sphere do all they legitimately can to get rid of the wrong in which they find themselves and their constituents involved. to prevent opinion from organizing itself under political forms may be very desirable, but it is not according to the theory or practice of self-government. and if at last organized opinions become arrayed in hostile shape against each other, we shall find that a just war is only the last inevitable link in a chain of closely connected impulses of which the original source is in him who gave to tender and humble and uncorrupted souls the sense of right and wrong, which, after passing through various forms, has found its final expression in the use of material force. behind the bayonet is the law-giver's statute, behind the statute the thinker's argument, behind the argument is the tender conscientiousness of woman, woman, the wife, the mother,--who looks upon the face of god himself reflected in the unsullied soul of infancy. "out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength, because of thine enemies." the simplest course for the malcontent is to find fault with the order of nature and the being who established it. unless the law of moral progress were changed, or the governor of the universe were dethroned, it would be impossible to prevent a great uprising of the human conscience against a system, the legislation relating to which, in the words of so calm an observer as de tocqueville, the montesquieu of our laws, presents "such unparalleled atrocities as to show that the laws of humanity have been totally perverted." until the infinite selfishness of the powers that hate and fear the principles of free government swallowed up their convenient virtues, that system was hissed at by all the old-world civilization. while in one section of our land the attempt has been going on to lift it out of the category of tolerated wrongs into the sphere of the world's beneficent agencies, it was to be expected that the protest of northern manhood and womanhood would grow louder and stronger until the conflict of principles led to the conflict of forces. the moral uprising of the north came with the logical precision of destiny; the rage of the "petty tyrants" was inevitable; the plot to erect a slave empire followed with fated certainty; and the only question left for us of the north was, whether we should suffer the cause of the nation to go by default, or maintain its existence by the argument of cannon and musket, of bayonet and sabre. the war in which we are engaged is for no meanly ambitious or unworthy purpose. it was primarily, and is to this moment, for the preservation of our national existence. the first direct movement towards it was a civil request on the part of certain southern persons, that the nation would commit suicide, without making any unnecessary trouble about it. it was answered, with sentiments of the highest consideration, that there were constitutional and other objections to the nation's laying violent hands upon itself. it was then requested, in a somewhat peremptory tone, that the nation would be so obliging as to abstain from food until the natural consequences of that proceeding should manifest themselves. all this was done as between a single state and an isolated fortress; but it was not south carolina and fort sumter that were talking; it was a vast conspiracy uttering its menace to a mighty nation; the whole menagerie of treason was pacing its cages, ready to spring as soon as the doors were opened; and all that the tigers of rebellion wanted to kindle their wild natures to frenzy, was the sight of flowing blood. as if to show how coldly and calmly all this had been calculated beforehand by the conspirators, to make sure that no absence of malice aforethought should degrade the grand malignity of settled purpose into the trivial effervescence of transient passion, the torch which was literally to launch the first missile, figuratively, to "fire the southern heart" and light the flame of civil war, was given into the trembling hand of an old white-headed man, the wretched incendiary whom history will handcuff in eternal infamy with the temple-burner of ancient ephesus. the first gun that spat its iron insult at fort sumter, smote every loyal american full in the face. as when the foul witch used to torture her miniature image, the person it represented suffered all that she inflicted on his waxen counterpart, so every buffet that fell on the smoking fortress was felt by the sovereign nation of which that was the representative. robbery could go no farther, for every loyal man of the north was despoiled in that single act as much as if a footpad had laid hands upon him to take from him his father's staff and his mother's bible. insult could go no farther, for over those battered walls waved the precious symbol of all we most value in the past and most hope for in the future,--the banner under which we became a nation, and which, next to the cross of the redeemer, is the dearest object of love and honor to all who toil or march or sail beneath its waving folds of glory. let us pause for a moment to consider what might have been the course of events if under the influence of fear, or of what some would name humanity, or of conscientious scruples to enter upon what a few please themselves and their rebel friends by calling a "wicked war"; if under any or all these influences we had taken the insult and the violence of south carolina without accepting it as the first blow of a mortal combat, in which we must either die or give the last and finishing stroke. by the same title which south carolina asserted to fort sumter, florida would have challenged as her own the gibraltar of the gulf, and virginia the ehrenbreitstein of the chesapeake. half our navy would have anchored under the guns of these suddenly alienated fortresses, with the flag of the rebellion flying at their peaks. "old ironsides" herself would have perhaps sailed out of annapolis harbor to have a wooden jefferson davis shaped for her figure-head at norfolk,--for andrew jackson was a hater of secession, and his was no fitting effigy for the battle-ship of the red-handed conspiracy. with all the great fortresses, with half the ships and warlike material, in addition to all that was already stolen, in the traitors' hands, what chance would the loyal men in the border states have stood against the rush of the desperate fanatics of the now triumphant faction? where would maryland, kentucky, missouri, tennessee,--saved, or looking to be saved, even as it is, as by fire,--have been in the day of trial? into whose hands would the capital, the archives, the glory, the name, the very life of the nation as a nation, have fallen, endangered as all of them were, in spite of the volcanic outburst of the startled north which answered the roar of the first gun at sumter? worse than all, are we permitted to doubt that in the very bosom of the north itself there was a serpent, coiled but not sleeping, which only listened for the first word that made it safe to strike, to bury its fangs in the heart of freedom, and blend its golden scales in close embrace with the deadly reptile of the cotton-fields. who would not wish that he were wrong in such a suspicion? yet who can forget the mysterious warnings that the allies of the rebels were to be found far north of the fatal boundary line; and that it was in their own streets, against their own brothers, that the champions of liberty were to defend her sacred heritage? not to have fought, then, after the supreme indignity and outrage we had suffered, would have been to provoke every further wrong, and to furnish the means for its commission. it would have been to placard ourselves on the walls of the shattered fort, as the spiritless race the proud labor-thieves called us. it would have been to die as a nation of freemen, and to have given all we had left of our rights into the hands of alien tyrants in league with home-bred traitors. not to have fought would have been to be false to liberty everywhere, and to humanity. you have only to see who are our friends and who are our enemies in this struggle, to decide for what principles we are combating. we know too well that the british aristocracy is not with us. we know what the west end of london wishes may be result of this controversy. the two halves of this union are the two blades of the shears, threatening as those of atropos herself, which will sooner or later cut into shreds the old charters of tyranny. how they would exult if they could but break the rivet that makes of the two blades one resistless weapon! the man who of all living americans had the best opportunity of knowing how the fact stood, wrote these words in march, : "that great britain did, in the most terrible moment of our domestic trial in struggling with a monstrous social evil she had earnestly professed to abhor, coldly and at once assume our inability to master it, and then become the only foreign nation steadily contributing in every indirect way possible to verify its pre-judgment, will probably be the verdict made up against her by posterity, on a calm comparison of the evidence." so speaks the wise, tranquil statesman who represents the nation at the court of st. james, in the midst of embarrassments perhaps not less than those which vexed his illustrious grandfather, when he occupied the same position as the envoy of the hated, newborn republic. "it cannot be denied,"--says another observer, placed on one of our national watch-towers in a foreign capital,--"it cannot be denied that the tendency of european public opinion, as delivered from high places, is more and more unfriendly to our cause"; "but the people," he adds, "everywhere sympathize with us, for they know that our cause is that of free institutions,--that our struggle is that of the people against an oligarchy." these are the words of the minister to austria, whose generous sympathies with popular liberty no homage paid to his genius by the class whose admiring welcome is most seductive to scholars has ever spoiled; our fellow-citizen, the historian of a great republic which infused a portion of its life into our own,--john lothrop motley. it is a bitter commentary on the effects of european, and especially of british institutions, that such men should have to speak in such terms of the manner in which our struggle has been regarded. we had, no doubt, very generally reckoned on the sympathy of england, at least, in a strife which, whatever pretexts were alleged as its cause, arrayed upon one side the supporters of an institution she was supposed to hate in earnest, and on the other its assailants. we had forgotten what her own poet, one of the truest and purest of her children, had said of his countrymen, in words which might well have been spoken by the british premier to the american ambassador asking for some evidence of kind feeling on the part of his government: "alas i expect it not. we found no bait to tempt us in thy country. doing good, disinterested good, is not our trade." we know full well by this time what truth there is in these honest lines. we have found out, too, who our european enemies are, and why they are our enemies. three bending statues bear up that gilded seat, which, in spite of the time-hallowed usurpations and consecrated wrongs so long associated with its history, is still venerated as the throne. one of these supports is the pensioned church; the second is the purchased army; the third is the long-suffering people. whenever the third caryatid comes to life and walks from beneath its burden, the capitals of europe will be filled with the broken furniture of palaces. no wonder that our ministers find the privileged orders willing to see the ominous republic split into two antagonistic forces, each paralyzing the other, and standing in their mighty impotence a spectacle to courts and kings; to be pointed at as helots who drank themselves blind and giddy out of that broken chalice which held the poisonous draught of liberty! we know our enemies, and they are the enemies of popular rights. we know our friends, and they are the foremost champions of political and social progress. the eloquent voice and the busy pen of john bright have both been ours, heartily, nobly, from the first; the man of the people has been true to the cause of the people. that deep and generous thinker, who, more than any of her philosophical writers, represents the higher thought of england, john stuart mill, has spoken for us in tones to which none but her sordid hucksters and her selfish land-graspers can refuse to listen. count gasparin and laboulaye have sent us back the echo from liberal france; france, the country of ideas, whose earlier inspirations embodied themselves for us in the person of the youthful lafayette. italy,--would you know on which side the rights of the people and the hopes of the future are to be found in this momentous conflict, what surer test, what ampler demonstration can you ask--than the eager sympathy of the italian patriot whose name is the hope of the toiling many, and the dread of their oppressors, wherever it is spoken, the heroic garibaldi? but even when it is granted that the war was inevitable; when it is granted that it is for no base end, but first for the life of the nation, and more and more, as the quarrel deepens, for the welfare of mankind, for knowledge as against enforced ignorance, for justice as against oppression, for that kingdom of god on earth which neither the unrighteous man nor the extortioner can hope to inherit, it may still be that the strife is hopeless, and must therefore be abandoned. is it too much to say that whether the war is hopeless or not for the north depends chiefly on the answer to the question, whether the north has virtue and manhood enough to persevere in the contest so long as its resources hold out? but how much virtue and manhood it has can never be told until they are tried, and those who are first to doubt the prevailing existence of these qualities are not commonly themselves patterns of either. we have a right to trust that this people is virtuous and brave enough not to give up a just and necessary contest before its end is attained, or shown to be unattainable for want of material agencies. what was the end to be attained by accepting the gage of battle? it was to get the better of our assailants, and, having done so, to take exactly those steps which we should then consider necessary to our present and future safety. the more obstinate the resistance, the more completely must it be subdued. it may not even have been desirable, as mr. mill suggested long since, that the victory over the rebellion should have been easily and speedily won, and so have failed to develop the true meaning of the conflict, to bring out the full strength of the revolted section, and to exhaust the means which would have served it for a still more desperate future effort. we cannot complain that our task has proved too easy. we give our southern army,--for we must remember that it is our army, after all, only in a state of mutiny,--we give our southern army credit for excellent spirit and perseverance in the face of many disadvantages. but we have a few plain facts which show the probable course of events; the gradual but sure operation of the blockade; the steady pushing back of the boundary of rebellion, in spite of resistance at many points, or even of such aggressive inroads as that which our armies are now meeting with their long lines of bayonets,--may god grant them victory!--the progress of our arms down the mississippi; the relative value of gold and currency at richmond and washington. if the index-hands of force and credit continue to move in the ratio of the past two years, where will the confederacy be in twice or thrice that time? either all our statements of the relative numbers, power, and wealth of the two sections of the country signify nothing, or the resources of our opponents in men and means must be much nearer exhaustion than our own. the running sand of the hour-glass gives no warning, but runs as freely as ever when its last grains are about to fall. the merchant wears as bold a face the day before he is proclaimed a bankrupt, as he wore at the height of his fortunes. if colonel grierson found the confederacy "a mere shell," so far as his equestrian excursion carried him, how can we say how soon the shell will collapse? it seems impossible that our own dissensions can produce anything more than local disturbances, like the morristown revolt, which washington put down at once by the aid of his faithful massachusetts soldiers. but in a rebellious state dissension is ruin, and the violence of an explosion in a strict ratio to the pressure on every inch of the containing surface. now we know the tremendous force which has compelled the "unanimity" of the southern people. there are men in the ranks of the southern army, if we can trust the evidence which reaches us, who have been recruited with packs of blood-hounds, and drilled, as it were, with halters around their necks. we know what is the bitterness of those who have escaped this bloody harvest of the remorseless conspirators; and from that we can judge of the elements of destruction incorporated with many of the seemingly solid portions of the fabric of the rebellion. the facts are necessarily few, but we can reason from the laws of human nature as to what must be the feelings of the people of the south to their northern neighbors. it is impossible that the love of the life which they have had in common, their glorious recollections, their blended histories, their sympathies as americans, their mingled blood, their birthright as born under the same flag and protected by it the world over, their worship of the same god, under the same outward form, at least, and in the folds of the same ecclesiastical organizations, should all be forgotten, and leave nothing but hatred and eternal alienation. men do not change in this way, and we may be quite sure that the pretended unanimity of the south will some day or other prove to have been a part of the machinery of deception which the plotters have managed with such consummate skill. it is hardly to be doubted that in every part of the south, as in new orleans, in charleston, in richmond, there are multitudes who wait for the day of deliverance, and for whom the coming of "our good friends, the enemies," as beranger has it, will be like the advent of the angels to the prison-cells of paul and silas. but there is no need of depending on the aid of our white southern friends, be they many or be they few; there is material power enough in the north, if there be the will to use it, to overrun and by degrees to recolonize the south, and it is far from impossible that some such process may be a part of the mechanism of its new birth, spreading from various centres of organization, on the plan which nature follows when she would fill a half-finished tissue with blood-vessels or change a temporary cartilage into bone. suppose, however, that the prospects of the war were, we need not say absolutely hopeless,--because that is the unfounded hypothesis of those whose wish is father to their thought,--but full of discouragement. can we make a safe and honorable peace as the quarrel now stands? as honor comes before safety, let us look at that first. we have undertaken to resent a supreme insult, and have had to bear new insults and aggressions, even to the direct menace of our national capital. the blood which our best and bravest have shed will never sink into the ground until our wrongs are righted, or the power to right them is shown to be insufficient. if we stop now, all the loss of life has been butchery; if we carry out the intention with which we first resented the outrage, the earth drinks up the blood of our martyrs, and the rose of honor blooms forever where it was shed. to accept less than indemnity for the past, so far as the wretched kingdom of the conspirators can afford it, and security for the future, would discredit us in our own eyes and in the eyes of those who hate and long to be able to despise us. but to reward the insults and the robberies we have suffered, by the surrender of our fortresses along the coast, in the national gulf, and on the banks of the national river,--and this and much more would surely be demanded of us,--would place the united fraction of america on a level with the peruvian guano-islands, whose ignoble but coveted soil is open to be plundered by all comers! if we could make a peace without dishonor, could we make one that would be safe and lasting? we could have an armistice, no doubt, long enough for the flesh of our wounded men to heal and their broken bones to knit together. but could we expect a solid, substantial, enduring peace, in which the grass would have time to grow in the war-paths, and the bruised arms to rust, as the old g. r. cannon rusted in our state arsenal, sleeping with their tompions in their mouths, like so many sucking lambs? it is not the question whether the same set of soldiers would be again summoned to the field. let us take it for granted that we have seen enough of the miseries of warfare to last us for a while, and keep us contented with militia musters and sham-fights. the question is whether we could leave our children and our children's children with any secure trust that they would not have to go through the very trials we are enduring, probably on a more extended scale and in a more aggravated form. it may be well to look at the prospects before us, if a peace is established on the basis of southern independence, the only peace possible, unless we choose to add ourselves to the four millions who already call the southern whites their masters. we know what the prevailing--we do not mean universal--spirit and temper of those people have been for generations, and what they are like to be after a long and bitter warfare. we know what their tone is to the people of the north; if we do not, de bow and governor hammond are schoolmasters who will teach us to our heart's content. we see how easily their social organization adapts itself to a state of warfare. they breed a superior order of men for leaders, an ignorant commonalty ready to follow them as the vassals of feudal times followed their lords; and a race of bondsmen, who, unless this war changes them from chattels to human beings, will continue to add vastly to their military strength in raising their food, in building their fortifications, in all the mechanical work of war, in fact, except, it may be, the handling of weapons. the institution proclaimed as the corner-stone of their government does violence not merely to the precepts of religion, but to many of the best human instincts, yet their fanaticism for it is as sincere as any tribe of the desert ever manifested for the faith of the prophet of allah. they call themselves by the same name as the christians of the north, yet there is as much difference between their christianity and that of wesley or of channing, as between creeds that in past times have vowed mutual extermination. still we must not call them barbarians because they cherish an institution hostile to civilization. their highest culture stands out all the more brilliantly from the dark background of ignorance against which it is seen; but it would be injustice to deny that they have always shone in political science, or that their military capacity makes them most formidable antagonists, and that, however inferior they may be to their northern fellow-countrymen in most branches of literature and science, the social elegances and personal graces lend their outward show to the best circles among their dominant class. whom have we then for our neighbors, in case of separation,--our neighbors along a splintered line of fracture extending for thousands of miles,--but the saracens of the nineteenth century; a fierce, intolerant, fanatical people, the males of which will be a perpetual standing army; hating us worse than the southern hamilcar taught his swarthy boy to hate the romans; a people whose existence as a hostile nation on our frontier is incompatible with our peaceful development? their wealth, the proceeds of enforced labor, multiplied by the breaking up of new cottonfields, and in due time by the reopening of the slave-trade, will go to purchase arms, to construct fortresses, to fit out navies. the old saracens, fanatics for a religion which professed to grow by conquest, were a nation of predatory and migrating warriors. the southern people, fanatics for a system essentially aggressive, conquering, wasting, which cannot remain stationary, but must grow by alternate appropriations of labor and of land, will come to resemble their earlier prototypes. already, even, the insolence of their language to the people of the north is a close imitation of the style which those proud and arrogant asiatics affected toward all the nations of europe. what the "christian dogs" were to the followers of mahomet, the "accursed yankees," the "northern mud-sills" are to the followers of the southern moloch. the accomplishments which we find in their choicer circles were prefigured in the court of the chivalric saladin, and the long train of painim knights who rode forth to conquest under the crescent. in all branches of culture, their heathen predecessors went far beyond them. the schools of mediaeval learning were filled with arabian teachers. the heavens declare the glory of the oriental astronomers, as algorab and aldebaran repeat their arabic names to the students of the starry firmament. the sumptuous edifice erected by the art of the nineteenth century, to hold the treasures of its industry, could show nothing fairer than the court which copies the moorish palace that crowns the summit of granada. yet this was the power which charles the hammer, striking for christianity and civilization, had to break like a potter's vessel; these were the people whom spain had to utterly extirpate from the land where they had ruled for centuries. prepare, then, if you unseal the vase which holds this dangerous afrit of southern nationality, for a power on your borders that will be to you what the saracens were to europe before the son of pepin shattered their armies, and flung the shards and shivers of their broken strength upon the refuse heap of extinguished barbarisms. prepare for the possible fate of christian spain; for a slave-market in philadelphia; for the alhambra of a southern caliph on the grounds consecrated by the domestic virtues of a long line of presidents and their exemplary families. remember the ages of border warfare between england and scotland, closed at last by the union of the two kingdoms. recollect the hunting of the deer on the cheviot hills, and all that it led to; then think of the game which the dogs will follow open-mouthed across our southern border, and all that is like to follow which the child may rue that is unborn; think of these possibilities, or probabilities, if you will, and say whether you are ready to make a peace which will give you such a neighbor; which may betray your civilization as that of half the peninsula was given up to the moors; which may leave your fair border provinces to be crushed under the heel of a tyrant, as holland was left to be trodden down by the duke of alva! no! no! fellow-citizens! we must fight in this quarrel until one side or the other is exhausted. rather than suffer all that we have poured out of our blood, all that we have lavished of our substance, to have been expended in vain, and to bequeath an unsettled question, an unfinished conflict, an unavenged insult, an unrighted wrong, a stained escutcheon, a tarnished shield, a dishonored flag, an unheroic memory to the descendants of those who have always claimed that their fathers were heroes; rather than do all this, it were hardly an american exaggeration to say, better that the last man and the last dollar should be followed by the last woman and the last dime, the last child and the last copper! there are those who profess to fear that our government is becoming a mere irresponsible tyranny. if there are any who really believe that our present chief magistrate means to found a dynasty for himself and family, that a coup d'etat is in preparation by which he is to become abraham, dei gratia rex,--they cannot have duly pondered his letter of june th, in which he unbosoms himself with the simplicity of a rustic lover called upon by an anxious parent to explain his intentions. the force of his argument is not at all injured by the homeliness of his illustrations. the american people are not much afraid that their liberties will be usurped. an army of legislators is not very likely to throw away its political privileges, and the idea of a despotism resting on an open ballot-box, is like that of bunker hill monument built on the waves of boston harbor. we know pretty well how much of sincerity there is in the fears so clamorously expressed, and how far they are found in company with uncompromising hostility to the armed enemies of the nation. we have learned to put a true value on the services of the watch-dog who bays the moon, but does not bite the thief! the men who are so busy holy-stoning the quarterdeck, while all hands are wanted to keep the ship afloat, can no doubt show spots upon it that would be very unsightly in fair weather. no thoroughly loyal man, however, need suffer from any arbitrary exercise of power, such as emergencies always give rise to. if any half-loyal man forgets his code of half-decencies and half-duties so far as to become obnoxious to the peremptory justice which takes the place of slower forms in all centres of conflagration, there is no sympathy for him among the soldiers who are risking their lives for us; perhaps there is even more satisfaction than when an avowed traitor is caught and punished. for of all men who are loathed by generous natures, such as fill the ranks of the armies of the union, none are so thoroughly loathed as the men who contrive to keep just within the limits of the law, while their whole conduct provokes others to break it; whose patriotism consists in stopping an inch short of treason, and whose political morality has for its safeguard a just respect for the jailer and the hangman! the simple preventive against all possible injustice a citizen is like to suffer at the hands of a government which in its need and haste must of course commit many errors, is to take care to do nothing that will directly or indirectly help the enemy, or hinder the government in carrying on the war. when the clamor against usurpation and tyranny comes from citizens who can claim this negative merit, it may be listened to. when it comes from those who have done what they could to serve their country, it will receive the attention it deserves. doubtless there may prove to be wrongs which demand righting, but the pretence of any plan for changing the essential principle of our self-governing system is a figment which its contrivers laugh over among themselves. do the citizens of harrisburg or of philadelphia quarrel to-day about the strict legality of an executive act meant in good faith for their protection against the invader? we are all citizens of harrisburg, all citizens of philadelphia, in this hour of their peril, and with the enemy at work in our own harbors, we begin to understand the difference between a good and bad citizen; the man that helps and the man that hinders; the man who, while the pirate is in sight, complains that our anchor is dragging in his mud, and the man who violates the proprieties, like our brave portland brothers, when they jumped on board the first steamer they could reach, cut her cable, and bore down on the corsair, with a habeas corpus act that lodged twenty buccaneers in fort preble before sunset! we cannot, then, we cannot be circling inward to be swallowed up in the whirlpool of national destruction. if our borders are invaded, it is only as the spur that is driven into the courser's flank to rouse his slumbering mettle. if our property is taxed, it is only to teach us that liberty is worth paying for as well as fighting for. we are pouring out the most generous blood of our youth and manhood; alas! this is always the price that must be paid for the redemption of a people. what have we to complain of, whose granaries are choking with plenty, whose streets are gay with shining robes and glittering equipages, whose industry is abundant enough to reap all its overflowing harvest, yet sure of employment and of its just reward, the soil of whose mighty valleys is an inexhaustible mine of fertility, whose mountains cover up such stores of heat and power, imprisoned in their coal measures, as would warm all the inhabitants and work all the machinery of our planet for unnumbered ages, whose rocks pour out rivers of oil, whose streams run yellow over beds of golden sand,--what have we to complain of? have we degenerated from our english fathers, so that we cannot do and bear for our national salvation what they have done and borne over and over again for their form of government? could england, in her wars with napoleon, bear an income-tax of ten per cent., and must we faint under the burden of an income-tax of three per cent.? was she content to negotiate a loan at fifty-three for the hundred, and that paid in depreciated paper, and can we talk about financial ruin with our national stocks ranging from one to eight or nine above par, and the "five-twenty" war loan eagerly taken by our own people to the amount of nearly two hundred millions, without any check to the flow of the current pressing inwards against the doors of the treasury? except in those portions of the country which are the immediate seat of war, or liable to be made so, and which, having the greatest interest not to become the border states of hostile nations, can best afford to suffer now, the state of prosperity and comfort is such as to astonish those who visit us from other countries. what are war taxes to a nation which, as we are assured on good authority, has more men worth a million now than it had worth ten thousand dollars at the close of the revolution,--whose whole property is a hundred times, and whose commerce, inland and foreign, is five hundred times, what it was then? but we need not study mr. still's pamphlet and "thompson's bank-note reporter" to show us what we know well enough, that, so far from having occasion to tremble in fear of our impending ruin, we must rather blush for our material prosperity. for the multitudes who are unfortunate enough to be taxed for a million or more, of course we must feel deeply, at the same time suggesting that the more largely they report their incomes to the tax-gatherer, the more consolation they will find in the feeling that they have served their country. but,--let us say it plainly,--it will not hurt our people to be taught that there are other things to be cared for besides money-making and money-spending; that the time has come when manhood must assert itself by brave deeds and noble thoughts; when womanhood must assume its most sacred office, "to warn, to comfort," and, if need be, "to command," those whose services their country calls for. this northern section of the land has become a great variety shop, of which the atlantic cities are the long-extended counter. we have grown rich for what? to put gilt bands on coachmen's hats? to sweep the foul sidewalks with the heaviest silks which the toiling artisans of france can send us? to look through plate-glass windows, and pity the brown soldiers,--or sneer at the black ones? to reduce the speed of trotting horses a second or two below its old minimum? to color meerschaums? to flaunt in laces, and sparkle in diamonds? to dredge our maidens' hair with gold-dust? to float through life, the passive shuttlecocks of fashion, from the avenues to the beaches, and back again from the beaches to the avenues? was it for this that the broad domain of the western hemisphere was kept so long unvisited by civilization?--for this, that time, the father of empires, unbound the virgin zone of this youngest of his daughters, and gave her, beautiful in the long veil of her forests, to the rude embrace of the adventurous colonist? all this is what we see around us, now, now while we are actually fighting this great battle, and supporting this great load of indebtedness. wait till the diamonds go back to the jews of amsterdam; till the plate-glass window bears the fatal announcement, for sale or to let; till the voice of our miriam is obeyed, as she sings, "weave no more silks, ye lyons looms!" till the gold-dust is combed from the golden locks, and hoarded to buy bread; till the fast-driving youth smokes his clay-pipe on the platform of the horse-cars; till the music-grinders cease because none will pay them; till there are no peaches in the windows at twenty-four dollars a dozen, and no heaps of bananas and pine-apples selling at the street-corners; till the ten-flounced dress has but three flounces, and it is felony to drink champagne; wait till these changes show themselves, the signs of deeper wants, the preludes of exhaustion and bankruptcy; then let us talk of the maelstrom;--but till then, let us not be cowards with our purses, while brave men are emptying their hearts upon the earth for us; let us not whine over our imaginary ruin, while the reversed current of circling events is carrying us farther and farther, every hour, out of the influence of the great failing which was born of our wealth, and of the deadly sin which was our fatal inheritance! let us take a brief general glance at the wide field of discussion we are just leaving. on friday, the twelfth day of the month of april, in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and sixty-one, at half-past four of the clock in the morning, a cannon was aimed and fired by the authority of south carolina at the wall of a fortress belonging to the united states. its ball carried with it the hatreds, the rages of thirty years, shaped and cooled in the mould of malignant deliberation. its wad was the charter of our national existence. its muzzle was pointed at the stone which bore the symbol of our national sovereignty. as the echoes of its thunder died away, the telegraph clicked one word through every office of the land. that word was war! war is a child that devours its nurses one after another, until it is claimed by its true parents. this war has eaten its way backward through all the technicalities of lawyers learned in the infinitesimals of ordinances and statutes; through all the casuistries of divines, experts in the differential calculus of conscience and duty; until it stands revealed to all men as the natural and inevitable conflict of two incompatible forms of civilization, one or the other of which must dominate the central zone of the continent, and eventually claim the hemisphere for its development. we have reached the region of those broad principles and large axioms which the wise romans, the world's lawgivers, always recognized as above all special enactments. we have come to that solid substratum acknowledged by grotius in his great treatise: "necessity itself which reduces things to the mere right of nature." the old rules which were enough for our guidance in quiet times, have become as meaningless "as moonlight on the dial of the day." we have followed precedents as long as they could guide us; now we must make precedents for the ages which are to succeed us. if we are frightened from our object by the money we have spent, the current prices of united states stocks show that we value our nationality at only a small fraction of our wealth. if we feel that we are paying too dearly for it in the blood of our people, let us recall those grand words of samuel adams: "i should advise persisting in our struggle for liberty, though it were revealed from heaven that nine hundred and ninety-nine were to perish, and only one of a thousand were to survive and retain his liberty!" what we want now is a strong purpose; the purpose of luther, when he said, in repeating his pater noster, fiat voluntas mea,--let my will be done; though he considerately added, quia tua,--because my will is thine. we want the virile energy of determination which made the oath of andrew jackson sound so like the devotion of an ardent saint that the recording angel might have entered it unquestioned among the prayers of the faithful. war is a grim business. two years ago our women's fingers were busy making "havelocks." it seemed to us then as if the havelock made half the soldier; and now we smile to think of those days of inexperience and illusion. we know now what war means, and we cannot look its dull, dead ghastliness in the face unless we feel that there is some great and noble principle behind it. it makes little difference what we thought we were fighting for at first; we know what we are fighting for now, and what we are fighting against. we are fighting for our existence. we say to those who would take back their several contributions to that undivided unity which we call the nation; the bronze is cast; the statue is on its pedestal; you cannot reclaim the brass you flung into the crucible! there are rights, possessions, privileges, policies, relations, duties, acquired, retained, called into existence in virtue of the principle of absolute solidarity,--belonging to the united states as an organic whole, which cannot be divided, which none of its constituent parties can claim as its own, which perish out of its living frame when the wild forces of rebellion tear it limb from limb, and which it must defend, or confess self-government itself a failure. we are fighting for that constitution upon which our national existence reposes, now subjected by those who fired the scroll on which it was written from the cannon at fort sumter, to all those chances which the necessities of war entail upon every human arrangement, but still the venerable charter of our wide republic. we cannot fight for these objects without attacking the one mother cause of all the progeny of lesser antagonisms. whether we know it or not, whether we mean it or not, we cannot help fighting against the system that has proved the source of all those miseries which the author of the declaration of independence trembled to anticipate. and this ought to make us willing to do and to suffer cheerfully. there were holy wars of old, in which it was glory enough to die, wars in which the one aim was to rescue the sepulchre of christ from the hands of infidels. the sepulchre of christ is not in palestine! he rose from that burial-place more than eighteen hundred years ago. he is crucified wherever his brothers are slain without cause; he lies buried wherever man, made in his maker's image, is entombed in ignorance lest he should learn the rights which his divine master gave him! this is our holy war, and we must fight it against that great general who will bring to it all the powers with which he fought against the almighty before he was cast down from heaven. he has retained many a cunning advocate to recruit for him; he has bribed many a smooth-tongued preacher to be his chaplain; he has engaged the sordid by their avarice, the timid by their fears, the profligate by their love of adventure, and thousands of nobler natures by motives which we can all understand; whose delusion we pity as we ought always to pity the error of those who know not what they do. against him or for him we are all called upon to declare ourselves. there is no neutrality for any single true-born american. if any seek such a position, the stony finger of dante's awful muse points them to their place in the antechamber of the halls of despair,-- "--with that ill band of angels mixed, who nor rebellious proved, nor yet were true to god, but for themselves were only." "--fame of them the world hath none nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both. speak not of them, but look, and pass them by." we must use all the means which god has put into our hands to serve him against the enemies of civilization. we must make and keep the great river free, whatever it costs us; it is strapping up the forefoot of the wild, untamable rebellion. we must not be too nice in the choice of our agents. non eget mauri jaculis,--no african bayonets wanted,--was well enough while we did not yet know the might of that desperate giant we had to deal with; but tros, tyriusve,--white or black,--is the safer motto now; for a good soldier, like a good horse, cannot be of a bad color. the iron-skins, as well as the iron-clads, have already done us noble service, and many a mother will clasp the returning boy, many a wife will welcome back the war-worn husband, whose smile would never again have gladdened his home, but that, cold in the shallow trench of the battle-field, lies the half-buried form of the unchained bondsman whose dusky bosom sheathes the bullet which would else have claimed that darling as his country's sacrifice. we shall have success if we truly will success, not otherwise. it may be long in coming,--heaven only knows through what trials and humblings we may have to pass before the full strength of the nation is duly arrayed and led to victory. we must be patient, as our fathers were patient; even in our worst calamities, we must remember that defeat itself may be a gain where it costs our enemy more in relation to his strength than it costs ourselves. but if, in the inscrutable providence of the almighty, this generation is disappointed in its lofty aspirations for the race, if we have not virtue enough to ennoble our whole people, and make it a nation of sovereigns, we shall at least hold in undying honor those who vindicated the insulted majesty of the republic, and struck at her assailants so long as a drum-beat summoned them to the field of duty. citizens of boston, sons and daughters of new england, men and women of the north, brothers and sisters in the bond of the american union, you have among you the scarred and wasted soldiers who have shed their blood for your temporal salvation. they bore your nation's emblems bravely through the fire and smoke of the battle-field; nay, their own bodies are starred with bullet-wounds and striped with sabre-cuts, as if to mark them as belonging to their country until their dust becomes a portion of the soil which they defended. in every northern graveyard slumber the victims of this destroying struggle. many whom you remember playing as children amidst the clover-blossoms of our northern fields, sleep under nameless mounds with strange southern wild-flowers blooming over them. by those wounds of living heroes, by those graves of fallen martyrs, by the hopes of your children, and the claims of your children's children yet unborn, in the name of outraged honor, in the interest of violated sovereignty, for the life of an imperilled nation, for the sake of men everywhere and of our common humanity, for the glory of god and the advancement of his kingdom on earth, your country calls upon you to stand by her through good report and through evil report, in triumph and in defeat, until she emerges from the great war of western civilization, queen of the broad continent, arbitress in the councils of earth's emancipated peoples; until the flag that fell from the wall of fort sumter floats again inviolate, supreme, over all her ancient inheritance, every fortress, every capital, every ship, and this warring land is once more a, united nation! cinders from the ashes. the personal revelations contained in my report of certain breakfast-table conversations were so charitably listened to and so good-naturedly interpreted, that i may be in danger of becoming over-communicative. still, i should never have ventured to tell the trivial experiences here thrown together, were it not that my brief story is illuminated here and there by a glimpse of some shining figure that trod the same path with me for a time, or crossed it, leaving a momentary or lasting brightness in its track. i remember that, in furnishing a chamber some years ago, i was struck with its dull aspect as i looked round on the black-walnut chairs and bedstead and bureau. "make me a large and handsomely wrought gilded handle to the key of that dark chest of drawers," i said to the furnisher. it was done, and that one luminous point redeemed the sombre apartment as the evening star glorifies the dusky firmament. so, my loving reader,--and to none other can such table-talk as this be addressed, --i hope there will be lustre enough in one or other of the names with which i shall gild my page to redeem the dulness of all that is merely personal in my recollections. after leaving the school of dame prentiss, best remembered by infantine loves, those pretty preludes of more serious passions; by the great forfeit-basket, filled with its miscellaneous waifs and deodauds, and by the long willow stick by the aid of which the good old body, now stricken in years and unwieldy in person could stimulate the sluggish faculties or check the mischievous sallies of the child most distant from his ample chair,--a school where i think my most noted schoolmate was the present bishop of delaware, became the pupil of master william biglow. this generation is not familiar with his title to renown, although he fills three columns and a half in mr. duyckinck's "cyclopaedia of american literature." he was a humorist hardly robust enough for more than a brief local immortality. i am afraid we were an undistinguished set, for i do not remember anybody near a bishop in dignity graduating from our benches. at about ten years of age i began going to what we always called the "port school," because it was kept at cambridgeport, a mile from the college. this suburb was at that time thinly inhabited, and, being much of it marshy and imperfectly reclaimed, had a dreary look as compared with the thriving college settlement. the tenants of the many beautiful mansions that have sprung up along main street, harvard street, and broadway can hardly recall the time when, except the "dana house" and the "opposition house" and the "clark house," these roads were almost all the way bordered by pastures until we reached the "stores" of main street, or were abreast of that forlorn "first row" of harvard street. we called the boys of that locality "port-chucks." they called us "cambridge-chucks," but we got along very well together in the main. among my schoolmates at the port school was a young girl of singular loveliness. i once before referred to her as "the golden blonde," but did not trust myself to describe her charms. the day of her appearance in the school was almost as much a revelation to us boys as the appearance of miranda was to caliban. her abounding natural curls were so full of sunshine, her skin was so delicately white, her smile and her voice were so all-subduing, that half our heads were turned. her fascinations were everywhere confessed a few years afterwards; and when i last met her, though she said she was a grandmother, i questioned her statement, for her winning looks and ways would still have made her admired in any company. not far from the golden blonde were two small boys, one of them very small, perhaps the youngest boy in school, both ruddy, sturdy, quiet, reserved, sticking loyally by each other, the oldest, however, beginning to enter into social relations with us of somewhat maturer years. one of these two boys was destined to be widely known, first in literature, as author of one of the most popular books of its time and which is freighted for a long voyage; then as an eminent lawyer; a man who, if his countrymen are wise, will yet be prominent in the national councils. richard henry dana, junior, is the name he bore and bears; he found it famous, and will bequeath it a fresh renown. sitting on the girls' benches, conspicuous among the school-girls of unlettered origin by that look which rarely fails to betray hereditary and congenital culture, was a young person very nearly of my own age. she came with the reputation of being "smart," as we should have called it, clever as we say nowadays. this was margaret fuller, the only one among us who, like "jean paul," like "the duke," like "bettina," has slipped the cable of the more distinctive name to which she was anchored, and floats on the waves of speech as "margaret." her air to her schoolmates was marked by a certain stateliness and distance, as if she had other thoughts than theirs and was not of them. she was a great student and a great reader of what she used to call "naw-vels." i remember her so well as she appeared at school and later, that i regret that she had not been faithfully given to canvas or marble in the day of her best looks. none know her aspect who have not seen her living. margaret, as i remember her at school and afterwards, was tall, fair complexioned, with a watery, aqua-marine lustre in her light eyes, which she used to make small, as one does who looks at the sunshine. a remarkable point about her was that long, flexile neck, arching and undulating in strange sinuous movements, which one who loved her would compare to those of a swan, and one who loved her not to those of the ophidian who tempted our common mother. her talk was affluent, magisterial, de haut en bas, some would say euphuistic, but surpassing the talk of women in breadth and audacity. her face kindled and reddened and dilated in every feature as she spoke, and, as i once saw her in a fine storm of indignation at the supposed ill-treatment of a relative, showed itself capable of something resembling what milton calls the viraginian aspect. little incidents bear telling when they recall anything of such a celebrity as margaret. i remember being greatly awed once, in our school-days, with the maturity of one of her expressions. some themes were brought home from the school for examination by my father, among them one of hers. i took it up with a certain emulous interest (for i fancied at that day that i too had drawn a prize, say a five-dollar one, at least, in the great intellectual life-lottery) and read the first words. "it is a trite remark," she began. i stopped. alas! i did not know what trite meant. how could i ever judge margaret fairly after such a crushing discovery of her superiority? i doubt if i ever did; yet oh, how pleasant it would have been, at about the age, say, of threescore and ten, to rake over these ashes for cinders with her,--she in a snowy cap, and i in a decent peruke! after being five years at the port school, the time drew near when i was to enter college. it seemed advisable to give me a year of higher training, and for that end some public school was thought to offer advantages. phillips academy at andover was well known to us. we had been up there, my father and myself, at anniversaries. some boston boys of well-known and distinguished parentage had been scholars there very lately, master edmund quincy, master samuel hurd walley, master nathaniel parker willis,--all promising youth, who fulfilled their promise. i do not believe there was any thought of getting a little respite of quiet by my temporary absence, but i have wondered that there was not. exceptional boys of fourteen or fifteen make home a heaven, it is true; but i have suspected, late in life, that i was not one of the exceptional kind. i had tendencies in the direction of flageolets and octave flutes. i had a pistol and a gun, and popped at everything that stirred, pretty nearly, except the house-cat. worse than this, i would buy a cigar and smoke it by instalments, putting it meantime in the barrel of my pistol, by a stroke of ingenuity which it gives me a grim pleasure to recall; for no maternal or other female eyes would explore the cavity of that dread implement in search of contraband commodities. it was settled, then, that i should go to phillips academy, and preparations were made that i might join the school at the beginning of the autumn. in due time i took my departure in the old carriage, a little modernized from the pattern of my lady bountiful's, and we jogged soberly along,--kind parents and slightly nostalgic boy,--towards the seat of learning, some twenty miles away. up the old west cambridge road, now north avenue; past davenport's tavern, with its sheltering tree and swinging sign; past the old powder-house, looking like a colossal conical ball set on end; past the old tidd house, one of the finest of the ante-revolutionary mansions; past miss swan's great square boarding-school, where the music of girlish laughter was ringing through the windy corridors; so on to stoneham, town of the bright lake, then darkened with the recent memory of the barbarous murder done by its lonely shore; through pleasant reading, with its oddly named village centres, "trapelo," "read'nwoodeend," as rustic speech had it, and the rest; through wilmington, then renowned for its hops; so at last into the hallowed borders of the academic town. it was a shallow, two-story white house before which we stopped, just at the entrance of the central village, the residence of a very worthy professor in the theological seminary,--learned, amiable, exemplary, but thought by certain experts to be a little questionable in the matter of homoousianism, or some such doctrine. there was a great rock that showed its round back in the narrow front yard. it looked cold and hard; but it hinted firmness and indifference to the sentiments fast struggling to get uppermost in my youthful bosom; for i was not too old for home-sickness,--who is: the carriage and my fond companions had to leave me at last. i saw it go down the declivity that sloped southward, then climb the next ascent, then sink gradually until the window in the back of it disappeared like an eye that shuts, and leaves the world dark to some widowed heart. sea-sickness and home-sickness are hard to deal with by any remedy but time. mine was not a bad case, but it excited sympathy. there was an ancient, faded old lady in the house, very kindly, but very deaf, rustling about in dark autumnal foliage of silk or other murmurous fabric, somewhat given to snuff, but a very worthy gentlewoman of the poor-relation variety. she comforted me, i well remember, but not with apples, and stayed me, but not with flagons. she went in her benevolence, and, taking a blue and white soda-powder, mingled the same in water, and encouraged me to drink the result. it might be a specific for seasickness, but it was not for home-sickness. the fiz was a mockery, and the saline refrigerant struck a colder chill to my despondent heart. i did not disgrace myself, however, and a few days cured me, as a week on the water often cures seasickness. there was a sober-faced boy of minute dimensions in the house, who began to make some advances to me, and who, in spite of all the conditions surrounding him, turned out, on better acquaintance, to be one of the most amusing, free-spoken, mocking little imps i ever met in my life. my room-mate came later. he was the son of a clergyman in a neighboring town,--in fact i may remark that i knew a good many clergymen's sons at andover. he and i went in harness together as well as most boys do, i suspect; and i have no grudge against him, except that once, when i was slightly indisposed, he administered to me,--with the best intentions, no doubt,--a dose of indian pills, which effectually knocked me out of time, as mr. morrissey would say,--not quite into eternity, but so near it that i perfectly remember one of the good ladies told me (after i had come to my senses a little, and was just ready for a sip of cordial and a word of encouragement), with that delightful plainness of speech which so brings realities home to the imagination, that "i never should look any whiter when i was laid out as a corpse." after my room-mate and i had been separated twenty-five years, fate made us fellow-townsmen and acquaintances once more in berkshire, and now again we are close literary neighbors; for i have just read a very pleasant article, signed by him, in the last number of the "galaxy." does it not sometimes seem as if we were all marching round and round in a circle, like the supernumeraries who constitute the "army" of a theatre, and that each of us meets and is met by the same and only the same people, or their doubles, twice, thrice, or a little oftener, before the curtain drops and the "army" puts off its borrowed clothes? the old academy building had a dreary look, with its flat face, bare and uninteresting as our own "university building" at cambridge, since the piazza which relieved its monotony was taken away, and, to balance the ugliness thus produced, the hideous projection was added to "harvard hall." two masters sat at the end of the great room,--the principal and his assistant. two others presided in separate rooms, one of them the late rev. samuel horatio stearns, an excellent and lovable man, who looked kindly on me, and for whom i always cherished a sincere regard, a clergyman's son, too, which privilege i did not always find the warrant of signal virtues; but no matter about that here, and i have promised myself to be amiable. on the side of the long room was a large clock-dial, bearing these words: youth is the seed-time of life. i had indulged in a prejudice, up to that hour, that youth was the budding time of life, and this clock-dial, perpetually twitting me with its seedy moral, always had a forbidding look to my vernal apprehension. i was put into a seat with an older and much bigger boy, or youth, with a fuliginous complexion, a dilating and whitening nostril, and a singularly malignant scowl. many years afterwards he committed an act of murderous violence, and ended by going to finish his days in a madhouse. his delight was to kick my shins with all his might, under the desk, not at all as an act of hostility, but as a gratifying and harmless pastime. finding this, so far as i was concerned, equally devoid of pleasure and profit, i managed to get a seat by another boy, the son of a very distinguished divine. he was bright enough, and more select in his choice of recreations, at least during school hours, than my late homicidal neighbor. but the principal called me up presently, and cautioned me against him as a dangerous companion. could it be so? if the son of that boy's father could not be trusted, what boy in christendom could? it seemed like the story of the youth doomed to be slain by a lion before reaching a certain age, and whose fate found him out in the heart of the tower where his father had shut him up for safety. here was i, in the very dove's nest of puritan faith, and out of one of its eggs a serpent had been hatched and was trying to nestle in my bosom! i parted from him, however, none the worse for his companionship so far as i can remember. of the boys who were at school with me at andover one has acquired great distinction among the scholars of the land. one day i observed a new boy in a seat not very far from my own. he was a little fellow, as i recollect him, with black hair and very bright black eyes, when at length i got a chance to look at them. of all the new-comers during my whole year he was the only one whom the first glance fixed in my memory, but there he is now, at this moment, just as he caught my eye on the morning of his entrance. his head was between his hands (i wonder if he does not sometimes study in that same posture nowadays!) and his eyes were fastened to his book as if he had been reading a will that made him heir to a million. i feel sure that professor horatio balch hackett will not find fault with me for writing his name under this inoffensive portrait. thousands of faces and forms that i have known more or less familiarly have faded from my remembrance, but this presentment of the youthful student, sitting there entranced over the page of his text-book,--the child-father of the distinguished scholar that was to be,--is not a picture framed and hung up in my mind's gallery, but a fresco on its walls, there to remain so long as they hold together. my especial intimate was a fine, rosy-faced boy, not quite so free of speech as myself, perhaps, but with qualities that promised a noble manhood, and ripened into it in due season. his name was phinehas barnes, and, if he is inquired after in portland or anywhere in the state of maine, something will be heard to his advantage from any honest and intelligent citizen of that commonwealth who answers the question. this was one of two or three friendships that lasted. there were other friends and classmates, one of them a natural humorist of the liveliest sort, who would have been quarantined in any puritan port, his laugh was so potently contagious. of the noted men of andover the one whom i remember best was professor moses stuart. his house was nearly opposite the one in which i resided and i often met him and listened to him in the chapel of the seminary. i have seen few more striking figures in my life than his, as i remember it. tall, lean, with strong, bold features, a keen, scholarly, accipitrine nose, thin, expressive lips, great solemnity and impressiveness of voice and manner, he was my early model of a classic orator. his air was roman, his neck long and bare like cicero's, and his toga,--that is his broadcloth cloak,--was carried on his arm, whatever might have been the weather, with such a statue-like rigid grace that he might have been turned into marble as he stood, and looked noble by the side of the antiques of the vatican. dr. porter was an invalid, with the prophetic handkerchief bundling his throat, and his face "festooned"--as i heard hillard say once, speaking of one of our college professors--in folds and wrinkles. ill health gives a certain common character to all faces, as nature has a fixed course which she follows in dismantling a human countenance: the noblest and the fairest is but a death's-head decently covered over for the transient ceremony of life, and the drapery often falls half off before the procession has passed. dr. woods looked his creed more decidedly, perhaps, than any of the professors. he had the firm fibre of a theological athlete, and lived to be old without ever mellowing, i think, into a kind of half-heterodoxy, as old ministers of stern creed are said to do now and then,--just as old doctors grow to be sparing of the more exasperating drugs in their later days. he had manipulated the mysteries of the infinite so long and so exhaustively, that he would have seemed more at home among the mediaeval schoolmen than amidst the working clergy of our own time. all schools have their great men, for whose advent into life the world is waiting in dumb expectancy. in due time the world seizes upon these wondrous youth, opens the shell of their possibilities like the valves of an oyster, swallows them at a gulp, and they are for the most part heard of no more. we had two great men, grown up both of them. which was the more awful intellectual power to be launched upon society, we debated. time cut the knot in his rude fashion by taking one away early, and padding the other with prosperity so that his course was comparatively noiseless and ineffective. we had our societies, too; one in particular, "the social fraternity," the dread secrets of which i am under a lifelong obligation never to reveal. the fate of william morgan, which the community learned not long after this time, reminds me of the danger of the ground upon which i am treading. there were various distractions to make the time not passed in study a season of relief. one good lady, i was told, was in the habit of asking students to her house on saturday afternoons and praying with and for them. bodily exercise was not, however, entirely superseded by spiritual exercises, and a rudimentary form of base-ball and the heroic sport of football were followed with some spirit. a slight immature boy finds his materials of though and enjoyment in very shallow and simple sources. yet a kind of romance gilds for me the sober tableland of that cold new england hill where i came in contact with a world so strange to me, and destined to leave such mingled and lasting impressions. i looked across the valley to the hillside where methuen hung suspended, and dreamed of its wooded seclusion as a village paradise. i tripped lightly down the long northern slope with facilis descensus on my lips, and toiled up again, repeating sed revocare gradum. i wandered' in the autumnal woods that crown the "indian ridge," much wondering at that vast embankment, which we young philosophers believed with the vulgar to be of aboriginal workmanship, not less curious, perhaps, since we call it an escar, and refer it to alluvial agencies. the little shawshine was our swimming-school, and the great merrimack, the right arm of four toiling cities, was within reach of a morning stroll. at home we had the small imp to make us laugh at his enormities, for he spared nothing in his talk, and was the drollest little living protest against the prevailing solemnities of the locality. it did not take much to please us, i suspect, and it is a blessing that this is apt to be so with young people. what else could have made us think it great sport to leave our warm beds in the middle of winter and "camp out,"--on the floor of our room,--with blankets disposed tent-wise, except the fact that to a boy a new discomfort in place of an old comfort is often a luxury. more exciting occupation than any of these was to watch one of the preceptors to see if he would not drop dead while he was praying. he had a dream one night that he should, and looked upon it as a warning, and told it round very seriously, and asked the boys to come and visit him in turn, as one whom they were soon to lose. more than one boy kept his eye on him during his public devotions, possessed by the same feeling the man had who followed van amburgh about with the expectation, let us not say the hope, of seeing the lion bite his head off sooner or later. let me not forget to recall the interesting visit to haverhill with my room-mate, and how he led me to the mighty bridge over the merrimack which defied the ice-rafts of the river; and to the old meetinghouse, where, in its porch, i saw the door of the ancient parsonage, with the bullet-hole in it through which benjamin rolfe, the minister, was shot by the indians on the th of august, . what a vision it was when i awoke in the morning to see the fog on the river seeming as if it wrapped the towers and spires of a great city!--for such was my fancy, and whether it was a mirage of youth or a fantastic natural effect i hate to inquire too nicely. my literary performances at andover, if any reader who may have survived so far cares to know, included a translation from virgil, out of which i remember this couplet, which had the inevitable cockney rhyme of beginners: "thus by the power of jove's imperial arm the boiling ocean trembled into calm." also a discussion with master phinehas barnes on the case of mary, queen of scots, which he treated argumentatively and i rhetorically and sentimentally. my sentences were praised and his conclusions adopted. also an essay, spoken at the great final exhibition, held in the large hall up-stairs, which hangs oddly enough from the roof, suspended by iron rods. subject, fancy. treatment, brief but comprehensive, illustrating the magic power of that brilliant faculty in charming life into forgetfulness of all the ills that flesh is heir to,--the gift of heaven to every condition and every clime, from the captive in his dungeon to the monarch on his throne; from the burning sands of the desert to the frozen icebergs of the poles, from--but i forget myself. this was the last of my coruscations at andover. i went from the academy to harvard college, and did not visit the sacred hill again for a long time. on the last day of august, , not having been at andover, for many years, i took the cars at noon, and in an hour or a little more found myself at the station,--just at the foot of the hill. my first pilgrimage was to the old elm, which i remembered so well as standing by the tavern, and of which they used to tell the story that it held, buried in it by growth, the iron rings put round it in the old time to keep the indians from chopping it with their tomahawks. i then began the once familiar toil of ascending the long declivity. academic villages seem to change very slowly. once in a hundred years the library burns down with all its books. a new edifice or two may be put up, and a new library begun in the course of the same century; but these places are poor, for the most part, and cannot afford to pull down their old barracks. these sentimental journeys to old haunts must be made alone. the story of them must be told succinctly. it is like the opium-smoker's showing you the pipe from which he has just inhaled elysian bliss, empty of the precious extract which has given him his dream. i did not care much for the new academy building on my right, nor for the new library building on my left. but for these it was surprising to see how little the scene i remembered in my boyhood had changed. the professors' houses looked just as they used to, and the stage-coach landed its passengers at the mansion house as of old. the pale brick seminary buildings were behind me on the left, looking as if "hollis" and "stoughton" had been transplanted from cambridge,--carried there in the night by orthodox angels, perhaps, like the santa casa. away to my left again, but abreast of me, was the bleak, bare old academy building; and in front of me stood unchanged the shallow oblong white house where i lived a year in the days of james monroe and of john quincy adams. the ghost of a boy was at my side as i wandered among the places he knew so well. i went to the front of the house. there was the great rock showing its broad back in the front yard. i used to crack nuts on that, whispered the small ghost. i looked in at the upper window in the farther part of the house. i looked out of that on four long changing seasons, said the ghost. i should have liked to explore farther, but, while i was looking, one came into the small garden, or what used to be the garden, in front of the house, and i desisted from my investigation and went on my way. the apparition that put me and my little ghost to flight had a dressing-gown on its person and a gun in its hand. i think it was the dressing-gown, and not the gun, which drove me off. and now here is the shop, or store, that used to be shipman's, after passing what i think used to be jonathan leavitt's bookbindery, and here is the back road that will lead me round by the old academy building. could i believe my senses when i found that it was turned into a gymnasium, and heard the low thunder of ninepin balls, and the crash of tumbling pins from those precincts? the little ghost said, never! it cannot be. but it was. "have they a billiard-room in the upper story?" i asked myself. "do the theological professors take a hand at all-fours or poker on weekdays, now and then, and read the secular columns of the 'boston recorder' on sundays?" i was demoralized for the moment, it is plain; but now that i have recovered from the shock, i must say that the fact mentioned seems to show a great advance in common sense from the notions prevailing in my time. i sauntered,--we, rather, my ghost and i,--until we came to a broken field where there was quarrying and digging going on,--our old base-ball ground, hard by the burial-place. there i paused; and if any thoughtful boy who loves to tread in the footsteps that another has sown with memories of the time when he was young shall follow my footsteps, i need not ask him to rest here awhile, for he will be enchained by the noble view before him. far to the north and west the mountains of new hampshire lifted their summits in along encircling ridge of pale blue waves. the day was clear, and every mound and peak traced its outline with perfect definition against the sky. this was a sight which had more virtue and refreshment in it than any aspect of nature that i had looked upon, i am afraid i must say for years. i have been by the seaside now and then, but the sea is constantly busy with its own affairs, running here and there, listening to what the winds have to say and getting angry with them, always indifferent, often insolent, and ready to do a mischief to those who seek its companionship. but these still, serene, unchanging mountains,--monadnock, kearsarge,--what memories that name recalls!--and the others, the dateless pyramids of new england, the eternal monuments of her ancient race, around which cluster the homes of so many of her bravest and hardiest children,--i can never look at them without feeling that, vast and remote and awful as they are, there is a kind of inward heat and muffled throb in their stony cores, that brings them into a vague sort of sympathy with human hearts. it is more than a year since i have looked on those blue mountains, and they "are to me as a feeling" now, and have been ever since. i had only to pass a wall and i was in the burial-ground. it was thinly tenanted as i remember it, but now populous with the silent immigrants of more than a whole generation. there lay the dead i had left, the two or three students of the seminary; the son of the worthy pair in whose house i lived, for whom in those days hearts were still aching, and by whose memory the house still seemed haunted. a few upright stones were all that i recollect. but now, around them were the monuments of many of the dead whom i remembered as living. i doubt if there has been a more faithful reader of these graven stones than myself for many a long day. i listened to more than one brief sermon from preachers whom i had often heard as they thundered their doctrines down upon me from the throne-like desk. now they spoke humbly out of the dust, from a narrower pulpit, from an older text than any they ever found in cruden's concordance, but there was an eloquence in their voices the listening chapel had never known. there were stately monuments and studied inscriptions, but none so beautiful, none so touching, as that which hallows the resting-place of one of the children of the very learned professor robinson: "is it well with the child? and she answered, it is well." while i was musing amidst these scenes in the mood of hamlet, two old men, as my little ghost called them, appeared on the scene to answer to the gravedigger and his companion. they christened a mountain or two for me, "kearnsarge" among the rest, and revived some old recollections, of which the most curious was "basil's cave." the story was recent, when i was there, of one basil, or bezill, or buzzell, or whatever his name might have been, a member of the academy, fabulously rich, orientally extravagant, and of more or less lawless habits. he had commanded a cave to be secretly dug, and furnished it sumptuously, and there with his companions indulged in revelries such as the daylight of that consecrated locality had never looked upon. how much truth there was in it all i will not pretend to say, but i seem to remember stamping over every rock that sounded hollow, to question if it were not the roof of what was once basil's cave. the sun was getting far past the meridian, and i sought a shelter under which to partake of the hermit fare i had brought with me. following the slope of the hill northward behind the cemetery, i found a pleasant clump of trees grouped about some rocks, disposed so as to give a seat, a table, and a shade. i left my benediction on this pretty little natural caravansera, and a brief record on one of its white birches, hoping to visit it again on some sweet summer or autumn day. two scenes remained to look upon,--the shawshine river and the indian ridge. the streamlet proved to have about the width with which it flowed through my memory. the young men and the boys were bathing in its shallow current, or dressing and undressing upon its banks as in the days of old; the same river, only the water changed; "the same boys, only the names and the accidents of local memory different," i whispered to my little ghost. the indian ridge more than equalled what i expected of it. it is well worth a long ride to visit. the lofty wooded bank is a mile and a half in extent, with other ridges in its neighborhood, in general running nearly parallel with it, one of them still longer. these singular formations are supposed to have been built up by the eddies of conflicting currents scattering sand and gravel and stones as they swept over the continent. but i think they pleased me better when i was taught that the indians built them; and while i thank professor hitchcock, i sometimes feel as if i should like to found a chair to teach the ignorance of what people do not want to know. "two tickets to boston." i said to the man at the station. but the little ghost whispered, "when you leave this place you leave me behind you." "one ticket to boston, if you please. good by, little ghost." i believe the boy-shadow still lingers around the well-remembered scenes i traversed on that day, and that, whenever i revisit them, i shall find him again as my companion. the pulpit and the pew. the priest is dead for the protestant world. luther's inkstand did not kill the devil, but it killed the priest, at least for us: he is a loss in many respects to be regretted. he kept alive the spirit of reverence. he was looked up to as possessing qualities superhuman in their nature, and so was competent to be the stay of the weak and their defence against the strong. if one end of religion is to make men happier in this world as well as in the next, mankind lost a great source of happiness when the priest was reduced to the common level of humanity, and became only a minister. priest, which was presbyter, corresponded to senator, and was a title to respect and honor. minister is but the diminutive of magister, and implies an obligation to render service. it was promised to the first preachers that in proof of their divine mission they should have the power of casting out devils and talking in strange tongues; that they should handle serpents and drink poisons with impunity; that they should lay hands on the sick and they should recover. the roman church claims some of these powers for its clergy and its sacred objects to this day. miracles, it is professed, are wrought by them, or through them, as in the days of the apostles. protestantism proclaims that the age of such occurrences as the apostles witnessed is past. what does it know about miracles? it knows a great many records of miracles, but this is a different kind of knowledge. the minister may be revered for his character, followed for his eloquence, admired for his learning, loved for his amiable qualities, but he can never be what the priest was in past ages, and is still, in the roman church. dr. arnold's definition may be found fault with, but it has a very real meaning. "the essential point in the notion of a priest is this: that he is a person made necessary to our intercourse with god, without being necessary or beneficial to us morally,--an unreasonable, immoral, spiritual necessity." he did not mean, of course, that the priest might not have all the qualities which would recommend him as a teacher or as a man, but that he had a special power, quite independent of his personal character, which could act, as it were, mechanically; that out of him went a virtue, as from the hem of his master's raiment, to those with whom his sacred office brought him in contact. it was a great comfort to poor helpless human beings to have a tangible personality of like nature with themselves as a mediator between them and the heavenly powers. sympathy can do much for the sorrowing, the suffering, the dying, but to hear god himself speaking directly through human lips, to feel the touch of a hand which is the channel of communication with the unseen omnipotent, this was and is the privilege of those who looked and those who still look up to a priesthood. it has been said, and many who have walked the hospitals or served in the dispensaries can bear witness to the truth of the assertion, that the roman catholics know how to die. the same thing is less confidently to be said of protestants. how frequently is the story told of the most exemplary protestant christians, nay, how common is it to read in the lives of the most exemplary protestant ministers, that they were beset with doubts and terrors in their last days! the blessing of the viaticum is unknown to them. man is essentially an idolater,--that is, in bondage to his imagination,--for there is no more harm in the greek word eidolon than in the latin word imago. he wants a visible image to fix his thought, a scarabee or a crux ansata, or the modern symbols which are to our own time what these were to the ancient egyptians. he wants a vicegerent of the almighty to take his dying hand and bid him godspeed on his last journey. who but such an immediate representative of the divinity would have dared to say to the monarch just laying his head on the block, "fils de saint louis, monte au ciel"? it has been a long and gradual process to thoroughly republicanize the american protestant descendant of the ancient priesthood. the history of the congregationalists in new england would show us how this change has gone on, until we have seen the church become a hall open to all sorts of purposes, the pulpit come down to the level of the rostrum, and the clergyman take on the character of a popular lecturer who deals with every kind of subject, including religion. whatever fault we may find with many of their beliefs, we have a right to be proud of our pilgrim and puritan fathers among the clergy. they were ready to do and to suffer anything for their faith, and a faith which breeds heroes is better than an unbelief which leaves nothing worth being a hero for. only let us be fair, and not defend the creed of mohammed because it nurtured brave men and enlightened scholars, or refrain from condemning polygamy in our admiration of the indomitable spirit and perseverance of the pilgrim fathers of mormonism, or justify an inhuman belief, or a cruel or foolish superstition, because it was once held or acquiesced in by men whose nobility of character we heartily recognize. the new england clergy can look back to a noble record, but the pulpit has sometimes required a homily from the pew, and may sometimes find it worth its while to listen to one even in our own days. from the settlement of the country to the present time, the ministers have furnished the highest type of character to the people among whom they have lived. they have lost to a considerable extent the position of leaders, but if they are in our times rather to be looked upon as representatives of their congregations, they represent what is best among those of whom they are the speaking organs. we have a right to expect them to be models as well as teachers of all that makes the best citizens for this world and the next, and they have not been, and are not in these later days unworthy of their high calling. they have worked hard for small earthly compensation. they have been the most learned men the country had to show, when learning was a scarce commodity. called by their consciences to self-denying labors, living simply, often half-supported by the toil of their own hands, they have let the light, such light as shone for them, into the minds of our communities as the settler's axe let the sunshine into their log-huts and farm-houses. their work has not been confined to their professional duties, as a few instances will illustrate. often, as was just said, they toiled like day-laborers, teasing lean harvests out of their small inclosures of land, for the new england soil is not one that "laughs when tickled with a hoe," but rather one that sulks when appealed to with that persuasive implement. the father of the eminent boston physician whose recent loss is so deeply regretted, the reverend pitt clarke, forty-two years pastor of the small fold in the town of norton, massachusetts, was a typical example of this union of the two callings, and it would be hard to find a story of a more wholesome and useful life, within a limited and isolated circle, than that which the pious care of one of his children commemorated. sometimes the new england minister, like worthy mr. ward of stratford-on-avon, in old england, joined the practice of medicine to the offices of his holy profession. michael wigglesworth, the poet of "the day of doom," and charles chauncy, the second president of harvard college, were instances of this twofold service. in politics their influence has always been felt, and in many cases their drums ecclesiastic have beaten the reveille as vigorously, and to as good purpose, as it ever sounded in the slumbering camp. samuel cooper sat in council with the leaders of the revolution in boston. the three northampton-born brothers allen, thomas, moses, and solomon, lifted their voices, and, when needed, their armed hands, in the cause of liberty. in later days, elijah parish and david osgood carried politics into their pulpits as boldly as their antislavery successors have done in times still more recent. the learning, the personal character, the sacredness of their office, tended, to give the new england clergy of past generations a kind of aristocratic dignity, a personal grandeur, much more felt in the days when class distinctions were recognized less unwillingly than at present. their costume added to the effect of their bodily presence, as the old portraits illustrate for us, as those of us who remember the last of the "fair, white, curly" wigs, as it graced the imposing figure of the reverend dr. marsh of wethersfield, connecticut, can testify. they were not only learned in the history of the past, but they were the interpreters of the prophecy, and announced coming events with a confidence equal to that with which the weather-bureau warns us of a coming storm. the numbers of the book of daniel and the visions of the revelation were not too hard for them. in the commonplace book of the reverend joel benedict is to be found the following record, made, as it appears, about the year : "conversing with dr. bellamy upon the downfall of antichrist, after many things had been said upon the subject, the doctor began to warm, and uttered himself after this manner: 'tell your children to tell their children that in the year something notable will happen in the church; tell them the old man says so.'" the "old man" came pretty near hitting the mark, as we shall see if we consider what took place in the decade from to . in the pope issued the "syllabus of errors," which "must be considered by romanists--as an infallible official document, and which arrays the papacy in open war against modern civilization and civil and religious freedom." the vatican council in declared the pope to be the bishop of bishops, and immediately after this began the decisive movement of the party known as the "old catholics." in the exact year looked forward to by the new england prophet, , the evacuation of rome by the french and the publication of "ecce homo" appear to be the most remarkable events having special relation to the religious world. perhaps the national council of the congregationalists, held at boston in , may be reckoned as one of the occurrences which the oracle just missed. the confidence, if not the spirit of prophecy, lasted down to a later period. "in half a century," said the venerable dr. porter of conway, new hampshire, in , "there will be no pagans, jews, mohammedans, unitarians, or methodists." the half-century has more than elapsed, and the prediction seems to stand in need of an extension, like many other prophetic utterances. the story is told of david osgood, the shaggy-browed old minister of medford, that he had expressed his belief that not more than one soul in two thousand would be saved. seeing a knot of his parishioners in debate, he asked them what they were discussing, and was told that they were questioning which of the medford people was the elected one, the population being just two thousand, and that opinion was divided whether it would be the minister or one of his deacons. the story may or may not be literally true, but it illustrates the popular belief of those days, that the clergyman saw a good deal farther into the councils of the almighty than his successors could claim the power of doing. the objects about me, as i am writing, call to mind the varied accomplishments of some of the new england clergy. the face of the revolutionary preacher, samuel cooper, as copley painted it, looks upon me with the pleasantest of smiles and a liveliness of expression which makes him seem a contemporary after a hundred years' experience of eternity. the plato on this lower shelf bears the inscription: "ezroe stiles, . olim e libris rev. jaredis eliot de killingworth." both were noted scholars and philosophers. the hand-lens before me was imported, with other philosophical instruments, by the reverend john prince of salem, an earlier student of science in the town since distinguished by the labors of the essex institute. jeremy belknap holds an honored place in that unpretending row of local historians. and in the pages of his "history of new hampshire" may be found a chapter contributed in part by the most remarkable man, in many respects, among all the older clergymen preacher, lawyer, physician, astronomer, botanist, entomologist, explorer, colonist, legislator in state and national governments, and only not seated on the bench of the supreme court of a territory because he declined the office when washington offered it to him. this manifold individual was the minister of hamilton, a pleasant little town in essex county, massachusetts,--the reverend manasseh cutler. these reminiscences from surrounding objects came up unexpectedly, of themselves: and have a right here, as showing how wide is the range of intelligence in the clerical body thus accidentally represented in a single library making no special pretensions. it is not so exalted a claim to make for them, but it may be added that they were often the wits and humorists of their localities. mather byles's facetie are among the colonial classic reminiscences. but these were, for the most part, verbal quips and quibbles. true humor is an outgrowth of character. it is never found in greater perfection than in old clergymen and old college professors. dr. sprague's "annals of the american pulpit" tells many stories of our old ministers as good as dean ramsay's "scottish reminiscences." he has not recorded the following, which is to be found in miss larned's excellent and most interesting history of windham county, connecticut. the reverend josiah dwight was the minister of woodstock, connecticut, about the year . he was not old, it is true, but he must have caught the ways of the old ministers. the "sensational" pulpit of our own time could hardly surpass him in the drollery of its expressions. a specimen or two may dispose the reader to turn over the pages which follow in a good-natured frame of mind. "if unconverted men ever got to heaven," he said, "they would feel as uneasy as a shad up the crotch of a white-oak." some of his ministerial associates took offence at his eccentricities, and called on a visit of admonition to the offending clergyman. "mr. dwight received their reproofs with great meekness, frankly acknowledged his faults, and promised amendment, but, in prayer at parting, after returning thanks for the brotherly visit and admonition, 'hoped that they might so hitch their horses on earth that they should never kick in the stables of everlasting salvation.'" it is a good thing to have some of the blood of one of these old ministers in one's veins. an english bishop proclaimed the fact before an assembly of physicians the other day that he was not ashamed to say that he had a son who was a doctor. very kind that was in the bishop, and very proud his medical audience must have felt. perhaps he was not ashamed of the gospel of luke, "the beloved physician," or even of the teachings which came from the lips of one who was a carpenter, and the son of a carpenter. so a new-englander, even if he were a bishop, need not be ashamed to say that he consented to have an ancestor who was a minister. on the contrary, he has a right to be grateful for a probable inheritance of good instincts, a good name, and a bringing up in a library where he bumped about among books from the time when he was hardly taller than one of his father's or grandfather's folios. what are the names of ministers' sons which most readily occur to our memory as illustrating these advantages? edward everett, joseph stevens buckminster, ralph waldo emerson, george bancroft, richard hildreth, james russell lowell, francis parkman, charles eliot norton, were all ministers' boys. john lothrop motley was the grandson of the clergyman after whom he was named. george ticknor was next door to such a descent, for his father was a deacon. this is a group which it did not take a long or a wide search to bring together. men such as the ministers who have been described could not fail to exercise a good deal of authority in the communities to which they belonged. the effect of the revolution must have been to create a tendency to rebel against spiritual dictation. republicanism levels in religion as in everything. it might have been expected, therefore, that soon after civil liberty had been established there would be conflicts between the traditional, authority of the minister and the claims of the now free and independent congregation. so it was, in fact, as for instance in the case which follows, for which the reader is indebted to miss lamed's book, before cited. the ministerial veto allowed by the saybrook platform gave rise, in the year , to a fierce conflict in the town of pomfret, connecticut. zephaniah swift, a lawyer of windham, came out in the windham "herald," in all the vehemence of partisan phraseology, with all the emphasis of italics and small capitals. was it not time, he said, for people to look about them and see whether "such despotism was founded in scripture, in reason, in policy, or on the rights of man! a minister, by his vote, by his single voice, may negative the unanimous vote of the church! are ministers composed of finer clay than the rest of mankind, that entitles them to this preeminence? does a license to preach transform a man into a higher order of beings and endow him with a natural quality to govern? are the laity an inferior order of beings, fit only to be slaves and to be governed? is it good policy for mankind to subject themselves to such degrading vassalage and abject submission? reason, common sense, and the bible, with united voice, proclaim to all mankind that they are all born free and equal; that every member of a church or christian congregation must be on the same footing in respect of church government, and that the constitution, which delegates to one the power to negative the vote of all the rest, is subversive of the natural right of mankind and repugnant to the word of god." the reverend mr. welch replied to the lawyer's attack, pronouncing him to be "destitute of delicacy, decency, good manners, sound judgment, honesty, manhood, and humanity; a poltroon, a cat's-paw, the infamous tool of a party, a partisan, a political weathercock, and a ragamuffin." no fourth-of-july orator would in our day rant like the lawyer, and no clergyman would use such language as that of the reverend moses welch. the clergy have been pretty well republicanized within that last two or three generations, and are not likely to provoke quarrels by assertion of their special dignities or privileges. the public is better bred than to carry on an ecclesiastical controversy in terms which political brawlers would hardly think admissible. the minister of religion is generally treated with something more than respect; he is allowed to say undisputed what would be sharply controverted in anybody else. bishop gilbert haven, of happy memory, had been discussing a religious subject with a friend who was not convinced by his arguments. "wait till you hear me from the pulpit," he said; "there you cannot answer me." the preacher--if i may use an image which would hardly have suggested itself to him--has his hearer's head in chancery, and can administer punishment ad libitum. false facts, false reasoning, bad rhetoric, bad grammar, stale images, borrowed passages, if not borrowed sermons, are listened to without a word of comment or a look of disapprobation. one of the ablest and most conscientiously laborious of our clergymen has lately ventured to question whether all his professional brethren invariably give utterance to their sincerest beliefs, and has been sharply criticised for so doing. the layman, who sits silent in his pew, has his rights when out of it, and among them is the right of questioning that which has been addressed to him from the privileged eminence of the pulpit, or in any way sanctioned by his religious teacher. it is nearly two hundred years since a boston layman wrote these words: "i am not ignorant that the pious frauds of the ancient, and the inbred fire (i do not call it pride) of many of our modern divines, have precipitated them to propagate and maintain truth as well as falsehoods, in such an unfair manner as has given advantage to the enemy to suspect the whole doctrine these men have profest to be nothing but a mere trick." so wrote robert calef, the boston merchant, whose book the reverend increase mather, president of harvard college, burned publicly in the college yard. but the pity of it is that the layman had not cried out earlier and louder, and saved the community from the horror of those judicial murders for witchcraft, the blame of which was so largely attributable to the clergy. perhaps no, laymen have given the clergy more trouble than the doctors. the old reproach against physicians, that where there were three of them together there were two atheists, had a real significance, but not that which was intended by the sharp-tongued ecclesiastic who first uttered it. undoubtedly there is a strong tendency in the pursuits of the medical profession to produce disbelief in that figment of tradition and diseased human imagination which has been installed in the seat of divinity by the priesthood of cruel and ignorant ages. it is impossible, or at least very difficult, for a physician who has seen the perpetual efforts of nature--whose diary is the book he reads oftenest--to heal wounds, to expel poisons, to do the best that can be done under the given conditions,--it is very difficult for him to believe in a world where wounds cannot heal, where opiates cannot give a respite from pain, where sleep never comes with its sweet oblivion of suffering, where the art of torture is the only science cultivated, and the capacity for being tormented is the only faculty which remains to the children of that same father who cares for the falling sparrow. the deity has often been pictured as moloch, and the physician has, no doubt, frequently repudiated him as a monstrosity. on the other hand, the physician has often been renowned for piety as well as for his peculiarly professional virtue of charity,--led upward by what he sees to the source of all the daily marvels wrought before his own eyes. so it was that galen gave utterance to that psalm of praise which the sweet singer of israel need not have been ashamed of; and if this "heathen" could be lifted into such a strain of devotion, we need not be surprised to find so many devout christian worshippers among the crowd of medical "atheists." no two professions should come into such intimate and cordial relations as those to which belong the healers of the body and the headers of the mind. there can be no more fatal mistake than that which brings them into hostile attitudes with reference to each other, both having in view the welfare of their fellow-creatures. but there is a territory always liable to be differed about between them. there are patients who never tell their physician the grief which lies at the bottom of their ailments. he goes through his accustomed routine with them, and thinks he has all the elements needed for his diagnosis. but he has seen no deeper into the breast than the tongue, and got no nearer the heart than the wrist. a wise and experienced clergyman, coming to the patient's bedside,--not with the professional look on his face which suggests the undertaker and the sexton, but with a serene countenance and a sympathetic voice, with tact, with patience, waiting for the right moment,--will surprise the shy spirit into a confession of the doubt, the sorrow, the shame, the remorse, the terror which underlies all the bodily symptoms, and the unburdening of which into a loving and pitying soul is a more potent anodyne than all the drowsy sirups of the world. and, on the other hand, there are many nervous and over-sensitive natures which have been wrought up by self-torturing spiritual exercises until their best confessor would be a sagacious and wholesome-minded physician. suppose a person to have become so excited by religious stimulants that he is subject to what are known to the records of insanity as hallucinations: that he hears voices whispering blasphemy in his ears, and sees devils coming to meet him, and thinks he is going to be torn in pieces, or trodden into the mire. suppose that his mental conflicts, after plunging him into the depths of despondency, at last reduce him to a state of despair, so that he now contemplates taking his own life, and debates with himself whether it shall be by knife, halter, or poison, and after much questioning is apparently making up his mind to commit suicide. is not this a manifest case of insanity, in the form known as melancholia? would not any prudent physician keep such a person under the eye of constant watchers, as in a dangerous state of, at least, partial mental alienation? yet this is an exact transcript of the mental condition of christian in "pilgrim's progress," and its counterpart has been found in thousands of wretched lives terminated by the act of self-destruction, which came so near taking place in the hero of the allegory. now the wonderful book from which this example is taken is, next to the bible and the treatise of "de imitatione christi," the best-known religious work of christendom. if bunyan and his contemporary, sydenham, had met in consultation over the case of christian at the time when he was meditating self-murder, it is very possible that there might have been a difference of judgment. the physician would have one advantage in such a consultation. he would pretty certainly have received a christian education, while the clergyman would probably know next to nothing of the laws or manifestations of mental or bodily disease. it does not seem as if any theological student was really prepared for his practical duties until he had learned something of the effects of bodily derangements, and, above all, had become familiar with the gamut of mental discord in the wards of an insane asylum. it is a very thoughtless thing to say that the physician stands to the divine in the same light as the divine stands to the physician, so far as each may attempt to handle subjects belonging especially to the other's profession. many physicians know a great deal more about religious matters than they do about medicine. they have read the bible ten times as much as they ever read any medical author. they have heard scores of sermons for one medical lecture to which they have listened. they often hear much better preaching than the average minister, for he hears himself chiefly, and they hear abler men and a variety of them. they have now and then been distinguished in theology as well as in their own profession. the name of servetus might call up unpleasant recollections, but that of another medical practitioner may be safely mentioned. "it was not till the middle of the last century that the question as to the authorship of the pentateuch was handled with anything like a discerning criticism. the first attempt was made by a layman, whose studies we might have supposed would scarcely have led him to such an investigation." this layman was "astruc, doctor and professor of medicine in the royal college at paris, and court physician to louis xiv." the quotation is from the article "pentateuch" in smith's "dictionary of the bible," which, of course, lies on the table of the least instructed clergyman. the sacred profession has, it is true, returned the favor by giving the practitioner of medicine bishop berkeley's "treatise on tar-water," and the invaluable prescription of that "aged clergyman whose sands of life"----but let us be fair, if not generous, and remember that cotton mather shares with zabdiel boylston the credit of introducing the practice of inoculation into america. the professions should be cordial allies, but the church-going, bible-reading physician ought to know a great deal more of the subjects included under the general name of theology than the clergyman can be expected to know of medicine. to say, as has been said not long since, that a young divinity student is as competent to deal with the latter as an old physician is to meddle with the former, suggests the idea that wisdom is not an heirloom in the family of the one who says it. what a set of idiots our clerical teachers must have been and be, if, after a quarter or half a century of their instruction, a person of fair intelligence is utterly incompetent to form any opinion about the subjects which they have been teaching, or trying to teach him, so long! a minister must find it very hard work to preach to hearers who do not believe, or only half believe, what he preaches. but pews without heads in them are a still more depressing spectacle. he may convince the doubter and reform the profligate. but he cannot produce any change on pine and mahogany by his discourses, and the more wood he sees as he looks along his floor and galleries, the less his chance of being useful. it is natural that in times like the present changes of faith and of place of worship should be far from infrequent. it is not less natural that there should be regrets on one side and gratification on the other, when such changes occur. it even happens occasionally that the regrets become aggravated into reproaches, rarely from the side which receives the new accessions, less rarely from the one which is left. it is quite conceivable that the roman church, which considers itself the only true one, should look on those who leave its communion as guilty of a great offence. it is equally natural that a church which considers pope and pagan a pair of murderous giants, sitting at the mouths of their caves, alike in their hatred to true christians, should regard any of its members who go over to romanism as lost in fatal error. but within the protestant fold there are many compartments, and it would seem that it is not a deadly defection to pass from one to another. so far from such exchanges between sects being wrong, they ought to happen a great deal oftener than they do. all the larger bodies of christians should be constantly exchanging members. all men are born with conservative or aggressive tendencies: they belong naturally with the idol-worshippers or the idol-breakers. some wear their fathers' old clothes, and some will have a new suit. one class of men must have their faith hammered in like a nail, by authority; another class must have it worked in like a screw, by argument. members of one of these classes often find themselves fixed by circumstances in the other. the late orestes a. brownson used to preach at one time to a little handful of persons, in a small upper room, where some of them got from him their first lesson about the substitution of reverence for idolatry, in dealing with the books they hold sacred. but after a time mr. brownson found he had mistaken his church, and went over to the roman catholic establishment, of which he became and remained to his dying day one of the most stalwart champions. nature is prolific and ambidextrous. while this strong convert was trying to carry us back to the ancient faith, another of her sturdy children, theodore parker, was trying just as hard to provide a new church for the future. one was driving the sheep into the ancient fold, while the other was taking down the bars that kept them out of the new pasture. neither of these powerful men could do the other's work, and each had to find the task for which he was destined. the "old gospel ship," as the methodist song calls it, carries many who would steer by the wake of their vessel. but there are many others who do not trouble themselves to look over the stern, having their eyes fixed on the light-house in the distance before them. in less figurative language, there are multitudes of persons who are perfectly contented with the old formulae of the church with which they and their fathers before them have been and are connected, for the simple reason that they fit, like old shoes, because they have been worn so long, and mingled with these, in the most conservative religious body, are here and there those who are restless in the fetters of a confession of faith to which they have pledged themselves without believing in it. this has been true of the athanasian creed, in the anglican church, for two centuries more or less, unless the archbishop of canterbury, tillotson, stood alone in wishing the church were well rid of it. in fact, it has happened to the present writer to hear the thirty-nine articles summarily disposed of by one of the most zealous members of the american branch of that communion, in a verb of one syllable, more familiar to the ears of the forecastle than to those of the vestry. but on the other hand, it is far from uncommon to meet with persons among the so-called "liberal" denominations who are uneasy for want of a more definite ritual and a more formal organization than they find in their own body. now, the rector or the minister must be well aware that there are such cases, and each of them must be aware that there are individuals under his guidance whom he cannot satisfy by argument, and who really belong by all their instincts to another communion. it seems as if a thoroughly honest, straight-collared clergyman would say frankly to his restless parishioner: "you do not believe the central doctrines of the church which you are in the habit of attending. you belong properly to brother a.'s or brother b.'s fold, and it will be more manly and probably more profitable for you to go there than to stay with us." and, again, the rolling-collared clergyman might be expected to say to this or that uneasy listener: "you are longing for a church which will settle your beliefs for you, and relieve you to a great extent from the task, to which you seem to be unequal, of working out your own salvation with fear and trembling. go over the way to brother c.'s or brother d.'s; your spine is weak, and they will furnish you a back-board which will keep you straight and make you comfortable." patients are not the property of their physicians, nor parishioners of their ministers. as for the children of clergymen, the presumption is that they will adhere to the general belief professed by their fathers. but they do not lose their birthright or their individuality, and have the world all before them to choose their creed from, like other persons. they are sometimes called to account for attacking the dogmas they are supposed to have heard preached from their childhood. they cannot defend themselves, for various good reasons. if they did, one would have to say he got more preaching than was good for him, and came at last to feel about sermons and their doctrines as confectioners' children do about candy. another would have to own that he got his religious belief, not from his father, but from his mother. that would account for a great deal, for the milk in a woman's veins sweetens, or at least, dilutes an acrid doctrine, as the blood of the motherly cow softens the virulence of small-pox, so that its mark survives only as the seal of immunity. another would plead atavism, and say he got his religious instincts from his great-grandfather, as some do their complexion or their temper. others would be compelled to confess that the belief of a wife or a sister had displaced that which they naturally inherited. no man can be expected to go thus into the details of his family history, and, therefore, it is an ill-bred and indecent thing to fling a man's father's creed in his face, as if he had broken the fifth commandment in thinking for himself in the light of a new generation. common delicacy would prevent him from saying that he did not get his faith from his father, but from somebody else, perhaps from his grandmother lois and his mother eunice, like the young man whom the apostle cautioned against total abstinence. it is always the right, and may sometimes be the duty, of the layman to call the attention of the clergy to the short-comings and errors, not only of their own time, but also of the preceding generations, of which they are the intellectual and moral product. this is especially true when the authority of great names is fallen back upon as a defence of opinions not in themselves deserving to be upheld. it may be very important to show that the champions of this or that set of dogmas, some of which are extinct or obsolete as beliefs, while others retain their vitality, held certain general notions which vitiated their conclusions. and in proportion to the eminence of such champions, and the frequency with which their names are appealed to as a bulwark of any particular creed or set of doctrines, is it urgent to show into what obliquities or extravagances or contradictions of thought they have been betrayed. in summing up the religious history of new england, it would be just and proper to show the agency of the mathers, father and son, in the witchcraft delusion. it would be quite fair to plead in their behalf the common beliefs of their time. it would be an extenuation of their acts that, not many years before, the great and good magistrate, sir matthew hale, had sanctioned the conviction of prisoners accused of witchcraft. to fall back on the errors of the time is very proper when we are trying our predecessors in foro conscientace: the houses they dwelt in may have had some weak or decayed beams and rafters, but they served for their shelter, at any rate. it is quite another matter when those rotten timbers are used in holding up the roofs over our own heads. still more, if one of our ancestors built on an unsafe or an unwholesome foundation, the best thing we can do is to leave it and persuade others to leave it if we can. and if we refer to him as a precedent, it must be as a warning and not as a guide. such was the reason of the present writer's taking up the writings of jonathan edwards for examination in a recent essay. the "edwardsian" theology is still recognized as a power in and beyond the denomination to which he belonged. one or more churches bear his name, and it is thrown into the scale of theological belief as if it added great strength to the party which claims him. that he was a man of extraordinary endowments and deep spiritual nature was not questioned, nor that he was a most acute reasoner, who could unfold a proposition into its consequences as patiently, as convincingly, as a palaeontologist extorts its confession from a fossil fragment. but it was maintained that so many dehumanizing ideas were mixed up with his conceptions of man, and so many diabolizing attributes embodied in his imagination of the deity, that his system of beliefs was tainted throughout by them, and that the fact of his being so remarkable a logician recoiled on the premises which pointed his inexorable syllogisms to such revolting conclusions. when he presents us a god, in whose sight children, with certain not too frequent exceptions, "are young vipers, and are infinitely more hateful than vipers;" when he gives the most frightful detailed description of infinite and endless tortures which it drives men and women mad to think of prepared for "the bulk of mankind;" when he cruelly pictures a future in which parents are to sing hallelujahs of praise as they see their children driven into the furnace, where they are to lie "roasting" forever,--we have a right to say that the man who held such beliefs and indulged in such imaginations and expressions is a burden and not a support in reference to the creed with which his name is associated. what heathenism has ever approached the horrors of this conception of human destiny? it is not an abuse of language to apply to such a system of beliefs the name of christian pessimism. if these and similar doctrines are so generally discredited as some appear to think, we might expect to see the change showing itself in catechisms and confessions of faith, to hear the joyful news of relief from its horrors in all our churches, and no longer to read in the newspapers of ministers rejected or put on trial for heresy because they could not accept the most dreadful of these doctrines. whether this be so or not, it must be owned that the name of jonathan edwards does at this day carry a certain authority with it for many persons, so that anything he believed gains for them some degree of probability from that circumstance. it would, therefore, be of much interest to know whether he was trustworthy in his theological speculations, and whether he ever changed his belief with reference to any of the great questions above alluded to. some of our readers may remember a story which got abroad many years ago that a certain m. babinet, a scientific frenchman of note, had predicted a serious accident soon to occur to the planet on which we live by the collision with it of a great comet then approaching us, or some such occurrence. there is no doubt that this prediction produced anxiety and alarm in many timid persons. it became a very interesting question with them who this m. babinet might be. was he a sound observer, who had made other observations and predictions which had proved accurate? or was he one of those men who are always making blunders for other people to correct? is he known to have changed his opinion as to the approaching disastrous event? so long as there were any persons made anxious by this prediction, so long as there was even one who believed that he, and his family, and his nation, and his race, and the home of mankind, with all its monuments, were very soon to be smitten in mid-heaven and instantly shivered into fragments, it was very desirable to find any evidence that this prophet of evil was a man who held many extravagant and even monstrous opinions. still more satisfactory would it be if it could be shown that he had reconsidered his predictions, and declared that he could not abide by his former alarming conclusions. and we should think very ill of any astronomer who would not rejoice for the sake of his fellow-creatures, if not for his own, to find the threatening presage invalidated in either or both of the ways just mentioned, even though he had committed himself to m. babinet's dire belief. but what is the trivial, temporal accident of the wiping out of a planet and its inhabitants to the infinite catastrophe which shall establish a mighty world of eternal despair? and which is it most desirable for mankind to have disproved or weakened, the grounds of the threat of m. babinet, or those of the other infinitely more terrible comminations, so far as they rest on the authority of jonathan edwards? the writer of this paper had been long engaged in the study of the writings of edwards, with reference to the essay he had in contemplation, when, on speaking of the subject to a very distinguished orthodox divine, this gentleman mentioned the existence of a manuscript of edwards which had been held back from the public on account of some opinions or tendencies it contained, or was suspected of containing "high arianism" was the exact expression he used with reference to it. on relating this fact to an illustrious man of science, whose name is best known to botanists, but is justly held in great honor by the orthodox body to which he belongs, it appeared that he, too, had heard of such a manuscript, and the questionable doctrine associated with it in his memory was sabellianism. it was of course proper in the writer of an essay on jonathan edwards to mention the alleged existence of such a manuscript, with reference to which the same caution seemed to have been exercised as that which led, the editor of his collected works to suppress the language edwards had used about children. this mention led to a friendly correspondence between the writer and one of the professors in the theological school at andover, and finally to the publication of a brief essay, which, for some reason, had been withheld from publication for more than a century. its title is "observations concerning the scripture oeconomy of the trinity and covenant of redemption. by jonathan edwards." it contains thirty-six pages and a half, each small page having about two hundred words. the pages before the reader will be found to average about three hundred and twenty-five words. an introduction and an appendix by the editor, professor egbert c. smyth, swell the contents to nearly a hundred pages, but these additions, and the circumstance that it is bound in boards, must not lead us to overlook the fact that the little volume is nothing more than a pamphlet in book's clothing. a most extraordinary performance it certainly is, dealing with the arrangements entered into by the three persons of the trinity, in as bald and matter-of-fact language and as commercial a spirit as if the author had been handling the adjustment of a limited partnership between three retail tradesmen. but, lest a layman's judgment might be considered insufficient, the treatise was submitted by the writer to one of the most learned of our theological experts,--the same who once informed a church dignitary, who had been attempting to define his theological position, that he was a eutychian,--a fact which he seems to have been no more aware of than m. jourdain was conscious that he had been speaking prose all his life. the treatise appeared to this professor anti-trinitarian, not in the direction of unitarianism, however, but of tritheism. its anthropomorphism affected him like blasphemy, and the paper produced in him the sense of "great disgust," which its whole character might well excite in the unlearned reader. all this is, however, of little importance, for this is not the work of edwards referred to by the present writer in his previous essay. the tract recently printed as a volume may be the one referred to by dr. bushnell, in , but of this reference by him the writer never heard until after his own essay was already printed. the manuscript of the "observations" was received by professor smyth, as he tells us in his introduction, about fifteen years ago, from the late reverend william t. dwight, d. d., to whom it was bequeathed by his brother, the reverend dr. sereno e. dwight. but the reference of the present writer was to another production of the great logician, thus spoken of in a quotation from "the accomplished editor of the hartford 'courant,'" to be found in professor smyth's introduction: "it has long been a matter of private information that professor edwards a. park, of andover, had in his possession an published manuscript of edwards of considerable extent, perhaps two thirds as long as his treatise on the will. as few have ever seen the manuscript, its contents are only known by vague reports.... it is said that it contains a departure from his published views on the trinity and a modification of the view of original sin. one account of it says that the manuscript leans toward sabellianism, and that it even approaches pelagianism." it was to this "suppressed" manuscript the present writer referred, and not to the slender brochure recently given to the public. he is bound, therefore, to say plainly that to satisfy inquirers who may be still in doubt with reference to edwards's theological views, it would be necessary to submit this manuscript, and all manuscripts of his which have been kept private, to their inspection, in print, if possible, so that all could form their own opinion about it or them. the whole matter may be briefly stated thus: edwards believed in an eternity of unimaginable horrors for "the bulk of mankind." his authority counts with many in favor of that belief, which affects great numbers as the idea of ghosts affected madame de stall: "je n'y crois pas, mais je les crains." this belief is one which it is infinitely desirable to the human race should be shown to be possibly, probably, or certainly erroneous. it is, therefore, desirable in the interest of humanity that any force the argument in its favor may derive from edwards's authority should be weakened by showing that he was capable of writing most unwisely, and if it should be proved that he changed his opinions, or ran into any "heretical" vagaries, by using these facts against the validity of his judgment. that he was capable of writing most unwisely has been sufficiently shown by the recent publication of his "observations." whether he, anywhere contradicted what were generally accepted as his theological opinions, or how far he may have lapsed into heresies, the public will never rest satisfied until it sees and interprets for itself everything that is open to question which may be contained in his yet unpublished manuscripts. all this is not in the least a personal affair with the writer, who, in the course of his studies of edwards's works, accidentally heard, from the unimpeachable sources sufficiently indicated, the reports, which it seems must have been familiar to many, that there was unpublished matter bearing on the opinions of the author through whose voluminous works he had been toiling. and if he rejoiced even to hope that so wise a man as edwards has been considered, so good a man as he is recognized to have been, had, possibly in his changes of opinion, ceased to think of children as vipers, and of parents as shouting hallelujahs while their lost darlings were being driven into the flames, where is the theologian who would not rejoice to hope so with him or who would be willing to tell his wife or his daughter that he did not? the real, vital division of the religious part of our protestant communities is into christian optimists and christian pessimists. the christian optimist in his fullest development is characterized by a cheerful countenance, a voice in the major key, an undisguised enjoyment of earthly comforts, and a short confession of faith. his theory of the universe is progress; his idea of god is that he is a father with all the true paternal attributes, of man that he is destined to come into harmony with the key-note of divine order, of this earth that it is a training school for a better sphere of existence. the christian pessimist in his most typical manifestation is apt to wear a solemn aspect, to speak, especially from the pulpit, in the minor key, to undervalue the lesser enjoyments of life, to insist on a more extended list of articles of belief. his theory of the universe recognizes this corner of it as a moral ruin; his idea of the creator is that of a ruler whose pardoning power is subject to the veto of what is called "justice;" his notion of man is that he is born a natural hater of god and goodness, and that his natural destiny is eternal misery. the line dividing these two great classes zigzags its way through the religious community, sometimes following denominational layers and cleavages, sometimes going, like a geological fracture, through many different strata. the natural antagonists of the religious pessimists are the men of science, especially the evolutionists, and the poets. it was but a conditioned prophecy, yet we cannot doubt what was in milton's mind when he sang, in one of the divinest of his strains, that "hell itself will pass away, and leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day." and nature, always fair if we will allow her time enough, after giving mankind the inspired tinker who painted the christian's life as that of a hunted animal, "never long at ease," desponding, despairing, on the verge of self-murder,--painted it with an originality, a vividness, a power and a sweetness, too, that rank him with the great authors of all time,--kind nature, after this gift, sent as his counterpoise the inspired ploughman, whose songs have done more to humanize the hard theology of scotland than all the rationalistic sermons that were ever preached. our own whittier has done and is doing the same thing, in a far holier spirit than burns, for the inherited beliefs of new england and the country to which new england belongs. let me sweeten these closing paragraphs of an essay not meaning to hold a word of bitterness with a passage or two from the lay-preacher who is listened to by a larger congregation than any man who speaks from the pulpit. who will not hear his words with comfort and rejoicing when he speaks of "that larger hope which, secretly cherished from the times of origen and duns scotus to those of foster and maurice, has found its fitting utterance in the noblest poem of the age?" it is tennyson's "in memoriam" to which he refers, and from which he quotes four verses, of which this is the last: "behold! we know not anything i can but trust that good shall fall at last,--far off,--at last, to all, and every winter change to spring." if some are disposed to think that the progress of civilization and the rapidly growing change of opinion renders unnecessary any further effort to humanize "the gospel of dread tidings;" if any believe the doctrines of the longer and shorter catechism of the westminster divines are so far obsolete as to require no further handling; if there are any who thank these subjects have lost their interest for living souls ever since they themselves have learned to stay at home on sundays, with their cakes and ale instead of going to meeting,--not such is mr. whittier's opinion, as we may infer from his recent beautiful poem, "the minister's daughter." it is not science alone that the old christian pessimism has got to struggle with, but the instincts of childhood, the affections of maternity, the intuitions of poets, the contagious humanity of the philanthropist,--in short, human nature and the advance of civilization. the pulpit has long helped the world, and is still one of the chief defences against the dangers that threaten society, and it is worthy now, as it always has been in its best representation, of all love and honor. but many of its professed creeds imperatively demand revision, and the pews which call for it must be listened to, or the preacher will by and by find himself speaking to a congregation of bodiless echoes by and by find himself speaking to a congregation of bodiless echoes. medical essays by oliver wendell holmes - contents: i. homeopathy and its kindred delusions ii. the contagiousness of puerperal fever iii. currents and counter-currents in medical science iv. border lines of knowledge in some provinces of medical science v. scholastic and bedside teaching vi. the medical profession in massachusetts vii. the young practitioner viii. medical libraries ix. some of my early teachers preface. the character of the opposition which some of these papers have met with suggests the inference that they contain really important, but unwelcome truths. negatives multiplied into each other change their sign and become positives. hostile criticisms meeting together are often equivalent to praise, and the square of fault-finding turns out to be the same thing as eulogy. but a writer has rarely so many enemies as it pleases him to believe. self-love leads us to overrate the numbers of our negative constituency. the larger portion of my limited circle of readers must be quite indifferent to, if not ignorant of, the adverse opinions which have been expressed or recorded concerning any of these addresses or essays now submitted to their own judgment. it is proper, however, to inform them, that some of the positions maintained in these pages have been unsparingly attacked, with various degrees of ability, scholarship, and good-breeding. the tone of criticism naturally changes with local conditions in different parts of a country extended like our own, so that it is one of the most convenient gauges of the partial movements in the direction of civilization. it is satisfactory to add, that the views assailed have also been unflinchingly defended by unsought champions, among the ablest of whom it is pleasant to mention, at this moment of political alienation, the editor of the charleston medical journal. "currents and counter-currents" was written and delivered as an oration, a florid rhetorical composition, expressly intended to secure the attention of an audience not easy to hold as listeners. it succeeded in doing this, and also in being as curiously misunderstood and misrepresented as if it had been a political harangue. this gave it more local notoriety than it might otherwise have attained, so that, as i learn, one ingenious person made use of its title as an advertisement to a production of his own. the commonest mode of misrepresentation was this: qualified propositions, the whole meaning of which depended on the qualifications, were stripped of these and taken as absolute. thus, the attempt to establish a presumption against giving poisons to sick persons was considered as equivalent to condemning the use of these substances. the only important inference the writer has been able to draw from the greater number of the refutations of his opinions which have been kindly sent him, is that the preliminary education of the medical profession is not always what it ought to be. one concession he is willing to make, whatever sacrifice of pride it may involve. the story of massasoit, which has furnished a coral, as it were, for some teething critics, when subjected to a powerful logical analysis, though correct in its essentials, proves to have been told with exceptionable breadth of statement, and therefore (to resume the metaphor) has been slightly rounded off at its edges, so as to be smoother for any who may wish to bite upon it hereafter. in other respects the discourse has hardly been touched. it is only an individual's expression, in his own way, of opinions entertained by hundreds of the medical profession in every civilized country, and has nothing in it which on revision the writer sees cause to retract or modify. the superstitions it attacks lie at the very foundation of homoeopathy, and of almost every form of medical charlatanism. still the mere routinists and unthinking artisans in most callings dislike whatever shakes the dust out of their traditions, and it may be unreasonable to expect that medicine will always prove an exception to the rule. one half the opposition which the numerical system of louis has met with, as applied to the results of treatment, has been owing to the fact that it showed the movements of disease to be far more independent of the kind of practice pursued than was agreeable to the pride of those whose self-confidence it abated. the statement, that medicines are more sparingly used in physicians' families than in most others, admits of a very natural explanation, without putting a harsh construction upon it, which it was not intended to admit. outside pressure is less felt in the physician's own household; that is all. if this does not sometimes influence him to give medicine, or what seems to be medicine, when among those who have more confidence in drugging than his own family commonly has, the learned professor dunglison is hereby requested to apologize for his definition of the word placebo, or to expunge it from his medical dictionary. one thing is certain. a loud outcry on a slight touch reveals the weak spot in a profession, as well as in a patient. it is a doubtful policy to oppose the freest speech in those of our own number who are trying to show us where they honestly believe our weakness lies. vast as are the advances of our science and art, may it not possibly prove on examination that we retain other old barbarisms beside the use of the astrological sign of jupiter, with which we endeavor to insure good luck to our prescriptions? is it the act of a friend or a foe to try to point them out to our brethren when asked to address them, and is the speaker to subdue the constitutional habit of his style to a given standard, under penalty of giving offence to a grave assembly? "homoeopathy and its kindred delusions" was published nearly twenty years ago, and has been long out of print, so that the author tried in vain to procure a copy until the kindness of a friend supplied him with the only one he has had for years. a foolish story reached his ears that he was attempting to buy up stray copies for the sake of suppressing it. this edition was in the press at that very time. many of the arguments contained in the lectures have lost whatever novelty they may have possessed. all its predictions have been submitted to the formidable test of time. they appear to have stood it, so far, about as well as most uninspired prophecies; indeed, some of them require much less accommodation than certain grave commentators employ in their readings of the ancient prophets. if some statistics recently published are correct, homoeopathy has made very slow progress in europe. in all england, as it appears, there are hardly a fifth more homoeopathic practitioners than there are students attending lectures at the massachusetts medical college at the present time. in america it has undoubtedly proved more popular and lucrative, yet how loose a hold it has on the public confidence is shown by the fact that, when a specially valued life, which has been played with by one of its agents, is seriously threatened, the first thing we expect to hear is that a regular practitioner is by the patient's bed, and the homoeopathic counsellor overruled or discarded. again, how many of the ardent and capricious persons who embraced homoeopathy have run the whole round of pretentious novelties;--have been boarded at water-cure establishments, closeted with uterine and other specialists, and finally wandered over seas to put themselves in charge of foreign celebrities, who dosed them as lustily as they were ever dosed before they took to globules! it will surprise many to learn to what a shadow of a shade homoeopathy has dwindled in the hands of many of its noted practitioners. the itch-doctrine is treated with contempt. infinitesimal doses are replaced by full ones whenever the fancy-practitioner chooses. good homoeopathic reasons can be found for employing anything that anybody wants to employ. homoeopathy is now merely a name, an unproved theory, and a box of pellets pretending to be specifics, which, as all of us know, fail ignominiously in those cases where we would thankfully sacrifice all our prejudices and give the world to have them true to their promises. homoeopathy has not died out so rapidly as tractoration. perhaps it was well that it should not, for it has taught us a lesson of the healing faculty of nature which was needed, and for which many of us have made proper acknowledgments. but it probably does more harm than good to medical science at the present time, by keeping up the delusion of treating everything by specifics,--the old barbarous notion that sick people should feed on poisons [lachesis, arrow-poison, obtained from a serpent (pulte). crotalus horridus, rattlesnake's venom (neidhard). the less dangerous pediculus capitis is the favorite remedy of dr. mure, the english "apostle of homoeopathy." these are examples of the retrograde current setting towards barbarism] against which a part of the discourse at the beginning of this volume is directed. the infinitesimal globules have not become a curiosity as yet, like perkins's tractors. but time is a very elastic element in geology and prophecy. if daniel's seventy weeks mean four hundred and ninety years, as the learned prideaux and others have settled it that they do, the "not many years" of my prediction may be stretched out a generation or two beyond our time, if necessary, when the prophecy will no doubt prove true. it might be fitting to add a few words with regard to the essay on the contagiousness of puerperal fever. but the whole question i consider to be now transferred from the domain of medical inquiry to the consideration of life insurance agencies and grand juries. for the justification of this somewhat sharply accented language i must refer the reader to the paper itself for details which i regret to have been forced to place on permanent record. boston, january, . a second preface. these lectures and essays are arranged in the order corresponding to the date of their delivery or publication. they must, of course, be read with a constant reference to these dates, by such as care to read them. i have not attempted to modernize their aspect or character in presenting them, in this somewhat altered connection, to the public. several of them were contained in a former volume which received its name from the address called "currents and counter-currents." some of those contained in the former volume have been replaced by others. the essay called "mechanism of vital actions" has been transferred to a distinct collection of miscellaneous essays, forming a separate volume. i had some intention of including with these papers an essay on intermittent fever in new england, which received one of the boylston prizes in , and was published in the following year. but as this was upon a subject of local interest, chiefly, and would have taken up a good deal of room, i thought it best to leave it out, trusting that the stray copies to be met with in musty book-shops would sufficiently supply the not very extensive or urgent demand for a paper almost half a century old. some of these papers created a little stir when they first fell from the press into the pool of public consciousness. they will slide in very quietly now in this new edition, and find out for themselves whether the waters are those of lethe, or whether they are to live for a time as not wholly unvalued reminiscences. march , . preface to the new edition. these essays are old enough now to go alone without staff or crutch in the shape of prefaces. a very few words may be a convenience to the reader who takes up the book and wishes to know what he is likely to find in it. homoeopathy and its kindred delusions. homoeopathy has proved lucrative, and so long as it continues to be so will surely exist,--as surely as astrology, palmistry, and other methods of getting a living out of the weakness and credulity of mankind and womankind. though it has no pretensions to be considered as belonging among the sciences, it may be looked upon by a scientific man as a curious object of study among the vagaries of the human mind. its influence for good or the contrary may be made a matter of calm investigation. i have studied it in the essay before the reader, under the aspect of an extravagant and purely imaginative creation of its founder. since that first essay was written, nearly half a century ago, we have all had a chance to witness its practical working. two opposite inferences may be drawn from its doctrines and practice. the first is that which is accepted by its disciples. this is that all diseases are "cured" by drugs. the opposite conclusion is drawn by a much larger number of persons. as they see that patients are very commonly getting well under treatment by infinitesimal drugging, which they consider equivalent to no medication at all, they come to disbelieve in every form of drugging and put their whole trust in "nature." thus experience, "from seeming evil still educing good," has shown that the dealers in this preposterous system of pseudo-therapeutics have cooperated with the wiser class of practitioners in breaking up the system of over-dosing and over-drugging which has been one of the standing reproaches of medical practice. while. keeping up the miserable delusion that diseases were all to be "cured" by drugging, homoeopathy has been unintentionally showing that they would very generally get well without any drugging at all. in the mean time the newer doctrines of the "mind cure," the "faith cure," and the rest are encroaching on the territory so long monopolized by that most ingenious of the pseudo-sciences. it would not be surprising if its whole ground should be taken possession of by these new claimants with their flattering appeals to the imaginative class of persons open to such attacks. similia similabus may prove fatally true for once, if homoeopathy is killed out by its new-born rivals. it takes a very moderate amount of erudition to unearth a charlatan like the supposed father of the infinitesimal dosing system. the real inventor of that specious trickery was an irishman by the name of butler. the whole story is to be found in the "ortus medicinm" of van helmont. i have given some account of his chapter "butler" in different articles, but i would refer the students of our homoeopathic educational institutions to the original, which they will find very interesting and curious. currents and counter-currents my attack on over-drugging brought out some hostile comments and treatment. thirty years ago i expressed myself with more vivacity than i should show if i were writing on the same subjects today. some of my more lively remarks called out very sharp animadversion. thus my illustration of prevention as often better than treatment in the mother's words to her child which had got a poisonous berry in its mouth,--"spit it out!" gave mortal offence to a well-known new york practitioner and writer, who advised the massachusetts medical society to spit out the offending speaker. worse than this was my statement of my belief that if a ship-load of miscellaneous drugs, with certain very important exceptions,--drugs, many of which were then often given needlessly and in excess, as then used "could be sunk to the bottom of the sea, it would be all the better for mankind and all the worse for the fishes." this was too bad. the sentence was misquoted, quoted without its qualifying conditions, and frightened some of my worthy professional brethren as much as if i had told them to throw all physic to the dogs. but for the epigrammatic sting the sentiment would have been unnoticed as a harmless overstatement at the very worst. since this lecture was delivered a great and, as i think, beneficial change has taken place in the practice of medicine. the habit of the english "general practitioner" of making his profit out of the pills and potions he administered was ruinous to professional advancement and the dignity of the physician. when a half-starving medical man felt that he must give his patient draught and boluses for which he could charge him, he was in a pitiable position and too likely to persuade himself that his drugs were useful to his patient because they were profitable to him. this practice has prevailed a good deal in america, and was doubtless the source in some measure of the errors i combated. the contagiousness of puerperal fever. this essay was read before a small association called "the society for medical improvement," and published in a medical journal which lasted but a single year. it naturally attracted less attention than it would have done if published in such a periodical as the "american journal of medical sciences." still it had its effect, as i have every reason to believe. i cannot doubt that it has saved the lives of many young mothers by calling attention to the existence and propagation of "puerperal fever as a private pestilence," and laying down rules for taking the necessary precautions against it. the case has long been decided in favor of the views i advocated, but, at the time when i wrote two of the most celebrated professors of obstetrics in this country opposed my conclusions with all the weight of their experience and position. this paper was written in a great heat and with passionate indignation. if i touched it at all i might trim its rhetorical exuberance, but i prefer to leave it all its original strength of expression. i could not, if i had tried, have disguised the feelings with which i regarded the attempt to put out of sight the frightful facts which i brought forward and the necessary conclusions to which they led. of course the whole matter has been looked at in a new point of view since the microbe as a vehicle of contagion has been brought into light, and explained the mechanism of that which was plain enough as a fact to all who were not blind or who did not shut their eyes. o. w. h. beverly farms, mass., august , homoeopathy and its kindred delusions [two lectures delivered before the boston society for the diffusion of useful knowledge. .] [when a physician attempts to convince a person, who has fallen into the homoeopathic delusion, of the emptiness of its pretensions, he is often answered by a statement of cases in which its practitioners are thought to have effected wonderful cures. the main object of the first of these lectures is to show, by abundant facts, that such statements, made by persons unacquainted with the fluctuations of disease and the fallacies of observation, are to be considered in general as of little or no value in establishing the truth of a medical doctrine or the utility of a method of practice. those kind friends who suggest to a person suffering from a tedious complaint, that he "had better try homoeopathy," are apt to enforce their suggestion by adding, that "at any rate it can do no harm." this may or may not be true as regards the individual. but it always does very great harm to the community to encourage ignorance, error, or deception in a profession which deals with the life and health of our fellow-creatures. whether or not those who countenance homoeopathy are guilty of this injustice towards others, the second of these lectures may afford them some means of determining. to deny that good effects may happen from the observance of diet and regimen when prescribed by homoeopathists as well as by others, would be very unfair to them. but to suppose that men with minds so constituted as to accept such statements and embrace such doctrines as make up the so-called science of homoeopathy are more competent than others to regulate the circumstances which influence the human body in health and disease, would be judging very harshly the average capacity of ordinary practitioners. to deny that some patients may have been actually benefited through the influence exerted upon their imaginations, would be to refuse to homoeopathy what all are willing to concede to every one of those numerous modes of practice known to all intelligent persons by an opprobrious title. so long as the body is affected through the mind, no audacious device, even of the most manifestly dishonest character, can fail of producing occasional good to those who yield it an implicit or even a partial faith. the argument founded on this occasional good would be as applicable in justifying the counterfeiter and giving circulation to his base coin, on the ground that a spurious dollar had often relieved a poor man's necessities. homoeopathy has come before our public at a period when the growing spirit of eclecticism has prepared many ingenious and honest minds to listen to all new doctrines with a candor liable to degenerate into weakness. it is not impossible that the pretended evolution of great and mysterious virtues from infinitely attenuated atoms may have enticed a few over-refining philosophers, who have slid into a vague belief that matter subdivided grows less material, and approaches nearer to a spiritual nature as it requires a more powerful microscope for its detection. however this may be, some persons seem disposed to take the ground of menzel that the laity must pass formal judgment between the physician and the homoeopathist, as it once did between luther and the romanists. the practitioner and the scholar must not, therefore, smile at the amount of time and labor expended in these lectures upon this shadowy system; which, in the calm and serious judgment of many of the wisest members of the medical profession, is not entitled by anything it has ever said or done to the notoriety of a public rebuke, still less to the honors of critical martyrdom.] i i have selected four topics for this lecture, the first three of which i shall touch but slightly, the last more fully. they are . the royal cure of the king's evil, or scrofula. . the weapon ointment, and its twin absurdity, the sympathetic powder. . the tar-water mania of bishop berkeley. . the history of the metallic tractors, or perkinism. the first two illustrate the ease with which numerous facts are accumulated to prove the most fanciful and senseless extravagances. the third exhibits the entire insufficiency of exalted wisdom, immaculate honesty, and vast general acquirements to make a good physician of a great bishop. the fourth shows us the intimate machinery of an extinct delusion, which flourished only forty years ago; drawn in all its details, as being a rich and comparatively recent illustration of the pretensions, the arguments, the patronage, by means of which windy errors have long been, and will long continue to be, swollen into transient consequence. all display in superfluous abundance the boundless credulity and excitability of mankind upon subjects connected with medicine. "from the time of edward the confessor to queen anne, the monarchs of england were in the habit of touching those who were brought to them suffering with the scrofula, for the cure of that distemper. william the third had good sense enough to discontinue the practice, but anne resumed it, and, among her other patients, performed the royal operation upon a child, who, in spite of his, disease, grew up at last into samuel johnson. after laying his hand upon the sufferers, it was customary for the monarch to hang a gold piece around the neck of each patient. very strict precautions were adopted to prevent those who thought more of the golden angel hung round the neck by a white ribbon, than of relief of their bodily infirmities, from making too many calls, as they sometimes attempted to do. according to the statement of the advocates and contemporaries of this remedy, none ever failed of receiving benefit unless their little faith and credulity starved their merits. some are said to have been cured immediately on the very touch, others did not so easily get rid of their swellings, until they were touched a second time. several cases are related, of persons who had been blind for several weeks, and months, and obliged even to be led to whitehall, yet recovered their sight immediately upon being touched, so as to walk away without any guide." so widely, at one period, was the belief diffused, that, in the course of twelve years, nearly a hundred thousand persons were touched by charles the second. catholic divines; in disputes upon the orthodoxy of their church, did not deny that the power had descended to protestant princes;--dr. harpsfield, in his "ecclesiastical history of england," admitted it, and in wiseman's words, "when bishop tooker would make use of this argument to prove the truth of our church, smitheus doth not thereupon go about to deny the matter of fact; nay, both he and cope acknowledge it." "i myself," says wiseman, the best english surgical writer of his day,[edinburgh medical and surgical journal, vol. iii. p. .]--"i my self have been a frequent eye-witness of many hundred of cures performed by his majesties touch alone, without any assistance of chirurgery; and those, many of them such as had tired out the endeavours of able chirurgeons before they came hither. it were endless to recite what i myself have seen, and what i have received acknowledgments of by letter, not only from the severall parts of this nation, but also from ireland, scotland, jersey, garnsey. it is needless also to remember what miracles of this nature were performed by the very bloud of his late majesty of blessed memory, after whose decollation by the inhuman barbarity of the regicides, the reliques of that were gathered on chips and in handkerchieffs by the pious devotes, who could not but think so great a suffering in so honourable and pious a cause, would be attended by an extraordinary assistance of god, and some more then ordinary a miracle: nor did their faith deceive them in this there point, being so many hundred that found the benefit of it." [severall chirurgicall treatises. london. . p. .] obstinate and incredulous men, as he tells us, accounted for these cures in three ways: by the journey and change of air the patients obtained in coming to london; by the influence of imagination; and the wearing of gold. to these objections he answers, st. that many of those cured were inhabitants of the city. d. that the subjects of treatment were frequently infants. d. that sometimes silver was given, and sometimes nothing, yet the patients were cured. a superstition resembling this probably exists at the present time in some ignorant districts of england and this country. a writer in a medical journal in the year , speaks of a farmer in devonshire, who, being a ninth son of a ninth son, is thought endowed with healing powers like those of ancient royalty, and who is accustomed one day in every week to strike for the evil. i remember that one of my schoolmates told me, when a boy, of a seventh son of a seventh son, somewhere in essex county, who touched for the scrofula, and who used to hang a silver fourpence halfpenny about the neck of those who came to him, which fourpence halfpenny it was solemnly affirmed became of a remarkably black color after having been some time worn, and that his own brother had been subjected to this extraordinary treatment; but i must add that my schoolmate drew a bow of remarkable length, strength, and toughness for his tender years. one of the most curious examples of the fallacy of popular belief and the uncertainty of asserted facts in medical experience is to be found in the history of the unguentum armarium, or weapon ointment. fabricius hildanus, whose name is familiar to every surgical scholar, and lord bacon, who frequently dipped a little into medicine, are my principal authorities for the few circumstances i shall mention regarding it. the weapon ointment was a preparation used for the healing of wounds, but instead of its being applied to them, the injured part was washed and bandaged, and the weapon with which the wound was inflicted was carefully anointed with the unguent. empirics, ignorant barbers, and men of that sort, are said to have especially employed it. still there were not wanting some among the more respectable members of the medical profession who supported its claims. the composition of this ointment was complicated, in the different formulae given by different authorities; but some substances addressed to the imagination, rather than the wound or weapon, entered into all. such were portions of mummy, of human blood, and of moss from the skull of a thief hung in chains. hildanus was a wise and learned man, one of the best surgeons of his time. he was fully aware that a part of the real secret of the unguentum armarium consisted in the washing and bandaging the wound and then letting it alone. but he could not resist the solemn assertions respecting its efficacy; he gave way before the outcry of facts, and therefore, instead of denying all their pretensions, he admitted and tried to account for them upon supernatural grounds. as the virtue of those applications, he says, which are made to the weapon cannot reach the wound, and as they can produce no effect without contact, it follows, of necessity, that the devil must have a hand in the business; and as he is by far the most long headed and experienced of practitioners, he cannot find this a matter of any great difficulty. hildanus himself reports, in detail, the case of a lady who had received a moderate wound, for which the unguentum armarium was employed without the slightest use. yet instead of receiving this flat case of failure as any evidence against the remedy, he accounts for its not succeeding by the devout character of the lady, and her freedom from that superstitious and over-imaginative tendency which the devil requires in those who are to be benefited by his devices. lord bacon speaks of the weapon ointment, in his natural history, as having in its favor the testimony of men of credit, though, in his own language, he himself "as yet is not fully inclined to believe it." his remarks upon the asserted facts respecting it show a mixture of wise suspicion and partial belief. he does not like the precise directions given as to the circumstances under which the animals from which some of the materials were obtained were to be killed; for he thought it looked like a provision for an excuse in case of failure, by laying the fault to the omission of some of these circumstances. but he likes well that "they do not observe the confecting of the ointment under any certain constellation; which is commonly the excuse of magical medicines, when they fail, that they were not made under a fit figure of heaven." [this was a mistake, however, since the two recipes given by hildanus are both very explicit as to the aspect of the heavens required for different stages of the process.] "it was pretended that if the offending weapon could not be had, it would serve the purpose to anoint a wooden one made like it." "this," says bacon, "i should doubt to be a device to keep this strange form of cure in request and use; because many times you cannot come by the weapon itself." and in closing his remarks on the statements of the advocates of the ointment, he says, "lastly, it will cure a beast as well as a man, which i like best of all the rest, because it subjecteth the matter to an easy trial." it is worth remembering, that more than two hundred years ago, when an absurd and fantastic remedy was asserted to possess wonderful power, and when sensible persons ascribed its pretended influence to imagination, it was boldly answered that the cure took place when the wounded party did not know of the application made to the weapon, and even when a brute animal was the subject of the experiment, and that this assertion, as we all know it was, came in such a shape as to shake the incredulity of the keenest thinker of his time. the very same assertion has been since repeated in favor of perkinism, and, since that, of homoeopathy. the same essential idea as that of the weapon ointment reproduced itself in the still more famous sympathetic powder. this powder was said to have the faculty, if applied to the blood-stained garments of a wounded person, to cure his injuries, even though he were at a great distance at the time. a friar, returning from the east, brought the recipe to europe somewhat before the middle of the seventeenth century. the grand duke of florence, in which city the friar was residing, heard of his cures, and tried, but without success, to obtain his secret. sir kenehn digby, an englishman well known to fame, was fortunate enough to do him a favor, which wrought upon his feelings and induced him to impart to his benefactor the composition of his extraordinary powder. this english knight was at different periods of his life an admiral, a theologian, a critic, a metaphysician, a politician, and a disciple of alchemy. as is not unfrequent with versatile and inflammable people, he caught fire at the first spark of a new medical discovery, and no sooner got home to england than he began to spread the conflagration. an opportunity soon offered itself to try the powers of the famous powder. mr. j. howell, having been wounded in endeavoring to part two of his friends who were fighting a duel, submitted himself to a trial of the sympathetic powder. four days after he received his wounds, sir kenehn dipped one of mr. howell's gaiters in a solution of the powder, and immediately, it is said, the wounds, which were very painful, grew easy, although the patient, who was conversing in a corner of the chamber, had not, the least idea of what was doing with his garter. he then returned home, leaving his garter in the hands of sir kenelm, who had hung it up to dry, when mr. howell sent his servant in a great hurry to tell him that his wounds were paining him horribly; the garter was therefore replaced in the solution of the powder, "and the patient got well after five or six days of its continued immersion." king james first, his son charles the first, the duke of buckingham, then prime minister, and all the principal personages of the time, were cognizant of this fact; and james himself, being curious to know the secret of this remedy, asked it of sir kenelm, who revealed it to him, and his majesty had the opportunity of making several trials of its efficacy, "which all succeeded in a surprising manner." [dict. des sciences medieales.] the king's physician, dr. mayerne, was made master of the secret, which he carried to france and communicated to the duke of mayenne, who performed many cures by means of it, and taught it to his surgeon, who, after the duke's death, sold it to many distinguished persons, by whose agency it soon ceased to be a secret. what was this wonderful substance which so astonished kings, princes, dukes, knights, and doctors? nothing but powdered blue vitriol. but it was made to undergo several processes that conferred on it extraordinary virtues. twice or thrice it was to be dissolved, filtered, and crystallized. the crystals were to be laid in the sun during the months of june, july, and august, taking care to turn them carefully that all should be exposed. then they were to be powdered, triturated, and again exposed to the sun, again reduced to a very fine powder, and secured in a vessel, while hot, from the sunshine. if there seem anything remarkable in the fact of such astonishing properties being developed by this process, it must be from our short-sightedness, for common salt and charcoal develop powers quite as marvellous after a certain number of thumps, stirs, and shakes, from the hands of modern workers of miracles. in fact the unguentum armarium and sympathetic powder resemble some more recent prescriptions; the latter consisting in an infinite dilution of the common dose in which remedies are given, and the two former in an infinite dilution of the common distance at which they are applied. whether philosophers, and more especially metaphysicians, have any peculiar tendency to dabble in drugs and dose themselves with physic, is a question which might suggest itself to the reader of their biographies. when bishop berkeley visited the illustrious malebranche at paris, he found him in his cell, cooking in a small pipkin a medicine for an inflammation of the lungs, from which he was suffering; and the disease, being unfortunately aggravated by the vehemence of their discussion, or the contents of the pipkin, carried him off in the course of a few days. berkeley himself afforded a remarkable illustration of a truth which has long been known to the members of one of the learned professions, namely, that no amount of talent, or of acquirements in other departments, can rescue from lamentable folly those who, without something of the requisite preparation, undertake to experiment with nostrums upon themselves and their neighbors. the exalted character of berkeley is thus drawn by sir james mackintosh: ancient learning, exact science, polished society, modern literature, and the fine arts, contributed to adorn and enrich the mind of this accomplished man. all his contemporaries agreed with the satirist in ascribing "'to berkeley every virtue under heaven.' "even the discerning, fastidious, and turbulent atterbury said, after an interview with him, 'so much understanding, so much knowledge, so much innocence, and such humility, i did not think had been the portion of any but angels, till i saw this gentleman.'" but among the writings of this great and good man is an essay of the most curious character, illustrating his weakness upon the point in question, and entitled, "siris, a chain of philosophical reflections and inquiries concerning the virtues of tar water, and divers other subjects,"--an essay which begins with a recipe for his favorite fluid, and slides by gentle gradations into an examination of the sublimest doctrines of plato. to show how far a man of honesty and benevolence, and with a mind of singular acuteness and depth, may be run away with by a favorite notion on a subject which his habits and education do not fit him to investigate, i shall give a short account of this essay, merely stating that as all the supposed virtues of tar water, made public in successive editions of his treatise by so illustrious an author, have not saved it from neglect and disgrace, it may be fairly assumed that they were mainly imaginary. the bishop, as is usual in such cases, speaks of himself as indispensably obliged, by the duty he owes to mankind, to make his experience public. now this was by no means evident, nor does it follow in general, that because a man has formed a favorable opinion of a person or a thing he has not the proper means of thoroughly understanding, he shall be bound to print it, and thus give currency to his impressions, which may be erroneous, and therefore injurious. he would have done much better to have laid his impressions before some experienced physicians and surgeons, such as dr. mead and mr. cheselden, to have asked them to try his experiment over again, and have been guided by their answers. but the good bishop got excited; he pleased himself with the thought that he had discovered a great panacea; and having once tasted the bewitching cup of self-quackery, like many before and since his time, he was so infatuated with the draught that he would insist on pouring it down the throats of his neighbors and all mankind. the precious fluid was made by stirring a gallon of water with a quart of tar, leaving it forty-eight hours, and pouring off the clear water. such was the specific which the great metaphysician recommended for averting and curing all manner of diseases. it was, if he might be believed, a preventive of the small-pox, and of great use in the course of the disease. it was a cure for impurities of the blood, coughs, pleurisy, peripneumony, erysipelas, asthma, indigestion, carchexia, hysterics, dropsy, mortification, scurvy, and hypochondria. it was of great use in gout and fevers, and was an excellent preservative of the teeth and gums; answered all the purpose of elixir proprietatis, stoughton's drops, diet drinks, and mineral waters; was particularly to be recommended to sea-faring persons, ladies, and men of studious and sedentary lives; could never be taken too long, but, on the contrary, produced advantages which sometimes did not begin to show themselves for two or three months. "from my representing tar water as good for so many things," says berkeley, "some perhaps may conclude it is good for nothing. but charity obligeth me to say what i know, and what i think, however it may be taken. men may censure and object as they please, but i appeal to time and experiment. effects misimputed, cases wrong told, circumstances overlooked, perhaps, too, prejudices and partialities against truth, may for a time prevail and keep her at the bottom of her well, from whence nevertheless she emergeth sooner or later, and strikes the eyes of all who do not keep them shut." i cannot resist the temptation of illustrating the bishop's belief in the wonderful powers of his remedy, by a few sentences from different parts of his essay. "the hardness of stubbed vulgar constitutions renders them insensible of a thousand things that fret and gall those delicate people, who, as if their skin was peeled off, feel to the quick everything that touches them. the tender nerves and low spirits of such poor creatures would be much relieved by the use of tar water, which might prolong and cheer their lives." "it [the tar water] may be made stronger for brute beasts, as horses, in whose disorders i have found it very useful." "this same water will also give charitable relief to the ladies, who often want it more than the parish poor; being many of them never able to make a good meal, and sitting pale, puny, and forbidden, like ghosts, at their own table, victims of vapors and indigestion." it does not appear among the virtues of tar water that "children cried for it," as for some of our modern remedies, but the bishop says, "i have known children take it for above six months together with great benefit, and without any inconvenience; and after long and repeated experience i do esteem it a most excellent diet drink, fitted to all seasons and ages." after mentioning its usefulness in febrile complaints, he says: "i have had all this confirmed by my own experience in the late sickly season of the year one thousand seven hundred and forty-one, having had twenty-five fevers in my own family cured by this medicinal water, drunk copiously." and to finish these extracts with a most important suggestion for the improvement of the british nation: "it is much to be lamented that our insulars who act and think so much for themselves, should yet, from grossness of air and diet, grow stupid or doat sooner than other people, who, by virtue of elastic air, water-drinking, and light food, preserve their faculties to extreme old age; an advantage which may perhaps be approached, if not equaled, even in these regions, by tar water, temperance, and early hours." berkeley died at the age of about seventy; he might have lived longer, but his fatal illness was so sudden that there was not time enough to stir up a quart of the panacea. he was an illustrious man, but he held two very odd opinions; that tar water was everything, and that the whole material universe was nothing. -------------------------- most of those present have at some time in their lives heard mention made of the metallic tractors, invented by one dr. perkins, an american, and formerly enjoying great repute for the cure of various diseases. many have seen or heard of a satirical poem, written by one of our own countrymen also, about forty years since, and called "terrible tractoration." the metallic tractors are now so utterly abandoned that i have only by good fortune fallen upon a single one of a pair, to show for the sake of illustration. for more than thirty years this great discovery, which was to banish at least half the evils which afflict humanity, has been sleeping undisturbed in the grave of oblivion. not a voice has, for this long period, been raised in its favor; its noble and learned patrons, its public institutions, its eloquent advocates, its brilliant promises are all covered with the dust of silent neglect; and of the generation which has sprung up since the period when it flourished, very few know anything of its history, and hardly even the title which in its palmy days it bore of perkinism. taking it as settled, then, as no one appears to answer for it, that perkinism is entirely dead and gone, that both in public and private, officially and individually, its former adherents even allow it to be absolutely defunct, i select it for anatomical examination. if this pretended discovery was made public; if it was long kept before the public; if it was addressed to the people of different countries; if it was formally investigated by scientific men, and systematically adopted by benevolent persons, who did everything in their power to diffuse the knowledge and practice of it; if various collateral motives, such as interest and vanity, were embarked in its cause; if, notwithstanding all these things, it gradually sickened and died, then the conclusion seems a fair one, that it did not deserve to live. contrasting its failure with its high pretensions, it is fair to call it an imposition; whether an expressly fraudulent contrivance or not, some might be ready to question. everything historically shown to have happened concerning the mode of promulgation, the wide diffusion, the apparent success of this delusion, the respectability and enthusiasm of its advocates, is of great interest in showing to what extent and by what means a considerable part of the community may be led into the belief of that which is to be eventually considered' as an idle folly. if there is any existing folly, fraudulent or innocent in its origin, which appeals to certain arguments for its support; provided that the very same arguments can be shown to have been used for perkinism with as good reason, they will at once fall to the ground. still more, if it shall appear that the general course of any existing delusion bears a strong resemblance to that of perkinism, that the former is most frequently advocated by the same class of persons who were conspicuous in behalf of the latter, and treated with contempt or opposed by the same kind of persons who thus treated perkinism; if the facts in favor of both have a similar aspect; if the motives of their originators and propagators may be presumed to have been similar; then there is every reason to suppose that the existing folly will follow in the footsteps of the past, and after displaying a given amount of cunning and credulity in those deceiving and deceived, will drop from the public view like a fruit which has ripened into spontaneous rottenness, and be succeeded by the fresh bloom of some other delusion required by the same excitable portion of the community. dr. elisha perkins was born at norwich, connecticut, in the year . he had practised his profession with a good local reputation for many years, when he fell upon a course of experiments, as it is related, which led to his great discovery. he conceived the idea that metallic substances might have the effect of removing diseases, if applied in a certain manner; a notion probably suggested by the then recent experiments of galvani, in which muscular contractions were found to be produced by the contact of two metals with the living fibre. it was in that his discovery was promulgated in the shape of the metallic tractors, two pieces of metal, one apparently iron and the other brass, about three inches long, blunt at one end and pointed at the other. these instruments were applied for the cure of different complaints, such as rheumatism, local pains, inflammations, and even tumors, by drawing them over the affected part very lightly for about twenty minutes. dr. perkins took out a patent for his discovery, and travelled about the country to diffuse the new practice. he soon found numerous advocates of his discovery, many of them of high standing and influence. in the year the tractors had crossed the atlantic, and were publicly employed in the royal hospital at copenhagen. about the same time the son of the inventor, mr. benjamin douglass perkins, carried them to london, where they soon attracted attention. the danish physicians published an account of their cases, containing numerous instances of alleged success, in a respectable octavo volume. in the year an establishment, honored with the name of the perkinean institution, was founded in london. the transactions of this institution were published in pamphlets, the perkinean society had public dinners at the crown and anchor, and a poet celebrated their medical triumph in strains like these: "see, pointed metals, blest with power t' appease the ruthless rage of merciless disease, o'er the frail part a subtle fluid pour, drenched with invisible galvanic shower, till the arthritic staff and crutch forego, and leap exulting like the bounding roe!" while all these things were going on, mr. benjamin douglass perkins was calmly pocketing money, so that after some half a dozen years he left the country with more than ten thousand pounds, which had been paid him by the believers in great britain. but in spite of all this success, and the number of those interested and committed in its behalf, perkinism soon began to decline, and in the tractors are spoken of by an intelligent writer as being almost forgotten. such was the origin and duration of this doctrine and practice, into the history of which we will now look a little more narrowly. let us see, then, by whose agency this delusion was established and kept up; whether it was principally by those who were accustomed to medical pursuits, or those whose habits and modes of reasoning were different; whether it was with the approbation of those learned bodies usually supposed to take an interest in scientific discoveries, or only of individuals whose claims to distinction were founded upon their position in society, or political station, or literary eminence; whether the judicious or excitable classes entered most deeply into it; whether, in short, the scientific men of that time were deceived, or only intruded upon, and shouted down for the moment by persons who had no particular call to invade their precincts. not much, perhaps, was to be expected of the medical profession in the way of encouragement. one dr. fuller, who wrote in england, himself a perkinist, thus expressed his opinion: "it must be an extraordinary exertion of virtue and humanity for a medical man, whose livelihood depends either on the sale of drugs, or on receiving a guinea for writing a prescription, which must relate to those drugs, to say to his patient, 'you had better purchase a set of tractors to keep in your family; they will cure you without the expense of my attendance, or the danger of the common medical practice.' for very obvious reasons medical men must never be expected to recommend the use of perkinism. the tractors must trust for their patronage to the enlightened and philanthropic out of the profession, or to medical men retired from practice, and who know of no other interest than the luxury of relieving the distressed. and i do not despair of seeing the day when but very few of this description as well as private families will be without them." whether the motives assigned by this medical man to his professional brethren existed or not, it is true that dr. perkins did not gain a great deal at their hands. the connecticut medical society expelled him in for violating their law against the use of nostrums, or secret remedies. the leading english physicians appear to have looked on with singular apathy or contempt at the miracles which it was pretended were enacting in the hands of the apostles of the new practice. in looking over the reviews of the time, i have found little beyond brief occasional notices of their pretensions; the columns of these journals being occupied with subjects of more permanent interest. the state of things in london is best learned, however, from the satirical poem to which i have already alluded as having been written at the period referred to. this was entitled, "terrible tractoration!! a poetical petition against galvanizing trumpery and the perkinistic institution. most respectfully addressed to the royal college of physicians, by christopher caustic, m. d., ll. d., a. s. s., fellow of the royal college of physicians, aberdeen, and honorary member of no less than nineteen very learned societies." two editions of this work were published in london in the years and , and one or two have been published in this country. "terrible tractoration" is supposed, by those who never read it, to be a satire upon the follies of perkins and his followers. it is, on the contrary, a most zealous defence of perkinism, and a fierce attack upon its opponents, most especially upon such of the medical profession as treated the subject with neglect or ridicule. the royal college of physicians was the more peculiar object of the attack, but with this body, the editors of some of the leading periodicals, and several physicians distinguished at that time, and even now remembered for their services to science and humanity, were involved in unsparing denunciations. the work is by no means of the simply humorous character it might be supposed, but is overloaded with notes of the most seriously polemical nature. much of the history of the subject, indeed, is to be looked for in this volume. it appears from this work that the principal members of the medical profession, so far from hailing mr. benjamin douglass perkins as another harvey or jenner, looked very coldly upon him and his tractors; and it is now evident that, though they were much abused for so doing, they knew very well what they had to deal with, and were altogether in the right. the delusion at last attracted such an amount of attention as to induce dr. haygarth and some others of respectable standing to institute some experiments which i shall mention in their proper place, the result of which might have seemed sufficient to show the emptiness of the whole contrivance. the royal society, that learned body which for ages has constituted the best tribunal to which britain can appeal in questions of science, accepted mr. perkins's tractors and the book written about them, passed the customary vote of thanks, and never thought of troubling itself further in the investigation of pretensions of such an aspect. it is not to be denied that a considerable number of physicians did avow themselves advocates of the new practice; but out of the whole catalogue of those who were publicly proclaimed as such, no one has ever been known, so far as i am aware, to the scientific world, except in connection with the short-lived notoriety of perkinism. who were the people, then, to whose activity, influence, or standing with the community was owing all the temporary excitement produced by the metallic tractors? first, those persons who had been induced to purchase a pair of tractors. these little bits of brass and iron, the intrinsic value of which might, perhaps, amount to ninepence, were sold at five guineas a pair! a man who has paid twenty-five dollars for his whistle is apt to blow it louder and longer than other people. so it appeared that when the "perkinean society" applied to the possessors of tractors in the metropolis to concur in the establishment of a public institution for the use of these instruments upon the poor, "it was found that only five out of above a hundred objected to subscribe, on account of their want of confidence in the efficacy of the practice; and these," the committee observes, "there is reason to believe, never gave them a fair trial, probably never used them in more than one case, and that perhaps a case in which the tractors had never been recommended as serviceable." "purchasers of the tractors," said one of their ardent advocates, "would be among the last to approve of them if they had reason to suppose themselves defrauded of five guineas." he forgot poor moses, with his "gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases." "dear mother," cried the boy, "why won't you listen to reason? i had them a dead bargain, or i should not have bought them. the silver rims alone will sell for double the money." but it is an undeniable fact, that many persons of considerable standing, and in some instances holding the most elevated positions in society, openly patronized the new practice. in a translation of a work entitled "experiments with the metallic tractors," originally published in danish, thence rendered successively into german and english, mr. benjamin perkins, who edited the english edition, has given a copious enumeration of the distinguished individuals, both in america and europe, whose patronage he enjoyed. he goes so far as to signify that royalty itself was to be included among the number. when the perkinean institution was founded, no less a person than lord rivers was elected president, and eleven other individuals of distinction, among them governor franklin, son of dr. franklin, figured as vice-presidents. lord henniker, a member of the royal society, who is spoken of as a man of judgment and talents, condescended to patronize the astonishing discovery, and at different times bought three pairs of tractors. when the tractors were introduced into europe, a large number of testimonials accompanied them from various distinguished characters in america, the list of whom is given in the translation of the danish work referred to as follows: "those who have individually stated cases, or who have presented their names to the public as men who approved of this remedy, and acknowledged themselves instrumental in circulating the tractors, are fifty-six in number; thirty-four of whom are physicians and surgeons, and many of them of the first eminence, thirteen clergymen, most of whom are doctors of divinity, and connected with the literary institutions of america; among the remainder are two members of congress, one professor of natural philosophy in a college, etc., etc." it seemed to be taken rather hardly by mr. perkins that the translators of the work which he edited, in citing the names of the advocates of the metallic practice, frequently omitted the honorary titles which should have been annexed. the testimonials were obtained by the danish writer, from a pamphlet published in america, in which these titles were given in full. thus one of these testimonials is from "john tyler, esq., a magistrate in the county of new london, and late brigadier-general of the militia in that state." the "omission of the general's title" is the subject of complaint, as if this title were sufficient evidence of the commanding powers of one of the patrons of tractoration. a similar complaint is made when "calvin goddard, esq., of plainfield, attorney at law, and a member of the legislature of the state of connecticut," is mentioned without his titular honors, and even on account of the omission of the proper official titles belonging to "nathan pierce, esq., governor and manager of the almshouse of newburyport." these instances show the great importance to be attached to civil and military dignities, in qualifying their holders to judge of scientific subjects, a truth which has not been overlooked by the legitimate successors of the perkinists. in great britain, the tractors were not less honored than in america, by the learned and the illustrious. the "perkinistic committee" made this statement in their report: "mr. perkins has annually laid before the public a large collection of new cases communicated to him for that purpose by disinterested and intelligent characters, from almost every quarter of great britain. in regard to the competency of these vouchers, it will be sufficient simply to state that, amongst others whose names have been attached to their communications, are eight professors, in four different universities, twenty-one regular physicians, nineteen surgeons, thirty clergymen, twelve of whom are doctors of divinity, and numerous other characters of equal respectability." it cannot but excite our notice and surprise that the number of clergymen both in america and great britain who thrust forward their evidence on this medical topic was singularly large in proportion to that of the members of the medical profession. whole pages are contributed by such worthies as the rev. dr. trotter of hans place, the rear. waring willett, chaplain to the earl of dunmore, the rev. dr. clarke, chaplain to the prince of wales. the style of these theologico-medical communications may be seen in the following from a divine who was also professor in one of the colleges of new england. "i have used the tractors with success in several other cases in my own family, and although, like naaman the syrian, i cannot tell why the waters of jordan should be better than abana and pharpar, rivers of damascus; yet since experience has proved them so, no reasoning can change the opinion. indeed, the causes of all common facts are, we think, perfectly well known to us; and it is very probable, fifty or a hundred years hence, we shall as well know why the metallic tractors should in a few minutes remove violent pains, as we now know why cantharides and opium will produce opposite effects, namely, we shall know very little about either excepting facts." fifty or a hundred years hence! if he could have looked forward forty years, he would have seen the descendants of the "perkinistic" philosophers swallowing infinitesimal globules, and knowing and caring as much about the tractors as the people at saratoga springs do about the waters of abana and pharpar. i trust it will not be thought in any degree disrespectful to a profession which we all honor, that i have mentioned the great zeal of many clergymen in the cause of perkinism. i hope, too, that i may without offence suggest the causes which have often led them out of their own province into one to which their education has no special reference. the members of that profession ought to be, and commonly are, persons of benevolent character. their duties carry them into the midst of families, and particularly at times when the members of them are suffering from bodily illness. it is natural enough that a strong desire should be excited to alleviate sufferings which may have defied the efforts of professional skill; as natural that any remedy which recommends itself to the belief or the fancy of the spiritual physician should be applied with the hope of benefit; and perfectly certain that the weakness of human nature, from which no profession is exempt, will lead him to take the most flattering view of its effects upon the patient; his own sagacity and judgment being staked upon the success of the trial. the inventor of the tractors was aware of these truths. he therefore sent the tractors gratuitously to many clergymen, accompanied with a formal certificate that the holder had become entitled to their possession by the payment of five guineas. this was practised in our own neighborhood, and i remember finding one of these certificates, so presented, which proved that amongst the risks of infancy i had to encounter perkins's tractors. two clergymen of boston and the vicinity, both well known to local fame, gave in their testimony to the value of the instruments thus presented to them; an unusually moderate proportion, when it is remembered that to the common motives of which i have spoken was added the seduction of a gift for which the profane public was expected to pay so largely. it was remarkable, also, that perkinism, which had so little success with the medical and scientific part of the community, found great favor in the eyes of its more lovely and less obstinate portion. "the lady of major oxholin,"--i quote from mr. perkins's volume,--"having been lately in america, had seen and heard much of the great effects of perkinism. influenced by a most benevolent disposition, she brought these tractors and the pamphlet with her to europe, with a laudable desire of extending their utility to her suffering countrymen." such was the channel by which the tractors were conveyed to denmark, where they soon became the ruling passion. the workmen, says a french writer, could not manufacture them fast enough. women carried them about their persons, and delighted in bringing them into general use. to what extent the tractors were favored with the patronage of english and american ladies, it is of course not easy to say, except on general principles, as their names were not brought before the public. but one of dr. haygarth's stories may lead us to conjecture that there was a class of female practitioners who went about doing good with the tractors in england as well as in denmark. a certain lady had the misfortune to have a spot as big as a silver penny at the corner of her eye, caused by a bruise, or some such injury. another lady, who was a friend of hers, and a strong believer in perkinism, was very anxious to try the effects of tractoration upon this unfortunate blemish. the patient consented; the lady "produced the instruments, and, after drawing them four or five times over the spot, declared that it changed to a paler color, and on repeating the use of them a few minutes longer, that it had almost vanished, and was scarcely visible, and departed in high triumph at her success." the lady who underwent the operation assured the narrator "that she looked in the glass immediately after, and that not the least visible alteration had taken place." it would be a very interesting question, what was the intellectual character of those persons most conspicuous in behalf of the perkinistic delusion? such an inquiry might bring to light some principles which we could hereafter apply to the study of other popular errors. but the obscurity into which nearly all these enthusiasts have subsided renders the question easier to ask than to answer. i believe it would have been found that most of these persons were of ardent temperament and of considerable imagination, and that their history would show that perkinism was not the first nor the last hobby-horse they rode furiously. many of them may very probably have been persons of more than common talent, of active and ingenious minds, of versatile powers and various acquirements. such, for instance, was the estimable man to whom i have repeatedly referred as a warm defender of tractoration, and a bitter assailant of its enemies. the story tells itself in the biographical preface to his poem. he went to london with the view of introducing a hydraulic machine, which he and his vermont friends regarded as a very important invention. he found, however, that the machine was already in common use in that metropolis. a brother yankee, then in london, had started the project of a mill, which was to be carried by the water of the thames. he was sanguine enough to purchase one fifth of this concern, which also proved a failure. at about the same period he wrote the work which proved the great excitement of his mind upon the subject of the transient folly then before the public. originally a lawyer, he was in succession a mechanician, a poet, and an editor, meeting with far less success in each of these departments than usually attends men of less varied gifts, but of more tranquil and phlegmatic composition. but who is ignorant that there is a class of minds characterized by qualities like those i have mentioned; minds with many bright and even beautiful traits; but aimless and fickle as the butterfly; that settle upon every gayly-colored illusion as it opens into flower, and flutter away to another when the first has dropped its leaves, and stands naked in the icy air of truth! let us now look at the general tenor of the arguments addressed by believers to sceptics and opponents. foremost of all, emblazoned at the head of every column, loudest shouted by every triumphant disputant, held up as paramount to all other considerations, stretched like an impenetrable shield to protect the weakest advocate of the great cause against the weapons of the adversary, was that omnipotent monosyllable which has been the patrimony of cheats and the currency of dupes from time immemorial,--facts! facts! facts! first came the published cases of the american clergymen, brigadier-generals, almshouse governors, representatives, attorneys, and esquires. then came the published cases of the surgeons of copenhagen. then followed reports of about one hundred and fifty cases published in england, "demonstrating the efficacy of the metallic practice in a variety of complaints both upon the human body and on horses, etc." but the progress of facts in great britain did not stop here. let those who rely upon the numbers of their testimonials, as being alone sufficient to prove the soundness and stability of a medical novelty, digest the following from the report of the perkinistic committee. "the cases published [in great britain] amounted, in march last, the date of mr. perkins's last publication, to about five thousand. supposing that not more than one cure in three hundred which the tractors have performed has been published, and the proportion is probably much greater, it will be seen that the number, to march last, will have exceeded one million five hundred thousand!" next in order after the appeal to what were called facts, came a series of arguments, which have been so long bruised and battered round in the cause of every doctrine or pretension, new, monstrous, or deliriously impossible, that each of them is as odiously familiar to the scientific scholar as the faces of so many old acquaintances, among the less reputable classes, to the officers of police. no doubt many of my hearers will recognize, in the following passages, arguments they may have heard brought forward with triumphant confidence in behalf of some doctrine not yet extinct. no doubt some may have honestly thought they proved something; may have used them with the purpose of convincing their friends, or of silencing the opponents of their favorite doctrine, whatever that might be. but any train of arguments which was contrived for perkinism, which was just as applicable to it as to any other new doctrine in the same branch of science, and which was fully employed against its adversaries forty years since, might, in common charity, be suffered to slumber in the grave of perkinism. whether or not the following sentences, taken literally from the work of mr. perkins, were the originals of some of the idle propositions we hear bandied about from time to time, let those who listen judge. the following is the test assumed for the new practice: "if diseases are really removed, as those persons who have practised extensively with the tractors declare, it should seem there would be but little doubt of their being generally adopted; but if the numerous reports of their efficacy which have been published are forgeries, or are unfounded, the practice ought to be crushed." to this i merely add, it has been crushed. the following sentence applies to that a priori judging and uncandid class of individuals who buy their dinners without tasting all the food there is in the market. "on all discoveries there are persons who, without descending to any inquiry into the truth, pretend to know, as it were by intuition, that newly asserted facts are founded in the grossest errors. these were those who knew that harvey's report of the circulation of the blood was a preposterous and ridiculous suggestion, and in latter later days there were others who knew that franklin deserved reproach for declaring that points were preferable to balls for protecting buildings from lightning." again: "this unwarrantable mode of offering assertion for proof, so unauthorized and even unprecedented except in the condemnation of a galileo, the persecution of a copernicus, and a few other acts of inquisitorial authority, in the times of ignorance and superstition, affords but a lamentable instance of one of his remarks, that this is far from being the age of reason." "the most valuable medicines in the materia medica act on principles of which we are totally ignorant. none have ever yet been able to explain how opium produces sleep, or how bark cures intermittent fevers; and yet few, it is hoped, will be so absurd as to desist from the use of these important articles because they know nothing of the principle of their operations." or if the argument is preferred, in the eloquent language of the perkinistic poet: "what though the causes may not be explained, since these effects are duly ascertained, let not self-interest, prejudice, or pride, induce mankind to set the means aside; means which, though simple, are by heaven designed to alleviate the woes of human kind." this course of argument is so often employed, that it deserves to be expanded a little, so that its length and breadth may be fairly seen. a series of what are called facts is brought forward to prove some very improbable doctrine. it is objected by judicious people, or such as have devoted themselves to analogous subjects, that these assumed facts are in direct opposition to all that is known of the course of nature, that the universal experience of the past affords a powerful presumption against their truth, and that in proportion to the gravity of these objections, should be the number and competence of the witnesses. the answer is a ready one. what do we know of the mysteries of nature? do we understand the intricate machinery of the universe? when to this is added the never-failing quotation, "there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,"-- the question is thought to be finally disposed of. take the case of astrology as an example. it is in itself strange and incredible that the relations of the heavenly bodies to each other at a given moment of time, perhaps half a century ago, should have anything to do with my success or misfortune in any undertaking of to-day. but what right have i to say it cannot be so? can i bind the sweet influences of pleiades, or loose the bands of orion? i do not know by what mighty magic the planets roll in their fluid paths, confined to circles as unchanging as if they were rings of steel, nor why the great wave of ocean follows in a sleepless round upon the skirts of moonlight; nor cam i say from any certain knowledge that the phases of the heavenly bodies, or even the falling of the leaves of the forest, or the manner in which the sands lie upon the sea-shore, may not be knit up by invisible threads with the web of human destiny. there is a class of minds much more ready to believe that which is at first sight incredible, and because it is incredible, than what is generally thought reasonable. credo quia impossibile est,--"i believe, because it is impossible,"--is an old paradoxical expression which might be literally applied to this tribe of persons. and they always succeed in finding something marvellous, to call out the exercise of their robust faith. the old cabalistic teachers maintained that there was not a verse, line, word, or even letter in the bible which had not a special efficacy either to defend the person who rightly employed it, or to injure his enemies; always provided the original hebrew was made use of. in the hands of modern cabalists every substance, no matter how inert, acquires wonderful medicinal virtues, provided it be used in a proper state of purity and subdivision. i have already mentioned the motives attributed by the perkinists to the medical profession, as preventing its members from receiving the new but unwelcome truths. this accusation is repeated in different forms and places, as, for instance, in the following passage: "will the medical man who has spent much money and labor in the pursuit of the arcana of physic, and on the exercise of which depends his support in life, proclaim the inefficacy of his art, and recommend a remedy to his patient which the most unlettered in society can employ as advantageously as himself? and a remedy, too, which, unlike the drops, the pills, the powders, etc., of the materia medica, is inconsumable, and ever in readiness to be employed in successive diseases?" as usual with these people, much indignation was expressed at any parallel between their particular doctrine and practice and those of their exploded predecessors. "the motives," says the disinterested mr. perkins, "which must have impelled to this attempt at classing the metallic practice with the most paltry of empyrical projects, are but too thinly veiled to escape detection." to all these arguments was added, as a matter of course, an appeal to the feelings of the benevolent in behalf of suffering humanity, in the shape of a notice that the poor would be treated gratis. it is pretty well understood that this gratuitous treatment of the poor does not necessarily imply an excess of benevolence, any more than the gratuitous distribution of a trader's shop-bills is an evidence of remarkable generosity; in short, that it is one of those things which honest men often do from the best motives, but which rogues and impostors never fail to announce as one of their special recommendations. it is astonishing to see how these things brighten up at the touch of mr. perkins's poet: "ye worthy, honored, philanthropic few, the muse shall weave her brightest wreaths for you, who in humanity's bland cause unite, nor heed the shaft by interest aimed or spite; like the great pattern of benevolence, hygeia's blessings to the poor dispense; and though opposed by folly's servile brood, enjoy the luxury of doing good." having thus sketched the history of perkinism in its days of prosperity; having seen how it sprung into being, and by what means it maintained its influence, it only remains to tell the brief story of its discomfiture and final downfall. the vast majority of the sensible part of the medical profession were contented, so far as we can judge, to let it die out of itself. it was in vain that the advocates of this invaluable discovery exclaimed over their perverse and interested obstinacy,--in vain that they called up the injured ghosts of harvey, galileo, and copernicus to shame that unbelieving generation; the baillies and the heberdens,--men whose names have come down to us as synonymous with honor and wisdom,--bore their reproaches in meek silence, and left them unanswered to their fate. there were some others, however, who, believing the public to labor under a delusion, thought it worth while to see whether the charm would be broken by an open trial of its virtue, as compared with that of some less hallowed formula. it must be remembered that a peculiar value was attached to the metallic tractors, as made and patented by mr. perkins. dr. haygarth, of bath, performed various experiments upon patients afflicted with different complaints,--the patients supposing that the real five-guinea tractors were employed. strange to relate, he obtained equally wonderful effects with tractors of lead and of wood; with nails, pieces of bone, slate pencil, and tobacco-pipe. dr. alderson employed sham tractors made of wood, and produced such effects upon five patients that they returned solemn thanks in church for their cures. a single specimen of these cases may stand for all of them. ann hill had suffered for some months from pain in the right arm and shoulder. the tractors (wooden ones) were applied, and in the space of five minutes she expressed herself relieved in the following apostrophe: "bless me! why, who could have thought it, that them little things could pull the pain from one. well, to be sure, the longer one lives, the more one sees; ah, dear!" these experiments did not result in the immediate extinction of perkinism. doubtless they were a great comfort to many obstinate unbelievers, and helped to settle some sceptical minds; but for the real perkinistic enthusiasts, it may be questioned whether they would at that time have changed their opinion though one had risen from the dead to assure them that it was an error. it perished without violence, by an easy and natural process. like the famous toy of mongolfier, it rose by means of heated air,--the fevered breath of enthusiastic ignorance,--and when this grew cool, as it always does in a little while, it collapsed and fell. and now, on reviewing the whole subject, how shall we account for the extraordinary prevalence of the belief in perkinism among a portion of what is supposed to be the thinking part of the community? could the cures have been real ones, produced by the principle of animal magnetism? to this it may be answered that the perkinists ridiculed the idea of approximating mesmer and the founder of their own doctrine, that nothing like the somnambulic condition seems to have followed the use of the tractors, and that neither the exertion of the will nor the powers of the individual who operated seem to have been considered of any consequence. besides, the absolute neglect into which the tractors soon declined is good evidence that they were incapable of affording any considerable and permanent relief in the complaints for the cure of which they were applied. of course a large number of apparent cures were due solely to nature; which is true under every form of treatment, orthodox or empirical. of course many persons experienced at least temporary relief from the strong impression made upon their minds by this novel and marvellous method of treatment. many, again, influenced by the sanguine hopes of those about them, like dying people, who often say sincerely, from day to day, that they are getting better, cheated themselves into a false and short-lived belief that they were cured; and as happens in such cases, the public never knew more than the first half of the story. when it was said to the perkinists, that whatever effects they produced were merely through the imagination, they declared (like the advocates of the royal touch and the unguentum armarium) that this explanation was sufficiently disproved by the fact of numerous and successful cures which had been witnessed in infants and brute animals. dr. haygarth replied to this, that "in these cases it is not the patient, but the observer, who is deceived by his own imagination," and that such may be the fact, we have seen in the case of the good lady who thought she had conjured away the spot from her friend's countenance, when it remained just as before. as to the motives of the inventor and vender of the tractors, the facts must be allowed to speak for themselves. but when two little bits of brass and iron are patented, as an invention, as the result of numerous experiments, when people are led, or even allowed, to infer that they are a peculiar compound, when they are artfully associated with a new and brilliant discovery (which then happened to be galvanism), when they are sold at many hundred times their value, and the seller prints his opinion that a hospital will suffer inconvenience, "unless it possesses many sets of the tractors, and these placed in the hands of the patients to practise on each other," one cannot but suspect that they were contrived in the neighborhood of a wooden nutmeg factory; that legs of ham in that region are not made of the best mahogany; and that such as buy their cucumber seed in that vicinity have to wait for the fruit as long as the indians for their crop of gunpowder. -------------------------- the succeeding lecture will be devoted to an examination of the doctrines of samuel hahnemann and his disciples; doctrines which some consider new and others old; the common title of which is variously known as ho-moeopathy, homoe-op-athy, homoeo-paith-y, or hom'pathy, and the claims of which are considered by some as infinitely important, and by many as immeasurably ridiculous. i wish to state, for the sake of any who may be interested in the subject, that i shall treat it, not by ridicule, but by argument; perhaps with great freedom, but with good temper and in peaceable language; with very little hope of reclaiming converts, with no desire of making enemies, but with a firm belief that its pretensions and assertions cannot stand before a single hour of calm investigation. ii. it may be thought that a direct attack upon the pretensions of homoeopathy is an uncalled-for aggression upon an unoffending doctrine and its peaceful advocates. but a little inquiry will show that it has long assumed so hostile a position with respect to the medical profession, that any trouble i, or any other member of that profession, may choose to bestow upon it may be considered merely as a matter of self-defence. it began with an attempt to show the insignificance of all existing medical knowledge. it not only laid claim to wonderful powers of its own, but it declared the common practice to be attended with the most positively injurious effects, that by it acute diseases are aggravated, and chronic diseases rendered incurable. it has at various times brought forward collections of figures having the air of statistical documents, pretending to show a great proportional mortality among the patients of the medical profession, as compared with those treated according to its own rules. not contented with choosing a name of classical origin for itself, it invented one for the whole community of innocent physicians, assuring them, to their great surprise, that they were all allopathists, whether they knew it or not, and including all the illustrious masters of the past, from hippocrates down to hunter, under the same gratuitous title. the line, then, has been drawn by the champions of the new doctrine; they have lifted the lance, they have sounded the charge, and are responsible for any little skirmishing which may happen. but, independently of any such grounds of active resistance, the subject involves interests so disproportioned to its intrinsic claims, that it is no more than an act of humanity to give it a public examination. if the new doctrine is not truth, it is a dangerous, a deadly error. if it is a mere illusion, and acquires the same degree of influence that we have often seen obtained by other illusions, there is not one of my audience who may not have occasion to deplore the fatal credulity which listened to its promises. i shall therefore undertake a sober examination of its principles, its facts, and some points of its history. the limited time at my disposal requires me to condense as much as possible what i have to say, but i shall endeavor to be plain and direct in expressing it. not one statement shall be made which cannot be supported by unimpeachable reference: not one word shall be uttered which i am not as willing to print as to speak. i have no quibbles to utter, and i shall stoop to answer none; but, with full faith in the sufficiency of a plain statement of facts and reasons, i submit the subject to the discernment of my audience. the question may be asked in the outset,--have you submitted the doctrines you are professing to examine to the test of long-repeated and careful experiment; have you tried to see whether they were true or not? to this i answer, that it is abundantly evident, from what has often happened, that it would be of no manner of use for me to allege the results of any experiments i might have instituted. again and again have the most explicit statements been made by the most competent persons of the utter failure of all their trials, and there were the same abundant explanations offered as used to be for the unguentum armarium and the metallic tractors. i could by no possibility perform any experiments the result of which could not be easily explained away so as to be of no conclusive significance. besides, as arguments in favor of homoeopathy are constantly addressed to the public in journals, pamphlets, and even lectures, by inexperienced dilettanti, the same channel must be open to all its opponents. it is necessary, for the sake of those to whom the whole subject may be new, to give in the smallest possible compass the substance of the homoeopathic doctrine. samuel hahnemann, its founder, is a german physician, now living in paris, [hahnemann died in .] at the age of eighty-seven years. in he published the first paper containing his peculiar notions; in his first work on the subject; in his somewhat famous "organon of the healing art;" the next year what he called the "pure materia medica;" and in his last work, the "treatise on chronic diseases." he has therefore been writing at intervals on his favorite subject for nearly half a century. the one great doctrine which constitutes the basis of homoeopathy as a system is expressed by the latin aphorism, "similia sibilibus curantur," or like cures like, that is, diseases are cured by agents capable of producing symptoms resembling those found in the disease under treatment. a disease for hahnemann consists essentially in a group of symptoms. the proper medicine for any disease is the one which is capable of producing a similar group of symptoms when given to a healthy person. it is of course necessary to know what are the trains of symptoms excited by different substances, when administered to persons in health, if any such can be shown to exist. hahnemann and his disciples give catalogues of the symptoms which they affirm were produced upon themselves or others by a large number of drugs which they submitted to experiment. the second great fact which hahnemann professes to have established is the efficacy of medicinal substances reduced to a wonderful degree of minuteness or dilution. the following account of his mode of preparing his medicines is from his work on chronic diseases, which has not, i believe, yet been translated into english. a grain of the substance, if it is solid, a drop if it is liquid, is to be added to about a third part of one hundred grains of sugar of milk in an unglazed porcelain capsule which has had the polish removed from the lower part of its cavity by rubbing it with wet sand; they are to be mingled for an instant with a bone or horn spatula, and then rubbed together for six minutes; then the mass is to be scraped together from the mortar and pestle, which is to take four minutes; then to be again rubbed for six minutes. four minutes are then to be devoted to scraping the powder into a heap, and the second third of the hundred grains of sugar of milk to be added. then they are to be stirred an instant and rubbed six minutes,--again to be scraped together four minutes and forcibly rubbed six; once more scraped together for four minutes, when the last third of the hundred grains of sugar of milk is to be added and mingled by stirring with the spatula; six minutes of forcible rubbing, four of scraping together, and six more (positively the last six) of rubbing, finish this part of the process. every grain of this powder contains the hundredth of a grain of the medicinal substance mingled with the sugar of milk. if, therefore, a grain of the powder just prepared is mingled with another hundred grains of sugar of milk, and the process just described repeated, we shall have a powder of which every grain contains the hundredth of the hundredth, or the ten thousandth part of a grain of the medicinal substance. repeat the same process with the same quantity of fresh sugar of milk, and every grain of your powder will contain the millionth of a grain of the medicinal substance. when the powder is of this strength, it is ready to employ in the further solutions and dilutions to be made use of in practice. a grain of the powder is to be taken, a hundred drops of alcohol are to be poured on it, the vial is to be slowly turned for a few minutes, until the powder is dissolved, and two shakes are to be given to it. on this point i will quote hahnemann's own words. "a long experience and multiplied observations upon the sick lead me within the last few years to prefer giving only two shakes to medicinal liquids, whereas i formerly used to give ten." the process of dilution is carried on in the same way as the attenuation of the powder was done; each successive dilution with alcohol reducing the medicine to a hundredth part of the quantity of that which preceded it. in this way the dilution of the original millionth of a grain of medicine contained in the grain of powder operated on is carried successively to the billionth, trillionth, quadrillionth, quintillionth, and very often much higher fractional divisions. a dose of any of these medicines is a minute fraction of a drop, obtained by moistening with them one or more little globules of sugar, of which hahnemann says it takes about two hundred to weigh a grain. as an instance of the strength of the medicines prescribed by hahnemann, i will mention carbonate of lime. he does not employ common chalk, but prefers a little portion of the friable part of an oystershell. of this substance, carried to the sextillionth degree, so much as one or two globules of the size mentioned can convey is a common dose. but for persons of very delicate nerves it is proper that the dilution should be carried to the decillionth degree. that is, an important medicinal effect is to be expected from the two hundredth or hundredth part of the millionth of the millionth of the millionth of the millionth of the millionth of the millionth of the millionth of the millionth of the millionth of the millionth of a grain of oyster-shell. this is only the tenth degree of potency, but some of his disciples profess to have obtained palpable effects from "much higher dilutions." the third great doctrine of hahnemann is the following. seven eighths at least of all chronic diseases are produced by the existence in the system of that infectious disorder known in the language of science by the appellation of psora, but to the less refined portion of the community by the name of itch. in the words of hahnemann's "organon," "this psora is the sole true and fundamental cause that produces all the other countless forms of disease, which, under the names of nervous debility, hysteria, hypochondriasis, insanity, melancholy, idiocy, madness, epilepsy, and spasms of all kinds, softening of the bones, or rickets, scoliosis and cyphosis, caries, cancer, fungua haematodes, gout,--yellow jaundice and cyanosis, dropsy,--" ["the degrees of dilution must not be confounded with those of potency. their relations may be seen by this table: lst dilution,--one hundredth of a drop or grain. d " one ten thousandth. d " one millionth, marked i. th " one hundred millionth. th " one ten thousand millionth. th " one million millionth, or one billionth, marked ii. th " one hundred billionth. th " one ten thousand billionth. th " one million billionth, or one trillionth, marked iii. th " one hundred trillionth. th " one ten thousand trillionth. th " one million trillionth, or one quadrillionth, marked iv.,--and so on indefinitely. the large figures denote the degrees of potency.] "gastralgia, epistaxis, haemoptysis,--asthma and suppuration of the lungs,--megrim, deafness, cataract and amaurosis,--paralysis, loss of sense, pains of every kind, etc., appear in our pathology as so many peculiar, distinct, and independent diseases." for the last three centuries, if the same authority may be trusted, under the influence of the more refined personal habits which have prevailed, and the application of various external remedies which repel the affection from the skin; psora has revealed itself in these numerous forms of internal disease, instead of appearing, as in former periods, under the aspect of an external malady. these are the three cardinal doctrines of hahnemann, as laid down in those standard works of homoeopathy, the "organon" and the "treatise on chronic diseases." several other principles may be added, upon all of which he insists with great force, and which are very generally received by his disciples. . very little power is allowed to the curative efforts of nature. hahnemann goes so far as to say that no one has ever seen the simple efforts of nature effect the durable recovery of a patient from a chronic disease. in general, the homoeopathist calls every recovery which happens under his treatment a cure. . every medicinal substance must be administered in a state of the most perfect purity, and uncombined with any other. the union of several remedies in a single prescription destroys its utility, and, according to the "organon," frequently adds a new disease. . a large number of substances commonly thought to be inert develop great medicinal powers when prepared in the manner already described; and a great proportion of them are ascertained to have specific antidotes in case their excessive effects require to be neutralized. . diseases should be recognized, as far as possible, not by any of the common names imposed upon them, as fever or epilepsy, but as individual collections of symptoms, each of which differs from every other collection. . the symptoms of any complaint must be described with the most minute exactness, and so far as possible in the patient's own words. to illustrate the kind of circumstances the patient is expected to record, i will mention one or two from the th page of the "treatise on chronic diseases,"--being the first one at which i opened accidentally. "after dinner, disposition to sleep; the patient winks." "after dinner, prostration and feeling of weakness (nine days after taking the remedy)." this remedy was that same oyster-shell which is to be prescribed "fractions of the sextillionth or decillionth degree." according to hahnemann, the action of a single dose of the size mentioned does not fully display itself in some cases until twenty-four or even thirty days after it is taken, and in such instances has not exhausted its good effects until towards the fortieth or fiftieth day,--before which time it would be absurd and injurious to administer a new remedy. so much for the doctrines of hahnemann, which have been stated without comment, or exaggeration of any of their features, very much as any adherent of his opinions might have stated them, if obliged to compress them into so narrow a space. does hahnemann himself represent homoeopathy as it now exists? he certainly ought to be its best representative, after having created it, and devoted his life to it for half a century. he is spoken of as the great physician of the time, in most, if not all homoeopathic works. if he is not authority on the subject of his own doctrines, who is? so far as i am aware, not one tangible discovery in the so-called science has ever been ascribed to any other observer; at least, no general principle or law, of consequence enough to claim any prominence in homoeopathic works, has ever been pretended to have originated with any of his illustrious disciples. he is one of the only two homoeopathic writers with whom, as i shall mention, the paris publisher will have anything to do upon his own account. the other is jahr, whose manual is little more than a catalogue of symptoms and remedies. if any persons choose to reject hahnemann as not in the main representing homoeopathy, if they strike at his authority, if they wink out of sight his deliberate and formally announced results, it is an act of suicidal rashness; for upon his sagacity and powers of observation, and experience, as embodied in his works, and especially in his materia medica, repose the foundations of homoeopathy as a practical system. so far as i can learn from the conflicting statements made upon the subject, the following is the present condition of belief. . all of any note agree that the law similia similibus is the only fundamental principle in medicine. of course if any man does not agree to this the name homoeopathist can no longer be applied to him with propriety. . the belief in and employment of the infinitesimal doses is general, and in some places universal, among the advocates of homoeopathy; but a distinct movement has been made in germany to get rid of any restriction to the use of these doses, and to employ medicines with the same license as other practitioners. . the doctrine of the origin of most chronic diseases in psora, notwithstanding hahnemann says it cost him twelve years of study and research to establish the fact and its practical consequences, has met with great neglect and even opposition from very many of his own disciples. it is true, notwithstanding, that, throughout most of their writings which i have seen, there runs a prevailing tone of great deference to hahnemann's opinions, a constant reference to his authority, a general agreement with the minor points of his belief, and a pretence of harmonious union in a common faith. [those who will take the trouble to look over hull's translation of jahr's manual may observe how little comparative space is given to remedies resting upon any other authority than that of hahnemann.] many persons, and most physicians and scientific men, would be satisfied with the statement of these doctrines, and examine them no further. they would consider it vastly more probable that any observer in so fallacious and difficult a field of inquiry as medicine had been led into error, or walked into it of his own accord, than that such numerous and extraordinary facts had really just come to light. they would feel a right to exercise the same obduracy towards them as the french institute is in the habit of displaying when memoirs or models are offered to it relating to the squaring of the circle or perpetual motion; which it is the rule to pass over without notice. they would feel as astronomers and natural philosophers must have felt when, some half a dozen years ago, an unknown man came forward, and asked for an opportunity to demonstrate to arago and his colleagues that the moon and planets were at a distance of a little more than a hundred miles from the earth. and so they would not even look into homoeopathy, though all its advocates should exclaim in the words of mr. benjamin douglass perkins, vender of the metallic tractors, that "on all discoveries there are persons who, without descending to any inquiry into the truth, pretend to know, as it were by intuition, that newly asserted facts are founded in the grossest errors." and they would lay their heads upon their pillows with a perfectly clear conscience, although they were assured that they were behaving in the same way that people of old did towards harvey, galileo, and copernicus, the identical great names which were invoked by mr. benjamin douglass perkins. but experience has shown that the character of these assertions is not sufficient to deter many, from examining their claims to belief. i therefore lean but very slightly on the extravagance and extreme apparent singularity of their pretensions. i might have omitted them, but on the whole it seemed more just to the claims of my argument to suggest the vast complication of improbabilities involved in the statements enumerated. every one must of course judge for himself as to the weight of these objections, which are by no means brought forward as a proof of the extravagance of homoeopathy, but simply as entitled to a brief consideration before the facts of the case are submitted to our scrutiny. the three great asserted discoveries of hahnemann are entirely unconnected with and independent of each other. were there any natural relation between them it would seem probable enough that the discovery of the first would have led to that of the others. but assuming it to be a fact that diseases are cured by remedies capable of producing symptoms like their own, no manifest relation exists between this fact and the next assertion, namely, the power of the infinitesimal doses. and allowing both these to be true, neither has the remotest affinity to the third new doctrine, that which declares seven eighths of all chronic diseases to be owing to psora. this want of any obvious relation between hahnemann's three cardinal doctrines appears to be self-evident upon inspection. but if, as is often true with his disciples, they prefer the authority of one of their own number, i will refer them to dr. trinks's paper on the present state of homoeopathy in europe, with which, of course, they are familiar, as his name is mentioned as one of the most prominent champions of their faith, in their american official organ. it would be a fact without a parallel in the history, not merely of medicine, but of science, that three such unconnected and astonishing discoveries, each of them a complete revolution of all that ages of the most varied experience had been taught to believe, should spring full formed from the brain of a single individual. let us look a moment at the first of his doctrines. improbable though it may seem to some, there is no essential absurdity involved in the proposition that diseases yield to remedies capable of producing like symptoms. there are, on the other hand, some analogies which lend a degree of plausibility to the statement. there are well-ascertained facts, known from the earliest periods of medicine, showing that, under certain circumstances, the very medicine which, from its known effects, one would expect to aggravate the disease, may contribute to its relief. i may be permitted to allude, in the most general way, to the case in which the spontaneous efforts of an overtasked stomach are quieted by the agency of a drug which that organ refuses to entertain upon any terms. but that every cure ever performed by medicine should have been founded upon this principle, although without the knowledge of a physician; that the homoeopathic axiom is, as hahnemann asserts, "the sole law of nature in therapeutics," a law of which nothing more than a transient glimpse ever presented itself to the innumerable host of medical observers, is a dogma of such sweeping extent, and pregnant novelty, that it demands a corresponding breadth and depth of unquestionable facts to cover its vast pretensions. so much ridicule has been thrown upon the pretended powers of the minute doses that i shall only touch upon this point for the purpose of conveying, by illustrations, some shadow of ideas far transcending the powers of the imagination to realize. it must be remembered that these comparisons are not matters susceptible of dispute, being founded on simple arithmetical computations, level to the capacity of any intelligent schoolboy. a person who once wrote a very small pamphlet made some show of objecting to calculations of thus kind, on the ground that the highest dilutions could easily be made with a few ounces of alcohol. but he should have remembered that at every successive dilution he lays aside or throws away ninety-nine hundredths of the fluid on which he is operating, and that, although he begins with a drop, he only prepares a millionth, billionth, trillionth, and similar fractions of it, all of which, added together, would constitute but a vastly minute portion of the drop with which he began. but now let us suppose we take one single drop of the tincture of camomile, and that the whole of this were to be carried through the common series of dilutions. a calculation nearly like the following was made by dr. panvini, and may be readily followed in its essential particulars by any one who chooses. for the first dilution it would take drops of alcohol. for the second dilution it would take ; drops, or about a pint. for the third dilution it would take pints. for the fourth dilution it would take , pints, or more than , gallons, and so on to the ninth dilution, which would take ten billion gallons, which he computed would fill the basin of lake agnano, a body of water two miles in circumference. the twelfth dilution would of course fill a million such lakes. by the time the seventeenth degree of dilution should be reached, the alcohol required would equal in quantity the waters of ten thousand adriatic seas. trifling errors must be expected, but they are as likely to be on one side as the other, and any little matter like lake superior or the caspian would be but a drop in the bucket. swallowers of globules, one of your little pellets, moistened in the mingled waves of one million lakes of alcohol, each two miles in circumference, with which had been blended that one drop of tincture of camomile, would be of precisely the strength recommended for that medicine in your favorite jahr's manual, "against the most sudden, frightful, and fatal diseases!" [in the french edition of , the proper doses of the medicines are mentioned, and camomile is marked iv. why are the doses omitted in hull's translation, except in three instances out of the whole two hundred remedies, notwithstanding the promise in the preface that "some remarks upon the doses used may be found at the head of each medicine"? possibly because it makes no difference whether they are employed in one homoeopathic dose or another; but then it is very singular that such precise directions were formerly given in the same work, and that hahnemann's "experience" should have led him to draw the nice distinctions we have seen in a former part of this lecture (p. ).] and proceeding on the common data, i have just made a calculation which shows that this single drop of tincture of camomile, given in the quantity ordered by jahr's manual, would have supplied every individual of the whole human family, past and present, with more than five billion doses each, the action of each dose lasting about four days. yet this is given only at the quadrillionth, or fourth degree of potency, and various substances are frequently administered at the decillionth or tenth degree, and occasionally at still higher attenuations with professed medicinal results. is there not in this as great an exception to all the hitherto received laws of nature as in the miracle of the loaves and fishes? ask this question of a homoeopathist, and he will answer by referring to the effects produced by a very minute portion of vaccine matter, or the extraordinary diffusion of odors. but the vaccine matter is one of those substances called morbid poisons, of which it is a peculiar character to multiply themselves, when introduced into the system, as a seed does in the soil. therefore the hundredth part of a grain of the vaccine matter, if no more than this is employed, soon increases in quantity, until, in the course of about a week, it is a grain or more, and can be removed in considerable drops. and what is a very curious illustration of homoeopathy, it does not produce its most. characteristic effects until it is already in sufficient quantity not merely to be visible, but to be collected for further use. the thoughtlessness which can allow an inference to be extended from a product of disease possessing this susceptibility of multiplication when conveyed into the living body, to substances of inorganic origin, such as silex or sulphur, would be capable of arguing that a pebble may produce a mountain, because an acorn can become a forest. as to the analogy to be found between the alleged action of the infinitely attenuated doses, and the effects of some odorous substances which possess the extraordinary power of diffusing their imponderable emanations through a very wide space, however it may be abused in argument, and rapidly as it evaporates on examination, it is not like that just mentioned, wholly without meaning. the fact of the vast diffusion of some odors, as that of musk or the rose, for instance, has long been cited as the most remarkable illustration of the divisibility of matter, and the nicety of the senses. and if this were compared with the effects of a very minute dose of morphia on the whole system, or the sudden and fatal impression of a single drop of prussic acid, or, with what comes still nearer, the poisonous influence of an atmosphere impregnated with invisible malaria, we should find in each of these examples an evidence of the degree to which nature, in some few instances, concentrates powerful qualities in minute or subtile forms of matter. but if a man comes to me with a pestle and mortar in his hand, and tells me that he will take a little speck of some substance which nobody ever thought to have any smell at all, as, for instance, a grain of chalk or of charcoal, and that he will, after an hour or two of rubbing and scraping, develop in a portion of it an odor which, if the whole grain were used, would be capable of pervading an apartment, a house, a village, a province, an empire, nay, the entire atmosphere of this broad planet upon which we tread; and that from each of fifty or sixty substances he can in this way develop a distinct and hitherto unknown odor: and if he tries to show that all this is rendered quite reasonable by the analogy of musk and roses, i shall certainly be justified in considering him incapable of reasoning, and beyond the reach of my argument. what if, instead of this, he professes to develop new and wonderful medicinal powers from the same speck of chalk or charcoal, in such proportions as would impregnate every pond, lake, river, sea, and ocean of our globe, and appeals to the same analogy in favor of the probability of his assertion. all this may be true, notwithstanding these considerations. but so extraordinary would be the fact, that a single atom of substances which a child might swallow without harm by the teaspoonful could, by an easy mechanical process, be made to develop such inconceivable powers, that nothing but the strictest agreement of the most cautious experimenters, secured by every guaranty that they were honest and faithful, appealing to repeated experiments in public, with every precaution to guard against error, and with the most plain and peremptory results, should induce us to lend any credence to such pretensions. the third doctrine, that psora, the other name of which you remember, is the cause of the great majority of chronic diseases, is a startling one, to say the least. that an affection always recognized as a very unpleasant personal companion, but generally regarded as a mere temporary incommodity, readily yielding to treatment in those unfortunate enough to suffer from it, and hardly known among the better classes of society, should be all at once found out by a german physician to be the great scourge of mankind, the cause of their severest bodily and mental calamities, cancer and consumption, idiocy and madness, must excite our unqualified surprise. and when the originator of this singular truth ascribes, as in the page now open before me, the declining health of a disgraced courtier, the chronic malady of a bereaved mother, even the melancholy of the love-sick and slighted maiden, to nothing more nor less than the insignificant, unseemly, and almost unmentionable itch, does it not seem as if the very soil upon which we stand were dissolving into chaos, over the earthquake-heaving of discovery? and when one man claims to have established these three independent truths, which are about as remote from each other as the discovery of the law of gravitation, the invention of printing, and that of the mariner's compass, unless the facts in their favor are overwhelming and unanimous, the question naturally arises, is not this man deceiving himself, or trying to deceive others? i proceed to examine the proofs of the leading ideas of hahnemann and his school. in order to show the axiom, similia similibus curantur (or like is cured by like), to be the basis of the healing art,--"the sole law of nature in therapeutics,"--it is necessary, . that the symptoms produced by drugs in healthy persons should be faithfully studied and recorded. . that drugs should be shown to be always capable of curing those diseases most like their own symptoms. . that remedies should be shown not to cure diseases when they do not produce symptoms resembling those presented in these diseases. . the effects of drugs upon healthy persons have been studied by hahnemann and his associates. their results were made known in his materia medica, a work in three large volumes in the french translation, published about eight years ago. the mode of experimentation appears to have been, to take the substance on trial, either in common or minute doses, and then to set down every little sensation, every little movement of mind or body, which occurred within many succeeding hours or days, as being produced solely by the substance employed. when i have enumerated some of the symptoms attributed to the power of the drugs taken, you will be able to judge how much value is to be ascribed to the assertions of such observers. the following list was taken literally from the materia medica of hahnemann, by my friend m. vernois, for whose accuracy i am willing to be responsible. he has given seven pages of these symptoms, not selected, but taken at hazard from the french translation of the work. i shall be very brief in my citations. "after stooping some time, sense of painful weight about the head upon resuming the erect posture." "an itching, tickling sensation at the outer edge of the palm of the left hand, which obliges the person to scratch." the medicine was acetate of lime, and as the action of the globule taken is said to last twenty-eight days, you may judge how many such symptoms as the last might be supposed to happen. among the symptoms attributed to muriatic acid are these: a catarrh, sighing, pimples; "after having written a long time with the back a little bent over, violent pain in the back and shoulder-blades, as if from a strain,"--"dreams which are not remembered,--disposition to mental dejection,--wakefulness before and after midnight." i might extend this catalogue almost indefinitely. i have not cited these specimens with any view to exciting a sense of the ridiculous, which many others of those mentioned would not fail to do, but to show that the common accidents of sensation, the little bodily inconveniences to which all of us are subject, are seriously and systematically ascribed to whatever medicine may have been exhibited, even in the minute doses i have mentioned, whole days or weeks previously. to these are added all the symptoms ever said by anybody, whether deserving confidence or not, as i shall hereafter illustrate, to be produced by the substance in question. the effects of sixty-four medicinal substances, ascertained by one or both of these methods, are enumerated in the materia medica of hahnemann, which may be considered as the basis of practical homoeopathy. in the manual of jahr, which is the common guide, so far as i know, of those who practise homoeopathy in these regions, two hundred remedies are enumerated, many of which, however, have never been employed in practice. in at least one edition there were no means of distinguishing those which had been tried upon the sick from the others. it is true that marks have been added in the edition employed here, which serve to distinguish them; but what are we to think of a standard practical author on materia medica, who at one time omits to designate the proper doses of his remedies, and at another to let us have any means of knowing whether a remedy has ever been tried or not, while he is recommending its employment in the most critical and threatening diseases? i think that, from what i have shown of the character of hahnemann's experiments, it would be a satisfaction to any candid inquirer to know whether other persons, to whose assertions he could look with confidence, confirm these pretended facts. now there are many individuals, long and well known to the scientific world, who have tried these experiments upon healthy subjects, and utterly deny that their effects have at all corresponded to hahnemann's assertions. i will take, for instance, the statements of andral (and i am not referring to his well-known public experiments in his hospital) as to the result of his own trials. this distinguished physician is professor of medicine in the school of paris, and one of the most widely known and valued authors upon practical and theoretical subjects the profession can claim in any country. he is a man of great kindness of character, a most liberal eclectic by nature and habit, of unquestioned integrity, and is called, in the leading article of the first number of the "homoepathic examiner," "an eminent and very enlightened allopathist." assisted by a number of other persons in good health, he experimented on the effects of cinchona, aconite, sulphur, arnica, and the other most highly extolled remedies. his experiments lasted a year, and he stated publicly to the academy of medicine that they never produced the slightest appearance of the symptoms attributed to them. the results of a man like this, so extensively known as one of the most philosophical and candid, as well as brilliant of instructors, and whose admirable abilities and signal liberality are generally conceded, ought to be of great weight in deciding the question. m. double, a well-known medical writer and a physician of high standing in paris, had occasion so long ago as , before he had heard of homoeopathy, to make experiments upon cinchona, or peruvian bark. he and several others took the drug in every kind of dose for four months, and the fever it is pretended by hahnemann to excite never was produced. m. bonnet, president of the royal society of medicine of bordeaux, had occasion to observe many soldiers during the peninsular war, who made use of cinchona as a preservative against different diseases, but he never found it to produce the pretended paroxysms. if any objection were made to evidence of this kind, i would refer to the express experiments on many of the homoeopathic substances, which were given to healthy persons with every precaution as to diet and regimen, by m. louis fleury, without being followed by the slightest of the pretended consequences. and let me mention as a curious fact, that the same quantity of arsenic given to one animal in the common form of the unprepared powder, and to another after having been rubbed up into six hundred globules, offered no particular difference of activity in the two cases. this is a strange contradiction to the doctrine of the development of what they call dynamic power, by means of friction and subdivision. in a public challenge was offered to the best known homoeopathic physician in paris to select any ten substances asserted to produce the most striking effects; to prepare them himself; to choose one by lot without knowing which of them he had taken, and try it upon himself or any intelligent and devoted homoeopathist, and, waiting his own time, to come forward and tell what substance had been employed. the challenge was at first accepted, but the acceptance retracted before the time of trial arrived. from all this i think it fair to conclude that the catalogues of symptoms attributed in homoeopathic works to the influence of various drugs upon healthy persons are not entitled to any confidence. . it is necessary to show, in the next place, that medicinal substances are always capable of curing diseases most like their own symptoms. for facts relating to this question we must look to two sources; the recorded experience of the medical profession in general, and the results of trials made according to homoeopathic principles, and capable of testing the truth of the doctrine. no person, that i am aware of, has ever denied that in some cases there exists a resemblance between the effects of a remedy and the symptoms of diseases in which it is beneficial. this has been recognized, as hahnemann himself has shown, from the time of hippocrates. but according to the records of the medical profession, as they have been hitherto interpreted, this is true of only a very small proportion of useful remedies. nor has it ever been considered as an established truth that the efficacy of even these few remedies was in any definite ratio to their power of producing symptoms more or less like those they cured. such was the state of opinion when hahnemann came forward with the proposition that all the cases of successful treatment found in the works of all preceding medical writers were to be ascribed solely to the operation of the homoeopathic principle, which had effected the cure, although without the physician's knowledge that this was the real secret. and strange as it may seem, he was enabled to give such a degree of plausibility to this assertion, that any person not acquainted somewhat with medical literature, not quite familiar, i should rather say, with the relative value of medical evidence, according to the sources whence it is derived, would be almost frightened into the belief, at seeing the pages upon pages of latin names he has summoned as his witnesses. it has hitherto been customary, when examining the writings of authors of preceding ages, upon subjects as to which they were less enlightened than ourselves, and which they were very liable to misrepresent, to exercise some little discretion; to discriminate, in some measure, between writers deserving confidence and those not entitled to it. but there is not the least appearance of any such delicacy on the part of hahnemann. a large majority of the names of old authors he cites are wholly unknown to science. with some of them i have been long acquainted, and i know that their accounts of diseases are no more to be trusted than their contemporary ambroise pare's stories of mermen, and similar absurdities. but if my judgment is rejected, as being a prejudiced one, i can refer to cullen, who mentioned three of hahnemann's authors in one sentence, as being "not necessarily bad authorities; but certainly such when they delivered very improbable events;" and as this was said more than half a century ago, it could not have had any reference to hahnemann. but although not the slightest sign of discrimination is visible in his quotations,--although for him a handful of chaff from schenck is all the same thing as a measure of wheat from morgagni,--there is a formidable display of authorities, and an abundant proof of ingenious researches to be found in each of the great works of hahnemann with which i am familiar. [some painful surmises might arise as to the erudition of hahnemann's english translator, who makes two individuals of "zacutus, lucitanus," as well as respecting that of the conductors of an american homoeopathic periodical, who suffer the name of the world-renowned cardanus to be spelt cardamus in at least three places, were not this gross ignorance of course attributable only to the printer.] it is stated by dr. leo-wolf, that professor joerg, of leipsic, has proved many of hahnemann's quotations from old authors to be adulterate and false. what particular instances he has pointed out i have no means of learning. and it is probably wholly impossible on this side of the atlantic, and even in most of the public libraries of europe, to find anything more than a small fraction of the innumerable obscure publications which the neglect of grocers and trunkmakers has spared to be ransacked by the all-devouring genius of homoeopathy. i have endeavored to verify such passages as my own library afforded me the means of doing. for some i have looked in vain, for want, as i am willing to believe, of more exact references. but this i am able to affirm, that, out of the very small number which i have been able, to trace back to their original authors, i have found two to be wrongly quoted, one of them being a gross misrepresentation. the first is from the ancient roman author, caelius aurelianus; the second from the venerable folio of forestus. hahnemann uses the following expressions,--if he is not misrepresented in the english translation of the 'organon': "asclepiades on one occasion cured an inflammation of the brain by administering a small quantity of wine." after correcting the erroneous reference of the translator, i can find no such case alluded to in the chapter. but caelius aurelianus mentions two modes of treatment employed by asclepiades, into both of which the use of wine entered, as being "in the highest degree irrational and dangerous." [caelius aurel. de morb. acut. et chron. lib. i. cap. xv. not xvi. amsterdam. wetstein, .] in speaking of the oil of anise-seed, hahnemann says that forestus observed violent colic caused by its administration. but, as the author tells the story, a young man took, by the counsel of a surgeon, an acrid and virulent medicine, the name of which is not given, which brought on a most cruel fit of the gripes and colic. after this another surgeon was called, who gave him oil of anise-seed and wine, "which increased his suffering." [observ. et curat. med. lib. xxi obs. xiii. frankfort, .] now if this was the homoeopathic remedy, as hahnemann pretends, it might be a fair question why the young man was not cured by it. but it is a much graver question why a man who has shrewdness and learning enough to go so far after his facts, should think it right to treat them with such astonishing negligence or such artful unfairness. even if every word he had pretended to take from his old authorities were to be found in them, even if the authority of every one of these authors were beyond question, the looseness with which they are used to prove whatever hahnemann chooses is beyond the bounds of credibility. let me give one instance to illustrate the character of this man's mind. hahnemann asserts, in a note annexed to the th paragraph of the "organon," that the smell of the rose will cause certain persons to faint. and he says in the text that substances which produce peculiar effects of this nature on particular constitutions cure the same symptoms in people in general. then in another note to the same paragraph he quotes the following fact from one of the last sources one would have looked to for medical information, the byzantine historians. "it was by these means (i.e. homoeopathically) that the princess eudosia with rose-water restored a person who had fainted!" is it possible that a man who is guilty of such pedantic folly as this,--a man who can see a confirmation of his doctrine in such a recovery as this,--a recovery which is happening every day, from a breath of air, a drop or two of water, untying a bonnet-string, loosening a stay-lace, and which can hardly help happening, whatever is done,--is it possible that a man, of whose pages, not here and there one, but hundreds upon hundreds are loaded with such trivialities, is the newton, the columbus, the harvey of the nineteenth century! the whole process of demonstration he employs is this. an experiment is instituted with some drug upon one or more healthy persons. everything that happens for a number of days or weeks is, as we have seen, set down as an effect of the medicine. old volumes are then ransacked promiscuously, and every morbid sensation or change that anybody ever said was produced by the drug in question is added to the list of symptoms. by one or both of these methods, each of the sixty-four substances enumerated by hahnemann is shown to produce a very large number of symptoms, the lowest in his scale being ninety-seven, and the highest fourteen hundred and ninety-one. and having made out this list respecting any drug, a catalogue which, as you may observe in any homoeopathic manual, contains various symptoms belonging to every organ of the body, what can be easier than to find alleged cures in every medical author which can at once be attributed to the homoeopathic principle; still more if the grave of extinguished credulity is called upon to give up its dead bones as living witnesses; and worst of all, if the monuments of the past are to be mutilated in favor of "the sole law of nature in therapeutics"? there are a few familiar facts of which great use has been made as an entering wedge for the homoeopathic doctrine. they have been suffered to pass current so long that it is time they should be nailed to the counter, a little operation which i undertake, with perfect cheerfulness, to perform for them. the first is a supposed illustration of the homoeopathic law found in the precept given for the treatment of parts which have been frozen, by friction with snow or similar means. but we deceive ourselves by names, if we suppose the frozen part to be treated by cold, and not by heat. the snow may even be actually warmer than the part to which it is applied. but even if it were at the same temperature when applied, it never did and never could do the least good to a frozen part, except as a mode of regulating the application of what? of heat. but the heat must be applied gradually, just as food must be given a little at a time to those perishing with hunger. if the patient were brought into a warm room, heat would be applied very rapidly, were not something interposed to prevent this, and allow its gradual admission. snow or iced water is exactly what is wanted; it is not cold to the part; it is very possibly warm, on the contrary, for these terms are relative, and if it does not melt and let the heat in, or is not taken away, the part will remain frozen up until doomsday. now the treatment of a frozen limb by heat, in large or small quantities, is not homoeopathy. the next supposed illustration of the homoeopathic law is the alleged successful management of burns, by holding them to the fire. this is a popular mode of treating those burns which are of too little consequence to require any more efficacious remedy, and would inevitably get well of themselves, without any trouble being bestowed upon them. it produces a most acute pain in the part, which is followed by some loss of sensibility, as happens with the eye after exposure to strong light, and the ear after being subjected to very intense sounds. this is all it is capable of doing, and all further notions of its efficacy must be attributed merely to the vulgar love of paradox. if this example affords any comfort to the homoeopathist, it seems as cruel to deprive him of it as it would be to convince the mistress of the smoke-jack or the flatiron that the fire does not literally "draw the fire out," which is her hypothesis. but if it were true that frost-bites were cured by cold and burns by heat, it would be subversive, so far as it went, of the great principle of homoeopathy. for you will remember that this principle is that like cures like, and not that same cures same; that there is resemblance and not identity between the symptoms of the disease and those produced by the drug which cures it, and none have been readier to insist upon this distinction than the homoeopathists themselves. for if same cures same, then every poison must be its own antidote,--which is neither a part of their theory nor their so-called experience. they have been asked often enough, why it was that arsenic could not cure the mischief which arsenic had caused, and why the infectious cause of small-pox did not remedy the disease it had produced, and then the; were ready enough to see the distinction i have pointed out. o no! it was not the hair of the same dog, but only of one very much like him! a third instance in proof of the homoeopathic law is sought for in the acknowledged efficacy of vaccination. and how does the law apply to this? it is granted by the advocates of homoeopathy that there is a resemblance between the effects of the vaccine virus on a person in health and the symptoms of small-pox. therefore, according to the rule, the vaccine virus will cure the small-pox, which, as everybody knows, is entirely untrue. but it prevents small-pox, say the homoeopathists. yes, and so does small-pox prevent itself from ever happening again, and we know just as much of the principle involved in the one case as in the other. for this is only one of a series of facts which we are wholly unable to explain. small-pox, measles, scarlet-fever, hooping-cough, protect those who have them once from future attacks; but nettle-rash and catarrh and lung fever, each of which is just as homoeopathic to itself as any one of the others, have no such preservative power. we are obliged to accept the fact, unexplained, and we can do no more for vaccination than for the rest. i come now to the most directly practical point connected with the subject, namely,-- what is the state of the evidence as to the efficacy of the proper homoeopathic treatment in the cure of diseases. as the treatment adopted by the homoeopathists has been almost universally by means of the infinitesimal doses, the question of their efficacy is thrown open, in common with that of the truth of their fundamental axiom, as both are tested in practice. we must look for facts as to the actual working of homoeopathy to three sources. . the statements of the unprofessional public. . the assertions of homoeopathic practitioners. . the results of trials by competent and honest physicians, not pledged to the system. i think, after what we have seen of medical facts, as they are represented by incompetent persons, we are disposed to attribute little value to all statements of wonderful cures, coming from those who have never been accustomed to watch the caprices of disease, and have not cooled down their young enthusiasm by the habit of tranquil observation. those who know nothing of the natural progress of a malady, of its ordinary duration, of its various modes of terminating, of its liability to accidental complications, of the signs which mark its insignificance or severity, of what is to be expected of it when left to itself, of how much or how little is to be anticipated from remedies, those who know nothing or next to nothing of all these things, and who are in a great state of excitement from benevolence, sympathy, or zeal for a new medical discovery, can hardly be expected to be sound judges of facts which have misled so many sagacious men, who have spent their lives in the daily study and observation of them. i believe that, after having drawn the portrait of defunct perkinism, with its five thousand printed cures, and its million and a half computed ones, its miracles blazoned about through america, denmark, and england; after relating that forty years ago women carried the tractors about in their pockets, and workmen could not make them fast enough for the public demand; and then showing you, as a curiosity, a single one of these instruments, an odd one of a pair, which i obtained only by a lucky accident, so utterly lost is the memory of all their wonderful achievements; i believe, after all this, i need not waste time in showing that medical accuracy is not to be looked for in the florid reports of benevolent associations, the assertions of illustrious patrons, the lax effusions of daily journals, or the effervescent gossip of the tea-table. dr. hering, whose name is somewhat familiar to the champions of homoeopathy, has said that "the new healing art is not to be judged by its success in isolated cases only, but according to its success in general, its innate truth, and the incontrovertible nature of its innate principles." we have seen something of "the incontrovertible nature of its innate principles," and it seems probable, on the whole, that its success in general must be made up of its success in isolated cases. some attempts have been made, however, to finish the whole matter by sweeping statistical documents, which are intended to prove its triumphant success over the common practice. it is well known to those who have had the good fortune to see the "homoeopathic examiner," that this journal led off, in its first number, with a grand display of everything the newly imported doctrine had to show for itself. it is well remarked, on the twenty-third page of this article, that "the comparison of bills of mortality among an equal number of sick, treated by divers methods, is a most poor and lame way to get at conclusions touching principles of the healing art." in confirmation of which, the author proceeds upon the twenty-fifth page to prove the superiority of the homoeopathic treatment of cholera, by precisely these very bills of mortality. now, every intelligent physician is aware that the poison of cholera differed so much in its activity at different times and, places, that it was next to impossible to form any opinion as to the results of treatment, unless every precaution was taken to secure the most perfectly corresponding conditions in the patients treated, and hardly even then. of course, then, a russian admiral, by the name of mordvinov, backed by a number of so-called physicians practising in russian villages, is singularly competent to the task of settling the whole question of the utility of this or that kind of treatment; to prove that, if not more than eight and a half per cent. of those attacked with the disease perished, the rest owed their immunity to hahnemann. i can remember when more than a hundred patients in a public institution were attacked with what, i doubt not, many homoeopathic physicians (to say nothing of homoeopathic admirals) would have called cholera, and not one of them died, though treated in the common way, and it is my firm belief that, if such a result had followed the administration of the omnipotent globules, it would have been in the mouth of every adept in europe, from quin of london to spohr of gandersheim. no longer ago than yesterday, in one of the most widely circulated papers of this city, there was published an assertion that the mortality in several homoeopathic hospitals was not quite five in a hundred, whereas, in what are called by the writer allopathic hospitals, it is said to be eleven in a hundred. an honest man should be ashamed of such an argumentum ad ignorantiam. the mortality of a hospital depends not merely on the treatment of the patients, but on the class of diseases it is in the habit of receiving, on the place where it is, on the season, and many other circumstances. for instance, there are many hospitals in the great cities of europe that receive few diseases of a nature to endanger life, and, on the other hand, there are others where dangerous diseases are accumulated out of the common proportion. thus, in the wards of louis, at the hospital of la pitie, a vast number of patients in the last stages of consumption were constantly entering, to swell the mortality of that hospital. it was because he was known to pay particular attention to the diseases of the chest that patients laboring under those fatal affections to an incurable extent were so constantly coming in upon him. it is always a miserable appeal to the thoughtlessness of the vulgar, to allege the naked fact of the less comparative mortality in the practice of one hospital or of one physician than another, as an evidence of the superiority of their treatment. other things being equal, it must always be expected that those institutions and individuals enjoying to the highest degree the confidence of the community will lose the largest proportion of their patients; for the simple reason that they will naturally be looked to by those suffering from the gravest class of diseases; that many, who know that they are affected with mortal disease, will choose to die under their care or shelter, while the subjects of trifling maladies, and merely troublesome symptoms, amuse themselves to any extent among the fancy practitioners. when, therefore, dr. mublenbein, as stated in the "homoeopathic examiner," and quoted in yesterday's "daily advertiser," asserts that the mortality among his patients is only one per cent. since he has practised homoeopathy, whereas it was six per cent. when he employed the common mode of practice, i am convinced by this, his own statement, that the citizens of brunswick, whenever they are seriously sick, take good care not to send for dr. muhlenbein! it is evidently impossible that i should attempt, within the compass of a single lecture, any detailed examination of the very numerous cases reported in the homoeopathic treatises and journals. having been in the habit of receiving the french "archives of homoeopathic medicine" until the premature decease of that journal, i have had the opportunity of becoming acquainted somewhat with the style of these documents, and experiencing whatever degree of conviction they were calculated to produce. although of course i do not wish any value to be assumed for my opinion, such as it is, i consider that you are entitled to hear it. so far, then, as i am acquainted with the general character of the cases reported by the homoeopathic physicians, they would for the most part be considered as wholly undeserving a place in any english, french, or american periodical of high standing, if, instead of favoring the doctrine they were intended to support, they were brought forward to prove the efficacy of any common remedy administered by any common practitioner. there are occasional exceptions to this remark; but the general truth of it is rendered probable by the fact that these cases are always, or almost always, written with the single object of showing the efficacy of the medicine used, or the skill of the practitioner, and it is recognized as a general rule that such cases deserve very little confidence. yet they may sound well enough, one at a time, to those who are not fully aware of the fallacies of medical evidence. let me state a case in illustration. nobody doubts that some patients recover under every form of practice. probably all are willing to allow that a large majority, for instance, ninety in a hundred, of such cases as a physician is called to in daily practice, would recover, sooner or later, with more or less difficulty, provided nothing were done to interfere seriously with the efforts of nature. suppose, then, a physician who has a hundred patients prescribes to each of them pills made of some entirely inert substance, as starch, for instance. ninety of them get well, or if he chooses to use such language, he cures ninety of them. it is evident, according to the doctrine of chances, that there must be a considerable number of coincidences between the relief of the patient and the administration of the remedy. it is altogether probable that there will happen two or three very striking coincidences out of the whole ninety cases, in which it would seem evident that the medicine produced the relief, though it had, as we assumed, nothing to do with it. now suppose that the physician publishes these cases, will they not have a plausible appearance of proving that which, as we granted at the outset, was entirely false? suppose that instead of pills of starch he employs microscopic sugarplums, with the five' million billion trillionth part of a suspicion of aconite or pulsatilla, and then publishes his successful cases, through the leaden lips of the press, or the living ones of his female acquaintances,--does that make the impression a less erroneous one? but so it is that in homoeopathic works and journals and gossip one can never, or next to never, find anything but successful cases, which might do very well as a proof of superior skill, did it not prove as much for the swindling advertisers whose certificates disgrace so many of our newspapers. how long will it take mankind to learn that while they listen to "the speaking hundreds and units," who make the world ring with the pretended triumphs they have witnessed, the "dumb millions" of deluded and injured victims are paying the daily forfeit of their misplaced confidence! i am sorry to see, also, that a degree of ignorance as to the natural course of diseases is often shown in these published cases, which, although it may not be detected by the unprofessional reader, conveys an unpleasant impression to those who are acquainted with the subject. thus a young woman affected with jaundice is mentioned in the german "annals of clinical homoeopathy" as having been cured in twenty-nine days by pulsatilla and nux vomica. rummel, a well-known writer of the same school, speaks of curing a case of jaundice in thirty-four days by homoeopathic doses of pulsatilla, aconite, and cinchona. i happened to have a case in my own household, a few weeks since, which lasted about ten days, and this was longer than i have repeatedly seen it in hospital practice, so that it was nothing to boast of. dr. munneche of lichtenburg in saxony is called to a patient with sprained ankle who had been a fortnight under the common treatment. the patient gets well by the use of arnica in a little more than a month longer, and this extraordinary fact is published in the french "archives of homoeopathic medicine." in the same journal is recorded the case of a patient who with nothing more, so far as any proof goes, than inluenza, gets down to her shop upon the sixth day. and again, the cool way in which everything favorable in a case is set down by these people entirely to their treatment, may be seen in a case of croup reported in the "homoeopathic gazette" of leipsic, in which leeches, blistering, inhalation of hot vapor, and powerful internal medicine had been employed, and yet the merit was all attributed to one drop of some homoeopathic fluid. i need not multiply these quotations, which illustrate the grounds of an opinion which the time does not allow me to justify more at length; other such cases are lying open before me; there is no end to them if more were wanted; for nothing is necessary but to look into any of the numerous broken-down journals of homoeopathy, the volumes of which may be found on the shelves of those curious in such matters. a number of public trials of homoeopathy have been made in different parts of the world. six of these are mentioned in the manifesto of the "homoeopathic examiner." now to suppose that any trial can absolutely silence people, would be to forget the whole experience of the past. dr. haygarth and dr. alderson could not stop the sale of the five-guinea tractors, although they proved that they could work the same miracles with pieces of wood and tobacco-pipe. it takes time for truth to operate as well as homoeopathic globules. many persons thought the results of these trials were decisive enough of the nullity of the treatment; those who wish to see the kind of special pleading and evasion by which it is attempted to cover results which, stated by the "homoeopathic examiner" itself, look exceedingly like a miserable failure, may consult the opening flourish of that journal. i had not the intention to speak of these public trials at all, having abundant other evidence on the point. but i think it best, on the whole, to mention two of them in a few words,--that instituted at naples and that of andral. there have been few names in the medical profession, for the last half century, so widely known throughout the world of science as that of m. esquirol, whose life was devoted to the treatment of insanity, and who was without a rival in that department of practical medicine. it is from an analysis communicated by him to the "gazette medicale de paris" that i derive my acquaintance with the account of the trial at naples by dr. panvini, physician to the hospital della pace. this account seems to be entirely deserving of credit. ten patients were set apart, and not allowed to take any medicine at all,--much against the wish of the homoeopathic physician. all of them got well, and of course all of them would have been claimed as triumphs if they had been submitted to the treatment. six other slight cases (each of which is specified) got well under the homoeopathic treatment, none of its asserted specific effects being manifested. all the rest were cases of grave disease; and so far as the trial, which was interrupted about the fortieth day, extended, the patients grew worse, or received no benefit. a case is reported on the page before me of a soldier affected with acute inflammation in the chest, who took successively aconite, bryonia, nux vomica, and pulsatilla, and after thirty-eight days of treatment remained without any important change in his disease. the homoeopathic physician who treated these patients was m. de horatiis, who had the previous year been announcing his wonderful cures. and m. esquirol asserted to the academy of medicine in , that this m. de horatiis, who is one of the prominent personages in the "examiner's" manifesto published in , had subsequently renounced homoeopathy. i may remark, by the way, that this same periodical, which is so very easy in explaining away the results of these trials, makes a mistake of only six years or a little more as to the time when this at naples was instituted. m. andral, the "eminent and very enlightened allopathist" of the "homoeopathic examiner," made the following statement in march, , to the academy of medicine: "i have submitted this doctrine to experiment; i can reckon at this time from one hundred and thirty to one hundred and forty cases, recorded with perfect fairness, in a great hospital, under the eye of numerous witnesses; to avoid every objection--i obtained my remedies of m. guibourt, who keeps a homoeopathic pharmacy, and whose strict exactness is well known; the regimen has been scrupulously observed, and i obtained from the sisters attached to the hospital a special regimen, such as hahnemann orders. i was told, however, some months since, that i had not been faithful to all the rules of the doctrine. i therefore took the trouble to begin again; i have studied the practice of the parisian homoeopathists, as i had studied their books, and i became convinced that they treated their patients as i had treated mine, and i affirm that i have been as rigorously exact in the treatment as any other person." and he expressly asserts the entire nullity of the influence of all the homoeopathic remedies tried by him in modifying, so far as he could observe, the progress or termination of diseases. it deserves notice that he experimented with the most boasted substances,--cinchona, aconite, mercury, bryonia, belladonna. aconite, for instance, he says he administered in more than forty cases of that collection of feverish symptoms in which it exerts so much power, according to hahnemann, and in not one of them did it have the slightest influence, the pulse and heat remaining as before. these statements look pretty honest, and would seem hard to be explained away, but it is calmly said that he "did not know enough of the method to select the remedies with any tolerable precision." ["homoeopathic examiner, vol. i. p. .] "nothing is left to the caprice of the physician." (in a word, instead of being dependent upon blind chance, that there is an infallible law, guided by which; the physician must select the proper remedies.') ['ibid.,' in a notice of menzel's paper.] who are they that practice homoeopathy, and say this of a man with the materia medica of hahnemann lying before him? who are they that send these same globules, on which he experimented, accompanied by a little book, into families, whose members are thought competent to employ them, when they deny any such capacity to a man whose life has been passed at the bedside of patients, the most prominent teacher in the first medical faculty in the world, the consulting physician of the king of france, and one of the most renowned practical writers, not merely of his nation, but of his age? i leave the quibbles by which such persons would try to creep out from under the crushing weight of these conclusions to the unfortunates who suppose that a reply is equivalent to an answer. dr. baillie, one of the physicians in the great hotel dieu of paris, invited two homoeopathic practitioners to experiment in his wards. one of these was curie, now of london, whose works are on the counters of some of our bookstores, and probably in the hands of some of my audience. this gentleman, whom dr. baillie declares to be an enlightened man, and perfectly sincere in his convictions, brought his own medicines from the pharmacy which furnished hahnemann himself, and employed them for four or five months upon patients in his ward, and with results equally unsatisfactory, as appears from dr. baillie's statement at a meeting of the academy of medicine. and a similar experiment was permitted by the clinical professor of the hotel dieu of lyons, with the same complete failure. but these are old and prejudiced practitioners. very well, then take the statement of dr. fleury, a most intelligent young physician, who treated homoeopathically more than fifty patients, suffering from diseases which it was not dangerous to treat in this way, taking every kind of precaution as to regimen, removal of disturbing influences, and the state of the atmosphere, insisted upon by the most vigorous partisans of the doctrine, and found not the slightest effect produced by the medicines. and more than this, read nine of these cases, which he has published, as i have just done, and observe the absolute nullity of aconite, belladonna, and bryonia, against the symptoms over which they are pretended to exert such palpable, such obvious, such astonishing influences. in the view of these statements, it is impossible not to realize the entire futility of attempting to silence this asserted science by the flattest and most peremptory results of experiment. were all the hospital physicians of europe and america to devote themselves, for the requisite period, to this sole pursuit, and were their results to be unanimous as to the total worthlessness of the whole system in practice, this slippery delusion would slide through their fingers without the slightest discomposure, when, as they supposed, they had crushed every joint in its tortuous and trailing body. . i have said, that to show the truth of the homoeopathic doctrine, as announced by hahnemann, it would be necessary to show, in the third place, that remedies never cure diseases when they are not capable of producing similar symptoms! the burden of this somewhat comprehensive demonstration lying entirely upon the advocates of this doctrine, it may be left to their mature reflections. it entered into my original plan to treat of the doctrine relating to psora, or itch,--an almost insane conception, which i am glad to get rid of, for this is a subject one does not care to handle without gloves. i am saved this trouble, however, by finding that many of the disciples of hahnemann, those disciples the very gospel of whose faith stands upon his word, make very light of his authority on this point, although he himself says, "it has cost me twelve years of study and research to trace out the source of this incredible number of chronic affections, to discover this great truth, which remained concealed from all my predecessors and contemporaries, to establish the basis of its demonstration, and find out, at the same time, the curative medicines that were fit to combat this hydra in all its different forms." but, in the face of all this, the following remarks are made by wolff, of dresden, whose essays, according to the editor of the "homoeopathic examiner," "represent the opinions of a large majority of homoeopathists in europe." "it cannot be unknown to any one at all familiar with homoeopathic literature, that hahnemann's idea of tracing the large majority of chronic diseases to actual itch has met with the greatest opposition from homoeopathic physicians themselves." and again, "if the psoric theory has led to no proper schism, the reason is to be found in the fact that it is almost without any influence in practice." we are told by jahr, that dr. griesselich, "surgeon to the grand duke of baden," and a "distinguished" homoeopathist, actually asked hahnemann for the proof that chronic diseases, such as dropsy, for instance, never arise from any other cause than itch; and that, according to common report, the venerable sage was highly incensed (fort courrouce) with dr. hartmann, of leipsic, another "distinguished" homoeopathist, for maintaining that they certainly did arise from other causes. and dr. fielitz, in the "homoeopathic gazette" of leipsic, after saying, in a good-natured way, that psora is the devil in medicine, and that physicians are divided on this point into diabolists and exorcists, declares that, according to a remark of hahnemann, the whole civilized world is affected with psora. i must therefore disappoint any advocate of hahnemann who may honor me with his presence, by not attacking a doctrine on which some of the disciples of his creed would be very happy to have its adversaries waste their time and strength. i will not meddle with this excrescence, which, though often used in time of peace, would be dropped, like the limb of a shell-fish, the moment it was assailed; time is too precious, and the harvest of living extravagances nods too heavily to my sickle, that i should blunt it upon straw and stubble. i will close the subject with a brief examination of some of the statements made in homoeopathic works, and more particularly in the brilliant manifesto of the "examiner," before referred to. and first, it is there stated under the head of "homoeopathic literature," that "seven hundred volumes have been issued from the press developing the peculiarities of the system, and many of them possessed of a scientific character that savans know well how to respect." if my assertion were proper evidence in the case, i should declare, that, having seen a good many of these publications, from the year , when i bought the work of the rev. thomas everest, [dr. curie speaks of this silly pamphlet as having been published in .] to within a few weeks, when i received my last importation of homaeopathic literature, i have found that all, with a very few exceptions, were stitched pamphlets varying from twenty or thirty pages to somewhat less than a hundred, and generally resembling each other as much as so many spelling-books. but not being evidence in the case, i will give you the testimony of dr. trinks, of dresden, who flourishes on the fifteenth page of the same manifesto as one of the most distinguished among the homoeopathists of europe. i translate the sentence literally from the "archives de la medecine homoeopathique." "the literature of homoeopathy, if that honorable name must be applied to all kinds of book-making, has been degraded to the condition of the humblest servitude. productions without talent, without spirit, without discrimination, flat and pitiful eulogies, exaggerations surpassing the limits of the most robust faith, invectives against such as dared to doubt the dogmas which had been proclaimed, or catalogues of remedies; of such materials is it composed! from distance to distance only, have appeared some memoirs useful to science or practice, which appear as so many green oases in the midst of this literary desert." it is a very natural as well as a curious question to ask, what has been the success of homoeopathy in the different countries of europe, and what is its present condition? the greatest reliance of the advocates of homoeopathy is of course on germany. we know very little of its medical schools, its medical doctrines, or its medical men, compared with those of england and france. and, therefore, when an intelligent traveller gives a direct account from personal inspection of the miserable condition of the homoeopathic hospital at leipsic, the first established in europe, and the first on the list of the ever-memorable manifesto, it is easy enough answer or elude the fact by citing various hard names of "distinguished" practitioners, which sound just as well to the uninformed public as if they were meckel, or tiedemann, or langenbeck. dr. leo-wolf, who, to be sure, is opposed to homoeopathy, but who is a scholar, and ought to know something of his own countrymen, assures us that "dr. kopp is the only german homoeopathist, if we can call him so, who has been distinguished as an author and practitioner before he examined this method." and dr. lee, the same gentleman in whose travels the paragraph relating to the leipsic hospital is to be found, says the same thing. and i will cheerfully expose myself to any impertinent remark which it might suggest, to assure my audience that i never heard or saw one authentic homoeopathic name of any country in europe, which i had ever heard mentioned before as connected with medical science by a single word or deed sufficient to make it in any degree familiar to my ears, unless arnold of heidelberg is the anatomist who discovered a little nervous centre, called the otic ganglion. but you need ask no better proof of who and what the german adherents of this doctrine must be, than the testimony of a german homoeopathist as to the wretched character of the works they manufacture to enforce its claims. as for the act of this or that government tolerating or encouraging homoeopathy, every person of common intelligence knows that it is a mere form granted or denied according to the general principles of policy adopted in different states, or the degree of influence which some few persons who have adopted it may happen to have at court. what may be the value of certain pompous titles with which many of the advocates of homoeopathy are honored, it might be disrespectful to question. but in the mean time the judicious inquirer may ponder over an extract which i translate from a paper relating to a personage well known to the community as williams the oculist, with whom i had the honor of crossing the atlantic some years since, and who himself handed me two copies of the paper in question. "to say that he was oculist of louis xviii. and of charles x., and that he now enjoys the same title with respect to his majesty, louis philippe, and the king of the belgians, is unquestionably to say a great deal; and yet it is one of the least of his titles to public confidence. his reputation rests upon a basis more substantial even than the numerous diplomas with which he is provided, than the membership of the different medical societies which have chosen him as their associate," etc., etc. and as to one more point, it is time that the public should fully understand that the common method of supporting barefaced imposture at the present day, both in europe and in this country, consists in trumping up "dispensaries," "colleges of health," and other advertising charitable clap-traps, which use the poor as decoy-ducks for the rich, and the proprietors of which have a strong predilection for the title of "professor." these names, therefore, have come to be of little or no value as evidence of the good character, still less of the high pretensions of those who invoke their authority. nor does it follow, even when a chair is founded in connection with a well-known institution, that it has either a salary or an occupant; so that it may be, and probably is, a mere harmless piece of toleration on the part of the government if a professorship of homoeopathy is really in existence at jena or heidelberg. and finally, in order to correct the error of any who might suppose that the whole medical profession of germany has long since fallen into the delusions of hahnemann, i will quote two lines which a celebrated anatomist and surgeon (whose name will occur again in this lecture in connection with a very pleasing letter) addressed to the french academy of medicine in . "i happened to be in germany some months since, at a meeting of nearly six hundred physicians; one of them wished to bring up the question of homoeopathy; they would not even listen to him." this may have been very impolite and bigoted, but that is not precisely the point in reference to which i mention the circumstance. but if we cannot easily get at germany, we can very easily obtain exact information from france and england. i took the trouble to write some months ago to two friends in paris, in whom i could place confidence, for information upon the subject. one of them answered briefly to the effect that nothing was said about it. when the late curator of the lowell institute, at his request, asked about the works upon the subject, he was told that they had remained a long time on the shelves quite unsalable, and never spoken of. the other gentleman, [dr. henry t. bigelow, now professor of surgery in harvard university] whose name is well known to my audience, and who needs no commendation of mine, had the kindness to procure for me many publications upon the subject, and some information which sets the whole matter at rest, so far as paris is concerned. he went directly to the baillieres, the principal and almost the only publishers of all the homoeopathic books and journals in that city. the following facts were taken by him from the account-books of this publishing firm. four homoeopathic journals have been published in paris; three of them by the baillieres. the reception they met with may be judged of by showing the number of subscribers to each on the books of the publishing firm. a review published by some other house, which lasted one year, and had about fifty subscribers, appeared in , . there were only four journals of homoeopathy ever published in paris. the baillieres informed my correspondent that the sale of homoeopathic books was much less than formerly, and that consequently they should undertake to publish no new books upon the subject, except those of jahr or hahnemann. "this man," says my correspondent,--referring to one of the brothers,--"the publisher and headquarters of homoeopathy in paris, informs me that it is going down in england and germany as well as in paris." for all the facts he had stated he pledged himself as responsible. homoeopathy was in its prime in paris, he said, in and , and since then has been going down. louis told my correspondent that no person of distinction in paris had embraced homoeopathy, and that it was declining. if you ask who louis is, i refer you to the well-known homoeopathist, peschier of geneva, who says, addressing him, "i respect no one more than yourself; the feeling which guides your researches, your labors, and your pen, is so honorable and rare, that i could not but bow down before it; and i own, if there were any allopathist who inspired me with higher veneration, it would be him and not yourself whom i should address." among the names of "distinguished homoeopathists," however, displayed in imposing columns, in the index of the "homoeopathic examiner," are those of marjolin, amussat, and breschet, names well known to the world of science, and the last of them identified with some of the most valuable contributions which anatomical knowledge has received since the commencement of the present century. one dr. chrysaora, who stands sponsor for many facts in that journal, makes the following statement among the rest: "professors, who are esteemed among the most distinguished of the faculty (faculty de medicine), both as to knowledge and reputation, have openly confessed the power of homoeopathia in forms of disease where the ordinary method of practice proved totally insufficient. it affords me the highest pleasure to select from among these gentlemen, marjolin, amussat, and breschet." here is a literal translation of an original letter, now in my possession, from one of these homoeopathists to my correspondent:-- "dear sir, and respected professional brother: "you have had the kindness to inform me in your letter that a new american journal, the 'new world,' has made use of my name in support of the pretended homoeopathic doctrines, and that i am represented as one of the warmest partisans of homoeopathy in france. "i am vastly surprised at the reputation manufactured for me upon the new continent; but i am obliged, in deference to truth, to reject it with my whole energy. i spurn far from me everything which relates to that charlatanism called homoeopathy, for these pretended doctrines cannot endure the scrutiny of wise and enlightened persons, who are guided by honorable sentiments in the practice of the noblest of arts. "paris, d november, "i am, etc., etc., "g. breschet, "professor in the faculty of medicine, member of the institute, surgeon of hotel dieu, and consulting surgeon to the king, etc." [i first saw m. breschet's name mentioned in that journal] concerning amussat, my correspondent writes, that he was informed by madame hahnemann, who converses in french more readily than her husband, and therefore often speaks for him, that "he was not a physician, neither homoeopathist nor allopathist, but that he was the surgeon of their own establishment; that is, performed as a surgeon all the operations they had occasion for in their practice." i regret not having made any inquiries as to marjolin, who, i doubt not, would strike his ponderous snuff-box until it resounded like the grecian horse, at hearing such a doctrine associated with his respectable name. i was not aware, when writing to paris, that this worthy professor, whose lectures i long attended, was included in these audacious claims; but after the specimens i have given of the accuracy of the foreign correspondence of the "homoeopathic examiner," any further information i might obtain would seem so superfluous as hardly to be worth the postage. homoeopathy may be said, then, to be in a sufficiently miserable condition in paris. yet there lives, and there has lived for years, the illustrious samuel hahnemann, who himself assured my correspondent that no place offered the advantages of paris in its investigation, by reason of the attention there paid to it. in england, it appears by the statement of dr. curie in october, , about eight years after its introduction into the country, that there were eighteen homoeopathic physicians in the united kingdom, of whom only three were to be found out of london, and that many of these practised homoeopathy in secret. it will be seen, therefore, that, according to the recent statement of one of its leading english advocates, homoeopathy had obtained not quite half as many practical disciples in england as perkinism could show for itself in a somewhat less period from the time of its first promulgation in that country. dr. curie's letter, dated london, october , , says there is "one in dublin, dr. luther; at glasgow, dr. scott." the "distinguished" chrysaora writes from paris, dating october , , "on the other hand, homoeopathy is commencing to make an inroad into england by the way of ireland. at dublin, distinguished physicians have already embraced the new system, and a great part of the nobility and gentry of that city have emancipated themselves from the english fashion and professional authority." but the marquis of anglesea and sir edward lytton bulwer patronize homoeopathy; the queen dowager adelaide has been treated by a homoeopathic physician. "jarley is the delight of the nobility and gentry." "the royal family are the patrons of jarley." let me ask if a marquis and a knight are better than two lords, and if the dowager of royalty is better than royalty itself, all of which illustrious dignities were claimed in behalf of benjamin douglass perkins? but if the balance is thought too evenly suspended in this case, another instance can be given in which the evidence of british noblemen and their ladies is shown to be as valuable in establishing the character of a medical man or doctrine, as would be the testimony of the marquis of waterford concerning the present condition and prospects of missionary enterprise. i have before me an octavo volume of more than four hundred pages, in which, among much similar matter, i find highly commendatory letters from the marchioness of ormond, lady harriet kavanagh, the countess of buckinghamshire, the right hon. viscount ingestre, m. p., and the most noble, the marquis of sligo,--all addressed to "john st. john long, esq," a wretched charlatan, twice tried for, and once convicted of, manslaughter at the old bailey. this poor creature, too, like all of his tribe, speaks of the medical profession as a great confederation of bigoted monopolists. he, too, says that "if an innovator should appear, holding out hope to those in despair, and curing disorders which the faculty have recorded as irremediable, he is at once, and without inquiry, denounced as an empiric and an impostor." he, too, cites the inevitable names of galileo and harvey, and refers to the feelings excited by the great discovery of jenner. from the treatment of the great astronomer who was visited with the punishment of other heretics by the ecclesiastical authorities of a catholic country some centuries since, there is no very direct inference to be drawn to the medical profession of the present time. his name should be babbled no longer, after having been placarded for the hundredth time in the pages of st. john long. but if we are doomed to see constant reference to the names of harvey and jenner in every worthless pamphlet containing the prospectus of some new trick upon the public, let us, once for all, stare the facts in the face, and see how the discoveries of these great men were actually received by the medical profession. in , harvey published his first work upon the circulation. his doctrines were a complete revolution of the prevailing opinions of all antiquity. they immediately found both champions and opponents; of which last, one only, riolanus, seemed to harvey worthy of an answer, on account of his "rank, fame, and learning." controversy in science, as in religion, was not, in those days, carried on with all the courtesy which our present habits demand, and it is possible that some hard words may have been applied to harvey, as it is very certain that he used the most contemptuous expressions towards others. harvey declares in his second letter to riolanus, "since the first discovery of the circulation, hardly a day, or a moment, has passed without my hearing it both well and ill spoken of; some attack it with great hostility, others defend it with high encomiums; one party believe that i have abundantly proved the truth of the doctrine against all the weight of opposing arguments, by experiments, observations, and dissections; others think it not yet sufficiently cleared up, and free from objections." two really eminent professors, plempius of louvain, and walaeus of leyden, were among its early advocates. the opinions sanctioned by the authority of long ages, and the names of hippocrates and galen, dissolved away, gradually, but certainly, before the demonstrations of harvey. twenty-four years after the publication of his first work, and six years before his death, his bust in marble was placed in the hall of the college of physicians, with a suitable inscription recording his discoveries. two years after this he was unanimously invited to accept the presidency of that body; and he lived to see his doctrine established, and all reputable opposition withdrawn. there were many circumstances connected with the discovery of dr. jenner which were of a nature to excite repugnance and opposition. the practice of inoculation for the small-pox had already disarmed that disease of many of its terrors. the introduction of a contagious disease from a brute creature into the human system naturally struck the public mind with a sensation of disgust and apprehension, and a part of the medical public may have shared these feelings. i find that jenner's discovery of vaccination was made public in june, . in july of the same year the celebrated surgeon, mr. cline, vaccinated a child with virus received from dr. jenner, and in communicating the success of this experiment, he mentions that dr. lister, formerly of the small-pox hospital, and himself, are convinced of the efficacy of the cow-pox. in november of the same year, dr. pearson published his "inquiry," containing the testimony of numerous practitioners in different parts of the kingdom, to the efficacy of the practice. dr. haygarth, who was so conspicuous in exposing the follies of perkinism, was among the very earliest to express his opinion in favor of vaccination. in , dr. lettsom mentions the circumstance "as being to the honor of the medical professors, that they have very generally encouraged this salutary practice, although it is certainly calculated to lessen their pecuniary advantages by its tendency to extirpate a fertile source of professional practice." in the same year the medical committee of paris spoke of vaccination in a public letter, as "the most brilliant and most important discovery of the eighteenth century." the directors of a society for the extermination of the small-pox, in a report dated october st, , "congratulate the public on the very favorable opinion which the royal college of physicians of london, after a most minute and laborious investigation made by the command of his majesty, have a second time expressed on the subject of vaccination, in their report laid before the house of commons, in the last session of parliament; in consequence of which the sum of twenty thousand pounds was voted to dr. jenner, as a remuneration for his discovery, in addition to ten thousand pounds before granted." (in june, .) these and similar accusations, so often brought up against the medical profession, are only one mode in which is manifested a spirit of opposition not merely to medical science, but to all science, and to all sound knowledge. it is a spirit which neither understands itself nor the object at which it is aiming. it gropes among the loose records of the past, and the floating fables of the moment, to glean a few truths or falsehoods tending to prove, if they prove anything, that the persons who have passed their lives in the study of a branch of knowledge the very essence of which must always consist in long and accurate observation, are less competent to judge of new doctrines in their own department than the rest of the community. it belongs to the clown in society, the destructive in politics, and the rogue in practice. the name of harvey, whose great discovery was the legitimate result of his severe training and patient study, should be mentioned only to check the pretensions of presumptuous ignorance. the example of jenner, who gave his inestimable secret, the result of twenty-two years of experiment and researches, unpurchased, to the public,--when, as was said in parliament, he might have made a hundred thousand pounds by it as well as any smaller sum,--should be referred to only to rebuke the selfish venders of secret remedies, among whom his early history obliges us reluctantly to record samuel hahnemann. those who speak of the great body of physicians as if they were united in a league to support the superannuated notions of the past against the progress of improvement, have read the history of medicine to little purpose. the prevalent failing of this profession has been, on the contrary, to lend a too credulous ear to ambitious and plausible innovators. if at the present time ten years of public notoriety have passed over any doctrine professing to be of importance in medical science, and if it has not succeeded in raising up a powerful body of able, learned, and ingenious advocates for its claims, the fault must be in the doctrine and not in the medical profession. homoeopathy has had a still more extended period of trial than this, and we have seen with what results. it only remains to throw out a few conjectures as to the particular manner in which it is to break up and disappear. . the confidence of the few believers in this delusion will never survive the loss of friends who may die of any acute disease, under a treatment such as that prescribed by homoeopathy. it is doubtful how far cases of this kind will be trusted to its tender mercies, but wherever it acquires any considerable foothold, such cases must come, and with them the ruin of those who practise it, should any highly valued life be thus sacrificed. . after its novelty has worn out, the ardent and capricious individuals who constitute the most prominent class of its patrons will return to visible doses, were it only for the sake of a change. . the semi-homoeopathic practitioner will gradually withdraw from the rotten half of his business and try to make the public forget his connection with it. . the ultra homoeopathist will either recant and try to rejoin the medical profession; or he will embrace some newer and if possible equally extravagant doctrine; or he will stick to his colors and go down with his sinking doctrine. very few will pursue the course last mentioned. a single fact may serve to point out in what direction there will probably be a movement of the dissolving atoms of homoeopathy. on the th page of the too frequently cited manifesto of the "examiner" i read the following stately paragraph: "bigelius, m. d., physician to the emperor of russia, whose elevated reputation is well known in europe, has been an acknowledged advocate of hahnemann's doctrines for several years. he abandoned allopathia for homoeopathia." the date of this statement is january, . i find on looking at the booksellers' catalogues that one bigel, or bigelius, to speak more classically, has been at various times publishing homoeopathic books for some years. again, on looking into the "encyclographie des sciences medicales" for april, , i find a work entitled "manual of hydrosudopathy, or the treatment of diseases by cold water, etc., etc., by dr. bigel, physician of the school of strasburg, member of the medico-chirurgical institute of naples, of the academy of st. petersburg,--assessor of the college of the empire of russia, physician of his late imperial highness the grand duke constantine, chevalier of the legion of honor, etc." hydrosudopathy or hydropathy, as it is sometimes called, is a new medical doctrine or practice which has sprung up in germany since homoeopathy, which it bids fair to drive out of the market, if, as dr. bigel says, fourteen physicians afflicted with diseases which defied themselves and their colleagues came to graefenberg, in the year alone, and were cured. now dr. bigel, "whose elevated reputation is well known in europe," writes as follows: "the reader will not fail to see in this defence of the curative method of graefenberg a profession of medical faith, and he will be correct in so doing." and his work closes with the following sentence, worthy of so distinguished an individual: "we believe, with religion, that the water of baptism purifies the soul from its original sin; let us believe also, with experience, that it is for our corporeal sins the redeemer of the human body." if bigel, physician to the late grand duke constantine, is identical with bigel whom the "examiner" calls physician to the emperor of russia, it appears that he is now actively engaged in throwing cold water at once upon his patients and the future prospects of homoeopathy. if, as must be admitted, no one of hahnemann's doctrines is received with tolerable unanimity among his disciples, except the central axiom, similia similibus curantur; if this axiom itself relies mainly for its support upon the folly and trickery of hahnemann, what can we think of those who announce themselves ready to relinquish all the accumulated treasures of our art, to trifle with life upon the strength of these fantastic theories? what shall we think of professed practitioners of medicine, if, in the words of jahr, "from ignorance, for their personal convenience, or through charlatanism, they treat their patients one day homoeopathically and the next allopathically;" if they parade their pretended new science before the unguarded portion of the community; if they suffer their names to be coupled with it wherever it may gain a credulous patient; and deny all responsibility for its character, refuse all argument for its doctrines, allege no palliation for the ignorance and deception interwoven with every thread of its flimsy tissue, when they are questioned by those competent to judge and entitled to an answer? such is the pretended science of homoeopathy, to which you are asked to trust your lives and the lives of those dearest to you. a mingled mass of perverse ingenuity, of tinsel erudition, of imbecile credulity, and of artful misrepresentation, too often mingled in practice, if we may trust the authority of its founder, with heartless and shameless imposition. because it is suffered so often to appeal unanswered to the public, because it has its journals, its patrons, its apostles, some are weak enough to suppose it can escape the inevitable doom of utter disgrace and oblivion. not many years can pass away before the same curiosity excited by one of perkins's tractors will be awakened at the sight of one of the infinitesimal globules. if it should claim a longer existence, it can only be by falling into the hands of the sordid wretches who wring their bread from the cold grasp of disease and death in the hovels of ignorant poverty. as one humble member of a profession which for more than two thousand years has devoted itself to the pursuit of the best earthly interests of mankind, always assailed and insulted from without by such as are ignorant of its infinite perplexities and labors, always striving in unequal contest with the hundred-armed giant who walks in the noonday, and sleeps not in the midnight, yet still toiling, not merely for itself and the present moment, but for the race and the future, i have lifted my voice against this lifeless delusion, rolling its shapeless bulk into the path of a noble science it is too weak to strike, or to injure. the contagiousness of puerperal fever printed in ; reprinted with additions, . the point at issue. the affirmative. "the disease known as puerperal fever is so far contagious as to be frequently carried from patient to patient by physicians and nurses." o. w. holmes, . the negative. "the result of the whole discussion will, i trust, serve, not only to exalt your views of the value and dignity of our profession, but to divest your minds of the overpowering dread that you can ever become, especially to woman, under the extremely interesting circumstances of gestation and parturition, the minister of evil; that you can ever convey, in any possible manner, a horrible virus, so destructive in its effects, and so mysterious in its operations as that attributed to puerperal fever."--professor hodge, . "i prefer to attribute them to accident, or providence, of which i can form a conception, rather than to a contagion of which i cannot form any clear idea, at least as to this particular malady."--professor meigs, . " . . . in the propagation of which they have no more to do, than with the propagation of cholera from jessore to san francisco, and from mauritius to st. petersburg."--professor meigs, . --------------------- "i arrived at that certainty in the matter, that i could venture to foretell what women would be affected with the disease, upon hearing by what midwife they were to be delivered, or by what nurse they were to be attended, during their lying-in; and, almost in every instance, my prediction was verified."--gordon, . "a certain number of deaths is caused every year by the contagion of puerperal fever, communicated by the nurses and medical attendants." farr, in fifth annual report of registrar-general of england, . ". . . boards of health, if such exist, or, without them, the medical institutions of a country, should have the power of coercing, or of inflicting some kind of punishment on those who recklessly go from cases of puerperal fevers to parturient or puerperal females, without using due precaution; and who, having been shown the risk, criminally encounter it, and convey pestilence and death to the persons they are employed to aid in the most interesting and suffering period of female existence." --copland's medical dictionary, art. puerperal states and diseases, . "we conceive it unnecessary to go into detail to prove the contagious nature of this disease, as there are few, if any, american practitioners who do not believe in this doctrine."--dr. lee, in additions to article last cited. ----------------------- [introductory note.] it happened, some years ago, that a discussion arose in a medical society of which i was a member, involving the subject of a certain supposed cause of disease, about which something was known, a good deal suspected, and not a little feared. the discussion was suggested by a case, reported at the preceding meeting, of a physician who made an examination of the body of a patient who had died with puerperal fever, and who himself died in less than a week, apparently in consequence of a wound received at the examination, having attended several women in confinement in the mean time, all of whom, as it was alleged, were attacked with puerperal fever. whatever apprehensions and beliefs were entertained, it was plain that a fuller knowledge of the facts relating to the subject would be acceptable to all present. i therefore felt that it would be doing a good service to look into the best records i could find, and inquire of the most trustworthy practitioners i knew, to learn what experience had to teach in the matter, and arrived at the results contained in the following pages. the essay was read before the boston society for medical improvement, and, at the request of the society, printed in the "new england quarterly journal of medicine and surgery" for april, . as this journal never obtained a large circulation, and ceased to be published after a year's existence, and as the few copies i had struck off separately were soon lost sight of among the friends to whom they were sent, the essay can hardly be said to have been fully brought before the profession. the subject of this paper has the same profound interest for me at the present moment as it had when i was first collecting the terrible evidence out of which, as it seems to me, the commonest exercise of reason could not help shaping the truth it involved. it is not merely on account of the bearing of the question,--if there is a question,--on all that is most sacred in human life and happiness, that the subject cannot lose its interest. it is because it seems evident that a fair statement of the facts must produce its proper influence on a very large proportion of well-constituted and unprejudiced minds. individuals may, here and there, resist the practical bearing of the evidence on their own feelings or interests; some may fail to see its meaning, as some persons may be found who cannot tell red from green; but i cannot doubt that most readers will be satisfied and convinced, to loathing, long before they have finished the dark obituary calendar laid before them. i do not know that i shall ever again have so good an opportunity of being useful as was granted me by the raising of the question which produced this essay. for i have abundant evidence that it has made many practitioners more cautious in their relations with puerperal females, and i have no doubt it will do so still, if it has a chance of being read, though it should call out a hundred counterblasts, proving to the satisfaction of their authors that it proved nothing. and for my part, i had rather rescue one mother from being poisoned by her attendant, than claim to have saved forty out of fifty patients to whom i had carried the disease. thus, i am willing to avail myself of any hint coming from without to offer this paper once more to the press. the occasion has presented itself, as will be seen, in a convenient if not in a flattering form. i send this essay again to the medical profession, without the change of a word or syllable. i find, on reviewing it, that it anticipates and eliminates those secondary questions which cannot be entertained for a moment until the one great point of fact is peremptorily settled. in its very statement of the doctrine maintained it avoids all discussion of the nature of the disease "known as puerperal fever," and all the somewhat stale philology of the word contagion. it mentions, fairly enough, the names of sceptics, or unbelievers as to the reality of personal transmission; of dewees, of tonnelle, of duges, of baudelocque, and others; of course, not including those whose works were then unwritten or unpublished; nor enumerating all the continental writers who, in ignorance of the great mass of evidence accumulated by british practitioners, could hardly be called well informed on this subject. it meets all the array of negative cases,--those in which disease did not follow exposure,--by the striking example of small-pox, which, although one of the most contagious of diseases, is subject to the most remarkable irregularities and seeming caprices in its transmission. it makes full allowance for other causes besides personal transmission, especially for epidemic influences. it allows for the possibility of different modes of conveyance of the destructive principle. it recognizes and supports the belief that a series of cases may originate from a single primitive source which affects each new patient in turn; and especially from cases of erysipelas. it does not undertake to discuss the theoretical aspect of the subject; that is a secondary matter of consideration. where facts are numerous, and unquestionable, and unequivocal in their significance, theory must follow them as it best may, keeping time with their step, and not go before them, marching to the sound of its own drum and trumpet. having thus narrowed its area to a limited practical platform of discussion, a matter of life and death, and not of phrases or theories, it covers every inch of it with a mass of evidence which i conceive a committee of husbands, who can count coincidences and draw conclusions as well as a synod of accoucheurs, would justly consider as affording ample reasons for an unceremonious dismissal of a practitioner (if it is conceivable that such a step could be waited for), after five or six funerals had marked the path of his daily visits, while other practitioners were not thus escorted. to the profession, therefore, i submit the paper in its original form, and leave it to take care of itself. to the medical students, into whose hands this essay may fall, some words of introduction may be appropriate, and perhaps, to a small number of them, necessary. there are some among them who, from youth, or want of training, are easily bewildered and confused in any conflict of opinions into which their studies lead them. they are liable to lose sight of the main question in collateral issues, and to be run away with by suggestive speculations. they confound belief with evidence, often trusting the first because it is expressed with energy, and slighting the latter because it is calm and unimpassioned. they are not satisfied with proof; they cannot believe a point is settled so long as everybody is not silenced. they have not learned that error is got out of the minds that cherish it, as the taenia is removed from the body, one joint, or a few joints at a time, for the most part, rarely the whole evil at once. they naturally have faith in their instructors, turning to them for truth, and taking what they may choose to give them; babes in knowledge, not yet able to tell the breast from the bottle, pumping away for the milk of truth at all that offers, were it nothing better than a professor's shrivelled forefinger. in the earliest and embryonic stage of professional development, any violent impression on the instructor's mind is apt to be followed by some lasting effect on that of the pupil. no mother's mark is more permanent than the mental naevi and moles, and excrescences, and mutilations, that students carry with them out of the lecture-room, if once the teeming intellect which nourishes theirs has been scared from its propriety by any misshapen fantasy. even an impatient or petulant expression, which to a philosopher would be a mere index of the low state of amiability of the speaker at the moment of its utterance, may pass into the young mind as an element of its future constitution, to injure its temper or corrupt its judgment. it is a duty, therefore, which we owe to this younger class of students, to clear any important truth which may have been rendered questionable in their minds by such language, or any truth-teller against whom they may have been prejudiced by hasty epithets, from the impressions such words have left. until this is done, they are not ready for the question, where there is a question, for them to decide. even if we ourselves are the subjects of the prejudice, there seems to be no impropriety in showing that this prejudice is local or personal, and not an acknowledged conviction with the public at large. it may be necessary to break through our usual habits of reserve to do this, but this is the fault of the position in which others have placed us. two widely-known and highly-esteemed practitioners, professors in two of the largest medical schools of the union, teaching the branch of art which includes the diseases of women, and therefore speaking with authority; addressing in their lectures and printed publications large numbers of young men, many of them in the tenderest immaturity of knowledge, have recently taken ground in a formal way against the doctrine maintained in this paper: on the non-contagious character of puerperal fever: an introductory lecture. by hugh l. hodge, m. d., professor of obstetrics in the university of pennsylvania. delivered monday, october , . philadelphia, . on the nature, signs, and treatment of childbed fevers: in a series of letters addressed to the students of his class. by charles d. meigs, m. d., professor of midwifery and the diseases of women and children in jefferson medical college, philadelphia, etc., etc. philadelphia, . letter vi. the first of the two publications, dr. hodge's lecture, while its theoretical considerations and negative experiences do not seem to me to require any further notice than such as lay ready for them in my essay written long before, is, i am pleased to say, unobjectionable in tone and language, and may be read without offence. this can hardly be said of the chapter of dr. meigs's volume which treats of contagion in childbed fever. there are expressions used in it which might well put a stop to all scientific discussions, were they to form the current coin in our exchange of opinions. i leave the "very young gentlemen," whose careful expositions of the results of practice in more than six thousand cases are characterized as "the jejune and fizenless dreamings of sophomore writers," to the sympathies of those "dear young friends," and "dear young gentlemen," who will judge how much to value their instructor's counsel to think for themselves, knowing what they are to expect if they happen not to think as he does. one unpalatable expression i suppose the laws of construction oblige me to appropriate to myself, as my reward for a certain amount of labor bestowed on the investigation of a very important question of evidence, and a statement of my own practical conclusions. i take no offence, and attempt no retort. no man makes a quarrel with me over the counterpane that covers a mother, with her new-born infant at her breast. there is no epithet in the vocabulary of slight and sarcasm that can reach my personal sensibilities in such a controversy. only just so far as a disrespectful phrase may turn the student aside from the examination of the evidence, by discrediting or dishonoring the witness, does it call for any word of notice. i appeal from the disparaging language by which the professor in the jefferson school of philadelphia world dispose of my claims to be listened to. i appeal, not to the vote of the society for medical improvement, although this was an unusual evidence of interest in the paper in question, for it was a vote passed among my own townsmen; nor to the opinion of any american, for none know better than the professors in the great schools of philadelphia how cheaply the praise of native contemporary criticism is obtained. i appeal to the recorded opinions of those whom i do not know, and who do not know me, nor care for me, except for the truth that i may have uttered; to copland, in his "medical dictionary," who has spoken of my essay in phrases to which the pamphlets of american "scribblers" are seldom used from european authorities; to ramsbotham, whose compendious eulogy is all that self-love could ask; to the "fifth annual report" of the registrar-general of england, in which the second-hand abstract of my essay figures largely, and not without favorable comment, in an important appended paper. these testimonies, half forgotten until this circumstance recalled them, are dragged into the light, not in a paroxysm of vanity, but to show that there may be food for thought in the small pamphlet which the philadelphia teacher treats so lightly. they were at least unsought for, and would never have been proclaimed but for the sake of securing the privilege of a decent and unprejudiced hearing. i will take it for granted that they have so far counterpoised the depreciating language of my fellow-countryman and fellow-teacher as to gain me a reader here and there among the youthful class of students i am now addressing. it is only for their sake that i think it necessary to analyze, or explain, or illustrate, or corroborate any portion of the following essay. but i know that nothing can be made too plain for beginners; and as i do not expect the practitioner, or even the more mature student, to take the trouble to follow me through an introduction which i consider wholly unnecessary and superfluous for them, i shall not hesitate to stoop to the most elementary simplicity for the benefit of the younger student. i do this more willingly because it affords a good opportunity, as it seems to me, of exercising the untrained mind in that medical logic which does not seem to have been either taught or practised in our schools of late, to the extent that might be desired. i will now exhibit, in a series of propositions reduced to their simplest expression, the same essential statements and conclusions as are contained in the essay, with such commentaries and explanations as may be profitable to the inexperienced class of readers addressed. i. it has been long believed, by many competent observers, that puerperal fever (so called) is sometimes carried from patient to patient by medical assistants. ii. the express object of this essay is to prove that it is so carried. iii. in order to prove this point, it is not necessary to consult any medical theorist as to whether or not it is consistent with his preconceived notions that such a mode of transfer should exist. iv. if the medical theorist insists on being consulted, and we see fit to indulge him, he cannot be allowed to assume that the alleged laws of contagion, deduced from observation in other diseases, shall be cited to disprove the alleged laws deduced from observation in this. science would never make progress under such conditions. neither the long incubation of hydrophobia, nor the protecting power of vaccination, would ever have been admitted, if the results of observation in these affections had been rejected as contradictory to the previously ascertained laws of contagion. v. the disease in question is not a common one; producing, on the average, about three deaths in a thousand births, according to the english registration returns which i have examined. vi. when an unusually large number of cases of this disease occur about the same time, it is inferred, therefore, that there exists some special cause for this increased frequency. if the disease prevails extensively over a wide region of country, it is attributed without dispute to an epidemic influence. if it prevails in a single locality, as in a hospital, and not elsewhere, this is considered proof that some local cause is there active in its production. vii. when a large number of cases of this disease occur in rapid succession, in one individual's ordinary practice, and few or none elsewhere, these cases appearing in scattered localities, in patients of the same average condition as those who escape under the care of others, there is the same reason for connecting the cause of the disease with the person in this instance, as with the place in that last mentioned. viii. many series of cases, answering to these conditions, are given in this essay, and many others will be referred to which have occurred since it was written. ix. the alleged results of observation may be set aside; first, because the so-called facts are in their own nature equivocal; secondly, because they stand on insufficient authority; thirdly, because they are not sufficiently numerous. but, in this case, the disease is one of striking and well-marked character; the witnesses are experts, interested in denying and disbelieving the facts; the number of consecutive cases in many instances frightful, and the number of series of cases such that i have no room for many of them except by mere reference. x. these results of observation, being admitted, may, we will suppose, be interpreted in different methods. thus the coincidences may be considered the effect of chance. i have had the chances calculated by a competent person, that a given practitioner, a., shall have sixteen fatal cases in a month, on the following data: a. to average attendance upon two hundred and fifty births in a year; three deaths in one thousand births to be assumed as the average from puerperal fever; no epidemic to be at the time prevailing. it follows, from the answer given me, that if we suppose every one of the five hundred thousand annual births of england to have been recorded during the last half-century, there would not be one chance in a million million million millions that one such series should be noted. no possible fractional error in this calculation can render the chance a working probability. applied to dozens of series of various lengths, it is obviously an absurdity. chance, therefore, is out of the question as an explanation of the admitted coincidences. xi. there is, therefore, some relation of cause and effect between the physician's presence and the patient's disease. xii. until it is proved to what removable condition attaching to the attendant the disease is owing, he is bound to stay away from his patients so soon as he finds himself singled out to be tracked by the disease. how long, and with what other precautions, i have suggested, without dictating, at the close of my essay. if the physician does not at once act on any reasonable suspicion of his being the medium of transfer, the families where he is engaged, if they are allowed to know the facts, should decline his services for the time. his feelings on the occasion, however interesting to himself, should not be even named in this connection. a physician who talks about ceremony and gratitude, and services rendered, and the treatment he got, surely forgets himself; it is impossible that he should seriously think of these small matters where there is even a question whether he may not carry disease, and death, and bereavement into any one of "his families," as they are sometimes called. i will now point out to the young student the mode in which he may relieve his mind of any confusion, or possibly, if very young, any doubt, which the perusal of dr. meigs's sixth letter may have raised in his mind. the most prominent ideas of the letter are, first, that the transmissible nature of puerperal fever appears improbable, and, secondly, that it would be very inconvenient to the writer. dr. woodville, physician to the small-pox and inoculation hospital in london, found it improbable, and exceedingly inconvenient to himself, that cow pox should prevent small-pox; but dr. jenner took the liberty to prove the fact, notwithstanding. i will first call the young student's attention to the show of negative facts (exposure without subsequent disease), of which much seems to be thought. and i may at the same time refer him to dr. hodge's lecture, where he will find the same kind of facts and reasoning. let him now take up watson's lectures, the good sense and spirit of which have made his book a universal favorite, and open to the chapter on continued fever. he will find a paragraph containing the following sentence: "a man might say, 'i was in the battle of waterloo, and saw many men around me fall down and die, and it was said that they were struck down by musket-balls; but i know better than that, for i was there all the time, and so were many of my friends, and we were never hit by any musket-balls. musket-balls, therefore, could not have been the cause of the deaths we witnessed.' and if, like contagion, they were not palpable to the senses, such a person might go on to affirm that no proof existed of there being any such thing as musket-balls." now let the student turn back to the chapter on hydrophobia in the same volume. he will find that john hunter knew a case in which, of twenty-one persons bitten, only one died of the disease. he will find that one dog at charenton was bitten at different times by thirty different mad dogs, and outlived it all. is there no such thing, then, as hydrophobia? would one take no especial precautions if his wife, about to become a mother, had been bitten by a rabid animal, because so many escape? or let him look at "underwood on diseases of children," [philadelphia, , p. , note.] and he will find the case of a young woman who was inoculated eight times in thirty days, at the same time attending several children with smallpox, and yet was not infected. but seven weeks afterwards she took the disease and died. it would seem as if the force of this argument could hardly fail to be seen, if it were granted that every one of these series of cases were so reported as to prove that there could have been no transfer of disease. there is not one of them so reported, in the lecture or the letter, as to prove that the disease may not have been carried by the practitioner. i strongly suspect that it was so carried in some of these cases, but from the character of the very imperfect evidence the question can never be settled without further disclosures. although the letter is, as i have implied, principally taken up with secondary and collateral questions, and might therefore be set aside as in the main irrelevant, i am willing, for the student's sake, to touch some of these questions briefly, as an illustration of its logical character. the first thing to be done, as i thought when i wrote my essay, was to throw out all discussions of the word contagion, and this i did effectually by the careful wording of my statement of the subject to be discussed. my object was not to settle the etymology or definition of a word, but to show that women had often died in childbed, poisoned in some way by their medical attendants. on the other point, i, at least, have no controversy with anybody, and i think the student will do well to avoid it in this connection. if i must define my position, however, as well as the term in question, i am contented with worcester's definition; provided always this avowal do not open another side controversy on the merits of his dictionary, which dr. meigs has not cited, as compared with webster's, which he has. i cannot see the propriety of insisting that all the laws of the eruptive fevers must necessarily hold true of this peculiar disease of puerperal women. if there were any such propriety, the laws of the eruptive fevers must at least be stated correctly. it is not true, for instance, as dr. meigs states, that contagion is "no respecter of persons;" that "it attacks all individuals alike." to give one example: dr. gregory, of the small-pox hospital, who ought to know, says that persons pass through life apparently insensible to or unsusceptible of the small-pox virus, and that the same persons do not take the vaccine disease. as to the short time of incubation, of which so much is made, we have no right to decide beforehand whether it shall be long or short, in the cases we are considering. a dissection wound may produce symptoms of poisoning in six hours; the bite of a rabid animal may take as many months. after the student has read the case in dr. meigs's th paragraph, and the following one, in which he exclaims against the idea of contagion, because the patient, delivered on the th of december, was attacked in twenty-four hours, and died on the third day, let him read what happened at the "black assizes" of and . in the first case, six hundred persons sickened the same night of the exposure, and three hundred more in three days. [elliotson's practice, p. .] of those attacked in the latter year, the exposure being on the th of may, alderman lambert died on the th, under-sheriff cox on the th, and many of note before the th. but these are old stories. let the student listen then to dr. gerhard, whose reputation as a cautious observer he may be supposed to know. "the nurse was shaving a man, who died in a few hours after his entrance; he inhaled his breath, which had a nauseous taste, and in an hour afterwards was taken with nausea, cephalalgia, and singing of the ears. from that moment the attack began, and assumed a severe character. the assistant was supporting another patient, who died soon afterwards; he felt the pungent heat upon his skin, and was taken immediately with the symptoms of typhus." [am. jour. med. sciences, feb. , p. .] it is by notes of cases, rather than notes of admiration, that we must be guided, when we study the revised statutes of nature, as laid down from the curule chairs of medicine. let the student read dr. meigs's th paragraph soberly, and then remember, that not only does he infer, suspect, and surmise, but he actually asserts (page ), "there was poison in the house," because three out of five patients admitted into a ward had puerperal fever and died. have i not as much right to draw a positive inference from "dr. a.'s" seventy exclusive cases as he from the three cases in the ward of the dublin hospital? all practical medicine, and all action in common affairs, is founded on inferences. how does dr. meigs know that the patients he bled in puerperal fever would not have all got well if he had not bled them? "you see a man discharge a gun at another; you see the flash, you hear the report, you see the person fall a lifeless corpse; and you infer, from all these circumstances, that there was a ball discharged from the gun, which entered his body and caused his death, because such is the usual and natural cause of such an effect. but you did not see the ball leave the gun, pass through the air, and enter the body of the slain; and your testimony to the fact of killing is, therefore, only inferential,--in other words, circumstantial. it is possible that no ball was in the gun; and we infer that there was, only because we cannot account for death on any other supposition." [chief justice gibson, in am. law journal, vol. vi. p. .] "the question always comes to this: is the circumstance of intercourse with the sick followed by the appearance of the disease in a proportion of cases so much greater than any other circumstance common to any portion of the inhabitants of the place under observation, as to make it inconceivable that the succession of cases occurring in persons having that intercourse should have been the result of chance? if so, the inference is unavoidable, that that intercourse must have acted as a cause of the disease. all observations which do not bear strictly on that point are irrelevant, and, in the case of an epidemic first appearing in a town or district, a succession of two cases is sometimes sufficient to furnish evidence which, on the principle i have stated, is nearly irresistible." possibly an inexperienced youth may be awe-struck by the quotation from cuvier. these words, or their equivalent, are certainly to be found in his introduction. so are the words "top not come down"! to be found in the bible, and they were as much meant for the ladies' head-dresses as the words of cuvier were meant to make clinical observation wait for a permit from anybody to look with its eyes and count on its fingers. let the inquiring youth read the whole introduction, and he will see what they mean. i intend no breach of courtesy, but this is a proper place to warn the student against skimming the prefaces and introductions of works for mottoes and embellishments to his thesis. he cannot learn anatomy by thrusting an exploring needle into the body. he will be very liable to misquote his author's meaning while he is picking off his outside sentences. he may make as great a blunder as that simple prince who praised the conductor of his orchestra for the piece just before the overture; the musician was too good a courtier to tell him that it was only the tuning of the instruments. to the six propositions in the d paragraph, and the remarks about "specific" diseases, the answer, if any is necessary, seems very simple. an inflammation of a serous membrane may give rise to secretions which act as a poison, whether that be a "specific" poison or not, as dr. homer has told his young readers, and as dissectors know too well; and that poison may produce its symptoms in a few hours after the system has received it, as any may see in druitt's "surgery," if they care to look. puerperal peritonitis may produce such a poison, and puerperal women may be very sensible to its influences, conveyed by contact or exhalation. whether this is so or not, facts alone can determine, and to facts we have had recourse to settle it. the following statement is made by dr. meigs in his d paragraph, and developed more at length, with rhetorical amplifications, in the th. "no human being, save a pregnant or parturient woman, is susceptible to the poison." this statement is wholly incorrect, as i am sorry to have to point out to a teacher in dr. meigs's position. i do not object to the erudition which quotes willis and fernelius, the last of whom was pleasantly said to have "preserved the dregs of the arabs in the honey of his latinity." but i could wish that more modern authorities had not been overlooked. on this point, for instance, among the numerous facts disproving the statement, the "american journal of medical sciences," published not far from his lecture-room, would have presented him with a respectable catalog of such cases. thus he might refer to mr. storrs's paper "on the contagious effects of puerperal fever on the male subject; or on persons not childbearing" (jan. ), or to dr. reid's case (april, ), or to dr. barron's statement of the children's dying of peritonitis in an epidemic of puerperal fever at the philadelphia hospital (oct. ), or to various instances cited in dr. kneeland's article (april, ). or, if he would have referred to the "new york journal," he might have seen prof. austin flint's cases. or, if he had honored my essay so far, he might have found striking instances of the same kind in the first of the new series of cases there reported and elsewhere. i do not see the bearing of his proposition, if it were true. but it is one of those assertions that fall in a moment before a slight examination of the facts; and i confess my surprise, that a professor who lectures on the diseases of women should have ventured to make it. nearly seven pages are devoted to showing that i was wrong in saying i would not be "understood to imply that there exists a doubt in the mind of any well-informed member of the medical profession as to the fact that puerperal fever is sometimes communicated from one person to another, both directly and indirectly." i will devote seven lines to these seven pages, which seven lines, if i may say it without offence, are, as it seems to me, six more than are strictly necessary. the following authors are cited as sceptics by dr. meigs: dewees.--i cited the same passage. did not know half the facts. robert lee.--believes the disease is sometimes communicable by contagion. tonnelle, baudelocque. both cited by me. jacquemier.--published three years after my essay. kiwisch. " behindhand in knowledge of puerperal fever." [b. & f. med. rev. jan. .] paul dubois.--scanzoni. these continental writers not well informed on this point.[see dr. simpson's remarks at meeting of edin. med. chir. soc. (am. jour. oct. .)] the story of von busch is of interest and value, but there is nothing in it which need perplex the student. it is not pretended that the disease is always, or even, it may be, in the majority of cases, carried about by attendants; only that it is so carried in certain cases. that it may have local and epidemic causes, as well as that depending on personal transmission, is not disputed. remember how small-pox often disappears from a community in spite of its contagious character, and the necessary exposure of many persons to those suffering from it; in both diseases contagion is only one of the coefficients of the disease. i have already spoken of the possibility that dr. meigs may have been the medium of transfer of puerperal fever in some of the cases he has briefly catalogued. of dr. rutter's cases i do not know how to speak. i only ask the student to read the facts stated by dr. condie, as given in my essay, and say whether or not a man should allow his wife to be attended by a practitioner in whose hands "scarcely a female that has been delivered for weeks past has escaped an attack," "while no instance of the disease has occurred in the patients of any other accoucheur practising in the same district." if i understand dr. meigs and dr. hodge, they would not warn the physician or spare the patient under such circumstances. they would "go on," if i understand them, not to seven, or seventy, only, but to seventy times seven, if they could find patients. if this is not what they mean, may we respectfully ask them to state what they do mean, to their next classes, in the name of humanity, if not of science! i might repeat the question asked concerning dr. rutter's cases, with reference to those reported by dr. roberton. perhaps, however, the student would like to know the opinion of a person in the habit of working at matters of this kind in a practical point of view. to satisfy him on this ground, i addressed the following question to the president of one of our principal insurance companies, leaving dr. meigs's book and my essay in his hands at the same time. question. "if such facts as roberton's cases were before you, and the attendant had had ten, or even five fatal cases, or three, or two even, would you, or would you not, if insuring the life of the next patient to be taken care of by that attendant, expect an extra premium over that of an average case of childbirth?" answer. "of course i should require a very large extra premium, if i would take take risk at all." but i do not choose to add the expressions of indignation which the examination of the facts before him called out. i was satisfied from the effect they produced on him, that if all the hideous catalogues of cases now accumulated were fully brought to the knowledge of the public, nothing, since the days of burke and hare, has raised such a cry of horror as would be shrieked in the ears of the profession. dr. meigs has elsewhere invoked "providence" as the alternative of accident, to account for the "coincidences." ("obstetrics," phil. , p. .) if so, providence either acts through the agency of secondary causes, as in other diseases, or not. if through such causes, let us find out what they are, as we try to do in other cases. it may be true that offences, or diseases, will come, but "woe unto him through whom they come," if we catch him in the voluntary or careless act of bringing them! but if providence does not act through secondary causes in this particular sphere of etiology, then why does dr. meigs take such pains to reason so extensively about the laws of contagion, which, on that supposition, have no more to do with this case than with the plague which destroyed the people after david had numbered them? above all, what becomes of the theological aspect of the question, when he asserts that a practitioner was "only unlucky in meeting with the epidemic cases?" (op. cit. p. .) we do not deny that the god of battles decides the fate of nations; but we like to have the biggest squadrons on our side, and we are particular that our soldiers should not only say their prayers, but also keep their powder dry. we do not deny the agency of providence in the disaster at norwalk, but we turn off the engineer, and charge the company five thousand dollars apiece for every life that is sacrificed. why a grand jury should not bring in a bill against a physician who switches off a score of women one after the other along his private track, when he knows that there is a black gulf at the end of it, down which they are to plunge, while the great highway is clear, is more than i can answer. it is not by laying the open draw to providence that he is to escape the charge of manslaughter. to finish with all these lesser matters of question, i am unable to see why a female must necessarily be unattended in her confinement, because she declines the services of a particular practitioner. in all the series of cases mentioned, the death-carrying attendant was surrounded by others not tracked by disease and its consequences. which, i would ask, is worse,--to call in another, even a rival practitioner, or to submit an unsuspecting female to a risk which an insurance company would have nothing to do with? i do not expect ever to return to this subject. there is a point of mental saturation, beyond which argument cannot be forced without breeding impatient, if not harsh, feelings towards those who refuse to be convinced. if i have so far manifested neither, it is well to stop here, and leave the rest to those younger friends who may have more stomach for the dregs of a stale argument. the extent of my prefatory remarks may lead some to think that i attach too much importance to my own essay. others may wonder that i should expend so many words upon the two productions referred to, the letter and the lecture. i do consider my essay of much importance so long as the doctrine it maintains is treated as a question, and so long as any important part of the defence of that doctrine is thought to rest on its evidence or arguments. i cannot treat as insignificant any opinions bearing on life, and interests dearer than life, proclaimed yearly to hundreds of young men, who will carry them to their legitimate results in practice. the teachings of the two professors in the great schools of philadelphia are sure to be listened to, not only by their immediate pupils, but by the profession at large. i am too much in earnest for either humility or vanity, but i do entreat those who hold the keys of life and death to listen to me also for this once. i ask no personal favor; but i beg to be heard in behalf of the women whose lives are at stake, until some stronger voice shall plead for them. i trust that i have made the issue perfectly distinct and intelligible. and let it be remembered that this is no subject to be smoothed over by nicely adjusted phrases of half-assent and half-censure divided between the parties. the balance must be struck boldly and the result declared plainly. if i have been hasty, presumptuous, ill-informed, illogical; if my array of facts means nothing; if there is no reason for any caution in the view of these facts; let me be told so on such authority that i must believe it, and i will be silent henceforth, recognizing that my mind is in a state of disorganization. if the doctrine i have maintained is a mournful truth; if to disbelieve it, and to practise on this disbelief, and to teach others so to disbelieve and practise, is to carry desolation, and to charter others to carry it, into confiding families, let it be proclaimed as plainly what is to be thought of the teachings of those who sneer at the alleged dangers, and scout the very idea of precaution. let it be remembered that persons are nothing in this matter; better that twenty pamphleteers should be silenced, or as many professors unseated, than that one mother's life should be taken. there is no quarrel here between men, but there is deadly incompatibility and exterminating warfare between doctrines. coincidences meaning nothing, though a man have a monopoly of the disease for weeks or months; or cause and effect, the cause being in some way connected with the person; this is the question. if i am wrong, let me be put down by such a rebuke as no rash declaimer has received since there has been a public opinion in the medical profession of america; if i am right, let doctrines which lead to professional homicide be no longer taught from the chairs of those two great institutions. indifference will not do here; our journalists and committees have no right to take up their pages with minute anatomy and tediously detailed cases, while it is a question whether or not the "blackdeath" of child-bed is to be scattered broadcast by the agency of the mother's friend and adviser. let the men who mould opinions look to it; if there is any voluntary blindness, any interested oversight, any culpable negligence, even, in such a matter, and the facts shall reach the public ear; the pestilence-carrier of the lying-in chamber must look to god for pardon, for man will never forgive him. the contagiousness of puerperal fever. in collecting, enforcing, and adding to the evidence accumulated upon this most serious subject, i would not be understood to imply that there exists a doubt in the mind of any well-informed member of the medical profession as to the fact that puerperal fever is sometimes communicated from one person to another, both directly and indirectly. in the present state of our knowledge upon this point i should consider such doubts merely as a proof that the sceptic had either not examined the evidence, or, having examined it, refused to accept its plain and unavoidable consequences. i should be sorry to think, with dr. rigby, that it was a case of "oblique vision;" i should be unwilling to force home the argumentum ad hominem of dr. blundell, but i would not consent to make a question of a momentous fact which is no longer to be considered as a subject for trivial discussions, but to be acted upon with silent promptitude. it signifies nothing that wise and experienced practitioners have sometimes doubted the reality of the danger in question; no man has the right to doubt it any longer. no negative facts, no opposing opinions, be they what they may, or whose they may, can form any answer to the series of cases now within the reach of all who choose to explore the records of medical science. if there are some who conceive that any important end would be answered by recording such opinions, or by collecting the history of all the cases they could find in which no evidence of the influence of contagion existed, i believe they are in error. suppose a few writers of authority can be found to profess a disbelief in contagion,--and they are very few compared with those who think differently,--is it quite clear that they formed their opinions on a view of all the facts, or is it not apparent that they relied mostly on their own solitary experience? still further, of those whose names are quoted, is it not true that scarcely a single one could by any possibility have known the half or the tenth of the facts bearing on the subject which have reached such a frightful amount within the last few years? again, as to the utility of negative facts, as we may briefly call them,--instances, namely, in which exposure has not been followed by disease,--although, like other truths, they may be worth knowing, i do not see that they are like to shed any important light upon the subject before us. every such instance requires a good deal of circumstantial explanation before it can be accepted. it is not enough that a practitioner should have had a single case of puerperal fever not followed by others. it must be known whether he attended others while this case was in progress, whether he went directly from one chamber to others, whether he took any, and what precautions. it is important to know that several women were exposed to infection derived from the patient, so that allowance may be made for want of predisposition. now if of negative facts so sifted there could be accumulated a hundred for every one plain instance of communication here recorded, i trust it need not be said that we are bound to guard and watch over the hundredth tenant of our fold, though the ninety and nine may be sure of escaping the wolf at its entrance. if any one is disposed, then, to take a hundred instances of lives endangered or sacrificed out of those i have mentioned, and make it reasonably clear that within a similar time and compass ten thousand escaped the same exposure, i shall thank him for his industry, but i must be permitted to hold to my own practical conclusions, and beg him to adopt or at least to examine them also. children that walk in calico before open fires are not always burned to death; the instances to the contrary may be worth recording; but by no means if they are to be used as arguments against woollen frocks and high fenders. i am not sure that this paper will escape another remark which it might be wished were founded in justice. it may be said that the facts are too generally known and acknowledged to require any formal argument or exposition, that there is nothing new in the positions advanced, and no need of laying additional statements before the profession. but on turning to two works, one almost universally, and the other extensively appealed to as authority in this country, i see ample reason to overlook this objection. in the last edition of dewees's treatise on the "diseases of females," it is expressly said, "in this country, under no circumstance that puerperal fever has appeared hitherto, does it afford the slightest ground for the belief that it is contagious." in the "philadelphia practice of midwifery" not one word can be found in the chapter devoted to this disease which would lead the reader to suspect that the idea of contagion had ever been entertained. it seems proper, therefore, to remind those who are in the habit of referring to these works for guidance, that there may possibly be some sources of danger they have slighted or omitted, quite as important as a trifling irregularity of diet, or a confined state of the bowels, and that whatever confidence a physician may have in his own mode of treatment, his services are of questionable value whenever he carries the bane as well as the antidote about his person. the practical point to be illustrated is the following: the disease known as puerperal fever is so far contagious as to be frequently carried from patient to patient by physicians and nurses. let me begin by throwing out certain incidental questions, which, without being absolutely essential, would render the subject more complicated, and by making such concessions and assumptions as may be fairly supposed to be without the pale of discussion. . it is granted that all the forms of what is called puerperal fever may not be, and probably are not, equally contagious or infectious. i do not enter into the distinctions which have been drawn by authors, because the facts do not appear to me sufficient to establish any absolute line of demarcation between such forms as may be propagated by contagion and those which are never so propagated. this general result i shall only support by the authority of dr. ramsbotham, who gives, as the result of his experience, that the same symptoms belong to what he calls the infectious and the sporadic forms of the disease, and the opinion of armstrong in his original essay. if others can show any such distinction, i leave it to them to do it. but there are cases enough that show the prevalence of the disease among the patients of a single practitioner when it was in no degree epidemic, in the proper sense of the term. i may refer to those of mr. roberton and of dr. peirson, hereafter to be cited, as examples. . i shall not enter into any dispute about the particular mode of infection, whether it be by the atmosphere the physician carries about him into the sick-chamber, or by the direct application of the virus to the absorbing surfaces with which his hand comes in contact. many facts and opinions are in favor of each of these modes of transmission. but it is obvious that in the majority of cases it must be impossible to decide by which of these channels the disease is conveyed, from the nature of the intercourse between the physician and the patient. . it is not pretended that the contagion of puerperal fever must always be followed by the disease. it is true of all contagious diseases, that they frequently spare those who appear to be fully submitted to their influence. even the vaccine virus, fresh from the subject, fails every day to produce its legitimate effect, though every precaution is taken to insure its action. this is still more remarkably the case with scarlet fever and some other diseases. . it is granted that the disease may be produced and variously modified by many causes besides contagion, and more especially by epidemic and endemic influences. but this is not peculiar to the disease in question. there is no doubt that small-pox is propagated to a great extent by contagion, yet it goes through the same periods of periodical increase and diminution which have been remarked in puerperal fever. if the question is asked how we are to reconcile the great variations in the mortality of puerperal fever in different seasons and places with the supposition of contagion, i will answer it by another question from mr. farr's letter to the registrar-general. he makes the statement that "five die weekly of small-pox in the metropolis when the disease is not epidemic,"--and adds, "the problem for solution is,--why do the five deaths become , , , , , , weekly, and then progressively fall through the same measured steps?" . i take it for granted, that if it can be shown that great numbers of lives have been and are sacrificed to ignorance or blindness on this point, no other error of which physicians or nurses may be occasionally suspected will be alleged in palliation of this; but that whenever and wherever they can be shown to carry disease and death instead of health and safety, the common instincts of humanity will silence every attempt to explain away their responsibility. the treatise of dr. gordon of aberdeen was published in the year , being among the earlier special works upon the disease. apart of his testimony has been occasionally copied into other works, but his expressions are so clear, his experience is given with such manly distinctness and disinterested honesty, that it may be quoted as a model which might have been often followed with advantage. "this disease seized such women only as were visited, or delivered by a practitioner, or taken care of by a nurse, who had previously attended patients affected with the disease." "i had evident proofs of its infectious nature, and that the infection was as readily communicated as that of the small-pox or measles, and operated more speedily than any other infection with which i am acquainted." "i had evident proofs that every person who had been with a patient in the puerperal fever became charged with an atmosphere of infection, which was communicated to every pregnant woman who happened to come within its sphere. this is not an assertion, but a fact, admitting of demonstration, as may be seen by a perusal of the foregoing table,"--referring to a table of seventy-seven cases, in many of which the channel of propagation was evident. he adds, "it is a disagreeable declaration for me to mention, that i myself was the means of carrying the infection to a great number of women." he then enumerates a number of instances in which the disease was conveyed by midwives and others to the neighboring villages, and declares that "these facts fully prove that the cause of the puerperal fever, of which i treat, was a specific contagion, or infection, altogether unconnected with a noxious constitution of the atmosphere." but his most terrible evidence is given in these words: "i arrived at that certainty in the matter, that i could venture to foretell what women would be affected with the disease, upon hearing by what midwife they were to be delivered, or by what nurse they were to be attended, during their lying-in: and almost in every instance, my prediction was verified." even previously to gordon, mr. white of manchester had said, "i am acquainted with two gentlemen in another town, where the whole business of midwifery is divided betwixt them, and it is very remarkable that one of them loses several patients every year of the puerperal fever, and the other never so much as meets with the disorder,"--a difference which he seems to attribute to their various modes of treatment. [on the management of lying-in women, p. .] dr. armstrong has given a number of instances in his essay on puerperal fever, of the prevalence of the disease among the patients of a single practitioner. at sunderland, "in all, forty-three cases occurred from the st of january to the st of october, when the disease ceased; and of this number forty were witnessed by mr. gregson and his assistant, mr. gregory, the remainder having been separately seen by three accoucheurs." there is appended to the london edition of this essay, a letter from mr. gregson, in which that gentleman says, in reference to the great number of cases occurring in his practice, "the cause of this i cannot pretend fully to explain, but i should be wanting in common liberality if i were to make any hesitation in asserting, that the disease which appeared in my practice was highly contagious, and communicable from one puerperal woman to another." "it is customary among the lower and middle ranks of people to make frequent personal visits to puerperal women resident in the same neighborhood, and i have ample evidence for affirming that the infection of the disease was often carried about in that manner; and, however painful to my feelings, i must in candor declare, that it is very probable the contagion was conveyed, in some instances, by myself, though i took every possible care to prevent such a thing from happening, the moment that i ascertained that the distemper was infectious." dr. armstrong goes on to mention six other instances within his knowledge, in which the disease had at different times and places been limited, in the same singular manner, to the practice of individuals, while it existed scarcely if at all among the patients of others around them. two of the gentlemen became so convinced of their conveying the contagion, that they withdrew for a time from practice. i find a brief notice, in an american journal, of another series of cases, first mentioned by mr. davies, in the "medical repository." this gentleman stated his conviction that the disease is contagious. "in the autumn of he met with twelve cases, while his medical friends in the neighborhood did not meet with any, 'or at least very few.' he could attribute this circumstance to no other cause than his having been present at the examination, after death, of two cases, some time previous, and of his having imparted the disease to his patients, notwithstanding every precaution." dr. gooch says, "it is not uncommon for the greater number of cases to occur in the practice of one man, whilst the other practitioners of the neighborhood, who are not more skilful or more busy, meet with few or none. a practitioner opened the body of a woman who had died of puerperal fever, and continued to wear the same clothes. a lady whom he delivered a few days afterwards was attacked with and died of a similar disease; two more of his lying-in patients, in rapid succession, met with the same fate; struck by the thought, that he might have carried contagion in his clothes, he instantly changed them, and 'met with no more cases of the kind.' a woman in the country, who was employed as washerwoman and nurse, washed the linen of one who had died of puerperal fever; the next lying-in patient she nursed died of the same disease; a third nursed by her met with the same fate, till the neighborhood, getting afraid of her, ceased to employ her." in the winter of the year , "several instances occurred of its prevalence among the patients of particular practitioners, whilst others who were equally busy met with few or none. one instance of this kind was very remarkable. a general practitioner, in large midwifery practice, lost so many patients from puerperal fever, that he determined to deliver no more for some time, but that his partner should attend in his place. this plan was pursued for one month, during which not a case of the disease occurred in their practice. the elder practitioner, being then sufficiently recovered, returned to his practice, but the first patient he attended was attacked by the disease and died. a physician, who met him in consultation soon afterwards, about a case of a different kind, and who knew nothing of his misfortune, asked him whether puerperal fever was at all prevalent in his neighborhood, on which he burst into tears, and related the above circumstances. "among the cases which i saw this season in consultation, four occurred in one month in the practice of one medical man, and all of them terminated fatally." [lond. med. gaz. may , .] dr. ramsbotham asserted, in a lecture at the london hospital, that he had known the disease spread through a particular district, or be confined to the practice of a particular person, almost every patient being attacked with it, while others had not a single case. it seemed capable, he thought, of conveyance, not only by common modes; but through the dress of the attendants upon the patient. in a letter to be found in the "london medical gazette" for january, , mr. roberton of manchester makes the statement which i here give in a somewhat condensed form. a midwife delivered a woman on the th of december, , who died soon after with the symptoms of puerperal fever. in one month from this date the same midwife delivered thirty women, residing in different parts of an extensive suburb, of which number sixteen caught the disease and all died. these were the only cases which had occurred for a considerable time in manchester. the other midwives connected with the same charitable institution as the woman already mentioned are twenty-five in number, and deliver, on an average, ninety women a week, or about three hundred and eighty a month. none of these women had a case of puerperal fever. "yet all this time this woman was crossing the other midwives in every direction, scores of the patients of the charity being delivered by them in the very same quarters where her cases of fever were happening." mr. roberton remarks, that little more than half the women she delivered during this month took the fever; that on some days all escaped, on others only one or more out of three or four; a circumstance similar to what is seen in other infectious maladies. dr. blundell says, "those who have never made the experiment can have but a faint conception how difficult it is to obtain the exact truth respecting any occurrence in which feelings and interests are concerned. omitting particulars, then, i content myself with remarking, generally, that from more than one district i have received accounts of the prevalence of puerperal fever in the practice of some individuals, while its occurrence in that of others, in the same neighborhood, was not observed. some, as i have been told, have lost ten, twelve, or a greater number of patients, in scarcely broken succession; like their evil genius, the puerperal fever has seemed to stalk behind them wherever they went. some have deemed it prudent to retire for a time from practice. in fine, that this fever may occur spontaneously, i admit; that its infectious nature may be plausibly disputed, i do not deny; but i add, considerately, that in my own family i had rather that those i esteemed the most should be delivered, unaided, in a stable, by the manger-side, than that they should receive the best help, in the fairest apartment, but exposed to the vapors of this pitiless disease. gossiping friends, wet-nurses, monthly nurses, the practitioner himself, these are the channels by which, as i suspect, the infection is principally conveyed." at a meeting of the royal medical and chirurgical society, dr. king mentioned that some years since a practitioner at woolwich lost sixteen patients from puerperal fever in the same year. he was compelled to give up practice for one or two years, his business being divided among the neighboring practitioners. no case of puerperal fever occurred afterwards, neither had any of the neighboring surgeons any cases of this disease. at the same meeting mr. hutchinson mentioned the occurrence of three consecutive cases of puerperal fever, followed subsequently by two others, all in the practice of one accoucheur.[lancet, may , .] dr. lee makes the following statement: "in the last two weeks of september, , five fatal cases of uterine inflammation came under our observation. all the individuals so attacked had been attended in labor by the same midwife, and no example of a febrile or inflammatory disease of a serious nature occurred during that period among the other patients of the westminster general dispensary, who had been attended by the other midwives belonging to that institution." the recurrence of long series of cases like those i have cited, reported by those most interested to disbelieve in contagion, scattered along through an interval of half a century, might have been thought sufficient to satisfy the minds of all inquirers that here was something more than a singular coincidence. but if, on a more extended observation, it should be found that the same ominous groups of cases clustering about individual practitioners were observed in a remote country, at different times, and in widely separated regions, it would seem incredible that any should be found too prejudiced or indolent to accept the solemn truth knelled into their ears by the funeral bells from both sides of the ocean,--the plain conclusion that the physician and the disease entered, hand in hand, into the chamber of the unsuspecting patient. that such series of cases have been observed in this country, and in this neighborhood, i proceed to show. in dr. francis's "notes to denman's midwifery," a passage is cited from dr. hosack, in which he refers to certain puerperal cases which proved fatal to several lying-in women, and in some of which the disease was supposed to be conveyed by the accoucheurs themselves. a writer in the "new york medical and physical journal" for october, , in speaking of the occurrence of puerperal fever, confined to one man's practice, remarks, "we have known cases of this kind occur, though rarely, in new york." i mention these little hints about the occurrence of such cases, partly because they are the first i have met with in american medical literature, but more especially because they serve to remind us that behind the fearful array of published facts there lies a dark list of similar events, unwritten in the records of science, but long remembered by many a desolated fireside. certainly nothing can be more open and explicit than the account given by dr. peirson of salem, of the cases seen by him. in the first nineteen days of january, , he had five consecutive cases of puerperal fever, every patient he attended being attacked, and the three first cases proving fatal. in march of the same year he had two moderate cases, in june, another case, and in july, another, which proved fatal. "up to this period," he remarks, "i am not informed that a single case had occurred in the practice of any other physician. since that period i have had no fatal case in my practice, although i have had several dangerous cases. i have attended in all twenty cases of this disease, of which four have been fatal. i am not aware that there has been any other case in the town of distinct puerperal peritonitis, although i am willing to admit my information may be very defective on this point. i have been told of some i 'mixed cases,' and 'morbid affections after delivery.'" in the "quarterly summary of the transactions of the college of physicians of philadelphia" may be found some most extraordinary developments respecting a series of cases occurring in the practice of a member of that body. dr. condie called the attention of the society to the prevalence, at the present time, of puerperal fever of a peculiarly insidious and malignant character. "in the practice of one gentleman extensively engaged as an obstetrician, nearly every female he has attended in confinement, during several weeks past, within the above limits" (the southern sections and neighboring districts), "had been attacked by the fever." "an important query presents itself, the doctor observed, in reference to the particular form of fever now prevalent. is it, namely, capable of being propagated by contagion, and is a physician who has been in attendance upon a case of the disease warranted in continuing, without interruption, his practice as an obstetrician? dr. c., although not a believer in the contagious character of many of those affections generally supposed to be propagated in this manner, has nevertheless become convinced by the facts that have fallen under his notice, that the puerperal fever now prevailing is capable of being communicated by contagion. how otherwise can be explained the very curious circumstance of the disease in one district being exclusively confined to the practice of a single physician, a fellow of this college, extensively engaged in obstetrical practice,--while no instance of the disease has occurred in the patients under the care of any other accoucheur practising within the same district; scarcely a female that has been delivered for weeks past has escaped an attack?" dr. rutter, the practitioner referred to, "observed that, after the occurrence of a number of cases of the disease in his practice, he had left the city and remained absent for a week, but on returning, no article of clothing he then wore having been used by him before, one of the very first cases of parturition he attended was followed by an attack of the fever, and terminated fatally; he cannot, readily, therefore, believe in the transmission of the disease from female to female, in the person or clothes of the physician." the meeting at which these remarks were made was held on the d of may, . in a letter dated december , , addressed to dr. meigs, and to be found in the "medical examiner," he speaks of "those horrible cases of puerperal fever, some of which you did me the favor to see with me during the past summer," and talks of his experience in the disease, "now numbering nearly seventy cases, all of which have occurred within less than a twelvemonth past." and dr. meigs asserts, on the same page, "indeed, i believe that his practice in that department of the profession was greater than that of any other gentleman, which was probably the cause of his seeing a greater number of the cases." this from a professor of midwifery, who some time ago assured a gentleman whom he met in consultation, that the night on which they met was the eighteenth in succession that he himself had been summoned from his repose, seems hardly satisfactory. i must call the attention of the inquirer most particularly to the quarterly report above referred to, and the letters of dr. meigs and dr. rutter, to be found in the "medical examiner." whatever impression they may produce upon his mind, i trust they will at least convince him that there is some reason for looking into this apparently uninviting subject. at a meeting of the college of physicians just mentioned, dr. warrington stated, that a few days after assisting at an autopsy of puerperal peritonitis, in which he laded out the contents of the abdominal cavity with his hands, he was called upon to deliver three women in rapid succession. all of these women were attacked with different forms of what is commonly called puerperal fever. soon after these he saw two other patients, both on the same day, with the same disease. of these five patients two died. at the same meeting, dr. west mentioned a fact related to him by dr. samuel jackson of northumberland. seven females, delivered by dr. jackson in rapid succession, while practising in northumberland county, were all attacked with puerperal fever, and five of them died. "women," he said, "who had expected me to attend upon them, now becoming alarmed, removed out of my reach, and others sent for a physician residing several miles distant. these women, as well as those attended by midwives; all did well; nor did we hear of any deaths in child-bed within a radius of fifty miles, excepting two, and these i afterwards ascertained to have been caused by other diseases." he underwent, as he thought, a thorough purification, and still his next patient was attacked with the disease and died. he was led to suspect that the contagion might have been carried in the gloves which he had worn in attendance upon the previous cases. two months or more after this he had two other cases. he could find nothing to account for these, unless it were the instruments for giving enemata, which had been used in two of the former cases, and were employed by these patients. when the first case occurred, he was attending and dressing a limb extensively mortified from erysipelas, and went immediately to the accouchement with his clothes and gloves most thoroughly imbued with its efluvia. and here i may mention, that this very dr. samuel jackson of northumberland is one of dr. dewees's authorities against contagion. the three following statements are now for the first time given to the public. all of the cases referred to occurred within this state, and two of the three series in boston and its immediate vicinity. i. the first is a series of cases which took place during the last spring in a town at some distance from this neighborhood. a physician of that town, dr. c., had the following consecutive cases. no. , delivered march , died march . " , " april , " april . " , " " , " " . " , " " , " " . " , " " , " may . " , " " , had some symptoms,(recovered.) " , " may , had some symptoms,(also recovered.) these were the only cases attended by this physician during the period referred to. "they were all attended by him until their termination, with the exception of the patient no. , who fell into the hands of another physician on the d of may. (dr. c. left town for a few days at this time.) dr. c. attended cases immediately before and after the above-named periods, none of which, however, presented any peculiar symptoms of the disease." about the st of july he attended another patient in a neighboring village, who died two or three days after delivery. the first patient, it is stated, was delivered on the th of march. "on the th, dr. c. made the autopsy of a man who died suddenly, sick only forty-eight hours; had oedema of the thigh, and gangrene extending from a little above the ankle into the cavity of the abdomen." dr. c. wounded himself, very slightly, in the right hand during the autopsy. the hand was quite painful the night following, during his attendance on the patient no. . he did not see this patient after the th, being confined to the house, and very sick from the wound just mentioned, from this time until the d of april. several cases of erysipelas occurred in the house where the autopsy mentioned above took place, soon after the examination. there were also many cases of erysipelas in town at the time of the fatal puerperal cases which have been mentioned. the nurse who laid out the body of the patient no. was taken on the evening of the same day with sore throat and erysipelas, and died in ten days from the first attack. the nurse who laid out the body of the patient no. was taken on the day following with symptoms like those of this patient, and died in a week, without any external marks of erysipelas. "no other cases of similar character with those of dr. c. occurred in the practice of any of the physicians in the town or vicinity at the time. deaths following confinement have occurred in the practice of other physicians during the past year, but they were not cases of puerperal fever. no post-mortem examinations were held in any of these puerperal cases." some additional statements in this letter are deserving of insertion. "a physician attended a woman in the immediate neighborhood of the cases numbered , , and . this patient was confined the morning of march st, and died on the night of march th. it is doubtful whether this should be considered a case of puerperal fever. she had suffered from canker, indigestion, and diarrhoea for a year previous to her delivery. her complaints were much aggravated for two or three months previous to delivery; she had become greatly emaciated, and weakened to such an extent that it had not been expected that she would long survive her confinement, if indeed she reached that period. her labor was easy enough; she flowed a good deal, seemed exceedingly prostrated, had ringing in the ears, and other symptoms of exhaustion; the pulse was quick and small. on the second and third day there was some tenderness and tumefaction of the abdomen, which increased somewhat on the fourth and fifth. he had cases in midwifery before and after this, which presented nothing peculiar." it is also mentioned in the same letter, that another physician had a case during the last summer and another last fall, both of which recovered. another gentleman reports a case last december, a second case five weeks, and another three weeks since. all these recovered. a case also occurred very recently in the practice of a physician in the village where the eighth patient of dr. c. resides, which proved fatal. "this patient had some patches of erysipelas on the legs and arms. the same physician has delivered three cases since, which have all done well. there have been no other cases in this town or its vicinity recently. there have been some few cases of erysipelas." it deserves notice that the partner of dr. c., who attended the autopsy of the man above mentioned and took an active part in it; who also suffered very slightly from a prick under the thumb-nail received during the examination, had twelve cases of midwifery between march th and april th, all of which did well, and presented no peculiar symptoms. it should also be stated, that during these seventeen days he was in attendance on all the cases of erysipelas in the house where the autopsy had been performed. i owe these facts to the prompt kindness of a gentleman whose intelligence and character are sufficient guaranty for their accuracy. the two following letters were addressed to my friend dr. scorer, by the gentleman in whose practice the cases of puerperal fever occurred. his name renders it unnecessary to refer more particularly to these gentlemen, who on their part have manifested the most perfect freedom and courtesy in affording these accounts of their painful experience. "january , . ii. . . . "the time to which you allude was in . the first case was in february, during a very cold time. she was confined the th, and died the th. between the th and th of this month, i attended six women in labor, all of whom did well except the last, as also two who were confined march st and th. mrs. e., confined february th, sickened, and died march th. the next day, th, i inspected the body, and the night after attended a lady, mrs. b., who sickened, and died th. the th, i attended another, mrs. g., who sickened, but recovered. march th, i went from mrs. g.'s room to attend a mrs. h., who sickened, and died st. the th, i inspected mrs. b. on the th, i went directly from mrs. h.'s room to attend another lady, mrs. g., who also sickened, and died d. while mrs. b. was sick, on th, i went directly from her room a few rods, and attended another woman, who was not sick. up to th of this month i wore the same clothes. i now refused to attend any labor, and did not till april st, when, having thoroughly cleansed myself, i resumed my practice, and had no more puerperal fever. "the cases were not confined to a narrow space. the two nearest were half a mile from each other, and half that distance from my residence. the others were from two to three miles apart, and nearly that distance from my residence. there were no other cases in their immediate vicinity which came to my knowledge. the general health of all the women was pretty good, and all the labors as good as common, except the first. this woman, in consequence of my not arriving in season, and the child being half-born at some time before i arrived, was very much exposed to the cold at the time of confinement, and afterwards, being confined in a very open, cold room. of the six cases you perceive only one recovered. "in the winter of two of my patients had puerperal fever, one very badly, the other not so badly. both recovered. one other had swelled leg, or phlegmasia dolens, and one or two others did not recover as well as usual. "in the summer of another disastrous period occurred in my practice. july st, i attended a lady in labor, who was afterwards quite ill and feverish; but at the time i did not consider her case a decided puerperal fever. on the th, i attended one who did well. on the th, one who was seriously sick. this was also an equivocal case, apparently arising from constipation and irritation of the rectum. these women were ten miles apart and five from my residence. on th and th, two who did well. on th, i attended another. this was a severe labor, and followed by unequivocal puerperal fever, or peritonitis. she recovered. august d and d, in about twenty-four hours i attended four persons. two of them did very well; one was attacked with some of the common symptoms, which however subsided in a day or two, and the other had decided puerperal fever, but recovered. this woman resided five miles from me. up to this time i wore the same coat. all my other clothes had frequently been changed. on th, i attended two women, one of whom was not sick at all; but the other, mrs. l., was afterwards taken ill. on th, i attended a lady, who did very well. i had previously changed all my clothes, and had no garment on which had been in a puerperal room. on th, i was called to mrs. s., in labor. while she was ill, i left her to visit mrs. l., one of the ladies who was confined on th. mrs. l. had been more unwell than usual, but i had not considered her case anything more than common till this visit. i had on a surtout at this visit, which, on my return to mrs. s., i left in another room. mrs. s. was delivered on th with forceps. these women both died of decided puerperal fever. "while i attended these women in their fevers, i changed my clothes, and washed my hands in a solution of chloride of lime after each visit. i attended seven women in labor during this period, all of whom recovered without sickness. "in my practice i have had several single cases of puerperal fever, some of whom have died and some have recovered. until the year i had no suspicion that the disease could be communicated from one patient to another by a nurse or midwife; but i now think the foregoing facts strongly favor that idea. i was so much convinced of this fact, that i adopted the plan before related. "i believe my own health was as good as usual at each of the above periods. i have no recollections to the contrary. "i believe i have answered all your questions. i have been more particular on some points perhaps than necessary; but i thought you could form your own opinion better than to take mine. in i wrote to dr. charming a more particular statement of my cases. if i have not answered your questions sufficiently, perhaps dr. c. may have my letter to him, and you can find your answer there." [in a letter to myself, this gentleman also stated, "i do not recollect that there was any erysipelas or any other disease particularly prevalent at the time."] "boston, february , . iii. "my dear sir,--i received a note from you last evening, requesting me to answer certain questions therein proposed, touching the cases of puerperal fever which came under my observation the past summer. it gives me pleasure to comply with your request, so far as it is in my power so to do, but, owing to the hurry in preparing for a journey, the notes of the cases i had then taken were lost or mislaid. the principal facts, however, are too vivid upon my recollection to be soon forgotten. i think, therefore, that i shall be able to give you all the information you may require. "all the cases that occurred in my practice took place between the th of may and the th of june . "they were not confined to any particular part of the city. the first two cases were patients residing at the south end, the next was at the extreme north end, one living in sea street and the other in roxbury. the following is the order in which they occurred: "case . mrs._____ was confined on the th of may, at o'clock, p. m., after a natural labor of six hours. at o'clock at night, on the th (thirty-one hours after confinement), she was taken with severe chill, previous to which she was as comfortable as women usually are under the circumstances. she died on the th. "case . mrs._____ was confined on the th of june (four weeks after mrs. c.), at a. m., after a natural, but somewhat severe labor of five hours. at o'clock, on the morning of the th, she had a chill. died on the th. "case . mrs._____ , confined on the th of june, was comfortable until the th, when symptoms of puerperal fever were manifest. she died on the th. "case . mrs._____ , confined june th, at o'clock, a. m., was doing well until the morning of the th. she died on the evening of the st. "case . mrs._____ was confined with her fifth child on the th of june, at o'clock in the evening. this patient had been attacked with puerperal fever, at three of her previous confinements, but the disease yielded to depletion and other remedies without difficulty. this time, i regret to say, i was not so fortunate. she was not attacked, as were the other patients, with a chill, but complained of extreme pain in abdomen, and tenderness on pressure, almost from the moment of her confinement. in this as in the other cases, the disease resisted all remedies, and she died in great distress on the d of the same month. owing to the extreme heat of the season, and my own indisposition, none of the subjects were examined after death. dr. channing, who was in attendance with me on the three last cases, proposed to have a post-mortem examination of the subject of case no. , but from some cause which i do not now recollect it was not obtained. "you wish to know whether i wore the same clothes when attending the different cases. i cannot positively say, but i should think i did not, as the weather became warmer after the first two cases; i therefore think it probable that i made a change of at least a part of my dress. i have had no other case of puerperal fever in my own practice for three years, save those above related, and i do not remember to have lost a patient before with this disease. while absent, last july, i visited two patients sick with puerperal fever, with a friend of mine in the country. both of them recovered. "the cases that i have recorded were not confined to any particular constitution or temperament, but it seized upon the strong and the weak, the old and the young,--one being over forty years, and the youngest under eighteen years of age . . . . if the disease is of an erysipelatous nature, as many suppose, contagionists may perhaps find some ground for their belief in the fact, that, for two weeks previous to my first case of puerperal fever, i had been attending a severe case of erysipelas, and the infection may have been conveyed through me to the patient; but, on the other hand, why is not this the case with other physicians, or with the same physician at all times, for since my return from the country i have had a more inveterate case of erysipelas than ever before, and no difficulty whatever has attended any of my midwifery cases?" i am assured, on unquestionable authority, that "about three years since, a gentleman in extensive midwifery business, in a neighboring state, lost in the course of a few weeks eight patients in child-bed, seven of them being undoubted cases of puerperal fever. no other physician of the town lost a single patient of this disease during the same period." and from what i have heard in conversation with some of our most experienced practitioners, i am inclined to think many cases of the kind might be brought to light by extensive inquiry. this long catalogue of melancholy histories assumes a still darker aspect when we remember how kindly nature deals with the parturient female, when she is not immersed in the virulent atmosphere of an impure lying-in hospital, or poisoned in her chamber by the unsuspected breath of contagion. from all causes together, not more than four deaths in a thousand births and miscarriages happened in england and wales during the period embraced by the first "report of the registrar-general." in the second report the mortality was shown to be about five in one thousand. in the dublin lying-in hospital, during the seven years of dr. collins's mastership, there was one case of puerperal fever to deliveries, or less than six to the thousand, and one death from this disease in cases, or between three and four to the thousand a yet during this period the disease was endemic in the hospital, and might have gone on to rival the horrors of the pestilence of the maternite, had not the poison been destroyed by a thorough purification. in private practice, leaving out of view the cases that are to be ascribed to the self-acting system of propagation, it would seem that the disease must be far from common. mr. white of manchester says, "out of the whole number of lying-in patients whom i have delivered (and i may safely call it a great one), i have never lost one, nor to the best of my recollection has one been greatly endangered, by the puerperal, miliary, low nervous, putrid malignant, or milk fever." dr. joseph clarke informed dr. collins, that in the course of forty-five years' most extensive practice he lost but four patients from this disease. one of the most eminent practitioners of glasgow, who has been engaged in very extensive practice for upwards of a quarter of a century, testifies that he never saw more than twelve cases of real puerperal fever.[lancet, may , ] i have myself been told by two gentlemen practising in this city, and having for many years a large midwifery business, that they had neither of them lost a patient from this disease, and by one of them that he had only seen it in consultation with other physicians. in five hundred cases of midwifery, of which dr. storer has given an abstract in the first number of this journal, there was only one instance of fatal puerperal peritonitis. in the view of these facts, it does appear a singular coincidence, that one man or woman should have ten, twenty, thirty, or seventy cases of this rare disease following his or her footsteps with the keenness of a beagle, through the streets and lanes of a crowded city, while the scores that cross the same paths on the same errands know it only by name. it is a series of similar coincidences which has led us to consider the dagger, the musket, and certain innocent-looking white powders as having some little claim to be regarded as dangerous. it is the practical inattention to similar coincidences which has given rise to the unpleasant but often necessary documents called indictments, which has sharpened a form of the cephalotome sometimes employed in the case of adults, and adjusted that modification of the fillet which delivers the world of those who happen to be too much in the way while such striking coincidences are taking place. i shall now mention a few instances in which the disease appears to have been conveyed by the process of direct inoculation. dr. campbell of edinburgh states that in october, , he assisted at the post-mortem examination of a patient who died with puerperal fever. he carried the pelvic viscera in his pocket to the class-room. the same evening he attended a woman in labor without previously changing his clothes; this patient died. the next morning he delivered a woman with the forceps; she died also, and of many others who were seized with the disease within a few weeks, three shared the same fate in succession. in june, , he assisted some of his pupils at the autopsy of a case of puerperal fever. he was unable to wash his hands with proper care, for want of the necessary accommodations. on getting home he found that two patients required his assistance. he went without further ablution, or changing his clothes; both these patients died with puerperal fever. this same dr. campbell is one of dr. churchill's authorities against contagion. mr. roberton says that in one instance within his knowledge a practitioner passed the catheter for a patient with puerperal fever late in the evening; the same night he attended a lady who had the symptoms of the disease on the second day. in another instance a surgeon was called while in the act of inspecting the body of a woman who had died of this fever, to attend a labor; within forty-eight hours this patient was seized with the fever.' on the th of march, , a medical practitioner examined the body of a woman who had died a few days after delivery, from puerperal peritonitis. on the evening of the th he delivered a patient, who was seized with puerperal fever on the th, and died on the th. between this period and the th of april, the same practitioner attended two other patients, both of whom were attacked with the same disease and died. in the autumn of a physician was present at the examination of a case of puerperal fever, dissected out the organs, and assisted in sewing up the body. he had scarcely reached home when he was summoned to attend a young lady in labor. in sixteen hours she was attacked with the symptoms of puerperal fever, and narrowly escaped with her life. in december, , a midwife, who had attended two fatal cases of puerperal fever at the british lying-in hospital, examined a patient who had just been admitted, to ascertain if labor had commenced. this patient remained two days in the expectation that labor would come on, when she returned home and was then suddenly taken in labor and delivered before she could set out for the hospital. she went on favorably for two days, and was then taken with puerperal fever and died in thirty-six hours. "a young practitioner, contrary to advice, examined the body of a patient who had died from puerperal fever; there was no epidemic at the time; the case appeared to be purely sporadic. he delivered three other women shortly afterwards; they all died with puerperal fever, the symptoms of which broke out very soon after labor. the patients of his colleague did well, except one, where he assisted to remove some coagula from the uterus; she was attacked in the same manner as those whom he had attended, and died also." the writer in the "british and foreign medical review," from whom i quote this statement,--and who is no other than dr. rigby, adds, "we trust that this fact alone will forever silence such doubts, and stamp the well-merited epithet of 'criminal,' as above quoted, upon such attempts." [brit. and for. medical review for jan. , p. .] from the cases given by mr. ingleby, i select the following. two gentlemen, after having been engaged in conducting the post-mortem examination of a case of puerperal fever, went in the same dress, each respectively, to a case of midwifery. "the one patient was seized with the rigor about thirty hours afterwards. the other patient was seized with a rigor the third morning after delivery. one recovered, one died." [edin. med. and surg. journal, april, .] one of these same gentlemen attended another woman in the same clothes two days after the autopsy referred to. "the rigor did not take place until the evening of the fifth day from the first visit. result fatal." these cases belonged to a series of seven, the first of which was thought to have originated in a case of erysipelas. "several cases of a mild character followed the foregoing seven, and their nature being now most unequivocal, my friend declined visiting all midwifery cases for a time, and there was no recurrence of the disease." these cases occurred in . five of them proved fatal. mr. ingleby gives another series of seven eases which occurred to a practitioner in , the first of which was also attributed to his having opened several erysipelatous abscesses a short time previously. i need not refer to the case lately read before this society, in which a physician went, soon after performing an autopsy of a case of puerperal fever, to a woman in labor, who was seized with the same disease and perished. the forfeit of that error has been already paid. at a meeting of the medical and chirurgical society before referred to, dr. merriman related an instance occurring in his own practice, which excites a reasonable suspicion that two lives were sacrificed to a still less dangerous experiment. he was at the examination of a case of puerperal fever at two o'clock in the afternoon. he took care not to touch the body. at nine o'clock the same evening he attended a woman in labor; she was so nearly delivered that he had scarcely anything to do. the next morning she had severe rigors, and in forty-eight hours she was a corpse. her infant had erysipelas and died in two days. [lancet, may , .] in connection with the facts which have been stated, it seems proper to allude to the dangerous and often fatal effects which have followed from wounds received in the post-mortem examination of patients who have died of puerperal fever. the fact that such wounds are attended with peculiar risk has been long noticed. i find that chaussier was in the habit of cautioning his students against the danger to which they were exposed in these dissections. [stein, l'art d'accoucher, ; dict. des sciences medicales, art. "puerperal."] the head pharmacien of the hotel dieu, in his analysis of the fluid effused in puerperal peritonitis, says that practitioners are convinced of its deleterious qualities, and that it is very dangerous to apply it to the denuded skin. [journal de pharmacie, january, .] sir benjamin brodie speaks of it as being well known that the inoculation of lymph or pus from the peritoneum of a puerperal patient is often attended with dangerous and even fatal symptoms. three cases in confirmation of this statement, two of them fatal, have been reported to this society within a few months. of about fifty cases of injuries of this kind, of various degrees of severity, which i have collected from different sources, at least twelve were instances of infection from puerperal peritonitis. some of the others are so stated as to render it probable that they may have been of the same nature. five other cases were of peritoneal inflammation; three in males. three were what was called enteritis, in one instance complicated with erysipelas; but it is well known that this term has been often used to signify inflammation of the peritoneum covering the intestines. on the other hand, no case of typhus or typhoid fever is mentioned as giving rise to dangerous consequences, with the exception of the single instance of an undertaker mentioned by mr. travers, who seems to have been poisoned by a fluid which exuded from the body. the other accidents were produced by dissection, or some other mode of contact with bodies of patients who had died of various affections. they also differed much in severity, the cases of puerperal origin being among the most formidable and fatal. now a moment's reflection will show that the number of cases of serious consequences ensuing from the dissection of the bodies of those who had perished of puerperal fever is so vastly disproportioned to the relatively small number of autopsies made in this complaint as compared with typhus or pneumonia (from which last disease not one case of poisoning happened), and still more from all diseases put together, that the conclusion is irresistible that a most fearful morbid poison is often generated in the course of this disease. whether or not it is sui generis, confined to this disease, or produced in some others, as, for instance, erysipelas, i need, not stop to inquire. in connection with this may be taken the following statement of dr. rigby. "that the discharges from a patient under puerperal fever are in the highest degree contagious we have abundant evidence in the history of lying-in hospitals. the puerperal abscesses are also contagious, and may be communicated to healthy lying-in women by washing with the same sponge; this fact has been repeatedly proved in the vienna hospital; but they are equally communicable to women not pregnant; on more than one occasion the women engaged in washing the soiled bed-linen of the general lying-in hospital have been attacked with abscess in the fingers or hands, attended with rapidly spreading inflammation of the cellular tissue." now add to all this the undisputed fact, that within the walls of lying-in hospitals there is often generated a miasm, palpable as the chlorine used to destroy it, tenacious so as in some cases almost to defy extirpation, deadly in some institutions as the plague; which has killed women in a private hospital of london so fast that they were buried two in one coffin to conceal its horrors; which enabled tonnelle to record two hundred and twenty-two autopsies at the maternite of paris; which has led dr. lee to express his deliberate conviction that the loss of life occasioned by these institutions completely defeats the objects of their founders; and out of this train of cumulative evidence, the multiplied groups of cases clustering about individuals, the deadly results of autopsies, the inoculation by fluids from the living patient, the murderous poison of hospitals,--does there not result a conclusion that laughs all sophistry to scorn, and renders all argument an insult? i have had occasion to mention some instances in which there was an apparent relation between puerperal fever and erysipelas. the length to which this paper has extended does not allow me to enter into the consideration of this most important subject. i will only say, that the evidence appears to me altogether satisfactory that some most fatal series of puerperal fever have been produced by an infection originating in the matter or effluvia of erysipelas. in evidence of some connection between the two diseases, i need not go back to the older authors, as pouteau or gordon, but will content myself with giving the following references, with their dates; from which it will be seen that the testimony has been constantly coming before the profession for the last few years. "london cyclopaedia of practical medicine," article puerperal fever, . mr. ceeley's account of the puerperal fever at aylesbury. "lancet," . dr. ramsbotham's lecture. "london medical gazette," . mr. yates ackerly's letter in the same journal, . mr. ingleby on epidemic puerperal fever. "edinburgh medical and surgical journal," . mr. paley's letter. "london medical gazette," . remarks at the medical and chirurgical society. "lancet," . dr. rigby's "system of midwifery." . "nunneley on erysipelas,"--a work which contains a large number of references on the subject. . "british and foreign quarterly review," . dr. s. jackson of northumberland, as already quoted from the summary of the college of physicians, . and lastly, a startling series of cases by mr. storrs of doncaster, to be, found in the "american journal of the medical sciences" for january, . the relation of puerperal fever with other continued fevers would seem to be remote and rarely obvious. hey refers to two cases of synochus occurring in the royal infirmary of edinburgh, in women who had attended upon puerperal patients. dr. collins refers to several instances in which puerperal fever has appeared to originate from a continued proximity to patients suffering with typhus. such occurrences as those just mentioned, though most important to be remembered and guarded against, hardly attract our notice in the midst of the gloomy facts by which they are surrounded. of these facts, at the risk of fatiguing repetitions, i have summoned a sufficient number, as i believe, to convince the most incredulous that every attempt to disguise the truth which underlies them all is useless. it is true that some of the historians of the disease, especially hulme, hull, and leake, in england; tonnelle, duges, and baudelocque, in france, profess not to have found puerperal fever contagious. at the most they give us mere negative facts, worthless against an extent of evidence which now overlaps the widest range of doubt, and doubles upon itself in the redundancy of superfluous demonstration. examined in detail, this and much of the show of testimony brought up to stare the daylight of conviction out of countenance, proves to be in a great measure unmeaning and inapplicable, as might be easily shown were it necessary. nor do i feel the necessity of enforcing the conclusion which arises spontaneously from the facts which have been enumerated, by formally citing the opinions of those grave authorities who have for the last half-century been sounding the unwelcome truth it has cost so many lives to establish. "it is to the british practitioner," says dr. rigby, "that we are indebted for strongly insisting upon this important and dangerous character of puerperal fever." the names of gordon, john clarke, denman, burns, young, hamilton, haighton, good, waller; blundell, gooch, ramsbotham, douglas, lee, ingleby, locock, abercrombie, alison; travers, rigby, and watson, many of whose writings i have already referred to, may have some influence with those who prefer the weight of authorities to the simple deductions of their own reason from the facts laid before them. a few continental writers have adopted similar conclusions. it gives me pleasure to remember, that while the doctrine has been unceremoniously discredited in one of the leading journals, and made very light of by teachers in two of the principal medical schools, of this country, dr. channing has for many years inculcated, and enforced by examples, the danger to be apprehended and the precautions to be taken in the disease under consideration. i have no wish to express any harsh feeling with regard to the painful subject which has come before us. if there are any so far excited by the story of these dreadful events that they ask for some word of indignant remonstrance to show that science does not turn the hearts of its followers into ice or stone, let me remind them that such words have been uttered by those who speak with an authority i could not claim. it is as a lesson rather than as a reproach that i call up the memory of these irreparable errors and wrongs. no tongue can tell the heart-breaking calamity they have caused; they have closed the eyes just opened upon a new world of love and happiness; they have bowed the strength of manhood into the dust; they have cast the helplessness of infancy into the stranger's arms, or bequeathed it, with less cruelty, the death of its dying parent. there is no tone deep enough for regret, and no voice loud enough for warning. the woman about to become a mother, or with her new-born infant upon her bosom, should be the object of trembling care and sympathy wherever she bears her tender burden, or stretches her aching limbs. the very outcast of the streets has pity upon her sister in degradation, when the seal of promised maternity is impressed upon her. the remorseless vengeance of the law, brought down upon its victim by a machinery as sure as destiny, is arrested in its fall at a word which reveals her transient claim for mercy. the solemn prayer of the liturgy singles out her sorrows from the multiplied trials of life, to plead for her in the hour of peril. god forbid that any member of the profession to which she trusts her life, doubly precious at that eventful period, should hazard it negligently, unadvisedly, or selfishly! there may be some among those whom i address who are disposed to ask the question, what course are we to follow in relation to this matter? the facts are before them, and the answer must be left to their own judgment and conscience. if any should care to know my own conclusions, they are the following; and in taking the liberty to state them very freely and broadly, i would ask the inquirer to examine them as freely in the light of the evidence which has been laid before him. . a physician holding himself in readiness to attend cases of midwifery should never take any active part in the post-mortem examination of cases of puerperal fever. . if a physician is present at such autopsies, he should use thorough ablution, change every article of dress, and allow twenty-four hours or more to elapse before attending to any case of midwifery. it may be well to extend the same caution to cases of simple peritonitis. . similar precautions should be taken after the autopsy or surgical treatment of cases of erysipelas, if the physician is obliged to unite such offices with his obstetrical duties, which is in the highest degree inexpedient. . on the occurrence of a single case of puerperal fever in his practice, the physician is bound to consider the next female he attends in labor, unless some weeks at least have elapsed, as in danger of being infected by him, and it is his duty to take every precaution to diminish her risk of disease and death. . if within a short period two cases of puerperal fever happen close to each other, in the practice of the same physician, the disease not existing or prevailing in the neighborhood, he would do wisely to relinquish his obstetrical practice for at least one month, and endeavor to free himself by every available means from any noxious influence he may carry about with him. . the occurrence of three or more closely connected cases, in the practice of one individual, no others existing in the neighborhood, and no other sufficient cause being alleged for the coincidence, is prima facie evidence that he is the vehicle of contagion. . it is the duty of the physician to take every precaution that the disease shall not be introduced by nurses or other assistants, by making proper inquiries concerning them, and giving timely warning of every suspected source of danger. . whatever indulgence may be granted to those who have heretofore been the ignorant causes of so much misery, the time has come when the existence of a private pestilence in the sphere of a single physician should be looked upon, not as a misfortune, but a crime; and in the knowledge of such occurrences the duties of the practitioner to his profession should give way to his paramount obligations to society. additional references and cases. fifth annual report of the registrar-general of england. . appendix. letter from william farr, esq.--several new series of cases are given in the letter of mr. stows, contained in the appendix to this report. mr. stows suggests precautions similar to those i have laid down, and these precautions are strongly enforced by mr. farr, who is, therefore, obnoxious to the same criticisms as myself. hall and dexter, in am. journal of med. sc. for january, .--cases of puerperal fever seeming to originate in erysipelas. elkington, of birmingham, in provincial med. journal, cited in am. journ. med. se. for april, .--six cases in less than a fortnight, seeming to originate in a case of erysipelas. west's reports, in brit. and for. med. review for october, , and january, .--affection of the arm, resembling malignant pustule, after removing the placenta of a patient who died from puerperal fever. reference to cases at wurzburg, as proving contagion, and to keiller's cases in the monthly journal for february, , as showing connection of puerperal fever and erysipelas. kneeland.--contagiousness of puerperal fever. am. jour. med. se., january, . also, connection between puerperal fever and epidemic erysipelas. ibid., april, . robert storrs.--contagious effects of puerperal fever on the male subject; or on persons not child-bearing. (from provincial med. and surg. journal.) am. jour. med. sc., january, , . numerous cases. see also dr. reid's case in same journal for april, . routh's paper in proc. of royal med. chir. soc., am. jour. med. sc., april, , also in b. and f. med. chir. review, april, . hill, of leuchars.--a series of cases illustrating the contagious nature of erysipelas and of puerperal fever, and their intimate pathological connection. (from monthly journal of med. sc.) am. jour. med. se., july, . skoda on the causes of puerperal fever. (peritonitis in rabbits, from inoculation with different morbid secretions.) am. jour. med. se., october, . arneth. paper read before the national academy of medicine. annales d'hygiene, tome lxv. e partie. (means of disinfection proposed by m. "semmeliveis" (semmelweiss.) lotions of chloride of lime and use of nail-brush before admission to lying-in wards. alleged sudden and great decrease of mortality from puerperal fever. cause of disease attributed to inoculation with cadaveric matters.) see also routh's paper, mentioned above. moir. remarks at a meeting of the edinburgh medico-chirurgical society. refers to cases of dr. kellie, of leith. sixteen in succession, all fatal. also to several instances of individual pupils having had a succession of cases in various quarters of the town, while others, practising as extensively in the same localities, had none. also to several special cases not mentioned elsewhere. am. jour. med. se. for october, . (from new monthly journal of med. science.) simpson.--observations at a meeting of the edinburgh obstetrical society. (an "eminent gentleman," according to dr. meigs, whose "name is as well known in america as in (his) native land." obstetrics. phil. , pp. , .) the student is referred to this paper for a valuable resume of many of the facts, and the necessary inferences, relating to this subject. also for another series of cases, mr. sidey's, five or six in rapid succession. dr. simpson attended the dissection of two of dr. sidey's cases, and freely handled the diseased parts. his next four child-bed patients were affected with puerperal fever, and it was the first time he had seen it in practice. as dr. simpson is a gentleman (dr. meigs, as above), and as "a gentleman's hands are clean" (dr. meigs' sixth letter), it follows that a gentleman with clean hands may carry the disease. am. jour. med. sc., october, . peddle.--the five or six cases of dr. sidey, followed by the four of dr. simpson, did not end the series. a practitioner in leith having examined in dr. simpson's house, a portion of the uterus obtained from one of the patients, had immediately afterwards three fatal cases of puerperal fever. dr. veddie referred to two distinct series of consecutive cases in his own practice. he had since taken precautions, and not met with any such cases. am. jour. med. sc., october, . copland. considers it proved that puerperal fever maybe propagated by the hands and the clothes, or either, of a third person, the bed-clothes or body-clothes of a patient. mentions a new series of cases, one of which he saw, with the practitioner who had attended them. she was the sixth he had had within a few days. all died. dr. copland insisted that contagion had caused these cases; advised precautionary measures, and the practitioner had no other cases for a considerable time. considers it criminal, after the evidence adduced,--which he could have quadrupled,--and the weight of authority brought forward, for a practitioner to be the medium of transmitting contagion and death to his patients. dr. copland lays down rules similar to those suggested by myself, and is therefore entitled to the same epithet for so doing. medical dictionary, new york, . article, puerperal states and diseases. if there is any appetite for facts so craving as to be yet unappeased,--lesotho, necdum satiata,--more can be obtained. dr. hodge remarks that "the frequency and importance of this singular circumstance (that the disease is occasionally more prevalent with one practitioner than another) has been exceedingly overrated." more than thirty strings of cases, more than two hundred and fifty sufferers from puerperal fever, more than one hundred and thirty deaths appear as the results of a sparing estimate of such among the facts i have gleaned as could be numerically valued. these facts constitute, we may take it for granted, but a small fraction of those that have actually occurred. the number of them might be greater, but "'t is enough, 't will serve," in mercutio's modest phrase, so far as frequency is concerned. for a just estimate of the importance of the singular circumstance, it might be proper to consult the languid survivors, the widowed husbands, and the motherless children, as well as "the unfortunate accoucheur." iii currents and counter-currents in medical science an address delivered before the massachusetts medical society, at the annual meeting, may , . "facultate magis quam violentia." hippocrates. our annual meeting never fails to teach us at least one lesson. the art whose province it is to heal and to save cannot protect its own ranks from the inroads of disease and the waste of the destroyer. seventeen of our associates have been taken from us since our last anniversary. most of them followed their calling in the villages or towns that lie among the hills or along the inland streams. only those who have lived the kindly, mutually dependent life of the country, can tell how near the physician who is the main reliance in sickness of all the families throughout a thinly settled region comes to the hearts of the people among whom he labors, how they value him while living, how they cherish his memory when dead. for these friends of ours who have gone before, there is now no more toil; they start from their slumbers no more at the cry of pain; they sally forth no more into the storms; they ride no longer over the lonely roads that knew them so well; their wheels are rusting on their axles or rolling with other burdens; their watchful eyes are closed to all the sorrows they lived to soothe. not one of these was famous in the great world; some were almost unknown beyond their own immediate circle. but they have left behind them that loving remembrance which is better than fame, and if their epitaphs are chiselled briefly in stone, they are written at full length on living tablets in a thousand homes to which they carried their ever-welcome aid and sympathy. one whom we have lost, very widely known and honored, was a leading practitioner of this city. his image can hardly be dimmed in your recollection, as he stood before you only three years ago, filling the same place with which i am now honored. to speak of him at all worthily, would be to write the history of professional success, won without special aid at starting, by toil, patience, good sense, pure character, and pleasing manners; won in a straight uphill ascent, without one breathing-space until he sat down, not to rest, but to die. if prayers could have shielded him from the stroke, if love could have drawn forth the weapon, and skill could have healed the wound, this passing tribute might have been left to other lips and to another generation. let us hope that our dead have at last found that rest which neither summer nor winter, nor day nor night, had granted to their unending earthly labors! and let us remember that our duties to our brethren do not cease when they become unable to share our toils, or leave behind them in want and woe those whom their labor had supported. it is honorable to the profession that it has organized an association a for the relief of its suffering members and their families; it owes this tribute to the ill-rewarded industry and sacrifices of its less fortunate brothers who wear out health and life in the service of humanity. i have great pleasure in referring to this excellent movement, which gives our liberal profession a chance to show its liberality, and serves to unite us all, the successful and those whom fortune has cast down, in the bonds of a true brotherhood. a medical man, as he goes about his daily business after twenty years of practice, is apt to suppose that he treats his patients according to the teachings of his experience. no doubt this is true to some extent; to what extent depending much on the qualities of the individual. but it is easy to prove that the prescriptions of even wise physicians are very commonly founded on something quite different from experience. experience must be based on the permanent facts of nature. but a glance at the prevalent modes of treatment of any two successive generations will show that there is a changeable as well as a permanent element in the art of healing; not merely changeable as diseases vary, or as new remedies are introduced, but changeable by the going out of fashion of special remedies, by the decadence of a popular theory from which their fitness was deduced, or other cause not more significant. there is no reason to suppose that the present time is essentially different in this respect from any other. much, therefore, which is now very commonly considered to be the result of experience, will be recognized in the next, or in some succeeding generation, as no such result at all, but as a foregone conclusion, based on some prevalent belief or fashion of the time. there are, of course, in every calling, those who go about the work of the day before them, doing it according to the rules of their craft, and asking no questions of the past or of the future, or of the aim and end to which their special labor is contributing. these often consider and call themselves practical men. they pull the oars of society, and have no leisure to watch the currents running this or that way; let theorists and philosophers attend to them. in the mean time, however, these currents are carrying the practical men, too, and all their work may be thrown away, and worse than thrown away, if they do not take knowledge of them and get out of the wrong ones and into the right ones as soon as they may. sir edward parry and his party were going straight towards the pole in one of their arctic expeditions, travelling at the rate of ten miles a day. but the ice over which they travelled was drifting straight towards the equator, at the rate of twelve miles a day, and yet no man among them would have known that he was travelling two miles a day backward unless he had lifted his eyes from the track in which he was plodding. it is not only going backward that the plain practical workman is liable to, if he will not look up and look around; he may go forward to ends he little dreams of. it is a simple business for a mason to build up a niche in a wall; but what if, a hundred years afterwards when the wall is torn down, the skeleton of a murdered man drop out of the niche? it was a plain practical piece of carpentry for a jewish artisan to fit two pieces of timber together according to the legal pattern in the time of pontius pilate; he asked no questions, perhaps, but we know what burden the cross bore on the morrow! and so, with subtler tools than trowels or axes, the statesman who works in policy without principle, the theologian who works in forms without a soul, the physician who, calling himself a practical man, refuses to recognize the larger laws which govern his changing practice, may all find that they have been building truth into the wall, and hanging humanity upon the cross. the truth is, that medicine, professedly founded on observation, is as sensitive to outside influences, political, religious, philosophical, imaginative, as is the barometer to the changes of atmospheric density. theoretically it ought to go on its own straightforward inductive path, without regard to changes of government or to fluctuations of public opinion. but look a moment while i clash a few facts together, and see if some sparks do not reveal by their light a closer relation between the medical sciences and the conditions of society and the general thought of the time, than would at first be suspected. observe the coincidences between certain great political and intellectual periods and the appearance of illustrious medical reformers and teachers. it was in the age of pericles, of socrates, of plato, of phidias, that hippocrates gave to medical knowledge the form which it retained for twenty centuries. with the world-conquering alexander, the world-embracing aristotle, appropriating anatomy and physiology, among his manifold spoils of study, marched abreast of his royal pupil to wider conquests. under the same ptolemies who founded the alexandrian library and museum, and ordered the septuagint version of the hebrew scriptures, the infallible herophilus ["contradicere herophilo in anatomicis, est contradicere evangelium," was a saying of fallopius.] made those six hundred dissections of which tertullian accused him, and the sagacious erasistratus introduced his mild antiphlogistic treatment in opposition to the polypharmacy and antidotal practice of his time. it is significant that the large-minded galen should have been the physician and friend of the imperial philosopher marcus aurelius. the arabs gave laws in various branches of knowledge to those whom their arms had invaded, or the terror of their spreading dominion had reached, and the point from which they started was, as humboldt acknowledges, "the study of medicine, by which they long ruled the christian schools," and to which they added the department of chemical pharmacy. look at vesalius, the contemporary of luther. who can fail to see one common spirit in the radical ecclesiastic and the reforming court-physician? both still to some extent under the dominion of the letter: luther holding to the real presence; vesalius actually causing to be drawn and engraved two muscles which he knew were not found in the human subject, because they had been described by galen, from dissections of the lower animals. both breaking through old traditions in the search of truth; one, knife in hand, at the risk of life and reputation, the other at the risk of fire and fagot, with that mightier weapon which all the devils could not silence, though they had been thicker than the tiles on the house-tops. how much the physician of the catholic charles v. had in common with the great religious destructive, may be guessed by the relish with which he tells the story how certain pavian students exhumed the body of an "elegans scortum," or lovely dame of ill repute, the favorite of a monk of the order of st. anthony, who does not seem to have resisted temptation so well as the founder of his order. we have always ranked the physician rabelais among the early reformers, but i do not know that vesalius has ever been thanked for his hit at the morals of the religious orders, or for turning to the good of science what was intended for the "benefit of clergy." our unfortunate medical brother, michael servetus, the spiritual patient to whom the theological moxa was applied over the entire surface for the cure of his heresy, came very near anticipating harvey. the same quickened thought of the time which led him to dispute the dogma of the church, opened his mind to the facts which contradicted the dogmas of the faculty. harvey himself was but the posthumous child of the great elizabethan period. bacon was at once his teacher and his patient. the founder of the new inductive philosophy had only been dead two years when the treatise on the circulation, the first-fruit of the restoration of science, was given to the world. and is it to be looked at as a mere accidental coincidence, that while napoleon was modernizing the political world, bichat was revolutionizing the science of life and the art that is based upon it; that while the young general was scaling the alps, the young surgeon was climbing the steeper summits of unexplored nature; that the same year read the announcement of those admirable "researches on life and death," and the bulletins of the battle of marengo? if we come to our own country, who can fail to recognize that benjamin rush, the most conspicuous of american physicians, was the intellectual offspring of the movement which produced the revolution? "the same hand," says one of his biographers, "which subscribed the declaration of the political independence of these states, accomplished their emancipation from medical systems formed in foreign countries, and wholly unsuitable to the state of diseases in america." following this general course of remark, i propose to indicate in a few words the direction of the main intellectual current of the time, and to point out more particularly some of the eddies which tend to keep the science and art of medicine from moving with it, or even to carry them backwards. the two dominant words of our time are law and average, both pointing to the uniformity of the order of being in which we live. statistics have tabulated everything,--population, growth, wealth, crime, disease. we have shaded maps showing the geographical distribution of larceny and suicide. analysis and classification have been at work upon all tangible and visible objects. the positive philosophy of comte has only given expression to the observing and computing mind of the nineteenth century. in the mean time, the great stronghold of intellectual conservatism, traditional belief, has been assailed by facts which would have been indicted as blasphemy but a few generations ago. those new tables of the law, placed in the hands of the geologist by the same living god who spoke from sinai to the israelites of old, have remodelled the beliefs of half the civilized world. the solemn scepticism of science has replaced the sneering doubts of witty philosophers. the more positive knowledge we gain, the more we incline to question all that has been received without absolute proof. as a matter of course, this movement has its partial reactions. the province of faith is claimed as a port free of entry to unsupported individual convictions. the tendency to question is met by the unanalyzing instinct of reverence. the old church calls back its frightened truants. some who have lost their hereditary religious belief find a resource in the revelations of spiritualism. by a parallel movement, some of those who have become medical infidels pass over to the mystic band of believers in the fancied miracles of homoeopathy. under these influences transmitted to, or at least shared by, the medical profession, the old question between "nature," so called, and "art," or professional tradition, has reappeared with new interest. i say the old question, for hippocrates stated the case on the side of "nature" more than two thousand years ago. miss florence nightingale,--and if i name her next to the august father of the healing art, its noblest daughter well deserves that place of honor,--miss florence nightingale begins her late volume with a paraphrase of his statement. but from a very early time to this there has always been a strong party against "nature." themison called the practice of hippocrates "a meditation upon death." dr. rush says: "it is impossible to calculate the mischief which hippocrates, has done, by first marking nature with his name and afterwards letting her loose upon sick people. millions have perished by her hands in all ages and countries." sir john forbes, whose defence of "nature" in disease you all know, and to the testimonial in whose honor four of your presidents have contributed, has been recently greeted, on retiring from the profession, with a wish that his retirement had been twenty years sooner, and the opinion that no man had done so much to destroy the confidence of the public in the medical profession. in this society we have had the hippocratic and the themisonic side fairly represented. the treatise of one of your early presidents on the mercurial treatment is familiar to my older listeners. others who have held the same office have been noted for the boldness of their practice, and even for partiality to the use of complex medication. on the side of "nature" we have had, first of all, that remarkable discourse on self-limited diseases, [on self-limited diseases. a discourse delivered before the massachusetts medical society, at their annual meeting, may , . by jacob bigelow, m. d.] which has given the key-note to the prevailing medical tendency of this neighborhood, at least, for the quarter of a century since it was delivered. nor have we forgotten the address delivered at springfield twenty years later, [search out the secrets, of nature. by augustus a. gould, m. d. read at the annual meeting, june , .] full of good sense and useful suggestions, to one of which suggestions we owe the learned, impartial, judicious, well-written prize essay of dr. worthington hooker. [rational therapeutics. a prize essay. by worthington hooker, m. d., of new haven. boston. .] we should not omit from the list the important address of another of our colleagues, [on the treatment of compound and complicated fractures. by william j. walker, m. d. read at the annual meeting, may , .] showing by numerous cases the power of nature in healing compound fractures to be much greater than is frequently supposed,--affording, indeed, more striking illustrations than can be obtained from the history of visceral disease, of the supreme wisdom, forethought, and adaptive dexterity of that divine architect, as shown in repairing the shattered columns which support the living temple of the body. we who are on the side of "nature" please ourselves with the idea that we are in the great current in which the true intelligence of the time is moving. we believe that some who oppose, or fear, or denounce our movement are themselves caught in various eddies that set back against the truth. and we do most earnestly desire and most actively strive, that medicine, which, it is painful to remember, has been spoken of as "the withered branch of science" at a meeting of the british association, shall be at length brought fully to share, if not to lead, the great wave of knowledge which rolls with the tides that circle the globe. if there is any state or city which might claim to be the american headquarters of the nature-trusting heresy, provided it be one, that state is massachusetts, and that city is its capital. the effect which these doctrines have upon the confidence reposed in the profession is a matter of opinion. for myself, i do not believe this confidence can be impaired by any investigations which tend to limit the application of troublesome, painful, uncertain, or dangerous remedies. nay, i will venture to say this, that if every specific were to fail utterly, if the cinchona trees all died out, and the arsenic mines were exhausted, and the sulphur regions were burned up, if every drug from the vegetable, animal, and mineral kingdom were to disappear from the market, a body of enlightened men, organized as a distinct profession, would be required just as much as now, and respected and trusted as now, whose province should be to guard against the causes of disease, to eliminate them if possible when still present, to order all the conditions of the patient so as to favor the efforts of the system to right itself, and to give those predictions of the course of disease which only experience can warrant, and which in so many cases relieve the exaggerated fears of sufferers and their friends, or warn them in season of impending danger. great as the loss would be if certain active remedies could no longer be obtained, it would leave the medical profession the most essential part of it's duties, and all, and more than all, its present share of honors; for it would be the death-blow to charlatanism, which depends for its success almost entirely on drugs, or at least on a nomenclature that suggests them. there is no offence, then, or danger in expressing the opinion, that, after all which has been said, the community is still overdosed: the best proof of it is, that "no families take so little medicine as those of doctors, except those of apothecaries, and that old practitioners are more sparing of active medicines than younger ones." [dr. james jackson has kindly permitted me to make the following extract from a letter just received by him from sir james clark, and dated may , : "as a physician advances in age, he generally, i think, places less confidence in the ordinary medical treatment than he did, not only during his early, but even his middle period of life."] the conclusion from these facts is one which the least promising of dr. howe's pupils in the mental department could hardly help drawing. part of the blame of over-medication must, i fear, rest with the profession, for yielding to the tendency to self-delusion, which seems inseparable from the practice of the art of healing. i need only touch on the common modes of misunderstanding or misapplying the evidence of nature. first, there is the natural incapacity for sound observation, which is like a faulty ear in music. we see this in many persons who know a good deal about books, but who are not sharp-sighted enough to buy a horse or deal with human diseases. secondly, there is in some persons a singular inability to weigh the value of testimony; of which, i think, from a pretty careful examination of his books, hahnemann affords the best specimen outside the walls of bedlam. the inveterate logical errors to which physicians have always been subject are chiefly these: the mode of inference per enumerationem simplicem, in scholastic phrase; that is, counting only their favorable cases. this is the old trick illustrated in lord bacon's story of the gifts of the shipwrecked people, hung up in the temple.--behold! they vowed these gifts to the altar, and the gods saved them. ay, said a doubting bystander, but how many made vows of gifts and were shipwrecked notwithstanding? the numerical system is the best corrective of this and similar errors. the arguments commonly brought against its application to all matters of medical observation, treatment included, seem to apply rather to the tabulation of facts ill observed, or improperly classified, than to the method itself. the post hoc ergo propter hoc error: he got well after taking my medicine; therefore in consequence of taking it. the false induction from genuine facts of observation, leading to the construction of theories which are then deductively applied in the face of the results of direct observation. the school of broussais has furnished us with a good example of this error. and lastly, the error which sir thomas browne calls giving "a reason of the golden tooth;" that is, assuming a falsehood as a fact, and giving reasons for it, commonly fanciful ones, as is constantly done by that class of incompetent observers who find their "golden tooth" in the fabulous effects of the homoeopathie materia medica,--which consists of sugar of milk and a nomenclature. another portion of the blame rests with the public itself, which insists on being poisoned. somebody buys all the quack medicines that build palaces for the mushroom, say rather, the toadstool millionaires. who is it? these people have a constituency of millions. the popular belief is all but universal that sick persons should feed on noxious substances. one of our members was called not long since to a man with a terribly sore mouth. on inquiry he found that the man had picked up a box of unknown pills, in howard street, and had proceeded to take them, on general principles, pills being good for people. they happened to contain mercury, and hence the trouble for which he consulted our associate. the outside pressure, therefore, is immense upon the physician, tending to force him to active treatment of some kind. certain old superstitions, still lingering in the mind of the public, and not yet utterly expelled from that of the profession, are at the bottom of this, or contribute to it largely. one of the most ancient is, that disease is a malignant agency, or entity, to be driven out of the body by offensive substances, as the smoke of the fish's heart and liver drove the devil out of tobit's bridal chamber, according to the apochrypha. epileptics used to suck the blood from the wounds of dying gladiators. [plinii hist. mundi. lib. xxviii. c. .] the hon. robert boyle's little book was published some twenty or thirty years before our late president, dr. holyoke, was born. [a collection of choice and safe remedies. the fifth edition, corrected. london, . dr. holyoke was born in .] in it he recommends, as internal medicines, most of the substances commonly used as fertilizers of the soil. his "album graecum" is best left untranslated, and his "zebethum occidentale" is still more transcendentally unmentionable except in a strange dialect. it sounds odiously to us to hear him recommend for dysentery a powder made from "the sole of an old shoe worn by some man that walks much." perhaps nobody here ever heard of tying a stocking, which had been worn during the day, round the neck at night for a sore throat. the same idea of virtue in unlovely secretions! [the idea is very ancient. "sordes hominis" "sudore et oleo medicinam facientibus."--plin. xxviii. .] even now the homoeopathists have been introducing the venom of serpents, under the learned title of lachesis, and outraging human nature with infusions of the pediculus capitis; that is, of course, as we understand their dilutions, the names of these things; for if a fine-tooth-comb insect were drowned in lake superior, we cannot agree with them in thinking that every drop of its waters would be impregnated with all the pedicular virtues they so highly value. they know what they are doing. they are appealing to the detestable old superstitious presumption in favor of whatever is nauseous and noxious as being good for the sick. again, we all occasionally meet persons stained with nitrate of silver, given for epilepsy. read what dr. martin says, about the way in which it came to be used, in his excellent address before the norfolk county medical society, and the evidence i can show, but have not time for now, and then say what you think of the practice which on such presumptions turns a white man as blue as the double-tattooed king of the cannibal islands! [note a.] if medical superstitions have fought their way down through all the rationalism and scepticism of the nineteenth century, of course the theories of the schools, supported by great names, adopted into the popular belief and incorporated with the general mass of misapprehension with reference to disease, must be expected to meet us at every turn in the shape of bad practice founded on false doctrine. a french patient complains that his blood heats him, and expects his doctor to bleed him. an english or american one says he is bilious, and will not be easy without a dose of calomel. a doctor looks at a patient's tongue, sees it coated, and says the stomach is foul; his head full of the old saburral notion which the extreme inflammation-doctrine of broussais did so much to root out, but which still leads, probably, to much needless and injurious wrong of the stomach and bowels by evacuants, when all they want is to be let alone. it is so hard to get anything out of the dead hand of medical tradition! the mortmain of theorists extinct in science clings as close as that of ecclesiastics defunct in law. one practical hint may not be out of place here. it seems to be sometimes forgotten, by those who must know the fact, that the tongue is very different, anatomically and physiologically, from the stomach. its condition does not in the least imply a similar one of the stomach, which is a very different structure, covered with a different kind of epithelium, and furnished with entirely different secretions. a silversmith will, for a dollar, make a small hoe, of solid silver, which will last for centuries, and will give a patient more comfort, used for the removal of the accumulated epithelium and fungous growths which constitute the "fur," than many a prescription with a split-footed rx before it, addressed to the parts out of reach. i think more of this little implement on account of its agency in saving the colony at plymouth in the year . edward winslow heard that massasoit was sick and like to die. he found him with a houseful of people about him, women rubbing his arms and legs, and friends "making such a hellish noise" as they probably thought would scare away the devil of sickness. winslow gave him some conserve, washed his mouth, scraped his tongue, which was in a horrid state, got down some drink, made him some broth, dosed him with an infusion of strawberry leaves and sassafras root, and had the satisfaction of seeing him rapidly recover. massasoit, full of gratitude, revealed the plot which had been formed to destroy the colonists, whereupon the governor ordered captain miles standish to see to them; who thereupon, as everybody remembers, stabbed pecksuot with his own knife, broke up the plot, saved the colony, and thus rendered massachusetts and the massachusetts medical society a possibility, as they now are a fact before us. so much for this parenthesis of the tongue-scraper, which helped to save the young colony from a much more serious scrape, and may save the union yet, if a presidential candidate should happen to be taken sick as massasoit was, and his tongue wanted cleaning,--which process would not hurt a good many politicians, with or without a typhoid fever. again, see how the "bilious" theory works in every-day life here and now, illustrated by a case from actual life. a youthful practitioner, whose last molars have not been a great while cut, meets an experienced and noted physician in consultation. this is the case. a slender, lymphatic young woman is suckling two lusty twins, the intervals of suction being occupied on her part with palpitations, headaches, giddiness, throbbing in the head, and various nervous symptoms, her cheeks meantime getting bloodless, and her strength running away in company with her milk. the old experienced physician, seeing the yellowish waxy look which is common in anaemic patients, considers it a "bilious" case, and is for giving a rousing emetic. of course, he has to be wheedled out of this, a recipe is written for beefsteaks and porter, the twins are ignominiously expelled from the anaemic bosom, and forced to take prematurely to the bottle, and this prolific mother is saved for future usefulness in the line of maternity. the practice of making a profit on the medicine ordered has been held up to reprobation by one at least of the orators who have preceded me. that the effect of this has been ruinous in english practice i cannot doubt, and that in this country the standard of practice was in former generations lowered through the same agency is not unlikely. i have seen an old account-book in which the physician charged an extra price for gilding his rich patients' pills. if all medicine were very costly, and the expense of it always came out of the physician's fee, it would really be a less objectionable arrangement than this other most pernicious one. he would naturally think twice before he gave an emetic or cathartic which evacuated his own pocket, and be sparing of the cholagogues that emptied the biliary ducts of his own wallet, unless he were sure they were needed. if there is any temptation, it should not be in favor of giving noxious agents, as it clearly must be in the case of english druggists and "general practitioners." the complaint against the other course is a very old one. pliny, inspired with as truly roman horror of quackery as the elder cato,--who declared that the greek doctors had sworn to exterminate all barbarians, including the romans, with their drugs, but is said to have physicked his own wife to death, notwithstanding,--pliny says, in so many words, that the cerates and cataplasms, plasters, collyria, and antidotes, so abundant in his time, as in more recent days, were mere tricks to make money. a pretty strong eddy, then, or rather many eddies, setting constantly back from the current of sober observation of nature, in the direction of old superstitions and fancies, of exploded theories, of old ways of making money, which are very slow to pass out of fashion. but there are other special american influences which we are bound to take cognizance of. if i wished to show a student the difficulties of getting at truth from medical experience, i would give him the history of epilepsy to read. if i wished him to understand the tendencies of the american medical mind, its sanguine enterprise, its self-confidence, its audacious handling of nature, its impatience with her old-fashioned ways of taking time to get a sick man well, i would make him read the life and writings of benjamin rush. dr. rush thought and said that there were twenty times more intellect and a hundred times more knowledge in the country in than before the revolution. his own mind was in a perpetual state of exaltation produced by the stirring scenes in which he had taken a part, and the quickened life of the time in which he lived. it was not the state to favor sound, calm observation. he was impatient, and nature is profoundly imperturbable. we may adjust the beating of our hearts to her pendulum if we will and can, but we may be very sure that she will not change the pendulum's rate of going because our hearts are palpitating. he thought he had mastered yellow-fever. "thank god," he said, "out of one hundred patients whom i have visited or prescribed for this day, i have lost none." where was all his legacy of knowledge when norfolk was decimated? where was it when the blue flies were buzzing over the coffins of the unburied dead piled up in the cemetery of new orleans, at the edge of the huge trenches yawning to receive them? one such instance will do as well as twenty. dr. rush must have been a charming teacher, as he was an admirable man. he was observing, rather than a sound observer; eminently observing, curious, even, about all manner of things. but he could not help feeling as if nature had been a good deal shaken by the declaration of independence, and that american art was getting to be rather too much for her,--especially as illustrated in his own practice. he taught thousands of american students, he gave a direction to the medical mind of the country more than any other one man; perhaps he typifies it better than any other. it has clearly tended to extravagance in remedies and trust in remedies, as in everything else. how could a people which has a revolution once in four years, which has contrived the bowie-knife and the revolver, which has chewed the juice out of all the superlatives in the language in fourth of july orations, and so used up its epithets in the rhetoric of abuse that it takes two great quarto dictionaries to supply the demand; which insists in sending out yachts and horses and boys to out-sail, out-run, out-fight, and checkmate all the rest of creation; how could such a people be content with any but "heroic" practice? what wonder that the stars and stripes wave over doses of ninety grains of sulphate of quinine, [more strictly, ninety-six grains in two hours. dunglison's practice, , vol. ii. p. . eighty grains in one dose. ibid. p. . ninety-six grains of sulphate of quinine are equal to eight ounces of good bark.--wood & bache.] and that the american eagle screams with delight to see three drachms of calomel given at a single mouthful? add to this the great number of medical journals, all useful, we hope, most of them necessary, we trust, many of them excellently well conducted, but which must find something to fill their columns, and so print all the new plans of treatment and new remedies they can get hold of, as the newspapers, from a similar necessity, print the shocking catastrophes and terrible murders. besides all this, here are we, the great body of teachers in the numberless medical schools of the union, some of us lecturing to crowds who clap and stamp in the cities, some of us wandering over the country, like other professional fertilizers, to fecundate the minds of less demonstrative audiences at various scientific stations; all of us talking habitually to those supposed to know less than ourselves, and loving to claim as much for our art as we can, not to say for our own schools, and possibly indirectly for our own practical skill. hence that annual crop of introductory lectures; the useful blossoming into the ornamental, as the cabbage becomes glorified in the cauliflower; that lecture-room literature of adjectives, that declamatory exaggeration, that splendid show of erudition borrowed from d'israeli, and credited to lord bacon and the rest, which have suggested to our friends of the medical journals an occasional epigram at our expense. hence the tendency in these productions, and in medical lectures generally, to overstate the efficacy of favorite methods of cure, and hence the premium offered for showy talkers rather than sagacious observers, for the men of adjectives rather than of nouns substantive in the more ambitious of these institutions. such are some of the eddies in which we are liable to become involved and carried back out of the broad stream of philosophical, or, in other words, truth-loving, investigations. the causes of disease, in the mean time, have been less earnestly studied in the eagerness of the search for remedies. speak softly! women have been borne out from an old-world hospital, two in one coffin, that the horrors of their prison-house might not be known, while the very men who were discussing the treatment of the disease were stupidly conveying the infection from bed to bed, as rat-killers carry their poisons from one household to another. do not some of you remember that i have had to fight this private-pestilence question against a scepticism which sneered in the face of a mass of evidence such as the calm statisticians of the insurance office could not listen to without horror and indignation? ["the contagiousness of puerperal fever."--n. e. quar. jour. of medicine and surgery, april, . reprinted, with additions. boston: ticknor & fields. .] have we forgotten what is told in one of the books published under our own sanction, that a simple measure of ventilation, proposed by dr. john clark, had saved more than sixteen thousand children's lives in a single hospital? how long would it have taken small doses of calomel and rhubarb to save as many children? these may be useful in prudent hands, but how insignificant compared to the great hygienic conditions! causes, causes, and again causes,--more and more we fall back on these as the chief objects of our attention. the shortest system of medical practice that i know of is the oldest, but not the worst. it is older than hippocrates, older than chiron the centaur. nature taught it to the first mother when she saw her first-born child putting some ugly pebble or lurid berry into its mouth. i know not in what language it was spoken, but i know that in english it would sound thus: spit it out! art can do something more than say this. it can sometimes reach the pebble or berry after it has been swallowed. but the great thing is to keep these things out of children's mouths, and as soon as they are beyond our reach, to be reasonable and patient with nature, who means well, but does not like to hurry, and who took nine calendar months, more or less, to every mother's son among us, before she thought he was fit to be shown to the public. suffer me now to lay down a few propositions, whether old or new it matters little, not for your immediate acceptance, nor yet for your hasty rejection, but for your calm consideration. but first, there are a number of terms which we are in the habit of using in a vague though not unintelligible way, and which it is as well now to define. these terms are the tools with which we are to work, and the first thing is to sharpen them. it is nothing to us that they have been sharpened a thousand times before; they always get dull in the using, and every new workman has a right to carry them to the grindstone and sharpen them to suit himself. nature, in medical language, as opposed to art, means trust in the reactions of the living system against, ordinary normal impressions. art, in the same language, as opposed to nature, means an intentional resort to extraordinary abnormal impressions for the relief of disease. the reaction of the living system is the essence of both. food is nothing, if there is no digestive act to respond to it. we cannot raise a blister on a dead man, or hope that a carminative forced between his lips will produce its ordinary happy effect. disease, dis-ease,--disturbed quiet, uncomfortableness,--means imperfect or abnormal reaction of the living system, and its more or less permanent results. food, in its largest sense, is whatever helps to build up the normal structures, or to maintain their natural actions. medicine, in distinction from food, is every unnatural or noxious agent applied for the relief of disease. physic means properly the natural art, and physician is only the greek synonyme of naturalist. with these few explanations i proceed to unfold the propositions i have mentioned. disease and death, if we may judge by the records of creation, are inherently and essentially necessary in the present order of things. a perfect intelligence, trained by a perfect education, could do no more than keep the laws of the physical and spiritual universe. an imperfect intelligence, imperfectly taught,--and this is the condition of our finite humanity,--will certainly fail to keep all these laws perfectly. disease is one of the penalties of one of the forms of such failure. it is prefigured in the perturbations of the planets, in the disintegration of the elemental masses; it has left its traces in the fossil organisms of extinct creations. [professor agassiz has kindly handed me the following note: "there are abnormal structures in animals of all ages anterior to the creation of mankind. malformed specimens of crinoids are known from the triassic and jurassic deposits. malformed and diseased bones of tertiary mammalia have been collected in the caverns of gailenreuth with traces of healing."] but it is especially the prerogative, i had almost said privilege, of educated and domesticated beings, from man down to the potato, serving to teach them, and such as train them, the laws of life, and to get rid of those who will not mind or cannot be kept subject to these laws. disease, being always an effect, is always in exact proportion to the sum of its causes, as much in the case of spigelius, who dies of a scratch, as in that of the man who recovers after an iron bar has been shot through his brain. the one prevalent failing of the medical art is to neglect the causes and quarrel with the effect. there are certain general facts which include a good deal of what is called and treated as disease. thus, there are two opposite movements of life to be seen in cities and elsewhere, belonging to races which, from various persistent causes, are breeding down and tending to run out, and to races which are breeding up, or accumulating vital capital,--a descending and an ascending series. let me give an example of each; and that i may incidentally remove a common impression about this country as compared with the old world, an impression which got tipsy with conceit and staggered into the attitude of a formal proposition in the work of dr. robert knox, i will illustrate the downward movement from english experience, and the upward movement from a family history belonging to this immediate neighborhood. miss nightingale speaks of "the fact so often seen of a great-grandmother, who was a tower of physical vigor, descending into a grandmother perhaps a little less vigorous, but still sound as a bell, and healthy to the core, into a mother languid and confined to her carriage and house; and lastly into a daughter sickly and confined to her bed." so much for the descending english series; now for the ascending american series. something more than one hundred and thirty years ago there graduated at harvard college a delicate youth, who lived an invalid life and died at the age of about fifty. his two children were both of moderate physical power, and one of them diminutive in stature. the next generation rose in physical development, and reached eighty years of age and more in some of its members. the fourth generation was of fair average endowment. the fifth generation, great-great-grandchildren of the slender invalid, are several of, them of extraordinary bodily and mental power; large in stature, formidable alike with their brains and their arms, organized on a more extensive scale than either of their parents. this brief account illustrates incidentally the fallacy of the universal-degeneration theory applied to american life; the same on which one of our countrymen has lately brought some very forcible facts to bear in a muscular discussion of which we have heard rather more than is good for us. but the two series, american and english, ascending and descending, were adduced with the main purpose of showing the immense difference of vital endowments in different strains of blood; a difference to which all ordinary medication is in all probability a matter of comparatively trivial purport. many affections which art has to strive against might be easily shown to be vital to the well-being of society. hydrocephalus, tabes mesenterica, and other similar maladies, are natural agencies which cut off the children of races that are sinking below the decent minimum which nature has established as the condition of viability, before they reach the age of reproduction. they are really not so much diseases, as manifestations of congenital incapacity for life; the race would be ruined if art could ever learn always to preserve the individuals subject to them. we must do the best we can for them, but we ought also to know what these "diseases" mean. again, invalidism is the normal state of many organizations. it can be changed to disease, but never to absolute health by medicinal appliances. there are many ladies, ancient and recent, who are perpetually taking remedies for irremediable pains and aches. they ought to have headaches and back-aches and stomach-aches; they are not well if they do not have them. to expect them to live without frequent twinges is like expecting a doctor's old chaise to go without creaking; if it did, we might be sure the springs were broken. there is no doubt that the constant demand for medicinal remedies from patients of this class leads to their over-use; often in the case of cathartics, sometimes in that of opiates. i have been told by an intelligent practitioner in a western town, that the constant prescription of opiates by certain physicians in his vicinity has rendered the habitual use of that drug in all that region very prevalent; more common, i should think, than alcoholic drunkenness in the most intemperate localities of which i have known anything. a frightful endemic demoralization betrays itself in the frequency with which the haggard features and drooping shoulders of the opium-drunkards are met with in the streets. the next proposition i would ask you to consider is this: the presumption always is that every noxious agent, including medicines proper, which hurts a well man, hurts a sick one. [ note b.] let me illustrate this proposition before you decide upon it. if it were known that a prize-fighter were to have a drastic purgative administered two or three days before a contest, or a large blister applied to his back, no one will question that it would affect the betting on his side unfavorably; we will say to the amount of five per cent. now the drain upon the resources of the system produced in such a case must be at its minimum, for the subject is a powerful man, in the prime of life, and in admirable condition. if the drug or the blister takes five per cent. from his force of resistance, it will take at least as large a fraction from any invalid. but this invalid has to fight a champion who strikes hard but cannot be hit in return, who will press him sharply for breath, but will never pant himself while the wind can whistle through his fleshless ribs. the suffering combatant is liable to want all his stamina, and five per cent. may lose him the battle. all noxious agents, all appliances which are not natural food or stimuli, all medicines proper, cost a patient, on the average, five per cent. of his vital force, let us say. twenty times as much waste of force produced by any of them, that is, would exactly kill him, nothing less than kill him, and nothing more. if this, or something like this, is true, then all these medications are, prima facie, injurious. in the game of life-or-death, rouge et noir, as played between the doctor and the sexton, this five per cent., this certain small injury entering into the chances is clearly the sexton's perquisite for keeping the green table, over which the game is played, and where he hoards up his gains. suppose a blister to diminish a man's pain, effusion or dyspnoea to the saving of twenty per cent. in vital force; his profit from it is fifteen, in that case, for it always hurts him five to begin with, according to our previous assumption. presumptions are of vast importance in medicine, as in law. a man is presumed innocent until he is proved guilty. a medicine--that is, a noxious agent, like a blister, a seton, an emetic, or a cathartic --should always be presumed to be hurtful. it always is directly hurtful; it may sometimes be indirectly beneficial. if this presumption were established, and disease always assumed to be the innocent victim of circumstances, and not punishable by medicines, that is, noxious agents, or poisons, until the contrary was shown, we should not so frequently hear the remark commonly, perhaps erroneously, attributed to sir astley cooper, but often repeated by sensible persons, that, on the whole, more harm than good is done by medication. throw out opium, which the creator himself seems to prescribe, for we often see the scarlet poppy growing in the cornfields, as if it were foreseen that wherever there is hunger to be fed there must also be pain to be soothed; throw out a few specifics which our art did not discover, and is hardly needed to apply [ note c.]; throw out wine, which is a food, and the vapors which produce the miracle of anaesthesia, and i firmly believe that if the whole materia medica, as now used, could be sunk to the bottom of the sea, it would be all the better for mankind,--and all the worse for the fishes. but to justify this proposition, i must add that the injuries inflicted by over-medication are to a great extent masked by disease. dr. hooker believes that the typhus syncopatia of a preceding generation in new england "was often in fact a brandy and opium disease." how is a physician to distinguish the irritation produced by his blister from that caused by the inflammation it was meant to cure? how can he tell the exhaustion produced by his evacuants from the collapse belonging to the disease they were meant to remove? lastly, medication without insuring favorable hygienic conditions is like amputation without ligatures. i had a chance to learn this well of old, when physician to the broad street district of the boston dispensary. there, there was no help for the utter want of wholesome conditions, and if anybody got well under my care, it must have been in virtue of the rough-and-tumble constitution which emerges from the struggle for life in the street gutters, rather than by the aid of my prescriptions. but if the materia medica were lost overboard, how much more pains would be taken in ordering all the circumstances surrounding the patient (as can be done everywhere out of the crowded pauper districts), than are taken now by too many who think they do their duty and earn their money when they write a recipe for a patient left in an atmosphere of domestic malaria, or to the most negligent kind of nursing! i confess that i should think my chance of recovery from illness less with hippocrates for my physician and mrs. gamp for my nurse, than if i were in the hands of hahnemann himself, with florence nightingale or good rebecca taylor to care for me. if i am right in maintaining that the presumption is always against the use of noxious agents in disease, and if any whom i might influence should adopt this as a principle of practice, they will often find themselves embarrassed by the imperative demand of patients and their friends for such agents where a case is not made out against this standing presumption. i must be permitted to say, that i think the french, a not wholly uncivilized people, are in advance of the english and ourselves in the art of prescribing for the sick without hurting them. and i do confess that i think their varied ptisans and syrups are as much preferable to the mineral regimen of bug-poison and ratsbane, so long in favor on the other side of the channel, as their art of preparing food for the table to the rude cookery of those hard-feeding and much-dosing islanders. we want a reorganized cuisine of invalidism perhaps as much as the culinary, reform, for which our lyceum lecturers, and others who live much at hotels and taverns, are so urgent. will you think i am disrespectful if i ask whether, even in massachusetts, a dose of calomel is not sometimes given by a physician on the same principle as that upon which a landlord occasionally prescribes bacon and eggs,--because he cannot think of anything else quite so handy? i leave my suggestion of borrowing a hint from french practice to your mature consideration. i may, however, call your attention, briefly, to the singular fact, that english and american practitioners are apt to accuse french medical practice of inertness, and french surgical practice of unnecessary activity. thus, dr. bostock considers french medical treatment, with certain exceptions, as "decidedly less effective" than that of his own country. mr. s. cooper, again, defends the simple british practice of procuring union by the first intention against the attacks of m. roux and baron larrey. [cooper's surg. diet. art. "wounds." yet mr. john bell gives the french surgeons credit for introducing this doctrine of adhesion, and accuses o'halloran of "rudeness and ignorance," and "bold, uncivil language," in disputing their teaching. princ. of surgery, vol. i. p. . mr. hunter succeeded at last in naturalizing the doctrine and practice, but even he had to struggle against the perpetual jealousy of rivals, and died at length assassinated by an insult.] we have often heard similar opinions maintained by our own countrymen. while anglo-american criticism blows hot or cold on the two departments of french practice, it is not, i hope, indecent to question whether all the wisdom is necessarily with us in both cases. our art has had two or three lessons which have a deep meaning to those who are willing to read them honestly. the use of water-dressings in surgery completed the series of reforms by which was abolished the "coarse and cruel practice" of the older surgeons, who with their dressings and acrid balsams, their tents and leaden tubes, "absolutely delayed the cure." the doctrine of broussais, transient as was its empire, reversed the practice of half of christendom for a season, and taught its hasty disciples to shun their old favorite remedies as mortal poisons. this was not enough permanently to shift the presumption about drugs where it belonged, and so at last, just as the sympathetic powder and the unguentum armarium came in a superstitious age to kill out the abuses of external over-medication, the solemn farce of homoeopathy was enacted in the face of our own too credulous civilization, that under shelter of its pretences the "inward bruises" of over-drugged viscera might be allowed to heal by the first intention. its lesson we must accept, whether we will or not; its follies we are tired of talking about. the security of the medical profession against this and all similar fancies is in the average constitution of the human mind with regard to the laws of evidence. my friends and brothers in art! there is nothing to be feared from the utterance of any seeming heresy to which you may have listened. i cannot compromise your collective wisdom. if i have strained the truth one hair's breadth for the sake of an epigram or an antithesis, you are accustomed to count the normal pulse-beats of sound judgment, and know full well how to recognize the fever-throbs of conceit and the nervous palpitations of rhetoric. the freedom with which each of us speaks his thought in this presence, belongs in part to the assured position of the profession in our commonwealth, to the attitude of science, which is always fearless, and to the genius of the soil on which we stand, from which nature withheld the fatal gift of malaria only to fill it with exhalations that breed the fever of inquiry in our blood and in our brain. but mainly we owe the large license of speech we enjoy to those influences and privileges common to us all as self-governing americans. this republic is the chosen home of minorities, of the less power in the presence of the greater. it is a common error to speak of our distinction as consisting in the rule of the majority. majorities, the greater material powers, have always ruled before. the history of most countries has been that of majorities, mounted majorities, clad in iron, armed with death treading down the tenfold more numerous minorities. in the old civilizations they root themselves like oaks in the soil; men must live in their shadow or cut them down. with us the majority is only the flower of the passing noon, and the minority is the bud which may open in the next morning's sun. we must be tolerant, for the thought which stammers on a single tongue today may organize itself in the growing consciousness of the time, and come back to us like the voice of the multitudinous waves of the ocean on the morrow. twenty-five years have passed since one of your honored presidents spoke to this society of certain limitations to the power of our art, now very generally conceded. some were troubled, some were almost angry, thinking the profession might suffer from such concessions. it has certainly not suffered here; if, as some affirm, it has lost respect anywhere, it was probably for other, and no doubt sufficient reasons. since that time the civilization of this planet has changed hands. strike out of existence at this moment every person who was breathing on that day, may , , and every institution of society, every art and every science would remain intact and complete in the living that would be left. every idea the world then held has been since dissolved and recrystallized. we are repeating the same process. not to make silver shrines for our old divinities, even though by this craft we should have our wealth, was this society organized and carried on by the good men and true who went before us. not for this, but to melt the gold out of the past, though its dross should fly in dust to all the winds of heaven, to save all our old treasures of knowledge and mine deeply for new, to cultivate that mutual respect of which outward courtesy is the sign, to work together, to feel together, to take counsel together, and to stand together for the truth, now, always, here, everywhere; for this our fathers instituted, and we accept, the offices and duties of this time-honored society. border lines of knowledge in some provinces of medical science. an introductory lecture delivered before the medical class of harvard university, november , . [this lecture appears as it would have been delivered had the time allowed been less strictly, limited. passages necessarily omitted have been restored, and points briefly touched have been more fully considered. a few notes have been added for the benefit of that limited class of students who care to track an author through the highways and by-ways of his reading. i owe my thanks to several of my professional brethren who have communicated with me on subjects with which they are familiar; especially to dr. john dean, for the opportunity of profiting by his unpublished labors, and to dr. hasket derby, for information and references to recent authorities relating to the anatomy and physiology of the eye.] the entrance upon a new course of lectures is always a period of interest to instructors and pupils. as the birth of a child to a parent, so is the advent of a new class to a teacher. as the light of the untried world to the infant, so is the dawning of the light resting over the unexplored realms of science to the student. in the name of the faculty i welcome you, gentlemen of the medical class, new-born babes of science, or lustier nurslings, to this morning of your medical life, and to the arms and the bosom of this ancient university. fourteen years ago i stood in this place for the first time to address those who occupied these benches. as i recall these past seasons of our joint labors, i feel that they have been on the whole prosperous, and not undeserving of their prosperity. for it has been my privilege to be associated with a body of true and faithful workers; i cannot praise them freely to their faces, or i should be proud to discourse of the harmonious diligence and the noble spirit in which they have toiled together, not merely to teach their several branches, but to elevate the whole standard of teaching. i may speak with less restraint of those gentlemen who have aided me in the most laborious part of my daily duties, the demonstrators, to whom the successive classes have owed so much of their instruction. they rise before me, the dead and the living, in the midst of the most grateful recollections. the fair, manly face and stately figure of my friend, dr. samuel parkman, himself fit for the highest offices of teaching, yet willing to be my faithful assistant in the time of need, come back to me with the long sigh of regret for his early loss to our earthly companionship. every year i speak the eulogy of dr. ainsworth's patient toil as i show his elaborate preparations: when i take down my "american cyclopaedia" and borrow instruction from the learned articles of dr. kneeland, i cease to regret that his indefatigable and intelligent industry was turned into a broader channel. and what can i say too cordial of my long associated companion and friend, dr. hodges, whose admirable skill, working through the swiftest and surest fingers that ever held a scalpel among us, has delighted class after class, and filled our museum with monuments which will convey his name to unborn generations? this day belongs, however, not to myself and my recollections, but to all of us who teach and all of you who listen, whether experts in our specialties or aliens to their mysteries, or timid neophytes just entering the portals of the hall of science. look in with me, then, while i attempt to throw some rays into its interior, which shall illuminate a few of its pillars and cornices, and show at the same time how many niches and alcoves remain in darkness. science is the topography of ignorance. from a few elevated points we triangulate vast spaces, inclosing infinite unknown details. we cast the lead, and draw up a little sand from abysses we may never reach with our dredges. the best part of our knowledge is that which teaches us where knowledge leaves off and ignorance begins. nothing more clearly separates a vulgar from a superior mind, than the confusion in the first between the little that it truly knows, on the one hand, and what it half knows and what it thinks it knows on the other. that which is true of every subject is especially true of the branch of knowledge which deals with living beings. their existence is a perpetual death and reanimation. their identity is only an idea, for we put off our bodies many times during our lives, and dress in new suits of bones and muscles. "thou art not thyself; for thou exist'st on many a thousand grains that issue out of dust." if it is true that we understand ourselves but imperfectly in health, this truth is more signally manifested in disease, where natural actions imperfectly understood, disturbed in an obscure way by half-seen causes, are creeping and winding along in the dark toward their destined issue, sometimes using our remedies as safe stepping-stones, occasionally, it may be, stumbling over them as obstacles. i propose in this lecture to show you some points of contact between our ignorance and our knowledge in several of the branches upon the study of which you are entering. i may teach you a very little directly, but i hope much more from the trains of thought i shall suggest. do not expect too much ground to be covered in this rapid survey. our task is only that of sending out a few pickets under the starry flag of science to the edge of that dark domain where the ensigns of the obstinate rebel, ignorance, are flying undisputed. we are not making a reconnoissance in force, still less advancing with the main column. but here are a few roads along which we have to march together, and we wish to see clearly how far our lines extend, and where the enemy's outposts begin. before touching the branches of knowledge that deal with organization and vital functions, let us glance at that science which meets you at the threshold of your study, and prepares you in some measure to deal with the more complex problems of the living laboratory. chemistry. includes the art of separating and combining the elements of matter, and the study of the changes produced by these operations. we can hardly say too much of what it has contributed to our knowledge of the universe and our power of dealing with its materials. it has given us a catalogue raisonne of the substances found upon our planet, and shown how everything living and dead is put together from them. it is accomplishing wonders before us every day, such as arabian story-tellers used to string together in their fables. it spreads the, sensitive film on the artificial retina which looks upon us through the optician's lens for a few seconds, and fixes an image that will outlive its original. it questions the light of the sun, and detects the vaporized metals floating around the great luminary,--iron, sodium, lithium, and the rest,--as if the chemist of our remote planet could fill his bell-glasses from its fiery atmosphere. it lends the power which flashes our messages in thrills that leave the lazy chariot of day behind them. it seals up a few dark grains in iron vases, and lo! at the touch of a single spark, rises in smoke and flame a mighty afrit with a voice like thunder and an arm that shatters like an earthquake. the dreams of oriental fancy have become the sober facts of our every-day life, and the chemist is the magician to whom we owe them. to return to the colder scientific aspect of chemistry. it has shown us how bodies stand affected to each other through an almost boundless range of combinations. it has given us a most ingenious theory to account for certain fixed relations in these combinations. it has successfully eliminated a great number of proximate compounds, more or less stable, from organic structures. it has invented others which form the basis of long series of well-known composite substances. in fact, we are perhaps becoming overburdened with our list of proximate principles, demonstrated and hypothetical. how much nearer have we come to the secret of force than lully and geber and the whole crew of juggling alchemists? we have learned a great deal about the how, what have we learned about the why? why does iron rust, while gold remains untarnished, and gold amalgamate, while iron refuses the alliance of mercury? the alchemists called gold sol, the sun, and iron mars, and pleased themselves with fancied relations between these substances and the heavenly bodies, by which they pretended to explain the facts they observed. some of their superstitions have lingered in practical medicine to the present day, but chemistry has grown wise enough to confess the fact of absolute ignorance. what is it that makes common salt crystallize in the form of cubes, and saltpetre in the shape of six-sided prisms? we see no reason why it should not have been just the other way, salt in prisms and saltpetre in cubes, or why either should take an exact geometrical outline, any more than coagulating albumen. but although we had given up attempting to explain the essential nature of affinities and of crystalline types, we might have supposed that we had at least fixed the identity of the substances with which we deal, and determined the laws of their combination. all at once we find that a simple substance changes face, puts off its characteristic qualities and resumes them at will;--not merely when we liquefy or vaporize a solid, or reverse the process; but that a solid is literally transformed into another solid under our own eyes. we thought we knew phosphorus. we warm a portion of it sealed in an empty tube, for about a week. it has become a brown infusible substance, which does not shine in the dark nor oxidate in the air. we heat it to f., and it becomes common phosphorus again. we transmute sulphur in the same singular way. nature, you know, gives us carbon in the shape of coal and in that of the diamond. it is easy to call these changes by the name allotropism, but not the less do they confound our hasty generalizations. these facts of allotropism have some corollaries connected with them rather startling to us of the nineteenth century. there may be other transmutations possible besides those of phosphorus and sulphur. when dr. prout, in , talked about azote and carbon being "formed" in the living system, it was looked upon as one of those freaks of fancy to which philosophers, like other men, are subject. but when professor faraday, in , says, at a meeting of the british association, that "his hopes are in the direction of proving that bodies called simple were really compounds, and may be formed artificially as soon as we are masters of the laws influencing their combinations,"--when he comes forward and says that he has tried experiments at transmutation, and means, if his life is spared, to try them again,--how can we be surprised at the popular story of , that louis napoleon has established a gold-factory and is glutting the mints of europe with bullion of his own making? and so with reference to the law of combinations. the old maxim was, corpora non agunt nisi soluta. if two substances, a and b, are inclosed in a glass vessel, c, we do not expect the glass to change them, unless a or b or the compound a b has the power of dissolving the glass. but if for a i take oxygen, for b hydrogen, and for c a piece of spongy platinum, i find the first two combine with the common signs of combustion and form water, the third in the mean time undergoing no perceptible change. it has played the part of the unwedded priest, who marries a pair without taking a fee or having any further relation with the parties. we call this catalysis, catalytic action, the action of presence, or by what learned name we choose. give what name to it we will, it is a manifestation of power which crosses our established laws of combination at a very open angle of intersection. i think we may find an analogy for it in electrical induction, the disturbance of the equilibrium of the electricity of a body by the approach of a charged body to it, without interchange of electrical conditions between the two bodies. but an analogy is not an explanation, and why a few drops of yeast should change a saccharine mixture to carbonic acid and alcohol,--a little leaven leavening the whole lump,--not by combining with it, but by setting a movement at work, we not only cannot explain, but the fact is such an exception to the recognized laws of combination that liebig is unwilling to admit the new force at all to which berzelius had given the name so generally accepted. the phenomena of isomerism, or identity of composition and proportions of constituents with difference of qualities, and of isomorphism, or identity of form in crystals which have one element substituted for another, were equally surprises to science; and although the mechanism by which they are brought about can be to a certain extent explained by a reference to the hypothetical atoms of which the elements are constituted, yet this is only turning the difficulty into a fraction with an infinitesimal denominator and an infinite numerator. so far we have studied the working of force and its seeming anomalies in purely chemical phenomena. but we soon find that chemical force is developed by various other physical agencies,--by heat, by light, by electricity, by magnetism, by mechanical agencies; and, vice versa, that chemical action develops heat, light, electricity, magnetism, mechanical force, as we see in our matches, galvanic batteries, and explosive compounds. proceeding with our experiments, we find that every kind of force is capable of producing all other kinds, or, in mr. faraday's language, that "the various forms under which the forces of matter are made manifest have a common origin, or, in other words, are so directly related and mutually dependent that they are convertible one into another." out of this doctrine naturally springs that of the conservation of force, so ably illustrated by mr. grove, dr. carpenter, and mr. faraday. this idea is no novelty, though it seems so at first sight. it was maintained and disputed among the giants of philosophy. des cartes and leibnitz denied that any new motion originated in nature, or that any ever ceased to exist; all motion being in a circle, passing from one body to another, one losing what the other gained. newton, on the other hand, believed that new motions were generated and existing ones destroyed. on the first supposition, there is a fixed amount of force always circulating in the universe. on the second, the total amount may be increasing or diminishing. you will find in the "annual of scientific discovery" for a very interesting lecture by professor helmholtz of bonn, in which it is maintained that a certain portion of force is lost in every natural process, being converted into unchangeable heat, so that the universe will come to a stand-still at last, all force passing into heat, and all heat into a state of equilibrium. the doctrines of the convertibility or specific equivalence of the various forms of force, and of its conservation, which is its logical consequence, are very generally accepted, as i believe, at the present time, among physicists. we are naturally led to the question, what is the nature of force? the three illustrious philosophers just referred to agree in attributing the general movements of the universe to the immediate divine action. the doctrine of "preestablished harmony" was an especial contrivance of leibnitz to remove the creator from unworthy association with the less divine acts of living beings. obsolete as this expression sounds to our ears, the phrase laws of the universe, which we use so constantly with a wider application, appears to me essentially identical with it. force does not admit of explanation, nor of proper definition, any more than the hypothetical substratum of matter. if we assume the infinite as omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent, we cannot suppose him excluded from any part of his creation, except from rebellious souls which voluntarily exclude him by the exercise of their fatal prerogative of free-will. force, then, is the act of immanent divinity. i find no meaning in mechanical explanations. newton's hypothesis of an ether filling the heavenly spaces does not, i confess, help my conceptions. i will, and the muscles of my vocal organs shape my speech. god wills, and the universe articulates his power, wisdom, and goodness. that is all i know. there is no bridge my mind can throw from the "immaterial" cause to the "material" effect. the problem of force meets us everywhere, and i prefer to encounter it in the world of physical phenomena before reaching that of living actions. it is only the name for the incomprehensible cause of certain changes known to our consciousness, and assumed to be outside of it. for me it is the deity himself in action. i can therefore see a large significance in the somewhat bold language of burdach: "there is for me but one miracle, that of infinite existence, and but one mystery, the manner in which the finite proceeds from the infinite. so soon as we recognize this incomprehensible act as the general and primordial miracle, of which our reason perceives the necessity, but the manner of which our intelligence cannot grasp, so soon as we contemplate the nature known to us by experience in this light, there is for us no other impenetrable miracle or mystery." let us turn to a branch of knowledge which deals with certainties up to the limit of the senses, and is involved in no speculations beyond them. in certain points of view, human anatomy may be considered an almost exhausted science. from time to time some small organ which had escaped earlier observers has been pointed out,--such parts as the tensor tarsi, the otic ganglion, or the pacinian bodies; but some of our best anatomical works are those which have been classic for many generations. the plates of the bones in vesalius, three centuries old, are still masterpieces of accuracy, as of art. the magnificent work of albinus on the muscles, published in , is still supreme in its department, as the constant references of the most thorough recent treatise on the subject, that of theile, sufficiently show. more has been done in unravelling the mysteries of the fasciae, but there has been a tendency to overdo this kind of material analysis. alexander thomson split them up into cobwebs, as you may see in the plates to velpeau's surgical anatomy. i well remember how he used to shake his head over the coarse work of scarpa and astley cooper,--as if denner, who painted the separate hairs of the beard and pores of the skin in his portraits, had spoken lightly of the pictures of rubens and vandyk. not only has little been added to the catalogue of parts, but some things long known had become half-forgotten. louis and others confounded the solitary glands of the lower part of the small intestine with those which "the great brunner," as haller calls him, described in as being found in the duodenum. the display of the fibrous structure of the brain seemed a novelty as shown by spurzheim. one is startled to find the method anticipated by raymond vieussens nearly two centuries ago. i can hardly think gordon had ever looked at his figures, though he names their author, when he wrote the captious and sneering article which attracted so much attention in the pages of the "edinburgh review." this is the place, if anywhere, to mention any observations i could pretend to have made in the course of my teaching the structure of the human body. i can make no better show than most of my predecessors in this well-reaped field. the nucleated cells found connected with the cancellated structure of the bones, which i first pointed out and had figured in , and have shown yearly from that time to the present, and the fossa masseterica, a shallow concavity on the ramus of the lower jaw, for the lodgment of the masseter muscle, which acquires significance when examined by the side of the deep cavity on the corresponding part in some carnivora to which it answers, may perhaps be claimed as deserving attention. i have also pleased myself by making a special group of the six radiating muscles which diverge from the spine of the axis, or second cervical vertebra, and by giving to it the name stella musculosa nuchaee. but this scanty catalogue is only an evidence that one may teach long and see little that has not been noted by those who have gone before him. of course i do not think it necessary to include rare, but already described anomalies, such as the episternal bones, the rectus sternalis, and other interesting exceptional formations i have encountered, which have shown a curious tendency to present themselves several times in the same season, perhaps because the first specimen found calls our attention to any we may subsequently meet with. the anatomy of the scalpel and the amphitheatre was, then, becoming an exhausted branch of investigation. but during the present century the study of the human body has changed its old aspect, and become fertile in new observations. this rejuvenescence was effected by means of two principal agencies,--new methods and a new instrument. descriptive anatomy, as known from an early date, is to the body what geography is to the planet. now geography was pretty well known so long ago as when arrowsmith, who was born in , published his admirable maps. but in that same year was born werner, who taught a new way of studying the earth, since become familiar to us all under the name of geology. what geology has done for our knowledge of the earth, has been done for our knowledge of the body by that method of study to which is given the name of general anatomy. it studies, not the organs as such, but the elements out of which the organs are constructed. it is the geology of the body, as that is the general anatomy of the earth. the extraordinary genius of bichat, to whom more than any other we owe this new method of study, does not require mr. buckle's testimony to impress the practitioner with the importance of its achievements. i have heard a very wise physician question whether any important result had accrued to practical medicine from harvey's discovery of the circulation. but anatomy, physiology, and pathology have received a new light from this novel method of contemplating the living structures, which has had a vast influence in enabling the practitioner at least to distinguish and predict the course of disease. we know as well what differences to expect in the habits of a mucous and of a serous membrane, as what mineral substances to look for in the chalk or the coal measures. you have only to read cullen's description of inflammation of the lungs or of the bowels, and compare it with such as you may find in laennec or watson, to see the immense gain which diagnosis and prognosis have derived from general anatomy. the second new method of studying the human structure, beginning with the labors of scarpa, burns, and colles, grew up principally during the first third of this century. it does not deal with organs, as did the earlier anatomists, nor with tissues, after the manner of bichat. it maps the whole surface of the body into an arbitrary number of regions, and studies each region successively from the surface to the bone, or beneath it. this hardly deserves the name of a science, although velpeau has dignified it with that title, but it furnishes an admirable practical way for the surgeon who has to operate on a particular region of the body to study that region. if we are buying a farm, we are not content with the state map or a geological chart including the estate in question. we demand an exact survey of that particular property, so that we may know what we are dealing with. this is just what regional, or, as it is sometimes called, surgical anatomy, does for the surgeon with reference to the part on which his skill is to be exercised. it enables him to see with the mind's eye through the opaque tissues down to the bone on which they lie, as if the skin were transparent as the cornea, and the organs it covers translucent as the gelatinous pulp of a medusa. it is curious that the japanese should have anticipated europe in a kind of rude regional anatomy. i have seen a manikin of japanese make traced all over with lines, and points marking their intersection. by this their doctors are guided in the performance of acupuncture, marking the safe places to thrust in needles, as we buoy out our ship-channels, and doubtless indicating to learned eyes the spots where incautious meddling had led to those little accidents of shipwreck to which patients are unfortunately liable. a change of method, then, has given us general and regional anatomy. these, too, have been worked so thoroughly, that, if not exhausted, they have at least become to a great extent fixed and positive branches of knowledge. but the first of them, general anatomy, would never, have reached this positive condition but for the introduction of that, instrument which i have mentioned as the second great aid to modern progress. this instrument is the achromatic microscope. for the history of the successive steps by which it became the effective scientific implement we now possess, i must refer you to the work of mr. quekett, to an excellent article in the "penny cyclopaedia," or to that of sir david brewster in the "encyclopaedia britannica." it is a most interesting piece of scientific history, which shows how the problem which biot in pronounced insolvable was in the course of a few years practically solved, with a success equal to that which dollond had long before obtained with the telescope. it is enough for our purpose that we are now in possession of an instrument freed from all confusions and illusions, which magnifies a thousand diameters,--a million times in surface,--without serious distortion or discoloration of its object. a quarter of a century ago, or a little more, an instructor would not have hesitated to put john bell's "anatomy" and bostock's "physiology" into a student's hands, as good authority on their respective subjects. let us not be unjust to either of these authors. john bell is the liveliest medical writer that i can remember who has written since the days of delightful old ambroise pare. his picturesque descriptions and bold figures are as good now as they ever were, and his book can never become obsolete. but listen to what john bell says of the microscope: "philosophers of the last age had been at infinite pains to find the ultimate fibre of muscles, thinking to discover its properties in its form; but they saw just in proportion to the glasses which they used, or to their practice and skill in that art, which is now almost forsaken." dr. bostock's work, neglected as it is, is one which i value very highly as a really learned compilation, full of original references. but dr. bostock says: "much as the naturalist has been indebted to the microscope, by bringing into view many beings of which he could not otherwise have ascertained the existence, the physiologist has not yet derived any great benefit from the instrument." these are only specimens of the manner in which the microscope and its results were generally regarded by the generation just preceding our own. i have referred you to the proper authorities for the account of those improvements which about the year rendered the compound microscope an efficient and trustworthy instrument. it was now for the first time that a true general anatomy became possible. as early as treviranus had attempted to resolve the tissues, of which bichat had admitted no less than twenty-one, into their simple microscopic elements. how could such an attempt succeed, henle well asks, at a time when the most extensively diffused of all the tissues, the areolar, was not at all understood? all that method could do had been accomplished by bichat and his followers. it was for the optician to take the next step. the future of anatomy and physiology, as an enthusiastic micrologist of the time said, was in the hands of messrs. schieck and pistor, famous opticians of berlin. in those earlier days of which i am speaking, all the points of minute anatomy were involved in obscurity. some found globules everywhere, some fibres. students disputed whether the conjunctiva extended over the cornea or not, and worried themselves over gaultier de claubry's stratified layers of the skin, or breschet's blennogenous and chromatogenous organs. the dartos was a puzzle, the central spinal canal a myth, the decidua clothed in fable as much as the golden fleece. the structure of bone, now so beautifully made out,--even that of the teeth, in which old leeuwenhoek, peeping with his octogenarian eyes through the minute lenses wrought with his own hands, had long ago seen the "pipes," as he called them,--was hardly known at all. the minute structure of the viscera lay in the mists of an uncertain microscopic vision. the intimate recesses of the animal system were to the students of anatomy what the anterior of africa long was to geographers, and the stories of microscopic explorers were as much sneered at as those of bruce or du chailly, and with better reason. now what have we come to in our own day? in the first place, the minute structure of all the organs has been made out in the most satisfactory way. the special arrangements of the vessels and the ducts of all the glands, of the air-tubes and vesicles of the lungs, of the parts which make up the skin and other membranes, all the details of those complex parenchymatous organs which had confounded investigation so long, have been lifted out of the invisible into the sight of all observers. it is fair to mention here, that we owe a great deal to the art of minute injection, by which we are enabled to trace the smallest vessels in the midst of the tissues where they are distributed. this is an old artifice of anatomists. the famous ruysch, who died a hundred and thirty years ago, showed that each of the viscera has its terminal vessels arranged in its own peculiar way; the same fact which you may see illustrated in gerber's figures after the minute injections of berres. i hope to show you many specimens of this kind in the microscope, the work of english and american hands. professor agassiz allows me also to make use of a very rich collection of injected preparations sent him by professor hyrtl, formerly of prague, now of vienna, for the proper exhibition of which i had a number of microscopes made expressly, by mr. grunow, during the past season. all this illustrates what has been done for the elucidation of the intimate details of formation of the organs. but the great triumph of the microscope as applied to anatomy has been in the resolution of the organs and the tissues into their simple constituent anatomical elements. it has taken up general anatomy where bichat left it. he had succeeded in reducing the structural language of nature to syllables, if you will permit me to use so bold an image. the microscopic observers who have come after him have analyzed these into letters, as we may call them,--the simple elements by the combination of which nature spells out successively tissues, which are her syllables, organs which are her words, systems which are her chapters, and so goes on from the simple to the complex, until she binds up in one living whole that wondrous volume of power and wisdom which we call the human body. the alphabet of the organization is so short and simple, that i will risk fatiguing your attention by repeating it, according to the plan i have long adopted. a. cells, either floating, as in the blood, or fixed, like those in the cancellated structure of bone, already referred to. very commonly they have undergone a change of figure, most frequently a flattening which reduces them to scales, as in the epidermis and the epithelium. b. simple, translucent, homogeneous solid, such as is found at the back of the cornea, or forming the intercellular substance of cartilage. c. the white fibrous element, consisting of very delicate, tenacious threads. this is the long staple textile substance of the body. it is to the organism what cotton is pretended to be to our southern states. it pervades the whole animal fabric as areolar tissue, which is the universal packing and wrapping material. it forms the ligaments which bind the whole frame-work together. it furnishes the sinews, which are the channels of power. it enfolds every muscle. it wraps the brain in its hard, insensible folds, and the heart itself beats in a purse that is made of it. d. the yellow elastic, fibrous element, the caoutchouc of the animal mechanism, which pulls things back into place, as the india-rubber band shuts the door we have opened. e. the striped muscular fibre,--the red flesh, which shortens itself in obedience to the will, and thus produces all voluntary active motion. f. the unstriped muscular fibre, more properly the fusiform-cell fibre, which carries on the involuntary internal movements. g. the nerve-cylinder, a glassy tube, with a pith of some firmness, which conveys sensation to the brain and the principle which induces motion from it. h. the nerve-corpuscle, the centre of nervous power. i. the mucous tissue, as virchow calls it, common in embryonic structures, seen in the vitreous humor of the adult. to these add x, granules, of indeterminate shape and size, y, for inorganic matters, such as the salts of bone and teeth, and z, to stand as a symbol of the fluids, and you have the letters of what i have ventured to call the alphabet of the body. but just as in language certain diphthongs and syllables are frequently recurring, so we have in the body certain secondary and tertiary combinations, which we meet more frequently than the solitary elements of which they are composed. thus a b, or a collection of cells united by simple structureless solid, is seen to be extensively employed in the body under the name of cartilage. out of this the surfaces of the articulations and the springs of the breathing apparatus are formed. but when nature came to the buffers of the spinal column (intervertebral disks) and the washers of the joints (semilunar fibrocartilages of the knee, etc.), she required more tenacity than common cartilage possessed. what did she do? what does man do in a similar case of need? i need hardly tell you. the mason lays his bricks in simple mortar. but the plasterer works some hair into the mortar which he is going to lay in large sheets on the walls. the children of israel complained that they had no straw to make their bricks with, though portions of it may still be seen in the crumbling pyramid of darshour, which they are said to have built. i visited the old house on witch hill in salem a year or two ago, and there i found the walls coated with clay in which straw was abundantly mingled;--the old judaizing witch-hangers copied the israelites in a good many things. the chinese and the corsicans blend the fibres of amianthus in their pottery to give it tenacity. now to return to nature. to make her buffers and washers hold together in the shocks to which they would be subjected, she took common cartilage and mingled the white fibrous tissue with it, to serve the same purpose as the hair in the mortar, the straw in the bricks and in the plaster of the old wall, and the amianthus in the earthen vessels. thus we have the combination a b c, or fibro-cartilage. again, the bones were once only gristle or cartilage, a b. to give them solidity they were infiltrated with stone, in the form of salts of lime, an inorganic element, so that bone would be spelt out by the letters a, b, and y. if from these organic syllables we proceed to form organic words, we shall find that nature employs three principal forms; namely, vessels, membranes, and parenchyma, or visceral tissue. the most complex of them can be resolved into a combination of these few simple anatomical constituents. passing for a moment into the domain of pathological anatomy, we find the same elements in morbid growths that we have met with in normal structures. the pus-corpuscle and the white blood-corpuscle can only be distinguished by tracing them to their origin. a frequent form of so-called malignant disease proves to be only a collection of altered epithelium-cells. even cancer itself has no specific anatomical element, and the diagnosis of a cancerous tumor by the microscope, though tolerably sure under the eye of an expert, is based upon accidental, and not essential points,--the crowding together of the elements, the size of the cell-nuclei, and similar variable characters. let us turn to physiology. the microscope, which has made a new science of the intimate structure of the organs, has at the same time cleared up many uncertainties concerning the mechanism of the special functions. up to the time of the living generation of observers, nature had kept over all her inner workshops the forbidding inscription, no admittance! if any prying observer ventured to spy through his magnifying tubes into the mysteries of her glands and canals and fluids, she covered up her work in blinding mists and bewildering halos, as the deities of old concealed their favored heroes in the moment of danger. science has at length sifted the turbid light of her lenses, and blanched their delusive rainbows. anatomy studies the organism in space. physiology studies it also in time. after the study of form and composition follows close that of action, and this leads us along back to the first moment of the germ, and forward to the resolution of the living frame into its lifeless elements. in this way anatomy, or rather that branch of it which we call histology, has become inseparably blended with the study of function. the connection between the science of life and that of intimate structure on the one hand, and composition on the other, is illustrated in the titles of two recent works of remarkable excellence,--"the physiological anatomy" of todd and bowman, and the "physiological chemistry" of lehmann. let me briefly recapitulate a few of our acquisitions in physiology, due in large measure to our new instruments and methods of research, and at the same time indicate the limits which form the permanent or the temporary boundaries of our knowledge. i will begin with the largest fact and with the most absolute and universally encountered limitation. the "largest truth in physiology" mr. paget considers to be "the development of ova through multiplication and division of their cells." i would state it more broadly as the agency of the cell in all living processes. it seems at present necessary to abandon the original idea of schwann, that we can observe the building up of a cell from the simple granules of a blastema, or formative fluid. the evidence points rather towards the axiom, omnis cellula a cellula; that is, the germ of a new cell is always derived from a preexisting cell. the doctrine of schwann, as i remarked long ago ( ), runs parallel with the nebular theory in astronomy, and they may yet stand or fall together. as we have seen nature anticipating the plasterer in fibro-cartilage, so we see her beforehand with the glassblower in her dealings with the cell. the artisan blows his vitreous bubbles, large or small, to be used afterwards as may be wanted. so nature shapes her hyaline vesicles and modifies them to serve the needs of the part where they are found. the artisan whirls his rod, and his glass bubble becomes a flattened disk, with its bull's-eye for a nucleus. these lips of ours are all glazed with microscopic tiles formed of flattened cells, each one of them with its nucleus still as plain and relatively as prominent, to the eye of the microscopist, as the bull's-eye in the old-fashioned windowpane. everywhere we find cells, modified or unchanged. they roll in inconceivable multitudes (five millions and more to the cubic millimetre, according to vierordt) as blood-disks through our vessels. a close-fitting mail of flattened cells coats our surface with a panoply of imbricated scales (more than twelve thousand millions), as harting has computed, as true a defence against our enemies as the buckler of the armadillo or the carapace of the tortoise against theirs. the same little protecting organs pave all the great highways of the interior system. cells, again, preside over the chemical processes which elaborate the living fluids; they change their form to become the agents of voluntary and involuntary motion; the soul itself sits on a throne of nucleated cells, and flashes its mandates through skeins of glassy filaments which once were simple chains of vesicles. and, as if to reduce the problem of living force to its simplest expression, we see the yolk of a transparent egg dividing itself in whole or in part, and again dividing and subdividing, until it becomes a mass of cells, out of which the harmonious diversity of the organs arranges itself, worm or man, as god has willed from the beginning. this differentiation having been effected, each several part assumes its special office, having a life of its own adjusted to that of other parts and the whole. "just as a tree constitutes a mass arranged in a definite manner, in which, in every single part, in the leaves as in the root, in the trunk as in the blossom, cells are discovered to be the ultimate elements, so is it also with the forms of animal life. every animal presents itself as a sum of vital unities, every one of which manifests all the characteristics of life." the mechanism is as clear, as unquestionable, as absolutely settled and universally accepted, as the order of movement of the heavenly bodies, which we compute backward to the days of the observatories on the plains of shinar, and on the faith of which we regulate the movements of war and trade by the predictions of our ephemeris. the mechanism, and that is all. we see the workman and the tools, but the skill that guides the work and the power that performs it are as invisible as ever. i fear that not every listener took the significance of those pregnant words in the passage i quoted from john bell,--"thinking to discover its properties in its form." we have discovered the working bee in this great hive of organization. we have detected the cell in the very act of forming itself from a nucleus, of transforming itself into various tissues, of selecting the elements of various secretions. but why one cell becomes nerve and another muscle, why one selects bile and another fat, we can no more pretend to tell, than why one grape sucks out of the soil the generous juice which princes hoard in their cellars, and another the wine which it takes three men to drink,--one to pour it down, another to swallow it, and a third to hold him while it is going down. certain analogies between this selecting power and the phenomena of endosmosis in the elective affinities of chemistry we can find, but the problem of force remains here, as everywhere, unsolved and insolvable. do we gain anything by attempting to get rid of the idea of a special vital force because we find certain mutually convertible relations between forces in the body and out of it? i think not, any more than we should gain by getting rid of the idea and expression magnetism because of its correlation with electricity. we may concede the unity of all forms of force, but we cannot overlook the fixed differences of its manifestations according to the conditions under which it acts. it is a mistake, however, to think the mystery is greater in an organized body than in any other. we see a stone fall or a crystal form, and there is nothing stranger left to wonder at, for we have seen the infinite in action. just so far as we can recognize the ordinary modes of operation of the common forces of nature,--gravity, cohesion, elasticity, transudation, chemical action, and the rest,--we see the so-called vital acts in the light of a larger range of known facts and familiar analogies. matteuecci's well-remembered lectures contain many and striking examples of the working of physical forces in physiological processes. wherever rigid experiment carries us, we are safe in following this lead; but the moment we begin to theorize beyond our strict observation, we are in danger of falling into those mechanical follies which true science has long outgrown. recognizing the fact, then, that we have learned nothing but the machinery of life, and are no nearer to its essence, what is it that we have gained by this great discovery of the cell formation and function? it would have been reward enough to learn the method nature pursues for its own sake. if the sovereign artificer lets us into his own laboratories and workshops, we need not ask more than the privilege of looking on at his work. we do not know where we now stand in the hierarchy of created intelligences. we were made a little lower than the angels. i speak it not irreverently; as the lower animals surpass man in some of their attributes, so it may be that not every angel's eye can see as broadly and as deeply into the material works of god as man himself, looking at the firmament through an equatorial of fifteen inches' aperture, and searching into the tissues with a twelfth of an inch objective. but there are other positive gains of a more practical character. thus we are no longer permitted to place the seat of the living actions in the extreme vessels, which are only the carriers from which each part takes what it wants by the divine right of the omnipotent nucleated cell. the organism has become, in the words already borrowed from virchow, "a sum of vital unities." the strictum and laxum, the increased and diminished action of the vessels, out of which medical theories and methods of treatment have grown up, have yielded to the doctrine of local cell-communities, belonging to this or that vascular district, from which they help themselves, as contractors are wont to do from the national treasury. i cannot promise to do more than to select a few of the points of contact between our ignorance and our knowledge which present particular interest in the existing state of our physiological acquisitions. some of them involve the microscopic discoveries of which i have been speaking, some belong to the domain of chemistry, and some have relations with other departments of physical science. if we should begin with the digestive function, we should find that the long-agitated question of the nature of the acid of the gastric juice is becoming settled in favor of the lactic. but the whole solvent agency of the digestive fluid enters into the category of that exceptional mode of action already familiar to us in chemistry as catalysis. it is therefore doubly difficult of explanation; first, as being, like all reactions, a fact not to be accounted for except by the imaginative appeal to "affinity," and secondly, as being one of those peculiar reactions provoked by an element which stands outside and looks on without compromising itself. the doctrine of mulder, so widely diffused in popular and scientific belief, of the existence of a common base of all albuminous substances, the so-called protein, has not stood the test of rigorous analysis. the division of food into azotized and non-azotized is no doubt important, but the attempt to show that the first only is plastic or nutritive, while the second is simply calorifacient, or heat-producing, fails entirely in the face of the facts revealed by the study of man in different climates, and of numerous experiments in the feeding of animals. i must return to this subject in connection with the respiratory function. the sugar-making faculty of the liver is another "catalytic" mystery, as great as the rest of them, and no greater. liver-tissue brings sugar out of the blood, or out of its own substance;--why? quia est in eo virtus saccharitiva. just what becomes of the sugar beyond the fact of its disappearance before it can get into the general circulation and sweeten our tempers, it is hard to say. the pancreatic fluid makes an emulsion of the fat contained in our food, but just how the fatty particles get into the villi we must leave brucke and kolliker to settle if they can. no one has shown satisfactorily the process by which the blood-corpuscles are formed out of the lymph-corpuscles, nor what becomes of them. these two questions are like those famous household puzzles,--where do the flies come from? and, where do the pins go to? there is a series of organs in the body which has long puzzled physiologists,--organs of glandular aspect, but having no ducts,--the spleen, the thyroid and thymus bodies, and the suprarenal capsules. we call them vascular glands, and we believe that they elaborate colored and uncolored blood-cells; but just what changes they effect, and just how they effect them, it has proved a very difficult matter to determine. so of the noted glandules which form peyer's patches, their precise office, though seemingly like those of the lymphatic glands, cannot be positively assigned, so far as i know, at the present time. it is of obvious interest to learn it with reference to the pathology of typhoid fever. it will be remarked that the coincidence of their changes in this disease with enlargement of the spleen suggests the idea of a similarity of function in these two organs. the theories of the production of animal heat, from the times of black, lavoisier, and crawford to those of liebig, are familiar to all who have paid any attention to physiological studies. the simplicity of liebig's views, and the popular form in which they have been presented, have given them wide currency, and incorporated them in the common belief and language of our text-books. direct oxidation or combustion of the carbon and hydrogen contained in the food, or in the tissues themselves; the division of alimentary substances into respiratory, or non-azotized, and azotized,--these doctrines are familiar even to the classes in our high-schools. but this simple statement is boldly questioned. nothing proves that oxygen combines (in the system) with hydrogen and carbon in particular, rather than with sulphur and azote. such is the well-grounded statement of robin and verdeil. "it is very probable that animal heat is entirely produced by the chemical actions which take place in the organism, but the phenomenon is too complex to admit of our calculating it according to the quality of oxygen consumed." these last are the words of regnault, as cited by mr. lewes, whose intelligent discussion of this and many of the most interesting physiological problems i strongly recommend to your attention. this single illustration covers a wider ground than the special function to which it belongs. we are learning that the chemistry of the body must be studied, not simply by its ingesta and egesta, but that there is a long intermediate series of changes which must be investigated in their own light, under their own special conditions. the expression "sum of vital unities" applies to the chemical actions, as well as to other actions localized in special parts; and when the distinguished chemists whom i have just cited entitle their work a treatise on the immediate principles of the body, they only indicate the nature of that profound and subtile analysis which must take the place of all hasty generalizations founded on a comparison of the food with residual products. i will only call your attention to the fact, that the exceptional phenomenon of the laboratory is the prevailing law of the organism. nutrition itself is but one great catalytic process. as the blood travels its rounds, each part selects its appropriate element and transforms it to its own likeness. whether the appropriating agent be cell or nucleus, or a structureless solid like the intercellular substance of cartilage, the fact of its presence determines the separation of its proper constituents from the circulating fluid, so that even when we are wounded bone is replaced by bone, skin by skin, and nerve by nerve. it is hardly without a smile that we resuscitate the old question of the 'vis insita' of the muscular fibre, so famous in the discussions of haller and his contemporaries. speaking generally, i think we may say that haller's doctrine is the one now commonly received; namely, that the muscles contract in virtue of their own inherent endowments. it is true that kolliker says no perfectly decisive fact has been brought forward to prove that the striated muscles contract without having been acted on by nerves. yet mr. bowman's observations on the contraction of isolated fibres appear decisive enough (unless we consider them invalidated by dr. lionel beale's recent researches), tending to show that each elementary fibre is supplied with nerves; and as to the smooth muscular fibres, we have virchow's statement respecting the contractility of those of the umbilical cord, where there is not a trace of any nerves. in the investigation of the nervous system, anatomy and physiology have gone hand in hand. it is very singular that so important, and seemingly simple, a fact as the connection of the nerve-tubes, at their origin or in their course, with the nerve-cells, should have so long remained open to doubt, as you may see that it did by referring to the very complete work of sharpey and quain (edition of ), the histological portion of which is cordially approved by kolliker himself. several most interesting points of the minute anatomy of the nervous centres have been laboriously and skilfully worked out by a recent graduate of this medical school, in a monograph worthy to stand in line with those of lockhart clarke, stilling, and schroder van der kolk. i have had the privilege of examining and of showing some of you a number of dr. dean's skilful preparations. i have no space to give even an abstract of his conclusions. i can only refer to his proof of the fact, that a single cell may send its processes into several different bundles of nerve-roots, and to his demonstration of the curved ascending and descending fibres from the posterior nerveroots, to reach what he has called the longitudinal columns of the cornea. i must also mention dr. dean's exquisite microscopic photographs from sections of the medulla oblongata, which appear to me to promise a new development, if not a new epoch, in anatomical art. it having been settled that the nerve-tubes can very commonly be traced directly to the nerve-cells, the object of all the observers in this department of anatomy is to follow these tubes to their origin. we have an infinite snarl of telegraph wires, and we may be reasonably sure, that, if we can follow them up, we shall find each of them ends in a battery somewhere. one of the most interesting problems is to find the ganglionic origin of the great nerves of the medulla oblongata, and this is the end to which, by the aid of the most delicate sections, colored so as to bring out their details, mounted so as to be imperishable, magnified by the best instruments, and now self-recorded in the light of the truth-telling sunbeam, our fellow-student is making a steady progress in a labor which i think bids fair to rank with the most valuable contributions to histology that we have had from this side of the atlantic. it is interesting to see how old questions are incidentally settled in the course of these new investigations. thus, mr. clarke's dissections, confirmed by preparations of mr. dean's which i have myself examined, placed the fact of the decussation of the pyramids--denied by haller, by morgagni, and even by stilling--beyond doubt. so the spinal canal, the existence of which, at least in the adult, has been so often disputed, appears as a coarse and unequivocal anatomical fact in many of the preparations referred to. while these studies of the structure of the cord have been going on, the ingenious and indefatigable brown-sequard has been investigating the functions of its different parts with equal diligence. the microscopic anatomists had shown that the ganglionic corpuscles of the gray matter of the cord are connected with each other by their processes, as well as with the nerve-roots. m. brown-sequard has proved by numerous experiments that the gray substance transmits sensitive impressions and muscular stimulation. the oblique ascending and descending fibres from the posterior nerve-roots, joining the "longitudinal columns of the cornua," account for the results of brown-sequard's sections of the posterior columns. the physiological experimenter has also made it evident that the decussation of the conductors of sensitive impressions has its seat in the spinal core, and not in the encephalon, as had been supposed. not less remarkable than these results are the facts, which i with others of my audience have had the opportunity of observing, as shown by m. brown-sequard, of the artificial production of epilepsy in animals by injuring the spinal cord, and the induction of the paroxysm by pinching a certain portion of the skin. i would also call the student's attention to his account of the relations of the nervous centres to nutrition and secretion, the last of which relations has been made the subject of an extended essay by our fellow countryman, dr. h. f. campbell of georgia. the physiology of the spinal cord seems a simple matter as you study it in longet. the experiments of brown-sequard have shown the problem to be a complex one, and raised almost as many doubts as they have solved questions; at any rate, i believe all lecturers on physiology agree that there is no part of their task they dread so much as the analysis of the evidence relating to the special offices of the different portions of the medulla spinalis. in the brain we are sure that we do not know how to localize functions; in the spinal cord, we think we do know something; but there are so many anomalies, and seeming contradictions, and sources of fallacy, that beyond the facts of crossed paralysis of sensation, and the conducting agency of the gray substance, i am afraid we retain no cardinal principles discovered since the development of the reflex function took its place by sir charles bell's great discovery. by the manner in which i spoke of the brain, you will see that i am obliged to leave phrenology sub jove,--out in the cold,--as not one of the household of science. i am not one of its haters; on the contrary, i am grateful for the incidental good it has done. i love to amuse myself in its plaster golgothas, and listen to the glib professor, as he discovers by his manipulations "all that disgraced my betters met in me." i loved of old to see square-headed, heavy-jawed spurzheim make a brain flower out into a corolla of marrowy filaments, as vieussens had done before him, and to hear the dry-fibred but human-hearted george combe teach good sense under the disguise of his equivocal system. but the pseudo-sciences, phrenology and the rest, seem to me only appeals to weak minds and the weak points of strong ones. there is a pica or false appetite in many intelligences; they take to odd fancies in place of wholesome truth, as girls gnaw at chalk and charcoal. phrenology juggles with nature. it is so adjusted as to soak up all evidence that helps it, and shed all that harms it. it crawls forward in all weathers, like richard edgeworth's hygrometer. it does not stand at the boundary of our ignorance, it seems to me, but is one of the will-o'-the-wisps of its undisputed central domain of bog and quicksand. yet i should not have devoted so many words to it, did i not recognize the light it has thrown on human actions by its study of congenital organic tendencies. its maps of the surface of the head are, i feel sure, founded on a delusion, but its studies of individual character are always interesting and instructive. the "snapping-turtle" strikes after its natural fashion when it first comes out of the egg. children betray their tendencies in their way of dealing with the breasts that nourish them; nay, lean venture to affirm, that long before they are born they teach their mothers something of their turbulent or quiet tempers. "castor gaudet equis, ovo proanatus eodem pugnis." strike out the false pretensions of phrenology; call it anthropology; let it study man the individual in distinction from man the abstraction, the metaphysical or theological lay-figure; and it becomes "the proper study of mankind," one of the noblest and most interesting of pursuits. the whole physiology of the nervous system, from the simplest manifestation of its power in an insect up to the supreme act of the human intelligence working through the brain, is full of the most difficult yet profoundly interesting questions. the singular relations between electricity and nerve-force, relations which it has been attempted to interpret as meaning identity, in the face of palpable differences, require still more extended studies. you may be interested by professor faraday's statement of his opinion on the matter. "though i am not satisfied that the nervous fluid is only electricity, still i think that the agent in the nervous system maybe an inorganic force; and if there be reason for supposing that magnetism is a higher relation of force than electricity, so it may well be imagined that the nervous power may be of a still more exalted character, and yet within the reach of experiment." in connection with this statement, it is interesting to refer to the experiments of helmholtz on the rapidity of transmission of the nervous actions. the rate is given differently in valentin's report of these experiments and in that found in the "scientific annual" for . one hundred and eighty to three hundred feet per second is the rate of movement assigned for sensation, but all such results must be very vaguely approximative. boxers, fencers, players at the italian game of morn, "prestidigitators," and all who depend for their success on rapidity of motion, know what differences there are in the personal equation of movement. reflex action, the mechanical sympathy, if i may so call it, of distant parts; instinct, which is crystallized intelligence,--an absolute law with its invariable planes and angles introduced into the sphere of consciousness, as raphides are inclosed in the living cells of plants; intellect,--the operation of the thinking principle through material organs, with an appreciable waste of tissue in every act of thought, so that our clergymen's blood has more phosphates to get rid of on monday than on any other day of the week; will,--theoretically the absolute determining power, practically limited in different degrees by the varying organization of races and individuals, annulled or perverted by different ill-understood organic changes; on all these subjects our knowledge is in its infancy, and from the study of some of them the interdict of the vatican is hardly yet removed. i must allude to one or two points in the histology and physiology of the organs of sense. the anterior continuation of the retina beyond the ora serrata has been a subject of much discussion. if h. muller and kolliker can be relied upon, this question is settled by recognizing that a layer of cells, continued from the retina, passes over the surface of the zonula zinnii, but that no proper nervous element is so prolonged forward. i observe that kolliker calls the true nervous elements of the retina "the layer of gray cerebral substance." in fact, the ganglionic corpuscles of each eye may be considered as constituting a little brain, connected with the masses behind by the commissure, commonly called the optic nerve. we are prepared, therefore, to find these two little brains in the most intimate relations with each other, as we find the cerebral hemispheres. we know that they are directly connected by fibres that arch round through the chiasma. i mention these anatomical facts to introduce a physiological observation of my own, first announced in one of the lectures before the medical class, subsequently communicated to the american academy of arts and sciences, and printed in its "transactions" for february , . i refer to the apparent transfer of impressions from one retina to the other, to which i have given the name reflex vision. the idea was suggested to me in consequence of certain effects noticed in employing the stereoscope. professor william b. rodgers has since called the attention of the american scientific association to some facts bearing on the subject, and to a very curious experiment of leonardo da vinci's, which enables the observer to look through the palm of his hand (or seem to), as if it had a hole bored through it. as he and others hesitated to accept my explanation, i was not sorry to find recently the following words in the "observations on man" of that acute observer and thinker, david hartley. "an impression made on the right eye alone by a single object may propagate itself into the left, and there raise up an image almost equal in vividness to itself; and consequently when we see with one eye only, we may, however, have pictures in both eyes." hartley, in , had anticipated many of the doctrines which have since been systematized into the theory of reflex actions, and with which i have attempted to associate this act of reflex vision. my sixth experiment, however, in the communication referred to, appears to me to be a crucial one, proving the correctness of my explanation, and i am not aware that it has been before instituted. another point of great interest connected with the physiology of vision, and involved for a long time in great obscurity, is that of the adjustment of the eye to different distances. dr. clay wallace of new york, who published a very ingenious little book on the eye about twenty years ago, with vignettes reminding one of bewick, was among the first, if not the first, to describe the ciliary muscle, to which the power of adjustment is generally ascribed. it is ascertained, by exact experiment with the phacueidoscope, that accommodation depends on change of form of the crystalline lens. where the crystalline is wanting, as mr. ware long ago taught, no power of accommodation remains. the ciliary muscle is generally thought to effect the change of form of the crystalline. the power of accommodation is lost after the application of atropine, in consequence, as is supposed, of the paralysis of this muscle. this, i believe, is the nearest approach to a demonstration we have on this point. i have only time briefly to refer to professor draper's most ingenious theory as to the photographic nature of vision, for an account of which i must refer to his original and interesting treatise on physiology. it were to be wished that the elaborate and very interesting researches of the marquis corti, which have revealed such singular complexity of structure in the cochlea of the ear, had done more to clear up its doubtful physiology; but i am afraid we have nothing but hypotheses for the special part it plays in the act of hearing, and that we must say the same respecting the office of the semicircular canals. the microscope has achieved some of its greatest triumphs in teaching us the changes which occur in the development of the embryo. no more interesting discovery stands recorded in the voluminous literature of this subject than the one originally announced by martin barry, afterwards discredited, and still later confirmed by mr. newport and others; namely the fact that the fertilizing filament reaches the interior of the ovum in various animals;--a striking parallel to the action of the pollen-tube in the vegetable. but beyond the mechanical facts all is mystery in the movements of organization, as profound as in the fall of a stone or the formation of a crystal. to the chemist and the microscopist the living body presents the same difficulties, arising from the fact that everything is in perpetual change in the organism. the fibrine of the blood puzzles the one as much as its globules puzzle the other. the difference between the branches of science which deal with space only, and those which deal with space and time, is this: we have no glasses that can magnify time. the figure i here show you a was photographed from an object (pleurosigma angulatum) magnified a thousand diameters, or presenting a million times its natural surface. this other figure of the same object, enlarged from the one just shown, is magnified seven thousand diameters, or forty-nine million times in surface. when we can make the forty-nine millionth of a second as long as its integer, physiology and chemistry will approach nearer the completeness of anatomy. our reverence becomes more worthy, or, if you will, less unworthy of its infinite object in proportion as our intelligence is lifted and expanded to a higher and broader understanding of the divine methods of action. if galen called his heathen readers to admire, the power, the wisdom, the providence, the goodness of the "framer of the animal body,"--if mr. boyle, the student of nature, as addison and that friend of his who had known him for forty years tell us, never uttered the name of the supreme being without making a distinct pause in his speech, in token of his devout recognition of its awful meaning,--surely we, who inherit the accumulated wisdom of nearly two hundred years since the time of the british philosopher, and of almost two thousand since the greek physician, may well lift our thoughts from the works we study to their great artificer. these wonderful discoveries which we owe to that mighty little instrument, the telescope of the inner firmament with all its included worlds; these simple formulae by which we condense the observations of a generation in a single axiom; these logical analyses by which we fence out the ignorance we cannot reclaim, and fix the limits of our knowledge,--all lead us up to the inspiration of the almighty, which gives understanding to the world's great teachers. to fear science or knowledge, lest it disturb our old beliefs, is to fear the influx of the divine wisdom into the souls of our fellow-men; for what is science but the piecemeal revelation,--uncovering,--of the plan of creation, by the agency of those chosen prophets of nature whom god has illuminated from the central light of truth for that single purpose? the studies which we have glanced at are preliminary in your education to the practical arts which make use of them,--the arts of healing,--surgery and medicine. the more you examine the structure of the organs and the laws of life, the more you will find how resolutely each of the cell-republics which make up the e pluribus unum of the body maintains its independence. guard it, feed it, air it, warm it, exercise or rest it properly, and the working elements will do their best to keep well or to get well. what do we do with ailing vegetables? dr. warren, my honored predecessor in this chair, bought a country-place, including half of an old orchard. a few years afterwards i saw the trees on his side of the fence looking in good health, while those on the other side were scraggy and miserable. how do you suppose this change was brought about? by watering them with fowler's solution? by digging in calomel freely about their roots? not at all; but by loosening the soil round them, and supplying them with the right kind of food in fitting quantities. now a man is not a plant, or, at least, he is a very curious one, for he carries his soil in his stomach, which is a kind--of portable flower-pot, and he grows round it, instead of out of it. he has, besides, a singularly complex nutritive apparatus and a nervous system. but recollect the doctrine already enunciated in the language of virchow, that an animal, like a tree, is a sum of vital unities, of which the cell is the ultimate element. every healthy cell, whether in a vegetable or an animal, necessarily performs its function properly so long as it is supplied with its proper materials and stimuli. a cell may, it is true, be congenitally defective, in which case disease is, so to speak, its normal state. but if originally sound and subsequently diseased, there has certainly been some excess, deficiency, or wrong quality in the materials or stimuli applied to it. you remove this injurious influence and substitute a normal one; remove the baked coal-ashes, for instance, from the roots of a tree, and replace them with loam; take away the salt meat from the patient's table, and replace it with fresh meat and vegetables, and the cells of the tree or the man return to their duty. i do not know that we ever apply to a plant any element which is not a natural constituent of the vegetable structure, except perhaps externally, for the accidental purpose of killing parasites. the whole art of cultivation consists in learning the proper food and conditions of plants, and supplying them. we give them water, earths, salts of various kinds such as they are made of, with a chance to help themselves to air and light. the farmer would be laughed at who undertook to manure his fields or his trees with a salt of lead or of arsenic. these elements are not constituents of healthy plants. the gardener uses the waste of the arsenic furnaces to kill the weeds in his walks. if the law of the animal cell, and of the animal organism, which is built up of such cells, is like that of the vegetable, we might expect that we should treat all morbid conditions of any of the vital unities belonging to an animal in the same way, by increasing, diminishing, or changing its natural food or stimuli. that is an aliment which nourishes; whatever we find in the organism, as a constant and integral element, either forming part of its structure, or one of the conditions of vital processes, that and that only deserves the name of aliment. i see no reason, therefore, why iron, phosphate of lime, sulphur, should not be considered food for man, as much as guano or poudrette for vegetables. whether one or another of them is best in any given case,--whether they shall be taken alone or in combination, in large or small quantities, are separate questions. but they are elements belonging to the body, and even in moderate excess will produce little disturbance. there is no presumption against any of this class of substances, any more than against water or salt, provided they are used in fitting combinations, proportions, and forms. but when it comes to substances alien to the healthy system, which never belong to it as normal constituents, the case is very different. there is a presumption against putting lead or arsenic into the human body, as against putting them into plants, because they do not belong there, any more than pounded glass, which, it is said, used to be given as a poison. the same thing is true of mercury and silver. what becomes of these alien substances after they get into the system we cannot always tell. but in the case of silver, from the accident of its changing color under the influence of light, we do know what happens. it is thrown out, in part at least, under the epidermis, and there it remains to the patient's dying day. this is a striking illustration of the difficulty which the system finds in dealing with non-assimilable elements, and justifies in some measure the vulgar prejudice against mineral poisons. i trust the youngest student on these benches will not commit the childish error of confounding a presumption against a particular class of agents with a condemnation of them. mercury, for instance, is alien to the system, and eminently disturbing in its influence. yet its efficacy in certain forms of specific disease is acknowledged by all but the most sceptical theorists. even the esprit moqueur of ricord, the voltaire of pelvic literature, submits to the time-honored constitutional authority of this great panacea in the class of cases to which he has devoted his brilliant intelligence. still, there is no telling what evils have arisen from the abuse of this mineral. dr. armstrong long ago pointed out some of them, and they have become matters of common notoriety. i am pleased, therefore, when i find so able and experienced a practitioner as dr. williams of this city proving that iritis is best treated without mercury, and dr. vanderpoel showing the same thing to be true for pericarditis. whatever elements nature does not introduce into vegetables, the natural food of all animal life,--directly of herbivorous, indirectly of carnivorous animals,--are to be regarded with suspicion. arsenic-eating may seem to improve the condition of horses for a time,--and even of human beings, if tschudi's stories can be trusted,--but it soon appears that its alien qualities are at war with the animal organization. so of copper, antimony, and other non-alimentary simple substances; everyone of them is an intruder in the living system, as much as a constable would be, quartered in our household. this does not mean that they may not, any of them, be called in for a special need, as we send for the constable when we have good reason to think we have a thief under our roof; but a man's body is his castle, as well as his house, and the presumption is that we are to keep our alimentary doors bolted against these perturbing agents. now the feeling is very apt to be just contrary to this. the habit has been very general with well-taught practitioners, to have recourse to the introduction of these alien elements into the system on the occasion of any slight disturbance. the tongue was a little coated, and mercury must be given; the skin was a little dry, and the patient must take antimony. it was like sending for the constable and the posse comitatus when there is only a carpet to shake or a refuse-barrel to empty. [dr. james johnson advises persons not ailing to take five grains of blue pill with one or two of aloes twice a week for three or four months in the year, with half a pint of compound decoction of sarsaparilla every day for the same period, to preserve health and prolong life. pract. treatise on dis. of liver, etc. p. .] the constitution bears slow poisoning a great deal better than might be expected; yet the most intelligent men in the profession have gradually got out of the habit of prescribing these powerful alien substances in the old routine way. mr. metcalf will tell you how much more sparingly they are given by our practitioners at the present time, than when he first inaugurated the new era of pharmacy among us. still, the presumption in favor of poisoning out every spontaneous reaction of outraged nature is not extinct in those who are trusted with the lives of their fellow-citizens. "on examining the file of prescriptions at the hospital, i discovered that they were rudely written, and indicated a treatment, as they consisted chiefly of tartar emetic, ipecacuanha, and epsom salts, hardly favorable to the cure of the prevailing diarrhoea and dysenteries." in a report of a poisoning case now on trial, where we are told that arsenic enough was found in the stomach to produce death in twenty-four hours, the patient is said to have been treated by arsenic, phosphorus, bryonia, aconite, nux vomica, and muriatic acid,--by a practitioner of what school it may be imagined. the traditional idea of always poisoning out disease, as we smoke out vermin, is now seeking its last refuge behind the wooden cannon and painted port-holes of that unblushing system of false scientific pretences which i do not care to name in a discourse addressed to an audience devoted to the study of the laws of nature in the light of the laws of evidence. it is extraordinary to observe that the system which, by its reducing medicine to a name and a farce, has accustomed all who have sense enough to see through its thin artifices to the idea that diseases get well without being "cured," should now be the main support of the tottering poison-cure doctrine. it has unquestionably helped to teach wise people that nature heals most diseases without help from pharmaceutic art, but it continues to persuade fools that art can arrest them all with its specifics. it is worse than useless to attempt in any way to check the freest expression of opinion as to the efficacy of any or all of the "heroic" means of treatment employed by practitioners of different schools and periods. medical experience is a great thing, but we must not forget that there is a higher experience, which tries its results in a court of a still larger jurisdiction; that, namely, in which the laws of human belief are summoned to the witness-box, and obliged to testify to the sources of error which beset the medical practitioner. the verdict is as old as the father of medicine, who announces it in the words, "judgment is difficult." physicians differed so in his time, that some denied that there was any such thing as an art of medicine. one man's best remedies were held as mischievous by another. the art of healing was like soothsaying, so the common people said; "the same bird was lucky or unlucky, according as he flew to the right or left." the practice of medicine has undergone great changes within the period of my own observation. venesection, for instance, has so far gone out of fashion, that, as i am told by residents of the new york bellevue and the massachusetts general hospitals, it is almost obsolete in these institutions, at least in medical practice. the old brunonian stimulating treatment has come into vogue again in the practice of dr. todd and his followers. the compounds of mercury have yielded their place as drugs of all work, and specifics for that very frequent subjective complaint, nescio quid faciam,--to compounds of iodine. [sir astley cooper has the boldness,--or honesty,--to speak of medicines which "are given as much to assist the medical man as his patient." lectures (london, ), p. .] opium is believed in, and quinine, and "rum," using that expressive monosyllable to mean all alcoholic cordials. if moliere were writing now, instead of saignare, purgare, and the other, he would be more like to say, stimulare, opium dare et potassio-iodizare. i have been in relation successively with the english and american evacuant and alterative practice, in which calomel and antimony figured so largely that, as you may see in dr. jackson's last "letter," dr. holyoke, a good representative of sterling old-fashioned medical art, counted them with opium and peruvian bark as his chief remedies; with the moderately expectant practice of louis; the blood-letting "coup sur coup" of bouillaud; the contra-stimulant method of rasori and his followers; the anti-irritant system of broussais, with its leeching and gum-water; i have heard from our own students of the simple opium practice of the renowned german teacher, oppolzer; and now i find the medical community brought round by the revolving cycle of opinion to that same old plan of treatment which john brown taught in edinburgh in the last quarter of the last century, and miner and tully fiercely advocated among ourselves in the early years of the present. the worthy physicians last mentioned, and their antagonist dr. gallup, used stronger language than we of these degenerate days permit ourselves. "the lancet is a weapon which annually slays more than the sword," says dr. tully. "it is probable that, for forty years past, opium and its preparations have done seven times the injury they have rendered benefit, on the great scale of the world," says dr. gallup. what is the meaning of these perpetual changes and conflicts of medical opinion and practice, from an early antiquity to our own time? simply this: all "methods" of treatment end in disappointment of those extravagant expectations which men are wont to entertain of medical art. the bills of mortality are more obviously affected by drainage, than by this or that method of practice. the insurance companies do not commonly charge a different percentage on the lives of the patients of this or that physician. in the course of a generation, more or less, physicians themselves are liable to get tired of a practice which has so little effect upon the average movement of vital decomposition. then they are ready for a change, even if it were back again to a method which has already been tried, and found wanting. our practitioners, or many of them, have got back to the ways of old dr. samuel danforth, who, as it is well known, had strong objections to the use of the lancet. by and by a new reputation will be made by some discontented practitioner, who, tired of seeing patients die with their skins full of whiskey and their brains muddy with opium, returns to a bold antiphlogistic treatment, and has the luck to see a few patients of note get well under it. so of the remedies which have gone out of fashion and been superseded by others. it can hardly be doubted that they will come into vogue again, more or less extensively, under the influence of that irresistible demand for change just referred to. then will come the usual talk about a change in the character of disease, which has about as much meaning as that concerning "old-fashioned snow-storms." "epidemic constitutions" of disease mean something, no doubt; a great deal as applied to malarious affections; but that the whole type of diseases undergoes such changes that the practice must be reversed from depleting to stimulating, and vice versa, is much less likely than that methods of treatment go out of fashion and come in again. if there is any disease which claims its percentage with reasonable uniformity, it is phthisis. yet i remember that the reverend and venerable dr. prince of salem told me one commencement day, as i was jogging along towards cambridge with him, that he recollected the time when that disease was hardly hardly known; and in confirmation of his statement mentioned a case in which it was told as a great event, that somebody down on "the cape" had died of "a consumption." this story does not sound probable to myself, as i repeat it, yet i assure you it is true, and it shows how cautiously we must receive all popular stories of great changes in the habits of disease. is there no progress, then, but do we return to the same beliefs and practices which our forefathers wore out and threw away? i trust and believe that there is a real progress. we may, for instance, return in a measure to the brunonian stimulating system, but it must be in a modified way, for we cannot go back to the simple brunonian pathology, since we have learned too much of diseased action to accept its convenient dualism. so of other doctrines, each new avatar strips them of some of their old pretensions, until they take their fitting place at last, if they have any truth in them, or disappear, if they were mere phantasms of the imagination. in the mean time, while medical theories are coming in and going out, there is a set of sensible men who are never run away with by them, but practise their art sagaciously and faithfully in much the same way from generation to generation. from the time of hippocrates to that of our own medical patriarch, there has been an apostolic succession of wise and good practitioners. if you will look at the first aphorism of the ancient master you will see that before all remedies he places the proper conduct of the patient and his attendants, and the fit ordering of all the conditions surrounding him. the class of practitioners i have referred to have always been the most faithful in attending to these points. no doubt they have sometimes prescribed unwisely, in compliance with the prejudices of their time, but they have grown wiser as they have grown older, and learned to trust more in nature and less in their plans of interference. i believe common opinion confirms sir james clark's observation to this effect. the experience of the profession must, i think, run parallel with that of the wisest of its individual members. each time a plan of treatment or a particular remedy comes up for trial, it is submitted to a sharper scrutiny. when cullen wrote his materia medica, he had seriously to assail the practice of giving burnt toad, which was still countenanced by at least one medical authority of note. i have read recently in some medical journal, that an american practitioner, whose name is known to the country, is prescribing the hoof of a horse for epilepsy. it was doubtless suggested by that old fancy of wearing a portion of elk's hoof hung round the neck or in a ring, for this disease. but it is hard to persuade reasonable people to swallow the abominations of a former period. the evidence which satisfied fernelius will not serve one of our hospital physicians. in this way those articles of the materia medica which had nothing but loathsomeness to recommend them have been gradually dropped, and are not like to obtain any general favor again with civilized communities. the next culprits to be tried are the poisons. i have never been in the least sceptical as to the utility of some of them, when properly employed. though i believe that at present, taking the world at large, and leaving out a few powerful agents of such immense value that they rank next to food in importance, the poisons prescribed for disease do more hurt than good, i have no doubt, and never professed to have any, that they do much good in prudent and instructed hands. but i am very willing to confess a great jealousy of many agents, and i could almost wish to see the materia medica so classed as to call suspicion upon certain ones among them. thus the alien elements, those which do not properly enter into the composition of any living tissue, are the most to be suspected, --mercury, lead, antimony, silver, and the rest, for the reasons i have before mentioned. even iodine, which, as it is found in certain plants, seems less remote from the animal tissues, gives unequivocal proofs from time to time that it is hostile to some portions of the glandular system. there is, of course, less prima facie objection to those agents which consist of assimilable elements, such as are found making a part of healthy tissues. these are divisible into three classes,--foods, poisons, and inert, mostly because insoluble, substances. the food of one animal or of one human being is sometimes poison to another, and vice versa; inert substances may act mechanically, so as to produce the effect of poisons; but this division holds exactly enough for our purpose. strictly speaking, every poison consisting of assimilable elements may be considered as unwholesome food. it is rejected by the stomach, or it produces diarrhoea, or it causes vertigo or disturbance of the heart's action, or some other symptom for which the subject of it would consult the physician, if it came on from any other cause than taking it under the name of medicine. yet portions of this unwholesome food which we call medicine, we have reason to believe, are assimilated; thus, castor-oil appears to be partially digested by infants, so that they require large doses to affect them medicinally. even that deadliest of poisons, hydrocyanic acid, is probably assimilated, and helps to make living tissue, if it do not kill the patient, for the assimilable elements which it contains, given in the separate forms of amygdalin and emulsin, produce no disturbance, unless, as in bernard's experiments, they are suffered to meet in the digestive organs. a medicine consisting of assimilable substances being then simply unwholesome food, we understand what is meant by those cumulative effects of such remedies often observed, as in the case of digitalis and strychnia. they are precisely similar to the cumulative effects of a salt diet in producing scurvy, or of spurred rye in producing dry gangrene. as the effects of such substances are a violence to the organs, we should exercise the same caution with regard to their use that we would exercise about any other kind of poisonous food,--partridges at certain seasons, for instance. even where these poisonous kinds of food seem to be useful, we should still regard them with great jealousy. digitalis lowers the pulse in febrile conditions. veratrum viride does the same thing. how do we know that a rapid pulse is not a normal adjustment of nature to the condition it accompanies? digitalis has gone out of favor; how sure are we that veratrum viride will not be found to do more harm than good in a case of internal inflammation, taking the whole course of the disease into consideration? think of the change of opinion with regard to the use of opium in delirium tremens (which you remember is sometimes called delirium vigilans), where it seemed so obviously indicated, since the publication of dr. ware's admirable essay. i respect the evidence of my contemporaries, but i cannot forget the sayings of the father of medicine,--ars longa, judicium diffcile. i am not presuming to express an opinion concerning veratrum viride, which was little heard of when i was still practising medicine. i am only appealing to that higher court of experience which sits in judgment on all decisions of the lower medical tribunals, and which requires more than one generation for its final verdict. once change the habit of mind so long prevalent among practitioners of medicine; once let it be everywhere understood that the presumption is in favor of food, and not of alien substances, of innocuous, and not of unwholesome food, for the sick; that this presumption requires very strong evidence in each particular case to overcome it; but that, when such evidence is afforded, the alien substance or the unwholesome food should be given boldly, in sufficient quantities, in the same spirit as that with which the surgeon lifts his knife against a patient,--that is, with the same reluctance and the same determination,--and i think we shall have and hear much less of charlatanism in and out of the profession. the disgrace of medicine has been that colossal system of self-deception, in obedience to which mines have been emptied of their cankering minerals, the vegetable kingdom robbed of all its noxious growths, the entrails of animals taxed for their impurities, the poison-bags of reptiles drained of their venom, and all the inconceivable abominations thus obtained thrust down the throats of human beings suffering from some fault of organization, nourishment, or vital stimulation. much as we have gained, we have not yet thoroughly shaken off the notion that poison is the natural food of disease, as wholesome aliment is the support of health. cowper's lines, in "the task," show the matter-of-course practice of his time: "he does not scorn it, who has long endured a fever's agonies, and fed on drugs." dr. kimball of lowell, who has been in the habit of seeing a great deal more of typhoid fever than most practitioners, and whose surgical exploits show him not to be wanting in boldness or enterprise, can tell you whether he finds it necessary to feed his patients on drugs or not. his experience is, i believe, that of the most enlightened and advanced portion of the profession; yet i think that even in typhoid fever, and certainly in many other complaints, the effects of ancient habits and prejudices may still be seen in the practice of some educated physicians. to you, young men, it belongs to judge all that has gone before you. you come nearer to the great fathers of modern medicine than some of you imagine. three of my own instructors attended dr. rush's lectures. the illustrious haller mentions rush's inaugural thesis in his "bibliotheca anatomica;" and this same haller, brought so close to us, tells us he remembers ruysch, then an old man, and used to carry letters between him and boerhaave. look through the history of medicine from boerhaave to this present day. you will see at once that medical doctrine and practice have undergone a long series of changes. you will see that the doctrine and practice of our own time must probably change in their turn, and that, if we can trust at all to the indications of their course, it will be in the direction of an improved hygiene and a simplified treatment. especially will the old habit of violating the instincts of the sick give place to a judicious study of these same instincts. it will be found that bodily, like mental insanity, is best managed, for the most part, by natural soothing agencies. two centuries ago there was a prescription for scurvy containing "stercoris taurini et anserini par, quantitas trium magnarum nucum," of the hell-broth containing which "guoties-cumque sitit oeger, large bibit." when i have recalled the humane common-sense of captain cook in the matter of preventing this disease; when i have heard my friend, mr. dana, describing the avidity with which the scurvy-stricken sailors snuffed up the earthy fragrance of fresh raw potatoes, the food which was to supply the elements wanting to their spongy tissues, i have recognized that the perfection of art is often a return to nature, and seen in this single instance the germ of innumerable beneficent future medical reforms. i cannot help believing that medical curative treatment will by and by resolve itself in great measure into modifications of the food, swallowed and breathed, and of the natural stimuli, and that less will be expected from specifics and noxious disturbing agents, either alien or assimilable. the noted mineral-waters containing iron, sulphur, carbonic acid, supply nutritious or stimulating materials to the body as much as phosphate of lime and ammoniacal compounds do to the cereal plants. the effects of a milk and vegetable diet, of gluten bread in diabetes, of cod-liver oil in phthisis, even of such audacious innovations as the water-cure and the grape-cure, are only hints of what will be accomplished when we have learned to discover what organic elements are deficient or in excess in a case of chronic disease, and the best way of correcting the abnormal condition, just as an agriculturist ascertains the wants of his crops and modifies the composition of his soil. in acute febrile diseases we have long ago discovered that far above all drug-medication is the use of mild liquid diet in the period of excitement, and of stimulant and nutritious food in that of exhaustion. hippocrates himself was as particular about his barley-ptisan as any florence nightingale of our time could be. the generation to which you, who are just entering the profession, belong, will make a vast stride forward, as i believe, in the direction of treatment by natural rather than violent agencies. what is it that makes the reputation of sydenham, as the chief of english physicians? his prescriptions consisted principally of simples. an aperient or an opiate, a "cardiac" or a tonic, may be commonly found in the midst of a somewhat fantastic miscellany of garden herbs. it was not by his pharmaceutic prescriptions that he gained his great name. it was by daring to order fresh air for small-pox patients, and riding on horseback for consumptives, in place of the smothering system, and the noxious and often loathsome rubbish of the established schools. of course sydenham was much abused by his contemporaries, as he frequently takes occasion to remind his reader. "i must needs conclude," he says, "either that i am void of merit, or that the candid and ingenuous part of mankind, who are formed with so excellent a temper of mind as to be no strangers to gratitude, make a very small part of the whole." if in the fearless pursuit of truth you should find the world as ungracious in the nineteenth century as he found it in the seventeenth, you may learn a lesson of self-reliance from another utterance of the same illustrious physician: "'t is none of my business to inquire what other persons think, but to establish my own observations; in order to which, i ask no favor of the reader but to peruse my writings with temper." the physician has learned a great deal from the surgeon, who is naturally in advance of him, because he has a better opportunity of seeing the effects of his remedies. let me shorten one of ambroise pare's stories for you. there had been a great victory at the pass of susa, and they were riding into the city. the wounded cried out as the horses trampled them under their hoofs, which caused good ambroise great pity, and made him wish himself back in paris. going into a stable he saw four dead soldiers, and three desperately wounded, placed with their backs against the wall. an old campaigner came up.--"can these fellows get well?" he said. "no!" answered the surgeon. thereupon, the old soldier walked up to them and cut all their throats, sweetly, and without wrath (doulcement et sans cholere). ambroise told him he was a bad man to do such a thing. "i hope to god;" he said, "somebody will do as much for me if i ever get into such a scrape" (accoustre de telle facon). "i was not much salted in those days" (bien doux de sel), says ambroise, "and little acquainted with the treatment of wounds." however, as he tells us, he proceeded to apply boiling oil of sambuc (elder) after the approved fashion of the time,--with what torture to the patient may be guessed. at last his precious oil gave out, and he used instead an insignificant mixture of his own contrivance. he could not sleep that night for fear his patients who had not been scalded with the boiling oil would be poisoned by the gunpowder conveyed into their wounds by the balls. to his surprise, he found them much better than the others the next morning, and resolved never again to burn his patients with hot oil for gun-shot wounds. this was the beginning, as nearly as we can fix it, of that reform which has introduced plain water-dressings in the place of the farrago of external applications which had been a source of profit to apothecaries and disgrace to art from, and before, the time when pliny complained of them. a young surgeon who was at sudley church, laboring among the wounded of bull run, tells me they had nothing but water for dressing, and he (being also doux de sel) was astonished to see how well the wounds did under that simple treatment. let me here mention a fact or two which may be of use to some of you who mean to enter the public service. you will, as it seems, have gun-shot wounds almost exclusively to deal with. three different surgeons, the one just mentioned and two who saw the wounded of big bethel, assured me that they found no sabre-cuts or bayonet wounds. it is the rifle-bullet from a safe distance which pierces the breasts of our soldiers, and not the gallant charge of broad platoons and sweeping squadrons, such as we have been in the habit of considering the chosen mode of warfare of ancient and modern chivalry. [sir charles james napier had the same experience in virginia in . "potomac. we have nasty sort of fighting here, amongst creeks and bushes, and lose men without show." "yankee never shows himself, he keeps in the thickest wood, fires and runs off."--"these five thousand in the open field might be attacked, but behind works it would be throwing away lives." he calls it "an inglorious warfare,"--says one of the leaders is "a little deficient in gumption,"--but--still my opinion is, that if we tuck up our sleeves and lay our ears back we might thrash them; that is, if we caught them out of their trees, so as to slap at them with the bayonet."--life, etc. vol. i. p. et seq.] another fact parallels the story of the old campaigner, and may teach some of you caution in selecting your assistants. a chaplain told it to two of our officers personally known to myself. he overheard the examination of a man who wished to drive one of the "avalanche" wagons, as they call them. the man was asked if he knew how to deal with wounded men. "oh yes," he answered; "if they're hit here," pointing to the abdomen, "knock 'em on the head,--they can't get well." in art and outside of it you will meet the same barbarisms that ambroise pare met with,--for men differ less from century to century than we are apt to suppose; you will encounter the same opposition, if you attack any prevailing opinion, that sydenham complained of. so far as possible, let not such experiences breed in you a contempt for those who are the subjects of folly or prejudice, or foster any love of dispute for its own sake. should you become authors, express your opinions freely; defend them rarely. it is not often that an opinion is worth expressing, which cannot take care of itself. opposition is the best mordant to fix the color of your thought in the general belief. it is time to bring these crowded remarks to a close. the day has been when at the beginning of a course of lectures i should have thought it fitting to exhort you to diligence and entire devotion to your tasks as students. it is not so now. the young man who has not heard the clarion-voices of honor and of duty now sounding throughout the land, will heed no word of mine. in the camp or the city, in the field or the hospital, under sheltering roof, or half-protecting canvas, or open sky, shedding our own blood or stanching that of our wounded defenders, students or teachers, whatever our calling and our ability, we belong, not to ourselves, but to our imperilled country, whose danger is our calamity, whose ruin would be our enslavement, whose rescue shall be our earthly salvation! scholastic and bedside teaching. an introductory lecture delivered before the medical class of harvard university, november , . the idea is entertained by some of our most sincere professional brethren, that to lengthen and multiply our winter lectures will be of necessity to advance the cause of medical education. it is a fair subject for consideration whether they do not overrate the relative importance of that particular mode of instruction which forms the larger part of these courses. as this school could only lengthen its lecture term at the expense of its "summer session," in which more direct, personal, and familiar teaching takes the place of our academic discourses, and in which more time can be given to hospitals, infirmaries, and practical instruction in various important specialties, whatever might be gained, a good deal would certainly be lost in our case by the exchange. the most essential part of a student's instruction is obtained, as i believe, not in the lecture-room, but at the bedside. nothing seen there is lost; the rhythms of disease are learned by frequent repetition; its unforeseen occurrences stamp themselves indelibly in the memory. before the student is aware of what he has acquired, he has learned the aspects and course and probable issue of the diseases he has seen with his teacher, and the proper mode of dealing with them, so far as his master knows it. on the other hand, our ex cathedra prelections have a strong tendency to run into details which, however interesting they may be to ourselves and a few of our more curious listeners, have nothing in them which will ever be of use to the student as a practitioner. it is a perfectly fair question whether i and some other american professors do not teach quite enough that is useless already. is it not well to remind the student from time to time that a physician's business is to avert disease, to heal the sick, to prolong life, and to diminish suffering? is it not true that the young man of average ability will find it as much as he can do to fit himself for these simple duties? is it not best to begin, at any rate, by making sure of such knowledge as he will require in his daily walk, by no means discouraging him from any study for which his genius fits him when he once feels that he has become master of his chosen art. i know that many branches of science are of the greatest value as feeders of our medical reservoirs. but the practising physician's office is to draw the healing waters, and while he gives his time to this labor he can hardly be expected to explore all the sources that spread themselves over the wide domain of science. the traveller who would not drink of the nile until he had tracked it to its parent lakes, would be like to die of thirst; and the medical practitioner who would not use the results of many laborers in other departments without sharing their special toils, would find life far too short and art immeasurably too long. we owe much to chemistry, one of the most captivating as well as important of studies; but the medical man must as a general rule content himself with a clear view of its principles and a limited acquaintance with its facts; such especially as are pertinent to his pursuits. i am in little danger of underrating anatomy or physiology; but as each of these branches splits up into specialties, any one of which may take up a scientific life-time, i would have them taught with a certain judgment and reserve, so that they shall not crowd the more immediately practical branches. so of all the other ancillary and auxiliary kinds of knowledge, i would have them strictly subordinated to that particular kind of knowledge for which the community looks to its medical advisers. a medical school is not a scientific school, except just so far as medicine itself is a science. on the natural history side, medicine is a science; on the curative side, chiefly an art. this is implied in hufeland's aphorism: "the physician must generalize the disease and individualize the patient." the coordinated and classified results of empirical observation, in distinction from scientific experiment, have furnished almost all we know about food, the medicine of health, and medicine, the food of sickness. we eat the root of the solanum tuberosum and throw away its fruit; we eat the fruit of the solanum lycopersicum and throw away its root. nothing but vulgar experience has taught us to reject the potato ball and cook the tomato. so of most of our remedies. the subchloride of mercury, calomel, is the great british specific; the protochloride of mercury, corrosive sublimate, kills like arsenic, but no chemist could have told us it would be so. from observations like these we can obtain certain principles from which we can argue deductively to facts of a like nature, but the process is limited, and we are suspicious of all reasoning in that direction applied to the processes of healthy and diseased life. we are continually appealing to special facts. we are willing to give liebig's artificial milk when we cannot do better, but we watch the child anxiously whose wet-nurse is a chemist's pipkin. a pair of substantial mammary glands has the advantage over the two hemispheres of the most learned professor's brain, in the art of compounding a nutritious fluid for infants. the bedside is always the true centre of medical teaching. certain branches must be taught in the lecture-room, and will necessarily involve a good deal that is not directly useful to the future practitioner. but the over ambitious and active student must not be led away by the seduction of knowledge for its own sake from his principal pursuit. the humble beginner, who is alarmed at the vast fields of knowledge opened to him, may be encouraged by the assurance that with a very slender provision of science, in distinction from practical skill, he may be a useful and acceptable member of the profession to which the health of the community is intrusted. to those who are not to engage in practice, the various pursuits of science hardly require to be commended. only they must not be disappointed if they find many subjects treated in our courses as a medical class requires, rather than as a scientific class would expect, that is, with special limitations and constant reference to practical ends. fortunately they are within easy reach of the highest scientific instruction. the business of a school like this is to make useful working physicians, and to succeed in this it is almost as important not to overcrowd the mind of the pupil with merely curious knowledge as it is to store it with useful information. in this direction i have written my lecture, not to undervalue any form of scientific labor in its place, an unworthy thought from which i hope i need not defend myself,--but to discourage any undue inflation of the scholastic programme, which even now asks more of the student than the teacher is able to obtain from the great majority of those who present themselves for examination. i wish to take a hint in education from the secretary of the massachusetts board of agriculture, who regards the cultivation of too much land as a great defect in our new england farming. i hope that our medical institutions may never lay themselves open to the kind of accusation mr. lowe brings against the english universities, when he says that their education is made up "of words that few understand and most will shortly forget; of arts that can never be used, if indeed they can even be learnt; of histories inapplicable to our times; of languages dead and even mouldy; of grammatical rules that never had living use and are only post mortem examinations; and of statements fagoted with utter disregard of their comparative value." this general thought will be kept in view throughout my somewhat discursive address, which will begin with an imaginary clinical lesson from the lips of an historical personage, and close with the portrait from real life of one who, both as teacher and practitioner, was long loved and honored among us. if i somewhat overrun my hour, you must pardon me, for i can say with pascal that i have not had the time to make my lecture shorter. in the year , that good man john eliot, commonly called the apostle eliot, writing to mr. thomas shepherd, the pious minister of cambridge, referring to the great need of medical instruction for the indians, used these words: "i have thought in my heart that it were a singular good work, if the lord would stirre up the hearts of some or other of his people in england to give some maintenance toward some schoole or collegiate exercise this way, wherein there should be anatomies and other instructions that way, and where there might be some recompence given to any that should bring in any vegetable or other thing that is vertuous in the way of physick. "there is another reason which moves my thought and desires this way, namely that our young students in physick may be trained up better then they yet bee, who have onely theoreticall knowledge, and are forced to fall to practise before ever they saw an anatomy made, or duely trained up in making experiments, for we never had but one anatomy in the countrey, which mr. giles firman [firmin] now in england, did make and read upon very well, but no more of that now." since the time of the apostle eliot the lord has stirred up the hearts of our people to the building of many schools and colleges where medicine is taught in all its branches. mr. giles firmin's "anatomy" may be considered the first ancestor of a long line of skeletons which have been dangling and rattling in our lecture-rooms for more than a century. teaching in new england in was a grave but simple matter. a single person, combining in many cases, as in that of mr. giles firmin, the offices of physician and preacher, taught what he knew to a few disciples whom he gathered about him. of the making of that "anatomy" on which my first predecessor in the branch i teach "did read very well" we can know nothing. the body of some poor wretch who had swung upon the gallows, was probably conveyed by night to some lonely dwelling at the outskirts of the village, and there by the light of flaring torches hastily dissected by hands that trembled over the unwonted task. and ever and anon the master turned to his book, as he laid bare the mysteries of the hidden organs; to his precious vesalius, it might be, or his figures repeated in the multifarious volume of ambroise pare; to the aldine octavo in which fallopius recorded his fresh observations; or that giant folio of spigelius just issued from the press of amsterdam, in which lovely ladies display their viscera with a coquettish grace implying that it is rather a pleasure than otherwise to show the lace-like omentum, and hold up their appendices epiploicae as if they were saying "these are our jewels." his teaching of medicine was no doubt chiefly clinical, and received with the same kind of faith as that which accepted his words from the pulpit. his notions of disease were based on what he had observed, seen always in the light of the traditional doctrines in which he was bred. his discourse savored of the weighty doctrines of hippocrates, diluted by the subtle speculations of galen, reinforced by the curious comments of the arabian schoolmen as they were conveyed in the mellifluous language of fernelius, blended, it may be, with something of the lofty mysticism of van helmont, and perhaps stealing a flavor of that earlier form of homoeopathy which had lately come to light in sir kenelm digby's "discourse concerning the cure of wounds by the sympathetic powder." his pathology was mythology. a malformed foetus, as the readers of winthrop's journal may remember, was enough to scare the colonists from their propriety, and suggest the gravest fears of portended disaster. the student of the seventeenth century opened his licetus and saw figures of a lion with the head of a woman, and a man with the head of an elephant. he had offered to his gaze, as born of a human mother, the effigy of a winged cherub, a pterocephalous specimen, which our professor of pathological anatomy would hardly know whether to treat with the reverence due to its celestial aspect, or to imprison in one of his immortalizing jars of alcohol. his pharmacopoeia consisted mainly of simples, such as the venerable "herball" of gerard describes and figures in abounding affluence. st. john's wort and clown's all-heal, with spurge and fennel, saffron and parsley, elder and snake-root, with opium in some form, and roasted rhubarb and the four great cold seeds, and the two resins, of which it used to be said that whatever the tacamahaca has not cured, the caranna will, with the more familiar scammony and jalap and black hellebore, made up a good part of his probable list of remedies. he would have ordered iron now and then, and possibly an occasional dose of antimony. he would perhaps have had a rheumatic patient wrapped in the skin of a wolf or a wild cat, and in case of a malignant fever with "purples" or petechiae, or of an obstinate king's evil, he might have prescribed a certain black powder, which had been made by calcining toads in an earthen pot; a choice remedy, taken internally, or applied to any outward grief. except for the toad-powder and the peremptory drastics, one might have borne up against this herb doctoring as well as against some more modern styles of medication. barbeyrac and his scholar sydenham had not yet cleansed the pharmacopoeia of its perilous stuff, but there is no doubt that the more sensible physicians of that day knew well enough that a good honest herb-tea which amused the patient and his nurses was all that was required to carry him through all common disorders. the student soon learned the physiognomy of disease by going about with his master; fevers, pleurisies, asthmas, dropsies, fluxes, small-pox, sore-throats, measles, consumptions. he saw what was done for them. he put up the medicines, gathered the herbs, and so learned something of materia medico and botany. he learned these few things easily and well, for he could give his whole attention to them. chirurgery was a separate specialty. women in child-birth were cared for by midwives. there was no chemistry deserving the name to require his study. he did not learn a great deal, perhaps, but what he did learn was his business, namely, how to take care of sick people. let me give you a picture of the old=fashioned way of instruction, by carrying you with me in imagination in the company of worthy master giles firmin as he makes his round of visits among the good folk of ipswich, followed by his one student, who shall answer to the scriptural name of luke. it will not be for entertainment chiefly, but to illustrate the one mode of teaching which can never be superseded, and which, i venture to say, is more important than all the rest put together. the student is a green hand, as you will perceive. in the first dwelling they come to, a stout fellow is bellowing with colic. "he will die, master, of a surety, methinks," says the timid youth in a whisper. "nay, luke," the master answers, "'t is but a dry belly-ache. didst thou not mark that he stayed his roaring when i did press hard over the lesser bowels? note that he hath not the pulse of them with fevers, and by what dorcas telleth me there hath been no long shutting up of the vice naturales. we will steep certain comforting herbs which i will shew thee, and put them in a bag and lay them on his belly. likewise he shall have my cordial julep with a portion of this confection which we do call theriaca andromachi, which hath juice of poppy in it, and is a great stayer of anguish. this fellow is at his prayers to-day, but i warrant thee he shall be swearing with the best of them to-morrow." they jog along the bridle-path on their horses until they come to another lowly dwelling. they sit a while with a delicate looking girl in whom the ingenuous youth naturally takes a special interest. the good physician talks cheerfully with her, asks her a few questions. then to her mother: "good-wife, margaret hath somewhat profited, as she telleth, by the goat's milk she hath taken night and morning. do thou pluck a maniple--that is an handful--of the plant called maidenhair, and make a syrup therewith as i have shewed thee. let her take a cup full of the same, fasting, before she sleepeth, also before she riseth from her bed." and so they leave the house. "what thinkest thou, luke, of the maid we have been visiting?" "she seemeth not much ailing, master, according to my poor judgment. for she did say she was better. and she had a red cheek and a bright eye, and she spake of being soon able to walk unto the meeting, and did seem greatly hopeful, but spare of flesh, methought, and her voice something hoarse, as of one that hath a defluxion, with some small coughing from a cold, as she did say. speak i not truly, master, that she will be well speedily?" "yea, luke, i do think she shall be well, and mayhap speedily. but it is not here with us she shall be well. for that redness of the cheek is but the sign of the fever which, after the grecians, we do call the hectical; and that shining of the eyes is but a sickly glazing, and they which do every day get better and likewise thinner and weaker shall find that way leadeth to the church-yard gate. this is the malady which the ancients did call tubes, or the wasting disease, and some do name the consumption. a disease whereof most that fall ailing do perish. this margaret is not long for earth--but she knoweth it not, and still hopeth." "why, then, master, didst thou give her of thy medicine, seeing that her ail is unto death?" "thou shalt learn, boy, that they which are sick must have somewhat wherewith to busy their thoughts. there be some who do give these tabid or consumptives a certain posset made with lime-water and anise and liquorice and raisins of the sun, and there be other some who do give the juice of craw-fishes boiled in barley-water with chicken-broth, but these be toys, as i do think, and ye shall find as good virtue, nay better, in this syrup of the simple called maidenhair." something after this manner might master giles firmin have delivered his clinical instructions. somewhat in this way, a century and a half later, another new england physician, dr. edward augustus holyoke, taught a young man who came to study with him, a very diligent and intelligent youth, james jackson by name, the same whose portrait in his advanced years hangs upon this wall, long the honored professor of theory and practice in this institution, of whom i shall say something in this lecture. our venerated teacher studied assiduously afterwards in the great london hospitals, but i think he used to quote his "old master" ten times where he quoted mr. cline or dr. woodville once. when i compare this direct transfer of the practical experience of a wise man into the mind of a student,--every fact one that he can use in the battle of life and death,--with the far off, unserviceable "scientific" truths that i and some others are in the habit of teaching, i cannot help asking myself whether, if we concede that our forefathers taught too little, there is not--a possibility that we may sometimes attempt to teach too much. i almost blush when i think of myself as describing the eight several facets on two slender processes of the palate bone, or the seven little twigs that branch off from the minute tympanic nerve, and i wonder whether my excellent colleague feels in the same way when he pictures himself as giving the constitution of neurin, which as he and i know very well is that of the hydrate of trimethyle-oxethyle-ammonium, or the formula for the production of alloxan, which, though none but the professors and older students can be expected to remember it, is c h n o + ho, no =c h n o + co +n +nh o, no . i can bear the voice of some rough iconoclast addressing the anatomist and the chemist in tones of contemptuous indignation: "what is this stuff with which you are cramming the brains of young men who are to hold the lives of the community in their hands? here is a man fallen in a fit; you can tell me all about the eight surfaces of the two processes of the palate bone, but you have not had the sense to loosen that man's neck-cloth, and the old women are all calling you a fool? here is a fellow that has just swallowed poison. i want something to turn his stomach inside out at the shortest notice. oh, you have forgotten the dose of the sulphate of zinc, but you remember the formula for the production of alloxan!" "look you, master doctor,--if i go to a carpenter to come and stop a leak in my roof that is flooding the house, do you suppose i care whether he is a botanist or not? cannot a man work in wood without knowing all about endogens and exogens, or must he attend professor gray's lectures before he can be trusted to make a box-trap? if my horse casts a shoe, do you think i will not trust a blacksmith to shoe him until i have made sure that he is sound on the distinction between the sesquioxide and the protosesquioxide of iron?" --but my scientific labor is to lead to useful results by and by, in the next generation, or in some possible remote future.-- "diavolo!" as your dr. rabelais has it,--answers the iconoclast,--"what is that to me and my colic, to me and my strangury? i pay the captain of the cunard steamship to carry me quickly and safely to liverpool, not to make a chart of the atlantic for after voyagers! if professor peirce undertakes to pilot me into boston harbor and runs me on cohasset rocks, what answer is it to tell me that he is superintendent of the coast survey? no, sir! i want a plain man in a pea-jacket and a sou'wester, who knows the channel of boston harbor, and the rocks of boston harbor, and the distinguished professor is quite of my mind as to the matter, for i took the pains to ask him before i ventured to use his name in the way of illustration." i do not know how the remarks of the image-breaker may strike others, but i feel that they put me on my defence with regard to much of my teaching. some years ago i ventured to show in an introductory lecture how very small a proportion of the anatomical facts taught in a regular course, as delivered by myself and others, had any practical bearing whatever on the treatment of disease. how can i, how can any medical teacher justify himself in teaching anything that is not like to be of practical use to a class of young men who are to hold in their hands the balance in which life and death, ease and anguish, happiness and wretchedness are to be daily weighed? i hope we are not all wrong. oftentimes in finding how sadly ignorant of really essential and vital facts and rules were some of those whom we had been larding with the choicest scraps of science, i have doubted whether the old one-man system of teaching, when the one man was of the right sort, did not turn out better working physicians than our more elaborate method. the best practitioner i ever knew was mainly shaped to excellence in that way. i can understand perfectly the regrets of my friend dr. john brown of edinburgh, for the good that was lost with the old apprenticeship system. i understand as well dr. latham's fear "that many men of the best abilities and good education will be deterred from prosecuting physic as a profession, in consequence of the necessity indiscriminately laid upon all for impossible attainments." i feel therefore impelled to say a very few words in defence of that system of teaching adopted in our colleges, by which we wish to supplement and complete the instruction given by private individuals or by what are often called summer schools. the reason why we teach so much that is not practical and in itself useful, is because we find that the easiest way of teaching what is practical and useful. if we could in any way eliminate all that would help a man to deal successfully with disease, and teach it by itself so that it should be as tenaciously rooted in the memory, as easily summoned when wanted, as fertile in suggestion of related facts, as satisfactory to the peremptory demands of the intelligence as if taught in its scientific connections, i think it would be our duty so to teach the momentous truths of medicine, and to regard all useless additions as an intrusion on the time which should be otherwise occupied. but we cannot successfully eliminate and teach by itself that which is purely practical. the easiest and surest why of acquiring facts is to learn them in groups, in systems, and systematized knowledge is science. you can very often carry two facts fastened together more easily than one by itself, as a housemaid can carry two pails of water with a hoop more easily than one without it. you can remember a man's face, made up of many features, better than you can his nose or his mouth or his eye-brow. scores of proverbs show you that you can remember two lines that rhyme better than one without the jingle. the ancients, who knew the laws of memory, grouped the seven cities that contended for the honor of being homer's birthplace in a line thus given by aulus gellius: smurna, rodos, colophon, salamin, ios, argos, athenai. i remember, in the earlier political days of martin van buren, that colonel stone, of the "new york commercial," or one of his correspondents, said that six towns of new york would claim in the same way to have been the birth-place of the "little magician," as he was then called; and thus he gave their names, any one of which i should long ago have forgotten, but which as a group have stuck tight in my memory from that day to this; catskill, saugerties, redhook, kinderhook, scaghticoke, schodac. if the memory gains so much by mere rhythmical association, how much more will it gain when isolated facts are brought together under laws and principles, when organs are examined in their natural connections, when structure is coupled with function, and healthy and diseased action are studied as they pass one into the other! systematic, or scientific study is invaluable as supplying a natural kind of mnemonics, if for nothing else. you cannot properly learn the facts you want from anatomy and chemistry in any way so easily as by taking them in their regular order, with other allied facts, only there must be common sense exercised in leaving out a great deal which belongs to each of the two branches as pure science. the dullest of teachers is the one who does not know what to omit. the larger aim of scientific training is to furnish you with principles to which you will be able to refer isolated facts, and so bring these within the range of recorded experience. see what the "london times" said about the three germans who cracked open john bull chatwood's strong-box at the fair the other day, while the three englishmen hammered away in vain at brother jonathan herring's. the englishmen represented brute force. the germans had been trained to appreciate principle. the englishman "knows his business by rote and rule of thumb"--science, which would "teach him to do in an hour what has hitherto occupied him two hours," "is in a manner forbidden to him." to this cause the "times" attributes the falling off of english workmen in comparison with those of the continent. granting all this, we must not expect too much from "science" as distinguished from common experience. there are ten thousand experimenters without special apparatus for every one in the laboratory. accident is the great chemist and toxicologist. battle is the great vivisector. hunger has instituted researches on food such as no liebig, no academic commission has ever recorded. medicine, sometimes impertinently, often ignorantly, often carelessly called "allopathy," appropriates everything from every source that can be of the slightest use to anybody who is ailing in any way, or like to be ailing from any cause. it learned from a monk how to use antimony, from a jesuit how to cure agues, from a friar how to cut for stone, from a soldier how to treat gout, from a sailor how to keep off scurvy, from a postmaster how to sound the eustachian tube, from a dairy-maid how to prevent small-pox, and from an old market-woman how to catch the itch-insect. it borrowed acupuncture and the moxa from the japanese heathen, and was taught the use of lobelia by the american savage. it stands ready to-day to accept anything from any theorist, from any empiric who can make out a good case for his discovery or his remedy. "science" is one of its benefactors, but only one, out of many. ask the wisest practising physician you know, what branches of science help him habitually, and what amount of knowledge relating to each branch he requires for his professional duties. he will tell you that scientific training has a value independent of all the special knowledge acquired. he will tell you that many facts are explained by studying them in the wider range of related facts to which they belong. he will gratefully recognize that the anatomist has furnished him with indispensable data, that the physiologist has sometimes put him on the track of new modes of treatment, that the chemist has isolated the active principles of his medicines, has taught him how to combine them, has from time to time offered him new remedial agencies, and so of others of his allies. but he will also tell you, if i am not mistaken, that his own branch of knowledge is so extensive and so perplexing that he must accept most of his facts ready made at their hands. he will own to you that in the struggle for life which goes on day and night in our thoughts as in the outside world of nature, much that he learned under the name of science has died out, and that simple homely experience has largely taken the place of that scholastic knowledge to which he and perhaps some of his instructors once attached a paremount importance. this, then, is my view of scientific training as conducted in courses such as you are entering on. up to a certain point i believe in set lectures as excellent adjuncts to what is far more important, practical instruction at the bedside, in the operating room, and under the eye of the demonstrator. but i am so far from wishing these courses extended, that i think some of them--suppose i say my own--would almost bear curtailing. do you want me to describe more branches of the sciatic and crural nerves? i can take fischer's plates, and lecturing on that scale fill up my whole course and not finish the nerves alone. we must stop somewhere, and for my own part i think the scholastic exercises of our colleges have already claimed their full share of the student's time without our seeking to extend them. i trust i have vindicated the apparent inconsequence of teaching young students a good deal that seems at first sight profitless, but which helps them to learn and retain what is profitable. but this is an inquisitive age, and if we insist on piling up beyond a certain height knowledge which is in itself mere trash and lumber to a man whose life is to be one long fight with death and disease, there will be some sharp questions asked by and by, and our quick-witted people will perhaps find they can get along as well without the professor's cap as without the bishop's mitre and the monarch's crown. i myself have nothing to do with clinical teaching. yet i do not hesitate to say it is more essential than all the rest put together, so far as the ordinary practice of medicine is concerned; and this is by far the most important thing to be learned, because it deals with so many more lives than any other branch of the profession. so of personal instruction, such as we give and others give in the interval of lectures, much of it at the bedside, some of it in the laboratory, some in the microscope-room, some in the recitation-room, i think it has many advantages of its own over the winter course, and i do not wish to see it shortened for the sake of prolonging what seems to me long enough already. if i am jealous of the tendency to expand the time given to the acquisition of curious knowledge, at the expense of the plain old-fashioned bedside teachings, i only share the feeling which sydenham expressed two hundred years ago, using an image i have already borrowed. "he would be no honest and successful pilot who was to apply himself with less industry to avoid rocks and sands and bring his vessel safely home, than to search into the causes of the ebbing and flowing of the sea, which, though very well for a philosopher, is foreign to him whose business it is to secure the ship. so neither will a physician, whose province it is to cure diseases, be able to do so, though he be a person of great genius, who bestows less time on the hidden and intricate method of nature, and adapting his means thereto, than on curious and subtle speculation." "medicine is my wife and science is my mistress," said dr. rush. i do not think that the breach of the seventh commandment can be shown to have been of advantage to the legitimate owner of his affections. read what dr. elisha bartlett says of him as a practitioner, or ask one of our own honored ex-professors, who studied under him, whether dr. rush had ever learned the meaning of that saying of lord bacon, that man is the minister and interpreter of nature, or whether he did not speak habitually of nature as an intruder in the sick room, from which his art was to expel her as an incompetent and a meddler. all a man's powers are not too much for such a profession as medicine. "he is a learned man," said old parson emmons of franklin, "who understands one subject, and he is a very learned man who understands two subjects." schonbein says he has been studying oxygen for thirty years. mitscherlich said it took fourteen years to establish a new fact in chemistry. aubrey says of harvey, the discoverer of the circulation, that "though all his profession would allow him to be an excellent anatomist, i have never heard of any who admired his therapeutic way." my learned and excellent friend before referred to, dr. brown of edinburgh, from whose very lively and sensible essay, "locke and sydenham," i have borrowed several of my citations, contrasts sir charles bell, the discoverer, the man of science, with dr. abercrombie, the master in the diagnosis and treatment of disease. it is through one of the rarest of combinations that we have in our faculty a teacher on whom the scientific mantle of bell has fallen, and who yet stands preeminent in the practical treatment of the class of diseases which his inventive and ardent experimental genius has illustrated. m. brown-sequard's example is as, eloquent as his teaching in proof of the advantages of well directed scientific investigation. but those who emulate his success at once as a discoverer and a practitioner must be content like him to limit their field of practice. the highest genius cannot afford in our time to forget the ancient precept, divide et impera. "i suppose i must go and earn this guinea," said a medical man who was sent for while he was dissecting an animal. i should not have cared to be his patient. his dissection would do me no good, and his thoughts would be too much upon it. i want a whole man for my doctor, not a half one. i would have sent for a humbler practitioner, who would have given himself entirely to me, and told the other--who was no less a man than john hunter--to go on and finish the dissection of his tiger. sydenham's "read don quixote" should be addressed not to the student, but to the professor of today. aimed at him it means, "do not be too learned." do not think you are going to lecture to picked young men who are training themselves to be scientific discoverers. they are of fair average capacity, and they are going to be working doctors. these young men are to have some very serious vital facts to deal with. i will mention a few of them. every other resident adult you meet in these streets is or will be more or less tuberculous. this is not an extravagant estimate, as very nearly one third of the deaths of adults in boston last year were from phthisis. if the relative number is less in our other northern cities, it is probably in a great measure because they are more unhealthy; that is, they have as much, or nearly as much, consumption, but they have more fevers or other fatal diseases. these heavy-eyed men with the alcoholized brains, these pallid youths with the nicotized optic ganglia and thinking-marrows brown as their own meerschaums, of whom you meet too many,--will ask all your wisdom to deal with their poisoned nerves and their enfeebled wills. nearly seventeen hundred children under five years of age died last year in this city. a poor human article, no doubt, in many cases, still, worth an attempt to save them, especially when we remember the effect of dr. clarke's suggestion at the dublin hospital, by which some twenty-five or thirty thousand children's lives have probably been saved in a single city. again, the complaint is often heard that the native population is not increasing so rapidly as in former generations. the breeding and nursing period of american women is one of peculiar delicacy and frequent infirmity. many of them must require a considerable interval between the reproductive efforts, to repair damages and regain strength. this matter is not to be decided by an appeal to unschooled nature. it is the same question as that of the deformed pelvis,--one of degree. the facts of mal-vitalization are as much to be attended to as those of mal-formation. if the woman with a twisted pelvis is to be considered an exempt, the woman with a defective organization should be recognized as belonging to the invalid corps. we shudder to hear what is alleged as to the prevalence of criminal practices; if back of these there can be shown organic incapacity or overtaxing of too limited powers, the facts belong to the province of the practical physician, as well as of the moralist and the legislator, and require his gravest consideration. take the important question of bleeding. is venesection done with forever? six years ago it was said here in an introductory lecture that it would doubtless come back again sooner or later. a fortnight ago i found myself in the cars with one of the most sensible and esteemed practitioners in new england. he took out his wallet and showed me two lancets, which he carried with him; he had never given up their use. this is a point you will have to consider. or, to mention one out of many questionable remedies, shall you give veratrum viride in fevers and inflammations? it makes the pulse slower in these affections. then the presumption would naturally be that it does harm. the caution with reference to it on this ground was long ago recorded in the lecture above referred to. see what dr. john hughes bennett says of it in the recent edition of his work on medicine. nothing but the most careful clinical experience can settle this and such points of treatment. these are all practical questions--questions of life and death, and every day will be full of just such questions. take the problem of climate. a patient comes to you with asthma and wants to know where he can breathe; another comes to you with phthisis and wants to know where he can live. what boy's play is nine tenths of all that is taught in many a pretentious course of lectures, compared with what an accurate and extensive knowledge of the advantages and disadvantages of different residences in these and other complaints would be to a practising physician. i saw the other day a gentleman living in canada, who had spent seven successive winters in egypt, with the entire relief of certain obscure thoracic symptoms which troubled him while at home. i saw, two months ago, another gentleman from minnesota, an observer and a man of sense, who considered that state as the great sanatorium for all pulmonary complaints. if half our grown population are or will be more or less tuberculous, the question of colonizing florida assumes a new aspect. even within the borders of our own state, the very interesting researches of dr. bowditch show that there is a great variation in the amount of tuberculous disease in different towns, apparently connected with local conditions. the hygienic map of a state is quite as valuable as its geological map, and it is the business of every practising physician to know it thoroughly. they understand this in england, and send a patient with a dry irritating cough to torquay or penzance, while they send another with relaxed bronchial membranes to clifton or brighton. here is another great field for practical study. so as to the all-important question of diet. "of all the means of cure at our command," says dr. bennett, "a regulation of the quantity and quality of the diet is by far the most powerful." dr. maccormac would perhaps except the air we breathe, for he thinks that impure air, especially in sleeping rooms, is the great cause of tubercle. it is sufficiently proved that the american,--the new englander,--the bostonian, can breed strong and sound children, generation after generation,--nay, i have shown by the record of a particular family that vital losses may be retrieved, and a feeble race grow to lusty vigor in this very climate and locality. is not the question why our young men and women so often break down, and how they can be kept from breaking down, far more important for physicians to settle than whether there is one cranial vertebra, or whether there are four, or none? --but i have a taste for the homologies, i want to go deeply into the subject of embryology, i want to analyze the protonihilates precipitated from pigeon's milk by the action of the lunar spectrum,--shall i not follow my star,--shall i not obey my instinct,--shall i not give myself to the lofty pursuits of science for its own sake? certainly you may, if you like. but take down your sign, or never put it up. that is the way dr. owen and dr. huxley, dr. agassiz and dr. jeffries wyman, dr. gray and dr. charles t. jackson settled the difficulty. we all admire the achievements of this band of distinguished doctors who do not practise. but we say of their work and of all pure science, as the french officer said of the charge of the six hundred at balaclava, "c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre,"--it is very splendid, but it is not a practising doctor's business. his patient has a right to the cream of his life and not merely to the thin milk that is left after "science" has skimmed it off. the best a physician can give is never too good for the patient. it is often a disadvantage to a young practitioner to be known for any accomplishment outside of his profession. haller lost his election as physician to the hospital in his native city of berne, principally on the ground that he was a poet. in his later years the physician may venture more boldly. astruc was sixty-nine years old when he published his "conjectures," the first attempt, we are told, to decide the authorship of the pentateuch showing anything like a discerning criticism. sir benjamin brodie was seventy years old before he left his physiological and surgical studies to indulge in psychological speculations. the period of pupilage will be busy enough in acquiring the knowledge needed, and the season of active practice will leave little leisure for any but professional studies. dr. graves of dublin, one of the first clinical teachers of our time, always insisted on his students' beginning at once to visit the hospital. at the bedside the student must learn to treat disease, and just as certainly as we spin out and multiply our academic prelections we shall work in more and more stuffing, more and more rubbish, more and more irrelevant, useless detail which the student will get rid of just as soon as he leaves us. then the next thing will be a new organization, with an examining board of first-rate practical men, who will ask the candidate questions that mean business,--who will make him operate if he is to be a surgeon, and try him at the bedside if he is to be a physician,--and not puzzle him with scientific conundrums which not more than one of the questioners could answer himself or ever heard of since he graduated. or these women who are hammering at the gates on which is written "no admittance for the mothers of mankind," will by and by organize an institution, which starting from that skilful kind of nursing which florence nightingale taught so well, will work backwards through anodynes, palliatives, curatives, preventives, until with little show of science it imparts most of what is most valuable in those branches of the healing art it professes to teach. when that time comes, the fitness of women for certain medical duties, which hecquet advocated in , which douglas maintained in , which dr. john ware, long the honored professor of theory and practice in this institution, upheld within our own recollection in the face of his own recorded opinion to the contrary, will very possibly be recognized. my advice to every teacher less experienced than myself would be, therefore: do not fret over the details you have to omit; you probably teach altogether too many as it is. individuals may learn a thing with once hearing it, but the only way of teaching a whole class is by enormous repetition, representation, and illustration in all possible forms. now and then you will have a young man on your benches like the late waldo burnett,--not very often, if you lecture half a century. you cannot pretend to lecture chiefly for men like that,--a mississippi raft might as well take an ocean-steamer in tow. to meet his wants you would have to leave the rest of your class behind and that you must not do. president allen of jefferson college says that his instruction has been successful in proportion as it has been elementary. it may be a humiliating statement, but it is one which i have found true in my own experience. to the student i would say, that however plain and simple may be our teaching, he must expect to forget much which he follows intelligently in the lecture-room. but it is not the same as if he had never learned it. a man must get a thing before he can forget it. there is a great world of ideas we cannot voluntarily recall,--they are outside the limits of the will. but they sway our conscious thought as the unseen planets influence the movements of those within the sphere of vision. no man knows how much he knows,--how many ideas he has,--any more than he knows how many blood-globules roll in his veins. sometimes accident brings back here and there one, but the mind is full of irrevocable remembrances and unthinkable thoughts, which take a part in all its judgments as indestructible forces. some of you must feel your scientific deficiencies painfully after your best efforts. but every one can acquire what is most essential. a man of very moderate ability may be a good physician, if he devotes himself faithfully to the work. more than this, a positively dull man, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, sometimes makes a safer practitioner than one who has, we will say, five per cent. more brains than his average neighbor, but who thinks it is fifty per cent. more. skulls belonging to this last variety of the human race are more common, i may remark, than specimens like the neanderthal cranium, a cast of which you will find on the table in the museum. whether the average talent be high or low, the colleges of the land must make the best commodity they can out of such material as the country and the cities furnish them. the community must have doctors as it must have bread. it uses up its doctors just as it wears out its shoes, and requires new ones. all the bread need not be french rolls, all the shoes need not be patent leather ones; but the bread must be something that can be eaten, and the shoes must be something that can be worn. life must somehow find food for the two forces that rub everything to pieces, or burn it to ashes,--friction and oxygen. doctors are oxydable products, and the schools must keep furnishing new ones as the old ones turn into oxyds; some of first-rate quality that burn with a great light, some of a lower grade of brilliancy, some honestly, unmistakably, by the grace of god, of moderate gifts, or in simpler phrase, dull. the public will give every honest and reasonably competent worker in the healing art a hearty welcome. it is on the whole very loyal to the medical profession. three successive years have borne witness to the feeling with which this institution, representing it in its educational aspect, is regarded by those who are themselves most honored and esteemed. the great master of natural science bade the last year's class farewell in our behalf, in those accents which delight every audience. the head of our ancient university honored us in the same way in the preceding season. and how can we forget that other occasion when the chief magistrate of the commonwealth, that noble citizen whom we have just lost, large-souled, sweet-natured, always ready for every kind office, came among us at our bidding, and talked to us of our duties in words as full of wisdom as his heart was of goodness? you have not much to fear, i think, from the fancy practitioners. the vulgar quackeries drop off, atrophied, one after another. homoeopathy has long been encysted, and is carried on the body medical as quietly as an old wen. every year gives you a more reasoning and reasonable people to deal with. see how it is in literature. the dynasty of british dogmatists, after lasting a hundred years and more, is on its last legs. thomas carlyle, third in the line of descent, finds an audience very different from those which listened to the silver speech of samuel taylor coleridge and the sonorous phrases of samuel johnson. we read him, we smile at his clotted english, his "swarmery" and other picturesque expressions, but we lay down his tirade as we do one of dr. cumming's interpretations of prophecy, which tells us that the world is coming to an end next week or next month, if the weather permits,--not otherwise,--feeling very sure that the weather will be unfavorable. it is the same common-sense public you will appeal to. the less pretension you make, the better they will like you in the long run. i hope we shall make everything as plain and as simple to you as we can. i would never use a long word, even, where a short one would answer the purpose. i know there are professors in this country who "ligate" arteries. other surgeons only tie them, and it stops the bleeding just as well. it is the familiarity and simplicity of bedside instruction which makes it so pleasant as well as so profitable. a good clinical teacher is himself a medical school. we need not wonder that our young men are beginning to announce themselves not only as graduates of this or that college, but also as pupils of some one distinguished master. i wish to close this lecture, if you will allow me a few moments longer, with a brief sketch of an instructor and practitioner whose character was as nearly a model one in both capacities as i can find anywhere recorded. dr. james jackson, professor of the theory and practice of medicine in this university from to , and whose name has been since retained on our rolls as professor emeritus, died on the th of august last, in the ninetieth year of his age. he studied his profession, as i have already mentioned, with dr. holyoke of salem, one of the few physicians who have borne witness to their knowledge of the laws of life by living to complete their hundredth year. i think the student took his old master, as he always loved to call him, as his model; each was worthy of the other, and both were bright examples to all who come after them. i remember that in the sermon preached by dr. grazer after dr. holyoke's death, one of the points most insisted upon as characteristic of that wise and good old man was the perfect balance of all his faculties. the same harmonious adjustment of powers, the same symmetrical arrangement of life, the same complete fulfilment of every day's duties, without haste and without needless delay, which characterized the master, equally distinguished the scholar. a glance at the life of our own old master, if i can do any justice at all to his excellences, will give you something to carry away from this hour's meeting not unworthy to be remembered. from december, , to october, , he remained with dr. holyoke as a student, a period which he has spoken of as a most interesting and most gratifying part of his life. after this he passed eight months in london, and on his return, in october, , he began business in boston. he had followed mr. cline, as i have mentioned, and was competent to practise surgery. but he found dr. john collins warren had already occupied the ground which at that day hardly called for more than one leading practitioner, and wisely chose the medical branch of the profession. he had only himself to rely upon, but he had confidence in his prospects, conscious, doubtless, of his own powers, knowing his own industry and determination, and being of an eminently cheerful and hopeful disposition. no better proof of his spirit can be given than that, just a year from the time when he began to practise as a physician, he took that eventful step which in such a man implies that he sees his way clear to a position; he married a lady blessed with many gifts, but not bringing him a fortune to paralyze his industry. he had not miscalculated his chances in life. he very soon rose into a good practice, and began the founding of that reputation which grew with his years, until he stood by general consent at the head of his chosen branch of the profession, to say the least, in this city and in all this region of country. his skill and wisdom were the last tribunal to which the sick and suffering could appeal. the community trusted and loved him, the profession recognized him as the noblest type of the physician. the young men whom he had taught wandered through foreign hospitals; where they learned many things that were valuable, and many that were curious; but as they grew older and began to think more of their ability to help the sick than their power of talking about phenomena, they began to look back to the teaching of dr. jackson, as he, after his london experience, looked back to that of dr. holyoke. and so it came to be at last that the bare mention of his name in any of our medical assemblies would call forth such a tribute of affectionate regard as is only yielded to age when it brings with it the record of a life spent in well doing. no accident ever carries a man to eminence such as his in the medical profession. he who looks for it must want it earnestly and work for it vigorously; nature must have qualified him in many ways, and education must have equipped him with various knowledge, or his reputation will evaporate before it reaches the noon-day blaze of fame. how did dr. jackson gain the position which all conceded to him? in the answer to this question some among you may find a key that shall unlock the gate opening on that fair field of the future of which all dream but which not all will ever reach. first of all, he truly loved his profession. he had no intellectual ambitions outside of it, literary, scientific or political. to him it was occupation enough to apply at the bedside the best of all that he knew for the good of his patient; to protect the community against the inroads of pestilence; to teach the young all that he himself had been taught, with all that his own experience had added; to leave on record some of the most important results of his long observation. with his patients he was so perfect at all points that it is hard to overpraise him. i have seen many noted british and french and american practitioners, but i never saw the man so altogether admirable at the bedside of the sick as dr. james jackson. his smile was itself a remedy better than the potable gold and the dissolved pearls that comforted the praecordia of mediaeval monarchs. did a patient, alarmed without cause, need encouragement, it carried the sunshine of hope into his heart and put all his whims to flight, as david's harp cleared the haunted chamber of the sullen king. had the hour come, not for encouragement, but for sympathy, his face, his voice, his manner all showed it, because his heart felt it. so gentle was he, so thoughtful, so calm, so absorbed in the case before him, not to turn round and look for a tribute to his sagacity, not to bolster himself in a favorite theory, but to find out all he could, and to weigh gravely and cautiously all that he found, that to follow him in his morning visit was not only to take a lesson in the healing art, it was learning how to learn, how to move, how to look, how to feel, if that can be learned. to visit with dr. jackson was a medical education. he was very firm, with all his kindness. he would have the truth about his patients. the nurses found it out; and the shrewder ones never ventured to tell him anything but a straight story. a clinical dialogue between dr. jackson and miss rebecca taylor, sometime nurse in the massachusetts general hospital, a mistress in her calling, was as good questioning and answering as one would be like to hear outside of the court-room. of his practice you can form an opinion from his book called "letters to a young physician." like all sensible men from the days of hippocrates to the present, he knew that diet and regimen were more important than any drug or than all drugs put together. witness his treatment of phthisis and of epilepsy. he retained, however, more confidence in some remedial agents than most of the younger generation would concede to them. yet his materia medica was a simple one. "when i first went to live with dr. holyoke," he says, "in , showing me his shop, he said, 'there seems to you to be a great variety of medicines here, and that it will take you long to get acquainted with them, but most of them are unimportant. there are four which are equal to all the rest, namely, mercury, antimony, bark and opium.'" and dr. jackson adds, "i can only say of his practice, the longer i have lived, i have thought better and better of it." when he thought it necessary to give medicine, he gave it in earnest. he hated half-practice--giving a little of this or that, so as to be able to say that one had done something, in case a consultation was held, or a still more ominous event occurred. he would give opium, for instance, as boldly as the late dr. fisher of beverly, but he followed the aphorism of the father of medicine, and kept extreme remedies for extreme cases. when it came to the "non-naturals," as he would sometimes call them, after the old physicians,--namely, air, meat and drink, sleep and watching, motion and rest, the retentions and excretions, and the affections of the mind,--he was, as i have said, of the school of sensible practitioners, in distinction from that vast community of quacks, with or without the diploma, who think the chief end of man is to support apothecaries, and are never easy until they can get every patient upon a regular course of something nasty or noxious. nobody was so precise in his directions about diet, air, and exercise, as dr. jackson. he had the same dislike to the a peu pres, the about so much, about so often, about so long, which i afterwards found among the punctilious adherents of the numerical system at la pitie. he used to insist on one small point with a certain philological precision, namely, the true meaning of the word "cure." he would have it that to cure a patient was simply to care for him. i refer to it as showing what his idea was of the relation of the physician to the patient. it was indeed to care for him, as if his life were bound up in him, to watch his incomings and outgoings, to stand guard at every avenue that disease might enter, to leave nothing to chance; not merely to throw a few pills and powders into one pan of the scales of fate, while death the skeleton was seated in the other, but to lean with his whole weight on the side of life, and shift the balance in its favor if it lay in human power to do it. such devotion as this is only to be looked for in the man who gives himself wholly up to the business of healing, who considers medicine itself a science, or if not a science, is willing to follow it as an art,--the noblest of arts, which the gods and demigods of ancient religions did not disdain to practise and to teach. the same zeal made him always ready to listen to any new suggestion which promised to be useful, at a period of life when many men find it hard to learn new methods and accept new doctrines. few of his generation became so accomplished as he in the arts of direct exploration; coming straight from the parisian experts, i have examined many patients with him, and have had frequent opportunities of observing his skill in percussion and auscultation. one element in his success, a trivial one compared with others, but not to be despised, was his punctuality. he always carried two watches,--i doubt if he told why, any more than dr. johnson told what he did with the orange-peel,--but probably with reference to this virtue. he was as much to be depended upon at the appointed time as the solstice or the equinox. there was another point i have heard him speak of as an important rule with him; to come at the hour when he was expected; if he had made his visit for several days successively at ten o'clock, for instance, not to put it off, if he could possibly help it, until eleven, and so keep a nervous patient and an anxious family waiting for him through a long, weary hour. if i should attempt to characterize his teaching, i should say that while it conveyed the best results of his sagacious and extended observation, it was singularly modest, cautious, simple, sincere. nothing was for show, for self-love; there was no rhetoric, no declamation, no triumphant "i told you so," but the plain statement of a clear-headed honest man, who knows that he is handling one of the gravest subjects that interest humanity. his positive instructions were full of value, but the spirit in which he taught inspired that loyal love of truth which lies at the bottom of all real excellence. i will not say that, during his long career, dr. jackson never made an enemy. i have heard him tell how, in his very early days, old dr. danforth got into a towering passion with him about some professional consultation, and exploded a monosyllable or two of the more energetic kind on the occasion. i remember that that somewhat peculiar personage, dr. waterhouse, took it hardly when dr. jackson succeeded to his place as professor of theory and practice. a young man of dr. jackson's talent and energy could hardly take the position that belonged to him without crowding somebody in a profession where three in a bed is the common rule of the household. but he was a peaceful man and a peace-maker all his days. no man ever did more, if so much, to produce and maintain the spirit of harmony for which we consider our medical community as somewhat exceptionally distinguished. if this harmony should ever be threatened, i could wish that every impatient and irritable member of the profession would read that beautiful, that noble preface to the "letters," addressed to john collins warren. i know nothing finer in the medical literature of all time than this prefatory introduction. it is a golden prelude, fit to go with the three great prefaces which challenge the admiration of scholars, --calvin's to his institutes, de thou's to his history, and casaubon's to his polybius,--not because of any learning or rhetoric, though it is charmingly written, but for a spirit flowing through it to which learning and rhetoric are but as the breath that is wasted on the air to the mood that warms the heart. of a similar character is this short extract which i am permitted to make from a private letter of his to a dear young friend. he was eighty-three years old at the time of writing it. "i have not loved everybody whom i have known, but i have striven to see the good points in the characters of all men and women. at first i must have done this from something in my own nature, for i was not aware of it, and yet was doing it without any plan, when one day, sixty years ago, a friend whom i loved and respected said this to me, 'ah, james, i see that you are destined to succeed in the world, and to make friends, because you are so ready to see the good point in the characters of those you meet.'" i close this imperfect notice of some features in the character of this most honored and beloved of physicians by applying to him the words which were written of william heberden, whose career was not unlike his own, and who lived to the same patriarchal age. "from his early youth he had always entertained a deep sense of religion, a consummate love of virtue, an ardent thirst after knowledge, and an earnest desire to promote the welfare and happiness of all mankind. by these qualities, accompanied with great sweetness of manners, he acquired the love and esteem of all good men, in a degree which perhaps very few have experienced; and after passing an active life with the uniform testimony of a good conscience, he became an eminent example of its influence, in the cheerfulness and serenity of his latest age." such was the man whom i offer to you as a model, young gentlemen, at the outset of your medical career. i hope that many of you will recognize some traits of your own special teachers scattered through various parts of the land in the picture i have drawn. let me assure you that whatever you may learn in this or any other course of public lectures,--and i trust you will learn a great deal,--the daily guidance, counsel, example, of your medical father, for such the oath of hippocrates tells you to consider your preceptor, will, if he is in any degree like him of whom i have spoken, be the foundation on which all that we teach is reared, and perhaps outlive most of our teachings, as in dr. jackson's memory the last lessons that remained with him were those of his old master. the medical profession in massachusetts. a lecture of a course by members of the massachusetts historical society, delivered before the lowell institute, january , . the medical history of eight generations, told in an hour, must be in many parts a mere outline. the details i shall give will relate chiefly to the first century. i shall only indicate the leading occurrences, with the more prominent names of the two centuries which follow, and add some considerations suggested by the facts which have been passed in review. a geographer who was asked to describe the tides of massachusetts bay, would have to recognize the circumstance that they are a limited manifestation of a great oceanic movement. to consider them apart from this, would be to localize a planetary phenomenon, and to provincialize a law of the universe. the art of healing in massachusetts has shared more or less fully and readily the movement which, with its periods of ebb and flow, has been raising its level from age to age throughout the better part of christendom. its practitioners brought with them much of the knowledge and many of the errors of the old world; they have always been in communication with its wisdom and its folly; it is not without interest to see how far the new conditions in which they found themselves have been favorable or unfavorable to the growth of sound medical knowledge and practice. the state of medicine is an index of the civilization of an age and country,--one of the best, perhaps, by which it can be judged. surgery invokes the aid of all the mechanical arts. from the rude violences of the age of stone,--a relic of which we may find in the practice of zipporah, the wife of moses,--to the delicate operations of to-day upon patients lulled into temporary insensibility, is a progress which presupposes a skill in metallurgy and in the labors of the workshop and the laboratory it has taken uncounted generations to accumulate. before the morphia which deadens the pain of neuralgia, or the quinine which arrests the fit of an ague, can find their place in our pharmacies, commerce must have perfected its machinery, and science must have refined its processes, through periods only to be counted by the life of nations. before the means which nature and art have put in the hands of the medical practitioner can be fairly brought into use, the prejudices of the vulgar must be overcome, the intrusions of false philosophy must be fenced out, and the partnership with the priesthood dissolved. all this implies that freedom and activity of thought which belong only to the most advanced conditions of society; and the progress towards this is by gradations as significant of wide-spread changes, as are the varying states of the barometer of far-extended conditions of the atmosphere. apart, then, from its special and technical interest, my subject has a meaning which gives a certain importance, and even dignity, to details in themselves trivial and almost unworthy of record. a medical entry in governor winthrop's journal may seem at first sight a mere curiosity; but, rightly interpreted, it is a key to his whole system of belief as to the order of the universe and the relations between man and his maker. nothing sheds such light on the superstitions of an age as the prevailing interpretation and treatment of disease. when the touch of a profligate monarch was a cure for one of the most inveterate of maladies, when the common symptoms of hysteria were prayed over as marks of demoniacal possession, we might well expect the spiritual realms of thought to be peopled with still stranger delusions. let us go before the pilgrims of the mayflower, and look at the shores on which they were soon to land. a wasting pestilence had so thinned the savage tribes that it was sometimes piously interpreted as having providentially prepared the way for the feeble band of exiles. cotton mather, who, next to the witches, hated the "tawnies," "wild beasts," "blood-hounds," "rattlesnakes," "infidels," as in different places he calls the unhappy aborigines, describes the condition of things in his lively way, thus: "the indians in these parts had newly, even about a year or two before, been visited with such a prodigious pestilence; as carried away not a tenth, but nine parts of ten (yea't is said nineteen of twenty) among them so that the woods were almost cleared of those pernicious creatures to make room for a better growth." what this pestilence was has been much discussed. it is variously mentioned by different early writers as "the plague," "a great and grievous plague," "a sore consumption," as attended with spots which left unhealed places on those who recovered, as making the "whole surface yellow as with a garment." perhaps no disease answers all these conditions so well as smallpox. we know from different sources what frightful havoc it made among the indians in after years,--in , for instance, when it swept away the aboriginal inhabitants of "whole towns," and in . we have seen a whole tribe, the mandans, extirpated by it in our own day. the word "plague" was used very vaguely, as in the description of the "great sickness" found among the indians by the expedition of . this same great sickness could hardly have been yellow fever, as it occurred in the month of november. i cannot think, therefore, that either the scourge of the east or our southern malarial pestilence was the disease that wasted the indians. as for the yellowness like a garment, that is too familiar to the eyes of all who have ever looked on the hideous mask of confluent variola. without the presence or the fear of these exotic maladies, the forlorn voyagers of the mayflower had sickness enough to contend with. at their first landing at cape cod, gaunt and hungry and longing for fresh food, they found upon the sandy shore "great mussel's, and very fat and full of sea-pearl." sailors and passengers indulged in the treacherous delicacy; which seems to have been the sea-clam; and found that these mollusks, like the shell the poet tells of, remembered their august abode, and treated the way-worn adventurers to a gastric reminiscence of the heaving billows. in the mean time it blew and snowed and froze. the water turned to ice on their clothes, and made them many times like coats of iron. edward tilley had like to have "sounded" with cold. the gunner, too, was sick unto death, but "hope of trucking" kept him on his feet,--a yankee, it should seem, when he first touched the shore of new england. most, if not all, got colds and coughs, which afterwards turned to scurvy, whereof many died. how can we wonder that the crowded and tempest-tossed voyagers, many of them already suffering, should have fallen before the trials of the first winter in plymouth? their imperfect shelter, their insufficient supply of bread, their salted food, now in unwholesome condition, account too well for the diseases and the mortality that marked this first dreadful season; weakness, swelling of the limbs, and other signs of scurvy, betrayed the want of proper nourishment and protection from the elements. in december six of their number died, in january eight, in february, seventeen, in march thirteen. with the advance of spring the mortality diminished, the sick and lame began to recover, and the colonists, saddened but not disheartened, applied themselves to the labors of the opening year. one of the most pressing needs of the early colonists must have been that of physicians and surgeons. in mr. savage's remarkable genealogical dictionary of the first settlers who came over before and their descendants to the third generation, i find scattered through the four crowded volumes the names of one hundred and thirty-four medical practitioners. of these, twelve, and probably many more, practised surgery; three were barber-surgeons. a little incident throws a glimmer from the dark lantern of memory upon william direly, one of these practitioners with the razor and the lancet. he was lost between boston and roxbury in a violent tempest of wind and snow; ten days afterwards a son was born to his widow, and with a touch of homely sentiment, i had almost said poetry, they called the little creature "fathergone" direly. six or seven, probably a larger number, were ministers as well as physicians, one of whom, i am sorry to say, took to drink and tumbled into the connecticut river, and so ended. one was not only doctor, but also schoolmaster and poet. one practised medicine and kept a tavern. one was a butcher, but calls himself a surgeon in his will, a union of callings which suggests an obvious pleasantry. one female practitioner, employed by her own sex,--ann moore,--was the precursor of that intrepid sisterhood whose cause it has long been my pleasure and privilege to advocate on all fitting occasions. outside of this list i must place the name of thomas wilkinson, who was complained of, is , for practising contrary to law. many names in the catalogue of these early physicians have been associated, in later periods, with the practice of the profession, --among them, boylston, clark, danforth, homan, jeffrey, kittredge, oliver, peaslee, randall, shattuck, thacher, wellington, williams, woodward. touton was a huguenot, burchsted a german from silesia, lunerus a german or a pole; "pighogg churrergeon," i hope, for the honor of the profession, was only peacock disguised under this alias, which would not, i fear, prove very attractive to patients. what doctrines and practice were these colonists likely to bring, with them? two principal schools of medical practice prevailed in the old world during the greater part of the seventeenth century. the first held to the old methods of galen: its theory was that the body, the microcosm, like the macrocosm, was made up of the four elements--fire, air, water, earth; having respectively the qualities hot, dry, moist, cold. the body was to be preserved in health by keeping each of these qualities in its natural proportion; heat, by the proper temperature; moisture, by the due amount of fluid; and so as to the rest. diseases which arose from excess of heat were to be attacked by cooling remedies; those from excess of cold, by heating ones; and so of the other derangements of balance. this was truly the principle of contraries contrariis, which ill-informed persons have attempted to make out to be the general doctrine of medicine, whereas there is no general dogma other than this: disease is to be treated by anything that is proved to cure it. the means the galenist employed were chiefly diet and vegetable remedies, with the use of the lancet and other depleting agents. he attributed the four fundamental qualities to different vegetables, in four different degrees; thus chicory was cold in the fourth degree, pepper was hot in the fourth, endive was cold and dry in the second, and bitter almonds were hot in the first and dry in the second degree. when we say "cool as a cucumber," we are talking galenism. the seeds of that vegetable ranked as one of "the four greater cold seeds" of this system. galenism prevailed mostly in the south of europe and france. the readers of moliere will have no difficulty in recalling some of its favorite modes of treatment, and the abundant mirth he extracted from them. these galenists were what we should call "herb-doctors" to-day. their insignificant infusions lost credit after a time; their absurdly complicated mixtures excited contempt, and their nauseous prescriptions provoked loathing and disgust. a simpler and bolder practice found welcome in germany, depending chiefly on mineral remedies, mercury, antimony, sulphur, arsenic, and the use, sometimes the secret use, of opium. whatever we think of paracelsus, the chief agent in the introduction of these remedies, and whatever limits we may assign to the use of these long-trusted mineral drugs, there can be no doubt that the chemical school, as it was called, did a great deal towards the expurgation of the old, overloaded, and repulsive pharmacopoeia. we shall find evidence in the practice of our new-england physicians of the first century, that they often employed chemical remedies, and that, by the early part of the following century, their chief trust was in the few simple, potent drugs of paracelsus. we have seen that many of the practitioners of medicine, during the first century of new england, were clergymen. this relation between medicine and theology has existed from a very early period; from the egyptian priest to the indian medicine-man, the alliance has been maintained in one form or another. the partnership was very common among our british ancestors. mr. ward, the vicar of stratford-on-avon, himself a notable example of the union of the two characters, writing about , says, "the saxons had their blood-letters, but under the normans physicke, begunne in england; years agoe itt was not a distinct profession by itself, but practised by men in orders, witness nicholas de ternham, the chief english physician and bishop of durham; hugh of evesham, a physician and cardinal; grysant, physician and pope; john chambers, dr. of physick, was the first bishop of peterborough; paul bush, a bachelor of divinitie in oxford, was a man well read in physick as well as divinitie, he was the first bishop of bristol." "again in king richard the second's time physicians and divines were not distinct professions; for one tydeman, bishop of landaph and worcester, was physician to king richard the second." this alliance may have had its share in creating and keeping up the many superstitions which have figured so largely in the history of medicine. it is curious to see that a medical work left in manuscript by the rev. cotton mather and hereafter to be referred to, is running over with follies and superstitious fancies; while his contemporary and fellow-townsman, william douglass, relied on the same few simple remedies which, through dr. edward holyoke and dr. james jackson, have come down to our own time, as the most important articles of the materia medica. let us now take a general glance at some of the conditions of the early settlers; and first, as to the healthfulness of the climate. the mortality of the season that followed the landing of the pilgrims at plymouth has been sufficiently accounted for. after this, the colonists seem to have found the new country agreeing very well with their english constitutions. its clear air is the subject of eulogy. its dainty springs of sweet water are praised not only by higginson and wood, but even the mischievous morton says, that for its delicate waters "canaan came not near this country." there is a tendency to dilate on these simple blessings, which reminds one a little of the marchioness in dickens's story, with her orange-peel-and-water beverage. still more does one feel the warmth of coloring,--such as we expect from converts to a new faith, and settlers who want to entice others over to their clearings, when winslow speaks, in , of "abundance of roses, white, red, and damask; single, but very sweet indeed;" a most of all, however, when, in the same connection, he says, "here are grapes white and red, and very sweet and strong also." this of our wild grape, a little vegetable indian, which scalps a civilized man's mouth, as his animal representative scalps his cranium. but there is something quite charming in winslow's picture of the luxury in which they are living. lobsters, oysters, eels, mussels, fish and fowl, delicious fruit, including the grapes aforesaid,--if they only had "kine, horses, and sheep," he makes no question but men would live as contented here as in any part of the world. we cannot help admiring the way in which they took their trials, and made the most of their blessings. "and how content they were," says cotton mather, "when an honest man, as i have heard, inviting his friends to a dish of clams, at the table gave thanks to heaven, who had given them to suck the abundance of the seas, and of the treasures aid in the sands!" strangely enough, as it would seem, except for this buoyant determination to make the best of everything, they hardly appear to recognize the difference of the climate from that which they had left. after almost three years' experience, winslow says, he can scarce distinguish new england from old england, in respect of heat and cold, frost, snow, rain, winds, etc. the winter, he thinks (if there is a difference), is sharper and longer; but yet he may be deceived by the want of the comforts he enjoyed at home. he cannot conceive any climate to agree better with the constitution of the english, not being oppressed with extremity of heats, nor nipped by biting cold: "by which means, blessed be god, we enjoy our health, notwithstanding those difficulties we have undergone, in such a measure as would have been admired, if we had lived in england with the like means." edward johnson, after mentioning the shifts to which they were put for food, says,-- "and yet, methinks, our children are as cheerful, fat, and lusty, with feeding upon those mussels, clams, and other fish, as they were in england with their fill of bread." higginson, himself a dyspeptic, "continually in physic," as he says, and accustomed to dress in thick clothing, and to comfort his stomach with drink that was "both strong and stale,"--the "jolly good ale and old," i suppose, of free and easy bishop still's song,--found that he both could and did oftentimes drink new england water very well,--which he seems to look upon as a remarkable feat. he could go as lightclad as any, too, with only a light stuff cassock upon his shirt, and stuff breeches without linings. two of his children were sickly: one,--little misshapen mary,--died on the passage, and, in her father's words, "was the first in our ship that was buried in the bowels of the great atlantic sea;" the other, who had been "most lamentably handled" by disease, recovered almost entirely "by the very wholesomeness of the air, altering, digesting, and drying up the cold and crude humors of the body." wherefore, he thinks it a wise course for all cold complexions to come to take physic in new england, and ends with those often quoted words, that "a sup of new england's air is better than a whole draught of old england's ale." mr. higginson died, however, "of a hectic fever," a little more than a year after his arrival. the medical records which i shall cite show that the colonists were not exempt from the complaints of the old world. besides the common diseases to which their descendants are subject, there were two others, to say nothing of the dreaded small-pox, which later medical science has disarmed,--little known among us at the present day, but frequent among the first settlers. the first of these was the scurvy, already mentioned, of which winthrop speaks in , saying, that it proved fatal to those who fell into discontent, and lingered after their former conditions in england; the poor homesick creatures in fact, whom we so forget in our florid pictures of the early times of the little band in the wilderness. many who were suffering from scurvy got well when the lyon arrived from england, bringing store of juice of lemons. the governor speaks of another case in ; and it seems probable that the disease was not of rare occurrence. the other complaint from which they suffered, but which has nearly disappeared from among us, was intermittent fever, or fever and ague. i investigated the question as to the prevalence of this disease in new england, in a dissertation, which was published in a volume with other papers, in the year . i can add little to the facts there recorded. one which escaped me was, that joshua scottow, in "old men's tears," dated , speaks of "shaking agues," as among the trials to which they had been subjected. the outline map of new england, accompanying the dissertation above referred to, indicates all the places where i had evidence that the disease had originated. it was plain enough that it used to be known in many localities where it has long ceased to be feared. still it was and is remarkable to see what a clean bill of health in this particular respect our barren soil inherited with its sterility. there are some malarious spots on the edge of lake champlain, and there have been some temporary centres of malaria, within the memory of man, on one or more of our massachusetts rivers, but these are harmless enough, for the most part, unless the millers dam them, when they are apt to retaliate with a whiff from their meadows, that sets the whole neighborhood shaking with fever and ague. the pilgrims of the mayflower had with them a good physician, a man of standing, a deacon of their church, one whom they loved and trusted, dr. samuel fuller. but no medical skill could keep cold and hunger and bad food, and, probably enough, desperate homesickness in some of the feebler sort, from doing their work. no detailed record remains of what they suffered or what was attempted for their relief during the first sad winter. the graves of those who died were levelled and sowed with grain that the losses of the little band might not be suspected by the savage tenants of the wilderness, and their story remains untold. of dr. fuller's practice, at a later period, we have an account in a letter of his to governor bradford, dated june, . "i have been to matapan" (now dorchester), he says, "and let some twenty of those people blood." such wholesale depletion as this, except with avowed homicidal intent, is quite unknown in these days; though i once saw the noted french surgeon, lisfranc, in a fine phlebotomizing frenzy, order some ten or fifteen patients, taken almost indiscriminately, to be bled in a single morning. dr. fuller's two visits to salem, at the request of governor endicott, seem to have been very satisfactory to that gentleman. morton, the wild fellow of merry mount, gives a rather questionable reason for the governor's being so well pleased with the physician's doings. the names under which he mentions the two personages, it will be seen, are not intended to be complimentary. "dr. noddy did a great cure for captain littleworth. he cured him of a disease called a wife." william gager, who came out with winthrop, is spoken of as "a right godly man and skilful chyrurgeon, but died of a malignant fever not very long after his arrival." two practitioners of the ancient town of newbury are entitled to special notice, for different reasons. the first is dr. john clark, who is said by tradition to have been the first regularly educated physician who resided in new england. his portrait, in close-fitting skull-cap, with long locks and venerable flowing beard, is familiar to our eyes on the wall of our society's antechamber. his left hand rests upon a skull, his right hand holds an instrument which deserves a passing comment. it is a trephine, a surgical implement for cutting round pieces out of broken skulls, so as to get at the fragments which have been driven in, and lift them up. it has a handle like that of a gimlet, with a claw like a hammer, to lift with, i suppose, which last contrivance i do not see figured in my books. but the point i refer to is this: the old instrument, the trepan, had a handle like a wimble, what we call a brace or bit-stock. the trephine is not mentioned at all in peter lowe's book, london, ; nor in wiseman's great work on surgery, london, ; nor in the translation of dionis, published by jacob tonson, in . in fact it was only brought into more general use by cheselden and sharpe so late as the beginning of the last century. as john clark died in , it is remarkable to see the last fashion in the way of skull-sawing contrivances in his hands,--to say nothing of the claw on the handle, and a hey's saw, so called in england, lying on the table by him, and painted there more than a hundred years before hey was born. this saw is an old invention, perhaps as old as hippocrates, and may be seen figured in the "armamentarium chirurgicum" of scultetus, or in the works of ambroise pare. dr. clark is said to have received a diploma before he came, for skill in lithotomy. he loved horses, as a good many doctors do, and left a good property, as they all ought to do. his grave and noble presence, with the few facts concerning him, told with more or less traditional authority, give us the feeling that the people of newbury, and afterwards of boston, had a wise and skilful medical adviser and surgeon in dr. john clark. the venerable town of newbury had another physician who was less fortunate. the following is a court record of : "this is to certify whom it may concern, that we the subscribers, being called upon to testify against doctor william snelling for words by him uttered, affirm that being in way of merry discourse, a health being drank to all friends, he answered, "i'll pledge my friends, and for my foes a plague for their heels and,'---- [a similar malediction on the other extremity of their feet.] "since when he hath affirmed that he only intended the proverb used in the west country, nor do we believe he intended otherwise. "[signed] "william thomas. "thomas milward. "march th , all which i acknowledge, and am sorry i did not expresse my intent, or that i was so weak as to use so foolish a proverb. "[signed] "gulielmus snelling." notwithstanding this confession and apology, the record tells us that "william snelling in his presentment for cursing is fined ten shillings and the fees of court." i will mention one other name among those of the fathers of the medical profession in new england. the "apostle" eliot says, writing in , "we never had but one anatomy in the country, which mr. giles firman, now in england, did make and read upon very well." giles firmin, as the name is commonly spelled, practised physic in this country for a time. he seems to have found it a poor business; for, in a letter to governor winthrop, he says, "i am strongly sett upon to studye divinitie: my studyes else must be lost, for physick is but a meene helpe." giles firmin's lectures on anatomy were the first scientific teachings of the new world. while the fathers were enlightened enough to permit such instructions, they were severe in dealing with quackery; for, in , our court records show that one nicholas knopp, or knapp, was sentenced to be fined or whipped "for taking upon him to cure the scurvey by a water of noe worth nor value, which he solde att a very deare rate." empty purses or sore backs would be common with us to-day if such a rule were enforced. besides the few worthies spoken of, and others whose names i have not space to record, we must remember that there were many clergymen who took charge of the bodies as well as the souls of their patients, among them two presidents of harvard college, charles chauncy and leonard hoar,--and thomas thacher, first minister of the "old south," author of the earliest medical treatises printed in the country,[a brief rule to guide the common people in small pox and measles. .] whose epitaph in latin and greek, said to have been written by eleazer, an "indian youth" and a member of the senior class of harvard college, may be found in the "magnalia." i miss this noble savage's name in our triennial catalogue; and as there is many a slip between the cup and lip, one is tempted to guess that he may have lost his degree by some display of his native instinct,--possibly a flourish of the tomahawk or scalping-knife. however this may have been, the good man he celebrated was a notable instance of the angelical conjunction, as the author of the "magnalia" calls it, of the offices of clergyman and medical practitioner. michael wigglesworth, author of the "day of doom," attended the sick, "not only as a pastor, but as a physician too, and this, not only in his own town, but also in all those of the vicinity." mather says of the sons of charles chauncy, "all of these did, while they had opportunity, preach the gospel; and most, if not all of them, like their excellent father before them, had an eminent skill in physick added unto their other accomplishments," etc. roger williams is said to have saved many in a kind of pestilence which swept away many indians. to these names must be added, as sustaining a certain relation to the healing art, that of the first governor winthrop, who is said by john cotton to have been "help for our bodies by physick [and] for our estates by law," and that of his son, the governor of connecticut, who, as we shall see, was as much physician as magistrate. i had submitted to me for examination, in , a manuscript found among the winthrop papers, marked with the superscription, "for my worthy friend mr. wintrop," dated in , london, signed edward stafford, and containing medical directions and prescriptions. it may be remembered by some present that i wrote a report on this paper, which was published in the "proceedings" of this society. whether the paper was written for governor john winthrop of massachusetts, or for his son, governor john of connecticut, there is no positive evidence that i have been able to obtain. it is very interesting, however, as giving short and simple practical directions, such as would be most like to be wanted and most useful, in the opinion of a physician in repute of that day. the diseases prescribed for are plague, small-pox, fevers, king's evil, insanity, falling-sickness, and the like; with such injuries as broken bones, dislocations, and burning with gunpowder. the remedies are of three kinds: simples, such as st. john's wort, clown's all-heal, elder, parsley, maidenhair, mineral drugs, such as lime, saltpetre, armenian bole, crocus metallorum, or sulphuret of antimony; and thaumaturgic or mystical, of which the chief is, "my black powder against the plague, small-pox; purples, all sorts of feavers; poyson; either, by way of prevention or after infection." this marvellous remedy was made by putting live toads into an earthen pot so as to half fill it, and baking and burning them "in the open ayre, not in an house,"--concerning which latter possibility i suspect madam winthrop would have had something to say,--until they could be reduced by pounding, first into a brown, and then into a black, powder. blood-letting in some inflammations, fasting in the early stage of fevers, and some of those peremptory drugs with which most of us have been well acquainted in our time, the infragrant memories of which i will not pursue beyond this slight allusion, are among his remedies. the winthrops, to one of whom dr. stafford's directions were addressed, were the medical as well as the political advisers of their fellow-citizens for three or four successive generations. one of them, governor john of connecticut, practised so extensively, that, but for his more distinguished title in the state, he would have been remembered as the doctor. the fact that he practised in another colony, for the most part, makes little difference in the value of the records we have of his medical experience, which have fortunately been preserved, and give a very fair idea, in all probability, of the way in which patients were treated in massachusetts, when they fell into intelligent and somewhat educated hands, a little after the middle of the seventeenth century: i have before me, while writing, a manuscript collection of the medical cases treated by him, and recorded at the time in his own hand, which has been intrusted to me by our president, his descendant. they are generally marked hartford, and extend from the year to . from these, manuscripts, and from the letters printed in the winthrop papers published by our society, i have endeavored to obtain some idea of the practice of governor john winthrop, junior. the learned eye of mr. pulsifer would have helped me, no doubt, as it has done in other cases; but i have ventured this time to attempt finding my own way among the hieroglyphics of these old pages. by careful comparison of many prescriptions, and by the aid of schroder, salmon, culpeper, and other old compilers, i have deciphered many of his difficult paragraphs with their mysterious recipes. the governor employed a number of the simples dear to ancient women, --elecampane and elder and wormwood and anise and the rest; but he also employed certain mineral remedies, which he almost always indicates by their ancient symbols, or by a name which should leave them a mystery to the vulgar. i am now prepared to reveal the mystic secrets of the governor's beneficent art, which rendered so many good and great as well as so many poor and dependent people his debtors,--at least, in their simple belief,--for their health and their lives. his great remedy, which he gave oftener than any other, was nitre; which he ordered in doses of twenty or thirty grains to adults, and of three grains to infants. measles, colics, sciatica, headache, giddiness, and many other ailments, all found themselves treated, and i trust bettered, by nitre; a pretty safe medicine in moderate doses, and one not likely to keep the good governor awake at night, thinking whether it might not kill, if it did not cure. we may say as much for spermaceti, which he seems to have considered "the sovereign'st thing on earth" for inward bruises, and often prescribes after falls and similar injuries. one of the next remedies, in point of frequency, which he was in the habit of giving, was (probably diaphoretic) antimony; a mild form of that very active metal, and which, mild as it was, left his patients very commonly with a pretty strong conviction that they had been taking something that did not exactly agree with them. now and then he gave a little iron or sulphur or calomel, but very rarely; occasionally, a good, honest dose of rhubarb or jalap; a taste of stinging horseradish, oftener of warming guiacum; sometimes an anodyne, in the shape of mithridate,--the famous old farrago, which owed its virtue to poppy juice; [this is the remedy which a boston divine tried to simplify. see electuarium novum alexipharmacum, by rev. thomas harward, lecturer at the royal chappell. boston, . this tract is in our society's library.] very often, a harmless powder of coral; less frequently, an inert prescription of pleasing amber; and (let me say it softly within possible hearing of his honored descendant), twice or oftener,--let us hope as a last resort,--an electuary of millipedes,--sowbugs, if we must give them their homely english name. one or two other prescriptions, of the many unmentionable ones which disgraced the pharmacopoeia of the seventeenth century, are to be found, but only in very rare instances, in the faded characters of the manuscript. the excellent governor's accounts of diseases are so brief, that we get only a very general notion of the complaints for which he prescribed. measles and their consequences are at first more prominent than any other one affection, but the common infirmities of both sexes and of all ages seem to have come under his healing hand. fever and ague appears to have been of frequent occurrence. his published correspondence shows that many noted people were in communication with him as his patients. roger williams wants a little of his medicine for mrs. weekes's daughter; worshipful john haynes is in receipt of his powders; troublesome captain underhill wants "a little white vitterall" for his wife, and something to cure his wife's friend's neuralgia, (i think his wife's friend's husband had a little rather have had it sent by the hands of mrs. underhill, than by those of the gallant and discursive captain); and pious john davenport says, his wife "tooke but one halfe of one of the papers" (which probably contained the medicine he called rubila), "but could not beare the taste of it, and is discouraged from taking any more;" and honored william leete asks for more powders for his "poore little daughter graciana," though he found it "hard to make her take it," delicate, and of course sensitive, child as she was, languishing and dying before her time, in spite of all the bitter things she swallowed,--god help all little children in the hands of dosing doctors and howling dervishes! restless samuel gorton, now tamed by the burden of fourscore and two years, writes so touching an account of his infirmities, and expresses such overflowing gratitude for the relief he has obtained from the governor's prescriptions, wondering how "a thing so little in quantity, so little in sent, so little in taste, and so little to sence in operation, should beget and bring forth such efects," that we repent our hasty exclamation, and bless the memory of the good governor, who gave relief to the worn-out frame of our long-departed brother, the sturdy old heretic of rhode island. what was that medicine which so frequently occurs in the printed letters under the name of "rubila"? it is evidently a secret remedy, and, so far as i know, has not yet been made out. i had almost given it up in despair, when i found what appears to be a key to the mystery. in the vast multitude of prescriptions contained in the manuscripts, most of them written in symbols, i find one which i thus interpret: "four grains of (diaphoretic) antimony, with twenty grains of nitre, with a little salt of tin, making rubila." perhaps something was added to redden the powder, as he constantly speaks of "rubifying" or "viridating" his prescriptions; a very common practice of prescribers, when their powders look a little too much like plain salt or sugar. waitstill winthrop, the governor's son, "was a skilful physician," says mr. sewall, in his funeral sermon; "and generously gave, not only his advice, but also his medicines, for the healing of the sick, which, by the blessing of god, were made successful for the recovery of many." "his son john, a member of the royal society, speaks of himself as 'dr. winthrop,' and mentions one of his own prescriptions in a letter to cotton mather." our president tells me that there was an heirloom of the ancient skill in his family, within his own remembrance, in the form of a certain precious eye-water, to which the late president john quincy adams ascribed rare virtue, and which he used to obtain from the possessor of the ancient recipe. these inherited prescriptions are often treasured in families, i do not doubt, for many generations. when i was yet of trivial age, and suffering occasionally, as many children do, from what one of my cambridgeport schoolmates used to call the "ager,"--meaning thereby toothache or face-ache,--i used to get relief from a certain plaster which never went by any other name in the family than "dr. oliver." dr. james oliver was my great-great-grandfather, graduated in , and died in . this was, no doubt, one of his nostrums; for nostrum, as is well known, means nothing more than our own or my own particular medicine, or other possession or secret, and physicians in old times used to keep their choice recipes to themselves a good deal, as we have had occasion to see. some years ago i found among my old books a small manuscript marked "james oliver. this book begun aug. , ." it is a rough sort of account-book, containing among other things prescriptions for patients, and charges for the same, with counter-charges for the purchase of medicines and other matters. dr. oliver practised in cambridge, where may be seen his tomb with inscriptions, and with sculptured figures that look more like diana of the ephesians, as given in calmet's dictionary, than like any angels admitted into good society here or elsewhere. i do not find any particular record of what his patients suffered from, but i have carefully copied out the remedies he mentions, and find that they form a very respectable catalogue. besides the usual simples, elder, parsley, fennel, saffron, snake-root, wormwood, i find the elixir proprietatis, with other elixire and cordials, as if he rather fancied warming medicines; but he called in the aid of some of the more energetic remedies, including iron, and probably mercury, as he bought two pounds of it at one time. the most interesting item is his bill against the estate of samuel pason of roxbury, for services during his last illness. he attended this gentleman,--for such he must have been, by the amount of physic which he took, and which his heirs paid for,--from june th, , to september d of the same year, three months. i observe he charges for visits as well as for medicines, which is not the case in most of his bills. he opens the attack with a carminative appeal to the visceral conscience, and follows it up with good hard-hitting remedies for dropsy,--as i suppose the disease would have been called,--and finishes off with a rallying dose of hartshorn and iron. it is a source of honest pride to his descendant that his bill, which was honestly paid, as it seems to have been honorably earned, amounted to the handsome total of seven pounds and two shillings. let me add that he repeatedly prescribes plaster, one of which was very probably the "dr. oliver" that soothed my infant griefs, and for which i blush to say that my venerated ancestor received from goodman hancock the painfully exiguous sum of no pounds, no shillings, and sixpence. i have illustrated the practice of the first century, from the two manuscripts i have examined, as giving an impartial idea of its every-day methods. the governor, johannes secundus, it is fair to remember, was an amateur practitioner, while my ancestor was a professed physician. comparing their modes of treatment with the many scientific follies still prevailing in the old world, and still more with the extraordinary theological superstitions of the community in which they lived, we shall find reason, i think, to consider the art of healing as in a comparatively creditable state during the first century of new england. in addition to the evidence as to methods of treatment furnished by the manuscripts i have cited, i subjoin the following document, to which my attention was called by dr. shurtleff, our present mayor. this is a letter of which the original is to be found in vol. lxix. page of the "archives" preserved at the state house in boston. it will be seen that what the surgeon wanted consisted chiefly of opiates, stimulants, cathartics, plasters, and materials for bandages. the complex and varied formulae have given place to simpler and often more effective forms of the same remedies; but the list and the manner in which it is made out are proofs of the good sense and schooling of the surgeon, who, it may be noted, was in such haste that he neglected all his stops. he might well be in a hurry, as on the very day upon which he wrote, a great body of indians--supposed to be six or seven hundred--appeared before hatfield; and twenty-five resolute young men of hadley, from which town he wrote, crossed the river and drove them away. hadly may : mr rawson sr what we have recd by tho: houey the past month is not the cheifest of our wants as you have love for poor wounded i pray let us not want for these following medicines if you have not a speedy conveyance of them i pray send on purpose they are those things mentioned in my former letter but to prevent future mistakes i have wrote them att large wee have great want with the greatest halt and speed let us be supplyed. sr yr sert will lochs (endorsed) mr. lockes letter recd from the governor jane & acquainted ye council with it but could not obtaine any thing to be sent in answer thereto. june i have given some idea of the chief remedies used by our earlier physicians, which were both galenic and chemical; that is, vegetable and mineral. they, of course, employed the usual perturbing medicines which montaigne says are the chief reliance of their craft. there were, doubtless, individual practitioners who employed special remedies with exceptional boldness and perhaps success. mr. eliot is spoken of, in a letter of william leete to winthrop, junior, as being under mr. greenland's mercurial administrations. the latter was probably enough one of these specialists. there is another class of remedies which appears to have been employed occasionally, but, on the whole, is so little prominent as to imply a good deal of common sense among the medical practitioners, as compared with the superstitions prevailing around them. i have said that i have caught the good governor, now and then, prescribing the electuary of millipedes; but he is entirely excused by the almost incredible fact that they were retained in the materia medica so late as when rees's cyclopaedia was published, and we there find the directions formerly given by the college of edinburgh for their preparation. once or twice we have found him admitting still more objectionable articles into his materia medica; in doing which, i am sorry to say that he could plead grave and learned authority. but these instances are very rare exceptions in a medical practice of many years, which is, on the whole, very respectable, considering the time and circumstances. some remedies of questionable though not odious character appear occasionally to have been employed by the early practitioners, but they were such as still had the support of the medical profession. governor john winthrop, the first, sends for east indian bezoar, with other commodities he is writing for. governor endicott sends him one he had of mr. humfrey. i hope it was genuine, for they cheated infamously in the matter of this concretion, which ought to come out of an animal's stomach, but the real history of which resembles what is sometimes told of modern sausages. there is a famous law-case of james the first's time, in which a goldsmith sold a hundred pounds' worth of what he called bezoar, which was proved to be false, and the purchaser got a verdict against him. governor endicott also sends winthrop a unicorn's horn, which was the property of a certain mrs. beggarly, who, in spite of her name, seems to have been rich in medical knowledge and possessions. the famous thomas bartholinus wrote a treatise on the virtues of this fabulous-sounding remedy, which was published in , and republished in . the "antimonial cup," a drinking vessel made of that metal, which, like our quassia-wood cups, might be filled and emptied in saecula saeculorum without exhausting its virtues, is mentioned by matthew cradock, in a letter to the elder winthrop, but in a doubtful way, as it was thought, he says, to have shortened the days of sir nathaniel riche; and winthrop himself, as i think, refers to its use, calling it simply "the cup." an antimonial cup is included in the inventory of samuel seabury, who died , and is valued at five shillings. there is a treatise entitled "the universall remedy, or the vertues of the antimoniall cup, by john evans, minister and preacher of god's word, london, ," in our own society's library. one other special remedy deserves notice, because of native growth. i do not know when culver's root, leptandra virginica of our national pharmacopoeia, became noted, but cotton mather, writing in to john winthrop of new london, speaks of it as famous for the cure of consumptions, and wishes to get some of it, through his mediation, for katharine, his eldest daughter. he gets it, and gives it to the "poor damsel," who is languishing, as he says, and who dies the next month,--all the sooner, i have little doubt, for this uncertain and violent drug, with which the meddlesome pedant tormented her in that spirit of well-meant but restless quackery, which could touch nothing without making mischief, not even a quotation, and yet proved at length the means of bringing a great blessing to our community, as we shall see by and by; so does providence use our very vanities and infirmities for its wise purposes. externally, i find the practitioners on whom i have chiefly relied used the plasters of paracelsus, of melilot, diachylon, and probably diaphoenicon, all well known to the old pharmacopoeias, and some of them to the modern ones,--to say nothing of "my yellow salve," of governor john, the second, for the composition of which we must apply to his respected descendant. the authors i find quoted are barbette's surgery, camerarius on gout, and wecherus, of all whom notices may be found in the pages of haller and vanderlinden; also, reed's surgery, and nicholas culpeper's practice of physic and anatomy, the last as belonging to samuel seabury, chirurgeon, before mentioned. nicholas culpeper was a shrewd charlatan, and as impudent a varlet as ever prescribed for a colic; but knew very well what he was about, and badgers the college with great vigor. a copy of spigelius's famous anatomy, in the boston athenaeum, has the names of increase and samuel mather written in it, and was doubtless early overhauled by the youthful cotton, who refers to the great anatomist's singular death, among his curious stories in the "magnalia," and quotes him among nearly a hundred authors whom he cites in his manuscript "the angel of bethesda." dr. john clark's "books and instruments, with several chirurgery materials in the closet," a were valued in his inventory at sixty pounds; dr. matthew fuller, who died in , left a library valued at ten pounds; and a surgeon's chest and drugs valued at sixteen pounds.' here we leave the first century and all attempts at any further detailed accounts of medicine and its practitioners. it is necessary to show in a brief glance what had been going on in europe during the latter part of that century, the first quarter of which had been made illustrious in the history of medical science by the discovery of the circulation. charles barbeyrac, a protestant in his religion, was a practitioner and teacher of medicine at montpellier. his creed was in the way of his obtaining office; but the young men followed his instructions with enthusiasm. religious and scientific freedom breed in and in, until it becomes hard to tell the family of one from that of the other. barbeyrac threw overboard the old complex medical farragos of the pharmacopoeias, as his church had disburdened itself of the popish ceremonies. among the students who followed his instructions were two englishmen: one of them, john locke, afterwards author of an "essay on the human understanding," three years younger than his teacher; the other, thomas sydenham, five years older. both returned to england. locke, whose medical knowledge is borne witness to by sydenham, had the good fortune to form a correct opinion on a disease from which the earl of shaftesbury was suffering, which led to an operation that saved his life. less felicitous was his experience with a certain ancilla culinaria virgo,--which i am afraid would in those days have been translated kitchen-wench, instead of lady of the culinary department,--who turned him off after she had got tired of him, and called in another practitioner. [locke and sydenham, p. . by john brown, m. d. edinburgh, .] this helped, perhaps, to spoil a promising doctor, and make an immortal metaphysician. at any rate, locke laid down the professional wig and cane, and took to other studies. the name of thomas sydenham is as distinguished in the history of medicine as that of john locke in philosophy. as barbeyrac was found in opposition to the established religion, as locke took the rational side against orthodox bishop stillingfleet, so sydenham went with parliament against charles, and was never admitted a fellow by the college of physicians, which, after he was dead, placed his bust in their hall by the side of that of harvey. what sydenham did for medicine was briefly this he studied the course of diseases carefully, and especially as affected by the particular season; to patients with fever he gave air and cooling drinks, instead of smothering and heating them, with the idea of sweating out their disease; he ordered horseback exercise to consumptives; he, like his teacher, used few and comparatively simple remedies; he did not give any drug at all, if he thought none was needed, but let well enough alone. he was a sensible man, in short, who applied his common sense to diseases which he had studied with the best light of science that he could obtain. the influence of the reform he introduced must have been more or less felt in this country, but not much before the beginning of the eighteenth century, as his great work was not published until , and then in latin. i very strongly suspect that there was not so much to reform in the simple practice of the physicians of the new community, as there was in that of the learned big-wigs of the "college," who valued their remedies too much in proportion to their complexity, and the extravagant and fantastic ingredients which went to their making. during the memorable century which bred and bore the revolution, the medical profession gave great names to our history. but john brooks belonged to the state, and joseph warren belongs to the country and mankind, and to speak of them would lead me beyond my limited--subject. there would be little pleasure in dwelling on the name of benjamin church; and as for the medical politicians, like elisha cooke in the early part of the century, or charles jarvis, the bald eagle of boston, in its later years, whether their practice was heroic or not, their patients were, for he is a bold man who trusts one that is making speeches and coaxing voters, to meddle with the internal politics of his corporeal republic. one great event stands out in the medical history of this eighteenth century; namely, the introduction of the practice of inoculation for small-pox. six epidemics of this complaint had visited boston in the course of a hundred years. prayers had been asked in the churches for more than a hundred sick in a single day, and this many times. about a thousand persons had died in a twelvemonth, we are told, and, as we may infer, chiefly from this cause. in , this disease, after a respite of nineteen years, again appeared as an epidemic. in that year it was that cotton mather, browsing, as was his wont, on all the printed fodder that came within reach of his ever-grinding mandibles, came upon an account of inoculation as practised in turkey, contained in the "philosophical transactions." he spoke of it to several physicians, who paid little heed to his story; for they knew his medical whims, and had probably been bored, as we say now-a-days, many of them, with listening to his "angel of bethesda," and satiated with his speculations on the nishmath chajim. the reverend mather,--i use a mode of expression he often employed when speaking of his honored brethren,--the reverend mather was right this time, and the irreverent doctors who laughed at him were wrong. one only of their number disputes his claim to giving the first impulse to the practice, in boston. this is what that person says: "the small-pox spread in boston, new england, a. , and the reverend dr. cotton mather, having had the use of these communications from dr. william douglass (that is, the writer of these words); surreptitiously, without the knowledge of his informer, that he might have the honour of a new fangled notion, sets an undaunted operator to work, and in this country about were inoculated." all this has not deprived cotton mather of the credit of suggesting, and a bold and intelligent physician of the honor of carrying out, the new practice. on the twenty-seventh day of june, , zabdiel boylston of boston inoculated his only son for smallpox,--the first person ever submitted to the operation in the new world. the story of the fierce resistance to the introduction of the practice; of how boylston was mobbed, and mather had a hand-grenade thrown in at his window; of how william douglass, the scotchman, "always positive, and sometimes accurate," as was neatly said of him, at once depreciated the practice and tried to get the credit of suggesting it, and how lawrence dalhonde, the frenchman, testified to its destructive consequences; of how edmund massey, lecturer at st. albans, preached against sinfully endeavoring to alter the course of nature by presumptuous interposition, which he would leave to the atheist and the scoffer, the heathen and unbeliever, while in the face of his sermon, afterwards reprinted in boston, many of our new england clergy stood up boldly in defence of the practice,--all this has been told so well and so often that i spare you its details. set this good hint of cotton mather against that letter of his to john richards, recommending the search after witch-marks, and the application of the water-ordeal, which means throw your grandmother into the water, if she has a mole on her arm;--if she swims, she is a witch and must be hanged; if she sinks, the lord have mercy on her soul! thus did america receive this great discovery, destined to save thousands of lives, via boston, from the hands of one of our own massachusetts physicians. the year was rendered sadly memorable by the epidemic of the terrible disease known as "throat distemper," and regarded by many as the same as our "diphtheria." dr. holyoke thinks the more general use of mercurials in inflammatory complaints dates from the time of their employment in this disease, in which they were thought to have proved specially useful. at some time in the course of this century medical practice had settled down on four remedies as its chief reliance. i must repeat an incident which i have related in another of these essays. when dr. holyoke, nearly seventy years ago, received young mr. james jackson as his student, he showed him the formidable array of bottles, jars, and drawers around his office, and then named the four remedies referred to as being of more importance than all the rest put together. these were "mercury, antimony, opium, and peruvian bark." i doubt if either of them remembered that, nearly seventy years before, in , dr. william douglass, the disputatious scotchman, mentioned those same four remedies, in the dedication of his quarrelsome essay on inoculation, as the most important ones in the hands of the physicians of his time. in the "proceedings" of this society for the year is a very pleasant paper by the late dr. ephraim eliot, giving an account of the leading physicians of boston during the last quarter of the last century. the names of lloyd, gardiner, welsh, rand, bulfinch, danforth, john warren, jeffries, are all famous in local history, and are commemorated in our medical biographies. one of them, at least, appears to have been more widely known, not only as one of the first aerial voyagers, but as an explorer in the almost equally hazardous realm of medical theory. dr. john jeffries, the first of that name, is considered by broussais as a leader of medical opinion in america, and so referred to in his famous "examen des doctrines medicales." two great movements took place in this eighteenth century, the effect of which has been chiefly felt in our own time; namely, the establishment of the massachusetts medical society, and the founding of the medical school of harvard university. the third century of our medical history began with the introduction of the second great medical discovery of modern times,--of all time up to that date, i may say,--once more via boston, if we count the university village as its suburb, and once more by one of our massachusetts physicians. in the month of july, , dr. benjamin waterhouse of cambridge submitted four of his own children to the new process of vaccination,--the first persons vaccinated, as dr. zabdiel boylston's son had been the first person inoculated in the new world. a little before the first half of this century was completed, in the autumn of , the great discovery went forth from the massachusetts general hospital, which repaid the debt of america to the science of the old world, and gave immortality to the place of its origin in the memory and the heart of mankind. the production of temporary insensibility at will--tuto, cito, jucunde, safely, quickly, pleasantly--is one of those triumphs over the infirmities of our mortal condition which change the aspect of life ever afterwards. rhetoric can add nothing to its glory; gratitude, and the pride permitted to human weakness, that our bethlehem should have been chosen as the birthplace of this new embodiment of the divine mercy, are all we can yet find room for. the present century has seen the establishment of all those great charitable institutions for the cure of diseases of the body and of the mind, which our state and our city have a right to consider as among the chief ornaments of their civilization. the last century had very little to show, in our state, in the way of medical literature. the worthies who took care of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers, like the revolutionary heroes, fought (with disease) and bled (their patients) and died (in spite of their own remedies); but their names, once familiar, are heard only at rare intervals. honored in their day, not unremembered by a few solitary students of the past, their memories are going sweetly to sleep in the arms of the patient old dry-nurse, whose "blackdrop" is the never-failing anodyne of the restless generations of men. except the lively controversy on inoculation, and floating papers in journals, we have not much of value for that long period, in the shape of medical records. but while the trouble with the last century is to find authors to mention, the trouble of this would be to name all that we find. of these, a very few claim unquestioned preeminence. nathan smith, born in rehoboth, mass., a graduate of the medical school of our university, did a great work for the advancement of medicine and surgery in new england, by his labors as teacher and author, greater, it is claimed by some, than was ever done by any other man. the two warrens, of our time, each left a large and permanent record of a most extended surgical practice. james jackson not only educated a whole generation by his lessons of wisdom, but bequeathed some of the most valuable results of his experience to those who came after him, in a series of letters singularly pleasant and kindly as well as instructive. john ware, keen and cautious, earnest and deliberate, wrote the two remarkable essays which have identified his name, for all time, with two important diseases, on which he has shed new light by his original observations. i must do violence to the modesty of the living by referring to the many important contributions to medical science by dr. jacob bigelow, and especially to his discourse on "self-limited diseases," an address which can be read in a single hour, but the influence of which will be felt for a century. nor would the profession forgive me if i forgot to mention the admirable museum of pathological anatomy, created almost entirely by the hands of dr. john barnard swett jackson, and illustrated by his own printed descriptive catalogue, justly spoken of by a distinguished professor in the university of pennsylvania as the most important contribution which had ever been made in this country to the branch to which it relates. when we look at the literature of mental disease, as seen in hospital reports and special treatises, we can mention the names of wyman, woodward, brigham, bell, and ray, all either natives of massachusetts or placed at the head of her institutions for the treatment of the insane. we have a right to claim also one who is known all over the civilized world as a philanthropist, to us as a townsman and a graduate of our own medical school, dr. samuel gridley howe, the guide and benefactor of a great multitude who were born to a world of inward or of outward darkness. i cannot pass over in silence the part taken by our own physicians in those sanitary movements which are assuming every year greater importance. two diseases especially have attracted attention, above all others, with reference to their causes and prevention; cholera, the "black death" of the nineteenth century, and consumption, the white plague of the north, both of which have been faithfully studied and reported on by physicians of our own state and city. the cultivation of medical and surgical specialties, which is fast becoming prevalent, is beginning to show its effects in the literature of the profession, which is every year growing richer in original observations and investigations. to these benefactors who have labored for us in their peaceful vocation, we must add the noble army of surgeons, who went with the soldiers who fought the battles of their country, sharing many of their dangers, not rarely falling victims to fatigue, disease, or the deadly volleys to which they often exposed themselves in the discharge of their duties. the pleasant biographies of the venerable dr. thacher, and the worthy and kind-hearted gleaner, dr. stephen w. williams, who came after him, are filled with the names of men who served their generation well, and rest from their labors, followed by the blessing of those for whom they endured the toils and fatigues inseparable from their calling. the hardworking, intelligent country physician more especially deserves the gratitude of his own generation, for he rarely leaves any permanent record in the literature of his profession. books are hard to obtain; hospitals, which are always centres of intelligence, are remote; thoroughly educated and superior men are separated by wide intervals; and long rides, though favorable to reflection, take up much of the time which might otherwise be given to the labors of the study. so it is that men of ability and vast experience, like the late dr. twitchell, for instance, make a great and deserved reputation, become the oracles of large districts, and yet leave nothing, or next to nothing, by which their names shall be preserved from blank oblivion. one or two other facts deserve mention, as showing the readiness of our medical community to receive and adopt any important idea or discovery. the new science of histology, as it is now called, was first brought fully before the profession of this country by the translation of bichat's great work, "anatomie generale," by the late dr. george hayward. the first work printed in this country on auscultation,--that wonderful art of discovering disease, which, as it were, puts a window in the breast, through which the vital organs can be seen, to all intents and purposes, was the manual published anonymously by "a member of the massachusetts medical society." we are now in some slight measure prepared to weigh the record of the medical profession in massachusetts, and pass our judgment upon it. but in-order to do justice to the first generation of practitioners, we must compare what we know of their treatment of disease with the state of the art in england, and the superstitions which they saw all around them in other departments of knowledge or belief. english medical literature must have been at a pretty low ebb when sydenham recommended don quixote to sir richard blackmore for professional reading. the college pharmacopoeia was loaded with the most absurd compound mixtures, one of the most complex of which (the same which the reverend mr. harward, "lecturer at the royal chappel in boston," tried to simplify), was not dropped until the year . sir kenelm digby was playing his fantastic tricks with the sympathetic powder, and teaching governor winthrop, the second, how to cure fever and ague, which some may like to know. "pare the patient's nails; put the parings in a little bag, and hang the bag round the neck of a live eel, and put him in a tub of water. the eel will die, and the patient will recover." wiseman, the great surgeon, was discoursing eloquently on the efficacy of the royal touch in scrofula. the founder of the ashmolean museum at oxford, consorting with alchemists and astrologers, was treasuring the manuscripts of the late pious dr. richard napier, in which certain letters (rx ris) were understood to mean responsum raphaelis,--the answer of the angel raphael to the good man's medical questions. the illustrious robert boyle was making his collection of choice and safe remedies, including the sole of an old shoe, the thigh bone of a hanged man, and things far worse than these, as articles of his materia medica. dr. stafford, whose paper of directions to his "friend, mr. wintrop," i cited, was probably a man of standing in london; yet toad-powder was his sovereign remedy. see what was the state of belief in other matters among the most intelligent persons of the colonies, magistrates and clergymen. jonathan brewster, son of the church-elder, writes the wildest letters to john winthrop about alchemy,--"mad for making gold as the lynn rock-borers are for finding it." remember the theology and the diabology of the time. mr. cotton's theocracy was a royal government, with the king of kings as its nominal head, but with an upper chamber of saints, and a tremendous opposition in the lower house; the leader of which may have been equalled, but cannot have been surpassed by any of our earth-born politicians. the demons were prowling round the houses every night, as the foxes were sneaking about the hen-roosts. the men of gloucester fired whole flasks of gunpowder at devils disguised as indians and frenchmen. how deeply the notion of miraculous interference with the course of nature was rooted, is shown by the tenacity of the superstition about earthquakes. we can hardly believe that our professor winthrop, father of the old judge and the "squire," whom many of us cambridge people remember so well, had to defend himself against the learned and excellent dr. prince, of the old south church, for discussing their phenomena as if they belonged to the province of natural science: not for the sake of degrading the aspect of the noble men who founded our state, do i refer to their idle beliefs and painful delusions, but to show against what influences the common sense of the medical profession had to assert itself. think, then, of the blazing stars, that shook their horrid hair in the sky; the phantom ship, that brought its message direct from the other world; the story of the mouse and the snake at watertown; of the mice and the prayer-book; of the snake in church; of the calf with two heads; and of the cabbage in the perfect form of a cutlash,--all which innocent occurrences were accepted or feared as alarming portents. we can smile at these: but we cannot smile at the account of unhappy mary dyer's malformed offspring; or of mrs. hutchinson's domestic misfortune of similar character, in the story of which the physician, dr. john clark of rhode island, alone appears to advantage; or as we read the rev. samuel willard's fifteen alarming pages about an unfortunate young woman suffering with hysteria. or go a little deeper into tragedy, and see poor dorothy talby, mad as ophelia, first admonished, then whipped; at last, taking her own little daughter's life; put on trial, and standing mute, threatened to be pressed to death, confessing, sentenced, praying to be beheaded; and none the less pitilessly swung from the fatal ladder. the cooper's crazy wife--crazy in the belief that she has committed the unpardonable sin--tries to drown her child, to save it from misery; and the poor lunatic, who would be tenderly cared for to-day in a quiet asylum, is judged to be acting under the instigation of satan himself. yet, after all, what can we say, who put bunyan's "pilgrim's progress," full of nightmare dreams of horror, into all our children's hands; a story in which the awful image of the man in the cage might well turn the nursery where it is read into a madhouse? the miserable delusion of witchcraft illustrates, in a still more impressive way, the false ideas which governed the supposed relation of men with the spiritual world. i have no doubt many physicians shared in these superstitions. mr. upham says they--that is, some of them--were in the habit of attributing their want of success to the fact, that an "evil hand" was on their patient. the temptation was strong, no doubt, when magistrates and ministers and all that followed their lead were contented with such an explanation. but how was it in salem, according to mr. upham's own statement? dr. john swinnerton was, he says, for many years the principal physician of salem. and he says, also, "the swinnerton family were all along opposed to mr. parris, and kept remarkably clear from the witchcraft delusion." dr. john swinnerton--the same, by the way, whose memory is illuminated by a ray from the genius of hawthorne--died the very year before the great witchcraft explosion took place. but who can doubt that it was from him that the family had learned to despise and to resist the base superstition; or that bridget bishop, whose house he rented, as mr. upham tells me, the first person hanged in the time of the delusion, would have found an efficient protector in her tenant, had he been living, to head the opposition of his family to the misguided clergymen and magistrates? i cannot doubt that our early physicians brought with them many old-world medical superstitions, and i have no question that they were more or less involved in the prevailing errors of the community in which they lived. but, on the whole, their record is a clean one, so far as we can get at it; and where it is questionable we must remember that there must have been many little-educated persons among them; and that all must have felt, to some extent, the influence of those sincere and devoted but unsafe men, the physic-practising clergymen, who often used spiritual means as a substitute for temporal ones, who looked upon a hysteric patient as possessed by the devil, and treated a fractured skull by prayers and plasters, following the advice of a ruling elder in opposition to the "unanimous opinion of seven surgeons." to what results the union of the two professions was liable to lead, may be seen by the example of a learned and famous person, who has left on record the product of his labors in the double capacity of clergyman and physician. i have had the privilege of examining a manuscript of cotton mather's relating to medicine, by the kindness of the librarian of the american antiquarian society, to which society it belongs. a brief notice of this curious document may prove not uninteresting. it is entitled "the angel of bethesda: an essay upon the common maladies of mankind, offering, first, the sentiments of piety," etc., etc., and "a collection of plain but potent and approved remedies for the maladies." there are sixty-six "capsula's," as he calls them, or chapters, in his table of contents; of which, five--from the fifteenth to the nineteenth, inclusive--are missing. this is a most unfortunate loss, as the eighteenth capsula treated of agues, and we could have learned from it something of their degree of frequency in this part of new england. there is no date to the manuscript; which, however, refers to a case observed nov. , . the divine takes precedence of the physician in this extraordinary production. he begins by preaching a sermon at his unfortunate patient. having thrown him into a cold sweat by his spiritual sudorific, he attacks him with his material remedies, which are often quite as unpalatable. the simple and cleanly practice of sydenham, with whose works he was acquainted, seems to have been thrown away upon him. everything he could find mentioned in the seventy or eighty authors he cites, all that the old women of both sexes had ever told him of, gets into his text, or squeezes itself into his margin. evolving disease out of sin, he hates it, one would say, as he hates its cause, and would drive it out of the body with all noisome appliances. "sickness is in fact flagellum dei pro peccatis mundi." so saying, he encourages the young mother whose babe is wasting away upon her breast with these reflections: "think; oh the grievous effects of sin! this wretched infant has not arrived unto years of sense enough, to sin after the similitude of the transgression committed by adam. nevertheless the transgression of adam, who had all mankind foederally, yea, naturally, in him, has involved this infant in the guilt of it. and the poison of the old serpent, which infected adam when he fell into his transgression, by hearkening to the tempter, has corrupted all mankind, and is a seed unto such diseases as this infant is now laboring under. lord, what are we, and what are our children, but a generation of vipers?" many of his remedies are at least harmless, but his pedantry and utter want of judgment betray themselves everywhere. he piles his prescriptions one upon another, without the least discrimination. he is run away with by all sorts of fancies and superstitions. he prescribes euphrasia, eye-bright, for disease of the eyes; appealing confidently to the strange old doctrine of signatures, which inferred its use from the resemblance of its flower to the organ of vision. for the scattering of wens, the efficacy of a dead hand has been out of measure wonderful. but when he once comes to the odious class of remedies, he revels in them like a scarabeus. this allusion will bring us quite near enough to the inconceivable abominations with which he proposed to outrage the sinful stomachs of the unhappy confederates and accomplices of adam. it is well that the treatise was never printed, yet there are passages in it worth preserving. he speaks of some remedies which have since become more universally known: "among the plants of our soyl, sir william temple singles out five [six] as being of the greatest virtue and most friendly to health: and his favorite plants, sage, rue, saffron, alehoof, garlick, and elder." "but these five [six] plants may admitt of some competitors. the quinquina--how celebrated: immoderately, hyperbolically celebrated!" of ipecacuanha, he says,--"this is now in its reign; the most fashionable vomit." "i am not sorry that antimonial emetics begin to be disused." he quotes "mr. lock" as recommending red poppy-water and abstinence from flesh as often useful in children's diseases. one of his "capsula's" is devoted to the animalcular origin of diseases, at the end of which he says, speaking of remedies for this supposed source of our distempers: "mercury we know thee: but we are afraid thou wilt kill us too, if we employ thee to kill them that kill us. "and yett, for the cleansing of the small blood vessels, and making way for the free circulation of the blood and lymph--there is nothing like mercurial deobstruents." from this we learn that mercury was already in common use, and the subject of the same popular prejudice as in our own time. his poetical turn shows itself here and there: "o nightingale, with a thorn at thy breast; under the trouble of a cough, what can be more proper than such thoughts as these?"... if there is pathos in this, there is bathos in his apostrophe to the millipede, beginning "poor sowbug!" and eulogizing the healing virtues of that odious little beast; of which he tells us to take "half a pound, putt 'em alive into a quart or two of wine," with saffron and other drugs, and take two ounces twice a day. the "capsula" entitled "nishmath chajim" was printed in , at new london, and is in the possession of our own society. he means, by these words, something like the archxus of van helmont, of which he discourses in a style wonderfully resembling that of mr. jenkinson in the "vicar of wakefield." "many of the ancients thought there was much of a real history in the parable, and their opinion was that there is, diaphora kata tas morphas, a distinction (and so a resemblance) of men as to their shapes after death." and so on, with ireaeus, tertullian, thespesius, and "the ta tone pseucone cromata," in the place of "sanconiathon, manetho, berosus," and "anarchon ara kai ateleutaion to pan." one other passage deserves notice, as it relates to the single medical suggestion which does honor to cotton mather's memory. it does not appear that he availed himself of the information which he says, he obtained from his slave, for such i suppose he was. in his appendix to "variolae triumphatae," he says,-- "there has been a wonderful practice lately used in several parts of the world, which indeed is not yet become common in our nation. "i was first informed of it by a garamantee servant of my own, long before i knew that any europeans or asiaticks had the least acquaintance with it, and some years before i was enriched with the communications of the learned foreigners, whose accounts i found agreeing with what i received of my servant, when he shewed me the scar of the wound made for the operation; and said, that no person ever died of the smallpox, in their countrey, that had the courage to use it. "i have since met with a considerable number of these africans, who all agree in one story; that in their countrey grandy-many dy of the small-pox: but now they learn this way: people take juice of smallpox and cutty-skin and put in a drop; then by'nd by a little sicky, sicky: then very few little things like small-pox; and nobody dy of it; and nobody have small-pox any more. thus, in africa, where the poor creatures dy of the smallpox like rotten sheep, a merciful god has taught them an infallible preservative. 't is a common practice, and is attended with a constant success." what has come down to us of the first century of medical practice, in the hands of winthrop and oliver, is comparatively simple and reasonable. i suspect that the conditions of rude, stern life, in which the colonists found themselves in the wilderness, took the nonsense out of them, as the exigencies of a campaign did out of our physicians and surgeons in the late war. good food and enough of it, pure air and water, cleanliness, good attendance, an anaesthetic, an opiate, a stimulant, quinine, and two or three common drugs, proved to be the marrow of medical treatment; and the fopperies of the pharmacopoeia went the way of embroidered shirts and white kid gloves and malacca joints, in their time of need. "good wine is the best cordiall for her," said governor john winthrop, junior, to samuel symonds, speaking of that gentleman's wife,--just as sydenham, instead of physic, once ordered a roast chicken and a pint of canary for his patient in male hysterics. but the profession of medicine never could reach its full development until it became entirely separated from that of divinity. the spiritual guide, the consoler in affliction, the confessor who is admitted into the secrets of our souls, has his own noble sphere of duties; but the healer of men must confine himself solely to the revelations of god in nature, as he sees their miracles with his own eyes. no doctrine of prayer or special providence is to be his excuse for not looking straight at secondary causes, and acting, exactly so far as experience justifies him, as if he were himself the divine agent which antiquity fabled him to be. while pious men were praying--humbly, sincerely, rightly, according to their knowledge--over the endless succession of little children dying of spasms in the great dublin hospital, a sagacious physician knocked some holes in the walls of the ward, let god's blessed air in on the little creatures, and so had already saved in that single hospital, as it was soberly calculated thirty years ago, more than sixteen thousand lives of these infant heirs of immortality. [collins's midwifery, p. . published by order of the massachusetts medical society. boston, .] let it be, if you will, that the wise inspiration of the physician was granted in virtue of the clergyman's supplications. still, the habit of dealing with things seen generates another kind of knowledge, and another way of thought, from that of dealing with things unseen; which knowledge and way of thought are special means granted by providence, and to be thankfully accepted. the mediaeval ecclesiastics expressed a great truth in that saying, so often quoted, as carrying a reproach with it: "ubi tres medici, duo athei,"--"where there are three physicians, there are two atheists." it was true then, it is true to-day, that the physician very commonly, if not very generally, denies and repudiates the deity of ecclesiastical commerce. the being whom ambroise pare meant when he spoke those memorable words, which you may read over the professor's chair in the french school of medicine, "te le pensay, et dieu le guarit," "i dressed his wound, and god healed it,"--is a different being from the god that scholastic theologians have projected from their consciousness, or shaped even from the sacred pages which have proved so plastic in their hands. he is a god who never leaves himself without witness, who repenteth him of the evil, who never allows a disease or an injury, compatible with the enjoyment of life, to take its course without establishing an effort, limited by certain fixed conditions, it is true, but an effort, always, to restore the broken body or the shattered mind. in the perpetual presence of this great healing agent, who stays the bleeding of wounds, who knits the fractured bone, who expels the splinter by a gentle natural process, who walls in the inflammation that might involve the vital organs, who draws a cordon to separate the dead part from the living, who sends his three natural anaesthetics to the over-tasked frame in due order, according to its need,--sleep, fainting, death; in this perpetual presence, it is doubtless hard for the physician to realize the theological fact of a vast and permanent sphere of the universe, where no organ finds itself in its natural medium, where no wound heals kindly, where the executive has abrogated the pardoning power, and mercy forgets its errand; where the omnipotent is unfelt save in malignant agencies, and the omnipresent is unseen and unrepresented; hard to accept the god of dante's "inferno," and of bunyan's caged lunatic. if this is atheism, call three, instead of two of the trio, atheists, and it will probably come nearer the truth. i am not disposed to deny the occasional injurious effect of the materializing influences to which the physician is subjected. a spiritual guild is absolutely necessary to keep him, to keep us all, from becoming the "fingering slaves" that wordsworth treats with such shrivelling scorn. but it is well that the two callings have been separated, and it is fitting that they remain apart. in settling the affairs of the late concern, i am afraid our good friends remain a little in our debt. we lent them our physician michael servetus in fair condition, and they returned him so damaged by fire as to be quite useless for our purposes. their reverend samuel willard wrote us a not over-wise report of a case of hysteria; and our jean astruc gave them (if we may trust dr. smith's dictionary of the bible) the first discerning criticism on the authorship of the pentateuch. our john locke enlightened them with his letters concerning toleration; and their cotton mather obscured our twilight with his "nishmath chajim." yet we must remember that the name of basil valentine, the monk, is associated with whatever good and harm we can ascribe to antimony; and that the most remarkable of our specifics long bore the name of "jesuit's bark," from an old legend connected with its introduction. "frere jacques," who taught the lithotomists of paris, owes his ecclesiastical title to courtesy, as he did not belong to a religious order. medical science, and especially the study of mental disease, is destined, i believe, to react to much greater advantage on the theology of the future than theology has acted on medicine in the past. the liberal spirit very generally prevailing in both professions, and the good understanding between their most enlightened members, promise well for the future of both in a community which holds every point of human belief, every institution in human hands, and every word written in a human dialect, open to free discussion today, to-morrow, and to the end of time. whether the world at large will ever be cured of trusting to specifics as a substitute for observing the laws of health, and to mechanical or intellectual formula as a substitute for character, may admit of question. quackery and idolatry are all but immortal. we can find most of the old beliefs alive amongst us to-day, only having changed their dresses and the social spheres in which they thrive. we think the quarrels of galenists and chemists belong to the past, forgetting that thomsonism has its numerous apostles in our community; that it is common to see remedies vaunted as purely vegetable, and that the prejudice against "mineral poisons," especially mercury, is as strong in many quarters now as it was at the beginning of the seventeenth century. names are only air, and blow away with a change of wind; but beliefs are rooted in human wants and weakness, and die hard. the oaks of dodona are prostrate, and the shrine of delphi is desolate; but the pythoness and the sibyl may be consulted in lowell street for a very moderate compensation. nostradamus and lilly seem impossible in our time; but we have seen the advertisements of an astrologer in our boston papers year after year, which seems to imply that he found believers and patrons. you smiled when i related sir kenelm digby's prescription with the live eel in it; but if each of you were to empty his or her pockets, would there not roll out, from more than one of them, a horse-chestnut, carried about as a cure for rheumatism? the brazen head of roger bacon is mute; but is not "planchette" uttering her responses in a hundred houses of this city? we think of palmistry or chiromancy as belonging to the days of albertus magnus, or, if existing in our time, as given over to the gypsies; but a very distinguished person has recently shown me the line of life, and the line of fortune, on the palm of his hand, with a seeming confidence in the sanguine predictions of his career which had been drawn from them. what shall we say of the plausible and well-dressed charlatans of our own time, who trade in false pretences, like nicholas knapp of old, but without any fear of being fined or whipped; or of the many follies and inanities, imposing on the credulous part of the community, each of them gaping with eager, open mouth for a gratuitous advertisement by the mention of its foolish name in any respectable connection? i turn from this less pleasing aspect of the common intelligence which renders such follies possible, to close the honorable record of the medical profession in this, our ancient commonwealth. we have seen it in the first century divided among clergymen, magistrates, and regular practitioners; yet, on the whole, for the time, and under the circumstances, respectable, except where it invoked supernatural agencies to account for natural phenomena. in the second century it simplified its practice, educated many intelligent practitioners, and began the work of organizing for concerted action, and for medical teaching. in this, our own century, it has built hospitals, perfected and multiplied its associations and educational institutions, enlarged and created museums, and challenged a place in the world of science by its literature. in reviewing the whole course of its history we read a long list of honored names, and a precious record written in private memories, in public charities, in permanent contributions to medical science, in generous sacrifices for the country. we can point to our capital as the port of entry for the new world of the great medical discoveries of two successive centuries, and we can claim for it the triumph over the most dreaded foe that assails the human body,--a triumph which the annals of the race can hardly match in three thousand years of medical history. the young practitioner [a valedictory address delivered to the graduating class of the bellevue hospital college, march , .] the occasion which calls us together reminds us not a little of that other ceremony which unites a man and woman for life. the banns have already been pronounced which have wedded our young friends to the profession of their choice. it remains only to address to them some friendly words of cheering counsel, and to bestow upon them the parting benediction. this is not the time for rhetorical display or ambitious eloquence. we must forget ourselves, and think only of them. to us it is an occasion; to them it is an epoch. the spectators at the wedding look curiously at the bride and bridegroom; at the bridal veil, the orange-flower garland, the giving and receiving of the ring; they listen for the tremulous "i will," and wonder what are the mysterious syllables the clergyman whispers in the ear of the married maiden. but to the newly-wedded pair what meaning in those words, "for better, for worse," "in sickness and in health," "till death us do part!" to the father, to the mother, who know too well how often the deadly nightshade is interwoven with the wreath of orange-blossoms, how empty the pageant, how momentous the reality! you will not wonder that i address myself chiefly to those who are just leaving academic life for the sterner struggle and the larger tasks of matured and instructed manhood. the hour belongs to them; if others find patience to listen, they will kindly remember that, after all, they are but as the spectators at the wedding, and that the priest is thinking less of them than of their friends who are kneeling at the altar. i speak more directly to you, then, gentlemen of the graduating class. the days of your education, as pupils of trained instructors, are over. your first harvest is all garnered. henceforth you are to be sowers as well as reapers, and your field is the world. how does your knowledge stand to-day? what have you gained as a permanent possession? what must you expect to forget? what remains for you yet to learn? these are questions which it may interest you to consider. there is another question which must force itself on the thoughts of many among you: "how am i to obtain patients and to keep their confidence?" you have chosen a laborious calling, and made many sacrifices to fit yourselves for its successful pursuit. you wish to be employed that you may be useful, and that you may receive the reward of your industry. i would take advantage of these most receptive moments to give you some hints which may help you to realize your hopes and expectations. such is the outline of the familiar talk i shall offer you. your acquaintance with some of the accessory branches is probably greater now than it will be in a year from now,--much greater than it will by ten years from now. the progress of knowledge, it may be feared, or hoped, will have outrun the text-books in which you studied these branches. chemistry, for instance, is very apt to spoil on one's hands. "nous avons change tout cela" might serve as the standing motto of many of our manuals. science is a great traveller, and wears her shoes out pretty fast, as might be expected. you are now fresh from the lecture-room and the laboratory. you can pass an examination in anatomy, physiology, chemistry, materia medica, which the men in large practice all around you would find a more potent sudorific than any in the pharmacopceia. these masters of the art of healing were once as ready with their answers as you are now, but they have got rid of a great deal of the less immediately practical part of their acquisitions, and you must undergo the same depleting process. hard work will train it off, as sharp exercise trains off the fat of a prize-fighter. yet, pause a moment before you infer that your teachers must have been in fault when they furnished you with mental stores not directly convertible to practical purposes, and likely in a few years to lose their place in your memory. all systematic knowledge involves much that is not practical, yet it is the only kind of knowledge which satisfies the mind, and systematic study proves, in the long-run, the easiest way of acquiring and retaining facts which are practical. there are many things which we can afford to forget, which yet it was well to learn. your mental condition is not the same as if you had never known what you now try in vain to recall. there is a perpetual metempsychosis of thought, and the knowledge of to-day finds a soil in the forgotten facts of yesterday. you cannot see anything in the new season of the guano you placed last year about the roots of your climbing plants, but it is blushing and breathing fragrance in your trellised roses; it has scaled your porch in the bee-haunted honey-suckle; it has found its way where the ivy is green; it is gone where the woodbine expands its luxuriant foliage. your diploma seems very broad to-day with your list of accomplishments, but it begins to shrink from this hour like the peau de chagrin of balzac's story. do not worry about it, for all the while there will be making out for you an ampler and fairer parchment, signed by old father time himself as president of that great university in which experience is the one perpetual and all-sufficient professor. your present plethora of acquirements will soon cure itself. knowledge that is not wanted dies out like the eyes of the fishes of the mammoth cave. when you come to handle life and death as your daily business, your memory will of itself bid good-by to such inmates as the well-known foramina of the sphenoid bone and the familiar oxides of methyl-ethylamyl-phenyl-ammonium. be thankful that you have once known them, and remember that even the learned ignorance of a nomenclature is something to have mastered, and may furnish pegs to hang facts upon which would otherwise have strewed the floor of memory in loose disorder. but your education has, after all, been very largely practical. you have studied medicine and surgery, not chiefly in books, but at the bedside and in the operating amphitheatre. it is the special advantage of large cities that they afford the opportunity of seeing a great deal of disease in a short space of time, and of seeing many cases of the same kind of disease brought together. let us not be unjust to the claims of the schools remote from the larger centres of population. who among us has taught better than nathan smith, better than elisha bartlett? who teaches better than some of our living contemporaries who divide their time between city and country schools? i am afraid we do not always do justice to our country brethren, whose merits are less conspicuously exhibited than those of the great city physicians and surgeons, such especially as have charge of large hospitals. there are modest practitioners living in remote rural districts who are gifted by nature with such sagacity and wisdom, trained so well in what is most essential to the practice of their art, taught so thoroughly by varied experience, forced to such manly self-reliance by their comparative isolation, that, from converse with them alone, from riding with them on their long rounds as they pass from village to village, from talking over cases with them, putting up their prescriptions, watching their expedients, listening to their cautions, marking the event of their predictions, hearing them tell of their mistakes, and now and then glory a little in the detection of another's blunder, a young man would find himself better fitted for his real work than many who have followed long courses of lectures and passed a showy examination. but the young man is exceptionally fortunate who enjoys the intimacy of such a teacher. and it must be confessed that the great hospitals, infirmaries, and dispensaries of large cities, where men of well-sifted reputations are in constant attendance, are the true centres of medical education. no students, i believe, are more thoroughly aware of this than those who have graduated at this institution. here, as in all our larger city schools, the greatest pains are taken to teach things as well as names. you have entered into the inheritance of a vast amount of transmitted skill and wisdom, which you have taken, warm, as it were, with the life of your well-schooled instructors. you have not learned all that art has to teach you, but you are safer practitioners to-day than were many of those whose names we hardly mention without a genuflection. i had rather be cared for in a fever by the best-taught among you than by the renowned fernelius or the illustrious boerhaave, could they come back to us from that better world where there are no physicians needed, and, if the old adage can be trusted, not many within call. i had rather have one of you exercise his surgical skill upon me than find myself in the hands of a resuscitated fabricius hildanus, or even of a wise ambroise pare, revisiting earth in the light of the nineteenth century. you will not accuse me of underrating your accomplishments. you know what to do for a child in a fit, for an alderman in an apoplexy, for a girl that has fainted, for a woman in hysterics, for a leg that is broken, for an arm that is out of joint, for fevers of every color, for the sailor's rheumatism, and the tailor's cachexy. in fact you do really know so much at this very hour, that nothing but the searching test of time can fully teach you the limitations of your knowledge. of some of these you will permit me to remind you. you will never have outgrown the possibility of new acquisitions, for nature is endless in her variety. but even the knowledge which you may be said to possess will be a different thing after long habit has made it a part of your existence. the tactus eruditus extends to the mind as well as to the finger-ends. experience means the knowledge gained by habitual trial, and an expert is one who has been in the habit of trying. this is the kind of knowledge that made ulysses wise in the ways of men. many cities had he seen, and known the minds of those who dwelt in them. this knowledge it was that chaucer's shipman brought home with him from the sea-- "in many a tempest had his berd be shake." this is the knowledge we place most confidence in, in the practical affairs of life. our training has two stages. the first stage deals with our intelligence, which takes the idea of what is to be done with the most charming ease and readiness. let it be a game of billiards, for instance, which the marker is going to teach us. we have nothing to do but to make this ball glance from that ball and hit that other ball, and to knock that ball with this ball into a certain caecal sacculus or diverticulum which our professional friend calls a pocket. nothing can be clearer; it is as easy as "playing upon this pipe," for which hamlet gives guildenstern such lucid directions. but this intelligent me, who steps forward as the senior partner in our dual personality, turns out to be a terrible bungler. he misses those glancing hits which the hard-featured young professional person calls "carroms," and insists on pocketing his own ball instead of the other one. it is the unintelligent me, stupid as an idiot, that has to try a thing a thousand times before he can do it, and then never knows how he does it, that at last does it well. we have to educate ourselves through the pretentious claims of intellect, into the humble accuracy of instinct, and we end at last by acquiring the dexterity, the perfection, the certainty, which those masters of arts, the bee and the spider, inherit from nature. book-knowledge, lecture-knowledge, examination-knowledge, are all in the brain. but work-knowledge is not only in the brain, it is in the senses, in the muscles, in the ganglia of the sympathetic nerves,--all over the man, as one may say, as instinct seems diffused through every part of those lower animals that have no such distinct organ as a brain. see a skilful surgeon handle a broken limb; see a wise old physician smile away a case that looks to a novice as if the sexton would soon be sent for; mark what a large experience has done for those who were fitted to profit by it, and you will feel convinced that, much as you know, something is still left for you to learn. may i venture to contrast youth and experience in medical practice, something in the way the man painted the lion, that is, the lion under? the young man knows the rules, but the old man knows-the exceptions. the young man knows his patient, but the old man knows also his patient's family, dead and alive, up and down for generations. he can tell beforehand what diseases their unborn children will be subject to, what they will die of if they live long enough, and whether they had better live at all, or remain unrealized possibilities, as belonging to a stock not worth being perpetuated. the young man feels uneasy if he is not continually doing something to stir up his patient's internal arrangements. the old man takes things more quietly, and is much more willing to let well enough alone: all these superiorities, if such they are,'you must wait for time to bring you. in the meanwhile (if we will let the lion be uppermost for a moment), the young man's senses are quicker than those of his older rival. his education in all the accessory branches is more recent, and therefore nearer the existing condition of knowledge. he finds it easier than his seniors to accept the improvements which every year is bringing forward. new ideas build their nests in young men's brains. "revolutions are not made by men in spectacles," as i once heard it remarked, and the first whispers of a new truth are not caught by those who begin to feel the need of an ear-trumpet. granting all these advantages to the young man, he ought, nevertheless, to go on improving, on the whole, as a medical practitioner, with every year, until he has ripened into a well-mellowed maturity. but, to improve, he must be good for something at the start. if you ship a poor cask of wine to india and back, if you keep it a half a century, it only grows thinner and sharper. you are soon to enter into relations with the public, to expend your skill and knowledge for its benefit, and find your support in the rewards of your labor. what kind of a constituency is this which is to look to you as its authorized champions in the struggle of life against its numerous enemies? in the first place, the persons who seek the aid of the physician are very honest and sincere in their wish to get rid of their complaints, and, generally speaking, to live as long as they can. however attractively the future is painted to them, they are attached to the planet with which they are already acquainted. they are addicted to the daily use of this empirical and unchemical mixture which we call air; and would hold on to it as a tippler does to his alcoholic drinks. there is nothing men will not do, there is nothing they have not done, to recover their health and save their lives. they have submitted to be half-drowned in water, and half-choked with gases, to be buried up to their chins in earth, to be seared with hot irons like galley-slaves, to be crimped with knives, like cod-fish, to have needles thrust into their flesh, and bonfires kindled on their skin, to swallow all sorts of abominations, and to pay for all this, as if to be singed and scalded were a costly privilege, as if blisters were a blessing, and leeches were a luxury. what more can be asked to prove their honesty and sincerity? this same community is very intelligent with respect to a great many subjects-commerce, mechanics, manufactures, politics. but with regard to medicine it is hopelessly ignorant and never finds it out. i do not know that it is any worse in this country than in great britain, where mr. huxley speaks very freely of "the utter ignorance of the simplest laws of their own animal life, which prevails among even the most highly educated persons." and cullen said before him "neither the acutest genius nor the soundest judgment will avail in judging of a particular science, in regard to which they have not been exercised. i have been obliged to please my patients sometimes with reasons, and i have found that any will pass, even with able divines and acute lawyers; the same will pass with the husbands as with the wives." if the community could only be made aware of its own utter ignorance, and incompetence to form opinions on medical subjects, difficult enough to those who give their lives to the study of them, the practitioner would have an easier task. but it will form opinions of its own, it cannot help it, and we cannot blame it, even though we know how slight and deceptive are their foundations. this is the way it happens: every grown-up person has either been ill himself or had a friend suffer from illness, from which he has recovered. every sick person has done something or other by somebody's advice, or of his own accord, a little before getting better. there is an irresistible tendency to associate the thing done, and the improvement which followed it, as cause and effect. this is the great source of fallacy in medical practice. but the physician has some chance of correcting his hasty inference. he thinks his prescription cured a single case of a particular complaint; he tries it in twenty similar cases without effect, and sets down the first as probably nothing more than a coincidence. the unprofessional experimenter or observer has no large experience to correct his hasty generalization. he wants to believe that the means he employed effected his cure. he feels grateful to the person who advised it, he loves to praise the pill or potion which helped him, and he has a kind of monumental pride in himself as a living testimony to its efficacy. so it is that you will find the community in which you live, be it in town or country, full of brands plucked from the burning, as they believe, by some agency which, with your better training, you feel reasonably confident had nothing to do with it. their disease went out of itself, and the stream from the medical fire-annihilator had never even touched it. you cannot and need not expect to disturb the public in the possession of its medical superstitions. a man's ignorance is as much his private property, and as precious in his own eyes, as his family bible. you have only to open your own bible at the ninth chapter of st. john's gospel, and you will find that the logic of a restored patient was very simple then, as it is now, and very hard to deal with. my clerical friends will forgive me for poaching on their sacred territory, in return for an occasional raid upon the medical domain of which they have now and then been accused. a blind man was said to have been restored to sight by a young person whom the learned doctors of the jewish law considered a sinner, and, as such, very unlikely to have been endowed with a divine gift of healing. they visited the patient repeatedly, and evidently teased him with their questions about the treatment, and their insinuations about the young man, until he lost his temper. at last he turned sharply upon them: "whether he be a sinner or no, i know not: one thing i know, that, whereas i was blind, now i see." this is the answer that always has been and always will be given by most persons when they find themselves getting well after doing anything, no matter what,--recommended by anybody, no matter whom. lord bacon, robert boyle, bishop berkeley, all put their faith in panaceas which we should laugh to scorn. they had seen people get well after using them. are we any wiser than those great men? two years ago, in a lecture before the massachusetts historical society, i mentioned this recipe of sir kenelm digby for fever and ague: pare the patient's nails; put the parings in a little bag, and hang the bag round the neck of a live eel, and place him in a tub of water. the eel will die, and the patient will recover. referring to this prescription in the course of the same lecture, i said: "you smiled when i related sir kenehn digby's prescription, with the live eel in it; but if each of you were to empty his or her pockets, would there not roll out, from more than one of them, a horse-chestnut, carried about as a cure for rheumatism?" nobody saw fit to empty his or her pockets, and my question brought no response. but two months ago i was in a company of educated persons, college graduates every one of them, when a gentleman, well known in our community, a man of superior ability and strong common-sense, on the occasion of some talk arising about rheumatism, took a couple of very shiny horse-chestnuts from his breeches-pocket, and laid them on the table, telling us how, having suffered from the complaint in question, he had, by the advice of a friend, procured these two horse-chestnuts on a certain time a year or more ago, and carried them about him ever since; from which very day he had been entirely free from rheumatism. this argument, from what looks like cause and effect, whether it be so or not, is what you will have to meet wherever you go, and you need not think you can answer it. in the natural course of things some thousands of persons must be getting well or better of slight attacks of colds, of rheumatic pains, every week, in this city alone. hundreds of them do something or other in the way of remedy, by medical or other advice, or of their own motion, and the last thing they do gets the credit of the recovery. think what a crop of remedies this must furnish, if it were all harvested! experience has taught, or will teach you, that most of the wonderful stories patients and others tell of sudden and signal cures are like owen glendower's story of the portents that announced his birth. the earth shook at your nativity, did it? very likely, and "so it would have done, at the same season, if your mother's cat had kittened, though yourself had ne'er been born." you must listen more meekly than hotspur did to the babbling welshman, for ignorance is a solemn and sacred fact, and, like infancy, which it resembles, should be respected. once in a while you will have a patient of sense, born with the gift of observation, from whom you may learn something. when you find yourself in the presence of one who is fertile of medical opinions, and affluent in stories of marvellous cures,--of a member of congress whose name figures in certificates to the value of patent medicines, of a voluble dame who discourses on the miracles she has wrought or seen wrought with the little jokers of the sugar-of-milk globule-box, take out your watch and count the pulse; also note the time of day, and charge the price of a visit for every extra fifteen, or, if you are not very busy, every twenty minutes. in this way you will turn what seems a serious dispensation into a double blessing, for this class of patients loves dearly to talk, and it does them a deal of good, and you feel as if you had earned your money by the dose you have taken, quite as honestly as by any dose you may have ordered. you must take the community just as it is, and make the best of it. you wish to obtain its confidence; there is a short rule for doing this which you will find useful,--deserve it. but, to deserve it in full measure, you must unite many excellences, natural and acquired. as the basis of all the rest, you must have all those traits of character which fit you to enter into the most intimate and confidential relations with the families of which you are the privileged friend and counsellor. medical christianity, if i may use such a term, is of very early date. by the oath of hippocrates, the practitioner of ancient times bound himself to enter his patient's house with the sole purpose of doing him good, and so to conduct himself as to avoid the very appearance of evil. let the physician of to-day begin by coming up to this standard, and add to it all the more recently discovered virtues and graces. a certain amount of natural ability is requisite to make you a good physician, but by no means that disproportionate development of some special faculty which goes by the name of genius. a just balance of the mental powers is a great deal more likely to be useful than any single talent, even were it the power of observation; in excess. for a mere observer is liable to be too fond of facts for their own sake, so that, if he told the real truth, he would confess that he takes more pleasure in a post-mortem examination which shows him what was the matter with a patient, than in a case which insists on getting well and leaving him in the dark as to its nature. far more likely to interfere with the sound practical balance of the mind is that speculative, theoretical tendency which has made so many men noted in their day, whose fame has passed away with their dissolving theories. read dr. bartlett's comparison of the famous benjamin rush with his modest fellow-townsman dr. william currie, and see the dangers into which a passion for grandiose generalizations betrayed a man of many admirable qualities. i warn you against all ambitious aspirations outside of your profession. medicine is the most difficult of sciences and the most laborious of arts. it will task all your powers of body and mind if you are faithful to it. do not dabble in the muddy sewer of politics, nor linger by the enchanted streams of literature, nor dig in far-off fields for the hidden waters of alien sciences. the great practitioners are generally those who concentrate all their powers on their business. if there are here and there brilliant exceptions, it is only in virtue of extraordinary gifts, and industry to which very few are equal. to get business a man mast really want it; and do you suppose that when you are in the middle of a heated caucus, or half-way through a delicate analysis, or in the spasm of an unfinished ode, your eyes rolling in the fine frenzy of poetical composition, you want to be called to a teething infant, or an ancient person groaning under the griefs of a lumbago? i think i have known more than one young man whose doctor's sign proclaimed his readiness to serve mankind in that capacity, but who hated the sound of a patient's knock, and as he sat with his book or his microscope, felt exactly as the old party expressed himself in my friend mr. brownell's poem-- "all i axes is, let me alone." the community soon finds out whether you are in earnest, and really mean business, or whether you are one of those diplomaed dilettanti who like the amusement of quasi medical studies, but have no idea of wasting their precious time in putting their knowledge in practice for the benefit of their suffering fellow-creatures. the public is a very incompetent judge of your skill and knowledge, but it gives its confidence most readily to those who stand well with their professional brethren, whom they call upon when they themselves or their families are sick, whom they choose to honorable offices, whose writings and teachings they hold in esteem. a man may be much valued by the profession and yet have defects which prevent his becoming a favorite practitioner, but no popularity can be depended upon as permanent which is not sanctioned by the judgment of professional experts, and with these you will always stand on your substantial merits. what shall i say of the personal habits you must form if you wish for success? temperance is first upon the list. intemperance in a physician partakes of the guilt of homicide, for the muddled brain may easily make a fatal blunder in a prescription and the unsteady hand transfix an artery in an operation. tippling doctors have been too common in the history of medicine. paracelsus was a sot, radcliffe was much too fond of his glass, and dr. james hurlbut of wethersfield, connecticut, a famous man in his time, used to drink a square bottle of rum a day, with a corresponding allowance of opium to help steady his nerves. we commonly speak of a man as being the worse for liquor, but i was asking an irish laborer one day about his doctor, who, as he said, was somewhat given to drink. "i like him best when he's a little that way," he said; "then i can spake to him." i pitied the poor patient who could not venture to allude to his colic or his pleurisy until his physician was tipsy. there are personal habits of less gravity than the one i have mentioned which it is well to guard against, or, if they are formed, to relinquish. a man who may be called at a moment's warning into the fragrant boudoir of suffering loveliness should not unsweeten its atmosphere with reminiscences of extinguished meerschaums. he should remember that the sick are sensitive and fastidious, that they love the sweet odors and the pure tints of flowers, and if his presence is not like the breath of the rose, if his hands are not like the leaf of the lily, his visit may be unwelcome, and if he looks behind him he may see a window thrown open after he has left the sick-chamber. i remember too well the old doctor who sometimes came to help me through those inward griefs to which childhood is liable. "far off his coming "--shall i say "shone," and finish the miltonic phrase, or leave the verb to the happy conjectures of my audience? before him came a soul-subduing whiff of ipecacuanha, and after him lingered a shuddering consciousness of rhubarb. he had lived so much among his medicaments that he had at last become himself a drug, and to have him pass through a sick-chamber was a stronger dose than a conscientious disciple of hahnemann would think it safe to administer. need i remind you of the importance of punctuality in your engagements, and of the worry and distress to patients and their friends which the want of it occasions? one of my old teachers always carried two watches, to make quite sure of being exact, and not only kept his appointments with the regularity of a chronometer, but took great pains to be at his patient's house at the time when he had reason to believe he was expected, even if no express appointment was made. it is a good rule; if you call too early, my lady's hair may not be so smooth as could be wished, and, if you keep her waiting too long, her hair may be smooth, but her temper otherwise. you will remember, of course, always to get the weather-gage of your patient. i mean, to place him so that the light falls on his face and not on yours. it is a kind of, ocular duel that is about to take place between you; you are going to look through his features into his pulmonary and hepatic and other internal machinery, and he is going to look into yours quite as sharply to see what you think about his probabilities for time or eternity. no matter how hard he stares at your countenance, he should never be able to read his fate in it. it should be cheerful as long as there is hope, and serene in its gravity when nothing is left but resignation. the face of a physician, like that of a diplomatist, should be impenetrable. nature is a benevolent old hypocrite; she cheats the sick and the dying with illusions better than any anodynes. if there are cogent reasons why a patient should be undeceived, do it deliberately and advisedly, but do not betray your apprehensions through your tell-tale features. we had a physician in our city whose smile was commonly reckoned as being worth five thousand dollars a year to him, in the days, too, of moderate incomes. you cannot put on such a smile as that any more than you can get sunshine without sun; there was a tranquil and kindly nature under it that irradiated the pleasant face it made one happier to meet on his daily rounds. but you can cultivate the disposition, and it will work its way through to the surface, nay, more,--you can try to wear a quiet and encouraging look, and it will react on your disposition and make you like what you seem to be, or at least bring you nearer to its own likeness. your patient has no more right to all the truth you know than he has to all the medicine in your saddlebags, if you carry that kind of cartridge-box for the ammunition that slays disease. he should get only just so much as is good for him. i have seen a physician examining a patient's chest stop all at once, as he brought out a particular sound with a tap on the collarbone, in the attitude of a pointer who has just come on the scent or sight of a woodcock. you remember the spartan boy, who, with unmoved countenance, hid the fox that was tearing his vitals beneath his mantle. what he could do in his own suffering you must learn to do for others on whose vital organs disease has fastened its devouring teeth. it is a terrible thing to take away hope, even earthly hope, from a fellow-creature. be very careful what names you let fall before your patient. he knows what it means when you tell him he has tubercles or bright's disease, and, if he hears the word carcinoma, he will certainly look it out in a medical dictionary, if he does not interpret its dread significance on the instant. tell him he has asthmatic symptoms, or a tendency to the gouty diathesis, and he will at once think of all the asthmatic and gouty old patriarchs he has ever heard of, and be comforted. you need not be so cautious in speaking of the health of rich and remote relatives, if he is in the line of succession. some shrewd old doctors have a few phrases always on hand for patients that will insist on knowing the pathology of their complaints without the slightest capacity of understanding the scientific explanation. i have known the term "spinal irritation" serve well on such occasions, but i think nothing on the whole has covered so much ground, and meant so little, and given such profound satisfaction to all parties, as the magnificent phrase "congestion of the portal system." once more, let me recommend you, as far as possible, to keep your doubts to yourself, and give the patient the benefit of your decision. firmness, gentle firmness, is absolutely necessary in this and certain other relations. mr. rarey with cruiser, richard with lady ann, pinel with his crazy people, show what steady nerves can do with the most intractable of animals, the most irresistible of despots, and the most unmanageable of invalids. if you cannot acquire and keep the confidence of your patient, it is time for you to give place to some other practitioner who can. if you are wise and diligent, you can establish relations with the best of them which they will find it very hard to break. but, if they wish to employ another person, who, as they think, knows more than you do, do not take it as a personal wrong. a patient believes another man can save his life, can restore him to health, which, as he thinks, you have not the skill to do. no matter whether the patient is right or wrong, it is a great impertinence to think you have any property in him. your estimate of your own ability is not the question, it is what the patient thinks of it. all your wisdom is to him like the lady's virtue in raleigh's song: "if she seem not chaste to me, what care i how chaste she be?" what i call a good patient is one who, having found a good physician, sticks to him till he dies. but there are many very good people who are not what i call good patients. i was once requested to call on a lady suffering from nervous and other symptoms. it came out in the preliminary conversational skirmish, half medical, half social, that i was the twenty-sixth member of the faculty into whose arms, professionally speaking, she had successively thrown herself. not being a believer in such a rapid rotation of scientific crops, i gently deposited the burden, commending it to the care of number twenty-seven, and, him, whoever he might be, to the care of heaven. if there happened to be among my audience any person who wished to know on what principles the patient should choose his physician, i should give him these few precepts to think over: choose a man who is personally agreeable, for a daily visit from an intelligent, amiable, pleasant, sympathetic person will cost you no more than one from a sloven or a boor, and his presence will do more for you than any prescription the other will order. let him be a man of recognized good sense in other matters, and the chance is that he will be sensible as a practitioner. let him be a man who stands well with his professional brethren, whom they approve as honest, able, courteous. let him be one whose patients are willing to die in his hands, not one whom they go to for trifles, and leave as soon as they are in danger, and who can say, therefore, that he never loses a patient. do not leave the ranks of what is called the regular profession, unless you wish to go farther and fare worse, for you may be assured that its members recognize no principle which hinders their accepting any remedial agent proved to be useful, no matter from what quarter it comes. the difficulty is that the stragglers, organized under fantastic names in pretentious associations, or lurking in solitary dens behind doors left ajar, make no real contributions to the art of healing. when they bring forward a remedial agent like chloral, like the bromide of potassium, like ether, used as an anesthetic, they will find no difficulty in procuring its recognition. some of you will probably be more or less troubled by the pretensions of that parody of mediaeval theology which finds its dogma of hereditary depravity in the doctrine of psora, its miracle of transubstantiation in the mystery of its triturations and dilutions, its church in the people who have mistaken their century, and its priests in those who have mistaken their calling. you can do little with persons who are disposed to accept these curious medical superstitions. the saturation-point of individual minds with reference to evidence, and especially medical evidence, differs, and must always continue to differ, very widely. there are those whose minds are satisfied with the decillionth dilution of a scientific proof. no wonder they believe in the efficacy of a similar attenuation of bryony or pulsatilla. you have no fulcrum you can rest upon to lift an error out of such minds as these, often highly endowed with knowledge and talent, sometimes with genius, but commonly richer in the imaginative than the observing and reasoning faculties. let me return once more to the young graduate. your relations to your professional brethren may be a source of lifelong happiness and growth in knowledge and character, or they may make you wretched and end by leaving you isolated from those who should be your friends and counsellors. the life of a physician becomes ignoble when he suffers himself to feed on petty jealousies and sours his temper in perpetual quarrels. you will be liable to meet an uncomfortable man here and there in the profession,--one who is so fond of being in hot water that it is a wonder all the albumen in his body is not coagulated. there are common barrators among doctors as there are among lawyers,--stirrers up of strife under one pretext and another, but in reality because they like it. they are their own worst enemies, and do themselves a mischief each time they assail their neighbors. in my student days i remember a good deal of this donnybrook-fair style of quarrelling, more especially in paris, where some of the noted surgeons were always at loggerheads, and in one of our lively western cities. soon after i had set up an office, i had a trifling experience which may serve to point a moral in this direction. i had placed a lamp behind the glass in the entry to indicate to the passer-by where relief from all curable infirmities was to be sought and found. its brilliancy attracted the attention of a devious youth, who dashed his fist through the glass and upset my modest luminary. all he got by his vivacious assault was that he left portions of integument from his knuckles upon the glass, had a lame hand, was very easily identified, and had to pay the glazier's bill. the moral is that, if the brilliancy of another's reputation excites your belligerent instincts, it is not worth your while to strike at it, without calculating which of you is likely to suffer most, if you do. you may be assured that when an ill-conditioned neighbor is always complaining of a bad taste in his mouth and an evil atmosphere about him, there is something wrong about his own secretions. in such cases there is an alterative regimen of remarkable efficacy: it is a starvation-diet of letting alone. the great majority of the profession are peacefully inclined. their pursuits are eminently humanizing, and they look with disgust on the personalities which intrude themselves into the placid domain of an art whose province it is to heal and not to wound. the intercourse of teacher and student in a large school is necessarily limited, but it should be, and, so far as my experience goes, it is, eminently cordial and kindly. you will leave with regret, and hold in tender remembrance, those who have taken you by the hand at your entrance on your chosen path, and led you patiently and faithfully, until the great gates at its end have swung upon their hinges, and the world lies open before you. that venerable oath to which i have before referred bound the student to regard his instructor in the light of a parent, to treat his children like brothers, to succor him in his day of need. i trust the spirit of the oath of hippocrates is not dead in the hearts of the students of to-day. they will remember with gratitude every earnest effort, every encouraging word, which has helped them in their difficult and laborious career of study. the names they read on their diplomas will recall faces that are like family-portraits in their memory, and the echo of voices they have listened to so long will linger in their memories far into the still evening of their lives. one voice will be heard no more which has been familiar to many among you. it is not for me, a stranger to these scenes, to speak his eulogy. i have no right to sadden this hour by dwelling on the deep regrets of friendship, or to bid the bitter tears of sorrow flow afresh. yet i cannot help remembering what a void the death of such a practitioner as your late instructor must leave in the wide circle of those who leaned upon his counsel and assistance in their hour of need, in a community where he was so widely known and esteemed, in a school where he bore so important a part. there is no exemption from the common doom for him who holds the shield to protect others. the student is called from his bench, the professor from his chair, the practitioner in his busiest period hears a knock more peremptory than any patient's midnight summons, and goes on that unreturning visit which admits of no excuse, and suffers no delay. the call of such a man away from us is the bereavement of a great family. nor can we help regretting the loss for him of a bright and cheerful earthly future; for the old age of a physician is one of the happiest periods of his life. he is loved and cherished for what he has been, and even in the decline of his faculties there are occasions when his experience is still appealed to, and his trembling hands are looked to with renewing hope and trust, as being yet able to stay the arm of the destroyer. but if there is so much left for age, how beautiful, how inspiring is the hope of youth! i see among those whom i count as listeners one by whose side i have sat as a fellow-teacher, and by whose instructions i have felt myself not too old to profit. as we borrowed him from your city, i must take this opportunity of telling you that his zeal, intelligence, and admirable faculty as an instructor were heartily and universally recognized among us. we return him, as we trust, uninjured, to the fellow-citizens who have the privilege of claiming him as their own. and now, gentlemen of the graduating class, nothing remains but for me to bid you, in the name of those for whom i am commissioned and privileged to speak, farewell as students, and welcome as practitioners. i pronounce the two benedictions in the same breath, as the late king's demise and the new king's accession are proclaimed by the same voice at the same moment. you would hardly excuse me if i stooped to any meaner dialect than the classical and familiar language of your prescriptions, the same in which your title to the name of physician is, if, like our own institution, you follow the ancient usage, engraved upon your diplomas. valete, juvenes, artis medicae studiosi; valete, discipuli, valete, filii! salvete, viri, artis medicae magister; salvete amici; salvete fratres! medical libraries. [dedicatory address at the opening of the medical library in boston, december , .] it is my appointed task, my honorable privilege, this evening, to speak of what has been done by others. no one can bring his tribute of words into the presence of great deeds, or try with them to embellish the memory of any inspiring achievement, without feeling and leaving with others a sense of their insufficiency. so felt alexander when he compared even his adored homer with the hero the poet had sung. so felt webster when he contrasted the phrases of rhetoric with the eloquence of patriotism and of self-devotion. so felt lincoln when on the field of gettysburg he spoke those immortal words which pericles could not have bettered, which aristotle could not have criticised. so felt he who wrote the epitaph of the builder of the dome which looks down on the crosses and weathercocks that glitter over london. we are not met upon a battle-field, except so far as every laborious achievement means a victory over opposition, indifference, selfishness, faintheartedness, and that great property of mind as well as matter,--inertia. we are not met in a cathedral, except so far as every building whose walls are lined with the products of useful and ennobling thought is a temple of the almighty, whose inspiration has given us understanding. but we have gathered within walls which bear testimony to the self-sacrificing, persevering efforts of a few young men, to whom we owe the origin and development of all that excites our admiration in this completed enterprise; and i might consider my task as finished if i contented myself with borrowing the last word of the architect's epitaph and only saying, look around you! the reports of the librarian have told or will tell you, in some detail, what has been accomplished since the st of december, , when six gentlemen met at the house of dr. henry ingersoll bowditch to discuss different projects for a medical library. in less than four years from that time, by the liberality of associations and of individuals, this collection of nearly ten thousand volumes, of five thousand pamphlets, and of one hundred and twenty-five journals, regularly received,--all worthily sheltered beneath this lofty roof,--has come into being under our eyes. it has sprung up, as it were; in the night like a mushroom; it stands before us in full daylight as lusty as an oak, and promising to grow and flourish in the perennial freshness of an evergreen. to whom does our profession owe this already large collection of books, exceeded in numbers only by four or five of the most extensive medical libraries in the country, and lodged in a building so well adapted to its present needs? we will not point out individually all those younger members of the profession who have accomplished what their fathers and elder brethren had attempted and partially achieved. we need not write their names on these walls, after the fashion of those civic dignitaries who immortalize themselves on tablets of marble and gates of iron. but their contemporaries know them well, and their descendants will not forget them,--the men who first met together, the men who have given their time and their money, the faithful workers, worthy associates of the strenuous agitator who gave no sleep to his eyes, no slumber to his eyelids, until he had gained his ends; the untiring, imperturbable, tenacious, irrepressible, all-subduing agitator who neither rested nor let others rest until the success of the project was assured. if, against his injunctions, i name dr. james read chadwick, it is only my revenge for his having kept me awake so often and so long while he was urging on the undertaking in which he has been preeminently active and triumphantly successful. we must not forget the various medical libraries which preceded this: that of an earlier period, when boston contained about seventy regular practitioners, the collection afterwards transferred to the boston athenaeum; the two collections belonging to the university; the treadwell library at the massachusetts general hospital; the collections of the two societies, that for medical improvement and that for medical observation; and more especially the ten thousand volumes relating to medicine belonging to our noble public city library,--too many blossoms on the tree of knowledge, perhaps, for the best fruit to ripen. but the massachusetts medical society now numbers nearly four hundred members in the city of boston. the time had arrived for a new and larger movement. there was needed a place to which every respectable member of the medical profession could obtain easy access; where, under one roof, all might find the special information they were seeking; where the latest medical intelligence should be spread out daily as the shipping news is posted on the bulletins of the exchange; where men engaged in a common pursuit could meet, surrounded by the mute oracles of science and art; where the whole atmosphere should be as full of professional knowledge as the apothecary's shop is of the odor of his medicaments. this was what the old men longed for,--the prophets and kings of the profession, who "desired it long, but died without the sight." this is what the young men and those who worked under their guidance undertook to give us. and now such a library, such a reading-room, such an exchange, such an intellectual and social meeting place, we be hold a fact, plain before us. the medical profession of our city, and, let us add, of all those neighboring places which it can reach with its iron arms, is united as never before by the commune vinculum, the common bond of a large, enduring, ennobling, unselfish interest. it breathes a new air of awakened intelligence. it marches abreast of the other learned professions, which have long had their extensive and valuable centralized libraries; abreast of them, but not promising to be content with that position. what glorifies a town like a cathedral? what dignifies a province like a university? what illuminates a country like its scholarship, and what is the nest that hatches scholars but a library? the physician, some may say, is a practical man and has little use for all this book-learning. every student has heard sydenham's reply to sir richard blackmore's question as to what books he should read,--meaning medical books. "read don quixote," was his famous answer. but sydenham himself made medical books and may be presumed to have thought those at least worth reading. descartes was asked where was his library, and in reply held up the dissected body of an animal. but descartes made books, great books, and a great many of them. a physician of common sense without erudition is better than a learned one without common sense, but the thorough master of his profession must have learning added to his natural gifts. it is not necessary to maintain the direct practical utility of all kinds of learning. our shelves contain many books which only a certain class of medical scholars will be likely to consult. there is a dead medical literature, and there is a live one. the dead is not all ancient, the live is not all modern. there is none, modern or ancient, which, if it has no living value for the student, will not teach him something by its autopsy. but it is with the live literature of his profession that the medical practitioner is first of all concerned. now there has come a great change in our time over the form in which living thought presents itself. the first printed books,--the incunabula,--were inclosed in boards of solid oak, with brazen clasps and corners; the boards by and by were replaced by pasteboard covered with calf or sheepskin; then cloth came in and took the place of leather; then the pasteboard was covered with paper instead of cloth; and at this day the quarterly, the monthly, the weekly periodical in its flimsy unsupported dress of paper, and the daily journal, naked as it came from the womb of the press, hold the larger part of the fresh reading we live upon. we must have the latest thought in its latest expression; the page must be newly turned like the morning bannock; the pamphlet must be newly opened like the ante-prandial oyster. thus a library, to meet the need of our time, must take, and must spread out in a convenient form, a great array of periodicals. our active practitioners read these by preference over almost everything else. our specialists, more particularly, depend on the month's product, on the yearly crop of new facts, new suggestions, new contrivances, as much as the farmer on the annual yield of his acres. one of the first wants, then, of the profession is supplied by our library in its great array of periodicals from many lands, in many languages. such a number of medical periodicals no private library would have room for, no private person would pay for, or flood his tables with if they were sent him for nothing. these, i think, with the reports of medical societies and the papers contributed to them, will form the most attractive part of our accumulated medical treasures. they will be also one of our chief expenses, for these journals must be bound in volumes and they require a great amount of shelf-room; all this, in addition to the cost of subscription for those which are not furnished us gratuitously. it is true that the value of old scientific periodicals is, other things being equal, in the inverse ratio of their age, for the obvious reason that what is most valuable in the earlier volumes of a series is drained off into the standard works with which the intelligent practitioner is supposed to be familiar. but no extended record of facts grows too old to be useful, provided only that we have a ready and sure way of getting at the particular fact or facts we are in search of. and this leads me to speak of what i conceive to be one of the principal tasks to be performed by the present and the coming generation of scholars, not only in the medical, but in every department of knowledge. i mean the formation of indexes, and more especially of indexes to periodical literature. this idea has long been working in the minds of scholars, and all who have had occasion to follow out any special subject. i have a right to speak of it, for i long ago attempted to supply the want of indexes in some small measure for my own need. i had a very complete set of the "american journal of the medical sciences;" an entire set of the "north american review," and many volumes of the reprints of the three leading british quarterlies. of what use were they to me without general indexes? i looked them all through carefully and made classified lists of all the articles i thought i should most care to read. but they soon outgrew my lists. the "north american review" kept filling up shelf after shelf, rich in articles which i often wanted to consult, but what a labor to find them, until the index of mr. gushing, published a few months since, made the contents of these hundred and twenty volumes as easily accessible as the words in a dictionary! i had a, copy of good dr. abraham rees's cyclopaedia, a treasure-house to my boyhood which has not lost its value for me in later years. but where to look for what i wanted? i wished to know, for instance, what dr. burney had to say about singing. who would have looked for it under the italian word cantare? i was curious to learn something of the etchings of rembrandt, and where should i find it but under the head "low countries, engravers of the,"--an elaborate and most valuable article of a hundred double-columned close-printed quarto pages, to which no reference, even, is made under the title rembrandt. there was nothing to be done, if i wanted to know where that which i specially cared for was to be found in my rees's cyclopaedia, but to look over every page of its forty-one quarto volumes and make out a brief list of matters of interest which i could not find by their titles, and this i did, at no small expense of time and trouble. nothing, therefore, could be more pleasing to me than to see the attention which has been given of late years to the great work of indexing. it is a quarter of a century since mr. poole published his "index to periodical literature," which it is much to be hoped is soon to appear in a new edition, grown as it must be to formidable dimensions by the additions of so long a period. the "british and foreign medical review," edited by the late sir john forties, contributed to by huxley, carpenter, laycock, and others of the most distinguished scientific men of great britain, has an index to its twenty-four volumes, and by its aid i find this valuable series as manageable as a lexicon. the last edition of the "encyclopaedia britannica" had a complete index in a separate volume, and the publishers of appletons' "american cyclopaedia" have recently issued an index to their useful work, which must greatly add to its value. i have already referred to the index to the "north american review," which to an american, and especially to a new englander, is the most interesting and most valuable addition of its kind to our literary apparatus since the publication of mr. allibone's "dictionary of authors." i might almost dare to parody mr. webster's words in speaking of hamilton, to describe what mr. gushing did for the solemn rows of back volumes of our honored old review which had been long fossilizing on our shelves: "he touched the dead corpse of the 'north american,' and it sprang to its feet." a library of the best thought of the best american scholars during the greater portion of the century was brought to light by the work of the indexmaker as truly as were the assyrian tablets by the labors of layard. a great portion of the best writing and reading literary, scientific, professional, miscellaneous--comes to us now, at stated intervals, in paper covers. the writer appears, as it were, in his shirt-sleeves. as soon as he has delivered his message the book-binder puts a coat on his back, and he joins the forlorn brotherhood of "back volumes," than which, so long as they are unindexed, nothing can be more exasperating. who wants a lock without a key, a ship without a rudder, a binnacle without a compass, a check without a signature, a greenback without a goldback behind it? i have referred chiefly to the medical journals, but i would include with these the reports of medical associations, and those separate publications which, coming in the form of pamphlets, heap themselves into chaotic piles and bundles which are worse than useless, taking up a great deal of room, and frightening everything away but mice and mousing antiquarians, or possibly at long intervals some terebrating specialist. arranged, bound, indexed, all these at once become accessible and valuable. i will take the first instance which happens to suggest itself. how many who know all about osteoblasts and the experiments of ollier, and all that has grown out of them, know where to go for a paper by the late dr. a. l. peirson of salem, published in the year , under the modest title, remarks on fractures? and if any practitioner who has to deal with broken bones does not know that most excellent and practical essay, it is a great pity, for it answers very numerous questions which will be sure to suggest themselves to the surgeon and the patient as no one of the recent treatises, on my own shelves, at least, can do. but if indexing is the special need of our time in medical literature, as in every department of knowledge, it must be remembered that it is not only an immense labor, but one that never ends. it requires, therefore, the cooperation of a large number of individuals to do the work, and a large amount of money to pay for making its results public through the press. when it is remembered that the catalogue of the library of the british museum is contained in nearly three thousand large folios of manuscript, and not all its books are yet included, the task of indexing any considerable branch of science or literature looks as if it were well nigh impossible. but many hands make light work. an "index society" has been formed in england, already numbering about one hundred and seventy members. it aims at "supplying thorough indexes to valuable works and collections which have hitherto lacked them; at issuing indexes to the literature of special subjects; and at gathering materials for a general reference index." this society has published a little treatise setting forth the history and the art of indexing, which i trust is in the hands of some of our members, if not upon our shelves. something has been done in the same direction by individuals in our own country, as we have already seen. the need of it in the department of medicine is beginning to be clearly felt. our library has already an admirable catalogue with cross references, the work of a number of its younger members cooperating in the task. a very intelligent medical student, mr. william d. chapin, whose excellent project is indorsed by well-known new york physicians and professors, proposes to publish a yearly index to original communications in the medical journals of the united states, classified by authors and subjects. but it is from the national medical library at washington that we have the best promise and the largest expectations. that great and growing collection of fifty thousand volumes is under the eye and hand of a librarian who knows books and how to manage them. for libraries are the standing armies of civilization, and an army is but a mob without a general who can organize and marshal it so as to make it effective. the "specimen fasciculus of a catalogue of the national medical library," prepared under the direction of dr. billings, the librarian, would have excited the admiration of haller, the master scholar in medical science of the last century, or rather of the profession in all centuries, and if carried out as it is begun will be to the nineteenth all and more than all that the three bibliothecae--anatomica, chirurgica, and medicinae-practicae--were to the eighteenth century. i cannot forget the story that agassiz was so fond of telling of the king of prussia and fichte. it was after the humiliation and spoliation of the kingdom by napoleon that the monarch asked the philosopher what could be done to regain the lost position of the nation. "found a great university, sire," was the answer, and so it was that in the year the world-renowned university of berlin came into being. i believe that we in this country can do better than found a national university, whose professors shall be nominated in caucuses, go in and out, perhaps, like postmasters, with every change of administration, and deal with science in the face of their constituency as the courtier did with time when his sovereign asked him what o'clock it was: "whatever hour your majesty pleases." but when we have a noble library like that at washington, and a librarian of exceptional qualifications like the gentleman who now holds that office, i believe that a liberal appropriation by congress to carry out a conscientious work for the advancement of sound knowledge and the bettering of human conditions, like this which dr. billings has so well begun, would redound greatly to the honor of the nation. it ought to be willing to be at some charge to make its treasures useful to its citizens, and, for its own sake, especially to that class which has charge of health, public and private. this country abounds in what are called "self-made men," and is justly proud of many whom it thus designates. in one sense no man is self-made who breathes the air of a civilized community. in another sense every man who is anything other than a phonograph on legs is self-made. but if we award his just praise to the man who has attained any kind of excellence without having had the same advantages as others whom, nevertheless, he has equalled or surpassed, let us not be betrayed into undervaluing the mechanic's careful training to his business, the thorough and laborious education of the scholar and the professional man. our american atmosphere is vocal with the flippant loquacity of half knowledge. we must accept whatever good can be got out of it, and keep it under as we do sorrel and mullein and witchgrass, by enriching the soil, and sowing good seed in plenty; by good teaching and good books, rather than by wasting our time in talking against it. half knowledge dreads nothing but whole knowledge. i have spoken of the importance and the predominance of periodical literature, and have attempted to do justice to its value. but the almost exclusive reading of it is not without its dangers. the journals contain much that is crude and unsound; the presumption; it might be maintained, is against their novelties, unless they come from observers of established credit. yet i have known a practitioner,--perhaps more than one,--who was as much under the dominant influence of the last article he had read in his favorite medical journal as a milliner under the sway of the last fashion-plate. the difference between green and seasoned knowledge is very great, and such practitioners never hold long enough to any of their knowledge to have it get seasoned. it is needless to say, then, that all the substantial and permanent literature of the profession should be represented upon our shelves. much of it is there already, and as one private library after another falls into this by the natural law of gravitation, it will gradually acquire all that is most valuable almost without effort. a scholar should not be in a hurry to part with his books. they are probably more valuable to him than they can be to any other individual. what swedenborg called "correspondence" has established itself between his intelligence and the volumes which wall him within their sacred inclosure. napoleon said that his mind was as if furnished with drawers,--he drew out each as he wanted its contents, and closed it at will when done with them. the scholar's mind, to use a similar comparison, is furnished with shelves, like his library. each book knows its place in the brain as well as against the wall or in the alcove. his consciousness is doubled by the books which encircle him, as the trees that surround a lake repeat themselves in its unruffled waters. men talk of the nerve that runs to the pocket, but one who loves his books, and has lived long with them, has a nervous filament which runs from his sensorium to every one of them. or, if i may still let my fancy draw its pictures, a scholar's library is to him what a temple is to the worshipper who frequents it. there is the altar sacred to his holiest experiences. there is the font where his new-born thought was baptized and first had a name in his consciousness. there is the monumental tablet of a dead belief, sacred still in the memory of what it was while yet alive. no visitor can read all this on the lettered backs of the books that have gathered around the scholar, but for him, from the aldus on the lowest shelf to the elzevir on the highest, every volume has a language which none but he can interpret. be patient with the book-collector who loves his companions too well to let them go. books are not buried with their owners, and the veriest book-miser that ever lived was probably doing far more for his successors than his more liberal neighbor who despised his learned or unlearned avarice. let the fruit fall with the leaves still clinging round it. who would have stripped southey's walls of the books that filled them, when, his mind no longer capable of taking in their meaning, he would still pat and fondle them with the vague loving sense of what they had once been to him,--to him, the great scholar, now like a little child among his playthings? we need in this country not only the scholar, but the virtuoso, who hoards the treasures which he loves, it may be chiefly for their rarity and because others who know more than he does of their value set a high price upon them. as the wine of old vintages is gently decanted out of its cobwebbed bottles with their rotten corks into clean new receptacles, so the wealth of the new world is quietly emptying many of the libraries and galleries of the old world into its newly formed collections and newly raised edifices. and this process must go on in an accelerating ratio. no englishman will be offended if i say that before the new zealander takes his stand on a broken arch of london bridge to sketch the ruins of st. paul's in the midst of a vast solitude, the treasures of the british museum will have found a new shelter in the halls of new york or boston. no catholic will think hardly of my saying that before the coliseum falls, and with it the imperial city, whose doom prophecy has linked with that of the almost eternal amphitheatre, the marbles, the bronzes, the paintings, the manuscripts of the vatican will have left the shores of the tiber for those of the potomac, the hudson, the mississippi, or the sacramento. and what a delight in the pursuit of the rarities which the eager book-hunter follows with the scent of a beagle! shall i ever forget that rainy day in lyons, that dingy bookshop, where i found the aetius, long missing from my artis bledicae principes, and where i bought for a small pecuniary consideration, though it was marked rare, and was really tres rare, the aphorisms of hippocrates, edited by and with a preface from the hand of francis rabelais? and the vellum-bound tulpius, which i came upon in venice, afterwards my only reading when imprisoned in quarantine at marseilles, so that the two hundred and twenty-eight cases he has recorded are, many of them, to this day still fresh in my memory. and the schenckius,--the folio filled with casus rariores, which had strayed in among the rubbish of the bookstall on the boulevard,--and the noble old vesalius with its grand frontispiece not unworthy of titian, and the fine old ambroise pare, long waited for even in paris and long ago, and the colossal spigelius with his eviscerated beauties, and dutch bidloo with its miracles of fine engraving and bad dissection, and italian mascagni, the despair of all would-be imitators, and pre-adamite john de ketam, and antediluvian berengarius carpensis,--but why multiply names, every one of which brings back the accession of a book which was an event almost like the birth of an infant? a library like ours must exercise the largest hospitality. a great many books may be found in every large collection which remind us of those apostolic looking old men who figure on the platform at our political and other assemblages. some of them have spoken words of wisdom in their day, but they have ceased to be oracles; some of them never had any particularly important message for humanity, but they add dignity to the meeting by their presence; they look wise, whether they are so or not, and no one grudges them their places of honor. venerable figure-heads, what would our platforms be without you? just so with our libraries. without their rows of folios in creamy vellum, or showing their black backs with antique lettering of tarnished gold, our shelves would look as insufficient and unbalanced as a column without its base, as a statue without its pedestal. and do not think they are kept only to be spanked and dusted during that dreadful period when their owner is but too thankful to become an exile and a wanderer from the scene of single combats between dead authors and living housemaids. men were not all cowards before agamemnon or all fools before the days of virchow and billroth. and apart from any practical use to be derived from the older medical authors, is there not a true pleasure in reading the accounts of great discoverers in their own words? i do not pretend to hoist up the bibliotheca anatomica of mangetus and spread it on my table every day. i do not get out my great albinus before every lecture on the muscles, nor disturb the majestic repose of vesalius every time i speak of the bones he has so admirably described and figured. but it does please me to read the first descriptions of parts to which the names of their discoverers or those who have first described them have become so joined that not even modern science can part them; to listen to the talk of my old volume as willis describes his circle and fallopius his aqueduct and varolius his bridge and eustachius his tube and monro his foramen,--all so well known to us in the human body; it does please me to know the very words in which winslow described the opening which bears his name, and glisson his capsule and de graaf his vesicle; i am not content until i know in what language harvey announced his discovery of the circulation, and how spigelius made the liver his perpetual memorial, and malpighi found a monument more enduring than brass in the corpuscles of the spleen and the kidney. but after all, the readers who care most for the early records of medical science and art are the specialists who are dividing up the practice of medicine and surgery as they were parcelled out, according to herodotus, by the egyptians. for them nothing is too old, nothing is too new, for to their books of all others is applicable the saying of d'alembert that the author kills himself in lengthening out what the reader kills himself in trying to shorten. there are practical books among these ancient volumes which can never grow old. would you know how to recognize "male hysteria" and to treat it, take down your sydenham; would you read the experience of a physician who was himself the subject of asthma, and who, notwithstanding that, in the words of dr. johnson, "panted on till ninety," you will find it in the venerable treatise of sir john floyer; would you listen to the story of the king's evil cured by the royal touch, as told by a famous chirurgeon who fully believed in it, go to wiseman; would you get at first hand the description of the spinal disease which long bore his name, do not be startled if i tell you to go to pott,--to percival pott, the great surgeon of the last century. there comes a time for every book in a library when it is wanted by somebody. it is but a few weeks since one of the most celebrated physicians in the country wrote to me from a great centre of medical education to know if i had the works of sanctorius, which he had tried in vain to find. i could have lent him the "medicina statica," with its frontispiece showing sanctorius with his dinner on the table before him, in his balanced chair which sunk with him below the level of his banquet-board when he had swallowed a certain number of ounces,--an early foreshadowing of pettenkofer's chamber and quantitative physiology,--but the "opera omnia" of sanctorius i had never met with, and i fear he had to do without it. i would extend the hospitality of these shelves to a class of works which we are in the habit of considering as being outside of the pale of medical science, properly so called, and sometimes of coupling with a disrespectful name. such has always been my own practice. i have welcomed culpeper and salmon to my bookcase as willingly as dioscorides or quincy, or paris or wood and bache. i have found a place for st. john long, and read the story of his trial for manslaughter with as much interest as the laurel-water case in which john hunter figured as a witness. i would give samuel hahnemann a place by the side of samuel thomson. am i not afraid that some student of imaginative turn and not provided with the needful cerebral strainers without which all the refuse of gimcrack intelligences gets into the mental drains and chokes them up,--am i not afraid that some such student will get hold of the "organon" or the "maladies chroniques" and be won over by their delusions, and so be lost to those that love him as a man of common sense and a brother in their high calling? not in the least. if he showed any symptoms of infection i would for once have recourse to the principle of similia similibus. to cure him of hahnemann i would prescribe my favorite homoeopathic antidote, okie's bonninghausen. if that failed, i would order grauvogl as a heroic remedy, and if he survived that uncured, i would give him my blessing, if i thought him honest, and bid him depart in peace. for me he is no longer an individual. he belongs to a class of minds which we are bound to be patient with if their maker sees fit to indulge them with existence. we must accept the conjuring ultra-ritualist, the dreamy second adventist, the erratic spiritualist, the fantastic homoeopathist, as not unworthy of philosophic study; not more unworthy of it than the squarers of the circle and the inventors of perpetual motion, and the other whimsical visionaries to whom de morgan has devoted his most instructive and entertaining "budget of paradoxes." i hope, therefore, that our library will admit the works of the so-called eclectics, of the thomsonians, if any are in existence, of the clairvoyants, if they have a literature, and especially of the homoeopathists. this country seems to be the place for such a collection, which will by and by be curious and of more value than at present, for homoeopathy seems to be following the pathological law of erysipelas, fading out where it originated as it spreads to new regions. at least i judge so by the following translated extract from a criticism of an american work in the "homoeopatische rundschau" of leipzig for october, , which i find in the "homoeopathic bulletin" for the month of november just passed: "while we feel proud of the spread and rise of homoeopathy across the ocean, and while the homoeopathic works reaching us from there, and published in a style such as is unknown in germany, bear eloquent testimony to the eminent activity of our transatlantic colleagues, we are overcome by sorrowful regrets at the position homoeopathy occupies in germany. such a work [as the american one referred to] with us would be impossible; it would lack the necessary support." by all means let our library secure a good representation of the literature of homoeopathy before it leaves us its "sorrowful regrets" and migrates with its sugar of milk pellets, which have taken the place of the old pilulae micae panis, to alaska, to "nova zembla, or the lord knows where." what shall i say in this presence of the duties of a librarian? where have they ever been better performed than in our own public city library, where the late mr. jewett and the living mr. winsor have shown us what a librarian ought to be,--the organizing head, the vigilant guardian, the seeker's index, the scholar's counsellor? his work is not merely that of administration, manifold and laborious as its duties are. he must have a quick intelligence and a retentive memory. he is a public carrier of knowledge in its germs. his office is like that which naturalists attribute to the bumble-bee,--he lays up little honey for himself, but he conveys the fertilizing pollen from flower to flower. our undertaking, just completed,--and just begun--has come at the right time, not a day too soon. our practitioners need a library like this, for with all their skill and devotion there is too little genuine erudition, such as a liberal profession ought to be able to claim for many of its members. in reading the recent obituary notices of the late dr. geddings of south carolina, i recalled what our lamented friend dr. coale used to tell me of his learning and accomplishments, and i could not help reflecting how few such medical scholars we had to show in boston or new england. we must clear up this unilluminated atmosphere, and here,--here is the true electric light which will irradiate its darkness. the public will catch the rays reflected from the same source of light, and it needs instruction on the great subjects of health and disease,--needs it sadly. it is preyed upon by every kind of imposition almost without hindrance. its ignorance and prejudices react upon the profession to the great injury of both. the jealous feeling, for instance, with regard to such provisions for the study of anatomy as are sanctioned by the laws in this state and carried out with strict regard to those laws, threatens the welfare, if not the existence of institutions for medical instruction wherever it is not held in check by enlightened intelligence. and on the other hand the profession has just been startled by a verdict against a physician, ruinous in its amount,--enough to drive many a hard-working young practitioner out of house and home,--a verdict which leads to the fear that suits for malpractice may take the place of the panel game and child-stealing as a means of extorting money. if the profession in this state, which claims a high standard of civilization, is to be crushed and ground beneath the upper millstone of the dearth of educational advantages and the lower millstone of ruinous penalties for what the ignorant ignorantly shall decide to be ignorance, all i can say is god save the commonhealth of massachusetts! once more, we cannot fail to see that just as astrology has given place to astronomy, so theology, the science of him whom by searching no man can find out, is fast being replaced by what we may not improperly call theonomy, or the science of the laws according to which the creator acts. and since these laws find their fullest manifestations for us, at least, in rational human natures, the study of anthropology is largely replacing that of scholastic divinity. we must contemplate our maker indirectly in human attributes as we talk of him in human parts of speech. and this gives a sacredness to the study of man in his physical, mental, moral, social, and religious nature which elevates the faithful students of anthropology to the dignity of a priesthood, and sheds a holy light on the recorded results of their labors, brought together as they are in such a collection as this which is now spread out before us. thus, then, our library is a temple as truly as the dome-crowned cathedral hallowed by the breath of prayer and praise, where the dead repose and the living worship. may it, with all its treasures, be consecrated like that to the glory of god, through the contributions it shall make to the advancement of sound knowledge, to the relief of human suffering, to the promotion of harmonious relations between the members of the two noble professions which deal with the diseases of the soul and with those of the body, and to the common cause in which all good men are working, the furtherance of the well-being of their fellow-creatures! note.--as an illustration of the statement in the last paragraph but one, i take the following notice from the "boston daily advertiser," of december th, the day after the delivery of the address: "prince lucien bonaparte is now living in london, and is devoting himself to the work of collecting the creeds of all religions and sects, with a view to their classification,--his object being simply scientific or anthropological." since delivering the address, also, i find a leading article in the "cincinnati lancet and clinic" of november th, headed "the decadence of homoeopathy," abundantly illustrated by extracts from the "homoeopathic times," the leading american organ of that sect. in the new york "medical record" of the same date, which i had not seen before the delivery of my address, is an account of the action of the homoeopathic medical society of northern new york, in which hahnemann's theory of "dynamization" is characterized in a formal resolve as "unworthy the confidence of the homoeopathic profession." it will be a disappointment to the german homoeopathists to read in the "homoeopathic times" such a statement as the following: "whatever the influences have been which have checked the outward development of homoeopathy, it is plainly evident that the homoeopathic school, as regards the number of its openly avowed representatives, has attained its majority, and has begun to decline both in this country and in england." all which is an additional reason for making a collection of the incredibly curious literature of homoeopathy before that pseudological inanity has faded out like so many other delusions. some of my early teachers [a farewell address to the medical school of harvard university, november , .] i had intended that the recitation of friday last should be followed by a few parting words to my class and any friends who might happen to be in the lecture-room. but i learned on the preceding evening that there was an expectation, a desire, that my farewell should take a somewhat different form; and not to disappoint the wishes of those whom i was anxious to gratify, i made up my mind to appear before you with such hasty preparation as the scanty time admitted. there are three occasions upon which a human being has a right to consider himself as a centre of interest to those about him: when he is christened, when he is married, and when he is buried. every one is the chief personage, the hero, of his own baptism, his own wedding, and his own funeral. there are other occasions, less momentous, in which one may make more of himself than under ordinary circumstances he would think it proper to do; when he may talk about himself, and tell his own experiences, in fact, indulge in a more or less egotistic monologue without fear or reproach. i think i may claim that this is one of those occasions. i have delivered my last anatomical lecture and heard my class recite for the last time. they wish to hear from me again in a less scholastic mood than that in which they have known me. will you not indulge me in telling you something of my own story? this is the thirty-sixth course of lectures in which i have taken my place and performed my duties as professor of anatomy. for more than half of my term of office i gave instruction in physiology, after the fashion of my predecessors and in the manner then generally prevalent in our schools, where the physiological laboratory was not a necessary part of the apparatus of instruction. it was with my hearty approval that the teaching of physiology was constituted a separate department and made an independent professorship. before my time, dr. warren had taught anatomy, physiology, and surgery in the same course of lectures, lasting only three or four months. as the boundaries of science are enlarged, new divisions and subdivisions of its territories become necessary. in the place of six professors in , when i first became a member of the faculty, i count twelve upon the catalogue before me, and i find the whole number engaged in the work of instruction in the medical school amounts to no less than fifty. since i began teaching in this school, the aspect of many branches of science has undergone a very remarkable transformation. chemistry and physiology are no longer what they were, as taught by the instructors of that time. we are looking forward to the synthesis of new organic compounds; our artificial madder is already in the market, and the indigo-raisers are now fearing that their crop will be supplanted by the manufactured article. in the living body we talk of fuel supplied and work done, in movement, in heat, just as if we were dealing with a machine of our own contrivance. a physiological laboratory of to-day is equipped with instruments of research of such ingenious contrivance, such elaborate construction, that one might suppose himself in a workshop where some exquisite fabric was to be wrought, such as queens love to wear, and kings do not always love to pay for. they are, indeed, weaving a charmed web, for these are the looms from which comes the knowledge that clothes the nakedness of the intellect. here are the mills that grind food for its hunger, and "is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?" but while many of the sciences have so changed that the teachers of the past would hardly know them, it has not been so with the branch i teach, or, rather, with that division of it which is chiefly taught in this amphitheatre. general anatomy, or histology, on the other hand, is almost all new; it has grown up, mainly, since i began my medical studies. i never saw a compound microscope during my years of study in paris. individuals had begun to use the instrument, but i never heard it alluded to by either professors or students. in descriptive anatomy i have found little to unlearn, and not a great deal that was both new and important to learn. trifling additions are made from year to year, not to be despised and not to be overvalued. some of the older anatomical works are still admirable, some of the newer ones very much the contrary. i have had recent anatomical plates brought me for inspection, and i have actually button-holed the book-agent, a being commonly as hard to get rid of as the tar-baby in the negro legend, that i might put him to shame with the imperial illustrations of the bones and muscles in the great folio of albinus, published in , and the unapproached figures of the lymphatic system of mascagni, now within a very few years of a century old, and still copied, or, rather, pretended to be copied, in the most recent works on anatomy. i am afraid that it is a good plan to get rid of old professors, and i am thankful to hear that there is a movement for making provision for those who are left in need when they lose their offices and their salaries. i remember one of our ancient cambridge doctors once asked me to get into his rickety chaise, and said to me, half humorously, half sadly, that he was like an old horse,--they had taken off his saddle and turned him out to pasture. i fear the grass was pretty short where that old servant of the public found himself grazing. if i myself needed an apology for holding my office so long, i should find it in the fact that human anatomy is much the same study that it was in the days of vesalius and fallopius, and that the greater part of my teaching was of such a nature that it could never become antiquated. let me begin with my first experience as a medical student. i had come from the lessons of judge story and mr. ashmun in the law school at cambridge. i had been busy, more or less, with the pages of blackstone and chitty, and other text-books of the first year of legal study. more or less, i say, but i am afraid it was less rather than more. for during that year i first tasted the intoxicating pleasure of authorship. a college periodical, conducted by friends of mine, still undergraduates, tempted me into print, and there is no form of lead-poisoning which more rapidly and thoroughly pervades the blood and bones and marrow than that which reaches the young author through mental contact with type-metal. qui a bu, boira,--he who has once been a drinker will drink again, says the french proverb. so the man or woman who has tasted type is sure to return to his old indulgence sooner or later. in that fatal year i had my first attack of authors' lead-poisoning, and i have never got quite rid of it from that day to this. but for that i might have applied myself more diligently to my legal studies, and carried a green bag in place of a stethoscope and a thermometer up to the present day. what determined me to give up law and apply myself to medicine i can hardly say, but i had from the first looked upon that year's study as an experiment. at any rate, i made the change, and soon found myself introduced to new scenes and new companionships. i can scarcely credit my memory when i recall the first impressions produced upon me by sights afterwards become so familiar that they could no more disturb a pulse-beat than the commonest of every-day experiences. the skeleton, hung aloft like a gibbeted criminal, looked grimly at me as i entered the room devoted to the students of the school i had joined, just as the fleshless figure of time, with the hour-glass and scythe, used to glare upon me in my childhood from the "new england primer." the white faces in the beds at the hospital found their reflection in my own cheeks, which lost their color as i looked upon them. all this had to pass away in a little time; i had chosen my profession, and must meet its painful and repulsive aspects until they lost their power over my sensibilities. the private medical school which i had joined was one established by dr. james jackson, dr. walter channing, dr. john ware, dr. winslow lewis, and dr. george w. otis. of the first three gentlemen i have either spoken elsewhere or may find occasion to speak hereafter. the two younger members of this association of teachers were both graduates of our university, one of the year , the other of . dr. lewis was a great favorite with students. he was a man of very lively temperament, fond of old books and young people, open-hearted, free-spoken, an enthusiast in teaching, and especially at home in that apartment of the temple of science where nature is seen in undress, the anthropotomic laboratory, known to common speech as the dissecting-room. he had that quality which is the special gift of the man born for a teacher,--the power of exciting an interest in that which he taught. while he was present the apartment i speak of was the sunniest of studios in spite of its mortuary spectacles. of the students i met there i best remember james jackson, junior, full of zeal and playful as a boy, a young man whose early death was a calamity to the profession of which he promised to be a chief ornament; the late reverend j. s. c. greene, who, as the prefix to his name signifies, afterwards changed his profession, but one of whose dissections i remember looking upon with admiration; and my friend mr. charles amory, as we call him, dr. charles amory, as he is entitled to be called, then, as now and always, a favorite with all about him. he had come to us from the schools of germany, and brought with him recollections of the teachings of blumenbach and the elder langenbeck, father of him whose portrait hangs in our museum. dr. lewis was our companion as well as our teacher. a good demonstrator is,--i will not say as important as a good professor in the teaching of anatomy, because i am not sure that he is not more important. he comes into direct personal relations with the students,--he is one of them, in fact, as the professor cannot be from the nature of his duties. the professor's chair is an insulating stool, so to speak; his age, his knowledge, real or supposed, his official station, are like the glass legs which support the electrician's piece of furniture, and cut it off from the common currents of the floor upon which it stands. dr. lewis enjoyed teaching and made his students enjoy being taught. he delighted in those anatomical conundrums to answer which keeps the student's eyes open and his wits awake. he was happy as he dexterously performed the tour de maitre of the old barber-surgeons, or applied the spica bandage and taught his scholars to do it, so neatly and symmetrically that the aesthetic missionary from the older centre of civilization would bend over it in blissful contemplation, as if it were a sunflower. dr. lewis had many other tastes, and was a favorite, not only with students, but in a wide circle, professional, antiquarian, masonic, and social. dr. otis was less widely known, but was a fluent and agreeable lecturer, and esteemed as a good surgeon. i must content myself with this glimpse at myself and a few of my fellow-students in boston. after attending two courses of lectures in the school of the university, i went to europe to continue my studies. you may like to hear something of the famous professors of paris in the days when i was a student in the ecole de medicine, and following the great hospital teachers. i can hardly believe my own memory when i recall the old practitioners and professors who were still going round the hospitals when i mingled with the train of students that attended the morning visits. see that bent old man who is groping his way through the wards of la charity. that is the famous baron boyer, author of the great work on surgery in nine volumes, a writer whose clearness of style commends his treatise to general admiration, and makes it a kind of classic. he slashes away at a terrible rate, they say, when he gets hold of the subject of fistula in its most frequent habitat,--but i never saw him do more than look as if he wanted to cut a good dollop out of a patient he was examining. the short, square, substantial man with iron-gray hair, ruddy face, and white apron is baron larrey, napoleon's favorite surgeon, the most honest man he ever saw,--it is reputed that he called him. to go round the hotel des invalides with larrey was to live over the campaigns of napoleon, to look on the sun of austerlitz, to hear the cannons of marengo, to struggle through the icy waters of the beresina, to shiver in the snows of the russian retreat, and to gaze through the battle smoke upon the last charge of the red lancers on the redder field of waterloo. larrey was still strong and sturdy as i saw him, and few portraits remain printed in livelier colors on the tablet of my memory. leave the little group of students which gathers about larrey beneath the gilded dome of the invalides and follow me to the hotel dieu, where rules and reigns the master-surgeon of his day, at least so far as paris and france are concerned,--the illustrious baron dupuytren. no man disputed his reign, some envied his supremacy. lisfranc shrugged his shoulders as he spoke of "ce grand homme de l'autre cots de la riviere," that great man on the other side of the river, but the great man he remained, until he bowed before the mandate which none may disobey. "three times," said bouillaud, "did the apoplectic thunderbolt fall on that robust brain,"--it yielded at last as the old bald cliff that is riven and crashes down into the valley. i saw him before the first thunderbolt had descended: a square, solid man, with a high and full-domed head, oracular in his utterances, indifferent to those around him, sometimes, it was said, very rough with them. he spoke in low, even tones, with quiet fluency, and was listened to with that hush of rapt attention which i have hardly seen in any circle of listeners unless when such men as ex-president john quincy adams or daniel webster were the speakers. i do not think that dupuytren has left a record which explains his influence, but in point of fact he dominated those around him in a remarkable manner. you must have all witnessed something of the same kind. the personal presence of some men carries command with it, and their accents silence the crowd around them, when the same words from other lips might fall comparatively unheeded. as for lisfranc, i can say little more of him than that he was a great drawer of blood and hewer of members. i remember his ordering a wholesale bleeding of his patients, right and left, whatever might be the matter with them, one morning when a phlebotomizing fit was on him. i recollect his regretting the splendid guardsmen of the old empire,--for what? because they had such magnificent thighs to amputate. i got along about as far as that with him, when i ceased to be a follower of m. lisfranc. the name of velpeau must have reached many of you, for he died in , and his many works made his name widely known. coming to paris in wooden shoes, starving, almost, at first, he raised himself to great eminence as a surgeon and as an author, and at last obtained the professorship to which his talents and learning entitled him. his example may be an encouragement to some of my younger hearers who are born, not with the silver spoon in their mouths, but with the two-tined iron fork in their hands. it is a poor thing to take up their milk porridge with in their young days, but in after years it will often transfix the solid dumplings that roll out of the silver spoon. so velpeau found it. he had not what is called genius, he was far from prepossessing in aspect, looking as if he might have wielded the sledge-hammer (as i think he had done in early life) rather than the lancet, but he had industry, determination, intelligence, character, and he made his way to distinction and prosperity, as some of you sitting on these benches and wondering anxiously what is to become of you in the struggle for life will have done before the twentieth century has got halfway through its first quarter. a good sound head over a pair of wooden shoes is a great deal better than a wooden head belonging to an owner who cases his feet in calf-skin, but a good brain is not enough without a stout heart to fill the four great conduits which carry at once fuel and fire to that mightiest of engines. how many of you who are before me are familiarly acquainted with the name of broussais, or even with that of andral? both were lecturing at the ecole de medicine, and i often heard them. broussais was in those days like an old volcano, which has pretty nearly used up its fire and brimstone, but is still boiling and bubbling in its interior, and now and then sends up a spirt of lava and a volley of pebbles. his theories of gastro-enteritis, of irritation and inflammation as the cause of disease, and the practice which sprang from them, ran over the fields of medicine for a time like flame over the grass of the prairies. the way in which that knotty-featured, savage old man would bring out the word irritation--with rattling and rolling reduplication of the resonant letter r--might have taught a lesson in articulation to salvini. but broussais's theory was languishing and well-nigh become obsolete, and this, no doubt, added vehemence to his defence of his cherished dogmas. old theories, and old men who cling to them, must take themselves out of the way as the new generation with its fresh thoughts and altered habits of mind comes forward to take the place of that which is dying out. this was a truth which the fiery old theorist found it very hard to learn, and harder to bear, as it was forced upon him. for the hour of his lecture was succeeded by that of a younger and far more popular professor. as his lecture drew towards its close, the benches, thinly sprinkled with students, began to fill up; the doors creaked open and banged back oftener and oftener, until at last the sound grew almost continuous, and the voice of the lecturer became a leonine growl as he strove in vain to be heard over the noise of doors and footsteps. broussais was now sixty-two years old. the new generation had outgrown his doctrines, and the professor for whose hour the benches had filled themselves belonged to that new generation. gabriel andral was little more than half the age of broussais, in the full prime and vigor of manhood at thirty-seven years. he was a rapid, fluent, fervid, and imaginative speaker, pleasing in aspect and manner,--a strong contrast to the harsh, vituperative old man who had just preceded him. his clinique medicale is still valuable as a collection of cases, and his researches on the blood, conducted in association with gavarret, contributed new and valuable facts to science. but i remember him chiefly as one of those instructors whose natural eloquence made it delightful to listen to him. i doubt if i or my fellow-students did full justice either to him or to the famous physician of hotel dieu, chomel. we had addicted ourselves almost too closely to the words of another master, by whom we were ready to swear as against all teachers that ever were or ever would be. this object of our reverence, i might almost say idolatry, was one whose name is well known to most of the young men before me, even to those who may know comparatively little of his works and teachings. pierre charles alexandre louis, at the age of forty-seven, as i recall him, was a tall, rather spare, dignified personage, of serene and grave aspect, but with a pleasant smile and kindly voice for the student with whom he came into personal relations. if i summed up the lessons of louis in two expressions, they would be these; i do not hold him answerable for the words, but i will condense them after my own fashion in french, and then give them to you, expanded somewhat, in english: formez toujours des idees nettes. fuyez toujours les a peu pres. always make sure that you form a distinct and clear idea of the matter you are considering. always avoid vague approximations where exact estimates are possible; about so many,--about so much, instead of the precise number and quantity. now, if there is anything on which the biological sciences have prided themselves in these latter years it is the substitution of quantitative for qualitative formulae. the "numerical system," of which louis was the great advocate, if not the absolute originator, was an attempt to substitute series of carefully recorded facts, rigidly counted and closely compared, for those never-ending records of vague, unverifiable conclusions with which the classics of the healing art were overloaded. the history of practical medicine had been like the story of the danaides. "experience" had been, from time immemorial, pouring its flowing treasures into buckets full of holes. at the existing rate of supply and leakage they would never be filled; nothing would ever be settled in medicine. but cases thoroughly recorded and mathematically analyzed would always be available for future use, and when accumulated in sufficient number would lead to results which would be trustworthy, and belong to science. you young men who are following the hospitals hardly know how much you are indebted to louis. i say nothing of his researches on phthisis or his great work on typhoid fever. but i consider his modest and brief essay on bleeding in some inflammatory diseases, based on cases carefully observed and numerically analyzed, one of the most important written contributions to practical medicine, to the treatment of internal disease, of this century, if not since the days of sydenham. the lancet was the magician's wand of the dark ages of medicine. the old physicians not only believed in its general efficacy as a wonder-worker in disease, but they believed that each malady could be successfully attacked from some special part of the body,--the strategic point which commanded the seat of the morbid affection. on a figure given in the curious old work of john de ketam, no less than thirty-eight separate places are marked as the proper ones to bleed from, in different diseases. even louis, who had not wholly given up venesection, used now and then to order that a patient suffering from headache should be bled in the foot, in preference to any other part. but what louis did was this: he showed by a strict analysis of numerous cases that bleeding did not strangle,--jugulate was the word then used,--acute diseases, more especially pneumonia. this was not a reform,--it was a revolution. it was followed up in this country by the remarkable discourse of dr. jacob bigelow upon self-limited diseases, which has, i believe, done more than any other work or essay in our own language to rescue the practice of medicine from the slavery to the drugging system which was a part of the inheritance of the profession. yes, i say, as i look back on the long hours of the many days i spent in the wards and in the autopsy room of la pitie, where louis was one of the attending physicians,--yes, louis did a great work for practical medicine. modest in the presence of nature, fearless in the face of authority, unwearying in the pursuit of truth, he was a man whom any student might be happy and proud to claim as his teacher and his friend, and yet, as i look back on the days when i followed his teachings, i feel that i gave myself up too exclusively to his methods of thought and study. there is one part of their business which certain medical practitioners are too apt to forget; namely, that what they should most of all try to do is to ward off disease, to alleviate suffering, to preserve life, or at least to prolong it if possible. it is not of the slightest interest to the patient to know whether three or three and a quarter cubic inches of his lung are hepatized. his mind is not occupied with thinking of the curious problems which are to be solved by his own autopsy,--whether this or that strand of the spinal marrow is the seat of this or that form of degeneration. he wants something to relieve his pain, to mitigate the anguish of dyspnea, to bring back motion and sensibility to the dead limb, to still the tortures of neuralgia. what is it to him that you can localize and name by some uncouth term the disease which you could not prevent and which you cannot cure? an old woman who knows how to make a poultice and how to put it on, and does it tuto, eito, jucunde, just when and where it is wanted, is better,--a thousand times better in many cases,--than a staring pathologist, who explores and thumps and doubts and guesses, and tells his patient be will be better tomorrow, and so goes home to tumble his books over and make out a diagnosis. but in those days, i, like most of my fellow students, was thinking much more of "science" than of practical medicine, and i believe if we had not clung so closely to the skirts of louis and had followed some of the courses of men like trousseau,--therapeutists, who gave special attention to curative methods, and not chiefly to diagnosis,--it would have been better for me and others. one thing, at any rate, we did learn in the wards of louis. we learned that a very large proportion of diseases get well of themselves, without any special medication,--the great fact formulated, enforced, and popularized by dr. jacob bigelow in the discourse referred to. we unlearned the habit of drugging for its own sake. this detestable practice, which i was almost proscribed for condemning somewhat too epigrammatically a little more than twenty years ago, came to us, i suspect, in a considerable measure from the english "general practitioners," a sort of prescribing apothecaries. you remember how, when the city was besieged, each artisan who was called upon in council to suggest the best means of defence recommended the articles he dealt in: the carpenter, wood; the blacksmith, iron; the mason, brick; until it came to be a puzzle to know which to adopt. then the shoemaker said, "hang your walls with new boots," and gave good reasons why these should be the best of all possible defences. now the "general practitioner" charged, as i understand, for his medicine, and in that way got paid for his visit. wherever this is the practice, medicine is sure to become a trade, and the people learn to expect drugging, and to consider it necessary, because drugs are so universally given to the patients of the man who gets his living by them. it was something to have unlearned the pernicious habit of constantly giving poisons to a patient, as if they were good in themselves, of drawing off the blood which he would want in his struggle with disease, of making him sore and wretched with needless blisters, of turning his stomach with unnecessary nauseous draught and mixtures,--only because he was sick and something must be done. but there were positive as well as negative facts to be learned, and some of us, i fear, came home rich in the negatives of the expectant practice, poor in the resources which many a plain country practitioner had ready in abundance for the relief and the cure of disease. no one instructor can be expected to do all for a student which he requires. louis taught us who followed him the love of truth, the habit of passionless listening to the teachings of nature, the most careful and searching methods of observation, and the sure means of getting at the results to be obtained from them in the constant employment of accurate tabulation. he was not a showy, or eloquent, or, i should say, a very generally popular man, though the favorite, almost the idol, of many students, especially genevese and bostonians. but he was a man of lofty and admirable scientific character, and his work will endure in its influences long after his name is lost sight of save to the faded eyes of the student of medical literature. many other names of men more or less famous in their day, and who were teaching while i was in paris, come up before me. they are but empty sounds for the most part in the ears of persons of not more than middle age. who of you knows anything of richerand, author of a very popular work on physiology, commonly put into the student's hands when i first began to ask for medical text-books? i heard him lecture once, and have had his image with me ever since as that of an old, worn-out man,--a venerable but dilapidated relic of an effete antiquity. to verify this impression i have just looked out the dates of his birth and death, and find that he was eighteen years younger than the speaker who is now addressing you. there is a terrible parallax between the period before thirty and that after threescore and ten, as two men of those ages look, one with naked eyes, one through his spectacles, at the man of fifty and thereabout. magendie, i doubt not you have all heard of. i attended but one of his lectures. i question if one here, unless some contemporary of my own has strayed into the amphitheatre,--knows anything about marjolin. i remember two things about his lectures on surgery, the deep tones of his voice as he referred to his oracle,--the earlier writer, jean louis petit,--and his formidable snuffbox. what he taught me lies far down, i doubt not, among the roots of my knowledge, but it does not flower out in any noticeable blossoms, or offer me any very obvious fruits. where now is the fame of bouillaud, professor and deputy, the sangrado of his time? where is the renown of piorry, percussionist and poet, expert alike in the resonances of the thoracic cavity and those of the rhyming vocabulary?--i think life has not yet done with the vivacious ricord, whom i remember calling the voltaire of pelvic literature,--a sceptic as to the morality of the race in general, who would have submitted diana to treatment with his mineral specifics, and ordered a course of blue pills for the vestal virgins. ricord was born at the beginning of the century, and piorry some years earlier. cruveilhier, who died in , is still remembered by his great work on pathological anatomy; his work on descriptive anatomy has some things which i look in vain for elsewhere. but where is civiale,--where are orfila, gendrin, rostan, biett, alibert,--jolly old baron alibert, whom i remember so well in his broad-brimmed hat, worn a little jauntily on one side, calling out to the students in the court-yard of the hospital st. louis, "enfans de la methode naturelle, etes-vous tous ici?" "children of the natural method [his own method of classification of skin diseases,] are you all here?" all here, then, perhaps; all where, now? my show of ghosts is over. it is always the same story that old men tell to younger ones, some few of whom will in their turn repeat the tale, only with altered names, to their children's children. like phantoms painted on the magic slide, forth from the darkness of the past we glide, as living shadows for a moment seen in airy pageant on the eternal screen, traced by a ray from one unchanging flame, then seek the dust and stillness whence we came. dr. benjamin waterhouse, whom i well remember, came back from leyden, where he had written his latin graduating thesis, talking of the learned gaubius and the late illustrious boerhaave and other dead dutchmen, of whom you know as much, most of you, as you do of noah's apothecary and the family physician of methuselah, whose prescriptions seem to have been lost to posterity. dr. lloyd came back to boston full of the teachings of cheselden and sharpe, william hunter, smellie, and warner; dr. james jackson loved to tell of mr. cline and to talk of mr. john hunter; dr. reynolds would give you his recollections of sir astley cooper and mr. abernethy; i have named the famous frenchmen of my student days; leyden, edinburgh, london, paris, were each in turn the mecca of medical students, just as at the present day vienna and berlin are the centres where our young men crowd for instruction. these also must sooner or later yield their precedence and pass the torch they hold to other hands. where shall it next flame at the head of the long procession? shall it find its old place on the shores of the gulf of salerno, or shall it mingle its rays with the northern aurora up among the fiords of norway,--or shall it be borne across the atlantic and reach the banks of the charles, where agassiz and wyman have taught, where hagen still teaches, glowing like his own lampyris splendidula, with enthusiasm, where the first of american botanists and the ablest of american surgeons are still counted in the roll of honor of our great university? let me add a few words which shall not be other than cheerful, as i bid farewell to this edifice which i have known so long. i am grateful to the roof which has sheltered me, to the floors which have sustained me, though i have thought it safest always to abstain from anything like eloquence, lest a burst of too emphatic applause might land my class and myself in the cellar of the collapsing structure, and bury us in the fate of korah, dathan, and abiram. i have helped to wear these stairs into hollows,--stairs which i trod when they were smooth and level, fresh from the plane. there are just thirty-two of them, as there were five and thirty years ago, but they are steeper and harder to climb, it seems to me, than they were then. i remember that in the early youth of this building, the late dr. john k. mitchell, father of our famous dr. weir mitchell, said to me as we came out of the demonstrator's room, that some day or other a whole class would go heels over head down this graded precipice, like the herd told of in scripture story. this has never happened as yet; i trust it never will. i have never been proud of the apartment beneath the seats, in which my preparations for lecture were made. but i chose it because i could have it to myself, and i resign it, with a wish that it were more worthy of regret, into the hands of my successor, with my parting benediction. within its twilight precincts i have often prayed for light, like ajax, for the daylight found scanty entrance, and the gaslight never illuminated its dark recesses. may it prove to him who comes after me like the cave of the sibyl, out of the gloomy depths of which came the oracles which shone with the rays of truth and wisdom! this temple of learning is not surrounded by the mansions of the great and the wealthy. no stately avenues lead up to its facades and porticoes. i have sometimes felt, when convoying a distinguished stranger through its precincts to its door, that he might question whether star-eyed science had not missed her way when she found herself in this not too attractive locality. i cannot regret that we--you, i should say--are soon to migrate to a more favored region, and carry on your work as teachers and as learners in ampler halls and under far more favorable conditions. i hope that i may have the privilege of meeting you there, possibly may be allowed to add my words of welcome to those of my former colleagues, and in that pleasing anticipation i bid good-by to this scene of my long labors, and, for the present at least, to the friends with whom i have been associated. appendum notes to the address on currents and counter currents in medical science. some passages contained in the original manuscript of the address, and omitted in the delivery on account of its length, are restored in the text or incorporated with these notes. note a.-- there is good reason to doubt whether the nitrate of silver has any real efficacy in epilepsy. it has seemed to cure many cases, but epilepsy is a very uncertain disease, and there is hardly anything which has not been supposed to cure it. dr. copland cites many authorities in its favor, most especially lombard's cases. but de la berge and monneret (comp. de med. paris), , analyze these same cases, eleven in number, and can only draw the inference of a very questionable value in the supposed remedy. dr. james jackson says that relief of epilepsy is not to be attained by any medicine with which he is acquainted, but by diet. (letters to a young physician, p. .) guy patin, dean of the faculty of paris, professor at the royal college, author of the antimonial martyrology, a wit and a man of sense and learning, who died almost two hundred years ago, had come to the same conclusion, though the chemists of his time boasted of their remedies. "did, you ever see a case of epilepsy cured by nitrate of silver?" i said to one of the oldest and most experienced surgeons in this country. "never," was his instant reply. dr. twitchell's experience was very similar. how, then, did nitrate of silver come to be given for epilepsy? because, as dr. martin has so well reminded us, lunatics were considered formerly to be under the special influence of luna, the moon (which esquirol, be it observed, utterly denies), and lunar caustic, or nitrate of silver, is a salt of that metal which was called luna from its whiteness, and of course must be in the closest relations with the moon. it follows beyond all reasonable question that the moon's metal, silver, and its preparations, must be the specific remedy for moonblasted maniacs and epileptics! yet the practitioner who prescribes the nitrate of silver supposes he is guided by the solemn experience of the past, instead of by its idle fancies. he laughs at those old physicians who placed such confidence in the right hind hoof of an elk as a remedy for the same disease, and leaves the record of his own belief in a treatment quite as fanciful and far more objectionable, written in indelible ink upon a living tablet where he who runs may read it for a whole generation, if nature spares his walking advertisement so long. note b.-- the presumption that a man is innocent until he is proved guilty, does not mean that there are no rogues, but lays the onus probandi on the party to which it properly belongs. so with this proposition. a noxious agent should never be employed in sickness unless there is ample evidence in the particular case to overcome the general presumption against all such agents, and the evidence is very apt to be defective. the miserable delusion of homoeopathy builds itself upon an axiom directly the opposite of this; namely, that the sick are to be cured by poisons. similia similibus curantur means exactly this. it is simply a theory of universal poisoning, nullified in practice by the infinitesimal contrivance. the only way to kill it and all similar fancies, and to throw every quack nostrum into discredit, is to root out completely the suckers of the old rotten superstition that whatever is odious or noxious is likely to be good for disease. the current of sound practice with ourselves is, i believe, setting fast in the direction i have indicated in the above proposition. to uphold the exhibition of noxious agents in disease, as the rule, instead of admitting them cautiously and reluctantly as the exception, is, as i think, an eddy of opinion in the direction of the barbarism out of which we believe our art is escaping. it is only through the enlightened sentiment and action of the medical profession that the community can be brought to acknowledge that drugs should always be regarded as evils. it is true that some suppose, and our scientific and thoughtful associate, dr. gould, has half countenanced the opinion, that there may yet be discovered a specific for every disease. let us not despair of the future, but let us be moderate in our expectations. when an oil is discovered that will make a bad watch keep good time; when a recipe is given which will turn an acephalous foetus into a promising child; when a man can enter the second time into his mother's womb and give her back the infirmities which twenty generations have stirred into her blood, and infused into his own through hers, we may be prepared to enlarge the national pharmacopoeia with a list of specifies for everything but old age,--and possibly for that also. note c.-- the term specific is used here in its ordinary sense, without raising the question of the propriety of its application to these or other remedies. the credit of introducing cinchona rests between the jesuits, the countess of chinchon, the cardinal de lugo, and sir robert talbor, who employed it as a secret remedy. (pereira.) mercury as an internal specific remedy was brought into use by that impudent and presumptuous quack, as he was considered, paracelsus. (encyc. brit. art. "paracelsus.") arsenic was introduced into england as a remedy for intermittents by dr. fowler, in consequence of the success of a patent medicine, the tasteless ague drops, which were supposed, "probably with reason," to be a preparation of that mineral. (rees's cyc. art. "arsenic.") colchicum came into notice in a similar way, from the success of the eau medicinale of m. husson, a french military officer. (pereira.) iodine was discovered by a saltpetre manufacturer, but applied by a physician in place of the old remedy, burnt sponge, which seems to owe its efficacy to it. (dunglison, new remedies.) as for sulphur, "the common people have long used it as an ointment" for scabies. (rees's cyc. art. "scabies.") the modern cantiscorbutic regimen is credited to captain cook. "to his sagacity we are indebted for the first impulse to those regulations by which scorbutus is so successfully prevented in our navy." (lond. cyc. prac. med. art. "scorbutus.") iron and various salts which enter into the normal composition of the human body do not belong to the materia medica by our definition, but to the materia alimentaria. for the first introduction of iron as a remedy, see pereira, who gives a very curious old story. the statement in the text concerning a portion of the materia medica stands exactly as delivered, and is meant exactly as it stands. no denunciation of drugs, as sparingly employed by a wise physician, was or is intended. if, however, as dr. gould stated in his "valuable and practical discourse" to which the massachusetts medical society "listened with profit as well as interest," "drugs, in themselves considered, may always be regarded as evils,"--any one who chooses may question whether the evils from their abuse are, on the whole, greater or less than the undoubted benefits obtained from their proper use. the large exception of opium, wine, specifics, and anaesthetics, made in the text, takes off enough from the useful side, as i fully believe, to turn the balance; so that a vessel containing none of these, but loaded with antimony, strychnine, acetate of lead, aloes, aconite, lobelia, lapis infernalis, stercus diaboli, tormentilla, and other approved, and, in skilful hands, really useful remedies, brings, on the whole, more harm than good to the port it enters. it is a very narrow and unjust view of the practice of medicine, to suppose it to consist altogether in the use of powerful drugs, or of drugs of any kind. far from it. "the physician may do very much for the welfare of the sick, more than others can do, although he does not, even in the major part of cases, undertake to control and overcome the disease by art. it was with these views that i never reported any patient cured at our hospital. those who recovered their health were reported as well; not implying that they were made so by the active treatment they had received there. but it was to be understood that all patients received in that house were to be cured, that is, taken care of." (letters to a young physician, by james jackson, m. d., boston, .) "hygienic rules, properly enforced, fresh air, change of air, travel, attention to diet, good and appropriate food judiciously regulated, together with the administration of our tonics, porter, ale, wine, iron, etc., supply the diseased or impoverished system with what mr. gull, of st. bartholomew's hospital, aptly calls the 'raw material of the blood;' and we believe that if any real improvement has taken place in medical practice, independently of those truly valuable contributions we have before described, it is in the substitution of tonics, stimulants, and general management, for drastic cathartics, for bleeding, depressing agents, including mercury, tartar emetics, etc., so much in vogue during the early part even of this century." (f. p. porcher, in charleston med. journal and review for january, .) .) john lothrop motley. a memoir, complete by oliver wendell holmes, sr. volume i. note. the memoir here given to the public is based on a biographical sketch prepared by the writer at the request of the massachusetts historical society for its proceedings. the questions involving controversies into which the society could not feel called to enter are treated at considerable length in the following pages. many details are also given which would have carried the paper written for the society beyond the customary limits of such tributes to the memory of its deceased members. it is still but an outline which may serve a present need and perhaps be of some assistance to a future biographer. i. - . to aet. . birth and early years. john motley, the great-grandfather of the subject of this memoir, came in the earlier part of the last century from belfast in ireland to falmouth, now portland, in the district, now the state of maine. he was twice married, and had ten children, four of the first marriage and six of the last. thomas, the youngest son by his first wife, married emma, a daughter of john wait, the first sheriff of cumberland county under the government of the united states. two of their seven sons, thomas and edward, removed from portland to boston in and established themselves as partners in commercial business, continuing united and prosperous for nearly half a century before the firm was dissolved. the earlier records of new england have preserved the memory of an incident which deserves mention as showing how the historian's life was saved by a quickwitted handmaid, more than a hundred years before he was born. on the th of august, , the french and indians from canada made an attack upon the town of haverhill, in massachusetts. thirty or forty persons were slaughtered, and many others were carried captive into canada. the minister of the town, rev. benjamin rolfe, was killed by a bullet through the door of his house. two of his daughters, mary, aged thirteen, and elizabeth, aged nine, were sleeping in a room with the maid-servant, hagar. when hagar heard the whoop of the savages she seized the children, ran with them into the cellar, and, after concealing them under two large washtubs, hid herself. the indians ransacked the cellar, but missed the prey. elizabeth, the younger of the two girls, grew up and married the rev. samuel checkley, first minister of the "new south" church, boston. her son, rev. samuel checkley, junior, was minister of the second church, and his successor, rev. john lothrop, or lathrop, as it was more commonly spelled, married his daughter. dr. lothrop was great-grandson of rev. john lothrop, of scituate, who had been imprisoned in england for nonconformity. the checkleys were from preston capes, in northamptonshire. the name is probably identical with that of the chicheles or chichleys, a well-known northamptonshire family. thomas motley married anna, daughter of the rev. john lothrop, granddaughter of the rev. samuel checkley, junior, the two ministers mentioned above, both honored in their day and generation. eight children were born of this marriage, of whom four are still living. john lothrop motley, the second of these children, was born in dorchester, now a part of boston, massachusetts, on the th of april, . a member of his family gives a most pleasing and interesting picture, from his own recollections and from what his mother told him, of the childhood which was to develop into such rich maturity. the boy was rather delicate in organization, and not much given to outdoor amusements, except skating and swimming, of which last exercise he was very fond in his young days, and in which he excelled. he was a great reader, never idle, but always had a book in his hand,--a volume of poetry or one of the novels of scott or cooper. his fondness for plays and declamation is illustrated by the story told by a younger brother, who remembers being wrapped up in a shawl and kept quiet by sweetmeats, while he figured as the dead caesar, and his brother, the future historian, delivered the speech of antony over his prostrate body. he was of a most sensitive nature, easily excited, but not tenacious of any irritated feelings, with a quick sense of honor, and the most entirely truthful child, his mother used to say, that she had ever seen. such are some of the recollections of those who knew him in his earliest years and in the most intimate relations. his father's family was at this time living in the house no. walnut street, looking down chestnut street over the water to the western hills. near by, at the corner of beacon street, was the residence of the family of the first mayor of boston, and at a little distance from the opposite corner was the house of one of the fathers of new england manufacturing enterprise, a man of superior intellect, who built up a great name and fortune in our city. the children from these three homes naturally became playmates. mr. motley's house was a very hospitable one, and lothrop and two of his young companions were allowed to carry out their schemes of amusement in the garden and the garret. if one with a prescient glance could have looked into that garret on some saturday afternoon while our century was not far advanced in its second score of years, he might have found three boys in cloaks and doublets and plumed hats, heroes and bandits, enacting more or less impromptu melodramas. in one of the boys he would have seen the embryo dramatist of a nation's life history, john lothrop motley; in the second, a famous talker and wit who has spilled more good things on the wasteful air in conversation than would carry a "diner-out" through half a dozen london seasons, and waked up somewhat after the usual flowering-time of authorship to find himself a very agreeable and cordially welcomed writer,--thomas gold appleton. in the third he would have recognized a champion of liberty known wherever that word is spoken, an orator whom to hear is to revive all the traditions of the grace, the address, the commanding sway of the silver-tongued eloquence of the most renowned speakers,--wendell phillips. both of young motley's playmates have furnished me with recollections of him and of those around him at this period of his life, and i cannot do better than borrow freely from their communications. his father was a man of decided character, social, vivacious, witty, a lover of books, and himself not unknown as a writer, being the author of one or more of the well remembered "jack downing" letters. he was fond of having the boys read to him from such authors as channing and irving, and criticised their way of reading with discriminating judgment and taste. mrs. motley was a woman who could not be looked upon without admiration. i remember well the sweet dignity of her aspect, her "regal beauty," as mr. phillips truly styles it, and the charm of her serene and noble presence, which made her the type of a perfect motherhood. her character corresponded to the promise of her gracious aspect. she was one of the fondest of mothers, but not thoughtlessly indulgent to the boy from whom she hoped and expected more than she thought it wise to let him know. the story used to be current that in their younger days this father and mother were the handsomest pair the town of boston could show. this son of theirs was "rather tall," says mr. phillips, "lithe, very graceful in movement and gesture, and there was something marked and admirable in the set of his head on his shoulders,"--a peculiar elegance which was most noticeable in those later days when i knew him. lady byron long afterwards spoke of him as more like her husband in appearance than any other person she had met; but mr. phillips, who remembers the first bloom of his boyhood and youth, thinks he was handsomer than any portrait of byron represents the poet. "he could not have been eleven years old," says the same correspondent, "when he began writing a novel. it opened, i remember, not with one solitary horseman, but with two, riding up to an inn in the valley of the housatonic. neither of us had ever seen the housatonic, but it sounded grand and romantic. two chapters were finished." there is not much remembered of the single summer he passed at mr. green's school at jamaica plain. from that school he went to round hill, northampton, then under the care of mr. cogswell and mr. bancroft. the historian of the united states could hardly have dreamed that the handsome boy of ten years was to take his place at the side of his teacher in the first rank of writers in his own department. motley came to round hill, as one of his schoolmates tells me, with a great reputation, especially as a declaimer. he had a remarkable facility for acquiring languages, excelled as a reader and as a writer, and was the object of general admiration for his many gifts. there is some reason to think that the flattery he received was for a time a hindrance to his progress and the development of his character. he obtained praise too easily, and learned to trust too much to his genius. he had everything to spoil him,--beauty, precocious intelligence, and a personal charm which might have made him a universal favorite. yet he does not seem to have been generally popular at this period of his life. he was wilful, impetuous, sometimes supercilious, always fastidious. he would study as he liked, and not by rule. his school and college mates believed in his great possibilities through all his forming period, but it may be doubted if those who counted most confidently on his future could have supposed that he would develop the heroic power of concentration, the long-breathed tenacity of purpose, which in after years gave effect to his brilliant mental endowments. "i did wonder," says mr. wendell phillips, "at the diligence and painstaking, the drudgery shown in his historical works. in early life he had no industry, not needing it. all he cared for in a book he caught quickly,--the spirit of it, and all his mind needed or would use. this quickness of apprehension was marvellous." i do not find from the recollections of his schoolmates at northampton that he was reproached for any grave offences, though he may have wandered beyond the prescribed boundaries now and then, and studied according to his inclinations rather than by rule. while at that school he made one acquisition much less common then than now,--a knowledge of the german language and some degree of acquaintance with its literature, under the guidance of one of the few thorough german scholars this country then possessed, mr. george bancroft. ii. - . aet. - . college life. such then was the boy who at the immature, we might almost say the tender, age of thirteen entered harvard college. though two years after me in college standing, i remember the boyish reputation which he brought with him, especially that of a wonderful linguist, and the impression which his striking personal beauty produced upon us as he took his seat in the college chapel. but it was not until long after this period that i became intimately acquainted with him, and i must again have recourse to the classmates and friends who have favored me with their reminiscences of this period of his life. mr. phillips says: "during our first year in college, though the youngest in the class, he stood third, i think, or second in college rank, and ours was an especially able class. yet to maintain this rank he neither cared nor needed to make any effort. too young to feel any responsibilities, and not yet awake to any ambition, he became so negligent that he was 'rusticated' [that is, sent away from college for a time]. he came back sobered, and worked rather more, but with no effort for college rank thenceforward." i must finish the portrait of the collegian with all its lights and shadows by the help of the same friends from whom i have borrowed the preceding outlines. he did not care to make acquaintances, was haughty in manner and cynical in mood, at least as he appeared to those in whom he felt no special interest. it is no wonder, therefore, that he was not a popular favorite, although recognized as having very brilliant qualities. during all this period his mind was doubtless fermenting with projects which kept him in a fevered and irritable condition. "he had a small writing-table," mr. phillips says, "with a shallow drawer; i have often seen it half full of sketches, unfinished poems, soliloquies, a scene or two of a play, prose portraits of some pet character, etc. these he would read to me, though he never volunteered to do so, and every now and then he burnt the whole and began to fill the drawer again." my friend, mr. john osborne sargent, who was a year before him in college, says, in a very interesting letter with which he has favored me: "my first acquaintance with him [motley] was at cambridge, when he came from mr. cogswell's school at round hill. he then had a good deal of the shyness that was just pronounced enough to make him interesting, and which did not entirely wear off till he left college. . . i soon became acquainted with him, and we used to take long walks together, sometimes taxing each other's memory for poems or passages from poems that had struck our fancy. shelley was then a great favorite of his, and i remember that praed's verses then appearing in the 'new monthly' he thought very clever and brilliant, and was fond of repeating them. you have forgotten, or perhaps never knew, that motley's first appearance in print was in the 'collegian.' he brought me one day, in a very modest mood, a translation from goethe, which i was most happy to oblige him by inserting. it was very prettily done, and will now be a curiosity. . . . how it happened that motley wrote only one piece i do not remember. i had the pleasure about that time of initiating him as a member of the knights of the square table,--always my favorite college club, for the reason, perhaps, that i was a sometime grand master. he was always a genial and jovial companion at our supper- parties at fresh pond and gallagher's." we who live in the days of photographs know how many faces belong to every individual. we know too under what different aspects the same character appears to those who study it from different points of view and with different prepossessions. i do not hesitate, therefore, to place side by side the impressions of two of his classmates as to one of his personal traits as they observed him at this period of his youth. "he was a manly boy, with no love for or leaning to girls' company; no care for dress; not a trace of personal vanity. . . . he was, or at least seemed, wholly unconscious of his rare beauty and of the fascination of his manner; not a trace of pretence, the simplest and most natural creature in the world." look on that picture and on this:-- "he seemed to have a passion for dress. but as in everything else, so in this, his fancy was a fitful one. at one time he would excite our admiration by the splendor of his outfit, and perhaps the next week he would seem to take equal pleasure in his slovenly or careless appearance." it is not very difficult to reconcile these two portraitures. i recollect it was said by a witty lady of a handsome clergyman well remembered among us, that he had dressy eyes. motley so well became everything he wore, that if he had sprung from his bed and slipped his clothes on at an alarm of fire, his costume would have looked like a prince's undress. his natural presentment, like that of count d'orsay, was of the kind which suggests the intentional effects of an elaborate toilet, no matter how little thought or care may have been given to make it effective. i think the "passion for dress" was really only a seeming, and that he often excited admiration when he had not taken half the pains to adorn himself that many a youth less favored by nature has wasted upon his unblest exterior only to be laughed at. i gather some other interesting facts from a letter which i have received from his early playmate and school and college classmate, mr. t. g. appleton. "in his sophomore year he kept abreast of the prescribed studies, but his heart was out of bounds, as it often had been at round hill when chasing squirrels or rabbits through forbidden forests. already his historical interest was shaping his life. a tutor coming-by chance, let us hope--to his room remonstrated with him upon the heaps of novels upon his table. "'yes,' said motley, 'i am reading historically, and have come to the novels of the nineteenth century. taken in the lump, they are very hard reading.'" all old cambridge people know the brattle house, with its gambrel roof, its tall trees, its perennial spring, its legendary fame of good fare and hospitable board in the days of the kindly old bon vivant, major brattle. in this house the two young students, appleton and motley, lived during a part of their college course. "motley's room was on the ground floor, the room to the left of the entrance. he led a very pleasant life there, tempering his college duties with the literature he loved, and receiving his friends amidst elegant surroundings, which added to the charm of his society. occasionally we amused ourselves by writing for the magazines and papers of the day. mr. willis had just started a slim monthly, written chiefly by himself, but with the true magazine flavor. we wrote for that, and sometimes verses in the corner of a paper called 'the anti-masonic mirror,' and in which corner was a woodcut of apollo, and inviting to destruction ambitious youths by the legend underneath,-- 'much yet remains unsung.' these pieces were usually dictated to each other, the poet recumbent upon the bed and a classmate ready to carry off the manuscript for the paper of the following day. 'blackwood's' was then in its glory, its pages redolent of 'mountain dew' in every sense; the humor of the shepherd, the elegantly brutal onslaughts upon whigs and cockney poets by christopher north, intoxicated us youths. "it was young writing, and made for the young. the opinions were charmingly wrong, and its enthusiasm was half glenlivet. but this delighted the boys. there were no reprints then, and to pass the paper-cutter up the fresh inviting pages was like swinging over the heather arm in arm with christopher himself. it is a little singular that though we had a college magazine of our own, motley rarely if ever wrote for it. i remember a translation from goethe, 'the ghost-seer,' which he may have written for it, and a poem upon the white mountains. motley spoke at one of the college exhibitions an essay on goethe so excellent that mr. joseph cogswell sent it to madam goethe, who, after reading it, said, 'i wish to see the first book that young man will write.'" although motley did not aim at or attain a high college rank, the rules of the phi beta kappa society, which confine the number of members to the first sixteen of each class, were stretched so as to include him,--a tribute to his recognized ability, and an evidence that a distinguished future was anticipated for him. iii. - . aet. - . study and travel in europe. of the two years divided between the universities of berlin and gottingen i have little to record. that he studied hard i cannot doubt; that he found himself in pleasant social relations with some of his fellow-students seems probable from the portraits he has drawn in his first story, "morton's hope," and is rendered certain so far as one of his companions is concerned. among the records of the past to which he referred during his last visit to this country was a letter which he took from a collection of papers and handed me to read one day when i was visiting him. the letter was written in a very lively and exceedingly familiar vein. it implied such intimacy, and called up in such a lively way the gay times motley and himself had had together in their youthful days, that i was puzzled to guess who could have addressed him from germany in that easy and off-hand fashion. i knew most of his old friends who would be likely to call him by his baptismal name in its most colloquial form, and exhausted my stock of guesses unsuccessfully before looking at the signature. i confess that i was surprised, after laughing at the hearty and almost boyish tone of the letter, to read at the bottom of the page the signature of bismarck. i will not say that i suspect motley of having drawn the portrait of his friend in one of the characters of "morton's hope," but it is not hard to point out traits in one of them which we can believe may have belonged to the great chancellor at an earlier period of life than that at which the world contemplates his overshadowing proportions. hoping to learn something of motley during the two years while we had lost sight of him, i addressed a letter to his highness prince bismarck, to which i received the following reply:-- foreign office, berlin, march , . sir,--i am directed by prince bismarck to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the st of january, relating to the biography of the late mr. motley. his highness deeply regrets that the state of his health and pressure of business do not allow him to contribute personally, and as largely as he would be delighted to do, to your depicting of a friend whose memory will be ever dear to him. since i had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of mr. motley at varzin, i have been intrusted with communicating to you a few details i have gathered from the mouth of the prince. i enclose them as they are jotted down, without any attempt of digestion. i have the honor to be your obedient servant, lothair bucher. "prince bismarck said:-- "'i met motley at gottingen in , i am not sure if at the beginning of easter term or michaelmas term. he kept company with german students, though more addicted to study than we members of the fighting clubs (corps). although not having mastered yet the german language, he exercised a marked attraction by a conversation sparkling with wit, humor, and originality. in autumn of , having both of us migrated from gottingen to berlin for the prosecution of our studies, we became fellow-lodgers in the house no. friedrich strasse. there we lived in the closest intimacy, sharing meals and outdoor exercise. motley by that time had arrived at talking german fluently; he occupied himself not only in translating goethe's poem "faust," but tried his hand even in composing german verses. enthusiastic admirer of shakespeare, byron, goethe, he used to spice his conversation abundantly with quotations from these his favorite authors. a pertinacious arguer, so much so that sometimes he watched my awakening in order to continue a discussion on some topic of science, poetry, or practical life, cut short by the chime of the small hours, he never lost his mild and amiable temper. our faithful companion was count alexander keyserling, a native of courland, who has since achieved distinction as a botanist. "'motley having entered the diplomatic service of his country, we had frequently the opportunity of renewing our friendly intercourse; at frankfort he used to stay with me, the welcome guest of my wife; we also met at vienna, and, later, here. the last time i saw him was in at varzin, at the celebration of my "silver wedding," namely, the twenty-fifth anniversary. "'the most striking feature of his handsome and delicate appearance was uncommonly large and beautiful eyes. he never entered a drawing-room without exciting the curiosity and sympathy of the ladies.'" it is but a glimpse of their young life which the great statesman gives us, but a bright and pleasing one. here were three students, one of whom was to range in the flowery fields of the loveliest of the sciences, another to make the dead past live over again in his burning pages, and a third to extend an empire as the botanist spread out a plant and the historian laid open a manuscript. iv. - . et. - . return to america.--study of law.--marriage.--his first novel, "morton's hope." of the years passed in the study of law after his return from germany i have very little recollection, and nothing of importance to record. he never became seriously engaged in the practice of the profession he had chosen. i had known him pleasantly rather than intimately, and our different callings tended to separate us. i met him, however, not very rarely, at one house where we were both received with the greatest cordiality, and where the attractions brought together many both young and old to enjoy the society of its charming and brilliant inmates. this was at no. temple place, where mr. park benjamin was then living with his two sisters, both in the bloom of young womanhood. here motley found the wife to whom his life owed so much of its success and its happiness. those who remember mary benjamin find it hard to speak of her in the common terms of praise which they award to the good and the lovely. she was not only handsome and amiable and agreeable, but there was a cordial frankness, an openhearted sincerity about her which made her seem like a sister to those who could help becoming her lovers. she stands quite apart in the memory of the friends who knew her best, even from the circle of young persons whose recollections they most cherish. yet hardly could one of them have foreseen all that she was to be to him whose life she was to share. they were married on the d of march, . his intimate friend, mr. joseph lewis stackpole, was married at about the same time to her sister, thus joining still more closely in friendship the two young men who were already like brothers in their mutual affection. two years after his marriage, in , appeared his first work, a novel in two volumes, called "morton's hope." he had little reason to be gratified with its reception. the general verdict was not favorable to it, and the leading critical journal of america, not usually harsh or cynical in its treatment of native authorship, did not even give it a place among its "critical notices," but dropped a small-print extinguisher upon it in one of the pages of its "list of new publications." nothing could be more utterly disheartening than the unqualified condemnation passed upon the story. at the same time the critic says that "no one can read 'morton's hope' without perceiving it to have been written by a person of uncommon resources of mind and scholarship." it must be confessed that, as a story, "morton's hope" cannot endure a searching or even a moderately careful criticism. it is wanting in cohesion, in character, even in a proper regard to circumstances of time and place; it is a map of dissected incidents which has been flung out of its box and has arranged itself without the least regard to chronology or geography. it is not difficult to trace in it many of the influences which had helped in forming or deforming the mind of the young man of twenty-five, not yet come into possession of his full inheritance of the slowly ripening qualities which were yet to assert their robust independence. how could he help admiring byron and falling into more or less unconscious imitation of his moods if not of his special affectations? passion showing itself off against a dark foil of cynicism; sentiment, ashamed of its own self-betrayal, and sneering at itself from time to time for fear of the laugh of the world at its sincerity,--how many young men were spoiled and how many more injured by becoming bad copies of a bad ideal! the blood of don juan ran in the veins of vivian grey and of pelham. but if we read the fantastic dreams of disraeli, the intellectual dandyisms of bulwer, remembering the after careers of which these were the preludes, we can understand how there might well be something in those earlier efforts which would betray itself in the way of thought and in the style of the young men who read them during the plastic period of their minds and characters. allow for all these influences, allow for whatever impressions his german residence and his familiarity with german literature had produced; accept the fact that the story is to the last degree disjointed, improbable, impossible; lay it aside as a complete failure in what it attempted to be, and read it, as "vivian grey" is now read, in the light of the career which it heralded. "morton's hope" is not to be read as a novel: it is to be studied as an autobiography, a prophecy, a record of aspirations, disguised under a series of incidents which are flung together with no more regard to the unities than a pack of shuffled playing-cards. i can do nothing better than let him picture himself, for it is impossible not to recognize the portrait. it is of little consequence whether every trait is an exact copy from his own features, but it is so obvious that many of the lines are direct transcripts from nature that we may believe the same thing of many others. let us compare his fictitious hero's story with what we have read of his own life. in early boyhood morton amused himself and astonished those about him by enacting plays for a puppet theatre. this was at six years old, and at twelve we find him acting in a play with other boys, just as motley's playmates have already described him. the hero may now speak for himself, but we shall all perceive that we are listening to the writer's own story. "i was always a huge reader; my mind was essentially craving and insatiable. its appetite was enormous, and it devoured too greedily for health. i rejected all guidance in my studies. i already fancied myself a misanthrope. i had taken a step very common for boys of my age, and strove with all my might to be a cynic." he goes on to describe, under the perfectly transparent mask of his hero, the course of his studies. "to poetry, like most infants, i devoted most of my time." from modern poetry he went back to the earlier sources, first with the idea of systematic reading and at last through chaucer and gower and early ballads, until he lost himself "in a dismal swamp of barbarous romances and lying latin chronicles. i got hold of the bibliotheca monastica, containing a copious account of anglo-norman authors, with notices of their works, and set seriously to reading every one of them." one profit of his antiquarianism, however, was, as he says, his attention to foreign languages,--french, spanish, german, especially in their earliest and rudest forms of literature. from these he ascended to the ancient poets, and from latin to greek. he would have taken up the study of the oriental languages, but for the advice of a relative, who begged him seriously to turn his attention to history. the paragraph which follows must speak for itself as a true record under a feigned heading. "the groundwork of my early character was plasticity and fickleness. i was mortified by this exposure of my ignorance, and disgusted with my former course of reading. i now set myself violently to the study of history. with my turn of mind, and with the preposterous habits which i had been daily acquiring, i could not fail to make as gross mistakes in the pursuit of this as of other branches of knowledge. i imagined, on setting out, a system of strict and impartial investigation of the sources of history. i was inspired with the absurd ambition, not uncommon to youthful students, of knowing as much as their masters. i imagined it necessary for me, stripling as i was, to study the authorities; and, imbued with the strict necessity of judging for myself, i turned from the limpid pages of the modern historians to the notes and authorities at the bottom of the page. these, of course, sent me back to my monastic acquaintances, and i again found myself in such congenial company to a youthful and ardent mind as florence of worcester and simeon of durham, the venerable bede and matthew paris; and so on to gregory and fredegarius, down to the more modern and elegant pages of froissart, hollinshed, hooker, and stowe. infant as i was, i presumed to grapple with masses of learning almost beyond the strength of the giants of history. a spendthrift of my time and labor, i went out of my way to collect materials, and to build for myself, when i should have known that older and abler architects had already appropriated all that was worth preserving; that the edifice was built, the quarry exhausted, and that i was, consequently, only delving amidst rubbish. "this course of study was not absolutely without its advantages. the mind gained a certain proportion of vigor even by this exercise of its faculties, just as my bodily health would have been improved by transporting the refuse ore of a mine from one pit to another, instead of coining the ingots which lay heaped before my eyes. still, however, my time was squandered. there was a constant want of fitness and concentration of my energies. my dreams of education were boundless, brilliant, indefinite; but alas! they were only dreams. there was nothing accurate and defined in my future course of life. i was ambitious and conceited, but my aspirations were vague and shapeless. i had crowded together the most gorgeous and even some of the most useful and durable materials for my woof, but i had no pattern, and consequently never began to weave. "i had not made the discovery that an individual cannot learn, nor be, everything; that the world is a factory in which each individual must perform his portion of work:--happy enough if he can choose it according to his taste and talent, but must renounce the desire of observing or superintending the whole operation. . . . "from studying and investigating the sources of history with my own eyes, i went a step further; i refused the guidance of modern writers; and proceeding from one point of presumption to another, i came to the magnanimous conviction that i could not know history as i ought to know it unless i wrote it for myself. . . . "it would be tedious and useless to enlarge upon my various attempts and various failures. i forbear to comment upon mistakes which i was in time wise enough to retrieve. pushing out as i did, without compass and without experience, on the boundless ocean of learning, what could i expect but an utter and a hopeless shipwreck? "thus i went on, becoming more learned, and therefore more ignorant, more confused in my brain, and more awkward in my habits, from day to day. i was ever at my studies, and could hardly be prevailed upon to allot a moment to exercise or recreation. i breakfasted with a pen behind my ear, and dined in company with a folio bigger than the table. i became solitary and morose, the necessary consequence of reckless study; talked impatiently of the value of my time, and the immensity of my labors; spoke contemptuously of the learning and acquirements of the whole world, and threw out mysterious hints of the magnitude and importance of my own project. "in the midst of all this study and this infant authorship the perusal of such masses of poetry could not fail to produce their effect. of a youth whose mind, like mine at that period, possessed some general capability, without perhaps a single prominent and marked talent, a proneness to imitation is sure to be the besetting sin. i consequently, for a large portion of my earlier life, never read a work which struck my fancy, without planning a better one upon its model; for my ambition, like my vanity, knew no bounds. it was a matter of course that i should be attacked by the poetic mania. i took the infection at the usual time, went through its various stages, and recovered as soon as could be expected. i discovered soon enough that emulation is not capability, and he is fortunate to whom is soonest revealed the relative extent of his ambition and his powers. "my ambition was boundless; my dreams of glory were not confined to authorship and literature alone; but every sphere in which the intellect of man exerts itself revolved in a blaze of light before me. and there i sat in my solitude and dreamed such wondrous dreams! events were thickening around me which were soon to change the world, but they were unmarked by me. the country was changing to a mighty theatre, on whose stage those who were as great as i fancied myself to be were to enact a stupendous drama in which i had no part. i saw it not; i knew it not; and yet how infinitely beautiful were the imaginations of my solitude! fancy shook her kaleidoscope each moment as chance directed, and lo! what new, fantastic, brilliant, but what unmeaning visions. my ambitious anticipations were as boundless as they were various and conflicting. there was not a path which leads to glory in which i was not destined to gather laurels. as a warrior i would conquer and overrun the world. as a statesman i would reorganize and govern it. as a historian i would consign it all to immortality; and in my leisure moments i would be a great poet and a man of the world. "in short, i was already enrolled in that large category of what are called young men of genius,--men who are the pride of their sisters and the glory of their grandmothers,--men of whom unheard-of things are expected, till after long preparation comes a portentous failure, and then they are forgotten; subsiding into indifferent apprentices and attorneys' clerks. "alas for the golden imaginations of our youth! they are bright and beautiful, but they fade. they glitter brightly enough to deceive the wisest and most cautious, and we garner them up in the most secret caskets of our hearts; but are they not like the coins which the dervise gave the merchant in the story? when we look for them the next morning, do we not find them withered leaves?" the ideal picture just drawn is only a fuller portraiture of the youth whose outlines have been already sketched by the companions of his earlier years. if his hero says, "i breakfasted with a pen behind my ear and dined in company with a folio bigger than the table," one of his family says of the boy motley that "if there were five minutes before dinner, when he came into the parlor he always took up some book near at hand and began to read until dinner was announced." the same unbounded thirst for knowledge, the same history of various attempts and various failures, the same ambition, not yet fixed in its aim, but showing itself in restless effort, belong to the hero of the story and its narrator. let no man despise the first efforts of immature genius. nothing can be more crude as a novel, nothing more disappointing, than "morton's hope." but in no other of motley's writings do we get such an inside view of his character with its varied impulses, its capricious appetites, its unregulated forces, its impatient grasp for all kinds of knowledge. with all his university experiences at home and abroad, it might be said with a large measure of truth that he was a self-educated man, as he had been a self-taught boy. his instincts were too powerful to let him work quietly in the common round of school and college training. looking at him as his companions describe him, as he delineates himself 'mutato nomine,' the chances of success would have seemed to all but truly prophetic eyes very doubtful, if not decidedly against him. too many brilliant young novel-readers and lovers of poetry, excused by their admirers for their shortcomings on the strength of their supposed birthright of "genius," have ended where they began; flattered into the vain belief that they were men at eighteen or twenty, and finding out at fifty that they were and always had been nothing more than boys. it was but a tangled skein of life that motley's book showed us at twenty-five, and older men might well have doubted whether it would ever be wound off in any continuous thread. to repeat his own words, he had crowded together the materials for his work, but he had no pattern, and consequently never began to weave. the more this first work of motley's is examined, the more are its faults as a story and its interest as a self-revelation made manifest to the reader. the future historian, who spared no pains to be accurate, falls into the most extraordinary anachronisms in almost every chapter. brutus in a bob-wig, othello in a swallow-tail coat, could hardly be more incongruously equipped than some of his characters in the manner of thought, the phrases, the way of bearing themselves which belong to them in the tale, but never could have belonged to characters of our revolutionary period. he goes so far in his carelessness as to mix up dates in such a way as almost to convince us that he never looked over his own manuscript or proofs. his hero is in prague in june, , reading a letter received from america in less than a fortnight from the date of its being written; in august of the same year he is in the american camp, where he is found in the company of a certain colonel waldron, an officer of some standing in the revolutionary army, with whom he is said to have been constantly associated for some three months, having arrived in america, as he says, on the th of may, that is to say, six weeks or more before he sailed, according to his previous account. bohemia seems to have bewitched his chronology as it did shakespeare's geography. to have made his story a consistent series of contradictions, morton should have sailed from that bohemian seashore which may be found in "a winter's tale," but not in the map of europe. and yet in the midst of all these marks of haste and negligence, here and there the philosophical student of history betrays himself, the ideal of noble achievement glows in an eloquent paragraph, or is embodied in a loving portrait like that of the professor and historian harlem. the novel, taken in connection with the subsequent developments of the writer's mind, is a study of singular interest. it is a chaos before the creative epoch; the light has not been divided from the darkness; the firmament has not yet divided the waters from the waters. the forces at work in a human intelligence to bring harmony out of its discordant movements are as mysterious, as miraculous, we might truly say, as those which give shape and order to the confused materials out of which habitable worlds are evolved. it is too late now to be sensitive over this unsuccessful attempt as a story and unconscious success as a self-portraiture. the first sketches of paul veronese, the first patterns of the gobelin tapestry, are not to be criticised for the sake of pointing out their inevitable and too manifest imperfections. they are to be carefully studied as the earliest efforts of the hand which painted the marriage at cana, of the art which taught the rude fabrics made to be trodden under foot to rival the glowing canvas of the great painters. none of motley's subsequent writings give such an insight into his character and mental history. it took many years to train the as yet undisciplined powers into orderly obedience, and to bring the unarranged materials into the organic connection which was needed in the construction of a work that should endure. there was a long interval between his early manhood and the middle term of life, during which the slow process of evolution was going on. there are plants which open their flowers with the first rays of the sun; there are others that wait until evening to spread their petals. it was already the high noon of life with him before his genius had truly shown itself; if he had not lived beyond this period, he would have left nothing to give him a lasting name. v. - . aet. - . first diplomatic appointment, secretary of legation to the russian mission.--brief residence at st. petersburg.--letter to his mother. --return. in the autumn of , mr. motley received the appointment of secretary of legation to the russian mission, mr. todd being then the minister. arriving at st. petersburg just at the beginning of winter, he found the climate acting very unfavorably upon his spirits if not upon his health, and was unwilling that his wife and his two young children should be exposed to its rigors. the expense of living, also, was out of proportion to his income, and his letters show that he had hardly established himself in st. petersburg before he had made up his mind to leave a place where he found he had nothing to do and little to enjoy. he was homesick, too, as a young husband and father with an affectionate nature like his ought to have been under these circumstances. he did not regret having made the experiment, for he knew that he should not have been satisfied with himself if he had not made it. it was his first trial of a career in which he contemplated embarking, and in which afterwards he had an eventful experience. in his private letters to his family, many of which i have had the privilege of looking over, he mentions in detail all the reasons which influenced him in forming his own opinion about the expediency of a continued residence at st. petersburg, and leaves the decision to her in whose judgment he always had the greatest confidence. no unpleasant circumstance attended his resignation of his secretaryship, and though it must have been a disappointment to find that the place did not suit him, as he and his family were then situated, it was only at the worst an experiment fairly tried and not proving satisfactory. he left st. petersburg after a few months' residence, and returned to america. on reaching new york he was met by the sad tidings of the death of his first-born child, a boy of great promise, who had called out all the affections of his ardent nature. it was long before he recovered from the shock of this great affliction. the boy had shown a very quick and bright intelligence, and his father often betrayed a pride in his gifts and graces which he never for a moment made apparent in regard to his own. among the letters which he wrote from st. petersburg are two miniature ones directed to this little boy. his affectionate disposition shows itself very sweetly in these touching mementos of a love of which his first great sorrow was so soon to be born. not less charming are his letters to his mother, showing the tenderness with which he always regarded her, and full of all the details which he thought would entertain one to whom all that related to her children was always interesting. of the letters to his wife it is needless to say more than that they always show the depth of the love he bore her and the absolute trust he placed in her, consulting her at all times as his nearest and wisest friend and adviser,--one in all respects fitted "to warn, to comfort, and command." i extract a passage from one of his letters to his mother, as much for the sake of lending a character of reality to his brief residence at st. petersburg as for that of the pleasant picture it gives us of an interior in that northern capital. "we entered through a small vestibule, with the usual arrangement of treble doors, padded with leather to exclude the cold and guarded by two 'proud young porters' in severe cocked hats and formidable batons, into a broad hall,--threw off our furred boots and cloaks, ascended a carpeted marble staircase, in every angle of which stood a statuesque footman in gaudy coat and unblemished unmentionables, and reached a broad landing upon the top thronged as usual with servants. thence we passed through an antechamber into a long, high, brilliantly lighted, saffron-papered room, in which a dozen card-tables were arranged, and thence into the receiving room. this was a large room, with a splendidly inlaid and polished floor, the walls covered with crimson satin, the cornices heavily incrusted with gold, and the ceiling beautifully painted in arabesque. the massive fauteuils and sofas, as also the drapery, were of crimson satin with a profusion of gilding. the ubiquitous portrait of the emperor was the only picture, and was the same you see everywhere. this crimson room had two doors upon the side facing the three windows: the innermost opened into a large supper-room, in which a table was spread covered with the usual refreshments of european parties,--tea, ices, lemonade, and et ceteras,--and the other opened into a ball-room which is a sort of miniature of the 'salle blanche' of the winter palace, being white and gold, and very brilliantly lighted with 'ormolu' chandeliers filled with myriads of candles. this room (at least forty feet long by perhaps twenty-five) opened into a carpeted conservatory of about the same size, filled with orange-trees and japonica plants covered with fruit and flowers, arranged very gracefully into arbors, with luxurious seats under the pendent boughs, and with here and there a pretty marble statue gleaming through the green and glossy leaves. one might almost have imagined one's self in the 'land of the cypress and myrtle' instead of our actual whereabout upon the polar banks of the neva. wandering through these mimic groves, or reposing from the fatigues of the dance, was many a fair and graceful form, while the brilliantly lighted ballroom, filled with hundreds of exquisitely dressed women (for the russian ladies, if not very pretty, are graceful, and make admirable toilettes), formed a dazzling contrast with the tempered light of the 'winter garden.' the conservatory opened into a library, and from the library you reach the antechamber, thus completing the 'giro' of one of the prettiest houses in st. petersburg. i waltzed one waltz and quadrilled one quadrille, but it was hard work; and as the sole occupation of these parties is dancing and card-playing--conversation apparently not being customary--they are to me not very attractive." he could not be happy alone, and there were good reasons against his being joined by his wife and children. "with my reserved habits," he says, "it would take a great deal longer to become intimate here than to thaw the baltic. i have only to 'knock that it shall be opened to me,' but that is just what i hate to do. . . . 'man delights not me, no, nor woman neither.'" disappointed in his expectations, but happy in the thought of meeting his wife and children, he came back to his household to find it clad in mourning for the loss of its first-born. vi. . aet. . letter to park benjamin.--political views and feelings. a letter to mr. park benjamin, dated december , , which has been kindly lent me by mrs. mary lanman douw of poughkeepsie, gives a very complete and spirited account of himself at this period. he begins with a quiet, but tender reference to the death of his younger brother, preble, one of the most beautiful youths seen or remembered among us, "a great favorite," as he says, "in the family and in deed with every one who knew him." he mentions the fact that his friends and near connections, the stackpoles, are in washington, which place he considers as exceptionally odious at the time when he is writing. the election of mr. polk as the opponent of henry clay gives him a discouraged feeling about our institutions. the question, he thinks, is now settled that a statesman can never again be called to administer the government of the country. he is almost if not quite in despair "because it is now proved that a man, take him for all in all, better qualified by intellectual power, energy and purity of character, knowledge of men, a great combination of personal qualities, a frank, high-spirited, manly bearing, keen sense of honor, the power of attracting and winning men, united with a vast experience in affairs, such as no man (but john quincy adams) now living has had and no man in this country can ever have again,--i say it is proved that a man better qualified by an extraordinary combination of advantages to administer the government than any man now living, or any man we can ever produce again, can be beaten by anybody. . . . . it has taken forty years of public life to prepare such a man for the presidency, and the result is that he can be beaten by anybody,--mr. polk is anybody,--he is mr. quelconque." i do not venture to quote the most burning sentences of this impassioned letter. it shows that motley had not only become interested most profoundly in the general movements of parties, but that he had followed the course of political events which resulted in the election of mr. polk with careful study, and that he was already looking forward to the revolt of the slave states which occurred sixteen years later. the letter is full of fiery eloquence, now and then extravagant and even violent in expression, but throbbing with a generous heat which shows the excitable spirit of a man who wishes to be proud of his country and does not wish to keep his temper when its acts make him ashamed of it. he is disgusted and indignant to the last degree at seeing "mr. quelconque" chosen over the illustrious statesman who was his favorite candidate. but all his indignation cannot repress a sense of humor which was one of his marked characteristics. after fatiguing his vocabulary with hard usage, after his unsparing denunciation of "the very dirty politics" which he finds mixed up with our popular institutions, he says,--it must be remembered that this was an offhand letter to one nearly connected with him,-- "all these things must in short, to use the energetic language of the balm of columbia advertisement, 'bring every generous thinking youth to that heavy sinking gloom which not even the loss of property can produce, but only the loss of hair, which brings on premature decay, causing many to shrink from being uncovered, and even to shun society, to avoid the jests and sneers of their acquaintances. the remainder of their lives is consequently spent in retirement.'" he continues:-- "before dropping the subject, and to show the perfect purity of my motives, i will add that i am not at all anxious about the legislation of the new government. i desired the election of clay as a moral triumph, and because the administration of the country, at this moment of ten thousand times more importance than its legislation, would have been placed in pure, strong, and determined hands." then comes a dash of that satirical and somewhat cynical way of feeling which he had not as yet outgrown. he had been speaking about the general want of attachment to the union and the absence of the sentiment of loyalty as bearing on the probable dissolution of the union. "i don't mean to express any opinions on these matters,--i haven't got any. it seems to me that the best way is to look at the hodge-podge, be good-natured if possible, and laugh, 'as from the height of contemplation we view the feeble joints men totter on.' i began a tremendous political career during the election, having made two stump speeches of an hour and a half each,--after you went away,--one in dedham town-hall and one in jamaica plain, with such eminent success that many invitations came to me from the surrounding villages, and if i had continued in active political life i might have risen to be vote-distributor, or fence-viewer, or selectman, or hog-reeve, or something of the kind." the letter from which the above passages are quoted gives the same portrait of the writer, only seen in profile, as it were, which we have already seen drawn in full face in the story of "morton's hope." it is charged with that 'saeva indignatio' which at times verges on misanthropic contempt for its objects, not unnatural to a high-spirited young man who sees his lofty ideals confronted with the ignoble facts which strew the highways of political life. but we can recognize real conviction and the deepest feeling beneath his scornful rhetoric and his bitter laugh. he was no more a mere dilettante than swift himself, but now and then in the midst of his most serious thought some absurd or grotesque image will obtrude itself, and one is reminded of the lines on the monument of gay rather than of the fierce epitaph of the dean of saint patrick's. vii. - . aet. - . first historical and critical essays.--peter the great.--novels of balzac.--polity of the puritans. mr. motley's first serious effort in historical composition was an article of fifty pages in "the north american review" for october, . this was nominally a notice of two works, one on russia, the other "a memoir of the life of peter the great." it is, however, a narrative rather than a criticism, a rapid, continuous, brilliant, almost dramatic narrative. if there had been any question as to whether the young novelist who had missed his first mark had in him the elements which might give him success as an author, this essay would have settled the question. it shows throughout that the writer has made a thorough study of his subject, but it is written with an easy and abundant, yet scholarly freedom, not as if he were surrounded by his authorities and picking out his material piece by piece, but rather as if it were the overflow of long-pursued and well-remembered studies recalled without effort and poured forth almost as a recreation. as he betrayed or revealed his personality in his first novel, so in this first effort in another department of literature he showed in epitome his qualities as a historian and a biographer. the hero of his narrative makes his entrance at once in his character as the shipwright of saardam, on the occasion of a visit of the great duke of marlborough. the portrait instantly arrests attention. his ideal personages had been drawn in such a sketchy way, they presented so many imperfectly harmonized features, that they never became real, with the exception, of course, of the story-teller himself. but the vigor with which the presentment of the imperial ship-carpenter, the sturdy, savage, eager, fiery peter, was given in the few opening sentences, showed the movement of the hand, the glow of the color, that were in due time to display on a broader canvas the full-length portraits of william the silent and of john of barneveld. the style of the whole article is rich, fluent, picturesque, with light touches of humor here and there, and perhaps a trace or two of youthful jauntiness, not quite as yet outgrown. his illustrative poetical quotations are mostly from shakespeare,--from milton and byron also in a passage or two,--and now and then one is reminded that he is not unfamiliar with carlyle's "sartor resartus" and the "french revolution" of the same unmistakable writer, more perhaps by the way in which phrases borrowed from other authorities are set in the text than by any more important evidence of unconscious imitation. the readers who had shaken their heads over the unsuccessful story of "morton's hope" were startled by the appearance of this manly and scholarly essay. this young man, it seemed, had been studying,--studying with careful accuracy, with broad purpose. he could paint a character with the ruddy life-blood coloring it as warmly as it glows in the cheeks of one of van der helst's burgomasters. he could sweep the horizon in a wide general outlook, and manage his perspective and his lights and shadows so as to place and accent his special subject with its due relief and just relations. it was a sketch, or rather a study for a larger picture, but it betrayed the hand of a master. the feeling of many was that expressed in the words of mr. longfellow in his review of the "twice-told tales" of the unknown young writer, nathaniel hawthorne: "when a new star rises in the heavens, people gaze after it for a season with the naked eye, and with such telescopes as they may find. . . . this star is but newly risen; and erelong the observation of numerous star-gazers, perched up on arm-chairs and editor's tables, will inform the world of its magnitude and its place in the heaven of"--not poetry in this instance, but that serene and unclouded region of the firmament where shine unchanging the names of herodotus and thucydides. those who had always believed in their brilliant schoolmate and friend at last felt themselves justified in their faith. the artist that sent this unframed picture to be hung in a corner of the literary gallery was equal to larger tasks. there was but one voice in the circle that surrounded the young essayist. he must redeem his pledge, he can and will redeem it, if he will only follow the bent of his genius and grapple with the heroic labor of writing a great history. and this was the achievement he was already meditating. in the mean time he was studying history for its facts and principles, and fiction for its scenery and portraits. in "the north american review" for july, , is a long and characteristic article on balzac, of whom he was an admirer, but with no blind worship. the readers of this great story-teller, who was so long in obtaining recognition, who "made twenty assaults upon fame and had forty books killed under him" before he achieved success, will find his genius fully appreciated and fairly weighed in this discriminating essay. a few brief extracts will show its quality. "balzac is an artist, and only an artist. in his tranquil, unimpassioned, remorseless diagnosis of morbid phenomena, in his cool method of treating the morbid anatomy of the heart, in his curiously accurate dissection of the passions, in the patient and painful attention with which, stethoscope in hand, finger on pulse, eye everywhere, you see him watching every symptom, alive to every sound and every breath, and in the scientific accuracy with which he portrays the phenomena which have been the subject of his investigation,--in all this calm and conscientious study of nature he often reminds us of goethe. balzac, however, is only an artist . . . he is neither moral nor immoral, but a calm and profound observer of human society and human passions, and a minute, patient, and powerful delineator of scenes and characters in the world before his eyes. his readers must moralize for themselves. . . . it is, perhaps, his defective style more than anything else which will prevent his becoming a classic, for style above all other qualities seems to embalm for posterity. as for his philosophy, his principles, moral, political, or social, we repeat that he seems to have none whatever. he looks for the picturesque and the striking. he studies sentiments and sensations from an artistic point of view. he is a physiognomist, a physiologist, a bit of an anatomist, a bit of a mesmerist, a bit of a geologist, a flemish painter, an upholsterer, a micrological, misanthropical, sceptical philosopher; but he is no moralist, and certainly no reformer." another article contributed by mr. motley to "the north american review" is to be found in the number for october, . it is nominally a review of talvi's (mrs. robinson's) "geschichte der colonisation von new england," but in reality an essay on the polity of the puritans,--an historical disquisition on the principles of self-government evolved in new england, broad in its views, eloquent in its language. its spirit is thoroughly american, and its estimate of the puritan character is not narrowed by the nearsighted liberalism which sees the past in the pitiless light of the present,--which looks around at high noon and finds fault with early dawn for its long and dark shadows. here is a sentence or two from the article:-- "with all the faults of the system devised by the puritans, it was a practical system. with all their foibles, with all their teasing, tyrannical, and arbitrary notions, the pilgrims were lovers of liberty as well as sticklers for authority. . . . nowhere can a better description of liberty be found than that given by winthrop, in his defence of himself before the general court on a charge of arbitrary conduct. 'nor would i have you mistake your own liberty,' he says. 'there is a freedom of doing what we list, without regard to law or justice; this liberty is indeed inconsistent with authority; but civil, moral, and federal liberty consists in every man's enjoying his property and having the benefit of the laws of his country; which is very consistent with a due subjection to the civil magistrate.' . . . "we enjoy an inestimable advantage in america. one can be a republican, a democrat, without being a radical. a radical, one who would uproot, is a man whose trade is dangerous to society. here is but little to uproot. the trade cannot flourish. all classes are conservative by necessity, for none can wish to change the structure of our polity. . . "the country without a past cannot be intoxicated by visions of the past of other lands. upon this absence of the past it seems to us that much of the security of our institutions depends. nothing interferes with the development of what is now felt to be the true principle of government, the will of the people legitimately expressed. to establish that great truth, nothing was to be torn down, nothing to be uprooted. it grew up in new england out of the seed unconsciously planted by the first pilgrims, was not crushed out by the weight of a thousand years of error spread over the whole continent, and the revolution was proclaimed and recognized." viii. - . aet. - . joseph lewis stackpole, the friend of motley. his sudden death.--motley in the massachusetts house of representatives.--second novel, "merry-mount, a romance of the massachusetts colony." the intimate friendships of early manhood are not very often kept up among our people. the eager pursuit of fortune, position, office, separates young friends, and the indoor home life imprisons them in the domestic circle so generally that it is quite exceptional to find two grown men who are like brothers,--or rather unlike most brothers, in being constantly found together. an exceptional instance of such a more than fraternal relation was seen in the friendship of mr. motley and mr. joseph lewis stackpole. mr. william amory, who knew them both well, has kindly furnished me with some recollections, which i cannot improve by changing his own language. "their intimacy began in europe, and they returned to this country in . in they married sisters, and this cemented their intimacy, which continued to stackpole's death in . the contrast in the temperament of the two friends--the one sensitive and irritable, and the other always cool and good-natured--only increased their mutual attachment to each other, and motley's dependence upon stackpole. never were two friends more constantly together or more affectionately fond of each other. as stackpole was about eight years older than motley, and much less impulsive and more discreet, his death was to his friend irreparable, and at the time an overwhelming blow." mr. stackpole was a man of great intelligence, of remarkable personal attractions, and amiable character. his death was a loss to motley even greater than he knew, for he needed just such a friend, older, calmer, more experienced in the ways of the world, and above all capable of thoroughly understanding him and exercising a wholesome influence over his excitable nature without the seeming of a mentor preaching to a telemachus. mr. stackpole was killed by a railroad accident on the th of july, . in the same letter mr. amory refers to a very different experience in mr. motley's life,--his one year of service as a member of the massachusetts house of representatives, . "in respect to the one term during which he was a member of the massachusetts house of representatives, i can recall only one thing, to which he often and laughingly alluded. motley, as the chairman of the committee on education, made, as he thought, a most masterly report. it was very elaborate, and, as he supposed, unanswerable; but boutwell, then a young man from some country town [groton, mass.], rose, and as motley always said, demolished the report, so that he was unable to defend it against the attack. you can imagine his disgust, after the pains he had taken to render it unassailable, to find himself, as he expressed it, 'on his own dunghill,' ignominiously beaten. while the result exalted his opinion of the speech-making faculty of a representative of a common school education, it at the same time cured him of any ambition for political promotion in massachusetts." to my letter of inquiry about this matter, hon. george s. boutwell courteously returned the following answer:-- boston, october , . my dear sir,--as my memory serves me, mr. motley was a member of the massachusetts house of representatives in the year . it may be well to consult the manual for that year. i recollect the controversy over the report from the committee on education. his failure was not due to his want of faculty or to the vigor of his opponents. in truth he espoused the weak side of the question and the unpopular one also. his proposition was to endow the colleges at the expense of the fund for the support of the common schools. failure was inevitable. neither webster nor choate could have carried the bill. very truly, geo. s. boutwell. no one could be more ready and willing to recognize his own failures than motley. he was as honest and manly, perhaps i may say as sympathetic with the feeling of those about him, on this occasion, as was charles lamb, who, sitting with his sister in the front of the pit, on the night when his farce was damned at its first representation, gave way to the common feeling, and hissed and hooted lustily with the others around him. it was what might be expected from his honest and truthful nature, sometimes too severe in judging itself. the commendation bestowed upon motley's historical essays in "the north american review" must have gone far towards compensating him for the ill success of his earlier venture. it pointed clearly towards the field in which he was to gather his laurels. and it was in the year following the publication of the first essay, or about that time ( ), that he began collecting materials for a history of holland. whether to tell the story of men that have lived and of events that have happened, or to create the characters and invent the incidents of an imaginary tale be the higher task, we need not stop to discuss. but the young author was just now like the great actor in sir joshua's picture, between the allurements of thalia and melpomene, still doubtful whether he was to be a romancer or a historian. the tale of which the title is given at the beginning of this section had been written several years before the date of its publication. it is a great advance in certain respects over the first novel, but wants the peculiar interest which belonged to that as a partially autobiographical memoir. the story is no longer disjointed and impossible. it is carefully studied in regard to its main facts. it has less to remind us of "vivian grey" and "pelham," and more that recalls "woodstock" and "kenilworth." the personages were many of them historical, though idealized; the occurrences were many of them such as the record authenticated; the localities were drawn largely from nature. the story betrays marks of haste or carelessness in some portions, though others are elaborately studied. his preface shows that the reception of his first book had made him timid and sensitive about the fate of the second, and explains and excuses what might be found fault with, to disarm the criticism he had some reason to fear. that old watch-dog of our american literature, "the north american review," always ready with lambent phrases in stately "articles" for native talent of a certain pretension, and wagging its appendix of "critical notices" kindly at the advent of humbler merit, treated "merry-mount" with the distinction implied in a review of nearly twenty pages. this was a great contrast to the brief and slighting notice of "morton's hope." the reviewer thinks the author's descriptive power wholly exceeds his conception of character and invention of circumstances. "he dwells, perhaps, too long and fondly upon his imagination of the landscape as it was before the stillness of the forest had been broken by the axe of the settler; but the picture is so finely drawn, with so much beauty of language and purity of sentiment, that we cannot blame him for lingering upon the scene. . . . the story is not managed with much skill, but it has variety enough of incident and character, and is told with so much liveliness that few will be inclined to lay it down before reaching the conclusion. . . . the writer certainly needs practice in elaborating the details of a consistent and interesting novel; but in many respects he is well qualified for the task, and we shall be glad to meet him again on the half-historical ground he has chosen. his present work, certainly, is not a fair specimen of what he is able to accomplish, and its failure, or partial success, ought only to inspirit him for further effort." the "half-historical ground" he had chosen had already led him to the entrance into the broader domain of history. the "further effort" for which he was to be inspirited had already begun. he had been for some time, as was before mentioned, collecting materials for the work which was to cast all his former attempts into the kindly shadow of oblivion, save when from time to time the light of his brilliant after success is thrown upon them to illustrate the path by which it was at length attained. ix. . aet. . plan of a history.--letters. the reputation of mr. prescott was now coextensive with the realm of scholarship. the histories of the reign of ferdinand and isabella and of the conquest of mexico had met with a reception which might well tempt the ambition of a young writer to emulate it, but which was not likely to be awarded to any second candidate who should enter the field in rivalry with the great and universally popular historian. but this was the field on which mr. motley was to venture. after he had chosen the subject of the history he contemplated, he found that mr. prescott was occupied with a kindred one, so that there might be too near a coincidence between them. i must borrow from mr. ticknor's beautiful life of prescott the words which introduce a letter of motley's to mr. william amory, who has kindly allowed me also to make use of it. "the moment, therefore, that he [mr. motley] was aware of this condition of things, and the consequent possibility that there might be an untoward interference in their plans, he took the same frank and honorable course with mr. prescott that mr. prescott had taken in relation to mr. irving, when he found that they had both been contemplating a 'history of the conquest of mexico.' the result was the same. mr. prescott, instead of treating the matter as an interference, earnestly encouraged mr. motley to go on, and placed at his disposition such of the books in his library as could be most useful to him. how amply and promptly he did it, mr. motley's own account will best show. it is in a letter dated at rome, th february, , the day he heard of mr. prescott's death, and was addressed to his intimate friend, mr. william amory, of boston, mr. prescott's much-loved brother-in-law." "it seems to me but as yesterday," mr. motley writes, "though it must be now twelve years ago, that i was talking with our ever-lamented friend stackpole about my intention of writing a history upon a subject to which i have since that time been devoting myself. i had then made already some general studies in reference to it, without being in the least aware that prescott had the intention of writing the 'history of philip the second.' stackpole had heard the fact, and that large preparations had already been made for the work, although 'peru' had not yet been published. i felt naturally much disappointed. i was conscious of the immense disadvantage to myself of making my appearance, probably at the same time, before the public, with a work not at all similar in plan to 'philip the second,' but which must of necessity traverse a portion of the same ground. "my first thought was inevitably, as it were, only of myself. it seemed to me that i had nothing to do but to abandon at once a cherished dream, and probably to renounce authorship. for i had not first made up my mind to write a history, and then cast about to take up a subject. my subject had taken me up, drawn me on, and absorbed me into itself. it was necessary for me, it seemed, to write the book i had been thinking much of, even if it were destined to fall dead from the press, and i had no inclination or interest to write any other. when i had made up my mind accordingly, it then occurred to me that prescott might not be pleased that i should come forward upon his ground. it is true that no announcement of his intentions had been made, and that he had not, i believe, even commenced his preliminary studies for philip. at the same time i thought it would be disloyal on my part not to go to him at once, confer with him on the subject, and if i should find a shadow of dissatisfaction on his mind at my proposition, to abandon my plan altogether. "i had only the slightest acquaintance with him at that time. i was comparatively a young man, and certainly not entitled on any ground to more than the common courtesy which prescott never could refuse to any one. but he received me with such a frank and ready and liberal sympathy, and such an open-hearted, guileless expansiveness, that i felt a personal affection for him from that hour. i remember the interview as if it had taken place yesterday. it was in his father's house, in his own library, looking on the garden-house and garden,--honored father and illustrious son,--alas! all numbered with the things that were! he assured me that he had not the slightest objection whatever to my plan, that he wished me every success, and that, if there were any books in his library bearing on my subject that i liked to use, they were entirely at my service. after i had expressed my gratitude for his kindness and cordiality, by which i had been in a very few moments set completely at ease, --so far as my fears of his disapprobation went,--i also very naturally stated my opinion that the danger was entirely mine, and that it was rather wilful of me thus to risk such a collision at my first venture, the probable consequence of which was utter shipwreck. i recollect how kindly and warmly he combated this opinion, assuring me that no two books, as he said, ever injured each other, and encouraging me in the warmest and most earnest manner to proceed on the course i had marked out for myself. "had the result of that interview been different,--had he distinctly stated, or even vaguely hinted, that it would be as well if i should select some other topic, or had he only sprinkled me with the cold water of conventional and commonplace encouragement,--i should have gone from him with a chill upon my mind, and, no doubt, have laid down the pen at once; for, as i have already said, it was not that i cared about writing a history, but that i felt an inevitable impulse to write one particular history. "you know how kindly he always spoke of and to me; and the generous manner in which, without the slightest hint from me, and entirely unexpected by me, he attracted the eyes of his hosts of readers to my forthcoming work, by so handsomely alluding to it in the preface to his own, must be almost as fresh in your memory as it is in mine. "and although it seems easy enough for a man of world-wide reputation thus to extend the right hand of fellowship to an unknown and struggling aspirant, yet i fear that the history of literature will show that such instances of disinterested kindness are as rare as they are noble." it was not from any feeling that mr. motley was a young writer from whose rivalry he had nothing to apprehend. mr. amory says that prescott expressed himself very decidedly to the effect that an author who had written such descriptive passages as were to be found in mr. motley's published writings was not to be undervalued as a competitor by any one. the reader who will turn to the description of charles river in the eighth chapter of the second volume of "merry-mount," or of the autumnal woods in the sixteenth chapter of the same volume, will see good reason for mr. prescott's appreciation of the force of the rival whose advent he so heartily and generously welcomed. x. - . aet. - . historical studies in europe.-letter from brussels. after working for several years on his projected "history of the dutch republic," he found that, in order to do justice to his subject, he must have recourse to the authorities to be found only in the libraries and state archives of europe. in the year he left america with his family, to begin his task over again, throwing aside all that he had already done, and following up his new course of investigations at berlin, dresden, the hague, and brussels during several succeeding years. i do not know that i can give a better idea of his mode of life during this busy period, his occupations, his state of mind, his objects of interest outside of his special work, than by making the following extracts from a long letter to myself, dated brussels, th november, . after some personal matters he continued:-- "i don't really know what to say to you. i am in a town which, for aught i know, may be very gay. i don't know a living soul in it. we have not a single acquaintance in the place, and we glory in the fact. there is something rather sublime in thus floating on a single spar in the wide sea of a populous, busy, fuming, fussy world like this. at any rate it is consonant to both our tastes. you may suppose, however, that i find it rather difficult to amuse my friends out of the incidents of so isolated an existence. our daily career is very regular and monotonous. our life is as stagnant as a dutch canal. not that i complain of it,--on the contrary, the canal may be richly freighted with merchandise and be a short cut to the ocean of abundant and perpetual knowledge; but, at the same time, few points rise above the level of so regular a life, to be worthy of your notice. you must, therefore, allow me to meander along the meadows of commonplace. don't expect anything of the impetuous and boiling style. we go it weak here. i don't know whether you were ever in brussels. it is a striking, picturesque town, built up a steep promontory, the old part at the bottom, very dingy and mouldy, the new part at the top, very showy and elegant. nothing can be more exquisite in its way than the grande place in the very heart of the city, surrounded with those toppling, zigzag, ten-storied buildings bedizened all over with ornaments and emblems so peculiar to the netherlands, with the brocaded hotel de ville on one side, with its impossible spire rising some three hundred and seventy feet into the air and embroidered to the top with the delicacy of needle- work, sugarwork, spider-work, or what you will. i haunt this place because it is my scene, my theatre. here were enacted so many deep tragedies, so many stately dramas, and even so many farces, which have been familiar to me so long that i have got to imagine myself invested with a kind of property in the place, and look at it as if it were merely the theatre with the coulisses, machinery, drapery, etc., for representing scenes which have long since vanished, and which no more enter the minds of the men and women who are actually moving across its pavements than if they had occurred in the moon. when i say that i knew no soul in brussels i am perhaps wrong. with the present generation i am not familiar. 'en revanche,' the dead men of the place are my intimate friends. i am at home in any cemetery. with the fellows of the sixteenth century i am on the most familiar terms. any ghost that ever flits by night across the moonlight square is at once hailed by me as a man and a brother. i call him by his christian name at once. when you come out of this place, however, which, as i said, is in the heart of the town,--the antique gem in the modern setting,--you may go either up or down. if you go down, you will find yourself in the very nastiest complications of lanes and culs-de-sac possible, a dark entanglement of gin-shops, beer-houses, and hovels, through which charming valley dribbles the senne (whence, i suppose, is derived senna), the most nauseous little river in the world, which receives all the outpourings of all the drains and houses, and is then converted into beer for the inhabitants, all the many breweries being directly upon its edge. if you go up the hill instead of down, you come to an arrangement of squares, palaces, and gardens as trim and fashionable as you will find in europe. thus you see that our cybele sits with her head crowned with very stately towers and her feet in a tub of very dirty water. "my habits here for the present year are very regular. i came here, having, as i thought, finished my work, or rather the first part (something like three or four volumes, vo), but i find so much original matter here, and so many emendations to make, that i am ready to despair. however, there is nothing for it but to penelopize, pull to pieces, and stitch away again. whatever may be the result of my labor, nobody can say that i have not worked like a brute beast,--but i don't care for the result. the labor is in itself its own reward and all i want. i go day after day to the archives here (as i went all summer at the hague), studying the old letters and documents of the fifteenth century. here i remain among my fellow-worms, feeding on these musty mulberry-leaves, out of which we are afterwards to spin our silk. how can you expect anything interesting from such a human cocoon? it is, however, not without its amusement in a mouldy sort of way, this reading of dead letters. it is something to read the real, bona fide signs-manual of such fellows as william of orange, count egmont, alexander farnese, philip ii., cardinal granvelle, and the rest of them. it gives a 'realizing sense,' as the americans have it. . . . there are not many public resources of amusement in this place,--if we wanted them,--which we don't. i miss the dresden gallery very much, and it makes me sad to think that i shall never look at the face of the sistine madonna again,--that picture beyond all pictures in the world, in which the artist certainly did get to heaven and painted a face which was never seen on earth--so pathetic, so gentle, so passionless, so prophetic. . . . there are a few good rubenses here,--but the great wealth of that master is in antwerp. the great picture of the descent from the cross is free again, after having been ten years in the repairing room. it has come out in very good condition. what a picture? it seems to me as if i had really stood at the cross and seen mary weeping on john's shoulder, and magdalen receiving the dead body of the saviour in her arms. never was the grand tragedy represented in so profound and dramatic a manner. for it is not only in his color in which this man so easily surpasses all the world, but in his life-like, flesh-and-blood action,--the tragic power of his composition. and is it not appalling to think of the 'large constitution of this man,' when you reflect on the acres of canvas which he has covered? how inspiriting to see with what muscular, masculine vigor this splendid fleming rushed in and plucked up drowning art by the locks when it was sinking in the trashy sea of such creatures as the luca giordanos and pietro cortonas and the like. well might guido exclaim, 'the fellow mixes blood with his colors! . . . how providentially did the man come in and invoke living, breathing, moving men and women out of his canvas! sometimes he is ranting and exaggerated, as are all men of great genius who wrestle with nature so boldly. no doubt his heroines are more expansively endowed than would be thought genteel in our country, where cryptogams are so much in fashion, nevertheless there is always something very tremendous about him, and very often much that is sublime, pathetic, and moving. i defy any one of the average amount of imagination and sentiment to stand long before the descent from the cross without being moved more nearly to tears than he would care to acknowledge. as for color, his effects are as sure as those of the sun rising in a tropical landscape. there is something quite genial in the cheerful sense of his own omnipotence which always inspired him. there are a few fine pictures of his here, and i go in sometimes of a raw, foggy morning merely to warm myself in the blaze of their beauty." i have been more willing to give room to this description of rubens's pictures and the effect they produced upon motley, because there is a certain affinity between those sumptuous and glowing works of art and the prose pictures of the historian who so admired them. he was himself a colorist in language, and called up the image of a great personage or a splendid pageant of the past with the same affluence, the same rich vitality, that floods and warms the vast areas of canvas over which the full-fed genius of rubens disported itself in the luxury of imaginative creation. xi. - . aet. - . publication of his first historical work, "rise of the dutch republic." --its reception.--critical notices. the labor of ten years was at last finished. carrying his formidable manuscript with him,--and how formidable the manuscript which melts down into three solid octavo volumes is, only writers and publishers know,--he knocked at the gate of that terrible fortress from which lintot and curll and tonson looked down on the authors of an older generation. so large a work as the "history of the rise of the dutch republic," offered for the press by an author as yet unknown to the british public, could hardly expect a warm welcome from the great dealers in literature as merchandise. mr. murray civilly declined the manuscript which was offered to him, and it was published at its author's expense by mr. john chapman. the time came when the positions of the first-named celebrated publisher and the unknown writer were reversed. mr. murray wrote to mr. motley asking to be allowed to publish his second great work, the "history of the united netherlands," expressing at the same time his regret at what he candidly called his mistake in the first instance, and thus they were at length brought into business connection as well as the most agreeable and friendly relations. an american edition was published by the harpers at the same time as the london one. if the new work of the unknown author found it difficult to obtain a publisher, it was no sooner given to the public than it found an approving, an admiring, an enthusiastic world of readers, and a noble welcome at the colder hands of the critics. "the westminster review" for april, , had for its leading article a paper by mr. froude, in which the critic awarded the highest praise to the work of the new historian. as one of the earliest as well as one of the most important recognitions of the work, i quote some of its judgments. "a history as complete as industry and genius can make it now lies before us of the first twenty years of the revolt of the united provinces; of the period in which those provinces finally conquered their independence and established the republic of holland. it has been the result of many years of silent, thoughtful, unobtrusive labor, and unless we are strangely mistaken, unless we are ourselves altogether unfit for this office of criticising which we have here undertaken, the book is one which will take its place among the finest histories in this or in any language. . . . all the essentials of a great writer mr. motley eminently possesses. his mind is broad, his industry unwearied. in power of dramatic description no modern historian, except perhaps mr. carlyle, surpasses him, and in analysis of character he is elaborate and distinct. his principles are those of honest love for all which is good and admirable in human character wherever he finds it, while he unaffectedly hates oppression, and despises selfishness with all his heart." after giving a slight analytical sketch of the series of events related in the history, mr. froude objects to only one of the historian's estimates, that, namely, of the course of queen elizabeth. "it is ungracious, however," he says, "even to find so slight a fault with these admirable volumes. mr. motley has written without haste, with the leisurely composure of a master. . . . we now take our leave of mr. motley, desiring him only to accept our hearty thanks for these volumes, which we trust will soon take their place in every english library. our quotations will have sufficed to show the ability of the writer. of the scope and general character of his work we have given but a languid conception. the true merit of a great book must be learned from the book itself. our part has been rather to select varied specimens of style and power. of mr. motley's antecedents we know nothing. if he has previously appeared before the public, his reputation has not crossed the atlantic. it will not be so now. we believe that we may promise him as warm a welcome among ourselves as he will receive even in america; that his place will be at once conceded to him among the first historians in our common language." the faithful and unwearied mr. allibone has swept the whole field of contemporary criticism, and shown how wide and universal was the welcome accorded to the hitherto unknown author. an article headed "prescott and motley," attributed to m. guizot, which must have been translated, i suppose, from his own language, judging by its freedom from french idioms, is to be found in "the edinburgh review" for january, . the praise, not unmingled with criticisms, which that great historian bestowed upon motley is less significant than the fact that he superintended a translation of the "rise of the dutch republic," and himself wrote the introduction to it. a general chorus of approbation followed or accompanied these leading voices. the reception of the work in great britain was a triumph. on the continent, in addition to the tribute paid to it by m. guizot, it was translated into dutch, into german, and into russian. at home his reception was not less hearty. "the north american review," which had set its foot on the semi-autobiographical medley which he called "morton's hope," which had granted a decent space and a tepid recognition to his "semi-historical" romance, in which he had already given the reading public a taste of his quality as a narrator of real events and a delineator of real personages,--this old and awe-inspiring new england and more than new england representative of the fates, found room for a long and most laudatory article, in which the son of one of our most distinguished historians did the honors of the venerable literary periodical to the new-comer, for whom the folding-doors of all the critical headquarters were flying open as if of themselves. mr. allibone has recorded the opinions of some of our best scholars as expressed to him. dr. lieber wrote a letter to mr. allibone in the strongest terms of praise. i quote one passage which in the light of after events borrows a cruel significance:-- "congress and parliament decree thanks for military exploits, --rarely for diplomatic achievements. if they ever voted their thanks for books,--and what deeds have influenced the course of human events more than some books?--motley ought to have the thanks of our congress; but i doubt not that he has already the thanks of every american who has read the work. it will leave its distinct mark upon the american mind." mr. everett writes:-- "mr. motley's 'history of the dutch republic' is in my judgment a work of the highest merit. unwearying research for years in the libraries of europe, patience and judgment in arranging and digesting his materials, a fine historical tact, much skill in characterization, the perspective of narration, as it may be called, and a vigorous style unite to make it a very capital work, and place the name of motley by the side of those of our great historical trio,--bancroft, irving, and prescott." mr. irving, mr. bancroft, mr. sumner, mr. hillard, united their voices in the same strain of commendation. mr. prescott, whose estimate of the new history is of peculiar value for obvious reasons, writes to mr. allibone thus:-- "the opinion of any individual seems superfluous in respect to a work on the merits of which the public both at home and abroad have pronounced so unanimous a verdict. as motley's path crosses my own historic field, i may be thought to possess some advantage over most critics in my familiarity with the ground. "however this may be, i can honestly bear my testimony to the extent of his researches and to the accuracy with which he has given the results of them to the public. far from making his book a mere register of events, he has penetrated deep below the surface and explored the cause of these events. he has carefully studied the physiognomy of the times and given finished portraits of the great men who conducted the march of the revolution. every page is instinct with the love of freedom and with that personal knowledge of the working of free institutions which could alone enable him to do justice to his subject. we may congratulate ourselves that it was reserved for one of our countrymen to tell the story-better than it had yet been told--of this memorable revolution, which in so many of its features bears a striking resemblance to our own." the public welcomed the work as cordially as the critics. fifteen thousand copies had already been sold in london in . in america it was equally popular. its author saw his name enrolled by common consent among those of the great writers of his time. europe accepted him, his country was proud to claim him, scholarship set its jealously guarded seal upon the result of his labors, the reading world, which had not cared greatly for his stories, hung in delight over a narrative more exciting than romances; and the lonely student, who had almost forgotten the look of living men in the solitude of archives haunted by dead memories, found himself suddenly in the full blaze of a great reputation. xii. - . aet. - . visit to america.--residence in boylston place. he visited this country in , and spent the winter of - in boston, living with his family in a house in boylston place. at this time i had the pleasure of meeting him often, and of seeing the changes which maturity, success, the opening of a great literary and social career, had wrought in his character and bearing. he was in every way greatly improved; the interesting, impulsive youth had ripened into a noble manhood. dealing with great themes, his own mind had gained their dignity. accustomed to the company of dead statesmen and heroes, his own ideas had risen to a higher standard. the flattery of society had added a new grace to his natural modesty. he was now a citizen of the world by his reputation; the past was his province, in which he was recognized as a master; the idol's pedestal was ready for him, but he betrayed no desire to show himself upon it. xiii. - . aet. - . return to england.--social relations.--lady harcourt's letter. during the years spent in europe in writing his first history, from to , mr. motley had lived a life of great retirement and simplicity, devoting himself to his work and to the education of his children, to which last object he was always ready to give the most careful supervision. he was as yet unknown beyond the circle of his friends, and he did not seek society. in this quiet way he had passed the two years of residence in dresden, the year divided between brussels and the hague, and a very tranquil year spent at vevay on the lake of geneva. his health at this time was tolerably good, except for nervous headaches, which frequently recurred and were of great severity. his visit to england with his manuscript in search of a publisher has already been mentioned. in he revisited england. his fame as a successful author was there before him, and he naturally became the object of many attentions. he now made many acquaintances who afterwards became his kind and valued friends. among those mentioned by his daughter, lady harcourt, are lord lyndhurst, lord carlisle, lady william russell, lord and lady palmerston, dean milman, with many others. the following winter was passed in rome, among many english and american friends. "in the course of the next summer," his daughter writes to me, "we all went to england, and for the next two years, marked chiefly by the success of the 'united netherlands,' our social life was most agreeable and most interesting. he was in the fulness of his health and powers; his works had made him known in intellectual society, and i think his presence, on the other hand, increased their effects. as no one knows better than you do, his belief in his own country and in its institutions at their best was so passionate and intense that it was a part of his nature, yet his refined and fastidious tastes were deeply gratified by the influences of his life in england, and the spontaneous kindness which he received added much to his happiness. at that time lord palmerston was prime minister; the weekly receptions at cambridge house were the centre of all that was brilliant in the political and social world, while lansdowne house, holland house, and others were open to the 'sommites' in all branches of literature, science, rank, and politics. . . . it was the last year of lord macaulay's life, and as a few out of many names which i recall come dean milman, mr. froude (whose review of the 'dutch republic' in the 'westminster' was one of the first warm recognitions it ever received), the duke and duchess of argyll, sir william stirling maxwell, then mr. stirling of keir, the sheridan family in its different brilliant members, lord wensleydale, and many more." there was no society to which motley would not have added grace and attraction by his presence, and to say that he was a welcome guest in the best houses of england is only saying that these houses are always open to those whose abilities, characters, achievements, are commended to the circles that have the best choice by the personal gifts which are nature's passport everywhere. xiv. . aet. . letter to mr. francis h. underwood.--plan of mr. motley's historical works.--second great work, "history of the united netherlands." i am enabled by the kindness of mr. francis h. underwood to avail myself of a letter addressed to him by mr. motley in the year before the publication of this second work, which gives us an insight into his mode of working and the plan he proposed to follow. it begins with an allusion which recalls a literary event interesting to many of his american friends. rome, march , . f. h. underwood, esq. my dear sir,--. . . i am delighted to hear of the great success of "the atlantic monthly." in this remote region i have not the chance of reading it as often as i should like, but from the specimens which i have seen i am quite sure it deserves its wide circulation. a serial publication, the contents of which are purely original and of such remarkable merit, is a novelty in our country, and i am delighted to find that it has already taken so prominent a position before the reading world. . . the whole work [his history], of which the three volumes already published form a part, will be called "the eighty years' war for liberty." epoch i. is the rise of the dutch republic. epoch ii. independence achieved. from the death of william the silent till the twelve years' truce. - . epoch iii. independence recognized. from the twelve years' truce to the peace of westphalia. - . my subject is a very vast one, for the struggle of the united provinces with spain was one in which all the leading states of europe were more or less involved. after the death of william the silent, the history assumes world-wide proportions. thus the volume which i am just about terminating . . . is almost as much english history as dutch. the earl of leicester, very soon after the death of orange, was appointed governor of the provinces, and the alliance between the two countries almost amounted to a political union. i shall try to get the whole of the leicester administration, terminating with the grand drama of the invincible armada, into one volume; but i doubt, my materials are so enormous. i have been personally very hard at work, nearly two years, ransacking the british state paper office, the british museum, and the holland archives, and i have had two copyists constantly engaged in london, and two others at the hague. besides this, i passed the whole of last winter at brussels, where, by special favor of the belgian government, i was allowed to read what no one else has ever been permitted to see,--the great mass of copies taken by that government from the simancas archives, a translated epitome of which has been published by gachard. this correspondence reaches to the death of philip ii., and is of immense extent and importance. had i not obtained leave to read the invaluable and, for my purpose, indispensable documents at brussels, i should have gone to spain, for they will not be published these twenty years, and then only in a translated and excessively abbreviated and unsatisfactory form. i have read the whole of this correspondence, and made very copious notes of it. in truth, i devoted three months of last winter to that purpose alone. the materials i have collected from the english archives are also extremely important and curious. i have hundreds of interesting letters never published or to be published, by queen elizabeth, burghley, walsingham, sidney, drake, willoughby, leicester, and others. for the whole of that portion of my subject in which holland and england were combined into one whole, to resist spain in its attempt to obtain the universal empire, i have very abundant collections. for the history of the united provinces is not at all a provincial history. it is the history of european liberty. without the struggle of holland and england against spain, all europe might have been catholic and spanish. it was holland that saved england in the sixteenth century, and, by so doing, secured the triumph of the reformation, and placed the independence of the various states of europe upon a sure foundation. of course, the materials collected by me at the hague are of great importance. as a single specimen, i will state that i found in the archives there an immense and confused mass of papers, which turned out to be the autograph letters of olden barneveld during the last few years of his life; during, in short, the whole of that most important period which preceded his execution. these letters are in such an intolerable handwriting that no one has ever attempted to read them. i could read them only imperfectly myself, and it would have taken me a very long time to have acquired the power to do so; but my copyist and reader there is the most patient and indefatigable person alive, and he has quite mastered the handwriting, and he writes me that they are a mine of historical wealth for me. i shall have complete copies before i get to that period, one of signal interest, and which has never been described. i mention these matters that you may see that my work, whatever its other value may be, is built upon the only foundation fit for history,--original contemporary documents. these are all unpublished. of course, i use the contemporary historians and pamphleteers,--dutch, spanish, french, italian, german, and english,--but the most valuable of my sources are manuscript ones. i have said the little which i have said in order to vindicate the largeness of the subject. the kingdom of holland is a small power now, but the eighty years' war, which secured the civil and religious independence of the dutch commonwealth and of europe, was the great event of that whole age. the whole work will therefore cover a most remarkable epoch in human history, from the abdication of charles fifth to the peace of westphalia, at which last point the political and geographical arrangements of europe were established on a permanent basis,--in the main undisturbed until the french revolution. . . . i will mention that i received yesterday a letter from the distinguished m. guizot, informing me that the first volume of the french translation, edited by him, with an introduction, has just been published. the publication was hastened in consequence of the appearance of a rival translation at brussels. the german translation is very elegantly and expensively printed in handsome octavos; and the dutch translation, under the editorship of the archivist general of holland, bakhuyzen v. d. brink, is enriched with copious notes and comments by that distinguished scholar. there are also three different piratical reprints of the original work at amsterdam, leipzig, and london. i must add that i had nothing to do with the translation in any case. in fact, with the exception of m. guizot, no one ever obtained permission of me to publish translations, and i never knew of the existence of them until i read of it in the journals. . . . i forgot to say that among the collections already thoroughly examined by me is that portion of the simancas archives still retained in the imperial archives of france. i spent a considerable time in paris for the purpose of reading these documents. there are many letters of philip ii. there, with apostilles by his own hand. . . . i would add that i am going to pass this summer at venice for the purpose of reading and procuring copies from the very rich archives of that republic, of the correspondence of their envoys in madrid, london, and brussels during the epoch of which i am treating. i am also not without hope of gaining access to the archives of the vatican here, although there are some difficulties in the way. with kind regards . . . i remain very truly yours, j. l. motley. xv. . at. . publication of the first two volumes of the "history of the united netherlands."--their reception. we know something of the manner in which mr. motley collected his materials. we know the labors, the difficulties, the cost of his toils among the dusty records of the past. what he gained by the years he spent in his researches is so well stated by himself that i shall borrow his own words:-- "thanks to the liberality of many modern governments of europe, the archives where the state secrets of the buried centuries have so long mouldered are now open to the student of history. to him who has patience and industry, many mysteries are thus revealed which no political sagacity or critical acumen could have divined. he leans over the shoulder of philip the second at his writing-table, as the king spells patiently out, with cipher-key in hand, the most concealed hieroglyphics of parma, or guise, or mendoza. he reads the secret thoughts of 'fabius' [philip ii.] as that cunctative roman scrawls his marginal apostilles on each dispatch; he pries into all the stratagems of camillus, hortensius, mucius, julius, tullius, and the rest of those ancient heroes who lent their names to the diplomatic masqueraders of the sixteenth century; he enters the cabinet of the deeply pondering burghley, and takes from the most private drawer the memoranda which record that minister's unutterable doubtings; he pulls from the dressing-gown folds of the stealthy, soft-gliding walsingham the last secret which he has picked from the emperor's pigeon-holes or the pope's pocket, and which not hatton, nor buckhurst, nor leicester, nor the lord treasurer is to see,--nobody but elizabeth herself; he sits invisible at the most secret councils of the nassaus and barneveld and buys, or pores with farnese over coming victories and vast schemes of universal conquest; he reads the latest bit of scandal, the minutest characteristic of king or minister, chronicled by the gossiping venetians for the edification of the forty; and after all this prying and eavesdropping, having seen the cross-purposes, the bribings, the windings in the dark, he is not surprised if those who were systematically deceived did not always arrive at correct conclusions." the fascination of such a quest is readily conceivable. a drama with real characters, and the spectator at liberty to go behind the scenes and look upon and talk with the kings and queens between the acts; to examine the scenery, to handle the properties, to study the "make up" of the imposing personages of full-dress histories; to deal with them all as thackeray has done with the grand monarque in one of his caustic sketches,--this would be as exciting, one might suppose, as to sit through a play one knows by heart at drury lane or the theatre francais, and might furnish occupation enough to the curious idler who was only in search of entertainment. the mechanical obstacles of half-illegible manuscript, of antiquated forms of speech, to say nothing of the intentional obscurities of diplomatic correspondence, stand, however, in the way of all but the resolute and unwearied scholar. these difficulties, in all their complex obstinacy, had been met and overcome by the heroic efforts, the concentrated devotion, of the new laborer in the unbroken fields of secret history. without stopping to take breath, as it were,--for his was a task 'de longue haleine,'--he proceeded to his second great undertaking. the first portion--consisting of two volumes--of the "history of the united netherlands" was published in the year . it maintained and increased the reputation he had already gained by his first history. "the london quarterly review" devoted a long article to it, beginning with this handsome tribute to his earlier and later volumes:-- "mr. motley's 'history of the rise of the dutch republic' is already known and valued for the grasp of mind which it displays, for the earnest and manly spirit in which he has communicated the results of deep research and careful reflection. again he appears before us, rich with the spoils of time, to tell the story of the united netherlands from the time of william the silent to the end of the eventful year of the spanish armada, and we still find him in every way worthy of this 'great argument.' indeed, it seems to us that he proceeds with an increased facility of style, and with a more complete and easy command over his materials. these materials are indeed splendid, and of them most excellent use has been made. the english state paper office, the spanish archives from simancas, and the dutch and belgian repositories, have all yielded up their secrets; and mr. motley has enjoyed the advantage of dealing with a vast mass of unpublished documents, of which he has not failed to avail himself to an extent which places his work in the foremost rank as an authority for the period to which it relates. by means of his labor and his art we can sit at the council board of philip and elizabeth, we can read their most private dispatches. guided by his demonstration, we are enabled to dissect out to their ultimate issues the minutest ramifications of intrigue. we join in the amusement of the popular lampoon; we visit the prison-house; we stand by the scaffold; we are present at the battle and the siege. we can scan the inmost characters of men and can view them in their. habits as they lived." after a few criticisms upon lesser points of form and style, the writer says:-- "but the work itself must be read to appreciate the vast and conscientious industry bestowed upon it. his delineations are true and life-like, because they are not mere compositions written to please the ear, but are really taken from the facts and traits preserved in those authentic records to which he has devoted the labor of many years. diligent and painstaking as the humblest chronicler, he has availed himself of many sources of information which have not been made use of by any previous historical writer. at the same time he is not oppressed by his materials, but has sagacity to estimate their real value, and he has combined with scholarly power the facts which they contain. he has rescued the story of the netherlands from the domain of vague and general narrative, and has labored, with much judgment and ability, to unfold the 'belli causas, et vitia, et modos,' and to assign to every man and every event their own share in the contest, and their own influence upon its fortunes. we do not wonder that his earlier publication has been received as a valuable addition, not only to english, but to european literature." one or two other contemporary criticisms may help us with their side lights. a critic in "the edinburgh review" for january, , thinks that "mr. motley has not always been successful in keeping the graphic variety of his details subordinate to the main theme of his work." still, he excuses the fault, as he accounts it, in consideration of the new light thrown on various obscure points of history, and-- "it is atoned for by striking merits, by many narratives of great events faithfully, powerfully, and vividly executed, by the clearest and most life-like conceptions of character, and by a style which, if it sacrifices the severer principles of composition to a desire to be striking and picturesque, is always vigorous, full of animation, and glowing with the genuine enthusiasm of the writer. mr. motley combines as an historian two qualifications seldom found united,--to great capacity for historical research he adds much power of pictorial representation. in his pages we find characters and scenes minutely set forth in elaborate and characteristic detail, which is relieved and heightened in effect by the artistic breadth of light and shade thrown across the broader prospects of history. in an american author, too, we must commend the hearty english spirit in which the book is written; and fertile as the present age has been in historical works of the highest merit, none of them can be ranked above these volumes in the grand qualities of interest, accuracy, and truth." a writer in "blackwood" (may, ) contrasts motley with froude somewhat in the way in which another critic had contrasted him with prescott. froude, he says, remembers that there are some golden threads in the black robe of the dominican. motley "finds it black and thrusts it farther into the darkness." every writer carries more or less of his own character into his book, of course. a great professor has told me that there is a personal flavor in the mathematical work of a man of genius like poisson. those who have known motley and prescott would feel sure beforehand that the impulsive nature of the one and the judicial serenity of the other would as surely betray themselves in their writings as in their conversation and in their every movement. another point which the critic of "blackwood's magazine" has noticed has not been so generally observed: it is what he calls "a dashing, offhand, rattling style,"--"fast" writing. it cannot be denied that here and there may be detected slight vestiges of the way of writing of an earlier period of motley's literary life, with which i have no reason to think the writer just mentioned was acquainted. now and then i can trace in the turn of a phrase, in the twinkle of an epithet, a faint reminiscence of a certain satirical levity, airiness, jauntiness, if i may hint such a word, which is just enough to remind me of those perilous shallows of his early time through which his richly freighted argosy had passed with such wonderful escape from their dangers and such very slight marks of injury. that which is pleasant gayety in conversation may be quite out of place in formal composition, and motley's wit must have had a hard time of it struggling to show its spangles in the processions while his gorgeous tragedies went sweeping by. john lothrop motley. a memoir by oliver wendell holmes, sr. volume ii. xvi. - . aet. - . residence in england.--outbreak of the civil war.--letters to the london "times."--visit to america.--appointed minister to austria.--lady harcourt's letter.--miss motley's memorandum. the winter of - was passed chiefly at oatlands hotel, walton-on-thames. in mr. motley hired the house no. hertford street, may fair, london. he had just published the first two volumes of his "history of the netherlands," and was ready for the further labors of its continuation, when the threats, followed by the outbreak, of the great civil contention in his native land brought him back from the struggles of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries to the conflict of the nineteenth. his love of country, which had grown upon him so remarkably of late years, would not suffer him to be silent at such a moment. all around him he found ignorance and prejudice. the quarrel was like to be prejudged in default of a champion of the cause which to him was that of liberty and justice. he wrote two long letters to the london "times," in which he attempted to make clear to englishmen and to europe the nature and conditions of our complex system of government, the real cause of the strife, and the mighty issues at stake. nothing could have been more timely, nothing more needed. mr. william everett, who was then in england, bears strong testimony to the effect these letters produced. had mr. motley done no other service to his country, this alone would entitle him to honorable remembrance as among the first defenders of the flag, which at that moment had more to fear from what was going on in the cabinet councils of europe than from all the armed hosts that were gathering against it. he returned to america in , and soon afterwards was appointed by mr. lincoln minister to austria. mr. burlingame had been previously appointed to the office, but having been objected to by the austrian government for political reasons, the place unexpectedly left vacant was conferred upon motley, who had no expectation of any diplomatic appointment when he left europe. for some interesting particulars relating to his residence in vienna i must refer to the communications addressed to me by his daughter, lady harcourt, and her youngest sister, and the letters i received from him while at the austrian capital. lady harcourt writes:-- "he held the post for six years, seeing the civil war fought out and brought to a triumphant conclusion, and enjoying, as i have every reason to believe, the full confidence and esteem of mr. lincoln to the last hour of the president's life. in the first dark years the painful interest of the great national drama was so all-absorbing that literary work was entirely put aside, and with his countrymen at home he lived only in the varying fortunes of the day, his profound faith and enthusiasm sustaining him and lifting him above the natural influence of a by no means sanguine temperament. later, when the tide was turning and success was nearing, he was more able to work. his social relations during the whole period of his mission were of the most agreeable character. the society of vienna was at that time, and i believe is still, the absolute reverse of that of england, where all claims to distinction are recognized and welcomed. there the old feudal traditions were still in full force, and diplomatic representatives admitted to the court society by right of official position found it to consist exclusively of an aristocracy of birth, sixteen quarterings of nobility being necessary to a right of presentation to the emperor and empress. the society thus constituted was distinguished by great charm and grace of manner, the exclusion of all outer elements not only limiting the numbers, but giving the ease of a family party within the charmed circle. on the other hand, larger interests suffered under the rigid exclusion of all occupations except the army, diplomacy, and court place. the intimacy among the different members of the society was so close that, beyond a courtesy of manner that never failed, the tendency was to resist the approach of any stranger as a 'gene'. a single new face was instantly remarked and commented on in a vienna saloon to an extent unknown in any other large capital. this peculiarity, however, worked in favor of the old resident. kindliness of feeling increased with familiarity and grew into something better than acquaintance, and the parting with most sincere and affectionately disposed friends in the end was deeply felt on both sides. those years were passed in a pleasant house in the weiden faubourg, with a large garden at the back, and i do not think that during this time there was one disagreeable incident in his relations to his colleagues, while in several cases the relations, agreeable with all, became those of close friendship. we lived constantly, of course, in diplomatic and austrian society, and during the latter part of the time particularly his house was as much frequented and the centre of as many dancing and other receptions as any in the place. his official relations with the foreign office were courteous and agreeable, the successive foreign ministers during his stay being count richberg, count mensdorff, and baron beust. austria was so far removed from any real contact with our own country that, though the interest in our war may have been languid, they did not pretend to a knowledge which might have inclined them to controversy, while an instinct that we were acting as a constituted government against rebellion rather inclined them to sympathy. i think i may say that as he became known among them his keen patriotism and high sense of honor and truth were fully understood and appreciated, and that what he said always commanded a sympathetic hearing among men with totally different political ideas, but with chivalrous and loyal instincts to comprehend his own. i shall never forget his account of the terrible day when the news of mr. lincoln's death came. by some accident a rumor of it reached him first through a colleague. he went straight to the foreign office for news, hoping against hope, was received by count mensdorff, who merely came forward and laid his arm about his shoulder with an intense sympathy beyond words." miss motley, the historian's youngest daughter, has added a note to her sister's communication:-- "during his residence in vienna the most important negotiations which he had to carry on with the austrian government were those connected with the mexican affair. maximilian at one time applied to his brother the emperor for assistance, and he promised to accede to his demand. accordingly a large number of volunteers were equipped and had actually embarked at trieste, when a dispatch from seward arrived, instructing the american minister to give notice to the austrian government that if the troops sailed for mexico he was to leave vienna at once. my father had to go at once to count mensdorff with these instructions, and in spite of the foreign minister being annoyed that the united states government had not sooner intimated that this extreme course would be taken, the interview was quite amicable and the troops were not allowed to sail. we were in vienna during the war in which denmark fought alone against austria and prussia, and when it was over bismarck came to vienna to settle the terms of peace with the emperor. he dined with us twice during his short stay, and was most delightful and agreeable. when he and my father were together they seemed to live over the youthful days they had spent together as students, and many were the anecdotes of their boyish frolics which bismarck related." xvii. - . aet. - . letters from vienna. soon after mr. motley's arrival in vienna i received a long letter from him, most of which relates to personal matters, but which contains a few sentences of interest to the general reader as showing his zealous labors, wherever he found himself, in behalf of the great cause then in bloody debate in his own country: november , . . . . what can i say to you of cis-atlantic things? i am almost ashamed to be away from home. you know that i had decided to remain, and had sent for my family to come to america, when my present appointment altered my plans. i do what good i can. i think i made some impression on lord john russell, with whom i spent two days soon after my arrival in england, and i talked very frankly and as strongly as i could to palmerston, and i have had long conversations and correspondences with other leading men in england. i have also had an hour's [conversation] with thouvenel in paris. i hammered the northern view into him as soundly as i could. for this year there will be no foreign interference with us. i don't anticipate it at any time, unless we bring it on ourselves by bad management, which i don't expect. our fate is in our own hands, and europe is looking on to see which side is strongest,--when it has made the discovery it will back it as also the best and the most moral. yesterday i had my audience with the emperor. he received me with much cordiality, and seemed interested in a long account which i gave him of our affairs. you may suppose i inculcated the northern views. we spoke in his vernacular, and he asked me afterwards if i was a german. i mention this not from vanity, but because he asked it with earnestness, and as if it had a political significance. of course i undeceived him. his appearance interested me, and his manner is very pleasing. i continued to receive long and interesting letters from him at intervals during his residence as minister at vienna. relating as they often did to public matters, about which he had private sources of information, his anxiety that they should not get into print was perfectly natural. as, however, i was at liberty to read his letters to others at my discretion, and as many parts of these letters have an interest as showing how american affairs looked to one who was behind the scenes in europe, i may venture to give some extracts without fear of violating the spirit of his injunctions, or of giving offence to individuals. the time may come when his extended correspondence can be printed in full with propriety, but it must be in a future year and after it has passed into the hands of a younger generation. meanwhile these few glimpses at his life and records of his feelings and opinions will help to make the portrait of the man we are studying present itself somewhat more clearly. legation of the u. s. a., vienna, january , . my dear holmes,--i have two letters of yours, november and december , to express my thanks for. it is quite true that it is difficult for me to write with the same feeling that inspires you, --that everything around the inkstand within a radius of a thousand miles is full of deepest interest to writer and reader. i don't even intend to try to amuse you with vienna matters. what is it to you that we had a very pleasant dinner-party last week at prince esterhazy's, and another this week at prince liechtenstein's, and that to-morrow i am to put on my cocked hat and laced coat to make a visit to her imperial majesty, the empress mother, and that to-night there is to be the first of the assembly balls, the vienna almack's, at which--i shall be allowed to absent myself altogether? it strikes me that there is likely to be left a fair field for us a few months longer, say till midsummer. the trent affair i shall not say much about, except to state that i have always been for giving up the prisoners. i was awfully afraid, knowing that the demand had gone forth,-- "send us your prisoners or you'll hear of it," that the answer would have come back in the hotspur vein-- 'and if the devil come and roar for them, we will not send them." the result would have been most disastrous, for in order to secure a most trifling advantage,--that of keeping mason and slidell at fort warren a little longer,--we should have turned our backs on all the principles maintained by us when neutral, and should have been obliged to accept a war at an enormous disadvantage. . . . but i hardly dared to hope that we should have obtained such a victory as we have done. to have disavowed the illegal transaction at once,--before any demand came from england,--to have placed that disavowal on the broad ground of principle which we have always cherished, and thus with a clear conscience, and to our entire honor, to have kept ourselves clear from a war which must have given the confederacy the invincible alliance of england,--was exactly what our enemies in europe did not suppose us capable of doing. but we have done it in the handsomest manner, and there is not one liberal heart in this hemisphere that is not rejoiced, nor one hater of us and of our institutions that is not gnashing his teeth with rage. the letter of ten close pages from which i have quoted these passages is full of confidential information, and contains extracts from letters of leading statesmen. if its date had been , i might feel authorized in disobeying its injunctions of privacy. i must quote one other sentence, as it shows his animus at that time towards a distinguished statesman of whom he was afterwards accused of speaking in very hard terms by an obscure writer whose intent was to harm him. in speaking of the trent affair, mr. motley says: "the english premier has been foiled by our much maligned secretary of state, of whom, on this occasion at least, one has the right to say, with sir henry wotton,-- 'his armor was his honest thought, and simple truth his utmost skill.'" "he says at the close of this long letter: 'i wish i could bore you about something else but american politics. but there is nothing else worth thinking of in the world. all else is leather and prunella. we are living over again the days of the dutchmen or the seventeenth-century englishmen.'" my next letter, of fourteen closely written pages, was of similar character to the last. motley could think of nothing but the great conflict. he was alive to every report from america, listening too with passionate fears or hopes, as the case might be, to the whispers not yet audible to the world which passed from lip to lip of the statesmen who were watching the course of events from the other side of the atlantic with the sweet complacency of the looker-on of lucretius; too often rejoicing in the storm that threatened wreck to institutions and an organization which they felt to be a standing menace to the established order of things in their older communities. a few extracts from this very long letter will be found to have a special interest from the time at which they were written. legation of u. s. a., vienna, february , . my dear holmes,--. . . i take great pleasure in reading your prophecies, and intend to be just as free in hazarding my own, for, as you say, our mortal life is but a string of guesses at the future, and no one but an idiot would be discouraged at finding himself sometimes far out in his calculations. if i find you signally right in any of your predictions, be sure that i will congratulate and applaud. if you make mistakes, you shall never hear of them again, and i promise to forget them. let me ask the same indulgence from you in return. this is what makes letter- writing a comfort and journalizing dangerous. . . the ides of march will be upon us before this letter reaches you. we have got to squash the rebellion soon, or be squashed forever as a nation. i don't pretend to judge military plans or the capacities of generals. but, as you suggest, perhaps i can take a more just view of the whole picture of the eventful struggle at this great distance than do those absolutely acting and suffering on the scene. nor can i resist the desire to prophesy any more than you can do, knowing that i may prove utterly mistaken. i say, then, that one great danger comes from the chance of foreign interference. what will prevent that? our utterly defeating the confederates in some great and conclusive battle; or, our possession of the cotton ports and opening them to european trade; or, a most unequivocal policy of slave emancipation. any one of these three conditions would stave off recognition by foreign powers, until we had ourselves abandoned the attempt to reduce the south to obedience. the last measure is to my mind the most important. the south has, by going to war with the united states government, thrust into our hands against our will the invincible weapon which constitutional reasons had hitherto forbidden us to employ. at the same time it has given us the power to remedy a great wrong to four millions of the human race, in which we had hitherto been obliged to acquiesce. we are threatened with national annihilation, and defied to use the only means of national preservation. the question is distinctly proposed to us, shall slavery die, or the great republic? it is most astounding to me that there can be two opinions in the free states as to the answer. if we do fall, we deserve our fate. at the beginning of the contest, constitutional scruples might be respectable. but now we are fighting to subjugate the south; that is, slavery. we are fighting for nothing else that i know of. we are fighting for the union. who wishes to destroy the union? the slaveholder, nobody else. are we to spend twelve hundred millions, and raise six hundred thousand soldiers, in order to protect slavery? it really does seem to me too simple for argument. i am anxiously waiting for the coming columbus who will set this egg of ours on end by smashing in the slavery end. we shall be rolling about in every direction until that is done. i don't know that it is to be done by proclamation. rather perhaps by facts. . . . well, i console myself with thinking that the people--the american people, at least --is about as wise collectively as less numerous collections of individuals, and that the people has really declared emancipation, and is only puzzling how to carry it into effect. after all, it seems to be a law of providence, that progress should be by a spiral movement; so that when it seems most tortuous, we may perhaps be going ahead. i am firm in the faith that slavery is now wriggling itself to death. with slavery in its pristine vigor, i should think the restored union neither possible nor desirable. don't understand me as not taking into account all the strategical considerations against premature governmental utterances on this great subject. but are there any trustworthy friends to the union among the slaveholders? should we lose many kentuckians and virginians who are now with us, if we boldly confiscated the slaves of all rebels? --and a confiscation of property which has legs and so confiscates itself, at command, is not only a legal, but would prove a very practical measure in time of war. in brief, the time is fast approaching, i think, when 'thorough' should be written on all our banners. slavery will never accept a subordinate position. the great republic and slavery cannot both survive. we have been defied to mortal combat, and yet we hesitate to strike. these are my poor thoughts on this great subject. perhaps you will think them crude. i was much struck with what you quote from mr. conway, that if emancipation was proclaimed on the upper mississippi it would be known to the negroes of louisiana in advance of the telegraph. and if once the blacks had leave to run, how many whites would have to stay at home to guard their dissolving property? you have had enough of my maunderings. but before i conclude them, may i ask you to give all our kindest regards to lowell, and to express our admiration for the yankee idyl. i am afraid of using too extravagant language if i say all i think about it. was there ever anything more stinging, more concentrated, more vigorous, more just? he has condensed into those few pages the essence of a hundred diplomatic papers and historical disquisitions and fourth of july orations. i was dining a day or two since with his friend lytton (bulwer's son, attache here) and julian fane (secretary of the embassy), both great admirers of him,--and especially of the "biglow papers;" they begged me to send them the mason and slidell idyl, but i wouldn't,--i don't think it is in english nature (although theirs is very cosmopolitan and liberal) to take such punishment and come up smiling. i would rather they got it in some other way, and then told me what they thought voluntarily. i have very pleasant relations with all the j. b.'s here. they are all friendly and well disposed to the north,--i speak of the embassy, which, with the ambassador and---dress, numbers eight or ten souls, some of them very intellectual ones. there are no other j. b.'s here. i have no fear at present of foreign interference. we have got three or four months to do our work in,--a fair field and no favor. there is no question whatever that the southern commissioners have been thoroughly snubbed in london and paris. there is to be a blockade debate in parliament next week, but no bad consequences are to be apprehended. the duke de gramont (french ambassador, and an intimate friend of the emperor) told my wife last night that it was entirely false that the emperor had ever urged the english government to break the blockade. "don't believe it,--don't believe a word of it," he said. he has always held that language to me. he added that prince napoleon had just come out with a strong speech about us,--you will see it, doubtless, before you get this letter,--but it has not yet reached us. shall i say anything of austria,--what can i say that would interest you? that's the reason why i hate to write. all my thoughts are in america. do you care to know about the archduke ferdinand maximilian, that shall be king hereafter of mexico (if l. n. has his way)? he is next brother to the emperor, but although i have had the honor of private audiences of many archdukes here, this one is a resident of trieste. he is about thirty,--has an adventurous disposition,--some imagination,--a turn for poetry,--has voyaged a good deal about the world in the austrian ship-of-war,--for in one respect he much resembles that unfortunate but anonymous ancestor of his, the king of bohemia with the seven castles, who, according to corporal trim, had such a passion for navigation and sea-affairs, "with never a seaport in all his dominions." but now the present king of bohemia has got the sway of trieste, and is lord high admiral and chief of the marine department. he has been much in spain, also in south america; i have read some travels, "reise skizzen," of his--printed, not published. they are not without talent, and he ever and anon relieves his prose jog-trot by breaking into a canter of poetry. he adores bull-fights, and rather regrets the inquisition, and considers the duke of alva everything noble and chivalrous, and the most abused of men. it would do your heart good to hear his invocations to that deeply injured shade, and his denunciations of the ignorant and vulgar protestants who have defamed him. (n.b. let me observe that the r. of the d. r. was not published until long after the "reise skizzen" were written.) 'du armer alva! weil du dem willen deines herrn unerschiitterlich treu vast, weil die festbestimmten grundsatze der regierung,' etc., etc., etc. you can imagine the rest. dear me! i wish i could get back to the sixteenth and seventeenth century. . . . but alas! the events of the nineteenth are too engrossing. if lowell cares to read this letter, will you allow me to "make it over to him jointly," as captain cuttle says. i wished to write to him, but i am afraid only you would tolerate my writing so much when i have nothing to say. if he would ever send me a line i should be infinitely obliged, and would quickly respond. we read the "washers of the shroud" with fervid admiration. always remember me most sincerely to the club, one and all. it touches me nearly when you assure me that i am not forgotten by them. to-morrow is saturday and the last of the month.--[see appendix a.]--we are going to dine with our spanish colleague. but the first bumper of the don's champagne i shall drain to the health of my parker house friends. from another long letter dated august , , i extract the following passages:-- "i quite agree in all that you said in your last letter. 'the imp of secession can't reenter its mother's womb.' it is merely childish to talk of the union 'as it was.' you might as well bring back the saxon heptarchy. but the great republic is destined to live and flourish, i can't doubt. . . . do you remember that wonderful scene in faust in which mephistopheles draws wine for the rabble with a gimlet out of the wooden table; and how it changes to fire as they drink it, and how they all go mad, draw their knives, grasp each other by the nose, and think they are cutting off bunches of grapes at every blow, and how foolish they all look when they awake from the spell and see how the devil has been mocking them? it always seems to me a parable of the great secession. "i repeat, i can't doubt as to the ultimate result. but i dare say we have all been much mistaken in our calculations as to time. days, months, years, are nothing in history. men die, man is immortal, practically, even on this earth. we are so impatient, --and we are always watching for the last scene of the tragedy. now i humbly opine that the drop is only about falling on the first act, or perhaps only the prologue. this act or prologue will be called, in after days, war for the status quo. such enthusiasm, heroism, and manslaughter as status quo could inspire, has, i trust, been not entirely in vain, but it has been proved insufficient. "i firmly believe that when the slaveholders declared war on the united states government they began a series of events that, in the logical chain of history, cannot come to a conclusion until the last vestige of slavery is gone. looking at the whole field for a moment dispassionately, objectively, as the dear teutonic philosophers say, and merely as an exhibition of phenomena, i cannot imagine any other issue. everything else may happen. this alone must happen. "but after all this isn't a war. it is a revolution. it is n't strategists that are wanted so much as believers. in revolutions the men who win are those who are in earnest. jeff and stonewall and the other devil-worshippers are in earnest, but it was not written in the book of fate that the slaveholders' rebellion should be vanquished by a pro-slavery general. history is never so illogical. no, the coming 'man on horseback' on our side must be a great strategist, with the soul of that insane lion, mad old john brown, in his belly. that is your only promethean recipe:-- 'et insani leonis vim stomacho apposuisse nostro.' "i don't know why horace runs so in my head this morning. . . . "there will be work enough for all; but i feel awfully fidgety just now about port royal and hilton head, and about affairs generally for the next three months. after that iron-clads and the new levies must make us invincible." in another letter, dated november , , he expresses himself very warmly about his disappointment in the attitude of many of his old english friends with reference to our civil conflict. he had recently heard the details of the death of "the noble wilder dwight." "it is unnecessary," he says, "to say how deeply we were moved. i had the pleasure of knowing him well, and i always appreciated his energy, his manliness, and his intelligent cheerful heroism. i look back upon him now as a kind of heroic type of what a young new englander ought to be and was. i tell you that one of these days --after a generation of mankind has passed away--these youths will take their places in our history, and be regarded by the young men and women now unborn with the admiration which the philip sidneys and the max piccolominis now inspire. after all, what was your chevy chace to stir blood with like a trumpet? what noble principle, what deathless interest, was there at stake? nothing but a bloody fight between a lot of noble gamekeepers on one side and of noble poachers on the other. and because they fought well and hacked each other to pieces like devils, they have been heroes for centuries." the letter was written in a very excited state of feeling, and runs over with passionate love of country and indignation at the want of sympathy with the cause of freedom which he had found in quarters where he had not expected such coldness or hostile tendencies. from a letter dated vienna, september , . . . . "when you wrote me last you said on general matters this: 'in a few days we shall get the news of the success or failure of the attacks on port hudson and vicksburg. if both are successful, many will say that the whole matter is about settled.' you may suppose that when i got the great news i shook hands warmly with you in the spirit across the atlantic. day by day for so long we had been hoping to hear the fall of vicksburg. at last when that little concentrated telegram came, announcing vicksburg and gettysburg on the same day and in two lines, i found myself almost alone. . . . there was nobody in the house to join in my huzzahs but my youngest infant. and my conduct very much resembled that of the excellent philip ii. when he heard the fall of antwerp,--for i went to her door, screeching through the key-hole 'vicksburg is ours!' just as that other 'pere de famille,' more potent, but i trust not more respectable than i, conveyed the news to his infanta. (fide, for the incident, an american work on the netherlands, i. p. , and the authorities there cited.) it is contemptible on my part to speak thus frivolously of events which will stand out in such golden letters so long as america has a history, but i wanted to illustrate the yearning for sympathy which i felt. you who were among people grim and self-contained usually, who, i trust, were falling on each other's necks in the public streets, shouting, with tears in their eyes and triumph in their hearts, can picture my isolation. "i have never faltered in my faith, and in the darkest hours, when misfortunes seemed thronging most thickly upon us, i have never felt the want of anything to lean against; but i own i did feel like shaking hands with a few hundred people when i heard of our fourth of july, , work, and should like to have heard and joined in an american cheer or two. "i have not much to say of matters here to interest you. we have had an intensely hot, historically hot, and very long and very dry summer. i never knew before what a drought meant. in hungary the suffering is great, and the people are killing the sheep to feed the pigs with the mutton. here about vienna the trees have been almost stripped of foliage ever since the end of august. there is no glory in the grass nor verdure in anything. "in fact, we have nothing green here but the archduke max, who firmly believes that he is going forth to mexico to establish an american empire, and that it is his divine mission to destroy the dragon of democracy and reestablish the true church, the right divine, and all sorts of games. poor young man! . . . "our information from home is to the th. charleston seems to be in 'articulo mortis,' but how forts nowadays seem to fly in the face of scripture. those founded on a rock, and built of it, fall easily enough under the rain of parrotts and dahlgrens, while the house built of sand seems to bid defiance to the storm." in quoting from these confidential letters i have been restrained from doing full justice to their writer by the fact that he spoke with such entire freedom of persons as well as events. but if they could be read from beginning to end, no one could help feeling that his love for his own country, and passionate absorption of every thought in the strife upon which its existence as a nation depended, were his very life during all this agonizing period. he can think and talk of nothing else, or, if he turns for a moment to other subjects, he reverts to the one great central interest of "american politics," of which he says in one of the letters from which i have quoted, "there is nothing else worth thinking of in the world." but in spite of his public record as the historian of the struggle for liberty and the champion of its defenders, and while every letter he wrote betrayed in every word the intensity of his patriotic feeling, he was not safe against the attacks of malevolence. a train laid by unseen hands was waiting for the spark to kindle it, and this came at last in the shape of a letter from an unknown individual,--a letter the existence of which ought never to have been a matter of official recognition. xviii. - . aet. - . resignation of his office.--causes of his resignation. it is a relief to me that just here, where i come to the first of two painful episodes in this brilliant and fortunate career, i can preface my statement with the generous words of one who speaks with authority of his predecessor in office. the hon. john jay, ex-minister to austria, in the tribute to the memory of motley read at a meeting of the new york historical society, wrote as follows:-- "in singular contrast to mr. motley's brilliant career as an historian stands the fact recorded in our diplomatic annals that he was twice forced from the service as one who had forfeited the confidence of the american government. this society, while he was living, recognized his fame as a statesman, diplomatist, and patriot, as belonging to america, and now that death has closed the career of seward, sumner, and motley, it will be remembered that the great historian, twice humiliated, by orders from washington, before the diplomacy and culture of europe, appealed from the passions of the hour to the verdict of history. "having succeeded mr. motley at vienna some two years after his departure, i had occasion to read most of his dispatches, which exhibited a mastery of the subjects of which they treated, with much of the clear perception, the scholarly and philosophic tone and decided judgment, which, supplemented by his picturesque description, full of life and color, have given character to his histories. they are features which might well have served to extend the remark of madame de stael that a great historian is almost a statesman. i can speak also from my own observation of the reputation which motley left in the austrian capital. notwithstanding the decision with which, under the direction of mr. seward, he had addressed the minister of foreign affairs, count mensdorff, afterwards the prince diedrickstein, protesting against the departure of an austrian force of one thousand volunteers, who were about to embark for mexico in aid of the ill-fated maximilian, --a protest which at the last moment arrested the project,--mr. motley and his amiable family were always spoken of in terms of cordial regard and respect by members of the imperial family and those eminent statesmen, count de beust and count andrassy. his death, i am sure, is mourned to-day by the representatives of the historic names of austria and hungary, and by the surviving diplomats then residing near the court of vienna, wherever they may still be found, headed by their venerable doyen, the baron de heckeren." the story of mr. motley's resignation of his office and its acceptance by the government is this. the president of the united states, andrew johnson, received a letter professing to be written from the hotel meurice, paris, dated october , , and signed "george w. m'crackin, of new york." this letter was filled with accusations directed against various public agents, ministers, and consuls, representing the united states in different countries. its language was coarse, its assertions were improbable, its spirit that of the lowest of party scribblers. it was bitter against new england, especially so against massachusetts, and it singled out motley for the most particular abuse. i think it is still questioned whether there was any such person as the one named,--at any rate, it bore the characteristic marks of those vulgar anonymous communications which rarely receive any attention unless they are important enough to have the police set on the track of the writer to find his rathole, if possible. a paragraph in the "daily advertiser" of june , , quotes from a western paper a story to the effect that one william r. m'crackin, who had recently died at-----confessed to having written the m' crackin letter. motley, he said, had snubbed him and refused to lend him money. "he appears to have been a bohemian of the lowest order." between such authorship and the anonymous there does not seem to be much to choose. but the dying confession sounds in my ears as decidedly apocryphal. as for the letter, i had rather characterize it than reproduce it. it is an offence to decency and a disgrace to the national record on which it is found. this letter of "george w. m'crackin" passed into the hands of mr. seward, the secretary of state. most gentlemen, i think, would have destroyed it on the spot, as it was not fit for the waste-basket. some, more cautious, might have smothered it among the piles of their private communications. if any notice was taken of it, one would say that a private note to each of the gentlemen attacked might have warned him that there were malicious eavesdroppers about, ready to catch up any careless expression he might let fall and make a scandalous report of it to his detriment. the secretary, acquiescing without resistance in a suggestion of the president, saw fit to address a formal note to several of the gentlemen mentioned in the m'crackin letter, repeating some of its offensive expressions, and requesting those officials to deny or confirm the report that they had uttered them. a gentleman who is asked whether he has spoken in a "malignant" or "offensive" manner, whether he has "railed violently and shamefully" against the president of the united states, or against anybody else, might well wonder who would address such a question to the humblest citizen not supposed to be wanting in a common measure of self-respect. a gentleman holding an important official station in a foreign country, receiving a letter containing such questions, signed by the prime minister of his government, if he did not think himself imposed upon by a forgery, might well consider himself outraged. it was a letter of this kind which was sent by the secretary of state to the minister plenipotentiary to the empire of austria. not quite all the vulgar insolence of the m'crackin letter was repeated. mr. seward did not ask mr. motley to deny or confirm the assertion of the letter that he was a "thorough flunky" and "un-american functionary." but he did insult him with various questions suggested by the anonymous letter,--questions that must have been felt as an indignity by the most thick-skinned of battered politicians. mr. motley was very sensitive, very high-spirited, very impulsive, very patriotic, and singularly truthful. the letter of mr. seward to such a man was like a buffet on the cheek of an unarmed officer. it stung like the thrust of a stiletto. it roused a resentment that could not find any words to give it expression. he could not wait to turn the insult over in his mind, to weigh the exact amount of affront in each question, to take counsel, to sleep over it, and reply to it with diplomatic measure and suavity. one hour had scarcely elapsed before his answer was written. as to his feelings as an american, he appeals to his record. this might have shown that if he erred it was on the side of enthusiasm and extravagant expressions of reverence for the american people during the heroic years just passed. he denounces the accusations as pitiful fabrications and vile calumny. he blushes that such charges could have been uttered; he is deeply wounded that mr. seward could have listened to such falsehood. he does not hesitate to say what his opinions are with reference to home questions, and especially to that of reconstruction. "these opinions," he says, "in the privacy of my own household, and to occasional american visitors, i have not concealed. the great question now presenting itself for solution demands the conscientious scrutiny of every american who loves his country and believes in the human progress of which that country is one of the foremost representatives. i have never thought, during my residence at vienna, that because i have the honor of being a public servant of the american people i am deprived of the right of discussing within my own walls the gravest subjects that can interest freemen. a minister of the united states does not cease to be a citizen of the united states, as deeply interested as others in all that relates to the welfare of his country." among the "occasional american visitors" spoken of above must have been some of those self-appointed or hired agents called "interviewers," who do for the american public what the venetian spies did for the council of ten, what the familiars of the inquisition did for the priesthood, who invade every public man's privacy, who listen at every key-hole, who tamper with every guardian of secrets; purveyors to the insatiable appetite of a public which must have a slain reputation to devour with its breakfast, as the monster of antiquity called regularly for his tribute of a spotless virgin. the "interviewer" has his use, undoubtedly, and often instructs and amuses his public with gossip they could not otherwise listen to. he serves the politician by repeating the artless and unstudied remarks which fall from his lips in a conversation which the reporter has been invited to take notes of. he tickles the author's vanity by showing him off as he sits in his library unconsciously uttering the engaging items of self-portraiture which, as he well knows, are to be given to the public in next week's illustrated paper. the feathered end of his shaft titillates harmlessly enough, but too often the arrowhead is crusted with a poison worse than the indian gets by mingling the wolf's gall with the rattlesnake's venom. no man is safe whose unguarded threshold the mischief-making questioner has crossed. the more unsuspecting, the more frank, the more courageous, the more social is the subject of his vivisection, the more easily does he get at his vital secrets, if he has any to be extracted. no man is safe if the hearsay reports of his conversation are to be given to the public without his own careful revision. when we remember that a proof-text bearing on the mighty question of the future life, words of supreme significance, uttered as they were in the last hour, and by the lips to which we listen as to none other,--that this text depends for its interpretation on the position of a single comma, we can readily see what wrong may be done by the unintentional blunder of the most conscientious reporter. but too frequently it happens that the careless talk of an honest and high-minded man only reaches the public after filtering through the drain of some reckless hireling's memory,--one who has played so long with other men's characters and good name that he forgets they have any value except to fill out his morning paragraphs. whether the author of the scandalous letter which it was disgraceful to the government to recognize was a professional interviewer or only a malicious amateur, or whether he was a paid "spotter," sent by some jealous official to report on the foreign ministers as is sometimes done in the case of conductors of city horsecars, or whether the dying miscreant before mentioned told the truth, cannot be certainly known. but those who remember mr. hawthorne's account of his consular experiences at liverpool are fully aware to what intrusions and impertinences and impositions our national representatives in other countries are subjected. those fellow-citizens who "often came to the consulate in parties of half a dozen or more, on no business whatever, but merely to subject their public servant to a rigid examination, and see how he was getting on with his duties," may very possibly have included among them some such mischief-maker as the author of the odious letter which received official recognition. mr. motley had spoken in one of his histories of "a set of venomous familiars who glided through every chamber and coiled themselves at every fireside." he little thought that under his own roof he himself was to be the victim of an equally base espionage. it was an insult on the part of the government to have sent mr. motley such a letter with such questions as were annexed to it. no very exact rule can be laid down as to the manner in which an insult shall be dealt with. something depends on temperament, and his was of the warmer complexion. his first impulse, he says, was to content himself with a flat denial of the truth of the accusations. but his scrupulous honesty compelled him to make a plain statement of his opinions, and to avow the fact that he had made no secret of them in conversation under conditions where he had a right to speak freely of matters quite apart from his official duties. his answer to the accusation was denial of its charges; his reply to the insult was his resignation. it may be questioned whether this was the wisest course, but wisdom is often disconcerted by an indignity, and even a meek christian may forget to turn the other cheek after receiving the first blow until the natural man has asserted himself by a retort in kind. but the wrong was committed; his resignation was accepted; the vulgar letter, not fit to be spread out on these pages, is enrolled in the records of the nation, and the first deep wound was inflicted on the proud spirit of one whose renown had shed lustre on the whole country. that the burden of this wrong may rest where it belongs, i quote the following statement from mr. jay's paper, already referred to. "it is due to the memory of mr. seward to say, and there would seem now no further motive for concealing the truth, that i was told in europe, on what i regarded as reliable authority, that there was reason to believe that on the receipt of mr. motley's resignation mr. seward had written to him declining to accept it, and that this letter, by a telegraphic order of president johnson, had been arrested in the hands of a dispatch agent before its delivery to mr. motley, and that the curt letter of the th of april had been substituted in its stead." the hon. john bigelow, late minister to france, has published an article in "the international review" for july-august, , in which he defends his late friend mr. seward's action in this matter at the expense of the president, mr. andrew johnson, and not without inferences unfavorable to the discretion of mr. motley. many readers will think that the simple record of mr. seward's unresisting acquiescence in the action of the president is far from being to his advantage. i quote from his own conversation as carefully reported by his friend mr. bigelow. "mr. johnson was in a state of intense irritation, and more or less suspicious of everybody about him."--"instead of throwing the letter into the fire," the president handed it to him, the secretary, and suggested answering it, and without a word, so far as appears, he simply answered, "certainly, sir." again, the secretary having already written to mr. motley that "his answer was satisfactory," the president, on reaching the last paragraph of mr. motley's letter, in which he begged respectfully to resign his post, "without waiting to learn what mr. seward had done or proposed to do, exclaimed, with a not unnatural asperity, 'well, let him go,' and 'on hearing this,' said mr. seward, laughing, 'i did not read my dispatch.'" many persons will think that the counsel for the defence has stated the plaintiff's case so strongly that there is nothing left for him but to show his ingenuity and his friendship for the late secretary in a hopeless argument. at any rate, mr. seward appears not to have made the slightest effort to protect mr. motley against his coarse and jealous chief at two critical moments, and though his own continuance in office may have been more important to the state than that of the vicar of bray was to the church, he ought to have risked something, as it seems to me, to shield such a patriot, such a gentleman, such a scholar, from ignoble treatment; he ought to have been as ready to guard mr. motley from wrong as mr. bigelow has shown himself to shield mr. seward from reproach, and his task, if more delicate, was not more difficult. i am willing to accept mr. bigelow's loyal and honorable defence of his friend's memory as the best that could be said for mr. seward, but the best defence in this case is little better than an impeachment. as for mr. johnson, he had held the weapon of the most relentless of the 'parcae' so long that his suddenly clipping the thread of a foreign minister's tenure of office in a fit of jealous anger is not at all surprising. thus finished mr. motley's long and successful diplomatic service at the court of austria. he may have been judged hasty in resigning his place; he may have committed himself in expressing his opinions too strongly before strangers, whose true character as spies and eavesdroppers he was too high-minded to suspect. but no caution could have protected him against a slanderer who hated the place he came from, the company he kept, the name he had made famous, to whom his very look and bearing --such as belong to a gentleman of natural refinement and good breeding --must have been a personal grievance and an unpardonable offence. i will add, in illustration of what has been said, and as showing his feeling with reference to the matter, an extract from a letter to me from vienna, dated the th of march, . . . . "as so many friends and so many strangers have said so much that is gratifying to me in public and private on this very painful subject, it would be like affectation, in writing to so old a friend as you, not to touch upon it. i shall confine myself, however, to one fact, which, so far as i know, may be new to you. "geo. w. m'cracken is a man and a name utterly unknown to me. "with the necessary qualification which every man who values truth must make when asserting such a negation,--viz., to the very best of my memory and belief,--i never set eyes on him nor heard of him until now, in the whole course of my life. not a member of my family or of the legation has the faintest recollection of any such person. i am quite convinced that he never saw me nor heard the sound of my voice. that his letter was a tissue of vile calumnies, shameless fabrications, and unblushing and contemptible falsehoods, --by whomsoever uttered,--i have stated in a reply to what ought never to have been an official letter. no man can regret more than i do that such a correspondence is enrolled in the capital among american state papers. i shall not trust myself to speak of the matter. it has been a sufficiently public scandal." xix. - . aet. - . last two volumes of the "history of the united netherlands."--general criticisms of dutch scholars on motley's historical works. in his letter to me of march , , just cited, mr. motley writes:-- "my two concluding volumes of the united netherlands are passing rapidly through the press. indeed, volume iii. is entirely printed and a third of volume iv. "if i live ten years longer i shall have probably written the natural sequel to the first two works,--viz., the thirty years' war. after that i shall cease to scourge the public. "i don't know whether my last two volumes are good or bad; i only know that they are true--but that need n't make them amusing. "alas! one never knows when one becomes a bore." in the two concluding volumes of the "history of the netherlands" were published at the same time in london and in new york. the events described and the characters delineated in these two volumes had, perhaps, less peculiar interest for english and american readers than some of those which had lent attraction to the preceding ones. there was no scene like the siege of antwerp, no story like that of the spanish armada. there were no names that sounded to our ears like those of sir philip sidney and leicester and amy robsart. but the main course of his narrative flowed on with the same breadth and depth of learning and the same brilliancy of expression. the monumental work continued as nobly as it had begun. the facts had been slowly, quietly gathered, one by one, like pebbles from the empty channel of a brook. the style was fluent, impetuous, abundant, impatient, as it were, at times, and leaping the sober boundaries prescribed to it, like the torrent which rushes through the same channel when the rains have filled it. thus there was matter for criticism in his use of language. he was not always careful in the construction of his sentences. he introduced expressions now and then into his vocabulary which reminded one of his earlier literary efforts. he used stronger language at times than was necessary, coloring too highly, shading too deeply in his pictorial delineations. to come to the matter of his narrative, it must be granted that not every reader will care to follow him through all the details of diplomatic intrigues which he has with such industry and sagacity extricated from the old manuscripts in which they had long lain hidden. but we turn a few pages and we come to one of those descriptions which arrest us at once and show him in his power and brilliancy as a literary artist. his characters move before us with the features of life; we can see elizabeth, or philip, or maurice, not as a name connected with events, but as a breathing and acting human being, to be loved or hated, admired or despised, as if he or she were our contemporary. that all his judgments would not be accepted as final we might easily anticipate; he could not help writing more or less as a partisan, but he was a partisan on the side of freedom in politics and religion, of human nature as against every form of tyranny, secular or priestly, of noble manhood wherever he saw it as against meanness and violence and imposture, whether clad in the soldier's mail or the emperor's purple. his sternest critics, and even these admiring ones, were yet to be found among those who with fundamental beliefs at variance with his own followed him in his long researches among the dusty annals of the past. the work of the learned m. groen van prinsterer,--[maurice et barnevelt, etude historique. utrecht, .]--devoted expressly to the revision and correction of what the author considers the erroneous views of mr. motley on certain important points, bears, notwithstanding, such sincere and hearty tribute to his industry, his acquisitions, his brilliant qualities as a historian, that some extracts from it will be read, i think, with interest. "my first interview, more than twenty years ago, with mr. lothrop motley, has left an indelible impression on my memory. "it was the th of august, . a note is handed me from our eminent archivist bakhuyzen van den brink. it informs me that i am to receive a visit from an american, who, having been struck by the analogies between the united provinces and the united states, between washington and the founder of our independence, has interrupted his diplomatic career to write the life of william the first; that he has already given proof of ardor and perseverance, having worked in libraries and among collections of manuscripts, and that he is coming to pursue his studies at the hague. "while i am surprised and delighted with this intelligence, i am informed that mr. motley himself is waiting for my answer. my eagerness to make the acquaintance of such an associate in my sympathies and my labors may be well imagined. but how shall i picture my surprise, in presently discovering that this unknown and indefatigable fellow-worker has really read, i say read and reread, our quartos, our folios, the enormous volumes of bor, of van meteren, besides a multitude of books, of pamphlets, and even of unedited documents. already he is familiar with the events, the changes of condition, the characteristic details of the life of his and my hero. not only is he acquainted with my archives, but it seems as if there was nothing in this voluminous collection of which he was ignorant. . . . "in sending me the last volume of his 'history of the foundation of the republic of the netherlands,' mr. motley wrote to me: 'without the help of the archives i could never have undertaken the difficult task i had set myself, and you will have seen at least from my numerous citations that i have made a sincere and conscientious study of them.' certainly in reading such a testimonial i congratulated myself on the excellent fruit of my labors, but the gratitude expressed to me by mr. motley was sincerely reciprocated. the archives are a scientific collection, and my 'manual of national history,' written in dutch, hardly gets beyond the limits of my own country. and here is a stranger, become our compatriot in virtue of the warmth of his sympathies, who has accomplished what was not in my power. by the detail and the charm of his narrative, by the matter and form of a work which the universality of the english language and numerous translations were to render cosmopolitan, mr. motley, like that other illustrious historian, prescott, lost to science by too early death, has popularized in both hemispheres the sublime devotion of the prince of orange, the exceptional and providential destinies of my country, and the benedictions of the eternal for all those who trust in him and tremble only at his word." the old dutch scholar differs in many important points from mr. motley, as might be expected from his creed and his life-long pursuits. this i shall refer to in connection with motley's last work, "john of barneveld." an historian among archivists and annalists reminds one of sir john lubbock in the midst of his ant-hills. undoubtedly he disturbs the ants in their praiseworthy industry, much as his attentions may flatter them. unquestionably the ants (if their means of expressing themselves were equal to their apparent intellectual ability) could teach him many things that he has overlooked and correct him in many mistakes. but the ants will labor ingloriously without an observer to chronicle their doings, and the archivists and annalists will pile up facts forever like so many articulates or mollusks or radiates, until the vertebrate historian comes with his generalizing ideas, his beliefs, his prejudices, his idiosyncrasies of all kinds, and brings the facts into a more or less imperfect, but still organic series of relations. the history which is not open to adverse criticism is worth little, except as material, for it is written without taking cognizance of those higher facts about which men must differ; of which guizot writes as follows, as quoted in the work of m. groen van prinsterer himself. "it is with facts that our minds are exercised, it has nothing but facts as its materials, and when it discovers general laws these laws are themselves facts which it determines. . . . in the study of facts the intelligence may allow itself to be crushed; it may lower, narrow, materialize itself; it may come to believe that there are no facts except those which strike us at the first glance, which come close to us, which fall, as we say, under our senses; a great and gross error; there are remote facts, immense, obscure, sublime, very difficult to reach, to observe, to describe, and which are not any less facts for these reasons, and which man is not less obliged to study and to know; and if he fails to recognize them or forgets them, his thought will be prodigiously abashed, and all his ideas carry the stamp of this deterioration." in that higher region of facts which belongs to the historian, whose task it is to interpret as well as to transcribe, mr. motley showed, of course, the political and religious school in which he had been brought up. every man has a right to his "personal equation" of prejudice, and mr. motley, whose ardent temperament gave life to his writings, betrayed his sympathies in the disputes of which he told the story, in a way to insure sharp criticism from those of a different way of thinking. thus it is that in the work of m. groen van prinsterer, from which i have quoted, he is considered as having been betrayed into error, while his critic recognizes "his manifest desire to be scrupulously impartial and truth-telling." and m. fruin, another of his dutch critics, says, "his sincerity, his perspicacity, the accuracy of his laborious researches, are incontestable." some of the criticisms of dutch scholars will be considered in the pages which deal with his last work, "the life of john of barneveld." xx. - . aet. - . visit to america.--residence at no. park street, boston.--address on the coming presidential election.--address on historic progress and american democracy.--appointed minister to england. in june, , mr. motley returned with his family to boston, and established himself in the house no. park street. during his residence here he entered a good deal into society, and entertained many visitors in a most hospitable and agreeable way. on the th of october, , he delivered an address before the parker fraternity, in the music hall, by special invitation. its title was "four questions for the people, at the presidential election." this was of course what is commonly called an electioneering speech, but a speech full of noble sentiments and eloquent expression. here are two of its paragraphs:-- "certainly there have been bitterly contested elections in this country before. party spirit is always rife, and in such vivid, excitable, disputatious communities as ours are, and i trust always will be, it is the very soul of freedom. to those who reflect upon the means and end of popular government, nothing seems more stupid than in grand generalities to deprecate party spirit. why, government by parties and through party machinery is the only possible method by which a free government can accomplish the purpose of its existence. the old republics of the past may be said to have fallen, not because of party spirit, but because there was no adequate machinery by which party spirit could develop itself with facility and regularity. "and if our republic be true to herself, the future of the human race is assured by our example. no sweep of overwhelming armies, no ponderous treatises on the rights of man, no hymns to liberty, though set to martial music and resounding with the full diapason of a million human throats, can exert so persuasive an influence as does the spectacle of a great republic, occupying a quarter of the civilized globe, and governed quietly and sagely by the people itself." a large portion of this address is devoted to the proposition that it is just and reasonable to pay our debts rather than to repudiate them, and that the nation is as much bound to be honest as is the individual. "it is an awful thing," he says, "that this should be a question at all," but it was one of the points on which the election turned, for all that. in his advocacy of the candidate with whom, and the government of which he became the head, his relations became afterwards so full of personal antagonism, he spoke as a man of his ardent nature might be expected to speak on such an occasion. no one doubts that his admiration of general grant's career was perfectly sincere, and no one at the present day can deny that the great captain stood before the historian with such a record as one familiar with the deeds of heroes and patriots might well consider as entitling him to the honors too often grudged to the living to be wasted on the dead. the speaker only gave voice to the widely prevailing feelings which had led to his receiving the invitation to speak. the time was one which called for outspoken utterance, and there was not a listener whose heart did not warm as he heard the glowing words in which the speaker recorded the noble achievements of the soldier who must in so many ways have reminded him of his favorite character, william the silent. on the th of december of this same year, , mr. motley delivered an address before the new york historical society, on the occasion of the sixty-fourth anniversary of its foundation. the president of the society, mr. hamilton fish, introduced the speaker as one "whose name belongs to no single country, and to no single age. as a statesman and diplomatist and patriot, he belongs to america; as a scholar, to the world of letters; as a historian, all ages will claim him in the future." his subject was "historic progress and american democracy." the discourse is, to use his own words, "a rapid sweep through the eons and the centuries," illustrating the great truth of the development of the race from its origin to the time in which we are living. it is a long distance from the planetary fact of the obliquity of the equator, which gave the earth its alternation of seasons, and rendered the history, if not the existence of man and of civilization a possibility, to the surrender of general lee under the apple-tree at appomattox court-house. no one but a scholar familiar with the course of history could have marshalled such a procession of events into a connected and intelligible sequence. it is indeed a flight rather than a march; the reader is borne along as on the wings of a soaring poem, and sees the rising and decaying empires of history beneath him as a bird of passage marks the succession of cities and wilds and deserts as he keeps pace with the sun in his journey. its eloquence, its patriotism, its crowded illustrations, drawn from vast resources of knowledge, its epigrammatic axioms, its occasional pleasantries, are all characteristic of the writer. mr. gulian c. verplanck, the venerable senior member of the society, proposed the vote of thanks to mr. motley with words of warm commendation. mr. william cullen bryant rose and said:-- "i take great pleasure in seconding the resolution which has just been read. the eminent historian of the dutch republic, who has made the story of its earlier days as interesting as that of athens and sparta, and who has infused into the narrative the generous glow of his own genius, has the highest of titles to be heard with respectful attention by the citizens of a community which, in its origin, was an offshoot of that renowned republic. and cheerfully has that title been recognized, as the vast audience assembled here to-night, in spite of the storm, fully testifies; and well has our illustrious friend spoken of the growth of civilization and of the improvement in the condition of mankind, both in the old world--the institutions of which he has so lately observed--and in the country which is proud to claim him as one of her children." soon after the election of general grant, mr. motley received the appointment of minister to england. that the position was one which was in many respects most agreeable to him cannot be doubted. yet it was not with unmingled feelings of satisfaction, not without misgivings which warned him but too truly of the dangers about to encompass him, that he accepted the place. he writes to me on april , :-- "i feel anything but exultation at present,--rather the opposite sensation. i feel that i am placed higher than i deserve, and at the same time that i am taking greater responsibilities than ever were assumed by me before. you will be indulgent to my mistakes and shortcomings,--and who can expect to avoid them? but the world will be cruel, and the times are threatening. i shall do my best,--but the best may be poor enough,--and keep 'a heart for any fate.'" xxi. - . aet. - . recall from the english mission.--its alleged and its probable reasons. the misgivings thus expressed to me in confidence, natural enough in one who had already known what it is to fall on evil days and evil tongues, were but too well justified by after events. i could have wished to leave untold the story of the english mission, an episode in motley's life full of heart-burnings, and long to be regretted as a passage of american history. but his living appeal to my indulgence comes to me from his grave as a call for his defence, however little needed, at least as a part of my tribute to his memory. it is little needed, because the case is clear enough to all intelligent readers of our diplomatic history, and because his cause has been amply sustained by others in many ways better qualified than myself to do it justice. the task is painful, for if a wrong was done him it must be laid at the doors of those whom the nation has delighted to honor, and whose services no error of judgment or feeling or conduct can ever induce us to forget. if he confessed him, self-liable, like the rest of us, to mistakes and shortcomings, we must remember that the great officers of the government who decreed his downfall were not less the subjects of human infirmity. the outline to be filled up is this: a new administration had just been elected. the "alabama treaty," negotiated by motley's predecessor, mr. reverdy johnson, had been rejected by the senate. the minister was recalled, and motley, nominated without opposition and unanimously confirmed by the senate, was sent to england in his place. he was welcomed most cordially on his arrival at liverpool, and replied in a similar strain of good feeling, expressing the same kindly sentiments which may be found in his instructions. soon after arriving in london he had a conversation with lord clarendon, the british foreign secretary, of which he sent a full report to his own government. while the reported conversation was generally approved of in the government's dispatch acknowledging it, it was hinted that some of its expressions were stronger than were required by the instructions, and that one of its points was not conveyed in precise conformity with the president's view. the criticism was very gently worded, and the dispatch closed with a somewhat guarded paragraph repeating the government's approbation. this was the first offence alleged against mr. motley. the second ground of complaint was that he had shown written minutes of this conversation to lord clarendon to obtain his confirmation of its exactness, and that he had--as he said, inadvertently,--omitted to make mention to the government of this circumstance until some weeks after the time of the interview. he was requested to explain to lord clarendon that a portion of his presentation and treatment of the subject discussed at the interview immediately after his arrival was disapproved by the secretary of state, and he did so in a written communication, in which he used the very words employed by mr. fish in his criticism of the conversation with lord clarendon. an alleged mistake; a temperate criticism, coupled with a general approval; a rectification of the mistake criticised. all this within the first two months of mr. motley's official residence in london. no further fault was found with him, so far as appears, in the discharge of his duties, to which he must have devoted himself faithfully, for he writes to me, under the date of december , : "i have worked harder in the discharge of this mission than i ever did in my life." this from a man whose working powers astonished the old dutch archivist, groen van prinsterer, means a good deal. more than a year had elapsed since the interview with lord clarendon, which had been the subject of criticism. in the mean time a paper of instructions was sent to motley, dated september , , in which the points in the report of his interview which had been found fault with are so nearly covered by similar expressions, that there seemed no real ground left for difference between the government and the minister. whatever over-statement there had been, these new instructions would imply that the government was now ready to go quite as far as the minister had gone, and in some points to put the case still more strongly. everything was going on quietly. important business had been transacted, with no sign of distrust or discontent on the part of the government as regarded motley. whatever mistake he was thought to have committed was condoned by amicable treatment, neutralized by the virtual indorsement of the government in the instructions of the th of september, and obsolete as a ground of quarrel by lapse of time. the question about which the misunderstanding, if such it deserves to be called, had taken place, was no longer a possible source of disagreement, as it had long been settled that the alabama case should only be opened again at the suggestion of the british government, and that it should be transferred to washington whenever that suggestion should again bring it up for consideration. such was the aspect of affairs at the american legation in london. no foreign minister felt more secure in his place than mr. motley. "i thought myself," he says in the letter of december , "entirely in the confidence of my own government, and i know that i had the thorough confidence and the friendship of the leading personages in england." all at once, on the first of july, , a letter was written by the secretary of state, requesting him to resign. this gentle form of violence is well understood in the diplomatic service. horace walpole says, speaking of lady archibald hamilton: "they have civilly asked her and grossly forced her to ask civilly to go away, which she has done, with a pension of twelve hundred a year." such a request is like the embrace of the "virgin" in old torture-chambers. she is robed in soft raiment, but beneath it are the knife-blades which are ready to lacerate and kill the victim, if he awaits the pressure of the machinery already in motion. mr. motley knew well what was the logical order in an official execution, and saw fit to let the government work its will upon him as its servant. in november he was recalled. the recall of a minister under such circumstances is an unusual if not an unprecedented occurrence. the government which appoints a citizen to represent the country at a foreign court assumes a very serious obligation to him. the next administration may turn him out and nothing will be thought of it. he may be obliged to ask for his passports and leave all at once if war is threatened between his own country and that which he represents. he may, of course, be recalled for gross misconduct. but his dismissal is very serious matter to him personally, and not to be thought of on the ground of passion or caprice. marriage is a simple business, but divorce is a very different thing. the world wants to know the reason of it; the law demands its justification. it was a great blow to mr. motley, a cause of indignation to those who were interested in him, a surprise and a mystery to the world in general. when he, his friends, and the public, all startled by this unexpected treatment, looked to find an explanation of it, one was found which seemed to many quite sufficient. mr. sumner had been prominent among those who had favored his appointment. a very serious breach had taken place between the president and mr. sumner on the important san domingo question. it was a quarrel, in short, neither more nor less, at least so far as the president was concerned. the proposed san domingo treaty had just been rejected by the senate, on the thirtieth day of june, and immediately thereupon,--the very next day,--the letter requesting mr. motley's resignation was issued by the executive. this fact was interpreted as implying something more than a mere coincidence. it was thought that sumner's friend, who had been supported by him as a candidate for high office, who shared many of his political ideas and feelings, who was his intimate associate, his fellow-townsman, his companion in scholarship and cultivation, his sympathetic co-laborer in many ways, had been accounted and dealt with as the ally of an enemy, and that the shaft which struck to the heart of the sensitive envoy had glanced from the 'aes triplex' of the obdurate senator. mr. motley wrote a letter to the secretary of state immediately after his recall, in which he reviewed his relations with the government from the time of his taking office, and showed that no sufficient reason could be assigned for the treatment to which he had been subjected. he referred finally to the public rumor which assigned the president's hostility to his friend sumner, growing out of the san domingo treaty question, as the cause of his own removal, and to the coincidence between the dates of the rejection of the treaty and his dismissal, with an evident belief that these two occurrences were connected by something more than accident. to this, a reply was received from the secretary of state's office, signed by mr. fish, but so objectionable in its tone and expressions that it has been generally doubted whether the paper could claim anything more of the secretary's hand than his signature. it travelled back to the old record of the conversation with lord clarendon, more than a year and a half before, took up the old exceptions, warmed them over into grievances, and joined with them whatever the 'captatores verborum,' not extinct since daniel webster's time, could add to their number. this was the letter which was rendered so peculiarly offensive by a most undignified comparison which startled every well-bred reader. no answer was possible to such a letter, and the matter rested until the death of mr. motley caused it to be brought up once more for judgment. the honorable john jay, in his tribute to the memory of mr. motley, read at a meeting of the new york historical society, vindicated his character against the attacks of the late executive in such a way as to leave an unfavorable impression as to the course of the government. objection was made on this account to placing the tribute upon the minutes of the society. this led to a publication by mr. jay, entitled "motley's appeal to history," in which the propriety of the society's action is questioned, and the wrong done to him insisted upon and further illustrated. the defence could not have fallen into better hands. bearing a name which is, in itself, a title to the confidence of the american people, a diplomatist familiar with the rights, the customs, the traditions, the courtesies, which belong to the diplomatic service, the successor of mr. motley at vienna, and therefore familiar with his official record, not self-made, which too commonly means half-made, but with careful training added to the instincts to which he had a right by inheritance, he could not allow the memory of such a scholar, of such a high-minded lover of his country, of so true a gentleman as mr. motley, to remain without challenge under the stigma of official condemnation. i must refer to mr. jay's memorial tribute as printed in the newspapers of the day, and to his "appeal" published in "the international review," for his convincing presentation of the case, and content myself with a condensed statement of the general and special causes of complaint against mr. motley, and the explanations which suggest themselves, as abundantly competent to show the insufficiency of the reasons alleged by the government as an excuse for the manner in which he was treated. the grounds of complaint against mr. motley are to be looked for:-- . in the letter of mr. fish to mr. moran, of december , . . in mr. bancroft davis's letter to the new york "herald" of january , , entitled, "mr. sumner, the alabama claims and their settlement." . the reported conversations of general grant. . the reported conversations of mr. fish. in considering mr. fish's letter, we must first notice its animus. the manner in which dickens's two old women are brought in is not only indecorous, but it shows a state of feeling from which nothing but harsh interpretation of every questionable expression of mr. motley's was to be expected. there is not the least need of maintaining the perfect fitness and rhetorical felicity of every phrase and every word used by him in his interview with lord clarendon. it is not to be expected that a minister, when about to hold a conversation with a representative of the government to which he is accredited, will commit his instructions to memory and recite them, like a school-boy "speaking his piece." he will give them more or less in his own language, amplifying, it may be, explaining, illustrating, at any rate paraphrasing in some degree, but endeavoring to convey an idea of their essential meaning. in fact, as any one can see, a conversation between two persons must necessarily imply a certain amount of extemporization on the part of both. i do not believe any long and important conference was ever had between two able men without each of them feeling that he had not spoken exactly in all respects as he would if he could say all over again. doubtless, therefore, mr. motley's report of his conversation shows that some of his expressions might have been improved, and others might as well have been omitted. a man does not change his temperament on taking office. general jackson still swore "by the eternal," and his illustrious military successor of a more recent period seems, by his own showing, to have been able to sudden impulses of excitement. it might be said of motley, as it was said of shakespeare by ben jonson, "aliquando sufflaminandus erat." yet not too much must be made of this concession. only a determination to make out a case could, as it seems to me, have framed such an indictment as that which the secretary constructed by stringing together a slender list of pretended peccadillos. one instance will show the extreme slightness which characterizes many of the grounds of inculpation:-- the instructions say, "the government, in rejecting the recent convention, abandons neither its own claims nor those of its citizens," etc. mr. motley said, in the course of his conversation, "at present, the united states government, while withdrawing neither its national claims nor the claims of its individual citizens against the british government," etc. mr. fish says, "the determination of this government not to abandon its claims nor those of its citizens was stated parenthetically, and in such a subordinate way as not necessarily to attract the attention of lord clarendon." what reported conversation can stand a captious criticism like this? are there not two versions of the ten commandments which were given out in the thunder and smoke of sinai, and would the secretary hold that this would have been a sufficient reason to recall moses from his "divine legation" at the court of the almighty? there are certain expressions which, as mr. fish shows them apart from their connection, do very certainly seem in bad taste, if not actually indiscreet and unjustifiable. let me give an example:-- "instead of expressing the hope entertained by this government that there would be an early, satisfactory, and friendly settlement of the questions at issue, he volunteered the unnecessary, and from the manner in which it was thrust in, the highly objectionable statement that the united states government had no insidious purposes,'" etc. this sounds very badly as mr. fish puts it; let us see how it stands in its proper connection:-- "he [lord clarendon] added with some feeling, that in his opinion it would be highly objectionable that the question should be hung up on a peg, to be taken down at some convenient moment for us, when it might be difficult for the british government to enter upon its solution, and when they might go into the debate at a disadvantage. these were, as nearly as i can remember, his words, and i replied very earnestly that i had already answered that question when i said that my instructions were to propose as brief a delay as would probably be requisite for the cooling of passions and for producing the calm necessary for discussing the defects of the old treaty and a basis for a new one. the united states government had no insidious purposes," etc. is it not evident that lord clarendon suggested the idea which mr. motley repelled as implying an insidious mode of action? is it not just as clear that mr. fish's way of reproducing the expression without the insinuation which called it forth is a practical misstatement which does mr. motley great wrong? one more example of the method of wringing a dry cloth for drops of evidence ought to be enough to show the whole spirit of the paper. mr. fish, in his instructions:-- "it might, indeed, well have occurred in the event of the selection by lot of the arbitrator or umpire in different cases, involving however precisely the same principles, that different awards, resting upon antagonistic principles, might have been made." mr. motley, in the conversation with lord clarendon:-- "i called his lordship's attention to your very judicious suggestion that the throwing of the dice for umpires might bring about opposite decisions in cases arising out of identical principles. he agreed entirely that no principle was established by the treaty, but that the throwing of dice or drawing of lots was not a new invention on that occasion, but a not uncommon method in arbitrations. i only expressed the opinion that such an aleatory process seemed an unworthy method in arbitrations," etc. mr. fish, in his letter to mr. moran:-- "that he had in his mind at that interview something else than his letter of instructions from this department would appear to be evident, when he says that 'he called his lordship's attention to your [my] very judicious suggestion that the throwing of dice for umpire might bring about opposite decisions.' the instructions which mr. motley received from me contained no suggestion about throwing of dice.' that idea is embraced in the suggestive words 'aleatory process' (adopted by mr. motley), but previously applied in a speech made in the senate on the question of ratifying the treaty." charles sumner's speech on the johnson-clarendon treaty, april , : "in the event of failure to agree, the arbitrator is determined 'by lot' out of two persons named by each side. even if this aleatory proceeding were a proper device in the umpirage of private claims, it is strongly inconsistent with the solemnity which belongs to the present question." it is "suggestive" that the critical secretary, so keen in detecting conversational inaccuracies, having but two words to quote from a printed document, got one of them wrong. but this trivial comment must not lead the careful reader to neglect to note how much is made of what is really nothing at all. the word aleatory, whether used in its original and limited sense, or in its derived extension as a technical term of the civil law, was appropriate and convenient; one especially likely to be remembered by any person who had read mr. sumner's speech,--and everybody had read it; the secretary himself doubtless got the suggestion of determining the question "by lot" from it. what more natural than that it should be used again when the subject of appealing to chance came up in conversation? it "was an excellent good word before it was ill-sorted," and we were fortunate in having a minister who was scholar enough to know what it meant. the language used by mr. motley conveyed the idea of his instructions plainly enough, and threw in a compliment to their author which should have saved this passage at least from the wringing process. the example just given is, like the concession of belligerency to the insurgents by great britain, chiefly important as "showing animus." it is hardly necessary to bring forward other instances of virtual misrepresentation. if mr. motley could have talked his conversation over again, he would very probably have changed some expressions. but he felt bound to repeat the interview exactly as it occurred, with all the errors to which its extemporaneous character exposed it. when a case was to be made out against him, the secretary wrote, december , : "well might he say, as he did in a subsequent dispatch on the th of july, , that he had gone beyond the strict letter of his instructions. he might have added, in direct opposition to their temper and spirit." of the same report the secretary had said, june , : "your general presentation and treatment of the several subjects discussed in that interview meet the approval of this department." this general approval is qualified by mild criticism of a single statement as not having been conveyed in "precise conformity" to the president's view. the minister was told he might be well content to rest the question on the very forcible presentation he had made of the american side of the question, and that if there were expressions used stronger than were required by his instructions, they were in the right direction. the mere fact that a minute of this conversation was confidentially submitted to lord clarendon in order that our own government might have his authority for the accuracy of the record, which was intended exclusively for its own use, and that this circumstance was overlooked and not reported to the government until some weeks afterward, are the additional charges against mr. motley. the submission of the dispatch containing an account of the interview, the secretary says, is not inconsistent with diplomatic usage, but it is inconsistent with the duty of a minister not to inform his government of that submission. "mr. motley submitted the draft of his no. to lord clarendon, and failed to communicate that fact to his government." he did inform mr. fish, at any rate, on the th of july, and alleged "inadvertence" as the reason for his omission to do it before. inasmuch as submitting the dispatch was not inconsistent with diplomatic usage, nothing seems left to find fault with but the not very long delay in mentioning the fact, or in his making the note "private and confidential," as is so frequently done in diplomatic correspondence. such were the grounds of complaint. on the strength of the conversation which had met with the general approval of the government, tempered by certain qualifications, and of the omission to report immediately to the government the fact of its verification by lord clarendon, the secretary rests the case against mr. motley. on these grounds it was that, according to him, the president withdrew all right to discuss the alabama question from the minister whose dismissal was now only a question of time. but other evidence comes in here. mr. motley says:-- "it was, as i supposed, understood before my departure for england, although not publicly announced, that the so-called alabama negotiations, whenever renewed, should be conducted at washington, in case of the consent of the british government." mr. sumner says, in his "explanation in reply to an assault:"-- "the secretary in a letter to me at boston, dated at washington, october , , informs the that the discussion of the question was withdrawn from london 'because (the italics are the secretary's) we think that when renewed it can be carried on here with a better prospect of settlement, than where the late attempt at a convention which resulted so disastrously and was conducted so strangely was had;' and what the secretary thus wrote he repeated in conversation when we met, carefully making the transfer to washington depend upon our advantage here, from the presence of the senate,--thus showing that the pretext put forth to wound mr. motley was an afterthought." again we may fairly ask how the government came to send a dispatch like that of september , , in which the views and expressions for which mr. motley's conversation had been criticised were so nearly reproduced, and with such emphasis that mr. motley says, in a letter to me, dated april , , "it not only covers all the ground which i ever took, but goes far beyond it. no one has ever used stronger language to the british government than is contained in that dispatch. . . . it is very able and well worth your reading. lord clarendon called it to me 'sumner's speech over again.' it was thought by the english cabinet to have 'out-sumnered sumner,' and now our government, thinking that every one in the united states had forgotten the dispatch, makes believe that i was removed because my sayings and doings in england were too much influenced by sumner!" mr. motley goes on to speak of the report that an offer of his place in england was made to sumner "to get him out of the way of san domingo." the facts concerning this offer are now sufficiently known to the public. here i must dismiss mr. fish's letter to mr. moran, having, as i trust, sufficiently shown the spirit in which it was written and the strained interpretations and manifest overstatements by which it attempts to make out its case against mr. motley. i will not parade the two old women, whose untimely and unseemly introduction into the dress-circle of diplomacy was hardly to have been expected of the high official whose name is at the bottom of this paper. they prove nothing, they disprove nothing, they illustrate nothing--except that a statesman may forget himself. neither will i do more than barely allude to the unfortunate reference to the death of lord clarendon as connected with mr. motley's removal, so placidly disposed of by a sentence or two in the london "times" of january , . i think we may consider ourselves ready for the next witness. mr. j. c. bancroft davis, assistant secretary of state under president grant and secretary fish, wrote a letter to the new york "herald," under the date of january , , since reprinted as a pamphlet and entitled "mr. sumner, the alabama claims and their settlement." mr. sumner was never successfully attacked when living,--except with a bludgeon,--and his friends have more than sufficiently vindicated him since his death. but mr. motley comes in for his share of animadversion in mr. davis's letter. he has nothing of importance to add to mr. fish's criticisms on the interview with lord clarendon. only he brings out the head and front of mr. motley's offending by italicizing three very brief passages from his conversation at this interview; not discreetly, as it seems to me, for they will not bear the strain that is put upon them. these are the passages:-- . "but that such, measures must always be taken with a full view of the grave responsibilities assumed." . "and as being the fountain head of the disasters which had been caused to the american people." . "as the fruits of the proclamation." . it is true that nothing was said of responsibility in mr. motley's instructions. but the idea was necessarily involved in their statements. for if, as mr. motley's instructions say, the right of a power "to define its own relations," etc., when a civil conflict has arisen in another state depends on its (the conflict's) having "attained a sufficient complexity, magnitude, and completeness," inasmuch as that power has to judge whether it has or has not fulfilled these conditions, and is of course liable to judge wrong, every such act of judgment must be attended with grave responsibilities. the instructions say that "the necessity and propriety of the original concession of belligerency by great britain at the time it was made have been contested and are not admitted." it follows beyond dispute that great britain may in this particular case have incurred grave responsibilities; in fact, the whole negotiations implied as much. perhaps mr. motley need not have used the word "responsibilities." but considering that the government itself said in dispatch no. , september , , "the president does not deny, on the contrary he maintains, that every sovereign power decides for itself on its responsibility whether or not it will, at a given time, accord the status of belligerency," etc., it was hardly worth while to use italics about mr. motley's employment of the same language as constituting a grave cause of offence. . mr. motley's expression, "as being the fountain head of the disasters," is a conversational paraphrase of the words of his instructions, "as it shows the beginning and the animus of that course of conduct which resulted so disastrously," which is not "in precise conformity" with his instructions, but is just such a variation as is to be expected when one is talking with another and using the words that suggest themselves at the moment, just as the familiar expression, "hung up on a peg," probably suggested itself to lord clarendon. . "the fruits of the proclamation" is so inconsiderable a variation on the text of the instructions, "supplemented by acts causing direct damage," that the secretary's hint about want of precise conformity seems hardly to have been called for. it is important to notice this point in the instructions: with other powers mr. motley was to take the position that the "recognition of the insurgents' state of war" was made "no ground of complaint;" with great britain that the cause of grievance was "not so much" placed upon the issuance of this recognition as upon her conduct under, and subsequent to, such recognition. there is no need of maintaining the exact fitness of every expression used by mr. motley. but any candid person who will carefully read the government's dispatch no. , dated september , , will see that a government holding such language could find nothing in mr. motley's expressions in a conversation held at his first official interview to visit with official capital punishment more than a year afterwards. if mr. motley had, as it was pretended, followed sumner, mr. fish had "out-sumnered" the senator himself. mr. davis's pamphlet would hardly be complete without a mysterious letter from an unnamed writer, whether a faithless friend, a disguised enemy, a secret emissary, or an injudicious alarmist, we have no means of judging for ourselves. the minister appears to have been watched by somebody in london, as he was in vienna. this somebody wrote a private letter in which he expressed "fear and regret that mr. motley's bearing in his social intercourse was throwing obstacles in the way of a future settlement." the charge as mentioned in mr. davis's letter is hardly entitled to our attention. mr. sumner considered it the work of an enemy, and the recollection of the m'crackin letter might well have made the government cautious of listening to complaints of such a character. this somebody may have been one whom we should call nobody. we cannot help remembering how well 'outis' served 'oduxseus' of old, when he was puzzled to extricate himself from an embarrassing position. 'stat nominis umbra' is a poor showing for authority to support an attack on a public servant exposed to every form of open and insidious abuse from those who are prejudiced against his person or his birthplace, who are jealous of his success, envious of his position, hostile to his politics, dwarfed by his reputation, or hate him by the divine right of idiosyncrasy, always liable, too, to questioning comment from well-meaning friends who happen to be suspicious or sensitive in their political or social relations. the reported sayings of general grant and of mr. fish to the correspondents who talked with them may be taken for what they are worth. they sound naturally enough to have come from the speakers who are said to have uttered them. i quote the most important part of the edinburgh letter, september , , to the new york "herald." these are the words attributed to general grant:-- "mr. motley was certainly a very able, very honest gentleman, fit to hold any official position. but he knew long before he went out that he would have to go. when i was making these appointments, mr. sumner came to me and asked me to appoint mr. motley as minister to the court of st. james. i told him i would, and did. soon after mr. sumner made that violent speech about the alabama claims, and the british government was greatly offended. mr. sumner was at the time chairman of the committee on foreign affairs. mr. motley had to be instructed. the instructions were prepared very carefully, and after governor fish and i had gone over them for the last time i wrote an addendum charging him that above all things he should handle the subject of the alabama claims with the greatest delicacy. mr. motley instead of obeying his explicit instructions, deliberately fell in line with sumner, and thus added insult to the previous injury. as soon as i heard of it i went over to the state department and told governor fish to dismiss motley at once. i was very angry indeed, and i have been sorry many a time since that i did not stick to my first determination. mr. fish advised delay because of sumner's position in the senate and attitude on the treaty question. we did not want to stir him up just then. we dispatched a note of severe censure to motley at once and ordered him to abstain from any further connection with that question. we thereupon commenced negotiations with the british minister at washington, and the result was the joint high commission and the geneva award. i supposed mr. motley would be manly enough to resign after that snub, but he kept on till he was removed. mr. sumner promised me that he would vote for the treaty. but when it was before the senate he did all he could to beat it." general grant talked again at cairo, in egypt. "grant then referred to the statement published at an interview with him in scotland, and said the publication had some omissions and errors. he had no ill-will towards mr. motley, who, like other estimable men, made mistakes, and motley made a mistake which made him an improper person to hold office under me." "it is proper to say of me that i killed motley, or that i made war upon sumner for not supporting the annexation of san domingo. but if i dare to answer that i removed motley from the highest considerations of duty as an executive; if i presume to say that he made a mistake in his office which made him no longer useful to the country; if fish has the temerity to hint that sumner's temper was so unfortunate that business relations with him became impossible, we are slandering the dead." "nothing but mortimer." those who knew both men--the ex-president and the late senator--would agree, i do not doubt, that they would not be the most promising pair of human beings to make harmonious members of a political happy family. "cedant arma togae," the life-long sentiment of sumner, in conflict with "stand fast and stand sure," the well-known device of the clan of grant, reminds one of the problem of an irresistible force in collision with an insuperable resistance. but the president says,--or is reported as saying,--"i may be blamed for my opposition to mr. sumner's tactics, but i was not guided so much by reason of his personal hatred of myself, as i was by a desire to protect our national interests in diplomatic affairs." "it would be useless," says mr. davis in his letter to the "herald," "to enter into a controversy whether the president may or may not have been influenced in the final determination of the moment for requesting motley's resignation by the feeling caused by sumner's personal hostility and abuse of himself." unfortunately, this controversy had been entered into, and the idleness of suggesting any relation of cause and effect between mr. motley's dismissal and the irritation produced in the president's mind by the rejection of the san domingo treaty--which rejection was mainly due to motley's friend sumner's opposition --strongly insisted upon in a letter signed by the secretary of state. too strongly, for here it was that he failed to remember what was due to his office, to himself, and to the gentleman of whom he was writing; if indeed it was the secretary's own hand which held the pen, and not another's. we might as well leave out the wrath of achilles from the iliad, as the anger of the president with sumner from the story of motley's dismissal. the sad recital must always begin with m-----------. he was, he is reported as saying, "very angry indeed" with motley because he had, fallen in line with sumner. he couples them together in his conversation as closely as chang and eng were coupled. the death of lord clarendon would have covered up the coincidence between the rejection of the san domingo treaty and mr. motley's dismissal very neatly, but for the inexorable facts about its date, as revealed by the london "times." it betrays itself as an afterthought, and its failure as a defence reminds us too nearly of the trial in which mr. webster said suicide is confession. it is not strange that the spurs of the man who had so lately got out of the saddle should catch in the scholastic robe of the man on the floor of the senate. but we should not have looked for any such antagonism between the secretary of state and the envoy to great britain. on the contrary, they must have had many sympathies, and it must have cost the secretary pain, as he said it did, to be forced to communicate with mr. moran instead of with mr. motley. he, too, was inquired of by one of the emissaries of the american unholy inquisition. his evidence is thus reported: "the reason for mr. motley's removal was found in considerations of state. he misrepresented the government on the alabama question, especially in the two speeches made by him before his arrival at his post." these must be the two speeches made to the american and the liverpool chambers of commerce. if there is anything in these short addresses beyond those civil generalities which the occasion called out, i have failed to find it. if it was in these that the reason of mr. motley's removal was to be looked for, it is singular that they are not mentioned in the secretary's letter to mr. moran, or by mr. davis in his letter to the new york "herald." they must have been as unsuccessful as myself in the search after anything in these speeches which could be construed into misinterpretation of the government on the alabama question. we may much more readily accept "considerations of state" as a reason for mr. motley's removal. considerations of state have never yet failed the axe or the bowstring when a reason for the use of those convenient implements was wanted, and they are quite equal to every emergency which can arise in a republican autocracy. but for the very reason that a minister is absolutely in the power of his government, the manner in which that power is used is always open to the scrutiny, and, if it has been misused, to the condemnation, of a tribunal higher than itself; a court that never goes out of office, and which no personal feelings, no lapse of time, can silence. the ostensible grounds on which mr. motley was recalled are plainly insufficient to account for the action of the government. if it was in great measure a manifestation of personal feeling on the part of the high officials by whom and through whom the act was accomplished, it was a wrong which can never be repaired and never sufficiently regretted. stung by the slanderous report of an anonymous eavesdropper to whom the government of the day was not ashamed to listen, he had quitted vienna, too hastily, it may be, but wounded, indignant, feeling that he had been unworthily treated. the sudden recall from london, on no pretext whatever but an obsolete and overstated incident which had ceased to have any importance, was under these circumstances a deadly blow. it fell upon "the new-healed wound of malice," and though he would not own it, and bore up against it, it was a shock from which he never fully recovered. "i hope i am one of those," he writes to me from the hague, in , "who 'fortune's buffets and rewards can take with equal thanks.' i am quite aware that i have had far more than i deserve of political honors, and they might have had my post as a voluntary gift on my part had they remembered that i was an honorable man, and not treated me as a detected criminal deserves to be dealt with." mr. sumner naturally felt very deeply what he considered the great wrong done to his friend. he says:-- "how little mr. motley merited anything but respect and courtesy from the secretary is attested by all who know his eminent position in london, and the service he rendered to his country. already the london press, usually slow to praise americans when strenuous for their country, has furnished its voluntary testimony. the 'daily news' of august , , spoke of the insulted minister in these terms:-- "'we are violating no confidence in saying that all the hopes of mr. motley's official residence in england have been amply fulfilled, and that the announcement of his unexpected and unexplained recall was received with extreme astonishment and unfeigned regret. the vacancy he leaves cannot possibly be filled by a minister more sensitive to the honor of his government, more attentive to the interests of his country, and more capable of uniting the most vigorous performance of his public duties with the high-bred courtesy and conciliatory tact and temper that make those duties easy and successful. mr. motley's successor will find his mission wonderfully facilitated by the firmness and discretion that have presided over the conduct of american affairs in this country during too brief a term, too suddenly and unaccountably concluded.'" no man can escape being found fault with when it is necessary to make out a case against him. a diplomatist is watched by the sharpest eyes and commented on by the most merciless tongues. the best and wisest has his defects, and sometimes they would seem to be very grave ones if brought up against him in the form of accusation. take these two portraits, for instance, as drawn by john quincy adams. the first is that of stratford canning, afterwards lord stratford de redcliffe:-- "he is to depart to-morrow. i shall probably see him no more. he is a proud, high-tempered englishman, of good but not extraordinary parts; stubborn and punctilious, with a disposition to be overbearing, which i have often been compelled to check in its own way. he is, of all the foreign ministers with whom i have had occasion to treat, the man who has most severely tried my temper. yet he has been long in the diplomatic career, and treated with governments of the most opposite characters. he has, however, a great respect for his word, and there is nothing false about him. this is an excellent quality for a negotiator. mr. canning is a man of forms, studious of courtesy, and tenacious of private morals. as a diplomatic man, his great want is suppleness, and his great virtue is sincerity." the second portrait is that of the french minister, hyde de neuville:-- "no foreign minister who ever resided here has been so universally esteemed and beloved, nor have i ever been in political relations with any foreign statesman of whose moral qualities i have formed so good an opinion, with the exception of count romanzoff. he has not sufficient command of his temper, is quick, irritable, sometimes punctilious, occasionally indiscreet in his discourse, and tainted with royalist and bourbon prejudices. but he has strong sentiments of honor, justice, truth, and even liberty. his flurries of temper pass off as quickly as they rise. he is neither profound nor sublime nor brilliant; but a man of strong and good feelings, with the experience of many vicissitudes of fortune, a good but common understanding, and good intentions biassed by party feelings, occasional interests, and personal affections." it means very little to say that a man has some human imperfections, or that a public servant might have done some things better. but when a questionable cause is to be justified, the victim's excellences are looked at with the eyes of liliput and his failings with those of brobdingnag. the recall of a foreign minister for alleged misconduct in office is a kind of capital punishment. it is the nearest approach to the sultan's bowstring which is permitted to the chief magistrate of our republic. a general can do nothing under martial law more peremptory than a president can do with regard to the public functionary whom he has appointed with the advice and consent of the senate, but whom he can officially degrade and disgrace at his own pleasure for insufficient cause or for none at all. like the centurion of scripture, he says go, and he goeth. the nation's representative is less secure in his tenure of office than his own servant, to whom he must give warning of his impending dismissal. "a breath unmakes him as a breath has made." the chief magistrate's responsibility to duty, to the fellow-citizen at his mercy, to his countrymen, to mankind, is in proportion to his power. his prime minister, the agent of his edicts, should feel bound to withstand him if he seeks to gratify a personal feeling under the plea of public policy, unless the minister, like the slaves of the harem, is to find his qualification for office in leaving his manhood behind him. the two successive administrations, which treated mr. motley in a manner unworthy of their position and cruel, if not fatal to him, have been heard, directly or through their advocates. i have attempted to show that the defence set up for their action is anything but satisfactory. a later generation will sit in judgment upon the evidence more calmly than our own. it is not for a friend, like the writer, to anticipate its decision, but unless the reasons alleged to justify his treatment, and which have so much the air of afterthoughts, shall seem stronger to that future tribunal than they do to him, the verdict will be that mr. motley was twice sacrificed to personal feelings which should never have been cherished by the heads of the government, and should never have been countenanced by their chief advisers. john lothrop motley. a memoir by oliver wendell holmes, sr. volume iii. xxii. . aet. . "life of john of barneveld."--criticisms.--groen van prinsterer. the full title of mr. motley's next and last work is "the life and death of john of barneveld, advocate of holland; with a view of the primary causes and movements of the thirty years' war." in point of fact this work is a history rather than a biography. it is an interlude, a pause between the acts which were to fill out the complete plan of the "eighty years' tragedy," and of which the last act, the thirty years' war, remains unwritten. the "life of barneveld" was received as a fitting and worthy continuation of the series of intellectual labor in which he was engaged. i will quote but two general expressions of approval from the two best known british critical reviews. in connection with his previous works, it forms, says "the london quarterly," "a fine and continuous story, of which the writer and the nation celebrated by him have equal reason to be proud; a narrative which will remain a prominent ornament of american genius, while it has permanently enriched english literature on this as well as on the other side of the atlantic." "the edinburgh review" speaks no less warmly: "we can hardly give too much appreciation to that subtile alchemy of the brain which has enabled him to produce out of dull, crabbed, and often illegible state papers, the vivid, graphic, and sparkling narrative which he has given to the world." in a literary point of view, m. groen van prinsterer, whose elaborate work has been already referred to, speaks of it as perhaps the most classical of motley's productions, but it is upon this work that the force of his own and other dutch criticisms has been chiefly expended. the key to this biographical history or historical biography may be found in a few sentences from its opening chapter. "there have been few men at any period whose lives have been more closely identical than his [barneveld's] with a national history. there have been few great men in any history whose names have become less familiar to the world, and lived less in the mouths of posterity. yet there can be no doubt that if william the silent was the founder of the independence of the united provinces, barneveld was the founder of the commonwealth itself. . . . "had that country of which he was so long the first citizen maintained until our own day the same proportional position among the empires of christendom as it held in the seventeenth century, the name of john of barneveld would have perhaps been as familiar to all men as it is at this moment to nearly every inhabitant of the netherlands. even now political passion is almost as ready to flame forth, either in ardent affection or enthusiastic hatred, as if two centuries and a half had not elapsed since his death. his name is so typical of a party, a polity, and a faith, so indelibly associated with a great historical cataclysm, as to render it difficult even for the grave, the conscientious, the learned, the patriotic, of his own compatriots to speak of him with absolute impartiality. "a foreigner who loves and admires all that is great and noble in the history of that famous republic, and can have no hereditary bias as to its ecclesiastical or political theories, may at least attempt the task with comparative coldness, although conscious of inability to do thorough justice to a most complex subject." with all mr. motley's efforts to be impartial, to which even his sternest critics bear witness, he could not help becoming a partisan of the cause which for him was that of religious liberty and progress, as against the accepted formula of an old ecclesiastical organization. for the quarrel which came near being a civil war, which convulsed the state, and cost barneveld his head, had its origin in a difference on certain points, and more especially on a single point, of religious doctrine. as a great river may be traced back until its fountainhead is found in a thread of water streaming from a cleft in the rocks, so a great national movement may sometimes be followed until its starting-point is found in the cell of a monk or the studies of a pair of wrangling professors. the religious quarrel of the dutchmen in the seventeenth century reminds us in some points of the strife between two parties in our own new england, sometimes arraying the "church" on one side against the "parish," or the general body of worshippers, on the other. the portraits of gomarus, the great orthodox champion, and arminius, the head and front of the "liberal theology" of his day, as given in the little old quarto of meursius, recall two ministerial types of countenance familiar to those who remember the earlier years of our century. under the name of "remonstrants" and "contra-remonstrants,"--arminians and old-fashioned calvinists, as we should say,--the adherents of the two leyden professors disputed the right to the possession of the churches, and the claim to be considered as representing the national religion. of the seven united provinces, two, holland and utrecht, were prevailingly arminian, and the other five calvinistic. barneveld, who, under the title of advocate, represented the province of holland, the most important of them all, claimed for each province a right to determine its own state religion. maurice the stadholder, son of william the silent, the military chief of the republic, claimed the right for the states-general. 'cujus regio ejus religio' was then the accepted public doctrine of protestant nations. thus the provincial and the general governments were brought into conflict by their creeds, and the question whether the republic was a confederation or a nation, the same question which has been practically raised, and for the time at least settled, in our own republic, was in some way to be decided. after various disturbances and acts of violence by both parties, maurice, representing the states-general, pronounced for the calvinists or contra-remonstrants, and took possession of one of the great churches, as an assertion of his authority. barneveld, representing the arminian or remonstrant provinces, levied a body of mercenary soldiers in several of the cities. these were disbanded by maurice, and afterwards by an act of the states-general. barneveld was apprehended, imprisoned, and executed, after an examination which was in no proper sense a trial. grotius, who was on the arminian side and involved in the inculpated proceedings, was also arrested and imprisoned. his escape, by a stratagem successfully repeated by a slave in our own times, may challenge comparison for its romantic interest with any chapter of fiction. how his wife packed him into the chest supposed to contain the folios of the great oriental scholar erpenius, how the soldiers wondered at its weight and questioned whether it did not hold an arminian, how the servant-maid, elsje van houwening, quick-witted as morgiana of the "forty thieves," parried their questions and convoyed her master safely to the friendly place of refuge,--all this must be read in the vivid narrative of the author. the questions involved were political, local, personal, and above all religious. here is the picture which motley draws of the religious quarrel as it divided the people:-- "in burghers' mansions, peasants' cottages, mechanics' back-parlors; on board herring-smacks, canal-boats, and east indiamen; in shops, counting-rooms, farm-yards, guard-rooms, alehouses; on the exchange, in the tennis court, on the mall; at banquets, at burials, christenings, or bridals; wherever and whenever human creatures met each other, there was ever to be found the fierce wrangle of remonstrant and contra-remonstrant, the hissing of red-hot theological rhetoric, the pelting of hostile texts. the blacksmith's iron cooled on the anvil, the tinker dropped a kettle half mended, the broker left a bargain unclinched, the scheveningen fisherman in his wooden shoes forgot the cracks in his pinkie, while each paused to hold high converse with friend or foe on fate, free- will, or absolute foreknowledge; losing himself in wandering mazes whence there was no issue. province against province, city against city, family against family; it was one vast scene of bickering, denunciation, heart-burnings, mutual excommunication and hatred." the religious grounds of the quarrel which set these seventeenth-century dutchmen to cutting each other's throats were to be looked for in the "five points" of the arminians as arrayed against the "seven points" of the gomarites, or contra-remonstrants. the most important of the differences which were to be settled by fratricide seem to have been these:-- according to the five points, "god has from eternity resolved to choose to eternal life those who through his grace believe in jesus christ," etc. according to the seven points, "god in his election has not looked at the belief and the repentance of the elect," etc. according to the five points, all good deeds must be ascribed to god's grace in christ, but it does not work irresistibly. the language of the seven points implies that the elect cannot resist god's eternal and unchangeable design to give them faith and steadfastness, and that they can never wholly and for always lose the true faith. the language of the five points is unsettled as to the last proposition, but it was afterwards maintained by the remonstrant party that a true believer could, through his own fault, fall away from god and lose faith. it must be remembered that these religious questions had an immediate connection with politics. independently of the conflict of jurisdiction, in which they involved the parties to the two different creeds, it was believed or pretended that the new doctrines of the remonstrants led towards romanism, and were allied with designs which threatened the independence of the country. "there are two factions in the land," said maurice, "that of orange and that of spain, and the two chiefs of the spanish faction are those political and priestly arminians, uytenbogaert and oldenbarneveld." the heads of the two religious and political parties were in such hereditary, long-continued, and intimate relations up to the time when one signed the other's death-warrant, that it was impossible to write the life of one without also writing that of the other. for his biographer john of barneveld is the true patriot, the martyr, whose cause was that of religious and political freedom. for him maurice is the ambitious soldier who hated his political rival, and never rested until this rival was brought to the scaffold. the questions which agitated men's minds two centuries and a half ago are not dead yet in the country where they produced such estrangement, violence, and wrong. no stranger could take them up without encountering hostile criticism from one party or the other. it may be and has been conceded that mr. motley writes as a partisan,--a partisan of freedom in politics and religion, as he understands freedom. this secures him the antagonism of one class of critics. but these critics are themselves partisans, and themselves open to the cross-fire of their antagonists. m. groen van prinsterer, "the learned and distinguished" editor of the "archives et correspondance" of the orange and nassau family, published a considerable volume, before referred to, in which many of motley's views are strongly controverted. but he himself is far from being in accord with "that eminent scholar," m. bakhuyzen van den brink, whose name, he says, is celebrated enough to need no comment, or with m. fruin, of whose impartiality and erudition he himself speaks in the strongest terms. the ground upon which he is attacked is thus stated in his own words:-- "people have often pretended to find in my writings the deplorable influence of an extreme calvinism. the puritans of the seventeenth century are my fellow-religionists. i am a sectarian and not an historian." it is plain enough to any impartial reader that there are at least plausible grounds for this accusation against mr. motley's critic. and on a careful examination of the formidable volume, it becomes obvious that mr. motley has presented a view of the events and the personages of the stormy epoch with which he is dealing, which leaves a battle-ground yet to be fought over by those who come after him. the dispute is not and cannot be settled. the end of all religious discussion has come when one of the parties claims that it is thinking or acting under immediate divine guidance. "it is god's affair, and his honor is touched," says william lewis to prince maurice. mr. motley's critic is not less confident in claiming the almighty as on the side of his own views. let him state his own ground of departure:-- "to show the difference, let me rather say the contrast, between the point of view of mr. motley and my own, between the unitarian and the evangelical belief. i am issue of calvin, child of the awakening (reveil). faithful to the device of the reformers: justification by faith alone, and the word of god endures eternally. i consider history from the point of view of merle d'aubigne, chalmers, guizot. i desire to be disciple and witness of our lord and saviour, jesus christ." he is therefore of necessity antagonistic to a writer whom he describes in such words as these:-- "mr. motley is liberal and rationalist. "he becomes, in attacking the principle of the reformation, the passionate opponent of the puritans and of maurice, the ardent apologist of barnevelt and the arminians. "it is understood, and he makes no mystery of it, that he inclines towards the vague and undecided doctrine of the unitarians." what m. groen's idea of unitarians is may be gathered from the statement about them which he gets from a letter of de tocqueville. "they are pure deists; they talk about the bible, because they do not wish to shock too severely public opinion, which is prevailingly christian. they have a service on sundays; i have been there. at it they read verses from dryden or other english poets on the existence of god and the immortality of the soul. they deliver a discourse on some point of morality, and all is said." in point of fact the wave of protest which stormed the dikes of dutch orthodoxy in the seventeenth century stole gently through the bars of new england puritanism in the eighteenth. "though the large number," says mr. bancroft, "still acknowledged the fixedness of the divine decrees, and the resistless certainty from all eternity of election and of reprobation, there were not wanting, even among the clergy, some who had modified the sternness of the ancient doctrine by making the self-direction of the active powers of man with freedom of inquiry and private judgment the central idea of a protest against calvinism." protestantism, cut loose from an infallible church, and drifting with currents it cannot resist, wakes up once or oftener in every century, to find itself in a new locality. then it rubs its eyes and wonders whether it has found its harbor or only lost its anchor. there is no end to its disputes, for it has nothing but a fallible vote as authority for its oracles, and these appeal only to fallible interpreters. it is as hard to contend in argument against "the oligarchy of heaven," as motley calls the calvinistic party, as it was formerly to strive with them in arms. to this "aristocracy of god's elect" belonged the party which framed the declaration of the synod of dort; the party which under the forms of justice shed the blood of the great statesman who had served his country so long and so well. to this chosen body belonged the late venerable and truly excellent as well as learned m. groen van prinsterer, and he exercised the usual right of examining in the light of his privileged position the views of a "liberal" and "rationalist" writer who goes to meeting on sunday to hear verses from dryden. this does not diminish his claim for a fair reading of the "intimate correspondence," which he considers mr. motley has not duly taken into account, and of the other letters to be found printed in his somewhat disjointed and fragmentary volume. this "intimate correspondence" shows maurice the stadholder indifferent and lax in internal administration and as being constantly advised and urged by his relative count william of nassau. this need of constant urging extends to religious as well as other matters, and is inconsistent with m. groen van prinsterer's assertion that the question was for maurice above all religious, and for barneveld above all political. whether its negative evidence can be considered as neutralizing that which is adduced by mr. motley to show the stadholder's hatred of the advocate may be left to the reader who has just risen from the account of the mock trial and the swift execution of the great and venerable statesman. the formal entry on the record upon the day of his "judicial murder" is singularly solemn and impressive:-- "monday, th may, . to-day was executed with the sword here in the hague, on a scaffold thereto erected in the binnenhof before the steps of the great hall, mr. john of barneveld, in his life knight, lord of berkel, rodenrys, etc., advocate of holland and west friesland, for reasons expressed in the sentence and otherwise, with confiscation of his property, after he had served the state thirty- three years two months and five days, since th march, ; a man of great activity, business, memory, and wisdom,--yea, extraordinary in every respect. he that stands let him see that he does not fall." maurice gave an account of the execution of barneveld to count william lewis on the same day in a note "painfully brief and dry." most authors write their own biography consciously or unconsciously. we have seen mr. motley portraying much of himself, his course of life and his future, as he would have had it, in his first story. in this, his last work, it is impossible not to read much of his own external and internal personal history told under other names and with different accessories. the parallelism often accidentally or intentionally passes into divergence. he would not have had it too close if he could, but there are various passages in which it is plain enough that he is telling his own story. mr. motley was a diplomatist, and he writes of other diplomatists, and one in particular, with most significant detail. it need not be supposed that he intends the "arch intriguer" aerssens to stand for himself, or that he would have endured being thought to identify himself with the man of whose "almost devilish acts" he speaks so freely. but the sagacious reader--and he need not be very sharp-sighted--will very certainly see something more than a mere historical significance in some of the passages which i shall cite for him to reflect upon. mr. motley's standard of an ambassador's accomplishments may be judged from the following passage:-- "that those ministers [those of the republic] were second to the representatives of no other european state in capacity and accomplishment was a fact well known to all who had dealings with them, for the states required in their diplomatic representatives knowledge of history and international law, modern languages, and the classics, as well as familiarity with political customs and social courtesies; the breeding of gentlemen, in short, and the accomplishments of scholars." the story of the troubles of aerssens, the ambassador of the united provinces at paris, must be given at some length, and will repay careful reading. "francis aerssens . . . continued to be the dutch ambassador after the murder of henry iv. . . . he was beyond doubt one of the ablest diplomatists in europe. versed in many languages, a classical student, familiar with history and international law, a man of the world and familiar with its usages, accustomed to associate with dignity and tact on friendliest terms with sovereigns, eminent statesmen, and men of letters; endowed with a facile tongue, a fluent pen, and an eye and ear of singular acuteness and delicacy; distinguished for unflagging industry and singular aptitude for secret and intricate affairs;--he had by the exercise of these various qualities during a period of nearly twenty years at the court of henry the great been able to render inestimable services to the republic which he represented. "he had enjoyed the intimacy and even the confidence of henry iv., so far as any man could be said to possess that monarch's confidence, and his friendly relations and familiar access to the king gave him political advantages superior to those of any of his colleagues at the same court. "acting entirely and faithfully according to the instructions of the advocate of holland, he always gratefully and copiously acknowledged the privilege of being guided and sustained in the difficult paths he had to traverse by so powerful and active an intellect. i have seldom alluded in terms to the instructions and dispatches of the chief, but every position, negotiation, and opinion of the envoy --and the reader has seen many of them is pervaded by their spirit. "it had become a question whether he was to remain at his post or return. it was doubtful whether he wished to be relieved of his embassy or not. the states of holland voted 'to leave it to his candid opinion if in his free conscience he thinks he can serve the public any longer. if yes, he may keep his office one year more. if no, he may take leave and come home.' "surely the states, under the guidance of the advocate, had thus acted with consummate courtesy towards a diplomatist whose position, from no apparent fault of his own, but by the force of circumstances,--and rather to his credit than otherwise, --was gravely compromised." the queen, mary de' medici, had a talk with him, got angry, "became very red in the face," and wanted to be rid of him. "nor was the envoy at first desirous of remaining. . . . nevertheless, he yielded reluctantly to barneveld's request that he should, for the time at least, remain at his post. later on, as the intrigues against him began to unfold themselves, and his faithful services were made use of at home to blacken his character and procure his removal, he refused to resign, as to do so would be to play into the hands of his enemies, and, by inference at least, to accuse himself of infidelity to his trust. . . . "it is no wonder that the ambassador was galled to the quick by the outrage which those concerned in the government were seeking to put upon him. how could an honest man fail to be overwhelmed with rage and anguish at being dishonored before the world by his masters for scrupulously doing his duty, and for maintaining the rights and dignity of his own country? he knew that the charges were but pretexts, that the motives of his enemies were as base as the intrigues themselves, but he also knew that the world usually sides with the government against the individual, and that a man's reputation is rarely strong enough to maintain itself unsullied in a foreign land when his own government stretches forth its hand, not to shield, but to stab him. . . . "'i know,' he said, that this plot has been woven partly here in holland and partly here by good correspondence in order to drive me from my post. "'but as i have discovered this accurately, i have resolved to offer to my masters the continuance of my very humble service for such time and under such conditions as they may think good to prescribe. i prefer forcing my natural and private inclinations to giving an opportunity for the ministers of this kingdom to discredit us, and to my enemies to succeed in injuring me, and by fraud and malice to force me from my post. . . . i am truly sorry, being ready to retire, wishing to have an honorable testimony in recompense of my labors, that one is in such hurry to take advantage of my fall. . . . what envoy will ever dare to speak with vigor if he is not sustained by the government at home? . . . my enemies have misrepresented my actions, and my language as passionate, exaggerated, mischievous, but i have no passion except for the service of my superiors.' "barneveld, from well-considered motives of public policy, was favoring his honorable recall. but he allowed a decorous interval of more than three years to elapse in which to terminate his affairs, and to take a deliberate departure from that french embassy to which the advocate had originally promoted him, and in which there had been so many years of mutual benefit and confidence between the two statesmen. he used no underhand means. he did not abuse the power of the states-general which he wielded to cast him suddenly and brutally from the distinguished post which he occupied, and so to attempt to dishonor him before the world. nothing could be more respectful and conciliatory than the attitude of the government from first to last towards this distinguished functionary. the republic respected itself too much to deal with honorable agents whose services it felt obliged to dispense with as with vulgar malefactors who had been detected in crime. . . . "this work aims at being a political study. i would attempt to exemplify the influence of individual humors and passions--some of them among the highest, and others certainly the basest that agitate humanity--upon the march of great events, upon general historical results at certain epochs, and upon the destiny of eminent personages." here are two suggestive portraits:-- "the advocate, while acting only in the name of a slender confederacy, was in truth, so long as he held his place, the prime minister of european protestantism. there was none other to rival him, few to comprehend him, fewer still to sustain him. as prince maurice was at that time the great soldier of protestantism, without clearly scanning the grandeur of the field in which he was a chief actor, or foreseeing the vastness of its future, so the advocate was its statesman and its prophet. could the two have worked together as harmoniously as they had done at an earlier day, it would have been a blessing for the common weal of europe. but, alas! the evil genius of jealousy, which so often forbids cordial relations between soldier and statesman, already stood shrouded in the distance, darkly menacing the strenuous patriot, who was wearing his life out in exertions for what he deemed the true cause of progress and humanity. . . . "all history shows that the brilliant soldier of a republic is apt to have the advantage, in a struggle for popular affection and popular applause, over the statesman, however consummate. . . . the great battles and sieges of the prince had been on a world's theatre, had enchained the attention of christendom, and on their issue had frequently depended, or seemed to depend, the very existence of the nation. the labors of the statesman, on the contrary, had been comparatively secret. his noble orations and arguments had been spoken with closed doors to assemblies of colleagues, rather envoys than senators, . . while his vast labors in directing both the internal administration and especially the foreign affairs of the commonwealth had been by their very nature as secret as they were perpetual and enormous." the reader of the "life of barneveld" must judge for himself whether in these and similar passages the historian was thinking solely of maurice, the great military leader, of barneveld, the great statesman, and of aerssens, the recalled ambassador. he will certainly find that there were "burning questions" for ministers to handle then as now, and recognize in "that visible atmosphere of power the poison of which it is so difficult to resist" a respiratory medium as well known to the nineteenth as to the seventeenth century. xxiii. - . aet. - . death of mrs. motley.--last visit to america.--illness and death.-lady harcourt's communication. on the last day of , the beloved wife, whose health had for some years been failing, was taken from him by death. she had been the pride of his happier years, the stay and solace of those which had so tried his sensitive spirit. the blow found him already weakened by mental suffering and bodily infirmity, and he never recovered from it. mr. motley's last visit to america was in the summer and autumn of . during several weeks which he passed at nahant, a seaside resort near boston, i saw him almost daily. he walked feebly and with some little difficulty, and complained of a feeling of great weight in the right arm, which made writing laborious. his handwriting had not betrayed any very obvious change, so far as i had noticed in his letters. his features and speech were without any paralytic character. his mind was clear except when, as on one or two occasions, he complained of some confused feeling, and walked a few minutes in the open air to compose himself. his thoughts were always tending to revert to the almost worshipped companion from whom death had parted him a few months before. yet he could often be led away to other topics, and in talking of them could be betrayed into momentary cheerfulness of manner. his long-enduring and all-pervading grief was not more a tribute to the virtues and graces of her whom he mourned than an evidence of the deeply affectionate nature which in other relations endeared him to so many whose friendship was a title to love and honor. i have now the privilege of once more recurring to the narrative of mr. motley's daughter, lady harcourt. "the harassing work and mental distress of this time [after the recall from england], acting on an acutely nervous organization, began the process of undermining his constitution, of which we were so soon to see the results. it was not the least courageous act of his life, that, smarting under a fresh wound, tired and unhappy, he set his face immediately towards the accomplishment of fresh literary labor. after my sister's marriage in january he went to the hague to begin his researches in the archives for john of barneveld. the queen of the netherlands had made ready a house for us, and personally superintended every preparation for his reception. we remained there until the spring, and then removed to a house more immediately in the town, a charming old-fashioned mansion, once lived in by john de witt, where he had a large library and every domestic comfort during the year of his sojourn. the incessant literary labor in an enervating climate with enfeebled health may have prepared the way for the first break in his constitution, which was to show itself soon after. there were many compensations in the life about him. he enjoyed the privilege of constant companionship with one of the warmest hearts and finest intellects which i have ever known in a woman,--the 'ame d'elite' which has passed beyond this earth. the gracious sentiment with which the queen sought to express her sense of what holland owed him would have been deeply felt even had her personal friendship been less dear to us all. from the king, the society of the hague, and the diplomatic circle we had many marks of kindness. once or twice i made short journeys with him for change of air to amsterdam, to look for the portraits of john of barneveld and his wife; to bohemia, where, with the lingering hope of occupying himself with the thirty years' war, he looked carefully at the scene of wallenstein's death near prague, and later to varzin in pomerania for a week with prince bismarck, after the great events of the franco-german war. in the autumn of we moved to england, partly because it was evident that his health and my mother's required a change; partly for private reasons to be near my sister and her children. the day after our arrival at bournemouth occurred the rupture of a vessel on the lungs, without any apparently sufficient cause. he recovered enough to revise and complete his manuscript, and we thought him better, when at the end of july, in london, he was struck down by the first attack of the head, which robbed him of all after power of work, although the intellect remained untouched. sir william gull sent him to cannes for the winter, where he was seized with a violent internal inflammation, in which i suppose there was again the indication of the lesion of blood-vessels. i am nearing the shadow now,--the time of which i can hardly bear to write. you know the terrible sorrow which crushed him on the last day of ,--the grief which broke his heart and from which he never rallied. from that day it seems to me that his life may be summed up in the two words,--patient waiting. never for one hour did her spirit leave him, and he strove to follow its leading for the short and evil days left and the hope of the life beyond. i think i have never watched quietly and reverently the traces of one personal character remaining so strongly impressed on another nature. with herself--depreciation and unselfishness she would have been the last to believe how much of him was in her very existence; nor could we have realized it until the parting came. henceforward, with the mind still there, but with the machinery necessary to set it in motion disturbed and shattered, he could but try to create small occupations with which to fill the hours of a life which was only valued for his children's sake. kind and loving friends in england and america soothed the passage, and our gratitude for so many gracious acts is deep and true. his love for children, always a strong feeling, was gratified by the constant presence of my sister's babies, the eldest, a little girl who bore my mother's name, and had been her idol, being the companion of many hours and his best comforter. at the end the blow came swiftly and suddenly, as he would have wished it. it was a terrible shock to us who had vainly hoped to keep him a few years longer, but at least he was spared what he had dreaded with a great dread, a gradual failure of mental or bodily power. the mind was never clouded, the affections never weakened, and after a few hours of unconscious physical struggle he lay at rest, his face beautiful and calm, without a trace of suffering or illness. once or twice he said, 'it has come, it has come,' and there were a few broken words before consciousness fled, but there was little time for messages or leave- taking. by a strange coincidence his life ended near the town of dorchester, in the mother country, as if the last hour brought with it a reminiscence of his birthplace, and of his own dearly loved mother. by his own wish only the dates of his birth and death appear upon his gravestone, with the text chosen by himself, 'in god is light, and in him is no darkness at all.'" xxiv. conclusion.--his character.--his labors.--his reward. in closing this restricted and imperfect record of a life which merits, and in due time will, i trust, receive an ampler tribute, i cannot refrain from adding a few thoughts which naturally suggest themselves, and some of which may seem quite unnecessary to the reader who has followed the story of the historian and diplomatist's brilliant and eventful career. mr. motley came of a parentage which promised the gifts of mind and body very generally to be accounted for, in a measure at least, wherever we find them, by the blood of one or both of the parents. they gave him special attractions and laid him open to not a few temptations. too many young men born to shine in social life, to sparkle, it may be, in conversation, perhaps in the lighter walks of literature, become agreeable idlers, self-indulgent, frivolous, incapable of large designs or sustained effort, lose every aspiration and forget every ideal. our gilded youth want such examples as this of motley, not a solitary, but a conspicuous one, to teach them how much better is the restlessness of a noble ambition than the narcotized stupor of club-life or the vapid amusement of a dressed-up intercourse which too often requires a questionable flavor of forbidden license to render it endurable to persons of vivacious character and temperament. it would seem difficult for a man so flattered from his earliest days to be modest in his self-estimate; but motley was never satisfied with himself. he was impulsive, and was occasionally, i have heard it said, over excited, when his prejudices were roughly handled. in all that related to the questions involved in our civil war, he was, no doubt, very sensitive. he had heard so much that exasperated him in the foreign society which he had expected to be in full sympathy with the cause of liberty as against slavery, that he might be excused if he showed impatience when he met with similar sentiments among his own countrymen. he felt that he had been cruelly treated by his own government, and no one who conceives himself to have been wronged and insulted must be expected to reason in naked syllogisms on the propriety of the liberties which have been taken with his name and standing. but with all his quickness of feeling, his manners were easy and courteous, simply because his nature was warm and kindly, and with all his natural fastidiousness there was nothing of the coxcomb about him. he must have had enemies, as all men of striking individuality are sure to have; his presence cast more uncouth patriots into the shade; his learning was a reproach to the ignorant, his fame was too bright a distinction; his high-bred air and refinement, which he could not help, would hardly commend him to the average citizen in an order of things in which mediocrity is at a premium, and the natural nobility of presence, which rarely comes without family antecedents to account for it, is not always agreeable to the many whose two ideals are the man on horseback and the man in his shirt-sleeves. it may well be questioned whether washington, with his grand manner, would be nearly as popular with what are called "the masses" as lincoln, with his homely ways and broad stories. the experiment of universal suffrage must render the waters of political and social life more or less turbid even if they remain innoxious. the cloaca maxima can hardly mingle its contents with the stream of the aqua claudia, without taking something from its crystal clearness. we need not go so far as one of our well-known politicians has recently gone in saying that no great man can reach the highest position in our government, but we can safely say that, apart from military fame, the loftiest and purest and finest personal qualities are not those which can be most depended upon at the ballot-box. strange stories are told of avowed opposition to mr. motley on the ground of the most trivial differences in point of taste in personal matters,--so told that it is hard to disbelieve them, and they show that the caprices which we might have thought belonged exclusively to absolute rulers among their mistresses or their minions may be felt in the councils of a great people which calls itself self-governing. it is perfectly true that mr. motley did not illustrate the popular type of politician. he was too high-minded, too scholarly, too generously industrious, too polished, too much at home in the highest european circles, too much courted for his personal fascinations, too remote from the trading world of caucus managers. to degrade him, so far as official capital punishment could do it, was not merely to wrong one whom the nation should have delighted to honor as showing it to the world in the fairest flower of its young civilization, but it was an indignity to a representative of the highest scholarship of native growth, which every student in the land felt as a discouragement to all sound learning and noble ambition. if he was disappointed in his diplomatic career, he had enough, and more than enough, to console him in his brilliant literary triumphs. he had earned them all by the most faithful and patient labor. if he had not the "frame of adamant" of the swedish hero, he had his "soul of fire." no labors could tire him, no difficulties affright him. what most surprised those who knew him as a young man was, not his ambition, not his brilliancy, but his dogged, continuous capacity for work. we have seen with what astonishment the old dutch scholar, groen van prinsterer, looked upon a man who had wrestled with authors like bor and van meteren, who had grappled with the mightiest folios and toiled undiscouraged among half-illegible manuscript records. having spared no pains in collecting his materials, he told his story, as we all know, with flowing ease and stirring vitality. his views may have been more or less partial; philip the second may have deserved the pitying benevolence of poor maximilian; maurice may have wept as sincerely over the errors of arminius as any one of "the crocodile crew that believe in election;" barneveld and grotius may have been on the road to rome; none of these things seem probable, but if they were all proved true in opposition to his views, we should still have the long roll of glowing tapestry he has woven for us, with all its life-like portraits, its almost moving pageants, its sieges where we can see the artillery flashing, its battle-fields with their smoke and fire,--pictures which cannot fade, and which will preserve his name interwoven with their own enduring colors. republics are said to be ungrateful; it might be truer to say that they are forgetful. they forgive those who have wronged them as easily as they forget those who have done them good service. but history never forgets and never forgives. to her decision we may trust the question, whether the warm-hearted patriot who had stood up for his country nobly and manfully in the hour of trial, the great scholar and writer who had reflected honor upon her throughout the world of letters, the high-minded public servant, whose shortcomings it taxed the ingenuity of experts to make conspicuous enough to be presentable, was treated as such a citizen should have been dealt with. his record is safe in her hands, and his memory will be precious always in the hearts of all who enjoyed his friendship. appendix. a. the saturday club. this club, of which we were both members, and which is still flourishing, came into existence in a very quiet sort of way at about the same time as "the atlantic monthly," and, although entirely unconnected with that magazine, included as members some of its chief contributors. of those who might have been met at some of the monthly gatherings in its earlier days i may mention emerson, hawthorne, longfellow, lowell, motley, whipple, whittier; professors agassiz and peirce; john s. dwight; governor andrew, richard h. dana, junior, charles sumner. it offered a wide gamut of intelligences, and the meetings were noteworthy occasions. if there was not a certain amount of "mutual admiration" among some of those i have mentioned it was a great pity, and implied a defect in the nature of men who were otherwise largely endowed. the vitality of this club has depended in a great measure on its utter poverty in statutes and by-laws, its entire absence of formality, and its blessed freedom from speech-making. that holy man, richard baxter, says in his preface to alleine's "alarm:"-- "i have done, when i have sought to remove a little scandal, which i foresaw, that i should myself write the preface to his life where himself and two of his friends make such a mention of my name, which i cannot own; which will seem a praising him for praising me. i confess it looketh ill-favoredly in me. but i had not the power of other men's writings, and durst not forbear that which was his due." i do not know that i have any occasion for a similar apology in printing the following lines read at a meeting of members of the saturday club and other friends who came together to bid farewell to motley before his return to europe in . a parting health yes, we knew we must lose him,--though friendship may claim to blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame, though fondly, at parting, we call him our own, 't is the whisper of love when the bugle has blown. as the rider that rests with the spur on his heel, as the guardsman that sleeps in his corselet of steel, as the archer that stands with his shaft on the string, he stoops from his toil to the garland we bring. what pictures yet slumber unborn in his loom till their warriors shall breathe and their beauties shall bloom, while the tapestry lengthens the life-glowing dyes that caught from our sunsets the stain of their skies! in the alcoves of death, in the charnels of time, where flit the dark spectres of passion and crime, there are triumphs untold, there are martyrs unsung, there are heroes yet silent to speak with his tongue! let us hear the proud story that time has bequeathed from lips that are warm with the freedom they breathed! let him summon its tyrants, and tell us their doom, though he sweep the black past like van tromp with his broom! the dream flashes by, for the west-winds awake on pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain and lake, to bathe the swift bark, like a sea-girdled shrine with incense they stole from the rose and the pine. so fill a bright cup with the sunlight that gushed when the dead summer's jewels were trampled and crushed; the true knight of learning,--the world holds him dear,-- love bless him, joy crown him, god speed his career! b. habits and methods of study. mr. motley's daughter, lady harcourt, has favored me with many interesting particulars which i could not have learned except from a member of his own family. her description of his way of living and of working will be best given in her own words:-- "he generally rose early, the hour varying somewhat at different parts of his life, according to his work and health. sometimes when much absorbed by literary labor he would rise before seven, often lighting his own fire, and with a cup of tea or coffee writing until the family breakfast hour, after which his work was immediately resumed, and he usually sat over his writing-table until late in the afternoon, when he would take a short walk. his dinner hour was late, and he rarely worked at night. during the early years of his literary studies he led a life of great retirement. later, after the publication of the 'dutch republic' and during the years of official place, he was much in society in england, austria, and holland. he enjoyed social life, and particularly dining out, keenly, but was very moderate and simple in all his personal habits, and for many years before his death had entirely given up smoking. his work, when not in his own library, was in the archives of the netherlands, brussels, paris, the english state paper office, and the british museum, where he made his own researches, patiently and laboriously consulting original manuscripts and reading masses of correspondence, from which he afterwards sometimes caused copies to be made, and where he worked for many consecutive hours a day. after his material had been thus painfully and toilfully amassed, the writing of his own story was always done at home, and his mind, having digested the necessary matter, always poured itself forth in writing so copiously that his revision was chiefly devoted to reducing the over-abundance. he never shrank from any of the drudgery of preparation, but i think his own part of the work was sheer pleasure to him." i should have mentioned that his residence in london while minister was at the house no. arlington street, belonging to lord yarborough. c. sir william gull's account of his illness. i have availed myself of the permission implied in the subjoined letter of sir william gull to make large extracts from his account of mr. motley's condition while under his medical care. in his earlier years he had often complained to me of those "nervous feelings connected with the respiration" referred to by this very distinguished physician. i do not remember any other habitual trouble to which he was subject. brook street, grosvenor square, w. february , . my dear sir,--i send the notes of mr. motley's last illness, as i promised. they are too technical for general readers, but you will make such exception as you require. the medical details may interest your professional friends. mr. motley's case was a striking illustration that the renal disease of so-called bright's disease may supervene as part and parcel of a larger and antecedent change in the blood-vessels in other parts than the kidney. . . . i am, my dear sir, yours very truly, william w. gull. to oliver wendell holmes, esq. i first saw mr. motley, i believe, about the year , on account of some nervous feelings connected with the respiration. at that time his general health was good, and all he complained of was occasionally a feeling of oppression about the chest. there were no physical signs of anything abnormal, and the symptoms quite passed away in the course of time, and with the use of simple antispasmodic remedies, such as camphor and the like. this was my first interview with mr. motley, and i was naturally glad to have the opportunity of making his acquaintance. i remember that in our conversation i jokingly said that my wife could hardly forgive him for not making her hero, henri iv., a perfect character, and the earnestness with which he replied 'au serieux,' i assure you i have fairly recorded the facts. after this date i did not see mr. motley for some time. he had three slight attacks of haemoptysis in the autumn of , but no physical signs of change in the lung tissue resulted. so early as this i noticed that there were signs of commencing thickening in the heart, as shown by the degree and extent of its impulse. the condition of his health, though at that time not very obviously failing, a good deal arrested my attention, as i thought i could perceive in the occurrence of the haemoptysis, and in the cardiac hypertrophy, the early beginnings of vascular degeneration. in august, , occurred the remarkable seizure, from the effects of which mr. motley never recovered. i did not see him in the attack, but was informed, as far as i can remember, that he was on a casual visit at a friend's house at luncheon (or it might have been dinner), when he suddenly became strangely excited, but not quite unconscious. . . . i believed at the time, and do so still, that there was some capillary apoplexy of the convolutions. the attack was attended with some hemiplegic weakness on the right side, and altered sensation, and ever after there was a want of freedom and ease both in the gait and in the use of the arm of that side. to my inquiries from time to time how the arm was, the patient would always flex and extend it freely, but nearly always used the expression, "there is a bedevilment in it;" though the handwriting was not much, if at all, altered. in december, , mr. motley went by my advice to cannes. i wrote the following letter at the time to my friend dr. frank, who was practising there:-- [this letter, every word of which was of value to the practitioner who was to have charge of the patient, relates many of the facts given above, and i shall therefore only give extracts from it.] december , . my dear dr. frank,--my friend mr. motley, the historian and late american minister, whose name and fame no doubt you know very well, has by my advice come to cannes for the winter and spring, and i have promised him to give you some account of his case. to me it is one of special interest, and personally, as respects the subject of it, of painful interest. i have known mr. motley for some time, but he consulted me for the present condition about midsummer. . . . if i have formed a correct opinion of the pathology of the case, i believe the smaller vessels are degenerating in several parts of the vascular area, lung, brain, and kidneys. with this view i have suggested a change of climate, a nourishing diet, etc.; and it is to be hoped, and i trust expected, that by great attention to the conditions of hygiene, internal and external, the progress of degeneration may be retarded. i have no doubt you will find, as time goes on, increasing evidence of renal change, but this is rather a coincidence and consequence than a cause, though no doubt when the renal change has reached a certain point, it becomes in its own way a factor of other lesions. i have troubled you at this length because my mind is much occupied with the pathology of these cases, and because no case can, on personal grounds, more strongly challenge our attention. yours very truly, william w. gull. during the spring of , whilst at cannes, mr. motley had a sharp attack of nephritis, attended with fever; but on returning to england in july there was no important change in the health. the weakness of the side continued, and the inability to undertake any mental work. the signs of cardiac hypertrophy were more distinct. in the beginning of the year i wrote as follows:-- february , . my dear mr. motley,--. . . the examination i have just made appears to indicate that the main conditions of your health are more stable than they were some months ago, and would therefore be so far in favor of your going to america in the summer, as we talked of. the ground of my doubt has lain in the possibility of such a trip further disordering the circulation. of this, i hope, there is now less risk. on the th of june, , i received the following letter:-- calverly park hotel, tunbridge wells, june , . my dear sir william,--i have been absent from town for a long time, but am to be there on the th and th. could i make an appointment with you for either of those days? i am anxious to have a full consultation with you before leaving for america. our departure is fixed for the th of this month. i have not been worse than usual of late. i think myself, on the contrary, rather stronger, and it is almost impossible for me not to make my visit to america this summer, unless you should absolutely prohibit it. if neither of those days should suit you, could you kindly suggest another day? i hope, however, you can spare me half an hour on one of those days, as i like to get as much of this bracing air as i can. will you kindly name the hour when i may call on you, and address me at this hotel. excuse this slovenly note in pencil, but it fatigues my head and arm much more to sit at a writing-table with pen and ink. always most sincerely yours, my dear sir william, j. l. motley. on mr. motley's return from america i saw him, and found him, i thought, rather better in general health than when he left england. in december, , mr. motley consulted me for trouble of vision in reading or walking, from sensations like those produced by flakes of falling snow coming between him and the objects he was looking at. mr. bowman, one of our most excellent oculists, was then consulted. mr. bowman wrote to me as follows: "such symptoms as exist point rather to disturbed retinal function than to any brain-mischief. it is, however, quite likely that what you fear for the brain may have had its counterpart in the nerve-structures of the eye, and as he is short-sighted, this tendency may be further intensified." mr. bowman suggested no more than such an arrangement of glasses as might put the eyes, when in use, under better optic conditions. the year was passed over without any special change worth notice. the walking powers were much impeded by the want of control over the right leg. the mind was entirely clear, though mr. motley did not feel equal, and indeed had been advised not to apply himself, to any literary work. occasional conversations, when i had interviews with him on the subject of his health, proved that the attack which had weakened the movements of the right side had not impaired the mental power. the most noticeable change which had come over mr. motley since i first knew him was due to the death of mrs. motley in december, . it had in fact not only profoundly depressed him, but, if i may so express it, had removed the centre of his thought to a new world. in long conversations with me of a speculative kind, after that painful event, it was plain how much his point of view of the whole course and relation of things had changed. his mind was the last to dogmatize on any subject. there was a candid and childlike desire to know, with an equal confession of the incapacity of the human intellect. i wish i could recall the actual expressions he used, but the sense was that which has been so well stated by hooker in concluding an exhortation against the pride of the human intellect, where he remarks:-- "dangerous it were for the feeble brain of man to wade far into the doings of the most high; whom although to know be life, and joy to make mention of his name, yet our soundest knowledge is to know that we know him, not indeed as he is, neither can know him; and our safest eloquence concerning him is our silence, when we confess without confession that his glory is inexplicable, his greatness above our capacity and reach. he is above and we upon earth; therefore it behoveth our words to be wary and few." mrs. motley's illness was not a long one, and the nature of it was such that its course could with certainty be predicted. mr. motley and her children passed the remaining days of her life, extending over about a month, with her, in the mutual under standing that she was soon to part from them. the character of the illness, and the natural exhaustion of her strength by suffering, lessened the shock of her death, though not the loss, to those who survived her. the last time i saw mr. motley was, i believe, about two months before his death, march , . there was no great change in his health, but he complained of indescribable sensations in his nervous system, and felt as if losing the whole power of walking, but this was not obvious in his gait, although he walked shorter distances than before. i heard no more of him until i was suddenly summoned on the th of may into devonshire to see him. the telegram i received was so urgent, that i suspected some rupture of a blood- vessel in the brain, and that i should hardly reach him alive; and this was the case. about two o'clock in the day he complained of a feeling of faintness, said he felt ill and should not recover; and in a few minutes was insensible with symptoms of ingravescent apoplexy. there was extensive haemorrhage into the brain, as shown by post-mortem examination, the cerebral vessels being atheromatous. the fatal haemorrhage had occurred into the lateral ventricles, from rupture of one of the middle cerebral arteries. i am, my dear sir, yours very truly, william w. gull. e. from the proceedings of the massachusetts society. at a meeting of the massachusetts historical society, held on thursday, the th of june, , after the reading of the records of the preceding meeting, the president, the hon. robert c. winthrop, spoke as follows: "our first thoughts to-day, gentlemen, are of those whom we may not again welcome to these halls. we shall be in no mood, certainly, for entering on other subjects this morning until we have given some expression to our deep sense of the loss--the double loss--which our society has sustained since our last monthly meeting."--[edmund quincy died may . john lothrop motley died may .] after a most interesting and cordial tribute to his friend, mr. quincy, mr. winthrop continued: "the death of our distinguished associate, motley, can hardly have taken many of us by surprise. sudden at the moment of its occurrence, we had long been more or less prepared for it by his failing health. it must, indeed, have been quite too evident to those who had seen him, during the last two or three years, that his life-work was finished. i think he so regarded it himself. "hopes may have been occasionally revived in the hearts of his friends, and even in his own heart, that his long-cherished purpose of completing a history of the thirty years' war, as the grand consummation of his historical labors,--for which all his other volumes seemed to him to have been but the preludes and overtures, --might still be accomplished. but such hopes, faint and flickering from his first attack, had well-nigh died away. they were like prescott's hopes of completing his 'philip the second,' or like macaulay's hopes of finishing his brilliant 'history of england.' "but great as may be the loss to literature of such a crowning work from motley's pen, it was by no means necessary to the completeness of his own fame. his 'rise of the dutch republic,' his 'history of the united netherlands,' and his 'life of john of barneveld,' had abundantly established his reputation, and given him a fixed place among the most eminent historians of our country and of our age. "no american writer, certainly, has secured a wider recognition or a higher appreciation from the scholars of the old world. the universities of england and the learned societies of europe have bestowed upon him their largest honors. it happened to me to be in paris when he was first chosen a corresponding member of the institute, and when his claims were canvassed with the freedom and earnestness which peculiarly characterize such a candidacy in france. there was no mistaking the profound impression which his first work had made on the minds of such men as guizot and mignet. within a year or two past, a still higher honor has been awarded him from the same source. the journals not long ago announced his election as one of the six foreign associates of the french academy of moral and political sciences,--a distinction which prescott would probably have attained had he lived a few years longer, until there was a vacancy, but which, as a matter of fact, i believe, motley was the only american writer, except the late edward livingston, of louisiana, who has actually enjoyed. "residing much abroad, for the purpose of pursuing his historical researches, he had become the associate and friend of the most eminent literary men in almost all parts of the world, and the singular charms of his conversation and manners had made him a favorite guest in the most refined and exalted circles. "of his relations to political and public life, this is hardly the occasion or the moment for speaking in detail. misconstructions and injustices are the proverbial lot of those who occupy eminent position. it was a duke of vienna, if i remember rightly, whom shakespeare, in his 'measure for measure,' introduces as exclaiming,-- 'o place and greatness, millions of false eyes are stuck upon thee! volumes of report run with these false and most contrarious quests upon thy doings! thousand 'stapes of wit make thee the father of their idle dream, and rack thee in their fancies!' "i forbear from all application of the lines. it is enough for me, certainly, to say here, to-day, that our country was proud to be represented at the courts of vienna and london successively by a gentleman of so much culture and accomplishment as mr. motley, and that the circumstances of his recall were deeply regretted by us all. "his fame, however, was quite beyond the reach of any such accidents, and could neither be enhanced nor impaired by appointments or removals. as a powerful and brilliant historian we pay him our unanimous tribute of admiration and regret, and give him a place in our memories by the side of prescott and irving. i do not forget how many of us lament him, also, as a cherished friend. "he died on the th ultimo, at the house of his daughter, mrs. sheridan, in dorsetshire, england, and an impressive tribute to his memory was paid, in westminster abbey, on the following sunday, by our honorary member, dean stanley. such a tribute, from such lips, and with such surroundings, leaves nothing to be desired in the way of eulogy. he was buried in kensal green cemetery, by the side of his beloved wife. "one might well say of motley precisely what he said of prescott, in a letter from rome to our associate, mr. william amory, immediately on hearing of prescott's death: 'i feel inexpressibly disappointed --speaking now for an instant purely from a literary point of view --that the noble and crowning monument of his life, for which he had laid such massive foundations, and the structure of which had been carried forward in such a grand and masterly manner, must remain uncompleted, like the unfinished peristyle of some stately and beautiful temple on which the night of time has suddenly descended. but, still, the works which his great and untiring hand had already thoroughly finished will remain to attest his learning and genius, --a precious and perpetual possession for his country." ................................. the president now called on dr. oliver wendell holmes, who said:-- "the thoughts which suggest themselves upon this occasion are such as belong to the personal memories of the dear friends whom we have lost, rather than to their literary labors, the just tribute to which must wait for a calmer hour than the present, following so closely as it does on our bereavement." ................................. "his first literary venture of any note was the story called 'morton's hope; or, the memoirs of a provincial.' this first effort failed to satisfy the critics, the public, or himself. his personality pervaded the characters and times which he portrayed, so that there was a discord between the actor and his costume. brilliant passages could not save it; and it was plain enough that he must ripen into something better before the world would give him the reception which surely awaited him if he should find his true destination. "the early failures of a great writer are like the first sketches of a great artist, and well reward patient study. more than this, the first efforts of poets and story-tellers are very commonly palimpsests: beneath the rhymes or the fiction one can almost always spell out the characters which betray the writer's self. take these passages from the story just referred to: "'ah! flattery is a sweet and intoxicating potion, whether we drink it from an earthen ewer or a golden chalice. . . . flattery from man to woman is expected: it is a part of the courtesy of society; but when the divinity descends from the altar to burn incense to the priest, what wonder if the idolater should feel himself transformed into a god!' "he had run the risk of being spoiled, but he had a safeguard in his aspirations. "'my ambitious anticipations,' says morton, in the story, were as boundless as they were various and conflicting. there was not a path which leads to glory in which i was not destined to gather laurels. as a warrior, i would conquer and overrun the world; as a statesman, i would reorganize and govern it; as a historian, i would consign it all to immortality; and, in my leisure moments, i would be a great poet and a man of the world.' "who can doubt that in this passage of his story he is picturing his own visions, one of the fairest of which was destined to become reality? "but there was another element in his character, which those who knew him best recognized as one with which he had to struggle hard, --that is, a modesty which sometimes tended to collapse into self- distrust. this, too, betrays itself in the sentences which follow those just quoted:-- "'in short,' says morton, 'i was already enrolled in that large category of what are called young men of genius, . . . men of whom unheard-of things are expected; till after long preparation comes a portentous failure, and then they are forgotten. . . . alas! for the golden imaginations of our youth. . . . they are all disappointments. they are bright and beautiful, but they fade.'" ........................... the president appointed professor lowell to write the memoir of mr. quincy, and dr. holmes that of mr. motley, for the society's "proceedings." professor william everett then spoke as follows: "there is one incident, sir, in mr. motley's career that has not been mentioned to-day, which is, perhaps, most vividly remembered by those of us who were in europe at the outbreak of our civil war in . at that time, the ignorance of englishmen, friendly or otherwise, about america, was infinite: they knew very little of us, and that little wrong. americans were overwhelmed with questions, taunts, threats, misrepresentations, the outgrowth of ignorance, and ignoring worse than ignorance, from every class of englishmen. never was an authoritative exposition of our hopes and policy worse needed; and there was no one to do it. the outgoing diplomatic agents represented a bygone order of things; the representatives of mr. lincoln's administration had not come. at that time of anxiety, mr. motley, living in england as a private person, came forward with two letters in the 'times,' which set forth the cause of the united states once and for all. no unofficial, and few official, men could have spoken with such authority, and been so certain of obtaining a hearing from englishmen. thereafter, amid all the clouds of falsehood and ridicule which we had to encounter, there was one lighthouse fixed on a rock to which we could go for foothold, from which we could not be driven, and against which all assaults were impotent. "there can be no question that the effect produced by these letters helped, if help had been needed, to point out mr. motley as a candidate for high diplomatic place who could not be overlooked. their value was recognized alike by his fellow-citizens in america and his admirers in england; but none valued them more than the little band of exiles, who were struggling against terrible odds, and who rejoiced with a great joy to see the stars and stripes, whose centennial anniversary those guns are now celebrating, planted by a hand so truly worthy to rally every american to its support." g. poem by william cullen bryant. i cannot close this memoir more appropriately than by appending the following poetical tribute:-- in memory of john lothrop motley. by william cullen bryant. sleep, motley, with the great of ancient days, who wrote for all the years that yet shall be. sleep with herodotus, whose name and praise have reached the isles of earth's remotest sea. sleep, while, defiant of the slow delays of time, thy glorious writings speak for thee and in the answering heart of millions raise the generous zeal for right and liberty. and should the days o'ertake us, when, at last, the silence that--ere yet a human pen had traced the slenderest record of the past hushed the primeval languages of men upon our english tongue its spell shall cast, thy memory shall perish only then. american men of letters edited by charles dudley warner. "_thou wert the morning star among the living, ere thy fair light had fled: now, having died, thou art as hesperus, giving new splendor to the dead._" ralph waldo emerson. by oliver wendell holmes. note. my thanks are due to the members of mr. emerson's family, and the other friends who kindly assisted me by lending interesting letters and furnishing valuable information. the index, carefully made by mr. j.h. wiggin, was revised and somewhat abridged by myself. oliver wendell holmes. boston, november , . contents. introduction chapter i. - . to aet. . birthplace.--boyhood.--college life. chapter ii. - . aet. - . extract from a letter to a classmate.--school-teaching.--study of divinity.--"approbated" to preach.--visit to the south.--preaching in various places. chapter iii. - . aet. - . settled as colleague of rev. henry ware.--married to ellen louisa tucker.--sermon at the ordination of rev. h.b. goodwin.--his pastoral and other labors.--emerson and father taylor.--death of mrs. emerson.--difference of opinion with some of his parishioners.--sermon explaining his views.--resignation of his pastorate. chapter iv. - . aet. - . section i. visit to europe.--on his return preaches in different places.--emerson in the pulpit.--at newton.--fixes his residence at concord.--the old manse.--lectures in boston.--lectures on michael angelo and on milton published in the "north american review."--beginning of the correspondence with carlyle.--letters to the rev. james freeman clarke.--republication of "sartor resartus." section . emerson's second marriage.--his new residence in concord.--historical address.--course of ten lectures on english literature delivered in boston.--the concord battle hymn.--preaching in concord and east lexington.--accounts of his preaching by several hearers.--a course of lectures on the nature and ends of history.--address on war.--death of edward bliss emerson.--death of charles chauncy emerson. section . publication of "nature."--outline of this essay.--its reception.--address before the phi beta kappa society chapter v. - . aet. - . section . divinity school address.--correspondence.--lectures on human life.--letters to james freeman clarke.--dartmouth college address: literary ethics.--waterville college address: the method of nature.--other addresses: man the reformer.--lecture on the times.--the conservative.--the transcendentalist.--boston "transcendentalism."--"the dial."--brook farm. section . first series of essays published.--contents: history, self-reliance, compensation, spiritual laws, love, friendship, prudence, heroism, the over-soul, circles, intellect, art.--emerson's account of his mode of life in a letter to carlyle.--death of emerson's son.--threnody chapter vi. - . aet. - . "the young american."--address on the anniversary of the emancipation of the negroes in the british west indies.--publication of the second series of essays.--contents: the poet.--experience. --character.--manners.--gifts.--nature.--politics.--nominalist and realist.--new england reformers.--publication of poems.--second visit to england chapter vii. - . aet. - . the "massachusetts quarterly review."--visit to europe.--england.--scotland.--france.--"representative men" published. i. lives of great men. ii. plato; or, the philosopher; plato; new readings. iii. swedenborg; or, the mystic. iv. montaigne; or, the skeptic. v. shakespeare; or, the poet. vi. napoleon; or, the man of the world. vii. goethe; or, the writer.--contribution to the "memoirs of margaret fuller ossoli" chapter viii. - . aet. - . lectures in various places.--anti-slavery addresses.--woman. a lecture read before the woman's rights convention.--samuel hoar. speech at concord.--publication of "english traits."--the "atlantic monthly."--the "saturday club" chapter ix - . aet. - . essay on persian poetry.--speech at the burns centennial festival.--letter from emerson to a lady.--tributes to theodore parker and to thoreau.--address on the emancipation proclamation.--publication of "the conduct of life." contents: fate; power; wealth; culture; behavior; considerations by the way; beauty; illusions chapter x. - . aet. - . "boston hymn."--"voluntaries."--other poems.--"may-day and other pieces."--"remarks at the funeral services of president lincoln."--essay on persian poetry.--address at a meeting of the free religious association.--"progress of culture." address before the phi beta kappa society of harvard university.--course of lectures in philadelphia.--the degree of ll.d. conferred upon emerson by harvard university.--"terminus". chapter xi. - . aet. - . lectures on the natural history of the intellect.--publication of "society and solitude." contents: society and solitude. --civilization.--art.--eloquence.--domestic life.--farming. --works and days.--books.--clubs.--courage.--success.--old age.--other literary labors.--visit to california.--burning of his house, and the story of its rebuilding.--third visit to europe.--his reception at concord on his return chapter xii - . aet. - . publication of "parnassus."--emerson nominated as candidate for the office of lord rector of glasgow university.--publication of "letters and social aims." contents: poetry and imagination.--social aims.--eloquence.--resources.--the comic.--quotation and originality. --progress of culture.--persian poetry.--inspiration.--greatness. --immortality.--address at the unveiling of the statue of "the minute-man" at concord.--publication of collected poems chapter xiii. - . aet. - . last literary labors.--addresses and essays.--"lectures and biographical sketches."--"miscellanies" chapter xiv. emerson's poems chapter xv. recollections of emerson's last years.--mr. conway's visits.--extracts from mr. whitman's journal.--dr. le baron russell's visit.--dr. edward emerson's account.--illness and death.--funeral services chapter xvi. emerson.---a retrospect. personality and habits of life.--his commission and errand.--as a lecturer.--his use of authorities.--resemblance to other writers.--as influenced by others.--his place as a thinker.--idealism and intuition.--mysticism.--his attitude respecting science.--as an american.--his fondness for solitary study.--his patience and amiability.--feeling with which he was regarded.--emerson and burns.--his religious belief.--his relations with clergymen.--future of his reputation.--his life judged by the ideal standard introduction. "i have the feeling that every man's biography is at his own expense. he furnishes not only the facts, but the report. i mean that all biography is autobiography. it is only what he tells of himself that comes to be known and believed." so writes the man whose life we are to pass in review, and it is certainly as true of him as of any author we could name. he delineates himself so perfectly in his various writings that the careful reader sees his nature just as it was in all its essentials, and has little more to learn than those human accidents which individualize him in space and time. about all these accidents we have a natural and pardonable curiosity. we wish to know of what race he came, what were the conditions into which he was born, what educational and social influences helped to mould his character, and what new elements nature added to make him ralph waldo emerson. he himself believes in the hereditary transmission of certain characteristics. though nature appears capricious, he says, "some qualities she carefully fixes and transmits, but some, and those the finer, she exhales with the breath of the individual, as too costly to perpetuate. but i notice also that they may become fixed and permanent in any stock, by painting and repainting them on every individual, until at last nature adopts them and bakes them in her porcelain." * * * * * we have in new england a certain number of families who constitute what may be called the academic races. their names have been on college catalogues for generation after generation. they have filled the learned professions, more especially the ministry, from the old colonial days to our own time. if aptitudes for the acquisition of knowledge can be bred into a family as the qualities the sportsman wants in his dog are developed in pointers and setters, we know what we may expect of a descendant of one of the academic races. other things being equal, he will take more naturally, more easily, to his books. his features will be more pliable, his voice will be more flexible, his whole nature more plastic than those of the youth with less favoring antecedents. the gift of genius is never to be reckoned upon beforehand, any more than a choice new variety of pear or peach in a seedling; it is always a surprise, but it is born with great advantages when the stock from which it springs has been long under cultivation. these thoughts suggest themselves in looking back at the striking record of the family made historic by the birth of ralph waldo emerson. it was remarkable for the long succession of clergymen in its genealogy, and for the large number of college graduates it counted on its rolls. a genealogical table is very apt to illustrate the "survival of the fittest,"--in the estimate of the descendants. it is inclined to remember and record those ancestors who do most honor to the living heirs of the family name and traditions. as every man may count two grandfathers, four great-grandfathers, eight great-great-grandfathers, and so on, a few generations give him a good chance for selection. if he adds his distinguished grandmothers, he may double the number of personages to choose from. the great-grandfathers of mr. emerson at the sixth remove were thirty-two in number, unless the list was shortened by intermarriage of relatives. one of these, from whom the name descended, was thomas emerson of ipswich, who furnished the staff of life to the people of that wonderfully interesting old town and its neighborhood. his son, the reverend joseph emerson, minister of the town of mendon, massachusetts, married elizabeth, daughter of the reverend edward bulkeley, who succeeded his father, the reverend peter bulkeley, as minister of concord, massachusetts. peter bulkeley was therefore one of emerson's sixty-four grandfathers at the seventh remove. we know the tenacity of certain family characteristics through long lines of descent, and it is not impossible that any one of a hundred and twenty-eight grandparents, if indeed the full number existed in spite of family admixtures, may have transmitted his or her distinguishing traits through a series of lives that cover more than two centuries, to our own contemporary. inherited qualities move along their several paths not unlike the pieces in the game of chess. sometimes the character of the son can be traced directly to that of the father or of the mother, as the pawn's move carries him from one square to the next. sometimes a series of distinguished fathers follows in a line, or a succession of superior mothers, as the black or white bishop sweeps the board on his own color. sometimes the distinguishing characters pass from one sex to the other indifferently, as the castle strides over the black and white squares. sometimes an uncle or aunt lives over again in a nephew or niece, as if the knight's move were repeated on the squares of human individuality. it is not impossible, then, that some of the qualities we mark in emerson may have come from the remote ancestor whose name figures with distinction in the early history of new england. the reverend peter bulkeley is honorably commemorated among the worthies consigned to immortality in that precious and entertaining medley of fact and fancy, enlivened by a wilderness of quotations at first or second hand, the _magnolia christi americana_, of the reverend cotton mather. the old chronicler tells his story so much better than any one can tell it for him that he must be allowed to speak for himself in a few extracts, transferred with all their typographical idiosyncrasies from the london-printed, folio of . "he was descended of an honourable family in _bedfordshire_.--he was born at _woodhil_ (or _odel_) in _bedfordshire_, _january_ st, . "his _education_ was answerable unto his _original_; it was _learned_, it was _genteel_, and, which was the top of all, it was very _pious_: at length it made him a _batchellor_ of _divinity_, and a fellow of saint _john's_ colledge in cambridge.-- "when he came abroad into the world, a good benefice befel him, added unto the estate of a gentleman, left him by his father; whom he succeeded in his ministry, at the place of his nativity: which one would imagine _temptations_ enough to keep him out of a _wilderness_." but he could not conscientiously conform to the ceremonies of the english church, and so,-- "when sir _nathaniel brent_ was arch-bishop _laud's_ general, as arch-bishop _laud_ was _another's_, complaints were made against mr. _bulkly_, for his non-conformity, and he was therefore silenced. "to _new-england_ he therefore came, in the year ; and there having been for a while, at _cambridge_, he carried a good number of planters with him, up further into the _woods_, where they gathered the _twelfth church_, then formed in the colony, and call'd the town by the name of _concord_. "here he _buried_ a great estate, while he _raised_ one still, for almost every person whom he employed in the affairs of his husbandry.-- "he was a most excellent _scholar_, a very-_well read_ person, and one, who in his advice to young students, gave demonstrations, that he knew what would go to make a _scholar_. but it being essential unto a _scholar_ to love a _scholar_, so did he; and in token thereof, endowed the library of _harvard_-colledge with no small part of his own. "and he was therewithal a most exalted _christian_--in his ministry he was another _farel, quo nemo tonuit fortius_--and the observance which his own people had for him, was also paid him from all sorts of people throughout the land; but especially from the ministers of the country, who would still address him as a _father_, a _prophet_, a _counsellor_, on all occasions." these extracts may not quite satisfy the exacting reader, who must be referred to the old folio from which they were taken, where he will receive the following counsel:-- "if then any person would know what mr. _peter bulkly_ was, let him read his judicious and savory treatise of the _gospel covenant_, which has passed through several editions, with much acceptance among the people of god." it must be added that "he had a competently good stroke at latin poetry; and even in his old age, affected sometimes to improve it. many of his composure are yet in our hands." it is pleasant to believe that some of the qualities of this distinguished scholar and christian were reproduced in the descendant whose life we are studying. at his death in he was succeeded, as was mentioned, by his son edward, whose daughter became the wife of the reverend joseph emerson, the minister of mendon who, when that village was destroyed by the indians, removed to concord, where he died in the year . this is the first connection of the name of emerson with concord, with which it has since been so long associated. edward emerson, son of the first and father of the second reverend joseph emerson, though not a minister, was the next thing to being one, for on his gravestone he is thus recorded: "mr. edward emerson, sometime deacon of the first church in newbury." he was noted for the virtue of patience, and it is a family tradition that he never complained but once, when he said mildly to his daughter that her dumplings were somewhat harder than needful,--"_but not often_." this same edward was the only break in the line of ministers who descended from thomas of ipswich. he is remembered in the family as having been "a merchant in charlestown." their son, the second reverend joseph emerson, minister of malden for nearly half a century, married mary, the daughter of the reverend samuel moody,--father moody,--of york, maine. three of his sons were ministers, and one of these, william, was pastor of the church at concord at the period of the outbreak of the revolutionary war. as the successive generations narrow down towards the individual whose life we are recalling, the character of his progenitors becomes more and more important and interesting to the biographer. the reverend william emerson, grandfather of ralph waldo, was an excellent and popular preacher and an ardent and devoted patriot. he preached resistance to tyrants from the pulpit, he encouraged his townsmen and their allies to make a stand against the soldiers who had marched upon their peaceful village, and would have taken a part in the fight at the bridge, which he saw from his own house, had not the friends around him prevented his quitting his doorstep. he left concord in to join the army at ticonderoga, was taken with fever, was advised to return to concord and set out on the journey, but died on his way. his wife was the daughter of the reverend daniel bliss, his predecessor in the pulpit at concord. this was another very noticeable personage in the line of emerson's ancestors. his merits and abilities are described at great length on his tombstone in the concord burial-ground. there is no reason to doubt that his epitaph was composed by one who knew him well. but the slabs which record the excellences of our new england clergymen of the past generations are so crowded with virtues that the reader can hardly help inquiring whether a sharp bargain was not driven with the stonecutter, like that which the good vicar of wakefield arranged with the portrait-painter. he was to represent sophia as a shepherdess, it will be remembered, with as many sheep as he could afford to put in for nothing. william emerson left four children, a son bearing the same name, and three daughters, one of whom, mary moody emerson, is well remembered as pictured for us by her nephew, ralph waldo. his widow became the wife of the reverend ezra ripley, doctor of divinity, and his successor as minister at concord. the reverend william emerson, the second of that name and profession, and the father of ralph waldo emerson, was born in the year , and graduated at harvard college in . he was settled as minister in the town of harvard in the year , and in became minister of the first church in boston. in he married ruth haskins of boston. he died in , leaving five sons, of whom ralph waldo was the second. the interest which attaches itself to the immediate parentage of a man like emerson leads us to inquire particularly about the characteristics of the reverend william emerson so far as we can learn them from his own writings and from the record of his contemporaries. the reverend dr. sprague's valuable and well-known work, "annals of the american pulpit," contains three letters from which we learn some of his leading characteristics. dr. pierce of brookline, the faithful chronicler of his time, speaks of his pulpit talents as extraordinary, but thinks there was not a perfect sympathy between him and the people of the quiet little town of harvard, while he was highly acceptable in the pulpits of the metropolis. in personal appearance he was attractive; his voice was melodious, his utterance distinct, his manner agreeable. "he was a faithful and generous friend and knew how to forgive an enemy.--in his theological views perhaps he went farther on the liberal side than most of his brethren with whom he was associated.--he was, however, perfectly tolerant towards those who differed from him most widely." dr. charles lowell, another brother minister, says of him, "mr. emerson was a handsome man, rather tall, with a fair complexion, his cheeks slightly tinted, his motions easy, graceful, and gentlemanlike, his manners bland and pleasant. he was an honest man, and expressed himself decidedly and emphatically, but never bluntly or vulgarly.--mr. emerson was a man of good sense. his conversation was edifying and useful; never foolish or undignified.--in his theological opinions he was, to say the least, far from having any sympathy with calvinism. i have not supposed that he was, like dr. freeman, a humanitarian, though he may have been so." there was no honester chronicler than our clerical pepys, good, hearty, sweet-souled, fact-loving dr. john pierce of brookline, who knew the dates of birth and death of the graduates of harvard, starred and unstarred, better, one is tempted to say (_hibernice_), than they did themselves. there was not a nobler gentleman in charge of any boston parish than dr. charles lowell. but after the pulpit has said what it thinks of the pulpit, it is well to listen to what the pews have to say about it. this is what the late mr. george ticknor said in an article in the "christian examiner" for september, . "mr. emerson, transplanted to the first church in boston six years before mr. buckminster's settlement, possessed, on the contrary, a graceful and dignified style of speaking, which was by no means without its attraction, but he lacked the fervor that could rouse the masses, and the original resources that could command the few." as to his religious beliefs, emerson writes to dr. sprague as follows: "i did not find in any manuscript or printed sermons that i looked at, any very explicit statement of opinion on the question between calvinists and socinians. he inclines obviously to what is ethical and universal in christianity; very little to the personal and historical.--i think i observe in his writings, as in the writings of unitarians down to a recent date, a studied reserve on the subject of the nature and offices of jesus. they had not made up their own minds on it. it was a mystery to them, and they let it remain so." mr. william emerson left, published, fifteen sermons and discourses, an oration pronounced at boston on the fourth of july, , a collection of psalms and hymns, an historical sketch of the first church in boston, besides his contributions to the "monthly anthology," of which he was the editor. ruth haskins, the wife of william and the mother of ralph waldo emerson, is spoken of by the late dr. frothingham, in an article in the "christian examiner," as a woman "of great patience and fortitude, of the serenest trust in god, of a discerning spirit, and a most courteous bearing, one who knew how to guide the affairs of her own house, as long as she was responsible for that, with the sweetest authority, and knew how to give the least trouble and the greatest happiness after that authority was resigned. both her mind and her character were of a superior order, and they set their stamp upon manners of peculiar softness and natural grace and quiet dignity. her sensible and kindly speech was always as good as the best instruction; her smile, though it was ever ready, was a reward." the reverend dr. furness of philadelphia, who grew up with her son, says, "waldo bore a strong resemblance to his father; the other children resembled their mother." such was the descent of ralph waldo emerson. if the ideas of parents survive as impressions or tendencies in their descendants, no man had a better right to an inheritance of theological instincts than this representative of a long line of ministers. the same trains of thought and feeling might naturally gain in force from another association of near family relationship, though not of blood. after the death of the first william emerson, the concord minister, his widow, mr. emerson's grandmother, married, as has been mentioned, his successor, dr. ezra ripley. the grandson spent much time in the family of dr. ripley, whose character he has drawn with exquisite felicity in a sketch read before the social circle of concord, and published in the "atlantic monthly" for november, . mr. emerson says of him: "he was identified with the ideas and forms of the new england church, which expired about the same time with him, so that he and his coevals seemed the rear guard of the great camp and army of the puritans, which, however in its last days declining into formalism, in the heyday of its strength had planted and liberated america.... the same faith made what was strong and what was weak in dr. ripley." it would be hard to find a more perfect sketch of character than mr. emerson's living picture of dr. ripley. i myself remember him as a comely little old gentleman, but he was not so communicative in a strange household as his clerical brethren, smiling john foster of brighton and chatty jonathan homer of newton. mr. emerson says, "he was a natural gentleman; no dandy, but courtly, hospitable, manly, and public-spirited; his nature social, his house open to all men.--his brow was serene and open to his visitor, for he loved men, and he had no studies, no occupations, which company could interrupt. his friends were his study, and to see them loosened his talents and his tongue. in his house dwelt order and prudence and plenty. there was no waste and no stint. he was open-handed and just and generous. ingratitude and meanness in his beneficiaries did not wear out his compassion; he bore the insult, and the next day his basket for the beggar, his horse and chaise for the cripple, were at their door." how like goldsmith's good dr. primrose! i do not know any writing of mr. emerson which brings out more fully his sense of humor,--of the picturesque in character,--and as a piece of composition, continuous, fluid, transparent, with a playful ripple here and there, it is admirable and delightful. another of his early companionships must have exercised a still more powerful influence on his character,--that of his aunt, mary moody emerson. he gave an account of her in a paper read before the woman's club several years ago, and published in the "atlantic monthly" for december, . far more of mr. emerson is to be found in this aunt of his than in any other of his relations in the ascending series, with whose history we are acquainted. her story is an interesting one, but for that i must refer the reader to the article mentioned. her character and intellectual traits are what we are most concerned with. "her early reading was milton, young, akenside, samuel clarke, jonathan edwards, and always the bible. later, plato, plotinus, marcus antoninus, stewart, coleridge, herder, locke, madam de staël, channing, mackintosh, byron. nobody can read in her manuscript, or recall the conversation of old-school people, without seeing that milton and young had a religious authority in their minds, and nowise the slight merely entertaining quality of modern bards. and plato, aristotle, plotinus,--how venerable and organic as nature they are in her mind!" there are many sentences cited by mr. emerson which remind us very strongly of his own writings. such a passage as the following might have come from his essay, "nature," but it was written when her nephew was only four years old. "malden, , september.--the rapture of feeling i would part from for days devoted to higher discipline. but when nature beams with such excess of beauty, when the heart thrills with hope in its author,--feels it is related to him more than by any ties of creation,--it exults, too fondly, perhaps, for a state of trial. but in dead of night, nearer morning, when the eastern stars glow, or appear to glow, with more indescribable lustre, a lustre which penetrates the spirits with wonder and curiosity,--then, however awed, who can fear?"--"a few pulsations of created beings, a few successions of acts, a few lamps held out in the firmament, enable us to talk of time, make epochs, write histories,--to do more,--to date the revelations of god to man. but these lamps are held to measure out some of the moments of eternity, to divide the history of god's operations in the birth and death of nations, of worlds. it is a goodly name for our notions of breathing, suffering, enjoying, acting. we personify it. we call it by every name of fleeting, dreaming, vaporing imagery. yet it is nothing. we exist in eternity. dissolve the body and the night is gone; the stars are extinguished, and we measure duration by the number of our thoughts, by the activity of reason, the discovery of truths, the acquirement of virtue, the approval of god." miss mary emerson showed something of the same feeling towards natural science which may be noted in her nephews waldo and charles. after speaking of "the poor old earth's chaotic state, brought so near in its long and gloomy transmutings by the geologist," she says:-- "yet its youthful charms, as decked by the hand of moses' cosmogony, will linger about the heart, while poetry succumbs to science."--"and the bare bones of this poor embryo earth may give the idea of the infinite, far, far better than when dignified with arts and industry; its oceans, when beating the symbols of countless ages, than when covered with cargoes of war and oppression. how grand its preparation for souls, souls who were to feel the divinity, before science had dissected the emotions and applied its steely analysis to that state of being which recognizes neither psychology nor element."--"usefulness, if it requires action, seems less like existence than the desire of being absorbed in god, retaining consciousness.... scorn trifles, lift your aims; do what you are afraid to do. sublimity of character must come from sublimity of motive." so far as hereditary and family influences can account for the character and intellect of ralph waldo emerson, we could hardly ask for a better inborn inheritance, or better counsels and examples. * * * * * having traced some of the distinguishing traits which belong by descent to mr. emerson to those who were before him, it is interesting to note how far they showed themselves in those of his own generation, his brothers. of these i will mention two, one of whom i knew personally. edward bliss emerson, who graduated at harvard college in , three years after ralph waldo, held the first place in his class. he began the study of the law with daniel webster, but overworked himself and suffered a temporary disturbance of his reason. after this he made another attempt, but found his health unequal to the task and exiled himself to porto rico, where, in , he died. two poems preserve his memory, one that of ralph waldo, in which he addresses his memory,-- "ah, brother of the brief but blazing star," the other his own "last farewell," written in , whilst sailing out of boston harbor. the lines are unaffected and very touching, full of that deep affection which united the brothers in the closest intimacy, and of the tenderest love for the mother whom he was leaving to see no more. i had in my early youth a key furnished me to some of the leading traits which were in due time to develop themselves in emerson's character and intelligence. as on the wall of some great artist's studio one may find unfinished sketches which he recognizes as the first growing conceptions of pictures painted in after years, so we see that nature often sketches, as it were, a living portrait, which she leaves in its rudimentary condition, perhaps for the reason that earth has no colors which can worthily fill in an outline too perfect for humanity. the sketch is left in its consummate incompleteness because this mortal life is not rich enough to carry out the divine idea. such an unfinished but unmatched outline is that which i find in the long portrait-gallery of memory, recalled by the name of charles chauncy emerson. save for a few brief glimpses of another, almost lost among my life's early shadows, this youth was the most angelic adolescent my eyes ever beheld. remembering what well-filtered blood it was that ran in the veins of the race from which he was descended, those who knew him in life might well say with dryden,-- "if by traduction came thy mind our wonder is the less to find a soul so charming from a stock so good." his image is with me in its immortal youth as when, almost fifty years ago, i spoke of him in these lines, which i may venture to quote from myself, since others have quoted them before me. thou calm, chaste scholar! i can see thee now, the first young laurels on thy pallid brow, o'er thy slight figure floating lightly down in graceful folds the academic gown, on thy curled lip the classic lines that taught how nice the mind that sculptured them with thought, and triumph glistening in the clear blue eye, too bright to live,--but o, too fair to die. being about seven years younger than waldo, he must have received much of his intellectual and moral guidance at his elder brother's hands. i told the story at a meeting of our historical society of charles emerson's coming into my study,--this was probably in or ,--taking up hazlitt's "british poets" and turning at once to a poem of marvell's, which he read with his entrancing voice and manner. the influence of this poet is plain to every reader in some of emerson's poems, and charles' liking for him was very probably caught from waldo. when charles was nearly through college, a periodical called "the harvard register" was published by students and recent graduates. three articles were contributed by him to this periodical. two of them have the titles "conversation," "friendship." his quotations are from horace and juvenal, plato, plutarch, bacon, jeremy taylor, shakespeare, and scott. there are passages in these essays which remind one strongly of his brother, the lecturer of twenty-five or thirty years later. take this as an example:-- "men and mind are my studies. i need no observatory high in air to aid my perceptions or enlarge my prospect. i do not want a costly apparatus to give pomp to my pursuit or to disguise its inutility. i do not desire to travel and see foreign lands and learn all knowledge and speak with all tongues, before i am prepared for my employment. i have merely to go out of my door; nay, i may stay at home at my chambers, and i shall have enough to do and enjoy." the feeling of this sentence shows itself constantly in emerson's poems. he finds his inspiration in the objects about him, the forest in which he walks; the sheet of water which the hermit of a couple of seasons made famous; the lazy musketaquid; the titmouse that mocked his weakness in the bitter cold winter's day; the mountain that rose in the horizon; the lofty pines; the lowly flowers. all talked with him as brothers and sisters, and he with them as of his own household. the same lofty idea of friendship which we find in the man in his maturity, we recognize in one of the essays of the youth. "all men of gifted intellect and fine genius," says charles emerson, "must entertain a noble idea of friendship. our reverence we are constrained to yield where it is due,--to rank, merit, talents. but our affections we give not thus easily. 'the hand of douglas is his own.'" --"i am willing to lose an hour in gossip with persons whom good men hold cheap. all this i will do out of regard to the decent conventions of polite life. but my friends i must know, and, knowing, i must love. there must be a daily beauty in their life that shall secure my constant attachment. i cannot stand upon the footing of ordinary acquaintance. friendship is aristocratical--the affections which are prostituted to every suitor i will not accept." here are glimpses of what the youth was to be, of what the man who long outlived him became. here is the dignity which commands reverence,--a dignity which, with all ralph waldo emerson's sweetness of manner and expression, rose almost to majesty in his serene presence. there was something about charles emerson which lifted those he was with into a lofty and pure region of thought and feeling. a vulgar soul stood abashed in his presence. i could never think of him in the presence of such, listening to a paltry sentiment or witnessing a mean action without recalling milton's line, "back stepped those two fair angels half amazed," and thinking how he might well have been taken for a celestial messenger. no doubt there is something of idealization in all these reminiscences, and of that exaggeration which belongs to the _laudator temporis acti_. but charles emerson was idolized in his own time by many in college and out of college. george stillman hillard was his rival. neck and neck they ran the race for the enviable position of first scholar in the class of , and when hillard was announced as having the first part assigned to him, the excitement within the college walls, and to some extent outside of them, was like that when the telegraph proclaims the result of a presidential election,--or the winner of the derby. but hillard honestly admired his brilliant rival. "who has a part with **** at this next exhibition?" i asked him one day, as i met him in the college yard. "***** the post," answered hillard. "why call him _the post_?" said i. "he is a wooden creature," said hillard. "hear him and charles emerson translating from the latin _domus tota inflammata erat_. the post will render the words, 'the whole house was on fire.' charles emerson will translate the sentence 'the entire edifice was wrapped in flames.'" it was natural enough that a young admirer should prefer the bernini drapery of charles emerson's version to the simple nudity of "the post's" rendering. * * * * * the nest is made ready long beforehand for the bird which is to be bred in it and to fly from it. the intellectual atmosphere into which a scholar is born, and from which he draws the breath of his early mental life, must be studied if we would hope to understand him thoroughly. when the present century began, the elements, thrown into confusion by the long struggle for independence, had not had time to arrange themselves in new combinations. the active intellects of the country had found enough to keep them busy in creating and organizing a new order of political and social life. whatever purely literary talent existed was as yet in the nebular condition, a diffused luminous spot here and there, waiting to form centres of condensation. such a nebular spot had been brightening in and about boston for a number of years, when, in the year , a small cluster of names became visible as representing a modest constellation of literary luminaries: john thornton kirkland, afterwards president of harvard university; joseph stevens buckminster; john sylvester john gardiner; william tudor; samuel cooper thacher; william emerson. these were the chief stars of the new cluster, and their light reached the world, or a small part of it, as reflected from the pages of "the monthly anthology," which very soon came under the editorship of the reverend william emerson. the father of ralph waldo emerson may be judged of in good measure by the associates with whom he was thus connected. a brief sketch of these friends and fellow-workers of his may not be out of place, for these men made the local sphere of thought into which ralph waldo emerson was born. john thornton kirkland should have been seen and heard as he is remembered by old graduates of harvard, sitting in the ancient presidential chair, on commencement day, and calling in his penetrating but musical accents: "_expectatur oratio in lingua latina_" or "_vernacula_," if the "first scholar" was about to deliver the english oration. it was a presence not to be forgotten. his "shining morning face" was round as a baby's, and talked as pleasantly as his voice did, with smiles for accents and dimples for punctuation. mr. ticknor speaks of his sermons as "full of intellectual wealth and practical wisdom, with sometimes a quaintness that bordered on humor." it was of him that the story was always told,--it may be as old as the invention of printing,--that he threw his sermons into a barrel, where they went to pieces and got mixed up, and that when he was going to preach he fished out what he thought would be about enough for a sermon, and patched the leaves together as he best might. the reverend dr. lowell says: "he always found the right piece, and that was better than almost any of his brethren could have found in what they had written with twice the labor." mr. cabot, who knew all emerson's literary habits, says he used to fish out the number of leaves he wanted for a lecture in somewhat the same way. emerson's father, however, was very methodical, according to dr. lowell, and had "a place for everything, and everything in its place." dr. kirkland left little to be remembered by, and like many of the most interesting personalities we have met with, has become a very thin ghost to the grandchildren of his contemporaries. joseph stevens buckminster was the pulpit darling of his day, in boston. the beauty of his person, the perfection of his oratory, the finish of his style, added to the sweetness of his character, made him one of those living idols which seem to be as necessary to protestantism as images and pictures are to romanism. john sylvester john gardiner, once a pupil of the famous dr. parr, was then the leading episcopal clergyman of boston. him i reconstruct from scattered hints i have met with as a scholarly, social man, with a sanguine temperament and the cheerful ways of a wholesome english parson, blest with a good constitution and a comfortable benefice. mild orthodoxy, ripened in unitarian sunshine, is a very agreeable aspect of christianity, and none was readier than dr. gardiner, if the voice of tradition may be trusted, to fraternize with his brothers of the liberal persuasion, and to make common cause with them in all that related to the interests of learning. william tudor was a chief connecting link between the period of the "monthly anthology," and that of the "north american review," for he was a frequent contributor to the first of these periodicals, and he was the founder of the second. edward everett characterizes him, in speaking of his "letters on the eastern states," as a scholar and a gentleman, an impartial observer, a temperate champion, a liberal opponent, and a correct writer. daniel webster bore similar testimony to his talents and character. samuel cooper thacher was hardly twenty years old when the "anthology" was founded, and died when he was only a little more than thirty. he contributed largely to that periodical, besides publishing various controversial sermons, and writing the "memoir of buckminster." there was no more brilliant circle than this in any of our cities. there was none where so much freedom of thought was united to so much scholarship. the "anthology" was the literary precursor of the "north american review," and the theological herald of the "christian examiner." like all first beginnings it showed many marks of immaturity. it mingled extracts and original contributions, theology and medicine, with all manner of literary chips and shavings. it had magazine ways that smacked of sylvanus urban; leading articles with balanced paragraphs which recalled the marching tramp of johnson; translations that might have been signed with the name of creech, and odes to sensibility, and the like, which recalled the syrupy sweetness and languid trickle of laura matilda's sentimentalities. it talked about "the london reviewers" with a kind of provincial deference. it printed articles with quite too much of the license of swift and prior for the magazines of to-day. but it had opinions of its own, and would compare well enough with the "gentleman's magazine," to say nothing of "my grandmother's review, the british." a writer in the third volume ( ) says: "a taste for the belles lettres is rapidly spreading in our country. i believe that, fifty years ago, england had never seen a miscellany or a review so well conducted as our 'anthology,' however superior such publications may now be in that kingdom." it is well worth one's while to look over the volumes of the "anthology" to see what our fathers and grandfathers were thinking about, and how they expressed themselves. the stiffness of puritanism was pretty well relaxed when a magazine conducted by clergymen could say that "the child,"--meaning the new periodical,--"shall not be destitute of the manners of a gentleman, nor a stranger to genteel amusements. he shall attend theatres, museums, balls, and whatever polite diversions the town shall furnish." the reader of the "anthology" will find for his reward an improving discourse on "ambition," and a commendable schoolboy's "theme" on "inebriation." he will learn something which may be for his advantage about the "anjou cabbage," and may profit by a "remedy for asthma." a controversy respecting the merits of sir richard blackmore may prove too little exciting at the present time, and he can turn for relief to the epistle "studiosus" addresses to "alcander." if the lines of "the minstrel" who hails, like longfellow in later years, from "the district of main," fail to satisfy him, he cannot accuse "r.t. paine, jr., esq.," of tameness when he exclaims:-- "rise columbia, brave and free, poise the globe and bound the sea!" but the writers did not confine themselves to native or even to english literature, for there is a distinct mention of "mr. goethe's new novel," and an explicit reference to "dante aligheri, an italian bard." but let the smiling reader go a little farther and he will find mr. buckminster's most interesting account of the destruction of goldau. and in one of these same volumes he will find the article, by dr. jacob bigelow, doubtless, which was the first hint of our rural cemeteries, and foreshadowed that new era in our underground civilization which is sweetening our atmospheric existence. the late president josiah quincy, in his "history of the boston athenaeum," pays a high tribute of respect to the memory and the labors of the gentlemen who founded that institution and conducted the "anthology." a literary journal had already been published in boston, but very soon failed for want of patronage. an enterprising firm of publishers, "being desirous that the work should be continued, applied to the reverend william emerson, a clergyman of the place, distinguished for energy and literary taste; and by his exertions several gentlemen of boston and its vicinity, conspicuous for talent and zealous for literature, were induced to engage in conducting the work, and for this purpose they formed themselves into a society. this society was not completely organized until the year , when dr. gardiner was elected president, and william emerson vice-president. the society thus formed maintained its existence with reputation for about six years, and issued ten octavo volumes from the press, constituting one of the most lasting and honorable monuments of the literature of the period, and may be considered as a true revival of polite learning in this country after that decay and neglect which resulted from the distractions of the revolutionary war, and as forming an epoch in the intellectual history of the united states. its records yet remain, an evidence that it was a pleasant, active, high-principled association of literary men, laboring harmoniously to elevate the literary standard of the time, and with a success which may well be regarded as remarkable, considering the little sympathy they received from the community, and the many difficulties with which they had to struggle." the publication of the "anthology" began in , when mr. william emerson was thirty-four years of age, and it ceased to be published in the year of his death, . ralph waldo emerson was eight years old at that time. his intellectual life began, we may say, while the somewhat obscure afterglow of the "anthology" was in the western horizon of the new england sky. the nebula which was to form a cluster about the "north american review" did not take definite shape until . there is no such memorial of the growth of american literature as is to be found in the first half century of that periodical. it is easy to find fault with it for uniform respectability and occasional dulness. but take the names of its contributors during its first fifty years from the literary record of that period, and we should have but a meagre list of mediocrities, saved from absolute poverty by the genius of two or three writers like irving and cooper. strike out the names of webster, everett, story, sumner, and cushing; of bryant, dana, longfellow, and lowell; of prescott, ticknor, motley, sparks, and bancroft; of verplanck, hillard, and whipple; of stuart and robinson; of norton, palfrey, peabody, and bowen; and, lastly, that of emerson himself, and how much american classic literature would be left for a new edition of "miller's retrospect"? these were the writers who helped to make the "north american review" what it was during the period of emerson's youth and early manhood. these, and men like them, gave boston its intellectual character. we may count as symbols the three hills of "this darling town of ours," as emerson called it, and say that each had its beacon. civil liberty lighted the torch on one summit, religious freedom caught the flame and shone from the second, and the lamp of the scholar has burned steadily on the third from the days when john cotton preached his first sermon to those in which we are living. the social religious influences of the first part of the century must not be forgotten. the two high-caste religions of that day were white-handed unitarianism and ruffled-shirt episcopalianism. what called itself "society" was chiefly distributed between them. within less than fifty years a social revolution has taken place which has somewhat changed the relation between these and other worshipping bodies. this movement is the general withdrawal of the native new englanders of both sexes from domestic service. a large part of the "hired help,"--for the word servant was commonly repudiated,--worshipped, not with their employers, but at churches where few or no well-appointed carriages stood at the doors. the congregations that went chiefly from the drawing-room and those which were largely made up of dwellers in the culinary studio were naturally separated by a very distinct line of social cleavage. a certain exclusiveness and fastidiousness, not reminding us exactly of primitive christianity, was the inevitable result. this must always be remembered in judging the men and women of that day and their immediate descendants, as much as the surviving prejudices of those whose parents were born subjects of king george in the days when loyalty to the crown was a virtue. the line of social separation was more marked, probably, in boston, the headquarters of unitarianism, than in the other large cities; and even at the present day our jerusalem and samaria, though they by no means refuse dealing with each other, do not exchange so many cards as they do checks and dollars. the exodus of those children of israel from the house of bondage, as they chose to consider it, and their fusion with the mass of independent citizens, got rid of a class distinction which was felt even in the sanctuary. true religious equality is harder to establish than civil liberty. no man has done more for spiritual republicanism than emerson, though he came from the daintiest sectarian circle of the time in the whole country. such were emerson's intellectual and moral parentage, nurture, and environment; such was the atmosphere in which he grew up from youth to manhood. chapter i. birthplace.--boyhood.--college life. - . to _aet_. . ralph waldo emerson was born in boston, massachusetts, on the th of may, . he was the second of five sons; william, r.w., edward bliss, robert bulkeley, and charles chauncy. his birthplace and that of our other illustrious bostonian, benjamin franklin, were within a kite-string's distance of each other. when the baby philosopher of the last century was carried from milk street through the narrow passage long known as bishop's alley, now hawley street, he came out in summer street, very nearly opposite the spot where, at the beginning of this century, stood the parsonage of the first church, the home of the reverend william emerson, its pastor, and the birthplace of his son, ralph waldo. the oblong quadrangle between newbury, now washington street, pond, now bedford street, summer street, and the open space called church green, where the new south church was afterwards erected, is represented on bonner's maps of and as an almost blank area, not crossed or penetrated by a single passageway. even so late as less than half a century ago this region was still a most attractive little _rus in urbe_. the sunny gardens of the late judge charles jackson and the late mr. s.p. gardner opened their flowers and ripened their fruits in the places now occupied by great warehouses and other massive edifices. the most aristocratic pears, the "saint michael," the "brown bury," found their natural homes in these sheltered enclosures. the fine old mansion of judge william prescott looked out upon these gardens. some of us can well remember the window of his son's, the historian's, study, the light from which used every evening to glimmer through the leaves of the pear-trees while "the conquest of mexico" was achieving itself under difficulties hardly less formidable than those encountered by cortes. it was a charmed region in which emerson first drew his breath, and i am fortunate in having a communication from one who knew it and him longer than almost any other living person. mr. john lowell gardner, a college classmate and life-long friend of mr. emerson, has favored me with a letter which contains matters of interest concerning him never before given to the public. with his kind permission i have made some extracts and borrowed such facts as seemed especially worthy of note from his letter. "i may be said to have known emerson from the very beginning. a very low fence divided my father's estate in summer street from the field in which i remember the old wooden parsonage to have existed,--but this field, when we were very young, was to be covered by chauncy place church and by the brick houses on summer street. where the family removed to i do not remember, but i always knew the boys, william, ralph, and perhaps edward, and i again associated with ralph at the latin school, where we were instructed by master gould from to , entering college in the latter year. "... i have no recollection of his relative rank as a scholar, but it was undoubtedly high, though not the highest. he never was idle or a lounger, nor did he ever engage in frivolous pursuits. i should say that his conduct was absolutely faultless. it was impossible that there should be any feeling about him but of regard and affection. he had then the same manner and courtly hesitation in addressing you that you have known in him since. still, he was not prominent in the class, and, but for what all the world has since known of him, his would not have been a conspicuous figure to his classmates in recalling college days. "the fact that we were almost the only latin school fellows in the class, and the circumstance that he was slow during the freshman year to form new acquaintances, brought us much together, and an intimacy arose which continued through our college life. we were in the habit of taking long strolls together, often stopping for repose at distant points, as at mount auburn, etc.... emerson was not talkative; he never spoke for effect; his utterances were well weighed and very deliberately made, but there was a certain flash when he uttered anything that was more than usually worthy to be remembered. he was so universally amiable and complying that my evil spirit would sometimes instigate me to take advantage of his gentleness and forbearance, but nothing could disturb his equanimity. all that was wanting to render him an almost perfect character was a few harsher traits and perhaps more masculine vigor. "on leaving college our paths in life were so remote from each other that we met very infrequently. he soon became, as it were, public property, and i was engrossed for many years in my commercial undertakings. all his course of life is known to many survivors. i am inclined to believe he had a most liberal spirit. i remember that some years since, when it was known that our classmate ---- was reduced almost to absolute want by the war, in which he lost his two sons, emerson exerted himself to raise a fund among his classmates for his relief, and, there being very few possible subscribers, made what i considered a noble contribution, and this you may be sure was not from any southern sentiment on the part of emerson. i send you herewith the two youthful productions of emerson of which i spoke to you some time since." the first of these is a prose essay of four pages, written for a discussion in which the professions of divinity, medicine, and law were to be weighed against each other. emerson had the lawyer's side to advocate. it is a fair and sensible paper, not of special originality or brilliancy. his opening paragraph is worth citing, as showing the same instinct for truth which displayed itself in all his after writings and the conduct of his life. "it is usual in advocating a favorite subject to appropriate all possible excellence, and endeavor to concentrate every doubtful auxiliary, that we may fortify to the utmost the theme of our attention. such a design should be utterly disdained, except as far as is consistent with fairness; and the sophistry of weak arguments being abandoned, a bold appeal should be made to the heart, for the tribute of honest conviction, with regard to the merits of the subject." from many boys this might sound like well-meaning commonplace, but in the history of mr. emerson's life that "bold appeal to the heart," that "tribute of honest conviction," were made eloquent and real. the boy meant it when he said it. to carry out his law of sincerity and self-trust the man had to sacrifice much that was dear to him, but he did not flinch from his early principles. it must not be supposed that the blameless youth was an ascetic in his college days. the other old manuscript mr. gardner sends me is marked "'song for knights of square table,' r.w.e." there are twelve verses of this song, with a chorus of two lines. the muses and all the deities, not forgetting bacchus, were duly invited to the festival. "let the doors of olympus be open for all to descend and make merry in chivalry's hall." * * * * * mr. sanborn has kindly related to me several circumstances told him by emerson about his early years. the parsonage was situated at the corner of summer and what is now chauncy streets. it had a yard, and an orchard which emerson said was as large as dr. ripley's, which might have been some two or three acres. afterwards there was a brick house looking on summer street, in which emerson the father lived. it was separated, emerson said, by a brick wall from a garden in which _pears grew_ (a fact a boy is likely to remember). master ralph waldo used to _sit on this wall_,--but we cannot believe he ever got off it on the wrong side, unless politely asked to do so. on the occasion of some alarm the little boy was carried in his nightgown to a neighboring house. after reverend william emerson's death mrs. emerson removed to a house in beacon street, where the athenaeum building now stands. she kept some boarders,--among them lemuel shaw, afterwards chief justice of the state of massachusetts. it was but a short distance to the common, and waldo and charles used to drive their mother's cow there to pasture. * * * * * the reverend doctor rufus ellis, the much respected living successor of william emerson as minister of the first church, says that r.w. emerson must have been born in the old parsonage, as his father (who died when he was eight years old) lived but a very short time in "the new parsonage," which was, doubtless, the "brick house" above referred to. * * * * * we get a few glimpses of the boy from other sources. mr. cooke tells us that he entered the public grammar school at the age of eight years, and soon afterwards the latin school. at the age of eleven he was turning virgil into very readable english heroics. he loved the study of greek; was fond of reading history and given to the frequent writing of verses. but he thinks "the idle books under the bench at the latin school" were as profitable to him as his regular studies. another glimpse of him is that given us by mr. ireland from the "boyhood memories" of rufus dawes. his old schoolmate speaks of him as "a spiritual-looking boy in blue nankeen, who seems to be about ten years old,--whose image more than any other is still deeply stamped upon my mind, as i then saw him and loved him, i knew not why, and thought him so angelic and remarkable." that "blue nankeen" sounds strangely, it may be, to the readers of this later generation, but in the first quarter of the century blue and yellow or buff-colored cotton from china were a common summer clothing of children. the places where the factories and streets of the cities of lowell and lawrence were to rise were then open fields and farms. my recollection is that we did not think very highly of ourselves when we were in blue nankeen,--a dull-colored fabric, too nearly of the complexion of the slates on which we did our ciphering. emerson was not particularly distinguished in college. having a near connection in the same class as he, and being, as a cambridge boy, generally familiar with the names of the more noted young men in college from the year when george bancroft, caleb cushing, and francis william winthrop graduated until after i myself left college, i might have expected to hear something of a young man who afterwards became one of the great writers of his time. i do not recollect hearing of him except as keeping school for a short time in cambridge, before he settled as a minister. his classmate, mr. josiah quincy, writes thus of his college days:-- "two only of my classmates can be fairly said to have got into history, although one of them, charles w. upham [the connection of mine referred to above] has written history very acceptably. ralph waldo emerson and robert w. barnwell, for widely different reasons, have caused their names to be known to well-informed americans. of emerson, i regret to say, there are few notices in my journals. here is the sort of way in which i speak of the man who was to make so profound an impression upon the thought of his time. 'i went to the chapel to hear emerson's dissertation: a very good one, but rather too long to give much pleasure to the hearers.' the fault, i suspect, was in the hearers; and another fact which i have mentioned goes to confirm this belief. it seems that emerson accepted the duty of delivering the poem on class day, after seven others had been asked who positively, refused. so it appears that, in the opinion of this critical class, the author of the 'woodnotes' and the 'humble bee' ranked about eighth in poetical ability. it can only be because the works of the other five [seven] have been 'heroically unwritten' that a different impression has come to prevail in the outside world. but if, according to the measurement of undergraduates, emerson's ability as a poet was not conspicuous, it must also be admitted that, in the judgment of persons old enough to know better, he was not credited with that mastery of weighty prose which the world has since accorded him. in our senior year the higher classes competed for the boylston prizes for english composition. emerson and i sent in our essays with the rest and were fortunate enough to take the two prizes; but--alas for the infallibility of academic decisions! emerson received the second prize. i was of course much pleased with the award of this intelligent committee, and should have been still more gratified had they mentioned that the man who was to be the most original and influential writer born in america was my unsuccessful competitor. but emerson, incubating over deeper matters than were dreamt of in the established philosophy of elegant letters, seems to have given no sign of the power that was fashioning itself for leadership in a new time. he was quiet, unobtrusive, and only a fair scholar according to the standard of the college authorities. and this is really all i have to say about my most distinguished classmate." barnwell, the first scholar in the class, delivered the valedictory oration, and emerson the poem. neither of these performances was highly spoken of by mr. quincy. i was surprised to find by one of the old catalogues that emerson roomed during a part of his college course with a young man whom i well remember, j.g.k. gourdin. the two gourdins, robert and john gaillard keith, were dashing young fellows as i recollect them, belonging to charleston, south carolina. the "southerners" were the reigning college _elegans_ of that time, the _merveilleux_, the _mirliflores_, of their day. their swallow-tail coats tapered to an arrow-point angle, and the prints of their little delicate calfskin boots in the snow were objects of great admiration to the village boys of the period. i cannot help wondering what brought emerson and the showy, fascinating john gourdin together as room-mates. chapter ii. - . aet. - . extract from a letter to a classmate.--school-teaching.--study of divinity.--"approbated" to preach.--visit to the south.--preaching in various places. we get a few brief glimpses of emerson during the years following his graduation. he writes in to a classmate who had gone from harvard to andover:-- "i am delighted to hear there is such a profound studying of german and hebrew, parkhurst and jahn, and such other names as the memory aches to think of, on foot at andover. meantime, unitarianism will not hide her honors; as many hard names are taken, and as much theological mischief is planned, at cambridge as at andover. by the time this generation gets upon the stage, if the controversy will not have ceased, it will run such a tide that we shall hardly he able to speak to one another, and there will be a guelf and ghibelline quarrel, which cannot tell where the differences lie." "you can form no conception how much one grovelling in the city needs the excitement and impulse of literary example. the sight of broad vellum-bound quartos, the very mention of greek and german names, the glimpse of a dusty, tugging scholar, will wake you up to emulation for a month." after leaving college, and while studying divinity, emerson employed a part of his time in giving instruction in several places successively. emerson's older brother william was teaching in boston, and ralph waldo, after graduating, joined him in that occupation. in the year or , he taught school also in chelmsford, a town of middlesex county, massachusetts, a part of which helped to constitute the city of lowell. one of his pupils in that school, the honorable josiah gardiner abbott, has favored me with the following account of his recollections:-- the school of which mr. emerson had the charge was an old-fashioned country "academy." mr. emerson was probably studying for the ministry while teaching there. judge abbott remembers the impression he made on the boys. he was very grave, quiet, and very impressive in his appearance. there was something engaging, almost fascinating, about him; he was never harsh or severe, always perfectly self-controlled, never punished except with words, but exercised complete command over the boys. his old pupil recalls the stately, measured way in which, for some offence the little boy had committed, he turned on him, saying only these two words: "oh, sad!" that was enough, for he had the faculty of making the boys love him. one of his modes of instruction was to give the boys a piece of reading to carry home with them,--from some book like plutarch's lives,--and the next day to examine them and find out how much they retained from their reading. judge abbott remembers a peculiar look in his eyes, as if he saw something beyond what seemed to be in the field of vision. the whole impression left on this pupil's mind was such as no other teacher had ever produced upon him. mr. emerson also kept a school for a short time at cambridge, and among his pupils was mr. john holmes. his impressions seem to be very much like those of judge abbott. my brother speaks of mr. emerson thus:-- "calm, as not doubting the virtue residing in his sceptre. rather stern in his very infrequent rebukes. not inclined to win boys by a surface amiability, but kindly in explanation or advice. every inch a king in his dominion. looking back, he seems to me rather like a captive philosopher set to tending flocks; resigned to his destiny, but not amused with its incongruities. he once recommended the use of rhyme as a cohesive for historical items." in , two years after graduating, emerson began studying for the ministry. he studied under the direction of dr. charming, attending some of the lectures in the divinity school at cambridge, though not enrolled as one of its regular students. the teachings of that day were such as would now be called "old-fashioned unitarianism." but no creed can be held to be a finality. from edwards to mayhew, from mayhew to channing, from channing to emerson, the passage is like that which leads from the highest lock of a canal to the ocean level. it is impossible for human nature to remain permanently shut up in the highest lock of calvinism. if the gates are not opened, the mere leakage of belief or unbelief will before long fill the next compartment, and the freight of doctrine finds itself on the lower level of arminianism, or pelagianism, or even subsides to arianism. from this level to that of unitarianism the outlet is freer, and the subsidence more rapid. and from unitarianism to christian theism, the passage is largely open for such as cannot accept the evidence of the supernatural in the history of the church. there were many shades of belief in the liberal churches. if de tocqueville's account of unitarian preaching in boston at the time of his visit is true, the savoyard vicar of rousseau would have preached acceptably in some of our pulpits. in fact, the good vicar might have been thought too conservative by some of our unharnessed theologians. at the period when emerson reached manhood, unitarianism was the dominating form of belief in the more highly educated classes of both of the two great new england centres, the town of boston and the university at cambridge. president kirkland was at the head of the college, henry ware was professor of theology, andrews norton of sacred literature, followed in by john gorham palfrey in the same office. james freeman, charles lowell, and william ellery channing were preaching in boston. i have mentioned already as a simple fact of local history, that the more exclusive social circles of boston and cambridge were chiefly connected with the unitarian or episcopalian churches. a cambridge graduate of ambition and ability found an opening far from undesirable in a worldly point of view, in a profession which he was led to choose by higher motives. it was in the unitarian pulpit that the brilliant talents of buckminster and everett had found a noble eminence from which their light could shine before men. descended from a long line of ministers, a man of spiritual nature, a reader of plato, of augustine, of jeremy taylor, full of hope for his fellow-men, and longing to be of use to them, conscious, undoubtedly, of a growing power of thought, it was natural that emerson should turn from the task of a school-master to the higher office of a preacher. it is hard to conceive of emerson in either of the other so-called learned professions. his devotion to truth for its own sake and his feeling about science would have kept him out of both those dusty highways. his brother william had previously begun the study of divinity, but found his mind beset with doubts and difficulties, and had taken to the profession of law. it is not unlikely that mr. emerson was more or less exercised with the same questionings. he has said, speaking of his instructors: "if they had examined me, they probably would not have let me preach at all." his eyes had given him trouble, so that he had not taken notes of the lectures which he heard in the divinity school, which accounted for his being excused from examination. in , after three years' study, he was "approbated to preach" by the middlesex association of ministers. his health obliging him to seek a southern climate, he went in the following winter to south carolina and florida. during this absence he preached several times in charleston and other places. on his return from the south he preached in new bedford, in northampton, in concord, and in boston. his attractiveness as a preacher, of which we shall have sufficient evidence in a following chapter, led to his being invited to share the duties of a much esteemed and honored city clergyman, and the next position in which we find him is that of a settled minister in boston. chapter iii. - . aet. - . settled as colleague of rev. henry ware.--married to ellen louisa tucker.--sermon at the ordination of rev. h.b. goodwin.--his pastoral and other labors.--emerson and father taylor.--death of mrs. emerson.--difference of opinion with some of his parishioners.--sermon explaining his views.--resignation of his pastorate. on the th of march, , emerson was ordained as colleague with the reverend henry ware, minister of the second church in boston. in september of the same year he was married to miss ellen louisa tucker. the resignation of his colleague soon after his settlement threw all the pastoral duties upon the young minister, who seems to have performed them diligently and acceptably. mr. conway gives the following brief account of his labors, and tells in the same connection a story of father taylor too good not to be repeated:-- "emerson took an active interest in the public affairs of boston. he was on its school board, and was chosen chaplain of the state senate. he invited the anti-slavery lecturers into his church, and helped philanthropists of other denominations in their work. father taylor [the methodist preacher to the sailors], to whom dickens gave an english fame, found in him his most important supporter when establishing the seaman's mission in boston. this was told me by father taylor himself in his old age. i happened to be in his company once, when he spoke rather sternly about my leaving the methodist church; but when i spoke of the part emerson had in it, he softened at once, and spoke with emotion of his great friend. i have no doubt that if the good father of boston seamen was proud of any personal thing, it was of the excellent answer he is said to have given to some methodists who objected to his friendship for emerson. being a unitarian, they insisted that he must go to"--[the place which a divine of charles the second's day said it was not good manners to mention in church].--"'it does look so,' said father taylor, 'but i am sure of one thing: if emerson goes to'"--[that place]--"'he will change the climate there, and emigration will set that way.'" in , emerson took part in the services at the ordination of the reverend h.b. goodwin as dr. ripley's colleague. his address on giving the right hand of fellowship was printed, but is not included among his collected works. the fair prospects with which emerson began his life as a settled minister were too soon darkened. in february, , the wife of his youth, who had been for some time in failing health, died of consumption. he had become troubled with doubts respecting a portion of his duties, and it was not in his nature to conceal these doubts from his people. on the th of september, , he preached a sermon on the lord's supper, in which he announced unreservedly his conscientious scruples against administering that ordinance, and the grounds upon which those scruples were founded. this discourse, as his only printed sermon, and as one which heralded a movement in new england theology which has never stopped from that day to this, deserves some special notice. the sermon is in no sense "emersonian" except in its directness, its sweet temper, and outspoken honesty. he argues from his comparison of texts in a perfectly sober, old-fashioned way, as his ancestor peter bulkeley might have done. it happened to that worthy forefather of emerson that upon his "pressing a piece of _charity_ disagreeable to the will of the _ruling elder_, there was occasioned an unhappy _discord_ in the church of _concord_; which yet was at last healed, by their calling in the help of a _council_ and the _ruling elder's_ abdication." so says cotton mather. whether zeal had grown cooler or charity grown warmer in emerson's days we need not try to determine. the sermon was only a more formal declaration of views respecting the lord's supper, which he had previously made known in a conference with some of the most active members of his church. as a committee of the parish reported resolutions radically differing from his opinion on the subject, he preached this sermon and at the same time resigned his office. there was no "discord," there was no need of a "council." nothing could be more friendly, more truly christian, than the manner in which mr. emerson expressed himself in this parting discourse. all the kindness of his nature warms it throughout. he details the differences of opinion which have existed in the church with regard to the ordinance. he then argues from the language of the evangelists that it was not intended to be a permanent institution. he takes up the statement of paul in the epistle to the corinthians, which he thinks, all things considered, ought not to alter our opinion derived from the evangelists. he does not think that we are to rely upon the opinions and practices of the primitive church. if that church believed the institution to be permanent, their belief does not settle the question for us. on every other subject, succeeding times have learned to form a judgment more in accordance with the spirit of christianity than was the practice of the early ages. "but, it is said, 'admit that the rite was not designed to be perpetual.' what harm doth it?" he proceeds to give reasons which show it to be inexpedient to continue the observance of the rite. it was treating that as authoritative which, as he believed that he had shown from scripture, was not so. it confused the idea of god by transferring the worship of him to christ. christ is the mediator only as the instructor of man. in the least petition to god "the soul stands alone with god, and jesus is no more present to your mind than your brother or child." again:-- "the use of the elements, however suitable to the people and the modes of thought in the east, where it originated, is foreign and unsuited to affect us. the day of formal religion is past, and we are to seek our well-being in the formation of the soul. the jewish was a religion of forms; it was all body, it had no life, and the almighty god was pleased to qualify and send forth a man to teach men that they must serve him with the heart; that only that life was religious which was thoroughly good; that sacrifice was smoke and forms were shadows. this man lived and died true to that purpose; and with his blessed word and life before us, christians must contend that it is a matter of vital importance,--really a duty to commemorate him by a certain form, whether that form be acceptable to their understanding or not. is not this to make vain the gift of god? is not this to turn back the hand on the dial?" to these objections he adds the practical consideration that it brings those who do not partake of the communion service into an unfavorable relation with those who do. the beautiful spirit of the man shows itself in all its noble sincerity in these words at the close of his argument:-- "having said this, i have said all. i have no hostility to this institution; i am only stating my want of sympathy with it. neither should i ever have obtruded this opinion upon other people, had i not been called by my office to administer it. that is the end of my opposition, that i am not interested in it. i am content that it stand to the end of the world if it please men and please heaven, and i shall rejoice in all the good it produces." he then announces that, as it is the prevailing opinion and feeling in our religious community that it is a part of a pastor's duties to administer this rite, he is about to resign the office which had been confided to him. this is the only sermon of mr. emerson's ever published. it was impossible to hear or to read it without honoring the preacher for his truthfulness, and recognizing the force of his statement and reasoning. it was equally impossible that he could continue his ministrations over a congregation which held to the ordinance he wished to give up entirely. and thus it was, that with the most friendly feelings on both sides, mr. emerson left the pulpit of the second church and found himself obliged to make a beginning in a new career. chapter iv. - . aet. - . section . visit to europe.--on his return preaches in different places.--emerson in the pulpit.--at newton.--fixes his residence at concord.--the old manse.--lectures in boston.--lectures on michael angelo and on milton published in the "north american review."--beginning of the correspondence with carlyle.--letters to the rev. james freeman clarke.--republication of "sartor resartus." section . emerson's second marriage.--his new residence in concord.--historical address.--course of ten lectures on english literature delivered in boston.--the concord battle hymn.--preaching in concord and east lexington.--accounts of his preaching by several hearers.--a course of lectures on the nature and ends of history.--address on war.--death of edward bliss emerson.--death of charles chauncy emerson. section . publication of "nature."--outline of this essay.--its reception.--address before the phi beta kappa society. section . in the year mr. emerson visited europe for the first time. a great change had come over his life, and he needed the relief which a corresponding change of outward circumstances might afford him. a brief account of this visit is prefixed to the volume entitled "english traits." he took a short tour, in which he visited sicily, italy, and france, and, crossing from boulogne, landed at the tower stairs in london. he finds nothing in his diary to publish concerning visits to places. but he saw a number of distinguished persons, of whom he gives pleasant accounts, so singularly different in tone from the rough caricatures in which carlyle vented his spleen and caprice, that one marvels how the two men could have talked ten minutes together, or would wonder, had not one been as imperturbable as the other was explosive. horatio greenough and walter savage landor are the chief persons he speaks of as having met upon the continent. of these he reports various opinions as delivered in conversation. he mentions incidentally that he visited professor amici, who showed him his microscopes "magnifying (it was said) two thousand diameters." emerson hardly knew his privilege; he may have been the first american to look through an immersion lens with the famous modena professor. mr. emerson says that his narrow and desultory reading had inspired him with the wish to see the faces of three or four writers, coleridge, wordsworth, landor, de quincey, carlyle. his accounts of his interviews with these distinguished persons are too condensed to admit of further abbreviation. goethe and scott, whom he would have liked to look upon, were dead; wellington he saw at westminster abbey, at the funeral of wilberforce. his impressions of each of the distinguished persons whom he visited should be looked at in the light of the general remark which, follows:-- "the young scholar fancies it happiness enough to live with people who can give an inside to the world; without reflecting that they are prisoners, too, of their own thought, and cannot apply themselves to yours. the conditions of literary success are almost destructive of the best social power, as they do not have that frolic liberty which only can encounter a companion on the best terms. it is probable you left some obscure comrade at a tavern, or in the farms, with right mother-wit, and equality to life, when you crossed sea and land to play bo-peep with celebrated scribes. i have, however, found writers superior to their books, and i cling to my first belief that a strong head will dispose fast enough of these impediments, and give one the satisfaction of reality, the sense of having been met, and a larger horizon." emerson carried a letter of introduction to a gentleman in edinburgh, who, being unable to pay him all the desired attention, handed him over to mr. alexander ireland, who has given a most interesting account of him as he appeared during that first visit to europe. mr. ireland's presentation of emerson as he heard him in the scotch pulpit shows that he was not less impressive and attractive before an audience of strangers than among his own countrymen and countrywomen:-- "on sunday, the th of august, , i heard him deliver a discourse in the unitarian chapel, young street, edinburgh, and i remember distinctly the effect which it produced on his hearers. it is almost needless to say that nothing like it had ever been heard by them before, and many of them did not know what to make of it. the originality of his thoughts, the consummate beauty of the language in which they were clothed, the calm dignity of his bearing, the absence of all oratorical effort, and the singular directness and simplicity of his manner, free from the least shadow of dogmatic assumption, made a deep impression on me. not long before this i had listened to a wonderful sermon by dr. chalmers, whose force, and energy, and vehement, but rather turgid eloquence carried, for the moment, all before them,--his audience becoming like clay in the hands of the potter. but i must confess that the pregnant thoughts and serene self-possession of the young boston minister had a greater charm for me than all the rhetorical splendors of chalmers. his voice was the sweetest, the most winning and penetrating of any i ever heard; nothing like it have i listened to since. 'that music in our hearts we bore long after it was heard no more.'" mr. george gilfillan speaks of "the solemnity of his manner, and the earnest thought pervading his discourse." as to the effect of his preaching on his american audiences, i find the following evidence in mr. cooke's diligently gathered collections. mr. sanborn says:-- "his pulpit eloquence was singularly attractive, though by no means equally so to all persons. in , before the two friends had met, bronson alcott heard him preach in dr. channing's church on 'the universality of the moral sentiment,' and was struck, as he said, with the youth of the preacher, the beauty of his elocution and the direct and sincere manner in which he addressed his hearers." mr. charles congdon, of new bedford, well known as a popular writer, gives the following account of emerson's preaching in his "reminiscences." i borrow the quotation from mr. conway:-- "one day there came into our pulpit the most gracious of mortals, with a face all benignity, who gave out the first hymn and made the first prayer as an angel might have read and prayed. our choir was a pretty good one, but its best was coarse and discordant after emerson's voice. i remember of the sermon only that it had an indefinite charm of simplicity and wisdom, with occasional illustrations from nature, which were about the most delicate and dainty things of the kind which i had ever heard. i could understand them, if not the fresh philosophical novelties of the discourse." everywhere emerson seems to have pleased his audiences. the reverend dr. morison, formerly the much respected unitarian minister of new bedford, writes to me as follows:-- "after dr. dewey left new bedford, mr. emerson preached there several months, greatly to the satisfaction and delight of those who heard him. the society would have been glad to settle him as their minister, and he would have accepted a call, had it not been for some difference of opinion, i think, in regard to the communion service. judge warren, who was particularly his friend, and had at that time a leading influence in the parish, with all his admiration for mr. emerson, did not think he could well be the pastor of a christian church, and so the matter was settled between him and his friend, without any action by the society." all this shows well enough that his preaching was eminently acceptable. but every one who has heard him lecture can form an idea of what he must have been as a preacher. in fact, we have all listened, probably, to many a passage from old sermons of his,--for he tells us he borrowed from those old sermons for his lectures,--without ever thinking of the pulpit from which they were first heard. among the stray glimpses we get of emerson between the time when he quitted the pulpit of his church and that when he came before the public as a lecturer is this, which i owe to the kindness of hon. alexander h. rice. in or , probably the latter year, he, then a boy, with another boy, thomas r. gould, afterwards well known as a sculptor, being at the episcopal church in newton, found that mr. emerson was sitting in the pew behind them. gould knew mr. emerson, and introduced young rice to him, and they walked down the street together. as they went along, emerson burst into a rhapsody over the psalms of david, the sublimity of thought, and the poetic beauty of expression of which they are full, and spoke also with enthusiasm of the te deum as that grand old hymn which had come down through the ages, voicing the praises of generation after generation. when they parted at the house of young rice's father, emerson invited the boys to come and see him at the allen farm, in the afternoon. they came to a piece of woods, and, as they entered it, took their hats off. "boys," said emerson, "here we recognize the presence of the universal spirit. the breeze says to us in its own language, how d' ye do? how d' ye do? and we have already taken our hats off and are answering it with our own how d' ye do? how d' ye do? and all the waving branches of the trees, and all the flowers, and the field of corn yonder, and the singing brook, and the insect and the bird,--every living thing and things we call inanimate feel the same divine universal impulse while they join with us, and we with them, in the greeting which is the salutation of the universal spirit." we perceive the same feeling which pervades many of emerson's earlier essays and much of his verse, in these long-treasured reminiscences of the poetical improvisation with which the two boys were thus unexpectedly favored. governor rice continues:-- "you know what a captivating charm there always was in emerson's presence, but i can never tell you how this line of thought then impressed a country boy. i do not remember anything about the remainder of that walk, nor of the after-incidents of that day,--i only remember that i went home wondering about that mystical dream of the universal spirit, and about what manner of man he was under whose influence i had for the first time come.... "the interview left impressions that led me into new channels of thought which have been a life-long pleasure to me, and, i doubt not, taught me somewhat how to distinguish between mere theological dogma and genuine religion in the soul." in the summer of emerson became a resident of concord, massachusetts, the town of his forefathers, and the place destined to be his home for life. he first lived with his venerable connection, dr. ripley, in the dwelling made famous by hawthorne as the "old manse." it is an old-fashioned gambrel-roofed house, standing close to the scene of the fight on the banks of the river. it was built for the reverend william emerson, his grandfather. in one of the rooms of this house emerson wrote "nature," and in the same room, some years later, hawthorne wrote "mosses from an old manse." the place in which emerson passed the greater part of his life well deserves a special notice. concord might sit for its portrait as an ideal new england town. if wanting in the variety of surface which many other towns can boast of, it has at least a vision of the distant summits of monadnock and wachusett. it has fine old woods, and noble elms to give dignity to its open spaces. beautiful ponds, as they modestly call themselves,--one of which, walden, is as well known in our literature as windermere in that of old england,--lie quietly in their clean basins. and through the green meadows runs, or rather lounges, a gentle, unsalted stream, like an english river, licking its grassy margin with a sort of bovine placidity and contentment. this is the musketaquid, or meadow river, which, after being joined by the more restless assabet, still keeps its temper and flows peacefully along by and through other towns, to lose itself in the broad merrimac. the names of these rivers tell us that concord has an indian history, and there is evidence that it was a favorite residence of the race which preceded our own. the native tribes knew as well as the white settlers where were pleasant streams and sweet springs, where corn grew tall in the meadows and fish bred fast in the unpolluted waters. the place thus favored by nature can show a record worthy of its physical attractions. its settlement under the lead of emerson's ancestor, peter bulkeley, was effected in the midst of many difficulties, which the enterprise and self-sacrifice of that noble leader were successful in overcoming. on the banks of the musketaquid was fired the first fatal shot of the "rebel" farmers. emerson appeals to the records of the town for two hundred years as illustrating the working of our american institutions and the character of the men of concord:-- "if the good counsel prevailed, the sneaking counsel did not fail to be suggested; freedom and virtue, if they triumphed, triumphed in a fair field. and so be it an everlasting testimony for them, and so much ground of assurance of man's capacity for self-government." what names that plain new england town reckons in the roll of its inhabitants! stout major buttrick and his fellow-soldiers in the war of independence, and their worthy successors in the war of freedom; lawyers and statesmen like samuel hoar and his descendants; ministers like peter bulkeley, daniel bliss, and william emerson; and men of genius such as the idealist and poet whose inspiration has kindled so many souls; as the romancer who has given an atmosphere to the hard outlines of our stern new england; as that unique individual, half college-graduate and half algonquin, the robinson crusoe of walden pond, who carried out a school-boy whim to its full proportions, and told the story of nature in undress as only one who had hidden in her bedroom could have told it. i need not lengthen the catalogue by speaking of the living, or mentioning the women whose names have added to its distinction. it has long been an intellectual centre such as no other country town of our own land, if of any other, could boast. its groves, its streams, its houses, are haunted by undying memories, and its hillsides and hollows are made holy by the dust that is covered by their turf. such was the place which the advent of emerson made the delphi of new england and the resort of many pilgrims from far-off regions. on his return from europe in the winter of - , mr. emerson began to appear before the public as a lecturer. his first subjects, "water," and the "relation of man to the globe," were hardly such as we should have expected from a scholar who had but a limited acquaintance with physical and physiological science. they were probably chosen as of a popular character, easily treated in such a way as to be intelligible and entertaining, and thus answering the purpose of introducing him pleasantly to the new career he was contemplating. these lectures are not included in his published works, nor were they ever published, so far as i know. he gave three lectures during the same winter, relating the experiences of his recent tour in europe. having made himself at home on the platform, he ventured upon subjects more congenial to his taste and habits of thought than some of those earlier topics. in he lectured on michael angelo, milton, luther, george fox, and edmund burke. the first two of these lectures, though not included in his collected works, may be found in the "north american review" for and . the germ of many of the thoughts which he has expanded in prose and verse may be found in these essays. the _cosmos_ of the ancient greeks, the _piu nel' uno_, "the many in one," appear in the essay on michael angelo as they also appear in his "nature." the last thought takes wings to itself and rises in the little poem entitled "each and all." the "rhodora," another brief poem, finds itself foreshadowed in the inquiry, "what is beauty?" and its answer, "this great whole the understanding cannot embrace. beauty may be felt. it may be produced. but it cannot be defined." and throughout this essay the feeling that truth and beauty and virtue are one, and that nature is the symbol which typifies it to the soul, is the inspiring sentiment. _noscitur a sociis_ applies as well to a man's dead as to his living companions. a young friend of mine in his college days wrote an essay on plato. when he mentioned his subject to mr. emerson, he got the caution, long remembered, "when you strike at a _king_, you must kill him." he himself knew well with what kings of thought to measure his own intelligence. what was grandest, loftiest, purest, in human character chiefly interested him. he rarely meddles with what is petty or ignoble. like his "humble bee," the "yellow-breeched philosopher," whom he speaks of as "wiser far than human seer," and says of him, "aught unsavory or unclean hath my insect never seen," he goes through the world where coarser minds find so much that is repulsive to dwell upon, "seeing only what is fair, sipping only what is sweet." why emerson selected michael angelo as the subject of one of his earliest lectures is shown clearly enough by the last sentence as printed in the essay. "he was not a citizen of any country; he belonged to the human race; he was a brother and a friend to all who acknowledged the beauty that beams in universal nature, and who seek by labor and self-denial to approach its source in perfect goodness." consciously or unconsciously men describe themselves in the characters they draw. one must have the mordant in his own personality or he will not take the color of his subject. he may force himself to picture that which he dislikes or even detests; but when he loves the character he delineates, it is his own, in some measure, at least, or one of which he feels that its possibilities and tendencies belong to himself. let us try emerson by this test in his "essay on milton:"-- "it is the prerogative of this great man to stand at this hour foremost of all men in literary history, and so (shall we not say?) of all men, in the power to _inspire_. virtue goes out of him into others." ... "he is identified in the mind with all select and holy images, with the supreme interests of the human race."--"better than any other he has discharged the office of every great man, namely, to raise the idea of man in the minds of his contemporaries and of posterity,--to draw after nature a life of man, exhibiting such a composition of grace, of strength, and of virtue as poet had not described nor hero lived. human nature in these ages is indebted to him for its best portrait. many philosophers in england, france, and germany, have formally dedicated their study to this problem; and we think it impossible to recall one in those countries who communicates the same vibration of hope, of self-reverence, of piety, of delight in beauty, which the name of milton awakes." emerson had the same lofty aim as milton, "to raise the idea of man;" he had "the power _to inspire_" in a preëminent degree. if ever a man communicated those _vibrations_ he speaks of as characteristic of milton, it was emerson. in elevation, purity, nobility of nature, he is worthy to stand with the great poet and patriot, who began like him as a school-master, and ended as the teacher in a school-house which had for its walls the horizons of every region where english is spoken. the similarity of their characters might be followed by the curious into their fortunes. both were turned away from the clerical office by a revolt of conscience against the beliefs required of them; both lost very dear objects of affection in early manhood, and mourned for them in tender and mellifluous threnodies. it would be easy to trace many parallelisms in their prose and poetry, but to have dared to name any man whom we have known in our common life with the seraphic singer of the nativity and of paradise is a tribute which seems to savor of audacity. it is hard to conceive of emerson as "an expert swordsman" like milton. it is impossible to think of him as an abusive controversialist as milton was in his controversy with salmasius. but though emerson never betrayed it to the offence of others, he must have been conscious, like milton, of "a certain niceness of nature, an honest haughtiness," which was as a shield about his inner nature. charles emerson, the younger brother, who was of the same type, expresses the feeling in his college essay on friendship, where it is all summed up in the line he quotes:-- "the hand of douglas is his own." it must be that in writing this essay on milton emerson felt that he was listening in his own soul to whispers that seemed like echoes from that of the divine singer. * * * * * my friend, the rev. james freeman clarke, a life-long friend of emerson, who understood him from the first, and was himself a great part in the movement of which emerson, more than any other man, was the leader, has kindly allowed me to make use of the following letters:-- to rev. james f. clarke, louisville, ky. plymouth, mass., march , . my dear sir,--as the day approaches when mr. lewis should leave boston, i seize a few moments in a friendly house in the first of towns, to thank you heartily for your kindness in lending me the valued manuscripts which i return. the translations excited me much, and who can estimate the value of a good thought? i trust i am to learn much more from you hereafter of your german studies, and much i hope of your own. you asked in your note concerning carlyle. my recollections of him are most pleasant, and i feel great confidence in his character. he understands and recognizes his mission. he is perfectly simple and affectionate in his manner, and frank, as he can well afford to be, in his communications. he expressed some impatience of his total solitude, and talked of paris as a residence. i told him i hoped not; for i should always remember him with respect, meditating in the mountains of nithsdale. he was cheered, as he ought to be, by learning that his papers were read with interest by young men unknown to him in this continent; and when i specified a piece which had attracted warm commendation from the new jerusalem people here, his wife said that is always the way; whatever he has writ that he thinks has fallen dead, he hears of two or three years afterward.--he has many, many tokens of goethe's regard, miniatures, medals, and many letters. if you should go to scotland one day, you would gratify him, yourself, and me, by your visit to craigenputtock, in the parish of dunscore, near dumfries. he told me he had a book which he thought to publish, but was in the purpose of dividing into a series of articles for "fraser's magazine." i therefore subscribed for that book, which he calls the "mud magazine," but have seen nothing of his workmanship in the two last numbers. the mail is going, so i shall finish my letter another time. your obliged friend and servant, r. waldo emerson. concord, mass., november , . my dear sir,--miss peabody has kindly sent me your manuscript piece on goethe and carlyle. i have read it with great pleasure and a feeling of gratitude, at the same time with a serious regret that it was not published. i have forgotten what reason you assigned for not printing it; i cannot think of any sufficient one. is it too late now? why not change its form a little and annex to it some account of carlyle's later pieces, to wit: "diderot," and "sartor resartus." the last is complete, and he has sent it to me in a stitched pamphlet. whilst i see its vices (relatively to the reading public) of style, i cannot but esteem it a noble philosophical poem, reflecting the ideas, institutions, men of this very hour. and it seems to me that it has so much wit and other secondary graces as must strike a class who would not care for its primary merit, that of being a sincere exhortation to seekers of truth. if you still retain your interest in his genius (as i see not how you can avoid, having understood it and cooperated with it so truly), you will be glad to know that he values his american readers very highly; that he does not defend this offensive style of his, but calls it questionable tentative; that he is trying other modes, and is about publishing a historical piece called "the diamond necklace," as a part of a great work which he meditates on the subject of the french revolution. he says it is part of his creed that history is poetry, could we tell it right. he adds, moreover, in a letter i have recently received from him, that it has been an odd dream that he might end in the western woods. shall we not bid him come, and be poet and teacher of a most scattered flock wanting a shepherd? or, as i sometimes think, would it not be a new and worse chagrin to become acquainted with the extreme deadness of our community to spiritual influences of the higher kind? have you read sampson reed's "growth of the mind"? i rejoice to be contemporary with that man, and cannot wholly despair of the society in which he lives; there must be some oxygen yet, and la fayette is only just dead. your friend, r. waldo emerson. it occurs to me that 't is unfit to send any white paper so far as to your house, so you shall have a sentence from carlyle's letter. [this may be found in carlyle's first letter, dated th august, .] dr. le baron russell, an intimate friend of emerson for the greater part of his life, gives me some particulars with reference to the publication of "sartor resartus," which i will repeat in his own words:-- "it was just before the time of which i am speaking [that of emerson's marriage] that the 'sartor resartus' appeared in 'fraser.' emerson lent the numbers, or the collected sheets of 'fraser,' to miss jackson, and we all had the reading of them. the excitement which the book caused among young persons interested in the literature of the day at that time you probably remember. i was quite carried away by it, and so anxious to own a copy, that i determined to publish an american edition. i consulted james munroe & co. on the subject. munroe advised me to obtain a subscription to a sufficient number of copies to secure the cost of the publication. this, with the aid of some friends, particularly of my classmate, william silsbee, i readily succeeded in doing. when this was accomplished, i wrote to emerson, who up to this time had taken no part in the enterprise, asking him to write a preface. (this is the preface which appears in the american edition, james munroe & co., . it was omitted in the third american from the second london edition,[ ] by the same publishers, .) before the first edition appeared, and after the subscription had been secured, munroe & co. offered to assume the whole responsibility of the publication, and to this i assented. [footnote : revised and corrected by the author.] "this american edition of was the first appearance of the 'sartor' in either country, as a distinct edition. some copies of the sheets from 'fraser,' it appears, were stitched together and sent to a few persons, but carlyle could find no english publisher willing to take the responsibility of printing the book. this shows, i think, how much more interest was taken in carlyle's writings in this country than in england." on the th of may, , emerson wrote to carlyle the first letter of that correspondence which has since been given to the world under the careful editorship of mr. charles norton. this correspondence lasted from the date mentioned to the d of april, , when carlyle wrote his last letter to emerson. the two writers reveal themselves as being in strong sympathy with each other, in spite of a radical difference of temperament and entirely opposite views of life. the hatred of unreality was uppermost with carlyle; the love of what is real and genuine with emerson. those old moralists, the weeping and the laughing philosophers, find their counterparts in every thinking community. carlyle did not weep, but he scolded; emerson did not laugh, but in his gravest moments there was a smile waiting for the cloud to pass from his forehead. the duet they chanted was a miserere with a te deum for its antiphon; a _de_ _profundis_ answered by a _sursum corda_. "the ground of my existence is black as death," says carlyle. "come and live with me a year," says emerson, "and if you do not like new england well enough to stay, one of these years; (when the 'history' has passed its ten editions, and been translated into as many languages) i will come and dwell with you." section . in september, , emerson was married to miss lydia jackson, of plymouth, massachusetts. the wedding took place in the fine old mansion known as the winslow house, dr. le baron russell and his sister standing up with the bridegroom and his bride. after their marriage, mr. and mrs. emerson went to reside in the house in which he passed the rest of his life, and in which mrs. emerson and their daughter still reside. this is the "plain, square, wooden house," with horse-chestnut trees in the front yard, and evergreens around it, which has been so often described and figured. it is without pretensions, but not without an air of quiet dignity. a full and well-illustrated account of it and its arrangements and surroundings is given in "poets' homes," by arthur gilman and others, published by d. lothrop & company in . on the th of september, , emerson delivered an "historical discourse, at concord, on the second centennial anniversary of the incorporation of the town." there is no "mysticism," no "transcendentalism" in this plain, straightforward address. the facts are collected and related with the patience and sobriety which became the writer as one of the dryasdusts of our very diligent, very useful, very matter-of-fact, and for the most part judiciously unimaginative massachusetts historical society. it looks unlike anything else emerson ever wrote, in being provided with abundant foot-notes and an appendix. one would almost as soon have expected to see emerson equipped with a musket and a knapsack as to find a discourse of his clogged with annotations, and trailing a supplement after it. oracles are brief and final in their utterances. delphi and cumae are not expected to explain what they say. it is the habit of our new england towns to celebrate their own worthies and their own deeds on occasions like this, with more or less of rhetorical gratitude and self-felicitation. the discourses delivered on these occasions are commonly worth reading, for there was never a clearing made in the forest that did not let in the light on heroes and heroines. concord is on the whole the most interesting of all the inland towns of new england. emerson has told its story in as painstaking, faithful a way as if he had been by nature an annalist. but with this fidelity, we find also those bold generalizations and sharp picturesque touches which reveal the poetic philosopher. "i have read with care," he says, "the town records themselves. they exhibit a pleasing picture of a community almost exclusively agricultural, where no man has much time for words, in his search after things; of a community of great simplicity of manners, and of a manifest love of justice. i find our annals marked with a uniform good sense.--the tone of the record rises with the dignity of the event. these soiled and musty books are luminous and electric within. the old town clerks did not spell very correctly, but they contrive to make intelligible the will of a free and just community." ... "the matters there debated (in town meetings) are such as to invite very small consideration. the ill-spelled pages of the town records contain the result. i shall be excused for confessing that i have set a value upon any symptom of meanness and private pique which i have met with in these antique books, as proof that justice was done; that if the results of our history are approved as wise and good, it was yet a free strife; if the good counsel prevailed, the sneaking counsel did not fail to be suggested; freedom and virtue, if they triumphed, triumphed in a fair field. and so be it an everlasting testimony for them, and so much ground of assurance of man's capacity for self-government." there was nothing in this address which the plainest of concord's citizens could not read understandingly and with pleasure. in fact mr. emerson himself, besides being a poet and a philosopher, was also a plain concord citizen. his son tells me that he was a faithful attendant upon town meetings, and, though he never spoke, was an interested and careful listener to the debates on town matters. that respect for "mother-wit" and for all the wholesome human qualities which reveals itself all through his writings was bred from this kind of intercourse with men of sense who had no pretensions to learning, and in whom, for that very reason, the native qualities came out with less disguise in their expression. he was surrounded by men who ran to extremes in their idiosyncrasies; alcott in speculations, which often led him into the fourth dimension of mental space; hawthorne, who brooded himself into a dream--peopled solitude; thoreau, the nullifier of civilization, who insisted on nibbling his asparagus at the wrong end, to say nothing of idolaters and echoes. he kept his balance among them all. it would be hard to find a more candid and sober record of the result of self-government in a small community than is contained in this simple discourse, patient in detail, large in treatment, more effective than any unsupported generalities about the natural rights of man, which amount to very little unless men earn the right of asserting them by attending fairly to their natural duties. so admirably is the working of a town government, as it goes on in a well-disposed community, displayed in the history of concord's two hundred years of village life, that one of its wisest citizens had portions of the address printed for distribution, as an illustration of the american principle of self-government. after settling in concord, emerson delivered courses of lectures in boston during several successive winters; in , ten lectures on english literature; in , twelve lectures on the philosophy of history; in , ten lectures on human culture. some of these lectures may have appeared in print under their original titles; all of them probably contributed to the essays and discourses which we find in his published volumes. on the th of april, , a meeting was held to celebrate the completion of the monument raised in commemoration of the concord fight. for this occasion emerson wrote the hymn made ever memorable by the lines:-- here once the embattled farmers stood, and fired the shot heard round the world. the last line of this hymn quickens the heartbeats of every american, and the whole hymn is admirable in thought and expression. until the autumn of , emerson preached twice on sundays to the church at east lexington, which desired him to become its pastor. mr. cooke says that when a lady of the society was asked why they did not settle a friend of emerson's whom he had urged them to invite to their pulpit, she replied: "we are a very simple people, and can understand no one but mr. emerson." he said of himself: "my pulpit is the lyceum platform." knowing that he made his sermons contribute to his lectures, we need not mourn over their not being reported. in march, , emerson delivered in boston a lecture on war, afterwards published in miss peabody's "aesthetic papers." he recognizes war as one of the temporary necessities of a developing civilization, to disappear with the advance of mankind:-- "at a certain stage of his progress the man fights, if he be of a sound body and mind. at a certain high stage he makes no offensive demonstration, but is alert to repel injury, and of an unconquerable heart. at a still higher stage he comes into the region of holiness; passion has passed away from him; his warlike nature is all converted into an active medicinal principle; he sacrifices himself, and accepts with alacrity wearisome tasks of denial and charity; but being attacked, he bears it, and turns the other cheek, as one engaged, throughout his being, no longer to the service of an individual, but to the common good of all men." in emerson's brother edward died, as already mentioned, in the west india island where he had gone for his health. in his letter to carlyle, of november th of the same year, emerson says: "your letter, which i received last week, made a bright light in a solitary and saddened place. i had quite recently received the news of the death of a brother in the island of porto rico, whose loss to me will be a lifelong sorrow." it was of him that emerson wrote the lines "in memoriam," in which he says,-- "there is no record left on earth save on tablets of the heart, of the rich, inherent worth, of the grace that on him shone of eloquent lips, of joyful wit; he could not frame a word unfit, an act unworthy to be done." another bereavement was too soon to be recorded. on the th of october, , he says in a letter to carlyle:-- "i was very glad to hear of the brother you describe, for i have one too, and know what it is to have presence in two places. charles chauncy emerson is a lawyer now settled in this town, and, as i believe, no better lord hamlet was ever. he is our doctor on all questions of taste, manners, or action. and one of the pure pleasures i promise myself in the months to come is to make you two gentlemen know each other." alas for human hopes and prospects! in less than a year from the date of that letter, on the th of september, , he writes to carlyle:-- "your last letter, dated in april, found me a mourner, as did your first. i have lost out of this world my brother charles, of whom i have spoken to you,--the friend and companion of many years, the inmate of my house, a man of a beautiful genius, born to speak well, and whose conversation for these last years has treated every grave question of humanity, and has been my daily bread. i have put so much dependence on his gifts, that we made but one man together; for i needed never to do what he could do by noble nature, much better than i. he was to have been married in this month, and at the time of his sickness and sudden death, i was adding apartments to my house for his permanent accommodation. i wish that you could have known him. at twenty-seven years the best life is only preparation. he built his foundation so large that it needed the full age of man to make evident the plan and proportions of his character. he postponed always a particular to a final and absolute success, so that his life was a silent appeal to the great and generous. but some time i shall see you and speak of him." section . in the year there was published in boston a little book of less than a hundred very small pages, entitled "nature." it bore no name on its title-page, but was at once attributed to its real author, ralph waldo emerson. the emersonian adept will pardon me for burdening this beautiful essay with a commentary which is worse than superfluous for him. for it has proved for many,--i will not say a _pons asinorum_,--but a very narrow bridge, which it made their heads swim to attempt crossing, and yet they must cross it, or one domain of emerson's intellect will not be reached. it differed in some respects from anything he had hitherto written. it talked a strange sort of philosophy in the language of poetry. beginning simply enough, it took more and more the character of a rhapsody, until, as if lifted off his feet by the deepened and stronger undercurrent of his thought, the writer dropped his personality and repeated the words which "a certain poet sang" to him. this little book met with a very unemotional reception. its style was peculiar,--almost as unlike that of his essays as that of carlyle's "sartor resartus" was unlike the style of his "life of schiller." it was vague, mystic, incomprehensible, to most of those who call themselves common-sense people. some of its expressions lent themselves easily to travesty and ridicule. but the laugh could not be very loud or very long, since it took twelve years, as mr. higginson tells us, to sell five hundred copies. it was a good deal like keats's "doubtful tale from fairy-land hard for the non-elect to understand." the same experience had been gone through by wordsworth. "whatever is too original," says de quincey, "will be hated at the first. it must slowly mould a public for itself; and the resistance of the early thoughtless judgments must be overcome by a counter-resistance to itself, in a better audience slowly mustering against the first. forty and seven years it is since william wordsworth first appeared as an author. twenty of these years he was the scoff of the world, and his poetry a by-word of scorn. since then, and more than once, senates have rung with acclamations to the echo of his name." no writer is more deeply imbued with the spirit of wordsworth than emerson, as we cannot fail to see in turning the pages of "nature," his first thoroughly characteristic essay. there is the same thought in the preface to "the excursion" that we find in the introduction to "nature." "the foregoing generations beheld god and nature face to face; we through their eyes. why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs?" "paradise and groves elysian, fortunate fields--like those of old sought in the atlantic main, why should they be a history only of departed things, or a mere fiction of what never was?" "nature" is a reflective prose poem. it is divided into eight chapters, which might almost as well have been called cantos. never before had mr. emerson given free utterance to the passion with which the aspects of nature inspired him. he had recently for the first time been at once master of himself and in free communion with all the planetary influences above, beneath, around him. the air of the country intoxicated him. there are sentences in "nature" which are as exalted as the language of one who is just coming to himself after having been etherized. some of these expressions sounded to a considerable part of his early readers like the vagaries of delirium. yet underlying these excited outbursts there was a general tone of serenity which reassured the anxious. the gust passed over, the ripples smoothed themselves, and the stars shone again in quiet reflection. after a passionate outbreak, in which he sees all, is nothing, loses himself in nature, in universal being, becomes "part or particle of god," he considers briefly, in the chapter entitled _commodity_, the ministry of nature to the senses. a few picturesque glimpses in pleasing and poetical phrases, with a touch of archaism, and reminiscences of hamlet and jeremy taylor, "the shakspeare of divines," as he has called him, are what we find in this chapter on commodity, or natural conveniences. but "a nobler want of man is served by nature, namely, the love of _beauty_" which is his next subject. there are some touches of description here, vivid, high-colored, not so much pictures as hints and impressions for pictures. many of the thoughts which run through all his prose and poetry may be found here. analogy is seen everywhere in the works of nature. "what is common to them all,--that perfectness and harmony, is beauty."--"nothing is quite beautiful alone: nothing but is beautiful in the whole."--"no reason can be asked or given why the soul seeks beauty." how easily these same ideas took on the robe of verse may be seen in the poems, "each and all," and "the rhodora." a good deal of his philosophy comes out in these concluding sentences of the chapter:-- "beauty in its largest and profoundest sense is one expression for the universe; god is the all-fair. truth and goodness and beauty are but different faces of the same all. but beauty in nature is not ultimate. it is the herald of inward and eternal beauty, and is not alone a solid and satisfactory good. it must therefore stand as a part and not as yet the highest expression of the final cause of nature.". in the "rhodora" the flower is made to answer that "beauty is its own excuse for being." in this essay the beauty of the flower is not enough, but it must excuse itself for being, mainly as the symbol of something higher and deeper than itself. he passes next to a consideration of _language_. words are signs of natural facts, particular material facts are symbols of particular spiritual facts, and nature is the symbol of spirit. without going very profoundly into the subject, he gives some hints as to the mode in which languages are formed,--whence words are derived, how they become transformed and worn out. but they come at first fresh from nature. "a man conversing in earnest, if he watch his intellectual processes, will find that always a material image, more or less luminous, arises in his mind, contemporaneous with every thought, which furnishes the vestment of the thought. hence good writing and brilliant discourse are perpetual allegories." from this he argues that country life is a great advantage to a powerful mind, inasmuch as it furnishes a greater number of these material images. they cannot be summoned at will, but they present themselves when great exigencies call for them. "the poet, the orator, bred in the woods, whose senses have been nourished by their fair and appeasing changes, year after year, without design and without heed,--shall not lose their lesson altogether, in the roar of cities or the broil of politics. long hereafter, amidst agitations and terror in national councils,--in the hour of revolution,--these solemn images shall reappear in their morning lustre, as fit symbols and words of the thought which the passing events shall awaken. at the call of a noble sentiment, again the woods wave, the pines murmur, the river rolls and shines, and the cattle low upon the mountains, as he saw and heard them in his infancy. and with these forms the spells of persuasion, the keys of power, are put into his hands." it is doing no wrong to this very eloquent and beautiful passage to say that it reminds us of certain lines in one of the best known poems of wordsworth:-- "these beauteous forms, through a long absence, have not been to me as is a landscape to a blind man's eye; but oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din of towns and cities, i have owed to them in hours of weariness sensations sweet felt in the blood and felt along the heart." it is needless to quote the whole passage. the poetry of wordsworth may have suggested the prose of emerson, but the prose loses nothing by the comparison. in _discipline_, which is his next subject, he treats of the influence of nature in educating the intellect, the moral sense, and the will. man is enlarged and the universe lessened and brought within his grasp, because "time and space relations vanish as laws are known."--"the moral law lies at the centre of nature and radiates to the circumference."--"all things with which we deal preach to us. what is a farm but a mute gospel?"--"from the child's successive possession of his several senses up to the hour when he sayeth, 'thy will be done!' he is learning the secret that he can reduce under his will, not only particular events, but great classes, nay, the whole series of events, and so conform all facts to his character." the unity in variety which meets us everywhere is again referred to. he alludes to the ministry of our friendships to our education. when a friend has done for our education in the way of filling our minds with sweet and solid wisdom "it is a sign to us that his office is closing, and he is commonly withdrawn from our sight in a short time." this thought was probably suggested by the death of his brother charles, which occurred a few months before "nature" was published. he had already spoken in the first chapter of this little book as if from some recent experience of his own, doubtless the same bereavement. "to a man laboring under calamity, the heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. then there is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear friend. the sky is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the population." this was the first effect of the loss; but after a time he recognizes a superintending power which orders events for us in wisdom which we could not see at first. the chapter on _idealism_ must be read by all who believe themselves capable of abstract thought, if they would not fall under the judgment of turgot, which emerson quotes: "he that has never doubted the existence of matter may be assured he has no aptitude for metaphysical inquiries." the most essential statement is this:-- "it is a sufficient account of that appearance we call the world, that god will teach a human mind, and so makes it the receiver of a certain number of congruent sensations, which we call sun and moon, man and woman, house and trade. in my utter impotence to test the authenticity of the report of my senses, to know whether the impressions they make on me correspond with outlying objects, what difference does it make, whether orion is up there in heaven, or some god paints the image in the firmament of the soul?" we need not follow the thought through the argument from illusions, like that when we look at the shore from a moving ship, and others which cheat the senses by false appearances. the poet animates nature with his own thoughts, perceives the affinities between nature and the soul, with beauty as his main end. the philosopher pursues truth, but, "not less than the poet, postpones the apparent order and relation of things to the empire of thought." religion and ethics agree with all lower culture in degrading nature and suggesting its dependence on spirit. "the devotee flouts nature."--"plotinus was ashamed of his body."--"michael angelo said of external beauty, 'it is the frail and weary weed, in which god dresses the soul, which he has called into time.'" emerson would not undervalue nature as looked at through the senses and "the unrenewed understanding." "i have no hostility to nature," he says, "but a child's love of it. i expand and live in the warm day like corn and melons."--but, "seen in the light of thought, the world always is phenomenal; and virtue subordinates it to the mind. idealism sees the world in god,"--as one vast picture, which god paints on the instant eternity, for the contemplation of the soul. the unimaginative reader is likely to find himself off soundings in the next chapter, which has for its title _spirit_. idealism only denies the existence of matter; it does not satisfy the demands of the spirit. "it leaves god out of me."--of these three questions, what is matter? whence is it? where to? the ideal theory answers the first only. the reply is that matter is a phenomenon, not a substance. "but when we come to inquire whence is matter? and whereto? many truths arise to us out of the recesses of consciousness. we learn that the highest is present to the soul of man, that the dread universal essence, which is not wisdom, or love, or beauty, or power, but all in one, and each entirely, is that for which all things exist, and that by which they are; that spirit creates; that behind nature, throughout nature, spirit is present; that spirit is one and not compound; that spirit does not act upon us from without, that is, in space and time, but spiritually, or through ourselves."--"as a plant upon the earth, so a man rests upon the bosom of god; he is nourished by unfailing fountains, and draws, at his need, inexhaustible power." man may have access to the entire mind of the creator, himself become a "creator in the finite." "as we degenerate, the contrast between us and our house is more evident. we are as much strangers in nature as we are aliens from god. we do not understand the notes of birds. the fox and the deer run away from us; the bear and the tiger rend us." all this has an old testament sound as of a lost paradise. in the next chapter he dreams of paradise regained. this next and last chapter is entitled _prospects_. he begins with a bold claim for the province of intuition as against induction, undervaluing the "half sight of science" as against the "untaught sallies of the spirit," the surmises and vaticinations of the mind,--the "imperfect theories, and sentences which contain glimpses of truth." in a word, he would have us leave the laboratory and its crucibles for the sibyl's cave and its tripod. we can all--or most of us, certainly--recognize something of truth, much of imagination, and more of danger in speculations of this sort. they belong to visionaries and to poets. emerson feels distinctly enough that he is getting into the realm of poetry. he quotes five beautiful verses from george herbert's "poem on man." presently he is himself taken off his feet into the air of song, and finishes his essay with "some traditions of man and nature which a certain poet sang to me."--"a man is a god in ruins."--"man is the dwarf of himself. once he was permeated and dissolved by spirit. he filled nature with his overflowing currents. out from him sprang the sun and moon; from man the sun, from woman the moon."--but he no longer fills the mere shell he had made for himself; "he is shrunk to a drop." still something of elemental power remains to him. "it is instinct." such teachings he got from his "poet." it is a kind of new england genesis in place of the old testament one. we read in the sermon on the mount: "be ye therefore perfect as your father in heaven is perfect." the discourse which comes to us from the trimount oracle commands us, "build, therefore, your own world. as fast as you conform your life to the pure idea in your mind, that will unfold its great proportions." the seer of patmos foretells a heavenly jerusalem, of which he says, "there shall in no wise enter into it anything which defileth." the sage of concord foresees a new heaven on earth. "a correspondent revolution in things will attend the influx of the spirit. so fast will disagreeable appearances, swine, spiders, snakes, pests, mad-houses, prisons, enemies, vanish; they are temporary and shall be no more seen." * * * * * it may be remembered that calvin, in his commentary on the new testament, stopped when he came to the book of the "revelation." he found it full of difficulties which he did not care to encounter. yet, considered only as a poem, the vision of st. john is full of noble imagery and wonderful beauty. "nature" is the book of revelation of our saint radulphus. it has its obscurities, its extravagances, but as a poem it is noble and inspiring. it was objected to on the score of its pantheistic character, as wordsworth's "lines composed near tintern abbey" had been long before. but here and there it found devout readers who were captivated by its spiritual elevation and great poetical beauty, among them one who wrote of it in the "democratic review" in terms of enthusiastic admiration. mr. bowen, the professor of natural theology and moral philosophy in harvard university, treated this singular semi-philosophical, semi-poetical little book in a long article in the "christian examiner," headed "transcendentalism," and published in the january number for . the acute and learned professor meant to deal fairly with his subject. but if one has ever seen a sagacious pointer making the acquaintance of a box-tortoise, he will have an idea of the relations between the reviewer and the reviewed as they appear in this article. the professor turns the book over and over,--inspects it from plastron to carapace, so to speak, and looks for openings everywhere, sometimes successfully, sometimes in vain. he finds good writing and sound philosophy, passages of great force and beauty of expression, marred by obscurity, under assumptions and faults of style. he was not, any more than the rest of us, acclimated to the emersonian atmosphere, and after some not unjust or unkind comments with which many readers will heartily agree, confesses his bewilderment, saying:-- "on reviewing what we have already said of this singular work, the criticism seems to be couched in contradictory terms; we can only allege in excuse the fact that the book is a contradiction in itself." carlyle says in his letter of february , :-- "your little azure-colored 'nature' gave me true satisfaction. i read it, and then lent it about to all my acquaintances that had a sense for such things; from whom a similar verdict always came back. you say it is the first chapter of something greater. i call it rather the foundation and ground-plan on which you may build whatsoever of great and true has been given you to build. it is the true apocalypse, this when the 'open secret' becomes revealed to a man. i rejoice much in the glad serenity of soul with which you look out on this wondrous dwelling-place of yours and mine,--with an ear for the _ewigen melodien_, which pipe in the winds round us, and utter themselves forth in all sounds and sights and things; _not_ to be written down by gamut-machinery; but which all right writing is a kind of attempt to write down." the first edition of "nature" had prefixed to it the following words from plotinus: "nature is but an image or imitation of wisdom, the last thing of the soul; nature being a thing which doth only do, but not know." this is omitted in after editions, and in its place we read:-- "a subtle chain of countless rings the next unto the farthest brings; the eye reads omens where it goes, and speaks all languages the rose; and striving to be man, the worm mounts through all the spires of form." the copy of "nature" from which i take these lines, his own, of course, like so many others which he prefixed to his different essays, was printed in the year , ten years before the publication of darwin's "origin of species," twenty years and more before the publication of "the descent of man." but the "vestiges of creation," published in , had already popularized the resuscitated theories of lamarck. it seems as if emerson had a warning from the poetic instinct which, when it does not precede the movement of the scientific intellect, is the first to catch the hint of its discoveries. there is nothing more audacious in the poet's conception of the worm looking up towards humanity, than the naturalist's theory that the progenitor of the human race was an acephalous mollusk. "i will not be sworn," says benedick, "but love may transform me to an oyster." for "love" read science. unity in variety, "_il piu nell uno_" symbolism of nature and its teachings, generation of phenomena,--appearances,--from spirit, to which they correspond and which they obey; evolution of the best and elimination of the worst as the law of being; all this and much more may be found in the poetic utterances of this slender essay. it fell like an aerolite, unasked for, unaccounted for, unexpected, almost unwelcome,--a stumbling-block to be got out of the well-trodden highway of new england scholastic intelligence. but here and there it found a reader to whom it was, to borrow, with slight changes, its own quotation,-- "the golden key which opes the palace of eternity," inasmuch as it carried upon its face the highest certificate of truth, because it animated them to create a new world for themselves through the purification of their own souls. next to "nature" in the series of his collected publications comes "the american scholar. an oration delivered before the phi beta kappa society at cambridge, august , ." the society known by these three letters, long a mystery to the uninitiated, but which, filled out and interpreted, signify that philosophy is the guide of life, is one of long standing, the annual meetings of which have called forth the best efforts of many distinguished scholars and thinkers. rarely has any one of the annual addresses been listened to with such profound attention and interest. mr. lowell says of it, that its delivery "was an event without any former parallel in our literary annals, a scene to be always treasured in the memory for its picturesqueness and its inspiration. what crowded and breathless aisles, what windows clustering with eager heads, what enthusiasm of approval, what grim silence of foregone dissent!" mr. cooke says truly of this oration, that nearly all his leading ideas found expression in it. this was to be expected in an address delivered before such an audience. every real thinker's world of thought has its centre in a few formulae, about which they revolve as the planets circle round the sun which cast them off. but those who lost themselves now and then in the pages of "nature" will find their way clearly enough through those of "the american scholar." it is a plea for generous culture; for the development of all the faculties, many of which tend to become atrophied by the exclusive pursuit of single objects of thought. it begins with a note like a trumpet call. "thus far," he says, "our holiday has been simply a friendly sign of the survival of the love of letters amongst a people too busy to give to letters any more. as such it is precious as the sign of an indestructible instinct. perhaps the time is already come when it ought to be, and will be, something else; when the sluggard intellect of this continent will look from under its iron lids and fill the postponed expectations of the world with something better than the exertions of mechanical skill. our day of dependence, our long apprenticeship to the learning of other lands, draws to a close. the millions that around us are rushing into life cannot always be fed on the sere remains of foreign harvests. events, actions arise, that must be sung, that will sing themselves. who can doubt that poetry will revive and lead in a new age, as the star in the constellation harp, which now flames in our zenith, astronomers announce shall one day be the pole-star for a thousand years?" emerson finds his text in the old fable which tells that man, as he was in the beginning, was divided into men, as the hand was divided into fingers, the better to answer the end of his being. the fable covers the doctrine that there is one man; present to individuals only in a partial manner; and that we must take the whole of society to find the whole man. unfortunately the unit has been too minutely subdivided, and many faculties are practically lost for want of use. "the state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters,--a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man.... man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things.... the priest becomes a form; the attorney a statute book; the mechanic a machine; the sailor a rope of the ship." this complaint is by no means a new one. scaliger says, as quoted by omnivorous old burton: "_nequaquam, nos homines sumus sed partes hominis_." the old illustration of this used to be found in pin-making. it took twenty different workmen to make a pin, beginning with drawing the wire and ending with sticking in the paper. each expert, skilled in one small performance only, was reduced to a minute fraction of a fraction of humanity. if the complaint was legitimate in scaliger's time, it was better founded half a century ago when mr. emerson found cause for it. it has still more serious significance to-day, when in every profession, in every branch of human knowledge, special acquirements, special skill have greatly tended to limit the range of men's thoughts and working faculties. "in this distribution of functions the scholar is the delegated intellect. in the right state he is _man thinking_. in the degenerate state, when the victim of society, he tends to become a mere thinker, or still worse, the parrot of other men's thinking. in this view of him, as man thinking, the theory of his office is continued. him nature solicits with all her placid, all her monitory pictures; him the past instructs; him the future invites." emerson proceeds to describe and illustrate the influences of nature upon the mind, returning to the strain of thought with which his previous essay has made us familiar. he next considers the influence of the past, and especially of books as the best type of that influence. "books are the best of things well used; abused among the worst." it is hard to distil what is already a quintessence without loss of what is just as good as the product of our labor. a sentence or two may serve to give an impression of the epigrammatic wisdom of his counsel. "each age must write its own books, or, rather, each generation for the next succeeding. the books of an older period will not fit this." when a book has gained a certain hold on the mind, it is liable to become an object of idolatrous regard. "instantly the book becomes noxious: the guide is a tyrant. the sluggish and perverted mind of the multitude, slow to open to the incursions of reason, having once so opened, having received this book, stands upon it and makes an outcry if it is disparaged. colleges are built on it. books are written on it by thinkers, not by man thinking; by men of talent, that is, who start wrong, who set out from accepted dogmas, not from their own sight of principle. meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it their duty to accept the views which cicero, which locke, which bacon have given; forgetful that cicero, locke, and bacon were only young men in libraries when they wrote these books.--one must he an inventor to read well. as the proverb says, 'he that would bring home the wealth of the indies must carry out the wealth of the indies.'--when the mind is braced by labor and invention, the page of whatever book we read becomes luminous with manifold allusion. every sentence is doubly significant, and the sense of our author is as broad as the world." it is not enough that the scholar should be a student of nature and of books. he must take a part in the affairs of the world about him. "action is with the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. without it he is not yet man. without it thought can never ripen into truth.--the true scholar grudges every opportunity of action past by, as a loss of power. it is the raw material out of which the intellect moulds her splendid products. a strange process, too, this by which experience is converted into thought as a mulberry leaf is converted into satin. the manufacture goes forward at all hours." emerson does not use the words "unconscious cerebration," but these last words describe the process in an unmistakable way. the beautiful paragraph in which he pictures the transformation, the transfiguration of experience, closes with a sentence so thoroughly characteristic, so emersonially emersonian, that i fear some readers who thought they were his disciples when they came to it went back and walked no more with him, at least through the pages of this discourse. the reader shall have the preceding sentence to prepare him for the one referred to. "there is no fact, no event in our private history, which shall not, sooner or later, lose its adhesive, inert form, and astonish us by soaring from our body into the empyrean. "cradle and infancy, school and playground, the fear of boys, and dogs, and ferules, the love of little maids and berries, and many another fact that once filled the whole sky, are gone already; friend and relative, professions and party, town and country, nation and world must also soar and sing." having spoken of the education of the scholar by nature, by books, by action, he speaks of the scholar's duties. "they may all," he says, "be comprised in self-trust." we have to remember that the _self_ he means is the highest self, that consciousness which he looks upon as open to the influx of the divine essence from which it came, and towards which all its upward tendencies lead, always aspiring, never resting; as he sings in "the sphinx ":-- "the heavens that now draw him with sweetness untold, once found,--for new heavens he spurneth the old." "first one, then another, we drain all cisterns, and waxing greater by all these supplies, we crave a better and more abundant food. the man has never lived that can feed us ever. the human mind cannot be enshrined in a person who shall set a barrier on any one side of this unbounded, unboundable empire. it is one central fire, which, flaming now out of the lips of etna, lightens the capes of sicily, and now out of the throat of vesuvius, illuminates the towers and vineyards of naples. it is one light which beams out of a thousand stars. it is one soul which animates all men." and so he comes to the special application of the principles he has laid down to the american scholar of to-day. he does not spare his censure; he is full of noble trust and manly courage. very refreshing it is to remember in this day of specialists, when the walking fraction of humanity he speaks of would hardly include a whole finger, but rather confine itself to the single joint of the finger, such words as these:-- "the scholar is that man who must take up into himself all the ability of the time, all the contributions of the past, all the hopes of the future. he must he a university of knowledges.... we have listened too long to the courtly muses of europe. the spirit of the american freeman is already suspected to be timid, imitative, tame.--the scholar is decent, indolent, complaisant.--the mind of this country, taught to aim at low objects, eats upon itself. there is no work for any but the decorous and the complaisant." the young men of promise are discouraged and disgusted. "what is the remedy? they did not yet see, and thousands of young men as hopeful now crowding to the barriers for the career do not yet see, that if the single man plant himself indomitably on his instincts, and there abide, the huge world will come round to him." each man must be a unit,--must yield that peculiar fruit which he was created to bear. "we will walk on our own feet; we will work with our own hands; we will speak our own minds.--a nation of men will for the first time exist, because each believes himself inspired by the divine soul which also inspires all men." this grand oration was our intellectual declaration of independence. nothing like it had been heard in the halls of harvard since samuel adams supported the affirmative of the question, "whether it be lawful to resist the chief magistrate, if the commonwealth cannot otherwise be preserved." it was easy to find fault with an expression here and there. the dignity, not to say the formality of an academic assembly was startled by the realism that looked for the infinite in "the meal in the firkin; the milk in the pan." they could understand the deep thoughts suggested by "the meanest flower that blows," but these domestic illustrations had a kind of nursery homeliness about them which the grave professors and sedate clergymen were unused to expect on so stately an occasion. but the young men went out from it as if a prophet had been proclaiming to them "thus saith the lord." no listener ever forgot that address, and among all the noble utterances of the speaker it may be questioned if one ever contained more truth in language more like that of immediate inspiration. chapter v. - . aet. - . section . divinity school address.--correspondence.--lectures on human life.--letters to james freeman clarke.--dartmouth college address: literary ethics.--waterville college address: the method of nature.--other addresses: man the reformer.--lecture on the times.--the conservative.--the transcendentalist.--boston "transcendentalism."--"the dial."--brook farm. section . first series of essays published.--contents: history, self-reliance, compensation, spiritual laws, love, friendship, prudence, heroism, the oversoul, circles, intellect, art.--emerson's account of his mode of life in a letter to carlyle.--death of emerson's son.--threnody. section . on sunday evening, july , , emerson delivered an address before the senior class in divinity college, cambridge, which caused a profound sensation in religious circles, and led to a controversy, in which emerson had little more than the part of patroclus when the greeks and trojans fought over his body. in its simplest and broadest statement this discourse was a plea for the individual consciousness as against all historical creeds, bibles, churches; for the soul as the supreme judge in spiritual matters. he begins with a beautiful picture which must be transferred without the change of an expression:-- "in this refulgent summer, it has been a luxury to draw the breath of life. the grass grows, the buds burst, the meadow is spotted with fire and gold in the tint of flowers. the air is full of birds, and sweet with the breath of the pine, the balm of gilead, and the new hay. night brings no gloom to the heart with its welcome shade. through the transparent darkness the stars pour their almost spiritual rays. man under them seems a young child, and his huge globe a toy. the cool night bathes the world as with a river, and prepares his eyes again for the crimson dawn." how softly the phrases of the gentle iconoclast steal upon the ear, and how they must have hushed the questioning audience into pleased attention! the "song of songs, which is solomon's," could not have wooed the listener more sweetly. "thy lips drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue, and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of lebanon." and this was the prelude of a discourse which, when it came to be printed, fared at the hands of many a theologian, who did not think himself a bigot, as the roll which baruch wrote with ink from the words of jeremiah fared at the hands of jehoiakim, the king of judah. he listened while jehudi read the opening passages. but "when jehudi had read three or four leaves he cut it with the penknife, and cast it into the fire that was on the hearth, until all the roll was consumed in the fire that was on the hearth." such was probably the fate of many a copy of this famous discourse. it is reverential, but it is also revolutionary. the file-leaders of unitarianism drew back in dismay, and the ill names which had often been applied to them were now heard from their own lips as befitting this new heresy; if so mild a reproach as that of heresy belonged to this alarming manifesto. and yet, so changed is the whole aspect of the theological world since the time when that discourse was delivered that it is read as calmly to-day as a common "election sermon," if such are ever read at all. a few extracts, abstracts, and comments may give the reader who has not the address before him some idea of its contents and its tendencies. the material universe, which he has just pictured in its summer beauty, deserves our admiration. but when the mind opens and reveals the laws which govern the world of phenomena, it shrinks into a mere fable and illustration of this mind. what am i? what is?--are questions always asked, never fully answered. we would study and admire forever. but above intellectual curiosity, there is the sentiment of virtue. man is born for the good, for the perfect, low as he now lies in evil and weakness. "the sentiment of virtue is a reverence and delight in the presence of certain divine laws.--these laws refuse to be adequately stated.--they elude our persevering thought; yet we read them hourly in each other's faces, in each other's actions, in our own remorse.--the intuition of the moral sentiment is an insight of the perfection of the laws of the soul. these laws execute themselves.--as we are, so we associate. the good, by affinity, seek the good; the vile, by affinity, the vile. thus, of their own volition, souls proceed into heaven, into hell." these facts, emerson says, have always suggested to man that the world is the product not of manifold power, but of one will, of one mind,--that one mind is everywhere active.--"all things proceed out of the same spirit, and all things conspire with it." while a man seeks good ends, nature helps him; when he seeks other ends, his being shrinks, "he becomes less and less, a mote, a point, until absolute badness is absolute death."--"when he says 'i ought;' when love warms him; when he chooses, warned from on high, the good and great deed; then deep melodies wander through his soul from supreme wisdom." "this sentiment lies at the foundation of society and successively creates all forms of worship.--this thought dwelled always deepest in the minds of men in the devout and contemplative east; not alone in palestine, where it reached its purest expression, but in egypt, in persia, in india, in china. europe has always owed to oriental genius its divine impulses. what these holy bards said, all sane men found agreeable and true. and the unique impression of jesus upon mankind, whose name is not so much written as ploughed into the history of this world, is proof of the subtle virtue of this infusion." but this truth cannot be received at second hand; it is an intuition. what another announces, i must find true in myself, or i must reject it. if the word of another is taken instead of this primary faith, the church, the state, art, letters, life, all suffer degradation,--"the doctrine of inspiration is lost; the base doctrine of the majority of voices usurps the place of the doctrine of the soul." the following extract will show the view that he takes of christianity and its founder, and sufficiently explain the antagonism called forth by the discourse:-- "jesus christ belonged to the true race of prophets. he saw with open eye the mystery of the soul. drawn by its severe harmony, ravished with its beauty, he lived in it, and had his being there. alone in all history he estimated the greatness of man. one man was true to what is in you and me. he saw that god incarnates himself in man, and evermore goes forth anew to take possession of his world. he said, in this jubilee of sublime emotion, 'i am divine. through me god acts; through me, speaks. would you see god, see me; or see thee, when thou also thinkest as i now think.' but what a distortion did his doctrine and memory suffer in the same, in the next, and the following ages! there is no doctrine of the reason which will bear to be taught by the understanding. the understanding caught this high chant from the poet's lips, and said, in the next age, 'this was jehovah come down out of heaven. i will kill you if you say he was a man.' the idioms of his language and the figures of his rhetoric have usurped the place of his truth; and churches are not built on his principles, but on his tropes. christianity became a mythus, as the poetic teaching of greece and of egypt, before. he spoke of miracles; for he felt that man's life was a miracle, and all that man doth, and he knew that this miracle shines as the character ascends. but the word miracle, as pronounced by christian churches, gives a false impression; it is monster. it is not one with the blowing clover and the falling rain." he proceeds to point out what he considers the great defects of historical christianity. it has exaggerated the personal, the positive, the ritual. it has wronged mankind by monopolizing all virtues for the christian name. it is only by his holy thoughts that jesus serves us. "to aim to convert a man by miracles is a profanation of the soul." the preachers do a wrong to jesus by removing him from our human sympathies; they should not degrade his life and dialogues by insulation and peculiarity. another defect of the traditional and limited way of using the mind of christ is that the moral nature--the law of laws--is not explored as the fountain of the established teaching in society. "men have come to speak of the revelation as somewhat long ago given and done, as if god were dead."--"the soul is not preached. the church seems to totter to its fall, almost all life extinct.--the stationariness of religion; the assumption that the age of inspiration is past; that the bible is closed; the fear of degrading the character of jesus by representing him as a man; indicate with sufficient clearness the falsehood of our theology. it is the office of a true teacher to show us that god is, not was; that he speaketh, not spake. the true christianity--a faith like christ's in the infinitude of man--is lost." when emerson came to what his earlier ancestors would have called the "practical application," some of his young hearers must have been startled at the style of his address. "yourself a new--born bard of the holy ghost, cast behind you all conformity, and acquaint men at first hand with deity. look to it first and only, that fashion, custom, authority, pleasure, and money are nothing to you,--are not bandages over your eyes, that you cannot see,--but live with the privilege of the immeasurable mind." emerson recognizes two inestimable advantages as the gift of christianity; first the sabbath,--hardly a christian institution,--and secondly the institution of preaching. he spoke not only eloquently, but with every evidence of deep sincerity and conviction. he had sacrificed an enviable position to that inner voice of duty which he now proclaimed as the sovereign law over all written or spoken words. but he was assailing the cherished beliefs of those before him, and of christendom generally; not with hard or bitter words, not with sarcasm or levity, rather as one who felt himself charged with a message from the same divinity who had inspired the prophets and evangelists of old with whatever truth was in their messages. he might be wrong, but his words carried the evidence of his own serene, unshaken confidence that the spirit of all truth was with him. some of his audience, at least, must have felt the contrast between his utterances and the formal discourses they had so long listened to, and said to themselves, "he speaks 'as one having authority, and not as the scribes.'" such teaching, however, could not be suffered to go unchallenged. its doctrines were repudiated in the "christian examiner," the leading organ of the unitarian denomination. the rev. henry ware, greatly esteemed and honored, whose colleague he had been, addressed a letter to him, in which he expressed the feeling that some of the statements of emerson's discourse would tend to overthrow the authority and influence of christianity. to this note emerson returned the following answer:-- "what you say about the discourse at divinity college is just what i might expect from your truth and charity, combined with your known opinions. i am not a stick or a stone, as one said in the old time, and could not but feel pain in saying some things in that place and presence which i supposed would meet with dissent, i may say, of dear friends and benefactors of mine. yet, as my conviction is perfect in the substantial truth of the doctrines of this discourse, and is not very new, you will see at once that it must appear very important that it be spoken; and i thought i could not pay the nobleness of my friends so mean a compliment as to suppress my opposition to their supposed views, out of fear of offence. i would rather say to them, these things look thus to me, to you otherwise. let us say our uttermost word, and let the all-pervading truth, as it surely will, judge between us. either of us would, i doubt not, be willingly apprised of his error. meantime, i shall be admonished by this expression of your thought, to revise with greater care the 'address,' before it is printed (for the use of the class): and i heartily thank you for this expression of your tried toleration and love." dr. ware followed up his note with a sermon, preached on the d of september, in which he dwells especially on the necessity of adding the idea of personality to the abstractions of emerson's philosophy, and sent it to him with a letter, the kindness and true christian spirit of which were only what were inseparable from all the thoughts and feelings of that most excellent and truly apostolic man. to this letter emerson sent the following reply:-- concord, october , . "my dear sir,--i ought sooner to have acknowledged your kind letter of last week, and the sermon it accompanied. the letter was right manly and noble. the sermon, too, i have read with attention. if it assails any doctrine of mine,--perhaps i am not so quick to see it as writers generally,--certainly i did not feel any disposition to depart from my habitual contentment, that you should say your thought, whilst i say mine. i believe i must tell you what i think of my new position. it strikes me very oddly that good and wise men at cambridge and boston should think of raising me into an object of criticism. i have always been--from my very incapacity of methodical writing--a 'chartered libertine,' free to worship and free to rail,--lucky when i could make myself understood, but never esteemed near enough to the institutions and mind of society to deserve the notice of the masters of literature and religion. i have appreciated fully the advantages of my position, for i well know there is no scholar less willing or less able than myself to be a polemic. i could not give an account of myself, if challenged. i could not possibly give you one of the 'arguments' you cruelly hint at, on which any doctrine of mine stands; for i do not know what arguments are in reference to any expression of a thought. i delight in telling what i think; but if you ask me how i dare say so, or why it is so, i am the most helpless of mortal men. i do not even see that either of these questions admits of an answer. so that in the present droll posture of my affairs, when i see myself suddenly raised to the importance of a heretic, i am very uneasy when i advert to the supposed duties of such a personage, who is to make good his thesis against all comers. i certainly shall do no such thing. i shall read what you and other good men write, as i have always done, glad when you speak my thoughts, and skipping the page that has nothing for me. i shall go on just as before, seeing whatever i can, and telling what i see; and, i suppose, with the same fortune that has hitherto attended me,--the joy of finding that my abler and better brothers, who work with the sympathy of society, loving and beloved, do now and then unexpectedly confirm my conceptions, and find my nonsense is only their own thought in motley,--and so i am your affectionate servant," etc. the controversy which followed is a thing of the past; emerson took no part in it, and we need not return to the discussion. he knew his office and has defined it in the clearest manner in the letter just given,--"seeing whatever i can, and telling what i see." but among his listeners and readers was a man of very different mental constitution, not more independent or fearless, but louder and more combative, whose voice soon became heard and whose strength soon began to be felt in the long battle between the traditional and immanent inspiration,--theodore parker. if emerson was the moving spirit, he was the right arm in the conflict, which in one form or another has been waged up to the present day. in the winter of - emerson delivered his usual winter course of lectures. he names them in a letter to carlyle as follows: "ten lectures: i. the doctrine of the soul; ii. home; iii. the school; iv. love; v. genius; vi. the protest; vii. tragedy; viii. comedy; ix. duty; x. demonology. i designed to add two more, but my lungs played me false with unseasonable inflammation, so i discoursed no more on human life." two or three of these titles only are prefixed to his published lectures or essays; love, in the first volume of essays; demonology in "lectures and biographical sketches;" and "the comic" in "letters and social aims." * * * * * i owe the privilege of making use of the two following letters to my kind and honored friend, james freeman clarke. the first letter was accompanied by the poem "the humble-bee," which was first published by mr. clarke in the "western messenger," from the autograph copy, which begins "fine humble-bee! fine humble-bee!" and has a number of other variations from the poem as printed in his collected works. concord, december , . my dear sir,--here are the verses. they have pleased some of my friends, and so may please some of your readers, and you asked me in the spring if i hadn't somewhat to contribute to your journal. i remember in your letter you mentioned the remark of some friend of yours that the verses, "take, o take those lips away," were not shakspeare's; i think they are. beaumont, nor fletcher, nor both together were ever, i think, visited by such a starry gleam as that stanza. i know it is in "rollo," but it is in "measure for measure" also; and i remember noticing that the malones, and stevens, and critical gentry were about evenly divided, these for shakspeare, and those for beaumont and fletcher. but the internal evidence is all for one, none for the other. if he did not write it, they did not, and we shall have some fourth unknown singer. what care we _who_ sung this or that. it is we at last who sing. your friend and servant, r.w. emerson. to james freeman clarke. concord, february , . my dear sir,--i am very sorry to have made you wait so long for an answer to your flattering request for two such little poems. you are quite welcome to the lines "to the rhodora;" but i think they need the superscription ["lines on being asked 'whence is the flower?'"]. of the other verses ["good-by proud world," etc] i send you a corrected copy, but i wonder so much at your wishing to print them that i think you must read them once again with your critical spectacles before they go further. they were written sixteen years ago, when i kept school in boston, and lived in a corner of roxbury called canterbury. they have a slight misanthropy, a shade deeper than belongs to me; and as it seems nowadays i am a philosopher and am grown to have opinions, i think they must have an apologetic date, though i well know that poetry that needs a date is no poetry, and so you will wiselier suppress them. i heartily wish i had any verses which with a clear mind i could send you in lieu of these juvenilities. it is strange, seeing the delight we take in verses, that we can so seldom write them, and so are not ashamed to lay up old ones, say sixteen years, instead of improvising them as freely as the wind blows, whenever we and our brothers are attuned to music. i have heard of a citizen who made an annual joke. i believe i have in april or may an annual poetic _conatus_ rather than _afflatus_, experimenting to the length of thirty lines or so, if i may judge from the dates of the rhythmical scraps i detect among my mss. i look upon this incontinence as merely the redundancy of a susceptibility to poetry which makes all the bards my daily treasures, and i can well run the risk of being ridiculous once a year for the benefit of happy reading all the other days. in regard to the providence discourse, i have no copy of it; and as far as i remember its contents, i have since used whatever is striking in it; but i will get the ms., if margaret fuller has it, and you shall have it if it will pass muster. i shall certainly avail myself of the good order you gave me for twelve copies of the "carlyle miscellanies," so soon as they appear. he, t.c., writes in excellent spirits of his american friends and readers.... a new book, he writes, is growing in him, though not to begin until his spring lectures are over (which begin in may). your sister sarah was kind enough to carry me the other day to see some pencil sketches done by stuart newton when in the insane hospital. they seemed to me to betray the richest invention, so rich as almost to say, why draw any line since you can draw all? genius has given you the freedom of the universe, why then come within any walls? and this seems to be the old moral which we draw from our fable, read it how or where you will, that we cannot make one good stroke until we can make every possible stroke; and when we can one, every one seems superfluous. i heartily thank you for the good wishes you send me to open the year, and i say them back again to you. your field is a world, and all men are your spectators, and all men respect the true and great-hearted service you render. and yet it is not spectator nor spectacle that concerns either you or me. the whole world is sick of that very ail, of being seen, and of seemliness. it belongs to the brave now to trust themselves infinitely, and to sit and hearken alone. i am glad to see william channing is one of your coadjutors. mrs. jameson's new book, i should think, would bring a caravan of travellers, aesthetic, artistic, and what not, up your mighty stream, or along the lakes to mackinaw. as i read i almost vowed an exploration, but i doubt if i ever get beyond the hudson. your affectionate servant, r.w. emerson. on the th of july, , a little more than a week after the delivery of the address before the divinity school, mr. emerson delivered an oration before the literary societies of dartmouth college. if any rumor of the former discourse had reached dartmouth, the audience must have been prepared for a much more startling performance than that to which they listened. the bold avowal which fluttered the dovecotes of cambridge would have sounded like the crash of doom to the cautious old tenants of the hanover aviary. if there were any drops of false or questionable doctrine in the silver shower of eloquence under which they had been sitting, the plumage of orthodoxy glistened with unctuous repellents, and a shake or two on coming out of church left the sturdy old dogmatists as dry as ever. those who remember the dartmouth college of that day cannot help smiling at the thought of the contrast in the way of thinking between the speaker and the larger part, or at least the older part, of his audience. president lord was well known as the scriptural defender of the institution of slavery. not long before a controversy had arisen, provoked by the setting up of the episcopal form of worship by one of the professors, the most estimable and scholarly dr. daniel oliver. perhaps, however, the extreme difference between the fundamental conceptions of mr. emerson and the endemic orthodoxy of that place and time was too great for any hostile feeling to be awakened by the sweet-voiced and peaceful-mannered speaker. there is a kind of harmony between boldly contrasted beliefs like that between complementary colors. it is when two shades of the same color are brought side by side that comparison makes them odious to each other. mr. emerson could go anywhere and find willing listeners among those farthest in their belief from the views he held. such was his simplicity of speech and manner, such his transparent sincerity, that it was next to impossible to quarrel with the gentle image-breaker. the subject of mr. emerson's address is _literary ethics._ it is on the same lofty plane of sentiment and in the same exalted tone of eloquence as the phi beta kappa address. the word impassioned would seem misplaced, if applied to any of mr. emerson's orations. but these discourses were both written and delivered in the freshness of his complete manhood. they were produced at a time when his mind had learned its powers and the work to which it was called, in the struggle which freed him from the constraint of stereotyped confessions of faith and all peremptory external authority. it is not strange, therefore, to find some of his paragraphs glowing with heat and sparkling with imaginative illustration. "neither years nor books," he says, "have yet availed to extirpate a prejudice rooted in me, that a scholar is the favorite of heaven and earth, the excellency of his country, the happiest of men." and yet, he confesses that the scholars of this country have not fulfilled the reasonable expectation of mankind. "men here, as elsewhere, are indisposed to innovation and prefer any antiquity, any usage, any livery productive of ease or profit, to the unproductive service of thought." for all this he offers those correctives which in various forms underlie all his teachings. "the resources of the scholar are proportioned to his confidence in the attributes of the intellect." new lessons of spiritual independence, fresh examples and illustrations, are drawn from history and biography. there is a passage here so true to nature that it permits a half page of quotation and a line or two of comment:-- "an intimation of these broad rights is familiar in the sense of injury which men feel in the assumption of any man to limit their possible progress. we resent all criticism which denies us anything that lies in our line of advance. say to the man of letters, that he cannot paint a transfiguration, or build a steamboat, or be a grand-marshal, and he will not seem to himself depreciated. but deny to him any quality of literary or metaphysical power, and he is piqued. concede to him genius, which is a sort of stoical _plenum_ annulling the comparative, and he is content; but concede him talents never so rare, denying him genius, and he is aggrieved." but it ought to be added that if the pleasure of denying the genius of their betters were denied to the mediocrities, their happiness would be forever blighted. from the resources of the american scholar mr. emerson passes to his tasks. nature, as it seems to him, has never yet been truly studied. "poetry has scarcely chanted its first song. the perpetual admonition of nature to us is, 'the world is new, untried. do not believe the past. i give you the universe a virgin to-day.'" and in the same way he would have the scholar look at history, at philosophy. the world belongs to the student, but he must put himself into harmony with the constitution of things. "he must embrace solitude as a bride." not superstitiously, but after having found out, as a little experience will teach him, all that society can do for him with its foolish routine. i have spoken of the exalted strain into which mr. emerson sometimes rises in the midst of his general serenity. here is an instance of it:-- "you will hear every day the maxims of a low prudence. you will hear that the first duty is to get land and money, place and name. 'what is this truth you seek? what is this beauty?' men will ask, with derision. if, nevertheless, god have called any of you to explore truth and beauty, be bold, be firm, be true. when you shall say, 'as others do, so will i: i renounce, i am sorry for it, my early visions: i must eat the good of the land, and let learning and romantic expectations go, until a more convenient season;'--then dies the man in you; then once more perish the buds of art, and poetry, and science, as they have died already in a thousand thousand men.--bend to the persuasion which is flowing to you from every object in nature, to be its tongue to the heart of man, and to show the besotted world how passing fair is wisdom. why should you renounce your right to traverse the starlit deserts of truth, for the premature comforts of an acre, house, and barn? truth also has its roof and house and board. make yourself necessary to the world, and mankind will give you bread; and if not store of it, yet such as shall not take away your property in all men's possessions, in all men's affections, in art, in nature, and in hope." the next address emerson delivered was "the method of nature," before the society of the adelphi, in waterville college, maine, august , . in writing to carlyle on the st of july, he says: "as usual at this season of the year, i, incorrigible spouting yankee, am writing an oration to deliver to the boys in one of our little country colleges nine days hence.... my whole philosophy--which is very real--teaches acquiescence and optimism. only when i see how much work is to be done, what room for a poet--for any spiritualist--in this great, intelligent, sensual, and avaricious america, i lament my fumbling fingers and stammering tongue." it may be remembered that mr. matthew arnold quoted the expression about america, which sounded more harshly as pronounced in a public lecture than as read in a private letter. the oration shows the same vein of thought as the letter. its title is "the method of nature." he begins with congratulations on the enjoyments and promises of this literary anniversary. "the scholars are the priests of that thought which establishes the foundations of the castle."--"we hear too much of the results of machinery, commerce, and the useful arts. we are a puny and a fickle folk. avarice, hesitation, and following are our diseases. the rapid wealth which hundreds in the community acquire in trade, or by the incessant expansion of our population and arts, enchants the eyes of all the rest; this luck of one is the hope of thousands, and the bribe acts like the neighborhood of a gold mine to impoverish the farm, the school, the church, the house, and the very body and feature of man."--"while the multitude of men degrade each other, and give currency to desponding doctrines, the scholar must be a bringer of hope, and must reinforce man against himself." i think we may detect more of the manner of carlyle in this address than in any of those which preceded it. "why then goest thou as some boswell or literary worshipper to this saint or to that? that is the only lese-majesty. here art thou with whom so long the universe travailed in labor; darest thou think meanly of thyself whom the stalwart fate brought forth to unite his ragged sides, to shoot the gulf, to reconcile the irreconcilable?" that there is an "intimate divinity" which is the source of all true wisdom, that the duty of man is to listen to its voice and to follow it, that "the sanity of man needs the poise of this immanent force," that the rule is "do what you know, and perception is converted into character,"--all this is strongly enforced and richly illustrated in this oration. just how easily it was followed by the audience, just how far they were satisfied with its large principles wrought into a few broad precepts, it would be easier at this time to ask than to learn. we notice not so much the novelty of the ideas to be found in this discourse on "the method of nature," as the pictorial beauty of their expression. the deep reverence which underlies all emerson's speculations is well shown in this paragraph:-- "we ought to celebrate this hour by expressions of manly joy. not thanks nor prayer seem quite the highest or truest name for our communication with the infinite,--but glad and conspiring reception,--reception that becomes giving in its turn as the receiver is only the all-giver in part and in infancy."--"it is god in us which checks the language of petition by grander thought. in the bottom of the heart it is said: 'i am, and by me, o child! this fair body and world of thine stands and grows. i am, all things are mine; and all mine are thine.'" we must not quarrel with his peculiar expressions. he says, in this same paragraph, "i cannot,--nor can any man,--speak precisely of things so sublime; but it seems to me the wit of man, his strength, his grace, his tendency, his art, is the grace and the presence of god. it is beyond explanation." "we can point nowhere to anything final but tendency; but tendency appears on all hands; planet, system, constellation, total nature is growing like a field of maize in july; is becoming something else; is in rapid metamorphosis. the embryo does not more strive to be man, than yonder burr of light we call a nebula tends to be a ring, a comet, a globe, and parent of new stars." "in short, the spirit and peculiarity of that impression nature makes on us is this, that it does not exist to any one, or to any number of particular ends, but to numberless and endless benefit; that there is in it no private will, no rebel leaf or limb, but the whole is oppressed by one superincumbent tendency, obeys that redundancy or excess of life which in conscious beings we call ecstasy." here is another of those almost lyrical passages which seem too long for the music of rhythm and the resonance of rhyme. "the great pan of old, who was clothed in a leopard skin to signify the beautiful variety of things, and the firmament, his coat of stars, was but the representative of thee, o rich and various man! thou palace of sight and sound, carrying in thy senses the morning and the night and the unfathomable galaxy; in thy brain the geometry of the city of god; in thy heart the bower of love and the realms of right and wrong." his feeling about the soul, which has shown itself in many of the extracts already given, is summed up in the following sentence:-- "we cannot describe the natural history of the soul, but we know that it is divine. i cannot tell if these wonderful qualities which house to-day in this mental home shall ever reassemble in equal activity in a similar frame, or whether they have before had a natural history like that of this body you see before you; but this one thing i know, that these qualities did not now begin to exist, cannot be sick with my sickness, nor buried in any grave; but that they circulate through the universe: before the world was, they were." it is hard to see the distinction between the omnipresent deity recognized in our formal confessions of faith and the "pantheism" which is the object of dread to many of the faithful. but there are many expressions in this address which must have sounded strangely and vaguely to his christian audience. "are there not moments in the history of heaven when the human race was not counted by individuals, but was only the influenced; was god in distribution, god rushing into manifold benefit?" it might be feared that the practical philanthropists would feel that they lost by his counsels. "the reform whose fame now fills the land with temperance, anti-slavery, non-resistance, no government, equal labor, fair and generous as each appears, are poor bitter things when prosecuted for themselves as an end."--"i say to you plainly there is no end to which your practical faculty can aim so sacred or so large, that if pursued for itself, will not at last become carrion and an offence to the nostril. the imaginative faculty of the soul must be fed with objects immense and eternal. your end should be one inapprehensible to the senses; then it will be a god, always approached,--never touched; always giving health." nothing is plainer than that it was emerson's calling to supply impulses and not methods. he was not an organizer, but a power behind many organizers, inspiring them with lofty motive, giving breadth, to their views, always tending to become narrow through concentration on their special objects. the oration we have been examining was delivered in the interval between the delivery of two addresses, one called "man the reformer," and another called "lecture on the times." in the first he preaches the dignity and virtue of manual labor; that "a man should have a farm, or a mechanical craft for his culture."--that he cannot give up labor without suffering some loss of power. "how can the man who has learned but one art procure all the conveniences of life honestly? shall we say all we think?--perhaps with his own hands.--let us learn the meaning of economy.--parched corn eaten to-day that i may have roast fowl to my dinner on sunday is a baseness; but parched corn and a house with one apartment, that i may be free of all perturbation, that i may be serene and docile to what the mind shall speak, and quit and road-ready for the lowest mission of knowledge or good will, is frugality for gods and heroes." this was what emerson wrote in january, . this "house with one apartment" was what thoreau built with his own hands in . in april of the former year, he went to live with mr. emerson, but had been on intimate terms with him previously to that time. whether it was from him that thoreau got the hint of the walden cabin and the parched corn, or whether this idea was working in thoreau's mind and was suggested to emerson by him, is of no great consequence. emerson, to whom he owed so much, may well have adopted some of those fancies which thoreau entertained, and afterwards worked out in practice. he was at the philanthropic centre of a good many movements which he watched others carrying out, as a calm and kindly spectator, without losing his common sense for a moment. it would never have occurred to him to leave all the conveniences and comforts of life to go and dwell in a shanty, so as to prove to himself that he could live like a savage, or like his friends "teague and his jade," as he called the man and brother and sister, more commonly known nowadays as pat, or patrick, and his old woman. "the americans have many virtues," he says in this address, "but they have not faith and hope." faith and hope, enthusiasm and love, are the burden of this address. but he would regulate these qualities by "a great prospective prudence," which shall mediate between the spiritual and the actual world. in the "lecture on the times" he shows very clearly the effect which a nearer contact with the class of men and women who called themselves reformers had upon him. "the reforms have their higher origin in an ideal justice, but they do not retain the purity of an idea. they are quickly organized in some low, inadequate form, and present no more poetic image to the mind than the evil tradition which they reprobated. they mix the fire of the moral sentiment with personal and party heats, with measureless exaggerations, and the blindness that prefers some darling measure to justice and truth. those who are urging with most ardor what are called the greatest benefit of mankind are narrow, self-pleasing, conceited men, and affect us as the insane do. they bite us, and we run mad also. i think the work of the reformer as innocent as other work that is done around him; but when i have seen it near!--i do not like it better. it is done in the same way; it is done profanely, not piously; by management, by tactics and clamor." all this, and much more like it, would hardly have been listened to by the ardent advocates of the various reforms, if anybody but mr. emerson had said it. he undervalued no sincere action except to suggest a wiser and better one. he attacked no motive which had a good aim, except in view of some larger and loftier principle. the charm of his imagination and the music of his words took away all the sting from the thoughts that penetrated to the very marrow of the entranced listeners. sometimes it was a splendid hyperbole that illuminated a statement which by the dim light of common speech would have offended or repelled those who sat before him. he knew the force of _felix audacia_ as well as any rhetorician could have taught him. he addresses the reformer with one of those daring images which defy the critics. "as the farmer casts into the ground the finest ears of his grain, the time will come when we too shall hold nothing back, but shall eagerly convert more than we possess into means and powers, when we shall be willing to sow the sun and the moon for seeds." he said hard things to the reformer, especially to the abolitionist, in his "lecture on the times." it would have taken a long while to get rid of slavery if some of emerson's teachings in this lecture had been accepted as the true gospel of liberty. but how much its last sentence covers with its soothing tribute! "all the newspapers, all the tongues of today will of course defame what is noble; but you who hold not of to-day, not of the times, but of the everlasting, are to stand for it; and the highest compliment man ever receives from heaven is the sending to him its disguised and discredited angels." the lecture called "the transcendentalist" will naturally be looked at with peculiar interest, inasmuch as this term has been very commonly applied to emerson, and to many who were considered his disciples. it has a proper philosophical meaning, and it has also a local and accidental application to the individuals of a group which came together very much as any literary club might collect about a teacher. all this comes out clearly enough in the lecture. in the first place, emerson explains that the "_new views_," as they are called, are the oldest of thoughts cast in a new mould. "what is popularly called transcendentalism among us is idealism: idealism as it appears in . as thinkers, mankind have ever divided into two sects, materialists and idealists; the first class founding on experience, the second on consciousness; the first class beginning to think from the data of the senses, the second class perceive that the senses are not final, and say, the senses give us representations of things, but what are the things themselves, they cannot tell. the materialist insists on facts, on history, on the force of circumstances and the animal wants of man; the idealist on the power of thought and of will, on inspiration, on miracle, on individual culture." "the materialist takes his departure from the external world, and esteems a man as one product of that. the idealist takes his departure from his consciousness, and reckons the world an appearance.--his thought, that is the universe." the association of scholars and thinkers to which the name of "transcendentalists" was applied, and which made itself an organ in the periodical known as "the dial," has been written about by many who were in the movement, and others who looked on or got their knowledge of it at second hand. emerson was closely associated with these "same transcendentalists," and a leading contributor to "the dial," which was their organ. the movement borrowed its inspiration more from him than from any other source, and the periodical owed more to him than to any other writer. so far as his own relation to the circle of illuminati and the dial which they shone upon was concerned, he himself is the best witness. in his "historic notes of life and letters in new england," he sketches in a rapid way the series of intellectual movements which led to the development of the "new views" above mentioned. "there are always two parties," he says, "the party of the past and the party of the future; the establishment and the movement." about , and in the twenty years which followed, an era of activity manifested itself in the churches, in politics, in philanthropy, in literature. in our own community the influence of swedenborg and of the genius and character of dr. channing were among the more immediate early causes of the mental agitation. emerson attributes a great importance to the scholarship, the rhetoric, the eloquence, of edward everett, who returned to boston in , after five years of study in europe. edward everett is already to a great extent a tradition, somewhat as rufus choate is, a voice, a fading echo, as must be the memory of every great orator. these wondrous personalities have their truest and warmest life in a few old men's memories. it is therefore with delight that one who remembers everett in his robes of rhetorical splendor, who recalls his full-blown, high-colored, double-flowered periods, the rich, resonant, grave, far-reaching music of his speech, with just enough of nasal vibration to give the vocal sounding-board its proper value in the harmonies of utterance,--it is with delight that such a one reads the glowing words of emerson whenever he refers to edward everett. it is enough if he himself caught inspiration from those eloquent lips; but many a listener has had his youthful enthusiasm fired by that great master of academic oratory. emerson follows out the train of influences which added themselves to the impulse given by mr. everett. german scholarship, the growth of science, the generalizations of goethe, the idealism of schelling, the influence of wordsworth, of coleridge, of carlyle, and in our immediate community, the writings of channing,--he left it to others to say of emerson,--all had their part in this intellectual, or if we may call it so, spiritual revival. he describes with that exquisite sense of the ridiculous which was a part of his mental ballast, the first attempt at organizing an association of cultivated, thoughtful people. they came together, the cultivated, thoughtful people, at dr. john collins warren's,--dr. channing, the great dr. channing, among the rest, full of the great thoughts he wished to impart. the preliminaries went on smoothly enough with the usual small talk,-- "when a side-door opened, the whole company streamed in to an oyster supper, crowned by excellent wines [this must have been before dr. warren's temperance epoch], and so ended the first attempt to establish aesthetic society in boston. "some time afterwards dr. channing opened his mind to mr. and mrs. ripley, and with some care they invited a limited party of ladies and gentlemen. i had the honor to be present.--margaret fuller, george ripley, dr. convers francis, theodore parker, dr. hedge, mr. brownson, james freeman clarke, william h. channing, and many others gradually drew together, and from time to time spent an afternoon at each other's houses in a serious conversation." with them was another, "a pure idealist,--who read plato as an equal, and inspired his companions only in proportion as they were intellectual." he refers, of course to mr. alcott. emerson goes on to say:-- "i think there prevailed at that time a general belief in boston that there was some concert of _doctrinaires_ to establish certain opinions, and inaugurate some movement in literature, philosophy, and religion, of which design the supposed conspirators were quite innocent; for there was no concert, and only here and there two or three men and women who read and wrote, each alone, with unusual vivacity. perhaps they only agreed in having fallen upon coleridge and wordsworth and goethe, then on carlyle, with pleasure and sympathy. otherwise their education and reading were not marked, but had the american superficialness, and their studies were solitary. i suppose all of them were surprised at this rumor of a school or sect, and certainly at the name of transcendentalism, given, nobody knows by whom, or when it was applied." emerson's picture of some of these friends of his is so peculiar as to suggest certain obvious and not too flattering comments. "in like manner, if there is anything grand and daring in human thought or virtue; any reliance on the vast, the unknown; any presentiment, any extravagance of faith, the spiritualist adopts it as most in nature. the oriental mind has always tended to this largeness. buddhism is an expression of it. the buddhist, who thanks no man, who says, 'do not flatter your benefactors,' but who in his conviction that every good deed can by no possibility escape its reward, will not deceive the benefactor by pretending that he has done more than he should, is a transcendentalist. "these exacting children advertise us of our wants. there is no compliment, no smooth speech with them; they pay you only this one compliment, of insatiable expectation; they aspire, they severely exact, and if they only stand fast in this watch-tower, and persist in demanding unto the end, and without end, then are they terrible friends, whereof poet and priest cannot choose but stand in awe; and what if they eat clouds, and drink wind, they have not been without service to the race of man." the person who adopts "any presentiment, any extravagance as most in nature," is not commonly called a transcendentalist, but is known colloquially as a "crank." the person who does not thank, by word or look, the friend or stranger who has pulled him out of the fire or water, is fortunate if he gets off with no harder name than that of a churl. nothing was farther from emerson himself than whimsical eccentricity or churlish austerity. but there was occasionally an air of bravado in some of his followers as if they had taken out a patent for some knowing machine which was to give them a monopoly of its products. they claimed more for each other than was reasonable,--so much occasionally that their pretensions became ridiculous. one was tempted to ask: "what forlorn hope have you led? what immortal book have you written? what great discovery have you made? what heroic task of any kind have you performed?" there was too much talk about earnestness and too little real work done. aspiration too frequently got as far as the alpenstock and the brandy flask, but crossed no dangerous crevasse, and scaled no arduous summit. in short, there was a kind of "transcendentalist" dilettanteism, which betrayed itself by a phraseology as distinctive as that of the della cruscans of an earlier time. in reading the following description of the "intelligent and religious persons" who belonged to the "transcendentalist" communion, the reader must remember that it is emerson who draws the portrait,--a friend and not a scoffer:-- "they are not good citizens, not good members of society: unwillingly they bear their part of the public and private burdens; they do not willingly share in the public charities, in the public religious rites, in the enterprise of education, of missions, foreign and domestic, in the abolition of the slave-trade, or in the temperance society. they do not even like to vote." after arraigning the representatives of transcendental or spiritual beliefs in this way, he summons them to plead for themselves, and this is what they have to say:-- "'new, we confess, and by no means happy, is our condition: if you want the aid of our labor, we ourselves stand in greater want of the labor. we are miserable with inaction. we perish of rest and rust: but we do not like your work.' 'then,' says the world, 'show me your own.' 'we have none.' 'what will you do, then?' cries the world. 'we will wait.' 'how long?' 'until the universe beckons and calls us to work.' 'but whilst you wait you grow old and useless.' 'be it so: i can sit in a corner and _perish_ (as you call it), but i will not move until i have the highest command.'" and so the dissatisfied tenant of this unhappy creation goes on with his reasons for doing nothing. it is easy to stay away from church and from town-meetings. it is easy to keep out of the way of the contribution box and to let the subscription paper go by us to the next door. the common duties of life and the good offices society asks of us may be left to take care of themselves while we contemplate the infinite. there is no safer fortress for indolence than "the everlasting no." the chimney-corner is the true arena for this class of philosophers, and the pipe and mug furnish their all-sufficient panoply. emerson undoubtedly met with some of them among his disciples. his wise counsel did not always find listeners in a fitting condition to receive it. he was a sower who went forth to sow. some of the good seed fell among the thorns of criticism. some fell on the rocks of hardened conservatism. some fell by the wayside and was picked up by the idlers who went to the lecture-room to get rid of themselves. but when it fell upon the right soil it bore a growth of thought which ripened into a harvest of large and noble lives. emerson shows up the weakness of his young enthusiasts with that delicate wit which warns its objects rather than wounds them. but he makes it all up with the dreamers before he can let them go. "society also has its duties in reference to this class, and must behold them with what charity it can. possibly some benefit may yet accrue from them to the state. besides our coarse implements, there must be some few finer instruments,--rain-gauges, thermometers, and telescopes; and in society, besides farmers, sailors, and weavers, there must be a few persons of purer fire kept specially as gauges and meters of character; persons of a fine, detecting instinct, who note the smallest accumulations of wit and feeling in the by-stander. perhaps too there might be room for the exciters and monitors; collectors of the heavenly spark, with power to convey the electricity to others. or, as the storm-tossed vessel at sea speaks the frigate or "line-packet" to learn its longitude, so it may not be without its advantage that we should now and then encounter rare and gifted men, to compare the points of our spiritual compass, and verify our bearings from superior chronometers." it must be confessed that it is not a very captivating picture which emerson draws of some of his transcendental friends. their faults were naturally still more obvious to those outside of their charmed circle, and some prejudice, very possibly, mingled with their critical judgments. on the other hand we have the evidence of a visitor who knew a good deal of the world as to the impression they produced upon him:-- "there has sprung up in boston," says dickens, in his "american notes," "a sect of philosophers known as transcendentalists. on inquiring what this appellation might be supposed to signify, i was given to understand that whatever was unintelligible would be certainly transcendental. not deriving much comfort from this elucidation, i pursued the inquiry still further, and found that the transcendentalists are followers of my friend mr. carlyle, or, i should rather say, of a follower of his, mr. ralph waldo emerson. this gentleman has written a volume of essays, in which, among much that is dreamy and fanciful (if he will pardon me for saying so), there is much more that is true and manly, honest and bold. transcendentalism has its occasional vagaries (what school has not?), but it has good healthful qualities in spite of them; not least among the number a hearty disgust of cant, and an aptitude to detect her in all the million varieties of her everlasting wardrobe. and therefore, if i were a bostonian, i think i would be a transcendentalist." in december, , emerson delivered a lecture entitled "the conservative." it was a time of great excitement among the members of that circle of which he was the spiritual leader. never did emerson show the perfect sanity which characterized his practical judgment more beautifully than in this lecture and in his whole course with reference to the intellectual agitation of the period. he is as fair to the conservative as to the reformer. he sees the fanaticism of the one as well as that of the other. "conservatism tends to universal seeming and treachery; believes in a negative fate; believes that men's tempers govern them; that for me it avails not to trust in principles, they will fail me, i must bend a little; it distrusts nature; it thinks there is a general law without a particular application,--law for all that does not include any one. reform in its antagonism inclines to asinine resistance, to kick with hoofs; it runs to egotism and bloated self-conceit; it runs to a bodiless pretension, to unnatural refining and elevation, which ends in hypocrisy and sensual reaction. and so, whilst we do not go beyond general statements, it may be safely affirmed of these two metaphysical antagonists that each is a good half, but an impossible whole." he has his beliefs, and, if you will, his prejudices, but he loves fair play, and though he sides with the party of the future, he will not be unjust to the present or the past. we read in a letter from emerson to carlyle, dated march , , that dr. charming "lay awake all night, he told my friend last week, because he had learned in the evening that some young men proposed to issue a journal, to be called 'the transcendentalist,' as the organ of a spiritual philosophy." again on the th of april of the same year, in a letter in which he lays out a plan for a visit of carlyle to this country, emerson says:-- "it was suggested that if mr. c. would undertake a journal of which we have talked much, but which we have never yet produced, he would do us great service, and we feel some confidence that it could be made to secure him a support. it is that project which i mentioned to you in a letter by mr. barnard,--a book to be called 'the transcendentalist;' or, 'the spiritual inquirer,' or the like.... those who are most interested in it designed to make gratuitous contribution to its pages, until its success could be assured." the idea of the grim scotchman as editor of what we came in due time to know as "the dial!" a concert of singing mice with a savage and hungry old grimalkin as leader of the orchestra! it was much safer to be content with carlyle's purring from his own side of the water, as thus:-- "'the boston transcendentalist,' whatever the fate or merit of it may prove to be, is surely an interesting symptom. there must be things not dreamt of over in that _transoceanic_ parish! i shall certainly wish well to this thing; and hail it as the sure forerunner of things better." there were two notable products of the intellectual ferment of the transcendental period which deserve an incidental notice here, from the close connection which emerson had with one of them and the interest which he took in the other, in which many of his friends were more deeply concerned. these were the periodical just spoken of as a possibility realized, and the industrial community known as brook farm. they were to a certain extent synchronous,--the magazine beginning in july, , and expiring in april, ; brook farm being organized in , and breaking up in . "the dial" was edited at first by margaret fuller, afterwards by emerson, who contributed more than forty articles in prose and verse, among them "the conservative," "the transcendentalist," "chardon street and bible convention," and some of his best and best known poems, "the problem," "woodnotes," "the sphinx," "fate." the other principal writers were margaret fuller, a. bronson alcott, george ripley, james freeman clarke, theodore parker, william h. channing, henry thoreau, eliot cabot, john s. dwight, c.p. cranch, william ellery channing, mrs. ellen hooper, and her sister mrs. caroline tappan. unequal as the contributions are in merit, the periodical is of singular interest. it was conceived and carried on in a spirit of boundless hope and enthusiasm. time and a narrowing subscription list proved too hard a trial, and its four volumes remain stranded, like some rare and curiously patterned shell which a storm of yesterday has left beyond the reach of the receding waves. thoreau wrote for nearly every number. margaret fuller, less attractive in print than in conversation, did her part as a contributor as well as editor. theodore parker came down with his "trip-hammer" in its pages. mrs. ellen hooper published a few poems in its columns which remain, always beautiful, in many memories. others, whose literary lives have fulfilled their earlier promise, and who are still with us, helped forward the new enterprise with their frequent contributions. it is a pleasure to turn back to "the dial," with all its crudities. it should be looked through by the side of the "anthology." both were april buds, opening before the frosts were over, but with the pledge of a better season. we get various hints touching the new magazine in the correspondence between emerson and carlyle. emerson tells carlyle, a few months before the first number appeared, that it will give him a better knowledge of our _young people_ than any he has had. it is true that unfledged writers found a place to try their wings in it, and that makes it more interesting. this was the time above all others when out of the mouth of babes and sucklings was to come forth strength. the feeling that intuition was discovering a new heaven and a new earth was the inspiration of these "young people" to whom emerson refers. he has to apologize for the first number. "it is not yet much," he says; "indeed, though no copy has come to me, i know it is far short of what it should be, for they have suffered puffs and dulness to creep in for the sake of the complement of pages, but it is better than anything we had.--the address of the editors to the readers is all the prose that is mine, and whether they have printed a few verses for me i do not know." they did print "the problem." there were also some fragments of criticism from the writings of his brother charles, and the poem called "the last farewell," by his brother edward, which is to be found in emerson's "may-day and other pieces." on the th of august, after the periodical had been published a couple of months, emerson writes:-- "our community begin to stand in some terror of transcendentalism; and the _dial_, poor little thing, whose first number contains scarce anything considerable or even visible, is just now honored by attacks from almost every newspaper and magazine; which at least betrays the irritability and the instincts of the good public." carlyle finds the second number of "the dial" better than the first, and tosses his charitable recognition, as if into an alms-basket, with his usual air of superiority. he distinguishes what is emerson's readily,--the rest he speaks of as the work of [greek: oi polloi] for the most part. "but it is all good and very good as a _soul;_ wants only a body, which want means a great deal." and again, "'the dial,' too, it is all spirit like, aeri-form, aurora-borealis like. will no _angel_ body himself out of that; no stalwart yankee _man_, with color in the cheeks of him and a coat on his back?" emerson, writing to carlyle in march, , speaks of the "dubious approbation on the part of you and other men," notwithstanding which he found it with "a certain class of men and women, though few, an object of tenderness and religion." so, when margaret fuller gave it up, at the end of the second volume, emerson consented to become its editor. "i cannot bid you quit 'the dial,'" says carlyle, "though it, too, alas, is antinomian somewhat! _perge, perge_, nevertheless." in the next letter he says:-- "i love your 'dial,' and yet it is with a kind of shudder. you seem to me in danger of dividing yourselves from the fact of this present universe, in which alone, ugly as it is, can i find any anchorage, and soaring away after ideas, beliefs, revelations and such like,--into perilous altitudes, as i think; beyond the curve of perpetual frost, for one thing. i know not how to utter what impression you give me; take the above as some stamping of the fore-hoof." a curious way of characterizing himself as a critic,--but he was not always as well-mannered as the houyhnhnms. to all carlyle's complaints of "the dial's" short-comings emerson did not pretend to give any satisfactory answer, but his plea of guilty, with extenuating circumstances, is very honest and definite. "for the _dial_ and its sins, i have no defence to set up. we write as we can, and we know very little about it. if the direction of these speculations is to be deplored, it is yet a fact for literary history that all the bright boys and girls in new england, quite ignorant of each other, take the world so, and come and make confession to fathers and mothers,--the boys, that they do not wish to go into trade, the girls, that they do not like morning calls and evening parties. they are all religious, but hate the churches; they reject all the ways of living of other men, but have none to offer in their stead. perhaps one of these days a great yankee shall come, who will easily do the unknown deed." "all the bright boys and girls in new england," and "'the dial' dying of inanition!" in october, , emerson writes to carlyle:-- "we are all a little wild here with numberless projects of social reform. not a reading man but has a draft of a new community in his waistcoat pocket. i am gently mad myself, and am resolved to live cleanly. george ripley is talking up a colony of agriculturists and scholars, with whom he threatens to take the field and the book. one man renounces the use of animal food; and another of coin; and another of domestic hired service; and another of the state; and on the whole we have a commendable share of reason and hope." mr. ripley's project took shape in the west roxbury association, better known under the name of brook farm. emerson was not involved in this undertaking. he looked upon it with curiosity and interest, as he would have looked at a chemical experiment, but he seems to have had only a moderate degree of faith in its practical working. "it was a noble and generous movement in the projectors to try an experiment of better living. one would say that impulse was the rule in the society, without centripetal balance; perhaps it would not be severe to say, intellectual sans-culottism, an impatience of the formal routinary character of our educational, religious, social, and economical life in massachusetts." the reader will find a full detailed account of the brook farm experiment in mr. frothingham's "life of george ripley," its founder, and the first president of the association. emerson had only tangential relations with the experiment, and tells its story in his "historic notes" very kindly and respectfully, but with that sense of the ridiculous in the aspect of some of its conditions which belongs to the sagacious common-sense side of his nature. the married women, he says, were against the community. "it was to them like the brassy and lacquered life in hotels. the common school was well enough, but to the common nursery they had grave objections. eggs might be hatched in ovens, but the hen on her own account much preferred the old way. a hen without her chickens was but half a hen." is not the inaudible, inward laughter of emerson more refreshing than the explosions of our noisiest humorists? this is his benevolent summing up:-- "the founders of brook farm should have this praise, that they made what all people try to make, an agreeable place to live in. all comers, even the most fastidious, found it the pleasantest of residences. it is certain, that freedom from household routine, variety of character and talent, variety of work, variety of means of thought and instruction, art, music, poetry, reading, masquerade, did not permit sluggishness or despondency; broke up routine. there is agreement in the testimony that it was, to most of the associates, education; to many, the most important period of their life, the birth of valued friendships, their first acquaintance with the riches of conversation, their training in behavior. the art of letter-writing, it is said, was immensely cultivated. letters were always flying, not only from house to house, but from room to room. it was a perpetual picnic, a french revolution in small, an age of reason in a patty-pan." the public edifice called the "phalanstery" was destroyed by fire in . the association never recovered from this blow, and soon afterwards it was dissolved. section . emerson's first volume of his collected essays was published in . in the reprint it contains the following essays: history; self-reliance; compensation; spiritual laws; love; friendship; prudence; heroism; the over-soul; circles; intellect; art. "the young american," which is now included in the volume, was not delivered until . once accustomed to emerson's larger formulae we can to a certain extent project from our own minds his treatment of special subjects. but we cannot anticipate the daring imagination, the subtle wit, the curious illustrations, the felicitous language, which make the lecture or the essay captivating as read, and almost entrancing as listened to by the teachable disciple. the reader must be prepared for occasional extravagances. take the essay on history, in the first series of essays, for instance. "let it suffice that in the light of these two facts, namely, that the mind is one, and that nature is its correlative, history is to be read and written." when we come to the application, in the same essay, almost on the same page, what can we make of such discourse as this? the sentences i quote do not follow immediately, one upon the other, but their sense is continuous. "i hold an actual knowledge very cheap. hear the rats in the wall, see the lizard on the fence, the fungus under foot, the lichen on the log. what do i know sympathetically, morally, of either of these worlds of life?--how many times we must say rome and paris, and constantinople! what does rome know of rat and lizard? what are olympiads and consulates to these neighboring systems of being? nay, what food or experience or succor have they for the esquimau seal-hunter, for the kamchatcan in his canoe, for the fisherman, the stevedore, the porter?" the connection of ideas is not obvious. one can hardly help being reminded of a certain great man's rochester speech as commonly reported by the story-teller. "rome in her proudest days never had a waterfall a hundred and fifty feet high! greece in her palmiest days never had a waterfall a hundred and fifty feet high! men of rochester, go on! no people ever lost their liberty who had a waterfall a hundred and fifty feet high!" we cannot help smiling, perhaps laughing, at the odd mixture of rome and rats, of olympiads and esquimaux. but the underlying idea of the interdependence of all that exists in nature is far from ridiculous. emerson says, not absurdly or extravagantly, that "every history should be written in a wisdom which divined the range of our affinities and looked at facts as symbols." we have become familiar with his doctrine of "self-reliance," which is the subject of the second lecture of the series. we know that he always and everywhere recognized that the divine voice which speaks authoritatively in the soul of man is the source of all our wisdom. it is a man's true self, so that it follows that absolute, supreme self-reliance is the law of his being. but see how he guards his proclamation of self-reliance as the guide of mankind. "truly it demands something god-like in him who has cast off the common motives of humanity and has ventured to trust himself for a task-master. high be his heart, faithful his will, clear his sight, that he may in good earnest be doctrine, society, law, to himself, that a simple purpose may be to him as strong as iron necessity is to others!" "compensation" might be preached in a synagogue, and the rabbi would be praised for his performance. emerson had been listening to a sermon from a preacher esteemed for his orthodoxy, in which it was assumed that judgment is not executed in this world, that the wicked are successful, and the good are miserable. this last proposition agrees with john bunyan's view:-- "a christian man is never long at ease, when one fright's gone, another doth him seize." emerson shows up the "success" of the bad man and the failures and trials of the good man in their true spiritual characters, with a noble scorn of the preacher's low standard of happiness and misery, which would have made him throw his sermon into the fire. the essay on "spiritual laws" is full of pithy sayings:-- "as much virtue as there is, so much appears; as much goodness as there is, so much reverence it commands. all the devils respect virtue.--a man passes for that he is worth.--the ancestor of every action is a thought.--to think is to act.--let a man believe in god, and not in names and places and persons. let the great soul incarnated in some woman's form, poor and sad and single, in some dolly or joan, go out to service and sweep chambers and scour floors, and its effulgent day-beams cannot be hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear supreme and beautiful actions, the top and radiance of human life, and all people will get mops and brooms; until, lo! suddenly the great soul has enshrined itself in some other form and done some other deed, and that is now the flower and head of all living nature." this is not any the worse for being the flowering out of a poetical bud of george herbert's. the essay on "love" is poetical, but the three poems, "initial," "daemonic," and "celestial love" are more nearly equal to his subject than his prose. there is a passage in the lecture on "friendship" which suggests some personal relation of emerson's about which we cannot help being inquisitive:-- "it has seemed to me lately more possible than i knew, to carry a friendship greatly, on one side, without due correspondence on the other. why should i cumber myself with regrets that the receiver is not capacious? it never troubles the sun that some of his rays fall wide and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the reflecting planet. let your greatness educate the crude and cold companion.... yet these things may hardly be said without a sort of treachery to the relation. the essence of friendship is entireness, a total magnanimity and trust. it must not surmise or provide for infirmity. it treats its object as a god that it may deify both." was he thinking of his relations with carlyle? it is a curious subject of speculation what would have been the issue if carlyle had come to concord and taken up his abode under emerson's most hospitable roof. "you shall not come nearer a man by getting into his house." how could they have got on together? emerson was well-bred, and carlyle was wanting in the social graces. "come rest in this bosom" is a sweet air, heard in the distance, too apt to be followed, after a protracted season of close proximity, by that other strain,-- "no, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole! rise alps between us and whole oceans roll!" but emerson may have been thinking of some very different person, perhaps some "crude and cold companion" among his disciples, who was not equal to the demands of friendly intercourse. he discourses wisely on "prudence," a virtue which he does not claim for himself, and nobly on "heroism," which was a shining part of his own moral and intellectual being. the points which will be most likely to draw the reader's attention are the remarks on the literature of heroism; the claim for our own america, for massachusetts and connecticut river and boston bay, in spite of our love for the names of foreign and classic topography; and most of all one sentence which, coming from an optimist like emerson, has a sound of sad sincerity painful to recognize. "who that sees the meanness of our politics but inly congratulates washington that he is long already wrapped in his shroud, and forever safe; that he was laid sweet in his grave, the hope of humanity not yet subjugated in him. who does not sometimes envy the good and brave who are no more to suffer from the tumults of the natural world, and await with curious complacency the speedy term of his own conversation with finite nature? and yet the love that will be annihilated sooner than treacherous has already made death impossible, and affirms itself no mortal, but a native of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable being." in the following essay, "the over-soul," emerson has attempted the impossible. he is as fully conscious of this fact as the reader of his rhapsody,--nay, he is more profoundly penetrated with it than any of his readers. in speaking of the exalted condition the soul is capable of reaching, he says,-- "every man's words, who speaks from that life, must sound vain to those who do not dwell in the same thought on their own part. i dare not speak for it. my words do not carry its august sense; they fall short and cold. only itself can inspire whom it will, and behold! their speech shall be lyrical and sweet, and universal as the rising of the wind. yet i desire, even by profane words, if i may not use sacred, to indicate the heaven of this deity, and to report what hints i have collected of the transcendent simplicity and energy of the highest law." "the over-soul" might almost be called the over-_flow_ of a spiritual imagination. we cannot help thinking of the "pious, virtuous, god-intoxicated" spinoza. when one talks of the infinite in terms borrowed from the finite, when one attempts to deal with the absolute in the language of the relative, his words are not symbols, like those applied to the objects of experience, but the shadows of symbols, varying with the position and intensity of the light of the individual intelligence. it is a curious amusement to trace many of these thoughts and expressions to plato, or plotinus, or proclus, or porphyry, to spinoza or schelling, but the same tune is a different thing according to the instrument on which it is played. there are songs without words, and there are states in which, in place of the trains of thought moving in endless procession with ever-varying figures along the highway of consciousness, the soul is possessed by a single all-absorbing idea, which, in the highest state of spiritual exaltation, becomes a vision. both plotinus and porphyry believed they were privileged to look upon him whom "no man can see and live." but emerson states his own position so frankly in his essay entitled "circles," that the reader cannot take issue with him as against utterances which he will not defend. there can be no doubt that he would have confessed as much with reference to "the over-soul" as he has confessed with regard to "circles," the essay which follows "the over-soul." "i am not careful to justify myself.... but lest i should mislead any when i have my own head and obey my whims, let me remind the reader that i am only an experimenter. do not set the least value on what i do, or the least discredit on what i do not, as if i pretended to settle anything as true or false. i unsettle all things. no facts are to me sacred; none are profane; i simply experiment, an endless seeker, with no past at my back." perhaps, after reading these transcendental essays of emerson, we might borrow goethe's language about spinoza, as expressing the feeling with which we are left. "i am reading spinoza with frau von stein. i feel myself very near to him, though his soul is much deeper and purer than mine. "i cannot say that i ever read spinoza straight through, that at any time the complete architecture of his intellectual system has stood clear in view before me. but when i look into him i seem to understand him,--that is, he always appears to me consistent with himself, and i can always gather from him very salutary influences for my own way of feeling and acting." emerson would not have pretended that he was always "consistent with himself," but these "salutary influences," restoring, enkindling, vivifying, are felt by many of his readers who would have to confess, like dr. walter channing, that these thoughts, or thoughts like these, as he listened to them in a lecture, "made his head ache." the three essays which follow "the over-soul," "circles," "intellect," "art," would furnish us a harvest of good sayings, some of which we should recognize as parts of our own (borrowed) axiomatic wisdom. "beware when the great god lets loose a thinker on this planet. then all things are at risk." "god enters by a private door into every individual." "god offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose. take which you please,--you can never have both." "though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not." but we cannot reconstruct the hanging gardens with a few bricks from babylon. emerson describes his mode of life in these years in a letter to carlyle, dated may , . "i occupy, or improve, as we yankees say, two acres only of god's earth; on which is my house, my kitchen-garden, my orchard of thirty young trees, my empty barn. my house is now a very good one for comfort, and abounding in room. besides my house, i have, i believe, $ , , whose income in ordinary years is six per cent. i have no other tithe or glebe except the income of my winter lectures, which was last winter $ . well, with this income, here at home, i am a rich man. i stay at home and go abroad at my own instance. i have food, warmth, leisure, books, friends. go away from home, i am rich no longer. i never have a dollar to spend on a fancy. as no wise man, i suppose, ever was rich in the sense of freedom to spend, because of the inundation of claims, so neither am i, who am not wise. but at home, i am rich,--rich enough for ten brothers. my wife lidian is an incarnation of christianity,--i call her asia,--and keeps my philosophy from antinomianism; my mother, whitest, mildest, most conservative of ladies, whose only exception to her universal preference for old things is her son; my boy, a piece of love and sunshine, well worth my watching from morning to night;--these, and three domestic women, who cook, and sew and run for us, make all my household. here i sit and read and write, with very little system, and, as far as regards composition, with the most fragmentary result: paragraphs incompressible, each sentence an infinitely repellent particle." a great sorrow visited emerson and his household at this period of his life. on the th of october, , he wrote to carlyle: "my little boy is five years old to-day, and almost old enough to send you his love." three months later, on the th of february, , he writes once more:-- "my dear friend, you should have had this letter and these messages by the last steamer; but when it sailed, my son, a perfect little boy of five years and three months, had ended his earthly life. you can never sympathize with me; you can never know how much of me such a young child can take away. a few weeks ago i accounted myself a very rich man, and now the poorest of all. what would it avail to tell you anecdotes of a sweet and wonderful boy, such as we solace and sadden ourselves with at home every morning and evening? from a perfect health and as happy a life and as happy influences as ever child enjoyed, he was hurried out of my arms in three short days by scarlatina. we have two babes yet, one girl of three years, and one girl of three months and a week, but a promise like that boy's i shall never see. how often i have pleased myself that one day i should send to you this morning star of mine, and stay at home so gladly behind such a representative. i dare not fathom the invisible and untold to inquire what relations to my departed ones i yet sustain." this was the boy whose memory lives in the tenderest and most pathetic of emerson's poems, the "threnody,"--a lament not unworthy of comparison with lycidas for dignity, but full of the simple pathos of cowper's well-remembered lines on the receipt of his mother's picture, in the place of milton's sonorous academic phrases. chapter vi. - . aet. - . "the young american."--address on the anniversary of the emancipation of the negroes in the british west indies.[ ]--publication of the second series of essays.--contents: the poet.--experience.--character. --manners.--gifts.--nature.--politics.--nominalist and realist.--new england reformers.--publication of poems.--second visit to england. [footnote : these two addresses are to be found in the first and eleventh volumes, respectively, of the last collective edition of emerson's works, namely, "nature, addresses, and lectures," and "miscellanies."] emerson was american in aspect, temperament, way of thinking, and feeling; american, with an atmosphere of oriental idealism; american, so far as he belonged to any limited part of the universe. he believed in american institutions, he trusted the future of the american race. in the address first mentioned in the contents, of this chapter, delivered february , , he claims for this country all that the most ardent patriot could ask. not a few of his fellow-countrymen will feel the significance of the following contrast. "the english have many virtues, many advantages, and the proudest history in the world; but they need all and more than all the resources of the past to indemnify a heroic gentleman in that country for the mortifications prepared for him by the system of society, and which seem to impose the alternative to resist or to avoid it.... it is for englishmen to consider, not for us; we only say, let us live in america, too thankful for our want of feudal institutions.... if only the men are employed in conspiring with the designs of the spirit who led us hither, and is leading us still, we shall quickly enough advance out of all hearing of others' censures, out of all regrets of our own, into a new and more excellent social state than history has recorded." thirty years have passed since the lecture from which these passages are taken was delivered. the "young american" of that day is the more than middle-aged american of the present. the intellectual independence of our country is far more solidly established than when this lecture was written. but the social alliance between certain classes of americans and english is more and more closely cemented from year to year, as the wealth of the new world burrows its way among the privileged classes of the old world. it is a poor ambition for the possessor of suddenly acquired wealth to have it appropriated as a feeder of the impaired fortunes of a deteriorated household, with a family record of which its representatives are unworthy. the plain and wholesome language of emerson is on the whole more needed now than it was when spoken. his words have often been extolled for their stimulating quality; following the same analogy, they are, as in this address, in a high degree tonic, bracing, strengthening to the american, who requires to be reminded of his privileges that he may know and find himself equal to his duties. on the first day of august, , emerson delivered in concord an address on the anniversary of the emancipation of the negroes in the british west india islands. this discourse would not have satisfied the abolitionists. it was too general in its propositions, full of humane and generous sentiments, but not looking to their extreme and immediate method of action. * * * * * emerson's second series of essays was published in . there are many sayings in the essay called "the poet," which are meant for the initiated, rather than for him who runs, to read:-- "all that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in chronology." does this sound wild and extravagant? what were the political ups and downs of the hebrews,--what were the squabbles of the tribes with each other, or with their neighbors, compared to the birth of that poet to whom we owe the psalms,--the sweet singer whose voice is still the dearest of all that ever sang to the heart of mankind? the poet finds his materials everywhere, as emerson tells him in this eloquent apostrophe:-- "thou true land-bird! sea-bird! air-bird! wherever snow falls, or water flows, or birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds, or sown with stars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, wherever are outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger and awe and love, there is beauty, plenteous as rain, shed for thee, and though thou should'st walk the world over, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble." "experience" is, as he says himself, but a fragment. it bears marks of having been written in a less tranquil state of mind than the other essays. his most important confession is this:-- "all writing comes by the grace of god, and all doing and having. i would gladly be moral and keep due metes and bounds, which i dearly love, and allow the most to the will of man; but i have set my heart on honesty in this chapter, and i can see nothing at last, in success or failure, than more or less of vital force supplied from the eternal." the essay on "character" requires no difficult study, but is well worth the trouble of reading. a few sentences from it show the prevailing tone and doctrine. "character is nature in the highest form. it is of no use to ape it, or to contend with it. somewhat is possible of resistance and of persistence and of creation to this power, which will foil all emulation." "there is a class of men, individuals of which appear at long intervals, so eminently endowed with insight and virtue, that they have been unanimously saluted as _divine_, and who seem to be an accumulation of that power we consider. "the history of those gods and saints which the world has written, and then worshipped, are documents of character. the ages have exulted in the manners of a youth who owed nothing to fortune, and who was hanged at the tyburn of his nation, who, by the pure quality of his nature, shed an epic splendor around the facts of his death which has transfigured every particular into an universal symbol for the eyes of mankind. this great defeat is hitherto our highest fact." in his essay on "manners," emerson gives us his ideas of a gentleman:-- "the gentleman is a man of truth, lord of his own actions and expressing that lordship in his behavior, not in any manner dependent and servile either on persons or opinions or possessions. beyond this fact of truth and real force, the word denotes good-nature or benevolence: manhood first, and then gentleness.--power first, or no leading class.--god knows that all sorts of gentlemen knock at the door: but whenever used in strictness, and with any emphasis, the name will be found to point at original energy.--the famous gentlemen of europe have been of this strong type: saladin, sapor, the cid, julius caesar, scipio, alexander, pericles, and the lordliest personages. they sat very carelessly in their chairs, and were too excellent themselves to value any condition at a high rate.--i could better eat with one who did not respect the truth or the laws than with a sloven and unpresentable person.--the person who screams, or uses the superlative degree, or converses with heat, puts whole drawing-rooms to flight.--i esteem it a chief felicity of this country that it excels in woman." so writes emerson, and proceeds to speak of woman in language which seems almost to pant for rhythm and rhyme. this essay is plain enough for the least "transcendental" reader. franklin would have approved it, and was himself a happy illustration of many of the qualities which go to the emersonian ideal of good manners, a typical american, equal to his position, always as much so in the palaces and salons of paris as in the continental congress, or the society of philadelphia. "gifts" is a dainty little essay with some nice distinctions and some hints which may help to give form to a generous impulse:-- "the only gift is a portion of thyself. thou must bleed for me. therefore the poet brings his poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; the miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her own sewing." "flowers and fruits are always fit presents; flowers, because they are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.--fruits are acceptable gifts, because they are the flower of commodities, and admit of fantastic values being attached to them." "it is a great happiness to get off without injury and heart-burning from one who has had the ill-luck to be served by you. it is a very onerous business, this of being served, and the debtor naturally wishes to give you a slap." emerson hates the superlative, but he does unquestionably love the tingling effect of a witty over-statement. we have recognized most of the thoughts in the essay entitled "nature," in the previous essay by the same name, and others which we have passed in review. but there are poetical passages which will give new pleasure. here is a variation of the formula with which we are familiar:-- "nature is the incarnation of a thought, and turns to a thought again, as ice becomes water and gas. the world is mind precipitated, and the volatile essence is forever escaping again into the state of free thought." and here is a quaint sentence with which we may take leave of this essay:-- "they say that by electro-magnetism, your salad shall be grown from the seed, whilst your fowl is roasting for dinner: it is a symbol of our modern aims and endeavors,--of our condensation and acceleration of objects; but nothing is gained: nature cannot be cheated: man's life is but seventy salads long, grow they swift or grow they slow." this is pretty and pleasant, but as to the literal value of the prediction, m. jules verne would be the best authority to consult. poets are fond of that branch of science which, if the imaginative frenchman gave it a name, he would probably call _onditologie_. it is not to be supposed that the most sanguine optimist could be satisfied with the condition of the american political world at the present time, or when the essay on "politics" was written, some years before the great war which changed the aspects of the country in so many respects, still leaving the same party names, and many of the characters of the old parties unchanged. this is emerson's view of them as they then were:-- "of the two great parties, which, at this hour, almost share the nation between them, i should say that one has the best cause, and the other contains the best men. the philosopher, the poet, or the religious man, will, of course, wish to cast his vote with the democrat, for free trade, for wide suffrage, for the abolition of legal cruelties in the penal code, and for facilitating in every manner the access of the young and the poor to the sources of wealth and power. but he can rarely accept the persons whom the so-called popular party propose to him as representatives of these liberties. they have not at heart the ends which give to the name of democracy what hope and virtue are in it. the spirit of our american radicalism is destructive and aimless; it is not loving; it has no ulterior and divine ends; but is destructive only out of hatred and selfishness. on the other side, the conservative party, composed of the most moderate, able, and cultivated part of the population, is timid, and merely defensive of property. it indicates no right, it aspires to no real good, it brands no crime, it proposes no generous policy, it does not build nor write, nor cherish the arts, nor foster religion, nor establish schools, nor encourage science, nor emancipate the slave, nor befriend the poor, or the indian, or the immigrant. from neither party, when in power, has the world any benefit to expect in science, art, or humanity, at all commensurate with the resources of the nation." the metaphysician who looks for a closely reasoned argument on the famous old question which so divided the schoolmen of old will find a very moderate satisfaction in the essay entitled "nominalism and realism." but there are many discursive remarks in it worth gathering and considering. we have the complaint of the cambridge "phi beta kappa oration," reiterated, that there is no complete man, but only a collection of fragmentary men. as a platonist and a poet there could not be any doubt on which side were all his prejudices; but he takes his ground cautiously. "in the famous dispute with the nominalists, the realists had a good deal of reason. general ideas are essences. they are our gods: they round and ennoble the most practical and sordid way of living. "though the uninspired man certainly finds persons a conveniency in household matters, the divine man does not respect them: he sees them as a rack of clouds, or a fleet of ripples which the wind drives over the surface of the water. but this is flat rebellion. nature will not be buddhist: she resents generalizing, and insults the philosopher in every moment with a million of fresh particulars." _new england reformers_.--would any one venture to guess how emerson would treat this subject? with his unsparing, though amiable radicalism, his excellent common sense, his delicate appreciation of the ridiculous, too deep for laughter, as wordsworth's thoughts were too deep for tears, in the midst of a band of enthusiasts and not very remote from a throng of fanatics, what are we to look for from our philosopher who unites many characteristics of berkeley and of franklin? we must remember when this lecture was written, for it was delivered on a sunday in the year . the brook farm experiment was an index of the state of mind among one section of the reformers of whom he was writing. to remodel society and the world into a "happy family" was the aim of these enthusiasts. some attacked one part of the old system, some another; some would build a new temple, some would rebuild the old church, some would worship in the fields and woods, if at all; one was for a phalanstery, where all should live in common, and another was meditating the plan and place of the wigwam where he was to dwell apart in the proud independence of the woodchuck and the musquash. emerson had the largest and kindliest sympathy with their ideals and aims, but he was too clear-eyed not to see through the whims and extravagances of the unpractical experimenters who would construct a working world with the lay figures they had put together, instead of flesh and blood men and women and children with all their congenital and acquired perversities. he describes these reformers in his own good-naturedly half-satirical way:-- "they defied each other like a congress of kings; each of whom had a realm to rule, and a way of his own that made concert unprofitable. what a fertility of projects for the salvation of the world! one apostle thought all men should go to farming; and another that no man should buy or sell; that the use of money was the cardinal evil; another that the mischief was in our diet, that we eat and drink damnation. these made unleavened bread, and were foes to the death to fermentation. it was in vain urged by the housewife that god made yeast as well as dough, and loves fermentation just as dearly as he does vegetation; that fermentation develops the saccharine element in the grain, and makes it more palatable and more digestible. no, they wish the pure wheat, and will die but it shall not ferment. stop, dear nature, these innocent advances of thine; let us scotch these ever-rolling wheels! others attacked the system of agriculture, the use of animal manures in farming; and the tyranny of man over brute nature; these abuses polluted his food. the ox must be taken from the plough, and the horse from the cart, the hundred acres of the farm must be spaded, and the man must walk wherever boats and locomotives will not carry him. even the insect world was to be defended,--that had been too long neglected, and a society for the protection of ground-worms, slugs, and mosquitoes was to be incorporated without delay. with these appeared the adepts of homoeopathy, of hydropathy, of mesmerism, of phrenology, and their wonderful theories of the christian miracles!" we have already seen the issue of the famous brook farm experiment, which was a practical outcome of the reforming agitation. emerson has had the name of being a leader in many movements in which he had very limited confidence, this among others to which the idealizing impulse derived from him lent its force, but for the organization of which he was in no sense responsible. he says in the lecture we are considering:-- "these new associations are composed of men and women of superior talents and sentiments; yet it may easily be questioned whether such a community will draw, except in its beginnings, the able and the good; whether these who have energy will not prefer their choice of superiority and power in the world to the humble certainties of the association; whether such a retreat does not promise to become an asylum to those who have tried and failed rather than a field to the strong; and whether the members will not necessarily be fractions of men, because each finds that he cannot enter into it without some compromise." his sympathies were not allowed to mislead him; he knew human nature too well to believe in a noah's ark full of idealists. all this time he was lecturing for his support, giving courses of lectures in boston and other cities, and before the country lyceums in and out of new england. his letters to carlyle show how painstaking, how methodical, how punctual he was in the business which interested his distant friend. he was not fond of figures, and it must have cost him a great effort to play the part of an accountant. he speaks also of receiving a good deal of company in the summer, and that some of this company exacted much time and attention,--more than he could spare,--is made evident by his gentle complaints, especially in his poems, which sometimes let out a truth he would hardly have uttered in prose. in emerson's first volume of poems was published. many of the poems had been long before the public--some of the best, as we have seen, having been printed in "the dial." it is only their being brought together for the first time which belongs especially to this period, and we can leave them for the present, to be looked over by and by in connection with a second volume of poems published in , under the title, "may-day and other pieces." in october, , he left concord on a second visit to england, which will be spoken of in the following chapter. chapter vii. - . aet. - . the "massachusetts quarterly review;" visit to europe.--england. --scotland.--france.--"representative men" published. i. uses of great men. ii. plato; or, the philosopher; plato; new readings. iii. swedenborg; or, the mystic. iv. montaigne; or, the skeptic. v. shakespeare; or, the poet. vi. napoleon; or, the man of the world. vii. goethe; or, the writer.--contribution to the "memoirs of margaret fuller ossoli." a new periodical publication was begun in boston in , under the name of the "massachusetts quarterly review." emerson wrote the "editor's address," but took no further active part in it, theodore parker being the real editor. the last line of this address is characteristic: "we rely on the truth for aid against ourselves." on the th of october, , emerson sailed for europe on his second visit, reaching liverpool on the d of that month. many of his admirers were desirous that he should visit england and deliver some courses of lectures. mr. alexander ireland, who had paid him friendly attentions during his earlier visit, and whose impressions of him in the pulpit have been given on a previous page, urged his coming. mr. conway quotes passages from a letter of emerson's which show that he had some hesitation in accepting the invitation, not unmingled with a wish to be heard by the english audiences favorably disposed towards him. "i feel no call," he said, "to make a visit of literary propagandism in england. all my impulses to work of that kind would rather employ me at home." he does not like the idea of "coaxing" or advertising to get him an audience. he would like to read lectures before institutions or friendly persons who sympathize with his studies. he has had a good many decisive tokens of interest from british men and women, but he doubts whether he is much and favorably known in any one city, except perhaps in london. it proved, however, that there was a very widespread desire to hear him, and applications for lectures flowed in from all parts of the kingdom. from liverpool he proceeded immediately to manchester, where mr. ireland received him at the victoria station. after spending a few hours with him, he went to chelsea to visit carlyle, and at the end of a week returned to manchester to begin the series of lecturing engagements which had been arranged for him. mr. ireland's account of emerson's visits and the interviews between him and many distinguished persons is full of interest, but the interest largely relates to the persons visited by emerson. he lectured at edinburgh, where his liberal way of thinking and talking made a great sensation in orthodox circles. but he did not fail to find enthusiastic listeners. a young student, mr. george cupples, wrote an article on these lectures from which, as quoted by mr. ireland, i borrow a single sentence,--one only, but what could a critic say more? speaking of his personal character, as revealed through his writings, he says: "in this respect, i take leave to think that emerson is the most mark-worthy, the loftiest, and most heroic mere man that ever appeared." emerson has a lecture on the superlative, to which he himself was never addicted. but what would youth be without its extravagances,--its preterpluperfect in the shape of adjectives, its unmeasured and unstinted admiration? i need not enumerate the celebrated literary personages and other notabilities whom emerson met in england and scotland. he thought "the two finest mannered literary men he met in england were leigh hunt and de quincey." his diary might tell us more of the impressions made upon him by the distinguished people he met, but it is impossible to believe that he ever passed such inhuman judgments on the least desirable of his new acquaintances as his friend carlyle has left as a bitter legacy behind him. carlyle's merciless discourse about coleridge and charles lamb, and swinburne's carnivorous lines, which take a barbarous vengeance on him for his offence, are on the level of political rhetoric rather than of scholarly criticism or characterization. emerson never forgot that he was dealing with human beings. he could not have long endured the asperities of carlyle, and that "loud shout of laughter," which mr. ireland speaks of as one of his customary explosions, would have been discordant to emerson's ears, which were offended by such noisy manifestations. during this visit emerson made an excursion to paris, which furnished him materials for a lecture on france delivered in boston, in , but never printed. from the lectures delivered in england he selected a certain number for publication. these make up the volume entitled "representative men," which was published in . i will give very briefly an account of its contents. the title was a happy one, and has passed into literature and conversation as an accepted and convenient phrase. it would teach us a good deal merely to consider the names he has selected as typical, and the ground of their selection. we get his classification of men considered as leaders in thought and in action. he shows his own affinities and repulsions, and, as everywhere, writes his own biography, no matter about whom or what he is talking. there is hardly any book of his better worth study by those who wish to understand, not plato, not plutarch, not napoleon, but emerson himself. all his great men interest us for their own sake; but we know a good deal about most of them, and emerson holds the mirror up to them at just such an angle that we see his own face as well as that of his hero, unintentionally, unconsciously, no doubt, but by a necessity which he would be the first to recognize. emerson swears by no master. he admires, but always with a reservation. plato comes nearest to being his idol, shakespeare next. but he says of all great men: "the power which they communicate is not theirs. when we are exalted by ideas, we do not owe this to plato, but to the idea, to which also plato was debtor." emerson loves power as much as carlyle does; he likes "rough and smooth," "scourges of god," and "darlings of the human race." he likes julius caesar, charles the fifth, of spain, charles the twelfth, of sweden, richard plantagenet, and bonaparte. "i applaud," he says, "a sufficient man, an officer equal to his office; captains, ministers, senators. i like a master standing firm on legs of iron, well born, rich, handsome, eloquent, loaded with advantages, drawing all men by fascination into tributaries and supporters of his power. sword and staff, or talents sword-like or staff-like, carry on the work of the world. but i find him greater when he can abolish himself and all heroes by letting in this element of reason, irrespective of persons, this subtilizer and irresistible upward force, into our thoughts, destroying individualism; the power is so great that the potentate is nothing.-- "the genius of humanity is the right point of view of history. the qualities abide; the men who exhibit them have now more, now less, and pass away; the qualities remain on another brow.--all that respects the individual is temporary and prospective, like the individual himself, who is ascending out of his limits into a catholic existence." no man can be an idol for one who looks in this way at all men. but plato takes the first place in emerson's gallery of six great personages whose portraits he has sketched. and of him he says:-- "among secular books plato only is entitled to omar's fanatical compliment to the koran, when he said, 'burn the libraries; for their value is in this book.' out of plato come all things that are still written and debated among men of thought."-- "in proportion to the culture of men they become his scholars."--"how many great men nature is incessantly sending up out of night to be _his men_!--his contemporaries tax him with plagiarism.--but the inventor only knows how to borrow. when we are praising plato, it seems we are praising quotations from solon and sophron and philolaus. be it so. every book is a quotation; and every house is a quotation out of all forests and mines and stone quarries; and every man is a quotation from all his ancestors." the reader will, i hope, remember this last general statement when he learns from what wide fields of authorship emerson filled his storehouses. a few sentences from emerson will show us the probable source of some of the deepest thought of plato and his disciples. the conception of the fundamental unity, he says, finds its highest expression in the religious writings of the east, especially in the indian scriptures. "'the whole world is but a manifestation of vishnu, who is identical with all things, and is to be regarded by the wise as not differing from but as the same as themselves. i neither am going nor coming; nor is my dwelling in any one place; nor art thou, thou; nor are others, others; nor am i, i.' as if he had said, 'all is for the soul, and the soul is vishnu; and animals and stars are transient paintings; and light is whitewash; and durations are deceptive; and form is imprisonment; and heaven itself a decoy.'" all of which we see reproduced in emerson's poem "brahma."--"the country of unity, of immovable institutions, the seat of a philosophy delighting in abstractions, of men faithful in doctrine and in practice to the idea of a deaf, unimplorable, immense fate, is asia; and it realizes this faith in the social institution of caste. on the other side, the genius of europe is active and creative: it resists caste by culture; its philosophy was a discipline; it is a land of arts, inventions, trade, freedom."--"plato came to join, and by contact to enhance, the energy of each." but emerson says,--and some will smile at hearing him say it of another,--"the acutest german, the lovingest disciple, could never tell what platonism was; indeed, admirable texts can be quoted on both sides of every great question from him." the transcendent intellectual and moral superiorities of this "euclid of holiness," as emerson calls him, with his "soliform eye and his boniform soul,"--the two quaint adjectives being from the mint of cudworth,--are fully dilated upon in the addition to the original article called "plato: new readings." few readers will be satisfied with the essay entitled "swedenborg; or, the mystic." the believers in his special communion as a revealer of divine truth will find him reduced to the level of other seers. the believers of the different creeds of christianity will take offence at the statement that "swedenborg and behmen both failed by attaching themselves to the christian symbol, instead of to the moral sentiment, which carries innumerable christianities, humanities, divinities in its bosom." the men of science will smile at the exorbitant claims put forward in behalf of swedenborg as a scientific discoverer. "philosophers" will not be pleased to be reminded that swedenborg called them "cockatrices," "asps," or "flying serpents;" "literary men" will not agree that they are "conjurers and charlatans," and will not listen with patience to the praises of a man who so called them. as for the poets, they can take their choice of emerson's poetical or prose estimate of the great mystic, but they cannot very well accept both. in "the test," the muse says:-- "i hung my verses in the wind, time and tide their faults may find; all were winnowed through and through, five lines lasted good and true ... sunshine cannot bleach the snow, nor time unmake what poets know. have you eyes to find the five which five hundred did survive?" in the verses which follow we learn that the five immortal poets referred to are homer, dante, shakespeare, _swedenborg_, and goethe. and now, in the essay we have just been looking at, i find that "his books have no melody, no emotion, no humor, no relief to the dead prosaic level. we wander forlorn in a lack-lustre landscape. no bird ever sang in these gardens of the dead. the entire want of poetry in so transcendent a mind betokens the disease, and like a hoarse voice in a beautiful person, is a kind of warning." yet emerson says of him that "he lived to purpose: he gave a verdict. he elected goodness as the clue to which the soul must cling in this labyrinth of nature." emerson seems to have admired swedenborg at a distance, but seen nearer, he liked jacob behmen a great deal better. "montaigne; or, the skeptic," is easier reading than the last-mentioned essay. emerson accounts for the personal regard which he has for montaigne by the story of his first acquaintance with him. but no other reason was needed than that montaigne was just what emerson describes him as being. "there have been men with deeper insight; but, one would say, never a man with such abundance of thought: he is never dull, never insincere, and has the genius to make the reader care for all that he cares for. "the sincerity and marrow of the man reaches to his sentences. i know not anywhere the book that seems less written. it is the language of conversation transferred to a book. cut these words and they would bleed; they are vascular and alive.-- "montaigne talks with shrewdness, knows the world and books and himself, and uses the positive degree; never shrieks, or protests, or prays: no weakness, no convulsion, no superlative: does not wish to jump out of his skin, or play any antics, or annihilate space or time, but is stout and solid; tastes every moment of the day; likes pain because it makes him feel himself and realize things; as we pinch ourselves to know that we are awake. he keeps the plain; he rarely mounts or sinks; likes to feel solid ground and the stones underneath. his writing has no enthusiasms, no aspiration; contented, self-respecting, and keeping the middle of the road. there is but one exception,--in his love for socrates. in speaking of him, for once his cheek flushes and his style rises to passion." the writer who draws this portrait must have many of the same characteristics. much as emerson loved his dreams and his dreamers, he must have found a great relief in getting into "the middle of the road" with montaigne, after wandering in difficult by-paths which too often led him round to the point from which he started. as to his exposition of the true relations of skepticism to affirmative and negative belief, the philosophical reader must be referred to the essay itself. in writing of "shakespeare; or, the poet," emerson naturally gives expression to his leading ideas about the office of the poet and of poetry. "great men are more distinguished by range and extent than by originality." a poet has "a heart in unison with his time and country."--"there is nothing whimsical and fantastic in his production, but sweet and sad earnest, freighted with the weightiest convictions, and pointed with the most determined aim which any man or class knows of in his times." when shakespeare was in his youth the drama was the popular means of amusement. it was "ballad, epic, newspaper, caucus, lecture, punch, and library, at the same time. the best proof of its vitality is the crowd of writers which suddenly broke into this field." shakespeare found a great mass of old plays existing in manuscript and reproduced from time to time on the stage. he borrowed in all directions: "a great poet who appears in illiterate times absorbs into his sphere all the light which is anywhere radiating." homer, chaucer, saadi, felt that all wit was their wit. "chaucer is a huge borrower." emerson gives a list of authors from whom he drew. this list is in many particulars erroneous, as i have learned from a letter of professor lounsbury's which i have had the privilege of reading, but this is a detail which need not delay us. the reason why emerson has so much to say on this subject of borrowing, especially when treating of plato and of shakespeare, is obvious enough. he was arguing in his own cause,--not defending himself, as if there were some charge of plagiarism to be met, but making the proud claim of eminent domain in behalf of the masters who knew how to use their acquisitions. "shakespeare is the only biographer of shakespeare; and even he can tell nothing except to the shakespeare in us."--"shakespeare is as much out of the category of eminent authors as he is out of the crowd. a good reader can in a sort nestle into plato's brain and think from thence; but not into shakespeare's. we are still out of doors." after all the homage which emerson pays to the intellect of shakespeare, he weighs him with the rest of mankind, and finds that he shares "the halfness and imperfection of humanity." "he converted the elements which waited on his command into entertainment. he was master of the revels to mankind." and so, after this solemn verdict on shakespeare, after looking at the forlorn conclusions of our old and modern oracles, priest and prophet, israelite, german, and swede, he says: "it must be conceded that these are half views of half men. the world still wants its poet-priest, who shall not trifle with shakespeare the player, nor shall grope in graves with swedenborg the mourner; but who shall see, speak, and act with equal inspiration." it is not to be expected that emerson should have much that is new to say about "napoleon; or, the man of the world." the stepping-stones of this essay are easy to find:-- "the instinct of brave, active, able men, throughout the middle class everywhere, has pointed out napoleon as the incarnate democrat.-- "napoleon is thoroughly modern, and at the highest point of his fortunes, has the very spirit of the newspapers." as plato borrowed, as shakespeare borrowed, as mirabeau "plagiarized every good thought, every good word that was spoken in france," so napoleon is not merely "representative, but a monopolizer and usurper of other minds." he was "a man of stone and iron,"--equipped for his work by nature as sallust describes catiline as being. "he had a directness of action never before combined with such comprehension. here was a man who in each moment and emergency knew what to do next. he saw only the object; the obstacle must give way." "when a natural king becomes a titular king everybody is pleased and satisfied."-- "i call napoleon the agent or attorney of the middle class of modern society.--he was the agitator, the destroyer of prescription, the internal improver, the liberal, the radical, the inventor of means, the opener of doors and markets, the subverter of monopoly and abuse." but he was without generous sentiments, "a boundless liar," and finishing in high colors the outline of his moral deformities, emerson gives us a climax in two sentences which render further condemnation superfluous:-- "in short, when you have penetrated through all the circles of power and splendor, you were not dealing with a gentleman, at last, but with an impostor and rogue; and he fully deserves the epithet of jupiter scapin, or a sort of scamp jupiter. "so this exorbitant egotist narrowed, impoverished, and absorbed the power and existence of those who served him; and the universal cry of france and of europe in was, enough of him; '_assez de bonaparte_.'" it was to this feeling that the french poet barbier, whose death we have but lately seen announced, gave expression in the terrible satire in which he pictured france as a fiery courser bestridden by her spurred rider, who drove her in a mad career over heaps of rocks and ruins. but after all, carlyle's "_carrière ouverte aux talens_" is the expression for napoleon's great message to mankind. "goethe; or, the writer," is the last of the representative men who are the subjects of this book of essays. emerson says he had read the fifty-five volumes of goethe, but no other german writers, at least in the original. it must have been in fulfilment of some pious vow that he did this. after all that carlyle had written about goethe, he could hardly help studying him. but this essay looks to me as if he had found the reading of goethe hard work. it flows rather languidly, toys with side issues as a stream loiters round a nook in its margin, and finds an excuse for play in every pebble. still, he has praise enough for his author. "he has clothed our modern existence with poetry."--"he has said the best things about nature that ever were said.--he flung into literature in his mephistopheles the first organic figure that has been added for some ages, and which will remain as long as the prometheus.--he is the type of culture, the amateur of all arts and sciences and events; artistic, but not artist; spiritual, but not spiritualist.--i join napoleon with him, as being both representatives of the impatience and reaction of nature against the morgue of conventions,--two stern realists, who, with their scholars, have severally set the axe at the root of the tree of cant and seeming, for this time and for all time." this must serve as an _ex pede_ guide to reconstruct the essay which finishes the volume. in there was published a memoir of margaret fuller ossoli, in which emerson, james freeman clarke, and william henry channing each took a part. emerson's account of her conversation and extracts from her letters and diaries, with his running commentaries and his interpretation of her mind and character, are a most faithful and vivid portraiture of a woman who is likely to live longer by what is written of her than by anything she ever wrote herself. chapter viii. - . aet. - . lectures in various places.--anti-slavery addresses.--woman. a lecture read before the woman's rights convention.--samuel hoar. speech at concord.--publication of "english traits."--the "atlantic monthly."--the "saturday club." after emerson's return from europe he delivered lectures to different audiences,--one on poetry, afterwards published in "letters and social aims," a course of lectures in freeman place chapel, boston, some of which have been published, one on the anglo-saxon race, and many others. in january, , he gave one of the lectures in a course of anti-slavery addresses delivered in tremont temple, boston. in the same year he delivered an address before the anti-slavery party of new york. his plan for the extirpation of slavery was to buy the slaves from the planters, not conceding their right to ownership, but because "it is the only practical course, and is innocent." it would cost two thousand millions, he says, according to the present estimate, but "was there ever any contribution that was so enthusiastically paid as this would be?" his optimism flowers out in all its innocent luxuriance in the paragraph from which this is quoted. of course with notions like these he could not be hand in hand with the abolitionists. he was classed with the free soilers, but he seems to have formed a party by himself in his project for buying up the negroes. he looked at the matter somewhat otherwise in , when the settlement was taking place in a different currency,--in steel and not in gold:-- "pay ransom to the owner, and fill the bag to the brim. who is the owner? the slave is owner, and ever was. pay him." his sympathies were all and always with freedom. he spoke with indignation of the outrage on sumner; he took part in the meeting at concord expressive of sympathy with john brown. but he was never in the front rank of the aggressive anti-slavery men. in his singular "ode inscribed to w.h. channing" there is a hint of a possible solution of the slavery problem which implies a doubt as to the permanence of the cause of all the trouble. "the over-god who marries right to might, who peoples, unpeoples,-- he who exterminates races by stronger races, black by white faces,-- knows to bring honey out of the lion." some doubts of this kind helped emerson to justify himself when he refused to leave his "honeyed thought" for the busy world where "things are of the snake." the time came when he could no longer sit quietly in his study, and, to borrow mr. cooke's words, "as the agitation proceeded, and brave men took part in it, and it rose to a spirit of moral grandeur, he gave a heartier assent to the outward methods adopted." * * * * * no woman could doubt the reverence of emerson for womanhood. in a lecture read to the "woman's rights convention" in , he takes bold, and what would then have been considered somewhat advanced, ground in the controversy then and since dividing the community. this is the way in which he expresses himself: "i do not think it yet appears that women wish this equal share in public affairs. but it is they and not we that are to determine it. let the laws he purged of every barbarous remainder, every barbarous impediment to women. let the public donations for education be equally shared by them, let them enter a school as freely as a church, let them have and hold and give their property as men do theirs;--and in a few years it will easily appear whether they wish a voice in making the laws that are to govern them. if you do refuse them a vote, you will also refuse to tax them,--according to our teutonic principle, no representation, no tax.--the new movement is only a tide shared by the spirits of man and woman; and you may proceed in the faith that whatever the woman's heart is prompted to desire, the man's mind is simultaneously prompted to accomplish." emerson was fortunate enough to have had for many years as a neighbor, that true new england roman, samuel hoar. he spoke of him in concord before his fellow-citizens, shortly after his death, in . he afterwards prepared a sketch of mr. hoar for "putnam's magazine," from which i take one prose sentence and the verse with which the sketch concluded:-- "he was a model of those formal but reverend manners which make what is called a gentleman of the old school, so called under an impression that the style is passing away, but which, i suppose, is an optical illusion, as there are always a few more of the class remaining, and always a few young men to whom these manners are native." the single verse i quote is compendious enough and descriptive enough for an elizabethan monumental inscription. "with beams december planets dart his cold eye truth and conduct scanned; july was in his sunny heart, october in his liberal hand." emerson's "english traits," forming one volume of his works, was published in . it is a thoroughly fresh and original book. it is not a tourist's guide, not a detailed description of sights which tired the traveller in staring at them, and tire the reader who attacks the wearying pages in which they are recorded. shrewd observation there is indeed, but its strength is in broad generalization and epigrammatic characterizations. they are not to be received as in any sense final; they are not like the verifiable facts of science; they are more or less sagacious, more or less well founded opinions formed by a fair-minded, sharp-witted, kind-hearted, open-souled philosopher, whose presence made every one well-disposed towards him, and consequently left him well-disposed to all the world. a glance at the table of contents will give an idea of the objects which emerson proposed to himself in his tour, and which take up the principal portion of his record. only one _place_ is given as the heading of a chapter,--_stonehenge_. the other eighteen chapters have general titles, _land, race, ability, manners_, and others of similar character. he uses plain english in introducing us to the pilgrim fathers of the british aristocracy:-- "twenty thousand thieves landed at hastings. these founders of the house of lords were greedy and ferocious dragoons, sons of greedy and ferocious pirates. they were all alike, they took everything they could carry; they burned, harried, violated, tortured, and killed, until everything english was brought to the verge of ruin. such, however, is the illusion of antiquity and wealth, that decent and dignified men now existing boast their descent from these filthy thieves, who showed a far juster conviction of their own merits by assuming for their types the swine, goat, jackal, leopard, wolf, and snake, which they severally resembled." the race preserves some of its better characteristics. "they have a vigorous health and last well into middle and old age. the old men are as red as roses, and still handsome. a clear skin, a peach-bloom complexion, and good teeth are found all over the island." english "manners" are characterized, according to emerson, by pluck, vigor, independence. "every one of these islanders is an island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable." they are positive, methodical, cleanly, and formal, loving routine and conventional ways; loving truth and religion, to be sure, but inexorable on points of form. "they keep their old customs, costumes, and pomps, their wig and mace, sceptre and crown. a severe decorum rules the court and the cottage. pretension and vaporing are once for all distasteful. they hate nonsense, sentimentalism, and high-flown expressions; they use a studied plainness." "in an aristocratical country like england, not the trial by jury, but the dinner is the capital institution." "they confide in each other,--english believes in english."--"they require the same adherence, thorough conviction, and reality in public men." "as compared with the american, i think them cheerful and contented. young people in this country are much more prone to melancholy." emerson's observation is in accordance with that of cotton mather nearly two hundred years ago. "_new england_, a country where splenetic maladies are prevailing and pernicious, perhaps above any other, hath afforded numberless instances, of even pious people, who have contracted those _melancholy indispositions_, which have unhinged them from all service or comfort; yea, not a few persons have been hurried thereby to lay _violent hands_ upon themselves at the last. these are among the _unsearchable judgments_ of god." if there is a little exaggeration about the following portrait of the englishman, it has truth enough to excuse its high coloring, and the likeness will be smilingly recognized by every stout briton. "they drink brandy like water, cannot expend their quantities of waste strength on riding, hunting, swimming, and fencing, and run into absurd follies with the gravity of the eumenides. they stoutly carry into every nook and corner of the earth their turbulent sense; leaving no lie uncontradicted; no pretension unexamined. they chew hasheesh; cut themselves with poisoned creases, swing their hammock in the boughs of the bohon upas, taste every poison, buy every secret; at naples, they put st. januarius's blood in an alembic; they saw a hole into the head of the 'winking virgin' to know why she winks; measure with an english foot-rule every cell of the inquisition, every turkish caaba, every holy of holies; translate and send to bentley the arcanum, bribed and bullied away from shuddering bramins; and measure their own strength by the terror they cause." this last audacious picture might be hung up as a prose pendant to marvell's poetical description of holland and the dutch. "a saving stupidity marks and protects their perception as the curtain of the eagle's eye. our swifter americans, when they first deal with english, pronounce them stupid; but, later, do them justice as people who wear well, or hide their strength.--high and low, they are of an unctuous texture.--their daily feasts argue a savage vigor of body.--half their strength they put not forth. the stability of england is the security of the modern world." perhaps nothing in any of his vigorous paragraphs is more striking than the suggestion that "if hereafter the war of races often predicted, and making itself a war of opinions also (a question of despotism and liberty coming from eastern europe), should menace the english civilization, these sea-kings may take once again to their floating castles and find a new home and a second millennium of power in their colonies." in reading some of emerson's pages it seems as if another arcadia, or the new atlantis, had emerged as the fortunate island of great britain, or that he had reached a heaven on earth where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal,--or if they do, never think of denying that they have done it. but this was a generation ago, when the noun "shoddy," and the verb "to scamp," had not grown such familiar terms to english ears as they are to-day. emerson saw the country on its best side. each traveller makes his own england. a quaker sees chiefly broad brims, and the island looks to him like a field of mushrooms. the transplanted church of england is rich and prosperous and fashionable enough not to be disturbed by emerson's flashes of light that have not come through its stained windows. "the religion of england is part of good-breeding. when you see on the continent the well-dressed englishman come into his ambassador's chapel, and put his face for silent prayer into his smooth-brushed hat, one cannot help feeling how much national pride prays with him, and the religion of a gentleman. "the church at this moment is much to be pitied. she has nothing left but possession. if a bishop meets an intelligent gentleman, and reads fatal interrogation in his eyes, he has no resource but to take wine with him." sydney smith had a great reverence for a bishop,--so great that he told a young lady that he used to roll a crumb of bread in his hand, from nervousness, when he sat next one at a dinner-table,--and if next an archbishop, used to roll crumbs with both hands,---but sydney smith would have enjoyed the tingling felicity of this last stinging touch of wit, left as lightly and gracefully as a _banderillero_ leaves his little gayly ribboned dart in the shoulders of the bull with whose unwieldy bulk he is playing. emerson handles the formalism and the half belief of the established church very freely, but he closes his chapter on religion with soft-spoken words. "yet if religion be the doing of all good, and for its sake the suffering of all evil, _souffrir de tout le monde, et ne faire souffrir personne,_ that divine secret has existed in england from the days of alfred to those of romilly, of clarkson, and of florence nightingale, and in thousands who have no fame." "english traits" closes with emerson's speech at manchester, at the annual banquet of the "free trade athenaeum." this was merely an occasional after-dinner reply to a toast which called him up, but it had sentences in it which, if we can imagine milton to have been called up in the same way, he might well have spoken and done himself credit in their utterance. * * * * * the total impression left by the book is that emerson was fascinated by the charm of english society, filled with admiration of the people, tempted to contrast his new englanders in many respects unfavorably with old englanders, mainly in their material and vital stamina; but with all this not blinded for a moment to the thoroughly insular limitations of the phlegmatic islander. he alternates between a turn of genuine admiration and a smile as at a people that has not outgrown its playthings. this is in truth the natural and genuine feeling of a self-governing citizen of a commonwealth where thrones and wigs and mitres seem like so many pieces of stage property. an american need not be a philosopher to hold these things cheap. he cannot help it. madame tussaud's exhibition, the lord-mayor's gilt coach, and a coronation, if one happens to be in season, are all sights to be seen by an american traveller, but the reverence which is born with the british subject went up with the smoke of the gun that fired the long echoing shot at the little bridge over the sleepy river which works its way along through the wide-awake town of concord. in november, , a new magazine was established in boston, bearing the name of "the atlantic monthly." professor james russell lowell was editor-in-chief, and messrs. phillips and sampson, who were the originators of the enterprise, were the publishers. many of the old contributors to "the dial" wrote for the new magazine, among them emerson. he contributed twenty-eight articles in all, more than half of them verse, to different numbers, from the first to the thirty-seventh volume. among them are several of his best known poems, such as "the romany girl," "days," "brahma," "waldeinsamkeit," "the titmouse," "boston hymn," "saadi," and "terminus." at about the same time there grew up in boston a literary association, which became at last well known as the "saturday club," the members dining together on the last saturday of every month. the magazine and the club have existed and flourished to the present day. they have often been erroneously thought to have some organic connection, and the "atlantic club" has been spoken of as if there was or had been such an institution, but it never existed. emerson was a member of the saturday club from the first; in reality before it existed as an empirical fact, and when it was only a platonic idea. the club seems to have shaped itself around him as a nucleus of crystallization, two or three friends of his having first formed the habit of meeting him at dinner at "parker's," the "will's coffee-house" of boston. this little group gathered others to itself and grew into a club as rome grew into a city, almost without knowing how. during its first decade the saturday club brought together, as members or as visitors, many distinguished persons. at one end of the table sat longfellow, florid, quiet, benignant, soft-voiced, a most agreeable rather than a brilliant talker, but a man upon whom it was always pleasant to look,--whose silence was better than many another man's conversation. at the other end of the table sat agassiz, robust, sanguine, animated, full of talk, boy-like in his laughter. the stranger who should have asked who were the men ranged along the sides of the table would have heard in answer the names of hawthorne, motley, dana, lowell, whipple, peirce, the distinguished mathematician, judge hoar, eminent at the bar and in the cabinet, dwight, the leading musical critic of boston for a whole generation, sumner, the academic champion of freedom, andrew, "the great war governor" of massachusetts, dr. howe, the philanthropist, william hunt, the painter, with others not unworthy of such company. and with these, generally near the longfellow end of the table, sat emerson, talking in low tones and carefully measured utterances to his neighbor, or listening, and recording on his mental phonograph any stray word worth remembering. emerson was a very regular attendant at the meetings of the saturday club, and continued to dine at its table, until within a year or two of his death. unfortunately the club had no boswell, and its golden hours passed unrecorded. chapter ix. - : aet. - . essay on persian poetry.--speech at the burns centennial festival--letter from emerson to a lady.--tributes to theodore parker and to thoreau.--address on the emancipation proclamation.--publication of "the conduct of life." contents: fate; power; wealth; culture; behavior; worship; considerations by the way; beauty; illusions. the essay on persian poetry, published in the "atlantic monthly" in , should be studied by all readers who are curious in tracing the influence of oriental poetry on emerson's verse. in many of the shorter poems and fragments published since "may-day," as well as in the "quatrains" and others of the later poems in that volume, it is sometimes hard to tell what is from the persian from what is original. on the th of january, , emerson attended the burns festival, held at the parker house in boston, on the centennial anniversary of the poet's birth. he spoke after the dinner to the great audience with such beauty and eloquence that all who listened to him have remembered it as one of the most delightful addresses they ever heard. among his hearers was mr. lowell, who says of it that "every word seemed to have just dropped down to him from the clouds." judge hoar, who was another of his hearers, says, that though he has heard many of the chief orators of his time, he never witnessed such an effect of speech upon men. i was myself present on that occasion, and underwent the same fascination that these gentlemen and the varied audience before the speaker experienced. his words had a passion in them not usual in the calm, pure flow most natural to his uttered thoughts; white-hot iron we are familiar with, but white-hot silver is what we do not often look upon, and his inspiring address glowed like silver fresh from the cupel. i am allowed the privilege of printing the following letter addressed to a lady of high intellectual gifts, who was one of the earliest, most devoted, and most faithful of his intimate friends:-- concord, may , . please, dear c., not to embark for home until i have despatched these lines, which i will hasten to finish. louis napoleon will not bayonet you the while,--keep him at the door. so long i have promised to write! so long i have thanked your long suffering! i have let pass the unreturning opportunity your visit to germany gave to acquaint you with gisela von arnim (bettina's daughter), and joachim the violinist, and hermann grimm the scholar, her friends. neither has e.,--wandering in europe with hope of meeting you,--yet met. this contumacy of mine i shall regret as long as i live. how palsy creeps over us, with gossamer first, and ropes afterwards! and the witch has the prisoner when once she has put her eye on him, as securely as after the bolts are drawn.--yet i and all my little company watch every token from you, and coax mrs. h. to read us letters. i learned with satisfaction that you did not like germany. where then did goethe find his lovers? do all the women have bad noses and bad mouths? and will you stop in england, and bring home the author of "counterparts" with you? or did----write the novels and send them to london, as i fancied when i read them? how strange that you and i alone to this day should have his secret! i think our people will never allow genius, without it is alloyed by talent. but----is paralyzed by his whims, that i have ceased to hope from him. i could wish your experience of your friends were more animating than mine, and that there were any horoscope you could not cast from the first day. the faults of youth are never shed, no, nor the merits, and creeping time convinces ever the more of our impotence, and of the irresistibility of our bias. still this is only science, and must remain science. our _praxis_ is never altered for that. we must forever hold our companions responsible, or they are not companions but stall-fed. i think, as we grow older, we decrease as individuals, and as if in an immense audience who hear stirring music, none essays to offer a new stave, but we only join emphatically in the chorus. we volunteer no opinion, we despair of guiding people, but are confirmed in our perception that nature is all right, and that we have a good understanding with it. we must shine to a few brothers, as palms or pines or roses among common weeds, not from greater absolute value, but from a more convenient nature. but 'tis almost chemistry at last, though a meta-chemistry. i remember you were such an impatient blasphemer, however musically, against the adamantine identities, in your youth, that you should take your turn of resignation now, and be a preacher of peace. but there is a little raising of the eyebrow, now and then, in the most passive acceptance,--if of an intellectual turn. here comes out around me at this moment the new june,--the leaves say june, though the calendar says may,--and we must needs hail our young relatives again, though with something of the gravity of adult sons and daughters receiving a late-born brother or sister. nature herself seems a little ashamed of a law so monstrous, billions of summers, and now the old game again without a new bract or sepal. but you will think me incorrigible with my generalities, and you so near, and will be here again this summer; perhaps with a.w. and the other travellers. my children scan curiously your e.'s drawings, as they have seen them. the happiest winds fill the sails of you and yours! r.w. emerson. in the year , theodore parker died, and emerson spoke of his life and labors at the meeting held at the music hall to do honor to his memory. emerson delivered discourses on sundays and week-days in the music hall to mr. parker's society after his death. in , he lost his friend thoreau, at whose funeral he delivered an address which was published in the "atlantic monthly" for august of the same year. thoreau had many rare and admirable qualities, and thoreau pictured by emerson is a more living personage than white of selborne would have been on the canvas of sir joshua reynolds. the address on the emancipation proclamation was delivered in boston in september, . the feeling that inspired it may be judged by the following extract:-- "happy are the young, who find the pestilence cleansed out of the earth, leaving open to them an honest career. happy the old, who see nature purified before they depart. do not let the dying die; hold them back to this world, until you have charged their ear and heart with this message to other spiritual societies, announcing the melioration of our planet:-- "'incertainties now crown themselves assured, and peace proclaims olives of endless age.'" the "conduct of life" was published in . the chapter on "fate" might leave the reader with a feeling that what he is to do, as well as what he is to be and to suffer, is so largely predetermined for him, that his will, though formally asserted, has but a questionable fraction in adjusting him to his conditions as a portion of the universe. but let him hold fast to this reassuring statement:-- "if we must accept fate, we are not less compelled to affirm liberty, the significance of the individual, the grandeur of duty, the power of character.--we are sure, that, though we know not how, necessity does comport with liberty, the individual with the world, my polarity with the spirit of the times." but the value of the essay is not so much in any light it throws on the mystery of volition, as on the striking and brilliant way in which the limitations of the individual and the inexplicable rule of law are illustrated. "nature is no sentimentalist,--does not cosset or pamper us. we must see that the world is rough and surly, and will not mind drowning a man or a woman; but swallows your ship like a grain of dust.--the way of providence is a little rude. the habit of snake and spider, the snap of the tiger and other leapers and bloody jumpers, the crackle of the bones of his prey in the coil of the anaconda,--these are in the system, and our habits are like theirs. you have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity,--expensive races,--race living at the expense of race.--let us not deny it up and down. providence has a wild, rough, incalculable road to its end, and it is of no use to try to whitewash its huge, mixed instrumentalities, or to dress up that terrific benefactor in a clean shirt and white neckcloth of a student in divinity." emerson cautions his reader against the danger of the doctrines which he believed in so fully:-- "they who talk much of destiny, their birth-star, etc., are in a lower dangerous plane, and invite the evils they fear." but certainly no physiologist, no cattle-breeder, no calvinistic predestinarian could put his view more vigorously than emerson, who dearly loves a picturesque statement, has given it in these words, which have a dash of science, a flash of imagination, and a hint of the delicate wit that is one of his characteristics:-- "people are born with the moral or with the material bias;--uterine brothers with this diverging destination: and i suppose, with high magnifiers, mr. fraunhofer or dr. carpenter might come to distinguish in the embryo at the fourth day, this is a whig and that a free-soiler." let us see what emerson has to say of "power:"-- "all successful men have agreed in one thing--they were _causationists_. they believed that things went not by luck, but by law; that there was not a weak or a cracked link in the chain that joins the first and the last of things. "the key to the age may be this, or that, or the other, as the young orators describe;--the key to all ages is,--imbecility; imbecility in the vast majority of men at all times, and, even in heroes, in all but certain eminent moments; victims of gravity, custom, and fear. this gives force to the strong,--that the multitude have no habit of self-reliance or original action.-- "we say that success is constitutional; depends on a _plus_ condition of mind and body, on power of work, on courage; that is of main efficacy in carrying on the world, and though rarely found in the right state for an article of commerce, but oftener in the supernatural or excess, which makes it dangerous and destructive, yet it cannot be spared, and must be had in that form, and absorbents provided to take off its edge." the "two economies which are the best _succedanea"_ for deficiency of temperament are concentration and drill. this he illustrates by example, and he also lays down some good, plain, practical rules which "poor richard" would have cheerfully approved. he might have accepted also the essay on "wealth" as having a good sense so like his own that he could hardly tell the difference between them. "wealth begins in a tight roof that keeps the rain and wind out; in a good pump that yields you plenty of sweet water; in two suits of clothes, so as to change your dress when you are wet; in dry sticks to burn; in a good double-wick lamp, and three meals; in a horse or locomotive to cross the land; in a boat to cross the sea; in tools to work with; in books to read; and so, in giving, on all sides, by tools and auxiliaries, the greatest possible extension to our powers, as if it added feet, and hands, and eyes, and blood, length to the day, and knowledge and good will. wealth begins with these articles of necessity.-- "to be rich is to have a ticket of admission to the masterworks and chief men of each race.-- "the pulpit and the press have many commonplaces denouncing the thirst for wealth; but if men should take these moralists at their word, and leave off aiming to be rich, the moralists would rush to rekindle at all hazards this love of power in the people, lest civilization should be undone." who can give better counsels on "culture" than emerson? but we must borrow only a few sentences from his essay on that subject. all kinds of secrets come out as we read these essays of emerson's. we know something of his friends and disciples who gathered round him and sat at his feet. it is not hard to believe that he was drawing one of those composite portraits mr. galton has given us specimens of when he wrote as follows:-- "the pest of society is egotism. this goitre of egotism is so frequent among notable persons that we must infer some strong necessity in nature which it subserves; such as we see in the sexual attraction. the preservation of the species was a point of such necessity that nature has secured it at all hazards by immensely overloading the passion, at the risk of perpetual crime and disorder. so egotism has its root in the cardinal necessity by which each individual persists to be what he is. "the antidotes against this organic egotism are, the range and variety of attraction, as gained by acquaintance with the world, with men of merit, with classes of society, with travel, with eminent persons, and with the high resources of philosophy, art, and religion: books, travel, society, solitude." "we can ill spare the commanding social benefits of cities; they must be used; yet cautiously and haughtily,--and will yield their best values to him who can best do without them. keep the town for occasions, but the habits should be formed to retirement. solitude, the safeguard of mediocrity, is to genius the stern friend, the cold, obscure shelter, where moult the wings which will bear it farther than suns and stars." we must remember, too, that "the calamities are our friends. try the rough water as well as the smooth. rough water can teach lessons worth knowing. don't be so tender at making an enemy now and then. he who aims high, must dread an easy home and popular manners." emerson cannot have had many enemies, if any, in his calm and noble career. he can have cherished no enmity, on personal grounds at least. but he refused his hand to one who had spoken ill of a friend whom he respected. it was "the hand of douglas" again,--the same feeling that charles emerson expressed in the youthful essay mentioned in the introduction to this volume. here are a few good sayings about "behavior." "there is always a best way of doing everything, if it be to boil an egg. manners are the happy ways of doing things; each once a stroke of genius or of love,--now repeated and hardened into usage." thus it is that mr. emerson speaks of "manners" in his essay under the above title. "the basis of good manners is self-reliance.--manners require time, as nothing is more vulgar than haste.-- "men take each other's measure, when they meet for the first time,--and every time they meet.-- "it is not what talents or genius a man has, but how he is to his talents, that constitutes friendship and character. the man that stands by himself, the universe stands by him also." in his essay on "worship," emerson ventures the following prediction:-- "the religion which is to guide and fulfil the present and coming ages, whatever else it be, must be intellectual. the scientific mind must have a faith which is science.--there will be a new church founded on moral science, at first cold and naked, a babe in a manger again, the algebra and mathematics of ethical law, the church of men to come, without shawms or psaltery or sackbut; but it will have heaven and earth for its beams and rafters; science for symbol and illustration; it will fast enough gather beauty, music, picture, poetry." it is a bold prophecy, but who can doubt that all improbable and unverifiable traditional knowledge of all kinds will make way for the established facts of science and history when these last reach it in their onward movement? it may be remarked that he now speaks of science more respectfully than of old. i suppose this essay was of later date than "beauty," or "illusions." but accidental circumstances made such confusion in the strata of emerson's published thought that one is often at a loss to know whether a sentence came from the older or the newer layer. we come to "considerations by the way." the common-sense side of emerson's mind has so much in common with the plain practical intelligence of franklin that it is a pleasure to find the philosopher of the nineteenth century quoting the philosopher of the eighteenth. "franklin said, 'mankind are very superficial and dastardly: they begin upon a thing, but, meeting with a difficulty, they fly from it discouraged; but they have the means if they would employ them.'" "shall we judge a country by the majority, or by the minority? by the minority, surely." here we have the doctrine of the "saving remnant," which we have since recognized in mr. matthew arnold's well-remembered lecture. our republican philosopher is clearly enough outspoken on this matter of the _vox populi_. "leave this hypocritical prating about the masses. masses are rude, lame, unmade, pernicious in their demands, and need not to be flattered, but to be schooled. i wish not to concede anything to them, but to tame, drill, divide, and break them up, and draw individuals out of them." père bouhours asked a question about the germans which found its answer in due time. after reading what emerson says about "the masses," one is tempted to ask whether a philosopher can ever have "a constituency" and be elected to congress? certainly the essay just quoted from would not make a very promising campaign document. perhaps there was no great necessity for emerson's returning to the subject of "beauty," to which he had devoted a chapter of "nature," and of which he had so often discoursed incidentally. but he says so many things worth reading in the essay thus entitled in the "conduct of life" that we need not trouble ourselves about repetitions. the essay is satirical and poetical rather than philosophical. satirical when he speaks of science with something of that old feeling betrayed by his brother charles when he was writing in ; poetical in the flight of imagination with which he enlivens, entertains, stimulates, inspires,--or as some may prefer to say,--amuses his listeners and readers. the reader must decide which of these effects is produced by the following passage:-- "the feat of the imagination is in showing the convertibility of everything into every other thing. facts which had never before left their stark common sense suddenly figure as eleusinian mysteries. my boots and chair and candlestick are fairies in disguise, meteors, and constellations. all the facts in nature are nouns of the intellect, and make the grammar of the eternal language. every word has a double, treble, or centuple use and meaning. what! has my stove and pepper-pot a false bottom? i cry you mercy, good shoe-box! i did not know you were a jewel-case. chaff and dust begin to sparkle, and are clothed about with immortality. and there is a joy in perceiving the representative or symbolic character of a fact, which no base fact or event can ever give. there are no days so memorable as those which vibrated to some stroke of the imagination." one is reminded of various things in reading this sentence. an ounce of alcohol, or a few whiffs from an opium-pipe, may easily make a day memorable by bringing on this imaginative delirium, which is apt, if often repeated, to run into visions of rodents and reptiles. a coarser satirist than emerson indulged his fancy in "meditations on a broomstick," which my lady berkeley heard seriously and to edification. meditations on a "shoe-box" are less promising, but no doubt something could be made of it. a poet must select, and if he stoops too low he cannot lift the object he would fain idealize. the habitual readers of emerson do not mind an occasional over-statement, extravagance, paradox, eccentricity; they find them amusing and not misleading. but the accountants, for whom two and two always make four, come upon one of these passages and shut the book up as wanting in sanity. without a certain sensibility to the humorous, no one should venture upon emerson. if he had seen the lecturer's smile as he delivered one of his playful statements of a runaway truth, fact unhorsed by imagination, sometimes by wit, or humor, he would have found a meaning in his words which the featureless printed page could never show him. the essay on "illusions" has little which we have not met with, or shall not find repeating itself in the poems. during this period emerson contributed many articles in prose and verse to the "atlantic monthly," and several to "the dial," a second periodical of that name published in cincinnati. some of these have been, or will be, elsewhere referred to. chapter x. - . aet. - . "boston hymn."--"voluntaries."--other poems.--"may-day and other pieces."--"remarks at the funeral services of abraham lincoln."--essay on persian poetry.--address at a meeting of the free religious association.--"progress of culture." address before the phi beta kappa society of harvard university.--course of lectures in philadelphia.--the degree of ll.d. conferred upon emerson by harvard university.--"terminus." the "boston hymn" was read by emerson in the music hall, on the first day of january, . it is a rough piece of verse, but noble from beginning to end. one verse of it, beginning "pay ransom to the owner," has been already quoted; these are the three that precede it:-- "i cause from every creature his proper good to flow: as much as he is and doeth so much shall he bestow. "but laying hands on another to coin his labor and sweat, he goes in pawn to his victim for eternal years in debt. "to-day unbind the captive, so only are ye unbound: lift up a people from the dust, trump of their rescue, sound!" "voluntaries," published in the same year in the "atlantic monthly," is more dithyrambic in its measure and of a more pindaric elevation than the plain song of the "boston hymn." "but best befriended of the god he who, in evil times, warned by an inward voice, heeds not the darkness and the dread, biding by his rule and choice, feeling only the fiery thread leading over heroic ground, walled with mortal terror round, to the aim which him allures, and the sweet heaven his deed secures. peril around, all else appalling, cannon in front and leaden rain him duly through the clarion calling to the van called not in vain." it is in this poem that we find the lines which, a moment after they were written, seemed as if they had been carved on marble for a thousand years:-- "so nigh is grandeur to our dust, so near is god to man, when duty whispers low, _thou must_, the youth replies, _i can_." "saadi" was published in the "atlantic monthly" in , "my garden" in , "terminus" in . in the same year these last poems with many others were collected in a small volume, entitled "may-day, and other pieces." the general headings of these poems are as follows: may-day.--the adirondacs.--occasional and miscellaneous pieces.--nature and life.--elements.--quatrains.--translations.--some of these poems, which were written at long intervals, have been referred to in previous pages. "the adirondacs" is a pleasant narrative, but not to be compared for its poetical character with "may-day," one passage from which, beginning, "i saw the bud-crowned spring go forth," is surpassingly imaginative and beautiful. in this volume will be found "brahma," "days," and others which are well known to all readers of poetry. emerson's delineations of character are remarkable for high-relief and sharp-cut lines. in his remarks at the funeral services for abraham lincoln, held in concord, april , , he drew the portrait of the homespun-robed chief of the republic with equal breadth and delicacy:-- "here was place for no holiday magistrate, no fair weather sailor; the new pilot was hurried to the helm in a tornado. in four years,--four years of battle-days,--his endurance, his fertility of resources, his magnanimity, were sorely tried and never found wanting. there, by his courage, his justice, his even temper, his fertile counsel, his humanity, he stood a heroic figure in the centre of a heroic epoch. he is the true history of the american people in his time. step by step he walked before them; slow with their slowness, quickening his march by theirs, the true representative of this continent; an entirely public man; father of his country; the pulse of twenty millions throbbing in his heart, the thought of their minds articulated by his tongue." in his "remarks at the organization of the free religious association," emerson stated his leading thought about religion in a very succinct and sufficiently "transcendental" way: intelligibly for those who wish to understand him; mystically to those who do not accept or wish to accept the doctrine shadowed forth in his poem, "the sphinx." --"as soon as every man is apprised of the divine presence within his own mind,--is apprised that the perfect law of duty corresponds with the laws of chemistry, of vegetation, of astronomy, as face to face in a glass; that the basis of duty, the order of society, the power of character, the wealth of culture, the perfection of taste, all draw their essence from this moral sentiment; then we have a religion that exalts, that commands all the social and all the private action." nothing could be more wholesome in a meeting of creed-killers than the suggestive remark,-- --"what i expected to find here was, some practical suggestions by which we were to reanimate and reorganize for ourselves the true church, the pure worship. pure doctrine always bears fruit in pure benefits. it is only by good works, it is only on the basis of active duty, that worship finds expression.--the interests that grow out of a meeting like this, should bind us with new strength to the old eternal duties." in a later address before the same association, emerson says:-- "i object, of course, to the claim of miraculous dispensation,--certainly not to the _doctrine_ of christianity.--if you are childish and exhibit your saint as a worker of wonders, a thaumaturgist, i am repelled. that claim takes his teachings out of nature, and permits official and arbitrary senses to be grafted on the teachings." the "progress of culture" was delivered as a phi beta kappa oration just thirty years after his first address before the same society. it is very instructive to compare the two orations written at the interval of a whole generation: one in , at the age of thirty-four; the other in , at the age of sixty-four. both are hopeful, but the second is more sanguine than the first. he recounts what he considers the recent gains of the reforming movement:-- "observe the marked ethical quality of the innovations urged or adopted. the new claim of woman to a political status is itself an honorable testimony to the civilization which has given her a civil status new in history. now that by the increased humanity of law she controls her property, she inevitably takes the next step to her share in power." he enumerates many other gains, from the war or from the growth of intelligence,--"all, one may say, in a high degree revolutionary, teaching nations the taking of governments into their own hands, and superseding kings." he repeats some of his fundamental formulae. "the foundation of culture, as of character, is at last the moral sentiment. "great men are they who see that spiritual is stronger than any material force, that thoughts rule the world. "periodicity, reaction, are laws of mind as well as of matter." and most encouraging it is to read in what was written in ,--especially in the view of future possibilities. "bad kings and governors help us, if only they are bad enough." _non tali auxilio_, we exclaim, with a shudder of remembrance, and are very glad to read these concluding words: "i read the promise of better times and of greater men." in the year , emerson reached the age which used to be spoken of as the "grand climacteric." in that year harvard university conferred upon him the degree of doctor of laws, the highest honor in its gift. in that same year, having left home on one of his last lecturing trips, he met his son, dr. edward waldo emerson, at the brevoort house, in new york. then, and in that place, he read to his son the poem afterwards published in the "atlantic monthly," and in his second volume, under the title "terminus." this was the first time that dr. emerson recognized the fact that his father felt himself growing old. the thought, which must have been long shaping itself in the father's mind, had been so far from betraying itself that it was a shock to the son to hear it plainly avowed. the poem is one of his noblest; he could not fold his robes about him with more of serene dignity than in these solemn lines. the reader may remember that one passage from it has been quoted for a particular purpose, but here is the whole poem:-- terminus. it is time to be old, to take in sail:-- the god of bounds, who sets to seas a shore, came to me in his fatal rounds, and said: "no more! no farther shoot thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. fancy departs: no more invent; contract thy firmament to compass of a tent. there's not enough for this and that, make thy option which of two; economize the failing river, not the less revere the giver, leave the many and hold the few, timely wise accept the terms, soften the fall with wary foot; a little while still plan and smile, and,--fault of novel germs,-- mature the unfallen fruit. curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, bad husbands of their fires, who when they gave thee breath, failed to bequeath the needful sinew stark as once, the baresark marrow to thy bones, but left a legacy of ebbing veins, inconstant heat and nerveless reins,-- amid the muses, left thee deaf and dumb, amid the gladiators, halt and numb. "as the bird trims her to the gale i trim myself to the storm of time, i man the rudder, reef the sail, obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: 'lowly faithful, banish fear, right onward drive unharmed; the port, well worth the cruise, is near, and every wave is charmed.'" chapter xi. - . aet. - . lectures on the natural history of the intellect.--publication of "society and solitude." contents: society and solitude. --civilization.--art.--eloquence.--domestic life.--farming. --works and days.--books.--clubs.--courage.--success.--old age.--other literary labors.--visit to california.--burning of his house, and the story of its rebuilding.--third visit to europe.--his reception at concord on his return. during three successive years, , , , emerson delivered a series of lectures at harvard university on the "natural history of the intellect." these lectures, as i am told by dr. emerson, cost him a great deal of labor, but i am not aware that they have been collected or reported. they will be referred to in the course of this chapter, in an extract from prof. thayer's "western journey with mr. emerson." he is there reported as saying that he cared very little for metaphysics. it is very certain that he makes hardly any use of the ordinary terms employed by metaphysicians. if he does not hold the words "subject and object" with their adjectives, in the same contempt that mr. ruskin shows for them, he very rarely employs either of these expressions. once he ventures on the _not me_, but in the main he uses plain english handles for the few metaphysical tools he has occasion to employ. "society and solitude" was published in . the first essay in the volume bears the same name as the volume itself. in this first essay emerson is very fair to the antagonistic claims of solitary and social life. he recognizes the organic necessity of solitude. we are driven "as with whips into the desert." but there is danger in this seclusion. "now and then a man exquisitely made can live alone and must; but coop up most men and you undo them.--here again, as so often, nature delights to put us between extreme antagonisms, and our safety is in the skill with which we keep the diagonal line.--the conditions are met, if we keep our independence yet do not lose our sympathy." the essay on "civilization" is pleasing, putting familiar facts in a very agreeable way. the framed or stone-house in place of the cave or the camp, the building of roads, the change from war, hunting, and pasturage to agriculture, the division of labor, the skilful combinations of civil government, the diffusion of knowledge through the press, are well worn subjects which he treats agreeably, if not with special brilliancy:-- "right position of woman in the state is another index.--place the sexes in right relations of mutual respect, and a severe morality gives that essential charm to a woman which educates all that is delicate, poetic, and self-sacrificing; breeds courtesy and learning, conversation and wit, in her rough mate, so that i have thought a sufficient measure of civilization is the influence of good women." my attention was drawn to one paragraph for a reason which my reader will readily understand, and i trust look upon good-naturedly:-- "the ship, in its latest complete equipment, is an abridgment and compend of a nation's arts: the ship steered by compass and chart, longitude reckoned by lunar observation and by chronometer, driven by steam; and in wildest sea-mountains, at vast distances from home,-- "'the pulses of her iron heart go beating through the storm.'" i cannot be wrong, it seems to me, in supposing those two lines to be an incorrect version of these two from a poem of my own called "the steamboat:" "the beating of her restless heart still sounding through the storm." it is never safe to quote poetry from memory, at least while the writer lives, for he is ready to "cavil on the ninth part of a hair" where his verses are concerned. but extreme accuracy was not one of emerson's special gifts, and vanity whispers to the misrepresented versifier that 'tis better to be quoted wrong than to be quoted not at all. this essay of emerson's is irradiated by a single precept that is worthy to stand by the side of that which juvenal says came from heaven. how could the man in whose thought such a meteoric expression suddenly announced itself fail to recognize it as divine? it is not strange that he repeats it on the page next the one where we first see it. not having any golden letters to print it in, i will underscore it for italics, and doubly underscore it in the second extract for small capitals:-- "now that is the wisdom of a man, in every instance of his labor, to _hitch his wagon to a star_, and see his chore done by the gods themselves."-- "'it was a great instruction,' said a saint in cromwell's war, 'that the best courages are but beams of the almighty.' hitch your wagon to a star. let us not fag in paltry works which serve our pot and bag alone. let us not lie and steal. no god will help. we shall find all their teams going the other way,--charles's wain, great bear, orion, leo, hercules: every god will leave us. work rather for those interests which the divinities honor and promote,--justice, love, freedom, knowledge, utility."-- charles's wain and the great bear, he should have been reminded, are the same constellation; the _dipper_ is what our people often call it, and the country folk all know "the pinters," which guide their eyes to the north star. i find in the essay on "art" many of the thoughts with which we are familiar in emerson's poem, "the problem." it will be enough to cite these passages:-- "we feel in seeing a noble building which rhymes well, as we do in hearing a perfect song, that it is spiritually organic; that it had a necessity in nature for being; was one of the possible forms in the divine mind, and is now only discovered and executed by the artist, not arbitrarily composed by him. and so every genuine work of art has as much reason for being as the earth and the sun.-- --"the iliad of homer, the songs of david, the odes of pindar, the tragedies of aeschylus, the doric temples, the gothic cathedrals, the plays of shakspeare, all and each were made not for sport, but in grave earnest, in tears and smiles of suffering and loving men.-- --"the gothic cathedrals were built when the builder and the priest and the people were overpowered by their faith. love and fear laid every stone.-- "our arts are happy hits. we are like the musician on the lake, whose melody is sweeter than he knows." the discourse on "eloquence" is more systematic, more professorial, than many of the others. a few brief extracts will give the key to its general purport:-- "eloquence must be grounded on the plainest narrative. afterwards, it may warm itself until it exhales symbols of every kind and color, speaks only through the most poetic forms; but, first and last, it must still be at bottom a biblical statement of fact.-- "he who will train himself to mastery in this science of persuasion must lay the emphasis of education, not on popular arts, but on character and insight.-- --"the highest platform of eloquence is the moral sentiment.-- --"its great masters ... were grave men, who preferred their integrity to their talent, and esteemed that object for which they toiled, whether the prosperity of their country, or the laws, or a reformation, or liberty of speech, or of the press, or letters, or morals, as above the whole world and themselves also." "domestic life" begins with a picture of childhood so charming that it sweetens all the good counsel which follows like honey round the rim of the goblet which holds some tonic draught:-- "welcome to the parents the puny struggler, strong in his weakness, his little arms more irresistible than the soldier's, his lips touched with persuasion which chatham and pericles in manhood had not. his unaffected lamentations when he lifts up his voice on high, or, more beautiful, the sobbing child,--the face all liquid grief, as he tries to swallow his vexation,--soften all hearts to pity, and to mirthful and clamorous compassion. the small despot asks so little that all reason and all nature are on his side. his ignorance is more charming than all knowledge, and his little sins more bewitching than any virtue. his flesh is angels' flesh, all alive.--all day, between his three or four sleeps, he coos like a pigeon-house, sputters and spurs and puts on his faces of importance; and when he fasts, the little pharisee fails not to sound his trumpet before him." emerson has favored his audiences and readers with what he knew about "farming." dr. emerson tells me that this discourse was read as an address before the "middlesex agricultural society," and printed in the "transactions" of that association. he soon found out that the hoe and the spade were not the tools he was meant to work with, but he had some general ideas about farming which he expressed very happily:-- "the farmer's office is precise and important, but you must not try to paint him in rose-color; you cannot make pretty compliments to fate and gravitation, whose minister he is.--this hard work will always be done by one kind of man; not by scheming speculators, nor by soldiers, nor professors, nor readers of tennyson; but by men of endurance, deep-chested, long-winded, tough, slow and sure, and timely." emerson's chemistry and physiology are not profound, but they are correct enough to make a fine richly colored poetical picture in his imaginative presentation. he tells the commonest facts so as to make them almost a surprise:-- "by drainage we went down to a subsoil we did not know, and have found there is a concord under old concord, which we are now getting the best crops from; a middlesex under middlesex; and, in fine, that massachusetts has a basement story more valuable and that promises to pay a better rent than all the superstructure." in "works and days" there is much good reading, but i will call attention to one or two points only, as having a slight special interest of their own. the first is the boldness of emerson's assertions and predictions in matters belonging to science and art. thus, he speaks of "the transfusion of the blood,--which, in paris, it was claimed, enables a man to change his blood as often as his linen!" and once more, "we are to have the balloon yet, and the next war will be fought in the air." possibly; but it is perhaps as safe to predict that it will be fought on wheels; the soldiers on bicycles, the officers on tricycles. the other point i have marked is that we find in this essay a prose version of the fine poem, printed in "may-day" under the title "days." i shall refer to this more particularly hereafter. it is wronging the essay on "books" to make extracts from it. it is all an extract, taken from years of thought in the lonely study and the public libraries. if i commit the wrong i have spoken of, it is under protest against myself. every word of this essay deserves careful reading. but here are a few sentences i have selected for the reader's consideration:-- "there are books; and it is practicable to read them because they are so few.-- "i visit occasionally the cambridge library, and i can seldom go there without renewing the conviction that the best of it all is already within the four walls of my study at home.-- "the three practical rules which i have to offer are, . never read any book that is not a year old. . never read any but famed books. . never read any but what you like, or, in shakspeare's phrase,-- "'no profit goes where is no pleasure ta'en; in brief, sir, study what you most affect.'" emerson has a good deal to say about conversation in his essay on "clubs," but nothing very notable on the special subject of the essay. perhaps his diary would have something of interest with reference to the "saturday club," of which he was a member, which, in fact, formed itself around him as a nucleus, and which he attended very regularly. but he was not given to personalities, and among the men of genius and of talent whom he met there no one was quieter, but none saw and heard and remembered more. he was hardly what dr. johnson would have called a "clubable" man, yet he enjoyed the meetings in his still way, or he would never have come from concord so regularly to attend them. he gives two good reasons for the existence of a club like that of which i have been speaking:-- "i need only hint the value of the club for bringing masters in their several arts to compare and expand their views, to come to an understanding on these points, and so that their united opinion shall have its just influence on public questions of education and politics." "a principal purpose also is the hospitality of the club, as a means of receiving a worthy foreigner with mutual advantage." i do not think "public questions of education and politics" were very prominent at the social meetings of the "saturday club," but "worthy foreigners," and now and then one not so worthy, added variety to the meetings of the company, which included a wide range of talents and callings. all that emerson has to say about "courage" is worth listening to, for he was a truly brave man in that sphere of action where there are more cowards than are found in the battle-field. he spoke his convictions fearlessly; he carried the spear of ithuriel, but he wore no breastplate save that which protects him "whose armor is his honest thought, and simple truth his utmost skill." he mentions three qualities as attracting the wonder and reverence of mankind: . disinterestedness; . practical power; . courage. "i need not show how much it is esteemed, for the people give it the first rank. they forgive everything to it. and any man who puts his life in peril in a cause which is esteemed becomes the darling of all men."--there are good and inspiriting lessons for young and old in this essay or lecture, which closes with the spirited ballad of "george nidiver," written "by a lady to whom all the particulars of the fact are exactly known." men will read any essay or listen to any lecture which has for its subject, like the one now before me, "success." emerson complains of the same things in america which carlyle groaned over in england:-- "we countenance each other in this life of show, puffing advertisement, and manufacture of public opinion; and excellence is lost sight of in the hunger for sudden performance and praise.-- "now, though i am by no means sure that the reader will assent to all my propositions, yet i think we shall agree in my first rule for success,--that we shall drop the brag and the advertisement and take michael angelo's course, 'to confide in one's self and be something of worth and value.'" reading about "success" is after all very much like reading in old books of alchemy. "how not to do it," is the lesson of all the books and treatises. geber and albertus magnus, roger bacon and raymond lully, and the whole crew of "pauperes alcumistae," all give the most elaborate directions showing their student how to fail in transmuting saturn into luna and sol and making a billionaire of himself. "success" in its vulgar sense,--the gaining of money and position,--is not to be reached by following the rules of an instructor. our "self-made men," who govern the country by their wealth and influence, have found their place by adapting themselves to the particular circumstances in which they were placed, and not by studying the broad maxims of "poor richard," or any other moralist or economist.--for such as these is meant the cheap cynical saying quoted by emerson, "_rien ne réussit mieux que le succès_." but this is not the aim and end of emerson's teaching:-- "i fear the popular notion of success stands in direct opposition in all points to the real and wholesome success. one adores public opinion, the other private opinion; one fame, the other desert; one feats, the other humility; one lucre, the other love; one monopoly, and the other hospitality of mind." and so, though there is no alchemy in this lecture, it is profitable reading, assigning its true value to the sterling gold of character, the gaining of which is true success, as against the brazen idol of the market-place. the essay on "old age" has a special value from its containing two personal reminiscences: one of the venerable josiah quincy, a brief mention; the other the detailed record of a visit in the year , emerson being then twenty-two years old, to ex-president john adams, soon after the election of his son to the presidency. it is enough to allude to these, which every reader will naturally turn to first of all. but many thoughts worth gathering are dropped along these pages. he recounts the benefits of age; the perilous capes and shoals it has weathered; the fact that a success more or less signifies little, so that the old man may go below his own mark with impunity; the feeling that he has found expression,--that his condition, in particular and in general, allows the utterance of his mind; the pleasure of completing his secular affairs, leaving all in the best posture for the future:-- "when life has been well spent, age is a loss of what it can well spare, muscular strength, organic instincts, gross bulk, and works that belong to these. but the central wisdom which was old in infancy is young in fourscore years, and dropping off obstructions, leaves in happy subjects the mind purified and wise. i have heard that whoever loves is in no condition old. i have heard that whenever the name of man is spoken, the doctrine of immortality is announced; it cleaves to his constitution. the mode of it baffles our wit, and no whisper comes to us from the other side. but the inference from the working of intellect, hiving knowledge, hiving skill,--at the end of life just ready to be born,--affirms the inspirations of affection and of the moral sentiment." other literary labors of emerson during this period were the introduction to "plutarch's morals" in , and a preface to william ellery channing's poem, "the wanderer," in . he made a speech at howard university, washington, in . in the year emerson made a visit to california with a very pleasant company, concerning which mr. john m. forbes, one of whose sons married emerson's daughter edith, writes to me as follows. professor james b. thayer, to whom he refers, has more recently written and published an account of this trip, from which some extracts will follow mr. forbes's letter:-- boston, february , . my dear dr.,--what little i can give will be of a very rambling character. one of the first memories of emerson which comes up is my meeting him on the steamboat at returning from detroit east. i persuaded him to stop over at niagara, which he had never seen. we took a carriage and drove around the circuit. it was in early summer, perhaps in or . when we came to table rock on the british side, our driver took us down on the outer part of the rock in the carriage. we passed on by rail, and the next day's papers brought us the telegraphic news that table rock had fallen over; perhaps we were among the last persons on it! about i made up a party for california, including mr. emerson, his daughter edith, and a number of gay young people. we drove with b----, the famous vermont coachman, up to the geysers, and then made the journey to the yosemite valley by wagon and on horseback. i wish i could give you more than a mere outline picture of the sage at this time. with the thermometer at degrees he would sometimes drive with the buffalo robes drawn up over his knees, apparently indifferent to the weather, gazing on the new and grand scenes of mountain and valley through which we journeyed. i especially remember once, when riding down the steep side of a mountain, his reins hanging loose, the bit entirely out of the horse's mouth, without his being aware that this was an unusual method of riding pegasus, so fixed was his gaze into space, and so unconscious was he, at the moment, of his surroundings. in san francisco he visited with us the dens of the opium smokers, in damp cellars, with rows of shelves around, on which were deposited the stupefied mongolians; perhaps the lowest haunts of humanity to be found in the world. the contrast between them and the serene eye and undisturbed brow of the sage was a sight for all beholders. when we reached salt lake city on our way home he made a point of calling on brigham young, then at the summit of his power. the prophet, or whatever he was called, was a burly, bull-necked man of hard sense, really leading a great industrial army. he did not seem to appreciate who his visitor was, at any rate gave no sign of so doing, and the chief interest of the scene was the wide contrast between these leaders of spiritual and of material forces. i regret not having kept any notes of what was said on this and other occasions, but if by chance you could get hold of professor j.b. thayer, who was one of our party, he could no doubt give you some notes that would be valuable. perhaps the latest picture that remains in my mind of our friend is his wandering along the beaches and under the trees at naushon, no doubt carrying home large stealings from my domain there, which lost none of their value from being transferred to his pages. next to his private readings which he gave us there, the most notable recollection is that of his intense amusement at some comical songs which our young people used to sing, developing a sense of humor which a superficial observer would hardly have discovered, but which you and i know he possessed in a marked degree. yours always, j.m. forbes. professor james b. thayer's little book, "a western journey with mr. emerson," is a very entertaining account of the same trip concerning which mr. forbes wrote the letter just given. professor thayer kindly read many of his notes to me before his account was published, and allows me to make such use of the book as i see fit. such liberty must not be abused, and i will content myself with a few passages in which emerson has a part. no extract will interest the reader more than the following:-- "'how _can_ mr. emerson,' said one of the younger members of the party to me that day, 'be so agreeable, all the time, without getting tired!' it was the _naive_ expression of what we all had felt. there was never a more agreeable travelling companion; he was always accessible, cheerful, sympathetic, considerate, tolerant; and there was always that same respectful interest in those with whom he talked, even the humblest, which raised them in their own estimation. one thing particularly impressed me,--the sense that he seemed to have of a certain great amplitude of time and leisure. it was the behavior of one who really _believed_ in an immortal life, and had adjusted his conduct accordingly; so that, beautiful and grand as the natural objects were, among which our journey lay, they were matched by the sweet elevation of character, and the spiritual charm of our gracious friend. years afterwards, on that memorable day of his funeral at concord, i found that a sentence from his own essay on immortality haunted my mind, and kept repeating itself all the day long; it seemed to point to the sources of his power: 'meantime the true disciples saw through the letter the doctrine of eternity, which dissolved the poor corpse, and nature also, and gave grandeur to the passing hour.'" this extract will be appropriately followed by another alluding to the same subject. "the next evening, sunday, the twenty-third, mr. emerson read his address on 'immortality,' at dr. stebbins's church. it was the first time that he had spoken on the western coast; never did he speak better. it was, in the main, the same noble essay that has since been printed. "at breakfast the next morning we had the newspaper, the 'alta california.' it gave a meagre outline of the address, but praised it warmly, and closed with the following observations: 'all left the church feeling that an elegant tribute had been paid to the creative genius of the great first cause, and that a masterly use of the english language had contributed to that end.'" the story used to be told that after the reverend horace holley had delivered a prayer on some public occasion, major ben. russell, of ruddy face and ruffled shirt memory, editor of "the columbian centinel," spoke of it in his paper the next day as "the most eloquent prayer ever addressed to a boston audience." the "alta california's" "elegant tribute" is not quite up to this rhetorical altitude. "'the minister,' said he, 'is in no danger of losing his position; he represents the moral sense and the humanities.' he spoke of his own reasons for leaving the pulpit, and added that 'some one had lately come to him whose conscience troubled him about retaining the name of christian; he had replied that he himself had no difficulty about it. when he was called a platonist, or a christian, or a republican, he welcomed it. it did not bind him to what he did not like. what is the use of going about and setting up a flag of negation?'" "i made bold to ask him what he had in mind in naming his recent course of lectures at cambridge, 'the natural history of the intellect.' this opened a very interesting conversation; but, alas! i could recall but little of it,--little more than the mere hintings of what he said. he cared very little for metaphysics. but he thought that as a man grows he observes certain facts about his own mind,--about memory, for example. these he had set down from time to time. as for making any methodical history, he did not undertake it." emerson met brigham young at salt lake city, as has been mentioned, but neither seems to have made much impression upon the other. emerson spoke of the mormons. some one had said, "they impress the common people, through their imagination, by bible-names and imagery." "yes," he said, "it is an after-clap of puritanism. but one would think that after this father abraham could go no further." the charm of boswell's life of johnson is that it not merely records his admirable conversation, but also gives us many of those lesser peculiarities which are as necessary to a true biography as lights and shades to a portrait on canvas. we are much obliged to professor thayer therefore for the two following pleasant recollections which he has been good-natured enough to preserve for us, and with which we will take leave of his agreeable little volume:-- "at breakfast we had, among other things, pie. this article at breakfast was one of mr. emerson's weaknesses. a pie stood before him now. he offered to help somebody from it, who declined; and then one or two others, who also declined; and then mr.----; he too declined. 'but mr.----!' mr. emerson remonstrated, with humorous emphasis, thrusting the knife under a piece of the pie, and putting the entire weight of his character into his manner,--'but mr.----, _what is pie for_?'" a near friend of mine, a lady, was once in the cars with emerson, and when they stopped for the refreshment of the passengers he was very desirous of procuring something at the station for her solace. presently he advanced upon her with a cup of tea in one hand and a wedge of pie in the other,--such a wedge! she could hardly have been more dismayed if one of caesar's _cunei_, or wedges of soldiers, had made a charge against her. yet let me say here that pie, often foolishly abused, is a good creature, at the right time and in angles of thirty or forty degrees. in semicircles and quadrants it may sometimes prove too much for delicate stomachs. but here was emerson, a hopelessly confirmed pie-eater, never, so far as i remember, complaining of dyspepsia; and there, on the other side, was carlyle, feeding largely on wholesome oatmeal, groaning with indigestion all his days, and living with half his self-consciousness habitually centred beneath his diaphragm. like his friend carlyle and like tennyson, emerson had a liking for a whiff of tobacco-smoke:-- "when alone," he said, "he rarely cared to finish a whole cigar. but in company it was singular to see how different it was. to one who found it difficult to meet people, as he did, the effect of a cigar was agreeable; one who is smoking may be as silent as he likes, and yet be good company. and so hawthorne used to say that he found it. on this journey mr. emerson generally smoked a single cigar after our mid-day dinner, or after tea, and occasionally after both. this was multiplying, several times over, anything that was usual with him at home." professor thayer adds in a note:-- "like milton, mr. emerson 'was extraordinary temperate in his diet,' and he used even less tobacco. milton's quiet day seems to have closed regularly with a pipe; he 'supped,' we are told, 'upon ... some light thing; and after a pipe of tobacco and a glass of water went to bed.'" as emerson's name has been connected with that of milton in its nobler aspects, it can do no harm to contemplate him, like milton, indulging in this semi-philosophical luxury. one morning in july, , mr. and mrs. emerson woke to find their room filled with smoke and fire coming through the floor of a closet in the room over them. the alarm was given, and the neighbors gathered and did their best to put out the flames, but the upper part of the house was destroyed, and with it were burned many papers of value to emerson, including his father's sermons. emerson got wet and chilled, and it seems too probable that the shock hastened that gradual loss of memory which came over his declining years. his kind neighbors did all they could to save his property and relieve his temporary needs. a study was made ready for him in the old court house, and the "old manse," which had sheltered his grandfather, and others nearest to him, received him once more as its tenant. on the th of october he spoke at a dinner given in new york in honor of james anthony froude, the historian, and in the course of this same month he set out on his third visit to europe, accompanied by his daughter ellen. we have little to record of this visit, which was suggested as a relief and recreation while his home was being refitted for him. he went to egypt, but so far as i have learned the sphinx had no message for him, and in the state of mind in which he found himself upon the mysterious and dream-compelling nile it may be suspected that the landscape with its palms and pyramids was an unreal vision,--that, as to his humble-bee, "all was picture as he passed." but while he was voyaging his friends had not forgotten him. the sympathy with him in his misfortune was general and profound. it did not confine itself to expressions of feeling, but a spontaneous movement organized itself almost without effort. if any such had been needed, the attached friend whose name is appended to the address to the subscribers to the fund for rebuilding mr. emerson's house would have been as energetic in this new cause as he had been in the matter of procuring the reprint of "sartor resartus." i have his kind permission to publish the whole correspondence relating to the friendly project so happily carried out. _to the subscribers to the fund for the rebuilding of mr. emerson's house, after the fire of july_ , : the death of mr. emerson has removed any objection which may have before existed to the printing of the following correspondence. i have now caused this to be done, that each subscriber may have the satisfaction of possessing a copy of the touching and affectionate letters in which he expressed his delight in this, to him, most unexpected demonstration of personal regard and attachment, in the offer to restore for him his ruined home. no enterprise of the kind was ever more fortunate and successful in its purpose and in its results. the prompt and cordial response to the proposed subscription was most gratifying. no contribution was solicited from any one. the simple suggestion to a few friends of mr. emerson that an opportunity was now offered to be of service to him was all that was needed. from the first day on which it was made, the day after the fire, letters began to come in, with cheques for large and small amounts, so that in less than three weeks i was enabled to send to judge hoar the sum named in his letter as received by him on the th of august, and presented by him to mr. emerson the next morning, at the old manse, with fitting words. other subscriptions were afterwards received, increasing the amount on my book to eleven thousand six hundred and twenty dollars. a part of this was handed directly to the builder at concord. the balance was sent to mr. emerson october , and acknowledged by him in his letter of october , . all the friends of mr. emerson who knew of the plan which was proposed to rebuild his house, seemed to feel that it was a privilege to be allowed to express in this way the love and veneration with which he was regarded, and the deep debt of gratitude which they owed to him, and there is no doubt that a much larger amount would have been readily and gladly offered, if it had been required, for the object in view. those who have had the happiness to join in this friendly "conspiracy" may well take pleasure in the thought that what they have done has had the effect to lighten the load of care and anxiety which the calamity of the fire brought with it to mr. emerson, and thus perhaps to prolong for some precious years the serene and noble life that was so dear to all of us. my thanks are due to the friends who have made me the bearer of this message of good-will. le baron russell. boston, may , . boston, august , . dear mr. emerson: it seems to have been the spontaneous desire of your friends, on hearing of the burning of your house, to be allowed the pleasure of rebuilding it. a few of them have united for this object, and now request your acceptance of the amount which i have to-day deposited to your order at the concord bank, through the kindness of our friend, judge hoar. they trust that you will receive it as an expression of sincere regard and affection from friends, who will, one and all, esteem it a great privilege to be permitted to assist in the restoration of your home. and if, in their eagerness to participate in so grateful a work, they may have exceeded the estimate of your architect as to what is required for that purpose, they beg that you will devote the remainder to such other objects as may be most convenient to you. very sincerely yours, le baron russell. concord, august , . dr. le b. russell: _dear sir_,--i received your letters, with the check for ten thousand dollars inclosed, from mr. barrett last evening. this morning i deposited it to mr. emerson's credit in the concord national bank, and took a bank book for him, with his little balance entered at the top, and this following, and carried it to him with your letter. i told him, by way of prelude, that some of his friends had made him treasurer of an association who wished him to go to england and examine warwick castle and other noted houses that had been recently injured by fire, in order to get the best ideas possible for restoration, and then to apply them to a house which the association was formed to restore in this neighborhood. when he understood the thing and had read your letter, he seemed very deeply moved. he said that he had been allowed so far in life to stand on his own feet, and that he hardly knew what to say,--that the kindness of his friends was very great. i said what i thought was best in reply, and told him that this was the spontaneous act of friends, who wished the privilege of expressing in this way their respect and affection, and was done only by those who thought it a privilege to do so. i mentioned hillard as you desired, and also mrs. tappan, who, it seems, had written to him and offered any assistance he might need, to the extent of five thousand dollars, personally. i think it is all right, but he said he must see the list of contributors, and would then say what he had to say about it. he told me that mr. f.c. lowell, who was his classmate and old friend, mr. bangs, mrs. gurney, and a few other friends, had already sent him five thousand dollars, which he seemed to think was as much as he could bear. this makes the whole a very gratifying result, and perhaps explains the absence of some names on your book. i am glad that mr. emerson, who is feeble and ill, can learn what a debt of obligation his friends feel to him, and thank you heartily for what you have done about it. very truly yours, e.r. hoar. concord, august , . my dear le baron: i have wondered and melted over your letter and its accompaniments till it is high time that i should reply to it, if i can. my misfortunes, as i have lived along so far in this world, have been so few that i have never needed to ask direct aid of the host of good men and women who have cheered my life, though many a gift has come to me. and this late calamity, however rude and devastating, soon began to look more wonderful in its salvages than in its ruins, so that i can hardly feel any right to this munificent endowment with which you, and my other friends through you, have astonished me. but i cannot read your letter or think of its message without delight, that my companions and friends bear me so noble a good-will, nor without some new aspirations in the old heart toward a better deserving. judge hoar has, up to this time, withheld from me the names of my benefactors, but you may be sure that i shall not rest till i have learned them, every one, to repeat to myself at night and at morning. your affectionate friend and debtor, r.w. emerson. dr. le baron russell concord, october , . my dear doctor le baron: i received last night your two notes, and the cheque, enclosed in one of them, for one thousand and twenty dollars. are my friends bent on killing me with kindness? no, you will say, but to make me live longer. i thought myself sufficiently loaded with benefits already, and you add more and more. it appears that you all will rebuild my house and rejuvenate me by sending me in my old days abroad on a young man's excursion. i am a lover of men, but this recent wonderful experience of their tenderness surprises and occupies my thoughts day by day. now that i have all or almost all the names of the men and women who have conspired in this kindness to me (some of whom i have never personally known), i please myself with the thought of meeting each and asking, why have we not met before? why have you not told me that we thought alike? life is not so long, nor sympathy of thought so common, that we can spare the society of those with whom we best agree. well, 'tis probably my own fault by sticking ever to my solitude. perhaps it is not too late to learn of these friends a better lesson. thank them for me whenever you meet them, and say to them that i am not wood or stone, if i have not yet trusted myself so far as to go to each one of them directly. my wife insists that i shall also send her acknowledgments to them and you. yours and theirs affectionately, r.w. emerson. dr. le baron kussell. the following are the names of the subscribers to the fund for rebuilding mr. emerson's house:-- mrs. anne s. hooper. miss alice s. hooper. mrs. caroline tappan. miss ellen s. tappan. miss mary a. tappan. mr. t.g. appleton. mrs. henry edwards. miss susan e. dorr. misses wigglesworth. mr. edward wigglesworth. mr. j. elliot cabot. mrs. sarah s. russell. friends in new york and philadelphia, through mr. williams. mr. william whiting. mr. frederick beck. mr. h.p. kidder. mrs. abel adams. mrs. george faulkner. hon. e.r. hoar. mr. james b. thayer. mr. john m. forbes. mr. james h. beal. mrs. anna c. lodge. mr. t. jefferson coolidge. mr. h.h. hunnewell. mrs. s. cabot. mr. james a. dupee. mrs. anna c. lowell. mrs. m.f. sayles. miss helen l. appleton. j.r. osgood & co. mr. richard soule. mr. francis geo. shaw. dr. r.w. hooper. mr. william p. mason. mr. william gray. mr. sam'l g. ward. mr. j.i. bowditch. mr. geo. c. ward. mrs. luicia j. briggs. mr. john e. williams. dr. le baron russell. in may, , emerson returned to concord. his friends and fellow-citizens received him with every token of affection and reverence. a set of signals was arranged to announce his arrival. carriages were in readiness for him and his family, a band greeted him with music, and passing under a triumphal arch, he was driven to his renewed old home amidst the welcomes and the blessings of his loving and admiring friends and neighbors. chapter xii. - . aet. - . publication of "parnassus."--emerson nominated as candidate for the office of lord rector of glasgow university.--publication of "letters and social aims." contents: poetry and imagination.--social aims.--eloquence.--resources.--the comic.--quotation and originality.--progress of culture.--persian poetry.--inspiration.-- greatness.--immortality.--address at the unveiling of the statue of "the minute-man" at concord.--publication of collected poems. in december, , emerson published "parnassus," a collection of poems by british and american authors. many readers may like to see his subdivisions and arrangement of the pieces he has brought together. they are as follows: "nature."--"human life."--"intellectual." --"contemplation."--"moral and religious."--"heroic."--"personal." --"pictures."--"narrative poems and ballads."--"songs."--"dirges and pathetic poems."--"comic and humorous."--"poetry of terror."--"oracles and counsels." i have borrowed so sparingly from the rich mine of mr. george willis cooke's "ralph waldo emerson, his life, writings, and philosophy," that i am pleased to pay him the respectful tribute of taking a leaf from his excellent work. "this collection," he says, "was the result of his habit, pursued for many years, of copying into his commonplace book any poem which specially pleased him. many of these favorites had been read to illustrate his lectures on the english poets. the book has no worthless selections, almost everything it contains bearing the stamp of genius and worth. yet emerson's personality is seen in its many intellectual and serious poems, and in the small number of its purely religious selections. with two or three exceptions he copies none of those devotional poems which have attracted devout souls.--his poetical sympathies are shown in the fact that one third of the selections are from the seventeenth century. shakespeare is drawn on more largely than any other, no less than eighty-eight selections being made from him. the names of george herbert, herrick, ben jonson, and milton frequently appear. wordsworth appears forty-three times, and stands next to shakespeare; while burns, byron, scott, tennyson, and chaucer make up the list of favorites. many little known pieces are included, and some whose merit is other than poetical.--this selection of poems is eminently that of a poet of keen intellectual tastes. i not popular in character, omitting many public favorites, and introducing very much which can never be acceptable to the general reader. the preface is full of interest for its comments on many of the poems and poets appearing in these selections." i will only add to mr. cooke's criticism these two remarks: first, that i have found it impossible to know under which of his divisions to look for many of the poems i was in search of; and as, in the earlier copies at least, there was no paged index where each author's pieces were collected together, one had to hunt up his fragments with no little loss of time and patience, under various heads, "imitating the careful search that isis made for the mangled body of osiris." the other remark is that each one of emerson's american fellow-poets from whom he has quoted would gladly have spared almost any of the extracts from the poems of his brother-bards, if the editor would only have favored us with some specimens of his own poetry, with a single line of which he has not seen fit to indulge us. in emerson received the nomination by the independent party among the students of glasgow university for the office of lord rector. he received five hundred votes against seven hundred for disraeli, who was elected. he says in a letter to dr. j. hutchinson sterling:-- "i count that vote as quite the fairest laurel that has ever fallen on me; and i cannot but feel deeply grateful to my young friends in the university, and to yourself, who have been my counsellor and my too partial advocate." mr. cabot informs us in his prefatory note to "letters and social aims," that the proof sheets of this volume, now forming the eighth of the collected works, showed even before the burning of his house and the illness which followed from the shock, that his loss of memory and of mental grasp was such as to make it unlikely that he would in any case have been able to accomplish what he had undertaken. sentences, even whole pages, were repeated, and there was a want of order beyond what even he would have tolerated:-- "there is nothing here that he did not write, and he gave his full approval to whatever was done in the way of selection and arrangement; but i cannot say that he applied his mind very closely to the matter." this volume contains eleven essays, the subjects of which, as just enumerated, are very various. the longest and most elaborate paper is that entitled "poetry and imagination." i have room for little more than the enumeration of the different headings of this long essay. by these it will be seen how wide a ground it covers. they are "introductory;" "poetry;" "imagination;" "veracity;" "creation;" "melody, rhythm, form;" "bards and trouveurs;" "morals;" "transcendency." many thoughts with which we are familiar are reproduced, expanded, and illustrated in this essay. unity in multiplicity, the symbolism of nature, and others of his leading ideas appear in new phrases, not unwelcome, for they look fresh in every restatement. it would be easy to select a score of pointed sayings, striking images, large generalizations. some of these we find repeated in his verse. thus:-- "michael angelo is largely filled with the creator that made and makes men. how much of the original craft remains in him, and he a mortal man!" and so in the well remembered lines of "the problem":-- "himself from god he could not free." "he knows that he did not make his thought,--no, his thought made him, and made the sun and stars." "art might obey but not surpass. the passive master lent his hand to the vast soul that o'er him planned." hope is at the bottom of every essay of emerson's as it was at the bottom of pandora's box:-- "i never doubt the riches of nature, the gifts of the future, the immense wealth of the mind. o yes, poets we shall have, mythology, symbols, religion of our own. --"sooner or later that which is now life shall be poetry, and every fair and manly trait shall add a richer strain to the song." under the title "social aims" he gives some wise counsel concerning manners and conversation. one of these precepts will serve as a specimen--if we have met with it before it is none the worse for wear:-- "shun the negative side. never worry people with; your contritions, nor with dismal views of politics or society. never name sickness; even if you could trust yourself on that perilous topic, beware of unmuzzling a valetudinarian, who will give you enough of it." we have had one essay on "eloquence" already. one extract from this new discourse on the same subject must serve our turn:-- "these are ascending stairs,--a good voice, winning manners, plain speech, chastened, however, by the schools into correctness; but we must come to the main matter, of power of statement,--know your fact; hug your fact. for the essential thing is heat, and heat comes of sincerity. speak what you know and believe; and are personally in it; and are answerable for every word. eloquence is _the power to_ _translate a truth into language perfectly intelligible to the person to whom you speak_." the italics are emerson's. if our learned and excellent john cotton used to sweeten his mouth before going to bed with a bit of calvin, we may as wisely sweeten and strengthen our sense of existence with a morsel or two from emerson's essay on "resources":-- "a schopenhauer, with logic and learning and wit, teaching pessimism,--teaching that this is the worst of all possible worlds, and inferring that sleep is better than waking, and death than sleep,--all the talent in the world cannot save him from being odious. but if instead of these negatives you give me affirmatives; if you tell me that there is always life for the living; that what man has done man can do; that this world belongs to the energetic; that there is always a way to everything desirable; that every man is provided, in the new bias of his faculty, with a key to nature, and that man only rightly knows himself as far as he has experimented on things,--i am invigorated, put into genial and working temper; the horizon opens, and we are full of good-will and gratitude to the cause of causes." the essay or lecture on "the comic" may have formed a part of a series he had contemplated on the intellectual processes. two or three sayings in it will show his view sufficiently:-- "the essence of all jokes, of all comedy, seems to be an honest or well-intended halfness; a non-performance of what is pretended to be performed, at the same time that one is giving loud pledges of performance. "if the essence of the comic be the contrast in the intellect between the idea and the false performance, there is good reason why we should be affected by the exposure. we have no deeper interest than our integrity, and that we should be made aware by joke and by stroke of any lie we entertain. besides, a perception of the comic seems to be a balance-wheel in our metaphysical structure. it appears to be an essential element in a fine character.--a rogue alive to the ludicrous is still convertible. if that sense is lost, his fellow-men can do little for him." these and other sayings of like purport are illustrated by well-preserved stories and anecdotes not for the most part of very recent date. "quotation and originality" furnishes the key to emerson's workshop. he believed in quotation, and borrowed from everybody and every book. not in any stealthy or shame-faced way, but proudly, royally, as a king borrows from one of his attendants the coin that bears his own image and superscription. "all minds quote. old and new make the warp and woof of every moment. there is no thread that is not a twist of these two strands.--we quote not only books and proverbs, but arts, sciences, religion, customs, and laws; nay, we quote temples and houses, tables and chairs by imitation.-- "the borrowing is often honest enough and comes of magnanimity and stoutness. a great man quotes bravely, and will not draw on his invention when his memory serves him with a word as good. "next to the originator of a good sentence is the first quoter of it."-- --"the progress of culture," his second phi beta kappa oration, has already been mentioned. --the lesson of self-reliance, which he is never tired of inculcating, is repeated and enforced in the essay on "greatness." "there are certain points of identity in which these masters agree. self-respect is the early form in which greatness appears.--stick to your own; don't inculpate yourself in the local, social, or national crime, but follow the path your genius traces like the galaxy of heaven for you to walk in. "every mind has a new compass, a new direction of its own, differencing its genius and aim from every other mind.--we call this specialty the _bias_ of each individual. and none of us will ever accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when he listens to this whisper which is heard by him alone." if to follow this native bias is the first rule, the second is concentration.--to the bias of the individual mind must be added the most catholic receptivity for the genius of others. "shall i tell you the secret of the true scholar? it is this: every man i meet is my master in some point, and in that i learn of him."-- "the man whom we have not seen, in whom no regard of self degraded the adorer of the laws,--who by governing himself governed others; sportive in manner, but inexorable in act; who sees longevity in his cause; whose aim is always distinct to him; who is suffered to be himself in society; who carries fate in his eye;--he it is whom we seek, encouraged in every good hour that here or hereafter he shall he found." what has emerson to tell us of "inspiration?" "i believe that nothing great or lasting can be done except by inspiration, by leaning on the secret augury.-- "how many sources of inspiration can we count? as many as our affinities. but to a practical purpose we may reckon a few of these." i will enumerate them briefly as he gives them, but not attempting to reproduce his comments on each:-- . health. . the experience of writing letters. . the renewed sensibility which comes after seasons of decay or eclipse of the faculties. . the power of the will. . atmospheric causes, especially the influence of morning. . solitary converse with nature. . solitude of itself, like that of a country inn in summer, and of a city hotel in winter. . conversation. . new poetry; by which, he says, he means chiefly old poetry that is new to the reader. "every book is good to read which sets the reader in a working mood." what can promise more than an essay by emerson on "immortality"? it is to be feared that many readers will transfer this note of interrogation to the essay itself. what is the definite belief of emerson as expressed in this discourse,--what does it mean? we must tack together such sentences as we can find that will stand for an answer:-- "i think all sound minds rest on a certain preliminary conviction, namely, that if it be best that conscious personal life shall continue, it will continue; if not best, then it will not; and we, if we saw the whole, should of course see that it was better so." this is laying the table for a barmecide feast of nonentity, with the possibility of a real banquet to be provided for us. but he continues:-- "schiller said, 'what is so universal as death must be benefit.'" he tells us what michael angelo said, how plutarch felt, how montesquieu thought about the question, and then glances off from it to the terror of the child at the thought of life without end, to the story of the two skeptical statesmen whose unsatisfied inquiry through a long course of years he holds to be a better affirmative evidence than their failure to find a confirmation was negative. he argues from our delight in permanence, from the delicate contrivances and adjustments of created things, that the contriver cannot be forever hidden, and says at last plainly:-- "everything is prospective, and man is to live hereafter. that the world is for his education is the only sane solution of the enigma." but turn over a few pages and we may read:-- "i confess that everything connected with our personality fails. nature never spares the individual; we are always balked of a complete success; no prosperity is promised to our self-esteem. we have our indemnity only in the moral and intellectual reality to which we aspire. that is immortal, and we only through that. the soul stipulates for no private good. that which is private i see not to be good. 'if truth live, i live; if justice live, i live,' said one of the old saints, 'and these by any man's suffering are enlarged and enthroned.'" once more we get a dissolving view of emerson's creed, if such a word applies to a statement like the following:-- --"i mean that i am a better believer, and all serious souls are better believers in the immortality than we can give grounds for. the real evidence is too subtle, or is higher than we can write down in propositions, and therefore wordsworth's 'ode' is the best modern essay on the subject." wordsworth's "ode" is a noble and beautiful dream; is it anything more? the reader who would finish this essay, which i suspect to belong to an early period of emerson's development, must be prepared to plunge into mysticism and lose himself at last in an oriental apologue. the eschatology which rests upon an english poem and an indian fable belongs to the realm of reverie and of imagination rather than the domain of reason. on the th of april, , the hundredth anniversary of the "fight at the bridge," emerson delivered a short address at the unveiling of the statue of "the minute-man," erected at the place of the conflict, to commemorate the event. this is the last address he ever wrote, though he delivered one or more after this date. from the manuscript which lies before me i extract a single passage:-- "in the year we had many enemies and many friends in england, but our one benefactor was king george the third. the time had arrived for the political severance of america, that it might play its part in the history of this globe, and the inscrutable divine providence gave an insane king to england. in the resistance of the colonies, he alone was immovable on the question of force. england was so dear to us that the colonies could only be absolutely disunited by violence from england, and only one man could compel the resort to violence. parliament wavered, lord north wavered, all the ministers wavered, but the king had the insanity of one idea; he was immovable, he insisted on the impossible, so the army was sent, america was instantly united, and the nation born." there is certainly no mark of mental failure in this paragraph, written at a period when he had long ceased almost entirely from his literary labors. emerson's collected "poems" constitute the ninth volume of the recent collected edition of his works. they will be considered in a following chapter. chapter xiii. - . aet. - . last literary labors.--addresses and essays.--"lectures and biographical sketches."--"miscellanies." the decline of emerson's working faculties went on gently and gradually, but he was not condemned to entire inactivity. his faithful daughter, ellen, followed him with assiduous, quiet, ever watchful care, aiding his failing memory, bringing order into the chaos of his manuscript, an echo before the voice whose words it was to shape for him when his mind faltered and needed a momentary impulse. with her helpful presence and support he ventured from time to time to read a paper before a select audience. thus, march , , he delivered a lecture in the old south church,--"fortune of the republic." on the th of may, , he read a lecture in the chapel of divinity college, harvard university,--"the preacher." in he read a paper on carlyle before the massachusetts historical society.--he also published a paper in the "north american review," in ,--"the sovereignty of ethics," and one on "superlatives," in "the century" for february, . but in these years he was writing little or nothing. all these papers were taken from among his manuscripts of different dates. the same thing is true of the volumes published since his death; they were only compilations from his stores of unpublished matter, and their arrangement was the work of mr. emerson's friend and literary executor, mr. cabot. these volumes cannot be considered as belonging to any single period of his literary life. mr. cabot prefixes to the tenth volume of emerson's collected works, which bears the title, "lectures and biographical sketches," the following:-- "note. "of the pieces included in this volume the following, namely, those from 'the dial,' 'character,' 'plutarch,' and the biographical sketches of dr. ripley, of mr. hoar, and of henry thoreau, were printed by mr. emerson before i took any part in the arrangement of his papers. the rest, except the sketch of miss mary emerson, i got ready for his use in readings to his friends, or to a limited public. he had given up the regular practice of lecturing, but would sometimes, upon special request, read a paper that had been prepared for him from his manuscripts, in the manner described in the preface to 'letters and social aims,'--some former lecture serving as a nucleus for the new. some of these papers he afterwards allowed to be printed; others, namely, 'aristocracy,' 'education,' 'the man of letters,' 'the scholar,' 'historic notes of life and letters in new england,' 'mary moody emerson,' are now published for the first time." some of these papers i have already had occasion to refer to. from several of the others i will make one or two extracts,--a difficult task, so closely are the thoughts packed together. from "demonology":-- "i say to the table-rappers 'i will believe thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know,' and so far will i trust thee, gentle kate!" "meantime far be from me the impatience which cannot brook the supernatural, the vast; far be from me the lust of explaining away all which appeals to the imagination, and the great presentiments which haunt us. willingly i too say hail! to the unknown, awful powers which transcend the ken of the understanding." i will not quote anything from the essay called "aristocracy." but let him who wishes to know what the word means to an american whose life has come from new england soil, whose ancestors have breathed new england air for many generations, read it, and he will find a new interpretation of a very old and often greatly wronged appellation. "perpetual forces" is one of those prose poems,--of his earlier epoch, i have no doubt,--in which he plays with the facts of science with singular grace and freedom. what man could speak more fitly, with more authority of "character," than emerson? when he says, "if all things are taken away, i have still all things in my relation to the eternal," we feel that such an utterance is as natural to his pure spirit as breathing to the frame in which it was imprisoned. we have had a glimpse of emerson as a school-master, but behind and far above the teaching drill-master's desk is the chair from which he speaks to us of "education." compare the short and easy method of the wise man of old,--"he that spareth his rod hateth his son," with this other, "be the companion of his thought, the friend of his friendship, the lover of his virtue,--but no kinsman of his sin." "the superlative" will prove light and pleasant reading after these graver essays. [greek: maedhen agan]--_ne quid nimis_,--nothing in excess, was his precept as to adjectives. two sentences from "the sovereignty of ethics" will go far towards reconciling elderly readers who have not forgotten the westminster assembly's catechism with this sweet-souled dealer in spiritual dynamite:-- "luther would cut his hand off sooner than write theses against the pope if he suspected that he was bringing on with all his might the pale negations of boston unitarianism.-- "if i miss the inspiration of the saints of calvinism, or of platonism, or of buddhism, our times are not up to theirs, or, more truly, have not yet their own legitimate force." so, too, this from "the preacher":-- "all civil mankind have agreed in leaving one day for contemplation against six for practice. i hope that day will keep its honor and its use.--the sabbath changes its forms from age to age, but the substantial benefit endures." the special interest of the address called "the man of letters" is, that it was delivered during the war. he was no advocate for peace where great principles were at the bottom of the conflict:-- "war, seeking for the roots of strength, comes upon the moral aspects at once.--war ennobles the age.--battle, with the sword, has cut many a gordian knot in twain which all the wit of east and west, of northern and border statesmen could not untie." "the scholar" was delivered before two societies at the university of virginia so late as the year . if i must select any of its wise words, i will choose the questions which he has himself italicized to show his sense of their importance:-- "for all men, all women, time, your country, your condition, the invisible world are the interrogators: _who are you? what do you? can you obtain what you wish? is there method in your consciousness? can you see tendency in your life? can you help any soul_? "can he answer these questions? can he dispose of them? happy if you can answer them mutely in the order and disposition of your life! happy for more than yourself, a benefactor of men, if you can answer them in works of wisdom, art, or poetry; bestowing on the general mind of men organic creations, to be the guidance and delight of all who know them." the essay on "plutarch" has a peculiar value from the fact that emerson owes more to him than to any other author except plato, who is one of the only two writers quoted oftener than plutarch. _mutato nomine_, the portrait which emerson draws of the greek moralist might stand for his own:-- "whatever is eminent in fact or in fiction, in opinion, in character, in institutions, in science--natural, moral, or metaphysical, or in memorable sayings drew his attention and came to his pen with more or less fulness of record. "a poet in verse or prose must have a sensuous eye, but an intellectual co-perception. plutarch's memory is full and his horizon wide. nothing touches man but he feels to be his. "plutarch had a religion which montaigne wanted, and which defends him from wantonness; and though plutarch is as plain spoken, his moral sentiment is always pure.-- "i do not know where to find a book--to borrow a phrase of ben jonson's--'so rammed with life,' and this in chapters chiefly ethical, which are so prone to be heavy and sentimental.--his vivacity and abundance never leave him to loiter or pound on an incident.-- "in his immense quotation and allusion we quickly cease to discriminate between what he quotes and what he invents.--'tis all plutarch, by right of eminent domain, and all property vests in this emperor. "it is in consequence of this poetic trait in his mind, that i confess that, in reading him, i embrace the particulars, and carry a faint memory of the argument or general design of the chapter; but he is not less welcome, and he leaves the reader with a relish and a necessity for completing his studies. "he is a pronounced idealist, who does not hesitate to say, like another berkeley, 'matter is itself privation.'-- "of philosophy he is more interested in the results than in the method. he has a just instinct of the presence of a master, and prefers to sit as a scholar with plato than as a disputant. "his natural history is that of a lover and poet, and not of a physicist. "but though curious in the questions of the schools on the nature and genesis of things, his extreme interest in every trait of character, and his broad humanity, lead him constantly to morals, to the study of the beautiful and good. hence his love of heroes, his rule of life, and his clear convictions of the high destiny of the soul. la harpe said that 'plutarch is the genius the most naturally moral that ever existed.' "plutarch thought 'truth to be the greatest good that man can receive, and the goodliest blessing that god can give.' "all his judgments are noble. he thought with epicurus that it is more delightful to do than to receive a kindness. "plutarch was well-born, well-conditioned--eminently social, he was a king in his own house, surrounded himself with select friends, and knew the high value of good conversation.-- "he had that universal sympathy with genius which makes all its victories his own; though he never used verse, he had many qualities of the poet in the power of his imagination, the speed of his mental associations, and his sharp, objective eyes. but what specially marks him, he is a chief example of the illumination of the intellect by the force of morals." how much, of all this would have been recognized as just and true if it had been set down in an obituary notice of emerson! i have already made use of several of the other papers contained in this volume, and will merely enumerate all that follow the "plutarch." some of the titles will be sure to attract the reader. they are "historic notes of life and letters in new england;" "the chardon street convention;" "ezra ripley, d.d.;" "mary moody emerson;" "samuel hoar;" "thoreau;" "carlyle."-- mr. cabot prefaces the eleventh and last volume of emerson's writings with the following "note":-- "the first five pieces in this volume, and the 'editorial address' from the 'massachusetts quarterly review,' were published by mr. emerson long ago. the speeches at the john brown, the walter scott, and the free religious association meetings were published at the time, no doubt with his consent, but without any active co-operation on his part. the 'fortune of the republic' appeared separately in ; the rest have never been published. in none was any change from the original form made by me, except in the 'fortune of the republic,' which was made up of several lectures for the occasion upon which it was read." the volume of "miscellanies" contains no less than twenty-three pieces of very various lengths and relating to many different subjects. the five referred to as having been previously published are, "the lord's supper," the "historical discourse in concord," the "address at the dedication of the soldiers' monument in concord," the "address on emancipation in the british west indies," and the lecture or essay on "war,"--all of which have been already spoken of. next in order comes a lecture on the "fugitive slave law." emerson says, "i do not often speak on public questions.--my own habitual view is to the well-being of scholars." but he leaves his studies to attack the institution of slavery, from which he says he himself has never suffered any inconvenience, and the "law," which the abolitionists would always call the "fugitive slave _bill_." emerson had a great admiration for mr. webster, but he did not spare him as he recalled his speech of the seventh of march, just four years before the delivery of this lecture. he warns against false leadership:-- "to make good the cause of freedom, you must draw off from all foolish trust in others.--he only who is able to stand alone is qualified for society. and that i understand to be the end for which a soul exists in this world,--to be himself the counter-balance of all falsehood and all wrong.--the anglo-saxon race is proud and strong and selfish.--england maintains trade, not liberty." cowper had said long before this:-- "doing good, disinterested good, is not our trade." and america found that england had not learned that trade when, fifteen years after this discourse was delivered, the conflict between the free and slave states threatened the ruin of the great republic, and england forgot her anti-slavery in the prospect of the downfall of "a great empire which threatens to overshadow the whole earth." it must be remembered that emerson had never been identified with the abolitionists. but an individual act of wrong sometimes gives a sharp point to a blunt dagger which has been kept in its sheath too long:-- "the events of the last few years and months and days have taught us the lessons of centuries. i do not see how a barbarous community and a civilized community can constitute one state. i think we must get rid of slavery or we must get rid of freedom." these were his words on the th of may, , in his speech on "the assault upon mr. sumner." a few months later, in his "speech on the affairs of kansas," delivered almost five years before the first gun was fired at fort sumter, he spoke the following fatally prophetic and commanding words:-- "the hour is coming when the strongest will not be strong enough. a harder task will the new revolution of the nineteenth century be than was the revolution of the eighteenth century. i think the american revolution bought its glory cheap. if the problem was new, it was simple. if there were few people, they were united, and the enemy three thousand miles off. but now, vast property, gigantic interests, family connections, webs of party, cover the land with a net-work that immensely multiplies the dangers of war. "fellow-citizens, in these times full of the fate of the republic, i think the towns should hold town meetings, and resolve themselves into committees of safety, go into permanent sessions, adjourning from week to week, from month to month. i wish we could send the sergeant-at-arms to stop every american who is about to leave the country. send home every one who is abroad, lest they should find no country to return to. come home and stay at home while there is a country to save. when it is lost it will be time enough then for any who are luckless enough to remain alive to gather up their clothes and depart to some land where freedom exists." two short speeches follow, one delivered at a meeting for the relief of the family of john brown, on the th of november, , the other after his execution:-- "our blind statesmen," he says, "go up and down, with committees of vigilance and safety, hunting for the origin of this new heresy. they will need a very vigilant committee indeed to find its birthplace, and a very strong force to root it out. for the arch-abolitionist, older than brown, and older than the shenandoah mountains, is love, whose other name is justice, which was before alfred, before lycurgus, before slavery, and will be after it." from his "discourse on theodore parker" i take the following vigorous sentence:-- "his commanding merit as a reformer is this, that he insisted beyond all men in pulpits,--i cannot think of one rival,--that the essence of christianity is its practical morals; it is there for use, or it is nothing; and if you combine it with sharp trading, or with ordinary city ambitions to gloze over municipal corruptions, or private intemperance, or successful fraud, or immoral politics, or unjust wars, or the cheating of indians, or the robbery of frontier nations, or leaving your principles at home to follow on the high seas or in europe a supple complaisance to tyrants,--it is hypocrisy, and the truth is not in you; and no love of religious music, or of dreams of swedenborg, or praise of john wesley, or of jeremy taylor, can save you from the satan which you are." the lecture on "american civilization," made up from two addresses, one of which was delivered at washington on the st of january, , is, as might be expected, full of anti-slavery. that on the "emancipation proclamation," delivered in boston in september, , is as full of "silent joy" at the advent of "a day which most of us dared not hope to see,--an event worth the dreadful war, worth its costs and uncertainties." from the "remarks" at the funeral services for abraham lincoln, held in concord on the th of april, , i extract this admirably drawn character of the man:-- "he is the true history of the american people in his time. step by step he walked before them; slow with their slowness, quickening his march by theirs, the true representative of this continent; an entirely public man; father of his country, the pulse of twenty millions throbbing in his heart, the thought of their minds articulated by his tongue." the following are the titles of the remaining contents of this volume: "harvard commemoration speech;" "editor's address: massachusetts quarterly review;" "woman;" "address to kossuth;" "robert burns;" "walter scott;" "remarks at the organization of the free religious association;" "speech at the annual meeting of the free religious association;" "the fortune of the republic." in treating of the "woman question," emerson speaks temperately, delicately, with perfect fairness, but leaves it in the hands of the women themselves to determine whether they shall have an equal part in public affairs. "the new movement," he says, "is only a tide shared by the spirits of man and woman; and you may proceed in the faith that whatever the woman's heart is prompted to desire, the man's mind is simultaneously prompted to accomplish." it is hard to turn a leaf in any book of emerson's writing without finding some pithy remark or some striking image or witty comment which illuminates the page where we find it and tempts us to seize upon it for an extract. but i must content myself with these few sentences from "the fortune of the republic," the last address he ever delivered, in which his belief in america and her institutions, and his trust in the providence which overrules all nations and all worlds, have found fitting utterance:-- "let the passion for america cast out the passion for europe. here let there be what the earth waits for,--exalted manhood. what this country longs for is personalities, grand persons, to counteract its materialities. for it is the rule of the universe that corn shall serve man, and not man corn. "they who find america insipid,--they for whom london and paris have spoiled their own homes, can be spared to return to those cities. i not only see a career at home for more genius than we have, but for more than there is in the world. "our helm is given up to a better guidance than our own; the course of events is quite too strong for any helmsman, and our little wherry is taken in tow by the ship of the great admiral which knows the way, and has the force to draw men and states and planets to their good." with this expression of love and respect for his country and trust in his country's god, we may take leave of emerson's prose writings. chapter xiv. emerson's poems. the following "prefatory note" by mr. cabot introduces the ninth volume of the series of emerson's collected works:-- "this volume contains nearly all the pieces included in the poems and may-day of former editions. in mr. emerson published a selection from his poems, adding six new ones, and omitting many. of those omitted, several are now restored, in accordance with the expressed wishes of many readers and lovers of them. also some pieces never before published are here given in an appendix, on various grounds. some of them appear to have had emerson's approval, but to have been withheld because they were unfinished. these it seemed best not to suppress, now that they can never receive their completion. others, mostly of an early date, remained unpublished doubtless because of their personal and private nature. some of these seem to have an autobiographic interest sufficient to justify their publication. others again, often mere fragments, have been admitted as characteristic, or as expressing in poetic form thoughts found in the essays. "in coming to a decision in these cases, it seemed on the whole preferable to take the risk of including too much rather than the opposite, and to leave the task of further winnowing to the hands of time. "as was stated in the preface to the first volume of this edition of mr. emerson's writings, the readings adopted by him in the "selected poems" have not always been followed here, but in some cases preference has been given to corrections made by him when he was in fuller strength than at the time of the last revision. "a change in the arrangement of the stanzas of "may-day," in the part representative of the march of spring, received his sanction as bringing them more nearly in accordance with the events in nature." emerson's verse has been a fertile source of discussion. some have called him a poet and nothing but a poet, and some have made so much of the palpable defects of his verse that they have forgotten to recognize its true claims. his prose is often highly poetical, but his verse is something more than the most imaginative and rhetorical passages of his prose. an illustration presently to be given will make this point clear. poetry is to prose what the so-called full dress of the ball-room is to the plainer garments of the household and the street. full dress, as we call it, is so full of beauty that it cannot hold it all, and the redundancy of nature overflows the narrowed margin of satin or velvet. it reconciles us to its approach to nudity by the richness of its drapery and ornaments. a pearl or diamond necklace or a blushing bouquet excuses the liberal allowance of undisguised nature. we expect from the fine lady in her brocades and laces a generosity of display which we should reprimand with the virtuous severity of tartuffe if ventured upon by the waiting-maid in her calicoes. so the poet reveals himself under the protection of his imaginative and melodious phrases,--the flowers and jewels of his vocabulary. here is a prose sentence from emerson's "works and days:"-- "the days are ever divine as to the first aryans. they come and go like muffled and veiled figures, sent from a distant friendly party; but they say nothing, and if we do not use the gifts they bring, they carry them as silently away." now see this thought in full dress, and then ask what is the difference between prose and poetry:-- "days. "daughters of time, the hypocritic days, muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, and marching single in an endless file, bring diadems and fagots in their hands. to each they offer gifts after his will, bread, kingdom, stars, and sky that holds them all. i, in my pleachéd garden watched the pomp, forgot my morning wishes, hastily took a few herbs and apples, and the day turned and departed silent. i too late under her solemn fillet saw the scorn." --cinderella at the fireside, and cinderella at the prince's ball! the full dress version of the thought is glittering with new images like bracelets and brooches and ear-rings, and fringed with fresh adjectives like edges of embroidery. that one word _pleachéd,_ an heir-loom from queen elizabeth's day, gives to the noble sonnet an antique dignity and charm like the effect of an ancestral jewel. but mark that now the poet reveals himself as he could not in the prosaic form of the first extract. it is his own neglect of his great opportunity of which he now speaks, and not merely the indolent indifference of others. it is himself who is the object of scorn. self-revelation of beauty embellished by ornaments is the privilege of full dress; self-revelation in the florid costume of verse is the divine right of the poet. passion that must express itself longs always for the freedom of rhythmic utterance. and in spite of the exaggeration and extravagance which shield themselves under the claim of poetic license, i venture to affirm that "_in_ vino _veritas_" is not truer than _in_ carmine _veritas_. as a further illustration of what has just been said of the self-revelations to be looked for in verse, and in emerson's verse more especially, let the reader observe how freely he talks about his bodily presence and infirmities in his poetry,--subjects he never referred to in prose, except incidentally, in private letters. emerson is so essentially a poet that whole pages of his are like so many litanies of alternating chants and recitations. his thoughts slip on and off their light rhythmic robes just as the mood takes him, as was shown in the passage i have quoted in prose and in verse. many of the metrical preludes to his lectures are a versified and condensed abstract of the leading doctrine of the discourse. they are a curious instance of survival; the lecturer, once a preacher, still wants his text; and finds his scriptural motto in his own rhythmic inspiration. shall we rank emerson among the great poets or not? "the great poets are judged by the frame of mind they induce; and to them, of all men, the severest criticism is due." these are emerson's words in the preface to "parnassus." his own poems will stand this test as well as any in the language. they lift the reader into a higher region of thought and feeling. this seems to me a better test to apply to them than the one which mr. arnold cited from milton. the passage containing this must be taken, not alone, but with the context. milton had been speaking of "logic" and of "rhetoric," and spoke of poetry "as being less subtile and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate." this relative statement, it must not be forgotten, is conditioned by what went before. if the terms are used absolutely, and not comparatively, as milton used them, they must be very elastic if they would stretch widely enough to include all the poems which the world recognizes as masterpieces, nay, to include some of the best of milton's own. in spite of what he said about himself in his letter to carlyle, emerson was not only a poet, but a very remarkable one. whether a great poet or not will depend on the scale we use and the meaning we affix to the term. the heat at eighty degrees of fahrenheit is one thing and the heat at eighty degrees of réaumur is a very different matter. the rank of poets is a point of very unstable equilibrium. from the days of homer to our own, critics have been disputing about the place to be assigned to this or that member of the poetic hierarchy. it is not the most popular poet who is necessarily the greatest; wordsworth never had half the popularity of scott or moore. it is not the multitude of remembered passages which settles the rank of a metrical composition as poetry. gray's "elegy," it is true, is full of lines we all remember, and is a great poem, if that term can be applied to any piece of verse of that length. but what shall we say to the "ars poetica" of horace? it is crowded with lines worn smooth as old sesterces by constant quotation. and yet we should rather call it a versified criticism than a poem in the full sense of that word. and what shall we do with pope's "essay on man," which has furnished more familiar lines than "paradise lost" and "paradise regained" both together? for all that, we know there is a school of writers who will not allow that pope deserves the name of poet. it takes a generation or two to find out what are the passages in a great writer which are to become commonplaces in literature and conversation. it is to be remembered that emerson is one of those authors whose popularity must diffuse itself from above downwards. and after all, few will dare assert that "the vanity of human wishes" is greater as a poem than shelley's "ode to the west wind," or keats's "ode to a nightingale," because no line in either of these poems is half so often quoted as "to point a moral or adorn a tale." we cannot do better than begin our consideration of emerson's poetry with emerson's own self-estimate. he says in a fit of humility, writing to carlyle:-- "i do not belong to the poets, but only to a low department of literature, the reporters, suburban men." but miss peabody writes to mr. ireland:-- "he once said to me, 'i am not a great poet--but whatever is of me _is a poet_.'" these opposite feelings were the offspring of different moods and different periods. here is a fragment, written at the age of twenty-eight, in which his self-distrust and his consciousness of the "vision," if not "the faculty, divine," are revealed with the brave nudity of the rhythmic confessional:-- "a dull uncertain brain, but gifted yet to know that god has cherubim who go singing an immortal strain, immortal here below. i know the mighty bards, i listen while they sing, and now i know the secret store which these explore when they with torch of genius pierce the tenfold clouds that cover the riches of the universe from god's adoring lover. and if to me it is not given to fetch one ingot thence of that unfading gold of heaven his merchants may dispense, yet well i know the royal mine and know the sparkle of its ore, know heaven's truth from lies that shine,-- explored, they teach us to explore." these lines are from "the poet," a series of fragments given in the "appendix," which, with his first volume, "poems," his second, "may-day, and other pieces," form the complete ninth volume of the new series. these fragments contain some of the loftiest and noblest passages to be found in his poetical works, and if the reader should doubt which of emerson's self-estimates in his two different moods spoken of above had most truth in it, he could question no longer after reading "the poet." emerson has the most exalted ideas of the true poetic function, as this passage from "merlin" sufficiently shows:-- "thy trivial harp will never please or fill my craving ear; its chords should ring as blows the breeze, free, peremptory, clear. no jingling serenader's art nor tinkling of piano-strings can make the wild blood start in its mystic springs; the kingly bard must smite the chords rudely and hard, as with hammer or with mace; that they may render back artful thunder, which conveys secrets of the solar track, sparks of the supersolar blaze. * * * * * great is the art, great be the manners of the bard. he shall not his brain encumber with the coil of rhythm and number; but leaving rule and pale forethought he shall aye climb for his rhyme. 'pass in, pass in,' the angels say, 'in to the upper doors, nor count compartments of the floors, but mount to paradise by the stairway of surprise.'" and here is another passage from "the poet," mentioned in the quotation before the last, in which the bard is spoken of as performing greater miracles than those ascribed to orpheus:-- "a brother of the world, his song sounded like a tempest strong which tore from oaks their branches broad, and stars from the ecliptic road. time wore he as his clothing-weeds, he sowed the sun and moon for seeds. as melts the iceberg in the seas, as clouds give rain to the eastern breeze, as snow-banks thaw in april's beam, the solid kingdoms like a dream resist in vain his motive strain, they totter now and float amain. for the muse gave special charge his learning should be deep and large, and his training should not scant the deepest lore of wealth or want: his flesh should feel, his eyes should read every maxim of dreadful need; in its fulness he should taste life's honeycomb, but not too fast; full fed, but not intoxicated; he should be loved; he should be hated; a blooming child to children dear, his heart should palpitate with fear." we look naturally to see what poets were emerson's chief favorites. in his poems "the test" and "the solution," we find that the five whom he recognizes as defying the powers of destruction are homer, dante, shakespeare, swedenborg, goethe. here are a few of his poetical characterizations from "the harp:"-- "and this at least i dare affirm, since genius too has bound and term, there is no bard in all the choir, not homer's self, the poet-sire, wise milton's odes of pensive pleasure, or shakespeare whom no mind can measure, nor collins' verse of tender pain, nor byron's clarion of disdain, scott, the delight of generous boys, or wordsworth, pan's recording voice,-- not one of all can put in verse, or to this presence could rehearse the sights and voices ravishing the boy knew on the hills in spring."-- in the notice of "parnassus" some of his preferences have been already mentioned. comparisons between men of genius for the sake of aggrandizing the one at the expense of the other are the staple of the meaner kinds of criticism. no lover of art will clash a venetian goblet against a roman amphora to see which is strongest; no lover of nature undervalues a violet because it is not a rose. but comparisons used in the way of description are not odious. the difference between emerson's poetry and that of the contemporaries with whom he would naturally be compared is that of algebra and arithmetic. he deals largely in general symbols, abstractions, and infinite series. he is always seeing the universal in the particular. the great multitude of mankind care more for two and two, something definite, a fixed quantity, than for _a_ + _b's_ and _x^{ 's}_,--symbols used for undetermined amounts and indefinite possibilities. emerson is a citizen of the universe who has taken up his residence for a few days and nights in this travelling caravansary between the two inns that hang out the signs of venus and mars. this little planet could not provincialize such a man. the multiplication-table is for the every day use of every day earth-people, but the symbols he deals with are too vast, sometimes, we must own, too vague, for the unilluminated terrestrial and arithmetical intelligence. one cannot help feeling that he might have dropped in upon us from some remote centre of spiritual life, where, instead of addition and subtraction, children were taught quaternions, and where the fourth dimension of space was as familiarly known to everybody as a foot-measure or a yard-stick is to us. not that he himself dealt in the higher or the lower mathematics, but he saw the hidden spiritual meaning of things as professor cayley or professor sylvester see the meaning of their mysterious formulae. without using the rosetta-stone of swedenborg, emerson finds in every phenomenon of nature a hieroglyphic. others measure and describe the monuments,--he reads the sacred inscriptions. how alive he makes monadnoc! dinocrates undertook to "hew mount athos to the shape of man" in the likeness of alexander the great. without the help of tools or workmen, emerson makes "cheshire's haughty hill" stand before us an impersonation of kingly humanity, and talk with us as a god from olympus might have talked. this is the fascination of emerson's poetry; it moves in a world of universal symbolism. the sense of the infinite fills it with its majestic presence. it shows, also, that he has a keen delight in the every-day aspects of nature. but he looks always with the eye of a poet, never with that of the man of science. the law of association of ideas is wholly different in the two. the scientific man connects objects in sequences and series, and in so doing is guided by their collective resemblances. his aim is to classify and index all that he sees and contemplates so as to show the relations which unite, and learn the laws that govern, the subjects of his study. the poet links the most remote objects together by the slender filament of wit, the flowery chain of fancy, or the living, pulsating cord of imagination, always guided by his instinct for the beautiful. the man of science clings to his object, as the marsupial embryo to its teat, until he has filled himself as full as he can hold; the poet takes a sip of his dew-drop, throws his head up like a chick, rolls his eyes around in contemplation of the heavens above him and the universe in general, and never thinks of asking a linnaean question as to the flower that furnished him his dew-drop. the poetical and scientific natures rarely coexist; haller and goethe are examples which show that such a union may occur, but as a rule the poet is contented with the colors of the rainbow and leaves the study of fraunhofer's lines to the man of science. though far from being a man of science, emerson was a realist in the best sense of that word. but his realities reached to the highest heavens: like milton,-- "he passed the flaming bounds of place and time; the living throne, the sapphire blaze where angels tremble while they gaze, he saw"-- everywhere his poetry abounds in celestial imagery. if galileo had been a poet as well as an astronomer, he would hardly have sowed his verse thicker with stars than we find them in the poems of emerson. not less did emerson clothe the common aspects of life with the colors of his imagination. he was ready to see beauty everywhere:-- "thou can'st not wave thy staff in air, or dip thy paddle in the lake, but it carves the bow of beauty there, and the ripples in rhyme the oar forsake." he called upon the poet to "tell men what they knew before; paint the prospect from their door." and his practice was like his counsel. he saw our plain new england life with as honest new england eyes as ever looked at a huckleberry-bush or into a milking-pail. this noble quality of his had its dangerous side. in one of his exalted moods he would have us "give to barrows, trays and pans grace and glimmer of romance." but in his lecture on "poetry and imagination," he says:-- "what we once admired as poetry has long since come to be a sound of tin pans; and many of our later books we have outgrown. perhaps homer and milton will be tin pans yet." the "grace and glimmer of romance" which was to invest the tin pan are forgotten, and he uses it as a belittling object for comparison. he himself was not often betrayed into the mistake of confounding the prosaic with the poetical, but his followers, so far as the "realists" have taken their hint from him, have done it most thoroughly. mr. whitman enumerates all the objects he happens to be looking at as if they were equally suggestive to the poetical mind, furnishing his reader a large assortment on which he may exercise the fullest freedom of selection. it is only giving him the same liberty that lord timothy dexter allowed his readers in the matter of punctuation, by leaving all stops out of his sentences, and printing at the end of his book a page of commas, semicolons, colons, periods, notes of interrogation and exclamation, with which the reader was expected to "pepper" the pages as he might see fit. french realism does not stop at the tin pan, but must deal with the slop-pail and the wash-tub as if it were literally true that "in the mud and scum of things there alway, alway something sings." happy were it for the world if m. zola and his tribe would stop even there; but when they cross the borders of science into its infected districts, leaving behind them the reserve and delicacy which the genuine scientific observer never forgets to carry with him, they disgust even those to whom the worst scenes they describe are too wretchedly familiar. the true realist is such a man as parent du chatelet; exploring all that most tries the senses and the sentiments, and reporting all truthfully, but soberly, chastely, without needless circumstance, or picturesque embellishment, for a useful end, and not for a mere sensational effect. what a range of subjects from "the problem" and "uriel" and "forerunners" to "the humble-bee" and "the titmouse!" nor let the reader who thinks the poet must go far to find a fitting theme fail to read the singularly impressive home-poem, "hamatreya," beginning with the names of the successive owners of a piece of land in concord,--probably the same he owned after the last of them:-- "bulkeley, hunt, willard, hosmer, meriam, flint," and ending with the austere and solemn "earth-song." full of poetical feeling, and with a strong desire for poetical expression, emerson experienced a difficulty in the mechanical part of metrical composition. his muse picked her way as his speech did in conversation and in lecturing. he made desperate work now and then with rhyme and rhythm, showing that though a born poet he was not a born singer. think of making "feeble" rhyme with "people," "abroad" with "lord," and contemplate the following couplet which one cannot make rhyme without actual verbicide:-- "where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear, and up the tall mast runs the woodpeck"-are! and how could prose go on all-fours more unmetrically than this? "in adirondac lakes at morn or noon the guide rows bare-headed." it was surely not difficult to say-- "at morn or noon bare-headed rows the guide." and yet while we note these blemishes, many of us will confess that we like his uncombed verse better, oftentimes, than if it were trimmed more neatly and disposed more nicely. when he is at his best, his lines flow with careless ease, as a mountain stream tumbles, sometimes rough and sometimes smooth, but all the more interesting for the rocks it runs against and the grating of the pebbles it rolls over. there is one trick of verse which emerson occasionally, not very often, indulges in. this is the crowding of a redundant syllable into a line. it is a liberty which is not to be abused by the poet. shakespeare, the supreme artist, and milton, the "mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies," knew how to use it effectively. shelley employed it freely. bryant indulged in it occasionally, and wrote an article in an early number of the "north american review" in defence of its use. willis was fond of it. as a relief to monotony it may be now and then allowed,--may even have an agreeable effect in breaking the monotony of too formal verse. but it may easily become a deformity and a cause of aversion. a humpback may add picturesqueness to a procession, but if there are too many humpbacks in line we turn away from the sight of them. can any ear reconcile itself to the last of these three lines of emerson's? "oh, what is heaven but the fellowship of minds that each can stand against the world by its own meek and incorruptible will?" these lines that lift their backs up in the middle--span-worm lines, we may call them--are not to be commended for common use because some great poets have now and then admitted them. they have invaded some of our recent poetry as the canker-worms gather on our elms in june. emerson has one or two of them here and there, but they never swarm on his leaves so as to frighten us away from their neighborhood. as for the violently artificial rhythms and rhymes which have reappeared of late in english and american literature, emerson would as soon have tried to ride three horses at once in a circus as to shut himself up in triolets, or attempt any cat's-cradle tricks of rhyming sleight of hand. if we allow that emerson is not a born singer, that he is a careless versifier and rhymer, we must still recognize that there is something in his verse which belongs, indissolubly, sacredly, to his thought. who would decant the wine of his poetry from its quaint and antique-looking _lagena_?--read his poem to the aeolian harp ("the harp") and his model betrays itself:-- "these syllables that nature spoke, and the thoughts that in him woke can adequately utter none save to his ear the wind-harp lone. therein i hear the parcae reel the threads of man at their humming wheel, the threads of life and power and pain, so sweet and mournful falls the strain. and best can teach its delphian chord how nature to the soul is moored, if once again that silent string, as erst it wont, would thrill and ring." there is no need of quoting any of the poems which have become familiar to most true lovers of poetry. emerson saw fit to imitate the egyptians by placing "the sphinx" at the entrance of his temple of song. this poem was not fitted to attract worshippers. it is not easy of comprehension, not pleasing in movement. as at first written it had one verse in it which sounded so much like a nursery rhyme that emerson was prevailed upon to omit it in the later versions. there are noble passages in it, but they are for the adept and not for the beginner. a commonplace young person taking up the volume and puzzling his or her way along will come by and by to the verse:-- "have i a lover who is noble and free?-- i would he were nobler than to love me." the commonplace young person will be apt to say or think _c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas_--_l'amour_. the third poem in the volume, "the problem," should have stood first in order. this ranks among the finest of emerson's poems. all his earlier verse has a certain freshness which belongs to the first outburst of song in a poetic nature. "each and all," "the humble-bee," "the snow-storm," should be read before "uriel," "the world-soul," or "mithridates." "monadnoc" will be a good test of the reader's taste for emerson's poetry, and after this "woodnotes." in studying his poems we must not overlook the delicacy of many of their descriptive portions. if in the flights of his imagination he is like the strong-winged bird of passage, in his exquisite choice of descriptive epithets he reminds me of the _tenui-rostrals._ his subtle selective instinct penetrates the vocabulary for the one word he wants, as the long, slender bill of those birds dives deep into the flower for its drop of honey. here is a passage showing admirably the two different conditions: wings closed and the selective instinct picking out its descriptive expressions; then suddenly wings flashing open and the imagination in the firmament, where it is always at home. follow the pitiful inventory of insignificances of the forlorn being he describes with a pathetic humor more likely to bring a sigh than a smile, and then mark the grand hyperbole of the last two lines. the passage is from the poem called "destiny":-- "alas! that one is born in blight, victim of perpetual slight: when thou lookest on his face, thy heart saith 'brother, go thy ways! none shall ask thee what thou doest, or care a rush for what thou knowest. or listen when thou repliest, or remember where thou liest, or how thy supper is sodden;' and another is born to make the sun forgotten." of all emerson's poems the "concord hymn" is the most nearly complete and faultless,--but it is not distinctively emersonian. it is such a poem as collins might have written,--it has the very movement and melody of the "ode on the death of mr. thomson," and of the "dirge in cymbeline," with the same sweetness and tenderness of feeling. its one conspicuous line, "and fired the shot heard round the world," must not take to itself all the praise deserved by this perfect little poem, a model for all of its kind. compact, expressive, serene, solemn, musical, in four brief stanzas it tells the story of the past, records the commemorative act of the passing day, and invokes the higher power that governs the future to protect the memorial-stone sacred to freedom and her martyrs. these poems of emerson's find the readers that must listen to them and delight in them, as the "ancient mariner" fastened upon the man who must hear him. if any doubter wishes to test his fitness for reading them, and if the poems already mentioned are not enough to settle the question, let him read the paragraph of "may-day," beginning,-- "i saw the bud-crowned spring go forth," "sea-shore," the fine fragments in the "appendix" to his published works, called, collectively, "the poet," blocks bearing the mark of poetic genius, but left lying round for want of the structural instinct, and last of all, that which is, in many respects, first of all, the "threnody," a lament over the death of his first-born son. this poem has the dignity of "lycidas" without its refrigerating classicism, and with all the tenderness of cowper's lines on the receipt of his mother's picture. it may well compare with others of the finest memorial poems in the language,--with shelley's "adonais," and matthew arnold's "thyrsis," leaving out of view tennyson's "in memoriam" as of wider scope and larger pattern. many critics will concede that there is much truth in mr. arnold's remark on the want of "evolution" in emerson's poems. one is struck with the fact that a great number of fragments lie about his poetical workshop: poems begun and never finished; scraps of poems, chips of poems, paving the floor with intentions never carried out. one cannot help remembering coleridge with his incomplete "christabel," and his "abyssinian maid," and her dulcimer which she never got a tune out of. we all know there was good reason why coleridge should have been infirm of purpose. but when we look at that great unfinished picture over which allston labored with the hopeless ineffectiveness of sisyphus; when we go through a whole gallery of pictures by an american artist in which the backgrounds are slighted as if our midsummer heats had taken away half the artist's life and vigor; when we walk round whole rooms full of sketches, impressions, effects, symphonies, invisibilities, and other apologies for honest work, it would not be strange if it should suggest a painful course of reflections as to the possibility that there may be something in our climatic or other conditions which tends to scholastic and artistic anaemia and insufficiency,--the opposite of what we find showing itself in the full-blooded verse of poets like browning and on the flaming canvas of painters like henri regnault. life seemed lustier in old england than in new england to emerson, to hawthorne, and to that admirable observer, mr. john burroughs. perhaps we require another century or two of acclimation. emerson never grappled with any considerable metrical difficulties. he wrote by preference in what i have ventured to call the normal respiratory measure,--octosyllabic verse, in which one common expiration is enough and not too much for the articulation of each line. the "fatal facility" for which this verse is noted belongs to it as recited and also as written, and it implies the need of only a minimum of skill and labor. i doubt if emerson would have written a verse of poetry if he had been obliged to use the spenserian stanza. in the simple measures he habitually employed he found least hindrance to his thought. every true poet has an atmosphere as much as every great painter. the golden sunshine of claude and the pearly mist of corot belonged to their way of looking at nature as much as the color of their eyes and hair belonged to their personalities. so with the poets; for wordsworth the air is always serene and clear, for byron the sky is uncertain between storm and sunshine. emerson sees all nature in the same pearly mist that wraps the willows and the streams of corot. without its own characteristic atmosphere, illuminated by "the light that never was on sea or land," we may have good verse but no true poem. in his poetry there is not merely this atmosphere, but there is always a mirage in the horizon. emerson's poetry is eminently subjective,--if mr. ruskin, who hates the word, will pardon me for using it in connection with a reference to two of his own chapters in his "modern painters." these are the chapter on "the pathetic fallacy," and the one which follows it "on classical landscape." in these he treats of the transfer of a writer's mental or emotional conditions to the external nature which he contemplates. he asks his readers to follow him in a long examination of what he calls by the singular name mentioned, "the pathetic fallacy," because, he says, "he will find it eminently characteristic of the modern mind; and in the landscape, whether of literature or art, he will also find the modern painter endeavoring to express something which he, as a living creature, imagines in the lifeless object, while the classical and mediaeval painters were content with expressing the unimaginary and actual qualities of the object itself." illustrations of mr. ruskin's "pathetic fallacy" may be found almost anywhere in emerson's poems. here is one which offers itself without search:-- "daily the bending skies solicit man, the seasons chariot him from this exile, the rainbow hours bedeck his glowing wheels, the storm-winds urge the heavy weeks along, suns haste to set, that so remoter lights beckon the wanderer to his vaster home." the expression employed by ruskin gives the idea that he is dealing with a defect. if he had called the state of mind to which he refers the _sympathetic illusion_, his readers might have looked upon it more justly. it would be a pleasant and not a difficult task to trace the resemblances between emerson's poetry and that of other poets. two or three such resemblances have been incidentally referred to, a few others may be mentioned. in his contemplative study of nature he reminds us of wordsworth, at least in certain brief passages, but he has not the staying power of that long-breathed, not to say long-winded, lover of landscapes. both are on the most intimate terms with nature, but emerson contemplates himself as belonging to her, while wordsworth feels as if she belonged to him. "good-by, proud world," recalls spenser and raleigh. "the humble-bee" is strongly marked by the manner and thought of marvell. marvell's "annihilating all that's made to a green thought in a green shade," may well have suggested emerson's "the green silence dost displace with thy mellow, breezy bass." "the snow-storm" naturally enough brings to mind the descriptions of thomson and of cowper, and fragment as it is, it will not suffer by comparison with either. "woodnotes," one of his best poems, has passages that might have been found in milton's "comus;" this, for instance:-- "all constellations of the sky shed their virtue through his eye. him nature giveth for defence his formidable innocence." of course his persian and indian models betray themselves in many of his poems, some of which, called translations, sound as if they were original. so we follow him from page to page and find him passing through many moods, but with one pervading spirit:-- "melting matter into dreams, panoramas which i saw, and whatever glows or seems into substance, into law." we think in reading his "poems" of these words of sainte-beuve:-- "the greatest poet is not he who has done the best; it is he who suggests the most; he, not all of whose meaning is at first obvious, and who leaves you much to desire, to explain, to study; much to complete in your turn." just what he shows himself in his prose, emerson shows himself in his verse. only when he gets into rhythm and rhyme he lets us see more of his personality, he ventures upon more audacious imagery, his flight is higher and swifter, his brief crystalline sentences have dissolved and pour in continuous streams. where they came from, or whither they flow to empty themselves, we cannot always say,--it is enough to enjoy them as they flow by us. incompleteness--want of beginning, middle, and end,--is their too common fault. his pages are too much like those artists' studios all hung round with sketches and "bits" of scenery. "the snow-storm" and "sea-shore" are "bits" out of a landscape that was never painted, admirable, so far as they go, but forcing us to ask, "where is the painting for which these scraps are studies?" or "out of what great picture have these pieces been cut?" we do not want his fragments to be made wholes,--if we did, what hand could be found equal to the task? we do not want his rhythms and rhymes smoothed and made more melodious. they are as honest as chaucer's, and we like them as they are, not modernized or manipulated by any versifying drill-sergeant,--if we wanted them reshaped whom could we trust to meddle with them? his poetry is elemental; it has the rock beneath it in the eternal laws on which it rests; the roll of deep waters in its grander harmonies; its air is full of aeolian strains that waken and die away as the breeze wanders over them; and through it shines the white starlight, and from time to time flashes a meteor that startles us with its sudden brilliancy. after all our criticisms, our selections, our analyses, our comparisons, we have to recognize that there is a charm in emerson's poems which cannot be defined any more than the fragrance of a rose or a hyacinth,--any more than the tone of a voice which we should know from all others if all mankind were to pass before us, and each of its articulating representatives should call us by name. all our crucibles and alembics leave unaccounted for the great mystery of _style_. "the style is of [a part of] the man himself," said buffon, and this saying has passed into the stronger phrase, "the style is the man." the "personal equation" which differentiates two observers is not confined to the tower of the astronomer. every human being is individualized by a new arrangement of elements. his mind is a safe with a lock to which only certain letters are the key. his ideas follow in an order of their own. his words group themselves together in special sequences, in peculiar rhythms, in unlooked-for combinations, the total effect of which is to stamp all that he says or writes with his individuality. we may not be able to assign the reason of the fascination the poet we have been considering exercises over us. but this we can say, that he lives in the highest atmosphere of thought; that he is always in the presence of the infinite, and ennobles the accidents of human existence so that they partake of the absolute and eternal while he is looking at them; that he unites a royal dignity of manner with the simplicity of primitive nature; that his words and phrases arrange themselves, as if by an elective affinity of their own, with a _curiosa felicitas_ which captivates and enthrals the reader who comes fully under its influence, and that through all he sings as in all he says for us we recognize the same serene, high, pure intelligence and moral nature, infinitely precious to us, not only in themselves, but as a promise of what the transplanted life, the air and soil and breeding of this western world may yet educe from their potential virtues, shaping themselves, at length, in a literature as much its own as the rocky mountains and the mississippi. chapter xv. recollections of emerson's last years.--mr. conway's visits.--extracts from mr. whitman's journal.--dr. le baron russell's visit.--dr. edward emerson's account.--illness and death.--funeral services. mr. conway gives the following account of two visits to emerson after the decline of his faculties had begun to make itself obvious:-- "in , when i stayed at his house in concord for a little time, it was sad enough to find him sitting as a listener before those who used to sit at his feet in silence. but when alone with him he conversed in the old way, and his faults of memory seemed at times to disappear. there was something striking in the kind of forgetfulness by which he suffered. he remembered the realities and uses of things when he could not recall their names. he would describe what he wanted or thought of; when he could not recall 'chair' he could speak of that which supports the human frame, and 'the implement that cultivates the soil' must do for plough.-- "in , when i was last in concord, the trouble had made heavy strides. the intensity of his silent attention to every word that was said was painful, suggesting a concentration of his powers to break through the invisible walls closing around them. yet his face was serene; he was even cheerful, and joined in our laughter at some letters his eldest daughter had preserved, from young girls, trying to coax autograph letters, and in one case asking for what price he would write a valedictory address she had to deliver at college. he was still able to joke about his 'naughty memory;' and no complaint came from him when he once rallied himself on living too long. emerson appeared to me strangely beautiful at this time, and the sweetness of his voice, when he spoke of the love and providence at his side, is quite indescribable."-- one of the later glimpses we have of emerson is that preserved in the journal of mr. whitman, who visited concord in the autumn of . mr. ireland gives a long extract from this journal, from which i take the following:-- "on entering he had spoken very briefly, easily and politely to several of the company, then settled himself in his chair, a trifle pushed back, and, though a listener and apparently an alert one, remained silent through the whole talk and discussion. and so, there emerson sat, and i looking at him. a good color in his face, eyes clear, with the well-known expression of sweetness, and the old clear-peering aspect quite the same." mr. whitman met him again the next day, sunday, september th, and records:-- "as just said, a healthy color in the cheeks, and good light in the eyes, cheery expression, and just the amount of talking that best suited, namely, a word or short phrase only where needed, and almost always with a smile." dr. le baron russell writes to me of emerson at a still later period:-- "one incident i will mention which occurred at my last visit to emerson, only a few months before his death. i went by mrs. emerson's request to pass a sunday at their house at concord towards the end of june. his memory had been failing for some time, and his mind as you know was clouded, but the old charm of his voice and manner had never left him. on the morning after my arrival mrs. emerson took us into the garden to see the beautiful roses in which she took great delight. one red rose of most brilliant color she called our attention to especially; its 'hue' was so truly 'angry and brave' that i involuntarily repeated herbert's line,-- 'bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,'-- from the verses which emerson had first repeated to me so long ago. emerson looked at the rose admiringly, and then as if by a sudden impulse lifted his hat gently, and said with a low bow, 'i take off my hat to it.'" once a poet, always a poet. it was the same reverence for the beautiful that he had shown in the same way in his younger days on entering the wood, as governor rice has told us the story, given in an earlier chapter. i do not remember emerson's last time of attendance at the "saturday club," but i recollect that he came after the trouble in finding words had become well marked. "my memory hides itself," he said. the last time i saw him, living, was at longfellow's funeral. i was sitting opposite to him when he rose, and going to the side of the coffin, looked intently upon the face of the dead poet. a few minutes later he rose again and looked once more on the familiar features, not apparently remembering that he had just done so. mr. conway reports that he said to a friend near him, "that gentleman was a sweet, beautiful soul, but i have entirely forgotten his name." dr. edward emerson has very kindly furnished me, in reply to my request, with information regarding his father's last years which will interest every one who has followed his life through its morning and midday to the hour of evening shadows. "may-day," which was published in , was made up of the poems written since his first volume appeared. after this he wrote no poems, but with some difficulty fitted the refrain to the poem "boston," which had remained unfinished since the old anti-slavery days. "greatness," and the "phi beta kappa oration" of , were among his last pieces of work. his college lectures, "the natural history of the intellect," were merely notes recorded years before, and now gathered and welded together. in he revised his poems, and made the selections from them for the "little classic" edition of his works, then called "selected poems." in that year he gave his "address to the students of the university of virginia." this was a paper written long before, and its revision, with the aid of his daughter ellen, was accomplished with much difficulty. the year was about the limit of his working life. during the last five years he hardly answered a letter. before this time it had become increasingly hard for him to do so, and he always postponed and thought he should feel more able the next day, until his daughter ellen was compelled to assume the correspondence. he did, however, write some letters in , as, for instance, the answer to the invitation of the virginia students. emerson left off going regularly to the "saturday club" probably in . he used to depend on meeting mr. cabot there, but after mr. cabot began to come regularly to work on "letters and social aims," emerson, who relied on his friendly assistance, ceased attending the meetings. the trouble he had in finding the word he wanted was a reason for his staying away from all gatherings where he was called upon to take a part in conversation, though he the more willingly went to lectures and readings and to church. his hearing was very slightly impaired, and his sight remained pretty good, though he sometimes said letters doubled, and that "m's" and "n's" troubled him to read. he recognized the members of his own family and his _old_ friends; but, as i infer from this statement, he found a difficulty in remembering the faces of new acquaintances, as is common with old persons. he continued the habit of reading,--read through all his printed works with much interest and surprise, went through all his manuscripts, and endeavored, unsuccessfully, to index them. in these dr. emerson found written "examined or ," but he found no later date. in the last year or two he read anything which he picked up on his table, but he read the same things over, and whispered the words like a child. he liked to look over the "advertiser," and was interested in the "nation." he enjoyed pictures in books and showed them with delight to guests. all this with slight changes and omissions is from the letter of dr. emerson in answer to my questions. the twilight of a long, bright day of life may be saddening, but when the shadow falls so gently and gradually, with so little that is painful and so much that is soothing and comforting, we do not shrink from following the imprisoned spirit to the very verge of its earthly existence. but darker hours were in the order of nature very near at hand. from these he was saved by his not untimely release from the imprisonment of the worn-out bodily frame. in april, , emerson took a severe cold, and became so hoarse that he could hardly speak. when his son, dr. edward emerson, called to see him, he found him on the sofa, feverish, with more difficulty of expression than usual, dull, but not uncomfortable. as he lay on his couch he pointed out various objects, among others a portrait of carlyle "the good man,--my friend." his son told him that he had seen carlyle, which seemed to please him much. on the following day the unequivocal signs of pneumonia showed themselves, and he failed rapidly. he still recognized those around him, among the rest judge hoar, to whom he held out his arms for a last embrace. a sharp pain coming on, ether was administered with relief. and in a little time, surrounded by those who loved him and whom he loved, he passed quietly away. he lived very nearly to the completion of his seventy-ninth year, having been born may , , and his death occurring on the th of april, . mr. ireland has given a full account of the funeral, from which are, for the most part, taken the following extracts:-- "the last rites over the remains of ralph waldo emerson took place at concord on the th of april. a special train from boston carried a large number of people. many persons were on the street, attracted by the services, but were unable to gain admission to the church where the public ceremonies were held. almost every building in town bore over its entrance-door a large black and white rosette with other sombre draperies. the public buildings were heavily draped, and even the homes of the very poor bore outward marks of grief at the loss of their friend and fellow-townsman. "the services at the house, which were strictly private, occurred at . , and were conducted by rev. w.h. furness of philadelphia, a kindred spirit and an almost life-long friend. they were simple in character, and only dr. furness took part in them. the body lay in the front northeast room, in which were gathered the family and close friends of the deceased. the only flowers were contained in three vases on the mantel, and were lilies of the valley, red and white roses, and arbutus. the adjoining room and hall were filled with friends and neighbors. "at the church many hundreds of persons were awaiting the arrival of the procession, and all the space, except the reserved pews, was packed. in front of the pulpit were simple decorations, boughs of pine covered the desk, and in their centre was a harp of yellow jonquils, the gift of miss louisa m. alcott. among the floral tributes was one from the teachers and scholars in the emerson school. by the sides of the pulpit were white and scarlet geraniums and pine boughs, and high upon the wall a laurel wreath. "before . the pall-bearers brought in the plain black walnut coffin, which was placed before the pulpit. the lid was turned back, and upon it was put a cluster of richly colored pansies and a small bouquet of roses. while the coffin was being carried in, 'pleyel's hymn' was rendered on the organ by request of the family of the deceased. dr. james freeman clarke then entered the pulpit. judge e. rockwood hoar remained by the coffin below, and when the congregation became quiet, made a brief and pathetic address, his voice many times trembling with emotion." i subjoin this most impressive "address" entire, from the manuscript with which judge hoar has kindly favored me:-- "the beauty of israel is fallen in its high place! mr. emerson has died; and we, his friends and neighbors, with this sorrowing company, have turned aside the procession from his home to his grave,--to this temple of his fathers, that we may here unite in our parting tribute of memory and love. "there is nothing to mourn for him. that brave and manly life was rounded out to the full length of days. that dying pillow was softened by the sweetest domestic affection; and as he lay down to the sleep which the lord giveth his beloved, his face was as the face of an angel, and his smile seemed to give a glimpse of the opening heavens. "wherever the english language is spoken throughout the world his fame is established and secure. throughout this great land and from beyond the sea will come innumerable voices of sorrow for this great public loss. but we, his neighbors and townsmen, feel that he was _ours_. he was descended from the founders of the town. he chose our village as the place where his lifelong work was to be done. it was to our fields and orchards that his presence gave such value; it was our streets in which the children looked up to him with love, and the elders with reverence. he was our ornament and pride. "'he is gone--is dust,-- he the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished! for him there is no longer any future. his life is bright--bright without spot it was and cannot cease to be. no ominous hour knocks at his door with tidings of mishap. far off is he, above desire and fear; no more submitted to the change and chance of the uncertain planets.-- "'the bloom is vanished from my life, for, oh! he stood beside me like my youth; transformed for me the real to a dream, clothing the palpable and the familiar with golden exhalations of the dawn. whatever fortunes wait my future toils, the _beautiful_ is vanished and returns not.' "that lofty brow, the home of all wise thoughts and high aspirations,--those lips of eloquent music,--that great soul, which trusted in god and never let go its hope of immortality,--that large heart, to which everything that belonged to man was welcome,--that hospitable nature, loving and tender and generous, having no repulsion or scorn for anything but meanness and baseness,--oh, friend, brother, father, lover, teacher, inspirer, guide! is there no more that we can do now than to give thee this our hail and farewell!" judge hoar's remarks were followed by the congregation singing the hymns, "thy will be done," "i will not fear the fate provided by thy love." the rev. dr. furness then read selections from the scriptures. the rev. james freeman clarke then delivered an "address," from which i extract two eloquent and inspiring passages, regretting to omit any that fell from lips so used to noble utterances and warmed by their subject,--for there is hardly a living person more competent to speak or write of emerson than this high-minded and brave-souled man, who did not wait until he was famous to be his admirer and champion. "the saying of the liturgy is true and wise, that 'in the midst of life we are in death.' but it is still more true that in the midst of death we are in life. do we ever believe so much in immortality as when we look on such a dear and noble face, now so still, which a few hours ago was radiant with thought and love? 'he is not here: he is risen.' that power which we knew,--that soaring intelligence, that soul of fire, that ever-advancing spirit,--_that_ cannot have been suddenly annihilated with the decay of these earthly organs. it has left its darkened dust behind. it has outsoared the shadow of our night. god does not trifle with his creatures by bringing to nothing the ripe fruit of the ages by the lesion of a cerebral cell, or some bodily tissue. life does not die, but matter dies off from it. the highest energy we know, the soul of man, the unit in which meet intelligence, imagination, memory, hope, love, purpose, insight,--this agent of immense resource and boundless power,--this has not been subdued by its instrument. when we think of such an one as he, we can only think of life, never of death. "such was his own faith, as expressed in his paper on 'immortality.' but he himself was the best argument for immortality. like the greatest thinkers, he did not rely on logical proof, but on the higher evidence of universal instincts,--the vast streams of belief which flow through human thought like currents in the ocean; those shoreless rivers which forever roll along their paths in the atlantic and pacific, not restrained by banks, but guided by the revolutions of the globe and the attractions of the sun." * * * * * "let us then ponder his words:-- 'wilt thou not ope thy heart to know what rainbows teach and sunsets show? voice of earth to earth returned, prayers of saints that inly burned, saying, _what is excellent as god lives, is permanent; hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain; hearts' love will meet thee again._ * * * * house and tenant go to ground lost in god, in godhead found.'" after the above address a feeling prayer was offered by rev. howard m. brown, of brookline, and the benediction closed the exercises in the church. immediately before the benediction, mr. alcott recited the following sonnet, which he had written for the occasion:--- "his harp is silent: shall successors rise, touching with venturous hand the trembling string, kindle glad raptures, visions of surprise, and wake to ecstasy each slumbering thing? shall life and thought flash new in wondering eyes, as when the seer transcendent, sweet, and wise, world-wide his native melodies did sing, flushed with fair hopes and ancient memories? ah, no! that matchless lyre shall silent lie: none hath the vanished minstrel's wondrous skill to touch that instrument with art and will. with him, winged poesy doth droop and die; while our dull age, left voiceless, must lament the bard high heaven had for its service sent." "over an hour was occupied by the passing files of neighbors, friends, and visitors looking for the last time upon the face of the dead poet. the body was robed completely in white, and the face bore a natural and peaceful expression. from the church the procession took its way to the cemetery. the grave was made beneath a tall pine-tree upon the hill-top of sleepy hollow, where lie the bodies of his friends thoreau and hawthorne, the upturned sod being concealed by strewings of pine boughs. a border of hemlock spray surrounded the grave and completely lined its sides. the services here were very brief, and the casket was soon lowered to its final resting-place. "the rev. dr. haskins, a cousin of the family, an episcopal clergyman, read the episcopal burial service, and closed with the lord's prayer, ending at the words, 'and deliver us from evil.' in this all the people joined. dr. haskins then pronounced the benediction. after it was over the grandchildren passed the open grave and threw flowers into it." so vanished from human eyes the bodily presence of ralph waldo emerson, and his finished record belongs henceforth to memory. chapter xvi. emerson.--a retrospect. personality and habits of life.--his commission and errand.--as a lecturer.--his use of authorities.--resemblance to other writers.--as influenced by others.--his place as a thinker.--idealism and intuition.--mysticism.--his attitude respecting science.--as an american.--his fondness for solitary study.--his patience and amiability.--feeling with which he was regarded.--emerson and burns.--his religious belief.--his relations with clergymen.--future of his reputation.--his life judged by the ideal standard. emerson's earthly existence was in the estimate of his own philosophy so slight an occurrence in his career of being that his relations to the accidents of time and space seem quite secondary matters to one who has been long living in the companionship of his thought. still, he had to be born, to take in his share of the atmosphere in which we are all immersed, to have dealings with the world of phenomena, and at length to let them all "soar and sing" as he left his earthly half-way house. it is natural and pardonable that we should like to know the details of the daily life which the men whom we admire have shared with common mortals, ourselves among the rest. but emerson has said truly "great geniuses have the shortest biographies. their cousins can tell you nothing about them. they lived in their writings, and so their home and street life was trivial and commonplace." the reader has had many extracts from emerson's writings laid before him. it was no easy task to choose them, for his paragraphs are so condensed, so much in the nature of abstracts, that it is like distilling absolute alcohol to attempt separating the spirit of what he says from his undiluted thought. his books are all so full of his life to their last syllable that we might letter every volume _emersoniana_, by ralph waldo emerson. from the numerous extracts i have given from emerson's writings it may be hoped that the reader will have formed an idea for himself of the man and of the life which have been the subjects of these pages. but he may probably expect something like a portrait of the poet and moralist from the hand of his biographer, if the author of this memoir may borrow the name which will belong to a future and better equipped laborer in the same field. he may not unreasonably look for some general estimate of the life work of the scholar and thinker of whom he has been reading. he will not be disposed to find fault with the writer of the memoir if he mentions many things which would seem very trivial but for the interest they borrow from the individual to whom they relate. emerson's personal appearance was that of a scholar, the descendant of scholars. he was tall and slender, with the complexion which is bred in the alcove and not in the open air. he used to tell his son edward that he measured six feet in his shoes, but his son thinks he could hardly have straightened himself to that height in his later years. he was very light for a man of his stature. he got on the scales at cheyenne, on his trip to california, comparing his weight with that of a lady of the party. a little while afterwards he asked of his fellow-traveller, professor thayer, "how much did i weigh? a hundred and forty?" "a hundred and forty and a half," was the answer. "yes, yes, a hundred and forty and a half! that _half_ i prize; it is an index of better things!" emerson's head was not such as schopenhauer insists upon for a philosopher. he wore a hat measuring six and seven eighths on the _cephalometer_ used by hatters, which is equivalent to twenty-one inches and a quarter of circumference. the average size is from seven to seven and an eighth, so that his head was quite small in that dimension. it was long and narrow, but lofty, almost symmetrical, and of more nearly equal breadth in its anterior and posterior regions than many or most heads. his shoulders sloped so much as to be commented upon for this peculiarity by mr. gilfillan, and like "ammon's great son," he carried one shoulder a little higher than the other. his face was thin, his nose somewhat accipitrine, casting a broad shadow; his mouth rather wide, well formed and well closed, carrying a question and an assertion in its finely finished curves; the lower lip a little prominent, the chin shapely and firm, as becomes the corner-stone of the countenance. his expression was calm, sedate, kindly, with that look of refinement, centring about the lips, which is rarely found in the male new englander, unless the family features have been for two or three cultivated generations the battlefield and the playground of varied thoughts and complex emotions as well as the sensuous and nutritive port of entry. his whole look was irradiated by an ever active inquiring intelligence. his manner was noble and gracious. few of our fellow-countrymen have had larger opportunities of seeing distinguished personages than our present minister at the court of st. james. in a recent letter to myself, which i trust mr. lowell will pardon my quoting, he says of emerson:-- "there was a majesty about him beyond all other men i have known, and he habitually dwelt in that ampler and diviner air to which most of us, if ever, only rise in spurts." from members of his own immediate family i have derived some particulars relating to his personality and habits which are deserving of record. his hair was brown, quite fine, and, till he was fifty, very thick. his eyes were of the "strongest and brightest blue." the member of the family who tells me this says:-- "my sister and i have looked for many years to see whether any one else had such absolutely blue eyes, and have never found them except in sea-captains. i have seen three sea-captains who had them." he was not insensible to music, but his gift in that direction was very limited, if we may judge from this family story. when he was in college, and the singing-master was gathering his pupils, emerson presented himself, intending to learn to sing. the master received him, and when his turn came, said to him, "chord!" "what?" said emerson. "chord! chord! i tell you," repeated the master. "i don't know what you mean," said emerson. "why, sing! sing a note." "so i made some kind of a noise, and the singing-master said, 'that will do, sir. you need not come again.'" emerson's mode of living was very simple: coffee in the morning, tea in the evening, animal food by choice only once a day, wine only when with others using it, but always _pie_ at breakfast. "it stood before him and was the first thing eaten." ten o'clock was his bed-time, six his hour of rising until the last ten years of his life, when he rose at seven. work or company sometimes led him to sit up late, and this he could do night after night. he never was hungry,--could go any time from breakfast to tea without food and not know it, but was always ready for food when it was set before him. he always walked from about four in the afternoon till tea-time, and often longer when the day was fine, or he felt that he should work the better. it is plain from his writings that emerson was possessed all his life long with the idea of his constitutional infirmity and insufficiency. he hated invalidism, and had little patience with complaints about ill-health, but in his poems, and once or twice in his letters to carlyle, he expresses himself with freedom about his own bodily inheritance. in , being then but twenty-four years old, he writes:-- "i bear in youth the sad infirmities that use to undo the limb and sense of age." four years later:-- "has god on thee conferred a bodily presence mean as paul's, yet made thee bearer of a word which sleepy nations as with trumpet calls?" and again, in the same year:-- "leave me, fear, thy throbs are base, trembling for the body's sake."-- almost forty years from the first of these dates we find him bewailing in "terminus" his inherited weakness of organization. and in writing to carlyle, he says:-- "you are of the anakirn and know nothing of the debility and postponement of the blonde constitution." again, "i am the victim of miscellany--miscellany of designs, vast debility and procrastination." he thought too much of his bodily insufficiencies, which, it will be observed, he refers to only in his private correspondence, and in that semi-nudity of self-revelation which is the privilege of poetry. his presence was fine and impressive, and his muscular strength was enough to make him a rapid and enduring walker. emerson's voice had a great charm in conversation, as in the lecture-room. it was never loud, never shrill, but singularly penetrating. he was apt to hesitate in the course of a sentence, so as to be sure of the exact word he wanted; picking his way through his vocabulary, to get at the best expression of his thought, as a well-dressed woman crosses the muddy pavement to reach the opposite sidewalk. it was this natural slight and not unpleasant semicolon pausing of the memory which grew upon him in his years of decline, until it rendered conversation laborious and painful to him. he never laughed loudly. when he laughed it was under protest, as it were, with closed doors, his mouth shut, so that the explosion had to seek another respiratory channel, and found its way out quietly, while his eyebrows and nostrils and all his features betrayed the "ground swell," as professor thayer happily called it, of the half-suppressed convulsion. he was averse to loud laughter in others, and objected to margaret fuller that she made him laugh too much. emerson was not rich in some of those natural gifts which are considered the birthright of the new englander. he had not the mechanical turn of the whittling yankee. i once questioned him about his manual dexterity, and he told me he could split a shingle four ways with one nail, --which, as the intention is not to split it at all in fastening it to the roof of a house or elsewhere, i took to be a confession of inaptitude for mechanical works. he does not seem to have been very accomplished in the handling of agricultural implements either, for it is told in the family that his little son, waldo, seeing him at work with a spade, cried out, "take care, papa,--you will dig your leg." he used to regret that he had no ear for music. i have said enough about his verse, which often jars on a sensitive ear, showing a want of the nicest perception of harmonies and discords in the arrangement of the words. there are stories which show that emerson had a retentive memory in the earlier part of his life. it is hard to say from his books whether he had or not, for he jotted down such a multitude of things in his diary that this was a kind of mechanical memory which supplied him with endless materials of thought and subjects for his pen. lover and admirer of plato as emerson was, the doors of the academy, over which was the inscription [greek: maedeis hageometraetos eseito]--let no one unacquainted with geometry enter here,--would have been closed to him. all the exact sciences found him an unwilling learner. he says of himself that he cannot multiply seven by twelve with impunity. in an unpublished manuscript kindly submitted to me by mr. frothingham, emerson is reported as saying, "god has given me the seeing eye, but not the working hand." his gift was insight: he saw the germ through its envelop; the particular in the light of the universal; the fact in connection with the principle; the phenomenon as related to the law; all this not by the slow and sure process of science, but by the sudden and searching flashes of imaginative double vision. he had neither the patience nor the method of the inductive reasoner; he passed from one thought to another not by logical steps but by airy flights, which left no footprints. this mode of intellectual action when found united with natural sagacity becomes poetry, philosophy, wisdom, or prophecy in its various forms of manifestation. without that gift of natural sagacity (_odoratio quaedam venatica_),--a good scent for truth and beauty,--it appears as extravagance, whimsicality, eccentricity, or insanity, according to its degree of aberration. emerson was eminently sane for an idealist. he carried the same sagacity into the ideal world that franklin showed in the affairs of common life. he was constitutionally fastidious, and had to school himself to become able to put up with the terrible inflictions of uncongenial fellowships. we must go to his poems to get at his weaknesses. the clown of the first edition of "monadnoc" "with heart of cat and eyes of bug," disappears in the after-thought of the later version of the poem, but the eye that recognized him and the nature that recoiled from him were there still. what must he not have endured from the persecutions of small-minded worshippers who fastened upon him for the interminable period between the incoming and the outgoing railroad train! he was a model of patience and good temper. we might have feared that he lacked the sensibility to make such intrusions and offences an annoyance. but when mr. frothingham gratifies the public with those most interesting personal recollections which i have had the privilege of looking over, it will be seen that his equanimity, admirable as it was, was not incapable of being disturbed, and that on rare occasions he could give way to the feeling which showed itself of old in the doom pronounced on the barren fig-tree. of emerson's affections his home-life, and those tender poems in memory of his brothers and his son, give all the evidence that could be asked or wished for. his friends were all who knew him, for none could be his enemy; and his simple graciousness of manner, with the sincerity apparent in every look and tone, hardly admitted indifference on the part of any who met him were it but for a single hour. even the little children knew and loved him, and babes in arms returned his angelic smile. of the friends who were longest and most intimately associated with him, it is needless to say much in this place. of those who are living, it is hardly time to speak; of those who are dead, much has already been written. margaret fuller,--i must call my early schoolmate as i best remember her,--leaves her life pictured in the mosaic of five artists,--emerson himself among the number; thoreau is faithfully commemorated in the loving memoir by mr. sanborn; theodore parker lives in the story of his life told by the eloquent mr. weiss; hawthorne awaits his portrait from the master-hand of mr. lowell. how nearly any friend, other than his brothers edward and charles, came to him, i cannot say, indeed i can hardly guess. that "majesty" mr. lowell speaks of always seemed to hedge him round like the divinity that doth hedge a king. what man was he who would lay his hand familiarly upon his shoulder and call him waldo? no disciple of father mathew would be likely to do such a thing. there may have been such irreverent persons, but if any one had so ventured at the "saturday club," it would have produced a sensation like brummel's "george, ring the bell," to the prince regent. his ideas of friendship, as of love, seem almost too exalted for our earthly conditions, and suggest the thought as do many others of his characteristics, that the spirit which animated his mortal frame had missed its way on the shining path to some brighter and better sphere of being. not so did emerson appear among the plain working farmers of the village in which he lived. he was a good, unpretending fellow-citizen who put on no airs, who attended town-meetings, took his part in useful measures, was no great hand at farming, but was esteemed and respected, and felt to be a principal source of attraction to concord, for strangers came flocking to the place as if it held the tomb of washington. * * * * * what was the errand on which he visited our earth,--the message with which he came commissioned from the infinite source of all life? every human soul leaves its port with sealed orders. these may be opened earlier or later on its voyage, but until they are opened no one can tell what is to be his course or to what harbor he is bound. emerson inherited the traditions of the boston pulpit, such as they were, damaged, in the view of the prevailing sects of the country, perhaps by too long contact with the "sons of liberty," and their revolutionary notions. but the most "liberal" boston pulpit still held to many doctrines, forms, and phrases open to the challenge of any independent thinker. in the year this young priest, then a settled minister, "began," as was said of another,--"to be about thirty years of age." he had opened his sealed orders and had read therein: thou shalt not profess that which thou dost not believe. thou shalt not heed the voice of man when it agrees not with the voice of god in thine own soul. thou shalt study and obey the laws of the universe and they will be thy fellow-servants. thou shalt speak the truth as thou seest it, without fear, in the spirit of kindness to all thy fellow-creatures, dealing with the manifold interests of life and the typical characters of history. nature shall be to thee as a symbol. the life of the soul, in conscious union with the infinite, shall be for thee the only real existence. this pleasing show of an external world through which thou art passing is given thee to interpret by the light which is in thee. its least appearance is not unworthy of thy study. let thy soul be open and thine eyes will reveal to thee beauty everywhere. go forth with thy message among thy fellow-creatures; teach them they must trust themselves as guided by that inner light which dwells with the pure in heart, to whom it was promised of old that they shall see god. teach them that each generation begins the world afresh, in perfect freedom; that the present is not the prisoner of the past, but that today holds captive all yesterdays, to compare, to judge, to accept, to reject their teachings, as these are shown by its own morning's sun. to thy fellow-countrymen thou shalt preach the gospel of the new world, that here, here in our america, is the home of man; that here is the promise of a new and more excellent social state than history has recorded. thy life shall be as thy teachings, brave, pure, truthful, beneficent, hopeful, cheerful, hospitable to all honest belief, all sincere thinkers, and active according to thy gifts and opportunities. * * * * * he was true to the orders he had received. through doubts, troubles, privations, opposition, he would not "bate a jot of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer right onward." all through the writings of emerson the spirit of these orders manifests itself. his range of subjects is very wide, ascending to the highest sphere of spiritual contemplation, bordering on that "intense inane" where thought loses itself in breathless ecstasy, and stooping to the homeliest maxims of prudence and the every-day lessons of good manners, and all his work was done, not so much "as ever in his great taskmaster's eye," as in the ever-present sense of divine companionship. he was called to sacrifice his living, his position, his intimacies, to a doubt, and he gave them all up without a murmur. he might have been an idol, and he broke his own pedestal to attack the idolatry which he saw all about him. he gave up a comparatively easy life for a toilsome and trying one; he accepted a precarious employment, which hardly kept him above poverty, rather than wear the golden padlock on his lips which has held fast the conscience of so many pulpit chrysostoms. instead of a volume or two of sermons, bridled with a text and harnessed with a confession of faith, he bequeathed us a long series of discourses and essays in which we know we have his honest thoughts, free from that professional bias which tends to make the pulpit teaching of the fairest-minded preacher follow a diagonal of two forces,--the promptings of his personal and his ecclesiastical opinions. without a church or a pulpit, he soon had a congregation. it was largely made up of young persons of both sexes, young by nature, if not in years, who, tired of routine and formulae, and full of vague aspirations, found in his utterances the oracles they sought. to them, in the words of his friend and neighbor mr. alcott, he "sang his full song of hope and lofty cheer." nor was it only for a few seasons that he drew his audiences of devout listeners around him. another poet, his concord neighbor, mr. sanborn, who listened to him many years after the first flush of novelty was over, felt the same enchantment, and recognized the same inspiring life in his words, which had thrilled the souls of those earlier listeners. "his was the task and his the lordly gift our eyes, our hearts, bent earthward, to uplift." this was his power,--to inspire others, to make life purer, loftier, calmer, brighter. optimism is what the young want, and he could no more help taking the hopeful view of the universe and its future than claude could help flooding his landscapes with sunshine. "nature," published in , "the first clear manifestation of his genius," as mr. norton calls it, revealed him as an idealist and a poet, with a tendency to mysticism. if he had been independent in circumstances, he would doubtless have developed more freely in these directions. but he had his living to get and a family to support, and he must look about him for some paying occupation. the lecture-room naturally presented itself to a scholar accustomed to speaking from the pulpit. this medium of communicating thought was not as yet very popular, and the rewards it offered were but moderate. emerson was of a very hopeful nature, however, and believed in its possibilities. --"i am always haunted with brave dreams of what might be accomplished in the lecture-room,--so free and so unpretending a platform,--a delos not yet made fast. i imagine an eloquence of infinite variety, rich as conversation can be, with anecdote, joke, tragedy, epics and pindarics, argument and confession." so writes emerson to carlyle in . it would be as unfair to overlook the special form in which emerson gave most of his thoughts to the world, as it would be to leave out of view the calling of shakespeare in judging his literary character. emerson was an essayist and a lecturer, as shakespeare was a dramatist and a play-actor. the exigencies of the theatre account for much that is, as it were, accidental in the writings of shakespeare. the demands of the lecture-room account for many peculiarities which are characteristic of emerson as an author. the play must be in five acts, each of a given length. the lecture must fill an hour and not overrun it. both play and lecture must be vivid, varied, picturesque, stimulating, or the audience would tire before the allotted time was over. both writers had this in common: they were poets and moralists. they reproduced the conditions of life in the light of penetrative observation and ideal contemplation; they illustrated its duties in their breach and in their observance, by precepts and well-chosen portraits of character. the particular form in which they wrote makes little difference when we come upon the utterance of a noble truth or an elevated sentiment. it was not a simple matter of choice with the dramatist or the lecturer in what direction they should turn their special gifts. the actor had learned his business on the stage; the lecturer had gone through his apprenticeship in the pulpit. each had his bread to earn, and he must work, and work hard, in the way open before him. for twenty years the playwright wrote dramas, and retired before middle age with a good estate to his native town. for forty years emerson lectured and published lectures, and established himself at length in competence in the village where his ancestors had lived and died before him. he never became rich, as shakespeare did. he was never in easy circumstances until he was nearly seventy years old. lecturing was hard work, but he was under the "base necessity," as he called it, of constant labor, writing in summer, speaking everywhere east and west in the trying and dangerous winter season. he spoke in great cities to such cultivated audiences as no other man could gather about him, and in remote villages where he addressed plain people whose classics were the bible and the "farmer's almanac." wherever he appeared in the lecture-room, he fascinated his listeners by his voice and manner; the music of his speech pleased those who found his thought too subtle for their dull wits to follow. when the lecture had served its purpose, it came before the public in the shape of an essay. but the essay never lost the character it borrowed from the conditions under which it was delivered; it was a lay sermon,--_concio ad populum_. we must always remember what we are dealing with. "expect nothing more of my power of construction,--no ship-building, no clipper, smack, nor skiff even, only boards and logs tied together."--"here i sit and read and write, with very little system, and, as far as regards composition, with the most fragmentary result: paragraphs incompressible, each sentence an infinitely repellent particle." we have then a moralist and a poet appearing as a lecturer and an essayist, and now and then writing in verse. he liked the freedom of the platform. "i preach in the lecture-room," he says, "and there it tells, for there is no prescription. you may laugh, weep, reason, sing, sneer, or pray, according to your genius." in england, he says, "i find this lecturing a key which opens all doors." but he did not tend to overvalue the calling which from "base necessity" he followed so diligently. "incorrigible spouting yankee," he calls himself; and again, "i peddle out all the wit i can gather from time or from nature, and am pained at heart to see how thankfully that little is received." lecture-peddling was a hard business and a poorly paid one in the earlier part of the time when emerson was carrying his precious wares about the country and offering them in competition with the cheapest itinerants, with shilling concerts and negro-minstrel entertainments. but one could get a kind of living out of it if he had invitations enough. i remember emerson's coming to my house to know if i could fill his place at a certain lyceum so that he might accept a very advantageous invitation in another direction. i told him that i was unfortunately engaged for the evening mentioned. he smiled serenely, saying that then he supposed he must give up the new stove for that season. no man would accuse emerson of parsimony of ideas. he crams his pages with the very marrow of his thought. but in weighing out a lecture he was as punctilious as portia about the pound of flesh. his utterance was deliberate and spaced with not infrequent slight delays. exactly at the end of the hour the lecture stopped. suddenly, abruptly, but quietly, without peroration of any sort, always with "a gentle shock of mild surprise" to the unprepared listener. he had weighed out the full measure to his audience with perfect fairness. [greek: oste thalanta gunhae cheruhaetis halaethaes aetestathmhon hechon echousa kahi heirion hamphis hanhelkei ishazous ina paishin haeikhea misthon haraetai,] or, in bryant's version, "as the scales are held by some just woman, who maintains by spinning wool her household,--carefully she poises both the wool and weights, to make the balance even, that she may provide a pittance for her babes."-- as to the charm of his lectures all are agreed. it is needless to handle this subject, for mr. lowell has written upon it. of their effect on his younger listeners he says, "to some of us that long past experience remains the most marvellous and fruitful we have ever had. emerson awakened us, saved us from the body of this death. it is the sound of the trumpet that the young soul longs for, careless of what breath may fill it. sidney heard it in the ballad of 'chevy chase,' and we in emerson. nor did it blow retreat, but called us with assurance of victory." there was, besides these stirring notes, a sweet seriousness in emerson's voice that was infinitely soothing. so might "peace, be still," have sounded from the lips that silenced the storm. i remember that in the dreadful war-time, on one of the days of anguish and terror, i fell in with governor andrew, on his way to a lecture of emerson's, where he was going, he said, to relieve the strain upon his mind. an hour passed in listening to that flow of thought, calm and clear as the diamond drops that distil from a mountain rock, was a true nepenthe for a careworn soul. an author whose writings are like mosaics must have borrowed from many quarries. emerson had read more or less thoroughly through a very wide range of authors. i shall presently show how extensive was his reading. no doubt he had studied certain authors diligently, a few, it would seem, thoroughly. but let no one be frightened away from his pages by the terrible names of plotinus and proclus and porphyry, of behmen or spinoza, or of those modern german philosophers with whom it is not pretended that he had any intimate acquaintance. mr. george ripley, a man of erudition, a keen critic, a lover and admirer of emerson, speaks very plainly of his limitations as a scholar. "as he confesses in the essay on 'books,' his learning is second hand; but everything sticks which his mind can appropriate. he defends the use of translations, and i doubt whether he has ever read ten pages of his great authorities, plato, plutarch, montaigne, or goethe, in the original. he is certainly no friend of profound study any more than of philosophical speculation. give him a few brilliant and suggestive glimpses, and he is content." one correction i must make to this statement. emerson says he has "contrived to read" almost every volume of goethe, and that he has fifty-five of them, but that he has read nothing else in german, and has not looked into him for a long time. this was in , in a letter to carlyle. it was up-hill work, it may be suspected, but he could not well be ignorant of his friend's great idol, and his references to goethe are very frequent. emerson's quotations are like the miraculous draught of fishes. i hardly know his rivals except burton and cotton mather. but no one would accuse him of pedantry. burton quotes to amuse himself and his reader; mather quotes to show his learning, of which he had a vast conceit; emerson quotes to illustrate some original thought of his own, or because another writer's way of thinking falls in with his own,--never with a trivial purpose. reading as he did, he must have unconsciously appropriated a great number of thoughts from others. but he was profuse in his references to those from whom he borrowed,--more profuse than many of his readers would believe without taking the pains to count his authorities. this i thought it worth while to have done, once for all, and i will briefly present the results of the examination. the named references, chiefly to authors, as given in the table before me, are three thousand three hundred and ninety-three, relating to eight hundred and sixty-eight different individuals. of these, four hundred and eleven are mentioned more than once; one hundred and fifty-five, five times or more; sixty-nine, ten times or more; thirty-eight, fifteen times or more; and twenty-seven, twenty times or more. these twenty-seven names alone, the list of which is here given, furnish no less than one thousand and sixty-five references. authorities. number of times mentioned. shakespeare..... napoleon......... plato............ plutarch......... goethe........... swift............ bacon............ milton........... newton........... homer............ socrates......... swedenborg....... montaigne........ saadi............ luther........... webster.......... aristotle........ hafiz............ wordsworth....... burke............ saint paul....... dante............ shattuck (hist. of concord)....... chaucer.......... coleridge........ michael angelo... the name of jesus occurs fifty-four times. it is interesting to observe that montaigne, franklin, and emerson all show the same fondness for plutarch. montaigne says, "i never settled myself to the reading of any book of solid learning but plutarch and seneca." franklin says, speaking of the books in his father's library, "there was among them plutarch's lives, which i read abundantly, and i still think that time spent to great advantage." emerson says, "i must think we are more deeply indebted to him than to all the ancient writers." studies of life and character were the delight of all these four moralists. as a judge of character, dr. hedge, who knew emerson well, has spoken to me of his extraordinary gift, and no reader of "english traits" can have failed to mark the formidable penetration of the intellect which looked through those calm cerulean eyes. _noscitur a sociis_ is as applicable to the books a man most affects as well as to the companions he chooses. it is with the kings of thought that emerson most associates. as to borrowing from his royal acquaintances his ideas are very simple and expressed without reserve. "all minds quote. old and new make the warp and woof of every moment. there is no thread that is not a twist of these two strands. by necessity, by proclivity, and by delight, we all quote." what emerson says of plutarch applies very nearly to himself. "in his immense quotation and allusion we quickly cease to discriminate between what he quotes and what he invents. we sail on his memory into the ports of every nation, enter into every private property, and do not stop to discriminate owners, but give him the praise of all." mr. ruskin and lord tennyson have thought it worth their while to defend themselves from the charge of plagiarism. emerson would never have taken the trouble to do such a thing. his mind was overflowing with thought as a river in the season of flood, and was full of floating fragments from an endless variety of sources. he drew ashore whatever he wanted that would serve his purpose. he makes no secret of his mode of writing. "i dot evermore in my endless journal, a line on every knowable in nature; but the arrangement loiters long, and i get a brick-kiln instead of a house." his journal is "full of disjointed dreams and audacities." writing by the aid of this, it is natural enough that he should speak of his "lapidary style" and say "i build my house of boulders." "it is to be remembered," says mr. ruskin, "that all men who have sense and feeling are continually helped: they are taught by every person they meet, and enriched by everything that falls in their way. the greatest is he who has been oftenest aided; and if the attainments of all human minds could be traced to their real sources, it would be found that the world had been laid most under contribution by the men of most original powers, and that every day of their existence deepened their debt to their race, while it enlarged their gifts to it." the reader may like to see a few coincidences between emerson's words and thoughts and those of others. some sayings seem to be a kind of family property. "scorn trifles" comes from aunt mary moody emerson, and reappears in her nephew, ralph waldo.--"what right have you, sir, to your virtue? is virtue piecemeal? this is a jewel among the rags of a beggar." so writes ralph waldo emerson in his lecture "new england reformers."--"hiding the badges of royalty beneath the gown of the mendicant, and ever on the watch lest their rank be betrayed by the sparkle of a gem from under their rags." thus wrote charles chauncy emerson in the "harvard register" nearly twenty years before. "the hero is not fed on sweets, daily his own heart he eats." the image comes from pythagoras _via_ plutarch. now and then, but not with any questionable frequency, we find a sentence which recalls carlyle. "the national temper, in the civil history, is not flashy or whiffling. the slow, deep english mass smoulders with fire, which at last sets all its borders in flame. the wrath of london is not french wrath, but has a long memory, and in hottest heat a register and rule." compare this passage from "english traits" with the following one from carlyle's "french revolution":-- "so long this gallic fire, through its successive changes of color and character, will blaze over the face of europe, and afflict and scorch all men:--till it provoke all men, till it kindle another kind of fire, the teutonic kind, namely; and be swallowed up, so to speak, in a day! for there is a fire comparable to the burning of dry jungle and grass; most sudden, high-blazing: and another fire which we liken to the burning of coal, or even of anthracite coal, but which no known thing will put out." "o what are heroes, prophets, men but pipes through which the breath of man doth blow a momentary music." the reader will find a similar image in one of burns's letters, again in one of coleridge's poetical fragments, and long before any of them, in a letter of leibnitz. "he builded better than he knew" is the most frequently quoted line of emerson. the thought is constantly recurring in our literature. it helps out the minister's sermon; and a fourth of july oration which does not borrow it is like the "address without a phoenix" among the drury lane mock poems. can we find any trace of this idea elsewhere? in a little poem of coleridge's, "william tell," are these two lines: "on wind and wave the boy would toss was great, nor knew how great he was." the thought is fully worked out in the celebrated essay of carlyle called "characteristics." it reappears in emerson's poem "fate." "unknown to cromwell as to me was cromwell's measure and degree; unknown to him as to his horse, if he than his groom is better or worse." it is unnecessary to illustrate this point any further in this connection. in dealing with his poetry other resemblances will suggest themselves. all the best poetry the world has known is full of such resemblances. if we find emerson's wonderful picture, "initial love" prefigured in the "symposium" of plato, we have only to look in the "phaedrus" and we we shall find an earlier sketch of shakespeare's famous group,-- "the lunatic, the lover, and the poet." sometimes these resemblances are nothing more than accidental coincidences; sometimes the similar passages are unconsciously borrowed from another; sometimes they are paraphrases, variations, embellished copies, _éditions de luxe_ of sayings that all the world knows are old, but which it seems to the writer worth his while to say over again. the more improved versions of the world's great thoughts we have, the better, and we look to the great minds for them. the larger the river the more streams flow into it. the wide flood of emerson's discourse has a hundred rivers and thousands of streamlets for its tributaries. it was not from books only that he gathered food for thought and for his lectures and essays. he was always on the lookout in conversation for things to be remembered. he picked up facts one would not have expected him to care for. he once corrected me in giving flora temple's time at kalamazoo. i made a mistake of a quarter of a second, and he set me right. he was not always so exact in his memory, as i have already shown in several instances. another example is where he speaks of quintus curtius, the historian, when he is thinking of mettus curtius, the self-sacrificing equestrian. little inaccuracies of this kind did not concern him much; he was a wholesale dealer in illustrations, and could not trouble himself about a trifling defect in this or that particular article. emerson was a man who influenced others more than others influenced him. outside of his family connections, the personalities which can be most easily traced in his own are those of carlyle, mr. alcott, and thoreau. carlyle's harsh virility could not be without its effect on his valid, but sensitive nature. alcott's psychological and physiological speculations interested him as an idealist. thoreau lent him a new set of organs of sense of wonderful delicacy. emerson looked at nature as a poet, and his natural history, if left to himself, would have been as vague as that of polonius. but thoreau had a pair of eyes which, like those of the indian deity, could see the smallest emmet on the blackest stone in the darkest night,--or come nearer to seeing it than those of most mortals. emerson's long intimacy with him taught him to give an outline to many natural objects which would have been poetic nebulae to him but for this companionship. a nicer analysis would detect many alien elements mixed with his individuality, but the family traits predominated over all the external influences, and the personality stood out distinct from the common family qualities. mr. whipple has well said: "some traits of his mind and character may be traced back to his ancestors, but what doctrine of heredity can give us the genesis of his genius? indeed the safest course to pursue is to quote his own words, and despairingly confess that it is the nature of genius 'to spring, like the rainbow daughter of wonder, from the invisible, to abolish the past and refuse all history.'" * * * * * emerson's place as a thinker is somewhat difficult to fix. he cannot properly be called a psychologist. he made notes and even delivered lectures on the natural history of the intellect; but they seem to have been made up, according to his own statement, of hints and fragments rather than of the results of systematic study. he was a man of intuition, of insight, a seer, a poet, with a tendency to mysticism. this tendency renders him sometimes obscure, and once in a while almost, if not quite, unintelligible. we can, for this reason, understand why the great lawyer turned him over to his daughters, and dr. walter channing complained that his lecture made his head ache. but it is not always a writer's fault that he is not understood. many persons have poor heads for abstractions; and as for mystics, if they understand themselves it is quite as much as can be expected. but that which is mysticism to a dull listener may be the highest and most inspiring imaginative clairvoyance to a brighter one. it is to be hoped that no reader will take offence at the following anecdote, which may be found under the title "diogenes," in the work of his namesake, diogenes laertius. i translate from the latin version. "plato was talking about ideas, and spoke of _mensality_ and _cyathity_ [_tableity_, and _gobletity_]. 'i can see a table and a goblet,' said the cynic, 'but i can see no such things as tableity and gobletity.' 'quite so,' answered plato, 'because you have the eyes to see a goblet and a table with, but you have not the brains to understand tableity and gobletity.'" this anecdote may be profitably borne in mind in following emerson into the spheres of intuition and mystical contemplation. emerson was an idealist in the platonic sense of the word, a spiritualist as opposed to a materialist. he believes, he says, "as the wise spenser teaches," that the soul makes its own body. this, of course, involves the doctrine of preexistence; a doctrine older than spenser, older than plato or pythagoras, having its cradle in india, fighting its way down through greek philosophers and christian fathers and german professors, to our own time, when it has found pierre leroux, edward beecher, and brigham young among its numerous advocates. each has his fancies on the subject. the geography of an undiscovered country and the soundings of an ocean that has never been sailed over may belong to romance and poetry, but they do not belong to the realm of knowledge. that the organ of the mind brings with it inherited aptitudes is a simple matter of observation. that it inherits truths is a different proposition. the eye does not bring landscapes into the world on its retina,--why should the brain bring thoughts? poetry settles such questions very simply by saying it is so. the poet in emerson never accurately differentiated itself from the philosopher. he speaks of wordsworth's ode on the intimations of immortality as the high-water mark of the poetry of this century. it sometimes seems as if he had accepted the lofty rhapsodies of this noble ode as working truths. "not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from god, who is our home." in accordance with this statement of a divine inheritance from a preexisting state, the poet addresses the infant:-- "mighty prophet! seer blest! on whom those truths do rest which we are toiling all our lives to find."-- these are beautiful fancies, but the philosopher will naturally ask the poet what are the truths which the child has lost between its cradle and the age of eight years, at which wordsworth finds the little girl of whom he speaks in the lines,-- "a simple child-- that lightly draws its breath and feels its life in every limb,-- what should it know of death?" what should it, sure enough, or of any other of those great truths which time with its lessons, and the hardening of the pulpy brain can alone render appreciable to the consciousness? undoubtedly every brain has its own set of moulds ready to shape all material of thought into its own individual set of patterns. if the mind comes into consciousness with a good set of moulds derived by "traduction," as dryden called it, from a good ancestry, it may be all very well to give the counsel to the youth to plant himself on his instincts. but the individual to whom this counsel is given probably has dangerous as well as wholesome instincts. he has also a great deal besides the instincts to be considered. his instincts are mixed up with innumerable acquired prejudices, erroneous conclusions, deceptive experiences, partial truths, one-sided tendencies. the clearest insight will often find it hard to decide what is the real instinct, and whether the instinct itself is, in theological language, from god or the devil. that which was a safe guide for emerson might not work well with lacenaire or jesse pomeroy. the cloud of glory which the babe brings with it into the world is a good set of instincts, which dispose it to accept moral and intellectual truths,--not the truths themselves. and too many children come into life trailing after them clouds which are anything but clouds of glory. it may well be imagined that when emerson proclaimed the new doctrine,--new to his young disciples,--of planting themselves on their instincts, consulting their own spiritual light for guidance,--trusting to intuition,--without reference to any other authority, he opened the door to extravagances in any unbalanced minds, if such there were, which listened to his teachings. too much was expected out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. the children shut up by psammetichus got as far as one word in their evolution of an original language, but _bekkos_ was a very small contribution towards a complete vocabulary. "the dial" was well charged with intuitions, but there was too much vagueness, incoherence, aspiration without energy, effort without inspiration, to satisfy those who were looking for a new revelation. the gospel of intuition proved to be practically nothing more or less than this: a new manifesto of intellectual and spiritual independence. it was no great discovery that we see many things as truths which we cannot prove. but it was a great impulse to thought, a great advance in the attitude of our thinking community, when the profoundly devout religious free-thinker took the ground of the undevout and irreligious free-thinker, and calmly asserted and peaceably established the right and the duty of the individual to weigh the universe, its laws and its legends, in his own balance, without fear of authority, or names, or institutions. all this brought its dangers with it, like other movements of emancipation. for the fay _ce que voudras_ of the revellers of medmenham abbey, was substituted the new motto, pense _ce que voudras_. there was an intoxication in this newly proclaimed evangel which took hold of some susceptible natures and betrayed itself in prose and rhyme, occasionally of the bedlam sort. emerson's disciples were never accused of falling into the more perilous snares of antinomianism, but he himself distinctly recognizes the danger of it, and the counterbalancing effect of household life, with its curtain lectures and other benign influences. extravagances of opinion cure themselves. time wore off the effects of the harmless debauch, and restored the giddy revellers to the regimen of sober thought, as reformed spiritual inebriates. such were some of the incidental effects of the emersonian declaration of independence. it was followed by a revolutionary war of opinion not yet ended or at present like to be. a local outbreak, if you will, but so was throwing the tea overboard. a provincial affair, if the bohemian press likes that term better, but so was the skirmish where the gun was fired the echo of which is heard in every battle for freedom all over the world. * * * * * too much has been made of emerson's mysticism. he was an intellectual rather than an emotional mystic, and withal a cautious one. he never let go the string of his balloon. he never threw over all his ballast of common sense so as to rise above an atmosphere in which a rational being could breathe. i found in his library william law's edition of jacob behmen. there were all those wonderful diagrams over which the reader may have grown dizzy,--just such as one finds on the walls of lunatic asylums,--evidences to all sane minds of cerebral strabismus in the contrivers of them. emerson liked to lose himself for a little while in the vagaries of this class of minds, the dangerous proximity of which to insanity he knew and has spoken of. he played with the incommunicable, the inconceivable, the absolute, the antinomies, as he would have played with a bundle of jack-straws. "brahma," the poem which so mystified the readers of the "atlantic monthly," was one of his spiritual divertisements. to the average western mind it is the nearest approach to a torricellian vacuum of intelligibility that language can pump out of itself. if "rejected addresses" had not been written half a century before emerson's poem, one would think these lines were certainly meant to ridicule and parody it. "the song of braham is an irish howl; thinking is but an idle waste of thought, and nought is everything and everything is nought." braham, hazlitt might have said, is so obviously the anagram of brahma that dulness itself could not mistake the object intended. of course no one can hold emerson responsible for the "yoga" doctrine of brahmanism, which he has amused himself with putting in verse. the oriental side of emerson's nature delighted itself in these narcotic dreams, born in the land of the poppy and of hashish. they lend a peculiar charm to his poems, but it is not worth while to try to construct a philosophy out of them. the knowledge, if knowledge it be, of the mystic is not transmissible. it is not cumulative; it begins and ends with the solitary dreamer, and the next who follows him has to build his own cloud-castle as if it were the first aerial edifice that a human soul had ever constructed. some passages of "nature," "the over-soul," "the sphinx," "uriel," illustrate sufficiently this mood of spiritual exaltation. emerson's calm temperament never allowed it to reach the condition he sometimes refers to,--that of ecstasy. the passage in "nature" where he says "i become a transparent eyeball" is about as near it as he ever came. this was almost too much for some of his admirers and worshippers. one of his most ardent and faithful followers, whose gifts as an artist are well known, mounted the eyeball on legs, and with its cornea in front for a countenance and its optic nerve projecting behind as a queue, the spiritual cyclops was shown setting forth on his travels. emerson's reflections in the "transcendental" mood do beyond question sometimes irresistibly suggest the close neighborhood of the sublime to the ridiculous. but very near that precipitous border line there is a charmed region where, if the statelier growths of philosophy die out and disappear, the flowers of poetry next the very edge of the chasm have a peculiar and mysterious beauty. "uriel" is a poem which finds itself perilously near to the gulf of unsounded obscurity, and has, i doubt not, provoked the mirth of profane readers; but read in a lucid moment, it is just obscure enough and just significant enough to give the voltaic thrill which comes from the sudden contacts of the highest imaginative conceptions. human personality presented itself to emerson as a passing phase of universal being. born of the infinite, to the infinite it was to return. sometimes he treats his own personality as interchangeable with objects in nature,--he would put it off like a garment and clothe himself in the landscape. here is a curious extract from "the adirondacs," in which the reader need not stop to notice the parallelism with byron's-- "the sky is changed,--and such a change! o night and storm and darkness, ye are wondrous strong."-- now emerson:-- "and presently the sky is changed; o world! what pictures and what harmonies are thine! the clouds are rich and dark, the air serene, _so like the soul of me, what if't were me_?" we find this idea of confused personal identity also in a brief poem printed among the "translations" in the appendix to emerson's poems. these are the last two lines of "the flute, from hilali":-- "saying, sweetheart! the old mystery remains, if i am i; thou, thou, or thou art i?" the same transfer of personality is hinted in the line of shelley's "ode to the west wind": "be thou, spirit fierce, my spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!" once more, how fearfully near the abyss of the ridiculous! a few drops of alcohol bring about a confusion of mind not unlike this poetical metempsychosis. the laird of balnamoon had been at a dinner where they gave him cherry-brandy instead of port wine. in driving home over a wild tract of land called munrimmon moor his hat and wig blew off, and his servant got out of the gig and brought them to him. the hat he recognized, but not the wig. "it's no my wig, hairy [harry], lad; it's no my wig," and he would not touch it. at last harry lost his patience: "ye'd better tak' it, sir, for there's nae waile [choice] o' wigs on munrimmon moor." and in our earlier days we used to read of the bewildered market-woman, whose _ego_ was so obscured when she awoke from her slumbers that she had to leave the question of her personal identity to the instinct of her four-footed companion:-- "if it be i, he'll wag his little tail; and if it be not i, he'll loudly bark and wail." i have not lost my reverence for emerson in showing one of his fancies for a moment in the distorting mirror of the ridiculous. he would doubtless have smiled with me at the reflection, for he had a keen sense of humor. but i take the opportunity to disclaim a jesting remark about "a foresmell of the infinite" which mr. conway has attributed to me, who am innocent of all connection with it. the mystic appeals to those only who have an ear for the celestial concords, as the musician only appeals to those who have the special endowment which enables them to understand his compositions. it is not for organizations untuned to earthly music to criticise the great composers, or for those who are deaf to spiritual harmonies to criticise the higher natures which lose themselves in the strains of divine contemplation. the bewildered reader must not forget that passage of arms, previously mentioned, between plato and diogenes. * * * * * emerson looked rather askance at science in his early days. i remember that his brother charles had something to say in the "harvard register" ( ) about its disenchantments. i suspect the prejudice may have come partly from wordsworth. compare this verse of his with the lines of emerson's which follow it. "physician art thou, one all eyes; philosopher, a fingering slave, one that would peep and botanize upon his mother's grave?" emerson's lines are to be found near the end of the appendix in the new edition of his works. "philosophers are lined with eyes within, and, being so, the sage unmakes the man. in love he cannot therefore cease his trade; scarce the first blush has overspread his cheek, he feels it, introverts his learned eye to catch the unconscious heart in the very act. his mother died,--the only friend he had,-- some tears escaped, but his philosophy couched like a cat, sat watching close behind and throttled all his passion. is't not like that devil-spider that devours her mate scarce freed from her embraces?" the same feeling comes out in the poem "blight," where he says the "young scholars who invade our hills" "love not the flower they pluck, and know it not, and all their botany is latin names;" and in "the walk," where the "learned men" with their glasses are contrasted with the sons of nature,--the poets are no doubt meant,--much to the disadvantage of the microscopic observers. emerson's mind was very far from being of the scientific pattern. science is quantitative,--loves the foot-rule and the balance,--methodical, exhaustive, indifferent to the beautiful as such. the poet is curious, asks all manner of questions, and never thinks of waiting for the answer, still less of torturing nature to get at it. emerson wonders, for instance,-- "why nature loves the number five," but leaves his note of interrogation without troubling himself any farther. he must have picked up some wood-craft and a little botany from thoreau, and a few chemical notions from his brother-in-law, dr. jackson, whose name is associated with the discovery of artificial anaesthesia. it seems probable that the genial companionship of agassiz, who united with his scientific genius, learning, and renown, most delightful social qualities, gave him a kinder feeling to men of science and their pursuits than he had entertained before that great master came among us. at any rate he avails himself of the facts drawn from their specialties without scruple when they will serve his turn. but he loves the poet always better than the scientific student of nature. in his preface to the poems of mr. w.e. channing, he says:-- "here is a naturalist who sees the flower and the bud with a poet's curiosity and awe, and does not count the stamens in the aster, nor the feathers in the wood-thrush, but rests in the surprise and affection they awake."-- this was emerson's own instinctive attitude to all the phenomena of nature. emerson's style is epigrammatic, incisive, authoritative, sometimes quaint, never obscure, except when he is handling nebulous subjects. his paragraphs are full of brittle sentences that break apart and are independent units, like the fragments of a coral colony. his imagery is frequently daring, leaping from the concrete to the abstract, from the special to the general and universal, and _vice versa_, with a bound that is like a flight. here are a few specimens of his pleasing _audacities_:-- "there is plenty of wild azote and carbon unappropriated, but it is naught till we have made it up into loaves and soup."-- "he arrives at the sea-shore and a sumptuous ship has floored and carpeted for him the stormy atlantic."-- "if we weave a yard of tape in all humility and as well as we can, long hereafter we shall see it was no cotton tape at all but some galaxy which we braided, and that the threads were time and nature."-- "tapping the tempest for a little side wind."-- "the locomotive and the steamboat, like enormous shuttles, shoot every day across the thousand various threads of national descent and employment and bind them fast in one web."-- he is fond of certain archaisms and unusual phrases. he likes the expression "mother-wit," which he finds in spenser, marlowe, shakespeare, and other old writers. he often uses the word "husband" in its earlier sense of economist. his use of the word "haughty" is so fitting, and it sounds so nobly from his lips, that we could wish its employment were forbidden henceforth to voices which vulgarize it. but his special, constitutional, word is "fine," meaning something like dainty, as shakespeare uses it,--"my dainty ariel,"--"fine ariel." it belongs to his habit of mind and body as "faint" and "swoon" belong to keats. this word is one of the ear-marks by which emerson's imitators are easily recognized. "melioration" is another favorite word of emerson's. a clairvoyant could spell out some of his most characteristic traits by the aid of his use of these three words; his inborn fastidiousness, subdued and kept out of sight by his large charity and his good breeding, showed itself in his liking for the word "haughty;" his exquisite delicacy by his fondness for the word "fine," with a certain shade of meaning; his optimism in the frequent recurrence of the word "melioration." we must not find fault with his semi-detached sentences until we quarrel with solomon and criticise the sermon on the mount. the "point and surprise" which he speaks of as characterizing the style of plutarch belong eminently to his own. his fertility of illustrative imagery is very great. his images are noble, or, if borrowed from humble objects, ennobled by his handling. he throws his royal robe over a milking-stool and it becomes a throne. but chiefly he chooses objects of comparison grand in themselves. he deals with the elements at first hand. such delicacy of treatment, with such breadth and force of effect, is hard to match anywhere, and we know him by his style at sight. it is as when the slight fingers of a girl touch the keys of some mighty and many-voiced organ, and send its thunders rolling along the aisles and startling the stained windows of a great cathedral. we have seen him as an unpretending lecturer. we follow him round as he "peddles out all the wit he can gather from time or from nature," and we find that "he has changed his market cart into a chariot of the sun," and is carrying about the morning light as merchandise. * * * * * emerson was as loyal an american, as thorough a new englander, as home-loving a citizen, as ever lived. he arraigned his countrymen sharply for their faults. mr. arnold made one string of his epithets familiar to all of us,--"this great, intelligent, sensual, and avaricious america." this was from a private letter to carlyle. in his essay, "works and days," he is quite as outspoken: "this mendicant america, this curious, peering, itinerant, imitative america." "i see plainly," he says, "that our society is as bigoted to the respectabilities of religion and education as yours." "the war," he says, "gave back integrity to this erring and immoral nation." all his life long he recognized the faults and errors of the new civilization. all his life long he labored diligently and lovingly to correct them. to the dark prophecies of carlyle, which came wailing to him across the ocean, he answered with ever hopeful and cheerful anticipations. "here," he said, in words i have already borrowed, "is the home of man--here is the promise of a new and more excellent social state than history has recorded." such a man as emerson belongs to no one town or province or continent; he is the common property of mankind; and yet we love to think of him as breathing the same air and treading the same soil that we and our fathers and our children have breathed and trodden. so it pleases us to think how fondly he remembered his birthplace; and by the side of franklin's bequest to his native city we treasure that golden verse of emerson's:-- "a blessing through the ages thus shield all thy roofs and towers, god with the fathers, so with us, thou darling town of ours!" emerson sympathized with all generous public movements, but he was not fond of working in associations, though he liked well enough to attend their meetings as a listener and looker-on. his study was his workshop, and he preferred to labor in solitude. when he became famous he paid the penalty of celebrity in frequent interruptions by those "devastators of the day" who sought him in his quiet retreat. his courtesy and kindness to his visitors were uniform and remarkable. poets who come to recite their verses and reformers who come to explain their projects are among the most formidable of earthly visitations. emerson accepted his martyrdom with meek submission; it was a martyrdom in detail, but collectively its petty tortures might have satisfied a reasonable inquisitor as the punishment of a moderate heresy. except in that one phrase above quoted he never complained of his social oppressors, so far as i remember, in his writings. his perfect amiability was one of his most striking characteristics, and in a nature fastidious as was his in its whole organization, it implied a self-command worthy of admiration. * * * * * the natural purity and elevation of emerson's character show themselves in all that he writes. his life corresponded to the ideal we form of him from his writings. this it was which made him invulnerable amidst all the fierce conflicts his gentle words excited. his white shield was so spotless that the least scrupulous combatants did not like to leave their defacing marks upon it. one would think he was protected by some superstition like that which voltaire refers to as existing about boileau,-- "ne disons pas mal de nicolas,--cela porte malheur." (don't let us abuse nicolas,--it brings ill luck.) the cooped-up dogmatists whose very citadel of belief he was attacking, and who had their hot water and boiling pitch and flaming brimstone ready for the assailants of their outer defences, withheld their missiles from him, and even sometimes, in a movement of involuntary human sympathy, sprinkled him with rose-water. his position in our puritan new england was in some respects like that of burns in presbyterian scotland. the _dour_ scotch ministers and elders could not cage their minstrel, and they could not clip his wings; and so they let this morning lark rise above their theological mists, and sing to them at heaven's gate, until he had softened all their hearts and might nestle in their bosoms and find his perch on "the big ha' bible," if he would,--and as he did. so did the music of emerson's words and life steal into the hearts of our stern new england theologians, and soften them to a temper which would have seemed treasonable weakness to their stiff-kneed forefathers. when a man lives a life commended by all the christian virtues, enlightened persons are not so apt to cavil at his particular beliefs or unbeliefs as in former generations. we do, however, wish to know what are the convictions of any such persons in matters of highest interest about which there is so much honest difference of opinion in this age of deep and anxious and devout religious scepticism. it was a very wise and a very prudent course which was taken by simonides, when he was asked by his imperial master to give him his ideas about the deity. he begged for a day to consider the question, but when the time came for his answer he wanted two days more, and at the end of these, four days. in short, the more he thought about it, the more he found himself perplexed. the name most frequently applied to emerson's form of belief is pantheism. how many persons who shudder at the sound of this word can tell the difference between that doctrine and their own professed belief in the omnipresence of the deity? theodore parker explained emerson's position, as he understood it, in an article in the "massachusetts quarterly review." i borrow this quotation from mr. cooke:-- "he has an absolute confidence in god. he has been foolishly accused of pantheism, which sinks god in nature, but no man is further from it. he never sinks god in man; he does not stop with the law, in matter or morals, but goes to the law-giver; yet probably it would not be so easy for him to give his definition of god, as it would be for most graduates at andover or cambridge." we read in his essay, "self-reliance ": "this is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this, as on every topic, the resolution of all into the ever-blessed one. self-existence is the attribute of the supreme cause, and it constitutes the measure of good by the degree in which it enters into all lower forms." the "ever-blessed one" of emerson corresponds to the father in the doctrine of the trinity. the "over-soul" of emerson is that aspect of deity which is known to theology as the holy spirit. jesus was for him a divine manifestation, but only as other great human souls have been in all ages and are to-day. he was willing to be called a christian just as he was willing to be called a platonist. explanations are apt not to explain much in dealing with subjects like this. "canst thou by searching find out god? canst thou find out the almighty unto perfection?" but on certain great points nothing could be clearer than the teaching of emerson. he believed in the doctrine of spiritual influx as sincerely as any calvinist or swedenborgian. his views as to fate, or the determining conditions of the character, brought him near enough to the doctrine of predestination to make him afraid of its consequences, and led him to enter a caveat against any denial of the self-governing power of the will. his creed was a brief one, but he carried it everywhere with him. in all he did, in all he said, and so far as all outward signs could show, in all his thoughts, the indwelling spirit was his light and guide; through all nature he looked up to nature's god; and if he did not worship the "man christ jesus" as the churches of christendom have done, he followed his footsteps so nearly that our good methodist, father taylor, spoke of him as more like christ than any man he had known. emerson was in friendly relations with many clergymen of the church from which he had parted. since he left the pulpit, the lesson, not of tolerance, for that word is an insult as applied by one set of well-behaved people to another, not of charity, for that implies an impertinent assumption, but of good feeling on the part of divergent sects and their ministers has been taught and learned as never before. their official confessions of faith make far less difference in their human sentiments and relations than they did even half a century ago. these ancient creeds are handed along down, to be kept in their phials with their stoppers fast, as attar of rose is kept in its little bottles; they are not to be opened and exposed to the atmosphere so long as their perfume,--the odor of sanctity,--is diffused from the carefully treasured receptacles,--perhaps even longer than that. out of the endless opinions as to the significance and final outcome of emerson's religious teachings i will select two as typical. dr. william hague, long the honored minister of a baptist church in boston, where i had the pleasure of friendly acquaintance with him, has written a thoughtful, amiable paper on emerson, which he read before the new york genealogical and biographical society. this essay closes with the following sentence:-- "thus, to-day, while musing, as at the beginning, over the works of ralph waldo emerson, we recognize now as ever his imperial genius as one of the greatest of writers; at the same time, his life work, as a whole, tested by its supreme ideal, its method and its fruitage, shows also a great waste of power, verifying the saying of jesus touching the harvest of human life: 'he that gathereth not with me scattereth abroad.'" "but when dean stanley returned from america, it was to report," says mr. conway "('macmillan,' june, ), that religion had there passed through an evolution from edwards to emerson, and that 'the genial atmosphere which emerson has done so much to promote is shared by all the churches equally.'" what is this "genial atmosphere" but the very spirit of christianity? the good baptist minister's essay is full of it. he comes asking what has become of emerson's "wasted power" and lamenting his lack of "fruitage," and lo! he himself has so ripened and mellowed in that same emersonian air that the tree to which he belongs would hardly know him. the close-communion clergyman handles the arch-heretic as tenderly as if he were the nursing mother of a new infant messiah. a few generations ago this preacher of a new gospel would have been burned; a little later he would been tried and imprisoned; less than fifty years ago he was called infidel and atheist; names which are fast becoming relinquished to the intellectual half-breeds who sometimes find their way into pulpits and the so-called religious periodicals. it is not within our best-fenced churches and creeds that the self-governing american is like to find the religious freedom which the concord prophet asserted with the strength of luther and the sweetness of melancthon, and which the sovereign in his shirt-sleeves will surely claim. milton was only the precursor of emerson when he wrote:-- "neither is god appointed and confined, where and out of what place these his chosen shall be first heard to speak; for he sees not as man sees, chooses not as man chooses, lest we should devote ourselves again to set places and assemblies, and outward callings of men, planting our faith one while in the old convocation house, and another while in the chapel at westminster, when all the faith and religion that shall be there canonized is not sufficient without plain convincement, and the charity of patient instruction, to supple the least bruise of conscience, to edify the meanest christian who desires to walk in the spirit and not in the letter of human trust, for all the number of voices that can be there made; no, though harry the seventh himself there, with all his liege tombs about him, should lend their voices from the dead, to swell their number." the best evidence of the effect produced by emerson's writings and life is to be found in the attention he has received from biographers and critics. the ground upon which i have ventured was already occupied by three considerable memoirs. mr. george willis cooke's elaborate work is remarkable for its careful and thorough analysis of emerson's teachings. mr. moncure daniel conway's "emerson at home and abroad" is a lively picture of its subject by one long and well acquainted with him. mr. alexander ireland's "biographical sketch" brings together, from a great variety of sources, as well as from his own recollections, the facts of emerson's history and the comments of those whose opinions were best worth reproducing. i must refer to this volume for a bibliography of the various works and essays of which emerson furnished the subject. from the days when mr. whipple attracted the attention of our intelligent, but unawakened reading community, by his discriminating and appreciative criticisms of emerson's lectures, and mr. lowell drew the portrait of the new england "plotinus-montaigne" in his brilliant "fable for critics," to the recent essays of mr. matthew arnold, mr. john morley, mr. henry norman, and mr. edmund clarence stedman, emerson's writings have furnished one of the most enduring _pièces de résistance_ at the critical tables of the old and the new world. he early won the admiration of distinguished european thinkers and writers: carlyle accepted his friendship and his disinterested services; miss martineau fully recognized his genius and sounded his praises; miss bremer fixed her sharp eyes on him and pronounced him "a noble man." professor tyndall found the inspiration of his life in emerson's fresh thought; and mr. arnold, who clipped his medals reverently but unsparingly, confessed them to be of pure gold, even while he questioned whether they would pass current with posterity. he found discerning critics in france, germany, and holland. better than all is the testimony of those who knew him best. they who repeat the saying that "a prophet is not without honor save in his own country," will find an exception to its truth in the case of emerson. read the impressive words spoken at his funeral by his fellow-townsman, judge hoar; read the glowing tributes of three of concord's poets,--mr. alcott, mr. channing, and mr. sanborn,--and it will appear plainly enough that he, whose fame had gone out into all the earth, was most of all believed in, honored, beloved, lamented, in the little village circle that centred about his own fireside. it is a not uninteresting question whether emerson has bequeathed to the language any essay or poem which will resist the flow of time like "the adamant of shakespeare," and remain a classic like the essays of addison or gray's elegy. it is a far more important question whether his thought entered into the spirit of his day and generation, so that it modified the higher intellectual, moral, and religious life of his time, and, as a necessary consequence, those of succeeding ages. _corpora non agunt nisi soluta_, and ideas must be dissolved and taken up as well as material substances before they can act. "that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die," or rather lose the form with which it was sown. eight stanzas of four lines each have made the author of "the burial of sir john moore" an immortal, and endowed the language with a classic, perfect as the most finished cameo. but what is the gift of a mourning ring to the bequest of a perpetual annuity? how many lives have melted into the history of their time, as the gold was lost in corinthian brass, leaving no separate monumental trace of their influence, but adding weight and color and worth to the age of which they formed a part and the generations that came after them! we can dare to predict of emerson, in the words of his old friend and disciple, mr. cranch:-- "the wise will know thee and the good will love, the age to come will feel thy impress given in all that lifts the race a step above itself, and stamps it with the seal of heaven." it seems to us, to-day, that emerson's best literary work in prose and verse must live as long as the language lasts; but whether it live or fade from memory, the influence of his great and noble life and the spoken and written words which were its exponents, blends, indestructible, with the enduring elements of civilization. * * * * * it is not irreverent, but eminently fitting, to compare any singularly pure and virtuous life with that of the great exemplar in whose footsteps christendom professes to follow. the time was when the divine authority of his gospel rested chiefly upon the miracles he is reported to have wrought. as the faith in these exceptions to the general laws of the universe diminished, the teachings of the master, of whom it was said that he spoke as never man spoke, were more largely relied upon as evidence of his divine mission. now, when a comparison of these teachings with those of other religious leaders is thought by many to have somewhat lessened the force of this argument, the life of the sinless and self-devoted servant of god and friend of man is appealed to as the last and convincing proof that he was an immediate manifestation of the divinity. judged by his life emerson comes very near our best ideal of humanity. he was born too late for the trial of the cross or the stake, or even the jail. but the penalty of having an opinion of his own and expressing it was a serious one, and he accepted it as cheerfully as any of queen mary's martyrs accepted his fiery baptism. his faith was too large and too deep for the formulae he found built into the pulpit, and he was too honest to cover up his doubts under the flowing vestments of a sacred calling. his writings, whether in prose or verse, are worthy of admiration, but his manhood was the underlying quality which gave them their true value. it was in virtue of this that his rare genius acted on so many minds as a trumpet call to awaken them to the meaning and the privileges of this earthly existence with all its infinite promise. no matter of what he wrote or spoke, his words, his tones, his looks, carried the evidence of a sincerity which pervaded them all and was to his eloquence and poetry like the water of crystallization; without which they would effloresce into mere rhetoric. he shaped an ideal for the commonest life, he proposed an object to the humblest seeker after truth. look for beauty in the world around you, he said, and you shall see it everywhere. look within, with pure eyes and simple trust, and you shall find the deity mirrored in your own soul. trust yourself because you trust the voice of god in your inmost consciousness. there are living organisms so transparent that we can see their hearts beating and their blood flowing through their glassy tissues. so transparent was the life of emerson; so clearly did the true nature of the man show through it. what he taught others to be, he was himself. his deep and sweet humanity won him love and reverence everywhere among those whose natures were capable of responding to the highest manifestations of character. here and there a narrow-eyed sectary may have avoided or spoken ill of him; but if he who knew what was in man had wandered from door to door in new england as of old in palestine, we can well believe that one of the thresholds which "those blessed feet" would have crossed, to hallow and receive its welcome, would have been that of the lovely and quiet home of emerson. index. [for many references, not found elsewhere, see under the general headings of _emerson's books, essays, poems_.] abbott, josiah gardiner, a pupil of emerson, , . academic races, , . (see _heredity_.) action, subordinate, . adams, john, old age, . adams, samuel, harvard debate, . addison, joseph, classic, . advertiser, the, emerson's interest in, . aeolian harp, his model, , . (see _emerson's poems_,--harp.) aeschylus, tragedies, . (see _greek_.) agassiz, louis: saturday club, ; companionship, . agriculture: in anthology, ; attacked, ; not emerson's field, , , . akenside, mark, allusion, . alchemy, adepts, , . alcott, a. bronson: hearing emerson, ; speculations, ; an idealist, ; the dial, ; sonnet, ; quoted, ; personality traceable, . alcott, louisa m., funeral bouquet, . alexander the great: allusion, ; mountain likeness, . alfred the great, , . allston, washington, unfinished picture, . (see _pictures_.) ambition, treated in anthology, . america: room for a poet, , ; virtues and defects, ; faith in, ; people compared with english, ; things awry, ; _aristocracy_, ; in the civil war, ; revolution, ; lincoln, the true history of his time, ; passion for, , ; artificial rhythm, ; its own literary style, ; home of man, ; loyalty to, ; epithets, , . (see _england, new england_, etc.) amici, meeting emerson, . (see _italy_.) amusements, in new england, . anaemia, artistic, . ancestry: in general, - ; emerson's, _et seq._ (see _heredity_.) andover, mass.: theological school, ; graduates, . andrew, john albion: war governor, ; hearing emerson, . (see _south_.) angelo. (see _michael angelo_.) antinomianism: in the dial, ; kept from, . (see _god, religion_, etc.) anti-slavery: in emerson's pulpit, ; the reform, , , ; emancipation address, ; boston and new york addresses, - ; emancipation proclamation, ; fugitive slave law, and other matters, - . (see _south_.) antoninus, marcus, allusion, . architecture, illustrations, . arianism, . (see _unitarianism_.) aristotle: influence over mary emerson, ; times mentioned, . arminianism, . (see _methodism, religion_, etc.) arnim, gisela von, . arnold, matthew: quotation about america, : lecture, ; on milton, ; his thyrsis, ; criticism, ; string of emerson's epithets, . aryans, comparison, . asia: a pet name, ; immovable, . assabet river, , . astronomy: harp illustration, ; stars against wrong, , . (see _galileo, stars, venus_, etc.) atlantic monthly: sketch of dr. ripley, , ; of mary moody emerson, ; established, ; supposititious club, ; on persian poetry, ; on thoreau, ; emerson's contributions, , ; brahma, . atmosphere: effect on inspiration, ; spiritual, , . augustine, emerson's study of, . authors, quoted by emerson, - . (see _plutarch_, etc.) bacon, francis: allusion, , ; times quoted, . bancroft, george: literary rank, ; in college, . barbier, henri auguste, on napoleon, . barnwell, robert w.: in history, ; in college, . beaumont and fletcher, disputed, line, , . beauty: its nature, , , ; an end, , , ; study, . beecher, edward, on preexistence, . (see _preexistence_.) behmen, jacob: mysticism, , , ; citation, . berkeley, bishop: characteristics, ; matter, . bible: mary emerson's study, ; mosaic cosmogony, ; the exodus, ; the lord's supper, ; psalms, , , , ; lost paradise, ; genesis, sermon on the mount, ; seer of patmos, , ; apocalypse, ; song of songs, ; baruch's roll, , ; not closed, ; the sower, ; noah's ark, ; pharisee's trumpets, ; names and imagery, ; sparing the rod, ; rhythmic mottoes, ; beauty of israel, ; face of an angel, ; barren fig-tree, ; a classic, ; body of death, "peace be still!" ; draught of fishes, ; its semi-detached sentences, ; job quoted, ; "the man christ jesus," ; scattering abroad, . (see _christ, god, religion,_ etc.) bigelow, jacob, on rural cemeteries, . biography, every man writes his own, . blackmore, sir richard, controversy, . bliss family, . bliss, daniel, patriotism, . blood, transfusion of, . books, use and abuse, , . (see _emerson's essays_.) boston, mass.: first church, , , ; woman's club, ; harbor, ; nebular spot, , ; its pulpit darling, ; episcopacy, ; athenaeum, ; magazines, - ; intellectual character, lights on its three hills, high caste religion, ; samaria and jerusalem, ; streets and squares, - ; latin school, , , ; new buildings, ; mrs. emerson's boarding-house, the common as a pasture, ; unitarian preaching, ; a new england centre, ; emerson's settlement, ; second church, - ; lectures, , , ; trimount oracle, ; stirred by the divinity-school address, ; school-keeping, roxbury, ; aesthetic society, ; transcendentalists, , ; bay, ; freeman place chapel, : saturday club, - ; burns centennial, , ; parker meeting, ; letters, , , ; old south lecture, ; unitarianism, ; emancipation proclamation, ; special train, ; sons of liberty, ; birthplace, ; baptists, . boswell, james: allusion, ; one lacking, ; life of johnson, . botany, . (see _science_.) bowen, francis: literary rank, ; on nature, , . brook farm, , - , , . (see _transcendentalism_, etc.) brown, howard n., prayer, . brown, john, sympathy with, . (see _anti-slavery, south_.) brownson, orestes a., at a party, . bryant, william cullen: his literary rank, ; redundant syllable, ; his translation of homer quoted, . buckminster, joseph stevens: minister in boston, , , , ; memoir, ; destruction of goldau, . buddhism: like transcendentalism, ; buddhist nature, ; saints . (see _emerson's poems_,--brahma, --_india_, etc.) buffon, on style, . bulkeley family, - . bulkeley, peter: minister of concord, - , ; comparison of sermons, ; patriotism, ; landowner, . bunyan, john, quoted, . burke, edmund: essay, ; times mentioned, . burns, robert: festival, , ; rank, ; image referred to, ; religious position, . (see _scotland_.) burroughs, john, view of english life, . burton, robert, quotations, , . buttrick, major, in the revolution, , . byron, lord: allusion, ; rank, ; disdain, ; uncertain sky, ; parallelism, . cabot, j. elliot: on emerson's literary habits, ; the dial, ; prefaces, , ; note, , ; prefatory note, , ; the last meetings, , . caesar, julius, , . california, trip, - , . (see _thayer_.) calvin, john: his commentary, ; used by cotton, . calvinism: william emerson's want of sympathy with, , ; outgrown, ; predestination, ; saints, ; spiritual influx, . (see _god, puritanism, religion, unitarianism.)_ cambridge, mass.: emerson teaching there, ; exclusive circles, . (see _harvard university_.) cant, disgust with, . carlyle, thomas: meeting emerson, ; recollections of their relations, - , ; sartor resartus, , , ; correspondence, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; life of schiller, ; on nature, , ; miscellanies, ; the waterville address, - ; influence, , ; on transcendentalism, - ; the dial, - ; brook farm, ; friendship, ; chelsea visit, ; bitter legacy, ; love of power, ; on napoleon and goethe, ; grumblings, ; tobacco, ; sartor reprinted, ; paper on, ; emerson's dying friendship, ; physique, ; gallic fire, ; on characteristics, ; personality traceable, . carpenter, william b., . century, the, essay in, . cerebration, unconscious, , . chalmers, thomas, preaching, . channing, walter, headache, , . channing, william ellery: allusion, ; directing emerson's studies, ; preaching, ; emerson in his pulpit, ; influence, , ; kept awake, . channing, william ellery, the poet: his wanderer, ; poems, . channing, william henry: allusions, , ; in the dial, ; the fuller memoir, ; ode inscribed to, , . charleston, s c, emerson's preaching, . (see _south_.) charlestown, mass., edward emerson's residence, . charles v., . charles xii., . chatelet, parent du, a realist, . chatham, lord, . chaucer, geoffrey: borrowings, ; rank, ; honest rhymes, ; times mentioned, . chelmsford, mass., emerson teaching there, , . chemistry, . (see _science_.) cheshire, its "haughty hill," . choate, rufus, oratory, . christ: reserved expressions about, ; mediatorship, ; true office, - ; worship, . (see _jesus, religion_, etc.) christianity: its essentials, ; primitive, ; a mythus, defects, ; the true, ; two benefits, ; authority, ; incarnation of, ; the essence, ; fathers, . christian, emerson a, . christian examiner, the: on william emerson, ; its literary predecessor, ; on nature, , ; repudiates divinity school address, . church: activity in , ; avoidance of, ; the true, ; music, . (see _god, jesus, religion_, etc.) cicero, allusion, . cid, the, . clarke, james freeman: letters, - , - ; transcendentalism, ; the dial, ; fuller memoir, ; emerson's funeral, , - . clarke, samuel, allusion, . clarke, sarah, sketches, . clarkson, thomas, . clergy: among emerson's ancestry, - ; gravestones, . (see _cotton, heredity_, etc.) coleridge, samuel taylor: allusion, ; emerson's account, ; influence, , ; carlyle's criticism, ; ancient mariner, ; christabel, abyssinian maid, ; times mentioned, ; an image quoted, ; william tell, . collins, william: poetry, ; ode and dirge, . commodity, essay, . concentration, . concord, mass.: bulkeley's ministry, - ; first association with the emerson name, ; joseph's descendants, ; the fight, ; dr. ripley, ; social club, ; emerson's preaching, ; goodwin's settlement, ; discord, ; emerson's residence begun, , ; a typical town, ; settlement, ; a delphi, ; emerson home, ; second centennial, , , ; noted citizens, ; town government, the, monument, ; the sage, ; letters, - , ; supposition of carlyle's life there, ; emancipation address, ; leaving, ; john brown meeting, ; samuel hoar, ; wide-awake, ; lincoln obsequies, , ; an _under_-concord, ; fire, - ; letters, - ; return, ; minute man unveiled, ; soldiers' monument, ; land-owners, ; memorial stone, ; conway's visits, , ; whitman's, , ; russell's, ; funeral, - ; founders, ; sleepy hollow, ; a strong attraction, ; neighbors, ; prophet, . congdon, charles, his reminiscences, . conservatism, fairly treated, , . (see _reformers, religion, transcendentalism,_ etc.) conversation: c.c. emerson's essay, , ; inspiration, . conway, moncure d.: account of emerson, , , , ; two visits, , ; anecdote, ; error, ; on stanley, . cooke, george willis: biography of emerson, , , , ; on american scholar, , ; on anti-slavery, ; on parnassus, - ; on pantheism, . cooper, james fenimore, . corot, pearly mist, , . (see _pictures_, etc.) cotton, john: service to scholarship, ; reading calvin, . counterparts, the story, . cowper, william: mother's picture, ; disinterested good, ; tenderness, ; verse, . cranch, christopher p.: the dial, ; poetic prediction, , . cromwell, oliver: saying by a war saint, ; in poetry, . cudworth, ralph, epithets, . cupples, george, on emerson's lectures, . curtius, quintus for mettus, . cushing, caleb: rank, ; in college, . dana, richard henry, his literary place, , . dante: allusion in anthology, ; rank, , ; times mentioned, . dartmouth college, oration, - . darwin, charles, origin of species, . dawes, rufus, boyhood memories, . declaration of independence, intellectual, . (see _american_, etc.) delirium, imaginative, easily produced, . (see _intuition_.) delia cruscans, allusion, . (see _transcendentalism_.) delos, allusion, . delphic oracle: of new england, ; illustration, . democratic review, the, on nature, . de profundis, illustrating carlyle's spirit, . de quincey, thomas: emerson's interview with, , ; on originality, . de staël, mme., allusion, . de tocqueville, account of unitarianism, . dewey, orville, new bedford ministry, . dexter, lord timothy, punctuation, , . dial, the: established, , ; editors, ; influence, - ; death, ; poems, ; old contributors, ; papers, ; intuitions, . dial, the (second), in cincinnati, . dickens, charles: on father taylor, ; american notes, . diderot, denis, essay, . diogenes, story, . (see _laertius_.) disinterestedness, . disraeli, benjamin, the rectorship, . dramas, their limitations, . (see _shakespeare_.) dress, illustration of poetry, , . dryden, john, quotation, , . dwight, john s.: in the dial, ; musical critic, . east lexington, mass., the unitarian pulpit, . economy, its meaning, . edinburgh, scotland: emerson's visit and preaching, , ; lecture, . education: through friendship, , ; public questions, , . edwards, jonathan: allusions, , ; the atmosphere changed, . (see _calvinism, puritanism, unitarianism_, etc.) egotism, a pest, . egypt: poetic teaching, ; trip, , ; sphinx, . (see _emerson's poems_,--sphinx.) election sermon, illustration, . elizabeth, queen, verbal heir-loom, . (see _raleigh_, etc.) ellis, rufus, minister of the first church, boston, . eloquence, defined, , . emerson family, _et seq_. emerson, charles chauncy, brother of ralph waldo: feeling towards natural science, , ; memories, - , , ; character, ; death, , ; influence, ; the dial, ; "the hand of douglas," ; nearness, ; poetry, ; harvard register, . emerson, edith, daughter of ralph waldo, . emerson, edward, of newbury, . emerson, edward bliss, brother of ralph waldo: allusions, , , , ; death, ; last farewell, poem, ; nearness, . emerson, edward waldo, son of ralph waldo: in new york, ; on the farming essay, ; father's last days, - ; reminiscences, . emerson, ellen, daughter of ralph waldo: residence, ; trip to europe, ; care of her father, ; correspondence, . emerson, mrs. ellen louisa tucker, first wife of ralph waldo, . emerson, joseph, minister of mendon, , , . emerson, joseph, the second, minister of malden, . emerson, mrs. lydia jackson, second wife of ralph waldo: marriage, ; _asia_, . emerson, mary moody: influence over her nephew, - ; quoted, . emerson, robert bulkeley, brother of ralph waldo, . emerson, ralph waldo, his life: moulding influences, ; new england heredity, ; ancestry, - ; parents, - ; aunt mary, - ; brothers, - ; the nest, ; noted scholars, - ; birthplace, , ; boyhood, , ; early efforts, , ; parsonages, ; father's death, ; boyish appearance, ; college days, - ; letter, ; teaching, , ; studying theology, and preaching, - ; ordination, marriage, ; benevolent efforts, wife's death, ; withdrawal from his church, - ; first trip to europe, - ; preaching in america, , ; remembered conversations, , ; residence in the old manse, - ; lecturing, essays in the north american, ; poems, ; portraying himself, ; comparison with milton, , ; letters to clarke, - , - ; interest in sartor resartus, ; first letter to carlyle, ; second marriage and concord home, ; second centennial, - ; boston lectures, concord fight; ; east lexington church, war, ; death of brothers, , ; nature published, ; parallel with wordsworth, ; free utterance, ; beauty, poems, ; language, - ; discipline, , ; idealism, , ; illusions, , ; spirit and matter, ; paradise regained, ; the bible spirit, ; revelations, ; bowen's criticism, ; evolution, , ; phi beta kappa oration, , ; fable of the one man, ; man thinking, ; books, ; unconscious cerebration, ; a scholar's duties, ; specialists, ; a declaration of intellectual independence, ; address at the theological school, , ; effect on unitarians, ; sentiment of duty, ; intuition, ; reason, ; the traditional jesus, ; sabbath and preaching, ; correspondence with ware, - ; ensuing controversy, ; ten lectures, ; dartmouth address, - ; waterville address, - ; reforms, - ; new views, ; past and present, ; on everett, ; assembly at dr. warren's, ; boston _doctrinaires_, ; unwise followers, - ; conservatives, , ; two transcendental products, - ; first volume of essays, ; history, , ; self-reliance, , ; compensation, ; other essays, ; friendship, , ; heroism, ; over-soul, - ; house and income, ; son's death, , ; american and oriental qualities, ; english virtues, ; emancipation addresses in , ; second series of essays, - ; reformers, - ; carlyle's business, poems published, ; a second trip to europe, - ; representative men, - ; lectures again, ; abolitionism, , ; woman's rights, , ; a new england roman, , ; english traits, - ; a new magazine, ; clubs, , ; more poetry, ; burns festival, ; letter about various literary matters, - ; parker's death, lincoln's proclamation, ; conduct of life, - ; boston hymn, ; "so nigh is grandeur to our dust," ; atlantic contributions, ; lincoln obsequies, ; free religion, , ; second phi beta kappa oration, - ; poem read to his son, - ; harvard lectures, - ; agriculture and science, , ; predictions, ; books, ; conversation, ; elements of courage, ; success, , ; on old men, , ; california trip, - ; eating, ; smoking, ; conflagration, loss of memory, froude banquet, third trip abroad, ; friendly gifts, - ; editing parnassus, - ; failing powers, ; hope everywhere, ; negations, ; eloquence, pessimism, ; comedy, plagiarism, ; lessons repeated, ; sources of inspiration, , ; future life, - ; dissolving creed, ; concord bridge, , ; decline of faculties, old south lecture, ; papers, , ; quiet pen, ; posthumous works, _et seq.;_ the pedagogue, ; university of virginia, ; indebtedness to plutarch, - ; slavery questions, - ; woman question, ; patriotism, , ; nothing but a poet, ; antique words, ; self-revelation, , ; a great poet? - ; humility, - ; poetic favorites, , ; comparison with contemporaries, ; citizen of the universe, ; fascination of symbolism, ; realism, science, imaginative coloring, ; dangers of realistic poetry, ; range of subjects, ; bad rhymes, ; a trick of verse, ; one faultless poem, ; spell-bound readers, ; workshop, ; octosyllabic verse, atmosphere, , ; comparison with wordsworth, ; and others, ; dissolving sentences, ; incompleteness, , ; personality, , ; last visits received, - ; the red rose, ; forgetfulness, ; literary work of last years, , ; letters unanswered, ; hearing and sight, subjects that interested him, ; later hours, death, ; last rites, - ; portrayal, - ; atmosphere, ; books, distilled alcohol, ; physique, ; demeanor, ; hair and eyes, insensibility to music, ; daily habits, ; bodily infirmities, , ; voice, ; quiet laughter, want of manual dexterity, ; spade anecdote, memory, ignorance of exact science, ; intuition and natural sagacity united, fastidiousness, ; impatience with small-minded worshippers, frothingham's biography, ; intimates, familiarity not invited, ; among fellow-townsmen, errand to earth, inherited traditions, ; sealed orders, , ; conscientious work, sacrifices for truth, essays instead of sermons, ; congregation at large, charm, optimism, ; financially straitened, ; lecture room limitations, , ; a shakespeare parallel, , ; platform fascination, ; constructive power, , ; english experiences, lecture-peddling, ; a stove relinquished, utterance, an hour's weight, ; trumpet-sound, sweet seriousness, diamond drops, effect on governor andrew, ; learning at second hand, ; the study of goethe, ; a great quoter, no pedantry, ; list of authors referred to, , ; special indebtedness, ; penetration, borrowing, ; method of writing and its results, aided by others, ; sayings that seem family property, ; passages compared, - ; the tributary streams, ; accuracy as to facts, ; personalities traceable in him, ; place as a thinker, ; platonic anecdote, ; preëxistence, , ; mind-moulds, ; relying on instinct, ; dangers of intuition, ; mysticism, ; oriental side, ; transcendental mood, ; personal identity confused, ; a distorting mirror, ; distrust of science, - ; style illustrated, , ; favorite words, ; royal imagery, ; comments on america, , ; common property of mankind, ; public spirit, solitary workshop, martyrdom from visitors, ; white shield invulnerable, ; religious attitude, - ; spiritual influx, creed, ; clerical relations, ; dr. hague's criticism, , ; ameliorating religious influence, ; freedom, ; enduring verse and thought, , ; comparison with jesus, ; sincere manhood, ; transparency, . emerson's books:-- conduct of life, , . english traits: the first european trip, ; published, ; analysis, - ; penetration, ; teutonic fire, . essays: dickens's allusion, ; collected, . essays, second series, . lectures and biographical sketches, , , , . letters and social aims, , , , . may-day and other pieces, , , , , , , , . memoir of margaret fuller, . miscellanies, , . nature, addresses, and lectures, . nature: resemblance of extracts from mary moody emerson, ; where written, ; the many in one, ; first published, , , ; analysis, - ; obscure, ; beauty, . parnassus: collected, ; preface, ; allusion, . poems, , , , . representative men, - . selected poems, , . society and solitude, . emerson's essays, lectures, sermons, speeches, etc.:-- in general: essays, , , , , ; income from lectures, , , ; lectures in england, - ; long series, ; lecture-room, ; plays and lectures, ; double duty, , ; charm, . (see _emerson's life, lyceum_, etc.) american civilization, . american scholar, the, - , , . anglo-saxon race, the, . anti-slavery address, new york, - . anti-slavery lecture, boston, , . aristocracy, . art, , , , . beauty, - . behavior, . books, , . brown, john, , , . burke, edmund, . burns, robert, , , . carlyle, thomas, , , . channing's poem, preface, , , . character, , , . chardon street and bible convention, , . circles, , , . civilization, - . clubs, . comedy. . comic, the, , . commodity, . compensation, , . concord fight, the anniversary speech, , . concord, second centennial discourse, - . conservative, the, , , . considerations by the way, . courage, . culture, , . demonology, , . discipline, , . divinity school address, - , . doctrine of the soul, . domestic life, , . duty, . editorial address, mass. quarterly review, , , . education, , . eloquence, ; second essay, , . emancipation in the british west indies, , . emancipation proclamation, , . emerson, mary moody, , , . english literature, . experience, . farming, , . fate, - . fortune of the republic, , , - . fox, george, . france, . free religious association, , , . friendship, , . froude, james anthony, after-dinner speech, . fugitive slave law, , . genius, . gifts, , . goethe, or the writer, , . greatness, , . harvard commemoration, . heroism, , . historical discourse, at concord, . historic notes of life and letters in new england, , , , . history, , . hoar, samuel, , , , . home, . hope, , . howard university, speech, . human culture, . idealism, - . illusions, , . immortality, , - , . inspiration, . intellect, , . kansas affairs, . kossuth, . language, - . lincoln, abraham, funeral remarks, , , . literary ethics, - . lord's supper, - , . love, , , , . (see _emerson's poems_.) luther, . manners, , . man of letters, the, , . man the reformer, , . method of nature, the, - . michael angelo, , . milton, , . montaigne, or the skeptic, - . napoleon, or the man of the world, - . natural history of the intellect, , , . nature (the essay), , , . new england reformers, - , . nominalism and realism, . old age, , . over-soul, the, , - , , . parker, theodore, , . perpetual forces, . persian poetry, . phi beta kappa oration, . philosophy of history, . plato, - ; new readings, . plutarch, , - . plutarch's morals, introduction, . poet, the, , . poetry, . poetry and imagination, ; subdivisions: bards and trouveurs, creation, form, imagination, melody, morals, rhythm, poetry, transcendency, veracity, , ; quoted, . politics, , . power, , . preacher, the, , . professions of divinity, law, and medicine, . progress of culture, the, , . prospects, - . protest, the, . providence sermon, . prudence, , , . quotation and originality, , . relation of man to the globe, . resources, . right hand of fellowship, the, at concord, . ripley, dr. ezra, , . scholar, the, , . school, the, . scott, speech, , . self-reliance, , , . shakespeare, or the poet, - . social aims, . soldiers' monument, at concord, . sovereignty of ethics, the, , , . spirit, , . spiritual laws, , . success, , . sumner assault, . superlatives, , . swedenborg, or the mystic, , , . thoreau, henry d., , , . times, the, - . tragedy, . transcendentalist, the, - , . universality of the moral sentiment, . university of virginia, address, . war, , . water, . wealth, , . what is beauty? , , . woman, , . woman's rights, , . work and days, , , , . worship, . young american, the, , , . emerson's poems:-- in general: inspiration from nature, , ; poetic rank in college, , ; prose-poetry and philosophy, , ; annual _afflatus_, in america, , ; first volume, ; five immortal poets, ; ideas repeated, ; true position, _et seq.; in carmine veritas_, ; litanies, ; arithmetic, , ; fascination, ; celestial imagery, ; tin pans, ; realism, ; metrical difficulties, , ; blemishes, ; careless rhymes, ; delicate descriptions, ; pathos, ; fascination, ; unfinished, , , ; atmosphere, ; subjectivity, ; sympathetic illusion, ; resemblances, , ; rhythms, ; own order, , ; always a poet, . (see _emerson's life, milton, poets_, etc.) adirondacs, the, , , . blight, . boston, , , . boston hymn, , , , . brahma, , , , . celestial love, . (three loves.) class day poem, - . concord hymn, , . daemonic love, . (three loves.) days, , , , ; _pleachéd_, . destiny, . each and all, , , , . earth-song, . elements, . fate, , . flute, the, . good-by, proud world, , , . hamatreya, . harp, the, , , , . (see _aeolian harp_.) hoar, samuel, , . humble bee, , , , , , , , . initial love, , . (three loves.) in memoriam, , . latin translations, . may day, ; changes, , . merlin, , . (merlin's song.) mithridates, . monadnoc, , ; alterations, . my garden, . nature and life, . occasional and miscellaneous pieces, . ode inscribed to w.h. channing, , . poet, the, - , . preface to nature, . problem, the, , , , , , , . quatrains, , . rhodora, the, , , , . romany girl, the, . saadi, , . sea-shore, , . snow-storm, , , . solution, . song for knights of square table, . sphinx, the, , , , , . terminus, , ; read to his son, - , . test, the, , , . threnody, , . titmouse, the, , . translations, , . uriel, , , . voluntaries, . waldeinsamkeit, . walk, the, . woodnotes, , , , . world-soul, the, . emersoniana, . emerson, thomas, of ipswich, . emerson, waldo, child of ralph waldo: death, , ; anecdote, . emerson, william, grandfather of ralph waldo: minister of concord, - , ; building the manse, ; patriotism, . emerson, william, father of ralph waldo: minister, in harvard and boston, - ; editorship, , , ; the parsonage, , ; death, . emerson, william, brother of ralph waldo, , , , . england: first visit, - ; lake windermere, ; philosophers, ; the virtues of the people, , ; a second visit, _et seq.;_ notabilities ; the lectures, ; stonehenge, ; the aristocracy, ; matters wrong, ; anglo-saxon race, trade and liberty, ; lustier life, ; language, ; lecturing, a key, ; smouldering fire, . (see _america, europe_, etc.) enthusiasm: need of, ; weakness, . epicurus, agreement with, . episcopacy: in boston, , , ; church in newton, ; at hanover, ; quotation from liturgy, ; burial service, . (see _calvinism, church, religion_, etc.) esquimau, allusion, . establishment, party of the, . (see _puritanism, religion, unitarianism_, etc.) eternal, relations to the, . (see _god, jesus, religion_, etc.) europe: emerson's first visit, - ; return, ; the muses, ; debt to the east, ; famous gentlemen, ; second visit, - ; weary of napoleon, ; return, ; conflict possible, ; third visit, - ; cast-out passion for, . (see _america, england, france_, etc.) everett, edward: on tudor, ; literary rank, ; preaching, ; influence, . evolution, taught in "nature," , . eyeball, transparent, . faith: lacking in america, , building cathedrals, . (see _god, religion_, etc.) fine, a characteristic expression, . fire, illustration, . (see _england, france_, etc.) forbes, john m., connected with the emerson family, - ; his letter, . foster, john, minister of brighton, . fourth-of-july, orations, . (see _america_, etc.) fox, george, essay on, . france: emerson's first visit, , ; philosophers, ; revolution, ; tired of napoleon, , ; realism, ; wrath, , . (see _carlyle, england, europe_, etc.) francis, convers, at a party, . franklin, benjamin: birthplace, ; allusion, ; characteristics, ; poor richard, ; quoted, ; maxims, ; fondness for plutarch, ; bequest, . fraunhofer, joseph, optician, , . frazer's magazine: "the mud," ; sartor resartus, . (see _carlyle_.) freeman, james, minister of king's chapel, , , . free trade, athenaeum banquet, . friendship, c.c. emerson's essay, , , . frothingham, nathaniel l., account of emerson's mother, . frothingham, octavius brooks: life of ripley, ; an unpublished manuscript, - . fuller, margaret: borrowed sermon, ; at a party, ; the dial, , , ; memoir, ; causing laughter, ; mosaic biography, . furness, william henry: on the emerson family, ; emerson's funeral, , . future, party of the, . galton, francis, composite portraits, . gardiner, john sylvester john: allusion, ; leadership in boston, ; anthology society, . (see _episcopacy_.) gardner, john lowell, recollections of emerson's boyhood, - . gardner, s.p., garden, . genealogy, survival of the fittest, . (see _heredity_.) gentleman's magazine, . gentleman, the, . geography, illustration, . german: study of, , , , ; philosophers, ; scholarship, ; oracles, ; writers unread, ; philosophers, ; professors, . germany, a visit, , . (see _europe, france, goethe_, etc.) gifts, . gilfillan, george: on emerson's preaching, ; emerson's physique, . gilman, arthur, on the concord home, . glasgow, the rectorship, . god: the universal spirit, , , ; face to face, , ; teaching the human mind, , ; aliens from, ; in us, - ; his thought, ; belief, ; seen by man, ; divine offer, ; writing by grace, ; presence, ; tribute to great first cause, ; perplexity about, ; ever-blessed one, ; mirrored, . (see _christianity, religion_, etc.) goethe: called _mr_., ; dead, ; clarke's essay, ; generalizations, ; influence, ; on spinoza, , ; rank as a poet, , ; lovers, ; rare union, ; his books read, , ; times quoted, . (see _german_, etc.) goldsmith, oliver, his vicar of wakefield, , , . good, the study of, . goodwin, h.b., concord minister, . gould, master of latin school, . gould, thomas r., sculptor, . gourdin, john gaillard keith and robert, in college, . government, abolition of, . grandmother's review, . gray, thomas, elegy often quoted, , , . greece: poetic teaching, ; allusion, . greek: emerson's love for, , ; in harvard, ; poets, ; moralist, ; bryant's translation, ; philosophers, . (see _homer_, etc.) greenough, horatio, meeting emerson, . grimm, hermann, . guelfs and ghibellines, illustration, . hafiz, times mentioned, . (see _persia_.) hague, william, essay, . haller, albert von, rare union, . harvard, mass., william emerson's settlement, , . harvard university: the bulkeley gift, ; william emerson's graduation, ; list of graduates, ; emerson's brothers, , ; register, , , , ; hillard, , ; kirkland's presidency, , ; gardner, - ; emerson's connection, - ; the boylston prizes, ; southern students, ; graduates at andover, ; divinity school, , ; a new england centre, ; bowen's professorship, ; phi beta kappa oration, , , , , ; divinity school address, - ; degree conferred, ; lectures, ; library, ; last divinity address, ; commemoration, ; singing class, ; graduates, . (see _cambridge_.) haskins, david green, at emerson's funeral, . haskins, ruth (emerson's mother), , , . haughty, a characteristic expression, . hawthorne, nathaniel: his mosses, ; "dream-peopled solitude," ; at the club, ; view of english life, ; grave, ; biography, . hazlitt, william: british poets, . health, inspiration, . hebrew language, study, . (see _bible_.) hedge, frederic henry: at a party, ; quoted, . henry vii., tombs, . herbert, george: poem on man, ; parallel, ; poetry, ; a line quoted, . herder, johann gottfried, allusion, . heredity: emerson's belief, , ; in emerson family, , ; whipple on, ; jonson, . herrick, robert, poetry, . higginson, thomas wentworth. (see _emerson's books_,--nature.) hilali, the flute, . hillard, george stillman: in college, , ; his literary place, ; aid, . hindoo scriptures, , . (see _bible, india_, etc.) history, how it should be written, . hoar, ebenezer rockwood: reference to, ; on the burns speech, ; kindness, , , - ; at emerson's death-bed, ; funeral address, - . hoar, samuel: statesman, ; tribute, , . holland, description of the dutch, . holley, horace, prayer, . holmes, john, a pupil of emerson, . holmes, oliver wendell: memories of dr. ripley, ; of c.c. emerson, , ; familiarity with cambridge and its college, ; erroneous quotation from, , ; jest erroneously attributed to, , . holy ghost, "a new born bard of the," . (see _christ, god, religion_, etc.) homer: poetic rank, , ; plagiarism, ; iliad, ; allusion, ; tin pans, ; times quoted, . (see _greek_, etc.) homer, jonathan, minister of newton, . hooper, mrs. ellen, the dial, , . hope: lacking in america, ; in every essay, . horace: allusion, ; ars poetica, . horses, flora temple's time, . howard university, speech, . howe, samuel gridley, the philanthropist, . hunt, leigh, meeting emerson, . hunt, william, the painter, . idealism, - , , . idealists: ark full, ; platonic sense, . imagination: the faculty, ; defined, , ; essay, ; coloring life, . imbecility, . immortality, . (see _god, religion_, etc.) incompleteness, in poetry, . india: poetic models, ; idea of preëxistence, ; brahmanism, . (see _emerson's poems_,--brahma.) indians: in history of concord, ; algonquins, . inebriation, subject in monthly anthology, . insects, defended, . inspiration: of nature, , , ; urged, . instinct, from god or devil, . intellect, confidence in, . intuition, . ipswich, mass., , , . ireland, alexander: glimpses of emerson, , , : reception, , ; on carlyle, ; letter from miss peabody, ; quoting whitman, ; quoted, . irving, washington, . italy: emerson's first visit, , ; naples, . jackson, charles, garden, . jackson, dr. charles thomas, anaesthesia, . jackson, miss lydia, reading carlyle, . (see _mrs. emerson_.) jahn, johann, studied at andover, . jameson, anna, new book, . jesus: times mentioned, ; a divine manifestation, ; followers, ; and emerson, . (see _bible, christ, church, religion_, etc.) joachim, the violinist, , . johnson, samuel, literary style, . jonson, ben: poetic rank, ; a phrase, ; _traduction_, . (see _heredity_, etc.) journals, as a method of work, . jupiter scapin, . jury trial, and dinners, . justice, the arch abolitionist, . juvenal: allusion, ; precept from heaven, . kalamazoo, mich., allusion, . kamschatka, allusion, . keats, john: quoted, ; ode to a nightingale, ; _faint, swoon_, . king, the, illustration, . kirkland, john thornton: harvard presidency, , ; memories, . koran, allusion, . (see _bible, god, religion_, etc.) labor: reform, ; dignity, . lacenaire, evil instinct, . laertius, diogenes, , . la harpe, jean francois, on plutarch, . lamarck, theories, . lamb, charles, carlyle's criticism, . landor, walter savage, meeting emerson, . landscape, never painted, , . (see _pictures, etc_.) language: its symbolism, - ; an original, . latin: peter bulkeley's scholarship, ; translation, , ; emerson's translations, , . laud, archbishop, . law, william, mysticism, . lawrence, mass., allusion, . lecturing, given up, . (see _emerson's essays, lectures_, etc.) leibnitz, . leroux, pierre, preëxistance, . letters, inspiration, . lincoln, abraham, character, . (see _emerson's essays_.) linnaeus, illustration, , . litanies, in emerson, . (see _episcopacy_.) literature: aptitude for, , ; activity in , . little classics, edition, . liverpool, eng., a visit, , . (see _england, europe, scotland_, etc.) locke, john, allusion, , . london, england.: tower stairs, ; readers, ; sights, ; travellers, ; wrath, . (see _england_, etc.) longfellow, henry wadsworth: allusions, , ; saturday club, , ; burial, . lord, nathan, president of dartmouth college, . lord's supper, emerson's doubts, - . lothrop & co., publishers, . louisville, ky., dr. clarke's residence, - . lounsbury, professor, chaucer letter, . love: in america, ; the arch abolitionist, . (see _emerson's poems_.) lowell, charles: minister of the west church, , , ; on kirkland, . lowell, f.c., generosity, . lowell, james russell: an allusion, ; on the american scholar, ; editorship, ; club, ; on the burns speech, ; on emerson's bearing, , ; hawthorne biography, ; on lectures, . lowell, mass., factories, . luther, martin: lecture, ; his conservatism, ; times mentioned, . lyceum, the: a pulpit, ; new england, ; a sacrifice, . (see _lecturing, emerson's lectures_, etc.) lycurgus, . (see _greece_.) mackintosh, sir james, an allusion, . macmillan's magazine, . malden, mass.: joseph emerson's ministry, ; diary, . man: a fable about, , ; faith in, ; apostrophe, . manchester, eng.: visit, , ; banquet, . (see _england_, etc.) marlowe, christopher, expressions, . marvell, andrew: reading by c.c. emerson, ; on the dutch, ; verse, . mary, queen, her martyrs, . massachusetts historical society: tribute to c.c. emerson, ; quality of its literature, ; on carlyle, . massachusetts quarterly review, , , , . materialism, , . (see _religion_.) mather, cotton: his magnalia, - ; on concord discord, ; on new england melancholy, ; a borrower, . mathew, father, disciples, . mayhew, jonathan, boston minister, . melioration, a characteristic expression, . mendon, mass., joseph emerson's ministry, . mephistopheles, goethe's creation, . merrimac river, . metaphysics, indifference to, . methodism, in boston, . (see _father taylor_.) michael angelo: allusions, , ; on external beauty, ; course, ; filled with god, ; on immortality, ; times mentioned, . middlesex agricultural association, . (see _agriculture, emerson's essays._) middlesex association, emerson admitted, . miller's retrospect, . milton, john: influence in new england, ; quotation, ; essay, , ; compared with emerson, , ; lycidas, ; supposed speech, ; diet, , ; poetic rank, ; arnold's citation, logic, rhetoric, ; popularity, ; quoted, ; tin pans, ; inventor of harmonies, ; lycidas, ; comus, ; times mentioned, ; precursor, quotation, . miracles: false impression, , ; and idealism, ; theories, ; st. januarius, ; objections, . (see _bible, christ, religion_, etc.) modena, italy, emerson's visit, . monadnoc, mount, . montaigne: want of religion, ; great authority, ; times quoted, . montesquieu, on immortality, . monthly anthology: wm. emerson's connection, , ; precursor of north american review, , ; character, , ; quincy's tribute, ; society formed, ; career, ; compared with the dial, . moody family, of york, me., , . morals, in plutarch, . morison, john hopkins, on emerson's preaching, . mormons, , . mother-wit, a favorite expression, , . motley, john lothrop, , . mount auburn, strolls, . movement, party of the, . munroe & co., publishers, . music: church, ; inaptitude for, ; great composers, . musketaquid river, , , . mysticism: unintelligible, ; emerson's, . napoleon: allusion, ; times mentioned, . napoleon iii., . nation, the, emerson's interest in, . native bias, . nature: in undress, ; solicitations, ; not truly studied, ; great men, ; tortured, . (see _emerson's books, emerson's essays_, etc.) negations, to be shunned, . new bedford, mass., emerson's preaching, , . newbury, mass., edward emerson's deaconship, . new england: families, , , ; peter bulkeley's coming, ; clerical virtues, ; church, ; literary sky, ; domestic service, , ; two centres, ; an ideal town, , ; the delphi, ; carlyle invited, ; anniversaries, ; town records, ; genesis, ; effect of nature, ; boys and girls, ; massachusetts, connecticut river, ; lyceums, ; melancholy, ; new englanders and old, ; meaning of a word, , ; eyes, ; life, , ; birthright, ; a thorough new englander, ; puritan, ; theologians, ; jesus wandering in, . (see _america, england_, etc.) newspapers: defaming the noble, ; in shakespeare's day, . newton, mass.: its minister, ; episcopal church, . (see _rice_.) newton, sir isaac, times quoted, . newton, stuart, sketches, . new world, gospel, . (see _america_.) new york: brevoort house, ; genealogical society, . niagara, visit, . nidiver, george, ballad, . nightingale, florence, . nithsdale, eng., mountains, . non-resistance, . north american review: its predecessor, , , ; the writers, ; emerson's contributions, ; ethics, , ; bryant's article, . northampton, mass., emerson's preaching, . norton, andrews: literary rank, ; professorship, . norton, charles eliot: editor of correspondence, ; on emerson's genius, . old manse, the: allusion, ; fire, - . (see _concord_.) oliver, daniel, in dartmouth college, . optimism: in philosophy, ; "innocent luxuriance," ; wanted by the young, . oriental: genius, ; spirit in emerson, . orpheus, allusion, . paine, r.t., jr., quoted, . palfrey, john gorham: literary rank, ; professorship, . pan, the deity, . pantheism: in wordsworth and nature, ; dreaded, ; emerson's, , . paris, trance: as a residence, ; allusion, ; salons, ; visit, , . parker, theodore: a right arm of freedom, ; at a party, ; the dial, , ; editorship, ; death, ; essence of christianity, ; biography, ; on emerson's position, . parkhurst, john, studied at andover, . parr, samuel, allusion, . past, party of the, . peabody, andrew preston, literary rank, . peabody, elizabeth palmer: her aesthetic papers, ; letter to mr. ireland, . peirce, benjamin, mathematician, . pelagianisin, . (see _religion_.) pepys, samuel, allusion, . pericles, , . persia, poetic models, . (see _emerson's poems, saadi_). pessimism, . (see _optimism_). philadelphia, pa., society, . philanthropy, activity in , . philolaus, . pie, fondness for, . pierce, john: the minister of brookline, ; "our clerical pepys," . pindar, odes, . (see _greek, homer_, etc.) plagiarism, , , , , . (see _quotations, mather_, etc.) plato: influence on mary emerson, , ; over emerson, , , , , , ; youthful essay, ; alcott's study, ; reading, ; borrowed thought, , ; platonic idea, ; a platonist, ; saints of platonism, ; academy inscription, ; great authority, ; times quoted, ; symposium and phaedrus quoted, ; _tableity_, preëxistence, ; diogenes dialogue, ; a platonist, . (see _emerson's books_, and _essays, greek_, etc.) plotinus: influence over mary emerson, , ; ashamed of his body, ; motto, ; opinions, , ; studied, . plutarch: allusion, ; his lives, ; study, ; on immortality, ; influence over emerson, _et seq_.; his great authority, ; times mentioned, ; emerson on, ; imagery quoted, ; style, . plymouth, mass.: letters written, , ; marriage, . poetry: as an inspirer, ; milton on, . (see _shakespeare_, etc.) poets: list in parnassus, ; comparative popularity, , ; consulting emerson, . (see _emerson's poems_). politics: activity in , ; in saturday club, . pomeroy, jesse, allusion, . pope, alexander, familiar lines, porphyry: opinions, , ; studied, . porto rico, e.b. emerson's death, . power, practical, . prayer: not enough, , ; anecdotes, . (see _god, religion_, etc.) preaching, a christian blessing, . preëxistence, . presbyterianism, in scotland, . prescott, william, the judge's mansion, . prescott, william hickling: rank, ; conquest of mexico, . prior, matthew, . proclus, influence, , . prometheus, . prospects, for man, - . (see _emerson's essays_.) protestantism, its idols, . (see _channing, religion, unitarianism_, etc.) psammetichus, an original language, . (see _heredity, language_, etc.) punch, london, . puritans, rear guard, . (see _calvinism_, etc.) puritanism: relaxation from, ; after-clap, ; in new england, . (see _unitarianism_.) putnam's magazine, on samuel hoar, , . pythagoras: imagery quoted, ; preëxistence, . quakers, seeing only broad-brims, . quincy, josiah: history of boston athenaeum, ; tribute to the anthology, , ; memories of emerson, - ; old age, . quotations, - . (see _plagiarism_, etc.) raleigh, sir walter, verse, . raphael, his transfiguration, . (see _allston, painters_, etc.) rats, illustration, , . reed, sampson, his growth of the mind, . reforms, in america, - . reformers, fairness towards, , , - . (see _anti-slavery, john brown_.) religion: opinions of wm. emerson and others, - ; nature the symbol of spirit, ; pleas for independence, ; universal sentiment, - ; public rites, ; church of england, ; of the future, ; relative positions towards, , ; trinity, ; emerson's belief, - ; bigotry modified, . (see _calvinism, channing, christ, emerson's life, essays_, and _poems, episcopacy, god, unitarianism_, etc.) republicanism, spiritual, . revolutionary war: wm. emerson's service, , ; subsequent confusion, , ; concord's part, , , , . (see _america, new england_, etc.) reynolds, sir joshua, . rhythm, , , . (see _emerson's poems_, etc.) rice, alexander h., anecdote, , , . (see _newton_.) richard plantagenet, . ripley, ezra: minister of concord, ; emerson's sketch, - ; garden, ; colleague, ; residence, . ripley, george: a party, ; the dial, ; brook farm, - ; on emerson's limitations, . robinson, edward, literary rank, . rochester, n.y., speech, . rome: allusions, , ; growth, ; amphora, . (see _latin_.) romilly, samuel, allusion, . rose, anecdote, . (see _flowers_.) rousseau, jean jacques, his savoyard vicar, , . ruskin, john: on metaphysics, ; certain chapters, ; pathetic fallacy, ; plagiarism, . russell, ben., quoted, . russell, le baron: on sartor resartus, , ; groomsman, ; aid in rebuilding the old manse, - ; concord visit, . saadi: a borrower, ; times mentioned, . (see _persia_.) sabbath: a blessing of christianity, , . sainte-beuve, charles augustin, on poetry, . saint paul, times mentioned, . (see _bible_.) saladin, . sallust, on catiline, . sanborn, frank b.: facts about emerson, , , ; thoreau memoir, ; old neighbor, . sapor, . satan, safety from, . (see _mephistopheles, religion_, etc.) saturday club: establishment, - , ; last visits, , ; familiarity at, . scaliger, quotation, , . schelling, idealism, ; influence . schiller, on immortality, . scholarship: a priesthood, ; docility of, . school-teaching, . (see _chelmsford_.) schopenhauer, arthur: his pessimism, ; idea of a philosopher, . science: growth of, ; emerson inaccurate in, ; attitude toward, , . (see _c.c. emerson_.) scipio, . scotland: carlyle's haunts, ; notabilities, , ; presbyterian, . scott, sir walter: allusion, ; quotations, , ; dead, ; "the hand of douglas," ; as a poet, ; popularity, ; poetic rank, . self: the highest, ; respect for, , . seneca, montaigne's study, . shakespeare: allusion, ; hamlet, , ; benedick and love, ; disputed line, , ; an idol, ; poetic rank, , , , ; plagiarism, - ; on studies, , ; supremacy, ; a comparison, ; a playwright, , ; punctiliousness of portia, ; times mentioned, ; lunatic, lover, poet, ; polonius, ; _mother-wit_, ; _fine_ ariel, ; adamant, . shattuck, lemuel, history of concord, . shaw, lemuel, boarding-place, . shelley, percy bysshe: ode to the west wind, , ; redundant syllable, ; adonais, . shenandoah mountain, . shingle, emerson's jest, . ships: illustration of longitude, ; erroneous quotation, , ; building illustration, , . sicily: emerson's visit, ; etna, . sidney, sir philip, chevy chace, . silsbee, william, aid in publishing carlyle, . simonides, prudence, . sisyphus, illustration, . sleight-of-hand, illustration, . smith, james and horace, rejected addresses, , . smith, sydney, on bishops, . socrates: allusion, ; times mentioned, . solitude, sought, . solomon, epigrammatic, . (see _bible_.) solon, . sophron, . south, the: emerson's preaching tour, ; rebellion, , . (see _america, anti-slavery_, etc.) southerners, in college, . sparks, jared, literary rank, . spenser, edmund: stanza, , ; soul making body, ; _mother-wit_, . spinoza, influence, , . spirit and matter, , . (see _god, religion, spenser_, etc.) spiritualism, . sprague, william buel, annals of the american pulpit, - . stanley, arthur penrhyn, on american religion, . star: "hitch your wagon to a star," , ; stars in poetry, . sterling, j. hutchinson, letter to, , . stewart, dugald, allusion, . story, joseph, literary rank, . stuart, moses, literary rank, . studio, illustration, . summer, description, . sumner, charles: literary rank, : the outrage on, ; saturday club, . swedenborg, emanuel: poetic rank, , ; dreams, ; rosetta-stone, ; times mentioned, . swedenborgians: liking for a paper of carlyle's, ; reed's essay, ; spiritual influx, . swift, jonathan: allusion, ; the houyhnhnms, ; times mentioned, . synagogue, illustration, . tappan, mrs. caroline, the dial, . tartuffe, allusion, . taylor, father, relation to emerson, , , . taylor, jeremy: allusion, ; emerson's study, ; "the shakespeare of divines," ; praise for, . teague, irish name, . te deum: the hymn, ; illustration, . temperance, the reform, , . (see _reforms_.) tennyson, alfred: readers, ; tobacco, ; poetic rank, ; in memoriam, ; on plagiarism, . thacher, samuel cooper: allusion, ; death, . thayer, james b.: western journey with emerson, , , - , ; _ground swell_, . (see _california_.) thinkers, let loose, . thomson, james, descriptions, . thoreau, henry d.: allusion, ; a crusoe, ; "nullifier of civilization," ; one-apartment house, , ; the dial, , ; death, ; emerson's burial-place, ; biography, ; personality traceable, ; woodcraft, . ticknor, george: on william emerson, ; on kirkland, ; literary rank, . traduction, . (see _heredity, jonson_, etc.) transcendentalism: bowen's paper, , ; idealism, ; adherents, - ; dilettanteism, - ; a terror, . transcendentalist, the, - . truth: as an end, ; sought, . tudor, william: allusion, ; connecting literary link, , . turgot, quoted, , . tyburn, allusion, . unitarianism: dr. freeman's, , ; nature of jesus, ; its sunshine, ; white-handed, ; headquarters, ; lingual studies, , ; transition, ; domination, ; pulpits, , ; chapel in edinburgh, ; file-leaders, ; its organ, ; "pale negations," . (see _religion, trinity_, etc.) united states, intellectual history, . (see _america, new england_, etc.) unity, in diversity, , , . upham, charles w., his history, . verne, jules, _onditologie_, . verplanck, gulian crommelin, literary rank, . virginia, university of, . volcano, illustration, . voltaire, . voting, done reluctantly, , . wachusett, mount, . walden pond: allusion, , , ; cabin, , . (see _concord_.) war: outgrown, , ; ennobling, . ware, henry, professorship, . (see _harvard university_.) ware, henry, jr.: boston ministry, ; correspondence, - . (see _unitarianism_, etc.) warren, john collins, transcendentalism and temperance, . warren, judge, of new bedford, . warwick castle, fire, . washington city, addresses, . (see _anti-slavery_, etc.) waterville college, adelphi society, - . webster, daniel: e.b. emerson's association with, ; on tudor, , ; literary rank, ; seventh-of-march speech, ; times mentioned, . weiss, john, parker biography, . wellington, lord, seen by emerson, , . wesley, john, praise of, . (see _methodism_.) western messenger, poems in, . west india islands, edward b. emerson's death, . westminster abbey, emerson's visit, , . (see _emerson's books_,--english traits,--_england_, etc.) westminster catechism, . (see _calvinism, religion_, etc.) whipple, edwin percy: literary rank, ; club, ; on heredity, . white of selborne, . whitman, walt: his enumerations, , ; journal, , . wilberforce, william, funeral, . will: inspiration of, ; power of, . windermere, lake, . (see _england_.) winthrop, francis william, in college, . wolfe, charles, burial of moore, . woman: her position, , , ; crossing a street, . woman's club, . words, emerson's favorite, , . (see _emerson's poems_,--days.) wordsworth, william: emerson's account, ; early reception, excursion, , ; quoted, , ; tintern abbey, ; influence, , ; poetic rank, , ; on immortality, , ; popularity, ; serenity, ; study of nature, ; times mentioned, ; we are seven, ; prejudice against science, . wotton, sir henry, quoted, . yankee: a spouting, ; _improve_, ; whittling, . (see _america, new england_, etc.) yoga, hindoo idea, . young, brigham: utah, , ; on preëxistence, . young, edward, influence in new england, , . zola, Ã�mile, offensive realism, . our hundred days in europe by oliver wendell holmes to my daughter amelia (mrs. turner sargent) my faithful and devoted companion this outline of our summer excursion is affectionately dedicated contents. introductory a prospective visit our hundred days in europe. chapter i. the voyage.--liverpool.--chester.--london.--epsom ii. epsom.--london.--windsor iii. london.--isle of wight.--cambridge.--oxford.--york.--edinburgh iv. stratford-on-avon.--great malvern.--tewkesbury.--bath.--salisbury. --stonehenge v. stonehenge.--salisbury.--old sarum.--bemerton.--brighton vi. london vii. boulogne.--paris.--london.--liverpool.--the homeward passage viii. general impressions.--miscellaneous observations list of illustrations oliver wendell holmes at the age of . from a painting by sarah w. whitman robert browning magdalen college, oxford salisbury cathedral place de la concorde introductory. a prospective visit. after an interval of more than fifty years, i propose taking a second look at some parts of europe. it is a rip van winkle experiment which i am promising myself. the changes wrought by half a century in the countries i visited amount almost to a transformation. i left the england of william the fourth, of the duke of wellington, of sir robert peel; the france of louis philippe, of marshal soult, of thiers, of guizot. i went from manchester to liverpool by the new railroad, the only one i saw in europe. i looked upon england from the box of a stage-coach, upon france from the coupé of a diligence, upon italy from the cushion of a carrozza. the broken windows of apsley house were still boarded up when i was in london. the asphalt pavement was not laid in paris. the obelisk of luxor was lying in its great boat in the seine, as i remember it. i did not see it erected; it must have been an exciting scene to witness, the engineer standing underneath, so as to be crushed by the great stone if it disgraced him by falling in the process. as for the dynasties which have overlaid each other like dr. schliemann's trojan cities, there is no need of moralizing over a history which instead of finis is constantly ending with what next? with regard to the changes in the general conditions of society and the advance in human knowledge, think for one moment what fifty years have done! i have often imagined myself escorting some wise man of the past to our saturday club, where we often have distinguished strangers as our guests. suppose there sat by me, i will not say sir isaac newton, for he has been too long away from us, but that other great man, whom professor tyndall names as next to him in intellectual stature, as he passes along the line of master minds of his country, from the days of newton to our own,--dr. thomas young, who died in . would he or i be the listener, if we were side by side? however humble i might feel in such a presence, i should be so clad in the grandeur of the new discoveries, inventions, ideas, i had to impart to him that i should seem to myself like the ambassador of an emperor. i should tell him of the ocean steamers, the railroads that spread themselves like cobwebs over the civilized and half-civilized portions of the earth, the telegraph and the telephone, the photograph and the spectroscope. i should hand him a paper with the morning news from london to read by the electric light, i should startle him with a friction match, i should amaze him with the incredible truths about anesthesia, i should astonish him with the later conclusions of geology, i should dazzle him by the fully developed law of the correlation of forces, i should delight him with the cell-doctrine, i should confound him with the revolutionary apocalypse of darwinism. all this change in the aspects, position, beliefs, of humanity since the time of dr. young's death, the date of my own graduation from college! i ought to consider myself highly favored to have lived through such a half century. but it seems to me that in walking the streets of london and paris i shall revert to my student days, and appear to myself like a relic of a former generation. those who have been born into the inheritance of the new civilization feel very differently about it from those who have lived their way into it. to the young and those approaching middle age all these innovations in life and thought are as natural, as much a matter of course, as the air they breathe; they form a part of the inner framework of their intelligence, about which their mental life is organized. to men and women of more than threescore and ten they are external accretions, like the shell of a mollusk, the jointed plates of an articulate. this must be remembered in reading anything written by those who knew the century in its teens; it is not likely to be forgotten, for the fact betrays itself in all the writer's thoughts and expressions. the story of my first visit to europe is briefly this: my object was to study the medical profession, chiefly in paris, and i was in europe about two years and a half, from april, , to october, . i sailed in the packet ship philadelphia from new york for portsmouth, where we arrived after a passage of twenty-four days. a week was spent in visiting southampton, salisbury, stonehenge, wilton, and the isle of wight. i then crossed the channel to havre, from which i went to paris. in the spring and summer of i made my principal visit to england and scotland. there were other excursions to the rhine and to holland, to switzerland and to italy, but of these i need say nothing here. i returned in the packet ship utica, sailing from havre, and reaching new york after a passage of forty-two days. a few notes from my recollections will serve to recall the period of my first visit to europe, and form a natural introduction to the experiences of my second. i take those circumstances which happen to suggest themselves. after a short excursion to strasbourg, down the rhine, and through holland, a small steamer took us from rotterdam across the channel, and we found ourselves in the british capital. the great sight in london is--london. no man understands himself as an infinitesimal until he has been a drop in that ocean, a grain of sand on that sea-margin, a mote in its sunbeam, or the fog or smoke which stands for it; in plainer phrase, a unit among its millions. i had two letters to persons in england: one to kind and worthy mr. petty vaughan, who asked me to dinner; one to pleasant mr. william clift, conservator of the hunterian museum, who asked me to tea. to westminster abbey. what a pity it could not borrow from paris the towers of notre dame! but the glory of its interior made up for this shortcoming. among the monuments, one to rear admiral charles holmes, a descendant, perhaps, of another namesake, immortalized by dryden in the "annus mirabilis" as "the achates of the general's fight." he accompanied wolfe in his expedition which resulted in the capture of quebec. my relative, i will take it for granted, as i find him in westminster abbey. blood is thicker than water,--and warmer than marble, i said to myself, as i laid my hand on the cold stone image of the once famous admiral. to the tower, to see the lions,--of all sorts. there i found a "poor relation," who made my acquaintance without introduction. a large baboon, or ape,--some creature of that family,--was sitting at the open door of his cage, when i gave him offence by approaching too near and inspecting him too narrowly. he made a spring at me, and if the keeper had not pulled me back would have treated me unhandsomely, like a quadrumanous rough, as he was. he succeeded in stripping my waistcoat of its buttons, as one would strip a pea-pod of its peas. to vauxhall gardens. all americans went there in those days, as they go to madame tussaud's in these times. there were fireworks and an exhibition of polar scenery. "mr. collins, the english paganini," treated us to music on his violin. a comic singer gave us a song, of which i remember the line, "you'll find it all in the agony bill." this referred to a bill proposed by sir andrew agnew, a noted scotch sabbatarian agitator. to the opera to hear grisi. the king, william the fourth, was in his box; also the princess victoria, with the duchess of kent. the king tapped with his white-gloved hand on the ledge of the box when he was pleased with the singing.--to a morning concert and heard the real paganini. to one of the lesser theatres and heard a monologue by the elder mathews, who died a year or two after this time. to another theatre, where i saw listen in paul pry. is it not a relief that i am abstaining from description of what everybody has heard described? to windsor. machinery to the left of the road. recognized it instantly, by recollection of the plate in "rees's cyclopedia," as herschel's great telescope.--oxford. saw only its outside. i knew no one there, and no one knew me.--blenheim,--the titians best remembered of its objects on exhibition. the great derby day of the epsom races. went to the race with a coach-load of friends and acquaintances. plenipotentiary, the winner, "rode by p. connelly." so says herring's picture of him, now before me. chestnut, a great "bullock" of a horse, who easily beat the twenty-two that started. every new england deacon ought to see one derby day to learn what sort of a world this is he lives in. man is a sporting as well as a praying animal. stratford-on-avon. emotions, but no scribbling of name on walls.--warwick. the castle. a village festival, "the opening of the meadows," a true exhibition of the semi-barbarism which had come down from saxon times.--yorkshire. "the hangman's stone." story told in my book called the "autocrat," etc. york cathedral.--northumberland. alnwick castle. the figures on the walls which so frightened my man john when he ran away from scotland in his boyhood. berwick-on-tweed. a regatta going on; a very pretty show. scotland. most to be remembered, the incomparable loveliness of edinburgh.--sterling. the view of the links of forth from the castle. the whole country full of the romance of history and poetry. made one acquaintance in scotland, dr. robert knox, who asked my companion and myself to breakfast. i was treated to five entertainments in great britain: the breakfast just mentioned; lunch with mrs. macadam,--the good old lady gave me bread, and not a stone; dinner with mr. vaughan; one with mr. stanley, the surgeon; tea with mr. clift,--for all which attentions i was then and am still grateful, for they were more than i had any claim to expect. fascinated with edinburgh. strolls by salisbury crag; climb to the top of arthur's seat; delight of looking up at the grand old castle, of looking down on holyrood palace, of watching the groups on calton hill, wandering in the quaint old streets and sauntering on the sidewalks of the noble avenues, even at that time adding beauty to the new city. the weeks i spent in edinburgh are among the most memorable of my european experiences. to the highlands, to the lakes, in short excursions; to glasgow, seen to disadvantage under gray skies and with slippery pavements. through england rapidly to dover and to calais, where i found the name of m. dessein still belonging to the hotel i sought, and where i read sterne's "preface written in a désobligeante," sitting in the vehicle most like one that i could find in the stable. from calais back to paris, where i began working again. all my travelling experiences, including a visit to switzerland and italy in the summer and autumn of , were merely interludes of my student life in paris. on my return to america, after a few years of hospital and private practice, i became a professor in harvard university, teaching anatomy and physiology, afterwards anatomy alone, for the period of thirty-five years, during part of which time i paid some attention to literature, and became somewhat known as the author of several works in prose and verse which have been well received. my prospective visit will not be a professional one, as i resigned my office in , and am no longer known chiefly as a teacher or a practitioner. boston, _april_, . our hundred days in europe i. i begin this record with the columnar, self-reliant capital letter to signify that there is no disguise in its egoisms. if it were a chapter of autobiography, this is what the reader would look for as a matter of course. let him consider it as being such a chapter, and its egoisms will require no apology. i have called the record _our_ hundred days, because i was accompanied by my daughter, without the aid of whose younger eyes and livelier memory, and especially of her faithful diary, which no fatigue or indisposition was allowed to interrupt, the whole experience would have remained in my memory as a photograph out of focus. we left boston on the th of april, , and reached new york on the th of august, four months of absence in all, of which nearly three weeks were taken up by the two passages; one week was spent in paris, and the rest of the time in england and scotland. no one was so much surprised as myself at my undertaking this visit. mr. gladstone, a strong man for his years, is reported as saying that he is too old to travel, at least to cross the ocean, and he is younger than i am,--just four months, to a day, younger. it is true that sir henry holland came to this country, and travelled freely about the world, after he was eighty years old; but his pitcher went to the well once too often, and met the usual doom of fragile articles. when my friends asked me why i did not go to europe, i reminded them of the fate of thomas parr. he was only twice my age, and was getting on finely towards his two hundredth year, when the earl of arundel carried him up to london, and, being feasted and made a lion of, he found there a premature and early grave at the age of only one hundred and fifty-two years. he lies in westminster abbey, it is true, but he would probably have preferred the upper side of his own hearth-stone to the under side of the slab which covers him. i should never have thought of such an expedition if it had not been suggested by a member of my family that i should accompany my daughter, who was meditating a trip to europe. i remembered how many friends had told me i ought to go; among the rest, mr. emerson, who had spoken to me repeatedly about it. i had not seen europe for more than half a century, and i had a certain longing for one more sight of the places i remembered, and others it would be a delight to look upon. there were a few living persons whom i wished to meet. i was assured that i should be kindly received in england. all this was tempting enough, but there was an obstacle in the way which i feared, and, as it proved, not without good reason. i doubted whether i could possibly breathe in a narrow state-room. in certain localities i have found myself liable to attacks of asthma, and, although i had not had one for years, i felt sure that i could not escape it if i tried to sleep in a state-room. i did not escape it, and i am glad to tell my story about it, because it excuses some of my involuntary social shortcomings, and enables me to thank collectively all those kind members of the profession who trained all the artillery of the pharmacopoeia upon my troublesome enemy, from bicarbonate of soda and vichy water to arsenic and dynamite. one costly contrivance, sent me by the reverend mr. haweis, whom i have never duly thanked for it, looked more like an angelic trump for me to blow in a better world than what i believe it is, an inhaling tube intended to prolong my mortal respiration. the best thing in my experience was recommended to me by an old friend in london. it was himrod's asthma cure, one of the many powders, the smoke of which when burning is inhaled. it is made in providence, rhode island, and i had to go to london to find it. it never failed to give at least temporary relief, but nothing enabled me to sleep in my state-room, though i had it all to myself, the upper berth being removed. after the first night and part of the second, i never lay down at all while at sea. the captain allowed me to have a candle and sit up in the saloon, where i worried through the night as i best might. how could i be in a fit condition to accept the attention of my friends in liverpool, after sitting up every night for more than a week; and how could i be in a mood for the catechizing of interviewers, without having once lain down during the whole return passage? i hope the reader will see why i mention these facts. they explain and excuse many things; they have been alluded to, sometimes with exaggeration, in the newspapers, and i could not tell my story fairly without mentioning them. i got along well enough as soon as i landed, and have had no return of the trouble since i have been back in my own home. i will not advertise an assortment of asthma remedies for sale, but i assure my kind friends i have had no use for any one of them since i have walked the boston pavements, drank, not the cochituate, but the belmont spring water, and breathed the lusty air of my native northeasters. my companion and i required an attendant, and we found one of those useful androgynous personages known as _courier-maids_, who had travelled with friends of ours, and who was ready to start with us at a moment's warning. she was of english birth, lively, short-gaited, serviceable, more especially in the first of her dual capacities. so far as my wants were concerned, i found her zealous and active in providing for my comfort. it was no sooner announced in the papers that i was going to england than i began to hear of preparations to welcome me. an invitation to a club meeting was cabled across the atlantic. one of my countrywomen who has a house in london made an engagement for me to meet friends at her residence. a reverend friend, who thought i had certain projects in my head, wrote to me about lecturing: where i should appear, what fees i should obtain, and such business matters. i replied that i was going to england to spend money, not to make it; to hear speeches, very possibly, but not to make them; to revisit scenes i had known in my younger days; to get a little change of my routine, which i certainly did; and to enjoy a little rest, which i as certainly did not, at least in london. in a word, i wished a short vacation, and had no thought of doing anything more important than rubbing a little rust off and enjoying myself, while at the same time i could make my companion's visit somewhat pleasanter than it would be if she went without me. the visit has answered most of its purposes for both of us, and if we have saved a few recollections which our friends can take any pleasure in reading, this slight record may be considered a work of supererogation. the cephalonia was to sail at half past six in the morning, and at that early hour a company of well-wishers was gathered on the wharf at east boston to bid us good-by. we took with us many tokens of their thoughtful kindness; flowers and fruits from boston and cambridge, and a basket of champagne from a concord friend whose company is as exhilarating as the sparkling wine he sent us. with the other gifts came a small tin box, about as big as a common round wooden match box. i supposed it to hold some pretty gimcrack, sent as a pleasant parting token of remembrance. it proved to be a most valued daily companion, useful at all times, never more so than when the winds were blowing hard and the ship was struggling with the waves. there must have been some magic secret in it, for i am sure that i looked five years younger after closing that little box than when i opened it. time will explain its mysterious power. all the usual provisions for comfort made by seagoing experts we had attended to. impermeable rugs and fleecy shawls, head-gear to defy the rudest northeasters, sea-chairs of ample dimensions, which we took care to place in as sheltered situations as we could find,--all these were a matter of course. everybody stays on deck as much as possible, and lies wrapped up and spread out at full length on his or her sea-chair, so that the deck looks as if it had a row of mummies on exhibition. nothing is more comfortable, nothing, i should say, more indispensable, than a hot-water bag,--or rather, _two_ hot-water bags; for they will burst sometimes, as i found out, and a passenger who has become intimate with one of these warm bosom friends feels its loss almost as if it were human. passengers carry all sorts of luxuries on board, in the firm faith that they shall be able to profit by them all. friends send them various indigestibles. to many all these well-meant preparations soon become a mockery, almost an insult. it is a clear case of _sic(k) vos non vobis_. the tougher neighbor is the gainer by these acts of kindness; the generosity of a sea-sick sufferer in giving away the delicacies which seemed so desirable on starting is not ranked very high on the books of the recording angel. with us three things were best: grapes, oranges, and especially oysters, of which we had provided a half barrel in the shell. the "butcher" of the ship opened them fresh for us every day, and they were more acceptable than anything else. among our ship's company were a number of family relatives and acquaintances. we formed a natural group at one of the tables, where we met in more or less complete numbers. i myself never missed; my companion, rarely. others were sometimes absent, and sometimes came to time when they were in a very doubtful state, looking as if they were saying to themselves, with lear,-- "down, thou climbing sorrow, thy element's below." as for the intellectual condition of the passengers, i should say that faces were prevailingly vacuous, their owners half hypnotized, as it seemed, by the monotonous throb and tremor of the great sea-monster on whose back we were riding. i myself had few thoughts, fancies, emotions. one thing above all struck me as never before,--the terrible solitude of the ocean. "so lonely 'twas that god himself scarce seemed there to be." whole days passed without our seeing a single sail. the creatures of the deep which gather around sailing vessels are perhaps frightened off by the noise and stir of the steamship. at any rate, we saw nothing more than a few porpoises, so far as i remember. no man can find himself over the abysses, the floor of which is paved with wrecks and white with the bones of the shrieking myriads of human beings whom the waves have swallowed up, without some thought of the dread possibilities hanging over his fate. there is only one way to get rid of them: that which an old sea-captain mentioned to me, namely, to keep one's self under opiates until he wakes up in the harbor where he is bound. i did not take this as serious advice, but its meaning is that one who has all his senses about him cannot help being anxious. my old friend, whose beard had been shaken in many a tempest, knew too well that there is cause enough for anxiety. what does the reader suppose was the source of the most ominous thought which forced itself upon my mind, as i walked the decks of the mighty vessel? not the sound of the rushing winds, nor the sight of the foam-crested billows; not the sense of the awful imprisoned force which was wrestling in the depths below me. the ship is made to struggle with the elements, and the giant has been tamed to obedience, and is manacled in bonds which an earthquake would hardly rend asunder. no! it was the sight of the _boats_ hanging along at the sides of the deck,--the boats, always suggesting the fearful possibility that before another day dawns one may be tossing about in the watery sahara, shelterless, fireless, almost foodless, with a fate before him he dares not contemplate. no doubt we should feel worse without the boats; still they are dreadful tell-tales. to all who remember géricault's wreck of the medusa,--and those who have seen it do not forget it,--the picture the mind draws is one it shudders at. to be sure, the poor wretches in the painting were on a raft, but to think of fifty people in one of these open boats! let us go down into the cabin, where at least we shall not see them. the first morning at sea revealed the mystery of the little round tin box. the process of _shaving_, never a delightful one, is a very unpleasant and awkward piece of business when the floor on which one stands, the glass in which he looks, and he himself are all describing those complex curves which make cycles and epicycles seem like simplicity itself. the little box contained a reaping machine, which gathered the capillary harvest of the past twenty-four hours with a thoroughness, a rapidity, a security, and a facility which were a surprise, almost a revelation. the idea of a guarded cutting edge is an old one; i remember the "plantagenet" razor, so called, with the comb-like row of blunt teeth, leaving just enough of the edge free to do its work. but this little affair had a blade only an inch and a half long by three quarters of an inch wide. it had a long slender handle, which took apart for packing, and was put together with the greatest ease. it was, in short, a lawn-mower for the masculine growth of which the proprietor wishes to rid his countenance. the mowing operation required no glass, could be performed with almost reckless boldness, as one cannot cut himself, and in fact had become a pleasant amusement instead of an irksome task. i have never used any other means of shaving from that day to this. i was so pleased with it that i exhibited it to the distinguished tonsors of burlington arcade, half afraid they would assassinate me for bringing in an innovation which bid fair to destroy their business. they probably took me for an agent of the manufacturers; and so i was, but not in their pay nor with their knowledge. i determined to let other persons know what a convenience i had found the "star razor" of messrs. kampf, of new york, without fear of reproach for so doing. i know my danger,--does not lord byron say, "i have even been accused of writing puffs for warren's blacking"? i was once offered pay for a poem in praise of a certain stove polish, but i declined. it is pure good-will to my race which leads me to commend the star razor to all who travel by land or by sea, as well as to all who stay at home. with the first sight of land many a passenger draws a long sigh of relief. yet everybody knows that the worst dangers begin after we have got near enough to see the shore, for there are several ways of landing, not all of which are equally desirable. on saturday, may th, we first caught a glimpse of the irish coast, and at half past four in the afternoon we reached the harbor of queenstown. a tug came off, bringing newspapers, letters, and so forth, among the rest some thirty letters and telegrams for me. this did not look much like rest, but this was only a slight prelude to what was to follow. i was in no condition to go on shore for sight-seeing, as some of the passengers did. we made our way through the fog towards liverpool, and arrived at . , on sunday, may th. a special tug came to take us off: on it were the american consul, mr. russell, the vice-consul, mr. sewall, dr. nevins, and mr. rathbone, who came on behalf of our as yet unseen friend, mr. willett, of brighton, england. our liverpool friends were meditating more hospitalities to us than, in our fatigued condition, we were equal to supporting. they very kindly, however, acquiesced in our wishes, which were for as much rest as we could possibly get before any attempt to busy ourselves with social engagements. so they conveyed us to the grand hotel for a short time, and then saw us safely off to the station to take the train for chester, where we arrived in due season, and soon found ourselves comfortably established at the grosvenor arms hotel. a large basket of surrey primroses was brought by mr. rathbone to my companion. i had set before me at the hotel a very handsome floral harp, which my friend's friend had offered me as a tribute. it made melody in my ears as sweet as those hyacinths of shelley's, the music of whose bells was so "delicate, soft, and intense, it was felt like an odor within the sense." at chester we had the blissful security of being unknown, and were left to ourselves. americans know chester better than most other old towns in england, because they so frequently stop there awhile on their way from liverpool to london. it has a mouldy old cathedral, an old wall, partly roman, strange old houses with overhanging upper floors, which make sheltered sidewalks and dark basements. when one sees an old house in new england with the second floor projecting a foot or two beyond the wall of the ground floor, the country boy will tell him that "them haouses was built so th't th' folks upstairs could shoot the injins when they was tryin' to git threew th' door or int' th' winder." there are plenty of such houses all over england, where there are no "injins" to shoot. but the story adds interest to the somewhat lean traditions of our rather dreary past, and it is hardly worth while to disturb it. i always heard it in my boyhood. perhaps it is true; certainly it was a very convenient arrangement for discouraging an untimely visit. the oval lookouts in porches, common in our essex county, have been said to answer a similar purpose, that of warning against the intrusion of undesirable visitors. the walk round the old wall of chester is wonderfully interesting and beautiful. at one part it overlooks a wide level field, over which the annual races are run. i noticed that here as elsewhere the short grass was starred with daisies. they are not considered in place in a well-kept lawn. but remembering the cuckoo song in "love's labour's lost," "when daisies pied ... do paint the meadows with delight," it was hard to look at them as unwelcome intruders. the old cathedral seemed to me particularly mouldy, and in fact too high-flavored with antiquity. i could not help comparing some of the ancient cathedrals and abbey churches to so many old cheeses. they have a tough gray rind and a rich interior, which find food and lodging for numerous tenants who live and die under their shelter or their shadow,--lowly servitors some of them, portly dignitaries others, humble holy ministers of religion many, i doubt not,--larvae of angels, who will get their wings by and by. it is a shame to carry the comparison so far, but it is natural enough; for cheshire cheeses are among the first things we think of as we enter that section of the country, and this venerable cathedral is the first that greets the eyes of great numbers of americans. we drove out to eaton hall, the seat of the duke of westminster, the many-millioned lord of a good part of london. it is a palace, high-roofed, marble-columned, vast, magnificent, everything but homelike, and perhaps homelike to persons born and bred in such edifices. a painter like paul veronese finds a palace like this not too grand for his banqueting scenes. but to those who live, as most of us do, in houses of moderate dimensions, snug, comfortable, which the owner's presence fills sufficiently, leaving room for a few visitors, a vast marble palace is disheartening and uninviting. i never get into a very large and lofty saloon without feeling as if i were a weak solution of myself,--my personality almost drowned out in the flood of space about me. the wigwam is more homelike than the cavern. our wooden houses are a better kind of wigwam; the marble palaces are artificial caverns, vast, resonant, chilling, good to visit, not desirable to live in, for most of us. one's individuality should betray itself in all that surrounds him; he should _secrete_ his shell, like a mollusk; if he can sprinkle a few pearls through it, so much the better. it is best, perhaps, that one should avoid being a duke and living in a palace,--that is, if he has his choice in the robing chamber where souls are fitted with their earthly garments. one of the most interesting parts of my visit to eaton hall was my tour through the stables. the duke is a famous breeder and lover of the turf. mr. rathbone and myself soon made the acquaintance of the chief of the stable department. readers of homer do not want to be reminded that _hippodamoio_, horse-subduer, is the genitive of an epithet applied as a chief honor to the most illustrious heroes. it is the last word of the last line of the iliad, and fitly closes the account of the funeral pageant of hector, the tamer of horses. we americans are a little shy of confessing that any title or conventional grandeur makes an impression upon us. if at home we wince before any official with a sense of blighted inferiority, it is by general confession the clerk at the hotel office. there is an excuse for this, inasmuch as he holds our destinies in his hands, and decides whether, in case of accident, we shall have to jump from the third or sixth story window. lesser grandeurs do not find us very impressible. there is, however, something about the man who deals in horses which takes down the spirit, however proud, of him who is unskilled in equestrian matters and unused to the horse-lover's vocabulary. we followed the master of the stables, meekly listening and once in a while questioning. i had to fall back on my reserves, and summoned up memories half a century old to gain the respect and win the confidence of the great horse-subduer. he showed us various fine animals, some in their stalls, some outside of them. chief of all was the renowned bend or, a derby winner, a noble and beautiful bay, destined in a few weeks to gain new honors on the same turf in the triumph of his offspring ormonde, whose acquaintance we shall make by-and-by. the next day, tuesday, may th, at . , we took the train for london. we had a saloon car, which had been thoughtfully secured for us through unseen, not unsuspected, agencies, which had also beautified the compartment with flowers. here are some of my first impressions of england as seen from the carriage and from the cars.--how very english! i recall birket foster's pictures of english landscape,--a beautiful, poetical series of views, but hardly more poetical than the reality. how thoroughly england _is groomed_! our new england out-of-doors landscape often looks as if it had just got out of bed, and had not finished its toilet. the glowing green of everything strikes me: green hedges in place of our rail-fences, always ugly, and our rude stone-walls, which are not wanting in a certain look of fitness approaching to comeliness, and are really picturesque when lichen-coated, but poor features of landscape as compared to these universal hedges. i am disappointed in the trees, so far; i have not seen one large tree as yet. most of those i see are of very moderate dimensions, feathered all the way up their long slender trunks, with a lop-sided mop of leaves at the top, like a wig which has slipped awry. i trust that i am not finding everything _couleur de rose_; but i certainly do find the cheeks of children and young persons of such brilliant rosy hue as i do not remember that i have ever seen before. i am almost ready to think this and that child's face has been colored from a pink saucer. if the saxon youth exposed for sale at rome, in the days of pope gregory the great, had complexions like these children, no wonder that the pontiff exclaimed, not _angli_, but _angeli_! all this may sound a little extravagant, but i am giving my impressions without any intentional exaggeration. how far these first impressions may be modified by after-experiences there will be time enough to find out and to tell. it is better to set them down at once just as they are. a first impression is one never to be repeated; the second look will see much that was not noticed before, but it will not reproduce the sharp lines of the _first proof_, which is always interesting, no matter what the eye or the mind fixes upon. "i see men as trees walking." that first experience could not be mended. when dickens landed in boston, he was struck with the brightness of all the objects he saw,--buildings, signs, and so forth. when i landed in liverpool, everything looked very dark, very dingy, very massive, in the streets i drove through. so in london, but in a week it all seemed natural enough. we got to the hotel where we had engaged quarters, at eleven o'clock in the evening of wednesday, the th of may. everything was ready for us,--a bright fire blazing and supper waiting. when we came to look at the accommodations, we found they were not at all adapted to our needs. it was impossible to stay there another night. so early the next morning we sent out our courier-maid, a dove from the ark, to find us a place where we could rest the soles of our feet. london is a nation of something like four millions of inhabitants, and one does not feel easy without he has an assured place of shelter. the dove flew all over the habitable districts of the city,--inquired at as many as twenty houses. no roosting-place for our little flock of three. at last the good angel who followed us everywhere, in one shape or another, pointed the wanderer to a place which corresponded with all our requirements and wishes. this was at no. dover street, mackellar's hotel, where we found ourselves comfortably lodged and well cared for during the whole time we were in london. it was close to piccadilly and to bond street. near us, in the same range, were brown's hotel and batt's hotel, both widely known to the temporary residents of london. we were but partially recovered from the fatigues and trials of the voyage when our arrival pulled the string of the social shower-bath, and the invitations began pouring down upon us so fast that we caught our breath, and felt as if we should be smothered. the first evening saw us at a great dinner-party at our well-remembered friend lady harcourt's. twenty guests, celebrities and agreeable persons, with or without titles. the tables were radiant with silver, glistening with choice porcelain, blazing with a grand show of tulips. this was our "baptism of fire" in that long conflict which lasts through the london season. after dinner came a grand reception, most interesting, but fatiguing to persons hardly as yet in good condition for social service. we lived through it, however, and enjoyed meeting so many friends, known and unknown, who were very cordial and pleasant in their way of receiving us. it was plain that we could not pretend to answer all the invitations which flooded our tables. if we had attempted it, we should have found no time for anything else. a secretary was evidently a matter of immediate necessity. through the kindness of mrs. pollock, we found a young lady who was exactly fitted for the place. she was installed in the little room intended for her, and began the work of accepting with pleasure and regretting our inability, of acknowledging the receipt of books, flowers, and other objects, and being very sorry that we could not subscribe to this good object and attend that meeting in behalf of a deserving charity,--in short, writing almost everything for us except autographs, which i can warrant were always genuine. the poor young lady was almost tired out sometimes, having to stay at her table, on one occasion, so late as eleven in the evening, to get through her day's work. i simplified matters for her by giving her a set of formulae as a base to start from, and she proved very apt at the task of modifying each particular letter to suit its purpose. from this time forward continued a perpetual round of social engagements. breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, teas, receptions with spread tables, two, three, and four deep of an evening, with receiving company at our own rooms, took up the day, so that we had very little time for common sight-seeing. of these kinds of entertainments, the breakfast, though pleasant enough when the company is agreeable, as i always found it, is the least convenient of all times and modes of visiting. you have already interviewed one breakfast, and are expecting soon to be coquetting with a tempting luncheon. if one had as many stomachs as a ruminant, he would not mind three or four serious meals a day, not counting the tea as one of them. the luncheon is a very convenient affair: it does not require special dress; it is informal; it is soon over, and may be made light or heavy, as one chooses. the afternoon tea is almost a necessity in london life. it is considered useful as "a pick me up," and it serves an admirable purpose in the social system. it costs the household hardly any trouble or expense. it brings people together in the easiest possible way, for ten minutes or an hour, just as their engagements or fancies may settle it. a cup of tea at the right moment does for the virtuous reveller all that falstaff claims for a good sherris-sack, or at least the first half of its "twofold operation:" "it ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery and delectable shapes, which delivered over to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit." but it must have the right brain to work upon, and i doubt if there is any brain to which it is so congenial and from which it brings so much as that of a first-rate london old lady. i came away from the great city with the feeling that this most complex product of civilization was nowhere else developed to such perfection. the octogenarian londoness has been in society,--let us say the highest society,--all her days. she is as tough as an old macaw, or she would not have lasted so long. she has seen and talked with all the celebrities of three generations, all the beauties of at least half a dozen decades. her wits have been kept bright by constant use, and as she is free of speech it requires some courage to face her. yet nobody can be more agreeable, even to young persons, than one of these precious old dowagers. a great beauty is almost certainly thinking how she looks while one is talking with her; an authoress is waiting to have one praise her book; but a grand old lady, who loves london society, who lives in it, who understands young people and all sorts of people, with her high-colored recollections of the past and her grand-maternal interests in the new generation, is the best of companions, especially over a cup of tea just strong enough to stir up her talking ganglions. a breakfast, a lunch, a tea, is a circumstance, an occurrence, in social life, but a dinner is an event. it is the full-blown flower of that cultivated growth of which those lesser products are the buds. i will not try to enumerate, still less to describe, the various entertainments to which we were invited, and many of which we attended. among the professional friends i found or made during this visit to london, none were more kindly attentive than dr. priestley, who, with his charming wife, the daughter of the late robert chambers, took more pains to carry out our wishes than we could have asked or hoped for. at his house i first met sir james paget and sir william gull, long well known to me, as to the medical profession everywhere, as preëminent in their several departments. if i were an interviewer or a newspaper reporter, i should be tempted to give the impression which the men and women of distinction i met made upon me; but where all were cordial, where all made me feel as nearly as they could that i belonged where i found myself, whether the ceiling were a low or a lofty one, i do not care to differentiate my hosts and my other friends. _fortemque gyan fortemque cloanthum_, --i left my microscope and my test-papers at home. our friends, several of them, had a pleasant way of sending their carriages to give us a drive in the park, where, except in certain permitted regions, the common numbered vehicles are not allowed to enter. lady harcourt sent her carriage for us to go to her sister's, mrs. mildmay's, where we had a pleasant little "tea," and met one of the most agreeable and remarkable of those london old ladies i have spoken of. for special occasions we hired an unnumbered carriage, with professionally equipped driver and footman. mrs. bloomfield moore sent her carriage for us to take us to a lunch at her house, where we met mr. browning, sir henry and lady layard, oscar wilde and his handsome wife, and other well-known guests. after lunch, recitations, songs, etc. house full of pretty things. among other curiosities a portfolio of drawings illustrating keeley's motor, which, up to this time, has manifested a remarkably powerful _vis inertice_, but which promises miracles. in the evening a grand reception at lady granville's, beginning (for us, at least) at eleven o'clock. the house a palace, and a---- thinks there were a thousand people there. we made the tour of the rooms, saw many great personages, had to wait for our carriage a long time, but got home at one o'clock. english people have queer notions about iced-water and ice-cream. "you will surely die, eating such cold stuff," said a lady to my companion. "oh, no," she answered, "but i should certainly die were i to drink your two cups of strong tea." i approved of this "counter" on the teacup, but i did not think either of them was in much danger. the next day rev. mr. haweis sent his carriage, and we drove in the park. in the afternoon we went to our minister's to see the american ladies who had been presented at the drawing-room. after this, both of us were glad to pass a day or two in comparative quiet, except that we had a room full of visitors. so many persons expressed a desire to make our acquaintance that we thought it would be acceptable to them if we would give a reception ourselves. we were thinking how we could manage it with our rooms at the hotel, which were not arranged so that they could be thrown together. still, we were planning to make the best of them, when dr. and mrs. priestley suggested that we should receive our company at their house. this was a surprise, and a most welcome one, and a---- and her kind friend busied themselves at once about the arrangements. we went to a luncheon at lansdowne house, lord rosebery's residence, not far from our hotel. my companion tells a little incident which may please an american six-year-old: "the eldest of the four children, sibyl, a pretty, bright child of six, told me that she wrote a letter to the queen. i said, 'did you begin, dear queen?' 'no,' she answered, 'i began, your majesty, and signed myself, your little humble servant, sibyl.'" a very cordial and homelike reception at this great house, where a couple of hours were passed most agreeably. on the following sunday i went to westminster abbey to hear a sermon from canon harford on a cheerful life. a lively, wholesome, and encouraging discourse, such as it would do many a forlorn new england congregation good to hear. in the afternoon we both went together to the abbey. met our beverly neighbor, mrs. vaughan, and adopted her as one of our party. the seats we were to have were full, and we had to be stowed where there was any place that would hold us. i was smuggled into a stall, going through long and narrow passages, between crowded rows of people, and found myself at last with a big book before me and a set of official personages around me, whose duties i did not clearly understand. i thought they might be mutes, or something of that sort, salaried to look grave and keep quiet. after service we took tea with dean bradley, and after tea we visited the jerusalem chamber. i had been twice invited to weddings in that famous room: once to the marriage of my friend motley's daughter, then to that of mr. frederick locker's daughter to lionel tennyson, whose recent death has been so deeply mourned. i never expected to see that jerusalem in which harry the fourth died, but there i found myself in the large panelled chamber, with all its associations. the older memories came up but vaguely; an american finds it as hard to call back anything over two or three centuries old as a sucking-pump to draw up water from a depth of over thirty-three feet and a fraction. after this a---- went to a musical party, dined with the vaughans, and had a good time among american friends. the next evening we went to the lyceum theatre to see mr. irving. he had placed the royal box at our disposal, so we invited our friends the priestleys to go with us, and we all enjoyed the evening mightily. between the scenes we went behind the curtain, and saw the very curious and admirable machinery of the dramatic spectacle. we made the acquaintance of several imps and demons, who were got up wonderfully well. ellen terry was as fascinating as ever. i remembered that once before i had met her and mr. irving behind the scenes. it was at the boston theatre, and while i was talking with them a very heavy piece of scenery came crashing down, and filled the whole place with dust. it was but a short distance from where we were standing, and i could not help thinking how near our several life-dramas came to a simultaneous _exeunt omnes_. a long visit from a polite interviewer, shopping, driving, calling, arranging about the people to be invited to our reception, and an agreeable dinner at chelsea with my american friend, mrs. merritt, filled up this day full enough, and left us in good condition for the next, which was to be a very busy one. in the introduction to these papers, i mentioned the fact that more than half a century ago i went to the famous derby race at epsom. i determined, if possible, to see the derby of , as i had seen that of . i must have spoken of this intention to some interviewer, for i find the following paragraph in an english sporting newspaper, "the field," for may th, :-- "the derby has always been the one event in the racing year which statesmen, philosophers, poets, essayists, and _littérateurs_ desire to see once in their lives. a few years since mr. gladstone was induced by lord granville and lord wolverton to run down to epsom on the derby day. the impression produced upon the prime minister's sensitive and emotional mind was that the mirth and hilarity displayed by his compatriots upon epsom race-course was italian rather than english in its character. on the other hand, gustave doré, who also saw the derby for the first and only time in his life, exclaimed, as he gazed with horror upon the faces below him, _quelle scène brutale!_ we wonder to which of these two impressions dr. oliver wendell holmes inclined, if he went last wednesday to epsom! probably the well-known, etc., etc.--of one thing dr. holmes may rest finally satisfied: the derby of may possibly have seemed to him far less exciting than that of ; but neither in nor in any other year was the great race ever won by a better sportsman or more honorable man than the duke of westminster." my desire to see the derby of this year was of the same origin and character as that which led me to revisit many scenes which i remembered. i cared quite as much about renewing old impressions as about getting new ones. i enjoyed everything which i had once seen all the more from the blending of my recollections with the present as it was before me. the derby day of was exceedingly windy and dusty. our party, riding on the outside of the coach, was half smothered with the dust, and arrived in a very deteriorated condition, but recompensed for it by the extraordinary sights we had witnessed. there was no train in those days, and the whole road between london and epsom was choked with vehicles of all kinds, from four-in-hands to donkey-carts and wheelbarrows. my friends and i mingled freely in the crowds, and saw all the "humours" of the occasion. the thimble-riggers were out in great force, with their light, movable tables, the cups or thimbles, and the "little jokers," and the coachman, the sham gentleman, the country greenhorn, all properly got up and gathered about the table. i think we had "aunt sally," too,--the figure with a pipe in her mouth, which one might shy a stick at for a penny or two and win something, i forget what. the clearing the course of stragglers, and the chasing about of the frightened little dog who had got in between the thick ranks of spectators, reminded me of what i used to see on old "artillery election" days. it was no common race that i went to see in . "it is asserted in the columns of a contemporary that plenipotentiary was absolutely the best horse of the century." this was the winner of the race i saw so long ago. herring's colored portrait, which i have always kept, shows him as a great, powerful chestnut horse, well deserving the name of "bullock," which one of the jockeys applied to him. "rumor credits dr. holmes," so "the field" says, "with desiring mentally to compare his two derbies with each other." i was most fortunate in my objects of comparison. the horse i was about to see win was not unworthy of being named with the renowned champion of my earlier day. i quote from a writer in the "london morning post," whose words, it will be seen, carry authority with them:-- "deep as has hitherto been my reverence for plenipotentiary, bay middleton, and queen of trumps from hearsay, and for don john, crucifix, etc., etc., from my own personal knowledge, i am inclined to award the palm to ormonde as the best three-year-old i have ever seen during close upon half a century's connection with the turf." ormonde, the duke of westminster's horse, was the son of that other winner of the derby, bend or, whom i saw at eaton hall. perhaps some coeval of mine may think it was a rather youthful idea to go to the race. i cannot help that. i was off on my first long vacation for half a century, and had a right to my whims and fancies. but it was one thing to go in with a vast crowd at five and twenty, and another thing to run the risks of the excursion at more than thrice that age. i looked about me for means of going safely, and could think of nothing better than to ask one of the pleasantest and kindest of gentlemen, to whom i had a letter from mr. winthrop, at whose house i had had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. lord rosebery suggested that the best way would be for me to go in the special train which was to carry the prince of wales. first, then, i was to be introduced to his royal highness, which office was kindly undertaken by our very obliging and courteous minister, mr. phelps. after this all was easily arranged, and i was cared for as well as if i had been mr. phelps himself. on the grand stand i found myself in the midst of the great people, who were all very natural, and as much at their ease as the rest of the world. the prince is of a lively temperament and a very cheerful aspect,--a young girl would call him "jolly" as well as "nice." i recall the story of "mr. pope" and his prince of wales, as told by horace walpole. "mr. pope, you don't love princes." "sir, i beg your pardon." "well, you don't love kings, then." "sir, i own i love the lion best before his claws are grown." certainly, nothing in prince albert edward suggests any aggressive weapons or tendencies. the lovely, youthful-looking, gracious alexandra, the always affable and amiable princess louise, the tall youth who sees the crown and sceptre afar off in his dreams, the slips of girls so like many school misses we left behind us,--all these grand personages, not being on exhibition, but off enjoying themselves, just as i was and as other people were, seemed very much like their fellow-mortals. it is really easier to feel at home with the highest people in the land than with the awkward commoner who was knighted yesterday. when "my lord and sir paul" came into the club which goldsmith tells us of, the hilarity of the evening was instantly checked. the entrance of a dignitary like the present prince of wales would not have spoiled the fun of the evening. if there is any one accomplishment specially belonging to princes, it is that of making the persons they meet feel at ease. the grand stand to which i was admitted was a little privileged republic. i remember thackeray's story of his asking some simple question of a royal or semi-royal personage whom he met in the courtyard of an hotel, which question his highness did not answer, but called a subordinate to answer for him. i had been talking some time with a tall, good-looking gentleman, whom i took for a nobleman to whom i had been introduced. something led me to think i was mistaken in the identity of this gentleman. i asked him, at last, if he were not so and so. "no," he said, "i am prince christian." you are a christian prince, anyhow, i said to myself, if i may judge by your manners. i once made a similar mistake in addressing a young fellow-citizen of some social pretensions. i apologized for my error. "no offence," he answered. _offence_ indeed! i should hope not. but he had not the "_manière de prince_", or he would never have used that word. i must say something about the race i had taken so much pains to see. there was a preliminary race, which excited comparatively little interest. after this the horses were shown in the paddock, and many of our privileged party went down from the stand to look at them. then they were brought out, smooth, shining, fine-drawn, frisky, spirit-stirring to look upon,--most beautiful of all the bay horse ormonde, who could hardly be restrained, such was his eagerness for action. the horses disappear in the distance.--they are off,--not yet distinguishable, at least to me. a little waiting time, and they swim into our ken, but in what order of precedence it is as yet not easy to say. here they come! two horses have emerged from the ruck, and are sweeping, rushing, storming, towards us, almost side by side. one slides by the other, half a length, a length, a length and a half. those are archer's colors, and the beautiful bay ormonde flashes by the line, winner of the derby of . "the bard" has made a good fight for the first place, and comes in second. poor archer, the king of the jockeys! he will bestride no more derby winners. a few weeks later he died by his own hand. while the race was going on, the yells of the betting crowd beneath us were incessant. it must have been the frantic cries and movements of these people that caused gustave doré to characterize it as a brutal scene. the vast mob which thronged the wide space beyond the shouting circle just round us was much like that of any other fair, so far as i could see from my royal perch. the most conspicuous object was a man on an immensely tall pair of stilts, stalking about among the crowd. i think it probable that i had as much enjoyment in forming one of the great mob in as i had among the grandeurs in , but the last is pleasanter to remember and especially to tell of. after the race we had a luncheon served us, a comfortable and substantial one, which was very far from unwelcome. i did not go to the derby to bet on the winner. but as i went in to luncheon, i passed a gentleman standing in custody of a plate half covered with sovereigns. he politely asked me if i would take a little paper from a heap there was lying by the plate, and add a sovereign to the collection already there. i did so, and, unfolding my paper, found it was a blank, and passed on. the pool, as i afterwards learned, fell to the lot of the turkish ambassador. i found it very windy and uncomfortable on the more exposed parts of the grand stand, and was glad that i had taken a shawl with me, in which i wrapped myself as if i had been on shipboard. this, i told my english friends, was the more civilized form of the indian's blanket. my report of the weather does not say much for the english may, but it is generally agreed upon that this is a backward and unpleasant spring. after my return from the race we went to a large dinner at mr. phelps's house, where we met mr. browning again, and the lord chancellor herschell, among others. then to mrs. cyril flower's, one of the most sumptuous houses in london; and after that to lady rothschild's, another of the private palaces, with ceilings lofty as firmaments, and walls that might have been copied from the new jerusalem. there was still another great and splendid reception at lady dalhousie's, and a party at mrs. smith's, but we were both tired enough to be willing to go home after what may be called a pretty good day's work at enjoying ourselves. we had been a fortnight in london, and were now inextricably entangled in the meshes of the golden web of london social life. ii. the reader who glances over these papers, and, finding them too full of small details and the lesser personal matters which belong naturally to private correspondences, turns impatiently from them, has my entire sympathy and good-will. he is not one of those for whom these pages are meant. having no particular interest in the writer or his affairs, he does not care for the history of "the migrations from the blue bed to the brown" and the many mistress quicklyisms of circumstantial narrative. yet all this may be pleasant reading to relatives and friends. but i must not forget that a new generation of readers has come into being since i have been writing for the public, and that a new generation of aspiring and brilliant authors has grown into general recognition. the dome of boston state house, which is the centre of my little universe, was glittering in its fresh golden pellicle before i had reached the scriptural boundary of life. it has lost its lustre now, and the years which have dulled its surface have whitened the dome of that fragile structure in which my consciousness holds the session of its faculties. time is not to be cheated. it is easy to talk of perennial youth, and to toy with the flattering fictions which every ancient personage accepts as true so far as he himself is concerned, and laughs at as foolish talk when he hears them applied to others. when, in my exulting immaturity, i wrote the lines not unknown to the reading public under the name of "the last leaf", i spoke of the possibility that i myself might linger on the old bough until the buds and blossoms of a new spring were opening and spreading all around me. i am not as yet the solitary survivor of my literary contemporaries, and, remembering who my few coevals are, it may well be hoped that i shall not be. but i feel lonely, very lonely, in the pages through which i wander. these are new names in the midst of which i find my own. in another sense i am very far from alone. i have daily assurances that i have a constituency of known and unknown personal friends, whose indulgence i have no need of asking. i know there are readers enough who will be pleased to follow me in my brief excursion, _because i am myself_, and will demand no better reason. if i choose to write for them, i do no injury to those for whom my personality is an object of indifference. they will find on every shelf some publications which are not intended for them, and which they prefer to let alone. no person is expected to help himself to everything set before him at a public table. i will not, therefore, hesitate to go on with the simple story of our old world experiences. thanks to my indian blanket,--my shawl, i mean,--i found myself nothing the worse for my manifold adventures of the th of may. the cold wind sweeping over epsom downs reminded me of our own chilling easterly breezes; especially the northeasterly ones, which are to me less disagreeable than the southeasterly. but the poetical illusion about an english may,-- "zephyr with aurora playing, as he met her once a-maying,"-- and all that, received a shrewd thrust. zephyr ought to have come in an ulster, and offered aurora a warm petticoat. however, in spite of all difficulties, i brought off my recollections of the derby of in triumph, and am now waiting for the colored portrait of ormonde with archer on his back,--archer, the winner of five derby races, one of which was won by the american horse iroquois. when that picture, which i am daily expecting, arrives, i shall have it framed and hung by the side of herring's picture of plenipotentiary, the horse i saw win the derby in . these two, with an old portrait of the great eclipse, who, as my engraving of (stubbs's) says, "was never beat, or ever had occation for whip or spur," will constitute my entire sporting gallery. i have not that vicious and demoralizing love of horse-flesh which makes it next to impossible to find a perfectly honest hippophile. but a racer is the realization of an ideal quadruped,-- "a pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift;" so ethereal, so bird-like, that it is no wonder that the horse about whom those old story-tellers lied so stoutly,--telling of his running a mile in a minute,--was called flying childers. the roses in mrs. pfeiffer's garden were hardly out of flower when i lunched with her at her pretty villa at putney. there i met mr. browning, mr. holman hunt, mrs. ritchie, miss anna swanwick, the translator of Ã�schylus, and other good company, besides that of my entertainer. one of my very agreeable experiences was a call from a gentleman with whom i had corresponded, but whom i had never met. this was mr. john bellows, of gloucester, publisher, printer, man of letters, or rather of words; for he is the author of that truly remarkable little manual, "the bona fide pocket dictionary of the french and english languages." to the review of this little book, which is dedicated to prince lucien bonaparte, the "london times" devoted a full column. i never heard any one who had used it speak of it except with admiration. the modest friend may be surprised to find himself at full length in my pages, but those who know the little miracle of typography, its conciseness, completeness, arrangement, will not wonder that i was gratified to see the author, who sent it to me, and who has written me most interesting letters on the local antiquities of gloucester and its neighborhood. we lunched that day at lady camperdown's, where we were happy to meet miss frances power cobbe. in the afternoon we went by invitation to a "tea and talk" at the reverend mr. haweis's, at chelsea. we found the house close packed, but managed to get through the rooms, shaking innumerable hands of the reverend gentleman's parishioners and other visitors. it was very well arranged, so as not to be too fatiguing, and we left the cordial gathering in good condition. we drove home with bishop and mrs. ellicott. after this sir james paget called, and took me to a small and early dinner-party; and a---- went with my secretary, the young lady of whom i have spoken, to see "human nature," at drury lane theatre. on the following day, after dining with lady holland (wife of sir henry, niece of macaulay), we went across the street to our neighbor's, lady stanley's. there was to be a great meeting of schoolmistresses, in whose work her son, the honorable lyulph stanley, is deeply interested. alas! the schoolma'ams were just leaving as we entered the door, and all we saw of them was the trail of their descending robes. i was very sorry for this, for i have a good many friends among our own schoolmistresses, --friends whom i never saw, but know through the kind words they have addressed to me. no place in london looks more reserved and exclusive than devonshire house, standing back behind its high wall, extending along piccadilly. there is certainly nothing in its exterior which invites intrusion. we had the pleasure of taking tea in the great house, accompanying our american friend, lady harcourt, and were graciously received and entertained by lady edward cavendish. like the other great houses, it is a museum of paintings, statues, objects of interest of all sorts. it must be confessed that it is pleasanter to go through the rooms with one of the ladies of the household than under the lead of a liveried servant. lord hartington came in while we were there. all the men who are distinguished in political life become so familiar to the readers of "punch" in their caricatures, that we know them at sight. even those who can claim no such public distinction are occasionally the subjects of the caricaturist, as some of us have found out for ourselves. a good caricature, which seizes the prominent features and gives them the character nature hinted, but did not fully carry out, is a work of genius. nature herself is a remorseless caricaturist, as our daily intercourse with our fellow men and women makes evident to us, and as is curiously illustrated in the figures of charles lebrun, showing the relations between certain human faces and those of various animals. hardly an english statesman in bodily presence could be mistaken by any of "punch's" readers. on the same day that we made this quiet visit we attended a great and ceremonious assembly. there were two parts in the programme, in the first of which i was on the stage _solus_,--that is, without my companion; in the second we were together. this day, saturday, the th of may, was observed as the queen's birthday, although she was born on the th. sir william harcourt gave a great dinner to the officials of his department, and later in the evening lady rosebery held a reception at the foreign office. on both these occasions everybody is expected to be in court dress, but my host told me i might present myself in ordinary evening dress. i thought that i might feel awkwardly among so many guests, all in the wedding garments, knee-breeches and the rest, without which i ventured among them. i never passed an easier evening in any company than among these official personages. sir william took me under the shield of his ample presence, and answered all my questions about the various notable personages at his table in a way to have made my fortune if i had been a reporter. from the dinner i went to mrs. gladstone's, at downing street, where a---- called for me. she had found a very small and distinguished company there, prince albert victor among the rest. at half past eleven we walked over to the foreign office to lady rosebery's reception. here mr. gladstone was of course the centre of a group, to which i was glad to add myself. his features are almost as familiar to me as my own, for a photograph of him in his library has long stood on my revolving bookcase, with a large lens before it. he is one of a small circle of individuals in whom i have had and still have a special personal interest. the year , which introduced me to atmospheric existence, was the birth-year of gladstone, tennyson, lord houghton, and darwin. it seems like an honor to have come into the world in such company, but it is more likely to promote humility than vanity in a common mortal to find himself coeval with such illustrious personages. men born in the same year watch each other, especially as the sands of life begin to run low, as we can imagine so many damaged hour-glasses to keep an eye on each other. women, of course, never know who are their contemporaries. familiar to me as were the features of mr. gladstone, i looked upon him with astonishment. for he stood before me with epaulets on his shoulders and a rapier at his side, as military in his aspect as if he had been lord wolseley, to whom i was introduced a short time afterwards. i was fortunate enough to see and hear mr. gladstone on a still more memorable occasion, and can afford to leave saying what were my impressions of the very eminent statesman until i speak of that occasion. a great number of invitations had been given out for the reception at lady rosebery's,--over two thousand, my companion heard it said. whatever the number was, the crowd was very great,--so great that one might well feel alarmed for the safety of any delicate person who was in the _pack_ which formed itself at one place in the course of the evening. some obstruction must have existed _a fronte_, and the _vis a tergo_ became fearful in its pressure on those who were caught in the jam. i began thinking of the crushes in which i had been caught, or which i had read and heard of: the terrible time at the execution of holloway and haggerty, where some forty persons were squeezed or trampled to death; the brooklyn theatre and other similar tragedies; the crowd i was in at the unveiling of the statue on the column of the place vendome, where i felt as one may suppose giles corey did when, in his misery, he called for "more weight" to finish him. but there was always a _deus ex machina_ for us when we were in trouble. looming up above the crowd was the smiling and encouraging countenance of the ever active, always present, always helpful mr. smalley. he cleared a breathing space before us. for a short time it was really a formidable wedging together of people, and if a lady had fainted in the press, she might have run a serious risk before she could have been extricated. no more "marble halls" for us, if we had to undergo the _peine forte et dure_ as the condition of our presence! we were both glad to escape from this threatened asphyxia, and move freely about the noble apartments. lady rosebery, who was kindness itself, would have had us stay and sit down in comfort at the supper-table, after the crowd had thinned, but we were tired with all we had been through, and ordered our carriage. _ordered our carriage!_ "i can call spirits from the vasty deep." ... _but will they come when you do call for them?_" the most formidable thing about a london party is getting away from it. "c'est le _dernier_ pas qui coute." a crowd of anxious persons in retreat is hanging about the windy door, and the breezy stairway, and the airy hall. a stentorian voice, hard as that of rhadamanthus, exclaims,-- "lady vere de vere's carriage stops the way!" if my lady vere de vere is not on hand, and that pretty quickly, off goes her carriage, and the stern voice bawls again,-- "mrs. smith's carriage stops the way!" mrs. smith's particular smith may be worth his millions and live in his marble palace; but if mrs. smith thinks her coachman is going to stand with his horses at that door until she appears, she is mistaken, for she is a minute late, and now the coach moves on, and rhadamanthus calls aloud,-- "mrs. brown's carriage stops the way!" half the lung fevers that carry off the great people are got waiting for their carriages. i know full well that many readers would be disappointed if i did not mention some of the grand places and bring in some of the great names that lend their lustre to london society. we were to go to a fine musical party at lady rothschild's on the evening of the th of may. it happened that the day was sunday, and if we had been as punctilious as some new england sabbatarians, we might have felt compelled to decline the tempting invitation. but the party was given by a daughter of abraham, and in every hebrew household the true sabbath was over. we were content for that evening to shelter ourselves under the old dispensation. the party, or concert, was a very brilliant affair. patti sang to us, and a tenor, and a violinist played for us. how we two americans came to be in so favored a position i do not know; all i do know is that we were shown to our places, and found them very agreeable ones. in the same row of seats was the prince of wales, two chairs off from a----'s seat. directly in front of a---- was the princess of wales, "in ruby velvet, with six rows of pearls encircling her throat, and two more strings falling quite low;" and next her, in front of me, the startling presence of lady de grey, formerly lady lonsdale, and before that gladys herbert. on the other side of the princess sat the grand duke michael of russia. as we are among the grandest of the grandees, i must enliven my sober account with an extract from my companion's diary:-- "there were several great beauties there, lady claude hamilton, a queenly blonde, being one. minnie stevens paget had with her the pretty miss langdon, of new york. royalty had one room for supper, with its attendant lords and ladies. lord rothschild took me down to a long table for a sit-down supper,--there were some thirty of us. the most superb pink orchids were on the table. the [thane] of ---- sat next me, and how he stared before he was introduced! ... this has been the finest party we have been to, sitting comfortably in such a beautiful ball-room, gazing at royalty in the flesh, and at the shades of departed beauties on the wall, by sir joshua and gainsborough. it was a new experience to find that the royal lions fed upstairs, and mixed animals below!" a visit to windsor had been planned, under the guidance of a friend whose kindness had already shown itself in various forms, and who, before we left england, did for us more than we could have thought of owing to any one person. this gentleman, mr. willett, of brighton, called with mrs. willett to take us on the visit which had been arranged between us. windsor castle, which everybody knows, or can easily learn, all about, is one of the largest of those huge caverns in which the descendants of the original cave men, when they have reached the height of human grandeur, delight to shelter themselves. it seems as if such a great hollow quarry of rock would strike a chill through every tenant, but modern improvements reach even the palaces of kings and queens, and the regulation temperature of the castle, or of its inhabited portions, is fixed at sixty-five degrees of fahrenheit. the royal standard was not floating from the tower of the castle, and everything was quiet and lonely. we saw all we wanted to,--pictures, furniture, and the rest. my namesake, the queen's librarian, was not there to greet us, or i should have had a pleasant half-hour in the library with that very polite gentleman, whom i had afterwards the pleasure of meeting in london. after going through all the apartments in the castle that we cared to see, or our conductress cared to show us, we drove in the park, along the "three-mile walk," and in the by-roads leading from it. the beautiful avenue, the open spaces with scattered trees here and there, made this a most delightful excursion. i saw many fine oaks, one about sixteen feet of honest girth, but no one which was very remarkable. i wished i could have compared the handsomest of them with one in beverly, which i never look at without taking my hat off. this is a young tree, with a future before it, if barbarians do not meddle with it, more conspicuous for its spread than its circumference, stretching not very far from a hundred feet from bough-end to bough-end. i do not think i saw a specimen of the british _quercus robur_ of such consummate beauty. but i know from evelyn and strutt what england has to boast of, and i will not challenge the british oak. two sensations i had in windsor park, or forest, for i am not quite sure of the boundary which separates them. the first was the lovely sight of the _hawthorn_ in full bloom. i had always thought of the hawthorn as a pretty shrub, growing in hedges; as big as a currant bush or a barberry bush, or some humble plant of that character. i was surprised to see it as a tree, standing by itself, and making the most delicious roof a pair of young lovers could imagine to sit under. it looked at a little distance like a young apple-tree covered with new-fallen snow. i shall never see the word hawthorn in poetry again without the image of the snowy but far from chilling canopy rising before me. it is the very bower of young love, and must have done more than any growth of the forest to soften the doom brought upon man by the fruit of the forbidden tree. no wonder that "in the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," with the object of his affections awaiting him in this boudoir of nature. what a pity that zekle, who courted huldy over the apples she was peeling, could not have made love as the bucolic youth does, when "every shepherd tells his tale under the hawthorn in the dale!" (i will have it _love_-tale, in spite of warton's comment.) but i suppose it does not make so much difference, for love transmutes the fruit in huldy's lap into the apples of the hesperides. in this way it is that the associations with the poetry we remember come up when we find ourselves surrounded by english scenery. the great poets build temples of song, and fill them with images and symbols which move us almost to adoration; the lesser minstrels fill a panel or gild a cornice here and there, and make our hearts glad with glimpses of beauty. i felt all this as i looked around and saw the hawthorns in full bloom, in the openings among the oaks and other trees of the forest. presently i heard a sound to which i had never listened before, and which i have never heard since:-- coooo--coooo! nature had sent one cuckoo from her aviary to sing his double note for me, that i might not pass away from her pleasing show without once hearing the call so dear to the poets. it was the last day of spring. a few more days, and the solitary voice might have been often heard; for the bird becomes so common as to furnish shakespeare an image to fit "the skipping king:"-- "he was but as the cuckoo is in june, heard, not regarded." for the lyric poets the cuckoo is "companion of the spring," "darling of the spring;" coming with the daisy, and the primrose, and the blossoming sweet-pea. where the sound came from i could not tell; it puzzled wordsworth, with younger eyes than mine, to find whence issued "that cry which made me look a thousand ways in bush, and tree, and sky." only one hint of the prosaic troubled my emotional delight: i could not help thinking how capitally the little rogue imitated the cuckoo clock, with the sound of which i was pretty well acquainted. on our return from windsor we had to get ready for another great dinner with our minister, mr. phelps. as we are in the habit of considering our great officials as public property, and as some of my readers want as many glimpses of high life as a decent regard to republican sensibilities will permit, i will borrow a few words from the diary to which i have often referred:-- "the princess louise was there with the marquis, and i had the best opportunity of seeing how they receive royalty at private houses. mr. and mrs. phelps went down to the door to meet her the moment she came, and then mr. phelps entered the drawing-room with the princess on his arm, and made the tour of the room with her, she bowing and speaking to each one of us. mr. goschen took me in to dinner, and lord lorne was on my other side. all of the flowers were of the royal color, red. it was a grand dinner.... the austrian ambassador, count karoli, took mrs. phelps in [to dinner], his position being higher than that of even the duke [of argyll], who sat upon her right." it was a very rich experience for a single day: the stately abode of royalty, with all its manifold historical recollections, the magnificent avenue of forest trees, the old oaks, the hawthorn in full bloom, and the one cry of the cuckoo, calling me back to nature in her spring-time freshness and glory; then, after that, a great london dinner-party at a house where the kind host and the gracious hostess made us feel at home, and where we could meet the highest people in the land,--the people whom we who live in a simpler way at home are naturally pleased to be with under such auspices. what of all this shall i remember longest? let me not seem ungrateful to my friends who planned the excursion for us, or to those who asked us to the brilliant evening entertainment, but i feel as wordsworth felt about the cuckoo,--he will survive all the other memories. "and i can listen to thee yet, can lie upon the plain and listen, till i do beget that golden time again." nothing is more hackneyed than an american's description of his feelings in the midst of the scenes and objects he has read of all his days, and is looking upon for the first time. to each of us it appears in some respects in the same way, but with a difference for every individual. we may smile at irving's emotions at the first sight of a distinguished englishman on his own soil,--the ingenious mr. roscoe, as an earlier generation would have called him. our tourists, who are constantly going forward and back between england and america, lose all sense of the special distinctions between the two countries which do not bear on their personal convenience. happy are those who go with unworn, unsatiated sensibilities from the new world to the old; as happy, it may be, those who come from the old world to the new, but of that i cannot form a judgment. on the first day of june we called by appointment upon mr. peel, the speaker of the house of commons, and went through the houses of parliament. we began with the train-bearer, then met the housekeeper, and presently were joined by mr. palgrave. the "golden treasury" stands on my drawing-room table at home, and the name on its title-page had a familiar sound. this gentleman is, i believe, a near relative of professor francis turner palgrave, its editor. among other things to which mr. palgrave called our attention was the death-warrant of charles the first. one name in the list of signers naturally fixed our eyes upon it. it was that of john dixwell. a lineal descendant of the old regicide is very near to me by family connection, colonel dixwell having come to this country, married, and left a posterity, which has resumed the name, dropped for the sake of safety at the time when he, goffe, and whalley, were in concealment in various parts of new england. we lunched with the speaker, and had the pleasure of the company of archdeacon farrar. in the afternoon we went to a tea at a very grand house, where, as my companion says in her diary, "it took full six men in red satin knee-breeches to let us in." another grand personage asked us to dine with her at her country place, but we were too full of engagements. in the evening we went to a large reception at mr. gosse's. it was pleasant to meet artists and scholars,--the kind of company to which we are much used in our aesthetic city. i found our host as agreeable at home as he was when in boston, where he became a favorite, both as a lecturer and as a visitor. another day we visited stafford house, where lord ronald gower, himself an artist, did the honors of the house, showing us the pictures and sculptures, his own included, in a very obliging and agreeable way. i have often taken note of the resemblances of living persons to the portraits and statues of their remote ancestors. in showing us the portrait of one of his own far-back progenitors, lord ronald placed a photograph of himself in the corner of the frame. the likeness was so close that the photograph might seem to have been copied from the painting, the dress only being changed. the duke of sutherland, who had just come back from america, complained that the dinners and lunches had used him up. i was fast learning how to sympathize with him. then to grosvenor house to see the pictures. i best remember gainsborough's beautiful blue boy, commonly so called, from the color of his dress, and sir joshua's mrs. siddons as the tragic muse, which everybody knows in engravings. we lunched in clerical company that day, at the bishop of gloucester and bristol's, with the archbishop of york, the reverend mr. haweis, and others as guests. i told a---- that she was not sufficiently impressed with her position at the side of an archbishop; she was not _crumbling bread_ in her nervous excitement. the company did not seem to remember sydney smith's remark to the young lady next him at a dinner-party: "my dear, i see you are nervous, by your crumbling your bread as you do. _i_ always crumble bread when i sit by a bishop, and when i sit by an archbishop i crumble bread with both hands." that evening i had the pleasure of dining with the distinguished mr. bryce, whose acquaintance i made in our own country, through my son, who has introduced me to many agreeable persons of his own generation, with whose companionship i am glad to mend the broken and merely fragmentary circle of old friendships. the d of june was a memorable day for us, for on the evening of that day we were to hold our reception. if dean bradley had proposed our meeting our guests in the jerusalem chamber, i should hardly have been more astonished. but these kind friends meant what they said, and put the offer in such a shape that it was impossible to resist it. so we sent out our cards to a few hundreds of persons,--those who we thought might like invitations. i was particularly desirous that many members of the medical profession whom i had not met, but who felt well disposed towards me, should be at this gathering. the meeting was in every respect a success. i wrote a prescription for as many baskets of champagne as would be consistent with the well-being of our guests, and such light accompaniments as a london company is wont to expect under similar circumstances. my own recollections of the evening, unclouded by its festivities, but confused by its multitudinous succession of introductions, are about as definite as the duke of wellington's alleged monosyllabic description of the battle of waterloo. but a---- writes in her diary: "from nine to twelve we stood, receiving over three hundred people out of the four hundred and fifty we invited." as i did not go to europe to visit hospitals or museums, i might have missed seeing some of those professional brethren whose names i hold in honor and whose writings are in my library. if any such failed to receive our cards of invitation, it was an accident which, if i had known, i should have deeply regretted. so far as we could judge by all we heard, our unpretentious party gave general satisfaction. many different social circles were represented, but it passed off easily and agreeably. i can say this more freely, as the credit of it belongs so largely to the care and self-sacrificing efforts of dr. priestley and his charming wife. i never refused to write in the birthday book or the album of the humblest schoolgirl or schoolboy, and i could not refuse to set my name, with a verse from one of my poems, in the album of the princess of wales, which was sent me for that purpose. it was a nice new book, with only two or three names in it, and those of musical composers,-- rubinstein's, i think, was one of them,--so that i felt honored by the great lady's request. i ought to describe the book, but i only remember that it was quite large and sumptuously elegant, and that i copied into it the last verse of a poem of mine called "the chambered nautilus," as i have often done for plain republican albums. the day after our simple reception was notable for three social events in which we had our part. the first was a lunch at the house of mrs. cyril flower, one of the finest in london,--surrey house, as it is called. mr. browning, who seems to go everywhere, and is one of the vital elements of london society, was there as a matter of course. miss cobbe, many of whose essays i have read with great satisfaction, though i cannot accept all her views, was a guest whom i was very glad to meet a second time. in the afternoon we went to a garden-party given by the princess louise at kensington palace, a gloomy-looking edifice, which might be taken for a hospital or a poorhouse. of all the festive occasions which i attended, the garden-parties were to me the most formidable. they are all very well for young people, and for those who do not mind the nipping and eager air, with which, as i have said, the climate of england, no less than that of america, falsifies all the fine things the poets have said about may, and, i may add, even june. we wandered about the grounds, spoke with the great people, stared at the odd ones, and said to ourselves,--at least i said to myself,--with hamlet, "the air bites shrewdly, it is very cold." [illustration: robert browning.] the most curious personages were some east indians, a chocolate-colored lady, her husband, and children. the mother had a diamond on the side of her nose, its setting riveted on the inside, one might suppose; the effect was peculiar, far from captivating. a---- said that she should prefer the good old-fashioned nose-ring, as we find it described and pictured by travellers. she saw a great deal more than i did, of course. i quote from her diary: "the little eastern children made their native salaam to the princess by prostrating themselves flat on their little stomachs in front of her, putting their hands between her feet, pushing them aside, and kissing the print of her feet!" i really believe one or both of us would have run serious risks of catching our "death o' cold," if we had waited for our own carriage, which seemed forever in coming forward. the good lady holland, who was more than once our guardian angel, brought us home in hers. so we got warmed up at our own hearth, and were ready in due season for the large and fine dinner-party at archdeacon farrar's, where, among other guests, were mrs. phelps, our minister's wife, who is a great favorite alike with americans and english, sir john millais, mr. tyndall, and other interesting people. i am sorry that we could not have visited newstead abbey. i had a letter from mr. thornton lothrop to colonel webb, the present proprietor, with whom we lunched. i have spoken of the pleasure i had when i came accidentally upon persons with whose name and fame i had long been acquainted. a similar impression was that which i received when i found myself in the company of the bearer of an old historic name. when my host at the lunch introduced a stately-looking gentleman as sir kenelm digby, it gave me a start, as if a ghost had stood before me. i recovered myself immediately, however, for there was nothing of the impalpable or immaterial about the stalwart personage who bore the name. i wanted to ask him if he carried any of his ancestor's "powder of sympathy" about with him. many, but not all, of my readers remember that famous man's famous preparation. when used to cure a wound, it was applied to the weapon that made it; the part was bound up so as to bring the edges of the wound together, and by the wondrous influence of the sympathetic powder the healing process took place in the kindest possible manner. sir kenelm, the ancestor, was a gallant soldier, a grand gentleman, and the husband of a wonderfully beautiful wife, whose charms he tried to preserve from the ravages of time by various experiments. he was also the homoeopathist of his day, the elisha perkins (metallic tractors) of his generation. the "mind cure" people might adopt him as one of their precursors. i heard a curious statement which was illustrated in the person of one of the gentlemen we met at this table. it is that english sporting men are often deaf on one side, in consequence of the noise of the frequent discharge of their guns affecting the right ear. this is a very convenient infirmity for gentlemen who indulge in slightly aggressive remarks, but when they are hit back never seem to be conscious at all of the _riposte_,--the return thrust of the fencer. dr. allchin called and took me to a dinner, where i met many professional brothers, and enjoyed myself highly. by this time every day was pledged for one or more engagements, so that many very attractive invitations had to be declined. i will not follow the days one by one, but content myself with mentioning some of the more memorable visits. i had been invited to the rabelais club, as i have before mentioned, by a cable message. this is a club of which the late lord houghton was president, and of which i am a member, as are several other americans. i was afraid that the gentlemen who met, "to laugh and shake in rabelais's easy chair," might be more hilarious and demonstrative in their mirth than i, a sober new englander in the superfluous decade, might find myself equal to. but there was no uproarious jollity; on the contrary, it was a pleasant gathering of literary people and artists, who took their pleasure not sadly, but serenely, and i do not remember a single explosive guffaw. another day, after going all over dudley house, including lady dudley's boudoir, "in light blue satin, the prettiest room we have seen," a---- says, we went, by appointment, to westminster abbey, where we spent two hours under the guidance of archdeacon farrar. i think no part of the abbey is visited with so much interest as poets' corner. we are all familiarly acquainted with it beforehand. we are all ready for "o rare ben jonson!" as we stand over the place where he was planted standing upright, as if he had been dropped into a post-hole. we remember too well the foolish and flippant mockery of gay's "life is a jest." if i were dean of the cathedral, i should be tempted to alter the _j_ to a _g_. then we could read it without contempt; for life _is_ a gest, an achievement,--or always ought to be. westminster abbey is too crowded with monuments to the illustrious dead and those who have been considered so in their day to produce any other than a confused impression. when we visit the tomb of napoleon at the invalides, no side-lights interfere with the view before us in the field of mental vision. we see the emperor; marengo, austerlitz, waterloo, saint helena, come before us, with him as their central figure. so at stratford,--the cloptons and the john a combes, with all their memorials, cannot make us lift our eyes from the stone which covers the dust that once breathed and walked the streets of stratford as shakespeare. ah, but here is one marble countenance that i know full well, and knew for many a year in the flesh! is there an american who sees the bust of longfellow among the effigies of the great authors of england without feeling a thrill of pleasure at recognizing the features of his native fellow-countryman in the valhalla of his ancestral fellow-countrymen? there are many memorials in poets' corner and elsewhere in the abbey which could be better spared than that. too many that were placed there as luminaries have become conspicuous by their obscurity in the midst of that illustrious company. on the whole, the abbey produces a distinct sense of being overcrowded. it appears too much like a lapidary's store-room. look up at the lofty roof, which we willingly pardon for shutting out the heaven above us,--at least in an average london day; look down at the floor and think of what precious relics it covers; but do not look around you with the hope of getting any clear, concentrated, satisfying effect from this great museum of gigantic funereal bricabrac. pardon me, shades of the mighty dead! i had something of this feeling, but at another hour i might perhaps be overcome by emotion, and weep, as my fellow-countryman did at the grave of the earliest of his ancestors. i should love myself better in that aspect than i do in this coldblooded criticism; but it suggested itself, and as no flattery can soothe, so no censure can wound, "the dull, cold ear of death." of course we saw all the sights of the abbey in a hurried way, yet with such a guide and expositor as archdeacon farrar our two hours' visit was worth a whole day with an undiscriminating verger, who recites his lesson by rote, and takes the life out of the little mob that follows him round by emphasizing the details of his lesson, until "patience on a monument" seems to the sufferer, who knows what he wants and what he does not want, the nearest emblem of himself he can think of. amidst all the imposing recollections of the ancient edifice, one impressed me in the inverse ratio of its importance. the archdeacon pointed out the little holes in the stones, in one place, where the boys of the choir used to play marbles, before america was discovered, probably,-- centuries before, it may be. it is a strangely impressive glimpse of a living past, like the _graffiti_ of pompeii. i find it is often the accident rather than the essential which fixes my attention and takes hold of my memory. this is a tendency of which i suppose i ought to be ashamed, if we have any right to be ashamed of those idiosyncrasies which are ordered for us. it is the same tendency which often leads us to prefer the picturesque to the beautiful. mr. gilpin liked the donkey in a forest landscape better than the horse. a touch of imperfection interferes with the beauty of an object and lowers its level to that of the picturesque. the accident of the holes in the stone of the noble building, for the boys to play marbles with, makes me a boy again and at home with them, after looking with awe upon the statue of newton, and turning with a shudder from the ghastly monument of mrs. nightingale. what a life must be that of one whose years are passed chiefly in and about the great abbey! nowhere does macbeth's expression "dusty death" seem so true to all around us. the dust of those who have been lying century after century below the marbles piled over them,--the dust on the monuments they lie beneath; the dust on the memories those monuments were raised to keep living in the recollection of posterity,--dust, dust, dust, everywhere, and we ourselves but shapes of breathing dust moving amidst these objects and remembrances! come away! the good archdeacon of the "eternal hope" has asked us to take a cup of tea with him. the tea-cup will be a cheerful substitute for the funeral urn, and a freshly made infusion of the fragrant leaf is one of the best things in the world to lay the dust of sad reflections. it is a somewhat fatiguing pleasure to go through the abbey, in spite of the intense interest no one can help feeling. but my day had but just begun when the two hours we had devoted to the visit were over. at a quarter before eight, my friend mr. frederick locker called for me to go to a dinner at the literary club. i was particularly pleased to dine with this association, as it reminded me of our own saturday club, which sometimes goes by the same name as the london one. they complimented me with a toast, and i made some kind of a reply. as i never went prepared with a speech for any such occasion, i take it for granted that i thanked the company in a way that showed my gratitude rather than my eloquence. and now, the dinner being over, my day was fairly begun. this was to be a memorable date in the record of the year, one long to be remembered in the political history of great britain. for on this day, the th of june, mr. gladstone was to make his great speech on the irish question, and the division of the house on the government of ireland bill was to take place. the whole country, to the corners of its remotest colony, was looking forward to the results of this evening's meeting of parliament. the kindness of the speaker had furnished me with a ticket, entitling me to a place among the "distinguished guests," which i presented without modestly questioning my right to the title. the pressure for entrance that evening was very great, and i, coming after my dinner with the literary club, was late upon the ground. the places for "distinguished guests" were already filled. but all england was in a conspiracy to do everything possible to make my visit agreeable. i did not take up a great deal of room,--i might be put into a seat with the ambassadors and foreign ministers. and among them i was presently installed. it was now between ten and eleven o'clock, as nearly as i recollect. the house had been in session since four o'clock. a gentleman was speaking, who was, as my unknown next neighbor told me, sir michael hicks-beach, a leading member, as we all know, of the opposition. when he sat down there was a hush of expectation, and presently mr. gladstone rose to his feet. a great burst of applause welcomed him, lasting more than a minute. his clean-cut features, his furrowed cheeks, his scanty and whitened hair, his well-shaped but not extraordinary head, all familiarized by innumerable portraits and emphasized in hundreds of caricatures, revealed him at once to every spectator. his great speech has been universally read, and i need only speak of the way in which it was delivered. his manner was forcible rather than impassioned or eloquent; his voice was clear enough, but must have troubled him somewhat, for he had a small bottle from which he poured something into a glass from time to time and swallowed a little, yet i heard him very well for the most part. in the last portion of his speech he became animated and inspiriting, and his closing words were uttered with an impressive solemnity: "think, i beseech you, think well, think wisely, think not for a moment, but for the years that are to come, before you reject this bill." after the burst of applause which followed the conclusion of mr. gladstone's speech, the house proceeded to the division on the question of passing the bill to a second reading. while the counting of the votes was going on there was the most intense excitement. a rumor ran round the house at one moment that the vote was going in favor of the second reading. it soon became evident that this was not the case, and presently the result was announced, giving a majority of thirty against the bill, and practically overthrowing the liberal administration. then arose a tumult of applause from the conservatives and a wild confusion, in the midst of which an irish member shouted, "three cheers for the grand old man!" which were lustily given, with waving of hats and all but donnybrook manifestations of enthusiasm. i forgot to mention that i had a very advantageous seat among the diplomatic gentlemen, and was felicitating myself on occupying one of the best positions in the house, when an usher politely informed me that the russian ambassador, in whose place i was sitting, had arrived, and that i must submit to the fate of eviction. fortunately, there were some steps close by, on one of which i found a seat almost as good as the one i had just left. it was now two o'clock in the morning, and i had to walk home, not a vehicle being attainable. i did not know my way to my headquarters, and i had no friend to go with me, but i fastened on a stray gentleman, who proved to be an ex-member of the house, and who accompanied me to dover street, where i sought my bed with a satisfying sense of having done a good day's work and having been well paid for it. iii. on the th of june we visited the record office for a sight of the domesday book and other ancient objects of interest there preserved. as i looked at this too faithful memorial of an inexorable past, i thought of the battle of hastings and all its consequences, and that reminded me of what i have long remembered as i read it in dr. robert knox's "races of men." dr. knox was the monoculous waterloo surgeon, with whom i remember breakfasting, on my first visit to england and scotland. his celebrity is less owing to his book than to the unfortunate connection of his name with the unforgotten burke and hare horrors. this is his language in speaking of hastings: "... that bloody field, surpassing far in its terrible results the unhappy day of waterloo. from this the celt has recovered, but not so the saxon. to this day he feels, and feels deeply, the most disastrous day that ever befell his race; here he was trodden down by the norman, whose iron heel is on him yet.... to this day the saxon race in england have never recovered a tithe of their rights, and probably never will." the conqueror meant to have a thorough summing up of his stolen property. the anglo-saxon chronicle says,--i quote it at second hand,--"so very straitly did he cause the survey to be made, that there was not a single hyde, nor a yardland of ground, nor--it is shameful to say what he thought no shame to do--was there an ox or a cow, or a pig passed by, and that was not down in the accounts, and then all these writings were brought to him." the "looting" of england by william and his "twenty thousand thieves," as mr. emerson calls his army, was a singularly methodical proceeding, and domesday book is a searching inventory of their booty, movable and immovable. from this reminder of the past we turned to the remembrances of home; a---- going to dine with a transplanted boston friend and other ladies from that blessed centre of new england life, while i dined with a party of gentlemen at my friend mr. james russell lowell's. i had looked forward to this meeting with high expectations, and they were abundantly satisfied. i knew that mr. lowell must gather about him, wherever he might be, the choicest company, but what his selection would be i was curious to learn. i found with me at the table my own countrymen and his, mr. smalley and mr. henry james. of the other guests, mr. leslie stephen was my only old acquaintance in person; but du maurier and tenniel i have met in my weekly "punch" for many a year; mr. lang, mr. oliphant, mr. townsend, we all know through their writings; mr. burne-jones and mr. alma tadema, through the frequent reproductions of their works in engravings, as well as by their paintings. if i could report a dinner-table conversation, i might be tempted to say something of my talk with mr. oliphant. i like well enough conversation which floats safely over the shallows, touching bottom at intervals with a commonplace incident or truism to push it along; i like better to find a few fathoms of depth under the surface; there is a still higher pleasure in the philosophical discourse which calls for the deep sea line to reach bottom; but best of all, when one is in the right mood, is the contact of intelligences when they are off soundings in the ocean of thought. mr. oliphant is what many of us call a mystic, and i found a singular pleasure in listening to him. this dinner at mr. lowell's was a very remarkable one for the men it brought together, and i remember it with peculiar interest. my entertainer holds a master-key to london society, and he opened the gate for me into one of its choicest preserves on that evening. i did not undertake to renew my old acquaintance with hospitals and museums. i regretted that i could not be with my companion, who went through the natural history museum with the accomplished director, professor w. h. flower. one old acquaintance i did resuscitate. for the second time i took the hand of charles o'byrne, the celebrated irish giant of the last century. i met him, as in my first visit, at the royal college of surgeons, where i accompanied mr. jonathan hutchinson. he was in the condition so longed for by sydney smith on a very hot day; namely, with his flesh taken off, and sitting, or rather standing, in his bones. the skeleton measures eight feet, and the living man's height is stated as having been eight feet two, or four inches, by different authorities. his hand was the only one i took, either in england or scotland, which had not a warm grasp and a hearty welcome in it. a---- went with boston friends to see "faust" a second time, mr. irving having offered her the royal box, and the polite mr. bram stoker serving the party with tea in the little drawing-room behind the box; so that she had a good time while i was enjoying myself at a dinner at sir henry thompson's, where i met mr. gladstone, mr. browning, and other distinguished gentlemen. these dinners of sir henry's are well known for the good company one meets at them, and i felt myself honored to be a guest on this occasion. among the pleasures i had promised myself was that of a visit to tennyson, at the isle of wight. i feared, however, that this would be rendered impracticable by reason of the very recent death of his younger son, lionel. but i learned from mr. locker-lampson, whose daughter mr. lionel tennyson had married, that the poet would be pleased to see me at his place, farringford; and by the kind intervention of mr. locker-lampson, better known to the literary world as frederick locker, arrangements were made for my daughter and myself to visit him. i considered it a very great favor, for lord tennyson has a poet's fondness for the tranquillity of seclusion, which many curious explorers of society fail to remember. lady tennyson is an invalid, and though nothing could be more gracious than her reception of us both, i fear it may have cost her an effort which she would not allow to betray itself. mr. hallam tennyson and his wife, both of most pleasing presence and manners, did everything to make our stay agreeable. i saw the poet to the best advantage, under his own trees and walking over his own domain. he took delight in pointing out to me the finest and the rarest of his trees,--and there were many beauties among them. i recalled my morning's visit to whittier at oak knoll, in danvers, a little more than a year ago, when he led me to one of his favorites, an aspiring evergreen which shot up like a flame. i thought of the graceful american elms in front of longfellow's house and the sturdy english elms that stand in front of lowell's. in this garden of england, the isle of wight, where everything grows with such a lavish extravagance of greenness that it seems as if it must bankrupt the soil before autumn, i felt as if weary eyes and overtasked brains might reach their happiest haven of rest. we all remember shenstone's epigram on the pane of a tavern window. if we find our "warmest welcome at an inn," we find our most soothing companionship in the trees among which we have lived, some of which we may ourselves have planted. we lean against them, and they never betray our trust; they shield us from the sun and from the rain; their spring welcome is a new birth, which never loses its freshness; they lay their beautiful robes at our feet in autumn; in winter they "stand and wait," emblems of patience and of truth, for they hide nothing, not even the little leaf-buds which hint to us of hope, the last element in their triple symbolism. this digression, suggested by the remembrance of the poet under his trees, breaks my narrative, but gives me the opportunity of paying a debt of gratitude. for i have owned many beautiful trees, and loved many more outside of my own leafy harem. those who write verses have no special claim to be lovers of trees, but so far as one is of the poetical temperament he is likely to be a tree-lover. poets have, as a rule, more than the average nervous sensibility and irritability. trees have no nerves. they live and die without suffering, without self-questioning or self-reproach. they have the divine gift of silence. they cannot obtrude upon the solitary moments when one is to himself the most agreeable of companions. the whole vegetable world, even "the meanest flower that blows," is lovely to contemplate. what if creation had paused there, and you or i had been called upon to decide whether self-conscious life should be added in the form of the existing animal creation, and the hitherto peaceful universe should come under the rule of nature as we now know her, "red in tooth and claw"? are we not glad that the responsibility of the decision did not rest on us? i am sorry that i did not ask tennyson to read or repeat to me some lines of his own. hardly any one perfectly understands a poem but the poet himself. one naturally loves his own poem as no one else can. it fits the mental mould in which it was cast, and it will not exactly fit any other. for this reason i had rather listen to a poet reading his own verses than hear the best elocutionist that ever spouted recite them. he may not have a good voice or enunciation, but he puts his heart and his inter-penetrative intelligence into every line, word, and syllable. i should have liked to hear tennyson read such lines as "laborious orient ivory, sphere in sphere;" and in spite of my good friend matthew arnold's _in terrorem_, i should have liked to hear macaulay read, "and aulus the dictator stroked auster's raven mane," and other good mouthable lines, from the "lays of ancient rome." not less should i like to hear mr. arnold himself read the passage beginning,-- "in his cool hall with haggard eyes the roman noble lay." the next day mrs. hallam tennyson took a---- in her pony cart to see alum bay, the needles, and other objects of interest, while i wandered over the grounds with tennyson. after lunch his carriage called for us, and we were driven across the island, through beautiful scenery, to ventnor, where we took the train to ryde, and there the steamer to portsmouth, from which two hours and a half of travel carried us to london. * * * * * my first visit to cambridge was at the invitation of mr. gosse, who asked me to spend sunday, the th of june, with him. the rooms in neville court, trinity college, occupied by sir william vernon harcourt when lecturing at cambridge, were placed at my disposal. the room i slept in was imposing with the ensigns armorial of the harcourts and others which ornamented its walls. i had great delight in walking through the quadrangles, along the banks of the cam, and beneath the beautiful trees which border it. mr. gosse says that i stopped in the second court of clare, and looked around and smiled as if i were bestowing my benediction. he was mistaken: i smiled as if i were receiving a benediction from my dear old grandmother; for cambridge in new england is my mother town, and harvard university in cambridge is my alma mater. she is the daughter of cambridge in old england, and my relationship is thus made clear. mr. gosse introduced me to many of the younger and some of the older men of the university. among my visits was one never to be renewed and never to be forgotten. it was to the master of trinity, the reverend william hepworth thompson. i hardly expected to have the privilege of meeting this very distinguished and greatly beloved personage, famous not alone for scholarship, or as the successor of dr. whewell in his high office, but also as having said some of the wittiest things which we have heard since voltaire's _pour encourager les autres_. i saw him in his chamber, a feeble old man, but noble to look upon in all "the monumental pomp of age." he came very near belonging to the little group i have mentioned as my coevals, but was a year after us. gentle, dignified, kindly in his address as if i had been his schoolmate, he left a very charming impression. he gave me several mementoes of my visit, among them a beautiful engraving of sir isaac newton, representing him as one of the handsomest of men. dr. thompson looked as if he could not be very long for this world, but his death, a few weeks after my visit, was a painful surprise to me. i had been just in time to see "the last of the great men" at cambridge, as my correspondent calls him, and i was very grateful that i could store this memory among the hoarded treasures i have been laying by for such possible extra stretch of time as may be allowed me. my second visit to cambridge will be spoken of in due season. while i was visiting mr. gosse at cambridge, a---- was not idle. on saturday she went to lambeth, where she had the pleasure and honor of shaking hands with the archbishop of canterbury in his study, and of looking about the palace with mrs. benson. on sunday she went to the abbey, and heard "a broad and liberal sermon" from archdeacon farrar. our young lady-secretary stayed and dined with her, and after dinner sang to her. "a peaceful, happy sunday," a---- says in her diary,--not less peaceful, i suspect, for my being away, as my callers must have got many a "not at 'ome" from young robert of the multitudinous buttons. on monday, the th of june, after getting ready for our projected excursions, we had an appointment which promised us a great deal of pleasure. mr. augustus harris, the enterprising and celebrated manager of drury lane theatre, had sent us an invitation to occupy a box, having eight seats, at the representation of "carmen." we invited the priestleys and our boston friends, the shimminses, to take seats with us. the chief singer in the opera was marie roze, who looked well and sang well, and the evening went off very happily. after the performance we were invited by mr. harris to a supper of some thirty persons, where we were the special guests. the manager toasted me, and i said something,--i trust appropriate; but just what i said is as irrecoverable as the orations of demosthenes on the seashore, or the sermons of st. francis to the beasts and birds. of all the attentions i received in england, this was, perhaps, the least to be anticipated or dreamed of. to be fêted and toasted and to make a speech in drury lane theatre would not have entered into my flightiest conceptions, if i had made out a programme beforehand. it is a singularly gratifying recollection. drury lane theatre is so full of associations with literature, with the great actors and actresses of the past, with the famous beauties who have stood behind the footlights and the splendid audiences that have sat before them, that it is an admirable nucleus for remembrances to cluster around. it was but a vague spot in memory before, but now it is a bright centre for other images of the past. that one evening seems to make me the possessor of all its traditions from the time when it rose from its ashes, when byron's poem was written and recited, and when the brothers smith gave us the "address without a phoenix," and all those exquisite parodies which make us feel towards their originals somewhat as our dearly remembered tom appleton did when he said, in praise of some real green turtle soup, that it was almost as good as mock. with much regret we gave up an invitation we had accepted to go to durdans to dine with lord rosebery. we must have felt very tired indeed to make so great a sacrifice, but we had to be up until one o'clock getting ready for the next day's journey; writing, packing, and attending to what we left behind us as well as what was in prospect. on the morning of wednesday, june th, dr. donald macalister called to attend us on our second visit to cambridge, where we were to be the guests of his cousin, alexander macalister, professor of anatomy, who, with mrs. macalister, received us most cordially. there was a large luncheon-party at their house, to which we sat down in our travelling dresses. in the evening they had a dinner-party, at which were present, among others, professor stokes, president of the royal society, and professor wright. we had not heard much talk of political matters at the dinner-tables where we had been guests, but a---- sat near a lady who was very earnest in advocating the irish side of the great impending question. the th of june is memorable in the annals of my country. on that day of the year the battle of bunker's hill was fought on the height i see from the window of my library, where i am now writing. the monument raised in memory of our defeat, which was in truth a victory, is almost as much a part of the furniture of the room as its chairs and tables; outside, as they are inside, furniture. but the th of june, , is memorable to me above all the other anniversaries of that day i have known. for on that day i received from the ancient university of cambridge, england, the degree of doctor of letters, "doctor litt.," in its abbreviated academic form. the honor was an unexpected one; that is, until a short time before it was conferred. invested with the academic gown and cap, i repaired in due form at the appointed hour to the senate chamber. every seat was filled, and among the audience were youthful faces in large numbers, looking as if they were ready for any kind of outbreak of enthusiasm or hilarity. the first degree conferred was that of ll.d., on sir w. a. white, g.c.m., g.c.b., to whose long list of appended initials it seemed like throwing a perfume on the violet to add three more letters. when i was called up to receive my honorary title, the young voices were true to the promise of the young faces. there was a great noise, not hostile nor unpleasant in its character, in answer to which i could hardly help smiling my acknowledgments. in presenting me for my degree the public orator made a latin speech, from which i venture to give a short extract, which i would not do for the world if it were not disguised by being hidden in the mask of a dead language. but there will be here and there a latin scholar who will be pleased with the way in which the speaker turned a compliment to the candidate before him, with a reference to one of his poems and to some of his prose works. _"juvat nuper audivisse eum cujus carmen prope primum 'folium ultimum' nominatum est, folia adhuc plura e scriniis suis esse prolaturum. novimus quanta lepore descripserit colloquia illa antemeridiana, symposia illa sobria et severa, sed eadem festiva et faceta, in quibus totiens mutata persona, modo poeta, modo professor, modo princeps et arbiter, loquendi, inter convivas suos regnat."_ i had no sooner got through listening to the speech and receiving my formal sentence as doctor of letters than the young voices broke out in fresh clamor. there were cries of "a speech! a speech!" mingled with the title of a favorite poem by john howard payne, having a certain amount of coincidence with the sound of my name. the play upon the word was not absolutely a novelty to my ear, but it was good-natured, and i smiled again, and perhaps made a faint inclination, as much as to say, "i hear you, young gentlemen, but i do not forget that i am standing on my dignity, especially now since a new degree has added a moral cubit to my stature." still the cries went on, and at last i saw nothing else to do than to edge back among the silk gowns, and so lose myself and be lost to the clamorous crowd in the mass of dignitaries. it was not indifference to the warmth of my welcome, but a feeling that i had no claim to address the audience because some of its younger members were too demonstrative. i have not forgotten my very cordial reception, which made me feel almost as much at home in the old cambridge as in the new, where i was born and took my degrees, academic, professional, and honorary. the university town left a very deep impression upon my mind, in which a few grand objects predominate over the rest, all being of a delightful character. i was fortunate enough to see the gathering of the boats, which was the last scene in their annual procession. the show was altogether lovely. the pretty river, about as wide as the housatonic, i should judge, as that slender stream winds through "canoe meadow," my old pittsfield residence, the gaily dressed people who crowded the banks, the flower-crowned boats, with the gallant young oarsmen who handled them so skilfully, made a picture not often equalled. the walks, the bridges, the quadrangles, the historic college buildings, all conspired to make the place a delight and a fascination. the library of trinity college, with its rows of busts by roubiliac and woolner, is a truly noble hall. but beyond, above all the rest, the remembrance of king's college chapel, with its audacious and richly wrought roof and its wide and lofty windows, glowing with old devices in colors which are ever fresh, as if just from the furnace, holds the first place in my gallery of cambridge recollections. i cannot do justice to the hospitalities which were bestowed upon us in cambridge. professor and mrs. macalister, aided by dr. donald macalister, did all that thoughtful hosts could do to make us feel at home. in the afternoon the ladies took tea at mr. oscar browning's. in the evening we went to a large dinner at the invitation of the vice-chancellor. many little points which i should not have thought of are mentioned in a----'s diary. i take the following extract from it, toning down its vivacity more nearly to my own standard:-- "twenty were there. the master of st. john's took me in, and the vice-chancellor was on the other side.... the vice-chancellor rose and returned thanks after the meats and before the sweets, as usual. i have now got used to this proceeding, which strikes me as extraordinary. everywhere here in cambridge, and the same in oxford, i believe, they say grace and give thanks. a gilded ewer and flat basin were passed, with water in the basin to wash with, and we all took our turn at the bath! next to this came the course with the finger-bowls!... why two baths?" on friday, the th, i went to a breakfast at the combination room, at which about fifty gentlemen were present, dr. sandys taking the chair. after the more serious business of the morning's repast was over, dr. macalister, at the call of the chairman, arose, and proposed my welfare in a very complimentary way. i of course had to respond, and i did so in the words which came of their own accord to my lips. after my unpremeditated answer, which was kindly received, a young gentleman of the university, mr. heitland, read a short poem, of which the following is the title:-- lines of greeting to dr. oliver wendell holmes. at breakfast in combination room, st. john's college, cambridge, england. i wish i dared quote more than the last two verses of these lines, which seemed to me, not unused to giving and receiving complimentary tributes, singularly happy, and were so considered by all who heard them. i think i may venture to give the two verses referred to:-- "by all sweet memory of the saints and sages who wrought among us in the days of yore; by youths who, turning now life's early pages, ripen to match the worthies gone before: "on us, o son of england's greatest daughter, a kindly word from heart and tongue bestow; then chase the sunsets o'er the western water, and bear our blessing with you as you go." i need not say that i left the english cambridge with a heart full of all grateful and kindly emotions. i must not forget that i found at cambridge, very pleasantly established and successfully practising his profession, a former student in the dental department of our harvard medical school, dr. george cunningham, who used to attend my lectures on anatomy. in the garden behind the quaint old house in which he lives is a large medlar-tree,--the first i remember seeing. on this same day we bade good-by to cambridge, and took the two o'clock train to oxford, where we arrived at half past five. at this first visit we were to be the guests of professor max müller, at his fine residence in norham gardens. we met there, at dinner, mr. herkomer, whom we have recently had with us in boston, and one or two others. in the evening we had music; the professor playing on the piano, his two daughters, mrs. conybeare and her unmarried sister, singing, and a young lady playing the violin. it was a very lovely family picture; a pretty house, surrounded by attractive scenery; scholarship, refinement, simple elegance, giving distinction to a home which to us seemed a pattern of all we could wish to see beneath an english roof. it all comes back to me very sweetly, but very tenderly and sadly, for the voice of the elder of the two sisters who sang to us is heard no more on earth, and a deep shadow has fallen over the household we found so bright and cheerful. everything was done to make me enjoy my visit to oxford, but i was suffering from a severe cold, and was paying the penalty of too much occupation and excitement. i missed a great deal in consequence, and carried away a less distinct recollection of this magnificent seat of learning than of the sister university. if one wishes to know the magic of names, let him visit the places made memorable by the lives of the illustrious men of the past in the old world. as a boy i used to read the poetry of pope, of goldsmith, and of johnson. how could i look at the bodleian library, or wander beneath its roof, without recalling the lines from "the vanity of human wishes"? "when first the college rolls receive his name, the young enthusiast quits his ease for fame; resistless burns the fever of renown, caught from the strong contagion of the gown: o'er bodley's dome his future labors spread, and bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head." the last line refers to roger bacon. "there is a tradition that the study of friar bacon, built on an arch over the bridge, will fall when a man greater than bacon shall pass under it. to prevent so shocking an accident, it was pulled down many years since." we shall meet with a similar legend in another university city. many persons have been shy of these localities, who were in no danger whatever of meeting the fate threatened by the prediction. we passed through the bodleian library, only glancing at a few of its choicest treasures, among which the exquisitely illuminated missals were especially tempting objects of study. it was almost like a mockery to see them opened and closed, without having the time to study their wonderful miniature paintings. a walk through the grounds of magdalen college, under the guidance of the president of that college, showed us some of the fine trees for which i was always looking. one of these, a wych-elm (scotch elm of some books), was so large that i insisted on having it measured. a string was procured and carefully carried round the trunk, above the spread of the roots and below that of the branches, so as to give the smallest circumference. i was curious to know how the size of the trunk of this tree would compare with that of the trunks of some of our largest new england elms. i have measured a good many of these. about sixteen feet is the measurement of a large elm, like that on boston common, which all middle-aged people remember. from twenty-two to twenty-three feet is the ordinary maximum of the very largest trees. i never found but one exceed it: that was the great springfield elm, which looked as if it might have been formed by the coalescence from the earliest period of growth, of two young trees. when i measured this in , it was twenty-four feet eight inches in circumference at five feet from the ground; growing larger above and below. i remembered this tree well, as we measured the string which was to tell the size of its english rival. as we came near the end of the string, i felt as i did when i was looking at the last dash of ormonde and the bard at epsom.--twenty feet, and a long piece of string left.--twenty-one. --twenty-two.--twenty-three.--an extra heartbeat or two.--twenty-four! --twenty-five and six inches over!!--the springfield elm may have grown a foot or more since i measured it, fifty years ago, but the tree at magdalen stands ahead of all my old measurements. many of the fine old trees, this in particular, may have been known in their younger days to addison, whose favorite walk is still pointed out to the visitor. i would not try to compare the two university towns, as one might who had to choose between them. they have a noble rivalry, each honoring the other, and it would take a great deal of weighing one point of superiority against another to call either of them the first, except in its claim to antiquity. after a garden-party in the afternoon, a pleasant evening at home, when the professor played and his daughter beatrice sang, and a garden-party the next day, i found myself in somewhat better condition, and ready for the next move. [illustration: magdalen college, oxford.] at noon on the d of june we left for edinburgh, stopping over night at york, where we found close by the station an excellent hotel, and where the next morning we got one of the best breakfasts we had in our whole travelling experience. at york we wandered to and through a flower-show, and _did_ the cathedral, as people _do_ all the sights they see under the lead of a paid exhibitor, who goes through his lesson like a sleepy old professor. i missed seeing the slab with the inscription _miserrimus_. there may be other stones bearing this sad superlative, but there is a story connected with this one, which sounds as if it might be true. in the year , i spent several weeks in edinburgh. i was fascinated by the singular beauties of that "romantic town," which scott called his own, and which holds his memory, with that of burns, as a most precious part of its inheritance. the castle with the precipitous rocky wall out of which it grows, the deep ravines with their bridges, pleasant calton hill and memorable holyrood palace, the new town and the old town with their strange contrasts, and arthur's seat overlooking all,--these varied and enchanting objects account for the fondness with which all who have once seen edinburgh will always regard it. we were the guests of professor alexander crum brown, a near relative of the late beloved and admired dr. john brown. professor and mrs. crum brown did everything to make our visit a pleasant one. we met at their house many of the best known and most distinguished people of scotland. the son of dr. john brown dined with us on the day of our arrival, and also a friend of the family, mr. barclay, to whom we made a visit on the sunday following. among the visits i paid, none was more gratifying to me than one which i made to dr. john brown's sister. no man could leave a sweeter memory than the author of "rab and his friends," of "pet marjorie," and other writings, all full of the same loving, human spirit. i have often exchanged letters with him, and i thought how much it would have added to the enjoyment of my visit if i could have taken his warm hand and listened to his friendly voice. i brought home with me a precious little manuscript, written expressly for me by one who had known dr. john brown from the days of her girlhood, in which his character appears in the same lovable and loving light as that which shines in every page he himself has written. on friday, the th, i went to the hall of the university, where i was to receive the degree of ll.d. the ceremony was not unlike that at cambridge, but had one peculiar feature: the separate special investment of the candidate with the _hood_, which johnson defines as "an ornamental fold which hangs down the back of a graduate." there were great numbers of students present, and they showed the same exuberance of spirits as that which had forced me to withdraw from the urgent calls at cambridge. the cries, if possible, were still louder and more persistent; they must have a speech and they would have a speech, and what could i do about it? i saw but one way of pacifying a crowd as noisy and long-breathed as that which for about the space of two hours cried out, "great is diana of the ephesians!" so i stepped to the front and made a brief speech, in which, of course, i spoke of the "_perfervidum ingenium scotorum_." a speech without that would have been like that "address without a phoenix" before referred to. my few remarks were well received, and quieted the shouting ephesians of the warm-brained and warm-hearted northern university. it gave me great pleasure to meet my friend mr. underwood, now american consul in glasgow, where he has made himself highly esteemed and respected. in my previous visit to edinburgh in , i was fond of rambling along under salisbury crags, and climbing the sides of arthur's seat. i had neither time nor impulse for such walks during this visit, but in driving out to dine at nidrie, the fine old place now lived in by mr. barclay and his daughters, we passed under the crags and by the side of the great hill. i had never heard, or if i had i had forgotten, the name and the story of "samson's ribs." these are the columnar masses of rock which form the face of salisbury crags. there is a legend that one day one of these pillars will fall and crush the greatest man that ever passes under them. it is said that a certain professor was always very shy of "samson's ribs," for fear the prophecy might be fulfilled in his person. we were most hospitably received at mr. barclay's, and the presence of his accomplished and pleasing daughters made the visit memorable to both of us. there was one picture on their walls, that of a lady, by sir joshua, which both of us found very captivating. this is what is often happening in the visits we make. some painting by a master looks down upon us from its old canvas, and leaves a lasting copy of itself, to be stored in memory's picture gallery. these surprises are not so likely to happen in the new world as in the old. it seemed cruel to be forced to tear ourselves away from edinburgh, where so much had been done to make us happy, where so much was left to see and enjoy, but we were due in oxford, where i was to receive the last of the three degrees with which i was honored in great britain. our visit to scotland gave us a mere glimpse of the land and its people, but i have a very vivid recollection of both as i saw them on my first visit, when i made an excursion into the highlands to stirling and to glasgow, where i went to church, and wondered over the uncouth ancient psalmody, which i believe is still retained in use to this day. i was seasoned to that kind of poetry in my early days by the verses of tate and brady, which i used to hear "entuned in the nose ful swetely," accompanied by vigorous rasping of a huge bass-viol. no wonder that scotland welcomed the song of burns! on our second visit to oxford we were to be the guests of the vice-chancellor of the university, dr. jowett. this famous scholar and administrator lives in a very pleasant establishment, presided over by the muses, but without the aid of a vice-chancelloress. the hospitality of this classic mansion is well known, and we added a second pleasant chapter to our previous experience under the roof of professor max müller. there was a little company there before us, including the lord chancellor and lady herschell, lady camilla wallop, mr. browning, and mr. lowell. we were too late, in consequence of the bad arrangement of the trains, and had to dine by ourselves, as the whole party had gone out to a dinner, to which we should have accompanied them had we not been delayed. we sat up long enough to see them on their return, and were glad to get to bed, after our day's journey from edinburgh to oxford. at eleven o'clock on the following day we who were to receive degrees met at balliol college, whence we proceeded in solemn procession to the sheldonian theatre. among my companions on this occasion were mr. john bright, the lord chancellor herschell, and mr. aldis wright. i have an instantaneous photograph, which was sent me, of this procession. i can identify mr. bright and myself, but hardly any of the others, though many better acquainted with their faces would no doubt recognize them. there is a certain sensation in finding one's self invested with the academic gown, conspicuous by its red facings, and the cap with its square top and depending tassel, which is not without its accompanying satisfaction. one can walk the streets of any of the university towns in his academic robes without being jeered at, as i am afraid he would be in some of our own thoroughfares. there is a noticeable complacency in the members of our phi beta kappa society when they get the pink and blue ribbons in their buttonholes, on the day of annual meeting. how much more when the scholar is wrapped in those flowing folds, with their flaming borders, and feels the dignity of the distinction of which they are the symbol! i do not know how mr. john bright felt, but i cannot avoid the impression that some in the ranks which moved from balliol to the sheldonian felt as if solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like the candidates for the degree of d.c.l. after my experience at cambridge and edinburgh, i might have felt some apprehension about my reception at oxford. i had always supposed the audience assembled there at the conferring of degrees was a more demonstrative one than that at any other of the universities, and i did not wish to be forced into a retreat by calls for a speech, as i was at cambridge, nor to repeat my somewhat irregular proceeding of addressing the audience, as at edinburgh. but when i found that mr. john bright was to be one of the recipients of the degree i felt safe, for if he made a speech i should be justified in saying a few words, if i thought it best; and if he, one of the most eloquent men in england, remained silent, i surely need not make myself heard on the occasion. it was a great triumph for him, a liberal leader, to receive the testimonial of a degree from the old conservative university. to myself it was a graceful and pleasing compliment; to him it was a grave and significant tribute. as we marched through the crowd on our way from balliol, the people standing around recognized mr. bright, and cheered him vociferously. the exercises in the sheldonian theatre were more complex and lasted longer than those at the other two universities. the candidate stepped forward and listened to one sentence, then made another move forward and listened to other words, and at last was welcomed to all the privileges conferred by the degree of doctor of civil law, which was announced as being bestowed upon him. mr. bright, of course, was received with immense enthusiasm. i had every reason to be gratified with my own reception. the only "chaffing" i heard was the question from one of the galleries, "did he come in the one-hoss shay?"--at which there was a hearty laugh, joined in as heartily by myself. a part of the entertainment at this ceremony consisted in the listening to the reading of short extracts from the prize essays, some or all of them in the dead languages, which could not have been particularly intelligible to a large part of the audience. during these readings there were frequent _interpellations_, as the french call such interruptions, something like these: "that will do, sir!" or "you had better stop, sir!" --always, i noticed, with the sir at the end of the remark. with us it would have been "dry up!" or "hold on!" at last came forward the young poet of the occasion, who read an elaborate poem, "savonarola," which was listened to in most respectful silence, and loudly applauded at its close, as i thought, deservedly. prince and princess christian were among the audience. they were staying with professor and mrs. max müller, whose hospitalities i hope they enjoyed as much as we did. one or two short extracts from a----'s diary will enliven my record: "the princess had a huge bouquet, and going down the aisle had to bow both ways at once, it seemed to me: but then she has the guelph spine and neck! of course it is necessary that royalty should have more elasticity in the frame than we poor ordinary mortals. after all this we started for a luncheon at all souls, but had to wait (impatiently) for h. r. h. to rest herself, while our resting was done standing." it is a long while since i read madame d'arblay's recollections, but if i remember right, _standing_ while royalty rests its bones is one of the drawbacks to a maid of honor's felicity. "finally, at near three, we went into a great luncheon of some fifty. there were different tables, and i sat at the one with royalty. the provost of oriel took me in, and mr. browning was on my other side. finally, we went home to rest, but the others started out again to go to a garden-party, but that was beyond us." after all this came a dinner-party of twenty at the vice-chancellor's, and after that a reception, where among others we met lord and lady coleridge, the lady resplendent in jewels. even after london, this could hardly be called a day of rest. the chinese have a punishment which consists simply in keeping the subject of it awake, by the constant teasing of a succession of individuals employed for the purpose. the best of our social pleasures, if carried beyond the natural power of physical and mental endurance, begin to approach the character of such a penance. after this we got a little rest; did some mild sight-seeing, heard some good music, called on the max müllers, and bade them good-by with the warmest feeling to all the members of a household which it was a privilege to enter. there only remained the parting from our kind entertainer, the vice-chancellor, who added another to the list of places which in england and scotland were made dear to us by hospitality, and are remembered as true homes to us while we were under their roofs. on the second day of july we left the vice-chancellor's, and went to the randolph hotel to meet our friends, mr. and mrs. willett, from brighton, with whom we had an appointment of long standing. with them we left oxford, to enter on the next stage of our pilgrimage. iv. it had been the intention of mr. willett to go with us to visit mr. ruskin, with whom he is in the most friendly relations. but a letter from mr. ruskin's sister spoke of his illness as being too serious for him to see company, and we reluctantly gave up this part of our plan. my first wish was to revisit stratford-on-avon, and as our travelling host was guided in everything by our inclinations, we took the cars for stratford, where we arrived at five o'clock in the afternoon. it had been arranged beforehand that we should be the guests of mr. charles e. flower, one of the chief citizens of stratford, who welcomed us to his beautiful mansion in the most cordial way, and made us once more at home under an english roof. i well remembered my visit to stratford in . the condition of the old house in which shakespeare was born was very different from that in which we see it to-day. a series of photographs taken in different years shows its gradual transformation since the time when the old projecting angular sign-board told all who approached "the immortal shakespeare was born in this house." how near the old house came to sharing the fortunes of jumbo under the management of our enterprising countryman, mr. barnum, i am not sure; but that he would have "traded" for it, if the proprietors had been willing, i do not doubt, any more than i doubt that he would make an offer for the tower of london, if that venerable structure were in the market. the house in which shakespeare was born is the santa casa of england. what with my recollections and the photographs with which i was familiarly acquainted, it had nothing very new for me. its outside had undergone great changes, but its bare interior was little altered. my previous visit was a hurried one,--i took but a glimpse, and then went on my way. now, for nearly a week i was a resident of stratford-on-avon. how shall i describe the perfectly ideal beauty of the new home in which i found myself! it is a fine house, surrounded by delightful grounds, which skirt the banks of the avon for a considerable distance, and come close up to the enclosure of the church of the holy trinity, beneath the floor of which lie the mortal remains of shakespeare. the avon is one of those narrow english rivers in which half a dozen boats might lie side by side, but hardly wide enough for a race between two rowing abreast of each other. just here the river is comparatively broad and quiet, there being a dam a little lower down the stream. the waters were a perfect mirror, as i saw them on one of the still days we had at stratford. i do not remember ever before seeing cows walking with their legs in the air, as i saw them reflected in the avon. along the banks the young people were straying. i wondered if the youthful swains quoted shakespeare to their ladyloves. could they help recalling romeo and juliet? it is quite impossible to think of any human being growing up in this place which claims shakespeare as its child, about the streets of which he ran as a boy, on the waters of which he must have often floated, without having his image ever present. is it so? there are some boys, from eight to ten or a dozen years old, fishing in the avon, close by the grounds of "avonbank," the place at which we are staying. i call to the little group. i say, "boys, who was this man shakespeare, people talk so much about?" boys turn round and look up with a plentiful lack of intelligence in their countenances. "don't you know who he was nor what he was?" boys look at each other, but confess ignorance.--let us try the universal stimulant of human faculties. "here are some pennies for the boy that will tell me what that mr. shakespeare was." the biggest boy finds his tongue at last. "he was a writer,--he wrote plays." that was as much as i could get out of the youngling. i remember meeting some boys under the monument upon bunker hill, and testing their knowledge as i did that of the stratford boys. "what is this great stone pillar here for?" i asked. "battle fought here,--great battle." "who fought?" "americans and british." (i never hear the expression britishers.) "who was the general on the american side?" "don' know,--general washington or somebody."--what is an old battle, though it may have settled the destinies of a nation, to the game of base-ball between the boston and chicago nines which is to come off to-morrow, or to the game of marbles which tom and dick are just going to play together under the shadow of the great obelisk which commemorates the conflict? the room more especially assigned to me looked out, at a distance of not more than a stone's-throw, on the northern aspect of the church where shakespeare lies buried. workmen were busy on the roof of the transept. i could not conveniently climb up to have a talk with the roofers, but i have my doubts whether they were thinking all the time of the dust over which they were working. how small a matter literature is to the great seething, toiling, struggling, love-making, bread-winning, child-rearing, death-awaiting men and women who fill this huge, palpitating world of ours! it would be worth while to pass a week or a month among the plain, average people of stratford. what is the relative importance in human well-being of the emendations of the text of hamlet and the patching of the old trousers and the darning of the old stockings which task the needles of the hard-working households that fight the battle of life in these narrow streets and alleys? i ask the question; the reader may answer it. our host, mr. flower, is more deeply interested, perhaps, than any other individual in the "shakespeare memorial" buildings which have been erected on the banks of the avon, a short distance above the church of the holy trinity. under mr. flower's guidance we got into one of his boats, and were rowed up the stream to the memorial edifice. there is a theatre, in a round tower which has borrowed some traits from the octagon "globe" theatre of shakespeare's day; a shakespeare library and portrait gallery are forming; and in due time these buildings, of stately dimensions and built solidly of brick, will constitute a shakespearean centre which will attract to itself many mementoes now scattered about in various parts of the country. on the th of july we remembered our native land with all the affectionate pride of temporary exiles, and did not forget to drink at lunch to the prosperity and continued happiness of the united states of america. in the afternoon we took to the boat again, and were rowed up the river to the residence of mr. edgar flower, where we found another characteristic english family, with its nine children, one of whom was the typical english boy, most pleasing and attractive in look, voice, and manner. i attempt no description of the church, the birthplace, or the other constantly visited and often described localities. the noble bridge, built in the reign of henry vii. by sir hugh clopton, and afterwards widened, excited my admiration. it was a much finer piece of work than the one built long afterwards. i have hardly seen anything which gave me a more striking proof of the thoroughness of the old english workmen. they built not for an age, but for all time, and the new zealander will have to wait a long while before he will find in any one of the older bridges that broken arch from which he is to survey the ruins of london. it is very pleasant to pick up a new epithet to apply to the poet upon whose genius our language has nearly exhausted itself. it delights me to speak of him in the words which i have just found in a memoir not yet a century old, as "the warwickshire bard," "the inestimable shakespeare." ever since miss bacon made her insane attempt to unearth what is left of shakespeare's bodily frame, the thought of doing reverently and openly what she would have done by stealth has been entertained by psychologists, artists, and others who would like to know what were his cranial developments, and to judge from the conformation of the skull and face which of the various portraits is probably the true one. there is little doubt that but for the curse invoked upon the person who should disturb his bones, in the well-known lines on the slab which covers him, he would rest, like napoleon, like washington, in a fitting receptacle of marble or porphyry. in the transfer of his remains the curiosity of men of science and artists would have been gratified, if decay had spared the more durable portions of his material structure. it was probably not against such a transfer that the lines were written,--whoever was their author,--but in the fear that they would be carried to the charnel-house. "in this charnel-house was contained a vast collection of human bones. how long they had been deposited there is not easily to be determined; but it is evident, from the immense quantity contained in the vault, it could have been used for no other purpose for many ages." "it is probable that from an early contemplation of this dreary spot shakespeare imbibed that horror of a violation of sepulture which is observable in many parts of his writings." the body of raphael was disinterred in to settle a question of identity of the remains, and placed in a new coffin of lead, which was deposited in a marble sarcophagus presented by the pope. the sarcophagus, with its contents, was replaced in the same spot from which the remains had been taken. but for the inscription such a transfer of the bones of shakespeare would have been proposed, and possibly carried out. kings and emperors have frequently been treated in this way after death, and the proposition is no more an indignity than was that of the exhumation of the remains of napoleon, or of andré, or of the author of "home, sweet home." but sentiment, a tender regard for the supposed wishes of the dead poet, and a natural dread of the consequences of violating a dying wish, coupled with the execration of its contemner, are too powerful for the arguments of science and the pleadings of art. if shakespeare's body had been embalmed,--which there is no reason that i know of to suppose,--the desire to compare his features with the bust and the portraits would have been much more imperative. when the body of charles the first was examined, under the direction of sir henry halford, in the presence of the regent, afterwards george the fourth, the face would have been recognized at once by all who were acquainted with vandyke's portrait of the monarch, if the lithograph which comes attached to sir henry's memoir is an accurate representation of what they found. even the bony framework of the face, as i have had occasion to know, has sometimes a striking likeness to what it was when clothed in its natural features. as between the first engraved portrait and the bust in the church, the form of the bones of the head and face would probably be decisive. but the world can afford to live without solving this doubt, and leave his perishing vesture of decay to its repose. after seeing the shakespeare shrines, we drove over to shottery, and visited the anne hathaway cottage. i am not sure whether i ever saw it before, but it was as familiar to me as if i had lived in it. the old lady who showed it was agreeably communicative, and in perfect keeping with the place. a delightful excursion of ten or a dozen miles carried our party, consisting of mr. and mrs. flower, mr. and mrs. willett, with a---- and myself, to compton wynyate, a most interesting old mansion, belonging to the marquis of northampton, who, with his daughter-in-law, lady william compton, welcomed us and showed us all the wonders of the place. it was a fine morning, but hot enough for one of our american july days. the drive was through english rural scenery; that is to say, it was lovely. the old house is a great curiosity. it was built in the reign of henry the eighth, and has passed through many vicissitudes. the place, as well as the edifice, is a study for the antiquarian. remains of the old moat which surrounded it are still distinguishable. the twisted and variously figured chimneys are of singular variety and exceptional forms. compton _wynyate_ is thought to get its name from the vineyards formerly under cultivation on the hillsides, which show the signs of having been laid out in terraces. the great hall, with its gallery, and its hangings, and the long table made from the trunk of a single tree, carries one back into the past centuries. there are strange nooks and corners and passages in the old building, and one place, a queer little "cubby-hole," has the appearance of having been a roman catholic chapel. i asked the master of the house, who pointed out the curiosities of the place most courteously, about the ghosts who of course were tenants in common with the living proprietors. i was surprised when he told me there were none. it was incredible, for here was every accommodation for a spiritual visitant. i should have expected at least one haunted chamber, to say nothing of blood-stains that could never be got rid of; but there were no legends of the supernatural or the terrible. refreshments were served us, among which were some hot-house peaches, ethereally delicate as if they had grown in the elysian fields and been stolen from a banquet of angels. after this we went out on the lawn, where, at lady william compton's request, i recited one or two poems; the only time i did such a thing in england. it seems as if compton wynyate must have been written about in some novel or romance,--perhaps in more than one of both. it is the place of all others to be the scene of a romantic story. it lies so hidden away among the hills that its vulgar name, according to old camden, was "compton in the hole." i am not sure that it was the scene of any actual conflict, but it narrowly escaped demolition in the great civil war, and in it was garrisoned by the parliament army. on the afternoon of july th, our hosts had a large garden-party. if nothing is more trying than one of these out-of-door meetings on a cold, windy, damp day, nothing can be more delightful than such a social gathering if the place and the weather are just what we could wish them. the garden-party of this afternoon was as near perfection as such a meeting could well be. the day was bright and warm, but not uncomfortably hot, to me, at least. the company strolled about the grounds, or rested on the piazzas, or watched the birds in the aviary, or studied rudimentary humanity in the monkey, or, better still, in a charming baby, for the first time on exhibition since she made the acquaintance of sunshine. every one could dispose of himself or herself as fancy might suggest. i broke away at one time, and wandered alone by the side of the avon, under the shadow of the tall trees upon its bank. the whole scene was as poetical, as inspiring, as any that i remember. it would be easy to write verses about it, but unwritten poems are so much better! one reminiscence of that afternoon claims precedence over all the rest. the reader must not forget that i have been a medical practitioner, and for thirty-five years a professor in a medical school. among the guests whom i met in the grounds was a gentleman of the medical profession, whose name i had often heard, and whom i was very glad to see and talk with. this was mr. lawson tait, f.r.c.s., m.d., of birmingham. mr., or more properly dr., tait has had the most extraordinary success in a class of cases long considered beyond the reach of surgery. if i refer to it as a scientific _hari kari_, not for the taking but for the saving of life, i shall come near enough to its description. this operation is said to have been first performed by an american surgeon in danville, kentucky, in the year . so rash and dangerous did it seem to most of the profession that it was sometimes spoken of as if to attempt it were a crime. gradually, however, by improved methods, and especially by the most assiduous care in nursing the patient after the operation, the mortality grew less and less, until it was recognized as a legitimate and indeed an invaluable addition to the resources of surgery. mr. lawson tait has had, so far as i have been able to learn, the most wonderful series of successful cases on record: namely, one hundred and thirty-nine consecutive operations without a single death. as i sat by the side of this great surgeon, a question suggested itself to my mind which i leave the reader to think over. which would give the most satisfaction to a thoroughly humane and unselfish being, of cultivated intelligence and lively sensibilities: to have written all the plays which shakespeare has left as an inheritance for mankind, or to have snatched from the jaws of death more than a hundred fellow- creatures,--almost seven scores of suffering women,--and restored them to sound and comfortable existence? it would be curious to get the answers of a hundred men and a hundred women, of a hundred young people and a hundred old ones, of a hundred scholars and a hundred operatives. my own specialty is asking questions, not answering them, and i trust i shall not receive a peck or two of letters inquiring of me how i should choose if such a question were asked me. it may prove as fertile a source of dispute as "the lady or the tiger." it would have been a great thing to pass a single night close to the church where shakespeare's dust lies buried. a single visit by daylight leaves a comparatively slight impression. but when, after a night's sleep, one wakes up and sees the spire and the old walls full before him, that impression is very greatly deepened, and the whole scene becomes far more a reality. now i was nearly a whole week at stratford-on-avon. the church, its exterior, its interior, the birthplace, the river, had time to make themselves permanent images in my mind. to effect this requires a certain amount of exposure, as much as in the case of a photographic negative. * * * * * and so we bade good-by to stratford-on-avon and its hospitalities, with grateful remembrances of our kind entertainers and all they did for our comfort and enjoyment. where should we go next? our travelling host proposed great malvern, a famous watering-place, where we should find peace, rest, and good accommodations. so there we went, and soon found ourselves installed at the "foley arms" hotel. the room i was shown to looked out upon an apothecary's shop, and from the window of that shop stared out upon me a plaster bust which i recognized as that of samuel hahnemann. i was glad to change to another apartment, but it may be a comfort to some of his american followers to know that traces of homoeopathy,--or what still continues to call itself so,--survive in the old world, which we have understood was pretty well tired of it. we spent several days very pleasantly at great malvern. it lies at the foot of a range of hills, the loftiest of which is over a thousand feet in height. a---- and i thought we would go to the top of one of these, known as the beacon. we hired a "four-wheeler," dragged by a much-enduring horse and in charge of a civil young man. we turned out of one of the streets not far from the hotel, and found ourselves facing an ascent which looked like what i should suppose would be a pretty steep toboggan slide. we both drew back. _"facilis ascensus,"_ i said to myself, _"sed revocare gradum."_ it is easy enough to get up if you are dragged up, but how will it be to come down such a declivity? when we reached it on our return, the semi-precipice had lost all its terrors. we had seen and travelled over so much worse places that this little bit of slanting road seemed as nothing. the road which wound up to the summit of the beacon was narrow and uneven. it ran close to the edge of the steep hillside,--so close that there were times when every one of our forty digits curled up like a bird's claw. if we went over, it would not be a fall down a good honest precipice,--a swish through the air and a smash at the bottom,--but a tumbling, and a rolling over and over, and a bouncing and bumping, ever accelerating, until we bounded into the level below, all ready for the coroner. at one sudden turn of the road the horse's body projected so far over its edge that a---- declared if the beast had been an inch longer he would have toppled over. when we got close to the summit we found the wind blowing almost a gale. a---- says in her diary that i (meaning her honored parent) "nearly blew off from the top of the mountain." it is true that the force of the wind was something fearful, and seeing that two young men near me were exposed to its fury, i offered an arm to each of them, which they were not too proud to accept; a---- was equally attentive to another young person; and having seen as much of the prospect as we cared to, we were glad to get back to our four-wheeler and our hotel, after a perilous journey almost comparable to mark twain's ascent of the riffelberg. at great malvern we were deliciously idle. we walked about the place, rested quietly, drove into the neighboring country, and made a single excursion,--to tewkesbury. there are few places better worth seeing than this fine old town, full of historical associations and monumental relics. the magnificent old abbey church is the central object of interest. the noble norman tower, one hundred and thirty-two feet in height, was once surmounted by a spire, which fell during divine service on easter day of the year . the arch of the west entrance is sixteen feet high and thirty-four feet wide. the fourteen columns of the nave are each six feet and three inches in diameter and thirty feet in height. i did not take these measurements from the fabric itself, but from the guidebook, and i give them here instead of saying that the columns were huge, enormous, colossal, as they did most assuredly seem to me. the old houses of tewkesbury compare well with the finest of those in chester. i have a photograph before me of one of them, in which each of the three upper floors overhangs the one beneath it, and the windows in the pointed gable above project over those of the fourth floor. i ought to have visited the site of holme castle, the name of which reminds me of my own origin. "the meaning of the saxon word 'holme' is a meadow surrounded with brooks, and here not only did the castle bear the name, but the meadow is described as the 'holme,--where the castle was.'" the final _s_ in the name as we spell it is a frequent addition to old english names, as camden mentions, giving the name holmes among the examples. as there is no castle at the holme now, i need not pursue my inquiries any further. it was by accident that i stumbled on this bit of archaeology, and as i have a good many namesakes, it may perhaps please some of them to be told about it. few of us hold any castles, i think, in these days, except those _châteaux en espagne_, of which i doubt not, many of us are lords and masters. in another of our excursions we visited a venerable church, where our attention was called to a particular monument. it was erected to the memory of one of the best of husbands by his "wretched widow," who records upon the marble that there never was such a man on the face of the earth before, and never will be again, and that there never was anybody so miserable as she,--no, never, never, never! these are not the exact words, but this is pretty nearly what she declares. the story is that she married again within a year. from my window at the foley arms i can see the tower of the fine old abbey church of malvern, which would be a centre of pilgrimages if it were in our country. but england is full of such monumental structures, into the history of which the local antiquarians burrow, and pass their peaceful lives in studying and writing about them with the same innocent enthusiasm that white of selborne manifested in studying nature as his village showed it to him. in our long drives we have seen everywhere the same picturesque old cottages, with the pretty gardens, and abundant flowers, and noble trees, more frequently elms than any other. one day--it was on the th of july--we found ourselves driving through what seemed to be a gentleman's estate, an ample domain, well wooded and well kept. on inquiring to whom this place belonged, i was told that the owner was sir edmund lechmere. the name had a very familiar sound to my ears. without rising from the table at which i am now writing, i have only to turn my head, and in full view, at the distance of a mile, just across the estuary of the charles, shining in the morning sun, are the roofs and spires and chimneys of east cambridge, always known in my younger days as lechmere's point. judge richard lechmere was one of our old cambridge tories, whose property was confiscated at the time of the revolution. an engraving of his handsome house, which stands next to the vassall house, long known as washington's headquarters, and since not less celebrated as the residence of longfellow, is before me, on one of the pages of the pleasing little volume, "the cambridge of ." i take it for granted that our lechmeres were of the same stock as the owner of this property. if so, he probably knows all that i could tell him about his colonial relatives, who were very grand people, belonging to a little aristocratic circle of friends and relatives who were faithful to their king and their church. the baroness riedesel, wife of a hessian officer who had been captured, was for a while resident in this house, and her name, scratched on a window-pane, was long shown as a sight for eyes unused to titles other than governor, judge, colonel, and the like. i was tempted to present myself at sir edmund's door as one who knew something about the lechmeres in america, but i did not feel sure how cordially a descendant of the rebels who drove off richard and mary lechmere would be received. from great malvern we went to bath, another place where we could rest and be comfortable. the grand pump-room hotel was a stately building, and the bath-rooms were far beyond anything i had ever seen of that kind. the remains of the old roman baths, which appear to have been very extensive, are partially exposed. what surprises one all over the old world is to see how deeply all the old civilizations contrive to get buried. everybody seems to have lived in the cellar. it is hard to believe that the cellar floor was once the sun surface of the smiling earth. i looked forward to seeing bath with a curious kind of interest. i once knew one of those dear old english ladies whom one finds all the world over, with their prim little ways, and their gilt prayer-books, and lavender-scented handkerchiefs, and family recollections. she gave me the idea that bath, a city where the great people often congregate, was more especially the paradise of decayed gentlewomen. there, she told me, persons with very narrow incomes--not _demi-fortunes_, but _demi-quart-de-fortunes_--could find everything arranged to accommodate their modest incomes. i saw the evidence of this everywhere. so great was the delight i had in looking in at the shop-windows of the long street which seemed to be one of the chief thoroughfares that, after exploring it in its full extent by myself, i went for a----, and led her down one side its whole length and up the other. in these shops the precious old dears could buy everything they wanted in the most minute quantities. such tempting heaps of lumps of white sugar, only twopence! such delectable cakes, two for a penny! such seductive scraps of meat, which would make a breakfast nourishing as well as relishing, possibly even what called itself a dinner, blushing to see themselves labelled threepence or fourpence! we did not know whether to smile or to drop a tear, as we contemplated these baits hung out to tempt the coins from the exiguous purses of ancient maidens, forlorn widows, withered annuitants, stranded humanity in every stage of shipwrecked penury. i am reminded of thackeray's "jack spiggot." "and what are your pursuits, jack? says i. 'sold out when the governor died. mother lives at bath. go down there once a year for a week. dreadful slow. shilling whist.'" mrs. gaskell's picture of "cranford" is said to have been drawn from a village in cheshire, but bath must have a great deal in common with its "elegant economies." do not make the mistake, however, of supposing that this splendid watering-place, sometimes spoken of as "the handsomest city in britain," is only a city of refuge for people that have seen better days. lord macaulay speaks of it as "that beautiful city which charms even eyes familiar with the masterpieces of bramante and palladio." if it is not quite so conspicuous as a fashionable resort as it was in the days of beau nash or of christopher anstey, it has never lost its popularity. chesterfield writes in , "the number of people in this place is infinite," and at the present time the annual influx of visitors is said to vary from ten to fourteen thousand. many of its public buildings are fine, and the abbey church, dating from , is an object of much curiosity, especially on account of the sculptures on its western façade. these represent two ladders, with angels going up and down upon them,--suggested by a dream of the founder of the church, repeating that of jacob. on the th of july we left bath for salisbury. while passing westbury, one of our fellow-passengers exclaimed, "look out! look out!" "what is it?" "the horse! the horse!" all our heads turned to the window, and all our eyes fastened on the figure of a white horse, upon a hillside some miles distant. this was not the white horse which mr. thomas hughes has made famous, but one of much less archaic aspect and more questionable history. a little book which we bought tells us all we care to know about it. "it is formed by excoriating the turf over the steep slope of the northern escarpment of salisbury plain." it was "remodelled" in , and "restored" in at a cost of between sixty and seventy pounds. it is said that a smaller and ruder horse stood here from time immemorial, and was made to commemorate a victory of alfred over the danes. however that may be, the horse we now see on the hillside is a very modern-looking and well-shaped animal, and is of the following dimensions: length, feet; height from highest part of back, feet; thickness of body, feet; length of head, feet; eye, by feet. it is a very pretty little object as we see it in the distance. salisbury cathedral was my first love among all the wonderful ecclesiastical buildings which i saw during my earlier journey. i looked forward to seeing it again with great anticipations of pleasure, which were more than realized. our travelling host had taken a whole house in the close,--a privileged enclosure, containing the cathedral, the bishop's palace, houses of the clergy, and a limited number of private residences, one of the very best of which was given over entirely into the hands of our party during our visit. the house was about as near the cathedral as mr. flower's house, where we stayed at stratford-on-avon, was to the church of the holy trinity. it was very completely furnished, and in the room assigned to me as my library i found books in various languages, showing that the residence was that of a scholarly person. if one had to name the apple of the eye of england, i think he would be likely to say that salisbury cathedral was as near as he could come to it, and that the white of the eye was salisbury close. the cathedral is surrounded by a high wall, the gates of which,--its eyelids,--are closed every night at a seasonable hour, at which the virtuous inhabitants are expected to be in their safe and sacred quarters. houses within this hallowed precinct naturally bring a higher rent than those of the unsanctified and unprotected region outside of its walls. it is a realm of peace, glorified by the divine edifice, which lifts the least imaginative soul upward to the heavens its spire seems trying to reach; beautified by rows of noble elms which stretch high aloft, as if in emulation of the spire; beatified by holy memories of the good and great men who have worn their lives out in the service of the church of which it is one of the noblest temples. for a whole week we lived under the shadow of the spire of the great cathedral. our house was opposite the north transept, only separated by the road in front of it from the cathedral grounds. here, as at stratford, i learned what it was to awake morning after morning and find that i was not dreaming, but there in the truth-telling daylight the object of my admiration, devotion, almost worship, stood before me. i need not here say anything more of the cathedral, except that its perfect exterior is hardly equalled in beauty by its interior, which looks somewhat bare and cold. it was my impression that there is more to study than to admire in the interior, but i saw the cathedral so much oftener on the outside than on the inside that i may not have done justice to the latter aspect of the noble building. nothing could be more restful than our week at salisbury. there was enough in the old town besides the cathedral to interest us,--old buildings, a museum, full of curious objects, and the old town itself. when i was there the first time, i remember that we picked up a guide-book in which we found a verse that has remained in my memory ever since. it is an epitaph on a native of salisbury who died in venice. "born in the english venice, thou didst dye dear friend, in the italian salisbury." this would be hard to understand except for the explanation which the local antiquarians give us of its significance. the wiltshire avon flows by or through the town, which is drained by brooks that run through its streets. these, which used to be open, are now covered over, and thus the epitaph becomes somewhat puzzling, as there is nothing to remind one of venice in walking about the town. while at salisbury we made several excursions: to old sarum; to bemerton, where we saw the residence of holy george herbert, and visited the little atom of a church in which he ministered; to clarendon park; to wilton, the seat of the earl of pembroke, a most interesting place for itself and its recollections; and lastly to stonehenge. my second visit to the great stones after so long an interval was a strange experience. but what is half a century to a place like stonehenge? nothing dwarfs an individual life like one of these massive, almost unchanging monuments of an antiquity which refuses to be measured. the "shepherd of salisbury plain" was represented by an old man, who told all he knew and a good deal more about the great stones, and sheared a living, not from sheep, but from visitors, in the shape of shillings and sixpences. i saw nothing that wore unwoven wool on its back in the neighborhood of the monuments, but sheep are shown straggling among them in the photographs. the broken circle of stones, some in their original position, some bending over like old men, some lying prostrate, suggested the thoughts which took form in the following verses. they were read at the annual meeting, in january, of the class which graduated at harvard college in the year . eight of the fifty-nine men who graduated sat round the small table. there were several other classmates living, but infirmity, distance, and other peremptory reasons kept them from being with us. i have read forty poems at our successive annual meetings. i will introduce this last one by quoting a stanza from the poem i read in :-- as one by one is falling beneath the leaves or snows, each memory still recalling the broken ring shall close, till the night winds softly pass o'er the green and growing grass, where it waves on the graves of the "boys of 'twenty-nine." the broken circle. i stood on sarum's treeless plain, the waste that careless nature owns; lone tenants of her bleak domain, loomed huge and gray the druid stones. upheaved in many a billowy mound the sea-like, naked turf arose, where wandering flocks went nibbling round the mingled graves of friends and foes. the briton, roman, saxon, dane, this windy desert roamed in turn; unmoved these mighty blocks remain whose story none that lives may learn. erect, half buried, slant or prone, these awful listeners, blind and dumb, hear the strange tongues of tribes unknown, as wave on wave they go and come. "who are you, giants, whence and why?" i stand and ask in blank amaze; my soul accepts their mute reply: "a mystery, as are you that gaze. "a silent orpheus wrought the charm from riven rocks their spoils to bring; a nameless titan lent his arm to range us in our magic ring. "but time with still and stealthy stride, that climbs and treads and levels all, that bids the loosening keystone slide, and topples down the crumbling wall,-- "time, that unbuilds the quarried past, leans on these wrecks that press the sod; they slant, they stoop, they fall at last, and strew the turf their priests have trod. "no more our altar's wreath of smoke floats up with morning's fragrant dew; the fires are dead, the ring is broke, where stood the many stand the few." --my thoughts had wandered far away, borne off on memory's outspread wing, to where in deepening twilight lay the wrecks of friendship's broken ring. ah me! of all our goodly train how few will find our banquet hall! yet why with coward lips complain that this must lean and that must fall? cold is the druid's altar-stone, its vanished flame no more returns; but ours no chilling damp has known,-- unchanged, unchanging, still it burns. so let our broken circle stand a wreck, a remnant, yet the same, while one last, loving, faithful hand still lives to feed its altar-flame! my heart has gone back over the waters to my old friends and my own home. when this vision has faded, i will return to the silence of the lovely close and the shadow of the great cathedral. v. the remembrance of home, with its early and precious and long-enduring friendships, has intruded itself among my recollections of what i saw and heard, of what i felt and thought, in the distant land i was visiting. i must return to the scene where i found myself when the suggestion of the broken circle ran away with my imagination. the literature of stonehenge is extensive, and illustrates the weakness of archaeologists almost as well as the "praetorium" of scott's "antiquary." "in ," says a local handbook, "h. browne, of amesbury, published 'an illustration of stonehenge and abury,' in which he endeavored to show that both of these monuments were antediluvian, and that the latter was formed under the direction of adam. he ascribes the present dilapidated condition of stonehenge to the operation of the general deluge; for, he adds, 'to suppose it to be the work of any people since the flood is entirely monstrous.'" we know well enough how great stones--pillars and obelisks--are brought into place by means of our modern appliances. but if the great blocks were raised by a mob of naked picts, or any tribe that knew none of the mechanical powers but the lever, how did they set them up and lay the cross-stones, the imposts, upon the uprights? it is pleasant, once in a while, to think how we should have managed any such matters as this if left to our natural resources. we are all interested in the make-shifts of robinson crusoe. now the rudest tribes make cords of some kind, and the earliest, or almost the earliest, of artificial structures is an earth-mound. if a hundred, or hundreds, of men could drag the huge stones many leagues, as they must have done to bring them to their destined place, they could have drawn each of them up a long slanting mound ending in a sharp declivity, with a hole for the foot of the stone at its base. if the stone were now tipped over, it would slide into its place, and could be easily raised from its slanting position to the perpendicular. then filling in the space between the mound and two contiguous stones, the impost could be dragged up to its position. i found a pleasure in working at this simple mechanical problem, as a change from the more imaginative thoughts suggested by the mysterious monuments. one incident of our excursion to stonehenge had a significance for me which renders it memorable in my personal experience. as we drove over the barren plain, one of the party suddenly exclaimed, "look! look! see the lark rising!" i looked up with the rest. there was the bright blue sky, but not a speck upon it which my eyes could distinguish. again, one called out, "hark! hark! hear him singing!" i listened, but not a sound reached my ear. was it strange that i felt a momentary pang? _those that look out at the windows are darkened, and all the daughters of music are brought low._ was i never to see or hear the soaring songster at heaven's gate,--unless,--unless,--if our mild humanized theology promises truly, i may perhaps hereafter listen to him singing far down beneath me? for in whatever world i may find myself, i hope i shall always love our poor little spheroid, so long my home, which some kind angel may point out to me as a gilded globule swimming in the sunlight far away. after walking the streets of pure gold in the new jerusalem, might not one like a short vacation, to visit the well-remembered green fields and flowery meadows? i had a very sweet emotion of self-pity, which took the sting out of my painful discovery that the orchestra of my pleasing life-entertainment was unstringing its instruments, and the lights were being extinguished,--that the show was almost over. all this i kept to myself, of course, except so far as i whispered it to the unseen presence which we all feel is in sympathy with us, and which, as it seemed to my fancy, was looking into my eyes, and through them into my soul, with the tender, tearful smile of a mother who for the first time gently presses back the longing lips of her as yet unweaned infant. on our way back from stonehenge we stopped and took a cup of tea with a friend of our host, mr. nightingale. his house, a bachelor establishment, was very attractive to us by the beauty within and around it. his collection of "china," as pope and old-fashioned people call all sorts of earthenware, excited the enthusiasm of our host, whose admiration of some rare pieces in the collection was so great that it would have run into envy in a less generous nature. it is very delightful to find one's self in one of these english country residences. the house is commonly old, and has a history. it is oftentimes itself a record, like that old farmhouse my friend john bellows wrote to me about, which chronicled half a dozen reigns by various architectural marks as exactly as if it had been an official register. "the stately homes of england," as we see them at wilton and longford castle, are not more admirable in their splendors than "the blessed homes of england" in their modest beauty. everywhere one may see here old parsonages by the side of ivy-mantled churches, and the comfortable mansions where generations of country squires have lived in peace, while their sons have gone forth to fight england's battles, and carry her flags of war and commerce all over the world. we in america can hardly be said to have such a possession as a family home. we encamp,--not under canvas, but in fabrics of wood or more lasting materials, which are pulled down after a brief occupancy by the builders, and possibly their children, or are modernized so that the former dwellers in them would never recognize their old habitations. in my various excursions from salisbury i was followed everywhere by the all-pervading presence of the towering spire. just what it was in that earlier visit, when my eyes were undimmed and my sensibilities unworn, just such i found it now. as one drives away from the town, the roofs of the houses drop out of the landscape, the lesser spires disappear one by one, until the great shaft is left standing alone,--solitary as the broken statue of ozymandias in the desert, as the mast of some mighty ship above the waves which have rolled over the foundering vessel. most persons will, i think, own to a feeling of awe in looking up at it. few can look down from a great height without creepings and crispations, if they do not get as far as vertigos and that aerial calenture which prompts them to jump from the pinnacle on which they are standing. it does not take much imagination to make one experience something of the same feeling in looking up at a very tall steeple or chimney. to one whose eyes are used to park street and the old south steeples as standards of height, a spire which climbs four hundred feet towards the sky is a new sensation. whether i am more "afraid of that which is high" than i was at my first visit, as i should be on the authority of ecclesiastes, i cannot say, but it was quite enough for me to let my eyes climb the spire, and i had no desire whatever to stand upon that "bad eminence," as i am sure that i should have found it. i soon noticed a slight deflection from the perpendicular at the upper part of the spire. this has long been observed. i could not say that i saw the spire quivering in the wind, as i felt that of strasburg doing when i ascended it,--swaying like a blade of grass when a breath of air passes over it. but it has been, for at least two hundred years, nearly two feet out of the perpendicular. no increase in the deviation was found to exist when it was examined early in the present century. it is a wonder that this slight-looking structure can have survived the blasts, and thunderbolts, and earthquakes, and the weakening effects of time on its stones and timbers for five hundred years. since the spire of chichester cathedral fell in , sheathing itself in its tower like a sword dropping into its scabbard, one can hardly help looking with apprehension at all these lofty fabrics. i have before referred to the fall of the spire of tewkesbury abbey church, three centuries earlier. there has been a good deal of fear for the salisbury spire, and great precautions have been taken to keep it firm, so that we may hope it will stand for another five hundred years. it ought to be a "joy forever," for it is a thing of beauty, if ever there were one. i never felt inclined to play the part of the young enthusiast in "excelsior," as i looked up at the weathercock which surmounts the spire. but the man who oils the weathercock-spindle has to get up to it in some way, and that way is by ladders which reach to within thirty feet of the top, where there is a small door, through which he emerges, to crawl up the remaining distance on the outside. "the situation and appearance," says one of the guide-books, "must be terrific, yet many persons have voluntarily and daringly clambered to the top, even in a state of intoxication." such, i feel sure, was not the state of my most valued and exemplary clerical friend, who, with a cool head and steady nerves, found himself standing in safety at the top of the spire, with his hand upon the vane, which nothing terrestrial had ever looked down upon in its lofty position, except a bird, a bat, a sky-rocket, or a balloon. in saying that the exterior of salisbury cathedral is more interesting than its interior, i was perhaps unfair to the latter, which only yields to the surpassing claims of the wonderful structure as seen from the outside. one may get a little tired of marble crusaders, with their crossed legs and broken noses, especially if, as one sometimes finds them, they are covered with the pencilled autographs of cockney scribblers. but there are monuments in this cathedral which excite curiosity, and others which awaken the most striking associations. there is the "boy bishop," his marble effigy protected from vandalism by an iron cage. there is the skeleton figure representing fox (who should have been called goose), the poor creature who starved himself to death in trying to imitate the fast of forty days in the wilderness. since this performance has been taken out of the list of miracles, it is not so likely to be repeated by fanatics. i confess to a strong suspicion that this is one of the ambulatory or movable stories, like the "hangman's stone" legend, which i have found in so many different parts of england. skulls and crossbones, sometimes skeletons or skeleton-like figures, are not uncommon among the sepulchral embellishments of an earlier period. where one of these figures is found, the forty-day-fast story is likely to grow out of it, as the mistletoe springs from the oak or apple tree. with far different emotions we look upon the spot where lie buried many of the herbert family, among the rest, "sidney's sister, pembroke's mother," for whom ben jonson wrote the celebrated epitaph. i am almost afraid to say it, but i never could admire the line, "lies the subject of all verse," nor the idea of time dropping his hour-glass and scythe to throw a dart at the fleshless figure of death. this last image seems to me about the equivalent in mortuary poetry of roubiliac's monument to mrs. nightingale in mortuary sculpture,--poor conceits both of them, without the suggestion of a tear in the verses or in the marble; but the rhetorical exaggeration does not prevent us from feeling that we are standing by the resting-place of one who was "learn'd and fair and good" enough to stir the soul of stalwart ben jonson, and the names of sidney and herbert make us forget the strange hyperboles. history meets us everywhere, as we stray among these ancient monuments. under that effigy lie the great bones of sir john cheyne, a mighty man of war, said to have been "overthrown" by richard the third at the battle of bosworth field. what was left of him was unearthed in in the demolition of the beauchamp chapel, and his thigh-bone was found to be four inches longer than that of a man of common stature. the reader may remember how my recollections started from their hiding-place when i came, in one of our excursions, upon the name of lechmere, as belonging to the owner of a fine estate by or through which we were driving. i had a similar twinge of reminiscence at meeting with the name of gorges, which is perpetuated by a stately monument at the end of the north aisle of the cathedral. sir thomas gorges, knight of longford castle, may or may not have been of the same family as the well-remembered grandiose personage of the new england pilgrim period. the title this gentleman bore had a far more magnificent sound than those of his contemporaries, governor carver and elder brewster. no title ever borne among us has filled the mouth quite so full as that of "sir ferdinando gorges, lord palatine of the province of maine," a province with "gorgeana" (late the plantation of agamenticus) as its capital. everywhere in england a new englander is constantly meeting with names of families and places which remind him that he comes of a graft from an old tree on a new stock. i could not keep down the associations called up by the name of gorges. there is a certain pleasure in now and then sprinkling our prosaic colonial history with the holy water of a high-sounding title; not that a "sir" before a man's name makes him any better,--for are we not all equal, and more than equal, to each other?--but it sounds pleasantly. sir harry vane and sir harry frankland look prettily on the printed page, as the illuminated capital at the head of a chapter in an old folio pleases the eye of the reader. sir thomas gorges was the builder of longford castle, now the seat of the earl of radnor, whose family name is bouverie. whether our sir ferdinando was of the longford castle stock or not i must leave to my associates of the massachusetts historical society to determine. we lived very quietly at our temporary home in salisbury close. a pleasant dinner with the dean, a stroll through the grounds of the episcopal palace, with that perpetual feast of the eyes which the cathedral offered us, made our residence delightful at the time, and keeps it so in remembrance. besides the cathedral there were the very lovely cloisters, the noble chapter-house with its central pillar,--this structure has been restored and rejuvenated since my earlier visit,--and there were the peaceful dwellings, where i insist on believing that only virtue and happiness are ever tenants. even outside the sacred enclosure there is a great deal to enjoy, in the ancient town of salisbury. one may rest under the poultry cross, where twenty or thirty generations have rested before him. one may purchase his china at the well-furnished establishment of the tenant of a spacious apartment of ancient date,--"the halle of john halle," a fine private edifice built in the year , restored and beautified in ; the emblazonment of the royal arms having been executed by the celebrated architectural artist pugin. the old houses are numerous, and some of them eminently picturesque. salisbury was formerly very unhealthy, on account of the low, swampy nature of its grounds. the sanitary reform, dating from about thirty years ago, had a great effect on the condition of the place. before the drainage the annual mortality was twenty-seven in the thousand; since the drainage twenty in the thousand, which is below that of boston. in the close, which is a little garden of eden, with no serpent in it that i could hear of, the deaths were only fourteen in a thousand. happy little enclosure, where thieves cannot break through and steal, where death himself hesitates to enter, and makes a visit only now and then at long intervals, lest the fortunate inhabitants should think they had already reached the celestial city! [illustration: salisbury cathedral.] it must have been a pretty bitter quarrel that drove the tenants of the airy height of old sarum to remove to the marshy level of the present site of the cathedral and the town. i wish we could have given more time to the ancient fortress and cathedral town. this is one of the most interesting historic localities of great britain. we looked from different points of view at the mounds and trenches which marked it as a strongly fortified position. for many centuries it played an important part in the history of england. at length, however, the jealousies of the laity and the clergy, a squabble like that of "town and gown," but with graver underlying causes, broke up the harmony and practically ended the existence of the place except as a monument of the past. it seems a pity that the headquarters of the prince of peace could not have managed to maintain tranquillity within its own borders. but so it was; and the consequence followed that old sarum, with all its grand recollections, is but a collection of mounds and hollows,--as much a tomb of its past as birs nimroud of that great city, nineveh. old sarum is now best remembered by its long-surviving privilege, as a borough, of sending two members to parliament. the farcical ceremony of electing two representatives who had no real constituency behind them was put an end to by the reform act of . wilton, the seat of the earl of pembroke, within an easy drive's distance from salisbury, was the first nobleman's residence i saw in my early visit. not a great deal of what i then saw had survived in my memory. i recall the general effect of the stately mansion and its grounds. a picture or two of vandyke's had not quite faded out of my recollection. i could not forget the armor of anne de montmorenci,--not another maid of orleans, but constable of france,--said to have been taken in battle by an ancestor of the herberts. it was one of the first things that made me feel i was in the old world. miles standish's sword was as far back as new england collections of armor carried us at that day. the remarkable gallery of ancient sculptures impressed me at the time, but no one bust or statue survived as a distinct image. even the beautiful palladian bridge had not pictured itself on my mental tablet as it should have done, and i could not have taken my oath that i had seen it. but the pretty english maidens whom we met on the day of our visit to wilton,--daughters or granddaughters of a famous inventor and engineer,--still lingered as vague and pleasing visions, so lovely had they seemed among the daisies and primroses. the primroses and daisies were as fresh in the spring of as they were in the spring of , but i hardly dared to ask after the blooming maidens of that early period. one memory predominates over all others, in walking through the halls, or still more in wandering through the grounds, of wilton house. here sir philip sidney wrote his "arcadia," and the ever youthful presence of the man himself rather than the recollection of his writings takes possession of us. there are three young men in history whose names always present themselves to me in a special companionship: pico della mirandola, "the phoenix of the age" for his contemporaries; "the admirable crichton," accepting as true the accounts which have come down to us of his wonderful accomplishments; and sidney, the bayard of england, "that glorious star, that lively pattern of virtue and the lovely joy of all the learned sort, ... born into the world to show unto our age a sample of ancient virtue." the english paragon of excellence was but thirty-two years old when he was slain at zutphen, the italian phoenix but thirty-one when he was carried off by a fever, and the scotch prodigy of gifts and attainments was only twenty-two when he was assassinated by his worthless pupil. sir philip sidney is better remembered by the draught of water he gave the dying soldier than by all the waters he ever drew from the fountain of the muses, considerable as are the merits of his prose and verse. but here, where he came to cool his fiery spirit after the bitter insult he had received from the earl of leicester; here, where he mused and wrote, and shaped his lofty plans for a glorious future, he lives once more in our imagination, as if his spirit haunted the english arcadia he loved so dearly. the name of herbert, which we have met with in the cathedral, and which belongs to the earls of pembroke, presents itself to us once more in a very different and very beautiful aspect. between salisbury and wilton, three miles and a half distant, is the little village of bemerton, where "holy george herbert" lived and died, and where he lies buried. many americans who know little else of him recall the lines borrowed from him by irving in the "sketch-book" and by emerson in "nature." the "sketch-book" gives the lines thus:-- "sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, the bridal of the earth and sky." in other versions the fourth word is _cool_ instead of _pure_, and _cool_ is, i believe, the correct reading. the day when we visited bemerton was, according to a----'s diary, "perfect." i was struck with the calm beauty of the scene around us, the fresh greenness of all growing things, and the stillness of the river which mirrored the heavens above it. it must have been this reflection which the poet was thinking of when he spoke of the bridal of the earth and sky. the river is the wiltshire avon; not shakespeare's avon, but the southern stream of the same name, which empties into the british channel. so much of george herbert's intellectual and moral character repeat themselves in emerson that if i believed in metempsychosis i should think that the english saint had reappeared in the american philosopher. their features have a certain resemblance, but the type, though an exceptional and fine one, is not so very rare. i found a portrait in the national gallery which was a good specimen of it; the bust of a near friend of his, more intimate with him than almost any other person, is often taken for that of emerson. i see something of it in the portrait of sir philip sidney, and i doubt not that traces of a similar mental resemblance ran through the whole group, with individual characteristics which were in some respects quite different. i will take a single verse of herbert's from emerson's "nature,"--one of the five which he quotes:-- "nothing hath got so far but man hath caught and kept it as his prey; his eyes dismount the highest star: he is in little all the sphere. herbs gladly cure our flesh because that they find their acquaintance there." emerson himself fully recognizes his obligations to "the beautiful psalmist of the seventeenth century," as he calls george herbert. there are many passages in his writings which sound as if they were paraphrases from the elder poet. from him it is that emerson gets a word he is fond of, and of which his imitators are too fond:-- "who sweeps a room as for thy laws makes that and the action _fine_." the little chapel in which herbert officiated is perhaps half as long again as the room in which i am writing, but it is four or five feet narrower,--and i do not live in a palace. here this humble servant of god preached and prayed, and here by his faithful and loving service he so endeared himself to all around him that he has been canonized by an epithet no other saint of the english church has had bestowed upon him. his life as pictured by izaak walton is, to borrow one of his own lines, "a box where sweets compacted lie;" and i felt, as i left his little chapel and the parsonage which he rebuilt as a free-will offering, as a pilgrim might feel who had just left the holy places at jerusalem. among the places which i saw in my first visit was longford castle, the seat of the earl of radnor. i remembered the curious triangular building, constructed with reference to the doctrine of the trinity, as churches are built in the form of the cross. i remembered how the omnipresent spire of the great cathedral, three miles away, looked down upon the grounds about the building as if it had been their next-door neighbor. i had not forgotten the two celebrated claudes, morning and evening. my eyes were drawn to the first of these two pictures when i was here before; now they turned naturally to the landscape with the setting sun. i have read my st. ruskin with due reverence, but i have never given up my allegiance to claude lorraine. but of all the fine paintings at longford castle, no one so much impressed me at my recent visit as the portrait of erasmus by hans holbein. this is one of those pictures which help to make the old world worth a voyage across the atlantic. portraits of erasmus are not uncommon; every scholar would know him if he met him in the other world with the look he wore on earth. all the etchings and their copies give a characteristic presentation of the spiritual precursor of luther, who pricked the false image with his rapier which the sturdy monk slashed with his broadsword. what a face it is which hans holbein has handed down to us in this wonderful portrait at longford castle! how dry it is with scholastic labor, how keen with shrewd scepticism, how worldly-wise, how conscious of its owner's wide-awake sagacity! erasmus and rabelais,--nature used up all her arrows for their quivers, and had to wait a hundred years and more before she could find shafts enough for the outfit of voltaire, leaner and keener than erasmus, and almost as free in his language as the audacious creator of gargantua and pantagruel. i have not generally given descriptions of the curious objects which i saw in the great houses and museums which i visited. there is, however, a work of art at longford castle so remarkable that i must speak of it. i was so much struck by the enormous amount of skilful ingenuity and exquisite workmanship bestowed upon it that i looked up its history, which i found in the "beauties of england and wales." this is what is there said of the wonderful steel chair: "it was made by thomas rukers at the city of augsburgh, in the year , and consists of more than compartments, all occupied by groups of figures representing a succession of events in the annals of the roman empire, from the landing of Ã�neas to the reign of rodolphus the second." it looks as if a life had gone into the making of it, as a pair or two of eyes go to the working of the bridal veil of an empress. fifty years ago and more, when i was at longford castle with my two companions, who are no more with us, we found there a pleasant, motherly old housekeeper, or attendant of some kind, who gave us a draught of home-made ale and left a cheerful remembrance with us, as, i need hardly say, we did with her, in a materialized expression of our good-will. it always rubbed very hard on my feelings to offer money to any persons who had served me well, as if they were doing it for their own pleasure. it may have been the granddaughter of the kindly old matron of the year who showed us round, and possibly, if i had sunk a shaft of inquiry, i might have struck a well of sentiment. but "take, o boatman, thrice thy fee," carried into practical life, is certain in its financial result to the subject of the emotional impulse, but is less sure to call forth a tender feeling in the recipient. one will hardly find it worth while to go through the world weeping over his old recollections, and paying gold instead of silver and silver instead of copper to astonished boatmen and bewildered chambermaids. on sunday, the th of july, we attended morning service at the cathedral. the congregation was not proportioned to the size of the great edifice. these vast places of worship were built for ages when faith was the rule and questioning the exception. i will not say that faith has grown cold, but it has cooled from white heat to cherry red or a still less flaming color. as to church attendance, i have heard the saying attributed to a great statesman, that "once a day is orthodox, but twice a day is puritan." no doubt many of the same class of people that used to fill the churches stay at home and read about evolution or telepathy, or whatever new gospel they may have got hold of. still the english seem to me a religious people; they have leisure enough to say grace and give thanks before and after meals, and their institutions tend to keep alive the feelings of reverence which cannot be said to be distinctive of our own people. in coming out of the cathedral, on the sunday i just mentioned, a gentleman addressed me as a fellow-countryman. there is something,--i will not stop now to try and define it,--but there is something by which we recognize an american among the english before he speaks and betrays his origin. our new friend proved to be the president of one of our american colleges; an intelligent and well-instructed gentleman, of course. by the invitation of our host he came in to visit us in the evening, and made himself very welcome by his agreeable conversation. i took great delight in wandering about the old town of salisbury. there are no such surprises in our oldest places as one finds in chester, or tewkesbury, or stratford, or salisbury, and i have no doubt in scores or hundreds of similar places which i have never visited. the best substitute for such rambles as one can take through these mouldy boroughs (or burrows) is to be found in such towns as salem, newburyport, portsmouth. without imagination, shakespeare's birthplace is but a queer old house, and anne hathaway's home a tumble-down cottage. with it, one can see the witches of salem village sailing out of those little square windows, which look as if they were made on purpose for them, or stroll down to derby's wharf and gaze at "cleopatra's barge," precursor of the yachts of the astors and goulds and vanderbilts, as she comes swimming into the harbor in all her gilded glory. but it must make a difference what the imagination has to work upon, and i do not at all wonder that mr. ruskin would not wish to live in a land where there are no old ruins of castles and monasteries. man will not live on bread only; he wants a great deal more, if he can get it,--frosted cake as well as corn-bread; and the new world keeps the imagination on plain and scanty diet, compared to the rich traditional and historic food which furnishes the banquets of the old world. what memories that week in salisbury and the excursions from it have left in my mind's picture gallery! the spire of the great cathedral had been with me as a frequent presence during the last fifty years of my life, and this second visit has deepened every line of the impression, as old mortality refreshed the inscriptions on the tombstones of the covenanters. i find that all these pictures which i have brought home with me to look at, with "that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude," are becoming clearer and brighter as the excitement of overcrowded days and weeks gradually calms down. i can _be_ in those places where i passed days and nights, and became habituated to the sight of the cathedral, or of the church of the holy trinity, at morning, at noon, at evening, whenever i turned my eyes in its direction. i often close my eyelids, and startle my household by saying, "now i am in salisbury," or "now i am in stratford." it is a blessed thing to be able, in the twilight of years, to illuminate the soul with such visions. the charles, which flows beneath my windows, which i look upon between the words of the sentence i am now writing, only turning my head as i sit at my table,--the charles is hardly more real to me than shakespeare's avon, since i floated on its still waters, or strayed along its banks and saw the cows reflected in the smooth expanse, their legs upward, as if they were walking the skies as the flies walk the ceiling. salisbury cathedral stands as substantial in my thought as our own king's chapel, since i slumbered by its side, and arose in the morning to find it still there, and not one of those unsubstantial fabrics built by the architect of dreams. on thursday, the d of july, we left salisbury for brighton, where we were to be guests at arnold house, the residence of our kind host. here we passed another delightful week, with everything around us to contribute to our quiet comfort and happiness. the most thoughtful of entertainers, a house filled with choice works of art, fine paintings, and wonderful pottery, pleasant walks and drives, a visitor now and then, mr. and mrs. goldwin smith among the number, rest and peace in a magnificent city built for enjoyment,--what more could we have asked to make our visit memorable? many watering-places look forlorn and desolate in the intervals of "the season." this was not the time of brighton's influx of visitors, but the city was far from dull. the houses are very large, and have the grand air, as if meant for princes; the shops are well supplied; the salt breeze comes in fresh and wholesome, and the noble esplanade is lively with promenaders and bath chairs, some of them occupied by people evidently ill or presumably lame, some, i suspect, employed by healthy invalids who are too lazy to walk. i took one myself, drawn by an old man, to see how i liked it, and found it very convenient, but i was tempted to ask him to change places and let me drag him. with the aid of the guide-book i could describe the wonders of the pavilion and the various changes which have come over the great watering-place. the grand walks, the two piers, the aquarium, and all the great sights which are shown to strangers deserve full attention from the tourist who writes for other travellers, but none of these things seem to me so interesting as what we saw and heard in a little hamlet which has never, so far as i know, been vulgarized by sightseers. we drove in an open carriage,--mr. and mrs. willett, a----, and myself,--into the country, which soon became bare, sparsely settled, a long succession of rounded hills and hollows. these are the south downs, from which comes the famous mutton known all over england, not unknown at the table of our saturday club and other well-spread boards. after a drive of ten miles or more we arrived at a little "settlement," as we americans would call it, and drove up to the door of a modest parsonage, where dwells the shepherd of the south down flock of christian worshippers. i hope that the good clergyman, if he ever happens to see what i am writing, will pardon me for making mention of his hidden retreat, which he himself speaks of as "one of the remoter nooks of the old country." nothing i saw in england brought to my mind goldsmith's picture of "the man to all the country dear," and his surroundings, like this visit. the church dates, if i remember right, from the thirteenth century. some of its stones show marks, as it is thought, of having belonged to a saxon edifice. the massive leaden font is of a very great antiquity. in the wall of the church is a narrow opening, at which the priest is supposed to have sat and listened to the confession of the sinner on the outside of the building. the dead lie all around the church, under stones bearing the dates of several centuries. one epitaph, which the unlettered muse must have dictated, is worth recording. after giving the chief slumberer's name the epitaph adds,-- "here lies on either side, the remains of each of his former wives." those of a third have found a resting-place close by, behind him. it seemed to me that mr. bunner's young man in search of arcady might look for it here with as good a chance of being satisfied as anywhere i can think of. but i suppose that men and women and especially boys, would prove to be a good deal like the rest of the world, if one lived here long enough to learn all about them. one thing i can safely say,--an english man or boy never goes anywhere without his fists. i saw a boy of ten or twelve years, whose pleasant face attracted my attention. i said to the rector, "that is a fine-looking little fellow, and i should think an intelligent and amiable kind of boy." "yes," he said, "yes; he can strike from the shoulder pretty well, too. i had to stop him the other day, indulging in that exercise." well, i said to myself, we have not yet reached the heaven on earth which i was fancying might be embosomed in this peaceful-looking hollow. youthful angels can hardly be in the habit of striking from the shoulder. but the well-known phrase, belonging to the pugilist rather than to the priest, brought me back from the ideal world into which my imagination had wandered. our week at brighton was passed in a very quiet but most enjoyable way. it could not be otherwise with such a host and hostess, always arranging everything with reference to our well-being and in accordance with our wishes. i became very fond of the esplanade, such a public walk as i never saw anything to compare with. in these tranquil days, and long, honest nights of sleep, the fatigues of what we had been through were forgotten, the scales showed that we were becoming less ethereal every day, and we were ready for another move. we bade good-by to our hosts with the most grateful and the warmest feeling towards them, after a month of delightful companionship and the experience of a hospitality almost too generous to accept, but which they were pleased to look upon as if we were doing them a favor. on the th of july we found ourselves once more in london. vi. we found our old quarters all ready and awaiting us. mrs. mackellar's motherly smile, sam's civil bow, and the rosy cheeks of many-buttoned robert made us feel at home as soon as we crossed the threshold. the dissolution of parliament had brought "the season" abruptly to an end. london was empty. there were three or four millions of people in it, but the great houses were for the most part left without occupants except their liveried guardians. we kept as quiet as possible, to avoid all engagements. for now we were in london for london itself, to do shopping, to see sights, to be our own master and mistress, and to live as independent a life as we possibly could. the first thing we did on the day of our arrival was to take a hansom and drive over to chelsea, to look at the place where carlyle passed the larger part of his life. the whole region about him must have been greatly changed during his residence there, for the thames embankment was constructed long after he removed to chelsea. we had some little difficulty in finding the place we were in search of. cheyne (pronounced "chainie") walk is a somewhat extended range of buildings. cheyne row is a passage which reminded me a little of my old habitat, montgomery place, now bosworth street. presently our attention was drawn to a marble medallion portrait on the corner building of an ordinary-looking row of houses. this was the head of carlyle, and an inscription informed us that he lived for forty-seven years in the house no. of this row of buildings. since carlyle's home life has been made public, he has appeared to us in a different aspect from the ideal one which he had before occupied. he did not show to as much advantage under the boswellizing process as the dogmatist of the last century, dear old dr. johnson. but he remains not the less one of the really interesting men of his generation, a man about whom we wish to know all that we have a right to know. the sight of an old nest over which two or three winters have passed is a rather saddening one. the dingy three-story brick house in which carlyle lived, one in a block of similar houses, was far from attractive. it was untenanted, neglected; its windows were unwashed, a pane of glass was broken; its threshold appeared untrodden, its whole aspect forlorn and desolate. yet there it stood before me, all covered with its associations as an ivy-clad tower with its foliage. i wanted to see its interior, but it looked as if it did not expect a tenant and would not welcome a visitor. was there nothing but this forbidding house-front to make the place alive with some breathing memory? i saw crossing the street a middle-aged woman,--a decent body, who looked as if she might have come from the lower level of some not opulent but respectable household. she might have some recollection of an old man who was once her neighbor. i asked her if she remembered mr. carlyle. indeed she did, she told us. she used to see him often, in front of his house, putting bits of bread on the railing for the birds. he did not like to see anything wasted, she said. the merest scrap of information, but genuine and pleasing; an instantaneous photograph only, but it makes a pretty vignette in the volume of my reminiscences. there are many considerable men in every generation of mankind, but not a great number who are personally interesting,--not a great many of whom we feel that we cannot know too much; whose foibles, even, we care to know about; whose shortcomings we try to excuse; who are not models, but whose special traits make them attractive. carlyle is one of these few, and no revelations can prevent his interesting us. he was not quite finished in his parental existence. the bricklayer's mortar of his father's calling stuck to his fingers through life, but only as the soil he turned with his ploughshare clung to the fingers of burns. we do not wish either to have been other than what he was. their breeding brings them to the average level, carries them more nearly to the heart, makes them a simpler expression of our common humanity. as we rolled in the cars by ecclefechan, i strained my eyes to take in every point of the landscape, every cottage, every spire, if by any chance i could find one in that lonely region. there was not a bridge nor a bit of masonry of any kind that i did not eagerly scrutinize, to see if it were solid and honest enough to have been built by carlyle's father. solitary enough the country looked. i admired mr. emerson's devotion in seeking his friend in his bare home among what he describes as the "desolate heathery hills" about craigenputtock, which were, i suppose, much like the region through which we were passing. it is one of the regrets of my life that i never saw or heard carlyle. nature, who seems to be fond of trios, has given us three dogmatists, all of whom greatly interested their own generation, and whose personality, especially in the case of the first and the last of the trio, still interests us,--johnson, coleridge, and carlyle. each was an oracle in his way, but unfortunately oracles are fallible to their descendants. the author of "taxation no tyranny" had wholesale opinions, and pretty harsh ones, about us americans, and did not soften them in expression: "sir, they are a race of convicts, and ought to be thankful for anything we allow them short of hanging." we smile complacently when we read this outburst, which mr. croker calls in question, but which agrees with his saying in the presence of miss seward, "i am willing to love all mankind _except an american_." a generation or two later comes along coleridge, with his circle of reverential listeners. he says of johnson that his fame rests principally upon boswell, and that "his _bow-wow_ manner must have had a good deal to do with the effect produced." as to coleridge himself, his contemporaries hardly know how to set bounds to their exaltation of his genius. dibdin comes pretty near going into rhetorical hysterics in reporting a conversation of coleridge's to which he listened: "the auditors seemed to be wrapt in wonder and delight, as one observation more profound, or clothed in more forcible language, than another fell from his tongue.... as i retired homeward i thought a second johnson had visited the earth to make wise the sons of men." and de quincey speaks of him as "the largest and most spacious intellect, the subtlest and most comprehensive, in my judgment, that has yet existed amongst men." one is sometimes tempted to wish that the superlative could be abolished, or its use allowed only to old experts. what are men to do when they get to heaven, after having exhausted their vocabulary of admiration on earth? now let us come down to carlyle, and see what he says of coleridge. we need not take those conversational utterances which called down the wrath of mr. swinburne, and found expression in an epigram which violates all the proprieties of literary language. look at the full-length portrait in the life of sterling. each oracle denies his predecessor, each magician breaks the wand of the one who went before him. there were americans enough ready to swear by carlyle until he broke his staff in meddling with our anti-slavery conflict, and buried it so many fathoms deep that it could never be fished out again. it is rather singular that johnson and carlyle should each of them have shipwrecked his sagacity and shown a terrible leak in his moral sensibilities on coming in contact with american rocks and currents, with which neither had any special occasion to concern himself, and which both had a great deal better have steered clear of. but here i stand once more before the home of the long-suffering, much-laboring, loud-complaining heraclitus of his time, whose very smile had a grimness in it more ominous than his scowl. poor man! dyspeptic on a diet of oatmeal porridge; kept wide awake by crowing cocks; drummed out of his wits by long-continued piano-pounding; sharp of speech, i fear, to his high-strung wife, who gave him back as good as she got! i hope i am mistaken about their everyday relations, but again i say, poor man!--for all his complaining must have meant real discomfort, which a man of genius feels not less, certainly, than a common mortal. i made a second visit to the place where he lived, but i saw nothing more than at the first. i wanted to cross the threshold over which he walked so often, to see the noise-proof room in which he used to write, to look at the chimney-place down which the soot came, to sit where he used to sit and smoke his pipe, and to conjure up his wraith to look in once more upon his old deserted dwelling. that vision was denied me. after visiting chelsea we drove round through regent's park. i suppose that if we use the superlative in speaking of hyde park, regent's park will be the comparative, and battersea park the positive, ranking them in the descending grades of their hierarchy. but this is my conjecture only, and the social geography of london is a subject which only one who has become familiarly acquainted with the place should speak of with any confidence. a stranger coming to our city might think it made little difference whether his travelling boston acquaintance lived in alpha avenue or in omega square, but he would have to learn that it is farther from one of these places to the other, a great deal farther, than it is from beacon street, boston, to fifth avenue, new york. an american finds it a little galling to be told that he must not drive in his _numbered_ hansom or four-wheeler except in certain portions of hyde park. if he is rich enough to keep his own carriage, or if he will pay the extra price of a vehicle not vulgarized by being on the numbered list, he may drive anywhere that his grace or his lordship does, and perhaps have a mean sense of satisfaction at finding himself in the charmed circle of exclusive "gigmanity." it is a pleasure to meet none but well-dressed and well-mannered people, in well-appointed equipages. in the high road of our own country, one is liable to fall in with people and conveyances that it is far from a pleasure to meet. i was once driving in an open carriage, with members of my family, towards my own house in the country town where i was then living. a cart drawn by oxen was in the road in front of us. whenever we tried to pass, the men in it turned obliquely across the road and prevented us, and this was repeated again and again. i could have wished i had been driving in hyde park, where clowns and boors, with their carts and oxen, do not find admittance. exclusiveness has its conveniences. the next day, as i was strolling through burlington arcade, i saw a figure just before me which i recognized as that of my townsman, mr. abbott lawrence. he was accompanied by his son, who had just returned from a trip round the planet. there are three grades of recognition, entirely distinct from each other: the meeting of two persons of different countries who speak the same language,--an american and an englishman, for instance; the meeting of two americans from different cities, as of a bostonian and a new yorker or a chicagonian; and the meeting of two from the same city, as of two bostonians. the difference of these recognitions may be illustrated by supposing certain travelling philosophical instruments, endowed with intelligence and the power of speech, to come together in their wanderings,--let us say in a restaurant of the palais royal. "very hot," says the talking fahrenheit (thermometer) from boston, and calls for an ice, which he plunges his bulb into and cools down. in comes an intelligent and socially disposed english barometer. the two travellers greet each other, not exactly as old acquaintances, but each has heard very frequently about the other, and their relatives have been often associated. "we have a good deal in common," says the barometer. "of the same blood, as we may say; quicksilver is thicker than water." "yes," says the little fahrenheit, "and we are both of the same mercurial temperament." while their columns are dancing up and down with laughter at this somewhat tepid and low-pressure pleasantry, there come in a new york réaumur and a centigrade from chicago. the fahrenheit, which has got warmed up to _temperate_, rises to _summer heat_, and even a little above it. they enjoy each other's company mightily. to be sure, their scales differ, but have they not the same freezing and the same boiling point? to be sure, each thinks his own scale is the true standard, and at home they might get into a contest about the matter, but here in a strange land they do not think of disputing. now, while they are talking about america and their own local atmosphere and temperature, there comes in a second boston fahrenheit. the two of the same name look at each other for a moment, and rush together so eagerly that their bulbs are endangered. how well they understand each other! thirty-two degrees marks the freezing point. two hundred and twelve marks the boiling point. they have the same scale, the same fixed points, the same record: no wonder they prefer each other's company! i hope that my reader has followed my illustration, and finished it off for himself. let me give a few practical examples. an american and an englishman meet in a foreign land. the englishman has occasion to mention his weight, which he finds has gained in the course of his travels. "how much is it now?" asks the american. "fourteen stone. how much do you weigh?" "within four pounds of two hundred." neither of them takes at once any clear idea of what the other weighs. the american has never thought of his own, or his friends', or anybody's weight in _stones_ of fourteen pounds. the englishman has never thought of any one's weight in _pounds_. they can calculate very easily with a slip of paper and a pencil, but not the less is their language but half intelligible as they speak and listen. the same thing is in a measure true of other matters they talk about. "it is about as large a space as the common," says the boston man. "it is as large as st. james's park," says the londoner. "as high as the state house," says the bostonian, or "as tall as bunker hill monument," or "about as big as the frog pond," where the londoner would take st. paul's, the nelson column, the serpentine, as his standard of comparison. the difference of scale does not stop here; it runs through a great part of the objects of thought and conversation. an average american and an average englishman are talking together, and one of them speaks of the beauty of a field of corn. they are thinking of two entirely different objects: one of a billowy level of soft waving wheat, or rye, or barley; the other of a rustling forest of tall, jointed stalks, tossing their plumes and showing their silken epaulettes, as if every stem in the ordered ranks were a soldier in full regimentals. an englishman planted for the first time in the middle of a well-grown field of indian corn would feel as much lost as the babes in the wood. conversation between two londoners, two new yorkers, two bostonians, requires no foot-notes, which is a great advantage in their intercourse. to return from my digression and my illustration. i did not do a great deal of shopping myself while in london, being contented to have it done for me. but in the way of looking in at shop windows i did a very large business. certain windows attracted me by a variety in unity which surpassed anything i have been accustomed to. thus one window showed every conceivable convenience that could be shaped in ivory, and nothing else. one shop had such a display of magnificent dressing-cases that i should have thought a whole royal family was setting out on its travels. i see the cost of one of them is two hundred and seventy guineas. thirteen hundred and fifty dollars seems a good deal to pay for a dressing-case. on the other hand, some of the first-class tradesmen and workmen make no show whatever. the tailor to whom i had credentials, and who proved highly satisfactory to me, as he had proved to some of my countrymen and to englishmen of high estate, had only one small sign, which was placed in one of his windows, and received his customers in a small room that would have made a closet for one of our stylish merchant tailors. the bootmaker to whom i went on good recommendation had hardly anything about his premises to remind one of his calling. he came into his studio, took my measure very carefully, and made me a pair of what we call congress boots, which fitted well when once on my feet, but which it cost more trouble to get into and to get out of than i could express my feelings about without dangerously enlarging my limited vocabulary. bond street, old and new, offered the most inviting windows, and i indulged almost to profligacy in the prolonged inspection of their contents. stretching my walk along new bond street till i came to a great intersecting thoroughfare, i found myself in oxford street. here the character of the shop windows changed at once. utility and convenience took the place of show and splendor. here i found various articles of use in a household, some of which were new to me. it is very likely that i could have found most of them in our own boston cornhill, but one often overlooks things at home which at once arrest his attention when he sees them in a strange place. i saw great numbers of illuminating contrivances, some of which pleased me by their arrangement of reflectors. bryant and may's safety matches seemed to be used everywhere. i procured some in boston with these names on the box, but the label said they were made in sweden, and they diffused vapors that were enough to produce asphyxia. i greatly admired some of dr. dresser's water-cans and other contrivances, modelled more or less after the antique, but i found an abundant assortment of them here in boston, and i have one i obtained here more original in design and more serviceable in daily use than any i saw in london. i should have regarded wolverhampton, as we glided through it, with more interest, if i had known at that time that the inventive dr. dresser had his headquarters in that busy-looking town. one thing, at least, i learned from my london experience: better a small city where one knows all it has to offer, than a great city where one has no disinterested friend to direct him to the right places to find what he wants. but of course there are some grand magazines which are known all the world over, and which no one should leave london without entering as a looker-on, if not as a purchaser. there was one place i determined to visit, and one man i meant to see, before returning. the place was a certain book-store or book-shop, and the person was its proprietor, mr. bernard quaritch. i was getting very much pressed for time, and i allowed ten minutes only for my visit. i never had any dealings with mr. quaritch, but one of my near relatives had, and i had often received his catalogues, the scale of prices in which had given me an impression almost of sublimity. i found mr. bernard quaritch at no. piccadilly, and introduced myself, not as one whose name he must know, but rather as a stranger, of whom he might have heard through my relative. the extensive literature of catalogues is probably little known to most of my readers. i do not pretend to claim a thorough acquaintance with it, but i know the luxury of reading good catalogues, and such are those of mr. quaritch. i should like to deal with him; for if he wants a handsome price for what he sells, he knows its value, and does not offer the refuse of old libraries, but, on the other hand, all that is most precious in them is pretty sure to pass through his hands, sooner or later. "now, mr. quaritch," i said, after introducing myself, "i have ten minutes to pass with you. you must not open a book; if you do i am lost, for i shall have to look at every illuminated capital, from the first leaf to the colophon." mr. quaritch did not open a single book, but let me look round his establishment, and answered my questions very courteously. it so happened that while i was there a gentleman came in whom i had previously met,--my namesake, mr. holmes, the queen's librarian at windsor castle. my ten minutes passed very rapidly in conversation with these two experts in books, the bibliopole and the bibliothecary. no place that i visited made me feel more thoroughly that i was in london, the great central mart of all that is most precious in the world. _leave at home all your guineas, ye who enter here_, would be a good motto to put over his door, unless you have them in plenty and can spare them, in which case _take all your guineas with you_ would be a better one. for you can here get their equivalent, and more than their equivalent, in the choicest products of the press and the finest work of the illuminator, the illustrator, and the binder. you will be sorely tempted. but do not be surprised when you ask the price of the volume you may happen to fancy. you are not dealing with a _bouquiniste_ of the quais, in paris. you are not foraging in an old book-shop of new york or boston. do not suppose that i undervalue these dealers in old and rare volumes. many a much-prized rarity have i obtained from drake and burnham and others of my townsmen, and from denham in new york; and in my student years many a choice volume, sometimes even an aldus or an elzevir, have i found among the trumpery spread out on the parapets of the quays. but there is a difference between going out on the fourth of july with a militia musket to shoot any catbird or "chipmunk" that turns up in a piece of woods within a few miles of our own cities, and shooting partridges in a nobleman's preserves on the first of september. i confess to having felt a certain awe on entering the precincts made sacred by their precious contents. the lord and master of so many _editiones principes_, the guardian of this great nursery full of _incunabula_, did not seem to me like a simple tradesman. i felt that i was in the presence of the literary purveyor of royal and imperial libraries, the man before whom millionaires tremble as they calculate, and billionaires pause and consider. i have recently received two of mr. quaritch's catalogues, from which i will give my reader an extract or two, to show him what kind of articles this prince of bibliopoles deals in. perhaps you would like one of those romances which turned the head of don quixote. here is a volume which will be sure to please you. it is on one of his lesser lists, confined principally to spanish and portuguese works:-- "amadis de gaula ... folio, gothic letter, first edition, unique ... red morocco super extra, _doublé_ with olive morocco, richly gilt, tooled to an elegant grolier design, gilt edges ... in a neat case." a pretty present for a scholarly friend. a nice old book to carry home for one's own library. two hundred pounds--one thousand dollars--will make you the happy owner of this volume. but if you would have also on your shelves the first edition of the "cronica del famoso cabaluero cid ruy diaz campadero," not "richly gilt," not even bound in leather, but in "cloth boards," you will have to pay two hundred and ten pounds to become its proprietor. after this you will not be frightened by the thought of paying three hundred dollars for a little quarto giving an account of the virginia adventurers. you will not shrink from the idea of giving something more than a hundred guineas for a series of hogarth's plates. but when it comes to number in the may catalogue, and you see that if you would possess a first folio shakespeare, "untouched by the hand of any modern renovator," you must be prepared to pay seven hundred and eighty-five pounds, almost four thousand dollars, for the volume, it would not be surprising if you changed color and your knees shook under you. no doubt some brave man will be found to carry off that prize, in spite of the golden battery which defends it, perhaps to cincinnati, or chicago, or san francisco. but do not be frightened. these alpine heights of extravagance climb up from the humble valley where shillings and sixpences are all that are required to make you a purchaser. one beauty of the old world shops is that if a visitor comes back to the place where he left them fifty years before, he finds them, or has a great chance of finding them, just where they stood at his former visit. in driving down to the old city, to the place of business of the barings, i found many streets little changed. temple bar was gone, and the much-abused griffin stood in its place. there was a shop close to temple bar, where, in , i had bought some brushes. i had no difficulty in finding prout's, and i could not do less than go in and buy some more brushes. i did not ask the young man who served me how the old shopkeeper who attended to my wants on the earlier occasion was at this time. but i thought what a different color the locks these brushes smooth show from those that knew their predecessors in the earlier decade! i ought to have made a second visit to the tower, so tenderly spoken of by artemus ward as "a sweet boon," so vividly remembered by me as the scene of a personal encounter with one of the animals then kept in the tower menagerie. but the project added a stone to the floor of the underground thoroughfare which is paved with good intentions. st. paul's i must and did visit. the most striking addition since i was there is the massive monument to the duke of wellington. the great temple looked rather bare and unsympathetic. poor dr. johnson, sitting in semi-nude exposure, looked to me as unhappy as our own half-naked washington at the national capital. the judas of matthew arnold's poem would have cast his cloak over those marble shoulders, if he had found himself in st. paul's, and have earned another respite. we brought away little, i fear, except the grand effect of the dome as we looked up at it. it gives us a greater idea of height than the sky itself, which we have become used to looking upon. a second visit to the national gallery was made in company with a----. it was the repetition of an attempt at a draught from the cup of tantalus. i was glad of a sight of the botticellis, of which i had heard so much, and others of the more recently acquired paintings of the great masters; of a sweeping glance at the turners; of a look at the well-remembered hogarths and the memorable portraits by sir joshua. i carried away a confused mass of impressions, much as the soldiers that sack a city go off with all the precious things they can snatch up, huddled into clothes-bags and pillow-cases. i am reminded, too, of mr. galton's composite portraits; a thousand glimpses, as one passes through the long halls lined with paintings, all blending in one not unpleasing general effect, out of which emerges from time to time some single distinct image. in the same way we passed through the exhibition of paintings at the royal academy. i noticed that a---- paid special attention to the portraits of young ladies by john sargent and by collier, while i was more particularly struck with the startling portrait of an ancient personage in a full suit of wrinkles, such as rembrandt used to bring out with wonderful effect. hunting in couples is curious and instructive; the scent for this or that kind of game is sure to be very different in the two individuals. i made but two brief visits to the british museum, and i can easily instruct my reader so that he will have no difficulty, if he will follow my teaching, in learning how not to see it. when he has a spare hour at his disposal, let him drop in at the museum, and wander among its books and its various collections. he will know as much about it as the fly that buzzes in at one window and out at another. if i were asked whether i brought away anything from my two visits, i should say, certainly i did. the fly sees some things, not very intelligently, but he cannot help seeing them. the great round reading-room, with its silent students, impressed me very much. i looked at once for the elgin marbles, but casts and photographs and engravings had made me familiar with their chief features. i thought i knew something of the sculptures brought from nineveh, but i was astonished, almost awe-struck, at the sight of those mighty images which mingled with the visions of the hebrew prophets. i did not marvel more at the skill and labor expended upon them by the assyrian artists than i did at the enterprise and audacity which had brought them safely from the mounds under which they were buried to the light of day and the heart of a great modern city. i never thought that i should live to see the birs nimroud laid open, and the tablets in which the history of nebuchadnezzar was recorded spread before me. the empire of the spade in the world of history was founded at nineveh by layard, a great province added to it by schliemann, and its boundary extended by numerous explorers, some of whom are diligently at work at the present day. i feel very grateful that many of its revelations have been made since i have been a tenant of the travelling residence which holds so many secrets in its recesses. there is one lesson to be got from a visit of an hour or two to the british museum,--namely, the fathomless abyss of our own ignorance. one is almost ashamed of his little paltry heartbeats in the presence of the rushing and roaring torrent of niagara. so if he has published a little book or two, collected a few fossils, or coins, or vases, he is crushed by the vastness of the treasures in the library and the collections of this universe of knowledge. i have shown how not to see the british museum; i will tell how to see it. take lodgings next door to it,--in a garret, if you cannot afford anything better,--and pass all your days at the museum during the whole period of your natural life. at threescore and ten you will have some faint conception of the contents, significance, and value of this great british institution, which is as nearly as any one spot the _noeud vital_ of human civilization, a stab at which by the dagger of anarchy would fitly begin the reign of chaos. on the d of august, a gentleman, mr. wedmore, who had promised to be my guide to certain interesting localities, called for me, and we took a hansom for the old city. the first place we visited was the temple, a collection of buildings with intricate passages between them, some of the edifices reminding me of our college dormitories. one, however, was a most extraordinary exception,--the wonderful temple church, or rather the ancient part of it which is left, the round temple. we had some trouble to get into it, but at last succeeded in finding a slip of a girl, the daughter of the janitor, who unlocked the door for us. it affected my imagination strangely to see this girl of a dozen years old, or thereabouts, moving round among the monuments which had kept their place there for some six or seven hundred years; for the church was built in the year , and the most recent of the crusaders' monuments is said to date as far back as . their effigies have lain in this vast city, and passed unharmed through all its convulsions. the great fire must have crackled very loud in their stony ears, and they must have shaken day and night, as the bodies of the victims of the plague were rattled over the pavements. near the temple church, in a green spot among the buildings, a plain stone laid flat on the turf bears these words: "here lies oliver goldsmith." i believe doubt has been thrown upon the statement that goldsmith was buried in that place, but, as some poet ought to have written, where doubt is disenchantment 'tis wisdom to believe. we do not "drop a tear" so often as our della cruscan predecessors, but the memory of the author of the "vicar of wakefield" stirred my feelings more than a whole army of crusaders would have done. a pretty rough set of filibusters they were, no doubt. the whole group to which goldsmith belonged came up before me, and as the centre of that group the great dr. johnson; not the johnson of the "rambler," or of "the vanity of human wishes," or even of "rasselas," but boswell's johnson, dear to all of us, the "grand old man" of his time, whose foibles we care more for than for most great men's virtues. fleet street, which he loved so warmly, was close by. bolt court, entered from it, where he lived for many of his last years, and where he died, was the next place to visit. i found fleet street a good deal like washington street as i remember it in former years. when i came to the place pointed out as bolt court, i could hardly believe my eyes that so celebrated a place of residence should be entered by so humble a passageway. i was very sorry to find that no. , where he lived, was demolished, and a new building erected in its place. in one of the other houses in this court he is said to have labored on his dictionary. near by was a building of mean aspect, in which goldsmith is said to have at one time resided. but my kind conductor did not profess to be well acquainted with the local antiquities of this quarter of london. if i had a long future before me, i should like above all things to study london with a dark lantern, so to speak, myself in deepest shadow and all i wanted to see in clearest light. then i should want time, time, time. for it is a sad fact that sight-seeing as commonly done is one of the most wearying things in the world, and takes the life out of any but the sturdiest or the most elastic natures more efficiently than would a reasonable amount of daily exercise on a treadmill. in my younger days i used to find that a visit to the gallery of the louvre was followed by more fatigue and exhaustion than the same amount of time spent in walking the wards of a hospital. another grand sight there was, not to be overlooked, namely, the colonial exhibition. the popularity of this immense show was very great, and we found ourselves, a---- and i, in the midst of a vast throng, made up of respectable and comfortable looking people. it was not strange that the multitude flocked to this exhibition. there was a jungle, with its (stuffed) monsters,--tigers, serpents, elephants; there were carvings which may well have cost a life apiece, and stuffs which none but an empress or a millionairess would dare to look at. all the arts of the east were there in their perfection, and some of the artificers were at their work. we had to content ourselves with a mere look at all these wonders. it was a pity; instead of going to these fine shows tired, sleepy, wanting repose more than anything else, we should have come to them fresh, in good condition, and had many days at our disposal. i learned more in a visit to the japanese exhibition in boston than i should have learned in half a dozen half-awake strolls through this multitudinous and most imposing collection of all "the gorgeous east with richest hand showers on her kings," and all the masterpieces of its wonder-working artisans. one of the last visits we paid before leaving london for a week in paris was to the south kensington museum. think of the mockery of giving one hour to such a collection of works of art and wonders of all kinds! why should i consider it worth while to say that we went there at all? all manner of objects succeeded each other in a long series of dissolving views, so to speak, nothing or next to nothing having a chance to leave its individual impress. in the battle for life which took place in my memory, as it always does among the multitude of claimants for a permanent hold, i find that two objects came out survivors of the contest. the first is the noble cast of the column of trajan, vast in dimensions, crowded with history in its most striking and enduring form; a long array of figures representing in unquestioned realism the military aspect of a roman army. the second case of survival is thus described in the catalogue: "an altar or shrine of a female saint, recently acquired from padua, is also ascribed to the same sculptor [donatello]. this very valuable work of art had for many years been used as a drinking-trough for horses. a hole has been roughly pierced in it." i thought the figure was the most nearly perfect image of heavenly womanhood that i had ever looked upon, and i could have gladly given my whole hour to sitting--i could almost say kneeling--before it in silent contemplation. i found the curator of the museum, mr. soden smith, shared my feelings with reference to the celestial loveliness of this figure. which is best, to live in a country where such a work of art is taken for a horse-trough, or in a country where the products from the studio of a self-taught handicraftsman, equal to the shaping of a horse-trough and not much more, are put forward as works of art? a little time before my visit to england, before i had even thought of it as a possibility, i had the honor of having two books dedicated to me by two english brother physicians. one of these two gentlemen was dr. walshe, of whom i shall speak hereafter; the other was dr. j. milner fothergill. the name fothergill was familiar to me from my boyhood. my old townsman, dr. benjamin waterhouse, who died in at the age of ninety-two, had a great deal to say about his relative dr. john fothergill, the famous quaker physician of the last century, of whom benjamin franklin said, "i can hardly conceive that a better man ever existed." dr. and mrs. fothergill sent us some beautiful flowers a little before we left, and when i visited him he gave me a medallion of his celebrated kinsman. london is a place of mysteries. looking out of one of the windows at the back of dr. fothergill's house, i saw an immense wooden blind, such as we have on our windows in summer, but reaching from the ground as high as the top of the neighboring houses. while admitting the air freely, it shut the property to which it belonged completely from sight. i asked the meaning of this extraordinary structure, and learned that it was put up by a great nobleman, of whose subterranean palace and strange seclusion i had before heard. common report attributed his unwillingness to be seen to a disfiguring malady with which he was said to be afflicted. the story was that he was visible only to his valet. but a lady of quality, whom i met in this country, told me she had seen him, and observed nothing to justify it. these old countries are full of romances and legends and _diableries_ of all sorts, in which truth and lies are so mixed that one does not know what to believe. what happens behind the high walls of the old cities is as much a secret as were the doings inside the prisons of the inquisition. little mistakes sometimes cause us a deal of trouble. this time it was the presence or absence of a single letter which led us to fear that an important package destined to america had miscarried. there were two gentlemen unwittingly involved in the confusion. on inquiring for the package at messrs. low, the publishers, mr. watts, to whom i thought it had been consigned, was summoned. he knew nothing about it, had never heard of it, was evidently utterly ignorant of us and our affairs. while we were in trouble and uncertainty, our boston friend, mr. james r. osgood, came in. "oh," said he, "it is mr. watt you want, the agent of a boston firm," and gave us the gentleman's address. i had confounded mr. watt's name with mr. watts's name. "w'at's in a name?" a great deal sometimes. i wonder if i shall be pardoned for quoting six lines from one of my after-dinner poems of long ago:-- --one vague inflection spoils the whole with doubt, one trivial letter ruins all, left out; a knot can change a felon into clay, a not will save him, spelt without the k; the smallest word has some unguarded spot, and danger lurks in i without a dot. i should find it hard to account for myself during our two short stays in london in the month of august, separated by the week we passed in paris. the ferment of continued over-excitement, calmed very much by our rest in the various places i have mentioned, had not yet wholly worked itself off. there was some of that everlasting shopping to be done. there were photographs to be taken, a call here and there to be made, a stray visitor now and then, a walk in the morning to get back the use of the limbs which had been too little exercised, and a drive every afternoon to one of the parks, or the thames embankment, or other locality. after all this, an honest night's sleep served to round out the day, in which little had been effected besides making a few purchases, writing a few letters, reading the papers, the boston "weekly advertiser" among the rest, and making arrangements for our passage homeward. the sights we saw were looked upon for so short a time, most of them so very superficially, that i am almost ashamed to say that i have been in the midst of them and brought home so little. i remind myself of my boyish amusement of _skipping stones_,--throwing a flat stone so that it shall only touch the water, but touch it in half a dozen places before it comes to rest beneath the smooth surface. the drives we took showed us a thousand objects which arrested our attention. every street, every bridge, every building, every monument, every strange vehicle, every exceptional personage, was a show which stimulated our curiosity. for we had not as yet changed our boston eyes for london ones, and very common sights were spectacular and dramatic to us. i remember that one of our new england country boys exclaimed, when he first saw a block of city dwellings, "darn it all, who ever see anything like that 'are? sich a lot o' haousen all stuck together!" i must explain that "haousen" used in my early days to be as common an expression in speaking of houses among our country-folk as its phonetic equivalent ever was in saxony. i felt not unlike that country-boy. in thinking of how much i missed seeing, i sometimes have said to myself, oh, if the carpet of the story in the arabian nights would only take me up and carry me to london for one week,--just one short week,--setting me down fresh from quiet, wholesome living, in my usual good condition, and bringing me back at the end of it, what a different account i could give of my experiences! but it is just as well as it is. younger eyes have studied and will study, more instructed travellers have pictured and will picture, the great metropolis from a hundred different points of view. no person can be said to know london. the most that any one can claim is that he knows something of it. i am now just going to leave it for another great capital, but in my concluding pages i shall return to great britain, and give some of the general impressions left by what i saw and heard in our mother country. vii. straitened as we were for time, it was impossible to return home without a glimpse, at least, of paris. two precious years of my early manhood were spent there under the reign of louis philippe, king of the french, _le roi citoyen_. i felt that i must look once more on the places i knew so well,--once more before shutting myself up in the world of recollections. it is hardly necessary to say that a lady can always find a little shopping, and generally a good deal of it, to do in paris. so it was not difficult to persuade my daughter that a short visit to that city was the next step to be taken. we left london on the th of august to go _via_ folkestone and boulogne. the passage across the channel was a very smooth one, and neither of us suffered any inconvenience. boulogne as seen from the landing did not show to great advantage. i fell to thinking of brummel, and what a satisfaction it would have been to treat him to a good dinner, and set him talking about the days of the regency. boulogne was all brummel in my associations, just as calais was all sterne. i find everywhere that it is a distinctive personality which makes me want to linger round a spot, more than an important historical event. there is not much worth remembering about brummel; but his audacity, his starched neckcloth, his assumptions and their success, make him a curious subject for the student of human nature. leaving london at twenty minutes before ten in the forenoon, we arrived in paris at six in the afternoon. i could not say that the region of france through which we passed was peculiarly attractive. i saw no fine trees, no pretty cottages, like those so common in england. there was little which an artist would be tempted to sketch, or a traveller by the railroad would be likely to remember. the place where we had engaged lodgings was hôtel d'orient, in the rue daunou. the situation was convenient, very near the place vendome and the rue de la paix. but the house was undergoing renovations which made it as unpresentable as a moulting fowl. scrubbing, painting of blinds, and other perturbing processes did all they could to make it uncomfortable. the courtyard was always sloppy, and the whole condition of things reminded me forcibly of the state of mr. briggs's household while the mason was carrying out the complex operations which began with the application of "a little compo." (i hope all my readers remember mr. briggs, whose adventures as told by the pencil of john leech are not unworthy of comparison with those of mr. pickwick as related by dickens.) barring these unfortunate conditions, the hotel was commendable, and when in order would be a desirable place of temporary residence. it was the dead season of paris, and everything had the air of suspended animation. the solitude of the place vendome was something oppressive; i felt, as i trod its lonely sidewalk, as if i were wandering through tadmor in the desert. we were indeed as remote, as unfriended,--i will not say as melancholy or as slow,--as goldsmith by the side of the lazy scheldt or the wandering po. not a soul did either of us know in that great city. our most intimate relations were with the people of the hotel and with the drivers of the fiacres. these last were a singular looking race of beings. many of them had a dull red complexion, almost brick color, which must have some general cause. i questioned whether the red wine could have something to do with it. they wore glazed hats, and drove shabby vehicles for the most part; their horses would not compare with those of the london hansom drivers, and they themselves were not generally inviting in aspect, though we met with no incivility from any of them. one, i remember, was very voluble, and over-explained everything, so that we became afraid to ask him a question. they were fellow-creatures with whom one did not naturally enter into active sympathy, and the principal point of interest about the fiacre and its arrangements was whether the horse was fondest of trotting or of walking. in one of our drives we made it a point to call upon our minister, mr. mclane, but he was out of town. we did not bring a single letter, but set off exactly as if we were on a picnic. while a---- and her attendant went about making their purchases, i devoted myself to the sacred and pleasing task of reviving old memories. one of the first places i visited was the house i lived in as a student, which in my english friend's french was designated as "noomero sankont sank roo monshure ler pranse." i had been told that the whole region thereabout had been transformed by the creation of a new boulevard. i did not find it so. there was the house, the lower part turned into a shop, but there were the windows out of which i used to look along the rue vaugirard,--_au troisième_ the first year, _au second_ the second year. why should i go mousing about the place? what would the shopkeeper know about m. bertrand, my landlord of half a century ago; or his first wife, to whose funeral i went; or his second, to whose bridal i was bidden? i ought next to have gone to the hospital la pitié, where i passed much of my time during those two years. but the people there would not know me, and my old master's name, louis, is but a dim legend in the wards where he used to teach his faithful band of almost worshipping students. besides, i have not been among hospital beds for many a year, and my sensibilities are almost as impressible as they were before daily habit had rendered them comparatively callous. how strange it is to look down on one's venerated teachers, after climbing with the world's progress half a century above the level where we left them! the stethoscope was almost a novelty in those days. the microscope was never mentioned by any clinical instructor i listened to while a medical student. _nous avons changé tout cela_ is true of every generation in medicine,--changed oftentimes by improvement, sometimes by fashion or the pendulum-swing from one extreme to another. on my way back from the hospital i used to stop at the beautiful little church st. etienne du mont, and that was one of the first places to which i drove after looking at my student-quarters. all was just as of old. the tapers were burning about the tomb of st. genevieve. samson, with the jawbone of the ass, still crouched and sweated, or looked as if he did, under the weight of the pulpit. one might question how well the preacher in the pulpit liked the suggestion of the figure beneath it. the sculptured screen and gallery, the exquisite spiral stairways, the carved figures about the organ, the tablets on the walls,--one in particular relating the fall of two young girls from the gallery, and their miraculous protection from injury,--all these images found their counterpart in my memory. i did not remember how very beautiful is the stained glass in the _charniers_, which must not be overlooked by visitors. it is not far from st. etienne du mont to the pantheon. i cannot say that there is any odor of sanctity about this great temple, which has been consecrated, if i remember correctly, and, i will not say desecrated, but secularized from time to time, according to the party which happened to be uppermost. i confess that i did not think of it chiefly as a sacred edifice, or as the resting-place, more or less secure, of the "_grands hommes_" to whom it is dedicated. i was thinking much more of foucault's grand experiment, one of the most sublime visible demonstrations of a great physical fact in the records of science. the reader may not happen to remember it, and will like, perhaps, to be reminded of it. foucault took advantage of the height of the dome, nearly three hundred feet, and had a heavy weight suspended by a wire from its loftiest point, forming an immense pendulum,--the longest, i suppose, ever constructed. now a moving body tends to keep its original plane of movement, and so the great pendulum, being set swinging north and south, tended to keep on in the same direction. but the earth was moving under it, and as it rolled from west to east the plane running through the north and south poles was every instant changing. thus the pendulum appeared to change its direction, and its deviation was shown on a graduated arc, or by the marks it left in a little heap of sand which it touched as it swung. this experiment on the great scale has since been repeated on the small scale by the aid of other contrivances. my thoughts wandered back, naturally enough, to galileo in the cathedral at pisa. it was the swinging of the suspended lamp in that edifice which set his mind working on the laws which govern the action of the pendulum. while he was meditating on this physical problem, the priest may have been holding forth on the dangers of meddling with matters settled by holy church, who stood ready to enforce her edicts by the logic of the rack and the fagot. an inference from the above remarks is that what one brings from a church depends very much on what he carries into it. the next place to visit could be no other than the café procope. this famous resort is the most ancient and the most celebrated of all the parisian cafés. voltaire, the poet j. b. rousseau, marmontel, sainte foix, saurin, were among its frequenters in the eighteenth century. it stands in the rue des fossés-saint germain, now rue de l'ancienne comédie. several american students, bostonians and philadelphians, myself among the number, used to breakfast at this café every morning. i have no doubt that i met various celebrities there, but i recall only one name which is likely to be known to most or many of my readers. a delicate-looking man, seated at one of the tables, was pointed out to me as jouffroy. if i had known as much about him as i learned afterwards, i should have looked at him with more interest. he had one of those imaginative natures, tinged by constitutional melancholy and saddened by ill health, which belong to a certain class of poets and sentimental writers, of which pascal is a good example, and cowper another. the world must have seemed very cruel to him. i remember that when he was a candidate for the assembly, one of the popular cries, as reported by the newspapers of the time, was _a bas le poitrinaire!_ his malady soon laid him low enough, for he died in , at the age of forty-six. i must have been very much taken up with my medical studies to have neglected my opportunity of seeing the great statesmen, authors, artists, orators, and men of science outside of the medical profession. poisson, arago, and jouffroy are all i can distinctly recall, among the frenchmen of eminence whom i had all around me. the café procope has been much altered and improved, and bears an inscription telling the date of its establishment, which was in the year . i entered the cafe, which was nearly or quite empty, the usual breakfast hour being past. _garçon! une tasse de café._ if there is a river of _mneme_ as a counterpart of the river _lethe_, my cup of coffee must have got its water from that stream of memory. if i could borrow that eloquence of jouffroy which made his hearers turn pale, i might bring up before my readers a long array of pallid ghosts, whom these walls knew well in their earthly habiliments. only a single one of those i met here still survives. the rest are mostly well-nigh forgotten by all but a few friends, or remembered chiefly in their children and grandchildren. "how much?" i said to the garçon in his native tongue, or what i supposed to be that language. "_cinq sous_," was his answer. by the laws of sentiment, i ought to have made the ignoble sum five francs, at least. but if i had done so, the waiter would undoubtedly have thought that i had just come from charenton. besides, why should i violate the simple habits and traditions of the place, where generation after generation of poor students and threadbare bohemians had taken their morning coffee and pocketed their two lumps of sugar? it was with a feeling of virile sanity and roman self-conquest that i paid my five sous, with the small additional fraction which i supposed the waiter to expect, and no more. so i passed for the last time over the threshold of the café procope, where voltaire had matured his plays and piron sharpened his epigrams; where jouffroy had battled with his doubts and fears; where, since their time,--since my days of parisian life,--the terrible storming youth, afterwards renowned as léon michel gambetta, had startled the quiet guests with his noisy eloquence, till the old _habitués_ spilled their coffee, and the red-capped students said to each other, _"il ira loin, ce gaillard-là!"_ but what to me were these shadowy figures by the side of the group of my early friends and companions, that came up before me in all the freshness of their young manhood? the memory of them recalls my own youthful days, and i need not go to florida to bathe in the fountain of ponce de leon. i have sometimes thought that i love so well the accidents of this temporary terrestrial residence, its endeared localities, its precious affections, its pleasing variety of occupation, its alternations of excited and gratified curiosity, and whatever else comes nearest to the longings of the natural man, that i might be wickedly homesick in a far-off spiritual realm where such toys are done with. but there is a pretty lesson which i have often meditated, taught, not this time by the lilies of the field, but by the fruits of the garden. when, in the june honeymoon of the seasons, the strawberry shows itself among the bridal gifts, many of us exclaim for the hundredth time with dr. boteler, "doubtless god could have made a better berry, but doubtless god never did." nature, who is god's handmaid, does not attempt a rival berry. but by and by a little woolly knob, which looked and saw with wonder the strawberry reddening, and perceived the fragrance it diffused all around, begins to fill out, and grow soft and pulpy and sweet; and at last a glow comes to its cheek, and we say the peach is ripening. when nature has done with it, and delivers it to us in its perfection, we forget all the lesser fruits which have gone before it. if the flavor of the peach and the fragrance of the rose are not found in some fruit and flower which grow by the side of the river of life, an earth-born spirit might be forgiven for missing them. the strawberry and the pink are very delightful, but we could be happy without them. so, too, we may hope that when the fruits of our brief early season of three or four score years have given us all they can impart for our happiness; when "the love of little maids and berries," and all other earthly prettinesses, shall "soar and sing," as mr. emerson sweetly reminds us that they all must, we may hope that the abiding felicities of our later life-season may far more than compensate us for all that have taken their flight. i looked forward with the greatest interest to revisiting the gallery of the louvre, accompanied by my long-treasured recollections. i retained a vivid remembrance of many pictures, which had been kept bright by seeing great numbers of reproductions of them in photographs and engravings. the first thing which struck me was that the pictures had been rearranged in such a way that i could find nothing in the place where i looked for it. but when i found them, they greeted me, so i fancied, like old acquaintances. the meek-looking "belle jardinière" was as lamb-like as ever; the pearly nymph of correggio invited the stranger's eye as frankly as of old; titian's young man with the glove was the calm, self-contained gentleman i used to admire; the splashy rubenses, the pallid guidos, the sunlit claudes, the shadowy poussins, the moonlit girardets, géricault's terrible shipwreck of the medusa, the exquisite home pictures of gerard douw and terburg,--all these and many more have always been on exhibition in my ideal gallery, and i only mention them as the first that happen to suggest themselves. the museum of the hôtel cluny is a curious receptacle of antiquities, many of which i looked at with interest; but they made no lasting impression, and have gone into the lumber-room of memory, from which accident may, from time to time, drag out some few of them. after the poor unsatisfactory towers of westminster abbey, the two massive, noble, truly majestic towers of notre dame strike the traveller as a crushing contrast. it is not hard to see that one of these grand towers is somewhat larger than the other, but the difference does not interfere with the effect of the imposing front of the cathedral. i was much pleased to find that i could have entrance to the sainte chapelle, which was used, at the time of my earlier visit, as a storehouse of judicial archives, of which there was a vast accumulation. with the exception of my call at the office of the american legation, i made but a single visit to any person in paris. that person was m. pasteur. i might have carried a letter to him, for my friend mrs. priestley is well acquainted with him, but i had not thought of asking for one. so i presented myself at his headquarters, and was admitted into a courtyard, where a multitude of his patients were gathered. they were of various ages and of many different nationalities, every one of them with the vague terror hanging over him or her. yet the young people seemed to be cheerful enough, and very much like scholars out of school. i sent my card in to m. pasteur, who was busily engaged in writing, with his clerks or students about him, and presently he came out and greeted me. i told him i was an american physician, who wished to look in his face and take his hand,--nothing more. i looked in his face, which was that of a thoughtful, hard-worked student, a little past the grand climacteric,--he was born in . i took his hand, which has performed some of the most delicate and daring experiments ever ventured upon, with results of almost incalculable benefit to human industries, and the promise of triumph in the treatment of human disease which prophecy would not have dared to anticipate. i will not say that i have a full belief that hydrophobia--in some respects the most terrible of all diseases--is to be extirpated or rendered tractable by his method of treatment. but of his inventive originality, his unconquerable perseverance, his devotion to the good of mankind, there can be no question. i look upon him as one of the greatest experimenters that ever lived, one of the truest benefactors of his race; and if i made my due obeisance before princes, i felt far more humble in the presence of this great explorer, to whom the god of nature has entrusted some of her most precious secrets. there used to be--i can hardly think it still exists--a class of persons who prided themselves on their disbelief in the reality of any such distinct disease as hydrophobia. i never thought it worth while to argue with them, for i have noticed that this disbelief is only a special manifestation of a particular habit of mind. its advocates will be found, i think, most frequently among "the long-haired men and the short-haired women." many of them dispute the efficacy of vaccination. some are disciples of hahnemann, some have full faith in the mind-cure, some attend the séances where flowers (bought from the nearest florist) are materialized, and some invest their money in mrs. howe's bank of benevolence. their tendency is to reject the truth which is generally accepted, and to accept the improbable; if the impossible offers itself, they deny the existence of the impossible. argument with this class of minds is a lever without a fulcrum. i was glad to leave that company of--patients, still uncertain of their fate,--hoping, yet pursued by their terror: peasants bitten by mad wolves in siberia; women snapped at by their sulking lap-dogs in london; children from over the water who had been turned upon by the irritable skye terrier; innocent victims torn by ill-conditioned curs at the doors of the friends they were meaning to visit,--all haunted by the same ghastly fear, all starting from sleep in the same nightmare. if canine rabies is a fearful subject to contemplate, there is a sadder and deeper significance in _rabies humana_; in that awful madness of the human race which is marked by a thirst for blood and a rage for destruction. the remembrance of such a distemper which has attacked mankind, especially mankind of the parisian sub-species, came over me very strongly when i first revisited the place vendôme. i should have supposed that the last object upon which parisians would, in their wildest frenzy, have laid violent hands would have been the column with the figure of napoleon at its summit. we all know what happened in . an artist, we should have thought, would be the last person to lead the iconoclasts in such an outrage. but m. courbet has attained an immortality like that of erostratus by the part he took in pulling down the column. it was restored in . i do not question that the work of restoration was well done, but my eyes insisted on finding a fault in some of its lines which was probably in their own refracting media. fifty years before an artist helped to overthrow the monument to the emperor, a poet had apostrophized him in the bitterest satire since the days of juvenal:-- "encor napoléon! encor sa grande image! ah! que ce rude et dur guerrier nous a couté de sang et de pleurs et d'outrage pour quelques rameaux de laurier! * * * * * "eh bien! dans tous ces jours d'abaissement, de peine, pour tous ces outrages sans nom, je n'ai jamais chargé qu'un être de ma haine,... sois maudit, o napoléon!" after looking at the column of the place vendôme and recalling these lines of barbier, i was ready for a visit to the tomb of napoleon. the poet's curse had helped me to explain the painter's frenzy against the bronze record of his achievements and the image at its summit. but i forgot them both as i stood under the dome of the invalides, and looked upon the massive receptacle which holds the dust of the imperial exile. two things, at least, napoleon accomplished: he opened the way for ability of all kinds, and he dealt the death-blow to the divine right of kings and all the abuses which clung to that superstition. if i brought nothing else away from my visit to his mausoleum, i left it impressed with what a man can be when fully equipped by nature, and placed in circumstances where his forces can have full play. "how infinite in faculty! ... in apprehension how like a god!" such were my reflections; very much, i suppose, like those of the average visitor, and too obviously having nothing to require contradiction or comment. paris as seen by the morning sun of three or four and twenty and paris in the twilight of the superfluous decade cannot be expected to look exactly alike. i well remember my first breakfast at a parisian café in the spring of . it was in the place de la bourse, on a beautiful sunshiny morning. the coffee was nectar, the _flute_ was ambrosia, the _brioche_ was more than good enough for the olympians. such an experience could not repeat itself fifty years later. the first restaurant at which we dined was in the palais royal. the place was hot enough to cook an egg. nothing was very excellent nor very bad; the wine was not so good as they gave us at our hotel in london; the enchanter had not waved his wand over our repast, as he did over my earlier one in the place de la bourse, and i had not the slightest desire to pay the garçon thrice his fee on the score of cherished associations. we dined at our hotel on some days, at different restaurants on others. one day we dined, and dined well, at the old café anglais, famous in my earlier times for its turbot. another day we took our dinner at a very celebrated restaurant on the boulevard. one sauce which was served us was a gastronomic symphony, the harmonies of which were new to me and pleasing. but i remember little else of superior excellence. the garçon pocketed the franc i gave him with the air of having expected a napoleon. into the mysteries of a lady's shopping in paris i would not venture to inquire. but a---- and i strolled together through the palais royal in the evening, and amused ourselves by staring at the glittering windows without being severely tempted. bond street had exhausted our susceptibility to the shop-window seduction, and the napoleons did not burn in the pockets where the sovereigns had had time to cool. nothing looked more nearly the same as of old than the bridges. the pont neuf did not seem to me altered, though we had read in the papers that it was in ruins or seriously injured in consequence of a great flood. the statues had been removed from the pont royal, one or two new bridges had been built, but all was natural enough, and i was tempted to look for the old woman, at the end of the pont des arts, who used to sell me a bunch of violets, for two or three sous,--such as would cost me a quarter of a dollar in boston. i did not see the three objects which a popular saying alleges are always to be met on the pont neuf: a priest, a soldier, and a white horse. the weather was hot; we were tired, and did not care to go to the theatres, if any of them were open. the pleasantest hours were those of our afternoon drive in the champs elysées and the bois de boulogne,--or "the boulogne woods," as our american tailor's wife of the old time called the favorite place for driving. in passing the place de la concorde, two objects in especial attracted my attention,--the obelisk, which was lying, when i left it, in the great boat which brought it from the nile, and the statue of strasbourg, all covered with wreaths and flags. how like children these parisians do act; crying "Ã� berlin, à berlin!" and when berlin comes to paris, and strasbourg goes back to her old proprietors, instead of taking it quietly, making all this parade of patriotic symbols, the display of which belongs to victory rather than to defeat! i was surprised to find the trees in the bois de boulogne so well grown: i had an idea that they had been largely sacrificed in the time of the siege. among the objects which deserve special mention are the shrieking parrots and other birds and the yelping dogs in the grounds of the society of acclimatization,--out of the range of which the visitor will be glad to get as soon as possible. a fountain visited by newly married couples and their friends, with a restaurant near by, where the bridal party drink the health of the newly married pair, was an object of curiosity. an unsteadiness of gait was obvious in some of the feasters. at one point in the middle of the road a maenad was flinging her arms about and shrieking as if she were just escaped from a madhouse. but the drive in the bois was what made paris tolerable. there were few fine equipages, and few distinguished-looking people in the carriages, but there were quiet groups by the wayside, seeming happy enough; and now and then a pretty face or a wonderful bonnet gave variety to the somewhat _bourgeois_ character of the procession of fiacres. [illustration: place de la concorde] i suppose i ought to form no opinion at all about the aspect of paris, any more than i should of an oyster in a month without an _r_ in it. we were neither of us in the best mood for sight-seeing, and paris was not sitting up for company; in fact, she was "not at home." remembering all this, i must say that the whole appearance of the city was dull and dreary. london out of season seemed still full of life; paris out of season looked vacuous and torpid. the recollection of the sorrow, the humiliation, the shame, and the agony she had passed through since i left her picking her way on the arm of the citizen king, with his old _riflard_ over her, rose before me sadly, ominously, as i looked upon the high board fence which surrounded the ruins of the tuileries. i can understand the impulse which led the red caps to make a wreck of this grand old historical building. "pull down the nest," they said, "and the birds will not come back." but i shudder when i think what "the red fool-fury of the seine" has done and is believed capable of doing. i think nothing has so profoundly impressed me as the story of the precautions taken to preserve the venus of milo from the brutal hands of the mob. a little more violent access of fury, a little more fiery declamation, a few more bottles of _vin bleu_, and the gallery of the louvre, with all its treasures of art, compared with which the crown jewels just sold are but pretty pebbles, the market price of which fairly enough expresses their value,--much more, rather, than their true value,--that noble gallery, with all its masterpieces from the hands of greek sculptors and italian painters, would have been changed in a single night into a heap of blackened stones and a pile of smoking cinders. i love to think that now that the people have, or at least think they have, the power in their own hands, they will outgrow this form of madness, which is almost entitled to the name of a parisian endemic. everything looked peaceable and stupid enough during the week i passed in paris. but among all the fossils which cuvier found in the parisian basin, nothing was more monstrous than the _poissardes_ of the old revolution, or the _pétroleuses_ of the recent commune, and i fear that the breed is not extinct. an american comes to like paris as warmly as he comes to love england, after living in it long enough to become accustomed to its ways, and i, like the rest of my countrymen who remember that france was our friend in the hour of need, who remember all the privileges and enjoyments she has freely offered us, who feel that as a sister republic her destinies are of the deepest interest to us, can have no other wish than for her continued safety, order, and prosperity. we returned to london on the th of august by the same route we had followed in going from london to paris. our passage was rough, as compared to the former one, and some of the passengers were seasick. we were both fortunate enough to escape that trial of comfort and self-respect. i can hardly separate the story of the following week from that of the one before we went to paris. we did a little more shopping and saw a few more sights. i hope that no reader of mine would suppose that i would leave london without seeing madame tussaud's exhibition. our afternoon drives made us familiar with many objects which i always looked upon with pleasure. there was the obelisk, brought from egypt at the expense of a distinguished and successful medical practitioner, sir erasmus wilson, the eminent dermatologist and author of a manual of anatomy which for many years was my favorite text-book. there was "the monument," which characterizes itself by having no prefix to its generic name. i enjoyed looking at and driving round it, and thinking over pepys's lively account of the great fire, and speculating as to where pudding lane and pie corner stood, and recalling pope's lines which i used to read at school, wondering what was the meaning of the second one:-- "where london's column, pointing to the skies like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies." the week passed away rapidly enough, and we made ready for our departure. it was no easy matter to get a passage home, but we had at last settled it that we would return in the same vessel in which we had at first engaged our passage to liverpool, the catalonia. but we were fortunate enough to have found an active and efficient friend in our townsman, mr. montgomery sears, who procured staterooms for us in a much swifter vessel, to sail on the st for new york, the aurania. our last visitor in london was the faithful friend who had been the first to welcome us, lady harcourt, in whose kind attentions i felt the warmth of my old friendship with her admired and honored father and her greatly beloved mother. i had recently visited their place of rest in the kensal green cemetery, recalling with tenderest emotions the many years in which i had enjoyed their companionship. on the th of august we left london for liverpool, and on our arrival took lodgings at the adelphi hotel. the kindness with which i had been welcomed, when i first arrived at liverpool, had left a deep impression upon my mind. it seemed very ungrateful to leave that noble city, which had met me in some of its most esteemed representatives with a warm grasp of the hand even before my foot had touched english soil, without staying to thank my new friends, who would have it that they were old friends. but i was entirely unfit for enjoying any company when i landed. i took care, therefore, to allow sufficient time in liverpool, before sailing for home, to meet such friends, old and recent, as cared to make or renew acquaintance with me. in the afternoon of the th we held a reception, at which a hundred visitors, more or less, presented themselves, and we had a very sociable hour or two together. the vice-consul, mr. sewall, in the enforced absence of his principal, mr. russell, paid us every attention, and was very agreeable. in the evening i was entertained at a great banquet given by the philomathean society. this flourishing institution enrolls among its members a large proportion of the most cultivated and intelligent gentlemen of liverpool. i enjoyed the meeting very highly, listened to pleasant things which were said about myself, and answered in the unpremeditated words which came to my lips and were cordially received. i could have wished to see more of liverpool, but i found time only to visit the great exhibition, then open. the one class of objects which captivated my attention was the magnificent series of models of steamboats and other vessels. i did not look upon them with the eye of an expert, but the great number and variety of these beautiful miniature ships and boats excited my admiration. on the st of august we went on board the aurania. everything was done to make us comfortable. many old acquaintances, friends, and family connections were our fellow-passengers. as for myself, i passed through the same trying experiences as those which i have recorded as characterizing my outward passage. our greatest trouble during the passage was from fog. the frequency of collisions, of late years, tends to make everybody nervous when they hear the fog-whistle shrieking. this sound and the sight of the boats are not good for timid people. fortunately, no one was particularly excitable, or if so, no one betrayed any special uneasiness. on the evening of the th we had an entertainment, in which miss kellogg sang and i read several poems. a very pretty sum was realized for some charity,--i forget what,--and the affair was voted highly successful. the next day, the th, we were creeping towards our harbor through one of those dense fogs which are more dangerous than the old rocks of the sirens, or scylla and charybdis, or the much-lied-about maelstrom. on sunday, the th of august, my birthday, we arrived in new york. in these days of birthday-books our chronology is not a matter of secret history, in case we have been much before the public. i found a great cake had been made ready for me, in which the number of my summers was represented by a ring of raisins which made me feel like methuselah. a beautiful bouquet which had been miraculously preserved for the occasion was for the first time displayed. it came from dr. beach, of boston, _via_ london. such is the story, and i can only suppose that the sweet little cherub who sits up aloft had taken special charge of it, or it would have long ago withered. we slept at the fifth avenue hotel, which we found fresh, sweet, bright,--it must have been recently rejuvenated, i thought. the next day we took the train for new haven, springfield, and boston, and that night slept in our own beds, thankful to find ourselves safe at home after our summer excursion, which had brought us so many experiences delightful to remember, so many friendships which have made life better worth living. in the following section i shall give some of the general impressions which this excursion has left in my memory, and a few suggestions derived from them. viii. my reader was fairly forewarned that this narrative was to be more like a chapter of autobiography than the record of a tourist. in the language of philosophy, it is written from a subjective, not an objective, point of view. it is not exactly a "sentimental journey," though there are warm passages here and there which end with notes of admiration. i remind myself now and then of certain other travellers: of benjamin of tudela, going from the hospitalities of one son of abraham to another; of john buncle, finding the loveliest of women under every roof that sheltered him; sometimes, perhaps, of that tipsy rhymester whose record of his good and bad fortunes at the hands of landlords and landladies is enlivened by an occasional touch of humor, which makes it palatable to coarse literary feeders. but in truth these papers have many of the characteristics of private letters written home to friends. they _are_ written for friends, rather than for a public which cares nothing about the writer. i knew that there were many such whom it would please to know where the writer went, whom he saw and what he saw, and how he was impressed by persons and things. if i were planning to make a tour of the united kingdom, and could command the service of all the wise men i count or have counted among my friends, i would go with such a retinue summoned from the ranks of the living and the dead as no prince ever carried with him. i would ask mr. lowell to go with me among scholars, where i could be a listener; mr. norton to visit the cathedrals with me; professor gray to be my botanical oracle; professor agassiz to be always ready to answer questions about the geological strata and their fossils; dr. jeffries wyman to point out and interpret the common objects which present themselves to a sharp-eyed observer; and mr. boyd dawkins to pilot me among the caves and cairns. then i should want a better pair of eyes and a better pair of ears, and, while i was reorganizing, perhaps a quicker apprehension and a more retentive memory; in short, a new outfit, bodily and mental. but nature does not care to mend old shoes; she prefers a new pair, and a young person to stand in them. what a great book one could make, with such aids, and how many would fling it down, and take up anything in preference, provided only that it were short enough; even this slight record, for want of something shorter! not only did i feel sure that many friends would like to read our itinerary, but another motive prompted me to tell the simple story of our travels. i could not receive such kindness, so great evidences of friendly regard, without a strong desire, amounting to a positive necessity, for the expression of my grateful sense of all that had been done for us. individually, i felt it, of course, as a most pleasing experience. but i believed it to have a more important significance as an illustration of the cordial feeling existing between england and america. i know that many of my countrymen felt the attentions paid to me as if they themselves shared them with me. i have lived through many strata of feeling in america towards england. my parents, full-blooded americans, were both born subjects of king george iii. both learned in their early years to look upon britons as the enemies of their country. a good deal of the old hostility lingered through my boyhood, and this was largely intensified by the war of . after nearly half a century this feeling had in great measure subsided, when the war of secession called forth expressions of sympathy with the slaveholding states which surprised, shocked, and deeply wounded the lovers of liberty and of england in the northern states. a new generation is outgrowing that alienation. more and more the older and younger nations are getting to be proud and really fond of each other. there is no shorter road to a mother's heart than to speak pleasantly to her child, and caress it, and call it pretty names. no matter whether the child is something remarkable or not, it is _her_ child, and that is enough. it may be made too much of, but that is not its mother's fault. if i could believe that every attention paid me was due simply to my being an american, i should feel honored and happy in being one of the humbler media through which the good-will of a great and generous country reached the heart of a far-off people not always in friendly relations with her. i have named many of the friends who did everything to make our stay in england and scotland agreeable. the unforeseen shortening of my visit must account for many disappointments to myself, and some, it may be, to others. first in the list of lost opportunities was that of making my bow to the queen. i had the honor of receiving a card with the invitation to meet her majesty at a garden-party, but we were travelling when it was sent, and it arrived too late. i was very sorry not to meet mr. ruskin, to whom mr. norton had given me a note of introduction. at the time when we were hoping to see him it was thought that he was too ill to receive visitors, but he has since written me that he regretted we did not carry out our intention. i lamented my being too late to see once more two gentlemen from whom i should have been sure of a kind welcome,--lord houghton and dean stanley, both of whom i had met in boston. even if i had stayed out the whole time i had intended to remain abroad, i should undoubtedly have failed to see many persons and many places that i must always feel sorry for having missed. but as it is, i will not try to count all that i lost; let me rather be thankful that i met so many friends whom it was a pleasure to know personally, and saw so much that it is a pleasure to remember. i find that many of the places i most wish to see are those associated with the memory of some individual, generally one of the generations more or less in advance of my own. one of the first places i should go to, in a leisurely tour, would be selborne. gilbert white was not a poet, neither was he a great systematic naturalist. but he used his eyes on the world about him; he found occupation and happiness in his daily walks, and won as large a measure of immortality within the confines of his little village as he could have gained in exploring the sources of the nile. i should make a solemn pilgrimage to the little town of eyam, in derbyshire, where the reverend mr. mompesson, the hero of the plague of , and his wife, its heroine and its victim, lie buried. i should like to follow the traces of cowper at olney and of bunyan at elstow. i found an intense interest in the reverend mr. alger's account of his visit to the vale of llangollen, where lady eleanor butler and miss ponsonby passed their peaceful days in long, uninterrupted friendship. of course the haunts of burns, the home of scott, the whole region made sacred by wordsworth and the group to which he belongs would be so many shrines to which i should make pilgrimages. i own, also, to having something of the melodramatic taste so notable in victor hugo. i admired the noble façade of wells cathedral and the grand old episcopal palace, but i begged the bishop to show me the place where his predecessor, bishop kidder, and his wife, were killed by the falling chimney in the "great storm."--i wanted to go to devizes, and see the monument in the market-place, where ruth pierce was struck dead with a lie in her mouth,--about all which i had read in early boyhood. i contented myself with a photograph of it which my friend, mr. willett, went to devizes and bought for me. there are twenty different englands, every one of which it would be a delight to visit, and i should hardly know with which of them to begin. the few remarks i have to make on what i saw and heard have nothing beyond the value of first impressions; but as i have already said, if these are simply given, without pretending to be anything more, they are not worthless. at least they can do little harm, and may sometimes amuse a reader whom they fail to instruct. but we must all beware of hasty conclusions. if a foreigner of limited intelligence were whirled through england on the railways, he would naturally come to the conclusion that the chief product of that country is _mustard_, and that its most celebrated people are mr. keen and mr. colman, whose great advertising boards, yellow letters on a black ground, and black letters on a yellow ground, stare the traveller in the face at every station. of the climate, as i knew it in may and the summer months, i will only say that if i had any illusions about may and june in england, my fireplace would have been ample evidence that i was entirely disenchanted. the derby day, the th of may, was most chilly and uncomfortable; at the garden-party at kensington palace, on the th of june, it was cold enough to make hot drinks and warm wraps a comfort, if not a necessity. i was thankful to have passed through these two ordeals without ill consequences. drizzly, or damp, or cold, cloudy days were the rule rather than the exception, while we were in london. we had some few hot days, especially at stratford, in the early part of july. in london an umbrella is as often carried as a cane; in paris _"un homme à para-pluie"_ is, or used to be, supposed to carry that useful article because he does not keep and cannot hire a carriage of some sort. he may therefore be safely considered a person, and not a personage. the soil of england does not seem to be worn out, to judge by the wonderful verdure and the luxuriance of vegetation. it contains a great museum of geological specimens, and a series of historical strata which are among the most instructive of human records. i do not pretend to much knowledge of geology. the most interesting geological objects in our new england that i can think of are the great boulders and the scratched and smoothed surface of the rocks; the fossil footprints in the valley of the connecticut; the trilobites found at quincy. but the readers of hugh miller remember what a variety of fossils he found in the stratified rocks of his little island, and the museums are full of just such objects. when it comes to underground historical relics, the poverty of new england as compared with the wealth of old england is very striking. stratum after stratum carries the explorer through the relics of successive invaders. after passing through the characteristic traces of different peoples, he comes upon a roman pavement, and below this the weapons and ornaments of a tribe of ancient britons. one cannot strike a spade into the earth, in great britain, without a fair chance of some surprise in the form of a saxon coin, or a celtic implement, or a roman fibula. nobody expects any such pleasing surprise in a new england field. one must be content with an indian arrowhead or two, now and then a pestle and mortar, or a stone pipe. a top dressing of antiquity is all he can look for. the soil is not humanized enough to be interesting; whereas in england so much of it has been trodden by human feet, built on in the form of human habitations, nay, has been itself a part of preceding generations of human beings, that it is in a kind of dumb sympathy with those who tread its turf. perhaps it is not literally true that one half her soil has walked the rest in poets, heroes, martyrs, sages; but so many of all these lie within it that the whole mother island is a _campo santo_ to all who can claim the same blood as that which runs in the veins of her unweaned children. the flora and fauna of a country, as seen from railroad trains and carriages, are not likely to be very accurately or exhaustively studied. i spoke of the trees i noticed between chester and london somewhat slightingly. but i did not form any hasty opinions from what happened to catch my eye. afterwards, in the oaks and elms of windsor park, in the elms of cambridge and oxford and salisbury, in the lindens of stratford, in the various noble trees, including the cedar of lebanon, in which tennyson very justly felt a pride as their owner, i saw enough to make me glad that i had not uttered any rash generalizations on the strength of my first glance. the most interesting comparison i made was between the new england and the old england elms. it is not necessary to cross the ocean to do this, as we have both varieties growing side by side in our parks,--on boston common, for instance. it is wonderful to note how people will lie about big trees. there must be as many as a dozen trees, each of which calls itself the "largest elm in new england." in my younger days, when i never travelled without a measuring-tape in my pocket, it amused me to see how meek one of the great swaggering elms would look when it saw the fatal measure begin to unreel itself. it seemed to me that the leaves actually trembled as the inexorable band encircled the trunk in _the smallest place it could find_, which is the only safe rule. the english elm (_ulmus campestris_) as we see it in boston comes out a little earlier perhaps, than our own, but the difference is slight. it holds its leaves long after our elms are bare. it grows upward, with abundant dark foliage, while ours spreads, sometimes a hundred and twenty feet, and often droops like a weeping willow. the english elm looks like a much more robust tree than ours, yet they tell me it is very fragile, and that its limbs are constantly breaking off in high winds, just as happens with our native elms. ours is not a very long-lived tree; between two and three hundred years is, i think, the longest life that can be hoped for it. since i have heard of the fragility of the english elm, which is the fatal fault of our own, i have questioned whether it can claim a greater longevity than ours. there is a hint of a typical difference in the american and the englishman which i have long recognized in the two elms as compared to each other. it may be fanciful, but i have thought that the compactness and robustness about the english elm, which are replaced by the long, tapering limbs and willowy grace and far-spreading reach of our own, might find a certain parallelism in the people, especially the females of the two countries. i saw no horse-chestnut trees equal to those i remember in salem, and especially to one in rockport, which is the largest and finest i have ever seen; no willows like those i pass in my daily drives. on the other hand, i think i never looked upon a lombardy poplar equal to one i saw in cambridge, england. this tree seems to flourish in england much more than with us. i do not remember any remarkable beeches, though there are some very famous ones, especially the burnham beeches. no apple-trees i saw in england compare with one next my own door, and there are many others as fine in the neighborhood. i have spoken of the pleasure i had in seeing by the roadside primroses, cowslips, and daisies. dandelions, buttercups, hawkweed looked much as ours do at home. wild roses also grew at the roadside,--smaller and paler, i thought, than ours. i cannot make a chapter like the famous one on iceland, from my own limited observation: _there are no snakes in england._ i can say that i found two small caterpillars on my overcoat, in coming from lord tennyson's grounds. if they had stayed on his premises, they might perhaps have developed into "purple emperors," or spread "the tiger moth's deep damasked wings" before the enraptured eyes of the noble poet. these two caterpillars and a few house-flies are all i saw, heard, or felt, by day or night, of the native fauna of england, except a few birds,--rooks, starlings, a blackbird, and the larks of salisbury plain just as they rose; for i lost sight of them almost immediately. i neither heard nor saw the nightingales, to my great regret. they had been singing at oxford a short time before my visit to that place. the only song i heard was that which i have mentioned, the double note of the cuckoo. england is the paradise of horses. they are bred, fed, trained, groomed, housed, cared for, in a way to remind one of the houyhnhnms, and strikingly contrasting with the conditions of life among the wretched classes whose existence is hardly more tolerable than that of those _quasi_-human beings under whose name it pleased the fierce satirist to degrade humanity. the horses that are driven in the hansoms of london are the best i have seen in any public conveyance. i cannot say as much of those in the four-wheelers. broad streets, sometimes, as in bond street, with narrow sidewalks; _islands_ for refuge in the middle of many of them; deep areas; lofty houses; high walls; plants in the windows; frequent open spaces; policemen at near intervals, always polite in my experience,--such are my recollections of the quarter i most frequented. are the english taller, stouter, lustier, ruddier, healthier, than our new england people? if i gave my impression, i should say that they are. among the wealthier class, tall, athletic-looking men and stately, well-developed women are more common, i am compelled to think, than with us. i met in company at different times five gentlemen, each of whom would be conspicuous in any crowd for his stature and proportions. we could match their proportions, however, in the persons of well-known bostonians. to see how it was with other classes, i walked in the strand one sunday, and noted carefully the men and women i met. i was surprised to see how many of both sexes were of low stature. i counted in the course of a few minutes' walk no less than twenty of these little people. i set this experience against the other. neither is convincing. the anthropologists will settle the question of man in the old and in the new world before many decades have passed. in walking the fashionable streets of london one can hardly fail to be struck with the well-dressed look of gentlemen of all ages. the special point in which the londoner excels all other citizens i am conversant with is the hat. i have not forgotten béranger's "_quoique leurs chapeaux soient bien laids_ *** ***! moi, j'aime les anglais;" but in spite of it i believe in the english hat as the best thing of its ugly kind. as for the englishman's feeling with reference to it, a foreigner might be pardoned for thinking it was his fetich, a north american indian for looking at it as taking the place of his own medicine-bag. it is a common thing for the englishman to say his prayers into it, as he sits down in his pew. can it be that this imparts a religious character to the article? however this may be, the true londoner's hat is cared for as reverentially as a high-church altar. far off its coming shines. i was always impressed by the fact that even with us a well-bred gentleman in reduced circumstances never forgets to keep his beaver well brushed, and i remember that long ago i spoke of the hat as the _ultimum moriens_ of what we used to call gentility,--the last thing to perish in the decay of a gentleman's outfit. his hat is as sacred to an englishman as his beard to a mussulman. * * * * * in looking at the churches and the monuments which i saw in london and elsewhere in england, certain resemblances, comparisons, parallels, contrasts, and suggestions obtruded themselves upon my consciousness. we have one steeple in boston which to my eyes seems absolutely perfect: that of the central church, at the corner of newbury and berkeley streets. its resemblance to the spire of salisbury had always struck me. on mentioning this to the late mr. richardson, the very distinguished architect, he said to me that he thought it more nearly like that of the cathedral of chartres. one of our best living architects agreed with me as to its similarity to that of salisbury. it does not copy either exactly, but, if it had twice its actual dimensions, would compare well with the best of the two, if one is better than the other. saint-martin's-in-the-fields made me feel as if i were in boston. our arlington street church copies it pretty closely, but mr. gilman left out the columns. i could not admire the nelson column, nor that which lends monumental distinction to the duke of york. after trajan's and that of the place vendôme, each of which is a permanent and precious historical record, accounting sufficiently for its existence, there is something very unsatisfactory in these nude cylinders. that to the duke of york might well have the confession of the needy knife grinder as an inscription on its base. i confess in all honesty that i vastly prefer the monument commemorating the fire to either of them. that _has_ a story to tell and tells it,--with a lie or two added, according to pope, but it tells it in language and symbol. as for the kind of monument such as i see from my library window standing on the summit of bunker hill, and have recently seen for the first time at washington, on a larger scale, i own that i think a built-up obelisk a poor affair as compared with an egyptian monolith of the same form. it was a triumph of skill to quarry, to shape, to transport, to cover with expressive symbols, to erect, such a stone as that which has been transferred to the thames embankment, or that which now stands in central park, new york. each of its four sides is a page of history, written so as to endure through scores of centuries. a built-up obelisk requires very little more than brute labor. a child can shape its model from a carrot or a parsnip, and set it up in miniature with blocks of loaf sugar. it teaches nothing, and the stranger must go to his guide-book to know what it is there for. i was led into many reflections by a sight of the washington monument. i found that it was almost the same thing at a mile's distance as the bunker hill monument at half a mile's distance; and unless the eye had some means of measuring the space between itself and the stone shaft, one was about as good as the other. a mound like that of marathon or that at waterloo, a cairn, even a shaft of the most durable form and material, are fit memorials of the place where a great battle was fought. they seem less appropriate as monuments to individuals. i doubt the durability of these piecemeal obelisks, and when i think of that vast inverted pendulum vibrating in an earthquake, i am glad that i do not live in its shadow. the washington monument is more than a hundred feet higher than salisbury steeple, but it does not look to me so high as that, because the mind has nothing to climb by. but the forming taste of the country revels in superlatives, and if we could only have the deepest artesian well in the world sunk by the side of the tallest column in all creation, the admiring, not overcritical patriot would be happier than ever was the athenian when he looked up at the newly erected parthenon. i made a few miscellaneous observations which may be worth recording. one of these was the fact of the repetition of the types of men and women with which i was familiar at home. every now and then i met a new acquaintance whom i felt that i had seen before. presently i identified him with his double on the other side. i had found long ago that even among frenchmen i often fell in with persons whose counterparts i had known in america. i began to feel as if nature turned out a batch of human beings for every locality of any importance, very much as a workman makes a set of chessmen. if i had lived a little longer in london, i am confident that i should have met myself, as i did actually meet so many others who were duplicates of those long known to me. i met mr. galton for a few moments, but i had no long conversation with him. if he should ask me to say how many faces i can visually recall, i should have to own that there are very few such. the two pictures which i have already referred to, those of erasmus and of dr. johnson, come up more distinctly before my mind's eye than almost any faces of the living. my mental retina has, i fear, lost much of its sensitiveness. long and repeated exposure of an object of any kind, in a strong light, is necessary to fix its image. * * * * * among the gratifications that awaited me in england and scotland was that of meeting many before unseen friends with whom i had been in correspondence. i have spoken of mr. john bellows. i should have been glad to meet mr. william smith, the yorkshire antiquary, who has sent me many of his antiquarian and biographical writings and publications. i do not think i saw mr. david gilmour, of paisley, whose "paisley folk" and other writings have given me great pleasure. but i did have the satisfaction of meeting professor gairdner, of glasgow, to whose writings my attention was first called by my revered instructor, the late dr. james jackson, and with whom i had occasionally corresponded. i ought to have met dr. martineau. i should have visited the reverend stopford brooke, who could have told me much that i should have liked to hear of dear friends of mine, of whom he saw a great deal in their hours of trial. the reverend mr. voysey, whose fearless rationalism can hardly give him popularity among the conservative people i saw most of, paid me the compliment of calling, as he had often done of sending me his published papers. now and then some less known correspondent would reveal himself or herself in bodily presence. let most authors beware of showing themselves to those who have idealized them, and let readers not be too anxious to see in the flesh those whom they have idealized. when i was a boy, i read miss edgeworth's "l'amie inconnue." i have learned to appreciate its meaning in later years by abundant experiences, and i have often felt unwilling to substitute my real for my imaginary presence. i will add here that i must have met a considerable number of persons, in the crowd at our reception and elsewhere, whose names i failed to hear, and whom i consequently did not recognize as the authors of books i had read, or of letters i had received. the story of my experience with the lark accounts for a good deal of what seemed like negligence or forgetfulness, and which must be, not pardoned, but sighed over. i visited several of the well-known clubs, either by special invitation, or accompanied by a member. the athenaeum was particularly attentive, but i was unable to avail myself of the privileges it laid freely open before me during my stay in london. other clubs i looked in upon were: the reform club, where i had the pleasure of dining at a large party given by the very distinguished dr. morell mackenzie; the rabelais, of which, as i before related, i have been long a member, and which was one of the first places where i dined; the saville; the savage; the st. george's. i saw next to nothing of the proper club-life of london, but it seemed to me that the athenaeum must be a very desirable place of resort to the educated londoner, and no doubt each of the many institutions of this kind with which london abounds has its special attractions. my obligations to my brethren of the medical profession are too numerous to be mentioned in detail. almost the first visit i paid was one to my old friend and fellow-student in paris, dr. walter hayle walshe. after more than half a century's separation, two young friends, now old friends, must not expect to find each other just the same as when they parted. dr. walshe thought he should have known me; my eyes are not so good as his, and i would not answer for them and for my memory. that he should have dedicated his recent original and ingenious work to me, before i had thought of visiting england, was a most gratifying circumstance. i have mentioned the hospitalities extended to me by various distinguished members of the medical profession, but i have not before referred to the readiness with which, on all occasions, when professional advice was needed, it was always given with more than willingness, rather as if it were a pleasure to give it. i could not have accepted such favors as i received had i not remembered that i, in my time, had given my services freely for the benefit of those of my own calling. if i refer to two names among many, it is for special reasons. dr. wilson fox, the distinguished and widely known practitioner, who showed us great kindness, has since died, and this passing tribute is due to his memory. i have before spoken of the exceptional favor we owed to dr. and mrs. priestley. it enabled us to leave london feeling that we had tried, at least, to show our grateful sense of all the attentions bestowed upon us. if there were any whom we overlooked, among the guests we wished to honor, all such accidental omissions will be pardoned, i feel sure, by those who know how great and bewildering is the pressure of social life in london. i was, no doubt, often more or less confused, in my perceptions, by the large number of persons whom i met in society. i found the dinner-parties, as mr. lowell told me i should, very much like the same entertainments among my home acquaintances. i have not the gift of silence, and i am not a bad listener, yet i brought away next to nothing from dinner-parties where i had said and heard enough to fill out a magazine article. after i was introduced to a lady, the conversation frequently began somewhat in this way:-- "it is a long time since you have been in this country, i believe?" "it is a _very_ long time: fifty years and more." "you find great changes in london, of course, i suppose?" "not so great as you might think. the tower is where i left it. the abbey is much as i remember it. northumberland house with its lion is gone, but charing cross is in the same old place. my attention is drawn especially to the things which have not changed,--those which i remember." that stream was quickly dried up. conversation soon found other springs. i never knew the talk to get heated or noisy. religion and politics rarely came up, and never in any controversial way. the bitterest politician i met at table was a quadruped,--a lady's dog,--who refused a desirable morsel offered him in the name of mr. gladstone, but snapped up another instantly on being told that it came from queen victoria. i recall many pleasant and some delightful talks at the dinner-table; one in particular, with the most charming woman in england. i wonder if she remembers how very lovely and agreeable she was? possibly she may be able to identify herself. people--the right kind of people--meet at a dinner-party as two ships meet and pass each other at sea. they exchange a few signals; ask each other's reckoning, where from, where bound; perhaps one supplies the other with a little food or a few dainties; then they part, to see each other no more. but one or both may remember the hour passed together all their days, just as i recollect our brief parley with the brig economist, of leith, from sierra leone, in mid ocean, in the spring of . i am very far from despising the science of gastronomy, but if i wished to institute a comparison between the tables of england and america, i could not do it without eating my way through the four seasons. i will say that i did not think the bread from the bakers' shops was so good as our own. it was very generally tough and hard, and even the muffins were not always so tender and delicate as they ought to be. i got impatient one day, and sent out for some biscuits. they brought some very excellent ones, which we much preferred to the tough bread. they proved to be the so-called "seafoam" biscuit from new york. the potatoes never came on the table looking like new fallen snow, as we have them at home. we were surprised to find both mutton and beef overdone, according to our american taste. the french talk about the briton's "_bifteck saignant_," but we never saw anything cooked so as to be, as we should say, "rare." the tart is national with the english, as the pie is national with us. i never saw on an english table that excellent substitute for both, called the washington pie, in memory of him whom we honor as first in pies, as well as in war and in the hearts of his countrymen. the truth is that i gave very little thought to the things set before me, in the excitement of constantly changing agreeable companionship. i understand perfectly the feeling of the good liver in punch, who suggests to the lady next him that their host has one of the best cooks in london, and that it might therefore be well to defer all conversation until they adjourned to the drawing-room. i preferred the conversation, and adjourned, indefinitely, the careful appreciation of the _menu_. i think if i could devote a year to it, i might be able to make out a graduated scale of articles of food, taking a well-boiled fresh egg as the unit of gastronomic value, but i leave this scientific task to some future observer. the most remarkable piece of european handiwork i remember was the steel chair at longford castle. the most startling and frightful work of man i ever saw or expect to see was another specimen of work in steel, said to have been taken from one of the infernal chambers of the spanish inquisition. it was a complex mechanism, which grasped the body and the head of the heretic or other victim, and by means of many ingeniously arranged screws and levers was capable of pressing, stretching, piercing, rending, crushing, all the most sensitive portions of the human body, one at a time or many at once. the famous virgin, whose embrace drove a hundred knives into the body of the poor wretch she took in her arms, was an angel of mercy compared to this masterpiece of devilish enginery. ingenuity is much better shown in contrivances for making our daily life more comfortable. i was on the lookout for everything that promised to be a convenience. i carried out two things which seemed to be new to the londoners: the star razor, which i have praised so freely, and still find equal to all my commendations; and the mucilage pencil, which is a very handy implement to keep on the writer's desk or table. i found a contrivance for protecting the hand in drawing corks, which all who are their own butlers will appreciate, and luminous match-boxes which really shine brightly in the dark, and that after a year's usage; whereas one professing to shine by night, which i bought in boston, is only visible by borrowed light. i wanted a very fine-grained hone, and inquired for it at a hardware store, where they kept everything in their line of the best quality. i brought away a very pretty but very small stone, for which i paid a large price. the stone was from arkansas, and i need not have bought in london what would have been easily obtained at a dozen or more stores in boston. it was a renewal of my experience with the seafoam biscuit. "know thyself" and the things about thee, and "take the good the gods provide thee," if thou wilt only keep thine eyes open, are two safe precepts. who is there of english descent among us that does not feel with cowper, "england, with all thy faults, i love thee still"? our recently naturalized fellow-citizens, of a different blood and different religion, must not suppose that we are going to forget our inborn love for the mother to whom we owe our being. protestant england and protestant america are coming nearer and nearer to each other every year. the interchange of the two peoples is more and more frequent, and there are many reasons why it is likely to continue increasing. hawthorne says in a letter to longfellow, "why don't you come over, being now a man of leisure and with nothing to keep you in america? if i were in your position, i think i should make my home on this side of the water,--though always with an indefinite and never-to-be-executed intention to go back and die in my native land. america is a good land for young people, but not for those who are past their prime. ... a man of individuality and refinement can certainly live far more comfortably here--provided he has the means to live at all--than in new england. be it owned, however, that i sometimes feel a tug at my very heart-strings when i think of my old home and friends." this was written from liverpool in . we must not forget that our fathers were exiles from their dearly loved native land, driven by causes which no longer exist. "freedom to worship god" is found in england as fully as in america, in our day. in placing the atlantic between themselves and the old world civilizations they made an enormous sacrifice. it is true that the wonderful advance of our people in all the arts and accomplishments which make life agreeable has transformed the wilderness into a home where men and women can live comfortably, elegantly, happily, if they are of contented disposition; and without that they can be happy nowhere. what better provision can be made for a mortal man than such as our own boston can afford its wealthy children? a palace on commonwealth avenue or on beacon street; a country-place at framingham or lenox; a seaside residence at nahant, beverly farms, newport, or bar harbor; a pew at trinity or king's chapel; a tomb at mount auburn or forest hills; with the prospect of a memorial stained window after his lamented demise,--is not this a pretty programme to offer a candidate for human existence? give him all these advantages, and he will still be longing to cross the water, to get back to that old home of his fathers, so delightful in itself, so infinitely desirable on account of its nearness to paris, to geneva, to rome, to all that is most interesting in europe. the less wealthy, less cultivated, less fastidious class of americans are not so much haunted by these longings. but the convenience of living in the old world is so great, and it is such a trial and such a risk to keep crossing the ocean, that it seems altogether likely that a considerable current of re-migration will gradually develop itself among our people. some find the climate of the other side of the atlantic suits them better than their own. as the new england characteristics are gradually superseded by those of other races, other forms of belief, and other associations, the time may come when a new englander will feel more as if he were among his own people in london than in one of our seaboard cities. the vast majority of our people love their country too well and are too proud of it to be willing to expatriate themselves. but going back to our old home, to find ourselves among the relatives from whom we have been separated for a few generations, is not like transferring ourselves to a land where another language is spoken, and where there are no ties of blood and no common religious or political traditions. i, for one, being myself as inveterately rooted an american of the bostonian variety as ever saw himself mirrored in the frog pond, hope that the exchanges of emigrants and re-migrants will be much more evenly balanced by and by than at present. i hope that more englishmen like james smithson will help to build up our scientific and literary institutions. i hope that more americans like george peabody will call down the blessings of the english people by noble benefactions to the cause of charity. it was with deep feelings of pride and gratitude that i looked upon the bust of longfellow, holding its place among the monuments of england's greatest and best children. i see with equal pleasure and pride that one of our own large-hearted countrymen has honored the memory of three english poets, milton, and herbert, and cowper, by the gift of two beautiful stained windows, and with still ampler munificence is erecting a stately fountain in the birthplace of shakespeare. such acts as these make us feel more and more the truth of the generous sentiment which closes the ode of washington allston, "america to great britain:" we are one! * * * * * i have told our story with the help of my daughter's diary, and often aided by her recollections. having enjoyed so much, i am desirous that my countrymen and countrywomen should share my good fortune with me. i hesitated at first about printing names in full, but when i remembered that we received nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate kindness from all we met, i felt sure that i could not offend by telling my readers who the friends were that made england a second home to us. if any one of them is disturbed by such reference as i have made to him or to her, i most sincerely apologize for the liberty i have taken. i am far more afraid that through sheer forgetfulness i have left unmentioned many to whom i was and still remain under obligations. if i were asked what i think of people's travelling after the commonly accepted natural term of life is completed, i should say that everything depends on constitution and habit. the old soldier says, in speaking of crossing the beresina, where the men had to work in the freezing stream constructing the bridges, "faut du tempérament pour cela!" i often thought of this expression, in the damp and chilly weather which not rarely makes english people wish they were in italy. i escaped unharmed from the windy gusts at epsom and the nipping chill of the kensington garden-party; but if a score of my contemporaries had been there with me, there would not improbably have been a funeral or two within a week. if, however, the super-septuagenarian is used to exposures, if he is an old sportsman or an old officer not retired from active service, he may expect to elude the pneumonia which follows his footsteps whenever he wanders far from his fireside. but to a person of well-advanced years coming from a counting-room, a library, or a studio, the risk is considerable, unless he is of hardy natural constitution; any other will do well to remember, "faut du tempérament pour cela!" suppose there to be a reasonable chance that he will come home alive, what is the use of one's going to europe after his senses have lost their acuteness, and his mind no longer retains its full measure of sensibilities and vigor? i should say that the visit to europe under those circumstances was much the same thing as the _petit verre_,--the little glass of chartreuse, or maraschino, or curaçoa, or, if you will, of plain cognac, at the end of a long banquet. one has gone through many courses, which repose in the safe recesses of his economy. he has swallowed his coffee, and still there is a little corner left with its craving unappeased. then comes the drop of liqueur, _chasse-café_, which is the last thing the stomach has a right to expect. it warms, it comforts, it exhales its benediction on all that has gone before. so the trip to europe may not do much in the way of instructing the wearied and overloaded intelligence, but it gives it a fillip which makes it feel young again for a little while. let not the too mature traveller think it will change any of his habits. it will interrupt his routine for a while, and then he will settle down into his former self, and be just what he was before. i brought home a pair of shoes i had made in london; they do not fit like those i had before i left, and i rarely wear them. it is just so with the new habits i formed and the old ones i left behind me. but am i not glad, for my own sake, that i went? certainly i have every reason to be, and i feel that the visit is likely to be a great source of happiness for my remaining days. but there is a higher source of satisfaction. if the kindness shown me strengthens the slenderest link that binds us in affection to that ancestral country which is, and i trust will always be to her descendants, "dear mother england," that alone justifies my record of it, and to think it is so is more than reward enough. if, in addition, this account of our summer experiences is a source of pleasure to many friends, and of pain to no one, as i trust will prove to be the fact, i hope i need never regret giving to the public the pages which are meant more especially for readers who have a personal interest in the writer. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations and also the index for all three volumes of the set with links to the other two volumes. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/files/ / -h.zip) volumes i and ii are available in the project gutenberg library: volume i--see http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/ volume ii--see http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/ transcriber's note: [ae] and [oe] are used for the diphthongs/ligatures in (mostly) french words. (e.g. c[oe]ur, heart; s[oe]ur, sister; ch[oe]ur; choir). the original page headings have been retained and moved to appropriate positions at the beginning of letters and text to which they refer, so as not to interrupt the flow of the text. thus, a long letter may be prefaced by two, or even three page headings. likewise, footnotes have been moved to the end of the appropriate letter, or the appropriate paragraph in the case of longer pieces of text. in the text file version, for "see _ante_/_post_, p. xyz", the date and note number (where applicable) have been given instead of the page number, for easier reader look-up. index page numbers have been adjusted to allow for the re-positioning of footnotes. other (numerous) page numbering errors have been corrected. a list of corrections will be found at the end of the text. [illustration: h.m. queen victoria, h.r.h. the prince consort, and children from the picture by f. winterhalter at buckingham palace _frontispiece, vol. iii._] the letters of queen victoria a selection from her majesty's correspondence between the years and published by authority of his majesty the king edited by arthur christopher benson, m.a. and viscount esher, g.c.v.o., k.c.b. in three volumes vol. iii.-- - london john murray, albemarle street, w. _copyright in great britain and dependencies, , by_ h.m. the king. _in the united states by_ messrs longmans, green & co. _all rights reserved._ table of contents chapter xxiii pages the eastern question--attack on the prince--the french alliance--the orleans family--the reform bill--the baltic command--the british ultimatum--departure of the guards--war declared--cabinet dissensions--austrian interests--the sultan--prussian policy--marshal st arnaud--invasion of the principalities--separation of departments--the russian loan--debates on the war--prince albert and the emperor napoleon--the crimea--battle of the alma--maharajah dhuleep singh--attack on sebastopol--battle of inkerman--death of sir g. cathcart--a hurricane--lord john russell and the premiership--miss nightingale's mission - chapter xxiv peace proposals--the four points--offer of the garter to the premier--sufferings of the troops in the crimea--resignation of lord john--the queen's disapproval--lord palmerston as leader--the ministry defeated--lord derby sent for--lord palmerston and the leadership--lord derby's failure--lord lansdowne consulted--lord john sent for--disappointment of lord john--lord palmerston to be premier--intervention of lord aberdeen--the new cabinet--the vienna conference--resignation of the peelites--death of the czar--lord panmure at the war office--negotiations at vienna--visit of the emperor--russia and the black sea--estimate of the emperor--retirement of canrobert--death of lord raglan--general simpson in command--lord john resigns--battle of the tchernaya--visit to paris--at the tomb of bonaparte--fall of sebastopol--life peerages--prince frederick william of prussia--offer to lord stanley--france and austria--visit of the king of sardinia - chapter xxv the conference--the queen's determination--russia accepts the terms--sardinia and the conference--protection of neutrals--the crimean enquiry--incorporation of oudh--canning succeeds dalhousie--unclouded horizon in india--future of the principalities--birth of the prince imperial--the princess royal--the treaty of paris--end of the war--garter for lord palmerston--the title of prince consort--position of the queen's husband--retirement of lord hardinge--appointment of the duke of cambridge--lord granville's mission--coronation of the czar--a royal proposal--russian procrastination--death of lord hardinge--the archduke maximilian--affair of neuchâtel--death of prince charles of leiningen--dispute with the united states - chapter xxvi the china war--position of parties--defeat of the government--the general election--the divorce bill--betrothal of princess charlotte of belgium--the indian mutiny--delhi--cawnpore--marriage of princess charlotte--visit of the emperor napoleon--death of sir henry lawrence--condition of lucknow--sir colin campbell--reinforcement of lucknow--death of the duchesse de nemours--crisis in the city--future government of india--clemency of lord canning--death of havelock - chapter xxvii marriage of princess royal--the orsini _attentat_--the conspiracy bill--resignation of the government--lord derby summoned--the new cabinet--trial of bernard--the emperor and the carbonari--capture of lucknow--confirmation of the prince of wales--the second india bill--the oudh proclamation--lord ellenborough's despatch--a crisis--lord derby's despatch--lord aberdeen consulted--prerogative of dissolution--collapse of the attack--views of sir james outram--offer to mr gladstone--purification of the thames--visit to cherbourg--british columbia--the ionian islands--the princess royal in prussia the india office--lord canning's proclamation--napoleon and italy - chapter xxviii the emperor napoleon and m. hübner--attitude of the pope--northern italy--the queen's first grandchild--advice to the emperor napoleon--meeting of parliament--the indian forces--the prince of wales at rome--advice to emperor of austria--mission of lord cowley--question of a conference--the summons to sardinia--revolution in the duchies--the compact of plombières--the general election--policy of the emperor napoleon--meeting a new parliament--question of neutrality--debate on the address--the ministry defeated--the garter for lord derby--lord granville summoned--the rival leaders--lord palmerston premier--offer to mr cobden--india pacified--victory of the french--the emperor napoleon's appeal--end of the war--ascendancy of france--views of the pope--cavour's disappointment--meeting of the emperors--the provisions of villafranca--italian policy--sardinia and central italy--the emperor napoleon and lord palmerston--invitation from president buchanan--pro-italian ministers--objections to sir j. hudson--divorce court reports - chapter xxix the emperor napoleon's pamphlet, _the pope and the congress_--annexation of savoy--meeting of parliament--sardinian designs--mr gladstone's budget--scene at the tuileries--the emperor and lord cowley--the swiss protest--death of prince hohenlohe--the indian civil service--the paper duties--the lords and money bills--mr gladstone and resignation--the prince of wales's tour--the volunteer review--flight of the king of naples--the king's appeal to queen victoria--tour of prince alfred--sardinia and naples--the empress of austria--betrothal of princess alice--episcopal appointments--visit of the empress eugénie - chapter xxx conservative overtures to lord palmerston--illness of king of prussia--his death--the absorption of naples--garter for new king of prussia--the provostship of eton--lord john and garibaldi--death of duchess of kent--bereavement--the war in america--recognition of the south--death of cavour--death of lord campbell--the new foreign office--earldom for lord john russell--swedish politics--the emperor napoleon's aims--at frogmore--visit to ireland--tranquillity of ireland--the orleans princes--the prussian coronation--fêtes at berlin--_the times_ and prussia--death of king of portugal--the affair of the _trent_--the compiègne interview--an ultimatum--the prince's last letter--illness of the prince--the crisis--sympathy--bereavement--death of lady canning--a noble resolve--comfort and hope - index - list of illustrations h.m. queen victoria, h.r.h. the prince consort, and children. _from the picture by f. winterhalter at buckingham palace_ _frontispiece_ h.m. eugÉnie, empress of the french. _from a miniature by sir w. k. ross at windsor castle_ _facing p._ viscount palmerston, k.g. _from the drawing by sir george richmond, r.a., in the possession of the earl of carnwath_ " h.r.h. the prince of wales. _from a drawing by f. winterhalter, _ " h.r.h. the prince consort, . _from the picture by smith, after corbould, at buckingham palace_ " introductory note to chapter xxiii at the meeting of parliament, on the st of january , the ministry were able triumphantly to refute the charge of illegitimate interference in state affairs which had been made by a section of the press against prince albert; they were, however, severely attacked for not acting with greater vigour in eastern affairs. in february, the russian ambassador left london, the guards were despatched to the east, and the russian government was peremptorily called upon by great britain and france to evacuate the principalities. the peace party, bright, cobden, and others, were active, but unheeded; the society of friends sending a pacific but futile deputation to the czar. in march, the demand for evacuation being disregarded, war was declared, and a treaty of alliance signed between england and france; lord raglan and marshal st arnaud were appointed to command the respective armies, vice-admiral sir james dundas and sir charles napier having command of the mediterranean and baltic fleets respectively. the attitude of austria was ambiguous, and, after england and france were committed to war, she contracted an offensive and defensive alliance with prussia, each country engaging to make limited preparations for war. at home, with a view to greater efficiency, the duties of the secretary of state for war and the colonies, till then united in a single secretaryship, were divided, the duke of newcastle assuming the former office, while sir george grey became colonial secretary; lord john russell also resumed office as president of the council. the russians were unsuccessful in their operations against the turks, notably at silistria and giurgevo, while, as the summer advanced, public opinion in support of an invasion of the crimea rose steadily, the _times_ indicated the taking of sebastopol as indispensable, and lord aberdeen's hand was forced. on the th of june, the cabinet sanctioned a despatch to lord raglan, urging (almost to the point of directing) an immediate attack upon sebastopol; the french emperor was in favour of the plan, though both commanders-in-chief entertained doubt as to whether it was immediately feasible. on the th of september, the allied forces ( , strong) sailed from varna, a landing being effected a few days later at old fort, near eupatoria; at about the same time an important interview took place at boulogne between prince albert and the emperor napoleon. the signal victory at the alma, on the th of september, was followed by the death of st arnaud, and the appointment of canrobert as his successor. decisive successes were next obtained at balaklava on the th of october, and at inkerman on the th of november; but on the th a fierce gale did immense damage to life and property, both at balaklava and on the sea. meanwhile, indignation at home was aroused by the tidings of the breakdown of the commissariat and transport departments, and the deplorable state of the hospitals; miss florence nightingale, who had sailed from england with a number of nurses, arrived at scutari early in november, and proceeded to remedy deficiencies as far as possible; while lord john russell vainly urged on the premier the substitution of lord palmerston for the duke of newcastle as secretary for war. sir charles napier, who, previously to his departure with the baltic fleet, had been fêted at the reform club, and extravagantly lauded by cabinet ministers, was by the month of october engaged in a recriminatory correspondence with the first lord of the admiralty. at about the same time the patriotic fund was established under the presidency of prince albert. in parliament, the last vestige of the old navigation system, limiting the coasting trade to british ships, was repealed, and a bill also passed for preventing corrupt practices at elections. owing to the war, the reform bill was withdrawn, lord john russell, on announcing the fact in parliament, being overcome, and giving way to tears. in the short session, which took place during the latter half of december, a foreign enlistment act was passed, providing for a force of , foreigners, to be drilled in this country. the exhibition building, which had been constructed in hyde park in , and had been re-erected at sydenham, was opened with great ceremony by the queen, and was henceforth known as the crystal palace. chapter xxiii _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th january ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. he cannot wonder at the indignation expressed by your majesty at the base and infamous attacks made upon the prince during the last two or three weeks in some of the daily papers.[ ] they are chiefly to be found in those papers which represent ultra-tory or extreme radical opinions; but they are not sanctioned by the most respectable portion of the press. lord aberdeen has received some information respecting the origin of these attacks; but it is vague and uncertain. at all events he believes that your majesty may safely make yourself at ease upon the subject, as he is satisfied that these hostile feelings are shared by few. it is much to be desired that some notice of the subject may be taken in parliament, when, by being treated in a proper manner, it may be effectually stopped. lord aberdeen has spoken to lord john russell, who will be quite prepared to moot it in the house of commons. it cannot be denied that the position of the prince is somewhat anomalous, and has not been specially provided for by the constitution; but the ties of nature, and the dictates of common sense are more powerful than constitutional fictions; and lord aberdeen can only say that he has always considered it an inestimable blessing that your majesty should possess so able, so zealous, and so disinterested an adviser. it is true that your ministers are alone responsible for the conduct of public affairs, and although there is no man in england whose opinion lord aberdeen would more highly respect and value, still if he had the misfortune of differing from his royal highness, he would not hesitate to act according to his own convictions, and a sense of what was due to your majesty's service. the prince has now been so long before the eyes of the whole country, his conduct so invariably devoted to the public good, and his life so perfectly inattackable, that lord aberdeen has not the slightest apprehension of any serious consequences arising from these contemptible exhibitions of malevolence and faction. your majesty will graciously pardon lord aberdeen for writing thus plainly; but there are occasions on which he almost forgets your majesty's station, and only remembers those feelings which are common to all ranks of mankind. [footnote : a section of the press, favourable to lord palmerston, had insinuated that his resignation was due to "an influence behind the throne." similar attacks were made by other journals, and not abandoned upon lord palmerston's re-admission to the cabinet: the most extravagant charges of improper interference in state affairs were made against the prince, and it was even rumoured that he had been impeached for high treason and committed to the tower! the cartoons in _punch_ usually present a faithful reflection of current popular opinion, and in one of them the prince was depicted as skating, in defiance of warning, over dangerous ice.] [pageheading: persia] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ the queen thanks lord clarendon for his letter just received with the enclosures. as the proposed answer to the emperor contains perhaps necessarily only a repetition of what the queen wrote in her former letter,[ ] she inclines to the opinion that it will be best to defer any answer for the present--the more so, as a moment might possibly arrive when it would be of advantage to be able to write and to refer to the emperor's last letter. with respect to the persian expedition[ ] the queen will not object to it--as the cabinet appears to have fully considered the matter, but she must say that she does not much like it in a moral point of view. we are just putting the emperor of russia under the ban for trying "to bring the sultan to his senses" by the occupation of part of his territory after a diplomatic rupture, and are now going to do exactly the same thing to the shah of persia! [footnote : see _ante_, vol. ii, th october- th november, , notes , , .] [footnote : under the belief that persia had declared war against turkey, and that diplomatic relations between england and persia were suspended, the cabinet had agreed upon the occupation of the island of karak by a british force.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th january ._ my dearest victoria,--i wrote you a most abominable scrawl on friday, and think myself justified in boring you with a few words to-day. the plot is thickening in every direction, and we may expect a great confusion. the dear old duke used to say "you cannot have a little war." the great politicians of the press think differently. the duke told me also once: "at the place where you are you will always have the power to force people to go to war." i have used that power to _avoid_ complications, and i still think, blessed are the peacemakers. how the emperor could get himself and everybody else into this infernal scrape is quite incomprehensible; the more so as i remain convinced that he did not aim at conquest. we have very mild weather, and though you liked the cold, still for every purpose we must prefer warmth. many hundred boats with coal are frozen up, and i am told that near two hundred ships are wanting to arrive at antwerp.... i am much plagued also by little parliamentary nonsense of our own here, a storm in a bottle; this is the way of human kind, and in such cases it always pleases me to think that i am not bound to be always their working slave, and i cast a sly look at my beautiful villa on the lake of como, _quite furnished_.... my beloved victoria. your devoted uncle. leopold r. [pageheading: the press] [pageheading: the french alliance] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th january ._ my beloved victoria,--i grieve to see how unjustly you are plagued, and how wonderfully untrue and passionate are the attacks of part of the press. abuse is somewhat the _staff of life in england_, everything, everybody is to be abused; it is a pity, as nothing more unproductive as this everlasting abuse can well be imagined. as nothing ever gave the slightest opening to this abuse, it is to be hoped that it will be soon got over--the meeting of parliament will now do good in this respect. as far as your few continental relations are concerned, i don't think they will be able to fix anything upon your faithful servant. i have done england at all times good services, in the sense of her best interests. i hold a position of great geographical importance for england, just opposite the mouth of the thames. successes of vanity i am never fishing for in england, nor anywhere else. the only influence i may exercise is to prevent mischief where i can, which occasionally succeeds; if war can be avoided, and the same ends obtained, it is natural _that_ that _should be tried first_. many english superficial newspaper politicians imagine that threatening is the thing--i believe it the worst of all systems. the emperor nicholas and menschikoff wanted by threatening the turks to get certain things, and they have by that means got a very troublesome and expensive affair on their hands. i wish england too well to like to see it, but one of these days they will get into some scrape in the same way. the foolish accusation that we are doing all we can to break up the french alliance is certainly the _most absurd of all_; if anything can be for our local advantage, it is to see england and france closely allied, and for a long period--for ever i should say.... i have heard, and that from the prussian quarter, that great efforts are making on the part of russia, to _gain over_ louis napoleon. i understand, however, that though louis napoleon is _not_ anxious for war, that his opinion is favourable to the continuation of a good understanding with england. that it should be so is, i must say, highly desirable. the poor orleans will be grieved and hurt by all these things. the death of the child of the poor queen of spain will not be a favourable omen for spain.[ ]... with my best love to albert. believe me ever, my beloved victoria, your truly devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : a daughter had been born to the queen of spain on the th of january, and lived only three days.] [pageheading: the orleans family] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ the queen sends the answer she has this morning received from the duc de nemours, which she hopes is on the whole satisfactory as regards the reported visit of the count de chambord.[ ] the duke does not see in so strong a light as _we_ do, the danger of even the _report_ being believed--probably from living so much out of the world as he does. what would lord aberdeen wish her to do farther, and what does he think can be done in the way of contradiction? the queen wishes likewise to have lord aberdeen's opinion and advice on the following subjects. he knows that we have invariably received the poor orleans family (in particular our own near relations, the nemours) from time to time _here_ and in london, and that the queen has _always_ from the first year done this _openly_ but _unostentatiously_. it is by _no means_ her intention to change her conduct in this respect--but since the great noise caused by the "fusion" she thought it better _not_ to invite the nemours either to osborne or here, hoping that by _this time_ these tiresome rumours would have ceased. they have not, however, and we think that perhaps it would be wiser _not_ to see them here, _at any rate_ till after the meeting of parliament, though it is very painful to the queen to hurt their feelings by apparent neglect. is lord aberdeen of this opinion, and does he think that it will _not_ be misconstrued into an _admission_ of having encouraged _intrigues_ or of _submission_ to the will and pleasure of louis napoleon? for the queen would never submit to such an accusation, nor would she continue (after the excitement is past) to exclude these poor exiles from occasional visits--which have been paid and received ever since _' _, and which would be unworthy and ungenerous conduct. likewise does lord aberdeen think that a morning visit to the duchess of aumale to enquire after her health would be imprudent? it goes much against the queen's feelings of generosity and kindness to neglect the poor exiles as she has done this winter, but the present moment is one of _unparalleled_ excitement and of great political importance, which requires great prudence and circumspection. there is an admirable article in the _morning chronicle_ of to-day, taking quite the _right line_ upon the infamous and _now_ almost ridiculous attacks on the _queen_ and prince. has lord aberdeen any idea who could have written it? the queen sends a letter she had received from her uncle, which may amuse and interest him. to make the statement of the queen's intercourse with the orleans family quite clear, she should add, that when the family visit the queen or she visits them, that it is put into the court circular, and this of course gets copied into country papers and foreign papers; but after consideration the queen thought this the wiser course, for with all the spies who are no doubt about--if this were not done, and the queen's visits and _vice versâ_ were suppressed and _yet_ found out--it would give them an air of _mystery_ which is just what we wish to avoid. [footnote : son of the duc de berri, and known formerly as the duc de bordeaux. (see _ante_, vol. i., th october, , note ). the duc de nemours denied all knowledge of the rumoured visit, and thought its importance had been exaggerated.] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th january ._ ... with respect to your majesty's custom of seeing the french royal family, lord aberdeen humbly thinks that there is no good reason for making any change. it has always taken place without parade or ostentation; and knowing, as lord aberdeen does, that no political object is in view, he would feel ashamed to advise your majesty to do anything at variance with that sympathy which your majesty has been careful to keep within the bounds of prudence and moderation.... lord aberdeen hopes that he may venture to congratulate your majesty on the commencement of a change with respect to the newspaper attacks upon the prince. he observed the article, to which your majesty refers, in the _morning chronicle_ of yesterday; and he believes he may certainly say that it was written by mr gladstone, although he would not wish it to be known. there was also a very sensible letter in the _standard_ of last night, signed d. c. l. this is the signature always assumed by mr alexander hope,[ ] in his contributions to the press, and lord aberdeen does not doubt that it is written by him. it is only a wonder to find it in such a quarter; and it shows some disposition on the part of that scurrilous paper to alter its course. there is perhaps no great objection to the papers dealing with the subject as they think proper, before the meeting of parliament, provided the _times_ takes no part at present; for as this paper is supposed to be influenced by the government, this belief would injure the effect of anything that might appear in its columns.[ ]... [footnote : mr. a. j. hope (afterwards beresford-hope), at this time out of parliament, had written over the signature "d.c.l." a series of letters to the press on the papal claims.] [footnote : on the re-assembling of parliament, the charges against the prince were at once refuted by the prime minister and lord john russell; and his right to assist the queen completely established by those ministers, with the concurrence of lord derby and mr walpole, on behalf of the opposition, and lord campbell, the chief justice of the queen's bench.] [pageheading: the reform bill] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ st january ._ the queen has received lord john russell's letter of the th, and the bill as now agreed upon by the cabinet, which she hopes may meet the wishes of the country and pass into law.[ ] from what she understands the chief argument used in opposition to the measure will be, that corruption and bribery is the evil which the country really complains of, and not an unequal distribution of the representation, and that a new distribution or even extension of the franchise will not touch the evil, and may be said perhaps in some instances to tend towards increasing it. the success of the measure will therefore, she concludes, in some degree depend upon the bribery bills which will accompany it. how far are these advanced? and what expectation has lord john russell of succeeding in framing such a measure as would remove that ground of objection to the reform bill? [footnote : notwithstanding the impending war, the government considered itself bound in honour to bring in a reform bill. lord palmerston and his special supporters were opposed to the project, but the measure was brought forward on the th of february. after a chequered career it was withdrawn. the bill for the prevention of corrupt practices at elections was introduced on the th of february, and after many vicissitudes and several ministerial defeats in the commons as well as in the lords, it was, in a modified form, carried.] _queen victoria to mr gladstone._ windsor castle, _ th february ._ the queen must apologise for having kept the enclosed papers so long, and in now sending them back she does so without feeling sure in her mind that she could with safety sanction mr gladstone's new and important proposal.[ ] the change it implies will be very great in principle and irretrievable, and the queen must say that lord john russell's apprehensions as to the spirit it is likely to engender amongst the future civil servants of the crown have excited a similar feeling in her mind. where is moreover the application of the principle of public competition to stop, if once established? and must not those offices which are to be exempted from it necessarily degrade the persons appointed to them in public estimation? [footnote : mr gladstone had written on the th of january on the subject of competitive examinations for the civil service; in reply to the queen's letter, he referred to the discontent existing in the service with the system of appointment by favour, and of promotion by seniority alone.] [pageheading: the baltic command] [pageheading: sir charles napier] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ admiralty, _ th february ._ sir james graham, with humble duty, begs to lay before your majesty certain important considerations which were discussed at the cabinet yesterday with respect to the selection of a commander-in-chief for the fleet about to be appointed for service in the baltic.[ ]... [footnote : war had not yet been declared, but the russian ambassador left london on the th of february, and sir hamilton seymour was recalled from st petersburg on the same day.] lord dundonald[ ] is seventy-nine years of age; and though his energies and faculties are unbroken, and though, with his accustomed courage, he volunteers for the service, yet, on the whole, there is reason to apprehend that he might deeply commit the force under his command in some desperate enterprise, where the chances of success would not countervail the risk of failure and of the fatal consequences, which might ensue. age has not abated the adventurous spirit of this gallant officer, which no authority could restrain; and being uncontrollable it might lead to most unfortunate results. the cabinet, on the most careful review of the entire question, decided that the appointment of lord dundonald was not expedient.... [footnote : this was the lord cochrane who had been unjustly convicted in , under the direction of lord ellenborough, chief justice, of conspiracy to defraud. his naval honours were restored to him in . he is said to have stipulated, on this occasion, that he should be allowed to destroy cronstadt by a chemical process invented by himself.] sir charles napier is an excellent seaman, and combines boldness with discretion.[ ] he has served in large squadrons, and he has commanded them. as a second, he may not have been submissive; as a chief, he has been successful in command. his appointment will give confidence both to officers and men; and his name is not unknown both to enemies and allies. if he has the faults of his family, he is not without their virtues; courage, genius, love of country are not wanting; and the weighty responsibilities of high command, without oppressing him, would give steadiness to his demeanour. he behaved ill to lord john russell and to sir francis baring; and on shore he has given just cause of complaint; but at sea and in command he is a different person; and lord john russell in the cabinet yesterday, regardless of all former displeasure, pronounced an opinion favourable to the appointment of sir charles napier. lord aberdeen, also, together with the entire cabinet, came to the same conclusion; and sir james graham on their behalf, and in concurrence with his own opinion, ventures to ask the permission of your majesty to appoint sir charles napier to this important naval command.[ ] the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's dutiful subject and servant, j. r. g. graham. [footnote : he had had a long naval career. in he commanded the portuguese fleet for donna maria, and won a small engagement against dom miguel. he was "not submissive" at beyrout, where, having command of the land forces, and being told to retire and hand over the command, he advanced and won a victory, resulting in the evacuation of the city. he also disobeyed orders at acre.] [footnote : the inadequate results of an appointment which promised so well are described in parker's _sir james graham_, vol. ii. pp. _et seq_.] _queen victoria to mr gladstone._ buckingham palace, _ th february ._ the queen has received mr gladstone's letter and memorandum, and had heard from the prince the further explanation of the grounds upon which he, mr gladstone, thinks the new regulations respecting the civil service necessary. the queen, although not without considerable misgivings, sanctions the proposed plan, trusting that mr gladstone will do what he can, in the arrangements of the details of it, to guard against the dangers, which she has pointed out in her former letter and through the prince when he saw mr gladstone. a check, for instance, would be necessary upon the admission of candidates to compete for employment, securing that they should be otherwise eligible, besides the display of knowledge which they may exhibit under examination. without this a young man might be very ineligible, and still after having been proclaimed to the world as first in ability, it would require very strong evidence of misconduct to justify his exclusion by the government. [pageheading: competitive examinations] _mr gladstone to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th february ._ the chancellor of the exchequer presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to acknowledge your majesty's gracious letter. he takes blame to himself for having caused your majesty trouble by omitting to include in his short memorandum an explanation of the phrase "qualified persons." experience at the universities and public schools of this country has shown that in a large majority of cases the test of open examination is also an effectual test of character; as, except in very remarkable cases, the previous industry and self-denial, which proficiency evinces, are rarely separated from general habits of virtue. but he humbly assures your majesty that the utmost pains will be taken to provide not only for the majority but for all cases, by the strictest enquiries of which the case will admit; and he has the most confident belief that the securities for character under the system, although they cannot be unerring, will be stronger and more trustworthy than any of which the present method of appointment is susceptible. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ st february ._ my dearest uncle,--... war is, i fear, _quite_ inevitable. you will have seen that the emperor nicholas has not given a favourable answer to _our brother_ napoleon (which i hear has disappointed him extremely, as he expected very great results from it); and the last proposals or attempts made by buol[ ] it is to be hoped will not be accepted by russia, for france and england could _not_ accept them; but if austria and prussia go with us--as we hope they will--the war will only be a local one. our beautiful guards sail to-morrow. albert inspected them yesterday. george is quite delighted to have a division.... i must now conclude, with albert's affectionate love. believe me always, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : austrian premier and minister of foreign affairs.] [pageheading: the british army] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ buckingham palace, _ th february ._ the queen must write to lord aberdeen on a subject which at this moment appears to her of paramount importance--viz., the augmentation of the army. the ten thousand men by which it has been ordered to be augmented can hardly be considered to have brought it up to more than an improved peace _establishment_, such as we have often had during profound peace in europe; but even these ten thousand men are not yet obtained. we have nearly pledged ourselves to sending twenty-five thousand men to the east, and this pledge will have to be redeemed. to keep even such a force up in the field will require a strong, available reserve at home, of which we shall be quite denuded. but we are going to make war upon russia! encouraging austria and prussia to do so likewise, whereby we assume a moral obligation not to leave them without assistance. we engage in a war which may assume in its course a totally different character from that of its beginning. who can say it is impossible that our own shores may be threatened by powers now in alliance with us? we are powerless for offence or defence without a _trained_ army; to obtain this will require considerable time. the queen must, therefore, urge lord aberdeen to consider with the cabinet whether it will not be essential to augment the army at once, and by at least thirty thousand men. considerations of home policy make this also advisable; the country is eager for war at this moment, and ready to grant men and money. it will be a great facility hereafter to have obtained what is most needed at first. if the force should finally not be wanted, retrenchments may very easily be made. the crown should at least have the power of raising the men without the necessity for further application to parliament. [pageheading: the british ultimatum] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th february ._ lord aberdeen, with his humble duty, begs to inform your majesty that another cabinet was held to-day, in order to consider the draft of a letter which it is proposed that lord clarendon should address to count nesselrode, and in which he should summon the russian government to evacuate the principalities. the messenger will be directed to wait six days for an answer, and the british government will consider the refusal or the silence of count nesselrode as equivalent to a declaration of war, and proceed to act accordingly.[ ] an assurance has been received, in general terms, of the intention of austria to support this demand; and a telegraphic message has been sent to vienna with a desire to know whether the austrian government will join in this summons, or in what manner support will be given.[ ] no answer has yet been received, and lord aberdeen would think it right not to make the summons until austria has declared her intention; but the cabinet appears to desire that the letter should be sent to-morrow evening. the period fixed for the complete evacuation of the principalities is the th of april. as it cannot be supposed that the emperor of russia will listen to such a demand as this, immediate hostilities must be expected, with all their consequences. [footnote : this summons to evacuate the principalities, and an ultimatum to a similar purport from paris, were delivered to the czar on the th of march; on their receipt the czar intimated that he did not think it fitting (_convenable_) that he should make any reply. his decision was known in london on the th.] [footnote : the attitude of austria caused great perplexity. count orloff had gone to vienna to obtain a pledge of neutrality in the event of war, but refused to give the emperor francis joseph satisfactory assurances as to the czar's future policy, and, in particular, as to the evacuation of the principalities at the close of the war. the austrian government accordingly announced its intention of acting as circumstances might dictate, but subsequently limited the assistance which it now expressed itself willing to give to england and france in insisting upon the evacuation, to diplomatic support.] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ buckingham palace, _ th february ._ the queen has received lord aberdeen's letter of this day. to be able to form a judgment on the important question to which it refers, the queen would require to be furnished with the exact terms of "the general assurance" which austria has given with respect to it. the queen, however, does not doubt for a moment that the gain of a day or two in making the summons to russia could not be compared to the advantage of being able to make the summons conjointly with austria. she must therefore wish that the answer to the telegraphic message should be awaited before the messenger is sent off. [pageheading: departure of the guards] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th february ._ my dearest uncle,--... the news from austria are quite excellent, and much more than we had any reason to expect. it will make a great difference in the nature and duration of the war. our summons to russia went last night _viâ_ paris, berlin, and vienna, and if they are received either with silence, or the emperor refuses to evacuate the principalities--_war_ will be considered as declared. the french send a similar summons. the messenger is to wait _six_ days for an answer, but no longer. the last battalion of the guards (scots fusiliers) embarked to-day. they passed through the courtyard here at seven o'clock this morning. we stood on the balcony to see them--the morning fine, the sun rising over the towers of old westminster abbey--and an immense crowd collected to see these fine men, and cheering them immensely as they with difficulty marched along. they formed line, presented arms, and then cheered us _very heartily_, and went off cheering. it was a _touching and beautiful_ sight; many sorrowing friends were there, and one saw the shake of many a hand. my best wishes and prayers will be with them all.... _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ [_undated._] the queen was rather annoyed at the manner in which lord clarendon pressed the duke of cambridge's going to the tuileries last night.[ ] she thought it an immense boon upon her part to allow the duke of cambridge _to go to paris_--and instead of its being considered as such by lord clarendon and count walewski, the queen was told it would offend the emperor if the duke did not go to the tuileries also. the queen observed that it was unnecessary and unusual for the duke, or any prince almost, to live at the _palace_ of the sovereign, unless he was a very particular friend or near relation. the duke of genoa had refused going there, though he had received other civilities here; in the same manner _no prince_ comes to this _palace_ unless he is a very _near relation_ or particular friend. to this lord clarendon replied that it was "because the _emperor wished_ it," which rather shocked the queen, and she spoke _strongly_ to him upon the subject. the result was that the queen said she would speak to the duke of cambridge about it, and see, as the emperor made _so great a point of it_, and lord clarendon considered that the _alliance depended upon it_, what he would do.... the queen must and _will_ protest, for she cannot mix up personal friendship with a political alliance. the former is the _result_ of the _experience_ of years of mutual friendship, and cannot be _carried by storm_.... there would be nothing unusual in apartments being offered to the duke of cambridge, and declined by him. this was done by the king of the belgians only last summer at berlin and vienna, without anybody's construing it into an affront. the queen adds a list of the royal personages who have been in england and never resided at the palace. lord aberdeen may show this letter to lord clarendon. [footnote : the duke was going to the crimea, and it was arranged that he should stop at paris on the way.] [pageheading: stability of the government] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ st march ._ the queen has to acknowledge lord john russell's letter of this morning. much as she must regret the postponement of the second reading of the reform bill, she must admit its wisdom under the present peculiar circumstances;[ ] but she doubts the advantage of naming a precise day after easter on which it is to come on. considering the _importance_ to the country of _preserving_ the present government and of not allowing it to be beat on so vital a question, the opportunity should not be lost of ascertaining the state of feeling both in the house of commons and in the country after the reassembling of parliament, before the government decide on entering upon the struggle which the carrying through of the measure might entail. it is quite impossible _now_ to conjecture with certainty what that state of feeling and the general political circumstances at home and abroad may be at that time. possibly the country may be more eager _then for_ the measure--or the war may _disincline_ it _altogether_ towards it. the queen seizes this opportunity of expressing her sense of the _imperative importance_ of the cabinet being _united_ and of one mind at this moment, and not to let it _appear_ that there are differences of opinion within it. the knowledge that there are such is a cause of great _anxiety_ to the queen, at a time when she is to enter upon a european war, of which nobody can confidently predict the extent. [footnote : see the queen's letter of the th of march, _post_.] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ buckingham palace, _ nd february (? march) ._ in returning these letters to lord aberdeen the queen must express to him that there are _hints_ in them which give her great uneasiness. the stability of this government is not only of _paramount importance_ at the _commencement_ of the war, but throughout it; the moment for negotiation may arrive much sooner than we now expect--and _then_, more than _now even_, the government ought to be composed of the _ablest and most moderate_ men which this country can produce. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th march ._ the queen thanks lord john russell for his letter received this morning. she has read the proceedings in the house of commons with much interest.[ ] she was particularly pleased with lord john's second speech, in which he affirmed the principle that public men ought not to oppose the regard for personal honour or reputation to the well-understood interests of the country. indeed, the queen cannot conceive the possibility of their collision, as an exclusive regard for the well-understood interests of the country must always redound to the honour and reputation of a statesman. [footnote : lord john russell had announced the decision of the government to postpone till the th of april the second reading of the reform bill, and, in reply to some sarcastic comments from mr disraeli, stated that he would be ashamed of himself if he preferred anything connected with his own personal reputation to the interest of the country. he added that the security of the country depended upon its confidence in the character of public men.] [pageheading: the baltic fleet] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th march ._ my dearest uncle,--your kind letter of the th arrived here on saturday just when we returned from a splendid and never-to-be-forgotten sight-- the sailing of our noble fleet for the baltic;[ ] the navy and nation were particularly pleased at _my leading them out_, as they call it, which in fact was the case, as, in our little _fairy_ we went on and lay to, to see them all come out, which (the wind being fair) they did, with sails set, each passing us close by, and giving us three hearty cheers, as i think none but british tars _can_ give. gloriously they bore along, followed by the prayers and good wishes of all. you should read the account in yesterday's _times_. another sailing squadron goes to-morrow. the captains and admirals all took leave on board, and seemed much impressed with the solemnity of the moment.... ever your truly devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the fleet, under sir charles napier, had been assembled at spithead.] [pageheading: the king of prussia] [pageheading: prussian neutrality] [pageheading: war declared] _queen victoria to the king of prussia._ [_translation._] osborne, _ th march ._ dear sir and brother,--general count von der gröben has brought me the official letter of your majesty, as well as the confidential one,[ ] and i send your kind messenger back, with these two answers to you. he will be able to tell you, orally, what i can express only imperfectly in writing, how deep my pain is, after our going so far, faithfully, hand in hand, to see you, at this weighty moment, separating yourself from us. my pain is still further increased by the fact that i cannot even conceive the grounds which move your majesty to take this step. [footnote : the prussian court considered itself under no obligation to engage in the impending struggle, till its own interests became directly involved; it would not (said baron manteuffel, president of the ministry, on the th of march) take part, for the protection of the integrity of the ottoman empire, "in a conflict, the full scope of which cannot yet be apprehended, and the original subject matter of which does not affect the interests of our fatherland."] the most recent russian proposals came as an answer to the _last_ attempt for an understanding which the powers believed could be arrived at honourably, and they have been rejected by the vienna conference, not because they were not in accordance with the literal wording of the programme, but because they were contrary to the intention of it. your majesty's ambassador has taken part in this conference and its decision, and when your majesty now says: "the task of diplomacy ceases at the exact point where that of the sovereigns emphatically begins"; i am unable to assent to such a definition. for what my ambassador does, he does in my name, and i feel myself not only bound in honour thereby, but also placed under an obligation to take upon myself the _consequences_ which the step which he is directed to take may lead to. the dreadful and incalculable consequences of a war weigh upon my heart not less than on your majesty's. i also know that the emperor of russia does not wish for it. he, none the less, demands from the porte things which all the powers of europe--among them, yourself--have solemnly declared to be incompatible with the independence of the porte, and the european balance of power. in view of this declaration and of the presence of the russian army of invasion in the principalities, the powers could not but be ready to confirm their word by action. if "the turk" now goes into the background, and if the approaching war appears to you as a "war of tendency" this is the case only because the very motives which may induce the emperor to insist on his demands--in defiance of the opposition of the whole of europe, and with the danger of a war that may devastate the world, do betray a _distinct tendency_, and because the grave consequences of the war must appear much more momentous than the original ostensible cause of it, which at first appeared only as the request for a key to the back door of a mosque. your majesty asks me "to examine the question in a spirit of love for peace, and even now to build a bridge for the imperial honour." ah, my dear sir and brother, all the inventive gifts, all the architecture of diplomacy and of goodwill, have been uselessly wasted during these last nine months in this bridge-building! the _projets de notes, de conventions, de protocoles_, etc., etc., have proceeded, by the dozen, from the chancelleries of the different powers, and one might call the ink wasted on them another black sea. but everything has been shipwrecked against the self-will of your honourable brother-in-law. if now your majesty informs me "_that now you mean to persist in complete neutrality_," and if, on this occasion, you refer us to your nation, who are said to exclaim with sound common sense: "acts of violence have been done by the turks, the turk has good friends in large numbers, and the emperor has done us no harm"--i do not understand you. certainly i should understand this language if i heard it from the kings of hanover or of saxony. but i have, hitherto, looked upon prussia as one of the great powers which, since the peace of , have been guarantors of treaties, guardians of civilisation, defenders of the right, the real arbiters of the nations; and for my part i have felt the divine responsibility of this sacred office, without undervaluing at the same time the heavy obligation, not unconnected with danger, which it imposes on me. if you, dear sir and brother, abdicate these obligations, you have also abdicated that position for prussia. and should such an example find imitators, then the civilisation of europe would be delivered up to the play of winds; right will then no longer find a champion, the oppressed will find no longer an umpire. let not your majesty believe that what has been said in this letter is aimed at persuading you to change your resolves; it flows from the affectionate heart of a sister, who could not pardon herself, were she not, at so weighty a moment, to let you see into her inmost soul. so little is it my intention to desire to win you over to our view, that nothing has grieved me more than the suspicion, expressed in your name by general von der gröben, that england had desired to seduce you from your purpose by opening a prospect of advantages to be gained. the baselessness of such a supposition is evident from the treaty itself which had been offered to you, and whose most important clause consisted in the promise of the contracting parties, _not to desire in any case to derive from the war any advantage for themselves_. your majesty could not have given a more powerful proof of your unselfishness than by the very fact of attaching your signature to this treaty. to come to a close. you suppose that war may already have been declared; you express, however, at the same time, the hope that it may not already have actually broken out. i cannot unfortunately hold out any hope that the sentence will be followed by any stay of execution. shakespeare's words: "beware of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, bear it that the opposer may beware of thee," are deeply engraved on the hearts of all englishmen. sad that they are to find an application at this crisis, in a nation with whom previously nothing prevailed but friendship and affection! and how much more melancholy must be the present emotions of your majesty's heart and mind to see such words applied to a beloved brother-in-law, whom yet--however much you love him--your conscience cannot absolve from the crime of having brought upon the world wilfully and frivolously such awful misery! may the almighty take you under his protection! with albert's most cordial compliments, and our united greetings to the dear queen, i remain, my much honoured sir and brother, your majesty's faithful sister and friend, victoria r.[ ] [footnote : the king afterwards agreed to the proposed protocol for the preservation of the integrity of turkey, which was signed at vienna on the th of april.] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ _ st april ._ the queen rejoices to see the debate was favourable in the house of lords, and that it was concluded in the house of commons.[ ] she is rather startled at seeing lord aberdeen's answer to lord roden upon the subject of a day of humiliation, as he has never mentioned the subject to her, and it is one upon which she feels strongly. the only thing the queen ever heard about it was from the duke of newcastle, who suggested the _possibility_ of an _appropriate_ prayer being introduced into the liturgy, in which the queen quite agreed; but he was strongly against a day of humiliation, in which the queen also entirely agreed, as she thinks we have recourse to them far too often, and they thereby lose their effect. the queen therefore hopes that this will be reconsidered carefully, and a _prayer_ substituted for the _day of humiliation_. were the services selected for these days of a different kind to what they are--the queen would feel less strongly about it; but they always select chapters from the old testament and psalms which are so totally inapplicable that it does away with all the effect it ought to have. moreover, really to say (as we probably should) that the _great sinfulness of the nation_ has brought about this war, when it is the selfishness and ambition of _one_ man and his servants who have brought this about, while our conduct has been throughout actuated by unselfishness and honesty, would be too manifestly repulsive to the feelings of every one, and would be a mere act of hypocrisy. let there be a prayer expressive of our great thankfulness for the benefits we have enjoyed, and for the immense prosperity of this country, and entreating god's help and protection in the coming struggle. in this the queen would join heart and soul. if there is to be a day set apart, let it be for prayer in this sense. [footnote : on the th of march the queen announced to parliament that the negotiations with the czar had terminated, and that she felt bound "to afford active assistance to her ally, the sultan." next day the declaration of war was issued, containing a narrative of the events which finally led to the rupture. the debates on the address in answer to the message took place on the st of march, mr bright, in the commons, censuring the declaration, and being replied to by lord palmerston. the addresses were presented to the queen on the rd of april.] [pageheading: the reform question] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ the queen is anxious to express to lord john russell the extreme satisfaction she experiences at the communication lord aberdeen yesterday evening made her of the settlement of the reform question, viz., of its postponement for the present session, with the understanding that it is to be brought forward again whenever the state of affairs will admit of its being fairly and calmly considered by parliament.[ ] the sacrifice of personal feeling which no doubt this may cost lord john will, she is certain, be amply compensated by the conviction that he has done so for the interest and tranquillity of his sovereign and country, to whom a dissolution of the present government would have been a source of immense danger and evil. [footnote : from a memorandum, made by prince albert, of interviews with lord aberdeen, it appears that before the cabinet of the th of april lord palmerston declared that under neither present nor any future conditions could he vote for the second reading of the reform bill. lord john thereupon tendered his resignation; this lord aberdeen asked him to suspend until after the meeting of the cabinet.] [pageheading: dissension in the cabinet] [pageheading: lord john russell] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ pembroke lodge, _ th april ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he cannot think it consistent with fairness to conceal from your majesty the deep feelings of mortification which affect him on reviewing the proceedings of the cabinet yesterday.[ ] lord aberdeen was the only person who behaved with due regard to the honour of the administration. the rest appeared ready to sacrifice everything in order to keep the ministry together; and lord john russell feels bound to warn your majesty that, although he was quite willing to waive the consideration of the reform bill for the present session, he is not ready to consent that it shall be entirely set aside in order to keep together a ministry whose continuance would be dearly bought at the price of the welfare of the country, and the consistency of public men. lord john russell must reflect further on this subject before he comes to a final determination. [footnote : lord john russell's actions at this period of his career seem often incomprehensible; but his private domestic anxieties seem to have weighed him down. having made the great sacrifice, for an ex-premier, of taking office under an old opponent, he was now engaged in trying to regain the first place for himself. lord aberdeen had always contemplated retiring in his favour, but would not give up the premiership in the face of the dangers threatening the country. moreover, he had believed his continuance in office to be a guarantee for peace. lord john russell, after accepting the foreign office, had then insisted on being a minister without office; later still, by displacing mr strutt and transferring lord granville to the duchy, he himself became lord president of the council, an office which no commoner had held since the reign of henry viii. by such action, coupled with perpetual threats of resignation, he marred his prospects of succeeding lord aberdeen, and, as will be seen, failed in his attempt to construct an administration when the opportunity was offered him.] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ the queen received lord john russell's letter last night. she is much grieved that he should be "affected by deep feelings of mortification on reviewing the proceedings of the cabinet." from all the queen had heard of the views of the different members of the cabinet, she believes them to have been fully convinced that the present moment would be inopportune to press the reform bill, but _quite_ prepared to take it up again on the first fitting opportunity; she, of course, does _not_ speak of lord palmerston. the queen would, no more than lord john, wish to see "the reform bill set aside in order to keep together a ministry," but does not consider the decision of the cabinet at all to imply this, whatever lord palmerston's personal wishes may be, and trusts that the country will fully understand and appreciate the motives which have guided the government. lord aberdeen and lord john will always receive every support from the queen when they shall think it right to propose the re-introduction of the measure. [pageheading: lord john russell] _memorandum by the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ lord aberdeen has just left the queen, after an interview which he had had with sir james graham and lord john russell at lord john's request. he reported that at that interview lord john renewed his complaint of the cabinet, declared that he could not state to the house what was untrue, and must therefore resign. lord aberdeen called this "really too monstrous" after the pledge given by the sovereign, himself as prime minister, and the whole cabinet, with the exception of one man, and he would repeat his promise that whenever lord john said, "the reform bill is to come on," and lord palmerston opposed it, he should go. lord john could not be appeased, but spoke with the greatest bitterness. he had written to lord palmerston in the same sense; and lord palmerston's answer arrived during the interview. it was to the effect that if one of them was to resign, it was not lord john, who agreed with the rest of the cabinet upon the bill, but himself, who was the dissentient. lord aberdeen asked lord john whether lord palmerston's resignation would satisfy him; to which he answered, he believed it would not mend matters. lord aberdeen's opinion, however, is that it is what lord john, and still more what lady john, wants. he thinks the country will never understand how the government could break up, and that lord john is cutting his own throat, and told him so. if lord john went, he could not go on with lord palmerston as leader of the house of commons, which he called "perfectly ludicrous." lord palmerston would probably insist upon this, however; lord palmerston's retirement would be a great blow to the government, as the country persisted in thinking him the only able war minister, and would cry out at "the imbecile old head of the government having it now all his own way." he thought, should he not be able to go on, new combinations could be formed, perhaps under the duke of newcastle and mr gladstone, as the country liked younger men. lord john must give his answer in the house of commons to-morrow at half-past four. lord aberdeen would wish to see the duke of newcastle, sir james graham, and mr gladstone, as his more particular friends, this evening, to discuss the whole question with them, and would see lord palmerston and lord john to-morrow, before he could make any report to the queen. this is all really very bad! albert. _lord john russell to queen victoria._ chesham place, _ th april ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he has the honour to acknowledge, with gratitude, your majesty's communication of yesterday. lord john russell waited to see lord aberdeen before he answered, and having now had a long conversation with him, lord john russell being assured of your majesty's support, of lord aberdeen's concurrence, and of the assent of the majority of his colleagues, is willing to continue his humble services in the cabinet, and in the house of commons. lord john russell must ask your majesty to excuse what may have seemed intemperate in his letter of sunday last. he is still of opinion that without public confidence in his integrity and uprightness he can be of no use to your majesty, or to the country. and on that confidence must depend the continuance of his services.[ ] [footnote : on the same day lord john announced in the commons the withdrawal of the reform bill. he admitted that this course would expose him to the taunts and sarcasms of his opponents, and to the suspicions of his supporters. here "his feelings overcame him, and, as he used the word 'suspicion' in reference to his motive, his utterance was choked, and the sentence he struggled to pronounce was evidently given through tears." (_ann. reg._, , p. .) loud and sympathetic cheers followed from all parts of the house.] _memorandum by the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ we saw lord aberdeen at three o'clock to-day, who reported to the queen that the change of mind of lord john had been the result of an hour and a half's discussion with him this morning. he must admit, however, that he found lord john in a mood willing to let himself be convinced. the queen's letter might have contributed to this as well as the entreaties of the duke of bedford and lord lansdowne. lord aberdeen could tell lord john in truth that there was not a shadow of difference of opinion amongst any of his friends, that he would lose himself for ever, and meet with universal reprobation, if he persisted in resigning after every cause for it had been removed, and he had agreed to the course lord palmerston had insisted upon. lord palmerston had written a very clever letter to lord john, begging him not to desert the queen and the country, which, if he read it to the house of commons, would floor lord john completely. we asked what had been agreed upon at yesterday evening's meeting. lord aberdeen told us the decision, under the impression that lord john would resign, had been for lord aberdeen to call upon lord palmerston, and to explain to him that although he had acted cordially with him as a colleague in this government, yet they had been political antagonists during their whole lives--the government also was still a reform government; from personal, therefore, as well as public, reasons it was impossible that he should be entrusted with the lead of the house of commons, being the only anti-reformer. and it was hoped that he would have no difficulty in letting mr gladstone lead the house, as sir james graham was the same age and political standing with lord palmerston, but at once cheerfully contented to waive all his claims in favour of mr gladstone. albert. [pageheading: the duke of cambridge] [pageheading: the emperor of austria] _the duke of cambridge to queen victoria._[ ] vienna, _ th april ._ my dear cousin,--before leaving this place i think it right that i should once more trouble you with a letter, to inform you that the messenger has arrived who brought your autograph letter for the emperor, which i presented to him to-day at an audience i had for this purpose.... i had a very long and most interesting conversation with the emperor, who opened frankly and fairly upon the great questions of the day. the impression he made upon me was an excellent one, his confidence and frankness are complete, and i have the firm conviction that he is a man of his word, and that he never would say a thing that he did not in his heart mean. the result of what he said was the following: that he naturally was most distressed at all that had occurred; that he was placed by the emperor of russia in a most difficult position; that he quite disapproved his acts; but that he could not but have a great disinclination to break with a very old ally; and that even still he hoped this painful step might be spared to him by the emperor of russia making some proposal so honourable to all parties, that it would not be rejected by the western powers, who would naturally not be disinclined to a peace, honourable to themselves and tranquillising for the future; that the basis of such treaty would be the position of the christian population of the east; that this might be discussed in conference, the russians having _first_ evacuated the principalities, upon which the turks would hold the right bank of the danube, our fleets to await events in the bosphorus, and our armies at constantinople, such position being highly honourable and advantageous to us in the eyes of europe, and certainly not nearly so favourable to russia; that he was certainly sensible that the english government had not pressed him, feeling as they had done the extreme delicacy of his position, and the great extent of his frontier so easily attacked; that he did not wish to say now, till the moment of decision came, thinking it more honourable and straightforward not to raise false expectations, but that his interests being so completely with us, should the emperor of russia do nothing in the honourable direction he hoped to see him adopt, he should then consider himself called upon to express frankly to us what he proposed to do, in order that our action might become united and of advantage to one another. he further thought that the treaty with prussia would greatly facilitate all this, as prussia had acceded to the wishes of austria in the event of certain eventualities, which, however, for the moment are not named, but which, as far as i understand, go to the length of leaving austria unfettered to act as she likes at the moment when she considers her so doing essential to her position as a young empire. it is quite evident to me that this is the general feeling here, amongst all those who have any weight in the councils of the empire. these are _austrian_ views, and i must say i can understand them and appreciate them as such. i am confident, i am certain, they are _honest_ on the part of the emperor, and i doubt not he will carry them through to the letter, for i am confident the emperor never would say what he did not mean. rely upon it, this country will never go with russia; she knows her interests too well for that; she would like to avoid a war altogether if she could, and with that view she would be delighted to see some honourable and acceptable proposal made, but should this fail she will then take a very decided line, and that line will be in accordance with austrian interests--which means with us. i find that most of the more prudent people, and many of those in high office, are fully alive to the advantages of the english alliance, and would wish to see this alliance confirmed _de novo_; and i think it would be very well for us to meet them half-way with this. but then it would be better to avoid all after-dinner speeches such as those at the reform club,[ ] all polish legions such as are talked of, and in short any of these little matters, which are painfully felt here, and which always produce an uncomfortable and distrustful effect. the emperor expressed himself in the most grateful manner towards yourself, and i think is pleased at your having permitted me to be present on this occasion.... hoping that you will approve of my humble endeavours here, and with sincere regards to albert, i beg to remain, my dear cousin, your most dutiful cousin, george. [footnote : the english forces destined for the east were under the command of lord raglan (formerly lord fitzroy somerset). the duke of cambridge commanded one infantry division, the other three being respectively under sir george brown, sir de lacy evans, and sir richard england; the cavalry division was commanded by the earl of lucan, general scarlett commanding the heavy cavalry, and lord cardigan the light brigade.] [footnote : at a dinner given on the th of march by the reform club to sir charles napier, lord palmerston, who was in the chair, and sir james graham, had made provocative and unbecoming speeches; on attention being called in parliament to the proceedings, mr bright complained of the reckless levity displayed; lord palmerston made a flippant and undignified defence, the tone of which was much resented.] [pageheading: bombardment of odessa] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ my dearest uncle,--accept my best thanks for your kind letter of the th. i return you the emperor's kind letter. nothing could be more satisfactory than the reception george met with by everybody at vienna--beginning with the emperor. they showed him much confidence, and he obtained from them intelligence which i think no one else would. the fleets have done their duty admirably at odessa;[ ] the town has not been touched, and all the fortifications and many ships have been destroyed.... we had a concert last night, and i saw good sir h. seymour, who is full of your kindness and goodness; and a most worthy, honourable and courageous little man he is.[ ] if the poor emperor nicholas had had a few such--_nous ne serions pas où nous en sommes_. but unfortunately the emperor does _not like_ being _told_ what is unpleasant and _contrary_ to _his wishes_, and gets very violent when he hears the _real_ truth--which _consequently_ is not told him! there is the misery of being violent and passionate; if princes and still more kings and emperors are so, _no_ one will _ever_ tell them the truth, and _how_ dreadful that is! i think one never can be too careful in bringing up princes to inculcate the principle of _self-control_. we have a good deal of rain and thunder since yesterday, which i hope will revive poor parched nature. i must now wish you good-bye, as i expect dear victoire shortly. nemours intends going to fetch the queen. with albert's love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : in consequence of the russians firing upon a flag of truce, odessa was bombarded on the nd of april, and most of its batteries silenced or destroyed.] [footnote : the conversations of sir hamilton seymour and the emperor nicholas in the year had now been given to the world. the czar, believing the time ripe for the dismemberment of turkey, had expressed himself openly to the british ambassador, and the conversations were all reported to the british ministry. on the nd of march , an obviously inspired article in the _journal de st. pétersbourg_ professed to contradict the statements of lord john russell in the house of commons reflecting on the bad faith of the russian government, and accordingly, in their own vindication, the english cabinet now published the conversations above referred to.] [pageheading: the sultan] [pageheading: the british forces] _the duke of cambridge to queen victoria._ constantinople, _ th may ._ my dear cousin,--i have not as yet announced to you my safe arrival here, as i was anxious first to see the sultan and the general state of things before giving you a report of what was really going on.... i found a great proportion of the infantry arrived, a portion of the artillery, but as yet no cavalry. lord raglan is well and in good spirits, lord stratford de redcliffe ill in bed with a bad fit of the gout--most miserable to see in every respect. the sultan[ ] received me at once on the day of arrival, and made his return visit to me yesterday. i confess i was not much impressed with either his appearance or general ability. he is, to say the truth, a wretched creature, prematurely aged, and having nothing whatever to say for himself. a few commonplace civilities was all the conversation which passed between us. i said everything i could think of to make a conversation, among other things messages of civility from yourself; but though he appeared pleased and expressed his satisfaction at our being here, i could not get him to enter into anything, and i was not sorry on both occasions when our interview was at an end. as to his ministers, and in fact the whole population and country, with the exception of redschid pasha,[ ] they are all a most wretched and miserable set of people, and far, far worse than anything i could possibly have imagined or supposed. in fact, the "sick man" is _excessively sick indeed_, dying as fast as possible; and the sooner diplomacy disposes of him the better, for no earthly power can save him, that is very evident. this is the opinion of every person out here of both armies, french and english, and you may rest assured it is the truth. the great thing is that we are here and no other power can now step in, but diplomacy must settle what is to happen, for as to the turks remaining in europe that is out of the question, and the very fact of our being here now has given them their death-blow. i hope, my dear cousin, you will forgive me for being very candid on this point, but i really do not think that anybody in england had any idea of the real state of affairs here. the sooner therefore that they are put in possession of the truth unvarnished the better. the great and imperative necessity is that the four powers of europe should strike together, otherwise things will become much worse than they are even at present. everybody is very civil and obliging to me, the sultan has put me into one of his best palaces, very nicely fitted up, and is anxious to do everything i wish. i find it inconvenient, as the troops are on the other side of the bosphorus, and i therefore intend going over there to reside if possible. marshal st arnaud is here and prince napoleon, but no french troops. i have seen the latter once; he was very civil indeed to me, but i do not think he has made at all a good impression here, his manner being offensive and harsh. i do not think the army like him at all. i am afraid the french ambassador is giving much trouble. neither st arnaud nor the prince like him at all, and i believe they have written to demand his recall, which would be a very good thing, as he cannot hit it off with anybody. as to our movements, i know nothing of them as yet, nor do i think that much has as yet been settled, but i fear we shall not be fit to move for some time; the difficulty of transport is very great, our artillery only partly arrived, and no cavalry. we require more troops, more particularly of the latter arm, in which the russians are very strong. we ought to have at least , men more, and the sooner they are sent out the better. even that number is not enough, for the french talk of , men, and we should be in a most dreadful minority unless we had , to , . i am afraid all this will alarm people in england, but it is the truth.... i remain, my dear cousin, your most dutiful cousin, george. we never hear any news here. all that does come to us generally comes by way of europe; another proof of what a miserable country this is. [footnote : abdul medjid, born , who had succeeded to the throne at the time of the syrian war; see _ante_, vol. i., th august, , note .] [footnote : minister of foreign affairs, born , died .] [pageheading: the king of prussia] _the king of prussia to queen victoria._ [_translation._] sans souci, _ th may ._ most gracious queen,--... my policy,[ ] which has been so terribly criticised and derided as "vacillating," has been, since the beginning of this most inauspicious conflict, one and the same, and _without a hairsbreadth of deviation_ either to the right or to the left. as it rests on the unshakable foundation which my conscience as a king and a christian has laid down, and which does not admit _que je fasse la besogne ni de l'un ni de l'autre parti_, i am abused and insulted at the winter palace, and regarded, by way of contrast in london and paris, as a kind of simpleton--neither of which is pleasant. may your majesty believe my royal word: i was, i am, i remain the truest and most faithful friend of great britain, as well in principle as from religious feeling and from true affection. i desire and practise a good and honest understanding with france; but when it comes to helping the french--to whom prussia's geographical position between paris and warsaw is very inconvenient--to pull the _chestnuts from the fire_ for them, for such a task i am frankly too good. if the emperor wishes to force me to assist--as evidently he is inclined to do--it will end by becoming too difficult for him. he ought to thank god that my view of russian policy and my fidelity to your majesty have prevented me from making him begin this _turkish_ war on the _other side of his own frontier_. the great advantage of this result is totally forgotten in france, and, unfortunately, in england too. those who every day fill the papers of home and foreign countries with accounts of my vacillations, nay, who represent me as leaping from my own horse on to a russian one, are inventing lies, in a great measure, deliberately. i tell your majesty, on my honour and conscience, that my policy is to-day _the same_ as it was nine months ago. i have recognised it as my duty before god to preserve, for my people and my provinces, peace, _because i recognise peace as a blessing and war as a curse_. i cannot and will not side with russia, because russia's arrogance and wickedness have caused this _horrible_ trouble, and because duty and conscience and tradition forbid me to draw the sword against old england. in the same degree duty and conscience forbid me to make unprovoked war against russia, because russia, so far, has done me no harm. so i thought, so i willed when i thought myself isolated. how then could i now suddenly abandon a steady policy, preserved in the face of many dangers, and incline to russia at the moment when i have concluded with austria an alliance defensive and offensive, in which (if god grant his blessing) the whole of germany will join in a few days, thus welding, for the entire duration of the war, the whole of central europe into a unity, comprising , , people, and easily able to put , , men into the field? and yet, most gracious queen, i do not take up a defiant position on the strength of this enormous power, but i trust in the lord's help and my own sacred right; i also believe, honestly and firmly, that the character of a so-called great power must justify itself, _not by swimming with the current_, but _by standing firm like a rock in the sea_. i close this letter which, in consequence of various interruptions, is almost a week old, on the th of may. this is your birthday, ever dearest, most gracious queen. on this day i lay at your majesty's feet the expression of my wishes for every blessing. may god grant your majesty a joyful day, and a richly blessed year of rule. may he strengthen, preserve, and invigorate your precious health, and may he give you, within the three hundred and sixty-five days of the year of your life which begins to-day, _that_ one day of overabundant blessing, of unspeakable joy, for which i long, for which i pray to god--_that blissful day on which you can utter the word_ peace. now i beg your majesty from the bottom of my heart not to be angry with me for my unconscionably long letter, nor to worry yourself about sending an answer, but, on the other hand, graciously to keep it secret, communicating it only to the dear prince. it is a matter of course that the facts which it contains, and the resulting explanations, which may be of importance for your majesty's government, must, from their nature, no longer be kept secret, so soon as you think it right to announce them. i embrace the dear prince tenderly, and commend myself to the grace, goodwill, and friendship of my august royal sister, i being your majesty's most faithfully devoted, most attached servant and good brother, frederic william. [footnote : in the previous portion of this long letter, here omitted, the king gives a detailed account of his position and policy.] [pageheading: marshal st arnaud] _queen victoria to the duke of newcastle._ osborne, _ th may ._ the queen acknowledges the receipt of the duke of newcastle's letter, which she received quite early this morning. the duke of cambridge's letter does _not_ give a flourishing account of the state of turkey. what alarms the queen most is the news given by the duke of newcastle of the pretensions of marshal st arnaud.[ ] she does not quite understand whether he has received the supreme command over the turkish army, but at any rate if the porte should be willing to allow its army to be placed under foreign command, a portion of it ought to be claimed by us for lord raglan, which, joined to his english forces, would produce an army capable of taking the field independently. the queen trusts that the government will take this into serious consideration, and, if they should concur in this view, that no time will be lost. [footnote : the duke had written to say that a demand had been made by marshal st arnaud upon the porte that omar pasha should be superseded, and the turkish army placed under his (st arnaud's) orders; also that marshal st arnaud was desirous of assuming the supreme command of the allied forces. the incident is graphically recorded by mr kinglake.] [pageheading: the queen's reply] [pageheading: invasion of the principalities] [pageheading: friendly relations] _queen victoria to the king of prussia._ [_translation._] buckingham palace, _june ._ dearest sir and brother,--your faithful bunsen has handed me your majesty's long explanatory letter, and has taken his leave of us,[ ] with tears in his eyes, and i can assure your majesty that i, too, see with pain the departure of one whom i have been accustomed to consider as the faithful mirror of your feelings, wishes, and views, and whose depth and warmth of heart i esteem no less highly than his high mental gifts. sympathy with his fate is general here. i entirely recognise in your letter the expression of your friendship, which is so dear to me, and which does not admit any sort of misunderstanding to exist between us, without my endeavouring at once to clear it up and remove it. how could i meet your friendship otherwise than by equally absolute frankness, allowing you to look into my inmost heart! though you have shown me a proof of your gracious confidence in giving me, down to the smallest detail, an account of your personal and business relations with your servants, i still believe that i have no right to formulate any judgment. only one thing my heart bids me to express, viz., that the men with whom you have broken were faithful, veracious servants, warmly devoted to you, and that just by the freedom and independence of spirit, with which they have expressed their opinions to your majesty, _they have given an indisputable proof_ of having had in view, not their own personal advantage and the favour of their sovereign, but his true interests and welfare alone; and if just such men as these--among them even your loving brother, a thoroughly noble and chivalrous prince, standing next to the throne--find themselves forced, in a grave crisis, to turn away from you, this is a _momentous sign_, which might well give cause to your majesty to take counsel with yourself, and to examine with anxious care, whether perhaps the hidden cause of past and future evils may not lie in your majesty's own views?[ ] you complain, most honoured sire and brother, that your policy is blamed as _vacillating_, and that your own person is insulted at home and abroad (a thing which has often filled me with _deep grief and indignation_), and you asseverate that your policy rests upon a firm basis, which the conscience of "a king and a christian has laid down for it." but should it be possible to discover in your majesty's fundamental views something self-contradictory, then necessarily, the more consistently and conscientiously these fundamental views are revealed in their consequences, the more contradictory must your actions appear to those who are not intimately aware of your intentions, and cannot but force upon the world the impression that your views themselves were wavering. you will not take it amiss in a true friend and sister, if she endeavours to place before you her impressions on this matter, as frankly as they appear to her. your majesty has acknowledged in the face of the world that russia has addressed to the porte demands which she had no right to make. you have further acknowledged that the forcible taking possession of two turkish provinces with the intention of enforcing the demand was a political wrong. you have, together with austria, france, and england, several times declared in protocols the preservation of the integrity of the turkish empire to be a european interest. notwithstanding all this, russia continues to occupy the danube principalities, penetrates further into turkey, and, by forcing on a sanguinary and exhausting war, leads the unhappy and _suffering_ empire on to the brink of the grave. what should europe then do under these circumstances? it could not possibly be the intention of the powers to declare the preservation and integrity of the porte to be a matter of european concern, solely in order to allow that empire to be destroyed before their very eyes! as to prussia, i can conceive a line of policy, not that indeed which i should think in harmony with the generosity and chivalry of your rule, but still one possible in itself, by which she would say to herself: "the preservation of this integrity i have indeed declared to be a matter of european concern, but i wish to leave england and france to defend that policy with their wealth and blood, and reserve to myself only a _moral_ co-operation." but what am i to think if, after england and france with courageous readiness have taken upon themselves alone this immense responsibility, sacrifice, and danger, your majesty is now mainly considering the erection of a barrier of , , of men between them and that power, against whose encroachment the european interest is to be defended? what am i to say to the threat uttered against the _west_ as well as against the _east?_ and to your even asking from the west gratitude for "the enormous advantage" that you do not, into the bargain, yourself join in attacking it!! for your majesty says expressly in your letter: "the emperor ought to thank god that my view of russian policy, my _fidelity_ to your majesty, have prevented me from making him begin the turkish war on the other side of his own frontier. the enormous advantage of this abstention is totally forgotten in france, and, unfortunately, in england too!" dearest sir and brother, this language shows a contradiction in your own mind, which fills me with the greatest anxiety for possible consequences, an anxiety not diminished by your kindly adding: "duty, conscience, and tradition forbid you to draw the sword against old england." i shall gladly with you bless the day on which the word of peace can be uttered. your majesty can, by vigorous co-operation, help to usher in that day, just as you might have--in my conviction--contributed, by vigorous co-operation to prevent the war altogether. whatever these troublous times may bring us, i harbour the firm confidence that the warmth of our friendly relations cannot be troubled by anything, and rejoice in the circumstance that the personal relations of the two sovereigns are, in this matter, so entirely in harmony with the interests of the two nations. albert sends you his homage, and i remain, with most cordial remembrance to the dear queen, and with thanks for the kind wishes expressed by both of you, ever your majesty's faithful sister and friend, victoria r. [footnote : the influence of russia over the king had been proved by the recall of baron bunsen, and the dismissal of all those ministers who had opposed the policy of the czar in turkey.] [footnote : the prince of prussia had shown his dissatisfaction with the king's policy by quitting berlin.] [pageheading: the war office] _minute of interview by the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ lord aberdeen had an audience to-day before the council, and represented that what was intended was merely a division of the office of secretary of state, and not the creation of any new power, and must be considered rather as a means of avoiding further changes.[ ] lord grey, in hearing of this intention, called it in a letter "the worst arrangement of all," as unfavourable to his further views; the duke of newcastle would fill the office, and would have to prepare the changes, inherent in the arrangement, and was determined not to break down the present arrangements; lord john russell was agreed herewith, and sir george grey would take office knowing this to be lord aberdeen's firm decision. but there was in fact no choice. mr rich would this afternoon bring forward a motion in the house of commons for the consolidation of all military offices under one department and a civil head, and lord john russell, to whom lord aberdeen had said that the queen still hesitated about admitting the separation of the duties of secretary of state, declared to him angrily, if that was so, he would go down to the house and vote for mr rich's motion!! the motion would be carried without fail in the house. so this important measure had been carried by storm (as the queen could only give way under these circumstances), and carried without a definite plan, leaving everything to the future!! lord john is to be lord president, and he insisted upon sir george grey taking the colonies. lord aberdeen fears much dissatisfaction from lord canning, mr cardwell, and mr peel, and just dissatisfaction; the cabinet are very angry at the whole proceeding. lord granville behaved exceedingly well, putting himself and his office entirely at lord aberdeen's disposal.[ ] it is supposed that in the house expressions will be dropped in favour of lord palmerston's taking the conduct of the war in his hands. the duke of newcastle, whom we saw, also states the extreme difficulty of _defining_ the duties of the secretary of state, but promises to do so, as far as possible, for the queen's convenience. albert. [footnote : lord john russell had some time before proposed the separation of the war and colonial departments, with a view of filling the colonial office himself, "which, in every point of view." wrote lord aberdeen to the queen, "would have been a most satisfactory arrangement."] [footnote : lord fitzmaurice, in his _life of lord granville_, points out that mr strutt was really the person who had a right to complain. he was abruptly removed from the chancellorship of the duchy, and replaced by lord granville to suit lord john's convenience.] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ the queen has not yet acknowledged lord aberdeen's letter of the th. she is very glad to hear that he will take an opportunity to-day of dispelling misapprehensions which have arisen in the public mind in consequence of his last speech in the house of lords, and the effect of which has given the queen very great uneasiness.[ ] she knows lord aberdeen so well that she can fully enter into his feelings and understand what he means, but the public, particularly under strong excitement of patriotic feeling, is impatient and annoyed to hear at this moment the first minister of the crown enter into an _impartial_ examination of the emperor of russia's character and conduct. the qualities in lord aberdeen's character which the queen values most highly, his candour and his courage in expressing opinions even if opposed to general feelings of the moment, are in this instance dangerous to him, and the queen hopes that in the vindication of his own conduct to-day, which ought to be triumphant, as it wants in fact _no_ vindication, he will not undertake the ungrateful and injurious task of vindicating the emperor of russia from any of the exaggerated charges brought against him and his policy at a time when there is enough in it to make us fight with all might against it. [footnote : the speech of lord aberdeen, to which the queen here refers, had created a very unsatisfactory impression. on the th of june the venerable lord lyndhurst had denounced the aggressive policy and the perfidy of russia; in the debate which followed, lord aberdeen spoke coldly, in a strain of semi-apology for russia, and with an unlucky reference to the treaty of adrianople. popular feeling against russia being then at a white heat, the speech was considered indicative of apathy on behalf of the government in the prosecution of the war. accordingly, by moving on a later day for a copy of his own despatch of , relative to the treaty, the premier obtained an opportunity of dispelling some of the apprehensions which his speech had excited.] [pageheading: the russian loan] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ the queen observes in lord cowley's letter a suggestion of m. drouyn de lhuys to stop, if possible, the russian loan. she thinks this of the highest importance as _cutting_ the _sinews_ of war of the enemy. the queen does not know whether we have by law the power to forbid the quotation of this stock in our market, but a short act of parliament might be obtained for the purpose. the london and paris markets rejecting such paper would have the greatest influence upon its issue.[ ] [footnote : lord clarendon replied:--"... with reference to your majesty's note of this morning, lord clarendon begs to say that having laid a case fully before the law officers, and having ascertained from them that it would be high treason for any subject of your majesty's to be concerned in the russian loan, he will give all possible circulation to the opinion, and he has this evening sent it to vienna, berlin, and the hague...."] [pageheading: instructions to lord raglan] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th june ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. the cabinet assembled yesterday evening at lord john russell's, at richmond, and continued to a very late hour.[ ] a draft of instructions to lord raglan had been prepared by the duke of newcastle, in which the necessity of a prompt attack upon sebastopol and the russian fleet was strongly urged. the amount of force now assembled at varna, and in the neighbourhood, appeared to be amply sufficient to justify such an enterprise, with the assistance of the english and french fleets. but although the expedition to the crimea was pressed very warmly, and recommended to be undertaken with the least possible delay, the final decision was left to the judgment and discretion of lord raglan and marshal st arnaud, after they should have communicated with omar pasha. it was also decided to send the reserve force, now in england, of , men, to join lord raglan without delay. this will exhaust the whole disposable force of the country at this time, and renders it impossible to supply british troops for any undertaking in the baltic. a communication was therefore made yesterday to the french government to know whether they would be disposed to send , french troops, to be conveyed in english transports, to the baltic, in order to join in an attack upon the aland islands,[ ] which appeared to be attended with no great difficulty; although any attempt upon helsingfors, or cronstadt, was pronounced by sir charles napier to be hopeless. [footnote : the war now entered upon a new phase. though the land forces of the allies had hitherto not come into conflict with the enemy, the turks under omar pasha had been unexpectedly successful in their resistance to the russians, whom a little later they decisively defeated at giurgevo. silistria had been determinedly besieged by the russians, and its fall was daily expected. yet, under the leadership of three young englishmen, captain butler and lieutenants nasmyth and ballard, the russians were beaten off and the siege raised. the schemes of the czar against turkey in europe had miscarried. mr kinglake describes, in an interesting passage, the growth in the public mind of a determination that the crimea should be invaded, and sebastopol destroyed. the emperor napoleon had suggested the plan at an earlier stage, and the _times_ newspaper fanned popular enthusiasm in favour of it. the improved outlook in the east warranted the attempt being made, but the plan was not regarded with unqualified approval by the commanders of the allied forces in the east. in the speech, already referred to, of lord lyndhurst, the project had been urged upon the government, and lord raglan considered that the despatch now sanctioned by the cabinet, which is printed in the _invasion of the crimea_, left him no discretion in the matter. the scheme had previously been considered in all its aspects by the cabinet, and mr kinglake gives an exaggerated importance to the fact that some of the members of the cabinet gave way to sleep while the long draft of instructions was being read to them at the after-dinner council at pembroke lodge.] [footnote : bomarsund, a fortress on one of these islands, was taken by sir charles napier, aided by a french contingent under general baraguay d'hilliers, on the th of august; but the high expectations raised as to the success of the operations in the baltic were not realised.] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th june ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. he begs to call your majesty's attention to the circumstance that, in , your majesty was graciously pleased to authorise sir robert peel to declare that your majesty had determined that the income tax should be charged upon the sum payable to your majesty under the civil list act, and that this declaration was received with marked satisfaction. lord aberdeen humbly presumes that your majesty will be disposed to follow the same course with reference to the augmentation of the tax; and should this be the case, lord aberdeen begs to intimate that the time for making it known has now fully arrived.... [pageheading: home defences] _queen victoria to the duke, of newcastle._ buckingham palace, _ rd july ._ in consequence of the departure of these additional , men for the east, the queen feels very uneasy at the very defenceless state in which the country will be left, not from any want of confidence arising from the present conjuncture of affairs, but from a strong sense of the impolicy and danger of leaving this great country in such a helpless state under any circumstances, for we never can foresee what events may not suddenly spring up at any moment (like greece, for instance[ ]) which may require a force to be in readiness for any particular purpose. the queen therefore wishes the duke of newcastle to give her detailed answers upon the various points stated in the accompanying paper; but the queen wishes to have the "_effective_ state" and not "the state upon paper only." the duke will be able to obtain these reports from the different departments. what store of muskets are there _here?_ when will the new ones be ready? what is the force of artillery left in the country in men and horses? what amount of troops are there in the country of infantry (deducting the , men under orders for the east), and of cavalry, and where are they stationed? how much militia has been and will be embodied? what is the naval force at home? how much serviceable ammunition is there both of artillery and small arms in the country? [footnote : a violently hostile feeling between the turks and greeks had culminated earlier in the year in a formidable insurrection among the sultan's greek subjects. it was terminated on the th of june by an engagement at kalampaka, in thessaly.] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ buckingham palace, _ th july ._ the queen approves the enclosed drafts, and wishes only to remark on one passage, where lord clarendon says, "that he acts by the unanimous desire of the cabinet," which she thinks better altered or omitted. if left, it might weaken the authority of future instructions emanating from the secretary of state alone; moreover, he acts constitutionally under the authority of the queen, on his own responsibility and not that of the cabinet. _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ buckingham palace, _ th july ._ the queen has just received lord aberdeen's letter, and has fully considered the contents of it. she has finally decided to make no change in her intended departure, from a conviction that her doing so might shake confidence in the result of this night's debate. should anything serious occur, she would be ready to return to-morrow or at any time that her presence in town was considered of importance to the public service. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th july ._ the queen has received lord john russell's letter of yesterday, and was very glad to hear that both the meeting and the debate went off so well. the party which supports the government is certainly "a strange basis for a government to rest upon," but such as it is we must make the best of it, and nothing will contribute more to keeping it together than to give it the impression that the government is thoroughly united.[ ] [footnote : during a desultory discussion on the th of july, mr disraeli had assailed the government and its chief in the commons, to such purpose that lord john russell, stung by his sarcasms, and mortified by his own failure, asked lord aberdeen to relieve him of the leadership of the house. the queen, to whom he had also written, entreated lord john not to let his opponent see that his object in making his attack had been successful. a meeting of the ministerialists was held on the th at the foreign office, at which one hundred and eighty members of the house of commons were present, and some diversity of opinion was expressed; the result of the meeting was that the government was more satisfactorily supported.] [pageheading: indian affairs] _queen victoria to the marquis of dalhousie._ buckingham palace, _ th july ._ it is a very long time since the queen has had the pleasure of hearing from lord dalhousie, but she supposes that (fortunately) there is very little to say, everything being so quiet and prosperous. the queen highly appreciates and values lord dalhousie's kind offer to remain in india while there is any prospect of difficulty being caused by the present war, which will be a source of great satisfaction and tranquillity to her, as she feels that her indian dominions cannot be in safer hands. the queen wishes to tell lord dalhousie how much interested and pleased we have been in making the acquaintance of the young maharajah dhuleep singh.[ ] it is not without mixed feelings of pain and sympathy that the queen sees this young prince, once destined to so high and powerful a position, and now reduced to so dependent a one by her arms; his youth, amiable character, and striking good looks, as well as his being a christian, the first of his high rank who has embraced our faith, must incline every one favourably towards him, and it will be a pleasure to us to do all we can to be of use to him, and to befriend and protect him. it also interested us to see poor old prince gholam mohammed, the last son of the once so dreaded tippoo sahib. we both hope that lord dalhousie's health is good, and the prince sends him his kind remembrance. [footnote : this young prince was born in , and was a younger son of runjeet singh, chief of the sikhs, who, after a loyal alliance with england for thirty years, died in . in dhuleep singh was raised to the throne, which had been occupied successively by runjeet's elder sons. after the sikh war in , the british government gave to the boy-king the support of a british force. in , after the destruction of the sikh army at gujerat, and the annexation of the punjab, a pension was bestowed on the young maharajah on condition of his remaining loyal to the british government. he became a christian and was at this time on a visit to england.] [pageheading: military appointments] _queen victoria to viscount hardinge._ osborne, _ th august ._ the queen has received lord hardinge's letter of the th.[ ] she would for the future wish all papers for signature to be accompanied by a descriptive list showing at a glance the purport of the documents, as is done with papers from other government offices. the queen has looked over the lists of major-generals made by the last brevet which lord hardinge submitted, and must confess that it does not afford a great choice; yet, leaving out the cavalry officers and those disqualified by age or infirmities, there remain some few whom she has marked with an "x," for whose exclusion no adequate reason is apparent. an exclusion of officers who have served in the guards, _merely on that account_, the queen would not wish to see adopted as a principle, and the selection of colonels of the line (because there are no generals fit), in preference to generals of the guards who are perfectly so, will amount to this. general eden,[ ] moreover, has been in command of a regiment of the line, and general knollys[ ] has not been promoted from the guards, and, in accepting the governorship of guernsey, specially begged that this might not exclude him from active service--a circumstance which he mentioned to the prince at the time. both these have the reputation of very good officers. the queen does not wish anything to be arranged prospectively now, but would recommend the subject to lord hardinge's future consideration. [footnote : in reply to a letter from the queen, stating that she had inadvertently signed certain papers in the ordinary course. her attention had not been drawn to their important features.] [footnote : lieut.-general john eden, c.b., nephew of the first lord auckland.] [footnote : sir william knollys, k.c.b., - , became in the organiser of the newly formed camp at aldershot.] [pageheading: special prayers] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ osborne, _ st august ._ the queen must repeat what she has frequently done, that she strongly objects to these _special_ prayers which _are_, in fact, _not_ a sign of gratitude or confidence in the almighty--for if this is the course to be pursued, we _ought_ to have one for every _illness_, and certainly in ' the influenza was notoriously more _fatal_ than the cholera had ever been, and _yet no one_ would have thought of having a prayer against _that_. our liturgy _has_ provided for these calamities, and we may have frequent returns of the cholera--and yet it would be difficult to _define_ the _number_ of deaths which are to _make_ "a form of prayer" _necessary_. the queen would, therefore, strongly recommend the usual prayer being used, and no other, as is the case for the prayer in time of war. what is the use of the prayers in the liturgy, which were no doubt composed when we were subject to other equally fatal diseases, if a new one is always to be framed specially for the cholera? the queen would wish lord aberdeen to give this as her decided opinion to the archbishop, at all events, for the present. last year the cholera quite decimated newcastle, and was bad in many other places, but there was _no special_ prayer, and _now_ the illness is in _london_ but _not_ in any other place, a prayer is proposed by the archbishop. the queen cannot see the difference between the one and the other. [pageheading: civil list pensions] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ st september ._ lord aberdeen, with his humble duty, begs to lay before your majesty the pensions proposed to be granted on the civil list at this time. the only case requiring any special remark is that of the children of lord nelson's adopted daughter. there seems little doubt that the person referred to was really lord nelson's daughter, according to evidence recently produced, and was recommended by him to the care of the country, just before the battle of trafalgar.[ ] a numerous party in the house of commons wished that your majesty's government should propose a special vote for this person and her family; but the cabinet thought that it would give rise to much scandal and disagreeable debate, and finally recommended lord aberdeen to place the three daughters on the pension list. the circumstances of the case are, no doubt, very peculiar; and although lord aberdeen does not feel perfectly satisfied with the course pursued, he thinks it very desirable to avoid the sort of parliamentary debates to which the discussion of such a subject would necessarily give rise. [footnote : horatia, daughter of nelson and lady hamilton, was born on the th of january , and married in the rev. philip ward of tenterden. she died in .] _the emperor of the french to queen victoria._[ ] boulogne, _le septembre ._ madame et bonne s[oe]ur,--la présence du digne époux de votre majesté au milieu d'un camp français est un fait d'une grande signification politique, puisqu'il prouve l'union intime des deux pays: mais j'aime mieux aujourd'hui ne pas envisager le côté politique de cette visite et vous dire sincèrement combien j'ai été heureux de me trouver pendant quelques jours avec un prince aussi accompli, un homme doué de qualités si séduisantes et de connaissances si profondes. il peut être convaincu d'emporter avec lui mes sentiments de haute estime et d'amitié. mais plus il m'a été donné d'apprécier le prince albert, plus je dois être touché de la bienveillance qu'a eue votre majesté de s'en séparer pour moi quelque jours. je remercie votre majesté de l'admirable lettre qu'elle a bien voulu m'écrire et des choses affectueuses qu'elle contenait pour l'impératrice. je me suis empressé de lui en faire part et elle y a été très sensible. je prie votre majesté de recevoir l'expression de mes sentiments respectueux et de me croire, de votre majesté, le bon frère, napolÉon. [footnote : the french emperor had established a camp between boulogne and st omer, and early in the summer had invited prince albert to visit him. it was reasonably conjectured at the time that one of the chief purposes of the invitation was by personal intercourse to overcome the prejudice which the emperor believed prevailed against him. the visit lasted from the th till the th of september, and the prince's impressions were recorded in a memorandum, "the value of which," writes sir theodore martin, by way of preface to his publication of it, "cannot be overstated; nor is it less valuable for the light which it throws upon the prince's character, by the remarkable contrasts between himself and the emperor of the french, which were elicited in the unreserved discussions which each seems equally to have courted."] [pageheading: prince albert and the emperor] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ nd september ._ lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty.... count walewski told lord clarendon to-day that the emperor had spoken with enthusiasm of the prince, saying that in all his experience he had never met with a person possessing such various and profound knowledge, or who communicated it with the same frankness. his majesty added that he had never learned so much in a short time, and was grateful. he began his conversation with reproaching count walewski for not having written to him much oftener respecting the prince, and endeavoured to ascertain the opinions of his royal highness upon all important subjects. with respect to the invitation, the emperor's account of it to count walewski was that he had apologised to the prince for the bad reception he had given his royal highness, and expressed a hope that he might have an opportunity of _doing better_ at paris, if your majesty and the prince would honour him with a visit; and that his royal highness had then said, "the queen hopes to see your majesty at windsor, and will be happy to make acquaintance with the empress." the emperor, however, had only taken this as a courteous return to his invitation, and not as intended for a positive invitation. lord clarendon told count walewski that he believed the matter had passed inversely, and that the prince had first communicated your majesty's message. be that as it may, count walewski said the emperor will be delighted to avail himself of the queen's gracious kindness; nothing will give him so much pleasure.... [pageheading: the emperor's visit] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ balmoral, _ th september ._ the queen returns the two letters from lord cowley. she is very sorry to see doubts arise as to the correctness of the intelligence about the safe debarkation of our whole expeditionary force in the crimea, but still clings to the hope of its being true. count walewski's account of the emperor's version of his conversation with the prince explains what the prince suspected at one time himself, that the emperor had not understood the prince's remark as conveying a _direct_ invitation, but merely as a general term of civility. what the prince intended to convey was something between the two, making it clear that he would be well received, and leaving it entirely open to him to come or not according to his own political views and circumstances. this appeared to the prince the most polite and delicate, preventing all appearance as if a counter-visit for his own at boulogne was expected. lest the emperor should not have rightly understood the prince, he repeated the wish to see the emperor in england, and the hope of the queen to make the empress's acquaintance also, _more directly_ to marshal vaillant, who gave the same answer as the emperor had done--he hoped we should come to paris in return. matters stand as well as possible with regard to the visit; in the queen's opinion, the emperor can come if he likes, and if prevented, is bound to nothing. should he ask when his visit would be most agreeable to the queen, the middle of november would be the time. _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ balmoral, _ th september ._ the queen returns the enclosed letters. the french show their usual vivacity in pressing so hard for decision upon what is to be done with sebastopol when taken.[ ] surely we ought to have taken it first before we can dispose of it, and everything as to the decision about it must depend upon the state in which we receive it, and the opinion of the military and naval commanders after they find themselves in possession of it. the queen hopes, therefore, that lord clarendon will succeed in restraining french impatience as he has often done before. [footnote : lord clarendon had given the queen the two reasons for which the french were pressing, in anticipation, the retention of the crimea, viz. as affording suitable winter quarters, and as a guarantee in case of peace negotiations. on the th of september the allied forces had sailed for the crimea; on the st the queen learned by telegram that , english, , french, and , turks had landed safely without encountering resistance, and begun the march to sebastopol. the queen, with her usual kindly solicitude for the health and comfort of her ministers, had summoned lord aberdeen from london to have the benefit of the scotch air; he remained at balmoral from the th till the th, when he went to his own house at haddo. immediately after his departure, a telegram arrived from lord clarendon announcing the victory of the alma.] [pageheading: battle of the alma] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ haddo house, _ st october ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. he had the honour of receiving your majesty's box this morning at nine o'clock by post; and he now sends a messenger to aberdeen, with despatches received this morning from london, to meet the special conveyance to balmoral this evening. lord aberdeen humbly presumes to offer his most cordial congratulations to your majesty on the great intelligence received by telegraph this morning. the account sent by lord stratford of the victory on the alma must be correct; the report mentioned by mr colquhoun[ ] may possibly be so too. at all events, we may fairly hope that the fall of sebastopol cannot long be delayed. lord aberdeen has written to lord clarendon this morning on the subject of the fortifications of sebastopol, which although, somewhat embarrassing at the moment, is not attended with any great practical importance. lord aberdeen regrets that the speedy return of the post prevents him from sending your majesty a copy of his letter, which in substance, however, was to the following effect. without attaching any undue importance to the decision, he was inclined to adhere to his first proposition of the immediate and entire destruction of the works. he did not see the advantage of doing the thing by halves; while the destruction of the sea defences only might give rise to erroneous impressions and would be of an equivocal character. the fall of sebastopol would in fact be the conquest of the crimea, and the allies might winter there with perfect security, as, by occupying the lines of perekop,[ ] any access to the crimea would effectually be prevented by land. lord aberdeen thought that with a view to peace, and the restitution of the crimea to russia, it would be more easy for the emperor to accept the destruction of the fortifications when accomplished, than to agree to any stipulation having such an object. on the whole, lord aberdeen was inclined to think that if the place should not be at once destroyed, it might be better to preserve it in its present state, until the matter should be further considered. the allies would always have it in their power to act as they thought best, and the question might in some degree be affected by future events. the great objection to leaving the matter undecided for the present appeared to be from the possibility of differences hereafter between france and england upon the subject. after the astounding proposition made to lord raglan by the french generals when actually embarked and at sea, it would be well to leave nothing in doubt. the turks, too, might perhaps desire to have a voice in the matter, and might become troublesome.... [footnote : mr (afterwards sir) robert gilmour colquhoun ( - ), agent and consul-general at bucharest.] [footnote : a district on the isthmus of crimea, guarded by a wall and a ditch, the name meaning "cross-ditch." the whole isthmus is now often called perekop.] [pageheading: indian affairs] [pageheading: india and russia] _the marquis of dalhousie to queen victoria._ government house, _ nd october ._ the governor-general presents his most humble duty to your majesty, and begs to offer his respectful thanks for the very gracious manner in which your majesty has been pleased to acknowledge the offer he has made to retain still the government of india during the ensuing year. the governor-general does not affect to say that he makes no sacrifice in so doing. many things unite to warn him that it is time he were gone: and his family circumstances, in which your majesty has long shown so gracious an interest, have rendered the prospect of his remaining longer absent from england a source of much anxiety and perplexity to him. but he felt that this was no time for any man, high or low, to leave his post. and as a seven-years' experience must needs have rendered him more capable of immediate usefulness than any other, though a far abler man, without such experience could possibly be, he did not hesitate to offer the continued service which your majesty might most justly expect, and which he is proud to render cheerfully. your majesty's remark on the absence of any letter from the governor-general of late would have disquieted him with apprehensions that he had been thought neglectful, but that your majesty at the same time ascribed the silence to its real cause. since the announcement of the termination of the burmese war there has, in truth, been no occurrence which, of itself, seemed worthy of being made the subject of a report to your majesty. india has been tranquil in all her borders. and although no event could well be more gratifying than this continuous tranquillity was in itself, still the periodical report of peace and quiet on all sides seemed likely to be as uninteresting as the monotonous, though satisfactory, "all's well" of a ring of sentries. at christmas the governor-general anticipated having the honour of narrating to your majesty the events of a year which he hoped would, before its close, have been fruitful of great results.... very recently an interesting mission has arrived from the khan of kokan, a state to the north of bokhara, reporting the capture of their fort of ak mussid by the russians. the fact was known before; but the mission is important from the certainty it imparts to us that all the turcomans, the people of kokan, of khiva, and of bokhara, all detest as much as they dread the muscovites, with whose approach they are threatened. the khan asks for aid. we can render him but little. the only real bulwark which can be raised for these states of central asia--the only real barrier to the progress of russia which can be set up there--must have their foundations in the treaty, which may be framed by the allied powers after the present war shall have brought the spirit of russia into temporary subjection. the war in which your majesty has engaged with that great power has not been directly felt in this part of your majesty's dominions; but its indirect influence is most sensibly apparent. the notions entertained of russia, and the estimate formed of her powers, by the nations of india, are exaggerated in the extreme. although our pride must wince on hearing it, it is an unquestionable fact that the general belief in india at this moment is that russia gravely menaces the power of england, and will be more than a match for her in the end. this feeling cannot prudently be disregarded. the governor-general need hardly say to your majesty that he believes that any direct attack by russia on these dominions at the present time is utterly impracticable; and that there is no more risk of an invasion of india by the emperor nicholas than of another by mahmood of ghuznee. nevertheless, the uneasy feeling which now prevails among native states and among ourselves, partly of alarm, partly of indefinite expectation, ought to be guarded against; and the means of meeting any difficulties which may arise out of it should be at our command. earnestly desirous to contribute every possible aid to your majesty's arms in the great contest now going on in europe, the governor-general has respectfully placed at the disposal of your majesty's ministers all the four regiments of royal cavalry now serving in india. the infantry is already hardly adequate for our own necessities: and while the governor-general will be quite ready to accept and to face any additional responsibilities which he may be called upon to bear, he has felt it to be his duty to state that, beyond the four regiments of cavalry, european troops cannot safely be spared from india at the present time. the governor-general, however, feels that he is not indulging in any vain boast when he ventures to assure your majesty that, under god's good blessing, these, your dominions in the east, are at present absolutely safe.... your majesty's most obedient, most humble, and devoted subject and servant, dalhousie. [pageheading: deposed indian princes] [pageheading: maharajah dhuleep singh] _queen victoria to the marquis of dalhousie._ balmoral, _ nd october ._ as the queen knows that the east india company are chiefly guided by lord dalhousie's advice with respect to all indian affairs in public as well as of a more private nature, she thinks that she cannot do better than write to him upon a subject which she _feels_ strongly upon, and which she is sure that lord dalhousie will enter into. it is the position of those unfortunate indian princes who have, either themselves or their fathers, been for public reasons deposed. two instances are now before the queen's eyes upon which she wishes to state her opinion. the first is old prince gholam mohammed, and his son prince feroz shah. the queen understands (though she is not sure of the fact) that the old man is here in order to try to obtain his pension continued to his son. this is very natural, and it strikes the queen to be an arrangement difficult to be justified, in a moral point of view, to give these poor people--who after _all_ were once so mighty--_no_ security beyond their lives. whilst we remain permanently in possession of their vast empire, they receive a pension, which is not _even_ continued to their descendants. would it not be much the best to allow them, instead of a pension, to hold, perhaps under the government, a property, which would enable them and their descendants to live respectably, maintaining a certain rank and position? the queen believes that lord dalhousie himself suggested this principle in the case of the ameers of scinde. nothing is more painful for _any_ one than the thought that their children and grandchildren have no future, and may become absolutely beggars. how much more _dreadful_ must this be to proud people, who, like prince gholam, are the sons and grandsons of great princes like hyder ali and tippoo sahib! besides it strikes the queen that the more kindly we treat indian princes, whom _we_ have _conquered_, and the more consideration we show for their birth and former grandeur, the more we shall attach indian princes and governments to us, and the more ready will they be to come under our rule. the second instance is that of the young maharajah dhuleep singh (and the queen must here observe that the favourable opinion she expressed of him, in her last letter to lord dalhousie, has only been confirmed and strengthened by closer acquaintance). this young prince has the _strongest_ claims upon our generosity and sympathy; deposed, for _no_ fault of his, when a little boy of ten years old, he is as innocent as any private individual of the misdeeds which compelled us to depose him, and take possession of his territories. he has besides since become a christian, whereby he is for ever cut off from his own people. his case therefore appears to the queen still stronger than the _former_ one, as he was not even a conquered enemy, but merely powerless in the hands of the sikh soldiery. there is something too painful in the idea of a young deposed sovereign, once so powerful, receiving a pension, and having _no_ security that his children and descendants, and these moreover christians, should have any home or position. the queen hears that lord dalhousie himself would wish and advise his pension to be exchanged for a property on which the maharajah might live, which he might improve (giving thereby a most valuable example) and transmit some day to his descendants, should he have any; she hopes therefore that this may be so settled, and that he may, on attaining the age of eighteen, have a comfortable and fitting position worthy his high rank. where such a property might be must be of course left to lord dalhousie to decide, but the queen hopes that lord dalhousie will give it his serious attention. [pageheading: the austrian proposals] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ balmoral, _ th october ._ the queen has received lord clarendon's letters of the th.[ ] she cannot consider it wise to reject the austrian proposals _altogether_, although we may usefully amend them. the success in the crimea ought to be followed up by strengthening the alliance of the european powers, else it may turn out a sterile victory, and the english blood will have flowed in vain; for supposing even the whole crimea to fall into our hands, it is not likely that the war will be concluded on that account. how are england and france to bring it to a termination single-handed? our army in the crimea is the only one we have.... it is true that the austrian proposal promises little performance on her part, yet the stipulation by treaty that she will never let the russians pass the pruth again is a positive advantage to us; and the other, that a defensive and offensive alliance with us is to follow the breaking out of the war by russia against austria, although being entirely at _our_ expense, yet realises the chief condition which will make austria hesitate less to bring it to a war with russia. she always (and not without reason) dreaded to have to fight russia single-handed, and the allied armies in the crimea could not assist her. what reason could austria put forward and justify to prussia and germany, for going to war at this moment? to obtain the evacuation of the principalities was a tangible one, indeed the same _we_ put forward when _we_ declared war; but this is now obtained. we must certainly not allow our policy to be mixed up with the miserable german squabbles, but we must acknowledge that austria, as a member of the confederation, is not and cannot be independent of them. the queen would accordingly advise a temperate consideration of the austrian proposals and an amendment of them in those points which seem to require them, and which lord clarendon clearly points out in his letter, and the avoidance of anything which could weaken the _accord européen_.[ ] the emperor napoleon's answer to lord cowley with reference to this visit to england renders it probable to the queen that he was not anxious to have the general invitation changed into a special one, _obliging_ him to come or to refuse. the answer is almost a refusal now, and has not improved our position. the queen would wish that no anxiety should be shown to obtain the visit, now that it is quite clear to the emperor that he will be _le bienvenu_ at any time. his reception here ought to be a boon to him and not a boon to us. the queen fully enters into the feelings of exultation and joy at the glorious victory of the alma, but this is somewhat damped by the sad loss we have sustained, and the thought of the many bereaved families of all classes who are in mourning for those near and dear to them. [footnote : in one of which, in reference to austria's desire for an offensive and defensive treaty with great britain, lord clarendon had described the austrian terms as irritating, and the discussion of them a mere waste of time.] [footnote : the cabinet, at its meeting on the th, decided to meet the austrian proposals in the most conciliatory manner possible.] [pageheading: the alma] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ hull, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--already far away from my loved beautiful highlands and mountains, i find a few minutes to write and thank you for your kind letter of the nd, with such lively and glowing descriptions of such glorious and beautiful scenery, which i hope and trust to see _some day_. still, with all its beauties, i would not exchange it for our northern beauties, which really they are--for a _lovelier_ country with a _more beautiful_ combination of wood and mountain, and river, and cultivation with the greatest wildness, at the same time close at hand, cannot, i am sure, be seen; stockmar is in the greatest admiration of it. we left it yesterday morning, slept at holyrood last night, and came here this evening; the good people of this large port, having since two years entreated us to come here. we shall reach windsor to-morrow. we are, and indeed the whole country is, _entirely_ engrossed with one idea, one _anxious_ thought--the _crimea_. we have received all the _most_ interesting and _gratifying_ details of the _splendid_ and decisive victory of the alma; alas! it was a bloody one. our loss was a heavy one--many have fallen and many are wounded, but my noble troops behaved with a _courage_ and _desperation_ which was beautiful to behold. the russians expected their position would hold out three weeks; their loss was immense--the whole garrison of sebastopol was out. since that, the army has performed a wonderful march to balaklava, and the bombardment of sebastopol has begun. lord raglan's behaviour was worthy of the old duke's--such coolness in the midst of the hottest fire. we have had all the details from young burghersh[ ] (a remarkably nice young man), one of lord raglan's aides-de-camp whom he sent home with the despatches, who was in the midst of it all. i feel so _proud_ of my dear noble troops, who, they say, bear their privations, and the sad disease which still haunts them, with such courage and good humour. george did enormously well, and was not touched. now with albert's love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : francis, lord burghersh, afterwards twelfth earl of westmorland ( - ).] [pageheading: france and austria] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ the queen has received lord clarendon's letter referring to the new draft of a treaty with austria proposed by the french government, and has since attentively perused the treaty itself.[ ] vague and inconclusive as it is as to _co-operation_ (which is the main object of our desire), it is a step in advance, and has the advantage of assuring austria of our alliance should the war between her and russia break out. the queen regrets to find a clause omitted which stood in the former french project (rejected by us about three weeks ago), stipulating that austria was to prevent the re-entry of russia into the principalities. although she would of her own accord have to do this, a treaty obligation towards the _belligerents_ to that effect would have made a considerable inroad into her position as a _neutral_ power, and secured a co-operation in the war--_ad hoc_ at least. austria ought to be told, in the queen's opinion, that this project of treaty contains almost nothing; and that her signing it _at once_ would give a moral pledge of her sincerity towards the western powers, who have to pay with the lives of their best troops every day that austria hesitates to do what in the end she must find it in her own interest to do. as to m. olozaga's proposal,[ ] the queen thinks it ought to be treated like all the former ones, viz. met with the remark that we cannot discuss eventualities implying the dethronement of a sovereign with whom we are on a footing of amity. [footnote : lord clarendon wrote that he and lord john russell approved of the treaty, but that lord aberdeen thought that austria would not accept it; while lord palmerston felt confident that austria, even if her co-operation were not now secured, would at least not lend her support to the king of prussia's scheme. at this date only partial and misleading accounts had arrived of the battle of balaklava, and it was believed that four english (not turkish) redoubts had been taken; and, while the disastrous charge of the light brigade had been announced, the success of the heavy cavalry was not yet known. anxiety began accordingly to be felt at home as to the adequacy of the allied forces to encounter the russian army, augmented as it now was by the troops which had recently evacuated the principalities. accordingly fresh efforts were being made to engage austria in effectual alliance with the western powers.] [footnote : the document containing this proposal does not seem to have been preserved among the papers. it was not impossibly a scheme for betrothing king pedro to the infant princess of the asturias, thereby uniting the two crowns, and bringing about the dethronement of queen isabella.] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ the queen returns the letters from lord cowley and count walewski.[ ] no consideration on earth ought to stand in the way of our sending what ships we can lay hold of to transport french reinforcements to the crimea, as the safety of our army and the honour of the country are at stake. the queen is ready to give her own yacht for a transport which could carry , men. every account received convinces the queen more and more that numbers alone can ensure success in this instance, and that without them we are running _serious_ risks. [footnote : the count wrote that france was ready to send , men to the crimea, if england could furnish transports. lord clarendon added: "we have not a single available steamer, as all must be left in the baltic until the ice sets in, and the stores, ammunition, and clothing for the army are going out in sailing vessels."] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ my dearest uncle,--i am quite shocked to find that i missed writing my letter to-day--but really _la tête me tourne_. i am so bewildered and excited, and my mind so entirely taken up by the news from the crimea, that i really forget, and what is worse, i get so confused about everything that i am a very unfit correspondent. my whole soul and heart are in the crimea. the conduct of our _dear noble_ troops is _beyond praise_; it is quite heroic, and really i feel a pride to have _such troops_, which is only equalled by my grief for their sufferings. we now know that there has been a pitched battle on the th, in which we have been victorious over much greater numbers, but with great loss on both sides--the greatest on the russian. but we know _nothing_ more, and now we must live in a suspense which is indeed dreadful. then to think of the numbers of families who are living in _such_ anxiety! it is terrible to think of all the wretched wives and mothers who are awaiting the fate of those nearest and dearest to them! in short, it is a time which requires courage and patience to bear as one ought. many thanks, dearest uncle, for your kind letter of the th, which i received on saturday. the brabants will soon leave you; i shall write to leo to-morrow or next day, _quand je pourrais un peu rassembler mes idées_. i must now conclude, dearest uncle. with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: inkerman] _queen victoria to lord raglan._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ the queen has received with pride and joy the telegraphic news of the glorious, but alas! bloody victory of the th.[ ] these feelings of pride and satisfaction are, however, painfully alloyed by the grievous news of the loss of so many generals, and in particular sir george cathcart--who was so distinguished and excellent an officer.[ ] we are most thankful that lord raglan's valuable life has been spared; and the queen trusts that he will not expose himself more than is absolutely necessary. the queen cannot sufficiently express her high sense of the great services he has rendered and is rendering to her and the country, by the very able manner in which he has led the bravest troops that ever fought, and which it is a pride to her to be able to call her own. to mark the queen's feelings of approbation she wishes to confer on lord raglan the baton of field-marshal. it affords her the sincerest gratification to confer it on one who has so nobly earned the highest rank in the army, which he so long served in under the immortal hero, who she laments could not witness the success of a friend he so greatly esteemed. both the prince and queen are anxious to express to lord raglan their unbounded admiration of the heroic conduct of the army, and their sincere sympathy in their sufferings and privations so nobly borne. the queen thanks lord raglan for his kind letter of the th ultimo. [footnote : the english loss at the battle of inkerman was over , killed and wounded; the french lost , . the loss of the enemy was doubtful, but the russian estimate (much smaller than our own) was about , killed, wounded, and prisoners. the grand dukes nicholas and michael both fought in the battle.] [footnote : besides sir george cathcart, brigadier-generals strangways and goldie were killed. sir george brown was shot through the arm, major-generals bentinck and codrington, and brigadier-general adams were all severely wounded, but not so seriously. sir de lacy evans a few days earlier, being then in shattered health, had had a fall from his horse, and was absent from the battle.] [pageheading: lord john russell's proposal] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ rd november ._ lord aberdeen presents his most humble duty to your majesty. he regrets, at a moment of such public interest and importance, to trouble your majesty with domestic difficulties; but he thinks it his duty to lay before your majesty the enclosed correspondence without delay.[ ] lord aberdeen has for some time past expected a proposition of this kind, and it is impossible not to see that it may be attended with very serious consequences. at first lord aberdeen was in doubt whether the proposition was made by lord j. russell in concert with lord palmerston; but this appears not to be the case. much will therefore depend on the decision of lord palmerston. should he join with lord john, matters will probably be pushed to extremity; but should he decline, lord aberdeen does not think that lord john will venture to act alone. [footnote : lord john russell urged, in this correspondence, that lord palmerston should supersede the duke of newcastle at the war office.] [pageheading: maharajah dhuleep singh] _queen victoria to the marquis of dalhousie._ _ th november ._ the queen thanks lord dalhousie for his long and most interesting and satisfactory letter of the nd of october. it is peculiarly gratifying to hear of such quiet and prosperity in her vast indian dominions, in which the queen ever takes the liveliest interest, and at the present moment of intense anxiety, when england's best and noblest blood is being profusely shed to resist the encroaching spirit of russia. the heroism of our noble troops in the midst of herculean difficulties and great privations is unequalled, and will fill lord dalhousie's loyal and patriotic heart with pride and admiration. though entirely concurring in his opinion that russia can undertake no invasion of india, her spirit of encroachment on the north frontier must be carefully watched and, if possible, put a stop to, when peace is made. the progress of the railroad will make an immense difference in india, and tend more than anything else to bring about civilisation, and will in the end facilitate the spread of christianity, which hitherto has made but very slow progress. the queen was already aware of the idea formerly entertained by the maharajah dhuleep singh of marrying the young princess of coorg.[ ] agreeing as she does with lord dalhousie in the wisdom of advising the young man to pause before he makes his choice of a wife, she thinks such a marriage between these two most interesting young christians most desirable; indeed, as lord dalhousie himself observes, the difficulty of any other marriage for either must be great. the young people have met and were pleased with each other, so that the queen hopes that their union will, in the course of time, come to pass. her little god-daughter has been here lately, and though still childish for her age (she is nearly fourteen) is pretty, lively, intelligent, and going on satisfactorily in her education. of the young maharajah, who has now been twice our guest, we can only speak in terms of praise. he promises to be a bright example to all indian princes, for he is thoroughly good and amiable, and most anxious to improve himself. [footnote : a few years earlier, while still holding his ancestral creed, dhuleep singh, had made overtures to the ex-rajah of coorg with a view to his betrothal to the eldest daughter of the latter; but at that time the matter was dropped. after becoming a christian, and having also heard of the baptism of the princess of coorg, the maharajah renewed his proposal, which, however, was not eventually accepted. the princess married an english officer, and died in , aged twenty-four.] [pageheading: battle of inkerman] _prince edward of saxe-weimar[ ] to queen victoria._ camp before sebastopol, _ th november ._ madam,--your majesty's very kind letter reached me by the last mail. i avail myself of your permission to write to you again, although there is not much to say since i last wrote to prince albert on the th or th of this month. i wrote to him soon after the battle of inkerman, when i was still under the excitement of that fearful scene, and i am afraid that i made use of expressions that i was afterwards sorry that i had done. i believe i made some reflections on our commanders, which are at all times wrong. by this time your majesty will, of course, be in possession of all the details of that fearful day, on which our loss was so very great.[ ] i made a mistake in stating the number of dead in the grenadiers; it was much larger than i stated. i think we must have suffered more than any other corps, for, on the following day, when the roll was called, two hundred and twenty-five men were absent; of these one hundred and one were killed, and the rest wounded. there cannot be any doubt that we allowed ourselves to be surprised, for the first notice we had of the russians was receiving their heavy shot in the camp of the nd division. nearly all their tents were torn by round shot. it is even said that a shell lodged in an officer's portmanteau, burst, and, of course, scattered all his goods to the winds. experience has made us wise, or rather lord raglan wise, for since that day the french and ourselves have been busy in entrenching our right; it is now so strong that no enemy can attack us there with the slightest chance of success; it is only a pity it was not done before. the turks were chiefly employed making these redoubts, which is in fact the only thing they have done except burying the dead russians. never shall i forget the sight of the dead and dying russians on the field. some of these poor wretches had to lie on the field for at least sixty hours before they were removed to the hospital tents; the majority of course died. i am afraid this is one of the necessities of war, for we had to remove our own people first. i went round the hospitals next morning. it was a horrid sight to see the bodies of the men who had died during the night stretched before the tents, and to see the heaps of arms and legs, with the trousers and boots still on, that had been cut off by the surgeons. the russians were so near that most of the officers had to use their swords and revolvers. many single acts of daring took place; among others, colonel percy,[ ] of our regiment, dashed in front of his company, sword in hand, into a dense body of russians who were in a battery. i was not in the thick of it, but was engaged with an outlying picquet on the left of the attack. george was in the very thick of it, and, not seeing me, kept asking some of our men where i was. they did not know. he tells me that he thought for a long time i was killed, and even fancied that he had seen me lying on the ground; it turned out later to have been poor colonel dawson's[ ] body which he mistook for me. on the th we had a terrible storm, such a one as, fortunately for mankind, does not happen but very rarely. all our tents of course were blown down, and we passed the day very uncomfortably; but at sea it was terrible. at balaklava alone more than two hundred and sixty souls perished, and eleven ships went down. george will have been able to give you a perfect account of it, for, for many hours, the _retribution_ was in imminent danger. i went a few days after the storm to see him on board.[ ] ... he had a little fever or ague on him, but was otherwise well. he has now gone to constantinople.... may i beg of your majesty to remember me kindly to prince albert and the duchess of kent. i have the honour, etc. edward of saxe-weimar. [footnote : son of duke charles bernard and duchess ida, the latter being a princess of saxe-meiningen and sister to queen adelaide. the prince was at this time lieut.-colonel and a.d.c. to lord raglan. he was afterwards a.d.c. to the queen and ultimately commander of the forces in ireland. he died in .] [footnote : see _ante_, th november, , note .] [footnote : colonel henry hugh manvers percy, - , whose father afterwards became the fifth duke of northumberland. the legion of honour, the medjidie, and the v.c. were all subsequently conferred on him.] [footnote : hon. thomas vesey dawson, brother of the third lord cremorne (created earl of dartrey).] [footnote : in this terrible hurricane the _prince_, a new and magnificent steamer, with a cargo of the value of £ , , including powder, shot and shell, beds, blankets, warm clothing for the troops, and medical stores for the hospitals, was lost; six men only of a crew of one hundred and fifty were saved; but the soldiers of the forty-sixth, whom she was conveying to balaklava, had happily been landed. thirty of our transports, as well as the french warship _henri iv._, were wrecked. a thousand men were lost, and many more escaped drowning, only to fall into the hands of the cossacks and be carried to sebastopol. one solitary source of consolation could be found in the circumstance that the tempest did not occur at an earlier period, when six hundred vessels, heavily laden and dangerously crowded together, were making their way from varna to old fort.] [pageheading: the crimean medal] _queen victoria to the duke of newcastle._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ the queen thinks that no time should be lost in announcing the intention of the queen to confer a _medal_ on all those who have been engaged in the arduous and brilliant campaign in the crimea. the medal should have the word "_crimea_" on it, with an appropriate device (for which it would be well to lose no time in having a design made) and _clasps_--like to the peninsular medal, with the names _alma_ and _inkerman_ inscribed on them, according to who had been in one or both battles. _sebastopol_, should it fall, or any other name of a battle which providence may permit our brave troops to gain, can be inscribed on other clasps hereafter to be added. the names _alma_ and _inkerman_ should likewise be borne on the colours of all the regiments who have been engaged in these bloody and glorious actions. the queen is sure that nothing will gratify and encourage our noble troops more than the knowledge that this is to be done. we have just had two hours' most interesting conversation with general bentinck,[ ] whose sound good sense and energy make us deeply regret that he is not now on the spot; he is, however, ready to go out again next year, as lord raglan wishes to give him a division. we hope that, after two or three months' rest, he may be able to go out again. [footnote : general (afterwards sir henry) bentinck had been wounded at inkerman; he returned to the crimea to command a division.] [pageheading: lord john russell] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th december ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. he would have been desirous of personally submitting to your majesty the result of the meeting of the cabinet last night; but he was apprehensive that his sudden journey to windsor castle this morning would give rise to speculations and conjectures which, in the present state of the ministry, it is as well to avoid. lord aberdeen thinks he may venture to assure your majesty that the correspondence recently circulated is regarded by all the members of the cabinet precisely in the same light; and that the propositions of lord john russell are considered by all as quite untenable. lord palmerston forms no exception; and, whatever may be his views in future, it is clear that at present he contemplates no changes in the government. lord john was himself fully aware of this unanimity, and remained entirely silent with respect to his former suggestions. he dwelt in general terms on the absence of vigour in the prosecution of the war, and stated his conviction that the same course would be observed in future. he referred to his position in the house of commons with much bitterness, and declared that he would never pass such another session of parliament as the last. he attributed the frequent defeats of the government in the house of commons to the reform bill having been withdrawn, by which it was shown that hostile attacks might be made with impunity. it was obvious, however, that the drift of his observations tended to the substitution of himself as the head of the government rather than to any change of departments; and this he did not deny, when lord aberdeen pointed out the inference to be drawn from his remarks. finally, lord john said that he had quite made up his mind. he was ready to continue in office during the short session before christmas, and to defend all that had been done; but that he was determined to retire after christmas. an observation being made that it would be unconstitutional to go into parliament with such a determination, he replied that, if such was the opinion, he would request lord aberdeen to convey his resignation to-morrow morning to your majesty, which, at all events, would be perfectly constitutional. lord aberdeen feels it to be his duty to state to your majesty that, whatever may be the real cause, lord john has made up his mind to act in the manner he has announced. in this situation it is lord aberdeen's desire to come to your majesty's assistance by any means in his power. lord john's defection will be a great blow, from which it is very doubtful if the government could recover; but lord aberdeen will come to no conclusion or form any decided opinion until he shall have had the honour of seeing your majesty. [pageheading: cabinet dissensions] _memorandum by the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ lord aberdeen arrived yesterday evening, leaving the cabinet sitting, revising the speech from the throne.[ ] he had come to no decision. sir james graham and mr gladstone had been anxious that he should accept lord john's resignation at once. he himself felt reluctant to do anything which might be considered harsh towards lord john, and might make him a martyr hereafter. there was no doubt, however, that they could not go on with lord john. the universal feeling of the cabinet seemed to be one of indignation ... at lord john's conduct. nobody had expressed himself stronger about it than lord lansdowne to lord clarendon, feeling it, as he said, "quite a necessity to speak out." the chancellor said he owed his political allegiance to lord john as well as his office; but as a man of honour he could not go with him. lord granville feels the same. lord palmerston had written a long and very able letter to lord john, proving the impossibility of joining the offices of secretary at war and secretary of state for war. lord john had now, however, dropped his proposal altogether, and made it quite clear that it was lord aberdeen he wished to have removed. he said to lord palmerston: "when the cabinet was formed, i always understood that lord aberdeen would soon give me up my old place; it has now lasted more than two years, and he seemed to get enamoured with office, and i could not meet the house of commons in the position i was in last session." [footnote : parliament was to meet on the th, chiefly for the purpose of passing a foreign enlistment bill, authorising the immediate enlistment of , (afterwards reduced to , ) foreigners, to be drilled in this country.] in answer to lord palmerston's enquiry what he would do, and how he could expose the country to such fearful risks at such a moment, he said that he would support the government out of office. "you will support it at the head of a very virulent opposition," was lord palmerston's reply; "and when you have succeeded in overthrowing the government, which has difficulty enough to hold its ground even with your assistance, what will you say to the country? will you say: 'here i am. i have triumphed, and have displaced, in the midst of most hazardous operations, all the ablest men the country has produced; but i shall take their place with mr vernon smith, lord seymour, lord minto, and others....'" sir charles wood is the only person who says it is all nothing, and he knows lord john, and it is sure to blow over. lord aberdeen said it is come to a point where this is no longer possible, as he laid his ground not only on the position that the war had been badly conducted, but that it _would_ be so for the future. at the cabinet yesterday a significant incident occurred: lord john asked what should become of reform. lord aberdeen's answer was, that it had been set aside on account of the war, and that as the war was now raging at its height, it could not be brought on again. later, when they came to the passage about education, lord john made an alteration in the draft, adding something about strengthening the institutions of the country. lord palmerston started up and asked: "does that mean reform?" lord john answered: "it might or might not." "well, then," said lord palmerston, with a heat of manner which struck the whole cabinet, and was hardly justified by the occasion, "i wish it to be understood that i protest against any direct or indirect attempt to bring forward the reform question again!" lord john, nettled, muttered to himself, but loud enough to be heard by everybody: "then i shall bring forward the reform bill at once." it is evident to me that after this a junction between lord palmerston and lord john is impossible, and that it must have been lord palmerston's object to make this clear to the cabinet. lord aberdeen has declared that he is quite willing to yield his post to lord john--but that it would not suffice to have got a head--that there must be some members also, and where are they to be found? he is certain that not one of the present cabinet could now serve under lord john. an attempt to solve the question how the present government is to be maintained, naturally leads everybody to the same conclusion: that lord palmerston must be substituted for lord john as the leader of the house of commons. disagreeable as this must be ... to lord aberdeen, and dangerous as the experiment may turn out, we agreed with lord aberdeen that he should make the offer to him with the queen's consent. an alternative proposed by lord clarendon, that lord aberdeen should ask lord john what he advised him to do under the circumstances, was strongly condemned by me, as depriving lord aberdeen of all the advantage of the initiative with lord palmerston. lord aberdeen states his great difficulty to be not only the long antecedent and mutual opposition between him and lord palmerston, but also the fact that lord palmerston loved war for war's sake, and he peace for peace' sake.... he consoled himself, however, at last by the reflection that lord palmerston was not worse than lord john in that respect, and, on the other hand, gave greater weight to the consideration of what was practicable. it remains open for the present whether lord john is to act as the organ for the government during the short session, and resign afterwards, or to resign now. albert. [pageheading: lord rokeby] _queen victoria to viscount hardinge._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ the queen is glad to hear of lord rokeby's readiness to go out, as she is sure that he will prove himself an efficient officer in command of that noble brigade of guards.[ ] the queen must repeat again her opinion relative to general bentinck. she thinks that he ought to go out again, and that, if a division were offered to him, he would not hesitate (when he has recruited his health) to go out. for the sake of example it would be most desirable, for there evidently is an inclination to ask for leave to go home, which would be very detrimental to the army. [footnote : lord rokeby had on the previous evening been offered and had accepted the command.] [pageheading: lord john russell] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th december ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. the cabinet met to-day, and discussed various measures, with a view to their introduction into parliament during the course of the ensuing session. in this discussion lord john russell took an active part, and must have greatly astonished his colleagues, after their knowledge of all that had recently passed. lord aberdeen had been previously made aware, although not by himself, of the change which had taken place in lord john's intentions. after the meeting of the cabinet, lord john came to lord aberdeen, and spoke of the affair of mr kennedy,[ ] but did not seem disposed to advert to any other subject. lord aberdeen therefore took an opportunity of referring to the correspondence which had taken place, and the notice which had been given by lord john. without any embarrassment, or apparent sense of inconsistency, he at once admitted that he had changed his intention, and attributed it chiefly to a conversation yesterday with lord panmure, who, although a great military reformer, had convinced him that the present was not a fitting time for his proposed changes. lord aberdeen had not seen any member of the cabinet this evening since the meeting terminated, and does not know how they may be affected by this change. some, he feels sure, will be disappointed; but, on the whole, he feels disposed to be well satisfied. it is true that there can be no security for a single week; and it is impossible to escape from a sense of self-degradation by submitting to such an unprecedented state of relations amongst colleagues; but the scandal of a rupture would be so great, and the evils which might ensue so incalculable, that lord aberdeen is sincerely convinced it will be most advantageous for your majesty's service, and for the public, to endeavour, by a conciliatory and prudent course of conduct, to preserve tranquillity and union as long as possible. this does not exclude the necessity of firmness; and in the present case lord aberdeen has yielded nothing whatever, but he has received lord john's change without resentment or displeasure. [footnote : mr kennedy (who was remotely connected by marriage with lord john) had been removed by mr gladstone from an office he held. lord john took it up as a family matter.] [pageheading: the scutari hospital] _the duke of newcastle to queen victoria._ war department, _ nd december ._ ... the duke of newcastle assures your majesty that the condition of the hospital at scutari, and the entire want of all method and arrangement in everything which concerns the comfort of the army, are subjects of constant and most painful anxiety to him, and he wishes most earnestly that he could see his way clearly to an early and complete remedy.[ ] nothing can be more just than are all your majesty's comments upon the state of facts exhibited by these letters, and the duke of newcastle has repeatedly, during the last two months, written in the strongest terms respecting them--but hitherto without avail, and with little other result than a denial of charges, the truth of which must now be considered to be substantiated. your majesty is aware that the duke of newcastle sent out a commission to enquire into the whole state of the medical department nearly three months ago, and he expects a report very soon. in the meantime, the duke of newcastle will again write in the sense of your majesty's letter to him. [footnote : early in november, a band of capable and devoted nurses, under the superintendence of miss florence nightingale, had arrived at scutari, the experiment having been devised and projected by mr sidney herbert, who was a personal friend of miss nightingale. the party was accompanied by mr and mrs bracebridge, whose letters describing the condition of the hospitals had been sent by the queen to the duke of newcastle.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--once more, in this old and very _eventful_ year, allow me to address you, and to ask you for the continuation of that love and affection which you have ever borne me! may god bless you and yours in this new year--and though the old one departs in war and blood, may we hope to see this year restore peace to this troubled world, and may _we_ meet again also! with the affectionate wishes of all the children, believe me always, your most devoted niece, victoria r. introductory note to chapter xxiv at the end of the year , negotiations had been on foot with a view to terminating the war, on terms which were known as the "four points," the third of which was designed to extinguish russian preponderance in the black sea; and a conference of the powers ultimately assembled at vienna for the purpose. early in , sardinia, under the influence of cavour, her premier, joined the western alliance against russia. on parliament re-assembling in january, mr roebuck gave notice of a motion for the appointment of a committee to enquire into the conduct of the war. lord john russell, finding himself unable to resist the motion, at once resigned, and the ministry was overwhelmingly defeated by a majority of more than two to one. lord derby, as leader of the conservative opposition, was summoned to form a ministry, but failed to do so; the age of lord lansdowne prevented his accepting the premiership; and lord john russell, whose action had largely contributed to the defeat of the coalition, then attempted the task, but found that he could not command the support even of his old whig colleagues. the queen accordingly desired lord palmerston, whom the voice of the country unmistakably indicated for the premiership, to construct a government; he was successful in the attempt, the cabinet being a reconstruction of that of lord aberdeen, with lord panmure substituted for the duke of newcastle at the war office, while lord john russell was appointed british plenipotentiary at the vienna conference. the new premier desired to prevent the actual appointment of the committee which mr roebuck's motion demanded, the displacement of the late ministry--the real objective of the attack--having been effected; but as the house of commons manifested a determination to proceed with the appointment of the committee, the peelite section of the cabinet (sir james graham, mr gladstone, and mr sidney herbert) withdrew, and lord john russell, who was then on his way to vienna, accepted the secretaryship of the colonies. early in march, the czar nicholas died suddenly of pulmonary apoplexy, and the expectation of peace increased; shortly afterwards, the emperor and empress of the french paid a state visit to this country, and were received with much enthusiasm, the emperor being made a knight of the garter. in february, a determined attack by the russians upon eupatoria was repulsed by the turks; the defenders of sebastopol, however, succeeded in occupying and fortifying an important position, afterwards known as the "mamelon." the bombardment was resumed by the allies in april, and a successful attack made upon kertsch, from which the supplies of sebastopol were mainly drawn; while a squadron under captain lyons destroyed the russian magazines and stores in the sea of azov. general canrobert was succeeded in the french command by general pélissier, and on the th of june the mamelon was taken by the french. a desperate but, as it proved, unsuccessful assault was then made by the allies on the redan and malakhoff batteries; at this juncture lord raglan died, and was succeeded in the command by general simpson. the vienna conference proved abortive, russia refusing to accept the third point, and though a compromise was proposed by austria, which was favoured by the british and french plenipotentiaries, their respective governments did not ratify their views. the negotiations accordingly broke down, and lord john russell, on his return, used language in parliament quite inconsistent with the view which it afterwards appeared he had urged at vienna. he was loudly denounced for this, and, to avoid parliamentary censure, again resigned office. among the measures which became law during the session, were those for enabling companies to be formed with limited liability, and for granting self-government to some of the australasian colonies. the committee appointed by the house of commons held its meetings in public (after a proposal to keep its investigations secret had been rejected), and, by the casting vote of the chairman, reported that the late cabinet, when directing the expedition to the crimea, had had no adequate information as to the force they would have to encounter there; but a motion to "visit with severe reprehension" every member of the cabinet was parried by carrying the "previous question." in august, the queen and prince albert paid a return visit to the french emperor, and were received with great magnificence in paris, while later in the year king victor emmanuel of sardinia visited this country, and was made a knight of the garter. on the th of august, sweaborg was severely bombarded by the allied fleets in the baltic, and a forlorn attempt to raise the siege of sebastopol resulted in another decisive success at the tchernaya, the sardinian contingent fighting with great bravery. sebastopol fell on the th of september, after a siege of three hundred and forty-nine days; the citadel of kinburn was bombarded and surrendered in october, after which general simpson retired, in favour of sir william codrington. on the other hand, the fortress of kars in armenia, which had been defended by general fenwick williams, had to surrender to the russian general mouravieff, in circumstances, however, so honourable, that the officers were allowed to retain their swords, and their general received a baronetcy and a pension of £ a year. chapter xxiv [pageheading: the four points] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ osborne, _ th january ._ the queen received lord clarendon's box by special messenger yesterday evening. the acceptance by russia of our interpretation of the four points[ ] is a most clever, diplomatic man[oe]uvre, and very embarrassing for us at this moment, before sebastopol is taken, and before austria has been compelled to join in the war. it leaves us no alternative but to meet in conference, which, however, in the queen's opinion, ought to be preceded by a despatch to austria, putting on record our opinion as to the nature and object of the step taken by russia, and the advantages she hopes to derive by it from austria and germany, and the disadvantages she expects to inflict on the western powers. as hostilities ought not to be interrupted unless the russians give up sebastopol and evacuate the crimea (which would give rest and quiet to our poor soldiers), there still remains the hope of our getting the place before preliminaries of peace could be signed; and in that case a peace on the four points would be everything we could desire, and much preferable to the chance of future convulsions of the whole state of europe. russia would then have yielded all our wishes for the future. a mere moral defeat, such as count buol seems disposed to consider as sufficient, would soon prove to have been none at all, and austria would be the power which, to its cost, would find out (when too late) that the preponderance of russia is by no means diminished. the queen has given her permission to lord john to go to paris; he will find the emperor as little able to help himself in this stage of the business as ourselves. the queen is afraid that the news of the russian acceptance may induce our commanders in the crimea to rest on their oars, and thinks it necessary, therefore, that immediate orders should go out, pointing out that the early fall of the town is just now more important than ever. the queen wishes lord clarendon to communicate this letter to lord aberdeen and the duke of newcastle. she returns to windsor this afternoon. [footnote : the celebrated "four points" were-- . cessation of the russian protectorate over moldavia, wallachia, and servia: the privileges granted by the sultan to the principalities to be collectively guaranteed by the powers. . free navigation of the danube. . termination of the preponderance of russia in the black sea. . abandonment by russia of her claim over any subjects of the porte; the five powers to co-operate in obtaining from the sultan the confirmation and observance of the religious privileges of the different christian communities, and to turn to account in their common interest the generous intentions manifested by the sultan, without infringing his dignity or the independence of his crown. towards the end of , negotiations as to the four points had been proceeding between the allies and austria, and on the th of december the three powers had agreed in communicating to russia a memorandum giving a more exact interpretation of the four points. this was agreed upon as the basis on which the plenipotentiaries were to meet at vienna to settle the eastern question, and to conclude the war. another event, productive ultimately of results of great importance, took place at the end of january. king victor emmanuel of sardinia joined the western alliance, and despatched , men under general la marmora to the crimea. this act was inspired by cavour, the sardinian prime minister, who took the step that austria hesitated to take, and thereby established strong claims both upon the emperor napoleon and lord palmerston.] [pageheading: lord aberdeen and the garter] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ before parliament meets for probably a very stormy session, the queen wishes to give a public testimony of her continued confidence in lord aberdeen's administration, by offering him the vacant blue ribbon. the queen need not add a word on her personal feelings of regard and friendship for lord aberdeen, which are known to him now for a long period of years. _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th january ._ lord aberdeen presents his most humble duty to your majesty. he has had the honour of receiving your majesty's most gracious letter, and humbly begs to return your majesty his grateful acknowledgments for this mark of your majesty's continued confidence and favour. when your majesty mentioned the subject to lord aberdeen some time ago, he had not thought of any such distinction; and perhaps at his time of life, and with his present prospects, he scarcely ought to do so. there is no doubt that this unequivocal mark of gracious favour might strengthen his hands, and especially in those quarters where it would be most useful; but the power of misconstruction and malevolence is so great that the effect might possibly be more injurious than beneficial. perhaps your majesty would be graciously pleased to permit lord aberdeen to reflect a little on the subject, and to submit his thoughts to your majesty. lord aberdeen entreats your majesty to believe that in this, as in everything else, it is his desire to look exclusively to your majesty's welfare. when he leaves your majesty's service, your majesty may be fully aware of his many imperfections as a minister; but he trusts that your majesty will always have reason to regard him as perfectly disinterested. _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th january ._ lord aberdeen presents his most humble duty to your majesty. he has maturely reflected on the subject of your majesty's gracious letter of yesterday, and he is fully sensible of the very important advantage which, in his official position, he might derive from such a public and signal proof of your majesty's confidence and favour. although this might naturally give rise to more or less of political animadversion, lord aberdeen would not hesitate in his decision, if the alternative were only between himself and some peer of high rank whose claim consisted in being a supporter of the government; but lord aberdeen believes that he may venture to make a suggestion to your majesty, the effect of which would redound to your majesty's honour, and which might not prove altogether disadvantageous to himself. lord aberdeen understands that in consequence of the regulations of the order, lord cardigan could not properly receive the grand cross of the bath. from his rank and station, lord cardigan might fairly pretend to the garter, but his violent party politics would make it impossible for lord aberdeen, under ordinary circumstances, to submit his name to your majesty for this purpose. at the same time, lord cardigan's great gallantry and personal sacrifices seem to afford him a just claim to your majesty's favourable consideration; and lord aberdeen believes that to confer upon him the blue ribbon at this moment would be regarded as a very graceful act on the part of your majesty. it is even possible that lord aberdeen's political opponents might give him some credit for tendering such advice. if therefore your majesty should be pleased to take the same view of this matter, lord aberdeen would communicate with lord cardigan on his arrival in london, and would willingly postpone all consideration of your majesty's gracious intentions towards himself. but lord aberdeen will venture humbly to repeat his grateful sense of all your majesty's kindness, and his acknowledgments for the expression of sentiments which he can never sufficiently value.[ ] [footnote : subsequently lord aberdeen yielded to the queen's affectionate insistence, and was installed knight of the garter at a chapter held on the th of february.] [pageheading: welfare of the army] _queen victoria to the duke of newcastle._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ the queen returns the enclosed despatch to the duke of newcastle, which she has read with much pleasure, as bringing before lord raglan in an official manner--which will require official enquiry and _answer_--the various points so urgently requiring his attention and remedial effort. it is at the same time so delicately worded that it ought not to offend, although it cannot help, from its matter, being painful to lord raglan. the queen has only one remark to make, viz. the entire omission of her name throughout the document. it speaks simply in the name of the _people_ of england, and of _their_ sympathy, whilst the queen feels it to be one of her highest prerogatives and dearest duties to care for the welfare and success of _her_ army. had the despatch not gone before it was submitted to the queen, in a few words the duke of newcastle would have rectified this omission. the duke of newcastle might with truth have added that, making every allowance for the difficulties before sebastopol, it is difficult to imagine how the army could ever be _moved_ in the field, if the impossibility of keeping it alive is felt in a _stationary camp_ only seven miles from its harbour, with the whole british navy and hundreds of transports at its command. _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ the queen has received lord aberdeen's letter of the th, and has since seen lord john russell's letter. it shows that the practice of the queen's different cabinet ministers going to paris, to have personal explanations with the emperor, besides being hardly a constitutional practice, must lead to much misunderstanding. how is the emperor to distinguish between the views of the queen's government and the private opinions of the different members of the cabinet, all more or less varying, particularly in a coalition government? the queen hopes therefore that this will be the last such visit. the ambassador is the official organ of communication, and the foreign secretary is responsible for his doing his duty, and has the means of controlling him by his instructions and the despatches he receives, all of which are placed on record.[ ] [footnote : the cause of lord john's visit to paris had been the illness there of his sister-in-law, lady harriet elliot; but he took the opportunity of conferring both with the emperor and his ministers on the conduct of the war.--walpole's _life of lord john russell_, chap. xxv.] [pageheading: letter from lord raglan] [pageheading: the commissariat] _lord raglan to queen victoria._ before sebastopol, _ th january ._ lord raglan presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to acknowledge with every sentiment of devotion and gratitude your majesty's most gracious letter of st january, and the kind wishes which your majesty and the prince are pleased to unite in offering to the army and your majesty's most humble servant on the occasion of the new year. the deep concern and anxiety felt by your majesty and the prince for the privations of the troops, their unceasing labours, their exposure to bad weather, and the extensive sickness which prevails among them, are invaluable proofs of the lively interest which your majesty and his royal highness take in the welfare of an army which, under no circumstances, will cease to revere the name, and apply all its best energies to the service of your majesty. lord raglan can with truth assure your majesty that his whole time and all his thoughts are occupied in endeavouring to provide for the various wants of your majesty's troops. it has not been in his power to lighten the burthen of their duties. those exacted from them before sebastopol are for the preservation of the trenches and batteries; and there are many other calls upon the men, more especially when, as at present, the roads are so bad that wheeled carriages can no longer be used, and that the horse transport is diminished by sickness and death, and that the commissariat, having no longer any sufficient means of conveyance at its command, cannot bring up the daily supplies without their assistance, thereby adding, however inevitably, to their labour and fatigue. lord raglan begs leave to submit, for your majesty's information, that the allied armies have no intercourse with the country, and can derive no resources from it; and consequently all the requirements for the conveyance of stores and provisions, as well as the stores and provisions themselves, must be imported. such a necessity forms in itself a difficulty of vast magnitude, which has been greatly felt by him, and has been productive of the most serious consequences to the comfort and welfare of the army. the coffee sent from constantinople has been received and issued to the troops green, the commissariat having no means whatever of roasting it. very recently, however, an able officer of the navy, captain heath of the _sanspareil_, undertook to have machines made by the engineers on board his ship for roasting coffee; and in this he has succeeded, but they have not yet produced as much as is required for the daily consumption. the commissary-general applied to the treasury for roasted coffee three months ago. none has as yet arrived. a very large amount of warm clothing has been distributed, and your majesty's soldiers, habited in the cloaks of various countries, might be taken for the troops of any nation as well as those of england. huts have arrived in great abundance, and as much progress is made in getting them up as could be hoped for, considering that there has been a very heavy fall of snow, and that a thaw has followed it, and the extremely limited means of conveyance at command. much having been said, as lord raglan has been given to understand, in private letters, of the inefficiency of the officers of the staff, he considers it to be due to your majesty, and a simple act of justice to those individuals, to assure your majesty that he has every reason to be satisfied with their exertions, their indefatigable zeal, and undeviating, close attention to their duties, and he may be permitted to add that the horse and mule transport for the carriage of provisions and stores are under the charge of the commissariat, not of the staff, and that the department in question engages the men who are hired to take care of it, and has exclusive authority over them. lord raglan transmitted to the duke of newcastle, in the month of december, the report of a medical board, which he caused to assemble at constantinople for the purpose of ascertaining the state of health of the duke of cambridge. the report evidently showed the necessity of his royal highness's return to england for its re-establishment. this, lord raglan knows, was the opinion of the honourable lieutenant-colonel macdonald,[ ] whose attention and devotion to his royal highness could not be surpassed, and who was himself very anxious to remain with the army. the duke, however, has not gone further than malta, where, it is said, his health has not improved. [footnote : the hon. james bosville macdonald [ - ], son of the third baron macdonald, a.d.c., equerry and private secretary to the duke of cambridge.] [pageheading: the army board] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ nd january ._ the queen has received lord aberdeen's letter of yesterday, giving an account of the proceedings of the last cabinet.... the queen is quite prepared to sanction the proposal of constituting the secretary of state for war, the commander-in-chief, the master-general of the ordnance, and the secretary at war, a board on the affairs of the army, which promises more unity of action in these departments, and takes notice of the fact that the powers and functions of the commander-in-chief are not to be changed. as these, however, rest entirely on tradition, and are in most cases ambiguous and undefined, the queen would wish that they should be clearly defined, and this the more so as she transacts certain business directly with him, and ought to be secured against getting into any collision with the secretary of state, who also takes her pleasure, and gives orders to the commander-in-chief. she would further ask to be regularly furnished with the minutes of the proceedings of the new board, in order to remain acquainted with what is going on. unless, however, the militia be made over to the direction of the secretary of state for _war_, our army system will still remain very incomplete. the last experience has shown that the militia will have to be looked upon as the chief source for recruiting the army, and this will never be done harmoniously and well, unless they both be brought under the same control. with reference to the investiture of the garter, the queen need not assure lord aberdeen that there are few, if any, on whom she will confer the blue ribbon with greater pleasure than on so kind and valued a friend as he is to us both. _lord john russell to queen victoria._ chesham place, _ th january ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he has had the honour of receiving your majesty's gracious invitation to windsor castle. he would have waited upon your majesty this day had he not been constrained by a sense of duty to write to lord aberdeen last night a letter of which he submits a copy. lord john russell trusts your majesty will be graciously pleased to comply at once with his request. but he feels it would be right to attend your majesty's farther commands before he has the honour of waiting upon your majesty. [pageheading: mr. roebuck's motion] [_enclosure in previous letter._] _lord john russell to the earl of aberdeen._ chesham place, _ rd january ._ my dear lord aberdeen,--mr roebuck has given notice of a motion to enquire into the conduct of the war. i do not see how this motion is to be resisted. but as it involves a censure of the war departments with which some of my colleagues are connected, my only course is to tender my resignation. i therefore have to request you will lay my humble resignation of the office, which i have the honour to hold, before the queen, with the expression of my gratitude for her majesty's kindness for many years. i remain, my dear lord aberdeen, yours very truly, j. russell. [pageheading: lord john russell resigns] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, th _january ._ the queen has this moment received lord john russell's letter and enclosure, and must express to him her surprise and concern at hearing so abruptly of his intention to desert her government on the motion of mr roebuck. _memorandum by the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ yesterday evening lord aberdeen came down here. he had heard that lord john had written to the queen, and she showed him the correspondence. he then reported that lord john's letter to him had come without the slightest notice and warning, and whatever the cause for it might be, the object could only be to upset the government. upon receiving it, he had sent for the duke of newcastle and shown it to him. the duke at once proposed, that as a sacrifice seemed to be required to appease the public for the want of success in the crimea, he was quite ready to be that sacrifice, and entreated that lord aberdeen would put his office into the hands of lord palmerston, who possessed the confidence of the nation; lord aberdeen should propose this at once to the cabinet, he himself would support the government _out_ of office like _in_ office. lord aberdeen then went to lord palmerston to communicate to him what had happened, and ascertain his feelings. lord palmerston was disgusted at lord john's behaviour,[ ] and did not consider himself the least bound to be guided by him; he admitted that somehow or other the public had a notion that he would manage the war department better than anybody else; as for himself, he did not expect to do it half so well as the duke of newcastle, but was prepared to try it, not to let the government be dissolved, which at this moment would be a real calamity for the country. [footnote : lord palmerston wrote him a most scathing letter on the subject.] the cabinet met at two o'clock, and lord aberdeen laid the case before it. the duke then made his proposal, and was followed by lord palmerston, who stated pretty much the same as he had done in the morning, upon which sir george grey said it did both the duke and lord palmerston the highest honour, but he saw no possibility of resisting mr roebuck's motion without lord john; sir charles wood was of the same opinion. lord clarendon proposed that, as the duke had given up his department to lord palmerston, lord john might be induced to remain; but this was at once rejected by lord aberdeen on the ground that they might be justified in sacrificing the duke to the wishes of the country, but they could not to lord john, with any degree of honour. the upshot was, that the whig members of the cabinet, not being inclined to carry on the government (including lord lansdowne), they came to the unanimous determination to tender their resignations. the queen protested against this, as exposing her and the country to the greatest peril, as it was impossible to change the government at this moment without deranging the whole external policy in diplomacy and war, and there was nobody to whom the reins could be confided. lord derby and his party would never have done, but now he had allied himself with lord ellenborough, who was determined to have the conduct of the war.... lord aberdeen thought yet, that on him[ ] devolved the responsibility of replacing what he wantonly destroyed. the queen insisted, however, that lord aberdeen should make one appeal to the cabinet to stand by her, which he promised to do to the best of his ability, but without hope of success. the cabinet will meet at twelve o'clock to-day, but at five the ministers will have to announce their determination to the houses of parliament, as mr roebuck's motion stands for that hour. albert. [footnote : _i.e._, lord john russell.] [pageheading: lord john's justification] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ chesham place, _ th january ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has received with deep regret the imputations of deserting the government. lord john russell, after being at the head of the ministry for more than five years, and being then the leader of a great party, consented to serve under lord aberdeen, and served for more than a year and a half without office. after sacrificing his position and his reputation for two years, he has come to the conclusion that it would not be for the benefit of the country to resist mr roebuck's motion. but it is clear that the enquiry he contemplates could not be carried on without so weakening the authority of the government that it could not usefully go on. in these circumstances lord john russell has pursued the course which he believes to be for the public benefit. with the most sincere respect for lord aberdeen, he felt he could not abandon his sincere convictions in order to maintain the administration in office. it is the cause of much pain to him that, after sacrificing his position in order to secure your majesty's service from interruption, he should not have obtained your majesty's approbation. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ the queen has received lord john russell's letter of to-day in explanation of his resignation. she has done full justice to the high-minded and disinterested manner in which lord john sacrificed two years ago his position as former prime minister and as leader of a great party, in consenting to serve under lord aberdeen, and hopes she has sufficiently expressed this to him at the time. he will since have found a further proof of her desire to do anything which could be agreeable to him in his position, by cheerfully agreeing to all the various changes of offices which he has at different times wished for. if lord john will consider, however, the moment which he has now chosen to leave her government, and the abrupt way in which his unexpected intention of agreeing in a vote implying censure of the government was announced to her, he cannot be surprised that she could not express her approbation. [pageheading: lord john's indignation] _memorandum by queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ lord aberdeen arrived at six o'clock to report the result of the meeting of the cabinet, which was so far satisfactory that they agreed upon retaining office at present for the purpose of meeting mr roebuck's motion. they expect (most of them, at least) to be beat and to have to resign, but they think it more honourable to be driven out than to run away. they will meet parliament therefore without making any changes in the offices. lord aberdeen and the duke of newcastle fancy even that they will have a chance of defeating mr roebuck's motion. sir george grey has declared, however, that, perfectly willing as he is not to desert his post at this moment, he will consider himself at liberty to resign even after success, as he thinks the government has no chance of standing with lord john in opposition. the other whigs would in that case very likely do the same, and the government come to an end in this way; but it is not impossible that sir george grey may be prevailed upon by the queen to stay. much must depend upon the nature of the debate. lord aberdeen seems to have put the queen's desire that the cabinet should reconsider their former decision in the strongest words, which seems to have brought about the present result. he saw lord john this morning who, though personally civil towards himself, was very much excited and very angry at a letter which he had received from the queen. he said he would certainly vote with mr roebuck. the houses are to be adjourned to-day, and the whole discussion comes on to-morrow. lord aberdeen brought a copy of a letter lord palmerston had written to lord john. the peelites in the cabinet, viz. the dukes of newcastle and argyll, sir j. graham, mr gladstone, and mr s. herbert, seem to be very bitter against lord john, and determined to oppose him should he form a government, whilst they would be willing to support a derby government. victoria r. _lord john russell to queen victoria._ chesham place, _ th january ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is very grateful for your majesty's communication of yesterday. he confesses his resignation was very abrupt, but it is the consequence of many previous discussions in which his advice had been rejected or overruled. lord john russell acknowledges the repeated instances of your majesty's goodness in permitting him to leave the foreign office, and subsequently to serve without office as leader of the house of commons. these changes, however, were not made without due consideration. to be leader of the house of commons and foreign secretary is beyond any man's strength. to continue for a long time leader without an office becomes absurd. lord aberdeen at first meant his own continuance in office to be short, which justified the arrangement. [pageheading: mr roebuck's motion] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._[ ] piccadilly, _ th january ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that lord john russell having made his statement, concluding with an announcement that he did not mean to vote on mr roebuck's motion, and viscount palmerston having made a few remarks on that statement, mr roebuck rose to make his motion; but the paralytic affection under which he has for some time laboured soon overpowered him, and before he had proceeded far in his speech he became so unwell that he was obliged to finish abruptly, make his motion, and sit down. mr sidney herbert, who was to reply to mr roebuck, rose therefore under great disadvantage, as he had to reply to a speech which had not been made; but he acquitted himself with great ability, and made an excellent statement in explanation and defence of the conduct of the government. he was followed by mr henry drummond,[ ] colonel north for the motion, mr monckton milnes against it; lord granby who, in supporting the motion, praised and defended the emperor of russia; mr layard, who in a speech of much animation, gave very strong reasons to show the great impropriety of the motion, and ended by saying he should vote for it; sir george grey, who made a spirited and excellent speech; mr walpole, who supported the motion and endeavoured, but fruitlessly, to establish a similarity between the enquiry proposed by mr roebuck and the enquiry in a committee of the whole house into the conduct of the walcheren expedition when the operation was over and the army had returned to england. mr vernon smith declared that his confidence in the government had been confined to three members--lord lansdowne, lord john russell, and lord palmerston--and that it was greatly diminished by the retirement of lord john russell. colonel sibthorp,[ ] sir john fitzgerald, and mr knightley[ ] followed, and mr disraeli having said that his side of the house required that the debate should be adjourned, an adjournment to monday was agreed to; but viscount palmerston, in consenting to the adjournment, expressed a strong hope that the debate would not be protracted beyond that night. viscount palmerston regrets to say that the general aspect of the house was not very encouraging. [footnote : his first letter to the queen as leader of the house of commons.] [footnote : m.p. for west surrey.] [footnote : sibthorp, whose name is almost forgotten, earned some fame as an opponent of the exhibition of , and remained faithful to protection, after lord derby and his party had dropped it. his beard, his eye-glass, and his clothes were a constant subject for the pencil of leech.] [footnote : mr (afterwards sir) reginald knightley, m.p. for south northamptonshire, - . in the latter year he was created lord knightley of fawsley.] [pageheading: the debate] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ london, _ th january ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. it is probable that your majesty may have heard from lord palmerston some account of the debate in the house of commons last night; but perhaps your majesty may not object to learn the impressions which lord aberdeen has received on the present state of affairs both in and out of the house. there can be no doubt that lord john russell has injured his position by the course which he has pursued. his own friends having remained in the cabinet, is his practical condemnation. he made a very elaborate and dexterous statement; but which, although very plausible, did not produce a good effect. it had been decided that he should be followed by mr gladstone, who was in full possession of the subject; but at the cabinet yesterday held before the meeting of the house, it was decided that lord palmerston should follow lord john, in order to prevent the appearance of a division in the cabinet between the whig and peelite members. as lord palmerston was to act as leader of the house, the substitution of mr gladstone would have appeared strange. but the decision was unfortunate, for by all accounts the speech of lord palmerston was singularly unsuccessful. in the debate which followed, the impression in the house was strongly against the war department; and the indications which occasionally appeared of the possibility of lord palmerston filling that office were received with great cordiality. sir george grey made an excellent speech, and his censure must have been deeply felt by lord john. lord aberdeen has waited until the cabinet had met to-day before he had the honour of writing to your majesty, in order that he might learn the impressions and opinions of the members, especially of those who are in the house of commons. all agree that if the division had taken place last night, mr roebuck's motion would have been carried by a large majority. this still seems to be the prevailing opinion, but there is considerable difference. the motion is so objectionable and so unconstitutional that delay is likely to be favourable to those who oppose it. a little reflection must produce considerable effect. lord aberdeen sees that mr gladstone is preparing for a great effort, and he will do whatever can be effected by reason and eloquence. it is said that lord derby shows some reluctance to accept the responsibility of overthrowing the government; but the part taken last night by mr walpole, and the notice of a motion in the house of lords by lord lyndhurst, would appear to denote a different policy. the result of the division on monday will depend on the course adopted by his friends, _as a party_. it is said that mr disraeli has signified a difference of opinion from mr walpole. [pageheading: defeat of the ministry] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th january ._ ( a.m.) viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that mr roebuck's motion has been carried by to , being a majority of against the government, a great number of the liberal party voting in the majority. the debate was begun by mr stafford,[ ] who gave a very interesting but painful account of the mismanagement which he had witnessed in the hospitals at scutari and sebastopol, while he gave due praise to the conduct of his royal highness the duke of cambridge toward the men under his command, and related the cheering effect produced by your majesty's kind letter, when read by him to the invalids in hospital. he was followed by mr bernal osborne,[ ] who found fault with all the military arrangements at home, and with the system under which commissions in the army are bought and sold, but who declared that he should vote against the motion. mr henley then supported the motion, directing his attack chiefly against the management of the transport service. admiral berkeley,[ ] in reply, defended the conduct of the admiralty. major beresford supported the motion, but defended lord raglan against the attacks of the newspapers. mr. rice, member for dover, opposed the motion. mr miles[ ] found fault with the commissariat, and supported the motion, saying that the proposed enquiry would apply a remedy to the evils acknowledged to exist in the army in the crimea; and sir francis baring, after ably pointing out the inconveniences of the proposed committee, said he should vote against it, as tending to prevent those evils from being remedied. mr rich criticised the composition of the ministry, and the conduct of the war, and supported the motion as a means of satisfying public opinion. sir edward lytton bulwer supported the motion in a speech of considerable ability, and was replied to by mr gladstone in a masterly speech, which exhausted the subject, and would have convinced hearers who had not made up their minds beforehand. he was followed by mr disraeli, who in the course of his speech made use of some expressions in regard to lord john russell, which drew from lord john some short explanations as to the course which he had pursued. viscount palmerston then made some observations on the motion, and, after a few words from mr muntz,[ ] mr thomas duncombe[ ] asked mr roebuck whether, if he carried his motion, he really meant to name and appoint the committee and prosecute the enquiry, saying that he hoped and trusted that such was mr roebuck's intention. mr roebuck declared that he fully meant to do so, and after a short speech from mr roebuck, who lost the thread of his argument in one part of what he said, the house proceeded to a division. the conservative party abstained, by order from their chiefs, from giving the cheer of triumph which usually issues from a majority after a vote upon an important occasion.... [footnote : augustus stafford (formerly stafford o'brien), secretary of the admiralty in the derby ministry of .] [footnote : secretary of the admiralty, who, contrary to modern practice, criticised on this occasion the action of his own colleagues.] [footnote : maurice frederick fitzhardinge berkeley, - , m.p. for gloucester - .] [footnote : m.p. for bristol.] [footnote : m.p. for birmingham.] [footnote : m.p. for finsbury.] [pageheading: lord aberdeen resigns] [pageheading: lord derby summoned] _memorandum by queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ lord aberdeen arrived here at three. he came from the cabinet, and tendered their unanimous resignation. nothing could have been better, he said, than the feeling of the members towards each other. had it not been for the incessant attempts of lord john russell to keep up party differences, it must be confessed that the experiment of a coalition has succeeded admirably. we discussed future possibilities, and agreed that there remained nothing to be done but to offer the government to lord derby, whose party was numerically the strongest, and had carried the motion. he supposed lord derby would be prepared for it, although he must have great difficulties, unless he took in men from other parties, about which, however, nothing could be known at present. lord aberdeen means to behave more generously to lord derby than he had done to him, and felt sure that his colleagues would feel a desire to support the queen's new government. he said lord grey's plan[ ] had not met with the approbation of the house of lords. the indignation at lord john's conduct on all sides was strongly on the increase. lord aberdeen was much affected at having to take leave of us. victoria r. [footnote : for concentrating in a single department the business connected with the administration of the army.] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ the queen would wish to see lord derby at buckingham palace (whither she is going for a few hours) to-morrow at half-past eleven. _queen victoria to the duke of newcastle._ buckingham palace, _ st january ._ the queen has just received the duke of newcastle's letter. she readily grants him the permission he asks,[ ] and seizes this opportunity of telling him how much she feels for him during this trying time, and what a high sense she shall ever entertain of his loyal, high-minded, and patriotic conduct, as well as of his unremitting exertions to serve his sovereign and country. [footnote : the duke, in order to refute lord john russell, asked leave to state what had passed in the cabinet.] [pageheading: interview with lord derby] [pageheading: the leadership] _memorandum by queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ st january ._ we went up to buckingham palace and saw lord derby at half-past eleven. the queen informed him of the resignation of the government, and of her desire that he should try to form a new one. she addressed herself to him as the head of the largest party in the house of commons, and which had by its vote chiefly contributed to the overthrow of the government. lord derby threw off this responsibility, saying that there had been no communication with mr roebuck, but that his followers could not help voting when lord john russell told them on authority that there was the most ample cause for enquiry, and the whole country cried out for it. moreover, the government, in meeting the motion, laid its chief stress upon its implying a want of confidence in the government--a confidence which they certainly did not enjoy. he owned that his party was the most compact--mustering about two hundred and eighty men--but he had no men capable of governing the house of commons, and he should not be able to present an administration that would be accepted by the country unless it was strengthened by other combinations; he knew that the whole country cried out for lord palmerston as the only man fit for carrying on the war with success, and he owned the necessity of having him in the government, were it even only to satisfy the french government, the confidence of which was at this moment of the greatest importance; but he must say, speaking without reserve, that whatever the ignorant public might think, lord palmerston was totally unfit for the task. he had become very deaf as well as very blind, was seventy-one years old, and ... in fact, though he still kept up his sprightly manners of youth, it was evident that his day had gone by.[ ] ... lord derby thought, however, he might have the lead of the house of commons, which mr disraeli was ready to give up to him. for the war department there were but two men--both very able, but both liable to objections: the first was lord grey, who would do it admirably, but with whom he disagreed in general politics, and in this instance on the propriety of the war, which he himself was determined to carry on with the utmost vigour; then came his peculiar views about the amalgamation of offices, in which he did not at all agree. the other was lord ellenborough, who was very able, and would certainly be very popular with the army, but was very unmanageable; yet he hoped he could keep him in order. it might be doubtful whether lord hardinge could go on with him at the horse guards. we agreed in the danger of lord grey's army proposal, and had to pronounce the opinion that lord ellenborough was almost mad. this led us to a long discussion upon the merits of the conduct of the war, upon which he seemed to share the general prejudices, but on being told some of the real facts and difficulties of the case, owned that these, from obvious reasons, could not be stated by the government in their defence, and said that he was aware that the chief fault lay at headquarters in the crimea. lord raglan ought to be recalled, as well as his whole staff, and perhaps he could render this less painful to him by asking him to join the cabinet, where his military advice would be of great value. [footnote : lord derby's judgment was not borne out by subsequent events. lord palmerston was prime minister when he died on the th of october , ten years later. "the half-opened cabinet-box on his table, and the unfinished letter on his desk, testified that he was at his post to the last,"--ashley's _life of lord palmerston_, vol. ii. p. .] to be able to meet the house of commons, however, lord derby said he required the assistance of men like mr gladstone and mr s. herbert, and he was anxious to know whether the queen could tell him upon what support he could reckon in that quarter. we told him we had reason to believe the peelites would oppose a government of lord john russell, but were inclined to support one of lord derby's; whether they were inclined to join in office, however, appeared very doubtful. the queen having laid great stress on a good selection for the office of foreign affairs, lord derby said he would have to return to lord malmesbury, who, he thought, had done well before, and had now additional experience. should he not be able to obtain strength from the peelites, he could not be able to form a creditable government; he must give up the task, and thought the queen might try some other combinations with lord john russell or lord lansdowne, etc. he did not think a reconstruction of the old government would be accepted by the country; however, whatever government was formed to carry on the war, should not only not be opposed by him, but have his cordial support, provided it raised no question of general constitutional importance. should all attempts fail, he would be ready to come forward to the rescue of the country with such materials as he had, but it would be "a desperate attempt." lord derby returned a little before two from lord palmerston, to whom he had gone in the first instance. lord palmerston was ready to accept the lead of the house of commons, and acknowledged that the man who undertook this could not manage the war department besides. he undertook to sound mr gladstone and mr s. herbert, but had, evidently much to lord derby's surprise, said that it must be a coalition, and not only the taking in of one or two persons, which does not seem to suit lord derby at all--nor was he pleased at lord palmerston's suggestion that he ought to try, by all means, to retain lord clarendon at the foreign office. lord palmerston was to sound the peelites in the afternoon, and lord derby is to report the result to the queen this evening. victoria r. [pageheading: lord clarendon] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james' square, _ st january ._ ( : p.m.) lord derby, with his humble duty, hastens to submit to your majesty the answer which he has this moment received from viscount palmerston to the communication which he made to him this morning by your majesty's command. lord derby has not yet received from mr sidney herbert and mr gladstone the answers referred to in lord palmerston's letter; but, from the tenor of the latter, he fears there can be no doubt as to their purport. with respect to lord clarendon, lord derby is fully sensible of the advantage which might accrue to your majesty's service from the continuance in office of a minister of great ability, who is personally cognizant of all the intricate negotiations and correspondence which have taken place for the last two years; and neither personally nor politically would he anticipate on the part of his friends, certainly not on his own part, any difficulty under existing circumstances, in co-operating with lord clarendon; but the present political relations between lord clarendon and lord derby's friends are such that, except upon a special injunction from your majesty, and under your majesty's immediate sanction, he would not be justified in making any overtures in that direction.[ ] should lord derby receive any communication from mr gladstone or mr. sidney herbert before morning, he will send it down to your majesty by the earliest opportunity in the morning. lord derby trusts that your majesty will forgive the haste in which he writes, having actually, at the moment of receiving lord palmerston's answer, written a letter to say that he could not longer detain your majesty's messenger. lord derby will take no farther step until he shall have been honoured by your majesty's farther commands. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's most dutiful servant and subject, derby. [pageheading: lord derby's refusal] _memorandum by the prince albert._ _ st february ._ lord derby came down here at eleven o'clock, and brought with him two letters he had received from mr gladstone and mr sidney herbert, who both declared their willingness to give lord derby's government an independent support, but on mature consideration their impossibility to take office in his administration. lord derby said, as to the independent support, it reminded him of the definition of an independent member of parliament, viz. one that could not be depended upon. under the circumstances, he would not be able to form such an administration as could effectively carry on the government. [footnote : although opposed to the ordinary procedure of party government, there were recent precedents for such overtures being made. when the whigs displaced peel in , lord john russell attempted to include three of the outgoing ministers in his cabinet, and on the formation of the coalition ministry, negotiations were on foot to retain lord st. leonards on the woolsack.] he thought that lord palmerston had at first been willing to join, but it was now evident that the three letters had been written in concert.[ ] [footnote : lord palmerston wrote that, upon reflection, he had come to the conclusion that he would not, by joining the government, give to it that stability which lord derby anticipated. he, however, gave the promise of his support to any government which would carry on the war with energy and vigour, and maintain the alliances which had been formed.] he was anxious to carry any message to any other statesman with which the queen might wish to entrust him. this the queen declined, with her best thanks. he then wanted to know what statement lord aberdeen would make to-night in the house, stating it to be very important that it should not appear that the administration had gone from lord aberdeen through any other hands than the ones which should finally accept it. it would be well known that he had been _consulted_ by the queen, but there was no necessity for making it appear that he had undertaken to form an administration. the fact was, that he had consulted none of his party except mr disraeli, and that his followers would have reason to complain if they thought that he had put them altogether out of the question. we told him that we did not know what lord aberdeen meant to say, but the best thing would be on all accounts to state exactly the truth as it passed. after he had taken leave of the queen with reiterated assurances of gratitude and loyalty, i had a further long conversation with him, pointing out to him facts with which he could not be familiar, concerning our army in the crimea, our relations with our ally, negotiations with the german courts, the state of public men and the press in this country, which convinced me that this country was in a crisis of the greatest magnitude, and the crown in the greatest difficulties, which could not be successfully overcome unless political parties would show a little more patriotism than hitherto. they behaved a good deal like his independent member of parliament, and tried to aggravate every little mishap in order to get party advantages out of it. i attacked him personally upon his ... opposition to the foreign enlistment bill, and pointed to the fact that the french were now obtaining the services of that very swiss legion we stood so much in need of. his defence was a mere parliamentary dialectic, accusing the clumsy way in which ministers had introduced their bill, but he promised to do what he could to relieve the difficulties of the country. in conclusion i showed him, under injunctions of secrecy, the letter i had received from count walewski, which showed to what a state of degradation the british crown had been reduced by the efforts on all sides for party objects to exalt the emperor napoleon, and make his will and use the sole standard for the english government.[ ] [footnote : this curious letter of the count stated in effect that the alliance of england and france, and the critical circumstances of the day, made lords palmerston and clarendon indispensable members of any ministry that might be formed.] lord derby called it the most audacious thing he had ever seen, adding that he had heard that count walewski had stated to somebody with reference to the vienna conferences: "what influence can a country like england pretend to exercise, which has no army and no government?" i told him he was right, as every one here took pains to prove that we had no army, and to bring about that the queen should have no government. [pageheading: lord lansdowne consulted] [pageheading: lord john russell suggested] _memorandum by the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ nd february ._ lord lansdowne arrived late yesterday evening. the queen, after having stated that lord derby had given up the task of forming a government, asked his advice under the present circumstances, to which he replied that he had little advice to give. i interrupted that at least he could impart knowledge to the queen, upon which she could form a decision. the first and chief question was, what was lord john russell's position? lord lansdowne declared this to be the most difficult question of all to answer. he believed lord john was not at all dissatisfied with the position he had assumed, and was under the belief that he could form an administration capable of standing, even without the support of the peelites. he (lord lansdowne) would certainly decline to have anything to do with it, as it could receive its support only from the extreme radical side, which was not favourable to lord john, but shrewd enough to perceive that to obtain a government that would have to rest entirely upon themselves would be the surest mode of pushing their own views. lord john, although not intending it, would blindly follow this bias, excusing himself with the consideration that he must look for support somewhere. he himself doubted, however, even the possibility of lord john succeeding; but till he was brought to see this no strong government was possible. we asked about the peelites, lord palmerston, etc. he did not know whether the peelites would serve with lord john russell--they certainly would not under him. there was a strong belief, however, particularly on the part of lord clarendon, and even shared by lord palmerston, that without lord john a stable government could not be formed. the queen asked whether they could unite under him (lord lansdowne). he replied he had neither youth nor strength to make an efficient prime minister, and although lord john had often told him "if you had been in aberdeen's place my position would have been quite different," he felt sure lord john would soon be tired of him and impatient to see him gone. he thought an arrangement might be possible by which lord clarendon might be prime minister, lord john go to the house of lords and take the foreign office, and lord palmerston the lead in the house of commons. we told him that would spoil two efficient men. lord clarendon had no courage for prime minister, and lord john had decidedly failed at the foreign office. lord lansdowne had had lord palmerston with him during the derby negotiation, and clearly seen that at first he was not unwilling to join, but had more and more cooled upon it when he went further into the matter. lord derby and lord palmerston had had a full discussion upon lord grey, and discarded him as quite impracticable.... after much farther discussion it was agreed that lord lansdowne should go up to town this day, see first lord palmerston, then the peelites, and lastly lord john, and come to buckingham palace at two o'clock, prepared to give answers upon the question what was feasible and what not. he inclines to the belief that we shall have to go through the ceremony at least of entrusting lord john with the formation of an administration. lord john was not without large following amongst the whigs, and whatever was said about his late conduct in the higher circles, he believed that it is well looked upon by the lower classes. his expression was, that it would be found that the first and second class carriages in the railway train held opposite opinions. _memorandum by queen victoria._ buckingham palace, _ nd february ._ lord lansdowne arrived at two o'clock, and reported that he had seen all the persons intended, but he could not say that he saw his way more clearly. they all gave pledges generally to support any government, but were full of difficulties as to their participation in one. mr gladstone would clearly not serve under lord john--might possibly with him--if much pressed by lord aberdeen to do so. he would probably serve under lord palmerston. mr s. herbert expressed apprehension at the effect upon the prospects of peace which would be produced by lord palmerston's being at the head of the government. lord john russell would not serve under lord palmerston, and fancies he might form a whig administration himself, of which lord palmerston, however, must be the chief member. lord palmerston would not like to serve under lord john russell--would be ready to form an administration, which could not have duration, however, in his opinion, if lord john russell held aloof! he found lord john fully impressed with the fact of his having brought the queen into all these difficulties, and of owing her what reparation he could make. lord palmerston also felt that he had some amends to make to the queen for former offences. we asked lord lansdowne whether they could not be combined under a third person. he felt embarrassed about the answer, having to speak of himself. both expressed their willingness to serve under him--but then he was seventy-five years old, and crippled with the gout, and could not possibly undertake such a task except for a few months, when the whole administration would break down--of which he did not wish to be the cause. in such a case, lord john had stated to him that the man to be leader of the house of commons was lord palmerston, meaning himself to be transferred to the house of lords, in his former office as president of the council. without presuming to give advice, lord lansdowne thought that under all circumstances it would do good if the queen was to see lord john russell, and hear from himself what he could do. she could perfectly keep it in her power to commission whom she pleased hereafter, even if lord john should declare himself willing to form a government. victoria r. [pageheading: lord john russell summoned] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ nd february ._ the queen has just seen lord lansdowne. as what he could tell her has not enabled her to see her way out of the difficulties in which the late proceedings in parliament have placed her, she wishes to see lord john russell in order to confer with him on the subject. [pageheading: interview with lord john] [pageheading: negotiations] _memorandum by queen victoria_[ ] buckingham palace, _ nd february ._ lord john russell came at five o'clock. the queen said she wished to consult him on the present crisis, and hear from him how the position of parties stood at this moment. he said that immediately at the meeting of parliament a general desire became manifest for a modification of the government; that the protectionists were as hostile to the peelites as they had been in the year ' ; that the old whigs had with difficulty been made to support the late government; that the dissatisfaction with the conduct of the war was general, and the country cried out for lord palmerston at the war department; that he considered it of the greatest importance that lord clarendon should remain at the foreign office, where he had gained great reputation, and nobody could replace him. on the question whether lord palmerston would be supported if he formed an administration, he said everybody would give a general support, but he doubted the whigs joining him. he did not know what the peelites would do, but they would be an essential element in the government, particularly mr gladstone; the best thing would be if lord palmerston took the lead of the house of commons. a government formed by lord lansdowne or lord clarendon would ensure general support, but lord lansdowne had declared that he would not undertake it for more than three months, and then the government would break down again; and we objected that lord clarendon ought, as he had said, not to be moved from the foreign office, to which he agreed. he himself would prefer to sit on the fourth bench and support the government. the queen asked him whether he thought he could form a government. after having taken some time for reflection, he said he thought he could,[ ] but he thought it difficult without the peelites, and next to impossible without lord palmerston; he did not know whether both or either would serve with or under him; he would offer lord palmerston the choice between the lead of the house of commons and the war department--and in case he should choose the former, ask himself to be removed to the house of lords; he had been leader of the house of commons since ' , and as far as being able to support his title, he was enabled to do so, as his brother, the duke of bedford, intended to leave an estate of £ a year to his son. the queen asked him whether he would do the same under the administration of lord lansdowne, for instance; he begged to be allowed time to consider that. he acknowledged to the queen--on her remark that he had contributed to bring her into the present difficulties--that he was bound to do what he could to help her out of them; and on the queen's question what he could do, he answered that depended very much on what the queen would wish him to do. [footnote : this memorandum, though signed by the queen, was written by the prince.] [footnote : colonel phipps thus describes lord aberdeen's comment on lord john russell's words:--"i told lord aberdeen that lord john had said that he thought that he could form a government. he laughed very much, and said: 'i am not at all surprised at that, but whom will he get to serve under him? has he at present any idea of the extent of the feeling that exists against him?' i replied that i thought not, that it was difficult for anybody to tell him, but that i thought that it was right that he should know what the feeling was, and that he would soon discover it when he began to ask people to join his government. lord aberdeen said that was very true...."] she commissioned him finally to meet lord lansdowne and lord palmerston, to consult together, and to let lord lansdowne bring her the result of their deliberation this evening, so that she might see a little more clearly where the prospect of a strong government lay. we had some further discussion upon mr roebuck's committee, which he thinks will not be as inconvenient as all his friends suppose. it would meet with great difficulties, and might be precluded from drawing up a report. on lord grey's motion[ ] and the army question he declared that he held to his memorandum of the nd january which the duke of newcastle had read to the house of lords, and acknowledged the necessity of maintaining the office of the commander-in-chief, although subordinate to the secretary of state, and retaining the army patronage distinct from the political patronage of the government. [footnote : see _ante_, th january, , note .] i omitted to mention that lord john, in answer to the question whether lord clarendon would serve under lord palmerston, answered that he could not at all say whether he would; he had mentioned to him the possibility, when lord clarendon drew up and made a long face. victoria r. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ nd february ._ the queen has just seen lord lansdowne after his return from his conference with lord john russell and lord palmerston. as moments are precious, and the time is rolling on without the various consultations which lord lansdowne has had the kindness and patience to hold with the various persons composing the queen's late government having led to any positive result, she feels that she ought to entrust some one of them with the distinct commission to attempt the formation of a government. the queen addresses herself in this instance to lord john russell, as the person who may be considered to have contributed to the vote of the house of commons, which displaced her late government, and hopes that he will be able to present her such a government as will give a fair promise successfully to overcome the great difficulties in which the country is placed. it would give her particular satisfaction if lord palmerston could join in this formation. [pageheading: lord john russell's attempt] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ chesham place, _ nd february ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty. he acknowledges that having contributed to the vote of the house of commons, which displaced your majesty's late government (although the decision would in any case have probably been unfavourable), he is bound to attempt the formation of a government. as your majesty has now entrusted him with this honourable task, and desired that lord palmerston should join in it, lord john russell will immediately communicate with lord palmerston, and do his utmost to form a government which will give a fair promise to overcome the difficulties by which the country is surrounded. lord john russell considers lord clarendon's co-operation in this task as absolutely essential. _memorandum by the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ rd february ._ lord john russell arrived at half-past one o'clock, and stated that he had to report some progress and some obstacles. he had been to lord palmerston, and had a long and very free discussion with him. he (lord palmerston) told him although the general voice of the public had pointed him out as the person who ought to form a government, he had no pretensions himself or personal views, and was quite ready to accept the lead of the house of commons under lord john in the house of lords; but that he thought that, if the queen would see him, now that she had seen lord derby, lord john, and lord lansdowne, it would remove any impression that there were personal objections to him entertained by the queen, which would much facilitate the position of the new government. they then discussed the whole question of offices, agreed that lord panmure would be the best person for the war department; that lord grey could not be asked to join, as his views on the foreign policy differed so much from theirs, and he had always been an intractable colleague; that if mr gladstone could not be prevailed upon to join, mr labouchere,[ ] although an infinitely weaker appointment, might be chancellor of the exchequer, and sir f. baring replace sir j. graham, if he could not be got to stay. [footnote : he had been president of the board of trade in the former administration of lord john russell.] lord john then saw mr s. herbert, who declared to him that it was impossible for any of the peelites to join his government, connected as they were with lord aberdeen and the duke of newcastle, but that they would infinitely prefer a government of lord john's to one of lord palmerston, whose views on foreign policy, uncontrolled by lord aberdeen, they sincerely dreaded. lord john then went to lord clarendon, and was surprised to find that he could not make up his mind to remain at the foreign office under his government. lord john thought that the expression of a wish on the part of the queen would go a great way to reconcile him. his objections were that he had always received the handsomest support from the peelites, and thought the government too weak without their administrative ability. lord john had seen none of his own friends, such as sir g. grey, sir c. wood, lord lansdowne, and lord granville, but had not the smallest doubt that they would cordially co-operate with him. lord john is to come again at a quarter before six o'clock. the queen has appointed lord palmerston for three o'clock, and lord clarendon at four. [pageheading: attitude of the peelites] [pageheading: the foreign office] [pageheading: lord clarendon] _memorandum by queen victoria._[ ] buckingham palace, _ rd february ._ [footnote : this memorandum, though signed by the queen, was written by the prince.] in the audience which the queen has just granted to lord palmerston, he thanked her for the message which she had sent him through lord john russell, and declared his readiness to serve her in any way he could under the present difficulties. he had preferred the lead of the house of commons to the war department, having to make a choice between two duties which no man could perform together. in answer to a question from the queen, he said he hoped that the present irritation in the whig party would subside, and that he would be able to complete a government. he regretted that the peelites thought it impossible for them to join, which would make it very difficult for lord john. he had just heard from count walewski that lord clarendon was very much disinclined to remain at the foreign office under lord john. they were to have a meeting at lord john's at five, where he hoped to find that he had waived his objections; but he must say that if lord clarendon persisted he must himself withdraw, as he had indeed made it a condition with lord john. the queen asked him whether, if this attempt failed, she could reckon upon his services in any other combination. his answer was that it was better not to answer for more than one question at a time; we must now suppose that this will succeed. what he stated with reference to the army question and the committee of the house of commons was perfectly satisfactory. lord clarendon, whom we saw at four o'clock, complained very much of the unfairness of lord john in making him personally answerable for impeding the progress of lord john's government. the fact was that his opinion was only that of every other member of the late government, and of the public at large; which could be heard and seen by anybody who chose to listen or to read. so impossible had it appeared to the public that lord john should be blind enough to consider his being able to form a government feasible, that it was generally supposed that he had been urged to do so by the queen, in order to escape the necessity of lord palmerston. he acknowledged that the queen's decision in that respect had been the perfectly correct and constitutional one, and perhaps necessary to clear the way; but he hoped that for her own sake, and to prevent false impressions taking root in the public mind, the queen would give afterwards lord palmerston his fair turn also, though he could not say that he would be able to form an administration. the queen said that this was her intention, that she never had expected that lord john would be able to form one, but that it was necessary that his eyes should be opened; lord clarendon only regretted the precious time that was lost. he must really say that he thought he could do no good in joining lord john; his government would be "a stillborn government," which "the country would tread under foot the first day," composed as it would be of the same men who had been bankrupt in , minus the two best men in it, viz. lord lansdowne and lord grey, and the head of it ruined in public opinion. if he were even to stay at the foreign office, his language to foreign countries would lose all its weight from being known not to rest upon the public opinion of england, and all this would become much worse when it became known that from the first day of lord john's entering into lord aberdeen's government, he had only had one idea, viz. that of tripping him up, expel the peelites, and place himself at the head of an exclusive whig ministry. besides, he felt that the conduct of all his colleagues had been most straightforward and honourable towards him, and he was not prepared "to step over their dead bodies to the man who had killed them." the attempt of lord john ought _not_ to succeed if public morality were to be upheld in this country. he had avoided lord john ever since his retirement, but he would have now to speak out to him, as when he was asked to embark his honour he had a right to count the cost. lord lansdowne had no intention to go to lord john's meeting, as he had originally taken leave of public life, and had only entered the coalition government in order to facilitate its cohesion; among a government of pure whigs he was not wanted, for there was no danger of their not _cohering_. sir c. wood declared he had no business to be where lord lansdowne refused to go in. he thought lord palmerston would have equal difficulty in forming an administration, but when that had failed some solid combination would become possible. lord lansdowne had declared that he could not place himself at the head for more than three months, but that was a long time in these days. victoria r. [pageheading: fresh difficulties] _memorandum by queen victoria._ lord john russell returned at six o'clock from his meeting, much put out and disturbed. he said he had nothing good to report. mr gladstone, whom he had seen, had declined to act with him, saying that the country did not wish for coalitions at this moment. sir j. graham, whom he had visited, had informed him that the feeling against him was very strong just now, precluding support in parliament; he gave him credit for good intentions, but said the whole difficulty was owing to what he termed his (lord john's) _rashness_. he felt he could not separate from lord aberdeen, and had no confidence in the views of foreign affairs of lord palmerston. he had then seen sir george grey, who told him he had no idea that a government of lord john's could stand at this moment; the country wanted lord palmerston either as war minister or as prime minister. he must hesitate to engage himself in lord john's government, which, separated from the peelites, would find no favour. lord clarendon had reiterated his objections, saying always that this must be gone through, and something new would come up at the end, when all these attempts had failed. he could not understand what this should be. did lord clarendon think of himself as the head of the new combination? i asked what lord lansdowne had said. he answered he had a letter from him, which was not very agreeable either. he read it to us. it was to the purport--that as lord john had been commissioned to form an administration, and he did not intend to join it, he thought it better not to come to his house in order to avoid misconstruction. lord john wound up, saying that he had asked lord clarendon and sir g. grey to reflect further, and to give their final answer to-morrow morning. the loss of the peelites would be a great blow to him, which might be overcome, however; but if his own particular friends, like lord clarendon and sir g. grey, deserted him, he felt that he could go on no farther, and he hoped the queen would feel that he had done all he could. victoria r. [pageheading: lord john's failure] _memorandum by queen victoria._[ ] buckingham palace, _ rd february ._ [footnote : this memorandum, though signed by the queen, was written by the prince.] lord lansdowne arrived at half-past nine in the evening, and met our question whether he had anything satisfactory to report, with the remark that he saw his way less than ever, and that matters had rather gone backward since he had been here in the morning. he had been in the afternoon at sir james graham's bedside, who had had a consultation with mr gladstone, and declared to him that the country was tired of coalitions, and wanted a united cabinet; that they (the peelites) could not possibly serve under lord john or even with him after what had happened; that he felt the strongest objections to serving under lord palmerston. they were one and all for the vigorous prosecution of the war, but in order to attain a speedy peace. lord palmerston was known to entertain ulterior views, on which he was secretly agreed with the emperor of the french; and when it came to the question of negotiations, the government was sure to break up on a ground most dangerous to the country. lord lansdowne could but agree in all this, and added he had been tempted to feel his pulse to know how much it had gone down since he had been with sir james. the meeting between lord palmerston and lord john had just taken place in his presence. they had discussed everything most openly, but being both very guarded to say nothing which could lead the other to believe that the one would serve under the other. he confessed everything was darker now than before. they both seemed to wish to form a government, but he could really not advise the queen what to do under the circumstances. i summed up that the queen appeared to me reduced to the necessity of now entrusting one of the two with a _positive_ commission. it was very important that it should not appear that the queen had any personal objection to lord palmerston; on the other hand, under such doubtful circumstances, it would be safest for the queen to follow that course which was clearly the most constitutional, and this was, after having failed with lord derby, to go to lord john, who was the other party to the destruction of the late government. the queen might write such a letter to lord john as would record the political reasons which led to her determination. lord lansdowne highly approved of this, and suggested the addition of an expression of the queen's hope of seeing lord palmerston associated in that formation. i drew up the annexed draft which lord lansdowne read over and entirely approved. he has no idea that lord john will succeed in his task, but thinks it a necessary course to go through, and most wholesome to lord john to have his eyes opened to his own position, of which he verily believed he was not the least aware. victoria r. _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th february ._ the queen quite approves of the pension to sir g. grey, which he has fully earned, but would wish lord aberdeen well to consider the exact moment at which to offer it to him, as sir george is so very delicate in his feelings of honour. lord john russell will probably have to give up the task of forming an administration on account of sir george's declining to join him. if the pension were offered to him by lord aberdeen during the progress of negotiations, he could not help feeling, she thinks, exceedingly embarrassed. _lord john russell to queen victoria._ chesham place, _ th february ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty. he saw last night sir george grey, who is extremely averse to the formation of a purely whig government at this time. since that time he has received the two notes enclosed: one from lord palmerston, the other early this morning from lord clarendon.[ ] it only remains for him to acknowledge your majesty's great kindness, and to resign into your majesty's hands the task your majesty was pleased to confide to him. [footnote : lord palmerston wrote:-- " piccadilly, _ rd february ._ "my dear john russell,--i certainly inferred from what clarendon said this afternoon at your house, that he had pretty well made up his mind to a negative answer, and i could only say to you that which i said to derby when he asked me to join him, that i should be very unwilling, in the present state of our foreign relations, to belong to any government in which the management of our foreign affairs did not remain in clarendon's hands. "george grey, by your account, seems to tend to the same conclusion as clarendon, and i think, from what fell from molesworth, whom i sat next to at the speaker's dinner this evening, that he would not be disposed to accept any offer that you might make him. --yours sincerely, palmerston." lord clarendon wrote:-- "grosvenor crescent, _ rd february ._ "my dear lord john,--the more i reflect upon the subject, the more i feel convinced that such a government as you propose to form would not satisfy the public nor command the confidence of the country. "to yourself personally i am sure it would be most injurious if you attempted to carry on the government with inadequate means at this moment of national danger. "on public and on private grounds, therefore, i should wish to take no part in an administration that cannot in my opinion be either strong or permanent. yours sincerely, clarendon."] [pageheading: lord palmerston premier] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th february ._ lord john russell having just informed the queen that he was obliged to resign the task which the queen confided to him, she addresses herself to lord palmerston to ask him whether he can undertake to form an administration which will command the confidence of parliament and efficiently conduct public affairs in this momentous crisis? should he think that he is able to do so, the queen commissions him to undertake the task. she does not send for him, having fully discussed with him yesterday the state of public affairs, and in order to save time. the queen hopes to receive an answer from lord palmerston as soon as possible, as upon this her own movements will depend. _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and with a deep sense of the importance of the commission which your majesty asks whether he will undertake, he hastens to acknowledge the gracious communication which he has just had the honour to receive from your majesty. viscount palmerston has reason to think that he can undertake with a fair prospect of success to form an administration which will command the confidence of parliament and effectually conduct public affairs in the present momentous crisis, and as your majesty has been graciously pleased to say that if such is his opinion, your majesty authorises him to proceed immediately to the accomplishment of the task, he will at once take steps for the purpose; and he trusts that he may be able in the course of to-morrow to report to your majesty whether his present expectations are in the way to be realised. [pageheading: whig support] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february ._ ( p.m.) viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has had the honour to receive your majesty's communication of to-day; and in accordance with your majesty's desire, he begs to report the result of his proceedings up to the present time. the marquis of lansdowne, the lord chancellor, the earl of clarendon, the earl granville, sir george grey, sir charles wood, have expressed their willingness to be members of the administration which viscount palmerston is endeavouring to form, provided it can be constructed upon a basis sufficiently broad to give a fair prospect of duration. mr gladstone, mr sidney herbert, and the duke of argyll have declined chiefly on the ground of personal and political attachment to the earl of aberdeen, against whom, as well as against the duke of newcastle, they say they consider the vote of the house of commons of last week as having been levelled. viscount palmerston has not yet been able to ascertain the decision of sir james graham, but it will probably be the same as that of his three colleagues. viscount palmerston hopes, nevertheless, to be able to submit for your majesty's consideration such a list as may meet with your majesty's approval, and he will have the honour of reporting further to your majesty to-morrow. [pageheading: the peelites] _memorandum by queen victoria._ buckingham palace, _ th february ._ we came to town to hear the result of negotiations, and saw lord palmerston at one o'clock. he said there were circumstances which prevented him from submitting a list of the cabinet, but would at all events be able to do so in the afternoon. lords lansdowne, clarendon, granville, sir g. grey, sir c. wood, sir william molesworth, and the chancellor had consented to serve--unconditionally--having withdrawn their former conditions in consequence of the very general opinion expressed out of doors that the country could not much longer be left without a government. he heard this had also made an impression upon the peelites, who had refused to join. he submitted their letters (declining) to the queen, of which copies are here annexed. they had been written after consultation with sir j. graham, but lord aberdeen and the duke of newcastle having heard of it, have since exerted themselves strongly to prevail upon them to change their opinion, and it was still possible that they would do so. lord clarendon had suggested that if lord aberdeen himself was invited to join the government, and could be induced to do so, this would obviate all difficulty. he had in consequence asked lord lansdowne to see lord aberdeen on the subject, as his joining could only be agreeable to him. many of the peelites not in the late cabinet had strongly disapproved of the decision taken by mr gladstone and friends, and offered their services, amongst others lord canning, lord elcho,[ ] and mr cardwell. [footnote : now earl of wemyss.] lord palmerston had been with lord john russell yesterday, and had had a very long conversation with him in a most friendly tone; he asked lord john whether he would follow out the proposal which he had lately made himself, and take the lead in the house of lords as president of the council. he declined, however, saying he preferred to stay out of office and to remain in the house of commons, which lord palmerston obviously much regretted. they went, however, together all over the offices and their best distribution. he would recommend lord panmure for the war department and mr layard as under secretary.... lord palmerston was appointed to report further progress at five o'clock. victoria r. _the prince albert to the earl of aberdeen._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. my dear lord aberdeen,--it would be a great relief to the queen if you were to agree to a proposal which we understand is being made to you to join the new government, and by so doing to induce also mr gladstone, mr s. herbert, and sir james graham to do the same. ever yours truly, albert. [pageheading: lord aberdeen intervenes] _the earl of aberdeen to the prince albert._ london, _ th february _. sir,--i am sanguine in believing that the great object of the union of my friends with the new government may be attained without the painful sacrifice to which your royal highness refers. contrary to my advice, they yesterday declined to remain in the cabinet, but i have renewed the subject to-day, and they have finally decided to place themselves in my hands. this rendered other explanations necessary, before i could undertake so great a responsibility. when i shall have the honour of seeing your royal highness, i will, with your royal highness's permission, communicate what has passed, so far as i am concerned. i venture to enclose the copy of a letter which i addressed to mr herbert this morning, in answer to one received from him late last night, in which he expressed his doubts of the propriety of the first decision at which they had arrived. i have the honour to be, sir, your royal highness's most humble and devoted servant, aberdeen. [pageheading: mr sidney herbert] [_enclosure--copy._] _the earl of aberdeen to mr s. herbert._ argyll house, _ th february _. my dear herbert,--i received your letter too late to answer it last night. in fact, i had gone to bed. you say that you are in a great difficulty as to the course you ought to take. i am in none whatever. i gave you my decided opinion yesterday that you ought to continue in palmerston's administration; and i endeavoured to support this opinion by the very arguments which you repeat in your letter to me. surely this letter ought to have been addressed to gladstone and graham, and not to me. i fully concur in thinking that you came to a wrong conclusion yesterday, and i would fain hope that it would still be reversed. when you sent to me yesterday to attend your meeting, i certainly hoped it was with the intention of following my advice. your reluctance to continue in palmerston's cabinet is chiefly founded on the apprehension that he will pursue a warlike policy beyond reasonable bounds. i have already told you that i have had some explanations with him on the terms of peace, with which i am satisfied. but whatever may be his inclinations, you ought to rely on the weight of your own character and opinions in the cabinet. i am persuaded that the sentiments of the great majority of the members of the cabinet are similar to your own, and that you may fairly expect reason and sound policy to prevail in the question of peace and war. but above all i have recently had some very full conversations with clarendon on the subject, and i am entirely satisfied with his disposition and intentions. i am sanguine in the belief that he will give effect to his present views. a perseverance in the refusal to join palmerston will produce very serious effects, and will never be attributed to its true cause. the public feeling will be strongly pronounced against you, and you will greatly suffer in reputation, if you persevere at such a moment as this in refusing to continue in the cabinet. in addition to the public necessity, i think you owe much to our late whig colleagues, who behaved so nobly and generously towards us after lord john's resignation. they have some right to expect this sacrifice. although your arguments do not apply to me, for i yesterday adopted them all, you conclude your letter by pressing me to enter the cabinet. now there is really no sense in this, and i cannot imagine how you can seriously propose it. you would expose me to a gratuitous indignity, to which no one ought to expect me to submit. i say _gratuitous_, because i could not be of the slightest use in such a situation for the purpose you require. i can retire with perfect equanimity from the government in consequence of the vote of the house of commons; but to be stigmatised as the head and tolerated as the subordinate member i cannot endure. if at any future time my presence should be required in a cabinet, i should feel no objection to accept any office, or to enter it without office. but to be the head of a cabinet to-day, and to become a subordinate member of the very same cabinet to-morrow, would be a degradation to which i could never submit, that i would rather die than do so--and indeed the sense of it would go far to kill me. if you tell me that your retaining your present offices, without the slightest sacrifice, but on the contrary with the approbation of all, is in any degree to depend on my taking such a course, i can only say that, as friends, i cannot believe it possible that you should be guilty of such wanton cruelty without any national object. i must, then, again earnestly exhort you to reconsider the decision of yesterday, and to continue to form part of the government. i will do anything in my power to facilitate this. if you like, i will go to palmerston and promote any explanation between him and gladstone on the subject of peace and war. or i will tell him that you have yielded to my strong recommendation. in short, i am ready to do anything in my power. i wish you to show this letter to gladstone and to graham, to whom, as you will see, it is addressed as much as to yourself. i hope to meet you this morning, and gladstone will also come to the admiralty. yours, etc. aberdeen. [pageheading: adhesion of the peelites] _the prince albert to the earl of aberdeen._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. my dear lord aberdeen,--we are just returning to windsor. lord palmerston kissed hands after having announced that his peelite colleagues also have agreed to keep their offices. the queen is thus relieved from great anxiety and difficulty, and feels that she owes much to your kind and disinterested assistance. i can quite understand what you say in the letter which i return. you must make allowances also, however, for the wishes of your friends not to be separated from you. you will not be annoyed by further proposals from here. to-morrow we shall have an opportunity of further conversation with you upon the state of affairs. believe me always, yours, etc., albert _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. my dearest uncle,--we are here again for a few hours in order to try and facilitate the formation of a government, which seemed almost hopeless. van de weyer will have informed you of the successive failures of lord derby and _lord john_ ... and of lord palmerston being now charged with the formation of a government! i had _no_ other alternative. the whigs _will_ join with him, and i have got hopes, _also_ the peelites, which would be very important, and would tend to allay the _alarm_ which his name will, i fear, produce abroad. i will leave this letter open to the last moment in the hope of giving you some decisive news before we return to windsor.... i am a good deal worried and knocked up by all that has passed; my nerves, which have suffered very severely this last year, have not been improved by what has passed during this trying fortnight--for it _will_ be a _fortnight_ to-morrow that the beginning of the mischief began.... _six o'clock p.m._--one word to say that _lord palmerston_ has just _kissed_ hands as _prime_ minister. all the _peelites_ except poor dear aberdeen (whom i am deeply grieved to lose) and the duke of newcastle, remain. it is _entirely_ aberdeen's _doing_, and very patriotic and handsome of him. in haste, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: a farewell letter] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th february _. though the queen hopes to see lord aberdeen at six, she seizes the opportunity of approving the appointment of the hon. and rev. a. douglas[ ] to the living of st olave's, southwark, to say what she hardly dares to do verbally without fearing to give way to her feelings; she wishes to say what a pang it is for her to separate from so kind and dear and valued a friend as lord aberdeen has ever been to her since she has known him. the day he became prime minister was a very happy one for her; and throughout his ministry he has ever been the kindest and wisest adviser--one to whom she could apply on all and trifling occasions even. this she is sure he will still ever be. but the thought of losing him as her first adviser in her government is very painful. the pain is to a certain extent lessened by the knowledge of all he has done to further the formation of this government, in so noble, loyal, and disinterested a manner, and by his friends retaining their posts, which is a great security against possible dangers. the queen is sure that the prince and herself may ever rely on his valuable support and advice in all times of difficulty, and she now concludes with the expression of her warmest thanks for all his kindness and devotion, as well as of her unalterable friendship and esteem for him, and with every wish for his health and happiness. [footnote : the hon. arthur gascoigne douglas ( - ), son of the nineteenth earl of morton; bishop of aberdeen and orkney, - .] [pageheading: leadership of the lords] [pageheading: the new cabinet] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that a difficulty has arisen in regard to the reconstruction of the administration, which your majesty might perhaps be able to assist in removing. it is considered by the members of the proposed cabinet to be a matter of great importance that lord lansdowne should not only be a member of the cabinet, but that he should also be the organ of the government in the house of lords. viscount palmerston pressed this upon lord lansdowne yesterday afternoon, and was under the impression that lord lansdowne had consented to be so acknowledged, with the understanding that lord granville, as president of the council, should relieve him from the pressure of the daily business of the house, while lord clarendon would take the burthen of foreign office discussions, and that thus the ordinary duties of leader of the house of lords would be performed by others, while lord lansdowne would still be the directing chief, who would give a character and tone to the body. but viscount palmerston learns this morning from lord granville and lord bessborough that lord lansdowne does not so understand the matter, and is unwilling to assume the ostensible leadership, even upon the above-mentioned arrangement, and that he wishes lord granville to be the leader in the house of lords. lord granville, however, with reason urges that there are many members of the house of lords who would show to lord lansdowne, from his long standing and high political position, a deference which they would not show towards lord granville, so much younger a man. if lord lansdowne were in town, viscount palmerston would have gone to him strongly to entreat him to be the person to announce in the house of lords the formation of a ministry, and to continue to be the organ of the government in that house, at least till easter, and upon such matters and occasions as might require the weight of his authority; but if your majesty were to view the matter in the same light in which it has presented itself to viscount palmerston, to the chancellor, to lord clarendon, to lord granville and others, and if your majesty should think fit to express an opinion upon it to lord lansdowne, such an opinion would no doubt have great weight with lord lansdowne. viscount palmerston submits a list of the proposed cabinet. until sir george grey returns to town this afternoon from portsmouth, whither he went yesterday evening to take leave of his son, who has a commission in the rifles,[ ] and was to embark this morning for the crimea, viscount palmerston will not know whether he prefers the colonial office or the home office. whichever of the two he chooses, mr herbert will take the other. viscount palmerston does not submit to your majesty the name of any person for the office of secretary at war, as he proposes that that office shall merge in the office of secretary of state for the war department, and viscount palmerston suspends for the present any recommendation to your majesty for the office of chancellor of the duchy of lancaster, as that office may be made available for giving strength either in the house of lords or in the house of commons according to circumstances. proposed cabinet. _first lord of treasury_ viscount palmerston. _organ of the government or_ } marquis of lansdowne. _leader of the house of lords_} _lord chancellor_ lord cranworth. _president of the council_ earl granville. _privy seal_ duke of argyll. _foreign affairs_ earl of clarendon. _war department_ lord panmure. _home office_ {mr sidney herbert { or sir george grey. _colonial department_ {sir george grey or { mr sidney herbert. _admiralty_ sir james graham. _chancellor of exchequer_ mr gladstone. _india board_ sir charles wood. _board of works_ sir william molesworth. _post office_ viscount canning. [footnote : george henry grey, afterwards lieut.-colonel of the northumberland militia, and captain in the grenadier guards; father of the present sir edward grey, m.p. he predeceased his father in .] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th february _. the queen has just received lord palmerston's letter with the list of the government, which she approves. she entirely agrees with him in the view he takes with respect to lord lansdowne's position in the house of lords, and will write to him on the subject. from what he said, however, the queen would hope that he would not be disinclined to make the announcement of the government as well as to take the lead on all occasions of great importance.[ ] the queen approves that the office of secretary at war should remain open at present; but as regards the question itself of these two offices, she reserves her judgment till the subject is submitted to her in a definite form. [footnote : lord lansdowne consented, on particular occasions only, to represent the government, but claimed to be himself the judge of the expediency or necessity of his doing so. the ministerial life of this _doyen_ of the whig party spanned half a century, for he had, as lord henry petty, been chancellor of the exchequer in the ministry of "all the talents" in - . lord granville now assumed the liberal leadership in the lords, which, as lord fitzmaurice points out, he held, with a brief exception of three years, till his death in ]. [pageheading: the vienna conference] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ _ th february ._ lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to say that, with the permission of lord palmerston, and at the urgent recommendation of lord aberdeen and lord lansdowne, he has made to lord john russell the proposal to act as our negotiator at vienna, which your majesty was pleased to sanction on wednesday night.[ ] lord clarendon thinks, that whether the negotiations end in peace or are suddenly to be broken off, no man is so likely as lord john to be approved by the country for whichever course of proceeding he may adopt, and it will be a great advantage that the negotiator himself should be able to vindicate his own conduct in parliament. lord clarendon has this evening received a very kind and friendly answer from lord john, who is disposed to accept, but desires another day to consider the proposal. as our relations with the united states are of the utmost importance at this moment, and as they have rather improved of late, lord clarendon humbly hopes he may be excused if he ventures to suggest to your majesty the expediency of inviting mr buchanan[ ] to windsor. [footnote : in pursuance of the negotiations referred to (_ante_, p. ), a conference of the powers was held at vienna. lord john's view of the attitude which he hoped great britain would take up is clearly stated in his letter of the th to lord clarendon, printed in walpole's _life of lord john russell_, vol. ii. p. . he favoured the admission of prussia to the conference.] [footnote : american minister to great britain, afterwards president of the united states.] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that having been very kindly received at paris by the emperor of the french, he thought it would be useful to write to the emperor on the formation of the present government, and he submits a copy of the letter[ ] which he addressed to the emperor. the emperor, when viscount palmerston took leave of him, signified his intention of writing occasionally to viscount palmerston, and that is the reason why viscount palmerston adverts to such communications in his letter. viscount palmerston has just had the honour to receive your majesty's communication of this day, and will not fail to bear in mind the suggestions which it contains. [footnote : _viscount palmerston to the emperor of the french._ londres, _ février _. sire,--appelé par la reine ma souveraine au poste que maintenant j'occupe, je m'empresse de satisfaire au besoin que je sens d'exprimer à votre majesté la grande satisfaction que j'éprouve à me trouver en rapport plus direct avec le gouvernement de votre majesté. l'alliance qui unit si heureusement la france et l'angleterre et qui promet des résultats si avantageux pour toute l'europe, prend son origine dans la loyauté, la franchise, et la sagacité de votre majesté; et votre majesté pourra toujours compter sur la loyauté et la franchise du gouvernement anglais. et si votre majesté avait jamais une communication à nous faire sur des idées non encore assez mûries pour être le sujet de dépêches officielles, je m'estimerais très honoré en recevant une telle communication de la part de votre majesté. nous allons mettre un peu d'ordre à notre camp devant sevastopol, et en cela nous tâcherons d'imiter le bel exemple qui nous est montré par le camp français. a quelque chose cependant malheur est bon, et le mauvais état de l'armée anglaise a donné aux braves et généreux français l'occasion de prodiguer à leurs frères d'armes des soins, qui ont excité la plus vive reconnaissance tant en angleterre qu'à balaclava. j'ai l'honneur d'être, sire, etc. etc., palmerston.] [pageheading: palmerston and the emperor] _memorandum by the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th february _. this letter gave us great uneasiness.... the sort of private correspondence which lord palmerston means to establish with the emperor napoleon is a novel and unconstitutional practice. if carried on behind the back of the sovereign, it makes her minister the privy councillor of a foreign sovereign at the head of her affairs. how can the foreign secretary and ambassador at paris, the legitimate organs of communication, carry on their business, if everything has been privately preconcerted between the emperor and the english prime minister? what control can the cabinet hope to exercise on the foreign affairs under these circumstances?... _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th february _. the queen thanks lord palmerston for his letter of the th, and for communicating to her the letter which he had addressed upon the th to the emperor of the french on the formation of the present government, the copy of which the queen herewith returns. [pageheading: the roebuck committee] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february _. (_friday night._) viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that after he had made his statement this afternoon, a conversation of some length took place, in which mr disraeli, mr roebuck, mr thomas duncombe, and several other members took part, the subject of discussion being whether mr roebuck's committee should or should not be appointed. viscount palmerston is concerned to say that it was not only his own impression but the opinion of a great number of persons with whom he communicated in the course of the evening, including the speaker, that the appointment of the committee will be carried by a very great majority, perhaps scarcely less great than that by which the original motion was affirmed; and it was also the opinion of good judges that a refusal to grant an enquiry would not be a good ground on which to dissolve parliament and appeal to the country. the general opinion was that the best way of meeting the motion for naming the committee which mr roebuck has fixed for next thursday, would be to move some instruction to the committee directing or limiting the range of its enquiry. this is a matter, however, which will be well considered at the meeting of the cabinet to-morrow.... the reason alleged for the determination of members to vote for mr roebuck's committee is the general desire throughout the country that an enquiry should be instituted to ascertain the causes of the sufferings of your majesty's troops in the crimea. _queen victoria to the king of prussia._ [_translation._] buckingham palace, _ th february _. dearest brother,--i must not let lord john russell visit berlin without personally recommending him to your majesty--an honour which he deserves in a high degree, as a statesman of wide outlook, well-informed, and moderate. at the same time i may be allowed to repeat my conviction, which i have expressed several times already, that it appears to me impossible to obtain peace so long as prussia continues indisposed to maintain, in case of necessity by force of arms, the principles publicly expressed in concert with the belligerent powers and austria. much blood, very much blood, has already been shed. honour and justice force the belligerent powers to make every sacrifice in continually defending those principles to the utmost. whether diplomacy will succeed in saving prussia from taking an active share in this defence--that remains the secret of the future, which the king of kings alone possesses! albert presents his homage to your majesty, and i beg to be most cordially remembered, and remain as ever, my dear brother, your majesty's faithful servant and friend, victoria r. [pageheading: mr gladstone] _memorandum by the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ st february _. i have just seen mr gladstone, who received my box so late that i did not wish to detain him more than a few minutes, as the cabinet was waiting for him. i told him, however, the substance of lord palmerston's letter, and of the queen's answer, the wisdom of which, he said, nobody could doubt for a moment, and added that the choice lying only between many evils, i hoped he and his friends would not strive to obtain an absolute good, and thereby lose the queen the services of an efficient government. he begged that i should rest assured that the first and primary consideration which would guide their determination would be the position of the crown in these critical circumstances. he had had no opportunity of consulting these last days either mr s. herbert or sir james graham. but for himself he felt the greatest difficulty in letting the house of commons succeed in what he must consider a most unconstitutional, most presumptuous, and most dangerous course, after which it would be impossible for the executive ever to oppose again the most absurd and preposterous demands for enquiry.[ ] [footnote : see _post_, st february, , note .] i asked, "but can you stop it?" he answered: i believe lord palmerston made a mistake in not grappling with it from the first, and using all the power the crown had entrusted to him, even ostentatiously, for the purpose. now it might be most difficult--but it ought not to pass without a solemn protest on the part of the men who were not connected with the government, and should not be supposed to have any other than the interests of the country at heart. a government was powerless in resisting such an encroachment of the house, where the whole opposition, from personal motives, and the supporters of government from fear of their constituents, were bent upon carrying it. such a protest, however, might form a rallying-point upon which future resistance might be based, and the country, now intoxicated by agitation, might come to its senses. as to the strength of the government, he believed it had very little at this moment in the house, and that such would be the case with any government lord palmerston could form, he had foretold him, when lord derby had made him the offer to join an administration of his forming. at this moment the secession of the peelites would rather strengthen the government than otherwise, as, from their connection with lord aberdeen, they had been decried in the country with him, and the whigs looked upon them with all the personal feelings of men deprived of their offices by them. he agreed with me that in the present disruption of parties, the difficulty of obtaining any strong government consists, not in the paucity of men, but in the over-supply of right honourable gentlemen produced by the many attempts to form a government on a more extended base. there were now at least three ministers for each office, from which the two excluded were always cried up as superior to the one in power. he said this could not be amended until we got back to two parties--each of them capable of presenting to the queen an efficient administration. now the one party did not support its chief from personal rivalry--and the other, from the very feeling of its own incapacity, became reckless as to the course of its political actions. he concluded by saying he felt it right to reserve his final determination till the last moment at which it would become necessary. albert. [pageheading: resignation of the peelites] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ st february _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and feels extreme regret in having to state to your majesty that sir james graham, mr gladstone, and mr sidney herbert announced at the cabinet meeting to-day their determination to retire from the government in consequence of their inability to consent to the nomination of mr roebuck's committee.[ ] _no other_ member of the government has as yet intimated any intention to retire. viscount palmerston will assemble the remaining members of the government to-morrow at twelve to take into consideration the steps to be taken for supplying the places of the retiring members.[ ] an endeavour has been made to induce mr roebuck to postpone the appointment of the committee till monday, but he will not consent to delay it beyond to-morrow, and he will insert in the votes to-night, to be printed to-morrow morning (in accordance with the rules of the house), the proposed list of names which have been settled between the government and mr roebuck, and which seem to be unobjectionable, all things considered.... [footnote : the retirement of the peelites in a body from lord palmerston's ministry is a curious instance of the tenacity of party ties, since the prosecution of the enquiry into the conduct of the war affected the whig as much as the peelite section of the aberdeen cabinet. in reference to their reason for resignation (_viz._ that the investigation was a dangerous breach of a great constitutional principle, and that similar enquiries could never thenceforward be refused), see parker's _sir james graham_, vol. ii. pp. - . the secession of the peelites, however, did not make the ministry a whig government. the last whig administration was that which left office early in . had lord john russell succeeded in his attempt on the present occasion, the whig party might have endured _co nomine_; but palmerston had, notwithstanding cobden's distrust, been popular with the radicals, and henceforward his supporters must be known as the liberal party.] [footnote : sir charles wood became first lord of the admiralty (mr. vernon smith succeeding him at the board of control), sir george lewis succeeded mr gladstone at the exchequer, and the colonial office was offered to and accepted by lord john russell, who was at the moment in paris on his way to attend the vienna conference.] [pageheading: crimean heroes] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. my dearest uncle,--since i last wrote to you, we have again had much trouble, as van de weyer will have informed you. we have lost our _three_ best men--certainly from the purest and best of motives--but the result is _unfortunate_. altogether, affairs are very unsettled and very unsatisfactory. the good people here are really a little _mad_, but i am certain it _will_ right itself; one must only _not_ give way to the nonsense and absurdity one hears. lord john's return to office _under_ lord palmerston is very extraordinary![ ] i hope he may do good in his mission; he is most anxious for it. many thanks for your kind letter of the rd. the frost has left us, which personally i regret, as it agrees so well with me; but i believe it was very necessary on account of the great distress which was prevalent, so many people being thrown out of employment. the emperor's meditated voyage[ ]--though natural in him to wish--i think most alarming; in fact, i don't know how things are to go on without him, independent of the great danger he exposes himself to besides. i own it makes one tremble, for _his life_ is of such _immense importance_. i still hope that he may be deterred from it, but walewski was in a great state about it. on thursday we saw twenty-six of the wounded coldstream guards, and on friday thirty-four of the scotch fusileers. a most interesting and touching sight--_such_ fine men, and so brave and patient! _so ready_ to go back and "_be at them again_." a great many of them, i am glad to say, will be able to remain in the service. those who have lost their limbs cannot, of course. there were two poor boys of nineteen and twenty--the one had lost his leg, quite high up, by the bursting of a shell in the trenches, and the other his poor arm so shot that it is perfectly useless. both had smooth girls' faces; these were in the coldstream, who certainly look the worst. in the scotch fusileers, there were also two very young men--the one shot through the cheek, the other through the _skull_--but both recovered! among the grenadiers there is one very sad object, shot _dreadfully_, a ball having gone in through the cheek and behind the nose and eye and out through the other side! he is shockingly disfigured, but is recovered. i feel so much for them, and am _so fond_ of my dear soldiers--so _proud_ of them! we could not have avoided sending the guards; it would have been their ruin if they had not gone.... i must now conclude. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : for twenty years lord john russell had been leader of the whig party in the house, and lord palmerston subordinate to him.] [footnote : the emperor had announced his intention of going to the crimea, and assuming the conduct of the war. the project was most unfavourably regarded by the queen and the prince, by lord palmerston, and by the emperor's own advisers. but the intention, which had been carefully matured, was arrived at in full loyalty to the alliance with this country, and had to be tactfully met. accordingly, it was arranged that when napoleon was at the camp in boulogne in march, lord clarendon should visit him there, and discuss the question with him. eventually, the foreign secretary persuaded the emperor to relinquish, or at any rate defer, his expedition; a memorandum of what passed on the occasion was drawn up by the prince from the narration of lord clarendon, and printed by sir theodore martin. (_life of the prince consort_, vol. iii. p. .)] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ buckingham palace, _ st march _. the queen thanks lord clarendon for his letter received this evening, and will return the enclosures to-morrow. the queen gathers from what she has read that the emperor is bent upon going, and that nothing in the shape of remonstrance or argument will turn him from his purpose. should the emperor's journey take place, lord cowley's accompanying him appears to the queen in all respects a most useful step, and the queen gives accordingly her permission for him to go. the emperor's taking the management of the whole campaign, as well as the command of our forces, entirely into his own hands, involves so many considerations that it may be worth considering whether we ought not previously to come to a more direct and comprehensive understanding with him, such as full and verbal discussion would alone afford--to which, in some shape or other, his present stay at boulogne might afford some facilities. [pageheading: death of the czar] _from sir ralph abercromby._[ ] the hague. _ nd march _. (received . p.m.) the emperor nicholas died this morning at a.m. of pulmonic apoplexy, after an attack of influenza.[ ] [footnote : who had married the sister of lady john russell.] [footnote : nothing had been known publicly of the czar's illness, and the startling news of his death caused a sensation in england of tragedy rather than of joy. mr kinglake has vividly depicted the feelings of agony and mortification with which the news of the earlier russian reverses had been received by nicholas. on the st of march, he received the full account of the disaster at eupatoria, after which he became delirious, and died on the following day. he had stated, in referring to the horrors of that crimean winter, that russia had still two generals on whom she could rely: generals janvier and février; and leech, with matchless art, now made his famous cartoon--"general février turned traitor," depicting death, in the uniform of a russian officer, laying his bony hand on the emperor's heart.] [pageheading: the committee of enquiry] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ nd march _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty.... the death of the emperor of russia may or may not produce important changes in the state of affairs. it is probable that the grand duke hereditary will succeed quietly, notwithstanding the notion that a doubt would be started whether he, as son of the grand duke nicholas, would not be superseded by his younger brother born son of the czar.[ ] it is possible that the new emperor may revert to that peaceful policy which he was understood to advocate in the beginning of these transactions, but it is possible, on the other hand, that he may feel bound to follow out the policy of his father, and may be impelled by the headstrong ambition of his brother constantine. at all events, this change at petersburg should not for the present slacken the proceedings and the arrangements of the allies. the house of commons has been engaged in discussing mr roebuck's proposal that the committee of enquiry should be a secret one. this proposal was made by the majority of the committee on the ground that they anticipated a difficulty in conducting their enquiries without trenching on the delicate and dangerous ground of questioning the proceedings of the french. the proposal was objected to by lord seymour[ ] and mr ellice, members of the committee, by sir james graham as unjust towards the duke of newcastle, and others whose conduct ought to be enquired into with all the safeguards which publicity secures for justice, and not before a secret tribunal in the nature of an inquisition. the general sense of the house was against secrecy, and viscount palmerston expressed an opinion adverse to it, on the ground that it could not be enforced because the committee could not gag the witnesses, and that the character of secrecy would excite suspicion and disappoint public expectation. sir john pakington, a member of the committee, was for secrecy, mr disraeli spoke against it, and the motion has been withdrawn. [footnote : the eldest son, the grand duke alexander ( - ), succeeded as czar alexander ii.] [footnote : lord seymour (afterwards duke of somerset) drafted the report of the committee.] _queen victoria to the princess of prussia._ [_translation._] buckingham palace, _ th march _. dear augusta,--the astounding news of the death of your poor uncle the emperor nicholas reached us the day before yesterday at four o'clock. a few hours previously we had learnt that his condition was hopeless. the news is sudden and most unexpected, and we are naturally very anxious to learn details. his departure from life at the present moment cannot but make a particularly strong impression, and what the consequences of it may be the all-knowing one alone can foresee. although the poor emperor has died as our enemy, i have not forgotten former and more happy times, and no one has more than i regretted that he himself evoked this sad war.[ ] to you i must address my request to express to the poor empress, as well as to the family, my heartfelt condolence. i cannot do it officially, but you, my beloved friend, you will surely be able to convey it to your sister-in-law as well as to the present young emperor in a manner which shall not compromise me. i have a deep, heartfelt desire to express this. to your dear, honoured mother convey, pray, my condolence on the death of her brother.... [footnote : the queen records, in the _life of the prince consort_, that she entertained a sincere respect for the emperor personally, and received the news of his death with regret (vol. iii. p. , note).] [pageheading: the hospital question] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ buckingham palace, _ th march _. the queen is very anxious to bring before lord panmure the subject which she mentioned to him the other night, viz. that of hospitals for our sick and wounded soldiers. this is absolutely necessary, and _now_ is the moment to have them built, for no doubt there would be no difficulty in obtaining the money requisite for this purpose, from the strong feeling now existing in the public mind for improvements of all kinds connected with the army and the well-being and comfort of the soldier. nothing can exceed the attention paid to these poor men in the barracks at chatham (or rather more fort pitt and brompton), and they are in that respect very comfortable; but the buildings are bad--the wards more like prisons than hospitals, with the windows so high that no one can look out of them; and the generality of the wards are small rooms, with hardly space for you to walk between the beds. there is no dining-room or hall, so that the poor men must have their dinners in the same room in which they sleep, and in which some may be dying, and at any rate many suffering, while others are at their meals. the proposition of having hulks prepared for their reception will do very well at first, but it would not, the queen thinks, do for any length of time. a hulk is a very gloomy place, and these poor men require their spirits to be cheered as much as their physical sufferings to be attended to. the queen is particularly anxious on this subject, which is, he may truly say, constantly in her thoughts, as is everything connected with her beloved troops, who have fought so bravely and borne so heroically all their sufferings and privations. the queen hopes before long to visit all the hospitals at portsmouth, and to see in what state they are. _when_ will the medals be ready for distribution? [pageheader: lord dalhousie resigns] _the marquis of dalhousie to queen victoria._ ootacamund, _ th march _. the governor-general presents his most humble duty to your majesty; and in obedience to the command, which your majesty was pleased to lay upon him, that he should keep your majesty acquainted with the course of public events in india, he has the honour to inform your majesty that he has now felt it to be his duty to request the president of the board of control to solicit for him your majesty's permission to retire from the office of governor-general of india about the close of the present year. the governor-general begs permission respectfully to represent, that in january next, he will have held his present office for eight years; that his health during the last few months has seriously failed him; and that although he believes that the invigorating air of these hills will enable him to discharge all his duties efficiently during this season, yet he is conscious that the effects of an indian climate have laid such a hold upon him that by the close of the present year he will be wholly unfit any longer to serve your majesty. lord dalhousie, therefore, humbly trusts that your majesty will graciously permit him to resign the great office which he holds before he ceases to command the strength which is needed to sustain it. he has the honour to subscribe himself, your majesty's most obedient, most humble and devoted subject and servant, dalhousie. _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ buckingham palace, _ th march _. the queen returns the letter and despatches from vienna. they don't alter her opinion as to our demands. every concession in form and wording ought to be made which could save russian _amour-propre_; but this ought in no way to trench upon the _substance_ of our demands, to which austria must feel herself bound.[ ] [footnote : as has already been stated, the "four points" were the basis of the negotiations at vienna; the third alone, which the allies and austria had defined as intended to terminate russian preponderance in the black sea, caused difficulty.] [pageheading: the vienna conference] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ osborne, _ th march _. the queen has read with the greatest interest lord cowley's three reports. the changeableness of the french views are most perplexing, although they have hitherto not prevented a steady course from being followed in the end. lord cowley seems to have been a little off his guard when he took the proposal of our taking sinope as a second malta or gibraltar, for a mere act of generosity and confidence towards us. we must be careful not to break down ourselves the barrier of the "abnegation clause" of our original treaty.[ ] the austrian proposal can hardly be serious, for to require , , men before going to war is almost ridiculous. the queen read with much concern the two simultaneous proposals from the king of prussia's simultaneous plenipotentiaries--both inadmissible, in her opinion. a very civil answer would appear to the queen as the best, to the effect that, as prussia was evidently not now in a mood to resume her position amongst the great powers with the responsibilities attaching to it, we could not hope to arrive at any satisfactory result by the present negotiations, but shall be ready to treat prussia with the same regard with which we have always done, when she shall have something tangible to propose. [footnote : _i.e._ the formal renunciation by the allies of any scheme of territorial acquisition.] [pageheading: the baltic expedition] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th march _. with regard to the expedition to the baltic[ ] the queen concurs in believing it probable that we shall have to confine ourselves to a blockade, but this should be with the _certainty_ of its being done effectually and free from any danger to the squadron, from a sudden start of the russian fleet. twenty sail of the line (to which add five french) would be a sufficient force if supported by the necessary complement of frigates, corvettes, and gunboats, etc., etc.; alone, they would be useless from their draught of water, and if twenty ships only are meant (not sail of the line), the force would seem wholly inadequate. the queen would therefore wish, before giving her sanction to the proposed plan of campaign, to have a complete list submitted to her of what it is intended to constitute the baltic fleet.[ ] we ought likewise not to leave ourselves destitute of any reserve at home, which the uncertain contingencies of another year's war may call upon at any moment. the queen regrets lord shaftesbury's declining office, and approves of lord elgin's selection in his place.[ ] she thanks lord palmerston for the clear and comprehensive explanation of sir george lewis's stamp duties bill,[ ] and approves of lord palmerston's proposal for the adjournment of parliament for the easter holidays. [footnote : the expedition was commanded by rear-admiral richard dundas. about the same time vice-admiral sir james dundas retired from the mediterranean command, in favour of sir edmund lyons.] [footnote : the allied fleet comprised line-of-battle ships, frigates and corvettes, smaller steamers and gunboats, and other craft.] [footnote : as chancellor of the duchy of lancaster; mr matthew talbot baines was ultimately appointed.] [footnote : imposing a penny stamp upon bankers' cheques, if drawn within fifteen miles of the place where they were payable.] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ osborne, _ nd march _. the other day, when the queen spoke to lord panmure on the subject of the distribution of the _medal_ for the _crimean_ campaign amongst the officers, and those who _are_ in _this_ country, no decision was come to as to how this should be done. the queen has since thought that the value of this medal would be greatly enhanced if _she_, were _personally_ to deliver it to the officers and a certain number of men (selected for that purpose). the valour displayed by our troops, as well as the sufferings they have endured, have never been surpassed--perhaps hardly equalled; and as the queen has been a witness of _what_ they have gone through, having visited them in their hospitals, she would _like_ to be able _personally_ to give them the reward they have earned so well, and will value so much. it will likewise have a very beneficial effect, the queen doubts not, on the recruiting. the manner in which it should be done, and the details connected with the execution of this intention of hers, the queen will settle with lord panmure, when she sees him in town. will the medals now be soon ready? [pageheading: the imperial visit] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th april _. dearest uncle,--your kindness will, i know, excuse any description of all that has passed, and _is_ passing, and i leave it to charles. the impression is very favourable.[ ] there is great fascination in the quiet, frank manner of the emperor, and _she_ is very pleasing, very graceful, and very unaffected, but very delicate. she _is_ certainly very pretty and very uncommon-looking. the emperor spoke very amiably of you. the reception by the public was _immensely_ enthusiastic. i must end here. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the emperor and empress of the french arrived on the th of april, on a visit to england. they were enthusiastically received both at dover (notwithstanding a dense fog, which endangered the safety of the imperial yacht) and on their progress from the south-eastern terminus to paddington. in passing king street, the emperor was observed to indicate his former residence to the empress.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. dearest uncle,... i have not a moment to myself, being of course entirely occupied with our imperial guests, with whom i am much pleased, and who behave really with the greatest tact.[ ] the investiture went off very well, and to-day (we came from windsor) the enthusiasm of the thousands who received him in the city was immense. he is much pleased. since the time of my coronation, with the exception of the opening of the great exhibition, i don't remember anything like it. to-night we go in state to the opera. in haste, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : a review of the household troops in windsor park was held on the th, and a ball was given at the castle in the evening. a council of war on the th was attended by the prince, the emperor, and some of their ministers; in the afternoon the queen invested the emperor with the garter. on the following day the emperor received an address at windsor from the corporation of london, and lunched at the guildhall; the queen and prince and their guests paid a state visit to her majesty's theatre in the evening to hear _fidelio_. on the th the party, with brilliant ceremonial, visited the crystal palace at sydenham, and were enthusiastically received by an immense multitude; another important council, relative to the future conduct of the war, was held in the evening.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. my dearest uncle,--many thanks for your kind letter of the th and th, by which i am glad to see that you were well. our great visit is past, like a brilliant and most successful dream, but i think the effect on the visitors will be a good and lasting one; they saw in our reception, and in that of the whole nation, nothing _put on_, but a warm, hearty welcome to a faithful and steady ally. i think also that for belgium this visit will be very useful, for it will increase the friendly feelings of the emperor towards my dear uncle, and towards a country in which england takes so deep an interest. the negotiations are broken off, and austria has been called upon to act according to the treaty of the nd december. she intends, i believe, to make some proposal, but we know nothing positive as yet. in the meantime i fear the emperor (i mean napoleon) _will_ go to the crimea, which makes one anxious.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. the queen has read the letter of lady ---- to lady palmerston, and now returns it to lord palmerston. she has to observe that it has been with her an invariable rule never to take upon herself the office of sitting in judgment upon accusations or reports against private character. no person therefore can have any reason to suppose that she will by marked neglect or manner appear to pronounce a verdict upon matters in which she is not the proper court of appeal. [pageheading: the emperor's letter] _the emperor of the french to queen victoria._ palais des tuileries, _le avril _. madame et bonne s[oe]ur,--a paris depuis trois jours, je suis encore auprès de votre majesté par la pensée, et mon premier besoin est de lui redire combien est profonde l'impression que m'a laissée son accueil si plein de grâce et d'affectueuse bonté. la politique nous a rapprochés d'abord, mais aujourd'hui qu'il m'a été permis de connaître personnellement votre majesté c'est une vive et respectueuse sympathie qui forme désormais le véritable lien qui m'attache à elle. il est impossible en effet de vivre quelques jours dans votre intimité sans subir le charme qui s'attache à l'image de la grandeur et du bonheur de la famille la plus unie. votre majesté m'a aussi bien touché par ses prévenances délicates envers l'impératrice; car rien ne fait plus de plaisir que de voir la personne qu'on aime devenir l'objet d'aussi flatteuses attentions. je prie votre majesté d'exprimer au prince albert les sentiments sincères que m'inspirent sa franche amitié, son esprit élevé et la droiture de son jugement. j'ai rencontré à mon retour à paris bien des difficultés diplomatiques et bien d'autres intervenants au sujet de mon voyage en crimée. je dirai en confidence à votre majesté que ma résolution de voyage s'en trouve presque ébranlée. en france tous ceux qui possèdent sont bien peu courageux! votre majesté voudra bien me rappeler au souvenir de sa charmante famille et me permettre de lui renouveler l'assurance de ma respectueuse amitié et de mon tendre attachement. de votre majesté, le bon frère, napolÉon. [pageheading: the queen's reply] _queen victoria to the emperor of the french._ buckingham palace, _le avril _. sire et mon cher frÈre,--votre majesté vient de m'écrire une bien bonne et affectueuse lettre que j'ai reçue hier et qui m'a vivement touchée. vous dites, sire, que vos pensées sont encore auprès de nous; je puis vous assurer que c'est bien réciproque de notre part et que nous ne cessons de repasser en revue et de parler de ces beaux jours que nous avons eu le bonheur de passer avec vous et l'impératrice et qui se sont malheureusement écoulés si vite. nous sommes profondément touchés de la manière dont votre majesté parle de nous et de notre famille, et je me plais à voir dans les sentiments que vous nous témoignez un gage précieux de plus pour la continuation de ces relations si heureusement et si fermement établies entre nos deux pays. permettez que j'ajoute encore, sire, combien de prix j'attache à l'entière franchise avec laquelle vous ne manquez d'agir envers nous en toute occasion et à laquelle vous nous trouverez toujours prêts à répondre, bien convaincus que c'est le moyen le plus sûr pour éloigner tout sujet de complication et de mésentendu entre nos deux gouvernements vis-à-vis des graves difficultés que nous avons à surmonter ensemble. depuis le départ de votre majesté les complications diplomatiques ont augmenté bien péniblement et la position est assurément devenue bien difficile mais le ciel n'abandonnera pas ceux qui n'ont d'autre but que le bien du genre humain. j'avoue que la nouvelle de la possibilité de l'abandon de votre voyage en crimée m'a bien tranquillisée parce qu'il y avait bien des causes d'alarmes en vous voyant partir si loin et exposé à tant de dangers. mais bien que l'absence de votre majesté en crimée soit toujours une grande perte pour les opérations vigoureuses dont nous sommes convenus, j'espère que leur exécution n'en sera pas moins vivement poussée par nos deux gouvernements. le prince me charge de vous offrir ses plus affectueux hommages et nos enfants qui sont bien flattés de votre gracieux souvenir, et qui parlent beaucoup de votre visite, se mettent à vos pieds. avec tous les sentiments de sincère amitié et de haute estime, je me dis, sire et cher frère, de v.m.i. la bien bonne s[oe]ur, victoria r. [pageheading: russia and the black sea] [pageheading: austrian proposals] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._[ ] piccadilly, _ th april _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that the members of the cabinet who met yesterday evening at the chancellor's were of opinion that the austrian proposal adopted by m. drouyn de lhuys, even with his pretended modification, could not be described more accurately than in the concise terms of h.r.h. the prince albert, namely, that instead of making to cease the preponderance of russia in the black sea, it would perpetuate and legalise that preponderance, and that instead of establishing a secure and permanent peace, it would only establish a prospective case for war. such a proposal therefore your majesty's advisers could not recommend your majesty to adopt; but as the step to be taken seems rather to be to make such a proposal to austria than to answer such a proposal which austria has not formally made, and as m. drouyn's telegraphic despatch stated that he thought that lord john russell would recommend such an arrangement to his colleagues, the cabinet were of opinion that the best course would be simply to take no step at all until lord john russell's return, which may be expected to-morrow or next day, especially as lord clarendon had already, by telegraphic message of yesterday, intimated to the french government that such an arrangement as that proposed by m. drouyn, and which would sanction a russian fleet in the black sea to any amount short by one ship of the number existing in , could not be agreed to by the british government. such an arrangement would, in the opinion of viscount palmerston, be alike dangerous and dishonourable; and as to the accompanying alliance with austria for the future defence of turkey and for making war with russia, if she were to raise her black sea fleet up to the amount of , what reason is there to believe that austria, who shrinks from war with russia now that the army of russia has been much reduced by the losses of the last twelve months--now that her forces are divided and occupied elsewhere than on the austrian frontier, and now that england and france are actually in the field with great armies, supported by great fleets, what reason is there to believe that this same austria would be more ready to make war four or five years hence, when the army of russia shall have repaired its losses and shall be more concentrated to attack austria, when the austrian army shall have been reduced to its peace establishment, and when the peace establishments of england and france, withdrawn within their home stations, shall be less ready to co-operate with austria in war? what reason, moreover, is there for supposing that austria, who has recently declared that though prepared for war she will not make war for ten sail of the line more or less in the russian black sea fleet, will some few years hence, when unprepared for war, draw the sword on account of the addition of one ship of war to the russian fleet in the black sea? such proposals are really a mockery. [footnote : it had long become evident that russia would refuse assent to the third point, terminating her preponderance in the black sea, but austria now came forward with a proposal to limit the russian force there to the number of ships authorised before the war. this was rejected by russia, whereupon the representatives of england and france withdrew from the negotiations. count buol, representing austria, then came forward again with a scheme the salient features of which were that, if russia increased her black sea fleet beyond its existing strength, turkey might maintain a force equal to it, and england and france might each have a naval force in the black sea equal to half the russian force, while the increase of the russian fleet beyond its strength in would be regarded by austria as a _casus belli_. these terms were satisfactory neither to the british government nor to the french emperor, so that it was learned with some surprise that lord john russell and m. drouyn de lhuys (the french plenipotentiary) had approved of them. upon the emperor definitely rejecting the proposals, m. drouyn de lhuys resigned; he was succeeded as foreign minister by count walewski, m. de persigny becoming ambassador in london. lord john russell tendered his resignation, but, at lord palmerston's solicitation, and most unfortunately for himself, he withdrew it.] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. the queen returns these very important letters. she thinks that it will be of great use to ask the emperor to send m. drouyn de lhuys over here after having discussed the plans of peace with him, in order that he should hear our arguments also, and give us his reasons for thinking the terms acceptable. the influence of distance and difference of locality upon the resolves of men has often appeared to the queen quite marvellous. [pageheading: the imperial visit] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ st may _. my dearest uncle,--on this day, the fifth birthday of our darling little arthur--the anniversary of the opening of the great exhibition--the _once_ great day at paris, viz. the poor king's name-day--and also the birthday of the dear old duke--i write to thank you for your kind and affectionate letter of the th. the _attentat_[ ] on the emperor will have shocked you, as it did us; it shocked me _the more_ as we had _watched over_ him with such anxiety while he was with us. it has produced an immense sensation in france, we hear, and many of _his_ political _enemies_, he says, cheered him loudly as he returned to the tuileries. as you say, he is _very personal_, and _therefore_ kindness _shown_ him _personally_ will make a _lasting_ effect on his mind, peculiarly susceptible to _kindness_. another feature in his character is that _il ne fait pas de phrases_--and _what_ is said is the result of deep reflection. i therefore send you (in _strict confidence_) a copy of the really very kind letter he wrote me, and which i am sure is _quite sincere_. he felt the simple and kind treatment of him and her _more_ than _all_ the outward homage and display. please kindly to return it when you have done with it. i am sure you would be charmed with the empress; it is not such great beauty, but such grace, elegance, sweetness, and _nature_. her manners are charming; the _profile_ and figure beautiful and particularly _distingués_. you will be pleased (as i was) at the abandonment of the journey to the crimea, though i think, as regarded the campaign, it would have been a good thing.... lord john is returned. i can't say more to-day, but remain, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. we have a childs' _ball_ to-night. [footnote : an italian, giacomo pianori, fired twice at the emperor, while he was riding in the champs elysées, on the th of april; the emperor was uninjured.] [pageheading: the queen's impressions] [pageheading: louis philippe and napoleon iii] [pageheading: isolation of the emperor] [pageheading: the french alliance] _memorandum by queen victoria._ buckingham palace, _ nd may _. the recent visit of the emperor napoleon iii. to this country is a most curious page of history, and gives rise to many reflections. a remarkable combination of circumstances has brought about the very intimate alliance which now unites england and france, for so many centuries the bitterest enemies and rivals, and this, under the reign of the present emperor, the nephew of our greatest foe, and bearing his name, and brought about by the policy of the late emperor of russia, who considered himself as the head of the european alliance against france! in reflecting on the character of the present emperor napoleon, and the impression i have conceived of it, the following thoughts present themselves to my mind: that he _is_ a very _extraordinary_ man, with great qualities there can be _no_ doubt--i might almost say a mysterious man. he is evidently possessed of _indomitable courage_, _unflinching firmness of purpose_, _self-reliance_, _perseverance_, and _great secrecy_; to this should be added, a great reliance on what he calls his _star_, and a belief in omens and incidents as connected with his future destiny, which is almost romantic--and at the same time he is endowed with wonderful _self-control_, great _calmness_, even _gentleness_, and with a _power_ of _fascination_, the effect of which upon all those who become more intimately acquainted with him is _most sensibly_ felt. how far he is actuated by a strong _moral_ sense of _right_ and _wrong_ is difficult to say. on the one hand, his attempts at strasbourg and boulogne, and this last after having given a solemn promise never to return or make a similar attempt--in which he openly called on the subjects of the then king of the french to follow him as the successor of napoleon, the _coup d'État_ of december , followed by great ... severity and the confiscation of the property of the unfortunate orleans family, would lead one to believe that he is not. on the other hand, his kindness and gratitude towards all those, whether high or low, who have befriended him or stood by him through life, and his straightforward and steady conduct towards us throughout the very difficult and anxious contest in which we have been engaged for a year and a half, show that he is possessed of noble and right feelings. my impression is, that in all these apparently inexcusable acts, he has invariably been guided by the belief that he is _fulfilling a destiny_ which god has _imposed_ upon him, and that, though cruel or harsh in themselves, they were _necessary_ to obtain the result which he considered _himself_ as _chosen_ to carry out, and _not_ acts of _wanton_ cruelty or injustice; for it is impossible to know him and not to see that there is much that is truly amiable, kind, and honest in his character. another remarkable and important feature in his composition is, that everything he says or expresses is the _result_ of deep reflection and of settled purpose, and not merely _des phrases de politesse_, consequently when we read words used in his speech made in the city, we may feel sure that he _means_ what he says; and therefore i would rely with confidence on his behaving honestly and faithfully towards us. i am not able to say whether he is deeply versed in history--i should rather think not, as regards it _generally_, though he may be, and probably is, well informed in the history of his own country, certainly fully so in that of the _empire_, he having made it his special study to contemplate and reflect upon all the acts and designs of his great uncle. he is very well read in german literature, to which he seems to be very partial. it is said, and i am inclined to think with truth, that he reads but little, even as regards despatches from his own foreign ministers, he having expressed his surprise at my reading them daily. he seems to be singularly ignorant in matters not connected with the branch of his _special_ studies, and to be ill informed upon them by those who surround him. if we compare him with poor king louis philippe, i should say that the latter (louis philippe) was possessed of vast knowledge upon all and every subject, of immense experience in public affairs, and of great activity of mind; whereas the emperor possesses greater judgment and much greater firmness of purpose, but no experience of public affairs, nor mental application; he is endowed, as was the late king, with much fertility of imagination. another great difference between king louis philippe and the emperor is, that the poor king was _thoroughly french_ in character, possessing all the liveliness and talkativeness of that people, whereas the emperor is as _unlike_ a _frenchman_ as possible, being much more _german_ than french in character.... how could it be expected that the emperor _should_ have any _experience_ in _public affairs_, considering that till six years ago he lived as a poor exile, for some years even in prison, and never having taken the slightest part in the _public_ affairs of _any_ country? it is therefore the more astounding, indeed almost incomprehensible, that he should show all those powers of government, and all that wonderful tact in his conduct and manners which he evinces, and which many a king's son, nurtured in palaces and educated in the midst of affairs, never succeeds in attaining. i likewise believe that he would be incapable of such tricks and over-reachings as practised by poor king louis philippe (for whose memory, as the old and kind friend of my father, and of whose kindness and amiable qualities i shall ever retain a lively sense), who in great as well as in small things took a pleasure in being cleverer and more cunning than others, often when there was no advantage to be gained by it, and which was, unfortunately, strikingly displayed in the transactions connected with the spanish marriages, which led to the king's downfall and ruined him in the eyes of all europe. on the other hand, i believe that the emperor napoleon would not hesitate to do a thing by main force, even if in itself unjust and tyrannical, should he consider that the _accomplishment of his destiny_ demanded it. the _great advantage_ to be derived for the permanent alliance of england and france, which is of such vital importance to both countries, by the emperor's recent visit, i take to be this: that, with his peculiar character and views, which are very personal, a kind, unaffected, and hearty reception by us _personally_ in our own family will make a lasting impression upon his mind; he will see that he can rely upon our friendship and honesty towards him and his country so long as he remains faithful towards us; naturally frank, he will see the advantage to be derived from continuing so; and if he reflects on the downfall of the former dynasty, he will see that it arose _chiefly_ from a _breach_ of pledges,... and will be sure, if i be not very much mistaken in his character, to _avoid_ such a course. it must likewise not be overlooked that this kindly feeling towards us, and consequently towards england (the interests of which are _inseparable_ from us), must be increased when it is remembered that _we_ are almost the only people in _his_ own position with whom he has been able to be on any terms of intimacy, consequently almost the only ones to whom he could talk easily and unreservedly, which he cannot do naturally with his inferiors. he and the empress are in a most isolated position, unable to trust the only relations who are near them in france, and surrounded by courtiers and servants, who from fear or interest do not tell them the truth. it is, therefore, natural to believe that he will not willingly separate from those who, like us, do not scruple to put him in possession of the real facts, and whose conduct is guided by justice and honesty, and this the more readily as he is supposed to have always been a searcher after truth. i would go still further, and think that it is in our power to _keep_ him in the right course, and to protect him against the extreme flightiness, changeableness, and to a certain extent want of honesty of his own servants and nation. we should never lose the opportunity of checking in the bud any attempt on the part of his agents or ministers to play us false, frankly informing him of the facts, and encouraging him to bring forward in an equally frank manner whatever he has to complain of. this is the course which we have hitherto pursued, and as he is france in his own sole person, it becomes of the utmost importance to encourage by every means in our power that very open intercourse which i must say has existed between him and lord cowley for the last year and a half, and now, since our personal acquaintance, between ourselves. as i said before, the words which fall from his lips are the result of deep reflection, and part of the deep plan which he has staked out for himself, and which he intends to carry out. i would therefore lay stress on the following words which he pronounced to me immediately after the investiture of the order of the garter: "_c'est un lien de plus entre nous, j'ai prêté serment de fidélité à votre majesté et je le garderai soigneusement. c'est un grand événement pour moi, et j'espère pouvoir prouver ma reconnaissance envers votre majesté et son pays._" in a letter said to be written by him to mr f. campbell, the translator of m. thiers's _history of the consulate and empire_, when returning the proof-sheets in , he says "let us hope the day may yet come when i shall carry out the intentions of my uncle by uniting the policy and interests of england and france in an indissoluble alliance. that hope cheers and encourages me. it forbids my repining at the altered fortunes of my family." if these be truly his words, he certainly has acted up to them, since he has swayed with an iron hand the destinies of that most versatile nation, the french. that he should have written this at a moment when louis philippe had succeeded in all his wishes, and seemed securer than ever in the possession of his throne, shows a calm reliance in his destiny and in the realisation of hopes entertained from his very childhood which borders on the supernatural. these are a few of the many reflections caused by the observation and acquaintance with the character of this most extraordinary man, in whose fate not only the interests of this country, but the whole of europe are intimately bound up. i shall be curious to see if, after the lapse of time, my opinion and estimate of it has been the right one. victoria r. _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. the queen returns these interesting letters to lord clarendon. when the emperor expresses a wish that positive instructions should be sent to lord raglan to join in a general forward movement about to take place, he should be made aware that lord raglan has been ready and most anxious for the assault taking place on the th, and that he only consented to postpone it for a few days at general canrobert's earnest desire, who wished to wait for the army of reserve. it should be kept in mind, however, that the english cannot proceed farther as long as the mamelon has not been taken, and that as long as the french refuse to do this they must not complain of lord raglan's not advancing. the refusal to undertake this has, the queen is sorry to say, produced a bad feeling amongst many of our officers and men, which she owns alarms her.[ ] [footnote : general canrobert was deficient in dash and initiative; he knew his defects, and was relieved of his command at his own request, being succeeded by general pélissier. on the th of may (the queen's birthday) a successful expedition was made against kertsch, the granary of sebastopol, and vast quantities of coal, corn, and flour were either seized by the allies, or destroyed in anticipation of their seizure by the russians. on the th of june, the mamelon (a knoll crowned by a redoubt and protected by the rifle pits) was taken by the french, and the gravel pits, an outwork in front of the redan, by the english.] [pageheading: the crimean medal] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ nd may _. my dearest, kindest uncle,--... the state of affairs is uncomfortable and complicated just now, but our course is _straight_; we _cannot_ come to any peace unless we have such guarantees by _decided_ limitation of the fleet, which would secure us against russian preponderance for the future.[ ] ernest will have told you what a _beautiful_ and _touching_ sight and ceremony (the first of the kind ever witnessed in england) the distribution of the medals was. from the highest prince of the blood to the lowest private, all received the same distinction for the bravest conduct in the severest actions, and the rough hand of the brave and honest private soldier came for the first time in contact with that of their sovereign and their queen! noble fellows! i own i feel as if they were _my own children_; my heart beats for _them_ as for my _nearest and dearest_. they were so touched, so pleased; many, i hear, cried--and they won't hear of giving up their medals, to have their names engraved upon them, for fear they should _not_ receive the _identical one_ put into _their hands by me_, which is quite touching. several came by in a sadly mutilated state. none created more interest or is more gallant than young sir thomas troubridge, who had, at inkerman, _one leg_ and the _other foot_ carried away by a round shot, and continued commanding his battery till the battle was won, refusing to be carried away, only desiring his shattered limbs to be raised in order to prevent too great a hemorrhage! he was dragged by in a bath chair, and when i gave him his medal i told him i should make him one of my aides-de-camp for his very gallant conduct, to which he replied: "i am amply repaid for everything!"[ ] _one must_ revere and love such soldiers as those! the account in the _times_ of saturday is very correct and good. i must, however, conclude now, hoping soon to hear from you again. could you kindly tell me if you could in a few days forward some letters and papers with _safety_ to good stockmar. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : prince albert, in a memorandum dated the th of may, emphasised the difficulties in the way of peace caused by the attitude of austria, and the possibility of her passing from the one alliance to the other.] [footnote : he was made a c.b. and a brevet-colonel; and also received the legion of honour.] [pageheading: successor to lord dalhousie] _queen victoria to mr vernon smith._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen has received mr vernon smith's letter on the subject of lord dalhousie's resignation and the appointment of a successor. she was somewhat astonished that the name of a successor to that most important appointment should for the first time be brought before her after all official steps for carrying it out had been completed. if the selection should now not receive the queen's approval, it is evident that great awkwardness must arise.[ ] [footnote : mr vernon smith, in reply, referred to the statutory power then existing of the directors of the east india company to nominate a governor-general, subject to the approbation of the crown.] _queen victoria to mr vernon smith._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen received mr v. smith's letter yesterday evening after her return from chatham. she readily acquits him of any _intentional_ want of respect towards her, or of any neglect in going through the prescribed forms with regard to the appointment in question, neither of which she meant to insinuate by her letter. but she does not look upon the question as one of form. she takes a deep and natural interest in the welfare of her indian empire, and must consider the selection of the fittest person for the post of governor-general as of paramount importance. she had frequently discussed this point with lord palmerston, but the name of lord canning never occurred amongst the candidates alluded to. the queen is even now quite ignorant as to the reasons and motives which led to his selection in preference to those other names, and mr v. smith will see at once that, were the queen inclined to object to it, she could not _now_ do so without inflicting a deep, personal injury on a public man, for whose personal qualities and talents the queen has a high regard. she accordingly approves the recommendation, but must repeat her regret that no opportunity had been given to her to discuss the propriety of it with her ministers previous to the intention of the recommendation becoming known to all concerned in it. [pageheading: death of lord raglan] _general simpson to lord panmure._[ ] [_telegram._] _ th june ._ ( . a.m.) lord raglan had been going on favourably until four in the afternoon yesterday, when very serious symptoms made their appearance. difficulty of breathing was experienced, which gradually increased. up to five o'clock he was conscious, and from this time his strength declined almost imperceptibly until twenty-five minutes before nine, when he died. i have assumed the command, as sir george brown is too ill on board ship. [footnote : on the th of june, the fortieth anniversary of waterloo, a combined attack by the english on the redan, and the french on the malakhoff, was repulsed with heavy losses. the scheme was that of pélissier, and lord raglan acquiesced against his better judgment. the result depressed him greatly; he was attacked with cholera, and died on the th.] _queen victoria to general simpson._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. not being aware whether sir george brown is well enough by this time to assume the command of the army, the queen writes to general simpson, as the chief of his staff, to express to him, and _through_ him to the army, her deep and _heartfelt grief_ at the irreparable loss of their gallant and excellent commander, lord raglan, which has cast a gloom over us all, as it must do over the whole army. but, at the same time, the queen wishes to express her earnest hope and confident trust that every one will more than ever now do their duty, as they have hitherto so nobly done, and that she may continue to be as proud of her beloved army as she has been, though their brave chief who led them so often to victory and to glory, has been taken from them. most grievous and most truly melancholy it is that poor lord raglan should die _thus_--from sickness--on the eve, as we have every reason to hope, of the glorious result of so much labour, and so much anxiety, and not be allowed to witness it. the queen's prayers will be more than ever with her army, and most fervently do we trust that general simpson's health, as well as that of the other generals, may be preserved to them unimpaired! _queen victoria to lady raglan._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. dear lady raglan,--words _cannot_ convey _all_ i feel at the irreparable loss you have sustained, and i and the country have, in your noble, gallant, and excellent husband, whose loyalty and devotion to his sovereign and country were unbounded. we both feel _most deeply_ for you and your daughters, to whom this blow must be most severe and sudden. he was so strong, and his health had borne the bad climate, great fatigues, and anxieties so well, ever since he left england, that, though we were much alarmed at hearing of his illness, we were full of hopes of his speedy recovery. we must bow to the will of god; but to be taken away thus, on the eve of the successful result of so much labour, so much suffering, and so much anxiety, is cruel indeed! we feel much, too, for the brave army, whom he was so proud of, who will be sadly cast down at losing their gallant commander, who had led them so often to victory and glory. if sympathy can be any consolation, you have it, for _we all_ have _alike_ to mourn, and no one more than i, who have lost a faithful and devoted servant, in whom i had the greatest confidence. we both most anxiously hope that your health, and that of your daughters, may not materially suffer from this dreadful shock. believe me always, my dear lady raglan, yours very sincerely, victoria r. [pageheading: general simpson takes command] _queen victoria to general simpson._ buckingham palace, _ th july _. when the queen last wrote to general simpson to express to him, and through him to her army in the crimea, her _deep_ grief at the loss of their noble, gallant, and excellent commander, it was not yet known that sir george brown would return home, and that the command of the army would devolve upon general simpson. she writes to him, therefore, to-day, for the _first_ time as the commander-in-chief of her heroic army in the east, to assure him of her confidence and support. it is as proud a command as any soldier could desire, but its difficulties and responsibilities are also very great. general simpson knows well how admirably his lamented predecessor conducted all the communications with our allies the french, and he cannot do better than follow in the same course. while showing the greatest readiness to act with perfect cordiality towards them, he will, the queen trusts, never allow her army to be unduly pressed upon, which would only injure both armies. the queen feels very anxious lest the fearful heat which the army is exposed to should increase cholera and fever. both the prince and herself, the queen can only repeat, have their minds _constantly_ occupied with the army, and count the days and hours between the mails, and it would be a relief to the queen to hear herself directly from general simpson from time to time when he has leisure to write. the prince wishes to be most kindly named to general simpson, and joins with the queen in every possible good wish for himself and her brave and beloved troops. [pageheading: lord john russell's unpopularity] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty.... viscount palmerston very much regrets to have to say that the adverse feeling in regard to lord john russell grows stronger and spreads wider every day, and there is a general desire that he should resign.[ ] this desire is expressed by the great bulk of the steadiest supporters of the government, and was conveyed to lord john this evening in the house of commons by mr bouverie on behalf of those members of the government who are not in the cabinet. lord john has himself come to the same conclusion, and informed viscount palmerston this evening in the house of commons that he has finally determined to resign, and will to-morrow or next day write a letter to that effect to be laid before your majesty. viscount palmerston told him that however great would be the loss of the government by his resignation, yet as this is a question which more peculiarly regards lord john personally, his course must be decided by his own judgment and feelings; but that if he did not think necessary to resign, viscount palmerston would face sir edward bulwer's motion with the government as it is.[ ] he asked lord john, however, whether, if he determined to resign, there was any arrangement which he would wish to have submitted for your majesty's consideration, and especially whether, if your majesty should be graciously pleased to raise him to the peerage, such an honour would be agreeable to him. he said that perhaps in the autumn such an act of favour on the part of your majesty might fall in with his views and would be gratefully received, but it would not do at present, and should not be mentioned.... [footnote : lord john russell had, as stated above, favoured the proposals of count buol at vienna, compromising the third point to the advantage of russia. the ministry had disavowed this view, but lord john had remained in office. on the th of may, mr disraeli moved a vote of censure on the government for its conduct of the war, fiercely assailing lord john for his proceedings both at vienna and as minister. in repelling the charge, lord john made a vigorous speech disclosing no disposition to modify the british attitude towards russian preponderance in the black sea, and mr disraeli's motion was lost by a majority of . on a subsequent night he made a further speech strongly antagonistic to russia, his attitude as to the austrian proposals being still undisclosed to the public. but these speeches caused count buol to reveal the favourable view taken of his proposals by the english and french plenipotentiaries, and lord john russell's inconsistency aroused widespread indignation.] [footnote : this motion was one of censure on lord john russell for his conduct at vienna, and it was deeply galling to be informed by subordinate members of the government that, unless he resigned, they would support the vote of censure. lord john bowed before the storm and retired from office.] [pageheading: lord john russell resigns] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and submits for your majesty's gracious acceptance the resignation of lord john russell's office, which viscount palmerston trusts your majesty will think is expressed in terms highly honourable to lord john russell's feelings as a man and as a minister. the step, viscount palmerston regrets to say, has become unavoidable. the storm of public opinion, however much it may exceed any just or reasonable cause, is too overbearing to be resisted, and lord john russell has no doubt best consulted his own personal interests in yielding to it. after a time there will be a reaction and justice will be done; but resistance at present would be ineffectual, and would only increase irritation. viscount palmerston is not as yet prepared to submit for your majesty's consideration the arrangement which will become necessary for filling up the gap thus made in the government.... _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen is much concerned by what lord palmerston writes respecting the feeling of the house of commons. lord john's resignation, although a severe loss, may possibly assuage the storm which he had chiefly produced. but she finds that sir e. lytton's motion will be equally applicable to the government after this event as it would have been before it. she trusts that no stone will be left unturned to defeat the success of that motion, which would plunge the queen and the executive government of the country into new and most dangerous complications. these are really not times to play with the existence of governments for personal feeling or interests! _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen has received lord palmerston's letter of yesterday, and returns lord john russell's letter,[ ] which reflects the greatest credit on him. the resignation had become unavoidable, and lord palmerston will do well to let the debate go by before proposing a successor, whom it will be difficult to find under any circumstances. having expressed her feelings on the position of affairs in her letter of yesterday, she will not repeat them here. she grants her permission to lord palmerston to state in parliament what he may think necessary for the defence of the cabinet. she could have the council here on wednesday, which day will probably be the least inconvenient to the members of the government. the queen has just received lord palmerston's letter of last night, which gives a more cheering prospect.[ ] [footnote : stating that his continuance in office would embarrass and endanger the ministry.] [footnote : in consequence of lord john's resignation, the motion of censure was withdrawn.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th july _. my dearest uncle,--i feel _quite_ grieved that it must again be _by letter_ that i express to you all my feelings of love and affection, which yesterday morning i could still do _de vive voix_. it was indeed a _happy_ time; i only fear that i was a dull companion--silent, absent, stupid, which i feel i have become since the war; and the constant anxiety and preoccupation which that odious sebastopol causes me and my dear, brave army, added to which the last week, or indeed the _whole fortnight_ since we arrived here, was one of such uncertainty about this tiresome scarlatina, that it made me still more _préoccupée_. the _only_ thing that at all lessened my sorrow at seeing you depart was my thankfulness that you got safe _out_ of our _hospital_.... ever your devoted niece and child, victoria r. [pagheading: affairs of sweden] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen has delayed answering lord clarendon's letter respecting sweden till she received the first letter from mr magenis,[ ] omitted in lord clarendon's box. now, having read the whole of these documents, she confesses that she requires some explanation as to the advantages which are to arise to england from the proposed treaty, before she can come to any decision about it. when a treaty with sweden was last in contemplation, she was to have joined in the war against russia and to have received a guarantee of the integrity of her dominions by england and france in return; yet this clause was found so onerous to this country, and opening so entirely a new field of questions and considerations, that the cabinet would not entertain it. now the same guarantee is to be given by us without the counterbalancing advantage of sweden giving us her assistance in the war. [footnote : mr (afterwards sir) arthur charles magenis, minister at stockholm (and afterwards at lisbon), had written to say that an attempt was being made to change the partial guarantee of finmark into a general guarantee on behalf of sweden and norway. an important treaty was concluded between sweden and norway, and the western powers, in the following november, which secured the integrity of sweden and norway.] [pageheading: general simpson's difficulties] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen has received lord panmure's letter of yesterday evening, and has signed the dormant commission for sir w. codrington. a similar course was pursued with regard to sir george cathcart. the queen hopes that general simpson may still rally. he must be in a great state of helplessness at this moment, knowing that he wants, as everybody out there, the advantages which lord raglan's name, experience, position, rank, prestige, etc., etc., gave him, having his military secretary ill on board, the head of the intelligence department dead, and no means left him whereby to gather information or to keep up secret correspondence with the tartars--colonel vico[ ] dead, who, as prince edward told the queen, had become a _most important_ element in the good understanding with the french army and its new commander, and not possessing military rank enough to make the sardinian general[ ] consider him as his chief. if all these difficulties are added to those inherent to the task imposed upon him, one cannot be surprised at his low tone of hopefulness. as most of these will, however, meet every commander whom we now can appoint, the queen trusts that means will be devised to assist him as much as possible in relieving him from too much writing, and in the diplomatic correspondence he has to carry on. the queen repeats her opinion that a _chef de chancellerie diplomatique_, such as is customary in the russian army, ought to be placed at his command, and she wishes lord panmure to show this letter to lords palmerston and clarendon, and to consult with them on the subject. neither the chief of the staff nor the military secretary can supply that want, and the general himself must feel unequal to it without any experience on the subject, and so will his successor. prince edward told the queen _in strict confidence_ that general simpson's position in lord raglan's headquarters had been anything but pleasant, that the staff had been barely civil to him; he was generally treated as an interloper, so that the sardinian and french officers attached to our headquarters observed upon it as a strange thing which would not be tolerated in their armies, and that general simpson showed himself grateful to them for the civility which they showed to a general officer of rank _aux cheveux blancs_. these little details, considered together with the general's extreme modesty, enable one to conceive what his present feelings must be.[ ] [footnote : colonel vico, the french commissioner attached to lord raglan's staff, had died on the th.] [footnote : general la marmora.] [footnote : the russian resources for the defence of sebastopol, both as to ammunition and provisions, were becoming exhausted, and a supreme effort was to be made, by massing more russian troops in the crimea, to inflict a decisive blow on the besieging forces of the allies. early on the morning of the th of august prince gortschakoff attacked the french and piedmontese at the river tchernaya. the attack on the left was repulsed by the french with the utmost spirit and with very little loss; while the russian loss, both in killed and wounded, was severe. the sardinian army, under general la marmora, were no less successful on the right. the news of this victory did not reach england until the queen and prince had left for their visit to paris.] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ [osborne, _ th august _.] the queen has read sir b. hall's[ ] letter, and must say that she quite concurs in the advantage resulting from the playing of a band in kensington gardens on sunday afternoon, a practice which has been maintained on the terrace at windsor through good and evil report, and she accordingly sanctions this proposal.[ ] [she would wish lord palmerston, however, to notice to sir b. hall that hyde park, although under the management of the board of works, is still a royal park, and that all the regulations for opening and shutting gates, the protection of the grounds and police regulations, etc., etc., stand under the ranger, who alone could give the order sir b. hall proposes to issue....][ ] [footnote : first commissioner of public works; afterwards lord llanover.] [footnote : the government granted permission for the band to play, but the practice was discontinued in . see _post_, st june, , note .] [footnote : the portion of the letter within brackets was struck out of the draft by the queen.] [pageheading: visit to paris] [pageheading: enthusiastic reception] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ st cloud[ ] _ rd august _. my dearest uncle,--i do not intend to attempt any description, for i have no time for anything of the sort; besides, i have no doubt you will read the papers, and i know good van de weyer has written _au long_ to you about it all. i will therefore only give in a few words my impressions. i am _delighted_, _enchanted_, _amused_, and _interested_, and think i never saw anything more _beautiful_ and gay than paris--or more splendid than all the palaces. our reception is _most_ gratifying--for it is enthusiastic and really kind in the highest degree; and maréchal magnan[ ] (whom you know well) says that such a reception as i have received _every day here_ is much greater and much more enthusiastic even than napoleon on his return from his victories had received! our entrance into paris was a scene which was _quite feenhaft_, and which could hardly be seen anywhere else; was quite _overpowering_-- splendidly decorated--illuminated--immensely crowded--and , troops out--from the gare de strasbourg to st cloud, of which , gardes nationales, who had come great distances to see me. the emperor has done wonders for paris, and for the bois de boulogne. everything is beautifully _monté_ at court--_very_ quiet, and in excellent order; i must say we are both much struck with the difference between this and the poor king's time, when the noise, confusion, and bustle were great. we have been to the exposition, to versailles--which is most splendid and magnificent--to the grand opéra, where the reception and the way in which "god save the queen" was sung were _most magnificent_. yesterday we went to the tuileries; in the evening _théâtre ici_; to-night an immense ball at the hôtel de ville. they have asked to call a new street, which we opened, _after me!_ the heat is very great, but the weather splendid, and though the sun may be hotter, the air is certainly _lighter_ than ours--and i have no headache. the _zouaves_ are on guard here, and you can't see finer men; the cent gardes are splendid too. we drove to look at poor neuilly on sunday, the emperor and empress proposing it themselves; and it was a most _melancholy sight_, all in ruins. at _le grand trianon_ we saw the pretty chapel in which poor marie was married; at the tuileries the cabinet where the poor king signed his fatal abdication. i wish _you_ would take an opportunity of telling the poor queen that we had thought much of her and the family here, had visited those spots which were connected with them in particular, and that we had greatly admired the king's great works at versailles, which have been left _quite intact_. indeed, the emperor (as in everything) has shown _great_ tact and good feeling about all this, and spoke without any bitterness of the king. i still mean to visit (and this was _his_ proposition) the chapelle de st ferdinand, which i hope you will likewise mention to the queen.... the children are so fond of the emperor, who is so very kind to them. he _is_ very _fascinating_, with that great quiet and gentleness. he has certainly excellent manners, and both he and the dear and _very_ charming empress (whom albert likes particularly) do the _honneurs extremely_ well and _very_ gracefully, and are full of _every kind_ attention.... instead of my short letter i have written you a very long one, and must end. many thanks for your kind letter of the th. how beautiful and how enjoyable is this place! ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the queen and prince left osborne early on the th in their new yacht, _victoria and albert_, for boulogne, and the visit to france, which lasted nine days, was brilliantly successful. the queen, in her journal, recorded with great minuteness the details of this interesting time, and some extracts are printed by sir theodore martin in _the life of the prince consort_.] [footnote : marshal magnan had repressed an insurrection in lyons in , and aided in the _coup d'État_ of .] [pageheading: letter to the emperor] _queen victoria to the emperor of the french._ osborne, _le août _. sire et mon cher frÈre,--une de mes premières occupations en arrivant ici est d'écrire à votre majesté et d'exprimer du fond de mon c[oe]ur combien nous sommes pénétrés et touchés de l'accueil qui nous a été fait en france d'abord par votre majesté et l'impératrice ainsi que par toute la nation. le souvenir ne s'effacera jamais de notre mémoire, et j'aime à y voir un gage précieux pour le futur de la cordialité qui unit nos deux gouvernements ainsi que nos deux peuples. puisse cette heureuse union, que nous devons surtout aux qualités personnelles de votre majesté, se consolider de plus en plus pour le bien-être de nos deux nations ainsi que de toute l'europe. c'était avec le c[oe]ur bien gros j'ai pris congé de vous, sire, après les beaux et heureux jours que nous avons passés avec vous et que vous avez su nous rendre si agréables. hélas! comme toute chose ici-bas, ils se sont écoulés trop vite et ces dix jours de fêtes paraissent comme un beau rêve, mais ils nous restent gravés dans notre mémoire et nous aimons à passer en revue tout ce qui s'est présenté à nos yeux d'intéressant et de beau en éprouvant en même temps le désir de les voir se renouveler un jour. je ne saurais vous dire assez, sire, combien je suis touchée de toutes vos bontés et de votre amitié pour le prince et aussi de l'affection et de la bienveillance dont vous avez comblé nos enfants. leur séjour en france a été la plus heureuse époque de leur vie, et ils ne cessent d'en parler. nous avons trouvé tous les autres enfants en bonne santé, et le petit arthur se promène avec son bonnet de police qui fait son bonheur et dont il ne veut pas se séparer. que dieu veille sur votre majesté et la chère impératrice pour laquelle je forme bien des v[oe]ux. vous m'avez dit encore du bateau "au revoir," c'est de tout mon c[oe]ur que je le répète aussi! permettez que j'exprime ici tous les sentiments de tendre amitié et d'affection avec lesquelles je me dis, sire et cher frère, de votre majesté impériale, la bien bonne et affectionnée s[oe]ur et amie, victoria r. je viens à l'instant même de recevoir la si aimable dépêche télégraphique de votre majesté. recevez-en tous mes remercîments les plus affectueux. [pageheading: an _entente cordiale_] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th august _. my dearest uncle,--here we are again, after the _pleasantest_ and _most interesting_ and triumphant ten days that i think i ever passed. so complete a success, so very hearty and kind a reception with and from so _difficile_ a people as the french is indeed _most_ gratifying and _most_ promising for the future. the army were most friendly and amicable towards us also. in short, the _complete_ union of the two countries is stamped and sealed in the most satisfactory and solid manner, for it is not _only_ a union of the two governments--the two sovereigns--it is that of the _two nations!_ albert has told you of all the very extraordinary combinations of circumstances which helped to make all so interesting, so satisfactory. of the splendour of the _fête_ at versailles i can really give _no_ faint impression, for it exceeded all imagination! i have formed a _great_ affection for the emperor, and i believe it is very reciprocal, for he showed us a confidence which we must feel as very gratifying, and spoke to us on all subjects, even the _most delicate_. i find _no_ great personal rancour towards the orleans. he has destroyed nothing that the king did, even to the gymnastics of the children at st cloud, and showed much kind and good feeling in taking us to see poor chartres' monument, which is beautiful. nothing could exceed his tact and kindness. i find i must end in a great hurry, and will say more another day. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: personal friendship] _queen victoria to baron stockmar._ osborne, _ st september _. you continue to refuse to answer me, but i am _not_ discouraged by it; but on the contrary _must_ write to you to give _vent_ to my _delight_ at our triumphant, most interesting, and most enjoyable visit to paris! the prince has written to you, and given you some general accounts, which will please you, and the _times_ has some descriptions ... of the wonderful beauty and magnificence of _every_thing. i never enjoyed myself more, or was more delighted or more interested, _and i can think_ and talk of nothing else. i am _deeply_ touched by the extraordinary warmth, heartiness, and enthusiasm with which we have been received by _all_ ranks, and the kindness shown to every one has brought us all back--beginning with ourselves and ending with the lowest of our servants--full of gratitude, pleasure, admiration, regret at its being over, and a great desire to see such a visit renewed! it was touching and pleasing in the extreme to see the alliance sealed so completely, and without lowering _either_ country's pride, and to see old enmities and rivalries _wiped out_ over the tomb of napoleon i., before whose coffin i stood (by torchlight) at the arm of napoleon iii., now my nearest and dearest ally! we have come back with feelings of _real_ affection for and interest in _france_--and indeed how could it be otherwise when one saw _how_ much was done to _please_ and delight us? the army too (such a fine one!) i feel a real affection for, as the companions of my beloved troops! for the emperor _personally_ i have conceived a _real_ affection and friendship, and so i may truly say of the prince. you know what _i felt_ the moment i saw him and became acquainted with him, what i wrote down about him, etc. well, we have now seen him for full _ten days_, from twelve to fourteen hours every day--often alone; and i cannot say _how_ pleasant and easy it is to live with him, or how attached one becomes to him. i know _no_ one who puts me more at my ease, or to whom i felt more inclined to talk unreservedly, or in whom involuntarily i should be more inclined to confide, than the emperor! he was entirely at his ease with us--spoke most openly and frankly with us on all subjects--even the _most_ delicate, viz. the orleans family (this was with _me_, for i was driving alone with him), and i am happy to _feel_ that there is nothing now between us which could _mar_ our personal good _entente_ and friendly and intimate footing. he is so simple, so _naïf_, never making _des phrases_, or paying compliments--so full of tact, good taste, high breeding; his attentions and respect towards us were so simple and unaffected, his kindness and friendship for the prince so natural and so gratifying, _because_ it is _not_ forced, not _pour faire des compliments_. he is quite _the emperor_, and yet in _no_ way playing it; the court and whole house infinitely more _regal_ and better managed than in poor louis philippe's time, when all was in great noise and confusion, and there was _no_ court. we parted with _mutual_ sorrow, and the emperor expressed his hope that we shall frequently meet and "pas avec de si grandes cérémonies"! what i write here is my feeling and conviction: wonderful it is that this _man_--whom certainly we were _not_ over well-disposed to--should by _force_ of _circumstances_ be drawn into such close connection with us, and become _personally_ our friend, and _this_ entirely by his _own personal_ qualities, in spite of so much that _was and could_ be said against him! to the children (who behaved beautifully, and had the most extraordinary success) his kindness, and judicious kindness, was _great_, and they are _excessively_ fond of him. in short, without _attempting_ to do anything particular to _make_ one like him, or any personal attraction in outward appearance, he _has_ the power of _attaching_ those to him who come near him and know him, which is _quite incredible_. he is excessively kind in private, and so very quiet. i shall always look back on the time passed not only in france, but with _him_ personally, as _most_ agreeable. the prince, though less enthusiastic than i am, i can see well, shares this feeling, and i think it is very reciprocal on the emperor's part; he is very fond of the prince and truly appreciates him. with respect to the war, nothing can be more frank and fair and honest than he is about it, but it makes him unhappy and anxious. the dear empress, who was all kindness and goodness, whom we are all very fond of, we saw comparatively but little of, as for _really_ and _certainly very_ good reasons she must take great care of herself.... victoria r. [pageheading: misgovernment at naples] [pageheading: co-operation of the powers] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ osborne, _ rd september _. the queen has read the enclosed papers, and must express her strongest objection to a naval demonstration (which to be effectual must be prepared to pass on to measures of hostility), in order to obtain changes in the _internal system of government_ of the kingdom of naples.[ ] england would thereby undertake a responsibility which she is in no way capable of bearing, unless she took the government permanently into her own hands. the plea on which the interference is to be based, viz. that the misgovernment at naples brings monarchical institutions into disrepute, and might place weapons in the hands of the democracy (as put forth by sir w. temple),[ ] would be wholly _insufficient_ to justify the proceeding. whether such an armed interference in favour of the people of naples against their government would lead to a revolution or not, as apprehended by the french government and disbelieved by lord palmerston, must be so entirely a matter of chance that it would be idle to predict the exact consequences. if out of every neapolitans, however, are dissatisfied with their government (as lord palmerston states), it is not unreasonable to expect that our demonstration may give them confidence enough to rise, and if beat down by the king's troops in presence of our ships, our position would become exceedingly humiliating. any insult offered to the british government, on the other hand, it has a perfect right to resent, and to ask reparation for. the case, however, is a very unpleasant one. the neapolitan government deny having intended any slight on the british legation by the order respecting the box of the "intendant du théâtre," which they state to have been general, and deny any intention to interfere with the free intercourse of the members of our legation with neapolitans, to which sir w. temple merely replies that notwithstanding the denial such an intention is believed by the public to exist. the case becomes therefore a very delicate one, requiring the greatest care on our part not to put ourselves in the wrong. it will be of the greatest importance to come to a thorough understanding with france, and if possible also with austria, on the subject. [footnote : lord palmerston had suggested co-operation by england and france in obtaining the dismissal of the neapolitan minister of police as an _amende_ for an affront offered to this country, to be enforced by a naval demonstration, coupled with a demand for the liberation of political prisoners.] [footnote : the hon. sir william temple, k.c.b. [_d._ ], only brother of lord palmerston, minister plenipotentiary to the court of naples.] _lord panmure to earl granville._[ ] [_telegram._] _ th september ._ telegram from general simpson, dated crimea, nine september, one eight five five, ten nine a.m. "sebastopol is in the possession of the allies. the enemy during the night and this morning have evacuated the south side after exploding their magazines and setting fire to the whole of the town. all the men-of-war were burnt during the night with the exception of three steamers, which are plying about the harbour. the bridge communicating with the north side is broken." war department, tenth september, one eight five five, four forty-five p.m.... [footnote : minister in attendance at balmoral. the queen and prince occupied their new home for the first time on the th of september; it was not yet completed, but, the queen wrote, "the house is charming, the rooms delightful, the furniture, papers, everything, perfection."] [pageheading: fall of sebastopol] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ balmoral castle, _ th september _. my dearest uncle,--the great event has at length taken place--_sebastopol has fallen!_ we received the news here last night when we were sitting quietly round our table after dinner. we did what we could to celebrate it; but that was but little, for to my grief we have not _one_ soldier, no band, nothing here to make any sort of demonstration. what we did do was in highland fashion to light a _bonfire_ on the top of a hill opposite the house, which had been built last year when the premature news of the fall of sebastopol deceived every one, and which we had to leave _unlit_, and found here on our return! on saturday evening we heard of one russian vessel having been destroyed, on sunday morning of the destruction of another, yesterday morning of the fall of the malakhoff tower--and _then_ of _sebastopol!_ we were not successful against the redan on the th, and i fear our loss was considerable. still the _daily_ loss in the trenches was becoming so serious that no loss in achieving such a result is to be compared to that. this event will delight my brother and faithful ally--and _friend_, napoleon iii.--i may add, for we really are _great friends_; this attempt,[ ] though that of a madman, is very distressing and makes one _tremble_.... we expect the young prince fritz wilhelm[ ] of prussia on a little visit here on friday. i must now conclude. with albert's love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : as he was about to enter the opera house on the evening of the th, the emperor was fired at without effect by one bellegarde, who had been previously convicted of fraud, on which occasion his punishment had been mitigated by the emperor's clemency; he was now sentenced to two years' imprisonment.] [footnote : only son of the prince of prussia, and afterwards the emperor frederick.] [pageheading: the malakhoff] _lord panmure to general simpson._ [_telegram._] _ th september ._ the queen has received, with deep emotion, the welcome intelligence of the fall of sebastopol. penetrated with profound gratitude to the almighty, who has vouchsafed this triumph to the allied armies, her majesty has commanded me to express to yourself, and through you to the army, the pride with which she regards this fresh instance of its heroism. the queen congratulates her troops on the triumphant issue of this protracted siege, and thanks them for the cheerfulness and fortitude with which they have encountered its toils, and the valour which has led to its termination. the queen deeply laments that this success in not without its alloy in the heavy losses which have been sustained; and while she rejoices in the victory, her majesty deeply sympathises with the noble sufferers in their country's cause. you will be pleased to congratulate general pélissier in her majesty's name upon the brilliant result of the assault on the malakhoff, which proves the irresistible force as well as indomitable courage of her brave allies. _queen victoria to general simpson._ balmoral, _ th september _. with a heart full of gratitude and pride, as well as of sorrow for the many valuable lives that have been lost, the queen writes to general simpson to congratulate him, as well on her own part as on that of the prince, on the glorious news of the _fall of sebastopol!_ general simpson must indeed _feel proud_ to have commanded the queen's noble army on _such_ an occasion. she wishes him to express to that gallant army her high sense of their gallantry, and her joy and satisfaction at their labours, anxieties, and cruel sufferings, for nearly a year, having _at length_ been crowned with such success. to general pélissier[ ] also, and his gallant army, whom the queen ever unites in her thoughts and wishes with her own beloved troops, she would wish general simpson to convey the expression of her personal warm congratulations, as well as of her sympathy for their losses. the queen intends to mark her sense of general simpson's services by conferring upon him the grand cross of the bath. we are _now_ most anxious that not a moment should be lost in following up this great victory, and in driving the russians, while still under the depressing effect of their failure, from the crimea! [footnote : he now became duke of malakhoff, and a marshal of the french army.] [pageheading: attitude of austria] _earl granville to the earl of clarendon._ balmoral, _ th september _. my dear clarendon,--i was sent for after breakfast. the queen and the prince are much pleased with the draft of your despatch to naples; they think it good and dignified. with respect to the draft to lord stratford, instructing him to recommend to the porte an application to the austrian government for the withdrawal or diminution of the austrian troops in the principalities, i have been commanded to write what the queen has not time this morning to put on paper. her majesty does not feel that the objects of this proposed despatch have been sufficiently explained. it does not appear to her majesty that, in a military point of view, the plans of the allies are sufficiently matured to make it clear whether the withdrawal of the austrian army would be an advantage or a disadvantage. if the allies intend to march through the principalities, and attack russia on that side, the presence of the austrians might be an inconvenience. if, on the other hand, they advance from the east, it is a positive advantage to have the russians contained on the other flank, by the austrians in their present position. looking at the political bearing of this move, her majesty thinks that it will not fail to have an unfavourable effect on austria, who will be hurt at the allies urging the porte to endeavour to put an end to an arrangement entered into at the suggestion, or at all events with the approval, of the allies. it cannot be an object at this moment, when extraneous circumstances have probably acted favourably for us on the minds of the emperor of austria and his government, to check that disposition, make them distrust us, and incline them to throw themselves towards russia, who now will spare no efforts to gain them. her majesty sees by your proposed despatch you do not expect the austrians to comply with this demand. even if they consented to diminish the numbers of their troops, they would do so only to suit their own convenience, and such diminution would in no ways decrease the evils of the occupation. lastly, the queen is of opinion that if such a proposal is to be made, it ought not to be done through lord stratford and the porte, but that the subject should be broached at vienna and the austrian government asked what their intentions are; that this would be the more friendly, more open, and more dignified course, and more likely than the other plan of being successful. her majesty, however, doubts that any such demand will be acceded to by the austrians, and believes that their refusal will put the allies in an awkward position. this is, i believe, the pith of her majesty's opinions--there appears to me to be much sense in them--and they are well deserving of your and palmerston's consideration. yours sincerely, granville. [pageheading: life peerages] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ balmoral, _ th september _. the queen has to thank lord palmerston for his letter of the th. the want of law lords in the upper house has often been complained of, and the queen has long been of opinion that in order to remedy the same without adding permanently to the peerage, the crown ought to use its prerogative in creating peers for life only. lord lansdowne coincided with this view, and lord john russell actually proposed a "life peerage" to dr. lushington, who declined it, however, from a dislike to become the first of the kind. mr pemberton leigh has _twice_ declined a peerage, but the queen can have no objection to its being offered to him again.[ ]... [footnote : see _ante_, vol. ii., th january, , note .] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th september _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty.... a blue ribbon has become vacant by the death of the late duke of somerset, and viscount palmerston having communicated with lord lansdowne and lord clarendon on the subject, would beg to submit for your majesty's gracious consideration that this honour might be well conferred upon the duke of newcastle, who has been the object of much undeserved attack, though certainly from inexperience not altogether exempt from criticism, and who since his retirement from office has shaped his public course in a manner honourable to himself, and advantageously contrasting with the aberrations of some of his former colleagues.[ ] your majesty must no doubt have been struck with the vast accumulation of warlike stores found at sebastopol. that there should have remained there four thousand cannon, after the wear and tear of the siege, proves the great importance attached by the russian government to that arsenal over which your majesty's flag is now triumphantly flying. [footnote : he had gone out to the crimea, and entered sebastopol with general simpson. the duke did not at this time accept the garter, which was bestowed on earl fortescue. see _post_, th november, , note .] [pageheading: distribution of honours] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ balmoral, _ st september _. the queen is anxious to mark her sense of the services of the army and military departments at home by conferring the rank of field-marshal on lord hardinge, who, from his position as commander-in-chief, and his long, distinguished services, has a strong claim to such an honour. moreover, marshal vaillant receiving the g.c.b., whilst it has been thought more prudent not to accept the _légion d'honneur_ for lord hardinge, makes it the more desirable. the prince is now again the only field-marshal in the army, which has always had several. the queen thinks that lord combermere, being the second senior officer of the whole army, a full general of , might expect not to be passed over when lord hardinge is made. the only other general of distinction and seniority might be lord strafford, but he is only a full general of . on this point lord palmerston might consult lord hardinge himself. if he and lord combermere alone are made, the honour is the greater for him.[ ] the queen thinks likewise that lord panmure ought to receive a mark of favour and approval of his conduct on the occasion of the fall of sebastopol; either the civil g.c.b. or a step in the peerage--that of viscount.[ ] lord palmerston would perhaps, without delay, give his opinion on these subjects to the queen; the honours she would wish then _personally_ to bestow upon the recipients, and she thinks the arrival of the official despatches the right moment for doing so. [footnote : lord hardinge, lord strafford, and lord combermere were all made field-marshals.] [footnote : he received the g.c.b.] _the prince albert to the earl of clarendon._ balmoral, _ st september _. my dear lord clarendon,--the queen wishes me to send you the enclosed letters, with the request that they may be sent by messengers to coblentz.[ ] i may tell you in the strictest confidence that prince frederic william has yesterday laid before us his wish for an alliance with the princess royal with the full concurrence of his parents, as well as of the king of prussia. we have accepted his proposal as far as we are personally concerned, but have asked that the child should not be made acquainted with it until after her confirmation, which is to take place next spring, when he might make it to her himself, and receive from her own lips the answer which is only valuable when flowing from those of the person chiefly concerned. a marriage would not be possible before the completion of the princess's seventeenth year, which is in two years from this time. the queen empowers me to say that you may communicate this event to lord palmerston, but we beg that under present circumstances it may be kept a strict secret. what the world may say we cannot help. ever yours, etc., albert. [footnote : the prince and princess of prussia were then at coblentz.] [pageheading: prince frederich william] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ balmoral, _ nd september _. my dearest uncle,--i profit by your own messenger to confide to _you_, and to _you alone_, begging you not to mention it to your children, that _our_ wishes on the subject of a future marriage for vicky _have_ been realised in the _most gratifying_ and _satisfactory_ manner. on thursday ( th) after breakfast, fritz wilhelm said he was anxious to speak of a subject which _he_ knew his parents had never broached to us--which _was to belong to our_ family; that this had long been his wish, that he had the entire concurrence and _approval_ not only of his parents but of the king--and that finding vicky _so allerliebst_, he could delay _no_ longer in making this proposal. i need _not_ tell you with _what_ joy _we_ accepted him _for_ our part; but the child herself is to know nothing till _after_ her confirmation, which is to take place next easter, when he probably will come over, and, as he wishes himself, make her the proposal, which, however, i have little--indeed no--doubt she will gladly _accept_. he is a dear, excellent, charming young man, whom we shall give our dear child to with perfect confidence. what pleases us greatly is to see that he is really delighted with vicky. now, with albert's affectionate love, and with the prayer that _you_ will give _your_ blessing to this alliance, as you have done to ours, ever your devoted niece and child, victoria r. _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ nd september _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs, in the first place, to be allowed to offer to your majesty his most sincere congratulations upon the prospective arrangement which his royal highness the prince albert announced in his letter to lord clarendon, but which, for obvious reasons, should be left to public conjecture for the present. viscount palmerston trusts that the event, when, it takes place, will contribute as much to the happiness of those more immediately concerned, and to the comfort of your majesty and of the royal family, as it undoubtedly will to the interests of the two countries, and of europe in general.... viscount palmerston begs to state that the professorship of greek at the university of oxford, which was held by the late dean of christchurch,[ ] is still vacant, viscount palmerston having doubts as to the best person to be appointed. the present dean of christchurch admitted that the professorship ought to be separated from the deanery; he has now recommended for the professorship the rev. b. jowett, fellow and tutor of balliol college, who is an eminent greek scholar and won the hertford scholarship; and viscount palmerston submits, for your majesty's gracious approval, that mr jowett may be appointed. [footnote : the very rev. thomas gaisford, d.d., who was appointed regius professor of greek in , and dean of christchurch in .] [pageheading: the colonial office] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ st october _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that he has this morning seen lord stanley, and offered to him the post of secretary of state for the colonies.[ ] lord stanley expressed himself as highly gratified personally by an offer which he said he was wholly unprepared to receive, and which was above his expectations and pretensions; but he said that as he owed to his father lord derby whatever position he may have gained in public life, he could not give an answer without first consulting lord derby. viscount palmerston said that of course in making the proposal, he had taken for granted that lord stanley would consult lord derby first, because a son would not take a decision on such a subject without consulting his father, even if that father were merely in private life; and next because such a course would be still more natural in this case, considering lord derby's political position with reference to those with whom lord stanley has more or less been generally acting. lord stanley said that he should go down to knowsley by the five o'clock train this afternoon, and that he would at an early moment communicate his answer to viscount palmerston; but he said that if he was to state now his anticipation of what lord derby would recommend and wish him to do, it would rather be to decline the offer. [footnote : sir william molesworth, who had represented radicalism in the cabinets of lord aberdeen and lord palmerston, died on the nd, at the age of forty-five. the premier thereupon offered the vacant place to lord stanley, one of his political opponents, then only twenty-eight, who was the son of the leader of the conservative opposition, and had already held office under his father. lord stanley's temperament was, in fact, more inclined to liberalism than that of lord palmerston himself, and, twenty-seven years later, he took the office in a liberal government which he now declined.] [pageheading: mr sidney herbert] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th november _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that in consequence of some things that passed in conversation at sir charles wood's two days ago, when mr and mrs sidney herbert dined there, sir charles wood is under a strong impression that mr herbert would be willing to separate himself from mr gladstone and sir james graham, and the peace party, and to join the present government. viscount palmerston having well considered the matter in concert with sir charles wood and sir george grey, is of opinion that it would be advantageous not only for the present, but also with a view to the future, to detach mr herbert from the clique with which accidental circumstances have for the moment apparently associated him, and to fix him to better principles of action than those by which mr gladstone and sir james graham appear to be guided. for this purpose viscount palmerston proposes with your majesty's sanction to offer to mr herbert to return to the colonial office, which he held on the formation of the present government. mr herbert is the most promising man of his standing in the house of commons, and is personally very popular in that house; he is a good and an improving speaker, and his accession to the government would add a good speaker to the treasury bench, and take away a good speaker from ranks that may become hostile. he would also supply the place of lord canning as a kind of link between the government and some well-disposed members of both houses who belonged more or less to what is called the peel party. it would be necessary, of course, to ascertain clearly that mr herbert's views about the war and about conditions of peace are the same as they were when he was a member of the government, and not such as those which mr gladstone and sir james graham have of late adopted. if mr herbert were to accept, sir george grey, who has a strong disinclination for the colonies, would remain at the home office; and if lord harrowby would take the post office, which must be held by a peer, the duchy of lancaster, which may be held by a commoner, might be offered to mr baines[ ] with a seat in the cabinet, and mr baines might perhaps, with reference to his health, prefer an office not attended with much departmental business of detail, while he would be thus more free to make himself master of general questions. such an arrangement would leave the cabinet, as stated in the accompanying paper, seven and seven; and if afterwards lord stanley of alderley were added in the lords, and sir benjamin hall in the commons, which, however, would be a matter entirely for future consideration, the equality of division would still be preserved.[ ] viscount palmerston finds that mr herbert is gone down to wilton, and as viscount palmerston is going this afternoon to broadlands to remain there till tuesday morning, he proposes during the interval to communicate with mr herbert, wilton being not much more than an hour's distance from broadlands by the salisbury railway. [footnote : mr. matthew talbot baines died prematurely in . his abilities were of a solid rather than a brilliant kind.] [footnote : mr. labouchere became colonial secretary. see list of cabinet as it stood in , _post_, th february, .] [pageheading: mr herbert declines office] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ broadlands, _ th november _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that he has seen mr sidney herbert, who declines joining the government, because he thinks that his doing so would expose both him and the government to the suspicion of having altered their opinions. the difference between him and the government is not as to the necessity of prosecuting the war with vigour, but as to the conditions of peace with which he would be satisfied. he would consent to accept conditions which he is aware that the country would not approve, and to which he does not expect that the government would agree. viscount palmerston will have to consider with his colleagues on tuesday what arrangement it will be best for him to submit for the sanction of your majesty. [pageheading: peace negotiations] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th november _. the queen returns the enclosed most important letters. she has read them with much interest, but not without a very anxious feeling that great changes are taking place in the whole position of the eastern question and the war, without our having the power to direct them or even a complete knowledge of them.[ ] should austria really be sincere,--if the emperor napoleon is really determined not to carry on the war on a large scale without her joining, we shall be obliged by common prudence to follow him in his negotiations. he may mistrust our secrecy and diplomacy, and wish to obtain by his personal exertions a continental league against russia. the missions to stockholm and copenhagen, the language to baron beust and m. von der pfordten and m. de bourqueney's single-handed negotiation, seem to point to this. can russia have secretly declared her readiness to accept the "neutralisation"? it is hardly possible, and if so it would be a concession we cannot refuse to close upon. whatever may be the case, the queen thinks it the wisest course not to disturb the emperor's plans, or to show suspicion of them, but merely to insist upon the importance of the army in the crimea being kept so imposing that russia cannot safely arrange her plans on the supposition of a change of policy on the part of the western powers. had the queen known of lord cowley's letter a few hours earlier, she could have spoken to the duke of cambridge, who was here; as it was, both she and the prince were very cautious and reserved in what they told him. the queen thought it right to let sir hamilton seymour, who is staying here, see the letters, as his thorough acquaintance with the present position of affairs is most important. [footnote : the emperor was now bent on the termination of hostilities, and the french and austrian governments had concerted proposals for peace to be submitted to russia, with which they somewhat peremptorily demanded that england should concur. lord palmerston announced that, rather than make an unsatisfactory peace, he would continue the war without the aid of france. states such as saxony and bavaria favoured russia, and baron beust and m. von der pfordten, their respective prime ministers, had interviews with the emperor, who was anxious for peace on the basis of the third point, on which, since the fall of sebastopol, the allies were in a better position to insist.] _queen victoria to sir charles wood._ windsor castle, _ th november _. the queen wishes to draw sir charles wood's attention to a subject which may become of much importance for the future. it is the absence of any dockyard for building and repairing out of the channel, with the exception of pembroke. should we ever be threatened by a combination of russia and france, the absence of a government establishment in the north would be very serious. it strikes the queen that the present moment, when our yards hardly supply the demands made upon them, and when attention is directed to the baltic, is a particularly favourable one to add an establishment in the firth of forth, for which the queen believes the government possess the ground at leith. such a measure would at the same time be very popular in scotland, and by making the queen's navy known there, which it hardly is at present, would open a new field for recruiting our marine. whether cork in ireland should not also be made more available is very well worth consideration. the queen would ask sir charles to communicate this letter to lord palmerston, who has always had the state of our powers of defence so much at heart. [pageheading: the austrian ultimatum] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th november _. the queen has attentively perused the voluminous papers, which she now returns according to lord clarendon's wish. an anxious consideration of their contents has convinced her that it would be the height of impolicy if we were not to enter fairly and unreservedly into the french proposal, and she wishes lord clarendon to express this her opinion to the cabinet. the terms of the austrian ultimatum are clear and complete and very favourable to us, if accepted by russia.[ ] if refused, which they almost must be, rupture of diplomatic relations between austria and russia is a decided step gained by us, and will produce a state of things which can scarcely fail to lead them to war. a refusal to entertain the proposal may induce and perhaps justify the emperor of the french in backing out of the war, which would leave us in a miserable position. if we are to agree to the emperor's wishes, it must be politic not to risk the advantage of the whole measure by a discussion with austria upon minor points of detail, which will cost time, and may lead to differences. [footnote : the queen and her ministers, however, insisted that the neutralisation clause (the third point) should be made effective, not left illusory, and incorporated in the principal and not in a supplementary treaty. modified in this and other particulars, an ultimatum embodying the austrian proposals, which stipulated, _inter alia_, for the cession of a portion of bessarabia, was despatched to st petersburg on the th of december, and the th of january was fixed as the last day on which a reply would be accepted.] _queen victoria to viscount hardinge._ windsor castle, _ nd november _. the queen informs lord hardinge that on speaking to sir colin campbell yesterday, and informing him how much she wished that his valuable services should not be lost to her army in the crimea, he replied in the handsomest manner, that he would return immediately--"for that, if the queen wished it, he was ready to serve under a corporal"! conduct like this is very gratifying, and will only add to sir colin campbell's high name; but, as by lord hardinge's and lord panmure's advice, the queen has obtained from him this _sacrifice_ of _his own_ feelings to _her_ wishes, _she_ feels personally bound _not_ to _permit_ him to be passed over a _second_ time should the command again become vacant. the queen has had a good deal of conversation with him, and from what he told her, as well as from what she has heard from others, there seems to be a good deal of laxity of discipline--particularly as regards the officers--in the army in the crimea; and she thinks lord hardinge should give an order to prevent so many officers coming home on leave except when _really ill_. the effect of this on the french is very bad, and the prince had a letter only two days ago from the prince of prussia, saying that every one was shocked at the manner in which our officers came home, and that it lowered our army very much in the eyes of foreign armies, and generally decreased the sympathy for our troops. we deeply regret the death of poor general markham.[ ] [footnote : he commanded the nd division of the army at the attack on the redan, and after the fall of sebastopol, his health, already shattered, broke down completely; he returned home, and died on the st of november.] [pageheading: france and austria] [pageheading: the neutralisation clause] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ rd november _. the queen has received lord clarendon's letter, and returns the very satisfactory enclosures from lord cowley. count walewski remains true to himself; yet the admission that the neutralisation clause ought to be part of the european treaty, and not an annex, which _he makes_, is the most important concession which we could desire. that the sea of azov is to be dropped the queen is glad of, as it would appear so humiliating to russia that austria would probably decline proposing it. what the queen is most afraid of, and what she believes actuates the emperor also, is the consideration that austria, made aware of the intense feeling for peace _à tout prix_ in france, might get frightened at the good terms for us she meant to propose to russia, and might long for an opportunity given by us, in any unreasonable demand for modification, to back out of her proposal altogether. lord a. loftus in his last letter states that baron manteuffel[ ] even was afraid of having admitted as proper, terms too hard upon russia, since peace is wanted at paris. the course intended to be pursued by lord clarendon in summing up the whole question in a public despatch seems quite the right one, as it would never do, on the other hand, to let england be considered as merely _à la remorque_ of france, an impression unfortunately very prevalent on the continent at this moment.[ ] as to marshal pélissier, the best thing the emperor could do would be to recall him, and to put a younger and more enterprising man in his place. as we have got our hero coming home, his french colleague might be recalled also. the duke of newcastle's letter is very interesting; the queen will return it this evening. it confirms the truth of the axiom that a _settled policy_ ought to precede a military plan of campaign, for which the prince is always contending. we have been much pleased with old sir colin campbell, who is a thorough soldier, and appears not at all wanting in good sense. on asking him about our rising men, and the officer whom _he_ would point out as the one of most promise, he said that colonel mansfield[ ] was without comparison the man from whom great services could be expected both in the field and as an administrator. lord clarendon will be pleased to hear this, but will also not be surprised if the queen should look out for an opportunity to reclaim him for the army from the foreign office. [footnote : president of the prussian ministry.] [footnote : lord clarendon, in the letter to which this was a reply, observed that he had asked lord cowley to inform count walewski that he would have to learn that england was a principal in the matter, and "not a political and diplomatic contingent."] [footnote : he had distinguished himself in the first sikh war, and was in military adviser to the british ambassador at constantinople.] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th november _. the queen returns lord cowley's letter and general pélissier's telegram. lord cowley is quite right in insisting upon a clear understanding between england and france before negotiations are entered into with austria. to come to a speedy agreement, it will be wise to drop the minor points and _insist_ upon the most important. these the queen takes to be the incorporation of the _neutralisation_ clause in the general treaty, and the promise on the part of austria not to accept and communicate to us counter-proposals from russia. if france agreed to this, we might agree to the rest of the arrangement. general pélissier's plan has the advantage of setting us free, but deprives us of the sardinians in the field, an object the french have kept steadily in view. the duke of cambridge will come down here to-night, and we may then hear more on the subject. the queen of the french has been taken dangerously ill at genoa; the duc d'aumale and prince de joinville have been summoned by telegraph. the queen has asked the foreign office to telegraph to enquire after the queen's state. [pageheading: sir william codrington] _queen victoria to sir william codrington._[ ] windsor castle, _ th november _. the first despatches of sir william codrington, acknowledging his appointment to the command of the queen's gallant army in the east, having arrived, she will no longer delay writing herself to sir william, to assure him of her support and confidence in his new, proud, and important, though at the same time difficult position. she wishes to assure him of her confidence and support. it is with pleasure that she sees the son of her old friend and devoted servant, himself so distinguished in the sister service, raised by his own merits to so exalted a position. sir william knows the queen's pride in her beloved troops, as well as her unceasing solicitude for their welfare and glory, and she trusts he will on all occasions express these feelings from herself personally. the queen feels certain that sir william codrington will learn, with great satisfaction, that that distinguished and gallant officer, sir colin campbell, has most readily and handsomely complied with the queen's wishes that he should return to the crimea and take command of the first corps d'armée. his presence and his assistance will be of essential service to sir william codrington, who, the queen knows, entertains so high an opinion of him. the prince wishes his sincere congratulations and kind remembrance to be conveyed to sir william codrington. the queen would be glad if sir william could--when he has leisure to do so--from time to time write to her himself, informing her of the state of her army, and of affairs in the crimea. she concludes with every wish for his welfare and success. [footnote : considerable difficulty had been found in appointing a successor to general simpson, who had resigned a task which he found overtaxed his powers. sir william codrington was junior to three other generals, who might have felt aggrieved by being passed over. the sagacity of the prince found a way out of the difficulty by appointing two of the three to the commands of the two _corps d'armée_ into which the army had, at his instance, been subdivided. see _ante._ nd november, , note .] [pageheading: visit of king of sardinia] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december _. my dearest uncle,--i must make many excuses for not writing to you yesterday, to thank you for your kind letter of the th, as on friday and saturday my time was entirely taken up with my _royal_ brother, the king of sardinia,[ ] and i had to make up for loss of time these last days. he leaves us to-morrow at an extraordinary hour--four o'clock in the morning (which you did once or twice)--wishing to be at compiègne to-morrow night, and at turin on tuesday. he is _eine ganz besondere, abenteuerliche erscheinung_, startling in the extreme in appearance and manner when you _first_ see him, but, just as aumale says, _il faut l'aimer quand on le connaît bien_. he is so frank, open, just, straightforward, liberal and tolerant, with much sound good sense. he never breaks his word, and you may rely on him, but wild and extravagant, courting adventures and dangers, and with a very strange, short, rough manner, an exaggeration of that short manner of speaking which his poor brother had. he is shy in society, which makes him still more brusque, and he does not know (never having been out of his own country or even out in society) what to say to the number of people who are presented to him here, and which is, i know from experience, a most odious thing. he is truly attached to the orleans family, particularly to aumale, and will be a friend and adviser to them. to-day he will be invested with the order of the garter. he is more like a knight or king of the middle ages than anything one knows nowadays. on monday we go to osborne till the st. one word about vicky. i must say that she has a quick discernment of character, and i have never seen her take _any_ predilection for a person which was _not motivé_ by personal amiability, goodness, or distinction of some kind or other. you need be under no apprehension whatever on this subject; and she has, moreover, great tact and _esprit de conduite_. it is quite extraordinary how popular she is in society--and again now, all these foreigners are so struck with her sense and _conversation_ for her age. hoping soon to hear from you again, and wishing that naughty stockmar may yet be brought to come, believe me ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : king victor emmanuel was received with great cordiality by the english people, grateful for his co-operation and for the gallantry of his soldiers at the tchernaya. count cavour accompanied him, and drafted the reply read by the king at guildhall to the address of the corporation.] [pageheading: garter fees] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th december _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty and submits a letter which he received a few days ago from the duke of newcastle declining the garter. viscount palmerston on his return from woburn, where he was for two days, saw the duke of newcastle, but found that the enclosed letter expressed the intention which he had formed. viscount palmerston would propose to your majesty the earl of fortescue as a deserving object of your majesty's gracious favour; lord fortescue held the high office of lord-lieutenant of ireland, and is a person highly and universally respected.[ ] viscount palmerston cannot refrain from saying on this occasion that he is not without a misgiving that the high amount of fees which he understands is paid by persons who are made knights of the garter may have some effect in rendering those whose incomes are not very large less anxious than they would otherwise be to receive this distinction; and he cannot but think that it is unseemly in general that persons upon whom your majesty may be disposed to confer dignities and honours, either as a mark of your majesty's favour or as a reward for their public services, should on that account be subject to a heavy pecuniary fine; and he intends to collect information with a view to consider whether all such fees might not be abolished, the officers to whom they are now paid receiving compensation in the shape of adequate fixed salary.[ ] ... [footnote : earl fortescue received the garter; he died in .] [footnote : this reform was effected in .] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ windsor castle, _ nd december _. the queen has received lord panmure's answer to her letter from osborne, and is glad to see from it that he is quite agreed with the queen on the subject of the land transport corps. she would _most strongly_ urge lord panmure to give at once _carte blanche_ to sir w. codrington to organise it as he thinks best, and to make him personally responsible for it. we have only eight weeks left to the beginning of spring; a few references home and their answers would consume the whole of that time! the army has now to carry their huts on their backs up to the camp; if it had been fighting, it would have perished for want of them, like the last winter. if each division, brigade, and battalion has not got within itself what it requires for its daily existence in the field, a movement will be quite impossible. the queen approves the intended increase of artillery and sappers and miners; but hopes that these will be taken from the _nominal_ and _not_ the existing strength of the army. introductory note to chapter xxv after two years' duration, the crimean war was terminated in march , at a conference of the powers assembled at paris, by a treaty the principal terms of which provided for the integrity of turkey, and her due participation in the public law and system of europe, the neutralisation of the black sea, and the opening of its waters to commerce (with the interdiction, except in a limited degree, of the flag of war of any nation, and of the erection by either russia or turkey of arsenals), free navigation of the danube, cession of a portion of bessarabia by russia, and the reciprocal evacuation of invaded territories; the principalities to be continued in their existing privileges under the suzerainty of the porte and a guarantee of the contracting powers. no european protectorate was to be established over the sultan's christian subjects. certain general principles of international law were also agreed upon. in the course of the summer, the guards made a public re-entry into london; and the crimea was finally evacuated; great reviews of the returned troops taking place at aldershot. the thanks of parliament were accorded to the soldiers and sailors engaged, and peace-rejoicings celebrated on a great scale. the commissioners who had been sent out, nearly a year before, to the crimea, to investigate the causes of the breakdown in various military departments, presented a report, censuring several high officials; a military commission was accordingly appointed to investigate the report, and after sitting for some months at chelsea, completely exonerated the officials in question. the government having resolved to strengthen the administration of the appellate jurisdiction of the house of lords, letters patent were made out purporting to create sir james parke, an ex-judge, a baron for his life, under the title of lord wensleydale. after frequent and protracted debates on this question, the peers decided that such a patent conferred no right to sit and vote in parliament. the government gave up the contest by creating sir james (who had no son) a hereditary peer. the czar alexander was crowned at moscow in september with great ceremonial, the sultan being duly represented, while lord granville was present as special ambassador for the queen. the discovery of the cruelty with which political offenders were being treated in neapolitan prisons led to the rupture of diplomatic relations between england in union with france on the one hand, and king ferdinand on the other; while a dispute as to the enlistment of recruits for the english army in the united states led to the dismissal of the british minister at washington, and to temporary friction between the two countries. the provisions of the treaty of paris were not carried out without considerable procrastination on the part of russia, which, by its method of evacuating kars and surrendering ismail and reni, and by laying claim to serpent's island at the mouth of the danube, compelled england to send a fleet to the black sea, to enforce strict observance of the treaty. by the end of the year the matter was arranged, though in the meantime the possibility of great britain being represented at the czar's coronation had been imperilled. the abuses which had long existed in the government of oudh induced the governor-general of india, early in the year, to issue a proclamation placing that kingdom permanently under the authority of the british crown. lord dalhousie at this time retired from the office (which he had held for eight years) of governor-general, and was succeeded by lord canning. it fell to the lot of the latter to announce the commencement of hostilities between this country and persia, on the ground that the latter was endeavouring, in defiance of treaties, to subvert the independence of herat. the shah had laid siege to the town, when, in december, the english fleet, under admiral sir henry leeke, attacked and captured bushire on the persian gulf. soon afterwards, sir james outram arrived on the scene from bombay, and assumed the command. chapter xxv _queen victoria to lord panmure._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen returns the drawings for the "victoria cross." she has marked the one she approves with an x; she thinks, however, that it might be a trifle smaller. the motto would be better "for valour" than "for the brave," as this would lead to the inference that only those are deemed brave who have got the victoria cross. _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen has received lord clarendon's letter, and in answer to his question expresses her opinion that lord cowley's presence at the council of war will be absolutely necessary.[ ] she believes lord clarendon to be agreed with her, that the value of a plan of military campaign is entirely dependent upon the _general policy_ which the government intends to pursue. as none of our commissioners at the council of war are in the least acquainted with the latter, they might be drawn into plans which would not at all agree with it. lord cowley would take that part of the question into his own hands, in which it will be quite safe. the queen thinks that it is of secondary importance whether count walewski attends or not, but that the emperor cannot have the same need of his presence which we have of that of our ambassador. [footnote : a satisfactory and speedy conclusion of hostilities appearing at this time far from probable, a council of war to settle the course of operations was, at the emperor's suggestion, summoned to meet at paris. lord cowley, count walewski, prince jérôme bonaparte, and others, were present, besides naval and military representatives of the allies, among whom was the duke of cambridge.] [pageheading: policy of cavour] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen has read sir j. hudson's[ ] letter with much interest. there is much truth in what count cavour says, and it must ever be our object and our interest to see sardinia independent and strong; as a liberal constitutional country, opposing a barrier alike to unenlightened and absolute as well as revolutionary principles--and this she has a right to expect us to support her in. but _what_ she wants to obtain from austria is not clear. she has no right, however, to expect further assurances from us on wishes which she seems even to be afraid to state distinctly. it is clearly impossible to ask austria to give up a portion of italy to her, if nothing has occurred to make this necessary to austria. at any rate sardinia can have lost nothing, but on the contrary must have gained by the position which she is placed in as an ally of the western powers. [footnote : british minister at turin, and an enthusiastic sympathiser with cavour. the latter had complained to him that if the austrian proposals were accepted, and peace were made, sardinia could expect no realisation of her cherished hopes, viz. anglo-french support against austria and against papal aggression, increased political consideration in europe, and the development of constitutional government.] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen now returns the draft[ ] to lord bloomfield, which she could only write about in haste yesterday, as being of a nature not to be sanctioned by her. it is quite natural and excusable that our patience should at last be worn out by the miserable policy which prussia is pursuing, but it can never be our interest openly to quarrel with her. this would be simply playing the game of russia, who would thus be relieved from all attacks upon her and see the theatre of the war transferred to germany; all other complications (which would arise therefrom)--ruinous to the best interests of the western powers as they would be--the queen need not refer to. but when the draft concludes with a declaration to prussia that england "_considers her neutrality as now at an end_," this is tantamount to a declaration of _war!_ the late articles in our newspapers, and the language of count walewski to lord cowley, make the queen doubly anxious to warn the government not to let themselves be drawn on to such a policy. [footnote : the draft expressed disapproval of the silence maintained by the prussian government towards england with regard to the austrian proposals, of the active measures adopted to induce the german powers not to take part with austria, as well as of the extended facilities afforded by prussia to russia for carrying on the war.] [pageheading: letter from napoleon iii] [pageheading: the emperor and peace] _the emperor of the french to queen victoria._ tuileries, _le janvier _. madame et chÈre s[oe]ur,--votre majesté m'ayant permis de lui parler à c[oe]ur ouvert toutes les fois que des circonstances graves se présenteraient, je viens aujourd'hui profiter de la faveur qu'elle a bien voulu m'accorder. je viens de recevoir aujourd'hui la nouvelle de la réponse de la russie à l'ultimatum de vienne, et avant d'avoir manifesté mon impression à qui que ce soit, pas même à walewski, je viens la communiquer à votre majesté pour avoir son avis. je résume la question: la russie accepte tout l'ultimatum autrichien sauf la rectification de frontière de la bessarabie, et sauf le paragraphe relatif aux conditions _particulières_ qu'elle déclare ne pas connaître. de plus, profitant du succès de kars, elle s'engage à rendre cette forteresse et le territoire occupé en échange des points que nous possédons en crimée et ailleurs. dans quelle position allons-nous nous trouver? d'après la convention, l'autriche est obligée de retirer son ambassadeur, et nous, nous poursuivons la guerre! mais dans quel but allons-nous demander à nos deux pays de nouveaux sacrifices d'hommes et d'argent? pour un intérêt purement autrichien et pour une question qui ne consolide en rien l'empire ottoman. cependant nous y sommes obligés et nous ne devons pas avoir l'air de manquer à nos engagements. nous serions donc placés dans une alternative bien triste si l'autriche elle-même ne semblait pas déjà nous inviter de ne point rompre toute négociation. or en réfléchissant aujourd'hui à cette situation, je me disais: ne pourrait-on pas répondre à l'autriche ceci: la prise de kars a tant soit peu changé nos situations; puisque la russie consent à évacuer toute l'asie mineure nous nous bornons à demander pour la turquie, au lieu de la rectification de frontière, les places fortes formant _tête de pont_ sur le danube, tels que ismail et kilia. pour nous, nous demandons en fait de conditions particulières, l'engagement de ne point rétablir les forts des îles d'aland et une amnistie pour les tartares. mon sentiment est qu'à ces conditions-là la paix serait très désirable; car sans cela je ne puis pas m'empêcher de redouter l'opinion publique quand elle me dira: "vous aviez obtenu le but réel de la guerre, aland était tombé et ne pouvait plus se relever, sebastopol avait eu le même sort, la flotte russe était anéantie, et la russie promettait non seulement de ne plus la faire reparaître dans la mer noire, mais même de ne plus avoir d'arsenaux maritimes sur toutes ses rives; la russie abandonnait ses conquêtes dans l'asie mineure, elle abandonnait son protectorat dans les principautés, son action sur le cours du danube, son influence sur ces correligionnaires sujets du sultan, etc., etc. vous aviez obtenu tout cela non sans d'immenses sacrifices et cependant vous allez les continuer, compromettre les finances de la france, répandre ses trésors et son sang et pourquoi: pour obtenir quelques landes de la bessarabie!!!" voilà, madame, les réflexions qui me préoccupent; car autant je me sens de force quand je crois être dans le vrai pour inculquer mes idées à mon pays et pour lui faire partager ma persuasion, autant je me sentirais faible si je n'étais pas sûr d'avoir raison ni de faire mon devoir. mais ainsi que je l'ai dit en commençant à votre majesté je n'ai communiqué ma première impression qu'au duc de cambridge, et autour de moi au contraire j'ai dit qu'il fallait continuer la guerre. j'espère que votre majesté accueillera avec bonté cette lettre écrite à la hâte et qu'elle y verra une nouvelle preuve de mon désir de m'entendre toujours avec elle avant de prendre une résolution. en remerciant votre majesté de l'aimable lettre que s.a.r. le duc de cambridge m'a remise de sa part, je la prie de recevoir la nouvelle assurance de mes sentiments de tendre et respectueux attachement avec lesquels je suis de votre majesté, le bon frère et ami, napoleon. je remercie bien le prince arthur de son bon souvenir. _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th january _. ... the queen will send her letter to the emperor this evening for transmission to paris. she will enclose it _open_ to lord clarendon, who will seal and send it after having read it. the queen cannot conceal from lord clarendon what _her own_ feelings and wishes at this moment are. they _cannot_ be for peace _now_, for she is _convinced_ that this country would _not_ stand in the eyes of europe as she _ought_, and as the queen is convinced she _would_ after _this_ year's campaign. the honour and glory of her dear army is as _near_ her heart as almost anything, and she cannot _bear_ the thought that "the failure on the redan" should be our _last fait d'armes_, and it would cost her more than words can express to conclude a peace with _this_ as the end. however, what is best and wisest must be done. the queen cannot yet bring herself to believe that the russians are at all sincere, or that it will _now_ end in peace. [pageheading: the queen's reply] _queen victoria to the emperor of the french._ windsor castle, _le janvier _. sire et cher frÈre,--la bonne et aimable lettre que je viens de recevoir de la main de votre majesté m'a causé un très-vif plaisir. j'y vois une preuve bien satisfaisante pour moi que vous avez apprécié tous les avantages de ces épanchements sans réserve, et que votre majesté en sent comme moi le besoin dans les circonstances graves où nous sommes. je sens aussi toute la responsabilité que votre confiance m'impose, et c'est dans la crainte qu'une opinion formée et exprimée par moi trop à la hâte pourrait nuire à la décision finale à prendre que je me vois obligée de différer pour le moment la réponse plus détaillée sur les considérations que vous avez si clairement et si consciencieusement développées. cependant, je ne veux point tarder de vous remercier de votre lettre, et de vous soumettre de mon côté les réflexions qui me sont venues en la lisant. la réponse russe ne nous est pas encore arrivée; nous n'en connaissons pas exactement les termes; par conséquent, il serait imprudent de former une opinion définitive sur la manière d'y répondre, surtout comme le prince gortschakoff paraît avoir demandé un nouveau délai du gouvernement autrichien et de nouvelles instructions de st pétersbourg, et comme m. de bourqueney paraît penser que la russie n'a pas dit son dernier mot. nous pourrions donc perdre une chance d'avoir de meilleures conditions, en montrant trop d'empressement à accueillir celles offertes dans ce moment. celles-ci arriveront peut-être dans le courant de la journée, ou demain, quand mon cabinet sera réuni pour les examiner. nous sommes au ; le les relations diplomatiques entre l'autriche et la russie doivent être rompues; je crois que notre position vis-à-vis de la russie sera meilleure en discutant ses propositions après la rupture et après en avoir vu les effets. en attendant, rien ne sera plus utile à la cause de la paix que la résolution que vous avez si sagement prise de dire à tous ceux qui vous approchent qu'il faut continuer la guerre. soyez bien sûr que dans l'opinion finale que je me formerai, votre position et votre persuasion personnelle seront toujours présentes à mon esprit et auront le plus grand poids. [pageheading: the british army] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen returns the duke of cambridge's and lord cowley's letters, which together with the account which lord clarendon gives of his interview with m. de persigny causes the queen no little anxiety. if negotiations on a vague basis are allowed to be begun, the russian negotiator is sure to find out that the french are ready to grant anything.... however, whatever happens, one consolation the queen ever will have, which is--that with the one exception of that failure on the _redan_, her noble army--in spite of every possible disadvantage which any army could labour under, _has_ invariably been victorious, and the russians have always and everywhere been beaten excepting at kars, where _famine_ alone enabled them to succeed. let us therefore not be (as alas! we have often been) its detractors by our croaking. [pageheading: position of the emperor] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th january _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and concludes that lord lansdowne informed your majesty that the cabinet, after hearing from lord clarendon a statement of the course of the recent negotiations as explained by the despatches which lord clarendon read, came to the decision that no further step should be taken, and no further communication should be made to the government of france on the matters at issue, until the final decision of the russian government on the pure and simple adoption of the austrian ultimatum[ ] should be known. viscount palmerston begs to congratulate your majesty upon the telegraphic message received this morning from sir hamilton seymour, announcing that the russian government has adopted that austrian ultimatum. so far so well, and the success which has attended firmness and steadiness of purpose in regard to those conditions may be looked upon as a tolerably sure indication that a perseverance in the same course will bring the russian government to consent to those remaining conditions which the austrian government has not yet (as it says) made known to the cabinet of petersburg. with regard to the letter of the emperor of the french to your majesty, and the statements made to lord clarendon by the count de persigny as to the difficulties of the emperor's internal position with respect to finance, and a general desire for peace throughout the nation, viscount palmerston expressed his opinion to the cabinet yesterday that all those representations were greatly exaggerated. he is convinced that the emperor of the french is perfectly master of his own position, and that he can as to peace or war take the course which he may determine to adopt. the cabal of stock-jobbing politicians, by whom he is surrounded, _must_ give way to him if he is firm. they have no standing place in the confidence and respect of their fellow-countrymen, they represent nothing but the stock exchange speculations in which they are engaged, and the emperor's throne would probably be stronger, rather than weaker, if they were swept away, and better men put in their places. and it is a very remarkable circumstance that at the very moment when your majesty and your majesty's government were being told that the emperor would be unable to go on with the war on account of the difficulty of finding money, the french government was putting forth in the _moniteur_ an official statement showing that they have a reserve surplus of twenty-one millions sterling for defraying the expenses of a campaign in the ensuing spring, without the necessity of raising any fresh loan. viscount palmerston fully concurs in the sentiment of regret expressed by your majesty to lord clarendon that the last action of the war in which your majesty's troops have been engaged, should, if peace be now concluded, have been the repulse at the redan; but however it may suit national jealousy, which will always be found to exist on the other side of the channel, to dwell upon that check, yet your majesty may rely upon it that the alma and inkerman have left recollections which will dwell in the memory of the living and not be forgotten in the page of history; and although it would no doubt have been gratifying to your majesty and to the nation that another summer should have witnessed the destruction of cronstadt by your majesty's gallant navy, and the expulsion of the russians from the countries south of the caucasus by your majesty's brave army, yet if peace _can_ now be concluded on conditions honourable and secure, it would, as your majesty justly observes, not be right to continue the war for the mere purpose of prospective victories. it will, however, be obviously necessary to continue active preparations for war up to the moment when a definite treaty of peace is signed, in order that the russians may not find it for their interest to break off negotiations when the season for operations shall approach, emboldened by any relaxation on the part of the allies induced by too ready confidence in the good faith of their adversary.... [footnote : see _ante_, th november, , note .] [pageheading: duke of cambridge at paris] _the duke of cambridge to queen victoria._ tuileries, _ th january _. my dear cousin,--your letters of the th and th have reached me, and i am happy to find by them that you approve in conjunction with the government with what has been done by me and my colleagues whilst at paris.[ ] i have given all the messages and carried out all the instructions as contained in your letters, and i trust as far as possible i have been enabled to do some good. on the other hand, i cannot deny that the feelings universally expressed here as to the prospects of a speedy peace are so different from those felt in england, that it is extremely difficult to produce any impression in the sense that we could wish it. france wishes for peace more than anything else on earth, and this feeling does not confine itself to walewski or the ministers--it extends itself to all classes. the emperor alone is reasonable and sensible in this respect, but his position is a most painful one, and he feels it very much. the fact is that public opinion is much more felt and more loudly expressed in this country than anybody in england at all imagines. no doubt the emperor can do much that he wishes, but still he cannot go altogether against a feeling which so loudly expresses itself on all occasions, without thereby injuring his own position most seriously. i have written to clarendon very fully on this subject, and have explained to him my reasons for wishing to return to england as soon as possible, now that our military mission is concluded. it is essential that i should see the members of the government, and that i should communicate to them the exact state of feeling here and the views of the emperor as to the mode of smoothing down all difficulties. this can only be done by a personal interview on the part of somebody thoroughly aware of the present position of affairs. probably at this moment i am in a better position to do this than anybody else, from the peculiar circumstances in which i have been placed while here, and it is this feeling which makes me desirous to return to england with the least possible delay. it is my intention therefore to start with my colleagues to-morrow, monday night, for england, to which arrangement the emperor has given his sanction, and by which time he will be prepared to tell me what he thinks had best be done, from his view of the question. i think it my duty to communicate this to you, and hope that you will give my resolution your sanction. i beg to remain, my dear cousin, your most dutiful cousin, george. [footnote : at the council of war. see _ante_, th january, , note .] [pageheading: england and france] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen sends a letter which she wishes lord clarendon to give to general la marmora.[ ] we have been extremely pleased with him (indeed he is a universal favourite) and found him so sensible, mild, and right-minded, in all he says--and a valuable adviser to the king. the queen wishes _just_ to mention to lord clarendon that the duke of cambridge told her that the emperor had spoken to _him_ about what the king of sardinia had said relative to _austria and france_, asking the duke whether such a thing had been said.[ ] the duke seems to have answered as we could wish, and the queen pretended _never_ to have _heard_ the report, merely saying that as the proposed ultimatum was then much talked of, it was very possible the king might unintentionally have mistaken the observations of the ministers and ourselves as to our being _unable_ to _agree_, without great caution, to what appeared to be _agreed_ on beforehand between _france_ and _austria_, and possibly _might_ have in his blunt way stated something which alarmed the emperor--but that she could not imagine it could be anything else. there seems, however, really no _end_ to _cancans_ at _paris_; for the duke of cambridge seems to have shared the same fate. the two atmospheres of france and england, as well as the society, are so different that people get to talk differently. it seems also that the king got frightened lest he should at paris be thought too liberal in his _religious_ views (having been complimented for it) which he was very proud of--and thought it necessary to tell the _emperor_ he was a _good catholic_. this is not unnatural in his peculiar position. when lord clarendon goes to paris, he will be able to _silence_ any further allusion to these idle stories which only lead to mischief, and which even lord cowley seems to have made more of (as to his own feelings upon them) than was necessary, but that is equally natural. speaking of his king--general la marmora said: "il ne dira jamais ce qu'il ne pense pas, mais il dit quelquefois ce qui serait mieux qu'il ne dit pas." he more than any other regrets the king's not having seen more of the world, and says his journey had done him a _great_ deal of good. [footnote : the sardinian commander had been attending the council of war at paris.] [footnote : the king of sardinia was reported to have told the emperor that the latter's loyalty to the alliance was questioned by great britain, and that it was conjectured in london that he was in favour of co-operation with austria instead.] [pageheading: the speech from the throne] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ _ th january ._ the queen returns to lord palmerston the draft of the speech, which she thinks _extremely well_ worded, and which she therefore trusts will be (with the exception of those passages marked) as little altered as possible. lord john russell used to say that as soon as a speech was discussed in the cabinet, it was so much _pruned_ and altered as to lose all its force. the queen must own that she is _much_ alarmed at hearing that the _papers_ of the war council were to be printed and circulated amongst the cabinet, as she fears that the secrecy, which is so necessary, upon which the emperor laid so _much stress_, will be very difficult to be maintained. the emperor's opinion at least, the queen hopes, will _not_ be printed or generally circulated? the queen must again press for a very early decision on the subject. if this is allowed to _drag_, it will appear, particularly to the _emperor_, as if we were not really in earnest, though we stickled so much for our additional conditions, which might lessen the hopes of peace. of course the government must not give any answer on this subject--should parliament be so indiscreet as to ask _what_ the result of the deliberations of the council of war has been. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th january _. my dearest uncle,--you will kindly forgive my letter being short, but we are going to be present this morning at the wedding of phipps's daughter[ ] with that handsome lame young officer whom you remember at osborne. it is quite an event at windsor, and takes place in st george's chapel, which is very seldom the case. many thanks for your kind letter of the th, by which i am glad to see that dear good philip has arrived safe and well and brought back _de bons souvenirs_. we shall always be _happy_ to see him. the _peace negotiations_ occupy every one; _if_ russia is _sincere_, they will end most probably in peace; but _if_ she is _not_, the war will be _carried_ on with _renewed vigour_. the recollection of last year makes one _very distrustful_. england's policy throughout has been the _same_, _singularly unselfish_, and _solely_ actuated by the _desire_ of _seeing europe saved_ from the _arrogant_ and _dangerous pretensions_ of that _barbarous power_ russia--and of having _such safeguards_ established for the _future_, which may ensure us against a _repetition_ of similar _untoward events_. i repeat now, what we have said from the beginning, and what i have _repeated_ a _hundred_ times, _if prussia_ and _austria_ had held _strong and decided_ language to _russia in_ ' , we should _never_ have had _this war!_ now i must conclude. with albert's best love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : maria henrietta sophia, daughter of sir charles beaumont phipps, k.c.b., keeper of the privy purse, married captain frederick sayer, rd royal welsh fusiliers.] [pageheading: miss nightingale] _queen victoria to miss florence nightingale._ windsor castle, _[january] _. dear miss nightingale,--you are, i know, well aware of the high sense i entertain of the christian devotion which you have displayed during this great and bloody war, and i need hardly repeat to you how warm my admiration is for your services, which are fully equal to those of my dear and brave soldiers, whose sufferings you have had the _privilege_ of alleviating in so merciful a manner. i am, however, anxious of marking my feelings in a manner which i trust will be agreeable to you, and therefore send you with this letter a brooch, the form and emblems of which commemorate your great and blessed work, and which, i hope, you will wear as a mark of the high approbation of your sovereign![ ] it will be a very great satisfaction to me, when you return at last to these shores, to make the acquaintance of one who has set so bright an example to our sex. and with every prayer for the preservation of your valuable health, believe me, always, yours sincerely, victoria r. [footnote : the presentation took place on the th of january. the jewel resembled a badge rather than a brooch, bearing a st george's cross in red enamel, and the royal cypher surmounted by a crown in diamonds. the inscription "blessed are the merciful" encircled the badge which also bore the word "crimea."] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th february _. with respect to lord clarendon's observation that he hopes that the queen "will approve of his upholding the sardinians in the conference and in all other respects," she can only assure him that she is _most sincerely_ anxious that he should do so, as the queen has the greatest respect for that noble little country, which, since it has possessed an honest, straightforward as well as courageous king, has been a bright example to all continental states. the queen rejoices to hear that count cavour is coming to paris. the queen hopes that the determination not to admit prussia will be adhered to.[ ] she hears that baron beust[ ] means to go to paris to represent the german confederation; this should be prevented by all means. [footnote : prussia was not admitted to the sitting of the conference until a later stage.] [footnote : prime minister of saxony.] [pageheading: belgian neutrality] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. my dearest uncle,--i had the happiness of receiving your kind letter of the th on saturday, and thank you much for it. i gave your kind message to colonel phipps, who was much gratified by it. we came here in wretched weather yesterday, leaving mamma _still_ at frogmore. the conferences will begin very shortly; lord clarendon starts for paris on friday. _no_ one but him could undertake these difficult negotiations. _no_ one can tell _what_ the result will be--and i will say nothing, for i have _too strong_ personal feelings to speak upon the subject. with respect to your answer respecting your _neutrality_, and the possibility of your being obliged to break it, i must repeat that i see _no possibility_ or _eventuality_ that _could oblige_ you to do so. _belgium_ of its own accord bound itself to remain neutral, and its very existence is _based_ upon that neutrality, which the other powers have guaranteed and are bound to maintain _if belgium keeps_ her engagements. i cannot at all see how you could _even_ entertain the question, for, as i just said, the _basis_ of the _existence_ of belgium is her _neutrality_. the weather is so mild that we should almost hope stockmar would start soon. if _he_ can't come himself, he should send his son for a few days, who could bring us any confidential communication from his father, and could be the bearer of any from us. something of this kind is most necessary, for it is overwhelming to write to one another upon so many details which require immediate answer.... with albert's love, and ours to your young people, believe me, always, your devoted niece, victoria r. _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ _ th february ._ the queen has seen in the reports of the house of commons that a return has been moved for of all the decorations of the bath given since the war. the queen hopes the government will not allow the house of commons so much further to trespass upon the prerogatives of the crown as now _virtually_ to take also the control over the distribution of honours and rewards into their hands. [pageheading: terms of peace] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th february _. my dearest victoria,--i have to thank you for your dear kind letter of the th. madame de sévigné says, with great truth, that a letter to be a good letter ought to be as if one heard the person speak; your dear letters are always so, and you would therefore be praised by madame de sévigné, and that very deservedly. lord clarendon is, heaven be praised, well calculated to bring matters to a happy conclusion. i will try to make some impression on the mind of the emperor alexander, his best policy will be the most honest. by all i can learn they wish most sincerely the conclusion of this war. if on the side of the allies only the things which really protect the territories of the present turkish empire are asked, the russians ought not to man[oe]uvre, but grant it, and the allies also ought to be moderate. you are very properly never to be contradicted, but there are a few things to be remarked. this neutrality was in the real interest of this country, but our good congress here did _not_ wish it, and even opposed it; it was _imposé_ upon them. a neutrality to be respected must be _protected_. france at all time in cases of general war can put an end to it, by declaring to us _vous devez être avec nous ou contre nous_. if we answer _nous sommes neutres_, they will certainly try to occupy us; then the case of self-defence arises and the claim to be protected by the other powers.... my beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: the conference] _queen victoria to the emperor of the french._ buckingham palace, _le février _. sire et cher frÈre,--mes commissaires pour le conseil de guerre sont à peine revenus de paris et notre plan de campagne est à peine arrêté, que mes plénipotentiaires pour la conférence de paix se mettent en route pour assister sous les yeux de v.m. à l'[oe]uvre de la pacification. je n'ai pas besoin de vous recommander lord clarendon, mais je ne veux pas le laisser partir sans le rendre porteur de quelques mots de ma part. quoique bien convaincue qu'il ne pourra dans les discussions prochaines s'élever de questions sur lesquelles il y aurait divergence d'opinions entre nos deux gouvernements, j'attache toutefois le plus haut prix à ce que l'accord le plus parfait soit établi avant que les conférences ne soient ouvertes; et c'est dans ce but que j'ai chargé lord clarendon de se rendre à paris quelques jours avant, afin qu'il pût rendre un compte exact des opinions de mon gouvernement, et jouir de l'avantage de connaître _à fond_ la pensée de v.m. j'éprouverai un sentiment d'intime satisfaction dans ce moment critique, et je le regarderai comme une preuve toute particulière de votre amitié, si vous voulez permettre à lord clarendon de vous exposer personnellement mes vues et d'entendre les vôtres de votre proper bouche. les opérations de nos armées et de nos flottes combinées, sous un commandement divisé, ont été sujettes à d'énormes difficultés; mais ces difficultés ont été heureusement vaincues. dans la diplomatie comme à la guerre, les russes auront sur nous le grand avantage de l'unité de plan et d'action, et je les crois plus forts sur ce terrain que sur le champ de bataille; mais à coup sûr, nous y resterons également victorieux, si nous réussissons à empêcher l'ennemi de diviser nos forces et de nous battre en détail. sans vouloir jeter un doute sur la sincérité de la russie en acceptant nos propositions, il est impossible d'avoir à ce sujet une conviction pleine et entière. j'ai tout lieu de croire cependant que nul effort et nul stratagème ne seront negligés pour rompre, s'il était possible, ou au moins pour affaiblir notre alliance. mais je repose à cet égard dans la fermeté de v.m. la même confiance qui saura détruire toutes ces espérances, que j'ai dans la mienne et dans celle de mes ministres. cependant, on ne saurait attacher trop d'importance à ce que cette commune fermeté soit reconnue et appréciée dès le commencement des négociations, car de là dépendra, j'en ai la conviction, la solution, si nous devons obtenir une paix dont les termes pourront être considérés comme satisfaisants pour l'honneur de la france et de l'angleterre, et comme donnant une juste compensation pour les énormes sacrifices que les deux pays ont faits. une autre considération encore me porte à attacher le plus haut prix à cet accord parfait, c'est que si, par son absence, nous étions entraînés dans une paix qui ne satisferait point la juste attente de nos peuples, cela donnerait lieu à des plaintes et à des récriminations qui ne pourraient manquer de fausser les relations amicales des deux pays au lieu de les cimenter davantage comme mon c[oe]ur le désire ardemment. d'ailleurs, je ne doute pas un moment qu'une paix telle que la france et l'angleterre ont le droit de la demander sera bien certainement obtenue par une détermination inébranlable de ne point rabaisser les demandes modérées que nous avons faites. vous excuserez, sire, la longueur de cette lettre, mais il m'est si doux de pouvoir épancher mes sentiments sur toutes ces questions si importantes et si difficiles, avec une personne que je considère non seulement comme un allié fidèle, mais comme un ami sur lequel je puis compter en toute occasion, et qui, j'en suis sûre, est animé envers nous des mêmes sentiments. le prince me charge de vous offrir ses hommages les plus affectueux, et moi je me dis pour toujours, sire et cher frère, de v.m.i., la très affectionnée s[oe]ur et amie, victoria r. [pageheading: the crimean enquiry] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. the subject to which lord palmerston refers in his letter of last night, and upon which the cabinet is going to deliberate to-day, has also caused the queen much anxiety. a civil commission is sent out by the government to enquire into the conduct of the officers in command in the crimea; this is done without any consultation with the commander-in-chief. they report to the government, inculpating several general officers and others in high command; this report is not communicated to the military authorities, nor to the persons affected by it, but is laid on the table of both houses of parliament.[ ] these officers then for the first time find themselves accused under the authority of government, and that accusation communicated to the legislature without ever having been heard in answer or allowed an opportunity to defend themselves. it is stated in both houses by the government that the officers may send papers in reply if they choose! but who is to be the judge on the trial? the press, of course, and the _times_ at the head, have already judged and condemned, and the house of commons is now moving _in default of another judge_ to constitute its tribunal by a committee of enquiry. it is quite evident if matters are left so, and military officers of the queen's army are to be judged as to the manner in which they have discharged their military duties before an enemy by a committee of the house of commons, the command of the army is at once transferred from the crown to that assembly. this result is quite inevitable if the government appear as accusers, as they do by the report of their commission, and then submit the accusation for parliament to deal with, without taking any steps of their own! the course suggested by sir james graham and alluded to by lord palmerston, of following the precedent of the enquiry into the convention of cintra,[ ] appears therefore to the queen to be the only prudent one. the queen thinks it most unfair to the officers to publish their statements beforehand, as these will not go before judges feeling the weight of their responsibility, but before the newspapers who are their sworn enemies and determined to effect their ruin, for which they possess unlimited means. the queen wishes lord palmerston to read this letter to the cabinet. [footnote : sir john macneill and colonel tulloch had been sent out to the crimea early in to investigate the breakdown of various military departments. they had issued a preliminary report in the summer of , and a final one in january , which was presented to parliament. the officers specially censured were lord lucan (who had been given the command of a regiment), lord cardigan, inspector of cavalry, sir richard airey, quartermaster-general, and colonel gordon, deputy quartermaster-general. lord panmure wrote on the th of february that the government recommended the appointment of a commission of enquiry, consisting of general sir howard douglas and six other high military officers. the commission sat at chelsea, and made its report in july, exonerating the officers censured.] [footnote : the convention of cintra was concluded on the th of august . it was founded on the basis of an armistice agreed upon between sir arthur wellesley and general kellerman, on the day after the battle of vimiera, and some of its provisions were considered too favourable to the french. a board of enquiry, under the presidency of sir david dundas, in the first instance exculpated the british officers; but the government having instructed the members of the board to give their opinions individually, four were found to approve and three to disapprove the armistice and convention.] [pageheading: the emperor's cordiality] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ paris, _ th february _. lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to say that he dined last night at the tuileries, and had a conversation of two hours with the emperor, which was in all respects satisfactory. on no occasion has lord clarendon heard the emperor express himself more warmly or with greater determination in favour of the alliance, and h.m. entirely concurred with lord clarendon, that upon the perfect understanding between the two governments, and the conviction on the part of others that the alliance was not to be shaken, depended the facility with which negotiations might be conducted, and the terms on which peace would be made. lord clarendon spoke with the utmost frankness about the flattery that had been and would continue to be addressed to his majesty, and the contrast perpetually drawn between england and france, to the disparagement of the former, for the purpose of disturbing the relations between them; but that your majesty and your majesty's government had always treated these tricks with contempt, because the confidence in the emperor's honour and loyalty was complete. lord clarendon dwelt particularly upon the feelings of your majesty and of the prince on this subject, and the pleasure it gave the emperor was evident; and he desired lord clarendon to say that your majesty should never find such confidence misplaced. he promised lord clarendon that he would give baron brunnow and count buol to understand that if they thought the alliance could be disturbed by them they would find themselves grievously mistaken, and that it would be waste of time to try and alter any conditions upon which he had agreed with the english government. the emperor appeared to be much gratified by your majesty's letter, for the first thing he said to lord clarendon on coming into the room before dinner was "_quelle charmante lettre vous m'avez apportée de la reine_," and then began upon the extraordinary clearness with which your majesty treated all matters of business, and the pleasure he derived from every discussion of them with your majesty.... the empress was looking in great health and beauty. she was in the highest spirits, and full of affectionate enquiry for your majesty. [pageheading: oudh] [pageheading: the king's appeal] _the marquis of dalhousie to queen victoria._ calcutta, _ th february _. the governor-general presents his most humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour of submitting to your majesty a copy of a proclamation, whereby the kingdom of oudh has been placed exclusively and permanently under the authority of your majesty's government.[ ] the various considerations, and the course of public events, which led to this necessity, have long since been laid before your majesty's government in great detail. the governor-general during the past summer communicated to the home authorities his readiness to remain in india as long as he dared, namely, for one additional month, until the st of march, for the purpose of carrying into effect the proposed policy regarding oudh--if it was desired that he should do so. the orders from the home government reached the governor-general only upon the nd of january, leaving barely two months for the assembling of the military force which was necessary to provide against all risks--for the negotiations with the king--and for the organisation of the future civil and military administration of oudh. every preparation having been completed, the resident at lucknow waited upon the king in person--communicated to him the resolution which the british government had taken--and tendered for his acceptance a new treaty, whereby the transfer of the government of oudh would have been made a matter of amicable agreement. the king wholly refused to sign any treaty. he declared himself ready to submit to the will of the british government in all things. he bade the resident observe that every mark of power had already been laid down by his majesty's own orders--the guns at the palace gates were dismounted, the guards bore no arms, and, though drawn up as usual in the court, they saluted the resident with their hands only; while not a weapon was worn by any officer in the palace. the king gave way to passionate bursts of grief and anger--implored the intercession of the resident in his behalf--and finally, uncovering his head, he placed his turban in the resident's hands. this act--the deepest mark of humiliation and helplessness which a native of the east can exhibit--became doubly touching and significant when the head thus bared in supplication was one that had worn a royal crown. the government, however, had already borne too long with the wrongs inflicted by the sovereigns of oudh upon their unhappy subjects. the clamorous grief of the king could not be allowed to shut out the cry of his people's misery. the king's appeal, therefore, could not be listened to; and as his majesty, at the end of the three days' space which was allowed him for deliberation, still resolutely refused to sign a treaty, the territory of oudh was taken possession of, by the issue of the proclamation which has now been respectfully submitted to your majesty. it is the fourth kingdom in india which has passed under your majesty's sceptre during the last eight years.[ ] perfect tranquillity has prevailed in oudh since the event which has just been narrated. general outram writes that the populace of lucknow, more interested than any other community in the maintenance of the native dynasty, already "appear to have forgotten they ever had a king." in the districts the proclamation has been heartily welcomed by the middle and lower classes; while even the higher orders, who of course lose much in a native state by the cessation of corruption and tyranny, have shown no symptoms of dissatisfaction. there seems every reason to hope and expect that the same complete tranquillity will attend the further progress of our arrangements for the future administration of oudh.... the governor-general has only further to report to your majesty that lord canning arrived at madras on the th inst., and that he will assume the government of india on the last day of this month. the governor-general will report hereafter lord canning's arrival at fort william; and he has now the honour to subscribe himself, your majesty's most obedient, most humble and devoted subject and servant, dalhousie. [footnote : in a letter of the th, mr vernon smith had told the queen that the press rumours of "annexation" were premature, and that the use of the word itself had been avoided in lord canning's correspondence with the court of directors.] [footnote : the earlier annexations were those of the punjab ( ), pegu ( ), and nagpur ( ); some minor additions were also made under what was called the "doctrine of lapse."] [pageheading: preliminaries of peace] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. the queen returns lord clarendon's letter. the matter becomes very serious, and it would be a bad position for us to be left quite alone in the conference, which the russians, the queen has every reason to believe, are anxiously striving to bring about. in fact, well-informed persons pretend that this was the main aim of russia in accepting the austrian ultimatum and going to paris. would it not answer to take this line: to say to russia, "you have accepted the ultimatum, _pur et simple_, and have now again recognised its stipulations as preliminaries of peace. you will, therefore, first of all, have to execute them; you may then come to the question of kars and say you mean to keep it--then you will see that europe, bound to maintain the integrity of turkey, will be obliged to go on with the war, and it will be for you to consider whether you mean to go on fighting for kars; but at present this is not in question, as you are only called upon to fulfil the engagements to which you have solemnly pledged yourself"? perhaps lord palmerston will discuss this suggestion with his colleagues to-night. _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that as the result of the deliberations of the cabinet this evening, the accompanying telegraphic message is proposed to be sent to-morrow morning to lord clarendon. it is founded upon the substance of your majesty's memorandum of this afternoon. viscount palmerston has taken another copy of this draft. _telegram to the earl of clarendon._ _ th february _. [_enclosure._] your letter has been considered by the cabinet. russia should be told that she cannot recede from the conditions which she deliberately agreed to by a _pur et simple_ acceptance at petersburg, which she afterwards formally recorded in a protocol at vienna, and which she has within a few days solemnly converted into preliminaries of peace. those engagements must be fulfilled, and those conditions must be carried into execution. as to kars, austria, france, and great britain have undertaken to maintain the integrity of the turkish empire, and that integrity must be maintained. russia received no equivalent for giving up the principalities which she had occupied as a material pledge. she can receive none for giving up kars. if russia determines to carry on the war, rather than give up kars, things must take their course. [pageheading: tranquillity of india] _the marquis of dalhousie to queen victoria._ government house, _ th february _. lord dalhousie presents his most humble duty to your majesty. the guns are announcing from the ramparts of fort william that lord canning has arrived. in an hour's time he will have assumed the government of india. lord dalhousie will transfer it to him in a state of perfect tranquillity. there is peace, within and without. and although no prudent man will ever venture to predict the certainty of continued peace in india, yet lord dalhousie is able to declare, within reservation, that he knows of no quarter in which it is probable that trouble will arise.[ ] lord dalhousie desires that his very last act, as governor-general, should be to submit to your majesty a respectful expression of the deep sense he entertains of your majesty's constant approbation of his public conduct while he has held the office of governor-general of india; together with a humble assurance of the heartfelt gratitude with which he shall ever remember your majesty's gracious favour towards him through the eight long years during which he has borne the ponderous burden he lays down to-day. lord dalhousie begs permission to take leave of your majesty, and has the honour to subscribe himself, with deep devotion, your majesty's most obedient, most humble and faithful subject and servant, dalhousie. [footnote : it has been, however, freely alleged that the failure to repress acts of insubordination in the administration of lord dalhousie was a contributory, if not the direct, cause of the events of . see _post_, introductory note to chapter xxvi, and walpole's _history of england from the conclusion of the great war in _, ch. xxvii., and authorities there referred to.] [pageheading: lord clarendon's instructions] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, [_? march_] _ _. the queen returns these letters to lord palmerston. she entirely concurs in lord palmerston's general views of the question, but at the same time she thinks--as circumstances, which are beyond our control, may so vary from day to day or even from hour to hour--that lord clarendon should receive full powers to act according to what may appear to him to be best and wisest at the time, even if it should not be in strict accordance with what we originally contemplated and must naturally wish. such a power would certainly not be misplaced in lord clarendon's hands; his firmness, and his sense of what this country expects, are too well known to lead us to doubt of his permitting anything but what would _really_ be for the best of this country, and for the maintenance of the alliance. [pageheading: the peace negotiations] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th march _. with reference to lord clarendon's letter, the queen must say that she, though _very reluctantly_, shares his opinion, that we have no choice _now_ but to accept the peace, even if it is not all we could desire, and if another campaign might have got us better terms. she feels certain that the bad accounts of the french army in the crimea, which appears to suffer _now_ all the misery which ours suffered last year at the worst time of the siege, will more than ever indispose the emperor from risking a renewal of hostilities. it is affirmed that the french have beyond , men in hospital! if we are to have this peace, however, the queen must again agree with lord clarendon that we ought not _ourselves_ to depreciate it, as our press has done the deeds of our army. with regard to the principalities, it is the queen's opinion that nothing will oppose a barrier to russia and her intrigues but the arrangement which will satisfy the people themselves, viz. an _hereditary monarchy_. the example of egypt might perfectly well be followed in wallachia and moldavia. the subject of poland would, in the queen's opinion, be much better left unintroduced into the present negotiations; we have no claim arising out of this war to ask russia to make concessions on that head, which, moreover, would be treated by her as an internal question not admitting of foreign interference. the clause in the treaty of vienna about the bonapartes is a dead letter, as this very treaty, now to be signed, will prove, and the emperor would act very unwisely to call for an alteration in which all powers who signed the original treaty would claim to be consulted. we have every interest not to bring about a european congress _pour la révision des traités_, which many people suspect the emperor wishes to turn the present conference into. the queen wishes only to add that, should prussia be asked to join in the final treaty on the ground of her having been a party to the july treaty, we should take care that it does not appear that this was an act of courtesy of all the other powers towards prussia except england, who need not be made to take additional unpopularity in germany upon herself. _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ paris, _ th march ._ lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to say that the emperor gave him to-day the most satisfactory report of the empress and the young prince.[ ] there appears to be little or no fever now, and a great power of sleeping. the emperor's eyes filled with tears when he described the tortures of the empress and his own sensations. he said he hardly knew how to express his gratitude for the interest which your majesty had manifested for the empress, and for the letters which he had received from your majesty and the prince. the prussian plenipotentiaries[ ] were admitted at the close of the conference this afternoon--all important matters under negotiation having been concluded. count walewski made an ineffectual attempt to make it appear by a doubtful form of expression that prussia had taken part throughout in the negotiations. lord cowley and lord clarendon said that they wished to show all courtesy to prussia, but could not consent to sign what was manifestly untrue.... [footnote : the prince imperial, napoléon eugène louis jean joseph, was born on the th of march.] [footnote : baron manteuffel and count hatzfeldt.] [pageheading: the princess royal] _extract of a letter from mr cobden to a friend._[ ] midhurst, _ th march ._ ... it is generally thought that the young prince frederic william of prussia is to be married to our princess royal. i was dining _tête-à-tête_ with mr buchanan, the american minister, a few days ago, who had dined the day before at the queen's table, and sat next to the princess royal. he was in raptures about her, and said she was the most charming girl he had ever met: "all life and spirit, full of frolic and fun, with an excellent head, and a _heart as big as a mountain_"--those were his words. another friend of mine, colonel fitzmayer, dined with the queen last week, and in writing to me a description of the company, he says, that when the princess royal smiles, "it makes one feel as if additional light were thrown upon the scene." so i should judge that this said prince is a lucky fellow, and i trust he will make a good husband. if not, although a man of peace, i shall consider it a _casus belli_.... [footnote : submitted to the queen.] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ paris, _ th march ._ lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to say that the emperor sent general ney to him this morning to request that lord clarendon would convey the cordial thanks of the emperor to your majesty for the _feu de joie_ fired by your majesty's troops in the crimea upon the announcement of the birth of the prince imperial. lord clarendon was much embarrassed by a letter this morning from lord palmerston, desiring that the signature of the treaty should be postponed till monday, in case the cabinet should have any amendments to propose; and lord clarendon humbly hopes that your majesty may not be displeased at his not having acted upon this injunction, because he had promised to sign the treaty to-morrow in accordance with the general wish of the congress, notwithstanding that it was sunday, and he could not therefore go back from his engagement--every preparation is made for illuminations, not alone at paris, but throughout france, as all the prefects have been informed of the signature--the odium that would have fallen [on] us all would have been extreme throughout europe it may be said, and it would have been regarded as a last proof of our unwillingness to make peace. the friendly feeling of the congress towards the english p.p.'s[ ] would have changed, and they probably would have agreed to no amendments, requiring that all the seven copies of the treaty should be recopied. in short, lord clarendon felt that he had no choice but to take upon himself the responsibility of signing to-morrow; but he has suggested that lord palmerston's private letter should be converted into a despatch, in order that the sole and entire blame should rest with lord clarendon....[ ] [footnote : _i.e._, plenipotentiaries.] [footnote : for the chief stipulations of the treaty, see _ante_, introductory note to chapter xxv. in addition to the actual treaty, an important declaration was made as to the rules of international maritime law, to be binding only on the signatory powers, dealing with the following points:-- (_a_) abolition of privateering. (_b_) neutral flag to cover enemy's goods, other than contraband of war. (_c_) neutral goods, other than contraband of war, under enemy's flag, to be exempt from seizure. (_d_) blockades to be binding must be effective, _i.e._ maintained by adequate marine force.] [pageheading: terms arrived at] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th march ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and in submitting the accompanying letter from lord clarendon, he begs to state that he informed lord clarendon by the messenger yesterday evening that all he had done and agreed to was approved, and that he might sign the treaty to-day. it was to be signed at half-past twelve this day. viscount palmerston begs to congratulate your majesty upon an arrangement which effects a settlement that is satisfactory for the present, and which will probably last for many years to come, of questions full of danger to the best interests of europe. greater and more brilliant successes by land and sea might probably have been accomplished by the allies if the war had continued, but any great and important additional security against future aggressions by russia could only have been obtained by severing from russia large portions of her frontier territory, such as finland, poland, and georgia; and although by great military and financial efforts and sacrifices those territories might for a time have been occupied, russia must have been reduced to the lowest state of internal distress, before her emperor could have been brought to put his name to a treaty of peace finally surrendering his sovereignty over those extensive countries; and to have continued the war long enough for these purposes would have required greater endurance than was possessed by your majesty's allies, and might possibly have exhausted the good-will of your majesty's own subjects.... [pageheading: the treaty of paris] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ paris, _ th march ._ lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to congratulate your majesty upon the signature of peace this afternoon. it is not to be doubted that another campaign must have brought glory to your majesty's arms, and would have enabled england to impose different terms upon russia, but setting aside the cost and the horrors of war, in themselves evils of the greatest magnitude, we cannot feel sure that victory might not have been purchased too dearly--a continuation of the war would hardly have been possible either with or without france--if we had dragged her on with us it would have been most reluctantly on her part, her finances would have suffered still more, she would have borne us ill-will, would have acted feebly with us, and would on the first favourable occasion have left us in the lurch. if we had continued the war single-handed, france would feel that she had behaved shabbily to us, and would _therefore_ have hated us all the more, and become our enemy sooner than under any other circumstances; a coalition of europe might then have taken place against england, to which the united states would but too gladly have adhered, and the consequence might have been most serious. lord clarendon would not make such an assertion lightly, but he feels convinced that your majesty may feel satisfied with the position now occupied by england--six weeks ago it was a painful position here, everybody was against us, our motives were suspected, and our policy was denounced; but the universal feeling now is that we are the only country able and ready, and willing, if necessary, to continue the war; that we might have prevented peace, but that having announced our readiness to make peace on honourable terms we have honestly and unselfishly acted up to our word. it is well known, too, that the conditions on which peace is made would have been different if england had not been firm, and everybody is, of course, glad _even here_ that peace should not have brought dishonour to france. lord clarendon, therefore, ventures to hope that the language in england with respect to the peace will not be apologetic or dissatisfied. it would be unwise and undignified, and would invite criticism if such language were held before the conditions are publicly known. [pageheading: end of the war] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ st march ._ the queen thanks lord clarendon much for his two letters of saturday and yesterday; and we congratulate _him_ on the success of his _efforts_ in obtaining the peace, for to him _alone_ it is due, and also _to him alone_ is due the dignified position which the queen's beloved country holds, and which she owes to a straightforward, steady, and unselfish policy throughout. much as the queen disliked the idea of _peace_, she has become reconciled to it, by the conviction that france would either not have continued the war, or continued it in such a manner that _no_ glory could have been hoped for for us. we have a striking proof of this in pélissier not having obeyed the emperor's orders and never having thought of occupying sak.[ ] _this really might_ be hinted to the emperor.... the queen finds lord palmerston very well pleased with the peace, though he struggled as long as he could for better conditions.... [footnote : the word is so written in the original draft. there was a place of the name near old fort in the crimea, but this is more probably an abbreviation for sakatal in caucasia.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ st april _. my dearest uncle,--... _peace is signed!_ but till the ratifications have taken place its terms cannot be known. that so _good_ a peace _has_ been obtained, and that this country stands in the high position she now does by _having_ made peace, but _not_ yielding to _unworthy_ and dishonourable terms, is _all_ owing to lord clarendon, whose difficulties were immense, and who cannot be too highly praised. may i beg to remind you to make enquiries, _quietly_, about the young prince of orange[ ]--as to his education, _entourage_, and disposition? pray also don't forget to try and let us have a _new_ russian; it would be infinitely _better_.[ ] we were much grieved to hear the day before yesterday from sommer that poor stockmar had had a relapse, but the illness is clearly of a spasmodic nature and therefore _not_ at all dangerous, and the pain had speedily left him, but of course left him again weaker, which is most distressing. now with albert's affectionate love and our reiterated _warmest_ thanks, in which vicky is included, for your having so very kindly come over for her confirmation, believe me, ever, your devoted niece and child, victoria r. [footnote : prince william nicholas, born , elder son of king william iii. of holland.] [footnote : the new russian ambassador was count creptowitch.] _queen victoria to the emperor of the french._ palais de buckingham, _le avril _. sire et mon cher frÈre,--v.m. me permettra de lui offrir toutes mes félicitations à l'occasion de la paix qui a été conclue sous vos auspices, et peu de jours seulement après l'heureux événement qui vous a donné un fils. quoique partageant le sentiment de la pluspart de mon peuple qui trouve que cette paix est peut-être un peu précoce, j'éprouve le besoin de vous dire que j'approuve hautement les termes dans lesquels elle a été conçue, comme un résultat qui n'est pas indigne des sacrifices que nous avons faits mutuellement pendant cette juste guerre, et comme assurant autant que cela se peut, la stabilité de l'équilibre européen.... le prince me charge de vous offrir ses hommages les plus affectueux, et je me dis pour toujours, sire et cher frère, de v.m.i., la bien affectionnée s[oe]ur et amie, victoria r. [pageheading: honours gratefully declined] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ paris, _ th april _. lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty.... lord clarendon humbly begs in lord cowley's name and his own most gratefully to acknowledge the kind and gracious intention of your majesty to raise each of them a step in the peerage, and they venture to hope that your majesty will not have been displeased at their having respectfully declined this great distinction. lord cowley's reason was his extreme poverty, and the feeling that an accession of rank would only aggravate the inconvenience he already experiences from being a peer.... lord clarendon felt that courtesy titles to his younger sons would be a positive injury to them in working for their bread, and he relied upon your majesty's unvarying kindness for appreciating his reluctance to prefer himself to his children. he may, with entire truth, add that the knowledge that your majesty has approved of their conduct is ample and abundant reward for lord cowley and himself. lord clarendon hopes it is not presumptuous in him to say that he would not exchange your majesty's letters of approval for any public mark of your majesty's favour.... [pageheading: lord palmerston and the garter] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. now that the moment for the ratification of the treaty of peace is near at hand, the queen wishes to delay no longer the expression of her satisfaction as to the manner in which both the war has been brought to a conclusion, and the honour and interests of this country have been maintained by the treaty of peace, under the zealous and able guidance of lord palmerston. she wishes as a public token of her approval to bestow the order of the garter upon him. should the two vacant ribbons already have been promised to the peers whose names lord palmerston has on a former occasion submitted to the queen, there could be no difficulty in his being named an extra knight, not filling up the next vacancy which may occur; this course was followed when lord grey received the garter from the hands of king william. _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th april _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is unable to express in words the gratification and thankfulness which he feels upon the receipt of your majesty's most gracious and unexpected communication of this morning. the utmost of his ambition has been so to perform the duties of the high position in which your majesty has been pleased to place him, as to prove himself not unworthy of the confidence with which your majesty has honoured him; and the knowledge that your majesty has found no reason to be dissatisfied with your choice; and that his endeavour properly to discharge his duties to your majesty and the country have met with your majesty's approval would of itself be an ample reward for any labour or anxiety with which the performance of those duties may have been attended, and, therefore, the gracious communication which he has this morning received from your majesty will be preserved by him as in his eyes still more valuable even than the high honour which it announces your majesty's intention to confer upon him. that high and distinguished honour viscount palmerston will receive with the greatest pride as a public mark of your majesty's gracious approbation, but he begs to be allowed to say that the task which he and his colleagues have had to perform has been rendered comparatively easy by the enlightened views which your majesty has taken of all the great affairs in which your majesty's empire has been engaged, and by the firm and steady support which _in_ all these important transactions your majesty's servants have received from the crown. [pageheading: service retrenchments] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. the queen returns the draft of treaty, which she approves, and of which she would wish to have a copy. the queen believes that the cabinet are going to consider to-day the amount of retrenchments which may be necessary in the army and navy. she trusts and _expects_ that this will be done with great _moderation_ and very _gradually_; and that the difficulties we have had, and the sufferings which we have endured, may not be forgotten, for to the miserable reductions of the last thirty years are entirely owing our state of _helplessness_ when the war began; and it would be unpardonable if we were to be found in a similar condition, when another war--and _who_ can tell _how_ soon there may be one?--breaks out. we must _never_ for a moment forget the very peculiar state of france, and _how entirely all there_ depends upon _one_ man's life. we _ought_ and _must_ be prepared for every _eventuality_, and we have splendid material in that magnificent little army in the crimea. the queen wishes lord palmerston to show this letter to the cabinet. [pageheading: letter from the emperor] _the emperor of the french to queen victoria._ paris, _le avril _. madame et trÈs chÈre s[oe]ur,--votre majesté m'a fait grand plaisir en me disant qu'elle était satisfaite de la conclusion de la paix, car ma constante préoccupation a été, tout en désirant la fin d'une guerre ruineuse, de n'agir que de concert avec le gouvernement de votre majesté. certes je conçois bien qu'il ait été désirable d'obtenir encore de meilleurs résultats, mais était-ce raisonnable d'en attendre de la manière dont la guerre avait été engagée? j'avoue que je ne le crois pas. la guerre avait été trop lentement conduite par nos généraux et nos amiraux et nous avions laissé le temps aux russes de se rendre presque imprenables à cronstadt comme en crimée. je crois donc que nous aurions payé trop chèrement sous tous les rapports les avantages que nous eussions pu obtenir. je suis pour cette raison heureux de la paix, mais je suis heureux surtout que notre alliance sorte intacte des conférences et qu'elle se montre à l'europe aussi solide que le premier jour de _notre union_. (je prie le prince albert de ne pas être jaloux de cette expression.) nous avons appris avec la plus vive satisfaction que les projets que votre majesté avait conçus pour le bonheur de la princesse royale allaient bientôt se réaliser. on dit tant de bien du jeune prince frédéric guillaume que je ne doute pas que votre charmante fille ne soit heureuse. l'impératrice, qui attend avec impatience le moment de pouvoir écrire à votre majesté, a été bien touchée de votre aimable lettre. vers le commencement de mai nous irons à st cloud où votre souvenir nous y accompagne toujours, car ces lieux nous rappellent le séjour de votre majesté et nous faisons des v[oe]ux pour qu'un si heureux événement puisse se renouveler. je prie votre majesté de me rappeler au souvenir du prince albert et de recevoir avec bonté l'assurance des sentiments de respectueuse amitié avec lesquels je suis, de votre majesté, le dévoué frère et ami, napolÉon. _queen victoria to viscount hardinge._ buckingham palace, _ st april _. the queen has heard from colonel phipps that lord hardinge is most anxious for her sanction to the paper submitted yesterday, if even as merely a temporary measure, before the mail goes this evening, as all the shipping at balaklava is waiting for it. she hopes lord hardinge will see how inconvenient and unpleasant it must be to the queen to have important matters submitted at such short notice that they cannot even be discussed by her without detriment to the public service, and trusts that she may not again be placed in a similar position. she has now signed the paper, but _only_ as a temporary measure, and upon the understanding that lord hardinge will submit to her, between this and the next mail, the arrangements which are now wanting. she has also signed the proposal about canada, but must express her conviction that general le marchant,[ ] as civil governor of the colony, cannot possibly attend to the command of the brigade, which ought to have a distinct commander. there may be artillery in canada, but is it horsed? and in batteries? we are rapidly falling back into the old ways! [footnote : sir john gaspard le marchant, - , lieutenant-governor of nova scotia from to .] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. my dearest uncle,--having returned late from a drive, i have but little time to spare to thank you for your kind letter of the nd. last thursday ( st) was our darling arthur's sixth birthday, which he enjoyed duly. on the rd we received brunnow[ ]--who was so nervous and humble, and so _ému_ that he could hardly speak. he dines with us to-night, and the dinner is given for him, being a _funny collection of antagonistic elements_--granville, clarendon, lansdowne, aberdeen, graham, john russell, derby, and malmesbury! "the happy family," i call it. the opposition have taken the line of disapproving the peace and showing great hostility to russia. to-morrow we have a levée, and on thursday a ball in our fine new room, which we open on that day; and on friday there is a _peace_ fête at the crystal palace. on saturday we go out of town; and now i must end, begging to be forgiven for so hurried a scrawl, but i had to write a long letter and to _sit_ to winterhalter. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : he had come to england, charged with a special mission.] [pageheading: colonial governorships] _queen victoria to mr labouchere._ osborne, _ th may _. the queen has received mr labouchere's letter, and hastens to express her opinion that mr wilson[ ] would not be at all a proper person to be governor of so large and important a colony as victoria. it ought to be a man of higher position and standing, and who could represent his sovereign adequately.... she wishes further to observe that mr labouchere should in future take care that, while he tries to ascertain the feelings of people as to their accepting the offer of a colonial appointment, before he submits them to the queen, that these enquiries should be made in such a manner as not to lead these persons to _expect_ the appointment, else, if the _queen_ does not approve of them, the whole odium of the refusal will fall upon her. the best way, and the way in which similar appointments are conducted in the other offices, would be to mention the names first to the queen, and if she approves of them, to ascertain the feelings of the respective candidates. this would avoid all difficulties on the subject. [footnote : james wilson, the founder of _the economist_, was at this time financial secretary to the treasury. in he accepted the new office of financial member of the council of india, but died in the following year.] _queen victoria to mr labouchere._ _ th may _. the queen would quite approve of the selection of sir h. bulwer, lord lyttelton, or sir h. barkly for victoria. she is decidedly of opinion that the governor should be an englishman and not a colonist. now that self-government has been established in the colonies, the person of the governor is the only connection remaining with the mother country; and if the government were once filled from among the public men in the colonies, this would become a precedent most difficult to break through again, and possibly paving the way for total separation.[ ] [footnote : sir henry bulwer declined. sir henry barkly was appointed.] [pageheading: naval policy] _queen victoria to sir charles wood._ osborne, _ th may _. the queen has to thank sir c. wood for his long and clear statement as to the present position of the naval force, which she quite understands. she attaches the greatest importance to perfect faith being kept with the sailors, and on that account was distressed to hear of the misapprehension at portsmouth the other day. a good system for a naval reserve would be most important. the queen thinks a commission, composed chiefly of _younger officers_ still conversant with the _present_ feelings of our sailors, would best be able to advise on the subject; the old admirals are always and not unnaturally somewhat behind their time. with respect to the policy of not too rapidly reducing our naval armaments, sir c. wood only anticipates the queen's most anxious wish on this subject, for we cannot tell what may not happen anywhere at any moment; our relations with america are very unsettled, and our alliance with france _depends_ upon the life of one man. and it is best to be prepared, for else you excite suspicion if you have suddenly to make preparations without being _able_ to state for what they are intended. with regard to the sailors' homes, the queen concurs in the advantage of leaving them to private management; but the government, having so large a stake in the sailors' welfare, would act wisely and justly to make a handsome donation to all of them at the present moment, taking care that this should be used by the different establishments for their permanent extension. five thousand pounds amongst them would be by no means an unreasonable sum to give as a token of the interest taken in the well-being of these brave men when no immediate return in shape of service was expected for it. _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ st may _. the queen is very anxious about the fixing of our peace establishment both for the army and navy. although lord hardinge's proposals are before the government already for some time, no proposal has yet been submitted to the queen; and on enquiry from sir c. wood, he stated but two days ago that no reduction of the navy was yet settled. on the other hand, the queen sees from the chancellor of the exchequer's speech that he specifies the sums by which both army and navy estimates are to be reduced. this _prejudges_ the whole question, and will deprive the government of all power freely to consider these important questions. the queen was, moreover, sorry to find mr disraeli, mr gladstone, and sir francis baring agreeing with the doctrine of the _times_ and lord grey that we ought _not_ to improve our state of preparation for war; and if we had been better prepared for the late war, we should have been still more disappointed.[ ] [footnote : in the course of an elaborate reply, lord palmerston stated that the country had never been in a better condition of defence than at the present time, but he insisted that the militia, which from to had been allowed to become extinct, must be maintained in an efficient state-- , strong.] [pageheading: title of prince consort] [pageheading: precedence of prince albert] _memorandum by queen victoria._ windsor castle, _may _. it is a strange omission in our constitution that while _the wife_ of a _king_ has the highest rank and dignity in the realm after her husband assigned to her by law, the _husband_ of a _queen regnant_ is entirely ignored by the law. this is the more extraordinary, as a husband has in this country such particular rights and such great power over his wife, and as the queen is married just as any other woman is, and swears to obey her lord and master, as such, while by law he has no rank or defined position. this is a strange anomaly. no doubt, as is the case _now_--the queen _can_ give her husband the highest _place_ by _placing_ him _always near her person_, and the nation would give it him as a _matter of course_. still, when i first married, we had much difficulty on this subject; much bad feeling was shown, and several members of the royal family showed bad grace in giving precedence to the prince, and the late king of hanover positively resisted doing so. i gave the prince precedence by issuing letters patent, but these give no rank in parliament--or at the council board--and it would be far better to put this question beyond all doubt, and to secure its settlement for _all future consorts of queens_, and thus have this omission in the constitution rectified. naturally my own feeling would be to give the prince the same title and rank as i have, but a titular king is a complete novelty in this country, and might be productive of more inconveniences than advantages to the individual who bears it. therefore, upon mature reflection, and after considering the question for nearly _sixteen years_, i have come to the conclusion that the title which is now by universal consent given him of "prince consort," with the highest rank in and out of parliament immediately after the queen, and before every other prince of the royal family, should be the one assigned to the husband of the queen regnant _once and for all_. this ought to be done before our children grow up, and it seems peculiarly easy to do so _now_ that none of the old branches of the royal family are still alive. the present position is this: that while every british subject, down to the knight, bachelor, doctor, and esquire, has a rank and position by _law_, the queen's husband alone has one by _favour_--and by his wife's favour, who may grant it or not! when granted as in the present case, it does not extend to parliament and the council, and the children may deny the position which their mother has given to their father as a usurpation over them, having the law on their side; or if they waive their rights in his favour, he will hold a position granted by the forbearance of his children. in both cases this is a position most derogatory to the queen as well as to her husband, and most dangerous to the peace and well-being of her family. if the children resist, the queen will have her husband pushed away from her side by her children, and they will take precedence over the man whom she is bound to obey; if they are dutiful, she will owe her peace of mind to their continued generosity. with relation to foreign courts, the queen's position is equally humiliating in this respect. _some_ sovereigns (crowned heads) address her husband as "brother," some as "brother and cousin," some merely as "cousin." when the queen has been abroad, her husband's position has always been a subject of negotiation and vexation; the position which has been accorded to him the queen has always had to acknowledge as a grace and favour bestowed on her by the sovereign whom she visited. while last year the emperor of the french treated the prince as a royal personage, his uncle declined to come to paris avowedly because he would not give precedence to the prince; and on the rhine in the king of prussia could not give the place to the queen's husband which common civility required, because of the presence of an archduke, the third son of an uncle of the then reigning emperor of austria, who would not give the _pas_, and whom the king would not offend. the only legal position in europe, according to international law, which the husband of the queen of england enjoys, is that of a younger brother of the duke of saxe-coburg, and this merely because the english law does not know of him. this is derogatory to the dignity of the crown of england. but _nationally_ also it is an injury to the position of the crown that the queen's husband should have no other title than that of prince of saxe-coburg, and thus be perpetually represented to the country as a foreigner. "the queen and her foreign husband, the prince albert of saxe-coburg and gotha!" the queen has a right to claim that her husband should be an englishman, bearing an english title, and enjoying a legal position which she has not to defend with a wife's anxiety as a usurpation against her own children, her subjects, and foreign courts. the question has often been discussed by me with different prime ministers and lord chancellors, who have invariably entirely agreed with me; but the wish to wait for a good moment to bring the matter before parliament has caused one year after another to elapse without anything being done. if i become _now_ more anxious to have it settled, it is in order that it should be so before our children are grown up, that it might not appear to be done in order to guard their father's position against them personally, which could not fail to produce a painful impression upon their minds. if properly explained to parliament and the country, i cannot foresee the slightest difficulty in getting such a necessary measure passed, particularly if it be made quite clear to the house of commons that it is in no way connected with a desire to obtain an increased grant for the prince.[ ] victoria r. [footnote : see _post_, th june, , note .] [pageheading: sabbatarianism] _queen victoria to viscount hardinge._ buckingham palace, _ st june _. the queen understands that there is an attempt to be made to prevent the military bands from playing when the troops march to church on a sunday. she is anxious to express to lord hardinge her very strong feeling on this subject, and her wish that he should on _no_ account give way to such a proposal. _whatever_ has been the custom should be firmly adhered to, and lord hardinge is perfectly at liberty to make use of the queen's name, and say he could not bring such a proposal before her, as he knew she would not consent to it.[ ] [footnote : the custom of bands playing in the public parks on sundays had been objected to by various religious bodies, and in april a letter on the subject was written to lord palmerston by the archbishop of canterbury, after which the performances were discontinued, the government giving way before the threat of a vote of censure. a similar movement was made in opposition to the playing of regimental bands. see _ante_, th august, , note .] [pageheading: wellington college] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ rd june _. my dearest uncle,--i hasten to thank you for your very kind letter of yesterday, just received. your kind _question_ puts me into considerable perplexity, and i think i cannot do better than by putting you in full possession of the state of the case. our house is very full--and it is _possible_ that we may have very shortly the visit of prince oscar of sweden. these princes have very large _suites_, and i should therefore in such a case be totally unable to lodge you and _them_. but there is another reason. while fritz wilhelm is here, _every_ spare moment vicky has (and _i_ have, for i must chaperon this loving couple--which takes away so much of my precious time) is devoted to her bridegroom, who is _so_ much in love, that, even if he is out driving and walking with her, he is not satisfied, and says he has not seen her, unless he can have her for an hour to himself, when i am naturally bound to be acting as chaperon. under these circumstances i may truly say that dear charlotte would have very little enjoyment; she would see very little of vicky, _i could not_ take care of her, and i fear it would be anything but agreeable for her. fritz wilhelm would besides be miserable if i took vicky more away from him than i already do, and therefore _while he_ is here, it would _not_, i think, be advisable that _charlotte_ should come. could you _not_ come a little in august when the prince and princess of prussia have left us? or would you prefer coming in october, when we return from scotland? you will easily believe, dearest uncle, _what_ pleasure it gives me to see you; but i know you will understand the reasons i here give for begging you to delay this dear visit either to august or october.... i had a little hope that the archduke and charlotte _might_ take a mutual liking; it would be such a good _parti_. we had an interesting ceremony yesterday, the laying of the first stone of the wellington college--which is the monument to the memory of the dear old duke. dear little arthur appeared for the first time in public, and i hope you will approve my answer.[ ] now, dearest uncle, ever your truly devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the queen's reply to an address presented to her, on behalf of the college, by lord derby.] [pageheading: the national gallery] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ windsor castle, _ th june _. the queen and prince had intended to take their visitors down to the camp on monday next--the _only day_ which we shall have for a fortnight free from other engagements--and hears, to her _utter astonishment_, that _all_ the troops are gone--not only the militia, but the rd battalion of the rifles!--and this without the queen's hearing _one_ word of it! the queen is the more astonished and annoyed, as lord panmure had promised that the militia regiments should _not_ be disembodied until there were other troops to replace them, which will not be the case for some little time. _what_ is the cause of this, sudden determination? the queen is much vexed, as her visitors will not stay long, and are very anxious to visit the camp; and it is of much importance that foreign princes should see what we have, and in what state of efficiency our troops are. _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen hopes lord palmerston will make it quite clear to the subordinate members of the government that they cannot be allowed to vote against the government proposal about the national gallery to-morrow, as she hears that several fancy themselves at liberty to do so. [pageheading: title of prince consort] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._[ ] st james's square, _ th june _. lord derby, with his humble duty ... will be prepared, as well as lord lyndhurst, to give his cordial support to such a bill as that sketched out by the lord chancellor; but using that freedom which is invited by and due to the gracious confidence reposed in him by your majesty, he hopes he may be pardoned for earnestly submitting to your majesty's serious consideration the question whether it may be expedient to raise a discussion on such a subject during the short remainder of the present session of parliament. measures of public importance already in progress are now beginning to be abandoned in consequence of the advanced period of the session, and lord lyndhurst concurs very strongly in lord derby's apprehensions as to the result on public feeling of the introduction of such a measure at the present moment. if it could be stated that your majesty contemplated a foreign visit in the course of the summer, which rendered it desirable that a measure should be passed to obviate the embarrassment which had been created on previous occasions of the same sort, some case might be made out for immediate legislation, though even then the question would arise why it was not thought of sooner; but in the absence of any change of circumstances, and in the present unfortunate temper of the house of commons, of which a proof was given last night, such a course would probably lead to suspicions and remarks of the most painful character. it would be said, and with some justice, that the greater the constitutional importance of a settlement, the greater was also the necessity of ample opportunity for consideration being given to parliament; and the hurry of passing the bill would be cited as a proof that it covered some unavowed and objectionable design. if such suspicions should lead to the postponement of the measure, not only would the crown have been subjected to a mortifying defeat, but the bill would be open to the hostile criticisms of the press during the whole summer and autumn, the effect of which might even endanger its ultimate success.... should your majesty be otherwise advised, lord derby will be ready to give the bill his personal support, but he would be wanting in candour if he did not frankly state to your majesty the serious apprehensions which he should entertain as to the result. such an unreserved expression of his opinions is the only and very inadequate return which he can make to your majesty for the gracious confidence with which your majesty has honoured him, and for which he feels most deeply grateful. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's most dutiful servant and subject, derby. [footnote : the queen had sent to lord derby a copy of her memorandum, _ante_, may, , a letter from lord palmerston to herself on the same subject, and the sketch of a bill drawn up by the lord chancellor to give effect to her wishes. on the th of june , the title of "prince consort" was conferred on prince albert by royal letters patent. "i should have preferred," wrote the queen, "its being done by act of parliament, and so it may still be at some future period; but it was thought better upon the whole to do it _now_ in this simple way."] [pageheading: retirement of lord hardinge] _viscount hardinge to queen victoria._ great stanhope street, _ th july _. field-marshal viscount hardinge,[ ] with his most humble duty to your majesty, is conscious that his power of serving your majesty in the high position of general commanding-in-chief has ceased in consequence of the state of his health, which leaves him no other course to pursue than that of placing in your majesty's hands the resignation of his office, the duties of which his sudden and severe illness has rendered him incapable of performing. lord hardinge cannot take this step without thanking your majesty for the great consideration and support which he has at all times received at a period of no ordinary difficulty, and which have impressed him with such sentiments of gratitude as can only cease with his life. all of which is most humbly submitted to your majesty by your majesty's dutiful and devoted servant, hardinge. [footnote : a great review of the troops lately returned from the crimea was held in most unfavourable weather at aldershot, on the th of july, king leopold among others being present; lord hardinge, who had brought with him the report of the military commission which had been sitting at chelsea, was struck by paralysis during an audience with the queen; the next day lord panmure wrote: "his leg is entirely useless, and his right arm visibly affected. i spoke to him for a moment as he got into his carriage, and his head is quite clear, but his public career is closed; and knowing his high mind as i do, i would not be surprised to learn that he made a communication to that effect to the queen very shortly."] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th july _. the queen has received the enclosed letter from lord hardinge, conveying his resignation, for which she was prepared. she asks lord palmerston to enable her, by the assistance of his advice, soon to appoint a successor to the important office of commander-in-chief. she has again considered the question, and is confirmed in her opinion that the duke of cambridge stands almost without a competitor. _queen victoria to viscount hardinge._ buckingham palace, _ th july _. the queen received yesterday evening field-marshal lord hardinge's letter resigning his office of commander-in-chief. she cannot sufficiently express how deeply grieved she is to feel that from lord hardinge's state of health she must accept his resignation. the loss of his services will be immense to the queen, the country, and the army--and she trusts that he is well assured of her high sense of the very valuable services he has long rendered. she hopes, however, that she may still reckon on his advice and assistance on matters of importance, though he will no longer command her noble army. she cannot conclude without expressing the prince's and her fervent wishes that he may rapidly recover, and his valuable life be long preserved to all his friends, amongst whom we shall ever consider ourselves. [pageheading: the commandership-in-chief] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that he has consulted with his colleagues as to the advice to be tendered to your majesty in regard to the appointment of a successor to lord hardinge as general commanding-in-chief; and upon a full consideration of the subject, the cabinet are of opinion that your majesty's choice could not fall upon any general officer better suited to that important position than his royal highness the duke of cambridge, and lord panmure will have the honour of taking your majesty's pleasure upon the matter officially. it seems quite clear that there is no general officer senior to his royal highness the duke of cambridge to whom it would in all respects be desirable to intrust the duties of the command of the army, and there is no general officer below him in seniority who has claim sufficiently strong to justify his being preferred to his royal highness.... _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ buckingham palace, _ th july _. the queen wishes to ask, before she sanctions this draft, whether the cabinet have fully considered the consequences of this declaration to the persians, which may be war;[ ] and if so, whether they are prepared to go to war with persia, and have provided the means of carrying it on? the draft itself the queen approves. [footnote : the shah, availing himself of the departure of the british minister from teheran, laid siege to herat, in direct violation of a treaty of .] [pageheading: the duke of cambridge] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ st july _. my dearest uncle,--... we had a delightful little _séjour_ at aldershot--much favoured by fine weather. the first day, wednesday, the wind was too high for _me_ to ride, but the second (thursday) we had one of the prettiest and _most_ interesting field days i ever remember. i rode about everywhere and enjoyed it so much. on thursday and friday morning we visited the camp. the new troops from the crimea which we saw were the th, st, and th, particularly fine regiments; the rd highlanders, the nd rifle battalion, and three companies of splendid sappers and miners, all very fine; and the scots greys and enniskillen dragoons. the prussians[ ] were _émerveillés_ at the looks of our troops on returning from the crimea! we came here on the th, and have really _hot_ weather. george has been appointed commander-in-chief. there was really _no one_ who could have been put over him; though in some respects it may be a weakness for the crown, it is a great strength for the army.... i fear i must end here for to-day. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the prince and princess of prussia were on a visit to the queen and prince.] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and will give directions for the council at osborne at one o'clock on monday, according to your majesty's desire; and he would beg to submit for your majesty's gracious consideration that the general commanding-in-chief has usually been a privy councillor, and that his royal highness the duke of cambridge might, if your majesty thought fit, be sworn in on monday. viscount palmerston will communicate with dr. goodford, but he finds that he was misled by the headmaster and one of the governors of harrow at the speech day; he understood from them that an additional week's holiday would at his request be given to the boys at this vacation in commemoration of the peace. he has now received a letter from the governors to say that the school had an additional week on the occasion of the peace at easter, and that an additional week will be given, not now, but at christmas, in commemoration of the laying the first stone of the new chapel. if, therefore, the eton boys had an additional week at easter in honour of the peace, as the harrow boys had, there will be no reason for any addition to the eton holidays now.... [pageheading: south africa] _mr labouchere to queen victoria._ _ th july ._ with mr labouchere's humble duty to her majesty. mr labouchere begs to submit the following observations in reply to her majesty's enquiries respecting the free states in the vicinity of the british colonies in south africa. there are two independent states there:-- ( .) the transvaal republic, founded by boers who left the colony for the most part from ten to fifteen years ago. the territory on which they are established never was british. the government of the day, thinking it useless and impolitic to pursue them there, entered into a capitulation with them and recognised their independent existence. they inhabit the plains north of the vaal or yellow river. ( .) the orange river free state. this occupies the territory between the vaal river to the north and the orange river to the south. this territory, like the former, was occupied originally by emigrant boers, and was beyond the boundaries of the colony of the cape of good hope. but sir harry smith, in , after a severe military struggle with the boers, thought proper without authority from home to annex it to british dominion.[ ] this annexation was ratified by lord grey, and the country remained for three or four years under british rule. afterwards it was resolved to abandon it, during the administration of the duke of newcastle, as a result of the general revision of our affairs which took place at the conclusion of the kaffir war. the orange river territory was recognised as a separate republic in . it is certainly true that the existence of these free states may complicate our relations with the kaffirs, and possibly be a source of danger to the security of british dominion in south africa. but the latter danger seems very remote. they possess _no_ portion of the sea coast, and are altogether a pastoral people, and are engaged in a constant struggle with the barbarous tribes in their neighbourhood. to retain and protect these territories would have involved an immense expenditure, and been attended with great difficulties. besides, the same question would have speedily recurred, as these emigrant boers would have soon gone further into the interior, and again have asserted their independence. our present relations with both these states are very amicable. when governor sir george grey went to the cape all these questions had been finally disposed of.[ ] there seems to be good reason to hope that the apprehensions of a kaffir war will not be realised. the colony is very prosperous, and is beginning to export wool in large quantities. the new legislature appears to be disposed to act harmoniously with the governor, and to be actuated by a spirit of loyalty and attachment to this country. what they most want is a supply of european settlers, which it is to be hoped that the soldiers of the german and swiss legions will give them. [footnote : see _ante_, vol. ii., introductory note to chapter xvii, and th october, , note .] [footnote : sir george grey had been sent out by the duke of newcastle in . he had previously been governor of south australia and new zealand successively. he returned to new zealand as governor in , and was premier of the colony, - . he died in , and was buried in st paul's cathedral.] [pageheading: foreign orders] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th july _. my dearest uncle,--i am much grieved to have to retract the permission which in my letter of yesterday i said i would give to lord westmorland.[ ] when i said so, i had _not_ received the opinion of the ministers, which i have since done, and this is, i am sorry to say, conclusive _against_ it. i quite overlooked _one_ very important case of very late date, viz. the plenipotentiary at paris--on whom the emperor pressed very hard to confer his order in commemoration of the peace; but it was refused, and the emperor was a good _deal hurt_. if _now_ lord westmorland received the permission, the emperor might with _right_ complain. i am much grieved, dearest uncle, at all this, but it was quite unavoidable, and i was at the time much distressed at your giving the order to lord westmorland as i foresaw nothing but difficulties. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : king leopold had proposed to bestow a decoration on lord westmorland.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ st august _. my dearest victoria,--... when your excellent ministers will consider things coolly, which is not to be expected in this hot weather, i am sure they will come to other conclusions. the rule is a _very wise one_, and has been kept up even at the time of those great congresses of paris, vienna, and ditto paris in . but in cases of particular affection and feeling _not_ connected with politics, there have been during the reigns of george iv. and william iv. exceptions. the duke of devonshire was sent to the coronation, i think, of the emperor nicholas, because one knew the emperor liked him. and he has worn ever since that diamond star of the st andrew of the largest dimensions. our napoleon is too wise not to understand that a treaty has a direct political character. and, during the next fifty years of your glorious reign, there will be most probably a great many more treaties and congresses. you may get all sorts of things during that time, but you cannot either by the power of heaven or of earth get a new uncle, who has kept his word twenty-five years; rather an undertaking considering circumstances.... i remain, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ on board the _victoria and albert_, _ th august _. dearest uncle,--you will be surprised to get a letter so soon again from me, and still more on _so_ trivial a subject, but i come as a petitioner for a supply of the cakes or _oblaten_ which you kindly always send me, but which have come to a dead _stop_, having been too rapidly consumed; _all_ the children having taken to eat them. as i am not a very good breakfast eater, they are often the _only_ things i _can_ take at that time, and consequently i miss them much. may i therefore beg them to be sent? we are still here; profiting by the _bad_ sea, to visit many beautiful _points de vue_ in this really beautiful country. we saw yesterday one of the loveliest places possible--_endsleigh_--the duke of bedford's, about twenty miles from here. the weather is so bad, and it blows so hard, that we shall go back to southampton to-morrow by railroad--a beautiful line which we have never seen. i must close in haste. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. we went to saltram, lord morley's, this afternoon. [pageheading: lord granville's mission] [pageheading: the czar alexander] [pageheading: coronation of the czar] _earl granville to queen victoria._[ ] moscow, _ th august _. lord granville presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs, according to your majesty's desire, to submit to your majesty the impressions which he has received during the short time of his stay in this country. lord granville's conversation with the emperor of russia, and what he has heard from various reliable sources, have led him to the following conclusions respecting his imperial majesty. he is handsome, but thinner and graver than when he was in england. when speaking with energy to lord granville his manner seemed to be rather an imitation of some one else than his own, and he did not look lord granville in the face. his usual manner is singularly gentle and pleasing. he does not give the idea of having much strength either of intellect or of character, but looks intelligent and amiable. although the education of a cæsarwitch must be subject to pernicious influences, the present emperor has had advantages which those in his position have not usually had. the emperor nicholas came to the throne without having had the confidences of his predecessor. he initiated his son into everything that was going on, while others who knew the good-nature of the grand duke alexander's character, told him that which they did not tell his father. he was supposed to have different tastes from the late emperor, but, since the death of the latter, he has liked the late emperor's favourite residence which he himself had formerly disliked, he has taken to all the military pursuits of his father, and is said to have shown undignified haste in issuing regulations about, and in appearing in, new uniforms. he is liked by those who surround him, but is blamed for not having those habits of punctuality and of quick decision in business which characterised the late emperor. there is still much talk of stimulants to be applied by his imperial majesty to commerce and to the development of the resources of the country.... there are persons, however, here well qualified to judge, who doubt whether much more will be performed than has formerly been done, after brilliant promises at the beginning of a reign. his imperial majesty is not supposed to have that power of will which will enable him to deal with the mass of corruption which pervades every class in this country. the empress,[ ] a woman of sense and ability, is believed to have great influence with her husband when he is with her, but he is generally guided by the person who speaks last to him before he acts--and his imperial majesty has not the talent of surrounding himself with able men. his ministers certainly do not appear to be men of that remarkable intellect as have been usually supposed to be employed by the court of st petersburg. count orloff is stated to have but little influence, and to have lost his former activity. prince gortschakoff is clever in society, of easy conversation and some smartness in repartee. he is vain, a great talker, and indiscreet. it is difficult to keep him to the point. he flies about from one thing to another, and he is so loose in his talk, that the repetition of isolated phrases might lead to impressions of his meaning, which would not be correct.... the serf question is admitted by all to be of a very difficult character, and will become more so as the wealth of the country increases. indeed when that state of things occurs, it is more than likely that popular movements will take place, and it is frightful to consider the immediate results of a revolution in a country organised as this is at present. no country in europe will furnish so fair a chance of success to socialism. the reins of government were held so tight during the last reign, that even the relaxation which now exists is not altogether without danger. the preparations for the coronation are on an immense scale. the present estimate of the expenses is £ , , ; the last coronation cost half that sum; the coronation of alexander, £ , ; while that of the emperor paul did not exceed £ , . the military household of the present emperor consists of one hundred and twenty generals--that of nicholas, at the beginning of his reign, consisted of twenty. your majesty is spoken of by the emperor and by the society here with the greatest respect. lord and lady granville have met with nothing but remarkable civility from all classes. lord granville has had great pleasure in seeing his royal highness prince frederick william of prussia in such good health and spirits. his only anxiety was an interval of fourteen days during which his royal highness did not hear from england. that anxiety has been relieved by a letter received to-day. lord granville ventures to request your majesty to present his respectful remembrances to the princess royal with his congratulations at her royal highness's complete recovery. lord granville begs to advise her royal highness, when residing abroad, not to engage a russian maid. lady wodehouse found hers eating the contents of a pot on her dressing-table--it happened to be castor oil pomatum for the hair. lord granville has been requested to convey to your majesty and to his royal highness prince albert the prince of nassau's expressions of devotion and respect. the atmosphere in which his highness at present resides does not appear to have had much influence on his highness's opinions. [footnote : lord granville was appointed head of a special mission, with the temporary rank of ambassador, to attend the coronation of the czar alexander.] [footnote : marie alexandrovna, formerly the princess marie of hesse, daughter of the grand duke louis ii.] [pageheading: church appointments] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ st leonards, _ th september _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to submit for your majesty's gracious approval that dr tait, dean of carlisle, should be appointed bishop of london with a clear explanation to him that the diocese will probably be divided into two--one of london and one of westminster. that the bishop of ripon[ ] should be appointed bishop of durham, with a like explanation that the diocese of durham may possibly be divided into two--one for durham and one for northumberland. that the dean of hereford[ ] should be appointed bishop of ripon; and that dr trench[ ] be appointed dean of westminster with the condition that he is not to receive any fees or emoluments arising out of appointments of knights of the bath. dr trench is a man of the world and of literature, and would in those respects be well suited to be dean of westminster, and if his tendencies are, as some persons suppose, rather towards high church opinions, his position as dean would not afford him any particular means of making those opinions prevail; while his appointment would show that the patronage of the crown was not flowing exclusively in one direction. viscount palmerston will, on another occasion, submit to your majesty the names of persons for the deaneries of hereford and carlisle.[ ] [footnote : charles thomas longley ( - ) became bishop of durham , archbishop of york , and archbishop of canterbury .] [footnote : richard dawes, who became dean in , and restored the cathedral. he did not become bishop of ripon; robert bickersteth, a canon of salisbury, being eventually appointed. see _post_, th november, , note .] [footnote : richard chenevix trench ( - ), archbishop of dublin from - .] [footnote : francis close ( - ), rector of cheltenham, succeeded dr tait as dean of carlisle.] _the duke of cambridge to queen victoria._ st james's palace, _ th september ._ my dear cousin,--this morning the reply from baden reached me, and i hasten to inform you at once of the purport of it, embodied in a very excellent letter written by my sister mary, who _declines_ the proposal made to her on the part of the king of sardinia, for some very excellent and weighty reasons.[ ] i must confess that i fully agree with her in the view she has taken, and, i can say with truth, that i think her decision is a very judicious and very correct one, and i am not at all sorry she has come to it. as i know that clarendon was very anxious to have an early reply, i have in the first instance sent mary's letter on to him, and have requested him, after perusing it, to send it on to you, and i hope you will not think that i have been wanting in respect to you in so doing. with many thanks to you for your great kindness in having left the decision of this weighty matter entirely in our hands, i beg to remain, my dear cousin, your most dutiful cousin, george. [footnote : the king had, in january , lost his consort, queen marie adélaïde, daughter of the archduke rénier of austria. lord clarendon wrote to baron marochetti:--... "the queen's first care was for the happiness of princess mary, and it was the wish of her majesty and of her majesty's government that the decision should be left to the unbiassed judgment of her royal highness. "princess mary, having maturely weighed the matter in all its different bearings, has come to the conclusion that it is her duty as regards both the king of sardinia and herself to decline the offer, which you were empowered to make on the part of his majesty. "princess mary fully appreciates the many excellent and noble qualities of the king. she does not doubt that in him individually she would be happy, and she thinks that the alliance would be popular in england; but her royal highness feels that as the protestant queen of sardinia she must be in a false position, and that a wife can never find herself thus placed without injury to her husband. "princess mary is deeply attached to her religion, which is the first consideration in this world, and in the free and undisturbed exercise of that religion, however much it might be sanctioned by the king, and supported by his majesty's government, she feels that she would be the object of constant suspicion, that her motives would be liable to misconstruction, and that the king would be exposed to grave embarrassments, which time would only serve to increase. "i am not surprised at this decision, which, from my knowledge of princess mary's profound religious feeling, i rather led you to anticipate; but i am bound to say that with reference to her religion, and with reference to that alone, her royal highness has, in my opinion, decided with wisdom and foresight. "i am convinced, however, that in renouncing upon conscientious grounds the brilliant position which has been offered to her, of which she fully appreciated the advantages, princess mary can only have added to the respect which the king already feels for the noble and elevated character of her royal highness."] [pageheading: the king of portugal] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ balmoral, _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--i cannot have your kind and confidential letter of the th answered, and therefore write to-day to thank you for it. you may rely on our divulging nothing. we are, however, both very anxious that dear pedro should be preferred.[ ] he is out and out _the_ most distinguished young prince there is, and besides that, good, excellent, and steady according to one's heart's desire, and as one could wish for an _only and beloved daughter_. for portugal, too, an _amiable_, well-educated queen would be an immense blessing, for there _never_ has been one. i am sure you would be more likely to secure charlotte's happiness if you gave her to pedro than to one of those innumerable archdukes, or to prince george of saxony. pedro should, however, be written to, if you were favourably inclined towards him. i must end now, hoping soon to hear from you again. pedro is _just_ nineteen; he can therefore well wait till he has completed his twentieth year. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : both the queen and king leopold were desirous of arranging a marriage between king pedro and the princess charlotte, which, however, did not take place. see _post_, th october, , th june, , and rd may, .] [pageheading: russian procrastination] _queen victoria to the empress of the french._ [_draft._][ ] _septembre ._ je regrette autant que v.m.i. les divergences existantes entre les vues de nos deux gouvernements au sujet du traité de paris.[ ] [il est impossible pour nous cependant de céder aux russes les demandes qu'ils mettent en avant, seulement parcequ'elles sont soutenues par la france. le fait est que] ma manière d'envisager la situation actuelle est celle-ci: les russes ne cessent de suivre la même politique dès le commencement de la complication orientale jusqu'à présent. ils cèdent où la force majeure les y contraint, mais tâchent de se réserver par des chicanes ou subterfuges les moyens de reprendre à un temps plus opportun leurs attaques sur l'indépendance et l'intégrité de cette pauvre turquie. [nous au contraire sommes déterminés.] la france et l'angleterre au contraire ont manifesté leur détermination de la sauver et de l'assurer contre ces attaques. c'était là la cause de la guerre; c'était là le but de la paix; mon gouvernement n'oserait le sacrifier vis-à-vis de mon peuple par complaisance envers l'empereur de russie. un coup d'oeil sur la carte, par exemple, démontre qu'en détruisant ismail, kilia, etc., etc. [(acte auquel nous ne venons qu'à présent d'apprendre que la france avait donné son assentiment à notre insu)] la russie a privé l'aile droite de la nouvelle ligne de frontière de toute défense; tandis qu'en substituant le nouveau bolgrad à celui connu au congrès elle pousserait un point stratégique au centre, couperait la partie cédée de la bessarabie du reste de l'empire ottoman, et se mettrait à même de devenir de nouveau maîtresse de la rive gauche du danube, quand elle le voudra. comme dans ce cas [nous] nos deux pays sont tenus par traité à reprendre les armes, il me paraît de notre devoir à prévenir de tels dangers. ces dangers seront écartés à l'instant que la france s'unira à nous pour tenir un langage ferme à la russie, qui tâche de nous désunir et il ne faut pas qu'elle y réussisse. je vous exprime là toute ma pensée, sachant que l'empereur attend une franchise entière de son amie, convaincue aussi, que si son opinion diffère de la mienne, c'est dû au moins d'importance qu'il attache peut-être aux points en dispute avec la russie, et à un sentiment de générosité envers un ennemi vaincu, auquel il me serait doux de m'abandonner avec lui, si je pouvais le faire de manière à concilier les intérêts de la turquie et de l'europe. [footnote : this is the original draft, which appears to have been modified later by the omission of the sentences in brackets.] [footnote : the treaty had involved the restitution of the fortress and district of kars to turkey. the russians, however, delayed the stipulated evacuation in an unwarrantable manner. ismail also was included within the portion of bessarabia to be ceded to turkey, but, instead of surrendering it intact, the russians destroyed its fortifications; they also laid claim to serpent's island at the mouth of the danube, which was within the ceded portion, and of bolgrad, the future ownership of which was, owing to the inaccuracies of maps, in dispute. the english government sent a fleet to the black sea to enforce the obligations of the treaty, while the french government seemed to make unnecessary concessions to russia.] [pageheading: alterations suggested] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ taymouth, _ st september _. lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly ventures to express his opinion that the empress might think the tone of your majesty's letter rather too severe. it is by no means severe, but perfectly just and true as regards the conduct of russia and france, and on that very account it might wound the _amour-propre_ of the emperor. lord clarendon ventures to suggest the omission of the second sentence beginning by "_il est impossible_," and of the parenthesis at the bottom of the second page.[ ] in the concluding sentence it might perhaps be better to say "_la france et l'angleterre_" instead of "_nous_," which would possibly be taken as an announcement of separate action. your majesty might perhaps think it right to add after the last words "_tels dangers_"--"_ces dangers seront écartés à l'instant que la france s'unira à nous pour tenir un langage ferme à la russie qui tâche de nous désunir et il ne faut pas a s qu'elle y réussisse_."[ ] [footnote : _i.e._ the passage from "acte auquel" to "notre insu."] [footnote : the prince wrote in reply to this letter: "the draft of letter to the empress of the french has been altered in every particular as you suggest, and i will send you a corrected copy of it by to-morrow." see _post_, th november, , note .] _queen victoria to the duke of cambridge._ balmoral, _ nd september _. my dear george,--i waited to thank you for your letter of the th till i had received mary's from lord clarendon, which i did yesterday morning, and which i now return to you. it is admirably written, and does dear mary the greatest credit; she puts it on the _right_ ground, viz. that of the _protestant feeling_ which should _always_ actuate our family, and to this we _now must_ keep. it _effectually_ closes, however, the door to _all catholic_ proposals--whether from kings or princes, which makes matters easier. i must say, however, that i think it very wrong of _certain_ ladies to have spoken of mary's feelings and wishes on the subject, which has no doubt encouraged the idea when they had no reason for doing so. i am very glad that the decision has been so entirely dear mary's own, and that _she is_ convinced of my anxious wish for her happiness and welfare--which i have as much at heart as if she were my own sister. it is very necessary, however, that _not_ a word should be breathed of this whole affair, and i trust that you will caution your mother and sisters and their relations to be very silent on the subject, as it would be otherwise very offensive to the king. with albert's love, ever your very affectionate cousin, victoria r. [pageheading: death of lord hardinge] _queen victoria to viscountess hardinge._ balmoral, _ th september _. my dear lady hardinge,--where can i find words to express to you our _deep heartfelt_ sorrow at the sad and totally unexpected news conveyed to us by telegraph yesterday.[ ] my first thought was for you, dear lady hardinge, whose whole existence was so completely bound up in _his_, that this blow must be awful indeed. we feel _truly_ and sincerely what we, and the country, have lost in your dear, high-minded, noble husband, whose _only_ thought was _his duty_. a more loyal, devoted, fearless public servant the crown never possessed. his loss to _me_ is one of those which in our times is quite _irreparable_. added to all this we have ever had _such_ a true affection and personal friendship for dear lord hardinge, and know how warmly these feelings were requited. _all_ who had the pleasure of knowing him must ever remember his benevolent smile and kind eye. but i speak of ourselves and of what we have lost, when i _ought_ only to express _our_ sympathy with _you_, in your present overwhelming loss, but i could not restrain my pen, and the expression of our feelings may perhaps be soothing to your bleeding heart. most truly also do we sympathise with your children. pray do not think of answering this yourself, but let us hear through your son or daughter how you are. ever, dear lady hardinge, with the sincerest regard and truest sympathy, yours affectionately, victoria r. [footnote : lord hardinge, who had only temporarily rallied from the stroke he had received at aldershot, died on the th.] [pageheading: the archduke maximilian] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th october _. my dearest victoria,--since your kind letter of the nd i have not had any communications from you. i can well understand that it grieves you to leave the highlands. it is not a great proof of the happiness of human kind, that all love to be elsewhere than at the place where their real residence is, notwithstanding all songs of home sweet home, etc. i plead quite guilty to this, though i used to be much attached to my old home at coburg and to claremont. that the weather should have been unfavourable is a great pity; here we have had a most beautiful and mild weather till the th, when a severe thunderstorm put an end to it. poor lord hardinge! i believe after all, though all these people pretend _not_ to mind it, that the press killed him. i once told lady maryborough and the late duchess of wellington that it was fortunate the duke cared so little for the press. "care little," they said; "why, nothing annoys and irritates him more." i find it natural; doing one's best, working with all one's nerves, and to be abused for it, is not pleasant. to explain the real state of dear charlotte's affair i enclose the only copy of my letter which exists, and pray you kindly to send it me back. my object is and was that charlotte should decide as _she_ likes it, and uninfluenced by what i might prefer. _i_ should _prefer_ pedro, that i confess, but the archduke[ ] has made a favourable impression on charlotte; i saw that long before any question of engagement had taken place. the archduke is out at sea, and nothing can well be heard before the th of this month. if the thing takes place the emperor ought to put him at the head of venice; he is well calculated for it. i am going on the th to ardenne for a week. i have been since that revolution of kept away from it almost entirely, compared to former days. and now, with my best love to albert, i must end, remaining ever, my dearest victoria, your truly devoted and only uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the archduke ferdinand maximilian joseph of austria, afterwards emperor of mexico.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ balmoral, _ th october _. my dearest uncle,--i am truly thankful for your kind letter and the very confidential enclosure which i return, and which has interested us both very much, and is truly kind and paternal. i _still hope_ by your letter that charlotte has not finally made up her mind--as we both feel so strongly convinced of the immense superiority of pedro over any other young prince even _dans les relations journalistes_, besides which the position is so infinitely preferable. the austrian society is _médisante_ and profligate and worthless--and the italian possessions very shaky. pedro is full of resource--fond of music, fond of drawing, of languages, of natural history, and literature, in all of which charlotte would suit him, and would be a _real_ benefit to the country. if charlotte asked _me_, i should not hesitate a moment, as i would give any of my own daughters to him were he not a catholic; and if charlotte consulted her friend vicky i know what _her_ answer would be as she is so very fond of pedro. _ th._--i could not finish last night, and so continue to-day. i shall be most anxious to hear from you about charlotte, when a _final_ decision has been taken. since the th we have the _most beautiful weather_--with the country in the _most_ brilliant beauty--but _not_ the bracing weather which did one so much good; yesterday and to-day it is _quite_ warm and relaxing. albert has continued to have wonderful sport; not only has he killed seven more stags since i wrote, but the finest, largest stags in the whole neighbourhood--or indeed killed in almost any forest!... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: military efficiency] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ windsor castle, _ th november _. the queen has received lord panmure's two boxes of the th. she is glad to hear that the military and the defence committees of the cabinet are to be reassembled. the absence of all plans for our defences is a great evil, and hardly credible. there should exist a well-considered general scheme for each place supported by a detailed argument; this when approved by the government, should be sanctioned and signed by the sovereign, and not deviated from except upon resubmission and full explanation of the causes which render such deviation necessary; no special work should be undertaken which does not realise part of this general scheme. the queen trusts that lord panmure will succeed in effecting this. it is very much to be regretted that so few of the soldiers of the german legion should have accepted the liberal terms of the government. those should, however, be made to sail soon. the returns of the different departments for the last quarter show a lamentable deficiency in small arms. fifty-two thousand three hundred and twenty-two for the whole of the united kingdom is a sadly small reserve to have in store; we should never be short of , . the queen was struck also with the little work done at enfield. it appears that during the whole quarter this new and extensive establishment has completed only three muskets! with regard to some of the barracks, the tenders have not even yet been accepted, although the year is nearly drawing to a close. the queen hopes soon to receive the returns for the fortification department, which is fully two months in arrear.... with respect to the list for the bath, the queen is somewhat startled by the large number. before sanctioning it, she thinks it right to ask for an explanation of the services of the officers, and the reasons for which they are selected for the honour. she returns the list for that purpose to lord panmure, who will perhaps cause the statement to be attached to each name. this, of course, does not apply to the foreigners. amongst the sardinians, however, the queen observes the absence of the names of the military commissioners attached first to lord raglan and afterwards to general simpson. the first was a count revel, who has frequently applied for the honour, and the queen thinks ought to have it. [pageheading: france and russia] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th november _. lord clarendon presents his humble duty, and humbly begs to transmit a letter from the empress which was left here this afternoon by m. de persigny, who also left a despatch from count walewski, of which lord clarendon begs to transmit a copy.[ ] it is a most unsatisfactory result of all the tripotage that has been going on, as it is an invitation _pur et simple_ to reassemble the conference with prussia, and to abide by the decision of the majority. lord clarendon is to see m. de persigny to-morrow morning. [footnote : count walewski had written to count persigny: "the communications which i have received give us cause to fear that her majesty's government may persist in declining the proposal to reassemble the conference.... we only know of five powers which have had an opportunity to express an opinion on the point at issue.... it appears that sardinia has not yet formed her decision. we cannot therefore foresee in what sense the majority will pronounce, and it is evident to us that the reunion will realise the object desired, that of bringing on a decision which cannot be questioned by any one, seeing that it will have been obtained by the concurrence of the representatives of all the powers."] [pageheading: neuchÂtel] _the empress of the french to queen victoria._ compiÈgne, _le novembre _. madame et trÈs chÈre s[oe]ur,--je viens après plus de deux mois m'excuser près de votre majesté d'une faute bien involontaire; par quelques mots que persigny m'a dit j'ai cru comprendre que votre majesté s'étonnait que je ne lui eusse pas écrit en réponse à sa lettre. la seule crainte d'ennuyer votre majesté m'a empêché de le faire, je croyais d'ailleurs que vous n'aviez pas besoin d'assurances sur la bonne foi et surtout sur la bonne volonté de l'empereur. j'espère que grâce à dieu tous les petits différens qui ont surgi dans ces derniers temps s'aplaniront, car c'est l'intérêt des deux pays, et le v[oe]u le plus cher que nous puissions former.[ ] l'empereur a été bien peiné d'apprendre les fausses suppositions auxquelles out donné lieu un désaccord momentaire; il n'aurait jamais supposé que le désir de maintenir un engagement pris peut-être même trop à la hâte, mais dont un honnête homme ne peut se départir ait pu faire croire que l'alliance avec votre majesté ne lui était pas tout aussi chère et tout aussi précieuse qu'auparavant; il est heureux de penser que la réunion de la conférence sera un moyen de tout arranger, puisque l'opinion de la sardaigne n'était pas encore connue; elle créera par sa voix une majorité, et le gouvernement français ne faisant rien pour influencer l'opinion du piémont, le cabinet de votre majesté peut sans concession accepter cette combinaison. je ne saurais assez dire combien pour ma part je suis tourmentée, car je voudrais partout et en tout voir nos deux pays marcher d'accord et surtout quand ils ont le même but. nous sommes à compiègne depuis trois semaines, l'empereur chasse souvent, ce qui l'amuse beaucoup et lui fait beaucoup de bien... l'empereur me charge de le mettre aux pieds de votre majesté. je la prie en même temps de ne point nous oublier auprès du prince albert, et vous, madame, croyez au tendre attachement que [je] vous ai voué et avec lequel je suis, madame et très chère s[oe]ur, de votre majesté la toute dévouée s[oe]ur, eugÉnie. [footnote : besides the complications arising out of the procrastination of russia, in carrying out the treaty of paris, an international difficulty had lately arisen in switzerland. a rising, professedly in defence of the hereditary interests of the king of prussia, took place in the canton of neuchâtel, but was suppressed, and some of the insurgents taken prisoners by the republican government. the king of prussia virtually expressed his approval of the movement by claiming the liberation of the prisoners, and his action was, to some extent, countenanced by the french emperor. the matter was finally adjusted in .] [pageheading: m. de persigny] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th november _. lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to transmit the letters which arrived yesterday together with a copy of count walewski's despatch. lord clarendon begs to return his thanks to your majesty for allowing him to see the empress's letter.... the letter does not seem to require an answer at present. lord clarendon had a conversation of two hours this morning with m. de persigny, who fought all his battles o'er again, but did not say much beyond what lord cowley had reported. he is quite sure that the emperor is as staunch as ever to the alliance, and that he believes all his own personal interests as well as those of france are bound up with england. he said, too, that the empress was not the least taken in by the flatteries of russia, which she estimates at their _juste valeur_. m. de persigny seems to have performed an act of painful duty and rather of true devotion, by giving the empress some advice about her own conduct and the fate she was preparing for herself if she was not more properly mindful of her position and the obligations it entails. lord clarendon has seldom heard anything more eloquent or more touching than the language of m. de persigny in describing what he said to the empress, who appears to have taken it in the best part, and to have begun acting upon the advice the next day. m. de persigny has no doubt that count walewski will soon be removed from his present office, and will be _promoted to st. petersburg_, but lord clarendon will wait to believe this until it is a _fait accompli_, as it is more likely than not that when m. de persigny is no longer on the spot to urge the emperor, count walewski will resume his influence. count walewski's despatch made a very unfavourable impression upon the cabinet, who were of opinion that upon such an invitation and such slender assurances respecting the course that sardinia might take, we ought not to give up our solid and often repeated objections to reassembling the congress--at all events it was considered that we ought to have a positive answer from turin before we gave a final answer.... [pageheading: sir alexander cockburn] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th november _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that sir alexander cockburn[ ] accepts the office of chief justice of the common pleas, but expresses a strong wish not altogether to be shut out from parliamentary functions. his health, which has frequently interfered with his attendance in the house of commons, makes him feel uncertain as to the future, and he is not desirous of being immediately placed in the house of lords, but he would be glad to be allowed to look forward to such a favour from your majesty at some future time if he should find his health stand sufficiently good to give him a fair prospect of being useful in the house of lords. he says that with the baronetcy of an uncle he will succeed to an estate of £ , a year, independent of what he has realised by his own professional exertions; and that consequently there would be a provision for a peerage. viscount palmerston begs to submit for your majesty's gracious approval that such a prospect might be held out to sir alexander cockburn. the chancellor and lord lansdowne and lord granville concur with viscount palmerston in thinking that much public advantage would arise from the presence of both sir alexander cockburn, and of the master of the rolls,[ ] in the house of lords, and there are numerous precedents for the chief justice of the common pleas, and for the master of the rolls being peers of parliament.[ ] their judicial duties would no doubt prevent them from sitting in the morning on appeal cases, but their presence in the evening in debates in which the opinions and learning of men holding high positions in the legal profession would be required, could not fail to be of great public advantage. of course any expectation to be held out to sir alexander cockburn would for the present be a confidential and private communication to himself.... [footnote : sir alexander cockburn's parliamentary success dated from his speech in the don pacifico debate; see _ante_, vol. ii., p. , note . he was made solicitor-general shortly after, and then attorney-general, being reappointed to the latter office in the end of . he had defended both mcnaghten and pate for attacks on the queen's person. the uncle whom he soon afterwards succeeded as baronet was now dean of york.] [footnote : sir john romilly, created a peer in .] [footnote : _e.g._, lord eldon in the former office; lord langdale in the latter.] [pageheading: prince charles of leiningen] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ st november _. my dearest victoria,--on vicky's sixteenth birthday i cannot write on black-edged paper, it looks too gloomy, and i begin by wishing you joy on this day, with the sincere hope that it will also _dans l'avenir_ prove to you one of satisfaction and happiness. i must now turn to your kind and affectionate letter of the th. i was sure that your warm heart would feel deeply the loss we have sustained.[ ] you must, however, remember that you were ever a most affectionate sister, and that charles was fully aware and most grateful for these your kind and sisterly sentiments. the real blow was last year; if that could have been mitigated, life might have been preserved under tolerable circumstances. as things, however, proceeded, if the present attack could have been warded off, charles's existence would have been one of the most awful suffering, particularly for one whose mental disposition was quick and lively. your sentiments on this occasion do you honour; it is by feelings like those you express that evidently _der anknüpfungspunkt_ with a future life must be looked for, and that alone with such sentiments we can show ourselves fit for such an existence. for your precious health we must now claim that you will not permit your imagination to dwell too much on the very melancholy picture of the last moments of one whom you loved, however natural it may be, and however difficult it is to dismiss such ideas. feo feels all this in a most beautiful and truly pious way. it is strange that november should be so full of sad anniversaries. i can well understand what vicky must have suffered, as it could not be expected that fritz wilhelm could quite understand her grief.... now i must leave you, remaining ever, my beloved victoria, your truly devoted uncle, leopold r. my best love to albert. [footnote : the queen's half-brother, prince charles of leiningen, had died on the th.] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th november _. the queen approves the recommendation of mr bickersteth[ ] for the vacant bishopric of ripon, but she cannot disguise from herself that however excellent a man mr bickersteth may be, his appointment will be looked upon as a strong party one, as he is one of the leaders of the low church party; but perhaps lord palmerston may be able in the case of possible future appointments to remove any impression of the church patronage running unduly towards party extremes. [footnote : mr bickersteth (a nephew of lord langdale, a former master of the rolls) was then rector of st giles'. lord palmerston had written that he thought him well qualified for a diocese "full of manufacturers, clothier-workmen, methodists, and dissenters."] [pageheading: the queen's grief] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november _. my dearest uncle,--i was again prevented from writing to you yesterday as i intended, by multitudinous letters, etc. i therefore come only to-day with my warmest thanks for your most kind, feeling, and sympathising letter of the rd, which i _felt deeply_. poor dear charles, i loved him _tenderly_ and _dearly_, and feel every day _more_ how impossible it is that the great blank caused by his loss should _ever_ be filled up, and how _impossible it is to realise_ the dreadful thought that i shall never see his dear, dear face again in this world! all the accounts of his peaceful death, of his fine and touching funeral, seem to me to be the descriptions of _another person's_ death and burial--not poor dear charles's. don't fear for my health, it is particularly good--and _grief_ never seems to affect it; little worries and annoyances fret and irritate me, but _not great_ or sad events. and i _derive_ benefit and _relief_ both in my body and soul in _dwelling_ on the sad object which is _the_ one which fills my heart! the having to think and talk of other and indifferent things (i mean _not_ business so much) is very trying to my nerves, and does me harm. vicky is well again, and the young couple seem really very fond of each other. we have from living [together] for twelve days--as we did entirely alone with him and vicky in our own apartments--got to know him much more intimately, and to be much more _à notre aise_ with him than we could be in the london season, and he is now quite _l'enfant de la maison!_ he is excellent and very sensible. i hope that you may be equally pleased and satisfied with _your_ future son-in-law. i must now conclude in great haste; excellent stockmar is particularly well and brisk. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th december _. lord palmerston's explanation of lord panmure's object in proposing the appointment of a director-general of education of the army in the civil department of its government has but confirmed the queen's apprehensions as to the effect of that step, if sanctioned. the queen has for some time been expecting the proposal of a well-digested and considered plan for the education of the officers of the army, and knows that the duke of cambridge has had such a one elaborated. surely, in the absence of any fixed and approved system of education, it would be most imprudent to establish an office for the discharge of certain important functions which are not yet defined. the queen must therefore ask that the system of education to be in future adopted should first be submitted to her, and afterwards only the plan for the machinery which is to carry this out, the fitness of which can only be properly judged of with reference to the object in view. _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ osborne, _ th december _. the queen returns the enclosed letters. sir h. bulwer's is a clever composition, showing his wit and powers of writing. the queen has never, however, seen anything from him producing the impression that great and important affairs would be safe in his hands. the mission to washington will be difficult to fill.[ ] is it necessary to be in a hurry about it? lord elgin is sure to perform the duties very well, but is his former position as governor-general of canada not too high for him to go to washington as minister?... [footnote : a complaint had been made by the government of the united states of the unlawful enlistment in that country of recruits for the english army, and mr crampton, the british minister at washington, had been dismissed. diplomatic relations were resumed after a suspension of some months; and lord napier was appointed british minister in march .] [pageheading: the maharajah dhuleep singh] _memorandum by queen victoria._ osborne, _ th december ._ the queen has seen the memorandum which the maharajah dhuleep singh has sent to the east india company; she thinks all he asks very fair and reasonable, and she trusts that the east india company will be able to comply with them. as we are in complete possession since of the maharajah's enormous and splendid kingdom, the queen thinks we ought to do _everything_ (which does not interfere with the safety of her indian dominions) to render the position of this interesting and peculiarly good and amiable prince as agreeable as possible, and not to let him have the feeling that he is _a prisoner_. his being a christian and completely european (or rather more english) in his habits and feelings, renders this much more necessary, and at the same time more easy. the queen has a very strong feeling that everything should be done to show respect and kindness towards these poor fallen indian princes, whose kingdoms we have taken from them, and who are naturally very sensitive to attention and kindness. amongst all these, however, the maharajah stands to a certain degree alone, from his civilisation, and likewise from his having lost his kingdom when he was a child entirely by the faults and misdeeds of others.[ ] [footnote : in reply, mr vernon smith stated that he had brought all the queen's wishes before the company.] [pageheading: military education] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th december ._ in answer to lord palmerston's explanation with regard to colonel lefroy's[ ] appointment, the queen has to say, that if he is to be made inspector of regimental schools, she has no objection; but she must protest against his being made _director_ of education for the army generally. we want a director-general of education very much, but he ought to be immediately under the commander-in-chief, if possible a general officer of weight, assisted by a board of officers of the different arms. education ought to be made one of the essential requisites of an officer, and the reports on his proficiency ought to go direct through the proper superior from the bottom to the top, particularly if selection by merit is to receive a greater application for the future. if for his military proficiency and moral discipline, an officer is to be responsible to his military chief, but for his mental acquirements to a civil department, the unity of the system will be broken and the army ruined; and this _must_ be the case if the superintendence of the education is separated from the military command. the subject of military education has, as lord palmerston says, often been discussed in parliament, which expects that some sufficient arrangement shall be made for it. but the mere creation of a place for an officer, however meritorious, to find him an equivalent for one which has to be reduced, can hardly be so called, and may even defeat the object itself. this subject is a most important one, and ought to be thoroughly examined before acting. the queen understands that the duke of cambridge has transmitted to lord panmure a complete scheme, which must be now before him. if lord palmerston, lord panmure, the duke of cambridge, and the prince were to meet to consider this scheme, and the whole question in connection with it, the queen would feel every confidence that a satisfactory decision would be arrived at. [footnote : john henry lefroy, who now became inspector-general of army schools, was an artillery officer of considerable scientific attainments. many years later he was k.c.m.g. and governor of tasmania.] [pageheading: bessarabia] _the emperor of the french to queen victoria._ [_undated._] madame et trÈs chÈre s[oe]ur,--le prince frédéric guillaume m'a remis la lettre que votre majesté a bien voulu lui donner pour moi. les expressions si amicales employées par votre majesté m'ont vivement touché et quoique je fusse persuadé que la diversité d'opinion de nos deux gouvernements ne pouvait en rien altérer vos sentiments à mon égard, j'ai été heureux d'en recevoir la douce confirmation. le prince de prusse nous a beaucoup plu et je ne doute pas qu'il ne fasse le bonheur de la princesse royale, car il me semble avoir toutes les qualités de son âge et de son rang. nous avons tâché de lui rendre le séjour de paris aussi agréable que possible, mais je crois que ses pensées étaient toujours à osborne ou à windsor. il me tarde bien que toutes les discussions relatives au traité de paix aient un terme, car les partis en france en profitent pour tenter d'affaiblir l'intimité de l'alliance.[ ] je ne doute pas néanmoins que le bon sens populaire en fasse promptement justice de toutes les faussetés qu'on a répandues. votre majesté, je l'espère, ne doutera jamais de mon désir de marcher d'accord avec son gouvernement et du regret que j'éprouve quand momentairement cet accord n'existe pas. en la priant de présenter mes hommages à s.a.r. la duchesse de kent et mes tendres amitiés au prince, je lui renouvelle l'assurance de la sincère amitié et de l'entier dévouement avec lesquels je suis, de votre majesté, le bon frère et ami, napolÉon. [footnote : a settlement with russia of the disputed bessarabian frontier was at length decided upon, on lines suggested by the emperor to the british government.] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ the grove, _ nd december ._ lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to transmit a letter from lord cowley, which contains the report of a curious conversation with the emperor, and which might make a despatch not very unlike sir h. seymour's when he reported the partitioning views of the emperor nicholas.[ ] it is curious that in both cases the bribe to england should be egypt. the emperor of the french said nothing about the share of the spoils that france would look for, but his majesty means morocco, and marshal vaillant[ ] talked to lord clarendon of morocco as necessary to france, just as the americans declare that the united states are not safe without cuba.... [footnote : see _ante_, th may, , note . the queen does not appear to have preserved a copy of lord cowley's letter.] [footnote : minister of war.] [pageheading: the dispute adjusted] _queen victoria to the emperor of the french._ chÂteau de windsor, _le décembre ._ sire et cher frÈre,--je saisis avec empressement l'occasion de la nouvelle année pour remercier votre majesté de son aimable lettre, en vous priant d'agréer mes bons v[oe]ux autant pour le bonheur de v.m. que pour celui de l'impératrice et de votre fils. la nouvelle année commence encore avec le bruit des préparatifs de guerre, mais j'espère qu'on restera aux préparatifs et après le rapprochement qui a eu lieu entre vous, sire, et la prusse, j'ai toute confiance qu'il vous sera possible d'assurer une solution pacifique de cette question suisse,[ ] malheureusement envenimée par l'amour-propre froissé de tous côtés. je suis bien heureuse que nos difficultés survenues à l'exécution du traité de paris soient maintenant entièrement aplanies et que ce que v.m. signalait dans votre lettre comme une espérance soit à présent une réalité. rien ne viendra désormais, je l'espère, troubler notre bonne entente qui donne une garantie si importante au bien-être de l'europe. nous avons été bien contents d'apprendre que notre futur gendre vous ait tant plu; il nous a écrit plein de reconnaissance de l'aimable accueil que vous lui avez donné et plein d'admiration de tout ce qu'il a vu à paris. ma mère se remet peu à peu de la terrible secousse qu'elle a éprouvée, et me charge ainsi que le prince de leurs félicitations pour le jour de l'an. j'embrasse l'impératrice et me dis pour toujours, sire et cher frère, de v.m.i., la bien affectionnée s[oe]ur, et fidèle amie, victoria r. [footnote : see _ante_, th november, , note .] introductory note to chapter xxvi the closing months of had witnessed the beginning of a dispute with china, a party of chinese having boarded the lorcha _arrow_, a vessel registered under a recent ordinance of hong kong, arrested the crew as pirates, and torn down the british flag. the captain's right to fly the flag was questionable, for the term of registry, even if valid in the first instance, which was disputed, had expired (though the circumstance was unknown to the chinese authorities), and the ship's earlier history under the chinese flag had been an evil one. but sir john bowring, british plenipotentiary at hong kong, took punitive measures to enforce treaty obligations; admiral seymour destroyed the forts on the river, and occupied the island and fort of dutch folly. in retaliation, the chinese governor yeh put a price on bowring's head, and his assassination, and that of other residents, by poison, was attempted. the british government's action, however, was stigmatised as highhanded, and a resolution censuring them was carried in the commons, being moved by mr cobden and supported by a coalition of conservatives, peelites, and the peace party,--lord john russell also opposing the government. in consequence of this vote, parliament was dissolved, and at the ensuing election the peace party was scattered to the winds; bright, milner gibson, and cobden all losing their seats. lord palmerston obtained a triumphant majority in the new house of commons, of which mr j. e. denison was elected speaker in succession to mr shaw-lefevre, now created viscount eversley. at the end of the year an ultimatum was sent to governor yeh, requiring observance of the treaty of nankin, canton was bombarded, and subsequently occupied by the english and french troops. hostilities with persia were terminated by a treaty signed at paris; the shah engaging to abstain from interference in afghanistan, and to recognise the independence of herat. a century had passed since the victory of clive at plassey, but the afghan disasters and the more recent war with russia had caused doubts to arise as to british stability in india, where the native forces were very large in comparison with the european. other causes, among which may be mentioned the legalising of the remarriage of hindoo widows, and a supposed intention to coerce the natives into christianity, were operating to foment dissatisfaction, while recent acts of insubordination and symptoms of mutiny had been inadequately repressed; but the immediate visible provocation to mutiny among the bengal troops was the use of cartridges said to be treated with a preparation of the fat of pigs and cows, the use of which was abhorrent, on religious grounds, both to hindoos and mohammedans. the governor-general assured the sepoys by proclamation that no offence to their religion or injury to their caste was intended; but on the th of may the native portion of the garrison at meerut broke out in revolt. the mutineers proceeded to delhi, and were joined by the native troops there; they established as emperor the octogenarian king, a man of unscrupulous character, who had been living under british protection. great cruelties were practised on the european population of all ages and both sexes, at lucknow, allahabad, and especially cawnpore; by the end of june, the sepoys had mutinied at twenty-two stations--the districts chiefly affected being bengal, the north-west provinces, and oudh. to cope with this state of things, a large body of british soldiers on their way to china were diverted by lord elgin to india, and a force of , men was despatched from england round the cape; while sir colin campbell was sent out as commander-in-chief. meanwhile reinforcements had been drawn from the punjab, which had remained loyal. lucknow was for a long time besieged by the rebels, and sir henry lawrence, its gallant defender, killed. the garrison was reinforced on the th of september by general havelock; but the non-combatants could not be extricated from their perilous position till november, when the garrison was relieved by sir colin campbell. delhi was taken in the course of september, but a considerable period elapsed before the rebellion was finally suppressed. summary vengeance was inflicted on the sepoy rebels, which gave rise to some criticism of our troops for inhumanity; but lord canning, the governor-general, was no less severely blamed for his clemency; and the general verdict was in favour of the measures adopted by the military and civilian officers, whose zeal and capacity suppressed the mutiny. before the dissolution of parliament, mr gladstone and mr disraeli had joined in an attack on the budget of sir george lewis, and the peelite ex-chancellor of the exchequer seemed for the moment disposed definitely to return to the conservative party. to the divorce bill, the chief legislative result of the second session, mr gladstone gave a persistent and unyielding opposition: but it passed the commons by large majorities; a bill for the removal of jewish disabilities was much debated, but not carried. in august, another visit, this time of a private character, was paid by the emperor and empress of the french to the queen at osborne. in the middle of november a series of commercial disasters of great magnitude took place. the government, as in , authorised the infringement for a time of the bank charter act, and a third session was held to pass an act of indemnity. chapter xxvi _queen victoria to mr labouchere._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the despatches from sir george grey[ ] which the queen returns are most interesting. the two chief objects to accomplish appear to be the bringing the kaffirs in british kaffraria within the pale of the law, so that they may know the blessings of it--and the re-absorption, if possible, of the orange river free state. to both these objects the efforts of the government should be steadily directed. [footnote : see _ante_, th july, . the task of dealing with the hottentots and kaffirs, and coming to an understanding with the recalcitrant boers, was a difficult one.] [pageheading: home and foreign policy] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ broadlands, _ th january _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and he and lady palmerston will have the honour of waiting upon your majesty as soon as he is able to move. he is, however, at present on crutches, and can hardly expect to be in marching order for some few days to come. with regard to the matters that are likely to be discussed when parliament meets, viscount palmerston would beg to submit that the one which has for some months past occupied the attention of all europe, namely, the execution of the treaty of paris, has been settled in a manner satisfactory to all parties; and this is not only a great relief to the government, but is also a security for the continuance of the anglo-french alliance, which would have been greatly endangered by the discussions and explanations that might otherwise have been forced on. the various questions of difference between your majesty's government, and that of the united states, have also been settled, and the diplomatic relations between the two countries are about to be replaced upon their usual footing. this result will have given great satisfaction to the commercial and manufacturing interests. some discussion will take place as to the expedition to the coast of persia, and some persons will, of course, find fault with the whole policy pursued on that matter; but people in general will understand that herat is an advanced post of attack against british india, and that whatever belongs nominally to persia must be considered as belonging practically to russia, whenever russia may want to use it for her own purposes. the outbreak of hostilities at canton[ ] was the result of the decision of your majesty's officers on the spot, and not the consequence of orders from home. the first responsibility must therefore rest with the local authorities, but viscount palmerston cannot doubt that the government will be deemed to have acted right in advising your majesty to approve the proceedings, and to direct measures for obtaining from the chinese government concessions which are indispensable for the maintenance of friendly relations between china and the governments of europe. of domestic questions, that which will probably be the most agitated will be a large and immediate diminution of the income tax; but any such diminution would disturb the financial arrangements of the country, and it is to be hoped that parliament will adopt the scheme which will be proposed by sir g. c. lewis, by which the income tax would be made equal in each of the next three years, the amount now fixed by law for being diminished, but the amount now fixed by law for and being increased.... viscount palmerston hears from persons likely to know, that the conservative party are not more united than they were last session. that mr disraeli and the great bulk of his nominal followers are far from being on good terms together, and that there is no immediate junction to be expected between mr disraeli and mr gladstone.[ ] mr cobden has given it to be understood that he wishes at the next general election to retire from the west riding of yorkshire. the real fact being that the line he took about the late war has made him so unpopular with his constituents that he would probably not be returned again.[ ] viscount palmerston has heard privately and confidentially that lord john russell wrote some little time ago to the duke of bedford to say that it had been intimated to him that an offer would be made to him if he were disposed to accept it, to go to the house of lords and to become there the leader of the government. in case your majesty may have heard this report, viscount palmerston thinks it right to say that no such communication to lord john russell was ever authorised by him, nor has been, so far as he is aware, ever made, and in truth viscount palmerston must candidly say that in the present state of public opinion about the course which lord john has on several occasions pursued, he is not inclined to think that his accession to the government would give the government any additional strength. [footnote : see _ante_, introductory note, to chapter xxvi. the difficulty with china had arisen out of her refusal to throw open the city of canton to european trade in conformity with the treaty of nankin, _ante_, vol. i. rd november, . sir john bowring, chief superintendent of trade (and, in effect, british plenipotentiary) at hong-kong, had resented this, and the feeling thus engendered had come to a crisis on the occasion of the seizure of the crew of the _arrow_.] [footnote : the probability of this combination was now being perpetually mooted, and, in fact, the two ex-chancellors combined in attacking the budget.] [footnote : he stood instead for huddersfleld, and was defeated by an untried politician; one liberal (the present lord ripon) and one conservative were returned unopposed in the west riding.] [pageheading: church appointments] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. the queen would wish to know before she approves of the appointment of mr alford, of quebec chapel, to the head deanery of canterbury, whether he is a very low churchman, as lord palmerston will remember that he agreed in her observation after the appointment of several of the bishops, that it would be advisable to choose those who were of moderate opinions--not leaning too much to either side. extreme opinions lead to mischief in the end, and produce much discord in the church, which it would be advisable to avoid.[ ] with respect to the garter, which the duke of norfolk has declined, she approves of its being offered to the duke of portland.[ ] she thinks that the one now vacant by the death of poor lord ellesmere[ ] might most properly be bestowed on lord granville--he is lord president and leader of the house of lords, and acquitted himself admirably in his difficult mission as ambassador to the emperor of russia's coronation. should lord palmerston agree in this view he might at once mention it to lord granville. [footnote : the deanery was offered to and accepted by mr alford.] [footnote : william john cavendish bentinck-scott, fifth duke ( - ). he did not accept the honour, which was conferred on the marquis of westminster.] [footnote : lord francis egerton had inherited a vast property from the third and last duke of bridgewater (the projector of english inland navigation), and was created earl of ellesmere in . the garter was accepted by lord granville.] [pageheading: debate on chinese affairs] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has seen mr hayter[ ] this morning, and finds from him that the disposition of the house of commons is improving, and that many of the supporters of the government who had at first thought of voting with mr cobden[ ] are changing their minds. it has been suggested to viscount palmerston that it would be useful to have a meeting of the party in downing street on monday, and that many wavering members only want to have something said to them which they could quote as a reason for changing their intended course; and viscount palmerston has given directions for summoning such a meeting. lord derby has had meetings of his followers, and has told them that unless they will support him in a body he will cease to be their leader, as he will not be the head of a divided party. viscount palmerston can scarcely bring himself to believe that the house of commons will be so fickle as suddenly and without reason to turn round upon the government, and after having given them last session and this session large majorities on important questions, put them in a minority on what mr disraeli last night in a few words said on the motion for adjournment described as a vote of censure. with regard, however, to the question put by your majesty as to what would be the course pursued by the government in the event of a defeat, viscount palmerston could hardly answer it without deliberation with his colleagues. his own firm belief is that the present government has the confidence of the country in a greater degree than any other government that could now be formed would have, and that consequently upon a dissolution of parliament, a house of commons would be returned more favourable to the government than the present. whether the state of business as connected with votes of supply and the mutiny act would admit of a dissolution, supposing such a measure to be sanctioned by your majesty, would remain to be enquired into; but viscount palmerston believes that there would be no insurmountable difficulty on that score. he will have the honour of waiting upon your majesty at a little before three to-morrow. [footnote : mr (afterwards sir) william hayter, liberal whip, the father of lord haversham.] [footnote : see _ante_, introductory note, to chapter xxvi. mr cobden's motion of censure affirmed that the papers laid on the table of the house did not justify the violent measures resorted to by the government at canton in the affair of the _arrow_. he was supported by lord john russell, mr roebuck, mr gladstone, and mr disraeli, the latter emphatically challenging the premier to appeal to the country.] _the prince albert to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ rd march _. my dear lord palmerston,--the queen has this moment received your letter giving so unfavourable an account of the prospects of to-night's division. she is sorry that her health imperatively requires her going into the country for a few days, and having put off her going to windsor on account of the debate which was expected to close yesterday, she cannot now do so again to-day. she feels, however, the inconvenience of her absence should the division turn out as ill as is now anticipated. the queen could not possibly come to a decision on so important a point as a dissolution without a personal discussion and conference with you, and therefore hopes that you might be able to go down to-morrow perhaps for dinner and to stay over the night. the queen feels herself physically quite unable to go through the anxiety of a ministerial crisis and the fruitless attempt to form a new government out of the heterogeneous elements out of which the present opposition is composed, should the government feel it necessary to offer their resignation, and would on that account _prefer any other alternative_.... ever, etc., albert. [pageheading: defeat of the government] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._[ ] house of commons, _ th march ._ (_quarter to eight._) viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that his communication to the house of an intention to give the constituencies of the country an opportunity of judging between the present government and any other administration which might be formed, has been on the whole well received, and, with the exception of mr gladstone, most of the persons who spoke intimated a willingness to allow without interruption the completion of such business as may be necessary before the dissolution. mr disraeli said that he and those who act with him would give all fair assistance consistent with their opinions, but hoped nothing would be proposed to which they could reasonably object. mr gladstone, with great vehemence, repelled the charge of combination, evidently meaning to answer attacks made out of the house.... the result of what passed seems to be that no serious difficulty will be thrown in the way of an early dissolution. [footnote : mr cobden's motion was carried by to , and lord palmerston promptly accepted mr disraeli's challenge to dissolve parliament.] _earl granville to queen victoria._ [_undated._ ? _ th march ._] lord granville presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to submit that lord derby made a speech of two hours, in which he glanced at the present state of affairs.[ ] he made a personal attack on lord palmerston, and described his colleagues as cyphers and appendages. the rest of his speech was of a singularly apologetic and defensive character. he was quite successful in clearing himself from an understanding--not from political conversations with mr gladstone. lord granville, in his reply, was thought very discourteous by lord malmesbury and lord hardwicke, who closed the conversation. [footnote : lord derby's resolutions in the lords, which were to the same effect as mr cobden's motion, were rejected by to . on the th of march lord derby took the opportunity of announcing the views of his chief supporters in reference to the general election.] [pageheading: retirement of the speaker] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._[ ] piccadilly, _ th march _. ... viscount palmerston begs to state that the speaker has chosen the title of eversley, the name of a small place near his residence[ ] in hampshire, all the large towns in the county having already been adopted as titles for peers. the ordinary course would be that your majesty should make him a baron, and that is the course which was followed in the cases of mr abbot made lord colchester, and mr abercromby made lord dunfermline; but in the case of mr manners sutton a different course was pursued, and he was made viscount canterbury. the present speaker is very anxious that his services, which, in fact, have been more meritorious and useful than those of mr manners sutton, should not appear to be considered by your majesty as less deserving of your majesty's royal favour, and as the present speaker may justly be said to have been the best who ever filled the chair, viscount palmerston would beg to submit for your majesty's gracious approval that he may be created viscount eversley. it will be well at the same time if your majesty should sanction this arrangement that a record should be entered at the home office stating that this act of grace and favour of your majesty being founded on the peculiar circumstances of the case, is not to [be] deemed a precedent for the cases of future speakers. lord canterbury was also made a grand cross of the civil order of the bath; it will be for your majesty to consider whether it might not be gracious to follow in all respects on the present occasion the course which was pursued in the case of mr manners sutton. [footnote : on the th, mr speaker shaw-lefevre had announced in the house of commons his intended retirement from the chair, which he had occupied since , when his election had been made a trial of strength between parties. he was voted an annuity of £ , a year, and created viscount eversley, receiving also the g.c.b.] [footnote : heckfield place, near winchfield.] [pageheading: the general election] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th march _. my dearest uncle,--... the opposition have played their game most foolishly, and the result is that _all_ the old tories say they will certainly _not_ support them; they very truly say lord derby's party--that is those who want to get into office _coûte que coûte_--whether the country suffers for it or not, wanted to get in under _false colours_, and that they won't support or abide--which they are _quite_ right in. there is reason to hope that a better class of men will be returned, and returned to support the government, not a particular cry of this or that.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r.[ ] [footnote : in his address to the electors of tiverton, the premier declared that "an insolent barbarian, wielding authority at canton, had violated the british flag, broken the engagements of treaties, offered rewards for the heads of british subjects in that part of china, and planned their destruction by murder, assassination, and poison." the courage and good temper displayed by lord palmerston, and the energy with which he had carried the country through the crimean struggle, had won him widespread popularity, and the peace party were generally routed, the prominent members all losing their seats. the peelite ranks were also thinned, but lord john russell, contrary to general expectation, held his seat in the city. there were one hundred and eighty-nine new members returned, and the ministry found themselves in command of a handsome majority.] _earl granville to queen victoria._ [_undated._ ? _ th may ._] lord granville presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to submit that the lord chancellor made the best statement he has yet done, introducing his divorce bill.[ ]... lord lyndhurst made a most able speech in favour of the bill, but wished it to go further, and give permission to a woman to sue for a divorce if she was "maliciously deserted" by her husband.... the bishop of oxford pretended that he was not going to speak at all, in order to secure his following instead of preceding the bishop of london; but upon a division being called he was obliged to speak, and did so with considerable force and eloquence, but betraying the greatest possible preparation. the bishop of london, after showing that the bishop of oxford's speech was a repetition of mr keble's speech, made an excellent answer. the debate was finished by the duke of argyll. for the bill, . against it, . [footnote : before this date a divorce could only be obtained in england by act of parliament, after sentence in the ecclesiastical court, and (in the case of a husband's application) a verdict in _crim. con._ against the adulterer. the present english law was established by the bill of , the chief amendment made in committee being the provision exempting the clergy from the obligation to marry divorced persons. bishop wilberforce opposed the bill strenuously, while archbishop sumner and bishop tait of london supported it. sir richard bethell, the attorney-general, piloted the measure most skilfully through the commons, in the teeth of the eloquent and persistent opposition of mr gladstone, who, to quote a letter from lord palmerston to the queen, opposed the second reading "in a speech of two hours and a half, fluent, eloquent, brilliant, full of theological learning and scriptural research, but fallacious in argument, and with parts inconsistent with each other."] [pageheading: the french _entente_] [pageheading: the emperor's visit] _the earl of clarendon to the prince albert._ _ th may ._ sir,--i have the honour to inform your royal highness that i have had a very long and interesting conversation with m. de persigny to-day. he told me of the different _utopias_ which the emperor had in his head, of his majesty's conviction that england, france, and russia ought between them to _régler les affaires de l'europe_, of the _peu de cas_ which he made of austria or any other power, and of the various little complaints which his majesty thought he had against her majesty's government, and which had been magnified into importance by the malevolence or the stupidity of the persons who had more or less the ear of the emperor.[ ] m. de persigny told me also that in a conversation with the emperor at which he had taken care that count walewski should be present, he had solemnly warned the emperor of the danger he would incur if he swerved the least from the path of his true interest which was the english alliance, that all the sovereigns who were flattering and cajoling him for their own purposes looked down upon him as an adventurer, and no more believed in the stability of his throne, or the duration of his dynasty, than they did in any other events of which extreme improbability was the character; whereas the english, who never condescended to flatter or cajole anybody, but who looked to the interests of england, were attached to the french alliance and to the sovereign of france because peaceful relations with that country were of the utmost importance to england. france was the only country in europe that could do england harm, and on the other hand england was the only country that could injure france--the late war with russia had not the slightest effect upon france except costing her money, but a war with england would set every party in france into activity each with its own peculiar objects, but all of them against the existing order of things--_l'ordre social serait bouleversé_ and the empire might perish in the convulsion. the result of this and other conversations appears to be an earnest desire of the emperor to come to england on a private visit to the queen, if possible at osborne, and at any time that might be convenient to her majesty. m. de persigny describes him as being intent upon this project, and as attaching the utmost importance to it in order to _éclairer_ his own ideas, to guide his policy, and to prevent by personal communication with the queen, your royal highness, and her majesty's government the dissidences and _mésintelligences_ which the emperor thinks will arise from the want of such communications. i fear that such a visit would not be very agreeable to her majesty, but in the emperor's present frame of mind, and his evident alarm lest it should be thought that the alliance has been in any way _ébranlée_, i cannot entertain a doubt that much good might be done, or, at all events, that much mischief might be averted by the emperor being allowed to pay his respects to her majesty in the manner he proposes. i have discussed the matter after the cabinet this evening with lord palmerston, who takes entirely the same view of the matter as i have taken the liberty of expressing to your royal highness. i have the honour to be, with the greatest respect, sir, your royal highness's most faithful and devoted servant, clarendon. [footnote : a difference had arisen as to the future of the principalities--france, sardinia, and russia favouring their union, while england, austria, and turkey held that a single state, so formed, might become too russian in its sympathies.] _the prince albert to the earl of clarendon._ osborne, _ st may _. my dear lord clarendon,--i have shown your letter to the queen, who wishes me to say in answer to it that she will, of course, be ready to do what may appear best for the public interest. we shall, therefore, be ready to receive the emperor, with or without the empress, here at osborne in the quiet way which he proposes. the present moment would, however, hardly do, drawing-rooms and parties being announced in london, parliament sitting, and the season going on and the queen having only a few days from the grand duke's visit to her return to town. the latter half of july, the time at which the queen would naturally be here and the best yachting season, might appear to the emperor the most eligible, as being the least _forcé_. till then a cottage which is rebuilding will, we hope, be ready to accommodate some of the suite, whom we could otherwise not properly house. i have no doubt that good will arise from a renewed intercourse with the emperor; the only thing one may perhaps be afraid of is the possibility of his wishing to gain us over to his views with regard to a redistribution of europe, and may be disappointed at our not being able to assent to his plans and aspirations. albert.[ ] [footnote : see _post_, th august, , note .] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. my dearest uncle,--the christening of little beatrice[ ] is just over--and was very brilliant and nice. we had the luncheon in the fine ball-room, which looked very handsome. the archduke maximilian (who is here since sunday evening) led me to the chapel, and at the luncheon i sat between him and fritz. i cannot say how much we like the archduke; he is charming, so clever, natural, kind and amiable, so _english_ in his feelings and likings, and so anxious for the best understanding between austria and england. with the exception of his mouth and chin, he is good-looking; and i think one does not the least care for that, as he is so very kind and clever and pleasant. i wish you really joy, dearest uncle, at having got _such_ a husband for dear charlotte, as i am sure he will make her happy, and is quite worthy of her. he may, and will do a great deal for italy.[ ]... i must conclude for to-day, hoping soon to hear from you again. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : princess beatrice (now princess henry of battenberg) was born on the th of april.] [footnote : the tragic end of a union which promised so brightly came in , when the archduke maximilian, having accepted the imperial crown of mexico, offered to him by the provisional government, was shot by order of president juarez. the empress charlotte had come to europe a year earlier to seek help for her husband from the french emperor. in consequence of the shock caused by the failure of her mission, her health entirely gave way.] [pageheading: the indian mutiny] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th june _. ... viscount palmerston is sorry to have received the accompanying account of the extension of the mutiny among the native troops in india, but he has no fear of its results.[ ] the bulk of the european force is stationed on the north-west frontier, and is, therefore, within comparatively easy reach of delhi, and about six thousand european troops will have returned to bombay from persia. it will, however, seem to be advisable to send off at once the force amounting to nearly eight thousand men, now under orders for embarkation for india; and when the despatches arrive, which will be about the middle of next week, it will be seen whether any further reinforcements will be required. the extent of the mutiny appears to indicate some deeper cause than that which was ascribed to the first insubordination. that cause may be, as some allege, the apprehension of the hindoo priests that their religion is in danger by the progress of civilisation in india, or it may be some hostile foreign agency. [footnote : alarming accounts of disturbances in india had been received for some weeks past, but lord palmerston failed to grasp the gravity of the situation. even after the intelligence reached england of the mutiny of the native regiments at meerut, on the th of may, and of the horrible massacres of women and children, the ministry did not fully realise the peril threatening our indian possessions.] [pageheading: the victoria cross] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ [_undated,_ ? _june ._] the queen thinks that the persons decorated with the victoria cross might very properly be allowed to bear some distinctive mark after their name.[ ] the warrant instituting the decoration does not style it "an order," but merely "a naval and military decoration" and a distinction; nor is it properly speaking an order, being not _constituted_. v.c. would not do. k.g. means a _knight_ of the garter, c.b. a _companion_ of the bath, m.p. a _member_ of parliament, m.d. a _doctor_ of medicine, etc., etc., in all cases designating a person. no one could be called a victoria cross. v.c. moreover means vice-chancellor at present. d.v.c. (decorated with the victoria cross) or b.v.c. (bearer of the victoria cross) might do. the queen thinks the last the best. [footnote : the victoria cross had just been instituted by royal warrant, and the queen had, with her own hand, decorated those who had won the distinction, in hyde park, on the th of june.] [pageheading: reinforcements for india] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen has to acknowledge the receipt of lord panmure's letter of yesterday. she had long been of opinion that reinforcements waiting to go to india ought not to be delayed. the moment is certainly a very critical one, and the additional reinforcements now proposed will be much wanted. the queen entirely agrees with lord panmure that it will be good policy to oblige the east india company to keep permanently a larger portion of the royal army in india than heretofore. the empire has nearly doubled itself within the last twenty years, and the queen's troops have been kept at the old establishment. they are the body on whom the maintenance of that empire depends, and the company ought not to sacrifice the highest interests to love of patronage. the queen hopes that the new reinforcements will be sent out in their brigade organisation, and not as detached regiments; good commanding officers knowing their troops will be of the highest importance next to the troops themselves. the queen must ask that the troops by whom we shall be diminished at home by the transfer of so many regiments to the company should be forthwith replaced by an increase of the establishment up to the number voted by parliament, and for which the estimates have been taken, else we denude ourselves altogether to a degree dangerous to our own safety at home, and incapable of meeting a sudden emergency, which, as the present example shows, may come upon us at any moment. if we had not reduced in such a hurry this spring, we should now have all the men wanted! the queen wishes lord panmure to communicate this letter to lord palmerston. the accounts in to-day's papers from india are most distressing. _queen victoria to lord panmure._ buckingham palace, _ rd july _. the queen has received lord panmure's letter of yesterday. she has sanctioned the going of four regiments to the east indies. with regard to the reduction of the garrison of malta to four regiments, she hopes the government will well consider whether this will not reduce this valuable and exposed spot to a state of insecurity. the queen is sorry to find lord panmure still objecting to a proper brigade system, without which no army in the world can be efficient. we want general officers, and cannot train them unless we employ them on military duty, not on clerks' duty in district or colony, but in the command of troops. the detachment of regiments is no reason for having no system, and the country will not pay for general officers whose employment is not part of a system; our army is then deprived of its efficiency by the refusal to adopt a system on the part of the government. [pageheading: delhi] [pageheading: grave anxiety] _viscount canning to queen victoria._ calcutta, _ th july _. lord canning presents his humble duty to your majesty, and although unable to give to your majesty the complete details of the capture of delhi, and of the defeat of the rebels in that city,[ ] as he has long desired to do, he can at least announce to your majesty that the city is in the possession of the british troops, under major-general sir henry barnard; and that nothing remains in the hands of the insurgents except the palace or fort, in which they have all taken refuge. this was the state of things on the th and th of june, the latest day of which any certain accounts have been received from delhi; but nothing was likely to interfere with the completion of the capture within forty-eight hours. this event has been long and anxiously awaited, and the time which has elapsed has cost england and india very dear. many precious lives have been lost, and much heartrending suffering has been endured, for which there can be no compensation. the reputation of england's power, too, has had a rude shake; and nothing but a long-continued manifestation of her might before the eyes of the whole indian empire, evinced by the presence of such an english force as shall make the thought of oppositon hopeless, will re-establish confidence in her strength. lord canning much fears that there are parts of india where, until this is done, a complete return to peace and order will not be effected. wherever the little band of english soldiers--little when compared with the stretch of country over which they have to operate--which lord canning has at his disposal has shown itself, the effect has been instantaneous. except at delhi, there has scarcely been an attempt at resistance to an european soldier, and the march of the smallest detachments has preserved order right and left of the roads. the same has been the case in large cities, such as benares, patna, and others; all going to prove that little more than the presence of english troops is needed to ensure peace. on the other hand, where such troops are known not to be within reach, anarchy and violence, when once let loose, continue unrestrained; and, until further additions are made to the english regiments in the disturbed districts, this state of things will not only continue, but extend itself. the fall of delhi will act to some degree as a check; but where rapine and outrage have raged uncontrolled, even for a few hours, it is to be feared that nothing but the actual presence of force will bring the country into order. lord canning rejoices to say that to-day the first regiment of your majesty's forces destined for china has entered the hooghly. lord canning did not scruple, knowing how much was at stake, earnestly to press lord elgin to allow those forces to be turned aside to india before proceeding to the support of your majesty's plenipotentiary in china;[ ] and to this, so far as regards the first two regiments, lord elgin readily assented. from what lord canning has ventured to state above, your majesty will easily understand the satisfaction with which each new arrival of an english transport in calcutta is regarded by him. as yet no military operations south of delhi have been undertaken. next week, however, a column composed of your majesty's th and th (highland) regiments will reach cawnpore[ ] and lucknow, in the neighbourhood of which it is probable that an opportunity will offer of striking a decisive blow at the band of rebels which, after that in delhi, is the strongest and most compact. but lord canning greatly doubts whether they will await the onset. unfortunately, they may run away from the english troops, and yet prove very formidable to any who are weaker than themselves--whether indians or unarmed europeans. your majesty is aware that in the critical condition of affairs which now exists, lord canning has felt himself compelled to adopt the measure of placing the king of oudh in confinement in fort william, in consequence of the use made of his name by those who have been busy tampering with the sepoys; and of the intrigues which there is good reason to believe that the minister of the king, who is also in the fort, has carried on in his master's name.[ ] the king has been, and will continue to be, treated with every mark of respect and indulgence which is compatible with his position, so long as it may be necessary that he should be retained in the fort. lord canning earnestly hopes that your majesty and the prince are in the enjoyment of good health, and prays your majesty to be graciously pleased to accept the expression of his sincere devotion and dutiful attachment. [footnote : after the outbreak at meerut in may, the fugitive sepoys fled to delhi, and endeavoured to capture the magazine, which, however, was exploded by british soldiers. delhi was not captured until september (see _post_, th september, ). on the th of july, the government received intelligence of the spread of the mutiny throughout bengal, and the resulting diminution of the indian army.] [footnote : for sir george grey's action at cape town, in reference to the troops destined for china, see his memoir, in the _dictionary of national biography_.] [footnote : on the th of june, two native regiments had mutinied at cawnpore, and the english residents, under general sir hugh wheeler, were besieged. after many deaths and much privation, the garrison were induced by the perfidy of nana sahib, who had caused the cawnpore rising, to surrender, on condition of their lives being spared. on the th of june, not suspecting their impending fate, the enfeebled garrison, or what was left of it, gave themselves up. the men were killed, the women and children being first enslaved and afterwards massacred. on the th of july, general havelock defeated nana sahib at cawnpore, the city was occupied by the english, and a sanguinary, but well-merited, retribution exacted.] [footnote : the ex-king had been living under the protection of the indian government. the arrest took place early in june at his residence at garden beach.] [pageheading: debate on indian affairs] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that mr disraeli this afternoon, in a speech of three hours, made his motion on the state of india. his motion was ostensibly for two papers, one of which does not exist, at least in the possession of the government, and the other of which ought not to be made public, as it relates to the arrangements for defending india against external attack. he represented the disturbances in india as a national revolt, and not as a mere military mutiny; and he enumerated various causes which in his opinion accounted, for and justified this general revolt. some of these causes were various measures of improved civilisation which from time to time during the last ten years the indian government had been urged by parliament to take. mr vernon smith followed, and in a very able speech answered in great detail mr disraeli's allegations. sir erskine perry,[ ] who evidently had furnished mr disraeli with much of his mistaken assertions, supported his views. mr campbell, member for weymouth, who had been many years in india, showed the fallacy of mr disraeli's arguments, and the groundlessness of many of his assertions. mr whiteside supported the motion. lord john russell, who had after mr disraeli's speech communicated with the government, expressed his disapprobation of mr disraeli's speech, and moved as an amendment an address to your majesty expressing the assurance of the support of the house for measures to suppress the present disturbances, and their co-operation with your majesty in measures for the permanent establishment of tranquillity and contentment in india.[ ] mr mangles, the chairman of the directors, replied at much length, and very conclusively to mr disraeli's speech. mr liddell, with much simplicity, asked the speaker to tell him how he should vote, but approved entirely of lord john russell's address. mr ayrton moved an adjournment of the debate, which was negatived by to . mr hadfield then shortly stated in his provincial dialect that "we can never keep our 'old upon hindia by the force of harms." mr disraeli then made an animated reply to the speeches against him, but in a manner almost too animated for the occasion. mr thomas baring set mr disraeli right, but in rather strong terms, about some proceedings of the committee on indian affairs in , with regard to which mr disraeli's memory had proved untrustworthy. viscount palmerston shortly made some observations on the motion and the speech which had introduced it; and the motion was then negatived without a division, and the address was unanimously carried. [footnote : chief justice of bombay - , and m.p. for devonport - .] [footnote : "one of those dry constitutional platitudes," said mr disraeli in reply, "which in a moment of difficulty the noble lord pulls out of the dusty pigeon-holes of his mind, and shakes in the perplexed face of the baffled house of commons." mr disraeli was admittedly much annoyed by the statesmanlike intervention of lord john.] [pageheading: marriage of princess charlotte] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th july _. my dearest uncle,--at _this_ very _moment_ the marriage[ ] is going on--the _knot_ is being tied which binds your lovely sweet child to a thoroughly worthy husband--and i am sure you will be much moved. may every blessing attend her! i wish _i_ could be present--but my dearest _half_ being there makes me feel as i were there myself. i try to picture to myself how _all_ will be. i could not give you a greater proof of my love for you all, and my anxiety to give you and dearest charlotte pleasure, than in urging my dearest albert to go over--for i encouraged and _urged_ him to go though you cannot think _combien cela me coûte_ or how completely _déroutée_ i am and _feel_ when he is away, or how i count the hours till he returns. _all_ the numerous children are as _nothing_ to me when _he is away_; it seems as if the whole life of the house and home were gone, when he is away! we do all we can to _fêter_ in our very _quiet_ way this dear day. we are all out of mourning; the younger children are to have a half-holiday, alice is to _dine_ for the first time in the evening with us; we shall drink _the archduke and archduchess's_ healths; and i have ordered _wine_ for our servants, and _grog_ for our sailors to do the same. vicky (who is painting in the alcove near me) wishes me to say everything to you and the _dear young couple_, and pray tell dear charlotte _all_ that we have been doing.... here we are in anxious (and i fear many people in very _cruel_) suspense, for news from india. they _ought_ to have arrived the day before yesterday. on thursday, then, we are to have prince napoleon, and on the following thursday the emperor and empress; and after them for _one_ night, the queen of holland,[ ] whose activity is astounding--and she sees everything and everybody and goes everywhere; she is certainly clever and amiable.... now, with our children's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. pray offer my kind regards to _all_ your visitors, even to those whom i do _not_ know. i only hope my dearest husband will tell me _all_ about everything. vicky is constantly talking and thinking of charlotte. [footnote : of the princess charlotte to the archduke ferdinand maximilian at brussels.] [footnote : sophia frederica, born , daughter of king william i. of würtemberg.] [pageheading: the militia] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ nd august _. the queen has to thank lord palmerston for his letter of the th july. the embodying of the militia will be a most necessary measure, as well for the defence of our own country, and for keeping up on the continent of europe the knowledge that we are not in a defenceless state, as for the purpose of obtaining a sufficient number of volunteers for the army. the queen hopes, therefore, that the militia to be embodied will be on a proper and sufficient scale. she must say, that the last accounts from india show so formidable a state of things that the military measures hitherto taken by the home government, on whom the salvation of india must mainly depend, appear to the queen as by no means adequate to the emergency. we have nearly gone to the full extent of our available means, just as we did in the crimean war, and may be able to obtain successes; but we have not laid in a store of troops, nor formed reserves which could carry us over a long struggle, or meet unforeseen new calls. herein we are always most shortsighted, and have finally to suffer either in power and reputation, or to pay enormous sums for small advantages in the end--generally both. the queen hopes that the cabinet will look the question boldly in the face; nothing could be better than the resolutions passed in the house of commons, insuring to the government every possible support in the adoption of vigorous measures. it is generally the government, and not the house of commons, who hang back. the queen wishes lord palmerston to communicate this letter to his colleagues. [pageheading: the navy] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th august _. the defenceless state of our shores, now that the army has been reduced to eighteen effective battalions, and the evident inclinations of the continental powers, chiefly france and russia, to dictate to us with regard to the oriental question, makes the queen naturally turn her attention to the state of our naval preparations and force. to render it possible to salute the emperor[ ] when he comes here, the old _st vincent_ has been brought out of the harbour, but has been manned chiefly by the men of the _excellent_ gunnery ship; and we have been warned by the admiralty not to visit the _excellent_ in consequence. this does not show a very brilliant condition! but what is still more worthy of consideration is, that our new fleet, which had been completed at the end of the russian war, was _a steam_ fleet; when it was broken up at the peace the dockyard expenses were also cut down, and men discharged at the very moment when totally new and extensive arrangements became necessary to repair and keep in a state of efficiency the valuable steam machinery, and to house our gunboat flotilla on shore. to render any of these steamships fit for sea, now that they are dismantled, with our _small_ means as to basins and docks, must necessarily cost much time. the queen wishes accordingly to have a report sent to her as to the force of screw-ships of the line and of other classes which can be got ready at the different dockyards, and the time required to get them to sea for actual service; and also the time required to launch and get ready the gunboats. she does not wish for a mere general answer from the lords of the admiralty, but for detailed reports from the admirals commanding at the different ports, and particularly the captains in command of the steam reserve. she would only add that she wishes no unnecessary time to be lost in the preparation of these reports. she requests lord palmerston to have these, her wishes, carried out. [footnote : the emperor and empress of the french arrived at osborne on the th of august on a visit to the queen and prince, lasting for four days, during which time much discussion took place between the prince and emperor on affairs in eastern europe.] [pageheading: death of sir henry lawrence] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ nd august _. the queen is afraid from the telegram of this morning that affairs in india have not yet taken a favourable turn. delhi seems still to hold out, and the death of sir h. lawrence[ ] is a great loss. the queen must repeat to lord palmerston that the measures hitherto taken by the government are not commensurate with the magnitude of the crisis. we have given nearly all we have in reinforcements, and if new efforts should become necessary, by the joining of the madras and bombay armies in the revolt, for instance, it will take months to prepare reserves which ought now to be ready. ten battalions of militia to be called out is quite inadequate; forty, at least, ought to be the number, for these also exist only on paper. the augmentation of the cavalry and the guards has not yet been ordered. financial difficulties don't exist; the , men sent to india are taken over by the indian government, and their expense saved to us; and this appears hardly the moment to make savings on the army estimates. [footnote : on the previous day, the queen and prince had returned from a visit to cherbourg, and found very disquieting news from india. sir henry lawrence was the military administrator and chief commissioner of oudh; on the th of may, the st n.i. mutinied at lucknow, but sir henry drove them from their position and fortified the residency. some weeks later, on sallying out to reconnoitre, the english were driven back and besieged in the residency; sir henry dying from the effects of a wound caused by a shell.] [pageheading: recruiting] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ nd august _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty.... viscount palmerston has had the honour of receiving your majesty's communication of this morning. it is, no doubt, true that the telegraphic account received yesterday evening does not show, that at the dates mentioned from india, any improvement had taken place in the state of affairs, and the loss of sir henry lawrence and of general barnard,[ ] but especially of the former, is deeply to be lamented. with regard, however, to the measures now taking to raise a force to supply the place of the troops sent to india, and to enlist recruits to fill up vacancies in the regiments in india, viscount palmerston would beg to submit that the steps now taking seem to be well calculated for their purpose. the recruiting for the army has gone on more rapidly than could have been expected at this particular time of year, and in a fortnight or three weeks from this time will proceed still more rapidly; the ten thousand militia to be immediately embodied will be as much as could probably be got together at the present moment without much local inconvenience; but if that number should be found insufficient, it would be easy afterwards to embody more. but, if the recruiting should go on successfully, that number of militiamen in addition to the regulars may be found sufficient. viscount palmerston begs to assure your majesty that there is no wish to make savings on the amount voted for army services, but, on the other hand, it would be very inconvenient and embarrassing to exceed that amount without some urgent and adequate necessity.... [footnote : he died of cholera at delhi, on the th of july.] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ nd august _. in answer to lord palmerston's observations on our military preparations, the queen must reply that, although lord palmerston disclaims, on the part of the government, the intention of making a saving on the army estimates out of the fearful exigencies caused by the indian revolt, the facts still remain. the government have sent fourteen battalions out of the country and transferred them to the east india company, and they mean to replace them only by ten new ones, whose organisation has been ordered; but even in these, they mean for the present to save four companies out of every twelve. the queen, the house of lords, the house of commons, and the press, all call out for vigorous exertion, and the government alone take an apologetic line, anxious to do as little as possible, to wait for further news, to reduce as low as possible even what they do grant, and reason as if we had at most _only_ to replace what was sent out; whilst if new demands should come upon us, the reserves which ought now to be decided upon and organised, are only then to be discussed. the queen can the less reconcile herself to the system, of "letting out a little sail at a time," as lord palmerston called it the other day, as she feels convinced that, if vigour and determination to get what will be eventually wanted is shown by the cabinet, it will pervade the whole government machinery and attain its object; but that if, on the other hand, people don't see what the government really require, and find them satisfied with a little at a time, even that little will not be got, as the subordinates naturally take the tone from their superiors. ten militia regiments would not even represent the , men whom parliament has voted the supplies for. a battalion will probably not reach for a time, and from these we hope to draw volunteers again! the queen hopes the cabinet will yet look the whole question in the face, and decide while there is time what they must know will become necessary, and what must in the hurry at the end be done less well and at, probably, double the cost. the queen can speak by very recent experience, having seen exactly the same course followed in the late war. _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ rd august _. the queen approves of lord fife[ ] and lord r. grosvenor being made peers, and of an offer being made to mr macaulay, although she believes he will decline the honour.... [footnote : james, fifth viscount macduff and earl of fife in the peerage of ireland, was, on the st of october, created a baron of the united kingdom; he was the father of the present duke of fife. lord robert grosvenor became lord ebury, and mr macaulay lord macaulay of rothley temple (his birthplace), in the county of leicester.] [pageheading: the army reserves] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th august _. the queen has received lord palmerston's letter of yesterday, and must say that she is deeply grieved at her want of success in impressing upon him the importance of meeting the present dangers by agreeing on, and maturing a general plan by which to replace _in kind_ the troops sent out of the country, and for which the money _has_ been voted by parliament.[ ] to the formation of the full number of battalions, and their full strength in companies, lord palmerston objects that the men will not be found to fill them, and therefore it is left undone; to the calling-out of more militia, he objects that they ought not to be used as recruiting depôts, and if many were called out the speed with which the recruiting for the army went on, would oblige them to be disbanded again. the war office pride themselves upon having got , men since the recruiting began; this is equal to , a month or , a year, the ordinary wear and tear of the army!! where will the reserves for india be to be found? it does not suffice merely to get _recruits_, as lord palmerston says; they will not become _soldiers_ for six months when got, and in the meantime a sufficient number of militia regiments ought to be drilled, and made efficient to relieve the line regiments already sent, or yet to be sent, for these also are at present necessarily good for nothing. the queen must say that the government incur a fearful responsibility towards their country by their apparent indifference. god grant that no unforeseen european complication fall upon this country--but we are really tempting providence. the queen hopes lord palmerston has communicated to the cabinet her views on the subject. [footnote : after referring to the necessity for supplying by fresh drafts the gaps created in the regiments in india, lord palmerston had written:-- "if the militia officers were to find that they were considered merely as drill sergeants for the line, they would grow careless and indifferent, and many whom it is desirable to keep in the service would leave it. "with regard to the number of militiamen to be embodied, the question seems to be, what is the number which will be wanted for the whole period to the st of march, because it would be undesirable to call out and embody now militia regiments which would become unnecessary during the winter by the progress of recruiting, and which, from there being no funds applicable to their maintenance, it would become necessary to disembody. the men would be now taken from industrial employment at a time when labour is wanted, and would be turned adrift in the winter when there is less demand for labour. "with respect to recruiting for the army, every practicable means has been adopted to hasten its success. recruiting parties have been scattered over the whole of the united kingdom, and the permanent staff of the disembodied militia have been furnished with beating warrants enabling them to enlist recruits for the line; and the recruiting has been hitherto very successful. the only thing to be done is to raise men as fast as possible, and to post them as they are raised to the regiments and battalions for which they engage. the standard, moreover, has been lowered...."] [pageheading: lord lansdowne] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ st august _. ... viscount palmerston would beg to submit for your majesty's consideration whether he might be authorised by your majesty to offer to lord lansdowne promotion to the title of duke. your majesty may possibly not have in the course of your majesty's reign, long as it is to be hoped that reign will be, any subject whose private and public character will during so long a course of years as those which have been the period of lord lansdowne's career, have more entitled him to the esteem and respect of his fellow-countrymen, and to the approbation of his sovereign. lord lansdowne has now for several years given your majesty's government the great and valuable support of his advice in council, his assistance in debate, and the weight of his character in the country, without any office. his health and strength, viscount palmerston cannot disguise from himself, have not been this year such as they had been; and if your majesty should contemplate marking at any time your majesty's sense of lord lansdowne's public services, there could not be a better moment for doing so than the present; and viscount palmerston has reason to believe that such an act of grace would be very gratifying to the liberal party, and would be deemed well bestowed even by those who are of opposite politics.[ ] mr macaulay accepts the peerage with much gratitude to your majesty. [footnote : lord lansdowne declined the honour.] [pageheading: the indian mutiny] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ balmoral castle, _ nd september _. dearest uncle,--... we are in sad anxiety about india, which engrosses all our attention.[ ] troops cannot be raised fast or largely enough. and the horrors committed on the poor ladies--women and children--are unknown in these ages, and make one's blood run cold. altogether, the whole is so much more distressing than the crimea--where there was _glory_ and honourable warfare, and where the poor women and children were safe. then the distance and the difficulty of communication is such an additional suffering to us all. i know you will feel much for us all. there is not a family hardly who is not in sorrow and anxiety about their children, and in all ranks--india being _the_ place where every one was anxious to place a son! we hear from _our_ people (not fritz) from berlin, that the king is in a very unsatisfactory state. _what_ have you heard?... now, with albert's love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : at balmoral the queen learned in greater detail of the atrocities which had been committed upon the garrison at cawnpore.] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ brocket, _ th september _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty and begs to submit that an impression is beginning to prevail that it would be a proper thing that a day should be set apart for national prayer and humiliation with reference to the present calamitous state of affairs in india, upon the same principle on which a similar step was taken during the crimean war; and if your majesty should approve, viscount palmerston would communicate on the subject with the archbishop of canterbury.... it is usual on such occasions that the archbishop of canterbury should attend,[ ] but in consideration of the distance his attendance might well be dispensed with on the present occasion. [footnote : _i.e._ at the meeting of the council which was to be summoned.] [pageheading: a day of intercession] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ balmoral, _ th september _. lord palmerston knows what the queen's feelings are with regard to fast-days, which she thinks do not produce the desired effect--from the manner in which they are appointed, and the selections made for the service--but she will not oppose the natural feeling which any one must partake in, of a desire to pray for our fellow-countrymen and women who are exposed to such imminent danger, and therefore sanctions his consulting the archbishop on the subject. she would, however, suggest its being more appropriately called a day of prayer and intercession for our suffering countrymen, than of fast and humiliation, and of its being on a _sunday_, and not on a week-day: on the last fast-day, the queen heard it generally remarked, that it produced more harm than good, and that, if it were on a sunday, it would be much more generally observed. however, she will sanction whatever is proper, but thinks it ought to be as soon as possible[ ] (in a fortnight or three weeks) if it is to be done at all. she will hold a council whenever it is wished.[ ] [footnote : it was kept on the th of october (a wednesday).] [footnote : shortly after the date of this letter came the intelligence from india that delhi had not fallen, and that the lucknow garrison was not yet relieved. this news, coupled with the tidings of fresh outbreaks, and the details of the horrors of cawnpore, generated deep feelings of resentment in the country.] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ balmoral castle, _ rd september _. the queen hopes that the arrival of troops and ships with lord elgin will be of material assistance, but still it does not alter the state of affairs described by the queen in her letter, which she wrote to lord palmerston, and which she is glad to see lord clarendon agrees in. though we might have perhaps wished the maharajah[ ] to express his feelings on the subject of the late atrocities in india, it was hardly to be expected that he (naturally of a negative, though gentle and very amiable disposition) should pronounce an opinion on so painful a subject, attached as he is to his country, and naturally _still_ possessing, with all his amiability and goodness, an _eastern nature_; he can also hardly, a deposed indian sovereign, _not very_ fond of the british rule as represented by the east india company, and, above all, impatient of sir john login's[ ] tutorship, be expected to _like_ to hear his country-people called _fiends_ and _monsters_, and to see them brought in hundreds, if not thousands, to be executed. his best course is to say nothing, she must think. it is a great mercy he, poor boy, is not there. [footnote : lord clarendon had written that he was "sorry to learn that the maharajah (dhuleep singh) had shown little or no regret for the atrocities which have been committed, or sympathy with the sufferers."] [footnote : sir john spencer login, formerly surgeon at the british residency, lucknow, guardian of the maharajah dhuleep singh, - .] [pageheading: letter from lord canning] [pageheading: sir colin campbell] [pageheading: india] [pageheading: the policy of clemency] _viscount canning to queen victoria._ calcutta, _ th september _. lord canning presents his humble duty to your majesty, and asks leave again to address your majesty, although the desire which he has felt that his next letter should announce to your majesty the fall of delhi, and the first steps towards a restoration of your majesty's authority throughout the revolted districts, cannot as yet be accomplished. but although it is not in lord canning's power to report any very marked success over the rebels, he can confidently assure your majesty that a change in the aspect of affairs is gradually taking place, which gives hope that the contest is drawing to a close, and the day of punishment at hand.... another ground for good hopes is the appearance of things at lucknow. news just received from sir james outram announces that he has joined general havelock's force at cawnpore, and that the troops crossed the ganges into oudh on the th, with hardly any opposition. the european force now advancing on lucknow is about [....][ ] strong, well provided with artillery. the beleaguered garrison was in good spirits on the th of september, and had provisions enough to last to the end of the month. they had lately inflicted severe losses on their assailants, and some of the latter had dispersed. the influential proprietors and chiefs of the country had begun to show symptoms of siding with us. this is a very different state of things from that which existed when general havelock's force retired across the ganges in july; and lord canning prays and believes that your majesty will be spared the pain and horror of hearing that the atrocities of cawnpore have been re-enacted upon the brave and enduring garrison of lucknow. every english soldier who could be made to reach cawnpore has been pushed on to general outram, even to the denuding of some points of danger in the intervening country, and general outram's instructions are to consider the rescue of the garrison as the one paramount object to which everything else is to give way. the garrison (which, after all, is nothing more than the house of the resident, with defences hastily thrown up) contains about three hundred and fifty european men, four hundred and fifty women and children, and one hundred and twenty sick, besides three hundred natives, hitherto faithful. the city, and even the province, may be abandoned and recovered again, but these lives must be saved now or never; and to escape the sorrow and humiliation of such barbarities as have already been endured elsewhere is worth any sacrifice. it is in consideration of the state of things at these two most critical points, delhi and lucknow, that lord canning ventures to ask your majesty to look hopefully to the events of the next few weeks; notwithstanding that he is unable to announce any signal success.... sir colin campbell has been in a state of delight ever since his favourite rd landed five days ago.[ ] he went to see them on board their transport before they disembarked, and when lord canning asked how he found them, replied that the only thing amiss was that they had become too fat on the voyage, and could not button their coats. but, indeed, all the troops of the china force have been landed in the highest possible condition of health and vigour. the rd, from its large proportion of young soldiers, is perhaps the one most likely to suffer from the climate and the hardships of the service--for, although no care or cost will be spared to keep them in health and comfort, lord canning fears that hardships there must be, seeing how vast an extent of usually productive country will be barren for a time, and that the districts from which some of our most valuable supplies, especially the supply of carriage animals, are drawn, have been stripped bare, or are still in revolt. as it is, the commander-in-chief has most wisely reduced the amount of tent accommodation for officers and men far below the ordinary luxurious indian allowance. the presence of the ships of the royal navy has been of the greatest service. at least eleven thousand seamen and marines have been contributed by them for duty on shore, and the broadsides of the _sanspareil_, _shannon_, and _pearl_, as they lie along the esplanade, have had a very reassuring effect upon the inhabitants of calcutta, who, until lately, have insisted pertinaciously that their lives and property were in hourly danger.[ ] no line-of-battle ship has been seen in the hooghly since admiral watson sailed up to chandernagore just a hundred years ago;[ ] and certainly nothing in his fleet was equal to the _sanspareil_. the natives stare at her, and call her "the four-storied boat." for the future, if delhi should fall and lucknow be secured, the work of pacification will go forward steadily. many points will have to be watched, and there may be occasional resistance; but nothing like an organised contest against authority is probable. the greatest difficulties will be in the civil work of re-settlement. the recent death of mr colvin,[ ] the lieutenant-governor of the north-western provinces, has removed an officer whose experience would there have been most valuable. he has died, fairly exhausted; and is the fourth officer of high trust whose life has given way in the last four months. one of the greatest difficulties which lie ahead--and lord canning grieves to say so to your majesty--will be the violent rancour of a very large proportion of the english community against every native indian of every class. there is a rabid and indiscriminate vindictiveness abroad, even amongst many who ought to set a better example, which it is impossible to contemplate without something like a feeling of shame for one's fellow-countrymen. not one man in ten seems to think that the hanging and shooting of forty or fifty thousand mutineers, besides other rebels, can be otherwise than practicable and right; nor does it occur to those who talk and write most upon the matter that for the sovereign of england to hold and govern india without employing, and, to a great degree, trusting natives, both in civil and military service, is simply impossible. it is no exaggeration to say that a vast number of the european community would hear with pleasure and approval that every hindoo and mohammedan had been proscribed, and that none would be admitted to serve the government except in a menial office. that which they desire is to see a broad line of separation, and of declared distrust drawn between us englishmen and every subject of your majesty who is not a christian, and who has a dark skin; and there are some who entirely refuse to believe in the fidelity or goodwill of any native towards any european; although many instances of the kindness and generosity of both hindoos and mohammedans have come upon record during these troubles. to those whose hearts have been torn by the foul barbarities inflicted upon those dear to them any degree of bitterness against the natives may be excused. no man will dare to judge them for it. but the cry is raised loudest by those who have been sitting quietly in their homes from the beginning and have suffered little from the convulsions around them unless it be in pocket. it is to be feared that this feeling of exasperation will be a great impediment in the way of restoring tranquillity and good order, even after signal retribution shall have been deliberately measured out to all chief offenders.[ ] lord canning is ashamed of having trespassed upon your majesty's indulgence at such length. he will only add that he has taken the liberty of sending to your majesty by this mail a map which has just been finished, showing the distribution of the army throughout india at the time of the outbreak of the mutiny. it also shows the regiments of the bengal army which have mutinied, and those which have been disarmed, the number of european troops arrived in calcutta up to the th of september, and whence they came; with some few other points of information. there may be some slight inaccuracies, as the first copies of the map have only just been struck off, and have not been corrected; but lord canning believes that it will be interesting to your majesty at the present moment. lord canning begs to be allowed to express his earnest wishes for the health of your majesty, and of his royal highness prince albert, and to offer to your majesty the humble assurance of his sincere and dutiful devotion. [footnote : word omitted in the original.] [footnote : at the battle of the alma, sir colin campbell, in command of the nd or highland brigade of the st division, had, with his highlanders in line, routed the last compact column of the russians. on the th of july , he was appointed commander-in-chief in india, and started literally at one day's notice, reaching calcutta on the th of august.] [footnote : the services of the naval brigade, at the relief of lucknow, were warmly recognised by sir colin campbell, and especially the gallantry of captain peel of the _shannon_.] [footnote : in retribution for the atrocity of the black hole of calcutta, watson, under instructions from clive, reduced chandernagore on the rd of march ; the battle of plassey was fought on the rd of june.] [footnote : john russell colvin, formerly private secretary to lord auckland, had been lieutenant-governor since .] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ balmoral, _ th september _. the queen is much surprised at lord clarendon's observing that "from what he hears the maharajah was either from nature or early education cruel."[ ] he must have changed very suddenly if this be true, for if there was a thing for which he was remarkable, it was his extreme gentleness and kindness of disposition. we have known him for three years (our two boys intimately), and he always shuddered at hurting anything, and was peculiarly gentle and kind towards children and animals, and if anything rather timid; so that all who knew him said he never could have had a chance in his own country. his valet, who is a very respectable englishman, and has been with him ever since his twelfth year, says that he never knew a kinder or more amiable disposition. the queen fears that people who do not know him well have been led away by their present very natural feelings of hatred and distrust of all indians to slander him. what he might turn out, if left in the hands of unscrupulous indians in his own country, of course no one can foresee. [footnote : see _ante_, rd september, , note .] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th october _. the queen has received yesterday evening the box with the dockyard returns. it will take her some time to peruse and study them; she wishes, however, to remark upon two points, and to have them pointed out also to sir charles wood,[ ] viz. first, that they are dated some as early as the th august, and none later than the th september, and that she received them, only on the _ th october_; and then that there is not one original return amongst them, but they are all copies! when the queen asks for returns, to which she attaches great importance, she expects at least to see them in original. [footnote : first lord of the admiralty.] [pageheading: marriage of the princess royal] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th october _. the queen returns these letters. it would be well if lord clarendon would tell lord bloomfield not to _entertain_ the _possibility_ of such a question as the princess royal's marriage taking place at berlin.[ ] the queen _never_ could consent to it, both for public and private reasons, and the assumption of its being _too much_ for a prince royal of prussia to _come_ over to marry _the princess royal of great britain_ in england is too _absurd_, to say the least. the queen must say that there never was even the _shadow_ of a _doubt_ on _prince frederick william's_ part as to _where_ the marriage should take place, and she suspects this to be the mere gossip of the berliners. whatever may be the usual practice of prussian princes, it is not _every_ day that one marries the eldest daughter of the queen of england. the question therefore must be considered as settled and closed.... [footnote : the marriage took place at the chapel royal, st james's.] [pageheading: death of the duchess de nemours] _queen victoria to the earl of clarendon._ windsor castle, _ th november _. the queen thanks lord clarendon much for his kind and sympathising letter, and is much gratified at count persigny's kind note. he _is_ a good, honest, warm-hearted man, for whom we have sincere esteem. the news from india was a great relief and a _ray_ of sunshine in our great affliction.[ ] the queen had the happiness of informing poor sir george couper of the relief of lucknow, in which for four months his son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren were shut up. the loss of two such distinguished officers as generals nicholson and neill, and alas! of many inferior ones, is, however, very sad. we visited the house of mourning yesterday, and _no words can_ describe the scene of woe.[ ] there was the venerable queen with the motherless children, admirable in her deep grief, and her pious resignation to the will of god! yet even now the support, the comfort of all, thinking but of others and ready to devote her last remaining strength and her declining years to her children and grandchildren. there was the broken-hearted, almost distracted widower--_her son_--and lastly, there was in one room the lifeless, but oh! even in its ghostliness, most beautiful form of his young, lovely, and angelic wife, lying in her bed with her splendid hair covering her shoulders, and a heavenly expression of peace; and in the next room, the dear little pink infant sleeping in its cradle. the queen leaves to lord clarendon's kind heart to imagine what this spectacle of woe must be, and how _deeply_ afflicted and impressed _we must be_--who have only so lately had a child born to us and have been so fortunate! the prince has been _completely_ upset by this; and she was besides like a dear sister to us. god's will be done! but it seems _too_ dreadful almost to believe it--too hard to bear. the dear duchess's death must have been caused by some affection of the heart, for she was perfectly well, having her hair combed, suddenly exclaimed to the nurse, "oh! mon dieu, madame"--her head fell on one side--and before the duke could run upstairs her hand was cold! the queen had visited her on saturday--looking well--and _yesterday_ saw her lifeless form in the very same spot! if lord clarendon could give a slight hint to the _times_ to say a few words of sympathy on the awful and unparalleled misfortune of these poor exiles, she is sure it would be very soothing to their bleeding hearts.... the sad event at claremont took place just five days later than the death of poor princess charlotte under very similar circumstances forty years ago; and the poor duchess was the niece of princess charlotte's husband. [footnote : havelock, in consequence of the strength of the rebels in oudh, had been unable to march to the assistance of lucknow immediately after the relief of cawnpore. he joined hands with outram on the th of september, and reinforced the lucknow garrison on the th.] [footnote : in a pathetic letter, just received, the duc de nemours (second son of louis philippe) had announced the death of his wife, queen victoria's beloved cousin and friend. she was only thirty-five years of age, and had been married at eighteen. she had seemed to make a good recovery after the birth of a child on the th of october, but died quite suddenly on the th of november, while at her toilette.] [pageheading: crisis in the city] [pageheading: suspension of bank charter act] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th november _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that the condition of financial affairs became worse to-day than it was yesterday.[ ] the governor of the bank represented that almost all private firms have ceased to discount bills, and that the reserve fund of the bank of england, out of which discounts are made and liabilities satisfied, had been reduced last night to £ , , , and that if that fund should become exhausted the bank would have to suspend its operations. under these circumstances it appeared to viscount palmerston, and to the chancellor of the exchequer, that a case had arisen for doing the same thing which was done under somewhat similar circumstances in --that is to say, that a letter should be written by the first lord of the treasury and the chancellor of the exchequer to the governor of the bank of england, saying that if under the pressure of the emergency the bank should deem it necessary to issue more notes than the amount to which they are at present confined by law, the government would apply to parliament to grant them an indemnity. this measure, in , had the effect of stopping the then existing panic, and the necessity for making such an issue did not arise; on the present occasion this announcement will, no doubt, have a salutary effect in allaying the present panic, but as the bank had to discount to-day bills to the amount of £ , , , which they could not have done out of a fund of £ , , , unless deposits and payments in, to a considerable amount, had been made, the probability is that the issue thus authorised will actually be made. the governor and deputy-governor of the bank represented that the communication, in order to be effectual and to save from ruin firms which were in imminent danger, ought to be made forthwith, so that they might be enabled to announce it on the stock exchange before the closing of business at four o'clock. viscount palmerston and sir george lewis therefore signed at once, and gave to the governor of the bank the letter of which the accompanying paper is a copy, the pressure of the matter not allowing time to take your majesty's pleasure beforehand. the state of things now is more urgent than that which existed in , when the similar step was taken; at that time the reserve fund was about £ , , , last night it was only £ , , ; at that time the bullion in the bank was above £ , , , it is now somewhat less than £ , , ; at that time things were mending, they are now getting worse. but however necessary this measure has been considered, and however useful it may be expected to be, it inevitably entails one very inconvenient consequence. the government have authorised the bank to break the law, and whether the law shall actually be broken or not, it would be highly unconstitutional for the government not to take the earliest opportunity of submitting the matter to the knowledge of parliament. this course was pursued in . the letter from lord john russell and sir charles wood to the governor of the bank was dated on the th october, parliament then stood prorogued in the usual way to the th november, but a council was held on the st october, at which your majesty summoned parliament to meet for the despatch of business on the th november; and on that day the session was opened in the usual way by a speech from the throne. it would be impossible under present circumstances to put off till the beginning of february a communication to parliament of the step taken to-day. viscount palmerston therefore would beg to submit for your majesty's approval that a council might be held at windsor on monday next, and that parliament might then be summoned to meet in fourteen days. this would bring parliament together in the first days of december, and after sitting ten days, or a fortnight, if necessary, it might be adjourned till the first week in february.[ ] viscount palmerston submits an explanatory memorandum which he has just received for your majesty's information from the chancellor of the exchequer.... [footnote : the financial crisis had originated in numerous stoppages of banks in the united states, where premature schemes of railway extension had involved countless investors in ruin; in consequence, the pressure on firms and financial houses became even more acute than in ; see _ante_, vol. ii., th october, . the bank rate now rose to per cent. as against per cent. in that year, and the bank reserve of bullion was alarmingly depleted.] [footnote : parliament accordingly met on the rd of december, and the session was opened by the queen in person. the act of indemnity was passed without serious opposition, and a select committee re-appointed to enquire into the operation of the bank charter act.] [pageheading: army establishment] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ osborne, _ th december _. the queen has had some correspondence with lord panmure upon the establishment of the army for the next financial year.[ ] she wishes now to lay down the principle which she thinks ought to guide our decision, and asks lord palmerston to consider it with his colleagues in cabinet. last year we reduced our army suddenly to a low peace establishment to meet the demand for reduction of taxation raised in the house of commons. with this peace establishment we had to meet the extraordinary demands of india, we have sent almost every available regiment, battalion, and battery, and are forced to contemplate the certainty of a large increase of our force in india as a permanent necessity. what the queen requires is, that a well-considered and digested estimate should be made of the additional regiments, etc., etc., so required, and that after deducting this number from our establishment of - , that for the next year should be brought up again to the same condition as if the indian demand, which is foreign to our ordinary consideration, had not arisen. if this be done it will still leave us militarily weaker than we were at the beginning of the year, for the larger english army maintained in india will require proportionally more reliefs and larger depôts. as the indian finances pay for the troops employed in india, the force at home and in the colonies will, when raised to its old strength, not cost a shilling more than the peace establishment of settled under a pressure of financial reduction. anything less than this will not leave this country in a safe condition. the queen does not ask only for the same number of men as in - , but particularly for regiments of cavalry, battalions of infantry and batteries of artillery, which alone would enable us in case of a war to effect the increase to a war establishment. the queen encloses her answer to lord panmure's last letter. [footnote : on the th of december, the queen had pressed the immediate formation of two new cavalry regiments.] [pageheading: government of india] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th december _. the queen only now returns to lord palmerston the memorandum containing the heads of an arrangement for the future government of india, which the committee of cabinet have agreed to recommend. she will have an opportunity of seeing lord palmerston before the cabinet meet again, and to hear a little more in detail the reasons which influenced the committee in their several decisions. she wishes only to recommend two points to lord palmerston's consideration: st, the mode of communication between the queen and the new government which it is intended to establish. as long as the government was that of the company, the sovereign was generally left quite ignorant of decisions and despatches; now that the government is to be that of the sovereign, and the direction will, she presumes, be given in her name, a direct official responsibility to her will have to be established. she doubts whether any one but a secretary of state could speak in the queen's name, like the foreign secretary to foreign courts, the colonial secretary to the governors of the colonies, and the home secretary to the lord-lieutenant of ireland and the lieutenants of the counties of great britain, the judges, convocations, mayors, etc., etc. on the other hand, would the position of a secretary of state be compatible with his being president of a council? the treasury and admiralty act as "my lords," but they only administer special departments, and do not direct the policy of a country in the queen's name. the mixture of supreme direction, and also of the conduct of the administration of the department to be directed, has in practice been found as inconvenient in the war department as it is wrong in principle. the other point is the importance of having only _one_ army, whether native, local, or general, with one discipline and one command, that of the commander-in-chief. this is quite compatible with first appointments to the native army, being vested as a point of patronage in the members of the council, but it ought to be distinctly recognised in order to do away with those miserable jealousies between the different military services, which have done more harm to us in india than, perhaps, any other circumstance. perhaps lord palmerston would circulate this letter amongst the members of the committee who agreed upon the proposed scheme? [pageheading: death of havelock] _viscount canning to queen victoria._ government house, calcutta, _ th december _. lord canning presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs permission to express to your majesty at the earliest opportunity the respectful gratitude with which he has received your majesty's most gracious letter of the th of november. however certain lord canning might have been as to the sentiments with which your majesty would view the spirit of bitter and unreasoning vengeance against your majesty's indian subjects with which too many minds are imbued in england as well as in this country, it has been an indescribable pleasure to him to read what your majesty has condescended to write to him upon this painful topic. your majesty's gracious kindness in the reference made by your majesty to what is said by the newspapers is also deeply felt by lord canning. he can truly and conscientiously assure your majesty of his indifference to all such attacks--an indifference so complete indeed as to surprise himself. lord canning fears that the satisfaction which your majesty will have experienced very shortly after the date of your majesty's letter, upon receiving the news of sir henry havelock's entry into lucknow, will have been painfully checked by the long and apparently blank interval which followed, and during which your majesty's anxieties for the ultimate safety of the garrison, largely increased by many precious lives, must have become more intense than ever. happily, this suspense is over; and the real rescue effected by a glorious combination of skill and intrepidity on the part of sir colin campbell and his troops must have been truly gratifying to your majesty.[ ] the defence of lucknow and the relief of the defenders are two exploits which, each in their kind, will stand out brightly in the history of these terrible times. ... lord canning has not failed to transmit your majesty's gracious message to sir colin campbell, and has taken the liberty to add your majesty's words respecting his favourite rd, which will not be less grateful to the brave old soldier than the expression of your majesty's consideration for himself. your majesty has lost two most valuable officers in sir henry havelock and brigadier-general neill. they were very different, however. the first was quite of the old school--severe and precise with his men, and very cautious in his movements and plans--but in action bold as well as skilful. the second very open and impetuous, but full of resources; and to his soldiers as kind and thoughtful of their comfort as if they had been his children. with earnest wishes for the health and happiness of your majesty and the prince, lord canning begs permission to lay at your majesty's feet the assurance of his most dutiful and devoted attachment. [footnote : sir colin campbell had relieved lucknow on the th of november, but sir henry havelock (as he had now become) died from illness and exhaustion. general neill had been killed on the occasion of the reinforcement in september, _ante_, th november, .] [pageheading: army organisation] _queen victoria to lord panmure._ windsor castle, _ th december _. the queen has received lord panmure's letter and memorandum of the th. she must say that she still adheres to her views as formerly expressed. lord panmure admits that the two plans don't differ materially in expense. it becomes, then, a mere question of organisation and of policy. as to the first, all military authorities of all countries and times agree upon the point that numerous _cadres_ with fewer men give the readiest means of increasing an army on short notice, the main point to be attended to in a constitutional and democratic country like england. as to the second, a system of organisation will always be easier defended than mere numbers arbitrarily fixed, and parliament ought to have the possibility of voting more or voting fewer men, according to their views of the exigencies of the country, or the pressure of finance at different times, and to be able to do so without deranging the organisation. the queen hopes lord panmure will look at our position, as if the indian demands had not arisen, and he will find that to come to parliament with the cavalry borne on the estimates reduced by three regiments (as will be the case even after two shall have returned from india, and the two new ones shall have been formed), will certainly not prove _too little_ anxiety on the part of the government to cut down our military establishments. introductory note to chapter xxvii on the th of january of the new year ( ) prince frederick william of prussia (afterwards the emperor frederick) was married, with brilliant ceremonial, to the princess royal, at the chapel royal, st james's, an event marked by general national rejoicings; another event in the private life of the queen, but one of a melancholy character, was the death of the duchess of orleans at the age of forty-four. a determined attempt was made by orsini, pierri, and others, members of the carbonari society, to assassinate the emperor and empress of the french by throwing grenades filled with detonating powder under their carriage. the emperor was only slightly hurt, but several bystanders were killed, and very many more wounded. the plot had been conceived, and the grenades manufactured in england, and a violently hostile feeling was engendered in france against this country, owing to the prescriptive right of asylum enjoyed by foreign refugees. the french _militaires_ were particularly vehement in their language, and lord palmerston so far bowed to the demands of the french foreign minister as to introduce a bill to make the offence of conspiracy to murder, a felony instead of, as it had previously been, a misdemeanour. the conservative party supported the introduction of the bill, but, on the second reading, joined with eighty-four liberals and four peelites in supporting an amendment by mr milner gibson, postponing the reform of the criminal law till the peremptory demands of count walewski had been formally answered. the ministry was defeated and resigned, and lord derby and mr disraeli returned to office. orsini and pierri were executed in paris, but the state trial in london of a dr bernard, a resident of bayswater, for complicity, ended, mainly owing to the menacing attitude of france over the whole question, in an acquittal. the italian nationality of the chief conspirators endangered, but only temporarily, the important _entente_ between france and sardinia. before the resignation of the ministry, the thanks of both houses of parliament were voted to the civil and military officers of india for their exertions in suppressing the mutiny; the opposition endeavoured to obtain the omission of the name of lord canning from the address, till his conduct of affairs had been discussed. the difficulties in india were not at an end, for sir colin campbell had been unable to hold lucknow, and had transferred the rescued garrison to cawnpore, which he re-occupied. it was not till the end of march that lucknow was captured by the commander-in-chief, who was raised to the peerage as lord clyde, after the taking of jhansi and of gwalior in central india, by sir hugh rose, had virtually terminated the revolt. in anticipation of the capture of lucknow, the governor-general had prepared a proclamation for promulgation in oudh, announcing that, except in the case of certain loyal rajahs, proprietary rights in the soil of the province would be confiscated. one copy of the draft was sent home, and another shown to sir james outram, chief commissioner of oudh, and, in consequence of the latter's protest against its severity, as making confiscation the rule and not the exception, an exemption was inserted in favour of such landowners as should actively co-operate in restoring order. on receiving the draft in its unaltered form, lord ellenborough, the new president of the board of control, forwarded a despatch to lord canning, strongly condemning his action, and, on the publication of this despatch, the ministry narrowly escaped parliamentary censure. lord ellenborough himself resigned, and was succeeded by lord stanley. attempts had been made by both lord palmerston and lord derby to pass measures for the better government of india. after two bills had been introduced and withdrawn, the procedure by resolution was resorted to, and a measure was ultimately passed transferring the government of india to the crown. the china war terminated on the th of june, by the treaty of tien-tsin, which renewed the treaty of , and further opened up china to british commerce. a dispute with japan led to a treaty signed at yeddo by lord elgin and the representatives of the tycoon, enlarging british diplomatic and trade privileges in that country. the budget of mr disraeli imposed for the first time a penny stamp on bankers' cheques; a compromise was arrived at on the oaths question, the words "on the true faith of a christian" having hitherto prevented jews from sitting in parliament. they were now enabled to take the oath with the omission of these words, and baron rothschild took his seat for the city of london accordingly. among the other events of importance in the year were the satisfactory termination of a dispute with the neapolitan government arising out of the seizure of the _cagliari_; a modified union, under a central commission, of moldavia and wallachia; the despatch of mr gladstone by the conservative government as high commissioner to the ionian islands; and the selection of ottawa, formerly known as bytown, for the capital of the dominion of canada. chapter xxvii _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th january _. my dearest uncle,--accept my warmest thanks for your kind and affectionate letter of the th. i hope and trust to hear that your cold has left you, and that on monday i shall have the immense happiness of embracing you. it is a time of immense bustle and agitation; i _feel_ it is terrible to give up one's poor child, and _feel_ very nervous for the coming time, and for the departure. but i am glad to see vicky is quite well again and _unberufen_ has got over her cold and is very well. but she has had ever since january ' a succession of emotions and leave-takings--most trying to any one, but particularly to so young a girl with such _very_ powerful feelings. she is so much improved in self-control and is so clever (i may say wonderfully so), and so sensible that we can talk to her of anything--and therefore shall miss her sadly. but we try _not_ to dwell on or to think of _that_, as i am sure it is much better _not_ to do so and not get ourselves _émus_ beforehand, or she will break down as well as we, and that never would do. to-day arrive (on a visit _here_) _her_ court--which is a very good thing, so that she will get acquainted with them.... the affection for her, and the loyalty shown by the country at large on this occasion is _most_ truly gratifying--and for so young a child really _very, very_ pleasing to our feelings. the nation look upon her, as cobden said, as "_england's_ daughter," and as if they married a child of their own, which is _very_ satisfactory, and shows, in spite of a few newspaper follies and absurdities, how really _sound_ and _monarchical_ everything is in this country. now, with albert's love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: marriage of the princess royal] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. my dearest uncle,--accept my warmest thanks for your very kind and affectionate letter of the th, with such kind accounts of our dear child, who was so thankful for your kindness and affection, and of whose immense and universal success and admirable behaviour--natural yet dignified--we have the most charming accounts. i send you a letter from augusta[ ] (mecklenburg), which will give you an idea of the impression produced, begging you to let me have it back soon. she is quite well and _not_ tired. but the separation was _awful_, and the poor child was _quite_ broken-hearted, particularly at parting from her dearest beloved papa, whom she _idolises_. _how_ we miss her, i can't say, and never having been separated from her since thirteen years above a fortnight, i am in a constant fidget and impatience to know everything about _every_thing. it is a _great, great_ trial for a _mother_ who has watched over her child with such anxiety day after day, to see her far away--dependent on herself! but i have great confidence in her good sense, clever head, kind and good heart, in fritz's excellent character and devotion to her, and in faithful e. stockmar, who possesses her _entire_ confidence. the blank she has left behind is _very great_ indeed.... to-morrow is the eighteenth anniversary of my blessed marriage, which has brought such universal blessings on this country and europe! for _what_ has not my beloved and perfect albert done? raised monarchy to the _highest_ pinnacle of _respect_, and rendered it _popular_ beyond what it _ever_ was in this country! the bill proposed by the government to improve the law respecting conspiracy and assassination will pass, and lord derby has been most useful about it.[ ] but people are very indignant here at the conduct of the french officers, and at the offensive insinuations against this country.[ ].... hoping to hear that you are quite well, and begging to thank leopold very much for his very kind letter, believe me, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : elder daughter of adolphus, duke of cambridge, and now grand duchess-dowager of mecklenburg-strelitz.] [footnote : lord derby and his party, however, changed their attitude in the next few days, and succeeded in putting the government in a minority.] [footnote : on the th of january, the assassination of the french emperor, which had been planned in england by felice orsini and other refugees, was attempted. on the arrival of the imperial carriage at the opera house in the rue lepelletier, explosive hand-grenades were thrown at it, and though the emperor and empress were unhurt, ten people were either killed outright or died of their wounds, and over one hundred and fifty were injured. notwithstanding the scene of carnage, their majesties maintained their composure and sat through the performance of the opera. in the addresses of congratulation to the emperor on his escape (published, some of them inadvertently, in the official _moniteur_), officers commanding french regiments used language of the most insulting character to england, and count walewski, the french foreign minister, in a despatch, recommended the british government to take steps to prevent the right of asylum being abused.] [pageheading: defeat of the government] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is sorry to have to inform your majesty that the government were beat this evening on mr milner gibson's[ ] amendment by a majority of ,[ ] the numbers being for his amendment, , and against it . mr milner gibson began the debate by moving his amendment in a speech of considerable ability, but abounding in misrepresentation, which nevertheless produced a marked effect upon the house. mr baines followed, but only argued the bill without replying to mr gibson's speech. this was remarked upon by mr walpole, who followed him, and who said that though he approved of the bill he could not vote for reading it a second time until count walewski's despatch had been answered. mr macmahon supported the amendment, as did mr byng. sir george grey, who followed mr walpole, defended the bill and the course pursued by the government in not having answered count walewski's despatch until after the house of commons should have affirmed the bill by a second reading. mr spooner remained steady to his purpose, and would vote against the amendment, though in doing so he should differ from his friends. lord harry vane opposed the amendment, as interfering with the passing of the bill, and mr bentinck took the same line, and replied to some of the arguments of mr milner gibson. mr henley said he should vote for the amendment. the lord advocate made a good speech against it. mr gladstone spoke with his usual talent in favour of the amendment, and was answered by the attorney-general in a speech which would have convinced men who had not taken a previous determination. he was followed by mr disraeli, who seemed confident of success, and he was replied to by viscount palmerston, and the house then divided. it seems that lord derby had caught at an opportunity of putting the government in a minority. he saw that there were ninety-nine members who were chiefly of the liberal party, who had voted against the bill when it was first proposed, and who were determined to oppose it in all its stages. he calculated that if his own followers were to join those ninety-nine, the government might be run hard, or perhaps be beaten, and he desired all his friends[ ] to support mr milner gibson; on the other hand, many of the supporters of the government, relying upon the majority of , by which the leave to bring the bill in had been carried, and upon the majority of of last night, had gone out of town for a few days, not anticipating any danger to the government from mr gibson's motion, and thus an adverse division was obtained. moreover, count walewski's despatch, the tone and tenor of which had been much misrepresented, had produced a very unfavourable effect on the mind of members in general, and there was a prevailing feeling very difficult to overcome, that the proposed bill was somehow or other a concession to the demand of a foreign government. the cabinet will have to consider at its meeting at three o'clock to-morrow what course the government will have to pursue. [footnote : mr milner gibson had found a seat at ashton-under-lyne.] [footnote : the conspiracy bill aimed at making conspiracy to murder a felony, instead of, as it had previously been, a misdemeanour, and leave had been given by a large majority to introduce it; but when count walewski's despatch to count de persigny came to be published, the feeling gained ground that the government had shown undue subservience in meeting the representations of the french ambassador. the despatch had not actually been answered, although verbal communications had taken place. the opposition to the bill was concerted by lord john russell and sir james graham; see parker's _sir james graham_, vol. ii. p. , and the observation of the prince, _post_, st february, . the purport of the amendment was to postpone any reform in the criminal law till the french despatch had been replied to.] [footnote : see ashley's _life of lord palmerston_, vol. ii. p. .] [pageheading: resignation of the government] [pageheading: lord derby summoned] [pageheading: offer to lord derby] _memorandum by the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ st february _. lord palmerston came at five o'clock from the cabinet, and tendered his resignation in his own name, and that of his colleagues. the cabinet had well considered their position and found that, as the vote passed by the house, although the result of an accidental combination of parties, was virtually a vote of censure upon their conduct, they could not with honour or with any advantage to the public service carry on the government. the combination was the whole of the conservative party (lord derby's followers), lord john russell, the peelites, with mr gladstone and the whole of the radicals; but the liberal party generally is just now very angry with lord palmerston personally, chiefly on account of his apparent submission to french dictation, and the late appointment of lord clanricarde as privy seal, who is looked upon as a reprobate.[ ] lord clanricarde's presence in the house of commons during the debate, and in a conspicuous place, enraged many supporters of lord palmerston to that degree that they voted at once with the opposition. [footnote : since his triumph at the polls in , lord palmerston had been somewhat arbitrary in his demeanour, and had defied public opinion by taking lord clanricarde into the government, after some unpleasant disclosures in the irish courts. while walking home on the th, after obtaining an immense majority on the india bill, he was told by sir joseph bethell that he ought, like the roman consuls in a triumph, to have some one to remind him that he was, as a minister, not immortal. next day he was defeated.] the queen wrote to lord derby the letter here following;[ ] he came a little after six o'clock. he stated that nobody was more surprised in his life than he had been at the result of the debate, after the government had only a few days before had a majority of more than on the introduction of their bill. he did not know how it came about, but thought it was the work of lord john russell and sir james graham in the interest of the radicals; mr gladstone's junction must have been accidental. as to his own people, they had, owing to his own personal exertions, as the queen was aware, though many very unwillingly, supported the bill; but the amendment of mr milner gibson was so skilfully worded, that it was difficult for them not to vote for it; he had to admit this when they came to him to ask what they should do, merely warning them to save the measure itself, which the amendment did. he then blamed the government very much for leaving count walewski's despatch unanswered before coming before parliament, which he could hardly understand. [footnote : summoning him to advise her.] on the queen telling him that the government had resigned, and that she commissioned him to form a new administration, he begged that this offer might not be made to him without further consideration, and would state clearly his own position. after what had happened in and , if the queen made the offer he _must_ accept it, for if he refused, the conservative party would be broken up for ever. yet he would find a majority of two to one against him in the house of commons, would have difficulty in well filling the important offices, found the external and internal relations of the country in a most delicate and complicated position, war in india and in china, difficulties with france, the indian bill introduced and a reform bill promised; nothing but the forbearance and support of some of his opponents would make it possible for him to carry on any government. the person who was asked first by the sovereign had always a great disadvantage; perhaps other combinations were possible, which, if found not to answer, would make him more readily accepted by the country. the position of lord palmerston was a most curious one, the house of commons had been returned chiefly for the purpose of supporting him _personally_, and he had obtained a working majority of (unheard of since the reform bill), yet his supporters had no principles in common and they generally suspected him; the question of the reform bill had made him and lord john run a race for popularity which might lead to disastrous consequences. lord derby did not at all know what support he would be able to obtain in parliament. the queen agreed to deferring her offer, and to take further time for consideration on the understanding that if she made it it would at once be accepted. lord derby expressed, however, his fear that the resignation of the palmerston cabinet might only be for the purpose of going through a crisis in order to come back again with new strength, for there existed different kinds of resignations, some for this purpose, others really for abandoning office. a conversation which i had with lord clarendon after dinner, convinced me that the cabinet had sent in their resignations from the real conviction of the impossibility to go on with honour and success; all offers of the friends of the government to pass a vote of confidence, etc., etc., had been rejected. lord derby was the only man who could form a government; mr gladstone would probably join him. the whole move had been planned, and most dexterously, by sir james graham. albert. _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ st february _. the queen has reconsidered the question of the formation of a new government as she had settled with lord derby yesterday, and now writes to him to tell him that further reflection has only confirmed her in her former resolution to offer the task to lord derby. the resignation of the present government is the result of a conscientious conviction on their part, that, damaged by the censure passed upon them in the house of commons, they cannot with honour to themselves, or usefulness to the country, carry on public affairs, and lord derby is at the head of the only party which affords the materials of forming a new government, is sufficiently organised to secure a certain support, and which the country would accept as an alternative for that hitherto in power. before actually offering any specific office to anybody, lord derby would perhaps have another interview with the queen; but it would be right that he should have satisfied himself a little as to his chances of strengthening his hands before she sees him. with regard to the position of the india bill, the queen must also have a further conversation with him. [pageheading: lord derby's view] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ st february _. lord derby, with his humble duty, begs your majesty to accept his grateful acknowledgment of the signal mark of your majesty's favour, with which he has this morning been honoured. encouraged by your majesty's gracious confidence, he does not hesitate to submit himself to your majesty's pleasure, and will address himself at once to the difficult task which your majesty has been pleased to entrust to him. he fears that he can hardly hope, in the formation of a government, for much extrinsic aid; as almost all the men of eminence in either house of parliament are more or less associated with other parties, whose co-operation it would be impossible to obtain. lord derby will not, however, hesitate to make the attempt in any quarters, in which he may think he has any chance of success. with regard to the filling up of particular offices, lord derby would humbly beg your majesty to bear in mind that, although among his own personal friends there will be every desire to make individual convenience subservient to the public interest, yet among those who are not now politically connected with him, there may be some, whose co-operation or refusal might be greatly influenced by the office which it was proposed that they should hold; and, in such cases, lord derby must venture to bespeak your majesty's indulgence should he make a definite offer, subject, of course, to your majesty's ultimate approval. as soon as lord derby has made any progress in his proposed arrangements, he will avail himself of your majesty's gracious permission to solicit another audience. _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ st february _. the queen has just received lord derby's letter, and would wish under all circumstances to see him at six this evening, in order to hear what progress he has made in his plans. the two offices the queen is most anxious should not be prejudged in any way, before the queen has seen lord derby again, are the foreign and the war departments. [pageheading: mr gladstone and lord grey] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ st february _. lord derby, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty the two letters which he has this evening received from lord grey and mr gladstone.[ ] the reasons contained in the latter do not appear to lord derby to be very conclusive; but he fears the result must be that he cannot look, in the attempt to form a cabinet, to much extraneous assistance. with deep regret lord derby is compelled to add that he finds he cannot rely with certainty on the support of his son as a member of his proposed cabinet.[ ] still, having undertaken the task he has in obedience to your majesty's commands, lord derby will not relax in his efforts to frame such a government as may be honoured with your majesty's gracious approval, and prove itself equal to the emergency which calls it together. while in the very act of putting up this letter, lord derby has received one, which he also presumes to enclose to your majesty, from lord st leonards, alleging his advanced age as a reason for not accepting the great seal which he formerly held. this reply has been wholly unexpected; and it is yet possible that lord st leonards may be induced, at least temporarily, to withdraw his resignation. should it, however, prove otherwise, and lord derby should succeed in making his other arrangements, he would humbly ask your majesty's permission to endeavour to persuade mr pemberton leigh to accept that high office, of course accompanied by the honour of the peerage, which he is aware has been already on more than one occasion offered to him. lord derby begs to add that he has not had the slightest communication with mr pemberton leigh on the subject, nor has the least idea as to his feelings upon it. [footnote : lord grey wrote--"i am much obliged to you for the manner in which you have asked my assistance in performing the task confided to you by her majesty. "i am not insensible to the danger of the present crisis, or to the duty it imposes on public men, of giving any aid in their power towards forming an administration which may command respect. i am also aware that the settlement of the important political questions, on which we have differed, has removed many of the obstacles which would formerly have rendered my acting with you impracticable. upon the other hand, upon carefully considering the present state of affairs and the materials at your disposal (especially in the house of commons) for forming an administration, and that all the political friends with whom i have been connected, would probably be opposed to it, i do not think it would be either useful to you or honourable to myself that i should singly join your government." mr gladstone wrote--"i am very sensible of the importance of the vote taken on friday, and i should deeply lament to see the house of commons trampled on in consequence of that vote. the honour of the house is materially involved in giving it full effect. it would therefore be my first wish to aid, if possible, in such a task; and remembering the years when we were colleagues, i may be permitted to say that there is nothing in the fact of your being the head of a ministry, which would avail to deter me from forming part of it. "among the first questions i have had to put to myself in consequence of the offer, which you have conveyed to me in such friendly and flattering terms, has been the question, whether it would be in my power by accepting it, either alone, or in concert with others, to render you material service. "after the long years, during which we have been separated, there would be various matters of public interest requiring to be noticed between us; but the question i have mentioned is a needful preliminary. "upon the best consideration which the moment allows, i think it plain that alone, as i must be, i could not render you service worth your having. "the dissolution of last year excluded from parliament men with whom i had sympathies, and it in some degree affected the position of those political friends with whom i have now for many years been united, through evil and (much more rarely) good report. "those who lament the rupture of old traditions may well desire the reconstruction of a party; but the reconstitution of a party can only be effected, if at all, by the return of the old influences to their places, and not by the junction of one isolated person. "the difficulty is now enhanced in my case by the fact that in your party, reduced as it is at the present moment in numbers, there is a small but active and not unimportant section, who avowedly regard me as the representative of the most dangerous ideas. i should thus, unfortunately, be to you a source of weakness in the heart of your own adherents, while i should bring you no party or group of friends to make up for their defection or discontent. "for the reasons which i have thus stated or glanced at, my reply to your letter must be in the negative. "i must, however, add that a government formed by you at this time will in my opinion have strong claims upon me, and upon any one situated as i am, for favourable presumptions, and in the absence of conscientious difference on important questions, for support. "i have had an opportunity of seeing lord aberdeen and sidney herbert, and they fully concur in the sentiment i have just expressed."] [footnote : see _ante_, st october, , note .] [pageheading: the chancellorship] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ nd february _. the queen acknowledges lord derby's letter of yesterday, and returns him these three letters. she much regrets that he cannot reckon on the support and assistance in the government, which he is about to form, of such able men. the queen authorises lord derby to offer the office of lord chancellor with a peerage to mr pemberton leigh; but she fears from what passed on previous occasions that he is not likely to accept it.[ ] [footnote : he declined the office, and the great seal was offered to and accepted by sir frederick thesiger, who was created lord chelmsford.] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ nd february _. the queen has had a long conversation with the duke of newcastle, which however ended, as lord derby will have expected from what the duke must have told him, in his declaring his conviction that he could be of no use to the new government by joining it, or in persuading his friends to change their minds as to joining. the duke was evidently much pleased by the offer, but from all he said of his position, the queen could gather that it was in vain to press him further. [pageheading: the new cabinet] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ th february _. lord derby presents his humble duty to your majesty, and fears that after your majesty's most gracious acceptance of the propositions which he has made, he may appear to your majesty very vacillating, in having at the last moment to submit to your majesty another change.... but he finds that lord john manners, though he consented to take the colonial department, would infinitely prefer resuming his seat at the board of works; and on the urgent representation of his colleagues that the government would be strengthened by such a step, lord stanley has consented to accept office; and the arrangement which he would now venture humbly to submit to your majesty would be the appointment of lord stanley to the colonial secretaryship, and lord john manners to the board of works.... the ministry as it the ministry as formed stood on the st of by the earl of derby january . in february . viscount palmerston _first lord of the_ earl of derby. _treasury_ marquis of lansdowne (_without office_). lord cranworth _lord chancellor_ lord chelmsford. earl granville _president of the_ marquis of salisbury. _council_ marquis of clanricarde _lord privy seal_ earl of hardwicke. sir george grey _home secretary_ mr walpole. earl of clarendon _foreign secretary_ earl of malmesbury. mr labouchere _colonial secretary_ lord stanley (afterwards lord (afterwards earl taunton) of derby). lord panmure _war secretary_ general peel. (afterwards earl of dalhousie) sir g. c. lewis _chancellor of the_ mr disraeli _exchequer_ (afterwards earl of beaconsfield) sir charles wood _first lord of the_ sir john pakington (afterwards viscount _admiralty_ (afterwards lord halifax) hampton). mr vernon smith _president of the_ earl of ellenborough. (afterwards lord _board of control_ lyveden) lord stanley of _president of the_ mr henley. alderley _board of trade_ mr m. t. baines _chancellor of the_ (_not in the cabinet._) _duchy of lancaster_ duke of argyll _postmaster-general_ (_not in the cabinet._) (_not in the cabinet_) _first commissioner_ lord john manners _of works and_ (afterwards _public buildings_ duke of rutland). [pageheading: the orsini plot] [pageheading: the emperor and the carbonari] _the earl of malmesbury to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th march _. the earl of malmesbury presents his humble duty to the queen, and has the honour to thank your majesty for the interesting letter[ ] sent to him by your majesty, and which he returns to your majesty by this messenger. lord malmesbury hopes and believes that much of the excitement that prevailed on the _other_ side the water is subsiding. all his letters from _private_ sources, and the account of colonel claremont, agree on this point. in this country, if our differences with france are settled, it is probable that the popular jealousy of foreign interference will be killed; but at least for some time it will show foreign courts how dangerous it is _even to criticise_ our _domestic_ institutions. lord malmesbury has carefully abstained from giving lord cowley or m. de persigny the slightest hope that we could alter the law, but has confined himself to saying that the law was itself as much on its trial as the prisoners bernard and truelove.[ ] if, therefore, the law should prove to be a phantom of justice, or anomalous in its action, whatever measures your majesty's government may hereafter take to reform it, it will be received by france as an unexpected boon and a proof of good faith and amity. in attending to the idea referred to by your majesty that the emperor took the oath of the assassins' society, lord malmesbury can almost assure your majesty that such is not the case.[ ] lord malmesbury first made his majesty's acquaintance in italy when they were both very young men (twenty years of age). they were _both_ under the influence of those romantic feelings which the former history and the present degradation of italy may naturally inspire even at a more advanced time of life--and the prince louis napoleon, to the knowledge of lord malmesbury, certainly engaged himself in the conspiracies of the time--but it was with the higher class of the carbonari, men like general sercognani and general pépé. the prince used to talk to lord malmesbury upon these men and their ideas and plans with all the openness that exists between two youths, and lord malmesbury has many times heard him condemn with disgust the societies of villains which hung on the flank of the conspirators, and which deterred many of the best families and ablest gentlemen in romagna from joining them. lord malmesbury believes the report therefore to be a fable, and at some future period will, if it should interest your majesty, relate to your majesty some details respecting the emperor's share in the conspiracies of - .... [footnote : this was a letter from the prince de chimay to the king of the belgians in reference to the orsini plot.] [footnote : before lord palmerston's government had retired, simon bernard, a resident of bayswater, was committed for trial for complicity in the orsini _attentat_. he was committed for conspiracy only, but, at the instance of the new government, the charge was altered to one of feloniously slaying one of the persons killed by the explosion. as this constructive murder was actually committed on french soil, bernard's trial had, under the existing law, to be held before a special commission, over which lord campbell presided. the evidence overwhelmingly established the prisoner's guilt, but, carried away by the eloquent, if irrelevant, speech of mr edwin james for the defence, the jury acquitted him. truelove was charged with criminal libel, for openly approving, in a published pamphlet, orsini's attempt, and regretting its failure. the government threw up the prosecution, pusillanimously in the judgment of lord campbell, who records that he carefuly studied, with a view to his own hearing of the case, the proceedings against lord george gordon for libelling marie antoinette, against vint for libelling the emperor paul, and against peltier for libelling napoleon i.] [footnote : the queen had written:--"there are people who pretend that the emperor, who was once a member of the carbonari club of italy, and who is supposed to be condemned to death by the rules of that secret society for having violated his oath to them, has offered them to pardon orsini, if they would release him from his oath, but that the society refused the offer. the fact that all the attempts have been made by italians, orsini's letter, and the almost mad state of fear in which the emperor seems to be now, would give colour to that story." orsini had written two letters to the emperor, one read aloud at his trial by his counsel, jules favre, the other while lying under sentence of death. he entreated the emperor to secure italian independence.] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th march _. (_friday._) the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. the opposition benches very full; the temper not kind. the french announcement,[ ] which was quite unexpected, elicited cheers, but only from the ministerial side, which, he confesses, for a moment almost daunted him. then came a question about the _cagliari_ affair,[ ] on which the government had agreed to take a temperate course, in deference to their predecessors--but it was not successful. the ill-humour of the house, diverted for a moment by the french news, vented itself on this head. what struck the chancellor of the exchequer in the course of the evening most was the absence of all those symptoms of "fair trial," etc., which have abounded of late in journals and in society. lord john said something; mr gladstone said something; but it was not encouraging. nevertheless, in "fair trial" observations abounded, and the result was not satisfactory; now it may be the reverse. the house is wild and capricious at this moment. your majesty once deigned to say that your majesty wished in these remarks to have the temper of the house placed before your majesty, and to find what your majesty could not meet in newspapers. this is the chancellor of the exchequer's excuse for these rough notes, written on the field of battle, which he humbly offers to your majesty. [footnote : parliament reassembled on the th of march, and mr disraeli then stated that the "painful misconceptions" which had for some time existed between england and france had been "terminated in a spirit entirely friendly and honourable."] [footnote : two english engineers, watt and park, had been on the sardinian steamer _cagliari_ when she was seized by the neapolitan government, and her crew, including the engineers, imprisoned at naples. at the instance of the conservative government, who acted more vigorously than their predecessors had done, the engineers were released, and £ , paid to them as compensation.] [pageheading: the navy] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ osborne, _ th march _. the queen sends to lord derby a memorandum on the state of preparation of our navy in case of a war, the importance of attending to which she has again strongly felt when the late vote of the house of commons endangered the continuance of the good understanding with france. the whole tone of the debate on the first night of the reassembly of parliament has shown again that there exists a great disposition to boast and provoke foreign powers without any sincere desire to investigate our means of making good our words, and providing for those means which are missing. the queen wishes lord derby to read this memorandum to the cabinet, and to take the subject of which it treats into their anxious consideration. the two appendices, stating facts, the one with regard to the manning of the navy by volunteers with the aid of bounties, the other with regard to impressment, have become unfortunately more lengthy than the queen had wished, but the facts appeared to her so important that she did not like to have any left out. _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ nd march _. (_monday, half-past eight o'clock._) the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. this evening was a great contrast to friday. house very full on both sides.... mr b. osborne commenced the general attack, of which he had given notice; but, after five years' silence, his weapons were not as bright as of yore. he was answered by the government, and the house, which was very full, became much excited. the ministerial benches were in high spirit. the debate that ensued, most interesting and sustained. mr horsman, with considerable effect, expressed the opinions of that portion of the liberal party, which does not wish to disturb the government. lord john russell vindicated the reform bill of from the attacks of the chancellor of the exchequer, and with great dignity and earnestness. he was followed by mr drummond on the same subject in a telling epigram. then lord palmerston, in reply to the charges of mr horsman, mild and graceful, with a sarcastic touch. the general impression of the house was very favourable to the ministry; all seemed changed; the debate had cleared the political atmosphere, and, compared with our previous state, we felt as if the eclipse was over. [pageheading: resignation of persigny] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ rd march _. my dearest uncle,--you will, i trust, forgive my letter being short, but we have only just returned from aldershot, where we went this morning, and really have been quite baked by a sun which was hardly hotter in august, and without a breath of wind.... good marie[ ] has not answered me, will you remind her? i _did_ tell her i hoped for her child's[ ] sake she would give up the nursing, as we princesses had other duties to perform. i hope she was not shocked, but i felt i only did what was right in telling her so. i grieve to say we lose poor persigny, which is a real loss--but he would resign. walewski behaved ill to him. the emperor has, however, named a successor which is _really_ a compliment to the army and the alliance--and besides a distinguished and independent man, viz. the duc de malakhoff.[ ] this is very gratifying. in all this business, pélissier has, i hear, behaved extremely well. i must now conclude. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : marie henriette, duchess of brabant, afterwards queen of the belgians; died .] [footnote : princess louise of belgium was born on the th of february.] [footnote : formerly general pélissier; see _ante_, th september, , note .] [pageheading: the house of commons] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ rd march _. (_tuesday._) the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. the discussion on the passport question, this evening, was not without animation; the new under-secretary, mr fitzgerald,[ ] makes way with the house. he is very acute and quick in his points, but does not speak loud enough. his tone is conversational, which is the best for the house of commons, and the most difficult; but then the conversation should be heard. the general effect of the discussion was favourable to the french government. in a thin house afterwards, the wife's sister bill was brought in after a division. your majesty's government had decided among themselves to permit the introduction, but a too zealous member of the opposition forced an inopportune division. [footnote : william robert seymour vesey fitzgerald, m.p. for horsham - . he was governor of bombay - .] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th march _. (_thursday._) the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. the lease of the lord-lieutenancy was certainly renewed to-night--and for some years. the majority was very great against change at present, and the future, which would justify it, it was agreed, should be the very decided opinion of the irish members. it was left in short to ireland. the debate was not very animated, but had two features--a most admirable speech by lord naas,[ ] quite the model of an official statement, clear, calm, courteous, persuasive, and full of knowledge; it received the praises of both sides. the other incident noticeable was mr roebuck's reply, which was one of the most apt, terse, and telling i well remember, and not bitter. [footnote : chief secretary to the lord-lieutenant, afterwards (as earl of mayo) viceroy of india, assassinated in the andaman islands, .] [pageheading: capture of lucknow] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th april._ (_tuesday night._) the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. the night tranquil and interesting--lord bury, with much intelligence, introduced the subject of the straits settlements;[ ] the speech of sir j. elphinstone,[ ] master of the subject, and full of striking details, produced a great effect. his vindication of the convict population of singapore, as the moral element of that strange society, might have been considered as the richest humour, had it not been for its unmistakable simplicity. his inquiry of the governor's lady, who never hired any servant but a convict, whether she employed in her nursery "thieves or murderers?"--and the answer, "always murderers," was very effective.... the secretary of state having sent down to the chancellor of the exchequer the telegram of the fall of lucknow,[ ] the chancellor of the exchequer read it to the house, having previously in private shown it to lord palmerston and others of the late government. after this a spirited debate on the conduct of members of parliament corruptly exercising their influence, in which the view recommended by the government, through mr secretary walpole, was adopted by the house. [footnote : these detached provinces were at this time under the control of the governor-general of india; but in they were formed into a crown colony.] [footnote : sir j. d. h. elphinstone, conservative member for portsmouth, afterwards a lord of the treasury.] [footnote : sir colin campbell had at length obtained entire possession of the city, which had been in the hands of the rebels for nine months.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ nd april _. my dear uncle,--i am sure you will kindly be interested in knowing that the examination and confirmation of bertie have gone off extremely well.[ ] everything was conducted as at vicky's, and i thought _much_ of you, and wished we could have had the happiness of having you there. i enclose a programme. the examination before the archbishop and ourselves by the dean on wednesday was long and difficult, but bertie answered extremely well, and his whole manner and _gemüthsstimmung_ yesterday, and again to-day, at the sacrament to which we took him, was gentle, good, and proper.... now, good-bye, dear uncle. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : see the prince consort's letter to stockmar, _life of the prince consort_, vol. iv. p. .] [pageheading: naval preparations] _queen victoria to sir john pakington._ windsor castle, _ th april _. the queen has received sir john pakington's letter of the th, and thanks him for the transmission of the printed copy of his confidential memorandum. the object of the paper which the queen sent from osborne to lord derby was to lead by a thorough investigation to an exact knowledge of the state of our naval preparations in the event of a war, with the view to the discovery and suggestion of such remedies as our deficiencies imperatively demand. this investigation and thorough consideration the queen expects from her board of admiralty, chosen with great care, and composed of the most competent naval authorities. she does not wish for the opinion of this or that person, given without any responsibility attaching to it, nor for mere returns prepared in the office for the first lord, but for the collective opinion of sir john pakington and his board with the responsibility attaching to such an opinion given to the sovereign upon a subject upon which the safety of the empire depends. the queen has full confidence in the honour of the gentlemen composing the board, that they will respect the _confidential_ character of the queen's communication, and pay due regard to the importance of the subject referred to them. [pageheading: procedure by resolution] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th april _. (_monday night._) the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. house reassembled--full. chancellor of exchequer much embarrassed with impending statement, on the part of your majesty's servants, that they intended to propose resolutions on the government of india, instead of at once proceeding with their bill.[ ] received, five minutes before he took his seat, confidential information, that lord john russell, wishing to defeat the prospects of lord palmerston, and himself to occupy a great mediatory position, intended, himself, to propose the mezzotermine of resolutions! chancellor of exchequer felt it was impossible, after having himself introduced a bill, to interfere with the resolutions of an independent member, and one so weighty and distinguished: therefore, confined his announcement to the budget on monday week, and consequent postponement of india bill. soon after, lord john rose, and opened the case, in a spirit most calm and conciliatory to the house, and to your majesty's government. the chancellor of exchequer responded, but with delicacy, not wishing rudely to deprive lord john of his position in the matter; deeming it arrogant--but the real opposition, extremely annoyed at all that was occurring, wishing, at the same time, to deprive lord john of the mediatory position, and to embarrass your majesty's government with the task and responsibility of preparing and introducing the resolutions, _insisted_ upon government undertaking the task. as the chancellor of exchequer read the sketch of the resolutions in his box, this was amusing; he undertook the responsibility, thus urged, and almost menaced; lord john, though greatly mortified at not bringing in the resolutions himself, for it is since known they were prepared, entirely and justly acquits chancellor of exchequer of any arrogance and intrusion, and the affair concludes in a manner dignified and more than promising. it is now generally supposed that after the various resolutions have been discussed, and passed, the bill of your majesty's servants, modified and reconstructed, will pass into a law. the chancellor of exchequer will have a copy of the resolutions, though at present in a crude form, made and forwarded to your majesty, that they may be considered by your majesty and his royal highness. chancellor of exchequer will mention this to lord derby, through whom they ought to reach your majesty. after this unexpected and interesting scene, because it showed, in its progress, a marked discordance between lord john and lord palmerston, not concealed by the latter chief, and strongly evinced by some of his principal followers, for example, sir c. wood, mr hall, mr bouverie, the house went into committee on the navy estimates which sir j. pakington introduced in a speech, lucid, spirited, and comprehensive. the feeling of the house as to the maintenance of the navy was good. [footnote : lord palmerston had obtained leave, by a large majority, to introduce an india bill, vesting the government of india in a council nominated by the crown. on his accession to office, mr disraeli proposed that the council should be half nominative and half elective, and in particular that london, manchester, liverpool, glasgow, and belfast should each be entitled to elect one member. these proposals were widely condemned, and especially by mr bright.] _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ buckingham palace, _ st may _. the queen has received a draft to lord cowley on the danish question,[ ] which she cannot sanction as submitted to her. the question is a most important one, and a false step on our part may produce a war between france and germany. the queen would wish lord malmesbury to call here in the course of to-morrow, when the prince could discuss the matter with him more fully. [footnote : the dispute as to the duchies of schleswig and holstein. the german diet had refused to ratify the danish proposal that commissioners should be appointed by germany and denmark to negotiate an arrangement of their differences. lord malmesbury had written that the governments (including england) which had hitherto abstained from interference, should now take measures to guard against any interference with the integrity of the danish monarchy. the queen and prince considered that the attitude of the british government was unnecessarily pro-danish.] [pageheading: the oudh proclamation] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th may _. the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. at half-past four o'clock, before the chancellor of the exchequer could reach the house, the secretary of the board of control had already presented the proclamation of lord canning, and the despatch thereon of lord ellenborough, without the omission of the oudh passages.[ ] the chancellor of the exchequer has employed every means to recall the papers, and make the necessary omissions, and more than once thought he had succeeded, but unhappily the despatch had been read by mr bright, and a considerable number of members, and, had papers once in the possession of the house by the presentation of a minister been surreptitiously recalled and garbled, the matter would have been brought before the house, and the production of the complete documents would have been ordered. in this difficult and distressing position the chancellor of the exchequer, after consultation with his colleagues in the house of commons, thought it best, and, indeed, inevitable, to submit to circumstances, the occurrence of which he deeply regrets, and humbly places before your majesty. [footnote : see _ante_, introductory note to chapter xxvii. the draft proclamation (differing from the ultimate form in which it was issued), with a covering despatch, were sent home to the board of control by lord canning, who at the same time wrote an unofficial letter to mr vernon smith, then president of the board, stating that he had not been able to find time before the mail left to explain his reasons for adopting what appeared a somewhat merciless scheme of confiscation. lord ellenborough thereupon wrote a despatch, dated the th of april, reprobating the governor-general for abandoning the accustomed policy of generous conquerors, and for inflicting on the mass of the population what they would feel as the severest of punishments. this despatch was made public in england, as will be seen from the dates, before it could possibly have reached lord canning.] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. the queen has received lord derby's letter of last night, and was glad to see that he entirely concurs with her in the advantage and necessity of appointing a commission to consider the question of the organisation of the future army of india.[ ] she only hopes that no time will be lost by the reference to the different bodies whom lord derby wishes previously to consult, and she trusts that he will not let himself be overruled by lord ellenborough, who may very likely consider the opinion and result of the labours of a committee as entirely valueless as compared with his own opinions. the queen has not the same confidence in them, and is, therefore, doubly anxious to be advised by a body of the most competent persons after most careful enquiry. [footnote : the queen had written that she thought the commission should be composed of officers of the home and the indian armies, some politicians, the commander-in-chief, the president of the board of control, with the secretary-for-war as president.] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. the queen has received lord derby's letter of yesterday. she is very sorry for the further complication likely to arise out of the communication to the house of commons of the despatch in full, which is most unfortunate, not less so than the communication of it previously to mr bright and his friends. the queen is anxious not to add to lord derby's difficulties, but she must not leave unnoticed the fact that the despatch in question ought never to have been written without having been submitted to the queen. she hopes lord derby will take care that lord ellenborough will not repeat this, which must place her in a most embarrassing position. [pageheading: ellenborough's resignation] _the earl of ellenborough to queen victoria._ eaton square, _ th may _. lord ellenborough presents his most humble duty to your majesty, and regarding the present difficult position of your majesty's government as mainly occasioned by the presentation to parliament of the letter to the governor-general with reference to the proclamation in oudh, for which step he considers himself to be solely responsible, he deems it to be his duty to lay his resignation at your majesty's feet. lord ellenborough had no other object than that of making it unmistakably evident to the governor as well as to the governed in india that your majesty was resolved to temper justice with clemency, and would not sanction any measure which did not seem to conduce to the establishment of permanent peace.[ ] [footnote : on the same day lord shaftesbury in the lords and mr cardwell in the commons gave notice of motions censuring the government for lord ellenborough's despatch. the debates commenced on the th.] [pageheading: a crisis] [pageheading: ellenborough's statement] _memorandum by the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. lord derby had an audience at twelve o'clock. he said he had received a copy of lord ellenborough's letter, and had told him that should the queen consult him (lord derby) he should advise her to accept the resignation, lord ellenborough had behaved in the handsomest manner, and expressed his belief that he had brought bad luck to the government, for this was now the second difficulty into which they had got by his instrumentality, the first having been the election clause in the india bill. lord derby hoped that this resignation would stop the vote of censure in the house of commons, as the house could not hold responsible and punish the cabinet for that with which they had had no concern. if the house persisted, it was clear that the motives were factious, and he hoped the queen would allow him to threaten a dissolution of parliament, which he was certain would stop it. the queen refused to give that permission; she said he might leave it quite undecided whether the queen would grant a dissolution or not, and take the benefit of the doubt in talking to others on the subject; but she must be left quite free to act as she thought the good of the country might require at the time when the government should have been beat; there had been a dissolution within the year, and if a reform bill was passed there must be another immediately upon it; in the meantime most violent pledges would be taken as to reform if a general election were to take place now. lord derby concurred in all this, and said he advised the threat particularly in order to render the reality unnecessary; when she persisted in her refusal, however, on the ground that she could not threaten what she was not prepared to do, he appeared very much disappointed and mortified. we then discussed the state of the question itself, and urged the necessity of something being done to do away with the injurious impression which the publication of the despatch must produce in india, as the resignation of lord ellenborough left this quite untouched, and parliament might with justice demand this. he agreed, after much difficulty, to send a telegraphic despatch, which might overtake and mitigate the other. on my remark that the public were under the impression that there had been collusion, and that mr bright had seen the despatch before he asked his question for its production, he denied this stoutly, but let us understand that mr bright had known of the existence of such a despatch, and had wished to put his question before, but had been asked to defer it until lord canning's proclamation should have appeared in the newspapers! (this is nearly as bad!!) the queen could not have pledged herself to dissolve parliament in order to support such tricks! albert. it was arranged that lord derby should accept lord ellenborough's resignation in the queen's name. _queen victoria to the earl of ellenborough._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. the queen has to acknowledge lord ellenborough's letter, which she did not wish to do before she had seen lord derby. the latter has just left the queen, and will communicate to lord ellenborough the queen's acceptance of his resignation, which he has thought it right to tender to her from a sense of public duty. [pageheading: lord derby's despatch] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square [_ th may_]. ( p.m., _tuesday_.) lord derby, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty the expression of his hope that the discussion, or rather conversation, which has taken place in the house of lords this evening, may have been not only advantageous to the government, but beneficial in its results to the public service.... after the discussion, lord ellenborough made his statement; and it is only doing bare justice to him to say that he made it in a manner and spirit which was most highly honourable to himself, and was fully appreciated by the house. public sympathy was entirely with him, especially when he vindicated the policy which he had asserted, but took upon himself the whole and sole responsibility of having authorised the publication of the despatch--which he vindicated--and announced his own resignation rather than embarrass his colleagues. lord grey shortly entered his protest against bringing into discussion the policy of the proclamation and of the consequent despatch, into which lord ellenborough had certainly entered too largely, opposing, very broadly, the principle of confiscation against that of clemency. lord derby followed lord grey, and after an interruption on a point of form, vindicated the policy advocated in lord ellenborough's despatch, at the same time that he expressed not only his hope, but his belief, that in practice the governor-general would be found (and more especially judging from the alterations inserted in the last proclamation of which an unofficial copy has been received) acting on the principles laid down in lord ellenborough's despatch. in the tribute which he felt it his duty to pay to the personal, as well as political, character of lord ellenborough, the house concurred with entire unanimity and all did honour to the spirit which induced him to sacrifice his own position to the public service; and to atone, and more than atone, for an act of indiscretion by the frank avowal that he alone was responsible for it. lord derby thinks that the step which has been taken may, even probably, prevent the motions intended to be made on friday; and if made, will, almost certainly, result in a majority for the government. lord derby believes that he may possibly be in time to telegraph to malta early to-morrow, to lord canning. in that case he will do himself the honour of submitting to your majesty a copy of the message[ ] sent, though he fears it will be impossible to do so before its despatch. he proposes in substance to say that the publication has been disapproved--that lord ellenborough has resigned in consequence--but that your majesty's government adhere in principle to the policy laid down in the despatch of th april, and entertain an earnest hope that the governor-general, judging from the modifications introduced into the amended proclamation, has, in fact, the intention of acting in the same spirit; but that your majesty's government are still of opinion that confiscation of private property ought to be made the exception, and not the rule, and to be enforced only against those who may stand out after a certain day, or who may be proved to have been guilty of more than ordinary crimes. lord derby hopes that your majesty will excuse a very hasty sketch of a very large subject. [footnote : _the earl of derby to lord lyons._ _ th may ._ send on the following message to lord canning by the indian mail. the publication of the secret despatch of th april has been disapproved. lord ellenborough has resigned office. his successor has not been appointed. nevertheless the policy indicated in the above despatch is approved by her majesty's government. confiscation of property of private individuals (talookdars and others) ought to be the exception and not the rule. it ought to be held out as a penalty on those who do not come in by a given day. from your amended proclamation it is hoped that such is your intention. let it be clearly understood that it is so. you were quite right in issuing no proclamation till after a signal success. that once obtained, the more generous the terms, the better. a broad distinction must be drawn between the talookdars of oudh and the sepoys who have been in our service. confidence is felt in your judgment. you will not err if you lean to the side of humanity, especially as to nations of oudh. no private letters have been received from you since the change of government.] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ _ th may ._ the queen returns the extracts lord derby has sent to her. lord ellenborough's despatch,[ ] now before her for the first time, is very good and just in principle. but the queen would be much surprised if it did not entirely coincide with the views of lord canning, at least as far as he has hitherto expressed any in his letters. so are also the sentiments written by sir j. lawrence; they contain almost the very expressions frequently used by lord canning. sir j. login,[ ] who holds the same opinion, and has great indian experience, does not find any fault with the proclamation, however seemingly it may sound at variance with these opinions, and this on account of the peculiar position of affairs in oudh. it is a great pity that lord ellenborough, with his knowledge, experience, activity, and cleverness, should be so entirely unable to submit to general rules of conduct. the queen has been for some time much alarmed at his writing letters of his own to all the most important indian chiefs and kings explaining his policy. all this renders the position of a governor-general almost untenable, and that of the government at home very hazardous. [footnote : this was a later despatch of lord ellenborough's, also in reference to the pacification of oudh, and not shown to the cabinet before it was sent.] [footnote : see _ante_, rd september, , note .] [pageheading: lord aberdeen consulted] [pageheading: prerogative of dissolution] [pageheading: state of parties] _memorandum by sir charles phipps._ [_undated._ ? _ th may ._] upon being admitted to lord aberdeen, i informed him that the queen and prince were anxious to hear his opinion upon the present most unfortunate state of affairs, but that, knowing how easily every event was perverted in such times as the present, her majesty and his royal highness had thought that it might have been subject to misapprehension had he been known to have been at buckingham palace, and that i had been therefore directed to call upon him, with a view of obtaining his opinion and advice upon certain important points. the first was the question of a dissolution of parliament in the event of the government being defeated upon the question which was at present pending. i told him that i was permitted to communicate to him in the strictest confidence, that in a late audience which lord derby had with the queen, he had asked her permission to be allowed to announce that, in the event of an adverse majority, he had her majesty's sanction to a dissolution of parliament. that the queen had declined to give such sanction, or even such a pledge, and equally guarded herself against being supposed to have made up her mind to refuse her sanction to a dissolution, had told lord derby that she could not then make any prospective decision upon the subject. i told him that in point of fact her majesty was disinclined to grant to lord derby her authority for a dissolution, but that the queen had at once refused to grant to lord derby her sanction for making the announcement he wished, as she considered that it would be a very unconstitutional threat for him to hold over the head of the parliament, with her authority, by way of biassing their decision. lord aberdeen interrupted me by saying that the queen had done quite right--that he never heard of such a request being made, or authority for such an announcement being sought--and he could not at all understand lord derby making such an application. he knew that the government had threatened a dissolution, that he thought that they had a perfect right to do so, but that they would have been quite wrong in joining the queen's name with it. he said that he had never entertained the slightest doubt that if the minister advised the queen to dissolve, she would, as a matter of course, do so. the minister who advised the dissolution took upon himself the heavy responsibility of doing so, but that the sovereign was bound to suppose that the person whom she had appointed as a minister was a gentleman and an honest man, and that he would not advise her majesty to take such a step unless he thought that it was for the good of the country. there was no doubt of the power and prerogative of the sovereign to refuse a dissolution--it was one of the very few acts which the queen of england could do without responsible advice at the moment; but even in this case whoever was sent for to succeed, must, with his appointment, assume the responsibility of this act, and be prepared to defend it in parliament. he could not remember a single instance in which the undoubted power of the sovereign had been exercised upon this point, and the advice of the minister to dissolve parliament had been rejected--for it was to be remembered that lord derby would be still at this time her minister--and that the result of such refusal would be that the queen would take upon herself the act of dismissing lord derby from office, instead of his resigning from being unable longer to carry on the government. the queen had during her reign, and throughout the numerous changes of government, maintained an unassailable position of constitutional impartiality, and he had no hesitation in saying that he thought it would be more right, and certainly more safe, for her to follow the usual course, than to take this dangerous time for exercising an unusual and, he believed he might say, an unprecedented, course, though the power to exercise the authority was undoubted. he said that he did not conceive that any reasons of expediency as to public business, or the possible effects of frequent general elections, would be sufficient grounds for refusing a dissolution (and reasons would have to be given by the new minister in parliament), and, as he conceived, the only possible ground that could be maintained as foundation for such an exercise of authority would be the fearful danger to the existence of our power in india, which might arise from the intemperate discussion upon every hustings of the proceedings of the government with respect to that country--as the question proposed to the country would certainly be considered to be severity or mercy to the people of india. upon the second point, as to a successor to lord derby in the event of his resignation, he said that the queen would, he thought, have no alternative but to send for lord palmerston. the only other person who could be suggested would be lord john russell, and he was neither the mover of the resolutions which displaced the government, nor the ostensible head of the opposition, which the late meeting at cambridge house pointed out lord palmerston to be. that he was not very fond of lord palmerston, though he had forgiven him all, and he had had _much_ to forgive; and that in the last few days it had appeared that he had less following than lord john; but the queen could not act upon such daily changing circumstances, and it was evident that lord palmerston was the ostensible man for the queen to send for. lord aberdeen seemed very low upon the state of public affairs. he said that the extreme liberals were the only party that appeared to gain strength. not only was the whig party divided within itself, hated by the radicals, and having a very doubtful support from the independent liberals, but even the little band called the peelites had entirely crumbled to pieces. in the house of lords, whilst the duke of newcastle voted with the opposition, he (lord aberdeen) had purposely abstained from voting, whilst, in the house of commons, cardwell moved the resolution, and mr sidney herbert would, he believed, vote for it; gladstone would speak on the other side, and sir j. graham would also vote with the government. he concluded by saying that if the majority against the government was a very large one, he thought that lord derby ought not to ask to dissolve; but that he knew that the members of the government had said that the present parliament was elected upon a momentary palmerstonian cry, and was quite an exceptional case, and that they would not consent to be driven from office upon its verdict. [pageheading: the queen and dissolution] _memorandum by the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. we saw lord derby after church. he brought interesting letters from lord canning to lord ellenborough, of which copies follow here. it is evident that lord canning thinks that he is taking a most merciful course, and expects pacification from his "proclamation," attributing the slow coming in of the chiefs to the proclamation not being yet sufficiently known. lord ellenborough's, and indeed the government's, hearts, must have had curious sensations in reading lord canning's frank declaration, that he did not mean to resign on hearing of the formation of the tory government unless told to do so, and he had no fears that he would be treated in a way implying want of confidence to make him resign, feeling safe as to that in lord ellenborough's hands! lord derby spoke much of the debate, which he expects to go on for another week. he expects to be beaten by from to votes under present circumstances, but thinks still that he could be saved if it were known that the queen had not refused a dissolution, which was stoutly maintained by lord palmerston's friends. he begged again to be empowered to contradict the assertion. the queen maintained that it would be quite unconstitutional to threaten parliament, and to use her name for that purpose. lord derby quite agreed, and disclaimed any such intention, but said there were modes of letting the fact be known without any risk. we agreed that we could not enter into such details. the queen allowed him (lord derby) to know that a dissolution would not be refused to him, and trusted that her honour would be safe in his hands as to the use he made of that knowledge. he seemed greatly relieved, and stated that had he had to resign, he would have withdrawn from public business, and the conservative party would have been entirely, and he feared for ever, broken up. on a dissolution he felt certain of a large gain, as the country was in fact tired of the "whig family clique"; the radicals, like mr milner gibson, bright, etc., would willingly support a conservative government. albert. [pageheading: collapse of the attack] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._[ ] house of commons, _ st may _. the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. the fullest house; it is said members present; it was supposed we should have divided at three o'clock in the morning; mr gladstone was to have spoken for the government at half-past ten--very great excitement--when there occurred a scene perhaps unprecedented in parliament. one after another, perhaps twenty members, on the opposition benches, rising and entreating mr cardwell to withdraw his resolution. after some time, silence on the government benches, mr cardwell went to lord john russell, then to lord palmerston, then to lord john russell again, then returned to lord palmerston, and retired with him. what are called the interpellations continued, when suddenly lord palmerston reappeared; embarrassed, with a faint smile; addressed the house; and after various preluding, announced the withdrawal of the motion of censure. a various debate followed; the chancellor of the exchequer endeavouring, as far as regards lord canning, to fulfil your majesty's wishes. it is impossible to estimate the importance of this unforeseen event to your majesty's servants. it has strengthened them more than the most decided division in their favour, for it has revealed complete anarchy in the ranks of their opponents. with prudence and vigilance all must now go right. the speech of sir james graham last night produced a very great effect. no report gives a fair idea of it. the great country gentleman, the broad views, the fine classical allusions, the happiest all omitted, the massy style, contrasted remarkably with sir richard bethell. [footnote : lord shaftesbury's motion in the lords had been lost by a majority of nine. in the commons, mr cardwell was replied to in a brilliant speech by sir hugh cairns, the solicitor-general. the speeches of sir james graham, mr bright, and others, showed that the opposition was disunited, and when it was understood that mr gladstone would support the ministry, the liberal attack collapsed. mr disraeli, deprived of the satisfaction of making an effective reply, subsequently compared the discomfiture of his opponents to an earthquake in calabria or peru. "there was," he said, in the course of a speech at slough, "a rumbling murmur, a groan, a shriek, a sound of distant thunder. no one knew whether it came from the top or bottom of the house. there was a rent, a fissure in the ground, and then a village disappeared, then a tall tower toppled down, and the whole of the opposition benches became one great dissolving view of anarchy."] [pageheading: causes of the collapse] [pageheading: offer to mr gladstone] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ rd may _. (_sunday night._) lord derby, with his humble duty, gratefully acknowledges your majesty's gracious letter just received, and the telegraphic message with which he was honoured in answer to his on friday night. your majesty can hardly be expected to estimate, at a distance from the immediate scene of action, the effect of the event of that evening. it was the utter explosion of a well-constructed mine, under the feet, not of the assailed, but of the assailants; and the effect has been the greater from the immense attendance in london of members of the house of commons. no effort had been spared. lord castlerosse, only just married, had been sent for from italy--but lord derby hopes that he had not been induced to come--for nothing. it is said that of the members of whom the house is composed, were actually in london. the government could rely on to , and the whole question turned on the absence, or the conversion, of a small number of "liberal" members. the result is to be attributed to two causes; first, and principally, to the fear of a dissolution, and to the growing conviction that in case of necessity your majesty would sanction such a course, which had been strenuously denied by lord palmerston--and in which lord derby hopes that your majesty will have seen that your majesty's name has never, for a moment, been brought in question; and secondly, to the effect produced by the correspondence between the governor-general and sir james outram.[ ] and here lord derby may perhaps be allowed the opportunity of removing a misconception from your majesty's mind, as to any secret intelligence or underhand intrigue between lord ellenborough and sir james outram, to the detriment of lord canning. lord derby is in the position to know that if there is one person in the world to whom lord ellenborough has an utter aversion, and with whom he has no personal or private correspondence, it is sir james outram. anything therefore in common in their opinions must be the result of circumstances wholly irrespective of private concert. lord derby has written fully to lord canning, privately, by the mail which will go out on tuesday; and while he has not concealed from him the opinion of your majesty's servants that the proclamation, of which so much has been said, conveyed too sweeping an edict of confiscation against the landowners, great and small, of oudh, he has not hesitated to express also his conviction that lord canning's real intentions, in execution, would not be found widely to differ from the views of your majesty's servants. he has expressed to lord canning his regret at the premature _publication_ of the draft proclamation, at the same time that he has pointed out the injustice done both to your majesty's government and to the governor-general by the (lord derby will hardly call it fraudulent) suppression of the private letters addressed to the president of the board of control, and deprecating judgment on the text of the proclamation, until explanation should be received. lord derby cannot but be of opinion that this suppression, of which lord palmerston was fully cognisant, was an act which no political or party interests were sufficient to justify. the state of the government, during the late crisis, was such as to render it impossible to make any arrangement for filling up lord ellenborough's place at the board of control. application has since been made to mr gladstone,[ ] with the offer of that post, or of that of the colonial department, which lord stanley would give up for the convenience of your majesty's government, though unwillingly, for india. mr gladstone demurred, on the ground of not wishing to leave his friends; but when pressed to name whom he would wish to bring with him, he could name none. finally, he has written to ask advice as to his course of sir james graham, who has returned to netherby, and of lord aberdeen; and by them he will probably be guided. should he finally refuse, lord stanley _must_ take india; and the colonies must be offered in the first instance to sir e. b. lytton, who probably will refuse, as he wants a peerage, and is doubtful of his re-election; and failing him, to sir william heathcote, the member for the university of oxford, who, without official experience, has great parliamentary knowledge and influence, and, if he will accept, is quite equal to the duties of the office. lord derby trusts that your majesty will forgive this long intrusion on your majesty's patience. he has preferred the risk of it, to leaving your majesty uninformed as to anything which was going on, or contemplated.... if lord dalhousie should be in a state to converse upon public affairs, there is no one with whom lord derby could confer more confidentially than with him; nor of whose judgment, though he regrets to differ with him as to the annexation of oudh, he has a higher opinion. he will endeavour to ascertain what is his present state of health, which he fears is very unsatisfactory, and will see and converse with him, if possible. [footnote : especially outram's remonstrance against what he considered the excessive severity of the proclamation.] [footnote : see mr disraeli's curious letter printed in morley's _gladstone_, vol. i. p. , asking mr gladstone whether the time had not come when he might deign to be magnanimous. sir e. b. lytton accepted the office.] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen has to thank lord derby for his satisfactory letter received yesterday. she has heard from mr disraeli to-day relative to the answer given by him to the question asked yesterday in the house of commons as to what the government meant to do.[ ] he says that he hears there are rumours of other motions on the subject. these the queen hopes there will be no difficulty in defeating. the duke of cambridge seems rather uneasy altogether, but the queen, though equally anxious about it, owns she cannot contemplate the possibility of any _real_ attempt to divest the crown of its prerogative in this instance. the army will not, she feels sure, stand it for a moment, and the queen feels sure, that if properly defined and explained, the house of commons will not acquiesce in any such disloyal proceeding. the queen does not understand lord john russell's voting with the majority, for she never understood him to express any such opinion. [footnote : a question was asked whether it was the intention of the government to take any step in consequence of a resolution of the house in favour of placing the whole administration and control of the army under the sole authority of a single minister. mr. disraeli replied that "considering the great importance of the subject,... the comparatively small number of members in the house when the division took pace, and the bare majority by which the decision was arrived at, her majesty's government do not feel that it is their duty to recommend any measure in consequence of that resolution."] [pageheading: government of india] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th june _. the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. the india bill was read a second time without a division.[ ] lord stanley made a clear and vigorous exposition of its spirit and provisions; mr bright delivered a powerful oration on the condition of india--its past government and future prospects; the rest of the discussion weak and desultory. no serious opposition apprehended in committee, which the chancellor of the exchequer has fixed for this day (friday)[ ] and almost hopes that he may conclude the committee on monday. he proposes to proceed with no other business until it is concluded. when the bill has passed, the temper of the house, and its sanitary state,[ ] will assist him in passing the remaining estimates with rapidity; and he contemplates an early conclusion of the session. it will be a great thing to have carried the india bill, which mr thomas baring, to-night, spoke of in terms of eulogy, and as a great improvement on the project of the late government. it is, the chancellor of the exchequer really thinks, a wise and well-digested measure, ripe with the experience of the last five months of discussion; but it is only the antechamber of an imperial palace; and your majesty would do well to deign to consider the steps which are now necessary to influence the opinions and affect the imagination of the indian populations. the name of your majesty ought to be impressed upon their native life. royal proclamations, courts of appeal, in their own land, and other institutions, forms, and ceremonies, will tend to this great result. [footnote : this was the third bill of the session, and was founded on the resolutions, _ante_, th april, , note . the government of india was transferred from the dual jurisdiction of the company and the board of control, to the secretary of state for india in council, the members of the council (after the provisions for representing vested interests should have lapsed) to be appointed by the secretary of state. a certain term of residence in india was to be a necessary qualification, and the members were to be rendered incapable of sitting in parliament, and with a tenure of office as assured as that of judges under the act of settlement.] [footnote : the letter is ante-dated. the th of june was a thursday.] [footnote : in consequence of the polluted condition of the thames, the government carried a measure enabling the metropolitan board of works, at a cost of £ , , , to purify "that noble river, the present state of which is little creditable to a great country, and seriously prejudicial to the health and comfort of the inhabitants of the metropolis."--extract from the queen's speech, at the close of the session.] [pageheading: indian civil service] [pageheading: the sovereign's prerogatives] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen in reading in the papers yesterday, on her way here from the camp, the debate in the house of commons of the previous night, was shocked to find that in several important points her government have surrendered the prerogatives of the crown. she will only refer to the clauses concerning the indian civil service and the right of peace and war. with respect to the first, the regulations under which servants of the crown are to be admitted or examined have always been an undoubted right and duty of the executive; by the clause introduced by lord stanley the system of "competitive examination" has been confirmed by act of parliament. that system may be right or wrong; it has since its introduction been carried on under the orders in council; now the crown and government are to be deprived of any authority in the matter, and the whole examinations, selection, and appointments, etc., etc., are to be vested in the civil commissioners under a parliamentary title. as to the right of the crown to declare war and make peace, it requires not a word of remark; yet lord stanley agrees to mr gladstone's proposal to make over this prerogative with regard to indian questions to parliament under the auspices of the queen's government; she is thus placed in a position of less authority than the president of the american republic.[ ] when a bill has been introduced into parliament, after having received the sovereign's approval, she has the right to expect that her ministers will not subsequently introduce important alterations without previously obtaining her sanction. in the first of the two instances referred to by the queen, lord stanley introduced the alteration himself; in the second he agreed to it even without asking for a moment's delay; and the opposition party, which attempted to guard the queen's prerogative, was overborne by the government leader of the house. the queen must remind lord derby that it is to him as the head of the government that she looks for the protection of those prerogatives which form an integral part of the constitution. [footnote : an important amendment made at the instance of mr gladstone provided that, except for repelling actual invasion or upon urgent necessity, the queen's indian forces should not be employed in operations outside india, without parliamentary sanction.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th july _. my truly beloved victoria,--nothing can be _kinder_ or more _affectionate_ than your dear letter of the th, and it would have done _your warm heart_ good to have _seen how much i have been delighted and moved by it_. i can only say that i love you both more tenderly than i could love my own children. when your plans will be nearer maturity, you will have the great kindness to let me know what will be your royal pleasure, to enable me _de m'y conformer bien exactement_. the feeling which occasions some grumbling at the cherbourg visit[ ] is in fact a good feeling, but it is not over-wise. two things are to be done--( ) to make every reasonable exertion to remain on personal good terms with the emperor--which can be done. one party in england says it is with the french nation that you are to be on loving terms; this _cannot_ be, as the french dislike the english as a nation, though they may be kind to you also personally. ( ) the next is, instead of a good deal of unnecessary abuse, to have the navy so organised that it can and must be superior to the french. all beyond these two points is sheer nonsense. after talking of chambord,[ ] to my utter horror he is here, and asked yesterday to see me to-day. it is not fair to do so, as the legitimists affect to this hour to consider [us] here as rebels. i could not refuse to see him, as, though distantly, still he is a relation; but i mean to do as they did in holland, to receive him, but to limit to his visit and my visit our whole intercourse. if he should speak to me of going to england, i certainly mean to tell him _que je considérais une visite comme tout à fait intempestive_.... your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : on the th of august, the queen and prince, accompanied by the prince of wales, visited the emperor and empress at cherbourg.] [footnote : see _ante_, th january, , and note .] [pageheading: british columbia] _queen victoria to sir e. bulwer lytton._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen has received sir e. bulwer lytton's letter.[ ] if the name of new caledonia is objected to as being already borne by another colony or island claimed by the french, it may be better to give the new colony west of the rocky mountains another name. new hanover, new cornwall, and new georgia appear from the maps to be the names of sub-divisions of that country, but do not appear on all maps. the only name which is given to the whole territory in every map the queen has consulted is "columbia," but as there exists also a columbia in south america, and the citizens of the united states call their country also columbia, at least in poetry, "british columbia" might be, in the queen's opinion, the best name. [footnote : stating that objections were being made in france to the name of new caledonia being given to the proposed colony between the pacific and the rocky mountains.] [pageheading: army commissions] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen has been placed in a most unpleasant dilemma by the last vote in the house of commons;[ ] she feels all the force of lord derby's objections to risking another defeat on the same question and converting the struggle into one against the royal prerogative; yet, on the other hand, she can hardly sit still, and from mere want of courage become a party to the most serious inroad which has yet been made upon it. it is the introduction of the principle into our legislation that the sovereign is no longer the source of all appointments under the crown, but that these appointments are the property of individuals under a parliamentary title, which the queen feels bound to resist. lord john russell's motion and sir james graham's speech only went to the civil appointments; but after their motion had been carried on a division, lord stanley gave way to sir de lacy evans also with regard to a _portion of the army!_ if this principle is recognised and sanctioned by the entire legislature, its future extension can no longer be resisted on constitutional grounds, and lord john in fact reminded lord stanley that the latter had stated that he only refrained from making the application general from thinking it _premature_, himself being of opinion that it ought to be carried further, and yet its extension to the army reduces the sovereign to a mere signing machine, as, to carry the case to its extreme consequence, _law_ would _compel_ her to sign the commission for the officers, and they might have the right to sue at law for the recovery of their property vested in them by act of parliament (viz., their commissions) if the crown doubted for any reason the fitness of an appointment!! have these consequences been considered and brought distinctly before parliament? it strikes the queen that all the commons want is a parliamentary security against the abolition of the competitive system of examinations by the executive. can this not be obtained by means less subversive of the whole character of our constitution? the queen cannot believe that lord derby could not find means to come to some agreement with the opposition, and she trusts he will leave nothing undone to effect this. [footnote : the lords amendments on the subject of competitive examination were rejected by a majority of thirteen in the commons, and, in the circumstances, lord derby had advised abiding by the decision and not risking another defeat.] [pageheading: naval estimates] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ osborne, _ nd august _. the queen feels it her duty to address a few lines to lord derby on the subject of the reports made to sir john pakington on the subject of the french naval preparations, to which she has already verbally adverted when she saw lord derby last. these reports reveal a state of things of the greatest moment to this country. it will be the first time in her history that she will find herself in an absolute minority of ships on the sea! and this inferiority will be much greater in reality than even apparent, as our fleet will have to defend possessions and commerce all over the world, and has even in europe a strategical line to hold extending from malta to heligoland, whilst france keeps her fleet together and occupies the centre of that line in europe. the queen thinks it irreconcilable with the duty which the government owes to the country to be aware of this state of things without straining every nerve to remedy it. with regard to men in whom we are also totally deficient in case of an emergency, a commission of enquiry is sitting to devise a remedy; but with regard to our ships and dockyards we require action, and immediate action. the plan proposed by the surveyor of the navy appears to the queen excessively moderate and judicious, and she trusts that the cabinet will not hesitate to empower its execution, bearing in mind that £ , spent now will probably do more work during the six or nine months for working before us, than £ , , would if voted in next year's estimate, letting our arrears in the dockyards, already admitted to be very great, accumulate in the interval. time is most precious under these circumstances! it is true that this sum of money would be in excess of the estimates of last session, but the queen feels sure that on the faith of the reports made by the admiralty, the government would find no difficulty in convincing parliament that they have been good stewards of the public money, in taking courageously the responsibility upon themselves to spend judiciously what is necessary, and that the country will be deeply grateful for the honesty with which they will have served her. the queen wishes lord derby to communicate this letter to the cabinet. _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ babelsberg, _ th august _. the queen has asked lord malmesbury to explain in detail to lord derby her objections to the draft of proclamation for india. the queen would be glad if lord derby would write it himself in his excellent language, bearing in mind that it is a female sovereign who speaks to more than , , of eastern people on assuming the direct government over them after a bloody civil war, giving them pledges which her future reign is to redeem, and explaining the principles of her government. such a document should breathe feelings of generosity, benevolence, and religious feeling, pointing out the privileges which the indians will receive in being placed on an equality with the subjects of the british crown, and the prosperity following in the train of civilisation.[ ] [footnote : the draft proclamation was accordingly altered so as to be in strict harmony with the queen's wishes. see _post_, nd december, , and note .] [pageheading: proclamation for india] _queen victoria to lord stanley._ osborne, _ th september _. the queen sends to lord stanley a memorandum embodying her wishes with respect to the transaction of business between herself and the new secretary of state. he will find that she has omitted any reference to military appointments, as lord stanley seemed anxious to defer a settlement on this point; she expects, however, that in all cases in which her pleasure was taken by the commander-in-chief, even during the administration of the east india company and board of control, the same practice will be continued unaltered. the queen has received lord stanley's letter of yesterday. he has given her no answer with respect to sir james melvill.[ ] whenever the proclamation is finally printed, the queen would wish to have a copy sent her. a letter she has received from lady canning speaks of lord canning's supposed amnesty in oudh as a fabrication; she has sent the letter to lord derby. [footnote : the queen had asked how it was that sir j. melvill's name was not included among those submitted to her for appointments in connection with the new military organisation in india. sir james had been financial secretary, and afterwards chief secretary, for the east india company. he now became the government director of indian railways, and a member of the council of india.] _memorandum by queen victoria._ osborne, _ th september _. the queen wishes the practice of the office[ ] with reference to submissions to her to be as nearly as possible assimilated to that of the foreign office. all despatches, when received and perused by the secretary of state, to be sent to the queen. they may be merely forwarded in boxes from the office without being accompanied by any letter from the secretary of state, unless he should think an explanation necessary. no draft of instructions or orders to be sent out without having been previously submitted to the queen. the label on the boxes of the office containing such drafts to be marked "for approval." in cases of civil appointments the secretary of state will himself take the queen's pleasure before communicating with the gentlemen to be appointed. copies or a _précis_ of the minutes of the council to be regularly transmitted to the queen. the secretary of state to obtain the queen's sanction to important measures previously to his bringing them before the council for discussion. [footnote : the india office.] [pageheading: lord palmerston] _memorandum by the prince albert._ osborne, _ th september _. the most remarkable feature of the last session of parliament has been the extraordinary unpopularity of lord palmerston, for which nothing can account; the only direct reproach which is made to him, is to have appointed lord clanricarde privy seal, and to have been overbearing in his manner. yet a house of commons, having been elected solely for the object, and on the ground of supporting lord palmerston personally (an instance in our parliamentary history without parallel), holds him suddenly in such abhorrence, that not satisfied with having upset his government, which had been successful in all its policy, and thrown him out, it will hardly listen to him when he speaks. he is frequently received with hooting, and throughout the last session it sufficed that [he] took up any cause for the whole house voting against it, even if contrary to the principles which they had themselves advocated, merely to have the satisfaction of putting him into a minority. how can this be accounted for? the man who was without rhyme or reason stamped the only _english_ statesman, the champion of liberty, the man of the people, etc., etc., now, without his having changed in any one respect, having still the same virtues and the same faults that he always had, young and vigorous in his seventy-fifth year, and having succeeded in his policy, is now considered the head of a clique, the man of intrigue, past his work, etc., etc.--in fact hated! and this throughout the country. i cannot explain the enigma except by supposing that people had before joined in a cry which they thought was popular without themselves believing what they said and wrote, and that they now do the same; that the radicals used his name to destroy other statesmen and politicians, and are destroying him now in his turn; that they hoped to govern through him, and that they see a better chance now of doing it through a weak and incapable tory government which has entered into a secret bargain for their support. still the phenomenon remains most curious.[ ] [footnote : charles greville, in his journal ( th june ), noted the same circumstance, and drew the inference that palmerston's public career was drawing to a close.] lord palmerston himself remains, outwardly at least, quite cheerful, and seems to care very little about his reverses; he speaks on all subjects, bids for the liberal support as before, even at the expense of his better conviction (as he used to do), and keeps as much as possible before the public; he made an official tour in ireland, and is gone to visit the emperor napoleon at paris; his chinese policy upon which the general dissolution had taken place in has just been crowned by the most complete success by the advantageous treaty signed at pekin by lord elgin; and yet even for this the public will not allow him any credit. lady palmerston, on the contrary, is said to be very unhappy and very much hurt. albert. [pageheading: the ionian islands] _sir e. bulwer lytton to queen victoria._ colonial office, _ st november _. sir e. b. lytton, with his humble duty to the queen, submits to your majesty's pleasure the appointment of the right honourable w. e. gladstone, as special high commissioner to the ionian islands. differences of long standing between the executive and legislative branches of the ionian constitution, aggravated by recent dissensions between the senate and municipal magistrature, render it very expedient to obtain the opinion of a statesman of eminence, formed upon the spot, as to any improvements in the workings and results of the constitution which it might be in the power of the protecting sovereign to effect. and sir edward thinks it fortunate for the public service that a person so distinguished and able as mr gladstone should be induced to undertake this mission. sir edward ventures to add that, should her majesty be graciously pleased to approve this appointment, it is extremely desirable that mr gladstone should depart at the earliest possible day, and that sir edward may be enabled to make the requisite announcement to the lord high commissioner by the first mail. [pageheading: lord stanley and mr disraeli] [pageheading: suggested resignation] _mr disraeli to the prince albert._ grosvenor gate, _ th november _. (_wednesday night._) sir,--after the committee of the cabinet on the reform bill, which sat this morning for five hours, lord stanley expressed a wish to have some private conversation with me. although i would willingly have deferred the interview till a moment when i was less exhausted, i did not think it wise, with a person of his temperament, to baulk an occasion, and therefore assented at once. i give your royal highness faithfully, but feebly, and not completely, the results of our conversation. . with respect to the relations between his office and her majesty, he said he was conscious that they had been conducted with great deficiency of form, and, in many respects, in an unsatisfactory manner; but he attributed all this to the inexperience and "sheer ignorance" of a department which had not been accustomed to direct communication with the crown. some portion of this, he said, he had already remedied, and he wished to remedy all, though he experienced difficulties, on some of which he consulted me. he accepted, without reserve, and cordially, my position, that he must act always as the minister of the queen, and not of the council, but he said i took an exaggerated view of his relations with that body; that he thoroughly knew their respective places, and should be vigilant that they did [? not] overstep their limits; that he had never been, of which he reminded me, an admirer of the east india company, and had no intention of reviving their system; that the incident of submitting the legal case to the council, etc., had originated in a demand on the part of the commander-in-chief, which involved, if complied with, a grant of money, and that, under these circumstances, an appeal to the council was inevitable. . he agreed with me, that, on all military matters, he would habitually communicate with the commander-in-chief, and take his royal highness's advice on all such points; and that copies of all military papers, as i understood lord stanley, should be furnished to his royal highness. . having arrived at this point, i laid before him the views respecting _military unity_, which formed the subject matter of recent conversations. lord stanley assented to the principles which i attempted to enforce; and in reply to my reminding him that the old military system of india had entirely broken down, he said he contemplated terminating the independent authority of the commander-in-chief at the inferior presidencies, and of establishing the absolute and complete authority of her majesty's commander-in-chief in india. he did not seem to see his way to any further step at present, and i did not think it judicious on this occasion to press the subject further. throughout this interview, lord stanley's manner was candid, very conciliatory, and, for him, even soft. he was pleased to say that it was a source of great satisfaction to him that your royal highness had deigned to confer confidentially with me on the subject, and make me, as it were, a "mediator" on matters which, he assured me with great emphasis, had occasioned him an amount of anxiety almost intolerable. he had recurred, in the course of this interview, to a suggestion which he had thrown out on tuesday, viz. that the difficulties of the position might be removed, or greatly mitigated, by his retirement from the office, and accepting, if his continuance in the government was desirable, another post. i therefore thought it best at once to point out to him that such a course of proceeding would only aggravate all the inconveniences and annoyances at present existing; that his retirement would be the signal for exaggerated rumours and factious machinations, and would have the most baneful effect on the discussion in parliament generally of all those military topics with which we were threatened; that, far from being satisfactory to her majesty and your royal highness, i was convinced that the queen and yourself would hear of such an intention with regret. lord stanley ultimately adopted entirely this view of his position, and he parted from me with an earnest expression of his hope that the painful misconceptions which had prevailed might at once, or at least in due course, entirely disappear. this, sir, is a very imperfect report of an important interview, but, as i collected from lord stanley, that nothing was really settled in his conference on tuesday with lord derby and the lord chancellor, i have thought it my duty, without loss of time, to forward it to your royal highness, and have the honour to remain, ever, sir, your most obedient and sincerely obliged servant, b. disraeli. _the prince albert to mr disraeli._ windsor castle, _ th november _. my dear mr disraeli,--i am very much obliged to you for your long letter after a cabinet meeting of five hours, and subsequent interview with lord stanley, whom i am much pleased to hear you found so anxious to remedy the present state of things. i am glad that you made it clear to him that the queen had never connected in her mind the objections which she felt bound to take with anything personal, which could be removed by lord stanley's relinquishing the indian secretaryship. the difficulty would still remain to be solved, only under additional complication and disadvantage. lord derby told me to-day that he was drawing up a memorandum which, when seen by the chancellor and lord stanley, was to be submitted to the queen. ever yours truly, albert.[ ] [footnote : on the same day lord stanley wrote a lengthy letter to the queen justifying the course he had taken.] [pageheading: the india office] _queen victoria to lord stanley_. windsor castle, _ th november ._ the queen has received lord stanley's letter entering into the subject of the difficulties which have arisen in the conduct of the new indian department. she had from the first foreseen that it would not be an easy matter to bring the establishments of the old company's government to fall into the practice and usages of the constitutional monarchy, and was therefore most anxious that distinct rules should be laid down before the installation of the new government, which unfortunately was not done, but she trusts will now be devised and adopted. the queen most readily gives lord stanley credit for every intention to remove the obstacles in the way of the solution of these difficulties as far as he was able, but she cannot but fear that the particular form in which the opinion of the law officers has been asked, and the fact [that] the eighteen members of the council (all naturally wedded to a system under which they were trained) were made parties to the discussion between herself and her secretary of state on these difficulties--must increase instead of diminishing them. the account given by mr temple, together with the last printed letters and memoranda from the punjab, give us serious cause of apprehension for the future, and show that the _british_ army is the only safeguard at present. [pageheading: lord canning's proclamation] _queen victoria to viscount canning._[ ] windsor castle, _ nd december _. the queen acknowledges the receipt of lord canning's letter of the th october, which she received on the th november, which has given her great pleasure. it is a source of great satisfaction and pride to her to feel herself in direct communication with that enormous empire which is so bright a jewel of her crown, and which she would wish to see happy, contented, and peaceful. may the publication of her proclamation be the beginning of a new era, and may it draw a veil over the sad and bloody past! the queen rejoices to hear that her viceroy approves this passage about religion.[ ] she strongly insisted on it. she trusts also that the certainty of the amnesty remaining open till the st january may not be productive of serious evil. the queen must express our admiration of lord canning's own proclamation, the wording of which is beautiful. the telegram received to-day brings continued good news, and announces her proclamation having been read, and having produced a good effect. the queen hopes to hear from lord canning, whenever he can spare time to write. she misses hearing from lady canning, not having heard from her since the th august; but the queen fears that she is herself to blame, as she has not written to lady canning for a long time; she intends doing so by the next mail.... both the prince and herself hope that lord canning's health is now perfectly good, as well as dear lady canning's. we ask him to remember us to her, and also to lord clyde. the queen concludes with every wish for lord canning's success and prosperity, and with the assurance of her undiminished and entire confidence. [footnote : the queen's proclamation to her indian subjects had been received by lord canning on the th of october, when he also learned that the title of viceroy was in future to dignify the governor-general's office.] [footnote : "firmly relying ourselves on the truth of christianity, and acknowledging with gratitude the solace of religion, we disclaim alike the right and desire to impose our convictions on any of our subjects." the proclamation proceeded to state that all the queen's indian subjects should be impartially protected by the law, and live unmolested in the observance of their several religions.] [pageheading: france and italy] _the earl of malmesbury to queen victoria._ london, _ th december _. the earl of malmesbury presents his humble duty to the queen, and has already anticipated your majesty's wishes respecting the emperor napoleon.[ ] lord malmesbury has written to lord cowley a private letter, desiring him to show it to his majesty. it is in the same sense as your majesty's, and states that if he is anxious to improve the lot of the worst governed country, namely the papal states, he should, instead of sulking with austria, make an attempt with his catholic brother to ameliorate the papal government. it is not for protestant england to take the initiative, as her object would be misunderstood and attributed to sectarian motives; but england could give her moral support, and even her material aid _eventually_, if it were required to establish an improved administration of the roman states. austria would gain by having a quiet frontier. the correspondence which took place in and between lord clarendon and mr lyons shows that this is the only effective way of ameliorating the condition of italy without a war. lord malmesbury thinks he can assure your majesty that none is at present contemplated by the emperor napoleon (who has just contradicted the report officially), and count buol is of the same opinion. the latter is constantly hurting the vanity of the french government by his irritable despatches, and neither party makes the slightest effort to command their temper; but it appears impossible that napoleon can make a _casus belli_ against austria. besides this, your majesty may be assured that no warlike preparations are making in france, such as must precede such a plan as an italian war. lord malmesbury entirely agrees with your majesty that it is desirable that his royal highness the prince of wales should visit and remain at rome incognito. it is also indispensable that when there his royal highness should receive no foreigner or stranger _alone_, so that no reports of pretended conversations with such persons could be circulated without immediate refutation by colonel bruce. lord malmesbury will instruct mr odo russell to inform his holiness of your majesty's intentions in respect of the prince. [footnote : viz. that the emperor's mind should be diverted from his project of originating a war in italy. on the previous day lord malmesbury had written to the queen: "lord clarendon may have told your majesty that the emperor napoleon was so ignorant of the locality of villafranca that he looked for it on the map in the adriatic, and was confounded when lord clarendon showed his majesty that it was the port of nice and ten miles from his frontier!"] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th december _. my dearest uncle,--i wrote in such a hurry on wednesday that i wish to make amends by writing again to-day, and entering more properly into what _you_ wrote about in your kind letter.... i really _hope_ that there is no _real_ desire for war in the emperor's mind; we have also explained to him strongly how _entirely_ he would _alienate_ us from him if there was any _attempt_ to _disturb standing and binding treaties_. the empress-dowager of russia[ ] is very ill, they say, with bronchitis and fever. i did not tell you, that when we went on the nd to claremont i was _not_ pleased with the queen's appearance. she had had a slight cold, and i thought her very _feeble_. they keep her rooms so fearfully [hot] that it must really be _very_ weakening for her and predispose her to cold. i am ever, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the empress alexandra feodorovna (formerly the princess louise charlotte of prussia, sister to king frederick william iv.), widow of the emperor nicholas.] introductory note to chapter xxviii parliamentary reform was the question of the hour at the outset of the year , and the derby government, though with difficulty able to maintain itself in power, took the courageous step of introducing a reform bill, the chief feature of which was the introduction of a franchise based on personal property. mr walpole and mr henley thereupon withdrew from the ministry, and lord john russell, from below the gangway, proposed an amendment, protesting against interference with the established freehold franchise, and calling for a larger extension of the suffrage in towns. lord palmerston and the liberal opposition supported the amendment, while mr gladstone, who was opposed to most of the provisions of the bill, supported it in preference to the amendment, pleading, at the same time, for the retention of the small boroughs. the ministry were defeated, and parliament thereupon dissolved, but not until the civil functionaries and all ranks of the native and european army had received its thanks for the final suppression of the indian mutiny. the ministry gained twenty-five seats at the polls, but were still in a minority, and as soon as it was known that lord john russell and lord palmerston were reconciled, the end was in sight. a hostile amendment to the address was carried by a majority of thirteen, but on lord derby's resignation, the queen was placed in a dilemma by the competing claims of lord palmerston and lord john russell, who had each been prime minister and leader of the liberal party. unwilling to be compelled to decide between them, she called upon lord granville to form a ministry representative of all sections of the liberal party; but the difficulties proved insuperable, and lord palmerston eventually formed a ministry in which the whigs, the peelites, and the manchester school were all represented, though mr cobden declined to join the government. mr gladstone, who had returned from the mission he had undertaken for the derby cabinet, and voted with them in the critical division, became chancellor of the exchequer, and kept his seat for oxford university by a majority of nearly two hundred. the continent of europe was the scene of a contest between austria on the one hand, who was struggling to maintain her position in italy, and france with sardinia on the other. sardinia, under the guidance of cavour, had joined the alliance of england and france against russia; and in july an interview at plombières, under rather mysterious circumstances, between cavour and louis napoleon, led to effective confederacy; a marriage, arranged or suggested at the same time, between princess clothilde of sardinia and a cousin of the emperor, brought the two illustrious houses still closer together. in the spring of , sardinia prepared to take up arms to resist austrian predominance, and the assistance of the guerilla leader, garibaldi, was obtained. count cavour, in reply to interrogatories from the british government, stated officially his grievances against austria, while lord malmesbury despatched lord cowley on a special mission to vienna to mediate between austria and france. in april, however, after a curt summons to the sardinians to disarm had been disregarded, austria invaded piedmont, and victor emmanuel placed himself at the head of his army. the first engagement took place, with unfavourable results to the austrians, at montebello, followed by french victories at palestro and magenta. a revolution had meanwhile taken place in florence. the grand duke had fled, and a commissioner to administer the affairs of the grand duchy had been appointed by the king of sardinia with the assent of the tuscans, who now joined the franco-sardinian alliance, while risings also took place in parma and modena. the austrians were again defeated at malegnano, and, on the th of june, the french emperor and king victor emmanuel entered milan amid great enthusiasm. the bloody action of solferino was fought on the th of june, but on the th of july a treaty of peace was, somewhat unexpectedly, concluded between the french and austrian emperors at villafranca, under which an italian confederation was to be erected, lombardy substantially ceded to sardinia, the grand duke of tuscany and the duke of modena reinstated, and venetia, though included in the confederation, to remain subject to the imperial crown of austria; these preliminaries were subsequently converted into a definite treaty at zurich. meanwhile, the newly constituted representative assemblies in tuscany, romagna, and the duchies, unanimously pronounced for incorporation in the kingdom of victor emmanuel. at home, on the th of october, the queen opened the glasgow waterworks at the outflow of loch katrine, the construction of which had necessitated engineering operations at that time considered stupendous; a few days later an appalling shipping calamity occurred, in the wreck of the _royal charter_ near anglesey, and the loss of lives. chapter xxviii _queen victoria to sir edward bulwer lytton._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen returns mr gladstone's letters, and gladly accepts his patriotic offer.[ ] he will have difficulty in solving a delicate question, affecting national feeling, against time, but his offer comes most opportunely. [footnote : see _ante_, st november, . mr gladstone had been sent to enquire into the causes of the dissatisfaction of the inhabitants of the ionian islands with their high commissioner, sir john young. he now offered to act himself for a limited time as high commissioner, should it be decided to recall sir john. he was succeeded in february by sir henry storks.] [pageheading: national defences] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ windsor castle, _ th january _. as the cabinet are now meeting, and will probably come to a decision about the estimates for the year, the queen thinks it her duty to urge upon them in the strongest manner her conviction that, under the present aspect of political affairs in europe, there will be no safety to the honour, power, and peace of this country except in naval and military strength. the extraordinary exertions which france is making in her naval department oblige us to exercise the utmost vigour to keep up a superiority at sea, upon which our very existence may be said to depend, and which would be already lost at any moment that france were to be joined by any other country possessing a navy.[ ] the war in india has drained us of every available battalion. we possess at this moment only fourteen old battalions of the line within the three kingdoms, and twelve second battalions newly raised, whilst our mediterranean possessions are under-garrisoned, and alderney has not as yet any garrison at all. under these circumstances the queen has heard it rumoured that the government intend to propose a reduction on the estimates of , men for this year. she trusts that such an idea, if ever entertained, will upon reflection be given up as inconsistent with the duty which the government owe to the country. even if it were said that these , men have only existed on paper, and have not yet been raised, such an act at this moment would be indefensible; for it would require a proof that circumstances have arisen which make it desirable to ask for fewer troops than were considered requisite when the last estimates were passed, which really cannot be said to be the case! to be able to raise at any time an additional , men (in political danger) without having to go to parliament for a supplementary vote and spreading alarm thereby, must be of the utmost value to the government, and if not wanted, the vote will entail no additional expense. england will not be listened to in europe, and be powerless for the preservation of the general peace, which must be her first object under the present circumstances, if she is known to be despicably weak in her military resources, and no statesman will, the queen apprehends, maintain that if a european war were to break out she could hope to remain long out of it. for peace and for war, therefore, an available army is a necessity to her. the queen wishes lord derby to communicate this letter to the cabinet. [footnote : the french emperor had signalised the opening of a new year by an ominous speech. to m. hübner, the austrian ambassador at paris, who had attended, with the other foreign representatives, to offer the usual congratulations on the st of january, he observed: "i regret that the relations between our two governments are not more satisfactory; but i beg you to assure the emperor that they in no respect alter my feelings of friendship to himself."] [pageheading: the pope] [pageheading: the pope and lord palmerston] _mr odo russell[ ] to mr corbett._[ ] (_submitted to queen victoria_.) rome, _ th january _. sir,--i had the honour of being received by the pope at a private audience this morning at the vatican. no one else was present. his holiness, whose manner towards me was most kind and benevolent, said: "you are appointed to succeed a very good man,[ ] for whom i felt great affection, and i regret that he has left rome. you may be as good as he was, and we shall become friends, but i do not know you yet, and mr lyons i had known for many years; he is going to america, i hear, and he will find the americans far more difficult to deal with than with us. "i am much gratified to hear that the prince of wales is likely to visit rome, and her majesty, i feel sure, has done well to allow him to prosecute his studies here. it will be an honour to me to receive him at the vatican, and i beg that you will confer with cardinal antonelli[ ] as to the best means of making the prince's visit here useful and pleasant. we are anxious that all his wishes should be attended to, that he may preserve a pleasant recollection of rome in the future. alas! so many erroneous impressions exist about this country that i hope you will not judge of us too rashly. we are advised to make reforms, and it is not understood that those very reforms, which would consist in giving this country a government of laymen, would make it cease to exist. it is called 'states of the church' (_États de l' Église_), and that is what it must remain. it is true i have lately appointed a layman to a post formerly held by an ecclesiastic, and i may do so again occasionally; but, however small we may be, we cannot yield to outer pressure, and this country must be administered by men of the church. for my part, i shall fulfil my duties according to my conscience, and should governments and events turn against me they cannot make me yield. i shall go with the faithful to the catacombs, as did the christians of the early centuries, and there await the will of the supreme being, for i dread no human power upon earth and fear nothing but god." "but, holy father," i said, "you speak as if some great danger threatened rome--is there any [real?] cause for apprehension?" "have you not heard," his holiness answered, "that great excitement prevails throughout italy?--the state of lombardy is deplorable; evil spirits are at work even in my dominions, and the late speech of the king of sardinia is calculated to inflame the minds of all the revolutionary men of italy. it is true he says he will observe existing treaties, but that will scarcely counter-balance the effect produced by other portions of his speech. news has also reached me of an extensive amnesty granted by the king of naples--he did not yield to outer pressure, and he was right--but now, on the occasion of the marriage of his son, an act of clemency on his part is well advised." "is it true," i said, "that political prisoners are included in that amnesty?" "yes," his holiness answered; "i saw the name of settembrini, and i think also of that other man in whom your government took so much interest--his name begins with a 'p' if i remember rightly----" "poerio," i suggested. "that is the name," the pope continued; "and i fancy that all the other political prisoners will be released; they are to be sent to cadiz at the expense of the king, they are to be clothed and receive some money, i believe, and after that arrangements have been made with the minister of the united states to have them conveyed to that country; they are to be exiled for life. i hope this event may have the effect of making your government and that of france renew diplomatic relations with naples; i always regretted that rupture, but the king was right not to yield to outer pressure. "it is lucky," the pope ended with a smile, "that lord palmerston is not in office; he was too fond of interfering in the concerns of foreign countries, and the present crisis would just have suited him. _addio, caro_," the pope then said, and dismissed me with his blessing. i then, according to usage, called on cardinal antonelli, and recounted to him what had passed. he confirmed all the pope had said, but denied that there was any very serious cause for immediate apprehension of any general disturbance of the peace of italy. i have, etc., odo russell. [footnote : secretary of legation at florence, resident in rome, afterwards lord ampthill.] [footnote : secretary of legation at florence, afterwards successively minister at rio janeiro and stockholm.] [footnote : richard bickerton pemell lyons, who had just been transferred from rome to washington. he had recently succeeded his father, the admiral, in the barony of lyons, and was himself subsequently promoted to an earldom.] [footnote : secretary of foreign affairs for the papal states.] _the earl of malmesbury to queen victoria._ london, _ th january _. the earl of malmesbury presents his humble duty to the queen, and has the honour to inform your majesty that he has seen the french ambassador to-day, who came of his own accord to say that we need be in no apprehension, of a war _at present_, as the public opinion in france, especially in the large towns, had been so strongly pronounced against a war that it was impossible. lord malmesbury is also glad to inform your majesty that the cabinet has agreed to-day to make a great addition to the effective force of your majesty's navy. your majesty's commands are obeyed respecting the telegram to berlin. _the earl of malmesbury to queen victoria._ london, th _january _. the earl of malmesbury presents his humble duty to the queen, and regrets to say that he shares your majesty's apprehensions. the emperor is extremely irritated at our not concurring in his views on italy, and lord malmesbury believes that nothing will restrain him but the public opinion expressed against them, in france.[ ] austria has, against all our advice and common prudence, made a false move by sending troops into the papal states _against_ the wish of _the pope_, and is now obliged to recall them. the speech of your majesty is to be discussed in cabinet to-day. lord derby intended to introduce a paragraph stating that your majesty's alliance with france remained "unimpaired," but it now appears to us that such a statement might provoke a question "_why_" it should be made a special one. lord malmesbury entirely agrees with your majesty as to an allusion to treaties. [footnote : yet the emperor had just written to queen victoria on th january: "le corps législatif va bientôt s'ouvrir, presque en même temps que le parlement; je tâcherai d'exprimer dans mon discours tout le désir que j'ai de vivre toujours en bonne et sincère intelligence avec votre majesté et son gouvernement." early in february the pamphlet _napoléon et l'italie_, nominally written by m. de la guéronnière, but inspired by the emperor, foreshadowed the war in italy, and attempted to justify it.] [pageheading: lord canning] _queen victoria to lord stanley._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen thinks that the time is come when the bestowal of some honour or reward on lord canning ought no longer to be delayed. he has now nearly arrived at the end of his tremendous task of quelling the rebellion, and has triumphed over all his many difficulties. if any man deserves an acknowledgment of his services at the hands of the crown, it is surely he, and the queen would be sorry that the grace of it should be taken away from her by questions being asked in parliament when it is assembled again, which will now be the case very soon. a step in the peerage and the g.c.b. appear to the queen an appropriate reward. perhaps a pension should be awarded to him? lord elphinstone also ought not to be left unrewarded, and a step in the peerage with the g.c.b. does not appear too high an honour for him, for he also has greatly contributed to the saving to the indian empire.[ ] [footnote : lord canning was made an earl and lord elphinstone (who had been governor of bombay during the mutiny) a peer of the united kingdom, and both received the g.c.b.] [pageheading: the queen's first grandchild] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ nd february _. my dearest, kindest uncle,--accept my warmest thanks for your most kind letter of the th. i know how pleased you would be at the safety of our dear vicky, and at the birth of our first grandson![ ] everything goes on so beautifully, vicky recovering as fast and well as i did, and the dear little boy improving so much and thriving in every way.... the joy and interest taken _here_ is as great almost as in prussia, which is _very_ gratifying. i _think_ that _the speech_ will do good, but it has not been easy to frame it, as the feeling _against_ the _emperor here_ is _very strong_. i think _yet_ that if _austria_ is _strong_ and _well prepared,_ and _germany strong_ and _well inclined_ towards _us_ (as _prussia certainly_ is), france will _not_ be so eager to attempt what i _firmly_ believe would _end_ in the _emperor's_ downfall! old malakhoff _himself_ said to the duchess of wellington that if the french had the _slightest defeat ce serait fini avec la dynastie!_ a pretty speech for an ambassador, but a _very true one!_ pray say everything most kind to your dear children and believe me ever, your devoted niece, victoria r. we are just arrived here, and go back to windsor to-morrow _afternoon_. [footnote : frederick william victor albert, now german emperor, born on the th of january.] _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ buckingham palace, _ rd february _. the queen has this moment received lord malmesbury's letter. as she has not yet written (only telegraphed) to announce to the emperor the birth of our grandson (we being in the habit since we know the emperor and empress personally to communicate to one another _reciprocally family events_), the queen has an opportunity or a pretext for writing to the emperor, and is therefore prepared to do so _to-morrow_. but as the terms to be used are of the most _vital_ importance, she would wish lord malmesbury to consult forthwith with lord derby, and to let her have "the matter" to be put into the letter _before_ the queen _leaves town_, which we do at half-past four this afternoon. [pageheading: letter to the emperor napoleon] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ rd february _. (_thursday_, p.m.) lord derby, with his humble duty, and in obedience to your majesty's commands, received within this half hour through lord malmesbury, submits the accompanying very hastily drawn sketch of the language which, in his humble opinion, your majesty might hold in a private and confidential letter to the emperor of the french. lord derby is not sure that it is what your majesty desired that he should submit; but he trusts that your majesty will be pleased to receive it as an attempt to obey your majesty's commands, and will excuse its many imperfections on account of the extreme haste in which it has unavoidably been written. "i cannot refrain from taking this opportunity of expressing confidentially to your imperial majesty my deep anxiety for the preservation of the peace of europe, nor can i conceal from myself how essentially that great object must depend upon the course which your imperial majesty may be advised to take. your majesty has now the opportunity, either by listening to the dictates of humanity and justice, and by demonstrating unmistakably your intention to adhere strictly to the faithful observance of treaties, of calming the apprehensions of europe, and restoring her confidence in your majesty's pacific policy; or, by permitting yourself to be influenced by the ambitious or interested designs of others, of involving europe in a war, the extent and termination of which can hardly be foreseen, and which, whatever glory it may add to the arms of france, cannot but interfere materially with her internal prosperity and financial credit. i am sure that your majesty will not doubt the sincerity of the friendship which alone induces me to write thus unreservedly to your majesty, and if anything could add to the sorrow with which i should view the renewal of war in europe, it would be to see your majesty entering upon a course with which it would be impossible for england to associate herself."[ ] [footnote : the queen accordingly wrote a letter, which is printed in the _life of the prince consort_, assuring the emperor that rarely had any man had such an opportunity as was now his for exercising a personal influence for the peace of europe, and that, by faithful observance of treaty obligations, he might calm international anxieties.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th february _. my dearest victoria,--... heaven knows what dance our emperor _napoléon troisième de nom_ will lead us. in a few days he will have to make his speech. i fear he is determined on that italian war. the discussions in parliament may influence him; i fear party spirit in lieu of a good and right sense of what is the interest of europe. it was praiseworthy that you said in your speech that _treaties_ must be respected, else indeed we return to the old _faustrecht_ we have been striving to get rid of. it is curious that your speech has made the funds fall again: i presume they hoped at paris that you would have been able to say that you congratulated parliament on the prospect of peace being preserved. for us poor people who find ourselves _aux premières loges_, these uncertainties are most unsatisfactory. your devoted uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: the indian army] [pageheading: the queen and lord stanley] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ windsor castle. _ th february _. with regard to a decision which will have to be taken when the report of the indian army commission shall have been received, the queen thinks it incumbent upon her not to leave lord derby in ignorance of her firm determination not to sanction, under any form, the creation of a british army, distinct from that known at present as the army of the crown. she would consider it dangerous to the maintenance of india, to the dependence of the indian empire on the mother country, and to her throne in these realms. such an army would be freed from the proper control of the constitutional monarchy. it would be removed from the direct command of the crown, and entirely independent of parliament. it would throw an unconstitutional amount of power and patronage into the hands of the indian council and government; it would be raised and maintained in antagonism to the regular army of the crown; and professional jealousy, and personal and private interests, would needs drive it into a position of permanent hostility towards that army. this hostility has been already strongly marked in the proceedings of the commission itself. its detrimental effects would not be confined to india alone, but would form a most dangerous obstacle to the maintenance of the government of the regular army by the queen. already, during the crimean war, most of the blows levelled at the army and the prerogative of the crown were directed by indian officers, of whom, in future, a vast number would be at home, without employment or recognised position, in compact organisation, and moved by a unity of feeling. there may be points of detail, admitting differences of opinion as to the relative advantages of a purely local or general military force for india; but these are mere trifles, which sink into insignificance in the queen's estimation, when she has to consider the duty which she owes to her crown and her country. the queen hopes lord derby will not consider that she intends, by this letter, unduly to influence his free consideration and decision as to the advice he may think it his duty to offer, but merely to guard against his being taken by surprise, and to prevent, if possible, an unseemly public difference between herself and lord stanley. she is impelled to the apprehension that such may arise from the manner in which, since the first transfer of the indian government to the crown, every act of lord stanley has uniformly tended to place the queen in a position which would render her helpless and powerless in resisting a scheme which certain persons, imbued with the old indian traditions, would appear to wish to force upon the crown. the queen does not expect an answer to this letter from lord derby, and asks him to treat it as strictly confidential. the queen sees that lord stanley means to make a statement on monday on the indian finances. she trusts that there will be nothing said in that statement to prejudge the army question. _decipher from lord cowley._ paris, _ th february _. ( a.m. _received_ a.m.) a great change for the better. the queen's letter has produced an excellent effect, as also the debates in parliament.[ ] the emperor has expressed himself ready to subscribe to every word of lord derby's speech. [footnote : parliament was opened by the queen in person on the rd; the ensuing debates, and especially the speeches of the liberal leaders, showed that, however much the english nation, as a whole, might sympathise with italian aspirations for the expulsion of the austrians from lombardy, they would regard unfavourably a war commenced in defiance of treaty obligations.] [pageheading: the indian army] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ th february _. lord derby, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty his respectful acknowledgment of the explicitness with which the letter he had the honour of receiving last night conveys to him the intimation of your majesty's views upon the important subject of the indian army. he cannot, however, disguise from your majesty the deep pain which that communication has occasioned him; first, that your majesty should think that lord stanley has so far mistaken his duty as systematically to place your majesty in a false position; and next because unless lord derby misconceives the purport of your majesty's letter, he fears that it may leave him no alternative but that of humbly entreating to be relieved from a responsibility which nothing should have induced him to undertake but a sense of duty to your majesty, and the conviction that he might rely with confidence upon your majesty's continued support. it would ill become lord derby to attempt to argue a question on which your majesty has expressed so strong a determination; he has studiously avoided taking any step which might prejudge a question so important as the organisation of your majesty's forces in india. he has awaited the report of the commission appointed to enquire into the subject, and though aware of the wide difference of opinion which prevailed, has desired impartially to weigh and examine the arguments adduced on both sides, and he has in the meantime refused to give his sanction to a proposition, earnestly pressed upon the government by lord canning, for immediately raising additional regiments for indian service. but the announcement of your majesty's determination (if he rightly understands it), under no circumstances to continue an european army in india, under terms of service different from those of the line, paid out of indian revenues, and officered by men educated for that especial service, and looking to india for their whole career, places lord derby in a position of no little embarrassment; for notwithstanding the gracious intimation that your majesty does not desire unduly to influence his judgment as to the advice which he may tender, it amounts to a distinct warning that if tendered in a particular direction it has no chance of being accepted by your majesty. nor, with that knowledge on his part not shared by his colleagues, can he freely discuss with them the course which they may consider it their duty to pursue. lord derby humbly trusts, therefore, that your majesty will be graciously pleased, so far as the members of the government are concerned, to absolve him from the obligation of secrecy, and to allow him to place before them a state of things which may lead to the most serious results, so far as their power of serving your majesty is concerned. lord derby will give lord stanley a caution not to say anything in his statement of indian finance which may prejudge the question of a single or separate armies; but he hardly thinks the caution necessary, as european troops, whether in one service or in two, will equally be chargeable to the revenues of india, which will only be affected by the proportion which the whole of the european may bear to the whole of the native forces. lord derby hopes that he may be permitted to offer his humble congratulations to your majesty on the very favourable reports received from paris by telegraph, and upon the highly satisfactory effects produced by your majesty's private letter to the emperor. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's most dutiful servant and subject, derby. [pageheading: indivisibility of army] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ windsor castle, _ th february _. the queen is very sorry to learn from lord derby's letter, received last evening, that her communication to him on the indian army question had caused him deep pain. she had long hesitated whether she should write it, from a fear that its purport and motive might possibly be misunderstood; but feeling that there ought to exist nothing but the most unreserved and entire confidence between herself and her prime minister, she thought it incumbent upon her to let lord derby see exactly what was passing in her mind. if, notwithstanding the queen's expressed hope that lord derby might not consider the communication as intended unduly to influence his free consideration of the important subject, he should feel that its possession, without being at liberty to communicate it to his colleagues, does so in effect, she would ask him to return it to her, and to consider it as not having been written. if he should think, however, that a communication of the queen's views to the cabinet is due to them, she is quite prepared to make one. in that case it would naturally have to be differently worded, would omit every reference to lord stanley, and might go more into detail. the queen cannot close this letter without correcting some misapprehensions into which lord derby seems to have fallen. it was not the queen's intention to impute any motives of systematic action to lord stanley; she referred simply to facts and steps, known as well to lord derby as to herself, which "uniformly tended" to place her in a powerless position with regard to the army question. the queen protested against "the _creation_ of a british army distinct (in its existence and constitutional position) from that of the crown," and not against the "_continuance_ of an european army, under terms of service different from the line, paid out of indian revenues, and officered by men educated for that special service, and looking to india for their whole career." in fact, she does not understand what meaning lord derby attaches to the words "terms of service." every force kept in india, however constituted, would be paid out of indian revenues. _this_ would therefore not form the distinction, and lord derby cannot intend to convey that on these revenues one set of englishmen can have a greater claim than another; nor does she see why english officers, commanding english soldiers and charged with the maintenance of _their_ discipline and efficiency, should for that object require to be specially and differently educated, and be restricted to look to india for their whole career. officers attached to native troops are in a different position. [pageheading: misapprehension removed] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ th february _. lord derby, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty his grateful acknowledgments for your majesty's most gracious note received this evening, the contents, and still more the tenor of which have relieved him from the painful apprehension that he might be called upon to choose between a strong sense of public duty, and, on the other side, his deep devotion to your majesty's service, and his gratitude for the favourable consideration which his imperfect attempts to discharge his public duty had always received at your majesty's hand. the explanation, with which he has now been honoured, of your majesty's views has entirely dispelled those apprehensions, and he feels that he has only to thank your majesty for the gracious explanation, with which he has been honoured, of your majesty's motives in addressing to him the letter which certainly caused him "deep pain."...[ ] [footnote : lord derby then proceeded to deal at some length with the status of the troops in india, concluding with the opinion that the local forces in india should never exceed those sent from home as part of the regular army, subject to the ordinary routine of service.] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ windsor castle, _ th february _. the queen has received lord derby's letter of yesterday, and is pleased to find that he now appreciates the motives which dictated her first letter. it needs no assurance on her side that she never doubted those which actuate lord derby. the queen will, in compliance with his request, defer any further notice of the subject until the commissioners shall have made their report; it would not be fair, however, to lord derby, not to add that she fears from his explanation that he has not now correctly estimated the nature of the queen's objection, which is not to a variety of forces, terms of service, local or general employment, etc., etc., etc., established in one army, but to the principle of _two_ british armies. [pageheading: the emperor's speech] _queen victoria to general peel._[ ] _ th february _. the queen relies with confidence that when the question of the indian army comes before the cabinet, general peel will stoutly defend the interests of the crown and the british army. on the opinion which he will give and maintain much of their decision must depend, and unless he speaks out boldly the indian secretary will have it all his own way. [footnote : general jonathan peel, brother of sir robert peel (the premier), and secretary of state for war.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. my dearest uncle,--we came here to _settle_ yesterday--and also here spring seems _wonderfully forward!_ it can't last--and frost is _sure_ to _follow_ and cut off everything. at windsor and frogmore everything is budding--willow i see is green--rose-leaves _out_, and birds singing like in may! accept my warmest thanks for your kind letter of the th. i _still_ hope that matters _will cool_ down--the emperor _personally_ expressed regret to hübner for his words, disclaiming the construction put upon them, and saying that _no one could dispute_ the right of austria to her italian possessions.[ ] he has not written to me lately, but i wrote him ten days ago a long friendly letter, speaking out _plainly_ our fears for the future, and urging him to aid us in averting the calamity of _war_.... our parliament is as quiet as possible as _yet_, but it will soon have more cause for _action_ and excitement.... bertie's interview with the pope went off extremely well. he was extremely kind and gracious, and colonel bruce was present; it would never have done to have let bertie go alone, as they might hereafter have pretended, god knows! what bertie had said.... with albert's love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : see _ante_, th january, , note .] [pageheading: the emperor of austria] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ downing street, _ st february _. lord derby, with his humble duty, and in obedience to the commands which he had the honour of receiving from your majesty last night, submits the following suggestions, as embodying the substance of what, in his humble judgment your majesty might address with advantage in a private letter to the emperor of austria. your majesty might say, that deeply penetrated with the conviction of the duty imposed upon your majesty of acting on the principles enunciated in the speech from the throne, of exercising whatever influence your majesty could employ for the preservation of the general peace, your majesty had looked with anxiety to the circumstances which threatened its continued existence. that your majesty was unable to see in those circumstances, any which were beyond the reach of diplomatic skill, if there were only a mutual desire, on the part of the chief powers concerned, to give fair play to its exercise. that the only source of substantial danger was the present state of italy; and that even in that there would be little danger of interruption to the general tranquillity, were it not for the antagonism excited by interests and engagements, real or supposed, of france and austria. that your majesty believed that the supposed divergence of these interests and engagements might be capable of reconciliation if entered into with mutual frankness, and with a mutual disposition to avoid the calamities of war; but that, as it appeared to your majesty, neither party would be willing to invite the other to a friendly discussion of the points of difference between them. that in this state of affairs your majesty, as a mutual friend of both sovereigns, and having no individual interests to serve, entertained the hope that by the spontaneous offer of good offices, your majesty might be the means of establishing certain bases, on which the powers mainly interested might subsequently enter into amicable negotiations with regard to the questions chiefly in dispute, or threatening serious results. of these, the most pressing are those which relate to the italian peninsula. that your majesty, anxiously revolving in your mind the question how your majesty's influence could best be brought to bear, had come to the conclusion that your majesty's ambassador at paris, having the fullest knowledge of the views entertained by that court, and possessing your majesty's entire confidence, might usefully be intrusted with a highly confidential, but wholly unofficial mission, for the purpose of ascertaining whether there were any possibility consistently with the views of the two courts of offering such suggestions as might be mutually acceptable as the basis of future arrangements; and, if such should happily be found to be the case, of offering them simultaneously to the two parties, as the suggestions of a mutual friend. that your majesty trusted his r.i.a.[ ] majesty would look upon this communication in the truly friendly light in which it was intended, and that lord cowley, in his unofficial and confidential character, might be permitted fully to develop the views which your majesty entertained, and to meet with the most favourable consideration of his suggestions from his r.i.a. majesty. lord derby, before submitting the above to your majesty, has thought it right to communicate it to lord malmesbury and lord cowley, and he is enabled to say that it meets with their entire concurrence.[ ] he will be highly gratified if he is permitted to know that it is honoured by your majesty's gracious approval. all which is humbly submitted by your majesty's most dutiful servant and subject, derby. [footnote : royal and imperial apostolic.] [footnote : the queen acted on this advice, and wrote a letter on the nd to the emperor of austria, on the lines of lord derby's suggestions. the material parts of it are printed in the _life of the prince consort_, vol. iv. chap. .] [pageheading: church rates] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ st february _. (_monday._) the chancellor of the exchequer, with his humble duty to your majesty, informs your majesty that the government measure on church rates was introduced to-night, in a very full house, and was received with so much favour that the chancellor of the exchequer has every belief that it will pass. this is very unexpected, and the satisfactory settlement of this long agitated and agitating question will be a great relief to public life, and tend to restore and augment the good-humour of the country.[ ] it is generally rumoured that, on friday next, lord palmerston is to move a vote of censure upon your majesty's government with respect to their foreign policy. the chancellor of the exchequer scarcely credits this, and would rather suppose that the formal censure will take the shape of a rattling critique, preceding some motion for papers. [footnote : since the braintree case in , no rate could legally be levied except by the majority of the rate-payers. the present bill was designed to exempt dissenters from payment, excluding them at the same time from voting on the subject in the vestry meeting. sir john trelawney, the leader of the abolitionist party in the house, however, procured the rejection of the proposed measure, and a solution was not arrived at till .] [pageheading: lord cowley's mission] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ st march _. my dearest uncle,--many thanks for your kind letter of the th. matters remain much in the same state. lord cowley arrived on sunday at vienna, but we know nothing positive yet. i much fear the obstinacy of austria. it will indeed be a blessing if _we_ could do something not only to avert the war for the present, but to prevent the _causes_ of it, for the future. nothing but improvement in the italian governments _can_ bring about a _better state_ of things. what is _really_ the matter with the king of naples[ ]? we found the poor queen really very tolerably well at claremont on saturday. she is decidedly better than when we saw her at the end of november. poor joinville is suffering from an accident to his bad knee. here our reform bill has been brought in yesterday.[ ] it is moderate, and ... [lord john] has therefore allied himself with mr bright and mr roebuck against it! he has _no_ other followers. the debate on foreign affairs on friday was extremely moderate, and can only have done good.[ ] it is rumoured that you are going to berlin to the christening, but i doubt it! oh! dearest uncle, it _almost breaks_ my heart _not_ to witness our _first grandchild_ christened! i don't think i _ever_ felt so bitterly disappointed _about anything_ as about this! and then it is an _occasion_ so gratifying to both _nations_, which brings them _so much_ together, that it is _most_ peculiarly mortifying! it is a _stupid law_ in prussia, i must say, to be so particular about having the child christened so soon. however, it is now no use lamenting; please god! we shall be more fortunate another time! with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. affectionate love to your children. when does philip go to italy? [footnote : ferdinand ii., known as bomba, died on the nd of may in the same year.] [footnote : see _ante_, introductory note to chapter xxviii.] [footnote : in this debate lord palmerston urged the ministry to mediate between austria and france, in order to obtain their simultaneous withdrawal from rome, and mr disraeli announced the confidential mission of lord cowley as "one of peace and conciliation."] [pageheading: the emperor's reply] _the emperor of austria to queen victoria._ vienne, _le mars _. madame et chÈre s[oe]ur,--j'ai reçu des mains de lord cowley la lettre que votre majesté a bien voulu lui confier et dont le contenu m'a offert un nouvel et précieux témoignage de l'amitié et de la confiance qu'elle m'a vouées, ainsi que des vues élevées qui dirigent sa politique. lord cowley a été auprès de moi le digne interprète des sentimens de votre majesté, et je me plais à lui rendre la justice, qu'il s'est acquitté avec le zèle éclairé, dont il a déjà fourni tant de preuves, de la mission confidentielle dont il était chargé. j'ai hautement apprécié les motifs qui vous ont inspiré la pensée de m'envoyer un organe de confiance pour échanger nos idées sur les dangers de la situation. je m'associe à tous les désirs, que forme votre majesté pour le maintien de la paix, et ce n'est pas sur moi que pèsera la responsabilité de ceux, qui évoquent des dangers de guerre sans pouvoir articuler une seule cause de guerre. lord cowley connaît les points de vue auxquels j'envisage les questions qui forment l'objet ou le prétexte des divergences d'opinion qui subsistent entre nous et la france; il sait aussi que nous sommes disposés à contribuer à leur solution dans l'esprit le plus conciliant, en tant qu'on n'exige pas de nous des sacrifices que ne saurait porter aucune puissance qui se respecte. je forme des v[oe]ux pour que votre majesté puisse tirer parti des élémens que lui apportera son ambassadeur, dans l'intérêt du maintien de la paix que nous avons également à c[oe]ur. mais quelles que soient les chances et les épreuves que l'avenir nous réserve, j'aime à me livrer à l'espoir que rien ne portera atteinte aux rapports d'amitié et d'union que je suis heureux de cultiver avec votre majesté, et que ses sympathies seront acquises à la cause que je soutiens et qui est celle de tous les États indépendans. c'est dans ces sentimens que je renouvelle à votre majesté l'assurance de l'amitié sincère et de l'inaltérable attachement avec lesquels je suis, madame et chère s[oe]ur, de votre majesté, le bon et dévoué frère et ami, franÇois joseph. [pageheading: a proposed conference] _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ _ th march ._ the queen has received lord malmesbury's letter[ ] written before the cabinet yesterday. the memorandum of lord cowley and the telegrams from vienna give better hopes of the idea of congress or conference leading to a good result. everything will now depend upon the emperor napoleon's acceptance of the conditions on which austria is willing to agree to a conference. the queen would like to have a copy of lord cowley's memorandum.[ ] [footnote : lord cowley had returned from his mission to vienna, and was now again at paris. the complexion of affairs had been changed by a suggestion on the part of russia (which may or may not have been ultimately prompted from paris) for a conference between england, france, austria, prussia and russia, to settle the italian question. cavour pressed for the admission of piedmont to the conference.] [footnote : lord malmesbury's letter to lord cowley, written immediately after the cabinet, enjoined him to impress upon the emperor that england would only address herself to the four points--evacuation of the roman states by foreign troops, reform, security for sardinia, and a substitute for the treaties of between austria and the duchies.] _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ osborne, _ nd march _. the queen thanks lord malmesbury for his communication of yesterday, which she received this morning. she quite approves the steps taken by the government,[ ] and concurs in lord malmesbury's views. if the understanding about a conference first of the five powers, and then of the italian states with them, _could be_ so far come to that france and austria agree with us upon the conditions on which it is to take place, we need not wait for russia's proposing it. she is evidently playing, as she always does, a double game, and from sir john crampton's[ ] letter it appears that she never meant to propose a congress, but merely to _accept_ one, for ulterior objects. [footnote : an attempt to obtain the disarmament of austria and sardinia, and a proposal to obtain the co-operation of france, in guaranteeing to defend sardinia against invasion by austria for five years, unless sardinia left her own territory. on the rd, lord malmesbury wrote that all the great powers, except austria, had agreed to a congress upon the conditions laid down by the british government.] [footnote : english ambassador at st petersburg, formerly minister at washington; see _ante_, th december, , note . he had succeeded to the baronetcy in .] _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ osborne, _ th march _. the queen trusts that lord malmesbury will act with the utmost circumspection in answering the many telegrams crossing each other from all directions respecting the proposed congress. an understanding with austria on every point ought, if possible, to precede our giving our opinion to france or russia. if they can _once_ get the powers to agree upon a point upon which austria disagrees, they have won the game, and the emperor can proceed to his war, having a declaration of europe against austria as his basis. _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. the queen has marked a passage in this draft, which she thinks it would be advisable to modify--so as not to _put_ upon _record_ (should the austrians refuse to give way on this point) that we consider their conduct as "_reckless_." should they persist, they would certainly not meet with as much sympathy as they would do if they yielded, and such a course on their part would be very much to be regretted, as we consider every sacrifice small, in comparison to the blessings of preserving peace; but still austria would have a perfect right to stand out--and we originally supported her in this demand. if something which _expressed_ the _above_ sentiments and opinions could therefore be substituted for the present passage, the queen thinks it would be very desirable _for the future_, both as regards austria and england. [pageheading: england and austria] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ downing street, _ st april _. lord derby, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty that it has appeared to him, in consultation with his colleagues, with the exception of lord hardwicke and sir john pakington, who are out of town, that the only step which can properly be taken at present is to protest strongly against the course which austria is now taking, and to warn her that whatever may be the results to herself, she deprives herself of all claim to the support or countenance of england.[ ] your majesty will see by another telegram, received a few minutes ago from lord cowley, that hübner!! advises that england should threaten to come to the aid of sardinia, if the contemplated invasion should take place! your majesty's servants are not, however, prepared to take so strong a step, which would commit them to measures to which they might be unable at the moment to give due effect; and which, if austria were to disregard the measure, would involve them in war as the allies of france. they have therefore limited themselves to a protest, the terms of which will require to be very carefully considered before it is embodied in a despatch. lord malmesbury will submit to your majesty by this messenger the terms of his telegram.... to appeal at once to arms, when no question, except this of form, remained unsettled as to the meeting of congress, and the subjects to be then discussed, had been unanimously agreed to, appears to lord derby to indicate a reckless determination to go to war which it will be very difficult to justify in the eyes of europe. _for the moment_ these events rather diminish than increase the probability of a rupture with france, while they will task her means to the uttermost, and not improbably overthrow her personal dynasty! [footnote : on the th, count buol despatched an emissary, baron kellersberg, to turin, with a summons to sardinia to disarm, under the threat of immediate hostilities if she declined. sardinia indignantly refused, whereupon the austrian troops crossed the ticino.] [pageheading: war imminent] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th april _. my dearest uncle,--i hardly know _what_ to say, so confused and bewildered are we by the reports which come in three or four times a day! i have _no hope_ of peace _left_. though it is _originally_ the wicked folly of russia and france that have brought about this fearful crisis, it is the madness and blindness of austria which have brought on the war _now!_[ ] it has put _them_ in the wrong, and entirely changed the feeling here, which was all that one could desire, into the most _vehement_ sympathy for _sardinia_, though we hope now again to be able to _throw_ the blame of the war on france, who _now_ won't hear of mediation, while austria is again inclined to do so! it is a melancholy, sad easter; but what grieves me the most (indeed, distracts me)--for i have had nothing but disappointments in that quarter since november--is that in all probability vicky will be unable to come in may! it quite _distracts me_. you also must be very anxious about dear charlotte; i hope she will not remain at trieste, but go to vienna. her being in italy is really _not_ safe.... now with kind loves to your children, ever your affectionate and devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : referring to an understanding reported to have been arrived at between france and russia, the suspicion of which created great indignation in england. prince gortschakoff and the french emperor, in answer to enquiries, gave conflicting explanations.] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ roehampton, _ th april _. ... lord derby has thought it necessary, in consequence of the attitude assumed by russia, notwithstanding her assurances that there is nothing hostile to england in her secret treaty with france, to call upon sir j. pakington to say what addition could be made to the channel fleet within a period of two or three months, without weakening that in the mediterranean. he has the honour of enclosing the answer, which he has just received by messenger. lord derby proposes to go up to town to confer with sir j. pakington on this important subject to-morrow, and lord malmesbury has summoned a cabinet for friday to consider the general state of affairs. france having absolutely refused the proffered mediation of england, and austria having only accepted it under the condition of the disarmament of sardinia, every effort to preserve the peace has been exhausted; and it only remains for this country to watch the course of events, to protect her own interests, and to look out for any opportunity which may offer to mediate between the contending parties. this policy, announced by lord derby in the city on monday,[ ] was received with unanimous approval. it will require a great deal to induce the country to be drawn into a war under any circumstances, and lord derby's anxious efforts will not be wanting to avoid it as long as possible. [footnote : he had there described austria's action as hasty, precipitate, and (because involving warfare) criminal, but the government would still (he added) strive to avert war, by urging austria, under the treaty of paris, to invoke the mediation of the powers. the derby government, however, were supposed to be giving encouragement to austria. see lord derby's letter of the nd of june, _post_.] [pageheading: lord derby's policy] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ windsor castle, _ th april _. the queen has read the last telegrams with much pain, as they show that there is no chance left of stopping war. indeed she thinks, considering the progress of revolution in the duchies, and the daily increase of military strength of france and financial exhaustion of austria, that it would not be morally defensible to try to restrain austria from defending herself while she still can. count buol's proposal to continue negotiations during the fight sounds strange, but ought not to be altogether put aside. the king of sardinia's assumption of the government of tuscany[ ] and military occupation of massa-carrara form gross infractions of the treaties of and international law, and can hardly be left without a protest from us. has lord derby heard that a russian fleet is expected soon to appear in the black sea? the queen has just heard it from berlin, where it is supposed to be certain, and it would explain lord cowley's report of (the queen believes) prince napoleon's[ ] account of the russian engagements, which are admitted to contemplate a junction of the french and russian fleets to defend the treaty closing the dardanelles. [footnote : see _ante_, introductory note to chapter xxviii. the duchy of modena and the grand duchy of tuscany were in revolution, and the duchy of parma soon followed their example.] [footnote : see _post_, st may, , note .] [pageheading: france and russia] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ roehampton, _ st may _. (_sunday night_, p.m.) ... lord derby entirely concurs in your majesty's opinion that no credit is to be attached to the denials of the french or russian governments in regard to the engagements subsisting between them.[ ] it is very easy to convey denials in terms which are literally true, but practically and in spirit false; and lord derby has no doubt but that france is well assured that in any case she may rely upon the tacit assistance, if not the active co-operation, of russia; and that both powers are using their utmost endeavours to excite troubles in the east, as well as in italy, as the result of which france may gratify her cherished designs of ambition in the latter, while russia carries on her projects of aggrandisement in the former. this is a lamentable state of affairs; but it is lord derby's duty to assure your majesty that no government which could be formed in this country could hope to carry public opinion with it in taking an active part, as matters now stand, in opposition to france and russia, if in truth they are acting in concert, as lord derby believes that they are. all that can be done is to maintain the principle of strict neutrality in regard to the affairs of italy, and probably of montenegro also, though there is not sufficient evidence of facts in that case to justify a positive conclusion. but in the meantime everything shows more conclusively the absolute necessity for the increase of your majesty's naval force,[ ] which was determined at the council yesterday, and respecting which it will be necessary, on the very first day of the meeting of the new parliament, to call for an explicit expression of opinion. your majesty enquires as to a supposed pledge given by the emperor of the french as to a denial of any treaty with sardinia. so far as lord derby can recollect at this moment, there never was more than an assurance that so long as austria remained within her own limits, he would not interfere; and that he would not support sardinia, unless she were herself invaded in any _unjustifiable_ attack on austria; and there was also a denial in the _moniteur_, to which your majesty probably refers, of there having been any engagement entered into _as a condition of the marriage_.[ ] these are just the denials to which lord derby has already adverted, which appear at first sight satisfactory, but which may be afterwards explained away, so as to escape the charge of absolute falsehood. lord derby trusts that your majesty will have understood, and excused, his absence from the council on saturday, in consequence of the misunderstanding as to the time appointed. [footnote : lord cowley, in a letter of the th of april to lord malmesbury, described an interview with the emperor of the french, when the latter denied in terms the existence of a signed treaty between france and russia. but, as lord cowley added, there might be moral engagements which might easily lead to a more specific alliance.] [footnote : the emperor had interrogated lord cowley as to this.] [footnote : in july , the joint action of france and sardinia had been concerted at the confidential interview at plombières, between the emperor and cavour, the former undertaking to assist sardinia, under certain contingencies, against austria. on the same occasion the marriage was suggested of the princess clothilde of sardinia to the prince napoleon joseph paul, son of prince jerome napoleon bonaparte. an interesting account of the events of this time, and of the character and aims of cavour, will be found in de la gorce's _histoire du second empire_; see especially vol. ii. book .] [pageheading: the position of france] _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ windsor castle, _ rd may _. the queen has carefully read the enclosed draft. she thinks that, without saying anything offensive to france,[ ] this important document would not place matters before that power in the world in accordance with the facts, and would lead to erroneous inferences if it left out altogether, as it does, any reference to the responsibility which france has had in bringing about the present state of affairs.... austria and sardinia are spoken of as the offenders, and blamed, not without sufficient ground, for the parts which they have respectively acted, and france is treated as if standing on a line with us in fostering civilisation, liberty, and peace. the inference would be that _we_ forsake her in her noble course, and deserve again the name of "_perfide albion_." the queen would ask lord malmesbury to consider this. for the sake of showing how she thinks the omissions dangerous to our position might be supplied, she has added some pencil remarks. [footnote : _i.e._, if the despatch were to abstain from reprobating the french policy.] [pageheading: the general election] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ rd may _. dearest uncle,--many thanks for you dear, kind letter of the th. god knows we _are_ in a sad mess. the rashness of the austrians is indeed a _great_ misfortune, for it has placed them in the wrong. still there is _one_ universal feeling of _anger_ at the conduct of france, and of _great suspicion_. the treaty with russia is _denied_, but i am perfectly certain that there _are engagements_.... here the elections are not as satisfactory as could be wished, but the government still think they will have a clear gain of to seats, which will make a difference of or votes on a division. it gives unfortunately no majority; still, it must be remembered that the opposition are very much divided, and not at all a compact body, which the supporters of the government are.[ ] lord john has been holding moderate and prudent language on foreign affairs, whereas lord palmerston has made bad and mischievous speeches, but _not_ at all in accordance with the feelings of the country. the country wishes for strict neutrality, but strong defences, and we are making our navy as strong as we can. you ask me if louis oporto[ ] is grown? he is, and his figure much improved. he is a good, kind, amiable boy whom one must like. he has sailed this morning with the bridegroom, and on the th or th we may expect them back with the dear young bride. i venture to send you a letter i received some days ago from dear vicky, and the religious tone of which i think will please you. may i beg you to return it me, as her letters are very valuable to me?... we are well fagged and worked and worried; we return to town to-morrow afternoon. with kindest love to your children, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : after their defeat on the st of april on the proposed reform bill, the ministry had dissolved parliament, and had gained in the elections twenty-five seats--not enough to counterbalance the palmerstonian triumph of . if, therefore, the various sections of the liberal party could unite, the displacement of the derby government was inevitable. such a combination was, in fact, arranged at a meeting at willis's rooms organised by lord palmerston, lord john russell, mr bright and mr sidney herbert.] [footnote : brother and successor of king pedro v. of portugal, and father of king carlos. the king had married in may the duchess stéphanie (born ), daughter of prince antoine of hohenzollern.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. my dearest uncle,--i write to-day instead of to-morrow to profit by the return of your messenger. many, many thanks for your dear letter of the th. what _are_ the austrians about? they would _not_ wait when they ought to have done so, and _now_ that they should have long ago made a rush and an attack with their overwhelming force, they do _nothing!_ nothing since the th! leaving the french to become stronger and more _fit_ for the struggle every day!! it is indeed distracting, and most difficult to understand them or do anything for them. the emperor leaves paris for genoa to-morrow. it is _not_ true that the empress was so warlike; lord cowley says, on the contrary, she is very unhappy about it, and that the emperor himself is low and altered. old vaillant goes with him as general-major.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: policy of the emperor napoleon] _the earl of malmesbury to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ the earl of malmesbury presents his humble duty to the queen, and has the honour to inform your majesty that count de persigny[ ] called on him yesterday. he passed an hour in attempting to prove what it seems he really believes himself--that the emperor had no plan or even intention to make war in italy; that his imperial majesty was drawn into it step by step by m. de cavour, who finally menaced to publish his most confidential correspondence, etc.; that his army was totally unprepared, and is now in a very imperfect state, and that he himself was overcome with surprise and fear when he learnt in the middle of last month that the austrians had , men on the ticino.[ ] the emperor, however, now believes that he will easily gain a _couple_ of victories, and that when he has _rejeté les autrichiens dans leur tanière_ (by which he means their great fortresses), he will return to govern at paris, and leave a marshal to carry on the sieges and the war. m. de persigny's letters of appointment are not yet signed, and must go to italy to be so. he stated that a week ago he was named minister of foreign affairs, and that fould,[ ] walewski, and others were to be dismissed, but that two days before the emperor's departure madame walewska[ ] and the empress had on their knees obtained a reprieve, and that m. de persigny was ordered to come here _sans raisonner_... [footnote : who had been re-appointed to london, where marshal pélissier, duc de malakhoff, had replaced him in . see _ante_, rd march, . both malakhoff and walewski were out of sympathy with the emperor's present policy.] [footnote : sir james hudson, in a letter written at turin on the th of february, and shown to queen victoria, described an interview with cavour, who, in answer to the direct question, "do you mean to attack austria?" replied that the italian question was becoming so complex that it was impossible to say what might happen. sir j. hudson added that he had learned confidentially that the understanding on the same subject between cavour and the emperor napoleon was complete, and that it had been expressed thus: "non seulement nous prendrons la première occasion de faire la guerre à l'autriche, mais nous chercherons un prétexte."] [footnote : achille fould, a jewish banker, was a colleague of walewski, though not a loyal one, in the french government.] [footnote : madame walewska was a florentine by birth, descended on her mother's side from the princely family of poniatowski.] [pageheader: attitude of russia] _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. the queen was much surprised to receive the enclosed telegram. an alliance with russia to _localise_ and _arrest_ the war by joint interference, which is here proposed to russia, is a policy to which the queen has not given her sanction, and which would require very mature deliberation before it could ever be entertained. the queen is much afraid of these telegraphic short messages on principles of policy, and would beg lord malmesbury to be most cautious as they may lead us into difficulties without the possibility of previous consideration. how can we propose to join russia, whom we know to be pledged to france? the queen hopes lord malmesbury will stop the communication of this message, to prince gortschakoff.[ ] [footnote : a telegram had been received from st petersburg, saying that prince gortschakoff entirely coincided with lord malmesbury's views as to localising the war; and lord malmesbury had proposed to send a telegraphic reply containing the words: "we are anxious to unite with russia, not only in localising the war, but in arresting it."] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ osborne, _ nd may _. in answer to lord derby's letter of yesterday referring to the importance of concerting with russia the best modes of preventing the extension of the war, the queen wishes merely to observe: that russia has acknowledged her desire to see the austrians defeated, and her indifference to the maintenance of the treaties of ; france wages war to drive the austrians out of italy, wresting from them the italian provinces secured to them by those treaties; and that the queen has declared from the throne her adhesion to these treaties to which parliament unanimously responded. france and russia may therefore have an interest, and indeed _must_ have one, in not being disturbed in any way in the prosecution of their italian scheme. england can have no such interest. if france prove successful, the territorial arrangements of europe, in which england has found safety, and which she helped to establish in order to obtain safety against france after a war of twenty years' duration, will be subverted, and she herself may some day (perhaps _soon_) have her own safety imperilled. the saxon provinces of prussia will be in much greater danger when france shall have destroyed austria in italy and ruined her at home, than while the latter remains a powerful member of the german confederation. what the queen is naturally anxious to guard against is our being drawn by degrees into playing the game of those who have produced the present disturbance, and whose ulterior views are very naturally and very wisely by them concealed from us. the queen is glad to hear that the telegram in question was not sent, having been alarmed by its being marked as having been despatched "at noon" on the th. the queen wishes lord derby to show this letter to lord malmesbury. [pageheader: illness of duchess of kent] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th may _. dearest uncle,--thousand thanks for your dear kind letter and good wishes for my old birthday, and for your other dear letter of the st. albert, who writes to you, will tell you how dreadfully our _great, great_ happiness to have dearest vicky, flourishing and so well and gay with us, was on monday and a good deal too yesterday, clouded over and spoilt by the _dreadful_ anxiety we were in about dearest mamma. thank god! to-day i feel another being--for we know she is "in a satisfactory state," and improving in every respect, but i am thoroughly shaken and upset by this _awful_ shock; for it came on _so suddenly_--that it came like a thunderbolt upon us, and i think i _never_ suffered as i did those four dreadful hours till we heard she was better! i hardly myself _knew how_ i loved her, or how _my whole_ existence seems bound up with her--till i saw looming in the distance the fearful possibility of _what_ i will _not_ mention. she was actually packing up to start for here! _how_ i missed her yesterday i cannot say, or how gloomy my poor birthday on first getting up appeared i _cannot_ say. however, that is passed--and please god we shall see her, with care, restored to her usual health ere long. i trust, dearest uncle, you are quite well now--and that affairs will not prevent you from coming to see us next month? dear vicky is now a most dear, charming companion--and so _embellie!_ i must end, having so much to write. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. i shall write again to-morrow or next day how dear mamma is. [pageheader: the queen's speech] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ st june _. the queen takes objection to the wording of the two paragraphs[ ] about the war and our armaments. as it stands, it conveys the impression of a determination on the queen's part of maintaining a neutrality--_à tout prix_--whatever circumstances may arise, which would do harm abroad, and be inconvenient at home.[ ] what the queen may express is her wish to remain neutral, and her hope that circumstances will allow her to do so. the paragraph about the navy[ ] as it stands makes our position still more humble, as it contains a public apology for arming, and yet betrays fear of our being attacked by france. the queen suggests two amended forms for these passages, in which she has taken pains to preserve lord derby's words as far as is possible, with an avoidance of the objections before stated. "those endeavours have unhappily failed, and war has been declared between france and sardinia on one side, and austria on the other. i continue to receive at the same time assurances of friendship from both contending parties. it being my anxious desire to preserve to my people the blessing of uninterrupted peace, i trust in god's assistance to enable me to maintain a strict and impartial neutrality." "considering, however, the present state of europe, and the complications which a war, carried on by some of its great powers, may produce, i have deemed it necessary, for the security of my dominions and the honour of my crown, to increase my naval forces to an amount exceeding that which has been sanctioned by parliament." [footnote : in the speech to be delivered by the queen at the opening of parliament on the th of june.] [footnote : the passage originally ran: "receiving assurances of friendship from both the contending parties, i intend to maintain a strict and impartial neutrality, and i hope, with god's assistance, to preserve to my people the blessing of continued peace."] [footnote : the passage originally ran: "i have, however, deemed it necessary, in the present state of europe, with no object of aggression, but for the security of my dominions, and for the honour of my crown, to increase my naval forces to an amount exceeding that which has been sanctioned by parliament."] [pageheader: the question of neutrality] [pageheader: the navy] [pageheading: lord derby's criticisms] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ downing street, _ nd june _. lord derby, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty that he has most anxiously, and with every desire to meet your majesty's wishes, reflected upon the effect of the alterations suggested by your majesty in the proposed speech from the throne. he has considered the consequences involved so serious that he has thought it right to confer upon the subject with the chancellor of the exchequer, as leader of the house of commons; and it is a duty which he owes to your majesty not to withhold the expression of their clear and unhesitating conviction. lord derby trusts that your majesty will forgive the frankness with which, in the accompanying observations, he feels it necessary to submit to your majesty the grounds for the view which they are compelled to take. the first paragraph to which your majesty takes exception is that which intimates your majesty's "intention" to maintain a strict and impartial neutrality, and "hope" to be enabled to preserve peace. your majesty apprehends that this may be interpreted into a determination to preserve neutrality _à tout prix_; but lord derby would venture to observe that such an inference is negatived by the subsequent words, which only imply a "hope" of preserving peace. with the cessation of that hope, neutrality would necessarily terminate. but as matters stand at present, lord derby is warranted in assuring your majesty that if there is one subject on which more than another the mind of the country is unanimous, it is that of an entire abstinence from participation in the struggle now going on in italy. he collects this from the language of politicians of almost every class, from all the public papers, from addresses and memorials which he receives every day--some urging, and some congratulating him upon the adoption of a perfectly neutral policy. the sympathies of the country are neither with france nor with austria, but were it not for the intervention of france, they would be general in favour of italy. the charge now made against your majesty's servants, by the opposition press, as the _morning post_ and _daily news_, is that their neutrality covers such wishes and designs in favour of austria; and any word in your majesty's speech which should imply a doubt of the continuance of strict impartiality, would, undoubtedly, provoke a hostile amendment, which might very possibly be carried in the sardinian sense, and which, if so carried, would place your majesty in the painful position of having to select an administration, pledged against the interests of austria and of germany. lord derby says nothing of the personal results to your majesty's present servants, because, in such cases, personal considerations ought not to be allowed to prevail; and it is in the interest of the country only, and even of the very cause which your majesty desires to uphold, that he earnestly trusts that your majesty will not require any alteration in this part of the speech. there is, at this moment, in the country, a great jealousy and suspicion of france, and of her ulterior designs--as indicated by the demand of means of defence, the formation of volunteer corps, etc.--but it is neutralised, partly by sympathy for italy, partly by suspicions, industriously circulated, of the pro-austrian tendencies of the present government. it is very important that the language of the speech should be so decided as to negative this impression, and lord derby cannot but feel that if neutrality be spoken of not as a thing decided upon, but which, it is hoped, may be maintained, such language will be taken to intimate the expectation of the government that it may, at no distant time, be departed from. in lord derby's humble opinion peace should be spoken of as subject to doubt, because, out of the present struggle, complications may arise which may necessarily involve us in war; but neutrality, as between the present belligerents, should be a matter open to no doubt or question. if there be no attempt made to run counter to public opinion, and austria should sustain serious reverses, the jealousy of france will increase, and the feeling of the country will support your majesty in a war, should such arise, against her aggression; but if the slightest pretext be afforded for doubting the _bonâ fide_ character of british neutrality, or the firm determination to maintain it, an anti-german feeling will be excited, which will be fatal to the administration, and seriously embarrassing to your majesty. the same observations apply, with hardly less force, to part of the amendment suggested by your majesty to the paragraph regarding the navy. with submission to your majesty, lord derby can hardly look upon it as humiliating to a great country, in announcing a large increase of its naval force, to disclaim any object of aggression. these words, however, might, if your majesty were so pleased, be omitted, though lord derby cannot go so far as to say that in his humble judgment the omission would be an improvement; but he trusts that your majesty will be satisfied with a general reference to the "state of europe" without speaking of the "complications which a war carried on by some of the great powers may produce." these words would infallibly lead to a demand for explanation, and for a statement of the nature of the "complications" which the government foresaw as likely to lead to war. in humbly tendering to your majesty his most earnest advice that your majesty will not insist on the proposed amendments in his draft speech, he believes that he may assure your majesty that he is expressing the unanimous opinion of his colleagues. of their sentiments your majesty may judge by the fact that in the original draft he had spoken of your majesty's "intention" to preserve peace "as long as it might be possible"; but by universal concurrence these latter words were struck out, and the "hope" was, instead of them, substituted for the "intention." should your majesty, however, be pleased so to order, lord derby will immediately submit the question to the consideration of his colleagues, in order that your majesty may be put, in the most authentic form, in possession of their views. he assures your majesty that nothing can be more repugnant to his feelings than to appear to offer objections to any suggestions emanating from your majesty; and he has only been induced to do so upon the present occasion by the deep conviction which he entertains of the danger attending the course proposed, and the serious embarrassments which it would cause your majesty. he regrets more especially having been compelled to take this step at a moment when your majesty's thoughts are very differently engaged, and when it may be doubly irksome to have matters of public business pressed upon your majesty's consideration. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's most dutiful servant and subject, derby. _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ rd june _. the queen has received lord derby's answer to her observations on the proposed speech. there is in fact no difference of opinion between her and lord derby; the latter only keeps in view the effect which certain words will have in parliament and upon the country, whilst she looks to the effect they will produce upon the european conflict. if the queen were not obliged to speak, both positions might be well reconciled; but if what she is going to declare from the throne is to allay suspicions purposely raised by the opposition against the government that they intended to take part at some moment or other in the war, and is to give absolute security to the country against this contingency, this will be the very thing france would wish to bring about in order to ensure to her the fullest liberty in prosecuting her schemes for disturbing and altering the territorial state of europe. how is this impression to be avoided? lord derby thinks that the expression of "hope" to be able to preserve peace to this country is a sufficient indication that this country reserves to herself still a certain liberty of action; but the queen would have interpreted it rather as the expression of a hope, that we may not be attacked, particularly when followed by the sentence in which all intention of aggression is disclaimed, and that our armaments are merely meant for defence. the sense would then appear as this: "as the belligerents separately assure me of their friendship, i am determined to maintain a strict neutrality between them, and hope they may not change their minds, and attack me; i arm, but merely to defend myself if attacked." this would abdicate on the part of this country her position as one of the arbiters of europe, declare her indifference to treaties or the balance of power (which are, in fact, of the greatest value to her), and would preclude her from any action to preserve them. the queen fully enters into the parliamentary difficulty, and would deprecate nothing more than to expose the government to a defeat on an amendment which would lead to the formation of a new government on the principle of neutrality _à tout prix_ imposed by parliament on the crown. it will be for lord derby and his colleagues to consider how far they may be able to avoid this danger without exposing themselves to that pointed out by the queen. she puts herself entirely in his hands, and had suggested the verbal amendments merely with a view to indicate the nature of the difficulty which had struck her. whatever decision lord derby may on further reflection come to, the queen is prepared to accept.[ ] [footnote : ultimately the cabinet recommended the modification of the declaration of neutrality by the insertion of the words "between them"; so as to run: "i intend to maintain _between them_ a strict and impartial neutrality," etc.; and in the second paragraph proposed to omit the words "with no object of aggression, but"--and adopting the form of the queen's paragraph, but omitting the words referring to possible complications, to leave it thus: "considering, however, the present state of europe, i have deemed it necessary for the security of my dominions," etc.] [pageheading: negotiations with russia] _queen victoria to the earl of malmesbury._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen has read lord cowley's letter with regret. nothing could be more dangerous and unwise than at this moment to enter into negotiations with russia on the best manner of disposing of the emperor of austria's dominions. the queen cannot understand how lord cowley can propose anything so indefensible in a moral point of view. [pageheading: debate on the address] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons [? _ th june _.] (_tuesday, quarter-past eight o'clock._) the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty. lord hartington[ ] spoke like a gentleman; was badly seconded. chancellor of exchequer rose immediately at six o'clock, and is just down. the house very full, and very enthusiastic. the chancellor of exchequer presumes to say he thinks he satisfied his friends.[ ] [footnote : lord hartington, afterwards eighth duke of devonshire, moved an amendment to the address, expressing a want of confidence in the ministry.] [footnote : he flung his taunts right and left at the now united opposition, and was especially bitter against sir james graham. referring to the liberal meeting on the th, mr disraeli reminded the house that willis's rooms had, as almack's, formerly been maintained by fashionable patronesses. "the distinguished assemblies that met within those walls were controlled by a due admixture of dowagers and youthful beauties--young reputations and worn celebrities--and it was the object of all social ambition to enter there. now willis's rooms are under the direction of patrons, and there are two of these patrons below the gangway" (indicating lord john russell and mr sidney herbert). in regard to its foreign policy, he said the government should not be condemned without direct documentary evidence. lord malmesbury has since deplored mr disraeli's neglect to produce the blue book with the correspondence relating to the affairs of italy and austria, and stated that, had he laid it on the table, the debate would have ended differently (_memoirs of an ex-minister_, vol. ii. p. ).] _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ th june _. lord derby, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty that the tone of the government agents in the house of commons is less sanguine to-day than it was yesterday with regard to the issue of the debate to-night. there are no actual changes announced of votes, but the tone of the opposition is more confident; and when an opinion begins to prevail that the government are likely to be in a minority, it often realises itself by the effect which it produces on waverers and lukewarm supporters. the division will certainly take place to-night; and, without absolutely anticipating failure, lord derby cannot conceal from your majesty that he considers the situation very critical. mr gladstone expressed privately his opinion last night that, even if successful on the present occasion, the government could not possibly go on, which does not look like an intention, on the part of the liberal party, of considering the present division as decisive.[ ]... [footnote : the rest of the letter relates to the distribution of honours to the outgoing ministers.] _mr disraeli to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th june _. (_saturday morning, half-past two o'clock._) the chancellor of the exchequer with his humble duty to your majesty: for the amendment for the address --- majority against your majesty's servants --- [pageheading: the ministry defeated] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen was very much grieved to receive mr disraeli's report of the division of yesterday, although she was fully prepared for this event. she did not answer lord derby's letter of yesterday in order not to anticipate it. now that the fate of the government is decided, she is prepared to grant those favours and acknowledgments of service for which lord derby asked in his letter. the queen _could_ not reconcile it with her own feelings, however, were she to omit this opportunity, when lord derby for the second time resigns the post of her prime minister, of giving to him personally a public mark of her approbation of his services. the queen therefore asks him to accept the garter from her hands. as the queen holds a drawing-room to-day, and receives the city address after it, lord derby will be aware how little time she has this morning (being naturally anxious to have some conversation with him with as little delay as possible); she would ask him to come here either at half-past eleven or half-past twelve o'clock. _the earl of derby to queen victoria._ st james's square, _ th june _. lord derby, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty the expression of his deep gratitude for your majesty's most gracious note this moment received, and for the terms in which your majesty has been pleased to speak of his very imperfect services. he gratefully accepts the honour which your majesty has been pleased to confer upon him as a mark of your majesty's personal favour. as a minister, he could never have advised your majesty to bestow it upon him, and he could not have accepted it on the recommendation of any government to which he was politically opposed; but as a spontaneous act of your majesty, it acquires in his eyes a value which nothing else could have given to it. lord derby is this moment going down to the cabinet, as a matter of form, and will obey your majesty's commands as soon as possible after half-past eleven, when he will have an opportunity of expressing in person his deep sense of your majesty's goodness, and his entire devotedness, in whatever situation he may be placed, to your majesty's service. [pageheading: lord granville summoned] _memorandum by earl granville._ [_undated. th june ._] i waited at four o'clock this afternoon[ ] upon the queen by her majesty's gracious commands. the queen was pleased to remark upon the importance of the present crisis. her majesty informed me that lord derby had resigned, and that she had sent for me to desire that i should attempt to form another administration, which her majesty wished should be strong and comprehensive. i respectfully assured the queen that her majesty's commands came upon me by surprise; that at any time i felt my own insufficiency for such a post, and that at this time there were special difficulties; that i believed the only two persons who could form a strong liberal government were either lord palmerston or lord john russell; and that, although it had sometimes happened that two statesmen of equal pretensions preferred having a nominal chief to serving under one another, i did not believe that this was the case now. i said that i had reason to believe that lords palmerston and john russell were ready to co-operate with one another, while i doubted whether either would consent to serve under a younger man of such small pretensions as myself. the queen in reply informed me that her first thoughts had been turned to lord palmerston and lord john russell, that they had both served her long and faithfully, and that her majesty felt it to be an invidious task to select one of the two. her majesty was also of opinion that as different sections of the liberal party were more or less represented by each, it might be more easy for the party to act together under a third person. her majesty added that she had selected me as the leader of the liberal party in the house of lords, and a person in whom both lord palmerston and lord john russell had been in the habit of placing confidence, and she expressed her confident hope that their attachment to herself would induce them to yield that assistance without which it would be difficult to form a strong and comprehensive government. i proceeded to state some of the most salient difficulties of the task, and asked her majesty's permission to ascertain by negotiation what it would be possible to do. her majesty informed me that her majesty's experience of former changes of administration had taught her that the construction of an administration had failed when the person entrusted with the task had acted merely as a negotiator, and that the success of other attempts had been owing to the acceptance of the charge by the person for whom she had sent. her majesty laid her majesty's commands upon me to make the attempt, and i had the honour of conveying two letters from her majesty to lord palmerston and lord john russell, stating that her majesty relied upon their assistance. [footnote : the th of june.] [pageheading: the rival leaders] _queen victoria to_ {_viscount palmerston._ {_lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen gives these lines to lord granville, whom she has entrusted with the task of forming an administration on the resignation of lord derby. she has selected him as the leader of the liberal party in the house of lords. she feels that it is of the greatest importance that both lord palmerston and lord john russell should lend their services to the crown and country in the present anxious circumstances, and thought at the same time that they might do so most agreeably to their own feelings by acting under a third person. they having both served the queen long and faithfully as her first minister, she must not conceal from lord palmerston (john russell) that it is a great relief to her feelings not to have to make the choice of one of them, and she trusts that they will feel no difficulty to co-operate with one in whom they have both been in the habit of placing confidence. from the long experience the queen has had of lord palmerston's (john russell's) loyal attachment to her and the service of the crown, she feels confident she may rely on lord palmerston's (john russell's) hearty assistance.[ ] [footnote : in reply, lord palmerston (in a letter printed in ashley's _life of lord palmerston_, vol. ii. p. ) accepted his responsibility for uniting with others to overthrow the derby ministry, and undertook to serve under either lord john russell or lord granville, but stipulated that any government he joined must be an efficient and representative one.] [pageheading: lord granville unsuccessful] _earl granville to queen victoria._ bruton street, _ th june _. ( a.m.) lord granville presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to submit that he saw lord palmerston immediately after he had left buckingham palace. lord granville stated what had passed there, omitting any reference to your majesty's objection to the effect likely to be produced on the continent by lord palmerston's name, if he had the direction of the foreign affairs. nothing could be more frank and cordial than lord palmerston's manner. he agreed to lead the house of commons; he said that he had certainly anticipated that your majesty would have sent for either lord john or himself, but having taken a part in the defeat of the present government, he felt bound to put aside any personal objects, and co-operate with me; and that there was no person whom he should prefer or even like as much as myself. he added that his co-operation must depend upon my being able to form a strong government. lord granville then saw lord john russell, and had a very long conversation with him. lord john had no objection to serving under lord granville, but thought that he could not give effect to his political views unless he was either prime minister or leader of the house of commons, and he doubted whether he had confidence in any one but lord palmerston for the foreign office. lord granville again saw lord palmerston, who informed him that if he had been sent for, he should have objected to go to the house of lords, and that he could not now give up the lead of the house of commons (which lord granville had already proposed to him to retain) to lord john. this answer rendered it unnecessary for lord granville to allude to the objections to his holding the foreign office. lord granville has seen lord clarendon, who acted up to the full spirit of your majesty's letter, but deprecates strongly the attempt to form a government without lord john russell. sir george grey is of the same opinion. sir george lewis, mr herbert, and mr gladstone think every effort should be made to secure lord john, but that it would not be impossible to form a government without him. mr milner gibson, with whom lord granville had a more reserved conversation, considered it a _sine quâ non_ condition of support from the liberal party below the gangway, that lord john should be a member of the government. lord granville thinks that in his third interview with lord palmerston he observed more dissatisfaction at not being sent for by your majesty. lord palmerston suggested that lord john's absence from the government would make it more difficult for a leader of the house, who was not prime minister, to hold his position. lord granville has written to lord john asking for a final answer before he informs your majesty, whether he is able to attempt the task which your majesty has with so much kindness and indulgence laid upon him.[ ] [footnote : this letter, and lord john's reply declining to occupy only the third office in the state, and expressing his anxiety for adequate security in the handling of foreign affairs and reform, are printed in walpole's _life of lord john russell_, vol. ii. chap. xxvii. lord granville then wrote to lord john: "i am glad that i wrote to you yesterday evening, as your answer gave me information which i had not gathered from your conversation in the morning. i came away from chesham place with the impression that union between you and palmerston with or without me was impossible. your letter afforded a good opportunity of arrangement. as soon as i found by it that i was an obstacle instead of a facility towards the formation of a strong government. i went to the queen to ask her to excuse me from the task which she had so unexpectedly and so graciously imposed upon me. in answer to a question, i stated to her majesty that it was disagreeable to me to advise as to which of you and palmerston she should send for, but that i was ready to do so if it was her wish. "the queen did not press me. it is a great relief to have finished this business. i have asked palmerston to do whatever would strengthen the government, and assist him the most as regards myself."] [pageheading: lord palmerston premier] _queen victoria to the earl of derby._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen writes to inform lord derby that after a fruitless attempt on the part of lord granville to form a government comprising lord palmerston and lord john russell, she has now charged lord palmerston with the task, which she trusts may prove more successful.... _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th june _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to report that he has been to pembroke lodge, and has had a satisfactory conversation with lord john russell, who has agreed to be a member of the government without any suggestion that viscount palmerston should leave the house of commons; but viscount palmerston is sorry to say that lord john russell laid claim to the foreign office in a manner which rendered it impossible for viscount palmerston to decline to submit his name to your majesty for that post when the list of the new government shall be made out for your majesty's consideration and approval.... _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ _ th june ._ lord clarendon has just left the queen. she had a long and full conversation with him. nothing could be more friendly than his language, and he expressed himself ready to do anything for the queen's service. but he positively declines entering the cabinet or taking any _other office_. he says, as _foreign_ secretary, he should be ready to join the government should there be a vacancy; but that he has never directed his attention much to general politics, and his taking any other office, after having held the foreign seals during a long and important time, would be of no use to the government, and would only injure himself. the queen told him that he might have any office almost (naming several of those which lord palmerston discussed with her), but she could not urge nor press him to do what _he felt_ would injure him, and indeed she found him quite determined in his purpose. his absence from the cabinet the queen sincerely deplores, and she knows that lord palmerston will feel it a serious loss. [pageheading: an indiscreet disclosure] _queen victoria to earl granville._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen is much shocked to find her whole conversation with lord granville yesterday and the day before detailed in this morning's leading article of the _times_.[ ] what passes between her and a minister in her own room in confidential intercourse ought to be sacred, and it will be evident to lord granville that if it were not so, the queen would be precluded from treating her ministers with that unreserved confidence which can alone render a thorough understanding possible; moreover, any minister could state what he pleased, against which the queen would have no protection, as she could not well insert contradictions or explanations in the newspapers herself. [footnote : a circumstantial account of the queen's conversation with lord granville had appeared in the _times_, and lord derby drew attention to the matter in the house of lords. lord granville in reply expressed his regret in not having used more complete reserve, and frankly attributed the disclosures to his non-observance of adequate discretion.] _earl granville to queen victoria._ london, _ th june _. lord granville presents his humble duty to your majesty, and feels deeply your majesty's reproof. lord granville was extremely annoyed this morning at seeing the article in the _times_ of to-day, repeating with some accuracy, but in a vulgar, inflated manner, the account which lord granville gave yesterday afternoon to many of his political friends, and which he believed your majesty had authorised him to do. lord granville in that account laid much stress on the reasons which your majesty gave for sending for lord granville, as he found that attempts had been made to attribute every sort of motive which might render the court unpopular. besides the gross impropriety of the appearance of reporting your majesty's conversation, lord granville regrets the indirect attack upon lord john russell. lord granville begs respectfully to express to your majesty his vexation at the annoyance, which he has thus been the cause of inflicting on your majesty, particularly at a moment when your majesty had just given him an additional proof of the indulgent kindness and confidence which your majesty has been pleased to place in him. [pageheading: mr cobden] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ st july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has been unable till within the last few minutes to make any report about mr cobden, from whom he had received no communication till about an hour ago, when mr cobden came to him.[ ] the result of a long conversation between them has been that mr cobden, against the advice of all his friends and of his constituents, has decided to decline taking office. he grounds his decision upon feelings personal to himself. he thinks that after having so often and so strongly disapproved of the foreign policy of viscount palmerston as tending too much to involve this country in war, it would be inconsistent for him to join the present cabinet, and he also said that, at his time of life and with his general habits, he does not consider himself fit for administrative office. viscount palmerston used every [means] in his power to induce him to change his decision, and showed that, with respect to present and future action, there is no apparent difference between his views and those of mr cobden, since both would desire that this country should remain neutral in the war now raging in italy. all his arguments, however, were useless, and though mr cobden discussed the matter in the most friendly and good-humoured manner, and promised to give out of office all support to the government, and said that he thought he could do so more effectually out of office than in office, he could not be persuaded to make any change in the answer which he came to give. viscount palmerston will consider what arrangement he may have to propose to your majesty in consequence of mr cobden's answer. [footnote : mr cobden had been visiting the united states. on landing at liverpool he learned that he had been elected at rochdale, and at the same time he received an offer of the board of trade.] the ministry as formed by viscount palmerston. _in the month of june_ . _first lord of the treasury_ viscount palmerston. _lord chancellor_ lord campbell. _president of the council_ earl granville. _lord privy seal_ duke of argyll. _home secretary_ sir g. c. lewis. _foreign secretary_ lord john (afterwards earl) russell. _colonial secretary_ duke of newcastle. _secretary for war_ mr sidney herbert (afterwards lord herbert of lea). _secretary for india_ sir charles wood (afterwards viscount halifax). _chancellor of the exchequer_ mr gladstone.[ ] _first lord of the admiralty_ duke of somerset. _president of the board of trade_ mr milner gibson (appointed in july). _postmaster-general_ earl of elgin. _chancellor of the duchy of lancaster_ sir george grey. _chief secretary for ireland_ mr (afterwards viscount) cardwell. [footnote : lord aberdeen wrote, in a letter printed in parker's _sir james graham_, vol. ii. p. , that the wish of lord palmerston, expressed in a speech at tiverton, "to see the germans turned out of italy by the war, has secured gladstone ... notwithstanding the three articles of the _quarterly_ and the thousand imprecations of late years."] [pageheading: mr bright] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ nd july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty.... viscount palmerston has heard from several persons that mr bright would be highly flattered by being made a privy councillor; would your majesty object to his being so made if it should turn out that he wishes it? there have been instances of persons made privy councillors without office, and if mr bright could be led by such an honour to turn his thoughts and feelings into better channels such a change could not fail to be advantageous to your majesty's service.... _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ nd july _. the queen has received lord palmerston's letter of to-day. she is sorry not to be able to give her assent to his proposal with regard to mr bright.[ ] privy councillors have sometimes exceptionally been made without office, yet this has been as rewards, even in such cases, for services rendered to the state. it would be impossible to allege any service mr bright has rendered, and if the honour were looked upon as a reward for his systematic attacks upon the institutions of the country, a very erroneous impression might be produced as to the feeling which the queen or her government entertain towards these institutions. it is moreover very problematical whether such an honour conferred upon mr bright would, as suggested, wean him from his present line of policy, whilst, if he continued in it, he would only have obtained additional weight in the country by his propounding his views as one of the queen's privy councillors. [footnote : in , lord palmerston, in offering mr cobden a seat in the cabinet, rejected the idea of accepting mr bright as a colleague, on the ground that his public speeches made it impossible. mr bright, later in life, was a welcome guest at windsor, and the queen became warmly attached to him as one of her ministers.] [pageheading: pacification of india] _earl canning to queen victoria._ calcutta, _ th july _. lord canning presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs permission to offer to your majesty his respectful thanks for your majesty's most gracious letter of the th of may. lord canning ventures to believe that he is well able to figure to himself the feelings with which your majesty will have welcomed the termination of the mutiny and rebellion in india, and of the chief miseries which these have brought in their train. he hopes that your majesty will not have thought that there has been remissness in not marking this happy event by an earlier public acknowledgment and thanksgiving in india, as has already been done in england.[ ] the truth is, that although this termination has long been steadily and surely approaching, it is but just now that it can be said to be complete in the eyes of those who are near to the scene of action. it is only within the last three weeks that the exertions of our troops on the oudh and nepaulese frontier, and in some other parts, have been remitted, and almost every gazette has recounted engagements with the rebels, which, although they have invariably had the same issue, would scarcely have consisted with a declaration that peace and tranquillity were restored. now, however, military operations have fairly ceased, and the rains and the climate, which would make a continuance of those operations much to be regretted, will do their work amongst the rebels who are still in arms in the nepaul jungles more terribly than any human avengers. lord canning has used every exertion and device to bring these wretched men to submission; but many--it is difficult to say how many, but certainly some few thousands--still hold out. with some of them the reason no doubt is that they belong to the most guilty regiments, and to those which murdered their officers; but this cannot apply to all; and it is to be feared that the prevailing cause is the bad influence of their leaders--the nana, bala rao, and the begum;[ ] or rather the begum's infamous advisers. it is certain that all of these, believing their own position to be desperate, have spared no pains to persuade their followers that the government is seeking to entrap them, and that, if they submit, their lives will be taken.... [footnote : there had been a public thanksgiving in england on the st of may.] [footnote : bala rao was a brother of nana sahib, chief instigator of the sepoy mutiny. see _ante_, th july, , note .] [pageheading: a military enquiry] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ th july _. the queen is much shocked to see that the government last night moved for a committee of the house of commons to enquire into the military departments, without having previously communicated with the queen on the subject. she is the more surprised at this, as lord palmerston told her, when she saw him on the formation of the present government, and she expressed her anxiety on the subject, that there would be no more trouble about it, and he thought it would drop. the queen expects that the names of those who it is proposed should compose the committee, and the wording of it, will be submitted to her. [pageheading: constitutional question] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that the re-appointment of the committee on the organisation of the military departments was unavoidable. that committee had been affirmed by the house of commons and consented to by the late government, and had begun its sittings; but when a dissolution of parliament was announced, it suspended its further sittings, with the understanding that it should be revived in the new parliament; and to have departed from that understanding would have been impossible. that which viscount palmerston intended to convey in what he said to your majesty on the subject was, that the evidence given by lord panmure might be deemed as having fully set aside the objection urged against the present organisation by persons unacquainted with the bearing upon it of the fundamental principles of the constitution, namely, that the crown acts in regard to military matters without having any official adviser responsible for its acts. such a condition of things, if it could exist, would be at variance with the fundamental principles of the british constitution, and would be fraught with danger to the crown, because then the sovereign would be held personally answerable for administrative acts, and would be brought personally in conflict in possible cases with public opinion, a most dangerous condition for a sovereign to be placed in. the maxim of the british constitution is that the sovereign can do no wrong, but that does not mean that no wrong can be done by royal authority; it means that if wrong be done, the public servant who advised the act, and not the sovereign, must be held answerable for the wrongdoing. but the ministers of the crown for the time being are the persons who are constitutionally held answerable for all administrative acts in the last resort, and that was the pith and substance of the evidence given by lord panmure. those persons who want to make great changes in the existing arrangements were much vexed and disappointed by that evidence, and the attempt made yesterday to put off the committee till next year on the ground that the evidence now to be taken would be one-sided only, and would tend to create erroneous impressions, was founded upon those feelings of disappointment. viscount palmerston submits names of the persons whom mr sidney herbert proposes to appoint on the committee, and they seem to be well chosen. _lord john russell to queen victoria._ pembroke lodge, _ th july _. ( p.m.) lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has just received from lord palmerston, who is here, the paper, a copy of which is enclosed.[ ] lord john russell has to add that lord palmerston and he are humbly of opinion that your majesty should give to the emperor of the french the moral support which is asked. it is clearly understood that if the emperor of austria declines to accept the propositions, great britain will still maintain her neutral position. but it is probable that her moral support will put an end to the war, and your majesty's advisers cannot venture to make themselves responsible for its continuance by refusing to counsel your majesty to accept the proposal of france. [footnote : at the seat of war, a series of decisive french victories had culminated in the battle of solferino, on midsummer day (see _ante_, introductory note to chapter xxviii). but the french emperor was beginning to think these successes too dearly purchased, at the expense of so many french lives, and, actuated either by this, or some similar motive, he attempted, on the th of july, to negotiate through the british government with austria. the attempt was a failure, but an armistice was signed on the th, and again the emperor sought the moral support of england. the paper which lord john russell submitted was a rough memorandum of m. de persigny's, proposing as a basis of negotiation the cession of lombardy to piedmont, the independence of venetia, and the erection of an italian confederation.] [pageheading: france and austria] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ pavilion, aldershot, _ th july _. the queen has just received lord john russell's letter with the enclosure which she returns, and hastens to say in reply, that she does not consider the emperor of the french or his ambassador justified in asking the support of england to proposals he means to make to his antagonist to-morrow. he made war on austria in order to wrest her two italian kingdoms from her, which were assured to her by the treaties of , to which england is a party; england declared her neutrality in the war. the emperor succeeded in driving the austrians out of one of these kingdoms after several bloody battles. he means to drive her out of the second by diplomacy, and neutral england is to join him with her moral support in this endeavour. the queen having declared her neutrality, to which her parliament and people have given their unanimous assent, feels bound to adhere to it. she conceives lord john russell and lord palmerston ought not to ask her to give her "moral support" to one of the belligerents. as for herself, she sees no distinction between moral and general support; the moral support of england _is_ her support, and she ought to be prepared to follow it up. the queen wishes this letter to be communicated to the cabinet.[ ] [footnote : the queen not having been informed whether this instruction had been complied with, a correspondence took place on the subject between the prince and lord granville. see the _life of lord granville_, vol. i. chap. xiii.] [pageheading: end of the war] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen has to acknowledge the receipt of lord john russell's letter reporting to her the result of the deliberations of the cabinet, which has very much relieved her mind. lord john does not say whether her letter was read to the cabinet, but from his former letter she concludes it was. she is most anxious that there should exist no misapprehension on their part as to the queen's views. our position must be consistent and precisely defined. a negotiation to stop the effusion of blood, and to attain "a peace which would be for the interests of all belligerents," is a very vague term. who is to judge of those interests? is m. de persigny or the emperor napoleon's opinion to be the guide, as they just now proposed to us? austria must be considered the exponent of her own interests. prussia has explained to us the interests of germany in the maintenance of the line of the fortresses on the mincio, and was answered; her views were entirely erroneous, and her apprehensions exaggerated. it will require the greatest caution on our part not to lose our neutral position, nor to be made the advocate of one side. are the wishes of the lombards, tuscans, etc., really ascertainable, while their countries are occupied by french and sardinian armies? the queen encloses an extract of a letter from the first napoleon to his son, prince eugène,[ ] showing how the expression of a wish for annexation has already of old been used as a means for conquest. [footnote : eugène de beauharnais, duke of leuchtenberg, son of the empress josephine by her first marriage, and adopted son of napoleon i.] [pageheading: ascendancy of france] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen has received the news of a concluded peace,[ ] which lord john russell has sent to her yesterday, with as much surprise as it must have caused lord john. it was a joyous intelligence, as far as the stopping of the further effusion of innocent blood and the security against further diplomatic complications is concerned, but it gives cause for serious reflection. the emperor napoleon, by his military successes, and great apparent moderation or prudence immediately after them, has created for himself a most formidable position of strength in europe. it is remarkable that he has acted towards austria now just as he did towards russia after the fall of sebastopol; and if it was our lot then to be left alone to act the part of the extortioner whilst he acted that of the generous victor, the queen is doubly glad that we should not now have fallen into the trap, to ask austria (as friends and neutrals) concessions which he was ready to waive. he will now probably omit no occasion to cajole austria as he has done to russia, and turn her spirit of revenge upon prussia and germany--the emperor's probable next victims. should he thus have rendered himself the master of the entire continent, the time may come for us either to obey or to fight him with terrible odds against us. this has been the queen's view from the beginning of this complication, and events have hitherto wonderfully supported them. how italy is to prosper under the pope's presidency, whose misgovernment of his own small portion of it was the ostensible cause of the war, the queen is at a loss to conceive. but the emperor will be able to do just as he pleases, being in military command of the country, and having sardinia, the pope, and austria as his debtors. the queen would like this letter to be communicated to the cabinet. [footnote : the armistice had arranged that the emperors should meet at villafranca, where peace was concluded. see _ante_, introductory note to chapter xxviii. the italian confederation was to be under the presidency of the pope.] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th july _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he will read your majesty's letter to the cabinet to-morrow. the emperor napoleon is left no doubt in a position of great power. that position has been made for him by allowing him to be the only champion of the cause of the people of italy. but that is no reason why we should seek a quarrel with france, and there is some reason to doubt whether the speeches made in the house of lords, while they display our weakness and our alarm, are really patriotic in their purpose and tendency. to be well armed, and to be just to all our neighbours, appears to lord john russell to be the most simple, the most safe, and the most honest policy. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen acknowledges the receipt of lord john russell's communications of yesterday. she entirely agrees with him "that we have no reason to seek a quarrel with france," and that "the most simple and most safe and most honest" line of conduct for us will be "to be well armed, and to be just to all our neighbours." she trusts that as the poor duchess of parma[ ] appears to be overlooked in the italian peace merely because nobody thinks it his business to befriend her, we shall in the above spirit ask for justice and consideration for her. the queen concurs with lord john that it will now be useless to communicate to france the advice given to the porte. [footnote : louise marie de bourbon, daughter of the duc de berri, and widow of charles iii., duke of parma. she was at this time regent for her son robert, a minor (born ), the present duke.] [pageheading: the views of the pope] [pageheading: the pope on english liberalism] [pageheading: the temporal power] _mr odo russell to lord john russell._ (_submitted to the queen._) rome, _ th july _. my lord,--some days since a letter from the "pontifical antechamber," directed to "signor odoni russell, agente officioso di sua maestà britannica," informed me that his holiness the pope desired to see me. in consequence i proceeded to the vatican, and was ushered into the presence of his holiness by monsignore talbot, the "cameriere" in waiting, who immediately withdrew, and i remained alone with the pope. his holiness welcomed me with his usual benevolence and good humour. he seemed very gay, and spoke with more than customary frankness, so much so indeed that i have felt some hesitation as to the propriety of submitting what passed between us to your lordship. but after mature reflection, i think it best you should be in possession of an accurate and conscientious account of the sentiments of his holiness in the present important juncture of affairs. "caro mio russell," the pope said, "you have been so long at naples that i was already thinking of sending after you to bring you back; we do not like you to leave us, and the more so as i have heard you were attached to the mission of mr elliot,[ ] who is a son of lord minto; and if he entertains the same political views as his father, he is a dangerous man to the peace of italy. now i knew lord minto here, and although he may be a very good man, i do not think him a man of any capacity, and his doctrines were calculated to bring on the ruin of italy." i replied, "i cannot agree with your holiness, for i consider lord minto to be a very clever man, whose honest, sound, and liberal views, had they been listened to, might have prevented the crisis which is now convulsing italy." the pope said, "well, of course you belong to his party, but, _poveri noi!_ what is to become of us with your uncle and lord palmerston at the head of affairs in england? they have always sympathised with the turbulent spirits of italy, and their accession to power will greatly increase the hopes of the piedmontese party. indeed, i well know what the english government want: they want to see the pope deprived of his temporal power." i replied, "again i regret to find your holiness so entirely mistaken with respect to the policy of england. we derive great happiness from our free institutions, and we would be glad to see our neighbours in europe as happy and as prosperous as we are, but we have no wish to interfere with the internal concerns of other nations, or to give advice without being asked for it; least of all as a protestant power would _we_ think of interfering one way or the other with the government of your holiness." the pope said, "i do not doubt the good intentions of england, but unfortunately you do not understand this country, and your example is dangerous to the italian minds, your speeches in parliament excite them, and you fancy because constitutional liberties and institutions suit you, that they must suit all the world. now the italians are a dissatisfied, interfering, turbulent and intriguing race; they can never learn to govern themselves, it is impossible; only see how they follow sardinia in all she tells them to do, simply because they love intrigue and revolution, whilst in reality they do not know what they want; a hot-headed people like the italians require a firm and just government to guide and take care of them, and italy might have continued tranquil and contented, had not the ambition of sardinia led her to revolutionise the whole country. the grand duke of tuscany, for instance, is an excellent and just man, and nevertheless, at the instigation of piedmont, he was turned out of the country, and for no earthly purpose. i suppose you have read monsieur about's book about rome[ ]? well, all he says is untrue, pure calumny, and it would be easy for me to have it all refuted; but he is really not worthy of such an honour. his book, i see, has been translated into english, and i have no doubt it will be much read and believed in england. such books and our refugees mislead your countrymen, and i often wonder at the language your statesmen hold about us in the houses of parliament. i always read their speeches. lord palmerston, lord john russell, and mr gladstone do not know us; but when i think how kindly and hospitably lord granville was received at rome last winter, and then read the extraordinary speech he made last february about us, i think the gout he suffered from here must have gone to his head when he reached england, and i wonder how her majesty the queen could send for him to form a government! then again, mr gladstone, who allowed himself to be deceived about the neapolitan prisoners--he does not know us and italy--and mr cobden,--i knew him in --he is always in favour of peace, and he must be very fond of animals, for when he came here from spain he wanted me to write to that country and put a stop to bull-fights--a very good man, but i do not know his views about italy. and lord stratford de redcliffe, do you think he will be employed again? he seemed so anxious to get a place. mr disraeli was my friend; i regret him. but tell me, _caro mio russell_, if you are a prophet, how all this war and fuss is to end?" i replied, "your holiness has better claims to being a prophet than i have, and i sincerely hope all this may end well for italy; but as regards the present and the past, i must again say that i deeply regret to see your holiness misconceive the honest views and sincere sympathies of the statesmen you have named, for the welfare of italy; they would like to see italy independent, prosperous, progressing and contented, and able to take care of herself without foreign troops. your holiness has done me the honour to speak freely and openly with me; permit me to do the same, and ask your holiness what england must think when she sees the temporal power of your holiness imposed upon three millions of people by the constant presence of french and austrian bayonets, and when, after ten years of occupation, the austrians withdraw suddenly, there is at once an insurrection throughout the country; and if the french were to leave rome it is generally acknowledged that a revolution would compel your holiness to seek refuge in some foreign country. at the same time, when the troops of your holiness are employed as at perugia,[ ] the government is too weak to control them; they pillage and murder, and, instead of investigating their conduct, the excesses committed by them are publicly rewarded." the pope smiled, paused, took a pinch of snuff, and then said good-humouredly: "although i am not a prophet, i know one thing; this war will be followed by an european congress, and a congress about italian affairs is even worse for us than war. there will be changes in italy, but mark my words, whatever these changes are, the pope will ever be the pope, whether he dwells in the vatican or lives concealed in the catacombs. "lastly, i will give you some advice. prepare and take care of yourselves in england, for i am quite certain the french emperor intends sooner or later to attack you." the pope then beckoned to me to approach, and making the sign of the cross, he gave me his blessing in latin, then with both his hands, he took one of mine, pressed it, and said with great warmth, "be our friend in the hour of need." i have the honour to be, etc., etc., odo russell. [footnote : mr (afterwards sir) henry elliot, p.c., g.c.b., was plenipotentiary to naples. he was subsequently ambassador at vienna, and died in .] [footnote : edmond about, a french journalist ( - ), had published _la question romaine,_ an attack on the papacy. see de la gorce, _histoire du second empire_, vol. ii. p. .] [footnote : an insurrection against the pope at perugia bad been put down with great cruelty on the th of june.] [pageheading: disappointment of cavour] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen returns these interesting letters to lord john.[ ] the whole aspect of affairs gives cause for serious reflection and great anxiety for the future. the conduct of france as regards italy shows how little the emperor napoleon cared for, or thought of, its independence when he undertook this war, which (though in the last instance begun by austria) _he_ brought on, for purposes of his own. the manifesto of the emperor of austria shows how unfortunate for her own interests the policy of prussia has been.[ ] she had made herself answerable for the issue of the war by restraining the minor states, and stands now humiliated and isolated. her position in germany is at present very painful, and may be for the future very dangerous. the queen feels strongly that we are not without considerable responsibility in having from the first urged her to take no part in the war, which certainly had great influence on her actions--and she will very naturally look to us not to desert her when the evil hour for her may come.[ ] [footnote : these were letters from lord cowley and sir james hudson in reference to the peace of villafranca. the former announced, as a result of his conversation with the empress and other persons, that among the causes which induced the french emperor to consent to peace were his horror at any further sacrifice of life and time, disgust at what he considered italian apathy for the cause which the french were upholding, and distrust of the intentions of the king of sardinia and count cavour. sir james hudson described the unanimous feeling at turin that the nationalist cause had been betrayed. cavour, he wrote, could obtain no further response to his remonstrances with napoleon than "il fait bien chaud: il fait bien chaud." moreover, napoleon knew (continued sir james) "that mazzini had dogged his footsteps to milan, for, the day before yesterday, sixty-six orsini bombshells were discovered there by the chief of the sardinian police, who arrested the man (a known follower of mazzini) who had them. the story is that he brought them from england for the purpose of using them against the austrians!!" count cavour, who resigned in disgust and was succeeded by rattazzi, remained out of office till the following january.] [footnote : he stated that he believed he could obtain better terms direct from the french emperor than those to which england, russia, and prussia were likely to give their moral support as a basis of mediation.] [footnote : lord cowley wrote to lord john russell on the th of july:-- "... the two emperors met in the most cordial manner, shaking hands as if no difference had existed between them. as soon as they were alone, the emperor of austria took the initiative, and stated at once that he was ready to cede to the emperor of the french, for the sake of the restoration of peace, the territory which the latter had conquered, but that he could not do more, giving the reasons which i have mentioned to your lordship in former despatches. the emperor of the french replied that his own position in france, and the public declarations which he had made, rendered something in addition necessary: that the war had been undertaken for the freedom of italy, and that he could not justify to france a peace which did not ensure this object. the emperor francis joseph rejoined that he had no objection to offer to the confederation which formed part of the emperor napoleon's programme, and that he was ready to enter it with venetia, and when the emperor napoleon remarked that such a result would be a derision, if the whole power and influence of austria were to be brought to bear upon the confederation, the emperor francis joseph exclaimed against any such interpretation being given to his words, his idea being that venetia should be placed on the same footing, in the italian confederation, as luxemburg holds in the germanic confederation.... "in the course of conversation between the two imperial sovereigns, the emperor of austria remarked to the emperor of the french with many expressions of goodwill, and of a desire to see the dynasty of the latter firmly established on the throne of france, that his majesty took an odd way to accomplish his end. 'believe me,' said the emperor francis joseph, 'dynasties are not established by having recourse to such bad company as you have chosen; revolutionists overturn, but do not construct.' the emperor napoleon appears to have taken the remark in very good part, and even to have excused himself to a certain degree, observing that it was a further reason that the emperor francis joseph should aid him in putting an end to the war, and to the revolutionary spirit to which the war had given rise. "the emperors having separated in the same cordial manner in which they had met, the emperor of the french himself drew up the preliminaries and sent them in the evening to verona by his cousin, the prince napoleon. being introduced to the emperor of austria, who received his imperial highness very courteously, his majesty said, after reading the preliminaries, that he must beg the prince to excuse him for a short time, as he had others to consult before signing them. he then went into an adjoining room where, according to prince napoleon's account, a loud and angry discussion ensued, in which the prince distinguished the emperor's voice broken by tears, as if his majesty had been obliged to have recourse to persuasion, to silence the opposition made to the conditions, and it was not until some time had elapsed that his majesty returned and signed the paper containing them, or rather i infer that he retained the paper signed by the emperor napoleon, and returned one of similar purport signed by himself; for among all the curious circumstances connected with this transaction, not the least curious is the fact that there does not exist any document recording the preliminaries with the double signature of both emperors."] [pageheading: indian affairs] _queen victoria to sir charles wood._ osborne, _ rd july _. the queen's attention has been attracted by no. (foreign department) of the printed abstracts of letters received from india, relating to the affairs of bussahir.[ ] she would ask sir c. wood to consider, with his council, whether means could not be found for making acts of confiscation, sequestration, spoliation, transfer of government, or whatever they may be called, dependent upon some formal and judicial proceeding which should secure the queen from acts being done in her name--which might not be entirely justifiable morally, as well as legally--which should relieve the government agents from the fearful responsibility of being sole advisers on steps implying judicial condemnation without trial on their mere personal opinion, and from which they derive themselves additional personal advancement in power, position, possibly emolument, etc., etc., and lastly, which would give the people of india security that the government only acts after impartial judicial investigation and the sifting of evidence. the queen would wish a report to be made to her upon this important subject. [footnote : bussahir was a state in the upper course of the sutlej. in january, the punjab, including the sutlej states, had been made a distinct presidency, but bussahir was not finally included until .] [pageheading: non-intervention] _queen victoria to lord john russell._[ ] osborne, _ st august _. the queen sends the enclosed draft to lord john russell; she is very sorry that she cannot give her approval to it. there are many points in it to which she cannot but feel the gravest objections. it is unnecessary, however, for her to go into these details, as it is against the principle of england volunteering at this moment the intrusion of a scheme of her own for the redistribution of the territories and governments of northern italy, that she must above all protest. moreover, a step of such importance, reversing the principle of non-intervention, which the queen's government has hitherto publicly declared and upheld, should, in the queen's opinion, not be brought before her without having received the fullest deliberation and concurrence of the assembled cabinet. [footnote : a month earlier, on his return from the war, the emperor had tried to enlist british support in his scheme for a european congress. but the cabinet decided ( th july), with the queen's full concurrence, that no answer should be returned to this proposal, till a treaty, embodying the preliminaries of villafranca, should have been signed.] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ pembroke lodge, _ rd august _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he begs to explain that with respect to reversing the principle of non-intervention, he has never proposed any such course. if intervention were to mean giving friendly advice, or even offering mediation, your majesty's government from january to may would have pursued a course of intervention, for they were all that time advising austria, france, sardinia, and germany. if by friendly and judicious advice we can prevent a bloody and causeless war in italy we are bound to give such advice. if we refrain from doing so, we may ultimately be obliged to have recourse to intervention; that is to say, we may have to interfere against the ruthless tyranny of austria, or the unchained ambition of france. it is with a view to prevent the necessity of intervention that lord john russell advises friendly representations. [pageheading: non-intervention] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ aldershot, _ rd august _. ... with regard to lord john's letter of to-day, the queen wishes merely to say that from the outbreak of the war our negotiations have ceased, and that the war is not over till the peace is concluded. our interference before that period may be prompted by a desire to prevent a future war; but our first duty is not to interfere with the closing of the present. the desire to guard italy against "the ruthless tyranny of austria, and the unchained ambition of france" may produce a state of things in italy, forcing both to make common cause against her, and backed by the rest of europe to isolate england, and making her responsible for the issue. it will be little satisfaction then to reflect upon the fact that our interference has been merely _advice_. [pageheading: foreign policy] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ rd august _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that lord john russell has shown him your majesty's communication, in which your majesty objects to a proposed despatch to lord cowley, on the ground that it would be a departure from the principle of non-intervention which has been publicly proclaimed as the rule for great britain in the late events between france and austria. but viscount palmerston would beg humbly to submit to your majesty that the intervention which all parties agreed that this country ought to abstain from, was active interference by force of arms in the war then going on, but that neither of the great political parties meant or asserted that this country should not interfere by its advice and opinions in regard to the matters to which the war related. viscount palmerston can assert that neither he nor any of those who were acting with him out of office ever contemplated giving such a meaning to the doctrine of non-intervention; and that such a meaning never was attached to it by the conservative leaders while they were in office, is proved from one end of their blue book to the other.[ ] the whole course of the derby government, in regard to the matters on which the war turned, was one uninterrupted series of interventions by advice, by opinions, and by censure now addressed to one party and now to another. whatever may be thought of the judgment which was shown by them, or of the bias by which they were guided, the principle on which they acted was undoubtedly right and proper. england is one of the greatest powers of the world, no event or series of events bearing on the balance of power, or on probabilities of peace or war can be matters of indifference to her, and her right to have and to express opinions on matters thus bearing on her interests is unquestionable; and she is equally entitled to give upon such matters any advice which she may think useful, or to suggest any arrangements which she may deem conducive to the general good. it is no doubt true that the conservative party, since they have ceased to be responsible for the conduct of affairs, have held a different doctrine, and in their anxiety lest the influence of england should be exerted for the benefit of italy, and to the disadvantage of austria, have contended that any participation by great britain in the negotiations for the settlement of italy would be a departure from the principle of non-intervention; but their own practice while in office refutes their newly adopted doctrine in opposition; and if that doctrine were to be admitted, great britain would, by her own act, reduce herself to the rank of a third-class european state. [footnote : this was the blue book, the production of which would, according to lord malmesbury, have saved the derby ministry.] [pageheading: italian policy] [pageheading: the queen and lord john russell] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th august _. the queen is really placed in a position of much difficulty, giving her deep pain. she has been obliged to object to so many drafts sent to her from the foreign office on the italian question, and yet, no sooner is one withdrawn or altered, than others are submitted exactly of the same purport or tendency, if even couched in new words. the queen has so often expressed her views that she is almost reluctant to reiterate them. she wishes, however, lord john to re-peruse the two drafts enclosed, which just came to her. if they have any meaning or object, it must be to show to france that it would be to her interest to break in the treaty of zurich the leading conditions to which she pledged herself to austria at villafranca. those preliminaries contained but three provisions affecting austria: ( ) that austria was to cede lombardy; ( ) that an italian confederation should be encouraged, of which venetia was to form part; ( ) that the dukes of tuscany and modena were to return to their duchies. the two latter clauses must be considered as compensations for the losses inflicted in the first. both the latter are now to be recommended by england, a neutral in the war, to be broken. now, either it is expected that our advice will not be listened to, in which case it would not be useful and hardly dignified to give it, or it is expected that france will follow it. if, on finding herself cheated, austria were to feel herself obliged to take up arms again, we should be directly answerable for this fresh war. what would then be our alternative? either to leave france in the lurch, to re-fight her own battle, which would entail lasting danger and disgrace on this country, or to join her in the fresh war against austria--a misfortune from which the queen feels herself equally bound to protect her country. as this is a question of principle on which she clearly understood her cabinet to have been unanimous, she must ask her correspondence to be circulated amongst its members, with a view to ascertain whether they also would be parties to its reversal, and in order to prevent the necessity of these frequent discussions, which, as the queen has already said, are very painful to her. [pageheading: mediation of lord granville] _earl granville to the prince albert._ london, _ th august _. sir,--in the middle of last week i received at aldenham a letter from mr sidney herbert,[ ] in which he told me that he had just received a visit from lord palmerston, much perturbed and annoyed, saying that the queen had objected to all lord john's despatches, and appeared to think that it was objectionable for england to give any advice on the subject of italian affairs. mr herbert gave some good advice to lord palmerston, but, from the tone of his letter, i gather that he thought the objections made at osborne unreasonable. i answered that i entirely concurred with him in the interest of everybody, that no feelings of irritation should exist between the sovereign and her leading ministers; that it was possible that the queen, forgetting how very sensitive lord john was to criticism, had pulled him up more sharply than he liked, but that i was convinced the objections made were not exactly those mentioned by lord palmerston. i heard nothing more till i received on saturday evening a telegram, summoning me to a cabinet this day. i came to town immediately, and saw lord palmerston yesterday. i enquired the reason of the sudden summons for a cabinet. he told me that there had been a discussion between the queen and lord john; that the queen had objected to his (lord john's) proposal that the despatch of th july should be now communicated to the french government. lord john had informed him of the fact, and had requested him to communicate with the queen on the subject. lord palmerston then read to me a well-written memorandum on the abstract question of giving advice, which he had sent to her majesty. he told me that he had been to osborne; that the queen had expressed a wish through sir charles wood that he should not discuss the whole matter with her; that he had had a satisfactory conversation with your royal highness, of which he gave me an abstract, which, however, contained his own arguments at greater length than your royal highness's. he said that lord john had made a mistake with respect to the end of the despatch, in which lord cowley is desired to withhold it till after the peace of zurich was concluded. lord john gave a different interpretation to it from what appeared to be the case, as described by a previous letter of lord john, in which he had said that the sentence was added at the suggestion of the cabinet, and with his entire approval. lord palmerston states that the queen did not feel herself authorised to sanction a departure from what had been decided by the cabinet, without the concurrence of the cabinet, and that she thought it desirable, if the cabinet met, that they should agree on the future policy as regards italy. lord john also wished for a cabinet. i replied that there seemed to be a double question: first, a difference between the queen and lord john russell and himself; and second, the whole question of our italian policy. on the first point i could not but remember the apprehension generally felt at the formation of his first government; that the feeling between the sovereign and himself might not be such as to give strength to the government; that the result, however, was most satisfactory. i was not aware of either the queen or himself having given way on any one point of principle, but the best understanding was kept up in the most honourable way to both, and that, at the end of his ministry, i knew that the queen had expressed to several persons how much she regretted to lose his services. that i most sincerely hoped that there was no chance of misunderstanding now arising; that would be most disadvantageous to the sovereign, to the public service, to the government, and, above all, to himself. he interrupted me by assuring me that there was not the slightest chance of this. he repeated to me flattering things said by the queen at the close of his last administration, and told me that it was impossible for the queen to have been more kind and civil than at his visit last week at osborne. i continued that in italian matters i believed the cabinet was agreed. our language to italian governments ought to show sympathy with italy, and let them know that we were anxious that they should be left free to act and decide for themselves; that it should inform them in the clearest manner that in no case were they to obtain active assistance from us, and it ought to avoid giving any advice as to their conduct, which might make us responsible for the evil or danger which might accrue from following such advice. that our language to france and austria ought to press upon them in every _judicious_ manner the expediency of doing that which was likely to secure the permanent happiness of italy, and to persuade them to abstain from forcing upon the italians, persons and forms of government to which they objected; nothing like a menace or a promise to be used.... i then saw sidney herbert, who told me that charles wood's report had entirely changed the aspect of things; that it was clear that the queen had come to the assistance of the cabinet, instead of opposing them; that reason had been entirely on her side, and that johnny had reduced the question now to the single point, which was not of much importance, whether the th july despatch should now be communicated or not. he told me that lord john was in a state of great irritation, and ready to kick over the traces. i dined at lord palmerston's, and met sir charles wood and mr gladstone. i had some guarded conversation with the latter, who seemed very reasonable. sir charles wood gave me all the information which i required. it appears to me that the really important point is that the whole cabinet should know the real question between the queen and her ministers, and that, if lord john can find plausible reasons for changing the date of the communication of the despatch, it may be better for the queen to consent to this. some of us will take care to have a decided opinion about the future course of our policy. i presume sir george grey will be at the cabinet, and will be able to report to your royal highness what has passed. if he is not there, i will write again. i have the honour to be, sir, with great respect, your royal highness's obedient, humble, and faithful servant, granville. [footnote : see lord fitzmaurice's _life of lord granville_, vol. i. chap. xiii.] [pageheading: the queen's position] _earl granville to the prince albert._ privy council office, _ th august _. sir,--the cabinet was very satisfactory. lord john looked ill, and evidently ashamed of much of his case. many of the cabinet thought that the despatch of th july had not only been sent but communicated. others attached a different meaning to the closing paragraph than what it appears to bear. lord john produced a most objectionable draft of despatch in lieu of that of the th. it was universally condemned, and lord palmerston was empowered to tell the queen that the cabinet now thought that the despatch of the th might be communicated. lords palmerston and john russell asked for further powers during the recess, and recommended that we should give an opinion in favour of annexation of duchies to sardinia. this was decidedly objected to, and we all professed our readiness to meet again if necessary.[ ] the cabinet thoroughly understood what had passed between the queen and her two ministers, although we could not get lord john to show us all we required. gladstone took me aside after it was over to say that i must have thought him stupid yesterday evening, that now he knew the facts he thought her majesty had been put to most unnecessary annoyance. the chancellor said something of the same sort. i never saw the cabinet more united. the duke of argyll, lord elgin, and mr cardwell were absent. i am, sir, with great respect, your obedient, humble, and faithful servant, granville. [footnote : "pam. asked for fuller powers to act during the recess, which was met by a general assurance of readiness to come up by night trains." lord granville to the duke of argyll. see the _life of lord granville_, vol. i. p. .] [pageheading: sardinia and central italy] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ balmoral, _ th september _. lord john russell will not be surprised if the despatches of lord cowley and drafts by lord john in answer to them, which the queen returns to him, have given her much pain. here we have the very interference with advice to which the queen had objected when officially brought before her for her sanction, to which the cabinet objected, and which lord john russell agreed to withdraw, carried on by direct communication of the prime minister through the french ambassador with the emperor; and we have the very effect produced which the queen dreaded, viz. the french minister insinuating that we called upon his master to do that which he would consider so dishonourable that he would rather resign than be a party to it! what is the use of the queen's open and, she fears, sometimes wearisome correspondence, with her ministers, what the use of long deliberations of the cabinet, if the very policy can be carried out by indirect means which is set aside officially, and what protection has the queen against this practice? lord john russell's distinction also between his own official and private opinion or advice given to a foreign minister is a most dangerous, and, the queen thinks, untenable theory, open to the same objections, for what he states will have the weight of the official character of the foreign secretary, whether stated as his private or his public opinion. his advice to the marquis d'azeglio[ ] is moreover quite open to the inference drawn by count walewski, that it is an encouragement to _sardinia_, to military intervention in and occupation of the duchies, and lord john russell's answer hardly meets this point if left as it stands at present; for "the _name_ of the king of sardinia,... _the chief of a well-disciplined army_," will have little influence unless he is prepared to use that army. the queen must ask lord john to instruct lord cowley to state to count walewski that no opinions expressed on foreign policy are those of "her majesty's government" but those which are given in the official and regular way, and that her majesty's government never thought of advising the french government to break the solemn engagements into which the emperor napoleon entered towards the emperor of austria at villafranca. the queen asks lord john to communicate this letter to lord palmerston. [footnote : massimo d'azeglio, sardinian commissioner in the romagna. he had been prime minister of sardinia from till , when cavour, who had been in his ministry, succeeded him.] [pageheading: england involved] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ balmoral, _ th september _. the queen returns lord palmerston's letter, together with the other papers sent to her, to lord john. she is glad to find that he thinks that no answer ought to be given to count persigny, but she thinks it important that it should be _stated to him that no answer can be given_. unfortunately, here has been again the prime minister declaring that he _quite agrees_ with the french ambassador, but that the proposal should come officially from france to be placed before the cabinet. the inference must be that the cabinet and the queen will, as a matter of course, agree also, when it is so submitted. now what is it that lord palmerston has approved? a plan for an alliance of england with france for the purpose of _overruling_ austria, if the duchies in which she is the heir, and to which the archdukes were to return in accordance with the stipulations of villafranca, were given to sardinia and austria should object. it is hoped indeed that this will not immediately lead to war with her, but france is to expect that she will not be left to fight single-handed for an object declared to be more english than french! thus we are dragged step by step into the position of a party in the italian strife. the queen thinks it incumbent upon her not to leave lord john russell in ignorance of the fact that _she_ could not approve such a policy reversing our whole position since the commencement of the war. the queen must leave it to lord john to consider how far it would be fair to his colleagues in the cabinet to leave them unacquainted with the various private steps lately taken, which must seriously affect their free consideration of the important question upon which they have hitherto pledged themselves to a distinct principle. _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ balmoral, _ th september _. the queen returns to lord palmerston his correspondence with m. de persigny. lord john russell will have sent him her letter to him on this subject. she has nothing to add, but to repeat her conviction of the great danger and inconvenience arising out of such private communications, and the apprehension she must naturally feel that the attempt to convince the emperor napoleon that it would be for his interest to break his word to the emperor of austria should reflect upon the honour of the queen's government. she must insist upon this being distinctly guarded against. [pageheading: lord john russell's criticisms] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ abergeldie, _ th september _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he cannot refrain from making some remarks on your majesty's letter of yesterday. lord palmerston appears to have answered m. de persigny by saying that he personally agreed with him, but that the proposition he had sketched must come from the french government; that it must come from them officially, and it would then have to be maturely considered by the cabinet. lord john russell sees nothing to object to in this language. it might be embarrassing to lord palmerston if such a proposition were to come from france, and were to be rejected by the cabinet. but lord palmerston could easily explain the matter to m. de persigny. lord palmerston does not appear to have committed your majesty, or lord john russell, or the cabinet in any way. on the other hand, your majesty cannot mean that the cabinet is to be precluded from maturely considering any proposition which may come officially from france. lord john russell feels, on his own part, that he must offer to your majesty such advice as he thinks best adapted to secure the interests and dignity of your majesty and the country. he will be held by parliament responsible for that advice. it will be always in your majesty's power to reject it altogether. lord john russell is of opinion that there never was a time when it was less expedient to fetter this country by prospective engagements. but it does not follow that the policy pursued last autumn and winter, and which ended in a war in italy, would be the best course in any future contingency. should another war arise it will be very difficult for great britain to remain neutral. for this reason it is desirable to prevent such a war, if possible. it was difficult last winter, and may be still more difficult this winter. for the present there is no better course than to keep this country free from engagements. after the peace of zurich is made, or not made, we shall see our way better. lord john russell has never concealed his opinions from his colleagues. he even warned them that france might make such a proposition as m. de persigny now contemplates. the enclosed letter from lord palmerston and mr fane's[ ] despatch will show the feelings which exist between austria and prussia. the emperor napoleon does not appear to have satisfied prince metternich. his object evidently is to gain time. [footnote : julian henry fane, son of the eleventh earl of westmorland, and secretary of embassy at vienna.] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ balmoral, _ th september _. the queen has received lord john russell's letter. she can ask for nothing better than "that we should be kept from any engagements," and she never could have intended to convey the impression that she wished to "see the cabinet precluded from taking into consideration any proposal france might make." what she objects to is binding beforehand the government by expressions of opinion of its leading members to the french government, and thus _bringing about_ those french proposals which it will be most embarrassing to the cabinet either to reject or adopt. it is absolutely necessary, therefore, that the french government should be told that the opinions given were private opinions not binding the government. lord john has not yet sent to the queen drafts in conformity with her wishes expressed in her letter of the day before yesterday. [pageheading: letters to foreign sovereigns] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ broadlands, _ th september _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has had the honour to receive your majesty's communication of the th of this month; and although he had the honour of addressing your majesty yesterday afternoon, he deems it his duty to submit some observations upon this communication. your majesty states that viscount palmerston in his letter to count persigny endeavoured to persuade the emperor of the french to break his word to the emperor of austria, but viscount palmerston must beg very respectfully but entirely to deny that accusation....[ ] your majesty is pleased to observe upon the danger and inconvenience of private communications with foreign ministers, and to add that your majesty must insist upon this being distinctly guarded against. viscount [palmerston] would be very desirous of knowing the precise meaning of those last words. if your majesty means that what is to be guarded against is any attempt to induce a foreign sovereign to break his word, viscount palmerston cordially subscribes to that opinion, and maintains that he has not done so in the past, and declares that he has no intention of doing so in the future. but if your majesty's meaning is that viscount palmerston is to be debarred from communicating with foreign ministers except for the purpose of informing them officially of formal decisions of the british government, viscount palmerston would beg humbly and respectfully to represent to your majesty that such a curtailment of the proper and constitutional functions of the office which he holds would render it impossible for him to serve your majesty consistently with his own honour or with advantage to the public interest. [footnote : lord palmerston then gives a very long and detailed account of his position.] [pageheading: the queen's opinion] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ balmoral, _ th september _. lord palmerston has written (on the th) a long letter to the queen, which, besides giving his private opinion on the politics of italy, which were not disputed, purports to show that when a principle of policy had been adopted by the cabinet and sanctioned by the sovereign, the foreign secretary ought not to be impeded in carrying out the details, either by objections raised to them by the sovereign, or by making them dependent on the meetings of cabinets, difficult to obtain at this time of year. now the question raised by the queen was _just the reverse_. the principle adopted by the cabinet and sanctioned by the queen was: not to interfere by active advice with the peace to be made at zurich; the foreign secretary had submitted a draft which had appeared to the queen to be in contradiction to this principle, which, upon the sovereign's objection, he withdrew; the cabinet was summoned and rejected a similar draft submitted to them, and the queen then complained that the very same advice should have been given by the prime minister in an indirect way to which the sovereign and cabinet could not agree openly. lord palmerston's letter was not communicated to the queen until it had been alluded to in a public despatch, and count walewski had insinuated to our ambassador that, rather than be a party to a line of conduct, which he would look upon as dishonourable for his master, he would resign office. what the queen has asked for is: an intimation to the french government that private communications like that of lord palmerston to m. de persigny must not be looked upon as the official expression of the opinion of her majesty's government, and that we disclaim ever having intended to induce the emperor to break his engagements made at villafranca, whatever they may have been. the queen does not conceive that lord palmerston can object to this course, nor does he attempt to do so in his letter. _p.s._--since writing the above the queen has received lord palmerston's letter of the th. as she has just written at length, she does not conceive that it would be necessary to make any further observations in reply, except to a distinct question put by him in the latter part of his letter, viz. what the queen wishes to have "distinctly guarded against." it is the danger and inconvenience of private communications with foreign ministers, without a distinct understanding that they are strictly private, and not to be treated as conveying the opinions of her majesty's government, where the sanction of the crown and adhesion of the cabinet have not been obtained. lord john russell has now expressed this in a paragraph in one of his drafts to lord cowley, which he will send to lord palmerston. as a proof of the necessity of such caution, the queen, has only to refer to the public use made of lord palmerston's private letter to count persigny, and the use made to our prejudice by the emperor napoleon at the time of the armistice at villafranca of a private communication with count persigny, which was represented to imply assent to certain conditions of peace by england, with a desire of pressing them on austria, when no opinion had been expressed by the government to justify such an inference. [pageheading: st juan] _the duke of newcastle to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th september _. the duke of newcastle presents his humble duty to your majesty. your majesty will receive from sir george lewis full information of the serious intelligence which has been received to-day from washington and vancouver island respecting the military occupation by united states troops of the island of st juan,[ ] and of the view taken of it by your majesty's government. the duke of newcastle begs leave to receive your majesty's instructions upon the acceptance of an offer made by lord clarendon whilst on a visit at clumber last week. lord clarendon received not long ago a private letter from the president of the united states. he proposes that in answering this letter he should express his concern at these untoward events, and particularly at their occurrence at a time when, if not speedily settled, they would prevent the fulfilment of a project which he had reason to think had been in contemplation--a visit to washington by the prince of wales on his return from canada. lord clarendon expresses his belief that nothing would so much gratify mr buchanan as a visit from his royal highness to the united states during his presidency.... lord palmerston and lord john russell see no objection to such a letter from lord clarendon, which, whilst it would carry weight as coming from one occupying so high a position in this country, would bear no official character; but as the name of the prince of wales would be used, however hypothetically, such a letter would not be written by lord clarendon or accepted by the government without your majesty's sanction. the duke of newcastle therefore requests to be favoured with your majesty's commands that he may communicate them to lord clarendon. [footnote : a dispute had arisen out of the oregon affair (see _ante_, vol. ii., introductory notes to chapters xiv, and xv), concerning the rival claims of this country and the united states to the small island of st juan, situated between vancouver island and the state of washington, which is adjacent to the canadian frontier.] _queen victoria to lord john russell._[ ] windsor castle, _ st december _. the queen returns lord cowley's interesting letter. she trusts that it will be made quite clear to the emperor that he has no chance of getting us to join him in the war with austria, which he may be tempted or driven to renew. this alternative constantly recurs to his mind.... [footnote : on the th of november the treaty of zurich, embodying the terms arranged at villafranca, had been signed, and a congress was determined upon, to settle italian affairs.] [pageheading: england and france] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ st december _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he has written to lord cowley, according to your majesty's gracious permission. the question of supporting the emperor of the french, if austria should attempt force to impose a government in italy against the popular will, must be judged of according to the circumstances, should they arise. lord john russell is certainly not prepared to say that a case may not arise when the interests of great britain might require that she should give material support to the emperor of the french. but he considers such a case as very improbable, and that the fear of such an alliance will prevent austria from disturbing the peace of europe. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ nd december _. the queen was extremely sorry to find from lord john russell's letter of yesterday that he contemplates the possibility of our joining france in a fresh italian war or demonstration of war against austria, which the queen had put entirely out of the question. if the emperor of the french were allowed to believe in such a possibility, he would have it in his power to bring it about, or obtain a just cause of complaint against us, if we abandoned him. it would be just as dangerous and unfair towards the emperor to mislead him in this respect as it would be for the queen to conceal from lord john that under no pretence will she depart from her position of neutrality in the italian quarrel, and inflict upon her country and europe the calamity of war on that account. [pageheading: sir james hudson] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ th december _. the queen has received lord john russell's letter recommending sir james hudson[ ] as the second representative at the congress of paris. the queen must decline sanctioning this selection. lord john russell has in his last letters avowed his conviction that england cannot again remain neutral in an italian war, and his opinion that she ought to support france and sardinia by arms if austria were to attempt to recover her supremacy by force. lord cowley wrote on the th ult. that prince metternich declared that austria kept her army ready because she could not permit either the military occupation of the duchies by sardinia or their annexation to that kingdom. lord palmerston sent to the queen yesterday evening the copy of a letter he wrote to count persigny urging the emperor napoleon by every argument he can find to consent to this annexation, even to the length of assuring him that such a state would always be obliged to lean on france. the queen cannot help drawing her conclusions from these facts, and feels more than ever the great responsibility resting on her, to preserve to her people the blessings of peace. she wishes this letter to be communicated to lord palmerston and to the cabinet. the queen approves of lord cowley as her first representative at the congress. [footnote : sir james hudson, minister at turin, had been a sympathiser in the policy of cavour, to an extent almost incompatible with his position as a british representative.] [pageheading: central italy] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th december _. the queen has received lord john russell's letter of yesterday. although to avoid a long written discussion, she has not in her last letter stated any reason for her objecting to sir james hudson as plenipotentiary at the congress, she has no objection to state to lord john that it is simply her want of confidence in him, being the result of her having watched his conduct at his post at turin during these last years. the queen's representative at paris ought to be a person in whom she can have entire confidence, that _english_ interests alone will sway his conduct. from lord john russell's letter it appears that many of his colleagues in cabinet saw equal objections to the appointment. the queen repeats her wish that her letter of yesterday may be communicated to the cabinet. lord cowley's letter, which she returns, is not calculated to diminish the queen's alarm as to the direction in which we are being systematically driven, viz. _war_ to support the emperor napoleon, who almost claims such support already as his right! he has already shifted his ground further, and asks for it in case austria should oppose "the armed interference of sardinia in the affairs of central italy." now sardinia can have no more right to such interference than austria; yet the emperor says "he is quite determined to renew the war in case austria resists." it is under these circumstances that the advice of the prime minister of england to the emperor, to withdraw the only impediment which restrains the action of sardinia, becomes a matter of such grave moment. the queen is determined to hold to her neutrality in the italian intrigues, revolutions, and wars. it is true, lord john says, "it becomes a great power like great britain to preserve the peace of europe, by throwing her great weight into the scale which has justice on its side." but where justice lies, admits of every variety of opinion. the party placed in absolute power by a revolution and a foreign invasion is not necessarily the exponent of the real wishes of a people, and lord cowley reports mr layard "hot from italy to confirm him in the opinion he has always held, that the annexation of tuscany to sardinia is not practicable." this, however, lord palmerston urges, and if it be agreed to by the emperor and attempted by sardinia, lord john would probably wish england to fight for it as the cause of justice. has lord john ever contemplated the probability of austria not being abandoned a second time by germany, when attacked by france? the emperor is sure to have calculated upon this, and has not played his game badly, if he can get the alliance of england to sanction and foster his attack upon the rhine, which would inevitably follow. the queen believes this to be a cherished object of france, and the success certain if we become her dupes. the queen can hardly for a moment bring herself to think of the consequences. she would wish this letter also to be shown to the cabinet. [pageheading: meeting of the cabinet] _earl granville to the prince albert._ london, _ th december _. sir,--lord john stated in what appeared to me a very fair way what had taken place between himself and lord palmerston in their communications with her majesty, and read her majesty's letters. at the end of his statement the chancellor asked what was the question to be decided by the cabinet. lord john answered that he wished to know whether he was to inform her majesty that the cabinet were of opinion that they were still respectfully of opinion that sir james hudson was the fittest person to be named second plenipotentiary, or whether he should acquiesce in her majesty's commands, reserving his own opinion as to the fitness of sir james. the chancellor answered: "undoubtedly the second course will be the best." i then stated my reasons, or rather repeated them, for objecting to sir james hudson. mr gladstone made a hesitating remark. sir g. lewis and the duke of argyll, sir charles wood, and sir george grey--the latter very strongly--supported the second course proposed by lord john. lord palmerston spoke with some temper and dogmatically as to who were right and who were wrong, but advised lord john to take the second course. the appointment of lord wodehouse[ ] was proposed. some of us do not think it a very good one, but there are no sufficient grounds for our opposing it. i am not sure that gladstone would not go any lengths in supporting lords palmerston and john russell on the italian question, although he is more cautious than they are. the feeling of the rest of the cabinet, as far as i can judge, is perfectly sound about war, and on our taking an english and not a purely sardinian attitude; but they are all inclined to sympathise with the national feeling in italy, and averse to the restoration of the dukes by force or by intrigue. lord john was sore and nervous, but talked of his letter to the queen, and lord palmerston's to persigny, as "unlucky." lord palmerston seems convinced that he is perfectly in the right, and everybody else in the wrong, and would, i am sure, take advantage of any step, taken without sufficient consideration by the queen, to make a stand for his own policy.... i have the honour to be, sir, with great respect, your royal highness's obedient and faithful servant, granville. [footnote : under secretary of state for foreign affairs, and afterwards, as earl of kimberley, a member of successive liberal cabinets.] [pageheading: divorce cases] _queen victoria to the lord chancellor_ (_lord campbell_). windsor castle, _ th december _. the queen wishes to ask the lord chancellor whether no steps can be taken to prevent the present publicity of the proceedings before the new divorce court. these cases, which must necessarily increase when the new law becomes more and more known, fill now almost daily a large portion of the newspapers, and are of so scandalous a character that it makes it almost impossible for a paper to be trusted in the hands of a young lady or boy. none of the worst french novels from which careful parents would try to protect their children can be as bad as what is daily brought and laid upon the breakfast-table of every educated family in england, and its effect must be most pernicious to the public morals of the country.[ ] [footnote : lord campbell replied that having attempted in the last session to introduce a measure to give effect to the queen's wish, and having been defeated, he was helpless to prevent the evil.] _queen victoria to the emperor of the french._ windsor castle, _le décembre _. sire et mon cher frÈre,--je viens comme de coutume offrir à votre majesté nos félicitations bien sincères à l'occasion de la nouvelle année. puisse-t-elle ne vous apporter que du bonheur et du contentement! l'année qui vient de s'écouler a été orageuse et pénible et a fait souffrir bien des c[oe]rs. je prie dieu que celle dans laquelle nous entrons nous permette de voir s'accomplir l'[oe]uvre de la pacification, avec tous ses bienfaits pour le repos et le progrès du monde. il y aura encore à réconcilier bien des opinions divergentes et des intérêts apparemment opposés; mais avec l'aide du ciel et une ferme résolution de ne vouloir que le bien de ceux dont nous avons à régler le sort, il ne faut pas en désespérer. nous avons eu le plaisir de posséder pendant quelques semaines notre chère fille et son mari, qu'il nous a été bien doux de revoir au sein de notre famille. notre fils aîné passe ses vacances avec nous, mais retournera prochainement à oxford pour reprendre ses études. lady ely vient de nous dire qu'elle a trouvé votre majesté ainsi que l'impératrice et le petit prince dans la meilleure santé ce qui nous a fait bien du plaisir d'entendre. le prince me charge d'offrir ses hommages les plus affectueux à votre majesté, et, en vous renouvelant les expressions de ma sincère amitié, je me dis, sire et cher frère, de v.m.i, la bonne et affectionnée s[oe]ur et amie, victoria r. introductory note to chapter xxix at the end of , mr cobden had offered his services to the government to negotiate a commercial treaty with france, and had been warmly encouraged in the scheme by mr gladstone. in january , he was officially appointed a plenipotentiary, with lord cowley, for this purpose, and on the rd of that month the treaty was signed. it included mutual remissions and reductions of import duties, and was contingent on obtaining the assent of the british parliament, but neither party was fettered by any engagement not to extend similar concessions to other countries. in february, on the introduction of the budget, the treaty was brought before the house of commons, and ratified by a great majority; at the same time mr gladstone abolished a large number of import duties, but increased the income-tax for incomes over £ , from ninepence to tenpence in the pound. his proposal to repeal the paper duties was rejected by the peers, the majority in its favour in the commons having sunk to nine. a commons committee was appointed to deal with this conflict between the houses, and resolutions defining the powers of the peers in money bills were passed by the lower house, lord palmerston clearly showing himself in sympathy with the lords. mr gladstone expressed a desire to resign, in consequence of his difference with his colleagues, while lord derby and lord malmesbury intimated privately that they would support lord palmerston in office against any radical secession. a reform bill of lord john russell, reducing the borough franchise to £ , and making a moderate redistribution of seats, was received with indifference, and eventually dropped. italian affairs mainly absorbed the attention of the country. the intended international congress was abandoned, owing to the attitude adopted by the french emperor towards the pope, but the former now obtained the annexation of savoy and nice, not, as had been arranged in as a reward for assisting to set italy free "from the alps to the adriatic"--an ideal which had not been realised--but as a price for assisting piedmont to incorporate the central italian provinces. the annexation was strongly resented, and suspicions of french designs were aroused to such an extent as to give a substantial impetus to the volunteer movement in this country. by the summer, , volunteers had been enrolled, and, at a review in hyde park, , men marched past the queen, while in august, in consequence of the same apprehensions, it was decided by a large vote to carry out the recommendations of the national defence commission. the swiss made an ineffectual protest against the annexation of that part of savoy which had been neutralised by the treaty of vienna, while, on the other hand, the emperor napoleon maintained that the people of savoy and nice had the same right to transfer their country to france, as tuscany and the Æmilia (under which name the duchies of parma and modena and the romagna were now united) had to place themselves under the king of sardinia. this they decided in march, by universal suffrage, to do; a few days later the treaty for the annexation of savoy and nice was signed, and in april it was ratified in the piedmontese parliament, garibaldi, the deputy for nice, his native town, voting against it. in the same month, a _plébiscite_, taken in the provinces affected, showed an immense majority in favour of annexation. garibaldi himself was soon afterwards engaged in rendering assistance to the sicilians in their insurrection against the despotic king francis ii. assuming the title of "dictator of sicily, in the name of victor emmanuel," garibaldi attacked and occupied palermo, and having established his ascendency in the island, invaded the neapolitan territory on the mainland. the sardinian government, for diplomatic reasons, disavowed the expedition, but gave a retrospective assent to it later in the year. the french emperor's policy in syria added to the distrust with which he was regarded. the maronites, a christian tribe, had been attacked and massacred by the druses, and the emperor had proposed to send troops to restore order. this step was eventually taken, after a european conference had been held; but the emperor's proposal was so severely criticised that he wrote a long letter to the french ambassador in london, reviewing and justifying his policy in italy and elsewhere, since the peace of villafranca. garibaldi had ignored the instructions of victor emmanuel to abstain from further operations against naples, until the two sicilies had voted for absorption into united italy; king francis fled to gaëta, and garibaldi entered the capital. at the same time, cavour, in spite of a french protest, determined upon the invasion of the papal states, and acted so promptly that in three weeks all effective opposition to the italian cause in that territory was put down, and umbria and the marches were conquered. in october, the piedmontese parliament voted for the annexation of such of the southern italian provinces as should declare themselves in favour of it; the two sicilies having accepted the offer by overwhelming majorities, the king and garibaldi joined hands at teano, and finally defeated the bourbon army, afterwards entering naples. the marches and umbria also declared for incorporation in the new kingdom. in july, the prince of wales, accompanied by the duke of newcastle, left england for a tour in canada, where he was welcomed with unbounded enthusiasm; he afterwards proceeded to the united states, visiting new york, chicago, and other great cities, being received by president buchanan at washington. the prince returned home in the course of november. the abolitionist troubles, which for some time had been acute in the states, came to a crisis in the last days of the year, south carolina adopting autonomous ordinances, declaring her own independence and sovereignty as a state, and her secession from the union. the refusal of the chinese government to ratify the treaty of tien-tsin, and an unwarranted attack on certain british ships, led to a revival of hostilities. a desire being expressed by the chinese to resume negotiations, some of the british representatives despatched for that purpose were treacherously captured, and treated with great cruelty. the allied troops of england and france thereupon, marched to pekin, when reparation was made, and retribution, exacted for the outrages. a convention was eventually signed on the th of october. chapter xxix _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th january _. my dearest victoria,--i have to thank you for a _most affectionate_ and gracious letter of the rd.... i will speak to my pianist about wagner's _lohengrin_; he plays with great taste and feeling, and i purchased a fine parisian piano to enable him to go on satisfactorily. now i must speak a little of passing events. louis napoleon wished for a congress because it would have placed a new authority between himself and the italians, whom he fears evidently concerning their fondness of assassinating people. the pamphlet, "the pope and the congress," remains _incomprehensible_[ ]; it will do him much harm, and will deprive him of the confidence of the catholics who have been in france his most devoted supporters. now the congress is then postponed, but what is to be done with italy? one notion is, that there would be some arrangement by which piedmont would receive more, savoy would go to france, and england would receive sardinia. i am sure that england would by no means wish to have sardinia. it will give me great pleasure to hear what lord cowley has reported on these subjects. i understand that louis napoleon is now much occupied with germany, and studies its resources. this is somewhat alarming, as he had followed, it seems, the same course about italy. _gare la bombe_, the prussians may say. one cannot understand why louis napoleon is using so many odd subterfuges when plain acting would from the month of september have settled everything. i must say that i found walewski at that time very sensible and conservative. his retiring will give the impression that things are now to be carried on in a less conservative way, and people will be much alarmed. i know thouvenel, and liked him, but that was in the poor king's time. in england his nomination will not give much pleasure, i should imagine, as he was in the situation to oppose english notions in the orient.... your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : this famous pamphlet, issued (like that of february , _ante_, th january, , note ) under the nominal authorship of m. de la guéronnière, expounded the emperor'sview that the pope should be deprived of his temporal dominions, rome excepted. its publication brought about the resignation of count walewski (who was succeeded by m. de thouvenel) and the abandonment of the proposed congress.] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen has received lord john russell's letter, written after the cabinet yesterday evening. she was much relieved by finding a proposal to call upon france and austria not to interfere in italy substituted for the former one implying war on our part for the defence of the provisional governments of central italy. the queen must consider this new proposal, however, as partial and incomplete as long as sardinia is not asked as well to abstain from interference. austria has reversionary rights in tuscany and modena, sardinia has no rights at all, if a desire for acquisition is not to be considered as one. austria will probably say she has no intention of interfering as long as sardinia does not, but she cannot allow sardinia to possess herself of her inheritance under her very eyes. it is also incorrect to place france and austria entirely in the same line; austria being an italian power in virtue of venetia, and france having nothing whatever to do in italy. [pageheading: whig traditions] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ pembroke lodge, _ th january _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he has just had the honour to receive your majesty's letter of this date. lord john russell has sent to lord palmerston the proposal he humbly submits to your majesty. he will therefore only venture to say that the doctrines of the revolution of , doctrines which were supported by mr fox, mr pitt, the duke of wellington, lord castlereagh, mr canning, and lord grey, can hardly be abandoned in these days by your majesty's present advisers. according to those doctrines, all power held by sovereigns may be forfeited by misconduct, and each nation is the judge of its own internal government.[ ] lord john russell can hardly be expected to abjure those opinions, or to act in opposition to them. [footnote : in a despatch of the th of october, lord john took the same ground in the case of naples. after quoting with approval the view taken by vattel of the lawfulness of the assistance given by the united provinces to the prince of orange, and his conclusion that it is justifiable to assist patriots revolting against an oppressor for "good reasons," he stated that the question was whether the people of naples and of the roman states took up arms against their government for good reasons; and of this matter, he added, the people themselves were the best judges.] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen has received lord john russell's note of this day, in which she is not able to find any answer to her letter, or even an allusion to what she had written, viz. that austria and france being asked to abstain from interference, such an arrangement would be partial and incomplete unless sardinia was pledged also to non-interference. the queen cannot make out what the doctrines of the revolution of can have to do with this, or how it would necessitate lord john to abjure them. [pageheading: affairs of italy] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th january _. my beloved uncle,--your dear letter of the th reached me on saturday, and i at once forwarded your letter to good and faithful clark, who was for _two_ months unable to attend us from a severe attack of illness, but who is, i am happy to say, much better, indeed his own good self again, and who is now _here_.[ ] this good account you give us of your precious health makes us truly happy. it is such a blessing. affairs are in a sad and complicated state, and though we modify matters as much as we _can_, we can't entirely keep our ministers (_the two_) from doing _something_. you will hear no doubt of the last proposal soon, viz. that france and austria should _both_ agree _not_ to interfere in italy--france withdrawing her troops from rome, and sardinia to be asked not to send any troops into the duchies until there has been a _final vote_ expressive of their wishes. we could _not prevent_ this _proposal_, which i doubt being accepted--as the rest of the cabinet thought it could _not_ be opposed, and entailed _no_ material _support_. this country _never_ would consent to be entangled in a _war_ for this italian quarrel.... we have a large party again to-day for the _play_ which we have to-morrow. we had a very successful one last week. the persignys come to-day. now i must end. with albert's love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the queen, later in the year, lent bagshot park temporarily to sir james clark.] [pageheading: annexation of savoy] [pageheading: victor emmanuel] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ st january _. the queen returns the enclosed important letter from lord cowley, and lord john russell's answers--documents which she trusts will be communicated to the cabinet. the emperor shows unwillingness to evacuate rome and lombardy, disinclination to admit of the annexation of the duchies to sardinia, a feeling that he could not do so without appearing dishonourable in the eyes of austria, and a determination to rob sardinia of savoy in order to repay the french nation for the rupture with the pope, and the abandonment of a protective tariff by the reconquest of at least a portion of the "_frontières naturelles de la france_."[ ] lord cowley's letter proves clearly that it is (as the queen all along felt and often said) most dangerous for us to offer to bind ourselves to a common action with the emperor with regard to italy, whilst he has entered into a variety of engagements with the different parties engaged in the dispute, of which we know nothing, and has objects in view which we can only guess at, and which have not the good of italy in view, but his own aggrandisement to the serious detriment of europe. with regard to lord john russell's answer, the queen will only say that our proposal having been made by us after serious reflection and the anxious discussion of the cabinet and the queen, no deviation from it ought to take place without affording them ample opportunity to consider the bearings and probable results of such alteration. [footnote : the cession by king victor emmanuel of savoy (the cradle of his race) and of nice to france was the consideration offered at plombières for obtaining french support to the movement for freeing italy "from the alps to the adriatic"; that result not having been achieved, a like price was now offered for french assistance in effecting the annexation of the central italian provinces.] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ nd january _. the queen has received lord palmerston's note and enclosures. she rather expects to be advised by her ministers as to the course to be adopted in matters which may lead to angry debate in the house of lords, than to give personal directions on a case so incompletely placed before her; lord willoughby's letter does not even name the persons in question nor the grounds upon which he assumes "they would not be received at court."[ ] the queen does not know how far admission or non-admission trenches upon the privileges of the house; from the submitted printed regulation, however, she would gather that the lord high chamberlain has full power to admit or exclude. if lord palmerston were to see lord granville as leader, and the lord chancellor as speaker, of the house of lords together with lord willoughby, they might so far discuss the question as to enable lord palmerston to submit a decision for the queen's consideration to-morrow. [footnote : lord willoughby's question had reference to a peeress, who, he thought, would not be received at court. the difference between a state opening of parliament and a drawing-room was pointed out in lord palmerston's reply. though it would be "unpleasant to the peeresses to find themselves sitting next to a person with whom they do not associate," the premier advised no interference with the lady in question, if she persisted in attending.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ st january _. my dearest uncle,--accept my warmest thanks for your kind letter of the th, received on saturday--by which i am delighted to see what sport you have had. i have _such_ an aversion for hunting that i am _quite_ pleased to hear of the destruction of the _fifty-one_ foxes. i suppose it was not cold enough for _wolves_. i think parliament has had a wholesome effect upon certain people; and that they are _altogether frightened_. there has been a strong despatch written relative to savoy--and altogether i think matters are taking a better turn. the feeling of _all_ parties and this _whole_ country is--to _let italy settle its own affairs_--and _england to keep quite out of it_.... we shall see the good aumales to-night, who are staying with the van de weyers at _new lodge_,[ ] which is _un vrai bijou_: you _must_ see it when you come here again, for it is one of the nicest and most charming houses i know. i must now end. with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : on the borders of windsor forest.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ rd february _. my dearest victoria,--... new lodge must be exceedingly pretty, and, god willing, i ought once to get sight of it. by all one can hear, the italians certainly will attack the austrians, if they are not told to leave it alone; victor emmanuel speaks openly of it, just as he did last year, when one also thought it was a mere bravado. things look in most directions very gloomy; my neighbour is creating dangers for himself by the constitutional government he gives to italy. the french say, "sommes-nous moins que les italiens pour avoir un peu de liberté?" this may become more dangerous as things move on, not that i should regret it; we can never have any security as long as france remains without a constitutional government. we have had slight beginnings of cold, but not much of it, but the glass was fearfully low. my ball of the st was rather pretty, and people were in great dancing mood. princess orloff, a troubetzkoï, is a very pleasing young woman. there is also a pretty princess metchersky. we had some new english families _inconceivably ugly_; it is quite a calamity, they look as if they had been selected on purpose. having still the happiness of being one of your privy council, i mean to propose some measure to obviate such a sad state of affairs. we have all of a sudden snow.... your truly devoted uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: indian honours] _queen victoria to sir charles wood._ windsor castle, _ th february _. the queen has attentively read lord canning's letter and enclosure. she quite agrees in his proposal as to the nature of the order of chivalry to be instituted, and the details which he recommends with regard to it. she also thinks that titles should be confined to those now known and borne in india, and to be given sparingly; but would object to the illimited power of the governor-general and viceroy in this respect. the highest dignities and titles ought to proceed directly from the crown at the viceroy's recommendation. the queen concurs in the view that honours cannot well be made hereditary amongst hindoos and mussulmans, but where princes (as we may hope will be the case sometimes hereafter) have become christians, the hereditary nature of honours should not be withheld.[ ] ... [footnote : lord canning had written that he thought it would be best to adhere to the precise titles already in use in india, and that they should be at the direct disposal of the queen's representative, without reference to the crown. he did not recommend that titles should be hereditary (except in very special cases), in a country where primogeniture was not established. as to the proposed order of knighthood, lord canning thought that the institution of such an order would be both expedient and opportune. he recommended that it should include both british-born and native subjects.] [pageheading: the queen and her ministers] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th february _. the queen sends a letter to lord palmerston which she has received yesterday evening from lord john russell.[ ] she is induced to do so from a feeling that it is to lord palmerston, as head of the government, that she has to look, when she may have reason to take exception to the tone of communications she may receive from members of his cabinet. lord palmerston will not fail to perceive that the enclosed is not the kind of communication which the foreign secretary ought to make, when asked by his sovereign to explain the views of the cabinet upon a question so important and momentous as the annexation of savoy to france, and the steps which they propose to take with regard to it. she need not remind lord palmerston that in her letter communicated to the cabinet she had given no opinion whatever upon italian liberation from a foreign yoke, nor need she protest against a covert insinuation, such as is contained in lord john's letter, that she is no well-wisher of mankind and indifferent to its freedom and happiness. but she must refer to the constitutional position of her ministers towards herself. they are responsible for the advice they gave her, but they are bound fully, respectfully, and openly to place before her the grounds and reasons upon which their advice may be founded, to enable her to judge whether she can give her assent to that advice or not. the government must come to a standstill if the minister meets a demand for explanation with an answer like the following: "i was asked by the cabinet to give an answer, but as i do not agree with you, i think it useless to explain my views." the queen must demand that respect which is due from a minister to his sovereign. as the queen must consider the enclosed letter as deficient in it, she thinks lord john russell might probably wish to reconsider it, and asks lord palmerston to return it to him with that view. that lord palmerston may be acquainted with the course the correspondence has taken, the queen encloses the two preceding letters. [footnote : the letter ran:--"lord john russell unfortunately does not partake your majesty's opinions in regard to italy, and he is unwilling to obtrude on your majesty unnecessary statements of his views.... whatever may be the consequence, the liberation of the italian people from a foreign yoke is, in the eyes of lord palmerston and lord john russell, an increase of freedom and happiness at which as well-wishers to mankind they cannot but rejoice."] [pageheading: mr gladstone's budget] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th february _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that mr gladstone made this afternoon his financial statement.[ ] his speech lasted three hours, from five to eight, and was admirable, detailed, clear, comprehensive and eloquent; and he did not appear to be fatigued by the effort.[ ] the statement was well received by the house, and though parts of the arrangement may, and no doubt will, be disputed and attacked as the various measures of which the arrangement is composed, pass through the house, there seems to be a fair probability that the government will not sustain any serious defeat upon any part of the arrangement. the scheme is too extensive and complicated to admit of an abstract of it being given to your majesty in this report; but no doubt a condensed summary of it will be given in the newspapers of to-morrow. [footnote : the budget of was contemporaneous with the commercial treaty with france negotiated by mr cobden, reducing _inter alia_ the import duties on french wine and brandy, and english coal, flax, and pig-iron. mr gladstone abolished the duties on a large number of imports, and proposed to repeal that on paper (regarded not only as a means for the diffusion of knowledge, but a commodity in various industries).] [footnote : this was all the more remarkable, as the budget had been postponed owing to his illness.] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th february _. the queen acknowledges the receipt of lord palmerston's two letters of yesterday evening. she willingly accepts lord john russell's expressions of regret, and certainly was led to read that one passage which lord palmerston explains in the sense which he supposed. the queen has received the draft to lord cowley, and has written her observations upon it to lord john, who will communicate them to him. she thinks that the omissions which she has pointed out can be very well supplied consistently with that international courtesy which lord palmerston truly says ought to be observed.[ ] [footnote : in this despatch, lord john wrote that the government could not believe that a country in the circumstances of france could be endangered by the existence, "on the other side of the alps, of a state of , , of people lately joined by a cement not yet dry, threatened, on the side of lombardy, by austria, and not very certain of its own independence."] _earl granville to the prince albert._ brighton, _ th february _. sir,--lord john produced before the cabinet his draft of despatch in answer to m. thouvenel. he read, without allusion to the previous correspondence, the queen's memorandum on his draft. lord palmerston supported lord john, who was fidgety and nervous. we all criticised the draft. we thought it too much or too little. we recommended that he should either write shortly, saying that he did not acquiesce in m. thouvenel's arguments, but as the french government did not consider the question as now in existence, and promised that it should not be revised without the consent of savoy, and consultation with the great powers, if the government would reserve what they had to say on a question of such immense european importance--or going into the subject he should state the whole argument and objections of the government to the scheme. we thought the historical reminiscences offensive to france, while the language of the despatch was not sufficiently firm to satisfy what was expected from the government. we warned him that in this case public opinion would be at least as critical as the queen. lord john gave us to understand that he would alter his draft, but i do not feel any security that it will be done in a satisfactory manner. i am, sir, with the greatest respect, your royal highness's obedient, humble, and faithful servant, granville. [pageheading: lord cowley and the emperor] _earl cowley to lord john russell._ (_submitted to the queen._) paris, _ th march _. my dear lord john,--i send a messenger this evening, in order that you may not hear from any one else of the passage of arms which took place between the emperor and myself yesterday evening. you will find the account of it in the enclosed despatch. the more i reflect on it, the less i think that i could pass over the emperor's conduct and language without notice. his tone and manner were really offensive, and if i had let them pass unheeded might have been repeated on another occasion. i must say that nothing could have been more friendly than his majesty's bearing after i had spoken to him. he was profuse in his excuses, and the empress told me later in the evening that he was _désolé_--"qu'il s'était laissé entraîner par un mouvement d'humeur," etc. i, of course, said that i should think no more about it. one good thing has been gained by it, that the emperor has declared that he does not mean to act in defiance of the opinion of the great powers.... i wish that i had not this disagreeable history to trouble you with, but do not attach greater importance to it than it merits. i look upon it as at an end. cowley. [pageheading: lord cowley and the emperor] [pageheading: lord cowley's remonstrance] [pageheading: the emperor's _amende_] [_enclosure._] _earl cowley to lord john russell._ (_submitted to the queen._) paris, _ th march _. my lord,--it is with extreme regret that i call your lordship's attention to the following occurrence. there was a concert last night at the tuileries, to which the chiefs of the diplomatic body were invited. on these occasions seats are assigned to the ambassadors according to their accidental rank, and i was placed between the nuntio and the russian ambassador. it is customary for the emperor, during the interval between the two parts of the concert, to say a few words to each of the ambassadors individually, and it is obvious that what his majesty says to one may easily be overheard by that one's immediate neighbours. yesterday evening the emperor, after saying a few words of no importance to the nuntio, addressed himself to me in a manner and tone very unusual with him, animadverting upon the hostile sentiments evinced towards him in the english parliament and press.[ ] "wishing to avoid a discussion, i merely observed that i regretted that matters should be in such a state, but that his majesty must be aware that there was quite as great irritation on this side the water. the emperor enquired sharply whether this was to be wondered at, considering the terms and imputations applied to himself, and to the french nation, in england? they were only defending themselves against unfair attacks, his majesty said. it was really too bad, he continued; he had done all in his power to maintain a good understanding with england, but the conduct of england rendered it impossible. what had england to do with savoy? and why was she not to be satisfied with the declaration that his majesty had made to me, that he had no intention to annex savoy to france without having previously obtained the consent of the great powers. "pardon me, sire," i said, "for interrupting your majesty, but it is just what you did not say. had you permitted me to convey that assurance to her majesty's government, i will answer for it that all those interpellations in parliament would long since have ceased, and that her majesty's government and the country would at all events have awaited the decision at which the great powers might have arrived." "but i told you," continued the emperor, "that i would consult the great powers." "yes, sire," i replied, "but your majesty did not add that you would abide by their decision." this conversation had taken place, not only within the hearing of the russian ambassador, but the emperor's remarks were addressed almost as much to my colleague as to myself. turning then entirely towards general kisseleff, the emperor continued: "the conduct of england is inexplicable. i have done all in my power to keep on the best terms with her; but i am at my wits' end _(je n'en puis plus)._ what," his majesty exclaimed again, "has england to do with savoy? what would have been the consequence if, when she took possession of the island of perim[ ] for the safety of her eastern dominions, i had raised the same objections that she has now raised to the annexation of savoy, which i want as much for the safety of france?" his majesty continued to speak for a few seconds in the same strain, and i felt my position to be most awkward. with the remembrance of his majesty's intemperate words to m. de hübner on new year's day, ,[ ] in my mind, i did not like to leave unnoticed observations of the tendency i have mentioned. at the same time i had to bear in mind that i was not present on an official occasion, but that i was the emperor's guest, and that it would not be right to continue a discussion in the presence of others. these thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, and i determined to be guided by a night's reflection in taking any further step in this matter. what that reflection might have produced i cannot say, but circumstances led to more immediate explanations. as the emperor moved on, the circle in which we were standing was not strictly kept, and after a few minutes i found myself standing a little in front, in the open space round which the circle was formed. the emperor again accosted me, and was beginning in the same strain, when i ventured to interrupt his majesty and to tell him that i considered myself justified in calling his attention to the unusual course he had adopted, in indulging, in presence of the russian ambassador, in his animadversions on the conduct of england. that his majesty, if he had, or thought he had, any cause for remonstrance or blame with regard to england, should address himself to me, was not only natural, but would be a course which i should always beg him to take, because free discussion was the best remedy for pent-up feeling. i should answer as best i could, and endeavour to convince his majesty when i thought him wrong. or if his majesty considered it right to complain of the conduct of england to the russian ambassador, i had no desire to interfere, provided it was not done in my presence; but what i could not approve, or consider compatible with my own dignity, or that of the government which i represented, was that complaints respecting england should be addressed to me in the hearing of the russian ambassador, and to the russian ambassador in my hearing. leaving then this official tone, i added that, considering the long and intimate relations which his majesty had been graciously pleased to permit should exist between himself and me, and knowing, as he did, the personal attachment which i bore him, and the anxiety which i had ever manifested to smooth difficulties and prevent misunderstandings between the two governments, in doing which i had perhaps exposed myself to the suspicion of being more french than i ought to be, i had not expected to have been addressed, as i had been, in the presence of the russian ambassador, or to have heard words addressed to that ambassador complaining of the sentiments of the english nation. the emperor frequently interrupted me, expressing his great regret at what had occurred. he could assure me, his majesty said, that he had spoken without any bad intention--that he had just read what had occurred in parliament the night before, and that he had been greatly hurt at the strictures passed upon his conduct; i must recollect further that he had not spoken of the government, but of those who attacked him. again, his majesty begged me to think no more of the matter, repeating the assurance that he had spoken without intention. in the course of this second conversation the emperor again asked, but in a very different tone, why england had taken up the question of savoy which so little regarded her. had it been prussia or one of the continental powers, his majesty could have understood it, but not a word of remonstrance had proceeded from any one of them. i replied that i did not think the emperor could rely on that silence as indicating approbation, but at all events, i said, the position of her majesty's government was very different from that of the other powers. how was it possible, i asked, for her majesty's government to remain silent in presence of the interpellations respecting savoy which were, night after night, put to them? and if his majesty enquired why these interpellations were put, i would answer him that, if my judgment was correct, it was not so much on account of the actual plan of annexing savoy, as on account of the circumstances connected with the whole transaction. they were, in fact, interpellations of mistrust. and how, i asked, could it be otherwise? what could the english people think on its transpiring that in spite of his majesty's declarations, both before and during the war, that in going to war he meditated no special advantages for france, overtures had positively been made months before, to sardinia, for the eventual cession of savoy; why had not his majesty told us fairly, in commencing this war, that if, by the results of the war, the territory of sardinia should be greatly augmented, he might be obliged, in deference to public opinion in france, to ask for some territorial advantage? such a declaration, although it might have rendered the british government still more anxious to prevent the war, would have hindered all the manifestation of public opinion which is now taking place. the emperor seemed to feel the weight of these observations, and he ended the conversation by saying, that if this question of savoy should go further, he had pledged himself to consult the great powers, and that he need hardly add that if their opinion should be unfavourable to his wishes, it would have great weight with him. "it is not likely," said his majesty, "that i should act against the advice of europe." i end, my lord, as i commenced, in regretting this occurrence. i could have wished that the emperor had not spoken to me a second time yesterday, and that i had had a little time for reflection. i feel that i spoke to his majesty under considerable emotion, caused by the tone and manner which he had adopted; but i am certain that not a word escaped me which was not respectful to himself. to have passed the matter over, would, in my judgment, have been a fault, but on the whole i should have preferred conveying impressions to his majesty through m. thouvenel. i earnestly trust, however, that her majesty's government will view my conduct in a favourable light. it is but justice to my russian colleague to state that nothing could have been in better taste than his remarks in answer to the emperor's observations to him. i have told general kisseleff this morning that having had an opportunity to do so, i had expressed to the emperor the opinion that it would have been better had his majesty avoided irritating topics concerning england in the presence of another foreign representative. it is not my intention to open my lips on the subject to any one else. cowley. [footnote : the annexation of savoy had been debated in the house of commons, and mr bright had expressed his readiness that savoy should rather perish than that england should interfere in a matter in which she had no concern. he was sharply censured by lord john manners.] [footnote : perim had been permanently taken possession of by great britain, in .] [footnote : see _ante_, p. , note .] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ chesham place, _ th march _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to submit a despatch which he received in a private letter from lord cowley. the strange scene related in it will remind your majesty of some scenes already famous in the history of napoleon i. and napoleon iii. lord john russell requests your majesty's permission to write a secret despatch in answer, entirely approving the conduct and language of lord cowley. [pageheading: the queen's approval] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th march _. the queen, in returning lord cowley's private letter and secret despatch, agrees with lord john russell, that he has deserved praise for his mode of answering the emperor's napoleonic address.[ ] ... [footnote : the ratification by the house of commons of the commercial treaty, and mr gladstone's message to the emperor, enclosing a copy of his budget speech, gave the emperor an opportunity of making amends to lord cowley for his hasty language.] _queen victoria to sir charles wood._ osborne, _ th march _. the queen is sorry to find that lord canning does not approve of any of the modes suggested by sir charles wood, for giving the chiefs security of title and possession. the object appears to the queen so important as a means of protection against the temptation of our own representatives to seize upon the possessions of these chiefs at any convenient opportunity--and as a means of giving confidence to those chiefs that the queen's government is not actuated by rapacity--that she must hope lord canning will indicate some mode, appearing less objectionable to him, for attaining the same object. the queen would be glad to have a copy of lord canning's letter. [pageheading: swiss claims] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th march _. the queen has just seen the swiss note, and has returned it to the foreign office.[ ] with reference to lord john russell's letter of this morning, she has only to express her anxiety that her government should not look upon this question as one of an _optional_ character to take up or not. we have no choice, and the consideration whether what we are doing may be pleasing or displeasing to france cannot be entertained for a moment, although the queen is grieved to find from lord cowley's last letter that he considers the question from that point of view. we are parties to a treaty of guarantee together with other powers, and have as such a clear and solemn _duty_ to perform. we should therefore openly and avowedly call upon our partners in this treaty and guarantee to consider the note addressed by the swiss confederation to us. the proper course would be to summon the ministers of the contracting powers to the foreign office (not excluding the french ambassador), and to go with them into the matter. this would take it out of the hands of the emperor and m. de thouvenel, and make (the queen is certain of it) a deep impression upon them. the queen wishes this letter to be shown to lord palmerston and lord john's other colleagues. [footnote : the swiss government claimed that the districts of chablais and faucigny (being parts of savoy which had been handed over to sardinia by the treaty of vienna under a guarantee for their neutrality) should be given to switzerland for the protection of their frontier. the french emperor maintained that it was sufficient for him to guarantee the neutrality of those districts. speaking on the night of the th, lord john russell said: "the powers of europe, if they wish to maintain peace, must respect each other's limits, and, above all, restore and not disturb that commercial confidence which is the result of peace, which tends to peace, and which ultimately forms the happiness of nations."] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ nd april _. the queen has received lord john russell's letter and memorandum.[ ] in whatever lord john might say in the house of commons, care should be taken not to give the french a handle to make the other powers believe that there exists an understanding between them and us. it is by making each of them believe in their turn that the others have agreed with france that the emperor paralyses their action. if he will promise distinctly to give up the neutral territory to switzerland, that would be an understanding which we might well avow, but the queen fears count persigny with all his anxiety to smooth matters (as he says) will not be able to give this assurance, and consequently if lord john sent the commons home with a declaration that matters would be _satisfactorily_ settled, and the emperor intends to keep the neutral territory after all, it would unnecessarily make them dupes once more, as the government have from time to time given assurances based on french promises, which were belied by subsequent acts. is the memorandum for the queen to keep? the conference should be here, and on _no_ account at paris. [footnote : describing a conversation between lord palmerston and persigny, the former suggesting that a statement should be made by lord john in the house, in reference to the securities to be given for the neutrality and independence of switzerland, such as would pacify the emperor.] [pageheading: death of prince hohenlohe] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. my dearest uncle,--i write to you on this paper to-day, as it is our good alice's birthday--her seventeenth! she is a good, dear, amiable child, and in very good looks just now. her future is still undecided, she is quite free, and _all_ we wish is a good, kind husband--_no_ brilliant position (which there is not to be got), but a quiet, comfortable position. bertie returned last night delighted with his tour,[ ] and with our beloved old coburg, in _spite of snow_. i will tell him to give you an account of it. he made a very favourable impression there. he gives a good account of dear stockmar too. many, many thanks for your dear kind letter of the th, with the enclosure from dear charlotte, whose happy, contented disposition is a great blessing. i was sure you would grieve for poor, dear, honest ernest hohenlohe[ ]; feodore feels it dreadfully, and writes beautifully about it. thank god! she has every comfort in her second son, hermann, who--by an arrangement made last year with the eldest and poor ernest--has the entire management of everything; charles has a certain income and weikersheim[ ]; while hermann has langenburg and the management of everything else; he naturally leaves the austrian service. we are too delighted to hear that you are, d.v., ready to come by the nd of june; it will be so great a pleasure, and to dear mamma too, who is _unberufen_ wonderfully well. she is here again since yesterday, and will stay till the nd. clém was quite astonished at her looks. the poor queen will be seventy-eight to-morrow. she is very tolerably well. how well do i remember that speech of oscar's in the carriage. it certainly took us _all_ in.... i fear i must end for to-day. with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. bertie was much pleased with little louise.[ ] [footnote : the prince of wales had been spending a week at coburg and gotha, which he had not previously seen.] [footnote : prince ernest died on the th of april, and was succeeded by his second son hermann.] [footnote : a small town in würtemberg, and part of the estate of the princes of hohenlohe-langenburg.] [footnote : elder child of the duke of brabant (now king leopold ii.).] [pageheading: england and naples] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ [_undated._ ? _ th april ._] the queen has just received lord john russell's letter. she must say that she would consider it the _deepest_ degradation to this country if she was compelled to appear at the emperor's congress summoned to paris, in order to register and put her seal to the acts of spoliation of the emperor! lord cowley was very strong on the effect which our yielding that point would have on his position at the french court. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. the queen thinks that the main argument is omitted in the draft, viz. that the attempts, such as sardinia is suspected to contemplate, are morally bad and reprehensible in themselves, besides being politically inexpedient. the queen would be sorry to see a despatch go forth on this subject, arguing on the ground of expediency alone. she trusts lord john russell will find it easy to introduce a passage which would place it on record, that we do attach importance to public justice and morality. when amended, the queen would like to have a copy of the draft. [pageheading: the doctrines of ] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th april _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is sorry he cannot agree that there would be any moral wrong in assisting to overthrow the government of the king of the two sicilies. the best writers on international law consider it a merit to overthrow a tyrannical government, and there have been few governments so tyrannical as that of naples. of course the king of sardinia has no right to assist the people of the two sicilies unless he was asked by them to do so, as the prince of orange was asked by the best men in england to overthrow the tyranny of james ii.--an attempt which has received the applause of all our great public writers, and is the origin of our present form of government.[ ] [footnote : see _ante_, th january, .] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th april _. the queen has received lord john russell's letter, and trusts he will see, upon further reflection, that the case before us is not one in which the revolution of , and the advent of william iii. called to the throne, can be appealed to as a parallel. the draft warns the government of sardinia "_not to seek for new acquisitions_," as the new "_provinces_ annexed have hardly as yet been thoroughly amalgamated." now, no public writer nor the international law will call it morally right, that one state should abet revolution in another, not with the disinterested object of defending a suffering people against tyranny, but in order to extinguish that state and make it "an acquisition" of its own. if william iii. had made england a province of holland, he would not have received the applause lord john quotes. the queen trusts that in appreciation of this distinction, he will introduce some amendment in the sense indicated in her former letter. _lord john russell to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ th april _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he confesses he cannot see anything morally wrong in giving aid to an insurrection in the kingdoms of naples and sicily. but he admits that to do so for the sake of making new acquisitions would be criminal, and that he is not justified in imputing this motive to the king of sardinia. count cavour would probably at once disclaim it. he therefore proposes to alter these words. the despatch went this evening by the usual messenger; but, if your majesty approves of the alteration, it can be made to-morrow morning by telegraph to turin. [pageheading: indian honours] _sir charles wood to queen victoria._ india office, _ rd may _. sir charles wood, with his humble duty, begs to submit for your majesty's consideration, whether the letters of thanks to those civil servants who have not been thought deserving of the honour of c.b. should run in your majesty's name, or in that of the government. your majesty desired that thanks for service should be in your majesty's name, but there will be nearly two hundred of these letters to different officers, and sir charles wood doubted whether it would be right to use your majesty's name so profusely. he is inclined to think that it would be better to use your majesty's name only when addressing higher officers. sir charles wood encloses drafts of letters in both ways. sir charles wood also encloses an address on the occasion of the thanksgiving in india, delivered by a hindoo. _queen victoria to sir charles wood._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. the queen returns these papers. she wishes the thanks to civil servants to be given in all cases, where to be given by the home government, in her own name. the bath or knighthood comes directly from the sovereign, and so should the thanks; the civil servants are the queen's servants, and not the servants of the government. the hindoo address is very striking and gratifying as a symptom.[ ] presuming that sir charles does not want the copy back again, the queen has kept it. [footnote : the copy of this address does not seem to have been preserved.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. my dearest uncle,--... really it is too bad! _no_ country, no human being would ever dream of _disturbing_ or _attacking_ france; every one would be glad to see her prosperous; but _she_ must needs disturb every quarter of the globe and try to make mischief and set every one by the ears; and, of course, it will end some day in a _regular crusade_ against _the universal disturber_ of _the world!_ it is really monstrous! dear mamma returned to frogmore on friday, and alfred left us on thursday, sailed from portsmouth on saturday, but had to stop at plymouth for some derangement in the machinery till to-day. he was very low at going, though very happy to return to his ship. now, with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: visit to aldershot] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th may _. my dearest uncle,--many, many thanks for your very kind letter received on saturday. we returned yesterday evening from aldershot, where we spent two very pleasant days with very warm weather. sunday was a beautiful day and we rode over to farnham, the bishop of winchester's palace, and it was quite beautiful, the country is so green and sweet--and enjoyable. the warm rain of last week has produced a burst of spring which is quite beautiful. yesterday morning it rained when we first went out, but it cleared and became a beautiful day, and we had a pretty field day. your old regiment looked extremely well. in the afternoon we saw some very interesting rifle-shooting. the whole army practises this now most unremittingly, and we saw three different companies of the guards fire at yards, and so on to yards, and _hit_ the target! they fired in _volleys_. it is very satisfactory, as this precision would be very _telling_ in action. i think you would be interested by it. i _hope_ you have forgiven my hurried note of saturday--but i was _so_ anxious at the time. we go to osborne on the th, i am happy to say, till the st. affairs continue to be very threatening, and keep everybody in suspense.... ever, dearest uncle, your devoted niece, victoria r. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ nd may _. my dearest uncle,--i write to you from here, where it is wonderfully beautiful and unusually _hot_ for may--it is _quite_ like july, but the _late_ spring has brought out everything together in the most wonderful manner. the foliage of many trees is hardly out yet, but there are all the fruit-trees in fullest blossom--the lilacs and peonies out--the thorns only beginning and every wild flower in profusion--the grass splendidly green, and a fragrance about everything which is too delicious; and the birds singing _most_ beautifully. the nightingales were last night singing all round the house.... affairs are in a most bewildered state. lord palmerston is _very stout and right_ about our neighbour. i am glad to be able to _refute most positively_ the report of our _ships_ having _prevented_ the neapolitans from firing; the _case_ is _quite_ clear, and the french and neapolitan governments themselves have spread this falsehood. the house of lords have thrown the bill for the abolition of the paper duties[ ] _out_ by a very large majority, which is a _very good thing_. it will save us a large amount of revenue. i must end for to-day. hoping that these lines will find you quite well, ever your devoted _daughter_ (i _wrote_ by mistake _but_ will leave, as it _only_ expresses what _my feelings_ are) and niece, victoria r. we have quite a small party on the st, with some choral singing. [footnote : this part of mr gladstone's financial scheme had lost a good deal of its early popularity: it had only passed the third reading in the commons by the small majority of nine, and the premier had already told the queen that the peers would perform a public service by rejecting it. the majority against it in the house of lords was .] [pageheading: the house of lords and money bills] [pageheading: committee of the commons] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ nd may _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that the cabinet met to-day at half-past twelve to consider what (if anything) should be done in consequence of the vote of the house of lords last night. lord john russell, mr gladstone, and mr milner gibson were desirous of finding some means of visiting their displeasure upon the house of lords, but it was shown to them that the only measures which could be adopted were far too violent for the occasion, and that the house of commons itself is powerless in the matter. when the lords do anything inconsistent with the asserted privileges of the house of commons, as, for instance, inserting a taxing clause in a bill sent up to them, or making an alteration in a money bill sent up to them, the house of commons is necessarily invited to do something afterwards in the matter, by assenting to what has been done by the lords; and the commons then assert their claimed rights by throwing out the bill thus, improperly, as the commons say, meddled with by the lords; but when the lords throw out a bill there is nothing for the commons to do, as the bill has vanished, and the commons are therefore furnished with no opportunity of asserting the right which they may claim. but, moreover, the commons have always contended that the lords cannot originate or alter a money bill, but it has never been contended that the lords may not reject a money bill, though there are few instances of their having done so. these arguments at length prevailed, and by four o'clock it was agreed that viscount palmerston should give notice that he would on thursday move that a committee be appointed to examine the journals of the house of lords to ascertain the fate of the bill thus lost like sir john franklin, and that on friday he should move the appointment of a committee to search for precedent applicable to the case. this course it was thought, while binding the government to no particular course, would in some degree satisfy those who think some step necessary. the measures mentioned, though it is fair to say not actually proposed, were that parliament should be prorogued, and reassembled either in the autumn or winter, that then the same bill should be brought in, and be sent up to the lords, and that if that bill were again rejected, parliament should be dissolved. it was objected to all this, that the case did not warrant such a course; that whether the lords have or have not overstepped their proper functions, the opinion of the great majority of the public is that the lords have done a right and useful thing (in confirmation of which it may be stated that the people in the gallery of the house of lords are said to have joined in the cheers which broke out when the numbers of the division were announced). viscount palmerston, at the meeting of the house, gave notice accordingly that he should on thursday move for a committee to search the lords' journals--a usual form of motion; and that he should on friday move to appoint a committee to search for precedents in order to ascertain facts; but he added that he did not take this course with any view of hostility towards the house of lords. an attempt was made by mr whalley and mr digby seymour to set up a complaint that this was not the sort of proceeding which the gravity of the occasion required, but this endeavour was put down by an unmistakable manifestation of a contrary opinion by the rest of the house.... _queen victoria to the duke of somerset._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. before sanctioning the proposed change in the naval uniform,[ ] the queen wishes to know what the state occasions are on which the full dress is to be worn. the officers generally wear an undress without epaulettes, which in consequence are of little inconvenience to them. she has always understood the service to cling very much to its present uniform, and she would be sorry to shock their feelings. [footnote : the principal change proposed was that full dress should cease to be obligatory at courts-martial.] [pageheading: mr gladstone suggests resignation] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ house of commons, _ nd july _. ( . p.m.) viscount palmerston has had the honour of receiving your majesty's letter of this afternoon. nothing of much importance as to foreign affairs was done at the cabinet to-day.... the material question for discussion was the course to be pursued about the tax bill report. lord john russell had altered his opinion since saturday, and had yesterday sent viscount palmerston a draft of resolution which he wished to be circulated to the members of the cabinet before their meeting at twelve to-day.... after a long discussion, the draft, of which the enclosed is a copy, was agreed to by all except mr gladstone. this draft is a combination of parts of lord john's, parts of sir james graham's, and parts of viscount palmerston's. no mention of course was made in cabinet of sir james graham having made any suggestion. when all the other members had left the room mr gladstone requested viscount palmerston to submit to your majesty that he could no longer continue to carry on the business of his department.[ ] his opinion strongly was that action and not a resolution was required, that one of three courses ought to be pursued: either that the paper duty repeal bill should again be sent up to the lords; or that a bill should be sent up for suspending the paper duties for a year; or that a bill should be sent up reducing those duties gradually year by year; or fourthly that with the repeal of the paper duties should be coupled the imposition of spirit duties. viscount palmerston said he really could not undertake the communication which mr gladstone wished to be submitted to your majesty, and earnestly entreated mr gladstone to reconsider the matter; he urged in detail all the reasons which ought to dissuade such a step, and he thought that he had produced some impression on mr gladstone. it was agreed between them that viscount palmerston, instead of giving notice this afternoon of a motion to-morrow, and laying the resolution on the table this evening, should give notice this afternoon of a motion for thursday, and promise to lay the resolution on the table to-morrow. this gives mr gladstone more time to think, and more room to turn round in. mr milner gibson has no intention of going out, and has so told mr gladstone, strongly advising him to stay in; and viscount palmerston's impression is that mr gladstone, having failed to become master of the cabinet by a threat of resignation, will in the end yield to the almost unanimous decision of his colleagues. the only person who supported mr gladstone's views, except mr milner gibson, was the duke of argyll, who, however, like mr gibson, had no intention whatever of accompanying mr gladstone in resignation.[ ]... [footnote : this is said to have been an incident of frequent occurrence during the second administration of lord palmerston.] [footnote : the queen wrote to king leopold: "as i told you in my little note of sunday, lord john became _quite_ reasonable, and is very moderate about this affair; on the other hand mr gladstone has threatened to resign--and it is still uncertain if he will not persist in his intention. he is terribly excited."] [pageheading: privilege resolutions] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that the house of commons this night passed the three privilege resolutions after two divisions.[ ]... the debate which did not begin till half-past eight, after questions on the adjournment to monday, was commenced by mr digby seymour, member for southampton, who went into an elaborate discussion of the precedents mentioned in the appendix to the report of the committee, arguing against the right of the lords. he attacked viscount palmerston's speech, and highly praised that of mr gladstone, who, he said, if he lost his place in the cabinet in consequence of that speech would be rewarded by a throne in the affections of the nation. mr horsman then made a very able, eloquent, and remarkable speech, well worth reading.... mr bright made an indignation speech in reply. he went over the same ground as the former speaker about the precedents, was astonished and shocked at mr horsman's speech, was displeased with the resolutions, and with viscount palmerston's speech, was in admiration unbounded of mr gladstone, but all the time was so hoarse that his efforts to make himself heard gave to his utterance an appearance of passion even greater than that which he actually felt. after his speech the house began skirmishing as to the question of finishing the debate or adjourning it, but the resolutions were at last agreed to. [footnote : the resolutions, which the committee recommended, and the house of commons adopted, declared _inter alia_ that the commons had in their own hands the power "so to impose and remit taxes, and frame bills of supply, that their rights as to the matter, manner, measure, and time might be maintained inviolate."] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th july _. my beloved victoria,--... bertie has then set out on his interesting journey,[ ] which though not without fatigue will be full of information and satisfaction for his young mind. i am glad to hear that dear albert went with him,[ ] he can have no equal to his good and distinguished father for kindness, and a wise guidance of his young life.... [footnote : in consequence of the loyal and patriotic assistance rendered by canada during the crimean war, and the expressed desire of the canadians to be visited by the queen in person and to welcome one of her sons as governor-general, it was decided that the prince of wales should make a tour there. during the course of the visit, which was made in company with the duke of newcastle, the prince opened the magnificent bridge over the st lawrence; he subsequently availed himself of president buchanan's invitation already referred to (_ante_, p. ), and was received with the greatest enthusiasm at washington. the prince returned to england in november.] [footnote : referring to a previous letter, in which the queen had informed the king of the belgians that prince albert had accompanied the prince of wales as far as plymouth.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ st july _. my dearest uncle,--... i venture now to confide a _secret_ to you--the details of which you shall hear verbally from us when we have the happiness of seeing you in october. it is that _our_ surmises respecting louis of hesse[ ] have turned out to be true, and that we have _reason_ to _hope_ that this _affair_ will be in due time realised. the feelings are very reciprocal on both sides, though nothing definitive will be settled till the young people meet again, probably later this autumn (_but not in germany_). please do not say anything about it to any one. your very great kindness and affection for our children has induced me to mention this to _you_, who moreover _saw the first dawning of these prospects_. dear mamma starts to-day for edinburgh--sleeping to-night at york. with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : prince louis of hesse, afterwards grand duke louis iv.] [pageheading: tranquillity of india] _queen victoria to earl canning._ osborne, _ nd august _. the queen thanks lord canning very much for a most interesting letter of the th of may, giving a most comprehensive and gratifying account of his progress through her indian dominions, and of his reception of the different princes and chiefs. such reception and such kind considerate treatment of them is, as lord canning knows, entirely in unison with the queen's _own_ feelings, and both the prince and herself have been peculiarly gratified at reading this account, and feel sure of the good effect it must have on these princes, and on india in general. we have just seen lord clyde looking wonderfully well; he speaks in high terms of lord canning, and enthusiastically of dear lady canning. alas! another most valuable public servant and friend of ours, lord elphinstone,[ ] only returned to die! lord canning will grieve much no doubt to hear this. both he and lady canning will have heard with interest of the birth of our second grandchild and first grand-daughter.[ ] nothing can go better than the princess royal does. of the prince of wales's arrival in canada we could not yet hear, but shall do so in a few days. this country and europe continue to be in a state of alarms, or rather more profound distrust in, the conduct and purposes of our neighbour. fortunately the feeling of germany is so unanimous upon this subject, and the emperor's attempt to produce disaffection or division there has so signally failed and produced so diametrically a contrary effect, and belgium has shown such an enthusiastic spirit of loyalty only equal to the public spirit which this country has shown in the volunteer movement, that it is to be hoped these sinister designs are checked for a time at least. with the prince's kind remembrance to lord canning, the queen concludes, hoping this letter will find him in good health, and lady canning safely returned from her expedition. [footnote : see _ante_, th january, , note .] [footnote : the princess charlotte of prussia, now hereditary princess of saxe-meiningen, was born on the th of july.] [pageheading: visit to scotland] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ holyrood, _ th august _. my dearest uncle,--i have _many_ excuses for sending a few hurried lines from here, instead of my usual letter, but i was much hurried yesterday; the separation from baby quite upset me, as she too cried very much--but she is consoled again. many thanks for your dear letter of the rd, which i shall duly answer on friday. we came down here by _night_ train, arriving at eight. we paid dear mamma a visit at her really charming residence at cramond,[ ] quite near the sea, with beautiful trees, and very cheerful. and this afternoon she was present the whole time at the splendid volunteer review, which lasted from half-past three till near six, in the open carriage with me, and enjoyed it so much; and i was so _happy_ to have _her_ with me on this memorable occasion, having had _you_ with me on the previous occasion.[ ] and it was magnificent--finer decidedly than in london--there were more ( , more), and then the scenery here is so splendid! that fine mountain of arthur's seat, crowded with thousands and thousands to the very top--and the scotch are very noisy and demonstrative in their loyalty. lord breadalbane, at the head of his highlanders, was the picture of a highland chieftain. the dust was quite fearful! at nine we leave for balmoral. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the duchess of kent was spending the summer at cramond house, near edinburgh.] [footnote : the review in hyde park, which took place on the rd of june.] [pageheading: the highlands] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ balmoral, _ th september ._ my beloved uncle,--i have no letter from you, but trust you are quite well. here we have had a week of very fine weather, but since saturday it has been extremely cold. we made a most delightful incognito expedition on tuesday last, th, returning on wednesday, th. we drove off from here quite early at eight, for twenty-one miles up to the _geldie_, a small river--_rode_ from here on ponies across the hills to glen fishie, a beautiful spot, where the old duchess of bedford used to live in a sort of encampment of wooden huts--on to loch inch, a beautiful but not wild lake (another twenty miles), crossed the spey in a ferry, and posted in very rough vehicles to grantown, again twenty miles, coming in there at nine. we passed close by kinrara where you used to be, but, unfortunately, not by the house. _no_ one knew us--anywhere or at the little inn. we went under the names of lord and lady churchill, and lady churchill and general grey who went with us, under the names of miss spencer and dr grey! two maids _only_ went with us (whom we had sent round with our things), and _no_ servants but our two excellent highlanders, viz. albert's first stalker or head keeper, and _my own highland servant_ and factotum--_both_ excellent, intelligent, devoted people. _only_ when we had _left_ was it found out. we posted to tomantoul, a wretched village--fourteen miles, _in four hours!!_ with a pair of wretched tired horses--over a big hilly road. at tomantoul we again took our ponies and rode by avon side and glen avon, also very fine; back to loch bulig--eight miles from here--whence we returned home in our carriage. it was a _most delightful_ and enjoyable, as well as _beautiful_, expedition. i have been besides on many other ones for the day. in italy i fear the state of affairs is very distressing--but really the miserable, weak, and foolish conduct of the king of naples[ ] and the squabbles of the whole family takes away all one's sympathy! we leave here alas! on saturday, stop till monday evening at edinburgh to see mamma, and go on that night straight to osborne, where we expect to arrive on tuesday for breakfast. with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : king francis had just fled from naples to gaëta, and garibaldi shortly afterwards arrived in naples.] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ broadlands, _ th september ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and will have the honour of waiting upon your majesty at osborne to-morrow. your majesty must naturally feel regret at shortening so much your majesty's agreeable holiday in the highlands, though the happiness of meeting the princess royal must amply make amends for it; but the fact is that of all the gifts which good fairies were in the habit of bestowing on their favourites, that which would have been the most desirable would have been the power which the irishman ascribed to a bird, of being in two places at one and the same time. [pageheading: austrian proposal] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ osborne, _ th september ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and submits the accompanying letters which he has received from lord john russell, together with lord john's letter to him; and he certainly agrees with lord john in thinking that a meeting at present between your majesty and the emperor of austria, though in many respects likely to be useful, would on the whole be so liable to misconstruction, and would prove such a fertile source of misrepresentation, that it would be better to avoid it. such a meeting would undoubtedly be useful to the emperor of austria, by reason of the good advice which he would receive from your majesty, and from his royal highness the prince consort; but your majesty will probably be able to find some other way of conveying to the emperor counsel calculated to save him from some of the dangers by which he appears to be beset. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ _ st september ._ the queen received these letters from lord palmerston, who likewise communicated to her lord john russell's letter, respecting the hint thrown out by count rechberg[ ] of a meeting with the emperor of austria. the queen agrees with lord palmerston, that while such an interview might for many reasons have been desirable, under present circumstances it might lead to much talk and to many rumours which might do harm, or at any rate give rise to useless conjectures. it would therefore be better to "nip this project in the bud" as lord john suggests, but care should be taken to do this in such a manner as not to let it appear that there was any disinclination on the queen's part to meet the emperor of austria. [footnote : in a letter to mr julian fane, count rechberg, the austrian foreign minister, had said that he had desired to bring about an interview between the queen and the emperor of austria, but that there would have been difficulties in the way. lord john russell was of opinion that the idea should be nipped in the bud, and in this lord palmerston fully concurred.] [pageheading: appeal from king of naples] _the king of naples to queen victoria._ gaËta, _le octobre ._ madame ma s[oe]ur,--le mémorandum qu'à la date d'aujourd'hui mon gouvernement adresse à celui de votre majesté, les protestations que dans ces derniers temps je lui ai fait parvenir donneront à votre majesté une idée claire des conflits par lesquels j'ai passé, et de la situation où je me trouve. a la sagacité de votre majesté ne peut échapper la transcendance des événements qui se passent dans le royaume des deux siciles, et dans les États pontificaux. j'étais, et je suis seul à lutter contre toutes les forces de la révolution européenne. cette révolution s'est présentée avec un pouvoir que jamais on ne lui avait connu, armes, parcs d'artillerie, munitions, vaisseaux, rien ne lui a manqué, pas même les ports d'une puissance pour se recruter, et son drapeau pour la couvrir. ces événements établissent un nouveau droit public, fondé sur la destruction des anciens traités et des principes reconnus du droit des gens. la cause que je défends seul à naples n'est pas seulement ma propre cause; elle est la cause de tous les souverains et de tous les États indépendants. la question qui se débat dans le royaume des deux siciles, est une question de vie ou de mort pour d'autres États d'europe. c'est à ce titre, et non par un intérêt personnel que j'ose m'adresser à la haute raison de votre majesté, à sa prévoyance et à sa justice. la grande position qu'occupe votre majesté dans le monde, sa sagesse, les relations amicales qui ont toujours existé entre nos deux familles, et la bienveillance particulière dont votre majesté a daigné toujours m'honorer, me font espérer, que votre majesté verra dans cet appel que je fais avec confiance à sa politique et à sa justice, une nouvelle preuve du respect que j'ai eu toujours pour elle, de l'affection sincère, et des sentiments de haute considération avec lesquels j'ai l'honneur d'être, madame ma s[oe]ur, de votre majesté, le bon frère, francois. [pageheading: tour of prince alfred] [pageheading: sardinia and naples] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ nd november ._ my beloved victoria,--... bertie's visit seems to have gone off most splendidly; its effects will be useful. the enemies of england always flatter themselves that mischief may come from that part of the world. to see, therefore, friendly feelings arise, instead of war, will disappoint them much. alfred's appearance at the cape[ ] has also been a most wise measure. south africa has a great future to expect, it is a pity it is so far and i too old to go there; the plants alone are already a great temptation. i should like very much to hear what came to your knowledge of the warsaw meeting.[ ] prince gortschakoff tried hard to make it believe that it would bring _russia nearer to france_. if this was to be the result of the meeting it would be a very sad one indeed.... the way in which the english press misunderstands all these things is quite lamentable. the meeting of the sovereigns had this time a better object than the oppression of the liberties of nations; that this should not be seen by people who would be the first sufferers of the supremacy of a certain power is very lamentable, but they see everything only according to the colour of _their_ spectacles. _le flibustive_ movement at naples is very shameful, but that poor king has been so calumniated that garibaldi is the rage of the present moment; colonel walker[ ] has been shot, and garibaldi, who comes out of that self-same school, is divinised. but it is time i should end. with my best love to dear albert, i remain ever, my beloved victoria, your devoted old uncle, leopold r. [footnote : prince alfred, who, some time before, had been appointed to the _euryalus_, in the course of the summer visited south africa. after making a tour through kaffraria, natal, and the orange free state, he returned to cape town, where, in september, he laid the foundation stone of the breakwater in table bay. in a letter written by the prince consort a few weeks earlier to baron stockmar, he remarks upon the noteworthy coincidence that almost in the same week in which the elder brother would open the great bridge across the st lawrence, the younger would lay the foundation stone of the breakwater for the cape town harbour. "what a cheering picture is here," he wrote, "of the progress and expansion of the british race, and of the useful co-operation of the royal family in the civilisation which england has developed and advanced" (_life of the prince consort_, vol. v. p. ).] [footnote : the emperors of russia and austria, and the prince regent of prussia met at warsaw on th october, and held a conference which extended over several days.] [footnote : walker, in the course of one of the nicaraguan revolutions, had seized the supreme power, and had been recognised as president by the u.s. government; he was afterwards expelled, and, on venturing to return, was arrested, and shot on the th of september .] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ rd november ._ the queen returns the enclosed draft,[ ] which she is afraid is not likely to produce the beneficial results which lord john seems to anticipate. the expression of our hope, that rome and venetia, from their italian nationality, will soon share in the freedom and good government of the rest of italy, can only be understood as a declaration on our part that we wish to see them share the annexation to sardinia, after that of the two sicilies shall have been completed. the declaration at the end after the quotations of the former protests, vague as it is, viz. "that if other powers interfere england would do as she pleases," means either nothing at all (for england is free to do as she pleases) or it means a threat of war, either an empty threat, or one intended to be followed up when the occasion arises. the first would hardly be dignified for a great power like england, and as to the second, the queen for one is not prepared to decide to go to war to ensure the success of the italian revolution. but is such a declaration at the present moment called for by anything that has happened? another despatch has accepted as satisfactory the french explanation about the order given to the fleet before gaëta, and austria has renewed her assurances that she will not interfere; the only power likely to continue to interfere and to produce war--sardinia--is held to have an exceptional right to it, as an "italian" power. the queen thinks this important despatch should not be laid before her again without its having received the deliberate consideration and assent of the whole cabinet, and in case lord john should bring it before them the queen would wish him to communicate this letter also to them, as embodying her views on the subject. [footnote : this draft despatch, prepared in order to be sent to all the powers, expressed approval of the italian revolution. it concluded: "her majesty's government deem it right to declare that if any other power should attempt forcible interference, her majesty's government will hold themselves free to act in such a manner as the rights of nations, the independence of italy, and the interests of europe may seem to them to require."] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ pembroke lodge, _ rd november ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty.... with regard to the position of great britain, lord john russell is bound to advise that it shall not suffer by the change of circumstances. from to austria ruled italy. if italians had reason to complain, england had nothing to fear from the use of austrian influence against british interests. but if france were to sway the united navies of genoa and naples, and great britain to look on from fear or apathy, or excessive love of peace, she might soon have to defend her possessions of malta, corfu, and gibraltar. austria would hardly attempt any new aggression on italy, unless she were assisted by france. italy as one power would derive strength from the declaration of great britain, as a disinterested friend. a letter of lord cowley will show your majesty the suspicions and doubts which exist as to french policy in italy.[ ] all these projects will be scattered to the winds by the word of the british government. [footnote : lord cowley wrote that he had heard through count metternich that the emperor of the french would never consent to the annexation of naples to piedmont, that he wished the pope to retain umbria and the marches, and that the romagna should be an independent state.] [pageheading: reply to king of naples] _queen victoria to the king of naples._ windsor castle, _ rd november ._ sir, my brother,--the letter i have received from your majesty, dated from gaëta on the th of october, is altogether devoted to political considerations. these considerations have for a long time occupied the thoughts of my confidential advisers, and i have directed them to convey to my ministers abroad such instructions as occasion appeared to me to require. i will therefore confine this letter to those topics which are not the immediate subjects of political controversy. upon your majesty's accession to the throne i lost no time in assuring your majesty of my sincere wishes for the prosperity of your reign, and the permanence of your dynasty. at the same time i was fully aware of the difficulties of the period at which your majesty succeeded to the crown. that these difficulties should not have been surmounted, and that they should now threaten to overwhelm the monarchy, of which your majesty is the heir, is to me a source of deep concern. it only remains that i should ask your majesty to express to the queen my sincere sympathy in her misfortunes. i avail myself of this opportunity to renew to your majesty the assurance of the invariable friendship and high consideration with which i am, sir, my brother, your majesty's good sister, victoria r. [pageheading: return of prince alfred] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november _. my beloved uncle,--... here we have the happiness of having our dear alfred back since the th, who gives _very_ interesting accounts of his expedition, and has brought back _many_ most interesting trophies, splendid horns of _all_ those wonderful animals, photographs, etc. he _is_ grown, though very _short_ for his age, but i think less so than his brother at the same age. major cowell[ ] gives an _excellent_ report of him in _every way_, which, as you will readily believe, makes us _very_ happy. he is really such a dear, gifted, handsome child, that it makes one doubly anxious he should have as few failings as mortal men can have. our poor bertie is still on the atlantic, detained by very contrary winds, which those large vessels with only an auxiliary screw and only eight days' coal cannot make any way against. two powerful steamers have now gone out to look for him and bring him in.... with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : major (afterwards sir john) cowell was appointed as tutor to prince alfred in . he was then a lieutenant of engineers, and had been adjutant to sir harry jones at bomarsund and before sebastopol.] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ nd november _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to submit that, as it appears from a despatch from lord cowley that the commercial negotiations at paris have been brought to a conclusion, and that mr cobden has left paris, the time has come for your majesty to consider what substantial mark of your majesty's approval your majesty would be pleased to confer upon mr cobden. mr cobden has now for about twelve months been laboriously employed without salary or emolument in negotiating the complicated details of commercial arrangements between england and france, which cannot fail to tend to the material advantage of both countries, but more especially to the increased development of the industry and commerce of your majesty's subjects. it would be an ungracious proceeding to leave the services of mr cobden with no other acknowledgment than the praises contained in a foreign office despatch, and viscount palmerston therefore with the concurrence of lord john russell would beg to submit for the gracious approval of your majesty that mr cobden might be offered his choice of being created a knight grand cross of the civil order of the bath, or of being made a member of your majesty's privy council. (_note, in queen's hand._--was agreed to offer him either to be made a p.c., or a baronet.)[ ] [footnote : mr cobden declined both the honours.] [pageheading: the empress of austria] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ nd november _. my beloved victoria,--i have to thank you for a most kind letter of the th. i hope you will see the young and very nice empress of austria,[ ] perhaps you made a little excursion to plymouth. i had, and have still, some cold, and therefore i was apprehensive of waiting at the station on the th in the evening; i sent marie and philip to receive the empress. yesterday before daybreak i went myself to antwerp. i first paid the empress a visit, and then i took her to your beautiful ship. she was much struck with it, and it was _very kind_ of you, and indeed, for an invalid, invaluable. it will show, besides, that even beyond garibaldi, and that amiable, disinterested _annex_ander, you can feel some interest. i saw the empress already dressed for her departure, but i think there is something very peculiar about her, which is very pleasing. poor soul, to see her go away under, i fear, not very safe circumstances, as she coughs a great deal, quite grieves one; though it certainly increased my stupid cold, still i should have been sorry not to have assisted at her going to sea. it was a beautiful day, but this night it has begun to blow from the west-south-west, which i fear will create a sea to the westward. that you had your sons about you must have been a great satisfaction to you. bertie got well through his truly tremendous tour. i think that the effect on the americans will last for some time. that the poor duke of newcastle got home without accident is surprising. affy has something most winning, and is a dear little rogue. eugénie's expedition[ ] is most astonishing. she also coughs much, and i never heard scotland recommended for winter excursions. i believe that the death of her sister affected her a good deal. she seems to have been a good deal _choquée_ that she had been dancing in africa when that poor sister was dying. next to this, there seems a difference of opinion with her master on the subject of the pope. you will recollect that at the time of his elections the clergy rendered him undoubted good service; i even doubt that he would have been elected without their aid. now he puts the axe to the root of the whole catholic church by destroying the pope, and he does this _without the slightest provocation_, and for the benefit of the revolution _et des révolutionnaires_.... i remain ever, my beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the empress elizabeth was on her way to madeira, in a ship placed at her disposal by the queen.] [footnote : the empress of the french was making a tour in england and scotland for the benefit of her health; she had sustained a bereavement by the death of her sister, the duchess of alba.] [pageheading: betrothal of princess alice] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ st december _. dearest uncle,--i hasten to announce to you that yesterday our dear young couple here were engaged, and that we _are all_ very happy.[ ] louis was spoken to yesterday on our return from aldershot by albert,--who told him he would have an opportunity of speaking to alice--and this opportunity he took last night after dinner when he was standing alone with her at the fire, and every one else was occupied in talking. they whispered it to me, and then, after we left the drawing-room, we sent for good louis--and the young people met and confirmed in a very touching manner _what_ they had merely been able to whisper to one another before. he was very much overcome. he is a dear, good, amiable, high-principled young man--who i am sure will make our dearest alice _very_ happy, and she will, i am sure, be a most devoted loving wife to him. she is _very, very_ happy, and it is a pleasure to see their young, happy faces beaming with love for one another. alice is so extremely reasonable and quiet. she wishes everything kind and affectionate to be said to you, and _hopes_ for your _blessing!_ i am very, very happy, so are we both, but i am still a good deal agitated and flurried by the whole event. on tuesday the empress arrives, but only to luncheon. i must end now in haste. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. pray tell it to good philip, and also to leopold and marie. [footnote : see _ante_, st july, , and note .] [pageheading: the see of worcester] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ st december _. the queen has received lord palmerston's second letter respecting the bishopric of worcester,[ ] just as she was going to answer the first. while not objecting to the nomination of mr bayley,[ ] she wanted to point out the importance of, at a future vacancy, not to confine the selection to respectable parish priests, but to bear in mind that the bench of bishops should not be left devoid of some university men of acknowledged standing and theological learning; it would be seriously weakened if, in controversies on points of doctrine agitating the church, no value were attached to the opinions at least of some of those who are to govern her. lord palmerston may now have an opportunity of selecting a stronger man of liberal views from cambridge. [footnote : bishop henry pepys had died in november, and was succeeded in the following january by canon henry philpott of norwich, master of st catharine's college, cambridge.] [footnote : probably the rev. emilius bayley, rector of st george's, bloomsbury; now the rev. sir emilius laurie.] [pageheading: episcopal appointments] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ nd december _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and very sincerely congratulates your majesty upon the arrangement of a marriage which bids so fair to secure for her royal highness the princess alice that happiness to which her amiable and estimable qualities so justly entitle her. with respect to bishops, viscount palmerston would beg to submit that the bishops are in the church what generals of districts are in the army: their chief duties consist in watching over the clergy of their diocese, seeing that they perform properly their parochial duties, and preserving harmony between the clergy and the laity, and softening the asperities between the established church and the dissenters. for these purposes it is desirable that a bishop should have practical knowledge of parochial functions, and should not be of an overbearing and intolerant temperament. his diocesan duties are enough to occupy all his time, and the less he engages in theological disputes the better. much mischief has been done by theological bishops, and if the bench were filled with men like the bishops of oxford and exeter there would be no religious peace in the land. nor have men chosen merely for their learning succeeded better; thirlwall, bishop of st david's, and blomfield, the late bishop of london, were chosen on account of their learning; the former is acknowledged to be inefficient, the latter greatly mismanaged his diocese. the theological learning of the bishop of exeter[ ] has caused much mischief to the established church. viscount palmerston would also beg to submit that the intolerant maxims of the high church bishops have exasperated the dissenters who form a large portion of the nation, and have given offence to many good churchmen. the bishop of exeter, the late bishop of carlisle,[ ] and the late bishop of rochester,[ ] the two latter individuals kind-hearted and good-natured men, refused to consecrate burial grounds unless a wall of separation divided the portion allotted to churchmen from the portion allotted to dissenters--a demand which gave offence to both communities. viscount palmerston would beg to submit that several of the bishops whom he has had the honour of recommending to your majesty had distinguished themselves by their classical and academical attainments, and he may mention in this respect the names of baring, longley, tait, wigram, and waldegrave. viscount palmerston can assure your majesty that although his selection of bishops has been much found fault with by the high church, puseyite, and semi-catholic party, they have given great satisfaction to the nation at large, and viscount palmerston has received communications to that effect, verbal and written, from persons of all classes, and political parties in all parts of the country. the people of this country are essentially protestant, they feel the deepest aversion to catholicism, and they see that the high church, tractarian, and puseyite doctrines lead men to the church of rome. the disgraceful scenes last year at st george's in the east[ ] were only an exaggerated outburst of a very general and deeply-rooted feeling. viscount palmerston believes that the clergy of the established church were never more exemplary in the performance of their duties, more respected by the laity and, generally speaking, on better terms with the nonconformist body than at the present time. [footnote : henry phillpotts, who was bishop from to .] [footnote : the hon. henry montagu villiers, who was transferred to durham.] [footnote : george murray, who had died in the previous february.] [footnote : for a considerable period, during , discreditable scenes of brawling took place at this church as a protest against the high church practices of the rector, the rev. bryan king.] [pageheading: affairs of naples] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december _. my beloved uncle,--i have to thank you for another dear letter of the th. i trust that you have received both mine now. we expect the empress at half-past one, and i will certainly give her your message. she is very amiable, and one must like her. there seems to be no doubt that there were many scenes, partly about the pope, and also on account of her sister's funeral; she was so angry with fould about it that she insisted on his dismissal.[ ] then the priests are said to try and work upon her, and say that her son will die if the emperor continues _dans cette voie_ against the pope. we saw mr elliot[ ] from naples yesterday, who has always been very fair. he says that _if_, when the king came to the throne, he had _only_ insisted on the laws of the country being properly carried out, _no_ reforms or change in the constitution would have been necessary--but from the want of energy, and also no strength of intellect and great indecision of character of the poor king, as well as an unfortunate _pietät_ for the memory of his father, nothing right was done; bad counsellors surrounded him, the queen mother had a bad influence, and finally everything was given up as lost--when it might yet have been prevented. they dislike extremely being annexed, but prefer it to having back the former state of things. we have since ten or twelve days almost incessant rain, so that we shall soon be on an island. this is the more distressing as we can't go to osborne at present--there being a sort of epidemic fever which the doctors declare is in the air and that it would be running too great a risk if we went. but we have perpetual sunshine in the house when we look at our dear young lovers, who are _so_ happy, so devoted to each other, that it does one good to see it; he is so modest and unassuming that we feel as if he was one of our own children; and he is _so_ good and amiable, has such an open honest character, such a warm heart, such high principles, and is withal so merry and _aufgeweckt_ that i feel we have _gained_ a son and shall _not_ lose a daughter--for we shall be able to have them a good deal with us, louis not having any duties to detain him much at home at present. i can't say what happiness and comfort it is to me. i feel my dear child will first of all have a peaceful, quiet, happy home, without difficulties--and secondly, that she will not be entirely cut off from us and monopolised as our poor vicky is. i add a few lines since we have seen the empress. she came at half-past one, and stayed till a little after three. she looked very pretty, but very sad--and in speaking of her health and of her return from algiers began to cry. she seems to be much better, however, for her journey; before she could neither eat nor sleep, nor would she take notice of anything. she never mentioned the emperor but once when she offered his compliments, and there was not the slightest allusion to politics. it is altogether very strange. she remains another week in england, and then goes back as she came. i gave her your message, and she enquired after you. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : see _ante_, th may, , note .] [footnote : see _ante_, th july, , note .] [pageheading: visit of the empress eugenie] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _windsor castle, th december _. my beloved uncle,--i have to thank you for two _most_ kind letters of the th and th. your kind interest in our dear child's happiness--your approval of this marriage of our dear alice, which, i cannot deny, has been for _long_ an ardent wish of mine, and just therefore i feared _so_ much it _never_ would come to pass, gives us the greatest pleasure. _now_--that _all_ has been so _happily_ settled, and that i find the young man so very charming--my joy, and my _deep_ gratitude to god are very great! he is so loveable, so very _young_, and like one of our own children--not the _least in the way_--but a dear, pleasant, _bright_ companion, full of fun and spirits, and i am _sure_ will be a _great_ comfort to us, besides being an excellent husband to our dear, good alice, who, though radiant with joy and much in love (which well she may be), is as quiet and sensible as possible. the empress is still here, and enjoys her liberty of _all_ things. we went to town for the smithfield cattle show yesterday, and visited her at claridge's hotel. she very civilly wanted us to avoid the trouble, but we felt that it would not be civil if we did not, and that hereafter even the french might say that she had not been treated with due respect. she looked very pretty, and was in very good spirits, but again carefully avoided any allusion to her husband and to politics, though she talked a great deal about all she was seeing!... i must now wish you good-bye. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. introductory note to chapter xxx early in --a year destined to close in sorrow and desolation--queen victoria experienced a heavy grief in the death of her mother, the duchess of kent, at the age of seventy-four. in january, fresh overtures were made to lord palmerston by the conservative leaders, with a view of supporting him in office against the dissentients in his ministry, especially lord john russell and mr gladstone, whose views on the questions of reform and national defence respectively were opposed to those of the premier. lord palmerston was indifferent to the support of mr gladstone; but a unity of view on the italian policy of the government held the three liberal statesmen together. the attack on the paper duties was repeated by mr gladstone, who, on this occasion, combined all his fiscal proposals in a single bill. the measure, after strong opposition, passed the commons by a majority of fifteen, and the peers subsequently accepted the budget, which took a penny off the income tax, while maintaining the existing tea and sugar duties. in july, lord john russell, who had entered parliament in , before he came of age and had been leader of the house of commons at the time of the queen's accession, was transferred to the house of lords. in august, the queen and the prince consort, with the prince of wales and prince alfred, paid a third visit to ireland. the affairs of italy still continued to attract public attention. at the end of , the french fleet had been despatched to gaëta to protect the interests of king francis; this protection, given in violation of the principle of non-intervention, was withdrawn in january, and the garrison surrendered to the piedmontese admiral. on the th of february, the new parliament of italy met at turin, the debates emphasising the vital necessity of including both rome and venetia in a united nation; victor emmanuel was declared king of italy, a title promptly recognised by great britain; but in june, to the profound grief of the italian nation, cavour, its prime minister, and the mainspring of the piedmontese policy, died while still in the prime of life. king frederick william of prussia had died in january, and was succeeded by his brother, william i., prince of prussia, who was crowned with queen augusta, at königsberg, on the th of october, lord clarendon attending as british representative. in the following month, king pedro of portugal, son and successor of donna maria, and his brother ferdinand, died of typhoid fever; another brother, prince john, succumbed to the same malady before the close of the year. events of great importance took place in north america, where the secession of south carolina was followed by that of other southern states. the delegates of the latter assembled in february at montgomery, alabama, and nominated jefferson davis as their president, abraham lincoln having been previously elected as the new president of the united states. the first shot had been fired, on the th of january, in charleston harbour, where a secessionist battery opened its guns on a vessel sent by the federal government to reinforce fort sumter. in april, the confederate troops attacked the fort, which was compelled to surrender, whereupon president lincoln issued a proclamation calling for , volunteers; president davis replied by issuing (in default of an official fleet) letters of marque to privately owned vessels, and lincoln declared the southern ports in a state of blockade. in may, lord john russell announced that the british government would recognise the south as a belligerent power, and a proclamation of neutrality was issued. at bull run, on the st of july, the federals were defeated, and fled in confusion to washington. hostilities continued during the year, and great britain was nearly involved in war, by the seizure, on the th of november, by the captain of a federal vessel, the _san jacinto_, of messrs slidell and mason, the envoys accredited by the confederate states to great britain and france. this high-handed action was taken while the envoys in question were passengers to europe, by the british mail steamer _trent_, between havana and st thomas, and the public mind of great britain was greatly excited in consequence; but eventually the envoys were transferred to a british ship-of-war, and arrived in great britain, not, however, until in view of a threatened aggression on british north america, troops had been despatched from england to strengthen the canadian garrisons on the frontier. the despatch of lord russell to the american government, which led to a pacific result, had been revised by prince albert, in the direction of leaving open to that government an honourable retreat from the aggressive attitude they had taken up; the prince's action in this respect, the beneficial effect of which it would be difficult to exaggerate, was destined to be the last of a long series of political services rendered to this country. it had become apparent in the autumn that prince albert's normal health was impaired, and in november he began to suffer from persistent insomnia; towards the end of the month the fever originated which was to prove fatal to him. he suffered at first from rheumatic pains and constant weakness, until, early in december, what was thought to be influenza developed, and the prince was confined to his room. by the th his condition, though not hopeless, had become grave, and the serious nature of the illness was made public; and, although on the th the queen could write hopefully to king leopold, the malady continued to increase. on the evening of the th, a rally took place, and encouraging reports were brought hourly to the queen through the night; but congestion of the lungs supervened on the following day, in the closing hours of which, to the inexpressible grief both of the queen and her subjects, the prince passed peacefully away. the letters of the queen to king leopold and lord canning express, in language to which nothing can be added, the intensity of her grief, and, no less, the noble and unselfish courage with which she resolved to devote her life to her children and country. chapter xxx [pageheading: conservative overtures] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ broadlands, _ st january _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to be allowed to wish your majesty and his royal highness the prince consort many prosperous returns of new year's day, with increasing happiness to your majesty and the royal family, and progressive advantage to the nation who have the good fortune to have your majesty for their sovereign; and to adopt the language of pope, he would say, "may day improve on day, and year on year, without a pain, a trouble, or a fear." this autumn and winter, however, have been productive of events in three of the four quarters of the globe, which future years are not likely to repeat. the capture of pekin in asia by british and french troops; the union in europe of nearly the whole of italy into one monarchy; and the approaching and virtually accomplished dissolution in america of the great northern confederation, are events full of importance for the future, as well as being remarkable in time present. viscount palmerston submits two letters which your majesty may feel an interest in seeing. with regard to that from lord john russell stating a half-formed wish to go to the house of lords, viscount palmerston does not expect that the desire will be repeated when the session begins, although lord john said last year that he felt attendance in the house of commons in addition to the labour of his office, more than he could well get through. he would be a loss to viscount palmerston in the house of commons, especially after the removal of mr sidney herbert to the house of lords;[ ] and speaking confidentially to your majesty with regard to the future, viscount palmerston would think himself doing better service by recommending the house of lords for mr gladstone, than for lord john russell. mr herbert will take the title of lord herbert of lea, the title of herbert being that borne by his elder brother during the life of the late lord pembroke. the other letter from lord malmesbury relates to a communication which he made to viscount palmerston last year from lord derby and mr disraeli at the beginning of the session, to the effect that, if the government were then to break up from internal dissensions, the conservative party would support during the then ensuing session any administration which viscount palmerston might be able provisionally to make, to carry through the business of the session.[ ] viscount palmerston is not aware of any circumstances which can have led to the expectation that the present administration is likely to be broken up by internal divisions in the course of this next session. there are no questions ahead so likely to produce discord as the reform bill of last year, and the differences between the two houses about the paper duties, about which it was very difficult to prevent lord john and mr gladstone from flying off, or the fortification question, upon which mr gladstone announced to his colleagues, nearly a dozen times, that he was firmly resolved to resign. viscount palmerston has asked lord malmesbury to come over to him to broadlands at any time before the st or nd of this month, which is the probable time at which the cabinet will have to meet in london. viscount palmerston finds he has not got lord john russell's letter at hand, but the only thing of any interest in it was the intimation which viscount palmerston quoted. [footnote : mr herbert had been latterly in bad health, and resigned office in the summer. he died on the nd of august.] [footnote : in his memoirs, lord malmesbury describes an interview with lord and lady palmerston on the st of june , apparently the one at which this communication was made. "it is evident," he writes, "he [lord palmerston] does not wish to lose lord john, though he would be very glad if gladstone resigned."] _the emperor of the french to queen victoria._ paris, _le décembre _. madame et trÈs chÈre s[oe]ur,--je ne veux pas laisser cette année s'écouler sans venir porter à votre majesté l'expression de mes souhaits pour son bonheur et celui du prince et de sa famille. j'espère que l'année qui va commencer sera heureuse pour nos deux nations, et qu'elle verra encore nos liens se resserrer. l'europe est bien agitée, mais tant que l'angleterre et la france s'entendent, le mal pourra se localiser. je félicite votre majesté du succès que nos deux armées ont obtenu en chine; laissons toujours nos étendards unis; car dieu semble les protéger. j'ai bien envié l'impératrice qui a pu vous faire une visite et revoir votre charmante famille: elle en a été bien heureuse. je saisis avec empressement cette occasion de renouveler à votre majesté les sentiments de haute estime et de sincère amitié avec lesquels je suis, de votre majesté le bon frère, napolÉon. [pageheading: death of king of prussia] _the princess royal to queen victoria and the prince albert._ potsdam, _ nd january _. beloved parents,--at last i can find a moment for myself to sit down and collect my thoughts and to write to you an account of these two last dreadful days! my head is in such a state, i do not know where i am hardly--whether i am in a dream or awake, what is yesterday and what to-day! what we have so long expected is come at last! all the confusion, bustle, excitement, noise, etc., is all swallowed up in that one thought for me--i have seen death for the first time! it has made an impression upon me that i shall never, never forget as long as i live--and i feel so ill, so confused and upset by all that i have gone through in the last forty-eight hours, that you must forgive me if i write incoherently and unclearly. but to go back to monday evening (it seems to me a year now). at a quarter to eight in the evening of monday the st, i took dear darling affie to the railway station, and took leave of him with a heavy heart. you know i love that dear boy distractedly, and that nothing could have given me more pleasure than his dear, long-wished-for visit. at nine o'clock fritz and i went to tea at the prince regent's; we four were alone together. the princess was rather low and unwell, the prince low-spirited, and i thinking of nothing but affie and of how dear he is. while we were sitting at tea we received bad news from sans souci,[ ] but nothing to make us particularly uneasy. fritz and i went home and to bed, not being in a humour to sit up till twelve. about half-past one we heard a knock at the door and my wardrobe maid brought in a telegram saying the king was given up, and a note from the prince regent saying he was going up immediately. we got up in the greatest hurry and dressed--i hardly know how; i put on just what i found, and had not time to do my hair or anything. after we had hurried on our clothes we went downstairs and out--for there was no time to get a carriage or a footman or anything--it was a splendid night, but twelve degrees of cold (réaumur). i thought i was in a dream finding myself alone in the street with fritz at two o'clock at night. we went to the prince regent's, and then with them in their carriages to the railway station--we four all alone in the train. we arrived at sans souci and went directly into the room where the king lay--the stillness of death was in the room--only the light of the fire and of a dim lamp. we approached the bed and stood there at the foot of it, not daring to look at one another or to say a word. the queen was sitting in an armchair at the head of the bed, her arm underneath the king's head, and her head on the same pillow on which he lay; with her other hand she continually wiped the perspiration from his forehead. you might have heard a pin drop; no sound was heard but the crackling of the fire and the _death-rattle_, that dreadful sound which goes to one's heart, and which tells plainly that life is ebbing. this rattling in the throat lasted about an hour longer, and then the king lay motionless. the doctors bent their heads low to hear whether he still breathed--and we stood, not even daring to sit down, watching the death-struggle; every now and then the king breathed very fast and loud, but never unclosed his eyes; he was very red in the face, and the cold perspiration pouring from his forehead. i never spent such an awful time! and to see the poor queen sitting there quite rent my heart--three, four, five, six, seven struck, and we were still standing there--one member of the family came in after the other and remained motionless in the room, sobs only breaking the silence. oh! it is dreadful to see a person die! all the thoughts and feelings that crowded on my mind in those hours i cannot describe, more than in my whole past lifetime. the light of the morning dawned, and the lamps were taken away--oh, how sad for the first morning in the year! we all went into the next room, for i assure you, anxiety, watching, standing, and crying had worn us out. the princess fell asleep on a chair, i on a sofa, and the rest walked up and down the room asking one another, how long will it last? towards the middle of the day, marianne and i went into the room alone, as we wished to stay there; we came up and kissed the queen's hand and knelt down and kissed the king's; it was quite warm still. we stood about and waited till five o'clock and then had some dinner, and i felt so sick and faint and unwell, that fritz sent me here to bed. at one o'clock this morning i got up and dressed, and heard that the king had not many minutes more to live, but by the time i had got the carriage i heard all was over. i drove to sans souci and saw the king and queen. may god bless and preserve them, and may theirs be a long and happy and blessed reign. then i went into the room where the king lay, and i could hardly bring myself to go away again. there was so much of comfort in looking at that quiet, peaceful form, at rest at last after all he had suffered--gone home at last from this world of suffering--so peaceful and quiet he looked, like a sleeping child. every moment i expected to see him move or breathe--his mouth and eyes closed, and such a sweet and happy expression--both his hands were on the coverlid. i kissed them both for the last time; they were quite cold then. fritz and i stood looking at him for some time. i could hardly bring myself to believe that this was really death, that which i had so often shuddered at and felt afraid of; there was nothing there dreadful or appalling, only a heavenly calm and peace. i felt it did me so much good, and was such a comfort. "death, where is thy sting? grave, where is thy victory?" he was a just and good man, and had a heart overflowing with love and kindness, and he has gone to his rest after a long trial which he bore with so much patience. i am not afraid of death now, and when i feel inclined to be so, i shall think of that solemn and comforting sight, and that death is only a change for the better. we went home and to bed and this morning went there at ten. i sat some time with the poor queen, who is so calm and resigned and touching in her grief. she does not cry, but she looks heartbroken. she said to me: "i am not longer of any use in this world. i have no longer any vocation, any duties to perform. i only lived for him." then she was so kind to me, kinder than she has ever been yet, and said i was like her own child and a comfort to her. i saw the corpse again this morning; he is unaltered, only changed in colour, and the hands are stiffened. the funeral will be on saturday; the king will lie in state till then. his wish was to be buried in friedenskirche before the altar--and his heart at charlottenburg in the mausoleum. of course all will be done that he wishes. his servants are in a dreadful state. they adored him, and nursed him day and night for three years with the most devoted attachment. the king and queen stay at sans souci till after the funeral, and fritz and i here at potsdam.... ever your most dutiful and devoted daughter, victoria. _p.s._--the funeral will only take place on monday, and the body will be embalmed to-morrow. to-morrow evening there will be prayers at the bedside, and the day after the lying in state. [footnote : the palace at potsdam, built by frederick the great, the usual residence of the king of prussia.] [pageheading: letter to the emperor napoleon] _queen victoria to the emperor of the french._ osborne, _le janvier _. sire et cher frÈre,--les bons v[oe]ux que votre majesté veut bien m'exprimer à l'occasion de la nouvelle année me sont bien chers, et je vous prie d'en accepter mes remercîments sincères, ainsi que l'expression des v[oe]ux que je forme pour le bonheur de votre majesté, de l'impératrice et de votre cher enfant; le prince se joint à moi dans ces sentiments. votre majesté a bien raison si elle regarde avec quelque inquiétude l'état agité de l'europe, mais je partage aussi avec elle le ferme espoir, que le mal peut être beaucoup amoindri, tant que la france et l'angleterre s'entendent, et j'y ajouterai, tant que cette entente a pour but désintéressé de préserver au monde la paix et à chaque nation ses droits et ses possessions, et d'adoucir des animosités, qui menacent de produire les plus graves calamités, des guerres civiles et des luttes de races. la bénédiction de dieu ne manquera pas à l'accomplissement d'une tâche aussi grande et sacrée. je me réjouis avec votre majesté des glorieux succès que nos armées alliées viennent d'obtenir en chine, et de la belle paix que ces succès ont amenée. elle sera féconde, je l'espère, en bienfaits pour nos deux pays aussi bien que pour ce peuple bizarre que nous avons forcé à entrer en relations avec le reste du monde. il nous a fait bien du plaisir de voir l'impératrice et d'entendre depuis que son voyage en angleterre lui a fait tant de bien. agréez l'assurance de la parfaite amitié avec laquelle je suis, sire et mon frère, de votre majesté impériale, la bonne s[oe]ur, victoria r. [pageheading: italian affairs] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ broadlands, _ th january _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has many apologies to make for not having sooner answered your majesty's previous communications. he is glad to be able to say that lady jocelyn's youngest boy, whose illness has been the cause of very great anxiety, is now in the course of gradual, but favourable recovery. viscount palmerston returns to your majesty the letter of the emperor of the french, and your majesty's excellent answer; it is to be hoped that he will profit by the sound advice which that answer contains. upon the subject of italy your majesty reminds viscount palmerston that he stated last summer that it would be better for the interests of england that southern italy should be a separate monarchy, rather than that it should form part of an united italy. viscount palmerston still retains that opinion; because a separate kingdom of the two sicilies would be more likely, in the event of war between england and france, to side, at least by its neutrality, with the strongest naval power, and it is to be hoped that such power would be england. but then it would be necessary that the two sicilies as an independent and separate state should be well governed, and should have an enlightened sovereign. this unfortunately has become hopeless and impossible under the bourbon dynasty, and no englishman could wish to see a murat or a prince napoleon on the throne of naples.[ ] the course of events since last summer seems to have finally decided the fate of sicily and naples, and there can be no doubt that for the interest of the people of italy, and with a view to the general balance of power in europe, a united italy is the best arrangement. the italian kingdom will never side with france from partiality to france, and the stronger that kingdom becomes the better able it will be to resist political coercion from france. the chief hold that france will have upon the policy of the kingdom of italy consists in the retention of venetia by austria. viscount palmerston has heard no more from lord john russell about his wish eventually to go to the house of lords, and it is probable that this wish often before expressed will, as upon former occasions, be allowed to sleep undisturbed.... [footnote : prince napoleon murat, a son of joachim murat, king of naples, - , had returned to france from the united states in ; an attempt was now being made to form a murat party in southern italy.] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ windsor castle, _ th january _. the queen has received lord john russell's letter enclosing his correspondence with lord clarendon.[ ] she has kept the latter in order to show it to lord palmerston this evening, not knowing whether he has seen it already. she must say that lord clarendon's arguments are very conclusive. has it ever occurred to lord john russell that, if lord clarendon were to go to berlin carrying the highest compliment the queen has to bestow, viz. the order of the garter to the new king of prussia, and from thence to vienna empty-handed to the emperor of austria for the purpose of giving good advice, the emperor might look upon it as an offensive public proceeding towards him? [footnote : lord clarendon was appointed to represent the queen at the coronation of the king of prussia.] [pageheading: conservative overtures] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th january _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty.... viscount palmerston saw lord malmesbury on friday before the cabinet. they both came up in the same train though not in the same carriage, and lord malmesbury came to viscount palmerston's in piccadilly at three o'clock. he said that he was charged by lord derby and mr disraeli with a message similar to that which he had conveyed last year, namely, that if mr gladstone were to propose a democratic budget making a great transfer of burthens from indirect to direct taxation, and if, the cabinet refusing its concurrence, mr gladstone were to retire, the conservative party would give the government substantial support except in the case of the government wishing to take an active part in war against austria. that this did not of course mean an abstinence from usual attacks and criticisms in debate, but that no step would in such case be taken to produce a change of government. in fact, said lord malmesbury, neither the conservative leaders nor the party wish at present to come into office, and have no intention of taking any step to turn the present government out. mr bright had indeed proposed to mr disraeli to join together with the radical party, the conservatives, for the purpose of turning out the present government; and especially to get rid of viscount palmerston and lord john russell. mr bright said he would in that case give the conservative government a two years' existence, and by the end of that time the country, it might be hoped, would be prepared for a good and real reform bill, and then a proper government might be formed. this proposal, which it must be owned was not very tempting, lord malmesbury said had been declined. he also said that count persigny, on returning from one of his trips to paris, had brought a similar proposal from mr cobden for a co-operation of radicals and conservatives to overthrow the present government; but that also had been declined. viscount palmerston requested lord malmesbury to convey his thanks to lord derby and mr disraeli for the handsome communication which they had thus made to him, and to assure them that he fully appreciated the honourable and patriotic motives by which it had been prompted.... _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th january _. my beloved uncle,--i write to you on a sad anniversary--already _seventeen_ years ago, that it pleased god to take dearest papa away from us all! he, who _ought_ to have lived for twenty years longer at least!... we hear from berlin that the poor king is much _angegriffen_, and very irritable, but that my letter announcing to him that i would give him the garter had given him _so_ much pleasure that he had been seen to smile for the _first_ time since the nd of january. i think you will be gratified by the little extract from a letter from our dear friend the queen, about vicky, which i venture to send you--as well as by the following extract from vicky's own letter to me, written on her wedding day, in which she says:--"every time our dear wedding day returns i feel so happy and thankful--and live every moment of that blessed and never-to-be-forgotten day over again in thought. i love to dwell on every minute of that day; not a hope has been disappointed, not an expectation that has not been realised, and much more--that few can say--and i _am_ thankful as i ought to be." these two extracts are very gratifying to our hearts. i must now wish you good-bye. with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: the provostship of eton] [pageheading: dr goodford] _viscount palmerston to sir charles phipps._ piccadilly, _ th february _. my dear phipps,--in the box which i sent to the queen on friday morning, giving a short account of the debate on thursday, i placed a separate paper submitting for her approval that dr goodford, headmaster of eton, might be recommended to the fellows to be elected to the office of provost now vacant; and i mentioned that the matter was rather pressing. i have had no answer as yet, and the election is fixed for to-morrow. the election is on the same footing as that of a bishop who is nominally elected by the chapter of the diocese, but who is named for being so elected by the crown. the crown recommends the person to be named provost, and the fellows as a matter of course elect him. but the election must be made within a stated period--i believe fifteen days after the vacancy has happened; and if the crown does not within that period recommend, the fellows proceed to make their own choice. the election is fixed for to-morrow, and it would not, i think, be desirable to let the royal prerogative drop on this occasion. the persons who have been named as candidates are dr goodford, headmaster, and with regard to him it is to be said that the office has generally been given to the headmaster, and that, as far as the provost has any function connected with improvements in the arrangement of the school, there is an advantage in his having been conversant with the details of the existing system. dr goodford is qualified for the office by his degree. the next candidate is mr coleridge, once a master in the school, but he is not qualified by a sufficient degree, and there was a prejudice against him on account of his puseyite tendencies. the third is dr chapman, late bishop of colombo, qualified by his degree, but having no peculiar claims or other recommendations for the office. the fourth is mr birch, formerly tutor to the prince of wales, scarcely of sufficient calibre for the office, and not qualified by a sufficient degree. between dr goodford and dr chapman i think the preference should be given to dr goodford, and the more especially because dr chapman is supposed to entertain theological opinions similar to those of mr coleridge, his brother-in-law. if the queen should approve of dr goodford being recommended, perhaps she would have the goodness to sign the document sent in the accompanying box, and if it is returned by the earliest opportunity it is just possible that i may be able to send it to windsor in time for the election to-morrow.[ ] yours sincerely, palmerston. [footnote : dr goodford was elected, and remained provost till his death in .] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ _ th february ._ the queen has received lord john russell's letter enclosing the draft of one to general garibaldi, which she now returns. she had much doubt about its being altogether safe for the government to get into correspondence, however unofficial, with the general, and thinks that it would be better for lord john _not_ to write to him. lord palmerston, who was here this afternoon on other business, has undertaken to explain the reasons in detail to lord john--in which he fully concurs. [pageheading: garibaldi] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ chesham place, _ th february _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he earnestly entreats your majesty to consider whether any step ought to be omitted by which the peace of europe may be preserved. general garibaldi is generally esteemed by italians; even count ludolf speaks of him in the highest terms of praise. general garibaldi has lost his country, and is full of resentment at count cavour for selling it. he respects and admires england for her disinterested conduct. but it is evident the french emperor is again exciting the hungarian party. the garibaldian legion is told to hold itself in readiness, and the _pays_ and _patrie_ are instructed to praise the legion. they are being assembled in genoa and piedmont. there is little chance of garibaldi's refusing to take part in this expedition, and if he does proceed to the dalmatian or istrian coast, his name will have an immense effect. it does not seem reasonable to throw away any chance of saving the austrian empire and the peace of europe. lord john russell will wait till monday next to learn definitively your majesty's pleasure. the proposed letter appears to him to give some hope of preventing great misfortunes. in this belief it is lord john russell's duty to endeavour to prevent the frightful war which is impending. kossuth is fabricating paper to the extent of from to , , of florins to furnish the sinews of insurrection. in the month of march hungary will be in a blaze. but if italy, germany, and france keep away, the fire may burn out of itself. _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ _ th february ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and in returning lord john's letter begs to submit, that as lord john is so anxious to send it, and seems so strongly of opinion that it is an effort which might be successful in dissuading garibaldi from attempting to create disturbances in the austrian territory by going thither with a band of adventurers, it may be best to let the letter go, though it might perhaps be improved by pointing more directly to the nature of the expedition which it advises garibaldi not to undertake. there may be inconveniences which may arise from the letter, but they might be dealt with; on the other hand, if garibaldi undertakes his expedition, it would be a matter of regret if it could be thought or said that a step which might have prevented the mischief had been omitted. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. the queen has received lord john russell's reiterated request for her sanction to his writing to general garibaldi. she still entertains the same objections to the step, as implying a recognition of the general's position as a european power as enabling him to allow the impression to prevail, that he is in communication with the british government and acts under its inspiration, as possibly leading to a prolonged and embarrassing correspondence, and as implying for the future that when the disapprobation of the government is not expressed (as in the present instance), it gives its consent to his aggressive schemes. the queen will not prevent, however, lord john from taking a step which he considers gives a chance of averting a great european calamity. should lord john therefore adhere to his opinion, she asks him to let her see the letter again, upon the precise wording of which so much depends. [pageheading: a happy anniversary] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th february _. my dearest uncle,--many, many thanks for your dear letter of the th. here we have cold again since the day before yesterday, and last night seven degrees of frost. on sunday we celebrated, with feelings of _deep gratitude_ and love, the _twenty-first_ anniversary of our blessed marriage, a day which had brought us, and i may say the _world_ at _large_, such incalculable blessings! _very_ few can say with me that their husband at the end of twenty-one years is _not_ only full of the friendship, kindness, and affection which a truly happy marriage brings with it, but the same tender love of the _very first days of our marriage!_ we missed dear mamma and _three_ of our children,[ ] but had _six_ dear ones round us--and assembled in the evening those of our household _still_ remaining who were _with us then!_... in parliament things go on quietly enough, and every one _hopes_ for a short session.... hoping that these lines will find you well, believe me ever, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the duchess of kent was at frogmore; the princess royal, now crown princess of prussia, was at potsdam; the prince of wales had just entered upon his first term at cambridge; and prince alfred had joined his ship, the _euryalus_, at plymouth.] [pageheading: lord john russell and garibaldi] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th february _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that the cabinet at its meeting this afternoon were of opinion that lord john russell's proposed letter to garibaldi, as altered by lord john, might do good, and could scarcely be attended with any material inconvenience, and that therefore it might go.[ ] [footnote : it accordingly was sent in the following form:-- general,--you did me the honour, some time ago, to write me a letter, thanking me for a speech i made in parliament. i was not insensible to the value of that compliment. my present purpose however is not compliment. i wish you seriously to reconsider your declaration that you propose to begin a war in the spring. it seems to me that no individual, however distinguished, has a right to determine for his country the momentous question of peace or war with a foreign state. italy, represented by a free parliament, is about to assemble and declare her own sentiments and wishes. it is surely for the king and the parliament together to decide on questions which may involve all europe in bloodshed. i cannot believe that you will be the man to give the signal of dissension in italy. i remain, general, your obedient servant, john russell. the reply received was as follows:-- caprera, _ th march _. noble lord,--italy owes you much gratitude. you, however, judge me somewhat harshly; giving credence to rumours which attribute to me projects that are not known to any one. i hope to make war again for my country. but i desire that you, deserving as you are of my esteem and attachment, should believe that i will not undertake anything which may injure or be in contradiction with the rights of the king and parliament of italy. i do not love war, minister, but, in the present condition of my country, it appears most difficult to constitute her in a normal manner, without war. i am sure that italy is able to make her war of liberation even this year. the person who directs does not feel the same certainty, and i leave it to you to weigh his motives. i, if i am not called upon by events, shall continue in my retreat, and i will, in every way, endeavour to gain your good-will, and that of the generous nation to whom my country owes so much, etc., etc., etc. i am your devoted servant, g. garibaldi.] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ buckingham palace, _ nd february _. the queen is very glad to see that the government is seriously taking up the question of iron-sided ships, and looks forward to the result of lord palmerston's conference with the duke of somerset. the number wanted appears large, but the queen must add that she does not consider one ship a sufficient preponderance over the french navy for this country. twenty-seven to twenty-six would give that number. [pageheading: death of duchess of kent] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ frogmore, _ th march _. my dearly beloved uncle,--on this, the most dreadful day of my life, does your poor broken-hearted child write one line of love and devotion. _she_ is gone![ ] that _precious, dearly beloved tender_ mother--whom i never was parted from but for a few months--without whom _i_ can't _imagine life_--has been taken from us! it is _too_ dreadful! but she is at peace--at rest--her fearful sufferings at an end! it was quite painless--though there was very _distressing_, heartrending breathing to witness. i held her dear, dear hand in mine to the very last, which i am truly thankful for! but the watching that precious life going out was fearful! alas! she never knew me! but she was spared the pang of parting! how this will _grieve_ and _distress you!_ _you_ who are now doubly precious to us. good alice was with us all through, and _deeply_ afflicted, and wishes to say everything kind to you. bertie and lenchen are now here--all much grieved, and have seen her _sleeping_ peacefully and eternally! dearest albert is dreadfully overcome--and well he may, for _she_ adored him! i feel so truly _verwaist_. god bless and protect you. ever your devoted and truly unhappy niece and child, victoria r. _p.s._--the devotion of dearest mamma's ladies and maids is not to be described. their love and their devotion were _too touching_. there we all were round her--the poor, good, old clark, who is so devoted to us all. ever again, your devoted child, victoria r. [footnote : the duchess of kent died on the th of march. she had had a surgical operation in the arm, on account of an abscess, a short time before, but till the th the medical reports had been encouraging. on that day the queen went to frogmore, and was with her mother at the time of her death.] [pageheading: bereavement] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th march _. my dearest uncle,--your sad little letter of the st reached me on saturday. on sunday i took leave of those dearly beloved remains--a dreadful moment; i had never been near a coffin before, but dreadful and heartrending as it was, it was so beautifully arranged that it would have pleased _her_, and most probably _she_ looked down and blessed _us_--as we poor sorrowing mortals knelt around, overwhelmed with grief! it was covered with wreaths, and the carpet strewed with sweet, white flowers. _i_ and our daughters did _not_ go _yesterday_--it would have been _far_ too much for _me_--and albert when he returned, with tearful eyes told me it was well i did not go--so affecting had been the sight--so _universal_ the sympathy. poor little arthur went too. i and my girls prayed at home together, and dwelt on her happiness and peace. but oh! dearest uncle--the loss--the truth of it--which _i cannot, do not_ realise even when i go (as i do _daily_) to frogmore--the _blank_ becomes _daily_ worse! the constant intercourse of _forty-one_, years cannot cease without the _total want_ of _power_ of _real enjoyment_ of _anything_. a sort of cloud which hangs over you, and seems to _oppress_ everything--and a positive _weakness_ in the powers of reflection and mental exertion. the doctors _tell_ me i _must not_ attempt to _force_ this. long conversation, loud talking, the talking of many people together, i _can't_ bear yet. it must come _very_ gradually.... i try to be, and very often am, quite _resigned_--but dearest uncle, this is a life sorrow. on _all_ festive or mournful occasions, on _all_ family events, _her love_ and _sympathy_ will be so _fearfully wanting_. then again, except albert (who i very often don't see but very little in the day), i have _no human_ being except our children, and that is not the same _verhältniss_, to _open_ myself to; and besides, a _woman_ requires _woman's_ society and sympathy sometimes, as men do _men's_. all this, beloved uncle, will show you that, without _dwelling_ constantly upon it, or _moping_ or becoming _morbid_, though the _blank_ and the _loss to me_, in my isolated position especially, is _such_ a _dreadful_, and such an _irreparable one_, the worst _trials_ are _yet_ to come. my poor birthday, i can hardly think of it! strange it is how often _little trifles_, insignificant in themselves, upset one more even than greater things.... but the general sympathy for _me_, and approval of the manner in which i have shown my grief, as well as the affection and respect for dearest mamma's memory in the country, is _quite wonderful and most touching_. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: renewed grief] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th march _. my dearly beloved uncle,--it is a comfort for me to write to you, and i think you may like to hear from your poor motherless child. it is _to-day_ a _fortnight_ already, and it seems but yesterday--_all_ is before me, and at the same time _all, all_ seems _quite impossible_. the blank--the desolation--the fearful and awful _sehnsucht und wehmuth_ come back with redoubled force, and the _weeping_, which day after day is my welcome friend, is my greatest relief. we have an immense deal to do--and everything is in the greatest _order_; but to _open her_ drawers and presses, and to look at all her dear jewels and trinkets in order to identify everything, and relieve her really excellent servants from all responsibility and anxiety, is like a sacrilege, and i feel as if my heart was being torn asunder! so many recollections of my childhood are brought back to me, and these dumb souvenirs which she wore and used, and which so painfully survive _what_ we so _dearly_ and _passionately_ loved, touch chords in one's heart and soul, which are _most_ painful and yet pleasing too. we have found many most interesting and valuable letters--the existence of which i was not aware of--and which, i _think_, must have come back with poor papa's letters, viz. letters from _my_ poor father asking for dearest mamma's hand--and sending a letter from you, encouraging him to ask her. and many others--very precious letters--from dear grandmamma; albert has also found at clarence house, where he went to-day, many of dear grandpapa's.[ ] ... frogmore we mean to keep just as dear mamma left it--and keep it cheerful and pretty as it still is. i go there constantly; i feel so accustomed to go down the hill, and _so_ attracted to it, for i fancy _she_ must be there. was poor dear grandpapa's death-bed such a sad one? you speak of its distressing impressions.[ ] ... she watches _over us now_, you may be sure! ever your devoted, sorrowing child and niece, victoria r. albert is so kind, and does all with such tenderness and feeling. vicky goes on tuesday, and we on wednesday, to osborne, where i think the air and quiet will do me good. [footnote : duke francis frederick of saxe-coburg-saalfeld, and duchess augusta caroline sophia, the parents of the duchess of kent and king leopold.] [footnote : in a recent letter king leopold had said that he was not quite sixteen years old when his father died ( ), and the elder son, ernest, being alarmingly ill at königsberg, he was himself called upon to be the support of his mother. "the recollections of that death-bed," he adds, "are fresh in my memory, as if it had been yesterday. i thank god that your recollections of that terrible moment are so peaceful, and that you may preserve an impression ... without any distressing addition."] [pageheading: fatherly advice] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ st april _. my beloved victoria,--your dear letter of the th _moved me very much_. i can see everything, and it makes me shed tears of the sincerest sorrow. the bereavement, the impossibility, they are what one feels most deeply and painfully, that nothing will bring back the beloved object, that there is a rupture with everything earthly that nothing can remedy. your good, dear mamma was without ostentation, sincerely religious, a great blessing, and the only solid support we can find. happy those whose faith cannot be shaken; they can bear the hardships of earthly life with fortitude. true it is that if we compare the sorrows of our earthly life with the hope of an eternal existence, though painfully felt, still they shrink as it were in appreciation. you feel so _truly_, so _affectionately_, that even in that you must gratify the dear being we lost. when i think of poor aunt julia,[ ] she was so alone that i cannot help to pity her even in all the objects she valued and left behind; the affectionate care which is shown to everything connected with your dear mamma could not have existed, and still she was a noble character, and with a warm, generous heart. in all your dear mamma's letters there will everywhere be found traces of the affection which united us. from early childhood we were close allies; she recollected everything so well of that period which now, since the departure of the two sisters, is totally unknown to every one but me, which, you can imagine, is a most melancholy sensation. time flies so fast that all dear recollections soon get isolated. your stay at osborne will do you good, though spring, when fine, affects one very much, to think that the one that was beloved does not share in these pleasant sensations. you must try, however, not to shake your precious health too much. your dear mamma, who watched your looks so affectionately, would not approve of it.... your devoted old uncle, leopold r. [footnote : sister of king leopold, and widow of the grand duke constantine, who had lived in retirement at geneva for many years, and died at elfenau on the th of august .] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th april _. my dearly beloved uncle,--your dear, _sad_ letter of the th found a warm response in my poor heart, and i thank you with all my heart for it. i am _now most_ anxiously waiting for an answer to my letter asking you to come to us _now_. you would, i think, find it soothing, and it would painfully interest you to look over her letters and papers, which make me _live_ in times i heard her talk of when i was a child. it is touching to find how she treasured up every little flower, every bit of hair. i found some of dear princess charlotte's, and touching relics of my poor father, in a little writing-desk of his i had never seen, with his last letters to her, and her notes _after_ his death written in a little book, expressing such longing to be reunited to him! _now_ she _is!_ and what a comfort it is to think _how many very dear ones_ are gone on before her whom she will find! all these notes show how very, very much she and my beloved father _loved_ each other. _such_ love and affection! i hardly knew it was _to that extent_. then her love for _me_--it is _too_ touching! i have found little books with the accounts of my babyhood, and they show _such_ unbounded tenderness! oh! i am so wretched to think _how_, _for a time_, _two people most_ wickedly estranged us!... to miss a mother's friendship--not to be able to have her to confide in--when a girl _most_ needs it, was fearful! i _dare not_ think of it--it drives me _wild_ now! but thank god! that is all passed _long, long_ ago, and she had forgotten it, and only thought of the last very happy years. and all that was brought by my good angel, dearest albert, whom _she_ adored, and in whom she had such unbounded confidence.... on sunday our dear little beatrice was four years old. it upset me much, for she was the idol of that beloved grandmamma, and the child so fond of her. she continually speaks of her--how she "is in heaven," but hopes she will return! she is a most darling, engaging child.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: the danish question] _queen victoria to lord john russell._ osborne, _ th may _. the queen returns the proposed draft of answer to the observations of the russian government on lord john russell's proposals with regard to the danish question. she has to observe that this reverses the whole position taken by us hitherto. prince gortschakoff is quite right in reminding us that the engagements taken in [ ] did not contain a formal guarantee (_obliging_ to take up arms for the defence of the object guaranteed) in deference to the opinion of the british government which, on general principles, has always objected to such engagements. these principles are as important now as ever, and yet lord john proposes "to renew the _guarantee_ of the integrity of the danish monarchy contained in the treaty of th may ," thereby giving those engagements the force of a guarantee, which was on principle objected to by us at the time. both russia and france in their answers object to such a guarantee now, even with regard to schleswig alone, as involving the guaranteeing powers in future grave difficulties, and lord john proposes to extend it to holstein, a part of germany and not of denmark, by way of obviating the difficulty. the queen cannot give her sanction to this proposal. [footnote : a treaty was signed by the european powers on the th of may , by which the succession of the line of sonderburg-glücksburg to the danish throne was settled, and the integrity of the kingdom guaranteed. see _ante_, vol. ii., th january, .] [pageheading: war in america] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th may _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; he has the honour to submit letters from the emperor and empress of austria of a private nature. the cabinet decided yesterday that the ports of your majesty's dominions ought to be closed to the ships of war and privateers of the belligerents in america.[ ] a letter for that object has been sent to the law officers of the crown, and will be, when put into proper form, submitted for your majesty's approbation. [footnote : see _ante_, introductory note to chapter xxx.] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th may _. the queen returns these papers. she thinks it of great importance that we should be strong in canada, and thinks an increase in artillery as important as the sending of two more battalions, as that arm cannot be supplied at all by the colony. the naval forces would, however, require strengthening even more. it is less likely that the remnant of the united states could send expeditions by land to the north while quarrelling with the south, than that they should commit acts of violence at sea. _queen victoria to lord john russell._ buckingham palace, _ th june _. the queen has perused the accompanying draft to sir james hudson. she is of opinion that so important a step as proposals on our part for the solution of the roman question, with which we are not directly concerned, and for the solution of which we are for many obvious reasons perhaps the power possessing the least favourable position, is a subject of such great importance, that it should not be undertaken without the most mature consideration. has this draft been brought before the cabinet? the queen wishes to have their united advice before giving her decision. her opinion at present is against our volunteering a scheme which will render us responsible for the result of grave complications, from which we have hitherto stood happily quite clear. the queen wishes these lines to be communicated to the cabinet.[ ] [footnote : lord john russell had written that the withdrawal of the french troops from rome would probably be followed by tumults and bloodshed; and as both the roman party and garibaldi hated the government of the pope, and wished to put an end to his temporal power, he suggested that the pope should be allowed to retain his sovereignty during his lifetime, in a restricted territory and with restricted powers; that italian troops should occupy the towns and villages outside a limit of five miles from rome; and that the king of italy and the emperor of the french should agree not to recognise the temporal power of any future pope.] [pageheading: death of cavour] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ pembroke lodge, _ th june _. lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; the despatch relating to rome had been sent, seeming to lord john russell quite unobjectionable. but your majesty will see that it was instantly suspended, and that count cavour is dying.[ ] the despatch was solely intended to save the poor old pope from insult, and rome from tumult, but beyond this it is of no consequence, and the death of cavour may give a new complexion to the affairs of italy. nothing will be done on the despatch at present. [footnote : count cavour died at turin on the th of june. it is curious to note that the words of the emperor napoleon, on hearing of the death of cavour, appear to have been "le cocher est tombé du siège; il faut voir maintenant si les chevaux iront s'emporter, ou rentrer à l'écurie."] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th june _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty.... viscount palmerston submits a note from garter king at arms, by which your majesty will see that there are now three garters vacant; and viscount palmerston would beg to suggest for your majesty's consideration that those garters might appropriately be conferred upon lord canning for his great services in india, upon lord john russell for his long political services under your majesty, and upon the duke of somerset, senior duke after the duke of norfolk, and the able administrator of an important branch of your majesty's service.[ ] viscount palmerston is not aware whether by the regulations of the order the garter could be sent out to lord canning in india. if that were possible, it might have the double advantage of strengthening his hands during the remainder of his stay, by affording so public a mark of your majesty's approval; and moreover of making sure that lord canning should receive this mark of your majesty's royal favour, while the government is in the hands of an administration similar to that at whose recommendation he was sent out, which perhaps might be more agreeable to his feelings than running the chance, always possible, though viscount palmerston hopes it may not be probable, that political combinations might, before his return in may or june , have produced administrative changes. [footnote : the duke was first lord of the admiralty. all the three peers mentioned received the garter early in .] [pageheading: death of lord campbell] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ _ th june ._ the queen approves of sir r. bethell[ ] as lord campbell's successor. lord palmerston is aware of the queen's objections to the appointment; they will have weighed with him as much as with her. if therefore he finally makes this recommendation, the queen must assume that under all the circumstances he considers it the best solution of the difficulty, and that his colleagues take the same view. [footnote : lord campbell died at the age of eighty-two; his successor was created lord westbury.] [pageheading: the duchess of sutherland] _the duchess of sutherland to queen victoria._ stafford house, _ th june _. madam,--i shall never forget your majesty and the prince's kindness.[ ] i am anxious to tell your majesty as strongly as _it was_, what _his_ feeling was of my service to your majesty; he approved and delighted in it; dear as it was to me--it could not have been if this had not been so, nor those occasional absences, if he had not had devoted children when i was away; still, when the great parting comes one grudges every hour, and the yearning is terrible. even in his last illness he showed an anxious feeling, as if he feared i might resign, saying that i knew what an interest it had been to him, how he had liked hearing of the queen and her family. he spoke very late in life of your majesty's constant kindness. this feeling and early associations made him take a great interest in the princess royal's marriage, which did not leave him. if it ever crossed your majesty--if your majesty should ever feel that i might have been devoted, if i had had but one service, pray believe that he took the greatest pleasure and pride in that other great service; and that therefore he really felt it best it should be so. since i have written this i have received your majesty's most kind letter--and the precious gift of the photograph so wonderfully like, and rendering exactly that most kind and loving countenance. i shall like much sending one to your majesty of my dearest husband. i repeat to myself the precious word that i am dear to your majesty again and again; and that my love to your majesty was returned. how often i shall think of this in my altered life, in my solitude of heart! the admiration i have ever felt for the prince has been one of the great pleasures of my life; that he should be your majesty's husband, a constant thankfulness. i feel i owe him much, and that great approbation and admiration are not barren feelings. i have the honour to remain, madam, your majesty's devoted subject, harriet sutherland. i fear i have written worse than usual--i can hardly see to do so--weak eyes and tears. [footnote : the duke of sutherland had died in the preceding february.] [pageheading: mr layard] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that lord elcho[ ] this afternoon moved a resolution that the new foreign office should not be built in the palladian style. mr charles buxton seconded the motion. mr cowper[ ] opposed it, stating reasons for preferring the italian style to the gothic. mr layard was for neither, but seemed to wish that somebody would invent a new style of architecture. mr tite,[ ] the architect, was strongly for the italian style; lord john manners, swayed by erroneous views in religion and taste, was enthusiastic for gothic;[ ] mr dudley fortescue confided in a low voice to a limited range of hearers some weak arguments in favour of gothic; mr osborne seemed to be against everything that anybody had ever proposed, and wanted to put off the building till some plan better suited to his own taste should have been invented. viscount palmerston answered the objections made to the italian plan, and lord elcho's motion was negatived by to . the house then went into committee of supply, and the first estimate being that for the foreign office, some of the gothic party who had not been able to deliver their speeches on lord elcho's motion, let them off on this estimate.... [footnote : now earl of wemyss.] [footnote : mr william cowper, at this time first commissioner of works.] [footnote : mr (afterwards sir) william tite, was now member for bath; he had been the architect entrusted with the task of rebuilding the royal exchange.] [footnote : mr gilbert scott had made his first designs for the new foreign office in the gothic style; his appointment as architect for the building was made by the derby government, but the scheme which they favoured, for a gothic building, was opposed by lord palmerston, and scott adopted the italian style in deference to his views.] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th july _. the queen is sorry that she cannot alter her determination about mr layard.[ ] she fully recognises the importance of the parliamentary exigencies; but the queen cannot sacrifice to them the higher interests of the country. neither mr layard nor mr osborne ought to be proposed as representatives of the foreign office in the house of commons, and therefore of the crown to foreign countries. if lord palmerston can bring mr layard into office in some other place, to get his assistance in the house of commons, she will not object. [footnote : in the course of july, lord john russell, who had entered parliament for the first time in , was raised to the peerage as earl russell and viscount amberley. to supply the loss to the government of two such powerful debaters as lord russell and lord herbert, lord palmerston had suggested mr layard as under-secretary for foreign affairs, mentioning also the claims of mr bernal osborne.] [pageheading: mr layard] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and regrets very much to find that he has not succeeded in removing your majesty's objections to mr layard as under-secretary of state for the foreign department; but he still hopes that he may be able to do so. if he rightly understands your majesty's last communication on this subject, he is led to infer that your majesty's main objection is founded on a dislike that mr layard should be the representative and organ of the foreign policy of the crown in the house of commons. with regard to his being a subordinate officer in the foreign office, your majesty's sanction to that was obtained in - , when mr layard was under-secretary to lord granville. his tenure of office at that time was short; not from any fault of his, but because the government of that day was overthrown by viscount palmerston's motion in the house of commons in february about the militia; and lord granville speaks highly of mr layard's performance of his official duties at that time. there is no reason, but the reverse, for thinking him less competent now than then; and an under-secretary of state is only the instrument and mouthpiece of his principal to say what he is told, and to write what he is bid. with regard to mr layard's position in the house of commons, he would in no respect be the representative of the foreign policy of the country; that function will belong to viscount palmerston, now that the secretary of state for foreign affairs will be removed to the house of lords, and it will be viscount palmerston's duty and care to see that nobody infringes upon that function. mr layard would be useful to answer unimportant questions as to matters of fact, but all questions involving the foreign policy of the country will be answered by viscount palmerston as head of the government, as was done when lord clarendon was foreign secretary and in the house of lords. but there are not unfrequently great debates on foreign affairs in the house of commons, and there are many members, some of them not perhaps of great weight, who join in attacks on such matters. it is of great importance to your majesty's government to have a sufficient number of speakers on such occasions. lord john russell and lord herbert were ready and powerful. mr gladstone is almost the only one on the treasury bench who follows up foreign questions close enough to take an active part; it would be of great advantage to viscount palmerston to have as assistant on such occasions a man like mr layard, knowing the details of matters discussed, able to make a good speech in reply to mr fitzgerald, or mr baillie cochrane,[ ] or mr hennessy,[ ] or sir g. bowyer,[ ] and who would shape his course in strict conformity with the line which might be chalked out for him by viscount palmerston. your majesty need therefore be under no apprehension that mr layard or anybody else, who might in the house of commons hold the office of under-secretary of state for foreign affairs, would appear to the world as the organ or representative of the foreign policy of your majesty's government. with respect to giving mr layard any other office of the same kind, there is none other in which he could be placed without putting into the foreign office somebody far less fit for it, and putting mr layard into some office for which he is far less fit. his fitness is for the foreign department, and to use the illustration, which was a favourite one of the late mr drummond, it would be putting the wrong man into the wrong hole. viscount palmerston has, as charged with the conduct of the business of the government in the house of commons, sustained a severe loss by the removal of two most able and useful colleagues, lord herbert and lord john russell, and he earnestly hopes that your majesty will be graciously pleased to assist him in his endeavours, not indeed to supply their place, but in some degree to lessen the detriment which their removal has occasioned. [footnote : afterwards lord lamington.] [footnote : mr (afterwards sir) john pope hennessy, m.p. for king's county.] [footnote : m.p. for dundalk.] [pageheading: mr layard] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th july _. the prince has reported to the queen all that lord palmerston said to him on the subject of mr layard; this has not had the effect of altering her opinion as to the disqualifications of that gentleman for the particular office for which lord palmerston proposes him. this appointment would, in the queen's opinion, be a serious evil. if lord palmerston on sincere self-examination should consider that without it the difficulty of carrying on his government was such as to endanger the continuance of its success, the queen will, of course, have to admit an evil for the country in order to avert a greater. she still trusts, however, that knowing the nature of the queen's objections, he will not place her in this dilemma. _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th july _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to be allowed to make his grateful and respectful acknowledgments for your majesty's gracious and condescending acquiescence in his recommendation of mr layard for the appointment of under-secretary of state for the foreign department. it is always a source of most sincere pain to viscount palmerston to find himself differing, on any point, in opinion with your majesty, a respect for whose soundness of judgment, and clearness of understanding, must always lead him to distrust the value of his own conclusions when they differ from those to which your majesty has arrived. but the question about mr layard turned mainly upon considerations connected with the conduct of public business of your majesty's government in the house of commons. viscount palmerston sits in that house four days in every week during the session of parliament, from half-past four in the afternoon to any hour however late after midnight at which the house may adjourn. it is his duty carefully to watch the proceedings of the house, and to observe and measure the fluctuating bearings of party and of sectional associations on the present position of the government, and on its chances for the future; and he is thus led to form conclusions as to persons and parties which may not equally strike, or with equal force, those who from without and from higher regions may see general results without being eye- and ear-witnesses of the many small and successive details out of which those results are built up. it was thus that viscount palmerston was led to a strong conviction that the proposed appointment of mr layard would be a great advantage to your majesty's government as regards the conduct of business in the house of commons, and the position of your majesty's government in that house; and he is satisfied that he will be able to prevent mr layard in any subsidiary part which he may have to take in any discussion on foreign questions, from departing from the line which may be traced out for him by lord john russell and viscount palmerston.... [pageheading: the king of sweden] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th august _. my beloved uncle,--since saturday we have great heat. _our_ king of sweden[ ] arrived yesterday evening. we went out in the yacht to meet him, and did so; but his ship going slow, the _dress_ of the _hohen herrn only_ arrived at a quarter to nine, and we only sat down to dinner at a quarter past nine! the king and prince oscar[ ] are very french, and very italian! i think that there is a dream of a scandinavian kingdom floating before them. the king is a fine-looking man.... he is not at all difficult to get on with, and is very civil. oscar is very amiable and mild, and very proud of his three little boys. they leave again quite early to-morrow. our _dear_ children leave us, alas! on friday quite early, for antwerp.[ ] it will again be a painful trial! their stay has been very pleasant and _gemüthlich_, and we have seen more of and known dear fritz more thoroughly than we ever did before, and really he is _very_ excellent, and would, i am convinced, make an excellent king. the little children are _very great_ darlings, and we shall miss them sadly. on the th we go to poor, dear frogmore, and on the th we shall visit that dear grave! last year she was still so well, and so full of life; but it was a _very_ sad birthday, two days after the loss of that dear beloved sister, whom she has joined so soon! oh! the agony of _wehmuth_, the bitterness of the blank, do _not_ get better with time! beloved mamma, how hourly she is in my mind! the king of prussia will have great pleasure in visiting you at wiesbaden; he will arrive at ostend on the th.... good-bye, and god bless you, dearest uncle. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : charles xv., who succeeded to the throne in .] [footnote : brother and heir to charles xv., whom he succeeded, as oscar ii., in ; died .] [footnote : the crown prince and princess of prussia, accompanied by their two children, were on a visit to the queen.] [pageheading: swedish politics] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th august _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and hastens to answer the enquiry contained in your majesty's note, which was delivered to him at southampton. he must, in the first place, explain that much of what was said to him by the king of sweden and by prince oscar was not clearly understood by him. they would both speak english--which they spoke with difficulty and in an indistinct utterance of voice--and he did not like to break the conversation into french, because to have done so would have looked like a condemnation of their english, of any imperfection of which they did not seem to be at all conscious. the king was very guarded in all he said about france; the prince spoke with more freedom and with less caution. the result of what viscount palmerston gathered from their conversation, and perhaps for this purpose they may be put together, because they probably both feel and think nearly alike, though the prince lets his thoughts out more than the king, may be summed up as follows. they were much pleased and flattered by the kind and friendly reception given them by the french emperor, and both he and they seem to have had present to their minds that the existing royal family of sweden is descended from general bernadotte--a general in the army of the first napoleon. they think the french emperor sincerely desirous of maintaining his alliance with england, believing it to be for his interest to do so. but they consider the french nation essentially aggressive, and they think that the emperor is obliged to humour that national feeling, and to follow, as far as the difference of circumstances will allow, the policy of his uncle. they consider the principle of nationalities to be the deciding principle of the day, and accordingly venetia ought to belong to italy, poland ought to be severed from russia, and finland ought to be restored to sweden. holstein should be purely german with its own duke, schleswig should be united to denmark, and when the proper time comes, denmark, so constituted, ought to form one monarchy with sweden and norway. but they see that there are great if not insuperable obstacles to all these arrangements, and they do not admit that the emperor of the french talked to them about these things, or about the map of europe revised for . they lamented the dangerous state of the austrian empire by reason of its financial embarrassments, and its differences between vienna and hungary. they admitted the difficulty of re-establishing a polish state, seeing that russia, prussia, and austria are all interested in preventing it; but they thought that russia might make herself amends to the eastward for giving up part of her polish possessions. they said the swedes would be more adverse than the danes to a union of denmark with sweden. they said the finns are writhing under the russian yoke, and emigrate in considerable numbers to sweden. they think russia paralysed for ten years to come by her war against england and france, by her internal changes, and her money embarrassments. when the prince asked viscount palmerston to sit down, it was for the purpose of urging in the strongest and most earnest manner that some british ships of war, or even one single gunboat, if more could not be spared, should every year visit the baltic, and make a cruise in that sea. he said that the british flag was never seen there, although great britain has great interests, commercial and political, in that sea. that especially for sweden it would be a great support if a british man-of-war were every year to show itself in swedish waters. he said that our navy know little or nothing of the baltic, and when a war comes, as happened in the late war with russia, our ships are obliged, as it were, to feel their way about in the dark; that the russians send ships of war into british ports--why should not england send ships of war into russian ports? that we survey seas at the other side of the globe, why should we not survey a sea so near to us as the baltic; that as far as sweden is concerned, british ships would be most cordially received. i said that this should receive due consideration; and in answer to a question he said the best time for a baltic cruise would be from the middle of june to the latter end of august. they both thought the emperor of the french extremely popular in france--but, of course, they only saw outward demonstrations. they are very anxious for the maintenance of the anglo-french alliance; and they think the emperor obliged to keep a large army and to build a strong navy in order to please and satisfy the french nation. such is the summary of the impression made upon viscount palmerston by the answers and observations drawn out by him in his conversations with the king and the prince; most of these things were said as above reported, some few of the above statements are perhaps inferences and conclusions drawn from indirect answers and remarks. [pageheading: sweden and denmark] [pageheading: france and sweden] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ osborne, _ th august _. the queen is very much obliged to lord palmerston for his detailed account of his conversation with the king of sweden, and sends both memorandums back to him in accordance with his wishes, in the expectation of having them returned to her after they shall have been copied. the king may have been embarrassed by the presence of the crown prince of prussia here at osborne, and have on that account postponed speaking openly to lord palmerston. his desire to acquire denmark and finland is not unnatural, and would not be very dangerous; but the important part of the matter is, that the emperor napoleon has evidently tried to bribe him for his schemes by such expectations. after having established a large kingdom, dependent upon him and possessing a fleet, in the south of europe on his right flank, he evidently tries to establish by the same means a similar power on his left flank in the north. if then the revolution of poland and hungary takes germany also in the rear, he will be exactly in the all-powerful position which his uncle held, and at which he himself aims, with that one difference: that, unlike his uncle, who had to fight england all the time (who defended desperately her interests in europe), he tries to effect his purposes in alliance with england, and uses for this end our own _free_ press and in our own free country! the polish and hungarian revolutions (perhaps the russian) and the assistance which may be (nobly?) given to them by sweden, can easily be made as popular in this country as the italian has, and efforts to produce this result are fully visible already. the position and prospects of the ally, when the emperor shall have the whole continent at his feet, and the command of the mediterranean and the baltic, will not be a very pleasant one. moreover, the ally will probably have irritated him and the french nation all the time by abusing them, and by showing that, although we may have approved of her policy, we did not intend that france should reap any benefits from it. all this is probably not thought of by our journalists, but requires the serious attention of our statesmen. lord palmerston will perhaps show this letter to lord russell when he sends him the copies of the memoranda, which he will probably do. [pageheading: frogmore] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th august _. my beloved uncle,--before i thank you for your dear letter of the th, or at least before i answer it, i wish to tell you _how soothed_ i was by that visit to that _lovely_ peaceful _mausoleum at frogmore_. we parted from our dear children and grandchildren with heavy hearts at seven on the morning of the th, for their visit, excepting the _blank_ which clouds over everything, has been most peaceful and satisfactory, and we have learnt to know and most highly appreciate the great _excellence_ of dear fritz's character; noble, high-principled, so anxious to do what is right, and to improve in every way, and so sweet-tempered and affectionate--so, beyond everything, devoted to vicky. i thought much of poor, dear aunt julia on the th; _that loss_ was the _signal_ for my irreparable one! we went that afternoon ( th) to frogmore, where we slept. the first evening was terribly trying, and i must say quite overpowered me for a short time; _all_ looked _like life_, and yet _she_ was not there! but i got calmer; the very fact of being surrounded by all she liked, and of seeing the dear pretty house inhabited again, was a satisfaction, and the next morning was beautiful, and we went after breakfast with wreaths up to the mausoleum, and into the vault which is _à plain-pied_, and so pretty--so airy--_so_ grand and simple, that, affecting as it is, there was no anguish or bitterness of grief, but calm repose! we placed the wreaths upon the splendid granite sarcophagus, and at its feet, and _felt_ that _only_ the _earthly robe_ we loved so much was there. the pure, tender, loving spirit _which loved us_ so tenderly, is above us--loving us, praying for us, and _free_ from _all_ suffering and woe--_yes_, that _is_ a _comfort_, and that _first birthday_ in _another_ world must have been a _far_ brighter one than _any_ in this poor world below! i only grieve _now_ that we should be going so far away from frogmore, as i long to go there; only alice and dear augusta bruce[ ](who feels as a daughter of hers) went with us. the morning was so beautiful, and the garden _so_ lovely!... the news from austria are very sad, and make one very anxious. the king of sweden is full of wild notions put into his head by the emperor napoleon, for whom he has the greatest admiration!... it is high time i should end my long letter. with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : lady augusta bruce, who bad been living with the duchess of kent at the time of her death, was appointed by the queen to be her resident bedchamber woman.] [pageheading: visit to ireland] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ vice-regal lodge, phoenix park, _ th august _. my beloved uncle,--_not_ to miss your messenger i write a few hurried lines to thank you for your two dear letters of the th and the nd, the last of which i received yesterday morning here.... would to god that affairs in hungary took a favourable turn--_mais j'en ai bien peur_. we had a very good passage on wednesday night, since which it has blown very hard. we left osborne on wednesday morning ( st) at quarter to nine, and anchored in kingstown bay at half-past eleven that night. the next day ( nd) we landed at eleven and came here, and it rained the whole day. on saturday we all went over to the camp, where there was a field-day. it is a fine _emplacement_ with beautiful turf. we had two cooling showers. bertie marched past with his company, and did not look at all so very small. yesterday was again a very bad day. i have felt weak and very nervous, and so low at times; i think _so_ much of dearest mamma, and miss her love and interest and solicitude _dreadfully_; i feel as if we were no longer cared for, and miss writing to her and telling her everything, dreadfully. at the review they played one of her marches, which entirely upset me. good lord carlisle[ ] is most kind and amiable, and so much beloved. we start for killarney at half-past twelve. this is the _dearest of days_, and one which fills my heart with love, gratitude, and emotion. god bless and protect for ever my beloved albert--the purest and best of human beings! we miss our four little ones and baby sadly, but have our four eldest (except poor vicky) with us. now good-bye, dearest uncle. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : lord carlisle was viceroy in both the administrations of lord palmerston; as lord morpeth he had been chief secretary in the melbourne government.] _queen victoria to earl canning._ balmoral, _ th september _. the queen has not heard of lord canning for some time, but is happy to hear indirectly that he is well, and that everything is going on well under his admirable administration. it is most gratifying to the queen to see how peaceful her indian dominions are, and considering the very alarming state of affairs during the years , ' , and even ' , it must be a source of unbounded satisfaction and pride to lord canning to witness this state of prosperity at the end of his government. as lord canning will now soon return to england, the queen is anxious to offer him the rangership of the park at blackheath, with the house which dear lord aberdeen had for some years, hoping that he might find it acceptable and agreeable from its vicinity to london.[ ] [footnote : lord aberdeen had died on the th of december .] [pageheading: the orleans princes] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th october _. my beloved victoria,--receive my sincerest thanks for your dear letter of the th, which arrived very exactly. i am so happy to see all the good which your stay in the highlands has done you, and i am sure it will be _lasting_, though windsor must have the effect of reviving strongly some feelings.... when one looks back on those times, one must say that they were full of difficulties, and one ought to feel very grateful that such a happy present has grown out of them. i regret much paris and robert[ ] having joined the federal army, mixing in a civil war!! the object is to show courage, to be able to say: "_ils se sont beaucoup distingués_." they have a chance of being shot for abraham lincoln and the most rank radicalism. i don't think that step will please in france, where radicalism is at discount fortunately. the poor queen is very unhappy about it, but now nothing can be done, only one may wish to see them well out of it. poor queen! constantly new events painful to her assail her. i had rather a kind letter from the emperor napoleon about the state of mexico. i fear he will find his wishes to see there a stable government not much liked in england, though his plans are _not_ for any advantage france is to derive from it. to-morrow we go to liège to be in readiness for the following day. the king william iii.[ ] will arrive for dinner, stay the night, and go very early on sunday. he will be extremely well received here, his _procédé_ being duly appreciated. to be very civilly received in a country which one was heir to, is rather _un peu pénible_, and one feels a little awkward.... your devoted and only uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the comte de paris and the duc de chartres, sons of the duc d'orléans, eldest son of king louis philippe.] [footnote : the king of holland.] [pageheading: the court of hanover] _the duchess of manchester[ ] to queen victoria._ hanover [_undated. october _]. madam,--though your majesty has only very lately seen the princess royal, i cannot refrain from addressing your majesty, as i am sure your majesty will be pleased to hear how well her royal highness was looking during the man[oe]uvres on the rhine, and how much she seems to be beloved, not only by all those who know her, but also by those who have only seen and heard of her. the english could not help feeling proud of the way the princess royal was spoken of, and the high esteem she is held in. for one so young it is a most flattering position, and certainly as the princess's charm of manner and her kind unaffected words had in that short time won her the hearts of all the officers and strangers present, one was not astonished at the praise the prussians themselves bestow on her royal highness. the royal family is so large, and their opinions politically and socially sometimes so different, that it must have been very difficult indeed at first for the princess royal, and people therefore cannot praise enough the high principles, great discretion, sound judgment, and cleverness her royal highness has invariably displayed. your majesty would have been amused to hear general wrangel[ ] tell at the top of his voice how delighted the soldiers were to see the princess on horseback, and the interest she showed for them. what pleased them specially was to see her royal highness ride without a veil--such an odd thing in soldiers to remark. the king of prussia is looking very well, but the queen i thought very much altered. her majesty looks very pale and tired, and has such a painful drawn look about the mouth. how the queen will be able to go through all the fatigues of the coronation i do not know, as her majesty already complained of being tired, and knocked up by the man[oe]vres and dinners, and had to go to mentz for a few days to rest herself. their majesties' kindness was very great, and the duke told me of the extreme hospitality with which they were entertained. every one, high and low, were rivalling each other in civility and friendliness towards the strangers, especially the english, and one really felt quite ashamed of those wanton attacks the _times_ always makes on prussia, and which are read and copied into all the prussian papers. the last night all the officers dined together. general forey put himself into the president's place and insisted, to the exclusion of lord clyde, who was by far the senior officer, and who was expected to do it, on proposing the health of the king, the royal family, the army, and nation. not content with doing it in french, he drew out of his pocket a document written for him in german, for he did not know the language, and read it with the most extraordinary pronunciation. the english officers all admired the way the germans kept their countenance notwithstanding the absurdity of the exhibition. on the st they have had great doings here at hanover. i hear that to the astonishment of everybody the queen appeared at the _enthüllung_, where all other people were _en grande tenue_, in a little small round hat with a lilac feather. her maids of honour--she has only one now besides that english miss stewart--were ordered to wear hats to keep her majesty in countenance. i wonder if your majesty has read the speech the king has addressed to his people on the occasion of the _enthüllung_ and the crown prince's birthday. it cannot fail to excite the greatest pity that such things, however well meant, should be written. has your majesty also heard of the pamphlet that has been published here called _das welfe_--that name welfe is quite an _idée fixe_ of the king now, and he brings it in on every occasion, and this pamphlet is written throwing the whole idea into ridicule, and beginning with the last years of the late king's reign. the crown prince[ ] is very much liked, but, unfortunately, his new tutor will probably also leave very shortly--he has no authority over him, the prince still regretting m. de issendorf. besides, he is not allowed to exercise his judgment in the smallest way--the king going on the principle that a king only can educate a king. the reason the other tutor left, or was dismissed, was partly on account of his remonstrating against the religious instructions, which were carried so far that the prince had hardly any time left to learn other things. besides the prince, who dislikes the clergyman, had drawn a caricature, to which the man very much gives himself, and the king thought m. de issendorf had known of it, which turned out not to be the case.... i have the honour to remain, your majesty's most obedient and devoted servant and subject, louise manchester. [footnote : louise frederica augusta, wife of the seventh duke of manchester, and mistress of the robes. she was daughter of the count von alten of hanover, and is now dowager duchess of devonshire.] [footnote : the queen had met general von wrangel at babelsberg in august . "he is seventy-six," she wrote, "and a great character." he had commanded a division in the danish war of , and it had fallen to him in the same year, as commandant of the troops, to dissolve the berlin assembly by force.] [footnote : prince ernest augustus, born ; the present duke of cumberland.] [pageheading: coronation of king of prussia] [pageheading: a brilliant ceremony] [pageheading: distinguished guests] _the crown princess of prussia to queen victoria._ kÖnisberg, _ th october _. my beloved mamma,--last night i could not write to you as i would have wished, because i felt so knocked up that i went to bed. i have got such a very bad cold on my chest, with a cough that leaves me no rest, and of course cannot take care of myself, and am obliged to stand and sit in every sort of draught with a low gown and without a cloak, so it is no wonder to have caught cold. i have not had a cough since i don't know when. i should like to be able to describe yesterday's ceremony to you, but i cannot find words to tell you how fine and how touching it was; it really was a magnificent sight! the king looked so very handsome and so noble with the crown on; it seemed to suit him so exactly. the queen, too, looked beautiful, and did all she had to do with perfect grace, and looked so _vornehm_; i assure you the whole must have made a great impression on everybody present, and all those to whom i have talked on the subject quite share my feeling. the moment when the king put the crown on the queen's head was very touching, i think there was hardly a dry eye in the church. the _schlosshof_ was the finest, i thought--five bands playing "god save the queen," banners waving in all directions, cheers so loud that they quite drowned the sound of the music, and the procession moving slowly on, the sky without a cloud; and all the uniforms, and the ladies' diamonds glittering in the bright sunlight. i shall never forget it all, it was so very fine! dearest fritz's birthday being chosen for the day made me very happy; he was in a great state of emotion and excitement, as you can imagine, as we all were. mr thomas[ ] was in the chapel. i hope he will have been able to take down some useful memoranda. the grand duke of weimar,[ ] the king and ourselves, have ordered drawings of him. the _coup d'[oe]il_ was really beautiful; the chapel is in itself lovely, with a great deal of gold about it, and all hung with red velvet and gold--the carpet, altar, thrones and canopies the same. the knights of the black eagle with red velvet cloaks, the queen's four young ladies all alike in white and gold, the two palastdamen in crimson velvet and gold, and the oberhofmeisterin in gold and white brocade with green velvet, marianne and addy in red and gold and red and silver; i, in gold with ermine and white satin, my ladies, one in blue velvet, the other in red velvet, and countess schulenberg, together with the two other oberhofmeisterin of the other princesses, in violet velvet and gold. all these colours together looked very beautiful, and the sun shone, or rather poured in at the high windows, and gave quite magic tinges. the music was very fine, the chorales were sung so loud and strong that it really quite moved one. the king was immensely cheered, wherever he appeared--also the queen, and even i. there were illuminations last night, but i did not go to see them, as i was too tired and felt so unwell. there are five degrees of cold (réaumur), and one is exposed to draughts every minute. sixteen hundred people dined in the schloss last night! the king and queen were most kind to me yesterday; the king gave me a charming little locket for his hair, and only think--what will sound most extraordinary, absurd, and incredible to your ears--made me second _chef_ of the nd regiment of hussars! i laughed so much, because really i thought it was a joke--it seemed so strange for ladies; but the regiments like particularly having ladies for their _chefs!_ the queen and the queen dowager have regiments, but i believe i am the first princess on whom such an honour is conferred. the archduke addressed the king yesterday, in the name of all the foreign princes present, in a very pretty speech. it is such a pleasure to see good philip here, and the two portuguese cousins. juan[ ] is very nice, but he does not talk much; he has a very fine, tall figure, and is nice-looking. i should think he must be like his father. prince hohenzollern [ ] is become royal highness, and the title is to descend to his eldest son. half europe is here, and one sees the funniest combinations in the world. it is like a happy family shut up in a cage! the italian ambassador sat near cardinal geisel, and the french one opposite the archduke. the grand duke nicolas is here--he is so nice--also the crown prince of würtemberg,[ ] crown prince of saxony,[ ] prince luitpold of bavaria,[ ] prince charles of hesse[ ] (who nearly dies of fright and shyness amongst so many people), and heinrich; prince elimar of oldenburg,[ ] prince frederic of the netherlands,[ ] and the grand duke and duchess of weimar, who wish to be most particularly remembered to you and papa. the king and queen are most kind to lord clarendon, and make a marked difference between their marked cordiality to him and the stiff etiquette with which the other ambassadors are received. i think he is pleased with what he sees. the king has given the queen the order of the black eagle in diamonds. i write all these details, as you wish them, at the risk of their not interesting you, besides my being, as you know, a very bad hand at descriptions. i shall make a point of your having newspapers. i am unable to appear at the _cour_ this morning, as my cough is too violent: i hope to be able to be at the concert this evening, but i own it seems very doubtful. the state dinner looked very well; we were waited on by our _kammerherren_ and pages--the king being waited on by the _oberhofchargen_--and our ladies stood behind our chairs. after the first two dishes are round, the king asks to drink, and that is the signal for the ladies and gentlemen to leave the room and go to dinner, while the pages of honour continue to serve the whole dinner really wonderfully well, poor boys, considering it is no easy task. to-morrow we leave königsberg for dantzic--we have not had one day's bad weather here, nothing but sunshine and a bright blue sky. i was so glad that heaven smiled upon us yesterday, it would have been so sad if it had poured; it looked a little threatening early in the morning and a few drops fell, but it cleared completely before nine o'clock. fritz would thank you for your dear letters himself, but he is at the university, where they have elected him _rector magnificus_, and where he has to make a speech. we have all got our servants and carriages and horses here _every_ day-- footmen in livery, together with other servants in livery, make . all the standards and colours of the whole army are here, and all the colonels. altogether, you cannot imagine what a crush and what a scramble there is on every occasion; there was a man crushed to death in the crowd the other day, which is quite dreadful. i must say good-bye now, and send this scrawl by a messenger, whom lord clarendon means to expedite. ever your most dutiful and affectionate daughter, victoria. [footnote : george housman thomas, artist ( - ). the picture he produced on this occasion was entitled, _homage of the princess royal at the coronation of the king of prussia_.] [footnote : charles alexander, - , grandfather of the present grand duke.] [footnote : prince john, brother of king pedro, was making a tour with his elder brother, louis, the duc d'oporto.] [footnote : prince charles anthony of hohenzollern was the father of the young queen stéphanie of portugal, who had died in .] [footnote : prince charles frederick, - .] [footnote : prince albert, who became king in .] [footnote : brother of king maximilian ii.] [footnote : son of the elector frederick william i.] [footnote : brother of the reigning grand duke.] [footnote : uncle of the king of holland.] [pageheading: the princess royal] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ kÖnigsberg, _ th october _. lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly hopes that your majesty will not be displeased at his not having written sooner, but every moment has been occupied by _fêtes_ and ceremonies here, and the visits to royal personages, who are in great numbers, and lord clarendon also wished to delay sending off the messenger until the coronation was over. that most interesting and imposing ceremony took place yesterday, and with the most complete and unalloyed success; everything was conducted with the most perfect order; the service not too long, the vocal music enchanting, but _the_ great feature of the ceremony was the manner in which the princess royal did homage to the king. lord clarendon is at a loss for words to describe to your majesty the exquisite grace and the intense emotion with which her royal highness gave effect to her feelings on the occasion. many an older as well as younger man than lord clarendon, who had not his interest in the princess royal, were quite as unable as himself to repress their emotion at that which was so touching, because so unaffected and sincere.... if his majesty had the mind, the judgment, and the foresight of the princess royal, there would be nothing to fear, and the example and influence of prussia would soon be marvellously developed. lord clarendon has had the honour to hold a very long conversation with her royal highness, and has been more than ever astonished at the _statesmanlike_ and comprehensive views which she takes of the policy of prussia, both internal and foreign, and of the _duties_ of a constitutional king. lord clarendon is not at all astonished, but very much pleased, to find how appreciated and beloved her royal highness is by all classes. every member of the royal family has spoken of her to lord clarendon in terms of admiration, and through various channels he has had opportunities of learning how strong the feeling of educated and enlightened people is towards her royal highness. all persons say most truly that any one who saw her royal highness yesterday can never forget her. lord clarendon is sorry to say that the princess royal has a feverish cold to-day--nothing at all serious--and as her royal highness stayed in bed this afternoon, did not attend the great concert at the palace this evening, and, as lord clarendon hopes, will not go to dantzic to-morrow, her royal highness will probably be quite fit for the many fatiguing duties she will have to perform next week.... [pageheading: the emperor napoleon's aims] [pageheading: austria and prussia] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ berlin, _ th october _. lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to say that yesterday he had the honour of being sent for by the queen, with whom he had a long and interesting conversation.... the queen expressed her deep regret at the tone of the english newspapers, but admitted that the german press repaid the english insults with large interest. her majesty said, however, that she and the king, and all sensible men with whom their majesties hold communication, were determined to disregard the attacks, and by every possible means to draw nearer to england. lord clarendon took the opportunity of warning the queen respecting the emperor and his _idée fixe_, that his dynasty could only be secured by the territorial aggrandisement of france. lord clarendon expressed his conviction that if the king had resembled m. de cavour, some strong proposals would already have been made to them, but that the emperor's plans had been foiled by the honourable character of the king. there ought, nevertheless, to be no delusion here, but on the contrary, a careful avoidance of the traps which cajolery and flattery were setting for prussia, because at any moment the emperor might think it necessary for his own purposes in france to seize upon the left bank of the rhine, and that all classes in france, no matter to what party belonging, would be delighted at his so doing, and his popularity and power in france would be enormously increased by it. the queen agreed, but was under the notion, which lord clarendon was able effectually to dispel, that the dilapidated state of french finances would prevent the emperor from undertaking a war upon a large scale. lord clarendon thinks that he strengthened the queen's opinion respecting "eventualities" and the necessity of making preparations and evoking a national spirit against foreign aggression, such as that recently manifested in england, and which had done so much in favour of peace as far as we ourselves were concerned. her majesty, however, said that prussian policy towards germany opened so large a chapter that she wished to reserve the discussion of it for our next conversation. lord clarendon fears that count bernstorff is disposed to think that austria's difficulty is prussia's opportunity, and to be exigent as to the concessions upon which a better understanding between the two countries must be based. lord clarendon was confidentially informed yesterday that a cabinet had just been held for the first time since count bernstorff became a member of it, and that with respect to internal affairs he had greatly alarmed and annoyed some of his colleagues by his retrograde opinions. lord clarendon had the honour of dining with the crown prince and princess last night. the dinner was perfect, and everything conducted in the most admirable manner; there was afterwards a ball at "the queen's" which was really a splendid fête. the festivities and the visitings are so uninterrupted that everybody is unwell and tired. the duc de magenta's grand fête takes place on the th. the austrian minister gives a ball to-morrow (_sunday_), which day has unfortunately been fixed by the king, to the annoyance of all the english; but lord clarendon has determined that the embassy shall attend, otherwise the king might consider that we wished to give him a public lesson upon the observance of the sabbath. lord clarendon trusts that your majesty will approve the decision. lord granville's visit appears to be highly appreciated by the court. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ balmoral, _ st october _. my dearest uncle,--you will excuse a long letter as this is our last day, alas! many, many thanks for your dear letters of the th and th, which i received yesterday. i am glad to see that my account of our mountain expedition amused you, and that you remember all so well. if it could amuse you later, i would send you my _reisebeschreibung_ to read. i will have it copied and send it you later. we have had a most beautiful week, which we have thoroughly enjoyed--i going out every day about twelve or half-past, taking luncheon with us, carried in a basket on the back of a highlander, and served by an _invaluable_ highland servant i have, who is _my factotum here_, and takes the most wonderful care of me, combining the offices of groom, footman, page, and _maid_, i might almost say, as he is so handy about cloaks and shawls, etc. he always leads my pony, and always attends me out of doors, and _such_ a good, handy, _faithful_, attached servant i have nowhere; it is quite a sorrow for me to leave him behind. now, with albert's affectionate love, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: the _times_ and prussia] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th october _. the queen has long seen with deep regret the persevering efforts made by the _times_, which leads the rest of our press, in attacking, vilifying, and abusing everything german, and particularly everything prussian. that journal had since years shown the same bias, but it is since the macdonald affair of last year,[ ] that it has assumed that tone of virulence, which could not fail to produce the deepest indignation amongst the people of germany, and by degrees estrange the feelings of the people of this country from germany. lord palmerston, probably not reading any german newspaper, nor having any personal intercourse with that country, can hardly be aware to what extent the mischief has already gone, though he will agree with the queen that national hatred between these two peoples is a real political calamity for both. the queen had often intended to write to lord palmerston on the subject, and to ask him whether he would not be acting in the spirit of public duty if he endeavoured, as far at least as might be in his power, to point out to the managers of the _times_ (which derives some of its power from the belief abroad that it represents more or less the feelings of the government) how great the injury is which it inflicts upon the best interests of this country. she has, however, refrained from doing so, trusting in the chance of a change in tone, and feeling that lord palmerston might not like to enter into discussion with the editors of the _times_.... the queen believes that lord palmerston is the only person who could exercise any influence over mr delane, and even if this should not be much, it will be important that that gentleman should know the mischief his writings are doing, and that the government sincerely deplore it. [footnote : at bonn, in september , captain macdonald, a railway passenger, had been ejected from his seat in the train by the railway authorities, and committed to prison. the incident became the subject of considerable diplomatic correspondence, as well as of some fierce attacks on prussia in the _times_.] [pageheading: the english press] _mr delane to viscount palmerston._[ ] serjeant's inn, _ th october _. my dear lord,--i shall be very glad to give the prussians a respite from that most cruel of all inflictions--good advice. indeed, i would not have intruded anything so unwelcome during the splendid solemnities of the coronation had not the king uttered those surprising anachronisms upon divine right. pray observe, too, in extenuation of my offence that i sent a faithful chronicler to königsberg, who has described all the splendours in a proper and reverent spirit, and done what man can do to render such ceremonies intelligible, and the recital of them not too wearisome to those who believe in divine right as little as your lordship's very faithful servant, john t. delane. [footnote : enclosed in the following letter.] [pageheading: the _times_] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th october _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that when he received a few days ago from lord russell the memorandum which your majesty intended for him, and which he returned to lord russell, he wrote to mr delane in accordance with your majesty's wishes, and he has this morning received the accompanying answer. viscount palmerston would, however, beg to submit that an erroneous notion prevails on the continent as to english newspapers. the newspapers on the continent are all more or less under a certain degree of control, and the most prominent among them are the organs of political parties, or of leading public men; and it is not unnatural that governments and parties on the continent should think that english newspapers are published under similar conditions. but in this country all thriving newspapers are commercial undertakings, and are conducted on commercial principles, and none others are able long to maintain an existence. attempts have often been made to establish newspapers to be directed by political men, and to be guided by the same considerations by which those men would govern their own conduct, but such papers have seldom succeeded. the peelite party tried some years ago such an experiment with the _morning chronicle_, but after spending a very large sum of money on the undertaking they were obliged to give it up. the _times_ is carried on as a large commercial enterprise, though, of course, with certain political tendencies and bias, but mainly with a view to profit upon the large capital employed. the actual price at which each copy of the newspaper is sold barely pays the expense of paper, printing, and establishment; it is indeed said that the price does not repay those expenses. the profit of the newspaper arises from the price paid for advertisements, and the greater the number of advertisements the greater the profit. but advertisements are sent by preference to the newspaper which has the greatest circulation; and that paper gets the widest circulation which is the most amusing, the most interesting, and the most instructive. a dull paper is soon left off. the proprietors and managers of the _times_ therefore go to great expense in sending correspondents to all parts of the world where interesting events are taking place, and they employ a great many able and clever men to write articles upon all subjects which from time to time engage public attention; and as mankind take more pleasure in reading criticism and fault-finding than praise, because it is soothing to individual vanity and conceit to fancy that the reader has become wiser than those about whom he reads, so the _times_, in order to maintain its circulation, criticises freely everybody and everything; and especially events and persons, and governments abroad, because such strictures are less likely to make enemies at home than violent attacks upon parties and persons in this country. foreign governments and parties ought therefore to look upon english newspapers in the true point of view, and not to be too sensitive as to attacks which those papers may contain. [pageheading: democracy in prussia] _the earl of clarendon to queen victoria._ berlin, _ th november _. lord clarendon presents his humble duty to your majesty, and humbly begs to say that as he leaves berlin to-morrow, the princess royal has most kindly just given him an audience of leave, although her royal highness was still suffering considerable pain in her ear, and was quite unfit for any exertion. her royal highness's countenance bears traces of the severe illness of the last few days, but lord clarendon trusts that the worst is now over, and that care alone is necessary for her complete recovery. her royal highness is still so weak that she was obliged to desist from writing, which she attempted this morning, and lord clarendon took the liberty of earnestly recommending that the journey to breslau, upon which her royal highness appeared to be bent, should be given up. lord clarendon intends to repeat the same advice to the queen, whom he is to see this evening, as there are to be four days of rejoicings at breslau, for the fatigue of which the crown princess must be utterly unfit. her royal highness is much alarmed at the state of things here, and lord clarendon thinks with great reason, for the king has quite made up his mind as to the course that he will pursue. he sees democracy and revolution in every symptom of opposition to his will. his ministers are mere clerks, who are quite content to register the king's decrees, and there is no person from whom his majesty seeks advice, or indeed who is capable or would have the moral courage to give it. the king will always religiously keep his word, and will never overturn the institutions he has sworn to maintain, but they are so distasteful to him, and so much at variance with his habit of thought and settled opinions as to the rights of the crown, that his majesty will never, if he can avoid it, accept the consequences of representative government, or allow it to be a reality. this is generally known, and among the middle classes is producing an uneasy and resentful feeling, but as far as lord clarendon is able to judge, there is no fear of revolution--the army is too strong, and the recollection of is too fresh to allow of acts of violence. lord clarendon had the honour of an audience of the king on sunday. his majesty was most friendly and kind, but evidently unwell and irritable. lord clarendon therefore thought that it would be neither prudent nor useful to say the many things that the queen had wished that the king should hear from lord clarendon. he touched upon the subject of constitutional government, and his majesty said: "i have sworn to maintain our institutions, and i declare to you, and i wish you to inform your government, that i will maintain them." lord clarendon proposes to remain friday at brussels, and hopes to have the honour of seeing the king. [pageheading: death of king of portugal] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november _. my beloved uncle,--i hardly know _how_ to _write_, for my head reels and swims, and my heart is very sore![ ] _what_ an awful misfortune this is! how the hand of death seems bent on pursuing that poor, dear family! once so prosperous. poor ferdinand so proud of his children--of his five sons--now the eldest and _most_ distinguished, the head of the family, _gone_, and also another of fifteen, and the youngest _still_ ill! the two others at sea, and will land to-morrow in utter ignorance of everything, and poor, dear, good louis (whom i thought dreadfully low when we saw him and jean for an hour on friday) king! it is an almost incredible event! a terrible calamity for portugal, and a _real_ european loss! dear pedro was so good, so clever, so distinguished! he was so attached to my beloved albert, and the characters and tastes suited so well, and he had such confidence in albert! _all, all gone!_ _he_ is happy now, united again to dear stéphanie,[ ] whose loss he never recovered.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : king pedro of portugal died of typhoid fever on the th of november; his brother ferdinand had died on the th; and prince john, duke of beja, succumbed in the following december.] [footnote : the young queen stéphanie of portugal had died in .] [pageheading: the affair of the _trent_] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th november _. ... viscount palmerston met yesterday at dinner at baron brunnow's the grand duke constantine and the grand duchess, and they were overflowing with thankfulness for the kind and gracious reception they had met with at windsor castle. there was reason to suspect that an american federal steamer of war of eight guns, which had lately arrived at falmouth, and from thence at southampton, was intended to intercept the mail packet coming home with the west indian mail, in order to take out of her messrs mason and slidell, the two envoys from the southern confederacy, supposed to be coming in her.[ ] viscount palmerston had on monday a meeting at the treasury of the chancellor, doctor lushington, the three law officers,[ ] the duke of somerset, sir george grey, and mr hammond.[ ] the result of their deliberation was that, according to the law of nations, as laid down by lord stowell, and practised and enforced by england in the war with france, the northern union being a belligerent is entitled by its ships of war to stop and search any neutral merchantmen, and the west india packet is such; to search her if there is reasonable suspicion that she is carrying enemy's despatches, and if such are found on board to take her to a port of the belligerent, and there to proceed against her for condemnation. such being ruled to be the law, the only thing that could be done was to order the _phaeton_ frigate to drop down to yarmouth roads from portsmouth, and to watch the american steamer, and to see that she did not exercise this belligerent right within the three-mile limit of british jurisdiction, and this was done. but viscount palmerston sent yesterday for mr adams to ask him about this matter, and to represent to him how unwise it would be to create irritation in this country merely for the sake of preventing the landing of mr slidell, whose presence here would have no more effect on the policy of your majesty with regard to america than the presence of the three other southern deputies who have been here for many months. mr adams assured viscount palmerston that the american steamer had orders not to meddle with any vessel under any foreign flag; that it came to intercept the _nashville_, the confederate ship in which it was thought the southern envoys might be coming; and not having met with her was going back to the american coast to watch some merchantmen supposed to be taking arms to the southern ports. viscount palmerston heard from a source likely to be well informed that at the interview between the emperor and the king of prussia at compiègne, the emperor, among other things, said to the king that there were three systems of alliance between which france and prussia might choose: an alliance of france with england, an alliance of prussia with england, an alliance of france with prussia. the first the emperor said now to a certain degree exists, but is precarious and not likely to last long, because england is too exacting; the second would not be useful to prussia, but might be dangerous, inasmuch as it would look like hostility to france, and england would not be likely to back prussia effectually if a rupture took place between prussia and france. the last was the system best for prussia, and was calculated to promote her interests; at all events, the emperor hoped that if at any time there should be a rupture between france and england, prussia would remain neutral. the king of prussia said he was not come to discuss matters of that kind with the emperor, but only to pay him a visit of compliment. your majesty will be able to compare this statement with the accounts your majesty may have received of what passed at that visit.... the chancellor[ ] told the cabinet as he was going away that he would soon have to shut up the court of chancery in consequence of having disposed of all the suits before it; and that in future the progress of a chancery suit will be the emblem of rapidity, and not as formerly synonymous with endless delay. [footnote : see _ante_, introductory note to chapter xxx.] [footnote : sir william atherton, attorney-general, sir roundell palmer, solicitor-general, and dr phillimore, counsel to the admiralty.] [footnote : permanent under-secretary of state for foreign affairs, afterwards lord hammond.] [footnote : lord westbury.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november _. my beloved uncle,--... albert is a little rheumatic, which is a plague--but it is very difficult not to have something or other of this kind in this season, with these rapid changes of temperature; _unberufen, unberufen_, he is much better this winter than he was the preceding years.[ ] ... [footnote : the prince had been unwell, even before the receipt of the distressing news from portugal, and began to suffer from a somewhat continuous insomnia. on the nd of november, he drove to sandhurst to inspect the new buildings in progress there. the day was very wet, and, though he returned in the middle of the day to windsor, the exertion proved too severe for him; on the th he complained of rheumatic pains, and of prolonged sleeplessness.] [pageheading: redress demanded] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th november _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to state that the cabinet at its meeting this afternoon resumed the consideration of the forcible capture of the southern envoys from on board the _trent_ steamer upon which the law officers had yesterday given the opinion contained in the accompanying report. the law officers and doctor phillimore, counsel to the admiralty, were in attendance. the result was that it appeared to the cabinet that a gross outrage and violation of international law has been committed, and that your majesty should be advised to demand reparation and redress. the cabinet is to meet again to-morrow at two, by which time lord russell will have prepared an instruction to lord lyons for the consideration of the cabinet, and for submission afterwards to your majesty. the general outline and tenor which appeared to meet the opinions of the cabinet would be, that the washington government should be told that what has been done is a violation of international law, and of the rights of great britain, and that your majesty's government trust that the act will be disavowed and the prisoners set free and restored to british protection; and that lord lyons should be instructed that if this demand is refused he should retire from the united states. it is stated by mrs and miss slidell, who are now in london, that the northern officer who came on board the _trent_ said that they were acting on their own responsibility without instructions from washington; that very possibly their act might be disavowed and the prisoners set free on their arrival at washington. but it was known that the _san jacinto_, though come from the african station, had arrived from thence several weeks before, and had been at st thomas, and had there received communications from new york; and it is also said that general scott, who has recently arrived in france, has said to americans in paris that he has come not on an excursion of pleasure, but on diplomatic business; that the seizure of these envoys was discussed in cabinet at washington, he being present, and was deliberately determined upon and ordered; that the washington cabinet fully foresaw it might lead to war with england; and that he was commissioned to propose to france in that case to join the northern states in war against england, and to offer france in that case the restoration of the french province of canada. general scott will probably find himself much mistaken as to the success of his overtures; for the french government is more disposed towards the south than the north, and is probably thinking more about cotton than about canada.... [pageheading: an ultimatum] _earl russell to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th november _. lord russell presents his humble duty to your majesty; mr gladstone has undertaken to explain to your majesty what has taken place at the cabinet to-day. lord russell proposes to frame a draft for to-morrow's cabinet of a despatch to lord lyons, directing him to ask for the release of messrs mason and slidell and their two companions, and an apology. in case these requirements should be refused, lord lyons should ask for his passports. the lord chancellor and the law officers of the crown are clear upon the law of the case. lord russell will be glad to have your majesty's opinion on the draft which will go to your majesty about four o'clock to-morrow, without loss of time, as the packet goes to-morrow evening.[ ] [footnote : the draft of the despatch to lord lyons reached windsor on the evening of the th, and, in spite of his weak and suffering state, the prince prepared the draft of the queen's letter early the following morning. the letter has been printed in _facsimile_ by sir theodore martin, who adds that it has a special value as "representing the last political memorandum written by the prince, while it was at the same time inferior to none of them, as will presently be seen, in the importance of its results. it shows, like most of his memorandums, by the corrections in the queen's hand, how the minds of both were continually brought to bear upon the subjects with which they dealt."] [pageheading: the prince's last letter] _queen victoria to earl russell._ windsor castle, _ st december _. _note in the queen's handwriting._ [this draft was the last the beloved prince ever wrote; he was very unwell at the time, and when he brought it in to the queen, he said: "i could hardly hold my pen." victoria r.] the queen returns these important drafts, which upon the whole she approves, but she cannot help feeling that the main draft, that for communication to the american government, is somewhat meagre. she should have liked to have seen the expression of a hope that the american captain did not act under instructions, or, if he did, that he misapprehended them--that the united states government must be fully aware that the british government could not allow its flag to be insulted, and the security of her mail communications to be placed to jeopardy, and her majesty's government are unwilling to believe that the united states government intended wantonly to put an insult upon this country, and to add to their many distressing complications by forcing a question of dispute upon us, and that we are therefore glad to believe that upon a full consideration of the circumstances, and of the undoubted breach of international law committed, they would spontaneously offer such redress as alone could satisfy this country, viz. the restoration of the unfortunate passengers and a suitable apology. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december _. my dearest uncle,--i have many excuses to make for not writing yesterday, but i had a good deal to do, as my poor dear albert's rheumatism has turned out to be a regular influenza, which has pulled and lowered him very much. since monday he has been confined to his room. it affects his appetite and sleep, which is very disagreeable, and you know he is always _so_ depressed when anything is the matter with him. however, he is decidedly better to-day, and i hope in two or three days he will be quite himself again. it is extremely vexatious, as he was so particularly well till he caught these colds, which came upon worries of various kinds.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: illness of the prince] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december _. my beloved uncle,--i am thankful to report decidedly better of my beloved albert. he has had much more sleep, and has taken much more nourishment since yesterday evening. altogether, this nasty, feverish sort of influenza and deranged stomach is _on_ the mend, but it will be slow and tedious, and though there has _not_ been one alarming symptom, there has been such restlessness, such sleeplessness, and such (till to-day) _total_ refusal of all food, that it made one _very, very_ anxious, and i can't describe the _anxiety_ i have gone through! i feel to-day a good deal shaken, for for four nights i got only two or three hours' sleep. we have, however, every reason to hope the recovery, though it may be _somewhat_ tedious, will not be _very_ slow. you shall hear again to-morrow. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: hope not abandoned] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december _. my beloved uncle,--i enclose you clark's report, which i think you may like to hear. our beloved invalid goes on well--but it _must_ be tedious, and i need not tell you _what_ a trial it is to me. every day, however, is bringing us nearer the end of this tiresome illness, which is much what i had at ramsgate, only that i was much worse, and not at first well attended to. you shall hear daily. you will, i know, feel for me! the night was excellent; the first good one he had. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. the americans _may_ possibly get out of it. _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th december _. my beloved victoria,--_how i do feel for you from the bottom of my heart_; that you should have this totally unexpected tribulation of having dear albert unwell, when not long ago we rejoiced that he was bearing this time of the year so well. now we must be very patient, as an indisposition of this description at this time of the year is generally mending slowly. the great object must be to arrange all the little details exactly as the patient may wish them; that everything of that description may move very smoothly is highly beneficial. patients are very different in their likings; to the great horror of angelic louise, the moment i am ill i become almost invisible, disliking to see anybody. other people are fond of company, and wish to be surrounded. the medical advisors are, thank god! excellent, and clark knows albert so well. albert will wish you not to interrupt your usual airings; you want air, and to be deprived of it would do you harm. the temperature here at least has been extremely mild--this ought to be favourable. i trust that every day will now show some small improvement, and it will be very kind of you to let me frequently know how dear albert is going on. believe me ever, my beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december _. dearest uncle,--i can report another good night, and _no_ loss of strength, and continued satisfactory symptoms. but more we dare _not_ expect for some days; _not_ losing ground is a _gain, now_, of _every_ day. it is very sad and trying for me, but i am well, and i think really _very_ courageous; for it is the first time that _i_ ever witnessed anything of this kind though _i_ suffered from the same at ramsgate, and was much worse. the trial in every way is so very trying, for i have lost my guide, my support, my all, _for a time_--as we can't ask or tell him anything. many thanks for your kind letter received yesterday. we have been and are reading von ense's book[ ] to albert; but it is _not_ worth much. he likes very much being read to as it soothes him. w. scott is also read to him. you shall hear again to-morrow, dearest uncle, and, please god! each day will be more cheering. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the _memoirs_ of varnhagen von ense ( - ), who served for some years in the austrian and the russian armies, and was later in the prussian diplomatic service.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december _. my beloved uncle,--i can again report favourably of our _most_ precious invalid. he maintains his ground well--had another very good night--takes plenty of nourishment, and shows surprising strength. i am constantly in and out of his room, but since the _first four dreadful_ nights, _last_ week, _before_ they had declared it to be _gastric fever_--i do not sit up with him at night as i could be of no use; and there is nothing to cause alarm. i go out twice a day for about an hour. it is a very trying time, for a fever with its despondency, weakness, and occasional and _invariable_ wandering, is most painful to witness--but we have _never_ had _one unfavourable_ symptom; to-morrow, reckoning from the nd, when dear albert first fell ill--after going on a wet day to look at some buildings--having likewise been unusually depressed with worries of different kinds--is the _end_ of the _third week_; we _may_ hope for improvement _after_ that, but the doctors say they should _not_ be _at all disappointed if_ this did _not_ take place till the _end_ of the _fourth week_. i cannot sufficiently praise the skill, attention, and devotion of dr jenner,[ ] who is the _first fever_ doctor in europe, one may say--and good old clark is here every day; good brown is also _most_ useful.... we have got dr watson[ ] (who succeeded dr chambers[ ]) and sir h. holland[ ] has also been here. but i have kept clear of these two. albert sleeps a good deal in the day. he is moved every day into the next room on a sofa which is made up as a bed. he has only _kept_ his bed entirely since monday. many, many thanks for your dear, kind letter of the th. i knew how _you_ would _feel_ for and think of me. i am very wonderfully supported, and, excepting on three occasions, have borne up very well. i am sure clark will tell you so. ever your most devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : dr (afterwards sir) william jenner, k.c.b. ( - ), was at this time physician-extraordinary to the queen.] [footnote : afterwards sir thomas watson ( - ), f.r.s.] [footnote : dr. william frederick chambers ( - ) was well known as a consulting physician.] [footnote : sir henry holland ( - ) was physician-in-ordinary to the queen and the prince consort.] _general grey to sir charles wood._ windsor castle, _ th december _. my dear wood,--the queen desires me to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and to say that she quite approves of the purport of your despatch to the governor-general, understanding it to be, not that there is to be any reduction of the artillery force which it had been determined to leave permanent in india as the proper establishment for that country, but simply that some batteries which it had been resolved to bring home, at all events, are to return somewhat sooner than had been intended, etc., etc., etc., grey. [pageheading: death of the prince] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th december _. my _own_ dearest, kindest _father_,--for as such have i _ever_ loved you! the poor fatherless baby of eight months is now the utterly broken-hearted and crushed widow of forty-two! my _life_ as a _happy_ one is _ended!_ the world is gone for _me!_ if i _must live_ on (and i will do nothing to make me worse than i am), it is henceforth for our poor fatherless children--for my unhappy country, which has lost _all_ in losing him--and in _only_ doing what i know and _feel_ he would wish, for he _is_ near me--his spirit will guide and inspire me! but oh! to be cut off in the prime of life--to see our pure, happy, quiet, domestic life, which _alone_ enabled me to bear my _much_ disliked position, cut off at forty-two--when i _had_ hoped with such instinctive certainty that god never _would_ part us, and would let us grow old together (though _he_ always talked of the shortness of life)--is _too awful_, too cruel! and yet it _must_ be for _his_ good, his happiness! his purity was too great, his aspiration _too high_ for this poor, _miserable_ world! his great soul is _now only_ enjoying _that_ for which it _was_ worthy! and i will _not_ envy him--only pray that _mine_ may be perfected by it and fit to be with him eternally, for which blessed moment i earnestly long. dearest, dearest uncle, _how_ kind of you to come! it will be an unspeakable _comfort_, and you _can do_ much to tell people to do what they ought to do. as for my _own good, personal_ servants--poor phipps in particular--nothing can be more devoted, heartbroken as they are, and anxious only to live as _he_ wished! good alice has been and is wonderful.[ ] the th will suit me perfectly. ever your devoted, wretched child, victoria r. [footnote : by a singular coincidence, the princess was to pass away on the anniversary of the prince's death. she died on the th of december .] [pageheading: death of lady canning] _sir charles wood to queen victoria._ _ nd december ._ sir charles wood, with his humble duty, begs to enclose to your majesty two letters from india, one giving an account of lord canning's investing the indian chiefs with the star of india; and the other an account of poor lady canning's illness and death, which, even at this sad moment, may not be without interest for your majesty. sir charles wood hopes that he may be forgiven if, when having to address your majesty, he ventures to lay before your majesty the expression of his heartfelt sympathy in the sorrow under which your majesty is now suffering, and his deep sense of the irreparable calamity which has befallen your majesty and the country. though it cannot be any consolation, it must be gratifying to your majesty to learn the deep and universal feeling of regret and sorrow which prevails amongst all classes of your majesty's subjects, and in none so strongly as in those who have had the most opportunity of appreciating the inestimable value of those services, of which by this awful dispensation of providence the country has been deprived. [pageheading: death of lady canning] _earl canning to queen victoria._ barrackpore, _ nd november _.[ ] lord canning presents his humble duty to your majesty. your majesty will have heard by the last mail of the heavy blow which has fallen upon lord canning. the kindness of your majesty to lady canning has been so invariable and so great that he feels it to be right that your majesty should receive a sure account of her last illness with as little delay as possible. the funeral is over. it took place quite privately at sunrise on the th. there is no burial-place for the governor-general or his family, and the cemeteries at calcutta are odious in many ways: lord canning has therefore set a portion of the garden at barrackpore (fifteen miles from calcutta) apart for the purpose. it is a beautiful spot--looking upon that reach of the grand river which she was so fond of drawing--shaded from the glare of the sun by high trees--and amongst the bright shrubs and flowers in which she had so much pleasure. your majesty will be glad, but not surprised, to know of the deep respect which has been paid to her memory, not only by the familiar members of the household and intimate friends, who refused to let any hired hands perform the last offices, but by the civil and military bodies, and by the community at large. the coffin was conveyed to barrackpore by the artillery, and was borne through the garden by english soldiers. lord canning feels sure that your majesty will not consider these details as an intrusion. he feels sure of your majesty's kind sympathy. she loved your majesty dearly, and lord canning is certain that he is doing what would have been her wish in thus venturing to write to your majesty. in the last connected conversation which he had with her, just before the illness became really threatening, she said that she must write again to the queen, "for i don't want her to think that it was out of laziness that i was not at allahabad." the fact is, that she had always intended to be present at the investiture, and had made all her arrangements to go from darjeeling to allahabad for the purpose; but lord canning, hearing of the bad state of the roads, owing to the heavy and unseasonable rains, and knowing how fatiguing an additional journey of nearly miles would be, had entreated her to abandon the intention, and to stay longer in the hills, and then go straight to calcutta. whether all might have gone differently if the first plan had been held to, god alone knows. his will has been done. [footnote : received on the nd of december, or thereabouts.] [pageheading: a noble resolve] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ osborne, _ th december _. my beloved uncle,--though, please god! i am to see you so soon, i must write these few lines to prepare you for the trying, sad existence you will find it with your poor forlorn, desolate child--who drags on a weary, pleasureless existence! i am also anxious to repeat _one_ thing, and _that one_ is _my firm_ resolve, my _irrevocable decision_, viz. that _his_ wishes--_his_ plans--about everything, _his_ views about _every_ thing are to be _my law!_ and _no human power_ will make me swerve from _what he_ decided and wished--and i look to _you_ to _support_ and _help_ me in this. i apply this particularly as regards our children--bertie, etc.--for whose future he had traced everything _so_ carefully. i am _also determined_ that _no one_ person, may _he_ be ever so good, ever so devoted among my servants--is to lead or guide or dictate _to me_. i know _how he_ would disapprove it. and i live _on_ with him, for him; in fact _i_ am only _outwardly_ separated from him, and _only_ for _a time_. _no one_ can tell you more of my feelings, and can put you more in possession of many touching facts than our excellent dr jenner, who has been and is my great comfort, and whom i would _entreat_ you to _see and hear_ before you see _any one else_. pray do this, for _i fear much_ others trying to see you first and say things and wish for things which i _should not_ consent to. though miserably weak and utterly shattered, my spirit rises when i think _any_ wish or plan of his is to be touched or changed, or i am to be _made to do_ anything. i know you will help me in my utter darkness. it is but for a short time, and _then_ i go--_never, never_ to part! oh! that blessed, blessed thought! he seems so _near_ to _me_, so _quite my own_ now, my precious darling! god bless and preserve you. ever your wretched but devoted child, victoria r. what a xmas! i won't think of it. [pageheading: business still transacted] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ piccadilly, _ th december _. viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has read with deep emotion your majesty's letter of the th, every word of which went straight to the heart. viscount palmerston would, however, humbly express a hope that the intensity of your majesty's grief may not lead your majesty to neglect your health, the preservation of which is so important for the welfare of your majesty's children, and for that of your majesty's devotedly attached and affectionate subjects; and which is so essentially necessary to enable your majesty to perform those duties which it will be the object of your majesty's life to fulfil. lord granville has communicated to viscount palmerston your majesty's wish that mr dilke[ ] should be made a baronet, and that mr bowring[ ] should be made a companion of the bath, and both of these things will be done accordingly. but there are three other persons whose names viscount palmerston has for some time wished to submit to your majesty for the dignity of baronet, and if your majesty should be graciously pleased to approve of them, the list would stand as follows: mr dilke. mr william brown,[ ] of liverpool, a very wealthy and distinguished merchant, who lately made a magnificent present of a public library to his fellow-citizens. mr thomas davies lloyd, a rich and highly respectable gentleman of the county of carnarvon. mr rich, to whom the government is under great obligation, for having of his own accord and without any condition vacated last year his seat for richmond in yorkshire, and having thus enabled the government to obtain the valuable services of mr roundell palmer as your majesty's solicitor-general. viscount palmerston has put into this box some private letters which lord russell thinks your majesty might perhaps like to look at. [footnote : sir charles wentworth dilke was on the executive committee of the exhibition of , and on the royal commission for the exhibition of . he died in .] [footnote : mr edgar bowring's companionship was conferred on him for services in connection with the earlier exhibition. he was afterwards m.p. for exeter, - .] [footnote : mr brown became a baronet in .] [pageheading: comfort and hope] _queen victoria to earl canning._ osborne, _ th january _. lord canning little thought when he wrote his kind and touching letter of the nd november, that it would only reach the queen when _she_ was _smitten_ and _bowed_ down to the earth by an event similar to the one which he describes--and, strange to say, by a disease greatly analogous to the one which took from him _all_ that he loved best. in the case of her adored, precious, perfect, and great husband, her dear lord and master, to whom this nation owed more than it ever can truly know, however, the fever went on most favourably till the day previous to the awful calamity, and then it was congestion of the lungs and want of strength of circulation (the beloved prince had always a weak and feeble pulse), which at the critical moment, indeed only two hours before god took him, caused this awful result. to lose one's partner in life is, as lord canning knows, like losing _half_ of one's _body_ and _soul_, torn forcibly away--and dear lady canning was such a dear, worthy, devoted wife! but to the queen--to a poor helpless woman--it is not that only--it is the stay, support and comfort which is lost! to the queen it is like _death_ in life! great and small--_nothing_ was done without his loving advice and help--and she feels _alone_ in the wide world, with many helpless children (except the princess royal) to look to her--and the whole nation to look to her--_now_ when she can barely struggle with her wretched existence! her misery--her utter despair--she _cannot_ describe! her _only_ support--the _only_ ray of comfort she gets for _a moment_, is in the _firm conviction_ and certainty of his nearness, his undying love, and of their eternal reunion! only she prays always, and pines for the latter with an anxiety she cannot describe. like dear lady canning, the queen's darling is to rest in a garden--at frogmore, in a mausoleum the queen is going to build for him and herself. though ill, the queen was able to tell her precious angel of lord canning's bereavement, and he was deeply grieved, recurring to it several times, and saying, "what a loss! she was such a distinguished person!" may god comfort and support lord canning, and may he think in his sorrow of his widowed and broken-hearted sovereign--bowed to the earth with the greatest of human sufferings and misfortunes! she lived but _for_ her husband! the sympathy of the many thousands of her subjects, but above all their sorrow and their admiration for him, are soothing to her bleeding, pierced heart! the queen's precious husband, though wandering occasionally, was conscious till nearly the last, and knew her and kissed her an hour before his pure spirit fled to its worthy and fit eternal home! index _(the page references in italics refer to introductory notes or footnotes.)_ abd-el-kader, i, _ _, _ _; ii. _ _, abercorn, marchioness of, i. abercrombie, dr, physician, i. abercromby, james, _see_ dunfermline, lord abercromby, sir ralph, iii. aberdeen, earl of, foreign secretary, i. , ; political power and views, i. _ _, _ _; palmerston's opinion of, i. ; emperor nicholas, ii. _ _; queen's appreciation of, ii. , , ; iii. , , ; corn laws, ii. ; takes leave of the queen, ii. ; ii. , , , , , ; failure to form a government, ii. , , ; ii. _ ,_ ; forms a government, ii. - ; lord derby's attack on, ii. _ _; queen victoria's approval of, ii. ; eastern question, ii. _ _, - , - , , _ _- ; india bill, ii. ; as to giving up office, ii. ; on lord palmerston's resignation, ii. , ; crimea, iii. _ _, ; anomalous position of prince consort, iii. , ; orleans family, iii. ; declaration of war with russia, iii. , _ _, _ _; unsatisfactory speech, iii, ; lord john russell's possible resignation, iii. - ; queen's confidence in, iii. ; knight of the garter, iii. , ; lord john russell's resignation, iii. , ; government's resignation on result of roebuck's motion, iii. - ; lord john russell, iii. _ _; government of , iii. - ; iii. ; on oudh proclamation, iii. ; and w. e. gladstone, iii. _ _; death, iii. _ _ about, edmond, french writer, iii. accession, queen victoria's reminiscences of, i. achmet bey, i. adams, mr, iii. adélaïde, madame, king louis philippe's sister, death, ii. - ; will, ii. adelaide, queen (wife of william iv.), parentage and marriage, i. , ; character, i. ; interests in life, i. ; letter on queen's accession, i. ; on queen's coronation, i. ; protestant church at valetta, i. ; letters, i. , , ; visits a convent, i. ; letter, i. ; death, ii. adelaide, princess, of hohenlohe, question of marriage, ii. _ _, , adélaïde, queen marie, of sardinia, death, iii. _ _ adolphus, john, _history of england_, i. adrianople, treaty of, i. adriatic, reported demonstration in, ii. Æmilia, the, iii. _ _ afghanistan, dost mahommed dethroned, i. _ _; surrender, i. _ _; insurrection, i. _ _; disasters retrieved, proclamation, i. _ _; troubles, i. , ; fall of cabul, i. ; successful issue, i. ; medals, i. ; operations against afghans, ii. africa, south, the transvaal and orange free states, ii. _ _; iii. agriculture, motion on distress of, ii. -_ _; protection, ii. ; _see_ corn laws airey, sir richard, quartermaster-general, iii. _ _ ak mussid, iii. akbar khan (son of dost mahommed), i. _ _, _ _, aland islands, iii. alava, miguel ricardo di, spanish general, i. alba, duke of, ii. _ _ ---- duchess of, death, iii. _ _ albemarle, sixth earl of, master of the horse, i. , , , albert, archduke, ii. ---- edward, _see_ wales, prince of ---- prince, _see_ consort, prince albertine branch of house of saxe-coburg, history of, i. aldershot, review of crimean troops, iii. _ _ alexander, grand duke (afterwards czar alexander ii.), iii. _ _, ; crowned at moscow, iii. _ _; his character, iii. alexandria, i. alford, dean of canterbury, iii. alfred, prince, birth, ii. _ _; iii. ; visit to the cape, iii. , ; visit to ireland, iii. _ _; joins the _euryalus_, iii. _ _ algiers, i. _ _ ali, mehemet, pasha of egypt, i. _ _, , _ _, ; ultimatum, i. _ _, - ; resigns claim to syria, i. _ _ alibaud, i. alice, princess, birth and christening, i. , ; iii. ; birthday, iii. ; engagement to prince louis of hesse, iii. , , - ; prince consort's death, iii. allahabad, mutiny, iii. _ _ allen, mr, librarian, holland house, i. allt-na-giuthasach, shiel of, queen's visits to, ii. , alma, victory of, iii. _ _, _ ,_ , _ _ amritsar, ii. anarchists, ii. anglesey, marquess of, i. ; ii. annual summary of events, - , i. _ _; , i. _ _; , i. _ _; , i. _ _; , i. _ _; , i. _ _; , i. _ _; , i. _ _; , i. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , ii. _ _; , iii. _ _; , iii. _ _; , iii. _ _; , iii. _ _; , iii. _ _; , iii. _ _; , iii. _ _; , iii. _ _ anson, george, i. ; private secretary to prince albert, i. _ _, ; interviews with baron stockmar, i. , , ; interviews with lord melbourne, i. , , , , , , , , ; interviews with sir robert peel, i. , , , ; memoranda by, i. , , , , , ; illness, i. ; ii. , , ---- sir george, i. antonelli, cardinal, iii. antwerp, queen's visit to, ii. _ _; ii. apponyi, count, austrian ambassador, i. apprenticeship in jamaica, i. _ _ aquila, comte d', ii. _ _ arbuthnot, colonel, i. , ardenne, ii. argyll, eighth duke of, lord privy seal, ii. ; government of , iii. ; privy seal, iii. ; divorce bill, iii. ; lord privy seal, iii. ; abolition of paper duty, iii. argyll, duchess of, ii. "aristocratic," meaning of, i. army (_see_ militia), estimates i. ; civil government of, i. ; bravery of troops, ii. ; victory, ii. ; peninsular medals, ii. - ; officers' commissions, ii. ; in india, ii. ; prince consort, ii. ; military appointments, ii. ; national defences, ii. - ; queen on augmentation of, iii. ; embarkation for the crimea, iii. ; reserve to be sent out, iii. ; bomarsund, iii. _ _; battle of the alma, iii. ; indian contingents, iii. ; balaklava, iii. ; sebastopol, iii. , _ _; inkerman, iii. _ _; foreign enlistment bill, iii. _ _; fall of sebastopol, iii. _ _; privations of the army, iii. - ; new board, iii. ; laxity of discipline, iii. ; land transport, iii. ; retrenchments, iii. ; peace establishment, iii. ; review of crimean troops at aldershot, iii. _ _, , ; military education, iii. , ; indian mutiny, iii. _ _, , ; militia embodied, iii. ; queen's view on need of increasing, iii. , ; vote of thanks to, iii. _ _; question of control, iii. ; indivisibility of, iii. ; committee on military departments, iii. arnold, dr, ii. _arrow_, chinese dispute, iii. _ _, _ _ arthur, prince (afterwards duke of connaught), christening, ii. ; iii. ; birthday, iii. ; iii. ascot, queen's visit to the races, ii. ashburton, baron, i. , ashley, lord, afterwards earl of shaftesbury, i. ; labour bill, i. _ _; factory labour bill, ii. ; duchy of lancaster, iii. ; oudh proclamation, iii. _ _, _ _ asis, don francisco de, ii. _ _, aston, mr (diplomatic service), i. , , athens, revolution at, i. ; ii. _ _ atherton, sir william, attorney-general, iii. _ _ athole, duchess of, ii. attock, fort of, captured, ii. attwood, thomas, birmingham political union, i. , auchterarder, church case, i. _ _ auckland, baron (afterwards earl of), governor-general of india, i. _ _; policy in afghanistan, i. _ _, , , ; ii. , audley, baron, i. augusta, of cambridge, princess, afterwards grand duchess-dowager of mecklenburg-strelitz, i. , , ; ii. ; iii. ---- princess, of saxony, i. ---- princess, daughter of george iii., i. ; death, i. augustus, prince, of saxe-coburg, _see_ saxe-coburg augustus, prince ernest, afterwards duke of cumberland, iii. _ _ aulaire, ste., ambassador, i. , , aumale, duc d', i. , , ; ii. , ; gallantry, ii. -_ _, , ; visit to new lodge, iii. australasian colonies, self-government of, iii. _ _ australia, emigration to, i. _ _; wine from, ii. austria, empress elizabeth of, iii. ---- emperor of (francis joseph), ii. ; attempted assassination of, ii. _ _; king leopold's opinion of, ii. , ; queen's letter to, iii. , ; reply, iii. , ; proposed meeting with the queen, iii. , ---- and the porte, i. ; abdication of emperor, ii. _ _; pope declares war against, ii. _ _; ascendency in lombardy, ii. ; and italy, ii. ; war with the piedmontese, ii. _ _, _ _, , , ; and england, ii. , , , , , ; declines mediation, ii. ; ascendency in n. italy, ii. _ _; ii. , ; and prussia, ii. ; ii. , ; and eastern question, ii. - , , _ _; alliance with prussia, iii. _ _; and russia, iii. , ; proposed alliance with england, iii. _ _, , , ; men required, iii. ; negotiations broken off, iii. ; and the four points, iii. , , ; and france, iii. , ; and italy, iii. _ _; war with sardinia and defeat, iii. _ _; and the papal states, iii. ; proposed congress, iii. _ _- ; troops cross the ticino, iii. _ _; french victories, iii. _ _; conclusion and terms of peace, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _; italy, iii. ayrton, mr, iii. azeglio, count, premier of sardinia, ii. ; iii. baden, crisis at, ii. ---- princess mary of, i. bagot, sir charles, governor-general of canada, i. , baines, matthew talbot, chancellor of duchy of lancaster, iii. _ _, ; conspiracy bill, iii. , bala rao, indian mutiny, iii. _ _ balaklava, successes at, iii. _ _, ; hurricane and loss of life at, iii. ; iii. ballard, lieutenant, siege of silistria, iii. _ _ ballot, the, i. _ _; ii. balmoral castle, queen's description of, ii. , ; queen's first occupation of, iii. _ _ baltic, english, expedition to the, iii. , bandeira, sà da, i. _ _ bands, on sundays, iii. bank charter act, ii. _ _; infringement of, ii. _ _; suspension of, iii. _ _ barbès, armand, i. _ _ barclay & perkins' brewery, attack on general haynau, ii. _ _ barham, lady (afterwards countess of gainsborough), i. , ; ii. baring, f. (afterwards lord northbrook), chancellor of the exchequer, i. , , , ; ii. , , , , ; capture of lagos, ii. , ; board of works, ii. ; iii. ; government of , iii. ---- thomas, ii. ; indian mutiny debate, iii. ; india bill, iii. barkly, sir h., governor of victoria, iii. barnard, general, death at delhi, iii. barrackpore, funeral of lady canning, iii. barrot, odilon, i. ; ii. barrow, sir john, i. barry, sir charles, knighted, ii. bastide, m., ii. baudrand, general comte, i. bayley, rev. emilius, iii. bean, attempt on the queen's life, i. _ _, beas, river, ii. beatrice, princess (afterwards princess henry of battenberg), birth and christening, iii. beauclerk, lord amelius, i. beaufort, duke of, i. beauharnais, eugène de, duke of leuchtenberg, iii. beauvale, lord (afterwards second viscount melbourne), i. ; i. , , , ; ii. , beche, sir henry t. de la, geologist, i. bedford, seventh duke of, i. , ; ii. , , , ; opinion of lord palmerston, ii. , ; ii. ; iii. ; queen's appreciation of endsleigh, iii. begum, the ex-queen of oudh, iii. belgians, king of, _see_ leopold ---- queen of, _see_ louise belgium, dispute with holland, i. _ _, _ _, , _ _, , ; independence of, i. ; king leopold's views on, i. , ; and england, i. , ; ii. ; and germany, i. ; and emperor of russia, ii. ; abortive insurrection, ii. _ _; neutrality of, iii. belsham, william, _history of great britain_, i. bengal mutiny, iii. _ _ bentinck, lord george, attack on sir r. peel, ii. , ; ii. ; sudden death, ii. _ _ ---- major-general sir henry, k.c.b., wounded at inkerman, iii. _ _; interview with the queen, iii. , beresford, lord john george de la poer, archbishop of armagh, ii. _ _ ---- major, iii. ---- viscount, i. ; ii. berkeley, admiral, m.p., gloucester, iii. bernadotte, marshal, iii. bernard, dr, trial of, iii. _ _, _ _ bessarabia, cession of, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _ bessborough, earl of, _see_ duncannon bethell, sir richard (afterwards lord westbury), attorney-general, divorce bill, iii. _ _; india bill, iii. _ _; lord chancellor, iii. beust, baron, minister in saxony, iii. , _ _, beverloo camp, i. beyens, baron, secretary of legation at madrid, ii. beyrout, bombardment of, i. ; iii. _ _ bickersteth, robert, afterwards bishop of ripon, iii. _ _, bilbao, battle at, i. birch, mr, formerly tutor to prince of wales, iii. birmingham, chartist riots, i. ; political condition, i. births, registration of, i. _ _ bishops, seats in house of lords, i. _ _; and dr hampden, ii. ; appointments of, iii. , black sea, russia's fleet, iii. ; neutralisation of, iii. _ _, _ _; england sends fleet to, iii. _ _ blagden, mr, i. blanc, louis, _organisation du travail_, ii. bloemfontein, ii. _ _ blomfield, c. j., _see_ london, bishop of bloomfield, baron, ii. ; minister at berlin, ii. ; iii. , boers, defeat of, ii. _ _, _ _ bois-le-comte, mons., french minister at madrid, i. bolgrad, iii. _ _ bomarsund, capture of, iii. _ _ bonaparte, _see_ napoleon bordeaux, duc de (afterwards comte de chambord), i. , , , , ; visit to london, i. , ; ii. , ; rumoured visit to england, iii. ; and the king of the belgians, iii. borthwick, peter, ii. _ _ bourquency, mons. de, iii. bouverie, mr, iii. bowring, edgar, c.b., iii. ---- sir john, british plenipotentiary, hong-kong, iii. _ _, _ _ bowyer, sir george, m.p., iii. brabant, duchess marie henriette de (afterwards queen of the belgians), iii. ---- dukes of, _see_ leopold bracebridge, mr and mrs, iii. braganza, duchess of, i. , breadalbane, marquess of, i ; lord chamberlain, ii. ; review at edinburgh, iii. ---- marchioness of, lady of the bedchamber, i. brescia, ii. bresson, count, ii. , , [ correct] ---- m., aids king louis philippe's escape, ii. bribery at elections, i. bridgewater, eighth earl of, treatises, i. _ _ bright, john, on war with russia, iii. _ _; appeal for ending the war, iii. _ _; loses his seat, iii. _ _; india bill, iii. _ _; oudh proclamation, iii. , _ _; reform bill, iii. ; proposed honour, iii. ; england and savoy, iii. _ _; privilege resolutions, iii. ; and palmerston, iii. brighton, i. british columbia, name given, iii. broadfoot, major, political agent, india, death, ii. broadstairs, queen's visit to, i. brock, mrs, queen's nurse, i. brocket hall, lord melbourne's house, i. ; queen's visit to, i. broglie, duc de, ex-minister of foreign affairs, i. ; ii. _ _ brougham, lord, i. _ _; on canadian difficulties, i. _ _, ; advice against dissolution, i. ; right of audience, i. ; as a protectionist, ii. brown, sir george, wounded at inkerman, iii. _ _, ---- sir william, baronet, iii. _ _ bruce, commodore, ii. ---- colonel, iii. ---- lady augusta, ii. ; iii. brunnow, m. de, russian minister, i. , ; ii. , , , , ; iii. , , brunswick, house of, history of, i. , brussels, russian minister to, ii. brydon, dr, i. _ _ buccleuch, duke of, i. ; ii. , - ---- duchess of, mistress of the robes, i. buchanan, mr, afterwards sir andrew, secretary of legation at st petersburg, ii. ---- mr (afterwards president), american minister to great britain, iii. , ; receives the prince of wales, iii. _ _, _ _ buckingham, second duke of, i. ; lord privy seal, i. ; i. ; ii. ---- palace, proposed alterations, ii. buckland, dr, irish commissioner, ii. buenos ayres, blockade by british fleet, ii. _ _ bull run, battle of, iii. _ _ buller, charles, i. _ _, bulwer, sir henry (afterwards lord dalling), minister at madrid, i. , , ; ii. , ; , ; recall, and queen's opinion of, ii. , ; at rome, ii. _ _; declines governorship of victoria, iii. , _ _ ---- lytton, sir edward (afterwards lord lytton), i. ; iii. ; motion of censure on lord john russell, iii. , , , , bunsen, chevalier, ii. , ; recall of, iii. buol, count, austrian prime minister, ii. , ; iii. , , _ _, _ , _ , , _ _, "bureaucratic," palmerston's definition of, i. burghersh, francis lord (afterwards earl of westmorland), a.d.c. to lord raglan, iii. burgoyne, sir john, ii. _ _ burnes, captain (afterwards sir alexander), mission to cabul, i. _ _; murdered, i. _ _ burnet, bishop, history of his own time, i. burney, miss (madame d'arblay), diary, i. , bury, lord, straits settlements, iii. bushey park, residence of the duke and duchess of clarence, i. bushire, capture of, iii. _ _ bussahir, iii. butler, captain, siege of silistria, iii. _ _ buxted, residence of lord liverpool, queen visits, i. buxton, charles, iii. bygrave, captain, i. byng, sir john, _see_ strafford, earl of ---- george, i. , byron, lady, i. ---- seventh lord, i. cabrals, the, ii. , cabul, i. _ _, _ _, ; fall of, i. , ; ii. cadiz, duke of, ii. cadogan, honoria, countess, died september , , i. _cagliari_, seizure of the, iii. _ _, _ _ cairns, sir hugh, solicitor-general, oudh proclamation debate, iii. _ _ camarilla, i. cambridge, first duke of, i. ; political views, i. , ; regent of hanover, i. ; marriage, i. , , , ; daughter's marriage, i. , , , , ; death, ii. _ _, cambridge, prince george of (afterwards second duke of cambridge), i. ; ireland, ii. ; earldom of tipperary, ii. - ; ireland, ii. ; ranger of the parks, ii. ; in paris, iii. ; interview with napoleon, iii. - ; writes from constantinople, iii. , ; illness and return from the crimea, iii. ; iii. ; council of war, iii. _ _, ; commander-in-chief, iii. , ; proposed marriage of princess mary, iii. , ; army control, iii. cambridge, duchess of, i. , , , ---- queen's visit to, i. , , campbell, mr, m.p. for weymouth, iii. ---- sir colin (afterwards lord clyde), queen's high opinion of, iii. , ; commander-in-chief, indian mutiny, relief of lucknow, iii. _ _, , , ; peerage, iii. _ _; iii. , ---- lord, bernard trial, iii. _ _; lord chancellor, iii. ; reports of divorce cases, iii. canada, friction in, i. _ _, , , _ _, ; lord durham, governor-general, i. , , , - ; resignation, i. ; union of, i. _ _; dispute with united states, i. _ _; ii. _ _; resignation of lord metcalfe, ii. ; government of, ii. ; clergy revenues bill, ii. _ _; nova scotia, iii. ; colonial governorships, iii. ; ottawa selected as capital, iii. _ _; british columbia, iii. ; united states claim to st juan, iii. ; prince of wales's visit to, iii. _ _, ; proposed increase in army and navy for, iii. candahar, i. canning, right hon. g., speech on queen's education, i. , ---- viscount (afterwards earl), ii. ; post office, ii. ; not in the cabinet, ii. ; government of , iii. ; post office, iii. ; governor-general of india, iii. , _ _, ; arrival in india, iii. ; indian mutiny, iii. _ _, - ; his clemency, iii. - ; oudh proclamation, iii. _ _, - , , ; viceroy, iii. _ _; earldom, iii. _ _; indian army question, iii. ; termination of mutiny, iii. ; indian titles, iii. ; queen's pleasure at progress in india, iii. ; k.g., iii. ; queen's high opinion of, iii. ; death of his wife, iii. ; touching letter from the queen, iii. , ---- viscountess, i. , ; iii. ; death, iii. ; queen's appreciation of, iii. , ---- sir stratford, _see_ stratford de redcliffe canrobert, marshal, commander of french army, iii. _ _, _ _; resignation, iii. _ _ canterbury, archbishop of (william howley), report as to queen's education, i. , ; announces to the queen william iv.'s death, i. , ; attends queen's first council, i. ; convocation address, i. ; (john bird sumner), bishopric of capetown, ii. ; on sunday bands, iii. _ _; (c. t. longley), iii. _ _; national prayer and humiliation iii. ---- viscount, iii. canton, england's occupation of, iii. _ _, capetown, bishopric of, ii. caradoc, sir john hobart, _see_ howden, lord carbonari society, iii. _ _ cardigan, earl of, i. , , , ; iii. ; censure on, iii. _ _ cardwell, mr (afterwards viscount), ii. ; secretary at war, ii. ; president of board of trade, ii. ; oudh proclamation, iii. ; vote of censure withdrawn, iii. ; chief secretary for ireland, iii. carlisle, sixth earl of, i. ---- seventh earl (sometime lord morpeth), chief secretary for ireland, i. , , ; ii. , ; chief commissioner of woods and forests, ii. , , , ; iii. carlists, i. , ; ii. carlos, don, i. _ _, _ _, ; abdication, ii. _ _ carlton house, residence of george iv., queen's visit to, i. carmarthen riots, i. carolina, south, iii. _ _ cartwright, sir t., i. cashmere, ii. castlerosse, lord, iii. cathcart, earl, governor-general of canada, ii. _ _ cathcart, general sir george, kaffir war, ii. _ _; death at inkerman, iii. ; iii. cavaignac, general, french minister for war, ii. _ _, , _ _, , cavour, count, sardinian premier, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _, , , _ _, ; resignation, iii. _ _; papal states, iii. ; death, iii. _ _, cawdor, earl, i. cawnpore, mutiny, iii. _ _, ; massacre of the garrison, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _ cécile, admiral, ii. chalmers, dr, i. _ _, _ _ chambers, dr william frederick, consulting physician, iii. chambord, comte de, _see_ bordeaux, duc de chandos, lord (afterwards duke), secretary to the treasury, ii. chantrey, sir francis, sculptor, i. , , chapman, dr, iii. chapoo, captured by sir hugh gough, i. charier, mdlle., ii. charlemont, viscount, i. charles of hesse, prince, iii. ---- x., of france, character and death, i. ---- archduke, i. ---- albert, king of sardinia, ii. _ _, ; piedmontese war, ii. _ _, _ _, , , , , _ _, , ; defeat at custozza, ii. _ _; at novara, ii. _ _; abdication in favour of his son, ii. _ _ charleston, surrender of, iii. _ _ charlotte, princess (daughter of george iv.), i. ; character, ii. , ; bust, i. ---- princess of prussia (afterwards hereditary princess of saxe-meiningen), birth of, iii. _ _ charlotte, princess of belgium, ii. ; illness, ii. _ _, ; beauty of, ii. ; proposed marriage of, iii. , ; marriage of, iii. , _ _ chartists, i. ; riots, i. ; ii. ; demonstration, ii. ; fiasco, ii. chartres, duc de, i. , ; iii. chateaubriand, vicomte de, i. _ _ chatsworth, queen's visit to, i. chelmsford, lord, lord chancellor, iii. chelsea pensioners, arming of, i. cherbourg, queen's visit to napoleon, iii. chester, dean of, _see_ davys childers, col., _life of right hon. h.c.e. childers_, ii. _ _ chillianwalla, ii. _ _ chimay, prince de, iii. _ _ china, opium trade dispute, i. _ _, _ _, , _ _, , ; operations in, i. , , _ _, ; war of , iii. _ _, , _ _; treaty of tien-tsin, iii. _ _, ; refusal to ratify treaty, march to pekin, iii. _ _ chiswick, ii. chobham camp, review at, ii. , cholera, epidemic of, ii. _ _ christian, prince, of glücksburg, afterwards king christian ix. of denmark, ii. _ _ ---- princess, _see_ helena, princess christina, queen, regent of spain, i. , , ; abdication, i. , , , ; marriage question, ii. , _ _, , , , , christino cause, i. _ _, church of england, queen's early knowledge of, i. ; her relations to, i. , , ; parker society, i. ; reform, i. ; difficulties at oxford, i. , ; low church bigotry, ii. ; ii. _ _; preferments, ii. ; ritualists and romanists, ii. _ _, , ; riots at stockport, ii. ; in the colonies, ii. ---- of scotland crisis, i. , , _ _ ---- rates, i. _ _, ; iii. churchill, lady, iii. chusan, i. _ _, chuttur singh, surrender of, ii. cintra, convention of, iii. _ _ cistercian _trappists_, queen adelaide's visit to, i. civil service, competitive examinations for, iii. , clanricarde, marquess of, i. ; ii. ; privy seal, iii. ---- marchioness of, i. clanwilliam, earl of, ii. claremont, residence of king leopold, queen's reminiscences of, i. , , ; regret at leaving, ii. , _ _; residence of king louis philippe, ii. - ---- col., orsini trial, iii. clarence, duke of, _see_ william iv. clarendon, third earl of, chief justice-in-eyre, death, i. ---- fourth earl of, i. ; ambassador at madrid, i. ; lord privy seal, i. ; ii. , , , , , , , , , , ; opinion on lord palmerston's removal, ii. , ; refusal of foreign office, ii. , _ _; ii. , ; foreign secretary, ii. _ _; eastern question, ii. - , _ _- ; duke of cambridge in paris, iii. ; russian loan, iii. _ _; crimea, iii. _ _; austrian alliance, iii. , _ _; the "four points," iii. ; government of , iii. , , , , , , , , , _ _, , , _ _; foreign affairs, iii. ; emperor's proposal to take command at the crimea, iii. _ _, ; naples despatch, iii. - ; austrian ultimatum, iii. , , ; arranging terms of settlement, iii. - ; conversation with french emperor, iii. ; treaty of peace signed, iii. ; queen's appreciation of his services, iii. , ; honours, iii. ; iii. ; interview with persigny, iii. ; and italy, iii. ; declines joining the new cabinet, iii. ; st juan dispute, iii. ; coronation of king of prussia, iii. , _ _; reception at the coronation of king and queen of prussia, iii. - ; interview with the french empress, iii. ; king of prussia's views, iii. clarendon's _history of the rebellion_, i. , ; _private memoirs_, i. claridge's hotel, empress of the french stays at, iii. clark, dr (afterwards sir james), physician to the queen, i. , , ; bagshot park, iii. ; prince consort's illness, iii. , clémentine, princess, of orleans, i. cleveland, duke of, i. clive, lord, life by sir j. malcolm, i. close, francis, dean of carlisle, iii. _ _ clyde, lord, _see_ campbell, sir colin cobden, richard, i. ; corn laws, i. , ; ii. ; peel's tribute to, ii. ; the whigs, ii. , , ; poor law commission, ii. , , ; ii. , ; question of marriage between prince frederick william of prussia and the princess royal, iii. ; on china war, iii. _ _; loss of seat, iii. ; iii. ; refuses to join government, iii. _ _, , _ _; and the pope, iii. ; plenipotentiary for commercial treaty, iii. _ _; declines honours, iii. , _ _ coblentz, iii. coburg (_see_ saxe-coburg), house of, history of, i. ; influence on the queen's politics, i. ; abuse of, i. ---- queen's visit to, ii. _ _ cochrane, mr baillie (afterwards lord lamington), iii. cockburn, sir george, admiral of the fleet, i. ---- mr (afterwards sir alexander), don pacifico debate, ii. _ _; chief justice of common pleas, iii. codrington, major-general sir william, wounded at inkerman, iii. _ _; commands the english army in the crimea, iii. _ _, , , _ _ colborne, sir john (afterwards lord seaton), i. _ _; high commissioner, canada, i. _ _; field-marshal, i. , _ _ colchester, lord, iii. coldstream guards wounded from crimea, iii. colenso, rev. j. w., ii. coleridge, mr, and provostship of eton, iii. colloredo, count, austrian ambassador, ii. , colquhoun, mr, iii. colvin, john russell, lieut.-gov. of north-west provinces, death of, iii. combermere, viscount, i. ; constable of the tower, ii. ; field-marshal, iii. _ _ companies, limited liability, statute passed, iii. _ _ conroy, sir j., comptroller to duchess of kent, i. conservatives in opposition, i. _ _; dissensions, ii. _ _; corn laws, ii. ; ii. , , , ; form a government, ii. - ; roebuck motion, iii. , ; government of , iii. _ _, ; possible dissolution, iii. - ; new reform bill, iii. _ _; defeat, iii. ; iii. ; overtures to lord palmerston, iii. _ _, consort, prince (_see_ victoria, queen), parentage, i. ; influence of baron stockmar, i. ; his character, i. _ _; princess of hohenlohe's opinion of, i. ; queen's first impression of, i. ; education of, i. , , ; engagement to queen victoria, i. _ _, ; visits italy, i. ; queen's views, i. ; description of, i. ; arrival at windsor, i. ; religion, i. ; question of a peerage, i. ; the declaration, i. , ; his household, i. , , ; marriage with the queen, i. _ _, ; his grant, i. _ _, ; appointed regent, i. _ _; the queen's confidential secretary, i. ; name in prayer book, i. ; on changes at court, i. ; visits oxford, i. ; his position on change of government, i. ; lord melbourne's opinion of, i. ; fine arts commission, i. ; lays foundation stone of royal exchange, i. ; on duelling, i. _ _; domestic life, i. ; to hold levées, i. , ; reception at birmingham, i. ; his father's death, ii. ; grand cross of st andrew, ii. ; birthday, ii. _ _; french king's appreciation of, ii. ; title rumours, ii. ; interest in osborne, ii. ; attacks on, ii. ; memo. on change of government, ii. ; council meeting, ii. ; sir r. peel and memo. of their conversation, ii. ; memo. on resignation of sir r. peel, ii. , ; on new government, ii. ; sir r. peel, ii. ; his self-denial, ii. ; visits king louis philippe at claremont, ii. ; and the unemployed, ii. ; visit to york, ii. ; visit with the queen to ireland, ii. ; opening of new coal exchange, ii. ; exhibition of , ii. _ _, - ; memo. on lord palmerston's foreign policy, ii. , , , ; mansion house speech, ii. ; memos. on formation of a new government, ii. , , , , , , , , ; presides at propagation of gospel meeting, ii. _ _; on lord palmerston's successor, ii. - ; his fondness for politics and business, ii. ; and the army, ii. ; on resignation of lord john russell, ii. , , ; on change of government, ii. ; command of grenadier guards and rifle brigade, ii. ; on new appointments on death of duke of wellington, ii. ; on national defences, ii. - ; on free trade debate, ii. ; on resignation of lord derby, ii. - ; on new government, ii. , , ; lord derby's opinion of, ii. ; on change of ministry, ii. ; birth of prince leopold (afterwards duke of albany), ii. ; congratulates mr gladstone on his budget speech, ii. ; memo. on eastern question, ii. , ; memo. on lord palmerston's resignation, ii. ; press attacks on, iii. _ _, , _ _, , ; interview with emperor napoleon, iii. _ _; president of patriotic fund, iii. _ _; memos. on reform bill, iii. _ _, , , ; memo. of government changes, iii. , ; visits french emperor, iii. _ _- ; memo. on lord john russell's possible resignation, iii. ; visits the french emperor, iii. _ _; memo. on lord john russell's resignation, iii. ; memos. on inability of lord derby and lord john russell to form a government, iii. - ; memo. on lord palmerston's government of , iii. , ; asks lord aberdeen to join new government, iii. ; memo. of interview with mr gladstone, iii. - ; on austria's proposal of crimean settlement, iii. , _ _; visits france, iii. ; appointment of sir w. codrington, iii. ; queen's memo. on his status, iii. - ; title of prince consort conferred, iii. , , _ _; french emperor's feeling towards england, iii. , ; marriage of princess royal, iii. _ _, , ; memo. on resignation of the government, iii. - ; danish question, iii. _ _; memo. on oudh proclamation, iii. ; memo. on lord derby and dissolution, iii. ; visit to french emperor at cherbourg, iii. ; memo. on lord palmerston, iii. ; lord stanley's position with the queen, iii. - ; tours of prince of wales and prince alfred, iii. _ _; princess alice's engagement, iii. ; state visit to ireland, iii. _ _; lord john russell's despatch to america, iii. _ _; failure of health, iii. _ _; death of the duchess of kent, iii. - ; illness, iii. , ; draft despatch to united states, last written by, iii. ; slight rally, , ; death, iii. _ _, conspiracy and assassination bill, iii. _ _ constantin, expedition against, i. _ _; taken by france, i. constantine of russia, grand duchess, ii. ; iii. constantinople, i. ; russian fleet ordered to, ii. , _constitution de la belgique_, newspaper, i. constitution, the english, i. _constitutional_ newspaper, i. conyngham, lady maria, i. ---- marchioness, i. ---- marquess, lord chamberlain, i. , , , , , cooper, the leicester chartist, i. coorg, princess of, iii. corbett, mr, secretary of legation at florence, iii. corigan, dominic, physician-in-ordinary, ii. _ _ cork, queen victoria's visit to, ii. ; question of dockyard, iii. corn laws, petition against, i. ; debates on, i. , , , , _ _, , , _ _, ; anti-corn-law league, i. _ _, , ; ii. _ _, , _ _; paragraph in the _times_, ii. , ; lord john russell's policy, ii. ; sir r. peel's views, ii. , , ; settlement, ii. ; earl grey on, ii. ; mr disraeli on, ii. coronation, i. , corry, h., ii. , cottenham, earl of, chancellor, i. , , ; ii. county and borough franchise, ii. couper, sir george, iii. courvoisier murders lord william russell, i. _ _ covent garden theatre, free trade meetings at, ii. coventry, earl of, i. cowell, major (afterwards sir john), tutor to prince alfred, iii. _ _ cowley, first baron, minister at frankfort, i. ---- second baron (created earl ), ii. , , ; queen's high opinion of, ii. , ; ambassador at napoleon's court, ii. , ; napoleon's marriage, ii. ; eastern question, iii. , , , , ; council of war at paris, iii. ; honours, iii. ; iii. ; mission to vienna, iii. _ _, , - ; rumoured treaty between france and russia, iii. ; terms of peace at villafranca, iii. _ _, _ _; england's congress representative, iii. ; italian question, iii. , ; stormy interview with napoleon, - ; french policy in italy, iii. _ _ cowper, countess, i. ---- lady fanny, i. ; her beauty, i. , ; i. . _see_ also jocelyn, lady ---- hon. william, priv. sec. to lord melbourne, i. ; first commissioner of works, iii. cracow, ii. , crampton, mr (afterwards sir john), british minister at washington, dismissal of, iii. _ _; english ambassador at st petersburg, iii. cranworth, lord, lord chancellor, ii. ; iii. ; divorce bill, iii. creptowitch, count, russian ambassador, iii. _ _ crimea, _see_ eastern question croker, right hon. j. w., queen's declaration, i. crown, influence of the, i. ; prerogatives of, iii. , ---- jewels, claim to, i. , crowther, rev. samuel, ii. crystal palace, the queen opens the, iii. _ _; visit of the emperor and empress of the french, iii. _ _; peace fête, iii. cullen, dr, archbishop of armagh, ii. cumberland, second duke of, i. ; his character, i. , , . _see_ also hanover, king ernest of ---- third duke of, _see_ hanover, king george v. cureton, general, death of, ii. ---- rev. wm., recommended for canonry, ii. custine, marquis astolphe de, _la russie en _, i. daily news, iii. dalhousie, countess of, i. ; death, ii. ---- tenth earl and first marquess of, ii. , ; viceroy of india, ii. _ _; views as to the punjab, ii. ; marquess, ii. _ _, ; queen's opinion of, ii. ; koh-i-noor diamond, ii. ; rangoon, ii. ; cinque ports, ii. ; india, ii. , ; on his wife's death, ii. ; correspondence with the queen, iii. , , - , ; desires to retire, iii. ; retirement of, iii. _ _, ; reported failure to suppress insubordination in india, iii. _ _; lord canning succeeds him, iii. ; iii. dalkeith, queen's visit to, i. dalmeny, lord, i. danish law of succession, ii. _ _; iii. darmes, attempts king louis philippe's life, i. _ _ d'aubigny, mons., ii. davis, jefferson, president of the southern states, iii. _ _ davys, rev. george, dean of chester, afterwards bishop of peterborough, instructor of queen, i. , , dawes, richd., dean of ripon, iii. dawson, hon. thomas vesey, death at inkerman, iii. deceased wife's sister bill, iii. defences, national, ii. , - ; iii. de grey, earl, lord-lieut, of ireland, i. delane, john t., editor of the _times_, ii. ; and germany, iii. de la warr, elizabeth, countess, i. delhi, revolt at, iii. _ _, ; capture of, iii. democracy, progress of, ii. "democratic," definition of the term, i. denison, j. e., ii. ; speaker, iii. _ _ denman, lord, i. denmark, and morocco, ii. ; and holstein, ii. , , , , , ; peace concluded with prussia, ii. , ; danish succession, ii. , ---- king of, letter to queen victoria, ii. derby, earl of, _see_ stanley despatches, method of dealing with, ii. , devonshire, duke of, ii. _ _; iii. dhuleep singh, maharajah, queen's impression of, iii. , , ; iii. ; indian mutiny, iii. , dietz, mons., governor of prince ferdinand, i. , dilke, sir c. w., baronet, iii. disbrowe, sir ed., british minister at the hague, i. , , disfranchisement bill, ii. disraeli, benjamin, "young england," ii. ; "poisoned chalice," ii. _ _; protectionist, ii. _ _; attack on sir r. peel, ii. , ; leader of opposition, ii. _ _, , ; motion on agricultural distress, ii. ; protection, ii. ; ii. , , , ; on palmerston's defence, ii. ; _endymion_, ii. _ _; chancellor of the exchequer, ii. ; debate on dissolution, ii. , ; militia bill, ii. , , ; speech on duke of wellington, ii. ; free trade, ii. , ; and gladstone, ii. ; budget speech, ii. ; loss of office, ii. , ; apology for his speech, ii. _ _; attack on the government, iii. _ _; roebuck motion, iii. , , ; formation of government of , iii. , ; attack on lord john russell, iii. _ _; preparation for war, iii. ; attack on the budget, iii. _ _, ; china war debate, iii. , ; speech on indian mutiny, iii. ; return to office, iii. _ _; conspiracy bill debate, iii. ; chancellor of the exchequer, iii. ; reports of the debates, iii. , , , ; india bill, iii. ; oudh proclamation debate, iii. _ _, _ _; and lord stanley, iii. ; debate on the address, iii. ; defeat of government, iii. ; and the pope, iii. ; and lord palmerston's government, iii. dissenters and church rates, iii. dissolution, prerogative of, ii. divorce bill, iii. _ _, _ _ ---- court, queen's objection to publication of proceedings in newspapers, iii. doabs, eastern, disarmament of sikhs, ii. dorset, duke of, master of the horse, i. dost mahommed, _see_ afghanistan, ameer of douglas, general sir howard, iii. _ _ ---- lord (afterwards duke of hamilton), marriage, i. douglas, rev. hon. a. (afterwards bp. of aberdeen and orkney), iii. douro, marchioness of, i. ; ii. , doyle, richard, i. _ _ drayton manor, queen's visit to, i. dresden, ii. _ _ dreux, ii. drummond, edward, assassination of, i. , ---- castle, queen's visit to, i. ---- henry, member for west surrey, iii. , druses, iii. _ _ dublin, archbishop of (richard whateley), queen's opinion of, i. ---- fear of outbreak at, ii. ; queen's visit to, ii. duels, military, i. _ _, _ _ dufferin, marquess of, and story of mrs norton and the _times_, ii. _ _ duffield, walter, ii. dumas, general, ii. duncannon, viscount (afterwards earl of bessborough), lord privy seal, afterwards lord lieutenant of ireland, i. , , , , ; ii. ; death, ii. duncombe, thomas, m.p., finsbury, iii. ; roebuck committee, ii. dundas, vice-admral sir james, commander of mediterranean fleet, ii. _ _; iii. _ _, _ _ ---- rear-admiral richard, commands expedition to the baltic, iii. _ _ ---- mr (afterwards lord melville), i. ---- sir david, convention of cintra, iii. _ _ dundonald, earl of (formerly lord cochrane), iii. _ _ dunfermline, lord (formerly james abercromby), speaker, i. ; iii. dungannon, viscount, i. _ _ dunkeld, queen's visit to, i. dunmore, countess of, lady-in-waiting, i. ---- earl of, death, ii. durham, first earl of, high commissioner in canada, i. _ _, , ; rash conduct, i. , , ; resignation, i. ; i. _ _, , , eastern question, ii. _ _, , - , _ _, _ _- ; declaration of war with russia, iii. _ _, , , _ _; turkish success, iii. _ _; battle of the alma, iii. _ _, ; inkerman, iii. _ _; four points negotiations, iii. _ _, ; terms of settlement and final evacuation of the crimea, iii. _ _, east india company, recall of lord ellenborough, ii. _ _, , ; giving medals, ii. ; sir charles napier, ii. ; position of indian princes, iii. , ; mutiny, iii. _ _, , - , ; future government of india, iii. eastlake, sir charles, keeper of national gallery, i. ecclesiastical titles bill, ii. _ _, , , _ _, , eckerforde, ii. eden, lt.-gen. john, c.b., iii. edinburgh, queen's visit, i. education, bullock's work on, ii. ; committee on, ii. edwardes, major, ii. egypt (_see_ also ali, mehemet) and the four powers, i. , , , _ _ elchingen, duc de, i. elcho, lord (afterwards earl of wemyss), government of , iii. ; new foreign office, iii. election, general , i. _ _; on death of william iv., i. , ; ii. ; corrupt practices bill, iii. elgin, earl of, governor in jamaica, ii. , ; treaty with japan, iii. _ _; postmaster-general, iii. elimar, prince, of oldenburg, iii. eliot, lord, afterwards earl of st germans, i. elizabeth, princess, daughter of queen adelaide, death, i. ellenborough, lord (afterwards earl of), president of board of control, i. , , ; governor-general of india, i, ; indian warfare, i. , _ _; somnauth proclamation, i. , , ; scinde controversy, i. ; recall of, ii. _ _, , ; earldom, ii. ; in office, ii. , ; protectionist, ii. ; and lord cochrane, iii. _ _; iii. , ; president of board of control, iii. _ _, ; oudh despatch, iii. _ _, - ; resignation, iii. - ellesmere, earl of, death, iii. ellice, mr, i. ; ii. elliot, captain, chinese opium trade, i. _ _, , _ _; recalled, i. ---- lady fanny, i. ---- lady harriet, illness of, iii. _ _ ---- mr (afterwards sir henry), p.c., g.c.b., plenipotentiary to naples, iii. , elphinstone, general, capture of, i. _ _ ---- sir j. d. h., m.p. for portsmouth, iii. ---- baron, governor of bombay, iii. , ely, bishopric of, ii. ---- marchioness of, iii. emlyn, lord, marriage, i. enfield, iii. england, troubles in afghanistan, _ _, _ _, , , ---- and austria, ii. _ _, , , , ; eastern question, ii. _ _, , , ; iii. _ _, , ; proposed alliance, iii. _ _, , , , ; four points, iii. , ; ultimatum, iii. , , ---- and china, i. - ; successes in, i. ; dispute with and ultimatum, iii. _ _, , _ _; treaty of tien-tsin, iii. _ _, _ _; march to pekin, iii. _ _ ---- and denmark, ii. ---- and france, i. , _ _, ; ii. _ _, , , _ _; hospitality to king of, ii. ; relations with as a republic, ii. ; on the eastern question, ii. _ _, , _ _, , , ; alliance with, iii. _ _, ; feeling against, iii. _ _, _ _ ---- and germany, ii. , , ---- and india (_see_ india) ---- and italy, ii. , ; rome, ii. , , ; naples, iii. , ---- and japan, treaty, iii. _ _ ---- and persia, war, iii. _ _ ---- and portugal, unpopularity, i. _ _; english fleet in the tagus, ii. _ _; constitutional trouble, ii. , ; conference, ii. _ _; policy in, ii. ---- punjab, annexation of, ii. _ _ ---- and russia, i. ; ii. ; on the eastern question, ii. _ _, - , _ _; iii. _ _, , , , , ; declaration of war, iii. _ _; crimea, iii. - , , , ; defeat at the alma, iii. _ _, , ; battle of balaklava, iii. ; four points, iii. _ _, ; sebastopol taken, iii. ; austrian ultimatum, iii. _ _; peace and terms of settlement, iii. _ _; difficulty of enforcing settlement, iii. _ _- , ; danish question, iii. ---- and spain, i. , , , ; ii. _ _, , ; marriage question, ii. , - ---- sweden and norway, iii. _ _ ---- and turkey, eastern question, ii. _ _, , - , _ _; iii. _ _, , _ ,_ england and united states of america, boundary dispute, i. _ _, , , ; ii. _ _, _ _; rupture with, iii. _ _, _ _; _trent_ affair, iii. _ _ england, general (afterwards sir richard), i. , enrique, don, ii. , , , , , ense, varnhagen, von, memoirs of, iii. erfurt, diet of, ii. ernest, prince, of hohenlohe, death of, iii. ernest, king, of hanover, i. _ _, . _see_ cumberland, duke of ---- prince, of saxe-coburg, i. ; arrival at windsor, i. ; i. ; marriage, i. ; bravery, ii. ernestine branch of saxe-coburg family, history of, i. erroll, earl of, i. , espartero, joaquin, regent of spain, i. _ _, este, sir augustus de, i. _ _ esterhazy, prince paul, i. , eton college, ii. _ _; montem, ii. ; resignation of dr hawtrey, ii. ; extra week's holiday, iii. ; election of provost, iii. eu, château de, i. , ; queen's visit to, i. ; ii. , eugénie, empress of the french, _see_ montijo eupatoria, disaster at, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _ evans, col. (afterwards sir g. de lacy), i. _ _, _ _; iii. _ _, examinations, competitive, iii. , _ _ executions, public, ii. exeter, bishop of, gorham case, ii. _ _ exeter, marquess of, i. exhibition of , in hyde park, ii. _ _, ; success of, ii. _ _, , ; ball at guildhall, ii. factory labour, bill, ii. _ _, _ _ fane, hon. julian, secretary of embassy, vienna, iii. , _ _ farnham, queen's visit to, iii. fawcett, col., shot in a duel, i. _ _ featherstonhaugh, mr., h.b.m. consul, havre, arranges escape of king louis philippe, ii. - , feodore, princess, of leiningen, the queen's half-sister, marriage to prince of hohenlohe-langenburg, i. , _ _; childhood, i. ; i. , , , , , ferdinand, maximilian joseph, of austria, archduke, proposed marriage, iii. ; marriage and death of, iii. _ _, _ _ ---- duke of orleans, i. ---- _see_ portugal, king of ---- ii., king of naples, i. ; rising against, ii. _ _; illness and death, iii. ---- of bulgaria, prince, i. _ _ feroz shah, prince, iii. ferozepore, ii. , _ _ ferozeshah, ii. _ _, _ _ fieschi attempts king louis philippe's life, i. fife, earl of, peerage, iii. fine arts commission, i. finlay, mr, claim against greek government, ii. _ _, _ _ finmark, guarantee of, iii. _ _ fiscal policy, ii. _ _ fisher, dr, _see_ salisbury, bishop of fitzclarence, lord adolphus, i. fitzgerald, william robert seymour vesey, under secretary for foreign affairs, iii. , ---- sir john, iii. ---- and vesci, lord, president of board of control, i. , fitzmayer, col., iii. fitzwilliam, earl, ii. - ---- lady anne, i. flahaut, madame de, ii. florence, visited by prince albert, i. ; revolution in, iii. _ _ follett, sir william, i. ; solicitor-general, i. fonblanque, albany, i. foreign enlistment bill, iii. _ _, _ _ foreign office, new, iii. foreign secretary, duties of, ii. forey, general, iii. fortescue, second earl, receives the garter, iii. ---- dudley, iii. fould, achille, french minister, iii. _ _, four points, crimean negotiations, iii. _ _, , , , _ _, - fox, charles james, i. , ---- mr, british minister at washington, i. france, attempts on life of king, i. _ _, , _ _; expedition to constantin, i. _ _, _ _; heated debates in chamber, i. , ; duke and duchess of orleans, i. ; and england, i. , , _ _, ; and the peninsula, i. ; in africa, i. ; sympathy with belgium, i. _ _, ; resignation of ministry, i. , ; louis bonaparte, i. _ _; turco-egyptian convention, i. ; eastern crisis, i. , - ; friendliness with england, i. , ; thiers ministry dismissed, i. ; possibility of revolution, i. - ; and spain, i. , , ; spanish marriage, i. _ _; ii. , , _ _, - ; queen victoria's visit to, i. ; friction with england, ii. _ _, , ; england and russia, ii. ; hostilities with morocco, ii. ; fortification of paris and algerian trouble, ii. _ _; syrian war, ii. ; murder of duchesse de praslin, ii. _ _, ; revolution, ii. _ _; abdication of king, ii. _ _; republic, ii. , ; new government, ii. , ; national assembly, ii. _ _; the royal family, ii. ; _entente cordiale_, ii. , ; english ambassador to, ii. , ; louis bonaparte, president of republic, ii. , , ; relations with england, ii. ; state of, ii. ; _coup d'état_ in paris, ii. - , ; dispute with russia, ii. _ _; and the swiss government, ii. ; champion of italian liberty, ii. ; bourbons, ii. ; position of louis napoleon, ii. ; assumes imperial title, ii. _ _; eastern question, ii. _ _, - , _ _, - ; iii. _ _; fleet sent to salamis, ii. _ _; and england, ii. _ _; alliance with england against russia, iii. _ _, _ _, ; and sebastopol, iii. , ; inkerman, iii. ; and the four points, iii. ; success against russia, iii. _ _; queen's visit to, iii. , ; fall of sebastopol, iii. , , ; desire for peace, iii. ; peace and terms of settlement, iii. _ _- , , ; rupture with king ferdinand, iii. _ _, _ _; and austria, iii. ; bad state of army, iii. ; feeling against england, iii. _ _, _ _; italy and sardinia, iii. _ _; war with austria, iii. _ _, ; reported treaty with russia, iii. _ _; victories, iii. _ _; conclusion of peace, iii. _ _; treaty of zurich, iii. _ _; annexation of savoy and nice, iii. _ _; expedition to pekin, iii. _ _; policy in italy, iii. franchise, county and borough, ii. , ; extension committee, ii. ; disfranchisement bill, ii. , ; based on personal property, iii. _ _; borough, iii. _ _ francis, attempts the queen's life, i. _ _, , ---- ii., king of naples, flight to gaëta, iii. _ _, frankfort, national assembly at, ii. , _ _, _ _ frederic of the netherlands, prince, iii. ---- archduke, i. frederick, william victor albert (afterwards german emperor), birth of, iii. ; christening, iii. frederick i., _see_ würtemberg, king of ---- augustus ii., _see_ saxony, king of ---- crown prince of prussia, _see_ prussia, prince frederick free church of scotland, founded, i. freemasons, i. free trade, i. ; ii. _ _, , , , , , , , _ _, , fremantle, sir thomas, afterwards lord cottesloe, i. french, emperor of the, _see_ napoleon ---- empress of the, _see_ montijo, mademoiselle de french, king of the, _see_ louis philippe ---- queen of the (marie amélie) (_see_ louis philippe), death, ii. frogmore, iii. ; death of duchess of kent at, iii. - , fueros, i. gaelic, in highland schools, ii. gaëta, ii. gaillard, gabriel henri, _la rivalité de la france et de l'espagne_, i. gainsborough, countess of, _see_ barham, lady gaisford, very rev. thomas (dean of christchurch), iii. garbett, mr, i. gardner, lord, i. garibaldi, guerilla leader, iii. _ _; deputy for nice, iii. _ _; and sicilian insurrection, iii. _ _, ; lord j. russell's letter to and reply, iii. , , geisel, cardinal, iii. george iii., his politics, i. ; family, i. ---- iv., marriage, i. ; politics, i. ; queen's visit to, i. - , ; death, i. ---- v., of hanover, _see_ hanover ---- prince, of denmark, i. germany, king of prussia on, ii. ; effect of french revolution, ii. _ _; anxiety in, ii. , , ; minor states, ii. , ; interest in lombardy, ii. ; disorder in, ii. , ; imperial crown declined by king of prussia, ii. ; union of schleswig and holstein, ii. , , ; critical position of, ii. , , , ; and england, ii. ; constitutionalism, ii. ; anxiety in, ii. ; diet, ii. ; coronation, iii. - ; the emperor's views, iii. ghent, disturbances at, i. gholab singh, ii. gholam mohammed, prince, iii. ghuznee, surrender of, i. , _ _; mahmood of, iii. gibraltar, governorship of, ii. gilbert, major-general, ii. girardin, emile, ii. giurgevo, turkish success at, iii. _ _, _ _ gladstone, right hon. w. e., member for newark, i. ; president of board of trade, i. _ _; corn laws, i. ; retirement, ii. _ _; colonial secretary, ii. , ; ii. _ _, , , , , , ; disfranchisement bill, ii. ; education minute, ii. ; free trade, ii. , ; and disraeli, ii. ; chancellor of the exchequer, ii. ; first budget, ii. _ _, _ _; prince albert's congratulations, ii. ; eastern question, ii. _ _; possible leader, ii. ; iii. ; letter in the _morning chronicle_, iii. ; civil service examinations, iii. , ; roebuck motion, iii. , , ; formation of government of , iii. , , , , , , ; chancellor of exchequer, iii. ; interview with prince albert, iii. ; resignation, iii. ; iii. ; preparation for war, iii. ; attack on budget, iii. _ _, ; chinese dispute, iii. _ _; divorce bill, iii. _ _; high commissioner to ionian islands, iii. _ _, , ; conspiracy bill debate, iii. ; refusal to join government of , iii. , ; oudh proclamation debate, iii. ; crown prerogatives (india), iii. _ _; new reform bill, iii. _ _; chancellor of the exchequer, iii. _ _; on the fate of the government, iii. ; chancellor of the exchequer, iii. ; and the pope, iii. ; italian policy, iii. ; rise in income tax, iii. _ _; desire to resign, iii. _ _; budget import duties, iii. _ _; bill for abolition of paper duties thrown out, iii. , , _ _; threatens resignation, iii. ; disagreement with palmerston, iii. _ _, , glasgow, serious riot, ii. _ _; queen opens waterworks, iii. _ _ glenelg, lord, colonial secretary, i. _ _, glenlyon, lord (afterwards duke of athole), i. ; ii. gloucester, duchess of (princess mary), i. , , , , ; ii. ---- duke of, character and politics, i. ---- princess sophia matilda of, i. glücksburg, prince christian of, _see_ christian goblet, albert joseph, count d'alviella, i. goldie, brig.-gen., death at inkerman, iii. _ _ goodford, dr, headmaster of eton college, elected provost, iii. gordon, col., deputy quartermaster-general, censure on, iii. _ _ ---- sir robert, ambassador to vienna, i. , , , gorham, mr, and the bishop of exeter, ii. _ _ gortschakoff, prince, iii. _ _; character, iii. , , gosford, earl of, governor of lower canada, i. _ _ gotha, line extinguished, i. gough, sir hugh (afterwards viscount), successes in china, i. ; baronet, i. ; successes in india, ii. _ _, _ _, _ _, ; commander-in-chief in india, ii. _ _, _ _; superseded, ii. ; viscount, ii. goulburn, h., chancellor of the exchequer, i. ; ii. , , ; disraeli's attack on, ii. _ _ gower, lady elizabeth (afterwards duchess of argyll), i. ---- lady evelyn leveson, marriage, i. graham, sir james, home secretary, i. , , _ _, , ; public executions, ii. , ; corn laws, ii. ; takes leave of the queen, ii. , ; as to joining the whig cabinet, ii. , , , , , , ; speech on corn duty, ii. ; ii. ; colonial office, ii. ; and disraeli, ii. _ _; india bill, ii. ; eastern question, ii. _ _, ; position in the government, ii. ; speech at reform club, iii. _ _; government of , iii. , , , , ; admiralty, iii. ; resignation, iii. ; iii. , ; conspiracy bill, iii. _ _; defeat of the government, iii. - ; oudh proclamation debate, iii. _ _; competitive exams., iii, ; assailed by disraeli, iii. _ _ grahamstown, new see, ii. granby, marquess of, iii. grantown, queen's visit to, iii. granville, first earl, ambassador at paris, i. , , ---- second earl, ii. ; foreign secretary, ii. _ _, , , , ; audience with the queen, ii. ; queen's view of foreign policy, ii. , , ; resignation , ii. ; board of trade, ii. ; iii. ; government of , iii. ; president of the council, iii. ; iii. ; coronation of czar, iii. _ _; iii. ; his opinion of the czar, iii. ; garter, iii. ; china war debate, iii. ; fails to form a government, iii. _ _, ; and the _times_ disclosures, iii. ; president of the council, iii. ; and the pope, iii. ; sir james hudson, iii. ; lord j. russell's despatch to france, iii. graves, lord, i. greece, throne of, i. ; ii. , ; case of don pacifico and mr finlay, ii. _ _, ; appeal to russia, and france, ii. _ _ gregory xvi., pope, interview with prince albert, i. ; death, ii. _ _ grenadiers, wounded from crimea iii. grenville, lord, i. greville, charles, journal of, i. ; and lord palmerston, ii. ; iii. _ _ grey, sir george, governor of cape of good hope (afterwards governor of new zealand), iii. _ _; difficulties with hottentots, kaffirs, and boers, iii. ; action at cape town, iii. _ _ ---- general, iii. , ---- second earl, prime minister, i. ; reform bill, i. ; i. ; illness, i. ; death, ii. ---- third earl, _see_ howick, lord ---- sir george, under-secretary for the colonies, i. ; chancellor of duchy of lancaster, i. ; home secretary, ii. , ; chartist meeting, ii. ; officers' commissions, ii. ; ii. , , ; on palmerston's successor, ii. ; seals of office given up, ii. ; home office, ii. ; colonies, iii. _ _, ; resignation of lord john russell, iii. , - ; government of , iii. , , , ; cabinet of , iii. , , , ; conspiracy bill debate, iii. ; iii. ; chancellor of duchy of lancaster, iii. ; on sir james hudson's appointment, iii. ; _trent_ affair, iii. ---- george henry (son of the above), iii. grimston, lady mary, trainbearer to the queen, i. ; her beauty, i. gröben, general count von der, iii. gros, baron, ii. grosvenor, lord, i. , , ---- lord robert (afterwards lord ebury), peerage, iii. guards, the, embarkation for the crimea, iii. guelphic order, ii. guéronnière, m. de la, _the pope and the congress_ pamphlet, iii. _ _, guilford, earl of, _see_ north, lord guizot, m., i. , , , , ; ii, , , , , ; a fugitive, ii. _ _; ii. , , , , , gujerat, ii. _ _, haddington, earl of, first lord of the admiralty, i. , ; ii. hadfield, mr, iii. halford, sir henry, court physician, i. , hall, sir benjamin (afterwards baron llanover), first commissioner of public works, ii. _ _; iii. , hallam's _constitutional history_, i. , hamilton, william, attempt on queen's life, ii. hammond, mr (afterwards lord), permanent under-secretary at foreign office, iii. hampden, dr, bishop of hereford, ii. _ _, , , hanover, house of, history of, i. ---- constitution abrogated, i. _ _; princess royal's reception, iii. ---- king of (ernest augustus), the queen's uncle, i. , , , , ; claim to crown jewels, i. ; visit to the queen, i. , - ; power to confer orders, ii. ; death, ii. ; treatment of prince consort, iii. ---- king george v. of, marriage, i. ; succeeds to the throne, ii. ; ii. hanoverian orders, ii. harcourt, edward vernon, archbishop of york, i. _ _, hardinge, sir henry (afterwards viscount), i. ; secretary at war, i. , , ; governor-general of india, ii. , ; settlement of sikh boundaries, ii. ; queen's appreciation of, ii. , , ; state of india, ii. ; ireland, ii. ; audience with the queen, ii. ; commander-in-chief, ii. , , ; army promotions, iii. ; field-marshal, iii. ; army discipline, iii. , ; illness and resignation, iii. , ; death and queen's opinion of, iii. , hardwicke, first earl, lord chancellor, i. _ _, ---- fourth earl, i. , ; ii. ; lord privy seal, iii. _ _ harley, lord (afterwards earl of oxford), i. harrow, extra week's holiday, iii. harrowby, lord, iii. hartington, lord (afterwards duke of devonshire), iii. hatzfeldt, count, iii. _ _ havelock, colonel, death of, ii. _ _ ---- general, lucknow relief, iii. _ _, _ _, , _ _, ; death of, iii. havre, flight of king louis philippe, ii. - hawes, mr, i. ; ii. hawtrey, dr, headmaster of eton college, i. ; montem, ii. ; resignation, ii. hay, lord john, i. _ _, _ _ haynau, general, attack on, ii. _ _, , , hayter, mr, artist, i. ---- mr (afterwards sir william), liberal whip, iii. head, sir francis, i. _ _ heath, captain, h.m.s. _sanspareil_, iii. heathcote, sir william, iii. helena, princess (afterwards princess christian), ii. henley, j. w., iii. ; president of board of trade, iii. ; withdrawal from ministry, iii. _ _ hennessy, john pope (afterwards sir), m.p., iii. _henri iv._, french warship, loss of, at balaklava, iii. herat, i. ; iii. _ _; siege of, iii. _ _ herbert, sidney (afterwards lord herbert of lea), ii. _ _, , , ; militia bill, ii. ; free trade debate, ii. , ; admiralty, ii. ; sends out florence nightingale, iii. _ _; roebuck motion, iii. ; formation of government of , iii. , , , , ; cabinet, iii. , ; resignation, iii. ; lord palmerston, opinion of, iii. , ; declines to join the government, iii. ; secretary for war, iii. ; england's interference with italy, iii. ; illness and death, iii. herries, rt. hon. j. c., ii. , hesse-cassel, ii. _ _ hesse, prince charles of, iii. hever castle, queen's visit to, i. heytesbury, lord, governor of isle of wight, i. , highland volunteers, i. highlanders, nd, i. hill, viscount, commander-in-chief, i. , ; resignation and death, i. , , _ _, ---- lord marcus, i. hilliers, gen. baraguay de, at capture of bomarsund, iii. _ _ hindoos, public offices opened to, ii. ; remarriage of widows, iii. _ _, ; indian mutiny, iii. _ _, ; address to the queen, iii. hobhouse, sir john cam (afterwards lord broughton), president of board of control, i. , ; ii. , hohenlohe, house of, history of, i. ---- langenburg, ernest, prince of, i. ; marriage, i. ; ii. ; question of his daughter's marriage, ii. ---- hermann, prince, of, iii. ---- princess of, _see_ adelaide, princess; feodore, princess hohenzollern, prince of, iii. holland, dr (afterwards sir henry), court physician, i. , ; ii. ; prince consort's last illness, iii. ---- and belgian dispute settled, i. _ _, _ _, _ _, , ; king leopold's views on, i. ; and england, i. - ; queens visit to, ii. _ _ ---- king william i. of, i. _ _; abdication, i. _ _, ---- king william ii. of, as prince of orange, suitor to the queen, i. ; becomes king, i. _ _; i. , , ; visit to the queen sophia frederica, ii. ---- king william iii. of, visit to king leopold, iii. ---- queen of, visit to england, iii. holland, lord, chancellor of the duchy of lancaster, i. holstein, union with schleswig, ii. _ _, , , , , holy alliance, i. _ _ holyrood palace, ii. ; iii. honfleur, ii. , hong-kong, i. , ; cession of, to england, i. _ _; ii. hooghly river, iii. hope, a. j. (afterwards beresford-hope), iii. horsman, mr, m.p., iii. , hospitals for sick and wounded soldiers, iii. hotham, admiral sir william, i. _ _ house tax, ii. _ _, household appointments, ii. , howard, charles, i. ---- de walden, lord, british minister at lisbon and brussels, i. , , , , ; ii. howden, lord (formerly sir john h. caradoc), british minister at rio janeiro and madrid, ii. , , , howick, lord (afterwards third earl grey), views on canadian affairs, i. , ; on civil government of the army, i. ; corn laws, i. ; and lord palmerston, ii. ; possible colonial secretary, ii. ; ireland, ii. ; his party, ii. ; views on resignation of government, ii. ; iii. , , , , ; iii. ; south africa, iii. ; refusal to join the government of , iii. howley, dr, _see_ canterbury, archbishop of hübner, baron, austrian ambassador at paris, ii. ; iii. _ _, , hudson, sir j., british envoy at turin, ii. ; iii. , _ _; peace at villafranca, iii. _ _; iii. , hugo, victor ( - ), _napoléon le petit_, ii. _ _ hull, queen's visit to, iii. hume, joseph, i. , , ; ii. , _ _ humiliation, days of, queen's views on, iii. , ; national prayer and humiliation, iii. , hummelauer, baron, ii. hungary, submission of, ii. _ _, hunt, mr leigh, i. huskisson, mr, i. hutchinson, mrs, biographer of her husband, i. ibrahim pasha, (son of mehemet ali), i. _ _, _idées napoléoniennes_, ii. income tax, queen's decision to pay, i. ; iii. ; bill, i. , ; raised, ii. _ _, , , , ; reduction for farmers, ii. ; ii. _ _; iii. ; increase, iii. _ _; reduction, iii. _ _ indemnity act, iii. _ _, _ _ india (_see_ afghanistan and east india co.), policy as to herat, i. - ; reinforcements for china, i. ; success in, i. ; retention of the scinde, i. ; recall of lord ellenborough, ii. _ _, , , ; education, ii. ; public offices opened to hindoos, ii. ; sikhs aggressive, ii. _ _; sikhs defeated, ii. _ _; extension of boundaries, ii. ; prosperity under british rule, ii. ; origin of sikh war, ii. _ _; necessity of making punjab a british province, ii. ; successful operations against sikhs, ii, _ _, ; safety of english prisoners, ii. ; disarmament of sikhs, ii. ; annexation of the punjab, ii. ; state of, ii. ; honours to duke of wellington, ii. ; india bill, ii. _ _, ; satisfactory state of, iii. - , ; troops for the crimea, iii. ; oudh placed under british control, iii. _ _; mutiny in, iii. _ _, _ _, - ; lucknow, iii. _ _, _ _, ; cawnpore, massacre of garrison, iii. _ _, _ _, ; future government of india, iii. , _ _, _ _; oudh proclamation, iii. _ _, _ _, ; indian army organisation, iii. , _ _, ; proclamation, iii. ; title of viceroy, iii. ; religious question, iii. ; army question, iii. - ; termination of the mutiny, iii. ; status of bussahir, iii. ; titles and honours, iii. ; letters of thanks to civil servants, iii. indus, ii. inkerman, battle of, iii. _ _; account of the battle, iii. - insanity, plea of, i. inverness, duchess of (wife of duke of sussex), i. , ionian islands, constitution of, iii. ireland, secret societies, i. _ _; municipal corporations bill, i. _ _, ; tithe bill, i. ; and o'connell, i. ; committee for, i. ; registration, i. ; repeal agitation, i. _ _; arms bill, i. ; indictment of o'connell, ii. _ _; report of potato commission, ii. ; failure of potato crop, ii. ; coercion bill, ii. _ _, , ; queen's proposed visit to, ii. , , ; alarming state of, ii. _ _, , ; queen's visit to, ii. _ _, , ; enthusiasm of people, ii. ; brevet promotions, ii. ; another visit to, iii. _ _ irun, capture of, i. _ _ isabella, queen, of spain, i. , ; guardianship of, i. ; proposed marriage of, i. , , , , , ; ii. , _ _, , , _ _, , , , ; iii. , _ _ ismail, surrender of, iii. _ _ issendorf, m. de, iii, isturitz, señor, spanish statesman, flight, i. _ _; ii. , italy, special mission to the vatican, ii. ; revolution, ii. _ _; and austria, ii. ; and england, ii. _ _, , , , ; piedmontese successes in northern, ii. _ _, , _ _, ; and austria, iii. , ; proposed congress and war, iii. - ; pope's opinion of italians, iii. ; insurrection at perugia, iii. ; treaty of zurich and congress to settle italian affairs, iii. _ _, _ _; french policy in, iii. ; summary of events in , iii. _ _; palmerston's views on, iii. , jackson, serjeant j. d., irish solicitor-general, i. , jamaica, troubles in, and constitution of, i. _ _, _ _, ; bill, i. james, edwin, successful defence of dr bernard, iii. _ _ japan, treaty with, iii. _ _ jarnac, count, french ambassador, ii. , jaux, m. de, ii. jenkinson, lady louisa, i. jenner, dr (afterwards sir william), physician-extraordinary to the queen, in attendance on prince consort, iii. , jersey, earl of, master of the horse, i. jewish disabilities bill, iii. _ _ jocelyn, lord, on free trade, ii. ---- lady, i. ; iii. ; _see_ also cowper, lady fanny john, archduke, younger son of the emperor leopold ii, i. ; ii. , , , ---- prince of portugal, brother of king pedro, iii. joinville, prince de, i. , , ; imprudent _brochure_, ii. _ _, , , ; ii. , , , , , , ; gallant deed, ii. ; accident to, iii. ---- princess de, i. , jones, sir john thomas, _wars in spain_, i. ---- mr, vice-consul at havre, ii. jowett, rev. b., fellow of balliol college, professor of greek, iii. kaffir war, iii. kainardji, treaty of, ii. _ _, _ _, kalampaka, engagement at, iii. _ _ karak, island of, iii. _ _ kars, fortress of, iii. _ _, _ _, , , _ _ keane, sir john (afterwards lord), cabul, i. _ _ kellerman, general, and convention of cintra, iii. _ _ kellersberg, baron, iii. _ _ kennedy, mr, removed from crown office, iii. kennington common, chartist meeting, ii. kensington palace, queen's birth-place, i. ; queen's early recollections of, i. ; proposal to build national gallery on site of, ii. kent, duchess of (queen's mother), biography of, i. , , , ; character and disposition, i. ; parliamentary grant, i. ; education of princess victoria, i. - ; parliamentary grant increased, i. ; estrangement with william iv., i. ; visit to belgium, i. ; ii. ; illness of, iii. ; frogmore, iii. ; edinburgh, iii. ; present at volunteer review, iii. ; death, iii. _ _, - ---- duke of (queen's father), politics and philanthropic views, i. ; biography, i. ; sudden death, i. kertsch, successful attack on, iii. _ _, _ _ khalsad army, surrender of, ii. khyber pass, i. _ _, kinburn, citadel of, iii. _ _ king, mr locke, ii. , ---- rev. bryan, iii. _ _ kinglake, mr, _invasion of the crimea_, iii. _ _, , _ _ kingstown (ireland), queen victoria's visit to, ii. kinsky regiment, loss of twenty-four officers, ii. kirkpatrick, william, ii. _ _ kisseleff, general, russian ambassador, iii. klebelsberg, countess, marriage, i. knatchbull, sir edward, paymaster-general, i. , knightley, rainald (afterwards sir), m.p., iii. knollys, sir william, k.c.b., iii. _ _ koh-i-noor diamond, ii. _ _; history of, ii. kokan, khan of, iii. koller, baron, austrian ambassador, ii. - königsberg, crowning of king and queen of prussia, iii. _ _ kossuth, louis, champion of hungarian freedom, flight of, ii. _ _; visit to england, ii. _ _; reception by lord palmerston, ii. - , , ; iii. lablache, luigi (queen's singing master), i. , , labouchere, mr (afterwards lord taunton), president of the board of trade, i. , , ; government of , iii. , _ _, , labour bill, mines, i. _ _; factories, ii. _ _ laeken, royal palace in belgium, i. lagos, capture of, ii. lahore, ii. lamartine, m., ii. _ _, _ _ lambeth palace, i. landgravine, princess elisabeth, i. landseer, sir edwin henry ( - ), artist, i. , langdale, lord, master of the rolls, i. lansdowne, marquess of, lord president of the council, i. , ; ii. , , , ; government crisis, ii. , , , - ; in the cabinet, ii. ; reform bill, ii. ; and lord john russell, iii. ; formation of the government of , iii. - , , , , , , ; cabinet, iii. , ; his ministerial life, iii. _ _; iii. ; declines a dukedom, iii. _ _ laporte, i. la susse, french admiral, ii. lavradio, m., portuguese statesman, i. law, administration of, ii. ---- lords, want of, iii. lawrence, sir henry, military administrator at oudh, death at lucknow, iii. _ _, lawrence, mrs george, courage of, ii. ---- sir j., oudh proclamation, iii. layard, mr, under secretary for foreign affairs, iii. , , , - lee, dr james prince (afterwards bishop of manchester), ii. leeke, admiral sir henry, capture of bushire, iii. _ _ lefevre, mr shaw (afterwards viscount eversley), speaker, i. , ; iii. _ _, lefroy, john henry, inspector-general of army schools, iii. lehzen, baroness (queen's governess), i. , , , , leicester, earl of, i. leigh, mr pemberton (afterwards lord kingsdown), ii. ; iii. ; declines lord chancellorship, iii. leiningen, house of, history of, i. _ _ ---- prince of, marriage, i. ; death, i. ---- prince charles of (son of above), i. , , , ; ii. ; death, iii. _ _, ---- princess feodore, _see_ feodore leith, proposed dockyard at, iii. le marchant, sir john gaspard, lieut. gov. of nova scotia, iii. lennox, lady caroline, i. leopold, prince (afterwards duke of albany), birth, ii. ---- duke of brabant (afterwards nd king of the belgians), i. ; ii. ---- st king of the belgians, birth and parentage, i. , ; queen's reminiscences of, i. , , , ; kindness to duchess of kent, i. ; influence on, and kindness to the queen, i. , , ; in the russian army, refusal of throne of greece, i. ; accepts belgian throne, gallantry in war, a model ruler, i. ; nature of correspondence with the queen, i. _ _; queen victoria's first letter to, i. ; valuable advice to queen victoria, i. ; newspaper abuse of, i. ; birth of second son, i. ; visit to the queen, i. ; belgian interests, i. , , , ; england and france, i. - ; views on dissolution, i. - ; queen's visit to, i. , ; friendship with queen victoria, ii. ; views on czar's visit to england, ii. ; letters on king louis philippe's visit to england, ii. , ; birthday letter to the queen, ii. ; on state of germany, ii. ; failure of insurrection, ii. _ _; louis bonaparte, ii. ; state of france, ii. , ; on death of sir robert peel, ii. ; illness of queen louise, ii. ; the sovereign "people," ii. ; on victor hugo, ii. ; on death of duke of wellington, ii. ; the empress of the french, ii. ; eastern question, ii. , ; press attacks on prince consort, iii. ; visits the queen, iii. ; on the conclusion of the war, iii. , ; iii. ; review of crimean troops at aldershot, iii. _ _; as to decorating duke of westmorland, iii. ; princess charlotte's proposed marriage, iii. ; on death of prince charles of leiningen, iii. ; marriage of princess charlotte, iii. , ; on the queen's visit to napoleon, iii. ; napoleon's desire for war, iii. ; napoleon and the pope, iii. ; italian question, iii. ; prince of wales's visit to canada, iii. ; volunteer review in hyde park, iii. _ _; letter to the queen, iii. ; death of duchess of kent, iii. - , ; sympathy for prince consort's illness, iii. , leopold, prince of saxe-coburg, ii. , , letters, sunday delivery, ii. lévis, duc de, i. lewis, sir george cornewall, chancellor of exchequer, iii. _ _; stamp duties bill, iii. ; budget, iii. _ _; income tax, iii. ; financial crisis, iii. ; home secretary, iii. ; st juan dispute, iii. lhuys, m. drouyn de, french foreign minister, ii. ; and russian loan, iii. ; austria's proposed terms of crimean settlement and resignation, iii. liberals (_see_ whigs), small majority, i. ; gains at election, , ii. , ; lord palmerston's followers, the liberal party, iii. _ _; oudh proclamation debate, iii. _ _, _ _; new reform bill, iii. _ _; lord palmerston forms a government, iii. _ _, - liddell, mr, iii. liechtenstein, prince and princess of, i. liège, iii. lieven, princess de, i. , ligne, prince de, i. lincoln, abraham, president, united states, iii. _ _ ---- bishop of (john kaye), report as to queen's education, i. - ---- earl of (afterwards (t.n.: ) fifth duke of newcastle), chief commissioner of woods and forests, i. ; ii. ; ii. , , , , , _ _, , - , _ _, , ; secretary of state for war, iii. _ _; marshal st arnaud, iii. _ _; hospital at scutari, iii. ; lord j. russell's resignation, iii. , , , , ; knight of the garter, iii. , , ; refuses to join government of , iii. ; colonial secretary, iii. ; tour with prince of wales, iii. _ _, _ _, lind, jenny, ii. lindley, dr, irish commissioner on potato disease, ii. lindsay, lady charlotte, i. lisbon, revolution, i. ; run on the bank of, ii. _ _ liverpool, bank failures, ii. _ _ ---- third earl of, biography of, i. _ _, ; lord steward, i. , ; ii. , ; death of, ii. llanover, baron, _see_ hall, sir b. lloyd, thomas davies, baronetage, iii. lochnager, queen's visit to, ii. loftus, lord a., iii. login, sir john, iii. ; oudh proclamation, iii. lombardy, ii. _ _, _ _, _ _, _ _, , , ; ceded to sardinia, iii. _ _ london, bishop of (c. j. blomfield), report on queen's education, i. - , ; papal aggression, ii. ; iii. ; (a. c. tait), divorce bill, iii. londonderry, marquis of, ambassador at vienna, i. ; ii. ; garter, ii. , longley, charles thomas, bishop of durham (afterwards archbishop of canterbury), iii. _ _ lonsdale, john (bishop of lichfield), ii. _ _ ---- earl of, ii. loodiana, ii. lords, house of, increase of appellate jurisdiction, iii. _ _; powers in money bills, iii. _ _, ; throw out abolition of paper duties bill, iii. , ; privilege resolutions, iii. ---- justices, question of, ii. louis xviii., character of, i. louis napoleon, _see_ napoleon ---- philippe, king of the french, biography of, i. ; belgian throne, i. ; attempted assassination of, i. _ _, , ; letters to the queen, i. ; ii. , , , , ; proposed visit to the queen, i. , ; ii. - ; and english government, ii. _ _, , , ; letter from the queen on resignation of sir r. peel and reply, ii. , ; ii. ; the spanish marriages, ii. _ _, , , , ; ii. ; abdication, ii. _ _, _ _; death of his sister, ii. - ; flight of, ii. , , - ; gratitude to the queen, ii. ; ii. ; queen victoria's view of his policy, ii. , ; position of, ii. , , ; illness and death, ii. _ _, , ; compared with napoleon iii. in knowledge, iii. louis, prince, of hesse (afterwards grand duke louis iv.), engagement to princess alice, iii. , , , ---- mrs (queen's dresser), i. , , ; death, i. louisa, princess, of hesse, ii. louise (queen of the belgians), marriage and correspondence with the queen, i. _ _; her character, i. ; letter on the queen's engagement, i. ; on death of the duke of orleans, i. , ; ii. ; on her father's visit to england, ii. , , ; sorrow at madame adélaïde's death, ii. - ; french revolution and her father's flight, ii. ; illness, ii. ; death, ii. , _ _; ii. ---- princess, of belgium, birth, iii. , löwenstein, prince william of, i. loyd, mr jones (afterwards lord overstone), ii. lucan, lord, censure on, iii. _ _ lucca, duke of, i. lucknow, iii. ; mutiny and siege of, iii. _ _, ; relief of, iii. _ _, , , _ _, luitpold of bavaria, prince, iii. lushington, dr stephen, admiralty judge, i. , ; refuses a life peerage, ii. ; iii. ; on right to search ships, iii. luxemburg, i. _ _, _ _ lyndhurst, lord, lord chancellor, i. , _ _, ; ii. ; on russia's aggressiveness, iii. _ _; title of prince consort, iii. , _ _; divorce bill, iii. , lynedoch, lord, death, i. lyons, richard bickerton pemell, k.c.b. (afterwards earl lyons), the pope's appreciation of, iii. ; united states dispute, iii. ---- sir edmund, commands mediterranean fleet, iii. _ _ lyttelton, lady (governess to the royal children), i. _ _, ; ii. ---- lord, iii. lytton, _see_ bulwer lytton m'caskill, sir john, death, ii. m'culloch, mr, ii. macaulay, t. b. (afterwards lord macaulay), secretary at war, i. _ _; china debate, i. ; in favour of dissolution, i. , ; on somnauth proclamation, i. ; maynooth grant, ii. _ _; defeat at edinburgh, ii. ; peerage, iii. macdonald, captain, iii. _ _ ---- lt.-col. hon. bosville, iii. ---- miss, ii. macmahon, mr, conspiracy bill debate, iii. macnaghten, sir william, envoy at cabul, i. _ _, ; death, i. macnaghten, daniel, assassin, i. - ; pronounced insane, i. , macneill, sir john, iii. _ _ madiai, release of the, ii. magenis, arthur charles (afterwards sir), minister at stockholm, iii. _ _ magenta, duc de, iii. magnan, marshal, iii. mahmoud, sultan, war with pasha of egypt, i. _ _; successor, i. mahon, lord (afterwards fifth earl stanhope), _history of england_, i. , malakhoff batteries, attack on, iii. _ _, _ _ ---- duc de, _see_ pélissier malcolm, major, i. malegnano, austrians defeated at, iii. _ _ malmesbury, earl of, memoirs, ii. _ _; foreign secretary, ii. - , ; napoleon's title, ii. _ _; secret protocol, ii. ; question of princess adelaide of hohenlohe's marriage, ii. - , ; iii. ; foreign secretary, iii. _ _; orsini incident, iii. , ; danish question, iii. ; and italy, iii. ; proposed congress to settle italian difficulties, iii. - , _ _, _ _; peers and money bills, iii. _ _; and lord palmerston's government, iii. , malta, english church for, i. maltby, dr edward, bishop of durham, i. _ _; ii. _ _ mamelon, capture of, iii. _ _, _ _ manchester, riot, i. - ; chartist fiasco, ii. ---- duchess of (afterwards duchess of devonshire), mistress of the robes, iii. mangles, mr, of east india company, iii. mann, sir horace, i. manners, lord john (afterwards seventh duke of rutland), ii. _ _; commissioner of works, iii. ; on john bright, iii. _ _; on new foreign office, iii. manning, marie, her execution, ii. _ _ mansfield, colonel, military adviser at constantinople, iii. ---- earl of, i. manteuffel, baron, president of prussian ministry, iii. _ _, , _ _ maria, donna, _see_ portugal, queen of mario, opera singer, ii. maritime law, international, iii. _ _ markham, general, death, of, iii. marmora, general la, sardinian general, iii. _ _, , _ _, maronites, iii. _ _ marriage act, i. _ _ marston, north, repair of church, ii. _ _ martin, rev. francis, bursar, trinity coll., cambridge, i. ---- sir theodore, _life of prince consort_, iii. _ _, _ _; last draft prepared by prince consort, iii. mary, princess, _see_ gloucester, duchess of ---- of cambridge, princess (afterwards duchess of teck), proposed marriage of, iii. _ _, maryborough, lady, i. mason, mr, confederate envoy, iii. mathew, father, ii. maule, mr fox, _see_ panmure, lord maundy money, ii. maurice, rev. f. d., ii. maximilian, archduke, _see_ ferdinand mayne, richard, commissioner of police, ii. maynooth roman catholic college, grant, ii. _ _, , , mazzini, ii. ; iii. _ _ mecklenburg, prince charles of, i. mecklenburg-strelitz, frederic william, grand duke of, i. , _ _ medals, peninsular, ii. - ; east india company, ii. ; crimea, iii. , ; distribution of, iii. medjid, abdul, sultan, i. ; interview with duke of cambridge, iii. meer shere mahommed, i. meerut, revolt at, iii. _ _ melbourne, viscount, prime minister and first lord of the treasury, i. ; ministry, i. ; i. ; queen's confidence in and appreciation of, i. , , , , , , ; letter to queen on accession, i. ; interview with queen, i. ; arrangements for king william iv.'s funeral, i. , ; king leopold's appreciation of, i. , , , , , , , ; duke of wellington's opinion of, i. ; indisposition, i. ; politics, i. ; visit to the queen, i. ; canadian troubles, i. , , , , - , , - ; i. _ _; coronation arrangements, i. , ; belgium and holland, i. , ; ceremony, i. - ; cabinet crisis, i. , , ; resignation, i. , ; advises the queen, i. , , , , , ; queen's distress at parting, i. , ; queen's refusal of peel's terms, i. ; prince albert's declaration, i. ; turco-egyptian convention, i. - ; overtures to france, i. ; eastern difficulties, i. - ; criticism on his future correspondence with the queen, i. _ _, , , , , , ; ministry in jeopardy, i. - ; dissolution, i. ; takes leave of the queen, i. ; portrait of, i. , ; on division of high offices of state, i. ; address from derby, i. ; visit to the queen, i. , , , ; serious illness, i. , ; on his health, i. , , , , , , ; queen's visit to, i. ; on old age, ii. ; opinion of emperor of russia, ii. ; crisis in parliament, ii. ; on scotland, ii. ; queen's letters to, ii. , ; sir r. peel's resignation, ii. , , ; political views of, ii. ; queen's advance of money to, ii. _ _; queen's birthday congratulations to, ii. ; death, ii. melvill, sir james, chief secretary, east india company, iii. mendizabal, don juan alvarez y, spanish statesman, i. _ _; queen's opinion of, i. menschikoff, prince, the eastern question, ii. _ _, , _ _ mensdorff-pouilly, comte emmanuel de, marriage, i. , , ; ii. meredith, mr, ii. _ _ metcalfe, sir charles (afterwards lord), governor-general of canada, i. , ; retirement, ii. , metchersky, princess, iii. metternich, prince, i. , , , , , , , ; ii. , ; a fugitive, ii. _ _, , ; italian question, iii. , , _ _ meyendorff, baron, austrian foreign minister, ii. _ _ meyer, miss eugénie, i. michael, grand duke, visit to the queen, i. , miguel, dom, i. _ _; ii. ; iii. _ _ milan, surrender of, ii. _ _; insurrection, ii. _ _; french emperor and king emmanuel enter, iii. _ _ milanese rising against austria, ii. _ _ miles, mr, m.p. for bristol, on sugar duties, ii. _ _; iii. militia, reconstruction, ii. _ _; bill, ii. , , , , ; carried, ii. , ; iii. milner gibson, mr, iii. _ _; conspiracy bill debate, iii. _ _, , _ _, ; president of the board of trade, iii. ; abolition of paper duties bill, iii. , milnes, r. monckton (afterwards lord houghton), iii. ministers of state, duties of, i. ; iii. , minto, earl of, first lord of the admiralty, i. , ; ii. , , _ _; special mission to the vatican, ii. , _ _; ii. , ; pope's opinion of, iii. modena, duke of, ii. mohammedan schools, ii. ; indian mutiny, iii. moldavia, iii. _ _ molé, count, french premier and foreign secretary, i. molesworth, sir william, at the office of works, ii. ; government of , iii. ; board of works, iii. ; death, iii. _ _ monro, major, i. montebello, battle of, iii. _ _ montemolin, count of, ii. , montijo, mdlle. eugènie de (empress of the french), parentage, marriage to napoleon, ii. _ _, , ; ii. ; visit to england, iii. ; queen's opinion of, iii. , ; queen's letter to, _re_ treaty of paris, iii. , ; attempted assassination of, iii. _ _, _ _; tour in scotland and england, iii. _ _; visit to the queen, iii. , montjoye, madame de, ii. montpensier, duc de, i. , ; ii. , , , ; engagement to the infanta, ii. _ _, , , , , , _ _, , , montreal, i. moodkee, ii. _ _, _ _ mooltan, insurrection, ii. , _ _ _morning chronicle_, i. ; ii. _ _, , ; iii. , , _morning post_, iii. morocco, ii. morpeth, viscount (afterwards earl of carlisle), _see_ carlisle morris, mr, governor of the bank, ii. morton, earl of, i. mouravieff, general, takes kars fortress, iii. _ _ muich, loch, queen's visit to, ii. , municipal corporations, i. munro, lieutenant, duel, i. _ _ munster, earl of, governor of windsor castle, tragic death, i. , muntz, george frederick, m.p., birmingham, iii. murat, madame de, ii. ---- joachim, formerly king of naples, iii. _ _ murray, sir george, commander-in-chief for ireland, i. ---- george, bishop of rochester, iii. muscat, imam of, list of presents for the queen, i. musgrave, dr, bishop of hereford (afterwards archbp. of york), ii. mutiny act, ii. naas, lord (afterwards earl of mayo), chief secretary for ireland, iii. nagpur, annexation of, iii. _ _ nana sahib, perfidy of, iii. _ _, _ _ nanking, i. _ _, _ _ napier, sir charles (general), scinde victory, i. ; g.c.b., i. ; governor of scinde, i. _ _; receives the thanks of both houses, ii. _ _; succeeds lord gough, ii. _ _, ; resignation, ii. ---- sir charles (admiral), i. _ _; commands the baltic fleet, iii. _ _, _ _, , _ _; capture of bomarsund, iii. _ _ ---- sir george, governor of cape colony, i. naples, cholera panic, i. ; slight on english government, iii. , ; seizure of the _cagliari_, iii. _ _, _ _; triumphal entry by king of sardinia and garibaldi, iii. _ _; flight of francis ii., iii. , ; revolution doctrines, iii. _ _, ; absorption of, iii. ---- francis ii., king of, amnesty granted, iii. ; letter to the queen, iii. ; reply, iii. ; character, iii. napoleon i., emperor, iii. , _ _, _ _ ---- louis (afterwards napoleon iii., emperor of the french), lands at boulogne, i. _ _, ; president of the french republic, ii. _ _, ; elections, ii. , ; writes to queen victoria, ii. ; ii. , ; universal suffrage, ii. _ _; _coup d'état_ in paris, ii. - ; assumes imperial title, projected marriage, ii. _ _, _ _, , ; queen victoria's opinion of, ii. , , , , ; title of emperor, ii. ; his position, ii. ; anecdote of, ii. ; and england, ii. , ; queen victoria's letter to, ii. ; annoyance with the powers, ii. ; his title, ii. ; eastern question, ii. _ _, ; marriage, ii. , _ _; interview with prince albert, iii. _ _; and russia, iii. ; interview with duke of cambridge, iii. - ; visit from prince albert, iii. _ _; visit to england with the empress, iii. _ _; palmerston's letter to, iii. _ _; proposes to take command at the crimea, iii. , _ _, ; visit to england, iii. _ _; festivities and investiture, iii. _ _; letter to the queen, iii. ; and reply, ; and austria's proposed crimean settlement, iii. _ _; attempts on his life, iii. ; queen's opinion of, iii. , - , ; queen's visit to france, iii. - ; attempt on his life, iii. ; desire to terminate hostilities, iii. _ _; correspondence with the queen on the ultimatum, iii. , , , , ; council of war at paris, iii, , ; interview with lord clarendon, iii. ; birth of prince imperial, iii. ; treaty of peace, iii. ; on proposed marriage of prince frederick william of prussia, iii. ; egypt and morocco, iii. ; his feelings towards england, iii. ; visit to england, iii. ; attempted assassination of, iii. _ _, _ _; and the carbonari club, iii. ; and italy, iii. ; confederacy with sardinia, iii. _ _, _ _; entry into milan, and conclusion of peace, iii. _ _; _napoléon et l'italie_, iii. _ _; war with austria, iii. _ _- , , , _ _; proposed congress, iii. ; rumoured treaty with russia, iii. ; french victories, iii. _ _; conclusion and terms of peace, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _; annexation of savoy and nice, iii. _ _, , - , ; policy in syria, iii. _ _; _the pope and the congress_ pamphlet, iii. ; italian policy, iii. ; stormy interview with lord cowley, iii. - ; new year's letter to the queen, iii. ; reply, iii. ; italian question, iii. ; on death of cavour, iii. _ _; king of sweden, iii. ; mexico, iii. ; interview with king of prussia, iii. ---- bonaparte, prince jerome, iii. _ _, _ _ ---- eugène louis jean joseph, prince imperial, birth, iii. , narvaez, general, ii. nasmyth, lieutenant, siege of silistria, iii. _ _ nassau, prince of, iii. national gallery, ii. ; iii. navigation laws, i. _ _; ii. ; repeal of, ii. _ _, ; iii. _ _ navy, african squadron, ii. ; admiralty appointments, ii. ; national defences, ii. , ; bombardment of odessa, iii. ; bomarsund, iii. ; battle of the alma, iii. ; balaklava and sebastopol, iii. ; hurricane at balaklava, iii. _ _; second baltic expedition, iii. ; want of a dockyard in scotland, iii. ; retrenchments, iii. ; position of, iii. ; peace establishment, iii. ; fleet sent to black sea, iii. _ _; want of ships and state of, iii. , , ; use for indian mutiny, iii. ; proposed increase, iii. , ; change in naval uniform, iii. neild, j. c., leaves fortune to queen victoria, ii. neill, general, death of, iii. , neipperg, count, marriage i. nelson, lord, proposed pension for children of his adopted daughter, iii. , nemours, duchesse de, _see_ victoire, princess ---- duc de, i. , ; at constantin, i. ; marriage, i. _ _; i. , , , , ; ii. , , , , , , , , , , ; iii. ; death of his wife, iii. _ _ nesselrode, count, russian minister, ii. _ _, ; iii. netherlands, king of the, _see_ holland, king william second of neuchâtel, ii. ; rising in canton of, iii. _ _ neuilly, queen's visit to, iii. neumann, m. de, austrian minister, i. , , newcastle, duke of, _see_ lincoln, earl of new forest, ii. newhaven, king louis philippe's flight to, ii. newman, mr, ii. newport, riot at, i. _ _, new zealand, native troubles, ii. _ _; constitution granted, ii. _ _ ney, edgar, ii. ---- general, iii. nice, annexation to france, iii. _ _, _ _, - , nicholas, _see_ russia, emperor of ---- prince, of nassau, visit to the queen, ii. nicholson, general, death of, iii. nicolas, grand duke, iii. nicols, lieut.-gen. sir jasper, commander-in-chief, india, i. nightingale, miss florence, iii. _ _; arrival at scutari, iii. _ _; queen's letter of thanks to, iii. ; presentation to, iii. _ _ nine elms station, ii. ningpo, i. norbury, lord, assassination of, i. norfolk, duchess of (governess to royal children), i. , , ; papal brief, ii. _ _, ---- duke of, coronation, i. ; refusal of garter, iii. normanby, marquess of, canada, i. ; home secretary, i. _ _, ; lord-lieut. of ireland, i. , ; i. ; ii. , ; ambassador-extraordinary at paris, ii. , , ; _coup d'état_, paris, ii, - ; palmerston's conduct to, ii. , , , , , , normanby, marchioness of, _coup d'état_ in paris, ii. - normandy, ii. north, colonel, iii. ---- lord (afterwards earl of guilford), i. northumberland, duke of, ii. , , , ---- duchess of, first lady-in-waiting to the queen, i. ; ill-health, ii. norton, mrs. ii. _ _ norway and sweden, iii. _ _. _see_ also sweden nott, general (afterwards sir william), afghanistan, i. _ _, _ _, _ _, nottingham election, i. novara, battle of, ii. nuneham, queen's visit to, i. oaths bill, iii. _ _ o'brien, smith, young ireland agitation, ii. _ _ _ocean monarch_, emigrant ship, burnt, ii. _ _ o'connell, daniel, agitator, i. , , , _ _; arrest, i. ; release, ii. _ _; ii. , _ _ o'connor, feargus, people's charter, ii. _ _; kennington common meeting, ii. , odessa, bombardment of, iii. _ _ olozaga, mons., iii. oltenitza, ii. _ _ omar pasha, turkish commander, iii. _ _ opera, queen at the, ii. oporto, louis, duc de, brother to king pedro v of portugal, iii. , _ _, orange, prince of, _see_ holland ---- prince william nicholas of (son of king william), iii. -----river free state, ii. _ _; iii. orders, right of british subjects to accept foreign, ii. oregon, end of boundary dispute, ii. orleanists, and french revolution, ii. - ; blunders of, ii. orleans, duke of, i. , ; death, i. , , , ---- duchess of, ii. _ _ ---- princess louise of, _see_ belgians, queen of ---- princess marie of, i. ; marriage and death, i. ---- family, ii. , , ; iii. , orloff, princess, iii. ---- count, russian ambassador, i. ; iii. orsini, of the carbonari society, execution of, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _ osborne, ralph bernal, secretary of the admiralty, ii. ; iii. , , , ---- queen's purchase of, ii, , ; queen's occupation of, ii. oscar, prince, of sweden, iii. , ; visit to the queen, iii. , , otho, king of greece, ii. oudh, placed under british control, iii. _ _, ; mutiny, iii. _ _, ; proclamation, iii. _ _, _ _, , oudinot, gen., ii. _ _, _ _ oultremont, countess de, i. _ _ outram, general (afterwards sir james), war with persia, iii. ; annexation of oudh, iii. _ _; indian mutiny, iii. , ; oudh, proclamation, iii. _ _, overstone, lord, _see_ loyd oxford, bishop of, _see_ wilberforce ---- tracts, i. owen, sir edward, i. pacifico, don, claim against greek government, ii. _ _, , , _ _, _ _, , , _ _, _ _ paget, general sir edward, g.c.b., i. ---- lady adelaide, i. ---- lord, lord melbourne's page, i. pakenham, sir r., minister at lisbon, ii. pakington, sir john (afterwards lord hampton), first lord of the admiralty, iii. , , ; french naval preparations, iii. , palermo, occupation of, by garibaldi, iii. _ _ palmella, duc de, ii. _ _, palmer, colonel, i. _ _ ---- mr, ii. ---- sir roundell, solicitor-general, iii. , palmerston, viscount, his political power and views, i. _ _; i. , ; speech on spanish affairs, i. ; i. , ; visits queen victoria, i. ; power of officials in public offices, i. ; i. , ; illness, i. ; belgium and holland, i. ; marriage, i. ; eastern crisis, i. _ _- ; views on france, i. , ; china and opium trade, i. , ; votes for dissolution, i. ; foreign secretary, i. ; _morning chronicle_, i. ; and lord grey, ii. ; possible foreign secretary, ii. ; desire for peace, ii. ; and lord aberdeen, ii. , ; spanish marriage question, ii. _ _, , - , ; incurs queen's displeasure, ii. , , , , , , , - , , , , ; attack on portuguese government, ii. _ _, ; anti-austrian sympathy, ii. ; france and austria, ii. , , _ _; lord normanby's appointment to paris, ii. , ; italian policy, ii. ; despatch about greece, ii. ; supplies arms to insurgents, ii. _ _; proposed removal of, ii. , ; methods for redress of wrongs, ii. ; hostility against greece, ii. _ _; haynau trouble, ii. _ _; case of don pacifico and mr finlay, ii. _ _, - , _ _, _ _, , _ _; draft to greece, ii. , ; prince consort's memoranda on his foreign policy, ii. , , , ; and spain, ii. ; lord j. russell's offer to resign, ii. , ; speech on foreign policy, ii. ; schleswig draft, ii. ; removal of, considered, ii. - ; press attacks on, ii. ; duties of a foreign secretary, ii. ; haynau despatch, ii. - ; austria and prussia, ii. ; reception of kossuth, ii. _ _, - ; louis napoleon, ii. _ _; diplomatic changes, ii. , ; _coup d'état_, approval of, ii. - ; difference with lord normanby, ii. - ; dismissal from office, ii. - ; inconsistency of, ii. ; absence from council explained, ii. ; explanation in the house, ii. - ; militia bill, ii. _ _, , , ; refusal to serve under lord derby, ii. , ; and lord john russell, ii. , , ; iii. ; power to appoint commander-in-chief, ii. ; his aims, ii. , ; home office, ii. ; illness, ii. , ; eastern question, ii. _ _; peculiar position of, ii. , ; objection to reform proposals, ii. , ; iii. _ _, , , ; resignation, ii. ; withdraws his resignation, ii. _ _; speech at reform club, iii. _ _; austrian alliance, iii. _ _, and the war office, iii. _ _; iii. ; forms a government, iii. _ _; on lord john russell's resignation, iii. ; premier, iii. - ; position on lord derby's and lord john russell's failure to form a government, iii. , , - ; forms a government, iii. - ; letter to napoleon, iii. _ _; roebuck committee, iii. ; lord john russell's resignation, iii. ; neapolitan affront, iii. _ _; queen's congratulations on treaty of peace, , iii. ; made k.g., iii. ; condition of defence, iii. _ _; obtains majority in house of commons, iii. _ _; _résumé_ of events, iii. , ; dissolution on china war debate, iii. , _ _; indian mutiny, iii. , , - ; financial crisis, iii. - ; ministry defeated over right of asylum, iii. _ _; resignation, iii. - ; iii. , ; india bill, iii. ; iii. , ; his unpopularity, iii. ; new reform bill, iii. _ _; reconciliation with lord j. russell, iii. _ _; forms a government, iii. _ _, - ; foreign affairs, iii. _ _; and john bright, iii. _ _; committee on military departments, iii. ; differences with the queen on italian policy, iii. - ; - ; peers and money bills, iii. _ _, ; w. e. gladstone's resignation, iii. , ; privilege resolution, iii. ; proposed visit of emperor of austria, iii. ; appointments of bishops, iii. ; overtures from conservative leaders, iii. _ _; _résumé_ of political situation, iii. , , ; italian question, iii. , ; garibaldi letter, iii. , ; presses for mr layard's appointment, iii. - ; _times_ newspaper, iii. - panmure, lord (mr fox maule), afterwards earl of dalhousie, under secretary for home office, and secretary for war, i. ; ii. ; iii. ; war minister, iii. _ _, , , ; crimean medals, iii. ; fall of sebastopol, iii. , ; g.c.b., iii. ; land transport, iii. ; no troops at the camp, iii. ; indian mutiny, iii. , ; increase of army, iii. , ; new cabinet, iii. panshanger, earl cowper's residence, i. ; queen's visit to, i. papal aggression, ii. , , - , , , paper duties, bill for abolition of, thrown out, iii. ; passed, iii. _ _ paris, comte de, birth, i. _ _; christening, i. , ; federal army, iii. ---- question of an ambassador, ii. ; _coup d'état_, ii. - ; queen's visit to, iii. , ; treaty of, iii. _ _, , , , _ _ parke, baron (afterwards lord wensleydale), i. ; iii. _ _ parker, admiral sir wm., successes in china, i. _ _, _ _, ; g.c.b., i. ; italy, ii. ; commands mediterranean fleet, ii. , _ _ ---- society, i. parks, the royal, ii. parliament, new houses of, ii. parliamentary reform, ii. parma, duke of, ii. parma, duchess of, iii. pasha, the capitan, treachery of, i. ---- of egypt, _see_ mehemet ali ----omar, _see_ omar passport question, iii. pate, robert, assault on the queen, ii. _ _ patriotic fund, established, iii. _ _ paul, captain, ii. , paxton, mr, ii. _ _ pedro, dom, emperor of brazil, i. _ _ ---- prince (afterwards king of portugal, king pedro v.); proposed marriage of, iii. _ _, _ _, ; marriage of, iii. _ _; death, iii. _ _, peel, captain, of the _shannon_, gallantry at relief of lucknow, iii. _ _ ---- lady (wife of sir robert peel), ii. ---- rev. john, dean of worcester, ii. , ---- general jonathan, war secretary, iii. , ---- sir robert, in opposition, i. _ _, _ _ glasgow speech, i. , ; hume's attack on, i. ; sent for by the queen, i. _ _; corn laws, i. , , , ; ii. ; jamaica government, i. ; i. , ; request to form a ministry, i. ; queen victoria's impression of, i. ; difficulties as to appointment of queen's household, i. - , - ; and the united states, i. ; lord melbourne's opinion of, i. ; free trade, i. ; ii. ; vote of censure, i. ; i. , ; prime minister and first lord of the treasury, i. ; interview with the queen, i. ; roman catholics, i. ; ii. _ _; king leopold's opinion of, i. ; queen's visit to, i. ; queen's appreciation of, ii. , , ; prince albert's title, ii. ; resignation and interview with prince albert, ii. , ; his attitude, ii. , ; returned to office, ii. - ; comprehensive scheme, ii. ; speech on opening of parliament, ii. ; objection to prince albert's memo, of their conversation, ii. ; explanation, ii. _ _, ; personal defence, ii. , ; resignation, ii. , ; account of his speech, ii. , ; takes leave of the queen, ii. , ; and prince albert, ii. ; ii. _ _; supports the ministry, ii. _ _; accident and death, ii. _ _, _ _- ---- frederick (afterwards right hon. sir frederick), maiden speech, ii. peelites, ii. , , , , _ _; position in government of , ii. , , ; iii. _ _; lord john russell's resignation, iii. ; government of , iii. , , , , , , , , , ; retirement of, iii. _ _; chinese debate, iii. _ _, _ _; conspiracy debate, iii. ; return to power, iii. _ _ peers, right of audience, i. , ; powers in money bills, iii. _ _ pélissier, general (afterwards duc de malakhoff), commander of the french army, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _; queen's congratulations to, iii. ; becomes duc de malakhoff, iii. _ _; iii. , , , _ _ pennefather, chief justice of the irish queen's bench, i. penny postage introduced, i. _ _, people's charter riots, i. _ _; ii. _ _ pepys, henry, bishop of worcester, death, iii. percy, lord henry hugh manvers, k.c.b., v.c., gallantry at inkerman, iii. perekop, isthmus of, iii. perim, island of, iii. perry, sir erskine, ex-chief justice of bombay, indian mutiny debate, iii. persia, turkey, and england, iii. _ _; war with england, iii. _ _; siege of herat, iii. _ _; hostilities terminated, and terms of peace, iii. _ _ persigny, m. de, french ambassador in london, iii. _ _, , _ _, ; interview with earl of clarendon, iii. ; orsini incident, iii. : resignation, iii. ; iii. ; war with austria, iii. _ _, , ; visit to the queen, iii. , peshawur, ii. peterborough, bishop of, _see_ davys pfordten, m. von der, iii. philippe (second son of king leopold i., afterwards count of flanders), i. , phillimore, dr, counsel to the admiralty, iii. _ _ phillips, mr t. (mayor of newport), knighted, i. philipotts, henry, bishop of exeter, ii. _ _; iii. philpott, canon henry, bishop of worcester, iii. _ _ phipps, maria henrietta sophia, marriage of, iii. ---- hon. sir charles, ii. , ; iii. _ _, , pianori, giacomo, iii. _ _ piccolomini, max, i. piedmont, war with austria, ii. , , , , ; invasion of, iii. _ _ piedmontese, ii. _ _, _ _ pierri, execution of, iii. _ _ piræus, fleet sent to, ii. _ _ pitt, william, i. pius ix., pope, ii. _ _; flight to gaëta, ii. , _ _; letter to the queen, ii. ; reply, ii. ; papal brief, titles for english bishops, ii. _ _, _ _; papal aggression, ii. - ; and england, iii. ; invasion of the papal states, iii. _ _; iii. playfair, dr, irish commissioner, potato disease, ii. plombières, compact of, iii. _ _, _ _ poerio, iii. poles and russia, ii. , polk, president (u.s.a.), ii. _ _ pollock, general (afterwards sir george), successes in afghanistan, i. _ _, , ; g.c.b., i. pollon, count, sardinian minister, i. ponsonby, lord (ambassador at constantinople), i. , ; ii. poor law act, i. , _ _, , ; state maintenance of the poor, ii. ; commission, ii. pope, _see_ pius ix. and gregory xvi. _the pope and the congress_, famous pamphlet, iii. _ _ porte, the, i. ; and austria, i. ; convention of , i. , ; and mehemet ali, i. ; eastern question, ii. _ _, - , _ _, - , ; iii. _ _, , , _ _; turkish success, iii. _ _; alma, iii. _ _, ; inkerman, iii. _ ;_ four points negotiation, iii. _ _, ; protection of christian subjects, iii. _ _ portland, third duke of, i. ---- fifth duke of, iii. portugal, revolution, i. _ _, , ; and england, i. _ _, , ; ii. , , ; and spain, i. , ; ii. ; new ministry, i. _ _; slave trade, i. ; insurrection, ii. _ _, ; civil war and constitutional troubles, ii. _ _, , , , , ; lord palmerston's attack on, ii. _ _; case of don pacifico, ii. _ _, _ _, , , _ _, _ _ ---- king of (prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg), i. ; queen's opinion of, i. ; commander-in-chief, i. , _ _; queen's letter to, on slave trade, i. ; and lord howard de walden, i. ---- maria da gloria, queen of, i. , _ _, _ _, ; letter on queen's engagement, i. ; dismissal of ministry, ii. _ _, ; iii. ---- stephanie, queen of, iii. , ---- prince of, the pope sponsor to, i. post office, inauguration of penny post, i. , ; sunday delivery, ii. pottinger, sir henry, successes in china, i. _ _, ; g.c.b., i. ; i. , , powys, captain, i. pozzo di borgo, count, russian ambassador, i. praet, van, i. , prætorius, dr, i. praslin, duchesse de, murdered by her husband, ii. _ _, prescott (canada), i. _ _ ---- mr, deputy governor of the bank, ii. presentations, fatigue of receiving, i. , preston, riot, i. pretorius, boer leader, ii. _ _ prime minister, lord melbourne on origin of term, i. primogeniture, i. _ _ _prince_, loss of the steamer, at balaklava, iii. _ _ principalities, the danubian, russia's invasion of, iii. _ _, , _ _, , ; relinquishment of russia's protectorate, iii. _ _, _ _, , _ _, _ _ prior, matthew, i. privilege question, i. _ _ property, qualification, i. _ _ protection, i. _ _; ii. , , ; lord derby, ii. ; abandoned by disraeli, ii. _ _ protectionists, ii. , _ _, , , , , , _ _; check to, ii. , , _ _, , , , , ; iii. protestant, prince consort's declaration, i. - ; low church bigotry, ii. ; church in ireland, ii. proxy, voting, i. _ _ prussia (_see_ prussia, king of), and holland, i. ; ii. , ; eastern question, ii. _ _; alliance with austria, iii. _ _; position in impending war, iii. , ; and england, iii. ; admission to war conference, iii. , ---- king of (frederick william iv.), i. ; visit to queen victoria, i. , - ; on swiss quarrels, ii. ; on french revolution, ii. ; declines imperial crown of germany, ii. _ _; diet of erfurt, ii. ; peace with denmark, ii. ; and austria, ii. , ; queen victoria's letter to, on his position, iii. ; reply, iii. ; russia's influence over, iii. ; letter from the queen, iii. ; iii. ; account of his death, iii. , - prussia, queen of, iii. , prussia, prince of (afterwards king william i.), visit to queen victoria, ii. , , ; a refugee, ii. _ _; queen's appreciation of, ii. ; coronation, iii. _ _, - ; interview with napoleon, iii. ---- prince frederick william of (afterwards emperor frederick), question of marriage, iii. , , , , , , ; marriage to the princess royal, iii. , _ _, ; birth of a son (present emperor), iii. ; death of the king of prussia, iii. - ; coronation of the king and queen of prussia, iii. - ---- marie louise augusta, princess of (grandmother of present german emperor), ii. , , ; queen writes to, on death of czar, iii. pulteney, mr (afterwards earl of bath), i. punjab (_see_ india), ii. _ _, ; annexation of, ii. _ _, ; iii. _ _ puseyites, ii. , , , , quadruple alliance, i. _ _; ii. rachel, madame, i. racine, jean baptiste ( - ), tragedian and poet, i. radetzky, marshal, austrian general, ii. _ _, _ _, _ _; defeats piedmontese at custozza, ii. _ _, _ _ radicals, i. _ _, , _ _; ii. , , , _ _, ; defeat government on house tax, ii. - ; inclusion in lord aberdeen's government, ii. - ; iii. radnor, third earl of, i. radowitz, general, prussian minister for foreign affairs, ii. , raglan, lady, iii. ---- lord, _see_ somerset, lord fitzroy railways; accident near reading, i. ; queen's first journey on g.w.r., i. rajpoot hill states, ii. ramnuggur, english reverse at, ii. _ _ ramsgate, queen's visit to, i. , rangoon, ii. raphael, painter, i. rawul pindee, ii. rechberg, count, austrian foreign minister, iii. redan batteries, attack on, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _, , redschid pasha, turkish minister, ii. _ _; iii. reeve, henry, ii. reform bill, i. _ _, _ _; ii. , , _ _, , _ _; withdrawn, iii. _ _, _ _, , _ _, _ _, _ _, ; introduced by disraeli, iii. _ _, reform, parliamentary and municipal, i. _ _ refugee question, ii. _ _ regency bill, i. _ _ reinhardtsbrun, i. ; ii. _ _ rellstab, louis, novelist, i. , review in windsor park, ii. ; crimean troops at aldershot, iii. _ _, , ; field day, , iii. ; at edinburgh, iii. _revue des deux mondes_, ii. _revue retrospective_, ii. rianzares, duke of, marriage, ii. _ _, rice, mr, m.p. for dover, iii. rich, mr, iii. ; baronet, iii. richmond, duchess of, i. ---- duke of, i. , _ _ rio janeiro, ii. _ _ riots, manchester, i. ; tollbar, i. _ _, , , ; chartist demonstration, ii. , ; birmingham, i. ; stockport, ii. ripon, first earl of (mr robinson), chancellor of the exchequer, speech on queen's education, i. , , ; president of board of trade, i. ; political history, i. _ _; ii. river plate, ii. robinson, mr, _see_ ripon earl of, rocky mountains, canada, dispute as to territory, ii. _ _ roden, third earl of, iii. roebuck, mr, ii. , ; motion on conduct of crimean war, iii. _ _, , - ; result, iii. , ; committee, iii. , , , , ; chinese dispute, iii. _ _; ireland, iii. ; reform bill, iii. rokeby, lord, iii. rolle, lord, queen's coronation, i. rollin, charles, _histoire ancienne_, i. ---- ledru, french president, ii. _ _, romagna, the, assembly of, and victor emmanuel, iii. _ _; iii. _ _ roman catholics, maynooth college grant, ii. _ _, ; bill, ii. , ; papal aggression, ii. _ _, - , , romano, giulio, painter, i. rome, prince albert's visit to, i. ; pope's flight from, ii. ; and england, ii. ; lord russell's draft on the roman question, iii. romilly, sir john, master of the rolls, iii. _ _ rosebery, fourth earl of, i. rosenau, the, ii. _ _ rosslyn, lady, i. rothesay, lord stuart de, ambassador at st petersburg, i. rothschild, baron, iii. _ _ rowan, colonel, commissioner of police, ii. roxburgh, duke of, i. _royal charter_, wreck of, iii. _ _ royal exchange opened by the queen, ii. _ _, ---- princess, _see_ victoria royston, lord, i. _ _ runjeet singh, i. ; ii. ; koh-i-noor diamond, ii. russell, lord john (afterwards earl), irish municipal bill, i. _ _; leader of the house, i. ; result of the elections, i. ; i. ; death of his wife, i. , , ; home secretary, i. _ _; civil government of the army, i. ; corn laws, i. , ; politics, i. , , , ; sugar duties, i. ; colonial secretary, i. ; political career of, i. _ _; reply to plymouth address, i. ; opposition to income tax bill, i. ; conversion to repeal of corn laws, ii. _ _, ; views on queen's absence from england, ii. ; unable to form a government, ii. - , ; resignation of sir r. peel, ii. , ; undertakes to form a government, ii. , ; pensions, ii. ; queen's views on a dissolution, ii. ; spanish marriage difficulties, ii. - , ; portuguese and spanish affairs, ii. , , , ; possible dissolution, ii. ; crisis in the city, ii. ; birth of second son, ii. _ _; difficulty as to despatches, ii. _ _, , , ; germany, ii. ; case of don pacifico and mr finlay, ii. - , ; report, ii. ; prince albert's memos. on lord palmerston's foreign policy, ii. , , , ; offer to resign, ii. ; on lord palmerston's removal, ii. ; haynau despatch, ii. - ; on ritualism, "no popery," ii. _ _; and sir james graham, ii. ; defeat of government, ii. , , resignation of, ii. ; failures to form a new government, ii. - ; memo. as to uniting with peelites, ii. ; old government to continue, ii. ; memo. on state of government, ii. ; palmerston's reception of kossuth, ii. - ; parliamentary reform, ii. , ; lord palmerston's approval of _coup d'état_, paris, ii. - ; dismissal of lord palmerston, ii. ; and lord palmerston's successor, ii. - ; discomfiture of lord palmerston in the house, ii. - ; resignation, ii. ; lord grey's opinion of, ii. , ; and lord palmerston, ii. ; ii. ; on dissolution, ii. ; militia bill blunder, ii. ; education, ii. ; ii. ; refusal of foreign office, ii. - ; accepts foreign office, ii. - ; resigns foreign secretaryship, ii. _ _; leadership without office, ii. ; pledged to introduction of reform bill, ii. _ _ possible retirement, ii. , ; war measures, ii. ; president of the council, iii. _ _, ; withdraws reform bill, iii. _ _, _ _, , _ _, _ _; incomprehensible actions, iii. _ _, ; disraeli's attack on, iii. _ _; austrian alliance, iii. , ; urges more vigorous measures, iii. _ _; proposed resignation, iii. - ; and mr kennedy's loss of office, iii. ; ministry defeated, resignation, iii. _ _, , , ; visit to paris, iii. _ _; failure to form a government, iii. - ; government of , iii. ; vienna conference, iii. _ _, _ _; colonial office, iii. _ _, ; austria's proposed terms of crimean settlement, iii. _ _; attacks on, and resignation, iii. _ _, _ _, , _ _; iii. ; chinese dispute, iii. _ _, _ _; and the house of lords, iii. ; retains his seat, iii. _ _; financial crisis, iii. ; conspiracy bill, iii. _ _; reform bill, iii. ; india bill, iii. ; competitive examinations, iii. ; new reform bill, iii. _ _, ; reconciliation with palmerston, iii. _ _; foreign secretary, iii - ; france and austria, iii. ; differences with the queen on italian policy, iii. - , - , - , - ; reform bill, iii. _ _; revolution doctrines, iii. ; despatch to french government, iii. ; abolition of paper duties bill, iii. - ; proposed visit of emperor of austria, iii. ; disagreement with palmerston, iii. _ _, ; goes to the house of lords, iii. _ _, ; despatch to america, iii. _ _; iii. ; and gen. garibaldi, iii. , , , ; danish question, iii. ; draft to rome, iii. ; the garter, iii. ; peerage, iii. _ _ ---- lord william, i. ; murder of, i. ---- odo (afterwards lord ampthill), secretary of legation at florence, iii. ; interviews with the pope; iii. , russell's _modern europe_, i. russia, hereditary grand duke of (afterwards alexander ii), i. , ---- nicholas, emperor of, i. ; visit to england, ii. ; queen's opinion of, ii. , , , ; effect on foreign countries, ii. ; on the french revolution, ii. ; dispute with france, ii. _ _; letters to and from the queen on the eastern question, ii. - ; and turkey, iii. , ; and napoleon, iii. ; interview with sir h. seymour, iii. ; death, iii. _ _, ---- empress-dowager of, widow of emperor nicholas, iii. ---- alexander, emperor of, _see_ alexander ---- empress marie alexandrovna (wife of alexander), iii. _ _ ---- and england, i. ; protector of the porte, i. ; and central asia, i. ; france and england, ii. ; poland, ii. _ _; dispute with france, ii. _ _; war with turkey, ii. _ _; eastern question, ii. - , - , - ; iii. _ _, , , , ; ambassador leaves london, iii. _ _; england declares war with, iii. _ _; napoleon's views on the crisis, iii. , ; prussia, iii. ; repulse by turkey, iii. _ _; defeat on the alma, iii. _ _, ; opinion of, in india, iii. , ; balaklava, iii. ; inkerman, iii. _ _, - ; death of czar nicholas, iii. _ _; fall of sebastopol, iii. _ _; "four points" negotiation, iii. _ _, ; kertsch and the gravel pits (redan) taken, iii. _ _; defeat on the river tchernaya, iii. _ _; austrian ultimatum, iii. ; peace and terms of settlement, iii. _ _, - ; procrastination in carrying out terms, iii. _ _, , _ _ _ _; lord granville's opinion of, iii. ; reported treaty with france, iii. , _ _; danish question, iii. sailors' homes, iii. st albans, disfranchisement, ii. _ _ st arnaud, marshal, commands french army in crimea, death, iii. _ _, , _ _ st cloud, queen's visit to, iii. st edward's chair, i. ---- chapel, i. , st germans, earl of, postmaster-general, ii. st juan, island of, united states claim to, iii. st leonards, queen's visit to, i. , st leonards, lord (lord chancellor), refusal to join government of , iii. saint-simon, duc de, _mémoires_, i. sak, proposed occupation of, iii. saldanha, marshal, ii. sale, lady, her journal, i. ---- sir robert, success in afghanistan, i. _ _, , ; pension, i. ; death, ii. salisbury, bishop of (dr fisher), queen's reminiscences of, i. ---- marquess of, president of the council, iii. sand, george, _comtesse de rudolstadt_, novel by, ii. sandon, viscount, sugar duties, i. _ _ sandwich, countess of, i. sans souci, death of king of prussia at, iii. sardinia, princess clothilde of, marriage of, iii. _ _, _ _ ---- kings of, _see_ charles albert and victor emmanuel sardinia, ii. _ _, _ _; war with austria, ii. _ _, _ _, , , ; western alliance against russia, iii. _ _; success against russia, iii. _ _, , ; treaty of peace, iii. ; alliance with england and france against russia, iii. _ _; war with austria, and cession of lombardy to, iii. _ _; refusal to disarm, iii. _ _; sympathy with, iii. ; government of tuscany, iii. ; napoleon's promise of help, iii. _ _; duchies of parma, modena and romagna, transferred to, iii. _ _; disavowal of garibaldi, iii. _ _ savoy, annexation to france, iii. _ _, , saxe-coburg-gotha, house of, history of, i. , , saxe-coburg, ernest, duke of, (prince consort's father), i. , , _ _; death, ii. ---- ernest, prince of (prince consort's brother), i. , ; illness, i. ---- prince augustus of, parentage and marriage, i. , , , saxe-saalfeld-coburg, duchess of, i. , ---- francis, duke of, i. , ; iii. _ _ saxe-weimar, prince edward of, letter to the queen, iii. ---- prince william and princess louise of, i. saxony, crown prince of, iii. ---- frederick augustus ii., king of, ii. , schleinitz, m., ii. schleswig, ii. _ _, , , _ _; union with holstein, ii. , , _ _, ; iii. _ _ _school for scandal_, i. schulenberg, countess, iii. schwartzenberg, prince, prime minister of austria, ii. , scone palace, queen's visit to, i. , scotch fusiliers, wounded from the crimea, iii. scotland, church crisis, i. , , _ _; admission of ministers bill, i. , _ _; the queen's visit to balmoral, ii. - , , - ; to edinburgh, iii. scott, general, iii. ---- gilbert, architect, iii. _ _ scutari, iii. _ _; hospital at, iii. , , search, right of, on the high seas, ii. ; iii. , , seaton, lord, _see_ colborne sebastopol, iii. _ _, , ; bombardment, iii. ; fall, iii. _ _, secretary of state, _see_ state, secretary of ---- at war, _see_ war, secretary at sepoys, mutiny of, iii. _ _, , septennial act, i. _ _; ii. serpent's island, russia's claim to, iii. _ _, _ _ settembrini, iii. sévigné, mme. de, i. ; iii. seville, duke of (don enrique), ii. seymour, lord (afterwards duke of somerset), roebuck committee reports, iii. . _see_ somerset, duke of ---- admiral, occupies chinese fort, iii. _ _ ---- mr digby, m.p., iii. , ---- sir hamilton, minister at brussels, i. , ; envoy-extraordinary at lisbon, ii. , , , , _ _; petersburg, ii. ; eastern question, ii. _ _; recall from st petersburg, iii. _ _; interview with the czar, iii. ; "neutralisation," iii. shaftesbury, earl of, _see_ ashley, lord sheil, mr, minister at the court of tuscany, ii. ; death, ii. shere singh, surrender of, ii. short, dr thomas vowler (afterwards bishop of sodor and man), i. ; _sketch of history of church of england_, i. sibthorp, colonel, iii. sicily, rising in, ii. _ _, _ _. _see_ garibaldi sikhs (_see_ india), aggressive, ii. _ _; defeat of, ii. _ _, ; boundaries, ii. ; murder of two englishmen, ii. _ _; hostility of, ii. , ; successful operations against, ii. _ _, silesia, insurrection in, ii. _ _ silistria, turkish success at, iii. _ _, _ _ simpson, general, retirement from the command in the crimea, iii. _ _; death of lord raglan, iii. ; commander-in-chief, iii. ; position, iii. ; queen's congratulations on fall of sebastopol, iii. , sinclair, sir george, m.p., i. singapore, convict population of, iii. singh, maharajah dhuleep, _see_ dhuleep sinope harbour, affair of, ii. _ _, ; iii. slavery, abolition of, i. , , , slidell, mr, southern confederacy envoy, iii. , , smith, mr robert vernon (afterwards lord lyveden), under-secretary for war and the colonies, i. _ _, ; iii. ; board of control, iii. _ _, , ; annexation of oudh, iii. _ _, _ _; on indian mutiny, iii. ; iii. ; oudh proclamation, iii. _ _ ---- sir harry, ii. _ _; governor of cape of good hope, boer war, ii. _ _; wounded, ii. _ _; kaffir war, ii. _ _; orange river free state, iii. ---- sir lionel, governor of jamaica, i. _ _ smithfield, cattle show, queen's visit to, iii. smyth, william, professor of modern history, i. smythe, george, member of "young england" party, ii. _ _ sobraon, defeat of the sikhs at, ii. _ _, socialism, possibilities in russia, iii. society for the propagation of the gospel, prince consort presides at meeting, ii. _ _ solferino, battle of, iii. _ _, _ _ solyman pasha, i. somerset, th duke of, death, iii. ---- th duke of, first lord of the admiralty, iii. ; garter, iii. ; iii. . _see_ seymour, lord ---- lord fitzroy, afterwards lord raglan ii. , ; commander of forces for the east, iii. _ _; victory at the alma, iii. ; field-marshal, iii. , ; inkerman, iii. , - ; death of, iii. _ _, ; welfare of the army, iii. , , somnauth, gates of temple of, i. - , , sonderbund, the, ii. sooja, shah, ameer of afghanistan, . _ _, _ _, , , ; koh-i-noor diamond, ii. sophia, princess, daughter of george iii., i. ; death, ii. soult, marshal, duke of dalmatia, i. ; ii. south africa, natal insurrection, i. ; sir h. smith's proclamation in , ii. _ _; dutch war, ii. southern, mr, secretary of legation at lisbon, ii. , , , spain, disputed succession, i. _ _, , _ _; and portugal, i. , ; ii. , ; lord palmerston on, i. ; battle at bilbao, i. ; constitution, i. , ; condition of, i. , _ _; the fueros, i. ; mission, i. ; guardianship of young queen, i. _ _; and france, i. , , , ; proposed marriage of the young queen, i. , , , ; ii. _ _, , , _ _, , - ; don carlos' abdication of claim to throne, ii. _ _; changes in ministry, ii. _ _; and england, ii. _ _; and sir h. bulwer, ii. ; and lord palmerston, ii. ; queen of spain's desire for the garter, ii. ---- infanta of, i. _ _; ii. , , _ _, , , , ; iii. _ _ ---- queen of, _see_ christina späth, baroness, i. , , spithead, accident, ii. spooner, mr, conspiracy bill debate, iii. spring rice, mr, chancellor of exchequer, i. stafford, augustus, secretary of the admiralty, iii. stamp duties bill, iii. ; stamp on cheques, iii. _standard_, newspaper, iii. stanhope, philip henry, fourth earl, i. ---- lady wilhelmina, i. , , stanley, lord (afterwards fourteenth earl of derby), thrice prime minister, i. _ _, ; colonial secretary, i. , , ; corn laws, ii. ; resignation, ii. , ; protection dinner, ii. , _ _; vote of censure, ii. _ _, _ _, , , ; failure to form a government, ii. , , , , , , ; prime minister, ii. - ; and the church, ii. ; adherence to treaties, ii. ; the queen's views on militia bill, ii. ; disfranchisement bill, ii. ; question of dissolution, ii. ; progress of democracy, ii. , ; protection, ii. ; militia bill, ii. , , ; italy, ii. , ; military appointments, ii. ; national defences, ii. , - ; confusion of parties, ii. - ; budget, ii. ; princess hohenlohe's marriage, ii. - ; resignation, ii. - ; attack on lord aberdeen, ii. , _ _, , ; takes leave of the queen, ii. ; roebuck motion, iii. ; failure to form a government, iii. , - , ; on title of prince consort, iii. _ _, ; china war debate, attack on lord palmerston, iii. ; conspiracy bill, iii. _ _, , ; forms a government, iii. - ; oudh proclamation and resignation of lord ellenborough, iii. -_ _; possible dissolution, iii. , - ; vote of censure withdrawn, iii. - ; competitive examinations, iii. , ; new reform bill, iii. _ _; queen's letter to french emperor, iii. ; indian army question, iii. - ; queen's letter to emperor of austria, iii. ; proposed congress to settle italian question, iii. - ; queen's speech, iii. - ; resignation on defeat of government, iii. _ _, , ---- lord (afterwards fifteenth earl of derby), colonial secretary, iii. , , ; his position with regard to the queen, iii. - ; indian army question, iii. , , ; peers and money bills, iii. _ _ stanley of alderley, lord, secretary to treasury, i. , ; iii. state, secretary of, duties of, i. ; iii. stéphanie, grand duchess, ii. stephen, james, under-secretary for colonies, retirement, ii. ; privy council, ii. stockmar, baron, private physician and secretary to king leopold, unofficial adviser to the queen, i. ; accompanies prince albert on tour, i. , ; his character, i. , , ; i. , , , , , , , , ; memos. on lord melbourne's correspondence with the queen, i. , , , ; illness, i. ; i. , ; spanish marriage, ii. , ; on a minister's duty, ii. ; ii. , , ; legion of honour, ii. ; iii. , ; illness of, iii. stockport, riot at, ii. stopford, admiral sir robert, i. _ _, stowell, lord, law of nations, iii. strafford, earl of, ii. , _ _, ; field-marshal, iii. _ _ straits settlements, iii. strangford, viscount, i. , strangways, brigadier-general, died at inkerman, iii. _ _ stratford de redcliffe, viscount (formerly sir stratford canning), ii. , ; eastern question, ii. _ _, _ _, _ _, , , - , , ; illness of, iii. ; victory of the alma, iii. ; and the pope, iii. strawberry hill, sale of, i. strelitz, ii. strickland, miss agnes, i. stroekens, major, i. strutt, mr, chancellor of the duchy, iii. _ _ stuart, miss, marriage, i. ---- wortley j. (afterwards second baron wharncliffe), president of the council, i. , sudbury, disfranchisement of, ii. suffrage, queen's view of, ii. ; extension of, ii. , , sugar duty, i. ; colonial preference, ii. _ _, sully, maximilien, duc de, memoirs of, i. , sunday bands, iii. surrey, earl of (afterwards thirteenth duke of norfolk), i. ; treasurer of the household, i. _ _ sussex, duke of, politics, i. , , , , , ; ireland, i. , ; precedence, i. ; regency bill, i. _ _, , ; will of, i. , sutherland, second duke of, death, iii. _ _ ---- duchess of, i. , ; queen victoria's valued friend, ii. ; letter to queen on her husband's death, iii. sweaborg, bombardment of, iii. _ _ sweden, and morocco, ii. ; schleswig question, ii. _ _; and norway, iii. _ _ ---- and norway, charles xv., king of, visit to the queen, iii. ; his views on foreign affairs, iii. - switzerland, internecine strife, ii. _ _, - ; and france, ii. ; rising in, iii. _ _; protest against annexation of savoy, iii. _ _; claim to parts of savoy, iii. _ _ syria, i. _ _, _ _, ; successes in, i. , _ _; war, ii. ; napoleon's policy, iii. _ _ tahiti, dispute with france, ii. _ _, _ _, tait, dr a. c., bishop of london, iii. talbot, lady mary, i. , ---- monsignore, iii. tallenay, m. de, ii. _ _, talleyrand, prince, death of, i. tamburini, sr, opera singer, i. _ _ tangiers, bombardment of, ii. tankerville, earl of, i. tawell, salt hill murderer, ii. taylor, sir herbert, i. taymouth, lord breadalbane's house, queen's visit to, i. tchernaya, river, success of the allies at, iii. _ _, _ _ téba, count de (afterwards count de montijo), ii. _ _ temple, the hon. sir william, k.c.b., minister plenipotentiary, naples, iii. _ _ templetown, viscount, i. tennent, sir james emerson, i. tennyson, alfred, poet, ii. ; poet laureate, ii. terceira, duc de, i. _ _; ii. terni, cataract at, prince albert's visit to, i. thames, pollution of the, iii. _ _ theresa, archduchess, i. thérèse, princess, i. thiers, louis a., french premier, i. , ; ii. , thirlwall, bishop of st david's, iii. thouvenel, m. de, french foreign minister, iii. ; and lord john russell's despatch, iii. ; iii. threepenny pieces, circulation of, ii. ticino, austrian troops on the, iii. _ _, timber duty, i. _times_, newspaper, i. ; ii. , , _ _, _ _, , , , , , , , , , , _ _; iii. _ _, , ; crimea, iii. ; queen's visit to france, iii. ; enquiry on crimean officers, iii. ; iii. , ; attacks on prussia, iii. ; report of a private interview, iii. ; abuse of germany, iii. , tindal, chief justice, i. tippoo sahib, iii. tite, mr (afterwards sir william), architect, iii. tithes, i. _ _ tollbar riots, i. _ _, , tomantoul, queen's visit to, iii. tory party and the royal family, i. , ; consolidation of, i. ; queen's opinion of, i. _ _, , , , , , ; failure of, i. ; organisation of, i. ; unsuccessful attempt to form a ministry, i. - ; vote of censure on government and success at the polls, i. _ _, ; nottingham election, i. ; amendment to address, , i. ; cabinet, i. , ; finance, income-tax, import duties, i. _ _; corn law debate, i. , ; irish arms bill, i. ; dissensions (young england party), ii. _ _, ; resignation, ii. _ _, ; return to office, ii. _ _, ; repeal of corn laws, ii. _ _; defeat on irish coercion bill. ii. _ _; resignation, ii. , _ _; on intervention in portugal, ii. _ _, ii. ; peril of the ministry, ii. ; defeat of the government, ii. ; inability to form a government, ii. - ; parliamentary reform, ii. , ; resignation of whig government, ii. ; lord derby becomes prime minister, ii. - ; first debate, ii. - ; question of dissolution, ii. ; free trade debate, ii. _ _; budget, ii. ; defeat on house tax and resignation, ii. - ; china war debate, iii. tractarian movement, ii. , transport land corps, iii. transvaal, independence of, ii. _ _; iii. trapani, count, spanish marriage, ii. _ _, , , , treaty of , settlement of eastern question, iii. _ _, , _ _, ; nanking, i. _ _ trelawney, sir john, and church rates, iii. _ _ trench, richard chenevix, dean of westminster, iii. _trent_, steamship, seizure of envoys, iii. , tréport, queen's visit to, ii. ; ii. trianon, iii. troubridge, sir thomas, c.b., great gallantry at inkerman, iii. trouville, ii. truelove, trial of, iii. _ _ tuckett, captain harvey, i. _ _ tulloch, colonel, iii. _ _ tunbridge wells, queen's visits to, i. , , , turgot, m., ii. _ _, , turkey, convention about egypt, i. - , ; war with russia, ii. _ _; eastern question, ii. , - , _ _, _ _, - , - ; and persia, iii. ; russian occupation of the principalities, iii. , _ _, ; protocol signed for integrity of, iii. _ _; success of, iii. _ _; inkerman, iii. - ; peace and terms of settlement, iii. _ _, - , _ _ turton, dr thomas, dean of ely, ii. _ _ tuscans, deputation to king victor emmanuel, iii. _ _ tuscany, duke of, pope's opinion of, iii. ---- government of, iii. _ _, umbria, conquered, iii. _ _ unemployed, the, ii. , united states, dispute with canada, i. _ _, , _ _, ; treaty, i. , ; boundary dispute with england, ii. _ _; oregon boundary, ii. ; foreign enlistment act, iii. _ _, _ _; financial crisis, iii. _ _; military occupation of st juan, iii. ; prince of wales's visit to, iii. _ _; abolitionist troubles, iii. _ _; conflict between federal government and southern states, iii. _ _; right to search neutral ships, iii. , , ; draft despatch for release of mason and slidell, iii. unkiar skelessi, treaty of, i. uruguay, ii. _ _ utrecht, treaty of, ii. uxbridge, earl of, i. , , ---- countess of, i. ; death, ii. valliant, marshal, minister of war, iii. ; g.c.b., iii. ; opinion of morocco, iii. ; goes to italy in , iii. vane, lord harry, conspiracy bill debate, iii. varna, allied forces sailing from, iii. _ _, venice, republic proclaimed, ii. _ _; ii. ; venetia in , iii. _ _ verney, sir harry, ii. versailles, queen's visit to, iii. vico, colonel, death of, iii. _ _ victoire, princess, of saxe-coburg, i. ; marriage to duc de nemours, i. ; flight from france, ii. , , , ; visits queen victoria, ii. , victor emmanuel, king of sardinia, ii. _ _, ; visit to england, iii. _ _, _ _; joins the western alliance, iii. _ _; rumoured conversation with louis napoleon, iii. ; proposed marriage, iii. _ _; war with austria, entry into milan, and conclusion of peace, iii. _ _; and the pope, iii. ; cession of savoy and nice, iii. _ _; war with austria, iii. ; as king of italy, iii. _ _ victoria, queen, ancestry of, i. - ; political position of, i. ; memoir of her early years, i. - ; relations and friends, i. - ; close correspondence and relationship with king leopold, i. ; formation of her character, i. - ; interesting points in her correspondence, i. - born th may at kensington palace, i. - reminiscences of early childhood, written by herself, i. - miss lehzen becomes her governess, i. visits george iv. at windsor, i. - ; serious illness, i. , visits george iv. at windsor, i. first letter to prince leopold, i. duchess of kent's memo, on education, i. - ; june, george iv. died and william iv. succeeded, i. ; duchess of northumberland appointed official governess, i. king leopold on the necessity of forming her character, i. visits hever castle, i. ; reading and studies, i. - confirmation, i. painful scene between the duchess of kent and william iv., i. ; possible suitors, i. , ; admiration for prince albert, i. , , ; visits lord liverpool at buxted park, i. ; church matters, i. ; ; change of name discussed, i. music with prince albert, i. ; her establishment, i. , ; william iv. offers her an independent income, i. ; th may--attains her majority, i. ; accession imminent, i. ; reliance on lord melbourne, i. ; th june--death of william iv.: queen victoria's accession, i. ; reminiscences of events on the king's death, i. ; address of condolence and congratulation, i. ; her nationality, i. ; her ministers, i. ; th july--goes to buckingham palace, i. ; th july--prorogues parliament, i. ; singing lessons, i. ; the elections, i. ; king leopold's visit to windsor castle, i. ; visit to brighton, i. ; goes to the house of lords and gives her assent to the civil list bill, i. prince albert's education, i. ; distress at death of louisa louis, i. , ; deaths of old servants, i. ; arrangements for the coronation, i. , ; draft letter to the king of portugal on slave trade, i. ; brilliant ball, i. ; th june--coronation day, queen's reminiscences of, i. - ; th july--coronation review in hyde park, i. ; at windsor castle, i. at brighton, i. ; death of princess marie of orleans, i. ; opens parliament, i. ; disagreement with king leopold, i. - ; prince albert's tour in italy, i. ; resignation of lord melbourne, i. ; audience with duke of wellington and sir r. peel, i. - ; refusal to allow sir r. peel to appoint ladies of her household, i. - ; lord melbourne's return to office, i. ; ball at buckingham palace, i. ; views on cabinet crisis, i. ; feelings for prince albert, i. , ; at the opera, i. ; arrival of princes albert and ernest at windsor castle, i, ; announcement of her engagement to prince albert, i. , ; her happiness, i. ; her letters to the royal family, i. , ; letters to prince albert, i. , , , , , , , - , ; reads declaration before the privy council, i. ; suggested peerage for prince albert, i. - ; prince albert's household, i. - queen opens parliament and announces intended marriage, i. ; prince albert's grant, i. ; marriage of the queen to prince albert, i. _ _, _ _; disturbance at the opera, i. ; prince albert and politics, i. ; attempted assassination by oxford, i. ; views on foreign affairs, i. , ; birth of princess royal, i. christening of princess royal, i. ; speech from the throne, i. , ; operations in china, i. , ; the budget, i. ; household appointment difficulties, i. - ; impartiality, i. ; visit to ascot and nuneham, i. ; visit to woburn abbey, i. , ; carriage accident, i. ; resignation of whig ministry, i. ; prince albert as adviser, i. , ; interview with sir r. peel and sorrow at parting with lord melbourne, i. ; seals of office exchanged, i. ; question of future correspondence with lord melbourne, i. , , , , , ; indisposition, i. ; birth of first son, now king edward vii., i. ; he is created prince of wales, i. ; domestic happiness, i. christening of the prince of wales, i. , ; visit to brighton, i. ; excursion to portsmouth, i. ; decision to pay income tax, i. ; selection of a governess, i. , ; ball at buckingham palace, i. , ; attempt by francis on the queen's life, i. ; ascot and review of cavalry, i. ; first railway journey, i. ; list of presents sent by the imam of muscat, i. ; attempt by bean on the queen's life, i. ; death of the duke of orleans, i. , , , ; strike riots, i, - ; prorogues parliament, i. ; visit to scotland, i. , ; return to windsor, i. ; steam yacht, i. ; domestic happiness, i. ; visit to walmer castle, i. , , ; king of hanover's claim to crown jewels, i. , ; and france, i. , gaieties at windsor, i. ; visit and recollections of claremont, i. ; education of prince of wales, i. ; domestic happiness, i. ; new chapel at buckingham palace, i. ; views on the verdict, not guilty but insane, in macnaghten trial, i. ; prince consort to hold levées for the queen, i. , , , ; the toast of the prince, i. ; birth and christening of princess alice, i. , ; turnpike riots in south wales, i. , ; resignation of the duchess of norfolk as bedchamber woman and successor, i. , , ; suppression of duelling, i. ; the crown jewels, i. ; visit to the king and queen of france at château d'eu, i. ; visit to belgium, i. ; visit to cambridge, wimpole, and bourne, i. , , , ; visit to sir r. peel at drayton manor, i. , ; visit of prince consort to birmingham, i. , , ; visit to belvoir castle and chatsworth, i. , opens the new royal exchange, ii. _ _, ; visit to claremont, ii. , ; carriage accident, ii. ; death of the duke of saxe-coburg gotha, ii. ; _brochure_ of prince de joinville, ii. ; visit of the emperor nicholas of russia, ii. _ _, - , , ; domestic happiness, ii. , ; uncle and niece, ii. ; review in windsor great park, and ascot races, ii. ; visit of king louis philippe, ii. , spanish marriage question, ii. , ; state of buckingham palace, ii. ; question as to prince albert's title, ii. ; sponsor to sir r. peel's grandson, ii. ; queen's purchase of osborne, ii. , ; low church bigotry, ii. ; king leopold's birthday letter, ii. ; visit of the king of holland, ii. _ _; on the queen's absences from england, ii. ; visit to holland and coburg, and to tréport to king louis philippe, ii. ; sir r. peel's resignation and return to office, ii. - ; letter from king louis philippe, ii. ; reply, ii. - opening of parliament in person, ii. _ _; defeat of the sikhs, ii. - ; coercion bill, ireland, ii. ; resignation of sir r. peel, ii. - ; lord john russell forms a government, ii. - ; parting with ministers, ii. ; spanish marriage question, ii. , , - ; views as to dissolution, ii. ; the government of canada, ii. ; duke of wellington's statue, ii. ; indignation at the engagement of the queen of spain, ii. - ; visit to jersey, ii. ; visit to osborne, ii. ; peninsular war medals, ii. , , views as to governing portugal, ii. - ; church patronage, ii. ; difference with lord palmerston, ii. , ; at the opera to hear jenny lind, ii. ; duke of wellington's statue, ii. ; visit to ardverikie, ii. ; and mr. cobden, ii. ; foreign policy, ii. - ; on the swiss dispute, ii. ; the bishops and dr hampden, ii. ; advance of money to lord melbourne, ii. madame adélaïde's death, ii. - ; abdication and flight of king louis philippe to claremont, ii. _ _- ; princess louise born th march, ii. _ _; chartist demonstration, ii. - ; displeased with lord palmerston, ii. , , , , , , , , ; position of the french royal family, ii. , ; views on foreign policy, ii. ; eulogy on prince albert, ii. ; describes balmoral, ii. ; views of the austrian and italian questions, ii. ; stays at osborne, ii. , ; letter from pope pius ix., ii. ; relations with france, ii. receives the koh-i-noor diamond, ii. _ _; correspondence with pope pius ix., ii. , ; letter from napoleon, ii. ; memo. on french republic, ii. , ; hamilton's attempt on her life, ii. ; method of dealing with despatches, ii. , ; on schleswig-holstein question, ii. , , , , ; visits ireland (cork, dublin, waterford, kingston, belfast), ii. - ; coal exchange opened, ii. _ _; thanksgiving after cholera epidemic, ii. ; death of queen adelaide, ii. pate's attack, ii. _ _, ; the draft to greece, ii. , , ; prince albert's speech, ii. ; koh-i-noor diamond, ii. ; birth and christening of prince arthur, ii. ; stays at osborne, ii. ; death of first duke of cambridge, ii. ; duties of the foreign secretary, ii. ; death of king louis philippe, ii. ; visits scotland, ii. ; death of the queen of the belgians, ii. , , ; lord palmerston and the haynau despatch, ii. , ; on germany, ii. , ; on religious strife, ii. , ; papal aggression, ii. - principle of diplomatic appointments, ii. , ; memo. on sir j. graham joining the cabinet, ii. , ; resignation of government, ii. , ; difficulties in forming a government, ii. - ; success of the exhibition in hyde park, ii. , , ; guildhall ball, ii. ; visit to balmoral, allt-na-giuthasach and lochnagar, ii. - ; lord palmerston and louis kossuth, ii. - ; death of king of hanover, ii. ; views on franchise and suffrage proposals, ii. ; louis napoleon's _coup d'état_, ii. ; dismissal of lord palmerston, ii. - ; review of foreign affairs, ii. crown of denmark, ii. ; women and politics, ii. ; new houses of parliament, ii. ; pressure of business, ii. ; change of government, ii. - ; household appointments, ii. , ; on foreign affairs, ii. , ; visits osborne, ii. , , ; on italy, ii. , ; louis napoleon's position, ii. ; visits osborne, ii. ; inherits mr neild's fortune, ii. ; visits balmoral, ii. ; views on national defence, ii. , - ; death of the duke of wellington, ii. - , , ; her admiration of his character, ii. ; louis napoleon becomes emperor, ii. , , _ _; letter to him, ii. ; secret protocol, ii. ; views on princess of hohenlohe's marriage, ii. - , , ; lord aberdeen's new government, ii. - ; lord derby's tribute to, ii. french emperor's marriage, ii. - ; eastern question, ii. _ _, - , , - ; views on lord john russell's position, ii. ; birth of prince leopold (afterwards duke of albany), ii. _ _; congratulations from the emperor of russia, ii. ; views on india bill, ii. ; correspondence with emperor of russia on eastern question, ii. - ; lord stratford's despatch, ii. opens crystal palace, iii. _ _; press attacks on prince albert, iii. _ _, , , ; on reception of orleans family, iii. , ; reform bill, iii. , ; on competitive examinations, iii. , ; desires augmentation of army, iii. ; baltic fleet sails, iii. ; correspondence with king of prussia on eastern question, iii. - , - , - ; declaration of war with russia, iii. _ _; on the defenceless state of england, iii. ; on the state of india, iii. , ; views on army promotions, iii. ; disapproves of special prayers for illness, iii. ; french emperor's letter after prince albert's visit, iii. , ; battle of the alma, iii. , ; treatment of indian princes, iii. ; views on austrian alliance, iii. , ; balaklava, iii. , _ _; inkerman, iii. , - ; crimean medal, iii. ; condition of hospital at scutari, iii. _ _ visits the french emperor, iii. _ _; king of sardinia visits england, iii. _ _; opinion on the "four points" negotiations, iii. ; confidence in lord aberdeen, iii. - ; on the duties of ambassadors and foreign secretaries, iii. , ; on lord john russell's resignation, iii. - ; memo. on the crisis, iii. , ; on government's resignation, iii. ; inability of lord derby and lord john russell to form a government, iii. - ; lord palmerston forms a government, iii. - ; letter to king of prussia, iii. ; visit to the wounded from crimea, iii. ; letter to princess of prussia on sudden death of the czar, iii. ; hospitals for sick and wounded soldiers, iii. ; crimean medals, iii. ; visit of the emperor and empress of the french, iii. ; review in windsor park, iii. _ _; investiture of the french emperor, iii. _ _; letter from the emperor, and reply, iii. , ; queen's opinion of french emperor, iii. - ; distribution of medals, iii. ; power of appointing governor-general of india, iii. , ; death of lord raglan, iii. ; letter to lady raglan, iii. ; message to the army, iii. ; lord john russell resigns, iii. , ; gen. simpson's difficulties in the crimea, iii. ; sunday bands, iii. ; account of her visit to france, iii. - ; letter to french emperor, iii. ; first occupation of balmoral, iii. _ _; sebastopol taken, iii. ; queen's message, iii. , ; princess royal's proposed marriage with crown prince of prussia, iii. , ; queen's desire for a dockyard on the forth, iii. ; discusses proposals of peace, iii. - victoria cross, iii. ; correspondence with french emperor on the ultimatum, iii. - , , ; views on the council of war at paris, iii. , ; views of king of sardinia, iii. ; england's policy, iii. ; letter to florence nightingale, iii. ; distribution of honours, iii. ; commission on the conduct of crimean officers, iii. ; question of marriage of princess royal, iii. , , ; queen's views on treaty of peace, iii. - ; peace fête at crystal palace, iii. ; enquiries before appointments offered, iii. ; memorandum on her husband's status, iii. - , ; sunday bands, iii. ; title of prince consort conferred, iii. _ _; review of crimean troops, iii. _ _, , ; proposed marriage of princess mary, iii. , ; letter to empress of the french as to treaty of paris, and reply, iii. , ; balmoral, iii. ; defence of england, iii. ; death of prince charles of leiningen, iii. , ; letter to louis napoleon, iii. indian mutiny, iii. _ _, , ; china war debate, iii. _ _, _ _; french emperor's feelings towards england, iii. ; princess beatrice born, iii. ; marriage of princess charlotte of belgium, iii. _ _, _ _; victoria cross decoration, iii. ; visit of the emperor and empress of the french, iii. , ; views on defenceless state of england, iii. - ; urges reinforcements for india, iii. - ; on necessity of increasing the army, iii. , , ; anxiety for india, iii. ; marriage of princess royal, iii. ; death of duchesse de nemours, iii. ; financial crisis, iii. ; opens parliament in person, iii. _ _ prince frederick william of prussia (afterwards emperor frederick), married to the princess royal, iii. _ _; death of duchess of orleans, iii. _ _; parting with the princess royal, iii. , ; defeat of the government on conspiracy bill, iii. ; formation of new government, iii. - ; prince of wales's confirmation, iii. ; enquiries into the state of the navy, iii. , ; crown prerogatives, iii. , , ; visit to the emperor of the french, iii. _ _; proclamation to people of india, iii. , ; duties of secretary of state, iii. ; princess royal's reception by the prussians, iii. - dissolution on new reform bill, iii. _ _; necessity for a strong army and navy, iii. ; queen's speech, iii. , ; birth of first grandchild (present german emperor), iii. , ; letter to french emperor advising peace, iii. _ _; indian army question, iii. - ; opens parliament, iii. _ _; letter to emperor of austria, and reply, iii. , , , ; proposed congress to settle the italian question, iii. - ; queen's speech, iii. - ; defeat of the government, iii. ; lord palmerston forms a new government, iii. - ; committee on military departments, iii. ; views on the war between france and austria, iii. , ; conclusion of peace arranged between the two emperors, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _; the pope's opinion of england's policy, iii. - ; differences with lord palmerston and lord j. russell on england's italian policy, iii. - , - ; objection to publication of divorce cases in daily papers, iii. ; congratulates french emperor on peace, iii. volunteer review in hyde park, iii. _ _; prince of wales visited canada and united states, iii. _ _, _ _; difficulties with lord john russell over the italian policy, iii. ; gladstone's budget statement, iii. ; earl cowley's stormy interview with french emperor, iii. - ; prince of wales visits coburg and gotha, iii. _ _; letters of thanks to indian civil servants, iii. ; visit to aldershot, iii. ; abolition of paper duties bill thrown out by the house of lords, iii. - ; engagement of princess alice to prince louis of hesse, iii. , , , ; visits holyrood, iii. ; balmoral, iii. ; proposed meeting with the emperor of austria, iii. , ; appeal from the king of naples, iii. ; reply, iii. ; appointment of bishops, iii. , death of duchess of kent, iii. _ _; third visit to ireland, iii. _ _, ; new year's letter from french emperor, and reply, iii. , ; detailed account of death of the king of prussia, iii. - ; happiness of the princess royal, iii. ; wedding day anniversary, iii. ; garibaldi letter, iii. ; death of the duchess of kent, iii. _ _, - , , ; mr layard as under-secretary for foreign affairs, iii. - ; king of sweden's visit to osborne, iii. ; his views on the foreign affairs, iii. - ; the queen's views, iii. ; visits frogmore, iii. ; visits ireland, iii. ; coronation of the king and queen of prussia, iii. - ; queen of prussia on foreign policy, iii. ; appreciation of her highland servant, iii. ; _times_ newspaper's attacks on prussia, iii. - ; america's right to search neutral ships, iii. , ; prince consort's illness, iii. , ; slight improvement, iii. ; the crisis, iii. , ; pathetic letter to king leopold on death of prince consort, iii. , ; death of lady canning, iii. ; sympathetic letter to viscount canning, iii. victoria, princess royal, birth, i. ; i. , , , , , , ; ii. , ; at opening of new coal exchange, ii. _ _; ii. , ; riding accident, ii. ; her character, iii. ; question of marriage, iii. , , , , , , ; confirmation of, iii. ; birthday, iii. ; iii. ; marriage, iii. , _ _; parting from the queen, iii. , ; reception by the prussians, iii. - ; birth of the present german emperor, iii. , ; iii. ; visit to the queen, iii. ; birth of princess charlotte, iii. ; detailed account of death of king of prussia, iii. - ; domestic happiness of, iii. ; death of duchess of kent, iii. , _victoria and albert_, queen's yacht, ii. ---- cross, iii. , ---- (australia), governorship of, iii. vienna, congress of, i. ; treaty of, ii. _ _, , , ; crimean conference, its failure, iii. _ _, _ _; conference of the powers, iii. villafranca, peace concluded at, iii. _ _, _ _, _ _, _ _ villiers, george william frederick, afterwards fourth earl of clarendon. _see_ clarendon ---- hon. henry montagu, bishop of carlisle, iii. ---- mr charles, "father of the house," i. ; free trade motion, ii. , , ; proposed for office, ii. viscount, meaning of term, i. vivian, sir hussey, master-general of the ordnance, i. volunteer review, iii. _vor-parlament_, ii. _ _ waddington, dr, dean of durham, i. walcheren expedition, iii. wales, albert edward, prince of, afterwards king edward vii., birth, i. ; order of black eagle conferred, i. ; christening, i. , ; education, i. , ; grand cross of st andrew, ii. ; present from the king of the french, ii. ; duke of cornwall, ii. ; irish title, ii. ; opening of new coal exchange, ii. _ _; foreign orders, ii. ; confirmation, iii. ; visit to napoleon at cherbourg, iii. _ _; visit to rome, iii. , , ; tour in canada and united states, iii. _ _, _ _, , ; visit to coburg and gotha, iii. _ _; visit to ireland, iii. _ _, ; goes to cambridge, iii. _ _; death of prince consort, iii. ---- tollbar disturbances, i. _ _, , walewski, madame, iii. ---- count, ii. _ ; coup d'état_, paris, ii. _ _, , , , ; proposed marriage of louis napoleon, ii. _ _, , ; eastern question, ii. ; prince albert's visit to louis napoleon, iii. ; want of transports, iii. ; curious letter, iii. _ _, _ _; treaty of peace, iii. _ _, _ _, ; right of asylum despatch, iii. _ _, _ _, ; and war with austria, iii. , _ _; resignation, iii. _ _ walker, colonel, iii. wallachia, iii. _ _ walmer castle, i. ; queen's visit to, i. , walpole, spencer, ii. ; militia bill, ii. , ; on education, ii. , _ _, ; iii. ; home secretary, iii. , ; withdraws from ministry, iii. _ _ ---- sir robert, i. war, secretary at, duties of, i. ; power to appoint commander-in-chief, ii. _ _ warburton, mr, corn law debate, i. ward, mrs horatia, daughter of lord nelson, iii. ; pension for her children, iii. , ---- rev., dean of lincoln, ii. warre, lieut.-gen., sir wm., i. wasa, princess caroline stéphanie of, ii. washington, prince of wales's reception at, iii. _ _ waterford, queen's visit to, ii. ---- marquess of, i. watson, dr (afterwards sir thomas), prince consort's last illness, iii. ---- admiral, iii. weikersheim, iii. weimar, grand duke of, i. ; iii. , wellesley, lord charles, ii. ---- sir arthur (afterwards duke of wellington), and convention of cintra, iii. _ _ wellington, duke of, foreign secretary, i. _ _; reform bill, i. , ; on canadian difficulty, i. ; i. , ; interview with the queen, i. ; convention of , i. ; i. _ _; illness, i. ; i. ; in the cabinet, i. ; roman catholic question, i. ; christening of the prince of wales, i. ; commander-in-chief, i. ; on duelling, i. _ _, ; i. ; corn laws, ii. , ; ii. , , ; on dissolution, ii. ; statue, ii. , , _ _; peninsular war medals, ii. , ; on intervention in portugal, ii. ; on defence of england, ii. _ _; queen's tribute to, ii. ; brevet promotions, ii. ; sir charles napier's resignation, ii. ; views on formation of new government, ii. ; appeal to, ii. , ; death, ii. _ _, ; queen's appreciation of, ii. ; funeral arrangements, ii. ; india's homage to, ii. ; funeral, ii. ---- college, foundation stone, iii. welsh language, in schools, ii. wemyss, earl of, _see_ elcho wessenberg, baron, ii. westbury, lord, _see_ bethell, sir richard westminster abbey, the enthronisation, i. , westminster, marquess of, k.g., iii. _ _ westmorland, eleventh earl of, minister at berlin, ii. , , ; question of decorations, iii. weyer, sylvain van de, belgian foreign minister, i. , , , ; visit to the queen, i. ; ii. , , ; iii. , , whalley, mr, m.p., iii. wharncliffe, first baron, lord president of the council, i. , whateley, richard, archbishop of dublin, i. wheeler, general sir hugh, mutiny at cawnpore, iii. _ _ whewell, professor, i. whig party, and the royal family, i. ; power of, i. ; weakness of, i. _ _, _ _; ministry of, i. _ _, , _ _, ; resignation of, i. ; resume office, i. ; queen's opinion of, i. ; verge of dissolution, i. ; defeat, i. _ _; in jeopardy, i. ; vote of censure, i. ; dissolution, i. ; cabinet, i. ; corn law debate, i. ; unable to take office, ii. _ _, - ; and protectionists, ii. _ _; take office, ii, _ _; irish coercion bill, ii. , , ; and cobden, ii. ; jealousies, ii. ; factory act, ii. _ _; intervention in portugal, ii. _ _; poor law commission, ii. ; repeal of navigation laws, ii. _ _, ; case of don pacifico and mr. finlay, ii. _ _, - , _ _, _ _, _ _; suggested rearrangement of offices, ii. ; foreign policy defended, ii. ; in difficulties, ii. _ _; government defeat and resignation, ii. , ; return to office, ii. ; attempted fusion with peelites, ii. ; militia bill, ii. ; resignation, ii. , ; confusion of parties, ii. ; defeat government on house tax, ii. , , , , ; lord aberdeen forms a new government, ii. - ; withdrawal of reform bill, iii. _ _, _ _; resignation of lord john russell, iii. , , _ _, - ; lord palmerston becomes premier, iii. ; roebuck motion, iii. , ; and lord john russell, iii. ; government of , iii. , ; cabinet, iii. , , _ _; lord john russell accepts the colonial office, iii. _ _; dissolution on chinese debate, iii. _ _; return to power, iii. _ _ whiteside, mr, iii. whiting, page to queen victoria, i. wilberforce, archdeacon (afterwards bishop of oxford), i. ; ii. , , ; divorce bill, iii. , wilkie, sir david, i. william i., king of prussia, _see_ prussia ---- king of the netherlands, _see_ holland ---- iv. of england (formerly duke of clarence), politics, i. ; marriage, i. , , ; succession to the throne, i. ; estrangement with duchess of kent, i. , _ _, ; death and review of his reign, i. , , _ _; illness, i. , , ; death, i. ; his children, i. _ _ williams, general fenwick, gallant defence of kars, iii. _ _ ---- mr, i. willis's rooms, iii. _ _ willoughby, lord, receptions at court, iii. wilson, james, financial secretary to treasury, afterwards privy councillor, ii. wimpole, i. winchester, marquess of, ii. windsor, queen's opinion of, i. ; beauty of, i. wiseman, cardinal, made archbishop of westminster, ii. _ _, _ _, woburn abbey, queen's visit to, i. wodehouse, lady, iii. ---- lord (afterwards earl of kimberley), iii. women and politics, queen victoria's view of, ii. wood, sir charles (afterwards viscount halifax), chancellor of the exchequer, ii. , , , , _ _, , , , ; seals of office given up, ii. ; board of control, ii. ; and disraeli, ii, _ _; india bill, ii. ; and lord john russell, iii. ; government of, , iii. , , ; india board, iii. ; first lord of admiralty, , iii. _ _, , ; position of naval force, iii. ; financial crisis, iii. ; secretary for india, iii. ; italian policy, iii. ; indian titles, iii. ; indian civil service, iii. ; artillery in india, iii. ; letter on death of prince consort, iii. woods, sir william, i. woolwich arsenal, ii. _ _ worcester, deanery of, ii. ; see of, iii. wordsworth, rev. dr christopher, headmaster of harrow, i. woronzow, prince michael, i. worsley, lord, i. woulfe, stephen, afterwards chief baron for ireland, i. wrangel, general von, iii. würtemberg, alexander, duke of, marriage, i. ---- crown prince of, iii. ---- king of, marriage, i. ; visit to the queen, i. ---- prince alexander, of, i. , , , würtemberg, princess alexander of, death, i. , ---- queen of, i. ; visit to frogmore, i. wyse, mr, british envoy at athens, ii. , , , _ _ yang-tze river, i. _ _ yeh, chinese governor, and sir john bowring, iii. _ _; ultimatum, iii. _ _ york, duke of, character, i. , ---- prince consort's visit to, ii. yorke, sir joseph, death, i. _ _ young, sir john, high commissioner, iii. _ _ "young england" party, ii. _ _, zichy, count eugène, i. zollverein, i. zouaves, iii. zurich, treaty of peace at, iii. _ _, _ _ * * * * * _printed by hazell, watson & viney, ld., london and aylesbury. paper supplied by john dickinson & co., ld., london._ * * * * * transcriber's note: errata page : extraneous "the" removed. (...what they are--the the queen...) page : _so-fond_: hyphen removed page : 'as replaced with 'at'. (the great event has at length taken place...) page : 'fiday' corrected to 'friday' (lord clarendon starts for paris on friday.) page : (indistinct) 'a s' corrected to 'pas', to conform with wording of earlier draft (...ces dangers seront écartés à l'instant que la france s'unira à nous pour tenir un langage ferme à la russie qui tâche de nous désunir et il ne faut pas qu'elle y réussisse.) page : 'eighy' corrected to 'eighty' (...joined with eighty-four liberals and four peelites...) page , footnote : 'wote' corrected to 'wrote'. page : 'sentimens' [sic; instead of 'sentiments'] (lord cowley a été auprès de moi le digne interprète des sentiments de votre majesté, ....) page : 'indépendans' [sic; instead of 'indépendants'] États indépendans. page : 'sentimens' [sic; instead of 'sentiments'] c'est dans ces sentimens que je renouvelle à votre majesté.... [the omission of 't' in the above words may have been a personal idiom. they have been left as such.] page : date corrected from th march to th march . page : 'preseved' corrected to 'preserved' (...by which the peace of europe may be preserved.) page : ' ' corrected to ' ' (...your majesty's sanction to that was obtained in - ,...) page : 'annxation' corrected to 'annexation' a transcriber's note is at the end of the book. * * * * * [illustration: queen victoria receiving the news of her accession to the throne, june , from the picture by h. t. wells, r.a., at buckingham palace _frontispiece, vol. i._] the letters of queen victoria a selection from her majesty's correspondence between the years and published by authority of his majesty the king edited by arthur christopher benson, m.a. and viscount esher, g.c.v.o., k.c.b. in three volumes vol. i.-- - london john murray, albemarle street, w. _copyright in great britain and dependencies, , by_ h.m. the king. _in the united states by_ messrs longmans, green & co. _all rights reserved._ preface entrusted by his majesty the king with the duty of making a selection from queen victoria's correspondence, we think it well to describe briefly the nature of the documents which we have been privileged to examine, as well as to indicate the principles which have guided us throughout. it has been a task of no ordinary difficulty. her majesty queen victoria dealt with her papers, from the first, in a most methodical manner; she formed the habit in early days of preserving her private letters, and after her accession to the throne all her official papers were similarly treated, and bound in volumes. the prince consort instituted an elaborate system of classification, annotating and even indexing many of the documents with his own hand. the result is that the collected papers form what is probably the most extraordinary series of state documents in the world. the papers which deal with the queen's life up to the year have been bound in chronological order, and comprise between five and six hundred volumes. they consist, in great part, of letters from ministers detailing the proceedings of parliament, and of various political memoranda dealing with home, foreign, and colonial policy; among these are a few drafts of her majesty's replies. there are volumes concerned with the affairs of almost every european country; with the history of india, the british army, the civil list, the royal estates, and all the complicated machinery of the monarchy and the constitution. there are letters from monarchs and royal personages, and there is further a whole series of volumes dealing with matters in which the prince consort took a special interest. some of them are arranged chronologically, some by subjects. among the most interesting volumes are those containing the letters written by her majesty to her uncle leopold, king of the belgians, and his replies.[ ] the collection of letters from and to lord melbourne forms another hardly less interesting series. in many places queen victoria caused extracts, copied from her own private diaries, dealing with important political events or describing momentous interviews, to be inserted in the volumes, with the evident intention of illustrating and completing the record. [footnote : a set of volumes containing the queen's letters to lord john russell came into our hands too late to be made use of for the present publication.] it became obvious at once that it was impossible to deal with these papers exhaustively. they would provide material for a historical series extending to several hundred volumes. moreover, on the other hand, there are many gaps, as a great deal of the business of state was transacted by interviews of which no official record is preserved. his majesty the king having decided that no attempt should be made to publish these papers _in extenso_, it was necessary to determine upon some definite principle of selection. it became clear that the only satisfactory plan was to publish specimens of such documents as would serve to bring out the development of the queen's character and disposition, and to give typical instances of her methods in dealing with political and social matters--to produce, in fact, a book for british citizens and british subjects, rather than a book for students of political history. that the inner working of the unwritten constitution of the country; that some of the unrealised checks and balances; that the delicate equipoise of the component parts of our executive machinery, should stand revealed, was inevitable. we have thought it best, throughout, to abstain from unnecessary comment and illustration. the period is so recent, and has been so often traversed by historians and biographers, that it appeared to us a waste of valuable space to attempt to reconstruct the history of the years from which this correspondence has been selected, especially as sir theodore martin, under the auspices of the queen herself, has dealt so minutely and exhaustively with the relations of the queen's innermost circle to the political and social life of the time. it is tempting, of course, to add illustrative anecdotes from the abundant biographies and memoirs of the period; but our aim has been to infringe as little as possible upon the space available for the documents themselves, and to provide just sufficient comment to enable an ordinary reader, without special knowledge of the period, to follow the course of events, and to realise the circumstances under which the queen's childhood was passed, the position of affairs at the time of her accession, and the personalities of those who had influenced her in early years, or by whom she was surrounded. the development of the queen's character is clearly indicated in the papers, and it possesses an extraordinary interest. we see one of highly vigorous and active temperament, of strong affections, and with a deep sense of responsibility, placed at an early age, and after a quiet girlhood, in a position the greatness of which it is impossible to exaggerate. we see her character expand and deepen, schooled by mighty experience into patience and sagacity and wisdom, and yet never losing a particle of the strength, the decision, and the devotion with which she had been originally endowed. up to the year the queen's career was one of unexampled prosperity. she was happy in her temperament, in her health, in her education, in her wedded life, in her children. she saw a great empire grow through troubled times in liberty and power and greatness; yet this prosperity brought with it no shadow of complacency, because the queen felt with an increasing depth the anxieties and responsibilities inseparable from her great position. her happiness, instead of making her self-absorbed, only quickened her beneficence and her womanly desire that her subjects should be enabled to enjoy a similar happiness based upon the same simple virtues. nothing comes out more strongly in these documents than the laborious patience with which the queen kept herself informed of the minutest details of political and social movements both in her own and other countries. it is a deeply inspiring spectacle to see one surrounded by every temptation which worldly greatness can present, living from day to day so simple, vivid, and laborious a life; and it is impossible to conceive a more fruitful example of duty and affection and energy, displayed on so august a scale, and in the midst of such magnificent surroundings. we would venture to believe that nothing could so deepen the personal devotion of the empire to the memory of that great queen who ruled it so wisely and so long, and its deeply-rooted attachment to the principle of constitutional monarchy, as the gracious act of his majesty the king in allowing the inner side of that noble life and career to be more clearly revealed to a nation whose devotion to their ancient liberties is inseparably connected with their loyalty to the throne. editorial note our special thanks, for aid in the preparation of these volumes, are due to viscount morley of blackburn, who has read and criticised the book in its final form; to mr j. w. headlam, of the board of education, and formerly fellow of king's college, cambridge, for much valuable assistance in preparing the prefatory historical memoranda; to mr w. f. reddaway, fellow of king's college, cambridge, for revision and advice throughout, in connection with the introductions and annotations; to lord knollys, for criticism of selected materials; to lord stanmore, for the loan of valuable documents; to dr eugene oswald, for assistance in translation; to mr c. c. perry and m. g. hua, for verification of french and german documents; to miss bertha williams, for unremitting care and diligence in preparing the volumes for press; to mr john murray, our publisher, for his unfailing patience and helpfulness; and especially to mr hugh childers, for his ungrudging help in the preparation of the introductory annual summaries, and in the political and historical annotation, as well as for his invaluable co-operation at every stage of the work. table of contents chapter i ancestry of queen victoria--houses of brunswick, hanover, and coburg --family connections--the english royal family--the royal dukes--duke of cumberland--family of george iii.--political position of the queen (pages - ) chapter ii queen victoria's early years--duke and duchess of kent--parliamentary grant to duchess of kent--the queen of würtemberg--george iv. and the princess--visits to windsor--duchess of saxe-coburg-saalfeld --education of the princess--the duchess of kent's letter to the bishops--religious instruction--result of examination--speech by duchess of kent--the princess's reminiscences of claremont--william iv. and the princess--the accession--queen victoria's character and temperament--her sympathy with the middle classes (pages - ) chapter iii queen victoria's relations and friends--king leopold's influence --queen adelaide--baroness lehzen--baron stockmar (pages - ) chapter iv - observations on the correspondence with king leopold and others--first letter received by queen victoria--her first letter to prince leopold --birthday letters--king leopold's description of his queen--his valuable advice--the princess's visit to hever castle--king leopold's advice as to reading, and the princess's reply--new year greeting --on autographs--the princess's confirmation--king leopold's advice as to honesty and sincerity (pages - ) chapter v visit of prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg--invitation to the prince of orange--arrival of princes ernest and albert--the princess's appreciation of prince albert--king leopold's advice as to conversation--crisis in spain--farewell letter--the princess and the church--death of charles x.--abuse of king leopold--revolution at lisbon--the princess's name--newspaper attacks on king leopold (pages - ) chapter vi spain and portugal--music with princes ernest and albert --parliamentary language and political passion--the throne of greece --queen of the belgians' dowry--the english press--the princess's establishment--young belgian cousins--irish municipal bill--whig ministers--birthday rejoicings--king leopold's advice and encouragement--accession imminent--condition of the king--reliance on lord melbourne--the princess and the church--the accession--the queen's journal--interview with lord melbourne--the queen's first council--letter from the king of the french--congratulations from king leopold--nationality of the queen--the queen and her ministers --reflection advised--baron stockmar--important subjects for study --sister queens--letter from queen adelaide--buckingham palace--madame de lieven--parliament prorogued--england and russia--discretion advised --singing lessons--the elections--prevalence of bribery--end of king leopold's visit--reception at brighton--security of letters--england and france--france and the peninsula--count molé--the french in africa --close of the session--prince albert's education--canada--army estimates--secretaries of state (pages - ) chapter vii lord melbourne--canada--influence of the crown--daniel o'connell --position of ministers of state in england and abroad--new poor law --pressure of business--prince albert's education--favourite horses --deaths of old servants--the coronation--address from bishops--ball at buckingham palace--independence and progress of belgium --anglo-belgian relations--foreign policy--holland and belgium --coronation day--westminster abbey--the enthronement--receiving homage--popular enthusiasm--coronation incidents--pages of honour --extra holidays for schools--review in hyde park--lord durham and canada--government of canada--ireland and o'connell--death of lady john russell--the queen's sympathy with lord john russell--belgium and english government--belgium and holland--canada--resignation of the earl of durham--english church for malta--disappointment of duke of sussex--brighton (pages - ) chapter viii murder of lord norbury--holland and belgium--dissension in the cabinet --the duke of lucca--portugal--ireland and the government--england and belgium--prince albert's tour in italy--jamaica--change of ministry imminent--the queen's distress--interviews with the duke of wellington and sir robert peel--lord melbourne on sir robert peel--the household --proposed new cabinet--interview with lord melbourne--the ladies of the household and sir robert peel--reply to sir robert peel --resignation of sir robert peel--the queen's journal--cabinet minute --whigs resume office--ball at buckingham palace--lord john russell and sir robert peel--the queen on the crisis--king leopold's approval --the penny postage--the queen and prince albert--syria--england and the sultan--proposed visit of king louis philippe--preparing the queen's speech--king leopold's feeling for the queen--coming visit of prince albert--arrival of princes ernest and albert--the queen's engagement to prince albert--lord melbourne's congratulations--king leopold's satisfaction--austria and the porte--the queen's happiness --queen louise's congratulations--the queen's letters to the royal family--the prince's religion--announcement to the council--marriage treaty--question of a peerage--english susceptibilities--letter from donna maria--household appointments--mayor of newport knighted--the word "protestant"--the prince's coat-of-arms--the prince and mr anson --appointment of treasurer--the prince and lord melbourne (pages - ) chapter ix letters to prince albert--opening of parliament--the prince's grant --the prince at brussels--marriage of the queen and prince--public enthusiasm--plays in lent--debate on the corn laws--england and china --disturbance at the opera--murder of lord william russell--mrs norton --character of princess charlotte--english manners--oxford's attempt on the queen's life--egypt and the four powers--prince louis napoleon --king leopold at wiesbaden--a threatened crisis--france and the east --a difficult question--serious measures--palmerston and france--views of king louis philippe--propositions for settlement--attitude of france--pacific instructions--the porte and mehemet ali--bombardment of beyrout--guizot and thiers--differing views--the queen's influence --an anxious time--attempt on life of king louis philippe--negotiation with france advised--thiers more moderate--death of lord holland --change of ministry in france--importance of conciliation--the prince's name in the prayer-book--king leopold on lord palmerston --birth of the princess royal--settlement of eastern question (pages - ) chapter x letter to king leopold--the prince and literature--the speech from the throne--domestic happiness--duke of wellington's illness--england and the united states--operations in china--lord cardigan--army discipline --the nottingham election--the budget--irish registration bill--sugar duties--ministerial crisis--lord melbourne's advice--dissolution or resignation--the household question--sir robert peel--mr anson's intervention--interview with lord melbourne--king leopold's sympathy --the corn laws--the queen's journal--the prince's support--further interviews--resignation postponed--the queen and the church--king leopold's advice--the queen's impartiality--difficulties removed--vote of want of confidence--the country quiet--king leopold's views--fiscal policy--marriage of lord john russell--visit to nuneham--archbishop harcourt--the prince visits oxford--letter from lord brougham--visit to woburn abbey--lord melbourne and the garter--a dreaded moment --debate on the speech--overwhelming majority--resignation--new arrangements--parting with lord melbourne--the prince in a new position--the queen and sir robert peel--lord melbourne's opinion of the prince--the household question--new cabinet--lord melbourne's official farewell--sir robert peel's reception--new appointments --council at claremont--the lord chamberlain's department--the french ambassador--confidential communications--the diplomatic corps --governor-general of canada--india and afghanistan--lord ellenborough --russia and central asia--indian finances--the spanish mission --correspondence with lord melbourne--fine arts commission--peers and audiences--lord radnor's claim--the chinese campaign--english and foreign artists--lord melbourne and the court--the queen and her government--baron stockmar's opinion--lord melbourne's influence --baron stockmar and sir robert peel--professor whewell--queen christina--queen isabella--french influence in spain--holland and belgium--dispute with united states--portugal--the english constitution--the "prime minister"--the "secretaries of state"--baron stockmar expostulates with lord melbourne--birth of heir-apparent --created prince of wales--the royal children (pages - ) chapter xi letter from queen adelaide--disasters in afghanistan--the oxford movement--church matters--the duke of wellington and the christening --lord melbourne ill--a favourite dog--the king of prussia--marriage of prince ernest--christening of the prince of wales--the corn laws --marine excursion--fall of cabul--candidates for the garter--the earl of munster--the queen and income tax--lambeth palace--sale at strawberry hill--selection of a governess--party politics--a brilliant ball--the prince and the army--lady lyttelton's appointment--goethe and schiller--edwin landseer--the mensdorff family--attack on the queen by francis--letters from queen adelaide and lord melbourne --successes in afghanistan--sir r. sale and general pollock--debate on income tax--the queen's first railway journey--conviction of francis--presents for the queen--another attack on the queen by bean --death of duke of orleans--grief of the queen--letters from the king and queen of the french--leigh hunt--lord melbourne on marriages --resignation of lord hill--appointment of duke of wellington --manchester riots--military assistance--parliament prorogued--causes of discontent--mob in lincoln's inn fields--trouble at the cape--tour in scotland--visit to lord breadalbane--return to windsor--royal visitors--a steam yacht for the queen--future of queen isabella--the princess lichtenstein--historical works--walmer castle--lord melbourne's illness--the crown jewels--provision for princess augusta --success in china--a treaty signed--victories in afghanistan--honours for the army--the gates of somnauth--france and spain--major malcolm --the scottish church--a serious crisis--letter from lord melbourne --esteem for baron stockmar ( - ) chapter xii recollections of claremont--historical writers--governor-generalship of canada--mr drummond shot--mistaken for sir robert peel--death of mr drummond--demeanour of macnaghten--letter from lord melbourne --preparations for the trial--the royal family and politics--king leopold and sir robert peel--the american treaty--position of the prince of wales--good wishes from queen adelaide--proposed exchange of visits--mr cobden's speech--the new chapel--fanny burney's diary --macnaghten acquitted--question of criminal insanity--princess mary of baden--the prince and the levées--sir robert peel's suggestions --police arrangements--looking for the comet--flowers from lord melbourne--the royal children--the toast of the prince--king of hanover's proposed visit--gates of somnauth restored--death of duke of sussex--birth and christening of princess alice--irish agitation --rebecca riots--duchess of norfolk's resignation--duelling in the army--outpensioners of chelsea--crown jewels--obstruction of business --lord melbourne on matrimonial affairs--visit to château d'eu --increased troubles in wales--royal visitors--england and spain --arrest of o'connell--duc de bordeaux not received at court--duc de nemours expected--visit to cambridge--duc d'aumale's engagement --indian affairs--loyalty at cambridge--proposed visit to drayton manor--travelling arrangements--duchesse de nemours--birmingham --canadian seat of government--chatsworth--american view of monarchy --prince metternich and spain ( - ) list of illustrations queen victoria receiving the news of her accession to the throne, th june . _from the picture by h. t. wells, r.a., at buckingham palace_ t.r.h. the duchess of kent and the princess victoria. _from the miniature by h. bone, after sir w. beechey, at windsor castle_ h.r.h. the princess victoria, . by plant, after stewart. _from the miniature at buckingham, palace_ h.m. king william iv. _from a miniature at windsor castle_ h.r.h. the prince consort, . _from the portrait by john partridge at buckingham palace_ h.m. queen victoria, . _from the drawing by e. f. t., after h. e. dawe, at buckingham palace_ * * * * * chapter i the ancestry of the queen--houses of brunswick, hanover, and coburg queen victoria, on her father's side, belonged to the house of brunswick, which was undoubtedly one of the oldest, and claimed to be actually the oldest, of german princely families. at the time of her birth, it existed in two branches, of which, the one ruled over what was called the duchy of brunswick, the other over the electorate (since the kingdom) of hanover, and had since occupied the throne of england. there had been frequent intermarriages between the two branches. the dukes of brunswick were now, however, represented only by two young princes, who were the sons of the celebrated duke who fell at quatre-bras. between them and the english court there was little intercourse. the elder, charles, had quarrelled with his uncle and guardian, george iv., and had in been expelled from his dominions. the obvious faults of his character made it impossible for the other german princes to insist on his being restored, and he had been succeeded by his younger brother william, who ruled till his death in . both died unmarried, and with them the ducal family came to an end. one princess of brunswick had been the wife of george iv., and another, augusta, was the first wife of frederick i., king of würtemberg, who, after her death, married a daughter of george iii. the king of würtemberg was also, by his descent from frederick prince of wales, first cousin once removed of the queen. we need only notice, in passing, the distant connection with the royal families of prussia, the netherlands, and denmark. the prince of orange, who was one of the possible suitors for the young queen's hand, was her third cousin once removed. [pageheading: the house of saxe-coburg-gotha] the house of saxe-coburg-gotha, to which the queen belonged on her mother's side, and with which she was to be even more intimately connected by her marriage, was one of the numerous branches into which the ancient and celebrated house of wettin had broken up. since the th century they had ruled over meissen and the adjoining districts. to these had been added upper saxony and thuringia. in the th century the whole possessions of the house had been divided between the two great branches which still exist. the albertine branch retained meissen and the saxon possessions. they held the title of elector, which in was exchanged for the title of king. though the saxon house had been the chief protectors of the reformation, frederick augustus i. had, on being elected to the throne of poland, become a roman catholic; and thereby the connection between the two branches of the house had to a great extent ceased. the second line, that of the ernestines, ruled over thuringia, but, according to the common german custom, had again broken up into numerous branches, among which the duchies of thuringia were parcelled out. at the time of the queen's birth there were five of these, viz., gotha-altenburg, coburg-saalfeld, weimar-eisenach, meiningen, and hildburghausen. on the extinction of the gotha line, in , there was a rearrangement of the family property, by which the duke of hildburghausen received altenburg, gotha was given to the duke of coburg, and saalfeld with hildburghausen added to meiningen. these four lines still exist. the ernestine princes had, by this constant division and sub-division, deprived themselves of the opportunity of exercising any predominant influence, or pursuing any independent policy in german affairs; and though they had the good fortune to emerge from the revolution with their possessions unimpaired, their real power was not increased. like all the other princes, they had, however, at the congress of vienna, received the recognition of their full status as sovereign princes of the germanic confederation. together they sent a single representative to the diet of frankfort, the total population of the five principalities being only about , inhabitants. it was owing to this territorial sub-division and lack of cohesion that these princes could not attach to their independence the same political importance that fell to the share of the larger principalities, such as hanover and bavaria, and they were consequently more ready than the other german princes to welcome proposals which would lead to a unification of germany. it is notable that the line has produced many of the most enlightened of the german princes; and nowhere in the whole of germany were the advantages of the division into numerous small states so clearly seen, and the disadvantages so little felt, as at weimar, meiningen, gotha, and coburg. [pageheading: the house of coburg] the house of coburg had gained a highly conspicuous and influential position, owing, partly, to the high reputation for sagacity and character which the princes of that house had won, and partly to the marriage connections which were entered into about this time by members of the coburg house with the leading royal families of europe. within ten years, princes of coburg were established, one upon the throne of belgium, and two others next to the throne in portugal and england, as consorts of their respective queens. by the first marriage of the duchess of kent, the queen was also connected with a third class of german princes--the mediatised, as those were called who during the revolution had lost their sovereign power. many of these were of as ancient lineage and had possessed as large estates as some of the regnant princes, who, though not always more deserving, had been fortunate enough to retain their privileges, and had emerged from the revolution ranking among the ruling houses of europe. the mediatised princes, though they had ceased to rule, still held important privileges, which were guaranteed at the congress of vienna. first, and most important, they were reckoned as "_ebenburtig_," which means that they could contract equal marriages with the royal houses, and these marriages were recognised as valid for the transmission of rights of inheritance. many of them had vast private estates, and though they were subjected to the sovereignty of the princes in whose dominions these lay, they enjoyed very important privileges, such as exemption from military service, and from many forms of taxation; they also could exercise minor forms of jurisdiction. they formed, therefore, an intermediate class. since germany, as a whole, afforded them no proper sphere of political activity, the more ambitious did not disdain to take service with austria or prussia, and, to a less extent, even with the smaller states. it was possible, therefore, for the queen's mother, a princess of saxe-coburg, to marry the prince of leiningen without losing caste. her daughter, the princess feodore, the queen's half-sister, married ernest, prince of hohenlohe-langenburg, and thus established an interesting connection with perhaps the most widely-spread and most distinguished of all these families. the house of hohenlohe would probably still have been a reigning family, had not the prince of hohenlohe preferred to fight in the prussian army against napoleon, rather than receive gifts from him. his lands were consequently confiscated and passed to other princes who were less scrupulous. the family has given two ministers president to prussia, a general in chief command of the prussian army, a chancellor to the german empire, and one of the most distinguished of modern military writers. they held, besides their extensive possessions in würtemberg and bavaria, the county of gleichen in saxe-coburg. [pageheading: family connections] it will be seen therefore that the queen was intimately connected with all classes that are to be found among the ruling families of germany, though naturally with the catholic families, which looked to austria and bavaria for guidance, she had no close ties. but it must be borne in mind that her connection with germany always remained a personal and family matter, and not a political one; this was the fortunate result of the predominance of the coburg influence. had that of the house of hanover been supreme, it could hardly have been possible for the queen not to have been drawn into the opposition to the unification of germany by prussia, in which the house of hanover was bound to take a leading part, in virtue of its position, wealth, and dignity. it will be as well here to mention the principal reigning families of europe to which queen victoria was closely allied through her mother. the duchess of kent's eldest brother, ernest, duke of saxe-coburg, was the father of albert, prince consort. her sister was the wife of alexander, duke of würtemberg. the duchess of kent's nephew, ferdinand (son of ferdinand, the duchess's brother), married maria da gloria, queen of portugal, and was father of pedro v. and luis, both subsequently kings of portugal. the duchess's third brother, leopold (afterwards king of the belgians), married first the princess charlotte, daughter of george iv., and afterwards the princess louise marie, eldest daughter of king louis philippe. prince augustus (son of ferdinand, the duchess of kent's brother) married another daughter of louis philippe, the princess clémentine, while prince augustus's sister, victoria, married the duc de nemours, a son of louis philippe. another nephew, duke friedrich wilhelm alexander, son of the duchess of würtemberg, married the princess marie, another daughter of louis philippe. thus queen victoria was closely allied with the royal families of france, portugal, belgium, saxe-coburg, and würtemberg. on turning to the immediate royal family of england, it will be seen that the male line at the time of the queen's accession was limited to the sons, both named george, of two of the younger brothers of george iv., the dukes of cumberland and cambridge. the sons of george iii. played their part in the national life, shared the strong interest in military matters, and showed the great personal courage which was a tradition of the family. [pageheading: the english royal family] it must be borne in mind that abstention from active political life had been in no sense required, or even thought desirable, in members of the royal house. george iii. himself had waged a life-long struggle with the whig party, that powerful oligarchy that since the accession of the house of hanover had virtually ruled the country; but he did not carry on the conflict so much by encouraging the opponents of the whigs, as by placing himself at the head of a monarchical faction. he was in fact the leader of a third party in the state. george iv. was at first a strong whig, and lived on terms of the greatest intimacy with charles james fox; but by the time that he was thirty, he had severed the connection with his former political friends, which had indeed originally arisen more out of his personal opposition to his father than from any political convictions. after this date he became, with intervals of vacillation, an advanced tory of an illiberal type. william iv. had lived so much aloof from politics before his accession, that he had had then no very pronounced opinions, though he was believed to be in favour of the reform bill; during his reign his tory sympathies became more pronounced, and the position of the whig ministry was almost an intolerable one. his other brothers were men of decided views, and for the most part of high social gifts. they not only attended debates in the house of peers, but spoke with emotion and vigour; they held political interviews with leading statesmen, and considered themselves entitled, not to over-rule political movements, but to take the part in them to which their strong convictions prompted them. they were particularly prominent in the debates on the catholic question, and did not hesitate to express their views with an energy that was often embarrassing. the duke of york and the duke of cumberland had used all their influence to encourage the king in his opposition to catholic emancipation, while the duke of cambridge had supported that policy, and the duke of sussex had spoken in the house of lords in favour of it. the duke of york, a kindly, generous man, had held important commands in the earlier part of the revolutionary war; he had not shown tactical nor strategical ability, but he was for many years commander-in-chief of the army, and did good administrative work in initiating and carrying out much-needed military reforms. he had married a prussian princess, but left no issue, and his death, in , left the succession open to his younger brother, the duke of clarence, afterwards king william iv., and after him to the princess victoria. [pageheading: the royal dukes] the duke of kent was, as we shall have occasion to show, a strong whig with philanthropic views. but the ablest of the princes, though also the most unpopular, was the duke of cumberland, who, until the birth of the queen's first child, was heir presumptive to the throne. he had been one of the most active members of the ultra-tory party, who had opposed to the last the emancipation of the catholics and the reform bill. he had married a sister-in-law of the king of prussia, and lived much in berlin, where he was intimate with the leaders of the military party, who were the centre of reactionary influences in that country, chief among them being his brother-in-law, prince charles of mecklenburg. in private life the duke was bluff and soldier-like, of rather a bullying turn, and extraordinarily indifferent to the feelings of others. "ernest is not a bad fellow," his brother william iv. said of him, "but if anyone has a corn, he will be sure to tread on it." he was very unpopular in england. on the death of william iv. he succeeded to the throne of hanover, and from that time seldom visited england. his first act on reaching his kingdom was to declare invalid the constitution which had been granted in by william iv. his justification for this was that his consent, as heir presumptive, which was necessary for its validity, had not at the time been asked. the act caused great odium to be attached to his name by all liberals, both english and continental, and it was disapproved of even by his old tory associates. none the less he soon won great popularity in his own dominions by his zeal, good-humour, and energy, and in he came to terms with the estates. a new constitution was drawn up which preserved more of the royal prerogatives than the instrument of . few german princes suffered so little in the revolution of . the king died in , at the age of eighty, and left one son, george, who had been blind from his boyhood. he was the last king of hanover, being expelled by the prussians in . on the failure of the ducal line of brunswick, the grandson of ernest augustus became heir to their dominions, he and his sons being now the sole male representatives of all the branches of the house of brunswick, which a few generations ago was one of the most numerous and widely-spread ruling houses in germany.[ ] [footnote : of the daughters of george iii., princess amelia had died in , and the queen of würtemberg in ; two married daughters survived--elizabeth, wife of the landgrave of hesse-homburg, and mary, who had married her cousin, the duke of gloucester, and lived in england. there were also two unmarried daughters, the princesses augusta and sophia, living in england.] the duke of sussex was in sympathy with many liberal movements, and supported the removal of religious disabilities, the abolition of the corn laws, and parliamentary reform. the duke of cambridge was a moderate tory, and the most conciliatory of all the princes. but for more than twenty years he took little part in english politics, as he was occupied with his duties as regent of hanover, where he did much by prudent reforms to retain the allegiance of the hanoverians. on his return to england he resumed the position of a peacemaker, supporting philanthropic movements, and being a generous patron of art and letters. he was recognised as "emphatically the connecting link between the crown and the people." another member of the royal family was the duke of gloucester, nephew and son-in-law of george iii.; he was more interested in philanthropic movements than in politics, but was a moderate conservative, who favoured catholic emancipation but was opposed to parliamentary reform. thus we have the spectacle of seven royal princes, of whom two succeeded to the throne, all or nearly all avowed politicians of decided convictions, throwing the weight of their influence and social position for the most part on the side of the tory party, and believing it to be rather their duty to hold and express strong political opinions than to adopt the moderating and conciliatory attitude in matters of government that is now understood to be the true function of the royal house. [pageheading: independence of the queen] the queen, after her accession, always showed great respect and affection for her uncles, but they were not able to exercise any influence over her character or opinions. this was partly due to the fact that from an early age she had imbibed a respect for liberal views from her uncle leopold, king of the belgians, to whom she was devoted from her earliest childhood, and for whom she entertained feelings of the deepest admiration, affection, and confidence; but still more was it due to the fact that, from the very first, the queen instinctively formed an independent judgment on any question that concerned her; and though she was undoubtedly influenced in her decisions by her affectionate reliance on her chosen advisers, yet those advisers were always deliberately and shrewdly selected, and their opinions were in no case allowed to do more than modify her own penetrating and clear-sighted judgment. chapter ii memoir of queen victoria's early years alexandrina victoria, queen of great britain and ireland and empress of india, was born on monday, th may , at kensington palace. her father, edward, duke of kent and strathearn ( - ), the fourth son of george iii., was a man of decided character, kindly, pious, punctual, with a strict sense of duty and enlightened ideas. he was a devoted soldier, and, as queen victoria once said, "was proud of his profession, and i was always taught to consider myself a soldier's child." he had a wide military experience, having served at gibraltar, in canada, and in the west indies. he had been mentioned in despatches, but was said to be over-strict in matters of unimportant detail. his active career was brought to an end in , when he had been sent to gibraltar to restore order in a mutinous garrison. order had been restored, but the duke was recalled under allegations of having exercised undue severity, and the investigation which he demanded was refused him, though he was afterwards made a field-marshal. he was a man of advanced liberal ideas. he had spoken in the house of lords in favour of catholic emancipation, and had shown himself interested in the abolition of slavery and in popular education. his tastes were literary, and towards the end of his life he had even manifested a strong sympathy for socialistic theories. at the time of the death of the princess charlotte, th november , the married sons of king george iii. were without legitimate children, and the surviving daughters were either unmarried or childless. alliances were accordingly arranged for the three unmarried royal dukes, and in the course of the year the dukes of cambridge, kent, and clarence led their brides to the altar. [pageheading: the duke and duchess of kent] the duchess of kent ( - ), victoria mary louisa, was a daughter of francis, duke of saxe-coburg-saalfeld. she was the widow of emich charles, prince of leiningen,[ ] whom she had married in , and who had died in , leaving a son and a daughter by her. [footnote : _leiningen_, a mediatised princely house of germany, dating back to . in the head of one of the branches into which it had become divided, the count of leiningen-dachsburg-hardenburg, was raised to the rank of a prince of the empire, but the peace of lunéville ( ) deprived him of his ancient possessions, extending about miles on the left bank of the rhine. though no longer an independent prince, the head of the house retains his rank and wealth, and owns extensive estates in bavaria and hesse.] the duke of kent died prematurely--though he had always been a conspicuously healthy man--at sidmouth, on the rd of january , only a week before his father. a paper preserved in the windsor archives gives a touching account of the duke's last hours. the regent, on the nd of january, sent to him a message of solicitude and affection, expressing an anxious wish for his recovery. the duke roused himself to enquire how the prince was in health, and said, "if i could now shake hands with him, i should die in peace." a few hours before the end, one who stood by the curtain of his bed heard the duke say with deep emotion, "may the almighty protect my wife and child, and forgive all the sins i have committed." his last words--addressed to his wife--were, "do not forget me." the duchess of kent was an affectionate, impulsive woman, with more emotional sympathy than practical wisdom in worldly matters. but her claim on the gratitude of the british nation is that she brought up her illustrious daughter in habits of simplicity, self-sacrifice, and obedience. as a testimony to the sincere appreciation entertained by the politicians of the time for the way in which the duchess of kent had appreciated her responsibilities with regard to the education of a probable heir to the crown of england, we may quote a few sentences from two speeches made in the house of commons, in the debate which took place ( th may ) on the question of increasing the parliamentary annuity paid to the duchess, in order to provide duly for the education of the young princess. the chancellor of the exchequer, mr robinson, afterwards lord ripon, said: "the position in which this princess stood with respect to the throne of the country could not fail to make her an object of general interest to the nation. he had not himself the honour of being acquainted with the duchess of kent, but he believed that she had taken the greatest pains with her daughter's education. she had been brought up in principles of piety and morality, and to feel a _proper_ sense, he meant by that an humble sense, of her own dignity, and the rank which probably awaited her. perhaps it might have been fit to have brought this matter before parliament at an earlier period." mr canning said: "all parties agreed in the propriety of the grant, and if government had anything to answer for on this point, it was for having so long delayed bringing it before the house. there could not be a greater compliment to her royal highness than to state the quiet unobtrusive tenor of her life, and that she had never made herself the object of public gaze, but had devoted herself to the education of her child, whom the house was now called upon to adopt." [pageheading: early reminiscences] in the year queen victoria wrote down with her own hand some reminiscences of her early childhood, the manuscript of which is preserved at windsor, and which may be quoted here. "my earliest recollections are connected with kensington palace, where i can remember crawling on a yellow carpet spread out for that purpose--and being told that if i cried and was naughty my 'uncle sussex' would hear me and punish me, for which reason i always screamed when i saw him! i had a great horror of _bishops_ on account of their wigs and _aprons_, but recollect this being partially got over in the case of the then bishop of salisbury (dr fisher, great-uncle to mr fisher, private secretary to the prince of wales), by his kneeling down and letting me play with his badge of chancellor of the order of the garter. with another bishop, however, the persuasion of showing him my 'pretty shoes' was of no use. claremont remains as the brightest epoch of my otherwise rather melancholy childhood--where to be under the roof of that beloved uncle--to listen to some music in the hall when there were dinner-parties--and to go and see dear old louis!--the former faithful and devoted dresser and friend of princess charlotte--beloved and respected by all who knew her--and who doted on the little princess who was too much an idol in the house. this dear old lady was visited by every one--and was the only really devoted attendant of the poor princess, whose governesses paid little real attention to her--and who never left her, and was with her when she died. i used to ride a donkey given me by my uncle, the duke of york, who was very kind to me. i remember him well--tall, rather large, very kind but extremely shy. he always gave me beautiful presents. the last time i saw him was at mr greenwood's house, where d. carlos lived at one time,--when he was already very ill,--and he had punch and judy in the garden for me. [pageheading: early reminiscences] "to ramsgate we used to go frequently in the summer, and i remember living at townley house (near the town), and going there by steamer. mamma was very unwell. dear uncle leopold went with us. "to tunbridge wells we also went, living at a house called mt. pleasant, now an hotel. many pleasant days were spent here, and the return to kensington in october or november was generally a day of tears. "i was brought up very simply--never had a room to myself till i was nearly grown up--always slept in my mother's room till i came to the throne. at claremont, and in the small houses at the bathing-places, i sat and took my lessons in my governess's bedroom. i was not fond of learning as a little child--and baffled every attempt to teach me my letters up to years old--when i consented to learn them by their being written down before me. [pageheading: george iv.] "i remember going to carlton house, when george iv. lived there, as quite a little child before a dinner the king gave. the duchess of cambridge and my cousins, george and augusta, were there. my aunt, the queen of würtemberg (princess royal), came over, in the year ' , i think, and i recollect perfectly well seeing her drive through the park in the king's carriage with red liveries and horses, in a _cap_ and evening dress,--my aunt, her sister princess augusta, sitting _opposite_ to her, also in evening attire, having dined early with the duke of sussex at kensington. she had adopted all the german fashions and spoke broken english--and had not been in england for many many years. she was very kind and good-humoured but very large and unwieldy. she lived at st james's and had a number of germans with her. in the year ' (i think) george iv. asked my mother, my sister and me down to windsor for the first time; he had been on bad terms with my poor father when he died,--and took hardly any notice of the poor widow and little fatherless girl, who were so poor at the time of his (the duke of kent's) death, that they could not have travelled back to kensington palace had it not been for the kind assistance of my dear uncle, prince leopold. we went to cumberland lodge, the king living at the royal lodge. aunt gloucester was there at the same time. when we arrived at the royal lodge the king took me by the hand, saying: 'give me your little paw.' he was large and gouty but with a wonderful dignity and charm of manner. he wore the wig which was so much worn in those days. then he said he would give me something for me to wear, and that was his picture set in diamonds, which was worn by the princesses as an order to a blue ribbon on the left shoulder. i was very proud of this,--and lady conyngham pinned it on my shoulder. her husband, the late marquis of conyngham, was the lord chamberlain and constantly there, as well as lord mt. charles (as vice-chamberlain), the _present_ lord conyngham. "none of the royal family or general visitors lived at the royal lodge, but only the conyngham family; all the rest at cumberland lodge. lady maria conyngham (now dead, first wife to lord athlumney, daughter of lord conyngham), then quite young, and lord graves (brother-in-law to lord anglesey and who afterwards shot himself on account of his wife's conduct, who was a lady of the bedchamber), were desired to take me a drive to amuse me. i went with them, and baroness (then miss) lehzen (my governess) in a pony carriage and , with grey ponies (like my own), and was driven about the park and taken to sandpit gate where the king had a menagerie--with wapitis, gazelles, chamois, etc., etc. then we went (i think the next day) to virginia water, and met the king in his phaeton in which he was driving the duchess of gloucester,--and he said 'pop her in,' and i was lifted in and placed between him and aunt gloucester, who held me round the waist. (mamma was much frightened.) i was greatly pleased, and remember that i looked with great respect at the scarlet liveries, etc. (the royal family had crimson and green liveries and only the king scarlet and blue in those days). we drove round the nicest part of virginia water and stopped at the fishing temple. here there was a large barge and every one went on board and fished, while a band played in another! there were numbers of great people there, amongst whom was the last duke of dorset, then master of the horse. the king paid great attention to my sister,[ ] and some people fancied he might marry her!! she was very lovely then--about --and had charming manners, about which the king was extremely particular. i afterwards went with baroness lehzen and lady maria c. to the page whiting's cottage. whiting had been at one time in my father's service. he lived where mr walsh now does (and where he died years ago), in the small cottage close by; and here i had some _fruit_ and amused myself by cramming one of whiting's children, a little girl, with peaches. i came after dinner to hear the band play in the conservatory, which is still standing, and which was lit up by coloured lamps--the king, royal family, etc., sitting in a corner of the large saloon, which still stands. [footnote : the princess feodore of leiningen, afterwards princess of hohenlohe, queen victoria's half-sister.] "on the second visit (i _think_) the following year, also in summer, there was a great encampment of tents (the same which were used at the camp at chobham in ' , and some single ones at the breakfasts at buckingham palace in ' - ), and which were quite like a house, made into different compartments. it rained dreadfully on this occasion, i well remember. the king and party dined there, prince and princess lieven, the russian ambassador and ambassadress were there. "i also remember going to see aunt augusta at frogmore, where she lived always in the summer. "we lived in a very simple, plain manner; breakfast was at half-past eight, luncheon at half-past one, dinner at seven--to which i came generally (when it was no regular large dinner party)--eating my bread and milk out of a small silver basin. tea was only allowed as a great treat in later years. [pageheading: duchess of saxe-coburg-saalfeld] "in (i think) my dear grandmother, the dowager duchess of saxe-coburg-saalfeld, came to claremont, in the summer. mamma and my sister went on part of the way to meet her, and uncle leopold i think had been to fetch her as far as dover. i recollect the excitement and anxiety i was in, at this event,--going down the great flight of steps to meet her when she got out of the carriage, and hearing her say, when she sat down in her room, and fixed her fine clear blue eyes on her little grand-daughter whom she called in her letters 'the flower of may,' 'ein schönes kind'--'a fine child.' she was very clever and adored by her children but especially by her sons. she was a good deal bent and walked with a stick, and frequently with her hands on her back. she took long drives in an open carriage and i was frequently sent out with her, which i am sorry to confess i did not like, as, like most children of that age, i preferred running about. she was excessively kind to children, but could not bear naughty ones--and i shall never forget her coming into the room when i had been crying and naughty at my lessons--from the next room but one, where she had been with mamma--and scolding me severely, which had a very salutary effect. she dined early in the afternoon and uncle leopold asked many of the neighbours and others to dinner to meet her. my brother prince leiningen came over with her, and was at that time paying his court to one of her ladies, countess klebelsberg, whom he afterwards married--against the wish of his grandmother and mother--but which was afterwards quite made up. in november (i think, or it may have been at the end of october) she left, taking my sister with her back to coburg. i was very ill at that time, of dysentery, which illness increased to an alarming degree; many children died of it in the village of esher. the doctor lost his head, having lost his own child from it, and almost every doctor in london was away. mr blagden came down and showed much energy on the occasion. i recovered, and remember well being very cross and screaming dreadfully at having to wear, for a time, flannel next my skin. up to my th year i had been very much indulged by every one, and set pretty well _all_ at defiance. old baroness de späth, the devoted lady of my mother, my nurse mrs brock, dear old mrs louis--_all_ worshipped the poor little fatherless child whose future then was still very uncertain; my uncle the duke of clarence's poor little child being alive, and the duchess of clarence had one or two others later. at years old, miss lehzen was placed about me, and though she was most kind, she was very firm and i had a proper respect for her. i was naturally very passionate, but always most contrite afterwards. i was taught from the first to beg my maid's pardon for any naughtiness or rudeness towards her; a feeling i have ever retained, and think every one should _own_ their fault in a kind way to any one, be he or she the lowest--if one has been rude to or injured them by word or deed, especially those below you. people will readily forget an insult or an injury when others _own_ their fault, and express sorrow or regret at what they have done." [pageheading: the education of the princess] in the duchess of kent wished to be satisfied that the system of education then being pursued with the princess was based on the right lines, and that due moral and intellectual progress was being made. a memorandum, carefully preserved among the archives, gives an interesting account of the steps which she took to this end. [pageheading: letter to the bishops] [pageheading: religious instruction] the duchess therefore brought the matter under the consideration of those whom, from their eminent piety, great learning, and high station, she considered best calculated to afford her valuable advice upon so important a subject. she stated to the bishops of london and lincoln[ ] the particular course which had been followed in the princess's education, and requested their lordships to test the result by personal examination. the nature and objects of her royal highness's appeal to these eminent prelates will be best shown by the following extracts from her letter to the bishops:-- "'the princess will be eleven years of age in may; by the death of her revered father when she was but eight months old, her sole care and charge devolved to me. stranger as i then was, i became deeply impressed with the absolute necessity of bringing her up entirely in this country, that every feeling should be that of her native land, and proving thereby my devotion to duty by rejecting all those feelings of home and kindred that divided my heart. "'when the princess approached her fifth year i considered it the proper time to begin in a moderate way her education--an education that was to fit her to be either the sovereign of these realms, or to fill a junior station in the royal family, until the will of providence should shew at a later period what her destiny was to be. "'a revision of the papers i send you herewith will best shew your lordships the system pursued, the progress made, etc. i attend almost always myself every lesson, or a part; and as the lady about the princess is a competent person, she assists her in preparing her lessons for the various masters, as i resolved to act in that manner so as to be her governess myself. i naturally hope that i have pursued that course most beneficial to all the great interests at stake. at the present moment no concern can be more momentous, or in which the consequences, the interests of the country, can be more at stake, than the education of its future sovereign. "'i feel the time to be now come that what has been done should be put to some test, that if anything has been done in error of judgment it may be corrected, and that the plan for the future should be open to consideration and revision. i do not presume to have an over-confidence in what i have done; on the contrary, as a female, as a stranger (but only in birth, as i feel that this is my country by the duties i fulfil, and the support i receive), i naturally desire to have a candid opinion from authorities competent to give one. in that view i address your lordships; i would propose to you that you advert to all i have stated, to the papers i lay before you, and that then you should personally examine the princess with a view of telling me-- "' . if the course hitherto pursued in her education has been the best; if not, where it was erroneous. "' . if the princess has made all the progress she should have made. "' . and if the course i am to follow is that you would recommend, and if not in what respect you would desire a change, and on what grounds. "'mr davys[ ] will explain to you the nature of the princess's religious education, which i have confided to him, that she should be brought up in the church of england as by law established. when she was at a proper age she commenced attending divine service regularly with me, and i have every feeling, that she has religion at her heart, that she is morally impressed with it to that degree, that she is less liable to error by its application to her feelings as a child capable of reflection. the general bent of her character is strength of intellect, capable of receiving with ease, information, and with a peculiar readiness in coming to a very just and benignant decision on any point her opinion is asked on. her adherence to truth is of so marked a character that i feel no apprehension of that bulwark being broken down by any circumstance. "'i must conclude by observing that as yet the princess is not aware of the station that she is likely to fill. she is aware of its duties, and that a sovereign should live for others; so that when her innocent mind receives the impression of her future fate, she receives it with a mind formed to be sensible of what is to be expected from her, and it is to be hoped, she will be too well grounded in her principles to be dazzled with the station she is to look to.'" [footnote : charles james blomfield, bishop of london, - , and john kaye, bishop of lincoln, - .] [footnote : the rev. george davys, the princess's instructor, afterwards successively dean of chester and bishop of peterborough.] the examination was undertaken by the bishops, with highly satisfactory results. their report says: "the result of the examination has been such as in our opinion amply to justify the plan of instruction which has been adopted. in answering a great variety of questions proposed to her, the princess displayed an accurate knowledge of the most important features of scripture history, and of the leading truths and precepts of the christian religion as taught by the church of england, as well as an acquaintance with the chronology and principal facts of english history remarkable in so young a person. to questions in geography, the use of the globes, arithmetic, and latin grammar, the answers which the princess returned were equally satisfactory. "upon the whole, we feel no hesitation in stating our opinion that the princess should continue, for some time to come, to pursue her studies upon the same plan which has been hitherto followed, and under the same superintendence. nor do we apprehend that any other alterations in the plan will be required than those which will be gradually made by the judicious director of her highness's studies, as the mind expands, and her faculties are strengthened." [pageheading: result of examination] the duchess of kent referred all this correspondence to the archbishop of canterbury.[ ] his memorandum is preserved; it states he has considered the report, and further, has himself personally examined the princess. he continues: "i feel it my duty to say that in my judgment the plan of her highness's studies, as detailed in the papers transmitted to me by command of your royal highness, is very judicious, and particularly suitable to her highness's exalted station; and that from the proficiency exhibited by the princess in the examination at which i was present, and the general correctness and pertinency of her answers, i am perfectly satisfied that her highness's education in regard to cultivation of intellect, improvement of talent, and religious and moral principle, is conducted with so much care and success as to render any alteration of the system undesirable." [footnote : dr william howley.] the princess was gradually and watchfully introduced to public life, and was never allowed to lose sight of the fact that her exalted position carried with it definite and obvious duties. the following speech, delivered at plymouth in , in answer to a complimentary deputation, may stand as an instance of the view which the duchess of kent took of her own and her daughter's responsibilities:-- "it is very agreeable to the princess and myself to hear the sentiments you convey to us. it is also gratifying to us to be assured that we owe all these kind feelings to the attachment you bear the king, as well as to his predecessors of the house of brunswick, from recollections of their paternal sway. the object of my life is to render the princess worthy of the affectionate solicitude she inspires, and if it be the will of providence she should fill a higher station (i trust most fervently at a very distant day), i shall be fully repaid for my anxious care, if she is found competent to discharge the sacred trust; for communicating as the princess does with all classes of society, she cannot but perceive that the greater the diffusion of religion, knowledge, and the love of freedom in a country, the more orderly, industrious, and wealthy is its population, and that with the desire to preserve the constitutional prerogatives of the crown ought to be co-ordinate the protection of the liberties of the people." [pageheading: claremont] the strictness of the _régime_ under which the princess was brought up is remarkable; and it is possible that her later zest for simple social pleasures is partly to be accounted for by the austere routine of her early days. in an interesting letter of to the queen, recalling the days of their childhood, princess feodore, the queen's half-sister, wrote-- "many, many thanks, dearest victoria, for your kind letter of the th from dear claremont. oh i understand how you like being there. claremont is a dear quiet place; to me also the recollection of the few pleasant days i spent during my youth. i always left claremont with tears for kensington palace. when i look back upon those years, which ought to have been the happiest in my life, from fourteen to twenty, i cannot help pitying myself. not to have enjoyed the pleasures of youth is nothing, but to have been deprived of all intercourse, and not one cheerful thought in that dismal existence of ours, was very hard. my only happy time was going or driving out with you and lehzen; then i could speak and look as i liked. i escaped some years of imprisonment, which you, my poor darling sister, had to endure after i was married. but god almighty has changed both our destinies most mercifully, and has made us _so_ happy in our homes--which is the only real happiness in this life; and those years of trial were, i am sure, very useful to us both, though certainly not pleasant. thank god they are over!... i was much amused in your last letter at your tracing the _quickness_ of our tempers in the female line up to grandmamma,[ ] but i must own that you are _quite right_!" [footnote : augusta caroline sophia, dowager-duchess of saxe-coburg-saalfeld, a princess of reuss ebersdorf ( - ).] but if there was little amusement, there was, on the other hand, great devotion; the princess, as a child, had that peculiar combination of self-will and warm-heartedness which is apt to win for a child a special love from its elders. the princess feodore wrote to the queen, in -- "... späth[ ] wished _me_ to thank you for the coronation print, as she could not write to you or albert _now_, she says! why, i don't see. there certainly never was such devotedness as hers, to all our family, although it sometimes shows itself rather foolishly--with you it always was a sort of idolatry, when she used to go upon her knees before you, when you were a child. she and poor old louis did all they could to spoil you, if lehzen had not prevented and scolded them nicely sometimes; it was quite amusing." [footnote : baroness späth, lady-in-waiting to the duchess of kent.] [pageheading: william iv.] the princess was brought up with exemplary simplicity at kensington palace, where her mother had a set of apartments. she was often at claremont, which belonged to her uncle leopold, king of the belgians; holidays were spent at ramsgate, tunbridge wells, broadstairs, and elsewhere. in june george iv. died, and william iv. succeeded to the throne. he had no legitimate offspring living; and it consequently became practically certain that if the princess outlived her uncle she would succeed him on the throne. the duchess of kent's parliamentary grant was increased, and she took advantage of her improved resources to familiarise the princess with the social life of the nation. they paid visits to historic houses and important towns, and received addresses. this was a wise and prudent course, but the king spoke with ill-humour of his niece's "royal progresses." the chief cause of offence was that the princess was not allowed by the duchess of kent to make her public appearances under his own auspices, as he not unnaturally desired. he also began to suspect that the princess was deliberately kept away from court; a painful controversy arose, and the duchess became gradually estranged from her brother-in-law, in spite of the affectionate attempts of queen adelaide to smooth matters over. his resentment culminated in a painful scene, in , when the king, at a state banquet at windsor, made a speech of a preposterous character; speaking of the duchess, who sat next him, as "that person," hinting that she was surrounded with evil advisers, and adding that he should insist on the princess being more at court. the princess burst into tears; the duchess sate in silence: when the banquet was over, the duchess ordered her carriage, and was with difficulty prevailed upon to remain at windsor for the night. the king went so far in may as to offer the princess an independent income, and the acceptance of this by the princess caused the duchess considerable vexation; but the project dropped. the king died in the following month, soon after the princess had attained her legal majority; he had always hoped that the duchess would not be regent, and his wish was thus fulfilled. it is no exaggeration to say that the accession of the princess victoria reinstated the english monarchy in the affections of the people. george iv. had made the throne unpopular; william iv. had restored its popularity, but not its dignity. both of these kings were men of decided ability, but of unbalanced temperament. in politics both kings had followed a somewhat similar course. george iv. had begun life as a strong whig, and had been a close friend of fox. later in life his political position resolved itself into a strong dislike of roman catholic relief. william iv. had begun his reign favourably inclined to parliamentary reform; but though gratified by the personal popularity which his attitude brought him in the country, he became alarmed at the national temper displayed. it illustrates the tension of the king's mind on the subject that, when he was told that if the reform bill did not pass it would bring about a rebellion, he replied that if it did bring about a rebellion he did not care: he should defend london and raise the royal standard at weedon (where there was a military depôt); and that the duchess of kent and the princess victoria might come in if they could. [pageheading: character and temperament] [pageheading: sympathy with middle classes] the reign of william iv. had witnessed the zenith of whig efficiency. it had seen the establishment of parliamentary and municipal reform, the abolition of slavery, the new poor law, and other important measures. but, towards the end of the reign, the whig party began steadily to lose ground, and the tories to consolidate themselves. lord melbourne had succeeded lord grey at the head of the whigs, and the difference of administration was becoming every month more and more apparent. the king indeed went so far as abruptly to dismiss his ministers, but parliament was too strong for him. lord melbourne's principles were fully as liberal as lord grey's, but he lacked practical initiative, with the result that the whigs gradually forfeited popular estimation and became discredited. the new reign, however, brought them a decided increase of strength. the princess had been brought up with strong whig leanings, and, as is clear from her letters, with an equally strong mistrust of tory principles and politicians. a word may here be given to the princess's own character and temperament. she was high-spirited and wilful, but devotedly affectionate, and almost typically feminine. she had a strong sense of duty and dignity, and strong personal prejudices. confident, in a sense, as she was, she had the feminine instinct strongly developed of dependence upon some manly adviser. she was full of high spirits, and enjoyed excitement and life to the full. she liked the stir of london, was fond of dancing, of concerts, plays, and operas, and devoted to open-air exercise. another important trait in her character must be noted. she had strong monarchical views and dynastic sympathies, but she had no aristocratic preferences; at the same time she had no democratic principles, but believed firmly in the due subordination of classes. the result of the parliamentary and municipal reforms of william iv.'s reign had been to give the middle classes a share in the government of the country, and it was supremely fortunate that the queen, by a providential gift of temperament, thoroughly understood the middle-class point of view. the two qualities that are most characteristic of british middle-class life are common sense and family affection; and on these particular virtues the queen's character was based; so that by a happy intuition she was able to interpret and express the spirit and temper of that class which, throughout her reign, was destined to hold the balance of political power in its hands. behind lay a deep sense of religion, the religion which centres in the belief in the fatherhood of god, and is impatient of dogmatic distinctions and subtleties. chapter iii queen victoria's relations and friends it may be held to have been one of the chief blessings of queen victoria's girlhood that she was brought closely under the influence of an enlightened and large-minded prince, leopold, her maternal uncle, afterwards king of the belgians. he was born in , being the youngest son of francis, duke of saxe-coburg-saalfeld, and his youth was spent in the russian military service. he had shown talent and courage in the field, and had commanded a battalion at lützen and leipsic. he had married, in , the princess charlotte, only child of george iv. for many years his home was at claremont, where the princess charlotte had died; there the princess victoria spent many happy holidays, and grew to regard her uncle with the most devoted affection, almost, indeed, in the light of a father. it is said that prince leopold had hoped to be named regent, if a regency should be necessary.[ ] he was offered, and accepted, the throne of greece in , but shrank from the difficulties of the position, and withdrew his acceptance upon the plea that lord aberdeen, who was then foreign secretary, was not prepared to make such financial arrangements as he considered satisfactory.[ ] [footnote : a practical proof of his interest in his niece may be found in the fact that for years he contributed between three and four thousand a year to the expenses of her education, and for necessary holidays by the sea, at a time when the duchess of kent's parliamentary grant was unequal to the increasing expenses of her household.] [footnote : greece after having obtained autonomy was in a practically bankrupt condition, and the powers had guaranteed the financial credit of the country until it was able to develop its own resources.] it is interesting to observe from the correspondence that king leopold seems for many years to have continued to regret his decision; it was not that he did not devote himself, heart and soul, to the country of his adoption, but there seems to have been a romantic element in his composition, which did not find its full satisfaction in presiding over the destinies of a peaceful commercial nation. [pageheading: the king of the belgians] in , when louis philippe, under pressure from lord palmerston, declined the throne of belgium for his son the duc de nemours, prince leopold received and accepted an offer of the crown. a dutch invasion followed, and the new king showed great courage and gallantry in an engagement near louvain, in which his army was hopelessly outnumbered. but, though a sensitive man, the king's high courage and hopefulness never deserted him. he ruled his country with diligence, ability, and wisdom, and devoted himself to encouraging manufactures and commerce. the result of his firm and liberal rule was manifested in , when, on his offering to resign the crown if it was thought to be for the best interests of the country, he was entreated, with universal acclamation, to retain the sovereignty. belgium passed through the troubled years of revolution in comparative tranquillity. king leopold was a model ruler; his deportment was grave and serious; he was conspicuous for honesty and integrity; he was laborious and upright, and at the same time conciliatory and tactful. he kept up a close correspondence with queen victoria, and paid her several visits in england, where he was on intimate terms with many leading englishmen. it would be difficult to over-estimate the importance of his close relations with the queen; by example and precept he inspired her with a high sense of duty, and from the first instilled into her mind the necessity of acquainting herself closely with the details of political administration. his wisdom, good sense, and tenderness, as well as the close tie of blood that existed between him and the queen, placed him in a unique position with regard to her, and it is plain that he was fully aware of the high responsibility thus imposed upon him, which he accepted with a noble generosity. it is true that there were occasions when, as the correspondence reveals, the queen was disposed to think that king leopold endeavoured to exercise too minute a control over her in matters of detail, and even to attempt to modify the foreign policy of england rather for the benefit of belgium than in the best interests of great britain; but the queen was equal to these emergencies; she expressed her dissent from the king's suggestions in considerate and affectionate terms, with her gratitude for his advice, but made no pretence of following it. for her aunt, queen adelaide, the princess victoria had always felt a strong affection; and though it can hardly be said that this gentle and benevolent lady exercised any great influence over her more vigorous and impetuous niece, yet the letters will testify to the closeness of the tie which united them. [pageheading: queen adelaide] queen adelaide was the eldest child of george, duke of saxe-meiningen; her mother was a princess of hohenlohe-langenburg. at the age of twenty-six she was married to the duke of clarence, then in his fifty-third year, without any preliminary courtship. they lived for a year in hanover, and then principally at bushey park. two daughters were born to them, the elder of whom lived only a few hours; the younger, princess elizabeth, died in the first year of her age. their married life was a happy one, in spite of the disparity of age. queen adelaide was a woman of a deeply affectionate disposition, sensible, sympathetic, and religious. she had a very definite ideal of the duties of a wife and a queen; she made it her pleasure to meet and anticipate, as far as possible, her husband's wishes; and her husband, hasty and choleric though he was, repaid her with tender affection. to such an extent did the queen merge her views in those of her husband, that she passed at one time through a period of general unpopularity. it was believed that she was adverse to reform, and used her influence against it. she was mobbed in the streets at the time when the reform agitation was at its height; and it is said that when the melbourne ministry of was dismissed, london was (owing to an unjustifiable communication of lord brougham to the _times_) placarded with posters bearing the words, "the queen has done it all!" it is a pathetic instance of the irony of fate that queen adelaide should have thus been supposed to desire to take an active part in politics. it is obvious, from her letters, that she had practically no political views at all, except a gentle distrust of all proposed changes, social or political. her one idea of her position as queen was to agree with any expression of opinion that fell from the king. she was fond of music, and took a deep interest in her religious duties and in all that concerned the welfare of the protestant communion. but apart from this, her interests were entirely domestic and personal, and her letters reveal her character in the most amiable light. her devotion to the king, and the tender and respectful diffidence with which she welcomed her niece to the throne, show a very sweet nature. the rest of her life, after king william's death, was passed to a great extent under invalid conditions, though she was only forty-four at the time of her niece's accession. she travelled a good deal in search of health, and lived a quiet life in england, surrounded by a small but devoted circle of friends and relations. her personal popularity with the nation became very great, not only for the simple kindliness of her life, but for her splendid munificence; it is said that her public subscriptions often exceeded £ , a year. she died in december . queen victoria was very much attached to her gentle, simple-minded, and tender-hearted aunt, and treated her with the utmost consideration and an almost daughterly affection. [pageheading: baroness lehzen] another person who had a large share in forming the queen's character was louise lehzen, the daughter of a hanoverian clergyman, who came to england as governess to princess feodore of leiningen, queen victoria's half-sister, shortly before the queen's birth. in she became governess to the princess victoria. in george iv. conferred upon her the rank of a hanoverian baroness. when the duchess of northumberland, in , was appointed the princess's official governess, she remained as lady in attendance. the princess was devoted to her, but "greatly in awe of her." she remained at court after the accession till , without holding an official position, and then returned to germany, where she died in . [pageheading: baron stockmar] baron stockmar was another of the interesting personalities who came into very close contact with the queen in her early years. he was forty-nine at the time of the accession, but he had come to england more than twenty years before as private physician to prince leopold. he endeared himself to the princess charlotte, who died holding his hand. he afterwards became prince leopold's private secretary, and took a prominent part as the prince's representative in the successive negotiations with regard to his candidature for the thrones of greece and belgium. upon the accession of queen victoria, stockmar joined the court in a private capacity, and for fifteen months he held an unofficial position as her chief adviser. there was a general feeling of dislike in the minds of the english public to the german influences that were supposed to be brought to bear on the queen; and lord melbourne found it necessary to make a public and categorical denial of the statement that stockmar was acting as the queen's private secretary. but the statement, if not technically, was virtually true. stockmar lived at court, had interviews with the queen and her ministers, and though he industriously endeavoured to efface himself, yet there is no doubt that he was consulted on most important questions. in , he had been entrusted by king leopold, with the queen's knowledge and consent, with a mission of great delicacy: he was asked to accompany prince albert on a tour in italy, with the idea of completing his education, and in order to satisfy himself that the prince would be a worthy consort for the queen. this task he discharged admirably, and became the most confidential and trusted of all the prince's friends. there are many letters of stockmar's to the prince extant, which prove that stockmar never shrank from speaking the plainest truth to the prince on matters of duty and faults of temperament, without any courtier-like attempt to blink criticism that might have been unpalatable. the prince had the generosity and humility to value this trait of stockmar's very highly, to such an extent that stockmar's influence possessed if anything too great a preponderance. stockmar had jealously nursed two profound political ideals--the unity of germany under prussia, and the establishment of close relations between germany and england. he induced prince albert, heavily burdened as he was with work, to devote almost too much time and thought to the former of these aims. stockmar was a profound student of social and constitutional questions. he had made a close study of english political institutions; but though he grasped the constitutional theory of the english throne, and saw that the first necessity for the sovereign was to hold a position independent of party, he never clearly understood that the monarch should keep as far as possible clear of political details. stockmar's view of the position was that the sovereign should be practically premier as well; and much of the jealousy that was felt, on various occasions, at the position which prince albert assumed with regard to political situations, is referable to stockmar's influence. he was a very able man, with immense political knowledge, and without personal ambition; lord palmerston, who was no friend to stockmar's theory of government, admitted that he was the most disinterested man he had ever encountered. stockmar's ambition was to achieve his own political ideals, and to modify the course of events in what he conceived to be beneficial directions; he was entirely indifferent to the trappings of power, and this very disinterestedness made his influence more supreme. he suffered all his life from feeble health and a hypochondriacal tendency, and was genuinely fond of retirement and quiet life. he certainly deserved the devoted confidence reposed in him by prince albert and the queen; it may perhaps be questioned whether his own _doctrinaire_ bias did not make itself too strongly felt, in the minuteness with which prince albert dealt with english politics; but the net result of his influence was that the danger, which lies in wait for strictly constitutional sovereigns, was averted--the danger, that is, of leaving the administration of state affairs in the hands of specialists, and depriving it of the wise control and independent criticism which only the crown can adequately supply. introductory note to chapter iv queen victoria, from the very first, took great pleasure in filing the correspondence addressed to her. there are many volumes of letters received from her various relations. we have thought it best to give some of queen adelaide's early letters; they indicate in a remarkable manner the growing estrangement between king william iv. and the duchess of kent. in the earlier letters the king enquires very affectionately after the duchess, and constant mention is made of presents sent to her; but the references made to her become less frequent and colder, till at last the king contents himself with sending messages only to the princess. but the letters of queen adelaide are always written in a strain of touching devotion and affection, and reveal her as a woman of large heart and great simplicity of character. [pageheading: king leopold] but the most interesting series of letters are the queen's own correspondence with king leopold, of which several hundred are preserved. the letters, too, received by her from the king of the belgians are preserved in their entirety. the letters which the queen wrote to king leopold are of extraordinary interest; she kept up an unbroken correspondence with him, and spoke freely of all that was in her mind. two points are worthy of special mention: though she was early convinced of the necessity of holding an independent constitutional position in politics she mentions the tory party with undisguised mistrust; and further, the name of king william hardly ever occurs until his last illness. king leopold's early letters reveal his character in the most amiable light. he familiarised the queen with all the complicated details of foreign politics; he gave her the most sensible and wise advice; he warned and encouraged her; he answered her enquiries with the minutest care: and the warm affection to which he gave frequent expression is a very sacred and beautiful thing to contemplate. we have selected several of the princess victoria's letters to the king of the belgians before her accession, because they throw a remarkable light upon her temperament. in the first place, they reveal the deep affectionateness of her character, and, what is still more remarkable at her age, her frankness and outspokenness in expressing her feelings. in the second place, they show with what interest and eagerness the princess was following the course of foreign politics. her view was naturally a personal one, but it may be said that there can have been very few, if any, girls in england, of the princess's age, who were taking any interest at all in continental affairs. it is true that king leopold had early impressed upon the princess that it was a duty to become acquainted with the course of current events; but the letters show that the interest she felt was congenial and innate, and did not spring from a sense of duty. the allusions to home politics are not so frequent, but still show that here also her attention was alert. thirdly, they reveal her abounding vitality, her love of life and amusement, her devotion to music, and the simple unspoilt zest with which she threw herself into all that surrounded her. there is a special interest which attaches to the correspondence between queen victoria and king leopold after the accession. the letters reveal, as no other documents could do, the monarchical point of view. however intimate may be the relations between a sovereign and a subject, there is bound to appear a certain discretion, and even condescension, on the one hand, and on the other a due degree of deference. but here we have the remarkable spectacle of two monarchs, both of eminent sagacity, and both, so to speak, frankly interested in the task of constitutional government, corresponding freely on all the difficulties and problems inseparable from their momentous task, and with an immense sense of their weighty responsibilities. it is impossible to exaggerate the deep and abiding interest of such a correspondence; and the seriousness, the devotion, the public spirit that are displayed, without affectation or calculated impressiveness, make the whole series of letters singularly memorable. the king of the belgians had married princess louise of orleans, daughter of louis philippe, in . she was only seven years older than the princess victoria, who grew to regard her with the tenderest affection. the letters from queen louise are very numerous. a few are in french, but they are mostly written in brisk, lively english, not always very correct, either in construction or in spelling. they are full of small family details--the movements of various relations, the improvement in her brothers' looks, court festivities, the childish ailments of her little boys, the journeys and expeditions, recollections of windsor, their visitors, elaborate descriptions of dresses--interesting to read, but difficult to select from. they are full of heart-felt expressions of the sincerest affection for "your dear majesty," a quaint phrase that often occurs. [pageheading: prince albert] after their marriage in , prince albert naturally became the queen's confidential secretary. a close study of the queen's correspondence reveals the character of the prince in a way which nothing else could effect. traces of his untiring labour, his conscientious vigilance, his singular devotedness, appear on every page. there are innumerable memoranda in his own hand; the papers are throughout arranged and annotated by him; nothing seems to have escaped him, nothing to have dismayed him. as an instance of the minute laboriousness which characterised the royal household, it may be mentioned that there are many copies of important letters, forwarded to the prince for his perusal, the originals of which had to be returned, written not only by the prince himself, but by the queen under his direction. but besides keeping a vigilant eye upon politics, the prince took the lead in all social and educational movements of the time, as well as devoting a close and continuous attention to the affairs of europe in general, and germany in particular. it is obvious from the papers that the prince can hardly ever have taken a holiday; many hours of every day must have been devoted by him to work; yet he was at the same time a tender husband and father, always ready with advice and sympathy, and devoted to quiet domestic life. after the queen's marriage the correspondence becomes far more voluminous. it is difficult to exaggerate the amount of conscientious labour bestowed by the queen and the prince consort on all matters which concerned the welfare of the nation. the number of documents which passed through their hands, and which were carefully studied by them, was prodigious. the drafts of the queen's replies to letters are in many cases in the handwriting of the prince consort, but dated by herself, and often containing interlinear corrections and additions of her own. whether the queen indicated the lines of the replies, whether she dictated the substance of them, or whether they contain the result of a discussion on the particular matter, cannot be precisely ascertained. but they contain so many phrases and turns of expression which are characteristic of her outspoken temperament, that it is clear that she not only followed every detail, but that the substance of the communication bore in most cases the impress of her mind. a considerable number of the drafts again are in her own hand, with interlinear corrections and additions by the prince; and these so strongly resemble in style the drafts in the handwriting of the prince, that it is clear that the queen did not merely accept suggestions, but that she had a strong opinion of her own on important matters, and that this opinion was duly expressed. one fact must, however, be borne in mind. it happens in many cases that a correspondence on some particular point seems to be about to lead up to a definite conclusion, but that the salient and decisive document is absent. in these cases it is clear that the matter was settled at a personal interview; in many cases the prince prepared a memorandum of an important interview; but there are a considerable number of such correspondences, where no record is preserved of the eventual solution, and this incompleteness is regrettable, but, by the nature of the case, inevitable. [pageheading: leading statesmen in ] the young queen, on coming to the throne, had little technical knowledge of the details of diplomacy, but she already had a real and intelligent acquaintance with foreign affairs, though it was rather personal than political, and, as we have seen, was more inspired by her interest in the fortunes and position of her numerous maternal relations than by the political views of her paternal relatives. among the english statesmen of the day there were few who were qualified to help and instruct her. the two men who for over twenty years alternately guided the foreign policy of the country were lord aberdeen and lord palmerston. they represented two opposed schools. lord aberdeen, a peelite, was naturally and by tradition inclined to desire harmonious relations with all foreign powers, and to abstain, as far as was consistent with maintaining british interests, from any sort of intervention in european affairs; palmerston was a disciple of canning, who had definitely broken with the principles of the congress of vienna, and openly avowed his approval of a policy of intervention, to any extent short of actual war, in the interests of liberty and good government. the only other man who had any title to speak with authority on foreign affairs was the duke of wellington, who had held the seals as foreign secretary for a few months in and . he had, however, lost much of the reputation for political sagacity which he had held at the time when he was the arbiter of europe and virtual ruler of france. moreover, being, as he was, a much occupied man, with varied business to transact, and at the mercy of his almost excessive conscientiousness, he held himself to a considerable extent aloof from current politics, though he never lost his absorbing interest in continental affairs. chapter iv - [the first letter ever received by queen victoria appears to be the following little note, written by the duchess of clarence, afterwards queen adelaide, in may , when the princess entered upon her third year. it is pathetic to recollect that the duchess's surviving child, princess elizabeth, had died, aged three months, in march of the same year.] my dear little heart,--i hope you are well and don't forget aunt adelaide, who loves you so fondly. loulou and wilhelm[ ] desire their love to you, and uncle william also. god bless and preserve you is the constant prayer of your most truly affectionate aunt, adelaide. [footnote : princess louise and prince william of saxe-weimar, children of duchess ida of saxe-weimar (sister of the duchess of clarence). they were the eldest brother and sister of prince edward of saxe-weimar.] _the duchess of clarence to the princess victoria._ _ th may ._ uncle william and aunt adelaide send their love to _dear little victoria_ with their best wishes on her birthday, and hope that she will now become a _very good girl_, being now _three years old_. uncle william and aunt adelaide also beg little victoria to give dear mamma and to dear sissi[ ] a kiss in their name, and to aunt augusta,[ ] aunt mary[ ] and aunt sophia[ ] too, and also to the _big doll_. uncle william and aunt adelaide are very sorry to be absent on that day and not to see their _dear, dear_ little victoria, as they are sure she will be very good and obedient to dear mamma on that day, and on many, many others. they also hope that dear little victoria will not forget them and know them again when uncle and aunt return. to dear little xandrina victoria. [footnote : princess feodore, the queen's half-sister.] [footnote : augusta, daughter of frederick, landgrave of hesse-cassel, wife of the duke of cambridge.] [footnote : princess mary, a daughter of george iii., married to her cousin the duke of gloucester.] [footnote : princess sophia, daughter of george iii.] [pageheading: early letters] [the following is the earliest letter preserved of the long series written by the queen to king (then prince) leopold. the princess was then nine years old.] kensington palace, _ th november ._ my dearest uncle,--i wish you many happy returns of your birthday; i very often think of you, and i hope to see you soon again, for i am very fond of you. i see my aunt sophia[ ] often, who looks very well, and is very well. i use every day your pretty soup-basin. is it very warm in italy? it is so mild here, that i go out every day. mama is tolerable well and am quite well. your affectionate niece, victoria. _p.s._--i am very angry with you, uncle, for you have never written to me once since you went, and that is a long while. [footnote : princess sophia, daughter of george iii.] _prince leopold_[ ] _to the princess victoria._ paris, _ th april ._ my dearest love,--though in a few days i hope to have the happiness of seeing you, still i wish to recall myself even before that time to your recollection, and to tell you how delighted i shall be to embrace my dearest little child. i have travelled far over the world and shall be able to give you some curious information about various matters. stockmar, who was very ill, and whom i despaired of seeing here, did arrive before yesterday,[ ] and you may guess what pleasure it gave me. now i will conclude; _au revoir_, and let me find you grown, blooming, and kind to your old and faithful uncle, leopold. [footnote : afterwards king of the belgians.] [footnote : i.e. _avant hier_.] [pageheading: birthday letters] _the princess hohenlohe[ ] to the princess victoria._ [_may ._] if i had wings and could fly like a bird, i should fly in at your window like the little robin to-day, and wish you many very happy returns of the th, and tell you how i love you, dearest sister, and how often i think of you and long to see you. i think if i were once with you again i could not leave you so soon. i should wish to stay with you, and what would poor ernest[ ] say if i were to leave him so long? he would perhaps try to fly after me, but i fear he would not get far; he is rather tall and heavy for flying. so you see i have nothing left to do but to write to you, and wish you in this way all possible happiness and joy for this and many, many years to come. i hope you will spend a very merry birthday. how i wish to be with you, dearest victoire, on that day! i have not thanked you, i believe, for a very dear letter you have written to me, which gave me the greatest pleasure. your descriptions of the plays you had seen amused me very much. i wish i had seen your performance too. your most affectionate sister, feodore. [footnote : the princess feodore of leiningen, the queen's half-sister, had married, in january , the prince (ernest) of hohenlohe-langenburg.] _the duchess of clarence to the princess victoria._ bushey park, _ th august ._ a thousand thanks to you, dear victoria, for your very nice and well-written letter full of good wishes, which i had the pleasure to receive yesterday; and many thanks more for the pretty gifts your dear mamma has sent me in your name. i wore them last night for your sake, dearest child, and thought of you _very often_. it gives me great satisfaction to hear that you are enjoying the sea air and like the place which you now occupy. i wish i could pay your mamma a visit there and see you again, my dear little niece, for i long to have that pleasure, and must resign myself at being deprived of it some time longer. your uncle desires to be most kindly remembered to you, and hopes to receive soon also a letter from you, of whom he is as fond as i am. we speak of you very often, and trust that you will always consider us to be amongst your best friends.... god bless you, my dear victoria, is always the prayer of your most truly affectionate aunt, adelaide. _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ brussels, _ nd may ._ my dearest love,--let me offer you my _sincerest_ and _best_ wishes on the return of the anniversary of your birthday. may heaven protect and prosper you, and shower all its best blessings on you. time flies: it is now thirteen years that you came into the world of trouble; i therefore can hardly venture to call you any longer a little princess. this will make you feel, my dear love, that you must give your attention more and more to graver matters. by the dispensation of providence you are destined to fill a most eminent station; to fill it _well_ must now become your study. a good heart and a trusty and honourable character are amongst the most indispensable qualifications for that position. you will always find in your uncle that faithful friend which he has proved to you from your earliest infancy, and whenever you feel yourself in want of support or advice, call on him with perfect confidence. if circumstances permitted my leaving ostend early to-morrow morning, i should be able to place myself my birthday present into your fair hair; as this happiness has not fallen to my lot, your excellent mother has promised to act as my representative. you will probably have little time to spare. i therefore conclude with the assurance of the sincere attachment and affection with which i shall ever be, my dearest love, your faithful and devoted friend and uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: the queen of the belgians] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken,[ ] _ st august ._ my dearest love,--you told me you wished to have a description of your new aunt.[ ] i therefore shall both mentally and physically describe her to you. she is extremely gentle and amiable, her actions are always guided by principles. she is at all times ready and disposed to sacrifice her comfort and inclinations to see others happy. she values goodness, merit, and virtue much more than beauty, riches, and amusements. with all this she is highly informed and very clever; she speaks and writes english, german and italian; she speaks english very well indeed. in short, my dear love, you see that i may well recommend her as an example for all young ladies, being princesses or not. now to her appearance. she is about feodore's height, her hair very fair, light blue eyes, of a very gentle, intelligent and kind expression. a bourbon nose and small mouth. the figure is much like feodore's but rather less stout. she rides very well, which she proved to my great alarm the other day, by keeping her seat though a horse of mine ran away with her full speed for at least half a mile. what she does particularly well is dancing. music unfortunately she is not very fond of, though she plays on the harp; i believe there is some idleness in the case. there exists already great confidence and affection between us; she is desirous of doing everything that can contribute to my happiness, and i study whatever can make her happy and contented. you will see by these descriptions that though my good little wife is not the tallest queen, she is a very great prize which i highly value and cherish.... now it is time i should finish my letter. say everything that is kind to good lehzen, and believe me ever, my dearest love, your faithful friend and uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the royal palace, four miles from brussels, which napoleon owned for many years. a monument to king leopold now stands there.] [footnote : louise marie, princess of orleans, daughter of king louis philippe of france, was married to king leopold on th august .] [pageheading: a birthday letter] [pageheading: valuable advice] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ st may ._ my dearest love,--to make quite sure of my birthday congratulations reaching you on that day, i send them by to-day's messenger, and confide them to the care of your illustrious mother. my sincere good wishes for many happy returns of that day which gave you, dear little soul, to us, will be accompanied by some few reflections, which the serious aspect of our times calls forth. my dearest love, you are now fourteen years old, a period when the delightful pastimes of childhood must be mixed with thoughts appertaining already to a matured part of your life. i know that you have been very studious, but now comes the time when the judgment must form itself, when the character requires attention; in short when the young tree takes the shape which it retains afterwards through life. to attain this object it is indispensable to give some little time _to reflection_. the life in a great town is little calculated for such purposes; however, with some firmness of purpose it can be done. _self-examination_ is the most important part of the business, and a very useful mode of proceeding is, for instance, every evening to recapitulate the events of the day, and the motives which made one act oneself, as well as to try to guess what might have been the motives of others. amiable dispositions like yours will easily perceive if your own motives _were good_. persons in high situations must particularly guard themselves against selfishness and vanity. an individual in a high and important situation will easily see a great many persons eager to please the first, and to flatter and encourage the last. selfishness, however, makes the individual itself miserable, and is the cause of constant disappointment, besides being the surest means of being disliked by everybody. vanity, on the other hand, is generally artfully used by ambitious and interested people to make one a tool for purposes of their own, but too often in opposition with one's own happiness and destruction of it. to learn to know oneself, to judge oneself with truth and impartiality, must be the great objects of one's exertion; they are only attainable by constant and cool self-examination. the position of what is generally called great people has of late become extremely difficult. they are more attacked and calumniated, and judged with less indulgence than private individuals. what they have lost in this way, they have not by any means regained in any other. ever since the revolution of they are much less secure than they used to be, and the transition from sovereign power to _absolute want_ has been as frequent as sudden. it becomes, therefore, necessary that the character should be so formed as not to be intoxicated by greatness and success, nor cast down by misfortune. to be able to do so, one must be able to appreciate things according to their real value, and particularly avoid giving to trifles an undue importance. nothing is so great and clear a proof of unfitness for greater and nobler actions, than a mind which is seriously occupied with trifles. trifling matters may be objects of amusement and relaxation to a clever person, but only a weak mind and a mean spirit consider trifles as important. the good sense must show itself by distinguishing what is and what is not important. my sermon is now long enough, my dear child. i strongly recommend it, however, to your reflection and consideration. my gift consists in a set of views of the former kingdom of the netherlands, out of which you will be able to discover all those of the present belgium. let me soon hear from you; and may god bless and preserve you. ever, my dear love, your affectionate uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: visit to hever castle] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ tunbridge wells, _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--allow me to write you a few words, to express how thankful i am for the very kind letter you wrote me. it made me, though, very sad to think that all our hopes of seeing you, which we cherished so long, this year, were over. i had so hoped and wished to have seen you again, my _beloved_ uncle, and to have made dearest aunt louisa's acquaintance. i am delighted to hear that dear aunt has benefited from the sea air and bathing. we had a very pretty party to hever castle yesterday, which perhaps you remember, where anne boleyn used to live, _before she lost her head_. we drove there, and rode home. it was a most beautiful day. we have very good accounts from dear feodore, who will, by this time, be at langenburg. believe me always, my dearest uncle, your very affectionate and dutiful niece, victoria. [pageheading: historical reading] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th october ._ my dearest love,--i am happy to learn that tunbridge wells has done you good. health is the first and most important gift of providence; without it we are poor, miserable creatures, though the whole earth were our property; therefore i trust that you will take great care of your own. i feel convinced that air and exercise are most useful for you. in your leisure moments i hope that you study a little; history is what i think the most important study for you. it will be difficult for you to learn human-kind's ways and manners otherwise than from that important source of knowledge. your position will more or less render practical knowledge extremely difficult for you, till you get old, and still if you do not prepare yourself for your position, you may become the victim of wicked and designing people, particularly at a period when party spirit runs so high. our times resemble most those of the protestant reformation; then people were moved by religious opinions, as they now undoubtedly are by political passions. unfortunately history is rarely written by those who really were the chief movers of events, nor free from a party colouring; this is particularly the case in the works about english history. in that respect france is much richer, because there we have authenticated memoirs of some of the most important men, and of others who really saw what passed and wrote it down at the time. political feelings, besides, rarely created _permanent_ parties like those in england, with the exception, perhaps, of the great distinctions of catholics and protestants. what i most should recommend is the period before the accession of henry iv. of france to the throne, then the events after his death till the end of the minority of louis xiv.; after that period, though interesting, matters have a character which is more personal, and therefore less applicable to the present times. still even that period may be studied with some profit to get knowledge of mankind. _intrigues_ and _favouritism_ were the chief features of that period, and madame de maintenon's immense influence was very nearly the cause of the destruction of france. what i very particularly recommend to you is to study in the memoirs of the great and good sully[ ] the last years of the reign of henry iv. of france, and the events which followed his assassination. if you have not got the work, i will forward it to you from hence, or give you the edition which i must have at claremont. as my paper draws to a close, i shall finish also by giving you my best blessings, and remain ever, my dearest love, your faithfully attached friend and uncle, leopold r. [footnote : maximilien, duc de sully, was henry's minister of finance. a curious feature of the memoirs is the fact that they are written in the second person: the historian recounts the hero's adventures to him.] [pageheading: the princess's reading] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ tunbridge wells, _ nd october ._ my dearest uncle,--you cannot conceive how happy you have made me, by your very kind letter, which, instead of tiring, delights me beyond everything. i must likewise say how very grateful i feel for the kind and excellent advice you gave me in it. for the autographs i beg to return my best thanks. they are most valuable and interesting, and will be great additions to my collections. as i have not got sully's memoirs, i shall be delighted if you will be so good as to give them to me. reading history is one of my greatest delights, and perhaps, dear uncle, you might like to know which books in that line i am now reading. in my lessons with the dean of chester,[ ] i am reading russell's _modern europe_,[ ] which is very interesting, and clarendon's _history of the rebellion_. it is drily written, but is full of instruction. i like reading different authors, of different opinions, by which means i learn not to lean on one particular side. besides my lessons, i read jones'[ ] account of the wars in spain, portugal and the south of france, from the year till . it is well done, i think, and amuses me very much. in french, i am now in _la rivalité de la france et de l'espagne_, par gaillard,[ ] which is very interesting. i have also begun rollin.[ ] i am very fond of making tables of the kings and queens, as i go on, and i have lately finished one of the english sovereigns and their consorts, as, of course, the history of my own country is one of my first duties. i should be fearful of tiring you with so long an account of myself, were i not sure you take so great an interest in my welfare. pray give my most affectionate love to _dearest_ aunt louisa, and please say to the queen of the french and the two princesses how grateful i am for their kind remembrance of me. believe me always, my dearest uncle, your very affectionate, very dutiful, and most attached niece, victoria. [footnote : the rev. george davys. see _ante_, p. . (ch. ii, footnote )] [footnote : this _history of modern europe_, in a series of letters from a nobleman to his son, vols. ( - ), deals with the rise of modern kingdoms down to the peace of westphalia ( ).] [footnote : sir john thomas jones, bart. ( - ), a royal engineer, who served in the peninsular war.] [footnote : gabriel henri gaillard ( - ), member of the french academy.] [footnote : the _histoire ancienne_, by charles rollin ( - ), rector of the university of paris.] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ st. leonards, _ th november ._ my dearest uncle,--it is impossible for me to express how happy you have made me by writing so soon again to me, and how pleased i am to see by your very kind letter that you intend to write to me often. i am much obliged to you, dear uncle, for the extract about queen anne, but must beg you, as you have sent me to show what a queen _ought not_ to be, that you will send me what a queen _ought to be_.[ ] might i ask what is the very pretty seal with which the letter i got from you yesterday was closed? it is so peculiar that i am anxious to know. believe me always, dear uncle, your very affectionate, very dutiful, and very attached niece, victoria. [footnote : king leopold had sent the princess an extract from a french memoir, containing a severe criticism of the political character of queen anne.] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ nd december ._ my dearest love,--you have written a very clever, sharp little letter the other day, which gave me great pleasure. sure enough, when i show you what a queen ought not to be, i also ought to tell you what she should be, and this task i will very conscientiously take upon myself on the very first occasion which may offer itself for a confidential communication. now i must conclude, to go to town. i must, however, say that i have given orders to send you sully's memoirs. as they have not been written exclusively for young ladies, it will be well to have lehzen to read it with you, and to judge what ought to be left for some future time. and now god bless you! ever, my beloved child, your attached friend and uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: a new year greeting] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ st. leonards, _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--i must again, with your permission, write you a few lines, to wish you a very happy new year, not only for _this_ year, but for _many_ to come. i know not how to thank you sufficiently for the _invaluable_ and precious autographs which you were so very kind as to send me. some of them i received a few days ago, and the others to-day, accompanied by a very kind letter from you, and a beautiful shawl, which will be most useful to me, particularly as a favourite one of mine is growing very old. i wish you could come here, for many reasons, but also to be an eye-witness of my extreme prudence in eating, which would astonish you. the poor sea-gulls are, however, not so happy as you imagine, for they have great enemies in the country-people here, who take pleasure in shooting them. believe me always, my dearest uncle, your very affectionate and most grateful niece, victoria. _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ kensington palace, _ nd february ._ my dearest uncle,--i know not how to thank you sufficiently for the most valuable autographs you were kind enough to send me. i am particularly delighted with that of louis quatorze, "le grand roi," and my great admiration.... you will not, i hope, think me very troublesome if i venture to ask for two more autographs which i should very particularly like to have; they are mme. de sévigné's[ ] and racine's; as i am reading the letters of the former, and the tragedies of the latter, i should prize them highly. believe me always, my dearest uncle, your most affectionate and dutiful niece, victoria. [footnote : marie de rabutin chantal, marquise de sévigné, born . at twenty-four she was left a widow, and devoted herself to her children's education. when her daughter married the count de grignan, she began that correspondence with her on which her reputation chiefly rests. she died in , and the letters were first published in .] [pageheading: the princess's confirmation] [pageheading: honesty and sincerity] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ camp of beverloo (in the north of the province of limburg), _ rd august ._ my dear love,--by your mother's letter of the st ult^o., i learned of the serious and important action in your young life[ ] which has passed recently, and i cannot let it pass without saying some words on the subject. i am perhaps rather strangely situated for a preaching--somewhat in the style of those old camp preachers who held forth to many thousand people on some heath in scotland. i am also on an immense heath, surrounded by , men, mostly young and gay, cooking, singing, working, and not very like the stern old covenanters; however, i shall try. first of all, let me congratulate you that it passed happily and well off. secondly, let me entreat you to look with a serious and reflective mind on the day which is past. many are the religions, many the shades of those religions, but it must be confessed the principles of the christian religion are the most perfect and the most beautiful that can be imagined.... there is one virtue which is particularly christian; this is the knowledge of our own heart in _real humility_. _hypocrisy_ is a besetting sin of all times, but _particularly of the present_, and many are the wolves in sheep's clothes. i am sorry to say, with all my affection for old england, the very _state of its society and politics_ renders many in that country _essentially humbugs and deceivers_; the _appearance_ of the thing is generally _more_ considered than the _reality_; provided matters go off well, and opinion may be gained, the _real good is matter of the most perfect indifference_. defend yourself, my dear love, against this system; let your dear character always be true and loyal; this does not _exclude prudence_--worldly concerns are now unfortunately so organised that you _must be cautious_ or you may injure yourself and others--but it does not prevent the being sterling and true. nothing in persons gives greater reliance, greater weight, than when they are known to be _true_. from your earliest childhood i was anxious to see in you this important virtue _saved_ and _developed_, and lehzen will still be able to recollect that. if it is god's pleasure that you should once[ ] fill the arduous situation to which you seem destined, you will find the importance of what i now say to you. and when others may tremble to have at last their real character found out, and to meet all the contempt which they may deserve, your mind and heart will be still and happy, because it will know that it acts honestly, that truth and goodness are the motives of its actions. i press you now against my heart; may god bless you as i wish and hope it, and may you always feel some affection for your sincerely devoted camp preacher and uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the princess was confirmed at the chapel royal, on th july .] [footnote : king leopold not infrequently uses "once" like the latin _olim_, as referring to any indefinite date in the future as well as in the past. "some day" is what is intended here.] introductory note to chapter v the year was not an eventful one at home; the whig ministry were too weak to carry measures of first-rate importance, and could hardly have maintained themselves in power against the formidable opposition of sir robert peel without the support of o'connell. parliament was chiefly occupied by the consideration of the secret societies in ireland, tithes, municipal corporations, and such matters; the marriage act, and the act for the registration of births have probably been the most important measures of the year to the country. troubles which were destined to become more acute arose in lower canada and jamaica, both taking the form of disputes between the executive and the legislature. on the continent of europe, affairs were more disturbing. several attempts were made on the life of the king of the french, while an abortive insurrection with a view of establishing a military empire was made by louis bonaparte at strasburg. the prince was allowed to leave the country and go to the united states, but his accomplices were detained for trial. in algiers the french government determined to prosecute operations against the arab chief abd-el-kader, and they sent an expedition to constantin. holland and belgium were occupied with a dispute about their boundary line, the cession to belgium of luxemburg being the chief point of difference. the difficulties that arose in passing an important municipal act for belgium caused king leopold temporarily to regret he had not accepted the throne of greece. portugal was still convulsed by revolutionary agitation. dom pedro, the eldest son of king john vi., had been proclaimed emperor of brazil in his father's lifetime, and had abdicated the throne of portugal in favour of his daughter donna maria, a child seven years old, while dom miguel, his younger brother, who had acted in opposition to his father in portugal, claimed the throne for himself. dom pedro had agreed that his daughter should marry miguel, who was in appointed regent. miguel, had he acted wisely, might have maintained himself on the throne, but dom pedro, who had been expelled from brazil by a revolution, took active steps to recover the portuguese throne for his daughter, and equipped an expedition for that end with english and french volunteers. in this way, donna maria, who had spent part of her exile in england, and formed a friendship with the princess victoria, was through british instrumentality placed on her throne, but still could only maintain herself with difficulty against miguel. she was a few weeks older than the princess victoria, and had recently lost her first husband, the duc de leuchtenberg. she was married by proxy on the st of january , and in person on the th of april, to prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg. there was also a disputed succession in spain, where by the ancient law women might succeed to the throne. ferdinand vii., who had revoked the pragmatic sanction of and restored the former system, died in , leaving no son. his elder daughter isabella, then three years of age, was proclaimed queen (her mother christina being appointed regent), and isabella's claims were recognised by england and france. the late king's brother, don carlos, taking his stand upon the salic law as established by the pragmatic sanction, raised the standard of revolt and allied himself with dom miguel, the young queens maria and isabella mutually recognising each other, and being supported by france and england against the "holy alliance" of austria, russia, and prussia. a seven years' civil war resulted, which did not end till, from sheer exhaustion, the carlists had to cease fighting the christinos, as the loyal party was called. the english government in the previous year had sanctioned the enlistment of , men; who, commanded by colonel (afterwards sir de lacy) evans, landed at san sebastian in august to assist the christinos. a british auxiliary contingent was already with the spanish army, while a naval squadron under lord john hay was active on the coast. mendizabal was prime minister at the beginning of the year , and was succeeded in may by isturitz. riots took place at madrid, and isturitz fled to france; calatrava succeeding him, assisted by mendizabal. the christino cause did not much advance during the year. chapter v _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ _ th march ._ my dearly beloved child,--you wrote me again a long, _dear_, _good_ letter, like all those which i received from your kind hands. time approaches now for the arrival of the cousins, and most probably of your uncle ferdinand also. he has informed me of his arrival for the th or th; notwithstanding this, i mean to leave everything settled as it has been arranged. they will set off on the th, arrive at paris on the th, and leave it again on the th.... fernando[ ] has still a very bad cold; change of air is likely to cure that. the stay here has done fernando a great deal of good, and it cannot be denied that he is quite another person. it has given me some trouble, but i have written down for him everything which he ought to know about the organisation of a government _in general_, and what will be necessary in specie to carry on successfully the government in portugal.... my inclinations, as you are aware, would have led me to the east, but certainly the only thing which reconciles me with my not having done so is that it has made me to remain near you, and will enable me to see you and to be useful to you. [footnote : the queen's first cousin, prince ferdinand (son of prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg, who was brother of the duchess of kent and the king of the belgians), aged nineteen, who married the queen of portugal on th april. he was at this time visiting the king of the belgians on his way to portugal.] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ kensington palace, _ th march ._ ... you are very kind, my dearest, best uncle, to say that "the only thing which reconciles you" for not having gone to greece is, that you are near me and can see me. thank heaven that you did not go there! it would have been dreadful for me and for all your relations to be thus, as it were, cut off from almost all intercourse! it is _hard_ enough, that you are as far as you are, when i recollect the happy time when i could see you, and be with you, _every_ day!... _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ kensington palace, _ th march ._ my dearest uncle,-- ... as concerning the "fatigues" we are said to have undergone, they were none to me, and made me very happy; i only wish they could have lasted longer, for all, all is over now, and our _beloved_ ferdinand[ ] himself leaves our shores this _very_ morning. we accompanied them all on sunday, where we took a final leave of our dear ferdinand, and i cannot tell you how sorry i was, and am, to see him go, for i love him dearly. he is so truly excellent, kind, and good, and endears himself so much by his simplicity and good-heartedness! i may venture to say, that no one has his prosperity and happiness more at heart than i have. i am extremely sanguine about his success. he goes there full of courage, spirits, and goodwill, and being naturally clever and observant, i doubt not that with good counsel, and prudence, he will do very well. _your_ kind advice will be of the greatest and most important use to him, the more so as he is so exceedingly fond of you.... ferdinand leaves behind him here a most favourable impression on all parties, for _i_ have even _heard_ from some great tories themselves that there was a great feeling _for_ him in this country. [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. v, footnote ). he had latterly been visiting the duchess of kent.] [pageheading: the princes ernest and albert] _the princess hohenlohe to the princess victoria._ stuttgart, _ th april ._ ... you will like our two coburg cousins also, i think; they are more manly than i think the two others are, after the description. i am very fond of them both. ernest is my favourite, although albert is much handsomer, and cleverer too, but ernest is so honest and good-natured. i shall be very curious to hear your opinion upon them.... _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ kensington palace, _ th april ._ my dearest, best uncle,-- ... you will, i am sure, have been delighted with m. de neumann's[ ] account of the complete success of our dear ferdinand. all has gone off better than even our most sanguine hopes could have desired. he is much pleased with the good queen, and she is delighted with him, and m. de neumann says that they are already quite happy together. this is really a great blessing, but i fear that all the _exterior_ affairs are not in quite _so_ good a state. i hope, however, that the good people will not make any more difficulties about fernando's being commander-in-chief, as i hear from all accounts it is necessary he should be so.... uncle ernest and my cousins will probably come here in the beginning of next month, i hear, and will visit you on their return. you ask me about sully's memoirs, and if i have finished them. i have not finished them, but am reading them with great interest, and find there is a great deal in them which applies to the present times, and a great deal of good advice and reasoning in them. as you say, very truly, it is extremely necessary for me to follow the "events of the day," and to do so impartially. i am always both grateful and happy when you give me any advice, and hope you will continue to do so as long as i live. i am glad to hear you approve my singing, and i cannot tell you how delightful it would be for me, if you could join with us. _À propos_, dear uncle, you did not answer what i said to you in a former letter about your visiting us again. you know, dear uncle, that this is a subject upon which i am very _earnest_ and _very_ eager, and as the summer approaches i grow more and more anxious about it. you know, also, that _pleasure_ does more good than a hundred walks and rides. believe me always, my dearest uncle, your truly devoted and attached niece, victoria. [footnote : baron neumann, who acted as minister plenipotentiary during the absences of prince esterhazy, succeeded him as austrian minister in . he married lady augusta somerset in .] [pageheading: the prince of orange] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ _ th may ._ my dearest child,--i got this time a very small letter from your good little ladyship, and i shall repay it probably in larger coin, as my letter going through a messenger of my own will become longer, as it will be more confidential than through the usual mode of conveyance. i am really _astonished_ at the conduct of your old uncle the king; this invitation of the prince of orange and his sons, this forcing him upon others, is very extraordinary.[ ] it is so, because persons in political stations and champions of great political passions cannot put aside their known character as you would lay your hat upon a table. not later than yesterday i got a half official communication from england, insinuating that it would be _highly_ desirable that the visit of _your_ relatives _should not take place, this year--qu'en dites-vous_? the relations of the queen and the king, therefore, to the god-knows-what degree, are to come in shoals and rule the land, when _your relations_ are to be _forbidden_ the country, and that when, as you know, the whole of your relations have ever been very dutiful and kind to the king. really and truly i never heard or saw anything like it, and i hope it will a _little rouse your spirit_; now that slavery is even abolished in the british colonies, i do not comprehend _why your lot alone should be to be kept, a white little slavey in england_, for the pleasure of the court, who never bought you, as i am not aware of their having gone to any expense on that head, or the king's even having _spent a sixpence for your existence_. i expect that my visits in england will also be prohibited by an order in council. oh consistency and political or _other honesty_, where must one look for you! i have not the least doubt that the king, in his passion for the oranges, will be _excessively rude to your relations_; this, however, will not signify much; they are _your guests_ and not _his_, and will therefore _not_ mind it.... [footnote : king leopold had for some time cherished a hope of uniting the princess victoria in marriage with her cousin, prince albert of coburg. he therefore arranged that the prince, with his elder brother, prince ernest, should pay a visit to the duchess of kent at kensington palace. king william naturally opposed a scheme which he knew met with the approval of his sister-in-law. he accordingly invited the prince of orange and his two sons at the same time, and favoured the candidature of the younger son, prince alexander. the king (it is believed) went so far as to say that no other marriage should ever take place, and that the duke of saxe-coburg and his son should never put foot in the country; they should not be allowed to land, and must go back whence they came. the prince of orange had himself been a candidate for the hand of princess charlotte, and had no reason to be friendly to king leopold, of whom it is recorded that he said, "voilà un homme qui a pris ma femme et mon royaume."] [pageheading: arrival of prince albert] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ rd may ._ my dearest uncle,-- ... uncle ernest and my cousins arrived here on wednesday, _sains et saufs_. uncle is looking remarkably well, and my cousins are most delightful young people. i will give you no detailed description of them, as you will so soon see them yourself. but i must say, that they are both very amiable, very kind and good, and extremely merry, just as young people should be; with all that, they are extremely sensible, and very fond of occupation. albert is extremely handsome, which ernest certainly is not, but he has a most good-natured, honest, and intelligent countenance. we took them to the opera on friday, to see the _puritani_, and as they are excessively fond of music, like me, they were in perfect ecstasies, having never heard any of the singers before.... [pageheading: prince albert] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th june ._ my dearest uncle,--these few lines will be given to you by my dear uncle ernest when he sees you. i must thank you, my beloved uncle, for the prospect of _great_ happiness you have contributed to give me, in the person of dear albert. allow me, then, my dearest uncle, to tell you how delighted i am with him, and how much i like him in every way. he possesses every quality that could be desired to render me perfectly happy. he is so sensible, so kind, and so good, and so amiable too. he has, besides, the most pleasing and delightful exterior and appearance you can possibly see. i have only now to beg you, my dearest uncle, to take care of the health of one, now _so dear_ to me, and to take him under _your special_ protection. i hope and trust that all will go on prosperously and well on this subject of so much importance to me. believe me always, my dearest uncle, your most affectionate, devoted, and grateful niece, victoria. [pageheading: conversation] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ _ th june ._ my dearest and most beloved child,--i begged your mother, in the meantime, to offer you my best thanks for your very pretty drawing representing the provost of bruges and his daughter[ ]; i admired also that for your aunt. they do your spirit of invention honour, and it is a very good plan to draw subjects from books or plays which interest you. you will feel the loss of a pleasant society in the old palace, the more so as your relations are good unsophisticated people, a thing which one does not so often meet with. i suppose that part of your london amusements will soon be over. you were going to windsor, which you will probably have left by this time. i hope you were very prudent; i cannot disguise from you, that though the inhabitants are good-natured people, still that i think you want all your natural caution with them. never permit yourself to be induced to tell them any opinion or sentiment of yours which is _beyond the sphere of common conversation_ and its ordinary topics. bad use would be made of it against yourself, and you cannot in that subject be too much guarded. i know well the people we have to deal with. i am extremely impartial, but i shall also always be equally watchful.... god bless you! ever, my dear child, your very devoted uncle and friend, leopold r. [footnote : leading characters in _the heiress of bruges_, by grattan.] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th august ._ my beloved uncle,-- ... i was sure you would be very much pleased with ernest and albert as soon as you knew them more; there cannot be two more good and sensible young men than they are. pray, dear uncle, say everything most kind from me to them. we go to buxted[ ] to-morrow morning, and stay there till next monday. all the gaieties are now over. we took leave of the opera on saturday, and a most brilliant conclusion to the season it was. yesterday i took my farewell lesson with lablache,[ ] which i was very sorry to do. i have had twenty-six lessons with him, and i look forward with pleasure to resume them again next spring. [footnote : lord liverpool's house. charles cecil cope jenkinson, third earl of liverpool, was fifty-three years old at the time of the queen's accession. he was a moderate tory, and had held office as under-secretary for the home department in , and in as under-secretary for war and the colonies. he succeeded to the earldom in . the title, since revived, became extinct on his death in . he was a friend of the duchess of kent, who often stayed with him at buxted park in sussex, and at pitchford in shropshire. at three successive visits at the latter house the princess occupied the same small room without a fireplace.] [footnote : luigi lablache ( - ), a famous opera-singer, was the princess's singing-master.] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ nd september ._ my dearest uncle,-- ... the state of spain is most alarming and unfortunate.[ ] i do hope something will be done. the news were rather better yesterday and the day before. the christinos had gained a victory over the carlists.[ ] i take a great interest in the whole of this unfortunate affair. i hope and trust portugal may not suffer by all the affairs of spain, but much is to be feared. dieskau will have told you much about the internal affairs, which seem to go on very prosperously. pray has the duchess of braganza[ ] written to you or aunt louise since ferdinand's marriage? you did not send me the king of naples'[ ] letter, as you said you would; pray do so in your next letter. i hope he will come here next year. you do not mention france, so i hope all is quiet. the duke of orleans is quite well again, i am happy to hear from aunt louise. now i must conclude, begging you to believe me, always, your most truly attached and really devoted niece, victoria. [footnote : see introductory note for the year, _ante_, p. . (to ch. v)] [footnote : the civil war was favourable to the carlists at this time, general gomez obtaining a victory on th august. by the end of the year he had twice traversed the kingdom, hampered with plunder and prisoners, and surrounded by armies greater than his own, and in no district did he find the inhabitants disposed to act against him.] [footnote : step-mother of the queen of portugal.] [footnote : ferdinand ii., commonly named "bomba." he married _en secondes noces_, the archduchess theresa of austria.] [pageheading: a farewell letter] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._[ ] claremont, _ st september ._ my most dearly beloved uncle,--as i hear that mamma is going to send a letter to you which will reach you at dover, and though it is only an hour and a half since we parted, i must write you one line to tell you how _very, very sad_ i am that you have left us, and to repeat, what i think you know pretty well, _how_ much i love you. when i think that but two hours ago we were happily together, and that now you are travelling every instant farther and farther away from us, and that i shall with all probability not see you for a _year_, it makes me cry. yes, dearest uncle, it is dreadful in this life, that one is destined, and _particularly unhappy me_, to be almost always separated from those one loves most dearly. i live, however, in the hopes of your visit next year with dear aunt, and i cannot say how thankful and happy i am that we have had you here for six short, and to me _most bright happy_ days! i shall look back with the greatest delight on them. believe me, always, your ever devoted and most affectionately attached niece and _child_, victoria. [footnote : written at the conclusion of the king's visit to england.] [pageheading: the princess and the church] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th november ._ my very dear child,-- ...i know attempts have been made to represent you as indifferent to the established church. you know that in england the sovereign is the head of the church, and that the church looks upon the protestant religion as it is established as the _state_ religion. in times like the present, when the crown is already a good deal weakened, i believe that it is of importance to maintain as much as possible this state of affairs, and i believe that you will do well, whenever an occasion offers itself to do so without affectation, to express your sincere interest for the church, and that you comprehend its position and count upon its good-will. the poor church will be a good deal persecuted, i have no doubt, but it would be desirable that the men belonging to it should be united, _sensible_, and moderate.... _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ ramsgate, _ th november ._ ... what you say to me relative to church matters i quite comprehend, and always am very thankful for advice from you. i am reading away famously. i like mrs. hutchinson's life of her husband[ ] only _comme cela_; she is so dreadfully violent. she and clarendon are so totally opposite, that it is quite absurd, and i only believe the _juste milieu_.... your speech interested me very much; it is very fine indeed; you wrote it yourself, did you not? belgium is indeed the happiest country in the world, and it is _all, all_ owing to your _great care_ and _kindness_. "nous étions des enfans perdus," general goblet[ ] said to me at claremont, "quand le roi est venu nous sauver." and so it is.... pray, dear uncle, say everything most kind from me to ernest and albert, and believe me, always, your affectionate niece, victoria. pray, dear uncle, is the report of the king of naples' marriage to the archduchess theresa true? i hear the king has behaved uncommonly well at naples during the cholera panic. i enclose the measure of my finger. [footnote : the regicide, colonel hutchinson's, fame rests more on his wife's commemoration of him than on his own exploits. she was the daughter of sir allen apsley, lieutenant of the tower of london, and highly educated. between and she wrote the biography of her husband, first published in . "the figure of colonel hutchinson," says j. r. green, "stands out from his wife's canvas with the grace and tenderness of a portrait by van dyck."] [footnote : the belgian general, albert joseph goblet. count d'alviella.] [pageheading: death of charles x] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th november ._ ... poor charles x. is dead, it is said of the cholera. i regret him; few people were ever kinder to me than the good old man. he was blinded by certain absolute ideas, but a good man, and deserving to be loved. history will state that louis xviii. was a most liberal monarch, reigning with great mildness and justice to his end, but that his brother, from his despotic and harsh disposition, upset all the other had done, and lost the throne. louis xviii. was a clever, hard-hearted man, shackled by no principle, very proud and false. charles x. an honest man, a kind friend, an honourable master, sincere in his opinions, and inclined to do everything that is right. that teaches us what we ought to believe in history as it is compiled according to ostensible events and results known to the generality of people. memoirs are much more instructive, if written honestly and not purposely fabricated, as it happens too often nowadays, particularly at paris.... i shall not fail to read the books you so kindly recommend. i join you a small copy of our very liberal constitution, hitherto conscientiously executed--no easy matter. you may communicate it to your mother; it is the best answer to an infamous radical or tory-radical paper, the _constitutional_, which seems determined to run down the coburg family. i don't understand the meaning of it; the only happiness poor charlotte knew was during her short wedded existence, and there was but one voice on that subject, that we offered a bright prospect to the nation. since that period i have (though been abused, and vilified merely for drawing an income which was the consequence of a treaty ratified by both houses of parliament, and that without one dissenting voice, a thing not very likely to happen again) done everything to see england prosperous and powerful. i have spared her, in , much trouble and expense, as _without my coming here very serious complications, war and all the expensive operations connected with it_, must have taken place. i give the whole of my income, without the reservation of a farthing, to the country; i preserve unity on the continent, have frequently prevented mischief at paris, and to thank me for all that, i get the most scurrilous abuse, in which the good people from _constant practice so much excel_.... the conclusion of all this--and that by people whose very existence in political life may be but of a few years' standing--is scurrilous abuse of the coburg family. i should like to know what harm the coburg family has done to england? but enough of this. your principle is very good; one must not mind what newspapers say. their power is a fiction of the worst description, and their efforts marked by the worst faith and the greatest untruths. if all the editors of the papers in the countries where the liberty of the press exists were to be assembled, we should have a _crew_ to which you would _not_ confide a dog that you would value, still less your honour and reputation.... [pageheading: revolution at lisbon] [pageheading: the princess's name] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ st november ._ my most dearly beloved uncle,--you cannot imagine how happy you have made me by your very dear, kind, long, and interesting letter of the th, which i received yesterday morning, and for which i beg you to accept my _very warmest_ and best thanks. you know, i think, my dearest uncle, that _no_ creature on earth _loves_ you _more_ dearly, or has a higher sense of admiration for you, than i have. independent of all that you have done--which i never, never can be grateful enough for--my love for you exceeds all that words can express; it is innate in me, for from my earliest years the name of _uncle_ was the dearest i knew, the word _uncle_, _alone_, meant no other but you! your letter is so interesting and instructive that i could read it over and over again. i hope, dear uncle, you will in process of time give me the _aperçu_ you mention, which would be so very interesting for me. i cannot tell you how distressed i was by the late unfortunate _contre-révolution manquée_ at lisbon,[ ] and how sorry i was to see by the letter you wrote me, that you were still unaware of it on the th. mamma received a letter from lord palmerston yesterday morning, which she has sent you, and which is consolatory, i think. he speaks in the highest terms of our beloved ferdinand, which proves that he becomes daily more and more worthy of his arduous situation, and says that the queen's situation "is better than it was," less bad than it might have been "after such an affair," and not so good as it would have been had poor donna maria waited patiently till all was ripe for action. dietz[ ] wrote mamma a most desponding letter, so much so, that had we not got lord palmerston's letter we must have thought all, all was over.[ ] i hope, dear uncle, you will tell _me_ _your_ feeling about the whole, which will only satisfy me; no one else could, for i take an interest in ferdinand's welfare as though he were my brother. allow me, dearest uncle, to say a few words respecting my _name_, to which you allude. you are aware, i believe, that about a year after the accession of the _present_ king there was a desire to change my favourite and dear name _victoria_ to that of _charlotte_, also _most dear_, to which the king willingly consented. on its being told me, i said nothing, though i felt grieved beyond measure at the thought of any change. not long after this, lord grey, and also the archbishop of canterbury, acquainted mamma that the country, having been accustomed to hear me called victoria, had become used to it, _enfin_, _liked it_, and therefore, to my great delight, the idea of a change was given up.[ ] i was sure the death of old charles x. would strike you.... i thank you much for the _constitution de la belgique_. those attacks on you are infamous, but must not be minded; they are the language of a _few jealous_, _envious_ people. _en revanche_, i enclose a paragraph from a speech of o'connell's[ ] i think worth your reading. pray, dearest uncle, say everything most kind to my beloved and dearest aunt, and thank her in my name for her kind letter, which i shall answer on friday. i am happy she and the dear little man are well. believe me, always, your most devoted and affectionately attached niece, victoria. [footnote : prince ferdinand was appointed commander-in-chief of the portuguese army on the advice of the duc de terceira, then prime minister. the appointment was highly unpopular; riots broke out, the army mutinied, and rose against the authorities, with the result that the queen of portugal was compelled to accept the radical constitution of , in the place of dom pedro's constitutional charter of . later in the year the queen, assisted by palmella, terceira, and saldanha, made a counter-move, believing that the people of lisbon would support her, and proposed to dismiss her ministers; she had, however, been misled as to the popular aid forthcoming, and had to give up the struggle, sá da bandeira becoming prime minister. the queen, virtually a captive, had to accede to the revolutionary requirements.] [footnote : dietz was a former governor of prince ferdinand, who accompanied him to portugal on his marriage with donna maria, and took a considerable part in political affairs.] [footnote : a former minister of the interior was killed by the national guards, who threatened to march on belem, where the queen was; she had to apply to the british marines for protection.] [footnote : in the course of the debate ( rd august ) on lord althorp's proposition to add £ , a year to the duchess of kent's income, sir m. w. ridley suggested changing the princess's name to elizabeth, as being "more accordant to the feelings of the people," saying that he had heard the subject "frequently and seriously argued." hunt, the radical, who opposed the grant, saw no objection to the change, and lord althorp thought the matter of no particular consequence. the princess's own feelings, and those of her mother, do not seem to have been considered. see _hansard_, rd series, vol. v. , _et seq._] [footnote : probably that on the irish church question at the general (formerly "catholic") association, dublin.] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ claremont, _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--... i have begun since a few days lord clive's life, by sir john malcolm,[ ] which is very interesting, as it gives much insight into the affairs of india, over parts of which, i fear, it would be well to throw a _veil_. i am reading it by myself, _et je vous le recommande_.... [footnote : the book reviewed by macaulay, who spoke of sir john malcolm as one whose "love passes the love of biographers, and who can see nothing but wisdom and justice in the actions of his idol."] introductory note to chapter vi the closing months of the reign of william iv. were not marked by any stirring events at home. the conservative opposition to the melbourne ministry was strengthened before the meeting of parliament by a great speech by sir robert peel at glasgow, and lord brougham later on emerged from his retirement to become the able and venomous critic of his former friends. the government failed to carry important measures on church rates and irish municipal corporations, while the radical group pressed persistently their favourite motions in support of the ballot, and against the property qualification of members, primogeniture, the septennial act, the bishops' seats and proxy voting in the house of lords. the ministry was saved from shipwreck by the demise of the crown and by the accession of the princess victoria, who, on attaining her legal majority a month earlier, had received marked signs of enthusiastic popular favour. the general election in the autumn did not materially affect the position of parties, the radicals losing and o'connell gaining seats; but the prestige of lord melbourne was increased by the unique position he now held in reference to the sovereign. parliament was opened in person by the queen on th november, and the civil list dealt with, the amount allocated being £ , as against £ , in the late reign (of which £ , , formerly paid in pensions, was now struck off, and other arrangements made). for some time past the state of canada had caused grave anxiety. by an act of , it had been divided into upper and lower canada, each with a governor, council, and house of representatives, lower canada being in the main french, while upper canada was occupied by british settlers. friction first arose in the former, between the nominee council and the popular assembly, the assembly declining to pay the salaries of officials whom they had censured, but whom the executive had retained in their posts. mr papineau, who had been speaker of the assembly, was leader in the popular movement. lord gosford, the governor of lower canada, dismissed some militia officers who had taken part in political demonstrations, and warrants were issued for the apprehension of certain members of the assembly, on the charge of high treason: within a short time the discontented party broke out into rebellion. the course which events would take in upper canada was for a time doubtful. sir francis head, the governor, placed his regular troops at the service of lord gosford, preferring to rely on the militia. this unusual action was successful, but was not approved by the colonial office. the state of affairs became very alarming at the close of the year, when it was announced in parliament that lord gosford had resigned and that sir john colborne (afterwards lord seaton) had been appointed to succeed him. in france the confederates of louis napoleon in the strasburg outbreak were tried and acquitted; a treaty was concluded at tafna with abd-el-kader, but negotiations for a similar agreement with achmet bey were less successful, and operations were continued against constantin with successful results, the town being carried by an assault on th october, with some loss of officers and men on the french side. affairs continued unsettled in the peninsula. in spain general evans was defeated near san sebastian, but afterwards, in conjunction with lord john hay, captured irun, the frontier town. don carlos meanwhile marched on madrid, but was encountered by espartero, commander-in-chief of the christinos, who was prime minister for a brief period during the year. the british legion was dissolved, and evans returned to england. in portugal the english were becoming unpopular for their supposed intervention: ferdinand, the queen's consort, who was naturally believed to be in harmony with the british cabinet, acted tactlessly in accepting the commandership-in-chief, and internal hostilities continued throughout the year. in hanover a reactionary step was taken by king ernest, who had succeeded his brother, william iv. of england, on the throne of hanover; by letters patent he abrogated the constitution of , an action which, imperfect and open to criticism though the constitution was, naturally aroused anxiety among the supporters of representative institutions throughout europe. chapter vi _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th january ._ my dearest uncle,-- ... we saw van de weyer[ ] on tuesday, and his conversation was most interesting. he praises our dear ferdinand most exceedingly, but as for the poor queen, what he told us does not redound much to her credit; one good quality, however, she has, which is her excessive fondness for and real _obedience_ to ferdinand. she is unfortunately surrounded by a _camarilla_[ ] who poison her ears, and fetter all her actions; poor soul! she is _much_ to be pitied. about lavradio[ ] you will also have, i fear, heard but too much. honesty and single-heartedness seems to have left portugal. van de weyer is so clear in all that he says, so sensible, so quiet, so clever, and, last but not least, so agreeable; i hope we shall soon see him again. you see, dear uncle, how much interest i take in portugal; but i must say that i think every one who knows dear ferdinand, and particularly who loves him as i do, must feel a very deep interest as to the fate of the unhappy country in which he is destined to play so prominent and difficult a part. i have been reading to-day a very clever speech of sir robert peel's (not a political one) to the university at glasgow, on the occasion of his being elected lord rector of that college. there is another speech of his at the dinner at glasgow which _is political_, but which i have not yet read....[ ] [footnote : sylvain van de weyer (b. ) was, in , belgian plenipotentiary at the conference of london. he returned to his own country and became foreign minister. his exertions contributed greatly to render successful the candidature of prince leopold for the throne of belgium. the king appointed him belgian minister in london, to which post he returned in , and held it till . he was treated by the queen until his death in as a very intimate friend and adviser.] [footnote : _i.e._ a clique.] [footnote : the portuguese statesman who had gone to gotha to arrange the queen's marriage, and was destined to act in a similar manner for her son in .] [footnote : sir r. peel was installed as lord rector of glasgow on th january, and delivered an address on the principles of education: strong political feeling was manifested, groans being given for lord melbourne and the ministry. at a civic banquet given in sir r. peel's honour, he expounded the principles of conservative reform.] [pageheading: spain and portugal] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ rd january ._ my dearest uncle,-- ... the affairs of the peninsula are indeed very distressing,[ ] and what you tell me in your letter of the th, as also in the former one, is highly interesting and, alas! but too true. i trust, not withstanding what you say, i may yet live to see spain and portugal settled. but i greatly fear that the time is far distant. do you know mendizabal?[ ] i saw him at our house in . alava[ ] presented him to us; he is a tall, dark, fine, and clever-looking man. i remember his being so much struck with my likeness to donna maria, which i was not aware was the case. pray, dear uncle, may i ask you a silly question?--is not the queen of spain[ ] rather clever? you know her, and what do you think of her? and do you know what sort of people are about poor little queen isabel?[ ] poor, good donna maria! i feel much for her; her education was one of the worst that could be. as long as those ficalhos and melos remain about her, nothing can be done. could they not be got rid of in time? i was sorry to see that the french chambers were rather stormy.[ ] i thank you much for the list of the ball of the th, which must have been very splendid. the last ball _i_ was at was our own, and i concluded that very ball at half-past three in the morning with a country dance, albert being my partner. pray, dear uncle, tell both young gentlemen, with my kindest love, that i _often_ think of that night and of many other pleasant evenings we passed together. the singing will come all in time. who is their singing-master? i wish they had my worthy lablache. i sing regularly every evening, as i think it better to do so every day to keep the voice manageable. oh, my beloved uncle, could you join us, how delightful that would be! how i should delight in singing with you all our favourite things from _la gazza_, _otello_, _il barbiere_, etc., etc. the little cousin[ ] must be a little love: oh, could i but see him and play with him! pray, dear uncle, does he know such a thing as that he has got an aunt and cousin on the other side of the water? ... pray, dear uncle, have you read sir r. peel's two speeches? i wish you would, and give me your opinion of them. [footnote : some interesting observations on these events may be read in borrow's _bible in spain_.] [footnote : don juan alvarez y mendizabal ( - ), spanish politician and financier.] [footnote : miguel ricardo di alava ( - ), spanish general; he acted as the representative of spain at paris, at the court of the bourbons; he was a great friend of the duke of wellington, and was with him at his headquarters during the peninsular war.] [footnote : the queen regent, christina.] [footnote : then six years old; she died in .] [footnote : this was in reference to the trial at strasburg of the confederates of prince louis bonaparte (afterwards napoleon iii.) in his abortive attempt to establish a military despotism on th october. the prince was permitted to go to the united states, being conveyed in a french frigate; the other conspirators were acquitted.] [footnote : leopold, born in , afterwards duke of brabant, the present king of the belgians.] [pageheading: parliamentary language] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ claremont, _ th january ._ my dearest uncle,-- ... i am very sorry that the portuguese news are still so very unfavourable; i trust that, in time, things will come right. the portuguese are, as you say, a most inconceivable set of selfish politicians. our friend, mr hume,[ ] made a most violent speech at a dinner given to him and old george byng[ ] at drury lane last week.[ ] he called sir r. peel and some other tories "the cloven foot," which i think rather strong. i think that _great_ violence and striving such a pity, on both sides, don't you, dear uncle? they irritate one another so uselessly by calling one another fools, blockheads, liars, and so forth for no purpose. i think violence so bad in everything. they should imitate you, and be calm, for you have had, god knows! enough cause for irritation from your _worthy_ dutch neighbours and others. you will, i fear, laugh at my _politics_, but i like telling _you_ my feelings, for you alone can put me right on such subjects. [footnote : joseph hume, leader of the radical party, was now m.p. for middlesex.] [footnote : george byng, for many years member for middlesex, was great-grandson of william wentworth, earl of strafford, of the creation. his younger brother, sir john byng, the well-known general of the peninsula and waterloo, was created earl of strafford in .] [footnote : this was a dinner given by the middlesex reformers to their representatives. grote also spoke and said that the tories well knew that their dominion rested upon everything that was antiquated and corrupt and anti-popular in the nation--upon oligarchical predominance in the state, and sectarian pride and privileges in the church.] [pageheading: political passion] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ _ rd february ._ my dear child,-- ... i am sorry to see so much violence in england at this moment; i consider it as the most lamentable circumstance, as it renders matters so very difficult to settle. besides, the poor crown is more or less the loser in all this, as it generally ends with the abolition of something or other which might have proved useful for the carrying on of government. a rule which you may thus early impress on your mind is, that people are far from acting generally according to the dictates of their interests, but oftener in consequence of their passions, though it may even prove injurious to their interests. if the tory part of parliament could have brought themselves to act without passion, much in the reform of parliament might have been settled much more in conformity with their best interests. i was authorised, in , to speak in this sense to the duke of wellington by lord grey;[ ] the effect would have been highly beneficial to both parties, but passion made it impossible to succeed. this is a dangerous part of the business, and we must see during the present session of parliament if parties are grown wiser. i fear they are not. the business of the highest in a state is certainly, in my opinion, to act with great impartiality and a spirit of justice for the good of all, and not of this or that party.[ ] [footnote : this refers to the rejection of the reform bill by the house of lords in ; as a consequence, mobs broke the windows of apsley house, and fired nottingham castle.] [footnote : on th april , sir robert peel wrote to j. w. croker:-- ... "we are, in short, in this state of things. all the convictions and inclinations of the government are with their conservative opponents. half their actions and all their speeches are with the radicals." (_croker papers_, ii. .)] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ claremont, _ th february ._ my beloved uncle,-- ... i do not know quite for certain when we leave this place, but i should think to-day week. you must be pleased, dear uncle, i think, for we shall have been _six months_ in the country next thursday, as we left town on the th of august last, and i am sure you will stand by me for my having my season fully, as you may understand that my _operatic_ and _terpsichorean_ feelings are pretty strong, now that the season is returning, and i have been a very good child, not even _wishing_ to come to town till now. we shall certainly come here for the easter week. dr clark[ ] arrived here quite happy last night, bringing the news that van de weyer had had the best news from lisbon he had received since his return, that all had gone off quietly, that ferdinand was daily gaining popularity, and that both he and the queen had been very well received at the theatre. the man who threw a stone at ferdinand was a frenchman, whom, it seems, ferdinand had relieved with money over and over again. a fine specimen of gratitude! i hope and trust with you that there will be less violence in parliament this year, but much is to be feared. you will miss my good cousins ernest and albert very much, i am sure; i hope you will instil into them to take enough exercise and not to study too much. there were two questions in my last letter but one, which you have not answered, dear uncle. they are: st, what you think of the queen christina of spain, what opinion _you_ have of her, as one cannot believe _reports_? nd, if you know what sort of people are about poor little queen isabel, and if she is being _well_ or _ill_ brought up?... [footnote : afterwards sir james clark, and physician-in-ordinary to the queen.] [pageheading: a dinner party] [pageheading: the throne of greece] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th march ._ ... we had a dinner on saturday which amused me, as i am very fond of _pleasant_ society, and we have been for these last three weeks immured within our old palace, and i longed sadly for some gaiety. after being so very long in the country i was preparing to go out in right earnest, whereas i have only been _twice_ to the play since our return, which is marvellous! however, we are to have another dinner to-morrow, and are going to the play and opera. after easter i trust i shall make ample amends for all this solitariness. i hope to begin singing with lablache shortly after easter. but to return to last saturday's dinner. we had the archbishop of dublin,[ ] a clever but singular man, and his lady; lord palmerston, with whom i had much pleasant and amusing conversation after dinner--you know how agreeable he is; then lady cadogan,[ ] who enquired much after you and aunt louise; lord and lady rosebery,[ ] mr and mrs e. stanley,[ ] lord morpeth,[ ] lord templetown,[ ] sir john cam hobhouse,[ ] dr lushington,[ ] and mr woulfe,[ ] the solicitor-general for ireland, a roman catholic and a very clever man. lady cadogan, who is not long come back from paris, says that the duke of orleans has been going out very little and is remarkably well. i saw a report in the papers that he and the duc de nemours were coming over here, which i fear is not true; i wish it was.... there is one thing in your former letter which i must answer, or, rather, more advert to. you said to me, that if it was not for me, you would regret greece very much. now, i assure you, dearest uncle, you ought not to regret it, though there is not a doubt that _greece_ would be much happier were you there. but i have heard from various people who have been staying in greece that they very soon got to like the turks much better than the greeks, who are very untrue, and are quite banditti-like; then, again, the country, though undoubtedly fine in parts, is a rocky and barren country, and also you are constantly exposed to the effects of the plague, that most dreadful of all evils; and then, lastly, how very, very far you would be, how cut off from all those who are dear to you, and how exposed to dangers of all kinds! i much grieve that they are quarrelling so much in the french chambers.[ ] i must now conclude. [footnote : richard whateley, formerly principal of st alban hall, and drummond professor of political economy at oxford.] [footnote : louisa honoria, wife of the third earl, and sister of joseph, first lord wallscourt.] [footnote : archibald, fourth earl of rosebery, and anne margaret, his second wife, daughter of the first viscount anson.] [footnote : edward stanley, afterwards fourteenth earl of derby, thrice prime minister.] [footnote : chief secretary for ireland.] [footnote : john henry, first viscount, formerly m.p. for bury st edmunds.] [footnote : sir john cam hobhouse, a radical, and a friend of byron, at whose wedding he acted as best man; he was imprisoned in for breach of privilege. he was elected m.p. for westminster in as burdett's colleague, and afterwards for nottingham and harwich. commissioner of woods and forests (the old houses of parliament being burned down during his term of office), and later president of board of control. created lord broughton, .] [footnote : stephen lushington, advocate in the old ecclesiastical court, m.p. for ilchester and the tower hamlets, and a judge in the ecclesiastical and admiralty courts from to .] [footnote : stephen woulfe, m.p. for carlisle, solicitor-general, and subsequently attorney-general, for ireland, becoming chief baron in .] [footnote : on th march a heated debate took place in the french chamber on the question of the queen of the belgians' dowry, a deputy calling for the production of king louis philippe's rent-roll, and a complete statement of his income.] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ st march ._ my beloved child,--your dear letter of the th gave me the greatest pleasure. i was sure from your constant affection for us that you would feel much interested in the event of the th. it was a moment of some anxiety, but all passed over very well. your aunt is going on very well, and the little cousin[ ] also. he is smaller than his brother was, but promises to be like him; the features are much the same, the shape of the forehead and mouth. the elder prince was much interested about his _frère_, and anxious to see him; at first, however, he declared after a long contemplation, "_pas beau frère!_" now he thinks better of him, but makes a very odd little face when he sees him. the name of the little one will be philippe eugène ferdinand marie clément baudouin (baldwin)--a name of the old counts of flanders--léopold georges. my aunt, who is his godmother, wished he should be called philippe in honour of his grandfather, and as philippe _le bon_ was one of the most powerful princes of this country, i gave him the name with pleasure. eugène is her own name, ferdinand that of chartres, marie of the queen and also of princess marie, clément of princess clémentine; léopold your aunt wished, and george in honour of st george of england and of george iv. probably i shall hereafter give to léopold the title of duke of brabant, and to philippe that of count of flanders, both fine old titles. [footnote : philippe, second son of king leopold, afterwards count of flanders. he died in .] [pageheading: press comments] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th april ._ my dearest child,--... you have been the subject of all sorts of newspaper paragraphs; your good and sensible way of looking on these very creditable productions _will be of use to you_. if the press says useful things, and makes observations which merit attention, there is no doubt that sometimes, though god knows very rarely, something useful may be gleaned from them. but when you see its present state, when the one side says black and the other white, when the opposite political characters are treated by their respective antagonists as rogues, fools, blockheads, wretches, and all the other names in which the english political dictionary is so _very rich_, one stands like the ass, between two bundles of hay, considerably embarrassed which ought to be chosen.... [pageheading: the princess's establishment] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th april ._ ... as i believe the visit at windsor is fixed for the th, i hope this letter will arrive in time. perhaps the king will speak to you about the necessity of forming you an establishment.[ ]... your position, having a mother with whom you very naturally remain, would render a _complete_ independent establishment perhaps matter of _real_ inconvenience; still something like that which charlotte had will become desirable. my idea, if it meets with your approbation, would be this: the duchess of northumberland would remain your first lady, baroness lehzen would fill a position similar to that of mrs campbell, who had been charlotte's governess in her younger days, and the dean[ ] would step into the position which good dr short[ ] held. an equerry, i do not think--as you will not go out without your mother--you would require. on the other hand, it may become matter of examination if you will perhaps like to have some young ladies attendants in the style of lady catherine jenkinson;[ ] should this be your wish, it would become necessary to make very good choices, else perhaps you would derive more trouble than comfort from the arrangement; _cela va sans dire_, that the choice could only be made by yourself, and that nobody should be given you _against_ your wishes. should the king speak to you on the subject, i would at once express this my wish if you should approve some such arrangement, and beg him to let _you choose_. resist mildly but _positively_ any nomination of a gentleman other than the dean; it is highly probable that any other would be put about you as a spy, and turn out at all events a great bore, which is better avoided.... i received a messenger from coburg. i enclose the letters and also a packet with fans. ever, my beloved child, your faithfully attached uncle and friend, leopold r. [footnote : the princess was to attain her legal majority on th may.] [footnote : george davys, the princess victoria's instructor, dean of chester, and afterwards bishop of peterborough.] [footnote : thomas vowler short, rector of st george's, bloomsbury, appointed in bishop of sodor and man.] [footnote : lady catherine jenkinson, daughter of the earl of liverpool, soon after the queen's accession married colonel francis vernon harcourt.] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th april ._ ... what you say about the newspapers is very true and very flattering. they are indeed a curious compound of truth and untruth. i am so used to newspaper nonsense and attacks that i do not mind it in the least.... how happy i am that that beloved aunt is going on so well and does not suffer from the cold, as also the _jeune philippe_. leopold must be great fun with his aunt marie;[ ] does he still say "_pas beau frère!_" or is he more reconciled to his brother? it is very noble in the duc de nemours to have thus given up his _apanage_;[ ] i am sorry there were such difficulties about it. there is no ministry formed yet, i see by the papers. [footnote : princess marie of orleans, born , daughter of king louis philippe, and thus sister to the queen of the belgians.] [footnote : this grant was surrendered in order that due provision might be made by the legislature for the elder brother, the duke of orleans, on the occasion of his marriage with the princess hélène of mecklenburg-schwerin.] [pageheading: the irish municipal bill] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th april ._ my most beloved uncle,--.... sir henry hardinge's[ ] motion was quite lost, i am happy to say, and don't you think, dearest uncle, that it has almost done good, as it proves that the tories have lost all chance of getting in? it was a trial of strength, and the ministry have triumphed. i have been reading in the papers, what i suppose you already know, that it is believed that the lords _will_ pass the irish corporation bill;[ ] and also that ministers mean to drop for the present the question about church rates,[ ] as the radicals, being angry with ministers relative to the canada business, would not support them well. [footnote : on a motion for going into supply, sir h. hardinge proposed an amendment censuring the government for the authorisation of the raising of a force of volunteers to assist the spanish government, and for the method in which that force had been organised. the amendment was lost by a majority of , on th april.] [footnote : the irish municipal bill, to convert corporations of municipalities into electoral councils, was introduced in the house of commons on the th of february. the bill was opposed by the conservatives, but passed the house of commons. in the lords an amendment of lyndhurst's struck out the constructive clauses, and the act became, on the th of may, an act for the abolition of municipalities in ireland. lord john russell brought forward a motion to reconstruct the bill. but the peers declined to pass it, and it was postponed.] [footnote : as ministers only obtained a majority of in a house of , the measure was dropped.] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th april ._ ... i hope you occupy yourself with the several great questions which agitate parties. i think a good mode will be to talk concerning them sometimes with the dean. he is a good moderate man, and still well able to give you sufficient information. from conversation with clever people, such as dine sometimes with you, much may be very usefully gathered, and you will do well to attend to this. i am no enemy to this way of instruction, and have seen people who were sharp enough to profit wonderfully by it. you hear in this way the opinions of a variety of persons, and it rests with your own good sense to classify and appreciate them.... [pageheading: ministerial anxiety] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ nd may ._ ... you may depend upon it that i shall profit by your excellent advice respecting politics. pray, dear uncle, have you read lord palmerston's speech concerning the spanish affairs,[ ] which he delivered the night of the division on sir henry hardinge's motion? it is much admired. the irish tithes question came on last night in the house of commons,[ ] and i am very anxious for the morning papers, to see what has been done. lord melbourne looks remarkably well, lord palmerston not very well, and as for poor little lord john russell, he is only a shadow of himself. it must be dreadfully fagging work for them; they sit so very late too, for when the spanish question came on, the division only took place at four o'clock in the morning, and i saw them at the drawing-room the same day afterwards.... [footnote : lord palmerston indignantly asked whether england should continue to fulfil her engagement with the queen of spain, or disgracefully abandon an ally whom she had pledged herself to succour.] [footnote : the irish tithe bill, a measure to facilitate the collection of tithes, was abandoned because the tories would not consent to any secular appropriation of church revenues, and the whigs would not consent to the withdrawal of their amendments. a remarkable feature in the bill was a proposal that a portion of every clergyman's income should be applied to education, as was already prescribed by a former act.] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th may ._ my dearest uncle,--it was very kind of you to write to me from your new château; i hardly ventured to hope for my usual letter, and yet i should have been much disappointed had i not received it. i am sorry that the house is so bad, but hope you will have found a good position for a new one.... pray, dearest uncle, may i ask such an indiscreet question as, if major stroekens is a clever man; he was so nervous and embarrassed when he came here, that i could not make him out. he brought me a very nice letter from donna maria. i am anxiously waiting to hear the issue of the battle between the carlists and christinos, which is, they say, to decide a great deal.[ ] now farewell, dearest uncle. i beg my affectionate love to my dear aunt, and my most respectful _hommages_ to the members of the family with you. believe me, always, your affectionate niece, victoria. old pozzo[ ] dined here last wednesday, and he gave me a long, i must say clever, dissertation about the state of france, during dinner-time. [footnote : after an obstinate investment by the carlists, espartero had relieved bilbao on christmas day, . the christino commanders then began to concert a combined movement on the carlist lines, which stretched from irun to villafranca.] [footnote : count pozzo di borgo ( - ), russian ambassador. by birth a corsican and a devoted patriot, he was a life-long opponent of napoleon and his designs. he entered the russian diplomatic service in , and after waterloo became russian ambassador in paris. he was ambassador in london for two years, when his health gave way.] [pageheading: the princess's establishment] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th may ._ my dearest child,--you have had some battles and difficulties of which i am completely in the dark. the thing i am most curious to learn is what the king proposed to you concerning your establishment.... i shall reserve my opinion till i am better informed, but by what i heard i did not approve of it, because i thought it ill-timed. stockmar will be able to do much. two things seem necessary; not to be fettered by any establishment other than what will be _comfortable to you_, and then to avoid any breach with your mother. i have fully instructed stockmar, and i must say he left me in such good disposition that i think he will be able to be of great use to you. the great thing is to act without precipitation and with caution. the king seems better again. i am very curious to know what he proposed; you will have it in your power to modify his proposition, as it is difficult your _approbation_ should be dispensed with; it would be a great fault in your situation to _submit_ to this.... they seemed to think the king dying, which does not appear to be the case. be steady, my good child, and _not_ put out by _anything_; as long as i live _you will not want a faithful friend and supporter_.... here your somewhat curious little soul has at least the outlines of things.... _ th._--i received yesterday the whole of the papers concerning the king's propositions.[ ] i approve your letter to the king, as it is amiable and generous, and this in your position will always tell favourably. i think that if _he_ is well advised he will chiefly consult _your wishes_. this is the footing on which you must place matters. it is not worth while to be told that one is in some sort of age when the consequence is that you are not consulted in what concerns you most personally. avoid in future to say much about your great _youth_ and _inexperience_. who made the letter? was it yourself, or came it from your mother? you have now the baron at your elbow, and even your mother was most anxious for his arrival. _speak sometimes with him_; it is necessary to accustom you to the thing. about the king's health.[ ] i am doubtful what to think. we have foreseen the case and treated it formerly. the great thing would be to make no change, to keep ministers and everything as it is, and to gain time; in this way _no one is hurt and no amour-propre blessé_. for this reason i lean to your keeping, to begin with, sir herbert taylor[ ] for your _official_ secretary, though i am not quite _decided_ on the subject. he knows the manner in which the _daily business_ is carried on; this is important. i believe him, and have found him to be an honest man, that would do for state matters; it would not be required that he should be your _confidential_ adviser. now i conclude, and send you this letter through stockmar. my best regards to lehzen. ever your faithful uncle and friend, leopold r. [footnote : the king had offered the princess an establishment of £ , a year, independent of her mother. this was accepted, to the great vexation of the duchess of kent, but the arrangement was not carried into effect.] [footnote : king william's health was at this time causing much anxiety.] [footnote : private secretary to king william iv.] [pageheading: birthday rejoicings] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th may ._ ... the demonstrations of affection and kindness from all sides towards me on my birthday, were most gratifying. the parks and streets were crowded all day as though something very extraordinary had happened. yesterday i received twenty-two addresses from various places, all very pretty and loyal; one in particular was very well written which was presented by mr. attwood[ ] from the political union at birmingham. i am delighted to hear stockmar is at length arrived; he reached london on wednesday, and we shall see him to-day. how distressed i am that poor dear ernest[ ] has been so ill! thank god! that he is now better. the spanish affairs have turned out better than you had expected; the triumphant capture of irun[ ] was a great thing for the christinos. the king is much better. [footnote : thomas attwood founded in the birmingham political union, which helped to pass the reform act. previously he had been known for his opposition to the orders in council, and the resumption of cash payments. birmingham elected him without opposition in , and he sat till .] [footnote : prince ernest of saxe-coburg.] [footnote : the frontier town of spain, near st sebastian, captured, th may, by the christinos, supported by british troops.] [pageheading: advice and encouragement] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ tuileries, _ th june ._ ... the _entrée_[ ] last sunday was something remarkably splendid; we saw it from the tuileries, as we had nothing to do with the business itself, and your aunt's rank would have clashed with that of the duchess of orleans. the effect of all this on the people of this great town has been _very great_, and evidently much ground has been solidly regained. the king, getting out of that sort of confinement in which it was necessary to keep, has gained much in personal comfort, and also in a political point of view; because to have a king who cannot show himself without being shot at, is a state of society which lowers his authority.... for the present the best plan is to continue to act as you have done hitherto; to avoid quarrels, but also to stick _firmly to your resolution when once_ taken. the violence which is sometimes shown is so well known to you, you know also so well that you have nothing to fear from these people, that _you must keep up your usual cool spirit_, whatever may be tried in the house to _teaze you out of it_. i mean to wait some more detailed accounts of what is going on in england before i give my opinion on what ought to be done in the case that the king's disease should take a more fatal turn. as i told you before, however, when we treated this subject verbally and in writing, i believe it to be your interest to act very mildly, _to begin by taking everything as the king leaves it_. by this system you avoid disappointing those whose hopes may remain unchanged, as your own choices, as it were, are not yet made. parties, which at present are so nearly balanced, remain _in statu quo_, and you gain time. i must conclude now this letter. my winding up is, keep your mind _cool_ and _easy_; be _not alarmed_ at the prospect of becoming perhaps sooner than you expected queen; aid will not be wanting, and the great thing is that you should have some honest people about you who have your welfare _really at heart_. stockmar will be in this respect all we can wish, and we must hope that _useful_ occupation will prevent his health from suffering. now once more god bless you. ever, my dear child, your faithful uncle and friend, leopold r. [footnote : the entry into paris of the duke and duchess of orleans, who had been married at fontainebleau on may th.] [pageheading: the accession imminent] _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th june ._ my beloved child,--i hope that to-day will not pass over without bringing me a letter from you. in the meantime i will begin this epistle, which will go by a messenger of my own to-morrow. in every letter i shall write to you i mean to repeat to you, as a _fundamental rule_, _to be courageous, firm and honest, as you have been till now_. you may count upon my faithful good offices in all difficulties, and you have at your command stockmar, whose _judgment_, _heart_, and _character_ offer all the guarantees we can wish for. i wish nothing but to see you _happy and prosperous_, and by sunday i shall probably write you a long letter, which will enter into details about most things. my object is that you should be no one's _tool_, and though young, and naturally not yet experienced, your good natural sense and the _truth_ of your character will, with faithful and proper advice, get you very well through the difficulties of your future position, should it be the will of providence to take the king from this earthly life. of his real position i am still not quite able to judge, there being so much contradictory in the reports. be this as it may, the great thing for you is, not to be hurried into important measures, and to _gain time_. a new reign is always a time of hope; everybody is disposed to see something for his own wishes and prospects. the policy of a new sovereign must therefore be to act in such a manner as to hurt as little as possible the _amour-propre_ of people, to let circumstances and the force of things bring about the disappointments which no human power could prevent coming sooner or later: that they should come as _late_ as possible is in your interest. should anything happen to the king before i can enter more fully into the necessary details, limit yourself to _taking kindly_ and in a _friendly_ manner the present administration into your service. they are _naturally friendly to your interests_, _as you are in fact the only possible sovereign of the whole family_, with the exception of the duke of sussex, they can _serve_ with _sincerity_ and _attachment_. this is of great importance to you, as it is by no means the same thing to have people who aid and assist you with feelings of real attachment, or merely from cold and calculating motives of political expediency and self-interest. this being done, no other step should be taken without consulting seriously. the very time which is necessary to attain this end is favourable to you, as it is your greatest interest for the _present moment_ to act most cautiously and to gain as much _time_ as possible. in high positions it is excessively difficult to _retrace_ a false move to get out of a mistake; and there exists very rarely, except in time of war and civil feuds, a necessity for an _immediate_ decision. your part must be, to resume once more what i said before, to remain as long as possible _agreeable_ to all parties, and after the formation of the ministry, to be most careful how you take any measure of importance.... [pageheading: the king's illness] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th june ._ my beloved uncle,--... i cannot say how happy i am that the _entrée publique_ into paris succeeded so well, and that the dear king was so well received; i trust he will now at last be rewarded for all the troubles and anxiety he has had ever since . lord palmerston said that the french say that _l'assassinat est hors de mode_. i hope and trust in heaven that this may be the case, and _for ever_! you know, of course, dear uncle, how _very ill_ the king is; it may _all be over_ at _any moment_, and yet _may_ last a few days. consequently, we have not been out anywhere in public since tuesday, th, and since wednesday all my lessons are stopped, as the news may arrive very suddenly.... _the king of the belgians to the princess victoria._ laeken, _ th june ._ my beloved child,--... i shall to-day enter on the subject of what is to be done when the king ceases to live. the moment you get official communication of it, you will entrust lord melbourne with the office of retaining the present administration as your ministers. you will do this in that honest and kind way which is quite your own, and say some kind things on the subject. the fact is that the present ministers are those who will serve you personally with the greatest _sincerity_ and, i trust, attachment. for them, as well as for the liberals at large, you are the _only_ sovereign that offers them _des chances d'existence et de durée_. with the exception of the duke of sussex, there is no _one_ in the family that offers them anything like what they can reasonably hope from you, and your immediate successor, with the mustaches,[ ] is enough to frighten them into the most violent attachment for you. ... the irksome position in which you have lived will have the merit to have given you the habit of _discretion_ and _prudence_, as in your position you never can have _too much_ of either. great measures of state i hope you will be able to avoid at first. i have already--if you would read it over, and perhaps let stockmar see it--written to you some months ago on the subject of the necessity of maintaining the influence of conservative principles, and of protecting the church. you will do well to keep both objects in view. you will do wisely by showing yourself attached to the english protestant church as it exists in the state; you are particularly where you are, because you are a protestant. i know you are averse to persecution, and you are right; miss, however, _no opportunity_ to show your sincere feeling for the existing church; it is _right_ and _meet_ that you should do so. i must repeat that you will do well as long as it will be possible to hurt no one's hopes or prospects. that this will not always, or very long, be possible is the consequence of the state of parties; still, one may be frank and honest, and still kind to all. concerning foreign policy i shall write on some future occasion. in the meantime i trust you will protect the two queens in the peninsula, who are miserably ill off. i am sure, with your good sense you will not find it difficult to judge questions yourself. i cannot too much recommend this, as it will then become a habit, and even an amusement to you. cultivate always a genuine feeling of right and wrong, and be very true and honourable in your dealings; this gives great strength. i have taken into consideration the advantage or disadvantage of my coming over to you _immediately_. the result of my _examen_ is that i think it better to visit you later. if, however, you wanted me at any time, i should come in a moment. people might fancy i came to enslave you, while i glory in the contrary; and, thirdly, that they might be jealous, or _affect_ it at least, of my coming, as if i thought of ruling the realm for _purposes of my own_.... i am now at the end, i think, of what i had to say. may heaven bless you and keep up your spirits. ever, my beloved child, your faithful uncle and friend, leopold r. pardon the hurry in which this letter was written. [footnote : the duke of cumberland.] [pageheading: the king's condition hopeless] _the princess victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th june ._ my dearly beloved uncle,--your _kind_ and _dear_ letter, containing _most wholesome_, _prudent_, _sound_ and _excellent_ advice, was given me by our _good_ and _invaluable honest_ friend, stockmar, and i beg you to accept my best thanks for it. before i say anything else, let me tell you how happy and thankful i am to have stockmar here; he has _been_, and _is_, of the _greatest_ possible use, and be assured, dearest uncle, that he possesses my _most entire confidence_! the king's state, i may fairly say, is _hopeless_; he may _perhaps_ linger a few days, but he cannot recover _ultimately_. yesterday the physicians declared he could not live till the morning, but to-day he is a little better; the great fear is his _excessive_ weakness and no _pulse_ at all. poor old man! i feel sorry for him; he was always personally kind to me, and i should be ungrateful and devoid of feeling if i did not remember this. i look forward to the event which it seems is likely to occur soon, with calmness and quietness; i am not alarmed at it, and yet i do not suppose myself quite equal to all; i trust, however, that with _good-will_, _honesty_, and _courage_ i shall not, at all events, _fail_. your advice is most excellent, and you may depend upon it i shall make use of it, and follow it, as also what stockmar says. i _never showed_ myself, _openly_, to belong to _any party_, and i _do not_ belong to any party. the administration will undoubtedly be well received by me, the more so as i have _real_ confidence in them, and in particular in lord melbourne, who is a straightforward, honest, clever and good man. i need not add much more, dearest uncle, but that i trust that the all-powerful being who has so long watched over my destinies will guide and support me, in whatever situation and station it may please him to place me!... [pageheading: the accession] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th june ._ viscount melbourne[ ] presents his humble duty to your majesty, and being aware that your majesty has already received the melancholy intelligence of the death of his late majesty, will do himself the honour of waiting upon your majesty a little before nine this morning. viscount melbourne has requested the marquis of lansdowne[ ] to name eleven as the hour for the meeting of the council at kensington palace. [footnote : lord melbourne, so far as can be augured from his handwriting, which is extremely difficult to decipher, appears always to have written his own name _melburne_. but it is not the correct spelling, and no one else seems to have employed it.] [footnote : lord president of the council; formerly for a brief period ( - ) chancellor of the exchequer.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th june _ (_half-past eight_ a.m.). dearest, most beloved uncle,--two words only, to tell you that my poor uncle, the king, expired this morning at twelve minutes past two. the melancholy news were brought to me by lord conyngham[ ] and the archbishop of canterbury[ ] at six. i expect lord melbourne almost immediately, and hold a council at eleven. ever, my beloved uncle, your devoted and attached niece, victoria r. [footnote : francis nathaniel, second marquis of conyngham, had been m.p. for westbury and donegal, and was now lord chamberlain.] [footnote : william howley ( - ), bishop of london - , primate - .] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th june ._ my dearest niece ... i feel most grateful for your kind letter full of sympathy with my irreparable loss, and thank you with all my heart for your feeling expressions on this melancholy occasion. i am, as you may suppose, deeply affected by all the sad scenes i have gone through lately; but i have the great comfort to dwell upon the recollection of the perfect resignation, piety, and patience with which the dear king bore his trials and sufferings, and the truly christian-like manner of his death. excuse my writing more at present, my heart is overwhelmed and my head aches very much. accept the assurance of my most affectionate devotion, and allow me to consider myself always as your majesty's most affectionate friend, aunt, and subject, adelaide. [pageheading: the queen's journal] [pageheading: the queen's first council] _extract from the queen's journal._ _tuesday, th june ._ i was awoke at o'clock by mamma, who told me that the archbishop of canterbury and lord conyngham were here, and wished to see me. i got out of bed and went into my sitting-room (only in my dressing-gown) and _alone_, and saw them. lord conyngham (the lord chamberlain) then acquainted me that my poor uncle, the king, was no more, and had expired at minutes past this morning, and consequently that i am _queen_. lord conyngham knelt down and kissed my hand, at the same time delivering to me the official announcement of the poor king's demise. the archbishop then told me that the queen was desirous that he should come and tell me the details of the last moments of my poor good uncle; he said that he had directed his mind to religion, and had died in a perfectly happy, quiet state of mind, and was quite prepared for his death. he added that the king's sufferings at the last were not very great but that there was a good deal of uneasiness. lord conyngham, whom i charged to express my feelings of condolence and sorrow to the poor queen, returned directly to windsor. i then went to my room and dressed. since it has pleased providence to place me in this station, i shall do my utmost to fulfil my duty towards my country; i am very young and perhaps in many, though not in all things, inexperienced, but i am sure that very few have more real goodwill and more real desire to do what is fit and right than i have. breakfasted, during which time good, faithful stockmar came and talked to me. wrote a letter to dear uncle leopold and a few words to dear good feodore. received a letter from lord melbourne in which he said he would wait upon me at a little before . at came lord melbourne, whom i saw in my room, and of _course quite alone_, as i shall _always_ do all my ministers. he kissed my hand, and i then acquainted him that it had long been my intention to retain him and the rest of the present ministry at the head of affairs, and that it could not be in better hands than his. he again then kissed my hand. he then read to me the declaration which i was to read to the council, which he wrote himself, and which is a very fine one. i then talked with him some little time longer, after which he left me. he was in full dress. i like him very much, and feel confidence in him. he is a very straightforward, honest, clever and good man. i then wrote a letter to the queen. at about lord melbourne came again to me, and spoke to me upon various subjects. at about half-past i went downstairs and held a council in the red saloon. i went in of course quite alone and remained seated the whole time. my two uncles, the dukes of cumberland and sussex, and lord melbourne conducted me. the declaration, the various forms, the swearing in of the privy councillors, of which there were a great number present, and the reception of some of the lords of the council, previous to the council, in an adjacent room (likewise alone) i subjoin here. i was _not_ at all nervous and had the satisfaction of hearing that people were satisfied with what i had done and how i had done it. received after this, audiences of lord melbourne, lord john russell, lord albemarle (master of the horse), and the archbishop of canterbury, all in my room and alone. saw stockmar. saw clark, whom i named my physician. saw mary. wrote to uncle ernest. saw ernest hohenlohe, who brought me a kind and very feeling letter from the poor queen. i feel very much for her, and really feel that the poor good king was always so kind personally to me, that i should be ungrateful were i not to recollect it and feel grieved at his death. the poor queen is wonderfully composed now, i hear. wrote my journal. took my dinner upstairs alone. went downstairs. saw stockmar. at about twenty minutes to came lord melbourne and remained till near . i had a very important and a very _comfortable_ conversation with him. each time i see him i feel more confidence in him; i find him very kind in his manner too. saw stockmar. went down and said good-night to mamma, etc. my _dear_ lehzen will _always_ remain with me as my friend, but will take no situation about me, and i think she is right. [pageheading: the house of commons] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ nd june ._ lord john russell[ ] presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that he presented to the house of commons this day your majesty's gracious message. he then moved an address of condolence and congratulation, which was seconded by sir robert peel. sir robert peel very properly took occasion to speak in terms of high admiration of the deportment of your majesty before the privy council on tuesday. the address was agreed to without a dissentient voice, and your majesty may rest assured that the house of commons is animated by a feeling of loyalty to the throne, and of devotion to your majesty. [footnote : writing as leader of the house of commons.] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ (undated--_ nd or rd june ._) my dearest niece,--i am most grateful for your amiable letter and truly kind offer to come and see me next week. any day convenient to your majesty will be agreeable to me, the sooner the better, for i am equally anxious to see you again, and to express to you in person all that i feel for you at this trying moment. if monday will suit you i shall be ready to receive you and your dear mother on that day. my prayers are with you and my blessing follows you in all you have to go through. my health is as well as it can be after the great exertions i have suffered, and i try to keep up under my heavy trial and deep affliction. my best wishes attend you, my dearest niece, and i am for ever your majesty's most affectionate and faithful friend, aunt and subject, adelaide. [pageheading: congratulations] _the king of the french to queen victoria._ paris, _le juin ._ madame ma s[oe]ur,--j'ai appris avec une vive peine la perte que votre majesté vient de faire dans la personne de son très cher et bien aimé oncle le roi guillaume iv. d'auguste et vénérable mémoire. la vive et sincère amitié que je porte à votre majesté, et à ceux qui lui sont chers, les liens de parenté qui rapprochent nos deux familles par l'alliance de ma fille chérie avec le roi des belges votre oncle bien aimé, et enfin le souvenir qui m'est toujours bien cher de la tendre amitié qui m'attachait au feu prince votre père, depuis que nous nous étions vus en amérique, il y a déjà trente-huit ans,[ ] me déterminent à ne pas attendre les formalités d'usage, pour offrir à votre majesté mes félicitations sur son avènement au trône de la grande-bretagne. il m'est doux de penser que l'heureuse direction que la princesse votre excellente et bien aimée mère a si sagement donnée à votre jeune âge, vous met à portée de supporter dignement le grand fardeau qui vous est échu. je fais les v[oe]ux les plus sincères pour que la providence bénisse votre règne, et qu'il soit une époque de bonheur et de prospérité pour les peuples que vous êtes appelée a gouverner. puissiez-vous aussi jouir longtemps de tout le bonheur personnel que je vous souhaite du fond de mon c[oe]ur. je serai toujours bien empressé de manifester à votre majesté tous les sentiments d'attachement et d'affection que je lui porte. qu'elle me permette d'y ajouter l'expression de la haute estime et de l'inviolable amitié avec lesquelles je ne cesserai d'être, madame ma s[oe]ur, de votre majesté le bon frère, louis philippe r. [footnote : in the duke of kent was commander-in-chief in british north america.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ rd june ._ my beloved child,--your new dignities will not change or increase my old affection for you; may heaven assist you, and may i have the _happiness of being able to be of use to you_, and to contribute to those successes in your new career for which i am so anxious. your letter of the th, written very shortly before the important event took place, gave me _great satisfaction_; it showed me a temper of mind well calculated for the occasion. to see the difficulties of the task without shrinking from them or feeling alarm, and to meet them with courage, is the way to succeed. i have often seen that the _confidence_ of success has been the _cause of the success itself_, and you will do well to _preserve_ that sentiment. i have been most happy to learn that the swearing in of the council passed so well. the declaration in the newspapers i find simple and appropriate. the translation in the papers says, "_j'ai été élevés en angleterre._" . i should advise to say as often as possible that you are _born_ in england. george iii. _gloried_ in this, and as _none_ of your cousins are born in england, it is your interest _de faire reporter cela fortement_. . you never can say too much in praise of your country and its inhabitants. two nations in europe are really almost ridiculous in their own exaggerated praises of themselves; these are the english and the french. your being very national is highly important, and as you happen to be born in england and never to have left it a moment,[ ] it would be odd enough if people tried to make out the contrary. . the established church i also recommend strongly; you cannot, without _pledging_ yourself to anything _particular_, _say too much on the subject_. . before you decide on anything important i should be glad if you would consult me; this would also have the advantage of giving you time. in politics most measures will come in time within a certain number of days; to retrace or back out of a measure is on the contrary extremely _difficult_, and almost always _injurious_ to the highest authority. [footnote : the duke and duchess of kent were settled at amorbach, in leiningen, till a short time before the birth of their child, when they came to kensington.] [pageheading: the ministers] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th june ._ my beloved uncle,--though i have an _immense_ deal of _business_ to do, i shall write you a few lines to thank you for your kind and useful letter of the rd, which i have just received. _your_ advice is always of the _greatest importance_ to me. respecting claremont, stockmar will be able to explain to you the _total_ impossibility of my being out of london, as i must see my ministers _every_ day. i am _very_ well, sleep well, and drive every evening in the country; it is so hot that walking is out of the question. before i go further let me pause to tell you how fortunate i am to have at the head of the government a man like lord melbourne. i have seen him now every day, with the exception of friday, and the more i see him, the more confidence i have in him; he is not only a clever statesman and an honest man, but a good and a kind-hearted man, whose aim is to do his duty for his country and not for a _party_. he is of the greatest use to me both politically and privately. i have seen almost all my other ministers, and do regular, hard, but to _me delightful_, work with them. it is to me the _greatest pleasure_ to do my duty for my country and my people, and no fatigue, however great, will be burdensome to me if it is for the welfare of the nation. stockmar will tell you all these things. i have reason to be highly pleased with all my ministers, and hope to god that the elections[ ] may be favourable, as i well know that the present ministry is the best and most moderate we can have. do not, my dearly beloved uncle, fear for my health; i shall take _good_ care of it. i beg your advice on the enclosed paper. ever your devoted and grateful niece and affectionate _child_, victoria r. [footnote : at that time rendered necessary by the demise of the crown.] [pageheading: deliberation advised] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th june ._ my dear child,--... now i must touch on another subject which is of vital importance for you and your comfort, viz. the habits of business which you will contract now. the best plan is to devote certain hours to it; if you do that, you will get through it with great ease. i think you would do well to tell your ministers that for the present you would be ready to receive those who should wish to see you between the hours of eleven and half-past one. this will not plague you much, and will be sufficient in most cases for the usual business that is to be transacted. i shall add to this a piece of advice. whenever a question is of some importance, it should not be decided on the day when it is submitted to you. whenever it is not an urgent one, i make it a rule not to let any question be forced upon my _immediate_ decision; it is really not doing oneself justice _de décider des questions sur le pouce_. and even when in my mind i am disposed to accede, still i always keep the papers with me some little time before i return them. the best mode for you will be, that each minister should bring his box with him, and when he submits to you the papers, _explain them to you_. then you will keep the papers, either to think yourself upon it or to consult somebody, and either return them the next time you see the minister to whom they belong, or send them to him. good habits formed _now_ may for ever afterwards be kept up, and will become so natural to you that you will not find them at all fatiguing. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ kensington palace, _ th june ._ the queen has received lord melbourne's communication, and thinks, as prince ernest of hesse goes to the funeral, it would be proper the prince of leiningen should do just the same. the queen requests that lord melbourne will be so good as to take care that the prince of leiningen is informed as to the proper dress he ought to wear on the occasion. lord albemarle mentioned yesterday to the queen, that all the ladies' saddle-horses, including the queen-dowager's own favourite horses, belonged to the queen; but it strikes her that it would be well if the queen was to give the queen-dowager the choice of two or three of her own horses, and that she might keep them. the queen would wish lord melbourne to give her his opinion on this subject.... [pageheading: stockmar] [pageheading: subjects for study] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th june ._ my dearest child,--... i am glad to see that you are so much pleased with lord melbourne. i believe him to be as you think him. his character is a guarantee which is valuable, and remember that _cleverness_ and _talent_, _without an honest heart and character_, _will never do for your minister_. i shall name nobody, but what i said just now applies to some people you have recently seen. i am so happy that you enter into the important affairs which providence has entrusted to you with so much interest and spirit; if you continue you will be _sure of success_, and your own conscience will give you the most delightful and satisfactory feelings. to be _national_ is the _great thing_, and i was sure you would agree with what i said repeatedly to you on this _vital subject_, and you will be certain in this way of the _love_ of the nation you govern. i recommend to your kind attention what stockmar will think it his duty to tell you; he will never press anything, never plague you with anything, without the thorough conviction that it is indispensable for your welfare. i can guarantee his independence of mind and disinterestedness; nothing makes an impression upon him but what his experience makes him feel to be of importance for you. i am delighted with your plan. you will recollect that i pressed upon you repeatedly how necessary it was for you to continue your studies on a more _extended_ scale, more appropriate to the station you were destined once to fill. no one is better qualified to direct those studies for the next few years than stockmar, few people possess more general information, and very, very few have been like him educated, as it were, by fate itself since . there is no branch of information in which he may not prove useful-- ( ) history, considered in a practical and philosophical way; ( ) international law and everything connected with it; ( ) political economy, an important branch nowadays; ( ) classic studies; ( ) _belles lettres_ in general; ( ) physical science in all its branches, etc., etc.--the list would be very long if i were to enumerate it all. the _sooner_ you do this the better; in all countries and at all times men like stockmar have filled similar situations, even in the most bigoted and jealous countries, such as spain, austria, etc. you will have him in this case _constantly near you without_ anybody having the right of finding fault with it, and to be useful to you he should be near you. stockmar would have the _immense_ advantage, for so young a queen, to be a _living_ dictionary of all matters scientific and politic that happened these thirty years, which to you is of the greatest importance, because you _must study_ the political history of at least the last thirty-seven years _more particularly_. i had begun something of the sort with you, even so far back as george ii.; you will do well to go through the reign of george iii., and to follow the various circumstances which brought on finally the present state of affairs.... my letter grows too long, and you will not have time to read it; i will therefore come to an end, remaining ever, my beloved victoria, your faithfully attached uncle and friend, leopold r. [pageheading: spanish affairs] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ rd july ._ my dearest uncle,--i had the happiness of receiving your kind letter of th june yesterday, and hasten to thank you for it. your dear and kind letters, full of kind and excellent advice, will always be of the greatest use to me, and will always be my delight. you may depend upon it that i shall profit by your advice, as i have already so often done. i was sure you would be of my opinion relative to lord melbourne. indeed, dearest uncle, nothing is to be done without a good heart and an honest mind; i have, alas! seen so much of bad hearts and dishonest and _double_ minds, that i know how to value and appreciate _real worth_. all is going on well at present, and the elections promise to be favourable. god grant they may be so! i had a very long and highly interesting conversation with palmerston on saturday, about turkey, russia, etc., etc. i trust something may be done for my sister queens. they have got a constitution in spain at length, and the cortes have done very well. we hope also to conclude a treaty of commerce with the spaniards shortly, which would be an immense thing. if you could get my kind and dear friend louis philippe, whom i do so respect, and for whom i have a great affection, to do something for poor spain, it would be of great use. i am quite _penetrated_ by the king's kindness in sending good old general baudrand[ ] and the duc d'elchingen[ ] over to compliment me; baudrand did it very well, and with much good feeling. in portugal, affairs look very black, i grieve to say. they have no money, and the _chartists_ want to bring about another counter-revolution, which would be fatal to the poor queen's interests, i fear. that you approve my plan about stockmar i am delighted to hear. i hope to go into buckingham palace very shortly after the funeral. now, dearest uncle, i must invite you _en forme_. i should be most _delighted_ if you, dearest aunt louise, and leopold (_j'insiste_) could come about the _middle_ or _end_ of _august_. then i should beg you would stay a little longer than usual, a fortnight at _least_. you could bring as many gentlemen, ladies, _bonnes_, etc., etc., as you pleased, and i should be _too_ happy and proud to have you under _my own_ roof.... [footnote : general comte baudrand ( - ).] [footnote : son of marshal ney.] _the earl of liverpool to baron stockmar._ _ th july ._ went about half-past ten o'clock to apsley house, and told the duke of wellington the whole of my communication with the queen, duchess of kent, and sir john conroy on th june, also of my communication subsequently with lord melbourne, all of which he very much approved of. he said that he was quite sure that the queen would find lord melbourne an honourable man, and one in whom her majesty might put confidence; that he was a man apt to treat matters too lightly, or, as he expressed it, a _poco curante_, but in the main an honest and an honourable man. upon my speaking to him of the kind and paternal conduct of king leopold towards his niece, he said that he was fully persuaded of this, and should at all and any time be ready to uphold it by his approbation, but that he had no immediate connection with the press, whose attacks indeed he held very cheap, though they were frequently very offensive. he then asked me whether it was not true that the queen had thought of some reviews at which she would appear on horseback. i said there had been some talk of it. he desired me to say that he thought this would be very dangerous, that she had much better do this in an open carriage, as no one except such as himself knew how difficult it was to get steady riding horses, and besides that, she could not be attended by any female, and that this would appear indelicate. [pageheading: queen adelaide] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th july ._ my dearest niece,--i must, before i leave this dear castle, once more express to you the grateful sense i entertain for the kind treatment i have experienced from you since it has pleased our heavenly father to put you in possession of it. you have contributed much to my comfort under all the painful and distressing circumstances of this time of woe, and i assure you that i ever shall remember it with sincere gratitude. i hope that you continue quite well and do not suffer from the exertions and duties of your new position. my best wishes and prayers attend you on all occasions, for i shall be for the rest of my life devoted and attached to you as your most affectionate aunt and subject, adelaide. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ kensington palace, _ th july ._ the queen regrets very much to hear of lord melbourne's indisposition, and trusts it will be of no duration. the queen has just seen the lord chamberlain and has given him all her orders. the lord chamberlain says that he will do everything in his power to facilitate the queen's going into buckingham palace on thursday. the queen fears that there may have been some mistake with respect to the chapter of the garter, for lord conyngham,[ ] as well as several others, imagined it would be held on _wednesday_ instead of _friday_. the queen requests lord melbourne to rectify this mistake, as it is the queen's intention to hold the chapter on _friday_. [footnote : the lord chamberlain.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th july ._ my dearest, best uncle,--... i have got very little time and very little to say. i _really_ and _truly_ go into buckingham palace the day after to-morrow, but i must say, though i am very glad to do so, i feel sorry to leave for _ever_ my poor old birthplace.... _ th._--i shall not go out of town, i think, before the th or thereabouts of next month. windsor requires thorough cleaning, and i must say i could not think of going in sooner after the poor king's death. windsor always appears very melancholy to me, and there are so many sad associations with it. these will vanish, i daresay, if i see you there soon after my arrival there. i have very pleasant large dinners every day. i invite my premier generally once a week to dinner as i think it right to show publicly that i esteem him and have confidence in him, as he has behaved so well. stockmar is of this opinion and is his great admirer.... [pageheading: madame de lieven] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ neuilly, _ th july ._ ... having still a few moments before a special messenger sets off, i take advantage of it to add a few words. by all i can hear, there are many intrigues on foot in england at this moment. princess lieven[ ] and another individual recently imported from her country seem to be very active in what concerns them not; beware of them. a rule which i cannot sufficiently recommend is, _never to permit_ people to speak on subjects concerning yourself or your affairs, without your having yourself desired them to do so. the moment a person behaves improperly on this subject, change the conversation, and make the individual feel that he has made a mistake.... people will certainly try to speak to you on your _own personal_ affairs; decline it boldly, and they will leave you alone.... now i conclude with my warmest wishes for your happiness. ever, my dear victoria, your faithfully attached uncle and friend, leopold r. [footnote : the princess dorothea de benckendorff married the count de lieven at fifteen; in , he became russian minister (and later ambassador) in london, whither she accompanied him. she was a woman of extraordinary cleverness, enjoying the confidence of george iv., liverpool, canning, castlereagh, and wellington. inspiring the efforts, and even composing the despatches of her husband, she became herself the confidential correspondent of nesselrode, esterhazy, posso di borgo, guizot, and lord aberdeen. in , the lievens returned to st petersburg, where the emperor nicholas, though indifferent to the society of women of talent, showed her special marks of regard. her husband died at rome, in january , and she established herself in paris, afterwards seeking a home in england during the troubles of . returning to paris, her _salon_ became again the resort of diplomatists, politicians, and men of the world. she died in january . madame de lieven about this time told greville that she had had an audience of the queen, "who was very civil and gracious, but timid and embarrassed, and talked of nothing but commonplaces"; and greville adds that the queen "had probably been told that the princess was an _intrigante_, and was afraid of committing herself." madame de lieven wrote to lord aberdeen on the th july :-- j'ai vu la reine deux fois, je l'ai vue seule, et je l'ai vue dans la société du soir, et avec son premier ministre. elle a un aplomb, un air de commandement, de dignité, qui avec son visage enfantin, sa petite taille, et son joli sourire, forment certainement le spectacle le plus extraordinaire qu'il soit possible de se figurer. elle est d'une extrême réserve dans son discours. on croit que la prudence est une de ses premières qualités. lord melbourne a auprès d'elle un air d'amour, de contentement, de vanité même, et tout cela mêlé avec beaucoup de respect, des attitudes très à son aise, une habitude de première place dans son salon, de la rêverie, de la gaieté, vous voyez tout cela. la reine est pleine d'aimables sourires pour lui. la société le soir n'était composée que du household de la reine, de tout le household de la duchesse de kent (moins la famille conroy, qui n'approche pas du palais), et de quelques étrangers. la duchesse de kent est parfaitement mécontente,--elle m'en a même parlé. je doute que la mère et la fllle habitent longtemps sous le même toit. quant à lord melbourne, il me semble que la duchesse le déteste. il est évident qu'il est dans la possession entière et exclusive de la confiance de la reine, et que ses ressentiments, comme ses peines passées, sont confiés sans réserve à son premier ministre....] [pageheading: parliament prorogued] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th july ._ my beloved uncle,--... i have been so busy, i can say but two words more, which are that i prorogued parliament yesterday in person, was very well received, and am not at all tired to-day, but quite frisky. there is to be no review _this year_, as i was determined to have it only if i _could ride_, and as i have not ridden for two years, it was better not. believe me, always, your devoted niece, victoria r. _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ stanhope street, _ nd july ._ ... with regard to count orloff,[ ] your majesty will probably renew to him, on his taking leave, the assurances which your majesty has already given, of your desire to cement and maintain the friendly alliance which subsists between the two crowns; and an expression might be repeated of the pleasure which your majesty has derived from the selection of a person who possesses the confidence and esteem of the emperor so fully as count orloff is known to do. it might, perhaps, be as well to avoid any allusion to your majesty's not being personally acquainted with the emperor, or anything that might be construed into an invitation to that sovereign to come to england, because viscount palmerston has reason to believe that any such hint would be eagerly caught at, while at the same time such a visit does not, under all circumstances, seem to be a thing particularly to be desired.... [footnote : the russian ambassador.] [pageheading: discretion advised] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th july ._ my dearest child,--... i hear that the levée went off very well, and i have no doubt that the drawing-room did the same. your _spirit_ in all these new and trying proceedings makes me _happy beyond expression_. believe me, with _courage_ and _honesty_, you will get on beautifully and successfully. the firmness you displayed at the beginning of your reign will be for your quiet of the utmost importance. people must come to the opinion _it is of no use intriguing, because when her mind is once made up, and she thinks a thing right_, no earthly power will make her change. to these qualities must be added one which is of great importance, this is _discretion_; humble as it seems, it has often brought about successes in which talent failed and genius did not succeed. discretion in the great affairs of the world does wonders, and safety depends frequently and is chiefly derived from it.... now i must quickly conclude, with the prayer that you will _not permit_ anybody, be it even your prime minister, to speak to you on matters that concern you _personally_, without _your_ having expressed the wish of its being done. you have no idea of the importance of this for your peace and comfort and safety. i always act on this principle, and i can say with great success. believe me ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th july ._ my dearest child,--your dear letter of the th inst. is, amongst _so many kind letters_, _almost the kindest i yet received_ from your dear hands. my happiness and my greatest pride will always be, to be a _tender and devoted father to you, my beloved child_, and to watch over you and stand by you with _heart_ and _soul as long_ as the heart which _loves_ you so sincerely will beat. i have no doubt that lord melbourne will always do everything in his power to be useful to you. his position is become extremely happy; after having been, under the late king at least, in an awkward position, he is now sure of enjoying your confidence and sincere support. if the elections turn out favourably to the ministry, it will, i hope, give them the means of trying to _conciliate_ the great mass of the _moderate_ tories, who from their nature and in consequence of their opinions are safe and desirable supporters of the crown. the two extremes will give them trouble, and the ultra-tories appear to me to be even the _more unreasonable_ of the two. i am most happy to see you on your guard against princess lieven and such-like people. your life amongst intriguers and tormented with intrigues has given you an experience on this important subject which you will do well not to lose sight of, as it will unfortunately often _reproduce itself_, though the names and manner of carrying on the thing may not be the same. i also think windsor a little melancholy, but i believe that one likes it more and more, as the park in particular is uncommonly beautiful. we shall try our best to enliven it by our presence, and probably soon after your arrival. i am most happy to see you so spirited and happy in your new position; it will go a great way to ensure your success, and your spirit and courage will never be _de trop_. now i will conclude for the day, not to bore you, and beg you always to believe me, my dear and beloved victoria, your devoted uncle and friend, leopold r. [pageheading: princess hohenlohe] _the princess hohenlohe to queen victoria._ langenburg, _ st july ._ my dearest victoria,--on arriving here, i found your dear letter of the th of this month; and some days ago i received the one of the th. many, many thanks for them both; it is indeed kind of you to write to me now when you have so much to do. you have no idea what a feeling it is, to hear and read of you, and to think that it is _you_, _my own dear sister_, who are the object of general observation, and, i may say, admiration; it is sometimes like a dream. for those who are near you it is quite different than for me, who have not seen you yet in your new position, but must represent to myself all through the report of others. the description in the papers of your proroguing parliament i read with great interest; it must have been an imposing moment for you, your standing for the first time in your life in the middle of that assembly where the interests and welfare of your country are discussed and decided upon. it is with pride, pleasure, and anxiety i think of you at the description of such scenes and occurrences. i saw too by the papers that your _incognito_ at the opera was not quite kept as you wished it.... [pageheading: the elections] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ st august ._ my dearest uncle,--... i should be _most_ happy to "peep once" into your country, and wish that it _could_ be. with respect to politics, lord melbourne told me this morning that he thinks the lords will be more moderate and reasonable next session. the duke of wellington made a speech shortly before the dissolution of parliament, in which he said that _he wished as much as the government did to pass the questions now pending_. you do not think alexander[ ] _near_ handsome enough in my opinion; you know, ladies are much better judges. he is somewhat colossal, i own, but very proportionate and good-looking, i think. i am all impatience to hear more about all this, and when you imagine the marriage will take place. i have resumed my singing lessons with lablache[ ] twice a week, which form an agreeable recreation in the midst of all the business i have to do. he is such a good old soul, and greatly pleased that i go on with him. i admire the music of the _huguenots_ very much, but do not sing it, as i prefer italian to french for singing greatly. i have been learning in the beginning of the season many of your old favourites, which i hope to sing with you when we meet. i wish i could keep lablache to sing with us, but he will be gone by that time, i greatly fear. now farewell, my beloved uncle. give my affectionate love to my dear aunt, and believe me always, your devoted niece, victoria r. _j'embrasse léopold et philippe._ [footnote : prince alexander of würtemberg, betrothed to princess marie of orleans, daughter of louis philippe. she died th january . see letter of queen victoria to the king of the belgians, th january .] [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. v, footnote )] [pageheading: the elections] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th august ._ my beloved uncle,--... with respect to the elections, they are, i'm thankful to say, rather favourable, though not quite so much so as we could wish. but upon the whole we shall have as good a house as we had, and, _i_ hope (as lord melbourne does also), a more moderate one than the last one. the irish elections are very favourable to us; we have gained six in the english boroughs, and lost, i grieve to say, several in the counties. the country is very quiet, and i have good reason to believe all will do very well. the king of würtemberg is to arrive to-night, under the name of count teck, and wishes to be in strict _incognito_. he comes on purpose to see me; you know he is my second cousin--his mother[ ] was sister to queen caroline and daughter to my grand-aunt.[ ] i shall give the king a large dinner on friday and a little concert after it.... [footnote : queen augusta of würtemberg.] [footnote : augusta, duchess of brunswick, sister of george iii.] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ endsleigh, _ th august ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to lay before your majesty a general statement of the result of the elections, which, with the exception of one or two doubtful counties in ireland, may be said to be completed.... it is not to be denied that this near balance of parties makes the task of conducting the government difficult for any ministry. on the other hand, the circumstances of the country do not present any extraordinary difficulty, and were any such to arise, the general composition of the new house of commons affords a security that the maintenance of the constitution and the welfare of the country would be permanent objects to the majority of its members.[ ] lord john russell had some time ago the honour of stating to your majesty that the return of mr fox maule for perthshire, and of mr hume for middlesex, were hardly to be expected. in this as in many other instances the superior organisation of the tory party have enabled them to gain the appearance of a change of opinion, which has not in fact taken place. lord john russell is sorry to add that bribery, intimidation, and drunkenness have been very prevalent at the late elections, and that in many cases the disposition to riot has only been checked by the appearance of the military, who have in all cases conducted themselves with great temper and judgment. [footnote : while the extreme radicals were in several cases defeated, the number of o'connell's followers was decidedly increased. the general balance of parties was not much affected, though the complaint made by mr roebuck, the radical member for bath, in the last days of william iv.'s reign, that there was no government, and that the machinery of legislation was at a dead stop, was no longer warranted.] [pageheading: leaving windsor] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ endsleigh, _ st august ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to submit to your majesty a letter from the earl of coventry requesting an audience. it is usual for the sovereign to receive any peer who may be desirous of an audience, without any other person being present. but if the peer who is thus admitted to the honour of an audience should enter upon political topics, it has been the custom for your majesty's predecessors merely to hear what is offered, and not to give any opinion, or to enter into any discussion or conversation upon such topics. should your majesty be pleased to grant lord coventry's request of an audience, perhaps the most convenient course will be that the lord-in-waiting should signify to him, direct from windsor, your majesty's pleasure. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._[ ] windsor castle, _ th september ._ (_ m(inutes) p(ast) ._) my dearest, most beloved uncle,--one line to express to you, _imperfectly_, my thanks for all your _very_ great kindness to me, and _my great_, _great_ grief at your departure! god knows _how sad_, _how forlorn_, i feel! _how_ i _shall_ miss you, my dearest, dear uncle! _every, every where_! _how_ i shall miss your conversation! _how_ i shall miss your _protection_ out riding! oh! i feel _very_, _very_ sad, and cannot speak of you both without crying! farewell, my beloved uncle and _father!_ may heaven bless and protect you; and do not forget your most affectionate, devoted, and attached niece and _child_, victoria r. [footnote : written on the conclusion of a visit of the king of the belgians to england.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians_. windsor castle, _ rd october ._ my beloved uncle,--... i am quite sad to leave this fine place, where, if it had not been for the meeting of parliament _so_ early this year, i would have remained till november. i have passed _such_ a pleasant time here, the _pleasantest summer_ i have _ever_ passed in my life; i have had the _great_ happiness of having you and my beloved aunt here, i have had pleasant people staying with me, and i have had delicious rides which have done me more good than anything. it will be such a break-up of our little circle! besides my own people, lord melbourne and lord palmerston are the only people who have been _staying_ here, and this little party was very social and agreeable. the princess augusta of saxony[ ] has been here for two nights; she is neither young nor handsome, but a very kind good person. the news from portugal are bad which i got this morning. the civil war is _ended_, and the _chartists_ have been _completely defeated_; this is sad enough, but i was fearful of it: a counter-revolution _never_ does well.[ ] _en revanche_, the news from spain are by far better.... believe me always, in haste, your devoted and affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : daughter of king frederick augustus of saxony.] [footnote : on july st a new ministry had come into power in portugal. the finances of the country were in great confusion, a military insurrection broke out in the north at braga, the ministry resigned, and a new ministry came into office in august. on the th august, the duke of terceira, followed by many persons of distinction, joined the insurgents, and, establishing himself at mafra, advanced upon lisbon with the chartist troops, issuing a proclamation of provisional regency. a convention was eventually signed, and the cortes proceeded to discuss measures of constitutional reform.] [pageheading: reception at brighton] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and in acknowledging your majesty's gracious communication, of yesterday returns his thanks for the very lively account which your majesty has given of the journey and the entrance into brighton. lord melbourne entirely partakes in the wish your majesty has been graciously pleased to express that he had been there to witness the scene; but your majesty will at once perceive that it was better that he was not, as in that case lord melbourne would have been accused of an attempt to take a political advantage of the general enthusiasm and to mix himself and the government with your majesty's personal popularity. lord melbourne fears that for some time your majesty will find yourself somewhat incommoded by the desire, which naturally prevails amongst all ranks and classes, to obtain an opportunity of seeing your majesty.... _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th october ._ ... i have also told stockmar to try to settle something for _regular_ safe communication; in quiet times like the present, one a week would be sufficient. you know now that all letters are read, and that should not be _always_ the case with ours. there is, however, one thing about which i think it right to warn you. this way of reading people's letters is often taken advantage of by the writers of them, who are _not so ignorant of the thing as is imagined_ to write the very subject which they wish to convey to the ears of persons without compromising themselves. i will give you an example: we are still plagued by prussia concerning those fortresses; now, to tell the prussian government many things, which we _should not like_ to tell them _officially_, the minister is going to write a despatch to our man at berlin, sending it _by post_; the prussians _are sure_ to read it, and to learn in this way what we wish them to hear. the diplomats in england may resort to this same mode of proceeding to injure people, to calumniate, and to convey to your knowledge such things as they may hope to have the effect of injuring some people _they may fear_, in your eyes. i tell you the _trick_, that you should be able to guard against it; it is of importance, and i have no doubt will be resorted to by various political people.... ever, my dearest victoria, your faithfully devoted uncle and friend, leopold r. [pageheading: england and france] [pageheading: louis philippe's policy] [pageheading: count molÉ] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ trianon, _ th october ._ my dearest victoria,--... there is a great disposition here to be on the best possible terms with england. as it has but too often happened that the diplomatic agents of the two countries have drawn, or been believed to draw, different ways, i recommended strongly to count molé[ ] to give strong and clear instructions to his people, particularly at madrid, lisbon, and athens.... he is going to read them to lord granville, and also to communicate as much as possible all the despatches of the french diplomats to the english government. this will be a proof of confidence, and it will besides have the advantage of giving often useful information, enabling thereby the english government to hear two opinions instead of one. it cannot be denied that the idea that the plenipotentiaries of the two countries were following two different lines of policy has been hurtful to the causes of the two queens in the peninsula. to put a stop to this double action is the only benefit which the queens will at present derive from a better understanding between england and france; but as it is, it will be still of some importance to them, and take away from the different political parties the possibility of using the pretended misunderstanding against the government of the queens. i trust that you will tell your ministers to meet this friendly disposition with frankness and kindness. the wish of the king here is, to have matters concerted between the plenipotentiaries of both countries. in this way it would become difficult for the parties in spain or portugal to say that the two plenipotentiaries support different candidates for ministerial power, and the division in the parties connected with the queens might be in this manner _prevented_ or _reconciled_. many and many are the ill-natured hints thrown out against the king's policy here, and because he is clever, he is suspected of having _ambitious schemes without end_; it may not be without some importance to set this, in your mind at least, to rights. whatever may have been the king's views immediately after the revolution of july[ ] i will not decide; perhaps he may a moment have wished to be able to do something for france. supposing this for the sake of argument to have been so, two months of his reign were sufficient to show him that the great question was not to conquer territories or foreign influence, but to save monarchy. he saw clearly that though _he_ might begin a war, necessarily it would soon degenerate into a war of propaganda, and that he and his family would be the first victims of it. his struggle has constantly been to strengthen his government, to keep together or create anew the elements indispensable for a monarchical government, and this struggle is far from being at its end, and most probably the remainder of his life will be devoted to this important task; and whatever may be the more lively disposition of the duke of orleans, great part of his reign if he comes to the throne, and perhaps the _whole_ of it, will, _bon gré mal gré_, take the same turn. that it should be so _is very natural_, because of _what use_ would be some _foreign provinces_ if they would only add to the difficulty of governing the old? therefore, knowing as i do all the proceedings of the king and his cabinet, even more fully than i do those of your government; seeing constantly in the most unreserved manner the whole of the despatches; knowing as the nearest neighbour the system that they constantly followed up towards us, i must say that no one is more against acquiring influence in foreign states, or even getting burthened with family aggrandisement in them, than he. he rejected most positively the marriage of joinville with donna maria because he will not have anything to do with portugal. he rejects a _mille_ times the idea of a future union of the queen of spain with aumale, because he will not have a son where it _is not_ his intention to support him. his fear of being drawn into a real intervention has been the cause of his having been so anxious not to have a french legion in spain. he may be right or wrong on this subject--i do not decide this, as i was of a different opinion last year; but his fear of being drawn too far, like a man whose clothes get caught by a steam-engine, is natural enough. his dislike to the ultra-liberals in the peninsula is also very natural, because they uphold principles of government which render monarchy impossible, and the application of which to france would be the ruin of the king. england, from the peculiarity of its position, can do many things which in france would upset everything.... i must close my letter, and shall answer yours to-morrow. god bless you! ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : french premier and foreign secretary.] [footnote : .] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ pavilion, brighton, _ th october ._ ... now, dearest uncle, i must speak to you _un peu de politique_. i made lord melbourne read the _political_ part of your letter. he wished me to communicate to you part of the contents of a letter of lord granville's which we received yesterday. lord granville complains a good deal of molé,[ ] and says, that though he is apparently very cordial and friendly towards us, and talks of his desire that we should be on a better footing as to our foreign ministers than we have hitherto been, that whenever lord granville urges him to do anything decisive (to use lord g.'s own words) "he _shrinks_ from the discussion," says he must have time to reflect before he can give any answer, and evades giving any reply, whenever anything of _importance_ is required. this, you see, dear uncle, is not satisfactory. i merely tell you this, as i think you would like to know what molé tells _our_ ambassador; this differs from what he told _you_. what you say about louis philippe i am sure is very true; his situation is a very peculiar and a very difficult one.... [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. vi, footnote )] [pageheading: the french in africa] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ trianon, _ th october ._ ... political matters i shall not touch upon to-day; there is nothing very particular except the taking of constantin.[ ] the duc de nemours has greatly distinguished himself. i am sorry to see that in england people are sometimes _sufficiently absurd_ to be jealous of these french conquests. nothing indeed can be more absurd, as nothing is of greater _importance to the peace_ of europe than that a powerful and military nation like the french should have this outlet for their love of military display. if one had named a council of wise men to fix upon a spot where this might be done with _the least mischief_ to the rest of the world, one should have named the coast of africa. by their being there they will render to civilisation a country which for about years has been growing worse and worse, and which was in the times of the romans one of the richest provinces. it settles, besides, upon the french a constant _petite guerre_ with the natives, which is the very thing that will do them good. [footnote : the french losses amounted to officers and men killed, with officers and men wounded. the french government had failed in its efforts for an amicable arrangement with achmet bey, and it appeared probable that the turkish fleet would also oppose them. the commander, however, merely landed some men at tripoli, and the french success was complete.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th november ._ ... now, dearest uncle, before i say anything more, i will answer the various questions in your letter, which i have communicated to lord melbourne and lord palmerston. ( ) with respect to ferdinand's question to you, it is impossible for _us_ to say _beforehand_ _what_ we _shall_ do in _such_ an _emergency_; it depends so entirely on the peculiar _circumstances_ of the _moment_ that we cannot say what we should do. you know, dear uncle, that the fleet has orders to protect the king and queen in case they should be in any personal danger. as to lord howard,[ ] though what you say about him is true enough, it would not do to recall him at present; it would give bois le comte[ ] all the advantage he _wishes_ for, and which would be injurious to our interests and influence. ( ) with regard to spain, a very decided mention is made of the _queen_ herself in the speech which is to be delivered by me to-morrow in the house of lords. we have great reason to know that, of late, the queen has positively declared her intention to remain at madrid to the very last. villiers'[ ] conduct has been, i fear, much misrepresented, for his _own_ opinions are not at all those of the _ultra-liberal_ kind; and his _only_ aim has been, to be on good terms with the spanish ministry for the time being. ( ) concerning france, i need not repeat to you, dear uncle, how _very_ anxious we all are to be upon the _best_ and _most friendly_ terms with her, and to co-operate with her. [footnote : lord howard de walden, british minister at lisbon.] [footnote : french minister at madrid.] [footnote : british minister at madrid, afterwards fourth earl of clarendon, and twice foreign secretary.] [pageheading: close of the session] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--... you will, i am sure, be happy to hear that this session is happily closed, and that the whole has gone off very satisfactorily, much more so even than any of us could hope. i went on saturday to the house of lords to give my assent to the civil list bill. i shall return to town on the th of january, when parliament meets again; it meets sooner than it was at first intended it should, on account of the affairs of canada. _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._[ ] laeken, _ th december ._ my dearest child,--you were _somewhat irritable_ when you wrote to me!... affairs stand now as follows: the studies at bonn take the whole of april, and may be concluded at the beginning of may. from may till the end of august, if you approved of the visit, the time should be _utilisé_. a _séjour_ at coburg would _not_ be of much use; here we are generally absent in the summer. to confide therefore the young gentleman to his uncle mensdorff[ ] for three months, would give him so much time for some _manly accomplishments_, which do no harm to a young man. to make him _enter the service_ would _not_ do at all. what you say about his imbibing principles of a political nature, there is no great fear of that. first of all, prague is not a town where politics are at all agitated; these topics are very rarely touched upon; besides, albert is clever, and it is not at the eleventh hour that anybody in three months will make him imbibe political principles. perhaps you will turn in your mind what you think on the subject, and communicate me the result of it.... [footnote : this letter refers to the course of study which prince albert was about to pursue.] [footnote : count emmanuel de mensdorff-pouilly, who married, in , sophia, princess of saxe-coburg-saalfeld.] [pageheading: canada] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and acquaints your majesty that he has this morning received a letter from the speaker[ ] consenting to remain until whitsuntide. this is inconvenient enough, but the delay relieves your present embarrassment upon this head, and puts off changes until a period of the session when public affairs will be more decisively settled. lord melbourne is sorry to have to inform your majesty that there was a good deal of difference of opinion yesterday in the cabinet upon the affairs of canada.[ ] all are of opinion that strong measures should be taken for the repression of the insurrection, but some, and more particularly lord howick, think that these measures of vigour should be accompanied by measures of amendment and conciliation. we are to have a cabinet again upon the subject on wednesday next, when lord melbourne hopes that some practical result will be come to without serious difference. [footnote : mr james abercromby, afterwards lord dunfermline. he remained in the chair till . he had little hold over the house, and many regrettable scenes occurred.] [footnote : see introductory note, p. . (to ch. vi)] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ the queen received lord melbourne's communication yesterday evening, and is glad to see that the speaker consents to remain a little while longer, though, as lord melbourne says, it is still very inconvenient. the queen regrets that there should have been any difference of opinion with respect to canada, but hopes with lord melbourne that some final arrangement may be come to next wednesday. the queen is very sorry to learn that lord melbourne will be detained in london until saturday. she omitted to ask lord melbourne when he thinks it would be convenient for lord palmerston to come down to windsor for a few days, as it is the queen's wish to ask him in the course of the recess. the queen is very thankful to lord melbourne for his kind enquiries after her health; she is sorry to say she had one of her bad headaches yesterday, but feels very well this morning and thinks a drive will quite cure her. [pageheading: army estimates] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ the queen received lord melbourne's two letters yesterday evening, and another this morning, enclosing one from lord duncannon.[ ] the queen is very much gratified by the kind expressions in the letter she got last night; she is grieved to see lord melbourne is so much oppressed with business. the queen thinks lord melbourne has acted with the greatest judgment with respect to sir j. conroy,[ ] and highly approves the course he intends pursuing. the queen regrets that there should be so much difficulty with respect to the report of the army estimates, but fervently trusts that no serious difficulties will arise from it; she will be very anxious to talk about this and many other matters when she sees lord melbourne, which the queen _hopes_ (as lord melbourne says nothing to the contrary) she will do on the rd or th. the queen thinks that it will be quite right if lord melbourne writes to lord john about the staffordshire yeomanry. the queen will be delighted to see lady john russell's little girl, and would be very happy if lady john was to bring the _baby_ also. the queen begs lord melbourne to invite them (lord and lady john) in her name on the th, and to stay till the th. the duke and duchess of cambridge are here, and the queen is very sorry to say, that from what she _sees_ and _hears_, she has reason to fear all is _not_ as it _should_ be; _her_ mother is most _markedly_ civil and affectionate towards both the duke and duchess, and spoke politics with the former. the queen will tell lord melbourne more about this when she sees him. the weather was beautiful yesterday, and the queen had a _long_ drive and _walk_, which have done her great good; it is still finer to-day. [footnote : commissioner of woods and forests and lord privy seal.] [footnote : sir j. conroy, who had been comptroller to the duchess of kent, made certain claims which it was not considered expedient to grant. he received a pension and a baronetcy.] [pageheading: canada] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th december ._ ... lord melbourne will do his utmost to compose these differences respecting canada and the army,[ ] but your majesty must contemplate the possibility, not to say the probability, of his not being able to succeed. it will not do for the sake of temporary accommodation to sacrifice the honour of your majesty's crown or the interests of your majesty's subjects. [footnote : _see_ introductory notes for and , pp. and . (to ch. vi and ch. vii)] [pageheading: state departments] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ st december ._ ... lord melbourne has not yet been able to leave london. in order to have a chance of arranging these troublesome affairs it is necessary continually to see those who are principally engaged in them. from a conversation which he has had this evening with lord howick, lord melbourne has better hopes of producing a general agreement upon canadian affairs, but the question of the administration of the army, which is of less immediate importance, is of more difficulty. your majesty knows the importance attached by the king of the belgians to this matter. the opinion of the duke of wellington is also strongly against the projected alteration. on the other hand, five cabinet ministers have pledged themselves to it by signing the report, and consider themselves as having publicly undertaken to the house of commons that some such measure shall be proposed. lord melbourne has asked for the opinions of lord hill[ ] and sir hussey vivian[ ] in writing. when lord melbourne receives them he must submit them to your majesty with as short and as clear a statement as he can make of a question which is of a technical and official character, and with which lord melbourne does not feel himself to be very familiar. lord melbourne transmits a copy of the proposed order in council to carry the recommendation of the report into effect, which will acquaint your majesty precisely what the powers and duties are which it is intended to transfer from the secretary of state[ ] to the secretary-at-war. it is the more necessary to be cautious, because it can be done without taking the opinion or having recourse to the authority of parliament. your majesty will not suppose that lord melbourne by laying before you the whole case has an idea of throwing the weight of such a decision entirely upon your majesty. lord melbourne will deem it his duty to offer your majesty a decided opinion upon the subject. lord melbourne is much rejoiced to hear that your majesty enjoys windsor. the duchess of sutherland,[ ] who appreciates both the grand and the beautiful, could not be otherwise than delighted with it.... lord melbourne has the pleasure of wishing your majesty a happy and prosperous new year. [footnote : commander-in-chief.] [footnote : master-general of the ordnance.] [footnote : the secretaries of state (then three, now five in number) have co-extensive authority, that is to say, any one of them can legally execute the duties of all, although separate spheres of action are for convenience assigned to them; at that time the administration of colonial and military affairs were combined, the secretary-at-war not being a secretary of state. after the crimean war a fourth secretary was appointed, and after the indian mutiny a fifth was added, entrusted severally with the supervision of military affairs and the administration of india. see letters of lord melbourne of st, th, and th november . (ch. x, 'secretaries of state')] [footnote : harriet elizabeth georgiana, duchess of sutherland ( - ), was the daughter of the sixth earl of carlisle, and married her cousin, earl gower ( - ), who became duke of sutherland in . on the accession of the queen, the duchess of sutherland became mistress of the robes, a post which she held till , and on three subsequent occasions. the duchess was a cultivated woman with many tastes, and made stafford house a great social centre. she was deeply interested in philanthropic and social movements, such as the abolition of slavery, and had a strong sympathy for national movements, which she showed by entertaining garibaldi in . she combined a considerable sense of humour with a rare capacity for affection, and became one of the queen's closest friends; after the prince consort's death she was for some weeks the queen's constant companion.] introductory note to chapter vii the melbourne ministry were able to maintain themselves in office during the year ( ), but were too weak to carry important measures. the prevailing distress led to much criticism of the poor law act of , and the disturbances in canada turned the tide of emigration to australia. but public interest in politics was eclipsed by the gaieties of the coronation, in which all ranks partook. the events of imperial importance elsewhere centred in jamaica and canada, the apprenticeship system in the former place leading to a renewal of the anti-slavery agitation at home, and the passing of a colonial bill for absolute emancipation. the canadian troubles brought about the passing of an imperial act for the suspension for two years of the legislative assembly of lower canada, and lord durham, an impulsive and generous-hearted man, was sent out as high commissioner. having dismissed the executive council of his predecessor, he nominated a fresh one, but an ordinance thereafter promulgated in reference to the rebels was severely criticised. lord brougham, rejoicing at the opportunity of paying off old scores, castigated the government, especially lord glenelg, the colonial secretary, and carried a measure censuring their canadian policy. the ministry disallowed the ordinance of lord durham, who, finding himself unsupported, resigned his commission and returned home. on his arrival at plymouth, he made a speech, in which he described the rebellion as finally at an end; the news, however, subsequently arrived that after his departure from canada, disturbances had broken out afresh. sir john colborne was appointed to succeed lord durham with full powers. the civil war continued in spain through the year, and intermittent rioting took place in portugal, a country which was now verging on bankruptcy. the old dutch and belgian controversy as to the possession of luxemburg was revived, the king of holland, who had obstinately withheld his concurrence for six years from the articles on the faith of which king leopold accepted the throne of belgium, now showing overt hostility in the disputed territory. as was natural, france was in sympathy with belgium, and the two countries entered into a treaty of commerce and reciprocity. chapter vii _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ st january ._ ... lord melbourne feels most deeply the extreme kindness of your majesty's expressions. whatever may happen in the course of events, it will always be to lord melbourne a source of the most lively satisfaction to have assisted your majesty in the commencement of your reign, which was not without trouble and difficulty, and your majesty may depend that whether in or out of office lord melbourne's conduct will always be directed by the strongest attachment to your majesty's person, and by the most ardent desire to promote your majesty's interests, which from his knowledge of your majesty's character and disposition lord melbourne feels certain will be always identified with the interests of your people. [pageheading: canada] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour of acknowledging your majesty's gracious communication, which he received this evening. lord melbourne has this morning seen lord durham upon the subject of his assuming the government of canada,[ ] and has had a long conversation with him. lord melbourne is to receive his final answer before the cabinet to-morrow, which meets at ten o'clock. lord durham is anxious that your majesty should express to him your wish, or rather, as he phrased it, lay upon him your commands that he should undertake this duty, and also that, as his absence will be but temporary, that lady durham[ ] should retain her situation in your majesty's household. lord melbourne thinks that your majesty may properly gratify him in both these points. lord durham made some other stipulations, which lord melbourne will explain to your majesty, but, upon the whole, lord melbourne feels little doubt that he will accept. lord glenelg[ ] is on monday to make a statement to the house of lords upon the subject of canada, on which a debate may not improbably arise by which lord melbourne may be detained. on wednesday there is neither house of lords nor cabinet dinner. wednesday, friday, and sunday will therefore be festive days, on which lord melbourne will have great pleasure in obeying your majesty's commands and also on monday, if he should not be kept in the house of lords. lord melbourne thinks it was prudent in your majesty not to expose yourself to the cold of the chapel. he is himself better, but has still much cough, though he has kept himself very quiet and been very careful of his diet since he has been in london. [footnote : in the room of lord gosford. see _ante_, p. . ch. vii, (introductory note to ch. vii)] [footnote : daughter of earl grey.] [footnote : colonial secretary.] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ (_half-past nine o'clock._) the queen has written _approved_ on lord melbourne's letter as he desired; but adds a line to express her _satisfaction_ at lord durham's having accepted the office of governor-general of canada. the queen will be very happy to see lord melbourne at half-past three. [pageheading: influence of the crown] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ brussels, _ th january ._ my dearly beloved child,--... i am very grateful for lord melbourne's kind recollection of me. i have a sincere regard for him, and i think that our intercourse has satisfied him of one thing, that i have nothing so much at heart than your welfare, and what is for the good of your empire. i wish very much that you would speak with him on the subject of what ought to be done to keep for the crown the little influence it still may possess. his views on this important subject are the more trustworthy as he always has belonged to the moderate liberals, and therefore has had the means of judging the matter with great impartiality. monarchy to be carried on requires certain elements, and the occupation of the sovereign must be constantly to _preserve these elements_, or should they have been too much weakened by untoward circumstances, to contrive by every means to _strengthen them again_. you are too clever not to know, that it is _not_ the being _called_ queen or king, which can be of the _least consequence_, when to the title there is not also annexed the power indispensable for the exercise of those functions. all trades must be learned, and nowadays the trade of a _constitutional sovereign, to do it well, is a very difficult one_. ... i must end, and remain ever, most affectionately, my dear child, your devoted uncle, leopold r. _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ _ th january ._ my dearest niece,--having just been informed of your gracious consideration of, and your generosity towards, the dear king's children,[ ] i must express to you how deeply i feel this kind proof of your attachment to the late king, whose memory you respect by the generous continuance of their former allowances from the privy purse. nothing could have given me more real satisfaction, and i trust and hope that they will prove their gratitude and entire devotion to you by their future conduct. let me thank you, dearest victoria, from the bottom of my heart, and be assured that the heavenly blessing of our beloved king will be upon you for your generous kindness to those he loved so much in this world. i hope that you have not suffered at all from the severity of the weather, and are as well as all your subjects can wish you to be, amongst whom there is none more anxiously praying for your welfare and happiness than, my dear niece, your most devoted and affectionate aunt, adelaide. [footnote : the eldest of the five illegitimate sons of william iv. and mrs. jordan had been created earl of munster, and his sisters and brothers had been given the precedence of the daughters and younger sons of a marquis. the queen now continued the same allowances as they had received from the late king.] [pageheading: daniel o'connell] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ nd february ._ my dear uncle,--... i had a very brilliant levée again yesterday, at which o'connell and all his sons, son-in-law, nephew, etc., appeared. i received him, as you may imagine, with a very smiling face; he has been behaving very well this year.[ ] it was quite a treat for me to see him, as i had for long wished it. we are going on most prosperously here, which will, i am sure, give you as much pleasure as it does me. we have no fear for any of the questions. lord john russell is much pleased with the temper of the house of commons, which he says is remarkably good, and the duke of wellington is behaving uncommonly well, going _with ministers_, and behaving like an honest man _should_ do.... [footnote : ever since the accession, o'connell's speeches had been full of expressions of loyalty, and he had been acting in concert with the whigs.] [pageheading: departments of state] [pageheading: bureaucracy] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ stanhope street, _ th february ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and with reference to your majesty's question upon the subjects to which lord william russell's recent despatch relates, he has the honour to state: that in the governments of the continent, and more especially in those which have no representative assemblies, the second class of persons in the public offices possess and exercise much more power and influence than the corresponding class of persons do in this country. in england the ministers who are at the head of the several departments of the state, are liable any day and every day to defend themselves in parliament; in order to do this, they must be minutely acquainted with all the details of the business of their offices, and the only way of being constantly armed with such information is to conduct and direct those details themselves. on the continent, where ministers of state are not liable so to be called to account for their conduct, the ministers are tempted to leave the details of their business much more to their under-secretaries and to their chief clerks. thus it happens that all the routine of business is generally managed by these subordinate agents; and to such an extent is this carried, that viscount palmerston believes that the ministers for foreign affairs, in france, austria, prussia, and russia, seldom take the trouble of writing their own despatches, except, perhaps, upon some very particular and important occasion. your majesty will easily see how greatly such a system must place in the hands of the subordinate members of the public departments the power of directing the policy and the measures of the government; because the value and tendency, and the consequences of a measure, frequently depend as much upon the manner in which that measure is worked out, as upon the intention and spirit with which it was planned. another circumstance tends also to give great power to these second-class men, and that is their permanence in office. in england when, in consequence of some great political change, the heads of departments go out, the greater part of the under-secretaries go out also; thus the under-secretary (with two or three exceptions) having come in with his chief, has probably no more experience than his chief, and can seldom set up his own knowledge to overrule the opinion, or to guide the judgment, of his superior. but on the continent, changes of ministers are oftener changes of individual men from personal causes, than changes of parties from political convulsions; and therefore when the chief retires, the under-secretary remains. there are consequently in all the public offices abroad a number of men who have spent the greater part of their lives in their respective departments, and who by their long experience are full of knowledge of what has been done in former times, and of the most convenient and easy manner of doing what may be required in the time present. this affords to the chiefs an additional motive for leaning upon their subordinates, and gives to those subordinates still more real influence. this class of subordinate men has, from the fact of its being possessed of so much power, been invested by the jargon of the day with the title of "bureaucratic"--a name fabricated in imitation of the words "aristocratic" and "democratic," each being compounded of the word "cratic," which is a corruption from the greek word "kratos," which means power; and the prefix, denoting the particular class of society whose power is meant to be expressed. thus "_aristo_-cratic" is the power of the upper, or, as in greek it is called, the "aristos" class of society; "_demo_-cratic" is the power of the people, which in greek is called the "demos"; and "_bureau_-cratic" is the power of the public offices or "bureaus," for which latter the french name has been taken instead of a greek word. it appears, then, to be the opinion of lord william russell, that this second class of public men in prussia are animated by a desire to see the general policy of their country rendered more national and independent than it has hitherto been; that for this purpose they were desirous of urging on the government to take its stand against foreign influence upon some point or other, not much caring what that point might be; that they thought it would be difficult to choose a political question, because on such a question the king of prussia might be against them, and that consequently they chose a religious question, on which they knew they should have the king with them; and that accordingly they led the government on to a quarrel with the court of rome, and with the catholic or austrian party in germany, more with a view to place prussia in an independent national position than from any particular importance which they attached to the question itself upon which the rupture was to be effected. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ st march ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. the house sate until half-past eleven last night. lord stanhope[ ] made a long declamatory speech, very violent, but having in it nothing defined or specific, and was answered by lord brougham in a most able and triumphant defence and maintenance of the late act for amending the laws for the relief of the poor.[ ] lord melbourne was very sorry to be prevented from waiting upon your majesty. he is very grateful for your majesty's enquiries, and feels very well this morning.... lord minto[ ] told lord melbourne last night to acquaint your majesty that lord amelius beauclerck,[ ] your majesty's first naval aide-de-camp, intended to ask an audience to-day of your majesty, and that the object of it was to request that he and the other aides-de-camp might wear sashes. this was always refused by the late king as being absurd and ridiculous--as it is, particularly considering lord amelius's figure--and your majesty had perhaps better say that you can make no change. lord melbourne will be at st james's twenty minutes before ten. [footnote : philip henry, fourth earl.] [footnote : before a great source of public abuse was the out-door relief given to able-bodied paupers, either in kind or money. the act of that year was based on the principle that no one must perish through the want of the bare necessities of life. poor law commissioners were established, england was divided into districts, and the districts into unions. out-door relief was to be given, on the order of two justices, to poor persons wholly unable, from age or infirmity, to work. but there was much opposition to the new law; it was considered a grievance that old couples were refused relief at home, and that the sexes must be separated at the workhouse, to which the name of "bastille" began to be attached. in devonshire it was even believed that the bread distributed by the relieving officers was mixed with poisonous ingredients.] [footnote : the first lord of the admiralty.] [footnote : a son of the eighth duke of st albans.] [pageheading: pressure of business] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ my dearest uncle,--_vous ne m'en voudrez pas_, i sincerely hope, for not having written to you sooner to thank you for your kind letter, which i received last week, but i really could not do so. as _honesty is the best policy_, i will tell you the simple fact. i have been out riding every day for about three hours, which quite renovates me, and when i come home i have consequently a good deal to do, what with seeing people, reading despatches, writing, etc. you will, i trust, now quite forgive your poor niece, whom you so often call "the little queen," which is, i fear, true; but her _feelings_ of affection are not so small as her _body_ is, i can assure you. the prince de ligne[ ] will be received with every possible attention, i can promise; it would have been so _without_ his being recommended; his rank, and, above all, his being one of your subjects, would of course entitle him to a good reception from me.... there is another _sujet_ which i wish to mention to you, _et que j'ai bien à c[oe]ur_, which is, if you would consult stockmar with respect to the finishing of albert's education; he knows best my feelings and wishes on that subject.... [footnote : he was appointed to attend the coronation as minister extraordinary from king leopold.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is much distressed that, being in the house of lords, he was unable to answer your majesty's letter as soon as he received it. lord melbourne went to the palace about half-past four, but learning from the porter at the gate that your majesty was not returned, went away thinking that there was not left time to see your majesty before the house of lords. lord melbourne is very much concerned that your majesty should have hastened at all, and most earnestly requests your majesty never will do so upon his account. lord melbourne hears with great pleasure that your majesty has had a pleasant ride, and likes your horse. lord melbourne is very well himself, and will wait upon your majesty to-morrow morning about ten minutes before ten. [pageheading: favourite horses] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ my dearest uncle,--i received your kind letter of the th on sunday, and return you my best thanks for it. i shall, before i say another word, answer your question about the horses which i ride, which i do the more willingly as i have got two _darlings_, if i may use that word. they are, both of them, _quite perfect_ in every sense of the word; _very handsome_, full of _spirit_, delightful easy-goers, very quiet, and _never_ shying at anything. is not this perfection? the one called _tartar_ (which belonged to lord conyngham), an irish horse, is a very dark brown, a beautiful creature; the other, which lord uxbridge[ ] got for me, is called _uxbridge_; he is smaller than tartar, and is a dark chestnut, with a beautiful little arabian head. i am afraid i shall have bored you with this long account of my horses. i am going to windsor to-morrow afternoon, and have got a great deal to do in consequence.... poor dear louie[ ] _lingers_ on, but, alas! i can only say _lingers_; she does not gain strength. i cannot say how it grieves me, i am so sincerely attached to the good old soul, who has known me ever since my birth. but i still entertain a hope that she may get over it. we shall have a fortnight's respite from our political campaign. i trust we shall do as well as we have done when parliament meets again. believe me always, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : henry, earl of uxbridge, afterwards second marquis of anglesey ( - ).] [footnote : louisa louis was born at erbach in . the queen erected a tablet to her memory in st martin's-in-the-fields, where she is described as "the faithful and devoted friend of princess charlotte of wales, and from earliest infancy honoured by the affectionate attachment of her majesty queen victoria." see reminiscences, _ante_, p. . (ch. i, 'early reminiscences')] [pageheading: prince albert's education] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ ... concerning the education of our friend albert, it has been the best plan you could have fixed upon, to name stockmar your commissary-general; it will give _unité d'action et de l'ensemble_, which otherwise we should not have had. i have communicated to him what your uncle and the young gentleman seem to wish, and what strikes me as the best for the moment. stockmar will make a regular report to you on this subject. they will return to bonn at the beginning of may, and remain till the end of august.... i agree with this, as nothing enlarges the mind so much as travelling. but stockmar will best treat this affair verbally with you. the young gentlemen wished to pay me another visit at the beginning of may, prior to their return to bonn. nothing definite is, however, as yet settled about it. on one thing you can rely, that it is my _great anxiety_ to see albert a _very good_ and _distinguished young man_, and _no pains will be thought too much_ on my part if this end can be attained.... _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ (_undated._) your majesty will perceive by this box, which i received this morning but had not time to open, that marshal soult, duke of dalmatia,[ ] has been appointed ambassador to the coronation.... [footnote : soult entered the french army in , and became marshal of france in . after distinguishing himself at austerlitz in , he was made duke of dalmatia in . serving in the peninsular war, he pursued moore to corunna, and became commander-in-chief in spain in . subsequently he conducted the french retreat before wellington in southern france, - ; was banished, but recalled and created a peer. he was minister of war - .] [pageheading: old servants] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th april ._ my dearest uncle,--... you will by this time have learnt the _sad_ loss we have all sustained in the death of _dearest_, _faithful_, _excellent_ louie, who breathed her last, without a struggle or a suffering, on sunday night at nine o'clock. i don't think i have _ever_ been so much overcome or distressed by anything, almost, as by the death of this my earliest friend; it is the first link that has been broken of my first and infantine affections. i always loved louie, and shall cherish her memory as that of the purest and best of mortals as long as i live! i took leave of her before i left london on wednesday, and _never_, _never_ shall i forget the blessing she gave me, and the grasp she gave my hand! i was quite upset by it! and i feared and felt i should behold her on earth no more; it was, however, a beautiful lesson of calmness and contentment and resignation to the will of her god! prepared as she was at every moment of her life to meet her heavenly father, she was full of hope of recovery, and quite unconscious of her approaching end. you will, i am sure, dearest uncle, feel the loss of this excellent creature; i cannot restrain my tears while writing this. one great consolation i have, which is, that i have been the means of making her last days as happy as she could wish to be, after having lost what she loved most! ... poor _mason_, our faithful coachman for so many years, is also dead. these old servants cannot be replaced; and to see those whom one has known from one's birth drop off, one by one, is melancholy! you will think this letter a very sad one, but _i feel sad_.... _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ marlborough house, _ th april ._ ... i can well enter into all your feelings of regret at the death of one so truly attached and so faithful as dear old louie had been to you from your infancy, and i quite understand your grief; yet i feel sure that you will also rejoice for her, that she has been relieved from her earthly sufferings. for _her_ the change of existence was a happy one; good and pious as she was, we may trust that her state at present is one of felicity and bliss through the redeeming grace of our saviour.... [pageheading: the coronation] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ ... the parliamentary affairs will, please heaven, continue to go on well; i am more than ever bound to wish it, as i am not anxious to exchange my clever and well-informed friend palmerston, with lord aberdeen, for instance, of whose sweetness the greek negotiation[ ] has given me very fair means of judging. now i will conclude by touching on one subject which concerns your great goodness to us. when we left england you expressed a wish to see us at the time of the coronation, which was then believed to take place at the end of may. more mature reflection has made me think that a king and queen at your dear coronation might perhaps be a _hors-d'[oe]uvre_, and i think, if it meets with your approbation, that it may be better to pay you our respects at some other period, which you might like to fix upon. i do not deny that having been deprived by circumstances from the happiness of wishing you joy at your birthday, since , in person, i feel strongly tempted to make a short apparition to see you, as seeing and speaking is much pleasanter than ink and paper.... [footnote : referring to the offer of the throne of greece to king leopold in .] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ my beloved uncle,--... with respect to the happiness of seeing you and my dearest aunt, i shall now respectfully state my feelings. it would have made me very happy to see you both at the coronation, but i think upon the whole it is perhaps better you should not do so. then, with respect to your coming for my _old_ birthday, i must observe that i could not enjoy you or my aunt at all _à mon aise_. first of all, i could not lodge you, and if one is not in the same house together, there is _no real_ seeing one another; secondly, the town will be so full of all sorts of foreigners that i should have _no peace_ to see you and aunt quietly. if therefore, dearest uncle, it suits you and aunt louise, would you come about the end of august, and stay with me as long as you can? i trust, dearest uncle, _que vous me comprendrez bien_, and that you are assured of the great happiness it is for me to see you at any time. since i have written to you we have received from lord granville the news of marshal soult's appointment as ambassador for the coronation, and of the duc de nemours' intention of coming here as a spectator. you may be assured that i shall be delighted to see the duke, as i always am any of the dear french family. with regard to soult, i am sure you are aware that whoever the king chose to send would be equally well received by me and the government. [pageheading: the train-bearers] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen sends the papers relating to the coronation as lord melbourne wished. the queen also transmits the names of the young ladies who she proposes should carry her train. if lord melbourne sees any objection to any of these she hopes he will say so. the queen has put down lady mary talbot, as being the daughter of the oldest earl in the kingdom[ ] and a roman catholic; and lady anne fitzwilliam, as she is anxious to show civility to lord fitzwilliam, who has been very kind to the queen. perhaps, when the names are agreed to, lord melbourne would kindly undertake to speak or write to the parents of the young ladies proposing it to them. lady caroline lennox. lady adelaide paget. lady fanny cowper. lady wilhelmina stanhope. lady mary talbot. lady anne fitzwilliam. lady mary grimston. lady louisa jenkinson. [footnote : john, sixteenth earl of shrewsbury ( - ).] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thinks that your majesty had better direct lord conyngham to ask the archbishop, before the audience, who has generally been there and how it ought to be conducted. your majesty had better read the answer and not give it to the archbishop, as lord melbourne apprehends the archbishop does not give your majesty the address. your majesty had better say something kind to each of the bishops as they are presented. they are presented to your majesty in this manner as a sort of privilege, instead of being presented at the drawing-room with others, and your majesty should conduct yourself towards them exactly as if they had been presented in the usual circle. the time is about half-past one, and your majesty had better be punctual so as not to delay the drawing-room. [pageheading: the slave trade] _in the same letter is enclosed a draft of a letter which it was suggested by lord melbourne that the queen should write to the king of portugal, with regard to the suppression of the slave trade._ [draft enclosed] that you hope that the king and queen of portugal will not consider the strong representations made by your government on the subject of the slave trade as arising from any desire to embarrass them. that there is every disposition to make allowance for the difficulties of portugal, but allowance must also be made for the feelings of the people of england; that those feelings on the slave trade are as strong as they are just. that england has made great sacrifices for the suppression of that crime, that she has made sacrifices to portugal, and that she has been extremely indignant at finding that traffic so obstinately continued to be sheltered and protected under the flag of portugal. that portugal must not expect that england will much longer refrain from taking effectual measures for preventing these practices. that you have spoken thus openly because you wish them to be aware of the truth, and that you entreat both the queen and the king to use their power and influence in procuring such a treaty to be concluded without delay, as will satisfy england and exonerate portugal from the reproach under which she now labours. this is the substance of what might be written. it is perhaps a little harshly worded, but your majesty may soften it. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ my dearest uncle,--i am most thankful for your very kind letter, and for the beautiful little sword, which delights me. i have been dancing till past four o'clock this morning; we have had a charming ball, and i have spent the happiest birthday that i have had for many years; oh, _how_ different to last year! everybody was so kind and so friendly to me. we have got a number of austrians and milanese here, among whom are a prince odescalchi, and a count eugène zichy, renowned for his magnificent _turquoises_ and his famous valzing, a good-natured _élégant_; we have also esterhazy's daughter marie--now countess chorinsky--a count and countess grippa, and a marquis and marchioness of trivalzi, etc. old talleyrand[ ] is at last dead. i hear he showed wonderful composure and firmness to the last. he was one of those people who i thought never would die. did you know what pozzo said to somebody here about him? he said he (talleyrand) would not die yet, "_parce que le diable ne voulait pas l'avoir_." [footnote : died th may, aged eighty-four.] [pageheading: independence of belgium] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ nd june ._ ... i have not all this time touched on our affairs, from motives of _great discretion_, but as the battle draws nigh,[ ] i cannot very well help writing a few words on the subject. i found an article in the french _constitutionnel_ which paints our position in pretty true colours. as it is not very long, i beg you to have the goodness to read it. you have given me so many proofs of affection, and your kind speech at windsor is so fresh in my memory, that it would be _very wrong_ in me to think that in so short a time, and without any cause, those feelings which are so _precious_ to me could have changed. this makes me appeal to those sentiments. the independent existence of the provinces which form this kingdom has always been an object of importance to england; the surest proof of it is, that for centuries england has made the greatest sacrifices of blood and treasure for that object. the last time i saw the late king at windsor, in , he said to me: "if ever france or any other power invades your country, it will be a question of immediate war for england; we cannot suffer that." i answered him i was happy to hear him speak so, as i also did not want any foreign power to invade us.... all i want from your kind majesty is, that you will _occasionally_ express to your ministers, and particularly to good lord melbourne, that, as far as it is _compatible_ with the interests _of your own_ dominions, you do _not_ wish that your government should take the _lead_ in such measures as might in a short time bring on the _destruction_ of this country, as well as that of your uncle and his family. europe has enjoyed ever since , in our part of it, a state of _profound peace_ and real happiness and prosperity. none can deny that the measures which i adopted to organise this country have greatly contributed to this happy state of affairs; this makes me think that the changes which are to take place should be brought about in a _very gentle manner_.... i am sorry to have you to listen to so much about politics, but it is not my fault; i wished nothing so much as _to be left alone_. i shall do all i can to bring about a good conclusion, but it must not be forgotten that these seven years _all the dangers, all the trouble_, fell constantly to _my share_.... now i will make haste to conclude, and remain ever, my dearest victoria, your truly devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the execution of the treaty of , called the twenty-four articles, assigning part of luxemburg to holland, had been reluctantly agreed to by leopold, but the king of holland withheld his assent for seven years.] [pageheading: anglo-belgian relations] [pageheading: progress of belgium] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ my dearest uncle,--it is indeed a long while since i have written to you, and i fear you will think me very lazy; but i must in turn say, dearest uncle, that your silence was longer than mine, and that it grieved me, and _m'a beaucoup peinée_. i know, however, you have had, and still have, _much_ to do. many thanks, my dear uncle, for your very kind letter of the nd inst.... it would indeed, dearest uncle, be _very wrong_ of you, if you thought my feelings of warm and devoted attachment to you, and of great affection for you, could be changed. _nothing_ can ever change them! independent of my feelings of affection for you, my beloved uncle, you must be aware that the ancient and hereditary policy of this country with respect to belgium must make me most anxious that my government not _only_ should not be parties to any measure that would be prejudicial to belgium, but that my ministers should, as far as may not conflict with the interests or engagements of this country, do _everything_ in their power to promote the prosperity and welfare of your kingdom. my ministers, i can assure you, share all my feelings on this subject, and are most anxious to see everything settled in a satisfactory manner between belgium and holland. we all feel that we cannot sufficiently or adequately express how much belgium owes to your wise system of government, which has rendered that country so flourishing in every way, and how much all europe is indebted to you for the preservation of general peace; because it is certain that when you ascended the throne of belgium that country was the one from which the occasion of a general war was much to be feared; whereas now it is become a link to secure the continuance of peace; and by the happy circumstances of your double near relationship to me and to the king of the french, _belgium_--which was in former times the cause of discord between england and france--becomes now a mutual tie to keep them together. this, my beloved uncle, we owe to you, and it must be a source of pride and gratification to you. i perfectly understand and feel that your position with respect to all these affairs is very difficult and trying, and the feelings of your subjects are far from unnatural; yet i sincerely hope that you will use the great influence you possess over the minds of the leading men in belgium, to mitigate discontent and calm irritation, and procure acquiescence in whatever arrangements may ultimately be found inevitable. you are right in saying that i, though but a child of twelve years old when you went to belgium, remember much of what took place, and i have since then had the whole matter fully explained to me. the treaty of november was perhaps not so advantageous to the belgians as could have been wished, yet it cannot have been thought very advantageous to the dutch, else they would have most probably urged their government before this time to accept it; besides, when these conditions were framed, england was only one out of _five_ powers whose concurrence was required, and consequently they were made under very difficult circumstances. this treaty having been ratified, it is become binding, and therefore it is almost impossible to consider it as otherwise, and to set aside those parts of it which have been ratified by all the parties. i feel i must in turn, dearest uncle, entreat your indulgence for so long a letter, and for such full explanations, but i felt it my duty to do so, as you had spoken to me on the subject. you may be assured, my beloved uncle, that both lord melbourne and lord palmerston are most anxious at all times for the prosperity and welfare of belgium, and are consequently most desirous of seeing this difficult question brought to a conclusion which may be satisfactory to you. allow me once more therefore, dearest uncle, to beseech you to use your powerful influence over your subjects, and to strive to moderate their excited feelings on these matters. your situation is a very difficult one, and nobody feels more for you than i do. i trust, dearest uncle, that you will, at all times, believe me your devoted and most affectionate niece, victoria r. [pageheading: foreign policy] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _june [ ] ._ my dearest and most beloved victoria,--you have written me a _very dear_ and long letter, which has given me _great pleasure and satisfaction_. i was much moved with the expressions of truly felt affection, which it contains, and i shall _never_ again doubt your affection for me, but rely on your dear heart and the constancy of your character. i will now tell you honestly that i had some misgivings; i did not exactly think that you had quite forgotten me, but i thought i had been put aside as one does with a piece of furniture which is no longer wanted. i did not complain, because i fear if affection is once on the decline, reproaches only diminish it the faster. i therefore said nothing, but in a life full of grief and disappointments like mine, the loss of your affection would have been one of the most severe. it was in this point of view that the declaration made by lord palmerston at the beginning of may to the prussian government chagrined me much.[ ] it was premature, because the negotiation was not yet renewed. it looked as if the english government had been anxious to say to the northern powers, who always steadfastly _protected_ holland, "you imagine, perhaps, that we mean to have _égards_ for the uncle of the queen; there you see we shall make even shorter work with him now than we did under our late master." this impression had been _general_ on the continent; they considered the declaration to prussia in this way: "la reine et ses ministres sont donc entièrement indifférents sur le compte du roi l.; _cela change entièrement_ la position, et nous allons faire mains basses sur lui." from that moment their language became extremely imperious; they spoke of nothing but acts of coercion, bombardment, etc., etc. i firmly believe, because i have been these many years on terms of great and sincere friendship with palmerston, that he did not himself quite foresee the importance which would be attached to his declaration. i must say it hurt me more in my _english_ capacity than in my belgian, as i came to this country _from england_, and was chosen _for that very reason_. besides, i am happy to say, i was never as yet in the position to ask for any act of kindness from you, so that whatever little service i may have rendered you, remained on a basis of perfect disinterestedness. that the first diplomatic step in our affairs should seem by your government to be directed against me, created therefore all over the continent a considerable sensation. i shall never ask any favours of you, or anything that could in the least be considered as _incompatible_ with the interests of england; but you will comprehend that there is a great difference in claiming favours and in being treated as an enemy.... i will conclude my overgrown letter with the assurance that you never were in greater favour, and that i love you dearly. believe me, therefore, ever, my best beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the day of the month is not given.] [footnote : prussia was giving unmistakable evidence of a disposition to support holland against belgium.] [pageheading: the coronation] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ marlboro' house, _ th june ._ (_at a quarter before o'clock on the coronation day._) my dearest niece,--the guns are just announcing your approach to the abbey, and as i am not near you, and cannot take part in the sacred ceremony of your coronation, i must address you in writing to assure you that my thoughts and my whole heart are with you, and my prayers are offered up to heaven for your happiness, and the prosperity and glory of your reign. may our heavenly father bless and preserve you, and his holy ghost dwell within you to give you that peace which the world cannot give! accept of these my best wishes, and the blessing of your most devoted and attached aunt, adelaide. _extract from the queen's journal._ _thursday, th june ._ i was awoke at four o'clock by the guns in the park, and could not get much sleep afterwards on account of the noise of the people, bands, etc., etc. got up at seven, feeling strong and well; the park presented a curious spectacle, crowds of people up to constitution hill, soldiers, bands, etc. i dressed, having taken a little breakfast before i dressed, and a little after. at half-past i went into the next room, dressed exactly in my house of lords costume; and met uncle ernest, charles,[ ] and feodore (who had come a few minutes before into my dressing-room), lady lansdowne, lady normanby, the duchess of sutherland, and lady barham, all in their robes. [footnote : prince charles of leiningen, the queen's half-brother.] [pageheading: the abbey] at i got into the state coach with the duchess of sutherland and lord albemarle and we began our progress. i subjoin a minute account of the whole procession and of the whole proceeding,--the route, etc. it was a fine day, and the crowds of people exceeded what i have ever seen; many as there were the day i went to the city, it was nothing, nothing to the multitudes, the millions of my loyal subjects, who were assembled _in every spot_ to witness the procession. their good humour and excessive loyalty was beyond everything, and i really cannot say _how_ proud i feel to be the queen of _such_ a nation. i was alarmed at times for fear that the people would be crushed and squeezed on account of the tremendous rush and pressure. i reached the abbey amid deafening cheers at a little after half-past eleven; i first went into a robing-room quite close to the entrance where i found my eight train-bearers: lady caroline lennox, lady adelaide paget, lady mary talbot, lady fanny cowper, lady wilhelmina stanhope, lady anne fitzwilliam, lady mary grimston, and lady louisa jenkinson--all dressed alike and beautifully in white satin and silver tissue with wreaths of silver corn-ears in front, and a small one of pink roses round the plait behind, and pink roses in the trimming of the dresses. after putting on my mantle, and the young ladies having properly got hold of it and lord conyngham holding the end of it, i left the robing-room and the procession began as is described in the annexed account, and all that followed and took place. the sight was splendid; the bank of peeresses quite beautiful all in their robes, and the peers on the other side. my young train-bearers were always near me, and helped me whenever i wanted anything. the bishop of durham[ ] stood on the side near me, but he was, as lord melbourne told me, remarkably _maladroit_, and never could tell me what was to take place. at the beginning of the anthem, where i've made a mark, i retired to st edward's chapel, a dark small place immediately behind the altar, with my ladies and train-bearers--took off my crimson robe and kirtle, and put on the supertunica of cloth of gold, also in the shape of a kirtle, which was put over a singular sort of little gown of linen trimmed with lace; i also took off my circlet of diamonds and then proceeded bareheaded into the abbey; i was then seated upon st edward's chair, where the dalmatic robe was clasped round me by the lord great chamberlain. then followed all the various things; and last (of those things) the crown being placed on my head--which was, i must own, a most beautiful impressive moment; _all_ the peers and peeresses put on their coronets at the same instant. [footnote : edward maltby, - .] my excellent lord melbourne, who stood very close to me throughout the whole ceremony, was _completely_ overcome at this moment, and very much affected; he gave me _such_ a kind, and i may say _fatherly_ look. the shouts, which were very great, the drums, the trumpets, the firing of the guns, all at the same instant, rendered the spectacle most imposing. [pageheading: homage] the enthronisation and the homage of, first, all the bishops, and then my uncles, and lastly of all the peers, in their respective order was very fine. the duke of norfolk (holding for me the sceptre with a cross) with lord melbourne stood close to me on my right, and the duke of richmond with the other sceptre on my left, etc., etc. all my train-bearers, etc., standing behind the throne. poor old lord rolle, who is , and dreadfully infirm, in attempting to ascend the steps fell and rolled quite down, but was not the least hurt; when he attempted to re-ascend them i got up and advanced to the end of the steps, in order to prevent another fall. when lord melbourne's turn to do homage came, there was loud cheering; they also cheered lord grey and the duke of wellington; it's a pretty ceremony; they first all touch the crown, and then kiss my hand. when my good lord melbourne knelt down and kissed my hand, he pressed my hand and i grasped his with all my heart, at which he looked up with his eyes filled with tears and seemed much touched, as he was, i observed, throughout the whole ceremony. after the homage was concluded i left the throne, took off my crown and received the sacrament; i then put on my crown again, and re-ascended the throne, leaning on lord melbourne's arm. at the commencement of the anthem i descended from the throne, and went into st edward's chapel with my ladies, train-bearers, and lord willoughby, where i took off the dalmatic robe, supertunica, etc., and put on the purple velvet kirtle and mantle, and proceeded again to the throne, which i ascended leaning on lord melbourne's hand. there was another most dear being present at this ceremony, in the box immediately above the royal box, and who witnessed all; it was my dearly beloved angelic lehzen, whose eyes i caught when on the throne, and we exchanged smiles. she and späth, lady john russell, and mr. murray saw me leave the palace, arrive at the abbey, leave the abbey and again return to the palace!! [pageheading: popular enthusiasm] i then again descended from the throne, and repaired with all the peers bearing the regalia, my ladies and train-bearers, to st edward's chapel, as it is called; but which, as lord melbourne said, was more _un_like a chapel than anything he had ever seen; for what was _called_ an _altar_ was covered with sandwiches, bottles of wine, etc., etc. the archbishop came in and _ought_ to have delivered the orb to me, but i had already got it, and he (as usual) was _so_ confused and puzzled and knew nothing, and--went away. here we waited some minutes. lord melbourne took a glass of wine, for he seemed completely tired. the procession being formed, i replaced my crown (which i had taken off for a few minutes), took the orb in my left hand and the sceptre in my right, and thus _loaded_, proceeded through the abbey--which resounded with cheers, to the first robing-room; where i found the duchess of gloucester, mamma, and the duchess of cambridge with their ladies. and here we waited for at least an hour, with _all_ my ladies and train-bearers; the princesses went away about half an hour before i did. the archbishop had (most awkwardly) put the ring on the wrong finger, and the consequence was that i had the greatest difficulty to take it off again, which i at last did with great pain. lady fanny, lady wilhelmina, and lady mary grimston looked quite beautiful. at about half-past four i re-entered my carriage, the crown on my head, and the sceptre and orb in my hands, and we proceeded the same way as we came--the crowds if possible having increased. the enthusiasm, affection, and loyalty were really touching, and i shall ever remember this day as the _proudest_ of my life! i came home at a little after six, really _not_ feeling tired. [pageheading: incidents of the coronation] at eight we dined. besides we thirteen--my uncles, sister, brother, späth, and the duke's gentlemen--my excellent lord melbourne and lord surrey dined here. lord melbourne came up to me and said: "i must congratulate you on this most brilliant day," and that all had gone off so well. he said he was not tired, and was in high spirits. i sat between uncle ernest[ ] and lord melbourne; and lord melbourne between me and feodore, whom he had led in. my kind lord melbourne was much affected in speaking of the whole ceremony. he asked kindly if i was tired; said the sword he carried (the first, the sword of state) was excessively heavy. i said that the crown hurt me a good deal. he was so much amused at uncle ernest's being astonished at our still having the litany. we agreed that the whole thing was a very fine sight. he thought the robes, and particularly the dalmatic, "looked remarkably well." "and you did it all so well--excellent!" said he, with tears in his eyes. he said he thought i looked rather pale and "moved by all the people" when i arrived; "and that's natural; and that's better." the archbishop's and dean's copes, which were remarkably handsome, were from james the second's time; the very same that were worn at his coronation, lord melbourne told me. spoke of the bishop of durham's awkwardness, lord rolle's fall, etc. of the duc de nemours being like his father in face; of the young ladies' (train-bearers') dresses; which he thought beautiful; and he said he thought the duchess of richmond (who had ordered the make of the dresses, etc., and had been much condemned by some of the young ladies for it) quite right. she said to him: "one thing i was determined about; that i would have no discussion with their mammas about it." spoke of talleyrand and soult having been very much struck by the ceremony of the coronation; of the english being far too generous _not_ to be kind to soult. lord melbourne went home the night before, and slept very deeply till he was woke at six in the morning. i said i did not sleep well. spoke of the illuminations and uncle ernest's wish to see them. [footnote : the king of hanover.] after dinner, before we sat down, we (that is charles, lord melbourne, and i) spoke of the numbers of peers at the coronation, which, lord melbourne said, with the tears in his eyes, was unprecedented. i observed that there were very few viscounts; he said: "there are very few viscounts," that they were an odd sort of title and not really english; that they came from _vice-comités_; that dukes and barons were the only _real_ english titles; that marquises were likewise not english; and that they made people marquises when they did not wish to make them dukes. spoke of lord audley who came as the first baron, and who lord melbourne said was a very odd young man, but of a very old family; his ancestor was a sir something audley in the time of the black prince, who, with chandos, gained the battle of poictiers. i then sat on the sofa for a little while with lady barham and then with charles; lord melbourne sitting near me the whole evening. mamma and feodore remained to see the illuminations and only came in later, and mamma went away before i did. uncle ernest drove out to see the illuminations. [pageheading: pages of honour] i said to lord melbourne when i first sat down that i felt a little tired on my feet; "you must be very tired," he said. spoke of the weight of the robes, etc., etc., the coronets; and he turned round to me with the tears in his eyes, and said _so_ kindly: "and you did it beautifully--every part of it, with so much taste; it's a thing that you can't give a person advice upon; it must be left to a person." to hear this, from this kind impartial friend, gave me great and real pleasure. mamma and feodore came back just after he said this. spoke of the bishops' copes, about which he was very funny; of the pages who were such a nice set of boys, and who were so handy, lord melbourne said, that they kept them the whole time. little lord stafford and slane (lord mountcharles) were pages to their fathers and looked lovely; lord paget (not a fine boy) was lord melbourne's page and remarkably handy, he said. spoke again of the young ladies' dresses, about which he was very amusing; he waited for his carriage with lady mary talbot and lady wilhelmina; he thinks lady fanny does not make as much show as other girls, which i would not allow. he set off for the abbey from his house at half-past eight, and was there long before anybody else; he only got home at half-past six and had to go round by kensington. he said there was a large breakfast in the jerusalem chamber where they met _before_ all began; he said, laughing, that whenever the clergy, or a dean and chapter, had anything to do with anything, there's sure to be plen'y to eat. spoke of my intending to go to bed, etc.; he said, "you may depend upon it, you are more tired than you think you are." i said i had slept badly the night before; he said that was my mind, that nothing kept people more awake than any consciousness of a great event going to take place, and being agitated. he was not sure if he was not going to the duke of wellington's. stayed in the dining room till twenty minutes past eleven, but remained on mamma's balcony looking at the fireworks in green park, which were quite beautiful. uncle ernest, charles, feodore, and the ladies and gentlemen (like lehzen, etc.) saw me leave the palace, arrive at the abbey, leave the abbey, and return to the palace. got a long letter from aunt louise. [pageheading: extra holidays for schools] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ the queen is very anxious to hear if lord melbourne got home safe, and if he is not tired, and quite well this morning. lord melbourne will be glad to hear that the queen had an excellent night, is not the least tired, and is perfectly well this morning; indeed she feels much better than she has done for some days. the queen hears that it is usual to ask for an additional week's holiday for the boys at the various public schools, on the occasion of the coronation. perhaps lord melbourne will enquire about this, in order that there may be no neglect on my part. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ nd july ._ my dearest uncle,--_many_ thanks for _two_ kind letters, one which i got last monday and one this morning. the kind interest you take in me and my country (of which, and of the nation, i'm more proud than i ever was, since i've witnessed their excessive affection and loyalty to me) makes me certain that you will be glad to hear how _beautifully_ everything went off. it was a memorable and glorious day for me. the millions assembled to witness the progress to and from the abbey was _beyond_ belief, and _all_ in the highest good-humour. it is a fine ceremony, and a scene i shall _ever_ remember, and with pleasure. i likewise venture to add that people thought i did my part very well. the amiable duc de nemours dined with me on friday, comes to _my_ ball to-night, and dines again with me on wednesday. pray tell dearest aunt louise that i thank her much for her very kind letter, and will avail myself of her kindness and _not_ write to her this mail. feodore is writing in my room, well and happy. uncle ernest still very lame, and charles well. there's an account of the family. ever and ever your most devoted niece, victoria r. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th july ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. as your majesty does not ride, the question is between driving down the line or not going down it at all,[ ] and it appears to lord melbourne that the first is the best, namely, to drive down; but if your majesty feels a strong repugnance, there is no more to be said. lord melbourne thinks it safer and more prudent that your majesty should not ride; but still it might have been done, and if lord melbourne had thought that your majesty wished it much, he would not have dissuaded it. [footnote : referring to the hyde park review on the next day.] [pageheading: loyal demonstrations] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ neuilly, _ th july ._ my dearest victoria,--i am very grateful for your kind letter; it is extremely _meritorious_, amidst such fatigues and festivities and occupations of every kind, to find a moment to write. i expressed already the _great satisfaction_ with which i read and heard all the accounts of the coronation, and i believe that there _never_ was anything like it. the only one which in point of loyal demonstration may approach it is that of george iii., but i think it fell short of yours. i am happy to see that it has _increased_, if possible, your affection and attachment to your country, and this is in every respect a great blessing. you will remember that i have never varied on that subject, the great thing is to be the _national_ sovereign of your _own_ country, and to love its very faults. this strengthens the _mutual attachment_, and that can _never be too strong_.... believe me, ever, my dearest victoria, your very devoted uncle, leopold r. the whole of the family here offer their best _hommages_. _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ neuilly, _ th july ._ i feel most grateful for your dear kind letter of the th inst., which i received a few days ago. i hear that the review was something _most splendid_, and i feel always some regret at having been deprived of the happiness of seeing you _en fonction_, which you do in a degree of rare perfection. may the remembrance of all this long remain in your mind, to cheer and strengthen you when occasionally there will be a darker sky.... [pageheading: lord durham] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. the very difficult and embarrassing situation in which lord durham and the canadas and the ministry are left by the vote of the house of lords of last night, requires that a cabinet should be held to-day, and lord melbourne has directed one to be summoned at two. lord melbourne will wait upon your majesty either before that hour or after, about four o'clock. the vote of last night and the bill of lord brougham[ ] is a direct censure upon lord durham. lord durham's conduct has been most rash and indiscreet, and, as far as we can see, unaccountable. but to censure him now would either be to cause his resignation, which would produce great embarrassment, and might produce great evil, or to weaken his authority, which is evidently most undesirable.... [footnote : this bill (which emphasised the illegality of lord durham's ordinance) was read a second time by to . on the following day lord melbourne announced to the peers that ministers had resolved to advise that the ordinance should be disallowed.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to inform you that the cabinet have determined to advise your majesty to disallow lord durham's ordinance, and to announce the same to the house of lords.[ ] this is absolutely necessary, but very disagreeable, and will be very much so to lord durham. [footnote : _see_ introductory note for the year, _ante_, p. . (introductory note to ch. vii)] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ _ th september ._ my most beloved victoria,--i can never thank you enough for the dear letter which i found on my table on arriving here, sunday evening. it was most kind of you to have written so soon after our departure, and such an affectionate, good, kind letter. the tears came to my eyes as i read it, and i felt quite moved. short as has been our stay, and great, as always, the pain of leaving you, it has been a _great happiness_ for me to see you again, a happiness for which i shall always thank god, you, and your dear uncle. i need not add how _very precious_ is your affection to me, and how _very grateful_ i am for every new proof of it. you know my feelings on this point, and you know they are better _felt_ than _expressed_. your calling me _louise_, and in such a kind way, gave me great pleasure. almost all those dear to me call me so, and i think it looks more affectionate; i would fain say now _sister-like_, although i am rather an old sister for you now.... leopold is half crazy with the steam-engine, and particularly with the _tools_ which you sent him. i enclose here the expression of his gratitude. i wrote exactly what he told me to write, and i did not add a word. he has found again his kie (key), and he wears it suspended to his neck by a blue riband, with the duchess's little seal. he felt deeply the attention you had to have an _l_ engraved on each tool, and after his letter was closed he charged me to thank you for it, and to tell you that it gave him great pleasure. an _iron spade_ was the greatest object of his ambition, and he worked so hard yesterday with it, that i feared he would hurt himself with the exertion. he will go to-day to the races with us, in the scotch dress which the duchess had the kindness to send him. it fits very well, and he is very proud of having a coat shaped _like that of a man_.... [pageheading: ireland and o'connell] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty.... mr stanley of the treasury[ ] arrived in london yesterday, and acquaints me that lord normanby makes no secret of his willingness, and indeed his desire, to undertake the government of canada. it would have been better if lord normanby had acquainted lord melbourne quietly of this, and not made it at once public to all the world. it is not necessary to do anything at present. if lord durham remains, which lord melbourne does not, however, think likely, there will be no successor to be appointed, and if he returns, the authority of governor of lower canada will devolve upon sir john colborne,[ ] in whose hands it may be very safely left for the present. if ireland should be vacant, there is a strong feeling amongst many that it would be nice to name the duke of sussex. it is said that it would be popular in ireland, that the name of one of the royal family would do good there, and that it would afford to o'connell a pretext and opportunity for giving up his new scheme of agitation. it is also added that the duke would suffer himself to be guided on all essential matters by the advice of his chief secretary, and that he would content himself with discharging the ceremonial duties. here are the reasons for it--your majesty is so well acquainted with the reasons on the other side, that it is unnecessary for me to detail them. i am afraid that times of some trouble are approaching, for which your majesty must hold yourself prepared; but your majesty is too well acquainted with the nature of human affairs not to be well aware that they cannot very well go on even as quietly as they have gone on during the last sixteen months. [footnote : "ben" stanley, afterwards lord stanley of alderley, secretary to the treasury.] [footnote : field-marshal sir john colborne, afterwards lord seaton, had been military secretary to sir john moore, had commanded a brigade with much distinction in the peninsula, and had contributed greatly to the success of the british arms at waterloo.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th november ._ lord melbourne is very well, but sir james clark,[ ] a scotchman and a physician, and therefore neither by country nor by profession very religious, detained him from church in order to go through the report upon the state of buckingham palace. this is not a very good excuse, but it is the true one. lord melbourne is very grateful to your majesty for your enquiries, and having some letters to submit, will be happy to attend upon your majesty. [footnote : physician-in-ordinary to the queen.] [pageheading: death of lady john russell] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ my dear uncle,--.... we have all been much distressed by the melancholy and untimely death of poor lady john russell,[ ] which took place on the st. she was safely confined on the th of october with a little girl, who bears my name, and seemed to be going on very well; but on wednesday she began to sink from weakness, not disease, and died at three o'clock on thursday. it is a dreadful blow to _him_, for he was _so_ attached to her, and i don't believe two people ever were happier together. i send you his pretty letter to me, which i think you may be interested to see; he is _dreadfully_ beat down by it, but struggles manfully against his grief, which makes one pity him more. she has left four children by her first husband, _now orphans_, the eldest a sweet girl twelve years old, and two little girls by lord john; the eldest of these two is two and a half, and the youngest a _fortnight_. i had known her _very_ well and liked her, and i assure you i was dreadfully shocked at it. you may also imagine what a loss she is to poor miss lister, who has no mother, and whose only sister she was. i fear, dear uncle, i have made a sad and melancholy letter of this, but i have been so much engrossed by all this misery, and knowing you take an interest in poor lord john, that i let my pen run on almost involuntarily. we have very good accounts of the queen-dowager from gibraltar. please return me lord john's letter when you have done with it. lord and lady howard[ ] have been here, and i urged him to _bear_ dietz as an inevitable evil, and i think he seems very anxious to do what is right. i have likewise written to ferdinand, urging _him_ and dietz to be reasonable. will you tell aunt louise that she will receive a box containing the limerick lace dress (just like mine), which i lay at her feet. i fear, dear uncle, you will think i'm making you my commissioner _de toilette_, as in these two letters i have plagued you with commissions on that subject.... [footnote : daughter of mr thomas lister. she had been widow of the second lord ribblesdale, and married lord john russell in april .] [footnote : charles augustus, sixth lord howard de walden, was the british minister at lisbon, and afterwards ( - ) at brussels.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th november ._ my dearest victoria,--your kind and interesting letter of the th reached me yesterday morning. i hail in you those simple and unaffected feelings which it contains. may you _always_ preserve that great warmth and truth of character which you now possess, and rest assured that it will be an ornament to you, and the means of finding the same truth and warmth of feeling in others. those who serve, from whatever motive it may be, have always their eyes wide open on their superiors, and no qualities impose so much on them the necessity of respect, which they _gladly avoid_, than a warm and noble character that knows how to feel for others, and how to sympathise with their sorrows. i pity lord john from all my heart, having always had for him sentiments of the sincerest regard. i fear that as a political man it may prove also a severe blow. all depends on how he takes it, if he will wish to forget his grief by occupying himself with political strife or if his greater sensibility will make him wish to indulge it in solitude.... [pageheading: lord john russell] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ my dearest uncle,--i was certain you _would_ take interest in and feel for poor lord john; he is, i hear, still dreadfully shaken, and quite unequal to do any business at present. his chief consolation is in attending to the children. i felt much for you, and still more for poor dear aunt louise, when the sad separation from poor marie[ ] took place; it is so melancholy to see a dear relation depart who is _so ill_. i have this morning heard from ferdinand that the good queen is at last confined, after keeping us for _two months_ and _more dans l'attente_ of the event. it took place on the rd, and ferdinand writes such a funny letter, saying, "nous sommes tous bien heureux surtout moi qui craignais que ce ne fût une petite fille ce qui m'eût été un peu désagréable, car en fait d'enfants j'aime mieux les petits garçons, parce qu'ils sont plus gais et plus tapageurs."[ ] isn't this very good? i believe the king of the french is to be godfather.... [footnote : see _post_, p. . (ch. viii, th january, )] [footnote : the prince received the title of duke of oporto.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th november ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and transmits a copy of mr. macaulay's letter.[ ]... lord melbourne fears, from what he hears of the language of lord howick and mr. monson, that much difficulty will be found in making arrangements and deciding upon questions. but lord melbourne will use every effort in his power in order to keep the administration together and to carry on the public service. lord melbourne hears with concern from mr fox maule that lord john russell does not return to business as readily as mr maule had hoped that he would, and lord melbourne fears that he will not do whilst he remains at cassiobury with the children. solitude and retirement cherish and encourage grief. employment and exertion are the only means of dissipating it. [footnote : declining to join the government. the original is not preserved among the queen's papers.] [pageheading: canada and lord durham] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ nd november ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to acknowledge your majesty's gracious communication received yesterday. lord melbourne had nothing particular to lay before your majesty, but still regrets that he did not write, as your majesty might have wished to hear from him. lord melbourne returns the king of portugal's[ ] letter, which, as your majesty observes, is very rough and ill-tempered with reference to lord howard.[ ] lord melbourne read it with much concern, as it shows so much dislike and alienation, as renders it very improbable that they should ever go on together well and in a friendly spirit. lord melbourne fears that the epithets applied to lord howard, though very severe and full of resentment, are not entirely ill-chosen and inappropriate. all the ministers, except lord duncannon[ ] and lord john russell, dined here yesterday, and they all appeared to be in very good-humour and disposed to co-operate in order to meet the difficulties by which we are surrounded.... with respect to canada, lord melbourne feels that it may be considered somewhat presumptuous in him to undervalue danger, which is considered by those upon the spot to be so great and so imminent, but still he cannot feel the alarm which seems to be felt there. lord durham, lord melbourne is convinced, exaggerates the peril in order to give greater _éclat_ to his own departure. the worst symptom which lord melbourne perceives is the general fear which seems to prevail there, and which makes every danger ten times as great as it really is. [footnote : the birth of an heir on th september conferred on prince ferdinand the right to the title of king.] [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch vii, footnote )] [footnote : lord duncannon ( - ), at this time lord privy seal and first commissioner of woods and forests, was afterwards (as earl of bessborough) lord-lieutenant of ireland. he must not be confused with the lord dungannon who sat in the house of commons as mr hill-trevor from - , and, as viscount dungannon, was elected in , but immediately unseated on petition.] [pageheading: belgium and england] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th november ._ my dear victoria,--van praet[ ] is bearer of this letter. the present moment being one of some importance--which may, if imprudently managed, cause great disturbances in the west of europe, and exercise a reaction on your own government--i think it my duty to inform you of what is going on. i join a copy of a letter to lord palmerston. i should feel obliged to you if you would read it _in the presence_ of good lord melbourne, in whose fairness and sense of justice i must say i feel great confidence.... i will not complain, only one subject i must touch upon as really very unfair. that your ministers should take a line unfavourable to this country may be explained by their political position, but why should they press so much on the french government? i really see no cause for it. england is in an _excellent_ position for a _mediator_, and for all parties it is highly desirable that that position should be maintained.[ ] i will not plague with a longer letter. you know from experience that i _never ask anything of you._ i prefer remaining in the position of having rendered services without wanting any return for it but your affection; but, as i said before, if we are not careful we may see serious consequences which may affect more or less everybody, and _this_ ought to be the object of our most anxious attention. i remain, my dear victoria, your affectionate uncle, leopold r. [footnote : jules van praet, author of a history of flanders, was secretary of the belgian legation in london in , and took a leading part in the negotiations which placed king leopold on the throne.] [footnote : king leopold considered that the interests of belgium were being neglected by the four powers, and in his speech at the opening of his parliament, on th november, stated amid loud acclamations that those interests would be defended with perseverance and courage. the deputies, in reply, said that belgium had consented to painful sacrifices only under a formal guarantee by the powers, which they now shrank from carrying out.] [pageheading: belgium and holland] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ nd december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and returns this letter with the enclosures. he has read it and them with great attention. your majesty will probably think it right to acquaint the king that your majesty had already seen his letter to lord palmerston. lord melbourne cannot perceive the justice of the king's complaint. for the sake of the king himself and of the belgian nation, we are most anxious to settle speedily and definitely the questions so long pending between belgium and holland, and which arose from the separation of the two countries in . we can only settle it by the agreement of the four great powers who constitute the conference to which the question was referred, viz., austria, prussia, england, france. of course it is of vital importance for us to carry them all along with us, and for that reason we press france. if she differs from us, there is a ground immediately laid for difference and war. lord melbourne would suggest that your majesty should say "that your great affection for the king, as well as your anxiety for the interests of your own country, and your desire for the promotion of peace, render you most solicitous to have the belgian question speedily and definitively settled; that it appears to you that it can only be settled by the agreement of the four powers who constitute the conference, and that therefore you cannot but wish most strongly to carry france as well as the two others along with you."[ ] [footnote : see the queen's letter of th december to the king of the belgians.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ rd december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to acquaint that as soon as he arrived at half-past two, sir george grey[ ] ran in to acquaint him that the whole insurrection in canada was put down and suppressed.[ ] despatches have been received from sir john colborne to say that the british turned out with the utmost alacrity, the volunteers beat the french wherever they met them, the whole are dispersed, and sir john says that he feels no doubt of the tranquillity of the colony during the rest of the winter. unless, therefore, the americans make an attempt upon upper canada, all is well. lord melbourne will have the pleasure of returning to windsor to-morrow, unless there should be any impediment, of which lord melbourne will inform your majesty. [footnote : sir george grey ( - ), at this time under-secretary for the colonies, afterwards secretary of state successively for home and colonial affairs.] [footnote : on the rd of november, however, the insurrection had broken out anew in lower canada, while in upper canada many american "sympathyzers" joined the insurgents there; these were decisively defeated at prescott. this fight cost the british in killed and wounded; of their opponents (including natives of the united states) were taken, and conveyed to kingston, to be tried by court-martial.] [pageheading: belgian affairs] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ my dear uncle,--i have to thank you for two letters, one brought by van praet, and the other received on tuesday. before i proceed further i must tell you that both lord melbourne and i had already seen your letter to lord palmerston, which he sent to us immediately on receiving it. i have read these letters with the greatest attention, and can quite understand that your difficulties are great in trying to restrain the eagerness and violence of some of your people. my great affection for you, of course, makes me most anxious to see these troublesome and long pending affairs settled, for the sake of a continuance of peace and tranquillity; but, dear uncle, as it appears to me that these affairs can only be settled by the agreement of the four powers, it is absolutely necessary that france should go with us as well as the others, and i think, dear uncle, you wrong us in thinking that we urged france too much and unfairly. you must not, dear uncle, think that it is from want of interest that i, in general, abstain from touching upon these matters in my letters to you; but i am fearful, if i were to do so, to change our present delightful and familiar correspondence into a formal and stiff discussion upon political matters which would not be agreeable to either of us, and which i should deeply regret. these are my reasons, and i trust you will understand them, and be convinced of my unalterable and _very_ great affection for you, my dearest uncle, and of the great interest i take in all that concerns your welfare and happiness and the prosperity of your country.... pray give my affectionate love to aunt louise and the children, and believe me, always, your most affectionate niece, victoria r. [pageheading: lord durham's resignation] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has just received your majesty's letters. lord durham arrived yesterday evening, and lord melbourne has just seen mr. stanley, who has seen him. he represents him as calm, but much hurt and vexed at the last despatch which expresses your majesty's disapprobation of his conduct in issuing the proclamation.[ ] lord durham said that he should immediately write an answer to it, in which he should state that he would communicate to the government all the information which he had collected upon the state of the canadas. that he should not ask an audience of your majesty. this is his present decision. he may alter it; if he should, and through any channel request an audience, lord melbourne is now clearly of opinion that your majesty should merely say that an answer will be sent and the propriety of granting an audience may then be fully considered by your majesty's confidential servants. mr stanley represents lord durham as not speaking with much violence or asperity, but seeming to feel much the censure conveyed in the last despatch. your majesty will receive from the colonial office a _précis_ of sir john colborne's despatches. nothing can be more honourable. the american force which made an incursion into upper canada have all been taken prisoners.... lord melbourne thinks that as long as lord durham is here and some communication has been received from him, he had better remain to-night in london. he will return to windsor to-morrow.... [footnote : lord durham stated at devonport: "i shall, when parliament meets, be prepared to make a representation of facts wholly unknown here, and disclosures which the parliament and people have no conception of."] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to acquaint your majesty that lord glenelg has this evening received a letter from lord durham, tendering formally his resignation, and stating that his general report upon the affairs of canada must be delayed until the gentlemen connected with his mission return from that country, which they were to leave on or about the th of last month, and therefore may be shortly expected here. it will be necessary to ask lord durham whether he has no intelligence of immediate importance to give. [pageheading: an english church for malta] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ palace, valetta,[ ] _ th december ._ my dearest niece,--the english mail going to-day gives me another opportunity to address you, and to name a subject to you which i think deserves your consideration, and about which i feel most anxious. it is the want of a _protestant church_ in this place which i mean. there are so many english residents here, it is the seat of an english government, and there is _not one_ church belonging to the church of england.... the consequence of this want of church accommodation has been that the dissenters have established themselves in considerable numbers, and one cannot blame persons for attending their meetings when they have no church of their own. i address myself to you, as the head of the church of england, and entreat you to consider well this important subject, and to talk it over with your ministers and the archbishop, in order to devise the best means of remedying a want so discreditable to our country. should there be no funds at your disposal to effect this object, most happy shall i feel to contribute to any subscription which may be set on foot, and i believe that a considerable sum may be raised amongst the protestants of this island, where all parties are most anxious to see a proper place of divine worship erected; without assistance from england, however, it cannot be effected. i therefore most humbly and confidently submit this subject to you, dearest victoria, who will bestow upon your protestant subjects of this island an everlasting benefit by granting them what they want most.[ ]... i hope this will find you quite well and happy, and that i shall soon again have the pleasure of hearing from you. give my affectionate love to your dear mother, and all my dear sisters, and believe me ever, my dearest niece, your most devoted and faithfully attached aunt, adelaide. [footnote : the queen-dowager was at this time cruising in the mediterranean, and made some stay at malta.] [footnote : queen adelaide herself erected the church at a cost of £ , .] [pageheading: lord melbourne's anxieties] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ st december ._ ... lord melbourne saw mr. stephenson this morning and learns from him that the duke of sussex[ ] is in the highest degree discontented at being informed decisively that there is no intention of sending him to ireland. he is very loud against the government, and is also very angry with mr stephenson, and the latter expects that he shall receive his dismissal.... mr stephenson assures lord melbourne that he has mentioned this matter to no one but lord melbourne and lady mary, and it is of importance that it should be kept secret. lord melbourne thinks it his duty to apprise your majesty of the feelings of the duke, and of the possible origin of them. lord and lady holland return to london to-day and lord melbourne is going to dine with them. [footnote : the duke of sussex was anxious to be appointed viceroy of ireland. mr stephenson was his private secretary. see _ante_, p. . (ch. vii, 'ireland and o'connell)] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ nd december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and cannot express how deeply concerned he is to find himself restrained from obeying your majesty's commands, and repairing without delay to brighton. both his duty and his inclination would prompt him to do this without a moment's delay, if he did not find it incumbent upon him to represent to your majesty the very important circumstances which require his presence for two or three days longer in london. the session of parliament approaches; the questions which are to be considered and prepared are of the most appalling magnitude, and of the greatest difficulty. many of your majesty's servants, who fill the most important offices, are compelled by domestic calamity to be absent, and it is absolutely necessary that there should be some general superintendence of the measures to be proposed, and some consideration of the arrangements to be made. lord melbourne assures your majesty that he would not delay in london if he did not feel it to be absolutely necessary for your majesty's service.... [pageheading: brighton] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th december ._ my dearest victoria,--i have to thank you for two extremely kind and dear letters, which made me very happy, and your kind heart would be pleased to know _how happy_. sir h. seymour[ ] gave me a very favourable account of your dearest majesty, and was deeply gratified by your gracious reception. i am glad to find that you like brighton better than last year. i think brighton very agreeable at this time of the year, till the east winds set in. it also gives the possibility of seeing people without having them on one's hands the whole day, as is the case in the country. the pavilion, besides, is comfortable; that cannot be denied. before my marriage it was there that i met the regent. charlotte afterwards came with old queen charlotte. how distant all this already, but still how present to one's memory. the portrait of your aunt and leopold is nicely done. don leopoldo is like, and has at times even a more intelligent look; he would amuse you--he is very original and very sly. i often call him the little tyrant, because nobody knows so well _de faire aller le monde_.... my most beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : sir hamilton seymour, minister at brussels.] introductory note to chapter viii the chief political event of the year ( ) at home arose out of the troubles in jamaica. in addition to the apprenticeship question, the state of the prisons, much overcrowded owing to the planters' severity, had excited attention, and an imperial act was passed for their regulation. to this action the colonial assembly showed marked hostility, and, after the dissolution by sir lionel smith, the governor, the new house was no more placable. accordingly, the home government brought in a bill, in april, to suspend temporarily the jamaica constitution, but on a division had a majority of five only in a house of five hundred and eighty-three. the ministers therefore resigned, and sir robert peel was sent for; a difficulty as to the ladies of the household, commonly called the bedchamber plot, compelled him to resign the task, and the whigs, much injured in reputation, resumed office. some changes took place, macaulay joining the ministry, and lord normanby, who had succeeded lord glenelg at the colonial office, exchanging places with lord john russell, the home secretary. the trial of strength over the speakership ended in a victory for the ministerial candidate, mr shaw lefevre, by a majority of eighteen in a house of six hundred and sixteen. penny postage was introduced by an act of this session. the princes ernest and albert of saxe-coburg arrived on a visit to the queen in october, and on the th the queen's engagement to the latter was announced by herself to lord melbourne. a few weeks later the queen announced her betrothal at a meeting of the privy council. during the year risings in favour of the "people's charter" took place in various parts of the country, especially birmingham and newport, the six points demanded being the ballot, universal suffrage, annual parliaments, payment of members, the abolition of a property qualification for members, and equal electoral districts. at newport one frost, a linen-draper whom lord john russell had made a magistrate, headed a riot. he was tried with his confederates by a special commission at monmouth, and, with two others, sentenced to death; a sentence afterwards commuted. in the east, war broke out between the sultan mahmoud and the pasha of egypt, mehemet ali, who had originally helped turkey against greece, but had since revolted and driven the turks from syria. on that occasion ( ) turkey had been saved by russian intervention, a defensive alliance, known as the treaty of unkiar skelessi, made between russia and turkey, and mehemet granted syria as well as egypt. on the revival of hostilities, ibrahim, son of mehemet, defeated the turkish army on june ; a week later the sultan mahmoud died, and the turkish admiral treacherously delivered over the turkish fleet to mehemet at alexandria. once more the four powers (great britain, austria, prussia, and russia) interfered to save the sultan. the czar accepted the principle of a joint mediation, the advance of the egyptians was stopped, and the sultan was informed that no terms of peace would be accepted which had not received the approval of the powers. the terms were settled at a congress held in london. mehemet refused to accept the terms, and was encouraged by france to persevere in his refusal. the dispute between belgium and holland as to the luxemburg territory was settled by a treaty in the course of the year. lord durham presented his report on canada, a document drafted by charles buller but inspired by lord durham himself; though legislation did not take place this year, this document laid the foundation of the federal union of the canadas, and of the constitution of other autonomous colonies, but for the present the ex-commissioner met with much criticism of his actions. our troops were engaged during the year against dost mahommed, the ameer of afghanistan, a usurper who many years earlier had driven shah sooja into exile. lord auckland, the viceroy of india, had sent captain (afterwards sir alexander) burnes on a mission to cabul, and the ameer had received him hospitably at first, but subsequently dismissed him from his court. lord auckland thereupon resolved to restore shah sooja, and in the autumn of issued a manifesto dethroning dost mahommed. operations were accordingly directed against him under sir john (afterwards lord) keane, who, on august , , entered cabul and placed shah sooja on the throne. however open to criticism, the news of this result was enthusiastically received in england, and lord auckland was promoted to an earldom. in china a dispute of long standing became acute. with the renewal of the east india company's charter, in , the chinese ports had been thrown open, and the opium trade became a source of great profit to private traders. in spite of the prohibition which the chinese government laid on importation of opium, the traffic was actively carried on, and, as a result of the strained relations which ensued, captain elliot, the british chief superintendent, requested that warships should proceed to china for the protection of british life and property. chapter viii _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ pavilion [brighton], _ st january ._ my dear uncle,--... i don't like your _croaking_ so about damp climates; if a niece may venture to say such a thing, i might almost say it is ungrateful to your faithful and attached belgians. the queen-dowager's letters do tantalize one a good deal, i must own.[ ] you will see that old lord clarendon[ ] is dead, which makes our friend villiers earl of clarendon, but i am afraid not with a large income. lord palmerston has been unwell and obliged to go to broadlands, where he still is. he had gone through so much grief and labour, that it was absolutely necessary for him to recruit his strength. the normanbys spent two nights here.[ ] lord melbourne is the only person staying in the house besides several of my court and my suite, and, i am sorry to say, is not very well; he has also had, i fear, too much business to do. lady breadalbane[ ] is my new lady of the bedchamber, and a very nice person. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. forgive this short scrawl. [footnote : queen adelaide had described the orange-trees and tropical fruits in the gardens of the palace of st antonio, valetta.] [footnote : john charles, third earl, chief justice-in-eyre, north of trent. his successor, who had been minister to spain since , was afterwards the celebrated foreign secretary.] [footnote : lord normanby, at this time lord-lieutenant of ireland, became successively during the year, colonial and home secretary. lady normanby, who had been a lady-in-waiting since the accession, was a daughter of the first lord ravensworth.] [footnote : eliza, daughter of george baillie of jerviswood. her brother afterwards became tenth earl of haddington.] [pageheading: murder of lord norbury] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and returns his best and warmest thanks for the very kind and gracious communication which he had the honour and pleasure of receiving from your majesty yesterday evening. your majesty will have seen in the newspapers that lord norbury was shot at in his own grounds and dangerously wounded.[ ] lord melbourne learns to-day by a letter from lord morpeth that lord norbury is since dead. this is a shocking event, and will, of course, create a strong sensation, much stronger than the death in the same manner of several persons of inferior degree. it is almost the first time that an attempt of this kind has been directed against an individual of that rank or station.... lord melbourne has seen sir henry halford,[ ] who says that his pulse is low and his system languid. he has prescribed some draughts, which lord melbourne trusts will be of service, but he feels much depressed to-day. he dined yesterday at lady holland's, where he met mr ellice,[ ] civil and friendly enough in appearance, but lord melbourne fears hostile at heart, and a determined partisan of lord durham. lord durham has not yet made to lord glenelg the promised communication of his report and plan, but it is said that he will do so soon.... [footnote : at kilbeggan abbey, county meath. the murderer escaped.] [footnote : the celebrated physician: he attended george iv. and william iv., as well as queen victoria.] [footnote : son-in-law of lord grey, as was also lord durham.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th january ._ my dear uncle,--the dreadful moment has arrived, and dear marie[ ] is no more to bless her loving relations with her presence on this earth of grief and troubles! it is a heavy dispensation, and one that it is difficult to comprehend, but we must submit. i thought it best to write to my poor dear aunt, for whom this will be a sad blow; but i abstained from doing so to the dear queen of the french just as yet. i have no letters, and only learnt the melancholy event by the papers. poor wretched alexander! what a loss, what a change for him, poor fellow! _you_ will, i am sure, regret that sweet amiable creature, as poor marie was, very much, having known her so well, and her attachment to you was great. i will not prolong this letter, but merely repeat _how_ much i feel for you all, and beg you to believe me, your most affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : princess marie of orleans, born , sister to the queen of the belgians, had married prince alexander of würtemberg, in .] [pageheading: holland and belgium] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th january ._ ... your aunt as well as myself are very anxious to be of use to poor alexander. the dispositions of the whole family are extremely kind towards him, but he is shy and a little helpless; his present melancholy situation is of course calculated to increase this. his position puts me in mind of mine in .... he, besides, is surrounded by people who are kind to him. of george iv., then regent, it was observed that for years he had not been in such good spirits than by the loss of his daughter. she was more popular than himself--that was, since her mariage, her only crime.... i feel very grateful for lord melbourne's kindness on the subject of our sad loss. he is so feeling and kindhearted that he, much more than most men who have lived so much in the _grand monde_, has preserved a certain warmth and freshness of feeling.... your cousins kiss your hands, and i remain, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ stanhope street, _ th january ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and returns to your majesty the accompanying papers which he received from viscount melbourne. your majesty will have seen by sir edward disbrowe's[ ] despatches that the concentration of dutch troops mentioned in these reports was purely defensive, and was the consequence of the military demonstrations previously made by the belgians; and it appears, moreover, that the dutch force is inferior in number to the belgian force opposite to it; and that affords an additional security against the chance of an invasion of belgium by the dutch. it is, however, undeniable that when two armies are drawn up in face of each other, separated by a small distance, and animated by mutual hatred, the chances of collision become great and imminent. but it is to be hoped in the present case that the communication made by the conference to the two parties on thursday last may avert danger of hostilities between the dutch and belgians.[ ] [footnote : minister at the hague.] [footnote : _see_ next letter.] [pageheading: belgium and england] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th february ._ my dear uncle,--i am much grieved to learn that poor philippe[ ] has given you such anxiety. my poor aunt! it really is too much upon her to have these cares added to her recent severe affliction. i hope to god that i shall get news of philippe's complete recovery to-morrow. i regret to hear that your government gives you so much trouble, but trust that you will exert all your influence, as you have so frequently done, to persuade your ministers to be reasonable, and not to resist the favourable offers made to the government. _everybody_ here is exceedingly anxious for the conclusion of these long pending affairs, and hope that the answer from belgium will soon arrive.[ ] you will forgive me, dear uncle, if i express to you my earnest hope that these expectations may not be disappointed, for i feel that since the dutch have so instantly accepted the proposition of the conference, belgium would suffer in the eyes of this country were she to delay, and, what i am still more fearful of, my beloved uncle, you might be blamed, and suffer for what your government may do. you will, i know, forgive this freedom, which is prompted by my great anxiety for your _welfare_ and _happiness_ (which i know you are well aware of), and for the preservation of the inestimable blessings of peace. no one feels more for you than i do at this difficult moment, nor than i have done throughout these trying and embarrassing affairs. that all may be peaceably and amicably settled is my earnest prayer. everything went off well yesterday,[ ] and we are again launched into a political campaign, which it is impossible not to contemplate with a certain degree of anxiety. adieu! my dear uncle. give my love to my dear aunt, and believe me, always, your most devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : see _ante_, p. . ( th april, )] [footnote : the twenty-four articles, to which belgium had acceded in , had then been rejected by holland. now, however, holland wished to adopt them. the belgian government vainly proposed different schemes, but at last the bill for ratifying the proposal of the powers (made rd january , and accepted by holland on th february) passed the belgian chambers.] [footnote : the queen opened parliament in person on th february.] [pageheading: cabinet dissension] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th february ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thinks it right and necessary to acquaint your majesty that the cabinet yesterday was very stormy and unpleasant. lord john russell brought on the question of the civil government of the army, in a temperate and judicious manner, but lord howick made a most violent speech, strongly condemning the whole of the present system and arraigning the conduct of the treasury and other departments, saying that he should not throw up his office because no measure was brought forward, but that, when questioned upon the subject by mr hume in the house of commons, as it was certain that he would be, he should say that government would do nothing upon the subject, until he (mr hume) compelled them, and that he should express his entire disapprobation of the present system, and his reasons in detail for that disapprobation. your majesty will perceive that nothing could be more violent than this course. it was borne with great patience by the rest of the cabinet, although mr. rice,[ ] against whom the greater part of lord howick's speech was directed, felt himself most deeply hurt, and so expressed himself in private afterwards to lord melbourne. upon the whole, lord melbourne cannot but consider that affairs are in a most precarious state, and that whilst there is so much discontent fermenting within the cabinet itself, there must be great doubt of lord melbourne's being much longer able to hold the administration together. [footnote : the chancellor of the exchequer.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th february ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is very sorry that his communication has occasioned your majesty so much alarm and uneasiness. lord melbourne hopes that there is nothing imminent and immediate, but this sort of outbreak and contention may so soon become serious, that lord melbourne thought it his duty to take an early opportunity of informing your majesty of what had taken place. lord melbourne would wait upon your majesty without delay, but trusts that this letter will be sufficient to dispel any disquietude which his former communication may have excited. [pageheading: the duke of lucca] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ th february ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that mr charles villiers[ ] moved yesterday, after a very able speech, that the petitioners against the corn laws should be heard at the bar of the house. sir robert peel opposed the motion on the ground that he meant to resist any change in the corn laws. he made a very skilful use of the returns of cotton, etc., exported. [footnote : m.p. for wolverhampton - , becoming "father of the house."] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ stanhope street, _ th march ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and requests to be honoured with your majesty's commands upon the accompanying letter from count pollon.[ ] viscount palmerston at the same time begs to state that he has reason to believe, from what count pollon said to him in conversation two days ago, that the duke of lucca[ ] has a notion that sovereign princes who have had the honour of dining with your majesty, have been invited by note and not by card. if that should be so, and if your majesty should invite the duke of lucca to dine at the palace before his departure, perhaps the invitation might be made by note, instead of by card, as it was when the duke last dined at the palace. your majesty may think this a small matter, but the duke is a small sovereign. [footnote : for many years sardinian minister in england.] [footnote : lucca was an independent italian state.] [pageheading: portugal] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th march ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and feels very deeply the very kind and gracious concern which your majesty expresses for his health, as well as your majesty's solicitude and interest upon all occasions. lord melbourne will take your majesty's advice, but his experience teaches him that illness is not so easily put off, and that it will have its course in spite of precaution.... lord melbourne thinks, upon the whole, that your majesty had perhaps better write by messenger a few lines of kindness and recollection. it can be no descent on your majesty's part to do so, and as we may be obliged to take very strong measures with respect to portugal, it is as well that there should be no appearance of any deficiency of affection or attention. lord melbourne [thinks] that, for the reason given by your majesty, your majesty may perhaps as well not go to the play this evening, but is very sorry to hear that your majesty is low and out of spirits. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th march ._ my dear uncle,--many thanks for two letters, one which i received last sunday, and the other enclosing a letter from stockmar this morning. i am glad you agree with me about victoire.[ ] since i wrote to you, i got these two letters from the portuguese children--as i disrespectfully but very deservedly call them--which i send you, in order that you may see how they wish victoire to come to them, which i fear and think is totally impracticable, for it would never do for victoire to go so far without her mother. nevertheless, i thought it but right by them to send you these letters, and i have written to them giving them little hope. the french ministry are gone, and i am sure the poor king will be much vexed by it. they talk of broglie as minister for foreign affairs,[ ] but i am afraid thiers is inevitable. we are rather in fear of thiers here, but it is a pity that louis philippe should show so much dislike to a man he must take, for it will have the effect of a defeat. i have no time to add more, but to beg you to believe me, always, your most affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : daughter of prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg, and married in april to the duc de nemours.] [footnote : after a provisional cabinet, in which the duc de montebello was foreign minister, the king appointed a ministry with soult as premier and foreign minister.] [pageheading: difficulties of the ministry] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ nd march ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to acquaint your majesty that the cabinet have decided-- . that it is impossible to acquiesce in the vote of last night in the house of lords.[ ] . that it would not be justifiable to resign in the face of the declaration which i made in the year , in the house of lords, that i would maintain my post as long as i possessed the confidence of the crown and of the house of commons, particularly as there is no reason to suppose that we have lost the confidence of the house. . that the course to be pursued is to give notice in the house of commons to-night, that the sense of that house will be taken immediately after the easter holidays, upon a vote of approbation of the principles of lord normanby's government of ireland. if we lose that question, or carry it by a small majority, we must resign. if we carry it, we may go on. this is a plain statement of the case, and this course will at least give your majesty time to consider what is to be done. [footnote : by to lord roden carried a motion for a select committee to enquire into the state of ireland; the ministry replied by obtaining a vote of the house of commons in their favour by to .] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall,[ ] _ st april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has just received your majesty's letters, for which he returns many and warm thanks. nothing could be more prosperous than his journey down, although it rained hard the greater part of the way. lord melbourne slept well, and has walked out this morning, although it was still showery. nothing is so fatiguing as the first exposure to the air of the country, and lord melbourne feels the influence of it. lord melbourne returns the letters of the king of the belgians. he accounts very naturally for the conduct of the poor duchess,[ ] but she should have recollected the extreme disadvantage and discredit which attaches to a change of religion. _un gentilhomme ne change jamais la religion_, was the saying of napoleon, and is very just. it is difficult to understand the movements and motives of parties in a foreign country, and therefore lord melbourne does not feel able to pronounce any opinion upon the transactions in france. lord melbourne had seen g----'s letters, a pert jackanapes, who always takes the worst view of every subject, and does as much mischief as he can.... lord melbourne is just starting for panshanger.[ ] the evening is better than the morning was, but cold. [footnote : lord melbourne's house on the lea, about three miles north of hatfield. its construction was begun by sir matthew lamb, and completed by his son, sir peniston, the first lord melbourne.] [footnote : princess alexander of würtemberg. on her death-bed, she had expressed a wish to her husband that he should join the roman catholic church.] [footnote : panshanger, not far distant from brocket, the house of lord melbourne's brother-in-law, lord cowper, and celebrated for its pictures, was bought by lord chancellor cowper, _temp._ queen anne.] [pageheading: england and belgium] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ my dear uncle,--... i regret to learn you are still not easy about your own affairs, but trust all will now be speedily adjusted. you always allow me, dear uncle, to speak frankly to you; you will, therefore, i hope, not be displeased if i venture to make a few observations on one or two parts of your letter. you say that the anger of the belgians is principally directed against england.[ ] now, i must say you are very unjust towards us, and (if i could) i might be even a little angry with you, dear uncle. we only _pressed_ belgium for her _own_ good, and _not_ for ours. it may seem hard at first, but the time will come when you will see that we were right in urging you not to delay any longer the signature of the treaty. i think that you will see in this frank expression of my sentiments no wish to annoy or hurt you, but only an anxious desire to prove to you that england is belgium's sincere friend, and that my government are ever desirous of doing what is in their power for the welfare, security, and prosperity of yourself and your kingdom. i regret much the state of affairs in france,[ ] which cannot but make us all somewhat anxious; you will, i hope tell me what news you hear from paris. pray, dearest uncle, receive my best, my very warmest, wishes for many happy returns of dear leopold's birthday, and also, though somewhat late, for philippe's birthday. give my love to my dear aunt, and believe me, always, your most devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : he had written on th april:--"the feeling is strongest against england, in which the people expected to see a support, and only found a strong determination to decide _everything against them_ and at _their expense_. if there was a great explosion in france, it would not be astonishing to see the people here join it; it would rather be astonishing to see it otherwise, after the kind treatment they received from the powers."] [footnote : the king was for a time without any ministry, and the meeting of the chambers had to be postponed.] [pageheading: prince albert in italy] _baron stockmar to queen victoria._ naples, _ th april ._ madam,--as it is some time that i had the honour to address your majesty, i hope that a further account of our crusades will meet with a favourable reception. it is now somewhat better than a month that we left florence, i may say with regret, for we were there very comfortably in every respect. on our route to rome we enjoyed the beautiful sight of the cataract at terni, the place where queen caroline sojourned for some time. we were particularly fortunate that day, as the brightest sunshine heightened its picturesque effects beyond description. we found old rome very full, and to see it and its ecclesiastic governors to advantage, the holy week is certainly the properest time. from morning to noon the prince was at seeing sights, and he made so good a use of his time, that i don't think that something really remarkable was left unseen. upon this very principle, we paid our respects to the holy father,[ ] of which interview the prince made so admirable a sketch, so very worthy of h.b.,[ ] that i am very much tempted to send it for the inspection of your majesty. we assisted at the church ceremonies of the holy week from the beginning to the end. the music of the sistine chapel, which is only vocal, may be well considered as unique, and has not failed to make a lasting impression upon a mind so musical as the prince's.... i never think of your majesty--and i take the liberty of thinking very frequently of you--without praying for health, serenity of mind, comfort and success for you, and i can well say that i am from my heart, your majesty's sincerely attached and devoted servant, stockmar. [footnote : gregory xvi.] [footnote : initials adopted by mr doyle, father of richard doyle, in his _reform caricatures_.] [pageheading: belgium] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ ... i am glad i extracted some spark of politics from your dear majesty, very _kindly_ and _nicely_ expressed. i know that your generous little heart would not have wished at any time but what was good for a country in which you were _much beloved_. but the fact is, that certainly your government have taken the lead in maintaining a condition which time had rendered difficult to comply with. physicians will tell you that often an operation, which might have been performed at one time, could not, without great danger for the patient, be undertaken some years later. we have not been listened to, and arrangements _are forced_ on us, in themselves full of seeds of danger, when by consulting the _real interests_ of holland and belgium, both countries might have been placed on a footing of _sincere peace_ and good neighbourhood. this country feels now humbled and _désenchanté_ with its _soi-disant_ political independence as it pleased the conference to settle it. they will take a dislike to a political state which _wounds their vanity_, and will, in consequence of this, _not wish it to continue_. two things will happen, therefore, on the very first opportunity, either that this country will be involved in war to better a position which it thinks _too humiliating_, or that it will voluntarily throw up a nominal independence in which it is now hemmed in between france and holland, which begins on the north sea, and ends, of all the things in this world, on _the moselle_! i think old pirson, who said in the chamber that if the treaty was carried into execution i was likely to be the first and last king of the country, was not wrong. whenever this will happen, it will be _very awkward_ for england, and _deservedly so_. to see, after eight years of hard work, blooming and thriving political plantations cut and maimed, and that by those who have a real interest to protect them, is very melancholy. i do not say these things with the most distant idea of bringing about any change, but only because in the high and very responsible position in which providence has placed you, it is good to tell you the truth, as you ought to have weight and influence on the affairs of europe; and england, not being in the possibility of making territorial acquisition, has a real and permanent interest in the proper maintenance of a balance of political power in europe. now i will leave you to enjoy the beginning of spring, which a mild rain seems to push on prodigiously. believe me ever, my dear victoria, your very attached uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: jamaica] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to inform your majesty that the result of the cabinet has been a decision to stand by the bill as we have introduced it, and not to accede to sir robert peel's proposal. the bill is for suspending the functions of the legislative assembly of jamaica, and governing that island for five years by a governor and council.[ ] if sir robert peel should persist in his proposal, and a majority of the house of commons should concur with him, it will be such a mark of want of confidence as it will be impossible for your majesty's government to submit to. [footnote : _see_ introductory note, _ante_, p. . ( to ch. viii)] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ my dear uncle,--i have to thank you for your last letter, which i received on sunday. though you seem not to dislike my political sparks, i think it is better not to increase them, as they might finally take fire, particularly as i see with regret that upon this one subject we cannot agree. i shall therefore limit myself to my expressions of very sincere wishes for the welfare and prosperity of belgium. the grand duke,[ ] after a long delay, is at length to arrive on friday night; i shall put myself out of my way in order to be very civil to such a great personage. i am already thinking how i shall lodge all my relations; you must prepare uncle ferdinand for its not being _very ample_, but this palace, though large, is not calculated to hold many visitors.... believe me, always, your very affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : the hereditary grand duke of russia, afterwards the emperor alexander ii.] [pageheading: ministerial crisis] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has to acquaint your majesty that the division upon the jamaica bill, which took place about two this morning, was two hundred and ninety-nine against the measure, and three hundred and four in favour of it.[ ] lord melbourne has not heard from lord john russell since this event, but a cabinet will of course be summoned early this morning, and lord melbourne cannot conceal from your majesty that in his opinion the determination of the cabinet must be that the relative numbers upon this vote, joined to the consideration of no less than nine members of those who have hitherto invariably supported the government having gone against it now, leave your majesty's confidential servants no alternative but to resign their offices into your majesty's hands. they cannot give up the bill either with honour or satisfaction to their own consciences, and in the face of such an opposition they cannot persevere in it with any hope of success. lord melbourne is certain that your majesty will not deem him too presuming if he expresses his fear that this decision will be both painful and embarrassing to your majesty, but your majesty will meet this crisis with that firmness which belongs to your character, and with that rectitude and sincerity which will carry your majesty through all difficulties. it will also be greatly painful to lord melbourne to quit the service of a mistress who has treated him with such unvarying kindness and unlimited confidence; but in whatever station he may be placed, he will always feel the deepest anxiety for your majesty's interests and happiness, and will do the utmost in his power to promote and secure them. [footnote : the numbers are apparently incorrectly stated. the division was to .] [pageheading: resignation imminent] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ the present circumstances have been for some time so probable, or rather so certain, that lord melbourne has naturally been led to weigh and consider maturely the advice which, if called upon, he should tender to your majesty when they did arrive. that advice is, at once to send for the duke of wellington. your majesty appears to lord melbourne to have no other alternative. the radicals have neither ability, honesty, nor numbers. they have no leaders of any character. lord durham was raised, one hardly knows how, into something of a factitious importance by his own extreme opinions, by the panegyrics of those who thought he would serve them as an instrument, and by the management of the press, but any little public reputation which he might once have acquired has been entirely dissipated and destroyed by the continued folly of his conduct in his canadian government. there is no party in the state to which your majesty can now resort, except that great party which calls itself conservative, and of that party, his rank, station, reputation, and experience point out the duke of wellington as the person to whom your majesty should apply. lord melbourne therefore advises that your majesty should send for the duke of wellington, and should acquaint him, provided your majesty so feels, that you were entirely satisfied with your late government, and that you part from them with reluctance; but that as he and the party of which he is the head have been the means of removing them from office, you naturally look to him to advise you as to the means of supplying their places and carrying on the business of the country. if the duke should be unwilling to form the government himself, and should desire to devolve the task upon sir robert peel, lord melbourne would advise your majesty to accede to that suggestion; but lord melbourne would counsel your majesty to be very unwilling to suffer the government to be formed by sir robert peel, without the active assistance in office of the duke of wellington. with respect both to measures and appointments, your majesty should place the fullest confidence in those to whom you entrust the management of affairs, exercising at the same time, and fully expressing, your own judgment upon both. your majesty will do well to be from the beginning very vigilant that all measures and all appointments are stated to your majesty in the first instance, and your majesty's pleasure taken thereon previously to any instruments being drawn out for carrying them into effect, and submitted to your majesty's signature. it is the more necessary to be watchful and active in this respect, as the extreme confidence which your majesty has reposed in me may have led to some omission at times of these most necessary preliminaries. the patronage of the lord chamberlain's department is of the greatest importance, and may be made to conduce at once to the beneficial influence of the crown, and to the elevation and encouragement of the professions of the church and of medicine. this patronage, by being left to the uncontrolled exercise of successive lord chamberlains, has been administered not only wastefully but perniciously. the physicians to the late king were many of them men of little eminence; the chaplains are still a sorry set. your majesty should insist with the new ministers that this patronage should be disposed of, not by the lord chamberlain, but, as it has hitherto been during your majesty's reign, by your majesty upon consultation with your prime minister. [pageheading: distress of the queen] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen thinks lord melbourne may possibly wish to know how she is this morning; the queen is somewhat calmer; she was in a wretched state till nine o'clock last night, when she tried to occupy herself and try to think less gloomily of this dreadful change, and she succeeded in calming herself till she went to bed at twelve, and she slept well; but on waking this morning, all--all that had happened in one short eventful day came most forcibly to her mind, and brought back her grief; the queen, however, feels better now; but she couldn't touch a morsel of food last night, nor can she this morning. the queen trusts lord melbourne slept well, and is well this morning; and that he will come precisely at eleven o'clock. the queen has received no answer from the duke, which is very odd, for she knows he got her letter. the queen hopes lord melbourne received her letter last night. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is much grieved that he did not answer your majesty's letter yesterday evening, as your majesty desired, but he did not get it till late, and he felt much tired and harassed by all that had passed during the day. the situation is very painful, but it is necessary for your majesty to be prudent and firm. it is of all things necessary not to be suspected of any unfair dealing. whilst lord melbourne holds his office, everything of course may be written to him as usual; but still the resolutions for the formation of the new government will now commence, and it will never do, whilst they are going on, either for appearance or in reality, that lord melbourne should dine with your majesty, as he did before this disturbance. it would create feeling, possibly lead to remonstrance, and throw a doubt upon the fairness and integrity of your majesty's conduct. all this is very painful both to do and to say, but it is unavoidable; it must be said, and it must be done. lord melbourne will wait upon your majesty at eleven.[ ] [footnote : lord melbourne had made the not unnatural mistake of recommending to the queen, as members of her first household, ladies who were nearly related to himself and his whig colleagues. no doubt these were the ladies whom he knew best, and in whom he had entire confidence; but he ought to have had sufficient prescience to see that the queen would probably form strong attachments to the ladies who first served her: and that if the appointments had not in the first instance a political complexion, yet that the whig tendencies which these ladies represented were likely to affect the queen, in the direction of allying her closely with a particular party in the state.] [pageheading: the duke of wellington] [pageheading: sir robert peel] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ _ th may ._ the queen told lord melbourne she would give him an account of what passed, which she is _very_ anxious to do. she saw the duke for about twenty minutes; the queen said she supposed he knew why she sent for him, upon which the duke said, no, he had no idea. the queen then said that she had had the greatest confidence in her late ministry, and had parted with them with the greatest reluctance; upon which the duke observed that he could assure me no one felt more pain in hearing the announcement of their resignation than he did, and that he was deeply grieved at it. the queen then continued, that as his party had been instrumental in removing them, that she must look to him to form a new government. the duke answered that he had no power whatever in the house of commons, "that if he was to say black was white,[ ] they would say it was not," and that he advised me to send for sir robert peel, in whom i could place confidence, and who was a gentleman and a man of honour and integrity. the queen then said she hoped he would at all events have a place in the new cabinet. the duke at first rather refused, and said he was so deaf, and so old and unfit for any discussion, that if he were to consult his own feelings he would rather not do it, and remain quite aloof; but that as he was very anxious to do anything that would tend to the queen's comfort, and would do everything and at all times that could be of use to the queen, and therefore if she and her prime minister urged his accepting office, he would. the queen said she had more confidence in him than in any of the others of his party. the queen then mentioned the subject of the household, and of those who were not in parliament. the duke did not give any decisive answer about it, but advised the queen not to begin with conditions of this sort, and wait till the matter was proposed. the queen then said that she felt certain he would understand the great friendship she had for lord melbourne, who had been to her quite a parent, and the duke said _no one felt and knew that better than he did, and that no one could still be of greater use to the queen than lord melbourne_. the duke spoke of his personal friendship for lord melbourne, and that he hoped i knew that he had often done all he could to help your (lord melbourne's) government. the queen then mentioned her intention to prove her great _fairness_ to her new government in telling them, that they might know there was no unfair dealing, that i meant to see you often as a friend, as i owed _so_ much to you. the duke said he quite understood it, and knew i would not exercise this to weaken the government, and that he would take my part about it, and felt for me. he was very kind, and said he called it "a misfortune" that you had all left me. the queen wrote to peel, who came after two, embarrassed and put out. the queen repeated what she had said to the duke about her former government, and asked sir robert to form a new ministry. he does not seem sanguine; says entering the government in a minority is very difficult; he felt unequal to the task, and far from exulting in what had happened, as he knew what pain it must give me; he quite approved that the duke should take office, and saw the importance of it; meant to offer him the post of secretary for foreign affairs, and if he refused, lord aberdeen; lord lyndhurst, chancellor; hoped to secure stanley and graham; goulburn to be the candidate for the speaker's chair; he expects a severe conflict then, and if he should be beat must either resign or dissolve parliament. before this the queen said she was against a dissolution, in which he quite agreed, but of course wished no conditions should be made; he felt the task arduous, and that he would require me to demonstrate (_a certain_ degree, if _any_ i can only feel) confidence in the government, and that my household would be one of the marks of that. the queen mentioned the same thing about her household, to which he at present would give no answer, and said nothing should be done without my knowledge or approbation. he repeated his surprise at the course you had all taken in resigning, which he did not expect. the queen talked of her great friendship for, and gratitude to lord melbourne, and repeated what she had said to the duke, in which peel agreed; but he is such a cold, odd man she can't make out what he means. he said he couldn't expect me to have the confidence in him i had in you (and which he never can have) as he has not deserved it. my impression is, he is not _happy_ and sanguine. he comes to me to-morrow at one to report progress in his formation of the new government. the queen don't like his manner after--oh! how different, how dreadfully different, to that frank, open, natural and most kind, warm manner of lord melbourne.[ ] the duke i like by far better to peel. the queen trusts lord melbourne will excuse this long letter, but she was so very anxious he should know all. the queen was very much collected, and betrayed no agitation during these two trying audiences. but afterwards again _all_ gave way. she feels lord melbourne will understand it, amongst enemies to those she most relied on and esteemed, and people who seem to have no heart; but what is worst of all is the being deprived of seeing lord melbourne as she used to do. [footnote : _sic_: an obvious mistake for "black was black."] [footnote : lady de grey had written to peel on th may:--"the queen has always expressed herself much impressed with lord melbourne's open manner, and his truth. the latter quality you possess, the former not. "now, dear peel, the first impression on so young a girl's mind is of immense consequence, accustomed as she has been to the open and affectionate manner of lord melbourne, who, _entre nous_, treats her as a father, and, with all his faults, feels for her as such."--_sir robert peel_, parker, vol. ii. p. .] [pageheading: lord melbourne's advice] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has read with the greatest attention the very clear and distinct account which your majesty has written of that which passed at the audiences which your majesty has given to the duke of wellington and sir robert peel. nothing could have been more proper and judicious than your majesty's conduct, and they appear to have acted upon their part with propriety and sincerity. lord melbourne has no doubt that both with respect to him (lord melbourne) and to themselves and their own feelings and position, they expressed what they really think. the duke was right in saying that in general, in affairs of this nature, it is best not to begin with conditions; but this matter of the household is so personal to yourself, that it was best to give an intimation of your feelings upon it in the first instance. lord melbourne has little doubt that if they could have acted from themselves, they would have acceded to your majesty's wish at once; but your majesty must recollect that they have others to satisfy, and must not attribute entirely to them anything that is harsh and unreasonable. lord melbourne advises your majesty to urge this question of the household strongly as a matter due to yourself and your own wishes; but if sir robert is unable to concede it, it will not do to refuse and to put off the negotiation upon it. lord melbourne would strongly advise your majesty to do everything to facilitate the formation of the government. everything is to be done and to be endured rather than run the risk of getting into the situation in which they are in france, of no party being able to form a government and conduct the affairs of the country.[ ] the dissolution of parliament is a matter of still more importance, and if this should be again pressed upon your majesty, lord melbourne would advise your majesty to reserve your opinion, not to give a promise that you will dissolve, nor to say positively that you will not. you may say that you do not think it right to fetter the prerogative of the crown by previous engagements, that a dissolution of parliament is to be decided according to the circumstances at the time, that you mean to give full confidence to the government that shall be formed, and to do everything in your power to support them, and that you will consider whether parliament shall be dissolved, when you are advised to dissolve it, and have before you the reasons for such a measure. lord melbourne earnestly entreats your majesty not to suffer yourself to be affected by any faultiness of manner which you may observe. depend upon it, there is no personal hostility to lord melbourne nor any bitter feelings against him. sir robert is the most cautious and reserved of mankind. nobody seems to lord melbourne to know him, but he is not therefore deceitful or dishonest. many a very false man has a very open sincere manner, and _vice versâ_.... lord melbourne earnestly hopes that your majesty is better this morning. [footnote : alluding to the successive failures of soult, thiers, and broglie.] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen cannot sufficiently thank lord melbourne for his most kind letter, and for his excellent advice, which is at once the greatest comfort and of the greatest use to her; the queen will follow it in every respect, and nothing of importance shall be done without due reflection; and she trusts lord melbourne will help her and be to her what she told him he was, and begged him still ever to be--a father to one who never wanted support more than she does now. lord melbourne shall hear again after she sees peel this morning.... the queen has just now heard lord liverpool is not in town. the queen hopes lord melbourne is able to read her letters; if ever there is anything he cannot read, he must send them back, and mark what he can't read. [pageheading: lord palmerston's gratitude] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ stanhope street, _ th may ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to return your majesty his grateful thanks for your majesty's gracious communication of this morning. it affords viscount palmerston the most heart-felt satisfaction to know that his humble but zealous endeavours to promote the interests of his country and to uphold the honour of your majesty's crown, have had the good fortune to meet with your majesty's approbation; and he begs most respectfully to assure your majesty that the deep impression produced by the condescending kindness which he has upon all occasions experienced from your majesty can never be effaced from his mind. [pageheading: the household] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to suggest that if sir robert peel presses for the dismissal of those of your household who are not in parliament, you may observe that in so doing he is pressing your majesty more hardly than any minister ever pressed a sovereign before. when the government was changed in , the principal posts of the household were placed at the disposal of lord grey, but the grooms and equerries were not removed. when sir robert peel himself became minister in , no part of the household were removed except those who were in parliament. when i became prime minister again in , none of the grooms or equerries were removed because none of them were in parliament. they press upon your majesty, whose personal feelings ought from your circumstances to be more consulted, a measure which no minister before ever pressed upon a sovereign. if this is put to him by your majesty, lord melbourne does not see how he can resist it. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen writes one line to prepare lord melbourne for what _may_ happen in a very few hours. sir robert peel has behaved very ill, and has insisted on my giving up my ladies, to which i replied that i never would consent, and i never saw a man so frightened. he said he must go to the duke of wellington and consult with him, when both would return, and he said this must suspend all further proceedings, and he asked whether i should be ready to receive a decision, which i said i should; he was quite perturbed--but this is _infamous_. i said, besides many other things, that if he or the duke of wellington had been at the head of the government when i came to the throne, perhaps there might have been a few more tory ladies, but that then if you had come into office you would never have _dreamt_ of changing them. i was calm but very decided, and i think you would have been pleased to see my composure and great firmness; the queen of england will not submit to such trickery. keep yourself in readiness, for you may soon be wanted. [pageheading: proposed new cabinet] _extract from the queen's journal._ _thursday, th may ._ _at half-past two_ i saw the duke of wellington. i remained firm, and he told sir robert that i remained firm. i then saw sir robert peel, who stopped a few minutes with me; he must consult those (of whom i annex the list) whom he had named: the duke of wellington _secretary for foreign affairs_ sir james graham _secretary for the home department_ lord stanley _secretary for the colonies_ lord lyndhurst _lord chancellor_ lord ellenborough _president of the board of control_ sir h. hardinge _secretary at war_ and he said he would return in two or three hours with the result, which i said i should await.[ ] [footnote : it was a curious circumstance, much commented on at the time, that in the _globe_ of th may, a ministerial evening paper, which would probably have gone to press at two o'clock in the afternoon, the following paragraph appeared: "the determination which it is well known her majesty has taken, not to allow the change in the government to interfere with the ladies of her court, has given great offence to the tories."] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen has received lord melbourne's letter. lord melbourne will since have heard what has taken place. lord melbourne must not think the queen rash in her conduct; she saw both the duke and sir robert again, and declared to them she could not change her opinion. the ladies are not (as the duke imagined was stated in the civil list bill) in the _place_ of the lords; and the queen felt this was an attempt to see whether she could be led and managed like a child; if it should lead to sir robert peel's refusing to undertake the formation of the government, which would be absurd, the queen will feel satisfied that she has only been defending her own rights, on a point which so nearly concerned her person, and which, if they had succeeded in, would have led to every sort of unfair attempt at power; the queen maintains _all_ her ladies,--and thinks her prime minister will cut a sorry figure indeed if he resigns on this. sir robert is gone to consult with his friends, and will return in two or three hours with his decision. the queen also maintained the mistress of the robes, for as he said _only_ those who are _in parliament_ shall be removed, i should like to know if they mean to give the _ladies_ seats in parliament? we shall see what will be done. the queen would not have _stood so firmly_ on the grooms and equerries, but her _ladies_ are _entirely_ her own affair, and _not_ the ministers'. [pageheading: the crisis] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. lord melbourne had certainly never expected that this demand would be urged, and therefore had never advised your majesty as to what was to be done in such a case. lord melbourne strongly advises your majesty to hear what the duke of wellington and sir robert peel urge, but to take time before you come to a peremptory and final decision. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. this is a matter of so much importance, and may have such grave results, that any advice which lord melbourne could give would be of little importance unless it coincided with the opinions of others, and particularly of all those who were and intend still [to] continue to be his colleagues. it will depend upon their determination whether your majesty is to be supported or not. the best course will perhaps be that you should hear sir robert peel's determination, say nothing, but send for lord melbourne, and lay the matter before him. lord melbourne will then summon a cabinet to consider of it. [pageheading: the ladies of the bedchamber] _extract from the queen's journal._ _ th may ._ at half-past six came lord melbourne and stayed with me till ten minutes past seven. [pageheading: the ladies] i then began by giving him a detailed account of the whole proceeding, which i shall state here as briefly as possible. i first again related what took place in the two first interviews, and when i said that the duke said he had assisted my government often very much, lord melbourne said: "well, that is true enough, but the duke did all he could about this vote." "well, then," i said, "when sir robert peel came this morning, he began first about the ministry. i consented, though i said i might have my personal feelings about lord lyndhurst and lord aberdeen, but that i would suppress every personal feeling and be quite fair. i then repeated that i wished to retain about me those who were not in parliament, and sir robert _pretended_ that i had the preceding day expressed a wish to keep about me those who _were_ in parliament. i mentioned my wish to have lord liverpool, to which sir robert readily acceded, saying he would offer him the place of lord steward, or of lord in waiting. he then suggested my having lord ashley,[ ] which i said i should like, as treasurer or comptroller. soon after this sir robert said: 'now, about the ladies,' upon which i said i could _not_ give up _any_ of my ladies, and never had imagined such a thing. he asked if i meant to retain _all_. '_all_,' i said. 'the mistress of the robes and the ladies of the bedchamber?' i replied, '_all_,'--for he said they were the wives of the opponents of the government, mentioning lady normanby[ ] in particular as one of the late ministers' wives. i said that would not interfere; that i never talked politics with them, and that they were related, many of them, to tories, and i enumerated those of my bedchamber women and maids of honour; upon which he said he did not mean _all_ the bedchamber women and _all_ the maids of honour, he meant the mistress of the robes and the ladies of the bedchamber; to which i replied _they_ were of more consequence than the others, and that i could _not_ consent, and that it had never been done before. he said i was a queen regnant, and that made the difference. 'not here,' i said--and i maintained my right. sir robert then urged it upon _public grounds only_, but i said here i could not consent. he then begged to be allowed to consult with the duke upon such an important matter. i expressed a wish also to see the duke, if sir robert approved, which he said he did, and that he would return with the duke, if i would then be prepared for the decision, which i said i would. well," i continued, "the duke and sir robert returned soon, and i first saw the duke, who talked first of his being ready to take the post of secretary for foreign affairs, which i had pressed peel to urge on him (the duke having first wished to be in the cabinet, without accepting office), and the duke said, 'i am able to do anything,' for i asked him if it would not be too much for him. then i told him that i had been very well satisfied with sir robert yesterday, and asked the duke if sir robert had told him what had passed about the ladies. he said he had, and then i repeated all my arguments, and the duke his; but the duke and sir robert differed considerably on two points. the duke said the _opinions_ of the ladies were nothing, but it was the _principle_, whether the minister could remove the ladies or not, and that he (the duke) had understood it was stated in the civil list bill, 'that the _ladies were instead of the lords_,' which is quite false, and i told the duke that there were not _twelve lords_, as the expense _with the ladies_ would have been too great." lord melbourne said: "there you had the better of him, and what did he say?" "not much," i replied. i repeated many of my arguments, all which pleased lord melbourne, and which he agreed to, amongst others, that i said to the duke, was sir robert so weak that _even_ the ladies must be of his opinion? the duke denied that. the duke then took my decision to sir robert, who was waiting in the next room; after a few minutes sir robert returned. after stopping a few minutes, as i have already stated, sir robert went to see his colleagues, and returned at five: said he had consulted with those who were to have been his colleagues, and that they agreed that, with the probability of being beat the first night about the speaker, and beginning with a minority in the house of commons, that unless there was _some_ (_all_ the officers of state and lords i gave up) demonstration of my confidence, and if i retained all my ladies this would not be, "they agreed unanimously they could not go on." i replied i would reflect, that i felt certain i should not change my mind, but that i should do nothing in a hurry, and would write him my decision either that evening or the next morning. he said, meanwhile, he would suspend all further proceedings. [footnote : afterwards earl of shaftesbury, the well-known philanthropist.] [footnote : j. w. croker wrote to the king of hanover:-- "_ th may ._ "... this is the sum of the whole affair. sir r. peel could not admit that broad principle that all were to remain. lady normanby (whom the queen particularly wishes for), for instance, the wife of the very minister whose measures have been the cause of the change, two sisters of lord morpeth, the sisters-in-law of lord john russell, the daughter of the privy seal and the chancellor of the exchequer.... "her majesty's ball last night was, i am told, rather dull, though she herself seemed in high spirits, as if she were pleased at retaining her ministers. she has a great concert on the th, but to both, as i hear, the invitations have been on a very exclusive principle, no tories being invited who could on any pretence be left out. these are small matters, but everything tends to create a public impression that her majesty takes a personal and strong interest in the whigs--a new ingredient of difficulty."--_croker papers_, ii. .] i also told lord melbourne that i feared i had embarrassed the government; that i acted quite alone. lord melbourne saw, and said i could not do otherwise. "i must summon the cabinet," said lord melbourne, at half-past nine. "it may have very serious consequences. if we can't go on with this house of commons, we may have to dissolve parliament, and we don't know if we may get as good a house of commons." i begged him to come, and he said: "i'll come if it is in any time--if it's twelve; but if it's one or two, i'll write." after dinner (as usual with the household) i went to my room, and sat up till a quarter past two. at a quarter to two i received the following letter from lord melbourne, written at one o'clock:-- [pageheading: the queen's ultimatum] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may _ ( a.m.). lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. the cabinet has sate until now, and, after much discussion, advises your majesty to return the following answer to sir robert peel:-- "the queen having considered the proposal made to her yesterday by sir robert peel to remove the ladies of her bedchamber, cannot consent to adopt a course which she conceives to be contrary to usage, and which is repugnant to her feelings."[ ] [footnote : greville asserts that the plan adopted by the outgoing cabinet, of meeting and suggesting that this letter should be despatched, was "utterly anomalous and unprecedented, and a course as dangerous as unconstitutional.... they ought to have explained to her that until sir robert peel had formally and finally resigned his commission into her hands, they could tender no advice.... the cabinet of lord melbourne discussed the proposals of that of sir robert peel, and they dictated to the queen the reply in which she refused to consent to the advice tendered to her by the man who was _at that moment_ her minister."--_greville's journal, th may ._] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ _ th may ._ the queen having considered the proposal made to her yesterday by sir robert peel, to remove the ladies of her bedchamber, cannot consent to adopt a course which she conceives to be contrary to usage, and which is repugnant to her feelings.[ ] [footnote : sixty years later the queen, during a conversation at osborne with sir arthur bigge, her private secretary, after eulogising sir robert peel, said: "i was very young then, and perhaps i should act differently if it was all to be done again."] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen wrote the letter before she went to bed, and sent it at nine this morning; she has received no answer, and concludes she will receive none, as sir robert told the queen if the ladies were not removed, his party would fall directly, and could not go on, and that he only awaited the queen's decision. the queen therefore wishes to see lord melbourne about half-past twelve or one, if that would do. the queen fears lord melbourne has much trouble in consequence of all this; but the queen was fully prepared, and fully intended to give these people a fair trial, though she always told lord melbourne she knew they couldn't stand; and she must rejoice at having got out of the hands of people who would have sacrificed every personal feeling and instinct of the queen's to their bad party purposes. how is lord melbourne this morning? [pageheading: an anxious week] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ half-past one will do as well as one; any hour will do that lord melbourne likes, for the queen will not go out. there is no answer from peel. the queen is wonderfully well, considering all the fatigue of yesterday, and not getting to bed till near half-past two, which is somewhat of a fatigue for to-night when the queen must be very late. really all these fêtes in the midst of such very serious and anxious business are quite overwhelming. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen forgot to ask lord melbourne if he thought there would be any harm in her writing to the duke of cambridge that she really was fearful of fatiguing herself, if she went out to a party at gloucester house on tuesday, an ancient concert on wednesday, and a ball at northumberland house on thursday, considering how much she had to do these last four days. if she went to the ancient concert on wednesday, having besides a concert of her own here on monday, it would be four nights of fatigue, really exhausted as the queen is. but if lord melbourne thinks that as there are only to be english singers at the ancient concert, she ought to go, she could go there for one act; but she would much rather, if possible, get out of it, for it is a fatiguing time.... as the negotiations with the tories are quite at an end, and lord melbourne _has been here_, the queen hopes lord melbourne will not object to dining with her on _sunday_? [pageheading: resignation of peel] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has had the honour of receiving your majesty's note of this morning. in respectfully submitting to your majesty's pleasure, and humbly returning into your majesty's hands the important trust which your majesty had been graciously pleased to commit to him, sir robert peel trusts that your majesty will permit him to state to your majesty his impression with respect to the circumstances which have led to the termination of his attempt to form an administration for the conduct of your majesty's service. in the interview with which your majesty honoured sir robert peel yesterday morning, after he had submitted to your majesty the names of those whom he proposed to recommend to your majesty for the principal executive appointments, he mentioned to your majesty his earnest wish to be enabled, with your majesty's sanction, so to constitute your majesty's household that your majesty's confidential servants might have the advantage of a public demonstration of your majesty's full support and confidence, and that at the same time, as far as possible consistently with that demonstration, each individual appointment in the household should be entirely acceptable to your majesty's personal feelings. on your majesty's expressing a desire that the earl of liverpool[ ] should hold an office in the household, sir robert peel requested your majesty's permission at once to offer to lord liverpool the office of lord steward, or any other which he might prefer. sir robert peel then observed that he should have every wish to apply a similar principle to the chief appointments which are filled by the ladies of your majesty's household, upon which your majesty was pleased to remark that you must reserve the whole of those appointments, and that it was your majesty's pleasure that the whole should continue as at present, without any change. the duke of wellington, in the interview to which your majesty subsequently admitted him, understood also that this was your majesty's determination, and concurred with sir robert peel in opinion that, considering the great difficulties of the present crisis, and the expediency of making every effort in the first instance to conduct the public business of the country with the aid of the present parliament, it was essential to the success of the commission with which your majesty had honoured sir robert peel, that he should have that public proof of your majesty's entire support and confidence which would be afforded by the permission to make some changes in that part of your majesty's household which your majesty resolved on maintaining entirely without change. having had the opportunity through your majesty's gracious consideration, of reflecting upon this point, he humbly submits to your majesty that he is reluctantly compelled, by a sense of public duty and of the interests of your majesty's service, to adhere to his opinion which he ventured to express to your majesty. he trusts he may be permitted at the same time to express to your majesty his grateful acknowledgments for the distinction which your majesty conferred upon him by requiring his advice and assistance in the attempt to form an administration, and his earnest prayers that whatever arrangements your majesty may be enabled to make for that purpose may be most conducive to your majesty's personal comfort and happiness, and to the promotion of the public welfare. [footnote : charles cecil cope jenkinson, third earl, - , became lord steward in .] [pageheading: the queen's journal] _extract from the queen's journal._ _friday, th may ._ lord melbourne came to me at two and stayed with me till ten minutes to three. i placed in his hands sir robert peel's answer, which he read. he started at one part where he (sir robert) says, "_some_ changes"--but some or all, i said, was the same; and lord melbourne said, "i must submit this to the cabinet." lord melbourne showed me a letter from lord grey about it--a good deal alarmed, thinking i was right, and yet half doubtful; one from spring rice, dreadfully frightened, and wishing the whig ladies should resign; and one from lord lansdowne wishing to state that the ladies would have resigned. lord melbourne had also seen the duke of richmond, and lord melbourne said we might be beat; i said i never would yield, and would never apply to peel again. lord melbourne said, "you are for standing out, then?" i said, "certainly." i asked how the cabinet felt. "john russell, strongly for standing out," he said; "duncannon, very much so; holland, lord minto, hobhouse, and the chancellor, all for standing out; poulett thomson too, and normanby also; s. rice and howick alarmed." [pageheading: cabinet minute] cabinet minute. _present._ the lord chancellor. the lord president. the lord privy seal. viscount melbourne. the marquis of normanby. the earl of minto. the chancellor of the duchy of lancaster. the lord john russell. the viscount palmerston. the viscount howick. the viscount morpeth. sir john hobhouse, bart. the chancellor of the exchequer. mr. poulett thomson. her majesty's confidential servants having taken into consideration the letter addressed by her majesty to sir robert peel on the th of may, and the reply of sir robert peel of the same day, are of opinion that for the purpose of giving to an administration that character of efficiency and stability and those marks of the constitutional support of the crown, which are required to enable it to act usefully for the public service, it is reasonable that the great offices of the court and the situations in the household held by members of either house of parliament should be included in the political arrangements made on a change of administration; but they are not of opinion that a similar principle should be applied or extended to the offices held by ladies in her majesty's household.[ ] [footnote : this paragraph was read by lord john russell to the house of commons during the course of the ministerial explanations on th may.] her majesty's confidential servants are therefore prepared to support her majesty in refusing to assent to the removal of the ladies of her household, which her majesty conceived to be contrary to usage, and which is repugnant to her feelings, and are prepared to continue in their offices on these grounds. viscount howick concurs in the opinion expressed in the foregoing minute that the removal of the ladies of her majesty's household ought not to form part of the arrangements consequent upon a change of administration, and shares in the readiness his colleagues have declared to support her majesty in acting upon this opinion; but he thinks it his duty to state his conviction that the immediate resumption of their offices by her majesty's confidential servants is not the mode in which their support can be most effectively afforded and is not calculated to promote the good of her majesty's service. he conceives that before it is determined that the present administration should be continued, further explanation should be sought with sir robert peel, by which it is not impossible that his concession to her majesty's just objection to the removal of the ladies of her household might have been obtained, while the endeavour to arrive at this result, even though unsuccessful, would at all events tend to secure additional support to her majesty's present servants, and thus to enable them to surmount those difficulties, which have recently compelled them humbly to tender their resignations to her majesty, and which he fears will be found not to have been diminished by the course it has now been determined to pursue. in humbly submitting this opinion to her majesty, viscount howick begs permission to add that he nevertheless acquiesces in the determination of his colleagues, and will render them the best assistance in his power in their endeavour to carry on her majesty's service. [pageheading: melbourne resumes office] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen is very anxious to hear that lord melbourne has not suffered from the ball last night, as it was very hot at first. the beginning was rather dull and heavy, but after supper it got very animated, and we kept it up till a quarter past three; the queen enjoyed herself very much and isn't at all tired; she felt much the kindness of many of her kind friends, who are her _only real_ friends. lady cowper and lord and lady minto, the duchess of somerset, and lord anglesey were particularly kind. on the other hand, there were some gloomy faces to be seen, and the duchess of gloucester was very cross. the queen is ashamed to say it, but she has forgotten _when_ she appointed the judge advocate; when will the cabinet be over? the queen danced the first and the last dance with the grand duke,[ ] made him sit near her, and tried to be very civil to him, and i think we are great friends already and get on very well; i like him exceedingly. [footnote : the hereditary grand duke of russia, afterwards the emperor alexander ii.] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen anxiously hopes lord melbourne is quite well this morning, and has _not_ suffered from the dinner at pozzo's. the queen wishes to know if she ought to say anything to the duchess, of the noble manner in which her government mean to stand by her? the account in the _observer_ of the whole proceeding is the most correct both as to details and facts, that the queen has yet seen; were they told what to put in? there was considerable applause when the queen entered the theatre, which she, however, thought best and most delicate not to encourage, and she was cheered when she drove up to the theatre and got out, which she never is in general. the grand duke came and sat with the queen in her box, for at least half an hour last night--and the queen asked him if he knew exactly what had happened, which he said he did not--and the queen accordingly gave him an account of what passed, and he was _shocked_ at sir robert peel's proposal, thought his resignation on that account absurd, and was delighted at the continuance in office of my present government. the queen supposes and fears that lord melbourne dines with the lansdownes to-morrow, but she wishes to know if wednesday, saturday, and sunday would suit him? lord melbourne must not forget the list of our supporters in the house of commons, which the queen is very anxious to have as soon as possible. if lord melbourne can dine here to-morrow the queen would be glad, of course. [pageheading: lord john russell's opinion] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that he this day made his statement to the house, in answer to sir robert peel. sir robert peel made a skilful, and not unfair statement. he, however, spoke only of his intention of changing some of the ladies of the bedchamber. but he did not say that he had made this intention clear to your majesty; only that he had so arranged the matter with his political friends. the popular impression is greatly in favour of the course pursued by your majesty. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is most sorry to hear that your majesty does not feel well. it is very natural that your majesty does not. lord melbourne does not believe that there was anything wanting in your majesty's manner yesterday evening,[ ] but depend upon it, if there was, every allowance would be made for the fatigue and anxiety which your majesty has gone through, and for the painful and embarrassing situation in which your majesty is still placed. lord melbourne will wait upon your majesty at two, and will have the honour of conversing with your majesty upon peel's speech. [footnote : at the state concert.] [pageheading: the queen's view] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ my dear uncle,--i begin to think you have forgotten me, and you will think i have forgotten you, but i am certain you will have guessed the cause of my silence. how much has taken place since monday the th to yesterday the th. you will have easily imagined how dreadful the resignation of my government--and particularly of that truly inestimable and excellent man, lord melbourne--was for me, and you will have felt for me! what i suffered i cannot describe! to have to take people whom i should have no confidence in, ... was most painful and disagreeable; but i felt i must do it, and made up my mind to it--nobly advised and supported by lord melbourne, whose character seems to me still more perfect and noble since i have gone through all this. i sent for the duke of wellington, who referred me to peel, whom i accordingly saw. everything fair and just i assented to, even to having lord lyndhurst as chancellor, and sir h. hardinge and lord ellenborough in the cabinet; i insisted upon the duke in the foreign office, instead of lord aberdeen.... all this i granted, as also to give up all the officers of state and all those of my household who are in parliament. when to my utter astonishment he asked me to change my ladies--my principal ladies!--this i of course refused; and he upon _this resigned_, saying, as he felt he should be beat the very first night upon the speaker, and having to begin with a minority, that unless he had this demonstration of my confidence he could not go on! you will easily imagine that i firmly resisted this attack upon my power, from these people who pride themselves upon upholding the prerogative! i acted quite alone, but i have been, and shall be, supported by my country, who are very enthusiastic about it, and loudly cheered me on going to church on sunday. my government have nobly stood by me, and have resumed their posts, strengthened by the feelings of the country.... pray tell my dearest aunt that i really cannot write to her to-day, for you have no conception of what i have to do, for there are balls, concerts, and dinners all going on besides. adieu! my beloved uncle. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: approval of king leopold] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th may ._ my dearest victoria,--i feel deeply grateful for your very kind and interesting letter, which reached me yesterday, inclusive of the papers. you have passed a time of great agitation and difficulty, which will, however, contribute to enlarge the circle of your experience. _i approve very highly of the whole mode in which you proceeded_; you acted with great _good faith_ and _fairness_, and when finally propositions were made which you considered you could not submit to, you were very right to resist them. the march of the whole affair is very clear and fair, and does you _great credit_.... peel in making his demand misjudged you; he remembered george iv., and even the late king, and dreamt of court influence of people near the sovereign. you have the great merit, for which you cannot be too much praised, of being _extremely honest_ and honourable in your dealings. if you had kept peel, you would have acted honestly by him, without any lady's having a chance of doing him a bad turn. when he asked the measure as an expression of your great confidence in him, it was not fair, because _you_ had not wished to take him; he was forced upon you, and therefore, even if you had granted his request, nobody would have seen in it a proof of your confidence in him, but rather a sacrifice to a far-stretched pretence. besides, that he was to have encountered difficulties as a minister was partly the consequence of the policy of his party, and you were not bound to give him any assistance beyond what he had a right to ask as a minister. i was sure that lord melbourne would give you both the fairest and the most honourable advice in this painful crisis. he was kind enough last year to speak to me on the subject, and i could but approve what he said on the subject. altogether, keeping now your old ministers, you will have reason to congratulate yourself on the result; it is likely to strengthen them, by showing the radicals what may be the consequences. rumour spoke of their wishing to add some radicals to the cabinet; i don't see that they could improve the ministry by it, which is perfectly well composed as it is at present, and new elements often have a dissolving effect. it was very kind of you to have explained everything so clearly to me, but i deserve it for the _great interest_ i take in all that concerns you.... [pageheading: a small liberal majority] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ _ th june ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that sir robert peel's bill[ ] was discussed yesterday in the house of commons, with great fairness and an entire absence of party spirit. viscount melbourne will have acquainted your majesty with the result of the cabinet of yesterday. it appears to lord john russell that the liberal party, with some explanation, will be satisfied with the state of things for the present, and that the great difficulties which attend the complete union of the majority will be deferred till the commencement of next session. it is always well to have some breathing-time. [footnote : the jamaica bill for the temporary suspension of the constitution.] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ th june ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to state that the division of last night was extremely encouraging to the future prospects of the government. combined with the division on the speakership,[ ] it shows that the liberal party have still a clear though small majority in the house of commons, and that it may probably not be necessary to resort to a dissolution. indeed, such a measure in present circumstances would be of very doubtful issue. lord john russell stated last night that he would not divide on the canada resolutions, but move for leave to bring in a bill. [footnote : mr shaw lefevre was elected by against for mr goulburn.] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ _ th july ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that mr. rice yesterday brought forward his financial statement with great ability. he moved a resolution in favour of a penny postage, which sir robert peel declared it to be his intention to oppose on the report. this will be on friday next. this seems a mistake on the part of the opposition.[ ] [footnote : the penny postage scheme came into operation on th january .] [pageheading: the queen and prince albert] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th july ._ (_ minutes to ._) the queen is really quite shocked to see that her box was taken to lord melbourne to park lane, and she fears (by the manner in which lord melbourne's note is written) that he was at dinner at lady elizabeth h. vere's when he got it. the queen had imagined that the house of lords was still sitting, and therefore desired them to take the box there, but never had intended it should follow him to dinner; she begs lord melbourne to excuse this mistake which must have appeared so strange. did the dinner go off well at lady elizabeth h. vere's, and were there many people there? did lord melbourne go to lady r. grosvenor's party or did he go home? the queen hopes lord melbourne is quite well and not tired. monday at two o'clock for the judge advocate. the queen hears lady sandwich is very much delighted at her appointment. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th july ._ my dear uncle,--i have no letter from you, but hope to get one soon.... i shall send this letter by a courier, as i am anxious to put several questions to you, and to mention some feelings of mine upon the subject of my cousins' visit, which i am desirous should not transpire. first of all, i wish to know if _albert_ is aware of the wish of his _father_ and _you_ relative to _me?_ secondly, if he knows that there is _no engagement_ between us? i am anxious that you should acquaint uncle ernest, that if i should like albert, that i can make _no final promise this year_, for, at the _very earliest_, any such event could not take place till _two or three years hence_. for, independent of my youth, and my _great_ repugnance to change my present position, there is _no anxiety_ evinced in _this country_ for such an event, and it would be more prudent, in my opinion, to wait till some such demonstration is shown,--else if it were hurried it might produce discontent. though all the reports of albert are most favourable, and though i have little doubt i shall like him, still one can never answer beforehand for _feelings_, and i may not have the _feeling_ for him which is requisite to ensure happiness. i _may_ like him as a friend, and as a _cousin_, and as a _brother_, but not _more_; and should this be the case (which is not likely), i am _very_ anxious that it should be understood that i am _not_ guilty of any breach of promise, for _i never gave any_. i am sure you will understand my anxiety, for i should otherwise, were this not completely understood, be in a very painful position. as it is, i am rather nervous about the visit, for the subject i allude to is not an agreeable one to me. i have little else to say, dear uncle, as i have now spoken openly to you, which i was very, _very anxious_ to do. you will be at paris, i suppose, when you get this letter, and i therefore beg you to lay me at the feet of the whole family, and to believe me ever your very devoted niece, victoria r. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th july ._ the queen anxiously hopes lord melbourne has slept well, and has not suffered from last night. it was very wrong of him not to wish the queen good-night, as she expected he would in so small a party, for she _saw_ that he did _not_ go away immediately after supper. when did he get home? it was great pleasure to the queen that he came last night. we kept up the dancing till past three, and the queen was much amused, and slept soundly from four till half-past ten, which she is ashamed of. she is quite well, but has got a good deal of cold in her head; she hopes to see lord melbourne at two. [pageheading: the duchess of braganza] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th july ._ the queen has seen the duchess of braganza,[ ] who, though a good deal changed, is still handsome, and very amiable; she seemed so glad, too, to see the queen again. the child[ ] is grown a dear fine girl. lord palmerston thought it right that i should ask her to dinner also on saturday and take her to the opera; and on sunday, as she came on purpose to see the queen, and goes on monday. on sunday (besides lord melbourne) the queen proposes asking palmerston, normanby, uxbridge, and surrey, and no one else except the duchess's suite. the queen hopes lord melbourne will approve of this. he will not forget to let the queen know how the debate is going on, at about nine or ten, as she will be curious to know. she trusts he will not suffer from the fatigue of to-night. [footnote : the step-mother of donna maria. pedro i. assumed the title of duke of braganza after his abdication.] [footnote : probably the princess known as "chica," afterwards princesse de joinville.] [pageheading: syrian affairs] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ st cloud, _ th july ._ ... everything is pretty quiet, and the _grâce accordée à barbès_[ ] has put down the rage against the king personally, at least for some little time. the affairs of the orient interest a good deal. i think that it is better the porte should be on a favourable footing with mehemet ali than if that gentleman had pushed on in arms, as it will put the _casus foederis_ out of the question, and the turks will not call in the assistance of the russians. whoever pushed the late sultan into this war has done an act of great folly, as it could only bring the porte into jeopardy. [footnote : armand barbès, the leader of a fatal riot in paris, was sentenced to death, a sentence afterwards remitted.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ rd august ._ lord melbourne will wait upon your majesty at a quarter before five, if possible, but there is much to discuss at the cabinet. the caspian pasha has taken the turkish fleet to alexandria,[ ] and mehemet ali says that he will not give it up to the sultan until he dismisses the grand vizier, and acknowledges the hereditary right of the pasha to the countries which he at present governs. this is to make the sultan his subject and his vassal. the accounts from birmingham are by no means good.[ ] there has been no disturbance of the peace, but the general disposition is both violent and determined. [footnote : the viceroy of egypt had revolted against the porte, and on th june the sultan purported to deprive him and ibrahim, his son, of their dignities. war was declared, and the turkish fleet despatched to syria. but the admiral treacherously sailed to alexandria, and the ottoman troops, under hafiz, who had succeeded mehemet ali in the government of egypt, were utterly routed. with the traitorous conduct of the turkish admiral, disraeli, a few years later, compared peel's conversion to free trade.] [footnote : chartist riots were very frequent at the time. _see_ introductory note, _ante_, p. . (to ch. viii)] [pageheading: the opera] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th august ._ the queen hopes lord melbourne is quite well this morning, and did not sit up working very late last night; the queen met him twice yesterday in the park, and really wondered how anybody _could_ ride, for she came home much hotter than she went out, and thought the air quite like as if it came out of an oven; to-day we can breathe again. it was intensely hot at the opera; the queen-dowager visited the queen in her box, as did also the young grand duke of weimar, who is just returned from scotland, and whom the queen has asked to come after dinner to-morrow. the queen has not asked the duke of sussex to come after dinner to-morrow, as she thought he would be bored by such a sort of party; does not lord melbourne think so? and she means to ask him to dinner soon. the queen has not asked lord melbourne about any days this week besides to-morrow (when she trusts he may be able to come, but she does not know what there is in the house) and wednesday; but perhaps lord melbourne will consent to leave thursday and friday open in _case_ he should be able to come one or both of those days. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th august ._ the queen has just received lord melbourne's letter; and wishes to know if lord melbourne means by "to-day" that he is also coming to see her _this afternoon_, (which she does not expect) as well as _this evening_? for she did _not_ ask him in her note of this morning _if_ he would come to-night (for she felt _sure_ of that), but if he could come _to-morrow_, about which he has not answered her, as to whether he expects there will be anything of great length in the house of lords. lord melbourne will forgive the queen's troubling him again, but she felt a little puzzled by his letter; she sent him a card for wednesday without previously asking him, as she thought that would suit him, and hopes it does? the queen will follow lord melbourne's advice respecting the duke of sussex. we have just returned from hearing not only a very long, and very bad, but also, a very ludicrous, sermon. the heat is somewhat less, but the queen is undecided as to driving out or not. [pageheading: king louis philippe] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th august ._ ... i am sorry that you are less pleased with the old duke, but party spirit is in england an incurable disease. these last two years he had rendered essential service to the present administration; perhaps he has been soured by last summer's events. it was my intention to have answered your questions sooner, but from paris i had not the means. now the time draws so near when i hope to have the happiness of seeing you, that i think it will be better to treat the matter verbally, the more so as my most beloved majesty is easily displeased with what may be written with the best intention, instead that in conversation the immediate reply renders any misunderstanding, however small, very difficult; and as i do not wish to have any great or small with you, and see no occasion for it, i will give my answer _de vive voix_. now comes a subject which will _astonish_ you. i am charged _de sonder_ your will and pleasure on the following subject. the king my father-in-law goes to eu, where he hopes to remain till the th or th of september. having at his disposition some very fine steamers, his great wish would be to go over to brighton, just for one afternoon and night, to offer you his respects in person. he would in such a case bring with him the queen, my aunt, clémentine,[ ] aumale and montpensier. the first step in this business is to know what your pleasure is, and to learn that very frankly, as he perfectly understands that, however short such a visit, it must be submitted to the advice even of some of your ministers. what renders the thing very difficult, in my opinion, is that in a country like france, and with so many ministerial difficulties, the king to the _last hour_ will hardly know if he can undertake the thing. as, however, the first object is to know your will, he begged me to ascertain that, and to tell you that if you had the _smallest objection_ you would not be carried away by the apprehension of hurting him by telling me honestly that you did _not_ see how the affair could be arranged, but to speak out, that he knew enough how often objections may arise, and that even with himself he could only be sure of the thing at the last moment. [footnote : who afterwards married queen victoria's cousin, prince augustus (gusti) of coburg.] [pageheading: the new sultan] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th august ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and in submitting the accompanying private letter from the earl granville[ ] begs to state that neither viscount melbourne nor viscount palmerston are of opinion that it would be expedient that your majesty should send an ambassador extraordinary to compliment the young sultan[ ] on his accession. the circumstances connected with his accession are indeed fitter matter for condolence than for congratulation, and he would probably be better pleased by the restoration of his fleet than by the arrival of ambassadors extraordinary. moreover, it has not been customary for the sovereign of england to send such missions upon the accession of sultans. [footnote : the first earl granville ( - ), formerly ambassador extraordinary to the russian court, at this time ambassador at paris.] [footnote : abdul medjid, a lad of sixteen, succeeded the sultan mahmoud. the majority of the powers agreed to place him under the protection of europe, and to warn mehemet ali that the matter was for europe, not him, to decide. france, however, wished to support mehemet, and direct the alliance against russia. but nicholas i. of russia was prepared to support england as far as regarded the affairs of turkey and egypt, and to close the dardanelles and bosphorus to warships of all nations, it being stipulated that russian ships of war only were to pass the bosphorus, as acting under the mandate of europe in defence of the turks. _see_ further, introductory notes for and . (to ch. viii and ch. ix)] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ ostende, _ th august ._ ... the king's intention would be to leave eu in the evening, let us say at eight or nine o'clock, and to land, perhaps at ten or eleven, at brighton on the _following morning_. he would have the honour of dining with you, and would re-embark in the _evening of the same day_, so as to be back on the _following morning_ at eu. he will therefore, as you see, _not_ sleep in england. if you cannot give any _pied-à-terre_ in the palace for these few hours, they will remain in an hotel. but i must say that as the king and queen put themselves to _some inconvenience in coming_ to see you, it would be _rather desirable_ to offer them rooms in the palace, which i think might be easily managed. as far as we are concerned, it _does not matter_ if we are housed in an hotel or where we bivouac. i will charge van de weyer to take rooms for us somewhere.... do not imagine that i have done the least to bring this about for my own satisfaction, which is _very limited_ in this business, but the king wished _much to see you once_, and so did the queen, who abhors sailing more than anybody, and this is perhaps the _only_ opportunity which may ever offer of doing it, even with some political benefit, as it certainly is desirable that it should appear that the two maritime powers are on good terms.... and now, god bless you! ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: louis philippe's visit] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ ostende, _ th august ._ (_la st louis._) my dear victoria,--to keep up the fire of letters, i write again, having received this morning interesting news. as i must forward this letter by calais, and know not who may read it in these times of curiosity, i am forced to be guarded; but the news are as follows, of the rd--curious coincidence, as your letter was also of that date--that, the moment _approaching, many and serious_ difficulties arise, and that the expedition was considered imprudent by some people, that, besides, the presence would perhaps be required, before the _possible_ departure, at the _usual home_ of the person interested, that therefore for the present it would perhaps be best to give it up. i must say that i am _most happy_ that matters have come to this pass, because it would have been next to impossible to arrange affairs properly in proper time. you may now consider everything _as over_, and settle your plans without reference to it.... [pageheading: the visit postponed] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th august ._ my dearest uncle,--i had already written you a letter when i received your two very kind ones, and i shall therefore not send my first. my friendship for the dear king and queen makes me, as you may easily understand, wish most exceedingly to see them and to make the acquaintance of the queen and all the family. and i feel the immense kindness of them all in wishing to see me, and in coming over for only a few hours. politically it would be _wished_ by _us all_, and the _only_ difficulty i see is the following, which is, that _i do not feel quite_ equal to going to brighton and receiving them all, so soon after the prorogation.[ ] i do not _feel_ well; i feel _thoroughly_ exhausted from all that i have gone through this session, and am quite knocked up by the two little trips i made to windsor. this makes me fear, uncertain as it all is, with such a pressure of business, so many affairs, and with so much going on, that i should be unequal to the journey and the whole thing. this, and this _alone_, could make me express a wish that this most kind visit should take place _next_ year instead of this year. i feel such regret really in saying this--i should so wish to see them, and yet i feel i am not _quite_ up to it. you will understand me, dear uncle, i am certain, as i know the anxiety you always express for my health. for _once_ i _long_ to leave london, and shall do so on friday. if you could be at windsor by the th, i should be delighted. the dear ferdinands, whom i _all dearly_ love, will await you here. i have had so much to do and so many people to see, that i feel quite confused, and have written shockingly, which you must forgive. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : on th august.] [pageheading: the queen's speech] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ august ._ (_ minutes to ._) the queen has received both lord melbourne's notes; she was a good deal vexed at his not coming, as she had begged him herself to do so, and as he wrote to say he would, and also as she thinks it right and of importance that lord melbourne should be here at large dinners; the queen _insists_ upon his coming to dinner to-morrow, and also begs him to do so on wednesday, her two last nights in town, and as she will probably not see him at all for two days when she goes on friday; the queen would wish to see lord melbourne _after_ the prorogation to-morrow at any hour _before_ five he likes best. the queen has been a good deal annoyed this evening at normanby's telling her that john russell was coming to town next monday in order to _change_ with _him_.[ ] lord melbourne _never_ told the queen that this was definitely settled; on the contrary, he said it would "remain in our hands," to use lord melbourne's own words, and only be settled during the vacation; considering all that the queen has said on the subject to lord melbourne, and considering the great confidence the queen has in lord melbourne, she thinks and feels he ought to have told her that this was _settled_, and not let the queen be the last person to hear what is settled and done in her own name; lord melbourne will excuse the queen's being a little eager about this, but it has happened once before that she learnt from other people what had been decided on. the queen has such unlimited confidence in lord melbourne that she knows all that he does is right, but she cannot help being a little vexed at not being told things, when she is accustomed to great confidence on lord melbourne's part. lord melbourne may rely on the queen's secrecy respecting howick; he knows the queen always keeps things to herself; normanby hinted at his wish to get rid of howick. the speech is safely arrived, has been read over twice, and shall not be forgotten to-morrow; the queen wishes they would not use such thin and slippery paper--for it is difficult to hold with nervous, and, as lord melbourne knows, _shaking_ hands. the queen trusts lord melbourne will be less tired in the morning. [footnote : _see_ introductory note, _ante_, p. . (to ch. viii)] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ ostende, _ st september ._ my dearest victoria,--your _delightful_ little letter has just arrived and went like _an arrow to my heart._ yes, my beloved victoria! i _do love you tenderly_, and with all the power of affection which is often found in characters who do not make much outward show of it. i love you _for yourself_, and i love in you the dear child whose welfare i carefully watched. my great wish is always that you should _know_ that i am _desirous_ of _being useful_ to you, without _hoping for any other return_ than some little affection from your warm and kind heart. i am even so far pleased that my eternal political affairs are settled, as it takes away the _last possibility_ of imagining that i may want something or other. i have all the honours that can be given, and i am, politically speaking, very solidly established, more so than most sovereigns in europe. the only political longing i still have is for the orient, where i perhaps shall once end my life, unlike the sun, rising in the west and setting in the east. i never press my services on you, nor my councils, though i may say with some truth that from the extraordinary fate which the higher powers had ordained for me, my experience, both political and of private life, is great. i am _always ready_ to be useful to you _when and where_ it may be, and i repeat it, _all i want in return is some little sincere affection from you_.... and now i conclude for to-day, not without expressing again my satisfaction and pleasure at having seen you yesterday morning with your dear honest face, looking so dear in your morning attire. our time was spent very satisfactorily, and only the weather crossed our wishes, and to that one can submit when everything else is delightful. once more, god bless you! ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: visit of prince albert] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th september ._ my dear uncle,--you will, i think, laugh when you get this letter, and will think i only mean to employ you in _stopping_ my relations at brussels, but i think you will approve of my wish. in the first place i don't think one can _reckon_ on the cousins arriving here on the th. well, all i want is that _you_ should detain them one or two days longer, in order that they may arrive here on _thursday, the rd_, if possible _early_. my reason for this is as follows: a number of the ministers are coming down here on monday to stay till thursday, on affairs of great importance, and as you know that people are always on the alert to make remarks, i think if _all_ the ministers were to be down here when they arrive, people would say--it was to _settle matters_. at all events it is better to avoid this. i think indeed a day or two at brussels will do these young gentlemen good, and they can be properly fitted out there for their visit. ever yours devotedly, victoria r. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ st october ._ my dear uncle,--i received your kind letter on sunday, for which many thanks. the _retard_ of these young people puts me rather out, but of course cannot be helped. i had a letter from albert yesterday saying they could not set off, he thought, before the th. i think they don't exhibit much _empressement_ to come here, which rather shocks me. i got a very nice letter from dear alexander yesterday from reinhardtsbrun;[ ] he says albert is very much improved, but not taller than augustus. his description of him is as follows:--"albert, i found, had become stronger and more handsome; still he has not grown much taller; he is of about the same size as augustus; he is a most pleasant, intelligent young man. i find, too, that he has become more lively than he was, and that sits well on him, too." (_translation._) i think you may like to hear this, as i know alexander is a very correct observer of persons, and his opinion may be relied upon. he adds that albert plagues leopold beyond measure. i shall take care and send a gentleman and carriages to meet my cousins, either at woolwich or the tower, at whichever place you inform me they land at. the sooner they come the better. i have got the house _full_ of ministers. on monday the queen dowager is coming to sleep here for two nights; it is the _first time_, and will be a severe trial. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : a picturesque castle, about eight miles from gotha.] [pageheading: a charm against evil] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ the queen sends the little _charm_ which she hopes may keep lord melbourne from _all evil_, and which it will make her very happy if he will put [? it with] his keys. if the ring is too small lord melbourne must send it back to her, and she will have it altered. the queen has made up her mind at length to ask lady clanricarde, as lord melbourne wishes it so much. shall surrey invite her, or lord palmerston? and from thursday to friday? _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dear uncle,--i have to thank you for three kind letters of the st, th, and th, the last which i received yesterday. i received another letter from alex. m. yesterday, _since ernest's arrival_, and he says that they have determined on setting off, so as to embark at antwerp on the th and be here after all on the th! i suppose you will have also heard. i shall therefore (unless i hear from you to the contrary) send one of my equerries and two carriages to the tower on _thursday_. i am sorry to hear of the serious disturbances at ghent; i trust it is all got under now. if you should hear anything more of roi guillaume's[ ] marriage, pray let me hear it, as it is such an odd story. old alava, who was here for two nights last week, told me he knew _pauline d'oultremont_ many years ago, when she was young and very gay and pretty, but that he wonders much at this marriage, as the king hates catholics. alava is _rayonnant de bonheur_. i told lord melbourne of your alarms respecting the financial crisis, which _we_ did not bring on--those wild american speculations are the cause of it--and he desires me to assure you that we will pursue as moderate and cautious a course as possible. the queen dowager came here yesterday and stays till to-morrow; she is very cheerful and in good spirits.... i must conclude in haste. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. many thanks for the two supplies of ortolans, which were delicious. [footnote : william i., king of the netherlands, was greatly attached to the roman catholic countess d'oultremont, and in october , being sixty-seven, abdicated his crown to marry her. he was father of the prince of orange, who succeeded him.] [pageheading: arrival of prince albert] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dear uncle,--... the dear cousins arrived at half-past seven on thursday, after a very bad and almost dangerous passage, but looking both very well, and much improved. having no clothes, they could not appear at dinner, but nevertheless _débutéd_ after dinner in their _négligé_. ernest is grown quite handsome; albert's _beauty_ is _most striking_, and he so amiable and unaffected--in short, very _fascinating_; he is excessively admired here. the granvilles and lord clanricarde[ ] happened just to be here, but are gone again to-day. we rode out yesterday and danced after dinner. the young men are very amiable, delightful companions, and i am very happy to have them here; they are playing some symphonies of haydn _under_ me at this very moment; they are passionately fond of music. in the way of news i have got nothing to tell you to-day. everything is quiet here, and we have no particular news from abroad. in spain the fueros[ ] seem to give sad difficulty to the cortes. ever, my dearest uncle, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : ulick john, first marquis of clanricarde ( - ), ambassador at st petersburg, afterwards lord privy seal.] [footnote : certain rights and privileges of the basques.] [pageheading: a momentous decision] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--this letter will, i am sure, give you pleasure, for you have always shown and taken so warm an interest in all that concerns me. my mind is quite made up--and i told albert this morning of it; the warm affection he showed me on learning this gave me _great_ pleasure. he seems _perfection_, and i think that i have the prospect of very great happiness before me. i _love_ him _more_ than i can say, and i shall do everything in my power to render the sacrifice he has made (for a _sacrifice_ in my opinion it is) as small as i can. he seems to have a very great tact--a very necessary thing in his position. these last few days have passed like a dream to me, and i am so much bewildered by it all that i know hardly how to write; but i _do_ feel _very_, _very_ happy. it is absolutely necessary that this determination of mine should be known to _no one_ but yourself, and uncle ernest--till the meeting of parliament--as it would be considered otherwise neglectful on my part not to have assembled parliament at once to have informed them of it.... lord melbourne, whom i of course have consulted about the whole affair, quite approves my choice, and expresses great satisfaction at the event, which he thinks in every way highly desirable. lord melbourne has acted in this business, as he has always done towards me, with the greatest kindness and affection. we also think it better, and albert quite approves of it, that we should be married very soon after parliament meets, about the beginning of february; and indeed, loving albert as i do, i cannot wish it should be delayed. my feelings are a _little_ changed, i must say, since last spring, when i said i couldn't _think_ of marrying for _three or four years_; but seeing albert has changed all this. pray, dearest uncle, forward these two letters to uncle ernest (to whom i beg you will enjoin _strict_ secrecy, and explain these details, which i have not time to do) and to faithful stockmar. i think you might tell louise of it, but none of her family. i should wish to keep the dear young gentlemen here till the end of next month. ernest's sincere pleasure gave me great delight. he does so adore dearest albert. ever, dearest uncle, your devoted niece, victoria r. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ lord melbourne will be ready to wait upon your majesty at a little before one. lord melbourne reads with great satisfaction your majesty's expression of feeling, as your majesty's happiness must ever be one of lord melbourne's first objects and strongest interests. [pageheading: king leopold's satisfaction] [pageheading: austria and the porte] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ wiesbaden, _ th october ._ my dearest victoria,--nothing could have given me greater pleasure than your dear letter. i had, when i saw your decision, almost the feeling of old zacharias[ ]--"now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace"! your choice had been for these last years my conviction of what might and would be _best_ for your happiness; and just because i was convinced of it, and knowing how _strangely_ fate often _deranges_ what one tries to bring about as being the best plan one could fix upon, _the maximum of a good arrangement_, i feared that it would _not_ happen. in your position, which may and will, perhaps, become in future even more difficult in a political point of view, _you could not exist_ without having a _happy_ and an _agreeable intérieur_. and i am much deceived--which i think i am not--or you will find in albert just the very qualities and dispositions which are indispensable for your happiness, and _which will suit your own character, temper, and mode of life_. you say most amiably that you consider it a sacrifice on the part of albert. this is true in many points, because his position will be a difficult one; but much, i may say _all_, will depend on your affection for him. if _you love him, and are kind to him_, he will easily bear the burthen of the position; and there is a steadiness and at the same time cheerfulness in his character which will facilitate this. i think your plans excellent. if parliament had been called at an unusual time it would make them uncomfortable, and if, therefore, they receive the communication at the opening of the session, it will be best. the marriage, as you say, might then follow as closely as possible. lord melbourne has shown himself the _amiable_ and _excellent_ man i always took him for. another man in his position, instead of _your_ happiness, might have merely looked to his own personal views and imaginary interests. not so our good friend; he saw what was best _for you_, and i feel it deeply to his praise. your keeping the cousins next month with you strikes me as a very good plan. it will even show that you had sufficient opportunity of judging of albert's character.... on the nd, prince metternich came to see me. he was very kind, and talked most confidentially about political affairs, particularly the oriental concerns.[ ] m. de brunnow had been with him. the short of his views is this: he wishes that the powers could be _unanimous_, as he sees in this the best chance of avoiding measures of violence against the pasha of egypt, which he considers _dangerous_, either as _not_ sufficiently effective, or of a nature to bring on complications most earnestly to be avoided, such as making use of russian troops. austria naturally would like to bring about the best possible arrangement for the porte, but it will adhere to any arrangement or proposition which can be agreed upon by england and france. he is, however, positive that candia must be given back to the porte, its position being too threatening, and therefore constantly alarming the porte. he made me write the import of our conversation to king louis philippe, which i did send after him to frankfort, where he was to forward it to paris. perhaps you will have the goodness to communicate this political scrap to good lord melbourne with my best regards. he spoke in praise of lord beauvale.[ ] the prince is better, but grown very old and looking tired. it gave me great pleasure to see him again. i drink the waters now four days, and can therefore not yet judge of their good or bad effects. my palpitations are rather increased here; if my stupid heart will get diseased i shall soon be departing for some other world. i would it could be soon then. till further orders i shall say nothing to your mother, charles, or feodore. now i will conclude with my best blessings, and remain, my dearest and most beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : an obvious slip for simeon.] [footnote : _see_ introductory notes for and . (to ch. viii and ch. ix)] [footnote : frederick lamb, younger brother of lord melbourne, ambassador extraordinary at vienna, who had recently been made a peer.] [pageheading: the queen's happiness] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--your most kind and most welcome letter of the th arrived yesterday, and gave me very, very great pleasure. i was sure you would be satisfied and pleased with our proceedings. before i proceed further, i wish just to mention one or two alterations in the plan of announcing the event. as parliament has _nothing_ whatever to say respecting the marriage, can neither approve nor disapprove it (i mean in a manner which might _affect_ it), it is now proposed that, as soon as the cousins are gone (which they now intend to do on the th or th of november, as time presses), i should assemble all the privy councillors and announce to them my intention.... oh! dear uncle, i _do_ feel so happy! i do so adore albert! he is quite an angel, and so very, very kind to me, and seems so fond of me, which touches me much. i trust and hope i shall be able to make him as happy as he _ought_ to be! i cannot bear to part from him, for we spend such happy, delightful hours together. poor ernest has been suffering since wednesday last with the jaundice, which is very distressing and troublesome, though not alarming.... i love him dearly too, and look upon him quite as a brother. what you say about lord melbourne has given me great pleasure; it is very just and very true. there are not many _such_ honest kind friends to be found in this world. he desires me to say that he is deeply sensible of your good opinion, and that he can have no other object than that which he considers best to secure my happiness, which is closely connected with the well-being of the country. i am glad you saw prince metternich, and that you were satisfied with the interview. i hope and trust you may derive much benefit from your stay at wiesbaden. pray name me to good stockmar, and believe me, always, your most devoted niece and child, victoria r. [pageheading: congratulations] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th november ._ my most beloved victoria,--your uncle has already told you, i trust, with what feelings of deep affection and gratitude i received the so _interesting_ and _important_ communication which you permitted him to make to me; but i was longing for an opportunity to speak to you myself of the great subject which fills now our hearts, and to tell you how very grateful i have been, i am, and will ever be, for the confidence and trust which you so kindly placed in me. all i can say is that you did full justice to my feelings, for _nothing_ could interest _more_ my heart than _your_ marriage, my most dearly loved victoria, and i could not have heard even of that of clémentine with _more_ anxious affection and sisterly love. i cannot really tell you _with words_ how deeply and strongly i was moved and affected by the great news itself, and by your dear, unaffected, confiding, happy letter. when i received it i could do nothing but cry, and say internally, "may god bless her now and ever!" ah! may god bless you, my most beloved victoria! may he shower on you his best blessings, fulfil _all_ your heart's wishes and hopes, and let you enjoy for _many, many years_ the happiness which the dearest ties of affection _alone_ can give, and which is the only _real_ one, the only worthy of the name in this uncertain and transitory world! i have seen much of dear albert two years ago, i have watched him, as you may well think, with particular care, attention, and interest, and although he was very young then, i am well convinced that he is not only fit for the situation which he is now called to fulfil, but, what is still more important in my eyes, that he has _all those qualities_ of the heart and the mind which can give and ensure happiness. i think even that his disposition is particularly well calculated to suit yours, and i am fully confident that you will be both happy together. what you tell me of your fear of not being worthy of him, and able to make him sufficiently happy, is for me but a proof more of it. deep affection makes us always diffident and _very humble_. those that we love stand so high in our own esteem, and are in our opinion so much above us and all others that we naturally feel unworthy of them and unequal to the task of making them happy: but there is, i think, a mingled charm in this feeling, for although we regret not to be what we should wish to be for them, feeling and acknowledging the superiority of those we love and must always love and respect, is a great satisfaction, and an increasing and everlasting one. you will feel it, i am sure, as well as i do.... you will excuse my blots and hurried scribbling when i will tell you that in order to profit of the private messenger which goes to-morrow morning i write to you at ten in the evening, a thing quite unusual for me, and even rather forbidden: but after having been deprived of expending my heart for so many days, i could not _not_ avail myself of the present opportunity. when i write to you by the ordinary messenger i will continue to be _silent_; but i trust you will permit me to say some time a word, when a safe opportunity presents itself, for my heart is with you more than i can tell. i would that i could see you, when it could be, for an hour. i remain, my most beloved victoria, ever and ever your most affectionate louise. [pageheading: the announcement] _queen victoria to the duke of sussex._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ my dear uncle,--the affection which you have shown me makes me feel certain that you will take interest in an event which so nearly concerns the future happiness of my life; i cannot, therefore, delay any longer to inform you of my intended marriage with my cousin albert, the merits of whose character are so well known by all who are acquainted with him, that i need say no more than that i feel as assured of my own happiness as i can be of anything in this world. as it is not to be publicly known, i beg you not to mention it except to our own family. i hope you are well and enjoying yourself. believe me, always, your affectionate niece, victoria r.[ ] [footnote : similar letters with slight variations were written to the duke of cambridge, the princess augusta, the princess sophia, the duchess of gloucester, the princess sophia matilda, the king of hanover, and the princess elizabeth (landgravine of hesse-homburg).] _queen victoria to queen adelaide._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ my dear aunt,--your constant kindness and the affection you have ever shown me make me certain that you will take much interest in an event which so nearly concerns the future happiness of my life; i cannot, therefore, any longer delay to inform you of my intended marriage with my cousin albert. the merits of his character are so well known to all who are acquainted with him, that i need say no more than that i feel as assured of my own happiness as i can be of anything here below, and only hope that i may be able to make him as happy as he deserves to be. it was both my duty and my inclination to tell you of this as soon as it was determined upon; but, as it is not to be yet publicly announced i beg you not to mention it except to our own family. i thank you much for your kind letter, and rejoice to hear you have enjoyed yourself so much. believe me, always, your very affectionate niece, victoria r. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ the queen just writes two lines to send lord melbourne the accompanying civil letter from the queen dowager, and to give him an account of the visit of the cambridges. they were all very kind and civil, george grown but not embellished, and much less reserved with the queen, and evidently happy to be _clear_ of me. he gave a very indifferent account of the king of greece, but a favourable one of the queen. the duchess said she had expected the queen would marry albert, and was not surprised at the event. they were very discreet and asked no questions, but described the duchess of gloucester to be _suffering_ much from the necessity of keeping the secret. the weather cleared up, and the queen has just returned from a walk. she hopes lord melbourne got safe to london in spite of the wet and the water on the road; and she hopes he will take great care of himself. she would be thankful if he would let her know to-morrow if he will dine with her also on thursday or not. [pageheading: letters to prince albert] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november _. my dear uncle,--many thanks for your kind letter of the th, received last week. i am in a great hurry, and therefore have only time to write to you a line to tell you, first, that on the th i wrote to all the royal family announcing the event to them, and that they answered all very kindly and civilly; the duchess of cambridge and augusta, with the duke and george, came over on purpose to congratulate me yesterday; secondly, that the marriage is to be _publicly announced_ in an open council on the rd, at buckingham palace, where i am going to-morrow. i return here _after_ the council on the rd. i am so happy to think i need not then conceal my feelings any longer. i have also written to the king of hanover and the landgravine,[ ] and to all our relations abroad. i hope, dear uncle, you will not have _ill-treated_ my dearest albert! i am very anxious to hear from him from wiesbaden. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : princess elizabeth ( - ), daughter of george iii. and widow of the landgrave frederick joseph louis of hesse-homburg.] [the following extracts of letters from the queen to prince albert were written partly in english and partly in german. the english portions are printed in italics, the german, translated, in ordinary type. these letters are all written in terms of profound affection, which deepened very shortly into complete and absolute devotion to the prince.] _queen victoria to prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ st november ._ ... it is desired here that the matter should be declared at coburg as soon as possible, and immediately after that i shall send you the order.[ ] _your rank will be settled just before you come over, as also your_ _rank in the army._ everything will be very easily arranged. lord melbourne showed me yesterday the _declaration_, which is very simple and nice. i will send it you as soon as possible.... _lord melbourne told me yesterday, that the whole cabinet are strongly of opinion that you should not be made a peer._ i will write that to uncle.... [footnote : the garter.] [pageheading: the religious question] _ nd november ._ ... lord melbourne has just been with me, and greatly wishes the declaration to be made at coburg as soon as possible. _he also desired me to ask you to see if you can ... a short history of the house of saxe-coburg, who our direct ancestors were, and what part they took in the protestant, or rather lutheran, religion; he wishes to hear this in order to make people here know exactly who your ancestors are, for a few stupid people_ here _try_ to say you are a _catholic, but nobody will believe it._ send (it) as soon as possible; perhaps good mr. schenk would write it out in english.... _as there is nothing to be settled for me, we require no treaty of marriage; but if you should require anything to be settled, the best will be to send it here. respecting the succession, in case ernest should die without children, it would not do to stipulate now, but your second son, if you had one, should reside at coburg. that can easily be arranged if the thing should happen hereafter, and the english would not like it to be arranged now...._ [pageheading: the declaration] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ rd november ._ ... just arrived here, . . everything has gone off very well. the council[ ] was held at two o'clock; more than a hundred persons were present, and _there_ i had to read the declaration. _it was rather an awful moment, to be obliged to announce this to so many people, many of whom were quite strangers, but they told me i did it very well, and i felt so happy to do it._ good lord melbourne was deeply moved about it, and uxbridge likewise; it lasted only two or three minutes. _everybody, they tell me, is very much pleased, and i wish you could have seen the crowds of people who cheered me loudly as i left the palace for windsor._ i am so happy to-day! oh, if only _you_ could be here! i wish that you were able to participate in all the kindness which is shown to me. to-day i can only send you the declaration.[ ] _the description of the whole_ i will send after this.... send me as soon as possible the report of the announcement at coburg. i wear your dear picture mornings and evenings, and wore it also at the meeting of the _conseil._ [footnote : a special meeting of the privy council was held on the rd november, to receive the queen's intimation of her engagement. the queen wrote in her journal:-- "i went in; the room was full, but i hardly knew who was there. lord m. i saw, looking at me with tears in his eyes, but he was not near me. i then read my short declaration. i felt my hands shook, but i did not make one mistake. i felt more happy and thankful when it was over."] [footnote : j. w. croker wrote to lady hardwicke:-- "_ th november ._ "... she then unfolded a paper and read her declaration, which you will, before this can reach you, have seen in the newspapers. i cannot describe to you with what a mixture of self-possession and feminine delicacy she read the paper. her voice, which is naturally beautiful, was clear and untroubled; and her eye was bright and calm, neither bold nor downcast, but firm and soft. there was a blush on her cheek which made her look both handsomer and more interesting; and certainly she _did_ look as interesting and as handsome as any young lady i ever saw. "i happened to stand behind the duke of wellington's chair, and caught her eye twice as she directed it towards him, which i fancy she did with a good-natured interest. ...the crowd, which was not great but very decent, i might almost say respectable, expressed their approbation of the duke of wellington and sir r. peel, and their disapprobation of the ministers very loudly. lord john and lord normanby, they tell me, were positively hooted.... lord melbourne ... seemed to me to look _careworn_, and on the whole the meeting had a sombre air."--_croker papers_, ii. .] [pageheading: the peerage question] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ wiesbaden, _ nd november ._ my dearest victoria,--i was delighted with your dear little letter. you write these kind of letters with a very great facility, and they are generally so natural and clever, that it makes one very happy to receive them. i had written less of late, because i thought you occupied more agreeably than to read my letters. i have on purpose kept back a courier, to be able to send you the latest news from here of m. albert. the young people arrived here only on the th, in the morning, having very kindly stopped at bonn. i find them looking well, particularly albert; it proves that happiness is an excellent remedy, and keeps people in better health than any other. he is much attached to you, and moved when he speaks of you. he is, besides, in great spirits and gaiety, and full of fun; he is a very amiable companion. concerning the peerage, that is a matter to be considered at any time; the only reason why i do wish it is, that albert's foreignership should disappear as much as possible. i have, in different circumstances to be sure, suffered greatly from my having declined conditionally the peerage when it was offered me in .[ ] your uncle[ ] writes to you in german: as far as i understood him, he speaks of the necessity of a marriage treaty; that is a matter of course. there is, however, something additional to be regulated concerning the possible succession in the coburg-gotha dominions, there being betwixt it and albert but good ernest. some regulation becomes therefore necessary, at least reasonable. the duke wishes also to know if the treaty is to be made in england or in germany. should the last of the two be fixed upon, he thinks that one of your ministers abroad would be the proper person for it. ever, my dear victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the dukedom of kendal was offered to, and, after consideration, declined by, prince leopold.] [footnote : the duke of saxe-coburg (ernest i.).] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ my dear uncle,--i thank you for your kind letter which i received the day before yesterday; but i fear you must have been very dull at wiesbaden.... everything went off uncommonly well on the rd, but it was rather formidable;[ ] eighty-two privy councillors present; everybody very much pleased--and i was loudly greeted on leaving the palace _after_ the council. the _whole cabinet_ agree with me in being _strongly_ of opinion that albert should _not_ be a peer; indeed, i see everything against it and _nothing_ for it; the english are very jealous at the idea of albert's having any political power, or meddling with affairs here--which i know from himself he will _not_ do. as wiesbaden is half-way (or thereabouts) to coburg, i take the liberty of enclosing a large letter to albert, which i beg you to send on to him. we are quite flooded here, and the road to datchet is quite impassable. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : greville mentions that the queen's hands trembled so, that she could hardly read the declaration which she was holding.] [pageheading: british susceptibilities] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th november ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty.... a little civility would be well bestowed upon lord and lady tankerville, and might not be without its effect, but if your majesty does not like it, it cannot be helped. the others also shall, if possible, be kept in good humour. the misrepresentation, respecting prince alexander[ ] your majesty will see corrected in the _morning chronicle_ of that morning, but of course your majesty will not expect that this contradiction will put an end to bitter and offensive remarks. it will now be said that, knowing the true religion, he has given over his children to the false, and that he has sacrificed their eternal welfare to his own worldly objects.[ ] there is nothing which cannot be turned in an hostile and malignant manner by malignant and perverted ingenuity. can your majesty inform lord melbourne what is the arrangement respecting king leopold's children? they are, lord melbourne presumes, to be brought up roman catholics. lord melbourne earnestly hopes to hear that your majesty is better and more free from pain. he is himself very well. [footnote : prince alexander of würtemberg.] [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. viii, footnote )] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ _the english are very jealous of any foreigner interfering in the government of this country, and have already in some of the papers (which are friendly to me and you) expressed a hope that you would not interfere. now, though i know you never would, still, if you were a peer, they would all say, the prince meant to play a political part._ i am certain you will understand this, but it is much better not to say anything more about it now, and to let the whole matter rest. the tories make a great disturbance (saying) that you are _a papist_, because the words "_a protestant prince_" have not been put into the declaration--a thing which would be quite unnecessary, seeing that i _cannot_ marry a _papist_.... _queen victoria to the prince albert._ _ th november ._ i had a talk with lord melbourne last night. he thinks your view about the peerage question quite correct. uncle seems to me, after all, much more reasonable about it. we had a good talk this morning about your arrangements for our marriage, and also about your official attendants, and he[ ] has told me that young mr. anson (his private secretary), who is with him, greatly wishes to be with you. i am very much in favour of it, because he is an excellent young man, and very modest, very honest, very steady, very well-informed, and will be of _much use_ to you. he is not a member of the house of commons, which is also convenient; so long as lord melbourne is in office he remains his secretary--but william cowper[ ] was also for some time secretary to his uncle, and at the same time my groom-in-waiting. lord melbourne feared it was not advisable for you to have mr. anson, and also his uncle, but i told him that did not matter if the people are fit for the posts.... [footnote : lord melbourne.] [footnote : afterwards william cowper-temple and lord mount temple, author of the well-known amendment to the education act of .] [pageheading: the queen of portugal] _queen maria ii. of portugal to queen victoria._ lisbonne, _ décembre ._ ma bien chÈre victoire,--hier ayant reçu la communication de votre mariage avec albert, je ne veux pas tarder un seul instant à vous en féliciter sur votre heureux choix, et en même temps vous prier de croire aux v[oe]ux sincères que je forme pour votre bonheur avec votre excellent c[oe]ur il n'est pas possible le contraire. permettez que je vous dise que votre choix ne m'a pas dû étonner, car sachant combien albert est bon, vous ne pouviez pas choisir un autre dont vous fussiez aussi sûre qu'il puisse vous rendre aussi heureuse comme vous le méritez, chère victoire. pour que tous mes souhaits soient exaucés je vous désire un bonheur aussi complet que l'est le mien. qu'albert soit comme ferdinand et vous serez parfaitement heureuse. adieu! ma chère victoire. je vous prie de me croire, votre dévouée cousine, marie. ferdinand vous fait dire mille choses. [pageheading: the prince's household] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ as to your wish about your gentlemen, my dear albert, i must tell you quite honestly that it will not do. you may entirely rely upon me that the people who will be about you will be absolutely pleasant people, of high standing and good character. _these gentlemen will not be in continual attendance on you; only on great occasions, and to accompany you when you go anywhere, and to dinners, etc. seymour is your confidential attendant, and also schenk and anson,[ ] whom lehzen has written to you about._ _old sir george anson has been told of your gracious wish to have him as groom of the bedchamber and is delighted._ _i_ can only have _lords_, and they will not be _peers_, but _lords_, the eldest sons of dukes or marquesses, or earls (counts), and who as far as possible are not in parliament, for then they need not change, _but your people are appointed by you and not by me (nominally), and therefore, unless they were to vote against my government (which would be awkward), they need not change. you may rely upon my care that you shall have proper people, and not idle and not too young, and lord melbourne has already mentioned several to me who would be very suitable...._ i have received to-day an ungracious letter from uncle leopold. he appears to me to be nettled because i no longer ask for his advice, but dear uncle is given to believe that he must rule the roast everywhere. however, that is not a necessity. as he has written to melbourne, melbourne will reply to him on every point, and will also tell him that stockmar ought to come here as soon as possible to arrange everything about the treaty. that will be a very good thing, because stockmar understands all english things so well. the _second_, as you always called palmerston, is to be married within the next few days to lady cowper, the sister of my premier (_primus_); i have known this for a long time, but melbourne asked me not to tell it to any one. they are, both of them, above fifty, and i think that they are quite right so to act, because palmerston, since the death of his sisters, is quite alone in the world, and _lady c._ is a very clever woman, and _much_ attached to him; still, i feel sure it will make you smile. [footnote : mr george anson had been private secretary to lord melbourne; it was on lord melbourne's recommendation that the queen appointed him private secretary to prince albert. the prince was inclined to resent the selection, and to think that in the case of so confidential an official he should have been allowed to make his own nomination. but they became firm friends, and the prince found mr anson's capacity, common sense, and entire disinterestedness of the greatest value to him. later he became keeper of the prince's privy purse, and died in .] (_continued on the th_).--to-day i have had a _conseil_, and then i knighted the mayor of newport[ ] (who distinguished himself so much in that _riot of the chartists_[ ]); he is a very timid, modest man, and was very happy when i told him orally how exceedingly satisfied i am with his conduct.... the officers have been rewarded too.... i am plaguing you already with tiresome politics, but you will in that find a proof of my [confidence] love,[ ] because i must share with you everything that rejoices me, everything that vexes or grieves me, and i am certain you will take your part in it.... to-day i saw lord william russell--you know him, don't you? i forgot to tell you that you will have a _great officer of state_ at the head of your household, who is called the _groom of the stole_; it is a position in the court for prestige only, without any business; he will be a _peer_.... [footnote : mr t. phillips, the mayor of newport, monmouthshire, had behaved with great coolness and courage during the riot on th november. he read the riot act among showers of bullets before ordering the troops to fire.] [footnote : frost, williams, and others, afterwards convicted at monmouth.] [footnote : the queen had begun the word "confidence" but struck it out and substituted "love."] (_continued th december_).--i am very impatient at your bust not having yet arrived; the duchess of sutherland wrote to me she had seen it in rome, and it was so beautiful!... who has made the little copy which you sent me, and who the original? feodore writes to me so much about you.... we expect queen adelaide to-day, who will stay here until the day after to-morrow. melbourne has asked me to enquire of you whether you know lord grosvenor? he is the eldest son of the marquis of westminster, and does not belong to any party; he is not in parliament. he is very pleasant, speaks german very well, and has been a good deal on the continent. if he accepts, he might be one of your _gentlemen_. _lord melbourne is particularly desirous of doing everything that is most agreeable to you._ i have a request to make, too, viz., that you will appoint poor clark your _physician_; you need not consult him unless you wish it. it is only an honorary title, and would make him very happy.... [pageheading: the protestant question] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ my dear uncle,--... i was quite miserable at not hearing from albert for _ten_ days; such a long silence is quite insupportable for any one in my position towards albert, and i was overjoyed on receiving yesterday the _most_ dear, _most_ affectionate, delightful long letter from him. he writes so beautifully, and so simply and unaffectedly. i hope, dear uncle, you received my last letter (quite a packet) for albert, on the th or th? i send you another now. i fear i am very indiscreet about these letters, but i have so much to tell him, and it will only last two months, so that i trust you will forgive it, and forward them. i mentioned the topics you spoke of to me in your letter to our good friend lord melbourne, and as he is writing, i leave it to him to explain to you, as he writes so much better than i do. he will explain to you _why_ the word protestant was left out in the declaration, which i think was quite right; for do what one will, nothing will please these tories.... i shall be delighted to see stockmar here, for so many reasons, and the quicker he comes the better.... i have a favour to ask you, dear uncle, which i hope you will grant, unless it should be _indiscreet_ in me. it is, if you have still got aunt charlotte's bust at claremont, if you would give it to me to put in the gallery here, where you would see it _oftener_ than you do at claremont, and i am so anxious there should be one of her _here_. we have _vile_ weather, cold and foggy; such fogs we have here! i move to london for good on the th or th of january. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. _queen victoria to the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ ... i like lady a---- very much too, only she is a little _strict and particular_, and too severe towards others, which is not right; for i think one ought always to be indulgent towards other people, _as i always think, if we had not been well brought up and well taken care of, we might also have gone astray_. that is always my feeling. yet it is always right to show that one does not like to see what is obviously wrong; but it is very dangerous to be _too_ severe, and i am certain that as a rule such people always greatly regret that in their youth they have not been as careful as they ought to have been. i have explained this so badly, and written it so badly, that i fear you will hardly be able to make it out. _queen victoria to the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ ... again no letter from you!... lord melbourne left here this morning, but comes back to-morrow evening, after the wedding of his sister. i hope he will remain here, because i am fond of him, and because he has a share in all my happiness, and is the only man with whom i can speak without _gêne_ on everything, which i cannot do with my court. "islay"[ ] is still plagued by him every evening--a thing which he much enjoys--and constantly begs for the spectacles. i forgot to tell you that karl has given me a pretty little rowley, who likewise lives in the house. the multitude of dogs is really terrible! the ceremony of declaration must have been very fine and touching, and i am most happy that the good people of coburg are so pleased with our marriage.... [footnote : a pet dog of the queen's.] _dec. th._--i have spoken to lord m. about your wish, and he says--what is my own opinion too--_that your people ought to be as much as possible out of parliament when they have hardly any politics, which is the best thing--as your household must not form a contrast to mine--and therefore you could not have violent tories amongst your people; but you may be quite certain that both i and lord melbourne will take the greatest care to select respectable and distinguished people, and people of good character. perhaps lord grosvenor may be your groom of the stole, though he is no peer; but his rank and family are so high, that he would do very well; and, besides, not belonging to any party, and being out of parliament, is such a great advantage._ the design of our arms without _supporters_ is unfortunately not finished, but i send you a little drawing which i have made of it myself. the report of sir william woods i beg you will send back, but the arms you can keep. i add a little pin as a small christmas present. i hope you will sometimes wear it. [pageheading: the protestant question] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th december ._ my dearest victoria,--i lived in the hope of receiving some letters for you from albert, but nothing is arrived to-day. your dear long letter gave me great pleasure. before i answer some parts of it, i will say a few words on lord melbourne's letter. perhaps you will be so good to tell him that it gratified me much. it is the letter of an honest and an amiable statesman, practical and straightforward. in the omission of the word "protestant" he was probably right, and it is equally probable that they would have abused him--maybe even more if he had put it in. there is only this to say, however: the ernestine branch of the saxon family has been, there is no doubt, the real cause of the establishment of protestantism in germany, and consequently in great parts of northern europe. this same line became a martyr to that cause, and was deprived of almost all its possessions in consequence of it. recently there have been two cases of catholic marriages, but the main branch has remained, and is, in fact, very sincerely protestant. both ernest and albert are much attached to it, and when deviations took place they were connected more with new branches transplanted out of the parent soil than with what more properly must be considered as the reigning family. the peerage question may remain as it is, but it will not be denied that the great object must be to make albert as english as possible, and that nothing will render this more difficult than a foreign name.... i shall be most happy to see poor charlotte's bust in the gallery at windsor, and it is kind of you to have had the thought. she was a high and noble-minded creature, and her affection and kindness for me very great. she had placed the most unbounded confidence in me; our principle had been never to let a single day pass over any little subject of irritation. the only subjects of that sort we had were about the family, particularly the regent, and then the old queen charlotte. now i must conclude with my best love. ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: a missing letter] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ my dear uncle,--many thanks for your two most kind letters. i suppose i _may_ send for aunt charlotte's bust, for which i am most grateful--and say i have your authority to do so? you are very kind to think about my stupid health; i don't think i _ever_, at least not for _very_ long, have _walked_ so regularly as i have done this last month--out in fog, and mist, and wind, and cold. but i cannot be otherwise than agitated; getting _no_ letter makes me ill, and _getting_ them excites me.... i have much to write, and therefore cannot make this a long letter, but _one_ thing more i must mention. the very day of the declaration in council, on the rd ult., i sent off a letter to albert, by van de weyer, saying it was to be forwarded _sans délai_ to coburg; now, albert _never_ has received that letter, which was a long one, and thanks me for two, of the th and th. this vexes me much, and i can't help thinking the letter is lying either at wiesbaden or brussels. would you graciously enquire, for i should not like it to be lost. forgive my writing such a letter so full of _myself_. ever, dearest uncle, your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: the prince's secretary] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ windsor castle. _the nd._--i have but little time to write. the duchess of sutherland is here, who admires you much, and is very sympathetic.... _the rd._--your letter of the th just received. i will now answer at once. _it is, as you rightly suppose, my greatest, my most anxious wish to do everything most agreeable to you, but i must differ with you respecting mr anson.... what i said about anson giving you advice, means, that if you like to ask him, he can and will be of the greatest use to you, as he is a very well-informed person. he will leave lord melbourne as soon as he is appointed about you. with regard to your last objection, that it would make you a party man if you took the secretary of the prime minister as your treasurer, i do not agree in it; for, though i am very anxious you should not appear to belong to a party, still it is necessary that your household should not form a too strong contrast to mine, else they will say, "oh, we know the prince says he belongs to no party, but we are sure he is a tory!" therefore it is also necessary that it should appear that you went with me in having some of your people who are staunch whigs; but anson is not in parliament, and never was, and therefore he is not a violent politician. do not think because i urge this, lord m. prefers it; on the contrary, he never urged it, and i only do it as i know it is for your own good._ you will pardon this long story. _it will also not do to wait till you come to appoint all your people. i am distressed to tell you what i fear you do not like_, but it is necessary, my dearest, most excellent albert. once more i tell you that you can perfectly rely on me in these matters.... [pageheading: the tories] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ ... the historical sketch has interested us greatly; lord melbourne read it through immediately. i greatly thank you also for the genealogical tree you sent me. now, my dearest, to be about what is _not so pleasant or amusing. i mean, now for business. i always think it safer to write that in english, as i can explain myself better, and i hope you can read my english, as i try to be very legible. i am much grieved that you feel disappointed about my wish respecting your gentlemen, but very glad that you consent to it, and that you feel confidence in my choice. respecting the treasurer, my dearest albert, i have already written at great length in my last letter, so i will not say much more about it to-day, but i will just observe that, tho' i fully understand (indeed no one could feel more for you in the very trying position you will be placed in than i do) your feelings, it is absolutely necessary that an englishman should be at the head of your affairs; therefore (tho' i will not force mr. anson on you) i ask you if it is not better to take a man in whom i have confidence, and whom i know well enough to trust perfectly, than a man who is quite a stranger, and whom i know nothing of?_ i am very glad that your father knows lord grosvenor. as to the tories, i am still in a rage;[ ] they abuse and grumble incessantly in the most incredible manner. i will tell good lord melbourne that you are very grateful. that you will write to him is very nice of you, and makes me glad. i shall always feel very happy if you, my dearest albert, will be very friendly to this good and just man; and i am convinced that, when you will know him more intimately, you will be as fond of him as i am. no one is more abused by bad people than lord m.--_and nobody is so forgiving_.... i have just learned that my two uncles, the dukes of sussex and cambridge (_to whom lord m. had written_) _very willingly consent to let you take precedence of them; it was, of course, necessary to ask them about it...._ [footnote : _lit._ raging (_wuthend_). the phrase was a favourite one of king leopold's, from whom the queen had adopted it.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ my dear uncle,--just two words (though you don't deserve _half a one_, as your silence is unpardonable) to say i have just heard from albert, who, i am glad to say, consents to _my_ choosing his people; so _one essential_ point is gained, and we have only the treasurer to carry now. i am sure, as you are so anxious albert should be thoroughly english, you will see how necessary it is that an englishman should be at the head of his financial affairs. i see that you wrote to lord melbourne that you were glad to hear i took more walking exercise, but i must tell you that ever since i have done so i sleep badly, and feel unwell! if the weather would only allow me to ride i should be quite well. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: the prince and lord melbourne] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ ... i here enclose lord melbourne's letter. i have read it, and _i think that nothing could be better; it is just what i told you, and it is the honest and impartial advice of a very clever, very honest, and very impartial man, whose_ greatest wish is to secure your and my happiness. follow this advice and you may be sure of success. lord melbourne told me that he had it written on purpose in a clear hand, by one of his secretaries, as he thought and feared you would not be able to read his own hand, which i daresay would have been the case, as he writes a very peculiar hand; he has therefore only signed it. i saw to-day the duke of cambridge, who has shown me your letter, with which he is quite delighted--and, indeed, it is a very nice one. the duke told lord melbourne he had always greatly desired our marriage, and never thought of george; but that _i_ do not believe. i must conclude, my dearest, beloved albert. be careful as to your valuable health, and be assured that no one loves you as much as your faithful victoria. introductory note to chapter ix the marriage of the queen and prince albert took place amid great splendour and general rejoicings on the th of february; the general satisfaction being unaffected by the tactless conduct of ministers who, by not acting in conjunction with the opposition, had been defeated on the question of the amount of the prince's annuity, the house of commons reducing it from £ , to £ , . at home, the privilege question aroused great interest, a point which for months convulsed the courts and parliament being whether a report, ordered by the house to be printed, of a committee appointed by the house, was protected by privilege against being the subject of an action for libel. the courts having decided that it was not, an act was passed to alter the rule for the future, but meanwhile the sheriffs had been imprisoned by the house for executing the judgment in the usual course. the ministry tottered on, getting a majority of nine only on their china policy, and twenty-one on a direct vote of confidence. the bill for the union of the two canadas was, however, passed without difficulty. an attempt by a barman named oxford to assassinate the queen on constitution hill fortunately failed, and oxford was committed, after trial, to a lunatic asylum. in july, the prospect of an heir being born to the throne led to the passing of a regency bill, naming prince albert regent, should the queen die leaving issue; the duke of sussex alone entered a formal protest against it. afghanistan continued unsettled, and lord auckland's policy seemed hardly justified by the unpopularity at cabul of shah sooja; dost mahommed still made efforts to regain his position, but he ultimately surrendered to sir william macnaghten, the british envoy at cabul. the disputes with china continued, and hostilities broke out; british ships proceeded to china, and chusan was captured. in france an attempt against the government was made by louis napoleon, who landed at boulogne in a british steamer, was captured, and sentenced to life imprisonment. more serious difficulties between this country and france arose out of eastern affairs. the four powers, england, russia, austria, and prussia, had addressed an ultimatum to mehemet, requiring him to evacuate north syria, france declining to take part in the conference on the subject. an anglo-austrian army undertook to eject him, st jean d'acre was stormed, and france thrust into a position of unwilling isolation. thiers, who had been made minister, expected that mehemet would be able to retain his conquests, and for a time it looked as though france would interfere to protect him. ultimately, in spite of some ostentatious preparations in france, peaceful counsels prevailed, and thiers found it advisable to retire in favour of guizot. in holland, william i. (then sixty-seven) abdicated in favour of his son, the prince of orange (william ii.). the need of a younger and firmer ruler was the reason officially stated in the royal proclamation. the real reasons were probably the king's attachment to the roman catholic countess d'oultremont, whom he now privately married, and the humiliation he felt at the unfavourable termination of the belgian dispute. chapter ix _queen victoria to the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ th january ._ stockmar is here; i saw him yesterday and to-day, and have begged him to explain to you _all the court affairs, and the affairs concerning the treaty_, in my name. he will explain to you the treasury affair, and will do it much better than i should. i am very happy to see him again, and to have him here; he can give such good advice to both of us, and he understands england so fully.... stocky (as i always used to call him) is so sensible about everything, and is _so much_ attached to you. i shall have no great dinners, because the large rooms in the upper story here are not yet ready. my good old primus[ ] usually dines with me three or four times a week, almost always on sundays, _when i cannot invite other people to dinner, as it is not reckoned right here for me to give dinners on sunday, or to invite many people_. your song (the bust has been mentioned before) is very fine; there is something touching in it which i like so much.... [footnote : _i.e._ premier.] [pageheading: opening of parliament] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ th january ._ this letter will be handed you by torrington personally. i recommend you not to leave late, so as to make the journey without hurry. i did not go to church to-day; the weather is very cold, and i have to be careful not to catch cold before the th, because i open parliament in person. _this is always a nervous proceeding, and the announcement of my marriage at the beginning of my speech is really a very nervous and awful affair for me. i have never failed yet, and this is the sixth time that i have done it, and yet i am just as frightened as if i had never done it before. they say that feeling of nervousness is never got over, and that wm. pitt himself never got up to make a speech without thinking he should fail. but then i only read my speech._ i had to-day a visit from george[ ] whom i received _alone_, and he was very courteous. his papa i have also seen. [footnote : prince george of cambridge.] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ th january ._ ... yesterday just as i came home from the house of lords,[ ] i received your dear letter of the th. i cannot understand at all why you have received no letters from me, seeing that i always wrote twice a week, regularly.... i observe with horror that i have not formally invited your father; though that is a matter of course. my last letter will have set that right. i ought not to have written to you on picture notepaper, seeing that we are in deep mourning for my poor aunt, the landgravine,[ ] but it was quite impossible for me to write to you on mourning paper.... _but this will not interfere with our marriage in the least; the mourning will be taken off for that day, and for two or three days after, and then put on again._ everything went off exceedingly well yesterday. there was an immense multitude of people, and perhaps never, certainly not for a long time, have i been received so well; and what is remarkable, i _was not nervous_, and read the speech really well. the tories began immediately afterwards to conduct themselves very _badly_ and to plague us. but everyone praised you very much. melbourne made a very fine speech about you and your ancestors. to-day i receive the address of the house of lords, and, perhaps, also that of the house of commons. [footnote : the queen had opened parliament in person, and announced her intended marriage.] [footnote : the princess elizabeth (born ), third daughter of george iii. and widow of the landgrave frederick joseph louis of hesse-homburg. _see_ p. . (ch. viii, footnote )] [pageheading: tories, whigs, and radicals] _queen victoria to the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ st january ._ i am awaiting with immense impatience a letter from you. here hardly anything to relate to-day, because we are living in great retirement, until informed that my poor aunt has been buried. with the exception of melbourne and my own people, no one has dined for the last week. we are all of us very much preoccupied with politics. the tories really are very astonishing; _as they cannot and dare not attack us in parliament, they do everything that they can to be personally rude to me.... the whigs are the only safe and loyal people, and the radicals will also rally round their queen to protect her from the tories; but it is a curious sight to see those, who as tories, used to pique themselves upon their excessive loyalty, doing everything to degrade their young sovereign in the eyes of the people. of course there are exceptions._ _queen victoria to the prince albert._ buckingham palace, _ st january ._ ... you have written to me in one of your letters about our stay at windsor, but, dear albert, you have not at all understood the matter. _you forget, my dearest love, that i am the sovereign, and that business can stop and wait for nothing. parliament is sitting, and something occurs almost every day, for which i may be required, and it is quite impossible for me to be absent from london; therefore two or three days is already a long time to be absent. i am never easy a moment, if i am not on the spot, and see and hear what is going on, and everybody, including all my aunts (who are very knowing in all these things), says i must come out after the second day, for, as i must be surrounded by my court, i cannot keep alone. this is also my own wish in every way._ now as to the arms: _as an english prince you have no right, and uncle leopold had no right to quarter the english arms, but the sovereign has the power to allow it by royal command: this was done for uncle leopold by the prince regent, and i will do it again for you. but it can only be done by royal command._ i will, therefore, without delay, have a seal engraved for you. you will certainly feel very happy too, at the news of the coming union of my much-beloved vecto[ ] with nemours. it gives me quite infinite pleasure, because then i can see the dear child more frequently. i read in the newspaper that you, dear albert, have received many orders; also that the queen of spain will send you the golden fleece.... farewell, dearest albert, and think often of thy faithful victoria r. [footnote : the princess victoire of saxe-coburg, cousin of queen victoria.] [pageheading: the prince's grant] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ brussels, _ st january ._ my dearest victoria,--i am most grateful for your long letter of the th and th inst. i send a messenger to be able to answer quite confidentially. i must confess that i never saw anything _so disgraceful_ than the discussion and vote in the commons.[ ] the whole mode and way in which those who opposed the grant treated the question was so extremely _vulgar_ and _disrespectful_, that i cannot comprehend the tories. the men who uphold the dignity of the crown to treat their sovereign in such a manner, on such an occasion! even in private life the most sour and saturnine people relax and grow gay and mildly disposed on occasions like this. clearly, as you are queen regnant, albert's position is to all intents and purposes that of a male queen consort, and the same privileges and charges ought to be attached to it which were attached to queen adelaide's position. the giving up the income which the queen-dowager came into, and which i hope and trust albert would never have, or have had, any chance of having had himself, was in reality giving up a thing which _custom_ had sanctioned. that prince george of denmark[ ] was considered to be in the same position as a queen consort there can be, i think, no doubt about, and when one considers the immense difference in the value of money then and now, it renders matters still more striking. i must say such conduct in parliament i did _not expect_, and the less when i consider that your civil list was rather curtailed than otherwise, perhaps not quite fairly. i rejoice to think that i induced lord melbourne to propose to you not to accede to the giving up of the duchy of lancaster. parliament did not deserve it, and by good management i think something may be made of it. another thing which made me think that parliament would have acted with more decency, is that i return to the country now near £ , a year, _not because_ i thought my income _too large_, as worthy sir robert peel said, but from motives of political delicacy, which at least might be acknowledged on such occasions. i was placed by my marriage treaty in the position of a princess of wales, which in reality it was, though not yet by law, there existing a possibility of a prince of wales as long as george iv. lived. i can only conclude by crying _shame, shame_!... i hope and trust you will not be too much worried with all these unpleasant things, and that albert will prove a comforter and support to you. and so good-bye for to-day. ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the ministers proposed an income of £ , a year for the prince--the conservatives and radicals united on an amendment reducing it to £ , , which was carried by a majority of .] [footnote : the consort of queen anne.] [pageheading: the prince at brussels] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ brussels, _ st february ._ my dearest victoria,--i hope you will be pleased with me, as i send a messenger on purpose to inform you of albert's arrival. he will write himself this night, though rather inclined to surrender himself to morpheus. he looks well and handsome, but a little interesting, being very much irritated by what happened in the house of commons. he does not care about the money, but he is much shocked and exasperated by the disrespect of the thing, as he well may. i do not yet know the exact day of their departure, but i suppose it will be on the th, to be able to cross on the th. i have already had some conversation with him, and mean to talk _à fond_ to him to-morrow. my wish is to see you both happy and thoroughly united and of one mind, and i trust that both of you will ever find in me a faithful, honest, and attached friend. as it is eleven o'clock at night, i offer you my respects, and remain, ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. your poor aunt fainted this morning; she is much given to this, but it was rather too long to-day. [pageheading: amiability of the prince] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ brussels, _ th february ._ my dearest victoria,--i have now treated all the questions you wished me to touch upon with albert, and i was much pleased with his amiable disposition. at a certain distance explanations by letter are next to impossible, and each party in the end thinks the other unreasonable. when he arrived he was rather exasperated about various things, and pretty full of grievances. but our conversations have dissipated these clouds, and now there will only remain the new parliamentary events and consequences, which change a good deal of what one could reasonably have foreseen or arranged. you will best treat these questions now verbally. albert is quick, not obstinate, in conversation, and open to conviction if good arguments are brought forward. when he thinks himself right he only wishes to have it _proved_ that he _misunderstands_ the case, to give it up without ill-humour. he is not inclined to be sulky, but i think that he may be rendered a little melancholy if he thinks himself unfairly or unjustly treated, but being together and remaining together, there _never_ can arise, i hope, any occasion for any disagreement even on trifling subjects.... ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ brussels, _ th february ._ my dearest victoria,--this letter will arrive when i trust you will be most happily occupied; i don't mean therefore to trespass on your time. may heaven render you as happy as i always wished you to be, and as i always tried hard to see you. there is every prospect of it, and i am sure you will be mistress in that respect of your own _avenir_. _perfect confidence_ will best ensure and consolidate this happiness. our rule in poor charlotte's time was never to permit _one single day_ to pass over _ein missverständniss_, however trifling it might be.[ ] i must do charlotte the justice to say that she kept this compact most religiously, and at times even more so than myself, as in my younger days i was sometimes inclined to be sulky and silently displeased. with this rule no misunderstandings can take root and be increased or complicated by new ones being added to the old. albert is gentle and open to reason; all will therefore always be easily explained, and he is determined never to be occupied but by what is important or useful to you.... now i conclude, with my renewed warmest and sincerest good wishes for you, ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold. [footnote : _(from an unpublished contemporary memoir by admiral sir william hotham, g.c.b.)_ "her royal highness was now and then apt to give way to a high flow of animal spirits, natural at her time of life, and from carelessness more than unkindness to ridicule others. in one of these sallies of inconsiderate mirth, she perceived the prince, sombre and cold, taking no apparent notice of what was going on, or if he did, evidently displeased. she at length spoke to him about it, and he at once manifested reluctance to join in the conversation, saying that though he had been a tolerably apt scholar in many things, he had yet to learn in england what pleasure was derived from the exercise of that faculty he understood to be called "quizzing"; that he could by no means reconcile it to himself according to any rule either of good breeding or benevolence. the tears instantly started in her eye, and feeling at once the severity and justice of the reproof, assured him most affectionately that, as it was the first time she had ever merited his royal highness's reproof on this subject, she assured him most solemnly it should be the last."] [pageheading: the wedding-day] _queen victoria to the prince albert._[ ] _ th february ._ dearest,--... how are you to-day, and have you slept well? i have rested very well, and feel very comfortable to-day. what weather! i believe, however, the rain will cease. send one word when you, my most dearly loved bridegroom, will be ready. thy ever-faithful, victoria r. [footnote : a note folded in _billet_ form, to be taken by hand. addressed: "his royal highness the prince. "the queen." this was the day of their marriage at the chapel royal. after the wedding breakfast at buckingham palace they drove to windsor, and on the th they returned to london.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th february ._ my dearest uncle,--i write to you from here, the happiest, happiest being that ever existed. really, i do not think it _possible_ for any one in the world to be _happier_, or as happy as i am. he is an angel, and his kindness and affection for me is really touching. to look in those dear eyes, and that dear sunny face, is enough to make me adore him. what i can do to make him happy will be my greatest delight. independent of my great personal happiness, the reception we both met with yesterday was the most gratifying and enthusiastic i ever experienced; there was no end of the crowds in london, and all along the road. i was a good deal tired last night, but am quite well again to-day, and happy.... my love to dear louise. ever your affectionate, victoria r. _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ brussels, _ st february ._ my dearest victoria,--i am more grateful than i can express that, notwithstanding your many _empêchements_ and occupations, you still found a little moment to write to me. news from you are always most precious to me, and now almost more than ever. this is such an important moment in your life, it will so much decide how the remainder is to be, that i am deeply interested in all i can hear on the subject. hitherto, with the exception of your own dear and royal self, i have not been spoiled, _et j'ai puisé beaucoup de mes nouvelles_ in the _times_ and such like sources. god be praised that the dear _ménage_ is so happy! i can only say may it be so for ever and ever. i always thought that with your warm and feeling heart and susceptibility for strong and lasting affection, you would prefer this _genre_ of happiness, if you once possessed it, to every other. it must be confessed that it is less frequent than could be wished for the good of mankind, but when it does exist, there is something delightful to a generous heart like yours in this sacred tie, in this attachment for better for worse, and i think the english church service expresses it in a simple and touching manner. i was happy to see that the addresses of both houses of parliament were voted in a decent and becoming way. how mean people are! if they had not seen the public at large take a great interest in your marriage and show you great affection, perhaps some would again have tried to bring on unpleasant subjects.... my letter is grown long; i will therefore conclude it with the expression of my great affection for your dear self. ever, my most beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: popular enthusiasm] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th march ._ ... as your majesty has by your lord chamberlain permitted plays to be acted on wednesdays and fridays in lent, it would be condemning yourself if you did not go to see them if you like to do so.... ... lord melbourne is much pleased to hear that your majesty and the prince liked _the school for scandal_. it is upon the whole the cleverest comedy in the english language, the fullest of wit and at the same time the most free from grossness. [pageheading: the corn laws] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to state that the house of commons having resumed the consideration of the corn laws, the debate was closed by sir robert peel, in a speech much inferior to those which he usually makes. mr warburton moved an adjournment, which caused many members to leave the house. the motion being opposed, there were on a division against adjournment, and only in favour of it. mr warburton then by some blunder moved that the house adjourn, which puts an end to the debate. this was eagerly caught at by the opposite party, and agreed to. so that the question is lost by this ridiculous termination, and it is to be feared that it will produce much discontent in the manufacturing class.[ ] [footnote : the opposition to the corn laws was now increasing in the north.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is quite well but much tired. he has so much to do this morning that he will not be able to speak to albemarle,[ ] but if albemarle dines at the palace, he certainly will then. lord melbourne always feared anything like a mixture of the stable establishments. it would have been much better that what horses the prince had should have been kept quite separate, and that the horses of your majesty's which he should have to use should have been settled, and some plan arranged by which they could have been obtained when wanted. horses to be used by one set of people and kept and fed by another will never do. servants and subordinate agents in england are quite unmanageable in these respects. if they get [matters] into their hands neither the deity nor the devil, nor both together, can make them agree. lord melbourne writes this in ignorance of the actual facts of the case, and therefore it may be inapplicable. [footnote : master of the horse.] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to state that sir james graham yesterday brought forward his motion on china in a speech of nearly three hours.[ ] he was answered by mr macaulay in a manner most satisfactory to his audience, and with great eloquence. sir william follett spoke with much ingenuity, but in the confined spirit of a lawyer. [footnote : the motion was to censure ministers for their want of foresight in their dealings with china in connection with the extension of commerce, and with the opium trade. the motion was rejected by to .] [pageheading: england and china] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that the debate went on yesterday, when mr hawes spoke against the motion. in the course of the debate mr gladstone[ ] said the chinese had a right to poison the wells, to keep away the english! the debate was adjourned. [footnote : mr gladstone had been member for newark since .] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ nd may ._ mr cowper has just come in and tells me that they have determined to begin the disturbance to-night at the opera, at the very commencement of the performance.[ ] this may be awkward, as your majesty will arrive in the middle of the tumult. it is the intention not to permit the opera to proceed until laporte gives way. lord melbourne is afraid that if the row has already begun, your majesty's presence will not put an end to it; and it might be as well not to go until your majesty hears that it is over and that the performance is proceeding quietly. some one might be sent to attend and send word. [footnote : a _fracas_ took place at the opera on th april. the manager, laporte, not having engaged tamburini to sing, the audience made a hostile demonstration at the conclusion of the performance of _i puritani_. an explanation made by laporte only made matters worse, and eventually the tamburinists took possession of the stage.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has just received this from lord john russell--a most shocking event,[ ] which your majesty has probably by this time heard of. the persons who did it came for the purpose of robbing the house; they entered by the back of the house and went out at the front door.[ ] the servants in the house, only a man and a maid, never heard anything, and the maid, when she came down to her master's door in the morning, found the horrid deed perpetrated.... [footnote : the murder of lord william russell by his valet, courvoisier, in norfolk street, park lane.] [footnote : this was the original theory.] [pageheading: murder of lord william russell] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. since he wrote to your majesty, he has seen mr fox maule,[ ] who had been at the house in norfolk street. he says that it is a most mysterious affair. lord william russell was found in his bed, quite dead, cold and stiff, showing that the act had been perpetrated some time. the bed was of course deluged with blood, but there were no marks of blood in any other part of the room; so that he had been killed in his bed and by one blow, upon the throat, which had nearly divided his head from his body. the back door of the house was broken open, but there were no traces of persons having approached the door from without. his writing-desk was also broken open and the money taken out, but otherwise little or nothing had been taken away. the police upon duty in the streets had neither heard nor seen anything during the night. in these circumstances strong suspicion lights upon the persons in the house, two maids and a man, the latter a foreigner[ ] and who had only been with lord william about five weeks. these persons are now separately confined, and the commissioners of police are actively employed in enquiring into the affair. an inquest will of course be held upon the body without delay. lord melbourne has just received your majesty's letter, and will immediately convey to lord john your majesty's kind expressions of sympathy. [footnote : under-secretary for home affairs; afterwards, as lord panmure, secretary for war.] [footnote : courvoisier.] [pageheading: mrs norton] [pageheading: princess charlotte] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ nd may ._ my dearest victoria,--i received yesterday a most kind and dear letter from your august hands. charles,[ ] who wanted to cross yesterday, will have had very bad weather. he _is_ prepared not to make too long a stay in england. he dined here on the th. louise was prepared to come to dinner, but was not quite equal to it; she therefore came after it. he came also to see me on the th, before his departure for ostende. it is very gracious of you to have given him subsidies, but in fact poor feo stands more in need of it. she really is too poor; when one thinks that they have but £ a year, and that large castles, etc., are to be kept up with it, one cannot conceive how they manage it. it was a very generous feeling which prompted you to see mrs norton, and i have been too much her friend to find fault with it. true it is that norton was freely accepted by her, but she was very poor, and could therefore hardly venture to refuse him. many people will flirt with a clever, handsome, but poor girl, though not marry her--besides, the idea of having old shery[ ] for a grandfather had nothing very captivating. a very unpleasant husband norton certainly was, and one who had little tact. i can well believe that she was much frightened, having so many eyes on her, some of which, perhaps, not with the most amiable expression. i was delighted to learn that you meant to visit poor claremont, and to pass there part of your precious birthday. claremont is the place where in younger days you were least plagued, and generally i saw you there in good spirits. you will also _nolens volens_ be compelled to think of me, and maybe of poor charlotte. this gives me an opening for saying a few words on this subject. i found several times that some people had given you the impression that poor charlotte had been hasty and violent even to imperiousness and _rudeness_. i can you assure that it was _not so_; she was quick, and even violent, but i never have seen anybody so open to conviction, and so fair and candid when wrong. the proverb says, and not without some truth, that ladies come always back to the first words, to avoid any symptom of having been convinced. generous minds, however, do not do this; they fight courageously their battles, but when they clearly see that they are wrong, and that the reasons and arguments submitted to them are _true_, they frankly admit the truth. charlotte had eminently this disposition; besides, she was so anxious to please me, that often she would say: "let it be as it may; provided you wish it, i will do it." i always answered: "i never want anything for myself; when i press something on you, it is from a conviction that it is for your interest and for your good." i know that you have been told that she ordered everything in the house and liked to show that she was the mistress. it was not so. on the contrary, her pride was to make me appear to my best advantage, and even to display respect and obedience, when i least wanted it from her. she would almost exaggerate the feeling, to show very clearly that she considered me as her lord and master. and on the day of the marriage, as most people suspected her of a very different disposition, everybody was struck with the manner in which she pronounced the promise of obedience. i must say that i was much more the master of the house than is generally the case in private life. besides, there was something generous and royal in her mind which alone would have prevented her doing anything vulgar or ill-bred. what rendered her sometimes a little violent was a slight disposition to jealousy. poor lady maryborough,[ ] at all times some twelve or fifteen years older than myself, but whom i had much known in , was once much the cause of a fit of that description. i told her it was quite childish, but she said, "it is not, because she is a very coquettish, dissipated woman." the most difficult task i had was to change her manners; she had something brusque and too rash in her movements, which made the regent quite unhappy, and which sometimes was occasioned by a struggle between shyness and the necessity of exerting herself. i had--i may say so without seeming to boast--the manners of the best society of europe, having early moved in it, and been rather what is called in french _de la fleur des pois_. a good judge i therefore was, but charlotte found it rather hard to be so scrutinised, and grumbled occasionally how i could so often find fault with her. nothing perhaps speaks such volumes as the _positive fact_ of her manners getting _quite changed_ within a year's time, and that to the openly pronounced satisfaction of the very fastidious and not over-partial regent. to explain how it came that manners were a little odd in england, it is necessary to remember that england had been for more than ten years completely cut off from the rest of the world.... we have bitter cold weather which has given colds to both the children. uncle ferdinand [ ] is now only arriving _si dice_ on sunday next. he has been robbed of , francs in his own room _au palais-royal_, which is very unpleasant for all parties. my letter is so long that i must haste to conclude it, remaining ever, my beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. my love to alberto. [footnote : prince charles of leiningen.] [footnote : the three sisters, mrs norton, lady dufferin, and lady seymour (afterwards duchess of somerset), the latter of whom was "queen of beauty" at the eglinton tournament, were grand-daughters of r. b. sheridan. lord melbourne was much in mrs norton's company, and norton, for whom the premier had found a legal appointment, sued him in the court of common pleas for _crim. con._; the jury found for the defendant.] [footnote : lord maryborough ( - ) was william wellesley pole, brother of the marquess wellesley and the duke of wellington. he married katherine elizabeth forbes, grand-daughter of the third earl of granard.] [footnote : prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg, king leopold's brother.] [pageheading: the queen and the prince] _memorandum by mr anson._ _minutes of conversations with lord melbourne and baron stockmar._ _ th may ._ _lord melbourne._--"i have spoken to the queen, who says the prince complains of a want of confidence on trivial matters, and on all matters connected with the politics of this country. she said it proceeded entirely from indolence; she knew it was wrong, but when she was with the prince she preferred talking upon other subjects. i told her majesty that she should try and alter this, and that there was no objection to her conversing with the prince upon any subject she pleased. my impression is that the chief obstacle in her majesty's mind is the fear of difference of opinion, and she thinks that domestic harmony is more likely to follow from avoiding subjects likely to create difference. my own experience leads me to think that subjects between man and wife, even where difference is sure to ensue, are much better discussed than avoided, for the latter course is sure to beget distrust. i do not think that the baroness[ ] is the cause of this want of openness, though her name to me is never mentioned by the queen." _baron stockmar._--"i wish to have a talk with you. the prince leans more on you than any one else, and gives you his entire confidence; you are honest, moral, and religious, and will not belie that trust. the queen has not started upon a right principle. she should by degrees impart everything to him, but there is danger in his wishing it all at once. a case may be laid before him; he may give some crude and unformed opinion; the opinion may be taken and the result disastrous, and a forcible argument is thus raised against advice being asked for the future. "the queen is influenced more than she is aware of by the baroness. in consequence of that influence, she is not so ingenuous as she was two years ago. i do not think that the withholding of her confidence does proceed wholly from indolence, though it may partly arise, as the prince suggests, from the entire confidence which she reposes in her present ministers, making her inattentive to the plans and measures proposed, and thinking it unnecessary entirely to comprehend them; she is of necessity unable to impart their views and projects to him who ought to be her friend and counsellor." [footnote : baroness lehzen.] [pageheading: oxford's attempt] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ carlton terrace, _ th june ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and though your majesty must be overwhelmed with congratulations at your majesty's escape from the aim of the assassin,[ ] yet viscount palmerston trusts that he may be allowed to express the horror with which he heard of the diabolical attempt, and the deep thankfulness which he feels at your majesty's providential preservation. viscount palmerston humbly trusts that the failure of this atrocious attempt may be considered as an indication that your majesty is reserved for a long and prosperous reign, and is destined to assure, for many years to come, the welfare and happiness of this nation. [footnote : edward oxford, a pot-boy, aged eighteen, fired twice at the queen on constitution hill. the queen, who was untouched either shot, immediately drove to the duchess of kent's house to announce her safety. on his trial, oxford was found to be insane.] _the king of the french to queen victoria._ _ juin ._ madame ma s[oe]ur,--c'est avec une profonde indignation que je viens d'apprendre l'horrible attentat qui a menacé les précieux jours de votre majesté. je rends grâce du fond de mon c[oe]ur à la divine providence qui les a miraculeusement conservés, et qui semble n'avoir permis qu'ils fussent exposés à un si grand danger, que pour faire briller aux yeux de tous, votre courage, votre sang-froid, et toutes les qualités qui vous distinguent. j'ose espérer que votre majesté me permettra de recourir à son entremise pour offrir à s.a.r. le prince albert, l'expression de tous les sentiments dont je suis pénétré, et qu'elle voudra bien recevoir l'assurance de tous ceux que je lui porte, ainsi que celle de ma haute estime, de mon inaltérable attachement et de mon inviolable amitié. je suis, madame ma s[oe]ur, de votre majesté, le bon frère, louis philippe r. [pageheading: a providential escape] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th june ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and returns your majesty many, many thanks for your letter. lord melbourne was indeed most anxious to learn that your majesty was well this morning. it was indeed a most awful and providential escape. it is impossible not to shudder at the thought of it. lord melbourne thinks that it will be necessary to have an examination of this man before such of your majesty's confidential servants as are of the privy council;[ ] it should take place this morning. addresses will be moved in both houses immediately upon their meeting. [footnote : _i.e._, the cabinet.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th june ._ my dearest and most beloved victoria,--i cannot find words _strong enough_ to express to you my horror at what happened on the th, and my happiness and delight to see your escape from a danger which was really very great. in your good little heart i hope that it made you feel grateful to god for a protection which was very signal. it does good and is a consolation to think that matters are not _quite_ left to take care of _themselves_, but that an all-powerful hand guides them. louise i told the affair mildly, as it might have made too great an impression on her otherwise. she always feels so much for you and loves you so much, that she was rejoiced beyond measure that you escaped so well and took the thing with so much _courage_. that you have shown _great fortitude_ is not to be doubted, and will make a very great and good impression. i see that the general feeling is excellent, but what a melancholy thing to see a young man, without provocation, capable of such a diabolical act! that attempts of that sort took place against george iii., and even george iv., one can comprehend; but you have not only been extremely liberal, but in no instance have you hitherto come into contact with any popular feeling or prejudice; besides, one should think that your being a lady would alone prevent such unmanly conduct. it shows what an effect bad example and the bad press have. i am sure that this act is _une singerie_ of what passes in france, that it is a fancy of some of those societies _de mort aux rois et souverains_, without knowing wherefore, merely as a sort of fashion.... [pageheading: egypt and the powers] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ st cloud, _ th july ._ my dearest victoria,--your dear letter of the th greatly delighted me.... let me now add a few words on politics. the _secret_ way in which the arrangement about the arbitration of the turco-egyptian affairs has been signed, the keeping out of france in an affair so _near_ it and touching its interests in various ways, has had here a very _disastrous_ effect.[ ] i cannot disguise from you that the consequences may be very serious, and the more so as the thiers ministry is supported by the movement party, and as _reckless of consequences_ as your own minister for foreign affairs, even much more so, as thiers himself would not be sorry to see everything existing upset. he is strongly impregnated with all the notions of fame and glory which belonged to part of the republican and the imperial times; he would not even be much alarmed at the idea of a convention ruling again france, as he thinks that _he_ would be the _man to rule_ the assembly, and has told me last year that he thinks it for france perhaps the _most powerful_ form of government.[ ] the mode in this affair ought to have been, as soon as the four powers had agreed on a proposition, to communicate it officially to france, to join it. france had but two ways, either to join or to refuse its adhesion. if it had chosen the last, it would have been a free decision on her part, and a secession which had nothing offensive in the eyes of the nation. but there is a material difference between leaving a company from motives of one's own, or being _kicked out_ of it. i must beg you to speak seriously to lord melbourne, who is the head of your government, on these important affairs; they may upset everything in europe if the mistake is not corrected and moderated. i shall write again to you next friday from hence, and on saturday, st august, we set off. ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : on the th of july a convention was signed in london by representatives of england, russia, austria, and prussia, offering an ultimatum to the viceroy of egypt. the exclusion of france was hotly resented in paris. guizot, then ambassador in london, had been kept in ignorance of the project, but the foreign secretary, lord palmerston, denied that there had been any discourtesy intended, or want of consideration shown.] [footnote : louis adolphe thiers ( - ), who through the press had contributed to the downfall of the bourbons, had held various cabinet offices under louis philippe, and, from march to october , was for the second time premier.] [pageheading: prince louis napoleon] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th august ._ ( p.m.) lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. the house of lords lasted until eight, and lord melbourne might by an exertion have got to the palace to dinner, but as he had the speech, by no means an easy one, to prepare for the consideration of the cabinet to-morrow, he thought it better to take this evening for that purpose, and he hopes therefore that your majesty will excuse his not coming, which is to him a great sacrifice to have made. your majesty will have probably seen by this time the report from your majesty's consul at boulogne of the mad attempt of louis bonaparte.[ ] it is rather unfortunate that it should have taken place at this moment, as the violent and excited temper of the french nation will certainly lead them to attribute it to england. it will also be highly embarrassing to the king of the french to have in his possession a member of the family of bonaparte and so many bonapartists who have certainly deserved death but whom it may not be prudent or politic to execute. [footnote : the prince, afterwards the emperor napoleon iii., descended on boulogne with fifty-three persons, and a tame eagle which had been intended, with stage effect, to alight on the colonne de napoléon. he was captured, tried for high treason, and sentenced to perpetual imprisonment. he effected his escape, which was undoubtedly connived at by the authorities, in .] [pageheading: the convention of ] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ wiesbaden, _ nd september ._ my dearest victoria,--i was most happy in receiving this morning per messenger your dear little letter of the th, though it is grown a little elderly. the life one leads here is not favourable to writing, which, besides, is prohibited, and easily gives me palpitation enough to sing "_di tanti palpiti!_" i get up at half after six and begin to drink this hot water; what with drinking and walking one comes to ten o'clock or half after ten for breakfast. then i read papers and such like things. at one o'clock i have been generally bored with some visit or other till two o'clock. i try to finish some writing, and then i walk and ride out till dinner-time, generally at seven. in the evening i have written sometimes, but it certainly does one harm. you see that there remains but little time for writing. i am most happy to find that you are well; the papers, which don't know what to invent to lower the funds, said that you had been unwell on the th, which, god be praised! is not at all true. i pity poor princess augusta[ ] from all my heart. i am sure that if she had in proper time taken care of herself she might have lived to a great age. i have not time to-day to write at any length on the politics of the day, but i am _far from thinking_ that the french _acted wisely_ in the oriental affair. i must say that i think the king _meant well_, but i should not have _abstained_ from the conference as he did, though, in france, interference with mehemet ali was certainly not popular. in england much of the _fond_ is logical, but the form towards france was, and is still, harsh and insulting. i don't think france, which these ten years behaved well, and the poor king, who was nearly murdered i don't remember how often, deserved to be treated so unkindly, and all that seemingly to please the great autocrat. we must not forget what were the fruits of the _first_ convention of july --i think the th or th of that month; i ought to remember it, as i took its name in vain often enough in the greek affair. this first convention brought about the battle of navarino and the second campaign of the russians, which ended with, in fact, the demise of the poor old porte, the _treaty of adrianople_.[ ] your majesty was then afflicted with the age of ten, in itself a good age, and may not remember much about it except that in the affair about my going to greece began, and that your affectionate heart took some interest in that. lord melbourne, however, you _must encourage to speak about this matter_. canning's intention was this: he said we must remain with russia, and by this means _prevent_ mischief. the duke of wellington, who came to me shooting at claremont in , really did cry, though he is not of a crying disposition, and said "_by this convention the russians will have the power of doing all they never would have dared to do single-handed_, and shielded by this infernal convention, it will not be in our power _to stop them_." russia is again in this very snug and comfortable position, that _the special protection of the porte_ is confided to its tender mercies--_la chèvre gardant le chou_, the wolf the sheep, as i suppose i must not compare the turcs to lambs. the power which ruined the ottoman empire, which since a hundred and forty years nearly _pared_ it all round nearly in every direction, is to be the protector and guardian of that same empire; and we are told that it is the most scandalous calumny to suspect the russians to have any other than the most humane and disinterested views! "_ainsi soit-il_," as the french say at the end of their sermons. this part of the convention of the th of july strikes impartial people as strange, the more so as nothing lowers the porte so much in the eyes of the few patriotic turks who remain than the protection of the arch-enemy of the concern, russia. i beg you to read this part of my letter to my good and dear friend, lord melbourne, to whom i beg to be kindly remembered. [footnote : princess augusta, second daughter of george iii. _see_ p. . (ch. ix, th september )] [footnote : under this treaty ( th september ) the danubian principalities were made virtually independent states, the treaty rights of russia in the navigation of the bosphorus and dardanelles were confirmed, and greek affairs were arranged, by incorporating in the treaty the terms of the protocol of nd march .] [pageheading: a threatened crisis] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._[ ] windsor castle, _ th september ._ this is certainly awkward; but the latter part about peel is most absurd; to him i can never apply, we must do everything but that. but for god's sake do not bring on a crisis;[ ] the queen really could not go through that _now_, and it might make her _seriously ill_ if she were to be kept in a state of agitation and excitement if a crisis were to come on; she has had already so much lately in the distressing illness of her poor aunt to harass her. i beseech you, think of _all_ this, and the consequences it might cause, not only to me, but to all europe, as it would show our weakness in a way that would be seriously injurious to this country. [footnote : the letter, to which this is a reply, seems not to have been preserved. the queen's letter, having been shown to lord john russell and copied by him, has hitherto been supposed to be a letter from lord melbourne to lord john russell. _see_ walpole's _russell_, vol. i., chap. xiii.] [footnote : the cabinet met on the th to consider the oriental question. the government was on the verge of dissolution, as lord palmerston and lord john russell were in conflict. the meeting was adjourned till st october.] [pageheading: france and the east] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--i have unfortunately very little time to-day, but i will try and answer your kind letters of the th and th briefly. you know now that the sufferings of good excellent aunt augusta were terminated on the nd of this month. i regret her _very, very_ sincerely, though for herself we are all most thankful for the release of such unexampled sufferings, borne with such unexampled patience. almost the last thing she said when she was still conscious, the day before she died, was to mr more (the apothecary), who wrote me every morning a report: "have you written to my darling?" is this not touching? the queen-dowager had her hand in hers when she died, and closed her eyes when all was over; all the family were present. i have seen your letters to palmerston, and his answer to you, and i also send you a paper from lord melbourne. i assure you that i _do_ give these affairs my _most serious_ attention: it would be indeed _most_ desirable if france could _come back to us_, and i think what metternich suggests very sagacious and well-judged.[ ] you must allow me to state that _france_ has _put herself_ into this unfortunate state. _i_ know (as i saw _all_ the _papers_) how she was engaged to join us--and i know how strangely she refused; i know also, that france _agrees_ in the _principle_, but only doubts the _efficacy_ of the measures. where then is "_la france outragée_"? wherefore arm when there is _no_ enemy? wherefore raise the war-cry? but this has been _done_, and has taken _more_ effect than i think the french government _now_ like; and _now_ she has to undo all this and to calm the general agitation and excitement, which is not so easy. still, though france is in the wrong, and _quite_ in the wrong, still _i_ am most anxious, as i am sure my government also are, that france should be pacified and should again take her place amongst the five powers. i am sure she might easily do this.... albert, who sends his love, is much occupied with the eastern affairs, and is quite of my opinion.... [footnote : metternich's suggestion was that if other means of coercion failed, the allies should renew their deliberations in conjunction with france.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th september ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is quite well, and will be ready at half-past one. the prince's[ ] observations are just, but still the making an advance to france now, coupled with our constant inability to carry into effect the terms of our convention, will be an humiliating step. lord melbourne sends a letter which he has received this morning from lord normanby, whom he had desired to see lord palmerston and lord john russell, and try what he could do. lord melbourne also sends a letter which he has received from lord lansdowne. lord melbourne would beg your majesty to return them both. [footnote : prince metternich.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ downing street, _ st october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. we have had the cabinet and it has passed over quietly. we have agreed to make a proposition to france founded upon the communication of prince metternich to the king of the belgians.[ ] palmerston will propose to-morrow to neumann,[ ] the prussian minister, and brunnow,[ ] that he should write to granville, authorising him to acquaint thiers that if france will concur in respecting the principle of the treaty, we, without expecting her to adopt coercive measures, will concert with her the further course to be adopted for the purpose of carrying the principle into effect. this is so far so good. lord melbourne trusts that it will get over the present entanglement, but of course we must expect that in a matter so complicated and which we have not the power of immediately terminating, further difficulties will arise. [footnote : _see_ p. . (ch. ix, footnote )] [footnote : austrian minister.] [footnote : russian minister.] [pageheading: mehemet ali] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ downing street, _ nd october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. we have just had another cabinet,[ ] which was rendered necessary by brunnow and the prussian minister refusing to concur in what we determined yesterday without reference to their courts and authority from them. this makes it impossible for us to take the step in the way we proposed, but we have now settled that palmerston should direct granville to submit the proposition to thiers, and ask him how he would be disposed to receive it if it were formally made to him. this, so far as we are concerned, will have all the effect which could have been attained in the other way. very important despatches of the th inst. have come from constantinople. the ministers of the porte held the last proposition of mehemet ali as a positive refusal of the terms of the convention, and proceeded by the advice of lord ponsonby[ ] at once to divest mehemet ali of the pashalik of egypt; to direct a blockade of the coasts both of syria and egypt, and to recall the four consuls from alexandria. these are serious measures, and there are despatches from lord beauvale[ ] stating that prince metternich is much alarmed at them, and thinks that measures should be immediately taken to diminish and guard against the effect which they may have in france. lord melbourne humbly begs your majesty's pardon for this hurried scrawl upon matters of such importance, but lord melbourne will have the opportunity of speaking to your majesty more fully upon them to-morrow. [footnote : the peace party in the cabinet were defeated and palmerston triumphant.] [footnote : british ambassador at constantinople.] [footnote : frederick james lamb, younger brother of lord melbourne, and his successor in the title ( - ). he was at this time ambassador at vienna, having previously been ambassador at lisbon.] [pageheading: palmerston and france] [pageheading: views of louis philippe] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ wiesbaden, _ nd october ._ ... there is an idea that mehemet ali suffers from what one calls _un charbon_, a sort of dangerous ulcer which, with old people, is never without some danger. if this is true, it only shows how little one can say that the pashalik of aleppo is to decide who is to be the master of the ottoman empire in europe and asia, the sultan or mehemet? it is highly probable that if the old gentleman dies, his concern will go to pieces; a division will be attempted by the children, but that in the east hardly ever succeeds. there everything is personal, except the sort of caliphate which the sultan possesses, and when the man is gone, his empire _also goes_. runjeet singh[ ] is a proof of this; his formidable power will certainly go to the dogs, though the sikhs have a social link which does not exist in the egyptian concern. if we now were to set everything in europe on a blaze, have a war which may change totally all that now exists, and in the midst of it we should hear that mehemet is no more, and his whole _boutique_ broken up, would it not be _really laughable_, if it was not _melancholy_? and still the war _once raging_, it would no longer put a stop to it, but go on for _other reasons_. i cannot understand what has rendered palmerston so _extremely hostile to the king_ and government of france. a _little civility_ would have gone a great way with the french; if in your speech on the th of august some regret had been expressed, it would have greatly modified the feelings of the french. but palmerston _likes to put his foot on their necks_! _now, no statesman must triumph over an enemy that is not quite dead_, because people forget a real loss, a real misfortune, but they won't forget _an insult_. napoleon made great mistakes that way; he hated prussia, insulted it on all occasions, but still _left it alive_. the consequence was that in they rose to a man in prussia, even children and women took arms, not only because they had been injured, but because they had been treated with _contempt_ and _insulted_. i will here copy what the king wrote to me lately from paris: "vous ne vous faites pas d'idée à quel point l'approbation publique soutient les armements, c'est universel. je regrette que cela aille bien au-delà, car la fureur contre l'angleterre s'accroît et un des points que je regrette le plus, c'est que tout notre peuple est persuadé que l'angleterre veut réduire la france _au rang de puissance secondaire_, et vous savez ce que c'est que l'orgueil national et la vanité de tous les peuples. je crois donc bien urgent que la crise actuelle se termine bientôt pacifiquement. plus je crois que l'union de l'angleterre et de la france est la base du repos du monde, plue je regrette de voir susciter tant d'irritation entre nos deux nations. la question est de savoir ce que veut véritablement le gouvernement anglais. j'avoue que je ne suis pas sans crainte et sans inquiétude à cet égard quand je récapitule dans ma tête tout ce que lord ponsonby a fait pour l'allumer et tout ce qu'il fait encore. je n'aurais aucune inquiétude si je croyais que le gouvernement suivrait la voix de sa nation, et les véritables intérêts de son pays qui repoussent l'alliance russe et indiquent celle de la france, ce qui est tout-à-fait conforme à mes v[oe]ux personnels. mais ma vieille expérience me rappelle ce que font les passions personnelles, qui prédominent bien plus de nos jours que les véritables intérêts, et ce que peut le gouvernement anglais pour entraîner son pays, et je crains beaucoup l'art de la russie ou plutôt de l'empereur nicolas de captiver, par les plus immenses flatteries, les ministres anglais, preuve lord durham. or si ces deux gouvernements veulent ou osent entreprendre _l'abaissement_ de la france, la guerre s'allumera, et pour _mon compte alors je m'y_ jetterai _à outrance_, mais si comme je l'espère encore, malgré mes soupçons, ils ne veulent pas la guerre, alors l'affaire de l'orient, s'arrangera à l'amiable, et le cri de toutes les nations fera de nouveau justice de ces humeurs belliqueuses et consolidera la paix générale, comme cela est arrivé dans les premières années de mon règne." i think it right to give you this extract, as it is written from the very bottom of the king's heart, and shows the way in which he considers the present position of affairs. perhaps you will be so kind to read it or to let it be read by lord melbourne. it is this _abaissement de la france_ which now sticks in their throats. chartres[ ] has quite the same feeling, and then the refrain is, _plutôt périr que de souffrir cette ignominie!_ really my paper is abominable, but it is a great shame that in the residence of such a rich prince nothing can be had. my letter being long, i conclude it with my best blessings. ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : runjeet singh, known as the lion of the punjab, had died in , having consolidated the sikh power. as an outcome of the sikh wars in and , the punjab was annexed by great britain in .] [footnote : ferdinand, duke of orléans, who died th july , was generally called chartres in the family circle; this title, which he had previously borne, was conferred on his younger son, born th november .] [pageheading: negotiations with france] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ claremont, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. the king's letter to lord melbourne is in many respects just and true.[ ] the practical measure which it recommends, namely, that lord granville should make to thiers a general proposition for settling the whole matter, is very much the same as that which we agreed upon at the cabinet should be adopted. lord melbourne expects that this has been carried into effect, and if it has not, lord melbourne has urged that it should be done without delay. these affairs are very troublesome and vexatious, but they are, unfortunately, more than troublesome, they are pregnant with danger. [footnote : the king of the belgians had written a letter to lord melbourne on st october, which he had sent to queen victoria, asking her to read it and forward it to lord melbourne.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ wiesbaden, _ th october ._ ... it is to-day the poor king of the french's birthday; he is sixty-seven years old, and these last ten years he has had a pleasant time of it. and now he has this serious and difficult complication to deal with, and still i find him always fair and amiable in his way of looking at all these things, and bearing the almost unbearable annoyance and plagues of his arduous position with a degree of firmness and courage worthy of kinder treatment from the european powers than he has received.... _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. lord john russell has directed a cabinet to be summoned for to-morrow at three o'clock, at which he intends to propose that "instructions should be sent to lord granville to ascertain from the french government what terms france would consider satisfactory for the immediate arrangement of the affairs of the east." that if such terms shall appear satisfactory, mr henry bulwer[ ] or some person of similar rank should be sent to constantinople to urge their acceptance on the sultan, and that our allies should be invited to co-operate in that negotiation. that the french government should be informed that the only mode in which the pacification can be carried into effect is by mehemet ali's accepting the terms of the treaty and then receiving from the sultan the terms which shall have been previously agreed upon by his allies. lord melbourne feels certain that lord palmerston will not accede to these proposals, and indeed lord melbourne himself much doubts whether, after all that has passed, it would be right to submit the whole matter, as it were, to the decision and arbitration of france. lord john russell seems very much determined to press this question to a decision to-morrow, and lord melbourne much fears that such a decision may lead to serious consequences. lord melbourne is much grieved to have to send your majesty intelligence which he knows will greatly disquiet your majesty, but there is no remedy for it. lord melbourne's lumbago is somewhat better to-day but not much. his being compelled to attend at the house of lords yesterday prevented him from recovering. he has remained in bed to-day, and hopes to be better to-morrow. [footnote : henry bulwer ( - ), afterwards lord dalling, then first secretary of the embassy in paris, became minister to spain, - ; to the united states, - ; to tuscany, - ; and ambassador to turkey, - .] [pageheading: pacific instructions] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has just received your majesty's box. he will do all he can to put everything together, and it does not appear to him that there is any necessity on any side for a decisive step at present. a letter is arrived to-day from bulwer, which states that the instructions given to guizot are, through the interposition of the king, of a very pacific character. it would surely be well to see what they are, and whether they will not afford the means of arranging the whole affair. lord melbourne thought with your majesty that the letter to lord granville upon prince metternich's proposition was a great deal too short and dry and slight, but the importance of this step is now a good deal superseded by what has taken place, and the position of affairs has already become different from that in which it was resolved upon. lord melbourne very much thanks the prince for his letter, which may do much service and have an effect upon the antagonists. lord melbourne has just seen dr holland.[ ] lord melbourne is very much crippled and disabled. lord melbourne does not think that the shooting has had anything to do with it. his stomach has lately been out of order, which is always the cause of these sort of attacks. lord melbourne will come down on sunday if he possibly can, and unless he should be still disabled from moving. [footnote : dr (afterwards sir) henry holland, physician-in-ordinary to the queen, - , father of lord knutsford.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. ... all the question at the cabinet to-day as to whether we should write a communication to france was fortunately put an end to by guizot desiring to see palmerston in the morning and making a communication to him. this communication is very much in substance what mr. bulwer's note had led us to expect. it is a strong condemnation of the act of the porte depriving mehemet ali of the government of egypt, an expression of satisfaction at having already learned from lord palmerston and count apponyi[ ] that austria and england are not prepared to consider this act as irrevocable, and a threat on the part of france that he considers the power of mehemet ali in egypt a constituent part of the balance of europe, and that he cannot permit him to be deprived of that province without interfering. it was determined that this intimation should be met in an amicable spirit, and that lord palmerston should see the ministers of the other powers and agree with them to acquaint the french that they with england would use their good offices to induce the porte not to insist upon the deprivation of mehemet ali as far as egypt is concerned. lord melbourne hopes that this transaction may lead to a general settlement of the whole question. lord melbourne feels himself much fatigued to-night. though better, he is yet far from well, and he knows by experience that this malady when once it lays hold of him does not easily let go. it was so when he was younger. he fears, therefore, that it will not be prudent for him to leave town so early as monday, but will do so as soon as he can with safety. [footnote : born ; at this time the austrian ambassador in france.] [pageheading: mehemet ali] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ panshanger, _ th october ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty. viscount palmerston submits to your majesty some interesting letters, which he received some days ago from paris, showing that there never has been any real foundation for the alarm of war with france which was felt by some persons in this country. viscount palmerston also submits a despatch from mons. thiers to mons. guizot which was communicated to him yesterday by mons. guizot, and which seems to open a prospect of an amicable and satisfactory understanding between france and the four powers. viscount palmerston also submits a note from mr bulwer intimating that the french government would be contented with an arrangement which should leave mehemet ali in possession of egypt alone, without any part of syria, and viscount palmerston submits that such is the arrangement which it would on all accounts be desirable to accomplish. there seems reason to think that the bombardment of beyrout[ ] and the deposal of mehemet ali by the sultan have greatly contributed to render the french more reasonable on this question, by exciting in their minds an apprehension that unless some arrangement be speedily effected, the operations now going on in the levant will end in the entire overthrow of mehemet ali. [footnote : on th october ibrahim was defeated by the allies, and next day beyrout was occupied by british, austrian, and turkish troops.] [pageheading: guizot and thiers] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has not written before to-day, because he had nothing new to lay before your majesty. lord melbourne anxiously hopes she feels some confidence that the present state of the eastern affairs is such as may lead to a speedy, amicable termination--at the same time, with a nation so irritable as the french, and with the constitution which they have and which they are unused to exercise, it is impossible to feel secure for a moment. guizot, when he gave the despatch of thiers to lord palmerston, said that he had nothing to do with the reasonings of that despatch, and would not enter into any argument upon them. he delivered them only in his official capacity as the ambassador of the king of france. all he would say was that they were the result of a great effort of that party in france which was for peace. this was a sufficient intimation that he himself did not approve of them, but it was not possible to collect from what he said upon what grounds his dissent was founded. lord melbourne has since heard that he says, that he considers that france has taken too low a tone and has made too much concession, and that he could not have been a party to this step if he had been one of the king's ministers. the step is also probably contrary to the declared opinion of m. thiers; whether it be contrary to his real opinion is another question. but if it was written principally by the influence of the king, it is a measure at once bold and friendly upon his part, and the success of which will much depend upon its being met in an amicable spirit here. lord melbourne returns the letter of the king of the belgians. lord melbourne kept it because he wished to show it to lord john russell, and some others, as containing an authentic statement of the feelings of the king of the french, which it is well that they should know.... _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ the queen in returning these letters must express to lord palmerston her very great satisfaction at the favourable turn affairs have taken, and the queen earnestly trusts that this demonstration of returning amity on the part of france will be met in a very friendly spirit by lord palmerston and the rest of her government. the queen feels certain that this change on the part of france is also greatly owing to the peaceable disposition of the king of the french, and she thinks that in consideration of the difficulties the king has had to contend with, and which he seems finally to have overcome, we should make some return; and indeed, as lord palmerston states, the arrangement proposed is the best which can be desired. [pageheading: feeling in france] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is much better to-day, free from pain and difficulty of moving, but he thinks that it would not be prudent, and that he should run the risk of bringing back the complaint, if he should leave town to-morrow. he thinks it might also be imprudent in another point of view, as affairs are still in a very unsettled state, and the rest of the cabinet watch with great impatience, and, to say the truth, not without suspicion, the manner in which palmerston will carry into effect the decision of saturday. they are particularly anxious for speed, and i have written both last night and this morning to palmerston, to urge him not to delay. he will go down to windsor to-morrow, and your majesty will then have an opportunity of speaking to him, upon which lord melbourne will write again to your majesty. guizot has been with lord melbourne this morning for the purpose of repeating what he had before said to palmerston, that the note which he delivered on saturday was the result of a great effort made by the party who are for peace, that it had been conquered against a strong opposition, that if it were not taken advantage of here now, it would not be renewed, that the conduct of affairs in france would probably fall into the hands of the violent party, and that it would be no longer possible to control the excited feelings of the people of france. the worst is that palmerston, and john russell, with now the greater part of the cabinet, proceed upon principles, opinions, and expectations which are entirely different from one another, and which therefore necessarily lead to a different course of action. we are anxious to finish the business speedily, because we fear that there is danger of the government of france being forced into violent measures by popular outcry. palmerston, on the contrary, thinks that there is no danger of war, that the french do not mean war, and that there is no feeling in france but what has been produced by the ministry and their instruments the press. we are anxious that the opportunity should be seized now whilst we have the appearance of success in syria, not being at all confident of the ultimate result. palmerston, on the contrary, is so confident of complete success, that he wishes to delay concluding the affair until he can have the benefit of the full advantages, which he anticipates, in the negotiation. we should be too glad to see the matter settled, leaving mehemet ali in possession of egypt. palmerston has both the wish and the hope of getting him out of egypt, as well as syria. these great differences of view, object, and expectation render it difficult for those who hold them to pursue the same line of conduct. there is also, as your majesty knows, much suspicion, distrust and irritation, and all these circumstances throw great obstacles in the way of the progress of affairs, but lord melbourne hopes that they will all be overcome, and that we shall arrive at a safe conclusion. [pageheading: relations with france] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. it is absolutely necessary that we should have a cabinet on thursday. there is so much natural impatience, and so deep an interest taken in what is now going on, that it cannot be avoided.... your majesty will naturally seize this opportunity of stating strongly to palmerston your wishes that this opportunity should be taken advantage of, with a view to the speedy accommodation of the whole difference. your majesty will see the necessity of at the same time not appearing to take too much the part of france, which might irritate and indispose. your majesty will find john russell perfectly right and reasonable. he was before somewhat embarrassed by the position in which he was placed. having agreed to the convention, it was difficult for him to take steps which might appear to be in departure from its policy, and to be occasioned by the gravity of its consequences. but this step upon the part of france will enable all the friends of peace to act cordially together. john russell thinks that you have not been put fully in possession of his sentiments. lord melbourne thinks this is not the case; but it would be well if your majesty would try to efface this impression from his mind as much as possible. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,-- ... i have three kind letters of yours unanswered before me, of the st, nd, and th, for which many thanks. my time is very short indeed to-day, but albert has, i know, written to you about the favourable turn which the oriental affairs have taken, and of the proposition of france, which is very amicably received here; austria and prussia are quite ready to agree, but brunnow has been making already difficulties (this is in confidence to you). i hope and trust that this will at length settle the affair, and that peace, the blessings of which are innumerable, will be preserved. i feel we owe _much_ of the change of the conduct of france to the peaceable disposition of the dear king, for which i feel grateful.[ ] pray, dear uncle, when an opportunity offers, do offer the king my best, sincerest wishes for his health and happiness in _every_ way, on the occasion of his birthday; may he live many years, for the benefit of all europe!... [footnote : the king of the french was alarmed at the warlike language of his ministers. he checked the preparations for war which thiers was making; he went further, and on the th of october he dismissed the thiers ministry, and entrusted the management of affairs to soult and guizot, who were pacifically inclined and anxious to preserve the anglo-french _entente_.] [pageheading: the queen's influence] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--i received your kind but anxious letter of the th, the day before yesterday, and hasten to reply to it by the courier who goes to-day. indeed, dearest uncle, i have worked hard this last week to bring about something conciliatory, and i hope and trust i have succeeded. lord melbourne, who left claremont on the same day as we did, was confined to the house till yesterday, when he arrived here, by a lumbago and bilious attack; but i had a constant correspondence with him on this unfortunate and alarming question, and he is, i can assure you, fully aware of the danger, and as anxious as we are to set matters right; and so is lord john, and palmerston, i hope, is getting more reasonable. they have settled in consequence of thiers' two despatches that palmerston should write to lord ponsonby to urge the porte _not_ to dispossess mehemet ali finally of egypt, and i believe the other foreign ministers at constantinople will receive similar instructions; this despatch palmerston will send to granville (to-night, i believe) to be communicated to thiers, and _i_ have made palmerston _promise_ to put into the despatch to granville "that it would be a source of great satisfaction to england, if this would be the cause of bringing back france to that alliance (with the other four powers) from which we had seen her depart with so much regret." i hope this will have a good effect. now, in _my_ humble opinion (but this i say of myself and without anybody's knowledge), if france, upon this, were to make some sort of advance, and were to _cease arming_, i think all would do; for you see, if france goes on arming, we shall hardly be justified in not doing the same, and that would be very bad. couldn't you suggest this to the king and thiers, as of yourself? my anxiety is great for the return of amity and concord, i can assure you. i think our child ought to have besides its other names those of _turco egypto_, as we think of nothing else! i had a long talk with palmerston on wednesday, and also with j. russell. i hope i have done good. the dutch don't like the abdication. i'm so sorry for poor little paris![ ] pray excuse this dreadful scrawl, but i am so hurried. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the comte de paris, born th august , eldest son of ferdinand, duke of orleans, who was louis philippe's eldest son.] [pageheading: attempt on louis philippe] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th october ._ my dearest victoria,--you will, i am sure, have been very much shocked on hearing that on the th there was a new attempt made to kill the poor good king at paris.[ ] the place was cleverly chosen, as the king generally puts his head out of the carriage window to bow to the guard. i join the letter which he had the goodness to forward us through an _estafette_.[ ] may this melancholy _attentat_ impress on your ministers the necessity of aiding the king in his arduous task.... you will have the goodness to show this letter to albert. louise was much alarmed when it arrived at such an unusual hour; it was ten o'clock. at first we thought it might be something about poor little paris, who is not yet so well as one could wish. we have gloomy miserable weather, and i feel much disgusted with this part of the world. ever, my beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the king was fired at as he was leaving the tuileries, by darmes, a marseillais. as croker wrote to lord brougham on the st of october :--"poor louis philippe lives the life of a mad dog, and will soon, i fear, suffer the death of that general object of every man's shot."] [footnote : express messenger.] [pageheading: france and egypt] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th october ._ my most beloved victoria,--i must write to you a few lines by m. drouet, who returns to-morrow morning to england. _god bless you_ for the _great zeal_ you have _mis en action_ for our great work, the maintenance of peace; it is one of the greatest importance for everything worth caring for in europe. you know well that no personal interest guides me in my exertions; i am in fact bored with being here, and shall ever regret to have remained in these regions, when i might so easily have gone myself to the orient, the great object of my predilection. i never shall advise anything which would be against the interests and honour of yourself, your government, or your country, in which i have so great a stake myself. the great thing now is _not to refuse to negotiate_ with france, even if it should end in nothing. still for the king louis philippe there is an _immense strength_ and facility in that word "_nous négocions_"; with this he may get over the opening of the session, and this once done, one may hope to come to a conclusion. since i wrote to lord melbourne to-day, i have received a letter from the king, of the th, _i.e._ yesterday, in which he tells me, "_pourvu qu'il y ait, pour commencer, des négociations, cela me donne une grande force._" i have written yesterday to him most fully a letter he may show thiers also concerning the armaments. i think that my arguments will make some impression on thiers. the king writes me word that by dint of great exertion he had brought thiers to be more moderate. if it was possible to bring france and mehemet ali to agree to the greatest part of the treaty, it will be worth while for everybody to consent. the way to bring france to join in some arrangement, and to take the engagement to compel mehemet to accept it, would be the best practical way to come to a conclusion. it is probable, though i know nothing about it in any positive way, that the efforts of getting possession of syria will fail, if the country itself does not take up arms on a large scale, which seems not to be believed. to conclude then my somewhat hurried argumentation, the greatest thing is to negotiate. the negotiation cannot now have the effect of weakening the execution as that goes on, and it may have the advantage of covering the non-success if that should take place, which is at all events possible if not probable. may i beg you to read these few confused words to lord melbourne as a supplement of my letter to him. darmes says that if chartres had been with the king, he would not have fired, but that his reason for wishing to kill the king was his conviction that one could not hope for war till he was dead. it is really melancholy to see the poor king taking this _acharnement_ very much to heart, and upon my word, the other powers of europe owe it to themselves and to him to do everything to ease and strengthen his awful task. what do you say to poor christina's departure?[ ] i am sorry for it, and for the poor children. she is believed to be very rich. now i must conclude, but not without thanking you once more for your _great and most laudable exertions_, and wishing you every happiness, which you so _much deserve_. ever, my most beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : queen christina abdicated the regency of spain, and went to paris. in the following may general espartero, duke of vittoria, was appointed sole regent.] [pageheading: death of lord holland] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ rd october ._ my dearest uncle,--many thanks for your two kind letters of the th and th. i have very little time to-day, and it being besides _not_ my regular day, i must beg you to excuse this letter being very short. i return you the king's letters with _bien des remercîments_. it is a horrid business. we have had accounts of successes on the syrian coast. guizot is here since wednesday, and goes this morning. albert (who desires me to thank you for your kind letter) has been talking to him, and so have i, and he promised in return for my expressions of sincere anxiety to see matters _raccommodées_, to do all in his power to do so. "_je ne vais que pour cela_," he said. we were much shocked yesterday at the sudden death of poor good, old lord holland.[ ] i send you dr holland's letter to lord melbourne about it. he is a great loss, and to _society_ an irreparable one. i'm sure you will be sorry for it. mamma comes back sooner than the st. she is in great distress at poor polly's death. you will regret him. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. pray _do_ try and get the king's speech to be _pacific_, else parliament must meet here in november, which would be dreadful for me. [footnote : chancellor of the duchy of lancaster, who, by reason of his social influence, great wealth, and high intellectual endowments, was one of the most efficient supporters of the whig party.] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th october ._ ... the duke of cambridge arrived, as you know, before yesterday evening, at brussels. your uncle visited him yesterday, and at six he came to laeken to dine with us. i found him looking well, and he was as usual very good-natured and kind. i need not tell you that conversation did not flag between us, and that i thought of you almost the whole time. in the course of the evening he took leave. he left brussels this morning early, on his way to calais, and i suppose you will hear of him before this letter reaches you. he took charge of all my love and _hommages_ for you, dear albert, and all the royal family. before dinner the children were presented to him (that is leopold and philippe), but i am sorry to say that poor lippchen was so much frightened with his appearance, loud voice, and black gloves, that he burst out crying, and that we were obliged to send him away. the duke took his shyness very kindly; but i am still ashamed with his behaviour. [pageheading: news from syria] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ carlton terrace, _ th november ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and in addition to the good news from syria, which confirms the defeat and dispersion of the forces, both of ibrahim and of solyman pasha, with the loss of , prisoners, pieces of cannon, the whole of their camp, baggage, and stores, followed by the flight of those two generals with a small escort, he has the satisfaction of informing your majesty that the new french ministers had a majority of , upon the vote for the election of the president of the chamber.[ ] this majority, so far exceeding any previous calculation, seems to place the stability of the government beyond a doubt, though it must, of course, be expected that upon other questions their majority will not be so overwhelming. [footnote : m. sauzet was elected in preference to m. odillon barrot. thiers resigned the premiership on th october; in the new ministry soult was president of the council, guizot minister of foreign affairs, and duchatel minister of the interior.] [pageheading: disaffection in france] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and with reference to your majesty's memorandum of the th inst., he entreats your majesty not to believe that there exists at present in france that danger of internal revolution and of external war which the french government, to serve its own diplomatic purposes, endeavours to represent. there is no doubt a large party among the leading politicians in france, who have long contemplated the establishment of a virtually, if not actually, independent state in egypt and syria, under the direct protection and influence of france, and that party feel great disappointment and resentment at finding their schemes in this respect baffled. but that party will not revenge themselves on the four powers by making a revolution in france, and they are enlightened enough to see that france cannot revenge herself by making war against the four powers, who are much stronger than she is. ... but your majesty may be assured that there is in france an immense mass of persons, possessed of property, and engaged in pursuits of industry, who are decidedly adverse to unnecessary war, and determined to oppose revolution. and although those persons have not hitherto come prominently forward, yet their voice would have made itself heard, when the question of peace or unprovoked war came practically to be discussed. with regard to internal revolution, there is undoubtedly in france a large floating mass of republicans and anarchists, ready at any moment to make a disturbance if there was no strong power to resist them; but the persons who would lose by convulsion are infinitely more numerous, and the national guard of paris, consisting of nearly , men, are chiefly persons of this description, and are understood to be decidedly for internal order, and for external peace. it is very natural that the french government, after having failed to extort concessions upon the turkish question, by menaces of foreign war, should now endeavour to obtain those concessions, by appealing to fears of another kind, and should say that such concessions are necessary in order to prevent revolution in france; but viscount palmerston would submit to your majesty his deep conviction that this appeal is not better founded than the other, and that a firm and resolute perseverance on the part of the four powers, in the measures which they have taken in hand, will effect a settlement of the affairs of turkey, which will afford great additional security for the future peace of europe, without producing in the meantime either war _with_ france, or revolution _in_ france. france and the rest of europe are entirely different now from what they were in . the french nation is as much interested now to avoid further revolution, as it was interested then in ridding itself, by any means, of the enormous and intolerable abuses which then existed. france then imagined she had much to gain by foreign war; france now knows she has everything to lose by foreign war. europe then (at least the continental states) had also a strong desire to get rid of innumerable abuses which pressed heavily upon the people of all countries. those abuses have now in general been removed; the people in many parts of germany have been admitted, more or less, to a share in the management of their own affairs. a german feeling and a spirit of nationality has sprung up among all the german people, and the germans, instead of receiving the french as liberators, as many of them did in - , would now rise as one man to repel a hateful invasion. upon all these grounds viscount palmerston deems it his duty to your majesty to express his strong conviction that the appeals made to your majesty's good feelings by the king of the french, upon the score of the danger of revolution in france, unless concessions are made to the french government, have no foundation in truth, and are only exertions of skilful diplomacy. viscount palmerston has to apologise to your majesty for having inadvertently written a part of this memorandum upon a half-sheet of paper. and he would be glad if, without inconvenience to your majesty, he could be enabled to read to the cabinet to-morrow the accompanying despatches from lord granville. [pageheading: the state of france] _queen victoria to viscount palmerston._[ ] windsor castle, _ th november ._ the queen has to acknowledge the receipt of lord palmerston's letter of this morning, which she has read with great attention. the queen will just make a few observations upon various points in it, to which she would wish to draw lord palmerston's attention. the queen does so with strict impartiality, having had ample opportunities of hearing both sides of this intricate and highly-important question. first of all, it strikes the queen that, even if m. thiers _did_ raise the cry, which was so loud, for war in france (but which the queen cannot believe he _did_ to the extent lord palmerston does), that such an excitement _once_ raised in a country like france, where the people are more excitable than almost any other nation, it cannot be so easily controuled and stopped again, and the queen thinks this will be seen in time. secondly, the queen cannot either quite agree in lord palmerston's observation, that the french government state the danger of internal revolution, if not supported, merely to extract further concessions for mehemet ali. the queen does not pretend to say that this danger is not exaggerated, but depend upon it, a _certain_ degree of danger does exist, and that the situation of the king of the french and the present french government is not an easy one. the majority, too, cannot be depended upon, as many would vote against odillon barrot,[ ] who would _not_ vote on other occasions with the soult-guizot ministry. thirdly, the danger of war is also doubtless greatly exaggerated, as also the numbers of the french troops. but lord palmerston must recollect how very warlike the french are, and that if once roused, they will not listen to the calm reasoning of those who wish for peace, or think of the great risk they run of _losing_ by war, but only of the glory and of revenging insult, as they call it. fourthly, the queen sees the difficulty there exists at the present moment of making any specific offer to france, but she must at the same time repeat how _highly_ and _exceedingly_ important she considers it that some sort of conciliatory agreement should be come to with france, for she cannot believe that the appeals made to her by the king of the french are only exertions of skilful diplomacy. the queen's earnest and only wish is peace, and a maintenance of friendly relations with her allies, consistent with the honour and dignity of her country. she does not think, however, that the last would be compromised by attempts to soften the irritation still existing in france, or by attempts to bring france back to her former position in the oriental question. she earnestly hopes that lord palmerston will consider this, will reflect upon the importance of not driving france to extremities, and of conciliatory measures, without showing fear (for our successes on the coast of syria show our power), or without yielding to threats. france has been humbled, and france is in the wrong, but, therefore, it is easier than if we had failed, to do something to bring matters right again. the queen has thus frankly stated her own opinion, which she thought it right lord palmerston should know, and she is sure he will see it is only dictated by an earnest desire to see _all_ as much united as possible on this important subject. [footnote : a copy of this letter was sent at the same time to lord melbourne.] [footnote : the unsuccessful candidate for the presidency of the chamber.] _baron stockmar to viscount melbourne._ _ st november ._ my dear lord,--i have just received her majesty's order to express to you her great desire to have from this day the prince's name introduced into the church prayer. her own words were: "that i should press it with lord melbourne as the wish she had most at heart at this moment." ever yours most sincerely, stockmar. [pageheading: king leopold on french affairs] _the king of the belgians to the prince albert._ [_translated._] laeken, _ th november ._ ... as to politics, i do not wish to say much to-day. palmerston, _rex_ and autocrat, is, for a minister finding himself in such fortunate circumstances, far _too irritable and violent_. one does not understand the use of showing so much hatred and anger. what he says about the _appeal to the personal feeling of the queen, on the part of the king of the french_, is childlike and malicious, for it has _never_ existed. the king was for many years the great friend of the duke of kent, after whose death he remained a friend of victoria. his relations with the latter have, up to , passed through very varied phases; she was for a long time an object of hatred in the family, who had not treated the duke of kent over-amicably, and a proof of this is the fact that the regent, from the year , forbade the duke his house and presence--which was probably another nail in the duke's coffin. many of these things are quite unknown to victoria, or forgotten by her. still it is only fair not to forget the people who were her friends before ; after that date there was a violent outbreak of affection among people who in the year would still not go near victoria. october , when he sat next her at dinner, was the first time that palmerston himself had ever seen victoria except at a distance. as you have the best means of knowing, the king has not even dreamt of applying to victoria. as to danger, it was very great in september, on the occasion of the _ouvrier_ riot--for a paris mob fires at once, a thing which--heaven be thanked!--english mobs rarely do. towards the end of october, when thiers withdrew, there was a possibility of a revolution, and it was only the fear of people of wealth that kept them together, and drew them towards guizot. a revolution, at once democratic and bellicose, could not but become most dangerous. that was on the cards, and only a fairly fortunate combination of circumstances saved matters. the king and my poor mother-in-law were terribly _low_, _on both occasions_, and i confess that i looked everyday with the greatest anxiety for the news. if the poor king had been murdered, or even if he were now to be murdered, what danger, what confusion would follow! all these things were met by palmerston with the excessively _nonchalante_ declaration, _it was not so, and it is not so_! those are absolutely baseless assertions, and totally valueless. at least i could estimate the danger as well as he and bulwer--and, indeed, it was an anxious crisis. i should think the revolution of _et ce qui s'en est suivi_ had done a brisk enough business in europe, and to risk a new one of the same kind would really be somewhat scandalous. what, however, may be the future fruit of the seed of palmerston's sowing, we do not in the least know as yet; it may, however, prove sufficiently full of misfortune for the future of innocent people. the eastern affairs will be put on an intelligible footing only when, after these differences with mehemet ali, something is done for the poor porte, which is now so much out of repair. otherwise there remains a little place which is called sebastopol, and from which, as the wind is almost constantly favourable, one can get very quickly to constantinople--and constantinople is always the one place which exercises the greatest influence, and all the more because the ducats come from that quarter, with results which the marked economy of england is hardly likely to effect.... victoria has borne herself bravely and properly in the matter, and _deserves to be greatly praised_.... [pageheading: birth of the princess royal] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th november ._ my most beloved victoria,--i have been longing to write to you ever since we got the _joyful_ tidings,[ ] but i would not do so before the nine days were at an end. now that they are over, i hope as you are, thank god, so well, i may venture a few lines to express _a part_ of my feelings, and to wish you joy on the happy birth of your dear little girl. i need not tell you the _deep, deep_ share i took in this most _happy event_, and all i felt for you, for dear albert, when i heard of it, and since we last met. you know my affection for you, and i will not trouble you with the repetition of what you know. all i will say is that i thanked god with all my heart, and as i have scarcely thanked him for any other favour.... [footnote : the princess royal, afterwards the empress frederick of germany, was born st november .] [pageheading: settlement of eastern question] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--many thanks for your kind little letter of the th from ardenne. i am very prosperous, walking about the house like myself again, and we go to windsor on the nd or rd, which will quite set me up. i am _very_ prudent and careful, you may _rely_ upon it. your little grand-niece is most flourishing; she gains daily in health, strength and, i may add, beauty; i think she will be very like her dearest father; she grows amazingly; i shall be proud to present her to you. the _dénouement_ of the oriental affair is most fortunate, is it not?[ ] i see stockmar often, who is very kind about me and the princess royal.... albert sends his affectionate love, and pray believe me always, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : on the rd of november st jean d'acre was captured by the allied fleet, admiral sir robert stopford commanding the british contingent; the battle is said to have been the first to test the advantages of steam. admiral napier proceeded to alexandria, and threatened bombardment, unless the pasha came to terms. on th november a convention was signed, by which mehemet ali resigned his claims to syria, and bound himself to restore the ottoman fleet, while the powers undertook to procure for him undisturbed possession of the pashalik of egypt.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th december ._ ... i can well understand that you feel quite astonished at finding yourself within a year of your marriage a very respectable mother of a nice little girl, but let us thank heaven that it is so. any illness to which, unfortunately, we poor human creatures are very subject, would almost have kept you longer in bed, and make you longer weak and uncomfortable, than an event which in your position as sovereign is of a very great importance. because there is no doubt that a sovereign without heirs direct, or brothers and sisters, which by their attachment may stand in lieu of them, is much to be pitied, viz., queen anne's later years. moreover, children of our own, besides the affection which one feels for them, have also for their parents sentiments which one rarely obtains from strangers. i flatter myself therefore that you will be a delighted and delightful _maman au milieu d'une belle et nombreuse famille_.... introductory note to chapter x at the beginning of the year the ministry were confronted with monetary difficulties and bad trade; their special weakness in finance, contrasted with sir robert peel's great ability, in addition to their many reverses, indicated that a change was at hand; and confidential communications were, with lord melbourne's full approval, opened up by the prince with sir robert peel, to avert the recurrence of a bedchamber dispute. the ministry were defeated on their budget, but did not resign. a vote of want of confidence was then carried against them by a majority of one, and parliament was dissolved; the ministers appealing to the country on the cry of a fixed duty on corn. the conservative and protectionist victory was a decisive one, the most significant successes being in the city of london, northumberland, and the west riding. somewhat improving their position in scotland and ireland, and just holding their own in the english boroughs, the whigs were absolutely overwhelmed in the counties, and in the result three hundred and sixty-eight conservatives and only two hundred and ninety-two liberals were returned. the modern practice of resigning before meeting parliament had not then been introduced, and the ministry was defeated in both houses on amendments to the address, the duke of wellington taking the opportunity of eulogising lord melbourne's great services to the queen. a powerful protectionist ministry was formed by sir robert peel, including the duke of wellington, lord aberdeen, sir james graham, and lord lyndhurst. great national rejoicings took place when, on the th of november, a male heir to the throne, now his majesty king edward vii., was born. in france the bitter feeling against england, arising out of the syrian expedition, still continued, but thiers' supersession by the more pacific guizot, and the satisfaction with which both the latter and his sovereign regarded the displacement of palmerston by aberdeen, began to lead to a better _entente_. the scheme of fortifying paris continued, however, to be debated, while the orleanist family were still the subjects of futile _attentats_. spain was disturbed, the question of the guardianship of the young queen giving rise to dissension: insurrections in the interests of the queen-mother took place at pampeluna and vittoria, and her pension was suspended by espartero, the regent. in the east, mehemet ali surrendered the whole of the turkish fleet, and he was subsequently guaranteed the hereditary pashalik of egypt by the four european powers who had intervened in the affairs of the levant. in afghanistan, an insurrection broke out, and sir alexander burnes was murdered; our envoy at cabul, sir william macnaghten, in an unfortunate moment entered into negotiations with akbar khan, a son of dost mahommed, who treacherously assassinated him. somewhat humiliating terms were arranged, and the english force of , soldiers, with , camp-followers, proceeded to withdraw from cabul, harassed by the enemy; after endless casualties, general elphinstone, who was in command, with the women and children, became captives, and one man alone, of the , --dr brydon--reached jellalabad to tell the tale. in china, operations were continued, sir henry pottinger superseding captain elliot, and canton soon lying at the mercy of the british arms; the new superintendent co-operated with sir hugh gough and admiral sir william parker, in the capture of amoy, chusan, chintu, and ningpo. in america, the union of the two canadas was carried into effect, but a sharp dispute with the united states arose out of the upper canada disturbances of . some canadian loyalists had then resented the interference of a few individual americans in favour of the rebels, and an american named durfee had been killed. one m'leod, a british subject, was now arrested in the state of new york, on a charge of having been concerned in the affray. he was acquitted, reprisals were made by canadians, and international feeling was for a time highly acute. much interest naturally attaches to lord melbourne's continued correspondence with the queen, after the change of government. baron stockmar's remonstrance on the subject shows that he misunderstood the character of the correspondence, and over-estimated its momentousness. these letters dealt chiefly with social and personal matters, and although full of interest from the light which they throw on lord melbourne's relations with the queen, they show him to have behaved with scrupulous honour and delicacy, and to have tried to augment, rather than undermine, peel's growing influence with the queen and prince. there are comparatively few of peel's letters in the collection. he wrote rarely at first, and only on strictly official matters. but before long his great natural reserve was broken through, and his intercourse with the prince, to whom his character was particularly sympathetic, became very close and intimate. of all the english ministers with whom the prince was brought in contact, it is known that he preferred the stately and upright commoner, who certainly, of all english ministers, estimated and appreciated the prince's character most truly and clearly. chapter x _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th january ._ my dearest uncle,--i have to thank you for two very kind letters, of the th december and st january, and for all your very kind and good wishes. i am sorry to hear you have all been plagued with colds; we have as yet escaped them, and i trust will continue to do so. i think, dearest uncle, you cannot _really_ wish me to be the "mamma d'une _nombreuse_ famille," for i think you will see with me the great inconvenience a _large_ family would be to us all, and particularly to the country, independent of the hardship and inconvenience to myself; men never think, at least seldom think, what a hard task it is for us women to go through this _very often_. god's will be done, and if he decrees that we are to have a great number of children, why we must try to bring them up as useful and exemplary members of society. our young lady flourishes exceedingly, and i hope the van de weyers (who have been here for three days), who have seen her twice, will give you a favourable description of her. i think you would be amused to see albert dancing her in his arms; he makes a capital nurse (which i do not, and she is much too heavy for me to carry), and she already seems so happy to go to him. the christening will be at buckingham palace on the th of february, our dear marriage-day. affairs are certainly still precarious, but i feel confident all will come right.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th january ._ ... i trust also that affairs will come right; what is to be feared is the _chapter of accidents_. your name bears glorious fruits in all climes; this globe will soon be too small for you, and something must be done to get at the other planets.... [pageheading: the queen's education] _memorandum--mr anson._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ lord melbourne said, "the prince is bored with the sameness of his chess every evening. he would like to bring literary and scientific people about the court, vary the society, and infuse a more useful tendency into it. the queen however has no fancy to encourage such people. this arises from a feeling on her part that her education has not fitted her to take part in such conversation; she would not like conversation to be going on in which she could not take her fair share, and she is far too open and candid in her nature to pretend to one atom more knowledge than she really possesses on such subjects; and yet, as the world goes, she would, as any girl, have been considered accomplished, for she speaks german well and writes it; understands italian, speaks french fluently, and writes it with great elegance. in addition to this old davys instilled some latin into her during his tutorship. the rest of her education she owes to her own natural shrewdness and quickness, and this perhaps has not been the proper education for one who was to wear the crown of england. "the queen is very proud of the prince's utter indifference to the attractions of all ladies. i told her majesty that these were early days to boast, which made her rather indignant. i think she is a little jealous of his talking much even to men." [pageheading: the queen's speech] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has just received your majesty's letter. lord melbourne is very sorry not to come down to windsor, but he really thinks that his absence from london at this moment might be prejudicial. lord melbourne will do his utmost to have the speech worded in the most calm manner, and so as in no respect to offend or irritate any feelings. some mention of the good conduct and gallantry of the navy there must be--to omit it would be injurious and disheartening--but as to any expressions complimentary to france or expressive of regret at our separation from it, it will be hardly possible to introduce anything of that nature.[ ] it is quite unusual in our speeches from the throne to express either approbation or disapprobation of the conduct of foreign nations and foreign governments. it is surprising how very seldom it has been done, and the wisdom and prudence of abstaining from it is very manifest. it would be giving an opinion upon that which does not belong to us. anything which would have the effect of producing satisfaction in france must be of an apologetic character, which there is no ground for, and for which neither the government nor the country is prepared. the best course will be a total reserve upon this head, certainly abstaining from anything that can be in the slightest degree offensive. [footnote : france was not mentioned, though the convention with the other powers, and the naval operations in conjunction with austria, were referred to.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ nd january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. lord melbourne will be most happy to wait upon your majesty on saturday and sunday. lord melbourne is very sorry that your majesty is compelled to come to london contrary to your inclinations; but lord melbourne much rejoices that your majesty expresses that reluctance, as there is no surer sign of complete happiness and contentment in the married life than a desire to remain quietly in the country, and there is nothing on the earth lord melbourne desires more anxiously than the assurance of your majesty's happiness. [pageheading: the queen's infancy] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ brussels, _ nd january ._ my dearest victoria,--i thank you very sincerely for your kind letter of the th, which i hasten to answer. i should not have bored you by my presence, but the act of the christening is, in my eyes, a sort of closing of the first cyclus of your dear life. i was shooting at the late lord craven's in berkshire, when i received the messenger who brought me the horrifying news of your poor father's deadly illness. i hastened in bitter cold weather to sidmouth, about two days before his death. his affairs were so much deranged that your mother would have had no means even of leaving sidmouth if i had not taken all this under my care and management. that dreary journey, undertaken, i think, on the th of january, in bitter cold and damp weather, i shall not easily forget. i looked very sharp after the poor little baby, then about eight months old. arrived in london we were very unkindly treated by george iv., _whose great wish was to get you and your mamma out of the country_, and i must say without my assistance you could _not_ have remained.... i state these facts, because it is useful to remember through what _difficulties_ and _hardships_ one had to struggle. you will also remember that though there existed the _possibility_ of your eventually succeeding to the crown, that possibility was very doubtful, the then duchess of clarence having been confined after your mother, and there being every reason to think that, though poor little princess elizabeth did not live more than some months, other children might appear.[ ] it was a long time from to ! we got over it, however, and, as far as you are concerned, god be praised! safely and happily. you are married, with every prospect of many happy years to come, and your happiness is _crowned_, and _consolidated_, as it were, by the birth of the dear little lady. having from motives of discretion, perhaps _carried even too far_, not assisted at your coming to the throne, nor at your coronation, nor afterwards at your marriage, i wished to assist at the christening of the little princess, an event which is of great importance.... [footnote : two children were born to the duke and duchess of clarence--charlotte augusta louisa, born and died th march , and elizabeth georgina adelaide, born th december , and died th march .] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ carlton terrace, _ st february ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and in submitting this letter from earl granville, which coupled with the despatches from sir robert stopford virtually show that the turkish question is brought to a close, begs most humbly to congratulate your majesty upon this rapid and peaceful settlement of a matter which at different periods has assumed appearances so threatening to the peace of europe.[ ] [footnote : see _ante_, pp. , . (ch. ix, footnote ; intro. note to ch. x)] [pageheading: illness of duke of wellington] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ nd february ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. lord melbourne will be happy to wait upon your majesty on thursday, saturday and sunday, but he finds that there is to be a cabinet dinner to-morrow. lord melbourne will speak to lord palmerston about lord john russell. lord melbourne does not see the name of the archbishop of canterbury as a subscriber to this "parker" society, and if your majesty will give him leave, he will ask him about it before he gives your majesty an answer. it is in some degree a party measure, and levelled against these new oxford doctrines. the proposal is to republish the works of the older divines up to the time of the death of queen elizabeth. up to that period the doctrines of the church of england were decidedly calvinistic. during the reign of james ii.,[ ] and particularly after the synod of dort ( - ), the english clergy very generally adopted _arminian_ opinions. it is proposed to republish the works of the divines who wrote during the first period, and to stop short when they come to the second. there is meaning in this. but, after all, the object is not a bad one, and it may not be worth while to consider it so closely. [footnote : lord melbourne must have meant james i.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th february ( o'clock)._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is very sorry to have to acquaint your majesty that the duke of wellington was taken ill in the house of lords this evening with a seizure, probably paralytic, and of the same nature with those which he has had before. lord brougham, who was standing opposite to the duke and addressing the house, observed the duke's face to be drawn and distorted, and soon afterwards the duke rose from his seat and walked staggeringly towards the door. he walked down the gallery, supported on each side, but never spoke. a medical man was procured to attend him; he was placed in his carriage and driven home.... [pageheading: the united states] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ _ th march ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to state that the remainder of the navy estimates, and nearly the whole of the army estimates, were voted last night without any serious opposition. indeed the chief fault found with the army estimates was that they are not large enough. sir robert peel made a remarkable speech. adverting to the present state of our affairs with the united states,[ ] he said that much as he disliked war, yet if the honour or interests of the country required it, he should sink all internal differences, and give his best support to the government of his country. this declaration was received with loud cheers. it must be considered as very creditable to sir robert peel. [footnote : _see_ introductory note, _ante_, p. . (intro note to ch. x)] [pageheading: china] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th april ._ viscount palmerston presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to submit the accompanying letters, which he received yesterday, about the operations in china, and which have just been returned to him by viscount melbourne, whose letter he also transmits.[ ] viscount palmerston has felt greatly mortified and disappointed at this result of the expedition to china, and he much fears that the sequel of the negotiation, which was to follow the conclusion of these preliminary conditions, will not tend to render the arrangement less objectionable. captain elliot seems to have wholly disregarded the instructions which had been sent to him, and even when, by the entire success of the operations of the fleet, he was in a condition to dictate his own terms, he seems to have agreed to very inadequate conditions.[ ] the amount of compensation for the opium surrendered falls short of the value of that opium, and nothing has been obtained for the expenses of the expedition, nor for the debts of the bankrupt hong[ ] merchants. the securities which the plenipotentiaries were expressly ordered to obtain for british residents in china have been abandoned; and the island of chusan which they were specifically informed was to be retained till the whole of the pecuniary compensation should have been paid, has been hastily and discreditably evacuated. even the cession of hong kong has been coupled with a condition about the payment of duties, which would render that island not a possession of the british crown, but, like macao, a settlement held by sufferance in the territory of the crown of china. viscount palmerston deems it his duty in laying these papers before your majesty, to state some few of the objections which he feels to the arrangement, but the cabinet will have to consider, as soon as they meet after the recess, what advice they may wish humbly to tender to your majesty upon these important matters. there is no doubt, however, that much has been accomplished, but it is very mortifying to find that other things which the plenipotentiaries were ordered to obtain, and which the force placed at their command was amply sufficient to enable them to accomplish, have not been attained. viscount palmerston has sent a small map of the canton river, which your majesty may like to keep for future reference. [footnote : captain elliot, after capturing the chinese position at the mouth of canton river, concluded a preliminary treaty with the chinese government, which did not satisfy the chinese, and which was strongly disapproved of by the english ministry, as containing no mention of the opium traffic, which had been the cause of all the difficulties; elliot was accordingly recalled, and succeeded by sir henry pottinger.] [footnote : they were the cession of hong-kong, and payment of an indemnity of , , dollars to great britain, with provision for commercial facilities and collection of customs.] [footnote : the native canton merchants,--hong here probably meaning a "row of houses," a "street." hong kong (hiang kiang) means the "fragrant lagoon."] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th april ._ my dearest uncle,--i thank you much for your kind letter of the th, received yesterday. i have just heard from stockmar (who, i hope, reported favourably of us all) that your ministry is at _last_ settled, of which i wish you joy. i think, dear uncle, that you would find the east not only as "absurd" as the west, but very barbarous, cruel, and dangerous into the bargain. the chinese business vexes us much, and palmerston is deeply mortified at it. _all_ we wanted might have been got, if it had not been for the unaccountably strange conduct of charles elliot (_not admiral_ elliot,[ ] for _he_ was obliged to come away from ill-health), who completely disobeyed his instructions and _tried_ to get the _lowest_ terms he could.... the attack and storming of the chorempee forts on the th of january was very gallantly done by the marines, and immense destruction of the chinese took place.[ ] the accounts of the cruelty of the chinese to one another are horrible. albert is so much amused at my having got the island of hong kong, and we think victoria ought to be called princess of hong kong in addition to princess royal. she drives out every day in a close carriage with the window open, since she has been here, which does her worlds of good, and she is to have a _walk_ to-day. stockmar writes me word that charlotte[ ] is quite beautiful. _i_ am very jealous. i think vecto quite right not to travel without nemours; for it would look just as if she was unhappy, and ran to her parents for help. i am sure _if_ albert ever should be away (which, however, _will_ and _shall never_ happen, for i would go with him even if he was to go to the _north pole_), i should never think of travelling; but i can't make mamma understand this. now farewell. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : they were both cousins of lord minto, the first lord of the admiralty.] [footnote : commodore bremer very speedily reduced some of the forts, but his further operations were stopped.] [footnote : daughter of king leopold, who married in the archduke ferdinand of austria (afterwards emperor maximilian of mexico).] [pageheading: lord cardigan] [pageheading: army discipline] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. mr labouchere[ ] has desired that the five-pound piece which is about to be issued from the mint should be submitted for your majesty's inspection and approbation. we have had under our consideration at the cabinet the unfortunate subject of the conduct of lord cardigan.[ ] the public feeling upon it is very strong, and it is almost certain that a motion will be made in the house of commons for an address praying your majesty to remove him from the command of his regiment. such a motion, if made, there is very little chance of resisting with success, and nothing is more to be apprehended and deprecated than such an interference of the house of commons with the interior discipline and government of the army. it was also felt that the general order issued by the horse guards was not sufficient to meet the case, and in these circumstances it was thought proper that lord melbourne should see lord hill, and should express to him the opinion of the cabinet, that it was necessary that he should advise your majesty to take such measures as should have the effect of removing lord cardigan from the command of the th hussars. the repeated acts of imprudence of which lord cardigan has been guilty, and the repeated censures which he has drawn down upon himself, form a ground amply sufficient for such a proceeding, and indeed seem imperiously to demand it.[ ] lord melbourne has seen lord hill and made to him this communication, and has left it for his consideration. lord hill is deeply chagrined and annoyed, but will consider the matter and confer again with lord melbourne upon it to-morrow. [footnote : president of the board of trade, afterwards created lord taunton.] [footnote : "within the space of a single twelvemonth, one of his [lord cardigan's] captains was cashiered for writing him a challenge; he sent a coarse and insulting verbal message to another, and then punished him with prolonged arrest, because he respectfully refused to shake hands with the officer who had been employed to convey the affront; he fought a duel with a lieutenant who had left the corps, and shot him through the body; and he flogged a soldier on sunday, between the services, on the very spot where, half an hour before, the man's comrades had been mustered for public worship."--sir g. trevelyan, _life and letters of lord macaulay_, chap. viii.] [footnote : in february he had been acquitted on technical grounds by the house of lords of shooting a captain harvey garnett phipps tuckett. he had accused tuckett of being the author of letters which had appeared in the papers reflecting on his character; a duel on wimbledon common followed, and tuckett was wounded. the evidence, consisting in part of a visiting card, showed that a captain harvey tuckett had been wounded, which was held to be insufficient evidence of identity.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is most anxious upon all subjects to be put in possession of your majesty's full and entire opinions. it is true that this question may materially affect the discipline of the army, by subjecting the interior management of regiments to be brought continually under the inspection and control of the house of commons upon complaints of officers against their superiors, or even of private men against the officers. the danger of the whole of lord cardigan's proceedings has been lest a precedent of this nature should arise out of them. the question is whether it is not more prudent to prevent a question being brought forward in the house of commons, than to wait for it with the certainty of being obliged to yield to it or of being overpowered by it. but of course this cannot be done unless it is consistent with justice and with the usage and prestige of the service. lord melbourne has desired the cabinet ministers to assemble here to-day at four o'clock, in order to consider the subject. lord melbourne has seen lord hill again this morning, and lord hill has seen and consulted the duke of wellington, who has stated his opinion very fully. the opinion of the duke is that the punishment on sunday was a great impropriety and indiscretion upon the part of lord cardigan, but not a military offence, nor a breach of the mutiny act or of the articles of war; that it called for the censure of the commander-in-chief, which censure was pronounced by the general order upon which the duke was consulted before it was issued, and that according to the usage of the service no further step can be taken by the military authorities. this opinion lord melbourne will submit to-day to the cabinet ministers. lord melbourne perceives that he has unintentionally written upon two sheets of paper, which he hopes will cause your majesty no inconvenience. [pageheading: the nottingham election] _lord melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has himself seen the result of the election at nottingham[ ] without the least surprise, from his knowledge of the place and his observation of the circumstances of the contest. what john russell reported to your majesty was the opinion of those who act for us in that place, but as soon as lord melbourne saw that there was a disposition upon the part of the violent party, radicals, chartists, and what not, to support the tory candidate, he knew that the contest was formidable and dubious. the tory party is very strong, naturally, at nottingham, and if it received any accession of strength, was almost certain to prevail. this combination, or rather this accession of one party to the tories, which has taken place at nottingham, is very likely, and in lord melbourne's opinion almost certain, to take place in many other parts of the country in the case of a general election, and forms very serious matter for consideration as to the prudence of taking such a step as a dissolution of the parliament. lord melbourne will wait upon your majesty after the levée. it signifies not how late, as there is no house of lords. [footnote : where mr walter, a tory, was elected with a majority of .] [pageheading: the budget] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ st may ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that mr baring yesterday brought forward the budget in a remarkably clear and forcible speech. the changes in the duties on sugar and timber,[ ] and the announcement made by lord john russell of a proposal for a fixed duty on corn, seemed to surprise and irritate the opposition. sir robert peel refused to give any opinion on these propositions, and satisfied himself with attacking the government on the state of the finances. the supporters of the government were greatly pleased with mr baring's plan, and loud in their cheers. it is the general opinion that lord stanley will not proceed with his bill,[ ] and there seems little doubt of this fact. but the two parties are now evenly balanced, and the absence or defection of some two or three of the ministerial party may at any time leave the government in a minority. [footnote : the proposals were to increase the duty on colonial timber from _s._ to _s._ a load, reducing it on foreign timber from _s._ to _s._, to leave the duty on colonial sugar unloaded at _s._ a cwt., reducing that on foreign sugar from _s._ to _s._ a cwt.] [footnote : on irish registration.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ rd may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. we decided at the cabinet on friday that we could not sanction the agreement which captain elliot has probably by this time concluded with the government of china, but that it would be necessary to demand a larger amount of indemnity for the past injury, and also a more complete security for our trade in future. for this purpose it was determined to send out instructions, in case the armament should not have left the chinese coasts and have been dispersed, to reoccupy the island of chusan,[ ] a measure which appears to have had a great effect upon the minds of the chinese government. it was also determined to recall captain elliot, and to send out as soon as possible another officer with full instructions from hence as to the views and intentions of your majesty's government. sir henry pottinger,[ ] an officer in the east india company's service, much distinguished in the recent operations in afghanistan, is designated with your majesty's approbation for this service, which he has signified his willingness to undertake. it was also thought that it would be proper to entrust lord auckland[ ] with general discretionary powers as to the further conduct of the expedition. these determinations lord melbourne hopes that your majesty will approve. lord john russell informed lord melbourne yesterday that he knew that it was not the intention of the opposition to press lord stanley's bill; but it is not to be expected in the present position of affairs that they will not determine upon taking some decisive and united measure in advance. in the present state of public measures and of public feeling, when debate may arise at any moment, it would not be fitting for lord melbourne to absent himself on any sitting day from the house of lords. but unless there should be anything so urgent as to prevent him, he will come down after the house on tuesday evening and stay until thursday morning. fanny is highly delighted and immeasurably grateful for your majesty's offer of the lodge in richmond park, and most desirous to avail herself of your majesty's kindness, and so is jocelyn. lord melbourne has little doubt that they will thankfully accept it.[ ] [footnote : the island of chusan, off the coast of china, had been occupied in july as a base of operations, but evacuated by elliot in . it was retaken in september , after elliot's recall, by sir henry pottinger.] [footnote : he had served in the mahratta war, and been political agent in scinde.] [footnote : governor-general of india.] [footnote : lady fanny cowper, lord melbourne's niece, was married to lord jocelyn on th april.] [pageheading: christening of comte de paris] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ paris, _ rd may ._ my beloved victoria,--as you know surely already, the day of yesterday went off very well. the christening[ ] was very splendid, the weather beautiful, and everything extremely well managed.... the arrival at notre-dame, and the _coup d'[oe]il_ of the old church, all hung interiorly with crimson velvet draperies and trophies of flags, was very splendid. there was in the church three rows _de tribunes_ all full of well-dressed people. _les grands corps de l'État étaient rangés de chaque côté et dans le ch[oe]ur; l'autel était placé au centre de l'église. les cardinaux et tout le clergé étaient alentour._ when my father arrived, the archbishop of paris received him at the door of the church, and we all walked in state. my father _ouvrait la marche_ with the queen. _prie-dieu_ and chairs were disposed for us _en demi-cercle_ before the altar, or rather before the baptismal font, which was placed in front of it, in the very middle of the church. my father and mother stood in the centre of the row near each other. your uncle, chartres, and all the princes followed on the side of my father, and the princesses on the side of my mother. paris remained with hélène till the moment of the christening. when the ceremony began he advanced near the font with my father and mother (sponsors), and was taken up in the arms of his nurse. after the christening a mass and _te deum_ were read, and when we came back to the tuileries the _corps municipal_ brought the sword which the city of paris has given to the comte de paris.... [footnote : of the comte de paris, at this time nearly three years old, son of the duc d'orléans.] [pageheading: the sugar duties] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ th may ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that lord stanley yesterday postponed his bill for a fortnight, which at this period of the year is equivalent to its abandonment. on the other hand, lord sandon gave a notice for friday for a resolution on sugar duties. if, as is probable, this motion is made as a party movement, it is probable that, with the addition of those on the ministerial side who have an interest in the west indies, the motion will be successful. the whole scheme of finance for the year will thus be overturned. the tory party seem to expect a dissolution of parliament, but your majesty's advisers will hardly be able to recommend to your majesty such a step. the cry against the poor law is sure to be taken up by the worst politicians of the tory party, and, as at nottingham, may be successful against that most useful law. the friends of government who represent counties will be taunted with the proposal to alter the corn law. bribery is sure to be resorted to beyond anything yet seen. a defeat of the ministry on a dissolution would be final and irreparable. on the other hand, their successors in the government would have to provide for the excess in the expenditure pledged against the best measures that could be resorted to for the purpose. it would be a difficulty of their own seeking, and their want of candour and justice to their opponents would be the cause of their own embarrassments. the moment is a very important one, and the consequences of the vote of friday, or probably monday, cannot fail to be serious. [pageheading: a ministerial crisis] _memorandum by mr anson._ _"the ministry in jeopardy." (heading in the prince albert's hand.)_ windsor castle, _ th may ._ lord melbourne came down from town after the house of lords. i went with him to his room for an hour after the queen had retired. he said the main struggle would take place on the sugar duties on friday. his impression was that the government would be beat, and he must then decide whether to go out or dissolve. he leaned to the former. i said, "i trusted he would not dissolve unless he thought there was some prospect of increasing his strength, and begged him to remember what was done would not be considered the act of the government but that of himself and the queen, and that he individually would be held as the responsible person." he said he had not written to the queen to prepare h.m. for coming events and the course that it would be incumbent upon her to take, for he felt it extremely difficult and delicate, especially as to the use she should make of the prince, and of her mode of communication when she required it with lord melbourne. he thought she ought never to ask his advice direct, but if she required his opinion there would be no objection to her obtaining it through the prince. he said h.m. had relied so implicitly upon him upon all affairs, that he felt that she required in this emergency advice upon almost every subject. that he would tell h.m. that she must carefully abstain from playing the same part she did, again, on sir r. peel's attempt to form a ministry, for that nothing but the forbearance of the tories had enabled himself and his colleagues to support h.m. at that time. he feared peel's doggedness and pertinacity might make him insist, as a point of honour, on having all discretion granted to him in regard to the removal of ladies. i told him of the prince's suggestion that before the queen saw sir r. peel some negotiation might be entered into with sir robert, so that the subject might be avoided by mutual consent, the terms of which might be that sir robert should give up his demand to extort the principle. the queen, on the other hand, should require the resignation of those ladies objected to by sir robert. lord melbourne said, however, that the prince must not have personal communication with sir robert on this subject, but he thought that i might through the medium of a common friend. [pageheading: lord melbourne's advice] _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ th may ._ saw lord melbourne after his interview this morning with the queen. he says her majesty was perfectly calm and reasonable, and seemed quite prepared for the resignation of the government. he said she was prepared to give way upon the ladies if required, but much wished that that point might be previously settled by negotiation with sir r. peel, to avoid any discussion or difference. lord melbourne thinks i might do this. he would also like peel to be cautioned not to press her majesty to decide hastily, but to give her majesty time, and that he should feel that if he acted fairly he would be met in the same spirit by the queen. with regard to future communication with lord melbourne, the queen said she did not mean that a change should exclude her from lord melbourne's society, and when lord melbourne said that in society her majesty could not procure lord melbourne's opinion upon any subject, and suggested that that should be obtained through the prince, her majesty said that that could pass in writing under cover to me, but that she must communicate direct. the queen, he says, leans to sending for the duke of wellington. lord melbourne advised that her majesty should make up her mind at once to send for sir robert. he told me that it would not be without precedent to send for both at once; this it appears to me would obviate every objection. the queen, he thinks, has a perfect right to exercise her judgment upon the selection of all persons recommended to her majesty for household appointments, both as to liking, but chiefly as to their character and as to the character of the husband or wife of the person selected. he would advise the queen to adopt the course which king william did with lord melbourne in , viz. desiring lord melbourne, before his majesty approved of any appointments, to send a list of those proposed even to the members of every board, and the king having them all before him expressed his objections to certain persons, which lord melbourne yielded to. told lord melbourne that the prince wished him to impress upon the queen's mind not to act upon the approaching crisis without the prince, because she would not be able to go through difficulties by herself, and the prince would not be able to help her when he was ignorant of the considerations which had influenced her actions. he would wish lord melbourne when with the queen to call in the prince, in order that they might both be set right upon lord melbourne's opinions, that he might express in the presence of each other his views, in order that he should not convey different impressions by speaking to them separately, so that _they_ might act in concert. the prince says the queen always sees what is right at a glance, but if her feelings run contrary she avoids the prince's arguments, which she feels sure agree with her own, and seeks arguments to support her wishes against her convictions from other people. [pageheading: dissolution or resignation] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and laments much the prospect that lies before us, more especially as it is so repugnant to your majesty's feelings. your majesty has often observed that these events must come in the course of affairs at some moment or another, but lord melbourne knows not whether it is much consolation to reflect that what is very disagreeable is also natural and unavoidable. lord melbourne feels certain that your majesty will consider the situation calmly and impartially, will do that which shall appear the best for your own interests and those of the country, which are identical. everything shall be done that can be; the questions which may arise shall be considered well, and upon as full information as can be obtained. but lord melbourne has little to add to what he wrote to your majesty yesterday. so many interests are affected by this sugar question, the west indian, the east indian, the opponents of slavery and others, that no small number of our supporters will be induced either to stay away or to vote against us, and this must place us in a minority upon the main points of our budget. in this we can hardly acquiesce, nor can we adopt a different policy and propose other taxes, when in our opinion the necessary revenue can be raised without imposing them. this state of things imposes upon us the alternative of dissolution or of resignation, and to try the former without succeeding in it would be to place both your majesty and ourselves in a worse situation than that in which we are at present. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. we have been considering this question of dissolution at the cabinet, and we have had before us a general statement of the public returns for england and wales. it is not very favourable, but lord melbourne fears that it is more favourable than the reality would prove. the chancellor,[ ] palmerston, and hobhouse are strongly for dissolution, but the opinion of the majority is the other way, and in that opinion lord melbourne is strongly inclined to agree. lord melbourne will have the honour of waiting upon your majesty to-morrow at three. [footnote : the earl of cottenham.] [pageheading: sir robert peel] _memorandum by mr anson._ notes upon an interview with sir robert peel (no. ).[ ] _ th may ._ told sir robert that i had wished to have sought him through the medium of a common friend, which would have given him a greater confidence than i had now a right to expect at his hands, but i felt upon so delicate a mission it was safer, and would be more in accordance with his wishes, to come direct. that the prince had sent me to him, with the object of removing difficulties upon his coming into office. that her majesty was anxious that the question of the removal of the ladies of the bedchamber should not be revived, and would wish that in any personal communication with sir robert this question might be avoided. that it might be arranged that if sir robert would not insist upon carrying out his principle, her majesty might procure the resignation of any ladies whom sir robert might object to; that i thought there might be a disposition to yield to the removal of the mistress of the robes, lady normanby, and the duchess of bedford, as being connected with leading political persons in government. endeavoured to impress upon sir robert that if he acts fairly and kindly towards the queen, he will be met in the same spirit. sir robert said he had considered the probable object of my interview, and thought, from my former position with lord melbourne, that lord melbourne would be aware of my coming. he must be assured of this before he could speak confidentially to me. upon this i admitted that lord melbourne had knowledge of my intention, but that i was not authorised to say that he had. sir robert said, "i shall put aside all form, and treat you frankly and confidentially. you may depend upon every word you say being held as sacred. no part, without further permission, shall be mentioned even to the duke, much less to any of my other colleagues. "_i would waive every pretension to office, i declare to god! sooner than that my acceptance of it should be attended with any personal humiliation to the queen._" he thought that giving in the names of those ladies whom he considered obnoxious was an offensive course towards the queen. for the sake of office, which he did not covet, he could not concede any constitutional principle, but it was not necessary that that principle should be mooted. "it would be repulsive to my feelings that her majesty should part with any of her ladies, as the _result of a forced stipulation on my part_; in a party sense it would doubtless be advantageous to me to say that i had demanded from the queen, and the queen had conceded to me the appointments of these three ladies." the mode he would like, and which he considered as least objectionable for her majesty, was for her majesty to say to him, "there is no occasion to revive this constitutional question, as those ladies immediately connected with prominent members of the administration have sent in their resignation." the vacancies existing before sir robert peel sees her majesty, there is no necessity for discussion. on the one hand, by this means, there was less appearance of insult to the queen, and on the other, there was no appearance of concession of principle upon his. sir robert was ready to make any personal sacrifice for her majesty's comfort, except that of his honour. "can the queen for an instant suppose that i would permit my party to urge me on to insist upon anything incompatible with her majesty's dignity, which it would be my great aim and honour to defend?" [this was his indignant reply to my remark upon the rumours that his party would press him to coerce and subdue her majesty.] sir robert thinks it better for the queen to avoid anything in the shape of a stipulation. he would like what he would have done upon a former occasion (and upon which, on the honour of a gentleman, his views had undergone no change) to be taken as a test of what he would be ready to concede to. nothing but misconception, he said, could in his opinion have led to failure before. "_had the queen told me_" (after the question was mooted, which it never need have been) "_that those three ladies immediately connected with the government had tendered their resignation, i should have been perfectly satisfied_, and should have consulted the queen's feelings in replacing them." sir robert said this conversation shall remain sacred, and to all effect, as if it had never happened, until he saw me again to-morrow morning. there is nothing said, he added, which in any way pledges or compromises the queen, the prince, or lord melbourne. [footnote : see parker's _sir robert peel_, vol. ii. p. , _et seq._, where peel's memorandum of the interview is set out.] [pageheading: sir robert peel] [pageheading: household appointments] _memorandum by mr anson._ interview with sir robert peel (no. ). _ th may ._ peel said: "it is essential to my position with the queen that her majesty should understand that i have the feelings of a gentleman, and where my duty does not interfere, i cannot act against her wishes. her majesty doubtless knows how pressed i am as the head of a powerful party, but the impression i wish to create in her majesty's mind is, that i am bound to defend her against their encroachments." in regard to household appointments the holders of which are not in parliament, he had not considered the question, but in the meantime he would in no way commit himself to anyone, or to any understanding upon the subject, without previous communication. he had no personal objects to serve, and the queen's wishes would always be consulted. he again repeated, that if the queen's personal feelings would suffer less by forming an administration to his exclusion, he should not be offended. private life satisfied him, and he had no ambition beyond it. lord melbourne might rest assured that _he_ fully appreciated his aim, that his only object was to do that which was most for her majesty's advantage, and no human being should know that he was privy to this overture. lord melbourne might depend upon his honour. if lord melbourne was pressed to a dissolution he should still feel the same impression of lord melbourne's conduct, that it was honourable and straightforward. he wished the prince to send him a list of those ladies whom it would be agreeable to her majesty to have in her household. sir robert must propose it to the ladies, but will be entirely guided by her majesty's wishes. there should be no appearance that her majesty has any understanding, as he was bound to his party to make it appear that the appointments emanated from himself.[ ] [footnote : there was a further interview on the following day at which various detailed points were arranged.] _memorandum by the queen._ _ th may ._ the queen considers it her right (and is aware that her predecessors were peculiarly tenacious of this right) to appoint her household. she, however, gives up the great officers of state and those of her lords-in-waiting, equerries, and grooms-in-waiting, who are _in parliament_, to the appointment of the prime minister, subject to her approval. the queen has _always_ appointed her _ladies of the bedchamber herself_, but has generally mentioned their names to the prime minister before appointing them, in order to leave him room for objection in case he should deem their appointment injurious to his government, when the queen would probably not appoint the lady. the maids of honour and women of the bedchamber are of course not included amongst those who are mentioned to the prime minister before their appointment, but are at once appointed by the queen. [pageheading: pressure of business] _extract from the queen's journal._ _wednesday, th may ._ "at seven minutes to five lord melbourne came to me and stayed till half-past five. he gave me the copies of anson's conversations with peel. lord melbourne then gave me a letter from the chancellor to read, strongly advocating a dissolution, and wishing that there should be a division also on lord john russell's amendment.[ ] "lord melbourne left the letter with me. the first part of the letter, relative to lord john's amendment, we think good, but the other part we can't quite agree in. 'there is to be a cabinet to-morrow to consider what is to be done,' said lord melbourne, 'for the chancellor's opinion must be considered. there is a preferment amongst our people for dissolution,' lord m. added. the feeling in the country good. i asked lord m., 'must they resign directly, the next day, after the division (if they intended resigning)?' 'why,' he said, 'it was awkward _not_ to do so if parliament was sitting; if the division were only to take place on friday, then they needn't announce it till monday,' which we hope will be the case, as we agreed it wouldn't do for me to have a ball the day lord m. had resigned, and before i had sent for anybody else, and therefore i hoped that it could be managed that the division did not take place till friday. lord m. said that in case they resigned, he wished vernon smith[ ] to be made a privy councillor; the only addition to the peers he mentioned the other day he wished to make is surrey;[ ] we agreed that too many peers was always a bad thing." [footnote : to lord sandon's resolution on the sugar duties.] [footnote : robert vernon smith ( - ), under-secretary for war and the colonies, afterwards lord lyveden.] [footnote : the earl of surrey ( - ) was now m.p. for west sussex, and treasurer of the household, and was afterwards thirteenth duke of norfolk.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th may ._ ... i am sure you will forgive my writing a very short letter to-day, but i am so harassed and occupied with business that i cannot find time to write letters. you will, i am sure, _feel_ for me; the probability of parting from so kind and excellent a being as lord melbourne as a _minister_ (for a _friend_ he will _always_ remain) is very, _very_ painful, even if one feels it will not probably be for long; to take it philosophically is my great wish, and _quietly_ i certainly shall, but one cannot help _feelings_ of affection and gratitude. albert is the greatest possible comfort to me in every way, and my position is much more independent than it was before. i am glad you see the french feeling in the right light. i rejoice that the christening, etc., went off so well. believe me, ever, your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: question of dissolution] _extract from the queen's journal._ _thursday, th may ._ "saw lord melbourne at a little past four. "... 'we have had a cabinet,' lord melbourne said, 'and we have been considering the question of dissolution and what is the best course to be pursued; if we were to dissolve, john russell,' he said, 'would pursue quite a different course; he would then announce the sugar duties at once. i (lord melbourne) said, that i had been considering well the whole question, and the chancellor's letter, but that altogether i did not think it advisable to have recourse to a dissolution--and i think the greater part lean towards that opinion; but there _are_ a few who are very much for a dissolution--the chancellor and hobhouse very much so, and palmerston. they have, however, not quite finally decided the matter. i understand the debate will certainly go over to-night,' he said, 'and that they would have time on saturday and sunday to consider about lord john's amendment.'" _extract from the queen's journal._ _saturday, th may ._ "lord melbourne came to me at twenty minutes past one, and we talked about this question of dissolution. 'we shall have a long debate upon it this morning at the cabinet,' lord melbourne said. 'the worst thing is, that if we carry the sugar duties, we must dissolve. if we were to dissolve,' he continued, 'and were to have the parties equal as they are now, it would be very bad; if we _were_ to have a _majority_, it would be a great thing; _but_ if we were to have a minority it would be still worse.... we know that charles i. and charles ii., and even cromwell, appealed to the country, and had a parliament returned into their very teeth' (so strong an opposition), 'and that produced deposition, and convulsion, and bloodshed and death; but since then the crown has always had a majority returned in favour of it. even queen anne,' he continued, 'who removed marlborough in the midst of his most glorious victories and dissolved parliament, had an immense majority, though her measures were miserable; william iv.,' he said, 'even though he had a majority against him which prevented him from keeping his ministers, had a much stronger feeling for him in that parliament, than he ever had before. but i am afraid,' he added, 'that for the first time the crown would have an opposition returned smack against it; and that would be an affront to which i am very unwilling to expose the crown.' this is very true." [pageheading: king leopold's sympathy] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ tuileries, _ th may ._ my dearest victoria,--i am deeply grateful for your kind letter, which reached me this morning. letters from hence ought not to be longer on their way than, at the longest, forty hours; forty-eight is the maximum. i fear that they are delayed at the foreign office; here it cannot be, as for instance these lines go this evening. i can easily understand that the present crisis must have something very painful for you, and you will do well for your health and comfort to try to take it as philosophically as possible; it is a part of the constitutional system which is for the sovereign very hard to get over. _nous savons tous des paroles sur cet air_, as the french say. i was convinced that lord melbourne's right and good feeling would make him pause before he proposed to you a dissolution. a general election in england, when great passions must be roused or created to render it efficacious for one party or another, is a dangerous experiment, always calculated to shake the foundations on which have hitherto reposed the great elements of the political power of the country. albert will be a great comfort to you, and to hear it from yourself has given me the sincerest delight. his judgment is good, and he is mild and safe in his opinions; they deserve your serious attention; young as he is, i have really often been quite surprised how quick and correct his judgment is.... [pageheading: tory dissensions] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ th may ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to state that the general effect of last week's debate[ ] has been greatly in favour of the measures of your majesty's ministers. the speeches of mr labouchere, sir george grey, and lord howick, with the powerful argument of the chancellor of the exchequer on friday night, have not been met by any corresponding ability on the other side. in fact the opposition seem to have concealed their own views of policy, and to have imagined that the anti-slavery feeling would carry them through successfully. but this expectation has been entirely disappointed; debate has unmasked the hollow pretence of humanity, and the meetings at exeter hall and in the country have completely counteracted the impressions which dr lushington's speech[ ] had produced. lancashire, cheshire, and the west riding of yorkshire have been roused to strong excitement by the prospect of a reduction of the duty on corn. several of the large towns have expressed their opinions without distinction of party. these symptoms are said to have created some dissensions among the opponents of your majesty's present government. sir robert peel, lord stanley, and nearly all the eminent leaders of the party, profess their adherence to the principles of mr huskisson.[ ] on the other hand, the duke of buckingham,[ ] with many lords and commoners, is opposed to any relaxation of the present corn laws. this difference must ultimately produce serious consequences, and it is possible they may break out before the present debate is ended. one consequence of the propositions of the ministry is the weakening of the power of the chartists, who have relied on the misrepresentation that neither whigs nor tories would ever do anything for the improvement of the condition of the working classes. all these circumstances have a bearing on the question of a dissolution of parliament, and are to be weighed against the risks and inconveniences of so bold a measure. [footnote : on lord sandon's resolution.] [footnote : against the budget, on the ground that it tended to encourage slavery.] [footnote : which were opposed to protection and the navigation laws.] [footnote : richard plantagenet ( - ), second duke of the creation, m.p. for bucks - , and author of the "chandos clause," became lord privy seal this year, but resigned shortly after. he dissipated his property, and had to sell the contents of stowe.] [pageheading: the queen's journal] _extract from the queen's journal._ _monday, th may ._ "lord melbourne came to me at twenty minutes to three. there were no _new_ news. he gave me a letter from the duke of roxburgh,[ ] saying he could not support government on the corn laws, and writing an unnecessarily cold letter. lord melbourne fears this would lose roxburgh in case of an election. a great many of the friends of the government, however, are against any alteration in the corn laws. talked of the excellent accounts from the country with which the papers are full, and i said i couldn't help thinking the government would gain by a dissolution, and the feeling in the country so strong, and daily increasing. they would lose the counties, lord melbourne thinks, and the question is whether their successes in the manufacturing towns would be sufficient to counterbalance that. the debate may last longer, lord melbourne says, as j. russell says he will continue it as long as their friends wish it. many of their friends would be very angry if we did not dissolve, lord melbourne says. 'i say always,' said lord melbourne, 'that your majesty will be in such a much worse position' (if a majority should be returned against us), 'but they say not, for that the others would dissolve.' i said that if that was so we _must dissolve_, for then that it would come to just the same thing, and that that changed my opinion very much. 'you would like us then to make the attempt?' lord melbourne asked. i said 'almost.' i asked if he really thought they would dissolve. 'i've great reason to believe they would,' he replied. 'hardinge[ ] told vivian[ ] "we shall prevent _your_ dissolving, but _we shall_ dissolve."' ... i asked did lord melbourne think they (the conservatives) would remain in long, and melbourne said: 'one can't tell beforehand what may happen, but you would find their divisions and dissensions amongst themselves sufficient to prevent their staying in long.' ... "saw lord john russell, who didn't feel certain if the debate would end to-night. talked of the very good feeling in the country. he said he understood sir edward knatchbull[ ] was exceedingly displeased at what peel had said concerning free trade, and said in that case peel would be as bad as the present government. he thinks the tories, if in power, might try and collect the sugar duties without law, which would do them a great deal of harm and be exceedingly unpopular. he does _not_ think the tories intend _certainly_ to dissolve. he thinks they would not dissolve now, and that they would hereafter get so entangled by their own dissensions, as to render it unfavourable to them." [footnote : james, sixth duke. the duchess was afterwards a lady of the bedchamber.] [footnote : sir henry hardinge ( - ) had been secretary at war, and chief secretary for ireland, under former tory governments.] [footnote : master-general of the ordnance.] [footnote : m.p. for east kent. he became paymaster-general in peel's cabinet.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th may ._ ... i was sure you would feel for me. since last monday, the th, we have lived in the daily expectation of a final event taking place, and the debate _still_ continues, and it is not certain whether it will even finish to-night, this being the eighth night, it having begun on friday the th, two saturdays and two sundays having intervened! our plans are so unsettled that i can tell you nothing, only that you may depend upon it nothing will be done without having been duly, properly, and maturely weighed. lord melbourne's conduct is as usual perfect; fair, calm, and totally disinterested, and i am certain that in whatever position he is _you_ will treat him _just_ as you have always done. my dearest angel is indeed a great comfort to me. he takes the greatest interest in what goes on, feeling with and for me, and yet abstaining as he ought from biassing me either way, though we talk much on the subject, and his judgment is, as you say, good and mild.... _p.s._--pray let me hear soon _when_ you come. you, i know, like me to tell you what i hear, and for me to be frank with you. i therefore tell you that it is believed by some people here, and even by some in the government, that _you_ wish my government to be _out_. now, i never for an instant can believe such an assertion, as i know your liberal feelings, and your interest in my welfare and in that of the country too well to think you could wish for such a thing, and i immediately said i was sure this was not so; but i think you would do well to say to seymour something which might imply interest in my present government. i know you will understand my anxiety on your account, lest such a mischievous report should be believed. it comes, you see, from the idea that your feelings are very french. [pageheading: the corn laws] _extract from the queen's journal._ _tuesday, th may ._ "saw lord melbourne.[ ] he said lord john russell had been to see him, and, 'he now wishes us not to resign, but to give notice immediately of a motion on the corn laws. this, he thinks, will make the others propose a vote of confidence, or make them oppose the sugar duties, which, he thinks, will be better for us to resign upon, and when it would be clear to our people that we couldn't dissolve. everybody says it would be a very bad thing for us to resign now, upon such a question as this, and we must consider the party a little.' i said, of course, this would be agreeable to me as it gave us another chance. i said it would be awkward if they resigned thursday, on account of the birthday. lord melbourne said i could wait a day and only send for peel on saturday, that that wouldn't signify to peel, as he could come down to claremont.... i asked, in case they meant to bring on this corn law question, when would they do so. 'perhaps about the th,' lord melbourne said. it would be a more dangerous question, but it would make them (the tories) show their colours, which is a great advantage. he said they prevented sir edward knatchbull from speaking last night." [footnote : after eight days' discussions of lord sandon's motion, the ministers were defeated by to .] [pageheading: resignation postponed] _wednesday, th may._ "at twenty minutes to one came lord melbourne.... i returned him lord john russell's letter, and talked of it, and of john russell's saying the division and peel's speech made it absolutely necessary to decide _to-day_ whether to _resign_ or _dissolve_. i asked what peel had said in his speech about the corn laws. 'i'll tell you, ma'am, what he said,' lord melbourne replied, 'that he was for a sliding duty and not for a fixed duty; but he did not pledge himself as to what rate of duty it should be. i must say,' lord melbourne continued, 'i am still against dissolution. i don't think our chances of success are sufficient.' i replied that i couldn't quite believe that, but that i might be wrong. lord john is for dissolving. '_you_ wish it?' i said i always did. talked of the feeling in the city and in the country being so good. lord melbourne don't think so much of the feeling in the country. talked of the majority of thirty-six having not been more than they expected.... lord melbourne said people thought the debate was lengthened to please me. i said not at all, but that it was more convenient for me. anyhow i need do nothing till saturday. the house of commons was adjourned to the next day, and the house of lords to monday. 'mr baring says,' he said, 'if there was only a majority one way or another, it would be better than this state of complete equality.' "at twenty minutes past four lord melbourne returned. 'well, ma'am,' he said, 'we've considered this question, and both the sides of it well, and at last we voted upon it; and there were--the lord chancellor for dissolution, lord minto[ ] for it, lord normanby against it, but greatly modified; lord john for, lord palmerston for, lord clarendon for, lord morpeth for, lord lansdowne for, labouchere for, hobhouse for, duncannon[ ] for, baring for, macaulay for; and under those circumstances of course i felt i could not but go with them.[ ] lord melbourne was much affected in saying all this. 'so we shall go on, bring on the sugar duties, and then, if things are in a pretty good state, dissolve. i hope you approve?' i said i did highly ... and that i felt so happy to keep him longer. 'you are aware we may have a majority against us?' he said; he means in our election. the sugar duties would probably take a fortnight or three weeks to pass, and they would dissolve in june and meet again in october. he thought they must." [footnote : lord minto was first lord of the admiralty.] [footnote : then first commissioner of land revenue.] [footnote : see sir john hobhouse's account of this cabinet meeting, _edinburgh review_, vol. , p. .] [pageheading: the queen and the church] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ st may ._ lord melbourne thinks that what your majesty proposes to say will do very well, but it is thought best to say "church as reformed" at the reformation. if your majesty could say this, it would be well: "i am very grateful for your congratulations on the return of this day. i am happy to take this opportunity of again expressing to you my firm determination to maintain the church of england as settled at the reformation, and my firm belief in her articles and creeds, as hitherto understood and interpreted by her soundest divines." nothing could go off better than the dinner. everybody was much pleased with the prince. lord melbourne is not conscious of having slept.[ ] [footnote : it seems that some one had told the queen that lord melbourne had fallen asleep at dinner.] [pageheading: feeling in france] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ brussels, _ th may ._ my dearest victoria,--i receive this very moment your dear letter of the th, and without loss of time i begin my answer here, though the messenger can only go to-morrow. i cannot _sufficiently_ express to you my _gratitude_ for the frankness with which you have written to me--and let me entreat you, whenever you have anything _sur le c[oe]ur_, to _do the same_. i shall begin with your postscript concerning the idea that i wished your present ministers to retire, because they had become disagreeable to france. the people who _avancent quelque chose de la sorte_ probably have some ill-natured motive which it is not always easy to guess; perhaps in the present instance does it mean, let us say, _that?_ whatever opinion he may then express we can easily counteract it, representing it as the result of _strong partiality to france_. let us therefore examine what france has to gain in a change of administration. certainly your present ministers are _not_ much loved _now_ in france, not so much in consequence of the political events of last year themselves, than for the _manner_ in which they came to pass. nevertheless, when i was at paris, king and council were decided to sign the treaty with the four other powers, which would put an end to the _isolement_, though many people are stoutly _for the isolement_. there end the relations which will exist for some time between the two countries--they will be on _decent_ terms; that is all i wish for the present, and it is matter of moonshine who your ministers are. no doubt, formerly there existed such a predilection in favour of lord grey's[ ] administration and those who continued it, that the coming in of the tories would have been considered as a great public calamity; but even now, though this affection is gone, the tories will also be looked on with some suspicion. lord melbourne's administration has had the great merit of being liberal, and at the same time prudent, conservative in the good sense of the word, preserving what was good. monarchy, by an adherence to this system, was very safe, and the popular liberal cry needless. [footnote : - .] [pageheading: king leopold's advice] (_continued at_) laeken, _ st may._ i regret that the corn question was brought forward somewhat abruptly;[ ] it is a dangerous one, as it roused the most numerous and poorest classes of society, and may easily degenerate into bloodshed. the dissolution under such circumstances would become still more a source of agitation, as it generally always is in england. lord melbourne, i am sure, will think so too. i am delighted by what you say of albert; it is just the proper line for him to take, without biassing you either way, to show you honestly the consequences which in his opinion the one or the other may have. as he has really a very clear and logical judgment, his opinion will be valuable for you. i feel very much for you, and these ministerial complications are of a most painful and perplexing nature, though less in england than on the continent, as the thing is at least better understood. to amuse you a little, and to prove to you how impartial i must be to be in this way accused by both parties, i must tell you that it is said in france that, conjointly with lord melbourne, we _artfully_ ruined the thiers administration,[ ] to the great detriment of the honour and welfare of france. but what is still stranger is, that the younger branches of the family, seeing that my arrival at paris was delayed from time to time, became convinced that _i would not come at all_, and that my intention was to _cut them completely_, not to _compromettre_ myself with england! truly people are strange, and the unnecessary suspicions and stories which they love to have, and to tell, a great bore.... pray have the goodness of giving my _kindest_ regards to lord melbourne. i will love him very _tenderly_ in and out of office, as i am really attached to him. now last, though first, i offer my sincerest wishes on the happy return of your birthday; may every blessing be always bestowed on your beloved head. you possess _much_, let your warm and honest heart _appreciate_ that. let me also express the hope that you always will maintain your _dear character true_ and _good_ as it is, and let us also humbly express the hope that our warmth of feeling, a valuable gift, will not be permitted to grow occasionally a little violent, and particularly not against your uncle. you may pull albertus by the ear, when so inclined, but be never irritated against your uncle. but i have _not to complain_ when other people do not instigate such things; you have always been kind and affectionate, and when you look at my deeds for you, and on behalf of you, these twenty-two years, i think you will not have many hardships to recollect. i am happy to hear of my god-daughter's teeth, and that she is so well. may god keep the whole dear little family well and happy for ever. my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the ministerial proposal of a fixed duty instead of a sliding scale.] [footnote : the thiers government had resigned in the preceding october, owing to the king objecting to the warlike speech which they wished him to pronounce to the chambers. the soult-guizot cabinet was accordingly formed.] [pageheading: sir robert peel] _memorandum of mr anson's last secret interview with sir r. peel._ (no. .) _sunday, rd may ._ called upon sir robert peel this morning. i said i could not feel satisfied without seeing him after the very unexpected course which political affairs had taken. i wished to know that he felt assured, though i trusted there could be no doubt upon his mind, that there had been perfect honesty of purpose on my part towards him, and more especially upon the part of those with whose knowledge i had been acting. i assured sir robert that h.m. had acted in _the most perfect fairness towards him_, and i was most anxious that there should be no erroneous impression upon his mind as to the conduct of either h.m. or the prince. i said (quoting the prince's expression), "that the queen has a natural modesty upon her constitutional views, and when she receives an advice from men like the lord chancellor, lord john russell, mr baring, mr labouchere, and lord clarendon, and knows that they have been weighing the question through so many days, she concludes that her judgment cannot be better than theirs, and that she would do wrong to reject their advice." the prince, i said, however strongly impressed for or against a question, thinks it wrong and impolitic, considering his age and inexperience and his novelty to the country, to press upon the queen views of his own in opposition to those of experienced statesmen. sir robert said he could relieve my mind entirely; that he was convinced that all that had taken place had been with the most perfect honesty; that he had no feeling whatever of annoyance, or of having been ill-used; that, on the contrary, he had the feeling, and should always retain it, of the deepest gratitude to the queen for the condescension which her majesty had been pleased to show him, and that it had only increased his devotion to her majesty's person. he said that much of the reserve which he had shown in treating with me was not on _his own_ account, but that he felt from his own experience that events were by no means certain, and he most cautiously abstained from permitting her majesty in any way to commit herself, or to bind herself by any engagement which unforeseen circumstances might render inconvenient. sir robert said it was very natural to try and remove obstacles which had before created so much confusion, and he was convinced that they would have been practically removed by what had passed. he said that neither lord stanley nor sir james graham knew a word of what had passed. that mr greville had asked his friend mr arbuthnot whether some understanding had not been entered into between lord melbourne and him. that mr arbuthnot had replied that he was certain that nothing of the sort could have passed,[ ] as, if it had, sir robert peel would have informed him (mr arbuthnot) of the fact. again, lady de grey, the night of the ball at the palace, came up to him and said the duke of bedford had been speaking to her about the resignation of the duchess of bedford, and asking her whether she thought it necessary. she volunteered to find out from sir robert whether he thought it requisite. she asked the question, which sir robert tried to evade, but not being able, he said it struck him that if it was a question of doubt the best means of solving it, was for the duke of bedford to ask lord melbourne for his opinion. i added that if the dissolution was a failure, which it was generally apprehended would be the case, i felt convinced that sir robert would be dealt with in the most perfect fairness by her majesty. [footnote : "after i had been told by the duke of bedford that peel was going to insist on certain terms, which was repeated to me by clarendon, i went to arbuthnot, told him melbourne's impression, and asked him what it all meant. he said it was all false, that he was certain peel had no such intentions, but, on the contrary, as he had before assured me, was disposed to do everything that would be conciliatory and agreeable to the queen."--_greville's journal_, th may .] [pageheading: vote of want of confidence] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has to acquaint your majesty that in the house of commons this evening sir robert peel gave notice that on thursday next he would move a resolution to the following effect: "that her majesty's ministers not possessing power sufficient to carry into effect the measures which they considered necessary, their retention of office was unconstitutional and contrary to usage."[ ] these are not the exact words, but they convey the substance. this is a direct vote of want of confidence, and lord melbourne would be inclined to doubt whether it will be carried, and if it is, it certainly will not be by so large a majority as the former vote. when the chancellor of the exchequer moved the resolution upon the sugar duties, sir robert peel seconded the motion, thereby intending to intimate that he did not mean to interfere with the supplies. this course was determined upon at a meeting held at sir r. peel's this morning. [footnote : the closing words of the resolution were as follows: "... that her majesty's ministers do not sufficiently possess the confidence of the house of commons to enable them to carry through the house measures which they deem of essential importance to the public welfare, and that their continuance in office under such circumstances is at variance with the spirit of the constitution."] [pageheading: prospect of dissolution] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ th may ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to state that sir robert peel yesterday brought forward his motion in a remarkably calm and temperate speech. sir john hobhouse and mr macaulay completely exposed the fallacy of his resolution, and successfully vindicated the government. lord worsley[ ] declared he would oppose the resolution, which declaration excited great anger, and produced much disappointment in the tory party. if the debate is carried on till next week, it is probable the ministers may have a majority of one or two. the accounts from the country are encouraging. it does not appear that sir robert peel, even if he carries this motion, intends to obstruct the measures necessary for a dissolution of parliament. [footnote : m.p. for lincolnshire, who had voted for lord sandon's motion.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ st may ._ ... i beg you _not_ to be alarmed about what is to be done; it is _not_ for a party triumph that parliament (_the longest_ that has sat for _many_ years) is to be dissolved; it is the fairest and most constitutional mode of proceeding; and you may trust to the moderation and prudence of my whole government that nothing will be done without due consideration; if the present government get a majority by the elections they will go on prosperously; if not, the tories will come in for a short time. the country is quiet and the people very well disposed. i am happy, dearest uncle, to give you these quieting news, which i assure you are _not_ partial.... [pageheading: king leopold's views] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken _ st may ._ my dearest victoria,--your mother[ ] is safely arrived, though she was received close to ostende by a formidable thunderstorm. i had given directions that everywhere great civilities should be shown her. she stood the fatigues better than i had expected, and is less sleepy than in england. she seems to be pleased with her _séjour_ here, and inclined in fact to remain rather than to go on; but i am sure, when once in germany she will be both pleased and interested by it. it will amuse you to hear from herself her own impressions. i cannot help to add a few political lines. i regret much, i must confess, that the idea of a dissolution has gained ground, and i will try to show in a very few words why i am against it. in politics, a great rule ought to be to rule with the things which one _knows already_, and not to jump into something entirely new of which no one can do more _than guess the consequences._ the present parliament has been elected at a moment most favourable to the present administration after a most popular accession to the throne, everything new and fresh, and with the natural fondness of the great mass of people, a change is always popular; it was known that you were kindly disposed towards your ministers, everything was therefore _à souhait_ for the election of a new parliament. in this respect ministers have nothing like the favourable circumstances which smiled upon them at the last general election. feeling this, they raise a cry, which may become popular and embarrass their antagonists about _cheap_ bread! i do not think this is quite befitting their dignity; such things do for revolutionaries like thiers, or my late ministers.... if the thing rouses the people it may do serious mischief; if not, it will look awkward for the ministers themselves. if you do not grant a dissolution to your present ministers you would have, at the coming in of a new administration, the right to tell them that they must go on with the present parliament; and i have no doubt that they could do so. the statistics of the present house of commons are well known to all the men who sit in it, and to keep it a few years longer would be a real advantage. you know that i have been rather maltreated by the tories, formerly to please george iv., and since i left the country, because i served, in their opinion, on the revolutionary side of the question. i must say, however, that for your service as well as for the quiet of the country, it would be good to give them a trial. if they could not remain in office it will make them quieter for some time. if by a dissolution the conservative interest in the house is too much weakened the permanent interests of the country can but suffer from that. if, on the contrary, the conservatives come in stronger, your position will not be very agreeable, and it may induce them to be perhaps less moderate than they ought to be. i should be very happy if you would discuss these, my _hasty_ views, with lord melbourne. i do not give them for more than what they are, mere _practical_ considerations; but, as far as i can judge of the question, if i was myself concerned i should have no dissolution; if even there was but the very _banale_ consideration, _qu'on sait ce qu'on a, mais qu'on ne sait nullement ce qu'on aura_. the moment is not without importance, and well worthy your earnest consideration, and i feel convinced that lord melbourne will agree with me, that, notwithstanding the great political good sense of the people in england, the machine is so complicated that it should be handled with great care and tenderness. to conclude, i must add that perhaps a permanent duty on corn may be a desirable thing, but that it ought to be sufficiently high to serve as a real protection. it may besides produce this effect, that as it will be necessary, at least at first, to buy a good deal of the to be imported corn with _money_, the currency will be seriously affected by it. the countries which would have a chance of selling would be chiefly poland in all its parts, prussia, austria, and russia, the south of russia on the black sea, and maybe sicily. germany does not grow a sufficient quantity of wheat to profit by such an arrangement; it will besides not buy more from england for the present than it does now, owing to the zollverein,[ ] which must first be altered. but i will not bore you too long, and conclude with my best love to little victoria, of whom her grandmama speaks with raptures. ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the duchess of kent had left england for a tour on the continent.] [footnote : after the fall of napoleon, the hopes of many germans for a united national germany were frustrated by the congress of vienna, which perpetuated the practical independence of a number of german states, as well as the predominance within the germanic confederation of austria, a power largely non-german. one of the chief factors in the subsequent unification of germany was the zollverein, or customs union, by which north germany was gradually bound together by commercial interest, and thus opposed to austria. the success of this method of imperial integration has not been without influence on the policies of other lands.] [pageheading: the opposition elated] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ _wilton crescent, th june ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to state that the house divided about three this morning. for sir robert peel against --- majority the opposition were greatly elated by this triumph. lord stanley, and sir robert peel who spoke last in the debate, did not deny that the crown might exercise the prerogative of dissolution in the present case. but they insisted that no time should be lost in previous debates, especially on such a subject as the corn laws. lord john russell spoke after lord stanley, and defended the whole policy of the administration. after the division he stated that he would on monday propose the remaining estimates, and announce the course which he meant to pursue respecting the corn laws. [pageheading: marriage of lord john russell] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ th june ._ ... now, many thanks for two letters of the st ult. and th june. the former i shall not answer at length, as albert has done so, and i think has given a very _fair_ view of the state of affairs. let me only repeat to you again that you need not be alarmed, and that i think you will be pleased and _beruhigt_ when you talk to our friend lord melbourne on the subject... i fear you will again see nothing of the season, as parliament will probably be dissolved by the st.... as to my letters, dear uncle, i beg to _assure_ you (for lord palmerston was _most indignant_ at the doubt when i once asked) that _none_ of our letters nor any of those _coming_ to us, are ever opened at the foreign office. my letters to brussels and paris are _quite safe_, and all those to germany, which are of any _real_ consequence, i always send through rothschild, which is perfectly _safe_ and very quick. we are, and so is _everybody here_, so charmed with mme. rachel;[ ] she is perfect, _et puis_, such a nice modest girl; she is going to declaim at windsor castle on monday evening. now adieu in haste. believe me, always, your very devoted niece, victoria r. really leopold _must_ come, or i shall _never_ forgive you. [footnote : the young french actress, who made her _début_ in england on th may as hermione in racine's _andromaque._ she was received with great enthusiasm.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th june ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is quite well, and has nothing particular to relate to your majesty, at least nothing that presses; except that he is commissioned by lord john russell respectfully to acquaint your majesty that his marriage is settled, and will take place shortly. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ does lord melbourne _really_ mean j. russell's _marriage_? and to whom? [pageheading: visit to nuneham] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ the lady fanny eliot.[ ] lord melbourne did not name her before, nor does not now, because he did not remember her christian name. [footnote : daughter of lord minto. lord melbourne originally wrote _the lady ---- eliot_ at the head of his letter (spelling the surname wrong, which should be elliot). the word "fanny" is written in subsequently to the completion of the letter.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ nuneham,[ ] _ th june ._ affairs go on, and all will take some shape or other, but it keeps one in hot water all the time. in the meantime, however, the people are in the best possible humour, and i never was better received at ascot, which is a great test, and also along the roads yesterday. this is a most lovely place; pleasure grounds in the style of claremont, only much larger, and with the river thames winding along beneath them, and oxford in the distance; a beautiful flower and kitchen garden, and all kept up in perfect order. i followed albert here, faithful to my word, and he is gone to oxford[ ] for the whole day, to my great grief. and here i am all alone in a strange house, with not even lehzen as a companion, in albert's absence, but i thought she and also lord gardner,[ ] and some gentlemen should remain with little victoria for the first time. but it is rather a trial for me. i must take leave, and beg you to believe me always, your most devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the house of edward vernon harcourt, archbishop of york.] [footnote : to receive an address at commemoration.] [footnote : alan legge, third and last lord gardner ( - ) was one of the queen's first lords-in-waiting.] [pageheading: the prince visits oxford] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th june ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has just received your majesty's letter, and will wait upon your majesty at half-past five. lord melbourne is sorry to hear that your majesty has been at all indisposed. it will suit him much better to wait upon your majesty at dinner to-morrow than to-day, as his hand shows some disposition to gather, and it may be well to take care of it. lord melbourne is very glad to learn that everything went off well at oxford. lord melbourne expected that the duke of sutherland[ ] would not entirely escape a little public animadversion. nothing can be more violent or outrageous than the conduct of the students of both universities upon such occasions; the worst and lowest mobs of westminster and london are very superior to them in decency and forbearance. the archbishop[ ] is a very agreeable man; but he is not without cunning, and lord melbourne can easily understand his eagerness that the queen should not prorogue parliament in person. he knows that it will greatly assist the tories. it is not true that it is universal for the sovereign to go down upon such occasions. george iii. went himself in ; he did not go in , because he had been prevented from doing so by his infirmities for three years before. william iv. went down himself in .[ ] lord melbourne sends a note which he has received from lord normanby upon this and another subject. [footnote : who was, of course, associated with the whig ministry.] [footnote : archbishop vernon harcourt, of york, the queen's host.] [footnote : the queen prorogued parliament in person on nd june.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ my dearest uncle,--a few lines i must write to you to express to you my _very great_ delight at the certainty, god willing, of seeing you all _three_ next week, and to express a hope, and a _great hope_, that you will try and arrive a little earlier on wednesday.... i must again repeat i am so sorry you should come when society is dispersed and at sixes and sevens, and in such a state that naturally i cannot at the moment of the elections invite many tories, as that _tells_ so at the elections. but we shall try and do our best to make it as little dull as we can, and you will kindly take the will for the deed. we came back from nuneham yesterday afternoon. albert came back at half-past five on tuesday from oxford, where he had been enthusiastically received, but the students ... had the bad taste to show their party feeling in groans and hisses when the name of a whig was mentioned, which they ought not to have done in my husband's presence. i must now conclude, begging you ever to believe me, your devoted niece, victoria r. my coiffeur will be quite at louise's disposal, and he can _coiffer_ in any way she likes, if her dresser tells him how she wishes it. [pageheading: lord brougham] [pageheading: letter from lord brougham] _lord brougham to queen victoria._[ ] grafton street, _ th june ._ most gracious sovereign,--i crave leave humbly to approach your majesty and to state in writing what i should have submitted to your royal consideration at an audience, because i conceive that this course will be attended with less inconvenience to your majesty. in the counsel which i ventured with great humility, but with an entire conviction of its soundness, to tender, i cannot be biassed by any personal interest, for i am not a candidate for office; nor by any parliamentary interest, for i have no concern with elections; nor by any factious interest, for i am unconnected with party. my only motive is to discharge the duty which i owe to both the crown and the country. nor am i under the influence of any prejudice against your majesty's servants or their measures; for i charge your majesty's servants with nothing beyond an error, a great error, in judgment, and i entirely approve of the measures which they have lately propounded (with a single exception partially applicable to one of them), while i lament and disapprove of the time and manner of propounding them, both on account of the government and of the measures themselves. i feel myself, madam, under the necessity of stating that the dissolution of the parliament appears to me wholly without justification, either from principle or from policy. they who advise it must needs proceed upon the supposition that a majority will be returned favourable to the continuance of the present administration and favourable to their lately announced policy. on no other ground is it possible that any such advice should be tendered to your majesty. for no one could ever think of such a proceeding as advising the crown to dissolve the parliament in order to increase the force of the opposition to its own future ministers, thus perverting to the mere purposes of party the exercise of by far the most eminent of the royal prerogatives; and i pass over as wholly unworthy of notice the only other supposition which can with any decency be made, when there is no conflict between the two houses, namely, that of a dissolution in entire ignorance of the national opinion and for the purpose of ascertaining to which side it inclines. your majesty's advisers must, therefore, have believed, and they must still believe, that a majority will be returned favourable both to themselves and their late policy. i, on the other hand, have the most entire conviction that there will be a considerable majority against them, and against their policy a majority larger still, many of their supporters having already joined to swell that majority. whoever examines the details of the case must be satisfied that the very best result which the government can possibly hope for is a narrow majority against them--an event which must occasion a second dissolution by whatever ministry may succeed to the confidence of your majesty. but those best acquainted with the subject have no doubt at all that the majority will be much more considerable. i beg leave, madam, humbly to represent to your majesty, in my own vindication for not having laid my opinion before your majesty as soon as i returned from the continent, that when i first heard of the course taken by the government early in may, i formed the opinion which i now entertain, but conceived that i must have mistaken the facts upon which they were acting; and when i arrived twelve days ago i was confirmed in the belief (seeing the fixed resolution taken to dissolve) that i must have been under an erroneous impression as to the probable results of the elections. but i have since found ample reason for believing that my original conviction was perfectly well founded, and that no grounds whatever exist sufficient to make any one who considers the subject calmly, and without the bias of either interest or prejudice, really believe that this ill-fated proceeding can have any other result than lasting injury to your majesty's service, to the progress of sound and just views of policy, and to the influence of those in whom the crown and the country alike should repose confidence. that a number of short-sighted persons whose judgments are warped by exclusive attention to a single subject, or by personal feelings, or by party views (and these narrow and erroneous), may have been loudly clamorous for the course apparently about to be pursued, is extremely possible, and affords no kind of excuse for it. many of these will be the slowest to defend what they have so unfortunately called for; some will be among the first to condemn it when a manifest failure shall have taken place, and general discomfiture shall throw a few local successes into the shade. my advice is humbly offered to your majesty, as removed far above such confined and factious views; as the parent of all your people; as both bound and willing to watch over their true interests; and as charged by virtue of your exalted office with the preservation of the public peace, the furtherance of the prosperity, and the maintenance of the liberties of your subjects. i am, with profound respect, madam, your majesty's faithful and dutiful subject, brougham.[ ] [footnote : mention has been made earlier of the resentment which brougham cherished against his late colleagues, after his exclusion from the whig cabinet, and this letter, on the proposal to dissolve parliament, was, no doubt, prompted by that feeling.] [footnote : parliament, however, notwithstanding this rescript of lord brougham, was dissolved, and the ministry went to the country with the cry of a fixed duty on corn, as against a sliding scale, and they attacked, as monopolists, at once the landowner, who enjoyed protection for his wheat, and the west indian proprietor, who profited by the duty on foreign sugar. the conservatives impugned the general policy of the whig administration. the result, a majority of seventy-six, was an even greater conservative triumph than the most sanguine of the party anticipated.--_see_ introductory note, _ante_, p. . (intro note to ch. x)] [pageheading: visit to woburn] _memorandum by mr anson._ woburn abbey, _ th july ._ arrived here last night with the prince and the queen; this is now the second expedition (nuneham being the first) which her majesty has taken, and on neither occasion has the baroness accompanied us. the prince went yesterday through a review of the many steps he had made to his present position--all within eighteen months from the marriage. those who intended to keep him from being useful to the queen, from the fear that he might ambitiously touch upon her prerogatives, have been completely foiled; they thought they had prevented her majesty from yielding anything of importance to him by creating distrust through imaginary alarm. the queen's good sense, however, has seen that the prince has no other object in all he seeks but a means to her majesty's good. the court from highest to lowest is brought to a proper sense of the position of the queen's husband. the country has marked its confidence in his character by passing the regency bill _nem. con._ the queen finds the value of an active right hand and able head to support her and to resort to for advice in time of need. cabinet ministers treat him with deference and respect. arts and science look up to him as their especial patron, and they find this encouragement supported by a full knowledge of the details of every subject. the good and the wise look up to him with pride and gratitude as giving an example, so rarely shown in such a station, of leading a virtuous and religious life. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ rd august ._ ... our little tour was most successful, and we enjoyed it of all things; nothing could be more enthusiastic or affectionate than our reception _everywhere_, and i am happy to hear that our presence has left a favourable impression, which i think will be of great use. the loyalty in this country is certainly _very striking_. we enjoyed panshanger[ ] still more than woburn; the country is quite beautiful, and the house so pretty and _wohnlich_; the picture-gallery and pictures very splendid. the cowpers are such good people too. the visit to brocket naturally interested us very much for our excellent lord melbourne's sake. the park and grounds are beautiful. i can't admit the duke of bedford[ ] ever was radical; god knows! i wish everybody now was a little so! what _is_ to come hangs over me like a baneful dream, as you will easily understand, and when i am often happy and merry, comes and damps it all![ ] but god's will be done! and it is for our best, we _must_ feel, though we can't feel it. i can't say _how_ much we think of our little visit to you, god willing, next year. you will kindly let our good old grandmother[ ] come there to see her dear albert _once again_ before she dies, wouldn't you? and you would get the nemours to come? and you would persuade the dear queen[ ] to come for a little while with clémentine? now farewell! believe me, always, your most devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the house of earl cowper.] [footnote : the duke, who had formerly been m.p. for bedfordshire, was inclined to go further in the direction of reform than lord john, yet he applauded the latter's attitude on the occasion of the speech which earned him the nickname of "finality jack."] [footnote : alluding to the ministerial defeat at the polls.] [footnote : the dowager duchess of saxe-gotha-altenburg.] [footnote : marie amélie, queen of the french.] [pageheading: lord melbourne and the garter] _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ i went to lord melbourne this morning in his room as he had desired me. he said: "the prince has been urging me to accept the blue riband before i quit office, and i wished to tell you that i am very anxious that this should not be pressed upon me by the queen; it may be a foolish weakness on my part, but i wish to quit office without having any honour conferred upon me; the queen's confidence towards me is sufficiently known without any public mark of this nature. i have always disregarded these honours, and there would be an inconsistency in my accepting this. i feel it to be much better for my reputation that i should not have it forced upon me. mr pitt never accepted an order, and only the cinque ports on being pressed to do so. lord grenville accepted a peerage, but never any other honour or advantage, and i wish to be permitted to retire in like manner. if i was a poor man, i should have no hesitation in receiving money in the shape of place or pension; i _only don't wish_ for place, because i do not _want_ it." in the course of conversation lord melbourne said that he considered it very improbable that he should ever again form a part of any administration. he did not think that a violent course was at all to be apprehended from lord john russell; he said lord john had been far more of a "finality" man than he had, and in the cabinet had always been averse to violent change. he added, "i think you are in error in forming the opinion which you have of him." lord melbourne thought the queen very much disliked being talked _at_ upon religion; she particularly disliked what her majesty termed a _sunday face_, but yet that it was a subject far more thought of and reflected upon than was [thought to be?] the case. [pageheading: a dreaded moment] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th august ._ ... lord melbourne well knows the feeling which your majesty describes. the expectation of an event which is dreaded and deprecated, and yet felt to be certain and imminent, presents itself continually to the mind and recurs at every moment, and particularly in moments of satisfaction and enjoyment. it is perhaps no consolation to be told that events of this nature are necessary and incidental to your majesty's high situation, but lord melbourne anxiously hopes that the change, when it does take place, will not be found so grievous as your majesty anticipates, and your majesty may rely that lord melbourne will do everything in his power to reconcile it to your majesty's feelings. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ lord melbourne is very glad to hear of the princess's tooth. lord melbourne is much obliged to your majesty for informing him about the mourning. he is quite well and will be ready when your majesty sends. _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ rd august ._ lord john russell was staying at the castle, and asked to-day for an audience of her majesty, and was closeted for a long time. the prince asked her majesty what lord john came for. the queen said he came about several things, but particularly he wished to impress upon the queen that her majesty should not allow sir robert peel to propose any new grants in parliament, as they (the whigs) could not well oppose it, and this being felt, the whole unpopularity would fall upon the queen's person. an idea existed that the tories were always jobbing with money, and the grant for the building the new stables at windsor had shown how suspicious people were. lord john did not speak clearly out, but on consultation with lord melbourne the queen thought lord john must have alluded to peel having spoken equivocally at the end of his speech relative to the prince's annuity, and would now probably propose a further grant, and would say the time was now come in order to stand well with the queen. the queen replied that she would never allow such a thing to be proposed and that it would be a disgrace to owe any favour to that party. the only answer the prince gave was that these views were _very agreeable_ for him. [pageheading: a carriage accident] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ ... our accident[ ] was not so very bad, and considering that it is the _very first_ that had happened in the course of _five summers_, with _so many_ carriages and horses, one cannot be surprised. i beg leave also to say that i _can_ get out _very_ quick. i am very thankful that you agree to the couriers. i am a little sorry that you have put poor mamma off _so_ late, as she is _very_ much hurt at it, i fear, by what i hear, and accuses me of it. but that will, i trust, be forgiven. you don't say that _you_ sympathise with me in my present heavy trial,[ ] the heaviest i have ever had to endure, and which will be a sad heartbreaking to me--but i know you do feel for me. i am quiet and prepared, but still i fell very _sad_, and god knows! very wretched at times, for myself and my country, that _such_ a change must take place. but god in his mercy will support and guide me through all. yet i feel that my constant headaches are caused by annoyance and vexation! adieu, dearest uncle! god bless you! ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the queen had driven to virginia water to see prince albert's beagles hunting, when owing to the hounds running between the horses' legs and frightening them, a pony phaeton and four containing lord erroll, lady ida hay, and miss cavendish was upset. one of the postillions was (not dangerously) hurt.] [footnote : _i.e._, lord melbourne being succeeded by sir robert peel as prime minister.] [pageheading: debate on the address] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. we have just delivered the speech in the house of lords, and the debate will commence at five o'clock. we understand that the amendment is to be a repetition of the motion of want of confidence, which sir robert peel made in the house of commons before the dissolution, and nearly in the same terms. it is to be moved by lord ripon[ ] in the house of lords, and by mr. stuart wortley[ ] in the house of commons. it is understood to be their intention to avoid, as much as possible, debate upon the corn laws, and upon the other topics in the speech, and to place the question entirely upon the result of the general election and the proof which that affords that the ministry does not possess the confidence of the country. lord melbourne thinks that it will not be found easy to repress debate in the house of commons, but would not be surprised if the course which it is intended to pursue should much shorten it in the house of lords. lord melbourne will write again to your majesty after the debate, and will certainly come down to-morrow, unless anything unexpected should occur to prevent him. it will be necessary to receive the address of the convocation in some manner or another. lord melbourne will write confidentially to the archbishop[ ] to learn how it may be received in the quietest manner and with the least trouble. lord melbourne has little doubt that the lords and commons will send their addresses by the officers of the household. lord melbourne entreats your majesty to pick up your spirits. [footnote : the first earl ( - ) who had, as lord goderich, been premier in - .] [footnote : j. stuart wortley ( - ), m.p. for the west riding, afterwards the second lord wharncliffe.] [footnote : dr howley.] [pageheading: cobden's speech] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ th august ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that nothing remarkable occurred in the debate of yesterday, except a powerful speech from mr cobden, a manufacturer.[ ] the debate will probably close this evening. no one of the tory leaders, except sir robert peel, appears disposed to speak. should the address be voted to-night, and reported to-morrow, it may be presented to your majesty by lord marcus hill[ ] on saturday. but should the debate be continued over this night, the report of the address can hardly take place till monday. this, however, is not very likely. [footnote : cobden had just been elected for the first time for stockport.] [footnote : son of lord downshire, and m.p. for evesham; afterwards (under a special remainder) the third lord sandys.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. upon his arrival he found that there was no precedent of the house meeting again after an address, without receiving an answer from the crown. lord erroll therefore delivered the answer in the terms which had been submitted by lord melbourne to your majesty, and it appeared to give satisfaction. the debate will probably terminate in the house of commons to-night; at the same time it may not. if it does we must place our resignation in your majesty's hands on saturday, and it must be announced to the houses of parliament on monday. your majesty will then do well not to delay sending for some other person beyond tuesday. lord melbourne will write to your majesty more fully upon all these subjects to-morrow, when he will know the result of the night's debate, and be able more surely to point out the course of events. lord melbourne received the eau-de-cologne, and returns your majesty many thanks for it. lord melbourne understands that the duke of wellington is, in fact, very desirous of having the foreign seals,[ ] and that if your majesty feels any preference for him in that department the slightest intimation of your majesty's wish in that respect will fix him in his desire to have it. [footnote : the duke had been foreign secretary in .] [pageheading: an overwhelming majority] _lord john russell to queen victoria._ wilton crescent, _ th august ._ lord john russell presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the honour to report that the amendment to the address was carried by , the numbers being-- for the address for the amendment --- --- the tory party proposed that the house should meet this day, and the speaker signified that he should take the chair at twelve o'clock. the address will be carried to windsor by lord marcus hill this evening if then ready. lord john russell takes this opportunity of closing his reports again, to express to your majesty his deep sense of your majesty's goodness towards him. it is his fervent prayer that your majesty may enjoy a long and happy reign. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th august ._ ... your majesty must, of course, consider us as having tendered our resignations immediately after the vote of last night, and your majesty will probably think it right to request us to continue to hold our offices and transact the current business until our successors are appointed. lord melbourne will have the honour of writing again to your majesty in the course of the day. [pageheading: the resignation] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ ... albert will not stay for the dinner, and i expect him back at about eleven to-night. he went at half-past eleven this morning. it is the first time that we have ever been separated for so long since our marriage, and i am quite melancholy about it. you will forgive me if i mention it to you, but i understand that the queen dowager has been somewhat offended at your not taking leave of her when she came here, and at your not answering her, when she wrote to you. perhaps you would write to her and soften and smoothen matters. she did not the least expect you to come to her. believe me always, your most devoted niece, victoria r. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to acknowledge gratefully the communication which he has just received from your majesty. lord melbourne feels certain that your majesty's sense and firmness will enable your majesty to bear up under this which your majesty names a severe trial. the kindness of your majesty's expressions emboldens lord melbourne to say that he also feels deeply the pain of separation from a service, which has now for four years and more been no less his pleasure than his pride. lord melbourne would have been anxious to have waited upon your majesty to-day, but he feels that his presence is in some degree material at a meeting, at which not only the present situation of your majesty's servants, but also their future conduct and prospects, will be considered. lord melbourne is sure that your majesty will at once perceive that it would not have a good appearance if he were to return to windsor immediately after having announced his resignation to the house of lords on monday next. it is right that there should be no appearance of delay or of unwillingness to carry into effect the wishes of both houses of parliament, and, therefore, your majesty will forgive lord melbourne if he suggests that it would be well if your majesty could make up your mind to appoint sir r. peel on monday next, so that there might be as little delay as possible in the formation of a new government. on all accounts, and particularly on account of the lateness of the season, it is desirable that this should be done as speedily as possible. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he knows well what that feeling of working under the impression of trouble and annoyance is, but if the first gloom is brushed away, confidence and hope and spirits return, and things begin to appear more cheerful. lord melbourne is much obliged by your majesty's enquiries. he slept well, but waked early, which he always does now, and which is a sure sign of anxiety of mind. lord melbourne will be ready to attend your majesty at any time. [pageheading: delay undesirable] [pageheading: parting with lord melbourne] _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ lord melbourne is to take his farewell audience of the queen to-morrow, and her majesty has appointed sir robert peel to come down here at three o'clock to-morrow. i went with lord melbourne from luncheon to his room. he seemed in tolerable spirits, though somewhat sad when he alluded to taking leave of the queen. he said he was anxious that her majesty should lose no time in writing to appoint sir robert peel to be here to-morrow, for though he was not afraid of sir robert taking affront, his party would be too ready to construe any delay on the queen's part into a slight. he said the prince had been with him just before, and amongst other things had urged him to continue to him and to the queen his advice and assistance, especially on measures affecting their private concerns and family concerns; he told lord melbourne it was on these points that he felt lord melbourne's advice had been peculiarly sound, and there was no reason why this should not be continued, and any communication might be made through me. lord melbourne said that the prince had also entered upon the subject of the baroness, and expressed the constant state of annoyance he was kept in by her interference. lord melbourne said to me: "it will be far more difficult to remove her after the change of government than now, because if pressed to do it by a tory minister, the queen's prejudice would be immediately aroused." i admitted this, but said that though the prince felt that if he pressed the point against the baroness remaining, he should be able to carry it, still his good feeling and affection for the queen prevented him from pressing what he knew would be painful, and what could not be carried without an exciting scene; he must remain on his guard, and patiently abide the result. people were beginning much better to understand that lady's character, and time must surely work its own ends. on my being sent for by the prince, lord melbourne said, "i shall see you again before i take my leave." i was much affected by the earnestness with which this was said, and said i would certainly be with him before he saw the queen to-morrow. the prince said that her majesty was cheerful and in good spirits, and the only part of the approaching scene which he dreaded was the farewell with lord melbourne. the queen had, however, been much relieved by the prince arranging for her hearing from lord melbourne whenever she wished it. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thanks your majesty much for the very clever and interesting etchings which your majesty most kindly sent him yesterday evening. lord melbourne will ever treasure them as remembrances of your majesty's kindness and regard, which he prizes beyond measure. they will, as your majesty says, certainly recall to recollection a melancholy day, but still lord melbourne hopes and trusts that with the divine blessing it will hereafter be looked back upon with less grief and bitterness of feeling, than it must be regarded at present. [pageheading: the prince's position] _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ directly i got here this morning the prince sent for me, and said he had been made somewhat uneasy by a conversation he had just had with the queen. her majesty said that after the manner in which the tories had treated the prince (relative to annuity) he ought now to keep them at a distance. she said they would try to flatter him, and would all come to see him; this he should resist, and should refuse to see them, at all events for some time. the prince wished me to mention this to lord melbourne when i went to take leave of him, and to urge lord melbourne to set this right with the queen by his advice before he parted with the queen, reminding him that his view had always been that from this moment the prince would take up a new position, and that the queen, no longer having lord melbourne to resort to in case of need, must from this moment consult and advise with the prince. that lord melbourne should urge the queen to have no scruple in employing the prince, and showing that unless a proper understanding existed from the first, he in attempting to do good would be easily misrepresented. i found lord melbourne alone in his dressing-room and put this case before him. he said he had always thought that when he left the service of the queen the prince would of necessity be brought forward, and must render great assistance to the queen; and the queen's confidence in his judgment having so much increased, this consequence was the more natural. the prince must, however, be very cautious at first, and in a little time he would fall into it. he must be very careful not to alarm the queen, by her majesty for an instant supposing that the prince was carrying on business with peel without her cognisance. if it were possible for any one to advise peel, he would recommend that he should write fully to her majesty, and _elementarily_, as her majesty always liked to have full knowledge upon everything which was going on. he would advise the queen to be cautious in giving a verbal decision, that she should not allow herself to be _driven into a corner_, and forced to decide where she felt her mind was not made up and required reflection. peel should be very careful that intelligence came first from him direct. king william was very particular upon this point, so was the queen. i asked lord melbourne if he had considered the future position of himself with the queen, and also of peel with the queen. he said he owned he had not and would avoid entering into any discussion--he felt sure that he should be regarded with extreme jealousy, not so much by peel as by the party. he would be looked upon as lord bute had been in his relation to george iii.,--always suspected of secret intercourse and intrigue. he would make me the medium of any written communication. with regard to peel's position with the queen, he thought that circumstances must make it. he thought the queen must see him oftener than king william did him, as he thought the present state of things would require more frequent intercourse. the late king used to see him once a week after the levée, seldom oftener; all the rest of the business was transacted by correspondence, but this mode, though it had its merits in some respect, very much impeded the public business. the less personal objections the queen took to any one the better, as any such expression is sure to come out and a personal enemy is made. it was also to be recollected that peel was in a very different position now, backed by a large majority, to when the other overture was made. he had the power _now_ to extort what he pleased, and he fancied he saw the blank faces of the heads of the party when peel told them that he had agreed to the dismissal or resignation of only three of the queen's ladies. lord melbourne said the queen was afraid she never could be at ease with peel, because his manner was so embarrassed, and that conveyed embarrassment also to her, which it would be very difficult to get over. the queen took leave of lord melbourne to-day. her majesty was much affected, but soon recovered her calmness. peel had his first audience at half-past three o'clock. [pageheading: melbourne's opinion of the prince] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ th august _ ( p.m.). lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. the announcement has been made in both houses of parliament. a few words were said by lord stanley[ ] in the house of commons, and nothing in the house of lords. lord melbourne cannot satisfy himself without again stating to your majesty in writing what he had the honour of saying to your majesty respecting his royal highness the prince. lord melbourne has formed the highest opinion of his royal highness's judgment, temper, and discretion, and he cannot but feel a great consolation and security in the reflection that he leaves your majesty in a situation in which your majesty has the inestimable advantage of such advice and assistance. lord melbourne feels certain that your majesty cannot do better than have recourse to it, whenever it is needed, and rely upon it with confidence. lord melbourne will be anxious to hear from your majesty as to what has passed with sir r. peel. your majesty will, lord melbourne is sure, feel that the same general secrecy which your majesty has always observed respecting public affairs is more particularly necessary at the present moment. lord melbourne earnestly hopes that your majesty is well and composed, and with the most anxious wishes for your majesty's welfare and happiness, remains ever your majesty's most devoted and attached servant, and he trusts that he may add, without presumption, your majesty's faithful and affectionate friend. [footnote : who now became colonial secretary.] [pageheading: the household] _memorandum: viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ your majesty might say, if to your majesty it seems good, that in consequence of the addresses voted by both houses of parliament, your majesty's servants had tendered their resignations, and that for the same reason your majesty had accepted those resignations. that your majesty's present servants possessed your majesty's confidence, and that you only parted with them in deference to the opinion of parliament. that your majesty naturally had recourse to sir robert peel as possessing the confidence of the great party which constitutes the majority of both houses, and that you were prepared to empower him to form an administration. that your majesty did not conceive that the giving him this commission of itself empowered him to advise the removal of the officers of your majesty's household; that you conceive that all that the constitution required was that the sovereign's household should support the sovereign's ministers; but that you were prepared to place at his disposal, and to take his advice upon all the offices of the household at present filled by members of either house of parliament, with the exception of those whom your majesty might think proper to name, _i.e._, lord byron[ ]--and it should be understood that this exception was not to extend further than to him. if sir robert peel should wish that in case of lord byron's remaining it should be considered as a fresh appointment made by his advice, this wish might properly be acceded to. _the ladies._--if any difficulty should arise it may be asked to be stated in writing, and reserved for consideration. but it is of great importance that sir robert peel should return to london with full power to form an administration. such must be the final result, and the more readily and graciously it is acquiesced in the better. your majesty must take care not to be driven to the wall, and to be put into a situation in which it is necessary to aye or no. no positive objection should be taken either to men or measures. it must be recollected that at the time of the negotiation in lord melbourne and lord john russell were still at the head of a majority in the house of commons. this is not the case now. [footnote : george anson, seventh lord byron ( - ), cousin and successor of the poet.] [pageheading: the new cabinet] the cabinet of lord melbourne, _as it stood in september ._ _first lord of the treasury_ viscount melbourne. _lord chancellor_ lord (afterwards earl of) cottenham. _chancellor of the exchequer_ mr francis baring (afterwards lord northbrook). _lord president of the council_ marquis of lansdowne. _lord privy seal_ earl of clarendon. _home secretary_ marquis of normanby. _foreign secretary_ viscount palmerston. _colonial secretary_ lord john (afterwards earl) russell. _first lord of the admiralty_ earl of minto. _president of the board of control_ sir john cam hobhouse (afterwards lord broughton). _secretary at war_ mr t. b. (afterwards lord) macaulay. _president of the board of trade_ mr labouchere (afterwards lord taunton). _chief secretary for ireland_ viscount morpeth (afterwards earl of carlisle). _first commissioner of land revenue_ viscount duncannon (afterwards earl of bessborough). _chancellor of the duchy of lancaster_ sir george grey. the cabinet of sir robert peel,[ ] _as formed in september ._ _first lord of the treasury_ sir robert peel. _lord chancellor_ lord lyndhurst. _chancellor of the exchequer_ mr. h. goulburn. (_without office_) duke of wellington. _lord president of the council_ lord wharncliffe. _lord privy seal_ duke of buckingham. _home secretary_ sir james graham. _foreign secretary_ earl of aberdeen. _colonial secretary_ lord stanley (afterwards earl of derby). _first lord of the admiralty_ earl of haddington. _president of the board of control_ lord (afterwards earl of) ellenborough _secretary at war_ sir henry (afterwards viscount) hardinge. _president of the board of trade_ earl of ripon. _paymaster-general_. sir edward knatchbull. [footnote : the peel ministry of was unique in containing three ex-premiers: sir robert peel himself, the earl of ripon, and the duke of wellington, who succeeded lord goderich as premier in . ripon's career was a curious one; he was a singularly ineffective prime minister, and indeed did not, during the course of his ministry (august -january ), ever have to meet parliament. he was disappointed at not being invited to join the wellington ministry, subsequently joined the reform ministry of lord grey, but followed lord stanley, sir james graham, and the duke of richmond out of it. in august he moved the vote of want of confidence in the melbourne ministry, and became president of the board of trade in peel's government. in it fell to him, when president of the board of control, to move the corn law repeal bill in the lords. the only later instance of an ex-premier accepting a subordinate office was in the case of lord john russell, who, in , took the foreign office under aberdeen, subsequently vacating the office and sitting in the cabinet without office. in june , he became lord president of the council, and left the ministry when it was menaced by roebuck's motion. when lord palmerston formed a ministry in , lord john, after an interval, became colonial secretary, again resigning in five months. finally, in , he went back to the foreign office, where he remained until he succeeded palmerston as premier in . the government also contained three future premiers, aberdeen, stanley, and gladstone.] [pageheading: interview with peel] [pageheading: household appointments] [pageheading: the queen's distress] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ windsor castle _ th august ._ ... the first interview with sir robert peel has gone off well, and only lasted twenty minutes; and he sends the queen to-morrow, in writing, the proposed arrangements, and will only come down on wednesday morning. he first wished to come to-morrow, but on the queen's saying that he need not to do that, but might send it and only come down wednesday, he thought the queen might prefer having it to consider a little, which she said she certainly should, though she meant no want of confidence. the queen, in the first instance, stated that she concluded he was prepared for her sending for him, and then stated exactly what lord melbourne wrote, viz., the resignation having taken place in consequence of the addresses--the queen's great regret at parting with her present ministers--the confidence she had in them, and her only acceding in consequence of the addresses in parliament, and then that consequently she looked to him (sir robert peel) as possessing the confidence of both houses of parliament to form an administration. he made many protestations of his sorrow, at what must give pain to the queen (as she said to him it did), but of course said he accepted the task. the duke of wellington's health too uncertain, and himself too prone to sleep coming over him--as peel expressed it--to admit of his taking an office in which he would have much to do, but to be in the cabinet, which the queen expressed her wish he should. he named lord de grey[ ] as lord lieutenant of ireland, and lord eliot[ ] as secretary for ireland, who, he said, were both moderate people. the queen said she gave up to him the officers of state and those of her household who were in parliament, and he then asked if lord liverpool would be agreeable as lord steward (the queen said he would), and if she would object to lord jersey as master of the horse (she said she would not), as she believed he understood it perfectly. he said he was so anxious to do everything which could be agreeable to the queen, that he wished her to name whom she should like as lord chamberlain; she said he might suggest some one, but as he would not, and pressed the queen to name whoever she pleased, she said she should like the duke of rutland, and he said he would certainly name it to him. the queen said that lord melbourne had always been very particular to name no one who might be disagreeable to her in the household, and sir r. peel said he felt this, and should be most anxious to do what could be agreeable to me and for my comfort, and that he would even sacrifice any advantage to this. the queen mentioned the three ladies' resignation, and her wish not to fill up the three ladies' places immediately. she mentioned lady byron,[ ] to which he agreed immediately, and then said, as i had alluded to those communications, he hoped that he had been understood respecting the _other_ appointments (meaning the ladies), that provided i chose some who had a leaning towards the politics of the administration, i might take any i liked, and that he quite understood that i should notify it to them. the queen said this was her rule, and that she wished to choose moderate people who should not have scruples to resign in case another administration should come in, as changing was disagreeable to her. here it ended, and so far well. he was very anxious the queen should understand _how_ anxious he was to do everything which was agreeable to the queen. the queen wishes to know if lord melbourne thinks she should name the duchess of buccleuch mistress of the robes, on wednesday, and if she shall ask sir robert to sound the duchess, or some one else, and then write to appoint her? she thinks of proposing lady de la warr and lady abercorn by and by as the two ladies, but these she will sound herself through other people, or lady canning, or lady rosslyn, in case these others should not take it. she should say she meant to sound those, and no more. what the queen felt when she parted from her dear, kind friend, lord melbourne, is better imagined than described; she was dreadfully affected for some time after, but is calm now. it is very, very sad; and she cannot quite believe it yet. the prince felt it very, very much too, and really the queen cannot say how kind and affectionate he is to her, and how anxious to do everything to lighten this heavy trial; he was quite affected at this sad parting. we do, and shall, miss you so dreadfully; lord melbourne will easily understand what a change it is, after these four years when she had the happiness of having lord melbourne always about her. but it will not be so long till we meet again. happier and brighter times will come again. we anxiously hope lord melbourne is well, and got up well and safe. the queen trusts he will take care of his valuable health, now more than ever. [footnote : thomas, earl de grey ( - ); he was the elder brother of lord ripon, who had been previously known as mr robinson and viscount goderich, and whose son, besides inheriting his father's and uncle's honours, was created marquis of ripon.] [footnote : afterwards third earl of st germans.] [footnote : lady byron had been miss elizabeth chandos-pole.] _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ st august ._ i was sent up to town to-day to see lord melbourne and sir robert peel. i found lord melbourne as usual up in his bedroom. he had received the account of her majesty's first interview with peel, which he thought very satisfactory. sir robert very much regretted that he should have been the instrument of obliging her majesty to change her government. the queen had said to sir robert that though she did not conceive the minister could demand any of the household appointments, still it was her majesty's intention to give up to him the great offices of state, and all other places in the household filled by people in parliament. he was to send his proposed list for offices the next day and be at windsor the morning after that. lord melbourne had written to the queen the night before, stating his opinion of the prince--that he had great discretion, temper, and judgment, and that he considered him to be well worthy of her majesty's confidence, and that now was the time for her majesty to feel comfort and assistance from giving him her fullest confidence. he had just received the queen's answer to this, saying what "pleasure it had given the queen to receive his letter with this expression of his opinion of her beloved husband, and that what he said could not fail to increase the confidence which she already felt in him. he was indeed a great comfort to her in this trying moment; at times she was very low indeed though she strove to bear up. it would always be a satisfaction to her to feel secure of lord melbourne's faithful and affectionate friendship to her and the prince. she hoped after a time to see him here again, and it would always be a pleasure to her to hear from him frequently." from south steet i went to sir robert peel's. i told him i came to speak to him about lord exeter, whom the prince proposed to make the head of his household, should it not interfere with any of sir robert's arrangements for the queen. sir robert said he was so good a man and one that he felt sure the prince would like, and he therefore thought he had better propose the situation to him at once. [pageheading: melbourne's official farewell] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ st august ._ lord melbourne had the pleasure of receiving last night both your majesty's letters, the one dated four o'clock, and written immediately after your majesty's interview with sir r. peel, the other dated half-past nine. lord melbourne thanks your majesty much for them both, and for the expressions of kindness contained in them. lord melbourne will ever consider the time during which your majesty is good enough to think that he has been of service to your majesty the proudest as well as the happiest part of his life. lord melbourne has read with great care your majesty's very clear and full account of what passed. it appears to lord melbourne that nothing could be better. sir robert peel seems to have been anxious to act with the utmost respect and consideration for your majesty, and your majesty most properly and wisely met him half-way. in the spirit in which the negotiation has been commenced i see the prospect of a termination of it, which will be not so unsatisfactory to your majesty as your majesty anticipated, and not, lord melbourne trusts, disadvantageous to the country.... lord melbourne concludes with the most anxious wishes for your majesty's happiness and with expressing a great admiration of the firmness, prudence, and good sense with which your majesty has conducted yourself. lord melbourne begs to be remembered to his royal highness most respectfully, most affectionately. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ _ st august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has just received your majesty's letter. lord melbourne rejoices much to learn that your majesty feels more composed and that you are well. recollect how precious is your majesty's health, and how much health depends upon tranquillity of mind.... lord melbourne will either write to sir francis chantrey[ ] to-morrow morning, or call upon him and settle without further delay about the bust. there is no end of subscriptions to monuments, but perhaps your majesty will do well to subscribe to sir david wilkie's.[ ] your majesty is very good about the blue ribband, but lord melbourne is certain that upon the whole, it is better for his own position and character that he should not have it. [footnote : sir francis chantrey, the sculptor, born in , died on th november .] [footnote : sir david wilkie, painter-in-ordinary to the queen, had died on st june, aged fifty-six.] [pageheading: peel's reception] _the earl of clarendon[ ] to viscount melbourne.[ ]_ grosvenor crescent, _ st august ._ my dear melbourne,--you may like to know that peel was perfectly satisfied with his reception yesterday, and does full justice to the queen's declaration of her regret at parting with her ministers, which he said it was quite natural she should feel, and quite right she should express. this i know from undoubted authority, and from a person who came to enquire of me whether i could tell what impression peel had produced upon the queen, which of course i could not. he assured the queen that he had had no communication with his friends, and was not prepared to submit an administration for her approval, but he is to see her again to-morrow morning. the only appointment yet settled is de grey to ireland; he was very unwilling, but peel insisted. yours sincerely, clarendon. [footnote : the retiring lord privy seal.] [footnote : letter forwarded by lord melbourne to the queen.] [pageheading: farewell audiences] _viscount palmerston to queen victoria._ carlton terrace, _ st august ._ ... viscount palmerston begs to be allowed to tender to your majesty the grateful thanks of himself and of viscountess palmerston for your majesty's gracious expressions towards them. viscount palmerston sees with deep regret the termination of those duties in your majesty's service, in the course of which he has had the honour of experiencing from your majesty so much condescending personal kindness, and such flattering official confidence; and it affords him the highest gratification to have obtained your majesty's approbation. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ nd september ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he received your majesty's letter yesterday evening, and was very glad to learn from it that your majesty was not ill satisfied with sir robert peel, and that the arrangements were going on smoothly, which it is highly desirable that they should. your majesty should desire sir robert peel to give notice to all those who have insignia of office, such as seals, wands, to give up, to attend at claremont on friday; but of course he will do this of himself. your majesty will have much to go through upon that day and much that is painful. your majesty should spare yourself and be spared as much as possible. it will not be necessary for lord melbourne to go down. he may be considered as having resigned at the audience which he had of your majesty at windsor, and lord melbourne has ventured to tell lord lansdowne that he thinks he need not do so either, and that your majesty will excuse his attendance. lord melbourne need say nothing about the secretaries of state, with all of whom your majesty is so well acquainted; but perhaps your majesty will not omit to thank mr baring[ ] cordially for his services. he is a thoroughly honest man and an able public servant. if your majesty could say to the lord chancellor,[ ] "that you part with him with much sorrow; that you are sensible that much of the strength of the late administration was derived from the manner in which he discharged the duties of his office, and that you consider his retirement a great and serious loss to the country," it would certainly be no more than he deserves. it is thought by some who know him here that the duke of rutland will be so extremely pleased with the offer being made, and that by your majesty yourself, that he will accept it; but he is a year older than lord melbourne, and therefore hardly fit for any very active duty.... the appointment of colonel arbuthnot will of course be very agreeable to the duke of wellington. the arbuthnots are quiet, demure people before others; but they are not without depth of purpose, and they are very bitter at bottom. your majesty will not forget the two knights for mr de la beche[ ] and major monro. lord melbourne begins to hope that this affair will be got through more satisfactorily and with less annoyance than your majesty anticipated. as long as your majesty is desirous of receiving his communications, he will be always most careful to give your majesty his impartial opinion and the best advice which he has to offer. his most fervent prayer will always be for your majesty's welfare and happiness. [footnote : the retiring chancellor of the exchequer.] [footnote : lord cottenham.] [footnote : sir henry t. de la beche, an eminent geologist.] [pageheading: melbourne's last official letter] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ nd september ._ ....lord melbourne hopes and trusts that when to-morrow is over your majesty will recover from that depression of spirits under which your majesty now labours. lord melbourne never doubted that it would be so, but is glad to learn from your majesty the support and consolation which your majesty finds in the advice and affection of the prince. this is the last letter which lord melbourne will send in a box. he will to-morrow morning return his keys to the foreign office, and after that your majesty will be good enough to send the letters, with which you may honour lord melbourne, through mr anson. lord melbourne most anxiously wishes your majesty every blessing. [pageheading: council at claremont] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ rd september ._ lord melbourne earnestly hopes that your majesty is well after this trying day.[ ] lord melbourne has thought and felt for your majesty all this morning. but now that the matter is settled it will be necessary that your majesty should take a calm and composed view of the whole situation, which lord melbourne trusts that your majesty will find by no means unsatisfactory. and first with respect to public affairs. in the concerns of a great nation like this there will always be some difficulties and entanglements, but upon the whole the present state is good and the prospect is good for the future. there is no reason to expect that sir robert peel will either be desirous or be able to take a very different course from that which has been taken by your majesty's late servants, and some difficulties will certainly be removed, and some obstacles smoothed, by the change which has lately taken place. with respect to the effect which will be produced upon the comfort of your majesty's private life, it would be idle in lord melbourne, after what your majesty has said, to doubt of the manner in which your majesty will feel the change, which must take place in your majesty, to long accustomed habits and relations. but your majesty may rest assured of lord melbourne's devoted and disinterested attachment to your majesty, and that he will devote himself to giving to your majesty such information and advice as may be serviceable to your majesty with the sole view of promoting your majesty's public interests and private happiness. lord melbourne hopes, and indeed ventures to expect, that your majesty, upon reflection and consideration of the real state of circumstances, will recover your spirits, and lord melbourne has himself great satisfaction in thinking upon the consideration of the advice which he has given, that it has not tended to impair your majesty's influence and authority, but, on the contrary, to secure to your majesty the affection, attachment, approbation, and support of all parties. in the course of this correspondence lord melbourne has thought it his duty to your majesty to express himself with great freedom upon the characters of many individuals, whose names have come under consideration, but lord melbourne thinks it right to say that he may have spoken upon insufficient grounds, that he may have been mistaken, and that the persons in question may turn out to be far better than he has been induced to represent them. [footnote : a council had been held at claremont for the outgoing ministers to give up their seals of office, which were bestowed upon sir robert peel and the incoming cabinet.] [pageheading: melbourne on the new ministry] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th september ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he was most happy to hear yesterday the best account of everything that had taken place at claremont. everybody praised, in the highest manner, the dignity, propriety, and kindness of your majesty's deportment, and if it can be done without anything of deceit or dissimulation, it is well to take advantage of the powers and qualities which have been given, and which are so well calculated to gain a fair and powerful influence over the minds and feelings of others. your majesty may depend upon it, that the impression made upon the minds of all who were present yesterday, is most favourable. of course, with persons in new and rather awkward situations, some of whom had never been in high office before, all of whom had not been so now for some years, there was a good deal of embarrassment and mistakes. forms which are only gone through at long intervals of time, and not every day, are necessarily forgotten, and when they are required nobody knows them. but lord melbourne cannot really think that they looked cross; most probably they did look shy and embarrassed. strange faces are apt to give the idea of ill humour.... lord melbourne anxiously hopes that your majesty is well and happy to-day. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th september ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. your majesty may depend upon it, that if lord melbourne hears anything respecting your majesty, which it appears to him to be important or advantageous, that your majesty should know, lord melbourne will not fail to convey it to your majesty. lord melbourne encloses the exact names of the two gentlemen to whom knighthood has been promised by your majesty.... your majesty is very good, very good indeed, to think of doing what your majesty mentions for fanny; but lord melbourne fears that it would hardly suit with their present situation, or with the comfort of their domestic life. but lord melbourne mentioned the matter yesterday to his sister, and he encloses the letter which she has written to him this morning, after reflecting upon the subject. by that letter your majesty will perceive that jocelyn is not so much in debt, as lord melbourne's letter had led your majesty to suppose.... lord b---- is a very old friend of lord melbourne's. they were at eton together, and intimate there. he is a gentlemanly man and a good man, but not very agreeable. few of the p----s are, and very bitter in politics; but still lord melbourne is glad, for old acquaintance' sake, that your majesty has taken him. lord melbourne must again repeat that when he writes with so much freedom about individual characters, it is only to put your majesty in possession of what he knows respecting them, and not with a view of inducing your majesty to object to their being appointed.... might not fanny have the bedchamber woman's place? it would be a help to her, and would not take her away from home. this only strikes lord melbourne as he is writing. [pageheading: melbourne on peel] _ th september ._ lord melbourne wrote the above yesterday, but had no opportunity of sending it, as there was no post. lord melbourne has since seen lady palmerston, and finds that his last suggestion about fanny will not do. lord melbourne encloses lady palmerston's two notes upon the subject, which will explain to your majesty what she wishes. but if jocelyn is himself to get a place, this will be a better arrangement, and puts an end to all the others. what lady palmerston says about sir r. peel is very unjust. there is no shabbiness whatever in his not coming to a decision upon the factory question.[ ] [footnote : lady palmerston (no doubt in sympathy with lord ashley) expected some factory legislation to be announced.] _queen victoria to the countess of gainsborough._[ ] claremont, _ th september ._ my dearest lady gainsborough,--i had the pleasure of receiving your two kind letters of the th and th ult. yesterday, and thank you much for them. i am so happy that you are _really_ better.... i hoped that you would be pleased at what you thank me for; you see i _did not_ forget what you told me once at windsor when we were out driving, and i assure you that lord melbourne was very anxious to do it. last week was a most painful, trying one to me, and this separation from my truly excellent and kind friend lord melbourne, _most_ distressing. you will understand _what_ a change it must be to me. i am, however, so happy in my home, and have such a perfect angel in the prince, who has been such a comfort to me, that one must be thankful and grateful for these blessings, and take these hard trials as lessons sent from above, for our best. our little girl makes great progress, and suffers comparatively but very little from her teething. we came here to be _quiet_ for a few days, as this place is so very private. the baroness will write to lord gainsborough to say that i wish much you would take lady lyttelton's waiting, which begins on rd of november. the prince begs to be kindly named to you, and i to fanny and your brother, and pray believe me always, dearest lady gainsborough, ever yours most affectionately, victoria r. pray thank fanny for her kind letter. [footnote : formerly, as lady barham, a lady of the bedchamber. lord barham had been created earl of gainsborough in the course of the year ( ).] [pageheading: lord chamberlain's department] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ _ th september ._ the queen wishes that sir robert peel would mention to lord de la warr[ ] that he should be very particular in always naming to the queen any appointment he wishes to make in his department, and always to take her pleasure upon an appointment before he settles on them; this is a point upon which the queen has always laid great stress. this applies in great measure to the appointment of physicians and chaplains, which used to be very badly managed formerly, and who were appointed in a very careless manner; but since the queen's accession the physicians and chaplains have been appointed only for merit and abilities, by the queen herself, which the queen is certain sir robert peel will at once see is a far better way, and one which must be of use in every way. sir robert peel may also tell lord de la warr that it is unnecessary for him to appear in uniform, as the queen always dispenses with this in the country. this applies also to the ministers, who the queen does not expect or wish should appear in uniform at councils which are held in the country. the queen concludes that it will be necessary to hold a council some time next week to swear in some of the new officers who are not privy councillors; but sir robert peel will be able to tell the queen when he thinks this will be necessary. [footnote : see _ante_, p .(ch. viii, th may, )] [pageheading: diplomatic appointments] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ _ th september ._ there is a subject which the queen wishes to mention to sir robert peel, as she is at present so little acquainted with lord aberdeen; the queen is very desirous that, if it were possible, sir hamilton seymour should not be removed from brussels. the queen believes that his political views are not violent either way, and she knows that he is peculiarly agreeable to her uncle, which has, therefore, prompted her to write this to sir robert peel. the queen seizes the same opportunity to say that she is also very anxious that a moderate and conciliatory person should be sent to lisbon, as it is of great importance there. [pageheading: the french ambassador] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ claremont, _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--i begin my letter to-day, for fear i should have no time to write to-morrow. your kind letter gave me great pleasure, and i must own your silence on all that was going on distressed me very much! it has been indeed a sad time for me, and i am still bewildered, and can't believe that my excellent lord melbourne is no longer my minister, but he will be, as you say, and has _already_ proved himself, _very_ useful and _valuable_ as my friend out of office. he writes to me often, and i write to him, and he gives really the fairest and most impartial advice possible. but after seeing him for four years, with very few exceptions--_daily_--you may imagine that i _must_ feel the change; and the longer the time gets since we parted, the _more_ i feel it. _eleven days_ was the _longest_ i ever was without seeing him, and this time will be elapsed on saturday, so you may imagine what the change must be. i cannot say what a comfort and support my beloved angel is to me, and how well and how kindly and properly he behaves. i cannot resist copying for you what lord melbourne wrote to me about albert, the evening after we parted; he has already praised him greatly to me, before he took leave of me. it is as follows: "lord melbourne cannot satisfy himself without again stating to your majesty in writing what he had the honour of saying to your majesty respecting h.r.h. the prince. lord melbourne has formed the highest opinion of h.r.h.'s judgment, temper, and discretion, and he cannot but feel a great consolation and security in the reflection that he leaves your majesty in a situation in which your majesty has the inestimable advantage of such advice and assistance. lord melbourne feels certain that your majesty cannot do better than have recourse to it, whenever it is needed, and rely upon it with confidence." this naturally gave me great pleasure, and made me very proud, as it comes from a person who is no flatterer, and would not have said it if he did not think so, or feel so. the new cabinet you have by this time seen in the papers. the household (of which i send you a list) is well constituted--_for tories_. lord aberdeen has written to me to say bourqueney has announced ste aulaire[ ] as ambassador. this is very well, but let me beg you, for decency's sake, to stop his coming immediately; if _even not meant_ to, it would have the effect of their sending an ambassador the moment the government changed, which would be too marked, and most _offensive personally_ to _me_. indeed guizot behaved very badly about refusing to sign the slave trade treaty[ ] which they had so long ago settled to do; it is unwise and foolish to irritate the late government who may so easily come in again; for palmerston will _not_ forgive nor _forget_ offences, and then france would be worse off than before, with england. i therefore _beg_ you to stop ste aulaire for a little while, else _i_ shall feel it a great personal offence. _ th._--i have had a letter from lord melbourne to-day, who is much gratified by yours to him.... now adieu! believe me, always, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : see _post_, p. . (ch. x, st october, )] [footnote : a treaty on the subject was signed in london, on th december, between great britain, france, austria, prussia, and russia.] [pageheading: queen adelaide] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ sudbury hall, _ th september ._ my dearest niece,--i have not ventured to disturb you with a letter since we parted, knowing how fully your time was employed with business of importance. i cannot any longer now refrain to enquire after you, after all you have gone through lately, and i must congratulate you with all my heart on having so well completed your difficult task. there is but one voice of praise, i hear, of your perfect composure and beautiful conduct during the trying scenes of last week. it has gratified me more than i can express, for i had fully expected it of you, and it has made me very happy to find that it has been generally remarked and has given so much satisfaction. everybody feels deeply for you, and the devotion and zeal in your service is redoubled by the interest your trying position has evoked. may our heavenly father support and guide you always as hitherto, is my constant prayer! i hope that the selection of your government is to your own satisfaction, and though the change must have been trying to you, i trust that you will have perfect confidence in the able men who form your council. our beloved late king's anxious wishes to see wellington and peel again at the head of the administration is now fulfilled. his blessing rests upon you. excuse my having touched upon this subject, but i could not keep silent whilst the heart is so full of earnest good wishes for your and the country's prosperity. i hope that an article of the newspapers, of the indisposition of your darling child, is not true, and that she is quite well. god bless and protect her!... i am much amused with reading your life by miss strickland,[ ] which, though full of errors, is earnest on the whole, and very interesting to _me_. however, i wish she would correct the gross errors which otherwise will go down to posterity. she ought to have taken first better information before she published her work.... with my affectionate love to dear prince albert, believe me ever, my dearest niece, your most devoted and affectionate aunt, adelaide. [footnote : miss agnes strickland ( - ), who also edited _letters of mary queen of scots_, etc.] _memorandum by mr anson._ claremont, _ th september ._ the ministerial arrangements are now nearly completed. writs for new elections moved last night. wrote to sir robert, telling him the queen ought to have heard from him respecting the adjournment of the house of commons, instead of seeing it first in the public papers. told him also of its being the queen's wish that a short report of the debates in each house should always be sent to her majesty, from him in the commons and from the duke of wellington in the lords. the queen had a letter to-day from the queen dowager, which was kindly meant, but which made her majesty rather angry, complimenting her majesty on the good grace with which she had changed her government, and saying that the late king's blessing rested upon her for calling the duke of wellington and peel to her councils, etc.... [pageheading: the queen criticises appointments] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ _ th september ._ the queen takes this opportunity of writing to sir robert peel _confidentially_ about another person: this is about lord ----. the queen is strongly of opinion that lord ---- should _not_ be employed in any post of importance, as his being so would, in her opinion, be detrimental to the interests of the country. the queen wishes sir robert to state this to lord aberdeen as her opinion. the queen is certain that sir robert will take care that it should not be known generally that this is her opinion, for she is always most anxious to avoid anything that might appear personal towards anybody. the queen cannot refrain from saying that she cannot quite approve of sir charles bagot's appointment,[ ] as from what she has heard of his qualities she does not think that they are of a character quite to suit in the arduous and difficult position in which he will be placed. at the same time the queen does not mean to object to his appointment (for she has already formally approved of it), but she feels it her duty to state frankly and at all times her opinion, as she begs sir robert also to do unreservedly to her. for the future, it appears to the queen that it would be best in all appointments of such importance that before a direct communication was entered into with the individual intended to be proposed, that the queen should be informed of it, so that she might talk to her ministers fully about it; not because it is likely that she would object to the appointment, but merely that she might have time to be acquainted with the qualities and abilities of the person. the queen has stated this thus freely to sir robert as she feels certain that he will understand and appreciate the motives which prompt her to do so. the queen would wish the council to be at two on tuesday, and she begs sir robert would inform her which of the ministers besides him will attend. [footnote : as governor-general of canada.] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ _ th september ._ ... sir robert peel will have the honour of writing to your majesty to-morrow on the subjects adverted to in the note which he has just received from your majesty. he begs for the present to assure your majesty that he shall consider every communication which your majesty may be pleased to address to him in reference to the personal merits or disqualifications of individuals as of a most confidential character. [pageheading: peel apologises] _sir robert peel to mr anson._ whitehall, _ th september ._ my dear sir,--i am sorry if i have failed to make any communication to her majesty respecting public matters, which her majesty has been in the habit of receiving, or which she would have wished to receive. having been occupied in the execution of the important trust committed to me not less than sixteen or eighteen hours of the twenty-four for several days past, it may be that i have made some omissions in this respect, which under other circumstances i might have avoided. i did not think her majesty would wish to be informed of the issue of writs, necessarily following the appointments to certain offices, of all which her majesty had approved. i certainly ought to have written to her majesty previously to the adjournment of the house of commons until thursday the _ th of september_. it was an inadvertent omission on my part, amid the mass of business which i have had to transact, and i have little doubt that if i had been in parliament i should have avoided it. the circumstances of my having vacated my seat, and of having thus been compelled to leave to others the duty of proposing the adjournment of the house, was one cause of my inadvertence. both the duke of wellington and i fully intended to make a report to her majesty after the close of the parliamentary business of each day, and will do so without fail on the reassembling of parliament. i am, my dear sir, very faithfully yours, robert peel. [pageheading: diplomatic appointments] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th september ._ ... lord melbourne has no doubt that sir robert peel has the most anxious wish to do everything that can be agreeable to your majesty. your majesty should not omit to speak fully and seriously to him upon the disposal of great appointments. their diplomatic corps, from which ambassadors and governors are generally taken, is the weakest part of their establishment. they have amongst them men of moderate abilities and of doubtful integrity, who yet have held high offices and have strong claims upon them. the public service may suffer most essentially by the employment of such men. lord melbourne would say to peel that "affairs depend more upon the hands to which they are entrusted than upon any other cause, and that you hope he will well consider those whose appointment to high and important situations he sanctions, and that he will not suffer claims of connection or of support to overbalance a due regard for your majesty's service and the welfare of the country." such an expression of your majesty's opinion may possibly be a support to sir robert peel against pretensions which he would be otherwise unable to resist; but this is entirely submitted to your majesty's judgment, seeing that your majesty, from an exact knowledge of all that is passing, must be able to form a much more correct opinion of the propriety and discretion of any step than lord melbourne can do.... lord melbourne has a letter from lord john russell, rather eager for active opposition; but lord melbourne will write to your majesty more fully upon these subjects from woburn. [pageheading: canada] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ woburn abbey, _ th september ._ lord melbourne has this morning received your majesty's letter of yesterday. lord melbourne entirely agrees with your majesty about appointments. he knows, as your majesty does from experience, that with all the claims which there are to satisfy, with all the prejudices which are to be encountered, and with all the interests which require to be reconciled, it is impossible to select the best men, or even always those properly qualified. he is the last man who would wish that a minister who has the whole machine of the government before him should be necessarily thwarted or interfered with in the selection of those whom he may be desirous to employ. lord melbourne would therefore by no means advise your majesty to throw difficulty in the way of the diplomatic arrangements which may be proposed, unless there should be in them anything manifestly and glaringly bad. the nomination of lord ---- would have been so, but otherwise it cannot very greatly signify who is the ambassador at vienna, or even at petersburg or paris. stuart de rothesay[ ] and strangford[ ] are not good men, either of them, but it will be difficult for lord aberdeen to neglect their claims altogether. heytesbury[ ] is an able man, the best they have. sir robert gordon[ ] is an honest man, slow but not illiberal. it would be well if your majesty showed lord aberdeen that you know these men, and have an opinion upon the subject of them. canada is another matter. it is a most difficult and most hazardous task. there has been recent rebellion in the country. a new constitution has lately been imposed upon it by parliament. the two provinces have been united, and the united province is bordered by a most hostile and uncontrollable community, the united states of north america. to govern such a country at such a moment requires a man of great abilities, a man experienced and practical in the management of popular assemblies.... it is possible that matters may go smoothly there, and that if difficulties do arise sir c. bagot may prove more equal to them than from his general knowledge of his character lord melbourne would judge him to be.... upon the subject of diplomatic appointments lord melbourne has forgotten to make one general observation which he thinks of importance. upon a change of government a very great and sudden change of all or many of the ministers at foreign courts is an evil and to be avoided, inasmuch as it induces an idea of a general change of policy, and disturbs everything that has been settled. george iii. always set his face against and discouraged such numerous removals as tending to shake confidence abroad in the government of england generally and to give it a character of uncertainty and instability. it would be well if your majesty could make this remark to lord aberdeen. [footnote : the new ambassador to st petersburg.] [footnote : percy, sixth viscount strangford ( - ), formerly ambassador to constantinople, whom byron described as "hibernian strangford, with thine eyes of blue, and boasted locks of red or auburn hue."] [footnote : see _post_, p. . (ch. x, th september, )] [footnote : the new ambassador to vienna.] [pageheading: india and afghanistan] [pageheading: lord ellenborough's report] [pageheading: indian finances] _lord ellenborough[ ] to queen victoria._ lord ellenborough presents his most humble duty to your majesty, and humbly acquaints your majesty that having, on the morning after the council held at claremont on the third of this month, requested the clerks of the india board to put him in possession of the latest information with respect to the political, military, and financial affairs of india, he ascertained that on the th of june instructions had been addressed to the governor-general of india in council in the following terms:--"we direct that unless circumstances now unknown to us should induce you to adopt a different course, an adequate force be advanced upon herat, and that that city and its dependencies may be occupied by our troops, and dispositions made for annexing them to the kingdom of cabul."[ ] the last letters from calcutta, dated the th of july, did not intimate any intention on the part of the governor-general in council of directing any hostile movement against herat, and the governor-general himself having always evinced much reluctance to extend the operations of the army to that city, it seemed almost probable that the execution of the orders of the th of june would have been suspended until further communication could be had with the home authorities. nevertheless, in a matter of so much moment it did not appear to be prudent to leave anything to probability, and at lord ellenborough's instance your majesty's confidential servants came to the conclusion that no time should be lost in addressing to the governor-general in council a letter in the following terms--such letter being sent, as your majesty must be aware, not directly by the commissioners for the affairs of india, but, as the act of parliament prescribes in affairs requiring secrecy, by their direction through and in the name of the secret committee of the court of directors:-- "from the secret committee of the court of directors of the east india company to the governor-general of india in council. "her majesty having been pleased to form a new administration, we think it expedient that no step should be taken with respect to herat which would have the effect of compelling the prosecution of a specific line of policy in the countries beyond the indus, until the new ministers shall have had time to take the subject into their deliberate consideration, and to communicate to us their opinions thereupon. "we therefore direct that, unless you should have already taken measures in pursuance of our instructions of the th of june --which commit the honour of your government to the prosecution of the line of policy which we thereby ordered you to adopt, or which could not be arrested without prejudice to the public interests, or danger to the troops employed--you will consider those instructions to be suspended. "we shall not fail to communicate to you at an early period our fixed decision upon this subject." it was not possible to bring this subject before your majesty's confidential servants before the afternoon of saturday the th. the mail for india, which should have been despatched on the st, had been detained till monday the th by the direction of your majesty's late ministers, in order to enable your majesty's present servants to transmit to india and china any orders which it might seem to them to be expedient to issue forthwith. further delay would have been productive of much mercantile inconvenience, and in india probably of much alarm. in this emergency your majesty's ministers thought that your majesty would be graciously pleased to approve of their exercising at once the power of directing the immediate transmission to india of these instructions. your majesty must have had frequently before you strong proofs of the deep interest taken by russia in the affairs of herat, and your majesty cannot but be sensible of the difficulty of maintaining in europe that good understanding with russia which has such an important bearing upon the general peace, if serious differences should exist between your majesty and that power with respect to the states of central asia. but even if the annexation of herat to the kingdom of cabul were not to have the effect of endangering the continuance of the good understanding between your majesty and russia, still your majesty will not have failed to observe that the further advance of your majesty's forces miles into the interior of central asia for the purpose of effecting that annexation, could not but render more difficult of accomplishment the original intention of your majesty, publicly announced to the world, of withdrawing your majesty's troops from afghanistan as soon as shah sooja should be firmly established upon the throne he owes to your majesty's aid. these considerations alone would have led lord ellenborough to desire that the execution of the orders given on the th of june should at least be delayed until your majesty's confidential servants had had time to consider maturely the policy which it might be their duty to advise your majesty to sanction with respect to the countries on the right bank of the indus; but financial considerations strengthened this desire, and seemed to render it an imperative duty to endeavour to obtain time for mature reflection before any step should be taken which might seriously affect the tranquillity of europe, and must necessarily have disastrous effects upon the administration of india. it appeared that the political and military charges now incurred beyond the indus amounted to £ , , a year--that the estimate of the expense of the additions made to the army in india, since april , was £ , , a year, and that the deficit of indian revenue in - having been £ , , , a further deficit of £ , , was expected in - . your majesty must be too well informed of the many evils consequent upon financial embarrassment, and entertains too deep a natural affection for all your majesty's subjects, not to desire that in whatever advice your majesty's confidential servants may tender to your majesty with respect to the policy to be observed in afghanistan, they should have especial regard to the effect which the protracted continuance of military operations in that country, still more any extension of them to a new and distant field, would have upon the finances of india, and thereby upon the welfare of eighty millions of people who there acknowledge your majesty's rule. [footnote : president of the board of control.] [footnote : for the progress of affairs in afghanistan, _see_ introductory notes for - . (to ch. viii; ch. ix; ch. x; ch. xi)] _queen victoria to lord ellenborough._ windsor castle, _ th september ._ the queen thanks lord ellenborough for this clear and interesting memorandum he has sent. it seems to the queen that the course intended to be pursued--namely to take time to consider the affairs of india without making any precipitate change in the policy hitherto pursued, and without involving the country hastily in expenses, is far the best and safest. [pageheading: diplomatic appointments] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th september ._ in the conversation that the queen had with lord aberdeen last week, she omitted mentioning two persons to him. the one is lord heytesbury; the queen believes him to be a very able man, and would it not therefore be a good thing to employ him in some important mission? the other person is mr aston, who is at madrid; the queen hopes it may be possible to leave him there, for she thinks that he acted with great discretion, prudence, and moderation since he has been there, and the post is one of considerable importance. he was, the queen believes, long secretary to the legation at paris. _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ st september ._ lord aberdeen presents his most humble duty to your majesty.... lord aberdeen has seen the favourable opinion which your majesty has been graciously pleased to express of lord heytesbury, and he humbly presumes to think that this honour is not unmerited. the situation of governor-general of india has recently been proposed by sir robert peel for lord heytesbury's acceptance, which has been declined by him, and it is understood that lord heytesbury is not at present desirous of public employment.[ ] your majesty's servants have not yet fully considered the propriety of submitting to your majesty any proposal of a change in the spanish mission; but the opinion which your majesty has been pleased to signify respecting the conduct of mr aston at madrid appears, in the humble judgment of lord aberdeen, to be fully confirmed by the correspondence in this office. lord aberdeen would, however, venture humbly to mention that the person filling this mission has usually been replaced on a change of the administration at home. should this be the case in the present instance, lord aberdeen begs to assure your majesty that the greatest care will be taken to select an individual for your majesty's approbation who may be qualified to carry into effect the wise, just, and moderate policy which your majesty has been graciously pleased to recognise in the conduct of mr aston. [footnote : he was made governor and captain of the isle of wight, and governor of carisbrooke castle.] [pageheading: melbourne and peel] _memorandum by mr anson._ royal lodge, _ st september ._ saw baron stockmar this morning at the castle, and had a good deal of conversation with him on various matters. he is very apprehensive that evil will spring out of the correspondence now carried on between the queen and lord melbourne. he thinks it is productive of the greatest possible danger, and especially to lord melbourne; he thought no government could stand such undermining influence. i might tell this to lord melbourne, and say that if he was totally disconnected from his party, instead of being the acknowledged head, there would not be the same objection. he said, remind lord melbourne of the time immediately after the queen's accession, when he had promised the king of the belgians to write to him from time to time an account of all that was going on in this country; and upon lord melbourne telling him of this promise, he replied, this will not do. it cannot be kept a secret that you keep up this correspondence, and jealousy and distrust will be the fruit of a knowledge of it. "leave it to me," he said, "to arrange with the king; you cease to write, and i will put it straight with the king." the baron seemed to expect lord melbourne to draw the inference from this that a correspondence between lord melbourne and the queen was fraught with the same danger, and would, when known, be followed by distrust and jealousy on the part of sir robert peel. i said i reconciled it to myself because i felt that it had been productive of much good and no harm--and that, feeling that it was conducted on such honourable terms, i should not, if it were necessary, scruple to acquaint sir robert peel of its existence. the baron said, "ask lord melbourne whether he would object to it." he said peel, when he heard it, would not, on the first impression, at all approve of it; but prudence and caution would be immediately summoned to his aid, and he would see that it was his policy to play the generous part--and would say he felt all was honourably intended, and he had no objection to offer--"but," said the baron, "look to the result. distrust, being implanted from the first, whenever the first misunderstanding arose, or things took a wrong turn, all would, in peel's mind, be immediately attributed to this cause." _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--i have already thanked you for your two kind letters, but i did not wish to answer them but by a messenger. i feel thankful for your praise of my conduct; all is going on well, but it would be needless to attempt to deny that i _feel_ the _change_, and i own i am much happier when i need _not_ see the ministers; luckily they do not want to see me often. i feel much the king's kindness about ste aulaire;[ ] i shall see him here on tuesday next. i return you our excellent friend melbourne's letter, which i had already seen, as he sent it me to read, and then seal and send. i miss him much, but i often hear from him, which is a great pleasure to me. it is a great satisfaction to us to have stockmar here; he is a great resource, and is now in excellent spirits. mamma is, i suppose, with you now, and we may expect her here either next thursday or friday. how much she will have to tell us! i am very grateful for what you say of claremont, which could so easily be made perfect; and i must say we enjoy ourselves there always _particulièrement_.... albert begs me to make you his excuses for not writing, but i can bear testimony that he really has not time to-day. and now _addio!_ dearest uncle, and pray believe me, always, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : see _post_, p. . (ch. x, st october, )] [pageheading: fine arts commission] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ _ th september ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to be permitted to submit for your majesty's consideration a suggestion which has occurred to sir robert peel, and which has reference to the communication which he recently addressed to your majesty on the subject of the promotion of the fine arts in connection with the building of the new houses of parliament. sir robert peel would humbly enquire from your majesty whether (in the event of your majesty's being graciously pleased to approve of the appointment of a royal commission for the further investigation and consideration of a subject of such deep importance and interest to the encouragement of art in this country) your majesty would deem it desirable that the prince should be invited in the name of your majesty to place himself at the head of this commission, and to give to it the authority and influence of his high name, and the advantage of his taste and knowledge. sir robert peel will not of course mention this subject to any one, until he has had the honour of receiving from your majesty an intimation of your majesty's opinions and wishes on this subject. [pageheading: diplomatic appointments] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th september ._ ... the diplomatic appointments are as well as they could be made. at least lord melbourne thinks so--at least as much in consequence of those whom they exclude, as of those whom they admit. the duke of beaufort will do better for petersburg than for vienna. he is hardly equal to the place, which requires a clever man, it being more difficult to get information there, and to find out what is going on, than in any other country in europe.... but lord melbourne does not much regard this, and the duke of beaufort possesses one advantage, which is of the greatest importance in that country. he is a soldier, was the duke of wellington's aide-de-camp, and served during much of the peninsular war. he will therefore be able to accompany the emperor to reviews, and to talk with him about troops and man[oe]uvres. sir robert gordon and sir s. canning will do very well.[ ] lord melbourne is very glad to hear that your majesty was pleased and impressed with archdeacon wilberforce's[ ] sermon and his manner of delivering it. lord melbourne has never seen nor heard him. his father had as beautiful and touching a voice as ever was heard. it was very fine in itself. he spoiled it a little by giving it a methodistical and precatory intonation. hayter has been to lord melbourne to-day to press him to sit to him, which he will do as soon as he has done with chantrey. chantrey says that all lord melbourne's face is very easy except the mouth. the mouth, he says, is always the most difficult feature, and he can rarely satisfy himself with the delineation of any mouth, but lord melbourne's is so flexible and changeable that it is almost impossible to catch it. [footnote : for vienna and constantinople.] [footnote : samuel, son of william wilberforce, at this date archdeacon of surrey, and chaplain to prince albert; afterwards, in , appointed bishop of oxford, and eventually translated to the see of winchester.] [pageheading: melbourne's advice] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ st october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he received your majesty's letter yesterday evening, and cannot express to your majesty how much obliged he feels by your majesty's taking the trouble to give him so much information upon so many points. ste aulaire's hair-powder seems to make a very deep and general impression.[ ] everybody talks about it. "he appears to be very amiable and agreeable," everybody says, but then adds, "i never saw a man wear so much powder." a head so whitened with flour is quite a novelty and a prodigy in these times. lord melbourne has not yet seen him, but means to call upon him immediately. lord melbourne is upon the whole glad that the duke of beaufort has declined st petersburg. it is an appointment that might have been acquiesced in, but would not have been approved. bulwer[ ] will not be a bad choice to accompany sir charles[ ] to canada. your majesty knows bulwer well. he is clever, keen, active; somewhat bitter and caustic, and rather suspicious. a man of a more straightforward character would have done better, but it would be easy to have found many who would have done worse. lord melbourne is very glad that it has been offered to the prince to be at the head of this commission, and that his royal highness has accepted it. it is an easy, unexceptionable manner of seeing and becoming acquainted with a great many people, and of observing the mode of transacting business in this country. the commission itself will be a scene of very considerable difference of opinion. lord melbourne is for decorating the interior of the houses of parliament, if it be right to do so, but he is not for doing it, whether right or wrong, for the purpose of spending the public money in the encouragement of the fine arts. whether it is to be painting or sculpture, or both; if painting, what sort of painting, what are to be the subjects chosen, and who are to be the artists employed? all these questions furnish ample food for discussion, difference, and dispute. chantrey says fresco will never do; it stands ill in every climate, will never stand long in this, even in the interior of a building, and in a public work such as this is, durability is the first object to be aimed at. he says that there is in the vatican a compartment of which the middle portion has been painted by giulio romano[ ] in fresco, and at each of the ends there is a figure painted by raphael in oil. the fresco painting has been so often repaired in consequence of decay, that not a vestige of the original work remains; while the two figures painted by raphael in oil still stand out in all their original freshness, and even improved from what they were when first executed.... lord melbourne dined and slept on wednesday at wimbledon.[ ] he met there lord and lady cottenham, lord[ ] and lady langdale, lord glenelg and his brother, mr wm. grant, who was his private secretary, and is an amusing man. lord melbourne is going there again to-morrow to stay until monday. the place is beautiful; it is not like claremont, but it is quite of the same character, and always puts lord melbourne in mind of it. the duchess has many merits, but amongst them is the not small one of having one of the best cooks in england. [footnote : madame de lieven wrote to aberdeen, th september : "ne jugez pas cet ambassadeur par son exterieur; il personnifie un peu les marquis de molière.... passez-lui ses cheveux poudrés, son air galant et papillon auprès des femmes. he cannot help it."] [footnote : sir henry bulwer, afterwards lord dalling.] [footnote : sir charles bagot.] [footnote : he was a pupil of raphael, celebrated for (among other works) his "fall of the titans."] [footnote : the word is almost illegible. wimbledon was at that time in the occupation of the duke of somerset.] [footnote : master of the rolls.] [pageheading: peers and audiences] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ nd october ._ sir james graham with humble duty begs to lay before your majesty two letters, which he has received from the earl of radnor,[ ] together with the copy of the answer which sir james graham returned to the first of the two letters. if the presentation of petitions were the sole subject of the audience, it might be needless to impose on your majesty the trouble incident to this mode of receiving them, since they might be transmitted through the accustomed channel of one of the secretaries of state; but sir james graham infers from a conversation which, since the receipt of the letters he has had with lord radnor, that the audience is asked in exercise of a right claimed by peers of the realm. the existence of this right is not recognised by statute; but it rests in ancient usage, and is noticed by judge blackstone in his commentaries on the laws of england in the following terms:-- "it is usually looked upon to be the right of each particular peer of the realm to demand an audience of the king, and to lay before him, with decency and respect, such matters as he shall judge of importance to the public weal." the general practice on the part of the sovereign has been not to refuse these audiences when peers have asked them.... the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's dutiful subject and servant, j. r. g. graham. [footnote : william, third earl, formerly m.p. for salisbury.] _queen victoria to sir james graham._ windsor castle, _ rd october ._ the queen has received sir james graham's communication with the enclosures. she thinks that it would be extremely inconvenient if audiences were to be granted to peers for the purpose of presenting petitions or addresses. the queen knows that it has always been considered a sort of right of theirs to ask for and receive an audience of the king or queen. but the queen knows that upon several occasions lord melbourne and lord john russell wrote to the peers who requested audiences, stating that it would be very inconvenient for the queen, particularly in the country, and that they had better either put off asking for it, till the queen came to town, or send what they had to say; communicate in writing--which was complied with. if, therefore, sir james graham would state this to lord radnor, he may probably give up pressing for an audience. should he, however, urge his wish very strongly, the queen will see him in the manner proposed by sir james. the queen would wish to hear from sir james again before she gives a final answer. [pageheading: the chinese campaign] _lord ellenborough to queen victoria._ india board, _ nd october ._ lord ellenborough, with his most humble duty to your majesty, humbly acquaints your majesty that your majesty's ministers, taking into consideration the smallness of the force with which the campaign in china was commenced this year, and the advanced period of the season at which the reinforcements would arrive (which reinforcements would not so raise the strength of the army as to afford any reasonable expectation that its operations will produce during the present year any decisive results), have deemed it expedient that instructions would be at once issued to the indian government with a view to the making of timely preparations for the campaign of .[ ] your majesty's ministers are of opinion that the war with china should be conducted on an enlarged scale, and the indian government will be directed to have all their disposable military and naval force at singapore in april, so that the operations may commence at the earliest period which the season allows. lord ellenborough cannot but entertain a sanguine expectation that that force so commencing its operations, and directed upon a point where it will intercept the principal internal communication of the chinese empire, will finally compel the chinese government to accede to terms of peace honourable to your majesty, and affording future security to the trade of your majesty's subjects. [footnote : ningpo was taken by sir hugh gough on th october , and no further operations took place till the spring of the following year. _see_ introductory note, _ante_, p. . (intro note to ch. x)] _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ rd october ._ sat by the queen last night at dinner. her majesty alluded to sir robert peel's awkward manner, which she felt she could not get over. i asked if her majesty had yet made any effort, which i was good-humouredly assured her majesty "thought she really had done." sir robert's ignorance of character was most striking and unaccountable; feeling this, made it difficult for her majesty to place reliance upon his judgment in recommendations. [pageheading: english and foreign artists] [pageheading: sir francis chantrey] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he had the honour of receiving your majesty's letter of the nd inst. yesterday, at wimbledon. if lord melbourne should hear of anything of what your majesty asks respecting the impression made upon sir robert and lady peel, he will take care and inform your majesty, but, of course, they will speak very favourably, and if they feel otherwise will not breathe it except in the most secret and confidential manner. lord melbourne is very much rejoiced to hear that the duchess of kent arrived safe and well and in good spirits. lord melbourne sat to sir f. chantrey on saturday last. he will, lord melbourne believes, require only one more sitting, which he wishes to be at the distance of a week from the last, in order that he may take a fresh view of the bust, and not become reconciled to its imperfections by continually looking at it. it may give the prince some idea of the national feeling which prevails here, when he is told that lord melbourne upon asking sir f. chantrey what ought to be done if foreign artists were employed to paint the houses of parliament, received from him the following answer: "why, their heads ought to be broke and they driven out of the country, and, old as i am, i should like to lend a hand for that purpose." _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ ... lord melbourne, by telling your majesty what sir francis chantrey said respecting foreign artists, and by requesting your majesty to repeat it to the prince, by no means intended to imply that there was any disposition on the part of his royal highness to recommend the employment of foreigners. he only meant to convey the idea of the strength of the prejudice which is felt by enlightened and able men upon the subject. lord melbourne has been sitting this morning to hayter for the picture of the marriage, and he (hayter) held an entirely contrary language. his tone is: "if foreign artists are more capable than english, let them be employed. all i require is that the work should be done as well as it can be." the english are certainly very jealous of foreigners, and so, lord melbourne apprehends, are the rest of mankind, but not knowing himself any nation except the english, he cannot venture to make positively that assertion. lord melbourne has been reading the evidence given before the committee of the house of commons upon this subject. it is well worth attention, particularly mr eastlake's,[ ] which appears to lord melbourne to be very enlightened, dispassionate, and just.... [footnote : afterwards sir charles eastlake, keeper of the national gallery, - , president of the royal academy, - .] [pageheading: the prince's grant] _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ sat by her majesty last night at dinner. the queen had written to lord melbourne about coming to the castle, but in his answer he had made no allusion to it; she did not know whether this was accidental or intentional, for he very often gave no answer to questions which were put. i told her majesty that i feared he had raised an obstacle to his visit by making a strong speech against the government just at the time he was thinking of coming. that this attack had identified him as the leader of his party, at a moment when i had been most anxious that he should abstain from taking an active part, and by withdrawing himself from politics he would enable himself to become the more useful friend to her majesty. the queen had not seen the speech, was sorry he had felt himself obliged to make it, but it would be difficult for him to avoid it after having been so long prime minister. her majesty told me that previous to the exit of the late government, lord john had earnestly cautioned her majesty not to propose any new grant of money, as it would in the case of £ , for the new stables, however unfairly, bring great unpopularity upon the queen. i said in regard to any increase to the prince's annuity, i thought it would be very imprudent in him to think of it, except under very peculiar circumstances which might arise, but which could not yet be foreseen. the queen said that _nothing_ should induce her majesty to accept such a favour from these ministers. peel probably now regretted his opposition to the grant, but it was, and was intended to be, a personal insult to herself, and it was followed up [by] opposition to her private wishes in the precedency question, where the duke of wellington took the lead against her wishes, as peel had done in the commons against the prince's grant. she never could forget it, and no favour to her should come from such a quarter. i told her majesty i could not rest the prince's case on her majesty's objections if they were the only ones which could be brought forward. if the case again rose i feared her majesty would find many who before, from party views, voted according to her majesty's wishes, would now rank on the opposite side. her majesty asked dr hawtrey the evening before who was the cleverest boy at eton. dr hawtrey made a profound bow to the queen and said, "i trust your majesty will excuse my answering, for if i did i make enemies at once." _memorandum by baron stockmar._ _ th october ._ the queen had asked lord melbourne whether he would soon visit her at windsor. he had not replied on that point, but had written to prince albert in order to learn first the prince's opinion on the feasibility of the matter. the prince sent for me and consulted with me. i was of opinion that the prince had better refrain from giving an answer, and that i should give my opinion in the written form of a memorandum, with which anson should betake himself to town. he was to read it aloud to melbourne, and orally to add what amplifications might be necessary. and so it was done. [pageheading: relations with peel] my memorandum was as follows:-- sir robert peel has yet to make his position opposite[ ] the queen, which for him to obtain is important and desirable for obvious reasons. i have good cause to doubt that sir robert is sure within himself of the good-will and confidence of the queen. as long as the secret communication exists between her majesty and lord melbourne, this ground, upon which alone sir robert could obtain the position necessary to him as premier, must remain cut away from under his feet. i hold, therefore, this secret interchange an _essential injustice_ to sir robert's present situation. i think it equally wrong to call upon the prince to give an opinion on the subject, as he has not the means to cause his opinion to be either regarded or complied with. in this particular matter nobody has paramount power to do right or wrong but the queen, and more especially lord melbourne himself. to any danger which may come out of this to her majesty's character, the caution and objection must come from him, and from him alone; and if i was standing in his shoes i would show the queen, of my own accord, and upon constitutional grounds _too_, that a continued correspondence of that sort must be fraught with imminent danger to the queen, especially to lord melbourne, and to the state. [footnote : _i.e._ with.] i then gave anson the further arguments with which he was to accompany the reading out of this memo. [pageheading: discretion urged on melbourne] [pageheading: melbourne's influence] on the next day anson went to melbourne and told him that his note to him had raised a great consultation, that the prince felt much averse to giving any opinion in a case upon which he could exercise no control, and in which, if it was known that he had given his sanction, he would be held responsible for any mischief which might arise. he had consulted baron stockmar, who had written the enclosed opinion, which the prince had desired anson to read to lord melbourne. melbourne read it attentively twice through, with an occasional change of countenance and compression of lips. he said on concluding it: "this is a most decided opinion indeed, quite an '_apple[ ] opinion_.'" anson told him that the prince felt that if the queen's confidence in peel was in a way to be established, it would be extremely shaken by his (lord melbourne's) visit at such a moment. he felt that it would be better that lord melbourne's appearance should be in london, where he would meet the queen only on the terms of general society, but at the same time he (the prince) was extremely reluctant to give an opinion upon a case which lord melbourne's own sense of right ought to decide. anson added how he feared his speech of yesterday in the house of lords[ ] had added another impediment to his coming at this moment, as it had identified him with and established as the head of the opposition party, which he (anson) had hoped melbourne would have been able to avoid. melbourne, who was then sitting on the sofa, rushed up upon this, and went up and down the room in a violent frenzy, exclaiming--"god eternally d--n it!" etc., etc. "flesh and blood cannot stand this. i only spoke upon the defensive, which ripon's speech at the beginning of the session rendered quite necessary. i cannot be expected to give up my position in the country, neither do i think that it is to the queen's interest that i should." anson continued that the baron thought that no ministry could stand the force of such an undercurrent influence, that all the good that was to be derived from pacifying the queen's mind at the change had been gained, and that the danger which we were liable to, and which threatened him in particular, could only be averted by his own straightforward decision with the queen. anson asked him if _he_ saw any danger likely to arise from this correspondence. after a long pause he said, "_i certainly cannot think it right_," though he felt sure that some medium of communication of this sort was no new precedent. he took care never to say anything which could bring his opinion in opposition _to sir robert's, and he should distinctly advise the queen to adhere to her ministers in everything,[ ] unless he saw the time had arrived at which it might be resisted_.[ ] the principal evil, replied anson, to be dreaded from the continuance of lord melbourne's influence was, according to the baron's opinion, that so long as the queen felt she could resort to lord melbourne for his advice, she never would be disposed (from not feeling the necessity) to place any real confidence in the advice she received from peel. [footnote : no doubt lord melbourne said an "apple-pie" opinion.] [footnote : at the opening of the session lord ripon had reprobated the late government for resorting to temporary expedients, and lord melbourne, on the second reading of the exchequer-bills funding bill, caustically but good-humouredly replied to the attack.] [footnote : _note by baron stockmar._--if he wishes to carry this out consistently and quite honestly, what then is the value of his advice, if it be only the copy of that of sir r. peel?] [footnote : _note by baron stockmar._--this means, in my way of reading it: "the queen, by her correspondence with me, puts peel into my hands, and there i mean to let him stay unhurt, until time and extraneous circumstances--but more especially the advantage that will accrue to me by my secret correspondence with the queen--shall enable me to plunge, in all security, the dagger into his back."] _the earl of liverpool to baron stockmar._[ ] fife house, _ th october ._ my dear baron,--peel sent for me this morning to speak to me about the contents of his letter to me. after some general conversation on matters respecting the royal household, he said that he had had much satisfaction in his intercourse lately with her majesty, and specifically yesterday, and he asked me whether i had seen her majesty or the prince yesterday, and whether they were satisfied with him. i told him that except in public i had not seen her majesty, and except for a moment in your room i had not seen the prince; but that as he spoke to me on this matter, i must take the opportunity of saying a word to him about _you_, from whom i had learnt yesterday that both the queen and prince are extremely well pleased with him. that i had known you very long, but that our great intimacy began when king leopold sent you over just previous to the queen's accession; that we had acted together on that occasion, and that our mutual esteem and intimacy had increased; that your position was a very peculiar one, and that you might be truly said to be a species of second parent to the queen and the prince; that your only object was their welfare, and your only ambition to be of service to them; that in this sense you had communicated with melbourne, and that i wished that in this sense you should communicate with him (peel). he said that he saw the matter exactly as i did, that he wished to communicate with you, and felt the greatest anxiety to do everything to meet the wishes of the queen and prince in all matters within his power, and as far as consistent with his known and avowed political principles; that in all matters respecting the household and their private feelings that the smallest hint sufficed to guide him, as he would not give way to any party feeling or job which should in any way militate against her majesty or his royal highness's comfort; that he wished particularly that it should be known that he never had a thought of riding _roughshod_ over her majesty's wishes; that if you would come to him at any time, and be candid and explicit with him, you might depend upon his frankness and discretion; that above all, if you had said anything to him, and expressed a wish that it might not be communicated even to the duke of wellington, (that was his expression), that he wished me to assure you that your wishes should be strictly attended to. pray give me a line to say that you do not disapprove of what i have done. we had a great deal more conversation, but with this i will not now load my letter, being ever sincerely yours, liverpool. direct your answer to this house. [footnote : this letter was submitted to the queen.] [pageheading: audiences of peers] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has this morning received your majesty's letter of yesterday. there can be no doubt that your majesty is right about the audiences which have been requested.... sir robert peel is probably right in supposing that the claim of a peer to an audience of the sovereign originated in early times, and before the present course of government by responsible advisers was fully and decidedly established, which it hardly can be said to have been until after the accession of the house of hanover, but the custom of asking for such audiences, and of their being in general granted, was well known, and has for the most part been observed and adhered to. lord melbourne remembers that during the part of the french war, when considerable alarm began to prevail respecting its duration, and the serious aspect which it was assuming, george iii. gave audiences to the duke of norfolk and others which he certainly would not have been inclined to do if he had not thought himself bound by his duty and by constitutional precedent. at the time of the passing of the roman catholic relief act, george iv. received very many peers, much no doubt against his will, who came to remonstrate with him upon the course which his ministers were pursuing. william iv. did the same at the time of the reform bill, and certainly spoke upon the subject in a manner which lord melbourne always thought indiscreet and imprudent. upon the whole, the practice has been so much acted upon and established, that lord melbourne will certainly not think it wise to make any alteration now, especially as it has in itself beneficial effects, especially as in a time of strong political feeling it is a satisfaction to the people to think that their wishes and opinions are laid before the sovereign fairly and impartially. it is not likely to be a very heavy burthen, inasmuch as such audiences are only asked at particular moments, and they are not in themselves very burthensome nor difficult to deal with. it is only for the sovereign to say that he is convinced of the good motives which have actuated the step, and that consideration will be given to the matter and arguments which have been stated. lord melbourne has one vague recollection of a correspondence upon this subject between lord holland and some king, but does not remember the circumstances with any accuracy. duncannon[ ] persuaded brougham to give up asking an audience upon condition of lord melbourne's promising to place his letters in your majesty's hands, which he did.[ ] lord charlemont[ ] also was prevented in some manner or another, which lord melbourne forgets. upon the whole, lord melbourne thinks that it is best to concede this privilege of the peerage, whether it actually exists or not, but to restrain it within due and reasonable bounds, which in ordinary times it is not difficult to do. extraordinary times must be dealt with as they can be.... lady a---- is, as your majesty says, good-natured. she talks three or four times as much as she ought, and like many such women often says exactly the things she ought not to say. lady b---- has ten times the sense of her mother, and a little residue of her folly. [footnote : ex-first commissioner of land revenue.] [footnote : see _ante_, pp. and - . (ch. x, 'lord brougham'; 'peers and audiences')] [footnote : francis william, fifth viscount charlemont ( - ), created a peer of the united kingdom in .] [pageheading: governor-generalship of india] [pageheading: lord ellenborough] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ _ th october ._ sir robert peel, with his humble duty to your majesty, begs leave to inform your majesty that in consequence of the opinion which your majesty was graciously pleased to express when sir robert peel last had the honour of waiting upon your majesty, with respect to the superior qualifications of lord ellenborough for the important trust of governor-general of india, sir robert peel saw his lordship yesterday, and enquired whether he would permit sir robert peel to propose his appointment to your majesty. lord ellenborough was very much gratified by the proposal, admitted at once that it was very difficult to find an unexceptionable candidate for an office of such pre-eminent importance, but made some difficulty on two points. first--considerations of health, which though disregarded personally, might, he feared, interfere with the execution of such unremitting and laborious duties as would devolve upon the governor-general of india. secondly--the consideration that on his acceptance of the office he would be required by law to give up during his tenure of it no less than £ , per annum, the amount of compensation now paid to him in consequence of the abolition of a very valuable office[ ] which he held in the courts of law. during lord ellenborough's conversation with sir robert peel, and while the mind of lord ellenborough was very much in doubt as to the policy of his acceptance of the office, the box which contained your majesty's note of yesterday was brought to sir robert peel. sir robert peel humbly acquaints your majesty that he ventured to read to lord ellenborough on the instant the concluding paragraph of your majesty's note, namely-- "the more the queen thinks of it, the more she thinks that lord ellenborough would be far the most fit person to send to india." sir robert peel is perfectly convinced that this opinion of your majesty, so graciously expressed, removed every doubt and difficulty from lord ellenborough's mind, and decided him to forgo every personal consideration rather than appear unmindful of such a favourable impression of his qualifications for public service on the part of his sovereign. sir robert peel humbly hopes that your majesty will not disapprove of the use which he made of a confidential note from your majesty. as your majesty kindly permitted sir robert peel to send occasionally letters to your majesty of a private rather than a public character, he ventures to enclose one from the duke of wellington on the subject of the appointment of governor-general. sir robert peel had observed to the duke of wellington that he had great confidence in lord ellenborough's integrity, unremitting industry, and intimate knowledge of indian affairs; that his only fear was that lord ellenborough might err from _over-activity_ and eagerness--but that he hoped his tendency to hasty decisions would be checked by the experience and mature judgment of indian advisers on the spot. the duke of wellington's comments have reference to these observations of sir robert peel. your majesty will nevertheless perceive that the duke considers, upon the whole, "that lord ellenborough is better qualified than any man in england for the office of governor-general." [footnote : he was joint chief clerk of the pleas in the queen's bench, a sinecure conferred on him by his father, who was lord chief justice of the king's bench, - .] [pageheading: affairs in spain] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--- ... respecting the spanish affairs,[ ] i can give you perfectly satisfactory intelligence concerning the infants' return. espartero sees them return with the greatest regret, but said he felt he could not prevent them from doing so. if, however, they should be found to intrigue at all, they will not be allowed to remain. respecting a marriage with the eldest son of dona carlotta, i know _positively_ that espartero _never_ would _hear_ of it; but, on the other hand, he is equally strongly opposed to poor little isabel marrying any french prince, and i must add that _we_ could _never allow that_. you will see that i have given you a frank and fair account.... [footnote : the queen-mother, who was living in paris, had been deprived by a vote of the cortes of the guardianship of the young queen, isabella ii., and risings in her interest now took place at pampeluna and vittoria. on the th october, a bold attempt was made at madrid to storm the palace and get possession of the person of the young queen. queen christina denied complicity, but the regent, espartero, suspended her pension on the ground that she had encouraged the conspirators.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and returns many thanks for the letter received yesterday informing lord melbourne of the time of your majesty's coming to london. lord melbourne earnestly hopes that your majesty continues well. lord melbourne is very glad to hear of the appointment of lord ellenborough. the reasons which your majesty gives are sound and just, and it is of great importance that a man not only of great ability but of high station, and perfectly in the confidence of the government at home, should be named to this important post. lord ellenborough is a man of great abilities, of much knowledge of india, of great industry and of very accurate habits of business, and lord melbourne knows of no objection to his appointment, except the loss of him here, where, whether in or out of office, he has always been of great service. he has hitherto been an unpopular man and his manners have been considered contemptuous and overbearing, but he is evidently much softened and amended in this respect, as most men are by time, experience, and observation. lord fitzgerald[ ] is a very able public man, lord melbourne would say one of the most able, if not the most able they have; but lord melbourne is told by others, who know lord fitzgerald better, that lord melbourne overrates him. he is a very good speaker, he has not naturally much industry, and his health is bad, which will probably disable him from a very close and assiduous attention to business. it is, however, upon the whole an adequate appointment, and he is perhaps more likely to go on smoothly with the court of directors, which is a great matter, than lord ellenborough. [footnote : on lord ellenborough becoming governor-general, lord fitzgerald and vesci, an ex-m.p., and former chancellor of the irish exchequer, succeeded him at the board of control.] [pageheading: france and spain] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th october ._ lord aberdeen, with his most humble duty, begs to lay before your majesty a private letter from m. guizot, which has just been communicated to him by m. de ste-aulaire, on the recent attempt in favour of queen christina in spain. your majesty will see that although m. guizot denies, with every appearance of sincerity, all participation of the french government in this attempt, he does not conceal that it has their cordial good wishes for its success. these feelings, on the part of such a government as that of france, will probably be connected with practical assistance of some kind, although m. guizot's declarations may perhaps be literally true. _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ the queen must say that she fears the french are at the bottom of it, for their jealousy of our influence in spain is such, that the queen fears they would not be indisposed to see civil war to a certain degree restored rather than that spain should go on quietly supported by us.[ ] the queen, however, hopes that, as far as it is possible, the english government will support the present regent, who is thoroughly attached to england, and who, from all that the queen hears of him, is the fittest man they have in spain for the post he occupies; and indeed matters till now had gone on much more quietly than they had for some time previous, since espartero is at the head of the government. the french intrigues should really be frustrated. the queen certainly thinks that m. guizot's veracity is generally not to be doubted, but the conduct of france regarding spain has always been very equivocal. [footnote : see _post_, p. . (ch. x, th october, )] [pageheading: mastership of trinity] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ _ th october ._ sir robert peel, with his humble duty to your majesty, begs leave to acquaint your majesty that the master of trinity college, cambridge, has formally signified his wish to retire from the duties of that important trust. sir robert peel has reason to believe that it would be advantageous that the selection of a successor to dr. wordsworth should be made from members of trinity college who are or have been fellows of the college. of these, the most eminent in respect to the qualifications required in the office of master, and to academical distinction, are:-- professor whewell.[ ] the rev. mr martin,[ ] bursar of the college. the rev. dr wordsworth,[ ] head master of harrow school, and son of the present master of trinity. the latter is a highly distinguished scholar, but his success as head master of harrow has not been such as to overcome the objection which applies on general grounds to the succession of a father by a son in an office of this description. professor whewell is a member of trinity college of the highest scientific attainments. his name is probably familiar to your majesty as the author of one of the bridgewater treatises,[ ] and of other works which have attracted considerable notice. he is a general favourite among all who have had intercourse with him from his good temper and easy and conciliatory manners. though not _peculiarly_ eminent as a divine (less so at least than a writer on scientific and philosophical subjects), his works manifest a deep sense of the importance of religion and sound religious views. the archbishop of canterbury[ ] and the bishop of london[ ] (himself of trinity college) incline to think that the most satisfactory appointment upon the whole would be that of professor whewell. sir robert peel, after making every enquiry into the subject, and with a deep conviction of the importance of the appointment, has arrived at the same conclusion, and humbly therefore recommends to your majesty that professor whewell should succeed dr wordsworth as master of trinity college, cambridge. [footnote : then knightsbridge professor of moral philosophy.] [footnote : francis martin, afterwards vice-master, died .] [footnote : christopher wordsworth, afterwards bishop of lincoln.] [footnote : by the will (dated ) of the eighth earl of bridgewater--who must not be confounded with the third and last duke, projector of inland navigation--£ , was left for the best work on the "goodness of god as manifested in the creation." the money was divided amongst eight persons, including whewell, who wrote on astronomy considered in reference to natural theology.] [footnote : william howley.] [footnote : o. j. blomfield.] [pageheading: queen isabella] [pageheading: the spanish marriage] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ _ th october ._ the queen received lord aberdeen's letter yesterday evening, and quite approves of the draft to mr aston, and of lord aberdeen's having sent it off at once. her earnest wish is that the english government should be firm, and uphold the regent as far as it is in our power. the queen has perused m. guizot's letter with great attention, but she cannot help fearing that assistance and encouragement has been given in some shape or other to the revolts which have taken place. the queen christina's residence at paris is very suspicious, and much to be regretted; every one who saw the queen and knew her when regent, knew her to be clever and _capable_ of governing, had she but attended to her duties. this she did not, but wasted her time in frivolous amusements and neglected her children sadly, and finally left them. it was her _own_ doing, and therefore it is not the kindest conduct towards her children, but the very _worst_, to try and disturb the tranquillity of a country which was just beginning to recover from the baneful effects of one of the most bloody civil wars imaginable. the queen is certain that lord aberdeen will feel with her of what importance it is to england that spain should not become subject to french interests, as it is evident _france wishes_ to make it. the marriage of queen isabel is a most important question, and the queen is likewise certain that lord aberdeen sees at once that we could never let her marry a french prince. ere long the queen must speak to lord aberdeen on this subject. in the meantime the queen thought it might be of use to lord aberdeen to put him in possession of her feelings on the state of spain, in which the queen has always taken a very warm interest. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ panshanger, _ st october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he received here yesterday your majesty's letter of the th inst., and he earnestly hopes that your majesty has arrived quite safe and well in london. besides the family, we have had hardly anybody here except lady clanricarde.[ ] yesterday sir edward l. bulwer[ ] came, beating his brother hollow in ridiculousness of attire, ridiculous as the other is. he has, however, much in him, and is agreeable when you come to converse with him.... lord melbourne is rather in doubt about his own movements. lord leicester[ ] presses him much to go to holkham, where lord fortescue,[ ] mr ellice[ ] and others are to be, and considering lord leicester's age, lord melbourne thinks that it will gratify him to see lord melbourne again there. but at holkham they shoot from morning until night, and if you do not shoot you are like a fish upon dry land. lord melbourne hardly feels equal to the exertion, and therefore thinks that he shall establish himself for the present at melbourne, where he will be within reach of trentham, beau desert,[ ] wentworth,[ ] and castle howard,[ ] if he likes to go to them. the only annoyance is that it is close to lord and lady g----, whom he will be perpetually meeting. [footnote : a daughter of george canning, the prime minister.] [footnote : afterwards lord lytton, the novelist.] [footnote : the famous country gentleman, "mr coke of norfolk."] [footnote : hugh, second earl, k.g.] [footnote : the right hon. edward ellice, m.p. ("bear" ellice).] [footnote : near lichfield, a seat of lord anglesey.] [footnote : lord fitzwilliam's house, near rotherham.] [footnote : lord carlisle's house, near york, built by vanbrugh.] [pageheading: holland and belgium] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ october ._ ... in france there is a great outcry that a bourbon must be the future husband of the queen of spain, etc. i must say that as the spaniards and the late king changed themselves the salic custom which philip v. had brought from france,[ ] it is natural for the rest of europe to wish that no bourbon should go there. besides, it must be confessed that the thing is not even easy, as there is great hatred amongst the various branches of that family. the king of the french himself has always been _opposed_ to the idea of one of his sons going there; in france, however, that opinion still exists, and thiers had it, strongly. i confess that i regret that queen christina was encouraged to settle at paris, as it gave the thing the appearance of something preconcerted. i believe that a wish existed that christina would retire peaceably and _par la force des circonstances_, but now this took a turn which i am sure the king does not like; it places him, besides, into _une position ingrate_; the radicals hate him, the moderates will cry out that he has left them in the lurch, and the carlists are kept under key, and of course also not much pleased. i meant to have remained in my wilds till yesterday, but my ministers were so anxious for my return, there being a good many things on the _tapis_, that i came back on tuesday, the th.... here one is exactly shut up as if one was in a menagerie, walking round and round like a tame bear. one breathes here also a mixture of all sorts of moist compounds, which one is told is fresh air, but which is not the least like it. i suppose, however, that my neighbour in holland, where they have not even got a hill as high as yours in buckingham gardens, would consider laeken as an alpine country. the tender meeting of the old king and the new king,[ ] as one can hardly call him a young king, must be most amusing. i am told that if the old king had not made that love-match, he would be perfectly able to dethrone his son; i heard that yesterday from a person rather attached to the son and hating the father. in the meantime, though one can hardly say that he is well at home, some strange mixture of cut-throats and ruined soldiers of fortune had a mind to play us some tricks here; we have got more and more insight into this. is it by instigation from him personally, or does he only know of it without being a party to it? that _is_ difficult to tell, the more so as he makes immense demonstration of friendly dispositions towards us, and me in particular. i would i could make a _chassez croisez_ with otho;[ ] he would be the gainer in solids, and i should have sun and an interesting country; i will try to make him understand this, the more so as you do not any longer want me in the west. [footnote : the pragmatic sanction of philip v. was repealed in by the cortes, but the repeal was not promulgated by the king. under the salic law, don carlos would have been on the throne. see _ante_, p. . (ch. v, footnote )] [footnote : william i., who had abdicated in order to marry again, and william ii., his son, who was nearly fifty.] [footnote : the king of greece, elected in .] [pageheading: ambassadors' audiences] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ _ th october ._ with respect to the appointment of chief justice of the queen's bench, the queen approves of mr pennefather[ ] for that office. the queen may be mistaken, for she is not very well acquainted with the judicial officers in ireland, but it strikes her that serjeant jackson belonged to the very violent orange party in ireland, and if this should be the case she suggests to sir robert peel whether it would not be better _not_ to appoint him. if, on the other hand, the queen should be mistaken as to his political opinions, she would not disapprove of his succeeding mr pennefather. the queen saw in the papers that lord stuart de rothesay is already gone. the queen can hardly believe this, as no ambassador or minister _ever_ left england without previously asking for an audience and receiving one, as the queen wishes always to see them before they repair to their posts. would sir robert be so very good as to ask lord aberdeen whether lord stuart de rothesay is gone or not, and if he should be, to tell lord aberdeen that in future she would wish him always to inform her when they intend to go, and to ask for an audience, which, if the queen is well, she would always grant. it is possible that as the queen said the other day that she did not wish to give many audiences after the council, that lord aberdeen may have misunderstood this and thought the queen would give none, which was _not_ her intention. the queen would be thankful to sir robert if he would undertake to clear up this mistake, which she is certain (should lord stuart be gone) arose entirely from misapprehension. the queen also wishes sir robert to desire lord haddington to send her some details of the intended reductions in the fleet which she sees by a draft of lord aberdeen's to mr bulwer have taken place.[ ] [footnote : recently appointed solicitor-general; sergeant j. d. jackson now succeeded him.] [footnote : the statement of the royal navy in commission at the beginning of sets out vessels carrying , guns.] [pageheading: stockmar and melbourne] [pageheading: stockmar's advice] _memorandum by baron stockmar._ _ th october ._ ... i told [lord melbourne] that, as i read the english constitution, it meant to assign to _the sovereign in his functions a deliberative part_--that i was not sure the queen had the means within herself to execute this deliberative part properly, but i was sure that the only way for her to execute her functions at all was to be strictly honest to those men who at the time being were her ministers. that it was chiefly on this account that i had been so very sorry to have found now, on my return from the continent, that on the change of the ministry a capital opportunity to read a great constitutional maxim to the queen had not only been lost by lord melbourne, but that he had himself turned an instrument for working great good into an instrument which must produce mischief and danger. that i was afraid that, from what lord melbourne had been so weak as to have allowed himself to be driven into, _against his own and better conviction_, the queen must have received a most pernicious bias, which on any future occasion would make her inclined to act in a similar position similarly to that what she does now, being convinced that what she does _now_ must be right on all future occasions, or else lord melbourne would not have sanctioned it. upon this, lord melbourne endeavoured to palliate, to represent the danger, which would arise from his secret correspondence with the queen as very little, to adduce precedents from history, and to screen his present conduct behind what he imagined lord bute's conduct had been under george iii.[ ] i listened patiently, and replied in the end: all this might be mighty fine and quite calculated to lay a flattering unction on his own soul, or it might suffice to tranquillize the minds of the prince and anson, but that i was too old to find the slightest argument in what i had just now heard, nor could it in any way allay my apprehension. i began then to dissect all that he had produced for his excusation, and showed him--as i thought clearly, and as he admitted convincingly--that it would be impossible to carry on this secret commerce with the sovereign for any length of time without exposing the queen's character and creating mighty embarrassments in the quiet and regular working of a constitutional machine. my representations seemed to make a very deep impression, and lord melbourne became visibly nervous, perplexed, and distressed. after he had recovered a little i said, "i never was inclined to obtrude advice; but if you don't dislike to hear my opinion, i am prepared to give it to you." he said, "what is it?" i said, "you allow the queen's confinement to pass over quietly, and you wait till her perfect recovery of it. as soon as this period has arrived, you state of your own accord to her majesty that this secret and confidential correspondence with her must cease; that you gave in to it, much against your feelings, and with a decided notion of its impropriety and danger, and merely out of a sincere solicitude to calm her majesty's mind in a critical time, and to prevent the ill effects which great and mental agitation might have produced on her health. that this part of your purpose now being most happily achieved, you thought yourself in duty bound to advise her majesty to _cease all her communications_ to you on political subjects, as you felt it wrong within yourself to receive them, and to return your political advice and opinions on such matters; that painful as such a step must be to your feelings, which to the last moment of your life will remain those of the most loyal attachment and devotion to the queen's person, it is dictated to you by a deep sense of what you owe to the country, to your sovereign, and to yourself." [footnote : for some time after the accession of george iii., bute, though neither in the cabinet nor in parliament, was virtually prime minister, but he became secretary of state on th march . george ii. had disliked him, but he was generally believed to have exercised an undue influence over the consort of prince frederic of wales, mother of george iii.] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ _ th october ._ with respect to serjeant jackson, the queen will not oppose his appointment, in consequence of the high character sir robert peel gives him; but she cannot refrain from saying that she very much fears that the favourable effect which has hitherto been produced by the formation of so mild and conciliatory a government in ireland, may be endangered by this appointment, which the queen would sincerely regret. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and returns your majesty the letters of the king of the belgians, with many thanks. it certainly is a very unfortunate thing that the queen christina was encouraged to fix her residence at paris, and the suspicion arising, therefore, cannot but be very injurious both to the king of the french and to the french nation. lord melbourne returns his warmest thanks for your majesty's kind expressions. he felt the greatest pleasure at seeing your majesty again and looking so well, and he hopes that his high spirits did not betray him into talking too much or too heedlessly, which he is conscious that they sometimes do. the king leopold, lord melbourne perceives, still hankers after greece; but crowns will not bear to be chopped and changed about in this manner. these new kingdoms are not too firmly fixed as it is, and it will not do to add to the uncertainty by alteration.... [pageheading: dispute with united states] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th october ._ ... sir robert peel humbly assures your majesty that he fully participates in the surprise which your majesty so naturally expresses at the extraordinary intimation conveyed to mr fox[ ] by the president of the united states.[ ] immediately after reading mr fox's despatch upon that subject, sir robert peel sought an interview with lord aberdeen. the measure contemplated by the president is a perfectly novel one, a measure of a hostile and unjustifiable character adopted with pacific intentions. sir robert peel does not comprehend the object of the president, and giving him credit for the desire to prevent the interruption of amicable relations with this country, sir robert peel fears that the forcible detention of the british minister, after the demand of passports, will produce a different impression on the public mind, both here and in the united states, from that which the president must (if he be sincere) have anticipated. it appears to sir robert peel that the object which the president professes to have in view would be better answered by the immediate compliance with mr fox's demand for passports, and the simultaneous despatch of a special mission to this country conveying whatever explanations or offers of reparation the president may have in contemplation. sir robert peel humbly assures your majesty that he has advised such measures of preparation to be taken in respect to the amount of disposable naval force, and the position of it, as without bearing the character of menace or causing needless disquietude and alarm, may provide for an unfavourable issue of our present differences with the united states. sir robert peel fears that when the president ventured to make to mr fox the communication which he did make, he must have laboured under apprehension that m'leod might be executed in spite of the efforts of the general government of the united states to save his life. [footnote : british minister at washington.] [footnote : one alexander m'leod was tried at utica on the charge of being implicated in the destruction of the _caroline_ (an american vessel engaged in carrying arms to the canadian rebels), in , and in the death of mr durfee, an american. the vessel had been boarded by canadian loyalists when lying in american waters, set on fire and sent over niagara falls, and in the affray durfee was killed. m'leod was apprehended on american territory, and hence arose the friction between the two countries. m'leod was acquitted th october .] [pageheading: portugal] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ buckingham palace, _ st october ._ the queen received yesterday evening lord aberdeen's letter with the accompanying despatches and draft. she certainly _is_ surprised at the strange and improper tone in which lord howard's[ ] despatches are written, and can only attribute them to an over-eager and, she fully believes, mistaken feeling of the danger to which he believes the throne of the queen to be exposed. the queen has carefully perused lord aberdeen's draft, which she highly approves, but wishes to suggest to lord aberdeen whether upon further consideration it might not perhaps be as well to _soften_ the words under which she has drawn a pencil line, as she fears they might irritate lord howard very much. the queen is induced to copy the following sentences from a letter she received from her cousin, the king of portugal, a few days ago, and which it may be satisfactory to lord aberdeen to see:-- "_je dois encore vous dire que nous avons toutes les raisons de nous louer de la manière dont le portugal est traité par votre ministre des affaires Étrangères, et nous ferons de notre côté notre possible pour prouver notre bonne volonté."_ [footnote : lord howard de walden, minister plenipotentiary at lisbon.] [pageheading: secretaries of state] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ st november ._ ... now for his royal highness's questions.... how the power of prime ministry grew up into its present form it is difficult to trace precisely, as well as how it became attached, as it were, to the office of first commissioner of the treasury. but lord melbourne apprehends that sir robert walpole was the first man in whose person this union of powers was decidedly established, and that its being so arose from the very great confidence which both george i. and george ii. reposed in him, and from the difficulty which they had in transacting business, particularly george i., from their imperfect knowledge of the language of the country. with respect to the secretary of state, lord melbourne is not prepared from memory to state the dates at which the different arrangements of that office have taken place. there was originally but one officer, and at the present the three are but the heads of the different departments of one office. the first division was into two, and they were called the secretary for the northern and the secretary for the southern department. they drew a line across the world, and each transacted the business connected with the countries within his own portion of the globe. another division then took place, and the foreign affairs were confided to one secretary of state, and the home and colonial affairs to the other; but the present arrangement was finally settled in the year , when the junction was formed between mr pitt on the one hand, and those friends of mr fox who left him because they differed with him upon the french revolution. the home affairs were placed in the hands of one secretary of state, the foreign of another, and the colonial and military affairs of a third, and this arrangement has continued ever since.[ ] the persons then appointed were the duke of portland,[ ] lord grenville,[ ] and mr dundas,[ ] home, foreign, and colonial secretaries. writing from recollection, it is very possible that lord melbourne may be wrong in some of the dates which he has ventured to specify.[ ] [footnote : a fourth secretary of state was added at the time of the crimean war, so as to separate colonial and military affairs, and a fifth after the indian mutiny to supersede the president of the board of control. _see_ lord melbourne's letter of st december , _ante_, p. . (ch. vi, 'state departments')] [footnote : third duke ( - ).] [footnote : william wyndham, lord grenville ( - ).] [footnote : henry dundas ( - ), afterwards lord melville.] [footnote : see _post_, pp. , . (ch. x, 'the english constitution', et seq.)] [pageheading: the english constitution] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th november ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has this morning had the honour and pleasure of receiving your majesty's letter of yesterday.... lord melbourne sends a letter which he has received from his sister, which may not be unentertaining. lady palmerston is struck, as everybody is who goes to ireland, with the candid warmth and vehement demonstration of feeling. england always appears cold, heartless, and sulky in comparison.... with respect to the questions put to me by your majesty at the desire of his royal highness, lord melbourne begs leave to assure your majesty that he will be at all times most ready and anxious to give any information in his power upon points of this sort, which are very curious, very important, very worthy to be enquired into, and upon which accurate information is not easily to be found. all the political part of the english constitution is fully understood, and distinctly stated in blackstone and many other books, but the ministerial part, the work of conducting the executive government, has rested so much on practice, on usage, on understanding, that there is no publication to which reference can be made for the explanation and description of it. it is to be sought in debates, in protests, in letters, in memoirs, and wherever it can be picked up. it seems to be stupid not to be able to say at once when two secretaries of state were established; but lord melbourne is not able. he apprehends that there was but one until the end of queen anne's reign, and that two were instituted by george i., probably because upon his frequent journeys to hanover he wanted the secretary of state with him, and at the same time it was necessary that there should be an officer of the same authority left at home to transact the domestic affairs. _prime minister_ is a term belonging to the last century. lord melbourne doubts its being to be found in english parliamentary language previously. sir robert walpole was always accused of having introduced and arrogated to himself an office previously unknown to the law and constitution, that of prime or sole minister, and we learn from lady charlotte lindsay's[ ] accounts of her father, that in his own family lord north would never suffer himself to be called _prime_ minister, because it was an office unknown to the constitution. this was a notion derived from the combined whig and tory opposition to sir robert walpole, to which lord north and his family had belonged. lord melbourne is very sorry to hear that the princess royal continues to suffer from some degree of indisposition. from what your majesty had said more than once before, lord melbourne had felt anxiety upon this subject, and he saw the baron yesterday, who conversed with him much upon it, and informed him of what had taken place. lord melbourne hopes that your majesty will attribute it only to lord melbourne's anxious desire for the security and increase of your majesty's happiness, if he ventures to say that the baron appears to him to have much reason in what he urges, and in the view which he takes. it is absolutely required that confidence should be reposed in those who are to have the management and bear the responsibility, and that they should not be too much interrupted or interfered with. [footnote : daughter of lord north (afterwards earl of guilford) and wife of lieut.-colonel the hon. john lindsay. she lived till --a link with the past.] [pageheading: secretaries of state] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th november ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. not feeling satisfied of the correctness of the information which he had given to your majesty respecting the office of secretary of state, he yesterday evening requested mr allen[ ] to look into the matter, and he has just received from him the enclosed short memorandum, which he has the honour of transmitting to your majesty. this shows that lord melbourne was quite wrong with respect to the period at which two secretaries of state were first employed, and that it was much earlier than he had imagined. the year , when the third secretary of state was abolished, was the period of the adoption of the great measure of economical reform which had been introduced by mr. burke in . the present arrangement was settled in , which is about the time which lord melbourne stated. [footnote : secretary and librarian at holland house.] [pageheading: lord melbourne's position] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th november ._ ... your majesty asks whether lord melbourne thinks that prince metternich holds the opinion of sir robert gordon, which he expresses to lord beauvale. it is difficult to say what prince metternich's real sentiments are. lord melbourne takes him not to have a very high opinion of the abilities of others in general, and he is not unlikely to depreciate sir robert gordon to lord beauvale. sir robert gordon is a man of integrity, but he is tiresome, long and pompous, which cannot be agreeable to the prince, who has about him much of the french vivacity, and also much of their settled and regular style of argument.... with respect to the latter part of your majesty's letter, lord melbourne returns for the expressions of your majesty's kindness his warm and grateful thanks. your majesty may rest assured that he will always speak to your majesty without scruple or reserve, and that he will never ask anything of your majesty, or ever make a suggestion, which he does not consider to be for your majesty's service and advantage. lord melbourne is of opinion that his visits to the palace should not only avoid exciting suspicion and uneasiness in your majesty's present advisers, a result of which he has very little apprehension, but they should not be so frequent as to attract public notice, comment, and observation, of which he would be more fearful. a public rumour, however unfounded and absurd, has more force in this country than objections which have in them more of truth and reality. upon these grounds, and as your majesty will probably not see much company at present, and the parties therefore will be a good deal confined to the actual household, lord melbourne thinks it would perhaps be as well if he were not again to dine at the palace at present. the course which it may be prudent to take hereafter will depend very much upon that which cannot now be foreseen, namely, upon the general course which will be taken by politics and political parties. in this lord melbourne does not at present discern his way, and he will not therefore hazard opinions which would not be founded upon any certainty, and might be liable to immediate change and alteration. [pageheading: stockmar's advice] [pageheading: stockmar's expostulations] _memorandum: baron stockmar to viscount melbourne._ _ november ._ the apprehension which haunts me since my return to england is well known to you. it was my intention to have written to you upon it some time hereafter, but the contents of a certain letter, sent by you just before your departure, accelerates the execution of my design. from your own expressions used some time back, i was led to expect that you would be glad to take advantage _of any fair opportunity_ which might contribute towards that devoutly to be wished for object, viz., to let a certain correspondence die a natural death. you may easily conceive how much i felt disappointed when i heard that you had written again, without a challenge, and that, without apparent cause, you had volunteered the promise to write from time to time. this happens at a moment when _your_ harassing apprehension received new life and strength from two incidents which i think it my duty to make known to you, and of which the one came to pass _before_, the other after, your departure from here. some weeks back i was walking in the streets with dr prætorius,[ ] when, finding myself opposite the house of one of my friends, it came across my mind to give him a call. prætorius wanted to leave me, on a conception that, as a stranger, he might obstruct the freedom of our conversation. i insisted, however, on his remaining with me, and we were shown into the drawing-room, where in all there were five of us. for some minutes the conversation had turned on insignificant things, when the person talking to me said quite abruptly: "so i find the queen is in daily correspondence with lord melbourne." i replied, "who told you this?" the answer was, "mrs norton; she told me the other evening. don't you believe that lord melbourne has lost his influence over the queen's mind; he daily writes to her, and receives as many answers, in which she communicates everything to him." without betraying much emotion i said, "i don't believe a word of it; the queen may have written once or twice on private matters, but the daily correspondence on all matters is certainly the amplification of a thoughtless and imprudent person, who is not aware of such exaggerated assertions." my speech was followed by a general silence, after which we talked of other things, and soon took our leave. when we were fairly in the open air, prætorius expressed to me his amazement at what he had heard, and he remained for some time at a loss to comprehend the character of the person who, from mere giddiness, let out so momentous a secret. the other fact took place the day after you had left. from the late events at brussels, it had become desirable that i should see sir robert peel. from belgium we travelled over to home politics. i expressed my delight at seeing the queen so happy, and added a hope that more and more she would seek and find her real happiness in her domestic relations only. he evidently caught at this, and assured me that he should at all times be too happy to have a share in anything which might be thought conducive to the welfare of her majesty. that no consideration of personal inconvenience would ever prevent him from indulging the queen in all her wishes relating to matters of a private nature, and that the only return for his sincere endeavours to please her majesty he looked to, was honesty in public affairs. becoming then suddenly emphatic, he continued, "but on this i must insist, and i do assure you, that that moment i was to learn that the queen takes advice upon public matters in another place, i shall throw up; for such a thing i conceive the country could not stand, and i would not remain an hour, whatever the consequences of my resignation may be." fully sensible that he was talking at me, i received the charge with the calmness of a good conscience, and our time being exhausted i prepared for retreat. but he did not allow me to do so, before he had found means to come a second time to the topic uppermost in his own mind, and he repeated, it appeared to me with increased force of tone, his determination to throw up, fearless of all consequences, that moment he found himself and the country dishonestly dealt by. i think i have now reported to you correctly the two occurrences which of late have added so much to my antecedent suspicions and fears. permit me to join to this a few general considerations which, from the nature of the recited incidents alone, and without the slightest intervention of any other cause, must have presented themselves to my mind. the first is, that i derive from the events related quite ground enough for concluding that the danger i dread is great and imminent, and that, if ill luck is to have its will, no human power can prevent an explosion for a day, or even for an hour. the second is the contemplation--what state will the queen be placed in by such a catastrophe? that in my position, portraying to myself all the consequences of such a possibility, i look chiefly to the queen, needs hardly, i trust, an excuse.... can you hope that the queen's character will ever recover from a shock received by a collision with peel, upon such a cause? pray illustrate to yourself this particular question by taking a purely political and general survey of the time and period we live in at this moment. in doing so must you not admit that all england is agreed that the tories must have another trial, and that there is a decided desire in the nation that it should be a fair one? would you have it said that sir robert peel failed in his trial, merely because the queen alone was not fair to him, and that principally you had aided her in the game of dishonesty? and can you hope that this game can be played with security, even for a short time only, when a person has means of looking into your cards whom you yourself have described to me some years ago as a most passionate, giddy, imprudent and dangerous woman? i am sure beforehand that your loyalty and devotion has nothing to oppose to the force of my exposition. there are, however, some other and minor reasons which ought likewise to be considered before you come to the determination of trusting entirely to possibilities and chance. for the results of your deliberation you will have to come to will in their working and effects go beyond yourself, and must affect two other persons. these will have a right to expect that your decision will not be taken regardless of that position, which accidental circumstances have assigned to them, in an affair the fate of which is placed entirely within your discretion. this is an additional argument why you should deliberate very conscientiously. a mistake of yours in this respect might by itself produce fresh difficulties and have a complicating and perplexing retro effect upon the existing ones; because both, seeing that they must be sufferers in the end, may begin to look only to their own safety, and become inclined to refuse that passive obedience which till now constitutes the vehicle of your hazardous enterprize. approaching the conclusion of this letter, i beg to remind you of a conversation i had with you on the same subject in south street, the th of last month.[ ] though you did not avow it then in direct words, i could read from your countenance and manner that you assented in your head and heart to all i had said, and in particular to the advice i volunteered at the end of my speech. at that time i pointed out to you a period when i thought a decisive step ought to be taken on your part. this period seems to me to have arrived. placing unreserved confidence into your candour and manliness, i remain, for ever, very faithfully yours, stockmar. [footnote : librarian and german secretary to prince albert.] [footnote : _ante_, pp. - . (ch. x, 'stockmar and melbourne')] [pageheading: melbourne's reply] _viscount melbourne to baron stockmar._ _ th november ._ (_half-past _ p.m.) my dear baron,--i have just received your letter; i think it unnecessary to detain your messenger. i will write to you upon the subject and send it through anson. yours faithfully, melbourne. [pageheading: the heir apparent] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th november ._ my dearest uncle,--i have to thank you for four most kind letters, of the th, th, th and th; the last i received yesterday. i would have written sooner, had i not been a little bilious, which made me very low, and not in spirits to write. the weather has been so exceedingly relaxing, that it made me at the end of the fortnight quite bilious, and this, you know, affects the spirits. i am much better, but they think that i shall not get my appetite and spirits back till i can get out of town; we are therefore going in a week at latest. i am going for a drive this morning, and am certain it will do me good. in all _essentials_, i am better, if possible, than last year. our little boy[ ] is a wonderfully strong and large child, with very large dark blue eyes, a finely formed but somewhat large nose, and a pretty little mouth; i _hope_ and _pray_ he may be like his dearest papa. he is to be called _albert_, and edward is to be his second name. pussy, dear child, is still _the_ great pet amongst us all, and is getting so fat and strong again. i beg my most affectionate love to dearest louise and the dear children. the queen-dowager is recovering wonderfully. i beg you to forgive this letter being so badly written, but my feet are being rubbed, and as i have got the box on which i am writing on my knee, it is not easy to write quite straight--but you must _not_ think my hand trembles. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. pussy is _not_ at all pleased with her brother. [footnote : his majesty king edward vii., born th november.] [pageheading: the infant prince] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ trentham, _ st december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has had the honour of receiving here your majesty's letters of yesterday, by which he learns with sincere pleasure and satisfaction that your majesty is so much recovered as to go to windsor on so early a day as your majesty names. lord melbourne hears with great concern that your majesty has been suffering under depression and lowness of spirits.... lord melbourne well knows how to feel for those who suffer under it, especially as he has lately had much of it himself. lord melbourne is much rejoiced to hear so good an account of the heir apparent and of the princess royal, and feels himself greatly obliged by the information respecting the intended names and the sponsors. lord melbourne supposes that your majesty has determined yourself upon the relative position of the two names, but _edward_ is a good english appellation, and has a certain degree of popularity attached to it from ancient recollections. albert is also an old anglo-saxon name--the same, lord melbourne believes, as ethelred--but it has not been so common nor so much in use since the conquest. however, your majesty's feelings, which lord melbourne perfectly understands, must determine this point. the notion of the king of prussia[ ] gives great satisfaction here, and will do so with all but puseyites and newmanites and those who lean to the roman catholic faith. his strong protestant feelings, and his acting with us in the matter of the syrian bishop, have made the king of prussia highly popular in this country, and particularly with the more religious part of the community. your majesty cannot offer up for the young prince a more safe and judicious prayer than that he may resemble his father. the character, in lord melbourne's opinion, depends much upon the race, and on both sides he has a good chance. be not over solicitous about education. it may be able to do much, but it does not do so much as is expected from it. it may mould and direct the character, but it rarely alters it. george iv. and the duke of york were educated quite like english boys, by english schoolmasters, and in the manner and upon the system of english schools. the consequence was that, whatever were their faults, they were quite englishmen. the others, who were sent earlier abroad, and more to foreign universities, were not quite so much so. the late king was educated as a sailor, and was a complete sailor.... lord melbourne will tell your majesty exactly what he thinks of john russell's reply to the plymouth address. it is very angry and very bitter, and anger and bitterness are never very dignified. lord melbourne certainly would not have put in those sarcasms upon the duke of wellington and sir robert peel, for their change of opinion and conduct upon the roman catholic question. but the tone of the rest of the answer is, in lord melbourne's opinion, just and right. we certainly delivered the affairs of the country into their hands in a good state, both at home and abroad, and we should be acting unfairly by ourselves if we did not maintain and assert this upon every occasion. lord melbourne's notion of the conduct which he has to pursue is, that it should not be aggressive, but that it must be defensive. he would oppose no right measures, but he cannot suffer the course of policy which has been condemned in him to be adopted by others without observation upon the inconsistency and injustice.... lord melbourne concludes with again wishing your majesty health and happiness, and much enjoyment of the country. [footnote : king frederick william iv., who was to be a sponsor.] [pageheading: prince of wales] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th december ._ sir james graham, with humble duty, begs to enclose for the signature of your majesty the letters patent creating his royal highness, the prince of the united kingdom, prince of wales and earl of chester.[ ] understanding that it is your majesty's pleasure to have this creation inserted in the _gazette_ of to-morrow night, sir james graham has given directions, which will ensure the publication, though the letters patent themselves may not be completed. the warrant already signed by your majesty is a sufficient authority. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's dutiful subject and servant, j. r. g. graham. [footnote : his present majesty had been referred to in letters of the previous month as the duke of cornwall. "know ye," ran the present letters patent, "that we have made ... our most dear son, the prince of the united kingdom of great britain and ireland (duke of saxony, duke of cornwall ...) prince of wales and earl of chester ... and him our said most dear son, ... as has been accustomed, we do ennoble and invest with the said principality and earldom, by girding him with a sword, by putting a coronet on his head, and a gold ring on his finger, and also by delivering a gold rod into his hand, that he may preside there, and may direct and defend those parts...."] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--we arrived here _sains et saufs_ with our awfully large nursery establishment yesterday morning. it was a nasty warm and very rainy day, but to-day is very bright, clear and dry, and we walked out early and felt like prisoners freed from some dungeon. many thanks for your kind letter of the nd, by which i grieve to see that you are not quite well. but let me repeat again, you _must_ not despond so; you must not be so out of spirits. i have likewise been suffering so from _lowness_ that it made me quite miserable, and i know how difficult it is to fight against it. i am delighted to hear that all the children are so well. i wonder very much who our little boy will be like. you will understand _how_ fervent my prayers and i am [sure] _everybody's_ must be, to see him resemble his angelic dearest father in _every, every_ respect, both in body and mind. oh! my dearest uncle, i am sure if you knew _how_ happy, how blessed i feel, and how _proud_ i feel in possessing _such_ a perfect being as my husband, as he is, and if you think that you have been instrumental in bringing about this union, it must gladden your heart! how happy should i be to see our child grow up _just_ like him! dear pussy travelled with us and behaved like a grown-up person, so quiet and looking about and coquetting with the hussars on either side of the carriage. now adieu! ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: the approaching christening] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ castle howard, _ nd december ._ ... lord melbourne will consider himself most highly honoured by being invited to the christening, and will hold himself in readiness to attend, whenever it may take place. he has written to mr anson in answer to the letter which he received from him this morning. lord melbourne has been obliged to consent to receive an address from derby, and has fixed monday the th inst. for that purpose. he could have wished to have avoided this, but it was impossible, and he must make the best of it that he can, which he conceives will be effected by conceiving his reply in very guarded terms, and in a tone defensive of his own administration, but not offensive to those who have succeeded him.... lord melbourne is very glad to hear of the feelings of the king of prussia. for religious matters he is at present very popular with many in this country, and popularity, though transient and uncertain, is a good thing while it lasts. the king of the belgians should not be surprised or mortified at the conduct of the king of holland. we must expect that people will act according to their nature and feelings. the union of belgium and holland has been for a long time the first wish and the daily dream of the house of orange. it has been the great object of their lives, and by the separation, which took place in , they saw their fondest hopes disappointed and destroyed at once. it must be expected that under such a state of things, they will be unquiet, and will try to obtain what they so eagerly desire and have once possessed. lord melbourne is much rejoiced to hear that your majesty is in the enjoyment of such good health. your majesty's observations upon your own situation are in the highest degree just and prudent, and it is a sign of a right mind and of good feelings to prize the blessings we enjoy, and not to suffer them to be too much altered by circumstances, which may not turn out exactly according to our wishes. [pageheading: the united states] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th december ._ lord aberdeen presents his most humble duty to your majesty. he ventures to request your majesty's attention for a moment to the character of your majesty's present relations with the government of the united states. your majesty is aware that several questions of great difficulty and importance have been long pending between the two governments.[ ] some of these have become more complicated than they were ten years ago; and any of them might, at any moment, lead to consequences of the most disastrous nature. instead of continuing negotiations, necessarily tedious and which promise to be interminable, your majesty's servants are humbly of opinion that an effort ought to be made, by a special mission at washington, to bring all these differences promptly to an adjustment. the public feeling in the united states at this time does not appear to be unfavourable for such an attempt. should it be undertaken by a person whose rank, character, and abilities would ensure respect, and whose knowledge of the subjects under discussion, and of the people of the country, together with his conciliatory manners, would render him generally acceptable, your majesty might perhaps indulge the hope of a successful result. lord aberdeen humbly ventures to think that such a person may be found in lord ashburton,[ ] whom he submits for your majesty's gracious approbation. [footnote : the question of the north-west boundary had long been one source of dispute; another was the right the british government claimed of searching vessels suspected of being engaged in the slave trade.] [footnote : alexander, first lord ashburton, who had held office in peel's short ministry, and married miss bingham of philadelphia. see _post_, p. . (ch. xii, footnote )] [pageheading: christmas] _memorandum by mr anson._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ christmas has brought its usual routine of festivity and its agreeable accompaniment of christmas presents. the queen was not at all well again yesterday, being again troubled with lowness. the melbourne correspondence still is carried on, but i think not in its pristine vigour by any means. he has taken no notice of the baron's remonstrance to him, and we are in the dark in what manner, if at all, he means to deal with it. i have sat by her majesty at dinner several times lately. i should say that her majesty interests herself less and less about politics, and that her dislike is less than it was to her present ministers, though she would not be prepared to acknowledge it. her majesty is a good deal occupied with the little princess royal, who begins to assume companionable qualities. in the evening, instead of her usual conversation with her old prime minister, some round game at cards is substituted, which always terminates at eleven. the prince, to amuse the queen at this, has nearly left off his chess; his amusements--shooting or hunting--always commence and terminate between eleven and two, not to interfere with her majesty's arrangements, in which he is included as her companion. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ melbourne, _ th december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he received here yesterday your majesty's letter of the th inst., upon a paper adorned with many quaint and humorous christmas devices, and lord melbourne begs to offer to your majesty, most sincerely and most fervently, the good wishes of the season. lord melbourne will be in town on friday evening next, and after that day will wait upon your majesty, whenever your majesty is pleased to command.... lord melbourne is very glad to hear that the king of the belgians is reassured by his journey to mons and his reception upon it. he need not mind the king of holland, if he can keep all right at paris. the railway smash[ ] is awful and tremendous, as all railway mishaps are, and lord melbourne fears must always be. these slips and falls of earth from the banks are the greatest danger that now impends over them, and if they take place suddenly and in the dark, lord melbourne does not see how the fatal consequences of them are to be effectually guarded against. they are peculiarly likely to happen now, as the cuttings have been recently and hastily made, the banks are very steep, and the season has been peculiarly wet, interrupted by severe frosts. lord melbourne received the deputation from derby, a large and respectable one, here on monday last. the address was very guarded, temperate, and judicious, and lord melbourne strove to construct his answer in the same manner. [footnote : this accident took place on th december in the sonning hill cutting, two and a half miles from reading. eight persons were killed on the spot.] introductory note to chapter xi the session was mainly occupied by the great ministerial measure of finance, direct taxation by means of income tax being imposed, and the import duties on a large number of articles being removed or relaxed, mr gladstone, now at the board of trade, taking charge of the bills. two more attempts on the queen's life were made, the former again on constitution hill by one francis, whose capital sentence was commuted; the latter by a hunchback, bean, who was sentenced to eighteen months' imprisonment. an act was promptly passed to deal with such outrages in future as misdemeanours, without giving them the importance of high treason. lord ashley's bill was passed, prohibiting woman and child labour in mines and collieries. but the anti-corn law league of manchester was not satisfied with the policy of the government and objected to the income tax; while riots broke out in the manufacturing districts of the north. in afghanistan, the disasters of the previous year were retrieved; sir robert sale, who was gallantly defending jellalabad, made a _sortie_ and defeated akbar khan; general nott arrived at ghuznee, but found it evacuated; he destroyed the citadel and removed the gates of somnauth. general pollock swept the khyber pass and entered cabul. the captives taken on the retreat from cabul were recovered--lady macnaghten and lady sale among them. in retribution for the murder of macnaghten, the great bazaar of cabul, where his remains had been dishonoured, was destroyed by pollock; the british force was then withdrawn. dost mahommed made himself again ruler of cabul, and a proclamation of lord ellenborough announced that the british government accepted any sovereign and constitution approved by the afghans themselves. in china, also, operations were successfully terminated, chapoo being taken in may, and an attack by admiral parker upon nanking being only averted by the conclusion of a favourable treaty, involving an indemnity, the cession by china of hong kong, and the opening of important ports to commerce. a dispute had arisen between this country and the united states as to the boundary line between the latter country and the british possessions in north america. lord ashburton was accordingly sent out on a special mission to effect the adjustment of this and other disputes, and a treaty was concluded for the purpose of defining each country's territorial rights, and imposing mutual obligations for the suppression of the slave trade. chapter xi _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ sudbury hall, _ th january ._ my dear niece,--most grateful for your very amiable kind letter full of good wishes for me, i hasten to answer it and to assure you that i deeply feel all your affectionate kindness to me in wishing my life to be prolonged. from ill-health i have become such a useless member of your family, that i must wonder you have not long been tired of me. i wish i was more able to be of any use to you which you might like to make of me. my services would be most faithful, i can assure you. should my life be spared, there may perhaps yet be a time when i can prove to you, that what i say is not merely a _façon de parler_, but my sincere wish. your domestic happiness, dearest victoria, gives me great satisfaction whenever i think of it, and that is very often. god continue it so, uninterrupted, is my daily prayer. your approbation of my little offering to my dear godchild gives me much pleasure. it occupied me several days during my illness to make the drawing, weak as i then was, and it was a _pleasant occupation_. we have frost again, with a clear blue sky, which is much better for me than the damp close weather of last week, which oppressed me so much. i breathe again, and my spirits get their usual tone, which they had lost, but i still cough a great deal, which is very fatiguing. will you kiss your darlings in my name and bless them, and pray believe me ever, my dear niece, your most affectionately devoted aunt, adelaide. [pageheading: windsor] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ broadlands,[ ] _ th january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to return to your majesty and to his royal highness his thanks for all the kindness shown him at windsor. he was very happy to find himself there again and in your majesty's society. he has seen many fine places and much fine country, but after all there is nothing like windsor and the park. twenty very fine places might easily be made out of the latter. lord melbourne as he drove to bagshot was very glad to see the plantations at and about cumberland lodge and onwards so well and judiciously thinned. he had a very prosperous journey here. it is a lovely place, with the greatest beauty that a place can have, a very swift, clear, natural stream, running and winding in front of the house. the whole place is much improved since lord melbourne saw it last; a great deal of new pleasure-ground has been made. the trees, cypresses, elders, planes, elms, white poplars and acacias are very fine indeed.... lord melbourne thinks of staying here six or seven days, and then returning to london and going to brocket hall and panshanger, but he has not fixed his plans decidedly, which he is never very fond of doing. lord melbourne was delighted at thinking that he left your majesty in good health, which he earnestly hopes and fervently prays may, together with every other blessing, long continue. [footnote : the house of lord palmerston in hants.] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th january ._ ... sir robert peel has informed lord aberdeen that he had mentioned to your majesty the suggestion of the king of prussia to confer the order of the black eagle[ ] upon the prince of wales, immediately after the christening of his royal highness. lord aberdeen therefore abstains from troubling your majesty with any observations on this subject. [footnote : founded by frederick i. in .] [pageheading: disasters in afghanistan] _lord fitzgerald to queen victoria._ _ th january ._ lord fitzgerald, with his most humble duty to your majesty, begs leave humbly to inform your majesty that despatches have been this day received at the india house from the earl of auckland, governor-general of india, which most officially confirm to too great an extent the disastrous intelligence contained in the public journals of yesterday, the particulars of which the editors of these journals had received by express messengers from marseilles.[ ] this intelligence is of a most painful character, and though the details which have arrived do high honour to the courage and the gallantry of your majesty's forces, as well as of the east india company's army, yet the loss sustained has been very great, and many valuable officers have fallen the victims of a widespread conspiracy which seems to have embraced within its confederation the most warlike tribes of the afghan nation. lord fitzgerald begs leave most humbly to lay before your majesty an interesting despatch from lord auckland, comprising the most important details of the late events in afghanistan. it is very satisfactory to lord fitzgerald to be enabled humbly to acquaint your majesty that lord auckland has decided on waiting the arrival of his successor, lord ellenborough, and states to lord fitzgerald that he will feel it to be his duty to remain in his [government], in the present critical state of affairs, until he is relieved by the new governor-general. all of which is most humbly submitted to your majesty, by your majesty's most dutiful subject and servant, fitzgerald and vesci. [footnote : _see_ introductory note, , _ante_, p. . the rebellion broke out at cabul on nd november, and sir alexander burnes was murdered. (intro note to ch. x)] [pageheading: the oxford movement] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ broadlands, _ th january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has this morning received your majesty's letter of the th inst., and is glad to infer from it that your majesty and the prince are both well and in good spirits. with respect to the oxford affair, your majesty is aware that for a long time a serious difference has been fermenting and showing itself in the church of england, one party leaning back towards popery, and the other either wishing to keep doctrines as they are, or, perhaps, to approach somewhat nearer to the dissenting churches. this difference has particularly manifested itself in a publication, now discontinued, but which has been long going on at oxford, entitled _tracts for the times_, and generally called the oxford tracts. the professorship of poetry is now vacant at oxford, and two candidates have been put forward, the one mr williams, who is the author of one or two of the most questionable of the oxford tracts, and the other mr garbett, who is a representative of the opposite party. of course the result of this election, which is made by the masters of arts of the university, is looked to with much interest and anxiety, as likely to afford no unequivocal sign of which is the strongest party in the university and amongst the clergy generally. it is expected that mr garbett will be chosen by a large majority.... [pageheading: the morning chronicle] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs to acknowledge your majesty's letter of the th, which he has received here this morning. lord melbourne does not think this puseyite difference in the church so serious or dangerous as others do. if it is discreetly managed, it will calm down or blow over or sink into disputes of little significance. all lord melbourne fears is lest the bishops should be induced to act hastily and should get into the wrong. the puseyites have the most learning, or rather, have considered the points more recently and more accurately than their opponents. lord melbourne hopes that the spanish affair will be settled. lord melbourne cannot doubt that the french are wrong. even if the precedents are in their favour, the spanish court has a right to settle its own etiquette and its own mode of transacting business, and to change them if it thinks proper.[ ] lord melbourne was at broadlands when the article to which your majesty alludes appeared in the _morning chronicle_, and he talked it over with palmerston. he does not think that palmerston wrote it, because there were in it errors, and those errors to palmerston's disadvantage; but it was written by easthope under the impression that it conveyed palmerston's notions and opinions. your majesty knows very well that palmerston has long had much communication with the _morning chronicle_ and much influence over it, and has made great use of it for the purpose of maintaining and defending his own policy. in this sort of matter there is much to be said upon both sides. a minister has a great advantage in stating his own views to the public, and if palmerston in the syrian affair had not had as devoted an assistant as the _morning chronicle_, he would hardly have been able to maintain his course or carry through his measures. it has always been lord melbourne's policy to keep himself aloof from the public press and to hold it at arm's-length, and he considers it the best course, but it is subject to disadvantages. you are never in that case strongly supported by them, nor are the motives and reasons of your conduct given to the public with that force and distinctness which they might be. lord melbourne has no doubt that your majesty's assurance is well founded, and that the present government are anxious for the welfare and prosperity and tranquillity of spain. it cannot be otherwise. palmerston dislikes aberdeen and has a low opinion of him. he thinks him weak and timid, and likely to let down the character and influence of the country. your majesty knows that lord melbourne does not partake these opinions, certainly not at least to anything like the extent to which palmerston carries them. lord melbourne is going down to panshanger to-morrow, where he understands that he is to meet lord and lady lansdowne and lord and lady leveson.[ ] lord melbourne will take care and say nothing about brighton, but is glad to hear that your majesty is going thither. [footnote : an ambassador, m. de salvandy, had been sent from france to madrid. espartero, the regent, required the credentials to be presented to him and not to the young queen. the french ambassador having refused to comply, an unseemly dispute arose, and m. de salvandy left madrid.] [footnote : the late lord granville and his first wife, only child of the duc de dalberg, and widow of sir ferdinand acton.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ my dear uncle,--not to miss my day, i write a line to thank you for your kind letters of the th and th, but shall write fully by the messenger. our claremont trip was very enjoyable, only we missed pussy so much; another time we shall take her with us; the dear child was so pleased to see us again, particularly dear albert, whom she is _so_ fond of.... we think of going to brighton early in february, as the physicians think it will do the children great good, and perhaps it may _me_; for i am very strong as to fatigue and exertion, but not quite right otherwise; i am growing thinner, and there is a want of tone, which the sea may correct. albert's great _fonction_[ ] yesterday went off beautifully, and he was so much admired in all ways; he always _fascinates_ the people wherever he goes, by his very modest and unostentatious yet dignified ways. he only came back at twelve last night; it was very kind of him to come. the king of prussia means, i believe, to cross on the th. now _addio_. ever your most affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : the prince laid the foundation stone of the new royal exchange.] [pageheading: the duke of wellington] _the duke of wellington to queen victoria._ london, _ st january ._ field-marshal the duke of wellington presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is much flattered by your majesty's most gracious desire that he should bear the sword of state at the ceremony of the christening of his royal highness the prince of wales. he had already received from sir robert peel an intimation of your majesty's gracious pleasure on this subject. he is in such good health, as to be able to perform any duty upon which your majesty may think proper to employ him; and he will attend your majesty's gracious ceremony at windsor castle on tuesday morning, the th jan. inst. all of which is humbly submitted to your majesty by your majesty's most dutiful and devoted subject and servant, wellington. _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ windsor castle, _ nd january ._ the queen cannot say _how grieved_ she is, and the prince also, at hearing of lord melbourne's serious indisposition, by his letter this morning. how _very_ provoking if he cannot come on tuesday. it will be the _only_ important ceremony during the queen's reign which lord melbourne has _not_ been present at, and it grieves her _deeply_. it was already a deep mortification not to see him in his old place, but not to see him _at all_ is _too_ provoking. if lord melbourne should soon get well we shall hope to see him later during the king's[ ] stay. the prince is gone to greenwich to meet the king, and i expect them about five o'clock. the queen hopes to hear soon of lord melbourne's being better, and expresses again her very sincere regret at his being prevented from coming. [footnote : frederick wilham iv., king of prussia.] [pageheading: the slave trade] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ _ th january ._ lord aberdeen presents his most humble duty to your majesty. some time ago, your majesty was graciously pleased to express a desire to have a copy of the treaty concluded by your majesty with the four great powers of europe, for the more effectual suppression of the slave trade.[ ] lord aberdeen has had one prepared for your majesty's use, which he humbly begs to lay before your majesty. in obeying your majesty's commands lord aberdeen thinks it his duty, at the same time, to state to your majesty that, with the exception of some alterations and additions of little importance, the treaty in its present form had existed for a considerable time in the foreign office. he found, also, that there had been a reluctance to sign it on the part of the french government; but as the objection was chiefly of a personal nature, it was speedily removed. the only share, therefore, which lord aberdeen can properly be said to have had in this transaction is that of having been enabled to afford your majesty the great satisfaction of completing this blessed work at an earlier period than would otherwise have been the case. [footnote : the treaty conferred a mutual right of search.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ st february ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has to thank your majesty for the letters of the th and the st ult., the last of which he received this morning. lord melbourne is very glad that your majesty opens the parliament in person. your majesty knows lord melbourne's opinion, that it ought always to be done, when it can be, without reference to ministers, politics, or political questions. lord melbourne hopes to be able to go to the house in the evening, but he fears that it would be too much for him if he were to attempt to attend also in the morning. lord melbourne was in despair at hearing of poor eos.[ ] favourites often get shot; lord melbourne has known it happen often in his time. that is the worst of dogs; they add another strong interest to a life which has already of itself interest enough, and those, god knows! sufficiently subject both to accident and decay. lord melbourne is sorry to do anything that could trouble your majesty in the slightest degree, but he doubts not that your majesty is already aware of the matter, and therefore he has less scruple in sending to your majesty a letter[ ] which he has received from the duke of sussex. upon the plea of not being well, lord melbourne has put off seeing the duke upon this subject until after monday next, and when he does see him, he will try to keep him quiet, which your majesty knows when he has got a thing of this sort into his head, is no easy matter. [footnote : a favourite greyhound of the prince, accidentally shot by prince ferdinand. _see_ king leopold's letter, th february.] [footnote : this letter is not preserved among the queen's papers.] [pageheading: the king of prussia] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ st february ._ my dear uncle,--i have to thank you for a kind, short note of the th inst., which i received on sunday. i gave your kind message to the king of prussia, who was much _touché_ by it. he is a most amiable man, so kind and well-meaning, and seems so much beloved. he is so amusing too. he is very anxious that belgium should become _liée_ with germany, and i think, dearest uncle, that it would be for the _real_ good of belgium if it could be so. you will have heard how perfectly and splendidly everything went off on the th. nothing could have done better, and _little_ albert (_what_ a pleasure that he has that _dearest_ name!) behaved so well. the king left us yesterday morning to go to town, where we follow him to-morrow; he was quite sad to leave windsor, which he admired so much. he dined with the sutherlands yesterday, and dines with the duke of wellington to-day, and the cambridges to-morrow. on thursday he dines with us (he lodges in buckingham palace), and on friday takes his departure. he is really a most agreeable visitor, though i must own that i am somewhat knocked up by our great exertions. uncle ferdinand is very well, and we are delighted with dear leopold;[ ] he is so much improved, and is such a modest, sensible boy. i can't say much for poor gusti,[ ] though i love him, but he is really too odd and inanimate. i hope louise will see the king of prussia. you have heard our great misfortune about dear eos; she is going on well, but slowly, and still makes us rather anxious. it made me quite ill the first day, and keeps me fidgety still, till we know that she is quite safe. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. we were grieved to hear papa had been so ill. [footnote : son of prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg, and brother of the king of portugal, afterwards a candidate for the hand of queen isabella of spain. see _post_, p. . (ch. xii, footnote )] [footnote : prince augustus, afterwards married to the princess clémentine, daughter of king louis philippe.] [pageheading: the king of prussia] [pageheading: betrothal of prince ernest] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th february ._ my dear victoria,--thousand thanks for your kind letter of the st, which i received yesterday. the king of prussia is a very delightful person;[ ] he is so clever and amiable, and, owing to his good-nature, not by any means fatiguing. i fear you had cold weather yesterday for the opening of parliament. to-day we have here a tremendous fog; heaven grant that it may not be so heavy on the thames! else the king's journey will be rendered difficult. we expect him to-morrow about eleven o'clock; he wishes to be at antwerp at five, which would indicate his departure from hence at three o'clock. there can be no doubt that nothing could be better than to link this country as much as possible to germany. the public feeling was and is still favourable to this, but in germany some years ago they were childishly ultra, and kicked us off most unnecessarily, which renders everything of the sort now much less easy. in a political point of view the king's journey will prove useful, as it takes him still more out of the clutches of russia and gives him more _correct_ views of what is going on in the west of europe. i wish the king may also talk to his helter-skelter cousin in holland; if the man goes on in his wild intrigues, though he will get most probably nothing by it _himself_, he may do a great deal of harm, and may force us to incline more towards france for fear of _his_ intrigues with france. i was extremely sorry to hear the accident which befell dear eos, a great friend of mine. i do not understand how your uncle managed it; he ought rather to have shot somebody else of the family. ernest has then been going on fast enough; all i hear of the lady is very satisfactory.[ ] i don't yet know when he means to come here. now i must conclude. in haste, ever, my dear victoria, your affectionate uncle, leopold r. [footnote : lord aberdeen wrote to madame de lieven: "i passed a great deal of time with the king of prussia when he was in this country, and perfectly subscribe to the truth of the description you gave me of him before his arrival--intelligent, high-minded, and sincere. like all germans, he is sometimes a little in the clouds, but his projects are generous, and he wishes to do what is right."] [footnote : he married the princess alexandrina of baden on rd may .] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th february ._ my dearest uncle,--i thank you _de tout mon c[oe]ur_ for your kind letter of the th, which i received the day before yesterday. you have now seen our good, kind, amiable king of prussia, for whom i have really the greatest affection and respect. we were quite sorry to lose him, and he was much affected at going. he is so open and natural, and seems really so anxious to do good whenever he can. his liberality and generosity here has been immense. he is very much displeased with his "helter-skelter cousin,"[ ] and quite unhappy at the state of things in that country.... ernest's marriage is a _great, great delight_ to us; thank god! i say, as i so ardently wished it, and alexandrina is said to be really _so_ perfect. i have begged ernest beforehand to pass his honeymoon with us, and i beg you to urge him to do it; for he witnessed our first happiness, and we must therefore witness his. leopold is a dear, sweet boy, really, so full of feeling, and so very good-tempered and modest; the king was charmed with him and he with the king. i am happy to say faithful eos is quite convalescent; she walks about wrapped up in flannel. we are off for brighton the day after to-morrow; i can't say i _like_ it at all. we were, and the boy too, all three, vaccinated from the same child yesterday! now adieu! ever your devoted niece, victoria r. fanny jocelyn is taking her first waiting, and makes a most excellent and sedate _dame d'honneur_. i am sorry she is so very thin still. [footnote : the king of holland. _see_ king leopold's letter of th february.] [pageheading: christening of prince of wales] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ marlborough house, _ th february ._ my dear niece,--i thank you a thousand times for your kind letter, just received, and am delighted with the hope of seeing you, if you have time to spare, when you come to town next week. i hardly dare to expect it, but it will make me very happy should you be able to fulfil your kind intention. i was happy to hear how well the holy ceremony went off on tuesday, and how splendid the whole was. the earnest attention of the king of prussia to the ceremony, and the manner with which he read the responses, was universally remarked and admired. may your dear child, our beloved prince of wales, follow his pious example in future, and become as truly estimable and amiable and good as his godfather really is. he is indeed most charming, and so very agreeable and affable to every one, that he must be loved and respected by all who have the good fortune to approach him. i hope he does not over-fatigue himself, for he does a great deal in the short time of his stay in england. he expresses himself delighted with his reception. i regret to find that your dear little girl is still suffering so much from her teeth. god bless and guard her and her brother!--who by all descriptions must be a very fine babe. the king of prussia admires little victoria _very much_; he described her to me as the most lovely child he ever saw. i enclose the impression of my seal, according to your wish.... with my best love to dear albert, i beg you to believe me ever, dearest victoria, your most attached and devoted aunt, adelaide. may i ask you to give my affectionate respects to the king of prussia, and my love to your mamma? _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th february, monday night._ (_half-past_ a.m.) sir robert peel, with his humble duty to your majesty, begs leave to acquaint your majesty that lord john russell proposed this evening in the house of commons a resolution condemnatory of the principle of the plan for the adjustment of the corn laws, brought forward by your majesty's servants. lord john russell was followed in the debate by mr gladstone, the vice-president of the board of trade, who vindicated the plan.... sir robert peel had a meeting yesterday of the friends of the government in the house of commons, and he is convinced that although many may have wished that the plan of the government had given an increased degree of protection to agriculture, the great body will support the measure, and that we shall have no difficulty in resisting any detached efforts that may be made to add to the duties on foreign corn. [pageheading: peel and prince albert] _sir robert peel to the prince albert._ whitehall, _ th february(?) ._ sir,--when i had the honour of last seeing your royal highness at windsor castle, i stated to your royal highness that it would give me great satisfaction to have the opportunity from time to time of apprising your royal highness of the legislative measures in contemplation of her majesty's servants, and of explaining in detail any matters in respect to which your royal highness might wish for information. in conformity with this feeling on my part, i take the liberty of sending to your royal highness two confidential memoranda prepared for the information of her majesty's servants on the important subjects respectively of the state of slavery in the east indies, and of the poor laws in this country. they may probably be interesting to your royal highness, and if your royal highness should encourage me to do so, i will, as occasion may arise, make similar communications to your royal highness. i have the honour to be, sir, with sincere respect, your royal highness's most faithful and humble servant, robert peel. _p.s._--i do not think that the measure which i have brought forward for the diminution of the duties on the import of foreign corn, will deprive us of any portion of the support or goodwill of our friends. many wish that the reduction had not been carried so far, but almost all are aware of the consequences of rejecting or obstructing the measure. [pageheading: afghanistan] _lord fitzgerald and vesci to queen victoria._ india board, _ st march ._ lord fitzgerald, with his most humble duty to your majesty, requests permission humbly to submit to your majesty, that the communications received yesterday at the india house present a dark and alarming picture of the position and danger of the british troops in afghanistan.[ ] although the governor-general's despatch announcing these melancholy tidings also states that no strictly official intelligence had reached him from cabul, yet the opinion of lord auckland evidently is, that the reports on which his despatch is founded are but too likely to be true. from them it would appear that a numerous and excited native population had succeeded in intercepting all supplies, that the army at cabul laboured under severe privations, and that in consequence of the strict investment of the cantonments by the enemy, there remained, according to a letter from the late sir william macnaghten to an officer with sir robert sale's force, only three days' provision in the camp. under such circumstances it can perhaps be but faintly hoped that any degree of gallantry and devotion on the part of your majesty's forces can have extricated them from the difficulties by which they were encompassed on every side. capitulation had been spoken of, and it may, unhappily, have become inevitable, as the relieving column, expected from candahar, had been compelled by the severity of an unusual season to retrace its march. the despatches from calcutta being voluminous, and embracing minute unofficial reports, lord fitzgerald has extracted and copied those parts which relate to the military operations in afghanistan, and most humbly submits them to your majesty. he at the same time solicits permission to annex a _précis_ of some of the most important of the private letters which have been forwarded from india; and, as your majesty was graciously pleased to peruse with interest some passages from the first journal of lady sale, lord fitzgerald ventures to add the further extracts, transmitted by lord auckland, in which lady sale describes successive actions with the enemy, and paints the state of the sufferings of the army, as late as the th of december. nothing contained in any of these communications encourages the hope of sir alexander burnes's safety. in one letter the death of an individual is mentioned, who is described as the assassin of that lamented officer. all of which is most humbly submitted to your majesty by your majesty's most dutiful subject and servant, fitzgerald and vesci. [footnote : _see_ introductory note, _ante_, pp. , . (intro note to ch. x; intro note to ch. xi)] [pageheading: a marine excursion] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ pavilion, _ th march ._ the queen thanks lord melbourne for his kind letter, received the day before yesterday, by which she is glad to see he is well, and fanny got safe to dublin. our excursion was most successful and gratifying. it rained very much all monday evening at portsmouth, but, nevertheless, we visited the _st vincent_ and the _royal george_ yacht, and the prince went all over the dockyards. it stormed and rained all night, and rained when we set off on bord the _black eagle_ (the _firebrand_ that was) for spithead on tuesday morning; it, however, got quite fine when we got there, and we went on board the _queen_, and a glorious sight it was; she is a magnificent ship, so wide and roomy, and though only just commissioned, in the best order. with marines, etc., her crew is near upon a thousand men! we saw the men at dinner, and tasted the grog and soup, which pleased them very much. old sir edward owen is very proud of her. it was a great pleasure for the queen to be at sea again, and not a creature _thought_ even of being sick. the saluting of all those great ships in the harbour at once, as we came out and returned, has a splendid effect. the queen was also much pleased at seeing four of the crew of the _emerald_ again whom she knew so well _nine years_ ago! the prince was delighted with all he saw, as were also our uncle and cousins; these last, we are sorry to say, leave us on monday,--and we go up to town on tuesday, where the queen hopes to see lord melbourne soon. the queen sends lord melbourne a letter from the queen of portugal, all which tends to show how _wrong_ it is to _think_ that they connive at the restoration of the charter.... lady dunmore is in waiting, and makes an excellent lady-in-waiting. lord hardwicke the queen likes very much, he seems so straightforward. he took the greatest care of the queen when on board ship. was not his father drowned at spithead or portsmouth?[ ] the queen hopes to hear that lord melbourne is very well. [footnote : "his father, sir joseph yorke," lord melbourne replied, "was drowned in the southampton river, off netley abbey, when sailing for pleasure. the boat was supposed to have been struck by lightning. his cousin, lord royston, was drowned in the year in the baltic, at cronstadt" [according to burke in , off lubeck, _æt._ twenty-three], "which event, together with the death of two younger sons of lord hardwicke, gave the earldom ultimately to the present lord."] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ pavilion, _ th march ._ my dear uncle,--as i wrote you so long a letter yesterday, i shall only write you a few lines to-day, to thank you for your kind letter of the th, received yesterday. our dear uncle and dear cousins have just left us, and we are very sorry to see them go; for the longer one is together the more intimate one gets, and they were quite become as belonging to us, and were so quiet and unassuming, that we shall miss them much, particularly dear leopold, whom poor uncle ferdinand recommended to my especial care, and therefore am really very anxious that we should settle something for his _future_. uncle ferdinand likes the idea of his passing some time at brussels, and some time here, very much, and i hope we may be able to settle that. uncle and cousins were sorry to go. you will have heard how well our portsmouth expedition went off; the sea was quite smooth on tuesday, and we had a delightful visit to the _queen_, which is a splendid ship. i think it is in these immense wooden walls that our real greatness exists, and i am proud to think that no _other_ nation _can_ equal us in _this_.... now _addio!_ ever your most affectionate niece, victoria r. [pageheading: the fall of cabul] _lord fitzgerald and vesci to queen victoria._ _ th march ._ lord fitzgerald, with his most humble duty to your majesty, begs leave most humbly and with deep sorrow to lay before your majesty reports which he has only within this hour received. they are to be found in a despatch from the governor and council of bombay, and unhappily confirm, to an appalling degree, the disastrous intelligence from afghanistan. the commercial expresses, which reached london yesterday, gave to the public some of the details of the fall of cabul; and lord fitzgerald laments that it is his painful duty most humbly to inform your majesty that the despatches just arrived confirm to their full extent the particulars of sir william macnaghten's fate, and of the fate of that remnant of gallant men who, on the faith of a capitulation, had evacuated that cantonment which they had defended with unavailing courage. in addition to the despatch from the council of bombay, lord fitzgerald humbly ventures to submit to your majesty a letter addressed to him by mr anderson, the acting-governor of that presidency, with further details of these melancholy events. the despatches from the governor-general of india come down to the date of the nd of january (three days previous to the tragical death of sir william macnaghten). lord auckland was then uninformed of the actual state of the force in cabul, though not unprepared for severe reverses. [pageheading: the garter] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th march ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and will take an opportunity to-morrow of ascertaining your majesty's pleasure with respect to the remaining garter which still remains undisposed of, as your majesty may probably think it advisable that the investiture of all the knights selected for the vacant garters should take place at the same time. sir robert peel humbly represents to your majesty that those peers who may severally be considered from their rank and station candidates for this high distinction, have behaved very well in respect to it, as since sir robert peel has had the honour of serving your majesty he has never received, excepting in the cases of the duke of buckingham and recently of lord cardigan, a direct application on the subject of the garter. of those who from their position and rank in the peerage, and from the garter having been heretofore conferred on their ancestors or relations, may be regarded as competitors, the principal appear to sir robert peel to be the following:-- the duke of cleveland the duke of montrose the marquis of hertford the marquis of bute the marquis of abercorn the marquis camden the marquis of londonderry. sir robert peel names all, without meaning to imply that the pretensions of all are very valid ones. he would humbly represent for your majesty's consideration, whether on account of rank, fortune and general character and station in the country, the claims of the duke of cleveland do not upon the whole predominate.[ ] his grace is very much mortified and disappointed at sir robert peel's having humbly advised your majesty to apply the general rule against the son's succeeding the father immediately in the lieutenancy of a county to his case in reference to his county of durham. sir robert peel thinks it better to write to your majesty upon this subject, as your majesty may wish to have an opportunity of considering it. [footnote : the garter was conferred on the duke of cleveland.] [pageheading: the earl of munster] [pageheading: the queen and the income tax] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ st march ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. a letter from charles fox to lady holland, and which she has sent to me, informs me of the shocking end of munster,[ ] which your majesty will have heard long before you receive this. charles fox attributes it entirely to the vexatious and uneasy life which he led with lady munster, but he was always, as your majesty knows, an unhappy and discontented man, and there is something in that unfortunate condition of illegitimacy which seems to distort the mind and feelings and render them incapable of justice or contentment. it is not impossible that upon this event application may be made to your majesty for the continuance of the pension upon the privy purse to his son. as lord melbourne advised your majesty to continue these pensions upon the late king's death, perhaps it may not be improper that he should now say that it is his strong opinion that they should not be continued further. there is no reason for it. they are not very rich, but neither are they poor, and they have very opulent connections and relations. it appears to me that the first opportunity should be taken to show that it is not your majesty's intention to charge the crown with the maintenance and support of all these families, which will otherwise be the case. lord melbourne thinks it not improper to mention this matter thus early, as otherwise the [compassionate] feelings naturally raised by such an event might lead to a different determination. there is another matter mentioned in your majesty's letter, relating to money, which is of considerable importance, and that is the determination taken by your majesty to subject your own provision to the proposed duty on income. when it was put to your majesty lord melbourne is disposed to think that your majesty's determination[ ] was right, and it certainly will be very popular, which in the present circumstances of the country and state of public feelings is a great advantage. at the same time it is giving up a principle of the constitution, which has hitherto exempted the sovereign from all direct taxation, and there are very great doubts entertained whether the announcement to parliament of the intention was not in a constitutional point of view objectionable, inasmuch as it pronounced the opinion of the crown upon a tax which was still under discussion. it is also a great pecuniary sacrifice, and, as your majesty says, together with the loss of the duchy of cornwall and other revenues, will make a great change in your majesty's pecuniary circumstances. these defalcations can only be repaired by care and economy. your majesty has all the most right feelings and the best judgment about money, and lord melbourne has no doubt that your majesty will so act as to avoid pecuniary embarrassment--the only difficulty which lord melbourne fears for your majesty, and the only contingency which could involve your majesty in serious personal inconvenience. lord melbourne thanks your majesty much for the kindness of your letter.... everybody says that the marriage between miss stuart and lord waterford[ ] is likely to take place. it is said that he would do almost anything rather than go to st. petersburg. lord melbourne has not seen lord waterford, but he is said to be very good-looking; we know him to be rich and of high rank, and, after all, that sort of character is not disliked by all ladies. perhaps also she counts upon the effect of her influence to soften, to tranquillise, and to restrain. lord melbourne hears a very bad account of lord anglesey's affairs. his case is a hard one, for these pecuniary difficulties are owing to the extravagance of others, and by no means to his own. lord melbourne saw uxbridge and ellen at lady palmerston's on saturday evening. the latter seemed in good spirits, and said that she did not mean to shut herself up too closely in hertfordshire. lord melbourne thought that your majesty would be pleased with lambeth. the view from the great window in the drawing-room over the river, and to the houses of parliament and the abbey, is very fine indeed, but like all london views can rarely be seen in consequence of the foggy atmosphere.... no doubt your majesty and his royal highness must be anxious for a little quiet and repose, which lord melbourne hopes that your majesty will enjoy. lord melbourne had feared that your majesty's health was not quite so good as it appeared.... lord melbourne concludes this very long letter with the most fervent expression of his most sincere wishes for your majesty's health and happiness. lord melbourne in speaking of poor lord munster forgot to mention that at the levée on wednesday last he followed lord melbourne down the long gallery as he was going away, came up to him with great emotion of manner, pressed his hand warmly, and said that he wished to take the earliest opportunity of thanking lord melbourne for all the kindness he had shown him whilst he had been in office. [footnote : the earl of munster, son of william iv. and mrs. jordan, shot himself, th march. his wife was a daughter of the earl of egremont.] [footnote : the queen had decided that she would herself pay income tax.] [footnote : henry, third marquis, and louisa, second daughter of lord stuart de rothesay, were married on th june.] [pageheading: strawberry hill] [pageheading: the royal governess] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ panshanger, _ st march ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is much rejoiced to learn that your majesty has had fine weather and has enjoyed it. it rained here hard yesterday in the morning, but cleared up about half-past twelve and was very fine indeed. lord melbourne went over to brocket hall and enjoyed it much. he does not intend to return to london until monday next, when the house of lords reassembles. it is to be hoped that we shall then soon have the corn bill up from the commons and pass it. the income tax will give some trouble, but that done, and the poor law bill, the end of the session may begin to be looked forward to. the sale of strawberry hill[ ] naturally excites interest, and things are not unlikely to be sold high. the collection has after all been kept together, and the place has remained in the family of his niece,[ ] the duchess of gloucester, to whom he bequeathed it, longer than he himself expected. he says in one of his letters that he would send a statue down to linton, sir horace mann's place in kent, because there it had a better chance of remaining permanently, "for as to this poor bauble of a place," he adds, "it will be knocked to pieces in a very few years after my decease." it has stood, however, and remained five-and-forty years, a longer period than he had anticipated. some of the works, such as the bell by benvenuto cellini, and the antique eagle, are very fine; others are only curious. lord melbourne would not give much money for a mere curiosity, unless there were also some intrinsic merits or beauty. what is the value of cardinal wolsey's cap, for instance? it was not different from that of any other cardinal, and a cardinal's cap is no great wonder. lord melbourne returns lord munster's letter. it is without date, but was evidently written in contemplation of the dreadful act which he afterwards perpetrated. it is very melancholy. lord melbourne was certain that your majesty would send to lord adolphus[ ] the assurance which you have done, and that you would be anxious to assist his children, and promote their interests by every means in your power. but both their brothers and they must be made sensible that they must make some effort for themselves. lord melbourne is very glad to learn that your majesty intends to offer the round tower[ ] to the duke of sussex. it is in every respect kind. it will be of essential service to him, and it will gratify him most exceedingly. lord melbourne thinks that your majesty's decision respecting the governess[ ] is right. it should be a lady of rank; but that she should be a woman of sense and discretion, and capable of fulfilling the duties of the office, is of more importance than whether she is a duchess, a marchioness, or a countess. the selection is difficult, but if your majesty can find a person, it would not be well to consider either high or low rank as a disqualification. lord melbourne intends to take advantage of his freedom from the restraints of office in order to see a little of the bloom of spring and summer, which he has missed for so many years. he has got one or two horses, which he likes well enough, and has begun to ride again a little. lord melbourne wishes your majesty much of the same enjoyment, together with all health, happiness, and prosperity. [footnote : near twickenham, formerly the residence of horace walpole, and filled with his collection of pictures and _objets de vertu_.] [footnote : the duke of gloucester, brother of george iii., married in maria, countess-dowager waldegrave, illegitimate daughter of sir edward walpole, and niece of horace walpole. this, and the duke of cumberland's marriage in to lady anne horton, occasioned the passing of the royal marriages act.] [footnote : lord adolphus fitzclarence ( - ), a rear-admiral, brother of the earl of munster.] [footnote : the earl of munster had held the office of governor and constable of windsor castle, with a salary of £ , a year.] [footnote : to the royal children. lady lyttelton was ultimately appointed.] [pageheading: party politics] [pageheading: the garter] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has this morning received your majesty's very kind and confidential letter, for which he greatly thanks your majesty. your majesty may depend upon it that lord melbourne will do everything in his power to discourage and restrain factious and vexatious opposition, not only on account of your majesty's wish, but because he disapproves it as much as your majesty can possibly do. but everything in his power he fears is but little. the leaders of a party, or those who are so called, have but little sway over their followers, particularly when not in government, and when they have it not in their power to threaten them with any very serious consequences, such as the dissolution of the administration. mr pulteney, afterwards earl of bath, is reported to have said that political parties were like snakes, guided not by their heads, but by their tails. lord melbourne does not know whether this is true of the snake, but it is certainly so of the party. the conduct of the opposition upon the resolution respecting the income tax is rendered peculiarly ridiculous by the result. they forcibly put it off until after the holidays, and then upon the first day of the meeting they vote it without a division. what is this but admitting that they looked to a movement in the country which they have not been able to create? moreover, all oppositions that lord melbourne has ever seen are more or less factious. the opposition of mr fox to mr pitt was the least so, but these were great men, greater than any that exist at the present day, although lord melbourne is by no means inclined to depreciate his own times. the factiousness of one opposition naturally produces the same in the next. they say, "they did so to us; why should we not do so to them?" your majesty may rest assured that lord melbourne will do everything he can to prevent delay, and to accelerate the transaction of the public business. lord melbourne sends a letter which he has received this morning from the duke of sussex, and which expresses very right and proper feeling. lord melbourne has written in reply that, "your majesty was no doubt influenced principally by your natural affection for him, and by your sense of the generosity of his conduct towards lord munster, but that if any thought of lord melbourne intervened, your majesty could not have given a higher or a more acceptable proof of your approbation and regard." the garters[ ] seem to lord melbourne to be given well enough. your majesty's feelings upon the subject are most kind and amiable. but these things cannot be helped, and it is upon the whole advantageous that each party should have their portion of patronage and honours. if there is very distinguished service, the garter should be bestowed upon it. otherwise, in lord melbourne's opinion, it is better given to noblemen of high rank and great property. the chapter in ecclesiasticus, read in st george's chapel on obiit sunday, well describes those who ought to have it, with the exception of those "who find out musical tunes." lord melbourne does not think it well given to ministers. it is always then subject to the imputation of their giving it to themselves, and pronouncing an approbation of their own conduct. lord melbourne hopes that the pope's standing sponsor for the young prince of portugal is a sign of complete reconciliation with the see of rome. it is a very awkward thing for a roman catholic government to be at variance with the pope. he is still a very ugly customer. lord melbourne is very much concerned to hear of the baron's[ ] illness--very much indeed; he is an excellent and most valuable man, with one of the soundest and coolest judgments that lord melbourne has ever met with. your majesty knows that lord melbourne has never had a favourable opinion of his health. there seems to be about him a settled weakness of the stomach, which is in fact the seat of health, strength, thought and life. lord melbourne sees that a great physician says that napoleon lost the battle of leipsic in consequence of some very greasy soup which he ate the day before, and which clouded his judgment and obscured his perceptions. lord melbourne is very glad to hear that your majesty has amused yourself so well in the country, and is not surprised that you are unwilling to quit it. he means himself to see a little of the coming in of the spring, which he has not done for many years. [footnote : the recipients had been the king of saxony, the duke of beaufort, the duke of buckingham, the marquess of salisbury, the duke of cleveland.] [footnote : baron stockmar.] [pageheading: a brilliant ball] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ dearest uncle,--i am so sorry to see by your kind letter of the th that you are all so _enrhumés_, but hear to-day from vecto that charlotte is quite well again. i am quite bewildered with all the arrangements for our _bal costumé_, which i wish you could see; we are to be edward iii. and queen philippa, and a great number of our court to be dressed like the people in those times, and very correctly, so as to make a grand _aufzug_; but there is such asking, and so many silks and drawings and crowns, and god knows what, to look at, that i, who hate being troubled about dress, am quite _confuse_. to get a little rest we mean to run down to claremont with the children from friday to monday. my last ball was very splendid, and i have a concert on monday next.... i hope ernest and dear alexandrine will come in june, and stay some time _quietly_ with us in the country. i saw another beautiful letter of hers, so well and sensibly and religiously written, it would have pleased you. now adieu! ever your devoted niece, victoria r. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thanks your majesty much for your letter of the th inst. lord melbourne has been so much occupied with the debates in the house of lords during the last two days, that he has ventured to put off replying to your majesty's letters, which he trusts that your majesty will excuse. lord melbourne did not leave the ball until ten minutes after one, and as there were so many persons there, which lord melbourne thinks quite right and was very glad to see, lord melbourne had little hope of seeing your majesty again, and therefore ventured to take advantage of having ordered his carriage at half-past twelve and of its having come at the time that it was ordered. it was a very brilliant and very beautiful and a very gay ball. lord melbourne is very sorry to be obliged to express his fear that your majesty will prove more in the right than he was about the duration of parliament. there will be much debate in the committee upon the details of the income tax, and the discussions upon the tariff of duties, which affects so many interests, are likely to be very long indeed. there is one good thing in the house of lords, and that is that it never much delays or obstructs public business.... as lord melbourne drove down the park on saturday evening last to dine with his sister, he could see clearly into your majesty's room, so as to be able to distinguish the pictures, tables, etc., the candles being lighted and the curtains not drawn. your majesty was just setting off for the opera. [pageheading: prince albert and the army] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ the queen encloses the prince's letter to sir robert peel, containing his acceptance of the guards. at the same time, both the prince and queen feel much regret at the prince's leaving the th, which is, if possible, enhanced by seeing the regiment out to-day, which is in beautiful order. it was, besides, the regiment which escorted the prince from dover to canterbury on his arrival in england in february ' . the queen fears, indeed knows, that lord cardigan will be deeply mortified at the prince's leaving the regiment, and that it will have the effect of appearing like another slight to him; therefore, the queen much wishes that at some fit opportunity[ ] a mark of favour should be bestowed upon him.... the queen hopes sir robert will think of this. [footnote : lord cardigan was promoted major-general in . he became inspector-general of cavalry, and received the k.c.b. in .] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and acknowledges with many thanks your majesty's letter of the th inst., which he received yesterday morning. lord melbourne learns with the greatest satisfaction that lady lyttelton has undertaken the important and interesting charge, for which she is so well fitted. lord melbourne is most sincerely of opinion that no other person so well qualified could have been selected. lord melbourne will keep the matter strictly secret; he has not yet mentioned it to any one, nor has he heard it mentioned by any other person, which, as it must be known to some, rather surprises him. unreserved approbation cannot be expected for anything, but when it is known, lord melbourne anticipates that it will meet with as general an assent as could be anticipated for a choice in which all the community will take, and indeed have, so deep an interest. [pageheading: goethe and schiller] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th may ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is very sorry indeed, and entreats your majesty's pardon for his great omission on monday evening. he was never told that he was to pass before your majesty at the beginning; at the same time he admits that it was a blundering piece of stupidity not to find this out of himself. after this he never saw the glimmer of a chance of being able to get near to your majesty. lord melbourne wonders much who could have whispered to your majesty that he felt or expressed anything but the most unqualified admiration of the ball, which was the most magnificent and beautiful spectacle that he ever beheld. lord melbourne also believes it to be very popular, for the reasons which your majesty mentions. your majesty having generally chosen handsome and attractive girls for the maids of honour, which is very right, must expect to lose them in this way. lord melbourne is very glad of the marriage. lord emlyn[ ] always seemed to him a very pleasing young man, and well calculated to make a woman happy. lord melbourne felt quite sure that there had been a mistake about ben stanley, which was the reason that he mentioned his name. he is sorry that he has made a fool of himself by writing. having had so much to do with invitations during the two last years, he was not altogether unnaturally mortified to find himself not invited there.[ ] stanley is not a man to whom lord melbourne is very partial, but we must give every one his due. lord melbourne always discourages to the utmost of his power the notion of any one's having a right or claim to be asked, which notion, however, has a strong possession of the minds of people in general. lord melbourne is come down here again, being determined to see this spring thoroughly and completely. his feelings are like those, so beautifully described by schiller, of max piccolomini,[ ] when, after a youth passed entirely in war, he for the first time sees a country which has enjoyed the blessings of peace. the germans seem to lord melbourne generally to prefer goethe to schiller, a decision which surprises him, although he feels that he has no right to dictate to a people, of whose language he does not understand a word, their judgment upon their own authors. but the one, schiller, seems to him to be all truth, clearness, nature and beauty; the other, principally mysticism, obscurity, and unintelligibility. lord melbourne intends to return on wednesday, and will have the honour and pleasure of waiting upon your majesty on thursday. [footnote : the second earl cawdor, who married miss sarah mary cavendish.] [footnote : edward john, afterwards second lord stanley of alderley, was nicknamed ben, after "sir benjamin backbite." he had mentioned to lord melbourne that he was disappointed at not receiving an invitation to the royal ball.] [footnote : in the wallenstein trilogy.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th may ._ my dearest victoria,--i found here yesterday a very long and dear letter from your august hand, which made me very happy. your _fête_ i believe to have been most probably one of the most splendid _ever_ given. there is hardly a country where so much magnificence exists; austria has some of the means, but the court is not elegant from its nature. we regret sincerely not to have been able to witness it, and will admire the exhibition of your splendid costume. [pageheading: mr edwin landseer] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th may ._ ... sir robert peel humbly submits his opinion to your majesty that mr landseer's eminence as an artist would fully justify his having the honour of knighthood, and would not give any legitimate ground of complaint to any other artist on account of a similar distinction not being conferred on him. sir robert peel proposes therefore to write to mr landseer on the subject, as your majesty's opinion appears to be in favour of his name appearing with the others, should he wish for the distinction.... _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ the queen is quite vexed at having been quite unable to write to lord melbourne sooner, but we have been so occupied that she could not. she was so vexed too to have not had her head turned the other way when she met him yesterday, but she was looking at the prince, her uncle, and cousins riding, and only turned to see lord melbourne's groom whom she instantly recognised, but too late, alas! the queen spent a very merry, happy birthday at dear old claremont, and we finished by dancing in the gallery. she was grieved lord melbourne could not be there. we have got our dear uncle mensdorff[ ] and his four sons here, which is a great happiness to us. dear uncle (who lord melbourne is aware is a _most_ distinguished officer) is a delightful and amiable old man, and the sons are all so nice and amiable and kind and good; lord melbourne remembers seeing alexander here in , and that the queen was very partial to him. the two eldest and the youngest--hugo, alphonse, and arthur--are all amiable, though none near so good-looking, but so very well brought up and so unassuming. the second is very clever. and it is quite beautiful to see the love the father has for his sons, and _vice versâ_--and the affection the four brothers have for one another; this is so rarely seen that it does one's heart good to witness it. the queen has appointed the duchess of norfolk in lady lyttelton's place, and intends appointing lady canning in lady dalhousie's, who has resigned from ill-health. lady lyttelton _is_ established here in her new office, and does everything admirably. the queen must conclude here as she has got so much to do--hoping lord melbourne is well. [footnote : _see_ p. .] [pageheading: landseer declines knighthood] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ st may ._ sir robert peel, with his humble duty to your majesty, begs leave to acquaint your majesty, that he has just seen mr landseer. mr landseer repeated his expressions of deep and sincere gratitude for the favour and kindness with which your majesty had contemplated his claims for professional distinction, but appeared to retain the impression that he had yet scarcely done enough to entitle him to the honour which it was contemplated to bestow upon him. in the course of conversation he observed that he was now occupied upon works of a more important character than any that he had yet completed, and mentioned particularly an equestrian portrait of your majesty. he said that when these works were finished, and should they prove successful and meet with your majesty's approbation, he might feel himself better entitled to receive a mark of your majesty's favour. as these were evidently his sincere impressions and wishes, sir robert peel forbore from pressing upon him the immediate acceptance of the honour of knighthood. [pageheading: attempt on the queen] [pageheading: john francis] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ st may ._ my dearest uncle.--i wish to be the first to inform you of what happened yesterday evening, and to tell you that we are _saines et sauves_. on returning from the chapel on sunday, albert was observing how civil the people were, and then suddenly turned to me and said it appeared to him as though a man had held out a pistol to the carriage, and that it had hung fire; accordingly, when we came home he mentioned it to colonel arbuthnot, who was only to tell it to sir j. graham and sir robert peel, and have the police instructed, and _nobody else_. no one, however, who was with us, such as footmen, etc., had seen anything at all. albert began to doubt what he believed he had seen. well, yesterday morning (monday) a lad came to murray[ ] (who of course knew nothing) and said that he saw a man in the crowd as we came home from church, present a pistol to the carriage, which, however, did not go off, and heard the man say, "fool that i was not to fire!" the man then vanished, and this boy followed another man (an old man) up st james's street who repeated twice, "how very extraordinary!" but instead of saying anything to the police, asked the boy for his direction and disappeared. the boy accordingly was sent to sir robert peel, and (doubtful as it all still was) every precaution was taken, still keeping the thing completely secret, not a soul in the house knowing a word, and accordingly after some consultation, as _nothing_ could be done, we drove out--many police then in plain clothes being distributed in and about the parks, and the two equerries riding so close on each side that they must have been hit, if anybody had; still the feeling of looking out for such a man was not _des plus agréables_; however, we drove through the parks, up to hampstead, and back again. all was so quiet that we almost thought of nothing,--when, as we drove down constitution hill, very fast, we heard the report of a pistol, but not at all loud, so that had we not been on the alert we should hardly have taken notice of it. we saw the man seized by a policeman _next to whom he was standing when he_ fired, but we did not stop. colonel arbuthnot and two others saw him take aim, but we only _heard_ the report (looking both the other way). we felt both very glad that our drive had had the effect of having the man seized. whether it was loaded or not we cannot yet tell, but we are again full of gratitude to providence for invariably _protecting_ us! the feeling of horror is very great in the public, and great affection is shown us. the man was yesterday examined at the home office, is called john francis, is a cabinet-maker, and son of a machine-maker of covent garden theatre, is good-looking (they say). i have never seen him at all close, but arbuthnot gave the description of him from what he saw on sunday, which exactly answered. only twenty or twenty-one years old, and _not_ the _least_ mad--but very cunning. the boy identified him this morning, amongst many others. everything is to be kept secret _this_ time, which is very right, and altogether i think it is being well done. every further particular you shall hear. i was really not at all frightened, and feel _very_ proud at dear uncle mensdorff calling me "_sehr muthig_," which i shall ever remember with peculiar pride, coming from so distinguished an officer as he is! thank god, my angel is also well! but he says that had the man fired on sunday, he must have been hit in the head! god is merciful; that indeed we must feel daily more! uncle and cousins were quite horrified.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. you will tell louise _all_, of course. [footnote : the hon. charles augustus murray, master of the household, afterwards consul-general of egypt, and minister in persia and at dresden.] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ bushey house (_monday night_), _may ._ my dear niece,--i must write a line to express to you what i felt when i took up the newspapers which informed me of what had happened yesterday. is it possible?--can it be true? was my first question. however, the detailed accounts leave no doubt that a pistol was pointed at you again, though not fired. it is really shocking that such wretches exist who dare tempt (_sic_) to alarm you--though in this instance there was nothing alarming except the evil spirit which inspired the boy. how grateful must we not feel to our merciful god, who protects you so visibly, and gives you courage and confidence in him, who is and ever will be your safest guard and support. trust in him and you will not fail to be well guided. i hope it is true that you were not aware of what had happened when you went to church, not to be disturbed in your devotions, and that the account did not agitate you. edward[ ] came yesterday from town, but he knew nothing but that a pistol had been taken from a man in the park. we hardly believed the story till the papers informed us of the truth. pray say to dear albert what i feel _for_ and _with you both_, and how i thank god and pray that his merciful protection may never fail you. we are going to frogmore to-morrow, and from there shall drive in the park and to st george's chapel. i hope the weather will be as fine as it was to-day. god bless and guard you ever and ever! dearest victoria, prays your most devotedly attached aunt, adelaide. [footnote : prince edward of saxe-weimar.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ st june ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he was much shocked at learning, which he did not do until six o'clock yesterday evening, the event which took place on monday. after what took place on sunday, it must have been a trial to your majesty's nerves, and still more to those of the prince, to go out on monday; but it appears to lord melbourne that your majesty judged quite correctly in doing so. lord melbourne hardly knows what to say of this repeated attempt. it is a depravity and a malice as unintelligible as it is atrocious. lord melbourne is at least as grateful as any one of your majesty's subjects, and the gratitude is universal and fervent for your majesty's safety. lord melbourne had ridden over in the morning to visit lord and lady uxbridge in their rural retirement, and upon his return to brocket hall, about six o'clock, found the morning newspaper with the accounts of what had happened. if they had sent him down a messenger on monday night, which it would have been better to have done, he would have been yesterday in his place in the house of lords. lord melbourne found uxbridge enveloped in parcels and boxes, which he was busy unpacking, lady uxbridge reclining by the stream under the shade of a plane-tree, and the two young ladies somewhat pensive. the place looked beautiful, but lord melbourne fears that all its beauty will not be a compensation to them for london at this time of the year. [pageheading: the address] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ st june ._ sir james graham, with humble duty to your majesty, submits a copy of the answer to the address; and an alteration has been made in the answer which sir james graham hopes may render it conformable to the tender and generous feelings which your majesty has deigned to express with reference to the prince. the two houses of parliament followed the exact precedent which has been established in oxford's case; and although the life of the prince, so dear to your majesty, is highly valued by all your loving subjects, yet the crime of treason attaches only to an attack on the sacred person of your majesty; and the expressions used by parliament with reference to these atrocious crimes, when directed against the sovereign, are necessarily inapplicable to any other person, and could not be used with propriety. hence the omission in the former case of all allusion to the prince; and the silence of parliament on the present occasion is to be ascribed to the same cause--not to any cold indifference, which the general feeling of attachment to the prince entirely forbids. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's dutiful subject and servant, j. r. g. graham. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th june ._ my dearest uncle,--i was sure of the kind interest you would take in the event of the th and th. i am most thankful for your very kind, long letter of the rd, which i received the day before yesterday. i have so little time--as we are just setting off for ascot--that i can hardly write anything to you. there seems no doubt whatever that francis is totally without accomplices, and a _mauvais sujet_. we shall be able probably to tell you more when we see you. i am grieved that you have deferred your visit again. we are then to expect your arrival either on the tuesday or wednesday? very thankful we should be soon to hear whom you bring with you. dear uncle and the cousins are delighted with windsor, and the weather is beautiful, only unfortunately _too_ hot to be pleasant. i rode on my little barb at a review of cavalry at wormwood scrubbs on saturday, _dont je suis bien fière_. now adieu! dearest uncle. in haste, your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: news from afghanistan] [pageheading: sale and pollock] _lord fitzgerald and vesci to queen victoria._ india board, _ th june ._ lord fitzgerald, with his most humble duty to your majesty, humbly acquaints your majesty that despatches have been this day received from the governor-general and the several presidencies of india. they announce a signal victory, achieved by sir robert sale and his admirable garrison.[ ] the circumstances attending his glorious success, and the consequences likely to result from it, are amongst the most important of this hurtful war. they are described in sir robert sale's report, as published in the _bombay gazette_, a copy of which is most humbly submitted to your majesty. the despatches further bring the gratifying intelligence that general pollock had forced the khyber pass, and, defeating the enemy on every point, had surmounted the chief obstacles of that dangerous defile.[ ] the relief of the brave men under sir robert sale, to which their own gallantry and their late victory have so mainly contributed, may now be regarded as certain from the success of general pollock's advance. it is with regret that lord fitzgerald has to add that the citadel of ghuznee has surrendered on the faith of a capitulation, perhaps already violated, and that general england, who had marched with a convoy of treasure, and other supplies for the army at candahar, had been forced to retrace his steps and had arrived at quetta. at the same time, however, general nott had dispersed considerable assemblages of rebel tribes, whom he had defeated with loss, while an attack made during his absence on the city of candahar had been effectually repulsed by that portion of his force which had been left for its defence. the governor-general having proceeded in person to the north-western provinces of bengal, had issued at benares general orders congratulating the army on the return of victory to its ranks, and on the fresh lustre thus added to your majesty's arms. fitzgerald and vesci. [footnote : sir r. sale, who with his column had thrown himself into jellalabad on th november , and had heard brydon's narrative, made a _sortie_ on th april, and secured a great victory over akbar khan, whose force outnumbered sale's by five to one.] [footnote : general pollock, whom auckland had selected for the command, and who found everything in confusion on the frontier, swept the khyber pass of the enemy, and joined sale. the insurrection had spread to candahar, where general (afterwards sir william) nott was in command with a force of , men. he heard of macnaghten's murder on st january, and, like sale, refused to follow the order received (under coercion, as he believed) from elphinstone to return to india. on the contrary, he ordered all afghans to leave candahar, marched out himself and attacked and dispersed the enemy, , strong; while a flank movement made by the enemy on the city was repulsed with great loss. general (afterwards sir richard) england started from quetta with reinforcements, but met with a reverse at haikalzai; meanwhile also colonel palmer had had to make terms at ghuznee, and had to encounter treachery. nott, who was badly in want of money and ammunition for the troops, sent imperative orders to general england to reinforce him, which he did early in may.] [pageheading: debate on the income tax] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th june ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has thought it better not to interrupt your majesty with letters during the bustle of the last week, but he cannot omit to express to your majesty how much he was struck with the letter of the nd inst. which he received, and how entirely he concurs in the justice and propriety of your majesty's feelings and observations. let us hope that we shall have no more of these horrid attempts, which are generated by the wild notions of the time, and by the expectation, extravagant and unfounded, so industriously inculcated into the public mind, of advantages to be derived from change and confusion; lord melbourne anxiously hopes that the painful impressions which such events are calculated to produce upon your majesty's mind, and which they necessarily must produce, will pass away and that nothing will happen to renew and revive them. lord melbourne is happy to hear from normanby that everything passed off well and successfully at windsor and at ascot. the last is always rather a doubtful and disagreeable ordeal to pass through. we should have got through the debate upon the income tax this evening in the house of lords, if lansdowne had not unfortunately this morning had an access of gout in the hand, which prevented him from attending, and obliged the debate to be deferred. lord melbourne hopes that the resolution which lansdowne is to move[ ] is put in such a shape as to vindicate our course, and at the same time not to condemn that which has been adopted overmuch, nor to pledge us for the future.... lord melbourne earnestly hopes that your majesty is well and not too much affected by the heat of this weather, which does not suit lord melbourne very well. in conjunction with a large dinner which we had at the reform club in honour of the duke of sussex, it has given lord melbourne a good deal of headache and indisposition. the duke was in very good humour, and much pleased with the dinner, but he was by no means well or strong. [footnote : this resolution was in favour of altering the corn, sugar, and timber duties, in preference to imposing an income tax. it was negatived by to .] [pageheading: queen's first railway journey] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ my dearest uncle,--though i shall have the inexpressible happiness of seeing you and dearest louise so soon, i write these few lines to thank you for your very kind letter of the th. we arrived here yesterday morning, having come by the railroad, from windsor, in half an hour, free from dust and crowd and heat, and i am quite charmed with it.[ ] we spent a delightful time at windsor, which would have been still pleasanter had not the heat been such, ever since saturday week, that one is quite overcome; the grass is quite brown, and the earth full of wide cracks; there has not been a drop of rain since the th, my birthday! we rode and walked and danced, and i think i never was better than in all this fatigue and exercise.... i get every day fonder of dearest, excellent uncle mensdorff and the dear cousins, who are so amiable and good and unassuming; really, in society they keep quite in the background. they are out and out the nicest cousins we have. i am sure what i can do for them i shall be too happy to do. alexander is the most distinguished and solid, but alphonse and arthur the most unassuming. there is something so peculiarly _good_ in dear arthur! and they are all five so fond of pussy, and she so fond of them.... ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : this was the queen's first journey on the great western railway. the prince had often used it, and had been known to say, on descending from the train, "not quite so fast next time, mr conductor, if you please."--acworth, _the railways of england_, p. .] [pageheading: the income tax bill] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th june ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and offers many thanks for the letter, which he received yesterday evening. lord melbourne is very glad to hear that your majesty has enjoyed in the society of your near and dear relations so much happiness, which, like all other things, must have its portion of alloy in their departure. lord melbourne was much pleased with the short conversation which he had with count mensdorff at stafford house, and it is highly interesting to see at this distance of time a man who has been engaged in affairs so important and of so awful and melancholy a character. your majesty is surely right in terming your cousins young men; if the health and constitution be good, thirty-six is a young man, twenty-nine and thirty-two very young men, and twenty-five quite a boy. the weather has been very hot but very fine. the rain was so much required that lord melbourne cannot lament its coming, but he also regrets the hot suns which it has banished. the course which had been taken upon the income tax in the house of commons,[ ] contrary to lord melbourne's wish and opinion, rendered it impossible for lord melbourne directly to support the bill in the house of lords without offending and separating himself from the whole body of those who supported the last government. he therefore acquiesced in the resolution, which was moved by lord lansdowne, and which did not oppose the measure, but declared that it might have been avoided if the course which we had proposed had been taken. in the debate lord melbourne argued as strongly as he could in favour of the tax, and ended by declaring that if it was imposed, he could not pledge himself for the future against maintaining and even extending it. lord melbourne is anxious to make this explanation of his conduct to your majesty, and hopes therefore that your majesty will forgive his writing thus much upon this subject. lord melbourne very much lamented that the business did not terminate as amiably as it began, and that a contest should have been got into respecting the third reading of the bill; but considering that the measure had passed by accident through its first stages without any debate, and that there were lords who were still desirous of speaking upon it, it was imprudent of the ministers not at once to give another day for that purpose, especially as they were sure to be compelled to do so by repeated motions of adjournment. the feelings which your majesty expresses upon the conviction of this man[ ] are natural, and such as must arise in your majesty's bosom; but lord melbourne knows very well that your majesty will at once see the necessity of not yielding to your own feelings, and of leaving the issue entirely in the hands of your advisers. without any reference to personal or particular circumstances, without adverting to your majesty's age, sex, qualities mental or personal, without attending to any sentiments of attachment or affection which may be felt for your majesty's person, it must be remembered that your majesty's life is, from the position which you occupy and the office which you fill, the most important life in these realms; it is also too clear that it is the most exposed life in the country, the life the most obnoxious[ ] to danger; and therefore it is a duty to throw around it every protection which the law and the execution of the law can afford. lord melbourne was sure that your majesty, being fond of speed, would be delighted with the railway. lord melbourne hopes that your majesty was not much affected by the heat, which he feared that you would be. has your majesty read the last volume of madame d'arblay's (miss burney) diary, which contains the account of her service in the family of george iii.?[ ] it is a curious [work], gives a curious account of the _intérieur_, and shows the king and queen and the princesses in a very amiable light. [footnote : lord john russell had strenuously opposed the income tax bill, but had been defeated by large majorities.] [footnote : frances was tried on th june, and convicted. the death sentence was commuted to one of transportation for life.] [footnote : used in the classical sense of "exposed to"; _cf._ "obnoxia fato."] [footnote : the first five volumes were published this year, madame d'arblay having died in , at the age of eighty-seven. croker somewhat rancorously attacked them in the _quarterly_, to which macaulay replied in the _edinburgh_.] [pageheading: a present from muscat] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th june ._ lord aberdeen, with his humble duty, begs to enclose for your majesty's information a list of the presents brought by the envoy of the imam of muscat for your majesty. lord aberdeen will attend to-morrow with the envoy, at the hour your majesty has been pleased to command; and he will suggest that the presents should be sent previously to the palace, in order to be laid before your majesty. [list of articles sent for her most gracious majesty, the mighty queen, a trifling gift scarce worth being mentioned.] two pearl necklaces, two emeralds, an ornament made like a crown, ten cashmere shawls, one box containing four bottles otto of roses. four horses, before mentioned in a former letter, but for the transmission of which no opportunity offered in bombay, but now sent in my own ship. through your kindness have those things taken[ ] from ali bin nassur, and make an excuse for me to her most gracious majesty, and peace be on you! [footnote : _i.e._ accept.] _lord fitzgerald and vesci to queen victoria._ india board, _ th july ._ ... from the seat of war, the intelligence is most satisfactory. the conduct of the army, its perseverance and its courage, have not been surpassed in the military history of british india. recent events have not, however, changed the views of lord ellenborough as to the general policy which he recommends to be pursued. he regards as the best result of that success which has attended the arms of your majesty, that it admits of withdrawing, without dishonour, the british force to positions of safety, having certain and uninterrupted communications with the british territory. from other quarters the reports are equally favourable. the successful advance of a division commanded by brigadier-general england may be regarded as ensuring the safety of the force at candahar. in the indian dominions and in the native army the best spirit prevails. all of which is most humbly submitted to your majesty, by your majesty's most dutiful subject and servant, fitzgerald and vesci. [pageheading: bean's attempt on the queen] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th july ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is anxious to express his earnest hope that your majesty is well and not disturbed by the event[ ] which took place yesterday, and which, although it appears not to have been dangerous in itself, is formidable as affording additional evidence of the ease with which persons of the lower orders can incite themselves, or be incited by others, to the contemplation and commission of such acts. the only observation that can be made upon these attempts is, that hitherto they appear to have been made by those who have not the means of executing their own wicked designs, and that they are not marked by the same determination and the same long and ferocious preparation which characterised in france the conduct of fieschi and alibaud.[ ] lord melbourne is not of opinion that the extension of mercy to francis--which from what lord melbourne hears of the opinion of the judges he apprehends to have been unavoidable--could have had any effect in encouraging this man to a similar act; at the same time it is impossible to say what may have had an effect upon the mind, and we can only collect the intentions of men from the deeds which they perform. lord melbourne thanks your majesty much for your letter of the th ult. lord melbourne again expresses his fervent wishes for your majesty's health, safety, and tranquillity of mind. [footnote : bean, a deformed lad, presented a pistol at the queen in the mall.] [footnote : the perpetrators of attempts on king louis philippe.] [pageheading: death of the duke of orleans] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ claremont, _ th july ._ my dearest uncle,--these two horrible news of poor dear chartres'[ ] fatal accident have quite overcome us. it is the most dreadful misfortune i ever remember, and will be felt everywhere. i can't say _how_ i feel it; i liked and admired him, and know how he was adored by all of you, and by poor wretched hélène, whom this will kill. those poor helpless little children! it is _too_ melancholy. after escaping from so many dangers, to be cut off in this way is _too_ dreadful! god knows what is for our best, but this does seem difficult to understand. i pray and hope that you will all be mercifully supported under this heavy bereavement. i think it is so dreadful that poor hélène could not be with him in his last moments! god be with you all, and believe me, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. i had begun a letter to poor _chartres_ this morning. [footnote : on th july the duke of orleans (formerly duc de chartres), eldest son of louis philippe, was thrown from his phaeton near the porte maillot, paris, and died shortly afterwards. he was the father of the comte de paris and the duc de chartres.] [pageheading: account of the accident] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th july ._ my beloved victoria,--you have surely already heard of the heavy visitation god has sent us. my beloved brother was unexpectedly taken away from us before yesterday evening. before yesterday morning he went to neuilly to take leave of my parents, previous to his departure for st omer. the horses ran away: he had the unfortunate idea to jump out from his barouche--a thing i cannot understand, as he had on all occasions an uncommon presence of mind--fell upon his head, and expired a few hours afterwards, in presence of my too unfortunate parents, without having recovered his consciousness. it is the greatest misfortune that could happen to us. we are quite stunned by the sudden and horrid blow, and i cannot believe it yet, although i have before me the letter of my poor parents. they are full of courage and resignation to the will of providence; but i do not understand what will become of them, particularly of my mother, who loved so fondly, and with so much reason, my brother, and of the too unfortunate hélène. may god help them and have mercy on them! clémentine and victoire are gone to plombières to give to hélène the fatal news, and bring her back: it will most probably be her death. my parents wished to see us immediately, and we go to-morrow to paris. i am sure, my beloved victoria, of the share you will take in the misfortune, the greatest which could befall us, and i thank you beforehand for it. god's will be done! may he at least always bless you, and preserve those you love from all evil and danger! in affliction as in joy, i am, ever, my beloved victoria, yours most devotedly, louise. _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ claremont, _ th july ._ the queen is anxious to draw sir robert peel's attention to a circumstance which she has already some months ago mentioned to him: this is relative to sir edward disbrowe.[ ] the queen knows that sir robert peel shares her opinion as to sir edward disbrowe's abilities not being of the first order, but this is not the only thing; what she chiefly complains of is his decided unfairness towards belgium, which she thinks has always shown itself, and again most strongly in his last despatches. the king of the belgians has never dropped a word on the subject, but the queen really feels it her duty by her uncle to state this frankly to sir robert peel, and to say that she thinks it highly important that sir edward disbrowe should be removed to some other mission. of course she wishes that this should be done quietly, but she thinks that with a man like the present king of the netherlands, who is continually intriguing in belgium and making her uncle's position very painful, it is of the utmost importance that our minister there should be totally _unbiassed_--which sir edward disbrowe most decidedly is not. could not sir t. cartwright be sent there, and sir edward disbrowe go to stockholm? the queen merely suggests this; but, of course, as long as the man sent to the hague is sensible and _fair_, it is indifferent to her who goes there.... [footnote : then british minister at the hague.] [pageheading: grief of the queen] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ claremont, _ th july ._ the queen had intended to have written to lord melbourne some time ago to have thanked him for his kind letter of the th, but she was so occupied, first of all with the arrival of our brother and sister, with our removal here, and lastly by the dreadful misfortune at paris, which has completely overpowered her, and made her quite ill--that it prevented her from doing so. the queen is sure that lord melbourne will have warmly shared the universal horror and regret at the untimely and fearfully sudden end of so amiable and distinguished a prince as poor chartres (as we all called the duke of orleans) was! the loss to france, and indeed europe, is very great; but to the royal family, dearest louise (who all doted on him), and above all to poor unfortunate hélène, who adored him (and he was a most devoted husband to her), and to his two poor little boys of four and one years old--he is an irreparable loss. the queen has heard from none yet, but has seen a letter from guizot, who was a witness of the _last scene_, which is quite truly reported in the papers; he says it was fearful--the poor duke lying and dying on a mattress on the floor surrounded by his parents and sisters, kneeling and praying around their dearly beloved child! alas! poor hélène had not even that comfort! the queen is very glad that the bill for the better security of her person has passed so quickly and in so gratifying a manner through both houses. we are here since yesterday week, enjoying the fine weather, and great quiet and peace; but the news from paris have damped our spirits. the queen is charmed with her new sister,[ ] who is a most amiable, sensible, and gentle creature, and without being really handsome, very pretty and pleasing. we return to town to-morrow and the queen hopes soon to see lord melbourne. we intend going to windsor to settle, on saturday. the queen trusts lord melbourne is quite well. [footnote : the duchess ernest of saxe-coburg.] [pageheading: letter from king louis philippe] _the king of the french to queen victoria._ neuilly, _ juillet ._ madame ma bien chÈre et bien bonne s[oe]ur,--j'ai bien reconnu le c[oe]ur de votre majesté dans l'empressement qu'elle a mis à m'exprimer la part qu'elle prend à mon malheur. ma malheureuse reine en est également bien touchée, et si elle ne le témoigne pas elle-même dès aujourd'hui à votre majesté, c'est qu'elle est encore dans l'impossibilité d'écrire. nous osons lui demander tous les deux, d'être notre interprète auprès du prince albert, et de lui dire combien nous sommes sensibles à son intérêt. s'il pouvait y avoir une consolation au coup affreux qui a frappé nos vieux jours, ce serait ces témoignages d'intérêt, et les regrets dont on entoure le tombeau de mon enfant chéri, et la perte immense que tous ont faite en lui! c'est à présent qu'on sent ce qu'il était, et ce qu'il devenait chaque jour de plus en plus. je remercie de nouveau votre majesté, du fond de mon c[oe]ur brisé, de tous les sentiments dont elle veut bien me donner tant de preuves, et je la prie d'agréer l'expression de la haute estime et de l'inviolable amitié avec lesquelles, je suis, madame, ma très chère s[oe]ur, de votre majesté, le bien affectionné frère, louis philippe r. _the queen of the french to queen victoria._ neuilly, _ juillet ._ madame ma trÈs chÈre s[oe]ur,--je comptais que votre majesté et le prince albert s'associeraient à notre immense douleur; que dieu vous bénisse pour les tendres expressions de votre lettre. nous sommes anéantis par le coup dont dieu nous a frappés, que sa sainte volonté soit faite! j'ai perdu l'objet de ma plus vive tendresse, celui qui depuis ans avait été mon amour, mon bonheur, et ma gloire, plein de vie, d'avenir, ma tête n'y est plus, mon c[oe]ur est flétri, je tâche de me résigner, je pleure et je prie pour cette ame qui m'était si chère et pour que dieu nous conserve l'infortuné et précieux roi dont la douleur est incommensurable; nous tâchons de nous réunir tous pour faire un faisceau autour de lui. notre ange de louise et votre excellent oncle sont arrivés avant-hier; leur présence nous a fait du bien. hélène, anéantie par la douleur, a un courage admirable, sa santé se soutient. nemours, dont l'affliction est inexprimable, tâche de prendre des forces pour nous consoler tous, et les bonnes victoire et clémentine après l'horrible et douleureuse scène à laquelle elles avaient assisté, ont passé trois nuits pour aller chercher leur infortunée belle-s[oe]ur. enfin, dieu veut que nous vivions pour nous soutenir les uns les autres, que ce dieu tout puissant vous bénisse, madame, et vous préserve à jamais de pareilles douleurs, c'est le v[oe]u bien sincère de celle qui se dit de tout son c[oe]ur, madame, de votre majesté la toute dévouée s[oe]ur, marie amÉlie. [pageheading: leigh hunt] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ nd july ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty, and ventures to transmit the copy of mr leigh hunt's poem, which he mentioned to your majesty in his last letter. lord melbourne also sends the letter which mr leigh hunt has taken the liberty of addressing to your majesty, as well as that which he has addressed to lord melbourne. lord melbourne will inform mr hunt that he has done this, and it is not at all required that any further notice should be taken.[ ] it is a very gay and lively work, and has in it some wit and fun. lord melbourne had great pleasure yesterday in seeing your majesty well and in good spirits. [footnote : the poem was no doubt _the palfrey; a love-story of old times_.] _mr leigh hunt to viscount melbourne._ edwardes square, kensington, _ th july ._ my lord,--i was once speaking to mr fonblanque[ ] of my unwillingness to trouble your lordship, when prime minister, with a request to lay my tragedy of the _legend of florence_[ ] before her majesty; and he said that he was sure your good-nature would not have been displeased with it. this is the reason why i now venture to ask whether a similar kindness might be shown the accompanying little poem, supposing no etiquette to stand in the way of it. i have no tory channels of communication with the palace, nor wish to seek any; neither can i trespass upon any friendships of her majesty's, unless they can find my excuse in some previous knowledge of me. on the other hand, i have no fear of being supposed by your lordship to approach one who is no longer premier with less respect than when he was in power. i would even venture to say, if the mode of testifying it were not so poor a one, that it is in a double spirit of respectfulness the application is made. should it be of a nature calculated to give your lordship any perplexity, i can only blush for having been the occasion of it, and beg it may be laid to the account of an ignorance which lives very much out of the world. the same reason will plead my excuse for not knowing whether a letter to her majesty ought, or ought not, to accompany the book; and for begging your lordship, after its perusal, to suppress it or otherwise accordingly, in case you can oblige me in the other part of my request. your lordship will perceive that the address prefixed to the poem, not having ventured to ask her majesty's permission, does not presume to call itself a dedication; neither does it leave the public under any erroneous impression whatsoever as to the nature of its intentions: and on this account i not only expect, of course, no acknowledgment of its receipt on the part of any one about her majesty's person, but shall be more than content to understand by your lordship's own silence that my book has reached its destination, and therefore not been considered altogether unworthy of it. the bookseller tells me that it is no longer "the mode" for authors to present their volumes _bound_; but in regard to books intended to go to court, he is not quite so certain; and i find it so difficult to disassociate the idea of dress from any such proceeding, that i trust my inexperience in this respect also will procure me whatever pardon it may require. i have the honour to be, my lord, your lordship's ever grateful and faithful servant, leigh hunt. [footnote : hunt had founded _the examiner_ in , and albany fonblanque ( - ) had succeeded him on it as leader writer.] [footnote : leigh hunt's play, _a legend of florence_, had had a great success at covent garden in ; in it was performed at windsor by the queen's command.] [pageheading: the afflicted family] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ neuilly, _ st july ._ my beloved victoria,--i was unable to thank you the other day for your kind and feeling letter of the th, although i was greatly touched by it, and i trust you will have excused me. i thank you to-day very sincerely for both your letters, and for the share and sympathy you and dear albert take in our _great misfortune_. i know it is very heart-felt, and we are all very grateful for it. victoire and my poor mother have already given you news from the unfortunate hélène. she has sustained and outlived the first shock and shows wonderful courage. she is even well in health, and much better and stronger in all ways than i had expected. she takes very much upon herself on account of the poor children, to prevent that any melancholy or painful feeling should be connected for them with the remembrance of their beloved and unfortunate father. my parents show great fortitude and resignation, but their hearts are for ever broke. they are only sustained by their feeling of duty. my poor mother bears up for my father, and my father bears up to fulfil his duties of father and of king. their health is, thank god! good, and my father retains all his strength of mind and quickness of judgment; but they are both grown old in looks, and their hairs are turned quite white. the first days, my poor father could do nothing but sob, and it was really heartbreaking to see him. he begins now to have more command upon his grief, and the presence of your uncle, whom he dearly loves, seems to do him good. the poor children are well and _merry_ and seem unconscious of their dreadful loss. from time to time only they jump round us as if looking for protection. the contrast of their gaiety with their horrid misfortune is very painful. paris is looking remarkably well and strong. robert[ ] is much grown, extremely quick and lively, and begins to speak. the remainder of the family is, as you may easily imagine, in the _deepest affliction_. nemours especially is quite broken down with grief. chartres was _more_ than a _brother_ to him, as he was _more_ than a _second father_ to us all. he was the _head_ and the _heart_ and _soul_ of the whole family. we all looked up to him, and we found him on all occasions. a _better_, or even _such_ a brother was never seen; our loss is as great as irreparable; but god's will be done! he had surely his motives in sending on my unfortunate parents the horrid affliction in their old days, and in removing from us the being who seemed the _most necessary_ to the hope and happiness of all; we must submit to his decrees, hard as they are; but it is impossible not to regret that my poor brother has not at least found the death of a soldier, which he had always wished for, instead of such a useless, horrid, and miserable one! it seems, for no one saw him fall, that he did not jump, as we had thought at first, but that he was thrown from the barouche, while standing; and i like it in some measure better so, as god's will is still more manifest in this way. it is equally manifest in _all_ the circumstances attending the catastrophe. my poor brother was not even to have come to neuilly. he had taken leave of my parents the day before, and would not have gone again if my unfortunate mother had not asked him, and if my parents, who were to go to paris, had not delayed their departure.... i thank you again and again, my beloved victoria, for all your interest and sympathy. i was sure you would think of us and of me: you know how much i loved my brother. i little expected to outlive him, as i had done my beloved mary;[ ] but once more, _god's will be done_. i remain now and ever, yours most devotedly, louise. i perceive i forgot mentioning ernest. pray thank him for his sympathy also. he knows what a brother is, and may feel for us! we expect on saturday poor joinville. my father will have thus his four remaining sons round him for the opening of the session, which takes place on the th, and at which he must preside in person. it is a hard duty for him. [footnote : the young duc de chartres, born in .] [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. viii, footnote )] [pageheading: the corn laws] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ rd july ._ sir robert peel, with his humble duty to your majesty, begs leave to acquaint your majesty that last night was occupied in the house of commons with another debate on the corn laws, again impeding any progress with the government business. the debate was entirely confined to those members who act in concert with the anti-corn law league.[ ] it continued until twelve, when mr cobden, the member for stockport, moved an adjournment of the house, on the ground that none of your majesty's servants had taken a part in the debate.... several members of the opposition voted with the government, and declared that they would not be parties to such vexatious proceedings. a division on the main question--a committee to enquire into the state of the country with a view to the repeal of the corn laws--then took place. the motion was negatived by a majority of to -- . the house did not adjourn until three this morning. [footnote : the anti-corn law league was rapidly gaining importance, and fiscal policy occupied a great part of the session of . peel was already reducing import duties on articles other than corn. cobden had been elected at stockport, for the first time, in .] [pageheading: further particulars of accident] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ neuilly, _ nd july ._ my dearest victoria,--i was anxious to write to you on the th, but i was so overpowered with all that surrounded me that i could really not. yesterday i received your dear letter of the th, and i will answer it, so as to give you a clear view of the sad case. on the th, tuesday, chartres had taken leave, as he meant to go to st omer, the th; however, in the family the queen and others said he ought to come once more to see them. the king had ordered his carriage to go to town on the th, to a council; chartres meant to have called shortly after ten. it is necessary to tell you all this, as it shows how strangely circumstances turned fatally. chartres did not want to return once more to neuilly, and the king, if exact, might see him once more in town. chartres, however, instead of coming early, set off after eleven; his off. d'ordonnance, m. bertin de veaux, his _valet de chambre_, a german, holder, begged him not to go quite alone in that small phaeton through paris, as he was in uniform, but all this did not avail; he insisted to go in the phaeton and to go _alone_. he set out later than he expected, and if the king had set out _exactly_ as he had named, the parents and the son would probably have met on the rising avenue of the champs elysees, towards the barrière de l'Étoile and arc de triomphe. however, the king delayed his departure and the son set off. at the place where from the great avenue one turns off towards neuilly, the horses, which were not even young horses, as i am told that he has had them some years, moved by that stupid longing to get to neuilly, where they knew their stables, got rather above the postillion, and ran _quasi_ away. chartres got up and asked the postillion if he could hold his horses no longer; the boy called out "non, monseigneur"; he had looked back when he said this, and saw his master for the last time _standing_ in the phaeton. people at some distance saw him come out of his carriage and describe a sort of semicircle falling down. nobody knows exactly if he jumped out of the carriage, or if he lost his position and fell out. i am inclined to think that, trusting to his lightness and agility, he wanted to jump out, forgetting the impulse which a quick-going carriage gives, as there were marks on his knees as if he had first fallen that way. the principal blow was, however, on the head, the skull being entirely fractured. he was taken up senseless, that is to say confused, but not fainting, and carried into a small inn. at first his appearance, sitting in a chair, was so little altered that people thought it was nothing of any consequence. he _knew_ no one, and only spoke a few incoherent words in german. the accident happened about a quarter before twelve, and at four he was no more. i refer for some other details to albert. poor louise looks like a shadow, and only her great devotion for me supports her. it may serve as a lesson how fragile all human affairs are. poor chartres, it seems, with the prospect of these camps and altogether, was _never in better spirits_. but i must end. ever, my dearest victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. [pageheading: sir edward disbrowe] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th july ._ the queen thanks lord aberdeen for the letter she has this morning received. the queen thinks that a reprimand would hardly do, as it is not so much from any particular despatch that she has formed this opinion of sir edward disbrowe, but more from the general tenor of his conduct and despatches; therefore she thinks it would be difficult to censure him, which would probably not have the desired effect.[ ] for this reason the queen would prefer his being removed without his being told that it was for his conduct, and without his being able to find this out, which, the queen concludes from lord aberdeen's letter, could easily be done. [footnote : _see_ p. . lord aberdeen had suggested sending sir edward disbrowe a private admonition.] (ch. xi, th july, ) _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ nd august ._ dearest uncle,--i had the pleasure of receiving your kind letter of the th, late on sunday evening. you know _all_ we have felt, and do _feel_, for the dear and exemplary french family. really it is too dreadful, but god's will be done! perhaps poor chartres is saved great sorrow and grief. _him_ we must _not_ pity! god grant all may go off well on these dreadful days, and may he support the dear afflicted parents, widow, and brothers and sisters! my dearest louise! i hope and trust that her dear children will occupy her and divert her attention; only don't let her swallow and suppress her grief and keep it to herself; that is dreadful, and very hurtful. let her give way to her sorrow, and talk of it to her. pray, dearest uncle, will not and ought not paris to be duke of orleans now? hélène is sole guardian, is she not?... dear louise will, i trust, excuse my not answering her kind letter to-day; pray give her my best love, and believe me, always, your most devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: the fatherless children] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th august ._ my dearest victoria,--... little paris,[ ] who has gained much of late, will keep the name of paris, at least for the present. hélène will be, after the poor king's demise, sole guardian of her children; till then the king as head of the family will be supreme in all matters relating to the children.... your devoted uncle, leopold r. [footnote : the late comte de paris, who bore this title to the end of his life, father of the present duc d'orléans.] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th august ._ my beloved victoria,--... poor little paris is aware of his misfortune in the way he can be. hélène told him that he saw everybody weep because he would see no more his beloved father. the poor child wept then very much, and he has done several times since, when the same thing was repeated to him. he wonders why he does not go any more in his unfortunate father's room, and why there is no more "_de cher papa_," as he says: else he makes no question or observation and is very quiet and cheerful. he cannot yet feel what he has lost and his melancholy fate: but hélène does what she can to keep alive in him the remembrance of his father.... yours most affectionately, louise. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he thanks your majesty much for the letter of the th. it can hardly be expected that the grief of the french family will, as yet, much diminish, but lord melbourne hopes that they are somewhat more composed. he has heard this morning that lord and lady beauvale were at boulogne on saturday; they would probably cross yesterday, and will be in london to-day. lord melbourne understands that lord beauvale had an interview of three hours with the king of the french. charles howard was married this morning, and lord melbourne is going to meet lord and lady carlisle and the rest of the family at baron parke's[ ] at dinner. lord melbourne thinks that lord prudhoe's marriage[ ] was to be expected.[ ] upon looking at the peerage, he is only fifty years old, and fifty is young enough to marry anybody. the only fault of fifty is that it advances too rapidly on to sixty, which, on the other hand, is too old to marry anybody. it is lord melbourne's opinion that if a man does marry either at fifty or sixty, he had much better take a young girl than a woman of more age and experience. youth is more malleable, more gentle, and has often more respect and compassion for infirmity than middle-age. [footnote : afterwards lord wensleydale.] [footnote : to lady eleanor grosvenor.] [footnote : admiral lord algernon percy ( - ), president of the royal institution, was created in baron prudhoe: in , on the death of his brother, he became fourth duke of northumberland.] [pageheading: resignation of lord hill] _lord hill to queen victoria._ hardwicke grange,[ ] _ th august ._ lord hill presents his humble duty to your majesty, and craves your majesty's gracious permission to lay before your majesty his resignation of the command of your majesty's army. lord hill deeply regrets the necessity of taking a step which will deprive him of a charge that has been so long committed to his hands, and for his continuance in which he is indebted to your majesty's grace and favour; but he has again suffered much from the illness under which he laboured in the early part of the year, and his health has in consequence become so indifferent as to render him unequal to the adequate discharge of the various important duties of his command, which therefore he feels he could not retain with due regard to the interests of your majesty's service. lord hill had flattered himself that he should have been able to have laid his application for retirement before your majesty himself, and personally to have expressed to your majesty his deep and lasting sense of your majesty's gracious kindness to him on all occasions. having, however, left london by the advice of his medical attendants, and being too unwell to undertake a second journey, lord hill avails himself of this mode of assuring your majesty of his unabated zeal for the service, of his dutiful devotion to your majesty's person, and of the pain and sorrow with which he relinquishes an appointment that afforded him the honour and advantage of executing your majesty's commands, and receiving many gracious proofs of your majesty's support and confidence. [footnote : lord hill's country house in shropshire.] [pageheading: appointment of commander-in-chief] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th august ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave to acquaint your majesty that he received at a late hour last night the accompanying letter to your majesty from lord hill. from the one which accompanied it, addressed to sir robert peel, he has reason to believe that it conveys to your majesty the wish of lord hill to be relieved, on the ground of ill-health and increasing infirmities, from the command of your majesty's forces. sir robert peel would humbly submit for your majesty's consideration whether it might not be a deserved mark of your majesty's approbation to confer upon lord hill the rank of viscount, with remainder to his nephew sir rowland hill,[ ] who will succeed lord hill in the barony. lord beresford[ ] and lord combermere[ ] have the rank of viscounts, and perhaps the long, faithful services of lord hill as commander-in-chief may appear to your majesty to entitle him to equal distinction in the peerage. sir robert peel has reason to believe that when lord hill's retirement shall be known there will be many competitors for the office of commander-in-chief. sir george murray,[ ] sir edward paget,[ ] lord londonderry,[ ] lord combermere, and perhaps lord beresford, will severally urge their pretensions. sir robert peel humbly submits to your majesty that should the duke of wellington be willing to undertake the duties of this important trust, no claims could stand in competition with his, and no selection from the candidates whom he has named would be satisfactory to the army or public in general. sir robert peel would therefore humbly recommend to your majesty that the offer of this appointment should be made to the duke of wellington, with the signification of a wish on the part of your majesty (should your majesty be pleased to approve of the arrangement), that his grace should continue a member of the cabinet, and the organ of the government, as at present, in the house of lords. [footnote : lord hill died th december , and was succeeded in his peerages by sir rowland hill, who died in .] [footnote : william carr beresford ( - ), created viscount beresford in for the victory of albuera, .] [footnote : sir stapleton cotton ( - ), created viscount combermere for the capture of bhurtpore.] [footnote : sir george murray ( - ), received a k.c.b. for his services in the peninsula, m.p. for perth, and afterwards commander-in-chief in ireland.] [footnote : general sir edward paget, g.c.b. ( - ), brother of the first marquis of anglesey.] [footnote : prior to being ambassador at vienna, lord londonderry had distinguished himself in the peninsula.] [pageheading: the duke accepts] _the duke of wellington to queen victoria._ london, _ th august ._ field-marshal the duke of wellington presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has been informed by sir robert peel that your majesty had been graciously pleased to approve of the recommendation submitted by your majesty's servants that he should be appointed the commander-in-chief of your majesty's forces. he is sensible of and grateful for this fresh proof of your majesty's confidence in him and gracious favour towards him. he hopes that your majesty will believe that your majesty may rely upon his making every effort in his power to promote your majesty's views for the honour and interest of the country in any situation in which he may be placed. which is humbly submitted to your majesty by your majesty's most dutiful and devoted subject and servant, wellington. _queen victoria to lord hill._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ the queen has received lord hill's letter of the th inst., and is much concerned to learn that lord hill's health is so indifferent that he thinks it is his duty to resign the important office which he has so long and so honourably held. the queen can only reluctantly give her consent to this determination, as she regrets to lose lord hill's services at the head of her army. she cannot, however, miss this opportunity of expressing to lord hill her entire approbation of his conduct throughout the time he served her. the prince begs to have his kind regards sent to lord hill. [pageheading: riots in manchester] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ cabinet room, downing street, _ th august ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and is sorry to be under the necessity of troubling your majesty so suddenly, but he is sure your majesty will excuse him for making any proposal to your majesty which the public service may render requisite.[ ] the accounts received this morning from manchester with regard to the state of the country in that neighbourhood are very unsatisfactory, and they are confirmed by the personal testimony of magistrates who have arrived in london for the purpose of making representations to your majesty's servants on the subject. a cabinet has just been held, and it is proposed to send a battalion of guards by the railway this evening. the th of august (tuesday next) is the anniversary of a conflict which took place in manchester in the year [ ] between the yeomanry cavalry and the populace, and it is feared that there may be a great assemblage of persons riotously disposed on that day. under these circumstances it appears desirable to your majesty's confidential advisers that a proclamation should be immediately issued, warning all persons against attendance on tumultuous meetings, and against all acts calculated to disturb the public peace. it is necessary that a council should be held for the issue of this proclamation, and important that it should arrive in manchester on monday. these considerations have prevented sir robert peel from giving previous notice to your majesty, and having your majesty's sanction for the holding of a council. on account of the urgency of the case, he has requested a sufficient number of privy councillors to repair to windsor this evening, in order that should your majesty be graciously pleased to hold a council, the proclamation may be forthwith issued. the members of the privy council will be in attendance about half-past six o'clock, as sir robert peel has considered that from that time to half-past seven will probably be the least inconvenient to your majesty. he writes this immediately after the breaking up of the cabinet. [footnote : the disturbances of this month, which originated in a strike for wages in lancashire, were inflamed by agitators, and rapidly spread through cheshire, staffordshire, warwickshire, and yorkshire, eventually extending to the populous parts of scotland and wales. several conflicts took place between the populace and the military, and there was much loss of life and property, as well as aggravated distress.] [footnote : on th august , a great popular demonstration in favour of parliamentary reform, presided over by henry hunt, the radical, had taken place in st peter's fields, manchester. a riot ensued, and the yeomanry charged the populace, with some loss of life. the affair was afterwards known as the peterloo massacre.] [pageheading: chartist disturbances] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th august ._ sir james graham, with humble duty, begs to lay before your majesty the enclosed letter from major-general sir william warre[ ] in command of the northern district. from this report it is evident that a strong and salutary moral impression had been produced by the arrival of a reinforcement of , men in the disturbed district in the short time of six-and-thirty hours after the first requisition for assistance had been sent from manchester; and the general has now at his disposal a force quite adequate to cope with the vast assemblage of people who are expected to meet to-morrow at manchester. some symptoms of this disposition forcibly to suspend labour have appeared in the west riding of yorkshire; but on the whole the accounts, both from scotland and the disturbed district, which have been received this morning, may be considered favourable. the railroad communications as yet are uninterrupted; no collision has taken place between the troops and the multitude, except at preston;[ ] and sir james graham is willing to hope that this insurrectionary movement may be suppressed without recourse to extreme measures. every precaution, however, has been taken, and arrangements are made for augmenting the force under the command of sir william warre, if it should become necessary. the character of these riots has assumed more decidedly a political aspect. it is no longer a strike for higher wages, but the delegates, who direct the movement, avow that labour shall not be resumed until the people's charter be granted.[ ] sir james graham will hasten to-morrow to inform your majesty of the accounts which he may receive. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's dutiful subject and servant, j. r. g. graham. [footnote : lieutenant-general sir william warre ( - ), a distinguished peninsular officer.] [footnote : the mob attacked the military, who fired and killed three or four persons.] [footnote : a colossal petition in favour of the charter had been presented during the session by mr t. duncombe.] [pageheading: satisfactory results] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th august ._ (_thursday morning._) sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave to acquaint your majesty that he returned to london last night. he has this morning gone through all the letters received from the country, with sir james graham, by whom the details of the information will be forwarded to your majesty. it appears to sir robert peel that the general tenor of the reports is _satisfactory_. from manchester, from wigan, from preston, the reports are very good. the movement is not one caused by distress. the demand for employment has increased, and the price of provisions--and particularly of potatoes, bread, and bacon--has rapidly fallen within the last fortnight or three weeks. people of property and the magistrates (notwithstanding their political dissensions) are now acting in harmony, and with more energy. orders have been sent to apprehend the delegates assembled in manchester, _the very moment_ that the law will warrant their apprehension, and sir robert peel should not be surprised to hear of their committal to lancaster castle in the course of to-day. every vigilance will be exerted with reference to _cooper_[ ] (whom your majesty names) and all other itinerant agitators. as might be naturally expected, the movements and disorderly spirit spreading from the centre (manchester) are appearing in remote points; but when peace and confidence are thoroughly restored at manchester, the example will quickly tell in the circumjacent districts. birmingham is tranquil and well-disposed. the accounts from scotland are favourable. [footnote : a leicester chartist, who was afterwards tried for sedition.] [pageheading: parliament prorogued] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ th august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he is going down to-day to brocket hall with lord and lady beauvale. lord and lady palmerston are coming down to-morrow, and lord and lady cowper will probably come over from panshanger. your majesty read extremely well in the house of lords on friday last.[ ] lord melbourne can judge better of this from the body of the house than he could when he stood close to your majesty. nothing can be more clear and distinct, and at the same time more natural and free from effort. perhaps if your majesty could read a tone louder it would be as well. charles buller, who was amongst the house of commons, told lord melbourne that, where he stood, the voice, although well heard, sounded somewhat weak. but this should not be attempted unless it can be done with perfect ease. nothing injures reading so much as the attempt to push the organ beyond its natural powers. lord melbourne hopes that these tumults in the manufacturing districts are subsiding, but he cannot conceal from your majesty that he views them with great alarm--much greater than he generally thinks it prudent to express. he fears that they may last in the form of strike, and turn out much longer than is looked for, as they did in and . there is a great mass of discontented feeling in the country arising from the actual state of society. it arises from the distress and destitution which will fall at times upon a great manufacturing population, and from the wild and extravagant opinions which are naturally generated in an advanced and speculative state of society. this discontent has been aggravated and fermented by the language of every party in the state. lord melbourne can exempt no party from this blame, nor hardly any individual except himself. the tories and conservatives (not the leaders, but the larger portion of the party) have done what they could to inflame the public mind upon that most inflammable topic of the poor laws. the _times_ newspaper has been the most forward in this. the whigs and radicals have done what they could in the same direction upon the corn laws. mr attwood[ ] and another set have worked the question of the currency, and the whole career of mr o'connell in ireland has been too manifest to be mistaken. it is no wonder if working in this manner altogether they have at last succeeded in driving the country into this which is certainly very near, if not actually a rebellion. lord melbourne earnestly hopes that your majesty and the prince, the prince, and princess are all well. [footnote : parliament was prorogued by the queen in person on th august.] [footnote : who represented the radical views of the birmingham school.] [pageheading: the disturbed districts] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th august ._ sir james graham, with humble duty, is happily enabled to state to your majesty that the accounts from the disturbed districts received this morning are more satisfactory. in lancashire a disposition to resume work has been partially evinced; and at preston, where the most vigorous measures were taken in the first instance, there has hardly been a cessation of employment. sir james graham encloses a letter from the chief constable of the county of lancashire detailing a successful resistance to a fresh attempt on the part of a mob to enter preston; and he sends also a report from the mayor of manchester and from mr forster, the stipendiary magistrate. decisive measures will be adopted for the immediate apprehension of the delegates, not only at manchester, but in every other quarter where legal evidence can be obtained which will justify their arrest. the law, which clearly sanctions resistance to the entry of these mobs into cities, is now understood by the local authorities. a bolder and firmer spirit is rising among all classes possessing property in defence of their rights against these bands of plunderers, who are the enemies both of law and of property. the prisoners taken in the commission of treasonable felonies are numerous; warrants are issued against others whose persons are known: the supremacy of the law will be promptly vindicated, and sir james graham entertains the confident hope that order will be soon restored. in the potteries a signal example was made by a handful of your majesty's troops opposed to a riotous multitude which had burnt houses and spread devastation, and sir james graham encloses a letter from captain powys giving a description of the occurrence. the effect of this example has been that yesterday throughout this district no rioting took place. [pageheading: disturbances in london] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th august ._ sir james graham, with humble duty, begs to announce to your majesty that the accounts from the north, on the whole, may be considered satisfactory.... five of the principal delegates at manchester have been apprehended. warrants are out against four others. a very important seizure of papers has been made which discloses a conspiracy, extensive in its ramifications, going back as far as july . it is hoped that these papers, which are still at manchester, may lead to fresh discoveries. sir james graham will send to manchester to-night an experienced law officer, for the purpose of pursuing the investigation on the spot. there was a meeting last night in the neighbourhood of london, of a violent character. sir james graham had given positive orders to the police not to allow any mob, as night approached, to enter london. notwithstanding these directions, a mob assembled in lincoln's inn fields about eleven o'clock, and moved through the city to bethnal green. sir james graham had the troops on the alert, but the multitude dispersed without any serious disturbance. _sir james graham to queen victoria._ _ th august ._ ... an attempt to hold a meeting at dusk in the suburbs of london was resisted by the police yesterday evening in pursuance of orders issued by the government in conjunction with the lord major, and the peace of the metropolis was preserved. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's dutiful subject and servant, j. r. g. graham. [pageheading: trouble at the cape] _lord stanley to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th august ._ lord stanley, with his humble duty, submits for your majesty's perusal copies of three despatches, received yesterday from the governor of the cape of good hope, detailing the unfortunate result of an attack made by a small party of your majesty's troops upon the camp of the insurgent boers at natal; and also the copy of a despatch which lord stanley has sent in consequence to sir george napier,[ ] which, he trusts, may meet your majesty's approbation. lord stanley would have submitted the draft for your majesty's approval previous to sending it, had not an opportunity presented itself of sending it off by a fast-sailing private ship which sailed this morning, the intelligence having only been received yesterday. the instructions sent to sir george napier, on the th of april, but not received when this unfortunate affair took place, were in substance not to attempt the subjugation of these people by direct force, but to warn them that their titles to the land which they occupy would not be recognised by your majesty, that they would have no title to claim protection from the aggression of the neighbouring tribes, to interdict communication between them and the settled parts of the colony, and to prevent any intercourse by sea with foreign or british traders. the unfortunate event which has now occurred will render it necessary to take steps, as sir george napier has already done, for vindicating the power of your majesty's arms; but when that shall have been effected, lord stanley would still hope that a considerable number of these misguided men may be induced to return to their allegiance, and to the settled parts of your majesty's dominions, and he feels confident that in such an event he will be fulfilling your majesty's wishes in directing that they may be treated with all possible lenity. all which is humbly submitted by your majesty's most dutiful servant and subject, stanley. [footnote : sir george napier ( - ) governed cape colony for seven years, and the boers were extruded from natal by him.] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ bushey house, _ th september ._ my dearest niece,--... your mamma's visit gave me great pleasure, and it has been a great treat to me to hear her sing again, and _so well_, which put me in mind of former happy days. i regret _much_ that she leaves me already this afternoon again, but the strong and powerful _magnet_ which you have left at the castle draws her back, and i dare not keep her away from such treasures. i beg you, my dearest victoria, to give my affectionate love to dear albert, and to believe me ever most devotedly, your very affectionate aunt, adelaide. [pageheading: the queen visits scotland] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ taymouth,[ ] _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--i make no excuses for not having written, as i know that you will understand that when one is travelling about and seeing so much that is _totally_ new, it is very difficult to find time to write.... albert has told you already how successfully everything had gone off hitherto, and how much pleased we were with edinburgh, which is an unique town in its way. we left dalkeith on monday, and lunched at dupplin, lord kinnoul's, a pretty place with quite a new house, and which poor lord kinnoul displayed so well as to fall head over heels down a steep bank, and was proceeding down another, if albert had not caught him; i did not see it, but albert and i have nearly died with laughing at the _relation_ of it. from dalkeith we went through perth (which is _most_ beautifully situated on the tay) to scone palace,[ ] lord mansfield's, where we slept; fine but rather gloomy. yesterday morning (tuesday) we left scone and lunched at dunkeld, the beginning of the highlands, in a tent; _all_ the highlanders in their fine dress, being encamped there, and with their old shields and swords, looked very romantic; they were chiefly lord glenlyon's[ ] men. _he_, poor man! is suddenly become _totally_ blind, and it was very melancholy to see him do the _honours_, _not_ seeing _anything_. the situation of dunkeld, down in a valley surrounded by wooded hills, is very, very pretty. from thence we proceeded to this enchanting and princely place; the whole drive here was beautiful. all lord breadalbane's[ ] highlanders, with himself at their head, and a battalion of the nd highlanders, were drawn up in front of the house. in the evening the grounds were splendidly illuminated, and bonfires burning on the hills; and a number of highlanders danced reels by torchlight, to the bagpipes, which was very wild and pretty.... [footnote : lord breadalbane's house. the queen left london on th august for scotland by sea, reaching edinburgh on st september.] [footnote : scone abbey was granted to sir david murray (afterwards viscount stormont) by james vi. of scotland, whose cup-bearer he was, and whose life he saved.] [footnote : afterwards george, sixth duke of atholl ( - ).] [footnote : john, second marquis of breadalbane, k.t. ( - ).] [pageheading: drummond castle] _queen victoria to viscount melbourne._ taymouth, _ th september ._ it has been long the queen's intention to write to lord melbourne, but we have seen and done so much, it has been impossible. everything has gone off so well at edinburgh, perth, and elsewhere. this is a princely and most beautiful place, and we have been entertained by lord breadalbane in a magnificent way. the highland volunteers, two hundred in number (without the officers), keeping guard, are encamped in the park; the whole place was twice splendidly illuminated, and the sport he gave the prince out shooting was on the largest scale. the highlands and the mountains are too beautiful, and we _must_ come back for longer another time. the queen will finish this letter at drummond castle,[ ] as we leave this in half an hour. _drummond castle, th._--we arrived here yesterday evening at seven, having had a most beautiful journey. we went with lord breadalbane up the loch tay (by water) to ochmore[ ] (i don't know _how_ it is written), a cottage belonging to lord breadalbane, close to killin. the morning was very fine, and the view indescribably beautiful; the mountains so high, and so wooded close to killin. it is impossible to say how kind and attentive lord breadalbane and poor lady breadalbane (who is so wretchedly delicate) were to us. we were so sorry to go away, and might perhaps have managed to stay two days longer at taymouth, were we not fearful of delaying our sea voyage back too much. however, we mean to visit him for longer another time; the highlands are so beautiful, and so new to _me_, that we are most anxious to return there again. the journey from killin to comrie was _most_ beautiful, and through such wild scenery--glen ogle, which of course lord melbourne knows--and then along loch ern. this house is quite a cottage, but the situation is fine, and the garden very beautiful. we leave this on tuesday for dalkeith[ ] where we sleep, and re-embark the next day for _england_. we greatly admire the extreme beauty of edinburgh; the situation as well as the town is most striking; and the prince, who has seen so much, says it is the finest town he ever saw. scone palace (where we slept on tuesday night) is fine, but gloomy; perth is beautiful. the queen hopes lord melbourne is very well. the prince begs to be remembered to him. dalkeith is a fine good house, and the park and grounds very pretty. [footnote : the seat of lord willoughby d'eresby.] [footnote : it should be written auchmore.] [footnote : the seat of the duke of buccleuch.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--pray accept my best thanks for your kind letter of the th, which i received on saturday, the day of our arrival here. dearest louise will have told you what i wrote to her. we had a speedy and prosperous voyage home of forty-eight hours, on board a fine large and very fast steamer, the _trident_, belonging to the general steam navigation company. we found our dear little victoria so grown and so improved, and speaking so plain, and become so independent; i think really few children are as forward as she is. she is quite a dear little companion. the baby is sadly backward, but also grown, and very strong. i am so distressed about dearest louise's still coughing, but she tells me it is decreasing. only pray let her give way to her grief; much crying, even if it makes her cough for the moment, can do her no real harm, but stifling and swallowing _grief_ (which she _cannot_ repress) gnaws at the very roots of life and undermines health. ostend and sea-baths would, i should think, do her good. i am very glad that you went to see the king of prussia, and saw so many old friends; fritz of mecklenburg[ ] is, you know, albert's very dear friend; he is just arrived here. alexandrine's brother everybody praises; the whole family are handsome and well brought up. the archduke frederic[ ] comes here to-morrow for a week's visit. everybody praises him, and ferdinand liked him very much; all archduke charles's[ ] sons are said to be very well brought up. how i wish archduke john[ ] had come over here! now, dearest uncle, adieu! and pray believe me, always, your most affectionate niece, victoria r. it would be _very_ kind of you if you would tell me if there is a chance of augustus's marrying clementine.[ ] don't believe i should say a word _against_ it; but i have heard so much about it that i should be really and sincerely glad to know a _little_ of the _truth_ from _you_. [footnote : frederic william ( - ), afterwards grand duke of mecklenburg-strelitz. see _post_, p . (ch. xi, footnote )] [footnote : son of the archduke charles.] [footnote : ( - ), third son of the emperor leopold ii. distinguished in the napoleonic wars.] [footnote : ( - ), younger son of the emperor leopold ii. commanded on the rhine, . administrator of the empire, .] [footnote : prince augustus of saxe-coburg and princess clementine of orleans were married in the following april. prince ferdinand of bulgaria is their son.] [pageheading: the queen's steam yacht] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ nd september ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave, with reference to your majesty's note of yesterday, to state to your majesty that the _first_ act of sir robert peel on his return from scotland was to write to lord haddington[ ] and strongly urge upon the admiralty the necessity of providing a steam yacht for your majesty's accommodation. sir robert peel trusts that your majesty may entirely depend upon being enabled to make any excursions your majesty may resolve upon in the early part of next summer, in a steam vessel belonging to your majesty, and suitable in every respect for your majesty's accommodation. sir robert peel has had a personal communication with sir john barrow,[ ] one of the secretaries to the admiralty, this morning, upon the subject, and sir robert peel has written by this post to sir george cockburn,[ ] who is out of town. he finds that the admiralty is now building a large vessel to be worked by steam power, applied by means of a revolving screw instead of paddles. it may be doubtful whether the same degree of velocity can be attained by means of the screw, particularly in a very large vessel. of this a full trial will be made. sir john barrow assures sir robert peel that he has been on board a steam-boat moved by the screw, and that the working of the engine is scarcely perceptible; that there is none of the tremulous motion which accompanies the beats of the paddles, and that it will be possible to apply an apparatus by means of which the smoke can be consumed, and the disagreeable smell in great measure prevented. sir robert peel will leave nothing undone to ensure your majesty's comfort and safety in any future naval excursions that your majesty may be pleased to make. [footnote : first lord of the admiralty.] [footnote : barrow had been made second secretary in by dundas; he was a self-made man, and a most indefatigable traveller, writer, and promoter of arctic exploration.] [footnote : admiral of the fleet sir george cockburn ( - ), first naval lord.] [pageheading: queen isabella] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ _ th september ._ lord aberdeen, with his most humble duty, lays before your majesty a letter which he has received from mr aston, respecting the marriage of the queen of spain, and which, after what has already passed, may perhaps cause your majesty some surprise. lord aberdeen is humbly of opinion that the language hitherto employed by your majesty's government upon this subject ought not to undergo any change, and that it ought to be treated entirely as a spanish question. great britain would naturally regard a marriage with a son of the king of the french as injurious to spain and menacing to europe, but would probably not feel it necessary to give such an opinion respecting any other alliance. while this might be plainly stated, and the spanish government exhorted to act according to their own independent view of the real interests of the country and of the queen, lord aberdeen would humbly propose that the regent should be explicitly informed by mr aston that he must not expect to receive any assistance from your majesty's government in promoting a marriage with a prince of the netherlands. lord aberdeen believes that the difficulties in the way of such an alliance will be found to be very great, and especially that the religion of the prince will present an obstacle which in spain must be nearly insurmountable. [pageheading: lord melbourne on scotland] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th september ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has to acknowledge your majesty's letter of the th inst., which he had the honour and pleasure of receiving here on the th. lord melbourne is well aware how much your majesty's time must have been occupied by the number of visitors at the castle. we are much rejoiced here that your majesty saw the prince and princess liechtenstein.[ ] the latter is a great favourite of lady beauvale's, to whom she was always very kind, and who describes her exactly as your majesty does, as being very "amiable and unassuming," and though one of the first, if not the first lady at vienna, as not at all partaking of the insolence and hauteur which is by some ascribed to the society of that capital. as a beauty, she is perhaps upon too large a scale, except for those who admire women of all shapes and sizes; but her eyes and brow are very fine, and there is a very peculiarly soft and radiant expression about them. lord melbourne had heard of his sovereignty, but understands that his territory is extremely limited. his possessions as a subject of austria are worth a good deal more than his german principality. lord melbourne greatly congratulates your majesty upon the happy progress and termination of the expedition to scotland. he is very glad of three things--that your majesty returned by sea, in the steamer, and that the passage was a good one.... the country is indeed most interesting, full of real picturesque beauty and of historical and poetical associations and recollections. there is nothing to detract from it, except the very high opinion that the scotch themselves entertain of it. edinburgh is magnificent--situation, buildings, and all--but the boasting of the articles in the newspapers respecting it almost inclined one to deny its superiority. it is also, as your majesty says, most striking to contemplate in the clans the remains of feudal times and institutions. it is quite as well, however, particularly for monarchy, that they are but remains, and that no more of them have been left. lord melbourne thanks your majesty much for your kind enquiries after his health. he thinks that he is getting better and stronger than he has been, and has a notion of trying a little shooting in october. lord melbourne begs to be respectfully remembered to the prince. [footnote : prince aloysius joseph of liechtenstein ( - ) and his wife, princess françoise-de-paule, countess kinsky.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--i only received your kind letter yesterday, for which my best thanks. i am delighted to hear that louise's cough is decidedly better, and that upon the whole the dear family are well, thank god! certainly where he sees fit to afflict, he gives strength to bear up! louise says vecto is in great beauty, and the baby magnificent. i wish you could see pussy now; she is (_unberufen_) the picture of health, and has just cut her first eye-tooth, without the slightest suffering. we are going to brighton on the st of november for a month; it is the _best_ month _there_ and the _worst here_. i think i _may_ announce augusta cambridge's[ ] marriage as certain, as i have just received a note from the duke, which is as follows:-- "being very anxious to communicate to you as soon as possible an event which concerns deeply my family, i take the liberty of requesting you to let me know on what day and at what hour i may wait upon you." i shall see him to-morrow, and report the result to louise on friday. i have just taken leave of poor esterhazy, who has presented his letters of recall. he looked wretched, and lord aberdeen told me he is only ill at being obliged to go; he is quite miserable to do so, but the great gentleman at johannisberg has most ungraciously refused to listen to his entreaties to remain, which is very foolish, as they don't know who to send in his place. i am _very_ sorry to lose him, he is so amiable and agreeable, and i have known him ever since i can remember anybody; he is, besides, _equally liked_ and on _equally good terms_ with _both_ parties _here_, which was of the greatest importance. it was touching to see him so low and ill and unlike himself. the accounts of poor dear alexandrine's eyes continue _very bad_; she cannot write at all, or go out, or do anything. say everything proper from us to the whole family, and pray believe me, always, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the princess augusta of cambridge, who was married to frederic william, afterwards grand duke of mecklenburg-strelitz, in the following june.] [pageheading: historical studies] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th october ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave respectfully to acknowledge your majesty's of the th inst., which he received here the day before yesterday. lord melbourne is very glad to hear that your majesty is reading with the prince. hallam's work[ ] certainly requires much consideration and much explanation, but it is a fair, solid, impartial work, formed upon much thought and much reading. st simon's[ ] is an excellent work; he has some prejudices, but was a good honest man, and his book is full of useful information. if your majesty wishes for a book relating to what passed from one hundred to two hundred years ago, lord melbourne would strongly recommend the private memoirs of the lord chancellor clarendon (edward hyde), not the great work, _the history of the rebellion_, though that is well worth reading, but the _memoirs_, and bishop burnet's history of his own time. the reigns of charles ii., james ii., and the revolution are very curious in the latter. during queen anne's reign the bishop was not so much consulted, and his work is therefore not so interesting. if your majesty wishes to turn your attention to more recent events, professor smyth's[ ] lectures upon modern history, and particularly upon the french revolution, seem to lord melbourne sound, fair, and comprehensive. lord mahon's[ ] is also a good work, and gives a good account of the reigns of george i. and george ii. he has been thought by some in his last volume to have given too favourable a character of the chevalier, charles edward stuart. lord melbourne is much touched by what your majesty says of the princess royal, and the delight and comfort which your majesty finds in her, as well as by the whole picture which your majesty draws of your domestic happiness. when your majesty refers to what passed three years ago, your majesty may be assured that it is with no small pleasure that lord melbourne recalls any share which he may have had in that transaction, and congratulates himself as well as your majesty and the prince upon results which have been so fortunate both for yourselves and for the country. lord melbourne ventures to hope that your majesty will convey these feelings to the prince, together with the assurance of his respectful remembrance. [footnote : the _constitutional history_, published in .] [footnote : louis rouffroy, duc de saint-simon, author of the celebrated _mémoires_, published - .] [footnote : william smyth ( - ), regius professor of modern history at cambridge.] [footnote : afterwards fifth earl stanhope: the book referred to is his _history of england from the peace of utrecht to the peace of versailles_.] [pageheading: walmer castle] _the duke of wellington to sir robert peel._ walmer castle, _ th october ._ my dear peel,--arbuthnot has shown me your letter to him respecting this house. nothing can be more convenient to me than to place it at her majesty's disposition at any time she pleases.... i am only apprehensive that the accommodation in the castle would scarcely be sufficient for her majesty, the prince, and the royal children, and such suite as must attend.... it is the most delightful sea-residence to be found anywhere, particularly for children. they can be out all day, on the ramparts and platforms quite dry, and the beautiful gardens and wood are enclosed and sheltered from the severe gales of wind. there are good lodgings at walmer village and on walmer beach at no great distance from the castle, not above half a mile. believe me, ever, yours most sincerely, wellington. if the queen should send anybody here, i beg that he will write me a line, that i may have an apartment prepared for him. [pageheading: letter from queen adelaide] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ canford house, _ st october ._ my dearest niece,--a thousand thanks for your very kind dear letter of yesterday with its enclosures, which i have just received. your opinion respecting george of hanover's[ ] marriage is quite my own, and i regret that the king does not seem to be inclined to settle it and fix a day for the celebration of it. i do not know his reasons against it, for i have not heard from him for a long, long time. i am so sorry to find that the accounts of his health are so indifferent, and fear he is not careful enough. i am happy to hear that you thought the cambridge visit went off well, and that the affianced[ ] looked and seemed happy. i hope it will always be the same, and that the marriage will not be delayed too long. i always had imagined that the duke of cambridge was rich and would give a fortune to his daughters, but i have lately heard that it is not the case. i do not know what is the usual marriage portion of an english princess given by the country. in germany those portions are called _die prinzessin teuer_. we received , fl. each when we married, and , fl. for our _trousseaux_ each. if the young couple are to live in future with the grand duke they will not want any plate, but if they are to have a separate _ménage_, then they will want it. i shall find it out by and by. i wonder that the duchess likes to part with her fine sapphires. i thought the turquoises had been intended for augusta. i wish you could see the convent to which i went the other day. the nuns belong to the order of the cistercian _trappists_. they are not allowed to speak amongst themselves--what a relief my visit must have been to them!--and they neither eat meat, nor butter, nor eggs--nothing but milk, vegetables and rice. they look healthy, and there were several young rather pretty ones amongst them. one, the best-looking of them all, sister marie josepha, took me affectionately by the hand and said, "i hope the air agrees with you here and that you feel better?" and then she added, "come again--will you, before you leave this country again?" she told me that she was born in ireland and had a german grandfather. she seemed to be the favourite amongst them all, for when i bought of their works and asked them to make up my bill, they called marie josepha to summon it up, and she said to me, "do not stay for that; we will send you your things with the bill." two hours after my visit to them i received my things, with a wreath of flowers besides as their gift to me; on the paper attached to it was written, "to the queen-dowager, from the reverend mother and her community." this old reverend mother, the abbess, was very infirm, and could not get up from her chair, but she spoke very politely and ladylike to me in french. she has been forty years in her present _situation_, and comes from bretagne. the chaplain of the convent is also an old frenchman, and there are several other french nuns amongst them--one who had been condemned to be guillotined in the revolution, and was set at liberty just at the moment the execution was to have taken place. i should like to know whether these good nuns resumed again at once their silence when i left them, or whether they were permitted to talk over the events of that day.... your most affectionately devoted aunt, adelaide. [footnote : afterwards king george v. of hanover. he married princess marie of saxe-altenburg, th february .] [footnote : princess augusta of cambridge. _see_ p. . (ch. xi, footnote )] [pageheading: lord melbourne's illness] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ _ st november ._ ... many thanks for your most kind and amiable letter of the th, which i received yesterday. the prospect of the possibility of dearest louise's spending some time with us _quite enchants_ us, and i hope and trust that you will carry your plan into execution. our plans, which we only settled last night, are as follows:--the scarlet fever is on the decrease at brighton, but not sufficiently so to justify our going there immediately; so we therefore intend going to walmer with the children, but a very reduced suite (as the house is considerably smaller than claremont), on the th, and to stay there till the nd inst., when we shall go to brighton and remain there till the th of december. now if dearest louise would meet us there then, and perhaps come back with us here for a little while _then_? windsor is _beautiful_ in december. the news of lord melbourne, i am thankful to say, are _excellent_, and he improves rapidly under dr holland's care, but his first seizure was very alarming.[ ] i shall not fail to convey your kind message to this worthy friend of ours. i am so pleased at your account of nemours and poor hélène. tatane[ ] is not your favourite, is he? lord douglas's[ ] marriage with princess m. of baden _is_ settled; _i_ shall of course treat her as a princess of baden--i can't do otherwise (it is like aunt sophie,[ ] and princess m. of würtemberg who married count neipperg[ ])--and him as lord douglas, which won't please him. i wish clem's marriage was no longer a secret, now that it _is settled_, as it is (forgive my saying it) really a fashion in our family to have these _secrets de la comédie_, when one is almost forced to tell a lie about what is true. i _own_ i dislike these secrets; it was so with poor marie and with vecto. now _adieu!_ dearest, kindest uncle, and believe me, always, your most affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : he had a paralytic seizure, and never regained his former health or spirits.] [footnote : duc de montpensier.] [footnote : afterwards eleventh duke of hamilton: he was married to princess mary on rd february following.] [footnote : sister of the duchess of kent and of the king of the belgians, and the wife of count mensdorff.] [footnote : alfred, count neipperg, who died in .] [pageheading: the crown jewels] [pageheading: provision for princess augusta] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th november ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave to acquaint your majesty that he brought under the consideration of your majesty's servants the questions relating to certain of the crown jewels, and the claim upon them preferred by the king of hanover.[ ] in the course of the discussion it appeared to sir robert peel that there were still some points in respect to this very embarrassing question which required the grave consideration of legal authorities, and that it would not be prudent to take any step, even that of submitting the case to arbitration, without the highest legal authority. the submission to arbitration might avoid the evil (and a very great one it would be) of public controversy in a court of justice, and of public examination of members of the royal family on a matter partly of a domestic nature; but on the other hand, great care must be taken that by submitting the case to the award of arbitrators, even should they be nominated altogether by your majesty, we do not relinquish any _fair_ advantage for the crown of england which would have accompanied an appeal to the regularly constituted tribunals of the country. your majesty's solicitor-general was employed as counsel for the king of hanover, and it has been thought therefore advisable to make the reference to the attorney-general and to the queen's advocate. sir robert peel has attempted to bring every questionable point in the case submitted to them under the consideration of your majesty's law advisers, and when their report shall be received he will not fail to lay it before your majesty. sir robert peel had a personal interview a few days since with his royal highness the duke of cambridge, on the subject of a public provision for the princess augusta on the occasion of her marriage.[ ] sir robert peel thought it advisable to enquire from the duke of cambridge, as the impression of the public (of which his royal highness is quite aware) is that he has a considerable fortune of his own, independently of his annual allowance from parliament. the duke of cambridge seemed entirely to share the impressions of sir robert peel that in the present state of the country, and of the public revenue, great caution is requisite in respect to the proposal of a grant of public money as a marriage portion to the princess augusta, and that it would be important that in any proposal to be made there should be a general acquiescence on the part of the house of commons. as the marriage is not to take place for some time it appears to sir robert peel that it might be advisable to postpone a decision, at least in respect to the particular amount of any provision to be made, till a period nearer to the meeting of parliament. a public intimation, or the public notoriety long beforehand of the intention to propose a grant of public money might, in the present temper of the times, interpose additional obstacles in the way of it. sir robert peel proposes to return to drayton manor for a short time, and to leave london to-morrow morning. [footnote : the king claimed them on the ground that part belonged to the crown of hanover, and part had been bequeathed to him by queen charlotte. the matter was referred to a commission consisting of lords lyndhurst and langdale, and chief justice tindal. the two former were divided in opinion, and the chief justice died before the award was made. it was not till that a final decision, substantially in favour of hanover, was given.] [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch xi, footnote , st october, )] [pageheading: successes in china] _lord stanley to queen victoria._ downing street, _ rd november ._ lord stanley, with his humble duty, has the honour of submitting to your majesty an original despatch from lieutenant-general sir hugh gough, received this morning, detailing the triumphant successes which had crowned the exertions of your majesty's naval and military forces in china,[ ] and of the completely satisfactory result in the execution of a treaty of peace with the emperor of china, upon terms highly honourable to your majesty and advantageous to this country. lord stanley learns from lord fitzgerald that he is also forwarding to your majesty, by this messenger, the details which the same mail has brought of the complete and triumphant issue of the campaign in afghanistan. lord stanley trusts that he may be permitted to offer to your majesty his humble congratulations upon intelligence so glorious to british arms, and so important to british interests. it is difficult to estimate the moral effect which these victories may produce, not on asia merely, but throughout europe also. at the same moment your majesty has brought to a triumphant issue two gigantic operations, one in the centre of asia, the other in the heart of the hitherto unapproachable chinese empire. in the former, past disasters have been retrieved; a signal victory has been achieved on the very spot memorable for former failure and massacre; the honour of the british arms has been signally vindicated; the interests of humanity have been consulted by the rescue of the whole of the prisoners; and, after a series of victories, the governor-general of india is free, without discredit, to enter upon measures of internal improvement, and having established the supremacy of british power, to carry on henceforth a more pacific policy. in china a termination has been put to the effusion of blood by the signature of a treaty which has placed your majesty's dominions on a footing never recognised in favour of any foreign power--a footing of perfect equality with the chinese empire; which has obtained large indemnity for the past, and ample security for the future, and which has opened to british enterprise the commerce of china to an extent which it is almost impossible to anticipate. it may interest your majesty to hear that already enquiries are made in the city for superintendents of ships to trade to _ningpo direct_. lord stanley has taken upon himself to give orders in your majesty's name for firing the park and tower guns in honour of these glorious successes. a _gazette_ extraordinary will be published to-morrow, the voluminous nature of the despatches rendering it necessary to take some time lest an important despatch should be omitted. all which is humbly submitted by your majesty's most dutiful servant and subject, stanley. [footnote : chapoo was taken by sir hugh gough in may: in june the squadron, under admiral william parker, entered the waters of the yang-tze, captured chin-kiang-fu, and were about to attack nanking, when the treaty was concluded, embracing among other things a payment by the chinese of , , dollars, the cession of hong kong, and the opening of the ports of canton, amoy, foochow, ningpo, and shanghai.] [pageheading: victories in afghanistan] _lord fitzgerald and vesci to queen victoria._ india board, _ rd november ._[ ] lord fitzgerald, with his most humble duty to your majesty, begs leave most humbly to inform your majesty that the despatches received from the governor-general of india announce the results of a series of most brilliant exploits by the armies under major-general nott and general pollock in afghanistan. each of those armies has achieved a glorious victory over superior numbers of the enemy. the city of ghuznee has been captured, and its formidable fortress utterly razed and destroyed. the survivors of the british garrison, which had capitulated in the spring of the year, and who had been reduced to slavery, have been redeemed from bondage. the splendid victory of general pollock has been obtained over the army commanded by akbar khan in person, on the very spot where the greatest disaster had befallen the british army on their retreat, and where the last gun had been lost. on the th of september, general pollock entered cabul with his victorious troops and planted the colours of your majesty in the bala hissar, on the spot most conspicuous from the city. an extract from a letter from general pollock to lord ellenborough, dated at cabul the st of september, gives the most gratifying intelligence that _all_ the british prisoners, with the exception of captain bygrave, have been rescued from akbar khan, and were expected in the british camp on the nd of september. an extract from a letter from general pollock announcing the redemption of the prisoners is also most humbly submitted to your majesty, by your majesty's most dutiful subject and servant, fitzgerald and vesci. [footnote : the mail, which informed ministers of the chinese success, also brought the news of the capture of cabul. general nott (see _ante_, p. (ch xi, 'sale and pollock')) had by the end of july completed his preparations, and marched upon ghuznee, having arranged to meet pollock at cabul, and having transferred the scinde command to general england. nott was before ghuznee on th september, but at daylight on the th found it evacuated; the citadel was destroyed by him and the gates of somnauth removed, as directed by lord ellenborough. pollock, to whose discretion ellenborough had entrusted the policy of advancing on cabul, secured supplies at gundamuck, and on his advance met the enemy in a strong position in the jugdulluck pass and dispersed them; then at tezeen, on th september, he was attacked by akbar khan with , men. the pass was forced, and the afghans retired to the haft kotal, where they were utterly defeated, close to the scene of elphinstone's disaster. nott arrived at cabul on the day after pollock.] [pageheading: affairs of portugal] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ ardenne, _ th november ._ my dearest victoria,--... i do not think, or i may say i am pretty certain, because i have often seen donna maria's letters, they hardly ever speak of politics, except just saying that they are surrounded by such very sad people without honour or honesty. i am sure they are not french at lisbon beyond the kindly feelings which result from the recollection of donna maria's stay at paris. my constant advice has been to look exclusively to the closest alliance with england, and ferdinand is now _well aware_ of it; but you know that the liberal party tried to even harm him by representing him as a _mere_ creature of england. we live in odd times when really one very often thinks people mad; their _uncontrouled_ passions do not develop amiable feelings, but on the contrary everything that is bad and unreasonable.... you are a very affectionate and kind mamma, which is very praiseworthy; may heaven preserve your dear little children! victoria is very clever, and it will give you great pleasure to see the development which takes place with children just at that time of life. what you say of ernest is unfortunately but too true; that trick of exaggeration is one of the worst i almost know, and particularly in people in high stations, as one finally knows not what to believe, and it generally ends with people disbelieving all such individuals do say.... your devoted uncle, leopold r. _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ walmer castle, _ th november ._ the queen wishes sir robert to consider, and at an _early_ period to submit to her, his propositions as to how to recompense and how to mark her high approbation of the admirable conduct of all those meritorious persons who have by their strenuous endeavour, brought about the recent brilliant successes in china and afghanistan. [pageheading: military honours] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ walmer castle, _ th november ._ approve of the g.c.b. given to-- sir h. pottinger. sir w. parker. general nott. general pollock. likewise of the proposed pension to sir r. sale, and the baronetcy to sir hugh gough. thinks the latter very fit to succeed sir jasper nicols[ ] as commander-in-chief in india. grants with pleasure the permission _to her troops_ engaged in afghanistan to accept and wear the four medals which the governor-general has had struck for the indian army, and hopes that besides gratifying the troops, it will have the beneficial effect of still further strengthening the good feeling existing between the two armies. were it not for this impression, the queen would have thought it more becoming that she herself should have rewarded her troops with a medal than leaving it to the governor-general. [footnote : lieut.-general sir jasper nicols ( - ), created a k.c.b. for his services at bhurtpore.] [pageheading: the gates of somnauth] _lord ellenborough to queen victoria._ simla, _ th october ._ lord ellenborough, with his most humble duty to your majesty, humbly offers to your majesty his congratulation on the entire success which has attended the operations of the fleet and army under your majesty's direction in the yantze-kiang,[ ] and submits to your majesty the general order which, on the receipt of the intelligence of that success and of the peace concluded with the emperor of china upon the terms dictated by your majesty, he issued to the army of india. your majesty will have observed that in the letter of the th of july to major-general nott, that officer was instructed to bring away the gates of the temple of somnauth, from the tomb of mahmood of ghuznee, and the club of mahmood also. the club was no longer upon the tomb, and it seems to be doubtful whether it was taken away by some person of lord keane's army in , or by shah sooja, or whether it was hidden in order to prevent its being taken away at that time. the gates of the temple of somnauth have been brought away by major-general nott. these gates were taken to ghuznee by sultan mahmood in the year . the tradition of the invasion of india by sultan mahmood in that year, and of the carrying away of the gates after the destruction of the temple, is still current in every part of india, and known to every one. so earnest is the desire of the hindoos and of all who are not mussulmans to recover the gates of the temple, that when ten or twelve years ago runjeet singh was making arrangements with shah sooja for assisting him in the endeavour to recover his throne,[ ] he wished to make a stipulation that when shah sooja recovered his power he should restore the gates to india, and shah sooja refused. lord ellenborough transmits for your majesty's information a copy of the address he intends to publish on announcing that the gates of the temple will be restored.[ ] the progress of the gates from ferozepore to somnauth will be one great national triumph, and their restoration to india will endear the government to the whole people.[ ] [footnote : see _ante_, p. , note . (ch. xi, 'successes in china')] [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (intro note to ch. viii)] [footnote : "the insult of years," he wrote in this rather theatrical proclamation, "is at last avenged. the gates of the temple of somnauth, so long the memorial of your humiliation, are become the proudest record of your national glory.... you will yourselves, with all honour, transmit the gates of sandal-wood, through your respective territories, to the restored temple of somnauth."] [footnote : see _post_, pp. , , and . (ch. xii, footnote ; th march, ; th february, )] [pageheading: france and spain] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ dearest uncle,--i have to thank you for two most kind letters of the th and th. i can report very favourably of the healths of young and old; we are all very flourishing, and have since yesterday perfectly _may_ weather. clear, dry frost would be wholesome. victoire gave me yesterday a much better account of poor little robert.[ ] in portugal affairs seem quieted down, but ferdinand is imprudent enough to say to mamma that he would be wretched to lose dietz (very naturally), and _would not be at all sorry to go away_. now, this is _folly_, and a most dangerous language to hold, as if he entertains this, i fear the portuguese will _some beau matin_ indulge him in his wishes. the news from spain are better, but i must own frankly to you, that _we are all disgusted_ at the _french intrigues_ which have _without a doubt_ been at the bottom of it all, and can, i fear, be traced very close to the tuileries. why attempt to ruin a country (which they luckily _cannot succeed_ in) merely out of personal dislike to a man who certainly has proved himself capable of keeping the country quiet, and certainly is by far the _most honest_ spaniard in existence, whatever crimes or faults the french may choose to bring against him. and what will be the effect of all this? a total dislike and mistrust of france, and a still closer alliance with england. i have spoken thus freely, as a repetition of last year's scenes is _too much_ to remain silent, and as i have ever been privileged to tell you, dearest uncle, my feelings, and the truth. poor lord hill's death, though fully expected, will grieve you, as it has grieved us. i am much amused at what you say about charles, and shall tell it him, when i write to him. believe me, always, your most affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : the infant duc de chartres.] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ the queen is very desirous that something should be done for major malcolm[ ] (who was the bearer of "the news of victory and peace"), either by promotion in the army or by any other distinction. he is a very intelligent and well-informed officer, and has been employed in china both in a civil and military capacity, and has made, and is going to make again, a long journey at a very bad time of the year, though suffering severely at this moment from ague. [footnote : in such cases it has been usual to confer some distinction.] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ the queen thanks sir robert for his letter of the rd. she thinks that major malcolm's going back to china the bearer of verbal instructions as well as written ones will greatly facilitate the matter and prevent misunderstandings, which at such a great distance are mostly fatal. the queen joins in sir robert's opinion, that before coming to a final arrangement it will be most valuable to have sir h. pottinger's opinion upon your present message, and thinks it much the best that sir h. should in the meantime be entrusted with the _extraordinary_ full powers for concluding any provisional arrangements, as she believes that very great confidence may be placed in him. lord stanley's suggestions strike the queen as very judicious and calculated to facilitate the future government of hong-kong. the queen hopes to hear more from sir robert when she sees him here, which she hopes to do from monday the nd to wednesday the th. [pageheading: the scotch church] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ drayton manor, _ th december ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and with reference to enquiries made by your majesty when sir robert peel was last at windsor, on the subject of the scotch church and the proceedings of the last general assembly, begs leave to acquaint your majesty that the moderator of the assembly has recently addressed a letter to sir robert peel, requiring an answer to the demands urged by the general assembly in a document entitled a protest and declaration of right.[ ] the demands of the general assembly amount to a reversal by law of the recent decisions of the court of session and of the house of lords, and to a repeal of the act of queen anne, which establishes the right of patronage in respect to livings in the church of scotland. that act by no means gives any such absolute right of appointment to the crown or other patrons of livings, as exists in england. it enables those legally entitled to the patronage to present a clergyman to the living, but the church courts have the power, on valid objections being made and duly sustained by the parishioners, to set aside the presentation of the patron, and to require from him a new nomination. the church, however, requires the absolute repeal of the act of anne. an answer to the demands of the church will now become requisite. sir james graham has been in communication with the law advisers of your majesty in scotland upon the legal questions involved in this matter, and will shortly send for your majesty's consideration the draft of a proposed answer to the general assembly.[ ] [footnote : the famous auchterarder case had decided that, notwithstanding the vetoing by the congregation of the nominee of the patron, the presbytery must take him on trial if qualified by life, learning, and doctrine,--in other words, that the act of anne, subjecting the power of the presbytery to the control of the law courts, was not superseded by the veto act, a declaration made by the general assembly. in the strathbogie case, a minister had been nominated to marnock, and out of heads of families had objected to him. the general assembly having directed the presbytery to reject him, the civil court held that he must be taken on trial. seven members of the presbytery obeyed the civil power, and the general assembly, on the motion of dr chalmers, deposed them and declared their parishes vacant.] [footnote : sir james graham's letter is printed in the annual register for . a petition in answer was drawn by the assembly and presented to parliament by mr fox maule. after the debate on it in the commons, preparations were made throughout scotland for the secession of the non-intrusionists, as they were called, which event took place on th may , when about ministers, headed by chalmers, seceded from the old kirk, and founded the free church.] [pageheading: a serious crisis] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ drayton manor, _ th december ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and rejoices to hear that your majesty approved of the letter which, with your majesty's sanction, james graham proposes to write to the moderator of the general assembly of the church of scotland. sir robert peel fears that there is too much ground for the apprehensions expressed by your majesty in respect to future embarrassment arising out of the position of the church question in scotland. sir robert peel saw yesterday a letter addressed by dr abercrombie,[ ] the eminent physician in edinburgh, to sir george sinclair,[ ] declaring his conviction that the secession of ministers from their livings would take place to _a very great extent_--would comprise very many of the ministers most distinguished for learning and professional character, and would meet with very general support among their congregations. sir robert peel has little doubt that a serious crisis in the history of the church of scotland is at hand, and that the result of it will be greatly to be lamented; but still he could not advise your majesty to seek to avert it by the acquiescence in demands amounting to the abrogation of important civil rights and to the establishment in scotland of an ecclesiastical domination independent of all control.... he is very confident that your majesty will feel that in the present state of the controversy with the church of scotland, there is peculiar reason for taking the greatest care that every minister presented to a crown living should be not only above exception, but should, if possible, be pre-eminently distinguished for his fitness for a pastoral charge. [footnote : john abercrombie ( - ), one of the chief consulting physicians in scotland, and a great medical writer. he left the established church.] [footnote : sir george sinclair ( - ), m.p. for caithness-shire, was a supporter of the anti-patronage society, and joined the free church.] [pageheading: historical reading] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th december ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has been much delighted this morning by receiving your majesty's letter of the th. he was the more gratified, as he had begun to be a little annoyed at being such a very long time without hearing from your majesty. lord mahon has sent lord melbourne his book.[ ] lord melbourne has not yet read it, but he has read the review of it in the _quarterly_, which seems to be a sort of abstract or abridgment of the book. the effect of writing it in french has naturally been to direct all attention and criticism from the merits of the work to the faults of the french. people who have read the work speak of it as entertaining, and the times are curious and interesting. the characters engaged in them, striking and remarkable. lord melbourne is very glad to hear that pottinger's conduct is so universally approved. he always appeared to lord melbourne to be a man of great ability, resolution and discretion, and lord melbourne much rejoices that he has turned out so. hallam's opinions lord melbourne believes to be in general sound, and such as have been held and approved by the most able and constitutional statesmen in this country. lord melbourne is much rejoiced to hear of the princess and the prince of wales, and also that your majesty is pursuing your studies quietly, cheerfully, and happily. lord melbourne is very sensible of the interest which the baron takes in his health and which he warmly reciprocates. there is no man whom he esteems more, nor of whose head and heart he has a better opinion. we expect here to-morrow the duchess of sutherland[ ] and lady elizabeth gower,[ ] who have been kind enough to propose to pay lord melbourne a visit. [footnote : _essai sur la vie du grand condé_, afterwards published in english.] [footnote : formerly mistress of the robes.] [footnote : afterwards duchess of argyll.] introductory note to chapter xii repeated debates took place during the year ( ) on the corn laws, the agitation against them steadily growing, mr cobden coming on one occasion into violent conflict with the premier. the events of the previous year in afghanistan were also the subject of constant discussion in parliament. a movement of some importance took place in wales in opposition to the increasing number of toll-bars, bands of rioters dressed in women's clothes and known as "rebecca and her daughters," demolishing the gates and committing acts of greater or less violence. a verse in genesis (xxiv. ) fancifully applied gave rise to this name and disguise. in scotland the system of private patronage in the established kirk had become very unpopular, the act of anne in favour of the nomination by lay patrons, and the control given to the law courts over the revising action of the presbytery being ultimately modified by a declaration of the general assembly known as the veto act. but it was decided in what was called the strathbogie case that the veto was illusory, the disruption of the old kirk followed, and on th may dr chalmers and five hundred other ministers seceded from it in order to form the free church. in ireland the agitation for repeal was at its height. o'connell, supported by the _nation_ newspaper, founded a repeal association in dublin, and monster meetings were held on sundays on some conspicuous spot of free and historic associations to claim the re-establishment of a parliament on college green. it was believed that a quarter of a million people were present on one occasion, and the government, alarmed at the absolute power wielded by o'connell over these huge bodies of men, resolved to prohibit the meetings, and somewhat tardily issued a proclamation against that announced for clontarf on th october. o'connell accordingly disbanded the meeting, but his action did not please his more zealous supporters, and his ascendency came to an end. the agitation collapsed and the principal actors were arrested. a military duel fought in the summer of this year, in which a colonel in the army was shot by his brother-in-law, made the code of honour existing on the subject a burning question, the criminal law of homicide being the same then as now. on prince albert's suggestion, the question was taken up by the heads of the army and navy, and the articles of war were in the following year amended so as to admit of an apology and a tender of redress. the better feeling existing between this country and france enabled the queen and prince to visit louis philippe at the château d'eu. chapter xii _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th january ._ dearest uncle,--... we have been _very_ gay; danced into the new year, and again _last_ night, and were _very_ merry, though but a very small party; young and old danced. good lord melbourne was here from saturday till this morning, looking very well, and i _almost_ fancied happy old times were returned; but alas! the dream is _past_! he enquired much after you. now adieu! ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: betrothal of prince de joinville] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ claremont, _ th january ._ my dearest uncle,--i am happy to write to you again from this so very dear and comfortable old place, where you will have heard from louise that we arrived with our dear pussy on thursday last. we are _all_ so particularly well, including pussy, that we intend, to my great delight, to prolong our stay till next monday. this place has a peculiar charm for us both, and to me it brings back recollections of the _happiest_ days of my otherwise _dull_ childhood--where i experienced such kindness from you, dearest uncle, which has ever since continued. it is true that my _last_ stay here _before_ i came to the throne, from november ' to february ' , was a peculiarly painful and disagreeable one, but somehow or other, i do _not_ think of those times, but only of all the former _so_ happy ones. victoria plays with my old bricks, etc., and i think you would be pleased to see this and to see her _running_ and jumping in the flower garden, as _old_--though i fear _still little_--_victoria of former days_ used to do. she is very well, and such an amusement to us, that i can't bear to move without her; she is _so_ funny and speaks so well, and in french also, she knows almost everything; she would therefore get on famously with charlotte.... might i ask you some questions about joinville's match,[ ] which interests me much? first of all, _have_ you heard of his arrival at rio? secondly, if the donna francesca pleases, is he empowered _at once to make the demand_, or must he write home first? how nice it would be if the _two_ marriages could take place at _once_; but i suppose, under any circumstances, that could _not_ be.... alexandrine is nearly quite recovered; she writes such pretty, affectionate, kind letters, poor dear child, and is so fond of ernest. i must say i think _he_ seems improved, as he likes to live _quietly_ with her, and speaks of her too with the greatest affection. now, my dearest uncle, let me take my leave, begging you to believe me, always, your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : he was married to the princess francesca of brazil on st may.] [pageheading: historical reading] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thanks your majesty much for your letter of the th inst. which he received yesterday. every letter that he receives from your majesty brings back to his mind the recollection of times, which, though they were clouded with much care and anxiety, were still to lord melbourne a period of much happiness and satisfaction.... hallam has not written a history of the church, but in all his books there is necessarily much about the church, and much that is worthy of mention. a short history of the church is, lord melbourne fears, not to be found, the subject is so large and so difficult that it cannot be treated shortly. dr short[ ] has written and published a clever, brief, and distinct summary, but it relates principally to the church of england, and in order to be fully understood, requires to be read by one who has already some acquaintance with the subject. the book which your majesty remembers lord melbourne reading is the production of dr waddington,[ ] whom your majesty, under lord melbourne's recommendation, made dean of durham, which dignity he now holds. it is a very good book. adolphus's[ ] history is by no means a bad book, and will give your majesty the facts of the beginning of the reign of george iii. well and accurately enough. the duke of sussex once told lord melbourne that he had asked his father whether adolphus's account of the beginning of his reign was correct, and that the king had replied that substantially it was so, but that there were some mistakes, and that what had been done by one person was often attributed to another. adolphus's history will receive some illustration from horace walpole's letters of that period.... lord melbourne thinks that he is really getting rid of the gout, and gathering strength. he still has some doubt whether he shall be able to go up for the meeting of parliament. lord melbourne begs to renew to your majesty the warm and respectful assurance of his gratitude and attachment. [footnote : bishop, then of sodor and man, afterwards of st asaph. his book, a _sketch of the history of the church of england_, was published in .] [footnote : george waddington ( - ), dean of durham, published in the _history of the church from the earliest ages to the reformation_.] [footnote : john adolphus, barrister, wrote a history of england from to .] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ canford house, _friday, th january ._ my dearest niece,--... as you take so kind an interest in our dear thesy,[ ] i send you a letter which i have received from her mother-in-law, with an excellent account of her and her infant. her happiness is a great blessing, and i thank god that she is so well this time. can you imagine her with _two boys_? it seems so odd, for it is but a short time since she was here with us. how time flies rapidly. i own i was not a little surprised to find that you are probably the godmother; or is the little boy only to be named after you? i remember well what you said to me when i was asked to be the godmother of the first boy, "_that i could not accept it_," as i must not take the responsibilities attached to a sponsor with a roman catholic child. on that ground alone, and having learned your opinion which sanctioned my own, i refused it then at the risk of offending the dear parents. now, after all that was said on the subject, if _you have accepted_ the offer of becoming sponsor to this little _victor_, you, as the head of the english church, give to understand that _i_ was wrong in my notions of the duties which our church imposes upon sponsors, having refused what you accepted. i tell you fairly and openly that it has vexed me, but of course i say this only to _yourself_, dearest victoria, and not to any one else, for it does not become me to find fault with what you please to do. but i could not entirely pass it over in silence, and regret that my former refusal must now become doubly annoying to my relations. i beg your pardon for thus frankly stating my feelings to you on a subject which i shall now despatch from my mind, and i trust you will not take it ill, and excuse me for having mentioned it to you _alone_.... your most attached and devoted aunt, adelaide. [footnote : princess thérèse, daughter of the prince of hohenlohe-schillingsfurst, and wife of prince frederick charles of hohenlohe-waldenburg.] _queen victoria to queen adelaide._ claremont, _ th january ._ i am at a loss to comprehend, my dear aunt, what you mean by saying that you refused being godmother to thesy's first child, as _i_ had sanctioned your doing so. i never remember even _talking_ to _you_ on the subject, but only heard from mamma that _you_ had refused doing so--which i was surprised at. i therefore felt no hesitation in accepting the offer of thesy, particularly as i am already godmother to one of the children of prince esterhazy's daughter. i am grieved, dearest aunt, that this occurrence should annoy you, but i can _assure_ you that i do not remember _ever_ having spoken to you on the subject at all. [pageheading: governor-generalship of canada] _lord stanley to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th january ._ lord stanley, with his humble duty, submits to your majesty that in pursuance of the permission which your majesty was pleased to give him personally, he has this day offered to sir charles metcalfe[ ] the governor-generalship of canada; and lord stanley has much satisfaction in adding that the offer has been readily and thankfully accepted. this appointment, lord stanley is convinced, is, under the circumstances, the best which could have been made, and he believes not only that it will be generally approved, but that sir charles metcalfe's long experience and tried discretion will afford the best prospect of conducting the affairs of canada safely and successfully through the present crisis. as sir charles metcalfe will naturally be anxious previous to his embarkation (which, however, will probably not take place for at least six weeks) to have the honour of being presented to your majesty on his appointment, lord stanley hopes he may be honoured by your majesty's commands as to the time when it may be your majesty's pleasure to admit him to an audience. perhaps sir charles's attendance after the council at which your majesty's speech on the opening of the session has to be settled, may give your majesty as little trouble as any time that could be named. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's most, dutiful servant and subject, stanley. [footnote : metcalfe had had a long indian career, and for a year had been provisional governor-general, when he removed the restrictions on the liberty of the press. he was created a peer in , but never took his seat. he resigned his post at the end of that year, and died soon after.] [pageheading: assassination of mr drummond] _sir robert peel to the prince albert._ whitehall, _ th january ( )._ sir,--i have the painful duty of acquainting your royal highness that mr drummond, my private secretary, was shot at this day about quarter past three o'clock, in the neighbourhood of charing cross.[ ] two pistols were discharged, the first close to mr drummond's back, the second after the assassin had been seized by a policeman. the ball entered in the back and has been extracted, after passing round the ribs. i have just left mr drummond's house. no vital part appears to have been injured, and there is no unfavourable symptom whatever. the assassin gives his name _macnaghten_, and appears to be a glasgow man. two five-pound notes were, i understand, found upon his person, and a receipt for £ given to daniel macnaghten, confirming, therefore, the man's account of his name. we have not hitherto been able to discover that this man had any alleged grievance or complaint against the treasury or any public office. he has been loitering about the public offices for the last fortnight, and being questioned, i understand, some days since, by the office keeper of the council office, said he was a policeman. this, of course, for the purpose of evading further enquiry. the policeman who apprehended the man, says that he heard the man exclaim after firing the shots: "he or she (the policeman is uncertain which) shall not disturb my peace of mind any more." these are all the particulars i have heard or learned. i am afraid i have given them to your royal highness in a hurried manner. i have thought it better to convey this information to her majesty, through the kind intervention of your royal highness, than by a direct communication to the queen. i have the honour to be, sir, with sincere respect, your royal highness's most faithful and humble servant, robert peel. [footnote : edward drummond had been private secretary to canning, ripon, and wellington, as well as to peel, and was very popular; he was in his fifty-first year. he had just left his uncle's bank at charing cross, when he was shot.] [pageheading: mistaken for sir robert peel] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ st january ._ sir robert peel begs leave to mention to your majesty a fact _which has not hitherto transpired_--and of which he was not aware until he had an interview this morning with sir james graham. on the inspector tierney going into the cell of macnaghten this morning, he said to macnaghten: "i suppose you are aware who is the person whom you have shot?" he (macnaghten) said: "yes--sir robert peel." from this it would appear that he had mistaken mr drummond for sir robert peel. the magistrate thought it better not to have this evidence at present placed on record. [pageheading: death of mr drummond] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th january ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has the very painful duty to report to your majesty the fatal consequences of the attack on mr drummond. he breathed his last this morning about half-past ten o'clock. a very unfavourable change took place last night, and no hopes were entertained after seven o'clock in the evening. this sad event has had such an effect on lady peel, and all the circumstances attending it are so distressing to sir robert peel, that relying upon your majesty's great kindness, he ventures to express a hope that your majesty will have the goodness to permit sir robert and lady peel to remain for the present in london, or should your majesty desire to see sir robert peel before wednesday next, to allow him to wait upon your majesty in the morning of any day which your majesty may be pleased to name. he need scarcely assure your majesty that nothing but such a sad event as that which has occurred would induce him to prefer this request to your majesty. sir robert peel encloses such further information as has reached him respecting macnaghten. he does not hesitate to send to your majesty every word of information of the least importance which he receives.... the evidence of his mental delusion is strong, but it must be borne in mind that he was exactly the instrument which others would employ. sir robert peel has no reason for surmising this to be the case, but the possibility of it ought not and shall not be overlooked. [pageheading: demeanour of macnaghten] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th january ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and makes no apology for frequently writing to your majesty on the painful subject in respect to which your majesty has manifested so deep an interest. sir robert peel humbly thinks that your majesty's observations with respect to the clear distinctions in the cases of insanity are most just. it will be most unfortunate indeed if the law does not attach its severest penalty to a crime so premeditated and so deliberately and savagely perpetrated, as that of macnaghten. the jury are, however, the sole judges on this point, that is to say, it rests with them exclusively, either to find an absolute verdict of guilty of murder, or to acquit on the ground of insanity. macnaghten will be charged with the offence of murder, and every effort will be made to bring him to condign punishment. his counsel will probably endeavour to establish his insanity. nothing can be more collected and intelligent in many respects than his conduct in prison. he was conversing with the gaoler, and seemed not disinclined to unburden his mind, when he suddenly stopped and enquired from the gaoler whether such conversations as that which he was holding went beyond the prison walls. on being informed that no security could be given that they would remain secret, he said he should hold his tongue, but that all would come out by and by. sir robert peel takes the liberty of enclosing for your majesty's perusal a note which he has just received from miss emily eden, sister of lord auckland, and of mrs charles drummond. if it should be in your majesty's power to assign apartments at some future period to miss drummond, who lived with her brother edward, and was mainly dependent upon him, it would be a very great comfort to a lady of the most unexceptionable conduct, and most deeply attached to her poor brother. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th january ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has been much gratified this morning by receiving your majesty's letter of the rd; he has determined upon following your majesty's advice, and upon not hazarding the throwing himself back by coming up to london and attempting to attend the house of lords at the commencement of the session. the assassination of mr drummond, for lord melbourne fears it must be called so, is indeed a dreadful thing. lord melbourne is not surprised, for people are very apt to turn all their wrath and indignation upon the man from whom they actually receive an answer which they do not like, without in the least considering whether he is really responsible for it. lord melbourne used often to be himself assailed with threats of personal violence. sometimes he took notice of them by swearing the peace against those who used them, and having them bound over in sureties. sometimes he disregarded them, but he does not think it either prudent or justifiable entirely to neglect such intimations. lord melbourne does not wonder that this event brings to your majesty's recollection what has taken place in your own case. hallam is, in lord melbourne's opinion, right about ireland. her advocates are very loud in their outcry, but she has not really much to complain of. lord melbourne was very glad to hear of the marriage of prince augustus of coburg with the princess clémentine, as he apprehends that the connection must be very agreeable to your majesty. lord melbourne begs to be respectfully and affectionately remembered to his royal highness. [pageheading: committal of macnaghten] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th january ._ sir james graham, with humble duty, begs to inform your majesty, that the prisoner daniel macnaghten was fully committed for trial this afternoon. he was not defended before the magistrates; but in his manner he was quite cool, intelligent, and collected; he asked no questions, but he expressed a wish to have copies of the depositions. his trial will probably commence on friday or saturday next, and there is reason to believe that, at the request of his relatives in glasgow, counsel will be retained, and that the plea of insanity will be raised in his defence.[ ] every preparation is in progress to meet this vague and dangerous excuse. it will turn out that the pistols were bought at paisley by macnaghten on the th of august last; and information has reached sir james graham, which, he thinks, will prove that macnaghten is a chartist, that he has attended political meetings at glasgow, and that he has taken a violent part in politics. he yesterday saw a presbyterian clergyman, who prayed with him; who pointed out the atrocity of his crime, the innocence of his victim, the pangs of sorrowing relatives, and who exhorted him to contrition and repentance. some impression was made at the moment; but his general demeanour is marked by cold reserve and hardness of heart. [footnote : he was defended by four counsel, including mr cockburn, afterwards lord chief justice.] [pageheading: the royal family and politics] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ nd february ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thanks much for the letter of the th ult., which he received here yesterday morning. he believes it is more prudent not to go to london, but he greatly regrets that his not doing so will deprive him for so long a time of the honour and pleasure of seeing your majesty. the duke of sussex acquainted lord melbourne and took his opinion before he issued his cards for the dinner. lord melbourne does not think that he can have any idea of playing the part to which lord erroll alluded. it is better that a dinner should be given somewhere. he having nothing of the kind would look too much like giving up the whole business and disbanding the party. lord melbourne entirely agrees with your majesty as to the political conduct which ought to be pursued by the members of the royal family, but he remembers no time in which they have been induced to act with so much prudence and propriety. your majesty will see in adolphus the very prominent share which the duke of cumberland,[ ] the general of culloden, took in the party contentions of those days. he was a strong partisan and in a great measure the founder of the whig party. lord melbourne has often heard george iv. converse upon that subject, and he used to contend that it was quite impossible for a prince of wales in this country to avoid taking an active part in politics and political contentions. the fact is, that george iii. did not discourage this in his own family sufficiently, and the king of hanover always said that his father had encouraged him in the active part which he took, and which certainly was sufficiently objectionable. the assassination of drummond is indeed a horrible event. lord melbourne does not see as yet any clear, distinct, and certain evidence of what were the real motives and object of the man. but we shall hear upon his trial what it is that he urges. your majesty will, of course, recollect that the jury acquitted oxford, and there then was nothing to do but to acquiesce in the verdict. if the jury should take a similar view of this man's crime, it will be impossible for the government to do anything to remedy the evil which lord melbourne thinks will be caused by such a decision. lord melbourne knew mr drummond pretty well. he used formerly to be much in hertfordshire, both at hatfield and at gorhambury, and lord melbourne has often met him at both places, and thought him with all the rest of the world, a very quiet, gentlemanly, and agreeable man. lord melbourne very well remembers the murder of mr perceval and bellingham's trial. lord melbourne was then in the house of commons, but was not present at the time the crime was perpetrated. there were differences of opinion as to the manner in which sir james mansfield conducted the trial. many thought that he ought to have given more time, which was asked for on the part of the prisoner, in order to search for evidence at liverpool. but the law which he laid down in his charge is certainly sound, correct, and reasonable. lord melbourne is very glad to think that your majesty has not to go to the house of lords to-day. [footnote : this duke died unmarried in , and his nephew, the fourth son of frederick, prince of wales, was created duke of cumberland in . he in his turn died without issue, in , and in the fifth son of george iii. (afterwards king of hanover) received the same title.] [pageheading: the american treaty] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ rd february ._ ... lord melbourne thinks that the speech was very well and judiciously drawn; the only paragraph which he does not like is that about the american treaty.[ ] it betrays too great an anxiety for peace, and too much fear of war.[ ] [footnote : see _ante_, pp. , (ch. x, 'the united states'). the treaty had been negotiated by lord ashburton.] [footnote : "by the treaty which her majesty has concluded with the united states of america, and by the adjustment of those differences which, from their long continuance, had endangered the preservation of peace, her majesty trusts that the amicable relations of the two countries have been confirmed."] _the queen of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th february ._ my beloved victoria,--i am quite of your opinion about balls. _nothing_ can change what _cannot change_, and i consider all these things, which have always been _a bore_ to me, as a matter _of duty_ and not otherwise. the duties of station are to be fulfilled like the others, and my _first_ and _most pleasant_ duty is to do _all_ that your uncle may command or wish. your uncle was much _shocked_ by your answer about _miss meyer_,[ ] whom he considered of _uncommon beauty_. he is quite in love with her picture, and is very anxious to discover who she is. the other pictures of the _book of beauty_ he abandons to you, and they are certainly worthy of a _book of ugliness_.... yours most devotedly, louise. [footnote : eugénie meyer, step-daughter of colonel gurwood, c.b., married the first viscount esher, master of the rolls. the queen had written that she did not admire that style of beauty.] [pageheading: king leopold and peel] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th february ._ my dearest victoria,--... i am very much gratified by your having shown my hasty scrawl to sir robert peel, and that the sincere expression of a conscientious opinion should have given him pleasure. it was natural at first that you should _not_ have liked to take him as your premier; many circumstances united against him. but i must say for you and your family, as well as for england, it was a great blessing that so firm and honourable a man as peel should have become the head of your administration. the state machine breaks often down in consequence of mistakes made forty and fifty years ago; so it was in france where even louis xiv. had already laid the first foundation for what happened nearly a hundred years afterwards. i believe, besides, sir robert sincerely and warmly attached to you, and as you say with great truth, _quite above_ mere party feeling. poor lady peel must be much affected by what has happened.... your truly devoted uncle, leopold r. _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th february ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he received here on friday last, the th, your majesty's letter of the th, which gave him great pleasure, and for which he gratefully thanks your majesty. lord melbourne is getting better, and hopes soon to be nearly as well as he was before this last attack, but he still finds his left hand and arm and his left leg very much affected, and he does not recover his appetite, and worse still, he is very sleepless at night, an evil which he is very little used to, and of which he is very impatient.... lord melbourne adheres to all he said about lord ashburton and the treaty, but he thinks more fire than otherwise would have taken place was drawn upon lord ashburton by the confident declaration of stanley that his appointment was generally approved. the contrary is certainly the case. there is much of popular objection to him from his american connection and his supposed strong american interests. lady ashburton, with whom he received a large fortune, is a born american. but he is supposed to possess much funded property in that country, and to have almost as strong an interest in its welfare as in that of great britain. with all this behind, it is a bad thing to say that his appointment was liable to no suspicion or objection. it seems to lord melbourne that what with ellenborough with the gates of ghuznee upon his shoulders,[ ] and ashburton with the american treaty round his neck, the ministry have nearly as heavy a load upon them as they can stand up under, and lord melbourne would not be surprised if they were to lighten themselves of one or the other. [footnote : the somnauth proclamation created a good deal of ridicule.] [pageheading: position of the prince of wales] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ th february ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has just recollected that in the letter which he wrote yesterday, he omitted to advert to a part of your majesty's last to which your majesty may expect some answer. he means the part relating to the character and situation of a prince of wales in this country. george iv. was so conscious of having mixed himself most unrestrainedly in politics, and of having taken a very general part in opposition to his father's government and wishes, that he was naturally anxious to exonerate himself from blame, and to blame it upon the necessity of his position rather than upon his own restless and intermeddling disposition. but lord melbourne agrees with your majesty that his excuse was neither valid nor justifiable, and lord melbourne earnestly hopes that your majesty and the prince may be successful in training and instructing the young prince of wales, and to make him understand correctly his real position and its duties, and to enable him to withstand the temptations and seductions with which he will find himself beset, when he approaches the age of twenty-one. it is true that sir john made the observation, which lord melbourne mentioned to your majesty, and which you now remember correctly. he made it to sir james graham, when he went to talk to him about the offence which william iv. had taken at the duchess of kent's marine excursion; and at the receiving of royal salutes. your majesty was not very long in the situation of an acknowledged, admitted, and certain heir apparent, but still long enough to be aware of the use which those around you were inclined to make of that situation and of the petitions and applications which it naturally produced from others, and therefore to have an idea of the difficulties of it. lord melbourne heartily wishes your majesty every success in the interesting and important task in which you are engaged of forming the character and disposition of the young prince. [pageheading: domestic happiness] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ canford house, _ th february ._ my dearest niece,--your delightful letter of tuesday gave me such pleasure and satisfaction that i must thank you with all my heart for it. your happiness, and your gratitude for that happiness, is most gratifying to my feelings, having loved you from your infancy almost as much as if you had been my own child. it is therefore happiness to me to hear from yourself those expressions to which you gave vent. i thank god that you have such an excellent husband, so well calculated to make you happy and to assist you in your arduous duties by his advice, as well as his help in sharing your troubles. i pray that your domestic happiness may last uninterruptedly, and that you may enjoy it through a long, long period of _many, many years_. you cannot say too much of _yourself_ and dear albert when you write to me, for it is a most interesting subject to my heart, i assure you. what a _shame_ to have put on darling little victoria a _powdered wig_! poor dear child must have looked very strange with it! did her brother appear in _einer allonge-perücke_?... i shall hope to follow you to town early next month, and look forward with great pleasure to seeing you so soon again. forgive me my horrible scrawl, and with my best love to dearest albert, believe me, ever, my dearest victoria, your most affectionate and faithfully devoted aunt, adelaide. pray tell your dear mother, with my affectionate love, that i will answer her letter to-morrow. [pageheading: interchange of visits] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th february ._ my dearest uncle,--many thanks for your kind letter of the th, which i received on sunday. i am only a little wee bit distressed at your writing _on the th_, and not taking any notice of the _dearest, happiest_ day in my life, to which i owe the present _great_ domestic happiness i now enjoy, and which is much greater than i deserve, though certainly my kensington life for the last six or seven years had been one of great misery and oppression, and i may expect some little retribution, and, indeed, _after_ my accession, there was a great deal of worry. indeed i _am_ grateful for possessing (_really without_ vanity or flattery or _blindness_) the _most perfect_ being as a husband in existence, or who ever did exist; and i doubt whether anybody _ever_ did love or respect another as i do my dear angel! and indeed providence has ever mercifully protected us, through manifold dangers and trials, and i feel confident will continue to do so, and then let outward storms and trials and sorrows be sent us, and we can bear all.... i could not help smiling at the exactitude about monday the th of june; it is a great happiness to us to think with such certainty (_d.v._) of your kind visit, which would suit perfectly. _À propos_ of this, i am anxious to tell you that we are full of hope of paying you in august a little visit, which last year was in so melancholy a way interrupted; but we think that for _many_ reasons it would be better for us to pay you our _first_ visit only at _ostend_, and not at brussels or laeken; you could lodge us _anywhere_, and we need then bring but very few people with us--it might also facilitate the meeting with albert's good old grandmother, who fears to cross the sea, and whose great _wish_ is to behold albert again--and would not be so difficult (_pour la lère fois_) in many ways. i could, nevertheless, see bruges and ghent from thence by help of the railroad, and return the same day to ostend. what you say about peel is very just. good lord melbourne is much better. i hope soon to hear more about joinville and donna francesca. now, ever your devoted niece, victoria r. we are all very well (_unberufen_) and move, _to our horror_, to town on friday. [pageheading: cobden's attack on peel] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th february ( )._ (_saturday morning._) sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave to acquaint your majesty that the debate was brought to a close this morning about half-past three o'clock. the motion of lord howick[ ] was rejected by a large majority, the number being-- for the motion against it --- majority --- the chief speakers were mr r. cobden and lord john russell in favour of the motion, mr attwood, lord francis egerton, and sir robert peel against it. in the course of the evening there was much excitement and animated discussion, in consequence of the speech of mr cobden, who is the chief patron of the anti-corn law league. mr cobden with great vehemence of manner observed more than once that sir robert peel ought to be held _individually responsible_ for the distress of the country.[ ] coupling these expressions with the language frequently held at the meetings of the anti-corn law league, and by the press in connection with it, sir robert peel in replying to mr cobden charged him with holding language calculated to excite to personal violence. [footnote : to go into committee on the depression of the manufacturing industry. the debate turned mainly on the corn laws.] [footnote : to this attack peel replied with excessive warmth, amid the frantic cheering of his party, who almost refused to hear cobden's explanation in reply. peel, alarmed at the fate of drummond, thought (or affected to think) that cobden was singling him out as a fit object for assassination. for years cobden resented this language of peel most deeply. "peel's atrocious conduct towards me ought not to be lost sight of," he wrote in february . a _rapprochement_ was effected by miss martineau--see her letter to peel (parker, vol. iii. p. )--and a reference to the matter by disraeli in the house of commons led to satisfactory explanations on both sides.] _queen victoria to the earl of lincoln._[ ] buckingham palace, _ th february ._ the queen, immediately on her arrival yesterday, went to look at the new chapel, with which she is much pleased, but was extremely disappointed to find it still in such a backward state. as it is of the utmost importance to the queen to be able to _use_ it _very soon_, she wishes lord lincoln would be so good as to hurry on the work as much as possible; perhaps lord lincoln could increase the number of workmen, as there seemed to her to be very few there yesterday. [footnote : chief commissioner of woods and forests.] [pageheading: fanny burney's diary] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ st february ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he received safely your majesty's letter of the th inst. lord melbourne entreats your majesty that you never will think for a moment that you can tire him by questions, or that it can be to him anything but a great pleasure to answer them. he will be only too happy if any information that he possesses or can procure can be of the least use or pleasure to your majesty. lord melbourne conceives that your majesty must be surprised at his complaining of sleeplessness. he is much obliged by the suggestion of the camphor. he mentioned it to the gentleman who attends him, and he said that it was a very good thing, and certainly has a soothing and quieting effect, and that in fact there was some in the draught which lord melbourne now takes at night. but lord melbourne has taken to going down to dinner with those who are in the house, and sitting up afterwards until near twelve o'clock, and since he has done this he has slept better. we expect the duke and duchess of bedford for two nights on wednesday next. lord and lady uxbridge and ella and constance often come over in the morning and eat their luncheon here, which lord melbourne takes very kindly of them. george byng[ ] came the other morning in a waistcoat of peel's velveteen. lord strafford brought the whole piece off the manufacturer, and let george byng have enough for a waistcoat. it is a dull blue stuff, and the device and inscription not very clear nor easy to make out.[ ] adolphus is, as aberdeen says, too rigidly tory, but there are plenty of narratives of the same period, such as belsham[ ] and others, of whom it may be said with equal truth that they are too whig.... lord melbourne read the _edinburgh_ on madame d'arblay, which is certainly macaulay's, but thought it unnecessarily severe upon queen charlotte, and that it did not do her justice, and also that it rather countenanced too much miss burney's dislike to her situation. it appears to lord melbourne that miss burney was well enough contented to live in the palace and receive her salary, but that she was surprised and disgusted as soon as she found that she was expected to give up some part of her time to conform to some rules, and to perform some duty. lord melbourne is sorry to say that he missed the article on children's books,[ ] a subject of much importance, and in which he is much interested. lord melbourne has received the engraving of the princess, and is much pleased by it, and returns many thanks. it is very pretty, very spirited, and as far as lord melbourne's recollection, serves him, very like. lord melbourne remains, ever, your majesty's faithful, devoted, and attached servant. [footnote : brother-in-law of lord uxbridge, and afterwards earl of stratford.] [footnote : the allusion is to a hoax played on the premier, by a presentation made to him of a piece of the then novel fabric, velveteen, stamped with a free-trade design. peel afterwards wrote that he was unaware that the specimen bore "any allusion to any matters which are the subject of public controversy."] [footnote : william belsham ( - ) wrote, in twelve volumes, _a history of great britain to the conclusion of the peace of amiens in _.] [footnote : in the _quarterly review_, by lady eastlake.] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall (_ th march _). (_sunday morning._) sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave to acquaint your majesty that the prisoner macnaghten was acquitted last night, after a trial which lasted two days, upon the ground of insanity. the fuller account of the evidence which sir robert peel has seen is on the accompanying newspaper. the only other information which has reached sir robert peel is contained in a note (enclosed) from mr maule, the solicitor to the treasury, who conducted the prosecution. the three judges[ ] appear to have concurred in opinion, that the evidence of insanity was so strong as to require a verdict of acquittal--and the chief justice advised the jury to find that verdict without summing up the evidence or delivering any detailed charge upon the facts of the case and the law bearing upon them. it is a lamentable reflection that a man may be at the same time so insane as to be reckless of his own life and the lives of others, and to be pronounced free from moral responsibility, and yet capable of preparing for the commission of murder with the utmost caution and deliberation, and of taking every step which shall enable him to commit it with certainty. [footnote : chief justice tindal, and justices williams and coleridge.] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th march ._ sir robert peel, with his humble duty to your majesty, begs leave to acquaint your majesty that the house of commons was occupied last night with the attack upon lord ellenborough for the somnauth proclamation.[ ] the motion was made by mr vernon smith.[ ] the resolution proposed condemned the proclamation as _unwise_, _indecorous_ and _reprehensible_. mr vernon smith was followed by mr emerson tennent,[ ] one of the secretaries to the board of controul. mr macaulay next spoke, and condemned the conduct of lord ellenborough in a speech of great bitterness and great ability. the motion was negatived by a majority of to . the minority included lord ashley, sir robert inglis, and six other gentlemen, who generally support your majesty's servants. the debate was a very animated one, with a strong infusion of party zeal. [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. xi, 'the gates of somnauth')] [footnote : robert vernon smith ( - ), afterwards president of the board of control, created lord lyveden in .] [footnote : james emerson ( - ), afterwards sir james emerson tennent, m.p. for belfast, author of _letters from the Ægean_, etc.] [pageheading: criminal insanity] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ buckingham palace, _ th march ._ the queen returns the paper of the lord chancellor's to sir robert peel with her best thanks. the law may be perfect, but how is it that whenever a case for its application arises, it proves to be of no avail? we have seen the trials of oxford and macnaghten conducted by the ablest lawyers of the day--lord denman, chief justice tindal, and sir wm. follett,[ ]--and _they allow_ and _advise_ the jury to pronounce the verdict of _not guilty_ on account of _insanity_,--whilst _everybody_ is morally _convinced_ that both malefactors were perfectly conscious and aware of what they did! it appears from this, that the force of the law is entirely put into the judge's hands, and that it depends merely upon his charge whether the law is to be applied or not. could not the legislature lay down that rule which the lord chancellor does in his paper, and which chief justice mansfield did in the case of bellingham; and why could not the judges be _bound_ to interpret the law in _this_ and _no other_ sense in their charges to the juries?[ ] [footnote : solicitor-general. his health gave way in middle life, and he died in .] [footnote : in consequence of the manner in which the trial terminated, and the feeling excited in the country, the house of lords put certain questions on the subject of criminal insanity to the judges, whose answers have been since considered as establishing the law.] [pageheading: princess mary of baden] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th march ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. in obedience to your majesty's commands he has endeavoured to consider the letter of the grand duke of baden with reference to the position of the princess mary[ ] in this country. lord aberdeen does not find in the proceedings of the conference of great powers at vienna, at aix la chapelle, or at paris, anything which can materially affect the question. the great difficulty with respect to the princess appears to arise from the fact that in this country the rank and precedence of every person are regulated and fixed by law. should your majesty be disposed to deviate from the strict observance of this, although lord aberdeen cannot doubt that it would receive a very general acquiescence, it is still possible that the princess might be exposed to occasional disappointment and mortification.... there is a consideration, to which lord aberdeen would humbly advert, which may not altogether be unworthy of your majesty's notice. your majesty does not wish to encourage alliances of this description; and although there may be no danger of their frequent occurrence, it cannot be denied that an additional inducement would exist if princesses always retained their own rank in this country. on the whole, lord aberdeen would humbly submit to your majesty that the princess might be received by your majesty, in the first instance, with such distinction as was due to her birth--either by a royal carriage being sent to bring her to your majesty's presence, or in any manner which your majesty might command--with the understanding that she should permanently adopt the title and station of her husband. your majesty's favour and protection, afforded to her in this character will probably realise all the expectations of the grand duke; and, without acknowledging any positive claim or right, your majesty would secure the gratitude of the princess. [footnote : the princess mary of baden had recently married the marquis of douglas, eldest son of the duke of hamilton. _see_ p. . (ch. xi, st november, )] [pageheading: the prince to hold levÉes] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ buckingham palace, _ th march ._ the queen has spoken again to the prince about the levées, who has kindly consented to do what can be of use and convenience to the queen. there is one circumstance which must be considered and settled, and which the queen omitted to mention to sir robert peel when she saw him. the chief, indeed the _only_, object of having these levées, is to save the queen the _extreme fatigue_ of the _presentations_ which would come in such a _mass_ together when the queen _held them herself_; the prince naturally holds the _levées for_ the queen, and _represents her_; could not therefore everybody who was presented to him be made to understand that this would be tantamount to a presentation to the queen herself? there might perhaps be an objection on the part of people presented to kneel and kiss the prince's hand. but this could be obviated by merely having the people named to the prince. the inconvenience would be _so great_ if nobody at all could be presented till late in the season, that something must be devised to get over this difficulty. [pageheading: levÉes] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ downing street, _ th march ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave to submit to your majesty that should your majesty determine that the prince should hold levées on behalf of your majesty, the best course will be to announce the intention from the lord chamberlain's office in terms to the following purport: "his royal highness prince albert will, by her majesty's command, hold a levée on behalf of her majesty on ---- "it is her majesty's pleasure that presentations to the prince at this levée shall be considered equivalent to presentations to the queen. "addresses to her majesty may be presented to her majesty through the secretary of state, or may be reserved until her majesty can hold a levée in person." sir robert peel humbly submits to your majesty that it would not be advisable to _prohibit_ by notice in the _gazette_ subsequent presentations to your majesty. it will probably answer every purpose to state that they shall be considered _equivalent_, and when your majesty shall hold a levée it may be then notified at the time that second presentations are not necessary. when the prince shall hold the levée, it may be made known at the time, without any formal public notification, that kneeling and the kissing of hands will not be required. sir robert peel hopes that the effect of holding these levées may be materially to relieve your majesty, but it is of course difficult to speak with certainty. he was under the impression that in the reign of queen anne, prince george had occasionally held levées on the part of the queen during the queen's indisposition, but on searching the _gazette_ of the time he cannot find any record of this. _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ claremont, _ th march ._ the queen has received sir robert's letter, and quite approves of his suggestions concerning the levées. the prince is quite ready to do whatever may be thought right, and the queen wishes sir robert to act upon the plan he has laid before her in his letter of yesterday. perhaps it would be right before making anything public to consider the question of drawing-rooms likewise, which are of such importance to the trades-people of london. it would be painful for the queen to think that she should be the cause of disappointment and loss to this class of her subjects, particularly at this moment of commercial stagnation. the queen conceives that it would be the right thing that the same principle laid down for the levées should be followed with regard to drawing-rooms, the prince holding them for her. the queen is anxious to have soon sir robert's opinion upon this subject. the queen on looking at the almanac finds that _only_ the _two_ next weeks are available for these purposes _before_ easter. _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th march ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and hastens to reply to your majesty's note of this date. sir robert peel assures your majesty that he does not think that there is the slightest ground for apprehension on the occasion of the levée, but sir robert peel will, without the slightest allusion to your majesty's communication to him, make personal enquiries into the police arrangements, and see that every precaution possible shall be taken. he begs, however, humbly to assure your majesty that there never has reached him any indication of a hostile feeling towards the prince. it could only proceed from some person of deranged intellect, and he thinks it would be almost impossible for such a person to act upon it on the occasion of a levée. it may tend to remove or diminish your majesty's anxiety to know that sir robert peel has _walked_ home every night from the house of commons, and, notwithstanding frequent menaces and intimations of danger, he has not met with any obstruction. he earnestly hopes that your majesty will dismiss from your mind any apprehension, and sincerely believes that your majesty may do so with entire confidence. but nothing shall be neglected. [pageheading: the comet] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th march ._ my dearest uncle,--i had the pleasure of receiving your kind letter of the th, on sunday. how lucky you are to have seen the comet![ ] it is distinctly _to be seen_ here, and _has been seen_ by many people, but we have till now looked out in vain for it. we shall, however, persevere. we left dear claremont with great regret, and since our return have been regaled with regular march winds, which, however, have not kept me from my daily walks. to-day it is finer again. it is most kind and good of dearest albert to hold these levées for me, which will be a great relief for hereafter for me. besides _cela le met dans sa position_; _he_ and _i_ must be _one_, so that i can _only be represented_ by _him_. i think this, therefore, a good thing for that reason also; and god knows, he, dear angel, _deserves_ to be the _highest_ in _everything_. our consecration went off extremely well, and the chapel is delightful, and so convenient. i am sure you will like it. you will be glad to hear that dear old eos (who is still at claremont) is going on most favourably; they attribute this sudden attack to her over-eating (she steals whenever she can get anything), living in too warm rooms, and getting too little exercise since she was in london. certainly her wind was _not_ in the _slightest_ degree affected by her accident, for in the autumn she coursed better than all the other young dogs, and ran and fetched pheasants, etc., from any distance, and ran about the very evening she was taken so ill, as if nothing was the matter. evidently part of her lungs must be _very_ sound still; and they say _no one's_ lungs are _quite sound_. she must be well starved, poor thing, and not allowed to sleep in beds, as she generally does. [footnote : its appearance gave rise to much discussion among astronomers. on the th sir john herschel saw its nucleus from collingwood in kent, and on the following night a dim nebula only; so it was probably receding with great velocity.] [pageheading: melbourne on diet] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ brocket hall, _ nd april ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he received yesterday morning your majesty's letter of the th ult., for which he sincerely thanks your majesty. lord melbourne is delighted to find that your majesty was pleased with the bouquet. the daphnes are neither so numerous nor so fine as they were, but there are still enough left to make another bouquet, which lord melbourne will take care is sent up by his cart to-morrow, and left at buckingham palace. lord melbourne is very much touched and obliged by your majesty's very kind advice, which he will try his utmost to follow, as he himself believes that his health entirely depends upon his keeping up his stomach in good order and free from derangement. he owns that he is very incredulous about the unwholesomeness of dry champagne, and he does not think that the united opinion of the whole college of physicians and of surgeons would persuade him upon these points--he cannot think that a "hohenlohe" glass of dry champagne, _i.e._ half a _schoppen_,[ ] can be prejudicial. lord and lady erroll[ ] and lord auckland and miss eden are coming in the course of the week, and they would be much surprised not to get a glass of champagne with their dinner. lord melbourne is very glad to learn that the prince's levée did well, and feels that his royal highness undertaking this duty must be a great relief and assistance to your majesty. lord melbourne hopes to see the baron here when he comes. the spring still delays and hangs back, but it rains to-day, which lord melbourne hopes will bring it on. [footnote : a _schoppen_ is about a pint; it is the same word etymologically as "scoop."] [footnote : william george, seventeenth earl of erroll, married a sister of the first earl of munster.] [pageheading: the royal children] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th april ._ dearest uncle,--many thanks for your very kind letter of the st, which i received on sunday, just as our excellent friend stockmar made his appearance. he made us very happy by his excellent accounts of you _all_, including dearest louise, and the children he says are _so_ grown; leo being nearly as tall as louise! _en revanche_ he will, i hope, tell you how prosperous he found us all; and how surprised and pleased he was with the children; he also is struck with albert junior's likeness to his dearest papa, which everybody is struck with. indeed, dearest uncle, i will venture to say that not only _no royal ménage_ is to be found equal to _ours_, but _no other ménage_ is to be compared to ours, nor is _any one_ to be compared, take him altogether, to _my dearest_ angel!... _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th april ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and has this moment received your majesty's note. sir robert peel will immediately make enquiry in the first instance in respect to the correctness of the report of the dinner. the omission of the health of the prince is certainly very strange--it would be very unusual at any public dinner--but seems quite unaccountable at a dinner given in connection with the interests of one of the royal theatres. the toasts are generally prepared not by the chairman of the meeting, but by a committee; but still the omission of the name of the prince ought to have occurred at once to the duke of cambridge, and there cannot be a doubt that he might have rectified, and ought to have rectified, the omission. sir robert peel is sure your majesty will approve of his ascertaining in the first instance the real facts of the case--whether the report be a correct one, and if a correct one, who are the parties by whom the arrangements in respect to the toasts were made. this being done, sir robert peel will then apply himself to the execution of your majesty's wishes, in the manner pointed out by your majesty. he begs humbly to assure your majesty that he enters most fully into your majesty's very natural feelings, and that he shall always have the greatest pleasure in giving effect to your majesty's wishes in matters of this nature, and in proving himself worthy of the confidence your majesty is kindly pleased to repose in him. [pageheading: the toast of the prince] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th april ._ sir robert peel, with his humble duty to your majesty, hastens to make a communication to your majesty, on the subject of your majesty's letter of this morning, which he hopes will remove from your majesty's mind any unfavourable impression with regard to the _toasts_ at the theatrical dinner, or to the conduct of the duke of cambridge in reference to them. sir robert peel, since he addressed your majesty, has made enquiry from colonel wood, the member for brecon, who was present at the meeting. in order to have the real statement of the case, sir robert peel did not mention the object of the enquiry. the following were the questions and the answers:-- _q._ what were the toasts at the theatrical dinner last night? colonel wood. the first was _the queen and the prince_. the duke said he thought he could not give the health of the queen in a manner more satisfactory than by coupling with the name of her majesty that of her illustrious consort. colonel wood said that his impression was that the duke meant to do that which would be most respectful to the prince, and that he had in his mind when he united the name of the prince with that of your majesty, the circumstances of the prince having recently held the levée on behalf of your majesty. it might perhaps have been better had his royal highness adhered to the usual custom, and proposed the health of the prince distinctly and separately, but he humbly submits to your majesty that the _intention_ of his royal highness must have been to show respect to the prince. the reports of public dinners are frequently incorrect, the reporters being sometimes placed at a great distance from the chairman. [pageheading: the king of hanover] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th april ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and will not fail to forward by the first opportunity the letter to lord ellenborough which accompanied your majesty's note. in consequence of his conversation yesterday morning with baron stockmar, sir robert peel begs to mention to your majesty that he saw to-day a private letter from berlin, which mentioned that the king of hanover had apparently abandoned the intention of visiting england this year, but that on the receipt of some letters from england, which he suspected to be written for the purpose of discouraging his visit, the king suddenly changed his intention and wrote a letter to your majesty, stating that he had thoughts of such a visit. it was not stated from whence the letters advising the king to remain on the continent had proceeded. this letter also stated that the king of hanover proposed to waive his rank of sovereign as far as he possibly could on his arrival in england, and to take his seat in the house of lords without taking any part in the proceedings. it added that the king could not, in any event, be in england before the latter end of may or beginning of june, and rather hinted that as his proposed visit was more out of a spirit of contradiction and impatience of obstacles being thrown in the way of it, than from any strong wish on his part to come here, he might probably change his intention and defer his visit, particularly if he should find that there was no particular impediment in the way of it. _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th april ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave to acquaint your majesty that the duke of cambridge having called on sir robert peel this morning, he took an opportunity of asking his royal highness whether he thought the king of hanover had made up his mind to visit england this year. the duke's reply was, as nearly as possible, as follows:-- "oh yes, the king will certainly come, but i can tell you privately he means to have nothing to do with the house of lords. he will not make his appearance there. the king has taken his servants for six weeks--that is, engaged their attendance upon him for that time. i know the porter is engaged and the stable servants. the king has written to her majesty. his real object in coming is to arrange his private papers, which were left in confusion, and to consult sir henry halford."[ ] this was all that was material that his royal highness said. [footnote : the eminent physician.] [pageheading: the gates of somnauth] _lord ellenborough to queen victoria._ camp, delhi, _ th february ._ ... the gates of the temple of somnauth, which have been escorted to delhi by five hundred cavalry of the protected sikh states, will be escorted from delhi to muttra, and thence to agra by the same force of cavalry, furnished by the rajahs of bhurtpore and alwar.[ ] while there has been universally evinced a feeling of gratitude to the british government for the consideration shown to the people of hindustan in the restoration of these trophies, there has not occurred a single instance of apparent mortification amongst the mussulmans. all consider the restoration of the gates to be a national, not a religious, triumph. at no place has more satisfaction been expressed than at paniput, a town almost exclusively mussulman, where there exist the remains of the first mosque built by sultan mahmood after he had destroyed the city and temples of the hindoos.... [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. xi, 'the gates of somnauth')] [pageheading: death of the duke of sussex] _extract from the will of his late royal highness the duke of sussex, dated the th august [ ] (sent at the queen's request by sir robert peel to the duke of wellington for his advice.)_ "i desire that on my death my body may be opened, and should the examination present anything useful or interesting to science, i empower my executors to make it public. and i desire to be buried in the public cemetery at kensal green in the parish of harrow, in the county of middlesex, and not at windsor." [footnote : the duke of sussex died on st april of erysipelas. his first marriage in to lady augusta murray, daughter of the fourth earl of dunmore, was declared void under the royal marriage act. lady augusta died in ; her daughter married sir thomas wilde, afterwards lord truro. the duke contracted a second marriage with lady cecilia underwood, daughter of the earl of arran and widow of sir george buggin: she was created duchess of inverness in , with remainder to her heirs-male.] _the duke of wellington to sir robert peel._ strathfieldsaye, _ st april ._ my dear peel,--i have just now received your letter of this day, and i return the enclosure in the box. it appears to me that the whole case must be considered as hanging together; that is, the desire to be buried at kensal green, that of freemasons to pay masonic honours,[ ] that the body of the duchess of inverness should be interred near to his when she dies. parties still alive have an interest in the attainment of the two last objects, which are quite incompatible with the interment of a prince of the blood, a knight of the garter, in st george's chapel at windsor. the queen's royal command might overrule the duke's desire to be buried at kensal green.[ ] nobody would complain of or contend against it. but there will be no end of the complaints of interference by authority on the part of freemasons, and of those who will take part with the duchess of inverness: and it is a curious fact that there are persons in society who are interested in making out that she was really married to the duke.[ ] against this we must observe that it will be urged that the omission to insist that the interment should take place in the collegiate chapel of st george's, windsor, and thus to set aside the will, lowers the royal family in the opinion of the public, and is a concession to radicalism. but it is my opinion that the reasons will justify that which will be done in conformity with the will. i confess that i don't like to decide upon cases in such haste; and i cannot consider it necessary that a decision should be made on the course to be taken in respect to the duke's funeral, on the morrow of the day on which he died. it would be desirable to know the opinion of the lord chancellor, the archbishop, and others. i can't think of anything likely to occur, which might alter me: and i'll abide by that which i have above given. it will be absolutely necessary to take effective measures for the preservation of the peace at this funeral at kensal green: and even that the magistrates should superintend the procession of the freemasons. believe me, ever yours most sincerely, wellington. [footnote : the duke of sussex being grand master of england, and master of the lodge of antiquity.] [footnote : the body lay in state at kensington, and was eventually buried, as the duke had desired, in the kensal green cemetery.] [footnote : see _ante_, p. , note (this ch., above). the marriage took place, by special licence, at lady cecilia's house in great cumberland place.] _queen adelaide to queen victoria._ _ nd april ._ my dearest niece,--i am just come back and feel very anxious to know how you are, and beg at the same time to offer to you my most affectionate condolence on the melancholy event which has taken again another member of our family from us. pray do not trouble _yourself_ with answering this note, but let me hear how you feel, and whether you will like to see me to-morrow or at any time most convenient to you. i feel deeply our new loss, which recalls all the previous sad losses which we have had so forcibly, and i pray that it may not affect you too much, dearest victoria, and that you will not suffer from the shock it must have been to you. i was not in the least aware of the danger and near approach of the fatal end, and only yesterday began to feel alarmed by the accounts which i had received. i have been with the poor duchess of inverness on my way to town, and found her as composed as possible under the sad circumstances, and full of gratitude to you and all the family for all the kindness which she had received. i pity her very much. it must be her comfort to have made the last years of the duke's life happy, and to have been his comfort to the last moment. i wish you good-night, dearest niece, and beg you to give my best love to dear albert, and to believe me most devotedly your most affectionate aunt, adelaide. [pageheading: birth of princess alice] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ buckingham palace, _ th may ._ my dearest uncle,--your kind and dear letter of the th has given me great pleasure. i am happy to give you still better accounts of myself.[ ] i have been out every day since saturday, and have resumed all my usual habits almost (of course resting often on the sofa, and not having appeared in society yet), and feel so strong and well; much better (independent of the nerves) than i have been either time. we are most thankful for it. the king of hanover has never said _when_ he will come, even _now_, but always threatens that he will.... our little baby, who i really am proud of, for she is so very forward for her age, is to be called _alice_, an old english name, and the other names are to be _maud_ (another old english name and the same as matilda) and _mary_, as she was born on aunt gloucester's birthday. the sponsors are to be: the king of hanover,--ernestus the pious; poor princess sophia matilda,[ ] and feodore, and the christening to be on the nd of june. it will be delightful to see you and dearest louise on the th of june, god willing. are there any news of joinville's proceedings at rio?[ ] ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : princess alice was born on th april.] [footnote : princess sophia matilda of gloucester.] [footnote : he married princess francesca, sister of the emperor of the brazils and of queen donna maria.] [pageheading: christening of princess alice] _the earl of ripon to queen victoria._ india board, _ th june ._ lord ripon, with his humble duty to your majesty, begs to inform your majesty that despatches have been this day received at the india house from the governor-general of india and from the governor of bombay, announcing the successful issue of a battle, on the th of march, between sir charles napier and meer shere mahommed.[ ] the forces of the latter were completely routed, with the loss of all the guns and several standards. ripon. [footnote : sir charles napier, who was in command in scinde, defeated the army of the ameers of upper and lower scinde at meeanee on th february, and on the th took hyderabad. on the th march he attacked the enemy, who were posted in a strong position on the banks of a tributary of the indus, and obtained a decisive victory.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ claremont, _ th june ._ dearest uncle,--i received your kind letter on sunday, and thank you much for it. i am sorry that you could not take the children to ardenne, as nothing is so good for children as _very_ frequent change of air, and think you do not let the children do so often enough. ours do so continually, and are so movable that it gives us no trouble whatever. our christening went off very brilliantly, and i wish you could have witnessed it; nothing could be more _anständig_, and little _alice_ behaved extremely well. the _déjeuner_ was served in the gallery, as at dear pussy's christening, and there being a profusion of flowers on the table, etc., had a beautiful effect. the king of hanover arrived _just in time_ to be _too late_. he is grown very old and excessively thin, and bends a good deal. he is very gracious, for _him_. pussy and _bertie_ (as we call the boy) were not at all afraid of him, _fortunately_; they appeared after the _déjeuner_ on friday, and i wish you could have seen them; they behaved so beautifully before that great number of people, and i must say looked _very dear_, all in white, and _very distingués_; they were much admired. we came here on saturday. the news from ireland continue to be very alarming. hoping to hear soon, for _certain_, when you come, believe me, ever, your devoted niece, victoria r. i hope you will _kindly answer_ my letter of _last tuesday_. [pageheading: irish affairs] _sir thomas fremantle_[ ] _to sir robert peel._[ ] house of commons, _ th june ( )._ my dear sir robert,--the king of hanover took his seat at twenty minutes past four. he is now on the woolsack with the lord chancellor, the duke of wellington, and lord strangford; no other peers are in the house, the time of meeting being five o'clock. it was not necessary that any other peers should introduce his majesty. he merely produced his writ of summons, and went to the table to be sworn. i remain, yours sincerely, thomas fremantle. [footnote : one of the secretaries of the treasury: afterwards lord cottesloe.] [footnote : forwarded to the queen by sir robert peel.] _sir robert peel to the prince albert._ whitehall, _ th june ._ (_sunday._) sir,--in consequence of the conversation which i had with your royal highness on thursday last on the subject of ireland, i beg to mention to your royal highness that the cabinet met again to-day at lord aberdeen's house. we had a very long discussion. the prevailing opinion was that if legislation were proposed,[ ] that legislation should be as effectual as possible; that there would be no advantage in seeking for new powers unless these powers were commensurate with the full extent of the mischief to be apprehended. foreseeing, however, all the difficulties of procuring such powers, and the increased excitement which must follow the demand for them, we were unwilling to come to an immediate decision in favour of recommending new legislation, and resolved therefore to watch the course of events for some time longer, continuing precautionary measures against disturbances of the public peace. i have not received any material information from ireland by the post of this day, nor has sir james graham. i have the honour to be, sir, with sincere respect, your royal highness's most faithful and humble servant, robert peel. [footnote : in consequence of the repeal agitation, the ministers had already introduced an irish arms bill, which was carried.] [pageheading: the rebecca riots] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ nd june ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty. he was infinitely obliged to your majesty for coming into the room the other evening when he was with the prince, and very much delighted to have an opportunity of seeing your majesty, especially in such good health and spirits. lord melbourne is very glad that your majesty has seen _as you like it_. it is indeed a most gay, lively, and beautiful play. to see or to read it is quite like passing an hour or two in a forest of fairyland. it is so lively, and at the same time so romantic. all depends upon rosalind, which was an excellent part of mrs. jordan. jaques is also a very particular character and difficult to play. lord melbourne feels himself better, but still weak. he does not like to say much about politics, but he cannot refrain from observing that they seem to him to have permitted these lawless riotings in south wales[ ] to go on with success and impunity a great deal too long. when such things begin nobody can say how far they will go or how much they will spread. there are many who expect and predict a general rising against property, and this is invariably the way in which such things begin. [footnote : the agitation against the turnpike system which had broken out in south wales. _see_ introductory note, p. . (to ch. xii)] _queen victoria to sir james graham._ buckingham palace, _ rd june ._ the queen returns these communications to sir james graham, which are of a very unpleasant nature. the queen trusts that measures of the greatest severity will be taken, as well to suppress the revolutionary spirit as to bring the culprits[ ] to immediate trial and punishment. the queen thinks this of the greatest importance with respect to the effect it may have in ireland, likewise as proving that the government is willing to show great forbearance, and to trust to the good sense of the people; but that if outrages are committed and it is called upon to act, it is not to be trifled with, but will visit wrong-doers with the utmost severity. [footnote : _i.e._, the rebecca rioters.] [pageheading: military medals] _queen victoria to lord stanley._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ the queen follows lord stanley's recommendation to confer the g.c.b. on sir charles napier with great pleasure, from her high opinion of his late achievements, and she thinks it might be advisable that some of the officers who most contributed to the victories of meeanee and hyderabad[ ] should receive lower grades of the bath. the queen is much _impressed with the propriety_ of a medal being given to the troops who fought under sir charles napier, as the armies under nott, pollock, and sale received such distinctions for actions hardly equal to those in scinde. [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. xii, th june, )] _sir james graham to queen victoria._ whitehall, _ th june ._ sir james graham, with humble duty, begs to lay before your majesty the report received from carmarthen this morning. the earl of cawdor went to carmarthen this morning.[ ] every effort will be made to trace this lawless outbreak to its source, and to bring the principal offenders to justice. sir james graham encloses two police reports, which have been received this morning from dublin. they would seem to indicate some foreign interference, and some hope of foreign assistance mingled with this domestic strife. several frenchmen have lately made their appearance in different parts of ireland. the above is humbly submitted by your majesty's dutiful subject and servant, j. r. g. graham. [footnote : lord cawdor was lord-lieutenant of carmarthenshire.] _queen victoria to the duchess of norfolk._ buckingham palace, _ th june ._ my dear duchess,--the same right which you feel, and which you had to overcome before you took the final step of tendering your resignation,[ ] has kept me from sooner acknowledging the receipt of your letter. under the circumstances which you allude to, it is incumbent upon me to accept of your resignation, but as you throw out yourself a hint that it would be agreeable to you sometimes to perform the duties (which you have hitherto fulfilled), it would give me the greatest gratification if you would let me continue your name on the list of my ladies of the bedchamber, and sometimes at your convenience have the pleasure of your society. i agree with you that for the present your step should not be known, till i shall have had time to find a successor, and i am pleased to think that you will take your waitings, which are at present settled. with the prince's kind regards to yourself, and mine to the duke, believe me, always, yours very affectionately, victoria r. [footnote : of her position as bedchamber woman.] [pageheading: duelling in the army] _queen victoria to the duke of wellington_. (_july ._) the queen having attentively perused the proposed general order for the more efficient repression of the practice of duelling in the army, approves of the same, but recommends that the duke of wellington should submit to the cabinet the propriety of considering of a general measure applicable to _all branches_ of the naval and military service.[ ] [footnote : an influential anti-duelling association had been formed this year, and subsequently public attention was drawn to the question by a duel on st july, at camden town, in which colonel fawcett was shot by his brother-in-law, lieutenant munro, who had reluctantly gone out, after enduring much provocation. mainly owing to prince albert's efforts, the articles of war were so amended as to put a stop to the practice.] [pageheading: the spanish marriage] _the prince albert to lord aberdeen._ _ th july ._ my dear lord aberdeen,--the queen and myself have been taken much by surprise by lord howard de walden's despatch marked "most confidential." the opinions of the portuguese court must have entirely changed. although we have not heard anything on the subject, we are fully convinced of the correctness of lord howard's statements and of his conjectures. we are both pleased to see the view which he takes, and the good opinion he has of our little cousin. the queen thinks it right that you should inform lord howard that the possibility of a marriage between prince leopold[ ] and the queen of spain has been for some time a favourite thought of hers and mine, and that you thought that this combination had some advantages which hardly any other could offer. but that the matter had been and was treated here as one purely and solely spanish, in which we carefully abstained from interfering with, and that we leave it to work itself out or not by its own merit. that you wished him to take the same view, but not to lose sight of it, and to report to you whatever he might hear bearing upon the subject. believe me, etc., albert. [footnote : son of prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg, and brother of the king of portugal. see _ante_, p. , and _post_, p. . (ch. xi, footnote ; ch. xii, 'the spanish marriage')] _queen victoria to the duchess of norfolk._ dear duchess,--i write to inform you that i have named your successor,[ ] who is to be lady douro.[ ] the great regret i experience at your leaving me is certainly diminished by the arrangement which we have agreed upon together, and which will still afford me the pleasure of having you occasionally about me. i trust that the duke's health will admit of your taking your waiting in september, but think it right to tell you that we shall probably at that time be making some aquatic excursions in our new yacht, and consequently be from home the greater part of your waiting. with the prince's best regards to yourself, and mine to the duke, believe me, always, yours very affectionately, victoria r. [footnote : as bedchamber woman.] [footnote : elizabeth, daughter of the eighth marquis of tweeddale, afterwards duchess of wellington. she died in .] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ windsor castle, _ rd august ._ the queen returns the enclosed papers, and gives her sanction to the bringing in of the bill for enrolling and arming the out-pensioners of chelsea hospital with great pleasure, as she thinks it a very good measure at the present crisis, calculated to relieve the troops which are rather overworked, and to secure a valuable force to the service of the government. the queen hopes that in bringing in the bill sir robert peel will make as little of it as possible, in order not to make it appear a larger measure than it is. the regulations strike the queen as very judicious, and she has little doubt that they will raise the military spirit in the pensioners, and will make the measure popular with them, which cannot fail to attach them more to the crown. _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ the queen is desirous that whatever is right should be done, but is strongly of opinion that the king of hanover's threat (for as such it must be regarded) not to leave this country till the affair[ ] is decided upon, should in _no way_ influence the transaction, as it is quite immaterial whether the king stays longer here or not. [footnote : of the crown jewels; _ante_, p. . (ch. xi, 'crown jewels')] [pageheading: the spanish marriage] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ the queen sees with great regret, in sir robert gordon's despatch of th august, that prince metternich has resumed his favourite scheme of a marriage between the queen of spain and a son of don carlos, and that king louis philippe has almost come to a secret understanding with him upon that point.[ ] the queen is as much as ever convinced that instead of tending to pacify spain _this_ combination cannot fail to call _new_ principles of discord into action, to excite the hopes of a lost and vanquished party for revenge and reacquisition of power, and to carry the civil war into the very interior of the family. the queen is anxious (should lord aberdeen coincide in this view of the subject, as she believes he does) that it should be _clearly_ understood by sir robert gordon, and prince metternich. [footnote : since the quadruple alliance (of england, france, spain, and portugal) in to expel don carlos and dom miguel from the peninsula, the question of the marriage of queen isabella (then aged four) had been a subject of incessant consideration by england and france. the queen-mother had suggested to louis philippe the marriages of the queen to the duc d'aumale and of the infanta (her sister) to the duc de montpensier: such a proposal, however gratifying to the french king's ambition, would naturally not have been favourably viewed in england; but guizot promoted warmly the alternative project of a marriage of the queen to her cousin don francisco de asis, duke of cadiz, son of don francisco de paula, the infanta being still to marry montpensier. it was believed that, if this marriage of the queen took place, there would be no issue of it, and louis philippe's ambition would be ultimately gratified. to palmerston's protest against this scheme (before the melbourne ministry fell), guizot replied, "_la reine aura des enfants et ne mourra pas._" the other possible candidates for the queen's hand from the french point of view were count montemolin, the son of don carlos, the count de trapani, son of francis i., king of the two sicilies, and thus brother of queen christina, and the duke of seville, a brother of the duke of cadiz. other candidates also favoured by the queen-mother were (while he was unmarried) prince albert's brother, and his cousin leopold, brother of the king of portugal; but the french king was bent upon a marriage of the queen with some descendant of philip v., and equally determined to prevent the infanta's marriage either with leopold or any other prince not a descendant of philip v. the view of prince albert and of lord aberdeen was that it was a matter for the young queen herself and the spanish people. see _ante_, p. . (ch. xii, th july, )] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ th august ._ lord aberdeen, with his most humble duty, begs to assure your majesty that he will not fail to give his best attention to your majesty's communication respecting the marriage of the queen of spain. in a recent despatch to sir robert gordon, lord aberdeen has repeated the opinion entertained by your majesty's government, that the marriage of the queen with the son of don carlos, instead of leading to the conciliation and unison of parties, would be more likely to produce collision and strife, and to increase the existing animosity between the different political factions by which spain is distracted. this marriage, however, has always been a favourite project with austria and the northern courts; and it has also been apparently supported by the french government. it cannot be denied that at first sight there are many considerations by which it may seem to be recommended; but the weight of these can only be duly estimated by the authorities and people of spain. the same may be said respecting the marriage of the queen with any other spanish prince, a descendant of philip v. which, in the opinion of many, would be most agreeable to the feelings and prejudices of the nation. to this project also it appears that the french government have recently assented. lord aberdeen humbly thinks that the interests of this country and of all europe are deeply concerned in the exclusion of a french prince from the possibility of receiving the hand of the queen; and that it would not be a wise policy to oppose any marriage by which this should be effected, consistently with the free choice of the queen, and the sanction of the spanish government and people. the avowed predilections of queen christina, and her increased means of influence recently acquired, render this a matter of considerable anxiety and importance at the present moment. [pageheading: parliamentary obstruction] _queen victoria to sir robert peel._ windsor castle, _ th august ._ the queen cannot refrain from writing a line to express her indignation at the very unjustifiable manner in which the minority of thirteen members obstructs the progress of business.[ ] she hopes that every attempt will be made to put an end to what is really indecent conduct. indeed, how is business to go on at all if such vexatious opposition prevails? at all events, the queen hopes that sir robert will make _no kind_ of concession to these gentlemen, which [could] encourage them to go on in the same way. the queen forgot to say this morning that she thinks it would be better that the investiture of the thistle should be put off for the present. [footnote : by opposition to the bill removing doubts as to the admission of ministers in scotland.] _queen victoria to sir james graham._ windsor castle, _ nd august ._ the queen returns these papers to sir j. graham, and thinks that this important memorial[ ] should _not_ be decided on without the opinion of the house of lords; the queen trusts that everything will be done to secure inviolate the maintenance of the marriage act. [footnote : the memorial was that of sir augustus d'este ( - ), the son of the union of the duke of sussex and lady augusta murray. on th april they were married at rome by an english clergyman, the ceremony being repeated in the same year at st george's, hanover square. the court of arches annulled the marriage in , but sir augustus now preferred a claim to the peerage. ultimately the lords, after consulting the judges, disallowed it.] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ south street, _ rd august ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thanks your majesty much for the last note which he had the honour of receiving. lord melbourne is much pleased that your majesty is glad of wilhelmina stanhope's marriage,[ ] and was very glad to hear that your majesty had congratulated her and lady stanhope upon it, which was very kind, and gave much satisfaction. lord dalmeny is an excellent young man, and altogether it is an event much to be rejoiced at, especially as it has been so long delayed, and fears began to be entertained that it would never happen. the duke and duchess of sutherland seem also much pleased with evelyn's[ ] marriage. she is a beautiful girl, and a very nice person in every respect, and everybody must wish her happy. lord melbourne has been at panshanger for two or three days with uxbridge and lady uxbridge, ella, and constance. uxbridge is having continual cricket matches as he used to have, which is a very good thing, making the country gay, and pleasing the people. matrimonial affairs, lord melbourne is afraid, remain _in statu quo_. lord melbourne was very glad to hear from anson yesterday and to learn that he thinks himself getting better. lord liverpool had given lord melbourne a very poor account of him. lord melbourne hopes that your majesty may have a pleasant tour, but he cannot refrain from earnestly recommending your majesty to take care about landing and embarking, and not to do it in dangerous places and on awkward coasts. lord melbourne is going the day after to-morrow with lord and lady beauvale to brocket hall, and from thence on the th to melbourne, to stay about three weeks or a month. lord melbourne congratulates your majesty upon the near approaching termination of the session of parliament, which is always a relief to all parties. some great measures have been passed. lord melbourne wishes your majesty health and happiness, and begs to be respectfully remembered to the prince. [footnote : to lord dalmeny. _en secondes noces_, she married the fourth duke of cleveland.] [footnote : lady evelyn leveson gower, married, on th october, to charles, lord blantyre.] [pageheading: visit to the chÂteau d'eu] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ chÂteau d'eu, _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--i write to you from this dear place, where we are in the midst of this admirable and truly amiable family, and where we feel quite at home, and as if we were one of them. our reception by the dear king and queen has been most kind, and by the people really gratifying.[ ] everything is very different to england, particularly the population. louise has told you all about our doings, and therefore tell you nothing but that i am highly interested and amused. little chica (mdme. hadjy)[ ] is a charming, sprightly, lively creature, with immense brown eyes. we leave this the day after to-morrow for brighton, where the children are, who are extremely well, i hear. many thanks, dearest uncle, for your kind letter of the th, by which i see that poor prince löwenstein[ ] came to see you; he is mamma's old friend. as i am in a great hurry, and as i hope, god willing, to see you very soon, i must conclude in haste, and leave all my remarks for another day. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. pray forgive this confused and horrid scrawl. [footnote : the queen was enthusiastically received at tréport. on the nd there was a great entertainment in the banqueting-room of the château, and on the th a _fête champêtre_ on the mont d'orléans in the forest. on the th there was a review, and on the th the queen returned to england.] [footnote : the princess of joinville. see _ante_, p. . (ch. xii, th january, ). hadjy is the prince of joinville.] [footnote : prince william of löwenstein ( - ).] [pageheading: the french visit] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ melbourne, _ th september ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thanks your majesty much for your letter of the th ult., which he received here some days ago. we have been quite dismayed and overwhelmed with the melancholy intelligence of death after death which has followed us. i was much concerned for poor charles howard's loss, but we were quite struck down by the melancholy event of poor mrs w. cowper.[ ] she promised to suit us all well, my sister particularly, and to be a great source of happiness and comfort. your majesty is quite right in supposing that lord melbourne would at once attribute your majesty's visit to the château d'eu to its right cause--your majesty's friendship and affection for the french royal family, and not to any political object. the principal motive now is to take care that it does not get mixed either in reality or in appearance with politics, and lord melbourne cannot conceal from your majesty that he should lament it much if the result of the visit should turn out to be a treaty upon any european matter, unfavourable to england and favourable to france. do not let them make any treaty or agreement there. it can be done elsewhere just as well, and without any of the suspicion which is sure to attach to any transaction which takes place there. [footnote : mr and mrs william cowper had only been married on th june.] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th september ._ my dearest and most beloved victoria,--i have been highly gratified that you found a moment to write me such a dear letter. i am sure that the personal contact with the family at eu would interest you, and at the same time remove some impressions on the subject of the king, which are really untrue. particularly the attempt of representing him like the most astute of men, calculating constantly everything to deceive people. his vivacity alone would render such a system extremely difficult, and if he appears occasionally to speak too much and to seem to hold a different language to different people, it is a good deal owing to his vivacity and his anxiety to carry conviction to people's mind. the impression of your visit will besides do wonders in removing the silly irritation which had been got up since , and which might have in the end occasioned serious mischief, and that without being _in the least_ called for, the passions of nations become very inconvenient sometimes for their governors.... your devoted uncle, leopold r. my best love to dearest albert; he seems to have had the greatest success, and i am very glad of it, as it had some time ago been the fashion to invent all sorts of nonsense. i left stockmar extremely hypochondriacal, but i trust not so unwell as he fancied. his son accompanies him to coburg. [pageheading: the queen's return] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ on board the _victoria and albert_, in the river,[ ] _ st september ._ my dearly beloved uncle,--i seize the first opportunity of informing you of our excellent passage; we shall be in half-an-hour or three-quarters at woolwich; it is now half-past ten a.m. the day and night were beautiful, and it is again, very fine to-day. we anchored in margate roads at eleven last night, and set off again about five. let me thank you and my beloved louise in both our names again for your _great kindness_ to us, which, believe me, we feel _deeply_. we were _so happy_ with you, and the stay was _so delightful_, but so painfully short! it was such a joy for me to be once again under the roof of one who has ever been a father to me! i was _very_ sad after you left us; it seems so strange that all should be over--but the _delightful_ souvenir will _ever_ remain. to leave my dearest louise too was so painful--and also poor aunt julia,[ ] so immediately after making her acquaintance; pray tell her that, for me. i shall write to louise to-morrow. you must forgive my hand being so trembling, but we are _lighter_ than usual, which causes the tremulous motion to be so much more felt. that god may bless and protect you _all always_ is our fervent prayer. believe me, always, your devoted and grateful niece and child, victoria r. [footnote : on the th the queen and prince albert sailed from brighton on a visit to king leopold. they visited ostend, bruges, ghent, brussels, and antwerp.] [footnote : sister of the duchess of kent, married to the grand duke constantine.] _queen victoria to sir james graham._ windsor castle, _ nd september ._ the queen has received sir james graham's letter of the nd.[ ] she has long seen with deep concern the lamentable state of turbulence in south wales, and has repeatedly urged the necessity of its being put an end to, by _vigorous_ efforts on the part of the government. the queen, therefore, willingly gives her sanction to the issuing of a special commission for the trial of the offenders and to the issuing of a proclamation. monday, the nd, being the earliest day at which, sir james says, the necessary council could be held, will suit the queen very well; she begs, therefore, that sir james will cause the council to meet here on that day at three o'clock. [footnote : the insurrection of the rebeccaites was assuming a more dangerous form, and at hendy gate they committed a cold-blooded act of murder.] [pageheading: matrimonial projects] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th september ._ my dearest uncle,--i cannot sufficiently thank you for your two _most kind_ and affectionate letters of the nd and rd, which gave me the greatest pleasure. _how often_ we think of our _dear_ and _delightful_ visit it is impossible for me to say; indeed, i fear these _two_ never-to-be-forgotten _voyages_ and _visits_ have made me think windsor and its daily occurrences very dull. but this is very ungrateful for what i have had, which is so much more than i ever dared to hope for. the weather is become colder, and yesterday and the day before were horrid, foggy, raw days; to-day it is finer again.... feodore and ernest came to us yesterday, and i find them both _very_ well; feodore is, i think, grown more serious than she was.... you remember that when we were together we talked of who aumale could marry; he will only marry a catholic, and no spaniard, no neapolitan, no austrian, and also no brazilian, as louise tells me. why should not princess alexandrine of bavaria do? it would be a good connection, and you say (though not as pretty as princess hildegarde) that she is not ill-looking. _qu'en pensez-vous?_ then for _tatane_[ ]--a princess of saxony would be extremely _passlich_. how long does aunt julia stay with you? albert, i suppose, writes to you, and i, dearest uncle, remain ever and ever, your _most truly_ devoted and _warmly attached_ niece, victoria r. we find pussy amazingly advanced in intellect, but alas! also in naughtiness. i hold up charlotte as an example of every virtue, which has its effect; for when she is going to be naughty she says: "dear ma, what does cousin charlotte do?" [footnote : antoine, duc de montpensier.] [pageheading: royal visitors] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ rd october ._ my dearest uncle,--many, many thanks for your kind letter of the th, received on sunday, which was written from the camp of beverloo, which albert recollects with _great pleasure_ and interest, having amused himself so much there. i can give you excellent accounts of ourselves. the boy returned from brighton yesterday, looking really the picture of health, and much _embelli_; pussy is in great force, but not to be compared to charlotte in beauty; and fatima (_alias_ alice) is as enormous and flourishing as ever. dearest louise seems much pleased with aunt julia, which i am glad of, and i rejoice that poor aunt has had the happiness of making my beloved louise's acquaintance, for it will be a happy recollection for her in her solitude. we expect the grand duke michael here this afternoon; he is to stay till friday. the michael woronzows,[ ] with a son and daughter, are also coming, and we shall be a large party, and are going to dine in the waterloo gallery, which makes a very handsome dining-room, and sit after dinner in that beautiful grand reception room. _how_ i envy your going to that dear french family! i hope that you will like my favourite chica. i trust, however, that you will _not_ stay too long away for your good people's sake. not being quite sure of your going, i shall direct this to brussels still. we went this morning to kew, visited the old palace--which is not at all a bad house--the botanical gardens, and then my aunt's.[ ] the revolution at athens[ ] looks like _le commencement de la fin_; it was _very_ unanimous. now, dearest uncle, adieu! ever, your most affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : prince michael woronzow ( - ) was a plenipotentiary at the congress of aix-la-chapelle ( ), and was in command at the siege of varna in .] [footnote : the duchess of cambridge.] [footnote : a bloodless revolution had taken place on the th of september, partly in consequence of king otho exercising his patronage in favour of bavarians rather than greeks. he now acceded to the popular demands.] [pageheading: the duc de bordeaux] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ the queen has received lord aberdeen's two letters. she has been reflecting upon his proposition that mr lytton bulwer[ ] should be appointed minister at madrid, and quite approves it. the queen trusts that he will try and keep on the best terms with the french minister there, and that without in any way weakening our interests, the representatives of these two powerful countries will act _together_. the queen feels _certain_ that if it is known by _our_ respective ministers that _both_ governments _wish_ to act _together_, and not _against_ one another, that much irritation will be avoided; and that our agents, particularly in distant countries, will understand that they are _not_ fulfilling the wishes of their sovereign by representing every little incident in the most unfavourable light.... the queen hopes that lord aberdeen will take some early opportunity of employing mr aston. who will replace mr bulwer at paris? his successor ought to be an efficient man, as lord cowley[ ] is rather infirm. the queen regrets to say that the duc de bordeaux[ ] is coming here; he really must not be received by the queen, as she fears his reception at berlin has done _no_ good; and altogether, from what she sees in the papers, she fears there is no good purpose in his coming here. [footnote : afterwards lord dalling.] [footnote : lord cowley, brother of the duke of wellington, and one of four brothers all either raised in or promoted to the peerage, was now seventy years of age. in after-years his son was also ambassador at paris.] [footnote : afterwards known as comte de chambord, and claiming the french throne as henri v.: he was grandson of charles x., and at this time about twenty-three years of age.] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--it is not my day, but my object in writing is to speak to you about the _dear_ nemours' visit, which we are so anxious to see accomplished. louise writes to me about the duke of bordeaux coming to england making some difficulty, and i wish therefore to state what we know of the affair. we _understand_ (for of course we have had no direct communication) that the duc de bordeaux has embarked at hamburg for _hull_, and intends travelling in scotland _before_ he visits england, and _that_ incognito and under the name of comte _tel et tel_; his being in scotland when nemours is in england, and particularly _on a visit to us here_, _could_ make _no_ difficulty, and even if he were travelling about _incognito_ in england, it could not signify, i think. moreover, i feel certain that if he knew that _i_ had invited the nemours and that they were coming over shortly, he would go away, as the legitimists would not be pleased at nemours being _fêted_ by me--_while their henry v._ was _not_ even noticed or received. i could easily, and indeed have almost done so, make it known generally that _i_ expect the nemours, and i would say _immediately_, and he would be sure to get out of the way. i cannot tell you _how very_ anxious we are to see the nemours; i have been thinking of nothing else, and to lose this great pleasure would be too mortifying. moreover, as i really and truly do not think it need be, it would be _best_ if the nemours could come _before_ the th of november; which is the _latest_ term when they could come? now pray, dearest uncle, do settle this for me; you have no notion _how_ we wish it. i will be sure to let you know what i hear, and if there is anything you could suggest about this, i need not say but that we shall attend to it with pleasure. the grand duke michael will be gone by the end of this month. _ainsi je mets cette chère visite dans vos mains._ ever your devoted niece, victoria r. pray, dearest uncle, let me have an answer by the next post about this, as i am all in a _fidget_ about it. [pageheading: arrest of o'connell] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--your kind letter of the th i received yesterday, and return you my warmest thanks for it.... by your letter, and by one i received from victoire yesterday morning, i see every reason to hope that we shall see the dear nemours, for there will be no difficulty to prevent that poor stupid duc de bordeaux from being _in london_ at the time. he is to be informed indirectly that the nemours are coming at the beginning of next month on a visit to us, in consequence of a pressing invitation of ours; this alone will keep him off, as the contrast would be disagreeable to the legitimists. independent of this, his disembarkation at hull, and proceeding at once to scotland, seems to indicate his wish to be in private. the great event of the day is o'connell's arrest;[ ] they have found bail, but the trial will shortly commence. the case against him is _very_ strong, the lawyers say. everything is perfectly quiet at dublin. you will have seen how o'connell has abused the king; it is all because our visit to eu has put an end to _any_ hopes of assistance from france, which he pretended there would be, and he now declares for the duc de bordeaux!... you must encourage the dear king and queen to send over some of the dear family often to us; _ils seront reçus a bras ouverts_.... we intend to take advantage of feodore and ernest's going to the queen dowager's to pay a visit to cambridge, where we have never been; we mean to set off to-morrow week, to sleep at trinity lodge that night, and the two following nights at lord hardwicke's,[ ] which is close to cambridge. these journeys are very popular, and please and interest albert very much.... believe me, always, my dearest uncle, your very affectionate niece, victoria r. [footnote : after the official prohibition on th october of the intended clontarf meeting, o'connell and others were arrested in dublin for conspiracy. after giving bail, o'connell issued an address to the irish people. the trial was postponed till the following year.] [footnote : wimpole, near royston, nine miles from cambridge.] [pageheading: the duc de bordeaux] _sir robert peel to the prince albert._ drayton manor, _ th october ._ sir,--the enclosed letter[ ] from sir james graham to me (which as your royal highness will perceive is _entirely of a private character_) contains details of a conversation with baron neumann which will, i think, be interesting to her majesty and to your royal highness; and knowing your royal highness will consider the communication a confidential one, i prefer sending the letter _in extenso_ to the making of any extracts from it. i am afraid there is more in the duc de bordeaux's visit than the mere gratification of a desire on his part to see again places with which he was familiar in his youth. if, however, he should be so ill-advised as to make any political demonstration, or to ally himself with any particular party in this country, he would, in my opinion, derive little from it, and there would be the opportunity of giving to the king of the french a new proof of our fidelity to our engagements, and of the steadiness of our friendship towards him and his dynasty. the great body of the french people would comprehend the object of any such demonstrations on the part of the duc de bordeaux, and would, it is to be hoped, see in them an additional motive for union in support of the king, and confidence in the honour and integrity of this country. i will not fail to inform the grand duke of her majesty's intended visit to cambridge, and to suggest to him that it will not be convenient to the queen to receive him at windsor before saturday at the earliest, and probably monday. on the day after i spoke to your royal highness i gave instructions for enquiries to be made respecting the two properties in the isle of wight.[ ] it is necessary to make such enquiries through some very confidential channel, as a suspicion of the object of them would probably greatly enhance the price. the party on whom i could entirely rely was out of town, but will return to-morrow, and will immediately find out what he can respecting the properties. the result shall be made known to the queen and your royal highness without delay. will your royal highness have the goodness to mention this to her majesty?... i have the honour to be, sir, with sincere respect, your royal highness's most faithful and humble servant, robert peel. [footnote : referring to the visit of the duc de bordeaux.] [footnote : the queen and the prince were at this time making enquiries about a suitable residence in the isle of wight. the purchase of osborne resulted.] [pageheading: the queen's decision] _the prince albert to sir robert peel._ windsor castle, _ st october ._ my dear sir robert,--i return you sir james graham's letter. there is a pretty general impression of the duc de bordeaux's visit being a got-up thing for various political intrigues. i confess i do not understand the link with ireland, or at least the importance of his being well received by the roman catholics, but am strongly impressed that his presence whether in scotland, england, or ireland is for no good, and therefore think it our duty that we should render it difficult for him to protract it. the queen and myself think that the uncertainty of his being received at court or not is doing harm, and would _much_ wish, therefore, that it was _decidedly_ stated _that the queen will not receive him_. his coming here without ever asking (indeed knowing that it was disliked), as well as the part which austria and prussia seem to have taken in the matter, do not strengthen his claim for such a favour. no good can come from the reception, and the king of the french must prefer its not taking place. let us, therefore, settle that point, and show that we are neither afraid of him nor prepared to be made dupes of. the queen is desirous that no official person should treat the duke with a distinction which is likely to attract unnecessary attention. believe me, always yours truly, albert. [pageheading: the duc de nemours] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th october ._ my dearest uncle,--i had the happiness of receiving your most kind letter of the th yesterday, for which i thank you very much. the good news of the dear nemours coming is a great happiness to us, and i fervently hope and trust that the duc de bordeaux will be kept off, which i _fully_ expect he will. suppose, however, he could _not_ be, and the nemours could not come _then_, would the king not kindly allow them to come later? even if the chambers were to be sitting--such a little _ausflug_ of ten days only could really not be a great inconvenience? surely if you were to mention this to the dear king, with my affectionate respects, he would grant it. it is besides only in _case_ bordeaux should come to london, which i _really_ think he will _not_, if he once knows that the nemours are coming. and i must add that i think nemours not coming at _all_ this year, after it had been announced, would have a bad effect, particularly as people here think that some great powers have instigated bordeaux's coming here,--and even think that the roman catholics and repealers in ireland mean to make use of him. consequently nemours _not_ coming _at all_, should he be prevented from coming at the beginning of november, would not be a good thing _politically_, independent of the _extreme disappointment_ it would cause us.... the accounts both you and louise gave me of good hadjy and chica give me great pleasure, as i take a lively interest in both, and am very fond of them. we found amongst some very curious old miniatures several of catherine of braganza when young (charles ii.'s wife), which are so like chica;[ ] it is curious how sometimes you can trace likenesses many generations back.... pray offer our respects to _all_. how long do you stay? ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the princess de joinville was a sister of queen maria ii. of portugal, and queen catherine of braganza was daughter of king john iv.] [pageheading: the duc de bordeaux] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ drumlanrig, _ th october ._ lord aberdeen, with his humble duty, begs to lay before your majesty another letter received last night from lord morton,[ ] which gives an account of the visit of the duc de bordeaux, and of his further communication with the duc de lévis on the projects and views of his royal highness. lord aberdeen has ventured to submit this letter to your majesty, although not intended for your majesty's perusal, as it gives a pleasing and satisfactory description of the conduct and sentiments of this unfortunate prince. in order to explain to your majesty how lord morton, who lives in a very retired manner, should have received a visit from the duc de bordeaux, lord aberdeen begs to mention that when the family of charles x. resided at edinburgh, after the revolution of july , they received information more than once, from the present royal family of france, that certain desperate characters had left paris for edinburgh, with the intention of assassinating the duc de bordeaux, in order to prevent all possibility of a restoration. in consequence of this information, it was thought to be dangerous for the prince to walk or to expose himself in the neighbourhood of holyrood house. he was frequently driven in a carriage to lord morton's,[ ] where he remained for a few hours, taking exercise in the park, and playing with lord morton's children. it is the recollection of this which has led the prince to make his acknowledgments on the present occasion. lord aberdeen also begs humbly to mention to your majesty that on his arrival here he found the duke and duchess of buccleuch in expectation of a visit from the duc de bordeaux, on his way from glasgow to carlisle. lord aberdeen informed the duke and duchess of the objections which might exist to this visit; but he believes that communications on the subject had already gone too far to render it possible to break it off with any degree of propriety. the great attentions paid by the duke and his predecessors to the french royal family, both during the former and last emigration, sufficient account for this desire on the part of the prince. [footnote : george sholto, nineteenth earl of morton ( - ).] [footnote : dalmahoy, midlothian.] [pageheading: visit to cambridge] [pageheading: betrothal of the duc d'aumale] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ st october ._ my dearest uncle,--i had the pleasure of receiving your dear and kind letter of the th yesterday, by which i learn that you are all well and going on the th. forgive me, dearest uncle, if i say that i am glad that you are _at length_ going back to belgium, as (though i fully understand from _personal_ experience how delightful it must be to be in the midst of that dear and perfect family) i think these long absences distress your faithful belgians a little. we returned on saturday, highly pleased and interested with our tour,[ ] though a little _done up_. i seldom remember more enthusiasm than was shown at cambridge, and in particular by the undergraduates. they received my dear angel, too, with the greatest enthusiasm. this is useful, as these young people _will all, in time_, have a certain part to play; they are the rising generation, and an event of this kind makes a lasting impression on their minds. you will have heard from louise that there is no longer any impediment to the dear nemours coming, which you may easily conceive gives me the greatest satisfaction. since then, i have heard that bordeaux does not intend visiting london till he sees by the papers that the nemours are gone. i saw a letter from a gentleman, with whom he had been staying, and who says that he is very pleasing and unaffected, and very easily amused, and quite pleased "with missing a few pheasants, and dancing quadrilles in the evening to a pianoforte." poor fellow! his fate certainly is a melancholy one. he should renounce, buy some property in germany, and marry, and settle there. i am glad to hear of montpensier's arrival, and that my favourite chica is in your good graces; she is a dear natural child. i am so impatient to see my dear victoire and good nemours--who was always a great ally of mine--again! the grand duke came here last night, and goes away after luncheon, and leaves england on thursday. he is charmed with all he has seen, and i must say is very amiable and civil. he has got a most charming large dog, called dragon, like a newfoundland, only brown and white, with the most expressive eyes imaginable and _si bien dressé_. prince alexander of the netherlands is also coming down to take leave this week. we never had so many visitors. i am beyond everything interested with that beautiful novel by rellstab,[ ] _ _, which i know you admire so much. the description of the russian campaign is incomparable, and so beautifully written. you quite _see_ everything before you. have you read his other, _paris und algier_? by the by, have you read custine's[ ] book on russia? they say it is very severe on russia, and full of hatred to the english. we found the children very well, and bertie quite recovered, but poor fat alice (who, i _must_ say, is becoming _very_ pretty) has had the earache. mamma with feo and ernest are with the queen dowager at witley court since thursday last, and only return next thursday (the day after to-morrow). clem seems very happy, and writes that she is happiest when she is _tête-à-tête_ with poor gusti, which _i_ should _not_ fancy. ever, dearest uncle, your devoted niece, victoria r. i open my letter, dearest uncle, to say that i have _just_ seen in a confidential despatch from lord cowley that aumale is authorised to ask for the hand of the daughter of the prince de salerno[ ] (a singular coincidence after what i wrote to you in _utter ignorance_ of this report), and that he was also to find out what the opinions of the neapolitan royal family were respecting an alliance with the queen of spain. but tell me, dearest uncle, if these reports are true? you may _rely_ on my discretion, and i shall not breathe a word of what you may answer me, if you wish the secret to be kept. [footnote : the royal party went by road from paddington to cambridge, and stayed at the lodge at trinity; on the following day prince albert was made ll.d. the party then went to wimpole, and visited bourn (lord delawarr's). at the ball which was given at wimpole, there was a sofa, covered with a piece of drapery given by louis xiv. to the poet prior and by him to lord oxford, the owner of wimpole, before its purchase by lord chancellor hardwicke. _see_ lord melbourne's letter of th november, _post_, p. . (ch. xii, th november, )] [footnote : louis rellstab ( - ), a prolific german writer of novels, whose thinly-veiled attacks on public men earned him at one time a sentence of imprisonment.] [footnote : the marquis astolphe de custine ( - ), author of _la russie en _, at this time recently published.] [footnote : the due d'aumale married in november , caroline, daughter of the prince and princess of salerno.] [pageheading: indian affairs] _sir robert peel to queen victoria._ drayton manor, _ st october ._ sir robert peel presents his humble duty to your majesty, and begs leave to return to your majesty the accompanying communication from lord ellenborough, and a letter which your majesty proposes to send to lord ellenborough. in compliance with your majesty's desire that sir robert peel should inform your majesty whether he sees anything objectionable in that letter, sir robert peel humbly represents to your majesty that he does not think it would be advisable for your majesty personally to express to the governor-general of india your majesty's opinion with regard either to the policy of retaining scinde,[ ] as being of the greatest importance to the security of the indian empire, or as to the completeness of the defence of sir charles napier from the accusations brought against him. he humbly and most respectfully takes the liberty of submitting to your majesty, that these being matters of important public concern, the regular and constitutional channel for conveying the opinion of your majesty with respect to them would be through your majesty's servants. in the particular case, indeed, of india, instructions do not proceed from your majesty's servants, directly signifying your majesty's pleasure, but are conveyed in despatches to the governor-general, signed by the three members of the secret committee of the court of directors. the secret court of directors--that is, the whole court acting in secret--have come to a resolution (in sir robert peel's opinion very unwisely and precipitately) expressing the gravest doubt, on their part, as to the policy and justice of the recent transactions in scinde.[ ] the court is aware that your majesty's servants disapprove of this proceeding on their part, and that they have declined to transmit officially to lord ellenborough, through the secret committee, the condemnatory resolution of the court. one of the grounds on which they deprecated the resolution was the passing of it in the absence of full and complete information from india, in respect to the policy and to the events which led to the occupation of scinde. under these circumstances, as well on the general constitutional ground, as with reference to the present state of the public correspondence in regard to scinde, and the particular relation of the governor-general to the east india company, and the court of directors, sir robert peel humbly advises your majesty to forbear from expressing an opinion, in a private communication to the governor-general, with regard to events in scinde or to the policy hereafter to be pursued in respect to that country. sir robert peel begs to add that in a private letter by the last mail to lord ripon, lord ellenborough observes that he is going on very harmoniously with the members of council at calcutta. [footnote : earlier in the year lord ellenborough had appointed sir charles napier governor of scinde, and had by proclamation applied the slave trade and slavery abolition acts to scinde.] [footnote : see parker's _sir robert peel_, vol. iii. chap. .] _viscount melbourne to queen victoria._ melbourne, _ th november ._ lord melbourne presents his humble duty to your majesty, and thanks your majesty much for the letter of the th inst., which he has received this morning with great satisfaction. lord melbourne hears with great pleasure of the gratification which your majesty and the prince received in your visit to cambridge. lord melbourne collects from all the accounts that the proceedings in the senate house were not only full of loyalty, enthusiasm, and gratitude, but also perfectly decorous, respectful, academic, and free from all those political cries which have recently prevailed so much in the theatre at oxford on similar occasions.[ ] lord melbourne hopes he is within [the mark]; if he is it forms a remarkable and advantageous contrast. lord melbourne does not know anywhere a better account of cambridge, its foundations, and the historical recollections of its founders, than is given in mr. gray's ode on the installation of the duke of grafton, which it would not be amiss to read with the large explanatory notes that are given in the editions of mason and mathias.[ ] lord melbourne is very partial to lord hardwicke, who always is and has been very civil and good-natured to lord melbourne, and these are qualities to which lord melbourne is not at all indifferent. wimpole is a curious place. lord melbourne is not exactly aware how the yorkes got hold of it.[ ] there is much history and more poetry connected with it. prior[ ] mentions it repeatedly, and always calls the first lady harley, the daughter of the duke of newcastle, belphebe.[ ] if hardwicke should have a daughter, he should christen her belphebe. the lady belphebe yorke would not sound ill.... [footnote : see _ante_, p. . (ch. x, th june, )] [footnote : gray, the poet, who had been appointed by the duke professor of modern history, composed an ode (set to music by randall) for the latter's installation as chancellor, on st july .] [footnote : the cultured but indolent edward, lord harley, afterwards earl of oxford (son of the great minister), sold wimpole to lord chancellor hardwicke in to pay off a debt of £ , . he had married lady henrietta cavendish holles, daughter and heiress of john, duke of newcastle, who brought him £ , , most of which he dissipated. their only child, margaret, the "noble lovely little peggy" of prior, married william bentinck, second duke of portland. lady oxford sold to the nation the "harleian collection" of manuscripts, now in the british museum.] [footnote : who died there in .] [footnote : alluding to the rarely printed poem "colin's mistakes," where "bright ca'ndish holles harley" is seen in the glades of wimpole by the dreamy youth, and mistaken for gloriana, belphebe, etc.] [pageheading: proposed visit to peel] _sir robert peel to the prince albert._ whitehall, _ th november ._ sir,--i was greatly gratified by learning on my return to london last night from witley court that it is not improbable that her majesty and your royal highness may confer the high honour of a visit to drayton manor towards the conclusion of the present month. i venture to think, from what i saw of witley court, that the arrangement proposed by your royal highness will be more convenient to her majesty than the staying at witley court. i can assure your royal highness that nothing shall be left undone by lady peel and me to contribute to the comfort of her majesty and your royal highness during your occupation of drayton manor, and to mark our sense of the kind condescension of her majesty and your royal highness in making it your abode. i have the honour to be, sir, with sincere respect, your royal highness's most faithful and humble servant, robert peel. [pageheading: travelling arrangements] _sir robert peel to the prince albert._ whitehall, _sunday, th november ._ sir,--i send to your royal highness a little book which is published every month, giving very useful information as to distances, or at least times, on all the railways. possibly your royal highness has this book regularly sent to you. i think, before her majesty promises a visit to witley court, there are one or two points worthy of consideration which are in favour of proposing to the queen dowager to meet the queen at drayton manor first. the queen would have to go and to return in the same day. the queen dowager might remain either one night or two nights at drayton. secondly, the birmingham and derby line is not on the same level with the line which goes to droitwich (eleven miles from witley court), and there is a little delay in posting a carriage, or in passing from the lower line of railway to the upper. thirdly, there is the passage for her majesty, though not through birmingham as in an ordinary travelling carriage, yet in the immediate outskirts of the town, and this twice in the same day. the corporation (which is a completely radical one) might solicit permission to present an address to her majesty at the station. there would, i am sure, be nothing but demonstrations of the greatest loyalty and attachment to her majesty, but there would probably be a great concourse of people, and some delay, if the address were received. perhaps your royal highness will think of these suggestions, which i am induced to offer by the desire to foresee everything which may have a bearing upon the personal comfort of the queen. i have the honour to be, sir, with sincere respect, your royal highness's most faithful and humble servant, robert peel. [pageheading: the duchesse de nemours] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th november ._ my dearest, kindest uncle,--a long and most _interesting_ letter reached me on sunday, dated th and th, and i beg to return my warmest thanks for it. the confidence you show me i feel deeply and gratefully, and you may rely on my discretion. before i touch upon any of the subjects in your letter i will give you news of our visitors. the dear nemours arrived safely after a good passage on saturday, well but very tired. they are now quite recovered, and we are too happy to have them here. nemours looks well, and is very kind and amiable, but i think there is a seriousness since poor chartres' death which used not to be formerly, though he always was _reserved_, and that, i think, he is _not_ now. dearest victoire is _amazingly_ improved and _développée_--really quite wonderfully so. we are all so struck by it, by her good sense and by her conversation; and with that she has kept that innocence and gentleness which she always had--and is _so lovely_, dear sweet child. i must always look at her, and she, dear child, seems so pleased to see me again. i find her _grown_, but grown very thin, and she has not those bright colours she used to have. all that you say of bordeaux is just what nemours says, and what guizot writes, and what _i_ and also sir robert peel _always_ felt and thought. aberdeen, with the greatest wish to do _all_ that is kind and right, _really thought_ that b. was only come to amuse himself, and had no idea till _now_ that the feeling in france in _all_ the different parties was so strong. you will have heard by this time that we have decided _not_ to receive b. in _any way_ whatever. it is a pleasure to hear how mildly and sensibly nemours speaks upon all these subjects, and indeed every subject.... i think you did _uncommonly right_ in what you answered the poor king about the _arrêté_ in favour of the _prussians_, and i am very glad you _have_ done so. it will have a good effect here. louise will tell you how we celebrated good bertie's birthday. the children are in great favour with the nemours. pray, dearest uncle, do not forget to send me the list of rellstab's works. we think of making another little tour after the dear nemours' departure, to drayton (sir robert peel's), chatsworth, and belvoir. we are very sorry to lose dear feo and ernest. they are so good and excellent, and she is so _brav_. ever, your devoted niece, victoria r. [pageheading: birmingham] [_memorandum enclosed from sir robert peel to prince albert, about the political condition of birmingham, which the prince was intending to visit._] the mayor is a hosier--of _extreme_ political opinions--_in fact, a chartist_. the contest for the office of mayor was between him and a man of radical opinions, but chartism prevailed. the mayor has taken a violent part, before his mayoralty, against church rates, and in reference to the state of ireland. the conservative party took no part whatever in the municipal elections, and would not vote. they would, if invited or permitted by the mayor and town council, cordially co-operate with men of opposite opinions in any mark of respect to the prince. no probability of any tumult or of any demonstration but one of respect personally towards the prince, if his visit be clearly and manifestly unconnected with politics. an immense concourse of people must be expected, not only from birmingham, but wolverhampton, walsall, and all the neighbouring towns, and previous police arrangements must be very carefully made. there may be a proposal of a collation and of an address, to be received in the town hall. should not the lord lieutenant (lord warwick) have notice? is the mayor to accompany the prince in the same carriage?[ ] the mayor has no carriage. no communication should be made to any party in birmingham, except to the municipal authorities, notwithstanding their political bias and _extreme_ opinions. the late mayor, mr james, though a radical, would have summoned the leading men of different parties. doubts as to whether the present mayor would, or whether he would not, place the whole arrangement in the hands of the party with which he is connected. this risk must be incurred, as communications to other parties would not be advisable. [footnote : this was the course adopted.] [pageheading: the duc de bordeaux] _the earl of aberdeen to queen victoria._ foreign office, _ st december ._ lord aberdeen presents his humble duty to your majesty. he has not yet received any communication from the duc de lévis, notwithstanding he had been led to expect it, from a notice repeatedly conveyed to him to that effect. it seems probable that in consequence of what the duc de lévis may have heard, as well as from the course pursued by the friends of the duc de bordeaux, lord aberdeen may not now see him at all. should this be the case, lord aberdeen is rather inclined to regret it; as although he would formerly have seen him with some reluctance, he would now be glad to have an opportunity of expressing his sentiments very plainly respecting the proceedings of the prince and his adherents in this country. lord aberdeen understands from sir robert peel that your majesty would like to be informed of any particulars connected with the levée lately held by the duc de bordeaux. lord aberdeen would willingly communicate these particulars, but in reality there is very little to be added to the official accounts contained in the _morning post_, which it is obvious are inserted by authority. he saw m. de ste aulaire this morning, who was a good deal excited by what has taken place, and has written very fully to paris; but he knew nothing more than he had seen in the newspapers. it may perhaps be worth mentioning to your majesty that at the presentation of the address by m. chateaubriand[ ] on friday, the cries of "vive le roi!" and "vive henri v.!" were so loud as to be distinctly audible in the square. lord aberdeen understands that this enthusiasm has been the cause of serious differences amongst many of those who had come to pay their respects to the duc de bordeaux, a large portion of whom are by no means disposed to recognise him as king during the life of the duc d'angoulême.[ ] lord aberdeen cannot learn that any other member of the diplomatic body has been presented to the duc de bordeaux, and does not believe that any such presentation has taken place. indeed, there appears to be a general disinclination that such should be the case; although some of them feel considerable difficulty in consequence of the relationship existing between their sovereigns and the prince. [footnote : françois, vicomte de chateaubriand ( - ), a great supporter of the bourbons, and made a peer in . he was ambassador in london in .] [footnote : eldest son of charles x.] _queen victoria to lord stanley._ chatsworth, _ rd december ._ the queen approves of lord stanley's proposed draft to sir charles metcalfe.[ ] this question can in no way be settled without giving offence to one part of the country; the queen, however, hopes that the fixing upon montreal as the seat of government will hereafter be considered as fair by impartial minds. sir charles continues to show great discretion and firmness in his most arduous and unsatisfactory situation, and deserves much praise and encouragement. [footnote : governor-general of canada.] [pageheading: visit to chatsworth] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ belvoir castle, _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--being much hurried, i can only write you a few lines to thank you for your kind letter of the th, received this morning. you will have heard from louise the account of our stay at drayton (which is a very nice house), and of albert's brilliant reception at birmingham. we arrived at chatsworth on friday, and left it at nine this morning, quite charmed and delighted with everything there. splendour and comfort are so admirably combined, and the duke does everything so well. i found many improvements since i was there eleven years ago. the conservatory is out and out the finest thing imaginable of its kind. it is one mass of glass, feet high, long, and wide.[ ] the grounds, with all the woods and cascades and fountains, are so beautiful too. the first evening there was a ball, and the next the cascades and fountains were illuminated, which had a beautiful effect. there was a large party there, including many of the duke's family, the bedfords, buccleuchs, the duke of wellington, the normanbys, lord melbourne (who is much better), and the beauvales. we arrived here at half-past two, we perform our journey so delightfully on the railroad, so quickly and easily. it puts me in mind of our dear stay in belgium, when we stop at the various stations. albert is going out hunting to-morrow, which i wish was _over_, but i am assured that the country is much better than the windsor country. the duc de bordeaux's proceedings in london are most highly improper. the queen dowager is also here. we leave this place on thursday for home, which, i own, i shall be glad of at last. ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : it was built by mr joseph paxton, then superintendent of the gardens, whose intelligence had attracted the duke of devonshire's attention. in he was the successful competitor for the great exhibition building, and was knighted on its completion. he superintended its re-erection at sydenham, and afterwards became m.p. for coventry.] _the princess hohenhohe to queen victoria._ langenburg, _ th december ._ my dearest victoria,--... you ask in your letter about the manner in which my children say their prayers? they say it when in their beds, but not kneeling; how absurd to find _that_ necessary, as if it could have anything to do with making our prayers more acceptable to the almighty or more holy. how really clever people can have those notions i don't understand. i am sorry it is the case there, where there is so much good and, i am certain, real piety. dear pussy learning her letters i should like to see and hear; i am sure she will learn them very quick. has bertie not learned some more words and sentences during your absence?... your attached and devoted sister, feodora. [pageheading: prince albert with the hounds] _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--i thank you much for your kind letter of the th, which i received as usual on sunday. louise will be able to tell you _how_ well the remainder of our journey went off, and how well albert's hunting answered.[ ] one can hardly credit the absurdity of people here, but albert's riding so boldly and hard has made such a sensation that it has been written all over the country, and they make much more of it than if he had done some great act! it rather disgusts one, but still it had done, and does, good, for it has put an end to all impertinent sneering for the future about albert's riding. this journey has done great good, and my beloved angel in particular has had _the greatest success_; for instance, at birmingham the good his visit has done has been immense, for albert spoke to all these manufacturers _in their own language_, which they did not expect, and these poor people have only been accustomed to hear demagogues and chartists. we cannot understand how you can think the country about chatsworth _not_ pretty, for it is (with the exception of the moors) beautiful, wooded hills and valleys and rapid streams. the country round belvoir i do not admire, but the view from the castle is very fine and extensive, and albert says puts him so in mind of the kalenberg.... pray have you heard anything about aumale's plans? dear little gaston seems much better. the duc de bordeaux has been informed of my and the government's extreme displeasure at their conduct; they say there shall be no more such displays. he was to leave london yesterday, only to return again for a day, and then to leave england altogether. with albert's love, ever, dearest uncle, your most devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the prince hunted with the belvoir hounds on the th.] [pageheading: an american view of monarchy] _the king of the belgians to queen victoria._ laeken, _ th december ._ my dearest victoria,--i am most happy to see that your journey passed so well, and trust you are not sorry to be again in your very dear and comfortable home, and with your dear children. people are very strange, and their great delight is to find fault with their fellow-creatures; what harm could it have done them if albert had _not_ hunted at all? and still i have no doubt that his having hunted well and boldly has given more satisfaction than if he had done heaven knows what praiseworthy deed; _ainsi est et sera le monde_. i am glad also that the birmingham course succeeded so well; the theme had been for some years, particularly amongst manufacturers, that royalty was useless and ignorant, and that the greatest blessing would be, to manufacture beyond measure, and to have an american form of government, with an elective head of state. fortunately, there has always hitherto been in england a very aristocratic feeling freely accepted by the people, who like it, and show that they like it.... i was much amused, some time ago, by a very rich and influential american from new york assuring me that they stood in great need of a government which was able to grant protection to property, and that the feeling of many was for monarchy instead of the misrule of mobs, as they had it, and that he wished very much _some branch of the coburg family might be disposable_ for such a place. _qu'en dites-vous_, is not this flattering?... there is nothing very remarkable going on, besides i mean to write again on some subjects. give my best love to albert, and pussy, who may remember me perhaps, and i remain, ever, my beloved victoria, your devoted uncle, leopold r. _queen victoria to the king of the belgians._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ my dearest uncle,--your kind and dear letter of the th, written in your true wit and humour, reached me on sunday and gave me great pleasure. we have had also most wonderfully mild weather, but _i_ think very disagreeable and unseasonable; it always makes me so bilious. the young folks are very flourishing and prosperous--pussette knowing all her letters, and even beginning to read a little. when i mentioned your birthday to her, she said, "i cried when i saw uncle leopold," which _was_ the case, i am sorry to say, the first time she saw you this year.... i don't believe that the _white_ flag on the house at belgrave square[ ] is true. lord melbourne and the beauvales were here for three nights; and it was a pleasure to see lord melbourne so much himself again; the first evening he was a good deal excited and talked and laughed as of old; the two other evenings he was in the quite silent mood which he often used to be in formerly, and really _quite_ himself, and there was hardly any strangeness at all. lady beauvale is really a _very, very_, charming person, and so attentive and kind to both her husband and lord melbourne. our little chapel here (which is extremely pretty) is to be consecrated this morning, and lady douro comes into waiting for the first time. to-morrow mamma gives us a dinner. poor lord lynedoch[ ] is, i fear, dying, and lord grey is so bad he cannot last long.[ ] ever your devoted niece, victoria r. [footnote : the house occupied by the duc de bordeaux.] [footnote : thomas, lord lynedoch, had died the previous day, aged ninety-five. he highly distinguished himself in the peninsula and in holland, and received the thanks of parliament, and a peerage in .] [footnote : he died in july .] [pageheading: the spanish marriage] _queen victoria to the earl of aberdeen._ windsor castle, _ th december ._ the queen has been much amused to see by sir robert gordon's despatch of the th, the extreme fright of prince metternich at the proposed marriage of queen isabel with count trapani,[ ] but she regrets that sir robert tried to make excuses for the conduct we have pursued, which the queen thinks requires no apology. [footnote : see _ante_, p. , note . (this ch., above)] * * * * * _printed by hazell, watson & viney, ld., london and aylesbury. paper supplied by john dickinson & co., ld., london_. * * * * * transcriber's note: this is the first volume of three. the index is in volume . it is suggested that all three volumes be downloaded to the same folder. [ae] and [oe] are used for the diphthongs/ligatures in (mostly) french words. (e.g. c[oe]ur, heart; s[oe]ur, sister; ch[oe]ur, choir, chorus; v[oe]ux, wishes.) some hyphenation is inconsistent and has been retained. there are a number of 'period' spellings, which i have retained (e.g. bord, controuled, uncontrouled, controul, woud, etc.). the original pageheadings have been retained, moving them to appropriate positions, to the beginning of letters and text to which they refer, so as not to interrupt the flow of the text. thus, a long letter may be prefaced by two, or even three pageheadings. likewise, footnotes have been moved to the end of the appropriate letter, or the appropriate paragraph, in the case of longer pieces of text. initial letters are spaced as in the original, i.e., personal initials: spaced; academic initials: unspaced. there are many footnotes which refer to earlier or later pages. e.g.: [footnote : of the crown jewels; _ante_, p. . (ch. xi, 'crown jewels')] for clarification, i have added (ch. and 'pageheading') or (ch. and date). errata and [sic]: page : '... were desired to take me a drive to amuse me.' [sic] page : removed extraneous opening quote. page : replaced 'it' with 'if' (it you could get my kind....) page : 'mariage' [sic]: king leopold may have used the french spelling 'mariage' for the english 'marriage'. page : changed 'anxety' to 'anxiety' - old typo? page : removed duplicated word (lord lord melbourne) page : corrected 'houeshold' to 'household'. page : corrected 'beng' to 'being'. page : corrected 'affecionate' to 'affectionate'. page : replaced missing period. page : replaced missing period ... '_i.e._, lord melbourne being succeeded page : corrected 'every our' to 'ever your'. page : '... on bord the _black eagle_ ...' [sic] page : 'i ... am quite _confuse_. [sic] queen victoria used the feminine form of the french adjective, "confus, e, confused, overpowered; obscure, dim." page : corrected page no. in footnote from to . page : _uncontrouled_ [sic] page , footnote : 'a' corrected to 'at'. page : 'woud' [sic] (though followed by 'would' in same paragraph). page : corrected 'as' to 'at' ...'look at'... page : '... one of the secretaries to the board of controul.' [sic] page : replaced missing period ... 'viney, ld.,' this file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions. lectures and essays by goldwin smith prefatory note. these papers have been reprinted for friends who sometimes ask for the back numbers of periodicals in which they appeared. the great public is sick of reprints, and with good reason. the volume might almost have been called contributions to canadian literature, for of the papers not originally published in canada several were reproduced in canadian journals. political subjects have been excluded both to keep a volume intended for friends free from anything of a party character and because the writer looks forward to putting the thoughts scattered over his political essays and reviews into a more connected form. the papers on 'the early years of the conqueror of quebec,' 'a wirepuller of kings,' 'a true captain of industry' and 'early years of abraham lincoln' can hardly pretend to be more than accounts of books to which they relate, but they interested some of their readers at the time and there are probably not many copies of the books in canada. all the papers have been revised, so that they do not appear here exactly as they were in the periodicals from which they are reprinted. toronto, feb. , contents. the greatness of the romans (_contemporary review_) the greatness of england (_contemporary review._) the great duel of the seventeenth century (_canadian monthly_) the lamps of fiction (_a speech on the centenary of the birth of sir walter scott_) an address to the oxford school of science and art the ascent of man (_macmillan's magazine._) the proposed substitutes for religion (_macmillan's magazine._) the labour movement (_canadian monthly._) what is culpable luxury? (_canadian monthly._) a true captain of industry (_canadian monthly._) a wirepuller of kings (_canadian monthly._) the early years of the conqueror of quebec (_toronto nation._) falkland and the puritans (_contemporary review._) the early years of abraham lincoln (_toronto mail_) alfredus rex fundator (_canadian monthly_) the last republicans of rome (_macmillan's magazine_) austen leigh's memoir of jane austen (_new york nation_) pattison's milton (_new york nation_) cleridge's life of keble (_new york nation_) the greatness of the romans rome was great in arms, in government, in law. this combination was the talisman of her august fortunes. but the three things, though blended in her, are distinct from each other, and the political analyst is called upon to give a separate account of each. by what agency was this state, out of all the states of italy, out of all the states of the world, elected to a triple pre-eminence, and to the imperial supremacy of which, it was the foundation? by what agency was rome chosen as the foundress of an empire which we regard almost as a necessary step in human development, and which formed the material, and to no small extent the political matrix of modern europe, though the spiritual life of our civilization is derived from another source? we are not aware that this question has ever been distinctly answered, or even distinctly propounded. the writer once put it to a very eminent roman antiquarian, and the answer was a quotation from virgil-- "hoc nemus, hunc, inquit, frondoso vertice clivum quis deus incertum est, habitat deus; arcades ipsum credunt se vidisae jovem cum saepe nigrantem aegida concuteret dextra nimbosque cieret." this perhaps was the best answer that roman patriotism, ancient or modern, could give; and it certainly was given in the best form. the political passages of virgil, like some in lucan and juvenal, had a grandeur entirely roman with which neither homer nor any other greek has anything to do. but historical criticism, without doing injustice to the poetical aspect of the mystery, is bound to seek a rational solution. perhaps in seeking the solution we may in some measure supply, or at least suggest the mode of supplying, a deficiency which we venture to think is generally found in the first chapters of histories. a national history, as it seems to us, ought to commence with a survey of the country or locality, its geographical position, climate, productions, and other physical circumstances as they bear on the character of the people. we ought to be presented, in short, with a complete description of the scene of the historic drama, as well as with an account of the race to which the actors belong. in the early stages of his development, at all events, man is mainly the creature of physical circumstances; and by a systematic examination of physical circumstances we may to some extent cast the horoscope of the infant nation as it lies in the arms of nature. that the central position of rome, in the long and narrow peninsula of italy, was highly favourable to her italian dominion, and that the situation of italy was favourable to her dominion over the countries surrounding the mediterranean, has been often pointed out. but we have yet to ask what launched rome in her career of conquest, and still more, what rendered that career so different from those of ordinary conquerors? what caused the empire of rome to be so durable? what gives it so high an organization? what made it so tolerable, and even in some cases beneficent to her subjects? what enabled it to perform services so important in preparing the way for a higher civilization? about the only answer that we get to these questions is _race_. the romans, we are told, were by nature a peculiarly warlike race. "they were the wolves of italy," says mr. merivale, who may be taken to represent fairly the state of opinion on this subject. we are presented in short with the old fable of the twins suckled by the she-wolf in a slightly rationalized form. it was more likely to be true, if anything, in its original form, for in mythology nothing is so irrational as rationalization. that unfortunate she-wolf with her twins has now been long discarded by criticism as a historical figure; but she still obtrudes herself as a symbolical legend into the first chapter of roman history, and continues to affect the historian's imagination and to give him a wrong bias at the outset. who knows whether the statue which we possess is a real counterpart of the original? who knows what the meaning of the original statue was? if the group was of great antiquity, we may be pretty sure that it was not political or historic, but religious; for primaeval art is the handmaid of religion; historic representation and political portraiture belong generally to a later age. we cannot tell with certainty even that the original statue was roman: it may have been brought to rome among the spoils of some conquered city, in which case it would have no reference to roman history at all. we must banish it entirely from our minds, with all the associations and impressions which cling to it, and we must do the same with regard to the whole of that circle of legends woven out of misinterpreted monuments or customs, with the embellishments of pure fancy, which grouped itself round the apocryphal statues of the seven kings in the capitol, aptly compared by arnold to the apocryphal portraits of the early kings of scotland in holyrood and those of the mediaeval founders of oxford in the bodleian. we must clear our minds altogether of these fictions; they are not even ancient: they came into existence at a time when the early history of rome was viewed in the deceptive light of her later achievements; when, under the influence of altered circumstances, roman sentiment had probably undergone a considerable change; and when, consequently, the national imagination no longer pointed true to anything primaeval. race, when tribal peculiarities are once formed, is a most important feature in history; those who deny this and who seek to resolve everything, even in advanced humanity, into the influence of external circumstances or of some particular external circumstance, such as food, are not less one-sided or less wide of the truth than those who employ race as the universal solution. who can doubt that between the english and the french, between the scotch and the irish, there are differences of character which have profoundly affected and still affect the course of history? the case is still stronger if we take races more remote from each other, such as the english and the hindoo. but the further we inquire, the more reason there appears to be for believing that peculiarities of race are themselves originally formed by the influence of external circumstances on the primitive tribe; that, however marked and ingrained they may be, they are not congenital and perhaps not indelible. englishmen and frenchmen are closely assimilated by education; and the weaknesses of character supposed to be inherent in the irish gradually disappear under the more benign influences of the new world. thus, by ascribing the achievements of the romans to the special qualities of their race, we should not be solving the problem, but only stating it again in other terms. but besides this, the wolf theory halts in a still more evident manner. the foster-children of the she-wolf, let them have never so much of their foster-mother's milk in them, do not do what the romans did, and they do precisely what the romans did not. they kill, ravage, plunder-- perhaps they conquer and even for a time retain their conquests--but they do not found highly organized empires, they do not civilize, much less do they give birth to law. the brutal and desolating domination of the turk, which after being long artificially upheld by diplomacy, is at last falling into final ruin, is the type of an empire founded by the foster-children of the she-wolf. plunder, in the animal lust of which alone it originated, remains its law, and its only notion of imperial administration is a coarse division, imposed by the extent of its territory, into satrapies, which, as the central dynasty, enervated by sensuality, loses its force, revolt, and break up the empire. even the macedonian, pupil of aristotle though he was, did not create an empire at all comparable to that created by the romans. he overran an immense extent of territory, and scattered over a portion of it the seed of an inferior species of hellenic civilization, but he did not organize it politically, much less did he give it, and through it the world, a code of law. it at once fell apart into a number of separate kingdoms, the despotic rulers of which were sultans with a tinge of hellenism, and which went for nothing in the political development of mankind. what if the very opposite theory to that of the she-wolf and her foster- children should be true? what if the romans should have owed their peculiar and unparalleled success to their having been at first not more warlike, but less warlike than their neighbours? it may seem a paradox, but we suspect in their imperial ascendency is seen one of the earliest and not least important steps in that gradual triumph of intellect over force, even in war, which has been an essential part of the progress of civilization. the happy day may come when science in the form of a benign old gentleman with a bald head and spectacles on nose, holding some beneficent compound in his hand, will confront a standing army and the standing army will cease to exist. that will be the final victory of intellect. but in the meantime, our acknowledgments are due to the primitive inventors of military organization and military discipline. they shivered goliath's spear. a mass of comparatively unwarlike burghers, unorganized and undisciplined, though they may be the hope of civilization from their mental and industrial qualities, have as little of collective as they have of individual strength in war; they only get in each other's way, and fall singly victims to the prowess of a gigantic barbarian. he who first thought of combining their force by organization, so as to make their numbers tell, and who taught them to obey officers, to form regularly for action, and to execute united movements at the word of command, was, perhaps, as great a benefactor of the species as he who grew the first corn, or built the first canoe. what is the special character of the roman legends, so far as they relate to war? their special character is, that they are legends not of personal prowess but of discipline. rome has no achilles. the great national heroes, camillus, cincinnatus, papirius, cursor, fabius maximus, manlius are not prodigies of personal strength and valour, but commanders and disciplinarians. the most striking incidents are incidents of discipline. the most striking incident of all is the execution by a commander of his own son for having gained a victory against orders. "_disciplinam militarem_," manlius is made to say, "_qua stetit ad hanc diem romana res._" discipline was the great secret of roman ascendency in war. it is the great secret of all ascendency in war. victories of the undisciplined over the disciplined, such as killiecrankie and preston pans, are rare exceptions which only prove the rule. the rule is that in anything like a parity of personal prowess and of generalship discipline is victory. thrice rome encountered discipline equal or superior to her own. pyrrhus at first beat her, but there was no nation behind him, hannibal beat her, but his nation did not support him; she beat the army of alexander, but the army of alexander when it encountered her, like that of frederic at jena, was an old machine, and it was commanded by a man who was more like tippoo sahib than the conqueror of darius. but how came military discipline to be so specially cultivated by the romans? we can see how it came to be specially cultivated by the greeks: it was the necessity of civic armies, fighting perhaps against warlike aristocracies; it was the necessity of greeks in general fighting against the invading hordes of the persian. we can see how it came to be cultivated among the mercenaries and professional soldiers of pyrrhus and hannibal. but what was the motive power in the case of rome? dismissing the notion of occult qualities of race, we look for a rational explanation in the circumstances of the plain which was the cradle of the roman empire. it is evident that in the period designated as that of the kings, when rome commenced her career of conquest, she was, for that time and country, a great and wealthy city. this is proved by the works of the kings, the capitoline temple, the excavation for the circus maximus, the servian wall, and above all the cloaca maxima. historians have indeed undertaken to give us a very disparaging picture of the ancient rome, which they confidently describe as nothing more than a great village of shingle-roofed cottages thinly scattered over a large area. we ask in vain what are the materials for this description. it is most probable that the private buildings of rome under the kings were roofed with nothing better than shingle, and it is very likely that they were mean and dirty, as the private buildings of athens appear to have been, and as those of most of the great cities of the middle ages unquestionably were. but the cloaca maxima is in itself conclusive evidence of a large population, of wealth, and of a not inconsiderable degree of civilization. taking our stand upon this monument, and clearing our vision entirely of romulus and his asylum, we seem dimly to perceive the existence of a deep prehistoric background, richer than is commonly supposed in the germs of civilization,--a remark which may in all likelihood be extended to the background of history in general. nothing surely can be more grotesque than the idea of a set of wolves, like the norse pirates before their conversion to christianity, constructing in their den the cloaca maxima. that rome was comparatively great and wealthy is certain. we can hardly doubt that she was a seat of industry and commerce, and that the theory which represents her industry and commerce as having been developed subsequently to her conquests is the reverse of the fact. whence, but from industry and commerce, could the population and the wealth have come? peasant farmers do not live in cities, and plunderers do not accumulate. rome had around her what was then a rich and peopled plain; she stood at a meeting-place of nationalities; she was on a navigable river, yet out of the reach of pirates; the sea near her was full of commerce, etruscan, greek, and carthaginian. her first colony was ostia, evidently commercial and connected with salt-works, which may well have supplied the staple of her trade. her patricians were financiers and money-lenders. we are aware that a different turn has been given to this part of the story, and that the indebtedness has been represented as incurred not by loans of money, but by advances of farm stock. this, however, completely contradicts the whole tenor of the narrative, and especially what is said about the measures for relieving the debtor by reducing the rate of interest and by deducting from the principal debt the interest already paid. the narrative as it stands, moreover, is supported by analogy. it has a parallel in the economical history of ancient athens, and in the "scaling of debts," to use the american equivalent for _seisachtheia_, by the legislation of solon. what prevents our supposing that usury, when it first made its appearance on the scene, before people had learned to draw the distinction between crimes and defaults, presented itself in a very coarse and cruel form? true, the currency was clumsy, and retained philological traces of a system of barter; but without commerce there could have been no currency at all. even more decisive is the proof afforded by the early political history of rome. in that wonderful first decade of livy there is no doubt enough of livy himself to give him a high place among the masters of fiction. it is the epic of a nation of politicians, and admirably adapted for the purposes of education as the grand picture of roman character and the richest treasury of roman sentiment. but we can hardly doubt that in the political portion there is a foundation of fact; it is too circumstantial, too consistent in itself, and at the same time too much borne out by analogy, to be altogether fiction. the institutions which we find existing in historic times must have been evolved by some such struggle between the orders of patricians and plebeians as that which livy presents to us. and these politics, with their parties and sections of parties, their shades of political character, the sustained interest which they imply in political objects, their various devices and compromises, are not the politics of a community of peasant farmers, living apart each on his own farm and thinking of his own crops: they are the politics of the quick-witted and gregarious population of an industrial and commercial city. they are politics of the same sort as those upon which the palazzo vecchio looked down in florence. that ancient rome was a republic there can be no doubt. even the so-called monarchy appears clearly to have been elective; and republicanism may be described broadly with reference to its origin, as the government of the city and of the artisan, while monarchy and aristocracy are the governments of the country and of farmers. the legend which ascribes the assembly of centuries to the legislation of servius probably belongs to the same class as the legend which ascribes trial by jury and the division of england into shires to the legislation of alfred. still the assembly of centuries existed; it was evidently ancient, belonging apparently to a stratum of institutions anterior to the assembly of tribes; and it was a constitution distributing political power and duties according to a property qualification which, in the upper grades, must, for the period, have been high, though measured by a primitive currency. the existence of such qualifications, and the social ascendency of wealth which the constitution implies, are inconsistent with the theory of a merely agricultural and military rome. who would think of framing such a constitution, say, for one of the rural districts of france? other indications of the real character of the prehistoric rome might be mentioned. the preponderance of the infantry and the comparative weakness of the cavalry is an almost certain sign of democracy, and of the social state in which democracy takes its birth--at least in the case of a country which did not, like arcadia or switzerland, preclude by its nature the growth of a cavalry force, but on the contrary was rather favourable to it. nor would it be easy to account for the strong feeling of attachment to the city which led to its restoration when it had been destroyed by the gauls, and defeated the project of a migration to veii, if rome was nothing but a collection of miserable huts, the abodes of a tribe of marauders. we have, moreover, the actual traces of an industrial organization in the existence of certain guilds of artisans, which may have been more important at first than they were when the military spirit had become thoroughly ascendant. of course when rome had once been drawn into the career of conquest, the ascendency of the military spirit would be complete; war, and the organization of territories acquired in war, would then become the great occupation of her leading citizens; industry and commerce would fall into disesteem, and be deemed unworthy of the members of the imperial race. carthage would no doubt have undergone a similar change of character, had the policy which was carried to its greatest height by the aspiring house of barcas succeeded in converting her from a trading city into the capital of a great military empire. so would venice, had she been able to carry on her system of conquest in the levant and of territorial aggrandisement on the italian mainland. the career of venice was arrested by the league of cambray. on carthage the policy of military aggrandisement, which was apparently resisted by the sage instinct of the great merchants while it was supported by the professional soldiers and the populace, brought utter ruin; while rome paid the inevitable penalty of military despotism. even when the roman nobles had become a caste of conquerors and proconsuls, they retained certain mercantile habits; unlike the french aristocracy, and aristocracies generally, they were careful keepers of their accounts, and they showed a mercantile talent for business, as well as a more than mercantile hardness, in their financial exploitation of the conquered world. brutus and his contemporaries were usurers like the patricians of the early times. no one, we venture to think, who has been accustomed to study national character, will believe that the roman character was formed by war alone: it was manifestly formed by war combined with business. to what an extent the later character of rome affected national tradition, or rather fiction, as to her original character, we see from the fable which tells us that she had no navy before the first punic war, and that when compelled to build a fleet by the exigencies of that war, she had to copy a carthaginian war galley which had been cast ashore, and to train her rowers by exercising them on dry land. she had a fleet before the war with pyrrhus, probably from the time at which she took possession of antium, if not before; and her first treaty with carthage even if it is to be assigned to the date to which mommsen, and not to that which polybius assigns it, shows that before b.c. she had an interest in a wide sea-board, which must have carried with it some amount of maritime power. now this wealthy, and, as we suppose, industrial and commercial city was the chief place, and in course of time became the mistress and protectress, of a plain large for that part of italy, and then in such a condition as to be tempting to the spoiler. over this plain on two sides hung ranges of mountains inhabited by hill tribes, sabines, aequians, volscians, hernicans, with the fierce and restless samnite in the rear. no doubt these hill tribes raided on the plain as hill tribes always do; probably they were continually being pressed down upon it by the migratory movements of other tribes behind them. some of them seem to have been in the habit of regularly swarming, like bees, under the form of the _ver sacrum_. on the north, again, were the etruscan hill towns, with their lords, pirates by sea, and probably marauders by land; for the period of a more degenerate luxury and frivolity may be regarded as subsequent to their subjugation by the romans; at any rate, when they first appear upon the scene they are a conquering race. the wars with the aequi and volsci have been ludicrously multiplied and exaggerated by livy; but even without the testimony of any historian, we might assume that there would be wars with them and with the other mountaineers, and also with the marauding etruscan chiefs. at the same time, we may be sure that, in personal strength and prowess, the men of the plain and of the city would be inferior both to the mountaineers and to those etruscan chiefs whose trade was war. how did the men of the plain and of the city manage to make up for this inferiority, to turn the scale of force in their favour, and ultimately to subdue both the mountaineers and etruscans? in the conflict with the mountaineers, something might be done by that superiority of weapons which superior wealth would afford. but more would be done by military organization and discipline. to military organization and discipline the romans accordingly learnt to submit themselves, as did the english parliamentarians after the experience of edgehill, as did the democracy of the northern states of america after the experience of the first campaign. at the same time the romans learned the lesson so momentous, and at the same time so difficult for citizen soldiers, of drawing the line between civil and military life. the turbulent democracy of the former, led into the field, doffed the citizen, donned the soldier; and obeyed the orders of a commander whom as citizens they detested, and whom when they were led back to the forum at the end of the summer campaign they were ready again to oppose and to impeach. no doubt all this part of the history has been immensely embellished by the patriotic imagination, the heroic features have been exaggerated, the harsher features softened though not suppressed. still it is impossible to question the general fact. the result attests the process. the roman legions were formed in the first instance of citizen soldiers, who yet had been made to submit to a rigid discipline, and to feel that in that submission lay their strength. when, to keep up the siege of veii, military pay was introduced, a step was taken in the transition from a citizen soldiery to a regular army, such as the legions ultimately became, with its standing discipline of the camp; and that the measure should have been possible is another proof that rome was a great city, with a well-supplied treasury, not a collection of mud huts. no doubt the habit of military discipline reacted on the political character of the people, and gave it the strength and self-control which were so fatally wanting in the case of florence. the line was drawn, under the pressure of a stern necessity, between civil and military life, and between the rights and duties of each. the power of the magistrate, jealously limited in the city, was enlarged to absolutism for the preservation of discipline in the field. but the distinction between the king or magistrate and the general, and between the special capacities required for the duties of each, is everywhere of late growth. we may say the same of departmental distinctions altogether. the executive, the legislative, the judicial power, civil authority and military command, all lie enfolded in the same primitive germ. the king, or the magistrate who takes his place, is expected to lead the people in war as well as to govern them in peace. in european monarchies this idea still lingers, fortified no doubt by the personal unwillingness of the kings to let the military power go out of their hands. nor in early times is the difference between the qualifications of a ruler and those of a commander so great as it afterwards became; the business of the state is simple, and force of character is the main requisite in both cases. annual consulships must have been fatal to strategical experience, while, on the other hand, they would save the republic from being tied to an unsuccessful general. but the storms of war which broke on rome from all quarters soon brought about the recognition of special aptitude for military command in the appointment of dictators. as to the distinction between military and naval ability, it is of very recent birth: blake, prince rupert, and monk were made admirals because they had been successful as generals, just as hannibal was appointed by antiochus to the command of a fleet. at preston pans, as before at killiecrankie, the line of the hanoverian regulars was broken by the headlong charge of the wild clans, for which the regulars were unprepared. taught by the experience of preston pans, the duke of cumberland at culloden formed in three lines, so as to repair a broken front. the romans in like manner formed in three lines-- _hastati_, _principes_, and _triarii_--evidently with the same object. our knowledge of the history of roman tactics does not enable us to say exactly at what period this formation began to supersede the phalanx, which appears to have preceded it, and which is the natural order of half-disciplined or imperfectly armed masses, as we see in the case of the army formed by philip out of the macedonian peasantry, and again in the case of the french revolutionary columns. we cannot say, therefore, whether this formation in three lines is in any way traceable to experience dearly bought in wars with italian highlanders, or to a lesson taught by the terrible onset of the gaul. again, the punctilious care in the entrenchment of the camp, even for a night's halt, which moved the admiration of pyrrhus and was a material part of roman tactics, was likely to be inculcated by the perils to which a burgher army would be exposed in carrying on war under or among hills where it would be always liable to the sudden attack of a swift, sure-footed, and wily foe. the habit of carrying a heavy load of palisades on the march would be a part of the same necessity. even from the purely military point of view, then, the she-wolf and the twins seem to us not appropriate emblems of roman greatness. a better frontispiece for historians of rome, if we mistake not, would be some symbol of the patroness of the lowlands and their protectress against the wild tribes of the highlands. there should also be something to symbolize the protectress of italy against the gauls, whose irruptions rome, though defeated at allia, succeeded ultimately in arresting and hurling back, to the general benefit of italian civilization which, we may be sure, felt very grateful to her for that service, and remembered it when her existence was threatened by hannibal, with gauls in his army. capua, though not so well situated for the leadership of italy, might have played the part of rome; but the plain which she commanded, though very rich, was too small, and too closely overhung by the fatal hills of the samnite, under whose dominion she fell. rome had space to organize a strong lowland resistance to the marauding highland powers. it seems probable that her hills were not only the citadel but the general refuge of the lowlanders of those parts, when forced to fly before the onslaught of the highlanders, who were impelled by successive wars of migration to the plains. the campagna affords no stronghold or rallying point but those hills, which may have received a population of fugitives like the islands of venice. the city may have drawn part of its population and some of its political elements from this source. in this sense the story of the asylum may possibly represent a fact, though it has itself nothing to do with history. then, as to imperial organization and government. superiority in these would naturally flow from superiority in civilization, and in previous political training, the first of which rome derived from her comparative wealth and from the mental characteristics of a city population; the second she derived from the long struggle through which the rights of the plebeians were equalized with those of the patricians, and which again must have had its ultimate origin in geographical circumstance bringing together different elements of population. cromwell was a politician and a religious leader before he was a soldier; napoleon was a soldier before he was a politician: to this difference between the moulds in which their characters were cast may be traced, in great measure, the difference of their conduct when in power, cromwell devoting himself to political and ecclesiastical reform, while napoleon used his supremacy chiefly as the means of gratifying his lust for war. there is something analogous in the case of imperial nations. had the roman, when he conquered the world been like the ottoman, like the ottoman he would probably have remained. his thirst for blood slaked, he would simply have proceeded to gratify his other animal lusts; he would have destroyed or consumed everything, produced nothing, delivered over the world to a plundering anarchy of rapacious satraps, and when his sensuality had overpowered his ferocity, he would have fallen in his turn before some horde whose ferocity was fresh, and the round of war and havoc would have commenced again. the roman destroyed and consumed a good deal; but he also produced not a little: he produced, among other things, first in italy, then in the world at large, the peace of rome indispensable to civilization, and destined to be the germ and precursor of the peace of humanity. in two respects, however, the geographical circumstances of rome appear specially to have prepared her for the exercise of universal empire. in the first place, her position was such as to bring her into contact from the outset with a great variety of races. the cradle of her dominion was a sort of ethnological microcosm. latins, etruscans, greeks, campanians, with all the mountain races and the gauls, make up a school of the most diversified experience, which could not fail to open the minds of the future masters of the world. how different was this education from that of a people which is either isolated, like the egyptians, or comes into contact perhaps in the way of continual border hostility with a single race! what the exact relations of rome with etruria were in the earliest times we do not know, but evidently they were close; while between the roman and the etruscan character the difference appears to have been as wide as possible. the roman was pre-eminently practical and business- like, sober-minded, moral, unmystical, unsacerdotal, much concerned with present duties and interests, very little concerned about a future state of existence, peculiarly averse from human sacrifices and from all wild and dark superstitions. the etruscan, as he has portrayed himself to us in his tombs, seems to have been, in his later development at least, a mixture of sybaritism with a gloomy and almost mexican religion, which brooded over the terrors of the next world, and sought in the constant practice of human sacrifice a relief from its superstitious fear. if the roman could tolerate the etruscans, be merciful to them, and manage them well, he was qualified to deal in a statesmanlike way with the peculiarities of almost any race, except those whose fierce nationality repelled all management whatever. in borrowing from the etruscans some of their theological lore and their system of divination, small as the value of the things borrowed was, the roman, perhaps, gave an earnest of the receptiveness which led him afterwards, in his hour of conquest, to bow to the intellectual ascendency of the conquered greek, and to become a propagator of greek culture, though partly in a latinized form, more effectual than alexander and his orientalized successors. in the second place, the geographical circumstances of rome, combined with her character, would naturally lead to the foundation of colonies and of that colonial system which formed a most important and beneficent part of her empire. we have derived the name colony from rome; but her colonies were just what ours are not, military outposts of the empire, _propugnacula imperii_. political depletion and provision for needy citizens were collateral, but it would seem, in early times at least, secondary objects. such outposts were the means suggested by nature, first of securing those parts of the plain which were beyond the sheltering range of the city itself, secondly of guarding the outlets of the hills against the hill tribes, and eventually of holding down the tribes in the hills themselves. the custody of the passes is especially marked as an object by the position of many of the early colonies. when the roman dominion extended to the north of italy, the same system was pursued, in order to guard against incursions from the alps. a conquering despot would have planted mere garrisons under military governors, which would not have been centres of civilization, but probably of the reverse. the roman colonies, bearing onwards with them the civil as well as the military life of the republic, were, with the general system of provincial municipalities of which they constituted the core, to no small extent centres of civilization, though doubtless they were also to some extent instruments of oppression. "where the roman conquered he dwelt," and the dwelling of the roman was, on the whole, the abode of a civilizing influence. representation of dependencies in the sovereign assembly of the imperial country was unknown, and would have been impracticable. conquest had not so far put off its iron nature. in giving her dependencies municipal institutions and municipal life, rome did the next best thing to giving them representation. a roman province with its municipal life was far above a satrapy, though far below a nation. then how came rome to be the foundress and the great source of law? this, as we said before, calls for a separate explanation. an explanation we do not pretend to give, but merely a hint which may deserve notice in looking for the explanation. in primitive society, in place of law, in the proper sense of the term, we find only tribal custom, formed mainly by the special exigencies of tribal self- preservation, and confined to the particular tribe. when saxon and dane settle down in england side by side under the treaty made between alfred and guthurm, each race retains the tribal custom which serves it as a criminal law. a special effort seems to be required in order to rise above this custom to that conception of general right or expediency which is the germ of law as a science. the greek, sceptical and speculative as he was, appears never to have quite got rid of the notion that there was something sacred in ancestral custom, and that to alter it by legislation was a sort of impiety. we in england still conceive that there is something in the breast of the judge, and the belief is a lingering shadow of the tribal custom, the source of the common law. now what conditions would be most favourable to this critical effort, so fraught with momentous consequences to humanity? apparently a union of elements belonging to different tribes such as would compel them, for the preservation of peace and the regulation of daily intercourse, to adopt some common measure of right. it must be a union, not a conquest of one tribe by another, otherwise the conquering tribe would of course keep its own customs, as the spartans did among the conquered people of laconia. now it appears likely that these conditions were exactly fulfilled by the primaeval settlements on the hills of rome. the hills are either escarped by nature or capable of easy escarpment, and seem originally to have been little separate fortresses, by the union of which the city was ultimately formed. that there were tribal differences among the inhabitants of the different hills is a belief to which all traditions and all the evidence of institutions point, whether we suppose the difference to have been great or not and whatever special theory we may form as to the origin of the roman people. if the germ of law, as distinguished from custom, was brought into existence in this manner, it would be fostered and expanded by the legislative exigencies of the political and social concordat between the two orders, and also by those arising out of the adjustment of relations with other races in the course of conquest and colonization. roman law had also, in common with roman morality, the advantage of being comparatively free from the perverting influences of tribal superstition. [footnote: from religious perversion roman law was eminently free: but it could not be free from perverting influences of a social kind; so that we ought to be cautious, for instance, in borrowing law on any subject concerning the relations between the sexes from the corrupt society of the roman empire.] roman morality was in the main a rational rule of duty, the shortcomings and aberrations of which arose not from superstition, but from narrowness of perception, peculiarity of sphere, and the bias of national circumstance. the auguries, which were so often used for the purposes of political obstruction or intrigue, fall under the head rather of trickery than of superstition. roman law in the same manner was a rule of expediency, rightly or wrongly conceived, with comparatively little tincture of religion. in this again we probably see the effect of a fusion of tribes upon the tribal superstitions. "rome," it has been said, "had no mythology." this is scarcely an overstatement; and we do not account for the fact by saying that the romans were unimaginative, because it is not the creative imagination that produces a mythology, but the impression made by the objects and forces of nature on the minds of the forefathers of the tribe. a more tenable explanation, at all events, is that just suggested, the disintegration of mythologies by the mixture of tribes. a part of the roman religion--the worship of such abstractions as fides, fortuna, salus, concordia, bellona, terminus--even looks like a product of the intellect posterior to the decay of the mythologies, which we may be pretty sure were physical. it is no doubt true that the formalities which were left--hollow ceremonial, auguries, and priesthoods which were given without scruple, like secular offices, to the most profligate men of the world--were worse than worthless in a religious point of view. but historians who dwell on this fail to see that the real essence of religion, a belief in the power of duty and of righteousness, that belief which afterwards took the more definite form of roman stoicism, had been detached by the dissolution of the mythologies, and exerted its force, such as that force was, independently of the ceremonial, the sacred chickens, and the dissipated high priests. in this sense the tribute paid by polybius to the religious character of the romans is deserved; they had a higher sense of religious obligation than the greeks; they were more likely than the greeks, the phoenicians, or any of their other rivals, to swear and disappoint not, though it were to their own hindrance; and this they owed, as we conceive, not to an effort of speculative intellect, which in an early stage of society would be out of the question, but to some happy conjunction of circumstances such as would be presented by a break-up of tribal mythologies, combined with influences favourable to the formation of strong habits of political and social duty. religious art was sacrificed; that was the exclusive heritage of the greek; but superior morality was on the whole the heritage of the roman, and if he produced no good tragedy himself, he furnished characters for shakespeare and corneille. whatever set the romans free, or comparatively free, from the tyranny of tribal religion may be considered as having in the same measure been the source of the tolerance which was so indispensable a qualification for the exercise of dominion over a polytheistic world. they waged no war on "the gods of the nations," or on the worshippers of those gods as such. they did not set up golden images after the fashion of nebuchadnezzar. in early times they seem to have adopted the gods of the conquered, and to have transported them to their own city. in later times they respected all the religions except judaism and druidism, which assumed the form of national resistance to the empire, and worships which they deemed immoral or anti-social, and which had intruded themselves into rome. another grand step in the development of law is the severance of the judicial power from the legislative and the executive, which permits the rise of jurists, and of a regular legal profession. this is a slow process. in the stationary east, as a rule, the king has remained the supreme judge. at athens, the sovereign people delegated its judicial powers to a large committee, but it got no further; and the judicial committee was hardly more free from political passion, or more competent to decide points of law, than the assembly itself. in england the house of lords still, formally at least, retains judicial functions. acts of attainder were a yet more primitive as well as more objectionable relic of the times in which the sovereign power, whether king, assembly, or the two combined, was ruler, legislator, and judge all in one. we shall not attempt here to trace the process by which this momentous separation of powers and functions was to a remarkable extent accomplished in ancient rome. but we are pretty safe in saying that the _praetor peregrinus_ was an important figure in it, and that it received a considerable impulse from the exigencies of a jurisdiction between those who as citizens came under the sovereign assembly and the aliens or semi-aliens who did not. whether the partial explanations of the mystery of roman greatness which we have here suggested approve themselves to the reader's judgment or not, it may at least be said for them that they are _verae causae_, which is not the case with the story of the foster-wolf, or anything derived from it, any more than with the story of the prophetic apparitions of jupiter on the capitoline hill. with regard to the public morality of the romans, and to their conduct and influence as masters of the world, the language of historians seems to us to leave something to be desired. mommsen's tone, whenever controverted questions connected with international morality and the law of conquest arise, is affected by his prussianism; it betokens the transition of the german mind from the speculative and visionary to the practical and even more than practical state; it is premonitory not only of the wars with austria and france, but of a coming age in which the forces of natural selection are again to operate without the restraints imposed by religion, and the heaviest fist is once more to make the law. in the work of ihne we see a certain recoil from mommsen, and at the same time an occasional inconsistency and a want of stability in the principle of judgment. our standard ought not to be positive but relative. it was the age of force and conquest, not only with the romans but with all nations; _hospes_ was _hostis_. a perfectly independent development of greeks, romans, etruscans, phoenicians, and all the other nationalities, might perhaps have been the best thing for humanity. but this was out of the question; in that stage of the world's existence contact was war, and the end of war was conquest or destruction, the first of which was at all events preferable to the second. what empire then can we imagine which would have done less harm or more good than the roman? greek intellect showed its superiority in speculative politics as in all other departments of speculation, but as a practical politician the greek was not self-controlled or strong, and he would never have bestowed on the provinces of his empire local self- government and municipal life; besides, the race, though it included wonderful varieties in itself, was, as a race, intensely tribal, and treated persistently all other races as barbarians. it would have deprived mankind of roman law and politics, as well as of that vast extension of the roman aedileship which covered the world with public works beneficent in themselves and equally so as examples; whereas the roman had the greatness of soul to do homage to greek intellect, and, notwithstanding an occasional mummius, preserved all that was of the highest value in greek civilization, better perhaps than it would have been preserved by the tyrants and condottieri of the greek decadence. as to a semitic empire, whether in the hands of syrians or carthaginians, with their low semitic craft, their moloch-worships and their crucifixions,--the very thought fills us with horror. it would have been a world-wide tyranny of the strong box, into which all the products of civilization would have gone. _parcere subjectis_ was the rule of rome as well as _debellare superbos_; and while all conquest is an evil, the roman was the most clement and the least destructive of conquerors. this is true of him on the whole, though he sometimes was guilty of thoroughly primaeval cruelty. he was the great author of the laws of war as well as of the laws of peace. that he not seldom, when his own interest was concerned, put the mere letter of the social law in place of justice, and that we are justly revolted on these occasions by his hypocritical observance of forms, is very true: nevertheless, his scrupulosity and the language of the national critics in these cases prove the existence of at least a rudimentary conscience. no compunction for breach of international law or justice we may be sure ever visited the heart of tiglath-pileser. cicero's letter of advice to his brother on the government of a province may seem a tissue of truisms now, though warren hastings and sir elijah impey would hardly have found it so, but it is a landmark in the history of civilization. that the roman republic should die, and that a colossal and heterogeneous empire should fall under the rule of a military despot, was perhaps a fatal necessity; but the despotism long continued to be tempered, elevated, and rendered more beneficent by the lingering spirit of the republic; the liberalism of trajan and the antonines was distinctly republican nor did sultanism finally establish itself before diocletian. perhaps we may number among the proofs of the roman's superiority the capacity shown so far as we know first by him of being touched by the ruin of a rival. we may be sure that no assyrian conqueror even affected to weep over the fall of a hostile city however magnificent and historic. on the whole it must be allowed that physical influences have seldom done better for humanity than they did in shaping the imperial character and destinies of rome. the greatness of england [footnote: the writer some time ago gave a lecture before the royal institution on "the influence of geographical circumstances on political character," using rome and england as illustrations. it may perhaps be right to say that the present paper, which touches here and there on matters of political opinion, is not identical with the latter portion of that lecture.] two large islands lie close to that continent which has hitherto been selected by nature as the chief seat of civilization. one island is much larger than the other, and the larger island lies between the smaller and the continent. the larger island is so placed as to receive primaeval immigration from three quarters--from france, from the coast of northern germany and the low countries, and from scandinavia, the transit being rendered somewhat easier in the last case by the prevailing winds and by the little islands which scotland throws out, as resting-places and guides for the primaeval navigator, into the northern sea. the smaller island, on the other hand, can hardly receive immigration except through the larger, though its southern ports look out, somewhat ominously to the eye of history, towards spain. the western and northern parts of the larger island are mountainous, and it is divided into two very unequal parts by the cheviot hills and the mosses of the border. in the larger island are extensive districts well suited for grain. the climate of most of the smaller is too wet for grain and good only for pasture. the larger island is full of minerals and coal, of which the smaller island is almost destitute. these are the most salient features of the scene of english history, and, with a temperate climate, the chief physical determinants of english destiny. what, politically speaking, are the special attributes of an island? in the first place, it is likely to be settled by a bold and enterprising race. migration by land under the pressure of hunger or of a stronger tribe, or from the mere habit of wandering, calls for no special effort of courage or intelligence on the part of the nomad. migration by sea does: to go forth on a strange element at all, courage is required; but we can hardly realize the amount of courage required to go voluntarily out of sight of land. the first attempts at ship-building also imply superior intelligence, or an effort by which the intelligence will be raised. of the two great races which make up the english nation, the celtic had only to pass a channel which you can see across, which perhaps in the time of the earliest migration did not exist. but the teutons, who are the dominant race and have supplied the basis of the english character and institutions, had to pass a wider sea. from scandinavia, especially, england received, under the form of freebooters, who afterwards became conquerors and settlers, the very core and sinews of her maritime population, the progenitors of the blakes and nelsons. the northman, like the phoenician, had a country too narrow for him, and timber for ship-building at hand. but the land of the phoenician was a lovely land, which bound him to itself; and wherever he moved his heart still turned to the pleasant abodes of lebanon and the sunlit quays of tyre. thus he became a merchant, and the father of all who have made the estranging sea a highway and a bond between nations, more than atoning by the service thus rendered to humanity, for his craft, his treachery, his cruelty, and his moloch- worship. the land of the scandinavian was not a lovely land, though it was a land suited to form strong arms, strong hearts, chaste natures, and, with purity, strength of domestic affection. he was glad to exchange it for a sunnier dwelling-place, and thus, instead of becoming a merchant, he became the founder of norman dynasties in italy, france, and england. we are tempted to linger over the story of these primaeval mariners, for nothing equals it in romance. in our day science has gone before the most adventurous barque, limiting the possibilities of discovery, disenchanting the enchanted seas, and depriving us for ever of sinbad and ulysses. but the phoenician and the northman put forth into a really unknown world. the northman, moreover, was so far as we know the first ocean sailor. if the story of the circumnavigation of africa by the phoenicians is true, it was an astonishing enterprise, and almost dwarfs modern voyages of discovery. still it would be a coasting voyage, and the phoenician seems generally to have hugged the land. but the northman put freely out into the wild atlantic, and even crossed it before columbus, if we may believe a legend made specially dear to the americans by the craving of a new country for antiquities. it has been truly said, that the feeling of the greek, mariner as he was, towards the sea, remained rather one of fear and aversion, intensified perhaps by the treacherous character of the squally aegean; but the northman evidently felt perfectly at home on the ocean, and rode joyously, like a seabird, on the vast atlantic waves. not only is a race which comes by sea likely to be peculiarly vigorous, self-reliant, and inclined, when settled, to political liberty, but the very process of maritime migration can scarcely fail to intensify the spirit of freedom and independence. timon or genghis khan, sweeping on from land to land with the vast human herd under his sway, becomes more despotic as the herd grows larger by accretion, and the area of its conquests is increased. but a maritime migration is a number of little joint stock enterprises implying limited leadership, common counsels, and a good deal of equality among the adventurers. we see in fact that the saxon immigration resulted in the foundation of a number of small communities which, though they were afterwards fused into seven or eight petty kingdoms and ultimately into one large kingdom, must, while they existed, have fostered habits of local independence and self-government. maritime migration would also facilitate the transition from the tribe to the nation, because the ships could hardly be manned on purely tribal principles; the early saxon communities in england appear in fact to have been semi-tribal, the local bond predominating over the tribal, though a name with a tribal termination is retained. room would scarcely be found in the ships for a full proportion of women; the want would be supplied by taking the women of the conquered country; and thus tribal rules of exclusive intermarriage, and all barriers connected with them, would be broken down. another obvious attribute of an island is freedom from invasion. the success of the saxon invaders may be ascribed to the absence of strong resistance. the policy of roman conquest, by disarming the natives, had destroyed their military character, as the policy of british conquest has done in india, where races which once fought hard against the invader under their native princes, such as the people of mysore, are now wholly unwarlike. anything like national unity, or power of co- operation against a foreign enemy, had at the same time been extirpated by a government which divided that it might command. the northman in his turn owed his success partly to the want of unity among the saxon principalities, partly and principally to the command of the sea which the saxon usually abandoned to him, and which enabled him to choose his own point of attack, and to baffle the movements of the defenders. when alfred built a fleet, the case was changed. william of normandy would scarcely have succeeded, great as his armament was, had it not been for the diversion effected in his favour by the landing of the scandinavian pretender in the north, and the failure of provisions in harold's channel fleet, which compelled it to put into port. louis of france was called in as a deliverer by the barons who were in arms against the tyranny of john; and it is not necessary to discuss the tory description of the coming of william of orange as a conquest of england by the dutch. bonaparte threatened invasion, but unhappily was unable to invade: unhappily we say, because if he had landed in england he would assuredly have there met his doom; the russian campaign would have been antedated with a more complete result, and all the after-pages in the history of the arch-brigand would have been torn from the book of fate. england is indebted for her political liberties in great measure to the teutonic character, but she is also in no small measure indebted to this immunity from invasion which has brought with it a comparative immunity from standing armies. in the middle ages the question between absolutism and that baronial liberty which was the germ and precursor of the popular liberty of after-times turned in great measure upon the relative strength of the national militia and of the bands of mercenaries kept in pay by overreaching kings. the bands of mercenaries brought over by john proved too strong for the patriot barons, and would have annulled the great charter, had not national liberty found a timely and powerful, though sinister, auxiliary in the ambition of the french. prince charles i. had no standing army, the troops taken into pay for the wars with spain and france had been disbanded before the outbreak of the revolution; and on that occasion the nation was able to overthrow the tyranny without looking abroad for assistance. but charles ii. had learned wisdom from his father's fate; he kept up a small standing army; and the whigs, though at the crisis of the exclusion bill they laid their hands upon their swords, never ventured to draw them, but allowed themselves to be proscribed, their adherents to be ejected from the corporations, and their leaders to be brought to the scaffold. resistance was in the same way rendered hopeless by the standing army of james ii., and the patriots were compelled to stretch their hands for aid to william of orange. even so, it might have gone hard with them if james's soldiers, and above all churchill, had been true to their paymaster. navies are not political; they do not overthrow constitutions; and in the time of charles i. it appears that the leading seamen were protestant, inclined to the side of the parliament. perhaps protestantism had been rendered fashionable in the navy by the naval wars with spain. a third consequence of insular position, especially in early times, is isolation. an extreme case of isolation is presented by egypt, which is in fact a great island in the desert. the extraordinary fertility of the valley of the nile produced an early development, which was afterwards arrested by its isolation, the isolation being probably intensified by the jealous exclusiveness of a powerful priesthood which discouraged maritime pursuits. the isolation of england, though comparatively slight, has still been an important factor in her history. she underwent less than the continental provinces the influence of roman conquest. scotland and ireland escaped it altogether, for the tide of invasion, having flowed to the foot of the grampians, soon ebbed to the line between the solway and the tyne. britain has no monuments of roman power and civilization like those which have been left in gaul and spain, and of the british christianity of the roman period hardly a trace, monumental or historical, remains. by the saxon conquest england was entirely severed for a time from the european system. the missionary of ecclesiastical rome recovered what the legionary had lost. of the main elements of english character political and general, five were brought together when ethelbert and augustine met on the coast of kent. the king represented teutonism; the missionary represented judaism, christianity, imperial and ecclesiastical rome. we mention judaism as a separate element, because, among other things, the image of the hebrew monarchy has certainly entered largely into the political conceptions of englishmen, perhaps at least as largely as the image of imperial rome. a sixth element, classical republicanism, came in with the reformation, while the political and social influence of science is only just beginning to be felt. still, after the conversion of england by augustine, the church, which was the main organ of civilization, and almost identical with it in the early middle ages, remained national; and to make it thoroughly roman and papal, in other words to assimilate it completely to the church of the continent, was the object of hildebrand in promoting the enterprise of william. roman and papal the english church was made, yet not so thoroughly so as completely to destroy its insular and teutonic character. the archbishop of canterbury was still _papa alterius orbis_; and the struggle for national independence of the papacy commenced in england long before the struggle for doctrinal reform. the reformation broke up the confederated christendom of the middle ages, and england was then thrown back into an isolation very marked, though tempered by her sympathy with the protestant party on the continent. in later times the growth of european interests, of commerce, of international law, of international intercourse, of the community of intellect and science, has been gradually building again, on a sounder foundation than that of the latin church, the federation of europe, or rather the federation of mankind. the political sympathy of england with continental nations, especially with france, has been increasing of late in a very marked manner, the french revolution of told at once upon the fortunes of english reform, and the victory of the republic over the reactionary attempt of may was profoundly felt by both parties in england. placed too close to the continent not to be essentially a part of the european system, england has yet been a peculiar and semi-independent part of it. in european progress she has often acted as a balancing and moderating power. she has been the asylum of vanquished ideas and parties. in the seventeenth century, when absolutism and the catholic reaction prevailed on the continent, she was the chief refuge of protestantism and political liberty. when the french revolution swept europe, she threw herself into the anti-revolutionary scale. the tricolor has gone nearly round the world, at least nearly round europe; but on the flag of england still remains the religious symbol of the era before the revolution. the insular arrogance of the english character is a commonplace joke. it finds, perhaps, its strongest expression in the saying of milton that the manner of god is to reveal things first to his englishmen. it has made englishmen odious even to those who, like the spaniards, have received liberation or protection from english hands. it stimulated the desperate desire to see france rid of the "goddams" which inspired joan of arc. for an imperial people it is a very unlucky peculiarity, since it precludes not only fusion but sympathy and almost intercourse with the subject races. the kind heart of lord elgin, when he was governor- general of india, was shocked by the absolute want of sympathy or bond of any kind, except love of conquest, between the anglo-indian and the native, and the gulf apparently, instead of being filled up, now yawns wider than ever. it is needless to dwell on anything so obvious as the effect of an insular position in giving birth to commerce and developing the corresponding elements of political character. the british islands are singularly well placed for trade with both hemispheres; in them, more than in any other point, may be placed the commercial centre of the world. it may be said that the nation looked out unconsciously from its cradle to an immense heritage beyond the atlantic. france and spain looked the same way, and became competitors with england for ascendancy in the new world, but england was more maritime, and the most maritime was sure to prevail. canada was conquered by the british fleet. to the commerce and the maritime enterprise of former days, which were mainly the results of geographical position, has been added within the last century the vast development of manufactures produced by coal and steam, the parents of manufactures, as well as the expansion of the iron trade in close connection with manufactures. nothing can be more marked than the effect of industry on political character in the case of england. from being the chief seat of reaction, the north has been converted by manufactures into the chief seat of progress. the wars of the roses were not a struggle of political principle; hardly even a dynastic struggle; they had their origin partly in a patriotic antagonism to the foreign queen and to her foreign councils; but they were in the main a vast faction-fight between two sections of an armed and turbulent nobility turned into buccaneers by the french wars, and, like their compeers all over europe, bereft, by the decay of catholicism, of the religious restraints with which their morality was bound up. yet the lancastrian party, or rather the party of margaret of anjou and her favourites, was the more reactionary, and it had the centre of its strength in the north, whence margaret drew the plundering and devastating host which gained for her the second battle of st. albans and paid the penalty of its ravages in the merciless slaughter of towton. the north had been kept back in the race of progress by agricultural inferiority, by the absence of commerce with the continent, and by border wars with scotland. in the south was the seat of prosperous industry, wealth, and comparative civilization, and the banners of the southern cities were in the armies of the house of york. the south accepted the reformation, while the north was the scene of the pilgrimage of grace. coming down to the civil war in the time of charles i., we find the parliament strong in the south and east, where are still the centres of commerce and manufactures, even the iron trade, which has its smelting works in sussex. in the north the feudal tie between landlord and tenant, and the sentiment of the past, preserve much of their force, and the great power in those parts is the marquis of newcastle, at once great territorial lord of the middle ages and elegant _grand seigneur_ of the renaissance, who brings into the field a famous regiment of his own retainers. in certain towns, such as bradford and manchester, there are germs of manufacturing industry, and these form the sinews of the parliamentarian party in the district which is headed by the fairfaxes. but in the reform movement which extended through the first half of the present century, the geographical position of parties was reversed; the swarming cities of the north were then the great centres of liberalism and the motive power of reform; while the south, having by this time fallen into the hands of great landed proprietors, was conservative. the stimulating effect of populous centres on opinion is a very familiar fact; even in the rural districts it is noticed by canvassers at elections that men who work in gangs are generally more inclined to the liberal side than those who work separately. in england, however, the agricultural element always has been and remains a full counterpoise to the manufacturing and commercial element. agricultural england is not what pericles called attica, a mere suburban garden, the embellishment of a queenly city. it is a substantive interest and a political power. in the time of charles i. it happened that, owing to the great quantity of land thrown into the market in consequence of the confiscation of the monastic estates, which had slipped through the fingers of the spendthrift courtiers to whom they were at first granted, small freeholders were very numerous in the south, and these men like the middle class in the towns, being strong protestants, went with the parliament against the laudian reaction in religion. but land in the hands of great proprietors is conservative, especially when it is held under entails and connected with hereditary nobility; and into the hands of great proprietors the land of england has now entirely passed. the last remnant of the old yeomen freeholders departed in the cumberland statesmen, and the yeoman freeholder in england is now about as rare as the other. commerce has itself assisted the process by giving birth to great fortunes, the owners of which are led by social ambition to buy landed estates, because to land the odour of feudal superiority still clings, and it is almost the necessary qualification for a title. the land has also actually absorbed a large portion of the wealth produced by manufactures, and by the general development of industry; the estates of northern landowners especially have enormously increased in value, through the increase of population, not to mention the not inconsiderable appropriation of commercial wealth by marriage. thus the conservative element retains its predominance, and it even seems as though the land of milton, vane, cromwell, and the reformers of , might after all become, politically as well as territorially, the domain of a vast aristocracy of landowners, and the most reactionary instead of the most progressive country in europe. before the repeal of the corn laws there was a strong antagonism of interest between the landowning aristocracy and the manufacturers of the north, but that antagonism is now at an end; the sympathy of wealth has taken its place; the old aristocracy has veiled its social pride and learned to conciliate the new men, who on their part are more than willing to enter the privileged circle. this junction is at present the great fact of english politics, and was the main cause of the overthrow of the liberal government in . the growth of the great cities itself seems likely, as the number of poor householders increases, to furnish reaction with auxiliaries in the shape of political lazzaroni capable of being organized by wealth in opposition to the higher order of workmen and the middle class. in harrington's "oceana," there is much nonsense, but it rises at least to the level of montesquieu in tracing the intimate connection of political power, even under elective institutions, with wealth in land. hitherto, the result of the balance between the landowning and commercial elements has been steadiness of political progress, in contrast on the one hand to the commercial republics of italy, whose political progress was precocious and rapid but shortlived, and on the other hand to great feudal kingdoms where commerce was comparatively weak. england, as yet, has taken but few steps backwards. it remains to be seen what the future may bring under the changed conditions which we have just described. english commerce, moreover, may have passed its acme. her insular position gave great britain during the napoleonic wars, with immunity from invasion, a monopoly of manufactures and of the carrying trade. this element of her commercial supremacy is transitory, though others, such as the possession of coal, are not. let us now consider the effects of the division between the two islands and of those between different parts of the larger island. the most obvious effect of these is tardy consolidation, which is still indicated by the absence of a collective name for the people of the three kingdoms. the writer was once rebuked by a scotchman for saying "england" and "english," instead of saying "great britain" and "british." he replied that the rebuke was just, but that we must say "british and irish." the scot had overlooked his poor connections. we always speak of anglo-saxons and identify the extension of the colonial empire with that of the anglo-saxon race. but even if we assume that the celts of england and of the scotch lowlands were exterminated by the saxons, taking all the elements of celtic population in the two islands together, they must bear a very considerable proportion to the teutonic element. that large irish settlements are being formed in the cities of northern england is proved by election addresses coquetting with home rule. in the competition of the races on the american continent the irish more than holds its own. in the age of the steam- engine the scotch highlands, the mountains of cumberland and westmoreland, of wales, of devonshire, and cornwall, are the asylum of natural beauty, of poetry and hearts which seek repose from the din and turmoil of commercial life. in the primaeval age of conquest they, with seagirt ireland, were the asylum of the weaker race. there the celt found refuge when saxon invasion swept him from the open country of england and from the scotch lowlands. there he was preserved with his own language, indicating by its variety of dialects the rapid flux and change of unwritten speech; with his own christianity, which was that of apostolic britain; with his un-teutonic gifts and weaknesses, his lively, social, sympathetic nature, his religious enthusiasm, essentially the same in its calvinistic as in its catholic guise, his superstition, his clannishness, his devotion to chiefs and leaders, his comparative indifference to institutions, and lack of natural aptitude for self-government. the further we go in these inquiries the more reason there seems to be for believing that the peculiarities of races are not congenital, but impressed by primaeval circumstance. not only the same moral and intellectual nature, but the same primitive institutions, are found in all the races that come under our view; they appear alike in teuton, celt, and semite. that which is not congenital is probably not indelible, so that the less favoured races, placed under happier circumstances, may in time be brought to the level of the more favoured, and nothing warrants inhuman pride of race. but it is surely absurd to deny that peculiarities of race, when formed, are important factors in history. mr. buckle, who is most severe upon the extravagances of the race theory, himself runs into extravagances not less manifest in a different direction. he connects the religious character of the spaniards with the influence of apocryphal volcanoes and earthquakes, whereas it palpably had its origin in the long struggle with the moors. he, in like manner, connects the theological tendencies of the scotch with the thunderstorms which he imagines (wrongly, if we may judge by our own experience) to be very frequent in the highlands, whereas scotch theology and the religious habits of the scotch generally were formed in the lowlands and among the teutons, not among the celts. the remnant of the celtic race in cornwall and west devon was small, and was subdued and half incorporated by the teutons at a comparatively early period; yet it played a distinct and a decidedly celtic part in the civil war of the seventeenth century. it played a more important part towards the close of the following century by giving itself almost in a mass to john wesley. no doubt the neglect of the remote districts by the bishops of exeter and their clergy left wesley a clear field; but the temperament of the people was also in his favour. anything fervent takes with the celt, while he cannot abide the religious compromise which commends itself to the practical saxon. in the great charter there is a provision in favour of the welsh, who were allied with the barons in insurrection against the crown. the barons were fighting for the charter, the welshmen only for their barbarous and predatory independence. but the struggle for welsh independence helped those who were struggling for the charter; and the remark may be extended in substance to the general influence of wales on the political contest between the crown and the barons. even under the house of lancaster, llewellyn was faintly reproduced in owen glendower. the powerful monarchy of the tudors finally completed the annexation. but isolation survived independence. the welshman remained a celt and preserved his language and his clannish spirit, though local magnates, such as the family of wynn, filled the place in his heart once occupied by the chief. ecclesiastically he was annexed, but refused to be incorporated, never seeing the advantage of walking in the middle path which the state church of england had traced between the extremes of popery and dissent. he took methodism in a calvinistic and almost wildly enthusiastic form. in this respect his isolation is likely to prove far more important than anything which welsh patriotism strives to resuscitate by eisteddfodds. in the struggle, apparently imminent, between the system of church establishments and religious equality, wales furnishes a most favourable battle-ground to the party of disestablishment. the teutonic realm of england was powerful enough to subdue, if not to assimilate, the remnants of the celtic race in wales and their other western hills of refuge. but the teutonic realm of scotland was not large or powerful enough to subdue the celts of the highlands, whose fastnesses constituted in geographical area the greater portion of the country. it seems that in the case of the highlands, as in that of ireland, teutonic adventurers found their way into the domain of the celts and became chieftains, but in becoming chieftains they became celts. down to the hanoverian times the chain of the grampians which from the castle of stirling is seen rising like a wall over the rich plain, divided from each other two nationalities, differing totally in ideas, institutions, habits, and costume, as well as in speech, and the less civilized of which still regarded the more civilized as alien intruders, while the more civilized regarded the less civilized as robbers. internally, the topographical character of the highlands was favourable to the continuance of the clan system, because each clan having its own separate glen, fusion was precluded, and the progress towards union went no further than the domination of the more powerful clans over the less powerful. mountains also preserve the general equality and brotherhood which are not less essential to the constitution of the clan than devotion to the chief, by preventing the use of that great minister of aristocracy, the horse. at killiecrankie and prestonpans the leaders of the clan and the humblest clansman still charged on foot side by side. macaulay is undoubtedly right in saying that the highland risings against william iii. and the first two georges were not dynastic but clan movements. they were in fact the last raids of the gael upon the country which had been wrested from him by the sassenach. little cared the clansman for the principles of filmer or locke, for the claims of the house of stuart or for those of the house of brunswick. antipathy to the clan campbell was the nearest approach to a political motive. chiefs alone, such as the unspeakable lovat, had entered as political _condottieri_ into the dynastic intrigues of the period, and brought the claymores of their clansmen to the standard of their patron, as indian chiefs in the american wars brought the tomahawks of their tribes to the standard of france or england. celtic independence greatly contributed to the general perpetuation of anarchy in scotland, to the backwardness of scotch civilization, and to the abortive weakness of the parliamentary institutions. union with the more powerful kingdom at last supplied the force requisite for the taming of the celt. highlanders, at the bidding of chatham's genius, became the soldiers, and are now the pet soldiers, of the british monarchy. a hanoverian tailor with improving hand shaped the highland plaid, which had originally resembled the simple drapery of the irish kern, into a garb of complex beauty, well suited for fancy balls. the power of the chiefs and the substance of the clan system were finally swept away, though the sentiment lingers, even in the transatlantic abodes of the clansmen, and is prized, like the dress, as a remnant of social picturesqueness in a prosaic and levelling age. the hills and lakes--at the thought of which even gibbon shuddered--are the favourite retreats of the luxury which seeks in wildness refreshment from civilization. after culloden, presbyterianism effectually made its way into the highlands, of which a great part had up to that time been little better than heathen; but it did not fail to take a strong tinge of celtic enthusiasm and superstition. of all the lines of division in great britain, the most important politically has been that which is least clearly traced by the hand of nature. the natural barriers between england and scotland were not sufficient to prevent the extension of the saxon settlements and kingdoms across the border. in the name of the scotch capital we have a monument of a union before that of . that the norman conquest did not include the saxons of the scotch lowlands was due chiefly to the menacing attitude of danish pretenders, and the other military dangers which led the conqueror to guard himself on the north by a broad belt of desolation. edward i., in attempting to extend his feudal supremacy over scotland, may well have seemed to himself to have been acting in the interest of both nations, for a union would have put an end to border war, and would have delivered the scotch in the lowlands from the extremity of feudal oppression, and the rest of the country from a savage anarchy, giving them in place of those curses by far the best government of the time. the resistance came partly from mere barbarism, partly from norman adventurers, who were no more scotch than english, whose aims were purely selfish, and who would gladly have accepted scotland as a vassal kingdom from edward's hand. but the annexation would no doubt have formidably increased the power of the crown, not only by extending its dominions, but by removing that which was a support often of aristocratic anarchy in england, but sometimes of rudimentary freedom. had the whole island fallen under one victorious sceptre, the next wielder of that sceptre, under the name of the great edward's wittold son, would have been piers gaveston. but what no prescience on the part of any one in the time of edward i. could possibly have foreseen was the inestimable benefit which disunion and even anarchy indirectly conferred on the whole island in the shape of a separate scotch reformation. divines, when they have exhausted their reasonings about the rival forms of church government, will probably find that the argument which had practically most effect in determining the question was that of the much decried but in his way sagacious james i., "no bishop, no king!" in england the reformation was semi-catholic; in sweden it was lutheran; but in both countries it was made by the kings, and in both episcopacy was retained. where the reformation was the work of the people, more popular forms of church government prevailed. in scotland the monarchy, always weak, was at the time of the reformation practically in abeyance, and the master of the movement was emphatically a man of the people. as to the nobles, they seem to have thought only of appropriating the church lands, and to have been willing to leave to the nation the spiritual gratification of settling its own religion. probably they also felt with regard to the disinherited proprietors of the church lands that "stone dead had no fellow." the result was a democratic and thoroughly protestant church, which drew into itself the highest energies, political as well as religious, of a strong and great-hearted people, and by which laud and his confederates, when they had apparently overcome resistance in england, were as milton says, "more robustiously handled." if the scotch auxiliaries did not win the decisive battle of marston moor, they enabled the english parliamentarians to fight and win it. during the dark days of the restoration, english resistance to tyranny was strongly supported on the ecclesiastical side by the martyr steadfastness of the scotch till the joint effort triumphed in the revolution. it is singular and sad to find scotland afterwards becoming one vast rotten borough managed in the time of pitt by dundas, who paid the borough-mongers by appointments in india, with calamitous consequences to the poor hindoo. but the intensity of the local evil perhaps lent force to the revulsion, and scotland has ever since been a distinctly liberal element in british politics, and seems now likely to lead the way to a complete measure of religious freedom. nature to a great extent fore-ordained the high destiny of the larger island, to at least an equal extent she fore-ordained the sad destiny of the smaller island. irish history, studied impartially, is a grand lesson in political charity; so clear is it that in these deplorable annals the more important part was played by adverse circumstance, the less important by the malignity of man. that the stronger nation is entitled by the law of force to conquer its weaker neighbour and to govern the conquered in its own interest is a doctrine which civilized morality abhors; but in the days before civilized morality, in the days when the only law was that of natural selection, to which philosophy, by a strange counter-revolution seems now inclined to return, the smaller island was almost sure to be conquered by the possessors of the larger, more especially as the smaller, cut off from the continent by the larger, lay completely within its grasp. the map, in short, tells us plainly that the destiny of ireland was subordinated to that of great britain. at the same time, the smaller island being of considerable size and the channel of considerable breadth, it was likely that the resistance would be tough and the conquest slow. the unsettled state of ireland, and the half-nomad condition in which at a comparatively late period its tribes remained, would also help to protract the bitter process of subjugation; and these again were the inevitable results of the rainy climate, which, while it clothed the island with green and made pasture abundant, forbade the cultivation of grain. ireland and wales alike appear to have been the scenes of a precocious civilization, merely intellectual and literary in its character, and closely connected with the church, though including also a bardic element derived from the times before christianity, the fruits of which were poetry, fantastic law-making, and probably the germs of scholastic theology, combined, in the case of ireland, with missionary enterprise and such ecclesiastical architecture as the round towers. but cities there were none, and it is evident that the native church with difficulty sustained her higher life amidst the influences and encroachments of surrounding barbarism. the anglo-norman conquest of ireland was a supplement to the norman conquest of england; and, like the norman conquest of england, it was a religious as well as a political enterprise. as hildebrand had commissioned william to bring the national church of england into complete submission to the see of rome, so adrian, by the bull which is the stumbling-block of irish catholics, granted ireland to henry upon condition of his reforming, that is, romanizing, its primitive and schismatic church. ecclesiastical intrigue had already been working in the same direction, and had in some measure prepared the way for the conqueror by disposing the heads of the irish clergy to receive him as the emancipator of the church from the secular oppression and imposts of the chiefs. but in the case of england, a settled and agricultural country, the conquest was complete and final; the conquerors formed everywhere a new upper class which, though at first alien and oppressive, became in time a national nobility, and ultimately blended with the subject race. in the case of ireland, though the septs were easily defeated by the norman soldiery, and the formal submission of their chiefs was easily extorted, the conquest was neither complete nor final. in their hills and bogs the wandering septs easily evaded the norman arms. the irish channel was wide; the road lay through north wales, long unsubdued, and, even when subdued, mutinous, and presenting natural obstacles to the passage of heavy troops; the centre of anglo-norman power was far away in the south-east of england, and the force of the monarchy was either attracted to continental fields or absorbed by struggles with baronial factions. richard ii., coming to a throne which had been strengthened and exalted by the achievements of his grandfather, seems in one of his moods of fitful ambition to have conceived the design of completing the conquest of ireland, and he passed over with a great power; but his fate showed that the arm of the monarchy was still too short to reach the dependency without losing hold upon the imperial country. as a rule, the subjugation of ireland during the period before the tudors was in effect left to private enterprise, which of course confined its efforts to objects of private gain, and never thought of undertaking the systematic subjugation of native fortresses in the interest of order and civilization. instead of a national aristocracy the result was a military colony or pale, between the inhabitants of which and the natives raged a perpetual border war, as savage as that between the settlers at the cape and the kaffirs, or that between the american frontierman and the red indian. the religious quarrel was and has always been secondary in importance to the struggle of the races for the land. in the period following the conquest it was the pale that was distinctively romanist; but when at the reformation the pale became protestant the natives, from antagonism of race, became more intensely catholic, and were drawn into the league of catholic powers on the continent, in which they suffered the usual fate of the dwarf who goes to battle with the giant. by the strong monarchy of the tudors the conquest of ireland was completed with circumstances of cruelty sufficient to plant undying hatred in the breasts of the people. but the struggle for the land did not end there, instead of the form of conquest it took that of confiscation, and was waged by the intruder with the arms of legal chicane. in the form of eviction it has lasted to the present hour; and eviction in ireland is not like eviction in england, where great manufacturing cities receive and employ the evicted; it is starvation or exile. into exile the irish people have gone by millions, and thus, though neither maritime nor by nature colonists, they have had a great share in the peopling of the new world. the cities and railroads of the united states are to a great extent the monuments of their labour. in the political sphere they have retained the weakness produced by ages of political serfage, and are still the _debris_ of broken clans, with little about them of the genuine republican, apt blindly to follow the leader who stands to them as a chief, while they are instinctively hostile to law and government as their immemorial oppressors in their native land. british statesmen, when they had conceded catholic emancipation and afterwards disestablishment, may have fancied that they had removed the root of the evil. but the real root was not touched till parliament took up the question of the land, and effected a compromise which may perhaps have to be again revised before complete pacification is attained. in another way geography has exercised a sinister influence on the fortunes of ireland. closely approaching scotland, the northern coast of ireland in course of time invited scotch immigration, which formed as it were a presbyterian pale. if the antagonism between the english episcopalian and the irish catholic was strong, that between the scotch presbyterian and the irish catholic was stronger. to the english episcopalian the irish catholic was a barbarian and a romanist; to the scotch presbyterian he was a canaanite and an idolater. nothing in history is more hideous than the conflict in the north of ireland in the time of charles i. this is the feud which has been tenacious enough of its evil life to propagate itself even in the new world, and to renew in the streets of canadian cities the brutal and scandalous conflicts which disgrace belfast. on the other hand, through the scotch colony, the larger island has a second hold upon the smaller. of all political projects a federal union of england and ireland with separate parliaments under the same crown seems the most hopeless, at least if government is to remain parliamentary; it may be safely said that the normal relation between the two parliaments would be collision, and collision on a question of peace or war would be disruption. but an independent ireland might be a feasible as well as natural object of irish aspiration if it were not for the strength, moral as well as numerical, of the two intrusive elements. how could the catholic majority be restrained from legislation which the protestant minority would deem oppressive? and how could the protestant minority, being as it is more english or scotch than irish, be restrained from stretching its hands to england or scotland for aid? it is true that if scepticism continues to advance at its present rate, the lines of religious separation may be obliterated or become too faint to exercise a great practical influence, and the bond of the soil may then prevail. but the feeling against england which is the strength of irish nationalism is likely to subside at the same time. speculation on unfulfilled contingencies is not invariably barren. it is interesting at all events to consider what would have been the consequences to the people of the two islands, and humanity generally, if a saxon england and a celtic ireland had been allowed to grow up and develop by the side of each other untouched by norman conquest. in the case of ireland we should have been spared centuries of oppression which has profoundly reacted, as oppression always does, on the character of the oppressor; and it is difficult to believe that the isle of saints and of primitive universities would not have produced some good fruits of its own. in the norman conquest of england historical optimism sees a great political and intellectual blessing beneath the disguise of barbarous havoc and alien tyranny. the conquest was the continuation of the process of migratory invasions by which the nations of modern europe were founded, from restless ambition and cupidity, when it had ceased to be beneficent. it was not the superposition of one primitive element of population on another, to the ultimate advantage, possibly, of the compound; but the destruction of a nationality, the nationality of alfred and harold, of bede and aelfric. the french were superior in military organization; that they had superior gifts of any kind, or that their promise was higher than that of the native english, it would not be easy to prove. the language, we are told, is enriched by the intrusion of the french element. if it was enriched it was shattered; and the result is a mixture so heterogeneous as to be hardly available for the purposes of exact thought, while the language of science is borrowed from the greek, and as regards the unlearned mass of the people is hardly a medium of thought at all. there are great calamity in history, though their effects may in time be worked off, and they may be attended by some incidental good. perhaps the greatest calamity in history were the wars of napoleon, in which some incidental good may nevertheless be found. to the influences of geographical position, soil, and race is to be added, to complete the account of the physical heritage, the influence of climate. but in the case of the british islands we must speak not of climate, but of climates, for within the compass of one small realm are climates moist and comparatively dry, warm and cold, bracing and enervating, the results of special influences the range of which is limited. civilized man to a great extent makes a climate for himself; his life in the north is spent mainly indoors, where artificial heat replaces the sun. the idea which still haunts us, that formidable vigour and aptitude for conquest are the appanage of northern races, is a survival from the state in which the rigour of nature selected and hardened the destined conquerors of the roman empire. the stoves of st. petersburg are as enervating as the sun of naples, and in the struggle between the northern and southern states of america not the least vigorous soldiers were those who came from louisiana. in the barbarous state the action of a northern climate as a force of natural selection must be tremendous. of the races which peopled the british islands the most important had already undergone that action in their original abodes. they would, however, still feel the beneficent influence of a climate on the whole eminently favourable to health and to activity; bracing, yet not so rigorous as to kill those tender plants of humanity which often bear in them the most precious germs of civilization, neither confining the inhabitant too much to the shelter of his dwelling, nor, as the suns of the south are apt to do, drawing him too much from home. the climate and the soil together formed a good school for the character of the young nation, as they exacted the toil of the husbandman and rewarded it. of the varieties of temperature and weather within the island the national character still bears the impress, though in a degree always decreasing as the assimilating agencies of civilization make their way. irrespectively of the influence of special employments, and perhaps even of peculiarity of race, mental vigour, independence, and reasoning power are always ascribed to the people of the north. variety, in this as in other respects, would naturally produce a balance of tendencies in the nation conductive to moderation and evenness of progress. the islands are now the centre of an empire which to some minds seems more important than the islands themselves. an empire it is called, but the name is really applicable only to india. the relation of england to her free colonies is not in the proper sense of the term imperial, while her relation to such dependencies as gibraltar and malta is military alone. colonization is the natural and entirely beneficent result of general causes, obvious enough and already mentioned, including that power of self-government, fostered by the circumstances of the colonizing country, which made the character and destiny of new england so different from those of new france. equally natural was the choice of the situation for the original colonies on the shore of the new world. the foundation of the australian colonies, on the other hand, was determined by political accident, compensation for the loss of the american colonies being sought on the other side of the globe. it will perhaps be thought hereafter that the quarrel with new england was calamitous in its consequences as well as in itself, since it led to the diversion of british emigration from america, where it supplied, in a democracy of mixed but not uncongenial races, the necessary element of guidance and control, to australia, where, as there must be a limit to its own multiplication, it may hereafter have to struggle for mastery with swarming multitudes of chinese, almost as incurable of incorporation with it as the negro. india and the other conquered dependencies are the fruits of strength as a war power at sea combined with weakness on land. though not so generally noticed, the second of these two factors has not been less operative than the first. chatham attacked france in her distant dependencies when he had failed to make any impression on her own coasts. still more clearly was chatham's son, the most incapable of war ministers, driven to the capture of sugar islands by his inability to take part, otherwise than by subsidies, in the decisive struggle on the continental fields. this may deserve the attention of those who do not think it criminal to examine the policy of empire. outlying pawns picked up by a feeble chessplayer merely because he could not mate the king do not at first sight necessarily commend themselves as invaluable possessions. carthage and venice were merely great commercial cities, which, when they entered on a career of conquest, were compelled at once to form armies of mercenaries, and to incur all the evil consequences by which the employment of those vile and fatal instruments of ambition is attended. england being, not a commercial city, but a nation, and a nation endowed with the highest military qualities, has escaped the fell necessity except in the case of india; and india, under the reign of the company, and even for some time after its legal annexation to the crown, was regarded and treated almost as a realm in another planet, with an army, a political system, and a morality of its own. but now it appears that the wrongs of the hindoo are going to be avenged, as the wrongs of the conquered have often been, by their moral effect upon the conqueror. a body of barbarian mercenaries has appeared upon the european scene as an integral part of the british army, while the reflex influence of indian empire upon the political character and tendencies of the imperial nation is too manifest to be any longer overlooked. england now stands where the paths divide, the one leading by industrial and commercial progress to increase of political liberty; the other, by a career of conquest, to the political results in which such a career has never yet failed to end. at present the influences in favour of taking the path of conquest seemed to preponderate, [footnote: written in .] and the probability seems to be that the leadership of political progress, which has hitherto belonged to england and has constituted the special interest of her history, will, in the near future, pass into other hands. the great duel of the seventeenth century [footnote: in this lecture free use has been made of recent writers-- mitchell, chapman, vehse, freytag and ranke, as well as of the older authorities. to chapman's excellent life of gustavus adolphus we are under special obligations. in some passages it has been closely followed. colonel mitchell has also supplied some remarks and touches, such as are to be found only in a military writer.] an episode of the thirty years' war. the thirty years' war is an old story, but its interest has been recently revived. the conflict between austria and german independence commenced in the struggle of the protestant princes against charles v., and, continued on those battle-fields, was renewed and decided at sadowa. at sadowa germany was fighting for unity as well as for independence. but in the thirty years' war it was austria that with her croats, the jesuits who inspired her councils, and her spanish allies, sought to impose a unity of death, against which protestant germany struggled, preserving herself for a unity of life which, opened by the victories of frederick the great, and, more nobly promoted by the great uprising of the nation against the tyranny of napoleon, was finally accomplished at sadowa, and ratified against french jealousy at sedan. costly has been the achievement; lavish has been the expenditure of german blood, severe the sufferings of the german people. it is the lot of all who aspire high--no man or nation ever was dandled into greatness. the thirty years' war was a real world-contest. austria and spain drew after them all the powers of reaction; all the powers of liberty and progress were arrayed on the other side. the half-barbarous races that lay between civilized europe and turkey mingled in the conflict: turkey herself was drawn diplomatically into the vortex. in the mines of mexico and peru the indian toiled to furnish both the austrian and spanish hosts. the treaty of westphalia, which concluded the struggle, long remained the public law of europe. half religious, half political, in its character, this war stands midway between the religious wars of the sixteenth century, and the political wars of the eighteenth. france took the political view; and, while she crushed her own huguenots at home, supported the german protestants against the house of austria. even the pope, urban viii., more politician than churchman, more careful of peter's patrimony than of peter's creed, went with france to the protestant side. with the princes, as usual, political motives were the strongest, with the people religious motives. the politics were to a sad extent those of machiavelli and the jesuit; but above the meaner characters who crowd the scene rise at least two grand forms. in a military point of view, the thirty years' war will bear no comparison with that which has just run its marvellous course. the armies were small, seldom exceeding thirty thousand. tilly thought forty thousand the largest number which a general could handle, while von moltke has handled half a million. there was no regular commissariat, there were no railroads, there were no good roads, there were no accurate maps, there was no trained staff. the general had to be everything and to do everything himself. the financial resources of the powers were small: their regular revenues soon failed; and they had to fly for loans to great banking houses, such as that of the fuggers at augsburgh, so that the money power became the arbiter even of imperial elections. the country on which the armies lived was soon eaten up by their rapine. hence the feebleness of the operations, the absence of anything which von moltke would call strategy: and hence again the cruel length of the war, a whole generation of german agony. but if the war was weak, not so were the warriors. on the imperial side especially, they were types of a class of men, the most terrible perhaps, as well as the vilest, who ever plied the soldier's trade: of those mercenary bands, _soldados_, in the literal and original sense of the term, free companions, _condottieri_, lansquenets, who came between the feudal militia and the standing armies of modern times. in the wars of italy and the low countries, under alva and parma and freundsberg, these men had opened new abysses of cruelty and lust in human nature. they were the lineal representatives of the great companies which ravaged france in the time of edward iii. they were near of kin to the buccaneers, and scott's bertram risingham is the portrait of a lansquenet as well as of a rover of the spanish main. many of them were croats, a race well known through all history in the ranks of austrian tyranny, and walloons, a name synonymous with that of hired butcher and marauder. but with croats and walloons were mingled germans, spaniards, italians, englishmen, scotchmen, irishmen, outcasts of every land, bearing the devil's stamp on faces of every complexion, blaspheming in all european and some non-european tongues. their only country was the camp; their cause booty; their king the bandit general who contracted for their blood. of attachment to religious principle they had usually just enough to make them prefer murdering and plundering in the name of the virgin to murdering and plundering in the name of the gospel, but outcasts of all nominal creeds were found together in their camps. even the dignity of hatred was wanting to their conflicts, for they changed sides without scruple, and the comrade of yesterday was the foeman of to-day, and again the comrade of the morrow. the only moral salt which kept the carcass of their villainy from rotting was a military code of honour, embodying the freemasonry of the soldier's trade and having as one of its articles the duel with all the forms--an improvement at any rate upon assassination. a stronger contrast there cannot be than that between these men and the citizen soldiers whom germany the other day sent forth to defend their country and their hearths. the soldier had a language of his own, polyglot as the elements of the band, and garnished with unearthly oaths: and the void left by religion in his soul was filled with wild superstitions, bullet charming and spells against bullets, the natural reflection in dark hearts of the blind chance which since the introduction of firearms seemed to decide the soldier's fate. having no home but the camp, he carried with him his family, a she wolf and her cubs, cruel and marauding as himself; and the numbers and unwieldiness of every army were doubled by a train of waggons full of women and children sitting on heaps of booty. it was not, we may guess, as ministering angels that these women went among the wounded after a battle. the chiefs made vast fortunes. common soldiers sometimes drew a great prize; left the standard for a time and lived like princes; but the fiend's gold soon found its way back to the giver through the jews who prowled in the wake of war, or at the gambling table which was the central object in every camp. when fortune smiled, when pay was good, when a rich city had been stormed, the soldier's life was in its way a merry one; his camp was full of roystering revelry; he, his lady and his charger glittered with not over-tasteful finery, the lady sometimes with finery stripped from the altars. then, glass in hand he might joyously cry, "the sharp sword is my farm and plundering is my plough; earth is my bed, the sky my covering, this cloak is my house, this wine my paradise;" or chant the doggerel stave which said that "when a soldier was born three boors were given him, one to find him food, another to find him a comely lass, a third to go to perdition in his stead." but when the country had been eaten up, when the burghers held the city stoutly, when the money-kings refused to advance the war kings any more gold, the soldier shared the miseries which he inflicted, and, unless he was of iron, sank under his hardships, unpitied by his stronger comrades; for the rule of that world was woe to the weak. terrible then were the mutinies. fearful was the position of the commander. we cannot altogether resist the romance which attaches to the life of these men, many a one among whom could have told a tale as wild as that with which othello, the hero of their tribe, won his desdemona, in whose love he finds the countercharm of his wandering life. but what sort of war such a soldiery made, may be easily imagined. its treatment of the people and the country wherever it marched, as minutely described by trustworthy witnesses, was literally fiendish. germany did not recover the effects for two hundred years. a century had passed since the first preaching of luther. jesuitism, working from its great seminary at ingoldstadt, and backed by austria, had won back many, especially among the princes and nobility, to the church of rome; but in the main the germans, like the other teutons, were still protestant even in the hereditary domains of the house of austria. the rival religions stood facing each other within the nominal unity of the empire, in a state of uneasy truce and compromise, questions about ecclesiastical domains and religious privileges still open; formularies styled of concord proving formularies of discord; no mediating authority being able to make church authority and liberty of private judgment, reaction and progress, the spirit of the past and the spirit of the future lie down in real peace together. the protestants had formed an evangelical union, their opponents a catholic league, of which maximilian, elector of bavaria, a pupil of the jesuits, was chief. the protestants were ill prepared for the struggle. there was fatal division between the lutherans and the calvinists, luther himself having said in his haste that he hated a calvinist more than a papist. the great protestant princes were lukewarm and weak-kneed: like the tudor nobility of england, they clung much more firmly to the lands which they had taken from the catholics than to the faith in the name of which the lands were taken; and as powers of order, naturally alarmed by the disorders which attended the great religious revolution, they were politically inclined to the imperial side. the lesser nobility and gentry, staunch protestants for the most part, had shown no capacity for vigorous and united action since their premature attempt under arnold von sickingen. on the peasantry, also staunch protestants, still weighed the reaction produced by the peasants' war and the excesses of the anabaptists. in the free cities there was a strong burgher element ready to fight for protestantism and liberty; but even in the free cities wealth was conservative, and to the rothschilds of the day the cause which offered high interest and good security was the cause of heaven. the smouldering fire burst into a flame in bohemia, a kingdom of the house of austria, and a member of the empire, but peopled by hot, impulsive sclavs, jealous of their nationality, as well as of their protestant faith--bohemia, whither the spark of wycliffism had passed along the electric chain of common universities by which mediaeval christendom was bound, and where it had kindled first the martyr fire of john huss and jerome of prague, then the fiercer conflagration of the hussite war. in that romantic city by the moldau, with its strange, half oriental beauty, where jesuitism now reigns supreme, and st. john nepemuch is the popular divinity, protestantism and jesuitism then lay in jealous neighbourhood, protestantism supported by the native nobility, from anarchical propensity as well as from religious conviction; jesuitism patronized and furtively aided by the intrusive austrian power. from the emperor rudolph ii., the protestants had obtained a charter of religious liberties. but rudolph's successor, ferdinand ii., was the philip ii. of germany in bigotry, though not in cruelty. in his youth, after a pilgrimage to loretto, he had vowed at the feet of the pope to restore catholicism at the hazard of his life. he was a pupil of the jesuits, almost worshipped priests, was passionately devoted to the ceremonies of his religion, delighting even in the functions of an acolyte, and, as he said, preferred a desert to an empire full of heretics. he had, moreover, before his accession to the throne, come into collision with protestantism where it was triumphant, and had found in its violence too good an excuse for his bigotry. it was inevitable that as king of bohemia he should attempt to narrow the protestant liberties. the hot czech blood took fire, the fierceness of political turbulence mingled with that of religious zeal, and at a council held at prague, in the old palace of the bohemian kings, martiniz and slavata, the most hated of ferdinand's creatures, were thrown out of a window in what was called good bohemian fashion, and only by a marvellous accident escaped with their lives. the first blow was struck, the signal was given for thirty years of havoc. insurrection flamed up in bohemia. at the head of the insurgents, count thurn rushed on vienna. the emperor was saved only by a miracle, as jesuitism averred,--as rationalism says, by the arrival of dampierre's imperial horse. he suffered a fright which must have made him more than ever prefer a desert to an empire full of heretics. by a vote of the states of bohemia the crown was taken from ferdinand and offered to frederic, elector palatine. frederic was married to the bright and fascinating princess elizabeth of england, the darling of protestant hearts; other qualifications for that crown of peril he had none. but in an evil hour he accepted the offer. soon his unfitness appeared. a foreigner, he could not rein the restive and hard mouthed czech nobility, a calvinist and a pupil of the huguenots, he unwisely let loose calvinist iconoclasm among a people who clung to their ancient images though they had renounced their ancient faith. supinely he allowed austria and the catholic league to raise their croats and walloons with the ready aid, so valuable in that age of unready finance, of spanish gold. supinely he saw the storm gather and roll towards him. supinely he lingered in his palace, while on the white hill, a name fatal in protestant annals, his army, filled with his own discouragement, was broken by the combined forces of the empire, under bucquoi, and of the catholic league, under count tilly. still there was hope in resistance, yet frederic fled. he was in great danger, say his apologists. it was to face a great danger, and show others how to face it, that he had come there. let a man, before he takes the crown of bohemia, look well into his own heart. then followed a scaffold scene like that of egmont and horn, but on a larger scale. ferdinand, it seems, hesitated to shed blood, but his confessor quelled his scruples. before the city hall of prague, and near the thein church, bearing the hussite emblems of the chalice and sword, amidst stern military pomp, the emperor presiding in the person of his high commissioner, twenty- four victims of high rank were led forth to death. just as the executions commenced a bright rainbow spanned the sky. to the victims it seemed an assurance of heaven's mercy. to the more far-reaching eye of history it may seem to have been an assurance that, dark as the sky then was, the flood of reaction should no more cover the earth. but dark the sky was: the counter-reformation rode on the wings of victory, and with ruthless cruelty, through bohemia, through moravia, through austria proper, which had shown sympathy with the bohemian revolt. the lands of the protestant nobility were confiscated, the nobility itself crushed; in its place was erected a new nobility of courtiers, foreigners, military adventurers devoted to the empire and to catholicism, the seed of the metternichs. for ten years the tide ran steadily against protestantism and german independence. the protestants were without cohesion, without powerful chiefs. count mansfeldt was a brilliant soldier, with a strong dash of the robber. christian of brunswick was a brave knight errant, fighting, as his motto had it, for god and for elizabeth of bohemia. but neither of them had any great or stable force at his back, and if a ray of victory shone for a moment on their standards, it was soon lost in gloom. in frederick, ex-king of bohemia, was no help; and his charming queen could only win for him hearts like that of christian of brunswick. the great protestant princes of the north, saxony and brandenburgh, twin pillars of the cause that should have been, were not only lukewarm, timorous, superstitiously afraid of taking part against the emperor, but they were sybarites, or rather sots, to whose gross hearts no noble thought could find its way. their inaction was almost justified by the conduct of the protestant chiefs, whose councils were full of folly and selfishness, whose policy seemed mere anarchy, and who too often made war like buccaneers. the evangelical union, in which lutheranism and political quietism prevailed, refused its aid to the calvinist and usurping king of bohemia. among foreign powers, england was divided in will, the nation being enthusiastically for protestantism and elizabeth of bohemia, while the court leant to the side of order and hankered after the spanish marriage. france was not divided in will: her single will was that of richelieu, who, to weaken austria, fanned the flame of civil war in germany, as he did in england, but lent no decisive aid. bethlem gabor, the evangelical prince of transylvania, led semi- barbarous hosts, useful as auxiliaries, but incapable of bearing the main brunt of the struggle; and he was trammelled by his allegiance to his suzerain, the sultan. the catholic league was served by a first-rate general in the person of tilly; the empire by a first-rate general and first-rate statesman in the person of wallenstein. the palatinate was conquered, and the electorate was transferred by imperial fiat to maximilian of bavaria, the head of the catholic league, whereby a majority was given to the catholics in the hitherto equally-divided college of electors. an imperial edict of restitution went forth, restoring to catholicism all that it had lost by conversion within the last seventy years. over all germany, jesuits and capuchins swarmed with the mandates of reaction in their hands. the king of denmark tardily took up arms only to be overthrown by tilly at lutter, and again at wolgast by wallenstein. the catholic and imperial armies were on the northern seas. wallenstein, made admiral of the empire, was preparing a basis of maritime operations against the protestant kingdoms of scandinavia, against the last asylum of protestantism and liberty in holland. germany, with all its intellect and all its hopes, was on the point of becoming a second spain. teutonism was all but enslaved to the croat. the double star of the house of austria seemed with baleful aspect to dominate in the sky, and to threaten with extinction european liberty and progress. one bright spot alone remained amidst the gloom. by the side of the brave burghers who beat back the prince of parma from the cities of holland, a place must be made in history for the brave burghers who beat back wallenstein from stralsund, after he had sworn, in his grand, impious way, that he would take it though it were bound by a chain to heaven. the eyes of all protestants were turned, says richelieu, like those of sailors, towards the north. and from the north a deliverer came. on midsummer day, , a bright day in the annals of protestantism, of germany, and, as protestants and germans must believe, of human liberty and progress, gustavus adolphus, king of sweden, landed at penemunde, on the pomeranian coast, and knelt down on the shore to give thanks to god for his safe passage; then showed at once his knowledge of the art of war and of the soldier's heart, by himself taking spade in hand, and commencing the entrenchment of his camp. gustavus was the grandson of that gustavus vasa who had broken at once the bonds of denmark and of rome, and had made sweden independent and lutheran. he was the son of that charles vasa who had defeated the counter-reformation. devoted from his childhood to the protestant cause, hardily trained in a country where even the palace was the abode of thrift and self-denial, his mind enlarged by a liberal education, in regard for which, amidst her poverty, as in general character and habits of her people, his sweden greatly resembled scotland; his imagination stimulated by the wild scenery, the dark forests, the starry nights of scandinavia; gifted by nature both in mind and body; the young king had already shown himself a hero. he had waged grim war with the powers of the icy north; he bore several scars, proofs of a valour only too great for the vast interests which depended on his life; he had been a successful innovator in tactics, or rather a successful restorer of the military science of the romans. but the best of his military innovations were discipline and religion. his discipline redeemed the war from savagery, and made it again, so far as war, and war in that iron age could be, a school of humanity and self-control. in religion he was himself not an ascetic saint, there is one light passage at least in his early life: and at augsburg they show a ruff plucked from his neck by a fair augsburger at the crisis of a very brisk flirtation. but he was devout, and he inspired his army with his devotion. the traveller is still struck with the prayer and hymn which open and close the march of the soldiers of gustavus. schools for the soldiers' children were held in his camp. it is true that the besetting sin of the swedes, and of all dwellers in cold countries, is disclosed by the article in his military code directed against the drunkenness of army chaplains. sir thomas roe, the most sagacious of the english diplomatists of that age, wrote of gustavus to james i.--"the king hath solemnly protested that he will not depose arms till he hath spoken one word for your majesty in germany (that was his own phrase), and glory will contend with policy in his resolution; for he hath unlimited thoughts, and is the likeliest instrument for god to work by in europe. we have often observed great alterations to follow great spirits, as if they were fitted for the times. certainly, _ambit fortunam caesaris_: he thinks the ship cannot sink that carries him, and doth thus oblige prosperity." gustavus justified his landing in germany by a manifesto setting forth hostile acts of the emperor against him in poland. no doubt there was a technical _casus belli_. but, morally, the landing of gustavus was a glorious breach of the principle of non-intervention. he came to save the world. he was not the less a fit instrument for god to work by because it was likely that he would rule the world when he had saved it. "a snow king!" tittered the courtiers of vienna, "he will soon melt away." he soon began to prove to them, both in war and diplomacy, that his melting would be slow. richelieu at last ventured on a treaty of alliance. charles i., now on the throne of england, and angry at having been jilted by spain, also entered into a treaty, and sent british auxiliaries, who, though soon reduced in numbers by sickness, always formed a substantial part of the armies of gustavus, and in battle and storm earned their full share of the honour of his campaigns. many british volunteers had already joined the standard of mansfeldt and other protestant chiefs; and if some of these men were mere soldiers of the dugald dalghetty type, some were the garibaldians of their day, and brought back at once enthusiasm and military skill from german battlefields to marston and naseby. diplomacy, aided by a little gentle pressure, drew saxony and brandenburgh to the better cause, now that the better cause was so strong. but while they dallied and haggled one more great disaster was added to the sum of protestant calamity. magdeburgh, the queen of protestant cities, the citadel of north german liberty, fell--fell with gustavus and rescue near--and nameless atrocities were perpetrated by the ferocious bands of the empire on innocents of all ages and both sexes, whose cry goes up against bloodthirsty fanaticism for ever. a shriek of horror rang through the protestant world, not without reproaches against gustavus, who cleared himself by words, and was soon to clear himself better by deeds. count tilly was now in sole command on the catholic and imperial side. wallenstein had been dismissed. a military richelieu, an absolutist in politics, an indifferentist in religion, caring at least for the religious quarrel only as it affected the political question, he aimed at crushing the independence of all the princes, catholic as well as protestant, and making the emperor, or rather wallenstein in the name of the imperial devotee, as much master of germany as the spanish king was of spain. but the disclosure of this policy, and the towering pride of its author had alarmed the catholic princes, and produced a reaction similar to that caused by the absolutist encroachments of charles v. aided by the jesuits, who marked in wallenstein a statesman whose policy was independent of theirs, and who, if not a traitor to the faith, was at least a bad persecutor, maximilian and his confederates forced the emperor to remove wallenstein from command. the great man received the bearers of the mandate with stately courtesy, with princely hospitality, showed them that he had read in the stars the predominance of maximilian over ferdinand, slightly glanced at the emperor's weakness, then withdrew to that palace at prague, so like its mysterious lord, so regal and so fantastic in its splendour, yet so gloomy, so jealously guarded, so full of the spirit of dark ambition, so haunted by the shadow of the dagger. there he lay, watching the storm that gathered in the north, scanning the stars and waiting for his hour. when the swedes and saxons, under gustavus and the elector of saxony, drew near to the imperial army under tilly, in the neighbourhood of leipsic, there was a crisis, a thrill of worldwide expectation, as when the armada approached the shores of england; as when the allies met the forces of louis xiv. at blenheim, as when, on those same plains of leipsic, the uprisen nations advanced to battle against napoleon. count tilly's military genius fell short only of the highest. his figure was one which showed that war had become a science, and that the days of the paladins were past. he was a little old man, with a broad wrinkled forehead, hollow cheeks, a long nose and projecting chin, grotesquely attired in a slashed doublet of green satin, with a peaked hat and a long red feather hanging down behind. his charger was a grey pony, his only weapon a pistol, which it was his delight to say he had never fired in the thirty pitched fields which he had fought and won. he was a walloon by birth, a pupil of the jesuits, a sincere devotee, and could boast that he had never yielded to the allurements of wine or women, as well as that he had never lost a battle. his name was now one of horror, for he was the captor of magdeburg, and if he had not commanded the massacre, or, as it was said, jested at it, he could not be acquitted of cruel connivance. that it was the death of his honour to survive the butchery which he ought to have died, if necessary, in resisting sword in hand, is a soldier's judgment on his case. at his side was pappenheim, another pupil of the jesuits, the dundee of the thirty years' war, with all the devotion, all the loyalty, all the ferocity of the cavalier, the most fiery and brilliant of cavalry officers, the leader of the storming column at magdeburg. in those armies the heavy cavalry was the principal arm. the musket was an unwieldy matchlock fired from a rest, and without a bayonet, so that in the infantry regiments it was necessary to combine pikemen with the musketeers. cannon there were of all calibres and with a whole vocabulary of fantastic names, but none capable of advancing and manoeuvring with troops in battle. the imperial troops were formed in heavy masses. gustavus, taking his lesson from the roman legion, had introduced a more open order--he had lightened the musket, dispensed with the rest, given the musketeer a cartridge box instead of the flapping bandoleer. he had trained his cavalry, instead of firing their carbines and wheeling, to charge home with the sword. he had created a real field artillery of imperfect structure, but which told on the imperial masses. the harvest had been reaped, and a strong wind blew clouds of dust over the bare autumn fields, when count tilly formed the victorious veterans of the empire, in what was called spanish order--infantry in the centre, cavalry on the flanks--upon a rising ground overlooking the broad plain of breitenfeldt. on him marched the allies in two columns--gustavus with the swedes upon the right, the elector with his saxons on the left. as they passed a brook in front of the imperial position, pappenheim dashed upon them with his cavalry, but was driven back, and the two columns deployed upon the plain. the night before the battle gustavus had dreamt that he was wrestling with tilly, and that tilly bit him in the left arm, but that he overpowered tilly with his right arm. that dream came through the gate of horn, for the saxons who formed the left wing were raw troops, but victory was sure to the swede. soldiers of the old school proudly compare the shock of charging armies at leipsic with modern battles, which they call battles of skirmishers with armies in reserve. however this may be, all that day the plain of breitenfeldt was filled with the fierce eddies of a hand-to-hand struggle between mail- clad masses, their cuirasses and helmets gleaming fitfully amidst the clouds of smoke and dust, the mortal shock of the charge and the deadly ring of steel striking the ear with a distinctness impossible in modern battle. tilly with his right soon shattered the saxons, but his centre and left were shattered by the unconquerable swede. the day was won by the genius of the swedish king, by the steadiness with which his troops manoeuvred, and the promptness with which they formed a new front when the defeat of the saxons exposed their left, by the rapidity of their fire and by the vigour with which their cavalry charged. the victory was complete. at sunset four veteran walloon regiments made a last stand for the honour of the empire, and with difficulty bore off their redoubtable commander from his first lost field. through all protestant europe flew the tidings of a great deliverance and the name of a great deliverer. on to vienna cried hope and daring then. on to vienna; history still regretfully repeats the cry. gustavus judged otherwise--and whatever his reason was we may be sure it was not weak. not to the danube therefore but to the main and rhine the tide of conquest rolled. the thuringian forest gleams with fires that guide the night march of the swede. frankfort the city of empire opens her gates to him who will soon come as the hearts of all men divine not as a conqueror in the iron garb of war but as the elect of germany to put on the imperial crown. in the cellars of the prince bishop of bamberg and wurtzburg the rich wine is broached for heretic lips. protestantism everywhere uplifts its head, the archbishop of mainz, chief of the catholic persecutors becomes a fugitive in his turn. jesuit and capuchin must cower or fly. all fortresses are opened by the arms of gustavus, all hearts are opened by his gracious manner, his winning words, his sunny smile. to the people accustomed to a war of massacre and persecution he came as from a better world a spirit of humanity and toleration. his toleration was politic no doubt but it was also sincere. so novel was it that a monk finding himself not butchered or tortured thought the king's faith must be weak and attempted his conversion. his zeal was repaid with a gracious smile. once more on the lech tilly crossed the path of the thunderbolt. dishonoured at magdeburg, defeated at leipsic, the old man seems to have been weary of life, his leg shattered by a cannon hall he was borne dying from the field and left the imperial cause headless as well as beaten. gustavus is in augsburgh, the queen of german commerce, the city of the fuggers with their splendid and romantic money kingdom, the city of the confession. he is in munich, the capital of maximilian and the catholic league. his allies the saxons are in prague. a few marches more and he will dictate peace at vienna with all germany at his back. a few marches more the germans will be a protestant nation under a protestant chief and many a dark page will be torn from the book of fate. ferdinand and maximilian had sought counsel of the dying tilly. tilly had given them counsel bitter but inevitable. dissembling their hate and fear they called like trembling necromancers when they invoke the fiend upon the name of power. the name of wallenstein gave new life to the imperial cause under the very ribs of death. at once he stood between the empire and destruction with an army of , men, conjured, as it were, out of the earth by the spell of his influence alone. all whose trade was war came at the call of the grand master of their trade. the secret of wallenstein's ambition is buried in his grave, but the man himself was the prince of adventurers, the ideal chief of mercenary bands, the arch contractor for the hireling's blood. his character was formed in a vast political gambling house, a world given up to pillage and the strong hand, an eldorado of confiscations. of the lofty dreamer portrayed in the noble dramatic poem of schiller, there is little trace in the intensely practical character of the man. a scion of a good bohemian house, poor himself, but married to a rich wife, whose wealth was the first step in the ladder of his marvellous fortunes, wallenstein had amassed immense domains by the purchase of confiscated estates, a traffic redeemed from meanness only by the vastness of the scale on which he practised it, and the loftiness of the aim which he had in view. then he took to raising and commanding mercenary troops, improving on his predecessors in that trade by doubling the size of his army, on the theory, coolly avowed by him, that a large army would subsist by its command of the country, where a small army would starve. but all was subservient to his towering ambition, and to a pride which has been called theatrical, and which often wore an eccentric garb, but which his death scene proves to have been the native grand infirmity of the man. he walked in dark ways and was unscrupulous and ruthless when on the path of his ambition; but none can doubt the self sustaining force of his lonely intellect, his power of command, the spell which his character cast over the fierce and restless spirits of his age. prince- duke of friedland, mecklenburgh, and sagan, generalissimo of the armies of the house of austria,--to this height had the landless and obscure adventurer risen, in envy's despite, as his motto proudly said, not by the arts of a courtier or a demagogue, but by strength of brain and heart, in a contest with rivals whose brains and hearts were strong. highest he stood among the uncrowned heads of europe, and dreaded by the crowned. we wonder how the boisterous soldiers can have loved a chief who was so far from being a comrade, a being so disdainful and reserved, who at the sumptuous table kept by his officers never appeared, never joined in the revelry, even in the camp lived alone, punished intrusion on his haughty privacy as a crime. but his name was victory and plunder; he was lavishly munificent, as one who knew that those who play a deep game must lay down heavy stakes, his eye was quick to discern, his hand prompt to reward the merit of the buccaneer; and those who followed his soaring fortunes knew that they would share them. if he was prompt to reward, he was also stern in punishment, and a certain arbitrariness both in reward and punishment made the soldier feel that the commander's will was law. if wallenstein was not the boon companion of the mercenaries, he was their divinity, and he was himself essentially one of them--even his superstition was theirs, and filled the same void of faith in his as in their hearts; though, while the common soldier raised the fiend to charm bullets, or bought spells and amulets of a quack at nuremburg or augsburg, seni, the first astrologer of the age, explored the sympathizing stars for the august destiny of the duke of friedland. like uriel and satan in paradise lost, gustavus and wallenstein stood opposed to each other. on one side was the enthusiast, on the other the mighty gamester, playing the great game of his life without emotion, by intensity of thought alone. on one side was the crusader, on the other the indifferentist, without faith except in his star. on the one side was as much good, perhaps, as has ever appeared in the form of a conqueror, on the other side the majesty of evil. gustavus was young, his frame was vigorous and active, though inclined to corpulence, his complexion fair, his hair golden, his eye blue and merry, his countenance frank as day, and the image of a heart which had felt the kindest influences of love and friendship. wallenstein was past his prime, his frame was tall, spare, somewhat bowed by pain, his complexion dark, his eye black and piercing, his look that of a man who trod slippery paths with deadly rivals at his side, and of whose many letters not one is to a friend. but, opposites in all else, the two champions were well matched in power. perhaps there is hardly such another duel in history. such another there would have been if strafford had lived to encounter cromwell. the market for the great adventurer's services having risen so high, the price which he asked was large--a principality in hand, a province to be conquered, supreme command of the army which he had raised. the court suggested that if the emperor's son, the king of hungary, were put over wallenstein's head, his name would be a tower of strength, but wallenstein answered with a blasphemous frankness which must have made the ears of courtiers tingle. he would be emperor of the army; he would be emperor in the matter of confiscations. the last article shows how he won the soldier's heart. perhaps in framing his terms, he gave something to his wounded pride. if he did, the luxury cost him dear, for here he trod upon the serpent that stung his life. the career of gustavus was at once arrested, and he took shelter against the storm in an entrenched camp protected by three hundred cannon under the walls of nuremberg--nuremberg the eldest daughter of the german reformation, the florence of germany in art, wealth and freedom, then the beautiful home of early commerce, now its romantic tomb. the desolation of her grass-grown streets dates from that terrible day. the swedish lines were scarcely completed when wallenstein appeared with all his power, and sweeping past, entrenched himself four miles from his enemy in a position the key of which were the wooded hill and old castle of the altenberg. those who chance to visit that spot may fancy there wallenstein's camp as it is in schiller, ringing with the boisterous revelry of its wild and motley bands. and they may fancy the sudden silence, the awe of men who knew no other awe, as in his well-known dress, the laced buff coat with crimson scarf, and the grey hat with crimson plume, wallenstein rode by. week after week and month after month these two heavy clouds of war hung close together, and europe looked for the bursting of the storm. but famine was to do wallenstein's work; and by famine and the pestilence, bred by the horrible state of the camp, at last his work was done. the utmost limit of deadly inaction for the swedes arrived. discipline and honour gave way, and could scarcely be restored by the passionate eloquence of gustavus. oxenstiern brought large reinforcements; and on the th august wallenstein saw-- with grim pleasure he must have seen--gustavus advancing to attack him in his lines. by five hundred at a time--there was room for no more in the narrow path of death--the swedes scaled the flashing and thundering altenberg. they scaled it again and again through a long summer's day. once it was all but won. but at evening the nurembergers saw their hero and protector retiring, for the first time defeated, from the field. yet gustavus had not lost the confidence of his soldiers. he had shared their danger and had spared their blood. in ten hours' hard fighting he had lost only , men. but wallenstein might well shower upon his wounded soldiers the only balm for the wounds of men fighting without a country or a cause. he might well write to the emperor: "the king of sweden has blunted his horns a good deal. henceforth the title of invincible belongs not to him, but to your majesty." no doubt ferdinand thought it did. gustavus now broke up and marched on bavaria, abandoning the great protestant city, with the memory of magdeburg in his heart. but nuremberg was not to share the fate of magdeburg. the imperial army was not in a condition to form the siege. it had suffered as much as that of gustavus. that such troops should have been held together in such extremity proves their general's power of command. wallenstein soon gladdened the eyes of the nurembergers by firing his camp, and declining to follow the lure into bavaria, marched on saxony, joined another imperial army under pappenheim and took leipsic. to save saxony gustavus left bavaria half conquered. as he hurried to the rescue, the people on his line of march knelt to kiss the hem of his garment, the sheath of his delivering sword, and could scarcely be prevented from adoring him as a god. his religious spirit was filled with a presentiment that the idol in which they trusted would be soon laid low. on the th of november he was leaving a strongly entrenched camp, at naumberg, where the imperialists fancied, the season being so far advanced, he intended to remain, when news reached his ear like the sight which struck wellington's eye as it ranged over marmont's army on the morning of salamanca. [footnote: we owe the parallel, we believe, to an article by lord ellesmere, in the _quarterly review_.] the impetuous pappenheim, ever anxious for separate command, had persuaded an imperial council of war to detach him with a large force against halle. the rest of the imperialists, under wallenstein, were quartered in the villages around lutzen, close within the king's reach, and unaware of his approach. "the lord," cried gustavus, "has delivered him into my hand," and at once he swooped upon his prey. "break up and march with every man and gun. the enemy is advancing hither. he is already at the pass by the hollow road." so wrote wallenstein to pappenheim. the letter is still preserved, stained with pappenheim's life-blood. but, in that mortal race, pappenheim stood no chance. halle was a long day's march off, and the troopers, whom pappenheim could lead gallantly, but could not control, after taking the town had dispersed to plunder. yet the swede's great opportunity was lost. lutzen, though in sight, proved not so near as flattering guides and eager eyes had made it. the deep-banked rippach, its bridge all too narrow for the impetuous columns, the roads heavy from rain, delayed the march. a skirmish with some imperial cavalry under isolani wasted minutes when minutes were years; and the short november day was at an end when the swede reached the plain of lutzen. no military advantage marks the spot where the storm overtook the duke of friedland. he was caught like a traveller in a tempest off a shelterless plain, and had nothing for it but to bide the brunt. what could be done with ditches, two windmills, a mud wall, a small canal, he did, moving from point to point during the long night; and before morning all his troops, except pappenheim's division, had come in and were in line. when the morning broke a heavy fog lay on the ground. historians have not failed to remark that there is a sympathy in things, and that the day was loath to dawn which was to be the last day of gustavus. but if nature sympathized with gustavus, she chose a bad mode of showing her sympathy, for while the fog prevented the swedes from advancing, part of pappenheim's corps arrived. after prayers, the king and all his army sang luther's hymn, "our god is a strong tower"--the marseillaise of the militant reformation. then gustavus mounted his horse, and addressed the different divisions, adjuring them by their victorious name, by the memory of the breitenfeld, by the great cause whose issue hung upon their swords, to fight well for that cause, for their country and their god. his heart was uplifted at lutzen, with that hebrew fervour which uplifted the heart of cromwell at dunbar. old wounds made it irksome to him to wear a cuirass. "god," he said, "shall be my armour this day". wallenstein has been much belied if he thought of anything that morning more religious than the order of battle, which has been preserved, drawn up by his own hand, and in which his troops are seen still formed in heavy masses, in contrast to the lighter formations of gustavus. he was carried down his lines in a litter being crippled by gout, which the surgeons of that day had tried to cure by cutting into the flesh. but when the action began, he placed his mangled foot in a stirrup lined with silk, and mounted the small charger, the skin of which is still shown in the deserted palace of his pride. we may be sure that confidence sat undisturbed upon his brow; but in his heart he must have felt that though he had brave men around him, the swedes, fighting for their cause under their king, were more than men; and that in the balance of battle then held out, his scale had kicked the beam. there can hardly be a harder trial for human fortitude than to command in a great action on the weaker side. villeneuve was a brave man, though an unfortunate admiral, but he owned that his heart sank within him at trafalgar when he saw nelson bearing down. "god with us," was the swedish battle cry. on the other side the words "jesu-maria" passed round, as twenty-five thousand of the most godless and lawless ruffians the world ever saw, stood to the arms which they had imbrued in the blood not of soldiers only, but of women and children of captured towns. doubtless many a wild walloon and savage croat, many a fierce spaniard and cruel italian, who had butchered and tortured at magdeburg, was here come to bite the dust. these men were children of the camp and the battlefield, long familiar with every form of death, yet, had they known what a day was now before them, they might have felt like a recruit on the morning of his first field. some were afterwards broken or beheaded for misconduct before the enemy; others earned rich rewards. most paid, like men of honour, the price for which they were allowed to glut every lust and revel in every kind of crime. at nine the sky began to clear, straggling shots told that the armies were catching sight of each other, and a red glare broke the mist, where the imperialists had set fire to lutzen to cover their right. at ten gustavus placed himself at the head of his cavalry. war has now changed; and the telescope is the general's sword. yet we cannot help feeling that the gallant king, who cast in his own life with the lives of the peasants he had drawn from their swedish homes, is a nobler figure than the great emperor who, on the same plains, two centuries afterwards, ordered to their death the masses of youthful valour sent by a ruthless conscription to feed the vanity of a heart of clay. the swedes, after the manner of war in that fierce and hardy age, fell at once with their main force on the whole of the imperial line. on the left, after a murderous struggle, they gained ground and took the enemy's guns. but on the right the imperialists held firm, and while gustavus was carrying victory with him to that quarter, wallenstein restored the day upon the right. again gustavus hurried to that part of the field. again the imperialists gave way, and gustavus, uncovering his head, thanked god for his victory. at this moment it seems the mist returned. the swedes were confused and lost their advantage. a horse, too well known, ran riderless down their line, and when their cavalry next advanced, they found the stripped and mangled body of their king. according to the most credible witness, gustavus who had galloped forward to see how his advantage might be best followed up, got too near the enemy, was shot first in the arm, then in the back, and fell from his horse. a party of imperial cuirassiers came up, and learning from the wounded man himself who he was, finished the work of death. they then stripped the body for proofs of their great enemy's fate and relics of the mighty slain. dark reports of treason were spread abroad, and one of these reports followed the duke of saxe-lauenburg, who was with gustavus that day, through his questionable life to his unhappy end. in those times a great man could scarcely die without suspicion of foul play, and in all times men are unwilling to believe that a life on which the destiny of a cause or a nation hangs can be swept away by the blind, indiscriminate hand of common death. gustavus dead, the first thought of his officers was retreat; and that thought was his best eulogy. their second thought was revenge. yet so great was the discouragement that one swedish colonel refused to advance, and bernard of saxe-weimar cut him down with his own hand. again the struggle began, and with all the morning's fury. wallenstein had used his respite well. he knew that his great antagonist was dead, and that he was now the master-spirit on the field. and with friendly night near, and victory within his grasp, he directed in person the most desperate combat, prodigal of the life on which, according to his enemies, his treasonable projects hung. yet the day was again going against him, when the remainder of pappenheim's corps arrived, and the road was once more opened to victory by a charge which cost pappenheim his own life. at four o'clock the battle was at its last gasp. the carnage had been fearful on both sides, and as fearful was the exhaustion. for six hours almost every man in both armies had borne the terrible excitement of mortal combat with pike and sword; and four times that excitement had been strained by general charges to its highest pitch. the imperialists held their ground, but confused and shattered; their constancy sustained only by that commanding presence which still moved along their lines, unhurt, grazed and even marked by the storm of death through which he rode. just as the sun was setting, the swedes made the supreme effort which heroism alone can make. then wallenstein gave the signal for retreat, welcome to the bravest, and as darkness fell upon the field, the shattered masses of the imperialists drew off slowly and sullenly into the gloom. slowly and sullenly they drew off, leaving nothing to the victor except some guns of position; but they had not gone far when they fell into the disorganization of defeat. the judgment of a cause by battle is dreadful. dreadful it must have seemed to all who were within sight or hearing of the field of lutzen when that battle was over. but it is not altogether irrational and blind. providence does not visibly interpose in favour of the right. the stars in their courses do not now fight for the good cause. at lutzen they fought against it. but the good cause is its own star. the strength given to the spirit of the swedes by religious enthusiasm, the strength given to their bodies by the comparative purity of their lives, enabled them, when the bravest and hardiest ruffians were exhausted in spirit and body, to make that last effort which won the day. _te deum_ was sung at vienna and madrid, and with good reason. for vienna and madrid the death of gustavus was better than any victory. for humanity, if the interests of humanity were not those of vienna and madrid, it was worse than any defeat. but for gustavus himself, was it good to die glorious and stainless, but before his hour? triumph and empire, it is said, might have corrupted the soul which up to that time had been so pure and true. it was, perhaps, well for him that he was saved from temptation. a deeper morality replies that what was bad for gustavus' cause and for his kind, could not be good for gustavus; and that whether he were to stand or fall in the hour of temptation, he had better have lived his time and done his work. we, with our small philosophy, can make allowance for the greater dangers of the higher sphere; and shall we arrogate to ourselves a larger judgment and ampler sympathies than we allow to god? yet gustavus was happy. among soldiers and statesmen, if there is a greater, there is hardly a purer name. he had won not only honour but love, and the friend and comrade was as much bewailed as the deliverer and the king. in him his sweden appeared for the first and last time with true glory on the scene of universal history. in him the spirit of the famous house of vasa rose to the first heroic height. it was soon to mount to madness in christina and charles xii. not till a year had passed could sweden bring herself to consign the remains of her gustavus to the dust. then came a hero's funeral, with pomp not unmeaning, with trophies not unbecoming the obsequies of a christian warrior, and for mourners the sorrowing nations. in early youth gustavus had loved the beautiful ebba brahe, daughter of a swedish nobleman, and she had returned his love. but etiquette and policy interposed, and gustavus married eleanor, a princess of brandenburg, also renowned for beauty. the widowed queen of gustavus, though she had loved him with a fondness too great for their perfect happiness, admitted his first love to a partnership in her grief, and sent ebba with her own portrait the portrait of him who was gone where, if love still is, there is no more rivalry in love. the death of gustavus was the death of his great antagonist. gustavus gone, wallenstein was no longer indispensable, and he was far more formidable than ever. lutzen had abated nothing either of his pride or power. he went forth again from prague to resume command in almost imperial pomp. the army was completely in his hands. he negotiated as an independent power, and was carrying into effect a policy of his own, which seems to have been one of peace for the empire with amnesty and toleration, and which certainly crossed the policy of the jesuits and spain, now dominant in the imperial councils. no doubt the great adventurer also intended that his own grandeur should be augmented and secured. whether his proceedings gave his master just cause for alarm remains a mystery. the word, however, went forth against him, and in austrian fashion, a friendly correspondence being kept up with him when he had been secretly deposed and his command transferred to another. finding himself denounced and outlawed, he resolved to throw himself on the swedes. he had arrived at eger, a frontier fortress of bohemia. it was a night apt for crime, dark and stormy, when gordon, a scotch calvinist, in the imperial service (for wallenstein's camp welcomed adventurers of all creeds), and commandant of eger, received the most faithful of wallenstein's officers, terzka, kinsky, illo and neumann, at supper in the citadel. the social meal was over, the wine cup was going round; misgiving, if any misgiving there was, had yielded to comradeship and good cheer, when the door opened and death, in the shape of a party of irish troopers, stalked in. the conspirators sprang from the side of their victims, and shouting, "long live the emperor," ranged themselves with drawn swords against the wall, while the assassins overturned the table and did their work. wallenstein, as usual, was not at the banquet. he was, indeed, in no condition for revelry. gout had shattered his stately form, reduced his bold handwriting to a feeble scrawl, probably shaken his powerful mind, though it could rally itself, as at lutzen, for a decisive hour; and, perhaps, if his enemies could have waited, the course of nature might have spared them the very high price which they paid for his blood. he had just dismissed his astrologer, seni, into whose mouth the romance of history does not fail to put prophetic warnings, his valet was carrying away the golden salver, on which his night draught had been brought to him, and he was about to lie down, when he was drawn to the window by the noise of butler's regiment surrounding his quarters, and by the shrieks of the countesses terzka and kinsky, who were wailing for their murdered husbands. a moment afterwards the irish captain devereux burst into the room, followed by his fellow-assassins shouting, "rebels, rebels!" devereux himself, with a halbert in his hand, rushed up to wallenstein, and cried, "villain, you are to die!" true to his own majesty the great man spread out his arms, received the weapon in his breast, and fell dead without a word. but as thought at such moments is swift, no doubt he saw it all--saw the dark conclave of italians and spaniards sitting at vienna--knew that the murderer before him was the hand and not the head--read at once his own doom and the doom of his grand designs for germany and friedland. his body was wrapped in a carpet, carried in gordon's carriage to the citadel, and there left for a day with those of his murdered friends in the court-yard, then huddled into a hastily constructed coffin, the legs of the corpse being broken to force it in. different obsequies from those of gustavus, but perhaps equally appropriate, at least equally characteristic of the cause which the dead man served. did friedland desire to be more than friedland, to unite some shadow of command with the substance, to wear some crown of tinsel, as well as the crown of power? we do not know, we know only that his ways were dark, that his ambition was vast, and that he was thwarting the policy of the jesuits and spain. great efforts were made in vain to get up a case against his memory; recourse was had to torture, the use of which always proves that no good evidence is forthcoming; absurd charges were included in the indictment, such as that of having failed to pursue and destroy the swedish army after lutzen. the three thousand masses which ferdinand caused to be sung for wallenstein's soul, whether they benefited his soul or not, have benefited his fame, for they seem like the weak self-betrayal of an uneasy conscience, vainly seeking to stifle infamy and appease the injured shade. assassination itself condemns all who take part in it or are accomplices in it, and ferdinand, who rewarded the assassins of wallenstein, was at least an accomplice after the fact. vast as wallenstein's ambition was, even for him age and gout must have begun to close the possibilities of life, and he cannot have been made restless by the pangs of abortive genius, for he had played the grandest part upon the grandest stage. he had done enough, it would seem, to make repose welcome, and his retirement would not have been dull. often in his letters his mind turns from the camp and council to his own domains, his rising palaces, his farms, his gardens, his schools, his manufactures, the italian civilization which the student of padua was trying to create in bohemian wilds, the little empire in the administration of which he showed that he might have been a good emperor on a larger scale. against his imperial master he is probably entitled at least to a verdict of not proven, and to the sympathy due to vast services requited by murder. against accusing humanity his plea is far weaker, or rather he has no plea but one of extenuation. if there is a gloomy majesty about him the fascination of which we cannot help owning, if he was the noblest spirit that served evil, still it was evil that he served. the bandit hordes which he led were the scourges of the defenceless people, and in making war support war he set the evil example which was followed by napoleon on a greater scale, and perhaps with more guilt, because in a more moral age. if in any measure he fell a martyr to a policy of toleration, his memory may be credited with the sacrifice. his toleration was that of indifference, not that of a christian; yet the passages of his letters in which he pleads for milder methods of conversion, and claims for widows an exemption from the extremities of persecution, seem preserved by his better angel to shed a ray of brightness on his lurid name. of his importance in history there can be no doubt. take your stand on the battle field of lutzen. to the north all was rescued by gustavus, to the south all was held till yesterday by the darker genius of wallenstein. like the mystic bark in the mort d'arthur, the ship which carried the remains of gustavus from the german shore bore away heroism as well as the hero. gustavus left great captains in bernard of weimar, banner, horn, wrangel and tortensohn; in the last, perhaps, a captain equal to himself. he left in oxenstierna the greatest statesman and diplomatist of the age. but the guiding light, the grand aim, the ennobling influence were gone. the swedes sank almost to the level of the vile element around, and a torture used by the buccaneers to extract confessions of hidden treasure bore the name of the swedish draught. the last grand figure left the scene in wallenstein. nothing remained but mean ferocity and rapine, coarse filibustering among the soldiers, among the statesmen and diplomatists filibustering a little more refined. all high motives and interests were dead. the din of controversy which at the outset accompanied the firing of the cannon, and proved that the cannon was being fired in a great cause, had long since sunk into silence. yet for fourteen years after the death of wallenstein this soulless, aimless drama of horror and agony dragged on. every part of germany was repeatedly laid under heavy war contributions, and swept through by pillage, murder, rape and arson. for thirty years all countries, even those of the cossack and the stradiot, sent their worst sons to the scene of butchery and plunder. it may be doubted whether such desolation ever fell upon any civilized and cultivated country. when the war began germany was rich and prosperous, full of smiling villages, of goodly cities, of flourishing universities, of active industry, of invention and discovery, of literature and learning, of happiness, of progress, of national energy and hope. at its close she was a material and moral wilderness. in a district, selected as a fair average specimen of the effects of the war, it is found that of the inhabitants three-fourths, of the cattle four-fifths had perished. for thirty years the husbandman never sowed with any confidence that he should reap; the seed-corn was no doubt often consumed by the reckless troopers or the starving peasantry; and if foreign countries had been able to supply food there were no railroads to bring it. the villages through whole provinces were burnt or pulled down to supply materials for the huts of the soldiery; the people hid themselves in dens and caves of the earth, took to the woods and mountains, where many of them remained swelling the multitude of brigands. when they could they wreaked upon the lansquenets a vengeance as dreadful as what they had suffered, and were thus degraded to the same level of ferocity. moral life was broken up. the germany of luther with its order and piety and domestic virtue, with its old ways and customs, even with its fashions of dress and furniture, perished almost as though it had been swallowed by an earthquake. the nation would hardly have survived had it not been for the desperate tenacity with which the peasant clung to his own soil, and the efforts of the pastors, men of contracted views, of dogmatic habits of mind, and of a somewhat narrow and sour morality, but staunch and faithful in the hour of need, who continued to preach and pray amidst blackened ruins to the miserable remnants of their flocks, and sustained something of moral order and of social life. hence in the succeeding centuries, the political nullity of the german nation, the absence of any strong popular element to make head against the petty despotism of the princes, and launch germany in the career of progress. hence the backwardness and torpor of the teutonic race in its original seat, while elsewhere it led the world. hence, while england was producing chathams and burkes, germany was producing the great musical composers. hence when the movement came it was rather intellectual than political, rather a movement of the universities than of the nation. at last, nothing being left for the armies to devour, the masters of the armies began to think of peace. the diplomatists went to work, and in true diplomatic fashion. two years they spent in formalities and haggling, while germany was swarming with disbanded lansquenets. it was then that old oxenstierna said to his son, who had modestly declined an ambassadorship on the ground of inexperience, "thou knowest not, my son, with how little wisdom the world is governed." the object of all the parties to the negotiations was acquisition of territory at the expense of their neighbours, and the treaty of westphalia, though, as we have said, it was long the public law of europe, was an embodiment, not of principles of justice or of the rights of nations, but of the relative force and cunning of what are happily called the powers. france obtained, as the fruit of the diplomatic skill with which she had prolonged the agony of germany, a portion of the territory which she has recently disgorged. the independence of germany was saved; and though it was not a national independence, but an independence of petty despotisms, it was redemption from austrian and jesuit bondage for the present, with the hope of national independence in the future. when gustavus broke the imperial line at lutzen, luther and loyola might have turned in their graves. luther had still two centuries and a half to wait, so much difference in the course of history, in spite of all our philosophies and our general laws, may be made by an arrow shot at a venture, a wandering breath of pestilence, a random bullet, a wreath of mist lingering on one of the world's battlefields. but luther has conquered at last. would that he had conquered by other means than war-- war with all its sufferings, with all its passions, with the hatred, the revenge, the evil pride which it leaves behind it. but he has conquered, and his victory opens a new and, so far as we can see, a happier era for europe. the lamps of fiction _spoken on the centenary of the birth of sir walter scott_ ruskin has lighted seven lamps of architecture, to guide the steps of the architect in the worthy practice of his art. it seems time that some lamps should be lighted to guide the steps of the writer of fiction. think what the influence of novelists now is, and how some of them use it! think of the multitudes who read nothing but novels, and then look into the novels which they read! i have seen a young man's whole library consisting of thirty or forty of those paper-bound volumes, which are the bad tobacco of the mind. in england, i looked over three railway book-stalls in one day. there was hardly a novel by an author of any repute on one of them. they were heaps of nameless garbage, commended by tasteless, flaunting woodcuts, the promise of which was no doubt well kept within. fed upon such food daily, what will the mind of a nation be? i say that there is no flame at which we can light the lamp of fiction purer or brighter than the genius of him in honour to whose memory we are assembled here to-day. scott does not moralize. heaven be praised that he does not. he does not set a moral object before him, nor lay down moral rules. but his heart, brave, pure and true, is a law to itself; and by studying what he does we may find the law for all who follow his calling. if seven lamps have been lighted for architecture, scott will light as many for fiction. i. _the lamp of reality_.--the novelist must ground his work in faithful study of human nature. there was a popular writer of romances, who, it was said, used to go round to the fashionable watering-places to pick up characters. that was better than nothing. there is another popular writer who, it seems, makes voluminous indices of men and things, and draws on them for his material. this also is better than nothing. for some writers, and writers dear to the circulating libraries too, might, for all that appeals in their works, lie in bed all day, and write by night under the excitement of green tea. creative art, i suppose, they call this, and it is creative with a vengeance. not so, scott. the human nature which he paints, he had seen in all its phases, gentle and simple, in burgher and shepherd, highlander, lowlander, borderer, and islesman; he had come into close contact with it, he had opened it to himself by the talisman of his joyous and winning presence; he had studied it thoroughly with a clear eye and an all-embracing heart. when his scenes are laid in the past, he has honestly studied the history. the history of his novels is perhaps not critically accurate, not up to the mark of our present knowledge, but in the main it is sound and true--sounder and more true than that of many professed historians, and even than that of his own historical works, in which he sometimes yields to prejudice, while in his novels he is lifted above it by his loyalty to his art. ii. _the lamp of ideality_.--the materials of the novelist must be real; they must be gathered from the field of humanity by his actual observation. but they must pass through the crucible of the imagination; they must be idealized. the artist is not a photographer, but a painter. he must depict not persons but humanity, otherwise he forfeits the artist's name, and the power of doing the artist's work in our hearts. when we see a novelist bring out a novel with one or two good characters, and then, at the fatal bidding of the booksellers, go on manufacturing his yearly volume, and giving us the same character or the same few characters over and over again, we may be sure that he is without the power of idealization. he has merely photographed what he has seen, and his stock is exhausted. it is wonderful what a quantity of the mere lees of such writers, more and more watered down, the libraries go on complacently circulating, and the reviews go on complacently reviewing. of course, this power of idealization is the great gift of genius. it is that which distinguishes homer, shakespeare, and walter scott, from ordinary men. but there is also a moral effort in rising above the easy work of mere description to the height of art. need it be said that scott is thoroughly ideal as well as thoroughly real? there are vague traditions that this man and the other was the original of some character in scott. but who can point out the man of whom a character in scott is a mere portrait? it would be as hard as to point out a case of servile delineation in shakespeare. scott's characters are never monsters or caricatures. they are full of nature; but it is universal nature. therefore they have their place in the universal heart, and will keep that place for ever. and mark that even in his historical novels he is still ideal. historical romance is a perilous thing. the fiction is apt to spoil the fact, and the fact the fiction; the history to be perverted and the romance to be shackled: daylight to kill dreamlight, and dreamlight to kill daylight. but scott takes few liberties with historical facts and characters; he treats them, with the costume and the manners of the period, as the background of the picture. the personages with whom he deals freely, are the peverils and the nigels; and these are his lawful property, the offspring of his own imagination, and belong to the ideal. iii. _the lamp of impartiality_.--the novelist must look on humanity without partiality or prejudice. his sympathy, like that of the historian, must be unbounded, and untainted by sect or party. he must see everywhere the good that is mixed with evil, the evil that is mixed with good. and this he will not do, unless his heart is right. it is in scott's historical novels that his impartiality is most severely tried and is most apparent; though it is apparent in all his works. shakespeare was a pure dramatist; nothing but art found a home in that lofty, smooth, idealistic brow. he stands apart not only from the political and religious passions but from the interests of his time, seeming hardly to have any historical surroundings, but to shine like a planet suspended by itself in the sky. so it is with that female shakespeare in miniature, miss austen. but scott took the most intense interest in the political struggles of his time. he was a fiery partisan, a tory in arms against the french revolution. in his account of the coronation of george iv. a passionate worship of monarchy breaks forth, which, if we did not know his noble nature, we might call slavish. he sacrificed, ease, and at last life, to his seignorial aspirations. on one occasion he was even carried beyond the bounds of propriety by his opposition to the whig chief. the cavalier was his political ancestor, the covenanter the ancestor of his political enemy. the idols which the covenanting iconoclast broke were his. he would have fought against the first revolution under montrose, and against the second under dundee. yet he is perfectly, serenely just to the opposite party. not only is he just, he is sympathetic. he brings out their worth, their valour, such grandeur of character as they have, with all the power of his art, making no distinction in this respect between friend and foe. if they have a ridiculous side he uses it for the purposes of his art, but genially, playfully, without malice. if there was a laugh left in the covenanters, they would have laughed at their own portraits as painted by scott. he shows no hatred of anything but wickedness itself. such a novelist is a most effective preacher of liberality and charity; he brings our hearts nearer to the impartial father of us all. iv. _the lamp of impersonality_.--personality is lower than partiality. dante himself is open to the suspicion of partiality: it is said, not without apparent ground, that he puts into hell all the enemies of the political cause, which, in his eyes, was that of italy and god. a legend tells that leonardo da vinci was warned that his divine picture of the last supper would fade, because he had introduced his personal enemy as judas, and thus desecrated art by making it serve personal hatred. the legend must be false, leonardo had too grand a soul. a wretched woman in england, at the beginning of the last century, mrs. manley, systematically employed fiction as a cover for personal libel; but such an abuse of art as this could be practiced or countenanced only by the vile. novelists, however, often debase fiction by obtruding their personal vanities, favouritisms, fanaticisms and antipathies. we had, the other day, a novel, the author of which introduced himself almost by name as a heroic character, with a description of his own personal appearance, residence, and habits as fond fancy painted them to himself. there is a novelist, who is a man of fashion, and who makes the age of the heroes in his successive novels advance with his own, so that at last we shall have irresistible fascination at seven score years and ten. but the commonest and the most mischievous way in which personality breaks out is pamphleteering under the guise of fiction. one novel is a pamphlet against lunatic asylums, another against model prisons, a third against the poor law, a fourth against the government offices, a fifth against trade unions. in these pretended works of imagination facts are joined in support of a crotchet or an antipathy with all the license of fiction; calumny revels without restraint, and no cause is served but that of falsehood and injustice. a writer takes offence at the excessive popularity of athletic sports; instead of bringing out an accurate and conscientious treatise to advocate moderation, he lets fly a novel painting the typical boating man as a seducer of confiding women, the betrayer of his friend, and the murderer of his wife. religious zealots are very apt to take this method of enlisting imagination, as they think, on the side of truth. we had once a high anglican novel in which the papist was eaten alive by rats, and the rationalist and republican was slowly seethed in molten lead, the fate of each being, of course, a just judgment of heaven on those who presumed to differ from the author. thus the voice of morality is confounded with that of tyrannical petulance and self-love. not only is scott not personal, but we cannot conceive his being so. we cannot think it possible that he should degrade his art by the indulgence of egotism, or crotchets, or petty piques. least of all can we think it possible that his high and gallant nature should use art as a cover for striking a foul blow. v. _the lamp of purity_--i heard thackeray thank heaven for the purity of dickens. i thanked heaven for the purity of a greater than dickens--thackeray himself. we may all thank heaven for the purity of one still greater than either, sir walter scott. i say still greater morally, as well as in power as an artist, because in thackeray there is cynicism, though the more genial and healthy element predominates; and cynicism, which is not good in the great writer, becomes very bad in the little reader. we know what most of the novels were before scott. we know the impurity, half-redeemed, of fielding, the unredeemed impurity of smollett, the lecherous leer of sterne, the coarseness even of defoe. parts of richardson himself could not be read by a woman without a blush. as to french novels, carlyle says of one of the most famous of the last century that after reading it you ought to wash seven times in jordan; but after reading the french novels of the present day, in which lewdness is sprinkled with sentimental rosewater, and deodorized, but by no means disinfected, your washings had better be seventy times seven. there is no justification for this; it is mere pandering, under whatever pretence, to evil propensities; it makes the divine art of fiction "procuress to the lords of hell," if our established morality is in any way narrow and unjust, appeal to philosophy, not to comus; and remember that the mass of readers are not philosophers. coleridge pledges himself to find the deepest sermons under the filth of rabelais; but coleridge alone finds the sermons while everybody finds the filth. impure novels have brought and are bringing much misery on the world. scott's purity is not that of cloistered innocence and inexperience, it is the manly purity of one who had seen the world, mingled with men of the world, known evil as well as good; but who, being a true gentleman, abhorred filth, and teaches us to abhor it too. vi. _the lamp of humanity_.--one day we see the walls placarded with the advertising woodcut of a sensation novel, representing a girl tied to a table and a man cutting off her feet into a tub. another day we are allured by a picture of a woman sitting at a sewing-machine and a man seizing her behind by the hair, and lifting a club to knock her brains out. a french novelist stimulates your jaded palate by introducing a duel fought with butchers' knives by the light of lanterns. one genius subsists by murder, as another does by bigamy and adultery. scott would have recoiled from the blood as well as from the ordure, he would have allowed neither to defile his noble page. he knew that there was no pretence for bringing before a reader what is merely horrible, that by doing so you only stimulate passions as low as licentiousness itself--the passions which were stimulated by the gladiatorial shows in degraded rome, which are stimulated by the bull- fights in degraded spain, which are stimulated among ourselves by exhibitions the attraction of which really consists in their imperilling human life. he knew that a novelist had no right even to introduce the terrible except for the purpose of exhibiting human heroism, developing character, awakening emotions which when awakened dignify and save from harm. it is want of genius and of knowledge of their craft that drives novelists to outrage humanity with horrors. miss austen can interest and even excite you as much with the little domestic adventures of emma as some of her rivals can with a whole newgate calendar of guilt and gore. vii. _the lamp of chivalry_.--of this briefly. let the writer of fiction give us humanity in all its phases, the comic as well as the tragic, the ridiculous as well as the sublime; but let him not lower the standard of character or the aim of life. shakespeare does not. we delight in his falstaffs and his clowns as well as in his hamlets and othellos, but he never familiarizes us with what is base and mean. the noble and chivalrous always holds its place as the aim of true humanity in his ideal world. perhaps dickens is not entirely free from blame in this respect; perhaps pickwickianism has in some degree familiarized the generation of englishmen who have been fed upon it with what is not chivalrous, to say the least, in conduct, as it unquestionably has with slang in conversation. but scott, like shakespeare, wherever the thread of his fiction may lead him, always keeps before himself and us the highest ideal which he knew, the ideal of a gentleman. if anyone says these are narrow bounds wherein to confine fiction i answer there has been room enough within them for the highest tragedy, the deepest pathos, the broadest humour, the widest range of character, the most moving incident, that the world has ever enjoyed. there has been room within them for all the kings of pure and healthy fiction--for homer, shakespeare, cervantes, moliere, scott. "farewell sir walter," says carlyle at the end of his essay, "farewell sir walter, pride of all scotchmen. scotland has said farewell to her mortal son. but all humanity welcomes him as scotland's noblest gift to her and crowns him as on this day one of the heirs of immortality." an address delivered to the oxford school of science and art at the distribution of prizes ladies and gentlemen, you will not expect me, in complying with the custom which requires your chairman to address a few words to you before distributing the prizes, to give you instruction about art or science. one who was educated, as i was, under the old system, can hardly see without a pang the improvement that has been made in education since his time. in a public school, in my day, you learned nothing of science, art, or music. having received nothing, i have nothing to give. fortunately, the only thing of importance to be said this evening can be said without technical knowledge of any kind. the school of art needs better accommodation. the financial details will be explained to you by those who are more conversant with them than i am. i will only say that parsimony in this matter on the part of the government or other public bodies will, in my humble opinion, be unwise. i am not for a lavish expenditure of public money, even on education. it would be a misfortune if parental duty were to be cast on the state, and parents were to be allowed to forget that they are bound to provide their children with education as well as with bread. but it seems that at this moment the soundest and even the most strictly commercial policy would counsel liberality in providing for the national schools of art and science. england is labouring under commercial depression. of the works in the manufacturing districts, many are running half time, and some, i fear, are likely, if things do not mend, to stop. when i was there the other day gloom was on all faces. some people seem to think that the bad time will pass away of itself, and that a good time will come again like a new moon. it is a comfortable but a doubtful doctrine. and suppose the good time does not come again, the outlook for those masses and their employers is dark. a friend of mine, who is a manufacturer, said to me the other day that he had been seeing the ruins of a feudal castle, and that the sight set him thinking if factories should ever, like feudal castles, fall into decay, what their ruins would be like? they would be unromantic no doubt, even by moonlight. but much worse than the ruins of buildings would be the ruin among the people. imagine these swarming multitudes, or any large proportion of them, left by the failure of employment without bread. it would be something like a chronic indian famine. the wealth of england is unparalleled, unapproached in commercial history. add carthage to tyre, venice to carthage, amsterdam to venice, you will not make anything like a london. ten thousand pounds paid for a pair of china vases. a roman noble under the empire might have rivalled this, but the wealth of the roman nobles was not the fruit of industry, it was the plunder of the world. you can hardly imagine how those who come fresh from a new country like canada, or parts of the united states--a land just redeemed from the wilderness, with all its untrimmed roughness, its fields half tilled and full of stumps, its snake fences, and the charred pines which stand up gaunt monuments of forest fires--are impressed, i might almost say ravished, by the sight of the lovely garden which unlimited wealth expended on a limited space has made of england. this country, too, has an immense capital invested in the funds and securities of foreign nations, and in this way draws tribute from the world, though, unhappily, we are being made sensible of the fact that money lent to a foreign government is lent to a debtor on whom you cannot distrain. but the sources of this fabulous prosperity, are they inexhaustible? in part, we may hope they are. a maritime position, admirably adapted for trading with both hemispheres, a race of first- rate seamen, masses of skilled labour, vast accumulations of machinery and capital--these are advantages not easily lost. and there is still in england good store of coal and iron. not so stable, however, is the advantage given to england by the effects of the napoleonic war, which for the time crushed all manufactures and mercantile marines but hers. now, the continental nations are developing manufactures and mercantile marines of their own. you go round asking them to alter their tariffs, so as to enable you to recover their markets, and almost all of them refuse; about the only door you have really succeeded in getting opened to you is that of france, and this was opened, not by the nation, but by an autocrat, who had diplomatic purposes of his own. the _times_, indeed, in a noteworthy article the other day, undertook to prove that a great manufacturing and trading nation might lose its customers without being much the worse for it, but this seems too good to be true; i fancy yorkshire and lancashire would say so. is it not that very margin of profit of which _the times_ speaks so lightly, which, being accumulated, has created the wealth of england? your manufacturers are certainly under the impression that they want markets, and the loss of the great american market seems to them a special matter of concern. it is doubtful whether that market would be restored to them even by an alteration of the tariff. the coal in the great american coal fields is much nearer the surface, and consequently more cheaply worked, than the coal in england; iron is as plentiful, and it is near the coal; labour, which has been much dearer there, is now falling to the english level. tariff or no tariff, america will probably keep her own market for the heavier and coarser goods. but there is still a kind of goods, in the production of which the old country will long have a great advantage. i mean the lighter, finer, and more elegant goods, the products of cultivated taste and of trained skill in design--that very kind of goods, in short, the character of which these schools of art are specially intended to improve. industry and invention the new world has in as ample a measure as the old; invention in still ampler measure, for the americans are a nation of inventors; but cultivated taste and its special products will long be the appanage of old countries. it will be long before anything of that kind will pass current in the new world without the old world stamp. adapt your industry in some degree to changed requirements; acquire those finer faculties which the schools of design aim at cultivating, but which, in the lucrative production of the coarser goods, have hitherto been comparatively neglected, and you may recover a great american market; it is doubtful whether you will in any other way. therefore, i repeat, to stint the art and science schools would seem bad policy. i may add that it would be specially bad policy here in oxford, where, under the auspices of a university which is now extending its care to art as well as science, it would seem that the finer industries, such as design applied to furniture, decoration of all kinds, carving, painted glass, bookbinding, ought in time to do particularly well. if you wish to prosper, cultivate your speciality; the rule holds good for cities as well as for men. there are some, perhaps, who dislike to think of art in connection with anything like manufacture. let us, then, call it design, and keep the name of art for the higher pursuit. your instructor presides, i believe, with success, and without finding his duties clash, over a school, the main object of which is the improvement of manufactures, and another school dedicated to the higher objects of aesthetic cultivation. the name manufacture reminds you of machines, and you may dislike machines and think there is something offensive to artists in their products. well, a machine does not produce, or pretend to produce, poetry or sculpture; it pretends to clothe thousands of people who would otherwise go naked. it is itself often a miracle of human intellect. it works unrestingly that humanity may have a chance to rest. if it sometimes supersedes higher work, it far more often, by relieving man of the lowest work, sets him free for the higher. those heaps of stones broken by the hammer of a poor wretch who bends over his dull task through the weary day by the roadside, scantily clad, in sharp frost perhaps or chilling showers, are they more lovely to a painter's eye than if they had been broken, without so much human labour and suffering, by a steam stone-crusher? no one doubts the superior interest belonging to any work however imperfect, of individual mind; but if we were not to use a pair of tongs that did not bear the impress of individual mind, millionaires might have tongs, but the rest of us would put on coals with our fingers. after all, what is a machine but a perfect tool? the tyrian loom was a machine, though it was worked by hand and not by steam; and if the tyrian had known the power loom, depend upon it he would have used it. without machines, the members of this school might all be grinding their corn with hand mills, instead of learning art. common humanity must use manufactured articles; even uncommon humanity will find it difficult to avoid using them, unless it has the courage of its convictions to the same extent as george fox, the quaker, who encased himself in an entire suit of home-made leather, bearing the impress of his individual mind; and defied a mechanical and degenerate world. the only practical question is whether the manufactures shall be good or bad, well-designed or ill; south kensington answers, that if training can do it, they shall be good and well designed. there are the manufacturing multitudes of england; they must have work, and find markets for their work; if machines and the black country are ugly, famine would be uglier still. i have no instruction to give you, and you would not thank me for wasting your time with rhetorical praise of art, even if i had all the flowers of diction at my command. to me, as an outer barbarian, it seems that some of the language on these subjects is already pretty high pitched. i have thought so even in reading that one of mr. addington symond's most attractive volumes about italy which relates to italian art. art is the interpreter of beauty, and perhaps beauty, if we could penetrate to its essence, might reveal to us something higher than itself. but art is not religion, nor is connoisseurship priesthood. to happiness art lends intensity and elevation; but in affliction, in ruin, in the wreck of affection how much can phidias and raphael do for you? a poet makes goethe say to a sceptical and perplexed world, "art still has truth, take refuge there." it would be a poor refuge for most of us; it was so even for the great goethe; for with all his intellectual splendour, his character never rose above a grandiose and statuesque self-love; he behaved ill to his country, ill to women. instead of being religion, art seems, for its own perfection, to need religion--not a system of dogma, but a faith. this, probably, we all feel when we look at the paintings in the church of assisi or in the arena chapel at padua. perhaps those paintings also gain something by being in the proper place for religious art, a church. since the divorce of religious art from religion, it has been common to see a crucifixion hung over a sideboard. that age was an age of faith; and so most likely was the glorious age of greek art in its way. ours is an age of doubt, an age of doubt and of strange cross currents and eddies of opinion, ultra scepticism penning its books in the closet while the ecclesiastical forms of the middle ages stalk the streets. art seems to feel the disturbing influence like the rest of life. poetry feels it less than other arts, because there is a poetry of doubt and tennyson is its poet. art is expression, and to have high expression you must have something high to express. in the pictures at our exhibitions there may be great technical skill; i take it for granted there is; but in the subject surely there is a void, an appearance of painful seeking for something to paint, and finding very little. when you come to a great picture of an egyptian banquet in the days of the pharaohs, you feel that the painter must have had a long way to go for something to paint. certainly this age is not indifferent to beauty. the art movement is in every house; everywhere you see some proof of a desire to possess not mere ornament but something really rare and beautiful. the influence transmutes children's picture books and toys. i turned up the other day a child's picture book of the days of my childhood; probably it had been thought wonderfully good in its time; and what a thing it was. some day our doubts may be cleared up; our beliefs may be settled; faith may come again; life may recover its singleness and certainty of aim; poetry may gush forth once more as fresh as homer, and the art of the future may appear. what is most difficult to conceive, perhaps, is the sculpture of the future; because it is hardly possible that the moderns should ever have such facilities as the ancients had for studying the human form. in presence of the overwhelming magnificence of the sculpture in the museums of rome and naples, one wonders how canova and co. can have looked with any complacency on their own productions. there seems reason by the way to think that these artists worked not each by himself, but in schools and brotherhoods with mutual aid and sympathy; and this is an advantage equally within the reach of modern art. meantime, though the art of the future delays to come, modern life is not all hideous. there are many things, no doubt, such as the black country and the suburbs of our cities, on which the eye cannot rest with pleasure. but paris is not hideous. there may be in the long lines of buildings too much of the autocratic monotony of the empire, but the city, as a whole, is the perfect image of a brilliant civilization. from london beauty is almost banished by smoke and fog, which deny to the poor architect ornament, colour, light and shadow, leaving him nothing but outline. no doubt besides the smoke and fog there is a fatality. there is a fatality which darkly impels us to place on our finest site, and one of the finest in europe, the niggard facade and inverted teacup dome of the national gallery; to temper the grandeurs of westminster by the introduction of the aquarium, with mr. hankey's tower of babel in the near distance; to guard against any too-imposing effect which the outline of the houses of parliament might have by covering them with minute ornament, sure to be blackened and corroded into one vast blotch by smoke; to collect the art wonders of pigtail place; to make the lions in trafalgar square lie like cats on a hearth-rug, instead of supporting themselves on a slope by muscular action, like the lions at genoa; to perch a colossal equestrian statue of the duke of wellington, arrayed in his waterproof cape, and mounted on a low-shouldered hack instead of a charger, on the top of an arch, by way of perpetual atonement to france for waterloo; and now to think of planting an obelisk of the pharaohs on a cab-stand. an obelisk of the pharaohs in ancient rome was an august captive, symbolizing the university of the roman empire, but an obelisk of the pharaohs in london symbolizes little more than did the druidical ring of stones which an english squire of my acquaintance purchased in one of the channel islands and set up in his english park. as to london we must console ourselves with the thought that if life outside is less poetic than it was in the days of old, inwardly its poetry is much deeper. if the house is less beautiful the home is more so. even a house in what tennyson calls the long unlovely street is not utterly unlovely when within it dwell cultivated intellect, depth of character and tenderness of affection. however the beauty of english life is in the country and there it may challenge that of italian palaces. america is supposed to be given over to ugliness. there are a good many ugly things there and the ugliest are the most pretentious. as it is in society so it is in architecture. america is best when she is content to be herself. an american city with its spacious streets all planted with avenues of trees with its blocks of buildings far from unimpeachable probably in detail yet stately in the mass with its wide spreading suburbs where each artizan has his neat looking house in his own plot of ground and light and air and foliage with its countless church towers and spires far from faultless yet varying the outline might not please a painters eye but it fills your mind with a sense of well rewarded industry of comfort and even opulence shared by the toiling man of a prosperous, law-loving, cheerful, and pious life. i cannot help fancying that turner, whose genius got to the soul of everything, would have made something of even in american city. the cities of the middle ages were picturesquely huddled within walls for protection from the violence of the feudal era, the cities of the new world spread wide in the security of an age of law and a continent of peace. at cleveland in ohio there is a great street called euclid avenue, lined with villas each standing in its own grounds and separated from each other and from the street only by a light iron fencing instead of the high brick wall with which the briton shuts out his detested kind. the villas are not vast or suggestive of over-grown plutocracy, they are suggestive of moderate wealth, pleasant summers, cheerful winters and domestic happiness. i hardly think you would call euclid avenue revolting. i say it with the diffidence of conscious ignorance but i should not be much afraid to show you one or two buildings that our professor of architecture at cornell university has put up for us on a bluff over cayuga lake, on a site which you would certainly admit to be magnificent. if i could have ventured on any recommendation concerning art, i should have pleaded before the royal commission for a chair of architecture here. it might endow us with some forms of beauty; it might at all events endow us with rules for building a room in which you can be heard, one in which you can breathe, and a chimney which would not smoke. i said that in america the most pretentious buildings were the worst. another source of failure in buildings, in dress, and not in these alone, is servile imitation of europe. in northern america the summer is tropical, the winter is arctic. a house ought to be regular and compact in shape, so as to be easily warmed from the centre, with a roof of simple construction, high pitched, to prevent the snow from lodging, and large eaves to throw it off,--this for the arctic winter, for the tropical summer you want ample verandas, which, in fact, are the summer sitting rooms. an american house built in this way is capable at least of the beauty which belongs to fitness. but as you see parisian dresses under an alien sky, so you see italian villas with excrescences which no stove can warm, and tudor mansions with gables which hold all the snow. it is needless to say what is the result, when the new world undertakes to reproduce not only the architecture of the old world, but that of classical greece and rome, or that of the middle ages. jefferson, who was a classical republican, taught a number of his fellow citizens to build their homes like doric temples, and you may imagine what a doric temple freely adapted to domestic purposes must be. but are these attempts to revive the past very successful anywhere? we regard as a decided mistake the revived classicism of the last generation. may not our revived mediaevalism be regarded as a mistake by the generation that follows us? we could all probably point to some case in which the clashing of mediaeval beauties with modern requirements has produced sad and ludicrous results. there is our own museum; the best, i suppose, that could be done in the way of revival; the work of an architect whom the first judges deemed a man of genius. in that, ancient form and modern requirements seem everywhere at cross purposes. nobody can deny that genius is impressed upon the upper part of the front, which reminds one of a beautiful building in an italian city, though the structure at the side recalls the mind to glastonbury, and the galaxy of chimneys has certainly no parallel in italy. the front ought to stand in a street, but as it stands in a field its flanks have to be covered by devices which are inevitably weak. what is to be done with the back always seems to me one of the darkest enigmas of the future. the basement is incongruously plain and bare, in the street it would perhaps be partly hidden by the passengers. going in, you find a beautiful mediaeval court struggling hard for its life against a railway station and a cloister, considerately offering you a shady walk or shelter from the weather round a room. listen to the multitudinous voices of science and you will hear that the conflict extends to practical accommodation. we all know it was not the fault of the architect, it was the fault of adverse exigencies which came into collision with his design, but this only strengthens the moral of the building against revivals. two humble achievements, if we had chosen were certainly within our reach,--perfect adaptation to our object and inoffensive dignity. every one who has a heart, however ignorant of architecture he may be, feels the transcendent beauty and poetry of the mediaeval churches. for my part i look up with admiration, as fervent as any one untrained in art can, to those divine creations of old religion which soar over the smoke and din of our cities into purity and stillness and seem to challenge us, with all our wealth and culture and science and mechanical power, to produce their peer till the age of faith shall return. not greek art itself springing forth in its perfection from the dark background of primaeval history, seems to me a greater miracle than these. how poor beside the lowliest of them in religious effect in romance, in everything but size and technical skill, is any pile of neo-paganism even i will dare to say, st. peter's. yet for my part, deeply as i am moved by the religious architecture of the middle ages, i cannot honestly say that i ever felt the slightest emotion in any modern gothic church. i will even own that, except where restoration rids us of the unchristian exclusiveness of pews, i prefer the unrestored churches, with something of antiquity about them, to the restored. there is a spell in mediaeval art which has had power to bewitch some people into trying, or wishing to try, or fancying that they wish to try or making believe to fancy that they wish to try, to bring back the middle ages. you may hear pinings for the return of an age of force from gentle aestheticists, who, if the awe of force did return, would certainly be crushed like eggshells. there is a well-known tale by hans andersen, that great though child-like teacher, called the "overshoes of fortune." a gentleman, at an evening party, has been running down modern society and wishing he were in the heroic middle ages. in going away he unwittingly puts on the fairy overshoes, which have the gift of transporting the wearer at once to any place and time where he wishes to be. stepping out he finds his own wish fulfilled--he is in the middle ages. there is no gas, the street is pitch dark, he is up to his ankles in mud, he is nearly knocked into the kennel by a mediaeval bishop returning from a revel with his roystering train, when he wants to cross the river there is no bridge; and after vainly inquiring his way in a tavern full of very rough customers, he wishes himself in the moon, and to the moon appropriately he goes. mediaevalism can hardly be called anything but a rather enfeebling dream. if it were a real effort to live in the middle ages, your life would be one perpetual prevarication. you would be drawn by the steam engine to lecture against steam; you would send eloquent invectives against printing to the press, and you would be subsisting meanwhile on the interest of investments which the middle ages would have condemned as usury. if you were like some of the school, you would praise the golden silence of the dark ages and be talking all the time. and surely the hourly failure to act up to your principles, the hourly and conscious apostacy from your ideal, could beget nothing in the character but hollowness and weakness. no student of history can fail to see the moral interest of the middle ages, any more than an artist can fail to see their aesthetic interest. there were some special types of noble character then, of which, when they were done with, nature broke the mould. but the mould is broken, and it is broken for ever. through aesthetic pining for a past age, we may become unjust to our own, and thus weaken our practical sense of duty, and lessen our power of doing good. i will call the age bad when it makes me so, is a wise saying, and worth all our visionary cynicism, be it never so eloquent. to say the same thing in other words, our age will be good enough for most of us, if there is genuine goodness in ourselves. rousseau fancied he was soaring above his age, not into the thirteenth century, but into the state of nature, while he was falling miserably below his own age in all the common duties and relations of life; and he was a type, not of enthusiasts, for enthusiasm leads to action, but of mere social dreamers. where there is duty, there is poetry, and tragedy too, in plenty, though it be in the most prosaic row of dingy little brick houses with clothes hanging out to dry, or rather to be wetted, behind them, in all lancashire. we have commercial fraud now, too much of it; and the declining character of english goods is a cause of their exclusion from foreign markets, as well as hostile tariffs; so that everything south kensington can do to uphold good and genuine work will be of the greatest advantage to the english trade. but if anyone supposes that there was no commercial fraud in the middle ages, let him study the commercial legislation of england for that period, and his mind will be satisfied, if he has a mind to be satisfied and not only a fancy to run away with him. there was fraud beneath the cross of the crusader, and there was forgery in the cell of the monk. in comparing the general quality of work we must remember that it is the best work of those times that has survived. i think i could prove from history that mediaeval floors sometimes gave way even when there was no st. dunstan there. you will recollect that the floor miraculously fell in at a synod, and killed all st. dunstan's opponents; but sceptics, who did not easily believe in miracles, whispered that the saint from his past habits, knew how to handle tools. we are told by those whose creed is embodied in "past and present" that this age is one vast anarchy, industrial and social; and that nothing but military discipline--that is the perpetual cry--will restore us to anything like order as workers or as men. well, there are twenty thousand miles of railway in the three kingdoms, forming a system as complex as it is vast. i am told that at one junction, close to london, the trains pass for some hours at the rate of two in five minutes. consider how that service is done by the myriads of men employed, and this in all seasons and weathers in overwhelming heat, in numbing cold, in blinding storm, in midnight darkness. is not this an army pretty well disciplined, though its object is not bloodshed? if we see masses full of practical energy and good sense, but wanting in culture, let us take our culture to them, and perhaps they will give us some of their practical energy and good sense in return. without that black country industry, all begrimed and sweaty, our fine culture could not exist. everything we use, nay, our veriest toy represents lives spent for us in delving beneath the dark and perilous mine, in battling with the wintry sea, in panting before the glowing forge, in counting the weary hours over the monotonous and unresting loom, lives of little value, one could think, if there were no hereafter. let us at least be kind. i go to saltaire. i find a noble effort made by a rich man who kept his heart above wealth, titus salt-- he was a baronet, but we will spare him, as we spare nelson, the derogatory prefix--to put away what is dark and evil in factory life. i find a little town, i should have thought not unpleasant to the eye, and certainly not unpleasant to the heart, where labour dwells in pure air, amidst beautiful scenery, with all the appliances of civilization, with everything that can help it to health, morality, and happiness. i find a man, who might, if he pleased, live idly in the lap of luxury, working like a horse in the management of this place, bearing calmly not only toil and trouble, but perverseness and ingratitude. surely, aesthetic culture would be a doubtful blessing if it made us think or speak unsympathetically and rudely of saltaire. four hundred thousand people at manchester are without pure water. they propose to get it from thirlmere. for this they are denounced in that sort of language which is called strong, but the use of which is a sure proof of weakness, for irritability was well defined by abernethy as debility in a state of excitement. let us spare, whenever they can be spared, history and beauty; they are a priceless part of the heritage of a great industrial nation, and one which lost can never be restored. the only difference i ever had with my fellow-citizens in oxford during a pretty long residence, arose out of my opposition to a measure which would have marred the historic character and the beauty of our city, while i was positively assured on the best authority that it was commercially inexpedient. if thirlmere can be spared, spare thirlmere; but if it is really needed to supply those masses with a necessary of life, the loveliest lake by which poet or artist ever wandered could not be put to a nobler use. i am glad in this to follow the bishop of manchester, who is not made of coarse clay, though he cares for the health as well as for the religion of his people. a schism between aesthetic oxford and industrial lancashire would be a bad thing for both; and south kensington, which, while it teaches art, joins hands with industry, surely does well. it is needless to debate before this audience the question whether there is any essential antagonism between art or esthetic culture, and the tendencies of an age of science. an accidental antagonism there may be, an essential antagonism there cannot be. what is science but truth, and why should not truth and beauty live together? is an artist a worse painter of the human body from being a good anatomist? then why should he be a worse painter of nature generally, because he knows her secrets, or because they are being explored in his time? would he render moonlight better if he believed the moon was a green cheese? art and science dwelt together well enough in the minds of leonardo da vinci and michael angelo. in the large creative mind there is room for both; though the smaller and merely perceptive mind being fixed on one may sometimes not have room for the other. true, the perfect concord of art and science, like that of religion and science, may be still to come, and come, we hope, both concords will. one word more before we distribute the prizes. a system of prizes is a system of competition, and to competition some object. we can readily sympathise with their objection. work done from love of the subject, or from a sense of duty, is better than work done for a prize, and, moreover, we cherish the hope that co-operation, not competition, will be the ultimate principle of industry, and the final state of man. but nothing hinders that, in working for a prize as in working for your bread, you may, at the same time, be working from sense of duty and love of the subject, and though co-operation may be our final state, competition is our present. here the competition is at least fair. there can hardly be any doubt that the prize system often calls into activity powers of doing good work which would otherwise have lain dormant, and if it does this it is useful to the community, though the individual needs to be on his guard against its drawbacks in himself. in reading the life of lord althorp the other day i was struck with the fact, for a fact, i think, it evidently was, that england had owed one of her worthiest and most useful statesmen to a college competition, which aroused him to a sense of his own powers, and of the duty of using them, whereas he would otherwise never have risen above making betting books and chronicling the performances of foxhounds. perhaps about the worst consequence of the prize system, against which, i have no doubt, your instructor guards, is undue discouragement on the part of those who do not win the prize. and now, ladies and gentlemen, i wish you were to receive your rewards from a hand which would lend them any additional value. but though presented by me they have been awarded by good judges; and as they have been awarded to you, i have no doubt you have deserved them well. the ascent of man. science and criticism have raised the veil of the mosaic cosmogony and revealed to us the physical origin of man. we see that, instead of being created out of the dust of the earth by divine fiat, he has in all probability been evolved out of it by a process of development through a series of intermediate forms. the discovery is, of course, unspeakably momentous. among other things it seems to open to us a new view of morality, and one which, if it is verified by further investigation, can hardly fail to produce a great change in philosophy. supposing that man has ascended from a lower animal form, there appears to be ground at least for surmising that vice, instead of being a diabolical inspiration or a mysterious element of human nature, is the remnant of the lower animal not yet eliminated; while virtue is the effort, individual and collective, by which that remnant is being gradually worked off. the acknowledged connection of virtue with the ascendency of the social over the selfish desires and tendencies seems to correspond with this view; the nature of the lower animals being, so far as we can see, almost entirely selfish, and admitting no regard even for the present interests of their kind, much less for its interests in the future. the doubtful qualities, and "last infirmities of noble minds," such as ambition and the love of fame, in which the selfish element is mingled with one not wholly selfish, and which commend themselves at least by their refinement, as contrasted with the coarseness of the merely animal vices, may perhaps be regarded as belonging to the class of phenomena quaintly designated by some writers as "pointer facts," and as marking the process of transition. in what morality consists, no one has yet succeeded in making clear. mr. sidgwick's recent criticism of the various theories leads to the conviction that not one of them affords a satisfactory basis for a practical system of ethics. if our lower nature can be traced to an animal origin, and can be shown to be in course of elimination, however slow and interrupted, this at all events will be a solid fact, and one which must be the starting-point of any future system of ethics. light would be at once thrown by such a discovery on some parts of the subject which have hitherto been involved in impenetrable darkness. of the vice of cruelty for example no rational account, we believe, has yet been given; it is connected with no human appetite, and seems to gratify no human object of desire; but if we can be shown to have inherited it from animal progenitors, the mystery of its existence is at least in part explained. in the event of this surmise being substantiated, moral phantasms, with their mediaeval trappings, would for ever disappear; individual responsibility would be reduced within reasonable limits; the difficulty of the question respecting free will would shrink to comparatively narrow proportions; but it does not seem likely that the love of virtue and the hatred of vice would be diminished; on the contrary, it seems likely that they would be practically intensified, while a more practical direction would certainly be given to the science of ethics as a system of moral training and a method of curing moral disease. it is needless to say how great has been the influence of the doctrine of evolution, or rather perhaps of the method of investigation to which it has given birth, upon the study of history, especially the history of institutions. our general histories will apparently have to be almost rewritten from that point of view. it is only to be noted, with regard to the treatment of history, that the mere introduction of a physical nomenclature, however elaborate and apparently scientific, does not make anything physical which before was not so, or exclude from human actions, of which history is the aggregate, any element not of a physical kind. we are impressed, perhaps, at first with a sense of new knowledge when we are told that human history is "an integration of matter and concomitant dissipation of motion; during which the matter passes from an indefinite incoherent homogeneity to a definite coherent heterogeneity, and during which the retained motion undergoes a parallel transformation." but a little reflection suggests to us that such a philosophy is vitiated by the assumption involved in the word "matter," and that the philosophy of history is in fact left exactly where it was before. the superior complexity of high civilization is a familiar social fact which gains nothing in clearness by the importation of mechanical or physiological terms. we must also be permitted to bear in mind that evolution, though it may explain everything else, cannot explain itself. what is the origin of the movement, and by what power the order of development is prescribed, are questions yet unsolved by physical science. that the solution, if it could be supplied, would involve anything arbitrary, miraculous, or at variance with the observed order of things, need not be assumed; but it might open a new view of the universe, and dissipate for ever the merely mechanical accounts of it. in the meantime we may fairly enter a caveat against the tacit insinuation of an unproved solution. science can apparently give no reason for assuming that the first cause, and that which gives the law to development, is a blind force rather than an archetypal idea. the only origination within our experience is that of human action, where the cause is an idea. science herself, in fact, constantly assumes an analogous cause for the movements of the universe in her use of the word "law," which necessarily conveys the notion, not merely of observed co-existence and sequence, but of the intelligent and consistent action of a higher power, on which we rely in reasoning from the past to the future, as we do upon consistency in the settled conduct of a man. unspeakably momentous, however, we once more admit, the discovery is, and great is the debt of gratitude due to its illustrious authors. yet it seems not unreasonable to ask whether in some respects we are not too much under its immediate influence, and whether the revolution of thought, though destined ultimately to be vast, may not at present have somewhat overpassed its bounds. is it not possible that the physical origin of man may be just now occupying too large a space in our minds compared with his ulterior development and his final destiny? with our eyes fixed on the "descent," newly disclosed to us, may we not be losing sight of the _ascent_ of man? there seems in the first place, to be a tendency to treat the origin of a being as finally decisive of its nature and destiny. from the language sometimes used, we should almost suppose that rudiments alone were real, and that all the rest was mere illusion. an eminent writer on the antiquities of jurisprudence intimates his belief that the idea of human brotherhood is not coeval with the race, and that primitive communities were governed by sentiments of a very different kind. his words are at once pounced upon as a warrant for dismissing the idea of human brotherhood from our minds, and substituting for it some other social principles, the character of which has not yet been definitely explained, though it is beginning in some quarters pretty distinctly to appear. but surely this is not reasonable. there can be no reason why the first estate of man, which all allow to have been his lowest estate, should claim the prerogative of furnishing his only real and indefeasible principles of action. granting that the idea of human brotherhood was not aboriginal--granting that it came into the world at a comparatively late period, still it has come, and having come, it is as real and seems as much entitled to consideration as inter-tribal hostility and domestic despotism were in their own day. that its advent has not been unattended by illusions and aberrations is a fact which does not cancel its title to real existence under the present conditions, and with the present lights of society, any more than in annuls the great effects upon the actions of men and the course of history which the idea has undeniably produced. human brotherhood was not a part of a primaeval revelation; it may not have been an original institution; but it seems to be a real part of a development, and it may be a part of a plan. that the social principles of certain anti- philanthropic works are identical with those which governed the actions of mankind in a primaeval and rudimentary state, when man had only just emerged from the animal, and have been since worked off by the foremost races in the course of development, is surely rather an argument against the paramount and indefeasible authority of those principles than in favour of it. it tends rather to show that their real character is that of a relapse, or, as the physiologists call it, a reversion. when there is a vast increase of wealth, of sensual enjoyment, and of the selfishness which is apt to attend them, it is not marvellous that such reversions should occur. another eminent writer appears to think that he has put an end to metaphysical theology, and perhaps to metaphysics and theology altogether, by showing that "being," and the cognate words, originally denoted merely physical perceptions. but so, probably, did all language. so did "spirit," so did "geist," so did "power," so did even "sweet reasonableness," and "the not us which makes for righteousness." other perceptions or ideas have gradually come, and are now denoted by the words which at first denoted physical perceptions only. why have not these last comers as good a claim to existence as the first? suppose the intellectual nature of man has unfolded, and been brought, as it conceivably may, into relations with something in the universe beyond the mere indications of the five bodily senses--why are we bound to mistrust the results of this unfolding? we might go still further back, and still lower, than to language denoting merely physical perceptions. we might go back to inarticulate sounds and signs; but this does not invalidate the reality of the perceptions afterwards expressed in articulate language. it seems not very easy to distinguish, in point of trustworthiness of source, between the principles of metaphysics and the first principles of mathematics, or to say, if we accept the deductions in one case, why we should not accept them in the other. it is conceivable at least, we venture to repeat, that the development of man's intellectual nature may have enabled him to perceive other things than those which he perceives by means of his five bodily senses; and metaphysics, once non-existent, may thus have come into legitimate existence. man, if the doctrine of evolution is true, was once a creature with only bodily senses; nay, at a still earlier stage, he was matter devoid even of bodily sense; now he has arrived--through the exercise of his bodily senses it may be--at something beyond bodily sense, at such notions as _being, essence, existence_: he reasons upon these notions, and extends the scope of his once merely physical vocabulary so as to comprehend them. why should he not? if we are to be anchored hard and fast to the signification of primaeval language, how are we to obtain an intellectual basis for "the not us which makes for righteousness?" do not the anti-metaphysicists themselves unconsciously metaphysicize? does not their fundamental assumption--that the knowledge received through our bodily senses alone is trustworthy--involve an appeal to a mental necessity as much as anything in metaphysics, whether the mental necessity in this case be real or not? again, the great author of the evolution theory himself, in his _descent of man_, has given us an account of morality which suggests a remark of the same kind. he seems to have come to the conclusion that what is called our moral sense is merely an indication of the superior permanency of social compared with personal impressions. morality, if we take his explanation as complete and final, is reduced to tribal self-preservation subtilized into etiquette; an etiquette which, perhaps, a sceptical voluptuary, wishing to remove the obstacles to a life of enjoyment, might think himself not unreasonable in treating as an illusion. this, so far as appears, is the explanation offered of moral life, with all its beauty, its tenderness, its heroism, its self- sacrifice; to say nothing of spiritual life with its hopes and aspirations, its prayers and fanes. such an account even of the origin of morality seems rather difficult to receive. surely, even in their most rudimentary condition, virtue and vice must have been distinguished by some other characteristic than the relative permanency of two different sets of impressions. there is a tendency, we may venture to observe, on the part of eminent physicists, when they have carefully investigated and explained what seems to them the most important and substantial subjects of inquiry, to proffer less careful explanations of matters which to them seem secondary and less substantial, though possibly to an intelligence surveying the drama of the world from without the distinctly human portion of it might appear more important than the rest. eminent physicists have been known, we believe, to account summarily for religion as a surviving reminiscence of the serpent which attacked the ancestral ape and the tree which sheltered him from the attack, so that newton's religious belief would be a concomitant of his remaining trace of a tail. it was assumed that primaeval religion was universally the worship of the serpent and of the tree. this assumption was far from being correct; but, even if it had been correct, the theory based on it would surely have been a very summary account of the phenomena of religious life. however, supposing the account of the origin of the moral sense and of moral life, given in _the descent of man_, to be true, it is an account of the origin only. though profoundly significant, as well as profoundly interesting, it is not more significant, compared with the subsequent development, than is the origin of physical life compared with the subsequent history of living beings. suppose a mineralogist or a chemist were to succeed in discovering the exact point at which inorganic matter gave birth to the organic; his discovery would be momentous and would convey to us a most distinct assurance of the method by which the governing power of the universe works: but would it qualify the mineralogist or the chemist to give a full account of all the diversities of animal life, and of the history of man? heroism, self- sacrifice, the sense of moral beauty, the refined affections of civilized men, philanthropy, the desire of realizing a high moral ideal, whatever else they may be, are not tribal self-preservation subtilized into etiquette; nor are they adequately explained by reference to the permanent character of one set of impressions and the occasional character of another set. between the origin of moral life and its present manifestation has intervened something so considerable as to baffle any anticipation of the destiny of humanity which could have been formed for a mere inspection of the rudiments. we may call this intervening force circumstance, if we please, provided we remember that calling it circumstance does not settle its nature, or exclude the existence of a power acting through circumstance as the method of fulfilling a design. whatever things may have been in their origin, they are what they are, both in themselves and in regard to their indications respecting other beings or influences the existence of which may be implied in theirs. the connection between the embryo and the adult man, with his moral sense and intelligence, and all that these imply, is manifest, as well as the gradual evolution of the one out of the other, and a conclusive argument is hence derived against certain superstitions or fantastic beliefs; but the embryo is not a man, neither is the man an embryo. a physiologist sets before us a set of plates showing the similarity between the embryo of newton and that of his dog diamond. the inference which he probably expects us to draw is that there is no essential difference between the philosopher and the dog. but surely it is at least as logical to infer, that the importance of the embryo and the significance of embryological similarities may not be so great as the physiologist is disposed to believe. so with regard to human institutions. the writer on legal antiquities before mentioned finds two sets of institutions which are now directly opposed to each other, and between the respective advocates of which a controversy has been waged. he proposes to terminate that controversy by showing that though the two rival systems in their development are so different, in their origin they were the same. this seems very clearly to bring home to us the fact that, important as the results of an investigation of origins are, there is still a limit to their importance. again, while we allow no prejudice to stand in the way of our acceptance of evolution, we may fairly call upon evolution to be true to itself. we may call upon it to recognise the possibility of development in the future as well as the fact of development in the past, and not to shut up the hopes and aspirations of our race in a mundane egg because the mundane egg happens to be the special province of the physiologist. the series of developments has proceeded from the inorganic to the organic, from the organic upwards to moral and intellectual life. why should it be arrested there? why should it not continue its upward course and arrive at a development which might be designated as spiritual life? surely the presumption is in favour of a continued operation of the law. nothing can be more arbitrary than the proceeding of comte, who, after tracing humanity, as he thinks, through the theological and metaphysical stages into the positive, there closes the series and assumes that the positive stage is absolutely final. how can he be sure that it will not be followed, for example, by one in which man will apprehend and commune with the ruler of the universe, not through mythology or dogma, but through science? he may have had no experience of such a phase of human existence, nor may he be able at present distinctly to conceive it. but had he lived in the theological or the metaphysical era he would have been equally without experience of the positive, and have had the same difficulty in conceiving its existence. his finality is an assumption apparently without foundation. by spiritual life we do not mean the life of a disembodied spirit, or anything supernatural and anti-scientific, but a life the motives of which are beyond the world of sense, and the aim of which is an ideal, individual and collective, which may be approached but cannot be attained under our present conditions, and the conception of which involves the hope of an ulterior and better state. the positivists themselves often use the word "spiritual," and it may be assumed that they mean by it something higher in the way of aspiration than what is denoted by the mere term moral, though they may not look forward to any other state of being than this. we do not presume, of course, in these few pages to broach any great question, our only purpose being to point out a possible aberration or exaggeration of the prevailing school of thought. but it must surely be apparent to the moral philosopher, no less than to the student of history, that at the time of the appearance of christianity, a crisis took place in the development of humanity which may be not unfitly described as the commencement of spiritual life. the change was not abrupt. it had been preceded and heralded by the increasing spirituality of the hebrew religion, especially in the teachings of the prophets, by the spiritualization of greek philosophy, and perhaps by the sublimation of roman duty; but it was critical and decided. so much is admitted even by those who deplore the advent of christianity as a fatal historical catastrophe, which turned away men's minds from the improvement of their material condition to the pursuit of a chimerical ideal. faith, hope, and charity, by which the gospel designates the triple manifestation of spiritual life, are new names for new things; for it is needless to say that in classical greek the words have nothing like their gospel signification. it would be difficult, we believe, to find in any greek or roman writer an expression of hope for the future of humanity. the nearest approach to such a sentiment, perhaps, is in the political utopianism of plato. the social ideal is placed in a golden age which has irretrievably passed away. virgil's fourth eclogue, even if it were a more serious production than it is, seems to refer to nothing more than the pacification of the roman empire and the restoration of its material prosperity by augustus. but christianity, in the apocalypse, at once breaks forth into a confident prediction of the ultimate triumph of good over evil, and of the realization of the ideal. the moral aspiration--the striving after an ideal of character, personal and social, the former in and through the latter--seems to be the special note of the life, institutions, literature, and art of christendom. christian fiction, for example, is pervaded by an interest in the development and elevation of character for which we look in vain in the _arabian nights_, where there is no development of character, nothing but incident and adventure. christian sculpture, inferior perhaps in workmanship to that of phidias, derives its superior interest from its constant suggestion of a spiritual ideal. the christian lives, in a manner, two lives, an outward one of necessary conformity to the fashions and ordinances of the present world; an inner one of protest against the present world and anticipation of an ideal state of things; and this duality is reproduced in the separate existence of the spiritual society or church, submitting to existing social arrangements, yet struggling to transcend them, and to transmute society by the realization of the christian's social ideal. with this is necessarily connected a readiness to sacrifice present to future good, and the interests of the present to future good, and the interests of the present world to those of the world of hope. apart from this, the death of christ (and that of socrates also), instead of being an instance of "sweet reasonableness," would be out of the pale of reason altogether. it is perhaps the absence of an ideal that prevents our feeling satisfied with utilitarianism. the utilitarian definition of morality has been so much enlarged, and made to coincide so completely with ordinary definitions in point of mere extent, that the difference between utilitarianism and ordinary moral philosophy seems to have become almost verbal. yet we feel that there is something wanting. there is no ideal of character. and where there is no ideal of character there can hardly be such a thing as a sense of moral beauty. a utilitarian perhaps would say that perfect utility is beauty. but whatever may be the case with material beauty, moral beauty at all events seems to contain an element not identical with the satisfaction produced by the appearance of perfect utility, but suggestive of an unfulfilled ideal. suppose spiritual life necessarily implies the expectation of a future state, has physical science anything to say against that expectation? physical science is nothing more than the perceptions of our five bodily senses registered and methodized. but what are these five senses? according to physical science itself, nerves in a certain stage of evolution. why then should it be assumed that their account of the universe, or of our relations to it, is exhaustive and final? why should it be assumed that these are the only possible organs of perception, and that no other faculties or means of communication with the universe can ever in the course of evolution be developed in man? around us are animals absolutely unconscious, so far as we can discern, of that universe which science has revealed to us. a sea anemone, if it can reflect, probably feels as confident that it perceives everything capable of being perceived as the man of science. the reasonable supposition, surely, is that though science, so far as it goes, is real, and the guide of our present life, its relation to the sum of things is not much more considerable than that of the perceptions of the lower orders of animals. that our notions of the universe have been so vastly enlarged by the mere invention of astronomical instruments is enough in itself to suggest the possibility of further and infinitely greater enlargement. to our bodily senses, no doubt, and to physical science, which is limited by them, human existence seems to end with death; but if there is anything in our nature which tells us, with a distinctness and persistency equal to those of our sensible perceptions, that hope and responsibility extend beyond death, why is this assurance not as much to be trusted as that of the bodily sense itself? there is apparently no ultimate criterion of truth, whether physical or moral, except our inability, constituted as we are to believe otherwise; and this criterion seems to be satisfied by a universal and ineradicable moral conviction as well as by a universal and irresistible impression of sense. we are enjoined, some times with a vehemence approaching that of ecclesiastical anathema, to refuse to consider anything which lies beyond the range of experience. by experience is meant the perceptions of our bodily senses, the absolute completeness and finality of which, we must repeat, is an assumption, the warrant for which must at all events be produced from other authority than that of the senses themselves. on this ground we are called upon to discard, as worthy of nothing but derision, the ideas of eternity and infinity. but to dislodge these ideas from our minds is impossible; just as impossible as it is to dislodge any idea that has entered through the channels of the senses; and this being so, it is surely conceivable that they may not be mere illusions, but real extensions of our intelligence beyond the domain of mere bodily sense, indicating an upward progress of our nature. of course if these ideas correspond to reality, physical science, though true as far as it goes, cannot be the whole truth, or even bear any considerable relation to the whole truth, since it necessarily presents being as limited by space and time. whither obedience to the dictates of the higher part of our nature will ultimately carry us, we may not be able, apart from revelation, to say; but there seems no substantial reason for refusing to believe that it carries us towards a better state. mere ignorance, arising from the imperfection of our perceptive powers, of the mode in which we shall pass into that better state, or of its precise relation to our present existence, cannot cancel an assurance, otherwise valid, of our general destiny. a transmutation of humanity, such as we can conceive to be brought about by the gradual prevalence of higher motives of action, and the gradual elimination thereby of what is base and brutish, is surely no more incredible than the actual development of humanity, as it is now, out of a lower animal form or out of inorganic matter. what the bearing of the automatic theory of human nature would be upon the hopes and aspirations of man, or on moral philosophy generally, it might be difficult, no doubt, to say. but has any one of the distinguished advocates of the automatic theory ever acted on it, or allowed his thoughts to be really ruled by it for a moment? what can be imagined more strange than an automaton suddenly becoming conscious of its own automatic character, reasoning and debating about it automatically, and coming automatically to the conclusion that the automatic theory of itself is true? nor is there any occasion here to entangle ourselves in the controversy about necessarianism. if the race can act progressively on higher and more unselfish motives, as history proves to be the fact, there can be nothing in the connection between our actions and their antecedents inconsistent with the ascent of man. jonathan edwards is undoubtedly right in maintaining that there is a connection between every human action and its antecedents. but the nature of the connection remains a mystery. we learn its existence not from inspection, but from consciousness, and this same consciousness tells us that the connection is not such as to preclude the existence of liberty of choice, moral aspiration, moral effort, moral responsibility, which are the contradictories of necessarianism. the terms _cause and effect_, and others of that kind, which the imperfection of psychological language compels us to use in speaking of the mental connection between action and its antecedents, are steeped from their employment in connection with physical science, in physical association, and the import with them into the moral sphere the notion of physical enchainment, for which the representations of consciousness, the sole authority, afford no warrant whatever. another possible source of serious aberration, we venture to think, will be found in the misapplication of the doctrine of _survivals_. some lingering remains of its rudimentary state in the shape of primaeval superstitions or fancies continue to adhere to a developed, and matured belief; and hence it is inferred, or at least the inference is suggested, that the belief itself is nothing but a "survival," and destined in the final triumph of reason to pass away. the belief in the immortality of the soul, for example, is found still connected in the lower and less advanced minds with primaeval superstitions and fancies about ghosts and other physical manifestations of the spirit world, as well as with funeral rites and modes of burial indicating irrational notions as to the relations of the body to the spirit. but neither these nor any special ideas as to the nature of future rewards and punishments or the mode of transition from the present to the future state, are really essential parts of the belief. they are the rudimentary imaginations and illusions of which the rational belief is gradually working itself clear. the basis of the rational belief in the immortality of the soul, or, to speak more correctly, in the continuance of our spiritual existence after death is the conviction, common, so far as we know, to all the higher portions of humanity, and apparently ineradicable, that our moral responsibility extends beyond the grave; that we do not by death terminate the consequences of our actions, or our relations to those to whom we have done good or evil; and that to die the death of the righteous is better than to have lived a life of pleasure even with the approbation of an undiscerning world. so far from growing weaker, this conviction appears to grow practically stronger among the most highly educated and intelligent of mankind, though they may have cast off the last remnant of primitive or medieval superstition, and though they may have ceased to profess belief in any special form of the doctrine. the comtists certainly have not got rid of it, since they have devised a subjective immortality with a retributive distinction between the virtuous and the wicked; to say nothing of their singular proposal that the dead should be formally judged by the survivors, and buried, according to the judgment passed upon them, in graves of honour or disgrace. with regard to religion generally there is the same tendency to exaggerate the significance of "survivals," and to neglect, on the other hand, the phenomena of disengagement. because the primitive fables and illusions which long adhere to religion are undeniably dying out, it is asserted, or suggested, that religion itself is dying. religion is identified with mythology. but mythology is merely the primaeval matrix of religion. mythology is the embodiment of man's childlike notions as to the universe in which he finds himself, and the powers which for good or evil influence his lot; and, when analysed, it is found beneath all its national variations to be merely based upon a worship of the sun, the moon, and the forces of nature. religion is the worship and service of a moral god and a god who is worshipped and served by virtue. we can distinctly see, in greek literature for instance, religion disengaging itself from mythology. in homer the general element is mythology, capable of being rendered more or less directly into simple nature- worship, childish, non-moral, and often immoral. but when hector says that he holds omens of no account, and that the best omen of all is to fight for one's country, he shows an incipient reliance on a moral power. the disengagement of religion from mythology is of course much further advanced and more manifest when we come to plato; while the religious faith, instead of being weaker, has become infinitely stronger, and is capable of supporting the life and the martyrdom of socrates. when socrates and plato reject the homeric mythology, it is not because they are sceptics but because homer is a child. but it is in the old testament that the process of disengagement and the growth of a moral out of a ceremonial religion are most distinctly seen:-- "'wherewith shall i come before jahveh, and bow myself down before god on high? shall i come before him with burnt offerings, with the sacrifice of calves of a year old? --will jahveh be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil? shall i give my first-born for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?' '--he hath showed thee, o man, what is good, and what jahveh doth require of thee; what but to do justly to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy god?'" here no doubt is a belief in the efficacy of sacrifice, even of human sacrifice, even of the sacrifice of the first-born. but it is a receding and dying belief; while the belief in the power of justice, mercy, humility, moral religion in short, is prevailing over it and taking its place. so it is again in the new testament with regard to spiritual life and the miraculous. spiritual life commenced in a world full of belief in the miraculous, and it did not at once break with that belief. but it threw the miraculous into the background and anticipated its decline, presaging that it would lose its importance and give place finally to the spiritual. "though i speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, i am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal. and though i have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though i have all faith, so that i could remove mountains, and have not charity, i am nothing.... charity never faileth; but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. for we know in part, and we prophesy in part. but when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away." clearly the writer of this believes in prophecies, in tongues, in mysteries. but clearly, also, he regards them as both secondary and transient, while he regards charity as primary and eternal. it may be added that the advent of spiritual life did at once produce a change in the character of the miraculous itself, divested it of its fantastic extravagance, and infused into it a moral element. the gospel miracles, almost without exception, have a moral significance, and can without incongruity be made the text of moral discourses to this day. an attempt to make hindoo or greek miracles the text of moral discourses would produce strange results. compared with the tract of geological, and still more with that of astronomical time, spiritual life has not been long in our world; and we need not wonder if the process of disengagement from the environments of the previous state of humanity is as yet far from complete political religions and persecution, for instance, did not come into the world with christ; they are survivals of an earlier stage of human progress. the papacy, the great political church of mediaeval europe, is the historical continuation of the state religion of rome and the pontificate of the roman emperors. the greek church is the historical continuation of the eastern offset of the same system. the national state churches are the historical continuations of the tribal religions and priesthoods of the northern tribes. we talk of the conversion of the barbarians, but in point of fact it was the chief of the tribe that was converted, or rather that changed his religious allegiance, sometimes by treaty (as in the case of guthrum), and carried his tribe with him into the allegiance of the new god. hence the new religion, like the old, was placed upon the footing of a tribal, and afterwards of a state, religion; heresy was treason; and the state still lent the aid of the secular arm to the national priesthood for the repression of rebellion against the established faith. but since the reformation the process of disengagement has been rapidly going on; and in the north american communities, which are the latest developments of humanity, the connection between church and state has ceased to exist, without any diminution of the strength of the religious sentiment whether there is anything deserving of attention in these brief remarks or not, one thing may safely be affirmed: it is time that the question as to the existence of a rational basis for religion and the reality of spiritual life should be studied, not merely with a view of overthrowing the superstitions of the past, but of providing, if possible, a faith for the present and the future. the battle of criticism and science against superstition has been won, as every open-minded observer of the contest must be aware, though the remnants of the broken host still linger on the field. it is now time to consider whether religion must perish with superstition, or whether the death of superstition may not be the new birth of religion. religion survived the fall of polytheism; it is surely conceivable that it may survive the fall of anthropomorphism, and that the desperate struggle which is being waged about the formal belief in "personality," may be merely the sloughing off of something that when it is gone, will be seen to have not been vital to religion. there are some who would deter us from inquiring into anything beyond the range of sensible experience, and especially from any inquiry into the future existence of the soul, which they denounce as utterly unpractical, and compare with obsolete and fruitless inquiries into the state of the soul before birth. we have already challenged the exclusive claim of the five bodily senses to be the final sources of knowledge; and we may surely add that it is at least as practical to inquire into the destiny as it is to inquire into the origin of man. if the belief in god and in a future state is true, it will prevail. the cloud will pass away and the sun will shine out again. but in the meantime society may have "a bad quarter of an hour." without exaggerating the influence of the belief in future reward and punishment, or of any form of it, on the actions of ordinary men, we may safely say that the sense of responsibility to a higher power, and of the constant presence of an all-seeing judge, has exercised an influence, the removal of which would be greatly felt. materialism has in fact already begun to show its effects on human conduct and on society. they may perhaps be more visible in communities where social conduct depends greatly on individual conviction and motive, than in communities which are more ruled by tradition and bound together by strong class organizations; though the decay of morality will perhaps be ultimately more complete and disastrous in the latter than in the former. god and future retribution being out of the question, it is difficult to see what can restrain the selfishness of an ordinary man, and induce him, in the absence of actual coercion, to sacrifice his personal desires to the public good. the service of humanity is the sentiment of a refined mind conversant with history; within no calculable time is it likely to overrule the passions and direct the conduct of the mass. and after all, without god or spirit, what is "humanity"? one school of science reckons a hundred and fifty different species of man. what is the bond of unity between all these species and wherein consists the obligation to mutual love and help? a zealous servant of science told agassiz that the age of real civilization would have begun when you could go out and shoot a man for scientific purposes. _apparent dirae facies_. we begin to perceive, looming through the mist, the lineaments of an epoch of selfishness compressed by a government of force. proposed substitutes for religion there appears to be a connection between the proposed substitutes for religion and the special training of their several authors. historians tender us the worship of humanity, professors of physical science tender us cosmic emotion. theism might almost retort the apologue of the specter of the brocken. the only organized cultus without a god, at present before us, is that of comte. this in all its parts--its high priesthood, its hierarchy, its sacraments, its calendar, its hagiology, its literary canon, its ritualism, and we may add, in its fundamentally intolerant and inquisitorial character--is an obvious reproduction of the church of rome, with humanity in place of god, great men in place of the saints, the founder of comtism in place of the founder of christianity, and even a sort of substitute for the virgin in the shape of womanhood typified by clotilde de vaux. there is only just the amount of difference which would be necessary in order to escape servile imitation. we have ourselves witnessed a case of alternation between the two systems which testified to the closeness of their affinity. the catholic church has acted on the imagination of comte at least as powerfully as sparta acted on that of plato. nor is comtism, any more than plato's _republic_ and other utopias, exempt from the infirmity of claiming finality for a flight of the individual imagination. it would shut up mankind for ever in a stereotyped organization which is the vision of a particular thinker. in this respect it seems to us to be at a disadvantage compared with christianity, which, as presented, in the gospels, does not pretend to organize mankind ecclesiastically or politically, but simply supplies a new type of character, and a new motive power, leaving government, ritual and organization of every kind to determine themselves from age to age. comte's prohibition of inquiry into the composition of the stars, which his priesthood, had it been installed in power, would perhaps have converted into a compulsory article of faith, is only a specimen of his general tendency (the common tendency, as we have said, of all utopias) to impose on human progress the limits of his own mind. let his hierarchy become masters of the world, and the effect would probably be like that produced by the ascendency of a hierarchy (enlightened no doubt for its time) in egypt, a brief start forward followed by consecrated immobility for ever. lareveillere lepaux, a member of the french directory, invented a new religion of theo-philanthropy which seems in fact to have been an organized rousseauism. he wished to impose it on france but finding that in spite of his passionate endeavours he made but little progress he sought the advice of talleyrand. "i am not surprised" said talleyrand "at the difficulty you experience. it is no easy matter to introduce a new religion. but i will tell you what i recommend you to do. i recommend you to be crucified and to rise again on the third day." we cannot say whether lareveillere made any proselytes but if he did their number cannot have been much smaller than the reputed number of the religious disciples of comte. as a philosophy, comtism has found its place and exercised its share of influence among the philosophies of the time but as a religious system it appears to make little way. it is the invention of a man not the spontaneous expression of the beliefs and feelings of mankind. any one with a tolerably lively imagination might produce a rival system with as little practical effect. roman catholicism was at all events a growth not an invention. cosmic emotion, though it does not affect to be an organized system, is the somewhat sudden creation of individual minds set at work apparently by the exigencies of a particular situation and on that account suggestive _prima facie_ of misgivings similar to those suggested by the invention of comte. now is the worship of humanity or cosmic emotion really a substitute for religion? that is the only question which we wish in these few pages to ask. we do not pretend here to inquire what is or what is not true in itself. religion teaches that we have our being in a power whose character and purposes are indicated to us by our moral nature, in whom we are united and by the union made sacred to each other, whose voice conscience however generated, is whose eye is always upon us, sees all our acts, and sees them as they are morally, without reference to worldly success or to the opinion of the world, to whom at death we return, and our relations to whom, together with his own nature, are an assurance that according as we promote or fail to promote his design by self improvement and the improvement of our kind, it will be well or ill for us in the sum of things. this is a hypothesis evidently separable from belief in a revelation, and from any special theory respecting the next world, as well as from all dogma and ritual. it may be true or false in itself, capable of demonstration or incapable. we are concerned here solely with its practical efficiency, compared with that of the proposed substitutes. it is only necessary to remark, that there is nothing about the religious hypothesis as here stated, miraculous, supernatural, or mysterious, except so far as those epithets may be applied to anything beyond the range of bodily sense, say the influence of opinion or affection. a universe self-made, and without a god, is at least as great a mystery as a universe with a god; in fact the very attempt to conceive it in the mind produces a moral vertigo which is a bad omen for the practical success of cosmic emotion. for this religion are the service and worship of humanity likely to be a real equivalent in any respect, as motive power, as restraint, or as comfort? will the idea of life in god be adequately replaced by that of an interest in the condition and progress of humanity, as they may affect us and be influenced by our conduct, together with the hope of human gratitude and fear of human reprobation after death, which the comtists endeavor to organize into a sort of counterpart of the day of judgment? it will probably be at once conceded that the answer must be in the negative as regards the immediate future and the mass of mankind. the simple truths of religion are intelligible to all, and strike all minds with equal force, though they may not have the same influence with all moral natures. a child learns them perfectly at its mother's knee. honest ignorance in the mine, on the sea, at the forge, striving to do its coarse and perilous duty, performing the lowliest functions of humanity, contributing in the humblest way to human progress, itself scarcely sunned by a ray of what more cultivated natures would deem happiness, takes in as fully as the sublimest philosopher the idea of a god who sees and cares for all, who keeps account of the work well done or the kind act, marks the secret fault, and will hereafter make up to duty for the hardness of its present lot. but a vivid interest--such an interest as will act both as a restraint and as a comfort--in the condition and future of humanity can surely exist only in those who have a knowledge of history sufficient to enable them to embrace the unity of the past, and an imagination sufficiently cultivated to glow with anticipation of the future. for the bulk of mankind the humanity worshippers point of view seems unattainable at least within any calculable time. as to posthumous reputation good or evil it is and always must be the appendage of a few marked men. the plan of giving it substance by instituting separate burial places for the virtuous and the wicked is perhaps not very seriously proposed. any such plan involves the fallacy of a sharp division where there is no clear moral line besides postulating not only an unattainable knowledge of men's actions but a knowledge still more manifestly unattainable of their hearts. yet we cannot help thinking that on the men of intellect to whose teaching the world is listening this hope of posthumous reputation, or to put it more plainly, of living in the gratitude and affection of their kind by means of their scientific discoveries and literary works exercises an influence of which they are hardly conscious, it prevents them from fully feeling the void which the annihilation of the hope of future existence leaves in the hearts of ordinary men. besides so far as we are aware no attempt has yet been made to show us distinctly what humanity is and wherein its holiness consists. if the theological hypothesis is true and all men are united in god, humanity is a substantial reality, but otherwise we fail to see that it is any thing more than a metaphysical abstraction converted into an actual entity by philosophers who are not generally kind to metaphysics. even the unity of the species is far from settled, science still debates whether there is one race of men or whether there are more than a hundred. man acts on man no doubt, but he also acts on other animals, and other animals on him. wherein does the special unity or the special bond consist? above all what constitutes the holiness? individual men are not holy, a large proportion of them are very much the reverse. why is the aggregate holy? let the unit be a complex phenomenon, an organism or whatever name science may give it, what multiple of it will be a rational object of worship? for our own part we cannot conceive worship being offered by a sane worshipper to any but a conscious being, in other words to a person. the fetish worshipper himself probably invests his fetish with a vague personality such as would render it capable of propitiation. but how can we invest with a collective personality the fleeting generations of mankind? even the sum of mankind is never complete, much less are the units blended into a personal whole, or as it has been called a colossal man. there is a gulf here, as it seems to us, which cannot be bridged, and can barely be hidden from view by the retention of religious phraseology. in truth, the anxious use of that phraseology betrays weakness, since it shows that you cannot do without the theological associations which cling inseparably to religious terms. you look forward to a closer union, a more complete brotherhood of man, an increased sacredness of the human relation. some things point that way; some things point the other way. brotherhood has hardly a definite meaning without a father; sacredness can hardly be predicated without anything which consecrates. we can point to an eminent writer who tells you that he detests the idea of brotherly love altogether; that there are many of his kind whom, so far from loving, he hates, and that he would like to write his hatred with a lash upon their backs. look again at the severe prussianism which betrays itself in the new creed of strauss. look at the oligarchy of enlightenment and enjoyment which renan, in his _moral reform of france_, proposes to institute for the benefit of a select circle, with sublime indifference to the lot of the vulgar, who, he says, "must subsist on the glory and happiness of others." this does not look much like a nearer approach to a brotherhood of man than is made by the gospel. we are speaking, of course, merely of the comparative moral efficiency of religion and the proposed substitutes for it, apart from the influence exercised over individual conduct by the material needs and other non-theological forces of society. for the immortality of the individual soul, with the influences of that belief, we are asked to substitute the immortality of the race. but here, in addition to the difficulty of proving the union and intercommunion of all the members, we are met by the objection that unless we live in god, the race, in all probability, is not immortal. that our planet and all it contains will come to an end appears to be the decided opinion of science. this "holy" being, our relation to which is to take the place of our relation to an eternal father, by the adoration of which we are to be sustained and controlled, if it exist at all, is as ephemeral compared with eternity as a fly. we shall be told that we ought to be content with an immortality extending through tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of years. to the _argumentum ad verecundiam_ there is no reply. but will this banish the thought of ultimate annihilation? will it prevent a man, when he is called upon to make some great sacrifice for the race, from saying to himself, that, whether he makes the sacrifice or not, one day all will end in nothing? evidently these are points which must be made quite clear before you can, with any prospect of success, call upon men either to regard humanity with the same feelings with which they have regarded god, or to give up their own interest or enjoyment for the future benefit of the race. the assurance derived from the fondness felt by parents for their offspring, and the self-denying efforts made for the good of children, will hardly carry us very far, even supposing it certain that parental love would remain unaffected by the general change. it is evidently a thing apart from the general love of humanity. nobody was ever more extravagantly fond of his children, or made greater efforts for them, than alexander borgia. it has been attempted, however, with all the fervour of conviction, and with all the force of a powerful style, to make us see not only that we have this corporal immortality as members of the "colossal man," but that we may look forward to an actual though impersonal existence in the shape of the prolongation through all future time of the consequences of our lives. it might with equal truth be said that we have enjoyed an actual though impersonal existence through all time past in our antecedents. but neither in its consequences nor in its antecedents can anything be said to live except by a figure. the characters and actions of men surely will never be influenced by such a fanciful use of language as this! our being is consciousness; with consciousness our being ends, though our physical forces may be conserved, and traces of our conduct--traces utterly indistinguishable--may remain. that with which we are not concerned cannot affect us either presently or by anticipation; and with that of which we shall never be conscious, we shall never feel that we are concerned. perhaps if the authors of this new immortality would tell us what they understand by non-existence, we might be led to value more highly by contrast the existence which they propose for a soul when it has ceased to think or feel, and for an organism when it has been scattered to the winds. they would persuade us that their impersonal and unconscious immortality is a brighter hope than an eternity of personal and conscious existence, the very thought of which they say is torture. this assumes, what there seems to be no ground for assuming, that eternity is an endless extension of time; and, in the same way, that infinity is a boundless space. it is more natural to conceive of them as emancipation respectively from time and space, and from the conditions which time and space involve; and among the conditions of time may apparently be reckoned the palling of pleasure or of existence by mere temporal protraction. even as we are, sensual pleasure palls; so does the merely intellectual: but can the same be said of the happiness of virtue and affection? it is urged, too, that by exchanging the theological immortality for one of physical and social consequences, we get rid of the burden of self, which otherwise we should drag for ever. but surely in this there is a confusion of self with selfishness. selfishness is another name for vice. self is merely consciousness. without a self, how can there be self-sacrifice? how can the most unselfish motive exist if there is nothing to be moved? "he that findeth his life, shall lose it; and he that loseth his life, shall find it," is not a doctrine of selfishness, but it implies a self. we have been rebuked in the words of frederick to his grenadiers--"do you want to live for ever?" the grenadiers might have answered, "yes; and therefore we are ready to die." it is not when we think of the loss of anything to which a taint of selfishness can adhere--it is not even when we think of intellectual effort cut short for ever by death just as the intellect has ripened and equipped itself with the necessary knowledge--that the nothingness of this immortality of conservated forces is most keenly felt: it is when we think of the miserable end of affection. how much comfort would it afford anyone bending over the deathbed of his wife to know that forces set free by her dissolution will continue to mingle impersonally and indistinguishably with forces set free by the general mortality? affection, at all events, requires personality. one cannot love a group of consequences, even supposing that the filiation could be distinctly presented to the mind. pressed by the hand of sorrow craving for comfort, this dead sea fruit crumbles into ashes, paint it with eloquence as you will. humanity, it seems to us, is a fundamentally christian idea, connected with the christian view of the relations of men to their common father and of their spiritual union in the church. in the same way the idea of the progress of humanity seems to us to have been derived from the christian belief in the coming of the kingdom of god through the extension of the church, and to that final triumph of good over evil foretold in the imagery of the apocalypse. at least the founders of the religion of humanity will admit that the christian church is the matrix of theirs so much their very nomenclature proves and we would fain ask them to review the process of disengagement and see whether the essence has not been left behind. no doubt there are influences at work in modern civilisation which tend to the strengthening of the sentiment of humanity by making men more distinctly conscious of their position as members of a race. on the other hand the unreflecting devotion of the tribesman which held together primitive societies dies. man learns to reason and calculate and when he is called upon to immolate himself to the common interest of the race he will consider what the common interest of the race when he is dead and gone will be to him and whether he will ever be repaid for his sacrifice. of cosmic emotion it will perhaps be fair to say that it is proposed as a substitute for religious emotion rather than as a substitute for religion since nothing has been said about embodying it in a cult. it comes to us commended by glowing quotations from mr. swinburne and walt whitman and we cannot help admitting that for common hearts it stands in need of the commendation. the transfer of affection from an all loving father to an adamantine universe is a process for which we may well seek all the aid that the witchery of poetry can supply. unluckily we are haunted by the consciousness that the poetry itself is blindly ground out by the same illimitable mill of evolution which grinds out virtue and affection. we are by no means sure that we understand what cosmic emotion is even after leading an exposition of its nature by no ungifted hand. its symbola so to speak are the feelings produced by the two objects of kant's peculiar reverence--the stars of heaven and the moral faculty of man. but after all these are only like anything else aggregations of molecules in a certain stage of evolution. to the unscientific eye they may be awful because they are mysterious, but let science analyse them and then awfulness disappears. if the interaction of all parts of the material universe is complete we fail to see why one object or one feeling is more cosmic than another. however we will not dwell on that which as we have already confessed we do not feel sure that we rightly apprehend. what we do clearly see is that to have cosmic emotion or cosmic anything you must have a cosmos. you must be assured that the universe is a cosmos and not a chaos. and what assurance of this can materialism or any non theological system give? law is a theological term, it implies a lawgiver or a governing intelligence of some kind. science can tell us nothing but facts, single or accumulated as experience, which would not make a law though they had been observed through myriads of years. law is a theological term, and cosmos is equally so, if it may not rather be said to be a greek name for the aggregate of laws. for order implies intelligent selection and arrangement. our idea of order would not be satisfied by a number of objects falling by mere chance into a particular figure, however intricate and regular. all the arguments which have been used against design seem to tell with equal force against order. we have no other universe wherewith we can compare this, so as to assure ourselves that this universe is not a chaos, but a cosmos. both on the earth and in the heavens we see much that is not order, but disorder; not cosmos, but acosmia. if we divine, nevertheless, that order reigns, and that there is design beneath the seemingly undesigned, and good beneath the appearance of evil, it is by virtue of something not dreamed of in the philosophy of materialism. have we really come to this, that the world has no longer any good reason for believing in a god or a life beyond the grave? if so, it is difficult to deny that with regard to the great mass of mankind up to this time schopenhauer and the pessimists are right, and existence has been a cruel misadventure. the number of those who have suffered lifelong oppression, disease, or want, who have died deaths of torture or perished miserably by war, is limited though enormous; but probably there have been few lives in which the earthly good has not been outweighed by the evil. the future may bring increased means of happiness, though those who are gone will not be the better for them; but it will bring also increase of sensibility, and the consciousness of hopeless imperfection and miserable futility will probably become a distinct and growing cause of pain. it is doubtful even whether, after such a raising of mokanna's veil, faith in everything would not expire and human effort cease. still we must face the situation: there can be no use in self-delusion. in vain we shall seek to cheat our souls and to fill a void which cannot be filled by the manufacture of artificial religions and the affectation of a spiritual language to which, however persistently and fervently it may be used, no realities correspond. if one of these cults could get itself established, in less than a generation it would become hollower than the hollowest of ecclesiasticisms. probably not a few of the highest natures would withdraw themselves from the dreary round of self mockery by suicide, and if a scientific priesthood attempted to close that door by sociological dogma or posthumous denunciation the result would show the difference between the practical efficacy of a religion with a god and that of a cult of "humanity" or "space." shadows and figments, as they appear to us to be in themselves these attempts to provide a substitute for religion are of the highest importance, as showing that men of great powers of mind, who have thoroughly broken loose not only from christianity but from natural religion and in some cases placed themselves in violent antagonism to both, are still unable to divest themselves of the religious sentiment or to appease its craving for satisfaction. there being no god, they find it necessary, as voltaire predicted it would be, to invent one, not for the purposes of police (they are far above such sordid jesuitism), but as the solution of the otherwise hopeless enigma of our spiritual nature. science takes cognizance of all phenomena, and this apparently ineradicable tendency of the human mind is a phenomenon like the rest. the thoroughgoing materialist, of course, escapes all these philosophical exigencies, but he does it by denying humanity as well as god and reducing the difference between the organism of the human animal and that of any other animal to a mere question of complexity. still, even in this quarter, there has appeared of late a disposition to make concessions on the subject of human volition hardly consistent with materialism. nothing can be more likely than that the impetus of great discoveries has carried the discoverers too far. perhaps with the promptings of the religious sentiment there is combined a sense of the immediate danger with which the failure of the religious sanction threatens social order and morality. as we have said already, the men of whom we specially speak are far above anything like social jesuitism. we have not a doubt but they would regard with abhorrence any schemes of oligarchic illuminism for guarding the pleasures of the few by politic deception of the multitude. but they have probably begun to lay to heart the fact that the existing morality, though not dependent on any special theology, any special view of the relations between soul and body, or any special theory of future rewards and punishments, is largely dependent on a belief in the indefeasible authority of conscience, and in that without which conscience can have no indefeasible authority--the presence of a just and all-seeing god. it may be true that in primaeval society these beliefs are found only in the most rudimentary form, and, as social sanctions, are very inferior in force to mere gregarious instincts or the pressure of tribal need. but man emerges from the primaeval state, and when he does, he demands a reason for his submission to moral law. that the leaders of the anti- theological movement in the present day are immoral, nobody but the most besotted fanatic would insinuate; no candid antagonist would deny that some of them are in every respect the very best of men. the fearless love of truth is usually accompanied by other high qualities; and nothing could be more unlikely than that natures disposed to virtue, trained under good influences, peculiarly sensitive to opinion and guarded by intellectual tastes, would lapse into vice as soon as the traditional sanction was removed. but what is to prevent the withdrawal of the traditional sanction from producing its natural effect upon the morality of the mass of mankind? the commercial swindler or the political sharper, when the divine authority of conscience is gone, will feel that he has only the opinion of society to reckon with, and he knows how to reckon with the opinion of society. if macbeth is ready, provided he can succeed in this world, to "jump the life to come," much more ready will villainy be to "jump" the bad consequences of its actions to humanity when its own conscious existence shall have closed. rate the practical effect of religious beliefs as low and that of social influences as high as you may, there can surely be no doubt that morality has received some support from the authority of an inward monitor regarded as the voice of god. the worst of men would have wished to die the death of the righteous; he would have been glad, if he could, when death approached, to cancel his crimes; and the conviction, or misgiving, which this implied, could not fail to have some influence upon the generality of mankind, though no doubt the influence was weakened rather than strengthened by the extravagant and incredible form in which the doctrine of future retribution was presented by the dominant theology. the denial of the existence of god and of a future state, in a word, is the dethronement of conscience; and society will pass, to say the least, through a dangerous interval before social science can fill the vacant throne. avowed scepticism is likely to be disinterested and therefore to be moral; it is among the unavowed sceptics and conformists to political religions that the consequences of the change may be expected to appear. but more than this, the doctrines of natural selection and the survival of the fittest are beginning to generate a morality of their own, with the inevitable corollary that the proof of superior fitness is to survive--to survive either by force or cunning, like the other animals which by dint of force or cunning have come out victorious from the universal war and asserted for themselves a place in nature. the "irrepressible struggle for empire" is formally put forward by public writers of the highest class as the basis and the rule of the conduct of this country towards other nations; and we may be sure that there is not an entire absence of connection between the private code of a school and its international conceptions. the feeling that success covers everything seems to be gaining ground and to be overcoming, not merely the old conventional rules of honour, but moral principle itself. both in public and private there are symptoms of an approaching failure of the motive power which has hitherto sustained men both in self- sacrificing effort and in courageous protest against wrong, though as yet we are only at the threshold of the great change, and established sentiment long survives, in the masses, that which originally gave it birth. renan says, probably with truth, that had the second empire remained at peace, it might have gone on forever; and in the history of this country the connection between political effort and religion has been so close that its dissolution, to say the least, can hardly fail to produce a critical change in the character of the nation. the time may come, when, as philosophers triumphantly predict, men, under the ascendancy of science, will act for the common good, with the same mechanical certainty as bees; though the common good of the human hive would perhaps not be easy to define. but in the meantime mankind, or some portions of it, may be in danger of an anarchy of self-interest, compressed for the purpose of political order, by a despotism of force. that science and criticism, acting--thanks to the liberty of opinion won by political effort--with a freedom never known before, have delivered us from a mass of dark and degrading superstitions, we own with heartfelt thankfulness to the deliverers, and in the firm conviction that the removal of false beliefs, and of the authorities or institutions founded on them, cannot prove in the end anything but a blessing to mankind. but at the same time the foundations of general morality have inevitably been shaken, and a crisis has been brought on the gravity of which nobody can fail to see, and nobody but a fanatic of materialism can see without the most serious misgiving. there has been nothing in the history of man like the present situation. the decadence of the ancient mythologies is very far from affording a parallel. the connection of those mythologies with morality was comparatively slight. dull and half-animal minds would hardly be conscious of the change which was partly veiled from them by the continuance of ritual and state creeds; while in the minds of plato and marcus aurelius it made place for the development of a moral religion. the reformation was a tremendous earthquake: it shook down the fabric of mediaeval religion, and as a consequence of the disturbance in the religious sphere filled the world with revolutions and wars. but it left the authority of the bible unshaken, and men might feel that the destructive process had its limit, and that adamant was still beneath their feet. but a world which is intellectual and keenly alive to the significance of these questions, reading all that is written about them with almost passionate avidity, finds itself brought to a crisis the character of which any one may realize by distinctly presenting to himself the idea of existence without a god. the labour movement _(this lecture was delivered before the mechanics' institute of montreal, and the literary society of sherbrooke, and published in the canadian monthly, december, . the allusions to facts and events must be read with reference to the date.)_ we are in the midst of an industrial war which is extending over europe and the united states, and has not left canada untouched. it is not wonderful that great alarm should prevail, or that, in panic-stricken minds, it should assume extravagant forms. london deprived of bread by a bakers' strike, or of fuel by a colliers' strike, is a serious prospect; so is the sudden stoppage of any one of the wheels in the vast and complicated machine of modern industry. people may be pardoned for thinking that they have fallen on evil times, and that they have a dark future before them. yet, those who have studied industrial history know that the present disturbance is mild compared with the annals of even a not very remote past. the study of history shows us where we are, and whither things are tending. though it does not diminish the difficulties of the present hour, it teaches us to estimate them justly, to deal with them calmly and not to call for cavalry and grapeshot because one morning we are left without hot bread. one of the literary janissaries of the french empire thought to prove that the working class had no rights against the bonapartes, by showing that the first free labourers were only emancipated slaves. one would like to know what he supposed the first bonapartes were. however though his inference was not worth much, except against those who are pedantic enough, to vouch parchment archives for the rights and interests of humanity, he was in the right as to the fact. labour first appears in history as a slave, treated like a beast of burden, chained to the door- post of a roman master, or lodged in the underground manstables (ergastula) on his estate, treated like a beast, or worse than a beast, recklessly worked out and then cast forth to die, scourged, tortured, flung in a moment of passion to feed the lampreys, crucified for the slightest offence or none. "set up a cross for the slave," cries the roman matron, in, juvenal. "why, what has the slave done?" asks her husband. one day labour strikes; finds a leader in spartacus, a slave devoted as a gladiator to the vilest of roman pleasures; wages a long and terrible servile war. the revolt is put down at last, after shaking the foundations of the state. six thousand slaves are crucified along the road from rome to capua. labour had its revenge, for slavery brought the doom of rome. in the twilight of history, between the fall of rome and the rise of the new nationalities, we dimly see the struggle going on. there is a great insurrection of the oppressed peasantry, under the name of bagaudae, in gaul. when the light dawns, a step has been gained. slavery has been generally succeeded by serfdom. but serfdom is hard. the peasantry of feudal normandy conspire against their cruel lords, hold secret meetings, the ominous name _commune_ is heard. but the conspiracy is discovered and suppressed with the fiendish ferocity with which panic inspires a dominant class, whether in normandy or jamaica. amidst the religious fervour of the crusades again breaks out a wild labour movement, that of the pastoureaux, striking for equality in the name of the holy spirit, which, perhaps, they had as good a right to use as some who deemed their use of it profane. this is in the country, among the shepherds and ploughmen. in the cities labour has congregated numbers, mutual intelligence, union on its side; it is constantly reinforced by fugitives from rural serfdom; it builds city walls, purchases or extorts charters of liberty. the commercial and manufacturing cities of italy, germany, flanders, become the cradles of free industry, and, at the same time, of intellect, art, civilization. but these are points of light amidst the feudal darkness of the rural districts. in france, for example, the peasantry are cattle; in time of peace crushed with forced labour, feudal burdens, and imposts of all kinds; in time of war driven, in unwilling masses, half-armed and helpless, to the shambles. aristocratic luxury, gambling, profligate wars--jacques bonhomme pays for them all. at crecy and poictiers, the lords are taken prisoners; have to provide heavy ransoms, which, being debts of honour, like gambling debts, are more binding than debts of honesty. but jacques bonhomme's back is broad, it will bear everything. broad as it is, it will not bear this last straw. the tidings of flemish freedom have, perhaps, in some way reached his dull ear, taught him that bondage is not, as his priest, no doubt, assures him it is, a changeless ordinance of god, that the yoke, though strong, may be broken. he strikes, arms himself with clubs, knives, ploughshares, rude pikes, breaks out into a jacquerie, storms the castles of the oppressor, sacks, burns, slays with the fury of a wild beast unchained. the lords are stupefied. at last they rally and bring their armour, their discipline, their experience in war, the moral ascendency of a master-class to bear. the english gentlemen, in spite of the hostilities, only half suspended, between the nations, join the french gentlemen against the common enemy. twenty thousand peasants are soon cut down, but long afterwards the butchery continues. guillaume callet, the leader of the jacquerie, a very crafty peasant, as he is called by the organs of the lords, is crowned with a circlet of red-hot iron. in england, during the same period serfdom, we know not exactly how, is breaking up. there is a large body of labourers working for hire. but in the midst of the wars of the great conqueror, edward iii., comes a greater conqueror, the plague called the black death, which sweeps away, some think, a third of the population of europe. the number of labourers is greatly diminished. wages rise. the feudal parliament passes an act to compel labourers, under penalties, to work at the old rates. this act is followed by a train of similar acts, limiting wages and fixing in the employers' interest the hours of work, which, in the pages of imaginative writers, figure as noble attempts made by legislators of a golden age to regulate the relations between employer and employed on some higher principle than that of contract. the same generous spirit, no doubt, dictated the enactment prohibiting farm labourers from bringing up their children to trades, lest hands should be withdrawn from the land-owner's service. connected with the statutes of labourers, are those bloody vagrant laws, in which whipping, branding, hanging are ordained as the punishment of vagrancy by lawgivers, many of whom were themselves among the idlest and most noxious vagabonds in the country, and the authors of senseless wars which generated a mass of vagrancy, by filling the country with disbanded soldiers. in the reign of richard ii., the poll tax being added to other elements of class discord, labour strikes, takes arms under wat tyler, demands fixed rents, tenant right in an extreme form, and the total abolition of serfage. a wild religious communism bred of the preachings of the more visionary among the wycliffites mingles in the movement with the sense of fiscal and industrial wrong. "when adam delved and eve span, where was then the gentleman?" is the motto of the villeins, and it is one of more formidable import than any utterance of peasant orators at agricultural labourers' meetings in the present day. then come fearful scenes of confusion, violence and crime. london is in the power of hordes brutalized by oppression. high offices of state, high ecclesiastics are murdered. special vengeance falls on the lawyers, as the artificers who forged the cunning chains of feudal iniquity. the rulers, the troops, are paralyzed by the aspect of the sea of furious savagery raging round them. the boy king, by a miraculous exhibition of courageous self- possession, saves the state; but he is compelled to grant general charters of manumission, which, when the danger is over, the feudal parliament forces him by a unanimous vote to repudiate. wholesale hanging of serfs, of course, follows the landlords' victory. the rising under jack cade, in the reign of henry vi., was rather political than industrial. the demands of the insurgents, political reform and freedom of suffrage, show that progress had been made in the condition and aspirations of the labouring class. but with the age of the tudors came the final breakup in england of feudalism, as well as of catholicism, attended by disturbances in the world of labour, similar to those which have attended the abolition of slavery in the southern states. this is the special epoch of the sanguinary vagrancy laws, the most sanguinary of which was framed by the hand of henry viii. the new nobility of courtiers and upstarts, who had shared with the king the plunder of the monasteries, were hard landlords of course; they robbed the people of their rights of common, and swept away homesteads and cottages, to make room for sheep farms, the wool trade being the great source of wealth in those days. by the spoliation of the monasteries, the great alms-houses of the middle ages, the poor had also been left for a time without the relief, which was given them again in a more regular form by the poor law of elizabeth. hence in the reign of edward vi., armed strikes again, in different parts of the kingdom. in the west, the movement was mainly religious; but in the eastern countries, under kett of norfolk, it was agrarian. kett's movement after a brief period of success, during which the behaviour of the insurgents and their leader was very creditable, was put down by the disciplined mercenaries under the command of the new aristocracy, and its suppression was of course followed by a vigorous use of the gallows. no doubt the industrial conservatives of those days were as frightened, as angry, and as eager for strong measures as their successors are now: but the awkwardness of the newly liberated captive, in the use of his limbs and eyes, is due not to his recovered liberty, but to the narrowness and darkness of the dungeon in which he has been immured. in germany, at the same epoch, there was not merely a local rising, but a wide-spread and most terrible peasants' war. the german peasantry had been ground down beyond even an hereditary bondsman's power of endurance by their lords generally, and by the prince bishop and other spiritual lords in particular. the reformation having come with a gospel of truth, love, spiritual brotherhood, the peasants thought it might also have brought some hope of social justice. the doctors of divinity had to inform them that this was a mistake. but they took the matter into their own hands and rose far and wide, the fury of social and industrial war blending with the wildest fanaticism, the most delirious ecstacy, the darkest imposture. once more there are stormings and burnings of feudal castles, massacring of their lords. lords are roasted alive, hunted like wild beasts in savage revenge for the cruelty of the game laws. munzer, a sort of peasant mahomet, is at the head of the movement. under him it becomes anabaptist, antinomian, communist. at first he and his followers sweep the country with a whirlwind of terror and destruction: but again the lords rally, bring up regular troops. the peasants are brought to bay on their last hill side, behind a rampart formed of their waggons. their prophet assures them that the cannon-balls will fall harmless into his cloak. the cannon-balls take their usual course: a butchery, then a train of torturings and executions follows, the prince bishop, among others, adding considerably to the whiteness of the church's robe. luther is accused of having incited the ferocity of the lords against those, who, it is alleged, had only carried his own principles to an extreme. but in the first place luther never taught anabaptism or anything that could logically lead to it; and in the second place, before he denounced the peasants, he tried to mediate and rebuke the tyranny of the lords. no man deserves more sympathy than a great reformer, who is obliged to turn against the excesses of his own party. he becomes the object of fierce hatred on one side, of exulting derision on the other; yet he is no traitor, but alone loyal to his conscience and his cause. the french revolution was a political movement among the middle class in the cities, but among the peasantry in the country it was an agrarian and labour movement, and the dismantling of chateaux, and chasing away of their lords which then took place were a renewal of the struggle which had given birth to the jacquerie, the insurrection of wat tyler, and the peasants' war. this time the victory remained with the peasant, and the lord returned no more. in england, long after the tudor period, industrial disturbances took place, and wild communistic fancies welled up from the depths of a suffering world of labour, when society was stirred by political and religious revolution. under the commonwealth, communists went up on the hill side, and began to break ground for a poor man's utopia; and the great movement of the levellers, which had in it an economical as well as a political element, might have overturned society, if it had not been quelled by the strong hand of cromwell. but in more recent times, within living memory, within the memory of many here there were labour disturbances in england, compared with which the present industrial war is mild. [footnote: for the following details, see martineau's "history of the peace."] in , there were outbreaks among the suffering peasantry which filled the governing classes with fear. in suffolk nightly fires of incendiaries blazed in every district, thrashing machines were broken or burnt in open day, mills were attacked. at brandon large bodies of workmen assembled to prescribe a maximum price of grain and meat, and to pull down the houses of butchers and bakers. they bore flags with the motto, "bread or blood". insurgents from the fen country, a special scene of distress, assembled at littleport, attacked the house of a magistrate in the night, broke open shops, emptied the cellars of public-houses, marched on ely, and filled the district for two days and nights with drunken rioting and plunder. the soldiery was called in; there was an affray in which blood flowed on both sides, then a special commission and hangings to close the scene. distressed colliers in staffordshire and wales assembled by thousands, stopped works, and were with difficulty diverted from marching to london. in , another stain of blood was added to the sanguinary criminal code of those days by the act making death the penalty for the destruction of machinery. this was caused by the luddite outrages, which were carried on in the most systematic manner, and on the largest scale in nottingham and the adjoining counties. bodies of desperadoes, armed and disguised, went forth under a leader, styled general ludd, who divided them into bands, and aligned to each band its work of destruction. terror reigned around; the inhabitants were commanded to keep in their houses and put out their lights on pain of death. in the silence of night houses and factories were broken open, machines demolished, unfinished work scattered on the highways. the extent and secrecy of the conspiracy baffled the efforts of justice and the death penalty failed to put the system down. even the attempts made to relieve distress became new sources of discontent and a soup kitchen riot at glasgow led to a two days conflict between the soldiery and the mob. in , a threatening mass of manchester spinners, on strike came into bloody collision with the military. then there were rick burnings, farmers patrolling all night long, gibbets erected on pennenden heath, and bodies swinging on them, bodies of boys, eighteen or nineteen years old. six labourers of dorsetshire, the most wretched county in england, were sentenced to seven years' transportation nominally for administering an illegal oath, really for unionism. thereupon all the trades made a menacing demonstration, marched to westminster, thirty thousand strong, with a petition for the release of the labourers. london was in an agony of fear, the duke of wellington prepared for a great conflict, pouring in troops and bringing up artillery from woolwich. in , again there were formidable movements, and society felt itself on the crust of a volcano. threatening letters were sent to masters, rewards offered for firing mills, workmen were beaten, driven out of the country, burned with vitriol, and, there was reason to fear, murdered. great masses of operatives collected for purposes of intimidation, shopkeepers were pillaged, collisions again took place between the people and the soldiery. irish agrarianism meanwhile prevailed, in a far more deadly form than at present. and these industrial disturbances were connected with political disturbances equally formidable, with chartism, socialism, cato street conspiracies, peterloo massacres, bristol riots. now the present movement even in england, where there is so much suffering and so much ignorance, has been marked by a comparative absence of violence, and comparative respect for law. considering what large bodies of men have been out on strike, how much they have endured in the conflict, and what appeals have been made to their passions, it is wonderful how little of actual crime or disturbance there has been. there were the sheffield murders the disclosure of which filled all the friends of labour with shame and sorrow, all the enemies of labour with malignant exultation. but we should not have heard so much of the sheffield murders if such things had been common. sheffield is an exceptional place; some of the work there is deadly, life is short and character is reckless. even at sheffield, a very few, out of the whole number of trades, were found to have been in any way implicated. the denunciation of the outrages by the trades through england generally, was loud and sincere; an attempt was made, of course, to fix the guilt on all the unions, but this was a hypocritical libel. it was stated, in one of our canadian journals, the other day, that mr. roebuck had lost his seat for sheffield, by protesting against unionist outrage. mr. roebuck lost his seat for sheffield by turning tory. the trades' candidate, by whom mr. roebuck was defeated, was mr. mundella, a representative of whom any constituency may be proud, a great employer of labour, and one who has done more than any other man of his class in england to substitute arbitration for industrial war, and to restore kindly relations between the employers and the employed. to mr. mundella the support of broadhead and the criminal unionists was offered, and by him it was decisively rejected. the public mind has been filled with hideous fantasies, on the subject of unionism, by sensation novelists like mr. charles reade and mr. disraeli, the latter of whom has depicted the initiation of a working man into a union with horrid rites, in a lofty and spacious room, hung with black cloth and lighted with tapers, amidst skeletons, men with battle axes, rows of masked figures in white robes, and holding torches; the novice swearing an awful oath on the gospel, to do every act which the heads of the society enjoin, such as the chastisement of "nobs," the assassination of tyrannical masters, and the demolition of all mills deemed incorrigible by the society. people may read such stuff for the sake of amusement and excitement, if they please; but they will fall into a grave error if they take it for a true picture of the amalgamated carpenters or the amalgamated engineers. besides, the sheffield outrages were several years old at the time of their discovery. they belong, morally, to the time when the unions of working men being forbidden by unfair laws framed in the masters' interest were compelled to assume the character of conspiracies; when, to rob a union being no theft, unionists could hardly be expected to have the same respect as the better protected interests for public justice; when, moreover, the mechanics, excluded from political rights, could scarcely regard government as the impartial guardian of their interests, or the governing classes as their friends. since the legalization of the unions, the extension of legal security to their funds and the admission of the mechanics to the suffrage there has been comparatively little of unionist crime. i do not say that there has been none. i do not say that there is none now. corporate selfishness of which trade unions after all are embodiments seldom keeps quite clear of criminality. but the moral dangers of corporate selfishness are the same in all associations and in all classes. the pennsylvanian iron master who comes before our commissions of inquiry to testify against unionist outrage in pennsylvania where a very wild and roving class of workmen are managed by agents who probably take little thought for the moral condition of the miner--this iron master i say is himself labouring through his paid organs in the press, through his representatives in congress, and by every means in his power to keep up hatred of england and bad relations between the two countries at the constant risk of war because it suits the interest of his protectionist ring. the upper classes of europe in the same spirit applauded what they called the salvation of society by the _coup d'etat_, the massacre on the boulevards and the lawless deportation of the leaders of the working men in france. in the main however i repeat the present movement has been legal and pacific and so long as there is no violence, so long as no weapons but those of argument are employed, so long as law and reason reign, matters are sure to come right in the end. the result may not be exactly what we wish because we may wish to take too much for ourselves and to give our fellow men too little, but it will be just and we cannot deliberately desire more. if the law is broken by the unionists, if violence or intimidation is employed by them instead of reason, let the government protect the rights of the community and let the community strengthen the hands of the government for that purpose. perhaps you will say that i have forgotten the international and the commune. there is undoubtedly a close connection between the labour movement and democracy, between the struggle for industrial and the struggle for political emancipation, as there is a connection between both and secularism, the frank form assumed among the working men by that which is concealed and conformist scepticism among the upper class. in this respect the present industrial crisis resembles those of the past which as we have seen were closely connected with religious and political revolutions. in truth the whole frame of humanity generally moves at once. with the international, however, as an organ of political incendiarism, labour had very little to do. the international was, in its origin, a purely industrial association, born of prince albert's international exhibition, which held a convention at geneva, where everybody goes pic-nicing, for objects which, though chimerical, were distinctly economical, and free from any taint of petroleum. but a band of political conspirators got hold of the organization and used it, or at least, so much of it as they could carry with them, for a purpose entirely foreign to the original intent. mark, too, that it was not so much labour or even democracy that charged the mine which blew up paris, as the reactionary empire, which, like reaction in countries more nearly connected with us than france, played the demagogue for its own ends, set the labourers against the liberal middle class, and crowded paris with operatives, bribed by employment on public works. i detest all conspiracy, whether it be that of ignatius loyola, or that of karl marx- -not by conspiracy, not by dark and malignant intrigue, is society to be reformed, but by open, honest and kindly appeals to the reason and conscience of mankind. yet, let us be just, even to the commune. the destruction of the column at the place vendome was not a good act; but if it was in any measure the protest of labour against war, it was a better act than ever was done by the occupant of that column. on that column it was that, when napoleon's long orgy of criminal glory was drawing to a close, the hand of misery and bereavement wrote "monster, if all the blood you have shed could be collected in this square, you might drink without stooping." thiers is shooting the communists; perhaps justly, though humanity will be relieved when the gore ceases to trickle, and vengeance ends its long repast. but thiers has himself been the literary arch-priest of napoleon and of war: of all the incendiaries in france, he has been the worst. the trade unions are new things in industrial history. the guilds of the middle ages, with which the unions are often identified, were confederations of all engaged in the trade, masters as well as men, against outsiders. the unions are confederations of the men against the masters. they are the offspring of an age of great capitalists, employing large bodies of hired workmen. the workmen, needy, and obliged to sell their labour without reserve, that they might eat bread, found themselves, in their isolation, very much at the mercy of their masters, and resorted to union as a source of strength. capital, by collecting in the centres of manufacture masses of operatives who thus became conscious of their number and their force, gave birth to a power which now countervails its own. to talk of a war of labour against capital generally would, of course, be absurd. capital is nothing but the means of undertaking any industrial or commercial enterprise, of setting up an allan line of steamships or setting up a costermonger's cart. we might as well talk of a war of labour against water power. capital is the fruit of labour past, the condition of labour present, without it no man could do a stroke of work, at least of work requiring tools or food for him who uses them. let us dismiss from our language and our minds these impersonations, which though mere creatures of fancy playing with abstract nouns end by depraving our sentiments and misdirecting our actions, let us think and speak of capital impersonally and sensibly as an economical force and as we would think and speak of the force of gravitation. relieve the poor word of the big _c_, which is a greatness thrust upon it, its tyranny, and the burning hatred of its tyranny will at once cease. nevertheless, the fact remains that a working man standing alone, and without a breakfast for himself or his family, is not in a position to obtain the best terms from a rich employer, who can hold out as long as he likes or hire other labour on the spot. whether unionism has had much effect in producing a general rise of wages is very doubtful. mr. brassey's book, "work and wages," goes far to prove that it has not, and that while, on the one hand, the unionists have been in a fool's paradise, the masters, on the other, have been crying out before they were hurt. no doubt the general rise of wages is mainly and fundamentally due to natural causes: the accumulation of capital, the extension of commercial enterprise, and the opening up of new countries, which have greatly increased the competition for labour, and consequently, raised the price, while the nominal price of labour as well as of all other commodities has been raised by the influx of gold. what unionism, as i think, has evidently effected, is the economical emancipation of the working man. it has rendered him independent instead of dependent, and, in some cases almost a serf, as he was before. it has placed him on an equal footing with his employer, and enabled him to make the best terms for himself in every respect. there is no employer who does not feel that this is so, or whom mr. brassey's statistics, or any statistics, would convince that it is not. fundamentally, value determines the price the community will give for any article, or any kind of work, just so much as it is worth. but there is no economical deity who, in each individual case, exactly adjusts the price to the value; we may make a good or a bad bargain, as many of us know to our cost. one source of bad bargains is ignorance. before unions, which have diffused the intelligence of the labour market, and by so doing have equalized prices, the workman hardly knew the rate of wages in the next town. if this was true of the mechanic, it was still more true of the farm labourer. practically speaking, the farm labourers in each parish of england, ignorant of everything beyond the parish, isolated and, therefore, dependent, had to take what the employers chose to give them. and what the employers chose to give them over large districts was ten shillings a week for themselves and their families, out of which they paid, perhaps, eighteen-pence for rent. a squire the other day, at a meeting of labourers, pointed with pride, and no doubt, with honest pride, to a labourer who had brought up a family of twelve children on twelve shillings a week i will venture to say the squire spent as much on any horse in his stables. meat never touched the peasant's lips, though game, preserved for his landlord's pleasure, was running round his cottage. his children could not be educated, because they were wanted, almost from their infancy, to help in keeping the family from starving, as stonepickers, or perambulating scarecrows. his abode was a hovel, in which comfort, decency, morality could not dwell; and it was mainly owing to this cause that, as i have heard an experienced clergyman say, even the people in the low quarters of cities were less immoral than the rural poor. how the english peasants lived on such wages as they had, was a question which puzzled the best informed. how they died was clear enough; as penal paupers in a union workhouse. yet hodge's back, like that of jacques bonhomme, in france, bore everything, bore the great war against republican france; for the squires and rectors, who made that war for class purposes, got their taxes back in increased rents and tithes. how did the peasantry exist, what was their condition in those days when wheat was at a hundred, or even a hundred and thirty shillings? they were reduced to a second serfage. they became in the mass parish paupers, and were divided, like slaves, among the employers of each parish. men may be made serfs, and even slaves by other means than open force, in a country where, legally, all are free, where the impossibility of slavery is the boast of the law. of late benevolence has been, abroad in the english parish, almsgiving and visiting have increased, good landlords have taken up cottage improvements. there have been harvest-homes, at which the young squires have danced with cottagers. but now hodge has taken the matter into his own hands, and it seems not without effect. in a letter which i have seen, a squire says, "here the people are all contented; we (the employers) have seen the necessity of raising their wages." conservative journals begin to talk of measures for the compulsory improvement of cottages, for limiting ground game, giving tenant right to farmers, granting the franchise to rural householders. yes, in consequence, partly, at least of this movement, the dwellings and the general conditions of the english peasantry will be improved, the game laws will be abolished; the farmers pressed upon from below, and in their turn pressing upon those above, will demand and obtain tenant right; and the country, as well as the city householders will be admitted to the franchise, which, under the elective system, is at once the only guarantee for justice to him and for his loyalty to the state. and when the country householder has the suffrage there will soon be an end of those laws of primogeniture and entail, which are deemed so conservative, but are in fact most revolutionary, since they divorce the nation from its own soil. and then there will be a happier and a more united england in country as well as in town: the poor law, the hateful, degrading, demoralizing poor law will cease to exist; the huge poor- house will no longer darken the rural landscape with its shadow, in hideous contrast with the palace. suspicion and hatred will no more cower and mutter over the cottage hearth, or round the beer-house fire: the lord of the mansion will no longer be like the man in tennyson slumbering while a lion is always creeping nearer. lord malmesbury is astonished at this disturbance. he always thought the relation between the lord and the pauper peasant was the happiest possible; he cannot conceive what people mean by proposing a change. but then lord malmesbury was placed at rather a delusive point of view. if he knew the real state of hodge's heart he would rejoice in the prospect of a change, not only for hodge's sake, but, as he is no doubt a good man, for his own. england will be more religious, too, as well as happier and more harmonious, let the clergy be well assured of it. social injustice especially when backed by the church, is unfavourable to popular religion. the general rise of wages may at first bring economical disturbance and pressure on certain classes, but, in the end, it brings general prosperity, diffused civilization, public happiness, security to society, which can never be secure while the few are feasting and the many are starving. in the end, also, it brings an increase of production, and greater plenty. not that we can assent, without reserve, to the pleasant aphorism, that increase of wages, in itself, makes a better workman, which is probably true only where the workman has been under-fed, as in the case of the farm labourers of england. but the dearness of labour leads to the adoption of improved methods of production, and especially to the invention of machinery, which gives back to the community what it has paid in increased wages a hundred or a thousand fold. in illinois, towards the close of the war, a large proportion of the male population had been drafted or volunteered, labour had become scarce and wages had risen, but the invention of machinery had been so much stimulated that the harvest that year was greater than it had ever been before. machinery will now be used to a greater extent on the english farms; more will be produced by fewer hands, labourers will be set free for the production of other kinds, perhaps for the cultivation of our north-west, and the british peasant will rise from the industrial and intellectual level of a mere labourer to that of the guider of a machine. machinery worked by relays of men is, no doubt, one of the principal solutions of our industrial problems, and of the social problems connected with them. some seem to fancy that it is the universal solution; but we cannot run reaping machines in the winter or in the dark. high wages, and the independence of the labourers, compel economy of labour. economize labour, cries lord derby, the cool-headed mentor of the rich; we must give up our second under-butler. when the labourer is dependent, and his wages are low, the most precious of commodities, that commodity the husbanding of which is the chief condition of increased production, and of the growth of national wealth, is squandered with reckless prodigality. thirty years the labourers of egypt wrought by gangs of a hundred thousand at a time to build the great pyramid which was to hold a despot's dust. even now, when everybody is complaining of the dearness of labour, and the insufferable independence of the working class, a piece of fine lace, we are told, consumes the labour of seven persons, each employed on a distinct portion of the work; and the thread, of exquisite fineness, is spun in dark rooms underground, not without injury, we may suppose, to the eyesight or health of those employed. so that the labour movement does not seem to have yet trenched materially even on the elegancies of life. would it be very detrimental to real civilization if we were forced, by the dearness of labour, to give up all the trades in which human life or health is sacrificed to mere fancy? in london, the bakers have struck. they are kept up from midnight to noon, sometimes far even into the afternoon, sleepless, or only snatching broken slumbers, that london may indulge its fancy for hot bread, which it would be much better without. the result of the strike probably will be, besides relief to the bakers themselves, which has already been in part conceded, a more wholesome kind of bread, such as will keep fresh and palatable through the day, and cleaner baking; for the wretchedness of the trade has made it vile and filthy, as is the case in other trades besides that of the bakers. many an article of mere luxury, many a senseless toy, if our eyes could be opened, would be seen to bear the traces of human blood and tears. we are like the merchant brothers in keats:-- "with her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, enriched from ancestral merchandize, and for them many a weary hand did swelt in torch-lit mines and noisy factories, and many once proud-quivered loins did melt in blood from stinging whip; with hollow eyes many all day in dazzling river stood to take the rich-ored driftings of the flood." "for them the ceylon diver held his breath, and went all naked to the hungry shark; for them his ears gushed blood; for them in death the seal on the cold ice with piteous bark lay pierced with darts; for them alone did seethe a thousand men in troubles wide and dark: half ignorant, they turned an easy wheel that set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel." among other economies of labour, if this movement among the english peasantry succeeds and spreads to other countries, then will come an economy of soldiers' blood. pauperism has been the grand recruiting serjeant. hodge listed and went to be shot or scourged within an inch of his life for sixpence a day, because he was starving; but he will not leave five shillings for sixpence. even in former days, the sailor, being somewhat better off than the peasant, could only be forced into the service by the press gang, a name the recollection of which ought to mitigate our strictures on the encroaching tendencies of the working class. there will be a strike, or a refusal of service equivalent to a strike in this direction also. it will be requisite to raise the soldier's pay; the maintenance of standing armies will become a costly indulgence. i have little faith in international champagne, or even in geneva litigation as a universal antidote to war: war will cease or be limited to necessary occasions, when the burden of large standing armies becomes too great to be borne. the strike of the english colliers again, though it causes great inconvenience, may have its good effect. it may be a strong indication that mining in england is getting very deep, and that the nation must exorcise a strict economy in the use of coal, the staple of its wealth and greatness. the lot of the colliers, grubbling all day underground and begrimed with dirt, is one of the hardest; the sacrifice of their lives by accidents is terribly large; and we may well believe that the community needs a lesson in favour of these underground toilers, which could be effectually taught only by some practical manifestation of their discontent. to the labour movement, mainly, we owe those efforts to establish better relations between the employer and the employed, which are known by the general name of co-operation. the comtists, in the name of their autocrat, denounce the whole co-operative system as rotten. their plan, if you get to the bottom of it, is in fact a permanent division of the industrial world into capitalists. and workmen; the capitalists exercising a rule controlled only by the influence of philosophers; the workmen remaining in a perpetual state of tutelage, not to say of babyhood. a little acquaintance with this continent would probably dissipate notions of a permanent division of classes, or a permanent tutelage of any class. it is true that great commercial enterprises require the guidance of superior intelligence with undivided counsels as well as a large capital, and that co-operative mills have failed or succeeded only in cases where very little policy and very little capital were required. as to co-operative stores, they are co-operative only in a very different sense: combinative would be a more accurate term; and the department in which they seem likely to produce an alteration, is that of retail trade, an improvement in the conditions of which, economical and moral, is assuredly much needed. but if we are told that it is impossible to give the workmen an interest in the enterprise, so as, to make him work more willingly avoid waste and generally identify him self with his employer the answer is that the thing has been done both in england and here. an artisan working for him self and selling the produce of his individual skill has an interest and a pride in his work for which it would seem desirable to find if possible some substitute in the case of factory hands whose toil otherwise is mere weariness. the increased scale of commercial enterprise however is in itself advantageous in this respect. in great works where an army of workmen is employed at saltaire or in the platt works at oldham there must be many grades of promotion and many subordinate places of trust and emolument to which the workmen may rise by industry and probity without capital of his own. the general effect of the labour movement has been as i have said the industrial emancipation of the workmen. it has perhaps had an effect more general still. aided by the general awakening of social sentiment and of the feeling of social responsibility, it has practically opened our eyes to the fact that a nation and humanity at large is a community the good things of which all are entitled to share while all must share the evil things. it has forcibly dispelled the notion in which the rich indolently acquiesced that enjoyment leisure culture refined affection high civilization are the destined lot of the few while the destined lot of the many is to support the privileged existence of the few by unremitting coarse and jobless toil. society has been taught that it must at least endeavour to be just. the old ecclesiastical props of privilege are gone. there is no use any longer in quoting or misquoting scripture to prove that god wills the mass of mankind to be always poor and always dependent on the rich. the very peasant has now broken that spell and will no longer believe the rector if he tells him that this world belongs to the squire and that justice is put off to the next. the process of mental emancipation has been assisted by the bishop who was so rash as to suggest that rural agitators should be ducked in a horse pond. hodge has determined to find out for himself by a practical experiment what the will of god really is. no doubt this is an imperfect world and is likely to remain so for our time at least; we must all work on in the hope that if we do our duty it will be well for us in the sum of things and that when the far off goal of human effort is at last reached, every faithful servant of humanity will have his part in the result; if it were not so, it would be better to be a brute, with no unfulfilled aspirations, than a man. but i repeat, the religion of privilege has lost its power to awe or to control, and if society wishes to rest on a safe foundation, it must show that it is at least trying to be just. wealth, real wealth, has hardly as yet much reason to complain of any encroachment of the labour movement on its rights. when did it command such means and appliances of pleasure, such satisfaction for every appetite and every fancy, as it commands now? when did it rear such enchanted palaces of luxury as it is rearing in england at the present day? well do i remember one of those palaces, the most conspicuous object for miles round. its lord was, i daresay, consuming the income of some six hundred of the poor labouring families round him. the thought that you are spending on yourself annually the income of six hundred labouring families seems to me about as much as a man with a heart and a brain can bear. whatever the rich man desires, the finest house, the biggest diamond, the reigning beauty for his wife, social homage, public honours, political power, is ready at his command. does he fancy a seat in the british house of commons, the best club in london, as it has been truly called? all other claims, those of the public service included, at once give way. i remember a question arising about a nomination for a certain constituency (a working man's constituency, by the way), which was cut short by the announcement that the seat was wanted by a local millionaire. when the name of the millionaire was mentioned, surprise was expressed. has he, it was asked, any political knowledge or capacity, any interest in public affairs, any ambition? the answer was "none." "then why does he want the seat?" "he does not want it." "then why does he take it?" "because his wife does." cleopatra, as the story goes, displayed her mad prodigality by melting a pearl in a cup, out of which she drank to antony. but this modern money-queen could throw into her cup of pleasure, to give it a keener zest, a share in the government of the greatest empire in the world. if the movement, by transferring something from the side of profits to that of wages, checks in any measure the growth of these colossal fortunes, it will benefit society and diminish no man's happiness. i say it without the slightest feeling of asceticism, and in the conviction that wealth well made and well spent is as pure as the rill that runs from the mountain side. real chiefs of industry have generally a touch of greatness in them and no nobleman of the peerage clings more to his tinsel than do nature's noblemen to simplicity of life. mr. brassey with his millions never could be induced to increase his establishment his pride and pleasure were in the guidance of industry and the accomplishment of great works. but in the hands of the heirs of these men colossal fortunes become social nuisances waste labour breed luxury create unhappiness by propagating factitious wants too often engender vice and are injurious for the most part to real civilization. the most malignant feelings which enter into the present struggle have been generated especially in england by the ostentation of idle wealth in contrast with surrounding poverty. no really high nature covets such a position as that of a luxurious and useless millionaire. communism as a movement is a mistake but there is a communism which is deeply seated in the heart of every good man and which makes him feel that the hardest of all labour is idleness in a world of toil and that the bitterest of all bread is that which is eaten by the sweat of another man's brow. the pressure is hardest not on those who are really rich but on those who have hitherto on account of their education and the intellectual character of their callings been numbered with the rich and who are still clinging to the skirts of wealthy society. the best thing which those who are clinging to the skirts of wealthy society can do is to let go. they will find that they have not far to fall and they will rest on the firm ground of genuine respectability and solid comfort. by keeping up then culture they will preserve their social grade far better than by struggling for a precarious footing among those whose habits they cannot emulate and whose hospitalities they cannot return. then income will be increased by the whole cost of the efforts which they now make it the sacrifice of comforts and often of necessaries to maintain the appearances of wealth. british grandees may be good models for our millionaires but what most of us want are models of the art of enjoying life thoroughly and nobly without ostentation and at a moderate cost. it is by people of the class of which i am speaking that the servant difficulty that doleful but ever recurring theme is most severely felt. nor would i venture to hold out much hope that the difficulty will become less. it is not merely industrial out social. there is a growing repugnance to anything like servitude which makes the female democracy prefer the independence of the factory to the subordination of the kitchen, however good the wages and however kind the mistress may be. we must look to inventions for saving labour, which might be adopted in houses to a greater extent than they are now. perhaps when the work has been thus lightened and made less coarse, families may find "help," in the true sense, among their relatives, or others in need of a home, who would be members of the family circle. homes and suitable employment might thus be afforded to women who are now pining in enforced idleness, and sighing for protestant nunneries, while the daily war with bridget would be at an end. i would not make light of these inconveniences or of the present disturbance of trade. the tendency of a moment may be good, and yet it may give society a very bad quarter of an hour. nor would i attempt to conceal the errors and excesses of which the unions have been guilty, and into which, as organs of corporate selfishness, they are always in danger of running. industrial history has a record against the workingman as well as against the master. the guilds of the middle ages became tyrannical monopolies and leagues against society, turned callings open to all into mysteries confined to a privileged few, drove trade and manufactures from the cities where they reigned to places free from their domination. this probably was the cause of the decay of cities which forms the burden of complaint in the preambles to acts of parliament, in the tudor period. great guilds oppressed little guilds: strong commercial cities ruled by artisans oppressed their weaker neighbours of the same class. no one agency has done so much to raise the condition of the workingman as machinery; yet the workingman resisted the introduction of machinery, rose against it, destroyed it, maltreated its inventors. there is a perpetual warning in the name of hargreaves, the workingman who, by his inventive genius, provided employment for millions of his fellows, and was by them rewarded with outrage and persecution. flushed with confidence at the sight of their serried phalanxes and extending lines, the unionists do like most people invested with unwonted power; they aim at more than is possible or just. they fancy that they can put the screw on the community, almost without limit. but they will soon find out their mistake. they will learn it from those very things which are filling the world with alarm--the extension of unionism, and the multiplication of strikes. the builder strikes against the rest of the community, including the baker, then the baker strikes against the builder and the collier strikes against them both. at first the associated trades seem to have it all their own way. but the other trades learn the secret of association. everybody strikes against everybody else, the price of all articles rises as much as anybody's wages, and thus when the wheel has come full circle, nobody is much the gainer. in fact long before the wheel has come full circle the futility of a universal strike will be manifest to all. the world sees before it a terrible future of unionism ever increasing in power and tyranny, but it is more likely that in a few years unionism as an instrument for forcing up wages will have ceased to exist. in the meantime the working classes will have impressed upon themselves by a practical experiment upon the grandest scale and of the most decisive kind the fact that they are consumers as well as producers, payers of wages as well as receivers of wages, members of a community as well as workingmen. the unionists will learn also after a few trials that the community cannot easily be cornered, at least that it cannot easily be cornered more than once by unions any more than by gold rings at new york or pork rings at chicago. it may apparently succumb once being unable to do without its bread or its newspapers or to stop buildings already contracted for and commenced, but it instinctively prepares to defend itself against a repetition of the operation. it limits consumption or invents new modes of production, improves machinery, encourages non union men, calls in foreigners, women, chinese. in the end the corner results in loss. cornering on the part of workingmen is not a bit worse than cornering on the part of great financiers; in both cases alike it is as odious as anything can be, which is not actually criminal; but depend upon it a bad time is coming for corners of all kinds. i speak of the community as the power with which the strikers really have to deal. the master hires or organizes the workmen, but the community purchases their work; and though the master when hard pressed may in his desperation give more for the work than it is worth rather than at once take his capital out of the trade the community will let the trade go to ruin without compunction rather than give more for the article than it can afford. some of the colliers in england, we are informed, have called upon the masters to reduce the price of coal, offering at the same time to consent to a reduction of their own wages. a great fact has dawned upon their minds. note too that democratic communities have more power of resistance to unionist extortion than others, because they are more united, have a keener sense of mutual interest, and are free from political fear. the way in which boston, some years ago, turned to and beat a printers' strike, was a remarkable proof of this fact. combination may enable, and, as i believe, has enabled the men in particular cases to make a fairer bargain with the masters, and to get the full market value of their labour, but neither combination nor any other mode of negotiating can raise the value of labour or of any other article to the consumer, and that which cannot raise the value cannot permanently raise the price. all now admit that strikes peaceably conducted are lawful. nevertheless, they may sometimes be anti-social and immoral. does any one doubt it? suppose by an accident to machinery, or the falling in of a mine, a number of workmen have their limbs broken. one of their mates runs for the surgeon, and the surgeon puts his head out of the window and says-- "the surgeons are on strike." does this case much differ from that of the man who, in his greed, stops the wheel of industry which he is turning, thereby paralysing the whole machine, and spreading not only confusion, but suffering, and perhaps starvation among multitudes of his fellows? language was held by some unionist witnesses, before the trades union commission, about their exclusive regard for their own interests, and their indifference to the interests of society, which was more frank than philanthropic, and more gratifying to their enemies than to their friends. a man who does not care for the interests of society will find, to his cost, that they are his own, and that he is a member of a body which cannot be dismembered. i spoke of the industrial objects of the international as chimerical. they are worse than chimerical. in its industrial aspect, the international was an attempt to separate the interests of a particular class of workers throughout the world from those of their fellow workers, and to divide humanity against itself. such attempts can end only in one way. there are some who say, in connection with this question, that you are at liberty to extort anything you can from your fellow men, provided you do not use a pistol; that you are at liberty to fleece the sailor who implores you to save him from a wreck, or the emigrant who is in danger of missing his ship. i say that this is a moral robbery, and that the man would say so himself if the same thing were done to him. a strike is a war, so is a lock out, which is a strike on the other side. they are warrantable, like other wars, when justice cannot be obtained, or injustice prevented by peaceful means, and in such cases only. mediation ought always to be tried first and it will often be effectual, for the wars of carpenters and builders, as well as the wars of emperors, often arise from passion more than from interest, and passion may be calmed by mediation. hence the magnitude of the unions, formidable as it seems, has really a pacific effect; passion is commonly personal or local, and does not affect the central government of a union extending over a whole nation. the governments of great unions have seldom recommended strikes. a strike or lock-out, i repeat, is an industrial war, and when the war is over there ought to be peace. constant bad relations between the masters and the men, a constant attitude of mutual hostility and mistrust, constant threats of striking upon one side, and of locking out upon the other, are ruinous to the trade, especially if it depends at all upon foreign orders, as well as destructive of social comfort. if the state of feeling and the bearing of the men toward the masters, remain what they now are in some english trades, kind-hearted employers who would do their best to improve the condition of the workman, and to make him a partaker in their prosperity, will be driven from the trade, and their places will be taken by men with hearts of flint who will fight the workman by force and fraud, and very likely win. we have seen the full power of associated labour, the full power of associated capital has yet to be seen. we shall see it when instead of combinations of the employers in a single trade, which seldom hold together, employers in all trades learn to combine. we must not forget that industrial wars, like other wars, however just and necessary, give birth to men whose trade is war, and who, for the purpose of their trade are always inflaming the passions which lead to war. such men i have seen on both sides of the atlantic, and most hateful pests of industry and society they are. nor must we forget that trade unions, like other communities, whatever their legal constitutions may be, are apt practically to fall into the hands of a small minority of active spirits, or even into those of a single astute and ambitious man. murder, maiming and vitriol throwing are offences punishable by law. so are, or ought to be, rattening and intimidation. but there are ways less openly criminal of interfering with the liberty of non-union men. the liberty of non-union men, however, must be protected. freedom of contract is the only security which the community has against systematic extortion; and extortion, practised on the community by a trade union, is just as bad as extortion practised by a feudal baron in his robber hold. if the unions are not voluntary they are tyrannies, and all tyrannies in the end will be overthrown. the same doom awaits all monopolies and attempts to interfere with the free exercise of any lawful trade or calling, for the advantage of a ring of any kind, whether it be a great east india company, shutting the gates of eastern commerce on mankind, or a little bricklayers' union, limiting the number of bricks to be carried in a hod. all attempts to restrain or cripple production in the interest of a privileged set of producers; all trade rules preventing work from being done in the best, cheapest and most expeditious way; all interference with a man's free use of his strength and skill on pretence that he is beating his mates, or on any other pretence, all exclusions of people from lawful callings for which they are qualified; all apprenticeships not honestly intended for the instruction of the apprentice, are unjust and contrary to the manifest interests of the community, including the misguided monopolists themselves. all alike will, in the end, be resisted and put down. in feudal times the lord of the manor used to compel all the people to use his ferry, sell on his fair ground, and grind their corn at his mill. by long and costly effort humanity has broken the yoke of old privilege, and it is not likely to bow its neck to the yoke of the new. those who in england demanded the suffrage for the working man, who urged, in the name of public safety, as well as in that of justice, that he should be brought within the pale of the constitution, have no reason to be ashamed of the result. instead of voting for anarchy and public pillage, the working man has voted for economy, administrative reform, army reform, justice to ireland, public education. but no body of men ever found political power in their hands without being tempted to make a selfish use of it. feudal legislatures, as we have seen, passed laws compelling workmen to give more work, or work that was worth more, for the same wages. working men's legislatures are now disposed to pass laws compelling employers, that is, the community, to give the same wages for less work. some day, perhaps, the bakers will get power into their hands and make laws compelling us to give the same price for a smaller loaf. what would the rochdale pioneers, or the owners of any other co- operative store, with a staff of servants say if a law were passed compelling them to give the same wages for less service? this is not right, and it cannot stand. demagogues who want your votes will tell you that it can stand, but those who are not in that line must pay you the best homage in their power by speaking the truth. and if i may venture to offer advice never let the cause of labour be mixed up with the game of politicians. before you allow a man to lead you in trade questions be sure that he has no eye to your votes. we have a pleasing variety of political rogues but perhaps, there is hardly a greater rogue among them than the working man's friend. perhaps you will say as much or more work is done with the short hours. there is reason to hope that it in some cases it may be so. but then the employer will see his own interest, free contract will produce the desired result, there will be no need of compulsory law. i sympathize heartily with the general object of the nine hours movement, of the early closing movement, and all movements of that kind. leisure well spent is a condition of civilization, and now we want all to be civilized, not only a few. but i do not believe it possible to regulate the hours of work by law with any approach to reason or justice. one kind of work is more exhausting than another, one is carried on in a hot room, another in a cool room, one amidst noise wearing to the nerves, another in stillness. time is not a common measure of them all. the difficulty is increased if you attempt to make one rule for all nations disregarding differences of race and climate. besides how in the name of justice, can we say that the man with a wife and children to support, shall not work more if he pleases than the unmarried man who chooses to be content with less pay and to have more time for enjoyment? medical science pronounces, we are told, that it is not good for a man to work more than eight hours. but supposing this to be true and true of all kinds of work, this as has been said before is an imperfect world and it is to be feared that we cannot guarantee any man against having more to do than his doctor would recommend. the small tradesman, whose case receives no consideration because he forms no union, often perhaps generally has more than is good for him of anxiety, struggling and care as well as longer business hours, than medical science would prescribe. pressure on the weary brain is, at least, as painful as pressure on the weary muscle; many a suicide proves it; yet brains must be pressed or the wheels of industry and society would stand still. let us all, i repeat, get as much leisure as we fairly and honestly can; but with all due respect for those who hold the opposite opinion, i believe that the leisure must be obtained by free arrangement in each ease, as it has already in the case of early closing, not by general law. i cannot help regarding industrial war in this new world, rather as an importation than as a native growth. the spirit of it is brought over by british workmen, who have been fighting the master class in their former home. in old england, the land of class distinctions, the masters are a class, economically as well as socially, and they are closely allied with a political class, which till lately engrossed power and made laws in the interest of the employer. seldom does a man in england rise from the ranks, and when he does, his position in an aristocratic society is equivocal, and he never feels perfectly at home. caste runs from the peerage all down the social scale. the bulk of the land has been engrossed by wealthy families, and the comfort and dignity of freehold proprietorship are rarely attainable by any but the rich. everything down to the railway carriages, is regulated by aristocracy; street cars cannot run because they would interfere with carriages, a city cannot be drained because a park is in the way. the labourer has to bear a heavy load of taxation, laid on by the class wars of former days. in this new world of ours, the heel taps of old-world flunkeyism are sometimes poured upon us, no doubt; as, on the other hand, we feel the reaction from the old-world servility in a rudeness of self assertion on the part of the democracy which is sometimes rather discomposing, and which we should be glad to see exchanged for the courtesy of settled self- respect. but on the whole, class distinctions are very faint. half, perhaps two-thirds, of the rich men you meet here have risen from the ranks, and they are socially quite on a level with the rest. everything is really open to industry. every man can at once invest his savings in a freehold. everything is arranged for the convenience of the masses. political power is completely in the hands of the people. there are no fiscal legacies of an oligarchic past. if i were one of our emigration agents, i should not dwell so much on wages, which in fact are being rapidly equalized, as on what wages will buy in canada--the general improvement of condition, the brighter hopes, the better social position, the enlarged share of all the benefits which the community affords. i should show that we have made a step here at all events towards being a community indeed. in such a land i can see that there may still be need of occasional combinations among the working men to make better bargains with their employers, but i can see no need for the perpetual arraying of class against class or for a standing apparatus of industrial war. there is one more point which must be touched with tenderness but which cannot be honestly passed over in silence. it could nowhere be mentioned less invidiously than under the roof of an institution which is at once an effort to create high tastes in working men and a proof that such tastes can be created. the period of transition from high to low wages and from incessant toil to comparative leisure must be one of peril to masses whom no mechanics institute or literary society as yet counts among its members. it is the more so because there is abroad in all classes a passion for sensual enjoyment and excitement produced by the vast development of wealth and at the same time as i suspect by the temporary failure of those beliefs which combat the sensual appetites and sustain our spiritual life. colliers drinking champagne. the world stands aghast. well, i see no reason why a collier should not drink champagne if he can afford it as well as a duke. the collier wants and perhaps deserves it more if he has been working all the week underground and at risk of his life. hard labour naturally produces a craving for animal enjoyment and so does the monotony of the factory unrelieved by interest in the work. but what if the collier cannot afford the champagne or if the whole of his increase of wages is wasted on it while his habitation remains a hovel, everything about him is still as filthy, comfortless and barbarous as ever and (saddest of all) his wife and children are no better off, perhaps are worse off than before? what if his powers of work are being impaired by debauchery and he is thus surely losing the footing which he has won on the higher round of the industrial ladder and lapsing back into penury and despair? what if instead of gaining he is really losing in manhood and real independence? i see nothing shocking in the fact that a mechanic's wages are now equal to those of a clergyman, or an officer in the army who has spent perhaps thousands of dollars on his education. every man has a right to whatever his labour will fetch. but i do see something shocking in the appearance of the highly paid mechanic, whenever hard times come, as a mendicant at the door of a man really poorer than himself. not only that english poor-law, of which we spoke, but all poor-laws, formal or informal, must cease when the labourer has the means, with proper self-control and prudence, of providing for winter as well as summer, for hard times as well as good times, for his family as well as for himself. the tradition of a by-gone state of society must be broken. the nominally rich must no longer be expected to take care of the nominally poor. the labourer has ceased to be in any sense a slave. he must learn to be, in every sense, a man. it is much easier to recommend our neighbours to change their habits than to change our own, yet we must never forget, in discussing the question between the working man and his employer, or the community, that a slight change in the habits of the working men, in england at least, would add more to their wealth, their happiness and their hopes, than has been added by all the strikes, or by conflicts of any kind. in the life of mr. brassey, we are told that the british workman in australia has great advantages, but wastes them all in drink. he does this not in australia alone. i hate legislative interference with private habits, and i have no fancies about diet. a citizen of maine, who has eaten too much pork, is just as great a transgressor against medical rules, and probably just as unamiable, as if he had drunk too much whisky. but when i have seen the havoc--the ever increasing havoc-- which drink makes with the industry, the vigour, the character of the british workman, i have sometimes asked myself whether in that case extraordinary measures might not be justified by the extremity of its dangers. the subject is boundless. i might touch upon perils distinct from unionism, which threaten industry, especially that growing dislike of manual labour which prevails to an alarming extent in the united states, and which some eminent economists are inclined to attribute to errors in the system of education in the common schools. i might speak of the duties of government in relation to these disturbances, and of the necessity, for this as well as other purposes, of giving ourselves a government of all and for all, capable of arbitrating impartially between conflicting interests as the recognised organ of the common good. i might speak, too, of the expediency of introducing into popular education a more social element, of teaching less rivalry and discontent, more knowledge of the mutual duties of different members of the community and of the connection of those duties with our happiness. but i must conclude. if i have thrown no new light upon the subject, i trust that i have at least tried to speak the truth impartially, and that i have said nothing which can add to the bitterness of the industrial conflict, or lead any of my hearers to forget that above all trade unions, and above all combinations of every kind, there is the great union of humanity. "what is culpable luxury?" a phrase in a lecture on "the labour movement," published in the _canadian monthly_, has been the inconsiderable cause of a considerable controversy in the english press and notably of a paper by the eminent economist and moralist mr. w.r. greg, entitled "what is culpable luxury?" in the _contemporary review_. the passage of the lecture in which the phrase occurred was: "wealth, real wealth, has hardly as yet much reason to complain of any encroachment of the labour movement on its rights. when did it command such means and appliances of pleasure, such satisfaction for every appetite and every fancy, as it commands now? when did it rear such enchanted palaces of luxury as it is rearing in england at the present day? well do i remember one of those palaces, the most conspicuous object for miles round. _its lord was i dare say consuming the income of some six hundred of the poor labouring families round him_. the thought that you are spending on yourself annually the income of six hundred labouring families seems to me about as much as a man with a heart and a brain can bear. whatever the rich man desires, the finest house, the biggest diamond, the reigning beauty for his wife, social homage, public honour, political power, is ready at his command" &c, &c. the words in italics have been separated from the context and taken as an attack on wealth. but the whole passage is a defence of labour against the charge of encroachment brought against it by wealth. i argue that, if the labouring man gets rather more than he did, the inequalities of fortune and the privileges of the rich are still great enough. in the next paragraph i say that "wealth well made and well spent is as pure as the rill that runs from the mountain side." an invidious turn has also been given to the expression "the income of six hundred labouring families," as though it meant that the wealthy idler is robbing six hundred labouring families of their income. it means no more than that the income which he is spending on himself is as large as six hundred of their incomes put together. mr. greg begins with what he calls a retort courteous. he says that if the man with l is doing this sad thing so is the man with l or l and everyone who allows himself anything beyond the necessaries of life; nay, that the labouring man when he lights his pipe or drinks his dram is as well as the rest consuming the substance of one poorer than himself. this argument appears to its framer irrefutable and a retort to which there can be no rejoinder. i confess my difficulty is not so much in refuting it as in seeing any point in it at all. what parallel can there be between an enormous and a very moderate expenditure or between prodigious luxury and ordinary comfort? if a man taxes me with having squandered fifty dollars on a repast is it an irrefutable retort to tell him that he has spent fifty cents? the limited and rational expenditure of an industrious man produces no evils economical, social or moral. i contend in the lecture that the unlimited and irrational expenditure of idle millionaires does; that it wastes labour, breeds luxury, creates unhappiness by propagating factitious wants, too often engenders vice and is injurious for the most part to real civilization. i have observed and i think with truth that the most malignant feelings which enter into the present struggle between classes have been generated by the ostentation of idle wealth in contrast with surrounding poverty. it would of course be absurd to say this of a man living on a small income in a modest house and in a plain way. if i had said that property or all property beyond a mere sustenance is theft there would be force in mr. greg's retort, but as i have said or implied nothing more than that extravagant luxury is waste and contrasted with surrounding poverty grates on the feelings, especially when those who waste are idle and those who want are the hardest working labourers in the world, i repeat that i can see no force in the retort at all. mr. greg proceeds to analyse the expenditure of the millionaire and to maintain that its several items are laudable. first he defends pleasure grounds, gardens, shrubberies and deer parks. but he defends them on the ground that they are good things for the community and thereby admits my principle. it is only against wasteful self indulgence that i have anything to say. no doubt, says mr. greg, if the land of a country is all occupied and cultivated, and if no more land is easily accessible, and if the produce of other lands is not procurable in return for manufactured articles of exchange, then a proprietor who shall employ a hundred acres in growing wine for his own drinking, which might or would otherwise be employed in growing wheat or other food for twenty poor families who can find no other field for their labour, may fairly be said to be consuming, spending on himself, the sustenance of those families. if, again, he, in the midst of a swarming population unable to find productive or remunerative occupation, insists upon keeping a considerable extent of ground in merely ornamental walks and gardens, and, therefore, useless as far as the support of human life is concerned, he may be held liable to the same imputation--even though the wages he pays to the gardeners in the one case, and the vine-dressers in the other, be pleaded in mitigation of the charge. let the writer of this only allow, as he must, that the moral, social and political consequences of expenditure are to be taken into account as well as the economical consequences, and he will be entirely at one with the writer whom he supposes himself to be confuting. i have never said, or imagined, that "all land ought to be producing food." i hold that no land in england is better employed than that of the london parks and the gardens of the crystal palace, though i could not speak so confidently with regard to a vast park from which all are excluded but its owner. mr. greg here again takes up what seems to me the strange position that to condemn excess is to condemn moderation. he says that whatever is said against the great parks and gardens of the most luxurious millionaire may equally be said against a tradesman's little flower-garden, or the plot of ornamental ground before the cottage windows of a peasant. i must again say that, so far from regarding this argument as irrefutable, i altogether fail to discover its cogency. the tradesman's little bit of green, the peasant's flower- bed, are real necessities of a human soul. can the same thing be said of a pleasure-ground which consumes the labour of twenty men, and of which the object is not to refresh the weariness of labour but to distract the vacancy of idleness? mr. greg specially undertakes the defence of deer-parks. but his ground is that the deer-forests which were denounced as unproductive have been proved to be the only mode of raising the condition and securing the well-being of the ill-fed population. if so, "humanitarians" are ready to hold up both hands in favour of deer-forests. nay, we are ready to do the same if the pleasure yielded by the deer-forests bears any reasonable proportion to the expense and the agricultural sacrifice, especially if the sportsman is a worker recruiting his exhausted brain, not a sybarite killing time. from parks and pleasure-grounds mr. greg goes on to horses; and here it is the same thing over again. the apologist first sneers at those who object to the millionaire's stud, then lets in the interest of the community as a limiting principle, and ends by saying: "we may then allow frankly and without demur, that if he (the millionaire) maintains more horses than he needs or can use, his expenditure thereon is strictly pernicious and indefensible, precisely in the same way as it would be if he burnt so much hay and threw so many bushels of oats into the fire. he is destroying human food." now mr. greg has only to determine whether a man who is keeping a score or more of carriage and saddle horses, is "using" them or not. if he is, "humanitarians" are perfectly satisfied. finally mr. greg comes to the case of large establishments of servants. and here, having set out with intentions most adverse to my theory, he "blesses it altogether." "perhaps," he says, "of all the branches of a wealthy nobleman's expenditure, that which will be condemned with most unanimity, and defended with most difficulty, is the number of ostentatious and unnecessary servants it is customary to maintain. for this practice i have not a word to say. it is directly and indirectly bad. it is bad for all parties. its reflex action on the masters themselves is noxious; it is mischievous to the flunkies who are maintained in idleness, and in enervating and demoralizing luxury; it is pernicious to the community at large, and especially to the middle and upper middle classes, whose inevitable expenditure in procuring fit domestic service--already burdensomely great--is thereby oppressively enhanced, till it has become difficult not only to find good household servants at moderate wages, but to find servants who will work diligently and faithfully for any wages at all." how will mr. greg keep up the palaces, parks, and studs, when he has taken away the retinues of servants? if he does not take care, he will find himself wielding the bosom of sumptuary reform in the most sweeping manner before he is aware of it. but let me respectfully ask him, who can he suppose objects to any expenditure except on the ground that it is directly and indirectly bad; bad for all parties, noxious to the voluptuary himself, noxious to all about him, and noxious to the community? so long as a man does no harm to himself or to anyone else, i for one see no objection to his supping like a roman emperor, on pheasants' tongues, or making shirt-studs of koh-i-noors. "it is charity," says mr. greg, hurling at the system of great establishments his last and bitterest anathema--"it is charity, and charity of the bastard sort--charity disguised as ostentation. it feeds, clothes, and houses a number of people in strenuous and pretentious laziness. if almshouses are noxious and offensive to the economic mind, then, by parity of reasoning, superfluous domestics are noxious also." and so it would seem, by parity of reasoning, or rather _a fortiori_, as being fed, clothed, and housed far more expensively, and in far more strenuous and pretentious laziness, are the superfluous masters of flunkeys. the flunkey does some work, at all events enough to prevent him from becoming a mere fattened animal. if he is required to grease and powder his head, he does work, as it seems to me, for which he may fairly claim a high remuneration. as i have said already, let mr. greg take in the moral, political, and social evils of luxury, as well as the material waste, and i flatter myself that there will be no real difference between his general view of the responsibilities of wealth and mine. he seems to be as convinced as i am that there is no happiness in living in strenuous and pretentious laziness by the sweat of other men's brows. nor do i believe that even the particular phrase which has been deemed so fraught with treason to plutocracy would, if my critic examined it closely, seem to him so very objectionable. his own doctrine, it is true, sounds severely economical. he holds that "the natural man and the christian" who should be moved by his natural folly and christianity to forego a bottle of champagne in order to relieve a neighbour in want of actual food, would do a thing "distinctly criminal and pernicious." still i presume he would allow, theoretically, as i am very sure he would practically, a place to natural sympathy. he would not applaud a banquet given in the midst of a famine, although it might be clearly proved that the money spent by the banqueters was their own, that those who were perishing of famine had not been robbed of it, that their bellies were none the emptier because those of the banqueters were full, and that the cookery gave a stimulus to gastronomic art. he would not, even, think it wholly irrational that the gloom of the work-house should cast a momentary shadow on the enjoyments of the palace. i should also expect him to understand the impression that a man of "brain," even one free from any excessive tenderness of "heart," would not like to see a vast apparatus of luxury, and a great train of flunkeys devoted to his own material enjoyment--that he would feel it as a slur on his good sense, as an impeachment of his mental resources, and of his command of nobler elements of happiness, and even as a degradation of his manhood. there was surely something respectable in the sentiment which made mr. brassey refuse, however much his riches might increase, to add to his establishment. there is surely something natural in the tendency, which we generally find coupled with greatness, to simplicity of life. a person whom i knew had dined with a millionaire _tete-a-tete_, with six flunkeys standing round the table. i suspect that a man of mr. greg's intellect and character, in spite of his half-ascetic hatred of plush, would rather have been one of the six than one of the two. while, however, i hope that my view of these matters coincides practically with that of mr. greg far more than he supposes, i must admit that there may be a certain difference of sentiment behind. mr. greg describes the impressions to which i have given currency as a confused compound of natural sympathy, vague christianity, and dim economic science. of the confusion, vagueness and dimness of our views, of course we cannot be expected to be conscious; but i own that i defer, in these matters, not only to natural feeling, but to the ethics of rational christianity. i still adhere to the christian code for want of a better, the utilitarian system of morality being, so far as i can see, no morality at all, in the ordinary sense of the term, as it makes no appeal to our moral nature, our conscience, or whatever philosophers choose to call the deepest part of humanity. of course, therefore, i accept as the fundamental principle of human relations, and of all science concerning them, the great christian doctrine that "we are every one members one of another" as a consequence of this doctrine i hold that the wealth of mankind is morally a common store; that we are morally bound to increase it as much, and to waste it as little, as we can, that of the two it is happier to be underpaid than to be overpaid; and that we shall all find it so in the sum of things. there is nothing in such a view in the least degree subversive of the legal rights of property, which the founders of christianity distinctly recognised in their teaching, and strengthened practically by raising the standard of integrity; nothing adverse to active industry or good business habits; nothing opposed to economic science as the study of the laws regulating the production and distribution of wealth; nothing condemnatory of pleasure, provided it be pleasure which opens the heart, as i suppose was the case with the marriage feast at cana, not the pleasure which closes the heart, as i fear was the case with the "refined luxury" of the marquis of steyne. if this is superstition, all that i can say is that i have read strauss, renan, mr. greg on the "creed of christendom," and all the eminent writers i could hear of on that side, and that i am not conscious of any bias to the side of orthodoxy, at least i have not given satisfaction to the orthodox classes. christianity, of course, in common with other systems, craves a reasonable construction. plato cannot afford to have his apologues treated as histories. in "joshua davidson," a good man is made to turn away from christianity because he finds that his faith will not literally remove a mountain and cast it into the sea. but he had omitted an indispensable preliminary. he ought first to have exactly compared the bulk of his faith with that of a grain of palestinian mustard seed. mr. greg makes sport of the text "he that hath two coats let him impart to him that hath none," which he says he heard in his youth, but without ever considering its present applicability. yet in the next paragraph but one he gives it a precise and a very important application by pronouncing that a man is not at liberty to grow wine for himself on land which other people need for food. i fail to see how the principle involved in this passage, and others of a similar tendency which i have quoted from mr. greg's paper, differ from that involved in gospel texts which, if i were to quote them would grate strangely upon his ear. the texts comprise a moral sanction; but mr. greg must have some moral sanction when he forbids a man to do that which he is permitted to do by law. christianity, whatever its source and authority, was addressed at first to childlike minds, and what its antagonists have to prove is not that its forms of expression or even of thought are adapted to such minds, but that its principles, when rationally applied to a more advanced state of society, are unsound. rightly understood it does not seem to me to enjoin anything eccentric or spasmodic, to bid you enact primitive orientalism in the streets of london, thrust fraternity upon writers in the _pall mall gazette_, or behave generally as if the "kingdom of god" were already come. your duty as a christian is done if you help its coming according to the circumstances of your place in society and the age in which you live. of course, in subscribing to the christian code of ethics, one lays oneself open to "retorts corteous" without limit. but so one does in subscribing to any code, or accepting any standard, whether moral or of any other kind. i do not see on what principle mr. greg would justify, if he does justify, any sort of charitable benefactions. did not mr. peabody give his glass of champagne to a man in need? he might have spent all his money on himself if he had been driven to building chatsworths, and hanging their walls with raffaelles. how will he escape the reproach of having done what was criminal and pernicious? and what are we to say of the conduct of london plutocrats who abetted his proceedings by their applause though they abstained from following his example? is there any apology for them at all but one essentially christian? not that christianity makes any great fuss over munificence, or gives political economy reasonable ground for apprehension on that score. plutocracy deifies mr. peabody; christianity measures him and pronounces his millions worth less than the widow's mite. in my lecture i have applied my principles, or tried to apply them, fairly to the mechanic as well as to the millionaire. i have deprecated, as immoral, a resort to strikes solely in the interest of the strikers, without regard to the general interests of industry and of the community at large. what has my critic to say, from the moral point of view, to the gas stokers who leave london in the dark, or the colliers who, in struggling to raise their own wages, condemn the ironworkers to "clamm" for want of coal? i would venture to suggest that mr. greg somewhat overrates in his paper the beneficence of luxury as an agent in the advancement of civilization. "artificial wants," he says, "what may be termed extravagant wants, the wish to possess something beyond the bare necessaries of existence; the taste for superfluities and luxuries first, the desire for refinements and embellishments next; the craving for the higher enjoyments of intellect and art as the final stage--these are the sources and stimulants of advancing civilization. it is these desires, these needs, which raise mankind above mere animal existence, which, in time and gradually, transform the savage into the cultured citizen of intelligence and leisure. ample food once obtained, he begins to long for better, more varied, more succulent food; the richer nutriment leads on to the well-stored larder and the well-filled cellar, and culminates in the french cook." the love of truth, the love of beauty, the effort to realize a high type of individual character, and a high social ideal, surely these are elements of progress distinct from gastronomy, and from that special chain of gradual improvement which culminates in the french cook. it may be doubted whether french cookery does always denote the acme of civilization. perhaps in the case of the typical london alderman, it denotes something like the acme of barbarism, for the barbarism of the elaborate and expensive glutton surely exceeds that of the child of nature who gorges himself on the flesh which he has taken in hunting: not to mention that the child of nature costs humanity nothing, whereas the gourmand devours the labour of the french cook and probably that of a good many assistants and purveyors. the greatest service is obviously rendered by any one who can improve human food. "the man is what he eats," is a truth though somewhat too broadly stated. but then the improvement must be one ultimately if not immediately accessible to mankind in general. that which requires a french cook is accessible only to a few. again, in setting forth the civilizing effects of expenditure, mr. greg, i think, rather leaves out of sight those of frugality. the florentines, certainly the leaders of civilization in their day, were frugal in their personal habits, and by that frugality accumulated the public wealth which produced florentine art, and sustained a national policy eminently generous and beneficent for its time. moreover, in estimating the general influence of great fortunes, mr. greg seems to take a rather sanguine view of the probable character and conduct of their possessors. he admits that a broad-acred peer or opulent commoner "may spend his l , a year in such a manner as to be a curse, a reproach, and an object of contempt to the community, demoralizing and disgusting all around him, doing no good to others, and bringing no real enjoyment to himself." but he appears to think that the normal case, and the one which should govern our general views and policy upon the subject, is that of a man "of refined taste and intellect expanded to the requirements of his position, managing his property with care and judgment, so as to set a feasible example to less wealthy neighbours; prompt to discern and to aid useful undertakings, to succour striving merit, unearned suffering, and overmatched energy." "such a man," he says, in a concluding burst of eloquence, "if his establishment in horses and servants is not immoderate, although he surrounds himself with all that art can offer to render life beautiful and elegant though he gathers round him the best productions of the intellect of all countries and ages, though his gardens and his park are models of curiosity and beauty, though he lets his ancestral trees rot in their picturesque mutility instead of converting them into profitable timber, and disregards the fact that his park would be more productive if cut up into potato plots though, in fine he lives in the very height of elegant, refined and tasteful luxury--i should hesitate to denounce as consuming on himself the incomes of countless labouring families, and i should imagine that he might lead his life of temperate and thoughtful joy quietly conscious that his liberal expenditure enabled scores of these families as well as artists and others to exist in comfort and without either brain or heart giving way under the burdensome reflection." it must be by a slip of the pen such as naturally occurs amidst the glow of an enthusiastic description that the writer speaks of people as enabling others to subsist by their expenditure. it is clear that people can furnish subsistence to themselves or others only by production. a rich idler may appear to give bread to an artist or opera girl but the bread really comes not from the idler but from the workers who pay his rents; the idler is at most the channel of distribution. the munificence of monarchs who generously lavish the money of the taxpayer is a familiar case of the same fallacy. this is the illusion of the irish peasant whose respect for the spendthrift "gentleman" and contempt for the frugal "sneak" mr. greg honours with a place among the serious elements of an economical and social problem. but not to dwell on what is so obvious how many let me ask, of the possessors of inherited wealth in england or in any other country, fulfil or approach mr. greg's ideal? i confess that, as regards the mass of the english squires the passage seems to me almost satire. refined taste and expanded intellect, promptness to discern and aid striving merit and unearned suffering, life surrounded with all that art can do to render it beautiful and elegant, the best productions of intellect gathered from all intellects and ages--i do not deny that mr. greg has seen all this, but i can hardly believe that he has seen it often, and i suspect that there are probably people not unfamiliar with the abodes of great landowners who have never seen it at all. not to speak of artists and art, what does landed wealth do for popular education? it appears from the popular education report of (p. ) that in a district taken as a fair specimen, the sum of l , , contributed by voluntary subscription towards the support of schools, was derived from the following sources: clergymen contributed l , or l each landowners " , " " l occupiers " " " householders " " " other persons " " " the rental of the landowners was estimated at, l , a year. judging from the result of my own observations, i should not have been at all surprised if a further analysis of the return had shown that not only the contributions of the clergy but those of retired professional men and others with limited incomes were, in proportion, far greater than those of the leviathans of wealth. to play the part of mr. greg's ideal millionaire, a man must have not only a large heart but a cultivated mind; and how often are educators successful in getting work out of boys or youths who know that they have not to make their own bread? in my lecture i have drawn a strong distinction, though mr. greg has not observed it, between hereditary wealth and that which, however great, and even, compared with the wages of subordinate producers, excessive, is earned by industry. wealth earned by industry is, for obvious reasons, generally much more wisely and beneficially spent than hereditary wealth. the self-made millionaire must at all events, have an active mind. the late mr. brassey was probably one man in a hundred even among self-made millionaires; among hereditary millionaires he would have been one in a thousand. surely we always bestow especial praise on one who resists the evil influences of hereditary wealth, and surely our praise is deserved. the good which private wealth has done in the way of patronizing literature and art is, i am convinced, greatly overrated. the beneficent patronage of lorenzo di medici is, like that of louis xiv., a chronological and moral fallacy. what lorenzo did was, in effect, to make literature and art servile and in some cases to taint them with the propensities of a magnificent debauchee. it was not lorenzo, nor any number of lorenzos, that made florence, with her intellect and beauty, but the public spirit, the love of the community, the intensity of civic life, in which the interest of florentine history lies. the decree of the commune for the building of the cathedral directs the architect to make a design "of such noble and extreme magnificence that the industry and skill of men shall be able to invent nothing grander or more beautiful," since it had been decided in council that no plan should be accepted "unless the conception was such as to render the work worthy of an ambition which had become very great, inasmuch as it resulted from the continued desires of a great number of citizens united in one sole will." i believe, too, that the munificence of a community is generally wiser and better directed than that of private benefactors. nothing can be more admirable than the munificence of rich men in the united states. but the drawback in the way of personal fancies and crochets is so great that i sometimes doubt whether future generations will have reason to thank the present, especially as the reverence of the americans for property is so intense that they would let a dead founder breed any pestilence rather than touch the letter of his will. politically, no one can have lived in the new world without knowing that a society in which wealth is distributed rests on an incomparably safer foundation than one in which it is concentrated in the hands of a few. british plutocracy has its cannoneer; but if the cannoneer happens to take fancies into his head the "whiff of grapeshot" goes the wrong way. socially, i do not know whether mr. greg has been led to consider the extent to which artificial desires, expensive fashions, and conventional necessities created by wealth, interfere with freedom of intercourse and general happiness. the _saturday review_ says: "all classes of her majesty's respectable subjects are always doing their best to keep up appearances, and a very hard struggle many of us make of it. thus a mansion in belgrave square ought to mean a corpulent hall-porter, a couple of gigantic footmen, a butler and an under-butler at the very least, if the owner professes to live op to his social dignities. if our house is in baker or wimpole street, we must certainly have a manservant in sombre raiment to open our door, with a hobbledehoy or a buttons to run his superior's messages. in the smart, although somewhat dismal, small squares in south kensington and the western suburbs, the parlourmaid must wear the freshest of ribbons and trimmest of bows, and be resplendent in starch and clean coloured muslins. so it goes on, as we run down the gamut of the social scale; our ostentatious expenditure must be in harmony throughout with the stuccoed facade behind which we live, or the staff of domestics we parade. we are aware, of course, as our incomes for the most part are limited, and as we are all of us upon our mettle in the battle of life that we must pinch somewhere if appearances are to be kept up. we do what we can in secret towards balancing the budget. we retrench on our charities, save on our coals, screw on our cabs, drink the sourest of bordeaux instead of more generous vintages, dispense with the cream which makes tea palatable, and systematically sacrifice substantial comforts that we may swagger successfully in the face of a critical and carping society. but with the most of us if our position is an anxious one; it is of our own making and if we dared to be eccentrically rational it might be very tolerable." nor is this the worst. the worst is the exclusion from society of the people who do not choose to torture and degrade themselves in order to keep up appearances and who are probably the best people of all. the interference of wealth and its exigencies with social enjoyment is i suspect a heavy set off against squirearchical patronage of intellect and art. those who believe that the distribution of wealth is more favourable to happiness and more civilizing than its concentration will of course vote against laws which tend to artificial concentration of wealth such as those of primogeniture and entail. this they may do without advocating public plunder though it suits plutocratic writers to confound the two. for my own part i do not feel bound to pay to british plutocracy a respect which british plutocracy does not pay to humanity. some of its organs are beginning to preach doctrines revolting to a christian and to any man who has not banished from his heart the love of his kind and we have seen it when its class passions were excited show a temper as cruel as that of any maratist or petroleuse. but so far from attacking the institution of property [footnote: the _saturday review_ some time ago charged me with proposing to confiscate the increase in the value of land. i never said anything of the kind nor anything i believe that could easily be mistaken for it.] i have as great a respect for it as any millionaire can have and as sincerely accept and uphold it as the condition of our civilization. there is nothing inconsistent with this in the belief that among the better part of the race property is being gradually modified by duty or in the surmise that before humanity reaches its distant goal property and duty will alike be merged in affection. a true captain of industry. the vast works of the railway and steamboat age called into existence, besides the race of great engineers, a race of great organizers and directors of industry, who may be generally termed contractor. among these no figure was more conspicuous than that of mr. brassey, a life of whom has just been published by messrs. bell and daldy. its author is mr. helps, whose name is a guarantee for the worthy execution of the work. and worthily executed it is, in spite of a little privy council solemnity in the reflections, and a little "state paper" in the style. the materials were collected in an unusual way--by examining the persons who had acted under mr. brassey, or knew him well, and taking down their evidence in shorthand. the examination was conducted by mr. brassey, jun., who prudently declined to write the biography himself, feeling that a son could not speak impartially of his father. the result is that we have materials for a portrait, which not only is very interesting in itself but, by presenting the image of beneficence in an employer, may help to mediate between capital and labour in a time of industrial war. mr. helps had been acquainted with mr. brassey, and had once received a visit from him on official business of difficulty and importance. he expected, he says, to see a hard, stern, soldierly sort of person, accustomed to sway armies of working-men in an imperious fashion. instead of this he saw an elderly gentleman of very dignified appearance and singularly graceful manners--"a gentleman of the old school." "he stated his case, no, i express myself wrongly; he did _not_ state his case, he _understated_ it; and there are few things more attractive in a man than that he should be inclined to understate rather than overstate his own case." mr. brassey was also very brief, and when he went away, mr. helps, knowing well the matter in respect to which his visitor had a grievance, thought that, if it had been his own case, he should hardly have been able to restrain himself so well, and speak with so little regard to self-interest, as mr. brassey had done. of all the persons whom mr. helps had known, he thought mr. brassey most resembled that perfect gentleman and excellent public man, lord herbert of lea. mr. helps commences his work with a general portrait. according to this portrait, the most striking feature in mr. brassey's character was trustfulness, which he carried to what might appear an extreme. he chose his agents with care, but, having chosen them, placed implicit confidence in them, trusting them for all details, and judging by results. he was very liberal in the conduct of business. his temperament was singularly calm and equable, not to be discomposed by success or failure, easily throwing off the burden of care, and, when all had been done that could be done, awaiting the result with perfect equanimity. he was very delicate in blaming, his censure being always of the gentlest kind, evidently reluctant, and on that account going more to the heart. his generosity made him exceedingly popular with his subordinates and work-men, who looked forward to his coming among them as a festive event; and, when any disaster occurred in the works, the usual parts of employer and employed were reversed--the employer it was who framed the excuses and comforted the employed. he was singularly courteous, and listened to everybody with respect; so that it was a marked thing when he went so far as to say of a voluble and empty chatterer, that "the peas were overgrowing the stick." his presence of mind was great; he had in an eminent degree, as his biographer remarks, what napoleon called "two o'clock in the morning courage," being always ready, if called up in the middle of the night, to meet any urgent peril; and his faculties were stimulated, not overcome, by danger. he had a perfect hatred of contention, and would not only refuse to take any questionable advantage, but would rather even submit to be taken advantage of--a generosity which turned to his account. in the execution of any undertaking, his anxiety was that the work should be done quickly and done well. minor questions, unprovided for by specific contract, he left to be settled afterwards. in his life he had only one regular law-suit. it was in spain, about the mataro line, and into this he was drawn by his partner against his will. he declared that he would never have another, "for in nineteen cases out of twenty you either gain nothing at all, or what you do gain does not compensate you for the worry and anxiety the lawsuit occasions you." in case of disputes between his agents and the engineers, he quietly settled the question by reference to the "gangers." in order to find the key to mr. brassey's character, his biographer took care to ascertain what was his "ruling passion." he had none of the ordinary ambitions for rank, title, or social position. "his great ambition--his ruling passion--was to win a high reputation for skill, integrity, and success in the difficult vocation of a contractor for public works; to give large employment to his fellow-countrymen; by means of british labour and british skill to knit together foreign countries; and to promote civilization, according to his view of it, throughout the world." "mr. brassey," continues mr. helps, "was, in brief, a singularly trustful, generous, large-hearted, dexterous, ruling kind of personage; blessed with a felicitous temperament for bearing the responsibility of great affairs." in the military age he might have been a great soldier, a turenne or a marlborough, if he could have broken through the aristocratic barrier which confined high command to the privileged few; in the industrial age he found a more beneficent road to distinction, and one not limited to the members of a caste. mr. brassey's family is stated by his biographer to have come over with the conqueror. if mr. brassey attached any importance to his pedigree (of which there is no appearance) it is to be hoped that he was able to make it out more clearly than most of those who claim descent from companions of the conqueror. long after the conquest--so long, indeed, as england and normandy remained united under one crown--there was a constant flow of norman immigration into england, and england swarms with people bearing norman or french names, whose ancestors were perfectly guiltless of the bloodshed of hastings, and made their entrance into the country as peaceful traders, and, perhaps, in even humbler capacities. what is certain is that the great contractor sprang from a line of those small landed proprietors, once the pillars of england's strength, virtue and freedom, who, in the old country have been "improved off the face of the earth" by the great landowners, while they live again on the happier side of the atlantic. a sound morality, freedom from luxury, and a moderate degree of culture, are the heritage of the scion of such a stock. mr. brassey was brought up at home till he was twelve years old, when he was sent to school at chester. at sixteen he was articled to a surveyor, and as an initiation into great works, he helped, as a pupil, to make the surveys for the then famous holyhead road. his master, mr. lawton, saw his worth, and ultimately took him into partnership. the firm set up at birkenhead, then a very small place, but destined to a greatness which, it seems, mr. lawton had the shrewdness to discern. at birkenhead mr. brassey did well, of course; and there, after a time, he was brought into contact with george stephenson, and by him at once appreciated and induced to engage in railways. the first contract which he obtained was for the pembridge viaduct, between stafford and wolverhampton, and for this he was enabled to tender by the liberality of his bankers, whose confidence, like that of all with whom he came into contact, he had won. railway-making was at that time a new business, and a contractor was required to meet great demands upon his organizing power; the system of sub-contracts, which so much facilitates the work, being then only in its infancy. from george stephenson mr. brassey passed to mr. locke, whose great coadjutor he speedily became. and now the question arose whether he should venture to leave his moorings at birkenhead and launch upon the wide sea of railroad enterprise. his wife is said, by a happy inspiration, to have decided him in favour of the more important and ambitious sphere. she did so at the sacrifice of her domestic comfort; for in the prosecution of her husband's multifarious enterprises they changed their residence eleven times in the next thirteen years, several times to places abroad; and little during those years did his wife and family see of mr. brassey. a high place in mr. brassey's calling had now been won, and it had been won not by going into rings or making corners, but by treading steadily the steep path of honour. mr. locke was accused of unduly favouring mr. brassey. mr. helps replies that the partiality of a man like mr. locke must have been based on business grounds. it was found that when mr. brassey had undertaken a contract, the engineer-in-chief had little to do in the way of supervision. mr. locke felt assured that the bargain would be not only exactly but handsomely fulfilled, and that no excuse would be pleaded for alteration or delay. after the fall of a great viaduct it was suggested to mr. brassey that, by representing his case, he might obtain a reduction of his loss. "no," was his reply, "i have contracted to make and maintain the road, and nothing shall prevent thomas brassey from being as good as his word." as a contractor on a large scale, and especially as a contractor for foreign railroads, mr. brassey was led rapidly to develop the system of sub-contracting. his mode of dealing with his sub-contractors, however, was peculiar. they did not regularly contract with him, but he appointed them their work, telling them what price he should give for it. they were ready to take his word, knowing that they would not suffer by so doing. the sub-contractor who had made a bad bargain, and found himself in a scrape, anxiously looked for the coming of mr. brassey. "mr. brassey," says one of the witnesses examined for this biography, "came, saw how matters stood, and invariably satisfied the man. if a cutting taken to be clay turned out after a very short time to be rock, the sub- contractor would be getting disheartened, yet he still persevered, looking to the time when mr. brassey should come. he came, walking along the line as usual with a number of followers, and on coming to the cutting he looked round, counted the number of waggons at the work, scanned the cutting, and took stock of the nature of the stuff. "this is very hard," said he to the sub-contractor. "yes, it is a pretty deal harder than i bargained for." mr. brassey would linger behind, allowing the others to go on, and then commence the following conversation: "what is your price for this cutting?" "so much a yard, sir." "it is very evident you are not getting it out for that price. have you asked for any advance to be made to you for this rock?" "yes, sir, but i can make no sense of them." "if you say that your price is so much, it is quite clear that you do not do it for that. i am glad that you have persevered with it; but i shall not alter your price, it must remain as it is; but the rock must be measured for you twice. will that do for you?" "yes, very well indeed, and i am very much obliged to you, sir." "very well, go on; you have done very well in persevering, and i shall look to you again." one of these tours of inspection would often cost mr. brassey a thousand pounds." mr. brassey, like all men who have done great things in the practical world, knew his way to men's hearts. in his tours along the line he remembered even the navvies, and saluted them by their names. he understood the value of the co-operative principle as a guarantee for hearty work. his agents were made partakers in his success, and he favoured the butty-gang system--that of letting work to a gang of a dozen men, who divide the pay, allowing something extra to the head of the gang. throughout his life it was a prime object with him to collect around him a good staff of well-tried and capable men. he chose well, and adhered to his choice. if a man failed in one line, he did not cast him off, but tried him in another. it was well known in the labour market that be would never give a man up if he could help it. he did not even give men up when they had gone to law with him. in the appendix is a letter written by him to provide employment for a person who "had by some means got into a suit or reference against him," but whom he described as "knowing his work well." in hard times he still kept his staff together by subdividing the employment. those social philosophers who delight in imagining that there is no engineering skill, or skill of any kind, in england, have to account for the fact that a large proportion of the foreign railways are of british construction. the lines built by mr. brassey form an imposing figure not only on the map of england, but on those of europe, north and south america, and australia. the paris and rouen railway was the first of the series. in passing to the foreign scene of action new difficulties had to be encountered, including that of carrying over, managing and housing large bodies of british navvies; and mr. brassey's administrative powers were further tried and more conspicuously developed. the railway army, under its commander-in-chief, was now fully organized. "if," says mr. helps, "we look at the several persons and classes engaged, they may be enumerated thus:--there were the engineers of the company or of the government who were promoters of the line. there were the principal contractors, whose work had to satisfy these engineers; and there were the agents of the contractors to whom were apportioned the several lengths of the line. these agents had the duties, in some respects, of a commissary-general in an army; and for the work to go on well, it was necessary that they should be men of much intelligence and force of character. then there were the various artizans, such as bricklayers and masons, whose work, of course, was principally that of constructing the culverts, bridges, stations, tunnels and viaducts, to which points of the work the attention of the agents had to be carefully directed. again, there were the sub-contractors, whose duties i have enumerated, and under them were the gangers, the corporals, as it were, in this great army, being the persons who had the control of small bodies of workmen, say twenty or more. then came the great body of navvies, the privates of the army, upon whose endurance and valour so much depended." there is a striking passage in one of the erckmann-chatrian novels, depicting the french army going into action, with its vast bodies of troops of all arms moving over the whole field, marshalled by perfect discipline and wielded by the single will of napoleon. the army of industry when in action also presented a striking appearance in its way. i think, says one of mr. brassey's time keepers with professional enthusiasm, as fine a spectacle as any man could witness who is accustomed to look at work is to see a cutting in full operation with about twenty waggons being filled, every man at his post, and every man with his shirt open working in the heat of the day, the ganger walking about and everything going like clockwork. such an exhibition of physical power attracted many french gentlemen who came on to the cuttings at paris and rouen and looking at the english workmen with astonishment said _mon dieu, les anglais comme ils travaillent!_ another thing that called forth remark was the complete silence that prevailed amongst the men. it was a fine sight to see the englishmen that were there with their muscular arms and hands hairy and brown. the army was composed of elements as motley as ever met under any commander. on the paris and rouen railway eleven languages were spoken-- english, erse, gaelic, welsh, french, german, belgian (flemish), dutch, piedmontese, spanish, and polish. a common lingo naturally sprang up like the pigeon english of china. but in the end it seems many of the navvies learnt to speak french pretty well. we are told that at first the mode in which the english instructed the french was of a very original character. they pointed to the earth to be moved or the waggon to be filled said the word d--n emphatically, stamped their feet and somehow or other their instructions thus conveyed were generally comprehended by the foreigners. it is added however that this form of instruction was only applicable in very simple cases. the english navvy was found to be the first workman in the world. some navvies utterly distanced in working power the labourers of all other countries. the french at first earned only two francs a day to the englishman's four and a half, but with better living, more instruction, and improved tools (for the french tools were very poor at first) the frenchmen came to earn four francs. in the severe and dangerous work of mining, however the englishman maintained his superiority in nerve and steadiness. the piedmontese were very good hands especially for cutting rock and at the same time well conducted, sober and saving. the neapolitans would not take any heavy work, but they seem to have been temperate and thrifty. the men from lucca ranked midway between the piedmontese and the neapolitans. the germans proved less enduring than the french; those employed, however, were mostly bavarians. the belgians were good labourers. in the mode of working, the foreign labourers had of course much to learn from the english, whose experience in railway- making had taught them the most compendious processes for moving earth. mr. hawkshaw, the engineer, however says, as to the relative cost of unskilled labour in different countries: "i have come to the conclusion that its cost is much the same in all. i have had personal experience in south america, in russia, and in holland, as well as in my own country, and, as consulting engineer to some of the indian and other foreign railways. i am pretty well acquainted with the value of hindoo and other labour; and though an english labourer will do a larger amount of work than a creole or a hindoo, yet you have to pay them proportionately higher wages. dutch labourers are, i think, as good as english, or nearly so; and russian workmen are docile and easily taught, and readily adopt every method shown to them to be better than their own." the "navvies," though rough, seem not to have been unmanageable. there are no trades' unions among them, and they seldom strike. brandy being cheap in france, they were given to drink, which was not the french habit: but their good nature, and the freedom with which they spent their money, made them popular, and even the _gendarmes_ soon found out the best way of managing them. they sometimes, but not generally, got unruly on pay day. they came to their foreign work without wife or family. the unmarried often took foreign wives. it is pleasant to hear that those who had wives and families in england sent home money periodically to them; and that they all sent money often to their parents. they sturdily kept their english habits and their english dress, with the high-low boots laced up, if they could possibly get them made. the multiplicity of schemes now submitted to mr. brassey brought out his powers of calculation and mental arithmetic, which appear to have been very great. after listening to a multitude of complicated details, he would arrive mentally in a few seconds at the approximate cost of a line. he made little use of notes, trusting to his memory, which, naturally strong, was strengthened by habit. dealing with hundreds of people, he kept their affairs in his head and at every halt in his journeys even for a quarter of an hour at a railway station he would sit down and write letters of the clearest kind. his biographer says that he was one of the greatest letter writers ever known. if he ever got into serious difficulties it was not from miscalculation but from financial embarrassment which in pressed upon him in such a manner and with such severity that his property of all kinds was largely committed and he weathered the storm only by the aid of the staunch friends whom his high qualities and honourable conduct had wedded to his person and his fortunes. in the midst of his difficulties he pushed on his works to their conclusion with his characteristic rapidity. his perseverance supported his reputation and turned the wavering balance in his favour. the daring and vigorous completion of the lemberg and czarnovitz works especially had this good effect and an incident in connection with them showed the zeal and devotion which mr. brassey's character inspired. the works were chiefly going on at lemberg five hundred miles from vienna and the difficulty was, how to get the money to pay the men from vienna to lemberg, the intervening country being occupied by the austrian and prussian armies. mr. brassey's coadjutor and devoted friend mr. ofenheim, director general of the company, undertook to do it. he was told there was no engine but he found an old engine in a shed. next he wanted an engine driver and he found one but the man said that he had a wife and children and that he would not go. his reluctance was overcome by the promise of a high reward for himself and a provision in case of death for his wife and family. the two jumped on the old engine and got up steam. they then started and ran at the rate of forty or fifty miles an hour between the sentinels of the opposing armies who were so surprised, mr. ofenheim says, that they had not time to shoot him. his only fear was that there might be a rail up somewhere. but he got to lemberg and paid the men who would otherwise have gone home, leaving the line unfinished for the winter. the emperor of austria might well ask, who is this mr. brassey, the english contractor for whom men are to be found who work with such zeal and risk their lives? in recognition of a power which the emperor had reason to envy he sent mr. brassey the cross of the iron crown. it was only in spain, the land where two and two make five, that mr. brassey's powers of calculation failed him. he and his partners lost largely upon the bilbao railway. it seems that there was a mistake as to the nature of the soil, and that the climate proved wetter than was expected. but the firm also forgot to allow for the ecclesiastical calendar, and the stoppage of work on the numberless fete days. there were, however, other difficulties peculiarly spanish,--antediluvian finance, antediluvian currency, the necessity of sending pay under a guard of clerks armed with revolvers, and the strange nature of the people whom it was requisite to employ--one of them, a carlist chief, living in defiance of the government with a tail of ruffians like himself, who, when you would not transact business as he wished, "bivouacked" with his tail round your office and threatened to "kill you as he would a fly." mr. brassey managed notwithstanding to illustrate the civilizing power of railways by teaching the basques the use of paper money. minor misfortunes of course occurred, such as the fall of the barentin viaduct on the rouen and havre railway, a brick structure one hundred feet high and a third of a mile in length, which had just elicited the praise of the minister of public works. rapid execution in bad weather, and inferior mortar, were the principal causes of this accident. by extraordinary effort the viaduct was built in less than six months, a display of energy and resource which the company acknowledged by an allowance of l , . on the bilbao railway some of the works were destroyed by very heavy rains. the agent telegraphed to mr. brassey to come at once, as a bridge had been washed down. there hours afterwards came a telegraph announcing that a large bank was carried away, and next morning another saying that the rain continued and more damage had been done. mr. brassey, turning to a friend, said, laughing: "i think i had better wait till i hear that the wind has ceased, so that when i do go i may see what is _left_ of the works, and estimate all the disasters at once, and so save a second journey." mr. brassey's business rapidly developed to an immense extent, and, instead of being contractor for one or two lines, he became a sort of contractor-in-chief, and a man to be consulted by all railway proprietors. in thirty-six years be executed no less than one hundred and seventy railway and other contracts. in his residence, as in his enterprises, he now became cosmopolitan, and lived a good deal on the rail. he had the physical power to bear this life. his brother-in-law says, "i have known him come direct from france to rugby having left havre the night before--he would have been engaged in the office the whole day." he would then come down to rugby by the mail train at twelve o'clock, and it was his common practice to be on the works by six o'clock the next morning. he would frequently walk from rugby to nuneaton, a distance of sixteen miles. having arrived at nuneaton in the afternoon he would proceed the same night by road to tamworth, and the next morning he would be out on the road so soon that he had the reputation among his staff of being the first man on the works. he used to proceed over the works from tamworth to stafford, walking the greater part of the distance, and would frequently proceed that same evening to lancaster in order to inspect the works there in progress, under the contract which he had for the execution of the railway from lancaster to carlisle. in constructing the great northern railway the difficulties of the fen country were met and surmounted. mr. brassey's chief agent in this was mr. ballard, a man self raised from the ranks of labour but indebted for the eminence which he ultimately attained to mr. brassey's discrimination in selecting him for the arduous undertaking. he has borne interesting testimony to his superior's comprehensiveness and rapidity of view, the directness with which he went to the important point, disregarding secondary matters and economizing his time and thought. the italian railway enterprises of mr. brassey owed their origin to the economical genius of count cavour and their execution drew from the count the declaration that mr. brassey was one of the most remarkable men he knew; clear-headed, cautious, yet very enterprising and fulfilling his engagements faithfully. "we never," said the count, "had a difficulty with him." and he added that mr. brassey would make a splendid minister of public works. mr. brassey took shares gallantly, and, when their value had risen most generously resigned them with a view to enabling the government to interest piedmontese investors in the undertaking. so far was he from being a maker of corners. it is justly remarked that these piedmontese railroads constructed by english enterprise were a most important link in the chain of events which brought about the emancipation and unification of italy. mr. brassey has left on record the notable remark that the railway from turin to novara was completed for about the same money as was spent in obtaining the bill for the railway from london to york. if the history of railway bills in the british parliament, of which this statement gives us an inkling, could be disclosed, it would probably be one of the most scandalous revelations in commercial history. the contests which led to such ruinous expense and to so much demoralization, both of parliament and of the commercial world, were a consequence of adopting the system of uncontrolled competition in place of that of government control. mr. brassey was in favour of the system of government control. "he was of opinion that the french policy, which did not admit the principle of free competition, was not only more calculated to serve the interests of the shareholders, but more favourable to the public. he moreover considered that a multiplicity of parallel lines of communication between the same termini, and the uncontrolled competition in regard to the service of trains, such as exists in england, did not secure so efficient a service for the public as the system adopted in france." mr. thomas brassey says that he remembers that his father, when travelling in france, would constantly point out the superiority of the arrangements, and express his regret that the french policy had not been adopted in england. "he thought that all the advantage of cheap service and of sufficiently frequent communication, which were intended to be secured for the british public under a system of free competition, would have been equally well secured by adopting the foreign system, and giving a monopoly to the interest of railway communication in a given district to one company; and then limiting the exercise of that monopoly by watchful supervision on the part of the state in the interests of the public." with regard to extensions, he thought that the government might have secured sufficient compulsory powers. there can be no sort of doubt that this sort of policy would have saved england an enormous amount of pecuniary loss, personal distress and public demoralization. it is a policy, it will be observed, of government regulation, not of government subsidies or construction by government. it of course implies the existence of an administration capable of regulating a railway system, and placed above the influence of jobbery and corruption. for the adoption of the policy of free competition sir robert peel was especially responsible. he said, in his own defence, that he had not at his command power to control those undertakings. mr. helps assumes rather characteristically that he meant official power, and draws a moral in favour of the extension of the civil service. but there is no doubt that peel really meant parliamentary power. the railway men in the parliament were too strong for him and compelled him to throw overboard the scheme of government control framed by his own committee under the presidency of lord dalhousie. the moral to be drawn therefore is not that of civil service extension, but that of the necessity of guarding against parliamentary rings in legislation concerning public works. of all mr. brassey's undertakings not one was superior in importance to that with which canadians are best acquainted--the grand trunk railway, with the victoria bridge. it is needless here to describe this enterprise, or to recount the tragic annals of the loss brought on thousands of shareholders, which financially speaking was its calamitous sequel. the severest part of the undertaking was the victoria bridge. "the first working season there," says one of the chief agents, "was a period of difficulty, trouble and disaster." the agents of the contractors had no experience of the climate. there were numerous strikes among the workmen. the cholera committed dreadful ravages in the neighbourhood. in one case, out of a gang of two hundred men, sixty were sick at one time, many of whom ultimately died. the shortness of the working season in this country involved much loss of time. it was seldom that the setting of the masonry was fairly commenced before the middle of august, and it was certain that all work must cease at the end of november. then there were the shoving of the ice at the beginning and breaking up of the frosts, and the collisions between floating rafts feet long and the staging erected for putting together the tubes. great financial difficulties were experienced in consequence of the crimean war. the mechanical difficulties were also immense, and called for extraordinary efforts both of energy and invention. the bridge, however, was completed, as had been intended, in december, and formally opened by the prince of wales in the following year. "the devotion and energy of the large number of workmen employed," says mr. hodges, "can hardly be praised too highly. once brought into proper discipline, they worked as we alone can work against difficulties. they have left behind them in canada an imperishable monument of british skill, pluck, science and perseverance in this bridge, which they not only designed, but constructed." the whole of the iron for the tubes was prepared at birkenhead, but so well prepared that, in the centre tube, consisting of no less than , pieces, in which nearly half a million of holes were punched, not one plate required alteration, neither was there a plate punched wrong. the faculty of invention, however, was developed in the british engineers and workmen by the air of the new world. a steam-traveller was made and sent out by one of the most eminent firms in england, after two years of experiments and an outlay of some thousands of pounds, which would never do much more than move itself about, and at last had to be laid aside as useless. but the same descriptions and drawings having been shown to mr. chaffey, one of the sub-contractors, who "had been in canada a sufficient length of time to free his genius from the cramped ideas of early life," a rough and ugly machine was constructed, which was soon working well. the same increase of inventiveness, according to mr. hodges, was visible in the ordinary workman, when transferred from the perfect but mechanical and cramping routine of british industry, to a country where he has to mix trades and turn his hands to all kinds of work. "in england he is a machine, but as soon as he gets out to the united states he becomes an intellectual being." comparing the german with the british mechanic, mr. hodges says, "i do not think that a german is a better man than an englishman; but i draw this distinction between them, that when a german leaves school he begins to educate himself, but the englishman does not, for, as soon as he casts off the thraldom of school, he learns nothing more unless he is forced to do it, and if he is forced to do it, he will then beat the german. an englishman acts well when he is put under compulsion by circumstances." labour being scarce, a number of french-canadians were, at mr. brassey's suggestion, brought up in organized gangs, each having an englishman or an american as their leader. we are told, however, that they proved useless except for very light work. "they could ballast, but they could not excavate. they could not even ballast as the english navvy does, continuously working at filling for the whole day. the only way in which they could be useful was by allowing them to fill the waggons, and then ride out with the ballast train to the place where the ballast was tipped, giving them an opportunity of resting. then the empty waggon went back again to be filled and so alternately resting during the work; in that way, they did very much more. they would work fast for ten minutes and then they were 'done.' this was not through idleness but physical weakness. they are small men, and they are a class who are not well fed. they live entirely on vegetable food, and they scarcely ever taste meat." it is natural to suppose that the want of meat is the cause of their inefficiency. yet the common farm labourer in england, who does a very hard and long day's work, hardly tastes meat, in many counties, the year round. in the case of the crimean railway, private enterprise came, in a memorable manner, to the assistance of a government overwhelmed by administrative difficulties. a forty years peace had rusted the machinery of the war department, while the machinery of railway construction was in the highest working order. sir john burgoyne, the chief of the engineering staff, testified that it was impossible to overrate the services rendered by the railway, or its effects in shortening the time of the siege, and alleviating the fatigues and sufferings of the troops. the disorganization of the government department was accidental and temporary, as was subsequently proved by the success of the abyssinian expedition, and, indeed, by the closing period of the crimean war itself, when the british army was well supplied, while the french administration broke down. on the other hand the resources of private industry, on which the embarrassed government drew, are always there; and their immense auxiliary power would be at once manifested if england should become involved in a dangerous war. it should be remembered, too, that the crushing war expenditure in time of peace, which alarmists always advocate, would prevent the growth of those resources, and deprive england of the "sinews of war." the danish railways brought the british navvy again into comparison with his foreign rivals. mr. rowan, the agent of messrs. peto and brassey, was greatly pleased with his danish labourers, but, on being pressed, said, "no man is equal to the british navvy; but the dane, from his steady, constant labour, is a good workman, and a first-class one will do nearly as much work in a day as an englishman." the dane takes time: his habit is in summer to begin work at four in the morning, and continue till eight in the evening, taking five intervals of rest. the danish engineers, in mr. rowan's judgment, are over-educated, and, as a consequence, wanting in decisiveness. "they have been in the habit of applying to their masters for everything, finding out nothing for themselves; the consequence is that they are children, and cannot form a judgment. it is the same in the north of germany; the great difficulty is that you cannot get them to come to a decision. they want always to inquire and to investigate, and they never come to a result." this evidence must have been given some years ago, for of late it has been made pretty apparent that the investigations and inquiries of the north germans do not prevent their coming to a decision, or that decision from leading to a result. mr. helps seizes the opportunity for a thrust at the system of competitive examination, which has taken from the heads of departments the power of "personal selection." the answer to him is sedan. a bullet through your heart is the strongest proof which logic can afford that the german, from whose rifle it comes, was not prevented by his knowledge of the theory of projectiles from marking his man with promptness and taking a steady aim. that over-exertion of the intellect in youth does a man harm, is a true though not a very fruitful proposition; but knowledge does not destroy decisiveness: it only turns it from the decisiveness of a bull into the decisiveness of a man. which nations do the great works? the educated nations, or mexico and spain? the australian railways brought out two facts, one gratifying, the other the reverse. the gratifying fact was that the unlimited confidence which mr. brassey reposed in his agents was repaid by their zeal and fidelity in his service. the fact which was the reverse of gratifying was, that the great advantage which the english labourer gains in australia, from the higher wages and comparative cheapness of living, is counteracted by his love of drink. the argentine railway had special importance and interest, in opening up a vast and most fruitful and salubrious region to european emigration. those territories offer room and food for myriads. "the population of russia, that hard-featured country, is about , , , the population of the argentine republic, to which nature has been so bountiful, and in which she is so beautiful, is about , , ." if ever government in the south american states becomes more settled, we shall find them formidable rivals. the indian railways are also likely to be a landmark in the history of civilization. they unite that vast country and its people, both materially and morally, break down caste, bring the natives from all parts to the centres of instruction, and distribute the produce of the soil evenly and rapidly, so as to mitigate famines. the orissa famine would never have occurred, had mr. brassey's works been there. what effect the railways will ultimately have on british rule is another question. they multiply the army by increasing the rapidity of transport, but, on the other hand, they are likely to diminish that division among the native powers on which the empire is partly based. rebellion may run along the railway line as well as command. there were periods in mr. brassey's career during which he and his partners were giving employment to , persons, upon works requiring seventeen millions of capital for their completion. it is also satisfactory to know, that in the foreign countries and colonies over which his operations extended, he was instrumental in raising the wages and condition of the working class, as well as in affording to the _elite_ of that class opportunities for rising to higher positions. his remuneration for all this, though in the aggregate very large, was by no means excessive. upon seventy-eight millions of money laid out in the enterprises which he conducted, he retained two millions and a half, that is as nearly as possible three per cent. the rest of his fortune consisted of accumulations. three per cent. was not more than a fair payment for the brain-work, the anxiety and the risk. the risk, it must be recollected, was constant, and there were moments at which, if mr. brassey had died, he would have been found comparatively poor. his fortune was made, not by immoderate gains upon any one transaction, but by reasonable profits in a business which was of vast extent, and owed its vast extent to a reputation, fairly earned by probity, energy and skill. we do not learn that he figured in any lobby, or formed a member of any ring. whether he was a norman or not, he was too much a gentleman, in the best sense of the term, to crawl to opulence by low and petty ways. he left no stain on the escutcheon of a captain of industry. nor when riches increased did he set his heart upon them. his heart was set on the work rather than on the pay. the monuments and enterprise of his skill were more to him than the millions. he seems even to have been rather careless in keeping his accounts. he gave away freely--as much as l , , it is believed--in the course of his life. his accumulations arose not from parsimony but from the smallness of his personal expenses. he hated show and luxury, and kept a moderate establishment, which the increase of his wealth never induced him to extend. he seems to have felt a singular diffidence as to his capacity for aristocratic expenditure. the conversation turning one day on the immense fortunes of certain noblemen, he said, "i understand it is easy and natural enough for those who are born and brought up to it, to spend l , or even l , a year; but i should be very sorry to have to undergo the fatigue of even spending l , a year. i believe such a job as that would drive me mad." he felt an equally strange misgiving as to his capacity for aristocratic idleness. "it requires a special education," he said, "to be idle, or to employ the twenty-four hours, in a rational way, without any calling or occupation. to live the life of a gentleman, one must have been brought up to it. it is impossible for a man who has been engaged in business pursuits the greater part of his life to retire; if he does so, he soon discovers that he has made a great mistake. i shall not retire, but if for some good reason, i should be obliged to do so, it would be to a farm. there i would bring up stock which i would cause to be weighed every day, ascertaining at the same time their daily cost, as against the increasing weight. i should then know when to sell and start again with another lot." of tinsel, which sometimes is as corrupting to vulgar souls as money, this man seems to have been as regardless as he was of pelf. he received the cross of the iron crown from the emperor of austria. he accepted what was graciously offered, but he said that, as an englishman, he did not know what good crosses were to him. the circumstance reminded him that he had received other crosses, but he had to ask his agent what they were, and where they were. he was told that they were the legion of honour of france, and the chevaliership of italy; but the crosses could not be found. duplicates were procured to be taken to mrs. brassey, who, her husband remarked, would be glad to possess them all. such millionaires would do unmixed good in the world; but unfortunately they are apt to die and leave their millions, and the social influence which the millions confer, to "that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son." this is by no means said with a personal reference. on the contrary, it is evident that mr. brassey was especially fortunate in his heir. we find some indication of this in a chapter towards the close of mr. helps' volume, in which are thrown together the son's miscellaneous recollections of the father. the chapter affords further proof that the great contractor was not made of the same clay as the fisks and vanderbilts--that he was not a mere market-rigger and money-grubber--but a really great man, devoted to a special calling. he is represented by his son as having taken a lively interest in a wide and varied range of subjects--engineering subjects especially as a matter of course, but not engineering subjects alone. he studied countries and their people, evincing the utmost interest in chicago, speculating on the future industrial prosperity of canada, and imparting the results of his observations admirably when he got home. like all great men, he had a poetic element in his character. he loved the beauties of nature, and delighted in mountain scenery. he was a great sight-seer, and when he visited a city on business, went through its churches, public buildings, and picture-galleries, as assiduously as a tourist. for half an hour he stood gazing with delight on the maison carree, at nismes. for sculpture and painting he had a strong taste, and the venus of milo "was a joy to him." he had a keen eye for beauty, shapeliness and comeliness everywhere, in porcelain, in furniture, in dress, in a well built yacht, in a well appointed regiment of horse. society, too, he liked, in spite of his simplicity of habits; loved to gather his friends around his board, and was always a genial host. for literature he had no time, but he enjoyed oratory, and liked to hear good reading. he used to test his son's progress in reading, at the close of each half year, by making him read aloud a chapter of the bible. his good sense confined his ambition to his proper sphere, and prevented him from giving ear to any solicitations to go into politics, which he had not leisure to study, and which he knew ought not to be handled by ignorance. his own leanings were conservative; but his son, who is a liberal, testifies that his father never offered him advice on political matters, or remonstrated with him on a single vote which he gave in the house of commons. it is little to the discredit of a man so immersed in business that he should have been fascinated, as he was, by the outward appearance of perfect order presented by the french empire and by the brilliancy of its visible edifice, not discerning the explosive forces which its policy was all the time accumulating in the dark social realms below; though the fact that he, with all his natural sagacity, did fall into this tremendous error, is a warning to railway and steamboat politicians. mr. brassey's advice was often sought by parents who had sons to start in the world. "as usual, a disposition was shewn to prefer a career which did not involve the apparent degradation of learning a trade practically, side by side with operatives in a workshop. but my father, who had known, by his wide experience, the immense value of a technical knowledge of a trade or business as compared with general educational advantages of the second order, and who knew how much more easy it is to earn a living as a skilful artisan than as a clerk, possessing a mere general education, always urged those who sought his advice to begin by giving to their sons a practical knowledge of a trade." "my father," says mr. brassey, junior, "ever mindful of his own struggles and efforts in early life, evinced at all times the most anxious disposition to assist young men to enter upon a career. the small loans which he advanced for this purpose, and the innumerable letters which he wrote in the hope of obtaining for his young clients help or employment in other quarters, constitute a bright and most honourable feature in his life." his powers of letter-writing were enormous, and, it seems to us, were exercised even to excess. so much writing would, at least, in the case of any ordinary man, have consumed too much of the energy which should be devoted to thought. his correspondence was brought with his luncheon basket when he was shooting on the moors. after a long day's journey he sat down in the coffee room of the hotel, and wrote thirty-two letters before he went to bed. he never allowed a letter, even a begging letter, to remain unanswered; and, says his son, "the same benignity and courtesy which marked his conduct in every relation of life, pervaded his whole correspondence." "in the many volumes of his letters which are preserved, i venture to affirm that there is not the faintest indication of an ungenerous or unkindly sentiment--not a sentence which is not inspired by the spirit of equity and justice, and by universal charity to mankind." by the same authority we are assured that "mr. brassey was of a singularly patient disposition in dealing with all ordinary affairs of life. we know how, whenever a hitch occurs in a railway journey, a great number of passengers become irritated, almost to a kind of foolish frenzy. he always took these matters most patiently. he well knew that no persons are so anxious to avoid such detentions as the officials themselves, and never allowed himself to altercate with a helpless guard or distracted station-master." the only blemish which the son can recollect in the father's character, is a want of firmness in blaming when blame was due, and an incapacity of refusing a request or rejecting a proposal strongly urged by others. the latter defect was, in his son's judgment, the cause of the greatest disasters which he experienced as a man of business. both defects were closely allied to virtues--extreme tenderness of heart and consideration for the feelings of others. "he was graceful," says mr. brassey, junior, in conclusion, "in every movement, always intelligent in observation, with an excellent command of language, and only here and there betrayed, by some slight provincialisms, in how small a degree he had in early life enjoyed the educational advantages of those with whom his high commercial position in later years placed him in constant communication. but these things are small in comparison to the greater points of character by which he seemed to me to be distinguished. in all he said or did, he showed himself to be inspired by that chivalry of heart and mind which must truly ennoble him who possesses it, and without which one cannot be a perfect gentleman." mention has been made of his great generosity. one of his old agents having lost all his earnings, mr. brassey gave him several new missions, that be might have a chance of recovering himself. but the agent died suddenly, and his wife nearly at the same time, leaving six orphan children without provision. mr. brassey gave up, in their favour, a policy of insurance which he held as security for several thousands, and, in addition, headed a subscription list for them with a large sum. it seems that his delicacy in giving was equal to his generosity; that of his numberless benefactions, very few were published in subscription lists, and that his right hand seldom knew what his left hand did. his refinement was of the truly moral kind, and of the kind that tells on others. not only was coarse and indecent language checked in his presence, but the pain he evinced at all outbreaks of unkind feeling, and at manifestation of petty jealousies, operated strongly in preventing any such displays from taking place before him. as one who was the most intimate with him observed, "his people seemed to enter into a higher atmosphere when they were in his presence, conscious, no doubt, of the intense dislike which he had of everything that was mean, petty, or contentious." mr. helps tells us that the tender-heartedness which pervaded mr. brassey's character was never more manifested than on the occasion of any illness of his friends. at the busiest period of his life he would travel hundreds of miles to be at the bedside of a sick or dying friend. in his turn he experienced, in his own last illness, similar manifestations of affectionate solicitude. many of the persons, we are told, who had served him in foreign countries and at home, came from great distances solely for the chance of seeing once more their old master whom they loved so much. they were men of all classes, humble navvies as well as trusted agents. they would not intrude upon his illness, but would wait for hours in the hall, in the hope of seeing him borne to his carriage, and getting a shake of the hand or a sign of friendly recognition. "the world," remarks mr. helps, "is after all not so ungrateful as it is sometimes supposed to be; those who deserve to be loved generally are loved, having elicited the faculty of loving which exists to a great extent in all of us." "mr. brassey," we are told, "had ever been a very religious man. his religion was of that kind which most of us would desire for ourselves-- utterly undisturbed by doubts of any sort, entirely tolerant, not built upon small or even upon great differences of belief. he clung resolutely and with entire hopefulness to that creed, and abode by that form of worship, in which he had been brought up as a child." the religious element in his character was no doubt strong, and lay at the root of his tender-heartedness and his charity as well as of the calm resignation with which he met disaster, and his indifference to gain. at the time of a great panic, when things were at the worst, he only said: "never mind, we must be content with a little less, that is all." this was when he supposed himself to have lost a million. the duty of religious inquiry, which he could not perform himself, he would no doubt have recognised in those to whose lot it falls to give their fellow-men assurance of religious truth. mr. brassey's wife said of him that "he was a most unworldly man." this may seem a strange thing to say of a great contractor and a millionaire. yet, in the highest sense, it was true. mr. brassey was not a monk; his life was passed in the world, and in the world's most engrossing, and, as it proves in too many cases, most contaminating business. yet, if the picture of him presented to us be true, he kept himself "unspotted from the world." his character is reflected in the portrait which forms the frontispiece to the biography, and on which those who pursue his calling will do well sometimes to look. a wirepuller of kings. [footnote: memoirs of baron stockmar. by his son, baron e. von stockmar. translated from the german by g. a. m. edited by f. max muller. in two volumes. london: longman's, green and co.] some of our readers will remember that there was at one time a great panic in england about the unconstitutional influence of prince albert, and that, connected with prince albert's name in the invectives of a part of the press, was that of the intimate friend, constant guest, and trusted adviser of the royal family, baron stockmar. the suspicion was justified by the fact in both cases; but in the case of baron stockmar, as well as in that of prince albert, the influence appears to have been exercised on the whole for good. lord aberdeen, who spoke his mind with the sincerity and simplicity of a perfectly honest man, said of stockmar; "i have known men as clever, as discreet, as good, and with as good judgment; but i never knew any one who united all these qualities as he did." melbourne was jealous of his reputed influence, but testified to his sense and worth. palmerston disliked, we may say hated, him; but he declared him the only disinterested man of the kind he had ever known. stockmar was a man of good family, who originally pursued the profession of medicine, and having attracted the notice of prince leopold of saxe coburg, the husband of princess charlotte, and afterwards king of the belgians, was appointed physician in ordinary to that prince upon his marriage. when, in course of time, he exchanged the functions of physician in ordinary for those of wirepuller in ordinary, he found that the time passed in medical study had not been thrown away. he said himself, "it was a clever stroke to have originally studied medicine; without the knowledge thus acquired, without the psychological and physiological experiences thus obtained, my _savoir faire_ would often have gone a-begging." it seems also that he practised politics on medical principles, penetrating a political situation, or detecting a political disease, by the help of single expressions or acts, after the manner of medical diagnosis, and in his curative treatment endeavouring to remove as far as possible every pathological impediment, so that the healing moral nature might be set free, and social and human laws resume their restorative power. he might have graduated as a politician in a worse school. he was not able to cure himself of dyspepsia and affections of the eye, which clung to him through life, the dyspepsia producing fluctuation of spirits, and occasional hypochondria, which, it might have been thought, would seriously interfere with his success as a court favourite. "at one time he astonished the observer by his sanguine, bubbling, provoking, unreserved, quick, fiery or humorous, cheerful, even unrestrainedly gay manner, winning him by his hearty open advances where he felt himself attracted and encouraged to confidence; at other times he was all seriousness, placidity, self-possession, cool circumspection, methodical consideration, prudence, criticism, even irony and scepticism." such is not the portrait which imagination paints of the demeanour of a court favourite. but stockmar had one invaluable qualification for the part-- he had conscientiously made up his mind that it is a man's duty in life to endure being bored. the favour of a prince of saxe coburg would not in itself have been fortune. a certain royal duke was, as everybody who ever had the honour of being within earshot of him knew, in the habit of thinking aloud. it was said that at the marriage of a german prince with an english princess, at which the duke was present, when the bridegroom pronounced the words: "with all my worldly goods i thee endow," a voice from the circle responded, "the boots you stand in are not paid for." but as it was sung of the aggrandizement of austria in former days-- "let others war, do thou, blest austria, wed," so the house of saxe coburg may be said in later days to have been aggrandized by weddings. the marriage of his patron with the presumptive heiress to the crown of england was the beginning of stockmar's subterranean greatness. the princess charlotte expressed herself to stockmar with regard to the character of her revered parents in the following "pithy" manner:--"my mother was bad, but she could not have become as bad as she was if my father had not been infinitely worse." the regent was anxious to have the princess married for two reasons, in the opinion of the judicious author of this memoir--because he wanted to be rid of his daughter, and because when she married she would form less of a link between him and his wife. accordingly, when she was eighteen, hints were given her through the court physician, sir henry halford (such is the course of royal love), that if she would have the kindness to fix her affections on the hereditary prince of orange (afterwards king william ii. of the netherlands), whom she had never seen, it would be exceedingly convenient. the prince came over to england, and, by the help of a "certain amount of artful precipitation on the part of the father," the pair became formally engaged. the princess said at first that she did not think her betrothed "by any means so disagreeable as she had expected." in time, however, this ardour of affection abated. the prince was a baddish subject, and he had a free-and-easy manner, and wanted tact and refinement. he returned to london from some races seated on the outside of a coach, and in a highly excited state. worst of all, he lodged at his tailor's. the engagement was ultimately broken off by a difficulty with regard to the future residence of the couple, which would evidently have become more complicated and serious if the queen of the netherlands had ever inherited the crown of england. the princess was passionately opposed to leaving her country. the regent and his ministers tried to keep the poor girl in the dark, and get her into a position from which there would be no retreat. but she had a temper and a will of her own; and her recalcitration was assisted by the parliamentary opposition, who saw in the marriage a move of tory policy, and by her mother, who saw in it something agreeable to her husband. any one who wishes to see how diplomatic lovers quarrel will find instruction in these pages. the place left vacant by the rejected william was taken by prince leopold, with whom stockmar came to england. in stockmar's diary of may th, , is the entry:--"i saw the sun (that of royalty we presume, not the much calumniated sun of britain) for the first time at oatlands. baron hardenbroek, the prince's equerry, was going into the breakfast- room. i followed him, when he suddenly signed to me with his hand to stay behind; but she had already seen me and i her. '_aha, docteur_,' she said, '_entrez_.' she was handsomer than i had expected, with most peculiar manners, her hands generally folded behind her, her body always pushed forward, never standing quiet, from time to time stamping her foot, laughing a great deal and talking still more. i was examined from head to foot, without, however, losing my countenance. my first impression was not favourable. in the evening she pleased me more. her dress was simple and in good taste." the princess took to the doctor, and, of course, he took to her. a subsequent entry in his diary is:--"the princess is in good humour, and then she pleases easily. i thought her dress particularly becoming; dark roses in her hair, a short light blue dress without sleeves, with a low round collar, a white puffed out russian chemisette, the sleeves of lace. i have never seen her in any dress which was not both simple and in good taste." she seems to have improved under the influence of her husband, whom his physician calls "a manly prince and a princely man." in her manners there was some room for improvement, if we may judge from her treatment of duke prosper of aremburg, who was one of the guests at a great dinner recorded in the diary:--"prosper is a hideous little mannikin, dressed entirely in black, with a large star. the prince presented him to the princess, who was at the moment talking to the minister castlereagh. she returned the duke's two profound continental bows by a slight nod of the head, without looking at him or saying a word to him, and brought her elbow so close to him that he could not move. he sat looking straight before him with some, though not very marked, embarrassment. he exchanged now and then a few words in french with the massive and mighty lady castlereagh, by whose side he looked no larger than a child. when he left, the princess dismissed him in the same manner in which she had welcomed him, and broke into a loud laugh before he was fairly out of the room." stockmar's position in the little court was not very flattering or agreeable. the members of the household hardly regarded the poor german physician as their equal; and if one or two of the men were pleasant, the lady who constituted their only lawful female society, mrs. campbell, lady-in-waiting to the princess, was, in her ordinary moods, decidedly the reverse. stockmar, however, in drawing a piquant portrait of her, has recorded the extenuating circumstances that she had once been pretty, that she had had bitter experiences with men, and that, in an illness during a seven months' sea-voyage, she had been kept alive only on brandy and water. col. addenbrooke, the equerry to the princess, is painted in more favourable colours, his only weak point being "a weak stomach, into which he carefully crams a mass of the most incongruous things, and then complains the next day of fearful headache." what a power of evil is a man who keeps a diary! greater personages than mrs. campbell and colonel addenbrooke passed under the quick eye of the humble medical attendant, and were photographed without being aware of it. "_the queen mother_ (charlotte, wife of george iii.). 'small and crooked, with a true mulatto face.' "_the regent._ 'very stout, though of a fine figure; distinguished manners; does not talk half as much as his brothers; speaks tolerably good french. he ate and drank a good deal at dinner. his brown scratch wig not particularly becoming.' "_the duke of york_, the eldest son of the regent's brothers. 'tall, with immense _embonpoint_, and not proportionately strong legs; he holds himself in such a way that one is always afraid he will tumble over backwards; very bald, and not a very intelligent face: one can see that eating, drinking, and sensual pleasure are everything to him. spoke a good deal of french, with a bad accent.' "_duchess of york_, daughter of frederick william ii. of prussia. 'a little animated woman, talks immensely, and laughs still more. no beauty, mouth and teeth bad. she disfigures herself still more by distorting her mouth and blinking her eyes. in spite of the duke's various infidelities, their matrimonial relations are good. she is quite aware of her husband's embarrassed circumstances, and is his prime minister and truest friend; so that nothing is done without her help. as soon as she entered the room, she looked round for the banker greenwood, who immediately came up to her with the confidentially familiar manner which the wealthy go-between assumes towards grand people in embarrassed circumstances. at dinner the duchess related that her royal father had forced her as a girl to learn to shoot, as he had observed she had a great aversion to it. at a grand _chasse_ she had always fired with closed eyes, because she could not bear to see the sufferings of the wounded animals. when the huntsmen told her that in this way she ran the risk of causing the game more suffering through her uncertain aims, she went to the king and asked if he would excuse her from all sport in future if she shot a stag dead. the king promised to grant her request if she could kill two deer, one after the other, with out missing; which she did.' "_duke of clarence_ (afterwards king william iv.). 'the smallest and least good-looking of the brothers, decidedly like his mother; as talkative as the rest.' "_duke of kent_ (father of queen victoria). 'a large, powerful man; like the king, and as bald as any one can be. the quietest of all the dukes i have seen; talks slowly and deliberately; is kind and courteous.' "_duke of cumberland_ (afterwards king ernest augustus of hanover). 'a tall, powerful man, with a hideous face; can't see two inches before him; one eye turned quite out of its place.' "_duke of cambridge_ (the youngest son of george iii.). 'a good- looking man, with a blonde wig; is partly like his father, partly like his mother. speaks french and german very well, but like english, with such rapidity, that he carries off the palm in the family art.' "_duke of gloucester._ 'prominent, meaningless eyes; without being actually ugly, a very unpleasant face, with an animal expression; large and stout, but with weak, helpless legs. he wears a neckcloth thicker than his head.' "_wellington_, 'middle height, neither stout nor thin; erect figure, not stiff, not very lively, though more so than i expected, and yet in every movement repose. black hair, simply cut, strongly mixed with grey: not a very high forehead, immense hawk's nose, tightly compressed lips, strong massive under jaw. after he had spoken for some time in the anteroom with the royal family, he came straight to the two french singers, with whom he talked in a very friendly manner, and then going round the circle, shook hands with all his acquaintance. he was dressed entirely in black, with the star of the order of the garter and the maria theresa cross. he spoke to all the officers present in an open friendly way, though but briefly. at table he sat next the princess. he ate and drank moderately, and laughed at times most heartily, and whispered many things to the princess' ear, which made her blush and laugh.' "_lord anglesea_, (the general). 'who lost a leg at waterloo; a tall, well-made man; wild, martial face, high forehead, with a large hawk's nose, which makes a small deep angle where it joins the forehead. a great deal of ease in his manners. lauderdale [footnote: lord lauderdale, d. ; the friend of fox; since , under the tories, an active member of the opposition.] told us later that it was he who brought lady anglesea the intelligence that her husband had lost his leg at waterloo. contrary to his wishes she had been informed of his arrival, and, before he could say a word, she guessed that he had brought her news of her husband, screamed out, "he is dead!" and fell into hysterics. but when he said, "not in the least; here is a letter from him," she was so wonderfully relieved that she bore the truth with great composure. he also related that, not long before the campaign, anglesea was having his portrait taken, and the picture was entirely finished except one leg. anglesea sent for the painter and said to him, "you had better finish the leg now. i might not bring it back with me." he lost that very leg.' "_the minister. lord castlereagh_. 'of middle height; a very striking and at the same time handsome face; his manners are very pleasant and gentle, yet perfectly natural. one misses in him a certain culture which one expects in a statesman of his eminence. he speaks french badly, in fact execrably, and not very choice english. [footnote: lord byron, in the introduction to the sixth and the eighth cantos of "don juan" says, "it is the first time since the normans that england has been insulted by a minister (at least) who could not speak english, and that parliament permitted itself to be dictated to in the language of mrs. malaprop."] the princess rallied him on the part he played in the house of commons as a bad speaker, as against the brilliant orators of the opposition, which he acknowledged merrily, and with a hearty laugh. i am sure there is a great deal of thoughtless indifference in him, and that this has sometimes been reckoned to him as statesmanship of a high order.'" in proof of castlereagh's bad french we are told in a note that, having to propose the health of the ladies at a great dinner, he did it in the words--"le bel sexe partoutte dans le monde." though looked down upon at the second table, stockmar had thoroughly established himself in the confidence and affection of the prince and princess. he had become the prince's secretary, and in leopold's own words "the most valued physician of his soul and body"--wirepuller, in fact, to the destined wirepuller of royalty in general. perhaps his gratification at having attained this position may have lent a roseate tint to his view of the felicity of the royal couple, which he paints in rapturous terms, saying that nothing was so great as their love--except the british national debt. there is, however, no reason to doubt that the union of leopold and charlotte was one of the happy exceptions to the general character of royal marriages. its tragic end plunged a nation into mourning. stockmar, with a prudence on which perhaps he reflects with a little too much satisfaction, refused to have anything to do with the treatment of the princess from the commencement of her pregnancy. he thought he detected mistakes on the part of the english physicians, arising from the custom then prevalent in england of lowering the strength of the expectant mother by bleeding, aperients, and low diet, a regimen which was carried on for months. the princess, in fact, having been delivered of a dead son after a fifty hours' labour, afterwards succumbed to weakness. it fell to stockmar's lot to break the news to the prince, who was overwhelmed with sorrow. at the moment of his desolation leopold exacted from stockmar a promise that he would never leave him. stockmar gave the promise, indulging at the same time his sceptical vein by expressing in a letter to his sister his doubt whether the prince would remain of the same mind. this scepticism however did not interfere with his devotion. "my health is tolerable, for though i am uncommonly shaken, and shall be yet more so by the sorrow of the prince, still i feel strong enough, even stronger than i used to be. i only leave the prince when obliged by pressing business. i dine alone with him and sleep in his room. directly he wakes in the night i get up and sit talking by his bedside till he falls asleep again. i feel increasingly that unlooked for trials are my portion in life, and that there will be many more of them before life is over. i seem to be here more to care for others than for myself, and i am well content with this destiny." sir richard croft, the accoucheur of the princess, overwhelmed by the calamity, committed suicide. "poor croft," exclaims the cool and benevolent stockmar, "does not the whole thing look like some malicious temptation, which might have overcome even some one stronger than you? the first link in the chain of your misery was nothing but an especially honourable and desirable event in the course of your profession. you made a mistake in your mode of treatment; still, individual mistakes are here so easy. thoughtlessness and excessive reliance on your own experience, prevented you from weighing deeply the course to be followed by you. when the catastrophe had happened, doubts, of course, arose in your mind as to whether you ought not to have acted differently, and these doubts, coupled with the impossibility of proving your innocence to the public, even though you were blameless, became torture to you. peace to thy ashes, on which no guilt rests save that thou wert not exceptionally wise or exceptionally strong." leopold was inclined to go home, but remained in england by the advice of stockmar, who perceived that, in the first place, there would be something odious in the prince's spending his english allowance of l , a year on the continent, and in the second place, that a good position in england would be his strongest vantage ground in case of any new opening presenting itself elsewhere. about this time another birth took place in the royal family under happier auspices. the duke of kent was married to the widowed princess of leiningen, a sister of prince leopold. the duke was a liberal in politics, on bad terms with his brothers, and in financial difficulties which prevented his living in england. finding, however, that his duchess was likely to present him with an heir who would also be the heir to the crown, and being very anxious that the child should be born in england, he obtained the means of coming home through friends, after appealing to his brothers in vain. shortly after his return "a pretty little princess, plump as a partridge," was born. in the same year the duke died. his widow, owing to his debts, was left in a very uncomfortable position. her brother leopold enabled her to return to kensington, where she devoted herself to the education of her child-- queen victoria. the first opening which presented itself to leopold was the kingdom of greece, which was offered him by "the powers." after going pretty far he backed out, much to the disgust of "the powers," who called him "marquis peu-a-peu" (the nickname given him by george iv.) and said that "he had no colour," and that he wanted the english regency. the fact seems to be that he and his stockmar, on further consideration of the enterprise, did not like the look of it. neither of them, especially stockmar, desired a "crown of thorns," which their disinterested advisers would have had them take on heroic and ascetic principles. leopold was rather attracted by the poetry of the thing: stockmar was not. "for the poetry which greece would have afforded, i am not inclined to give very much. mortals see only the bad side of things they have, and the good side of the things they have not. that is the whole difference between greece and belgium, though i do not mean to deny that when the first king of greece shall, after all manner of toils, have died, his life may not furnish the poet with excellent matter for an epic poem." the philosophic creed of stockmar was that "the most valuable side of life consists in its negative conditions,"--in other words in freedom from annoyance, and in the absence of "crowns of thorns." the candidature of leopold for the greek throne coincided with the wellington administration, and the active part taken by stockmar gave him special opportunities of studying the duke's political character which he did with great attention. his estimate of it is low. "the way in which wellington would preserve and husband the rewards of his own services and the gifts of fortune, i took as the measure of the higher capabilities of his mind. it required no long time, however, and no great exertion, to perceive that the natural sobriety of his temperament, founded upon an inborn want of sensibility, was unable to withstand the intoxicating influence of the flattery by which he was surrounded. the knowledge of himself became visibly more and more obscured. the restlessness of his activity, and his natural lust for power, became daily more ungovernable. "blinded by the language of his admirers, and too much elated to estimate correctly his own powers, he impatiently and of his own accord abandoned the proud position of the victorious general to exchange it for the most painful position which a human being can occupy--viz., the management of the affairs of a great nation with insufficient mental gifts and inadequate knowledge. he had hardly forced himself upon the nation as prime minister, intending to add the glory of a statesman to that of a warrior when he succeeded, by his manner of conducting business, in shaking the confidence of the people. with laughable infatuation he sedulously employed every opportunity of proving to the world the hopeless incapacity which made it impossible for him to seize the natural connection between cause and effect. with a rare _naivete_ he confessed publicly and without hesitation the mistaken conclusions he had come to in the weightiest affairs of state; mistakes with the commonest understanding could have discovered, which filled the impartial with pitying astonishment, and caused terror and consternation even among the host of his flatterers and partisans. yet, so great and so strong was the preconceived opinion of the people in his favour, that only the irresistible proofs furnished by the man's own actions could gradually shake this opinion. it required the full force and obstinacy of this strange self-deception in wellington, it required the full measure of his activity and iron persistency, in order at last, by a perpetual reiteration of errors and mistakes, to create in the people the firm conviction that the duke of wellington was one of the least adroit and most mischievous ministers that england ever had." stockmar formed a more favourable opinion afterwards, when the duke had ceased to be a party leader, and become the nestor of the state. but it must be allowed that wellington's most intimate associates and warmest friends thought him a failure as a politician. to the last he seemed incapable of understanding the position of a constitutional minister, and talked of sacrificing his convictions in order to support the government, as though he were not one of the government that was to be supported. nor did he ever appreciate the force of opinion or the nature of the great european movement with which he had to deal. it seems clear from stockmar's statement, that wellington used his influence over charles x to get the martignac ministry, which was moderately liberal, turned out and polignac made minister. in this he doubly blundered. in the first place polignac was not friendly but hostile to england, and at once began to intrigue against her; in the second place he was a fool, and by his precipitate rashness brought on the second french revolution, which overthrew the ascendency of the duke's policy in europe, and had no small influence in overthrowing the ascendency of his party in england. it appears that the duke was as much impressed with the "honesty" of talleyrand, as he was with the "ability" of polignac. a certain transitional phase of the european revolution created a brisk demand for kings who would "reign without governing." having backed out of greece, leopold got belgium. and here we enter, in these memoirs, on a series of chapters giving the history of the belgian question, with all its supplementary entanglements, as dry as saw-dust, and scarcely readable, we should think, at the present day, even to diplomatists, much less to mortal men. unfortunately the greater part of the two volumes is taken up with similar dissertations on various european questions, while the personal touches, and details which stockmar could have given us in abundance, are few and far between. we seldom care much for his opinions on european questions even when the questions themselves are still alive and the sand-built structures of diplomacy have not been swept away by the advancing tide of revolution. the sovereigns whose wirepuller he was were constitutional, and themselves exercised practically very little influence on the course of events. in the belgian question however, he seems to have really played an active part. we get from him a strong impression of the restless vanity and unscrupulous ambition of france. we learn also that leopold practised very early in the day the policy which assured him a quiet reign--that of keeping his trunk packed and letting the people understand that if they were tired of him he was ready to take the next train and leave them to enjoy the deluge. stockmar found employment especially suited to him in settling the question of leopold's english annuity, which was given up on the price's election to the crown of belgium, but with certain reservations, upon which the radicals made attacks, sir samuel whalley, a physician leading the van. in the course of the struggle stockmar received a characteristic letter from palmerston. "march , "my dear baron,--i have many apologies to make to you for not having sooner acknowledged the receipt of the papers you sent me last week, and for which i am much obliged to you. the case seems to me as clear as day and without meaning to question the omnipotence of parliament, which it is well known can do anything but turn men into women and women into men, i must and shall assert that the house of commons have no more right to enquire into the details of those debts and engagements, which the king of the belgians considers himself bound to satisfy before he begins to make his payments into the exchequer, than they have to ask sir samuel whalley how he disposed of the fees which his mad patients used to pay him before he began to practise upon the foolish constituents who have sent him to parliament. there can be no doubt whatever that we must positively resist any such enquiry, and i am very much mistaken in my estimate of the present house of commons if a large majority do not concur in scouting so untenable a proposition. "my dear baron, "yours sincerely, "palmerston "the baron de stockmar" that the house of commons cannot turn women into men is a position not so unquestioned now as it was in palmerston's day. stockmar now left england for a time, but he kept his eye on english affairs, to his continued interest in which we owe it seems, the publication of a rather curious document, the existence of which in manuscript was, however, well known. it is a memoir of king william iv., purporting to be drawn up by himself, and extending over the eventful years of - 'king william's style,' says the uncourtly biographer, "abounds to overflowing in what is called in england parliamentary circumlocution, in which, instead of direct, simple expressions, bombastic paraphrases are always chosen, which become in the end intolerably prolix and dull, and are enough to drive a foreigner to despair." the style is indeed august; but the real penman is not the king, whose strong point was not grammatical composition, but some confidant, very likely sir herbert taylor, who was employed by the king to negotiate with the "waverers" in the house of lords, and get the reform bill passed without a swamping creation of peers. the memoir contains nothing of the slightest historical importance. it is instructive only as showing how completely a constitutional king may be under the illusion of his office--how complacently he may fancy that he is himself guiding the state, when he is in fact merely signing what is put before him by his advisers, who are themselves the organs of the majority in parliament. old william, duke of gloucester, the king's uncle, being rather weak in intellect, was called "silly billy." when king william iv. gave his assent to the reform bill, the duke, who knew his own nickname, cried "who's silly billy now?" it would have been more difficult from the conservative point of view to answer that question if the king had possessed the liberty of action which in his memoir he imagines himself to possess. the year opened a new field to the active beneficence of stockmar. "the approaching majority, and probably not distant accession to the throne, of princess victoria of england, engaged the vigilant and far- sighted care of her uncle, king leopold. at the same time he was already making preparations for the eventual execution of a plan, which had long formed the subject of the wishes of the coburg family, to wit, the marriage of the future queen of england with his nephew, prince albert of coburg." stockmar was charged with the duty of standing by the princess, as her confidential adviser, at the critical moment of her coming of age, which might also be that of her accession to the throne. meanwhile king leopold consulted with him as to the manner in which prince albert should make acquaintance with his cousin, and how he "should be prepared for his future vocation." this is pretty broad, and a little lets down the expressions of intense affection for the queen and unbounded admiration of prince albert with which stockmar overflows. however, a feeling may be genuine though its source is not divine. stockmar played his part adroitly. he came over to england, slipped into the place of private secretary to the queen, and for fifteen months "continued his noiseless, quiet activity, without any publicly defined position." the marriage was brought about and resulted, as we all know, in perfect happiness till death entered the royal home. stockmar was evidently very useful in guiding the royal couple through the difficulties connected with the settlement of the prince's income and his rank, and with the regency bill. his idea was that questions affecting the royal family should be regarded as above party, and in this he apparently induced the leaders of both parties to acquiesce, though they could not perfectly control their followers. the connection with the whigs into which the young queen had been drawn by attachment to her political mentor, lord melbourne, had strewn her path with thorns. the tory party was bitterly hostile to the court. if sir charles dilke and mr. odger wish to provide themselves with material for retorts to tory denunciations of their disloyalty, they cannot do better than look up the speeches and writings of the tory party during the years - . what was called the bedchamber plot, in , had rendered the relations between the court and the conservative leaders still more awkward, and stockmar appears to have done a real service in smoothing the way for the formation of the conservative ministry in . stockmar, looking at peel from the court point of view, was at first prejudiced against him, especially on account of his having, in deference probably to the feelings of his party against the court, cut down the prince consort's allowance. all the more striking is the testimony which, after long acquaintance, the baron bears to peel's character and merits as a statesman. "peel's mind and character rested on moral foundations, which i have not seen once shaken, either in his private or his public life. from these foundations rose that never-failing spring of fairness, honesty, kindness, moderation and regard for others, which peel showed to all men, and under all circumstances. on these foundations grew that love of country which pervaded his whole being, which knew of but one object-- the true welfare of england of but one glory and one reward for each citizen, viz., to have contributed something towards that welfare. such love of country admits of but one ambition, and hence the ambition of that man was as pure as his heart. to make every sacrifice for that ambition, which the fates of his country demand from everyone, he considered his most sacred duty, and he has made these sacrifices, however difficult they might have been to him. wherein lay the real difficulty of those sacrifices will perhaps hereafter be explained by those who knew the secret of the political circumstances and the personal character of the men with whom he was brought in contact; and who would not think of weighing imponderable sacrifices on the balance of vulgar gain. "the man whose feelings for his own country rested on so firm a foundation could not be dishonest or unfair towards foreign countries. the same right understanding, fairness, and moderation, which he evinced in his treatment of internal affairs, guided peel in his treatment of all foreign questions. the wish frequently expressed by him, to see the welfare of all nations improved, was thoroughly sincere. he knew france and italy from his own observation, and he had studied the political history of the former with great industry. for germany he had a good will, nay, a predilection, particularly for prussia. "in his private life, peel was a real pattern. he was the most loving, faithful, conscientious husband, father, and brother, unchanging and indulgent to his friends, and always ready to help his fellow-citizens according to his power. "of the vulnerable parts of his character his enemies may have many things to tell. what had been observed by all who came into closer contact with him, could not escape my own observation. i mean his too great prudence, caution, and at times, extreme reserve, in important as well as in unimportant matters, which he showed, not only towards more distant, but even towards his nearer acquaintances. if he was but too often sparing of words, and timidly cautious in oral transactions, he was naturally still more so in his written communications. the fear never left him that he might have to hear an opinion once expressed, or a, judgment once uttered by him, repeated by the wrong man, and in the wrong place, and misapplied. his friends were sometimes in despair over this peculiarity. to his opponents it supplied an apparent ground for suspicion and incrimination. it seemed but too likely that there was a doubtful motive for such reserve, or that it was intended to cover narrowness and weakness of thought and feeling, or want of enterprise and courage. to me also this peculiarity deemed often injurious to himself and to the matter in hand; and i could not help being sometimes put out by it, and wishing from the bottom of my heart that he could have got rid of it. but when one came to weigh the acts of the man against his manner, the disagreeable impression soon gave way. i quickly convinced myself, that this, to me, so objectionable a trait was but an innate peculiarity; and that in a sphere of activity where thoughtless unreserve and _laisser aller_ showed themselves in every possible form, peel was not likely to find any incentive, or to form a resolution to overcome, in this point, his natural disposition. "i have been told, or i have read it somewhere, that peel was the most successful type of political mediocrity. in accepting this estimate of my departed friend as perfectly true, i ask heaven to relieve all ministers, within and without europe, of their superiority, and to endow them with peel's mediocrity: and i ask this for the welfare of all nations, and in the firm conviction that ninety-nine hundredths of the higher political affairs can be properly and successfully conducted by such ministers only as possess peel's mediocrity: though i am willing to admit that the remaining hundredth may, through the power and boldness of a true genius, be brought to a particularly happy, or, it may be, to a particularly unhappy, issue." of the late lord derby, on the other hand, stockmar speaks with the greatest contempt, calling him "a frivolous aristocrat who delighted in making mischief. "it does not appear whether the two men ever came into collision with each other, but if they did, lord derby was likely enough to leave a sting. stockmar regularly spent a great part of each year with the english royal family. apartments were appropriated to him in each of the royal residences, and he lived with the queen and prince on the footing of an intimate, or rather of a member, and almost the father, of the family. indeed, he used a familiarity beyond that of any friend or relative. having an objection to taking leave, he was in the habit of disappearing without notice, and leaving his rooms vacant when the fancy took him. then we are told, letters complaining of his faithlessness would follow him, and in course of time others urging his return. etiquette, the highest of all laws, was dispensed within his case. after dining with the queen, when her majesty had risen from table, and after holding a circle had sat down again to tea, stockmar would generally be seen walking straight through the drawing-room and returning to his apartment, there to study his own comfort. more than this, when mordecai became the king's favorite, he was led forth on the royal steed, apparelled in the royal robe, and with the royal crown upon his head. a less demonstrative and picturesque, but not less signal or significant, mark of royal favor was bestowed on stockmar. in his case tights were dispensed with, and he was allowed to wear trousers, which better suited his thin legs. we believe this exemption to be without parallel, though we have heard of a single dispensation being granted, after many searchings of heart, in a case where the invitation had been sudden, and the mystic garment did not exist, and also of a more melancholy case, in which the garment was split in rushing down to dinner, and its wearer was compelled to appear in the forbidden trousers, and very late, without the possibility of explaining what had occurred. notwithstanding the enormous power indicated by his privileged nether limbs, stockmar remained disinterested. a rich englishman, described as an author, and member of parliament, called upon him one day, and promised to give him l , if he would further his petition to the queen for a peerage. stockmar replied, "i will now go into the next room, in order to give you time. if upon my return i still find you here, i shall have you turned out by the servants." we are told that the baron had little intercourse with any circles but those of the court--a circumstance which was not likely to diminish any bad impressions that might prevail with regard to his secret influence. among his intimate friends in the household was his fellow-countryman dr. pratorius, "who ever zealously strengthened the prince's inclinations in the sense which stockmar desired, and always insisted upon the highest moral considerations." nature, in the case of the doctor; had not been so lavish of personal beauty as of moral endowments. the queen was once reading the bible with her daughter, the little princess victoria. they came to the passage, "god created man in his own image, in the image of god created he him." "o mamma," cried the princess, "not dr. pratorius!" stockmar's administrative genius effected a reform in the royal household, and as appears from his memorandum, not before there was occasion for it. "the housekeepers, pages, housemaids, etc., are under the authority of the lord chamberlain; all the footmen, livery-porters and under-butlers, by the strangest anomaly, under that of master of the horse, at whose office they are clothed and paid; and the rest of the servants, such as the clerk of the kitchen, the cooks, the porters, etc., are under the jurisdiction of the lord steward. yet these ludicrous divisions extend not only to persons, but likewise to things and actions. the lord steward, for example, finds the fuel and lays the fire, and the lord chamberlain lights it. it was under this state of things that the writer of this paper, having been sent one day by her present majesty to sir frederick watson, then the master of the household, to complain that the dining-room was always cold, was gravely answered: 'you see, properly speaking, it is not our fault, for the lord steward lays the fire only, and the lord chamberlain lights it.' in the same manner the lord chamberlain provides all the lamps, and the lord steward must clean, trim and light them. if a pane of glass or the door in a cupboard in the scullery requires mending, it cannot now be done without the following process: a requisition is prepared and signed by the chief cook, it is then countersigned by the clerk of the kitchen, then it is taken to be signed by the master of the household, thence it is taken to the lord chamberlain's office, where it is authorized, and then laid before the clerk of the works under the office of woods and forests; and consequently many a window and cupboard have remained broken for months" worse than this--"there is no one who attends to the comforts of the queen's guests on their arrival at the royal residence. when they arrive at present there is no one prepared to show them to or from their apartments; there is no gentleman in the palace who even knows where they are lodged, and there is not even a servant who can perform this duty, which is attached to the lord chamberlain's department. it frequently happens at windsor that some of the visitors are at a loss to find the drawing-room, and, at night, if they happen to forget the right entrance from the corridor, they wander for an hour helpless, and unassisted. there is nobody to apply to in such a case, for it is not in the department of the master of the household, and the only remedy is to send a servant, if one can be found, to the porter's lodge, to ascertain the apartment in question." people were rather surprised when the boy jones was discovered, at one o'clock in the morning, under the sofa in the room adjoining her majesty's bedroom. but it seems nobody was responsible--not the lord chamberlain, who was in staffordshire, and in whose department the porters were not; not the lord steward, who was in london, and had nothing to do with the pages and attendants nearest to the royal person; not the master of the household, who was only a subordinate officer in the lord steward's department. so the king of spain, who was roasted to death because the right lord-in-waiting could not be found to take him from the fire, was not without a parallel in that which calls itself the most practical of nations. stockmar reformed the system by simply inducing each of the three great officers, without nominally giving up his authority (which would have shaken the foundations of the monarchy), to delegate so much of it as would enable the fire to be laid and lighted by the same power. we fancy, however, that even since the stockmarian reconstruction, we have heard of guests finding themselves adrift in the corridors of windsor. there used to be no bells to the rooms, it being assumed that in the abode of royalty servants, were always within call, a theory which would have been full of comfort to any nervous gentleman, who, on the approach of the royal dinner hour, might happen to find himself left with somebody else's small clothes. in came the outbreak of public feeling against prince albert and stockmar, as his friend and adviser, to which we have referred at the beginning of this article. the prince's lamented death caused such a reaction of feeling in his favor that it is difficult now to recall to recollection the degree of unpopularity under which he at one time laboured. some of the causes of this unpopularity are correctly stated by the author of the present memoir. the prince was a foreigner, his ways were not those of englishmen, he did not dress like an englishman, shake hands like an englishman. he was suspected of "germanizing" tendencies, very offensive to high churchmen, especially in philosophy and religion. he displeased the conservatives by his liberalism, the coarser radicals by his pietism and culture. he displeased the fast set by his strict morality; they called him slow, because he did not bet, gamble, use bad language, keep an opera dancer. with more reason he displeased the army by meddling, under the name of a too courtly commander-in-chief, with professional matters which he could not understand. but there was a cause of his unpopularity scarcely appreciable by the german author of this memoir. he had brought with him the condescending manner of a german prince. the english prefer a frank manner; they will bear a high manner in persons of sufficient rank, but a condescending manner they will not endure; nor will any man or woman but those who live in a german court. so it was, however, that the prince, during his life, though respected by the people for his virtues, and by men of intellect for his culture, was disliked and disparaged by "society," and especially by the great ladies who are at the head of it. the conservatives, male and female, had a further grudge against him as the reputed friend of peel, who was the object of their almost demoniac hatred. the part of a prince consort is a very difficult one to play. in the case of queen anne's husband, prince george of denmark, nature solved the difficulty by not encumbering his royal highness with any brains. but prince albert had brains, and it was morally impossible that he should not exercise a power not contemplated by the constitution. he did so almost from the first, with the full knowledge and approbation of the ministers, who had no doubt the sense to see what could not be avoided had better be recognised and kept under control. but in the court quarrelled with palmerston, who was dismissed from office, very properly, for having, in direct violation of a recent order of the queen, communicated to the french ambassador his approval of the coup d'etat, without the knowledge of her majesty or the cabinet. in came the rupture with russia, which led to the crimean war. palmerston, in correspondence with his friend the french emperor, was working for a war, with a separate french alliance. prince albert, in conjunction with aberdeen, was trying to keep the four powers together, and by their combined action to avert a war. palmerston and his partizans appealed through the press to the people, among whom the war feeling was growing strong, against the unconstitutional influence of the prince consort and his foreign advisers. thereupon arose a storm of insane suspicion and fury which almost recalled the fever of the popish plot. thousands of londoners collected round the tower to see the prince's entry into the state prison, and dispersed only upon being told that the queen had said that if her husband was sent to prison she would go with him. reports were circulated of a pamphlet drawn up under palmerston's eye, and containing the most damning proofs of the prince's guilt, the publication of which it was said the prince had managed to prevent, but of which six copies were still in existence. the pamphlet was at last printed _in extenso_ in the _times_, and the bottled lightning proved to be ditchwater. of course stockmar, the "spy," the "agent of leopold," did not escape denunciation, and though it was proved he had been at coburg all the time, people persisted in believing he was concealed about the court, coming out only at night. the outcry was led by the _morning post_, lord palmerston's personal organ, and the _morning advertiser_, the bellicose and truly british journal of the licensed victuallers; but these were supported by the conservative press, and by some radical papers. a debate in parliament broke the waterspout as quickly as it had been formed. the people had complained with transports of rage that the prince consort exercised an influence unrecognised by the constitution in affairs of state. they were officially assured that he _did_; and they at once declared themselves perfectly satisfied. our readers would not thank us for taking them again through the question of the spanish marriages, a transaction which stockmar viewed in the only way in which the most criminal and the filthiest of intrigues could be viewed by an honest man and a gentleman; or through the question of german unity, on which his opinions have been at once ratified and deprived of their practical interest by events. the last part of his life he passed in germany, managing german royalties, especially the prince and princess frederick william of prussia, for whom he had conceived a profound affection. his presence, we are told, was regarded by german statesmen and magnates as "uncanny," and count k., on being told that it was stockmar with whom an acquaintance had just crossed a bridge, asked the acquaintance why he had not pitched the baron into the river. that stockmar did not deserve such a fate, the testimony cited at the beginning of this paper is sufficient to prove. he was the unrecognised minister of constitutional sovereigns who wanted, besides their regular parliamentary advisers, a personal adviser to attend to the special interests of royalty. it was a part somewhat clandestine, rather equivocal, and not exactly such as a very proud man would choose. but stockmar was called to it by circumstances, he was admirably adapted for it, and if it sometimes led him further than he was entitled or qualified to go, he played it on the whole very well. the early years of the conqueror of quebec a discussion which was raised some time ago by a very pleasant article of professor wilson in the _canadian monthly_ disclosed the fact that wright's "life of wolfe," though it had been published some years, was still very little known. it is not only the best but the only complete life of the soldier, so memorable in canadian annals, whom chatham's hand launched on our coast, a thunderbolt of war, and whose victory decided that the destiny of this land of great possibilities should be shaped not by french but by british hands. almost all that is known about wolfe is here, and it is well told. perhaps the biographer might have enhanced the interest of the figure by a more vivid presentation of its historic surroundings. it is when viewed in comparison with an age which was generally one of unbelief, of low aims, of hearts hardened by vice, of blunted affections, of coarse excesses, and in the military sphere one of excesses more than usually coarse, of professional ignorance and neglect of duty among the officers, while the habits of the rank and file were those depicted in hogarth's _march to finckley_ that the life of this aspiring, gentle, affectionate, pure and conscientious soldier shines forth against the dark background like a star. squerryes court, near westerham, in kent, is an ample and pleasant mansion in the queen anne style, which has long been in the possession of the warde family--they are very particular about the _e_. in later times it was the abode of a memorable character in his way--old john warde, the "father of fox-hunting." there it was that the greatest of all fox-hunters, asheton smithe, when on a visit to john warde, rode warde's horse _blue ruin_ over a frozen country through a fast run of twenty-five minutes and killed his fox. on the terrace stands a monument. it marks the spot where in , james wolfe, the son of lieut-col. wolfe, of westerham, then barely fourteen years of age, was playing with two young wardes, when the father of the playmates approached and handed him a large letter "on his majesty's service" which, on being opened, was found to contain his commission in the army. we may be sure that the young face flushed with undisguised emotion. there cannot be a greater contrast than that which the frank, impulsive features, sanguine complexion, and blue eyes of wolfe present to the power expressed in the commanding brow, the settled look, and the evil eye [footnote: the late lord russell, who had seen napoleon at elba, used to say that there was something very evil in his eye.] of napoleon. james wolfe was a delicate child, and though he grew energetic and fearless, never grew strong, or ceased to merit the interest which attaches to a gallant spirit in a weak frame. he escaped a public school, and without any forfeiture of the manliness which public schools are supposed exclusively to produce, retained his home affections and his tenderness of heart. he received the chief part of his literary education in a school at greenwich, where his parents resided, and he at all events learned enough latin to get himself a dinner, in his first campaign on the continent, by asking for it in that language. he is grateful to his schoolmaster, mr. stebbings, and speaks of him with affection in afterlife. but no doubt his military intelligence, as well as his military tastes, was gained by intercourse with his father, a real soldier, who had pushed his way by merit in an age of corrupt patronage, and was adjutant-general to lord cathcart's forces in . bred in a home of military duty, the young soldier saw before him a worthy example of conscientious attention to all the details of the profession--not only to the fighting of battles, but to the making of the soldiers with whom battles are to be fought. walpole's reign of peace was over, the "patriots" had driven the nation into war, and the trade of colonel wolfe and his son was again in request. before he got his commission, and when he was only thirteen years-and a-half old, the boy's ardent spirit led him to embark with his father as a volunteer in the ill-fated expedition to carthagena. happily, though he assured his mother that he was "in a very good state of health," his health was so far from being good that they were obliged to put him on shore at portsmouth. thus he escaped that masterpiece of the military and naval administration of the aristocracy, to the horrors of which his frail frame would undoubtedly have succumbed. his father saw the unspeakable things depicted with ghastly accuracy by smollett, and warned his son never, if he could help it, to go on joint expeditions of the two services--a precept which the soldier of an island power would have found it difficult to observe. wolfe's mother had struggled to prevent her boy from going, and appealed to his love of her. it was a strong appeal, for he was the most dutiful of sons. the first in the series of his letters is one written to her on this occasion, assuring her of his affection and promising to write to her by every ship he meets. she kept all his letters from this one to the last written from the banks of the st. lawrence. they are in the stiff old style, beginning "dear madam," and signed "dutiful;" but they are full of warm feeling, scarcely interrupted by a little jealousy of temper which there appears to have been on the mother's side. wolfe's first commission was in his father's regiment of marines, but he never served as a marine. he could scarcely have done so, for to the end of his life, he suffered tortures from sea-sickness. he is now an ensign in duroure's regiment of foot. we see him a tall slender boy of fifteen, in scarlet coat, folded back from the breast after the old fashion in broad lapels to display its white or yellow lining, breeches and gaiters, with his young face surmounted by a wig and a cocked hat edged with gold lace, setting off, colours in hand, with his regiment for the war in the low countries. if he missed seeing aristocratic management at carthagena, he shall see aristocratic and royal strategy at dettingen. his brother ned, a boy still more frail than himself, but emulous of his military ardour, goes in another regiment on the same expedition. the regiment was accidentally preceded by a large body of troops of the other sex, who landing unexpectedly by themselves at ostend caused some perplexity to the quartermaster. the home affections must have been strong which could keep a soldier pure in those days. the regiment was at first quartered at ghent, where, amidst the din of garrison riot and murderous brawls, we hear the gentle sound of wolfe's flute, and where he studies the fortifications, already anxious to prepare himself for the higher walks of his profession. from ghent the army moved to the actual scene of war in germany, suffering of course on the march from the badness of the commissariat. wolfe's body feels the fatigue and hardship. he "never comes into quarters without aching hips and thighs." but he is "in the greatest spirits in the world." "don't tell me of a constitution" he said afterwards, when a remark was made on the weakness of a brother officer, "he has good spirits, and good spirits will carry a man through everything." all the world knows into what a position his martial majesty king george ii., with the help of sundry persons of quality, styling themselves generals, got the british army at dettingen, and how the british soldier fought his way out of the scrape. wolfe was in the thick of it, and his horse was shot under him. his first letter is to his mother--"i take the very first opportunity i can to acquaint you that my brother and self escaped in the engagement we had with the french, the th june last, and, thank god, are as well as ever we were in our lives, after not only being canonnaded two hours and three quarters, and fighting with small arms two hours and one quarter, but lay the two following nights upon our arms, whilst it rained for about twenty hours in the same time; yet are ready and as capable to do the same again." but this letter is followed by one to his father, which seems to us to rank among the wonders of literature. it is full of fire and yet as calm as a dispatch, giving a complete, detailed, and masterly account of the battle, and showing that the boy kept his head, and played the part of a good officer as well as of a brave soldier in his first field. the cavalry did indifferently, and there is a sharp soldiery criticism on the cause of its failure. but the infantry did better. "the third and last attack was made by the foot on both sides. we advanced towards one another; our men in high spirits, and very impatient for fighting, being elated with beating the french horse, part of which advanced towards us, while the rest attacked our horse, but were soon driven back by the great fire we gave them. the major and i (for we had neither colonel nor lieutenant-colonel), before they came near, were employed in begging and ordering the men not to fire at too great a distance, but to keep it till the enemy should come near us; but to little purpose. the whole fired when they thought they could reach them, which had like to have ruined us. we did very little execution with it. as soon as the french saw we presented they all fell down, and when we had fired they got up and marched close to us in tolerable good order, and gave us a brisk fire, which put us into some disorder and made us give way a little, particularly ours and two or three more regiments who were in the hottest of it. however, we soon rallied again, and attacked them again with great fury, which gained us a complete victory, and forced the enemy to retire in great haste." edward distinguished himself, too. "i sometimes thought i had lost poor ned, when i saw arms and legs and heads beat off close by him. he is called 'the old soldier,' and very deservedly." poor "old soldier," his career was as brief as that of a shooting star. next year he dies, not by sword or bullet, but of consumption hastened by hardships--dies alone in a foreign land, "often calling on those who were dear to him;" his brother, though within reach, being kept away by the calls of duty and by ignorance of the danger. the only comfort was that he had a faithful servant, and that as he shared with his brother the gift of winning hearts, brother officers were likely to be kind. james, writing to their mother, some time after, shed tears over the letter. though only sixteen, wolfe had acted as adjutant to his regiment at dettingen. he was regularly appointed adjutant a few days after. his father, as we have seen, had been an adjutant-general. even under the reign of patronage there was one chance for merit. patronage could not do without adjutants. from this time, wolfe, following in his father's footsteps, seems to have given his steady attention to the administrative and, so far as his very scanty opportunities permitted, to the scientific part of his profession. happily for him, he was not at fontenoy. but he was at laffeldt, and saw what must have been a grand sight for a soldier--the french infantry coming down from the heights in one vast column, ten battalions in front and as many deep, to attack the british position in the village. after all, it was not by the british, but by the austrians and dutch, that laffeldt was lost. we have no account of the battle from wolfe's pen. but he was wounded, and it is stated, on what authority his biographer does not tell us, that he was thanked by the commander-in-chief. four years afterwards he said of his old servant, roland: "he came to me at the hazard of his life, in the last action, with offers of his service, took off my cloak, and brought a fresh horse, and would have continued close by me had i not ordered him to retire. i believe he was slightly wounded just at that time, and the horse he held was shot likewise. many a time has he pitched my tent and made the bed ready to receive me, half dead with fatigue, and this i owe to his diligence." but between dettingen and laffeldt, wolfe had been called to serve on a different scene. the patriots, in bringing on a european war, had renewed the civil war at home. attached to the army sent against the pretender, wolfe (now major), fought under "hangman hawley," in the blundering and disastrous hustle at falkirk, and, on a happier day, under cumberland at culloden. some years afterwards he revisited the field of culloden, and he has recorded his opinion that there also "somebody blundered," though he refrains from saying who. the mass of the rebel army, he seems to think, ought not to have been allowed to escape. these campaigns were a military curiosity. the roman order of battle, evidently intended to repair a broken front, was perhaps a lesson taught the roman tacticians on the day when their front was broken by the rush of the celtic clans at allia. that rush produced the same effect on troops unaccustomed to it and unprepared for it at killiecrankie, and again at preston pans and falkirk. at culloden the duke of cumberland formed so as to repair a broken front, and when the rush came, but few of the highlanders got beyond the second line. killiecrankie and preston pans tell us nothing against discipline. there is an apocryphal anecdote of the duke's cruelty and of wolfe's humanity towards the wounded after the battle,--"wolfe, shoot me that highland scoundrel who thus dares to look on us with such contempt and insolence." "my commission is at your royal highness's disposal, but i never can consent to become an executioner." the anecdotist adds that from that day wolfe declined in the favour and confidence of the commander-in-chief. but it happens that wolfe did nothing of the kind. on the other hand, mr. wright does not doubt, nor is there any ground for doubting, the identity of the major wolfe who, under orders, relieves a jacobite lady, named gordon, of a considerable amount of stores and miscellaneous property accumulated in her house, but according to her own account belonging partly to other people; among other things, of a collection of pictures to make room for which, as she said, she had been obliged to send away her son, who was missing at that critical juncture. the duty was a harsh one, but seems, by mrs. gordon's own account, not to have been harshly performed. if any property that ought to have been restored was kept, it was kept not by wolfe but by "hangman hawley." still one could wish to see wolfe fighting on a brighter field than culloden, and engaged in a work more befitting a soldier than the ruthless extirpation of rebellion which ensued. the young soldier is now thoroughly in love with his profession. "a battle gained," he says, "is, i believe the highest joy mankind is capable of receiving to him who commands; and his merit must be equal to his success if it works no change to his disadvantage." he dilates on the value of war as a school of character. "we have all our passions and affections roused and exercised, many of which must have wanted their proper employment had not suitable occasions obliged us to exert them. few men are acquainted with the degrees of their own courage till danger prove them, and are seldom justly informed how far the love of honour and dread of shame are superior to the love of life." but now peace comes, the sword is consigned to rust, and in promotion patronage resumes its sway. "in these cooler times the parliamentary interest and weight of particular families annihilate all other pretensions." the consequence was, of course, that when the hotter times returned they found the army officered by fine gentlemen, and its path, as napier says, was like that of satan in "paradise lost" through chaos to death. wolfe would fain have gone abroad (england affording no schools) to complete his military and general education; but the duke of cumberland's only notion of military education was drill; so wolfe had to remain with his regiment. it was quartered in scotland, and besides the cankering inaction to which the gallant spirit was condemned, scotch quarters were not pleasant in those days. the country was socially as far from london as norway. the houses were small, dirty, unventilated, devoid of any kind of comfort; and habits and manners were not much better than the habitations. perhaps wolfe saw the scotch society of those days through an unfavourable medium, at all events he did not find it charming. "the men here," he writes from glasgow, "are civil, designing, and treacherous, with their immediate interest always in view; they pursue trade with warmth and a necessary mercantile spirit, arising from the baseness of their other qualifications. the women coarse, cold and cunning, for ever enquiring after men's circumstances; they make that the standing of their good breeding." even the sermons failed to please. "i do several things in my character of commanding officer which i should never think of in any other; for instance, i'm every sunday at the kirk, an example justly to be admired. i would not lose two hours of a day if it would not answer some end. when i say 'lose two hours,' i must complain to you that the generality of scotch preachers are excessive blockheads, so truly and obstinately dull, that they seem to shut out knowledge at every entrance." if glasgow and perth were bad, still worse were dreary banff and barbarous inverness. the scotch burghers, their ladies, and the preachers are entitled to the benefit of the remark that the scotch climate greatly affected wolfe's sensitive frame, and that he took a wrong though established method of keeping out the cold and damp. when there is nothing in the way of action to lift the soul above the clay his spirits, as he admits rise and fall with the weather and his impressions vary with them. "i'm sorry to say that my writings are greatly influenced by the state of my body or mind at the time of writing and i'm either happy or ruined by my last night's rest or from sunshine or light and sickly air; such infirmity is the mortal frame subject to." inverness was the climax of discomfort, coarseness and dulness, as well as a centre of disaffection. quarters there in those days must have been something like quarters in an indian village, with the scotch climate superadded. the houses were hovels, worse and more fetid than those at perth. even when it was fine there was no amusement but shooting woodcocks at the risk of rheumatism. when the rains poured down and the roads were broken up there was no society, not even a newspaper, nothing to be done but to eat coarse food and sleep in bad beds. if there was a laird in the neighbourhood he was apt to be some 'bumper john' whose first act of hospitality was to make you drunk. "i wonder how long a man moderately inclined that way would require in a place like this to wear out his love for arms and soften his martial spirit. i believe the passion would be something diminished in less than ten years and the gentleman be contented to be a little lower than caesar in the list to get rid of the encumbrance of greatness." it is in his dreary quarters at inverness at the dead of night perhaps with a highland tempest howling outside that the future conqueror of quebec thus moralizes on his own condition and prospects in a letter to his mother: "the winter wears away, so do our years and so does life itself, and it matters little where a man passes his days and what station he fills or whether he be great or considerable but it imports him something to look to his manner of life. this day am i twenty five years of age, and all that time is as nothing. when i am fifty (if it so happens) and look back, it will be the same, and so on to the last hour. but it is worth a moment's consideration that one may be called away on a sudden unguarded and unprepared, and the oftener these thoughts are entertained the less will be the dread or fear of death. you will judge by this sort of discourse that it is the dead of night when all is quiet and at rest, and one of those intervals wherein men think of what they really are and what they really should be, how much is expected and how little performed. our short duration here and the doubts of the hereafter should awe the most flagitious, if they reflected on them. the little taken in for meditation is the best employed in all their lives for if the uncertainty of our state and being is then brought before us who is there that will not immediately discover the inconsistency of all his behaviour and the vanity of all his pursuits? and yet, we are so mixed and compounded that, though i think seriously this minute, and lie down with good intentions, it is likely i may rise with my old nature, or perhaps with the addition of some new impertinence, and be the same wandering lump of idle errors that i have ever been. "you certainly advise me well. you have pointed out the only way where there can be no disappointment, and comfort that will never fail us, carrying men steadily and cheerfully in their journey, and a place of rest at the end. nobody can be more persuaded of it than i am; but situation, example, the current of things, and our natural weakness, draw me away with the herd, and only leave me just strength enough to resist the worst degree of our iniquities. there are times when men fret at trifles and quarrel with their toothpicks. in one of these ill-habits i exclaim against the present condition, and think it is the worst of all; but coolly and temperately it is plainly the best. where there is most employment and least vice, there one should wish to be. there is a meanness and a baseness not to endure with patience the little inconveniences we are subject to; and to know no happiness but in one spot, and that in ease, in luxury, in idleness, seems to deserve our contempt. there are young men amongst us that have great revenues and high military stations, that repine at three months' service with their regiments if they go fifty miles from home. soup and _venaison_ and turtle are their supreme delight and joy,--an effeminate race of coxcombs, the future leaders of our armies, defenders and protectors of our great and free nation! "you bid me avoid fort william, because you believe it still worse than this place. that will not be my reason for wishing to avoid it; but the change of conversation; the fear of becoming a mere ruffian; and of imbibing the tyrannical principles of an absolute commander, or, giving way insensibly to the temptations of power, till i become proud, insolent and intolerable;--these considerations will make me wish to leave the regiment before the next winter, and always if it could be so after eight months duty; that by frequenting men above myself i may know my true condition, and by discoursing with the other sex may learn some civility and mildness of carriage, but never pay the price of the last improvement with the loss of reason. better be a savage of some use than a gentle, amorous puppy, obnoxious to all the world. one of the wildest of wild clans is a worthier being than a perfect philander." wolfe, it must be owned, does not write well. he has reason to envy, as he does, the grace of the female style. he is not only ungrammatical, which, in a familiar letter, is a matter of very small consequence, but somewhat stilted. perhaps it was like the "madam," the fashion of the johnsonian era. yet beneath the buckram you always feel that there is a heart. persons even of the same profession are cast in very different moulds; and the mould of wolfe was as different as possible from that of the iron duke. wolfe's dreary garrison leisures in scotland, however, were not idle. his books go with him, and he is doing his best to cultivate himself, both professionally and generally. he afterwards recommends to a friend, evidently from his own experience, a long list of military histories and other works ancient and modern. the ancients he read in translations. his range is wide and he appreciates military genius in all its forms. "there is an abundance of military knowledge to be picked out of the lives of gustavus adolphus and charles xii., king of sweden, and of zisca the bohemian, and if a tolerable account could be got of the exploits of scanderbeg, it would be inestimable, for he excels all the officers ancient and modern in the conduct of a small defensive army." at louisburg, wolfe put in practice, with good effect, a manoeuvre which he had learned from the carduchi in xenophon, showing perhaps by this reproduction of the tactics employed two thousand years before by a barbarous tribe, that in the so-called art of war there is a large element which is not progressive. books will never make a soldier, but wolfe, as a military student, had the advantage of actual experience of war. whenever he could find a teacher, he studied mathematics, zealously though apparently not with delight. "i have read the mathematics till i am grown perfectly stupid, and have algebraically worked away the little portion of understanding that was allowed to me. they have not even left me the qualities of a coxcomb for i can neither laugh nor sing nor talk an hour upon nothing. the latter of these is a sensible loss, for it excludes a gentleman from all good company and makes him entirely unfit for the conversation of the polite world." "i don't know how the mathematics may assist the judgment, but they have a great tendency to make men dull. i who am far from being sprightly even in my gaiety, am the very reverse of it at this time." certainly to produce sprightliness is neither the aim nor the general effect of mathematics. that while military education was carried on, general culture was not wholly neglected, is proved by the famous exclamation about gray's elegy, the most signal homage perhaps that a poet ever received. at glasgow, where there is a university, wolfe studies mathematics in the morning, in the afternoon he endeavours to regain his lost latin. nor in training himself did he neglect to train his soldiers. he had marked with bitterness of heart the murderous consequence to which neglect of training had led in the beginning of every war. probably he had the army of frederick before his eyes. his words on musketry practice may still have an interest. "marksmen are nowhere so necessary as in a mountainous country; besides, firing at objects teaches the soldiers to level incomparably, makes the recruit steady, and removes the foolish apprehension that seizes young soldiers when they first load their arms with bullets. we fire, first singly, then by files, one, two, three, or more, then by ranks, and lastly by platoons; and the soldiers see the effects of their shots, especially at a mark or upon water. we shoot obliquely and in different situations of ground, from heights downwards and contrariwise." military education and attention to the details of the profession were not very common under the duke of wellington. they were still less common under the duke of cumberland. before he was thirty, wolfe was a great military authority, and what was required of chatham, in his case, was not so much the eye to discern latent merit, as the boldness to promote merit over the head of rank. in a passage just quoted wolfe expresses his fear lest command should make him tyrannical. he was early tried by the temptation of power. he became lieut.-colonel at twenty-five; but in the absence of his colonel he had already been in command at stirling when he was only twenty- three. this was in quarters where he was practically despotic. he does not fail in his letters to pour out his heart on his situation. "tomorrow lord george sackville goes away, and i take upon me the difficult and troublesome employment of a commander. you can't conceive how difficult a thing it is to keep the passions within bounds, when authority and immaturity go together: to endeavour at a character which has every opposition from within, and that the very condition of the blood is a sufficient obstacle to. fancy you see me that must do justice to good and bad; reward and punish with an equal unbiassed hand; one that is to reconcile the severity of discipline with the dictates of humanity, one that must study the tempers and dispositions of many men, in order to make their situation easy and agreeable to them, and should endeavour to oblige all without partiality; a mark set up for everybody to observe and judge of; and last of all, suppose one employed in discouraging vice, and recommending the reverse, at the turbulent age of twenty-three, when it is possible i may have as great a propensity that way as any of the men that i converse with." he had difficulties of character to contend with, as well as difficulties of age. his temper was quick; he knew it. "my temper is much too warm, and sudden resentment forces out expressions and even actions that are neither justifiable nor excusable, and perhaps i do not conceal the natural heat so much as i ought to do." he even felt that he was apt to misconstrue the intentions of those around him, and to cherish groundless prejudices. "i have that wicked disposition of mind that whenever i know that people have entertained a very ill opinion, i imagine they never change. from whence one passes easily to an indifference about them, and then to dislike, and though i flatter myself that i have the seeds of justice strong enough to keep from doing wrong, even to an enemy, yet there lurks a hidden poison in the heart that it is difficult to root out. it is my misfortune to catch fire on a sudden, to answer letters the moment i receive them, when they touch me sensibly, and to suffer passion to dictate my expressions more than my reason. the next day, perhaps, would have changed this, and earned more moderation with it. every ill turn of my life has had this haste and first impulse of the moment for its cause, and it proceeds from pride." solitary command and absence from the tempering influences of general society were, as he keenly felt, likely to aggravate his infirmities. yet he proves not only a successful but a popular commander, and he seems never to have lost his friends. the "seeds of justice" no doubt were really strong, and the transparent frankness of his character, its freedom from anything like insidiousness or malignity, must have had a powerful effect in dispelling resentment. his first regimental minute, of which his biographer gives us an abstract, evinces a care for his men which must have been almost startling in the days of "hangman hawley." he desires to be acquainted in writing with the men and the companies they belong to, and as soon as possible with their characters, that he may know the proper objects to encourage, and those over whom it will be necessary to keep a strict hand. the officers are enjoined to visit the soldiers' quarters frequently; now and then to go round between nine and eleven o'clock at night, and not trust to sergeants' reports. they are also requested to watch the looks of the privates, and observe whether any of them were paler than usual, that the reason might be inquired into and proper means used to restore them to their former vigour. subalterns are told that "a young officer should not think he does too much." but firmness, and great firmness, must have been required, as well as watchfulness and kindness. his confidential expressions with regard to the state of the army are as strong as words can make them. "i have a very mean opinion of the infantry in general. i know their discipline to be bad and their valour precarious. they are easily put into disorder and hard to recover out of it. they frequently kill their officers in their fear and murder one another in their confusion." "nothing, i think, can hurt their discipline--it is at its worst. they shall drink and swear, plunder and murder, with any troops in europe, the cossacks and calmucks themselves not excepted." "if i stay much longer with the regiment i shall be perfectly corrupt; the officers are loose and profligate and the soldiers are very devils." he brought the th, however, into such a condition that it remained a model regiment for years after he was gone. nor were the duties of a commanding officer in scotland at that period merely military. in the highlands especially, he was employed in quenching the smoking embers of rebellion, and in re-organizing the country after the anarchy of civil war. disarming had to be done, and suppression of the highland costume, which now marks the queen's favourite regiment, but then marked a rebel. this is bad, as well as unworthy, work for soldiers, who have not the trained self-command which belongs to a good police, and for which the irish constabulary are as remarkable as they are for courage and vigour. even wolfe's sentiments contracted a tinge of cruelty from his occupation. in one of his subsequent letters he avows a design which would have led to the massacre of a whole clan. "would you believe that i am so bloody?" we do not believe that he was so bloody, and are confident that the design, if it was ever really formed, would not have been carried into effect. but the passage is the most painful one in his letters. the net result of his military administration, however, was that the people at inverness were willing to celebrate the duke of cumberland's birthday, though they were not willing to comply with the insolent demand of colonel lord bury, who had come down to take the command for a short time, that they should celebrate it on the anniversary of culloden. it is a highly probable tradition that the formation of highland regiments was suggested by wolfe. in a passage which we have quoted wolfe glances at the awkward and perilous position in which a young commander was placed in having to control the moral habits of officers his equals in age, and to rebuke the passions which mutinied in his own blood. he could hardly be expected to keep himself immaculate. but he is always struggling to do right and repentant when he does wrong. "we use a very dangerous freedom and looseness of speech among ourselves; this by degrees makes wickedness and debauchery less odious than it should be, if not familiar, and sets truth, religion, and virtue at a great distance. i hear things every day said that would shock your ears, and often say things myself that are not fit to be repeated, perhaps without any ill intention, but merely by the force of custom. the best that can be offered in our defence is that some of us see the evil and wish to avoid it." among the very early letters there is one to his brother about "pretty mantua makers," etc, but it is evidently nothing but a nominal deference to the military immorality of the age. once when on a short visit to london, and away from the restraining responsibilities of his command, wolfe, according to his own account, lapsed into debauchery. "in that short time i committed more imprudent acts than in all my life before i lived in the idlest, [most] dissolute, abandoned manner that could be conceived, and that not out of vice, which is the most extraordinary part of it. i have escaped at length and am once more master of my reason, and hereafter it shall rule my conduct; at least i hope so." perhaps the lapse may have been worse by contrast than in itself. the intensity of pure affection which pervades all wolfe's letters is sufficient proof that he had never abandoned himself to sensuality to an extent sufficient to corrupt his heart. the age was profoundly sceptical, and if the scepticism had not spread to the army the scoffing had. wolfe more than once talks lightly of going to church as a polite form; but he appears always to have a practical belief in god. it is worthy of remark that a plunge into london dissipation follows very close upon the disappointment of an honourable passion. wolfe had a certain turn of mind which favoured matrimony "prodigiously," and he had fallen very much in love with miss lawson, maid of honour to the princess of wales. but the old general and mrs. wolfe opposed the match --apparently on pecuniary grounds. "they have their eye upon one of l , ." miss lawson had only l , . parents had more authority then than they have now, wolfe was exceedingly dutiful, and he allowed the old people, on whom, from the insufficiency of his pay, he was still partly dependent, to break off the affair. such at least seems to have been the history of its termination. the way in which wolfe records the catastrophe, it must be owned, is not very romantic. "this last disappointment in love has changed my natural disposition to such a degree that i believe it is now possible that i might prevail upon myself not to refuse twenty or thirty thousand pounds, if properly offered. rage and despair do not commonly produce such reasonable effects; nor are they the instruments to make a man's fortune by but in particular cases." it was long, however, before he could think of miss lawson without a pang, and the sight of her portrait, he tells us, takes away his appetite for some days. at seven and twenty wolfe left scotland, having already to seven years' experience of warfare added five years' experience of difficult command. he is now able to move about a little and open his mind, which has been long cramped by confinement in highland quarters. he visits an old uncle in ireland, and, as one of the victors of culloden, views with special interest that field of the boyne, where in the last generation liberty and progress had triumphed over the house of stuart. "i had more satisfaction in looking at this spot than in all the variety that i have met with; and perhaps there is not another piece of ground in the world that i could take so much pleasure to observe." then, though with difficulty, he obtained the leave of the pipe-clay duke to go to paris. there he saw the hollow grandeur of the decaying monarchy and the immoral glories of pompadour. "i was yesterday at versailles, a cold spectator of what we commonly call splendour and magnificence. a multitude of men and women were assembled to bow and pay their compliments in the most submissive manner to a creature of their own species." he went into the great world, to which he gains admission with an ease which shows that he has a good position, and tries to make up his leeway in the graces by learning to fence, dance, and ride. he wishes to extend his tour and see the european armies; but the duke inexorably calls him back to pipe-clay. it is proposed to him that he should undertake the tutorship of the young duke of richmond on a military tour through the low countries. but he declines the offer. "i don't think myself quite equal to the task, and as for the pension that might follow, it is very certain that it would not become me to accept it. i can't take money from any one but the king, my master, or from some of his blood." back, therefore, to england and two years more of garrison duty there. quartered in the high-perched keep of dover where "the winds rattle pretty loud" and cut off from the world without, as he says, by the absence of newspapers or coffee houses, he employs the tedious hours in reading while his officers waste them in piquet. the ladies in the town below complain through miss brett to mrs. wolfe of the unsociality of the garrison. "tell nannie brett's ladies," wolfe replies, "that if they lived as loftily and as much in the clouds as we do, their appetites for dancing or anything else would not be so keen. if we dress, the wind disorders our curls; if we walk, we are in danger of our legs; if we ride, of our necks." afterwards, however, he takes to dancing to please the ladies and apparently grows fond of it. among the high tories of devonshire he has to do a little more of the work of pacification in which he had been employed in the highlands. "we are upon such terms with the people in general that i have been forced to put on all my address, and employ my best skill to conciliate matters. it begins to work a little favourably, but not certainly, because the perverseness of these folks, built upon their disaffection, makes the task very difficult. we had a little ball last night, to celebrate his majesty's birthday--purely military; that is the men were all officers except one. the female branches of the tory families came readily enough, but not one man would accept the invitation because it was the king's birthday. if it had not fallen in my way to see such an instance of folly i should not readily be brought to conceive it." he has once more to sully a soldier's sword by undertaking police duty against the poor gloucestershire weavers, who are on strike, and, as he judges, not without good cause. "this expedition carries me a little out of my road and a little in the dirt.... i hope it will turn out a good recruiting party, for the people are so oppressed, so poor and so wretched, that they will perhaps hazard a knock on the pate for bread and clothes and turn soldiers through sheer necessity." chatham and glory are now at hand; and the hero is ready for the hour-- _sed mors atra caput nigra, circumvolat umbra_. "folks are surprised to see the meagre, decaying, consumptive figure of the son, when the father and mother preserve such good looks; and people are not easily persuaded that i am one of the family. the campaigns of , ' , ' , ' , and ' stripped me of my bloom, and the winters in scotland and at dover have brought me almost to old age and infirmity, and this without any remarkable intemperance. a few years more or less are of very little consequence to the common run of men, and therefore i need not lament that i am perhaps somewhat nearer my end than others of my time. i think and write upon these points without being at all moved. it is not the vapours, but a desire i have to be familiar with those ideas which frighten and terrify the half of mankind that makes me speak upon the subject of my dissolution." the biographer aptly compares wolfe to nelson. both were frail in body, aspiring in soul, sensitive, liable to fits of despondency, sustained against all weaknesses by an ardent zeal for the public service, and gifted with the same quick eye and the same intuitive powers of command. but it is also a just remark that there was more in nelson of the love of glory, more in wolfe of the love of duty. "it is no time to think of what is convenient or agreeable; that service is certainly the best in which we are the most useful. for my part i am determined never to give myself a moment's concern about the nature of the duty which his majesty is pleased to order us upon; and whether it is by sea or by land that we are to act in obedience to his commands, i hope that we shall conduct ourselves so as to deserve his approbation. it will be sufficient comfort to you, too, as far as my person is concerned, at least it will be a reasonable consolation, to reflect that the power which has hitherto preserved me may, if it be his pleasure, continue to do so; if not, that it is but a few days or a few years more or less, and that those who perish in their duty and in the service of their country die honourably. i hope i shall have resolution and firmness enough to meet every appearance of danger without great concern, and not be over solicitous about the event." "i have this day signified to mr. pitt that he may dispose of my slight carcass as he pleases, and that i am ready for any undertaking within the reach and compass of my skill and cunning. i am in a very bad condition both with the gravel and rheumatism; but i had much rather die than decline any kind of service that offers itself: if i followed my own taste it would lead me into germany, and if my poor talent was consulted they should place me in the cavalry, because nature has given me good eyes and a warmth of temper to follow the first impressions. however, it is not our part to choose but to obey." all know that the way in which mr. pitt pleased to dispose of the "slight carcass" was by sending it to rochefort, louisburg, quebec. montcalm, when he found himself dying, shut himself up with his confessor and the bishop of quebec, and to those who came to him for orders said "i have business that must be attended to of greater moment than your ruined garrison and this wretched country." wolfe's last words were, "tell colonel baxter to march webb's regiment down to charles river, to cut off their retreat from the bridge. now, god be praised, i will die in peace." falkland and the puritans [footnote: published in the _contemporary review_ as a reply to mr. matthew arnold's essay on falkland.] we have the most unfeigned respect for the memory of falkland. carlyle's sneer at him has always seemed to us about the most painful thing in the writings of carlyle. our knowledge of his public life is meagre, and is derived mainly from a writer under whose personal influence he acted, who is specially responsible for the most questionable step that he took, and on whose veracity, with regard to this portion of the history not much reliance can be placed. but we cannot doubt his title to our admiration and our love. of his character as a friend, as a host, and as the centre of a literary circle, we have a picture almost peerless in social history. he seems to have presented in a very attractive form the combination--rare now, though not rare in that age, especially among the great puritan chiefs--of practical activity and military valour with high culture and a serious interest in great questions. of his fine feelings as a man of honour we have more than one proof. we have proof equally strong of his self-sacrificing devotion to his country; though in this he stood not alone: with his blood on the field of newbury mingled that of many an english yeoman, whose cheeks were as wet when he left his puritan home to die for the religion and liberties of england as were those of lord falkland when he left the "lime-trees and violets" of great tew. of political moderation, if it means merely steering a middle course between two extremes, the praise is cheap, and would be shared by falkland with many weak and with many dishonest men. it may, without disparagement, be remarked of him that his rank as a nobleman was almost sufficient in itself, without any special soundness of understanding or calmness of temperament, to prevent him from throwing himself headlong either into an absolutist reaction which was identified with the ascendency of upstart favourites, and contemners of the old nobility, or into a popular revolution which soon disclosed its tendency to come into collision with the privileged order, and which ended its parricidal career by leaving england, during some of the most glorious years of her history, destitute of a house of lords. but as an adherent, and no doubt a deliberate adherent, of constitutional monarchy, falkland was in that which in the upshot proved to be the right line of english progress, though by no means the right line of progress for the whole world. the commonwealth is the ideal of america, where it is practicable, and it alone. constitutional monarchy, as falkland rightly judged, was the highest attainable ideal for england, at any rate in that day. of attaining that ideal, of doing anything considerable towards its attainment, or towards its defence against the powers of absolutist reaction whose triumph would have rendered its attainment for ever impossible, he was no more capable than he was of performing the labours of hercules. in this he bears some resemblance to a man of incomparably greater intellect than his. the fame of bacon as a philosopher has eclipsed his importance as a politician. but his ideal of an enlightened monarchy, invested with plenary power, but always using its power in conformity with law, and having a verulam at its right hand, not only is grand and worthy of the majestic intelligence from which it sprang, but is entitled to a good deal of sympathy, when we consider how wanting in enlightenment, how rough, how uncertain, how provoking to a trained and instructed statesman the action of parliaments composed of country gentlemen and meeting at long intervals, in an age when there were no political newspapers or other general organs of political information, could not fail sometimes to be. but bacon, hampered by enfeebling selfishness, as falkland was by more generous defects, was incapable of taking a single step toward the realization of his august vision, and the result was, a miserable fall from the ethereal height to the feet of a somerset and a buckingham. as a theologian, falkland appears to have been a chillingworth on a very small scale. it does not seem to us that principal tulloch, in his interesting chapter on him, succeeds in putting him higher. but he shared, with chillingworth and hales, the spirit of liberality and toleration, for which both were nobly conspicuous, though hales did not show himself a very uncompromising champion of his principles when he accepted preferment from the hands of their arch-enemy, laud. the learned men and religious philosophers whom falkland gathered round him at tew, were among the best and foremost thinkers of their age: the beauty of the group is marred, perhaps, only by the sinister intrusion of sheldon. mr. matthew arnold, in the very graceful sketch of falkland's life published by him in aid of the falkland memorial, has endowed his favourite character with gifts far rarer and more memorable than those of which we have spoken; with an extraordinary largeness and lucidity of mind, with almost divine superiority to party narrowness and bias, with conceptions anticipative of the most advanced philosophy of modern times. he quotes the dean of westminster as affirming that "falkland is the founder, or nearly the founder, of the best and most enlightening tendencies of the church of england"--a statement which breeds reflection as to the character of the church of england during the previous century, in the course of which its creed and liturgy were formed. the evidence of these transactions lies wide; much of it is still in the british museum; and it may be possible to produce something sufficient to sustain falkland on the pinnacle on which mr. arnold and the dean of westminster have placed him. but we cannot help surmising that he has in some measure undergone the process which, in an age prolific in historic fancies as well as pre-eminent in historic research, has been undergone by almost every character in history--that of being transmuted by a loving biographer, and converted into a sort of ventriloquial apparatus through which the biographer preaches to the present from the pulpit of the past. the philosophy ascribed to falkland is, we suspect, partly that of a teacher who was then in the womb of time. we should not be extreme to mark this, if the praise of falkland had not been turned to the dispraise and even to the vilification of men who are at least as much entitled to reverent treatment at the hands of englishmen as he is, and at the same time of a large body of english citizens at the present day, who are the objects, we venture to think, of a somewhat fanciful and somewhat unmeasured antipathy. those who subscribe to the falkland testimonial are collectively set down by mr. arnold as the "amiable"--those who do not subscribe as the "unamiable." few, we trust, would be so careful of their money and so careless of their reputation for moral beauty as to refuse to pay a guinea for a certificate of amiability countersigned by mr. matthew arnold. yet even the amiable might hesitate to take part in erecting a monument to the honour of falkland, if it was at the same time to be a monument to the dishonour, of luther, gustavus, walsingham, sir john eliot, pym, hampden, cromwell, vane, and milton. as to the nonconformists, their contributions are probably not desired: otherwise, accustomed to not very courteous treatment though they are, it would still be imprudent to warn them that their own "hideousness" was to be carved in the same marble with the beauty of lord falkland. on luther, hampden, and cromwell, mr. arnold expressly bestows the name of "philistine," and if he bestows it on these he can hardly abstain from bestowing it on the rest of those we have named. milton, at all events, has identified himself with cromwell as thoroughly as one man ever identified himself with another, and whatever aspersion is cast on "worcester's laureate wreath" must fall equally on the intermingling bays. we may say this without pretending to know what the exact meaning of "philistine" now is. originally, no doubt, it pointed to some specific defect on the part of those with regard to whom it was used, and possibly also on the part of those who used it. but with the fate which usually attends the cant phrase of a clique, it seems to be degenerating, by lavish application, into something which irritates without conveying any definite instruction. as luther did not live under the same conditions as heinrich heine, perfect ethical identity was hardly to be expected. "simpleton" and "savage" have the advantage of being intelligible to all, and when introduced into discussion with grace, perhaps they may be urbane. it is useless to attempt, without authentic materials, to fill in the faint outline of an historic figure. but judging from such indications as we have, we should be inclined to say that falkland, instead of being a man of extraordinarily serene and well-balanced mind, was rather excitable and impulsive. his tones and gestures are vehement; where another man would be content to protest against what he thought an undeserved act of homage by simply keeping his hat on, falkland rams his down upon his head with both his hands. he goes most ardently with the popular party through the early stages of the revolution; then he somewhat abruptly breaks away from it, disgusted with its defects, though they certainly did not exceed those of other parties under the same circumstances, and feeling in himself no power to control it and keep it in the right path. he is under the influence of others, first of hampden and then of hyde, to an extent hardly compatible with the possession of a mind of first-rate power. when he is taxed with inconsistency for going round upon the bill for removing the bishops from parliament, his plea is that at the time when he voted for the bill "he had been persuaded by that worthy gentleman (hampden) to believe many things which he had since found to be untrue, and therefore he had changed his opinion in many particulars as well to things as persons." hampden himself would hardly have been led by anybody's persuasions on the great question of the day. clarendon tells us that his friend, from his experience of the short parliament, "contracted such a reverence for parliaments that he thought it really impossible they could ever produce mischief or inconvenience to the kingdom." we always regard with some suspicion clarendon's artful touches, otherwise we should say that there is a pretty brusque change from this unbounded reverence for the short parliament to an appearance in arms against its successor, especially as the leader and soul of both parliaments was pym. in the prosecution of strafford, falkland showed such ardour that, as clarendon intimates, those who knew him not ascribed his behaviour to personal resentment. his lips formulated the very doctrine so fatal to the great accused, that a number of acts severally not amounting to high treason might cumulatively support the charge. "how many haires' breadths makes a tall man and how many makes a little man, noe man can well say, yet we know a tall man when we see him from a low man; soe 'tis in this,--how many illegal acts make a treason is not certainly well known, but we well know it when we see." mr. arnold says that "alone amongst his party falkland raised his voice against pressing forward strafford's impeachment with unfair or vindictive haste." that is to say, when pym proposed to the house, sitting with closed doors, at once to carry up the impeachment to the lords and demand the arrest of strafford without delay, falkland, moved by his great, and, in all ordinary cases, laudable respect for regularity of proceeding, proposed first to have the charges formally drawn up by a committee. falkland's proposal was almost fatuous; it proves that the grand difference between him and pym was that pym was a great man of action and that he was not. it would have been about as rational to suggest that the lighted match should not be taken out of the hand of guy fawkes till a committee had formally reported on the probable effects of gunpowder if ignited in large quantities beneath the chamber in which the parliament was sitting. strafford would not have respected forms in the midst of what he must have well known was a revolution. he would probably have struck at the commons if they had not struck at him; certainly he would have placed himself beyond their reach; and the promptness of pym's decision saved the party and the country. no practical injustice was done by wresting the sword out of strafford's hand and putting him in safe keeping till the charges could be drawn up in form, as they immediately were. falkland himself in proposing a committee avowed his conviction that the grounds for the impeachment were perfectly sufficient. his name does not appear among the straffordians; and had he opposed the bill of attainder it seems morally certain that clarendon would have told us so. the strength of this presumption is not impaired by any vague words of baxter coupling the name of falkland with that of digby as a seceder from the party on the occasion of the bill. had falkland voted with digby, his name would have appeared in the same list. that he felt qualms and wavered at the last is very likely; but it is almost certain that he voted for the bill. there is some reason for believing that he took the sterner, though probably more constitutional, line, on the question of allowing the accused to be heard by counsel. but the evidence is meagre and doubtful; and the difficulty of reading it aright has been increased by the discovery that pym and hampden themselves were against proceeding by bill, and in favour of demanding judgment on the impeachment. it seems certain, however, that falkland pleaded against extending the consequences of the act of attainder to strafford's children, and in this he showed himself a true gentleman. again, in the case of laud, mr. arnold wishes to draw a strong line between the conduct of his favourite and that of the savage "puritans." he says that falkland "refused to concur in laud's impeachment." if he did, we must say he acted very inconsistently, for in his speech in favour of the bishops' bill he violently denounced laud as a participator in strafford's treason:-- "we shall find both of them to have kindled and blown the common fire of both nations, to have both sent and maintained that book (of canons) of which the author, no doubt, hath long since wished with nero, _utinam nescissem literas!_ and of which more than one kingdom hath cause to wish that when he wrote that he had rather burned a library, though of the value of ptolemy's. we shall find them to have been the first and principal cause of the breach, i will not say of, but since, the pacification of berwick. we shall find them to have been the almost sole abettors of my lord strafford, whilst he was practising upon another kingdom that manner of government which he intended to settle in this; where he committed so many mighty and so manifest enormities and oppressions as the like have not been committed by any governor in any government since verras left sicily; and after they had called him over from being deputy of ireland to be in a manner deputy of england (all things here being goverend by a junctillo and the junctillo goverend by him) to have assisted him in the giving such counsels and the pursuing such courses, as it is a hard and measuring cost whether they were more unwise, more unjust, or more unfortunate, and which had infallibly been our destruction if by the grace of god their share had not been a small in the subtilty of serpents as in the innocency of doves." we are not aware, however, of the existence of any positive proof that falkland did "refuse to concur" in the impeachment of laud. there is nothing, we believe, but the general statement of clarendon that his friend regarded with horror the storm gathering against the archbishop, which the words of falkland himself, just quoted, seem sufficient to disprove. mr. arnold tells us that "falkland disliked laud; he had a natural antipathy to his heat, fussiness, and arbitrary temper." he had an antipathy to a good deal more in laud than this, and expressed his dislike in language which showed that he was himself not deficient in heat when his religious feelings were aroused. he accused laud and the ecclesiastics of his party of having "destroyed unity under pretence of uniformity;" of having "brought in superstition and scandal under the titles of reverence and decency;" of having "defiled the church by adorning the churches," of having "destroyed as much of the gospel as they could without themselves being destroyed by the law." he compared them to the hen in aesop, fed too fat to lay eggs, and to dogs in the manger, who would neither preach nor let others preach. he charged them with checking instruction in order to introduce that religion which accounts ignorance the mother of devotion. he endorsed the common belief that one of them was a papist at heart, and that only regard for his salary prevented him from going over to rome. all this uttered to a parliament in such a mood would hardly be in favour of gentle dealing with the archbishop. but pym and hampden, as clarendon himself admits, never intended to proceed to extremities against the old man; they were satisfied with having put him in safe keeping and removed him from the councils of the king. when they were gone, the presbyterians, to whom the leadership of the revolution then passed, took up the impeachment and brought laud to the block. the parts were distributed among the leaders. to falkland was entrusted the prosecution of the lord keeper finch; and this part he performed in a style which thoroughly identifies him with the other leaders, and with the general spirit of the movement at this stage of the revolution. no man, so far as we can see, did more to set the stone rolling; it was not likely that, with his slender force, he would be able to stop it at once in mid career. in contrasting falkland's line of conduct with that of the "puritans," on the question of the bishops' bill and of the impeachment of laud, mr. arnold indicates his impression that all puritans were on principle enemies, and as a matter of course fanatical enemies, of episcopacy. but he will find that at this time many puritans were low church episcopalians, wishing only to moderate the pretensions and curb the authority of the bishops. episcopacy is not one of the grievances protested against in the millenary petition sir john eliot appears to have been as strong an erastian as mr. arnold could desire. it seems to us hardly possible to draw a sharp line of distinction in any respect, except that of practical ability, between falkland and hampden. falkland failed to understand, while hampden understood, the character of the king and the full peril of the situation; that was the real difference between the two men. the political and ecclesiastical ideal of both in all probability was pretty much the same. mr. arnold chooses to describe hampden as "seeking the lord about militia or ship- money," and he undertakes to represent jesus as "whispering to him with benign disdain." sceptics, to disprove the objective reality of the deity, allege that every man makes god in his own image. they might perhaps find an indirect confirmation of their remark in the numerous lives and portraitures of christ which have appeared of late years, each entirely different from the rest, and each stamped clearly enough with the impress of an individual mind. but where has hampden spoken of himself as "seeking the lord about militia or ship-money?" he appears to have been a highly-educated man of the world. in one of his few remaining letters there are recommendations to a friend, who had consulted him about the education of his sons, which seem to blend regard for religion with enlightened liberality of view. if he prayed for support and guidance in his undertakings, surely he did no more than mr. arnold himself practically recommends people to do when he urges them to join the established church of england. even should mr. arnold light on an authentic instance of scripture phraseology used by hampden, or any other puritan chief, in a way which would now be against good taste, his critical and historical sense will readily make allowance for the difference between the present time and the time when the bible was a newly-recovered book, and when its language, on the believer's lips and to the believer's ears, was still fresh as the dew of the morning. it would be even more difficult to separate falkland's general character from that of pym, of whose existence mr. arnold has shown himself conscious by once mentioning his name. the political philosophy of pym's speeches is most distinctly constitutional, and we do not see that in point of breadth or dignity they leave much to be desired, while they unquestionably express, in the fullest manner, the mind of a leader of the puritan party. whoever contrasts falkland with the puritans will have to encounter the somewhat untoward fact that in his speech against the high church bishops, falkland, if he does not actually call himself a puritan, twice identifies the puritan cause with his own. among the bad objects which he accuses the clergy of advocating in their sermons is "the demolishing of puritanism and propriety" again he cries-- "alas! they whose ancestors in the darkest times excommunicated the breakers of magna charta do now by themselves, and their adherents, both write, preach, plot, and act against it, by encouraging dr. beale, by preferring dr. mainwaring, appearing forward for monopolies and ship- money, and if any were slow and backward to comply, blasting both them and their preferment with the utmost expression of their hatred--the title of puritans." these words may help to make mr. arnold aware, when he mows down the puritan party with some trenchant epithet, how wide the sweep of his scythe is, and the same thing will be still more distinctively brought before him by a perusal (if he has not already perused it) of the chapter on the subject in mr. sandford's "studies and illustrations of the great rebellion." it can hardly be necessary to remind him, or any one else, of the portrait of one who was a most undoubted puritan, drawn by lucy hutchinson. if this portrait betrays the hand of a wife, clarendon's portrait of falkland betrays the hand of a friend, and even a beloved husband is not more likely to be the object of exaggerated, though sincere praise, than the social head and the habitual host of a circle of literary men. at all events lucy hutchinson is painting what she thought a perfect puritan would be; and her picture presents to us, not a coarse, crop-eared, and snuffling fanatic, but a highly accomplished, refined, gallant, and most "amiable," though religious and seriously-minded gentleman. the spencerian school of sentiment seems to mr. arnold very lovely compared with the men of the new model army and their ways. in the general of the new model army, sir thomas fairfax, he has a distinct, and we venture to say very worthy, pupil of that school. over the most questionable as well as the most momentous passage in falkland's public life, his admirer passes with a graceful literary movement. falkland was sworn in as a privy councillor three days before, and as secretary of state, four days after, the attempt of the king to seize the five members. he was thus, in outward appearance at least, brought into calamitous connection with an act which, as clarendon sees, was the signal for civil war. clarendon vehemently disclaims for himself and his two friends any knowledge of the king's design. so far as the more violent part of the proceeding is concerned, we can easily believe him; a woman mad with vindictive arrogance inspired it, and nobody except a madman would have been privy to it; but it is not so easy to believe him with regard to the impeachment, which was in fact an attempt to take the lives of the king's enemies by arraigning them before a political tribunal, hostile to them and favourable to their accuser, instead of bringing them to a fair and legal trial before a jury. by accepting the secretaryship, falkland at all events assumed a certain measure of responsibility after the fact for a proceeding which, we repeat, rendered civil war inevitable, because it must have convinced the popular leaders that to put faith in charles with such councillors as he had about him would be insanity; and that if they allowed parliament to rise and the kong to resume the power of the sword, not only would all their work of reform be undone, but the fate of sir john eliot would be theirs. clarendon owns that hampden's carriage from that day was changed, implying that up to that day it had been temperate; and the insinuation that, beneath the cloak of apparent moderation, hampden had been secretly breathing counsels of violence into the minds of others deserves no attention, when it comes from a hostile source. of the purity of falkland's motives we entertain not the shadow of a doubt; but we venture to think that it is very questionable whether he did right, and this not only on grounds of technical constitutionalism, which in the present day would render imperative the retirement of a minister whose advice had been so flagrantly disregarded, but on grounds of the most broadly practical kind. he forfeited for ever, not only any influence which he might have retained over the popular leaders, and any access which he might have had to them in their more pacific mood, but probably all real control over the king. charles was the very last man whom you could afford to allow in the slightest degree to tamper with your honour. it is surely conceivable that the recollection of an unfortunate step, and the sense of a false position, may have mingled with the sorrow caused by the public calamities in the melancholy which drove falkland to cast away his life. in the civil war falkland was always "ingeminating _peace, peace_". our hearts are with him, but it was of no use. it is an unhappy part of civil wars that there can be no real peace till one party has succumbed: compromise only leads to a renewal of the conflict. there is sense as well as dignity in the deliberate though mournful acceptance of necessity, and the determination to play out the part which could not be declined, expressed in the letter written at the outbreak of the conflict by the parliamentarian, sir william waller, to a personal friend in the other camp: "my affections to you are so unchangeable that hostility itself cannot violate my friendship to your person; but i must be true to the cause wherein i serve. the great god, who is the searcher of my heart, knows with what reluctance i go upon this service, and with what perfect hatred i look upon a war without an enemy. the god of peace, in his good time, sent us peace, and in the meantime fit us to receive it! we are both on the stage, and we must act the parts that are assigned us in this tragedy. let us do it in a way of honour, and without personal animosities." a man in this frame of mind, we submit, was likely to get to the end of a civil war more speedily than a man in the mood, amiable as it was, of falkland. perhaps, after all, the failure, the inevitable failure of falkland's passionate pleadings for peace may have saved him from a worse doom than death on the field even of civil war. in the case of the five members, the king had shown how little regard he had, at least how little regard the mistress of his councils had, for the honour of his advisers. the pair might have used falkland to lure by the pledge of his high character the leaders of the parliament into the acceptance of a treaty? which the king, with his notions of divine right, and the queen with her passionate love of absolute power, would, there can be little doubt, have violated as soon as the army of the parliament had been disbanded, and the power of the sword had returned into the king's hands. falkland might have even seen the scaffold erected, through the prostitution of his own honour, for the men whose ardent associate he had been in the overthrow of government by prerogative and in the impeachment of strafford. flinging epithets at cromwell is a very harmless indulgence of sentiment. his memory has passed unscathed even through the burning eloquence which, from the pulpit of the restoration, denounced him as "wearing a bad hat, and that not paid for." since research has placed him before us as he really was, the opinion has been gaining ground that he was about the greatest human force ever directed to a moral purpose; and in that sense, about the greatest man, take him all in all, that ever trod the scene of history. if his entire devotion to his cause, his valour, his magnanimity, his clemency, his fidelity to the public service, his domestic excellence and tenderness are not "conduct," all we can say is, so much the worse for "conduct." the type to which his character belonged, in common with the whole series of historic types, had in it something that was special and transitory, combined with much that, so far as we see, was universal and will endure for ever. it is in failing to note the special and transitory element, and the limitations which it imposed on the hero's greatness, that carlyle's noble biography runs into poetry, and departs from historic truth. to supply this defect is the proper work of rational criticism; but the criticism which begins with "philistine" is not likely to be very rational. the objection urged by bolingbroke against cromwell's foreign policy, on the ground that to unite with france, which was gaining strength, against spain, which was beginning to decline, was not the way to maintain the balance of power in europe, is once more reproduced as though it had not been often brought forward and answered. cromwell was not bound to trouble his head about such a figment of a special diplomacy as the balance of power any more than shakespeare was bound to trouble his head about voltaire's rules for the drama. he was the chief and the defender of protestantism, and as such he was naturally led to ally himself with france, which was comparatively liberal, against spain, which was the great organ of the catholic reaction. an alliance with spain was a thing impossible for a puritan. looking to the narrower interest of england, much more was to be gained by a war with spain than by a war with france, because by a war with spain an entrance was forced for english enterprise through the barriers which spanish monopoly had raised against commercial enterprise in america. the security of england appears, in cromwell's judgment, to have depended on her intrinsic strength, which no one can doubt that, under extraordinary disadvantages, he immensely increased, rather than on the maintenance of a european equilibrium which, as the number of the powers increased, became palpably impracticable. it may be added, that the incipient decline of the double-headed house of austria, if it is visible to our eyes as we trace back the course of events, can hardly have been visible to any eye at that time, and, what is still more to the purpose, that the dangerous ascendency of louis xiv. resulted in great measure from the betrayal of england by charles ii., and would have been impossible had, we will not say a second cromwell, but a protestant or patriotic monarch, sat on the protector's throne. bolingbroke suggests, and mr. arnold embraces the suggestion, that charles i., by making war on france, showed himself more sagacious with regard to foreign policy than cromwell. but mr. arnold, in recommending bolingbroke's philosophy to a generation which he thinks has too much neglected it, has discreetly warned us to let his history alone. charles i., or rather buckingham, in whose hands charles was a puppet, made war on spain, though in the most incapable manner, and with a most ignominious result: he at one time lent the french government english ships to be used against the protestants of rochelle, whose resistance, apart from the religious question, was the one great obstacle to the concentration of the french power; and though he subsequently quarrelled with france, few will believe--assuredly clarendon did not believe--that among the motives for the change, policy of any kind predominated over the passions and the vanity of the favourite. that cromwell would have lent a steady and effective support to the protestants, and thus have prevented the concentration of the french power, is as certain as any unfulfilled contingency can be. mr. arnold is evidently anxious to bring bolingbroke into fashion. "hear bolingbroke upon the success of puritanism." hear lovelace on dr. johnson; one critic would be about as edifying as the other. bolingbroke, a sceptical writer and a scoffer at anglican doctrine, to say nothing about his morals, allied himself for party purposes with the fanatical clergy of the anglican establishment, well represented by sacheverel, and, to gratify his allies, passed as minister persecuting laws, about the last of the series, against nonconformists. this, perhaps, is a proof in a certain way, of philosophic largeness of view. but if bolingbroke is to be commended to ingenuous youth as a guide superior to party narrowness or bias, it may be well to remember the passage of his letter to sir william wyndham, in which he very frankly describes his own aims, and those of his confederates on their accession to office, admitting that "the principal spring of their actions was to have the government of the state in their hands, and that their principal views were the conservation of this power, great employments to themselves, and great opportunities of rewarding those who had helped to raise them, and of hurting those who stood in opposition to them;" though he has the grace to add that with these considerations of party and private interest were intermingled some which had for their object the public good. in another place he avows that he and his party designed "to fill the employments of the kingdom down to the meanest with tories," by which they would have anticipated, and, indeed, by anticipation outdone, the vilest and most noxious proceeding of the coarsest demagogue who ever climbed to power on the shoulders of faction in the united states. it may be instructive to compare with this the principles upon which public employments were distributed by cromwell. it would be out of place to discuss the whole question of the protector's administration by way of reply to a passing thrust of antipathy. but when judgment is pronounced on his external policy, his critics ought not to leave out of consideration the union of scotland and ireland with england, successfully accomplished by him, repealed by the restoration, and, like not a few of his other measures, revived and ratified by posterity, after a delay fraught with calamitous consequences in both cases, and which, in the case of ireland, may perhaps even yet prove fatal. we cannot help remarking, however, that the ecclesiastical policy of the protectorate was one which it would be most inconsistent on the part of mr. arnold and those who hold the same view with him to decry. it was a national church (to prevent the hasty abolition of which, seems to have been cromwell's main reason for dissolving the barebones parliament) with the largest possible measure of comprehension. to us the weak points of such a policy appear manifest enough, but by mr. arnold and those of his way of thinking it ought, if we mistake not, to be respected as an anticipation of their own deal. of one great and irretrievable error cromwell was guilty--he died before his hour. that his government was taking root is clear from the bearing of mazarin and don lewis de haro, sufficiently cool judges, towards the stuart pretender. the restoration was a reaction not against the protectorate but against the military anarchy which ensued. had cromwell lived ten years longer, or had his marshals been true to his successor, to his cause, and to their own fortunes, there would have been an end of the struggle against stuart prerogative, the spirit of laud would have been laid for ever; the temporal power of ecclesiastics would have troubled no more; the union with scotland and ireland would have remained unbroken; and the genuine representation of the people embodied in the instrument of government would have continued to exist, in the place of rotten boroughs, the sources of oligarchy and corruption, of class government and class wars. let us philosophize about general causes as much as we will, untoward accidents occur: the loss of pym and hampden in the early part of the revolution, and that of cromwell at its close, may be fairly reckoned as accidents, and they were untoward in the highest degree. no doubt, while falkland fits perfectly into the line of english progress and takes his place with obvious propriety among the saints of constitutionalism in the vestibule of the house of commons, while even hampden finds admission as the opponent of ship-money, the kind veil of oblivion being drawn over the part he played as a leader in the revolution, cromwell, though his hold over the hearts of the english people is growing all the time, remains in an uncovenanted condition. the problem of his statue is still, and, so far as england is concerned, seems likely long to be, unsolved. put him high or low, in the line of kings or out of it, he is hopelessly incongruous, incommensurable, and out of place. he is in fact the man of the new world; his institutions in the main embody the organic principles of new world society: at washington, not at westminster should be his statue. what puritanism did for england, and what credit is due to it as an element of english character, are questions which cannot be settled by mere assertion, on our side at least. in its highest development, and at the period of its greatest men, it was militant, and everything militant is sure to bear evil traces of the battle. for that reason christianity has always been in favour of peace and goodwill; let the regius professor of theology at oxford, in his christian philosophy of war, be as ingenious and as admirable as he may. but sometimes it is necessary to accept the arbitrament of the sword. it was necessary at marathon, on the plain of tours, on the waters which bore the armada, at lutzen, at marston, at leipsic, at gettysburg. darius, the moors, philip ii., wallenstein, prince rupert, bonaparte, the slave-owners, did not offer you the opportunity which you would so gladly have embraced, of a tranquil and amicable discussion among lime-trees and violets. on each occasion the cause of human progress drew along with it plenty of mud and slime, nevertheless it was the cause of human progress. on each occasion the wrong side no doubt had its falklands, nevertheless it was the wrong side. in the beginning of the seventeenth century the reformation was brought to the verge of destruction. when wallenstein sat down before stralsund everything was gone but england, holland, sweden, and some cantons of switzerland. in england the stream of reaction was running strong; holland could not have stood by herself; sweden was nothing as a power, though it turned out that she had a man. fortunately the lambeth popedom and the royal supremacy prevented the english division of the army of reaction from getting into line with the other divisions and compelled it to accept decisive battle on a separate field against the most formidable soldiers of the reformation. these soldiers saved protestantism, which was their first object, and they saved english liberty into the bargain. we who have come after can stand by the battlefield, pouncet-box in hand, and sniff and sneer as much as we will. great tew was an anticipation, for ever beautiful and memorable, of the time when all swords shall be sheathed, and the world shall have entered into final peace. but in its philosophy there were, as the world then was, two defects; it did not reach the people, and it was incapable of protecting its own existence. laud himself did not care to crush it; he was an ecclesiastical despot rather than a theological bigot; he had a genuine respect for learned men; he preferred winning them by gracious words and preferment to coercing them with the pillory and the shears. but had laud's system prevailed, there would soon have been an end of the philosophy of great tew. mr. arnold points to the free thought of bacon. nobody in those days scented mischief in the inductive philosophy, while in politics and religion bacon was scrupulously orthodox. cromwell's faith was a narrower and coarser thing by far than that of the inmates of the "college in a purer air;" but it brought religion and morality--not the most genial or rational morality, but still morality--into the cottage as well as into the manor-house, and it was able to protect its own existence when it had mounted to power in the person of its chief, the opinions of great tew, and all opinions that would abstain from trying to overthrow the government and restore the tyranny, enjoyed practically larger and more assured liberty than they had ever enjoyed in england before or were destined to enjoy for many a year to come. falkland, says mr. arnold, was in the grasp of _fatality, hence the transcendent interest that attaches to him_. cromwell, happily for his cause and for his country, was, or felt himself to be, not in the grasp of fatality but in the hand of god. might we not have done just as well without puritanism? might not some other way have been found of preserving the serious element in english character and saving english liberty from those who were conspiring for its destruction? such questions as these may be asked without end, and they may be answered by any one who is endowed with a knowledge of men who were never born, and of events that have never happened. might not a way have been found of rescuing the great interests of humanity without greek resistance to persian invasion, or german resistance to the tyranny of bonaparte? suppose in place of the puritan chiefs there had been raised up by miracle a set of men at once consummate soldiers and perfect philosophers, who would have fought and won the battle without being heated by the conflict. suppose, to prevent the necessity of any conflict at all, charles, strafford, and laud had voluntarily abandoned their designs. as it was, puritanism did, and alone could do, the work. what the renaissance would have been without puritan morality we can pretty well guess from the experience of italy. it would have probably been like the life of lorenzo--vice, filthy vice, decorated with art and with elegant philosophy; an academy under the same roof with a brothel. there were ages before morality, and there have been ages between the moralities. there was, in england, an age between the decline of the catholic morality and the rise of the puritan, marked by a laxity of conduct, public and private, which was partly redeemed but not neutralized by elizabethan genius and enterprise. no doubt when the revival came, there was a high church as well as a puritan morality, and that fact ought always to be borne in mind; but the high church morality was inextricably bound up with sacerdotal superstition and with absolute government; it had no hold on the people; and it found itself suspiciously at home in the court of james, in the households of somerset and buckingham, and in the tribunal which lent itself to the divorce of essex. that the puritan revolution was followed by a sacerdotal and sensualist reaction is too true: all revolutions are followed by reactions; it is one great reason for avoiding them. but let it be remembered, first, that the disbanded soldiers of the commonwealth and the other relics of the puritan party still remained the most moral and respectable element in the country; and secondly, that the period of lassitude which follows great efforts, whether of men or nations, is not altogether the condemnation of the effort, but partly the weakness of humanity. nations as well as men, if they aim high, must sometimes overstrain themselves, and weariness must ensue. nor did the commonwealth of england come to nothing, though in a society not half emancipated from feudalism it was premature, and therefore, at the time, a failure. it opened a glimpse of a new order of things: it was the first example of a great national republic, the republics of antiquity having been at once city republics and republics of slave-owners: it not only heralded but, to some extent, prepared the american and even the french revolution. in its sublime death-song, chanted by the great puritan poet, our ears catch the accents of a hope that did not die. the restoration was the end of the puritan party, which thenceforth separated into two portions, the high political element taking the form of whiggism, while the more religious element was represented in subsequent history by the nonconformists. under the marian reaction protestantism had been saved, and the errors which it had committed in its hour of ascendency had been redeemed by the champions, drawn mostly from the humbler classes, who suffered for it at the stake. under the restoration it was again saved, and the errors which it had once more committed in the hour of political triumph were once more redeemed by martyrs of the same class, whose sufferings in the noisome and pestilential prisons of that day were probably not much less severe than the pangs of those who died by fire. both in the marian and in the restoration martyrs of protestantism there was no doubt much that was irrational and unattractive; yet the record of their services to humanity remains, and will remain; let the free-thought of modern times, for which their self-devoting loyalty to such truth as they knew made way, be grateful or ungrateful to them as it will. the relations of nonconformity, with which we must couple scotch presbyterianism, its partner in fundamental doctrine, its constant ally in the conflict, and fellow-sufferer in the hour of adversity, to english religion, morality, industry, education, philanthropy, science, and to the english civilization in general, would be a most important and instructive chapter in english history, but we are hardly called upon to attempt to write it in refutation of jocose charges of "hideousness" and "immense ennui." a sufficient answer to such quips and cranks will be found, we believe, within the same covers with mr. arnold's "falkland," in the shape of an article on the pulpit, by mr. baldwin brown, which in tone and culture appears to us a fit companion for any other paper in the journal. that nonconformity has been political is true. fortunately for the liberties of england it has had to struggle for civil right in order to obtain religious freedom. no doubt in the course of the conflict it has contracted a certain gloominess of character, and shown an unamiable side. treat men with persistent and insolent injustice, strip them of their rights as citizens, put on them a social brand, compel them to pay for the maintenance of the pulpits from which their religion is assailed, and you will run a very great risk of souring their tempers. but without rehearsing disagreeable details, we may say generally that whoever should undertake to prove that the established church had not been, from the hour of her birth down to the last general election, at least as political as the free churches, and at least as responsible for the evils which political religion has brought upon the nation, would show considerable confidence in his powers of dealing with history. could he find a parallel on the side of the established church to the magnanimous loyalty to national interests shown by nonconformists, in rejecting the bribe offered them by james ii., and supporting their persecutors against an illegal toleration? could he find a parallel on the side of the nonconformists to the conduct of the established church, in turning round, the moment the victory had been won by nonconformist aid, and recommencing the persecution of the nonconformists? we fully agree with mr. arnold, however, in thinking that political nonconformity is an evil. there are two known modes of getting rid of it--the spanish inquisition and religious equality. mr. arnold seems to think that there is yet a third--general submission, in matters theological and ecclesiastical, to the gentle sway of beau nash. religious equality in the united states may not be perfect unity, it may not be the height of culture or of grace, but at all events it is peace. ultramontanism there, as everywhere else, is aggressive, and a source of disturbance; and, on the other hand, in the struggle against slavery, political and religious elements were inevitably intermingled, but as a rule politics are kept perfectly clear of religion. saving in the case of roman catholicism, we cannot call to mind a single instance of a serious appeal in an election to sectarian feeling. much as we have heard of the two candidates for the presidency, we could not at this moment tell to what church either of them belongs. where no church is privileged, there can be no cause for jealousy. the churches dwell side by side, without disturbing the state with any quarrels; they are all alike loyal to the government; they unite in supporting a system of popular education which generally includes a certain element of unsectarian religion, they combine for social and philanthropic objects; they testify, by their common celebration of national thanksgivings and fasts their unity at all events as portions of the same christian nation. so far as we know, controversy between them is very rare; there is more of it within the several churches between their own more orthodox and more liberal members. in none does it rage more violently than in the episcopal church, though, under religious equality, irreconcilable disagreement on religious questions leads to seccession, not to mutual lawsuits and imprisonments. mr. arnold says in praise of falkland that "he was profoundly serious." we presume he means not only that falkland treated great questions in a serious way, without unseasonable quizzing, but that he was, in the words quoted from clarendon in the next sentence, "a precise lover of truth, and superior to all possible temptations for its violation." the temptations, we presume, would have included those of taste or fancy, as well as those of the more obvious kind; and falkland's paramount regard for truth would have extended to all his fellow-men as well as to himself and his own intellectual circle. he would never, we are confident, have advised any human being to separate religion from truth, he would never have suffered himself to intimate that truth was the property of a select circle, while "poetry" was good enough for the common people, he would never have encouraged thousands of clergymen, educated men with sensitive consciences, to go on preaching to their flocks from the pulpit, on grounds of social convenience, doctrines which they repudiated in the study, and derided in the company of cultivated men, he would never have exhorted people to enter from aesthetic considerations a spiritual society of which, in the same breath, he proclaimed the creeds to be figments, the priesthood to be an illusion, the sacred narratives to be myths, and the triune god to be a caricature of lord shaftesbury multiplied by three. if he had done so, and if his propagandism had been successful, we suspect he would soon have produced an anarchy, not only religious but social, compared with which the most chaotic periods of the revolution would have been harmony and order. in the days of the antonines, to which gibbon looks back so wistfully, opinion had little influence; the organic forces of society were of a more primitive and a coarser kind. in modern times if a writer could succeed in separating truth from religion, he would shake the pillars of the moral and social as well as the intellectual world. that religion is inseparable from truth is the strong and special tradition of the nonconformists. their history has been a long struggle for the rights of conscience against spurious authority, an authority which we believe mr. arnold holds to be spurious as well as they. this is not altogether a bad start in the pursuit of the truth for which the world now craves, and which, we cordially admit, lies beyond the existing creed of any particular church. at all events, it would seem improvident to merge such an element of religious inquiry in that of which the tradition is submission to spurious authority, whatever advantages the latter may have in social, literary, and aesthetic respects. not a generation has yet passed since the admission of nonconformists to the universities; and more than a generation is needed in order to attain the highest culture. give the free churches time, and let us see whether they have not something better to give us in return than "hideousness" and "immense ennui." the early years of abraham lincoln our readers need not be afraid that we are going to bore them with the slavery question or the civil war. we deal here not with the martyr president, but with abe lincoln in embryo, leaving the great man at the entrance of the grand scene. mr. ward h. lamon has published a biography [footnote: the life of abraham lincoln from his birth to his inauguration as president. by ward h. lamon. boston: james r. osgood & co. ] which enables us to do this, and which, besides containing a good deal that is amusing, is a curious contribution to political science, as illustrating, by a world-renowned instance, the origin of the species politician. the materials for it appear to be drawn from the most authentic sources, and to have been used with diligence, though in point of form the book leaves something to be desired. we trust it and the authorities quoted in it for our facts. after the murder, criticism, of course, was for a time impossible. martyrdom was followed by canonization, and the popular heart could not be blamed for overflowing in hyperbole. the fallen chief "was washington, he was moses, and there were not wanting even those who likened him to the god and redeemer of all the earth. these latter thought they discovered in his early origin, his kindly nature, his benevolent precepts, and the homely anecdotes in which he taught the people, strong points of resemblance between him and the divine son of mary." a halo of myth naturally gathered round the cradle of this new moses--for we will not pursue the more extravagant and offensive parallel which may serve as a set-off against that which was drawn by english royalists between the death of charles i. and the crucifixion. among other fables, it was believed that the president's family had fled from kentucky to indiana to escape the taint of slavery. thomas lincoln, the father of abraham, was migratory enough, but the course of his migrations was not determined by high moral motives, and we may safely affirm that had he ever found himself among the fleshpots of egypt, he would have stayed there, however deep the moral darkness might have been. he was a thriftless "ne'er do weel," who had very commonplace reasons for wandering away from the miserable, solitary farm in kentucky, on which his child first formed a sad acquaintance with life and nature, and which, as it happened, was not in the slave-owning region of the state. his decision appears to have been hastened by a "difficulty," in which he bit off his antagonist's nose--an incident to which it would be difficult to find a parallel in the family histories of scripture heroes, or even in those of the sainted fathers of the republic. he drifted to indiana, and in a spot which was then an almost untrodden wilderness, built a _casa santa_, which his connection, dennis hanks, calls "that darned little half-faced camp"--a dwelling enclosed on three sides and open on the fourth, without a floor, and called a camp, it seems, because it was made of poles, not of logs. he afterwards exchanged the "camp" for the more ambitious "cabin," but his cabin, was "a rough, rough log one," made of unhewn timber, and without floor, door or window. in this "rough, rough," abode, his lanky, lean- visaged, awkward and somewhat pensive though strong, hearty and patient son abraham had a "rough, rough" life, and underwent experiences which, if they were not calculated to form a pitt or a turgot, were calculated to season an american politician, and make him a winner in the tough struggle for existence, as well as to identify him with the people, faithful representation of whose aims, sentiments, tastes, passions and prejudices was the one thing needful to qualify him for obtaining the prize of his ambition. "for two years lincoln (the father) continued to live alone in the old way. he did not like to farm, and he never got much of his land under cultivation. his principal crop was corn; and this, with the game which a rifleman so expert would easily take from the woods around him, supplied his table." it does not appear that he employed any of his mechanical skill in completing and furnishing his own cabin. it has already been stated that the latter had no window, door or floor. "but the furniture, if it might be called furniture, was even worse than the house. three-legged stools served for chairs. a bedstead was made of poles stuck in the cracks of the logs in one corner of the cabin, while the other end rested in the crotch of a forked stick stuck in the earthen floor. on these were laid some boards, and on the boards a shake-down of leaves, covered with skins and old petticoats. the table was a hewed puncheon supported by four legs. they had a few pewter and tin dishes to eat from, but the most minute inventory of their effects makes no mention of knives or forks. their cooking utensils were a dutch oven and a skillet. abraham slept in the loft, to which he ascended by means of pins driven into holes in the wall." of his father's disposition, abraham seems to have inherited at all events the dislike to labour, though his sounder moral nature prevented him from being an idler. his tendency to politics came from the same element of character as his father's preference for the rifle. in after life we are told his mind "was filled with gloomy forebodings and strong apprehensions of impending evil, mingled with extravagant visions of personal grandeur and power." his melancholy, characterized by all his friends as "terrible," was closely connected with the cravings of his demagogic ambition, and the root of both was in him from a boy. in the indiana cabin abraham's mother, whose maiden name was nancy hanks, died, far from medical aid, of the epidemic called milk sickness. she was preceded in death by her relatives, the sparrows, who had succeeded the lincolns in the "camp," and by many neighbours, whose coffins thomas lincoln made out of "green lumber cut with a whip saw." upon nancy's death he took to his green lumber again and made a box for her. "there were about twenty persons at her funeral. they took her to the summit of a deeply wooded knoll, about half a mile south-east of the cabin, and laid her beside the sparrows. if there were any burial ceremonies, they were of the briefest. but it happened that a few months later an itinerant preacher, named david elkin, whom the lincolns had known in kentucky, wandered into the settlement, and he either volunteered or was employed to preach a sermon, which should commemorate the many virtues and pass over in silence the few frailties of the poor woman who slept in the forest. many years later the bodies of levi hall and his wife (relatives), were deposited in the same earth with that of mr. lincoln. the graves of two or three children, belonging to a neighbour's family, are also near theirs. they are all crumbled, sunken and covered with wild vines in deep and tangled mats. the great trees were originally cut away to make a small cleared space for this primitive graveyard; but the young dogwoods have sprung up unopposed in great luxuriance, and in many instances the names of pilgrims to the burial place of the great abraham lincoln's mother are carved on their bark. with this exception, the spot is wholly unmarked. the grave never had a stone, nor even a board, at its head or its foot, and the neighbours still dispute as to which of these unsightly hollows contains the ashes of nancy lincoln." if democracy in the new world sometimes stones the prophets, it is seldom guilty of building their sepulchres. out of sight, off the stump, beyond the range of the interviewer, heroes and martyrs soon pass from the mind of a fast-living people; and weeds may grow out of the dust of washington. but in this case what neglect has done good taste would have dictated; it is well that the dogwoods are allowed to grow unchecked over the wilderness grave. thirteen months after the death of his nancy, thomas lincoln went to elizabethtown, kentucky, and suddenly presented himself to mrs. sally johnston, who had in former days rejected him for a better match, but had become a widow. "well, mrs. johnston, i have no wife and you have no husband, i came a purpose to marry you. i knowed you from a gal and you knowed me from a boy. i have no time to lose, and if you are willin', let it be done straight off." "tommy, i know you well, and have no objection to marrying you; but i cannot do it straight off, as i owe some debts that must first be paid." they were married next morning, and the new mrs. lincoln, who owned, among other wondrous household goods, a bureau that cost forty dollars, and who had been led, it seems, to believe that her new husband was reformed and a prosperous farmer, was conveyed with her bureau to the smiling scene of his reformation and prosperity. being, however, a sensible christian woman, she made the best of a bad bargain, got her husband to put down a floor and hang doors and windows, made things generally decent, and was very kind to the children, especially to abe, to whom she took a great liking, and who owed to his good stepmother what other heroes have owed to their mothers. "from that time on," according to his garrulous relative, dennis hanks, "he appeared to lead a new life." it seems to have been difficult to extract from him "for campaign purposes" the incidents of his life before it took this happy turn. he described his own education in a congressional handbook as "defective." in kentucky he occasionally trudged with his little sister, rather as an escort than as a school-fellow, to a school four miles off, kept by one caleb hazel, who could teach reading and writing after a fashion, and a little arithmetic, but whose great qualification for his office lay in his power and readiness "to whip the big boys." so far the american respect for popular education as the key to success in life prevailed even in those wilds, and in such a family as that of thomas lincoln. under the auspices of his new mother, abraham began attending school again. the master was one crawford, who taught not only reading, writing and arithmetic, but "manners." one of the scholars was made to retire, and re-enter "as a polite gentleman enters a drawing room," after which he was led round by another scholar and introduced to all "the young ladies and gentlemen." the polite gentleman who entered the drawing room and was introduced as mr. abraham lincoln, is thus depicted: "he was growing at a tremendous rate, and two years later attained his full height of six feet four inches. he was long, wiry and strong, while his big feet and hands and the length of his arms and legs were out of all proportion to his small trunk and head. his complexion was very swarthy, and mr. gentry says that his skin was shrivelled and yellow even then. he wore low shoes, buckskin breeches, linsey woolsey shirt, and a cap made of the skin of an opossum or a coon. the breeches clung close to his thighs and legs, but parted by a large space to meet the tops of his shoes. twelve inches remained uncovered, and exposed that much of shinbone, sharp, blue and narrow." at a subsequent period, when charged by a democratic rival with being "a whig aristocrat," he gave a minute and touching description of the breeches. "i had only one pair," he said, "and they were buckskin. and if you know the nature of buckskin when wet and dried by the sun they will shrink; and mine kept shrinking until they left several inches of my legs bare between the tops of my socks and the lower part of my breeches, and whilst i was growing taller they were becoming shorter, and so much tighter that they left a blue streak around my legs, which can be seen to this day." mr. crawford, it seems, was a martinet in spelling, and one day he was going to punish a whole class for failing to spell _defied_, when lincoln telegraphed the right letter to a young lady by putting his finger with a significant smile to his eye. many years later, however, and after his entrance into public life, lincoln himself spelt _apology_ with a double p, _planning_ with a single n, and _very_ with a double r. his schooling was very irregular, his school days hardly amounting to a year in all, and such education as he had was picked up afterwards by himself. his appetite for mental food, however, was always strong, and he devoured all the books, few and not very select, which could be found in the neighbourhood of "pigeon creek." equally strong was his passion for stump oratory, the taste for which pervades the american people, even in the least intellectual districts, as the taste for church festivals pervades the people of spain, or the taste for cricket the people of england. abe's neighbour, john romine, says, "he was awful lazy. he worked for me; was always reading and thinking; used to get mad at him. he worked for me in , pulling fodder. i say abe was awful lazy, he would laugh and talk, and crack jokes all the time, didn't love work, but did dearly love his pay." he liked to lie under a shade tree, or up in the loft of the cabin and read, cipher, or scribble. at night he ciphered by the light of the fire on the wooden fire shovel. he practised stump oratory by repeating the sermons, and sometimes by preaching himself to his brothers and sister. his gifts in the rhetorical line were high; when it was announced in the harvest field that abe had taken the stump, work was at an end. the lineaments of the future politician distinctly appear in the dislike of manual labour as well as in the rest. we shall presently have lincoln's own opinion on that point. abe's first written composition appears to have been an essay against cruelty to animals, a theme the choice of which was at once indicative of his kindness of heart and practically judicious, since the young gentlemen in the neighbourhood were in the habit of catching terrapins and putting hot coals upon their backs. the essay appears not to have been preserved, and we cannot say whether its author succeeded in explaining that ethical mystery--the love of cruelty in boys. in spite of his laziness, abe was greatly in demand at hog-killing time, notwithstanding, or possibly in consequence of which, he contracted a peculiarly tender feeling towards swine, and in later life would get off his horse to help a struggling hog out of the mire or to save a little pig from the jaws of an unnatural mother. society in the neighbourhood of pigeon creek was of the thorough backwoods type; as coarse as possible, but hospitable and kindly, free from cant and varnish, and a better school of life than of manners, though, after all, the best manners are learnt in the best school of life, and the school of life in which abe studied was not the worst. he became a leading favourite, and his appearance, towering above the other hunting shirts, was always the signal for the fun to begin. his nature seems to have been, like many others, open alike to cheerful and to gloomy impressions. a main source of his popularity was the fund of stories to which he was always adding, and to which in after life, he constantly went for solace, under depression or responsibility, as another man would go to his cigar or snuff box. the taste was not individual but local, and natural to keen-witted people who had no other food for their wits. in those circles "the ladies drank whiskey-toddy, while the men drank it straight." lincoln was by no means fond of drink, but in this, as in every thing else, he followed the great law of his life as a politician, by falling in with the humour of the people. one cold night be and his companions found an acquaintance lying dead-drunk in a puddle. all but lincoln were disposed to let him lie where he was, and freeze to death. but abe "bent his mighty frame, and taking the man in his long arms, carried him a great distance to dennis hanks' cabin. there he built a fire, warmed, rubbed and nursed him through the entire night, his companions having left him alone in his merciful task." his real kindness of heart is always coming out in the most striking way, and it was not impaired even by civil war. though sallow-faced, lincoln had a very good constitution, but his frame hardly bespoke great strength: he was six feet four and large-boned, but narrow chested, and had almost a consumptive appearance. his strength, nevertheless, was great. we are told that harnessed with ropes and straps he could lift a box of stones weighing from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds. but that he could raise a cask of whiskey in his arms standing upright, and drink out of the bung-hole, his biographer does not believe. the story is no doubt a part of the legendary halo which has gathered round the head of the martyr. in wrestling, of which he was very fond, he had not his match near pigeon creek, and only once found him anywhere else. he was also formidable as a pugilist. but he was no bully; on the contrary, he was peaceable and chivalrous in a rough way. his chivalry once displayed itself in a rather singular fashion. he was in the habit, among other intellectual exercises, of writing satires on his neighbours in the form of chronicles, the remains of which, unlike any known writings of moses, or even of washington, are "too indecent for publication." in one of these he assailed the grigsbys, who had failed to invite him to a brilliant wedding. the grigsby blood took fire, and a fight was arranged. but when they came to the ring, lincoln, deeming the grigsby champion too much overmatched, magnanimously substituted for himself his less puissant stepbrother, john johnston, who was getting well pounded when abe, on pretence of foul play, interfered, seized grigsby by the neck, flung him off and cleared the ring. he then "swung a whiskey bottle over his head, and swore that he was the big buck of the lick,"--a proposition which it seems, the other bucks of the lick, there assembled in large numbers, did not feel themselves called upon to dispute. that abraham lincoln should have said, when a bare-legged boy, that he intended to be president of the united states, is not remarkable. every boy in the united states says it; soon, perhaps, every girl will be able to say it, and then human happiness will be complete. but lincoln was really carrying on his political education. dennis hanks is asked how he and lincoln acquired their knowledge. "we learned," he replies, "by sight, scent and hearing. we heard all that was said, and talked over and over the questions heard; wore them slick, greasy and threadbare. went to political and other speeches and gatherings, as you do now; we would hear all sides and opinions, talk them over, discuss them, agreeing or disagreeing. abe, as i said before, was originally a democrat after the order of jackson; so was his father, so we all were.... he preached, made speeches, read for us, explained to us, &c.... abe was a cheerful boy, a witty boy; was humorous always, sometimes would get sad, not very often.... lincoln would frequently make political and other speeches; he was calm, logical and clear always. he attended trials, went to court always, read the revised statutes of indiana, dated , heard law speeches, and listened to law trials. lincoln was lazy, a very lazy man. he was always reading, scribbling, writing, ciphering, writing poetry, and the like.... in gentryville, about one mile west of thomas lincoln's farm, lincoln would go and tell his jokes and stories, &c., and was so odd, original and humorous and witty, that all the people in town would gather around him. he would keep them there till midnight. i would get tired, want to go home, cuss abe most heartily. abe was a good talker, a good reader, and was a kind of newsboy." one or two articles written by abe found their way into obscure journals, to his infinite gratification. his foot was on the first round of the ladder. it is right to say that his culture was not solely political, and that he was able to astonish the natives of gentryville by explaining that when the sun appeared to set, it "was we did the sinking and not the sun." abe was tired of his home, as a son of thomas lincoln might be, without disparagement to his filial piety; and he was glad to get off with a neighbour on a commercial trip down the river to new orleans. the trip was successful in a small way, and abe soon after repeated it with other companions. he shewed his practical ingenuity in getting the boat off a dam, and perhaps still more signally in quieting some restive hogs by the simple expedient of sewing up their eyes. in the first trip the great emancipator came in contact with the negro in a way that did not seem likely to prepossess him in favour of the race. the boat was boarded by negro robbers, who were repulsed only after a fray in which abe got a scar which he carried to the grave. but he saw with his own eyes slaves manacled and whipped at new orleans; and though his sympathies were not far-reaching, the actual sight of suffering never failed to make an impression on his mind. "in ," he says, in a letter to a friend, "you and i had together a tedious low-water trip on a steamboat from louisville to st. louis. you may remember, as i well do, that from louisville to the mouth of the ohio, there were on board ten or a dozen slaves shackled together with irons. that sight was a continued torment to me, and i see something like it every time i touch the ohio or any other slave border." a negrophilist he never became. "i protest," he said afterwards, when engaged in the slavery controversy, "against the counterfeit logic which concludes that because i do not want a black woman for a slave i must necessarily want her for a wife. i need not have her for either. i can just leave her alone. in some respects she certainly is not my equal; but in her natural right to eat the bread which she earns with her own hands she is my equal and the equal of all others." it would be difficult to put the case better. while abraham lincoln was trading to new orleans his father, thomas lincoln, was on the move again. this time he migrated to illinois, and there again shifted from place to place, gathering no moss, till he died as thriftless and poor as he had lived. we have, in later years, an application from him to his son for money, to which the son responds in a tone which implies some doubt as to the strict accuracy of the ground on which the old gentleman's request was preferred. their relations were evidently not very affectionate, though there is nothing unfilial in abe's conduct. abraham himself drifted to salem on the sangamon, in illinois, twenty miles north-west of springfield, where he became clerk in a new store, set up by denton offutt, with whom he had formed a connection in one of his trips to new orleans. salem was then a village of a dozen houses, and the little centre of a society very like that of pigeon creek and its neighbourhood, but more decidedly western. we are told that "here mr. lincoln became acquainted with a class of men the world never saw the like of before or since. they were large men,--large in body and large in mind; hard to whip and never to be fooled. they were a bold, daring and reckless set of men; they were men of their own mind,--believed what was demonstrable, were men of great common sense. with these men mr. lincoln was thrown; with them he lived and with them he moved and almost had his being. they were sceptics all--scoffers some. these scoffers were good men, and their scoffs were protests against theology,--loud protests against the follies of christianity; they had never heard of theism and the new and better religious thoughts of this age. hence, being natural sceptics and being bold, brave men they uttered their thoughts freely.... they were on all occasions, when opportunity offered, debating the various questions of christianity among themselves; they took their stand on common sense and on their own souls; and though their arguments were rude and rough, no man could overthrow their homely logic. they riddled all divines, and not unfrequently made them sceptics,--disbelievers as bad as themselves. they were a jovial, healthful, generous, true and manly set of people." it is evident that w. herndon, the speaker, is himself a disbeliever in christianity, and addicted to the "newer and better thought of this age." he gives one specimen, which we have omitted for fear of shocking our readers, of the theological criticism of these redoubtable logicians of nature; and we are inclined to infer from it that the divines whom they "riddled" and converted to scepticism must have been children of nature as well as themselves. the passage, however, is a life-like, though idealized, portrait of the western man; and the tendency to religious scepticism of the most daring kind is as truly ascribed to him as the rest. it seems to be proved by conclusive evidence that mr. lincoln shared the sentiments of his companions, and that he was never a member of any church, a believer in the divinity of christ, or a christian of any denomination. he is described as an avowed, an open freethinker, sometimes bordering on atheism, going extreme lengths against christian doctrines, and "shocking" men whom it was probably not very easy to shock. he even wrote a little work on "infidelity," attacking christianity in general, and especially the belief that jesus was the son of god; but the manuscript was destroyed by a prescient friend, who knew that its publication would ruin the writer in the political market. there is reason to believe that burns contributed to lincoln's scepticism, but he drew it more directly from volney, paine, hume and gibbon. his fits of downright atheism appear to have been transient; his settled belief was theism with a morality which, though he was not aware of it, he had really derived from the gospel. it is needless to say that the case had never been rationally presented to him, and that his decision against christianity would prove nothing, even if his mind had been more powerful than it was. his theism was not strong enough to save him from deep depression under misfortune; and we heard, on what we thought at the time good authority, that after chancellorsville, he actually meditated suicide. like many sceptics, he was liable to superstition, especially to the superstition of self-consciousness, a conviction that he was the subject of a special decree made by some nameless and mysterious power. even from a belief in apparitions he was not free. "it was just after my election, in ," he said to his secretary, john hay, "when the news had been coming in thick and fast all day, and there had been a great 'hurrah, boys!' so that i was well tired, i went home to rest, throwing myself upon a lounge in my chamber. opposite to where i lay was a bureau with a swinging glass upon it; and, on looking in that glass, i saw myself reflected nearly at full length; but my face, i noticed, had two separate and distinct images, the tip of the nose of one being about three inches from the tip of the other. i was a little bothered, perhaps startled, and got up and looked in the glass; but the illusion vanished. on lying down again i saw it a second time--plainer, if possible, than before; and then i noticed that one of the faces was a little paler--say five shades--than the other. i got up and the thing melted away; and i went off and in the excitement of the hour forgot all about it,--nearly, but not quite, for the thing would once in a while come up and give me a little pang, as though something uncomfortable had happened. when i went home i told my wife about it; and in a few days afterwards i tried the experiment again, when, sure enough, the thing came back again; but i never succeeded in bringing the ghost back after that, though i once tried very industriously, to show it to my wife, who was worried about it somewhat. she thought it was 'a sign' that i was to be elected to a second term of office, and that the paleness of one of the faces was an omen that i should not see life through the last term." the apparition is, of course, easily explained by reference to a generally morbid temperament and a specially excited fancy. the impression which it made on the mind of a sceptic, noted for never believing in anything which was not actually submitted to his senses, is an instance of the tendency of superstition to creep into the void left in the heart by faith, and as such may be classed with the astrological superstitions of the roman empire, and of that later age of religious and moral infidelity of which the prophet was machiavelli. but if mr. john hay has faithfully repeated lincoln's words, a point upon which we may have our doubts without prejudice to mr. hay's veracity, mrs. lincoln's interpretation of the vision is, to say the least, a very curious coincidence. the flower of the heroic race in the neighbourhood of salem, were the "clary's grove boys," whose chief and champion was jack armstrong. "never," we are assured, "was there a more generous parcel of ruffians than those over whom jack held sway." it does not appear, however, that the term ruffian is altogether misplaced. the boys were in the habit of "initiating" candidates for admission to society at new salem. "they first bantered the gentleman to run a foot race, jump, pitch the mall, or wrestle; and if none of these propositions seemed agreeable to him, they would request to know what he would do in case another gentleman should pull his nose or squirt tobacco juice in his face. if he did not seem entirely decided in his views as to what should be done in such a contingency, perhaps he would be nailed in a hogshead and rolled down new salem hill, perhaps his ideas would be brightened by a brief ducking in the sangamon; or perhaps he would be scoffed, kicked and cuffed by a great number of persons in concert, until he reached the confines of the village, and then turned adrift as being unfit company for the people of that settlement." if the stranger consented to race or wrestle, it was arranged that there should be foul play, which would lead to a fight; a proper display of mettle in which was accepted as a proof of the "gentleman's" fitness for society. abe escaped initiation, his length and strength of limb being apparently deemed satisfactory evidence of his social respectability. but clary's grove was at last brought down upon him by the indiscretion of his friend and admirer, offutt, who was already beginning to run him for president, and whose vauntings of his powers made a trial of strength inevitable. a wrestling match was contrived between lincoln and jack armstrong, and money, jackknives and whiskey were freely staked on the result. neither combatant could throw the other, and abe proposed to jack to "quit." but jack, goaded on by his partisans, resorted to a "foul," upon which abe's righteous wrath blazed up, and taking the champion of clary's grove by the throat he "shook him like a child." a fight was impending, and abe, his back planted against offutt's store, was facing a circle of foes, when a mediator appeared. jack armstrong was so satisfied of the strength of abe's arm, that he at once declared him the best fellow that ever came into the settlement, and the two thenceforth reigned conjointly over the roughs and bullies of new salem. abe seems always to have used his power humanely and to have done his best to substitute arbitration for war. a strange man coming into the settlement, on being beset as usual by clary's grove and insulted by jack armstrong, knocked the bully down with a stick. jack being as strong as two of him was going to "whip him badly," when abe interposed, "well jack, what did you say to the man?" jack repeated his words. "and what would you do if you were in a strange place and you were called a d--d liar?" "whip him, by ---." "then that man has done to you no more than you have done to him." jack acknowledged the golden rule and "treated" his intended victim. if there were ever dissensions between the two "caesars" of salem, it was because jack "in the abundance of his animal spirits" was addicted to nailing people in barrels and rolling them down the hill, while abe was always on the side of mercy. abe's popularity grew apace; his ambition grew with it; it is astonishing how readily and freely the plant sprouts upon that soil. he was at this time carrying on his education evidently with a view to public life. books were not easily found. he wanted to study english grammar, considering that accomplishment desirable for a statesman; and, being told that there was a grammar in a house six miles from salem, he left his breakfast at once and walked off to borrow it. he would slip away into the woods and spend hours in study and thinking. he sat up late at night, and as light was expensive, made a blaze of shavings in the cooper's shop. he waylaid every visitor to new salem who had any pretence to scholarship, and extracted explanations of things which he did not understand. it does not appear that the work of adam smith, or any work upon political economy, currency, or any financial subject fell into the hands of the student who was destined to conduct the most tremendous operations in the whole history of finance. the next episode in lincoln's life which may be regarded as a part of his training was the command of a company of militia in the "black hawk" war. black hawk was an indian chief of great craft and power, and, apparently, of fine character, who had the effrontery to object to being improved off the face of creation, an offence which he aggravated by an hereditary attachment to the british. at a muster of the sangamon company at clary's grove, lincoln was elected captain. the election was a proof of his popularity, but he found it rather hard to manage his constituents in the field. one morning on the march the captain commanded his orderly to form the company for parade; but when the orderly called "parade," the men called "parade" too, but could not fall into line. they had found their way to the officers' liquor the evening before. the regiment had to march and leave the company behind. about ten o'clock the company set out to follow; but when it had marched two miles "the drunken ones lay down and slept their drink off." lincoln, who seems to have been perfectly blameless, was placed under arrest and condemned to carry a wooden sword; but it does not appear that any notice was taken of the conduct of that portion of the sovereign people which lay down drunk on the march when the army was advancing against the enemy. something like this was probably the state of things in the northern army at the beginning of the civil war, before discipline had been enforced by disaster. the campaign opened with a cleverly-won victory on the part of black hawk, and a rapid retrograde movement on the part of the militia, as to which we will be content to say with mr. lamon, "of drunkenness no public account makes any mention, and individual cowardice is never to be imputed to american troops." ultimately, however, black hawk was overpowered and most of his men met their doom in attempting to retreat across the mississippi. "during this short indian campaign," says one who took part in it, "we had some hard times, often hungry; but we had a great deal of sport, especially at nights--foot racing, some horse racing, jumping, telling anecdotes, in which lincoln beat all, keeping up a constant laughter and good humour all the time, among the soldiers some card-playing and wrestling in which lincoln took a prominent part. i think it safe to say he was never thrown in a wrestle. while in the army he kept a handkerchief tied around him all the time for wrestling purposes, and loved the sport as well as any one could. he was seldom if ever beat jumping. during the campaign lincoln himself was always ready for an emergency. he endured hardships like a good soldier; he never complained, nor did he fear dangers. when fighting was expected or danger apprehended, lincoln was the first to say 'let's go.' he had the confidence of every man of his company, and they strictly obeyed his orders at a word. his company was all young men, and full of sport." the assertion as to the strict and uniform obedience of the company at its captain's word, requires, as we have seen, some qualification in a democratic sense. whether lincoln was ever beaten in wrestling is also one of the moot points of history. in the course of this campaign one mr. thompson, whose fame as a wrestler was great throughout the west, accepted lincoln's challenge. great excitement prevailed, and lincoln's company and backers "put up all their portable property and some perhaps not their own, including knives, blankets, tomahawks, and all the necessary articles of a soldier's outfit." as soon as lincoln laid hold of his antagonist he found that he had got at least his match, and warned his friends of that unwelcome fact. he was thrown once fairly, and a second time fell with thompson on the top of him. "we were taken by surprise," candidly says mr. green, "and being unwilling to put with our property and lose our bets, got up an excuse as to the result. we declared the fall a kind of a dog-fall--did so apparently angrily." a fight was about to begin, when lincoln rose up and said, "boys, the man actually threw me once fair, broadly so; and the second time, this very fall, he threw me fairly, though not so apparently so." this quelled the disturbance. on the same authority we are told that lincoln gallantly interfered to save the life of a poor old indian who had thrown himself on the mercy of the soldiers, and whom, notwithstanding that he had a pass, they were proceeding to slay. the anecdote wears a somewhat melodramatic aspect; but there is no doubt of lincoln's humanity, or of his readiness to protest against oppression and cruelty when they actually fell under his notice. it was also in keeping with his character to insist firmly on the right of his militiamen to the same rations and pay as the regulars, and to draw the legal line sharply and clearly when the regular officers exceeded their authority in the exercise of command. returning to new salem, lincoln, having served his apprenticeship as a clerk, commenced storekeeping on his own account. an opening was made for him by the departure of mr. radford, the keeper of a grocery, who, having offended the clary's grove boys, they "selected a convenient night for breaking in his windows and gutting his establishment." from his ruins rose the firm of lincoln & berry. doubt rests on the great historic question whether lincoln sold liquor in his store, and on that question still more agonizing to a sensitive morality--whether he sold it by the dram. the points remain, we are told, and will forever remain undetermined. the only fact in which history can repose with certainty is that some liquor must have been _given_ away, since nobody in the neighbourhood of clary's grove could keep store without offering the customary dram to the patrons of the place. when taxed on the platform by his rival, douglas, with having sold liquor, mr. lincoln replied that if he figured on one side of the counter, douglas figured on the other. "as a storekeeper," says mr. ellis, "mr. lincoln wore flax and tow linen pantaloons--i thought about five inches too short in the legs--and frequently he had but one suspender, no vest or coat. he had a calico shirt such as he had in the black hawk war; coarse brogues, tan-colour; blue yarn socks, a straw hat, old style, and without a band." it is recorded that he preferred dealing with men and boys, and disliked to wait on the ladies. possibly, if his attire has been rightly described, the ladies, even the clary's grove ladies, may have reciprocated the feeling. in storekeeping, however, mr. lincoln did not prosper; neither storekeeping nor any other regular business or occupation was congenial to his character. he was born to be a politician. accordingly he began to read law, with which he combined surveying, at which we are assured he made himself "expert" by a six weeks' course of study. they mix trades a little in the west. we expected on turning the page to find that mr. lincoln had also taken up surgery and performed the caesarean operation. the few law books needed for western practice were supplied to him by a kind friend at springfield, and according to a witness who has evidently an accurate memory for details, "he went to read law in or barefooted, seated in the shade of a tree and would grind around with the shade, just opposite berry's grocery store, a few feet south of the door, occasionally lying flat on his back and putting his feet up the tree." evidently, whatever he read, especially of a practical kind, he made thoroughly his own. it is needless to say that he did not become a master of scientific jurisprudence, but it seems that he did become an effective western advocate. what is more, there is conclusive testimony to the fact that he was--what has been scandalously alleged to be rare, even in the united states--an honest lawyer. "love of justice and fair play," says one of his brothers of the bar, "was his predominant trait. i have often listened to him when i thought he would state his case out of court. it was not in his nature to assume or attempt to bolster up a false position. he would abandon his case first. he did so in the case of _buckmaster for the use of durham v. beener & arthur_, in our supreme court, in which i happened to be opposed to him. another gentleman, less fastidious, took mr. lincoln's place and gained the case." his power as an advocate seems to have depended on his conviction that the right was on his side. "tell harris it's no use to _waste money on me_; in that case, he'll get beat." in a larceny case he took those who were counsel with him for the defence aside and said, "if you can say anything for the man do it. i can't. if i attempt it, the jury will see that i think he is guilty and convict him of course." in another case he proved an account for his client, who, though he did not know it, was a rogue. the counsel on the other side proved a receipt. by the time he had done lincoln was missing; and on the court sending for him, he replied, "tell the judge i can't come; my hands are dirty, and i came over to clean them." mr. herndon, who visited lincoln's office on business, gives the following reminiscence: --"mr. lincoln was seated at his table, listening very attentively to a man who was talking earnestly in a low tone. after the would-be client had stated the facts of the case, mr. lincoln replied, 'yes, there is no reasonable doubt but that i can gain your case for you. i can set a whole neighbourhood at logger heads; i can distress a widowed mother and her six fatherless children, and thereby get for you six hundred dollars, which rightly belongs, it appears to me, as much to the woman and her children as it does to you. you must remember that some things that are legally right are not morally right. i shall not take your case but will give you a bit of advice, for which i will charge you nothing. you seem to be a sprightly, energetic man. i would advise you to try your hand at making six hundred dollars in some other way.'" on one occasion, however, lincoln, we believe it must be admitted, resorted to sharp practice. william armstrong, the son of jack armstrong, of clary's grove, inheriting, as it seems, the "abundant animal spirits" of his father, committed, as was universally believed, a very brutal murder at a camp meeting, and being brought to trial was in imminent peril of the halter. lincoln volunteered to defend him. the witness whose testimony bore hardest on the prisoner swore that he saw the murder committed by the light of the moon. lincoln put in an almanac, which, on reference being made to it showed that at the time stated by the witness there was no moon. this broke down the witness and the prisoner was acquitted. it was not observed at the moment that the almanac was one of the year previous to the murder; and therefore morally a fabrication. herculean efforts are made to prove that _two_ almanacs were produced and that mr. lincoln was innocent of any deception. but the best plea, we conceive, is, that mr. lincoln had rocked william armstrong in the cradle. there is one part of lincoln's early life which, though scandal may batten on it, we shall pass over lightly, we mean that part which relates to his love affairs and his marriage. criticism, and even biography, should respect as far as possible the sanctuary of affection. that a man has dedicated his life to the service of the public is no reason why the public should be licensed to amuse itself by playing with his heart-strings. not only as a storekeeper, but in every capacity, mr. lincoln was far more happy in his relations with men than with women. he however loved, and loved deeply, ann rutledge, who appears to have been entirely worthy of his attachment, and whose death at the moment when she would have felt herself at liberty to marry him threw him into a transport of grief, which threatened his reason and excited the gravest apprehensions of his friends. in stormy weather especially he would rave piteously, crying that "he could never be reconciled to have the snow, rains and storms to beat upon her grave." this first love he seems never to have forgotten. he next had an affair, not so creditable to him, with a miss owens, of whom, after their rupture, he wrote things which he had better have left unwritten. finally, he made a match of which the world has heard more than enough, though the western boy was too true a gentleman to let it hear anything about the matter from his lips. it is enough to say that this man was not wanting in that not inconsiderable element of worth, even of the worth of statesmen, strong and pure affection. "if ever," said abraham lincoln, "american society and the united states government are demoralized and overthrown, it will come from the voracious desire of office--this wriggle to live without toil, from which i am not free myself." these words ought to be written up in the largest characters in every schoolroom in the united states. the confession with which they conclude is as true as the rest. mr. lincoln, we are told, took no part in the promotion of local enterprises, railroads, schools, churches, asylums. the benefits he proposed for his fellow men were to be accomplished by political means alone "politics were his world--a world filled with hopeful enchantments. ordinarily he disliked to discuss any other subject." "in the office," says his partner, mr. herndon, "he sat down or spilt himself (_sic_) on his lounge, read aloud, told stories, talked politics--never science, art, literature, railroad gatherings, colleges, asylums, hospitals, commerce, education, progress--nothing that interested the world generally, except politics." "he seldom," says his present biographer, "took an active part in local or minor elections, or wasted his power to advance a friend. he did nothing out of mere gratitude, and forgot the devotion of his warmest partisans, as soon as the occasion for their services had passed. what they did for him was quietly appropriated as the reward of superior merit, calling for no return in kind." we are told that while he was "wriggling," he was in effect boarded and clothed for some years by his friend, hon. w. butler, at springfield, and that, when in power, he refused to exercise his patronage in favour of his friend. on that occasion, his biographer tells us, that he considered his patronage a solemn trust. we give him credit for a conscientiousness above the ordinary level of his species on this as well as on other subjects. but his sense of the solemn character of his trust, though it prevented him from giving a petty place to the old friend who had helped him in the day of his need, did not prevent him, as president, from sometimes paying for support by a far more questionable use of the highest patronage in his gift. the fact is not that the man was by nature wanting in gratitude or in any kindly quality, on the contrary, he seems to have abounded in them all. but the excitement of the game was so intense that it swallowed up all other considerations and emotions. in a dead season of politics, his depression was extreme. "he said gloomily, despairingly, sadly, 'how hard, oh! how hard it is to die and leave one's country no better than if one had never lived for it. this world is dead to hope, deaf to its own death-struggle.'" possibly this is the way in which "wriggling" politicians generally put the case to themselves. lincoln's fundamental principle was devotion to the popular will. in his address to the people of sangamon county, he says, "while acting as their representative i shall be governed by their will on all subjects upon which i have the means of knowing what their will is, and upon all others i will do what my own judgment teaches me will advance their interests." "'it is a maxim,' with many politicians, just to keep along even with the humour of the people right or wrong." "this maxim," adds the biographer, "mr. lincoln held then, as ever since, in very high estimation." it may occur to some enquiring minds to ask what, upon those principles, is the use of having representation at all, and whether it would not be better to let the people themselves vote directly on all questions without interposing a representative to diminish their sense of responsibility, to say nothing of the sacrifice of the representative's conscience, which, in the cases of the statesmen here described, was probably not very great. with regard to slavery, however, mr. lincoln showed forecast, if not conscientious independence. he stepped forth in advance of the sentiments of his party, and to his political friends appeared rash in the extreme. lincoln's first attempt to get elected to the state legislature was unsuccessful. it however brought him the means of "doing something for his country," and partly averting the "death-struggle of the world," in the shape of the postmastership of new salem. the business of the office was not on a large scale, for it was carried on in mr. lincoln's hat--an integument of which it is recorded, that he refused to give it to a conjurer to play the egg trick in, "not from respect for his own hat, but for the conjurer's eggs." the future president did not fail to signalize his first appearance as an administrator by a sally of the jocularity which was always struggling with melancholy in his mind. a gentleman of the place, whose education had been defective, was in the habit of calling two or three times a day at the post-office, and ostentatiously inquiring for letters. at last he received a letter, which, being unable to read himself, he got the postmaster to read for him before a large circle of friends. it proved to be from a negro lady engaged in domestic service in the south, recalling the memory of a mutual attachment, with a number of incidents more delectable than sublime. it is needless to say that the postmaster, by a slight extension of the sphere of his office, had written the letter as well as delivered it. in a second candidature the aspirant was more successful, and he became one of nine representatives of sangamon county, in the state legislature of illinois, who, being all more than six feet high, were called "the long nine." with his brobdingnagian colleagues abraham plunged at once into the "internal improvement system," and distinguished himself above his fellows by the unscrupulous energy and strategy with which he urged through the legislature a series of bubble schemes and jobs. railroads and other improvements, especially improvements of river navigation, were voted out of all proportion to the means or credit of the then thinly-peopled state. to set these little matters in motion, a loan of eight millions of dollars was authorized, and to complete the canal from chicago to peru, another loan of four millions of dollars was voted at the same session, two hundred thousand dollars being given as a gratuity to those counties which seemed to have no special interest in any of the foregoing projects. work on all these roads was to commence, not only at the same time, but at both ends of each road and at all the river- crossings. there were as yet no surveys of any route, no estimates, no reports of engineers, or even unprofessional viewers. "progress was not to wait on trifles; capitalists were supposed to be lying in wait to catch these precious bonds; the money would be raised in a twinkling, and being applied with all the skill of a hundred de witt clintons--a class of gentlemen at that time extremely numerous and obtrusive--the loan would build railroads, the railroads would build cities, cities would create farms, foreign capital would rush in to so inviting a field, the lands would be taken up with marvellous celerity, and the land tax going into a sinking fund, that, with some tolls and certain sly speculations to be made by the state, would pay principal and interest of debt without even a cent of taxation upon the people. in short, everybody was to be enriched, while the munificence of the state in selling its credit and spending the proceeds, would make its empty coffers overflow with ready money. it was a dark stroke of statesmanship, a mysterious device in finance, which, whether from being misunderstood or mismanaged, bore from the beginning fruits the very reverse of those it had promised." we seem here to be reading the history of more than one great railway enterprise undertaken by politicians without the red tape preliminaries of surveying or framing estimates, progress not deigning to wait upon trifles. this system of policy gave fine scope for the talents of the "log-roller," here defined as an especially wily and persuasive person, who could depict the merits of his scheme with roseate but delusive eloquence, and who was said to carry a gourd of "possum fat"--wherewith he "greased and swallowed" his prey. one of the largest of these gourds was carried by "honest abe," who was especially active in "log-rolling" a bill for the removal of the seat of government from vandalia to springfield, at a virtual cost to the state of about six millions of dollars, which we were told would have purchased all the real estate in the town three times over. "thus by log-rolling on the loud measure, by multiplying railroads, by terminating these roads at alton, that alton might become a great city in opposition to st. louis; by distributing money to some of the counties to be wasted by the county commissioners, and by giving the seat of government to springfield--was the whole state bought up and bribed to approve the most senseless and disastrous policy which ever crippled the energies of a young country." we are told, and do not doubt, that mr. lincoln shared the popular delusion; but we are also told, and are equally sure, that "even if he had been unhappily afflicted with individual scruples of his own he would have deemed it but simple duty to obey the almost unanimous voice of his constituency." in other words, he would have deemed it his duty to pander to the popular madness by taking a part in financial swindling. yet he and his principal confederates obtained afterwards high places of honour and trust. a historian of illinois calls them "spared monuments of popular wrath, evincing how safe it is to be a politician, but how disastrous it may be to the country to keep along with the present fervour of the people." it is instructive as well as just to remember that all this time the man was strictly, nay sensitively, honourable in his private dealings, that he was regarded by his fellows as a paragon of probity, that his word was never questioned, that of personal corruption calumny itself, so far as we are aware, never dared to accuse him. politics, it seems, may be a game apart, with rules of its own which supersede morality. considering that, as we said before, this man was destined to preside over the most tremendous operations in the whole history of finance, it is especially instructive to see what was the state of his mind on economical subjects. he actually proposed to pass a usury law, having arrived, it appears, at the sage conviction that while to pay the current rent for the use of a house or the current fee for the services of a lawyer is perfectly proper, to pay the current price for money is to "allow a few individuals to levy a direct tax on the community." but this is an ordinary illusion. abraham lincoln's illusions went far beyond it. he actually proposed so to legislate that in cases of extreme necessity there might "always be found means to cheat the law, while in all other cases it would have its intended effect." he proposed in fact absurdity qualified by fraud, the established practice of which would, no doubt, have had a most excellent effect in teaching the citizens to reverence and the courts to uphold the law. as president, when told that the finances were low, he asked whether the printing machine had given out, and he suggested, as a special temptation to capitalists, the issue of a class of bonds which should be exempt from seizure for debt. it may safely be said that the burden of the united states debt was ultimately increased fifty per cent through sheer ignorance of the simplest principles of economy and finance on the part of those by whom it was contracted. lincoln's style, both as a speaker and a writer, ultimately became plain, terse, and with occasional faults of taste, caused by imperfect education, pure as well as effective. his gettysburg address and some of his state papers are admirable in their way. saving one very flat expression, the address has no superior in literature. but it was impossible that the oratory of a rising politician, especially in the west, should be free from spread-eagleism. scattered through these pages we find such gems as the following:-- "all the armies of europe, asia, and africa combined, with all the treasure of the earth (our own excepted) in their military chest, with a bonaparte for a commander, could not, by force, take a drink from the ohio, or make a track on the blue ridge in a trial of a thousand years!" ... "accounts of outrages committed by mobs form the every-day news of the times. they have pervaded the country from new england to louisiana; they are neither peculiar to the eternal (?) snows of the former, nor to the burning sun of the latter." ... "that we improve to the last, that we revered his name to the last, that during his long sleep we permitted no hostile foot to pass or desecrate his resting-place, shall be that which to learn the last trump shall awaken our washington." washington's mind, when he rises from his grave at the last day, will be immediately relieved by the information that no britisher has ever trodden on his bones. in debate he was neither bitter nor personal in the bad sense, though he had a good deal of caustic humour and knew how to make an effective use of it. passing from state politics to those of the union, and elected to congress as a whig, a party to which he had gradually found his way from his original position as a "nominal jackson man," mr. lincoln stood forth in vigorous though discreet and temperate opposition to the mexican war. some extra charges made by general cass upon the treasury for expenses in a public mission, afforded an opportunity for a hit at the great democratic "war-horse." "i have introduced," said lincoln, "general cass's name here chiefly to show the wonderful physical capacity of the man. they show that he not only did the labour of several men at the same _time_, but that he often did it at several _places_, many hundred miles apart _at the same time_. and in eating, too, his capacities are shown to be quite as wonderful. from october, , to may, , he ate ten rations a day in michigan, ten rations a day here in washington, and nearly five dollars' worth a day besides, partly on the road between the two places. and then there is an important discovery in his example, the art of being paid for what one eats, instead of having to pay for it. hereafter if any nice young man should owe a bill which he cannot pay in any other way, he can just board it out. mr. speaker, we have all heard of the animal standing in doubt between two stacks of hay, and starving to death. the like of that could never happen to general cass. place the stacks a thousand miles apart, he would stand stock still midway between them, and eat them both at once; and the green grass along the line would be apt to suffer some at the same time. by all means make him president, gentlemen. he will feed you bounteously, if--if there is any left after he has helped himself." great events were by this time beginning to loom on the political horizon. the missouri compromise was broken. parties commenced slowly but surely to divide themselves into pro-slavery and anti-slavery. the "irrepressible conflict" was coming on, though none of the american politicians--not even the author of that famous phrase--distinctly recognised its advent. lincoln seems to have been sincerely opposed to slavery, though he was not an abolitionist. but he was evidently led more and more to take anti-slavery ground by his antagonism to douglas, who occupied a middle position, and tried to gain at once the support of the south and that of the waverers at the north, by theoretically supporting the extension of slavery, yet practically excluding it from the territories by the doctrine of squatters' sovereignty. lincoln had to be very wary in angling for the vote of the abolitionists, who had recently been the objects of universal obloquy, and were still offensive to a large section of the republican party. on one occasion, the opinions which he propounded by no means suited the abolitionists, and "they required him to change them forthwith. _he thought it would be wise to do so considering the peculiar circumstances of his case_; but, before committing himself finally, he sought an understanding with judge logan. he told the judge what he was disposed to do, and said he would act upon the inclination if the judge would not regard it as treading on his toes. the judge said he was opposed to the doctrine proposed, but for the sake of the cause on hand he would cheerfully risk his toes. _and so the abolitionists were accommodated._ mr. lincoln quietly made the pledge, and they voted for him." he came out, however, square enough, and in the very nick of time with his "house divided against itself" speech, which took the wind out of the sails of seward with his "irrepressible conflict." douglas, whom lincoln regarded with intense personal rivalry, was tripped up by a string of astute interrogations, the answers to which hopelessly embroiled him with the south. lincoln's campaign against douglas for the senatorship greatly and deservedly enhanced his reputation as a debater, and he became marked out as the western candidate for the republican nomination to the presidency. a committee favourable to his claims sent to him to make a speech at new york. he arrived "in a sleek and shining suit of new black, covered with very apparent creases and wrinkles acquired by being packed too closely and too long in his little valise." some of his supporters must have moralized on the strange apparition which their summons had raised. his speech, however, made before an immense audience at the cooper institute, was most successful. and as a display of constitutional logic it is a very good speech. it fails, as the speeches of these practical men one and all did fail, their "common sense" and "shrewdness" notwithstanding, in clear perception of the great facts that two totally different systems of society had been formed, one in the slave states and the other in the free, and that political institutions necessarily conform themselves to the social character of the people. whether the civil war could, by any men or means, have been arrested, it would be hard to say; but assuredly stump orators, even the very best of them, were not the men to avert it. at that great crisis no saviour appeared. on may th, in the eventful year , the republican state convention of illinois, by acclamation, and amidst great enthusiasm, nominated lincoln for the presidency. one who saw him receive the nomination says, "i then thought him one of the most diffident and most plagued of men i ever saw." we may depend upon it, however, that his diffidence of manner was accompanied by no reluctance of heart. the splendid prize which he had won had been the object of his passionate desire. in the midst of the proceedings the door of the wigwam opened, and lincoln's kinsman, john hanks, entered, with "two small triangular 'heart-rails,' surmounted by a banner with the inscription, 'two rails from a lot made by abraham lincoln and john hanks in the sangamon bottom, in the year '." the bearer of the rails, we are told, was met "with wild and tumultuous cheers," and "the whole scene was simply tempestuous and bewildering." the democrats, of course, did not share the delight. an old man, out of egypt, (the southern end of illinois) came up to mr. lincoln, and said. "so you're abe lincoln?" "that's my name, sir." "they say you're a self- made man." "well, yes what there is of me is self-made." "well, all i have got to say," observed the old egyptian, after a careful survey of the statesman, "is, that it was a d--n bad job." this seems to be the germ of the smart reply to the remark that andrew johnson was a self- made man, "that relieves the almighty of a very heavy responsibility." the nomination of the state convention of illinois was accepted after a very close and exciting contest between lincoln and seward by the convention of the republican party assembled at chicago. the proceedings seem to have been disgraceful. a large delegation of roughs, we are told, headed by tom shyer, the pugilist, attended for seward. the lincoln party, on the other side, spent the whole night in mustering their "loose fellows," and at daylight the next morning packed the wigwam, so that the seward men were unable to get in. another politician was there nominally as a candidate, but really only to sell himself for a seat in the cabinet. when he claimed the fulfilment of the bond, lincoln's conscience, or at least his regard for his own reputation, struggled hard. "all that i am in the world--the presidency and all else--i owe to that opinion of me which the people express when they call me 'honest old abe.' now, what will they think of their honest abe when he appoints this man to be his familiar adviser?" what they might have said with truth was that abe was still honest but politics were not. widely different was the training undergone for the leadership of the people by the pericles of the american republic from that undergone by the pericles of athens, or by any group of statesmen before him, greek, roman, or european. in this point of view, mr. lamon's book is a most valuable addition to the library of political science. the advantages and the disadvantages of lincoln's political education are manifest at a glance. he was sure to produce something strong, genuine, practical, and entirely in unison with the thoughts and feelings of a people which, like the athenians in the days of pericles, was to be led, not governed. on the other hand, it necessarily left the statesman without the special knowledge necessary for certain portions of his work, such as finance, which was detestably managed during lincoln's presidency, without the wisdom which flows from a knowledge of the political world and of the past, without elevation, and comprehensiveness of view. it was fortunate for lincoln that the questions with which he had to deal, and with which his country and the world proclaim him to have dealt, on the whole, admirably well, though not in their magnitude and importance, were completely within his ken, and had been always present to his mind. reconstruction would have made a heavier demand on the political science of clary's grove. but that task was reserved for other hands. alfredus rex fundator a few weeks ago an oxford college celebrated the thousandth anniversary of its foundation by king alfred. [footnote: we keep the common spelling, though aelfred is more correct. it is impossible, in deference to antiquarian preciseness, to change the spelling of all these names, which are now imbedded in the english classics.] the college which claims this honour is commonly called university college, though its legal name is _magna aula universitatis_. the name "university college" causes much perplexity to visitors. they are with difficulty taught by the friend who is lionizing them to distinguish it from the university. but the university of oxford is a federation of colleges, of which university college is one, resembling in all respects the rest of the sisterhood, being, like them, under the federal authority of the university, retaining the same measure of college right, conducting the domestic instruction and discipline of its students through its own officers, but sending them to the lecture rooms of the university professors for the higher teaching, and to the university examination rooms to be examined for their degrees. the college is an ample and venerable pile, with two towered gateways, each opening into a quadrangle, its front stretching along the high street, on the side opposite st. mary's church. the darkness of the stone seems to bespeak immemorial antiquity, but the style, which is the later gothic characteristic of oxford, and symbolical of its history, shows that the buildings really belong to the time of the stuarts. "that building must be very old, sir," said an american visitor to the master of the college, pointing to its dark front. "oh, no," was the master's reply, "the colour deceives you; that building is not more than two hundred years old." in invidious contrast to this mass, debased but imposing in its style, the pedantic mania for pure gothic which marks the neo-catholic reaction in oxford, and which will perhaps hereafter be derided as we deride the classic mania of the last century, has led mr. gilbert scott to erect a pure gothic library. this building, moreover, has nothing in its form to bespeak its purpose, but resembles a chapel. over the gateway of the larger quadrangle is a statue, in roman costume, of james ii.; one of the few memorials of the ejected tyrant, who in his career of reaction visited the college and had two rooms on the east side of the quadrangle fitted up for the performance of mass. obadiah walker, the master of the college, had turned papist, and became one of the leaders of the reaction, in the overthrow of which he was involved, the fall of his master and the ruin of his party being announced to him by the boys singing at his window--"ave maria, old obadiah." in the same quadrangle are the chambers of shelley, and the room to which he was summoned by the assembled college authorities to receive, with his friend hogg, sentence of expulsion for having circulated an atheistical treatise. in the ante-chapel is the florid monument of sir william jones. but the modern divinities of the college are the two great legal brothers, lord eldon and lord stowell, whose colossal statues fraternally united are conspicuous in the library, whose portraits hang side by side in the hall, whose medallion busts greet you at the entrance to the common room. pass by these medallions, and look into the common room itself, with panelled walls, red curtains, polished mahogany table, and generally cozy aspect, whither after the dinner in hall the fellows of the college retire to sip their wine and taste such social happiness as the rule of celibacy permits. over that ample fire-place, round the blaze of which the circle is drawn in the winter evenings, you will see the marble bust, carved by no mean hand, of an ancient king, and underneath it are the words _alfredus rex fundator_. alas! both traditions--the tradition that alfred founded the university of oxford, and the tradition that he founded university college--are devoid of historical foundation. universities did not exist in alfred's days. they were developed centuries later out of the monastery schools. when queen elizabeth was on a visit to cambridge, a scholar delivered before her an oration, in which he exalted the antiquity of his own university at the expense of that of the university of oxford. the university of oxford was roused to arms. in that uncritical age any antiquarian weapon which the fury of academical patriotism could supply was eagerly grasped, and the reputation of the great antiquary camden is somewhat compromised with regard to an interpolation in asser's life of alfred, which formed the chief documentary support of the oxford case. the historic existence of both the english universities dawns in the reign of the scholar king, and the restorer of order and prosperity after the ravages of the conquest and the tyranny of rufus--henry i. in that reign the abbot of croyland, to gain money for the rebuilding of his abbey, set up a school where, we are told, priscian's grammar, aristotle's logic with the commentaries of porphyry and averroes, cicero and quintilian as masters of rhetoric, were taught after the manner of the school of orleans. in the following reign a foreign professor, vacarius, roused the jealousy of the english monarchy and baronage by teaching roman law in the schools of oxford. the thirteenth century, that marvellous and romantic age of mediaeval religion and character, mediaeval art, mediaeval philosophy, was also the palmy age of the universities. then oxford gloried in groseteste, at once paragon and patron of learning, church reformer and champion of the national church against roman aggression; in his learned and pious friend, adam de marisco; and in roger bacon, the pioneer and proto-martyr of physical science. then, with paris, she was the great seat of that school philosophy, wonderful in its subtlety as well as in its aridity, which, albeit it bore no fruit itself, trained the mind of europe for more fruitful studies, and was the original product of mediaeval christendom, though its forms of thought were taken from the deified stagyrite, and it was clothed in the latin language, though in a form of that language so much altered and debased from the classical as to become, in fact, a literary vernacular of the middle ages. then her schools, her church porches, her very street corners, every spot where a professor could gather an audience, were thronged with the aspiring youth who had flocked, many of them begging their way out of the dark prison-house of feudalism, to what was then, in the absence of printing, the sole centre of intellectual light. then oxford, which in later times became from the clerical character of the headships and fellowships the great organ of reaction, was the great organ of progress, produced the political songs which embodied, with wonderful force, the principles of free government, and sent her students to fight under the banner of the university in the army of simon de montfort. it was in the thirteenth century that university college was really founded. the founder was william of durham, an english ecclesiastic who had studied in the university of paris. the universities were, like the church, common to all the natives of latin christendom, that ecclesiastical and literary federation of the european states, which, afterwards broken up by the reformation, is now in course of reconstruction through uniting influences of a new kind. william of durham bequeathed to the university a fund for the maintenance of students in theology. the university purchased with the fund a house in which these students were maintained, and which was styled the great hall of the university, in contra-distinction to the multitude of little private halls or hospices in which students lived, generally under the superintendence of a graduate who was their teacher. the hall or college was under the visitorship of the university; but this visitorship being irksome, and a dispute having arisen in the early part of the last century whether it was to be exercised by the university at large, in convocation, or by the theological faculty only, the college set up a claim to be a royal foundation of the time of king alfred, the reputed founder of the university, and thus exempt from any visitorship but that of the crown. it was probably not very difficult to convince a hanoverian court of law that the visitorship of an oxford college ought to be transferred from the jacobite university to the crown; and so it came to pass that the court of king's bench solemnly ratified as a fact what historical criticism pronounces to be a baseless fable. the case in favour of william of durham as the founder is so clear, that the antiquaries are ready to burst with righteous indignation, and one almost enjoys the intensity of their wrath. the great hall of the university was not, when first founded, a perfect college. it was only a house for some eight or ten graduates in arts who were studying divinity. the first perfect college was founded by walter de merton, the chancellor of henry iii., to whom is due the conception of uniting the anti-monastic pursuit of secular learning with monastic seclusion and discipline, for the benefit of that multitude of young students who had hitherto dwelt at large in the city under little or no control, and often showed, by their faction fights and other outrages, that they contained the quintessence of the nation's turbulence as well as of its intellectual activity and ambition. the quaint old quadrangle of merton, called, nobody seems to know why, "mob" quad, may be regarded as the cradle of collegiate life in england, and indeed in europe. still university college is the oldest foundation of learning now existing in england; and therefore it may be not inappropriately dedicated to the memory of the king who was the restorer of our intellectual life as well as the preserver of our religion and our institutions. mr. freeman, as the stern minister of fact, would, no doubt, cast down the bust of alfred from the common room chimney-piece and set up that of william of durham, if a likeness of him could be found, in its place. but it may be doubted whether william of durham, if he were alive, would do the same. marcus aurelius, alfred and st. louis, are the three examples of perfect virtue on a throne. but the virtue of st. louis is deeply tainted with asceticism; and with the sublimated selfishness on which asceticism is founded, he sacrifices everything and everybody--sacrifices national interests, sacrifices the lives of the thousands of his subjects whom he drags with him in his chimerical crusades--to the good of his own soul. the reflections of marcus aurelius will be read with ever increasing admiration by all who have learned to study character, and to read it in its connection with history. alone in every sense, without guidance or support but that which he found in his own breast, the imperial stoic struggled serenely, though hopelessly, against the powers of evil which were dragging heathen rome to her inevitable doom. alfred was a christian hero, and in his christianity he found the force which bore him, through calamity apparently hopeless, to victory and happiness. it must be owned that the materials for the history of the english king are not very good. his biography by bishop asser, his counsellor and friend, which forms the principal authority, is panegyrical and uncritical, not to mention that a doubt rests on the authenticity of some portions of it. but in the general picture there are a consistency and a sobriety, which, combined with its peculiarity, commend it to us as historical. the leading acts of alfred's life are, of course, beyond doubt. and as to his character, he speaks to us himself in his works, and the sentiments which he expresses perfectly correspond with the physiognomy of the portrait. we have called him a christian hero. he was the victorious champion of christianity against paganism. this is the real significance of the struggle and of his character. the northmen, or, as we loosely term them, the danes, are called by the saxon chroniclers the pagans. as to race, the northman, like the saxon, was a teuton, and the institutions, and the political and social tendencies of both, were radically the same. it has been said that christianity enervated the english and gave them over into the hands of the fresh and robust sons of nature. asceticism and the abuse of monachism enervated the english. asceticism taught the spiritual selfishness which flies from the world and abandons it to ruin instead of serving god by serving humanity. kings and chieftains, under the hypocritical pretence of exchanging a worldly for an angelic life, buried themselves in the indolence, not seldom in the sensuality, of the cloister, when they ought to have been leading their people against the dane. but christianity formed the bond which held the english together, and the strength of their resistance. it inspired their patriot martyrs, it raised up to them a deliverer at their utmost need. the causes of danish success are manifest; superior prowess and valour, sustained by more constant practice in war, of which the saxon had probably had comparatively little since the final subjection of the celt and the union of the saxon kingdoms under egbert; the imperfect character of that union, each kingdom retaining its own council and its own interests; and above all the command of the sea, which made the invaders ubiquitous, while the march of the defenders was delayed, and their junction prevented, by the woods and morasses of the uncleared island, in which the only roads worthy of the name were those left by the romans. it would be wrong to call the northmen mere corsairs, or even to class them with piratical states such as cilicia of old, or barbary in more recent times. their invasions were rather to be regarded as an after-act of the great migration of the germanic tribes, one of the last waves of the flood which overwhelmed the roman empire, and deposited the germs of modern christendom. they were, and but for the defensive energy of the christianized teuton would have been, to the saxon what the saxon had been to the celt, whose sole monuments in england now are the names of hills and rivers, the usual epitaph of exterminated races. like the saxons the northmen came by sea, untouched by those roman influences, political and religious, by which most of the barbarians had been more or less transmuted before their actual irruption into the empire. if they treated all the rest of mankind as their prey, this was the international law of heathendom, modified only by a politic humanity in the case of the imperial roman, who preferred enduring dominion to blood and booty. with christianity came the idea, even now imperfectly realized, of the brotherhood of man. the northmen were a memorable race, and english character, especially its maritime element, received in them a momentous addition. in their northern abodes they had undergone, no doubt, the most rigorous process of national selection. the sea-roving life, to which they were driven by the poverty of their soil, as the scandinavian of our day is driven to emigration, intensified in them the vigour, the enterprise, and the independence of the teuton. as has been said before, they were the first ocean sailors; for the phoenicians, though adventurous had crept along the shore; and the greeks and romans had done the same. the northman, stouter of heart than they, put forth into mid atlantic. american antiquarians are anxious to believe in a norse discovery of america. norse colonies were planted in greenland beyond what is now the limit of human habitation; and when a power grew up in his native seats which could not be brooked by the northman's love of freedom, he founded amidst the unearthly scenery of iceland a community which brought the image of a republic of the homeric type far down into historic times. his race, widely dispersed in its course of adventure, and everywhere asserting its ascendancy, sat on the thrones of normandy, apulia, sicily, england, ireland, and even russia, and gave heroic chiefs to the crusaders. the pirates were not without heart towards each other, nor without a rudimentary civilization, which included on the one hand a strong regard for freehold property in land, and on the other a passionate love of heroic days. their mythology was the universal story of the progress of the sun and the changes of the year, but in a northern version, wild with storms and icebergs, gloomy with the darkness of scandinavian winters. their religion was a war religion, the lord of their hearts a war god; their only heaven was that of the brave, their only hell that of the coward; and the joys of paradise were a renewal of the fierce combat and the fierce carouse of earth. some of them wound themselves up on the eve of battle to a frenzy like that of a malay running amuck. but this was, at all events, a religion of action, not of ceremonial or spell; and it quelled the fear of death. in some legends of the norse mythology there is a humorous element which shows freedom of spirit; while in others, such as the legend of the death of balder, there is a pathos not uncongenial to christianity. the northmen were not priest-ridden. their gods were not monstrous and overwhelming forces like the hundred-handed idols of the hindu, but human forms, their own high qualities idealized, like the gods of the greek, though with scandinavian force in place of hellenic grace. converted to christianity, the northman transferred his enthusiasm, his martial prowess and his spirit of adventure from the service of odin to that of christ, and became a devotee and a crusader. but in his unconverted state he was an exterminating enemy of christianity; and christianity was the civilization as well as the religion of england. scarcely had the saxon kingdom been united by egbert, when the barks of the northmen appeared, filling the english charlemagne, no doubt, with the same foreboding sorrow with which they had filled his frankish prototype and master. in the course of the half century which followed, the swarms of rovers constantly increased, and grew more pertinacious and daring in their attacks. leaving their ships they took horses, extended their incursions inland, and formed in the interior of the country strongholds, into which they brought the plunder of the district. at last they in effect conquered the north and midland, and set up a satrap king, as the agent of their extortion. they seem, like the franks of clovis, to have quartered themselves as "guests" upon the unhappy people of the land. the monasteries and churches were the special objects of their attacks, both as the seats of the hated religion, and as the centres of wealth; and their sword never spared a monk. croyland, peterborough, huntingdon and ely, were turned to blood- stained ashes. edmund, the christian chief of east anglia, found a martyrdom, of which one of the holiest and most magnificent of english abbeys was afterwards the monument. the brave algar, another east anglian chieftain, having taken the holy sacrament with all his followers on the eve of battle, perished with them in a desperate struggle, overcome by the vulpine cunning of the marauders. among the leaders of the northmen were the terrible brothers ingrar and ubba, fired, if the norse legend may be trusted, by revenge as well as by the love of plunder and horror; for they were the sons of that ragnar lodbrok who had perished in the serpent tower of the saxon ella. when alfred appeared upon the scene, wessex itself, the heritage of the house of cerdic and the supreme kingdom, was in peril from the pagans, who had firmly entrenched themselves at reading, in the angle between the thames and kennet, and english christianity was threatened with destruction. a younger but a favourite child, alfred was sent in his infancy by his father to rome to receive the pope's blessing. he was thus affiliated, as it were, to that roman element, ecclesiastical and political, which, combined with the christian and teutonic elements, has made up english civilization. but he remained through life a true teuton. he went a second time, in company with his father, to rome, still a child, yet old enough, especially if he was precocious, to receive some impressions from the city of historic grandeur, ancient art, ecclesiastical order, centralized power. there is a pretty legend, denoting the docility of the boy and his love of learning, or at least of the national lays; but he was also a hunter and a warrior. from his youth he had a thorn in his flesh, in the shape of a mysterious disease, perhaps epilepsy, to which monkish chroniclers have given an ascetic and miraculous turn; and this enhances our sense of the hero's moral energy in the case of alfred, as in that of william iii. as "crown prince," to use the phrase of a german writer, alfred took part with his elder brother, king ethelbert, in the mortal struggle against the pagans, then raging around reading and along the rich valley through which the 'great western railway' now runs, and where a saxon victory is commemorated by the white horse, which forms the subject of a little work by thomas hughes, a true representative, if any there be, of the liegemen and soldiers of king alfred. when ethelbert was showing that in him at all events christianity was not free from the ascetic taint, by continuing to hear mass in his tent when the moment had come for decisive action, alfred charged up-hill "like a wild boar" against the heathen, and began a battle which, his brother at last coming up, ended in a great victory. the death of ethelbert, in the midst of the crisis, placed the perilous crown on alfred's head. ethelbert left infant sons, but the monarchy was elective, though one of the line of cerdic was always chosen; and those were the days of the real king, the ruler judge, and captain of the people, not of what napoleon called the _cochon a l'engrais a cinq millions par an_. in pitched battles, eight of which were fought in rapid succession, the english held their own; but they were worn out, and at length could no longer be brought into the field. whether a faint monkish tradition of the estrangement of the people by unpopular courses on the part of the young king has any substance of truth we cannot say. utter gloom now settled down upon the christian king and people. had alfred yielded to his inclinations, he would probably have followed the example of his brother-in-law, buhred of mercia, and sought a congenial retreat amidst the churches and libraries of rome; asceticism would have afforded him a pretext for so doing; but he remained at the post of duty. athelney, a little island in the marshes of somersetshire--then marshes, now drained and a fruitful plain--to which he retired with the few followers left him, has been aptly compared to the mountains of asturias, which formed the last asylum of christianity in spain. a jewel with the legend in anglo-saxon, "alfred caused me to be made," was found near the spot, and is now in the university museum at oxford. a similar island in the marshes of cambridgeshire formed the last rallying point of english patriotism against the norman conquest. of course, after the deliverance, a halo of legends gathered around athelney. the legends of the king disguised as a peasant in the cottage of the herdsman, and of the king disguised as a harper in the camp of the dane, are familiar to childhood. there is also a legend of the miraculous appearance of the great saxon saint cuthbert. the king in his extreme need had gone to fish in a neighbouring stream, but had caught nothing, and was trying to comfort himself by reading the psalms, when a poor man came to the door and begged for a piece of bread. the king gave him half his last loaf and the little wine left in the pitcher. the beggar vanished; the loaf was unbroken, the pitcher brimful of wine; and fishermen came in bringing a rich haul of fish from the river. in the night st. cuthbert appeared to the king in a dream and promised him victory. we see at least what notion the generations nearest to him had of the character of alfred. at last the heart of the oppressed people turned to its king, and the time arrived for a war of liberation. but on the morrow of victory alfred compromised with the northmen. he despaired, it seems, of their final expulsion, and thought it better, if possible, to make them englishmen and christians, and, to convert them into a barrier against their foreign and heathen brethren. we see in this politic moderation at once a trait of national character and a proof that the exploits of alfred are not mythical. by the treaty of wedmore, the northeastern part of england became the portion of the dane, where he was to dwell in peace with the saxon people, and in allegiance to their king, but under his own laws--an arrangement which had nothing strange in it when law was only the custom of the tribe. as a part of the compact, guthorm led over his northmen from the allegiance of odin to that of christ, and was himself baptized by the christian name of athelstan. when religions were national, or rather tribal, conversions were tribal too. the northmen of east anglia had not so far put off their heathen propensities or their savage perfidy as to remain perfectly true to their covenant: but, on the whole, alfred's policy of compromise and assimilation was successful. a new section of heathen teutonism was incorporated into christendom, and england absorbed a large norse population whose dwelling-place is still marked by the names of places, and perhaps in some measure by the features and character of the people. in the fishermen of whitby, for example, a town with a danish name, there is a peculiarity which is probably scandinavian. the transaction resembled the cession of normandy to rolf and his followers by the carlovingian king of france. but the cession of normandy marked the dissolution of the carlovingian monarchy: from the cession of east anglia to guthorm dates a regeneration of the monarchy of cerdic. alfred had rescued the country. but the country which he had rescued was a wreck. the church, the great organ of civilization as well as of spiritual life, was ruined. the monasteries were in ashes. the monks of st. cuthbert were wandering from place to place, with the relics of the great northern saint. the worship of woden seemed on the point of returning. the clergy had exchanged the missal and censer for the battle-axe, and had become secularized and brutalized by the conflict. the learning of the order was dead. the latin language, the tongue of the church, of literature, of education, was almost extinct. alfred himself says that he could not recollect a priest, south of the thames, who understood the latin service or could translate a document from the latin when he became king. political institutions were in an equal state of disorganization. spiritual, intellectual, civil life--everything was to be restored; and alfred undertook to restore everything. no man in these days stands alone, or towers in unapproachable superiority above his fellows. nor can any man now play all the parts. a division of labour has taken place in all spheres. the time when the missionaries at once converted and civilized the forefathers of european christendom, when charlemagne or alfred was the master spirit in everything, has passed away, and with it the day of hero-worship, of rational hero- worship, has departed, at least for the european nations. the more backward races may still need, and have reason to venerate, a peter the great. alfred had to do everything almost with his own hands. he was himself the inventor of the candle-clock which measured his time, so unspeakably precious, and of the lantern of transparent horn which protected the candle-clock against the wind in the tent, or the lodging scarcely more impervious to the weather than a tent, which in those times sheltered the head of wandering royalty. far and wide he sought for men, like a bee in quest of honey, to condense a somewhat prolix trope of his biographer. an embassy of bishops, priests and religious laymen, with great gifts, was sent to the archbishop of rheims, within whose diocese the famous grimbald resided, to persuade him to allow grimbald to come to england, and with difficulty the ambassadors prevailed, alfred promising to treat grimbald with distinguished honour during the rest of his life. it is touching to see what a price the king set upon a good and able man. "i was called," says asser, "from the western extremity of wales. i was led to sussex, and first saw the king in the royal mansion of dene. he received me with kindness, and amongst other conversation, earnestly besought me to devote myself to his service, and to become his companion. he begged me to give up my preferments beyond the severn, promising to bestow on me still richer preferments in their place." asser said that he was unwilling to quit, merely for worldly honour, the country in which he had been brought up and ordained. "at least," replied the king, "give me half your time. pass six months of the year with me and the rest in wales." asser still hesitated. the king repeated his solicitations, and asser promised to return within half a year; the time was fixed for his visit, and on the fourth day of their interview he left the king and went home. in order to restore civilization, it was necessary above all things to reform the church. "i have often thought," says alfred, "what wise men there were once among the english people, both clergy and laymen, and what blessed times those were when the people were governed by kings who obeyed god and his gospels, and how they maintained peace, virtue and good order at home, and even extended them beyond their own country; how they prospered in battle as well as in wisdom, and how zealous the clergy were in teaching and learning, and in all their sacred duties; and how people came hither from foreign countries to seek for instruction, whereas now, when we desire it, we can only obtain it from abroad." it is clear that the king, unlike the literary devotees of scandinavian paganism, looked upon christianity as the root of the greatness, and even of the military force, of the nation. in order to restore the church again, it was necessary above all things to refound the monasteries. afterwards--society having become settled, religion being established, and the church herself having acquired fatal wealth--these brotherhoods sank into torpor and corruption; but while the church was still a missionary in a spiritual and material wilderness, waging a death struggle with heathenism and barbarism, they were the indispensable engines of the holy war. the re-foundation of monasteries, therefore, was one of alfred's first cares; and he did not fail, in token of his pious gratitude, to build at athelney a house of god which was far holier than the memorial abbey afterwards built by the norman conqueror at battle. the revival of monasticism among the english, however, was probably no easy task, for their domestic and somewhat material nature never was well suited to monastic life. the monastery schools, the germs, as has been already said, of our modern universities and colleges, were the king's main organs in restoring education; but he had also a school in his palace for the children of the nobility and the royal household. it was not only clerical education that he desired to promote. his wish was "that all the free-born youth of his people, who possessed the means, might persevere in learning so long as they had no other work to occupy them, until they could perfectly read the english scriptures; while such as desired to devote themselves to the service of the church might be taught latin." no doubt the wish was most imperfectly fulfilled, but still it was a noble wish. we are told the king himself was often present at the instruction of the children in the palace school. a pleasant calm after the storms of battle with the dane! oxford (ousen-ford, the ford of the ouse) was already a royal city; and it may be conjectured that, amidst the general restoration of learning under alfred, a school of some sort would be opened there. this is the only particle of historical foundation for the academic legend which gave rise to the recent celebration. oxford was desolated by the norman conquest, and anything that remained of the educational institution of alfred was in all probability swept away. another measure, indispensable to the civilizer as well as to the church reformer in those days, was to restore the intercourse with rome, and through her with continental christendom, which had been interrupted by the troubles. the pope, upon alfred's accession, had sent him gifts and a piece of the holy cross. alfred sent embassies to the pope, and made a voluntary annual offering, to obtain favourable treatment for his subjects at rome. but, adopted child of rome, and naturally attached to her as the centre of ecclesiastical order and its civilizing influences though he was, and much as he was surrounded by ecclesiastical friends and ministers, we trace in him no ultramontanism, no servile submission to priests. the english church, so far as we can see, remains national, and the english king remains its head. not only with latin but with eastern christendom, alfred, if we may trust the contemporary saxon chronicles, opened communication. as charlemagne, in the spirit partly perhaps of piety, partly of ambition, had sent an embassy with proofs of his grandeur to the caliph of bagdad; as louis xiv., in the spirit of mere ambition, delighted to receive an embassy from siam; so alfred, in a spirit of piety unmixed, sent ambassadors to the traditional church of st. thomas in india: and the ambassadors returned, we are told, with perfumes and precious stones as the memorials of their journey, which were long preserved in the churches. "this was the first intercourse," remarks pauli, "that took place between england and hindostan." all nations are inclined to ascribe their primitive institutions to some national founder, a lycurgus, a theseus, a romulus. it is not necessary now to prove that alfred did not found trial by jury, or the frank- pledge, or that he was not the first who divided the kingdom into shires, hundreds, or tithings. the part of trial by jury which has been politically of so much importance, its popular character, as opposed to arbitrary trial by a royal or imperial officer--that of which the preservation, amidst the general prevalence of judicial imperialism, has been the glory of england--was simply teutonic; so was the frank-pledge, the rude machinery for preserving law and order by mutual responsibility in the days before police; so were the hundreds and the tithings, rudimentary institutions marking the transition from the clan to the local community or canton. the shires probably marked some stage in the consolidation of the saxon settlements; at all events they were ancient divisions which alfred can at most only have reconstituted in a revised form after the anarchy. he seems, however, to have introduced a real and momentous innovation by appointing special judges to administer a more regular justice than that which was administered in the local courts of the earls and bishops, or even in the national assembly. in this respect he was the imitator, probably the unconscious imitator, of charlemagne, and the precursor of henry ii., the institutor of our justices in eyre. the powers and functions of the legislature, the executive and the judiciary, lie at first enfolded in the same germ, and are alike exercised by the king, or, as in the case of the ancient republics, by the national assembly. it is a great step when the special office of the judiciary is separated from the rest. it is a great step also when uniformity of justice is introduced. probably, however, these judges, like the itinerant justices of henry ii., were administrative as well as judicial officers; or, in the terms of our modern polity, they were delegates of the home office as well as of the central courts of law. in his laws, alfred, with the sobriety and caution on which the statesmen of his race have prided themselves, renounces the character of an innovator, fearing, as he says, that his innovations might not be accepted by those who would come after him. his code, if so inartificial a document can be dignified with the name, is mainly a compilation from the laws of his saxon predecessors. we trace, however, an advance from the barbarous system of weregeld, or composition for murder and other crimes as private wrongs, towards a state system of criminal justice. in totally forbidding composition for blood, and asserting that indefeasible sanctity of human life which is the essential basis of civilization, the code of moses stands contrasted with other primaeval codes. alfred, in fact, incorporated an unusually large amount of the mosaic and christian elements, which blend with germanic customs and the relics of roman law, in different proportions, to make up the various codes of the early middle ages, called the laws of the barbarians. his code opens with the ten commandments, followed by extracts from exodus, containing the mosaic law respecting the relations between masters and servants, murder and other crimes, and the observance of holy days, and the apostolic epistle from acts xv - . then is added matthew vii. , "whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." "by this one commandment," says alfred, "a man shall know whether he does right, and he will then require no other law-book." this is not the form of a modern act of parliament, but legislation in those days was as much preaching as enactment; it often resembled in character the royal proclamation against vice and immorality. alfred's laws unquestionably show a tendency to enforce loyalty to the king, and to enhance the guilt of treason, which, in the case of an attempt on the king's life, is punished with death and confiscation, instead of the old composition by payment of the royal weregeld. hence he has been accused of imperializing and anti-teutonic tendencies; he had even the misfortune to be fixed upon as a prototype by oxford advocates of the absolutism of charles i. there is no ground for the charge, so far at least as alfred's legislation or any known measure of his government is concerned. the kingly power was the great source of order and justice amidst that anarchy, the sole rallying point and bond of union for the imperilled nation; to maintain it, and protect from violence the life of its holder, was the duty of a patriot law-giver: and as the authority of a saxon king depended in great measure on his personal character and position, no doubt the personal authority of alfred was exceptionally great. but he continued to govern by the advice of the national council; and the fundamental principles of the teutonic polity remained unimpaired by him, and were transmitted intact to his successors. his writings breathe a sense of the responsibilities of rulers and a hatred of tyranny. he did not even attempt to carry further the incorporation of the subordinate kingdoms with wessex; but ruled mercia as a separate state by the hand of his brother-in-law, and left it to its own national council or witan. considering his circumstances, and the chaos from which his government had emerged, it is wonderful that he did not centralize more. he was, we repeat, a true teuton, and entirely worthy of his place in the germanic walhalla. the most striking proof of his multifarious activity of mind, and of the unlimited extent of the task which his circumstances imposed upon him, as well as of his thoroughly english character, is his undertaking to give his people a literature in their own tongue. to do this he had first to educate himself--to educate himself at an advanced age, after a life of fierce distraction, and with the reorganization of his shattered kingdom on his hands. in his boyhood he had got by heart saxon lays, vigorous and inspiring, but barbarous; he had learned to read, but it is thought that he had not learned to write. "as we were one day sitting in the royal chamber," says asser, "and were conversing as was our wont, it chanced that i read him a passage out of a certain book. after he had listened with fixed attention, and expressed great delight, he showed me the little book which he always carried about with him, and in which the daily lessons, psalms and prayers, were written, and begged me to transcribe that passage into his book." asser assented, but found that the book was already full, and proposed to the king to begin another book, which was soon in its turn filled with extracts. a portion of the process of alfred's education is recorded by asser. "i was honourably received at the royal mansion, and at that time stayed eight months in the king's court. i translated and read to him whatever books he wished which were within our reach; for it was his custom, day and night, amidst all his afflictions of mind and body, to read books himself or have them read to him by others." to original composition alfred did not aspire; he was content with giving his people a body of translations of what he deemed the best authors; here again showing his royal good sense. in the selection of his authors, he showed liberality and freedom from roman, ecclesiastical, imperialist, or other bias. on the one hand he chooses for the benefit of the clergy whom he desired to reform, the "pastoral care" of the good pope, gregory the great, the author of the mission which had converted england to christianity; but on the other hand he chooses the "consolations of philosophy," the chief work of boethius, the last of the romans, and the victim of the cruel jealousy of theodoric. of boethius hallam says "last of the classic writers, in style not impure, though displaying too lavishly that poetic exuberance which had distinguished the two or three preceding centuries; in elevation of sentiment equal to any of the philosophers; and mingling a christian sanctity with their lessons, he speaks from his prison in the swan-like tones of dying eloquence. the philosophy which consoled him in bonds was soon required in the sufferings of a cruel death. quenched in his blood, the lamp he had trimmed with a skilful hand gave no more light; the language of tully and virgil soon ceased to be spoken; and many ages were to pass away before learned diligence restored its purity, and the union of genius with imitation taught a few modern writers to 'surpass in eloquence' the latinity of boethius." bede's ecclesiastical history of the english, the highest product of that memorable burst of saxon intellect which followed the conversion, and a work, not untainted by miracle and legend, yet most remarkable for its historical qualities as well as for its mild and liberal christianity, is balanced in the king's series of translations by the work of orosius, who wrote of general and secular history, though with a religious object. in the translation of orosius, alfred has inserted a sketch of the geography of germany, and the reports of explorations made by two mariners under his auspices among the natives dwelling on the coasts of the baltic and the north sea--further proof of the variety of his interests and the reach of his mind. in his prefaces, and in his amplifications and interpolations of the philosophy of boethius, alfred comes before us an independent author, and shows us something of his own mind on theology, on philosophy, on government, and generally as to the estate of man. to estimate these passages rightly, we must put ourselves back into the anarchical and illiterate england of the ninth century, and imagine a writer, who, if we could see him, would appear barbarous and grotesque, as would all his equipments and surroundings, and one who had spent his days in a desperate struggle with wolfish danes, seated at his literary work in his rude saxon mansion, with his candle-clock protected by the horn lantern against the wind. the utterances of alfred will then appear altogether worthy of his character and his deeds. he always emphasizes and expands passages which speak either of the responsibilities of rulers or of the nothingness of earthly power; and the reflections are pervaded by a pensiveness which reminds us of marcus aurelius. the political world had not much advanced when, six centuries after alfred, it arrived at machiavelli. there is an especial sadness in the tone of some words respecting the estate of kings, their intrinsic weakness, disguised only by their royal trains, the mutual dread that exists between them and those by whom they are surrounded, the drawn sword that always hangs over their heads, "as to me it ever did." we seem to catch a glimpse of some trials, and perhaps errors, not recorded by asser or the chroniclers. in his private life alfred appears to have been an example of conjugal fidelity and manly purity, while we see no traces of the asceticism which was revered by the superstition of the age of edward the confessor. his words on the value and the claims of a wife, if not up to the standard of modern sentiment, are at least instinct with genuine affection. the struggle with the northmen was not over. their swarms came again, in the latter part of alfred's reign, from germany, whence they had been repulsed, and from france, which they had exhausted by their ravages. but the king's generalship foiled them and compelled them to depart. seeing where their strength lay, he built a regular fleet to encounter them on their own element, and he may be called the founder of the royal navy. his victory was decisive. the english monarchy rose from the ground in renewed strength, and entered on a fresh lease of greatness. a line of able kings followed alfred. his son and successor, edward, inherited his vigour. his favourite grandson, athelstan, smote the dane and the scot together at brunanburgh, and awoke by his glorious victory the last echoes of saxon song. under edgar the greatness of the monarchy reached its highest pitch, and it embraced the whole island under its imperial ascendancy. at last its hour came; but when canute founded a danish dynasty he and his danes were christians. "this i can now truly say, that so long as i have lived i have striven to live worthily, and after my death to leave my memory to my descendants in good works." if the king who wrote those words did not found a university or a polity, he restored and perpetuated the foundations of english institutions, and he left what is almost as valuable as any institution--a great and inspiring example of public duty. the last republicans of rome "has humanity such forces at its command wherewith to combat vice and baseness, that each school of virtue can afford to repel the aid of the rest, and to maintain that it alone is entitled to the praise of courage, of goodness, and of resignation?" such is the rebuke administered by m. renan to the christians who refuse to recognise the martyrs of stoicism under the roman empire. my eye fell upon the words when i had just laid down professor mommsen's harsh judgment of the last defenders of the republic, and they seemed to me applicable to this case also. it is needless to say that there has been a curious change of opinion as to the merits of these men who, a century ago, were political saints of the liberal party, but whom in the present day liberal writers are emulously striving, with dante, to thrust down into the nethermost hell. dante puts brutus and cassius in hell not because he knows the real history of their acts, or because he is qualified to judge of the moral and political conditions under which they acted, but simply because he is a ghibelin, and they slew the head of the holy roman empire; and the present change of opinion arises, in the main, not from the discovery of any new fact, or from the better sifting of those already known, but from the prevalence of new sentiments--imperialism of different shades, bonapartist or positivist, and perhaps also hero-worship, which of course fixes upon caesar. positivism and hero-worship are somewhat incongruous allies, for hero-worship is evidently the least scientific, while positivism aims at being the most scientific, of all the theories of history. we are judging the opponents of caesar, it seems to me, under the dominion of exaggerated notions of the beneficence of the empire which caesar founded, of its value as a political model, of its connection with the life of modern civilization, and of the respect, not to say devotion, due to the memory of its founder. let us try to cast off for an hour the influence of these modern sentiments, and put the whole group of ancient figures back into its place in ancient history. the empire was a necessity at the time when it came--granted. but a necessity of what sort? was it a necessity created by an upward effort, by an elevation of humanity, or by degradation and decline? in the former case you may pass the same sentence upon those who opposed its coming which is passed upon those who crucified christ, or who, like philip ii., opposed the reformation in the spirit of bigoted reaction. but in the latter case they must be charged, not with moral blindness or depravity, but only with the lack of that clearness of sight which leads men and parties at the right moment, or even in anticipation of the right moment, to despair; and such perspicacity, to say the least, is a highly scientific quality, requiring perhaps, to make it respectable and safe, a more exact knowledge of historical sequences than we even now possess. even now we determine these historical necessities by our knowledge of the result. it was a necessity, given all the conditions-- the treachery of ephialtes included--that the persians should force the pass of thermopylae. but the three hundred could not know all the conditions. even if they had, would they have done right in giving way? they fell, but their spirits fought again at salamis. to me it appears that the empire was a necessity of the second kind; that it was an inevitable concession to incurable evil, not a new development of good. the roman morality, the morality which had produced and sustained the republic, was now in a state of final and irremediable decay. that morality was narrow and imperfect, or rather it was rudimentary, a feeble and transient prototype of the sounder and more enduring morality which was soon to be born into the world. it was the morality of devotion to a single community, and in fact consisted mainly of the performance of duty to that community in war. but it was real and energetic after its measure and its own time. it produced a type of character, which, if reproduced now, would be out of date and even odious, but which stands in history dignified and imposing even to the last. nor was it without elements of permanent value. it contributed largely to the patriotism of the seventeenth century, a patriotism which has now perhaps become obsolete in its turn, and is superseded in our aspirations by an ideal with less of right and self-assertion, with more of duty and of social affection, yet did good service against the stuarts. the roman morality, together with dignity of character, produced as usual simplicity of life. it produced a reverence for the majesty of law, the voice of the community. it produced relations between the sexes, and domestic relations generally, far indeed below the ideal, yet decidedly above those which commonly existed in the pagan world. it produced a high degree of self-control and of abstinence from vices which prevailed elsewhere. it produced fruits of intellect, some original, especially in the political sphere, others merely borrowed from greece, yet evincing on the part of the borrower a power of appreciating the superior excellence of another, and that a conquered nation, the value of which, as breaking through the iron boundary of national self-love, has perhaps not received sufficient notice. what was of most consequence to the world at large and to history, it produced, though probably not so much in the way of obedience to recognised principle as of noble instinct, a signal mitigation of conquest, which was then the universal habit, but from being extermination and destruction, at best slavery or forcible transplantation, became under the romans a supremacy, imposed indeed by force, and at the cost of much suffering, yet, in a certain sense civilizing, and not exercised wholly without regard for the good of the subject races. thus that political unity of the nations round the mediterranean was brought about, which was the necessary precursor and protector of a union of a better kind. a measure of the same praise is due to alexander, who was a conqueror of the higher order for a similar reason--namely, that though a macedonian prince, he was imbued with the ideas and the morality of the greek republics. but alexander was a single man, and he could not accomplish what was accomplished in a succession of generations by the corporate energies and virtues of the roman senate. the conditions under which this morality had maintained itself were now gone. it depended on the circumstances of a small community, long engaged in a struggle for existence with powerful and aggressive neighbours, the latin, the etruscan, the samnite, and the gaul; entering in turn, when its own safety had been secured, on a career of conquest, still in a certain sense defensive, since every neighbour was in those days an enemy; and continuing to task to the utmost the citizen's devotion to the state, the virtues of command and obedience necessary to victory, and the frugality necessary to supply the means of great national efforts; while luxury was kept at bay, though the means of indulging it had begun to flow in, by the check of national danger and the counter-attraction of military glory. but all this was at an end when carthage and macedon were overthrown. national danger and the necessity for national effort being removed, self-devotion failed, egotism broke loose, and began to revel in the pillage and oppression of a conquered world. the roman character was corrupted, as the spartan character was corrupted when sparta, from being a camp in the midst of hostile helots, became a dominant power and sent out governors to subject states; though the corruption in the case of sparta was far more rapid, because spartan excellence was more exclusively military, more formal and more obsolete. the mass of the romans ceased to perform military duty, and there being no great public duty except military duty to be performed, there remained no school of public virtue. such public virtue as there was lingered, though in a degraded form round the eagles of the standing armies, to which the duties of the citizen-soldier were now consigned; and the soldiery thus acquired not only the power but the right of electing the emperors, the best of whom, in fact, after augustus, were generally soldiers. the ruling nation became a city rabble, the vices of which were but little tempered by the fitful intervention of the enfranchised communities of italy. of this rabble, political adventurers bought the consulships, which led to the government of provinces, and wrung out of the unhappy provincials the purchase money and a fortune for themselves besides. these fortunes begot colossal luxury and a general reign of vice. violence mingling with corruption in the elections was breeding a complete anarchy in rome. roman religion, to which, if we believe polybius, we must ascribe a real influence in the maintenance of morality, was at the same time undermined by the sceptical philosophy of greece, and by contact with conflicting religions, the spectacle of which had its effect in producing the scepticism of montaigne. the empire itself was on the point of dissolution. in empires founded by single conquerors, such as those of the east, when corruption has made the reigning family its prey, the satraps make themselves independent. the empire of alexander was divided among his generals. the empire of the conquering republic of rome, the republic itself having succumbed to vices analagous to the corruption of a reigning family, was about to be broken up by the great military chiefs. pompey had already, in fact, carved out for himself a separate kingdom in spain, which with its legions he had got permanently into his own hands. thus the unity of the civilized portion of humanity, so indispensable to the future of the race, would have been lost. nor was there any remedy but one. representation of the provinces was out of the question. supposing it possible that a single assembly could have been formed out of all these different races and tongues, the representation of the conquered would have been the abdication of the conqueror, and abdication was a step for which the lazzaroni of the so-called democratic party were as little prepared as the haughtiest aristocrat in rome. a world of egotism, without faith or morality, could be held together only by force, which presented itself in the person of the ablest, most daring, and most unscrupulous adventurer of the time. if faith should again fail, and the world again be reduced to a mass of egotism, the same sort of government will again, be needed. in fact, we are at this moment rather in danger of something of the kind, and these revivals of caesarism are not wholly out of season. but in any other case to propose to society such a model would be treason to humanity. the abandonment of military duty by the roman people had, among other things, made slavery more immoral than ever, because there was no longer any semblance of a division of labour: the master could no longer be said to defend the slave in war while the slave supported him by labour at home. becoming more immoral, slavery became more cruel. the six thousand crosses erected on the road from capua to rome after the servile war were the terrible proof. as to the existence of an oligarchy in the bosom of the dominant republic, this would in itself have been no great evil to the subject world, to which it mattered little whether its tyrants were a hundred or a hundred thousand; just as to the unenfranchised in modern communities it matters little whether the enfranchised class be large or small. in fact, the broader the basis of a tyranny, the more fearless and unscrupulous, generally speaking, the tyranny is. we need not overstate the case. if we do we shall tarnish the laurels of caesar, who would have shown no genius in killing the republic had the republic been already dead. there was still respect for the law and the constitution. pompey's hesitation when supreme power was within his grasp, caesar's own pause at the rubicon, are proofs of it. the civil wars of marius and sulla had fearfully impaired, in the eyes of romans, but they had not utterly destroyed, the majesty of rome. there were still great characters--characters which you may dislike, but of which you can never rationally speak with contempt--and there must have been some general element of worth in which these characters were formed. if the recent administration of the senate had not been glorious, still, from a roman point of view, it had not been disastrous: the revolt of the slaves and the insurrection in spain had been quelled; mithridates had been conquered; the pirates, though for a time their domination accused the feebleness of the government, had at length been put down. the only great military calamity of recent date was the defeat of crassus, whose unprovoked and insane invasion of parthia was the error, not of the senate, but of the triumvirate. legions were forthcoming for the conquest of gaul, and a large reserve of treasure was found in the sacred treasure-house when it was broken open by caesar. bad governors of provinces, verres, fonteius, gabinius, were impeached and punished. lucullus, autocrat and voluptuary as he was, governed his province well. so did cicero, if we may take his own word for it. we may, at all events, take his own word for this, that he was anxious to be thought to have ruled with purity and justice, which proves that purity and justice were not quite out of fashion. the old roman spirit still struggled against luxury, and we find cicero suffering from indigestion, caused by a supper of vegetables at the house of a wealthy friend, whose excellent cook had developed all the resources of gastronomic art in struggling with the restrictions imposed by a sumptuary law. there was intellectual life, and all the civilized tastes and half-moral qualities which the existence of intellectual life implies. in spite of the sanguinary anarchy which often broke out in the roman streets, cicero, the most cultivated and the least combative of men, when in exile or in his province, sighs for the capital as a frenchman sighs for paris. in short, if we consider the case fairly, we shall admit, i believe, that, besides the force of memory and of old allegiance, there was enough of worth and of apparent hope left, not only to excuse republican illusions, but probably to make it a duty to try the issue with fate. i say probably, and, after all, how can we presume to speak with certainty of a situation so distant from us in time, and so imperfectly recorded? the great need of the world was public virtue--the spirit of self- sacrifice for the common good. this the empire could not possibly call into being. the public virtue of the ancient world resided in the nationalities which the conquering republic had broken up, and of which the empire only sealed the doom. the empire could never call forth even the lowest form of public virtue, loyalty to the hereditary right of a royal family, because the empire never presented itself as a right, but merely as a personal power. the idea of legitimacy, i apprehend never connected itself with these dynasts who were, in fact, a series of usurpers, veiling their usurpation under republican forms. when the spirit which leads man to sacrifice himself to the good of the community appeared again it appeared in associations and notably in one great association formed not by the empire but independently of it in antagonism to its immorality, and in spite of its persecutions. accidentally the empire assisted the extension of the great christian association by completing the overthrow of the national religions, but the main part of this work had been done by the republic and it was the merit neither of the republic nor of the empire. it is said with confidence that the empire vastly improved the government of the provinces, and that on this account it was a great blessing to the world. i do not believe that any nation had then attained, i do not believe that any nation has now attained, and i doubt whether any nation ever will attain, such a point of morality as to be able to govern other nations for the benefit of the governed. i will say nothing about our christian policy in india, but let those who rate french morality so highly, consider what french tutelage is to the people of algeria. but supposing the task undertaken, the question which is the best organ of imperial government--an assembly or an autocrat--is a curious one. i am disposed to think that, taking the average of assemblies and the average of autocrats, there is more hope in the assembly, because in the assembly opinion must have some force. the autocrat is in a certain sense, raised above the dominant nation and its interests, but, after all, he is one of that nation, he lives in it, and subsists by its support. even in the time of augustus, if we may trust dion cassius licinius the governor of gaul, was guilty of corruptions and peculations curiously resembling those of verres, from whom he seems to have borrowed the device of tampering with the calendar for the purpose of fiscal fraud, and when the provinces complained, the emperor hushed up the matter, partly to avoid scandal, partly because licinius was cunning enough to pretend that his peculations had been intended to cut the sinews of revolt, and that his spoils were reserved for the imperial exchequer. the rebellions of vindex and civilis seem to prove that even caesar's favourite province was not happy. spain was misgoverned by the deputies both of julius and augustus. in britain, the history of the revolt of the iceni shews that neither the extortions of roman usurers, nor the brutalities of roman officers, had ended with the republic. the blood tax of the conscription appears also to have been cruelly exacted. the tribute of largesses and shows which the empire, though supposed to be lifted high above all partialities, paid to the roman populace, was drawn almost entirely from the provinces. emperors who coined money with the tongue of the informer and the sword of the executioner, were not likely to abstain from selling governorships; and, in fact, seneca intimates that under bad emperors governorships were sold. of course, the tyranny was felt most at rome, where it was present; but when caligula or caracalla made a tour in the provinces, it was like the march of the pestilence. the absence of a regular bureaucracy, practically controlling, as the russian bureaucracy does, the personal will of the emperor, must have made government better under trajan, but much worse under nero. the aggregation of land in the hands of a few great land-holders evidently continued, and under this system the garden of italy became a desert. the decisive fact, however, is that the provinces decayed, and that when the barbarians arrived, all power of resistance was gone. that the empire was consciously levelling and cosmopolitan, surely cannot be maintained. actium was a roman victory over the gods of the nations. augustus, who must have known something about the system, avowedly aimed at restoring the number, the purity, the privileged exclusiveness of the dominant race. his legislation was an attempt to regenerate old rome; and the political odes of the court poet are full of that purpose. that the empire degraded all that had once been noble in rome is true; but the degradation of what had once been noble in rome was not the regeneration of humanity. the vast slave population was no more elevated by the ascendency of the freedmen of the imperial household than the female sex was elevated by the ascendancy of messalina. that intellect declined under the emperors, and that the great writers of its earlier period, tacitus included, were really legacies of the republic, cannot be denied; and surely it is a pregnant fact. the empire is credited with roman law. but the roman law was ripe for codification in the time of the first caesar. the leading principles of the civil law seem by that time to have been in existence. unquestionably the great step had been taken of separating law as a science from consecrated custom, and of calling into existence regular law courts and what was tantamount to a legal profession. the mere evolution of the system from its principles required no transcendant effort; and the idea of codification must have been something less than divine, or it could not have been compassed by the intellect of justinian. the criminal law of the empire, with its arbitrary courts, its secret procedure, its elastic law of treason, and its practice of torture, was the scourge of europe till it was encountered and overthrown by the jury system, a characteristic offspring of the teutonic mind. tolerant the empire was, at least if you did not object to having the statue of caligula set up in your holy of holies, and this toleration fostered the growth of a new religion. but it is needless to say that, in this respect, the politicians of the empire only inherited the negative virtue of those of the republic. as to private morality, we may surely trust the common authorities-- juvenal, suetonius, petronius arbiter--supported as they are by the evidence of the museums. there was one family, at least, whose colossal vices and crimes afforded a picture in the deepest sense tragic, considering their tremendous effect on the lot and destinies of humanity. it is a glorious dream, this of an autocrat, the elect of humanity, raised above all factions and petty interests, armed with absolute power to govern well, agreeing exactly with all our ideas, giving effect to all our schemes of beneficence, and dealing summarily with our opponents; but it does not come through the "horngate" of history, at least not of the history of the roman empire. the one great service which the empire performed to humanity was this: it held together, as nothing else could have held together, the nations of the civilized world, and thus rendered possible a higher unity of mankind. i ventured to note, as one of the sources of illusion, a somewhat exaggerated estimate of the amount and value of the roman element transfused by the empire into modern civilization. the theory of continuity, suggested by the discoveries of physical science, is prevailing also in history. a historical theory is to me scientific, not because it is suggested by physical science, but because it fits the historical facts. it may be true that there are no cataclysms in history, but still there are great epochs. in fact, there are great epochs, even in the natural history of the world; there were periods at which organization and life began to exist. there may have been a time at which a still further effort was made, and spiritual life also was brought into being. things which do not come suddenly or abruptly, may nevertheless be new. a great sensation has been created by an article in the _quarterly_, on "the talmud," which purports to shew that the teachings of christianity were, in fact, only those of pharisaism. the organ of orthodoxy, in publishing that article, was rather like our great mother eve in milton, who "knew not eating death." but after all, pharisaism crucified christianity, and probably it was not for plagiarism. supposing we adopt the infiltration theory of the barbarian conquests, and discard that of a sudden deluge of invasion, it remains certain, unless all contemporary writers were much mistaken, that some very momentous change did, after all, occur. catholicism and feudalism were the life of the middle ages. catholicism, though it had grown up under the empire, and at last subjugated it, was not of it. as to feudalism, it is possible, no doubt, to find lands held on condition of military service under the roman empire as well as under the ottoman empire, and in other military states. but is it possible to find anything like the social hierarchy of feudalism, its code of mutual rights and duties, or the political and social characters which it formed? in france and spain, much of the roman province survived, but in england, not the least influential of the group of modern nations, it was, as we have every reason to believe, completely erased by the saxon invaders, who came fresh from the seats of their barbarism, hating cities and city life, and ignorant of the majesty of rome. if a roman element afterwards found its way into england with the norman conquest, it was rather ecclesiastical than imperial, and those who brought it were scandinavians to the core. alfred had been at rome in his boyhood, it is true, and may have brought away some ideas of central dominion; but his laws open with a long quotation, not from the pandects, but from the new testament--his character is altogether that of a christian, not of a roman ruler, and if he had any political model before him, it was, probably, at least as much the hebrew monarchy as the military despotism of the caesars. many of the roman cities remained, and with them their municipal governments, and hence it is assumed that municipal government altogether is roman. but there was a municipal government in the saxon capital, and evidently there must be wherever large cities exist with any degree of independence. the roman law was, at all events so far lost in the early part of the middle ages when christendom was in process of formation that the study of it afterwards seemed new. roman literature influenced that of mediaeval christendom down to about the end of the twelfth century. our writers of the time of henry ii. compose in half classical latin and affect classical elegancies of style. but then comes a philosophy which in spite of its worship of aristotle is essentially an original creation of the mediaeval and catholic mind couched in a language latin indeed but almost as remote from classical latin as german itself: the tongue in truth of a new intellectual world. open aquinas and ask yourself how much is left of the language or the mind of rome. the eye of the antiquary sees the basilica in the cathedral, but what essential resemblance does the roman place of judicature and business bear to that marvellous and fantastic poetry of religion writing its hymns in stone? in the same manner the roman _castra_ are traceable in the form as well as the designation of the mediaeval _castella_. but what resemblance did the feudal militia bear to the legionaries? and what became of the roman art of war till it was revived by gustavus adolphus? the outward mould of christendom the roman empire was and that it was so gives it great dignity and interest, but it was no more. the life came from the german forest the life of life from the peasantry of galilee the least romanized perhaps of the populations beneath the sway of rome. the founder of the roman empire was a very great man. with such genius and such fortune it is not surprising that he should be made an idol. in intellectual stature he was at least an inch higher than his fellows which is in itself enough to confound all our notions of right and wrong. he had the advantage of being a statesman before he was a soldier whereas napoleon was a soldier before he was a statesman. his ambition coincided with the necessity of the world which required to be held together by force, and therefore his empire endured for four hundred, or if we include its eastern offset, for fourteen hundred years, while that of napoleon crumbled to pieces in four. but unscrupulous ambition was the root of his character. it was necessary in fact to enable him to trample down the respect for legality which still hampered other men. to connect him with any principle seems to me impossible. he came forward, it is true, as the leader of what is styled the democratic party, and in that sense the empire which he founded may be called democratic. but to the gamblers who brought their fortunes to that vast hazard table, the democratic and aristocratic parties were merely _rouge_ and _noir_. the social and political equity, the reign of which we desire to see was, in truth, unknown to the men of caesar's time. it is impossible to believe that there was an essential difference of principle between one member of the triumvirate and another. the great adventurer had begun by getting deeply into debt, and had thus in fact bound himself to overthrow the republic. he fomented anarchy to prepare the way for his dictatorship. he shrank from no accomplice however tainted, not even from catiline; from no act however profligate or even inhuman. abusing his authority as a magistrate, for party purposes, he tries to put to a cruel and ignominious death rabirius, an aged and helpless man, for an act done in party warfare thirty years before. the case of vettius is less clear, but dr. mommsen, at all events, seems to have little doubt that caesar was privy to the subornation of this perjurer, and when his perjuries had broken down, to his assassination. dr. mommsen owns that there was a dark period in the life of the great man; in that darkness it could scarcely be expected that the republicans should see light. the noblest feature in caesar's character was his clemency. but we are reminded that it was ancient, not modern clemency, when we find numbered among the signal instances of it his having cut the throats of the pirates before he hanged them, and his having put to death without torture (_simplici morte punivit_) a slave suspected of conspiring against his life. some have gone so far as to speak of him as the incarnation of humanity. but where in the whole history of roman conquest will you find a more ruthless conqueror? a million of gauls, we are told, perished by the sword. multitudes were sold into slavery. the extermination of the eburones went to the verge even of ancient license. the gallant vercingetorix, who had fallen into caesar's hands under circumstances which would have touched any but a depraved heart, was kept by him a captive for six years, and butchered in cold blood on the day of the triumph. the sentiment of humanity was at that time undeveloped. be it so, but then we must not call caesar the incarnation of humanity. vast plans are ascribed to caesar at the time of his death, and it seems to be thought that a world of hopes for humanity perished when he fell. but if he had lived and acted for another century what could he have done with those moral and political materials but found what he did found--a military and sensualist empire? a multitude of projects are attributed to him by writers who we must remember are late and who make him ride a fairy charger with feet like the hands of a man. some of these projects are really great, such as the codification of the law and measures for the encouragement of intellect and science; others are questionable, such as the restoration of commercial cities from which commerce had retired; others, great works to be accomplished by an unlimited command of men and money, are the common dreams of every nebuchadnezzar. what we know if we know anything of his intentions is that he was about to set out on a campaign against the parthians in whose plains this prototype of napoleon might perhaps have found a torrid moscow. no great advance of humanity can take place without a great moral effort excited by higher moral desires. the masters of the legions can only set in action by their fiat material forces. even these they often misdirect; but if the empire could have given every man nero's golden house the inhabitants might still have been as unhappy as nero. it is not doubtful that caesar was a type of the sensuality of his age. his worshippers even feel it necessary to gird at characters deficient in sensual passion with a friskiness which is a little amusing when you connect it with the spectacles and the blameless life of a learned professor. so gifted a nature will absorb a good deal of mere sensual vice, it is true, but a sensualist could hardly be a pure and noble organ of humanity. in this i have the positivists with me. even in caesar's lifetime the world had a taste of the vicissitudes of empire while he was revelling in the palace of cleopatra and leaving affairs to antony and dolabella. perhaps the satiety of the voluptuary had something to do with the recklessness with which at the last he neglected to guard his life. he was the greatest patron of gladiatorial shows and signalized his accession to power by magnificent scenes of carnage in the arena--a strange dawn for the day of a new civilization. must we not a little doubt the consistency of his policy and even his insight when we find him after all this enacting sumptuary laws? still caesar was a very great man and he played a dazzling part, as all men do who come just at the fall of an old system, when society is as clay in the hands of the potter, and found a new system in its place, while the less dazzling task of making the new system work, by probity and industry, and of restoring the shattered allegiance of a people to its institutions, descends upon unlaurelled heads. but that the men of his time were bound to recognise in him a messiah, to use the phrase of the emperor of the french, and that those who opposed him were jews crucifying their saviour, is an impression which i venture to think will in time subside. no golden scales were hung out in heaven to shew the republicans that the balance of divine will had turned, and that their duty was submission. "momentumque fuit mutatus curio rerum--" the only sign vouchsafed to them was the conversion of an unprincipled debauchee. they have, therefore, a fair claim to be judged each upon the merits of his case, and not in the lump as enemies of the human race; and to judge them fairly is a good exercise in historical morality. the three principal names in the party are those of cato, cicero, and marcus brutus. pompey, though the nominal chief of the republicans, may rather, as dr mommsen truly says, be called the first military monarch of rome. there is a vigorous portrait of him, from the republican point of view, by lucan, who, though detestable as an epic poet, sometimes in his political passages, and especially in his characters, shews himself the countryman of tacitus. pompey is there described with truth as combining the desire of supreme power with a lingering respect for the constitution. the great aristocrat is painted as simple in his habits of life, and his household as uncorrupted by the fortunes of its lord--the last relics of the control imposed by the spirit of the republic on private luxury, which was soon to be released by the empire from all restraint and carried to the most revolting height. marcus cato was the one man whom, living and dead, caesar evidently dreaded. the dictator even assailed his memory in a brace of pamphlets entitled anti-cato, of the quality of which we have one or two specimens, in plutarch, from which we should infer that they were scurrilous and slanderous to the last degree; a proof that even caesar could feel fear, and that in caesar, too, fear was mean. dr mommsen throws himself heartily into caesar's antipathy, and can scarcely speak of cato without something like loss of temper. the least uncivil thing which he says of him, is that he was a don quixote, with favonius for his sancho. the phrase is not a happy one, since sancho is not the caricature but the counterfoil of don quixote; don quixote being spirit without sense and sancho sense without spirit. imperialism, if it could see itself, is in fact a world of sanchos and it would not be the less so if every sancho of the number were master of the whole of physical science, and used it to cook his food. of the two court poets of caesar's successor, one makes cato preside over the spirits of the good in the elysian fields, while the other speaks with respect, at all events, of the soul which remained unconquered in a conquered world--"et cuneta terrarum subacta praeter atrocem animum catonis." paterculus, an officer of tiberius and a thorough caesarian, calls cato a man of ideal virtue ("homo virtuti simillimus") who did right not for appearance sake, but because it was not in his nature to do wrong. when the victor is thus overawed by the shade of the vanquished, the vanquished can hardly have been a "fool." contemporaries may be mistaken as to the merits of a character, but they cannot well be mistaken as to the space which it occupied in their own eyes. sallust, the partizan of marius and caesar, who had so much reason to hate the senatorial party, speaks of caesar and cato as the two mighty opposites of his time, and in an elaborate parallel ascribes to caesar the qualities which secure the success of the adventurer; to cato those which make up the character of the patriot. it is a mistake to regard cato the younger as merely an unseasonable repetition of cato the elder. his inspiration came not from a roman, but from a greek school, which, with all its errors and absurdities, and in spite of the hypocrisy of many of its professors, really aimed highest in the formation of character; and the practical teachings and aspirations of which, embodied in the reflections of marcus aurelius, it is impossible to study without profound respect for the force of moral conception and the depth of moral insight which they sometimes display. cato went to greece to sit at the feet of a greek teacher in a spirit very different from the national pride of his ancestor. it is this which makes his character interesting: it was an attempt at all events to grasp and hold fast a high rule of life in an age when the whole moral world was sinking in a vortex of scoundrelism, and faith in morality, public or private, had been lost. of course the character is formal, and in some respects even grotesque. but you may trace formalism, if you look closely enough, in every life led by a rule; in everything in fact between the purest spiritual impulse on one side and abandoned sensuality on the other. attempts to revive old roman simplicity of dress and habits in the age of lucullus, were no doubt futile enough: yet this is only the symbolical garb of the hebrew prophet. the scene is in ancient rome, not in the smoking-room of the house of commons. the character as painted by plutarch, who seems to have drawn from the writings of contemporaries, is hard of course, but not cynical. cato was devoted to his brother caepio, and when caepio died, forgot all his stoicism in the passionate indulgence of his grief, and all his frugality in lavishing gold and perfumes on the funeral. caesar in "anti-cato" accused him of sifting the ashes for the gold, which, says plutarch, is like charging hercules with cowardice. where the sensual appetites are repressed, whatever may be the theory of life, the affections are pretty sure to be strong, unless they are nipped by some such process as is undergone by a monk. cato's resignation of his fruitful wife to a childless friend, revolting as it is to our sense, betokens not so much brutality in him as coarseness of the conjugal relations at rome. evidently the man had the power of touching the hearts of others. his soldiers, though he has given them no largesses, and indulged them in no license, when he leaves them, strew their garments under his feet. his friends at utica linger at the peril of their lives to give him a sumptuous funeral. he affected conviviality like socrates. he seems to have been able to enjoy a joke too at his own expense. he can laugh when cicero ridicules his stoicism in a speech; and when in a province he meets the inhabitants of a town turning out, and thinks at first that it is in his own honour, but soon finds that it is in honour of a much greater man, the confidential servant of pompey, at first his dignity is outraged, but his anger soon gives place to amusement. that his public character was perfectly pure, no one seems to have doubted; and there is a kindliness in his dealings with the dependants of rome which shews that had he been an emperor he would have been such an emperor as trajan--a man whom he probably resembled, both in the goodness of his intentions and in the limited powers of his mind. impracticable, of course, in a certain sense he was; but his part was that of a reformer, and to compromise with the corruption against which he was contending would have been to lose the only means of influence, which, having no military force and no party, he possessed--the unquestioned integrity of his character. he is said by dr. mommsen to have been incapable of even conceiving a policy. by policy i suppose is meant one of those brilliant schemes of ambition with which some literary men are fond of identifying themselves, fancying, it seems, that thereby they themselves after their measure play the caesar. the policy which cato conceived was simply that of purifying and preserving the republic. so far, at all events, he had an insight into the situation, that he knew the real malady of the state to be want of public spirit, which he did his best to supply. and the fact is, that he did more than once succeed in a remarkable way in stemming the tide of corruption. though every instinct bade him struggle to the last, he had sense enough to see the state of the case, and to advise that, to avert anarchy, supreme power should be put into the hands of pompey, whose political superstition, if not his loyalty, there was good reason to trust. when at last civil war broke out, cato went into it like falkland, crying "peace;" he set his face steadily against the excesses and cruelties of his party; and when he saw the field of dyrrhaeium covered with his slain enemies, he covered his face and wept. he wept a roman over romans, but humanity will not refuse the tribute of his tears. after pharsalus he cherished no illusion, as dr mommsen himself admits, and though he determined himself to fall fighting, he urged no one else to resistance: he felt that the duty of an ordinary citizen was done. his terrible march over the african desert shewed high powers of command, as we shall see by comparing it with the desert march of napoleon. dr. mommsen ridicules his pedantry in refusing, on grounds of loyalty, to take the commandership-in-chief over the head of a superior in rank. cato was fighting for legality, and the spirit of legality was the soul of his cause. but besides this, he was himself without experience of war; and by declining the nominal command he retained the real control. he remained master to the last of the burning vessel. our morality will not approve of his voluntary death; but then our morality would give him a sufficient motive for living, even if he was to be bound to the car of the conqueror. looking to roman opinion, he probably did what honour dictated; and those who prefer honour to life are not so numerous that we can afford to speak of them with scorn. "the fool," says dr mommsen, when the drama of the republic closes with cato's death--"the fool spoke the epilogue" whether cato was a fool or not, it was not he that spoke the epilogue. the epilogue was spoken by marcus aurelius, whose principles, political as well as philosophical, were identical with those for which cato gave his life. all that time the stoic and republican party lived, sustained by the memory of its martyrs, and above them all by that of cato. at first it struggled against the empire; at last it accepted it, and when the world was weary of caesars, assumed the government and gave humanity the respite of the antonines. the doctrine of continuity is valid for all parties alike, and the current of public virtue was not cut off by pharsalus. on the whole, remote as the character of cato is in some respects from our sympathies, absurd as it would be if taken as a model for our imitation, i recognise it as a proof of the reality and indestructibility of moral force, even when pitted against the masters of thirty legions. against cicero, again, dr. mommsen is so bitter, he is so determined to suppress as well as to degrade him, that it would be difficult even to make out from his pages who and what the once divine tully was. much of dr. mommsen's dashing criticism on cicero's writings appears just, though we might trust the critic more if we did not find him in the next page evading the unwelcome duty of criticising caesar's "bellum civile," under cover of some sentimental remarks about the difference between hope and fulfilment in a great soul. cicero was no philosopher, in the highest sense of the term; yet it is not certain that he did not do some service to humanity by promulgating, in eloquent language, a pretty high and liberal morality, which both modified monkish ethics, and, when monkish ethics fell, and brought down christian ethics in their fall, did something to supply the void. the orations, even the great philippic, i must confess i could never enjoy. but all orations, read long after their delivery, are like spent missiles, wingless and cold: they retain the deformities of passion, without the fire. a speech embodying great principles may live with the principles which it embodies; otherwise happy are the orators whose speeches are lost. the letters it is not so easy to give up, especially when we consider of how many graceful and pleasant compositions of the same kind, of how many self-revelations, which have brought the hearts of men nearer to each other, those letters have been the model. that, however, which pleases most in cicero is that he is, for his age, a thoroughly and pre- eminently civilized man. he hates gladiatorial shows; he despises even the tasteless pageantry of the roman theatre; he heartily loves books; he is saving up all his earnings to buy a coveted library for his old age; he has a real enthusiasm for great writers; he breaks through national pride, and feels sincerely grateful to the greeks as the authors; of civilization, rogues though he knew them to be in his time; he mourns, albeit with an apology, over the death of a slave; his slaves evidently are attached to him, and are faithful to him at the last; he writes to his favourite freedman with all the warmth of equal friendship. in his writings--in the "de legibus," for instance--you will find principles of humanity far more comprehensive than those by which the policy of the empire was moulded. his tastes were pure and refined, and though he multiplied his villas, and decorated them with cost and elegance, it is certain that he was perfectly free alike from the prodigal ostentation and from the debauchery of the time indeed his vast intellectual industry implies a temperate life. for the game- preserving tendencies of the great oligarchs, he had a hearty dislike and contempt; in spite of the ill-looking, though obscure, episode of his divorce from his wife terentia, he was evidently a man of strong family affections, the natural adjuncts of moral purity; he is inconsolable for the death of his daughter, spends days in melancholy wandering in the woods, and finds consolation only in erecting a temple to the beloved shade. his faults of character, both in private and public, are glaring, and the only thing to be said in excuse of his vanity is that it is so frank, and says plainly, "puff me," not "puff me not." as a political adventurer of the higher class, pushing his way under an aristocratic government by his talents and his training, received in course of time into the ranks of the aristocracy, yet never one of them, he will bear comparison with burke. he resembles burke, too, in his religious constitutionalism and reverence for the wisdom of political ancestors and perhaps his hope of creating a party at once conservative and reforming, by a combination of the moneyed interest with the aristocracy, was not much more chimerical than burke's hope of creating a party at once conservative and reforming out of the materials of whiggism. each of the two men affected a balanced, and in the literal sense, a trimming policy, as opposed to one of abstract principle, burke, perhaps, from temperament, cicero from necessity. impeachments at rome in cicero's time were no doubt the regular stepping-stones of rising politicians; nevertheless, the accuser of verres may fairly be credited with some, at least, of the genuine sentiment which impelled the accuser of warren hastings. we must couple with the verrines the admirable letter of the orator to his brother quintus on the government of a province, and his own provincial administration, which, as was said before, appears to have been excellent. cicero rose, not as an adherent of the aristocracy, but as their opponent, and the assailant, a bold assailant, of the tyranny of sulla. he was brought to the front in politics, as sallust avers, by his merit, in spite of his birth and social position, when the mortal peril of the catilinarian conspiracy was gathering round the state, and necessity called for the man, and not the game-preserver. his conduct in that hour of supreme peril is ridiculously overpraised by himself. not only so, but he begs a friend in plain terms to write a history of it and to exaggerate. now, it is denounced as brutal tyranny and judicial murder. but those who hold this language have new lights on the subject of catiline. i confess that on me these new lights have not dawned; i still believe catiline to have been a terrible anarchist, coming forth from the abyss of debauchery, ruin, and despair, which lay beneath: the great fortunes of rome. the land of caesar borgia has produced such men in more than one period of history. the alleged illegality of the execution was made the stalking- horse of a party move, and scrupulous legality found a champion and an avenger in clodius. on his return from exile, cicero was received with the greatest enthusiasm by the whole population of italy, a fact which dr. mommsen is inclined to explain away, but which we should, perhaps, accept as the key to some other facts in cicero's history. the italians were probably the most respectable of the political elements, and it seems they not only looked up to their fellow-provincial with pride, but saw in him a statesman who was saving their homesteads from a reign of terror. that cicero had the general support of the italians was quite enough to make his adherence an object of serious consideration to caesar, though dr. mommsen persists in interpolating into the relations of the two men the contempt which he feels, and which he fancies caesar must have felt, for an advocate. surely, however, it is a mistake to think that oratory was not even in those days a real power at rome. can a greater platitude be conceived than railing at a statesman of antiquity for having been a rhetorician? was not pericles a rhetorician? was not caesar himself a rhetorician? did he not learn rhetoric from the same master as cicero? some day we may be ruled by political science; but rhetoric was, at all events, an improvement on mere force. the situation at rome had now become essentially military; and cicero having no military force at his command could not really control the situation. his attempts to control it exposed him to all the miscarriages and all the indignities which such an attempt is sure to entail. he was a vessel of earthenware, or rather of very fragile porcelain, swimming among vessels of brass. self-respect would perhaps have prescribed retirement from public life; but, to say nothing of his egotism, he had done too much to retire. egotistical he was in the highest degree, and that failing made all his humiliations doubly ignominious; but still, i think, if you judge him candidly, you wilt see that he really loved his country, and that his greatest object of desire was, as he himself says, to live in the grateful memory of after-times; not the highest of all aims, but higher than that of the political adventurer. when the civil war came, his perplexity was painful, and he betrayed it with his usual want of reticence. in that, as in other respects, his character is the direct opposite of that of the "gloomy sporting man," whose ways louis napoleon, it is said, avowed that he had studied during his exile in england, and followed with profit as a conspirator in france. cicero and cato knew too well that pompey had "licked the sword of sulla;" but they knew also, by long experience of his political character, that he shrank from doing the last violence to the constitution. on the other hand, all men expected that caesar, who had formerly given himself out as the political heir of marius, who had restored the trophies of marius, and had undertaken the conquest of gaul, evidently as a continuation of the victories of marius, descending upon italy with an army partly consisting of barbarians and trained in the most ferocious warfare, would renew the marian reign of terror. this fear put all italy at first on pompey's side. caesar had not yet revealed his nobler and more glorious self. even curio told cicero, in an interview, the object of which was to draw cicero to the caesarian side, that caesar's clemency was merely policy, not in his nature. the best security against the bloody excesses of a victorious party at that moment, undoubtedly, was the presence of marcus cato in the camp of pompey. after pharsalus, cicero submitted like many men of sterner mould. this departure of the advocate from the pompeian camp is surrounded by dr. mommsen with circumstances of ridicule, for which, on reference to what i suppose to be the authorities, i can find no historical foundation. the fiercer pompeians very nearly killed him for refusing to stay and command them; his life was in fact only saved by the intrepid moderation of cato; and this is surely not a proof that they deemed his presence worthless. once more, orators were not ridiculous in the eyes of antiquity. cicero accepted, and, in a certain sense, served under the dictatorate of caesar; though he afterwards rejoiced when it was overthrown, and the constitution, the idol of his political worship, was restored; just as we may suppose a french constitutionalist, not of stern mould, yet not dishonest, accepting and serving under the empire, yet rejoicing at the restoration of constitutional government. in the interval, between the death of caesar and philippi, he was really the soul and the main support of the restoration. i have said what i think of the philippics; but there can be no doubt that they told, or that brutus and cassius thought them, worth at least a legion. cicero met death with a physical courage, which there is no reason to believe that he wanted in life. his cowardice was political; his fears were for his position and reputation. if cato survived in the tradition of public virtue, so did cicero in the tradition of culture, which saved the empire of the caesars from being an empire of moguls. the culture of a republic saved caesar himself from being a mere timur, and set him after his victory to reforming calendars and endowing science, instead of making pyramids of heads. is it absurd to suppose that the great soldier, who was also a great man of letters, had more respect for intellect without military force than his literary admirers, and that he really wished to adorn his monarchy by allying to it the leading man of intellect of the time? our accounts of marcus brutus are not very clear. appian confounds marcus with decimus; and it appears not unlikely that "et tu brute," if it was said at all, was said to decimus, who was a special favourite of caesar, and was named in his will. marcus seems to have been a man of worth after his fashion; a patriot of the narrow roman type, reproduced in later days by fletcher of saltoun, whose ideal republic was an oligarchy, and who did not shrink from proposing to settle the proletariat difficulty by making the common people slaves. this is quite compatible with the fact revealed to us in the letters of cicero, that brutus was implicated, through his agents, in the infamous practice of lending money to provincials at exorbitant interest, and abusing the power of the imperial governments to exact the debt. one can imagine a west indian slave-owner, dealing with negroes through his agent according to the established custom, and yet being a good citizen in england. cicero, though he suffered from the imperious temper of brutus, speaks of him as one of those, the sight of whom banished his fears and anxieties for the republic. that the most famous and most terrible act of this man's life was an act of republican fanaticism, not of selfish ambition, is proved by his refusing, with magnanimous imprudence, to make all sure, as the more worldly spirits about him suggested, by cutting off antony and the outer leading partisans of caesar, and by his permitting public honours to be done to the corpse of the man whom he had immolated to civil duty. one almost shrinks from speaking of the death of caesar; so much modern nonsense on both sides has been talked about this, the most tragic, the most piteous, and at the same time the most inevitable event of ancient story. peculiar phases of society have their peculiar sentiments, with reference to which events must be explained. the greased cartridges were the real account of the indian mutiny. caesar was slain because he had shown that he was going to assume the title of king. cicero speaks the literal truth, when he says: that the real murderer was antony, and the fatal day the day of the lupercalia, when antony offered and caesar faintly put aside the crown. a dictator they would have borne, a king they would not bear, neither then nor for ages afterwards; because the title of king to their minds spoke not of a st. louis, or an edward i., or even a louis xiv., but of the unutterable degradation of the oriental slave. to use a homely image, if you put your leg in the way of a cannon ball which seems spent, but is still rolling, you will suffer by the experiment. this is exactly what caesar, in the giddiness of victory and supremacy, did, and the consequence was as certain as it was deplorable. the republican sentiment seemed to him to have entirely lost its force, so that he might spurn it with impunity; whereas, it had in it still enough of the momentum gathered through centuries of republican training and glory to destroy him, to restore the republic for a brief period, and to make victory doubtful at phillipi. he began by celebrating a triumph over his fellow-citizens, against the generous tradition of rome: in that triumph he displayed pictures of the tragic deaths of cato and other roman chiefs, which disgusted even the populace; he sported with the curule offices, the immemorial objects of republican reverence, so wantonly that he might almost as well have given a consulship to his horse; he flooded the senate with soldiers and barbarians; he forced a roman knight to appear upon the stage: at last, craving, as natures destitute of a high controlling principle do crave, for the form as well as the substance of power, he put out his hand to grasp a crown. the feeling on that subject was not only of terrible strength, but was actually embodied in a law by which the state solemnly armed the hand of the private citizen against any man who should attempt to make himself a king. how completely caesar's insight failed him is proved by the general acquiescence or apathy with which his fall was received, the subdued tone in which even his warm friend marius speaks of it, and the readiness with which his own soldiers and officers served under the restored republic. we have nothing to do here with any problem of modern ethics respecting military usurpation and tyrannicide, two things which must always stand together in the court of morality. tyrannicide, like suicide, was the rule of the ancient world, and would have been acknowledged by caesar himself, before he grasped supreme power, as an established duty. and certainly morality would stretch its bounds to include anything really necessary to protect the greek and italian republics, with the treasures which they bore in them for humanity, from the barbarous lust of power which was always lying in wait to devour them. i have said that the spirits of cato and cicero lived and worked after their deaths. so i suspect did that of brutus. the caesars had no god, no fear of public opinion at home, no general sentiment of civilized nations to control their tyranny. they had only the shadow of a hand armed with a dagger. one shrewd observer of the times at least, if i mistake not, had profited by the lesson of caesar's folly and fate. to the constitutional demeanour and personal moderation of augustus the world owes an epoch of grandeur of a certain kind, and an example of true dignity in the use of power. and augustus, i suspect, had studied his part at the foot of pompey's statue. plutarch parallels cato with phocion, demosthenes with cicero, brutus with dion--the dion whose history inspired the poem of wordsworth. greek republicanism, too, had its fatal hour; but we do not pour scorn and contumely on those who strove to prolong the life of athens beyond the term assigned by fate. the case of athens, a single independent state, was no doubt different from that of rome with so many subject nations under her sway. still in each case there was the commonwealth, standing in glorious contrast to the barbarous despotisms of other nations, the highest social and political state which humanity had known or for ages afterwards was to know. and this light of civilization was, so far as the last republicans could see, not only to be eclipsed for a time or put out, as now in a single nation, while it burns on in others, but to be swallowed up in hopeless night. mr. charles norton in the notes to his recent translation of the "vita nuova" of dante quotes a decree made by the commonwealth of florence for the building of the cathedral. "whereas it is the highest interest of a people of illustrious origin so to proceed in their affairs that men may perceive from their external works that their doings are at once wise and magnanimous, it is therefore ordered that arnulf, architect of our commune, prepare the model or design for the rebuilding of santa reparata with such supreme and lavish magnificence, that neither the industry nor the capacity of man shall be able to devise anything more grand or more beautiful, inasmuch as the most judicious in this city have pronounced the opinion, in public and private conferences, that no work of the commune should be undertaken unless the design be such as to make it correspond with a heart which is of the greatest nature because composed of the spirit of many citizens united together in one single will." [footnote: in his later and very valuable work on _church building in the middle ages_, mr. norton casts doubt on the authenticity of the decree. it is genuine at all events, as an expression of florentine sentiment, if not as an extract from the archives.] let imperialism, legitimist or democratic, match that! florence, too, had her political vices, many and grave, she tyrannized over pisa and other dependants, there was faction in her councils, anarchy, bloody anarchy, in her streets, for her, too, the hour of doom arrived, and the conspiracy of the pazzi was as much an anachronism as that of the republicans who slew caesar. but florence had that heart composed of the united spirits of many citizens out of which came all that the world admires and loves in the works of the florentine. she produced, though she exiled dante. that which followed was more tranquil, more orderly perhaps, materially speaking, not less happy, but it had no heart at all. austen-leigh's memoir of jane austen [footnote: "a memoir of jane austen. by her nephew, j. e. austen-leigh, vicar of bray, berks." london: richard bentley; new york: scribner, welford & co.] the walls of our cities were placarded, the other day, with an advertisement of a new sensational novel, the flaring woodcut of which represented a girl tied down upon a table, and a villain preparing to cut off her feet. if this were the general taste, there would be no use in talking about jane austen. but if you ask at the libraries you will find that her works are still taken out; so that there must still be a faithful few who, like ourselves, will have welcomed the announcement of a memoir of the authoress of "pride and prejudice," "mansfield park," and "emma." if jane austen's train of admirers has not been so large as those of many other novelists, it has been first-rate in quality. she has been praised--we should rather say, loved by all, from walter scott to guizot, whose love was the truest fame. her name has often been coupled with that of shakespeare, to whom macaulay places her second in the nice discrimination of shades of character. the difference between the two minds in degree is, of course, immense; but both belong to the same rare kind. both are really creative; both purely artistic; both have the marvellous power of endowing the products of their imagination with a life, as it were, apart from their own. each holds up a perfectly clear and undistorting mirror--shakespeare to the moral universe, jane austen to the little world in which she lived. in the case of neither does the personality of the author ever come between the spectator and the drama. vulgar criticism calls jane austen's work dutch painting. miniature painting would be nearer the truth; she speaks of herself as working with a fine brush on a piece of ivory two inches wide. dutch painting implies the selection of subjects in themselves low and uninteresting, for the purpose of displaying the skill of a painter, who can interest by the mere excellence of his imitation. jane austen lived in the society of english country gentlemen and their families as they were in the last century--a society affluent, comfortable, domestic, rather monotonous, without the interest which attaches to the struggles of labour without tragic events or figures seldom, in fact rising dramatically above the level of sentimental comedy, but presenting nevertheless, its varieties of character, its vicissitudes, its moral lessons--in a word, its humanity. she has painted it as it was, in all its features the most tragic as well as the most comic, avoiding only melodrama. "in all the important preparations of the mind, she (miss bertram) was complete, being prepared for matrimony by a hatred of home, restraint and tranquillity, by the misery of disappointed affection and contempt of the man she was to marry; the rest might wait." this is not the touch of gerard douw. an undertone of irony, never obtrusive but everywhere perceptible, shows that the artist herself knew very well that she was not painting gods and titans, and keeps everything on the right level. jane austen, then, was worthy of a memoir. but it was almost too late to write one. like shakespeare, she was too artistic to be autobiographic. she was never brought into contact with men of letters, and her own fame was almost posthumous, so that nobody took notes. she had been fifty years in her grave when her nephew, the rev j. e. austen-leigh, the youngest of the mourners who attended her funeral, undertook to make a volume of his own recollections, those of one or two other surviving relatives, and a few letters. of pages, in large print, and with a margin the vastness of which requires to be relieved by a rod rubric, not above a third is really biography, the rest is genealogy, description of places, manners, and customs, critical disquisition, testimonies of admirers. still, thanks to the real capacity of the biographer, and to the strong impression left by a character of remarkable beauty on his mind, we catch a pretty perfect though faint outline of the figure which was just hovering on the verge of memory, and in a few years more would, like the figure of shakespeare, have been swallowed up in night. jane austen was the flower of a stock, full, apparently, through all its branches, of shrewd sense and caustic humour, which in her were combined with the creative imagination. she was born in , at steventon, in hampshire, a country parish, of which her father was the rector. a village of cottages at the foot of a gentle slope, an old church with its coeval yew, an old manor-house, an old parsonage all surrounded by tall elms, green meadows, hedgerows full of primroses and wild hyacinths--such was the scene in which jane austen grew. it is the picture which rises in the mind of every englishman when he thinks of his country. around dwelt the gentry, more numerous and, if coarser and duller, more home-loving and less like pachas than they are now, when the smaller squires and yeomen have been swallowed up in the growing lordships of a few grandees who spend more than half their time in london or in other seats of politics or pleasure. not far off was a country town, a "meriton," the central gossiping place of the neighbourhood, and the abode of the semi-genteel. if a gentleman like mr. woodhouse lives equivocally close to the town, his "place" is distinguished by a separate name. there was no resident squire at steventon, the old manor-house being let to a tenant, so that jane's father was at once parson and squire. "that house (edmund bertram's parsonage) may receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great landowner of the parish by every creature travelling the road, especially as there is no real squire's house to dispute the point, a circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a situation in point of privilege and advantage beyond all calculation." her father having from old age resigned steventon when jane was six and twenty, she afterwards lived for a time with her family at bath, a great watering-place, and the scene of the first part of "northanger abbey;" at lyme, a pretty little sea-bathing place on the coast of dorset, on the "cobb" of which takes place the catastrophe of "persuasion;" and at southampton, now a great port, then a special seat of gentility. finally, she found a second home with her widowed mother and her sister at chawton, another village in hampshire. "in person," says jane's biographer, "she was very attractive. her figure was rather tall and slender, her step light and firm, and her whole appearance expressive of health and animation. in complexion, she was a clear brunette, with a rich colour; she had full round cheeks, with mouth and nose small and well formed; bright hazel eyes (it is a touch of the woman, then, when emma is described as having _the true hazel eye_), and brown hair forming natural curls close round her face." the sweetness and playfulness of "dear aunt jane" are fresh after so many years in the memories of her nephew and nieces, who also strongly attest the sound sense and sterling excellence of character which lay beneath. she was a special favourite with children, for whom she delighted to exercise her talent in improvising fairy-tales. unknown to fame, uncaressed save by family affection, and, therefore, unspoilt, while writing was her delight, she kept it in complete subordination to the duties of life, which she performed with exemplary conscientiousness in the house of mourning as well as in the house of feasting. even her needlework was superfine. we doubt not that, if the truth was known, she was a good cook. she calls herself "the most unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to be an authoress;" but this is a nominal tribute to the jealousy of female erudition which then prevailed, and at which she sometimes glances, though herself very far from desiring a masculine education for women. in fact, she was well versed in english literature, read french with ease, and knew something of italian--german was not thought of in those days. she had a sweet voice, and sang to her own accompaniment simple old songs which still linger in her nephew's ear. her favourite authors were johnson, whose strong sense was congenial to her, while she happily did not allow him to infect her pure and easy style, cowper, richardson and crabbe. she said that, if she married at all, she should like to be mrs. crabbe. and besides crabbe's general influence, which is obvious, we often see his special touch in her writings: "emma's spirits were mounted up quite to happiness. everything wore a different air. james and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. when she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and, when she turned round to harriet, she saw something like a look of spring--a tender smile even there." jane was supremely happy in her family relations, especially in the love of her elder sister, cassandra, from whom she was inseparable. of her four brothers, two were officers in the royal navy. how she watched their career, how she welcomed them home from the perils not only of the sea but of war (for it was the time of the great war with france), she has told us in painting the reception of william price by his sister fanny, in "mansfield park." it is there that she compares conjugal and fraternal love, giving the preference in one respect to the latter, because with brothers and sisters "all the evil and good of the earliest years can be gone over again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection: an advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal." it was, perhaps, because she was so happy in the love of her brothers and sisters, as well as because she was wedded to literature, that she was content, in spite of her good looks, to assume the symbolic cap of perpetual maidenhood at an unusually early age. thus she grew in a spot as sunny, as sheltered, and as holy as do the violets which her biographer tells us abound beneath the south wall of steventon church. it was impossible that she should have the experiences of miss bronte or madame sand, and without some experience the most vivid imagination cannot act, or can act only in the production of mere chimeras. to forestall miss braddon in the art of criminal phantasmagoria might have been within jane's power by the aid of strong green tea, but would obviously have been repugnant to her nature. we must not ask her, then, for the emotions and excitements which she could not possibly afford. the character of emma is called commonplace. it is commonplace in the sense in which the same term might be applied to any normal beauty of nature--to a well-grown tree or to a perfectly developed flower. she is, as mr. weston says, "the picture of grown-up health." "there is health not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her gait, her glance." she has been brought up like jane austen herself, in a pure english household, among loving relations and good old servants. her feet have been in the path of domestic and neighbourly duty, quiet as the path which leads to the village church. it has been impossible for strong temptations or fierce passions to come near her. yet men accustomed to the most exciting struggles, to the most powerful emotions of parliamentary life, have found an interest, equal to the greatest ever created by a sensation novel, in the little scrapes and adventures into which her weakness betrays her, and in the process by which her heart is gradually drawn away from objects apparently more attractive to the robust nature in union with which she is destined to find strength as well as happiness. with more justice may jane austen be reproached with having been too much influenced by the prejudices of the somewhat narrow and somewhat vulgarly aristocratic, or rather plutocratic, society in which she lived. her irony and her complete dramatic impersonality render it difficult to see how far this goes; but certainly it goes further than we could wish. decidedly she believes in gentility, and in its intimate connection with affluence and good family; in its incompatibility with any but certain very refined and privileged kinds of labour; in the impossibility of finding a gentleman in a trader, much more in a yeoman or mechanic. "the yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom i feel i can have nothing to do; a degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance, might interest me; i might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other; but a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." this is said by emma--by emma when she is trying to deter her friend from marrying a yeoman, it is true, but still by emma. the picture of the coarseness of poverty in the household of fanny's parents in "mansfield park" is truth, but it is hard truth, and needs some counterpoise. both in the case of fanny price and in that of frank churchill, the entire separation of a child from its own home for the sake of the worldly advantages furnished by an adoptive home of a superior class, is presented too much as a part of the order of nature. the charge of acquiescence in the low standard of clerical duty prevalent in the establishment of that day is well founded, though perhaps not of much importance. of more importance is the charge which might be made, with equal justice, of acquiescence in somewhat low and coarse ideas of the relations between the sexes, and of the destinies and proper aspirations of young women. "mr. collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary; but still he would be her husband. without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune; and, however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. this preservative she had now attained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good-luck of it." this reflection is ascribed to charlotte lucas, an inferior character, but still thought worthy to be the heroine's bosom friend. jane's first essays in composition were burlesques on the fashionable manners of the day; whence grew "northanger abbey," with its anti- heroine, catharine morley, "roving and wild, hating constraint and cleanliness, and loving nothing so much as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house," and with its exquisite travestie of the "mysteries of udolpho." but she soon felt her higher power. marvellous to say, she began "pride and prejudice" in , before she was twenty- one years old, and completed it in the following year. "sense and sensibility" and "northanger abbey" immediately followed; it appears, with regard to the latter, that she had already visited bath, though it was not till afterwards that she resided there. but she published nothing--not only so, but it seems that she entirely suspended composition--till , when her family settled at chawton. here she revised for the press what she had written, and wrote "mansfield park," "emma" and "persuasion." "persuasion," whatever her nephew and biographer may say, and however dr. whewell may have fired up at the suggestion, betrays an enfeeblement of her faculties, and tells of approaching death. but we still see in it the genuine creative power multiplying new characters; whereas novelists who are not creative, when they have exhausted their original fund of observations, are forced to subsist by exaggeration of their old characters, by aggravated extravagances of plot, by multiplied adulteries and increased carnage. "pride and prejudice," when first offered to cadell, was declined by return of post. the fate of "northanger abbey" was still more ignominious: it was sold for ten pounds to a bath publisher, who, after keeping it many years in his drawer, was very glad to return it and get back his ten pounds. no burst of applause greeted the works of jane austen like that which greeted the far inferior works of miss burney. _crevit occulto velut arbor oevo fama_. a few years ago, the verger of winchester cathedral asked a visitor who desired to be shown her tomb, "what there was so particular about that lady that so many people wanted to see where she was buried?" nevertheless, she lived to feel that "her own dear children" were appreciated, if not by the vergers, yet in the right quarters, and to enjoy a quiet pleasure in the consciousness of her success. one tribute she received which was overwhelming. it was intimated to her by authority that his royal highness, the prince regent, had read her novels with pleasure, and that she was at liberty to dedicate the next to him. more than this, the royal librarian, mr. clarke, of his own motion apparently, did her the honour to suggest that, changing her style for a higher, she should write "a historical romance in illustration of the august house of cobourg," and dedicate it to prince leopold. she answered in effect that, if her life depended on it, she could not be serious for a whole chapter. let it be said, however, for the prince regent, that underneath his royalty and his sybaritism, there was, at first, something of a better and higher nature, which at last was entirely stifled by them. his love for mrs. fitzherbert was not merely sensual, and heliogabalus would not have been amused by the novels of miss austen. jane was never the authoress but when she was writing her novels; and in the few letters with which this memoir is enriched there is nothing of point or literary effort, and very little of special interest. we find, however, some pleasant and characteristic touches. "charles has received l for his share of the privateer, and expects l more; but of what avail is it to take prizes if he lays out the produce in presents to his sisters? he has been buying gold chains and topaz crosses for us. he must be well scolded." "poor mrs. stent! it has been her lot to be always in the way; but we must be merciful, for perhaps in time we may come to be mrs. stents ourselves, unequal to anything and unwelcome to everybody." "we (herself and miss a.) afterwards walked together for an hour on the cobb; she is very conversable in a common way; i do not perceive wit or genius, but she has sense and some degree of taste, and her manners are very engaging. _she seems to like people rather too easily."_ of her own works, or rather of the characters of her own creation, her elizabeths and emmas, jane speaks literally as a parent. they are her "dear children." "i must confess that i think her (elizabeth) as delightful a creature as ever appeared in print, and how i shall be able to tolerate those who do not like _her_ at least i do not know." this is said in pure playfulness; there is nothing in the letters like real egotism or impatience of censure. at the age of forty-two, in the prime of intellectual life, with "emma" just out and "northanger abbey" coming, and in the midst of domestic affection and happiness, life must have been sweet to jane austen. she resigned it, nevertheless, with touching tranquillity and meekness. in , it appears, she felt her inward malady, and began to go round her old haunts in a manner which seemed to indicate that she was bidding them farewell. in the next year, she was brought for medical advice to a house in the close of winchester, and there, surrounded to the last by affection and to the last ardently returning it, she died. her last words were her answer to the question whether there was anything she wanted--_"nothing but death."_ those who expect religious language in season and out of season have inferred from the absence of it in jane austen's novels that she was indifferent to religion. the testimony of her nephew is positive to the contrary; and he is a man whose word may be believed. those who died in the close were buried in the cathedral. it is therefore by mere accident that jane austen rests among princes and princely prelates in that glorious and historic fane. but she deserves at least her slab of black marble in the pavement there. she possessed a real and rare gift, and she rendered a good account of it. if the censer which she held among the priests of art was not of the costliest, the incense was of the purest. if she cannot be ranked with the very greatest masters of fiction, she has delighted many, and none can draw from her any but innocent delight. pattison's milton [footnote: "english men of letters. edited by john morley milton. by mark pattison b.d., rector of lincoln college, oxford." london, macmillan, new york: harper & bros., ] john bright once asked a friend who was the greatest of englishmen and the friend hesitating answered his own question by saying, "milton, because he above all others, combined the greatness of the writer with the greatness of the citizen." professor masson in his life and times of milton, has embodied the conception of the character indicated by this remark, but he has run into the extreme of incorporating a complete narrative of the revolution with the biography of milton, so that the historical portion of the work overlays instead of illuminating the biographical, and the chapters devoted specially to the life seem to the reader interpolations, and not always welcome interpolations, in an intensely interesting history of the times. but now comes a biographer in whose eyes the life of milton the citizen is a mere episode, and not only a mere episode but a lamentable and humiliating episode, in the life of milton the poet. milton's life, says mr. pattison "is a drama in three acts. the first discovers him in the calm and peaceful retirement of horton, of which 'l'allegro,' 'il penseroso,' and 'lycidas' are the expression. in the second act he is breathing the foul and heated atmosphere of party passion and religious hate, generating the lurid fires which glare in the battailous canticles of his prose pamphlets. the three great poems--'paradise lost,' 'paradise regained,' and 'samson agonistes'--are the utterance of his final period of solitary and promethean grandeur, when, blind, destitute, friendless, he testified of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come, alone before a fallen world." as to the struggle to which milton, with cromwell, vane pym, hampden, selden, and chillingworth, gave his life, it is in the eyes of his present biographer, an ignoble "fray," a "biblical brawl," and its fruits in the way of theological discussion are nothing but "garbage." to write his defence of the english people milton deliberately sacrificed his eyesight, his doctor having warned him that he would lose his one remaining eye if he persisted in using it for book work. "the choice lay before me," he says, "between dereliction of a supreme duty and loss of eyesight. in such a case i could not listen to the physician, not if aesculapius himself had spoken from his sanctuary; i could not but obey that inward monitor, i know not what, that spoke to me from heaven. i considered with myself that many had purchased less good with worse ill, as they who gave their lives to reap only glory, and i thereupon concluded to employ the little remaining eyesight i was to enjoy in doing this, the greatest service to the common weal it was in my power to render." mr. pattison has quoted this passage, and no doubt he silently appreciates the heroism which breathes through it; but the "supreme duty" of which it speaks appears to him only a "prostitution of faculties" and a "poor delusion." milton, he thinks, ought to have kept entirely aloof from the brawl and remained quiet either in the intellectual circles of italy or in the delicious seclusion of his library at horton, leaving liberty, truth, and righteousness to drown or to be saved from drowning by other hands than his. in "plunging into the fray" the poet miserably derogated from his superior position as a literary man, and the result was a dead loss to him and to the world. we are sure that we do not state mr. pattison's view more strongly than it is stated in his own pages. the views of all of us, including professor masson, on such a question are sure to be more or less idiosyncratic, and those of the present biographer have not escaped the general liability. they seem, at least, aptly to represent a mood prevalent just now among eminent men of the literary class in england, particularly at the universities. these men have been tossed on the waves of ritualism, tossed on the waves of the reaction from ritualism; some of them have been personally battered in both controversies; they have attained no certainty, but rather arrived at the conclusion that no certainty is attainable; they are weary and disgusted; such of them as have been enthusiasts in politics have been stripped of their illusions in that line also, and have fallen back on the conviction that everything must be left to evolve itself, and that there is nothing to be done. they have withdrawn into the sanctuary of critical learning and serene art, abjuring all theology and politics, and, above all, abjuring controversy of all kinds as utterly vulgar and degrading, though, as might be expected, they are sometimes controversial and even rather tart in an indirect way, and without being conscious of it themselves. mr. pattison's air when he comes into contact with the politics or theology of milton's days is like that of a very seasick passenger at the sight of a pork chop. nor does he fail to reflect the necessarianism of the circle. "that in selecting a scriptural subject," he says, "milton was not, in fact, exercising any choice, but was determined by his circumstances, is only what must be said of all choosing." criticism fastidiously erudite, a study of art religiously and almost mystically profound, are fruits of this intellectual seclusion of chosen spirits from the coarse and ruffling world for which that world has reason to be grateful. it is not likely milton would have chosen a writer of this school as his biographer, but few men would choose their own biographers well. milton has at all events found in mr. pattison a biographer whose narrative is throughout extremely pleasant, interesting and piquant, the piquancy being enhanced for those who have the key to certain sly hits, such as that at "the peculiar form of credulity which makes perverts (to roman catholicism) think that everyone is about to follow their example," which carries us back to the time when the head of tractarianism having gone over to rome, was waiting anxiously, but in vain, for the tail to join it. the facts had already been collected by the diligence of professor masson, but mr. pattison uses them in a style which places beyond a doubt his own familiarity with the subject. through the moral judgments there runs, as we think, and as we should have expected, a somewhat lofty conception of the privileges of intellect and of the value of literary objects compared with others, but with this qualification the reflections will probably be deemed sensible and sound. the unfortunate relations between milton and his first wife are treated as we think all readers will say, at once with delicacy and justice. the literary criticisms are of a high order and such as only comprehensive learning combined with trained taste could produce, whether you entirely enter into all of them or not (and criticism has not yet been reduced to a certain rule) you cannot fail to gain from them increase of insight and enjoyment. they are often expressed in language of great beauty: "the rapid purification of milton's taste will be best perceived by comparing 'l'allegro' and 'il penseroso' of uncertain date but written after with the 'ode on the nativity,' written . the ode, notwithstanding its foretaste of milton's grandeur, abounds in frigid conceits, from which the two later pieces are free. the ode is frosty, as written in winter within the four walls of a college-chamber. the two idyls breathe the free air of spring and summer and of the fields around horton. they are thoroughly naturalistic; the choicest expression our language has yet found of the first charm of country life, not as that life is lived by the peasant, but as it is felt by a young and lettered student, issuing at early dawn or at sunset into the fields from his chamber and his books. all rural sights and sounds and smells are here blended in that ineffable combination which once or twice perhaps in our lives has saluted our young senses, before their perceptions were blunted by alcohol, by lust or ambition, or diluted by the social distractions of great cities." this will not be found to be a _purpureus pannus_. nor does it much detract from the grace of the work that of the "asyntactic disorder" of which mr. pattison accuses milton's prose, some examples may be found in his own. grammatical irregularities in a really good writer, as mr. pattison undoubtedly is, often prove merely that his mind is more intent on the matter than on the form. "paradise lost" is the subject of a learned, luminous, and to us very instructive dissertation. it is truly said that of the adverse criticism which we meet with on the poem "much resolves itself into a refusal on the part of the critic to make that initial abandonment to the conditions which the poet demands: a determination to insist that his heaven, peopled with deities, dominations, principalities, and powers, shall have the same material laws which govern our planetary system." there is one criticism, however, which cannot be so resolved, and on which, as it appears to us the most serious of all, we should have liked very much to hear mr. pattison. it is said that lord thurlow and another lawyer were crossing hounslow heath in a post-chaise when a tremendous thunder-storm came on; that the other lawyer said that it reminded him of the battle in "paradise lost" between the devil and the angels, and that thurlow roared, with a blasphemous oath, "yes, and i wish the devil had won." persons desirous of sustaining the religious reputation of the legal profession add that his companion jumped out of the chaise in the rain and ran away over the heath. for our part, we have never found nearly so much difficulty in any of the incongruities connected with the relations between spirit and matter, or in any confusion of the copernican with the ptolemaic system, as in the constant wrenching of our moral sympathies, which the poet demands for the powers of good, but which his own delineation of satan, as a hero waging a promethean war against omnipotence, compels us to give to the powers of evil. perhaps a word or two might have been said about the relations of "paradise lost" to other "epics." it manifestly belongs not to the same class of poems as the "iliad" and the "odyssey," or even the "aeneid." dobson's latin translation of it is about the greatest feat ever performed in modern latin verse, and it shows by a crucial experiment how little milton really has in common with virgil. "paradise lost" seems to us far more akin to the greek tragedy than to the homeric poems or the "aeneid." in the form of a greek drama it was first conceived. its verse is the counterpart of the greek iambic, not of the greek or latin hexameter. had the laborious dobson turned it into greek iambics instead of turning it into latin hexameters, we suspect the real affinity would have appeared. looking upon the life of milton the politician merely as a sad and ignominious interlude in the life of milton the poet, mr. pattison cannot be expected to entertain the idea that the poem is in any sense the work of the politician. yet we cannot help thinking that the tension and elevation which milton's nature had undergone in the mighty struggle, together with the heroic dedication of his faculties to the most serious objects, must have had not a little to do both with the final choice of his subject and with the tone of his poem. "the great puritan epic" could hardly have been written by any one but a militant puritan. had milton abjured the service of his cause, as his biographer would have had him do, he might have given us an arthurian romance or some other poem of amusement. we even think it not impossible that he might have never produced a great poem at all, but have let life slip away in elaborate preparation without being able to fix upon a theme or brace himself to the effort of composition. if milton's participation in a political battle fought to save at once the political and spiritual life of england was degrading, dante's participation in the faction fight between the guelphs and ghibellines must have been still more so; yet if dante had been a mere man of leisure would he have written the "divina commedia"? who are these sublime artists in poetry that are pinnacled so high above the "frays" and "brawls" of vulgar humanity? the best of them, we suppose (writers for the stage being out of the question) is goethe. shelley, wordsworth, and byron were all distinctly poets of the revolution, or of the counter-revolution, and if you could remove from them the political element, you would rob them of half their force and interest. the great growths of poetry have coincided with the great bursts of national life, and the great bursts of national life have hitherto been generally periods of controversy and struggle. art itself, in its highest forms, has been the expression of faith. we have now people who profess to cultivate art as art for its own sake; but they have hardly produced anything which the world accepts as great, though they have supplied some subjects for _punch_. "he that loseth his life shall preserve it." milton was ready to lose his literary life by sacrificing the remains of his eyesight to a cause which, upon the whole, humanity has accepted as its own; and it was preserved to him in a work which will never die. mr. pattison points to a short poem written by milton when his pen was chiefly employed in serving the commonwealth as indication that milton "did not inwardly forfeit the peace which passeth all understanding." why should a man forfeit that peace when he is doing with his whole soul that which he conscientiously believes to be his highest duty? over milton's pamphlets mr. pattison can of course only wring his hands. he is at liberty to wring his hands as much as he pleases over the personalities which sullied the controversy with salmasius; but these are a small part of the matter, particularly when they are viewed in connection with the habits of a time which was at once much rougher in phrase, though perhaps not more malicious, than ours, and given to servile imitation of greek and latin oratory. to point his moral more keenly, mr. pattison denies that milton was ever effective as a political writer. yet the council of state, who can have looked to nothing but effectiveness, and were pretty good judges of it, specially invited milton to answer "eikon basilike" and to plead the cause of the regicide republic against salmasius in the court of european opinion. mr. pattison himself (p. ) allows that on the continent milton was renowned as the answerer of salmasius and the vindicator of liberty; and he proceeds to quote the statement of milton's nephew that learned foreigners could not leave london without seeing his uncle. but the biographer has evidently laid down beforehand in his own mind general laws which are fatal to all pamphlets as pamphlets, without consideration of their particular merits. "there are," he says, "examples of thought having been influenced by books. but such books have been scientific, not rhetorical." if it were not rude to contradict, we should have said that the influence exercised in politics by scientific treatises had been as nothing in the aggregate compared with that exercised by pamphlets, speeches, and, in later times, by the newspaper press. what does mr. pattison say to burke's "reflections on the french revolution," to paine's "common sense," to the tracts written by halifax and defoe at the time of the revolution? neither thought nor action is his epigrammatic condemnation of milton's political writings, but an appeal which stirs men to action is surely both. again of "eikonoklastes" we are told that "it is like _all answers_, worthless as a book." bentley's "phalaris" is an answer, demosthenes' "de corona" is an answer. as a rule no doubt the form is a bad one, but an answer may embody principles and knowledge as well as show literary skill, reasoning power, and courteous self-control, which after all are not worthless though they are worth far less than some other things. these discussions so odious and contemptible in mr. pattison's eyes, what are they but the processes of thought through which a nation or humanity works its way to political truth? even books scientific in form such as hobbes's "leviathan" or harrington's "oceana" are but registered results of a long discussion. "eikon basilike" was doing infinite mischief to the cause of the commonwealth, and how could it have been met except by a critical reply? "eikonoklastes" was thought, though it was not exact science, and so far as it told it was action, though it was not a pike or a musket. this portion of mr. pattison's work is thickly sown with aphorisms to which no one who does not share his special mood can without qualification assent. no good man can with impunity addict himself to party, and the best men will suffer most because their conviction of the goodness of their cause is deeper. but when one with the sensibility of a poet throws himself into the excitements of a struggle he is certain to lose his balance. the endowment of feeling and imagination which qualifies him to be the ideal interpreter of life unfits him for participation in that real life through the manoeuvres and compromises of which reason is the only guide and where imagination is as much misplaced as it would be in a game of chess. in this there is an element of truth but there is also something to which we are inclined to demur. if by party is meant mere faction, plainly no man can addict himself to it with impunity. but when the english nation was struggling in the grasp of a court and a prelacy which sought to reduce it to the level of spain, no englishman as it seems to us could with impunity perch himself aloft in a palace of art while peasants were shedding their blood to make him free. especially do we question the soundness of the sentiment expressed in the last clause. why is real life to be abandoned by every man of feeling and imagination and given over to the men of manoeuvre and compromise? is not this the sentiment of the monkish ascetic coming back to us in another form and enjoining us to make ourselves eunuchs for the kingdom of art's sake? cromwell, vane, hampden, and pym were not men of manoeuvre and compromise, they had plenty of feeling and imagination, though in them these qualities gave birth not to poetry, but to high political or religious aspirations and grand social ideals. the theory of milton's biographer is that an active interest in public affairs is fatal to excellence in literature or in art; and this theory seems to be confuted as signally as possible by the facts of milton's life. it is curious to see how completely at variance milton's own sentiment is with that of his biographer and how little he foresaw what mr. pattison would say about him. in the _defensio secunda_ he defends himself against the charge not of over activity but of inaction. "i can easily repel," he says, "any imputation of want of courage or of want of zeal. for though i did not share the toils or perils of the war i was engaged in a service not less hazardous to myself and more beneficial to my fellow citizens; nor in the adverse turns of our affairs, did i ever betray any symptoms of pusillanimity and dejection; or show myself more afraid than became me of malice or of death: for since from my youth i was devoted to the pursuits of literature, and my mind has always been stronger than my body, i did not court the labours of a camp, in which any common person would have been of more service than myself, but resorted to that employment in which my exertions were likely to be of most avail. thus, with the better part of my frame i contributed as much as possible to the good of my country, and to the success of the glorious cause in which we were engaged; and i thought that if god willed the success of such glorious achievements, it was equally agreeable to his will that there should be others by whom those achievements should be recorded with dignity and elegance; and that the truth, which had been defended by arms, should also be defended by reason; which is the best and only legitimate means of defending it. hence, while i applaud those who were victorious in the field, i will not complain of the province which was assigned me; but rather congratulate myself upon it, and thank the author of all good for having placed me in a station, which may be an object of envy to others rather than of regret to myself." here is a culprit who entirely mistakes the nature of his offence and instead of apologizing for what he has done apologizes for not having done more. nor so far as we are aware is there in milton's writings the slightest trace of sorrow for the misemployment of his best years or consciousness of the ruin which it had wrought in his genius as a poet. in the same spirit mr. pattison continually represents the end of milton's public life as "the irretrievable discomfiture of all his hopes, aims, and aspirations," his labour as "being swept away without a trace of it being left," and the latter part of his life as utter "wretchedness." the failure of selfish schemes often makes men wretched. the failure of unselfish aspirations may make a man sad, but can never make him wretched, and milton was not wretched when he was writing "paradise lost." he would not have been wretched even if the discomfiture of his hopes for the commonwealth had been as final and as irretrievable as his biographer supposes. but milton knew that though disastrous it was not final or irretrievable. he had implicit confidence in the indestructibility of moral force, and he "bated no jot of heart or hope." he could see the limits of the reaction and he knew that, though great and calamitous in proportion to the errors of the republican party, it had not changed in a day the character and fundamental tendencies of the nation. he would note that the star chamber, the court of high commission, the council of the north, the legislative functions once usurped by the privy council, were not restored, and that no attempt was made to govern without a parliament. he found himself the defender of regicide, not free from peril, indeed, yet protected by public opinion, while, in general, narrow bounds were set to the bloodthirsty vengeance of the cavaliers. he lived to witness the actual turn of the tide. six years before his death the triple alliance was formed, and in the year of his death the cabal ministry fell. at worst, his case would have been that of a soldier killed in an unfortunate crisis of a battle which in the end was won, but he fell, if not with the shout of victory in his ears, with the inspiring signs of a general advance around him. if we take remoter ages into our view, the triumph of milton is still more manifest. the cause to which he gave his life and his genius is forever exalted and dignified by his name. the notion that the cavaliers were the men of culture and that the puritans were the uncultivated has been a hundred times confuted, though it reappears in the discourses of mr. matthew arnold, and, what is much more astonishing, in this work of mr. pattison. but in a party of action great defect of culture would be amply redeemed by the possession of a milton. coleridge's life of keble. [footnote: a memoir of the rev. j. keble, m.a., late vicar of hursley, by the right hon. sir j.t. coleridge, d.c.l., oxford and london: james parker & co., .] sir john coleridge, the writer of this "life of keble," was for many years one of the judges of the court of queen's bench, is now a privy councillor, and may be regarded almost as the lay head of the high church party in england. sharing keble's opinions, and entering into all his feelings, he is at the same time himself always a man of the world and a man of sense. add to these qualifications his intimate and lifelong friendship with the subject of his work, and we have reason to expect a biography at once appreciative and judicial. such a biography, in fact, we have; one full of sympathy, yet free from exaggeration, and a good lesson to biographers in general. the intimacy of the friendship between the writer and his subject might have interfered with his impartiality and repelled our confidence if the case had been more complex and had made greater demands on the inflexibility of the judge. but in the case of a character and a life so perfectly simple, pure, and transparent as the character and the life of keble, there was but one thing to be said. the author of "the christian year" was the son of a country clergyman of the church of england, and was educated at home by his father, so that he missed, or, as he would probably have said himself, escaped, the knowledge of minds differently trained from his own which a boy cannot help picking up at an english public school. at a very early age he became a scholar of corpus christi, a very small and secluded college of the high church and high tory university of oxford. as the scholarships led to fellowships--the holders of which were required to be in holy orders--and to church preferment, almost all the scholars were destined for the clerical profession. of keble's student friendships one only seems to have been formed outside the walls of his own college, and this was with miller, a student of worcester college, who afterwards became a high church clergyman. among the students destined for the anglican priesthood in the junior common room of corpus christi college, there was indeed one whose presence strikes us like the apparition of turnus in the camp of aeneas--thomas arnold. arnold was already arnold, and he succeeded in drawing the young champions of the divine right of kings and priests into a struggle against the divine right of tutors which 'secured the liberty of the subject' at corpus--the question at issue between the subject and the ruler being by which of two clocks, one of which was always five minutes before the other, the recitations should begin. the friendship between arnold and keble, however, was merely personal, arnold evidently never exercised the slightest influence over keble's mind, and even in this 'great rebellion'--the only rebellion, great or small, of his life--keble was induced to take part, as he has expressly recorded, at the instigation of coleridge, a middle term between arnold and himself. the college teachers were all clergymen and the university curriculum in their days was regulated and limited by clerical ascendancy, and consisted of the aristotelian and butlerian philosophy, classics, and pure mathematics, without modern history or physical science. the remarkable precocity of keble's intellect enabled him to graduate with the highest honours both in classics and mathematics at an age almost miraculously early even when allowance is made for the comparative youthfulness of students in general in those days. he was at once elected a fellow of oriel, and translated to the senior common room of the college--another clerical society consisting of men for the most part considerably his seniors, among whom, in spite of the presence of whately, high church principles probably predominated already, and were destined soon to predominate in the most extreme sense, for the college presently became the focus of the ritualistic and romanizing movement. thus, up to twenty-three, keble's life had been that of a sort of acolyte, and though not ascetic (for his nature appears to have been always genial and mirthful), entirely clerical in its environments and its aspirations. at twenty-three he took orders, and put round his neck, with the white tie of anglican priesthood, the thirty-nine articles, the whole contents of the anglican prayer book and all the contradictions between those two standards of belief. for some time he held a tutorship in his college then he went down to a country living in the neighbourhood of a cathedral city, where he spent the rest of his days. his character was so sweet and gentle that he could not fail to be naturally disposed to toleration. he even goes the length of saying that some profane libellers whom his friend coleridge was going to prosecute, were not half so dangerous enemies to religion as some wicked worldly-minded christians. but it is no wonder, and implies no derogation from his charity, that he should have regarded the progress of opinions different from his own as a mediaeval monk would have regarded the progress of an army of saracens or a horde of avars. his poetic sympathies could not hinder him from disliking the rebel and puritan milton. thus it was impossible that he should be in a very broad sense a poet of humanity. his fundamental conception of the world was essentially mediaeval, his ideal was that of cloistered innocence or, still better, the innocence of untempted and untried infancy. for such perfection his lyra innocentium was strung. when his friend is thinking of the profession of the law, he conjures him to forego the brilliant visions which tempted him in that direction for "visions far more brilliant and more certain too, more brilliant in their results, inasmuch as the salvation of one soul is worth more than the framing the magna charta of a thousand worlds, more certain to take place since temptations are fewer and opportunities everywhere to be found. these words remind us of a passage in one of massillon's sermons, preached on the delivery of colours to a regiment, in which the bishop after dwelling on the hardships and sufferings which soldiers are called upon to endure, intimates that a small part of those hardships and sufferings, undergone in performance of a monastic vow, would merit the kingdom of heaven. if souls are to be saved by real moral influences, sir john coleridge has probably saved a good many more souls as a religious judge and man of the world than he would have saved as the rector of a country parish, and if character is formed by moral effort, he has probably formed a much higher character by facing temptation than he would have done by flying from it. keble himself, in his morning hymn, has a passage in a different strain, but the sentiment which really prevailed with him was probably that embodied in his advice to his friend. whatever of grace, worth, or beneficence there could be in the half cloistered life of an oxford fellow of those days or in the rural and sacerdotal life of a high church rector, there was in the life of keble at oriel, and afterwards at hursley. the best spirit of such a life together with the image of a character rivalling in spiritual beauty, after its kind that of ken or leighton, is found in keble's poetry, and for this we may be, as hundreds of thousands have been, thankful. the biographer declines to enter into a critical examination of the "christian year," but he confidently predicts its indefinite reign, founding his prediction on the causes of its original success. he justly describes it, in effect as rather a poetical manual of devotion than a book of poetry for continuous reading it is in truth, so completely out of the category of ordinary poetry that to estimate its poetic merits would be a very difficult task. sir john coleridge indicates this, when he cites as an appropriate tribute to the excellence of the book the practice of the clergyman who used, every sunday afternoon instead of a sermon to read and interpret to his congregation the poem of the christian year for the day. the object of the present publication says the preface will be attained if any person find assistance from it in bringing his own thoughts and feelings into more entire unison with those recommended and exemplified in the prayer book. this connection with the prayer book and with the anglican calendar, while it has given the book an immense circulation necessarily limits its range and interest. yet those who care least for being brought into unison with the prayer book fully admit that the "christian year" gives proof of real poetic power. keble himself, as his biographer attests, had a very humble opinion of his own work, seldom read it hated to hear it praised consented with great difficulty to its glorification by sumptuous editions. it was his saintly humility suggests the biographer which made him feel that the book which flowed from his own heart would inevitably be taken for a faithful likeness of himself, that he would thus be exhibiting himself in favourable colours and be in danger of incurring the woe pronounced on those who win the good opinion of the world. if this account be true it is another proof of the mediaeval and half monastic mould in which keble's religious character was cast. the comparative failure of the "lyra innocentium" is probably to be attributed not only to its inferiority in intrinsic merit but to the fact that whereas the "christian year" has as little of a party character as any work of devotion written by an anglican and high church clergyman could have, the "lyra innocentium" was the work of a leading party man. the interval between the two publications had been filled by a great reactionary movement among the clergy, one of the back-streams to that current of liberalism, which setting in after the termination of the great french war, not only swept away the rotten boroughs and the other political bulwarks of tory dominion but threatened to sweep away the privileges of the established church, and compelled churchmen to look out for a basis independent of state support. keble was the associate of hurrell froude, newman pusey and the other great tractarians. a sermon which he preached before the university of oxford was regarded by newman as the beginning of the movement. he contributed to the tracts for the times, though as a controversialist he was never powerful, sweetness not strength being the characteristic of his mind. he gradually embraced, as it seems to us, all the principles which sent his fellow tractarians over to rome. the posthumous alteration made in the christian year by his direction shows that he held a doctrine respecting the eucharist not practically distinguishable from the roman doctrine of transubstantiation. a poem intended to appear in the "lyra apostolica" but suppressed at the time in deference to the wishes of cautious friends and now published by his biographer proves that he was, as a protestant putting it plainly would say, an advanced mariolater. he was a thoroughgoing sacerdotalist and believer in the authority of the church in matters of opinion. he mourned over the abandonment of auricular confession. he regarded the cessation of prayers for the souls of dead founders and benefactors as a lamentable concession to protestant prejudice. like his associates he repudiated the very name of protestant. he deemed the state of the church of england with regard to orthodoxy most deplorable--two prelates having distinctly denied an article of the apostles creed and matters going on altogether so that it was very difficult for a catholic christian to remain in that communion. why then did he not with newman and the rest accept the logical conclusions of his premises and go to the place to which his principles belonged? his was not a character to be influenced by any worldly motives or even by that sense of ecclesiastical position which perhaps has sometimes had its influence in making romanizing leaders of the anglican clergy unwilling to merge their party and their leadership in the church of rome. there was nothing in his nature which would have recoiled from any self abnegation or submission. the real answer is we believe that keble was a married man. we can hardly imagine him making love. his marriage was no doubt one not of passion but of affection, as small a departure from the sacerdotal ideal as it was possible for a marriage to be. still, he was married and tenderly attached to his good wife. thus it was probably not any subtle distinction between real presence and transubstantiation, not misgivings as to the exact degree of worship to be paid to the virgin, not doubts as to the limits of the personal infallibility of the pope or objections to practical abuses in the church of rome--which kept keble and has kept many a romanizing clergyman of the anglican church from becoming a roman catholic. nor is the reason when analysed one of which anglican philosophy need be ashamed for to the pretentions of sacerdotal asceticism the best answer is domestic love. keble stopped his ears with wax against the siren appeal of his seceding chief john henry newman and refused at first to read the essay on development. when at last he was drawn into the controversy he constructed for his own satisfaction and that of other waverers who looked up to him for support and guidance an argument founded on the butlerian principle of probability as the guide of life. but butler, with all deference to his great name be it said, imports into questions of conscience and into the spiritual domain a principle really applicable only to worldly concerns. a man will invest his money or take any other step in relation to his worldly affairs as he thinks the chances are in his favour, but he cannot be satisfied with a mere preponderance of chances that he possesses vital truth and that he will escape everlasting condemnation. the analogy drawn by keble between the late recognition of the prayer book instead of the too protestant articles as the real canon of the anglican faith and the lateness of the christian revelation in the world's history was an application of the analogical method of reasoning which showed to what strange uses that method might be put. it is singular but consistent with our theory as to the real nature of the tie which prevented keble from joining the secession that he should have determined if compelled to leave the church of england (a contingency which from the growth of heresy in that church he distinctly contemplated) to go not into the communion of the church of rome but out of all communion whatever. he would have gone we suppose into some limbo like the phantom church of the nonjurors. it is difficult to see how such a course can have logically commended itself to the mind of any member of the theological school which held that the individual reason afforded no sort of standing ground and that the one thing indispensable to salvation was visible communion with the true church. sir john coleridge deals with the question as to the posthumous alteration in "the christian year" the discovery of which caused so much scandal among its protestant admirers and brought to a stand, it was said, the subscription for a memorial college in honour of its author. it is made clearly to appear that the alteration was in accordance with keble's expressed desire, and the suspicion which was cast upon his executors and those who were about him in his last moments is proved to be entirely unfounded. but, on the other hand, we cannot think that the biographer (or rather keble, who speaks for himself in this matter) will be successful in convincing many people that the alteration was merely verbal. the mental interpolation of "only" after "not" in the words "not in the hands," is surely a _tour de force_, and it must be remembered that the passage occurs in the lines on the "gunpowder treason," and is evidently pointed against the roman catholic doctrine of the eucharist. the roman catholics do not deny that the eucharist is received "in the heart," but the protestants deny that it is is received "in the hands" at all, and the vast majority of keble's readers could not fail to construe the passage as an assertion of the protestant doctrine. sir john coleridge does not confront the real difficulty, because he does not give the two versions side by side, or exhibit the passage in its context. a more natural account of the matter is suggested by a letter of keble, written when he was contemplating the publication of the "lyra innocentium," and included in the present memoir. in that letter he says: "no doubt, there would be the difference in tone which you take notice of between this and the former book, for when i wrote that, i did not understand (to mention no more points) either the doctrine of repentance _or that of the holy eucharist_, as held, _e. g._, by bishop ken, nor that of justification, and such points as these must surely make a great difference. but may it please god to preserve me from writing so unreally and deceitfully as i did then, and if i could tell you the whole of my shameful history, you would join with all your heart in this prayer." the biographer, while he proves his integrity by giving us the letter, of course protests against our taking seriously the self accusations of a saint. we certainly shall not take seriously any charge of deceitfulness against keble, whether made by himself or by any other human being, but he was liable, to a certain extent, like all other human beings, to self-deception. his opinions, like those of his associates, on theological questions in general and on the question of the eucharist in particular, had been moving rapidly in a romanizing direction during the interval between the publication of "the christian year" and that of the "lyra innocentium." in the passage just quoted, we see that he was conscious of this, but it was not unnatural that he should sometimes forget it, and that he should then put upon the words in "the christian year" a construction in conformity with his opinions as they were in their most advanced stage. it is strange, however, that he and the rest of his party, if they were even dimly and at intervals conscious of the fact that their own creed had undergone so much change, should still have been able to take the ground of immutability and infallibility in their controversies with other parties and churches. it has been almost forgotten that keble held for ten years a (non- resident) professorship of poetry at oxford. his lectures were unfortunately written, as the rule of the chair then was, in latin. he thought of translating them, and sir john coleridge seems still to hold that the task would be worth undertaking. for the examples, which are taken from the greek and latin poets, it would be necessary to substitute translations or examples taken from the modern poets. mr. gladstone chooses, the apt epithet when he calls the lectures "refined." refinement rather than vigour or depth was always the attribute of keble's productions. his view of poetry, however, as the vent for overcharged feelings or an imagination oppressed by its own fulness--as a _vis medica_, to use his own expression--if it does not cover the whole ground, well deserves attention among other theories. to the discredit, perhaps, rather of the dogmatic spirit than of either of the persons concerned, religious differences were allowed to interfere with he personal friendship formed in youth between keble and arnold. with this single and slight exception, keble's character in every relation--as friend, son, husband, tutor, pastor--seems to have been all that the admirers of "the christian year" can expect or desire. the current of his life, but for the element of theological controversy and perplexity which slightly disturbed his later days, would have been limpid and tranquil as that of any rivulet in the quiet scene where the years of his christian ministry were passed. he and his wife, the partner of all his thoughts and labours, and the mirror and partaker of the beauty of his character, died almost on the same day; she dying last, and rejoicing that her husband was spared the pain of being the survivor. "within these walls [of the church] each fluttering guest is gently lured to one safe nest-- without 'tis moaning and unrest." the writer of those lines perfectly as well as beautifully realized his ideal. generously made available by internet archive (http://www.archive.org/index.php) note: images of the original pages are available through intenet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/cookerybluebook firsrich transcriber's note obvious typographical errors have been corrected. a list of corrections is found at the end of the text. inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained. a list of inconsistently spelled and hyphenated words is found at the end of the text. oe ligatures have been expanded. text enclosed between equal signs was in bold face in the original (=bold=). the cookery blue book prepared by the society for christian work of the first unitarian church, san francisco, cal. "tried and true" san francisco c. a. murdock & co., printers _the capon burns, the pig falls from the spit; the clock hath struck twelve upon the bell; my mistress made it one upon my cheek-- she is so hot, because the meat is cold; methinks your man, like mine, should be your clock, and strike you home without a messenger. my charge was but to fetch you from the mart home to your house, the phoenix, sir, to dinner-- my mistress and her sister wait for you._ _--comedy of errors._ the cookery blue book soups. =bouillon soup.= pounds of round of beef cut into dice pieces. trim off all fatty skin. quarts water; teaspoonful celery seed; large onions; large carrots; bunch of parsley; blades of mace; whole cloves, salt and pepper to taste. pour on the water, and let it simmer six hours, skimming carefully, for if any grease is allowed to go back into the soup it is impossible to make it clear. scrape the carrots, stick whole cloves into each onion, and put them in the soup; then add the celery seed, parsley, mace, pepper and salt. let this boil till the vegetables are tender, then strain through a cloth, pouring the soup through first, then putting the meat in it to drain, never squeezing or pressing it. if you wish to color it, you can put in a dessertspoon of burnt sugar. it can be nicely flavored by adding some walnut catsup, together with mushroom and a very little worcestershire. =beef soup.= boil trimmings of roast beef and beef-steak bones for three hours. cool and skim off fat; add half a salt spoon of pepper, teaspoonfuls of salt, potatoes, pared and cut up, / a carrot, / an onion, gumbo pods, half a bay leaf and a little chopped parsley. add a few drops of caramel and serve hot. strain, if preferred thin. =tomato soup without stock.= dozen tomatoes cut up and enough water to cover them; a salt spoon of mustard, salt and dozen cloves. stew thoroughly and strain. rub together heaping tablespoons of flour and a piece of butter the size of an egg. put this in the strained liquor and boil. this makes soup for six persons. =milk tomato soup.= boil can of tomatoes very soft in quart of water; strain, and add pint of milk, teaspoonful of soda, small piece of butter, a shake of mace, and salt to taste. let it scald, not boil, and add rolled crackers. =bisque soup.= large onions sliced, can tomatoes. boil together half an hour or longer, then put through colander and add quart beef stock, salt and pepper. let this boil together a few moments. whip cup cream with the yolks of eggs and tablespoon of corn starch or flour; add this to the stock, boil up, and serve at once. =mock bisque soup.= quart tomatoes, pints milk, large tablespoonful flour, butter size of an egg, pepper and salt to taste, a scant teaspoonful of soda. put the tomato on to stew and the milk in a double kettle to boil, reserving half a cup to mix with flour. mix the flour smoothly with the cold milk and cook ten minutes. to the tomato add the soda, stir well, and rub through a strainer that is fine enough to keep back the seeds. add butter, salt and pepper to the milk and then the tomato. serve immediately. =bean soup.= coffee cup of brown beans soaked over night; boil in a gallon of water with a piece of salt pork inches square (a little beef is good, also) several hours, until beans are soft; strain, and add a small bit of butter, the juice of lemon and a small cup of sherry wine. =black bean soup.= pint of beans soaked over night; quarts water and boil five or six hours, adding water as it boils away; when soft, strain out the skins, season with salt and pepper to taste. when ready for the table add a large spoonful of sherry wine, boiled eggs, sliced, and lemon, sliced very thin. do not cook it any after these ingredients are added. =split pea soup.= gallon water, quart peas, soaked over night; / pound salt pork cut in bits; pound lean beef cut the same. boil slowly two hours, or until the water is reduced one-half. pour in a colander and press the peas through; return to the kettle and add a small amount of celery chopped fine. fry three or four slices of bread quite brown in butter--cut in squares when served. =grandmother sawtelle's pea soup.= soak a quart of dried peas over night. in the morning put them on to boil with fragments of fresh meat; also cloves, allspice, pepper and salt. let boil until soft, then strain through a colander. have some pieces of bread or crackers inch square, and put them into the oven to dry without browning; a pint of bread to a quart of peas. take / of a cup of melted butter and put the bread in it; stir until the bread and butter are well mixed, then put into the peas and it is done. if the peas do not boil easily add a little saleratus. =green pea soup.= boil the pods first, then remove and boil peas in same water until soft enough to mash easily. add a quart of milk, and thickening made of a tablespoonful of butter and of flour. boil a few minutes and serve. =celery soup (for six persons).= boil a small cup of rice till tender, in pints of milk (or pints of milk and of cream); rub through a sieve, add quart of veal stock, salt, cayenne and heads of celery grated fine. =cream of celery soup.= teacups of chopped celery, quart of milk; boil celery soft (saving water it is boiled in); rub celery through fine sieve; mix celery and milk. take heaping tablespoonful of flour, even tablespoonful of butter, scant teaspoonful of salt. if desired, can boil celery in the morning, then about half an hour before dinner take milk, flour, butter, salt and celery and boil together, stirring constantly so it will cook evenly. when the consistency of cream, it is ready for use. =ox-tail soup.= ox-tail, pounds lean beef, carrots, onions and thyme. cut tail into pieces and fry brown in butter. slice onions and carrots, and when you remove the tail from the pan put these in and brown also; then tie them in a thin cloth with the thyme and put in the soup pot. lay the tail in and then the meat cut into small pieces. grate over them the remaining carrots, and add quarts of water, with salt and pepper. boil four to six hours. strain five minutes before serving and thicken with tablespoonfuls of browned flour. boil ten minutes longer. =mushroom soup.= pint of white stock, tablespoonfuls butter, / teaspoon of pepper, and teaspoon of salt, tablespoonful corn starch, pint of milk; heat milk. mix butter and corn starch to cream, and add hot milk and then stock. boil pound of mushrooms until soft, and then strain. have them ready and add to the soup, letting it stand to thicken. it is improved by a little whipped cream added before serving. =soupe a l'ognon.= put into a saucepan butter size of a pigeon's egg; add pint of soup stock. when very hot add onions, sliced thin, then a full / teacup of flour, stirring constantly that it may not burn. add pint boiling water, pepper and salt, and let boil one minute, then placing on back of range till ready to serve, when add quart of boiling milk and mashed boiled potatoes. gradually add to the potatoes a little of the soup till smooth and thin enough to put into the soup kettle. stir all well, then strain. put diamond-shaped pieces of toasted bread in bottom of tureen and pour soup over it. =potato soup.= boil and mash fine large mealy potatoes; add egg, a piece of butter size of an egg, a teaspoonful of salt, teaspoonful celery salt. boil pint of water and pint of milk together and pour on potatoes boiling hot. stir it well, strain and serve. =asparagus (white) soup.= cut off the hard, green stems from two bunches of asparagus and put them in quarts and a pint of water, with pounds of veal (the knuckle is the best). boil in a closely covered pot three hours, till the meat is in rags and the asparagus dissolved. strain the liquor and return to the pot with the remaining half of the asparagus heads. let this boil for twenty minutes more and add, before taking up, / of a teacup of sweet cream, in which has been stirred a dessertspoonful of corn starch. when it has fairly boiled up, serve with small squares of toast in the tureen. season with salt and pepper. =soup a la minute (for six persons).= cut ounces of fat salt pork in dice and set it on the fire in a saucepan; stir, and when it is turning rather brown, add onion chopped, and / a medium-sized carrot sliced. when they are partly fried, add pounds of lean beef cut in small dice, and let fry five minutes. then pour in it about pints of boiling water, salt and pepper, and boil gently for three-quarters of an hour. =caramel, for coloring soups.= melt cup white sugar in a saucepan till it is dark; add slowly cup cold water, stirring briskly, and boil till it thickens. keep in large-mouthed bottle. [illustration] breakfast dishes. =baked omelet--no. .= eggs, / cup of milk, / teaspoon corn starch, pepper and salt. beat the whites and yolks of the eggs separately and very stiff; stir lightly together and add other ingredients. bake in a buttered pudding-dish and serve immediately. =baked omelet--no. .= / cup of milk boiled. stir in the well-beaten yolks of eggs till thick. add a dessertspoon of butter and salt to taste. after removing from the fire, add whites of eggs, well-beaten. bake ten minutes in an oven heated as for cake. =bread omelet.= bread crumbs and parsley rubbed fine; a little chopped onion; eggs beaten lightly. add a cup of milk, pepper, salt and a little nutmeg, with a tablespoonful of butter. bake in a moderate oven. =baked eggs.= separate the whites from the yolks keeping each yolk separate. salt the whites, while beating to a stiff froth, then spread on a platter. place the yolks at regular distances apart in cavities made in the beaten whites, and bake in a moderate oven till brown. =eggs (au miron) with asparagus.= cut off the green part of the asparagus the size of peas, and scald in hot water a few minutes, then put in the saucepan with a little butter, small bunch of parsley and young onions tied together (so that it can be removed before breaking the eggs on the asparagus). add a little flour, water, salt, pepper and a little sugar, stewing together till the water is evaporated. then put in a baking-dish and break some eggs over the top. put a little salt, pepper and nutmeg over the eggs and cook in the oven, but not long enough to let the eggs get hard. serve immediately. =corn omelet.= take the well-filled ears of corn, cut the kernels down the center, being careful not to loosen them from the cob; then takeout the pulp by pressing downward with a knife. to tablespoons of corn pulp add the well-beaten yolks of eggs and a little salt. beat the whites of the eggs to a stiff froth, mix with the corn, and put in a hot pan with a little butter. cover, and place where it will not burn. when done, fold over and serve on a hot dish. =bananas (as a breakfast dish).= slice bananas lengthwise; put them in a buttered pan and brown in oven; or they can be dipped in butter and fried; or sliced and served cold with cream. =baked peppers.= cut off tops; take the seeds out and fill with sausage meat. bake forty minutes. =baked beans.= soak quart of pea beans over night in cold water. in morning drain and place in earthen bean-pot with teaspoon salt, / of pepper, of sugar, pound fat pork, scored; fill the pot with warm water and bake in a moderate oven all day, as water evaporates adding sufficient to keep them moist. they cannot be baked too long. =fish-balls.= cup of raw salt fish; pint of potatoes; teaspoonful butter; egg well beaten; a little pepper. wash and pick the fish in small pieces free from bones. pare the potatoes and cut in small pieces. put both together in a stew-pan and cover with boiling water, and boil until the potatoes are soft. drain off the water, mash and beat till very light. when a little cool, add the egg and fry in very hot lard. =potatoes with cheese.= the potatoes are boiled and cut in small pieces, covered with milk or cream. put bread crumbs and cheese over the top. add butter and bake till brown. =vermicelli (as a breakfast dish).= to pints of bubbling, salted water, add pint of the best vermicelli; boil briskly ten minutes, drain off all the water and serve hot with butter and cream. fish. =fish a la creme.= pounds of sturgeon or any solid white fish boiled until tender. remove bone, mince fine, and season with salt, pepper, wine and lemon juice. quart milk, boiled with two good-sized onions until they are in shreds. rub to a cream / pound butter and two large tablespoonfuls of flour. strain the boiling milk with this and return to the stew-pan and boil again, taking care to stir to prevent lumps and burning. grate the rind of one lemon, with juice and one tumbler of wine and mix thoroughly through the fish. take one loaf of bread, removing all crust, and pass through the colander. have dish very hot, putting fish and crumbs in layers, bringing crumbs on top. place in hot oven for a few minutes. a nice lunch dish. =a norwegian fish dish.= take a fresh codfish weighing about pounds; do not wash it, but wipe with a soft cloth wrung out in cold water. scrape all the flesh from skin and bone; and put the head, bones and skin on to boil, and when thoroughly cooked, strain. take equal parts of scraped fish and chopped suet, one tablespoon of salt and pound to a paste. add eggs, tablespoonfuls of flour, a little mace and ginger. boil some cream, and when cold, gradually add enough to make a soft batter. try a little of this in the boiling stock to see if the consistency is right. then put in a buttered, breaded mould and cook two hours. if some of the batter is left, form in balls and cook in the fish stock and serve as soup. =finnan haddies (from delmonico's).= / pound of fish picked up and braized in butter and cooked in the following sauce: cup of cream over hard boiled egg cut in squares; the yolk of raw egg; a tablespoonful of edan cheese, a little flour to thicken; a little pepper and worcestershire sauce. serve on toast. =stuffed smelt.= ingredients of stuffing: / cup of melted butter; cup of bread crumbs, teaspoonful of chopped onion; / spoon of salt; / spoon of pepper and a few herbs. bone the smelt, stuff and sew up. roll in melted butter and fine bread crumbs. bake about fifteen minutes. sauce.-- / cup butter worked to a cream; yolks of eggs beaten in one by one; juice of / a lemon; / teaspoonful salt, / teaspoon pepper and / cup boiling water. beat and put on stove in a saucepan of boiling water to thicken. =brown fish chowder.= onion fried in butter. cut any white fish in small pieces and fry in this after first rolling the fish in flour. take the fish out and lay on brown paper. put into a saucepan tablespoonfuls dry flour and stir until it is brown; then gradually stir in a quart of water. when this has boiled, add the fish and seasoning. [illustration] entrees. =chicken terrapin--no. .= chop the meat of a cold chicken and parboiled sweet-bread quite fine. make a cream sauce, with cup of sweet cream, a quarter of a cup of butter and tablespoonfuls of flour. put in the chicken and sweet-breads. keep it hot in a double boiler and just before serving add the yolks of eggs and a wine-glass of sherry wine. =chicken terrapin no. .= cut a cold boiled chicken in small squares, removing all the skin. put into a skillet with / pint of cream and / pound of butter, rolled in tablespoonful of flour, seasoned with salt and red pepper. have ready hard boiled eggs chopped fine. when the chicken has reached a boil, stir in a large glass of sherry with the egg, and serve hot. =chicken terrapin--no. .= boil chicken in salted water. quart of cold cooked chicken cut into dice; cooked livers of or chickens; hard-boiled eggs; yolks of raw eggs; cup of chicken stock; cup cream; slight grating of nutmeg; / teaspoon pepper; level teaspoon salt; tablespoons sherry; tablespoons butter; tablespoons flour; teaspoon lemon juice. chop hard-boiled eggs and add to chicken; sprinkle with salt, pepper and nutmeg. add flour to melted butter and stock and stir for three minutes. add cream after reserving tablespoonfuls. stir one minute. add chicken mixture and let it simmer for ten minutes. beat yolks well and add cream; pour into mixture and stir one minute. remove from fire, and add wine and lemon juice. =chicken for lunch.= cut up chickens; fry each piece quickly in bacon fat to a nice brown (not cooking them). then stew them slowly with gumbo, a little pork, celery and / an onion till tender. thicken with brown flour and dish, garnishing with parsley and sliced hard-boiled eggs. =pressed chicken (a nice luncheon dish).= boil a chicken, in as little water as possible, till the bones slip out and the gristly portions are soft. remove the skin, pick the meat apart, and mix the dark and white meat. remove the fat, and season the liquor highly with salt and pepper; also with celery, salt and lemon juice, if you desire. boil down to cup, and mix with the meat. butter a mould and decorate the bottom and sides with slices of hard-boiled eggs; also with thin slices of tongue or ham cut in fancy shapes. pack the meat in and set away to cool with a weight on the meat. when ready to serve, dip mould in warm water and turn out carefully. garnish with parsley, strips of lettuce or celery leaves and radishes or beets. the eggs and tongue can be dispensed with if a plain dish is desired. =beef loaf.= - / pounds fine chopped beef; / pound pork; eggs; large spoonful of salt; teaspoon pepper; / teaspoon nutmeg; large spoonfuls milk; soda crackers rolled fine, saving out to rub on the top. put bits of butter over the top. press the meat several times with your hand to make into a thin loaf. bake in a quick oven one hour, putting water in pan. it requires no basting. =beef roll.= lean beef chopped fine; / cup bread crumbs; a slice of onion chopped; chopped parsley; the yolk of egg; a little butter and lemon juice. mix all thoroughly. form in an oblong loaf, put in pan and bake half hour in a hot oven, basting two or three times with melted butter. served with a brown sauce. =to fry. soft-shelled crabs.= use them only when very fresh, as the shells harden after twenty-four hours. cut the ends of the small legs off; take off the gills and tucks; wash and drain well upon a cloth. a few minutes before serving dip them one after another in eggs beaten as for an omelet; then in crumbs of rolled cracker made very fine and fry them in very hot lard; not too many at a time. serve hot, with a garnish of parsley and pieces of lemon. =deviled crab.= pick the meat from one large crab and chop a little. add green peppers, chopped fine, and mix with cracker crumbs. add sufficient soup stock to moisten and season to taste. clean the shell and put in layer of the ingredients. add pieces of butter, then another layer, and so on, till shell is full. then bake fifteen minutes, and serve. =crab creole (for four persons).= crab; good-sized onion; / can of tomatoes; chili pepper or pinch of cayenne; butter the size of a walnut; tablespoonfuls of water; / cup of cream; salt and pepper, and tablespoonful of corn starch. shred up crab, not too fine, cut up onion and chili pepper and put in a pan with the tablespoonfuls of water. boil briskly fifteen minutes; then add / can of tomatoes. boil ten minutes, or until soft. strain, put juice back on fire. add the butter, pepper and salt, and thicken with tablespoonful of corn starch. add crab and cream. when all is hot, serve with toast. =canapie lorenzo.= one-third new york cheese, one-third dessicated soft-shell crab, one-sixth green peppers chopped very fine. make in patés about the size of a hand and bake brown. =crab cutlets.= pick up the meat of crabs, seasoning with salt, pepper, a pinch of mustard and a good tablespoon of worcestershire sauce. put in a saucepan a piece of butter twice the size of an egg; when melted stir in tablespoons of flour, and add a cup of rich cream, stirring constantly. mix in the prepared crab and set aside to cool. then mould into cutlets, which you roll in egg and bread crumbs. stick the claws you have saved into the cutlets, and fry. serve with or without parsley and slices of lime. =shrimp stew.= slice onions and tomatoes, and fry till well done. rub together tablespoonful flour and a piece of butter, egg-size. add red pepper, salt and cup of cream. put this in saucepan, with onions and pint of shrimps. cook ten minutes, and serve on toast. =terrapin stew.= boil according to size thirty or forty minutes, so that the upper shell will separate from the lower easily. take "gall-bag" from liver, which is always found on the right lobe. avoid breaking, as it will give a bitter taste and spoil the dish. strip the skin from the claws, cut off the nails and skin the head. throw nothing away but the "gall-bag." cut all into small pieces; stew slowly in sherry wine closely covered, with a goodly supply of butter and red pepper, for one hour and a half. salt to taste. if they have no eggs in them, add or eggs, hard-boiled, for each terrapin and the juice of lemon, skinning another to lay on top. when about to take from the fire, thicken with a little flour. serve on hot toast, well-buttered, over which sprinkle a finely chopped egg. =baked oysters in the shells.= take small eastern oysters with their liquor and a piece of butter. drain the oysters very carefully and strain the liquor. thicken with an ounce of butter mixed with an ounce of flour. stir, and boil five minutes. finish with the yolks of eggs. add a little salt, some white and red pepper and grated nutmeg. boil a few minutes longer, stirring constantly. then remove from the fire. add the oysters and juice of a lemon, and mix well with the sauce. have ready some large, deep, well-shaped oyster-shells slightly buttered; fill these with the prepared oysters, sprinkle rolled cracker crumbs over; put a piece of butter on top of each; arrange in a pan; brown slightly in a pretty hot oven (about ten minutes), and serve. =curried oysters.= strain juice of oysters and cook alone till edges curl. cook tablespoonful chopped onion and tablespoonful butter five minutes. mix tablespoonful curry powder, tablespoonsfuls flour and stir into butter. add pint sweet milk gradually, stirring constantly in saucepan. mix oysters with the sauce. pour over small slices of hot buttered toast and serve immediately. =fancy roast of oysters.= remove oysters from liquor and have them free from grit or shell. scald pint of oyster liquor, and when boiling hot put in the oysters and let them cook two or three minutes. strain the liquor and put the oysters on pieces of toast. arrange on a dish and set over steam to keep hot. blend together teaspoonfuls of flour and / cup of butter, moistening it with oyster liquor. when well mixed, put into the hot liquor and let boil a few minutes, stirring well. strain over the oysters, and serve hot with lemons. =sweet-breads.= clean and parboil the sweet breads; cut them in slices and dip in melted butter. roll them in grated cheese; dip in beaten egg; roll in bread crumbs and fry in hot fat. serve with tomato sauce. =veal loaf.= pounds of veal cutlets and a small piece of salt pork, all chopped fine together; a tea-cup of rolled crackers moistened a very little with water; salt, pepper and egg. add summer savory, if you like. put in a bread-pan and bake one and a-half hours. serve in slices when cold. =meat salad.= chop fine pounds of cold corned beef, then take / of a cup of vinegar, tablespoonful of sugar and egg. beat all together, pour into a pan and let boil; then pour into a dish to mould. serve cold. =welsh rare-bit--no. .= pound of fresh cheese, cut in small pieces; in chafing-dish add cup of milk (or cup of bass' ale), teaspoonfuls butter, small teaspoons of mustard, of salt and a little pepper. stir it well, and cook until it thickens (not curdle). serve on toast. =welsh rare-bit--no. .= egg, / a cup of milk; cup of grated cheese, salt, cayenne pepper and mustard to taste. heat the milk in a double boiler; melt the cheese. add the egg, and pour all over squares of toast. =cheese sticks--no. .= cup of grated cheese; cup of flour; a little cayenne pepper; butter same as for pastry. roll thin; cut in narrow strips, and bake a light brown in a quick oven. (serve with salad.) =cheese sticks--no. .= ounces of butter; ounces of flour; ounces of moist, rich cheese. mix together and mould into a paste. roll out and cut into strips about one-half inch wide and five long. bake in a quick oven. a very nice relish. [illustration] meats. =boiled ham.= put a ham weighing pounds in a large kettle and half cover with cold water and cook slowly. when the water boils, add a quart of sour white wine and cook about five hours, or until tender. put the ham in a baking pan and trim off the under side nicely, and take off the skin. cover an inch thick with currant jelly, put a cup of sherry in the pan and put into a pretty hot oven. let the fire go down; baste very often at first, that the wine may penetrate the jelly, and bake a half hour or more. =calf's-head stew.= head, bay leaves, teaspoonful thyme, quarts of water, large carrots, sweet marjoram, onions, handful salt, teaspoonful pepper. simmer hours, skimming when necessary. take out meat, strain broth and cut tongue in small pieces. large teaspoonfuls of butter in pan, of flour, and cook until brown. juice of lemon, hard-boiled eggs, chopped, / lemon, sliced, wine and red pepper to taste. when very hot, serve. =chops and tomato sauce.= fry some pieces of pork in the spider, then cut up and fry a few onions. into this pour some peeled and cut-up tomatoes; stir till all cooked to pieces and then strain. thicken with a little flour. broil chops, place on a hot platter and pour the sauce over them. for pounds chops, / pound pork, about onions, and or tomatoes are required. a few cloves and a little chili pepper are considered by some an addition. =kidney stew.= beef kidneys cut in small pieces. pour cold water over, and as it boils pour off and repeat. the third time let it simmer slowly for two hours. add onions, chopped fine, and cook one hour. a few minutes before serving add sherry wine. thicken with flour and serve on hot toast. this may be varied by adding curry; both are excellent. =sheep's tongues.= boil them in soup stock until tender, with a seasoning of salt, pepper and a bouquet of herbs. ( or cloves, or small onions, bay leaf, sprig of parsley, some whole black pepper tied in a little white bag and removed after an hour.) when done add to the stock some browned flour and butter, tomato juice to taste, and a little lime juice. garnish with triangles of toast around the dish. =spanish receipt for cooking tongue.= soak a fresh tongue over night. in the morning take the skin off by boiling water. mix together large spoon of lard, quart raw beans, chopped fine, with the lard, or onions, chopped not very fine, and a little parsley. fry all together for a little while; then add to this cup of stock, cup of wine, a head of garlic, pepper, salt, cinnamon, and laurel leaves. then put a paper over top of saucepan and put on cover very tight. cook for two or three hours over a slow fire; then strain the same through a colander. add to the strained sauce or spoonfuls of brown flour to thicken. put over the fire a little while, and then pour over the tongue. =chestnut stuffing.= shell pint of large chestnuts; pour on boiling water and remove the inner skin. boil in salted water, or stock, until soft. mash fine and mix with them cup of fine rolled crackers. season with teaspoonful of salt, salt spoon of pepper, and teaspoonful of chopped parsley. moisten with / cup of melted butter. this stuffing is especially nice for quail. =stuffing for turkeys.= boston crackers, rolled, piece of salt pork size of an egg, chopped fine. add / pint of milk and season with salt and pepper. (add sage if you wish.) let it scald, then beat eggs and stir in. add milk till it is the consistency of batter fritters, put in the turkey and bake slowly, basting frequently. [illustration] salads. =boiled salad dressing.= eggs, tablespoons dry mustard, teacup of oil or cream, / cup vinegar, salt to taste. mix eggs and mustard to a cream, then add oil drop by drop, vinegar drop by drop, salt to taste. put on stove and stir all the time, and let it scarcely come to a boil. when cold, bottle and keep in a cold place. by beating all the ingredients well together with an egg-beater it is as creamy as when oil is added drop by drop. =dressing for cold slaw.= yolks of or eggs, tablespoons vinegar, teaspoon salt, of mustard, butter size of an egg. cook like custard. =clayton's celebrated salad dressing.= take tablespoonfuls of mustard, mixed quite stiff. pour on this slowly / of a pint of best olive oil, stirring rapidly till thick. then add eggs, and after mixing slightly pour in slowly the remaining / of a pint of oil, stirring rapidly till the mixture forms a thick batter. next take teacup of best wine vinegar and juice of lemon, a small teaspoonful of salt and of white sugar. stir until the ingredients are well mixed. when bottled and tightly corked, this will remain good for months. =salad dressing.= / salt spoon pepper, of salt, teaspoonful mixed mustard, tablespoonful powdered sugar, tablespoons of best olive oil, tablespoons cream, tablespoons vinegar, hard-boiled egg. =tomato salad.= scald and peel tomatoes and cut holes in the top of each. make a rich salad dressing, into which stir some cold peas, beans and beets, finely chopped. stuff the tomatoes with this, and pour dressing over. garnish the dish with fine lettuce leaves. [illustration] vegetables. =baked cream potatoes.= cut raw potatoes in very thin slices and put a layer of them in a buttered earthen dish. cover the layer with pieces of butter, and season well with pepper and salt. then put another layer and season in same manner, so proceeding till the dish is full. over all pour a pint of cream or rich milk, and set in the oven to bake a half hour. this is a very nice lunch dish. =escalloped potatoes.= take some cold sliced potatoes, butter your baking dish, put a layer of potatoes, dredge over flour, put on bits of butter, salt and pepper. when your dish is full, pour over rich milk and bake brown. serve hot. =potatoes in cases.= bake potatoes of equal size, and when done and still hot, cut off a small piece from each potato. remove the inside carefully, leaving the skin unbroken. wash the potato and season generously with butter, pepper and salt. return it with spoon to the potato skin, allowing it to protrude about an inch above the skin. when enough skins are filled use a fork to make the potatoes rough above the skin. put them in a quick oven to color the tops. =stewed carrots (french style).= take bunches french carrots, clean and trim; put in a saucepan with salt, pepper, teacup of water, tablespoons of butter, lumps of sugar, cover and boil for half an hour. then remove the lid and place where they will simmer slowly till all the water has cooked away, leaving nothing but the butter. =stuffed artichokes.= boil artichokes till soft. when cold, scrape leaves and cut out the hearts. chop and mix in tablespoonful worcestershire sauce, egg, / cup butter, pinch of salt, red and black pepper. roll into balls and put into heart of the artichoke. put a piece of butter on top of each and bake fifteen minutes with a hot fire. this receipt is for twelve artichokes. if you wish, bread crumbs can be added to the mixture. =boiled artichokes.= first clean, then soak in cold water fifteen minutes. then put in boiling water till soft, testing them by pulling off leaves. =new england corn pudding.= take dozen ears of green corn well-filled, but young; grate or pound the corn, and add pounded soda cracker and a little salt. bake two hours in a moderate oven, and a rich crust will form. serve with butter. =celery root.= pare and boil till tender in salted water. thicken the liquor with flour and cream, or milk, and pour over toast. stewed celery and mushrooms are served in the same manner. =stuffed tomatoes--no. .= cut off a small piece of the top; squeeze out the seeds and water. remove the meat of the tomato with a spoon, without breaking or injuring the shape. fry an onion cut fine, then put in your stuffing (sausage meat, chicken, veal or beef hashed fine), salt, pepper, parsley and a little green pepper, cut fine. to this add all the meat of the tomato you removed with the spoon. when well mixed and cooked fill each with the dressing, on top sprinkling toasted bread crumbs and a piece of butter. bake in tins. if you use sausage meat as stuffing add a little bread soaked in water and squeezed hard, so that it will readily mix with the meat. =stuffed tomatoes--no. .= take nice, smooth tomatoes and remove part of the insides. chop small onion, green peppers and some of the tomato that was removed. add cracker crumbs and soup stock to moisten. fill the tomatoes, adding a small piece of butter to each one, and bake from ten to fifteen minutes. =squash and corn (spanish style).= small summer squashes, ears of corn. chop squash and cut corn from cobs. put in a saucepan a spoonful of lard or butter, and when very hot an onion; fry a little and add the corn and squash, tomato, green pepper cut small and salt to taste. cover closely, and stir frequently to prevent burning. =stuffed peppers--no. .= cut off the tops and remove the seeds. cut in small pieces or tomatoes and cook with a little butter and onion until tender. add some rice boiled in water or stock (or bread crumbs), and a little salt, then mix with the tomatoes. add a little chopped celery, fill the peppers, and put a little butter over the top of each. cook in the oven twenty minutes and serve at once. if the peppers are boiled a few minutes first, they will retain their bright green color. =stuffed peppers--no. .= crumb slices of bread and wet with / cup soup stock, small piece of butter, pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, seeds of the pepper and a tablespoonful of the chopped rind. place in baking plate with very little water, and bake fifteen minutes in a quick oven. this mixture will fill six peppers. [illustration] bread. =brown bread--no. .= cups indian meal, cups rye meal, cup flour, cup molasses, teaspoonfuls saleratus and sour milk enough to make it the consistency of indian cake. put some of the saleratus in the molasses and stir till it foams. put the remainder in the sour milk. boil three hours. remove from the pan, place on a tin and bake fifteen minutes, to dry off the steam. =brown bread--no. .= cups corn meal, cups of graham meal, / cup syrup, teaspoonful soda, and salt to taste. sufficient milk to make a thin batter. boil three hours. =brown bread--no. .= cups indian meal, cup rye meal, cup molasses, cup sour milk, cups sweet milk, pinch of soda, and salt to taste. steam four hours. =muffins--no. .= eggs, well beaten, teaspoonfuls sugar, teaspoonfuls butter, cups milk, cups flour, teaspoonfuls baking powder, pinch of salt (baking powder and salt sifted with flour). bake in a quick oven. =muffins--no. .= - / cups flour, scant cup milk, teaspoon cream of tartar, / teaspoon soda, tablespoon butter melted, but not oily, tablespoon sugar, egg. add butter the last thing. =raised muffins.= pint milk, scalded, and a small piece of butter. when cool, add a little salt, tablespoon sugar, / cake compressed yeast, egg, and sufficient flour to make a stiff batter. when raised bake in muffin rings. =english muffins.= cups flour, teaspoonfuls sugar, teaspoonfuls butter, cup boiled milk, / cup liquid yeast. set to rise over night; in the morning roll out three-fourths of an inch thick; cut with biscuit-cutter, and allow time to rise again; then cook on a griddle on top of stove, turning as hot cakes. it improves them to flour the board with corn meal. =corn bread--no. .= - / cups flour, / cup meal, cup milk, eggs, beaten separately, tablespoons butter before melting, teaspoons baking powder, heaping tablespoons sugar, a little salt. =corn bread--no. .= cup corn meal, / cup flour, spoon sugar, spoon salt, small spoon soda, small spoons cream of tartar, egg, enough milk to make a thin batter. add melted butter at the last. =corn meal muffins.= pint milk, / pint indian meal, eggs, tablespoonful butter, salt, and teaspoonful sugar. pour the milk boiling on the meal. when cool add the butter melted, salt, sugar and yolks of eggs; lastly, the whites, well beaten. bake in a well-heated oven. =rice corn bread.= cup of mashed boiled rice, cup of corn meal, eggs, well beaten, / teaspoon of salt, teaspoon of butter, teaspoon of baking powder, sufficient milk to make a thin batter. =rice bread.= pint rice flour, pint milk, eggs, tablespoons wheat flour, - / butter and - / teaspoons baking powder. bake in shallow pans from twenty minutes to half-hour. =breakfast gems.= egg, scant cup milk, scant cup flour, / teaspoon baking powder. beat the white of the egg to a stiff froth and stir in last. bake in long gem pans, having them very hot before putting mixture in. =coffee cake.= cups flour, pinch of salt, / cake compressed yeast. make a sponge and rise till morning, then add eggs, cup sugar, a little melted butter, cup flour. set to rise till : o'clock. sprinkle sugar and cinnamon on top, and bake. =parker house rolls.= quarts of flour, make a hole in the center, and put in a small teaspoonful of salt, tablespoonful sugar, tablespoonful butter, pint of milk boiled, but cold, / cup yeast, and let rise over night. in the morning knead fifteen minutes, let rise again, roll thin, cut round, put a little butter on one-half, double over and bake. =french rolls.= pint of scalded milk, let cool, then add / cup of yeast, / cup sugar, quarts flour, small piece of butter, worked into the flour. pour the milk into center of flour, and let stand over night; then knead, letting it rise very light; then knead again, and mould, letting it rise again, and bake. =graham rolls.= cups graham flour, tablespoon white sugar, teaspoon soda and of cream of tartar. mix all together, and to it add cold water; make thin and bake in a gem baker, which has been already heated and greased. bake in a hot oven. =buns.= cups flour, / cup sugar, sifted together, pinch of salt; make a hole in flour and drop in egg, cup milk, / cake compressed yeast, melted butter, the size of an egg. raise until morning. when mixed over add a handful of currants, and set to rise until : . roll soft, cut with biscuit-cutter, and raise again till : . after baking ten minutes, rub the top with sugar and water. =waffles.= cups sifted flour, - / cups milk, eggs, tablespoons melted butter, teaspoon baking powder. =apple biscuit.= cups flour, teaspoons baking powder, of salt, tablespoon lard, of sugar, egg. break the egg into the flour. add sufficient milk to make a stiff batter, and pour into a shallow pan. pare and slice apples, covering the top of the batter with them. when almost done, sprinkle sugar over them. =hominy cake.= pint cold hominy, eggs, tablespoon rice flour, small piece of butter. bake in pans, like corn cake. =huckleberry cake.= cups flour, of sugar, eggs, tablespoon butter, teaspoons yeast powder, scant cups of milk. stir in as many berries as the batter will hold together, and bake in a pan. canned berries are very good in this way. serve hot for lunch. to be eaten with butter. [illustration] cake. =almond drop cakes.= pound powdered sugar, / pound powdered almonds, eggs ( whites left out), beaten separately, grated lemon peels, spoonfuls rose water. put rose water and sugar on top of each cake, after they are dropped with a dessertspoon on the pans. =angel cake.= whites of eggs, - / cups granulated sugar, cup flour, teaspoon cream tartar, / teaspoon of almond or vanilla. beat the eggs to a froth; sift the sugar five times; sift the flour times; add cream tartar and sift again. beat eggs and sugar together; add flavoring; then flour; stir quickly and lightly; put in an unbuttered pan and bake / hour in moderate oven. =cream cakes--no. .= boil in / pint of water / cup of butter; stir in while boiling - / cups of flour. remove from fire, let it stand five minutes, and then stir in gradually eggs, lightly beaten, and / teaspoon of soda. drop in pans half the size you want them, and bake fifteen or twenty minutes. =cream cakes--no. .= pint boiling water, cup butter, of sifted flour put in while water and butter are boiling. let this cool, then add eggs, one at a time, and beat in thoroughly, tablespoon of milk with / teaspoon soda dissolved in it. =cream cakes--no. .= make a layer cake of cups sugar, / cup butter, eggs, / cup milk, of flour, an even teaspoon baking powder. bake in three layers. for the cream take / pint milk, and when boiling stir in even teaspoons corn starch, dissolved in a little cold milk, tablespoon sugar and egg, stirring briskly a few moments. when cool, spread on the cake. flavor with vanilla or lemon. =cream puffs.= cup hot water, / cup butter. boil water and butter together, and stir in cup dry flour while boiling. when cool add eggs, not beaten. mix well, and drop by spoonfuls in buttered tins. bake in a quick oven twenty-five minutes. this makes fifteen puffs. when cool fill with whipped cream. =ice cream cake.= cup butter, cups sugar, a little more than / cup of milk, even cups of sifted flour, in which has been sifted teaspoons of baking powder; flavoring and the whites of eggs beaten stiff, added last. cream the butter and sugar, add milk, then flour, with baking powder, flavoring and whites of eggs, the cake well-beaten as each ingredient is added. bake in jelly-cake tins, two white layers, reserving enough to make one layer colored with a little of price's coloring, which will make one pink layer. put this between the two white layers, with a thin frosting spread between, then frost the whole cake. by dividing the cake before baking into three parts, keeping one white, adding the pink coloring to another, and a heaping tablespoon of grated chocolate to the third, you can have the three layers different, nice ice cream bricks. =chocolate cake--no. .= cup butter, of sugar, of milk, - / of flour, eggs, teaspoons baking powder, cake of baker's chocolate. grate the chocolate and add to the cake before the flour; flavor with vanilla, and bake in layers. filling.-- pound of sugar, eggs, / cake of baker's chocolate, cup grated cocoanut. cover the top of cake with grated cocoanut. =chocolate cake--no. .= - / cups sugar, / of butter, / of milk, - / of flour, / pound of baker's chocolate, eggs, teaspoons baking powder. scrape the chocolate fine and add tablespoons of sugar to it (this in addition to - / cups). beat the butter to a cream. gradually add sugar, beating all the while. add tablespoons of boiling water to the chocolate and sugar. stir over the fire until smooth and glossy, then stir into the beaten sugar and butter. add to this mixture the eggs well beaten, then the milk and flour in which the baking powder has been thoroughly mixed. bake twenty minutes in a moderate oven. this makes two loaves. =chocolate cake--no. .= cup butter, of sugar, of milk, eggs (omitting whites of ), teaspoon cream tartar, / of soda, - / cups flour. frosting.--whites of eggs, heaping tablespoons grated chocolate, cup powdered sugar, teaspoon vanilla. frost while cake is hot. this recipe makes two loaves. =chocolate loaf cake.= cup sugar, of milk, of flour, eggs, teaspoon soda dissolved in the milk. melt / cup sugar, / of milk, yolk of egg, / cake of chocolate to a smooth cream and add to cake. bake in a moderate oven. =chocolate caramel cake.= cups sugar, / cup milk, eggs, beaten separately, tablespoons butter, cups flour, teaspoons yeast powder, teaspoon vanilla. bake in layers. white filling.-- - / cups granulated sugar, / cup milk. boil eight minutes, then add tablespoon flour stirred in tablespoons cold water and then boil five minutes longer. when cool beat to a cream. chocolate caramel filling.--the same as above, only / stick of baker's unsweetened chocolate. teaspoon vanilla. =lemon or orange jelly cake.= cup butter, cups sugar, / cup milk, eggs, cups sifted flour, and heaping teaspoon baking powder. bake in four layers. =jelly--for cake.= small cup sugar, egg. grate the rind and use juice of lemon or orange, tablespoon water, teaspoon flour. place the dish in a kettle of boiling water and let it thicken. when cool spread between the cakes. this is very nice for any layer cake. =apple cake in layers.= - / cups sugar, / cup butter, / of milk, - / flour, eggs (whites and yolks beaten separately), teaspoons yeast powder. filling.-- apples, grated rind and juice of lemon, egg. boil till it thickens, and cool before using. spread between layers. =sunshine cake--no. .= whites of eggs, yolks of , cup of sugar, / flour, scant teaspoon cream of tartar, salt, teaspoons orange juice and grated rind. sift sugar and cream tartar together several times, then mix with well-beaten whites, add beaten yolks, sift flour and salt several times, mix altogether, put in orange and bake from forty to fifty minutes in a pan with pipe in center. do not look at it for at least twenty minutes. do not butter pan, nor remove from it till cold. =sunshine cake--no. .= yolks of eggs, cups sugar, of butter, of milk, teaspoon cream of tartar, / of soda, cups flour. flavor to taste. =a delicious white cake.= pound sugar, pound butter, pound flour, a little baking powder, whites of eggs, and flavoring. =white cake.= / cup butter, / of milk, of sugar, of flour, teaspoon yeast powder, whites of eggs, almond flavoring. =snow cake--no. .= whites of eggs, jelly glasses of powdered sugar, of flour, teaspoon cream tartar. =snow cake--no. .= cup sugar, / of butter, / of milk, teaspoon yeast powder, cups flour, vanilla flavoring. after being well mixed, stir in the whites of eggs, and beat vigorously. =rose cake.= pound flour, / pound sugar, / pound butter, cup rose water, eggs, teaspoon dry soda. sift white sugar over cake when put in the oven. =feather cake.= egg, tablespoon butter, cup sugar, cups flour, / cup milk, teaspoons baking powder. =delicious cake.= cups sifted sugar, / of butter, eggs, beaten separately, / cup of milk, teaspoon baking powder in - / cups sifted flour, tablespoons brandy. =gold cake.= yolks of eggs and whole egg, cups sugar, of butter, / cup milk, of flour, teaspoon cream of tartar, / of soda. =silver cake.= whites of eggs, - / cups sugar, / cup butter, even cups flour, of milk, teaspoon cream tartar, / of soda, flavor with vanilla. beat butter and sugar to a cream; beat whites to a stiff froth and add. sift cream tartar with flour and dissolve soda in milk. stir in a little flour before adding milk. =marble cake.= whites of eggs, - / cups sugar, / cup butter, / cup milk and - / cups flour, teaspoon cream of tartar, / of soda. flavor with lemon. dark part.--yolks of eggs, - / cups brown sugar, / cup butter, - / cups milk, teaspoon cream tartar, / of soda, teaspoon each allspice, cinnamon and cloves. mix lightly together, or bake in layers, as you please. =cold water cake.= cups sugar, of flour, / cup butter, of cold water, eggs, teaspoons cream of tartar, of soda. beat thoroughly. bake in cups. to be eaten with butter, hot. =white mountain cake.= - / cups butter, / of cream, of sugar, of flour and eggs. add currants. =federal cake.= pound flour, of sugar, / of butter, eggs, teacup cream, / wine-glass brandy, of wine, nutmeg, pound raisins. =lincoln cake.= eggs, cups sugar, / cup butter, of milk, of flour, teaspoon cream of tartar, / of soda. flavor to taste. =harrison cake.= cup butter, of brown sugar, syrup, milk, eggs, cups flour, nutmeg, teaspoon soda. fruit to suit. =victoria cake.= cup butter, of sugar, of flour, eggs, cup sour milk, teaspoon soda, cup molasses, pound currants, of raisins, wine-glass brandy, nutmeg, teaspoons of cloves, of cinnamon, / pound citron. =pound cake.= pound flour, of sugar, ounces butter, eggs, / teaspoon soda. =sponge pound cake.= heaping cup sugar, scant cup butter, eggs leaving out whites of for icing, - / cups flour, - / teaspoons baking powder. flavoring. =aunt sharlie's sponge cake.= pound powdered loaf sugar, eggs, beaten separately, juice and grated peel of lemon, / pound dried flour sifted in at the last. =sponge cake to roll.= eggs, cup powdered sugar, of flour, teaspoon cream tartar, / teaspoon saleratus, tablespoon cold water. sift the sugar, flour and cream tartar together; then add eggs, and stir together ten minutes; add water, soda and flavoring, and bake in biscuit-pan. to make jelly roll, lay on bread-board, spread with jelly and roll. =sponge cake--no. .= cups sugar, eggs, cup water, of flour, teaspoons yeast powder, salt and flavoring. =sponge cake--no. .= cup sugar, of flour, eggs, heaping teaspoon baking powder, tablespoons water. rub sugar and yolks together until very light and creamy. add water and / of the flour. after sifting baking powder and flour twice, add remaining flour with beaten whites, and a pinch of salt. stir gently. = , , , cake.= cup butter, of sugar, of flour, eggs, cup milk, heaping teaspoons baking powder, / teaspoon each of vanilla and lemon. rub the butter and sugar until very light and creamy; then add eggs and beat well; add more and beat again; then sift in flour after having sifted it with the baking powder. stir in milk with the flour, and add flavoring. =molasses plum cake.= scant / cup butter, cup sugar, of molasses, of milk, eggs, cups flour, teaspoon soda stirred into molasses, teaspoon each of cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon, cup of stoned and chopped raisins. =dark cake.= cup sugar, of butter, of sour milk, of molasses, of flour, teaspoon soda, pound raisins. all kinds of spice. this cake will keep a long time. =plain spice cake.= / cup butter, of water or milk, of brown sugar, eggs, - / cups flour, - / teaspoons yeast powder, teaspoon cloves, of cinnamon, of allspice, and cup of currants or raisins can be added, if desired. =fruit cake--no. .= pound citron, of currants, of raisins, of flour, of butter, of sugar, eggs, / teaspoon soda, / cup molasses, teaspoon cloves, of nutmeg, of mace, of cinnamon, of allspice, of lemon, wine-glass of brandy and of sherry. =fruit cake--no. .= pound flour, / butter, / sugar, of currants, of raisins, / of citron, - / cups molasses, wine-glass of brandy, of wine, / teaspoon saleratus, eggs. bake in a slow oven three hours. add spices as desired. =snow tea cakes.= tablespoons sugar, cups milk, eggs, cups flour, teaspoons yeast powder. bake in muffin-rings. =coffee cake.= - / cups flour, of coffee, of brown sugar, of butter, of syrup, eggs, pound raisins, cups currants, tablespoons brandy, of cinnamon, of cloves, of allspice, grated nutmeg, pieces candied lemon or citron, teaspoon soda. steam two hours and bake one-half hour. =hermits.= cups sugar, cup butter, eggs, tablespoon milk, teaspoon soda (dissolved in milk), a teaspoon each of cinnamon, cloves and allspice, cup chopped raisins and currants, mixed, and as much cut citron as desired. mix with sufficient flour to roll. roll very thin, cut as cookies, and bake in a moderate oven. excellent, and will keep a long time. =fruit cookies.= cup sugar, / of butter, eggs, / teaspoon soda, cup chopped raisins, all kinds of spice, tablespoons pickled peach juice, flour enough to roll out. =boston cookies.= cup butter, - / powdered sugar, eggs, teaspoons milk, cups flour, teaspoon of soda or saleratus, of ginger. make stiff enough to roll thin. =scotch cookies.= beat cups of sugar with cup of butter, eggs, and tablespoonfuls of milk. mix teaspoonfuls of baking powder and of cinnamon with cups of flour, and add as much more flour as necessary to make stiff enough to roll. roll thin, cut out and bake quickly. =molasses cookies.= in pint of new orleans molasses melt a full cup of butter with a cup of brown sugar. stir in tablespoon ginger, / teaspoon saleratus, dissolved in a little hot water, and flour enough to roll out. take small pieces at a time to roll out. =rich cookies.= yolks of eggs, / roll butter, cup bar sugar, - / cups flour. put a little of the flour in a deep dish, then add some egg, some butter and some sugar; then more flour, more egg and more sugar and butter until the entire amount of ingredients have been used. roll thin, flour pans well and put in the cookies, which have been cut into forms and feathered with whites of egg, sugar and grated almonds. not too quick an oven. =hearts and rounds.= cup butter, cups sugar, cup milk, cups flour, eggs, even teaspoons cream tartar, of soda. flavor with vanilla or lemon. =crullers.= eggs, large spoons melted butter, of milk, of sugar, small teaspoon soda in milk. =doughnuts.= eggs, cups sugar, of milk, butter size of an egg, teaspoons yeast powder, a little salt. season to taste, cinnamon and mace. =gingerbread.= - / cups sugar, / pound butter, / cup sour cream, / teaspoon soda, teaspoon ginger, eggs, well beaten, - / cups flour. =sugar gingerbread.= cup butter, of sugar, / cup milk, teaspoon saleratus, egg, tablespoon ginger. flour enough to roll very thin. =molasses gingerbread.= cup new orleans molasses, full teaspoon soda put in molasses, / cup melted butter or nice drippings, / cup milk, egg, teaspoons ginger. flour to stir, but not thick. =soft gingerbread--no. .= - / cups flour, well sifted, teaspoons yeast powder, sifted in teaspoons ginger, cup molasses, of brown sugar, / of butter, of milk, and eggs, well beaten. =soft gingerbread--no. .= - / cups molasses, / cup butter, / cup sour milk, egg, teaspoon soda and / cup flour. add ginger and a little salt. =bread cake.= cups light dough, of brown sugar, of butter, eggs, spices, fruit and citron, teaspoon soda. raising or not, as you wish. =pork cake.= / pound salt pork, chopped very fine, / cup warm water, mix with the pork. heaping cup brown sugar, of molasses, spice to taste, - / cups raisins, of currants, / pound citron, eggs, flour to make a batter stiffer than ordinary cake, teaspoons yeast powder, and bake in buttered tins. =lemon honey for cake.= juice and grated rind of lemon, small cup sugar, / of water, well-beaten eggs, small piece of butter. let boil till it thickens. =quick icing.= white of egg, heaping cup sugar, beat egg till it foams. add sugar and flavoring, and stir very thoroughly. [illustration] pies. =puff paste.= equal quantities of butter and flour by weight, the butter to be washed. the yolk of egg. divide butter in three or four parts and chill; chop one portion into the flour, mix with ice water, and roll in the remainder. roll and fold several times. if it grows sticky, chill till it hardens. =mock mince pie--no. .= pounds powdered crackers, cup molasses, of cider, of chopped raisins, eggs, teaspoon salt, of clove, of cinnamon, of mace, of nutmeg. this quantity makes two pies. bake forty minutes. =mock mince pie--no. .= cup bread or cracker crumbs, of raisins, of vinegar, of sugar, of molasses, of water, / of butter, of currants. spice to taste. =mince meat.= pounds lean beef, of suet, of apples, of stoned raisins, of currants, / of citron cut fine, - / of brown sugar, tablespoons cinnamon, of mace, of cloves, of allspice, of salt, of nutmeg, pint of sherry, of brandy, of cider, bowl of currant jelly. =lemon tarts.= egg beaten stiff, add cup sugar, and juice and rind of lemon. line your patty pans with pastry, then put in the lemon mixture and bake. this will make about six tarts. this same idea may be used, and in place of lemon put any kind of jam (about a tablespoonful), and when cold add whipped cream to the top. =rich lemon pie.= the pie crust should be made and baked first. the filling consists of juice and rind of lemons, eggs, / pound of sugar, / pound butter, small glass of brandy, nutmeg. cream, butter and sugar together; add brandy, nutmeg, lemon, and then eggs. take the whites of more eggs, beat very light and put on top. this will make one large pie. =a plain orange or lemon pie.= the grated rind and juice of lemon or orange, tablespoons sugar, of flour, cup milk, yolks of eggs. beat the whites to a stiff froth, and mix into them tablespoons sugar, which you put on pie after baking, and return to oven for a delicate browning. [illustration] creams. =pineapple cream.= small can grated pineapple, cup water, of sugar. let it come to a boil. package gelatine soaked in cup cold water fifteen minutes, then pour cups boiling water on it. put this with the pineapple and boil with the juice of lemons. have ready the whites of eggs beaten stiff, and pour gradually in the boiling mixture. serve with whipped cream when cool. this should be made the day before using. =duchess cream.= / pint tapioca soaked over night in / pint of cold water; in the morning drain, and cover with boiling water and cook till clear, stirring constantly. remove from fire, add juice of lemon, cup grated pineapple, cup sugar and the beaten whites of eggs. serve cold with cream. =russian cream.= / box gelatine to quart milk and eggs. the milk, yolks of eggs and gelatine are put together hot on stove, and just as it is taken off, the whites are stirred in. add flavoring and mold it. =spanish cream.= / box of gelatine soaked soft in - / pints milk; bring to a boil. stir in the beaten yolks of eggs, tablespoons sugar, then bring to a boil again. beat the whites to a stiff froth and stir in after removing from the fire. flavor with vanilla. pour in a mold to cool, and serve with cream. =lemon cream.= large lemon, eggs, tablespoons sugar, of water. beat yolks and sugar, add juice and rind of lemon, and water. let simmer till it thickens. beat whites of eggs stiff with tablespoons of sugar, and stir into the custard while warm. =banana cream.= peel and wash bananas. use equal parts of bananas and sweet cream. to quart of the mixture allow / pound of sugar. beat all together till the cream is light. some consider it an improvement to add a few drops of vanilla, or the juice of canned pineapple. =coffee bavarian cream.= / pint rich cream whipped light, / package gelatine soaked in cup milk, large cup strong coffee, cup white sugar and whites of eggs. soak the gelatine until perfectly soft, have the coffee boiling hot, and turn over the gelatine and sugar. strain and set away until partly stiff. beat the eggs to a stiff froth, and mix with the whipped cream; add to the gelatine, mixing thoroughly. mold and serve with whipped cream. =bavarian cream with peaches.= cut fine peaches, or a sufficient number of canned ones, into small pieces, and boil with / pound of sugar. when reduced to a marmalade press through a coarse sieve, then add / package dissolved gelatine, and a tumbler of cream. stir this well to make it smooth, and when about set, add pint of whipped cream, and pour into a mold. it makes a still prettier dish to serve half or quarter of peaches, half frozen, around the cream. =charlotte russe.= pint cream, whipped light, / ounce gelatine dissolved in gill of hot milk, whites of eggs beaten to a stiff froth, small teacup of powdered sugar. flavor with vanilla or little almond. mix together the cream, eggs, sugar and flavoring, and beat in the gelatine and milk when quite cold. line a mold with slices of sponge cake or lady fingers, and fill with the mixture. set upon the ice to cool. =champagne jelly.= box gelatine, pint boiling water, / pint cold water, / pint sherry, lemon, lime, / pound sugar, teaspoon essence cinnamon. soak gelatine in cold water, add hot water, sugar, wine, lemon and lime, and boil five minutes. add pint champagne and strain twice. =coffee jelly.= / box gelatine soaked in cold coffee. when well dissolved, pour in a pint of boiling coffee, sweeten to taste, and set aside to cool. when quite cold and almost jellied, beat up till it becomes a light foam. pour into mold and place on ice. serve with whipped cream. [illustration] puddings. =burlington pudding.= mix / cup of flour with a little cold milk and stir into pint of boiling milk. remove from the fire, and add / cup sugar and large tablespoons of butter; also eggs, the whites and yolks beaten separately. flavor with vanilla or lemon, and bake one-half hour in pan of hot water. serve with wine sauce. =fig pudding.= cups bread crumbs, of currants, of chopped raisins, of figs, of suet, eggs, well-beaten, cups milk, of brown sugar. steam four hours. =pancake with fruit.= take eggs, a cup of cream or rich milk, and flour enough to make a thin batter. add a little fine sugar and nutmeg. butter the griddle and turn the batter on. let it spread as large as a common dinner plate. when done on one side, turn it, as a pancake. have some nice preserves, and spread over quickly. roll the cake up, place on a flat dish, sift on a little powdered sugar and cinnamon, a little butter, if you wish, and serve hot. be careful and not make the batter too thin. =strawberry custard.= cup sugar, quart milk, yolks of eggs, white of , and vanilla. let the milk boil, then add eggs and sugar, and let cool. crush and strain pint strawberries, tablespoons sugar and whites of eggs, beaten stiff. place the custard in glasses, about half full, then fill glasses with strawberry juice and the whites of eggs, beaten together. =orange float.= quart of water, juice and pulp of lemons and coffee cup of sugar. when boiling hot, add teaspoons corn starch. boil fifteen minutes, stirring constantly. when cold, pour this over four or five oranges, which have been sliced. beat the whites of eggs to a stiff froth, sweeten and flavor, and place large spoonfuls over the top of the float. =kiss pudding.= quart milk, tablespoons corn starch, yolks of eggs, / cup sugar, a little salt. put part of milk, salt and sugar on to boil. dissolve corn starch in remainder of milk, stir into milk, and while boiling, add the yolks. flavor with vanilla. frosting.--whites of eggs, / cup sugar, flavor with lemon, spread on pudding, and put in oven to brown. save a little frosting to moisten top; then put grated cocoanut to give appearance of snow. =batter pudding.= pint of milk, scalded, stir in tablespoon corn starch and of flour, mixed with a little cold milk, beat eggs (yolks and whites separately), and, when the batter is cold, stir in first yolks, then whites, and bake three quarters of an hour. sauce.-- cup sugar, / of butter, beaten to a cream, put over tea-kettle, and stir in / pint whipped cream, and flavor with brandy. =suet pudding--no. .= cup chopped suet, of raisins, of molasses, of milk, / teaspoon soda, and of salt. stir quite thick with flour, and boil in a bag three hours. serve with wine sauce. =suet pudding--no. .= pint powdered bread crumbs, pints boiling milk, poured on to the bread, eggs, cup suet, fruit to taste, wine-glass of sherry or brandy, and spice to taste. to be eaten with sauce. =suet pudding--no. .= cups chopped bread, / cup chopped suet, / cup molasses, egg, cup chopped raisins, of milk, with / teaspoon soda dissolved in it, / teaspoon cloves, teaspoon cinnamon, a little salt and mace. boil two hours in a pudding-boiler. to be eaten with hot or hard sauce. =poor man's pudding.= cup suet, of milk, of molasses, of raisins, of flour, teaspoon saleratus. steam four hours. serve with rich sauce. =poor man's rice pudding.= quart of milk, tablespoon rice, of sugar, / saltspoon of salt. bake slowly, stirring once or twice. =indian pudding.= pint milk, boiled, and stir in while boiling tablespoons meal, with a little salt and a piece of butter. butter dish and bake. before baking, add cup cold milk. =cracker pudding.= boston crackers, rolled fine, eggs, tablespoons sugar. salt and spice to taste. pour quart of boiling milk on to the crackers. add the sugar, eggs and spice. pour into a buttered dish. bake one-half hour, and serve with either hard or liquid sauce. =lemon bread pudding.= quart milk, coffee cups bread crumbs, of white sugar, / cup butter, eggs, the juice and / the grated rind of lemon. soak the bread in the milk, then add the beaten yolks with the butter and sugar, rubbed to a cream; also the lemon. bake in a buttered dish until firm and slightly browned. beat the whites to a stiff froth, with tablespoons of powdered sugar, and flavor with lemon. spread over the pudding when baked, and brown slightly; then sift sugar over it. eat cold. orange pudding may be made in the same way. =delmonico pudding.= quart milk, piece of butter size of a walnut, tablespoons corn starch dissolved in a little milk, yolks of eggs, tablespoons white sugar. boil all together. when done, place in a dish, and set in the oven while beating the whites of eggs, to which add tablespoons powdered sugar. flavor with vanilla. spread the beaten whites of eggs over the pudding, and return to oven, to slightly brown. =english plum pudding--no. .= / pound of seeded raisins, same of currants, well washed and dried, grated rind and juice of oranges, / a nutmeg grated, tablespoon each of cinnamon, cloves and allspice, / a teaspoon of salt, / a pound of sugar, / pound of citron, / pound of suet, / pound of bread crumbs, / pound of flour, teaspoon of baking powder and well-beaten eggs. chop the suet very fine, after removing the skin, and put it, together with the flour and bread crumbs, into a large bowl; then add the spices, oranges and sugar. mix thoroughly. beat the eggs until very light, and add to the contents in the bowl and mix well together. stir in pint of old english ale. flour the raisins and currants and add to the compound. butter a tin pudding-mold, put in the pudding, taking care to well secure the cover. have ready a kettle of boiling water. place the mold in it, and keep boiling constantly five hours. sauce for the pudding.--beat the yolks of eggs, with cup of sugar and / cup butter. have ready pint of boiling cream, a dessert-spoon of corn starch, blended with a little cold milk. add gradually to the beaten batter and eggs. put all on the fire, and stir constantly until it boils. add a wine-glass of sherry and of brandy. serve hot with the pudding. a hard sauce used in connection with the hot one is a great improvement. =english plum pudding--no. .= small loaf of bread, crumbed, / pound of raisins, the same of currants, / pound of citron, of beef suet, chopped fine, a little salt, / pound sugar and a little nutmeg. mix and let stand over night. beat eggs, very light, and stir them in the mixture. take enough milk to slightly moisten the whole. add a little salt and nutmeg and / glass of brandy. boil five hours. set on fire with brandy to serve, and have a rich sauce. =plain plum pudding.= butter crackers, rolled, eggs, pints of milk, cup sugar, / cup butter, teaspoon mixed spice, pound raisins. bake in a deep pudding-dish, in a moderate oven, three or four hours, stirring several times the first hour, to keep the raisins from settling. serve with hard sauce. =snow pudding.= box gelatine, soaked in / tea-cup of cold water, then add quart boiling water. stir till it is all dissolved. add cups white sugar and the juice of lemons. strain and set away till cold; then add the beaten whites, beating the whole thing half an hour, or until it is very white. place on ice. use the yolks and pint milk, and make a custard to eat with it. =tapioca cream.= soak tablespoons of tapioca over night in water enough to cover it, scald quart milk, beat the yolks of eggs, add cup sugar, and stir this in with the tapioca, and the whole mixture thus formed into the milk. let it cook about twenty minutes. remove from fire, and stir in the whites of the eggs, having beaten them to a stiff froth. add flavoring, and serve cold. this pudding should be cooked in a vessel set in hot water. =baked apple dumpling.= / pound flour, / pound lard, teaspoon salt, of yeast powder, enough cold water to make a stiff dough. roll-out pastry. cut with biscuit-cutter twice as many pieces as you have apples. peel and core the apples. put one round of pastry on one end of the apple. fill the core-hole with sugar, cinnamon and a piece of butter. put another round of pastry on so that the edges meet. bake slowly three-quarters of an hour. this will make nine or ten dumplings. =apple pudding.= boil tart apples, after paring them as for sauce, remove from fire, sweeten a little. add a lump of butter, cup cracker crumbs, stirred in cup milk, yolks of eggs, keeping whites for frosting, with / cup sugar. serve with hard sauce. =apple soufflé.= pint steamed apples, tablespoon melted butter, half a cup of sugar, whites of eggs, yolks of , and a slight grating of nutmeg. stir into the hot apple the butter, sugar and nutmeg and yolks of eggs, well-heated. when this is cold, add the well-beaten whites to the mixture. butter a -pint dish and turn the soufflé into it. bake thirty minutes in a hot oven. serve immediately, with any kind of sauce. =apple pan-dowdy.= pare, core and slice apples, and put in a pudding-dish, with a little water, and cup sugar. cover with pastry, and bake slowly, breaking the cover into the apples at last. =apple sago pudding.= pare and core the apples, put sugar and cinnamon in the holes. take as many tablespoons of sago as you have apples. mix it with a little cold water and turn in as much boiling water as will fill the dish. stir till it thickens, then cover up for two hours, and let it thoroughly swell, then pour it over the apples, and bake about three hours. sugar and cream for sauce. =sponge pudding.= scald pint of milk, boiling hot, add / cup butter; when melted, add a smooth thickening made of cup of flour, mixed with cold milk. stir until thick and smooth, being careful not to let it become lumpy. remove from fire, and when cold, add the yolks of eggs, beaten very lightly; lastly, the whites of the eggs, beaten to a stiff foam. bake in a dish standing in hot water. sauce.--the yolks of eggs, beaten in cup of pulverized sugar to a cream. add the whites, and turn over the whole tablespoons of boiling cream or milk, and flour. add wine, if you wish. =boston thanksgiving pudding.= quarts of milk, soda crackers, rolled fine, eggs, small cup of butter, pint of stoned raisins, nutmegs, large spoonful each of ground cloves and cinnamon. sweeten to taste. bake slowly six hours the day before using. do not put the raisins in until it commences to thicken, and stir occasionally the first two hours after the raisins are in. before serving the next day, set the tin in boiling hot water long enough before dinner to have it hot. cold sauce. =blackberry pudding.= take baker's bread and cut away the crusts, butter, and slice rather thick, lay layer of bread and then cover with blackberries and some of the juice (which has been stewed with a little sugar), then more bread and more berries. over the top throw a glass of wine. serve with hard sauce. =rennet pudding.= buy a rennet from the butcher (it is the stomach of a very young calf). wash it thoroughly, and cut it in small pieces. put it in a quart jar, and fill with sherry wine. when wanted to use, heat a quart of milk to blood-heat, and put it in the dish in which it is to remain. stir in tablespoon of the wine water, grate a little nutmeg over the top, and put in a cold place. very good for invalids, and makes a nice dessert, with fresh berries. =chocolate pudding.= pint milk, sticks grated chocolate, boil until thick, then set away to cool, eggs, whites and yolks beaten separately, tablespoons sugar, beat sugar light with the yolks, and to this add cup cracker flour, teaspoon vanilla, and the whites, last. put all this in the chocolate, and let boil one and a half hours in a well-buttered form. serve with whipped cream. =apricot or peach pudding.= butter a pan thoroughly and dust well with cracker flour, and put a row of apricots or peaches on the bottom of the pan. take eggs, beaten together with a cup of powdered sugar. beat in a pan of boiling water twenty minutes. then add cup of flour, lime or some lemon juice, and teaspoon vanilla and a pinch of salt. put this mixture over the apricots or peaches, and bake three quarters of an hour. [illustration] ice cream. =ice cream.= quarts cream, pound sugar; flavor with vanilla. let stand in freezer five minutes to become thoroughly cold. to make it extra light, beat the whites of eggs to a stiff froth, and add just before the cream is frozen. this should freeze in twenty minutes, and will make one gallon of cream. =banana ice.= bananas, peaches, lemons, quart sugar, quart boiling water. pour hot water over the sugar and lemon juice, and stir until it is dissolved. when cool add peaches and bananas sliced thin, and let stand two hours; then strain through fine sieve, so nothing is left but liquid. then freeze. =lalla rookh.= cut in small pieces stale sponge cake or lady fingers, a few macaroons, some french cherries and apricots (glace), and mix all together. make a custard of quart milk and eggs, and when cooked, reserve cupful for a sauce, and add to the remainder / ounce of gelatine. put the mixture of cake and fruit in an ice cream mold and strain the custard over it, and place it in the freezer, as you would ice cream. sauce.--add to the cup of custard reserved / pint of whipped cream, and vanilla to taste. preserves and jams. =orange marmalade--no. .= to dozen oranges use lemons. peel four oranges and boil the peel until you can run a wisp through it. peel the others and divide all into sections; remove the seeds and stringy parts, and cut into small pieces. grate the yellow rind of of the lemons and squeeze the juice of all, which add to the orange pulp. when the orange peel is tender, remove the white part with a sharp knife, and shred the yellow part very fine with scissors. add this to the mixture and weigh, and allow an equal weight of sugar. boil the pulp ten minutes, then add the sugar and boil thirty minutes (a steady boil), stirring constantly, as it burns very easily. =orange marmalade--no. .= lemons, dozen oranges, pounds sugar, quart water. soak oranges and lemons in water over night, previously slicing them in very thin, small pieces. cook till soft. after partially boiled away, put in the sugar. this quantity makes twelve or fourteen glasses. =fig jam--no. .= pounds figs, oranges and lemons to each pounds of fruit. use the juice of the oranges and lemons; also the finest of the pulp and the rind of orange, shredded, as for marmalade. boil the figs, juice and rind for half an hour, then add pound sugar to each pounds of figs, and boil another half hour. cover when hot. =fig jam--no. .= pounds figs, of sugar, lemons, sliced, / cup sliced green ginger root. boil three hours. =apricot jam.= pour boiling water on fruit; peel and throw into cold water. chop the blanched nuts of the stones and add to the fruit ( nuts to each pound). cook half an hour; add / pound sugar to of fruit, and cook fifteen minutes. put in bowls or glasses, and seal air tight. =isabella grape jam.= boil grapes until tender, then put through a sieve. add / pound sugar to each pound of fruit. then boil as for jelly. =currant jelly.= pound sugar to pint juice. heat sugar in oven while the juice comes to a boil; add sugar, and boil four or five minutes. =pineapple preserve.= pare and grate pineapples, / pound sugar to pound fruit. put fruit and sugar on together, and when it comes to a boil let it cook twenty minutes. =preserved grapes.= eight pounds will make one dozen and a half tumblers. to the grapes put an equal weight of sugar; then squeeze the pulp from the skin. cook the pulp a few minutes and rub through a wine sieve to separate the seeds. cook skins in the same water until soft (if you have no water left in the kettle, add some); skim them out and put in sugar. when it begins to cook put in pulp and skins, and cook slowly until they jelly. it should form a moderately stiff jelly. =brandy peaches.= if possible procure "morris white" peaches. peel very carefully and throw into cold water to keep them white. to pounds of fruit allow the same weight of sugar; make a syrup of pounds of the sugar and cook peaches very slowly until tender. lay them on a platter to cool. then add the remainder of the sugar and make a rich syrup; remove from fire and let it cool a little. place the peaches in jars. to every cups of syrup add of perfectly white brandy, and pour over the peaches. [illustration] pickles. =cucumber catsup.= medium-sized cucumbers grated, but not peeled, large onion grated, tablespoon salt, teaspoons white pepper, tablespoon grated horse radish, pint vinegar. bottle for use. =tomato catsup--no. .= gallon tomatoes strained through a sieve, tablespoons salt, of ground mustard, of allspice, of cloves, of red pepper. simmer slowly three or four hours. let cool, then add pint of vinegar and bottle brandy. bottle and seal tight. =tomato catsup--no. .= quarts skinned tomatoes, tablespoons salt, of black pepper, of allspice, pods red pepper or a little cayenne, tablespoons mustard. mix and rub these thoroughly together, and stew them slowly in pint of vinegar three hours. then strain the liquor through a sieve and simmer it down to one quart of catsup. bottle and cork tight. =cucumber pickles.= soak the cucumbers in strong brine over night; in the morning scald a few at a time in a little vinegar, covering tight and stirring often. as they are done, put in bottles, with one or two peppers in each one, and pour over the following scalding vinegar and seal: to quarts of vinegar add cups of sugar, handful of white mustard seed, of stick cinnamon, half the quantity of whole cloves, and a small piece of alum. =sweet pickled figs.= to pounds of ripe figs make a syrup of pounds sugar, quart vinegar, a small handful of whole cloves, and boil five minutes. remove and set away to cool. the second day the syrup must be drained off and poured over figs boiling hot; let them stand two days more, drain off syrup and heat again. just before it boils put figs in and let all boil up together. put in air-tight jars. sugar for sweet pickles should always be rich brown sugar. =sweet pickled peaches.= pounds peaches, pounds brown sugar, quart vinegar, ounce cinnamon; cloves in each peach. make the syrup and cook peaches till tender; boil down syrup and pour over the peaches. =sweet tomato pickle.= to pounds of tomatoes, when skinned and cut in pieces, add pounds sugar. boil slowly until thick, then add a scant quart of vinegar, teaspoon each of ground mace, cloves and cinnamon, and boil slowly again until thick. =watermelon pickle (sweet).= pare the melon, cutting away all of red portion; cut in fancy shapes. salt in weak salt and water over night. in the morning rinse in cold water; add lump of alum as big as a small egg to gallon cold water. put the melon in the cold water and after it comes to a boil, boil ten minutes. to pounds melon, quart cider vinegar, ounces cassia buds or stick cinnamon, ounce cloves, pounds granulated sugar. let this boil, then add fruit, cook until clear and you think it is done; seal up in jars and keep at least two weeks before using. =oil pickles.= small cucumbers, pints small white onions. slice all together and put layers of cucumbers and onions, with salt between. let stand two hours, and drain off the brine; then add / cup each of white mustard seed, white pepper and celery seed, cups olive oil, and alum size of a walnut, dissolved in vinegar. cool with vinegar and put in jars. =vermont pickles (cucumbers).= the first day make a brine strong enough to bear an egg, and pour boiling hot on the pickles; cover and let them stand twenty-four hours. the second day drain from the brine and make alum water boiling hot to cover them well, allowing a piece of alum the size of an egg to every hundred pickles. cover tightly again for twenty-four hours. the third day drain from the alum water and cover with boiling hot vinegar, in which let them stand for one week. then heat your vinegar boiling hot again, and add the following spices, etc., to every hundred: tablespoonful cloves, of coriander seed, of ginger root, of cinnamon, of celery seed, of mustard seed, of whole pepper seed, cup sugar, of horse radish root, sliced fine. put a layer of oak leaves in the bottom of your firkin, or jar, then a layer of pickles and spices, then leaves again, and so on until full, covering the top with the leaves, and pouring the boiling vinegar over all. they will be ready to use in two weeks, and will keep two years. the oak leaves are very essential for their astringent qualities. =tomato soy.= cut green tomatoes in slices, and to every pounds add quarts vinegar, pounds sugar, / pound white mustard seed, a teacup of flour of mustard, mixed with a little vinegar, - / pound onions, cut very fine, / ounce of mace, of cinnamon, of allspice, / ounce of cloves, of salt, / pound of black pepper, / pound of celery seed. grind up all the spices except the celery and white mustard. put all in a kettle and boil for one hour and a half. =peach chutney.= pounds peaches, of sugar, of raisins, / of salt, / of green ginger, / of mustard seed, / of red chilies, quarts vinegar. pare and slice peaches; stew until soft in quart vinegar. boil sugar and the other quart of vinegar into a syrup; add the seedless raisins chopped fine; mustard seed washed, dried and crushed; when dry, chopped chilies without the seeds, chopped ginger, salt and a little garlic. boil all together twenty minutes. a very fine sauce. =cucumber sauce.= wash medium-sized cucumbers; grate peel and all and pour off some of the extra liquid. add tablespoon each of white pepper, salt and horse radish; lastly add / pint of vinegar. this is very nice, and will keep any length of time. [illustration] gentlemen's corner. =champagne punch.= to the juice of lemons add pound powdered sugar. to every quart of this solution add quart rum, of brandy, of champagne. dilute with ice to suit the taste. this is extra fine. =a delicious punch.= bottle xxx brandy, bottle port wine, bottle jamaica rum, bottle tea (oolong the best), juice of lemons, rinds of , / bottle curaçao, cups fine sugar, put lemons, rinds, sugar and tea together, and strain; add to the liquor; bottle. the above is called the stock. to each bottle of the stock add bottles of soda and about pounds of ice. imported liquors should be used. this is enough for twenty people. =fort mcdowell egg nog.= egg and about / pint of milk to each person. a teacup of sugar to every quart of milk, and / pint of best brandy. beat the yolk, add the sugar, and beat till it is a froth like cake; then add the brandy, then the beaten whites, then the milk. whipped cream in place of the milk is very nice, or half in half. the whites of the eggs should be well beaten. =loyal legion punch.= gallons whiskey, pint santa croix rum, pint cordial, limes, dozen oranges, sliced, dozen lemons, sliced, cans pine apples, pounds sugar, bottles champagne (added when served). the above is for persons. smaller quantities in same proportion. =state of schuylkill punch.= (_a punch of colonial days._) quart of lemon or lime juice, quart of brandy, quarts of jamaica rum, quarts of water and ice, / pint of peach brandy, - / pounds of sugar. dissolve the sugar in a little water, add the lemon juice, then the liquor and also quarts of water and a large piece of ice. let this brew two hours or more. this will make about to quarts. smaller quantities in same proportion. [illustration] candies and nuts. =almond creams, walnut creams, chocolate creams.= to the white of egg add an equal quantity of cold water, stir in pound confectioner's sugar, flavor with vanilla, and stir with the hand until fine, then mold into small balls, and drop into melted chocolate. for walnut creams, make cream as above, and mold into larger balls, placing / an english walnut on either side. also, for almond creams, the same cream as above, and cover the blanched almonds with it, forming them into balls and rolling them in granulated sugar. =chocolate creams.= cup water to of white sugar, boil till it thickens when dropped in cold water, put baker's unsweetened chocolate in a bowl without water, and place it in a pan of water upon the stove. when the sugar is ready for removal, turn it upon a marble slab, stir till it becomes thick, then knead till stiff enough to form into balls. place on a plate till cold. drop the balls in the chocolate, and remove with a fork to a sheet of buttered paper. =chocolate caramels.= cup molasses, of sugar, of milk, / pound chocolate. boil twenty minutes. =huyler's caramels.= / package of baker's unsweetened chocolate, pounds brown sugar, cup milk, tablespoon butter, of molasses. boil till brittle. pour in pans and cut in squares. =molasses candy.= - / cups molasses, of sugar, tablespoon vinegar, a piece of butter the size of a walnut. boil twenty minutes briskly and constantly, stirring it all the time. pull until white. =cocoanut candy.= / pound sugar, tablespoons water, boil, / pound grated cocoanut. stir till boiled to a flake. put in buttered tins, and cut in squares, when cold. =cream candy.= pint granulated sugar, / pint water, tablespoon vinegar. boil as molasses candy, but do not stir. work in vanilla as you pull it. =nut candy.= cups sugar, / cup milk. boil ten minutes, then beat till white, adding nuts and vanilla. spread on tins to cool. cut in squares. =peppermints.= cups sugar, / cup butter. boil together seven or eight minutes. remove from the fire, and stir in / teaspoon cream tartar, / drachm of oil of peppermint. beat until cool enough to drop on buttered plates, the size of a dollar. =vinegar candy.= - / cups sugar, - / of water, / of vinegar. do not stir. cool quickly and pull. =butter scotch.= cup molasses, of brown sugar, / of butter. when nearly done, add a little grated nutmeg, and if wished to be pulled, a pinch of soda. =corn candy.= pop the corn, pick out all that is good, and pound it a little, just enough to crack it. boil about teacups of molasses and a little sugar, with a piece of butter, size of a walnut. then (when the mixture is boiled about as much as for candy), stir in the corn, and pour into buttered tins. =orange drops.= grate the rind of orange and squeeze the juice, taking care to reject the seeds. add to this a pinch of tartaric acid, then stir in confectioner's sugar till it is stiff enough to form in balls the size of a small marble. =honey candy.= cups sugar, of water, tablespoons honey. boil till fit for pulling. =taffy--no. .= / pound chocolate, cut fine, cups sugar, of molasses, / cup milk, piece of butter the size of an egg, flavoring. boil twenty minutes. cool and mark off in squares just before it is cold. =taffy--no. .= cups white sugar, of vinegar, of water. boil one-half hour without stirring. when done, stir in tablespoon butter and teaspoon soda, dissolved in hot water. season with vanilla, and pull. =everton taffy.= - / pounds brown sugar, ounces butter, - / tea-cups cold water. boil all together, with the rind of lemon, adding juice, when done. =salted almonds.= first shell, then pour boiling water over them, remove skins, put in baking-pan with small pieces of butter, stir frequently with spoon, just before brown, sprinkle with salt, and when brown remove from oven. =salted almonds, with oil.= first blanch the almonds, then throw them, a few at a time, into a sauce-pan of boiling sweet-oil; as soon as brown enough, take them out and put them on brown paper to absorb the surplus oil; sprinkle with salt. index. bread-- apple biscuit, breakfast gems, brown bread--no. , " " no. , " " no. , buns, coffee cake, corn bread--no. , " " no. , " " (rice), corn meal muffins, english muffins, french rolls, graham rolls, hominy cake, huckleberry cake, muffins--no. , " no. , " (raised), parker house rolls, rice bread, waffles, breakfast dishes-- bananas, baked beans, " eggs, " peppers, eggs (au miron), with asparagus, fish balls, omelet, baked--no. , " " no. , " bread, " corn, potatoes, with cheese, vermicelli, cake-- almond drop cake, angel cake, apple cake (in layers), bread cake, chocolate cake--no. , " " no. , " " no. , " loaf cake, " caramel cake, coffee cake, cold water cake, cookies, boston, " fruit, " molasses, " hearts and rounds, " hermits, " rich, " scotch, cream cakes--no. , " " no. , " " no. , " puffs, crullers, dark cake, delicious cake, doughnuts, feather cake, federal cake, fruit cake--no. , " " no. , gingerbread, " molasses, " no. , " no. , " sugar, gold cake, harrison cake, ice cream cake, jelly (for cake), lemon honey (for cake), lemon or orange jelly cake, lincoln cake, marble cake, molasses plum cake, one, two, three, four cake, plain spice cake, pound cake, pound sponge cake, pork cake, quick icing (for cake), rose cake, silver cake, snow cake--no. , " " no. , snow tea cakes, sponge cake--no. , " " no. , sponge cake, aunt sharlie's, sponge cake to roll, sunshine cake--no. , " " no. , victoria cake, white cake, white cake (a delicious), white mountain cake, candies and nuts-- almond, walnut or chocolate creams, butter scotch, chocolate creams, caramels, chocolate, " huyler's, cocoanut candy, cream candy, corn candy, honey candy, molasses candy, nut candy, orange drops, peppermints, taffy--no. , " no. , " everton, vinegar candy, salted almonds, salted almonds (with oil), creams-- banana cream, bavarian cream with peaches, champagne jelly, charlotte russe, coffee bavarian, coffee jelly, duchess, lemon, pineapple, russian, spanish, entrees-- beef loaf, " roll, cheese sticks--no. , " " no. , chicken terrapin--no. , " " no. , " " no. , " for lunch, " (pressed), canapie lorenzo, crab creole, " cutlets, " deviled, " to fry soft-shelled, meat salad, oysters, baked in the shell, oysters, curried, " fancy roast, shrimp stew, sweet breads, terrapin stew, veal loaf, welsh rare-bit--no. , " " no. , fish-- brown fish chowder, finnan haddies, fish a la creme, norwegian fish dish, stuffed smelt, ice cream-- ice cream, banana, lalla rookh, meats-- boiled ham, calves head stew, chops and tomato sauce, kidney stew, sheep's tongue, spanish recipe for cooking tongue, chestnut stuffing for quail, stuffings for turkeys, pickles-- cucumber catsup, " sauce, " pickles, oil pickles, peach chutney, sweet pickled figs, " " peaches, " " tomatoes, " " watermelon, tomato catsup--no. , " " no. , tomato soy, vermont pickles, pies-- lemon or orange (plain), " (rich), " tarts, mince meat, mock mince meat--no. , " " " no. , puff paste, preserves and jams-- apricot jam, brandy peaches, currant jelly, fig jam--no. , " " no. , isabella grape jam, orange marmalade--no. , orange marmalade--no. , pineapple preserve, preserved grapes, puddings-- apple dumpling (baked), " puddings, " pan-dowdy, " sago, " soufflé, apricot or peach, batter, blackberry, boston thanksgiving, burlington, chocolate, cracker, delmonico, english plum--no. , " " no. , fig, indian, kiss, lemon bread, orange float, pancake with fruit, plain plum, poor man's, poor man's rice, rennet, snow, sponge, strawberry custard, suet--no. , " no. , " no. , tapioca cream, punches-- champagne, delicious, fort mcdowell egg nog, loyal legion, state of schuylkill, salads-- boiled salad dressing, clayton's celebrated salad dressing, dressing for cold slaw, salad dressing, tomato salad, soups-- asparagus, bean, black bean, beef, bisque, bouillon, caramel, for coloring, celery, cream of celery, mock bisque, mushroom, ox-tail, pea, green, pea, grandmother sawtelle's, pea, split, potato, soup a la minute, soupe a l'ognon, tomato, without stock, " milk, vegetables-- artichokes, boiled, " stuffed, celery root, carrots, stewed, new england corn pudding, potatoes in cases, " baked cream, " escalloped, peppers, stuffed--no. , " " no. , tomatoes, stuffed--no. , tomatoes, stuffed--no. , squash and corn, [illustration] * * * * * * transcriber's note the following errors were corrected. page error chicken cut into dice changed to chicken cut into dice; hard-boiled eggs changed to hard-boiled eggs; cook slowl.y. changed to cook slowly. it to protude changed to it to protrude filling changed to filling. frosting changed to frosting. filling.. changed to filling. sheeps tongue changed to sheep's tongue souffle, changed to soufflé, the following words were inconsistently spelled or hyphenated: dessert-spoon / dessertspoon sauce-pan / saucepan tea-cup / teacup tea-cups / teacups